Title: Lie to Me
Rating: PG
Summery: Set directly after The Whole Truth; For as long as they have known each other, Sun has been able to look into his eyes and see beyond them, read his thoughts like a wide open book and the only way his panic-ridden brain can think to stop that from happening now is to immediately turn his back on her.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lost. At all. I wish but alas...
Author's Note: I wrote this as a follow up to Reputation, so if you haven't read that, you might want to. This was written for psych_30, prompt #10: Approach-Avoidance



“So was it positive?”

“What?” She asks, pretending not to know what he’s talking about. She doesn’t want to talk about it and, from his tone, she knows he doesn’t want to talk about it. But he’s Sawyer, so he keeps talking.

“The pregnancy test, was it positive?” he says it quickly, like he’s ripping off a band aid. He also pulls himself out from under her, all but landing her face first in the sand.

“Yes,” she replied levelly. She still wasn’t sure how to feel about it, how happy to be. Sawyer’s expression soured considerably, and even though he didn’t want her to, she saw panic there.

“Is it mine?” he asks rather loudly and she sends him a stern look. She shakes her head and runs her hands through her hair. She doesn’t want him to interpret this in the wrong way, as some indication that she has the information that he wants and is dangling it over his head. But she has the beginnings of a nasty headache and she can’t help herself.

“I do not know.”

“It’s not mine,” he sits up and he won’t look at her for a long time. For as long as they have known each other, Sun has been able to look into his eyes and see beyond them, read his thoughts like a wide open book and the only way his panic-ridden brain can think to stop that from happening now is to immediately turn his back on her. She knows this and sighs when it happens.

It’s not that she blames him. She most certainly does not. Her thoughts are very precious to her, very closely guarded, and she is eternally grateful that he as never been able to look into her eyes and tell what she is thinking. He can guess, but he never knows. Not like she knows.

“Tell me it ain’t mine,” he demands, facing her. He looks angry.

She returns his gaze firmly, unphased. “It ain’t yours,” she repeats. She isn’t mocking him, but he doesn’t take it that way. He huffs a bit, a small action that no one would be able to separate from his usual annoyed gestures. No one except for her.

“I do not know,” she says. “It is certainly possible.” She sighs because he isn’t looking at her again. She wants his attention, to be sure he is hearing her and not tuning her out. But when he doesn’t answer, she knows he’s listening, that what she’s saying about is practically all he is thinking about.

“The truth is, we may never know,” she tells him. “Not unless the baby is born blonde.”

That was supposed to be a joke, but Sawyer isn’t in the mood and neither is Sun. He stares at the wall of the blue tarp at is, as of now, his home. She stares at the sand, her fingers drifting across it, making small patterns and drawings in the sand. This goes on for what seems like forever, and when she can no longer take the silence, she rises up to her knees, preparing to leave through the hole in the back of the tent.

Sawyer reaches out and grabs her wrist.

“I don’t want the truth,” he tells her. She stares at him and he stares back. “Just tell me what I wanna hear.” For the first time in a very long time, she feels cornered. Sawyer knows good and damn well that she hates lying. She is good at it, yes, but she detests it. She has never lied to him, never comforted him with falsehoods even when she knew that was what he wanted. And she doesn’t want to do it now.

But he is looking at her. For the first time since they have begun this conversation that neither of them had wanted to have in the first place, he is looking in her eyes and leaving his unguarded. He is letting her see his fear and his panic and she is torn between wanting to hug him and wanting punch him in the nose. She isn't sure which would hurt him more.

So she lies. “It ain’t yours,” she says it again, softer this time, then gently pulls her wrist away from his grasp. He lets it go and their fingers brush for a second before her back turns and she’s gone.