Christmas in July fic challenge #53 - I'll Be Home For Christmas
My overblown entry for the current challenge at lostfichallenge, Christmas in July. Since it was my prompt, I figured I'd better get an entry in. Been working on this since New Year's Eve, 2006 (before the S3 finale, you will note) - it should be pretty obvious as to why it was so hard to finish.
Special thanks go out to my dear friend hendercats for the beta work. Going through this with me was above and beyond, darlin'. I owe you big time!
Warning: J/S angst with an arguably happy ending, character death, future AU fic - hankie warning - you know, all those little things that you want in a holiday fic.
I'll Be Home For Christmas
December 24, 2004
It was Desmond who found him lying broken and bloodied at the bottom of the ravine. A worn boot had been the only clue to his whereabouts, remaining along the upper edge, snared in the twisted root which had tripped him up. If he'd been walking, the Island would never have claimed him this way. But he hadn't been walking, he'd been running. Whether it had been toward something or away, no one would ever know.
"It's all right," Desmond assured him, knowing that it really wasn't. It was as wrong as wrong could be. "It's all right, brother. You're found now."
He stirred at the sound of the voice, struggling to open his eyes against the light. His lids fluttered once, twice, then opened wide, staring past the stricken face, seeing nothing. His lips moved, but the only sound that emerged was a small, ragged croak.
"Tell him..." he began.
"Easy," Desmond murmured. "Have some water. Just a bit, now."
He swallowed the warm water, coughing most of it back up. "Tell Sawyer," he whispered, his eyes clear now and focused on Desmond's, "that I'll see him in another life."
The familiar words struck Desmond like a blow to the gut. The doctor was no fool; he knew he was a dead man. "You'll tell him yourself, yeah? Once we get you back to the beach, you can tell him whatever you want."
"Tell him," Jack whispered again, as his eyelids drifted shut. "Promise..."
"Aye," the Scot said, resting a gentle hand on Jack's chest. "I'll tell him." With that reassurance, the reluctant leader finally let go.
~~~
If Desmond wondered why the doctor's last words were for the one man on the island that he abhorred, he never said. If he was confused by the look of profound grief that darkened Sawyer's eyes upon hearing the message, only to be masked the next instant and replaced by a studied look of indifference, he never said that either.
December 24, 2015
The Choctaw called it Peach Moon. Sawyer marveled at the accuracy of the name as, year after year, December's full moon rose the color of a Georgia peach, warm with the glow of summer on the coldest of winter nights. He'd learned the name from Sam Greybear who ran the Wild Mustang Rescue Program at Southern New Mexico Correctional Facility. Sawyer had been put in the newly established program, deciding to make the best of it because it assured him time outside the walls. The hours were long and the job had its risks, but it beat the hell out of KP, any way you looked at it.
Two marshals had been waiting for him when the survivors landed in LAX, cuffs not so discretely at hand, arresting him on charges stemming from his last stateside con. Seemed the little lady with the big bank account had lost her sense of humor along with the contents of her husband's not-so-cleverly hidden and burglar-proof safe. All Sawyer knew was that, by some miracle, no one had ever connected him with the death of Frank Duckett. How about that, he mused, so now I believe in miracles. Sawyer kept his nose clean at Southern, worked with the young mustangs and the old renegade, completing the program with flying colors. He was given permanent detail as Sam's head wrangler. He had a way with wild things, Sam said, as Sawyer lit up a smoke, nodding in agreement. His thoughts slipped back to a day in the twisted hulk of a fuselage when he had told an arrogant, sanctimonious doctor that they were "in the wild." In an odd twist of fate, it was Jack who had been left in the wild, while Sawyer had come home to civilization.
Eleven years had passed since the rescue, New Years Eve, 2004. A week - one God damned week - after Jack had died. A freighter, blown off course by a violent storm, had sighted their signal fire and sent lifeboats ashore. No one noticed, amid all the excitement of being rescued, that Sawyer was the last to board the launch, no one but Desmond, who watched as he'd walked slowly from the cemetery on the hill. No one noticed that he remained aft, unwilling to lose sight of the island, until long after it had passed from view forever.
Now, just as he had done every Christmas Eve morning since he'd been released, Sawyer turned the operation of his small ranch over to the foreman, tied a bedroll behind his saddle, loaded a pack mule with eats, some smokes and a couple of bottles of whiskey, whistled up his old dog and headed for the High Sierra. He cleared his head of everything in the here and now, letting his mind wander back to the godforsaken, murdering rock that he had once upon a time called home, allowing the memories (both good and bad) free rein for one week, Christmas Eve to New Year's Eve. Come January first, he'd pack them away for another year.
~~~
"Doc."
It was all he could say. His grief-stricken eyes never left the fresh mound of earth, focusing on the place where he knew Jack's blanket-bound head lay. His fingers toyed with the spire of the crude wooden cross, recalling the feel of short-cropped hair beneath his hands and solidly muscled arms pulling him close, closer.
It was all he could say, and it meant everything. The hatred, the fights, the understanding, the friendship. And, finally, more. It was all he could say now that nothing could be said, and nothing had been said when it should have been.
"Jack," he said, and his voice broke along with his heart.
~~~
Sawyer arrived at the line shack just as the sun was setting on Christmas Eve, the Peach Moon already visible in a darkening sky. No one used the place much anymore, but there was a roof and a bunk and four walls almost solid enough to keep the winter winds out, should it come to that. On still nights in the mountains, Sawyer preferred to sleep under the stars as they had on the island, and this night was setting up to be as still as they came.
"Take 'em on, Doc," he said to the heeler,after stripping the horse and the mule down to rope halters. The dog moved behind and herded the animals down to the stream, where they drank their fill. A nip to the heels of the mule got it moving back toward the fire that Sawyer had started, and the mare followed along, knowing grain and fresh hay were waiting. He strung them to the picket line he'd run from one corner of the shack to a wizened Pinyon pine, rubbing them down before tossing blankets over them and laying out their feed. Moving to settle in by the fire, he was faced with the accusing stare and low growl of one hungry Cattle Dog.
"Guess I named you right, you bossy bastard," Sawyer groused, digging through his pack for a handful of jerky. "This oughta keep you busy for a while."
An hour later, man and dog fed, fire stoked to ward off the rapidly dropping temperature and whiskey solidly in hand, Sawyer's thoughts turned somber. "Doc," he said to the wide open spaces of a mid-winter night, staring into the fire and raising his bottle to toast something that was more in memory than it had been in reality.
The dog slowly got up from his place across the circle, moving to lay beside Sawyer, chin resting in his lap, nose tucked up under the edge of the bulky shearling coat. "Not you, knothead," Sawyer smiled. "The other Doc." Off to the right, the little mare's head shot up and she snorted, eyes bright and ears pricked forward, pausing in her chewing to stare at the fire.
Sawyer raised his bottle once again, saying to the canopy of stars, "Jack."
"Sawyer."
Sawyer blinked, looked down at the dog who was staring at a spot across the fire, and blinked again. "You say that?" he asked, knowing by the way the hair was raised on the back of his neck that he had more to worry about than a talking dog.
"I did."
And there he was, eleven years dead, looking exactly the same as he had the last time Sawyer'd seen him alive. Jack Fucking Shephard. Sawyer took another long pull on the bottle, trying to think of what to say to the ghost of the only person that he had ever loved.
"How ya been, Doc?"
"Dead."
"Yeah. Well. How's that working out for ya?"
"It's got it's moments." The specter of Jack looked around him. Sawyer, shivering inside his shearling, noticed that the doc, dressed in the usual island uniform of torn tee shirt and frayed denims, seemed comfortable just as he was. "Mind if I ask you something, Sawyer?"
"It's your nickel."
"Where the hell are we?"
Sawyer laughed, loud and long. The sound echoed back and away again several times before he spoke.
"I don't know about you, Doc, but I'm in the wild." Sawyer smiled as he saw Jack's head bob in the old, familiar way. The sight of that rare smile came near to breaking his heart. "We're in the Sierras, just across the border into eastern California. Got me a little spread about a day's ride from here, breakin' horses...mustangs mostly."
"You're a cowboy?"
"Courtesy of the Southern New Mexico Correctional Facility." Sawyer grinned and tipped his battered hat further back on his head. "This old Indian comes up to me in the yard first afternoon I'm inside, looks me in the eye for longer than I care to remember, nods his head, then just turns and walks away. Next mornin' I find out I'm off KP and in this new program workin' with wild horses." Sawyer paused, studying the whiskey bottle. "The horses recognize kindred spirits, that's what the old Choctaw told me. I told him he was full of shit." He took a long swig, thought for a moment, then held it out towards Jack, who waved it away with the flick of his fingers. "Turns out he was right."
"The others? Do you...how are they?"
"Doin' fine, all of 'em. Haven't seen any of them in years, but Hurley keeps me posted. It was his team of lawyers sprung me." He turned back to look at the mare as she finally lay down for the night. "Only took 'em two years of appeals. Hell of a lot better than seven to nine." The dog stood, stretched, turned in a circle and lay back down in exactly the same position he had been in before.
"Kate?" Jack's eyes were starlight reflected in obsidian as he leaned forward, elbows to thighs.
Sawyer began stroking the dog's head, his tongue playing at the inside corner of his mouth. When he looked up at Jack, something sparkled in his eyes as well.
"She died. Six years ago." He still thought of her almost every day. "We talked once a week back when I was inside, visited often as I could when I got out. Always on your birthday, though, and always on Christmas Eve." He shook his head, as though trying to dislodge the sadness thinking about her always brought, let out a deep sigh and continued. "After about four years she just started to fade, to get quieter and thinner every time I saw her. It was like she shriveled up inside." Sawyer sniffed loudly, running a hand across his face. "Killed her, being caged up like that. Sucked the life right outta her. Last time I saw her...she just curled up on my lap and I held onto her, tight as I could. She kissed me goodbye and the next day I got the call." Another deep sigh. Another swipe of hand across face. "She'd died in her sleep. Natural causes. Natural, hell."
Somewhere a single wolf called, eerie and wraith-like in the distance. Neither man nor specter spoke, both lost in memories of laughing green eyes and an upturned nose, sprinkled with freckles.
"So." The spell was broken by Jack, slapping the flat of his hands against the top of his thighs, letting them slide down to grip his knees. He looked straight through the fire and into Sawyer's eyes, glowing gold in the flickering light. "I've got to get going."
Sawyer straightened, dislodging the dog's head from his lap and earning a low growl in return.
"Where you headed?"
"Home"
"Where's home Jack?"
Jack's gaze never faltered, his voice never wavered. "The Island."
"The Island?" Sawyer was on his feet in an instant. "Why the hell would you consider that rock your home? Fuckin' island killed you. Fuckin' island kept you. Fuckin' island..."
"...is where I found you, Sawyer." The soft tone of Jack's voice stopped Sawyer's rant cold. "It's where we found each other. That island is my home because it's the place we were together."
Sawyer sank bonelessly back onto his bedroll, eyes brimming with tears which he refused to let fall. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?
"Well then... Thanks for stopping by, Doc." The whiskey found it's way back to Sawyer's mouth, and he made much of polishing off the bottle.
"Sawyer? You...you want to come along?"
"Now?"
"Yeah, now."
It wasn't a fair question, it wasn't even a question that made sense. What made sense was that if Sawyer untied the mare and the mule, they would find their way home tomorrow with no trouble whatsoever. What made sense was that there was a will in his safe that left the ranch and all of its contents to his foreman of nine years, with the stipulation that it remain a mustang relocation center. What made sense was that he was tired of being alone, tired of allowing himself to think of Jack for only one week out of every year, because to think of him any longer would kill him.
What didn't make sense was how Sawyer suddenly worried about his damn dog. Doc'd seen too many winters to weather the long trek home alone, and Sawyer would be good and god damned if he'd shoot him.
"Me and this old boy've been together since he was a pup," he said, stroking the broad head. "You ain't got a lot of time left, have ya Doc?" Lifting his gaze back up to meet Jack's eyes, Sawyer sighed. "I'd hate like hell to leave him now."
"You call the dog Doc?"
Sawyer shrugged. "Didn't mean nothing to nobody but me, and it sort of...kept you close."
Jack nodded, ducking his head to hide the tears which suddenly threatened. "Vincent's still on the island."
"But he died before..."
"Yeah. Like I said, Vincent's still on the island."
"Well now, how 'bout that." Sawyer leaned down and smoothed a hand down the heeler's side. "Whadaya say, old man? You wanna take one last ride with me?" Doc's heavy tail began to thud against the frozen ground and he lifted his head to deliver a hearty tongue swipe right across Sawyer's face.
~~~
The search party found the bodies three days later, victims of the record low temperatures which had occurred in the small morning hours of Christmas Day. If not for the dusting of snow which covered them, anyone would have thought they were just sleeping there by the burned out fire.
Sawyer lay on his back, a smile on his lips, blue eyes open to the dawning day. One arm was wrapped around the body of old Doc. The dog's head rested on Sawyer's chest, its ears pricked forward as though watching something of great interest.
There was a note wedged in the hatband of Sawyer's black Resistol. It read:
December 25 - Don't worry about us, boys. Me and ol' Doc, we've just gone home for Christmas.
The other "Doc"
~
Special thanks go out to my dear friend hendercats for the beta work. Going through this with me was above and beyond, darlin'. I owe you big time!
Warning: J/S angst with an arguably happy ending, character death, future AU fic - hankie warning - you know, all those little things that you want in a holiday fic.
I'll Be Home For Christmas
December 24, 2004
It was Desmond who found him lying broken and bloodied at the bottom of the ravine. A worn boot had been the only clue to his whereabouts, remaining along the upper edge, snared in the twisted root which had tripped him up. If he'd been walking, the Island would never have claimed him this way. But he hadn't been walking, he'd been running. Whether it had been toward something or away, no one would ever know.
"It's all right," Desmond assured him, knowing that it really wasn't. It was as wrong as wrong could be. "It's all right, brother. You're found now."
He stirred at the sound of the voice, struggling to open his eyes against the light. His lids fluttered once, twice, then opened wide, staring past the stricken face, seeing nothing. His lips moved, but the only sound that emerged was a small, ragged croak.
"Tell him..." he began.
"Easy," Desmond murmured. "Have some water. Just a bit, now."
He swallowed the warm water, coughing most of it back up. "Tell Sawyer," he whispered, his eyes clear now and focused on Desmond's, "that I'll see him in another life."
The familiar words struck Desmond like a blow to the gut. The doctor was no fool; he knew he was a dead man. "You'll tell him yourself, yeah? Once we get you back to the beach, you can tell him whatever you want."
"Tell him," Jack whispered again, as his eyelids drifted shut. "Promise..."
"Aye," the Scot said, resting a gentle hand on Jack's chest. "I'll tell him." With that reassurance, the reluctant leader finally let go.
~~~
If Desmond wondered why the doctor's last words were for the one man on the island that he abhorred, he never said. If he was confused by the look of profound grief that darkened Sawyer's eyes upon hearing the message, only to be masked the next instant and replaced by a studied look of indifference, he never said that either.
December 24, 2015
The Choctaw called it Peach Moon. Sawyer marveled at the accuracy of the name as, year after year, December's full moon rose the color of a Georgia peach, warm with the glow of summer on the coldest of winter nights. He'd learned the name from Sam Greybear who ran the Wild Mustang Rescue Program at Southern New Mexico Correctional Facility. Sawyer had been put in the newly established program, deciding to make the best of it because it assured him time outside the walls. The hours were long and the job had its risks, but it beat the hell out of KP, any way you looked at it.
Two marshals had been waiting for him when the survivors landed in LAX, cuffs not so discretely at hand, arresting him on charges stemming from his last stateside con. Seemed the little lady with the big bank account had lost her sense of humor along with the contents of her husband's not-so-cleverly hidden and burglar-proof safe. All Sawyer knew was that, by some miracle, no one had ever connected him with the death of Frank Duckett. How about that, he mused, so now I believe in miracles. Sawyer kept his nose clean at Southern, worked with the young mustangs and the old renegade, completing the program with flying colors. He was given permanent detail as Sam's head wrangler. He had a way with wild things, Sam said, as Sawyer lit up a smoke, nodding in agreement. His thoughts slipped back to a day in the twisted hulk of a fuselage when he had told an arrogant, sanctimonious doctor that they were "in the wild." In an odd twist of fate, it was Jack who had been left in the wild, while Sawyer had come home to civilization.
Eleven years had passed since the rescue, New Years Eve, 2004. A week - one God damned week - after Jack had died. A freighter, blown off course by a violent storm, had sighted their signal fire and sent lifeboats ashore. No one noticed, amid all the excitement of being rescued, that Sawyer was the last to board the launch, no one but Desmond, who watched as he'd walked slowly from the cemetery on the hill. No one noticed that he remained aft, unwilling to lose sight of the island, until long after it had passed from view forever.
Now, just as he had done every Christmas Eve morning since he'd been released, Sawyer turned the operation of his small ranch over to the foreman, tied a bedroll behind his saddle, loaded a pack mule with eats, some smokes and a couple of bottles of whiskey, whistled up his old dog and headed for the High Sierra. He cleared his head of everything in the here and now, letting his mind wander back to the godforsaken, murdering rock that he had once upon a time called home, allowing the memories (both good and bad) free rein for one week, Christmas Eve to New Year's Eve. Come January first, he'd pack them away for another year.
~~~
"Doc."
It was all he could say. His grief-stricken eyes never left the fresh mound of earth, focusing on the place where he knew Jack's blanket-bound head lay. His fingers toyed with the spire of the crude wooden cross, recalling the feel of short-cropped hair beneath his hands and solidly muscled arms pulling him close, closer.
It was all he could say, and it meant everything. The hatred, the fights, the understanding, the friendship. And, finally, more. It was all he could say now that nothing could be said, and nothing had been said when it should have been.
"Jack," he said, and his voice broke along with his heart.
~~~
Sawyer arrived at the line shack just as the sun was setting on Christmas Eve, the Peach Moon already visible in a darkening sky. No one used the place much anymore, but there was a roof and a bunk and four walls almost solid enough to keep the winter winds out, should it come to that. On still nights in the mountains, Sawyer preferred to sleep under the stars as they had on the island, and this night was setting up to be as still as they came.
"Take 'em on, Doc," he said to the heeler,after stripping the horse and the mule down to rope halters. The dog moved behind and herded the animals down to the stream, where they drank their fill. A nip to the heels of the mule got it moving back toward the fire that Sawyer had started, and the mare followed along, knowing grain and fresh hay were waiting. He strung them to the picket line he'd run from one corner of the shack to a wizened Pinyon pine, rubbing them down before tossing blankets over them and laying out their feed. Moving to settle in by the fire, he was faced with the accusing stare and low growl of one hungry Cattle Dog.
"Guess I named you right, you bossy bastard," Sawyer groused, digging through his pack for a handful of jerky. "This oughta keep you busy for a while."
An hour later, man and dog fed, fire stoked to ward off the rapidly dropping temperature and whiskey solidly in hand, Sawyer's thoughts turned somber. "Doc," he said to the wide open spaces of a mid-winter night, staring into the fire and raising his bottle to toast something that was more in memory than it had been in reality.
The dog slowly got up from his place across the circle, moving to lay beside Sawyer, chin resting in his lap, nose tucked up under the edge of the bulky shearling coat. "Not you, knothead," Sawyer smiled. "The other Doc." Off to the right, the little mare's head shot up and she snorted, eyes bright and ears pricked forward, pausing in her chewing to stare at the fire.
Sawyer raised his bottle once again, saying to the canopy of stars, "Jack."
"Sawyer."
Sawyer blinked, looked down at the dog who was staring at a spot across the fire, and blinked again. "You say that?" he asked, knowing by the way the hair was raised on the back of his neck that he had more to worry about than a talking dog.
"I did."
And there he was, eleven years dead, looking exactly the same as he had the last time Sawyer'd seen him alive. Jack Fucking Shephard. Sawyer took another long pull on the bottle, trying to think of what to say to the ghost of the only person that he had ever loved.
"How ya been, Doc?"
"Dead."
"Yeah. Well. How's that working out for ya?"
"It's got it's moments." The specter of Jack looked around him. Sawyer, shivering inside his shearling, noticed that the doc, dressed in the usual island uniform of torn tee shirt and frayed denims, seemed comfortable just as he was. "Mind if I ask you something, Sawyer?"
"It's your nickel."
"Where the hell are we?"
Sawyer laughed, loud and long. The sound echoed back and away again several times before he spoke.
"I don't know about you, Doc, but I'm in the wild." Sawyer smiled as he saw Jack's head bob in the old, familiar way. The sight of that rare smile came near to breaking his heart. "We're in the Sierras, just across the border into eastern California. Got me a little spread about a day's ride from here, breakin' horses...mustangs mostly."
"You're a cowboy?"
"Courtesy of the Southern New Mexico Correctional Facility." Sawyer grinned and tipped his battered hat further back on his head. "This old Indian comes up to me in the yard first afternoon I'm inside, looks me in the eye for longer than I care to remember, nods his head, then just turns and walks away. Next mornin' I find out I'm off KP and in this new program workin' with wild horses." Sawyer paused, studying the whiskey bottle. "The horses recognize kindred spirits, that's what the old Choctaw told me. I told him he was full of shit." He took a long swig, thought for a moment, then held it out towards Jack, who waved it away with the flick of his fingers. "Turns out he was right."
"The others? Do you...how are they?"
"Doin' fine, all of 'em. Haven't seen any of them in years, but Hurley keeps me posted. It was his team of lawyers sprung me." He turned back to look at the mare as she finally lay down for the night. "Only took 'em two years of appeals. Hell of a lot better than seven to nine." The dog stood, stretched, turned in a circle and lay back down in exactly the same position he had been in before.
"Kate?" Jack's eyes were starlight reflected in obsidian as he leaned forward, elbows to thighs.
Sawyer began stroking the dog's head, his tongue playing at the inside corner of his mouth. When he looked up at Jack, something sparkled in his eyes as well.
"She died. Six years ago." He still thought of her almost every day. "We talked once a week back when I was inside, visited often as I could when I got out. Always on your birthday, though, and always on Christmas Eve." He shook his head, as though trying to dislodge the sadness thinking about her always brought, let out a deep sigh and continued. "After about four years she just started to fade, to get quieter and thinner every time I saw her. It was like she shriveled up inside." Sawyer sniffed loudly, running a hand across his face. "Killed her, being caged up like that. Sucked the life right outta her. Last time I saw her...she just curled up on my lap and I held onto her, tight as I could. She kissed me goodbye and the next day I got the call." Another deep sigh. Another swipe of hand across face. "She'd died in her sleep. Natural causes. Natural, hell."
Somewhere a single wolf called, eerie and wraith-like in the distance. Neither man nor specter spoke, both lost in memories of laughing green eyes and an upturned nose, sprinkled with freckles.
"So." The spell was broken by Jack, slapping the flat of his hands against the top of his thighs, letting them slide down to grip his knees. He looked straight through the fire and into Sawyer's eyes, glowing gold in the flickering light. "I've got to get going."
Sawyer straightened, dislodging the dog's head from his lap and earning a low growl in return.
"Where you headed?"
"Home"
"Where's home Jack?"
Jack's gaze never faltered, his voice never wavered. "The Island."
"The Island?" Sawyer was on his feet in an instant. "Why the hell would you consider that rock your home? Fuckin' island killed you. Fuckin' island kept you. Fuckin' island..."
"...is where I found you, Sawyer." The soft tone of Jack's voice stopped Sawyer's rant cold. "It's where we found each other. That island is my home because it's the place we were together."
Sawyer sank bonelessly back onto his bedroll, eyes brimming with tears which he refused to let fall. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?
"Well then... Thanks for stopping by, Doc." The whiskey found it's way back to Sawyer's mouth, and he made much of polishing off the bottle.
"Sawyer? You...you want to come along?"
"Now?"
"Yeah, now."
It wasn't a fair question, it wasn't even a question that made sense. What made sense was that if Sawyer untied the mare and the mule, they would find their way home tomorrow with no trouble whatsoever. What made sense was that there was a will in his safe that left the ranch and all of its contents to his foreman of nine years, with the stipulation that it remain a mustang relocation center. What made sense was that he was tired of being alone, tired of allowing himself to think of Jack for only one week out of every year, because to think of him any longer would kill him.
What didn't make sense was how Sawyer suddenly worried about his damn dog. Doc'd seen too many winters to weather the long trek home alone, and Sawyer would be good and god damned if he'd shoot him.
"Me and this old boy've been together since he was a pup," he said, stroking the broad head. "You ain't got a lot of time left, have ya Doc?" Lifting his gaze back up to meet Jack's eyes, Sawyer sighed. "I'd hate like hell to leave him now."
"You call the dog Doc?"
Sawyer shrugged. "Didn't mean nothing to nobody but me, and it sort of...kept you close."
Jack nodded, ducking his head to hide the tears which suddenly threatened. "Vincent's still on the island."
"But he died before..."
"Yeah. Like I said, Vincent's still on the island."
"Well now, how 'bout that." Sawyer leaned down and smoothed a hand down the heeler's side. "Whadaya say, old man? You wanna take one last ride with me?" Doc's heavy tail began to thud against the frozen ground and he lifted his head to deliver a hearty tongue swipe right across Sawyer's face.
~~~
The search party found the bodies three days later, victims of the record low temperatures which had occurred in the small morning hours of Christmas Day. If not for the dusting of snow which covered them, anyone would have thought they were just sleeping there by the burned out fire.
Sawyer lay on his back, a smile on his lips, blue eyes open to the dawning day. One arm was wrapped around the body of old Doc. The dog's head rested on Sawyer's chest, its ears pricked forward as though watching something of great interest.
There was a note wedged in the hatband of Sawyer's black Resistol. It read:
December 25 - Don't worry about us, boys. Me and ol' Doc, we've just gone home for Christmas.
The other "Doc"
~