(lost) Sea of Troubles
Title: Sea of Troubles
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, a brief appearance by Kate.
Spoilers: Through 3x20, The Man Behind the Curtain.
Prompt: "Thought I needed this." - un_love_you
Summary: This stems from my disappointment in the writers at glossing over the consequences of Saywer's actions during The Brig. It picks up after he leaves Locke at The Black Rock.
His was a long walk. The trip seemed to pass twice as slowly as it had that morning. His feet were cut and scraped to the bone and each step caused a sharp pain to shoot up from the soles of his feet and echo off his churning stomach. But he was long past feeling; Sawyer was numb.
He passed the same tree for what seemed like the hundredth time and in his distress, kicked the base of it with his bare foot. This pain he felt, and as the curses tumbled out of his mouth, he collapsed onto the jungle floor, his head flying back until it met the rough bark of the tree behind him. His face was drenched with sweat, and his hair clung to his cheeks and forehead like a damp mop.
A ray of sunlight beamed down from a hole in the canopy of trees overhead while his mind swam dizzyingly in his head like the climax of a night-long drinking binge. He leaned over, his head between his legs, as his body attempted to purge the contents of his stomach, but it was empty. He leaned back against the tree and clenched his teeth as his body shook.
The events of that morning played out before him as if he were sitting in front of a movie screen. When he closed his eyes and opened them again, the scene remained, and he saw himself pounding mercilessly on an ancient wooden door; saw himself lash out as if acting on some animalistic instinct. The tightening chain, the final jerk of life, and then the long, uncomfortable silence that beat like a drum in his ears. And then came the panic.
Sawyer closed his eyes once more and took a few heaving breaths. When he opened his eyes moments later, he found himself alone in the jungle again, miles way from The Black Rock and from the conclusion of a pursuit he had chased since childhood. He was supposed to feel absolved, purged of his former life. But instead, he felt damned.
For years he had been waiting for that moment, for the chance to look into the eyes of the man who had created him, the man in whose image he had molded himself. He had played it over and over again in his head, imagined the remorse he would see in the eyes of the real Sawyer and how he would beg for mercy before a bullet silenced him. But there had been no remorse. Only eyes black with hatred and pure evil, beckoning a death that was just as ruthless as he had been.
Sawyer looked down at his hands and saw that they were trembling. Maybe Mr. Sawyer had been right. Maybe he was weak. No, his mind told him. Locke was the cowardly one. Locke had been unable to battle his own demon, so he had sent in one of the demon’s own kind to finish him off. Sawyer had entered the brig expecting to find answers but instead had come face to face with himself. When he had looked into the eyes of the man who called himself Tom Sawyer, he had seen his own soul’s reflection. As the man gloated over his past conquests, Sawyer saw his own replay in the back of his mind. He had seen the man as a monster. And he was no better.
With a clench of his jaw, he pulled himself together and stood up, ignoring the throb of his bruised and bloodied feet. He steadied himself against the tree, glanced up at the sun through the leafy canopy to orient himself and set out again for the camp.
When he first stepped out of the jungle and onto the familiar beach, he was overcome with an intense feeling of relief and comfort, much like he had when he and Kate had finally made their way back after a week in captivity. He looked around at his fellow castaways, some scurrying about like ants in an ant farm while others lounged around at their leisure like tourists on holiday. None seemed neither aware nor concerned with his absence. But he had only been gone for a number of hours, the entire day, maybe. Had it really only been that long?
Sawyer held his chin up and walked in the direction of his tent, favoring his left foot slightly which was still tingling from when he had released his frustrations out on the tree. He neared his tent, but did not go in. Instead, he walked past it, not stopping until he had reached a quiet piece of beach out of sight from the others at camp. Peeling out of his sweat-drenched t-shirt, he tossed it into the sand followed by his unloaded gun and the tape recorder Locke had given him, and slipped into the salty water.
The ocean felt cool against his hot skin and relieved some of the pain in his bloodied feet, and he dove beneath the waves brought in by the rising tide. For a second, he considered staying below the cool waves and forgetting to breathe, but the thought was fleeting. He surfaced and began to swim toward shore, unable to discern whether the shame he felt was because the thought had even come to mind or because he was too weak to follow through with it. His water-soaked jeans felt exaggeratedly heavy as if they were trying to drag him back down into the ocean as he walked out of the surf. Despite having just emerged from the water, he still felt dirty. Unclean.
The waves had carried him a small ways down the beach from where he had left his things, and as he glanced down the shoreline, his brow furrowed at the sight of a familiar figure walking towards him. His jaw clenched characteristically, and he put on a stern face, hoping he could somehow avoid the conversation that would inevitably take place.
“Where have you been? You just disappeared.” Her voice called out to him over the din of the ocean before he was close enough to feign ignoring her. “Where were you?” Her cheeks looked flushed, her forehead wrinkled up as it did when she was worked up over something, but Sawyer’s mind was too weighed down to care.
He glowered at her instead of responding and bent over to pick up his things, careful to conceal the tape recorder and gun. Kate hovered over him as he did so, and he let out a groan and tossed his hair. “What? Are you my parole officer now, on top of everything else?”
His gruffness took her by surprise, and she squinted her eyes, studying his face. “What happened to you?” she asked, but he looked away. “Is this because I wouldn’t let you walk me to my tent?” she teased, changing tactics.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed.
“James,” she said softly, as if coaxing a startled horse. She reached out to lay her hand on his cheek, but he drew back from her touch as if something from him might spread onto her.
“Don’t call me that,” he growled through clenched teeth and turned his back on her. As he moved, his gun fell from within the folds of his shirt and dropped into the sand.
Kate was quick to retrieve it. “Why are you carrying a gun?”
Sawyer reached out and plucked it from her grip. “Bad neighborhood,” he replied, tucking it back into his shirt. The gun clinked against the tape recorder, and Kate’s eyes darted toward the bundle in Sawyer’s hand.
“What else do you…”
“It’s nothin’,” he interrupted. “Look, ain’t there anyone else’s business you can nose your way into? I’m sure the Doc’s ego could use a little strokin’.”
Kate shook her head and let out a sigh like she had a bad taste in her mouth.
“Trouble in paradise?” Sawyer smirked. “Ain’t easy playin’ second fiddle, is it, Kate?” The tone of his voice lowered until it was almost a growl as he said her name.
Kate visibly recoiled at the sound of her name rolling off his tongue, and she made no attempt to stop him as he turned his back on her and walked into the jungle.
It was the very last place he wanted to be, but his discomfort at being back in the jungle was nothing compared to the way his skin crawled when Kate had tried to touch him. Resigned to stay hidden within the trees until he was certain she had skulked off, Sawyer pulled the sticky t-shirt over his head and looked down at the tape recorder in his hands. He pressed “play.”
As Juliet’s voice spelled out her plan to “collect samples” from the women in the beach camp, Sawyer felt his already simmering blood begin to boil. His mind closed the curtain on thoughts of The Black Rock and the deeds that had been done within its hull; hidden, but not forever. Vengeance, he knew, was the perfect mask for self-loathing.
--
“Hey, Sayid.”
“What happened to you?”
“I was with Locke.”
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, a brief appearance by Kate.
Spoilers: Through 3x20, The Man Behind the Curtain.
Prompt: "Thought I needed this." - un_love_you
Summary: This stems from my disappointment in the writers at glossing over the consequences of Saywer's actions during The Brig. It picks up after he leaves Locke at The Black Rock.
His was a long walk. The trip seemed to pass twice as slowly as it had that morning. His feet were cut and scraped to the bone and each step caused a sharp pain to shoot up from the soles of his feet and echo off his churning stomach. But he was long past feeling; Sawyer was numb.
He passed the same tree for what seemed like the hundredth time and in his distress, kicked the base of it with his bare foot. This pain he felt, and as the curses tumbled out of his mouth, he collapsed onto the jungle floor, his head flying back until it met the rough bark of the tree behind him. His face was drenched with sweat, and his hair clung to his cheeks and forehead like a damp mop.
A ray of sunlight beamed down from a hole in the canopy of trees overhead while his mind swam dizzyingly in his head like the climax of a night-long drinking binge. He leaned over, his head between his legs, as his body attempted to purge the contents of his stomach, but it was empty. He leaned back against the tree and clenched his teeth as his body shook.
The events of that morning played out before him as if he were sitting in front of a movie screen. When he closed his eyes and opened them again, the scene remained, and he saw himself pounding mercilessly on an ancient wooden door; saw himself lash out as if acting on some animalistic instinct. The tightening chain, the final jerk of life, and then the long, uncomfortable silence that beat like a drum in his ears. And then came the panic.
Sawyer closed his eyes once more and took a few heaving breaths. When he opened his eyes moments later, he found himself alone in the jungle again, miles way from The Black Rock and from the conclusion of a pursuit he had chased since childhood. He was supposed to feel absolved, purged of his former life. But instead, he felt damned.
For years he had been waiting for that moment, for the chance to look into the eyes of the man who had created him, the man in whose image he had molded himself. He had played it over and over again in his head, imagined the remorse he would see in the eyes of the real Sawyer and how he would beg for mercy before a bullet silenced him. But there had been no remorse. Only eyes black with hatred and pure evil, beckoning a death that was just as ruthless as he had been.
Sawyer looked down at his hands and saw that they were trembling. Maybe Mr. Sawyer had been right. Maybe he was weak. No, his mind told him. Locke was the cowardly one. Locke had been unable to battle his own demon, so he had sent in one of the demon’s own kind to finish him off. Sawyer had entered the brig expecting to find answers but instead had come face to face with himself. When he had looked into the eyes of the man who called himself Tom Sawyer, he had seen his own soul’s reflection. As the man gloated over his past conquests, Sawyer saw his own replay in the back of his mind. He had seen the man as a monster. And he was no better.
With a clench of his jaw, he pulled himself together and stood up, ignoring the throb of his bruised and bloodied feet. He steadied himself against the tree, glanced up at the sun through the leafy canopy to orient himself and set out again for the camp.
When he first stepped out of the jungle and onto the familiar beach, he was overcome with an intense feeling of relief and comfort, much like he had when he and Kate had finally made their way back after a week in captivity. He looked around at his fellow castaways, some scurrying about like ants in an ant farm while others lounged around at their leisure like tourists on holiday. None seemed neither aware nor concerned with his absence. But he had only been gone for a number of hours, the entire day, maybe. Had it really only been that long?
Sawyer held his chin up and walked in the direction of his tent, favoring his left foot slightly which was still tingling from when he had released his frustrations out on the tree. He neared his tent, but did not go in. Instead, he walked past it, not stopping until he had reached a quiet piece of beach out of sight from the others at camp. Peeling out of his sweat-drenched t-shirt, he tossed it into the sand followed by his unloaded gun and the tape recorder Locke had given him, and slipped into the salty water.
The ocean felt cool against his hot skin and relieved some of the pain in his bloodied feet, and he dove beneath the waves brought in by the rising tide. For a second, he considered staying below the cool waves and forgetting to breathe, but the thought was fleeting. He surfaced and began to swim toward shore, unable to discern whether the shame he felt was because the thought had even come to mind or because he was too weak to follow through with it. His water-soaked jeans felt exaggeratedly heavy as if they were trying to drag him back down into the ocean as he walked out of the surf. Despite having just emerged from the water, he still felt dirty. Unclean.
The waves had carried him a small ways down the beach from where he had left his things, and as he glanced down the shoreline, his brow furrowed at the sight of a familiar figure walking towards him. His jaw clenched characteristically, and he put on a stern face, hoping he could somehow avoid the conversation that would inevitably take place.
“Where have you been? You just disappeared.” Her voice called out to him over the din of the ocean before he was close enough to feign ignoring her. “Where were you?” Her cheeks looked flushed, her forehead wrinkled up as it did when she was worked up over something, but Sawyer’s mind was too weighed down to care.
He glowered at her instead of responding and bent over to pick up his things, careful to conceal the tape recorder and gun. Kate hovered over him as he did so, and he let out a groan and tossed his hair. “What? Are you my parole officer now, on top of everything else?”
His gruffness took her by surprise, and she squinted her eyes, studying his face. “What happened to you?” she asked, but he looked away. “Is this because I wouldn’t let you walk me to my tent?” she teased, changing tactics.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed.
“James,” she said softly, as if coaxing a startled horse. She reached out to lay her hand on his cheek, but he drew back from her touch as if something from him might spread onto her.
“Don’t call me that,” he growled through clenched teeth and turned his back on her. As he moved, his gun fell from within the folds of his shirt and dropped into the sand.
Kate was quick to retrieve it. “Why are you carrying a gun?”
Sawyer reached out and plucked it from her grip. “Bad neighborhood,” he replied, tucking it back into his shirt. The gun clinked against the tape recorder, and Kate’s eyes darted toward the bundle in Sawyer’s hand.
“What else do you…”
“It’s nothin’,” he interrupted. “Look, ain’t there anyone else’s business you can nose your way into? I’m sure the Doc’s ego could use a little strokin’.”
Kate shook her head and let out a sigh like she had a bad taste in her mouth.
“Trouble in paradise?” Sawyer smirked. “Ain’t easy playin’ second fiddle, is it, Kate?” The tone of his voice lowered until it was almost a growl as he said her name.
Kate visibly recoiled at the sound of her name rolling off his tongue, and she made no attempt to stop him as he turned his back on her and walked into the jungle.
It was the very last place he wanted to be, but his discomfort at being back in the jungle was nothing compared to the way his skin crawled when Kate had tried to touch him. Resigned to stay hidden within the trees until he was certain she had skulked off, Sawyer pulled the sticky t-shirt over his head and looked down at the tape recorder in his hands. He pressed “play.”
As Juliet’s voice spelled out her plan to “collect samples” from the women in the beach camp, Sawyer felt his already simmering blood begin to boil. His mind closed the curtain on thoughts of The Black Rock and the deeds that had been done within its hull; hidden, but not forever. Vengeance, he knew, was the perfect mask for self-loathing.
--
“Hey, Sayid.”
“What happened to you?”
“I was with Locke.”