Title: A Little Help From My Friends
Summary: Charlie decides to be neighborly.
Characters: Charlie and Sawyer? Charlie/Sawyer? Depends on what you see in the subtext, I guess.
Genre: Snark?
Rating: PG-13 or TV-14 D(ialogue) should cover it.
Timeline: Just prior to "Solitary"; set in the three days that Kate says Sayid has been gone.
Length: Sawyer's not telling. I mean, about 650 words.
Notes: Feedback of any kind is always highly appreciated.
Disclaimer: Lost belongs to J. J. Abrams, et al. I am making no money from this endeavor.
"You want a little help with that?"
Sawyer looked up, examined Charlie expressionlessly, then tossed the suitcase he'd been dragging along one-handed into his new home. "Hanging out with Preggers make you charitable all of a sudden, Rock Star?"
"Her name's Claire," he replied civilly. "And I just came to see how you're doing. With the arm and all."
"Aw, did Hero send you? Tired of makin' housecalls, is he?"
"Jack doesn't care if you live or die, mate," Charlie said bluntly.
Sawyer shot him a grimly cheerful smile. "Now there's some refreshing honesty. And I heard you limeys were all cowardly little pussies. Looks like I found me an exception."
"That'll be the Irish in me," he deadpanned.
Sawyer snorted in a way that could almost be defined as a chuckle.
"Does it hurt much?" Charlie asked suddenly, squinting at Sawyer, who was now unzipping the case and setting up camp in Jack's vacated infirmary. Without much using his right hand, Charlie saw. "I mean, it's got to be kind of annoying, not being able to use your arm and all. Even for a little while."
Sawyer paused and looked up, eyes narrowing against the sunlight that was steadily burning Charlie's neck. "There a point to this little monologue, Rock Star?"
Charlie shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. How long d'you have to keep the bandages on?"
"Ah, week or two, I guess, 'less I want to start bleedin' like the Great White Hunter's wild boars. The Doc ain't exactly been forthcoming with regards to my prognosis."
"A week or two? Without your right arm? Truly rotten fate, that is."
"I think I'll survive." He smirked up at Charlie. "Seeing as al-Qaeda missed my throat."
"Right, yeah, well. If you need...anything, you know, I'm willing to help. I mean, I haven't got much to do, and I could probably really use some good karma right about now."
Sawyer laughed unkindly. "That's mighty generous of you. But just what in the hell do you think you can do to help me?"
Charlie's voice stayed light, friendly, but a flush tinged his ears even pinker than his sunburn. "When I was at schoolboarding school, in Englanda friend of mine broke his arm. And a leg, and his collarbone, incidentally."
"What'd he do, fall out of a tree?" Sawyer drawled.
"Car accident. He had to go a couple of weeks in a sling, and that's an awfully long time without a wank. So I helped him out, like. Platonically. And if you wanted...a hand...I wouldn't make a production out of it." He shrugged, as though offering to jerk off virtual strangers was something he did everyday in his past life as a British rock-star has-been.
Sawyer's smirk vanished. Charlie became rather suddenly aware of how dangerous Sawyer could bewounded creatures were more likely to attack, you know, and not that Sawyer was quite as animalistic as a wolf or a dog or a stray polar bear, but still...He studied the look in Sawyer's eyes a moment more and decided that a retreat might be the only way to retain the shreds of his dignity and the current shape of his nose. He took two steps back and, in a show of trust that violated all sense of self-preservation, turned his back on Sawyer and began to walk away.
"Hey, Rock Star."
When Charlie tensed and turned around, Sawyer was standing very, very close to him and glaring coldly. "I want to get three things straight with you. First: I don't care who sent you out on this little missionary jaunt, but I don't take charity. Ever."
"Nobody sent me, I just thought"
"Second," he interrupted. "Ask any woman in Tennessee, and she'll tell you: I am not a queer."
"I wasn't suggesting that you were!" Charlie cut in, something like panic in his voice. "I didn't mean anything by it, I just wanted to help, you're not even my type, I wasn't"
"And third." He bent closer to Charlie and favored him with a conspiratorial fuck-off grin. "I'm a lefty."
Yes, Sawyer did shoot the bear left-handed.
Bonus points to anyone who picked up on our favorite bookworm's literary reference.