Tales of Brave Ulysses (Sayid/Jack), 6/7
Title: Tales of Brave Ulysses (6/7) - parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 7
Pairing: Jack/Sayid (Lost). (CIS Fennec all the way, baby!)
Rating: As this is episodic, it ranges from PG to hard R.
Summary: Getting through life one day at a time, on and off the island (canon through 3x16).
Special thanks: To
gregoria44, whose comments were especially helpful in getting the latter parts of the dialogue in order.
Feedback and concrit are love.
Disclaimer: No ownership of anything remotely related to Lost; no infringement intended; no money made.
Author's note: While the on-island sections of this fic are in chronological order, the post-island ones are not (necessarily), and most need not be read to have happened in any particular sequence.
Assumes canon, although with more speculation than spoilers, up to about 3x16, “One of Us.”
They turn out to be east by southeast of American Samoa, about two-thirds of the way to French Polynesia. It’s been two years, two months, three weeks, and two days since Oceanic Airways 815 disappeared from the radars and was presumed lost somewhere in the south Pacific.
It’s the Star Tiger, Liberian flag of convenience, Samoa to Los Angeles, more coconut products and canned tuna than Jack would’ve thought existed, steered off course to avoid storms and saw the signal fire. It takes only a few days to get everyone aboard. Space is at a premium; the minute they’re all on the ship, every able hand is helping to sink two containers’ worth of the cheapest cargo. Insurance will cover the loss; they’ve survived worse than sleeping in a cramped hull.
They set sail at dawn, everyone gathered on deck to watch the island as it fades from their sight. The day is hot and bright and they’re keen to forget the island. Still, they’re silent: thinking of the future, their own pasts, of their ancestors.
Stolen and enslaved from Ghana. Enclosed off of farmsteads; deported as convicts. Wanting hunger to take them, knowing they’d never see Ireland again.
So afraid of their fathers that they have to leave their mother tongue. Exiled from home, if there’s anything left of it.
He suddenly wants grey skies, cold Atlantic spray, damp air. All he gets is a last glimpse of that dystopian paradise, and then they’re on the open sea, and the island is gone.
The island has only a little bit to do with the messy, massive knot of… Jack isn’t sure what, beneath Sayid’s stoic veneer. Sayid scorns the suggestion of counselling, and Jack has to admit that most mental health professionals aren’t equipped to work with his set of issues.
He claims not to remember his nightmares.
Jack’s late coming home after a day of emergencies at the clinic. Sayid’s spent the day in Los Angeles, apparently on the satellite link-ups: there’s a rasp to his voice when he greets Jack, a hint of hoarseness. Dinner is a silent affair - salad and bread; neither of them has the energy to cook. It’s not until Jack is chasing the last cherry tomatoes around with his fork that Sayid says, “There are many questions that you have never asked me, Jack.”
He spears a tomato enthusiastically. “Like what?”
“Like what I did in Iraq. What it is that I discuss with people.”
He sets his fork down. “You don’t seem to want to talk about it all that much.”
“And you seem not to think that this is a failing. You do not ask about things like the ones you have seen me do.”
“I know what you’re capable of. I authorized what you did to Sawyer, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Sayid gives a bitter laugh. “Is that what you think? You have never seen anyone authorize torture in your life. I had him at my mercy for ten minutes. Ben I did no more than slap around once or twice.”
“Look, I know you’ve done things you’re not proud of. It’s not something I haven’t thought about. But you weren’t out there gassing Kurds or marsh people.”
“Valiant, to restrict myself to smaller atrocities. You have never seen me even near my worst.”
“Well, do you want to tell me about it, then?” There’s a note of confrontation in his voice that he didn’t intend.
“Want to tell you? No. And you do not want it either. You want to know only that my superiors boasted of how I produced live confessions, that I have not committed any rapes, and believe that I am not so bad. You do not want to know how many blows a hand can deliver before it requires rest.”
“I don’t think - ”
“Or what I think of, what I remember doing, every time I take a belt from the closet. Or what it is like to cut the sleeves from a woman’s dress and bind her hands.” His voice is angry, but it goes soft and distant at the same time, just for an instant. “Fill a caterer’s pot with frying oil. The way the oil smells when it is heating, how it sounds when it reaches a full boil. And the way she screams when you pour it on her arms.”
“Sayid.”
“You don’t want to know how quickly she will confess, once she gets the use of words back. When you rip her skirt and tell her to give you answers before you burn her legs. What her arms look like, what they will always look like, once the doctor says she has healed.”
“Sayid!”
He closes his eyes, draws a deep breath. “I am sorry, Jack.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“Not primarily to you… They have finished certifying all the statements and transcriptions. They will be a matter of public record.”
“I know.”
“But have you really considered that other people will come across them? And that they may have questions for you as much as me?” He runs a hand over his temple and looks down. “I should have talked to you about this long ago.”
“You’re talking about it now.” He reaches across the table, presses Sayid’s hand into his. “One day at a time.”
Sayid bites his lip. “I have copies of the drafts. English and Arabic. Soon most of them will be in public archives. You should read them before that.”
“When?” It’s a stupid question.
“Tomorrow morning, probably. For yourself foremost.”
“Sayid. I’m not going to start hating you.” He doesn’t know why Sayid is saying all this, why he’s even thinking it. “This isn’t something I’m not prepared for.”
“You cannot promise that. Not before you have read it.” He wriggles his hand free. “Please don’t say anything more. Not tonight.”
The next day is unscheduled for him. He’s up early; when he gets back from the gym, Sayid is gone, probably spending time with the horses.
There’s a thick file folder on the kitchen table. It’s unlabelled; Sayid hasn’t left a note with it. He was right to describe them as drafts: double-spaced, single-sided, margins decorated with the occasional handwritten correction of a typo or a translation error.
He thought he was prepared for this. However many hundreds of pages, and he thought he was prepared.
Small phrases stick in his mind. I spent six years in prison for what I confessed. Maybe my son could have forgiven you for doing what you knew was wrong, but I cannot. It’s my children who hear their daddy having nightmares. Does all this make you feel better, you son of a bitch?
And from the statements: It was about fifteen minutes before he lost consciousness. I knew how impious it is for a man to strike a woman. Even though the marks would be difficult to explain. Silence will make the interrogator angry, and when you allow that to happen you can lose control.
It’s early afternoon when he finishes. He wants to be sick.
There’s a jingle of keys in the front door.
Sayid appears, bits of hay in his hair. A horse has slobbered grass on his shirt.
“Jack?”
“In here.”
Sayid is tentative as he steps into the kitchen. He looks at the file on the table and then at his feet. He says nothing.
“’I’m going for a run,” Jack says abruptly. There’s a clean set of gym clothes hanging in the laundry room; they should be dry by now. “Don’t keep dinner waiting.”
Sayid looks disappointed but only nods.
He goes to one of the trails in the state park; everything is beautiful this time of year. His mind is frozen in the file folder. He runs all afternoon, slowing to a walk for a few minutes at a time when he gets tired.
At sunset he goes by Claire’s place; he’s glad to find it empty. He lets himself in and spends a good two hours cleaning the house, which is small and relatively tidy. He leaves a note on the kitchen table and takes the long way home.
Sayid’s sitting in the living room, reading, when he gets home. He looks up for half a second, but they don’t say anything to each other.
He’s exhausted. He showers and sleeps, barely, in the guest bedroom.
The next day he follows the same routine.
The day after that he’s got a shift at the clinic. He’s out of the house at ten to five, spends three hours working himself ragged at the gym, gulps down more coffee than he thought he could stomach. He arrives with fifteen minutes to spare before patients start showing up. He flips through the appointment schedule, wanders into the break room for more coffee, maybe one of those nauseating pastries if he can manage it. He’s starving.
“Jesus, Jack, you look like hell.”
He turns from the coffee maker. One of the physician’s assistants is sitting at the table, nibbling an apple and regarding the pastries with disdain. “Teresa. I didn’t see you.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that.” She stands up. Five foot two, ponytail, purple scrubs; slighter than Ana Lucia and younger than she would be now, but with a face that reminds Jack of her nonetheless. Even so, even scowling, with her hands on her hips, she’s not too intimidating. “You look worse than most people in critical care.”
“At least I’m upright.”
“Not for very long.”
“I’ll be all right. I just need some caffeine.”
“After the super-sized coffee you just finished.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Well, you’re in no state to take care of patients. If you tried to do surgery in that state you’d be arrested for assault.” She gasps. “Um, sorry. Bad way to put it.”
“It’s okay.”
“Thank you. But it’s not okay if you work like this. You’ll be doing PPRs for ear infections by noon.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Try explaining that to the patients. I’ll call Carmen. She owes you for filling in when she had the flu.” She’s thumbing through her speed dial before Jack can protest. “Carmen, hi… Sorry to call you so early… Everything’s fine, but Jack’s sick… no, he’s here, but he looks like road-kill… half an hour? Great.” She hangs up. “She’ll be here in no time. The light fixture in exam 4 is broken; catch an hour or two of sleep in there and then go home. And don’t argue. If you looked any worse I’d drive you myself.”
“Um, okay. Thanks.”
“No problem. Just try not to snore.”
--
He wakes up four hours later with his stomach growling and makes his way to the break room. He gags down a couple of pastries and some orange juice; feeling human, he leaves a note for Teresa and Carmen and makes himself more coffee for the road. Although it’s not much better than the pastries.
He’s tempted to go for another run in one of the parks on his way home; his gym bag is in the car. He dissuades himself. His knees are crying out from the past few days, and he’s too tired.
And then there’s the real reason.
He enters the house quietly, half-shuffling. It’s a bright day; the lights are off.
Sayid is sitting on the couch, the cat beside him, a glass of water on the table. He’s wearing jeans and a white undershirt; his feet are bare. His hair is wet; a towel is draped over the upright cushion. His eyes are half-closed, head leaning back against the sofa. The hand that isn’t absently stroking Nadia is holding the remote, although the television is off.
Jack stands at the threshold for a while and watches him, saying nothing. Sayid turns his head slightly when Jack comes into the room, just for a second, but doesn’t acknowledge him otherwise.
Jack thinks, absurdly, that if Sayid were a woman he would have brought flowers. Hell, Sayid might have liked flowers. A woman would probably throw them in his face.
The sun is blinding.
He’s made such an ass of himself.
There are so many things he needs to say.
“Sayid.”
He turns his head, his expression unreadable.
“I love you.”
Sayid swallows and nods, barely.
The couch is a few steps away. He transfers Nadia to Sayid’s lap and sits down next to him. Underneath the lingering scents of soap and shampoo he smells faintly of horses and timothy hay.
He can’t decide what to say next.
He takes Sayid’s hand in his. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Sayid says nothing but nods again, clasping his other hand on top of Jack’s. He’s trying not to cry, Jack realizes. “Hey. I’ll be right back.” He squeezes Sayid’s hand before getting up.
His suit is wrinkled; he hangs it by the door to take to the cleaner’s. There’s cream in the refrigerator. He pours a few teaspoons’ worth into a saucer and brings it to Nadia, setting it by the fireplace. “You want to go upstairs?”
He doesn’t offer any reply, just follows Jack up the staircase and then into bed.
They don’t make love. They let their hands roam over each other’s bodies to comfort rather than arouse, by mutual, silent consent. There’s a whispered chorus of I love you and I am so sorry and I’ll never, kisses interspersed. It’s Jack who’s crying, a little bit; Sayid’s thumbs brush the tears away.
**Image credits: psychodelicS, jackkate, the "Solitary" challenge, at lost-forum,
fragilepicture,
mewful,
losty_ville, and
ms_pollygreen.
Pairing: Jack/Sayid (Lost). (CIS Fennec all the way, baby!)
Rating: As this is episodic, it ranges from PG to hard R.
Summary: Getting through life one day at a time, on and off the island (canon through 3x16).
Special thanks: To
gregoria44, whose comments were especially helpful in getting the latter parts of the dialogue in order.
Feedback and concrit are love.
Disclaimer: No ownership of anything remotely related to Lost; no infringement intended; no money made.
Author's note: While the on-island sections of this fic are in chronological order, the post-island ones are not (necessarily), and most need not be read to have happened in any particular sequence.
Assumes canon, although with more speculation than spoilers, up to about 3x16, “One of Us.”
They turn out to be east by southeast of American Samoa, about two-thirds of the way to French Polynesia. It’s been two years, two months, three weeks, and two days since Oceanic Airways 815 disappeared from the radars and was presumed lost somewhere in the south Pacific.
It’s the Star Tiger, Liberian flag of convenience, Samoa to Los Angeles, more coconut products and canned tuna than Jack would’ve thought existed, steered off course to avoid storms and saw the signal fire. It takes only a few days to get everyone aboard. Space is at a premium; the minute they’re all on the ship, every able hand is helping to sink two containers’ worth of the cheapest cargo. Insurance will cover the loss; they’ve survived worse than sleeping in a cramped hull.
They set sail at dawn, everyone gathered on deck to watch the island as it fades from their sight. The day is hot and bright and they’re keen to forget the island. Still, they’re silent: thinking of the future, their own pasts, of their ancestors.
Stolen and enslaved from Ghana. Enclosed off of farmsteads; deported as convicts. Wanting hunger to take them, knowing they’d never see Ireland again.
So afraid of their fathers that they have to leave their mother tongue. Exiled from home, if there’s anything left of it.
He suddenly wants grey skies, cold Atlantic spray, damp air. All he gets is a last glimpse of that dystopian paradise, and then they’re on the open sea, and the island is gone.
The island has only a little bit to do with the messy, massive knot of… Jack isn’t sure what, beneath Sayid’s stoic veneer. Sayid scorns the suggestion of counselling, and Jack has to admit that most mental health professionals aren’t equipped to work with his set of issues.
He claims not to remember his nightmares.
Jack’s late coming home after a day of emergencies at the clinic. Sayid’s spent the day in Los Angeles, apparently on the satellite link-ups: there’s a rasp to his voice when he greets Jack, a hint of hoarseness. Dinner is a silent affair - salad and bread; neither of them has the energy to cook. It’s not until Jack is chasing the last cherry tomatoes around with his fork that Sayid says, “There are many questions that you have never asked me, Jack.”
He spears a tomato enthusiastically. “Like what?”
“Like what I did in Iraq. What it is that I discuss with people.”
He sets his fork down. “You don’t seem to want to talk about it all that much.”
“And you seem not to think that this is a failing. You do not ask about things like the ones you have seen me do.”
“I know what you’re capable of. I authorized what you did to Sawyer, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Sayid gives a bitter laugh. “Is that what you think? You have never seen anyone authorize torture in your life. I had him at my mercy for ten minutes. Ben I did no more than slap around once or twice.”
“Look, I know you’ve done things you’re not proud of. It’s not something I haven’t thought about. But you weren’t out there gassing Kurds or marsh people.”
“Valiant, to restrict myself to smaller atrocities. You have never seen me even near my worst.”
“Well, do you want to tell me about it, then?” There’s a note of confrontation in his voice that he didn’t intend.
“Want to tell you? No. And you do not want it either. You want to know only that my superiors boasted of how I produced live confessions, that I have not committed any rapes, and believe that I am not so bad. You do not want to know how many blows a hand can deliver before it requires rest.”
“I don’t think - ”
“Or what I think of, what I remember doing, every time I take a belt from the closet. Or what it is like to cut the sleeves from a woman’s dress and bind her hands.” His voice is angry, but it goes soft and distant at the same time, just for an instant. “Fill a caterer’s pot with frying oil. The way the oil smells when it is heating, how it sounds when it reaches a full boil. And the way she screams when you pour it on her arms.”
“Sayid.”
“You don’t want to know how quickly she will confess, once she gets the use of words back. When you rip her skirt and tell her to give you answers before you burn her legs. What her arms look like, what they will always look like, once the doctor says she has healed.”
“Sayid!”
He closes his eyes, draws a deep breath. “I am sorry, Jack.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“Not primarily to you… They have finished certifying all the statements and transcriptions. They will be a matter of public record.”
“I know.”
“But have you really considered that other people will come across them? And that they may have questions for you as much as me?” He runs a hand over his temple and looks down. “I should have talked to you about this long ago.”
“You’re talking about it now.” He reaches across the table, presses Sayid’s hand into his. “One day at a time.”
Sayid bites his lip. “I have copies of the drafts. English and Arabic. Soon most of them will be in public archives. You should read them before that.”
“When?” It’s a stupid question.
“Tomorrow morning, probably. For yourself foremost.”
“Sayid. I’m not going to start hating you.” He doesn’t know why Sayid is saying all this, why he’s even thinking it. “This isn’t something I’m not prepared for.”
“You cannot promise that. Not before you have read it.” He wriggles his hand free. “Please don’t say anything more. Not tonight.”
The next day is unscheduled for him. He’s up early; when he gets back from the gym, Sayid is gone, probably spending time with the horses.
There’s a thick file folder on the kitchen table. It’s unlabelled; Sayid hasn’t left a note with it. He was right to describe them as drafts: double-spaced, single-sided, margins decorated with the occasional handwritten correction of a typo or a translation error.
He thought he was prepared for this. However many hundreds of pages, and he thought he was prepared.
Small phrases stick in his mind. I spent six years in prison for what I confessed. Maybe my son could have forgiven you for doing what you knew was wrong, but I cannot. It’s my children who hear their daddy having nightmares. Does all this make you feel better, you son of a bitch?
And from the statements: It was about fifteen minutes before he lost consciousness. I knew how impious it is for a man to strike a woman. Even though the marks would be difficult to explain. Silence will make the interrogator angry, and when you allow that to happen you can lose control.
It’s early afternoon when he finishes. He wants to be sick.
There’s a jingle of keys in the front door.
Sayid appears, bits of hay in his hair. A horse has slobbered grass on his shirt.
“Jack?”
“In here.”
Sayid is tentative as he steps into the kitchen. He looks at the file on the table and then at his feet. He says nothing.
“’I’m going for a run,” Jack says abruptly. There’s a clean set of gym clothes hanging in the laundry room; they should be dry by now. “Don’t keep dinner waiting.”
Sayid looks disappointed but only nods.
He goes to one of the trails in the state park; everything is beautiful this time of year. His mind is frozen in the file folder. He runs all afternoon, slowing to a walk for a few minutes at a time when he gets tired.
At sunset he goes by Claire’s place; he’s glad to find it empty. He lets himself in and spends a good two hours cleaning the house, which is small and relatively tidy. He leaves a note on the kitchen table and takes the long way home.
Sayid’s sitting in the living room, reading, when he gets home. He looks up for half a second, but they don’t say anything to each other.
He’s exhausted. He showers and sleeps, barely, in the guest bedroom.
The next day he follows the same routine.
The day after that he’s got a shift at the clinic. He’s out of the house at ten to five, spends three hours working himself ragged at the gym, gulps down more coffee than he thought he could stomach. He arrives with fifteen minutes to spare before patients start showing up. He flips through the appointment schedule, wanders into the break room for more coffee, maybe one of those nauseating pastries if he can manage it. He’s starving.
“Jesus, Jack, you look like hell.”
He turns from the coffee maker. One of the physician’s assistants is sitting at the table, nibbling an apple and regarding the pastries with disdain. “Teresa. I didn’t see you.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that.” She stands up. Five foot two, ponytail, purple scrubs; slighter than Ana Lucia and younger than she would be now, but with a face that reminds Jack of her nonetheless. Even so, even scowling, with her hands on her hips, she’s not too intimidating. “You look worse than most people in critical care.”
“At least I’m upright.”
“Not for very long.”
“I’ll be all right. I just need some caffeine.”
“After the super-sized coffee you just finished.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Well, you’re in no state to take care of patients. If you tried to do surgery in that state you’d be arrested for assault.” She gasps. “Um, sorry. Bad way to put it.”
“It’s okay.”
“Thank you. But it’s not okay if you work like this. You’ll be doing PPRs for ear infections by noon.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Try explaining that to the patients. I’ll call Carmen. She owes you for filling in when she had the flu.” She’s thumbing through her speed dial before Jack can protest. “Carmen, hi… Sorry to call you so early… Everything’s fine, but Jack’s sick… no, he’s here, but he looks like road-kill… half an hour? Great.” She hangs up. “She’ll be here in no time. The light fixture in exam 4 is broken; catch an hour or two of sleep in there and then go home. And don’t argue. If you looked any worse I’d drive you myself.”
“Um, okay. Thanks.”
“No problem. Just try not to snore.”
--
He wakes up four hours later with his stomach growling and makes his way to the break room. He gags down a couple of pastries and some orange juice; feeling human, he leaves a note for Teresa and Carmen and makes himself more coffee for the road. Although it’s not much better than the pastries.
He’s tempted to go for another run in one of the parks on his way home; his gym bag is in the car. He dissuades himself. His knees are crying out from the past few days, and he’s too tired.
And then there’s the real reason.
He enters the house quietly, half-shuffling. It’s a bright day; the lights are off.
Sayid is sitting on the couch, the cat beside him, a glass of water on the table. He’s wearing jeans and a white undershirt; his feet are bare. His hair is wet; a towel is draped over the upright cushion. His eyes are half-closed, head leaning back against the sofa. The hand that isn’t absently stroking Nadia is holding the remote, although the television is off.
Jack stands at the threshold for a while and watches him, saying nothing. Sayid turns his head slightly when Jack comes into the room, just for a second, but doesn’t acknowledge him otherwise.
Jack thinks, absurdly, that if Sayid were a woman he would have brought flowers. Hell, Sayid might have liked flowers. A woman would probably throw them in his face.
The sun is blinding.
He’s made such an ass of himself.
There are so many things he needs to say.
“Sayid.”
He turns his head, his expression unreadable.
“I love you.”
Sayid swallows and nods, barely.
The couch is a few steps away. He transfers Nadia to Sayid’s lap and sits down next to him. Underneath the lingering scents of soap and shampoo he smells faintly of horses and timothy hay.
He can’t decide what to say next.
He takes Sayid’s hand in his. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Sayid says nothing but nods again, clasping his other hand on top of Jack’s. He’s trying not to cry, Jack realizes. “Hey. I’ll be right back.” He squeezes Sayid’s hand before getting up.
His suit is wrinkled; he hangs it by the door to take to the cleaner’s. There’s cream in the refrigerator. He pours a few teaspoons’ worth into a saucer and brings it to Nadia, setting it by the fireplace. “You want to go upstairs?”
He doesn’t offer any reply, just follows Jack up the staircase and then into bed.
They don’t make love. They let their hands roam over each other’s bodies to comfort rather than arouse, by mutual, silent consent. There’s a whispered chorus of I love you and I am so sorry and I’ll never, kisses interspersed. It’s Jack who’s crying, a little bit; Sayid’s thumbs brush the tears away.
**Image credits: psychodelicS, jackkate, the "Solitary" challenge, at lost-forum,
fragilepicture,
mewful,
losty_ville, and
ms_pollygreen.