Summary: Sawyer's superstitious about cats
Note: For Queen crowgirl13, who asked for "superstition." Hope this fits the bill. Thanks to zelda_zee for the quick beta! And hey, don't get me wrong, I like cats!
It’s not that Sawyer didn’t like cats. They just made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He wouldn’t call himself superstitious but damn if it didn’t get to be a pattern: whenever he encountered a cat in a mark’s house, the deal almost always ended up going sour.
He didn’t want to say they spooked him, exactly. It was more the way they stared at him with those unblinking green or amber or gray eyes, like they could see right through him, like they knew that he’d leave their owner in tears or worse.
It got to the point where a cat on the premises meant he wouldn’t even stay the night on that first pivotal visit to a woman’s home when her husband was away. He’d finish his drink, maybe make out with her on the couch but, sure enough, every time he looked up, the cat would be staring at him with a baleful, judgmental expression.
He’d blown more deals than he could count because once he saw the twitch of a cat’s tail, he was as good as gone, pleading allergies, prior engagement, whatever, it didn’t matter.
He’d never told Hibbs about it, always made sure to have some other damn good reason why he had to bail. No need for Hibbs to have one more hold over him, one more thing to tease him about.
So he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to share his phobia with anyone else either, certainly not Sayid, who was intensely precise and logical and frequently looked like he was silently laughing at Sawyer even when he swore he wasn’t.
Oddly enough, Sayid was always comparing Sawyer to a cat, calling him his “golden panther,” or some nonsense, which Sawyer didn’t mind because it was usually a prelude to sex. Sayid would run his hands through his hair, pull him closer and kiss him slowly while grinding him up against the wall or the couch or the bed -- really, the whole house got a workout -- and by then Sawyer was so hard and so aching that Sayid could have called him “my little bunny-wunny” and he wouldn’t have minded, as long as Sayid still made him come like it was the fuckin’ Fourth of July. And somehow endearments that would sound ridiculous coming from someone else were unbelievably seductive when uttered in Sayid’s very proper accented English.
Sawyer wasn’t particularly superstitious about cats crossing his path, however, so when Sayid froze as they were walking home from their local bar one night, he didn’t immediately connect it to the gray-and-white cat that had just trotted in front of them and was now busy cleaning a front paw on the doorstep of a run-down looking apartment building.
“What?” Sawyer asked impatiently, dragging Sayid along by the arm, thinking he was checking out the property. “We agreed, we are not buyin’ and flippin’ any pain-in-the-ass fixer-uppers.”
“No, no,” Sayid, said hastily, shaking himself and moving on. “I just ... I have rather a superstition about cats.”
“Oh?” Now it was Sawyer who stopped, looking from him to the cat. “You don’t say. You? Mr. Logic and Science?”
”It’s merely that they remind of of something unpleasant,” Sayid shrugged. “Surely there is something you have a similar reaction to.”
Sawyer appeared to take a moment to think it over. “No, can’t say that I do.” They started to walk again, arm in arm. “Guess this means we’re not getting a cat then.”
“I would prefer not,” Sayid said firmly.
“Good. I always liked dogs better.”