Pairings: Faint Sawyer/Cassidy, Sawyer/Kate
Note: For foxxcub, who gave me this prompt to get me writing again. It's not pr0n and it wasn't on my to-do list, but hey, it's a fic. *mwaaah!*
1. The first woman he whispered those words to, she believed him.
She was just a few years older than he was. She still chewed gum and wore flip-flips and twirled her hair around her index finger when she talked on the phone. But mostly, she was soft and pretty, with dark hair in ringlets around her face and wide green eyes that lit up whenever he smiled at her. He knew, from the breathy way she kissed him, that she’d never kissed her husband like that.
It was too easy, lying with her afterwards, lying to her. He was good at this. He was born to do this, he told himself later, in her bathroom mirror, hands braced on the counter. He could almost see his stomach twist. He’d always been a little spooked by mirrors, never sure as a kid that it wasn’t someone else looking back at him. Today, it was.
2. He thought, for once, he’d done the right thing. Thought he was being fuckin’ useful. Since she turned over the gun quick enough, he thought she thought so too.
He held the muzzle of the gun to the man's chest and his hand didn’t even shake. Not when the poor bastard was staring at him, begging him to do it. He closed his eyes and squeezed, and it was done. The shot was louder than he thought it would be; the kick of the gun made his palm sting.
He didn’t know what he expected when he walked out of the the tent. Maybe just a nod, a little acknowledgement that he’d done what none of them could.
And then came the sick, sucking sound of the marshall’s breathing, as he gasped in air through the hole Sawyer had put in his chest. No one ever died right off. He should have known that by now.
3. Everything is just a number. Three drinks to get that one in bed, five days until this deal closes, eight hours’ drive until he feels safe, a fresh bundle of money that adds up to hundreds or thousands, how many years he’ll get if he’s ever caught.
A few seconds shouldn’t make any difference. But he sits and counts them off, like they’re the last seconds he’s got left to breathe.
4. His nightmares are the sound of heavy boots on a wooden floor, a bed creaking, bracketed by a scream, and two deafening gunshots. The silence presses on him, like a hand over his mouth, telling him not to scream, not to make a sound. He wakes, covered in sweat, heart racing. He gulps in air like it was water and wishes he could forget he ever heard that man’s name.
5. Eventually, his fingers stop hurting, the bamboo becomes a memory. The gash on his scalp heals. He almost manages to wash the blood out of the T-shirt. Even his arm is better. But he can’t forget the way she looked at him, or the way she tasted. The moment, just before she kissed him, she trembled.
Torture, he can take. Pain like that fades.