Title:  “Forgiveness – Part One”
Author:  uberaeryn
Fandom:  Lost
Pairing: Surprise!
Warning:  Spoilers through Season One and Spoiler Speculation
Rating:  Adults Only: Language and Sexual Situations
PG-13 for Part One

Notes: I started with the idea of a different combination here, but after working on ‘The Disappeared’ this idea began to intrigue me.
 

He’d almost hit her, almost, as he came up hard out of a fitful and sweaty sleep; as he fought to escape the now too-familiar blackened nightscape of ghosts whose flesh burned as they died in silence, a place that was both ocean and island at once, a place of evils real and imagined and of creeping vines and roots that came alive and wrapped themselves around his ankles and wrists, shackled him; bound him and tore into his skin the more he struggled, and everywhere, everywhere, the taste of blood and saltwater and the smell of gunpowder and the sound of children screaming and all of it, everything, backlit by the constant fire.

He’d almost hit her.

Almost, and not for the first time.

He sat up suddenly, blood and fear raging in his veins and pain pounding high on the left side of his chest and his fist was up and moving when he froze, blinking furiously to clear his eyes of the sweat that blinded him and then he could see her silhouette and he knew her immediately.

And then he could smell her, her scent as familiar now as the nightmares but much more welcome, comforting even and the whole of him eased and he fell back again on to his pallet at her firm touch against his right shoulder, sighed and closed his eyes and wiped at his face with his shirt sleeve.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he whispered finally, when his heart had slowed and his breath had eased. She didn’t bother to answer, and he already knew full well why she was in his tent in the middle of the night but he always asked the question; it had become part of who they were together, how they were together.

He kept his eyes closed. It was difficult to look at her. Beautiful as she was, she was part of the nightmares and through no fault of her own.

His fault, he thought. She was the worst part of what he went through every night, and it was his fault.

But she was the best part of it as well, and that was his fault, too.

He heard her shift position and knew that she was sitting cross-legged beside him and then something blissfully cool was running across his face and down his neck and across his chest as she loosened his shirt and he sighed, relaxing, wanting her to stay forever and just touch him like this, a dampened rag sliding over his overheated skin and then he felt, as he did every night, the guilt.

He felt that he hated himself, that he hated Jin, and that he hated her most of all.

For forgiving him.

***

Anger he could have dealt with; rage and recrimination and even tears, he thought, would have been easier than the past three months of her presence, her almost-silence and constant caretaking since the doc had finally eased up on him, had quit nagging him, had quit calling him a fucking coward and demanding constantly that he fight, shouting at him in the midst of Sawyer’s fever and delirium that giving up was not an option because they needed him.

He would have laughed at idea of anyone needing him, especially the doc, if he hadn’t hurt so much. Never had he hurt like this, pain from the burns from the fire and the sun and the searing heat of the gunshot wound, a heat that had eased but still raged occasionally, on nights like this.

Sawyer had thought more than once that he was alive now simply because he’d wanted Jack just to shut the fuck up. And Jack had, finally, had become satisfied with Sawyer’s progress and had pronounced that he would live and had moved on to other emergencies and had turned Sawyer over to Sun.

Of course she’d been there all along, taking care of the smaller details like changing bandages and cooling him down when his fever soared and whispering to him when the ghosts came and keeping him quiet and his pain dulled as Jack had been dragged away to fight what had become a constant battle with Locke and his ever-growing cult.

He found himself waking to find her asleep at his side, her hand held tightly in his and her head resting on the makeshift cot near his chest, and he would remember vaguely the screams, his, and a cool touch against his face and a soft voice in his ear and easing back to sleep, and he would wonder how he could she could do this, after everything that had happened.

His grip on her hand would tighten and she would wake suddenly and completely, standing, asking him questions and brushing his hair out of his face and checking his wounds and again he would drift away under her touch, either back into delirium or more often as the days passed into sleep, haunted by her, by Jin, by ghosts too numerous to name, and he knew he should let her go but he never did.

He just couldn’t.

He hazily remembered visits from Kate, a tight grip on his hand and whispered words that seemed to stir him more than ease him, then through the haze of the fever he’d gotten the impression she’d been needed somewhere else for something else, and soon he realized, over what must have been the course of days, the seemingly ongoing and panicky chatter among those remaining at the caves had died away and the only ones left were himself, Sun, and Jack, whose house calls to Sawyer became shorter and more perfunctory as Sawyer slowly began to heal and whatever was going on outside began to heat up. He always left Sawyer with the order to get better, he was needed.

The next thing Sawyer knew, it was just he and Sun.

And before he could stop it, even though he didn’t want it, even though he thought that surely she must not want it, either, she became, by necessity, the center of his world. He was frightened when he was with her, because of what had happened to Jin, and he was more frightened when he was without her, because he felt lost, not grounded, in a constant, foggy bad dream. The now rare visits from Jack were almost an intrusion, an unwelcome reminder of what was really going on out there.

Sawyer still found it almost unbelievable, the idea of anyone needing him, but something about the silence and the near-emptiness of the beach encampment and the brief, cursory visits from the doc during which Sawyer could see the tension in his face and the fear in his eyes now made him realize Jack had been completely serious in his earlier, shouted demands that Sawyer live, because they needed him. Needed Sawyer.

Things were much different, and it was only now that he starting to get some of the details and he didn’t like them, but he found himself getting ready, getting healthy in spite of himself. The need to fight or to run was burning bright in the back of his brain. Running obviously hadn’t worked and then he hadn’t been allowed to die when he’d wanted to, when he’d woken up and found himself back on the island, so he supposed it was time to fight. Only option left, fight whatever it was out there that needed to be fought.

And then there was Sun. And again, with her, he wanted to run or fight but found himself unable to really do either. She was still here in his tent every night since Jack had let him leave the caves, widowed, grieving, her face much too thin and her eyes too dark yet still touching him, soothing him, calming him.

She’d never asked him what had happened out there on the water, so he assumed that Michael had told her, and for that he was absurdly grateful. He wanted her to know; he thought that she deserved to know, but if she had asked he would have claimed not to remember, he couldn’t imagine telling her, couldn’t imagine what kind of pain it would bring her and couldn’t bear the idea of seeing it. It was bad enough that he was the cause of it.

She must know that, he thought. But she was still here, every night without fail, caring for him.

And forgiving him. She’d never said as much, and she rarely spoke at all now that his delirium was gone, but he felt it. And he almost hated her for it, almost.

And he did begin to hate her as the weeks passed. He hated her when she left him, just before dawn, crawling out of his tent in silence and walking slowly away, ankle-deep in the surf and staring out at the horizon, her skin taking on a golden tint as the sun rose, and he would watch her through heavy-lidded eyes until a more peaceful sleep crept up on him and overwhelmed him and as he sank down into its dark, velvety depths he’d fight to remember that he hated her, he had to, and to remember why he hated her.

Then unconsciousness came, deep and blissfully free of nightmares, and the hate he conjured out of guilt and grief and tried so hard to hold on to dissipated. He would wake late in the afternoon hot and hungry and sleepy and confused and she would be there waiting, food and water at hand and he would smile slightly, all thoughts of hate gone in the warm haze of just waking and for a moment, so brief, a flash of emotion so bright it was blinding, he thought he loved her. And sometimes, and more often lately, she would smile back and he would be astounded at the change it brought to her face, her eyes.

And then he would remember all that had happened, and a startling clarity would slam though him and with it fear and hate and longing, and he would snarl and curse and try to drive her away with his words but she ignored him; or more recently, on the rare occasion she teased him, in a tone so deadpan that the first several times it went straight over his head until he finally noticed a glint in her eye, something he’d never seen before and which caused him to roll his own in amazement and then pull the walls up and snarl and curse again, and again she would smile, very slightly, and their roles would switch and then he would be the one to avert his eyes and ignore the muted and subtle taunts and remind himself that he couldn’t do this, not with her; he wouldn’t let himself, not after what had happened out on the water.

Had it been anyone else on Sawyer-watch, he would have given as good as he got and better, and enjoyed it. Had it been Kate or Jack or even Sayid, he would’ve played the game and won.

Not with her, not with Sun. And she knew this and she wondered why; she would tilt her head and look at him in question but he would avoid her eyes and keep his mouth shut.

She would sit and wait and watch with infinite patience until he finally gave in and ate and drank, avoiding her gaze the entire time, and then she would help him to his feet and to one of the pools, warning him with her eyes to take care with the wound in his chest. She would then disappear silently and would return at exactly the point exhaustion began to overtake him again and would lead him back to his tent. She would then tell him in quiet tones as she checked his wound all that had happened that day, the things she said Jack wanted Sawyer to know, and then again she would leave.

He would fall asleep, everything she was telling him each day combined with all that had happened out on the water overheating his brain, and the nightmares would come, and then she was there again.

She’d forgiven him. She was taking care of him, constantly and without complaint despite the fact that he was the reason her husband was dead. And he was almost completely dependent on her. He needed her. And to his surprise and dread he found himself wanting her. He wanted her, started dreaming about her in different ways on some nights, dreamt of touching her and being inside her and he would wake with an ache he was never able to completely ease. And, sometimes, although it was the last thing he wanted or ever expected, he thought again that he loved her.

During those few moments when he was fully awake and alone and took a very rare moment to be honest with himself, he knew a fear much different than that that had ridden him like a fever almost his entire life.

This fear came from within and he knew it and he recognized it, totally and completely. He was afraid of her, of what she could do to him, of how she was capable of making him feel safe just by being there when he awoke, haunted, in the middle of the night. Worried that she was doing all this out of pity. Afraid of her touch but lost without it. Unworthy of her forgiveness but gifted with it anyway, even though he hadn’t asked for it and probably never would.

It was then that he understood that what he felt for her had nothing to do with hate and everything to do with the fact that she frightened him more than anything or everyone ever had.

And when he was afraid, it made him angry. And when he was angry, he hated.

It made things easier.

***

“Sawyer.”

He opened his eyes and stared at her through the gloom, startled. She so rarely spoke during the nights, unless his dreams had a particularly tight hold on him and she had to use her voice in addition to her touch to free him. And her tone now was different and something within him twisted at the sound of it.

“This cannot continue,” she said quietly, still cooling his face and chest with the dampened cloth, her eyes following the movements of her hand across his skin. “These dreams, these nightmares . . . they are wearing you down, making it difficult for you to heal.”

He gazed at her for long while in disbelief and wondered if she seriously thought that he could actually do something about the nightmares. She stared back, eyes black and steady on his, and he sighed and then caught her wrist tightly in one hand, noting absently how fragile of bone it felt and how, oddly, her skin felt heated as if from within.

“Well, now,” he whispered, jaw clenched. “Not a whole hell of a lot I can do about my damned dreams, now is there?”

Nothing he could do about any of them, he thought, the nightmares that left him exhausted or the more recent and most recurring dreams, dreams of her that left him hurting for her, longing for her, and then his grip on her wrist loosened as his thumb began ghosting roughly across the flesh of her inner arm and he fought back the urge to pull her across his body, her hips locked down tight against him as he thrust up inside her and his mouth on hers . . .

She shrugged, a minute movement of her shoulders, cool and seemingly unmoved by his unsteady caress and he yanked his hand away and stared out of the opening of the tent into the dark of the night, tired and furious and aching, heart and body.

“You have to try,” she said. “Things are getting worse each day, everyone is frightened and I am afraid for Jack, he is exhausted . . .”

“And so are you,” he interrupted, his tone harsh with guilt. “Exhausted.”

He turned again to look at her and the evidence of her weariness was there in the lines of her face and the slope of her shoulders and then he was angry again, at everything and everyone but especially at her.

“I didn’t ask you to do this, I didn’t ask you or fuckin’ Captain Jack for one damned bit of this,” he shouted, all sound and fury as he remembered how close he’d been to death, how that was all he had wanted until Jin and then Jack and then this woman had brought him back, insisted that he live and now, he thought, outraged, they dared to tell him that he reign in his goddamned dreams?

“I was fuckin’ done, you understand that?” he yelled. “I was damned well done with all this shit . . .”

He stopped raging just as quickly as he had begun, suddenly regretting his tone and his language even though her face remained expressionless, no reaction to his words or his voice or the fact that he had again grabbed her wrist, tugging at it lightly and helplessly, not knowing what else to do.

“I can’t –“ he started and then stopped again, yanking harder at her wrist, demanding a reaction and getting one, finally, a narrowing of her eyes as they searched his face. He tried again, tried to convey with his eyes what he could never put into words, his fear and his loneliness and his exhaustion and his frightening and unexpected need for her and his knowledge of the fact that what he wanted so badly from her he would never get or deserve . . .

He shoved the thoughts away with all that he had and sighed again before speaking. “I can’t do anything about my damned dreams, Sun . . .”

Again he faltered, his gaze shifting away from hers and then he jumped and tensed at the cool slide of her palm against the side of his face and into his hair. Her fingers threaded through his hair again and again and he found his eyes closing as he leaned heavily into her hand, sighing as her thumb rubbed firmly against the spot on his jaw near his ear, digging gently into the tensed muscle there and then he was falling, face down into her lap and then both of her hands gripped his neck, her thumbs kneading and sliding down the length of his neck and under his shirt to dig into his shoulders and he shuddered, pulse pounding at the feel of her hands against his skin and her fingers working the muscles of his shoulders and the way she smelled, God, he thought . . .

Can’t, he thought, and the word echoed in his ears even as his entire body began to throb under her touch. Can’t, just this, too much, too far, he thought, and planted his palms on the ground on either side of her thighs and shoved with everything he had, ripping himself out of her hands and throwing himself on to his back, one forearm over his eyes.

“Get outta here. Please,” he muttered. “If I could do anything about the damned dreams, I would, trust me on that, but I can’t. I can’t. So just go, all right? Just go.”

He hid beneath his arm, wanting her to leave and needing her to stay and just wishing he could sleep, wishing that he’d died out in the water with Jin, wishing, and not for the first time, that he’d never been born and then hating himself for indulging in self-pity. He was good at a lot of things, he thought, but feeling sorry for himself was not one of them and he wasn’t about to do it, and he damn well didn’t want anyone else doing it, either, especially not Sun but he knew now that she did, for some reason. She pitied him and it infuriated and embarrassed him and he’d be damned if he’d let her touch him or talk to him or care for him out of fucking pity, he thought bitterly.

Again his jaw clenched and he tried to make her leave by sheer force of will, but she remained, silent, and he felt her eyes on him and he waited in dread.

“Perhaps there is,” she said finally. “Something you can do. About the dreams.”

He tensed, then moved his arm and opened his eyes to stare at her.

“Tell me,” she whispered, voice already breaking as she leaned in closer to him and he felt as if he’d been gutted, and he would have given anything to be able to run as far and fast as he could. But instead he stared at her, watched her closely, waited.

“Tell me what happened. Out there, with the raft. Tell me what happened to you, Sawyer.” She paused and then reached out to grab his forearm tightly. “Tell me what happened. To Jin.”

Sawyer found himself broken inside, at the look on her face and the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice.

And then slowly and with great difficulty, knowing all too well he was about to lose the best thing he never had, he started to tell her.

***

TBC