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[corellianjedi.livejournal.com]

Title: The Only Two Bibliophiles Left on Earth
Author: corellianjedi
Disclaimer: Not mine. JJ and Damon’s. I swear.
Words: 806
Summary: Sawyer and Desmond meet and bond over books.
Rating: PG (well, Sawyer’s got a mouth on him, so it might be a bit more than that)
Author’s Notes: For indilime cuz she’s a “horrible influence.”



“Tell me again why I oughta believe you ain’t one of them ‘others,’” Sawyer glared at Desmond.

“I met people from your plane. They told me four of you left on a raft. That was you, yeah?” Desmond grabbed Sawyer’s sleeve and tugged him along through the jungle at a hurried pace. The Scottish man had stumbled upon Sawyer deep in the jungle, tied to a tree, and screaming bloody murder. Desmond had managed to make out some of Sawyer’s shouts – mostly “Come back here you cowardly bastards!” and “I swear to God, I’ll kill ya!” – but it was when Sawyer mentioned the raft (“What the fuck did I get on that damned raft for anyways?!”) that Desmond had emerged from the trees, cut him loose, and insisted he tag along.

“Yeah, that was me. Still doesn’t clear you of being one of those whisperin’ folk.”

“There was a doctor, Jack, and a bald man named John. They didn’t seem to get on very well. I knocked out a girl-”

“A gull?” Sawyer strained to understand Desmond’s accent. He knew he might have been hard to understand sometimes, but this guy was ridiculous.

“A girl, John said she was a fugitive.”

“Kate,” Sawyer breathed.

“That was her name,” Desmond’s face turned sour. “She shot my computer, brothah.”

“She’s done worse,” grumbled Sawyer.

Desmond turned a hard left, and started down a shallow ravine. Sawyer hurried to catch up, using his good arm to pull himself up with a tree branch when the ravine got steep along the opposite side. Halfway up, Sawyer slid in the dirt and his left arm hit the tree. He cursed under his breath and Desmond turned to look at him.

“We’ll be there soon enough. Doctor can look at you then, brothah.”

“Where exactly is ‘there’?” Desmond didn’t answer but instead pointed at a thick metal door, hidden in the underbrush. It reminded Sawyer of an airlock door from old space movies. Desmond began pushing away the bushes, then twisted the wheel and pulled back the door.

“Well, go on.”

Sawyer warily eyed the door, then Desmond. This was probably the second stupidest thing he would do on the island – getting on the raft being the first – but there wasn’t a second option at that moment. He wrapped his right hand around his left shoulder reflexively, and then stepped through the camouflaged door.

“All the way down, then take a right,” Desmond grunted as he closed the heavy door behind him. Sawyer followed the directions, squinting and nearly tripping over his own feet; it felt odd to be walking on solid, flat ground underneath halogen lights. He turned right at the end of the hall and stopped dead.

“Anythin’ wrong?” Desmond appeared at his shoulder.

“These all yours, Braveheart?” Sawyer pointed weakly to the bookshelves along the wall and the novels, stacked three deep. Desmond grinned.

“All mine, brothah. Read them all, unfortunately,” he shrugged. “Almost four years in solitary confinement gives you plenty of reading time.”

“Shit.” It was all Sawyer could muster as his eyes swept over the titles.

“So you’re a bibliophile, yeah?”

“Our secret, yeah?” Sawyer said, mimicking Desmond’s accent. Desmond laughed and picked up a book that was lying on the couch.

“Ever read this?” Sawyer took it from him almost reverently.

“Count of Monte Cristo? There anybody left who hasn’t?”

“Well, me, until last year. Saved the biggest book for last.” Desmond shrugged.

“I think this was the only book I actually read during high school.” Sawyer started to flip through it. “I was fascinated by Edmond’s drive for revenge and his willingness to destroy the lives of those who hurt him.”

“Didn’t take you for an intellectual, brothah.”

“I ain’t.” Desmond gave a barking laugh and Sawyer got the impression that he hadn’t had anything – or anyone – to laugh at in quite a long time.

“Got anything I haven’t read?” He smirked. There was no way he’d read all of these books. Desmond gave the bookshelf a cursory glance before walking over to the ping pong table and picking up a book from where it had been haphazardly thrown.

“Doubt you’ve read this one: The Third Policeman. You haven’t, have you?” Sawyer shook his head.

“Mind if I?”

“Go right ahead,” Desmond said, holding out the book. Without thinking, Sawyer reached for it with his left hand and his hissed as the pain seared up his arm. Desmond guided him backwards into the couch before looking at a large clock on the opposite wall.

“Sixteen minutes,” he muttered, then turned to Sawyer. “The doctor’ll be here soon. He can look at you then.”

“Gee thanks,” Sawyer sighed. “Got anything to do in the meantime?”

Desmond shrugged, then said, “I know you’ve got a bum arm, but you might be up for a game of ping-pong, yeah?”