Sawyer fic - "Down Came the Rain"
Title: Down Came the Rain
Author:
uhzoomzip
Summary: Why Sawyer sings Author's Notes: Spoilers through "Trisha Tanaka is Dead". In additon to 'Lost' songs, lyrics quoted from 'Let It Be', 'Freebird', 'When the Levee Breaks', and 'Blackbird'
It started when he heard the shot above him and saw those cowboy boots go slack. He was quiet, just like his momma told him, until the blood started dripping down onto the hardwood floor. He started humming then, so quietly it was almost inaudible, 'The Itsy Bitsy Spider', over and over again. He closed his eyes, but he could hear the blood dripping down, a macabre metronome. When the social worker pulled him out of there the next morning, she ushered him past the horror and held him to her bosom, offering him generic comfort, but she didn't sing to him like his momma did.
***
They weren't happy about it and didn't work too hard at keeping that a secret, but his Aunt Marlene and Uncle Ray took him in. It never felt much like home though. Sometimes he would be playing with his Matchbox cars on the living room of their trailer when Uncle Ray would stumble in the evening, reeking of whiskey. He'd stare at Jimmy like he was the Holy Ghost himself, before his expression gave way to one full of venom. “Goddamn, you look like him. Spittin' image.”
Now, he would ask which 'him' - his father or the man known only as Sawyer? But then, he was just frightened. He ran to Aunt Marlene, threw his arms around her and held on tight. She sighed and patted his head absentmindedly, not turning away from her dishes.
She never sang to him either.
But once, she sang to Ray, when he was sick with the brain tumor that would eventually kill him. He doubted Ray could even hear anymore, but she tried anyway, sitting on the edge of his bed, caressing his sunken cheeks. Jimmy tried to make himself as small as possible in the doorway, just listening to that voice and lost in thoughts of death and his momma.
Crawling back to his bed, under the covers where death wouldn't find him, he found himself humming it. There will be an answer, let it be...
***
To say he didn't get along so well with the other kids at his foster home would be an understatement. But it did give him the opportunity to hone his fighting skills. The ‘parents’ didn’t care much one way or another, as long as the checks kept coming and no one had to go to the hospital.
He didn’t sleep very well there, since the minute he closed his eyes, people were either stealing your stuff or trying to fuck with you. So one day, he left. Decided he’d had enough, screw these people, screw the ninth grade, he was ready to get the hell out of dodge. Hoisting the garbage bag of his meager possessions on his shoulder, he headed down the road to the bus stop. He was nervous and didn’t really have a destination in mind, but pushed it out of his head, singing I’m as free as a bird now…
***
The first time he pulled a con, his hands shook for two days. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see a gun pointed his way. Unconsciously, he found himself singing along to whatever happened to be on the car radio. When he finally crossed the state line, he breathed a sigh of relief. And though he had sworn up and down that if he could just get out of this mess, he would never do it again, the exhilaration proved to be too alluring. He found himself an upscale bar, and started sizing up the crowd. When he found that pretty, lonely little housewife, he turned on the dimples and started spinning his web.
After she left his hotel room the next morning, he thumbed through his book and thought that Hemingway had it down pat: there are no atheists in foxholes.
***
When the plane went down, he hardly had time to think about what was happening. It lurched, once, twice and then started plummeting down. Blindly, he reached for the mask that dropped in front of him and tried to hang on. Inexplicably, a song was playing in his head. While those around him screamed and cried and prayed, he closed his eyes and focused on it.
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move.
***
The day was beautiful when the raft finally launched, but it couldn't disguise the fact that they were in all likelihood setting out towards certain death. He watched the heartfelt goodbyes, so opposite of the hopeful spirit belied by the messages people were putting into the bottle. This was reality, and three men and a boy were heading out into the endless ocean, hoping they would run into a vessel where they had not yet seen any. Just in case. He didn't know if Jack had given him that gun for protection or to provide them all with a merciful ending when the fresh water ran out.
He tried not to think about that, not to think about her, or the fact that she wasn't there, that no one was there for him, focusing solely on the task at hand, sailing. He hadn't even realized he was singing until Michael recognized the tune. Redemption song, he smiled to himself with a shake of the head, son of a bitch.
***
He surprised himself by not humming a note after he was shot. He was enraged, at the bastard that shot him, at Michael for making him the target of his blame, at God for leaving him with a broken raft and a bullet hole in the middle of the ocean. Once they made it back to shore and were thrown into the pit, he was too busy just surviving, scheming to gain the upper hand and then simply trying to stay conscious on the long walk back to camp.
While he never sang, snippets of songs flashed through his head, the work of his fevered mind. When he heard his momma singing that song she sang to him when he was a little boy, he was entranced. He tried to follow the sound and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground in Michael's arms. He knew he would never understand so he didn't bother explaining, but all he could think about was getting back to that voice. He tried to bait him into leaving, but Michael wasn't having it. The briefest hint of a smile passed across his face at the stubborn son of a bitch, but he could already feel himself fading.
Things got dark then, but he could feel Michael's arms become his momma's, and she held him gently, singing that song.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly...
***
He knew there was no real choice in the matter, but it still made him feel sick when they paddled away from that island, leaving Jack behind. But if he was good at anything, it was sizing up situations, and when he saw the blonde shoot Pickett, he knew they had no choice but to get the hell out of there before their window closed. He didn't want to think about what they would do with him now, after stopping the surgery to let them escape. But he had heard the resolve in Jack's voice and knew it was futile; he had made up his mind. They were similar in that way.
The silence was deafening in their little boat, but he knew he needed to focus on getting he and Kate back safely. He had fought too hard to let it get him now. So he cowboy-ed up, and suddenly he found himself singing the first song that came into his head.
Show me the way to go home...
***
It had been a good day. Not just because of the old Dharma beer, although that certainly was a big part of it. But he had actually had fun on the island. Who knew working on a dilapidated old hippy car with a bunch of misfits would constitute a good time? But it didn’t matter where you were from - beer (even rancid beer) followed by a joyride always equaled a good time.
He hadn't expected to be welcomed back so enthusiastically by the group, especially after the not-so-heartfelt goodbyes he received when heading out on the raft. He'd never admit it, but it felt good. He even thought about sharing his beer when he got back to the beach. But looking over at them, engaged in their conversations, he thought better of it. Hell, these people had screwed him over before and would no doubt do it again. So he went back to his tent and popped open a can, hoping it would quell the thoughts of Jack running through his mind. Lost in thought, he didn’t realize he was singing.
Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain with the rain in Shambala...