A/N: I just wanted to explore the relationship, interactions and moments between Jack and Kate and this is what came out of it.
Disclaimer: No matter how much I may want to, Lost does not belong to me.
JACK AND KATE
Summary: An exploration of the relationship, interactions and moments between Jack and Kate. Set from Season 1 and onward.
First Meeting
The first time they meet they are on a deserted island, surrounded by the ocean, sand, plane wreckage and dead bodies. Down the beach, the air is heavy with smoke and terror as men and women shout and cry. She wants to get away. She needs some time to think and assess the situation because right at that moment she doesn't know what to do or what needs to be done.
Their plane has just crashed and all she can think about is the fact that she's free. There are no handcuffs, no need to run away. The idea of dead bodies littering the beach barely registers in her mind. She knows she should make herself useful but instead of pulling people out of the wreckage, she chooses to be selfish and relishes that moment of freedom.
She wanders aimlessly along the beach, detached from her surroundings and rubbing gently at her raw wrists. Distracted and absorbed in her own thoughts, she barely notices him sitting there, shirtless and grimacing in pain. In fact, she's startled when he calls over to her.
"Excuse me!"
She looks over sharply and the hand over her wrist stops its soothing circular motion, her fingers wrapping around her wrist automatically, defensively. An urge to run begins to bubble in the pit of her stomach. But she remains rooted to her spot, her body stiff and motionless. She merely gives him a surprised stare.
"Did you ever use a needle?" he asks, hands clenching at his knees.
She thinks she hasn't heard him quite right and calls out, "What?"
She watches as he tries to elaborate. "Did you ever patch a pair of jeans?"
If the circumstances were different, she imagines that she would have laughed. The question was so absurd and completely unfit for the situation that they found themselves in. Nevertheless, she answers, telling him that she'd made the drapes in her apartment.
A relieved smile crosses his features. "That's fantastic. Listen, do you have a second? I could use a little help here."
She wonders what her sewing experience has anything to do with helping him. And then she sees the gash running along his side. It's deep and angry. She sucks in an audible breath and closes her eyes. It's almost as if she herself can feel the burn of the wound on her own body.
"Look," he says, "I'd do it myself – I'm a doctor – but I just can't reach it."
She looks at him incredulously as if he is deranged or out of his mind. She is not qualified for what he's asking of her. "You want me to sew that up?"
He nods. "It'd be just like the drapes –"
She tries to explain. "No, with the drapes I used a sewing machine."
"No, you can do this," he says with conviction. "I'm telling you. If you wouldn't mind." He sends a pleading look her way and she knows there is no way she can refuse. So she gives in and settles on the sand next to him. He hands her a small liquor bottle, explaining its use for cleaning her hands and his wound.
The alcohol is warm as it runs along her palms. There is a slight sting when it dribbles down to her wrists, but she hardly notices. Her hands clean and sanitized, she picks up the sewing kit lying haphazardly in the sand. The strings come in several different colours. Red, blue, green and black. "Any colour preference?" she asks with a teasing smile. It's her pathetic attempt to lighten the mood.
He laughs in response. "Standard black."
She watches as he uncaps the bottle of vodka and pours it over his wound. A loud hiss escapes his lips before his teeth clamp down over them violently. Tears gather in his eyes. Eying him worriedly, she pulls at the roll of thread with shaky hands. The strand hangs limply between her clammy fingers, soaked with sweat. She attempts to slip it through the needle with little success.
Noticing the trembling of her hands, he offers her a shaky smile. It seems like a form of encouragement. "Hey, I know you can do this."
Somehow she is not quite as confident as he is. "I don't know. I've – I've never done anything like this before. I mean, I've never even been very good at first aid – "
Despite his pain, he manages a weak chuckle. "Look, don't even think about me as a person. Just imagine that I'm something that needs to be stitched up and fixed back together."
"Alright. I'll try." Drawing in a deep breath, she focuses on slipping the thread through the needle with grim determination. When the thread is dangling from the needle, she knots the end before looking to him for further instruction.
"Just like you're patching up a pair of jeans," he says.
She nods and carefully brings the two flaps of skin together over the bloody gash. She looks up hesitantly again, only to have him stare back with a reassuring smile. She then looks down and closes her eyes, mentally preparing herself. You can do this, she tells herself. You have to do this. Her eyes focus and her hand then moves on its own accord, with purpose. The needle between her thumb and index finger is being guided through his skin. Just like patching a pair of jeans, she reminds herself.
"You're doing it." His voice is soothing and encouraging. It makes her even more determined to do this for him.
She smiles. "I might throw up on you."
"You're doing fine," he says with a shake of his head.
She wonders how he can seem so calm, so unafraid. "You don't seem afraid at all. I don't understand that."
As a way of explanation, he begins to tell a story. It's about a mistake he'd made during a surgical procedure years ago. He recounts how he'd been terrified but made the decision to let the fear take over for only five seconds. And then, he tells her, it was gone and he had gone back to work, sewed her up and she was fine. The way he tells it, it's as if he is moving through the motions again, living the moment again. His voice even shakes as he counts to five, but regains its steadiness as he finishes the story.
She realizes that her hands have paused their work. The story had captivated her. "If that had been me, I think I would have run for the door," she says honestly, the needle once again weaving through his skin. She knows for a fact that she would have run. It's the one thing she can depend on. It's the one thing she does well. It's the only thing she knows how to do.
What he says next surprises her. "No, I don't think that's true. You're not running now."
A/N: Hope you liked it. There will be more to come soon, I hope. Please leave a review. Constructive criticism and comments are always appreciated.