Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's far from the strangest thing she's done on this beach, but in terms of sheer novelty, giving Sawyer a haircut is pretty high up on the list of things she's going to remember long after they're rescued. 

She’d been joking before, when she said he needed one. Deflecting when she couldn’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, watching him scowl at the jungle as he realized they still hadn’t been rescued. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.  

The opposite, really. The only thing he’d needed more than a haircut when he’d returned to them was immediate medical attention for the wound festering in his shoulder, and he’d gotten that. This was the next order of business.

She’s not the only one who thinks so. She believes the comparison Charlie drew earlier was “sad shaggy dog,” which she doubts Sawyer would appreciate very much. 

It’s proof of how exhausted he is, how much the fever took out of him, that he didn’t fight her on it. Didn’t give her a hard time at all, even when she stood between his legs to undo the top buttons on his shirt so she could slide it off his shoulders and drape the towel over him instead.

Funny, how that had almost disappointed her. For a while there, she'd been convinced she'd heard the last of his flirty little comments, his petty jibes. She kind of wants to know what he would’ve said. 

He remains quiet as she works, snipping away at the dead ends, checking every so often make sure it's an even length. They’d managed to wash out the last traces of sweat and dirt back at the Hatch, where he’d accused her of trying to waterboard him after an admittedly ill-planned attempt to wash his hair in the bathroom sink so he didn’t soak his clothes or his bandage in the shower. Anyway, his hair is clean now. Easy to cut. 

It's kind of nice, she thinks. Peaceful compared to the last few days. The sound of the tide rolling out. Warm sunlight and a gentle breeze on her skin. The easy, companionable silence.  

Her fingernails scratch gently against his scalp as her hand makes another pass through his hair, working out any lingering tangles. Quick and light. An accident. 

He leans into it. 

It’s subtle. His head tilts backwards just the slightest bit. Towards her. 

She goes completely still. Feels her heart leap into her throat. 

He doesn’t say anything. Probably doesn’t even know that he did it. It was barely an inch. A twitch. She shouldn’t have even noticed it. 

Except she did. She did notice. 

Because she can’t not notice him. 

Not when he’s here, right in front of her, sitting underneath her hands. Warm and solid and alive. The memory of him, shivering and frail and dying, is not one easily pushed aside. She’s been reluctant to look away for too long, afraid that if she does, he’ll somehow slip away again. 

Out to sea. Into whatever lies beyond this life. From her. 

A few seconds pass, and nothing happens. She risks a peek over his shoulder. His eyes are closed. Maybe he’s asleep. 

She ignores the warm, squirmy feeling in her stomach at the thought, the idea that after everything that's happened, he felt safe enough to fall asleep under her touch. Exposed on the beach in broad daylight. 

Exhaustion, she tells herself. Weakness from the infection. 

It's possible that hers is the only kind touch he’s felt since he set sail on the raft. Before that, even. When was the last time someone hugged him? Touched him in a way that wasn't meant to hurt? She's sure it happened, but she can't remember now. 

It makes her sad, all of a sudden. It makes her want to thread her fingers through his hair and leave them there. So she does. 

The scissors get tucked into the waistband of her jeans, any pretense of a haircut temporarily abandoned. She’s just carding her fingers through his hair now. A rhythmic, sweeping motion. Kind of soothing. 

It’s so much softer than she imagined. Not that she's ever imagined this. 

A lazy drawl breaks the silence: 

“Never took you for such a soft touch.” 

She freezes on the next downward pass through his hair, eyes wide. A deer in headlights. A child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

Not asleep then. Very much awake and paying attention. 

She fights the impulse to rip her hand away. That would be the same as an admission, one she doesn't want to give him. 

From this angle, she can just barely see the side of his face. She keeps her voice even, watching him. “Got you through your infection, didn’t I?” 

He cracks one eye open. Smirks a little before closing it again. “Right.” 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand up or pull away. Doesn’t tell her to stop. 

Slowly, tentatively, heart in her throat again, she slides her fingers back up into his hair, thumb idly stroking the base of his skull. He exhales deeply when she does, something in his shoulders going loose and liquid. The warm, squirmy feeling resurges with a vengeance. 

She'll pick up the scissors again in a minute. Finish cutting his hair and then walk with him back to the Hatch, where she'll drag her feet coming up with excuses to stay, and he can pretend to be irritated with her hovering, and she can pretend that she isn't hovering.

They'll get to all of that. In a minute. 

She just wants to stay in this moment for a little while longer, listening to the sound of his breath and feeling his sun-warmed skin under her fingertips. She wants to soak it all up while she can, while he's still worn down and docile and in the mood to play nice. 

She scratches her nails against his head again, on purpose this time. He stretches into it like a cat, and she smiles to herself. 

Just a little while longer.