"Muddy Angels"
Why did it have to be her, she ranted? Why him? She was the last person here that could help him. Who was she anyway? Just a thieving, lying, fugitive who seemed to curse anything she touched. It was all her fault. If she hadn't suggested that they go out looking to find more fruit, he would have been back at the caves or beach where Sun would have known what to do. If Jack died, it would be because of her, just as surely as if she had put a gun against his head and pulled the trigger. He had done nothing but trust her and give her the benefit of the doubt, even after the incident with the case. And how had she repaid him? By lying to him, and now causing him to be stranded out here with her, when he needed help…help she didn't have to give.
As her mind flashed back to that day by the spring when he had given her the seeds, she beat the ground with her open palms in anger at the unfairness of it all. Kate pushed herself back up on her hands and knees, her sobs turning into a low keening sound. With the rain plastering the oversized shirt to her body, and flattening her hair into wet, clinging, ropes, an anguished cry of "No!" ripped free from her throat, the emotion coming from so deep inside that she felt light headed.
She couldn't do this; she couldn't help him, she thought as she collapsed back to the ground in defeat. Her fear was overwhelming her, shutting down her ability to think, to move, to breathe. It was one thing to stitch a wound up … she'd had Jack there to talk her through it, after all. But this was something altogether different. She closed her wet eyes and saw him that day, so calm in the middle of all the chaos, telling her the story of his operation. "You aren't running now," he'd said when she had expressed doubt in her own strength.
She swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut to hold onto that moment. As she counted with him in her memory, she felt something inside of her shift, as strength trickled back into her psyche. Scrambling to stand up, she wiped a grimy hand across her face and looked up at the sky. Blinking against the rain still teeming down, she threw a defiant glare at the world.
"No!" she snarled defiantly, ashamed at having almost given into the fear.
She strode back to the cave with grim resolve. She would not let this happen. She would not let him give into this fever, or to give up period. She'd be damned if she was going to let someone who needed her … whom she needed, die again. History would not repeat itself, she vowed. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was not going to run.
She re-entered the cave and after checking on Jack, quickly took the empty bottle and refilled it. She added a bit more wood to the fire, but her wet clothes still chilled her. Knowing that she should not tempt fate by remaining wet and cold, she made the decision to change back into her clothes. But, when she went to put them on, she remembered that her tank top was now serving as a compress for Jack. Her adaptive mind thinking quickly, she pulled on her dry pants and after shucking the sopping shirt, pulled Jack's shirt, now dry, over her head, not wasting time on her bra. As she pulled the worn cotton over her head, she was engulfed by emotion. Inhaling deeply, the shirt still smelled like Jack and she felt a little flip in her belly at the intimacy of wearing his clothes.
Regaining her focus, she looked at the wet shirt in her hands and was about to spread it out to dry, when another memory intruded on her consciousness. She remembered once, when her dad had been ill, her mom had assigned her the task of bringing bowls of cool water, so that her mom could help lower his fever with cold compresses.
So she resumed her seat next to Jack, and folded the wet shirt into a manageable sized square, prepared to do the same thing for Jack. But as she looked at him lying there still as death, she felt useless and powerless to help him. What is a wet rag going to do to help? she thought bitterly.
She sat back on her heels and closing her eyes briefly, took a deep breath. She scrubbed her hands over her face and blinked back tears of frustration. Focus, she told herself, just focus on one thing at a time …
She tentatively ran the cloth over his face and down his throat. Suddenly, inexplicably shy, she found herself blushing and darting quick looks up to his face as she progressed further down. Acutely aware of the expanse of bare skin, she hesitantly swept the cloth over his shoulders and down his arms, lingering over the mysterious tattoos on his bicep and inner arm. With soft hands, she moved the wet fabric over his chest, across the sprinkling of chest hair, then down the taut planes of his abdomen.
Feeling her face heat, she chastised herself for her wayward thoughts and slid the cloth down over his legs, bathing them in the cool moisture of the shirt. She re-wet the fabric and began the process again; tracing the compress over the planes and angles of his face, brushing over the strong column of his throat, then caressing his shoulders and chest, briefly flattening her palm over his heart and feeling the shallow vibrations of his heartbeat against her hand.
She tried to ignore the way the firelight cast dancing shadows across his body, as if trying to tempt her to explore further. She tried to avoid dwelling on the way the sound of the storm seemed to cocoon them from the outside world. But try as she might, she couldn't completely distance herself from the intimacy of her thoughts; now that she had cracked the door open to her feelings, she seemingly could no longer shut the door. Something significant had happened in the last few hours. Now that she had finally admitted to her feelings … her growing feelings, she was unable to close her heart off. Now she looked at Jack not with the eyes of just a friend, but with the eyes of something more.
She tried to lift his head and shoulders up and coax him to drink some water. Satisfied with the little bit he managed to swallow, she held him there for a few more moments and rested her head in the crook of his neck, gathering the strength she knew she'd need.
Kate reluctantly eased him back down and added more wood to the fire, realizing suddenly that they were almost out of wood. She darted looks around the cave, hoping to see some wood she had missed earlier, but didn't see anything. She estimated that they only had enough wood for a few more hours, maybe a day if she were lucky, but then they would be left with nothing. Right now he was feverish, but what if he got those chills again? How could she keep him warm without a fire? Everything was soaking wet outside … there wouldn't be anything to use for firewood there. Her worries escalating, she had visions of him dying while all she could do was watch helplessly. She would be alone … but what terrified her wasn't the 'being alone' part, it was the losing Jack, part.
The fear rose in her throat, so that she began to feel ill with it. She tried to ignore the panic that clawed at her gut, but it was no use. Her hands shook with it, her teeth chattered from it, and her head filled with the dull roar of terror mixed with despair. She struggled to slow her breathing, forcing herself to stop hyperventilating. With a trembling hand she rubbed her face and was surprised when her hand came away wet; she hadn't even realized that she was crying, that tears were flowing unheeded down her face. She bit down on her lip to keep from sobbing out loud, the pain snapping her back to the present, and resumed her actions, sweeping the cool, damp cloth over his feverish skin. She was terrified, the panic was like a steady ache in her very bones, but she would not give into it again; to let it freeze her.
No, she may not be able to control her fear, but she could control her reaction to it. And this time she would not let it dictate her actions …or make her run.
He made a fretful sound in his sleep and twisted his body in pain, as if seeking a more comfortable position, half turning onto his side. She poured more water on the cloth and ran it down his side, pausing when she came to the scar on his back. With her fingertips, she gently traced the ridges of that scar, no longer red and angry like it was when she had last seen it. How that must have hurt him, she thought to herself, but even with her clumsy suturing attempts and no local anaesthesia, he never once cried out. It seemed as though only when unconscious would he give into that. A small frown puckered her brows as a thought occurred to her; she wondered what type of pain he had grown up with to enable him to be able bite down so hard on it. She knew from her own experience that that kind of willpower only came from brutal emotional training.
"Oh Jack," she said on a breathy sigh, "who are you really?" With a gentle touch she gave the scar one last wistful and compassionate caress before resuming the sponge bath.
Finding the bottle nearly empty, she pushed herself up and went to the mouth of the cave and refilled it with rainwater. Tired and hungry, her motions were mechanical and weary. Looking out of the cave, she noticed that the rain was finally beginning to lessen and would likely stop soon. Returning to Jack, she tried to be optimistic, but her fear and despair seemed to overwhelm anything and everything else.
He had tossed and turned again, and was once more lying on his back. His skin was still hot, but for the first time, she thought perhaps it wasn't quite as hot, and that the cold compresses seemed to be easing the fever a bit. Clinging to that shred of hope, she continued to wipe him down with the damp cloth, while her mind drifted away.
"Kate."
Jerked out of her reverie by the sound of his voice, she met his eyes and gave him a shaky smile.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?" she teased, trying to cover her fear.
His chuckle was cut short by a fit of coughing, and she grimaced at the raw harshness of it. She automatically slid her arm under his shoulders to help him to sit up a bit and passed him the bottle of water, determined for him to drink some. When he tried to drink it too quickly, she pulled the bottle away from him and cautioned him to just take sips.
Turning his head he looked at her and frowned in concern.
"You're crying …" he said, worry colouring his voice, and reached up to wipe a smudge of mud off her cheek.
She tried to force a smile and an excuse, but gave up. He always knew when she was lying … at first she had found it unsettling how her weapons and manipulations failed to work on him, and how easily he read her … saw her. But now, she felt comfort in that, knowing that there was nothing to hide from him. So she answered with the truth, self-reproach and shame weighing her words down.
"I'm scared," she said simply, "I don't know what to do, how to help you."
He was silent for a moment, but his expressive hazel eyes swam with emotion. "You didn't run, though, or let it take over. Don't underestimate how brave you are."
"Brave?" she snorted with a rueful and watery chuckle. "No I'm not. I did run, Jack. I ran and left you."
He licked at his dry lips before responding. "But you are here now. You came back; you didn't keep running. Being brave has nothing to do with being fearless, Kate. Courage and bravery are what happen when you do what needs to be done, even when you are terrified."
She bit her lip as fresh tears swam in her eyes. She cursed herself;when had she ever been this emotional and prone to crying she thought with chagrin. Unable to find the words to express just how much what he'd said meant to her, she met his steady gaze with her own, and smiled soft and slow – a smile he hadn't seen from her in quite a while. Without even being aware of it, he answered with one of his own.
She passed him the water bottle again, but as he took a drink, his hand, still weak from the muscle and joint pains, shook and spilled water down his chest. He looked down in confusion.
"I'm just in my boxers. Why am I just in my boxers, Kate?" He said with such utter bewilderment, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Seeming to misunderstand her silence, he shot her a worried look and choked out " ...uh, we didn't, do anything, did we?"
Swallowing the bubble of laughter in her throat, she kept a straight face and deadpanned, "Jack, we made mad, passionate love after finishing off the sake … don't you remember?" she said with a wounded look that would have made her high school drama teacher proud.
When his eyes widened in shock, she took pity on him and let a small chuckle escape. "No, Jack. Nothing happened. You were shivering in your wet clothes, so I had to take them off you."
"Oh … okay … and then how did you end up wearing my shirt?"
Kate looked down and unconsciously smoothed her hand down the worn cotton. "Well, then I got soaked and the only dry shirt by then, was yours."
He nodded in comprehension, but as she passed him back the bottle, she couldn't resist one last shot.
"And Jack? Trust me, you'd know if we 'did anything'," she said, using his words from the day she had teased him about checking her out.
Catching the mischief in her eyes, he felt the corners of his mouth turn up, relieved that he had been able to distract her from her fears, if only briefly. And despite himself, and the situation they were in, he found himself intrigued by her comment.
His energy having quickly faded, he fought to keep his eyes open a little longer. Kate shifted and eased him back down, and he instantly regretted the loss of her arm around him, and the soft swell of her breast against his arm.
She could see him rapidly slipping towards sleep again, and quickly seized the opportunity to get medical direction from him while he was still lucid.
"Wait, Jack … stay with me a bit longer … I need your help. I don't know what I'm supposed to do for you."
He blinked his eyes against the sleep calling him, and focused on her face.
"How long have I been out?"
"Almost four days," she replied.
Four days? He thought to himself. He'd been sick and unconscious for four days? He'd abandoned Kate for four days, and worse yet, given her cause for concern. His lips thinned in reproach of himself, though deep down, he knew it wasn't anything he'd done intentionally. That didn't stop him from feeling guilty, though.
"If I've had a high fever for four days and I'm still alive, then I guess what you're doing is working. This, whatever it is, just has to run its course."
"What about the pain you keep having? Isn't there anything for that?" she asked as she passed him a piece of fruit she'd scavenged from the storm's debris.
He swallowed the fruit and shook his head. "Basically, lots of water … heat for chills and cool for fever …" His voice trailed off as he felt himself sinking back into sleep. As his mind began to drift off and his eyes fluttered shut, he dimly realized how much he liked the idea of Kate wearing his shirt, an island equivalent to her wearing his letterman's jacket, he thought wryly. He smiled inwardly at the foolish thought, but as he slipped into sleep with the taste of the guava they'd shared on his tongue, his mind lingered on the thought that this must be what her mouth would taste like, right now …