Lost fic: The Wolves of Memory [Sawyer, 730 words]
Summary: Sawyer returns to survival mode. Season six. Canonical character death referenced.
The Wolves of Memory
by eponine119
August 19, 2020
Sawyer's surprised how easily he drops back into survival mode. It feels like it was yesterday that he was tromping around this jungle with a gun tucked in the back of his jeans, determined to stay alive long enough to find a way off this rock.
It's hard to believe three years went by in relative comfort and complacency.
He puts it all out of his head as best he can, because he knows if he thinks about it, if he lets it back in, he won't be able to do the things he has to do in order to survive. And he's too ornery and pissed off to die now.
But he can't keep it out of his head at night.
Can't keep her out of his head.
He tries to tell himself that it's better she's not here. He's not glad she's dead. But if she was here, he'd be looking out for her. Protecting her. And that would make her a liability.
Somehow he's allowed himself to forget all the times she saved his ass when they were time traveling, that she's a better shot than he ever was and smarter besides with a cooler head.
She made him human, just for a little while. If she was here, with her blue eyes on him, he couldn't do the things he needs to do to survive.
Eating rabbit stew and thinking about salad and rolls and spaghetti and birthday cake, with narrowed eyes he watches Sayid across the fire. They'd never gotten along, him and the Iraqi. It didn't seem fair that on the same night Juliet died, Sayid got to live. Resurrected by the Others' damn temple.
Why the hell couldn't it have been her instead, he thought repeatedly.
But there's something wrong with Sayid now. His eyes are flat and he's dead inside. Sawyer doesn't trust him any more than he trusts that Locke-thing. It makes him glad, because what if he'd gotten his wish and it had been her? Walking around messed up with no light in her eyes. He couldn't have stood it. Couldn't have moved on.
Not that he has moved on. He's just stuffed it away somewhere so deep it can't find him. It'll be back, and when it is, he'd better be somewhere safe and away, because it's going to lay him out.
They called it mono when he was a kid, when six months after his parents died, he was feverish and lacked the strength to get out of bed. In the back of his head, that's what's coming for him. Losing them was fine preparation for losing her. Losing every damn person he ever let into his life. He'd meant what he told Kate, about being alone.
So he goes through the familiar routine. Plotting, planning, turning on people, and the endless green trees of the goddamn jungle.
Every night he sees her when he closes his eyes. He sees her a million ways - in her jumpsuit with grease on her cheek; in a pretty dress at a party; in jeans and t-shirts and blouses that button; in that red peasant top torn and smeared with her blood; in nothing at all. It's burned into his memory and already starting to fade.
Someday her face will be gone from his mind and he won't even have a picture of her. Her voice, her laugh, her touch. His eyes burn and he lies awake, trying to shore up the collapse of memories.
As they run and fight and struggle, at times he gets flashes of what would happen if she was there with them. How things might have twisted, or how they might have ended the same. He'd lose her, and in his mind he keeps on losing her. In the sub, at the cliffs, as they run while the island breaks up around them.
Then they're lifting off, nothing but air and blue sky beneath him and his hands curled tight around the airplane armrests. He's free. Finally, finally free.
Except the island will never leave him. And he will never leave it, because his heart is somewhere back there, buried in a shallow grave, along with the man he once was and will never be again
(end)
The Wolves of Memory
by eponine119
August 19, 2020
Sawyer's surprised how easily he drops back into survival mode. It feels like it was yesterday that he was tromping around this jungle with a gun tucked in the back of his jeans, determined to stay alive long enough to find a way off this rock.
It's hard to believe three years went by in relative comfort and complacency.
He puts it all out of his head as best he can, because he knows if he thinks about it, if he lets it back in, he won't be able to do the things he has to do in order to survive. And he's too ornery and pissed off to die now.
But he can't keep it out of his head at night.
Can't keep her out of his head.
He tries to tell himself that it's better she's not here. He's not glad she's dead. But if she was here, he'd be looking out for her. Protecting her. And that would make her a liability.
Somehow he's allowed himself to forget all the times she saved his ass when they were time traveling, that she's a better shot than he ever was and smarter besides with a cooler head.
She made him human, just for a little while. If she was here, with her blue eyes on him, he couldn't do the things he needs to do to survive.
Eating rabbit stew and thinking about salad and rolls and spaghetti and birthday cake, with narrowed eyes he watches Sayid across the fire. They'd never gotten along, him and the Iraqi. It didn't seem fair that on the same night Juliet died, Sayid got to live. Resurrected by the Others' damn temple.
Why the hell couldn't it have been her instead, he thought repeatedly.
But there's something wrong with Sayid now. His eyes are flat and he's dead inside. Sawyer doesn't trust him any more than he trusts that Locke-thing. It makes him glad, because what if he'd gotten his wish and it had been her? Walking around messed up with no light in her eyes. He couldn't have stood it. Couldn't have moved on.
Not that he has moved on. He's just stuffed it away somewhere so deep it can't find him. It'll be back, and when it is, he'd better be somewhere safe and away, because it's going to lay him out.
They called it mono when he was a kid, when six months after his parents died, he was feverish and lacked the strength to get out of bed. In the back of his head, that's what's coming for him. Losing them was fine preparation for losing her. Losing every damn person he ever let into his life. He'd meant what he told Kate, about being alone.
So he goes through the familiar routine. Plotting, planning, turning on people, and the endless green trees of the goddamn jungle.
Every night he sees her when he closes his eyes. He sees her a million ways - in her jumpsuit with grease on her cheek; in a pretty dress at a party; in jeans and t-shirts and blouses that button; in that red peasant top torn and smeared with her blood; in nothing at all. It's burned into his memory and already starting to fade.
Someday her face will be gone from his mind and he won't even have a picture of her. Her voice, her laugh, her touch. His eyes burn and he lies awake, trying to shore up the collapse of memories.
As they run and fight and struggle, at times he gets flashes of what would happen if she was there with them. How things might have twisted, or how they might have ended the same. He'd lose her, and in his mind he keeps on losing her. In the sub, at the cliffs, as they run while the island breaks up around them.
Then they're lifting off, nothing but air and blue sky beneath him and his hands curled tight around the airplane armrests. He's free. Finally, finally free.
Except the island will never leave him. And he will never leave it, because his heart is somewhere back there, buried in a shallow grave, along with the man he once was and will never be again
(end)