Title: Movie Magic

Author: Girl Who Writes

Email: Ask and ye shall receive. Take and ye shall be beaten.

Timeline: This story takes place a long time after the crash. Close to a year, I suppose.

Disclaimer: I make no claim of ownership nor do I make any sort of profit from the use of these characters; they belong to J.J Abrams and the ABC. I am merely a poor fan.

Author's Notes: Well, my first Lost fic. Seems odd to be writing something different. I would like to thank the members of the Jack and Kate section of for the inspiration. And my sister, for waiting patiently for a Charlie/Claire story. Soon, Mia, I promise.

Sleep is hard to come by when you're sleeping on rock, or hard ground, or even sand. She knows this. She knows that there is something unpleasant about waking up with sand stuck to your face, down your clothes and even in your mouth.

She doesn't like sleeping up at the caves much, either. Her back feels bruised when she wakes up, and her neck feels stiff. The air is cool and damp, and its times like those she misses the sun scorching down on her neck, and the waves crashing, and Vincent licking her face.

It's different at the caves. That's where she is now. She started off at the beach, starting up at the stars and wondering if the sky would look different with cell bars obscuring it. She smiles at that thought; home is not warm towels, or television or clean clothes for her. It is an eight by ten cell where she can't get lost in the sky.

She only comes up to the caves for one reason, and he's lying beside her, his hand cupping her hip and sleeping lightly. She doesn't know how he dragged one of the plane seats up to the cave, nor how he managed to reserve it for when he chose to sleep, but maybe the others are more intuitive to his needs that she's given them credit for.

The sun will filter in through the maze of the caves, and it hits him right in the face, and she can't help but think that's intentional on his part. She knows when she's up at the caves she wakes earlier and lies there. She doesn't want to be caught with him, his arm slung casually over her waist. She doesn't want to slink out of the caves, back to the beach, with the stares and the silent laughter following her. Not now. Not yet.

When she was a little girl, she always dreamed of that one defining moment, like in the movies her mother used to let her watch on rainy Sunday afternoons. Those movies always had a scene where the leading man would scoop the leading lady into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless.

She doesn't think he'll kiss her like that, ever. Their time together has been made up of stolen, calculated kisses in the jungle, where no one can see them. She's got a long scratch on her back from where he pushed her against a tree in his singular moment of unbridled passion.

And when he found out, he apologized six times. She laughed it off and went to kiss him, but Sun was nearby. And she's grateful; he didn't stop her for his sake – he's subtly asking her when they can reveal their new found closeness – he stopped her for her own sake. And he touched her cheek and went off to check on someone.

He shifts against her, kissing her neck sleepily. They'll rise soon, and she'll fill her water bottles and slip back to the beach where the sun seems to beat down on them twenty hours a day. She'll offer the water around, and slip away somewhere to bathe and then she'll be climbing trees for fruit.

She was right. He's awake now, and playing with a strand of her hair, his face unreadable. That's what made him different to the other men in her life. She can't read him like the others; she can't play him or manipulate him like the others. And she kind of likes this.

They're both on their feet in a second; she pulled on her hiking boots and she grabbed her backpack before he reaches out to, grabbing her hand. And then she's stumbling back towards the beach.

Sawyer does his best to antagonize her as she reappears on the beach, her water bottles empty. She knows Sawyer is suspicious but he hasn't outright accused her of anything… yet. She takes the bait sometimes, just to pass the time. In a different life, Sawyer would have been her best friend, brother, twin. They came from the same place. The banter hasn't changed over time; it's still ninety percent innuendo, ten percent wit. But it's not as aggressive as it once was. They're friends, now.

After entertaining Sawyer for awhile, she moves to her things – sun warmed, sandy clothes and a warped hairbrush stuffed in a dead man's backpack. She drags out her cleanest jeans and her orange t shirt and she goes off, her water bottles still empty.

She spends the day climbing trees for fruit, scraping up her palms and ripping the knees of another pair of jeans. She doesn't see him, but that's not unusual. He's stuck at the caves, tending every known malady from sand fly bites to broken bones. She doesn't envy the woman with the broken arm; she couldn't think of anything worse if they had proper health care and medical supplies, let alone being stuck in a jungle without x-rays and only a torn shirt as a bandage.

She doesn't envy his job, either, having to tell the more neurotic survivors that it's only sunburn; only mosquito bites; only dehydration. Or having to tell the survivors like her that the injury is that serious and she will have to rest for a few days.

Sunset always looked different on the island. Streaks of pink and yellow and orange fill the sky, the purple of night setting in like an ink stain. She likes to stand on the edge of the water and let the water rush over her feet. There's something reassuring about her jeans being wet and sandy of a night. She looks out at the sky and wonders.

She can hear Sawyer tormenting someone over something; most likely he has some of their property and they have nothing of any value to trade for it. She wonders when he'll realize she stole several of his cigarettes for the next time he's got something she needs badly. And from the looks of his cigarette stash, he'll come crawling to her soon enough.

He'd never be her lover, Sawyer wouldn't. They are too much alike – they'd both jump the cliff before they even realized there was a cliff. She needs someone who'll remind her there is risk; that she doesn't have to jump every single time.

She needs someone who'll catch her if she does. And that's what he does.

She smiles at that corny thought, and can almost remember those movies her mother loved so much. The old movies, with their bleached colour and the songs and the way her mother used to hum the music for days afterwards. Her mother was like those women in the films, with her perfume that smelled like lilies and her ice cream coloured dresses. She'd wanted to be just like her mother when she was young. As she got older, her mother had always despaired all the hiking and hunting she did with her father. She'd rather be outside, learning how to fire guns, than inside with her mother.

But she'd always spend rainy Sundays watching movies with her mother.

She didn't get much more pondering on life done, as a familiar hand rested on her shoulder and she looked up to see him watching her.

"You've been standing here awhile. The others wanted to know if we were fighting," he said quietly.

She laughed and smiled up at him. Their arguments had been far and few between since … since when? She couldn't remember the last time they had a yelling argument; the last one was probably over the Marshall's case, but she couldn't be sure. Their disagreements were quieter now. He'd say something, suggest a course of action, and if it was too risky, too undefined, she'd simply say his name in that unsure way of hers; a way that made him aware she wasn't convinced.


She wondered what it would be like when they got off of the island – not if, when. In her experience, the island would help her find the one person she could be herself with and then, when she was finally happy, finally able to be herself, they would be rescued and she'd be thrown in some maximum security prison. She still wondered, though. She could stand there, watching the sky, and pretend she was Kate, the girl next door, and he was Jack, the doctor, and they could have any future they wanted together.

"I was just thinking."

The others would laugh if they knew what was going on in her head. She was the Second in Command to his Commanding Officer, she couldn't be taken seriously if they knew she stood on the beach every afternoon and remembered her mother's singing and pretended everything was going to be okay for her.

"About movies." She didn't elaborate; even the tiny toy plane remained a mystery to him.

"Movies," he repeated, standing beside her and staring out at the ocean.

"I used to watch the old movies," she admitted.

A small smile graced his lips. "What sorts?"

She let out a laugh. "Ones where the leading lady is trapped on a tropical island and the leading man has to rescue her." She mentally flinches as she says that; it didn't come out how she intended it to.

"My mother used to watch those movies, too," he offers. "She'd draw all the curtains and eat entire boxes of chocolates. And there'd be tissues all over the couch."

She smiled up at him, his gaze still focused on the water.

"There's a wager going on," he continues, looking down at her.

"A wager?" she gives him a confused look.

"Sawyer," he supplies, with a chuckle. "A bar of soap and a tube of sunscreen if you and I are…"

She rolls her eyes and refocuses on the horizon, the sky suddenly feeling very close, and she wishes this conversation had gone differently.

"You're scared," he states indifferently.

"Excuse me?"

"You're afraid what everyone will think," he looks at her directly.

She doesn't deny it, but looks down. A light breeze picks up, and a strand of hair flutters against her face. She says something quietly, something he almost doesn't catch.

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5," she murmured distantly. He looked at her, waiting for an explanation.

"You don't remember?" she looks up at him, that knowing smile on her face. "The day of the crash? When you asked me to stitch your side and you told me about that girl you operated on?"

He shook his head. "I don't remember."

She shrugged. "It's not important," she shrugged dismissively. But when he slipped his arm around her waist, she didn't pull back.

And when he rested his hand on her cheek and turned her to face him, so he could lean down and kiss her, she let him. And, oblivious to the cheers and catcalls from the others, she wrapped her arms around his neck and let him kiss her breathless.

I would very much like some reviews to let me know what you thought, this being my first attempt at Jack/Kate. Constructive criticism is welcome.