Summary: Three different reactions to the crash
Note: For astra2104's day as Queen at lostsquee. She requested fic set during the pilot and I don't think I've ever really written that...!
Jack wakes to the sound of strange birds and insects. He opens his eyes and all he sees is green. This is not the plane.
A dog, just as out of place as he is, appears, then runs off into the jungle. There's a jungle.
He wonders if he’s dreaming, until he tries to stand and a searing pain stabs through his shoulder. You can’t feel pain in dreams, can you?
He fumbles in his suit jacket pocket, finds two small airplane bottles of vodka the stewardess slipped him. He still feels drunk. Maybe he simply blacked out on the plane. There’s no island, there’s no roar coming from the beach.
A pair of tennis shoes dangles, surreal, from a tree overhead, tossed there by the same force that threw him from plane. Thankfully, there is no body.
He sees his first body on the beach. There is nothing but noise and chaos and heat and people screaming, some bloodied, most in shock. He starts to run, assessing injuries as he runs past.
He’s still dreaming. Or still drunk. Just like Dad. He zeroes in on a pregnant woman, shaking the image from his head of his father's shaking hands during that last operation.
He helps the pregnant woman -- just a girl, really -- to safety and looks around. His father’s body is somewhere in that wreckage or else it’s lost in that jungle, but he can’t think about that right now. Someone else needs him.
Sawyer’s hands are perfectly steady as he lights a cigarette.They shook back in Sydney, when he first took the gun out, but they’re not shaking now.
He’s the only calm one in the chaos. In the back of his mind, he thinks he might be in shock, but everything is too crystal clear for this to be shock. He sees everyone else running around, screaming, looking for loved ones.
If that was his body, crushed beneath the wing over there, no one would care, no one would miss him.
The rush of nicotine is just what he needs, but he could really use a drink. Probably, there’s a whole minibar back in the plane.
Some idiot in a suit -- who wears a suit on a plane? -- is out there being a hero, rescuing people. He’s not going to be that guy. What’s the point?
He takes another drag on the cigarette. He’s only got himself to depend on and that’s fine by him.
Mercifully, Kate got the cuffs unlocked and off in those in horrible seconds before the plane crashed, but she can still feel them around her wrists. She's rubbing them when she stumbles across the doctor, shirtless and on his knees, bleeding from a wound he can’t reach and asking, breathlessly, for her help.
She doesn’t know he’s a doctor yet, not until he tells her. He doesn’t know who she is, and so she says nothing, just listens.
He wouldn’t have asked for her help if he knew who she was, wouldn’t confide in her, wouldn’t smile at her like that.
Her hands tremble as she stitches him up. He’s not going to know about her, as long as they’re here. She runs through her aliases, tries to think of the right backstory, but he doesn’t ask.
He looks at her with gratitude, like they’ve shared something. She smiles back because, for all he knows, this is who she is, someone who helps, someone who listens.
She can be that person now, if she wants. The crash was a godsend.