Hello everyone, well ... anyone who is out there and may read this. For starters I'd just like to say that yes - I am aware LOST ended about a few billion lightyears ago, but lately I've been reading a lot of great fanfics and it got me into this idea that I should write one last fanfiction to end all my LOST related fanfic obsessions and get it out of my system.
One last hoorah if you'd like. (Yes, I've written on fanfiction for lost/suliet before, but this is a new account)
Anyway, for what its worth I'd just like to say that this is for the most part an exciting-adventure-love story, it include seventies Dharma, AU and Jack, Kate, Hurley and Faraday (a little) and what-not here and there.
And there aren't any "great tragedies (Juliet's death)"
Dawn split in the sky like the ripening of a fruit; instantaneous and generous. Its juice pigmenting the sky, spreading like blood through a vein. It was a red morning, the brilliant colours set out against the cool, resonating blue of the new sky.
He cracked open his eyes; his lids heavy and swollen, his throat dry, his body heavy like lead, it was as though he'd been stamped into the ground.
James felt fossil-like.
As his eyes opened further he had enough sight in between branches, trees and a charade of green to see the last of the grapefruit sky melting in stride of the rising sun. He breathed and the air was so clean it was almost sweet, after the days of ash in his mouth it felt that he could finally describe the air as sweet and not so in a fragrant way.
In the way that it was untouched, and that he was the only one breathing it in.
As his senses gathered around him, the sweet air faded, a breath at a time, and he came to his senses with the iron crusted scent of blood and the cold battery acid taste of metal all about him as another hand pulled one hand and he jarred the other against the jagged edge of a metal scaffold to keep from slipping into the dark crevasse.
Then, just as the sulphuric smell of hate and desperation chained his senses to a fate he refused to accept, he was greeted by the ocean, the salmon sky splitting open on the surface, shinning brightly; fervently. The colours were animated within the blue, flickering, his skin vibrating, every part of him awake, every sensation crisp as if every move he made resulted in stepping on eggshells, the sounds awakening him.
That blue. That was her. That was her eyes and her cold hand. Blood flowing from a cut on her forehead.
And the burning sensation was all those years condensed into five second in which he had to say goodbye. The lust and love and the sensation of all those time she'd touched him.
He breathed haggardly, the sudden influx of fresh air burning his throat and lungs, setting fire to his insides. His eyes shot open further, pupils dilating, and his grey eyes opening to a world of green, brown and the comfortable, gritty smell of dirt.
It was as though the very island that had put him through hell was offering a consolation. His eyes shot from one end of the leafy landscape to another, suddenly rising and running in particular direction, he was like a deer in headlights with a chance of escape. Hands cut and grazed he ran toward the direction he thought the scaffolding was in relation to the eastern sunrise.
He sped up so much so that he was flying and everything else was falling away, the pieces becoming shards and he was passing the world faster than it arranged itself into a tangible setting. He suddenly skidded and there was nothing; no ground, no air, no trees and he fell. It was like those times you had something heavy in your hands and you dropped it, expecting a crash. He woke up and the sudden ache in his chest was gone, the breathless expectation of whatever his run had intended to get him to was gone too. He never heard the crash.
He turned over, rubbing his head. He was coated in heavy scented blankets made up of dark colours. Everything was dim and a strong expensive and generously applied fragrance was driving him insane. Its scent was boastful and ugly, saturated with vanity and ignorance.
'Hey handsome,' he heard a husky voice somewhere to his left.
Taking a moment to get rid of the odd feeling of displacement and guilt he realized he was working. He was at work...well, he was con-man so he could officially call this work. Couldn't (shouldn't) he?
So much for desk job, he thought as turned and smiled at her, finding that in the short few hours in which he'd slept after banging her money out her, that he'd forgotten her face altogether; but now that he looked carefully he saw the clear cascade of auburn hair and the bright hazel eyes. She was by any standard hot. She was sexy and yet he was lost as to what would be considered sexy about her.
He shook of the odd feeling of being dislocated again and did what he did best, he was charming to her through a multitude of tasteful, articulate lies whilst he made breakfast. Then set up a time to meet her so he could arrange for the money to be transferred in order for him to invest it overseas in Spain (or Hibbs Land), but first he'd let her smell the cash for a night while she tossed and turned next to her weary husband.
Yada yada yada. Hook, line, sinker.
He dressed after and punched in his card (so much for a desk-job) and left the hotel room by twelve in the afternoon. He felt sick to the stomach as he crossed the car park to his (Hibbs') late model Audi and sat for a long moment; his head pressed into the headrest, and hands shaking in his lap.
He recalled the dream reluctantly; closing his eyes for moment and dozing off.
This time he was still running, but slower and his breathing becoming more laboured. Everything had place and time an X and Y axis (really? really? Now of all times?), he was coherent in the dream, in more control, or at least what he thought was considered more control, but the entire time even though he felt himself running, smelling, seeing and hearing...he was just employing his five senses to see what he was doing. It was like he was the audience of a short segment of his own life - no control, no nothin'. But all the time hearing the undertone of his thoughts in the dream. It was like a 5D dream. In that besides all five senses he was also capable of hearing thoughts relevant to the moment... or whichever version of him was in the moment.
'James...James!' He heard shouts in the distance, the morning suddenly hot and bothersome. He stopped running and stripped out of the jumpsuit he wore right down to jeans and a dark green shirt leaving it on the ground by his feet.
Why the fuck did I wear long-sleeves? Jus' what the hell was I thinking? he goaded himself.
And yet he knew he was only thinking so trivially, because he was holding back the thought of her, and her falling and breaking into a million pieces. The voice approached him and James whipped around; anger clouding his senses as he recognised the voice as Jack's.
And just as anticipated Jack burst through the undergrowth. There were few things he was aware of now. Things that he didn't know outside the frame of his dream. Information he didn't have was becoming clear.
'Where is she?' he growled almost, his voice low and dangerous.
The doctor (the doctor who?) held up a hand, shaking his head, eyes wide and large. He was breathless, tears glassing his eyes. One side of his face streaked with blood and dirt whilst the other was drenched in sweat. He felt a cool pang, the satisfying moment of revenge, he wanted Jack dead. Dead, dead, dead, deader than Juliet.
'WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?' he shouted, his voice echoing, but he knew very well where she was, he just didn't want to admit it. She's in that hole, in a million pieces. Dead, dead, dead. As a doornail.
That thought tripped a wire and his head began to sear; about to burst open. A blinding light was suddenly turned on inside his skull. Blinded momentarily, he almost missed Horace's sudden appearance from behind Jack; gun drawn and eyes steady. But James could see his hands were shaking on the slippery handle of the shot-gun.
'It didn't work!' James spat. 'It didn't work!'
'Get on your knees, both of you,' Horace told them steadily, visibly swallowing.
'It didn't work Doc! It still 1977 - where still on this GODDAMN FUCKING ISLAND... IT DIDN'T WORK!' he shouted, his rage resonating under the canopy of leaves and shaking the ground under them.
He was in pieces, his head aching; the blinding light back again.
He woke suddenly, drenched in cold sweat and clutching the steering wheel. His head reeling. He was confused, hurt and lost; he'd never had a dream even similar to this. He'd never felt this way.
Sawyer took a moment to gather himself, this was a new scene, a new invention of his fucked up mind. He had never been there or done those things and yet he had been more awake than he'd felt for months, years - hell, his whole miserable life.
He swallowed.
'Get a grip Sawyer,' he muttered to himself, pulling out of the spot and rolling out of the car-park, rivulets of rain slivering down his window as he gained speed. Sawyer drove onto the road and thought his situation over whilst Metallica boomed in the background.
It wasn't 1977; he'd been eight in 1977. It was 2004. He was thirty-five. He was a con-man, a filthy, scumbag con-man. He had a daughter, whom he had never seen in person. He lived in LA. He wasn't married. He was going most likely die alone.
And he'd certainly never been in a crazy-ass impromptu scenario with a jackass and long-haired four-eyed hippy.
Hah! He'd seen some weird stuff in his dreams. Granted, some pretty bad stuff too, but hell - this took the cake, this took the whole cake blew out the candles and sat on it naked. He slammed on the breaks at a red light, narrowly missing a white sedan. Sawyer took a deep breath and tried to slow his pulsating heart.
'Alright, you get home, pour yourself a Jack Daniel or two and you'll be right as rain,' he muttered to himself again. 'right as rain.'
Funny, how it felt like he knew a Jack and a Daniel now.