![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alliecat8Title: Prisms and Echoes, Chapter 1
Characters: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13 (this part), NC-17 (overall)
Word Count: 2,650
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
A/N Thank you to those of you who were brave enough to read, not knowing where it would end. Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
uberaeryn for writing a fic so powerful that it stayed with me for 2 years, and inspired this, my own scenario. And thank you in advance to those of you who were waiting til I posted the last chapter, the series is finished and all chapters are linked. Whew!
Prisms and Echoes
Prologue
As far back as Sawyer could remember, his life had been defined by red. Red was such a vibrant color, such an energetic color, it should’ve been the color of life, but for Sawyer it had always been the color of death. He couldn’t remember anything that had happened before his parents died, and throughout adult life, mixed with his death wish and his quest for revenge, was always his first memory. Red Death.
That’s why he was surprised, in the part of his mind that could still process such things even under the most extreme form of stress, that his own death would be gray. Until now death had meant warm blood and agony, but today it was the cold gray steel of a pistol pressed against his temple, numbing sheets of silver rain falling all around him, and the man who would murder him choosing it cold-bloodedly; a revenge killing of his own but not one carried out in the red heat of passion. Pickett was there to mete out his own brand of justice, revenge for the murder of his wife, payback for something that Sawyer didn’t do. The irony of it wasn’t lost on Sawyer, even as he knelt in the mud and waited for the bullet that would bring an end to his bright haze of fear, and the beginning of neverending darkness.
The blast, when it came, was accompanied by another sound, this one unexpected. It was the sound of shouting, the passion and fear in the voice no less sharp for being filtered by the static and hum of a radio or a walkie-talkie. It was both ironic and fitting, Sawyer thought as he fell forward into the colorless mud, that the last sound he heard would be Jack’s voice.
********
Chapter One
He’d dreaded coming home. It had almost been easier, Jack thought as he made his way across the beach to the survivors’ camp, to stay with the Others, to live in their village with their rules and their pretense that they were a civilized society. There Jack didn’t have to face reality; there he could pretend that nothing at the beach had changed. Here among his own people, where behavior was ruled by emotions and emotion, Jack had discovered in his last two weeks with the Others, was something that was just too painful to bear.
He’d felt like his heart had been torn in two when he saw the aftermath of Sawyer and Kate’s tryst on the video monitor, but of course he’d known all along that for Sawyer, it was all about Kate. If he truly cared about Sawyer he’d be happy to see that he’d finally gotten what he wanted. But he couldn’t; not this way. Not when that might be the last bit of pleasure Sawyer experienced in his life. Not when he would die with the taste of Kate in his mouth, the feel of her skin against his. It was that thought that Jack couldn’t bear, and he had to do something. He had to do something to save him. Again.
The idea, when it came, might’ve worked if only he’d thought of it sooner. If only he’d made the threat, offered the bargain, a life for a life, before things had gathered an unstoppable momentum. He’d spent the two weeks since then wrapped in all of the “if only”s, hearing over and over again the blast of the gun. Seeing the horrible sight they’d shown him later on the monitors, after Jack had done what he’d known all along he’d do (first do no harm) and had successfully operated on Ben. He’d gone from the sight of Ben, sleeping peacefully on the sterile white sheets post-op, to the sight of Sawyer face down in the mud, shot in the head and left there, dead in the rain.
Eventually, when Ben was no longer in danger of a relapse, they’d had no more use for him so they’d sent him back; sent him home. Now his people were welcoming him back, offering him a warm and heartfelt homecoming, but all he could do was search among them for the one face he knew he wouldn’t see. He almost couldn’t bring himself to ask, but he knew he had to; he needed closure. So he’d turned to Kate and said, “Sawyer?”
He saw the spasm of anguish sieze Kate’s face, and he felt an answering contraction in his gut. “They shot him,” she said in a sick little voice.
Jack nodded, knowing that the same sick grief showed in his eyes. “I know. I saw…on the monitors. God, Kate….” He asked the only question he had now, now that it was over. “Did you bring him back here? To…to bury him? Did you bring him home?”
Kate interrupted, cutting him off just as he said the word “home.” “No, you don’t understand,” she said sharply. “They didn’t kill him. Sawyer’s still alive, Jack.”
At first Jack thought he’d misunderstood her. He’d seen Sawyer with his own eyes, lying on the ground, shot execution-style in the back of his head. But there was something about Kate’s expression, some agony, that had Jack bracing for the worst, even after her words sank in.
“He’s…” she began, then she closed her eyes in resignation and took Jack’s hand. “You need to come see him, Jack.”
She led him to Sawyer’s tent, where Sayid sat on the ground outside the doorway like a sentry on guard duty. Kate and Sayid exchanged a glance, and Sayid said, “I think he’s sleeping.” He pulled back the tent flap and let Jack inside.
If not for the scowl, Jack would’ve thought that Sawyer looked like an angel, lying there shirtless and golden on his pallet, his hair spread on the pillow like a halo. Not an angel, though, Jack thought as he watched him sleep. Sawyer was alive. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and he might’ve looked relaxed if not for the ferocious expression that creased his face. Then Jack noticed the ropes that bound his hands and feet.
“Kate?” he said, his profound sense of relief giving way to one of shocked alarm, “Why is he tied up?”
Kate didn’t meet his eyes. “We had to,” she said, guilt weighing down every word. “He kept trying to hurt himself. Jack….”
Jack knelt and gently touched the back of Sawyer’s head, searching for the bullet wound. When he found it he noted that it was all but invisible under his hair, the small hole already closed over. No one had attempted to take the bullet out, then. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive,” Jack said softly.
Sawyer’s body jerked, and his eyes opened. Not sleeping, then, Jack thought; maybe he hadn’t been asleep at all. There was something wrong with his gaze. Sawyer was focused on a spot on the tent wall over Jack’s right shoulder, not on Jack’s face. “No, not what you think,” Sawyer said bitterly, and Jack realized that Sawyer wasn’t seeing him at all. The bullet hadn’t taken his life, but it had taken something precious from him anyway. Sawyer was blind. “You’re alive, too, though. I guess that’s somethin’.”
“He thought you were dead,” Kate told him. “Sayid and Locke and I saw you at the Others’ camp, so we knew you were alive, but Sawyer believed they’d killed you.”
“And you didn’t tell him?” Jack stared at her, incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell him, Kate?”
“We couldn’t,” Kate said, and there it was again, that strange little note of hopelessness in her voice. “We didn’t know how. He’s deaf, Jack.”
********
Jack raged. He was furious; furious at fate for handing him such a bitter, helpless homecoming. Furious at the Others, for making such a mess and leaving it for him to clean up. Furious at Sawyer, for being the cause of Jack’s fears and insecurities once again, the dark fear that he couldn’t fix everything up all nice like he wanted to. Needed to. Furious at himself for being afraid that Sawyer was beyond help; that he was, finally, after all of Jack’s attempts to save him, a hopeless case.
Jack stormed through the camp, his anger and his fear making him feel blind and deaf himself, oblivious to the concerned stares and attempted words of welcome or comfort of the other survivors. He was panicking, he knew it but he didn’t know how to make it stop; all he could do was walk. And rage. Walk and rage, until finally he knew what else he had to do.
Then he was off and running, back to Sawyer’s tent, and inside in the near-darkness, Sawyer tore at the rope that bound his right foot to a tree root, trying to get free as every sense that remained in his body responded Jack’s presence. They collided in the murky, stale-smelling shelter. Jack had to hold onto him, tight and desperate, to convince himself anew that Sawyer was alive and breathing, and Sawyer had to do the same with Jack. As they touched, breathed in one another’s living essence, Jack felt wetness on his face, and that was when he discovered that eyes that could no longer see could still weep.
In the darkness, they both wept for what they had lost.
TBC
(Sadly, I accidentally deleted this chapter when I was linking all of the chapters together, and so all my lovely feedback was lost. *cries* I'm lucky that I found the fic in my email replies so that I could re-post it! Those of you who commented on this chapter, THANK YOU! The written words might be gone, but they live on in my mind and heart. ♥!)
Link to Chapter 2
Characters: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13 (this part), NC-17 (overall)
Word Count: 2,650
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
A/N Thank you to those of you who were brave enough to read, not knowing where it would end. Thank you to
uberaeryn for writing a fic so powerful that it stayed with me for 2 years, and inspired this, my own scenario. And thank you in advance to those of you who were waiting til I posted the last chapter, the series is finished and all chapters are linked. Whew! Prisms and Echoes
Prologue
As far back as Sawyer could remember, his life had been defined by red. Red was such a vibrant color, such an energetic color, it should’ve been the color of life, but for Sawyer it had always been the color of death. He couldn’t remember anything that had happened before his parents died, and throughout adult life, mixed with his death wish and his quest for revenge, was always his first memory. Red Death.
That’s why he was surprised, in the part of his mind that could still process such things even under the most extreme form of stress, that his own death would be gray. Until now death had meant warm blood and agony, but today it was the cold gray steel of a pistol pressed against his temple, numbing sheets of silver rain falling all around him, and the man who would murder him choosing it cold-bloodedly; a revenge killing of his own but not one carried out in the red heat of passion. Pickett was there to mete out his own brand of justice, revenge for the murder of his wife, payback for something that Sawyer didn’t do. The irony of it wasn’t lost on Sawyer, even as he knelt in the mud and waited for the bullet that would bring an end to his bright haze of fear, and the beginning of neverending darkness.
The blast, when it came, was accompanied by another sound, this one unexpected. It was the sound of shouting, the passion and fear in the voice no less sharp for being filtered by the static and hum of a radio or a walkie-talkie. It was both ironic and fitting, Sawyer thought as he fell forward into the colorless mud, that the last sound he heard would be Jack’s voice.
********
Chapter One
He’d dreaded coming home. It had almost been easier, Jack thought as he made his way across the beach to the survivors’ camp, to stay with the Others, to live in their village with their rules and their pretense that they were a civilized society. There Jack didn’t have to face reality; there he could pretend that nothing at the beach had changed. Here among his own people, where behavior was ruled by emotions and emotion, Jack had discovered in his last two weeks with the Others, was something that was just too painful to bear.
He’d felt like his heart had been torn in two when he saw the aftermath of Sawyer and Kate’s tryst on the video monitor, but of course he’d known all along that for Sawyer, it was all about Kate. If he truly cared about Sawyer he’d be happy to see that he’d finally gotten what he wanted. But he couldn’t; not this way. Not when that might be the last bit of pleasure Sawyer experienced in his life. Not when he would die with the taste of Kate in his mouth, the feel of her skin against his. It was that thought that Jack couldn’t bear, and he had to do something. He had to do something to save him. Again.
The idea, when it came, might’ve worked if only he’d thought of it sooner. If only he’d made the threat, offered the bargain, a life for a life, before things had gathered an unstoppable momentum. He’d spent the two weeks since then wrapped in all of the “if only”s, hearing over and over again the blast of the gun. Seeing the horrible sight they’d shown him later on the monitors, after Jack had done what he’d known all along he’d do (first do no harm) and had successfully operated on Ben. He’d gone from the sight of Ben, sleeping peacefully on the sterile white sheets post-op, to the sight of Sawyer face down in the mud, shot in the head and left there, dead in the rain.
Eventually, when Ben was no longer in danger of a relapse, they’d had no more use for him so they’d sent him back; sent him home. Now his people were welcoming him back, offering him a warm and heartfelt homecoming, but all he could do was search among them for the one face he knew he wouldn’t see. He almost couldn’t bring himself to ask, but he knew he had to; he needed closure. So he’d turned to Kate and said, “Sawyer?”
He saw the spasm of anguish sieze Kate’s face, and he felt an answering contraction in his gut. “They shot him,” she said in a sick little voice.
Jack nodded, knowing that the same sick grief showed in his eyes. “I know. I saw…on the monitors. God, Kate….” He asked the only question he had now, now that it was over. “Did you bring him back here? To…to bury him? Did you bring him home?”
Kate interrupted, cutting him off just as he said the word “home.” “No, you don’t understand,” she said sharply. “They didn’t kill him. Sawyer’s still alive, Jack.”
At first Jack thought he’d misunderstood her. He’d seen Sawyer with his own eyes, lying on the ground, shot execution-style in the back of his head. But there was something about Kate’s expression, some agony, that had Jack bracing for the worst, even after her words sank in.
“He’s…” she began, then she closed her eyes in resignation and took Jack’s hand. “You need to come see him, Jack.”
She led him to Sawyer’s tent, where Sayid sat on the ground outside the doorway like a sentry on guard duty. Kate and Sayid exchanged a glance, and Sayid said, “I think he’s sleeping.” He pulled back the tent flap and let Jack inside.
If not for the scowl, Jack would’ve thought that Sawyer looked like an angel, lying there shirtless and golden on his pallet, his hair spread on the pillow like a halo. Not an angel, though, Jack thought as he watched him sleep. Sawyer was alive. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and he might’ve looked relaxed if not for the ferocious expression that creased his face. Then Jack noticed the ropes that bound his hands and feet.
“Kate?” he said, his profound sense of relief giving way to one of shocked alarm, “Why is he tied up?”
Kate didn’t meet his eyes. “We had to,” she said, guilt weighing down every word. “He kept trying to hurt himself. Jack….”
Jack knelt and gently touched the back of Sawyer’s head, searching for the bullet wound. When he found it he noted that it was all but invisible under his hair, the small hole already closed over. No one had attempted to take the bullet out, then. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive,” Jack said softly.
Sawyer’s body jerked, and his eyes opened. Not sleeping, then, Jack thought; maybe he hadn’t been asleep at all. There was something wrong with his gaze. Sawyer was focused on a spot on the tent wall over Jack’s right shoulder, not on Jack’s face. “No, not what you think,” Sawyer said bitterly, and Jack realized that Sawyer wasn’t seeing him at all. The bullet hadn’t taken his life, but it had taken something precious from him anyway. Sawyer was blind. “You’re alive, too, though. I guess that’s somethin’.”
“He thought you were dead,” Kate told him. “Sayid and Locke and I saw you at the Others’ camp, so we knew you were alive, but Sawyer believed they’d killed you.”
“And you didn’t tell him?” Jack stared at her, incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell him, Kate?”
“We couldn’t,” Kate said, and there it was again, that strange little note of hopelessness in her voice. “We didn’t know how. He’s deaf, Jack.”
********
Jack raged. He was furious; furious at fate for handing him such a bitter, helpless homecoming. Furious at the Others, for making such a mess and leaving it for him to clean up. Furious at Sawyer, for being the cause of Jack’s fears and insecurities once again, the dark fear that he couldn’t fix everything up all nice like he wanted to. Needed to. Furious at himself for being afraid that Sawyer was beyond help; that he was, finally, after all of Jack’s attempts to save him, a hopeless case.
Jack stormed through the camp, his anger and his fear making him feel blind and deaf himself, oblivious to the concerned stares and attempted words of welcome or comfort of the other survivors. He was panicking, he knew it but he didn’t know how to make it stop; all he could do was walk. And rage. Walk and rage, until finally he knew what else he had to do.
Then he was off and running, back to Sawyer’s tent, and inside in the near-darkness, Sawyer tore at the rope that bound his right foot to a tree root, trying to get free as every sense that remained in his body responded Jack’s presence. They collided in the murky, stale-smelling shelter. Jack had to hold onto him, tight and desperate, to convince himself anew that Sawyer was alive and breathing, and Sawyer had to do the same with Jack. As they touched, breathed in one another’s living essence, Jack felt wetness on his face, and that was when he discovered that eyes that could no longer see could still weep.
In the darkness, they both wept for what they had lost.
TBC
(Sadly, I accidentally deleted this chapter when I was linking all of the chapters together, and so all my lovely feedback was lost. *cries* I'm lucky that I found the fic in my email replies so that I could re-post it! Those of you who commented on this chapter, THANK YOU! The written words might be gone, but they live on in my mind and heart. ♥!)
Link to Chapter 2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
I actually found my comment for this part!
Date: 2008-09-23 06:37 pm (UTC)Re: I actually found my comment for this part!
Date: 2008-09-25 08:20 pm (UTC)