Fall from Grace
Part 1: The Bridge (Continued)

“You need to breathe,” he encouraged again, this time tilting the other man’s head back and forcing a large breath of air into his thoracic cavity. He could taste the sickening mixture of vodka and whiskey on his breath but paid it no notice as the other man started to sputter. Sighing, he rolled Jack to his side and patted his back to heave up the rest of the water.

“That’s it, easy.” He watched, somewhat relieved as Jack took in a few slow, shaky breaths. He reached down to grab the older man’s wrist to find a bounding pulse.

“So the Doc finally cracked,” he said dully, somewhat wishing he hadn’t felt the urge to go banging around the clubs tonight. He ran a quivering hand through his dripping hair and bit down on his lip. Now what the hell was he supposed to do, drop him off at the hospital and pretend none of this had ever happened? That was the logical choice but was it the right one?

“You’ll probably try to impale yourself with a God damn IV pole,” he muttered, staring fixedly at Jack who had started to tremble under the cold air.

Sawyer’s expression faltered as he shook himself out of his leather jacket with a wet sucking sound. The midnight blue shirt and faded jeans clung awkwardly to him, which he ignored as he slid into the driver’s seat of his Escalade and adjusted the heat to full blast.

“Alright then Doc Kamikaze, looks like you’re crashing at my place.” Part of him winced as he said this, but a bigger part of him knew that he owed this man, sallow and trembling at his feet, far more then he could ever repay.

Jack was somewhat lucid by the time Sawyer managed to half carry, half drag him into the passenger seat. His world was starting to sharpen again, as though the curtain he was behind had lifted just enough to distinguish blurred shapes and hazy outlines. His hands clenched and unclenched in the molten light flowing in from outside but he took no notice and shifted towards whatever was enveloping him in a bath of heat.

Sawyer watched him, shifting the driver’s seat ahead and setting both arms on the steering wheel. He contemplated switching the radio on but decided against it, adapting to the occasional incoherent mutterings of his companion as he drove.

At one point during the trip Jack turned a little too green for even Sawyer’s liking; the sandy haired man scowled and put down the windows to let the air flow through. They were in the middle of a six lane highway which rendered them unable to pull over even if they wanted to. Sawyer tapped the steering wheel grimly.

“Don’t you dare go losing your lunch in my $70 000 car, Doc,” he warned.

If any of what he had said made it through to Jack’s drug muddled brain his response was in the form of a slight whimper that matched his white and clammy pallor.

Sawyer frowned, maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea after all but the hospital was in the other direction and he cared too much about his leather interior to risk turning around now.

He was surprised by how much traffic was on the roads at this time of night as it took the good portion of an hour to navigate the streets. When they finally reached his beach side flat it was well past three and the Pomeranian next door was barking at them as they rolled into the driveway.

“Ah shut up you stupid mutt,” he glowered at the dog, walking around to open the passenger side door for Jack.

“Well here we are Doc, home sweet home. Oceanic was good for something after all.” He gestured to the elegant house with its well manicured gardens and pale golden trim that arced to reach the expanse of ocean behind it.

Jack mumbled something but did not move. His head was resting against his chest and his eyes remained closed.

Sawyer stood in the driveway and crossed his arms. “Come on, Rip Van Winkle I didn’t even get to buy you dinner first.”

He snorted and slug Jack over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes, weaving his way up the front step, through the house, and into the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Grunting, he let the doctor slide onto the bed and surveyed the sight in front of him.

“Damn I wish this was a hot Latino chick instead of you Jack-Ass.”

He un-buttoned Jack’s shirt and pulled it completely off, next moving to unfasten his belt and tug at his jeans so that they were no longer around the Doctor’s hips.

“Don’t worry, you really aren’t my type,” Sawyer added, covering the doctor with a pile of old quilts that had been spread out over the bottom of the bed. He set the clothing on the bureau at the far side of the room, frowning as his eyes fixed on the half empty bottle of Oxycodone that had rolled under the chair.

He took another look at Jack and shook his head.

“What the hell happened to you Doc?”

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