Author: Nikitangel PM
Sawyer stands over Ana Lucia's grave.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Angst - Ana & Sawyer - Words: 2,017 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 6 - Follows: 2 - Published: 06-09-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2982538
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Characters: Sawyer, Ana-Lucia
Spoilers: Through 2x20, "Two for the Road"
Thanks To: my beta, tnhand1022
He waits until dark, not that it's necessary. Grave site cleared out pretty damn quick. Sawyer can't decide if that's a good thing. Not like any of them ever gave a damn about her.
Whatcha gonna do now, muchacha?
Jack had done that stoic hero thing through the whole funeral, all strong-jawed and silent. Eyes were red, though, Sawyer could tell even from across the camp. He knew.
He held tight to her wrist, feeling her pulse race, then slid a hand down to her hip, waiting to see her reaction. Pretty weak attempt to buck him off, which only succeeded in pushing her body closer to his. She didn't seem to mind.
He tries to remember that poem about standing by someone's grave. "I am not there, I did not die." Tries to decide if she's really under there.
She got his shirt off pretty quick and was already reaching for his jeans before he caught up. He was used to being the fast one, but he had a feeling she was gonna go ahead and do this with or without his help. He helped.
Someone has put her big stick over the grave. Eko, probably. Sawyer had seen him speaking quietly over the grave earlier. He wonders if Ana was Catholic.
He peeled her shirt off himself but it wasn't until he'd rolled her over and started licking his way down that he saw them.
"What the hell?" He reached up to run his fingers over the scars. Four of them, neat little holes through her body.
She froze when he touched them, jaw clenched and eyes staring over his shoulder. Neither of them moved for nearly a minute. Finally, she snapped and dove for his mouth again, trying to drag him back up her body.
"Hey, hey, hold up a minute," he protested, pulling away. "You got a story to go with these?"
She stared at him fiercely, dark eyes giving away nothing. "You wanna do this or not?" she finally asked.
He could still feel her pulse racing, but it wasn't just the sex anymore. He'd never seen her so tense, not even on their Death March through the jungle. He was still staring at her when she snarled and pushed him off.
"How'd you even live through that?" he asked, watching her fumble in the grass for the only shirt she owned.
"What is this, Dr. Phil?" she snapped. "Zip up your pants and stay out of my head."
He fingers his own bullet wound, the edges still jagged. Remembers her boot pressing down into it. Bitch had no idea what it felt like, he'd thought at the time. Like to see a hole through her shoulder. Turns out she'd been full of holes.
She couldn't find the rubber band for her hair. He heard her muttering as she crawled around, angrily shoving aside leaves and rotting fruit.
"Why don't you just leave it? With your hair down, you almost look female, sweetheart."
She scowled at him over her shoulder. "Piss off," she said succinctly, and returned to her search.
"Line of duty?" he guessed, staring at the way her shirt rode up her back.
She stopped moving for a moment.
"You were a cop, right? Some bad guy plug you up good?"
"Bad guy," she repeated dully, sitting back on her heels.
For a moment he wonders what will happen to her tent. Then he remembers her silhouette alone on the beach. Pretty far off from everyone, even by his standards. Never finished whatever she'd started setting up in the jungle. Never would.
He hesitated. "Where's he at now?" he finally asked lightly.
She slid her eyes to his first, then turned her head slowly to fully face him. Never broke contact, just those dark eyes pinning him with the answer he didn't need to hear. He licked his lips and suddenly felt very naked without his shirt.
"Why you so hot for a gun now, amiga?"
He could see her calculating as she stared through him to where his gun was still safely tucked in his jeans. He raised an eyebrow and waited her out.
"Guy in the hatch tried to kill me," she said flatly.
"Jack attacking vulnerable young women again?"
She wouldn't respond to that. Never had much of a sense of humor, that girl.
"Henry," she bit out. " Or, whatever his name is."
"Henry tried to kill you? What, by hunger-striking you to death?"
She clenched her jaw, and he could see her fighting for patience. Always a challenge for her. "Tried to strangle me."
Sawyer looked doubtfully the muscled form before him. "I'm guessing he didn't get very far."
"Far enough." She swallowed and looked away.
"And how's that, exactly? Ain't that you I see running up and down the beach every morning like a lunatic? Didn't you fix up that weight machine in the hatch?"
He could see her eyes flitting back and forth over the jungle, seeing nothing. "Took me by surprise," she finally answered.
He wonders if there'd been anyone at the airport waiting for her. Not anymore, of course. Everyone will have gone home now, given up everyone on the island for dead. Sawyer gazes down at the muddy rectangle with the pathetic little cross and wonders if there's much of a difference anymore.
"The tiny man still bleeding from being shot with an arrow, tortured, tied up, locked in a cell, and ain't eaten in a week? He took you by surprise?"
"That a problem for you?"
"Okay, fine, he surprised you," he shrugged. "Then what?"
She looked at him, irritated. "Then nothing."
Now that he was looking closely (and some of the blood had made it back to his brain), he could see the marks still around her neck. "How the hell he hang on long enough to do that?" He gestured to the bruises.
"He was strong."
Sawyer had never heard her voice like that. Always confident, always pissed off, that was Ana-Lucia. Not this … uncertainty. Like she didn't even believe herself.
He wishes her eyes hadn't been open. Wishes people would die like in the movies, just peacefully fall asleep, eyes and mouths closed. He doesn't like it when they stare.
"Not that strong, Ana-Lu."
"It's Ana-Lucia," she said sharply.
"Not that strong, Ana-Lu-CI-a."
She stood up, restless, arms crossed in front of her. "What do you want me to say?"
"Beats me, sugar. What do you want to tell me?"
"Is this some kind of sick game to you?" She glared at him, but he could see how edgy she'd gotten. She was close to breaking. He didn't know why he wanted to break her.
"Why didn't you fight back?" he finally asked quietly.
Her head whipped round. "Don't be an idiot. Of course I fought back."
He didn't say anything.
"I did!" she insisted. "Punched him right in the gut."
"Then nothing," she said again, only this time her voice broke on the second word and she swiftly turned away.
They didn't have anything else to bury her in. Hurley came up with some purple thing all full of sparkles for Libby. Not really funeral material, but who's gonna argue with the guy? But nothing for Ana-Lucia. Didn't seem right to put someone else's shirt on her, not after all this time. But how do you bury a girl in the bloody shirt she died in?
"Then nothing," he repeated. He squinted up at the sun. "Then nothing."
"What do you even care if – how I fought back?" She still wouldn't look at him.
"I don't." He leaned back, stretching a hand behind him only to land on the damn rubber band. He picked it up, rolled it between his fingers. "I was just sitting here thinking about all the barfights I been in, and there've been plenty. Ain't never seen a haymaker come at me quite so obvious."
"So, what, you beat me, now you're rubbing it in?" she said shakily. "Knew you were a jerk."
He could see her fingers digging into the back of her arm. "Wasn't much of a fight, Ana-Luc-i-a. Expected a little more from one of L.A.'s finest."
"Well, maybe I'm not the finest."
"Maybe not," he agreed.
She died sitting on a couch. She'd have hated that. Spent her life chasing down criminals and fighting off crazy jungle killers only to die sitting on a goddamn couch. He wonders if she had time to realize that. Hopes not.
"Maybe," he began, climbing to his feet. "Maybe you weren't fighting so hard. Maybe you didn't actually want to win."
"Don't flatter yourself," she scoffed, turning to face him.
"Lotta things go through a man's – sorry, woman's –" he bowed slightly, "mind during a fight. Hard to keep track of 'em all. Hard to win when they don't all agree."
"So, what, I couldn't keep my hands off your hot bod?"
"Ain't talking about our fight, sugar," he said simply.
She turns suddenly. "Look, just give me the damn gun."
"What the hell do you care?" she said desperately. "Look, just tell everyone I stole it, all right? I won't say anything."
"Who you gonna use it on?"
"I told you, he tried to kill me."
"Yeah," said Sawyer slowly. "But who you gonna use it on?"
She didn't go to Shannon's funeral, he's pretty sure. He would have seen her there, would have stood in a group of several dozen people all carefully not seeing her there. He wonders if anyone noticed he wasn't there today.
"You think I'm gonna blow my brains out?" she sneered, lip curled. Her face darkened when he didn't answer. "Get over yourself. Just because I considered rolling around the jungle with you doesn't mean you know me."
"I know more than you think, princess."
She closed the distance between them. "You wanna fix me? Shut the hell up and finish what I started." With that she smashed her mouth up against his again, that same edge of desperation threaded through her movements.
He didn't pull away this time.
He fingers the rubber band in his pocket. He had planned on giving it back eventually. No more 'eventually' left now.
He saw her pick up the gun. Hell, she looked him right in the eye while doing it. He watched her slowly slide it into the front of her waistband before his gaze finally flickered up her bare chest to the faint smirk on her face.
"Well, look at that," she said. "Ana-Lucia stole your damn gun."
"Bitch," he replied without heat.
The corner of her mouth quirked up, but she turned away before it become a full-fledged smile. He watched her slide the shirt back on, noting the smoothness of her back. Bullets never made it through, then. Holes only halfway in. Wasn't there a riddle about that? 'How far can you walk into the jungle?' 'Halfway – after that, you're walking out.'
She's never going to walk out, he thinks. Or has she? She, and Shannon, and Boone, and all the rest of them Jack couldn't save. Sawyer looks down at the simple grave and wonders which of them is really trapped here forever.
She always knew she'd die on this island. He'd seen it in her face every time she looked into the jungle. She was never going to be rescued. Too many holes, and he had given her the gun that made the last one.