Summary: Sawyer wishes Jack were here
Pairing: Faint Jack/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Note: You could consider this a companion piece to foxxcub's Scent. Also, thanks to uberaeryn and foxxcub for the super speedy beta! ;-D
Word count: 876
He doesn’t have time to register the shock of the bullet tearing into his shoulder before he’s underwater, fighting his way back up to the surface. It seems forever before he sees light again and he can gasp air into his bursting lungs. He’s alive.
His shoulder is stinging like a motherfucker from the saltwater and the wound burns and throbs. His arm feels fuckin’ useless as he treads water. The raft is in pieces and on fire all around him.
He can’t see anyone else, but he hears Mike calling “Walt,” over and over. His voice is growing weaker. He hears choking and remembers Mike can’t swim.
Sawyer strikes out hard into the waves, cursing his arm, and he finds Mike just below the surface and somehow drags him to a section of the raft that’s miraculously still afloat.
His bad arm protests the dead weight but he sets his jaw. He keeps pulling, screaming through the pain, and now Mike’s on the raft with him. He’s not breathing.
Fuck. If only Jack were here. Sawyer’s never done this before but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna let Mike die. And he goes through the motions - can’t even remember when he learned CPR - and finally Mike is sputtering and relief floods through him. Thank Christ.
He sits back, so fuckin’ happy he can’t even believe it. And then it all goes wrong. Instead of being glad they’re alive, Mike starts blaming Sawyer for everything.
He wants to say, “I saved your life, pal,” but he doesn’t. He sits there, bleeding out, wondering if he’s going into shock or if the numbness is just fury. He didn’t do it to be thanked, but a fucking ‘Thank you,’ would be nice. Mike doesn’t even fuckin’ mention it. Instead, he just keeps raggin’ on him. If he thinks Sawyer took a bullet to save his own skin, well ... Sawyer starts wishing he’d just let him drown.
I mean, what does a guy have to fuckin’ do? he thinks bitterly. Mike blamed him for the poisoning, for the mast breaking, for everything that went wrong, just like the rest of them. He saved the rudder, for Christ’s sake and now Mike is kicking him off his raft? Unfuckingbelievable.
Fine. That's just fuckin' fine, he thinks as he swims to another piece of wreckage -- and he’s the one who’s injured, for fuck’s sake -- hating the sight of Michael and feeling like a chump for thinking, even for a second, that he’d considered him a friend.
“You don’t know what it’s like to care about someone,” Mike says now and Sawyer can only stare at him in disbelief. Back to that. Sawyer, the guy who no one cares about and who doesn’t care about anyone else. Fine. If that’s the way he wants it, that’s the way it’ll be, he swears silently. His hero days are fuckin’ over. Every man for himself, starting now.
Although he might have known, no one told him you got no thanks for helpin’ others. Jack got nothing but lip from Boone when he saved his life. And did he ever thank Jack for patching him up, that once? No, he just chewed his ass and ... well, that was his fault. But now he knows why Jack’s such a jackass. It’s a thankless job and for the first time Sawyer feels a twinge of sympathy for the Doc. He never has a day off. No one can fill in for him. It’s all on him. And he gets blamed for all the big things that go wrong, while Sawyer only gets blamed for the small stuff. Up 'till now.
His arm is really starting to throb and he feels colder with each drop of blood that leaves him. The motion of the waves is oddly soothing. If he weren’t so angry, he might give into his fatigue, just lay down and let himself drift. Everything’s been shot to hell. What’s the fuckin' point anyway?
But he knows he has to get the bullet out and if Mike can watch that and not feel sorry for him, well then Fuck. Him. His mind goes to Jack again. Jack would take care of him. Jack, despite being a pompous windbag most of the time, cares. He cares, he tells himself as he grits his teeth and digs in for the bullet. He wouldn’t force me to do this. He’d patch me up and he’d make everything alright.
The pain is so bad he’s afraid he’s going to cry, but instead he screams. Let Mike hear him. Let him feel bad. Christ, he’s almost got it now. He pulls and feels a fresh gush of blood, stronger now. That ain’t good. He stares at the bullet, held tight in his fingers, slippery wet with blood and he’s insanely proud of himself.
If Jack were here, he’d let him lean up against him, he’s fairly certain. Because now he’s cold and can’t sit up anymore. He falls over, blinking up at the night sky. He wishes he could see Jack again, just once, and tell him he gets it now, that he’s sorry. He gives himself up to the blackness, still trying to figure out just how he’d say it.