A Hand Always Holding Yours - Lost - Jack/Sawyer
Title: A Hand Always Holding Yours
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer-ish
Word Count: 1888
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied character death, non-consensual medical procedures
A/N: This is a late birthday fic for the lovely gottalovev, who asked for something with evil scientists. I was stumped for ideas so was looking at some photos for the lostfichallenge and found this glorious thing… which, eventually, led me to this fic. Happy (late!) birthday, Lou!
Summary: He didn't look over his shoulder as he heard the stranger call his name - he wasn't in the mood to sign autographs.
Jack didn't stop walking as he heard a voice he didn't recognise calling his name. As one of the Oceanic Six, there weren't many people left in the United Sates that hadn't seen his face plastered over the television and a hundred different magazines. His gradual breakdown had been well-recorded: the media had taken a twisted interest in his car-crashing life and he was sure that an embarrassing number of column inches had already been devoted to the state of his facial hair. Ridiculous, really.
"Doctor Shephard!"
His shoulders hunched and he looked down at the wet sidewalk. His car was parked just around the corner. In another few minutes he'd be there. He could go home. Light, spitting raindrops pinged on the pavement and left wet dots on his denim jacket. Burying his hands in his pockets he sped up.
"Doctor Shephard, stop!"
He glanced over his shoulder. In the darkness it was hard to make out who stood at the far end of the street, wrapped in shadows. Someone tall, someone male. Someone unrecognisable. "I'm sorry," Jack yelled back. He wasn't. Not really. Not at all. "I can't stop." He'd deny that he was Doctor Shephard at all but by this point that would be useless.
"This won't take long," the stranger said. He walked forward - not just tall, bulky too. His large silhouette in the street lamp's light sent Jack's mind back to the island, back to Eko's physically demanding presence. The island was everywhere. "Mr Widmore sent me."
"Mr Widmore?" Jack asked. The rain still spat, light and misty. Barely there at all. "Sorry, I don't know that name."
Another lie. His life was made on them now, right down to their salvation. At night he sometimes thought that he could see the ghosts of the dead he'd denied: Ana-Lucia's accusing eyes watched him while he slept. It didn't matter. She was gone. Did it matter the method? Plane crash or bullet. It didn't make a difference, yet he still couldn't sleep at night.
The large man stepped forward again. Jack could see his grin illuminated by the artificial lamp above him, a sneer that belonged on the face of a manic clown. "I think you do," he said. "I think you know damn well who he is."
There was movement in the shadows, a ripple of bodies. Jack took a slow step backwards: his something isn't right here instinct was tingling, reawakened after resting dormant in the years he'd escaped from the island. Escaped. They should have been safe now. Everything should have been perfect, yet he looked around and could only see the charred remains of their lives. He could only hope that those who had remained on the island had had a kinder fate. He could only hope that Sawyer had made it back there alive.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. He tried to estimate how long it would take him to dash to his car: could he outrun this guy? In his pocket his hand curled around his car keys. He wished he still carried a gun, that problems in the real world were solved that easily. "I'm sorry - I can't help you. You must have the wrong guy."
The guy grinned, chuckled, and raised a hand. With his fingers he beckoned someone behind Jack to move forward. There was no time to turn around; no time to panic; no time to think. No time to feel the pain when that blunt, heavy object hit the back of his head. His consciousness disappeared like a burnt-out light bulb.
*
Jack was aware even as his mind stirred slowly to life that he was unable to move. He usually slept on his side, his right arm stretched towards the empty half of the bed. Waking now, he was flat on his back, his limbs straight and immobile by his side. Streamlined. He thought that he could possibly wiggle his fingers if he wanted to, perhaps point his toes, but besides those shallow movements he was completely restricted. Heavy, immovable bonds held him down against the hard table.
One…
It wasn't yet the time to panic, though he couldn't force himself to open his eyes.
Two…
There were no immediate noises that he could detect, but the rumble of voices could be heard close by, a conversation muffled by a wall. Jack groaned and tried to remember what had happened to him - how had he got here?
Before his count could reach the third number, an impossible voice spoke. "That ain't what you should be worrying about right now, doc," it said. It sounded warm and slow like freshly-made treacle but Jack knew this couldn't be happening. Miles of ocean separated them now. "Definitely shouldn't be worrying about how you got here."
"Whu…" Jack couldn't speak. The sounds he needed wouldn't form: his mouth was numb, frozen.
"Wouldn't try speaking either. How d'you think they're gonna react when they see you're awake?"
Jack forced himself to open his eyes. Bright, unnatural light filled his vision. He blinked to try and clear it - he was on a surgical table, he realised. Strapped down, barely able to see, and his head pounded where he had been hit to knock him out, and…
"Yeah, I'd say the next couple of hours aren't gonna be too fun," Sawyer confirmed. Jack tried to turn his head to see him. He could only catch a glimpse of blond hair by the side of the room. Nothing more. "These guys make Ben look damn cuddly."
The doors opened, flapping, and Sawyer fell silent. Jack tried to work out what was happening. He could see white lab-coats and he could hear shuffling, easy footsteps. The beeping of his heart-rate monitor increased as they approached.
"Is he awake?" one of the two who had entered asked. She peered over him, looking into his eyes. Her face was lined with dark shadows. She leaned back again after only a second and he heard the snap of latex gloves being pulled on.
Her colleague gave a slow shrug. "I don't think it matters."
Jack tried to speak, tried to appeal for help. The only sound he managed to make was a muffled grunt. His hands twitched. "Stay calm, Jack," Sawyer said. The others in the room didn't respond. "Don't panic - it won't help."
Jack could only quietly grunt again in response. The female doctor reached across him to fiddle with the IV providing him with the drugs to keep him calm and numb. The front of her white coat trailed over his chest.
"Widmore's scientists," Sawyer said. He stepped away from the side of the room, approaching the table where Jack lay. He leaned his arms by Jack's head. His skin felt warm; Jack could hear him breathing. He tried to focus on that instead of the two scientists and what they were doing. This couldn't be happening. "You're a living survivor from the island - a living, breathing Petri dish. Isn't too surprising that he's taken an interest. I'm just glad it's you instead of the others. Kate, Aaron…"
Jack closed his eyes. Sawyer was right. In that annoying way, he usually was. He and Sayid could handle this. Jack didn't think they could make him fall any further, no matter what they did, but the others? He grit his teeth. He was okay. He'd be okay. He could survive this.
"Thing is, doc, this isn't actually why I'm here. The island… Something's gone wrong there. Way wrong. I don't know what - it's hard to remember, now. Point is, they need you."
Jack swallowed. He could remember visiting Hurley; he could remember 'Charlie's' message for him, but he'd held onto the empty semblance of an ordinary life for as long as he could. It had collapsed to pieces around him. He'd fallen from grace a long time ago.
"You have to go back, Jack," Sawyer said quietly. "All of you. You need to set things right."
Jack wanted to ask what had happened to the island - to Sawyer himself. He sounded exactly as Jack remembered, but there was a weight in his voice that hadn't been there before.
"It's not important," Sawyer said. Jack's eyes tracked towards his voice. He still couldn't see all of him. Tanned skin, the edge of a smug smile, those dimples. "Don't worry about it - Locke'll explain. You've got enough to deal with right now without worryin' about me too."
"I'm ready to make the first incision," the female said.
Jack's breathing caught as he felt the cold tip of the scalpel against his stomach. There was no pain; there was pressure as his skin gave way, coldness, and a slight stinging like lemon in a paper cut. Staring up at the light above him, his breath stuttered again and he wondered if he was crying. Captured, helpless, scared. Counting to five wouldn't fix this.
"Jack," Sawyer said, "stay calm. You're going to be fine: they don't want to kill you. Just breathe."
He could feel blood rolling down his skin, dribbling before it was caught by a ball of cotton. The scientists were talking over his head like he couldn't hear them at all. He wished he could scream, he wished this had never happened - and somewhere deep-down he wished they'd never left the island.
Sawyer took his hand. He felt too solid, too real. It overpowered the scientists' hands on him, the scalpels, the IV in his arm. Sawyer's hand felt hot, like he was still lying out on the island's sun-soaked beaches. What happened? Jack thought. Did you die? He couldn't make his mouth move.
Sawyer squeezed his hand. "I'm here now," he whispered. "That's what counts."
Jack stared up at the bright light above him. The surgeons worked; Jack didn't even know what they wanted with him, what they were doing, what they were looking for. Sawyer held onto him - I'm here, it's okay, I'm here - and held the fear at bay for now.
*
He woke up lying on his back on his couch. His arm draped down to the ground; pins and needles haunted it. There was a stretching bruise on the inside of his elbow, the dark smudge left behind by a needle. His head pounded. His stomach ached.
He groggily moved his hand to pull up his t-shirt: there was a long, regular line of stitches running down his stomach. Black thread. He rested his head against the arm rest and stared at the ceiling for a few bizarre moments. Breathing felt impossible. He knew he had to get up, go to a hospital and get checked out. He was lucky to have survived.
He brushed his hand over his beard then pushed himself so that he could sit up. It made everything hurt more than ever, but he had to get going, get moving. If anything could awaken him from the daze he'd lived in for years, Sawyer and those scalpels could - one painful shove. It was time to stop hiding.
He stood up on unsteady feet and thought of Sawyer's voice to keep himself moving. He walked past the scattered empty bottles towards the door. He grit his teeth; he breathed; he kept going.
It was finally time to try to go home.
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer-ish
Word Count: 1888
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied character death, non-consensual medical procedures
A/N: This is a late birthday fic for the lovely gottalovev, who asked for something with evil scientists. I was stumped for ideas so was looking at some photos for the lostfichallenge and found this glorious thing… which, eventually, led me to this fic. Happy (late!) birthday, Lou!
Summary: He didn't look over his shoulder as he heard the stranger call his name - he wasn't in the mood to sign autographs.
Jack didn't stop walking as he heard a voice he didn't recognise calling his name. As one of the Oceanic Six, there weren't many people left in the United Sates that hadn't seen his face plastered over the television and a hundred different magazines. His gradual breakdown had been well-recorded: the media had taken a twisted interest in his car-crashing life and he was sure that an embarrassing number of column inches had already been devoted to the state of his facial hair. Ridiculous, really.
"Doctor Shephard!"
His shoulders hunched and he looked down at the wet sidewalk. His car was parked just around the corner. In another few minutes he'd be there. He could go home. Light, spitting raindrops pinged on the pavement and left wet dots on his denim jacket. Burying his hands in his pockets he sped up.
"Doctor Shephard, stop!"
He glanced over his shoulder. In the darkness it was hard to make out who stood at the far end of the street, wrapped in shadows. Someone tall, someone male. Someone unrecognisable. "I'm sorry," Jack yelled back. He wasn't. Not really. Not at all. "I can't stop." He'd deny that he was Doctor Shephard at all but by this point that would be useless.
"This won't take long," the stranger said. He walked forward - not just tall, bulky too. His large silhouette in the street lamp's light sent Jack's mind back to the island, back to Eko's physically demanding presence. The island was everywhere. "Mr Widmore sent me."
"Mr Widmore?" Jack asked. The rain still spat, light and misty. Barely there at all. "Sorry, I don't know that name."
Another lie. His life was made on them now, right down to their salvation. At night he sometimes thought that he could see the ghosts of the dead he'd denied: Ana-Lucia's accusing eyes watched him while he slept. It didn't matter. She was gone. Did it matter the method? Plane crash or bullet. It didn't make a difference, yet he still couldn't sleep at night.
The large man stepped forward again. Jack could see his grin illuminated by the artificial lamp above him, a sneer that belonged on the face of a manic clown. "I think you do," he said. "I think you know damn well who he is."
There was movement in the shadows, a ripple of bodies. Jack took a slow step backwards: his something isn't right here instinct was tingling, reawakened after resting dormant in the years he'd escaped from the island. Escaped. They should have been safe now. Everything should have been perfect, yet he looked around and could only see the charred remains of their lives. He could only hope that those who had remained on the island had had a kinder fate. He could only hope that Sawyer had made it back there alive.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. He tried to estimate how long it would take him to dash to his car: could he outrun this guy? In his pocket his hand curled around his car keys. He wished he still carried a gun, that problems in the real world were solved that easily. "I'm sorry - I can't help you. You must have the wrong guy."
The guy grinned, chuckled, and raised a hand. With his fingers he beckoned someone behind Jack to move forward. There was no time to turn around; no time to panic; no time to think. No time to feel the pain when that blunt, heavy object hit the back of his head. His consciousness disappeared like a burnt-out light bulb.
*
Jack was aware even as his mind stirred slowly to life that he was unable to move. He usually slept on his side, his right arm stretched towards the empty half of the bed. Waking now, he was flat on his back, his limbs straight and immobile by his side. Streamlined. He thought that he could possibly wiggle his fingers if he wanted to, perhaps point his toes, but besides those shallow movements he was completely restricted. Heavy, immovable bonds held him down against the hard table.
One…
It wasn't yet the time to panic, though he couldn't force himself to open his eyes.
Two…
There were no immediate noises that he could detect, but the rumble of voices could be heard close by, a conversation muffled by a wall. Jack groaned and tried to remember what had happened to him - how had he got here?
Before his count could reach the third number, an impossible voice spoke. "That ain't what you should be worrying about right now, doc," it said. It sounded warm and slow like freshly-made treacle but Jack knew this couldn't be happening. Miles of ocean separated them now. "Definitely shouldn't be worrying about how you got here."
"Whu…" Jack couldn't speak. The sounds he needed wouldn't form: his mouth was numb, frozen.
"Wouldn't try speaking either. How d'you think they're gonna react when they see you're awake?"
Jack forced himself to open his eyes. Bright, unnatural light filled his vision. He blinked to try and clear it - he was on a surgical table, he realised. Strapped down, barely able to see, and his head pounded where he had been hit to knock him out, and…
"Yeah, I'd say the next couple of hours aren't gonna be too fun," Sawyer confirmed. Jack tried to turn his head to see him. He could only catch a glimpse of blond hair by the side of the room. Nothing more. "These guys make Ben look damn cuddly."
The doors opened, flapping, and Sawyer fell silent. Jack tried to work out what was happening. He could see white lab-coats and he could hear shuffling, easy footsteps. The beeping of his heart-rate monitor increased as they approached.
"Is he awake?" one of the two who had entered asked. She peered over him, looking into his eyes. Her face was lined with dark shadows. She leaned back again after only a second and he heard the snap of latex gloves being pulled on.
Her colleague gave a slow shrug. "I don't think it matters."
Jack tried to speak, tried to appeal for help. The only sound he managed to make was a muffled grunt. His hands twitched. "Stay calm, Jack," Sawyer said. The others in the room didn't respond. "Don't panic - it won't help."
Jack could only quietly grunt again in response. The female doctor reached across him to fiddle with the IV providing him with the drugs to keep him calm and numb. The front of her white coat trailed over his chest.
"Widmore's scientists," Sawyer said. He stepped away from the side of the room, approaching the table where Jack lay. He leaned his arms by Jack's head. His skin felt warm; Jack could hear him breathing. He tried to focus on that instead of the two scientists and what they were doing. This couldn't be happening. "You're a living survivor from the island - a living, breathing Petri dish. Isn't too surprising that he's taken an interest. I'm just glad it's you instead of the others. Kate, Aaron…"
Jack closed his eyes. Sawyer was right. In that annoying way, he usually was. He and Sayid could handle this. Jack didn't think they could make him fall any further, no matter what they did, but the others? He grit his teeth. He was okay. He'd be okay. He could survive this.
"Thing is, doc, this isn't actually why I'm here. The island… Something's gone wrong there. Way wrong. I don't know what - it's hard to remember, now. Point is, they need you."
Jack swallowed. He could remember visiting Hurley; he could remember 'Charlie's' message for him, but he'd held onto the empty semblance of an ordinary life for as long as he could. It had collapsed to pieces around him. He'd fallen from grace a long time ago.
"You have to go back, Jack," Sawyer said quietly. "All of you. You need to set things right."
Jack wanted to ask what had happened to the island - to Sawyer himself. He sounded exactly as Jack remembered, but there was a weight in his voice that hadn't been there before.
"It's not important," Sawyer said. Jack's eyes tracked towards his voice. He still couldn't see all of him. Tanned skin, the edge of a smug smile, those dimples. "Don't worry about it - Locke'll explain. You've got enough to deal with right now without worryin' about me too."
"I'm ready to make the first incision," the female said.
Jack's breathing caught as he felt the cold tip of the scalpel against his stomach. There was no pain; there was pressure as his skin gave way, coldness, and a slight stinging like lemon in a paper cut. Staring up at the light above him, his breath stuttered again and he wondered if he was crying. Captured, helpless, scared. Counting to five wouldn't fix this.
"Jack," Sawyer said, "stay calm. You're going to be fine: they don't want to kill you. Just breathe."
He could feel blood rolling down his skin, dribbling before it was caught by a ball of cotton. The scientists were talking over his head like he couldn't hear them at all. He wished he could scream, he wished this had never happened - and somewhere deep-down he wished they'd never left the island.
Sawyer took his hand. He felt too solid, too real. It overpowered the scientists' hands on him, the scalpels, the IV in his arm. Sawyer's hand felt hot, like he was still lying out on the island's sun-soaked beaches. What happened? Jack thought. Did you die? He couldn't make his mouth move.
Sawyer squeezed his hand. "I'm here now," he whispered. "That's what counts."
Jack stared up at the bright light above him. The surgeons worked; Jack didn't even know what they wanted with him, what they were doing, what they were looking for. Sawyer held onto him - I'm here, it's okay, I'm here - and held the fear at bay for now.
*
He woke up lying on his back on his couch. His arm draped down to the ground; pins and needles haunted it. There was a stretching bruise on the inside of his elbow, the dark smudge left behind by a needle. His head pounded. His stomach ached.
He groggily moved his hand to pull up his t-shirt: there was a long, regular line of stitches running down his stomach. Black thread. He rested his head against the arm rest and stared at the ceiling for a few bizarre moments. Breathing felt impossible. He knew he had to get up, go to a hospital and get checked out. He was lucky to have survived.
He brushed his hand over his beard then pushed himself so that he could sit up. It made everything hurt more than ever, but he had to get going, get moving. If anything could awaken him from the daze he'd lived in for years, Sawyer and those scalpels could - one painful shove. It was time to stop hiding.
He stood up on unsteady feet and thought of Sawyer's voice to keep himself moving. He walked past the scattered empty bottles towards the door. He grit his teeth; he breathed; he kept going.
It was finally time to try to go home.