LOST: Sawyer - "Misguided"
Hearkening back to the good old days of S1, when sightings of our boys were frequent and the angst flowed like sap in the spring, I give you the tale of a U.S. Marshal, and of the man who shot him.
Extra special thanks to hereswith for the last minute read through - have an excellent trip to the land of my forefathers, girl, and keep an eye out for those lads sporting kilts!
Cross-posted to psych_30, 100_situations, ficinabottle and lost_fanfic.
MISGUIDED
Somebody had to do it.
The poor bastard had been screaming for hours, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, carrying all the way down the beach, ricocheting off the line of mountains to the north and back again, doubling the frequency but not the fun. Breaking waves couldn’t block the song of the grim reaper, played as it was at full volume, and by now, every single one of them was pretty damn tired of having to listen to it. There wasn’t one nerve that hadn’t been stretched thin as piano wire; not one soul that didn’t pray for an end to it, both for the marshal’s sake and for their own.
The doc couldn’t do it, what with common sense going up against both his sacred oath and his displaced God complex, and losing, as it always did. No, he would tough it out until the bitter end, and then use the memory of it to beat himself to a bloody pulp, until some other perceived failure came along to replace it.
She couldn’t do it either. She had the means, and she had the air of someone who was capable of killing if need be, but her eyes had gone soft and sad when he had pointed to the gun in her jeans. One shake of her head and a downcast glance told him it wouldn’t be her that put the son of a bitch out of his misery.
As near as Sawyer could figure, that left it up to him.
He was lurking in the shadows when the marshal asked her if she was going to do it, saw her tear up and look away, using that slight shake of her head to silently scream out no! once again. He slipped into the shelter, eased the gun from the back of her denims and she let him, walked right by him and out into the night as though he weren’t even there, as though she didn’t know what was coming next.
“You’ve got the gun, hot shot,” the marshal rasped. “Got the balls to use it?”
Did he? The blood of Frank Duckett was fresh on his hands, his gut still in a knot from watching a pawn in a much larger game bleed out on a midnight Australian chess board.
“That what you want?”
“Do it!” A choked sob broke from deep inside the lawman.
Sawyer did.
*****
He didn’t expect a standing ovation or a ticker-tape parade when he stepped from the tent, but he didn’t expect to be knocked flat by the force of the hero’s wrath, either.
“What did you do?” Not a question, but an accusation - a condemnation from Doctor Holier-Than-Thou.
“What you couldn’t.” He swam up from the depths of his own despair and to his own defense, since it was apparent that no one else would. Goddamn hypocrites. They all wanted it done, but no one wanted to be the one to do it. Now they turned their backs and faded into the dark, their problem solved.
His were just beginning.
#
Extra special thanks to hereswith for the last minute read through - have an excellent trip to the land of my forefathers, girl, and keep an eye out for those lads sporting kilts!
Cross-posted to psych_30, 100_situations, ficinabottle and lost_fanfic.
MISGUIDED
Somebody had to do it.
The poor bastard had been screaming for hours, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, carrying all the way down the beach, ricocheting off the line of mountains to the north and back again, doubling the frequency but not the fun. Breaking waves couldn’t block the song of the grim reaper, played as it was at full volume, and by now, every single one of them was pretty damn tired of having to listen to it. There wasn’t one nerve that hadn’t been stretched thin as piano wire; not one soul that didn’t pray for an end to it, both for the marshal’s sake and for their own.
The doc couldn’t do it, what with common sense going up against both his sacred oath and his displaced God complex, and losing, as it always did. No, he would tough it out until the bitter end, and then use the memory of it to beat himself to a bloody pulp, until some other perceived failure came along to replace it.
She couldn’t do it either. She had the means, and she had the air of someone who was capable of killing if need be, but her eyes had gone soft and sad when he had pointed to the gun in her jeans. One shake of her head and a downcast glance told him it wouldn’t be her that put the son of a bitch out of his misery.
As near as Sawyer could figure, that left it up to him.
He was lurking in the shadows when the marshal asked her if she was going to do it, saw her tear up and look away, using that slight shake of her head to silently scream out no! once again. He slipped into the shelter, eased the gun from the back of her denims and she let him, walked right by him and out into the night as though he weren’t even there, as though she didn’t know what was coming next.
“You’ve got the gun, hot shot,” the marshal rasped. “Got the balls to use it?”
Did he? The blood of Frank Duckett was fresh on his hands, his gut still in a knot from watching a pawn in a much larger game bleed out on a midnight Australian chess board.
“That what you want?”
“Do it!” A choked sob broke from deep inside the lawman.
Sawyer did.
*****
He didn’t expect a standing ovation or a ticker-tape parade when he stepped from the tent, but he didn’t expect to be knocked flat by the force of the hero’s wrath, either.
“What did you do?” Not a question, but an accusation - a condemnation from Doctor Holier-Than-Thou.
“What you couldn’t.” He swam up from the depths of his own despair and to his own defense, since it was apparent that no one else would. Goddamn hypocrites. They all wanted it done, but no one wanted to be the one to do it. Now they turned their backs and faded into the dark, their problem solved.
His were just beginning.
#