Summary: She had tried to help him. He hadn’t wanted it, but she had tried, and maybe that was all that mattered.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lost. At all. I wish but alas...
Author's Note: Set during '?'. This little thing has been lingering in the back of my brain for a while now.
She had tried to help him. He hadn’t wanted it, but she had tried, and maybe that was all that mattered. Because they were strangers. Because they had all made it very damn clear that when he came to trust, they didn’t have any. But when he fell, she was there, returning his sarcasm with a steady gaze and an almost-but-not-quite roll of the eyes.
The quickest way to earn Sawyer’s respect has always been not to put up with his crap. He’ll keep piling it on, sure, just to see how much you’ll take. At the moment, he wasn’t up to par, or he would have kept at it with Libby. But he didn’t. He had to take her kindness at face value and now that she’s lays shot, bloody, at his feet, the way he had at hers, it’s the only thing he can remember about her, the only interaction they’d ever really had; it’s the only thing he can think about.
He puts his hand on her forehead and closes his eyes. Sawyer just has that one memory of her. But it’s a good one. He can’t say that about many people once their gone. But, she’s secretly glad he can say that about her.