Fic: Killing Time (1/1)
Title: Killing Time
Rating: R
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid
Word Count: 1,230
Summary: It's just the two of them on that forsaken Island, and it ain't so bad. For haldoor, who requested “Sawyer/Sayid; it turns out they aren't really walking into the light - just them (everyone else is gone). Instead they're back on that damned island and there's nothing they can do about it. May as well do something interesting with the time.” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers Through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’ve never been very good at this pairing, which I have to apologize for yet again -- hopefully it’s not to terrible, and I’m sorry there is no real sexing! Also, of course: all mentions of religious motifs and cultural/faith-based traditions are intended with only the utmost respect.
Killing Time
Actually, it’s really fucking typical, either way you slice it.
On the one hand, Jim doesn’t s’actly fit the whole bright white light motif, hasn’t really said his Hail Marys or whatever to get himself into the Pearly Gates; and fuck, but they’d always kinda figured this Crapshoot was basically Hell, anyway.
Flipside, though: if Jim’s got anything to be proud of in his whole fucking life, it’s the man he was on that goddamned spit of land; the man he was when he loved a woman and wanted her to wear his ring, when people trusted him and he kept them safe. When he made friends, and sacrificed like a fucking champ for them, best he could. So, depending on what Heaven is and isn’t, this could probably be it, too.
What throws him is the fact that Sayid’s the only one alive and kicking ‘round here, and either fucking way, Jim’s pretty damn sure both the upstairs and the downstairs options would be a little more crowded than just them two.
So, given the givens, there’s nothing else to be done.
“M’hungry,” he mumbles as he mulls around for a stick he can sharpen up to a point; “let’s hunt some boar.”
---------------------------------------
Sayid makes the fire, and they roast that fucker ‘til kingdom come, Jim eating quick and sloppy while Sayid pulls apart the meat, eats around the crisp burn at the edges.
“Do you think it’s because I ate the pork?”
Jim looks up, talks through a mouthful: “Whachyou on about now?”
“Because I did not keep halal,” Sayid clarifies; “do think that was the,” he stops, shakes his head with a wry kind of smile.
“The others,” he picks up again, and Jim doesn’t take another bite, much as he wants to -- tries to listen, ‘cause it’s polite, and he’s grown as a person since he last sat here and watched the fuckin’ tides. “They did unspeakable things,” Sayid says, stoic, tone flat as he picks at the pork in his fingers; “Took human life. Swindled, cheated, lied, betrayed.”
He tosses the hard bits, the gristle into the flames. “Why are we the only ones left?”
Jim wishes he had something better to say, because he’s thinking it to, but he goes with “Got me, bucko,” as it’s the best he’s got on a short kinda notice.
He suspects it’s the best he’s gonna get, period.
---------------------------------------
They find the ping-pong table, one paddle, and no ball.
“Fight to the death,” Jim quips with a leer, brandishing the lone paddle, and Sayid just shakes his head, walks away.
---------------------------------------
Eating pig gets old, real fucking quick. Really fucking quick.
They head out to Dharmaville in the morning; Sayid has maps an’ shit, but Jim remembers the way, knows what grid they’re in, how far they have to go.
He doesn’t say as much.
They raid what’s left in the cafeteria, don’t go into the homes just yet -- there’s rotting mayo in the back of a fridge, but most of it’s edible still, fit to survive a nuclear blast like a Twinkie or some shit. They pack what they can, sort through some of what they might need next time, if there’s time to need it, if they’re still stuck here later -- and they head back out.
Jim pauses when he walks past his own front porch, and Sayid doesn’t speak, doesn’t stop walking. Neither of them suggests that they stay here, instead of under their shitty little tents on the beach, taking shelter in the caves when it storms. Sayid doesn’t talk about it after.
And Jim appreciates that; he really does.
---------------------------------------
It’s not that Sayid isn’t top-notch company or anything, ‘cause he ain’t so bad. Least he can carry on a conversation; Jim inn’t picky. Still, he don’t say much, and Jim gets kinda bored, kinda quick.
He spends a while feeling down on himself, feeling down on the world, wandering around and finding graves he remembers, some he doesn’t -- misses a few he knows should be there, and he wonders if any of this is real, if they’re inside or outside of time.
Thinking about it hurts his head this time ‘round as much as it ever did, so he basically says fuck that pretty quick, and moves on to other things to occupy his attention.
He spends a good week trying to use a stray golf ball he picked up on the overgrown course as a replacement for the ping pong ball, which is a shitty idea; he eventually pops a hole straight through the paddle, and strings up a little game of miniature basketball with it, expect the ball’s still too heavy and the hole’s too small, and his ego takes a bruising after too many misses in a row, and he ends up throwing the things out to sea.
Sayid comes back one afternoon with the infamous football from Jack’s stint at the Barracks -- it was probably in plain sight when they were there the first time, but Sayid’s been good about getting the food and the supplies on his own, so Sawyer doesn’t have to stand it. They toss it around until dusk, like kids on a city street; laugh like it too when they get close to the water, lose their footing and fall straight in.
It’s nice, ‘til a fucking boar takes the goddamn thing. At which point he tells Sayid that he’s pretty sure they’re not being punished for eating the pigs, but apparently for not eating enough of ‘em, lettin’ too many of them go fucking free.
Sayid does that head-shaking thing at him, but he’s pretty sure there’s a little grin underneath.
Jim finds the old skin mags from the wreckage -- and ain’t that strange, because sometimes he almost forgets they crashed here in a goddamned plane; they’re salt-stained and sun-bleached, but he can still make out the nipples on the tits, and that’s what counts -- except it doesn’t really do anything for him, aside from the basics. Which is strange, sure, but not all that surprising.
He tries his hand at fishing, for a whole hour, before he gives that up as a wash. He kicks sand around in shapes like he’s making one of those mand-oozie things, whatever the monks do, but that doesn’t last long, either.
Pretty soon, he’s just starin’ off at the horizon.
Sayid settles down next to him after some time passes, after the sun gets low, and Jim sighs heavy as he bites the bullet, goes ahead and gives voice to the last distraction left to him.
“So, not much to do ‘round here these days,” Jim says, almost nonchalant, never real subtle.
“There’s enough,” Sayid says, noncommittal-like.
“We could pass the time.”
Jim’ll give Sayid credit for not playin’ stupid.
“We’ll get sand everywhere,” he says, his mouth scrunched up, and Jim’ll venture that they both know as much from personal experience.
“We’ve got plenty’a time to get it out again,” Jim shrugs, like it’s a good argument.
And, well, maybe it is, because what he gets in reply is a little bit of silence, followed by a careful, “Very well.”
Could be worse.
Rating: R
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid
Word Count: 1,230
Summary: It's just the two of them on that forsaken Island, and it ain't so bad. For haldoor, who requested “Sawyer/Sayid; it turns out they aren't really walking into the light - just them (everyone else is gone). Instead they're back on that damned island and there's nothing they can do about it. May as well do something interesting with the time.” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers Through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’ve never been very good at this pairing, which I have to apologize for yet again -- hopefully it’s not to terrible, and I’m sorry there is no real sexing! Also, of course: all mentions of religious motifs and cultural/faith-based traditions are intended with only the utmost respect.
Killing Time
Actually, it’s really fucking typical, either way you slice it.
On the one hand, Jim doesn’t s’actly fit the whole bright white light motif, hasn’t really said his Hail Marys or whatever to get himself into the Pearly Gates; and fuck, but they’d always kinda figured this Crapshoot was basically Hell, anyway.
Flipside, though: if Jim’s got anything to be proud of in his whole fucking life, it’s the man he was on that goddamned spit of land; the man he was when he loved a woman and wanted her to wear his ring, when people trusted him and he kept them safe. When he made friends, and sacrificed like a fucking champ for them, best he could. So, depending on what Heaven is and isn’t, this could probably be it, too.
What throws him is the fact that Sayid’s the only one alive and kicking ‘round here, and either fucking way, Jim’s pretty damn sure both the upstairs and the downstairs options would be a little more crowded than just them two.
So, given the givens, there’s nothing else to be done.
“M’hungry,” he mumbles as he mulls around for a stick he can sharpen up to a point; “let’s hunt some boar.”
---------------------------------------
Sayid makes the fire, and they roast that fucker ‘til kingdom come, Jim eating quick and sloppy while Sayid pulls apart the meat, eats around the crisp burn at the edges.
“Do you think it’s because I ate the pork?”
Jim looks up, talks through a mouthful: “Whachyou on about now?”
“Because I did not keep halal,” Sayid clarifies; “do think that was the,” he stops, shakes his head with a wry kind of smile.
“The others,” he picks up again, and Jim doesn’t take another bite, much as he wants to -- tries to listen, ‘cause it’s polite, and he’s grown as a person since he last sat here and watched the fuckin’ tides. “They did unspeakable things,” Sayid says, stoic, tone flat as he picks at the pork in his fingers; “Took human life. Swindled, cheated, lied, betrayed.”
He tosses the hard bits, the gristle into the flames. “Why are we the only ones left?”
Jim wishes he had something better to say, because he’s thinking it to, but he goes with “Got me, bucko,” as it’s the best he’s got on a short kinda notice.
He suspects it’s the best he’s gonna get, period.
---------------------------------------
They find the ping-pong table, one paddle, and no ball.
“Fight to the death,” Jim quips with a leer, brandishing the lone paddle, and Sayid just shakes his head, walks away.
---------------------------------------
Eating pig gets old, real fucking quick. Really fucking quick.
They head out to Dharmaville in the morning; Sayid has maps an’ shit, but Jim remembers the way, knows what grid they’re in, how far they have to go.
He doesn’t say as much.
They raid what’s left in the cafeteria, don’t go into the homes just yet -- there’s rotting mayo in the back of a fridge, but most of it’s edible still, fit to survive a nuclear blast like a Twinkie or some shit. They pack what they can, sort through some of what they might need next time, if there’s time to need it, if they’re still stuck here later -- and they head back out.
Jim pauses when he walks past his own front porch, and Sayid doesn’t speak, doesn’t stop walking. Neither of them suggests that they stay here, instead of under their shitty little tents on the beach, taking shelter in the caves when it storms. Sayid doesn’t talk about it after.
And Jim appreciates that; he really does.
---------------------------------------
It’s not that Sayid isn’t top-notch company or anything, ‘cause he ain’t so bad. Least he can carry on a conversation; Jim inn’t picky. Still, he don’t say much, and Jim gets kinda bored, kinda quick.
He spends a while feeling down on himself, feeling down on the world, wandering around and finding graves he remembers, some he doesn’t -- misses a few he knows should be there, and he wonders if any of this is real, if they’re inside or outside of time.
Thinking about it hurts his head this time ‘round as much as it ever did, so he basically says fuck that pretty quick, and moves on to other things to occupy his attention.
He spends a good week trying to use a stray golf ball he picked up on the overgrown course as a replacement for the ping pong ball, which is a shitty idea; he eventually pops a hole straight through the paddle, and strings up a little game of miniature basketball with it, expect the ball’s still too heavy and the hole’s too small, and his ego takes a bruising after too many misses in a row, and he ends up throwing the things out to sea.
Sayid comes back one afternoon with the infamous football from Jack’s stint at the Barracks -- it was probably in plain sight when they were there the first time, but Sayid’s been good about getting the food and the supplies on his own, so Sawyer doesn’t have to stand it. They toss it around until dusk, like kids on a city street; laugh like it too when they get close to the water, lose their footing and fall straight in.
It’s nice, ‘til a fucking boar takes the goddamn thing. At which point he tells Sayid that he’s pretty sure they’re not being punished for eating the pigs, but apparently for not eating enough of ‘em, lettin’ too many of them go fucking free.
Sayid does that head-shaking thing at him, but he’s pretty sure there’s a little grin underneath.
Jim finds the old skin mags from the wreckage -- and ain’t that strange, because sometimes he almost forgets they crashed here in a goddamned plane; they’re salt-stained and sun-bleached, but he can still make out the nipples on the tits, and that’s what counts -- except it doesn’t really do anything for him, aside from the basics. Which is strange, sure, but not all that surprising.
He tries his hand at fishing, for a whole hour, before he gives that up as a wash. He kicks sand around in shapes like he’s making one of those mand-oozie things, whatever the monks do, but that doesn’t last long, either.
Pretty soon, he’s just starin’ off at the horizon.
Sayid settles down next to him after some time passes, after the sun gets low, and Jim sighs heavy as he bites the bullet, goes ahead and gives voice to the last distraction left to him.
“So, not much to do ‘round here these days,” Jim says, almost nonchalant, never real subtle.
“There’s enough,” Sayid says, noncommittal-like.
“We could pass the time.”
Jim’ll give Sayid credit for not playin’ stupid.
“We’ll get sand everywhere,” he says, his mouth scrunched up, and Jim’ll venture that they both know as much from personal experience.
“We’ve got plenty’a time to get it out again,” Jim shrugs, like it’s a good argument.
And, well, maybe it is, because what he gets in reply is a little bit of silence, followed by a careful, “Very well.”
Could be worse.