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Date Posted: 21:18:19 01/31/05 Mon
The words, random and indistinct, fly at him in a number of languages; some he knows, some he doesn’t recognize. It seems to him he has been hearing these words for a long time – has the Voice been speaking to him as he regained consciousness?
His head is whirling; the pain – from his head, his shoulder, his leg – nauseates him. He can’t focus, can’t get the pain under control.
The words coalesce in to one understandable sentence: “Where is Alex?”
[Confusion.] When he speaks, his voice is rough and hoarse, his mouth is dry and his lips crack. “Who is Alex?”
The answering jolt of electricity is excruciating; his back arches in pain and his throat closes on his cry.
It’s only when the agony stops and he sags down on the metal cot that he realizes his hands are bound.
He tries to focus on his surroundings [Where am I? Who is this?] And, most importantly, [what the hell do I do now?].
The second shock drives everything from his mind except the desperate need to breathe. And when it finally stops, his body twitches uncontrollably and he gasps for air.
The Voice batters at him, demanding, insisting. The room is spinning and he feels the bile rising in his throat: better to answer; tell her what he can, than risk another shock.
Even as he speaks, telling of the crash, the survivors, and the message they heard, a small cold part of his mind is revolted by the ease of breaking him – a few shocks and a blow to the head? [You did much worse in your time, Sayid, and were expected to endure much worse.]
His information on the message has struck a cord; he discovers the Voice is a woman as she steps into the light and repeats the message for him.
“Sixteen years,” she says, wonder crossing her face. “Has it been so long?”
She approaches him, but the world goes black before he can respond.
When he awakes, she - the woman – is riffling through his pack. Since he may not have much time, he takes quick stock of his injuries. The room no longer spins, but he has a throbbing headache. A mild concussion, perhaps, from his fall. His jaw aches from her blow – part of him respects her ability to inflict a knockout blow with no apparent injury to her own hand. A few more scrapes and scratches to add to those from the crash.
The leg is the worst of his injuries. A puncture wound in a tropical climate can easily become infected and swiftly turn life threatening. He cranes his neck as best he can - she’s doctored him some; he can see where she’s torn open his pants and applied a knotted cloth to keep pressure on the wound.
He looks around, assesses his surroundings. When he says her name, she is both shaken and angered. He changes tack, gently points out her name on the jacket.
[Always use their name. Keep it personal.] He had prided himself on his ability to straddle both sides of intelligence-gathering; the necessary brutality, but also the light gentle hand of sympathy: [just tell me what you know and it will stop].
When she says his name, he can barely keep the shock from his face and he immediately wonders what he might have said in that twilight between full awareness and unconsciousness. She holds up his envelope with a sardonic sneer; his identity is as easy to determine as hers.
“A bullet wound?”
“I was a soldier.”
[True.] She asks no further and he offers no more. He doesn’t tell her about how the doctors marveled that the bullet had hit neither the femoral artery nor shattered his bone. How he was equally amazed; certainly he hadn’t considered either possibility when he pressed the gun barrel to his leg. He had only thought of her.
He doesn’t tell Rousseau about the agonizing days he spent in hospital, worrying and wondering about Nadia. He couldn’t ask and the few friends that visited him didn’t mention the circumstances of his injury at all. They assumed he was ashamed, he thought, to be overpowered by a mere woman, his commanding officer killed by Sayid’s own gun.
He had blown a chunk of muscle out of his leg and recuperation took months. In the end, when he could walk again, albeit with the assistance of a cane, he was discharged from the Republican Guard. He didn’t resist: his interaction with Nadia had destroyed whatever convictions he had once held and he was both sickened and bitterly ashamed of his behavior in the Intelligence Corps.
[Tell as little as possible; tell the truth as much as possible. Less lies to remember.]
“And these others, you left them? You left Nadia?”
“Nadia wasn’t on the plane.” [True.] “She’s dead. Because of me.” [Not true.] But so close to the truth, a hair’s-breath away from his deepest fears, that his voice shakes slightly. Rousseau’s eyes fill with pity. He doesn’t allow the small sense of triumph to show on his face; he has accomplished his goal.
[Check.
Every interrogation is a chess match, Sayid, with each loaded question carefully placed, every blow calculated for maximum effect.]
When she touches his face in sympathy, he closes his eyes and accepts the kindness. It has been long, so long, since he has allowed anyone to come this close. He has kept the sorrow tight, not letting anyone near enough to see. And while he has consciously chosen to use it to get Rousseau to open her defenses, it is a double-edged sword, ripping him asunder, leaving him vulnerable.
Her fingers are rough and callused as she strokes his cheek and her lips are chapped and slightly abrasive when they touch his. The kiss is at first tentative; with his eyes still closed Sayid can almost let himself believe it is Nadia as he last saw her, rather than this strange half-mad woman. He relaxes into the kiss, opens his mouth, invites her deeper.
She is a dream, his Nadia is only a dream and Rousseau is his reality – a reality that suddenly spins out of his control as she straddles his body. She leans over him and tightens her fingers in his hair, thrusting her tongue in his mouth.
Without thinking, without considering the consequences, he responds in kind. Her mouth is warm and inviting and he cannot prevent his body’s natural response. As he hardens, she must feel it through his pants and hers; she sits up and grinds her crotch on his. She rotates her hips, first circular, then back and forth; she rocks against him and the friction makes him harder.
Just as he thinks he will either explode from need or become a babbling mess pleading for release, her fingers fumble with his fly. Her hand snakes into his pants, beneath the waistband of his briefs and encircles his cock. It takes only a few hard strokes before he is groaning with need; he willingly raises his hips so she can pull his pants down. Removing her pants takes only another second; she straddles him again and slowly lowers herself.
He struggles to cling to his conscious will – she will have him, with or without his consent and his traitorous body will most willingly cooperate. [Would it be best], he wonders [thinks], trying to keep his thoughts coherent against the driving need overwhelming his body and the disorientation that still flutters about the edges of his awareness, [to resist or to cooperate?]
She is hot, and wet, and tight and his control shreds a little more. His back arches and he thrusts into her, seeking more.
Needing more.
The movement pulls his arms and the bindings cut painfully into his wrists. He balls his hands into fists, drives his nails into his palms.
Pain is good; it helps him focus, keeps his mind on his goal.
[Cooperate], he decides, even as his breath increases and [sensation threatens to overwhelm him]. Since it is a losing battle to control himself, he can hope for some kind of emotional connection, a weakening in her barriers.
She rides him hard, her fingers knotting in his singlet, her thighs gripping his hips. Her foot brushes his injured leg and he gasps at the shot of pain. She is oblivious; her eyes are blind, her focus completely turned within.
When she climaxes, her muscles clamp around him like a fist. He craves release, but she is sated and stops moving. His head drops back and his eyes close in painful frustration.
She lifts off him and he hears the rustle of her garments, the sound of her zipper closing. He flexes his fingers and releases a shaky breath; his cock is still engorged and aching, but he is at her mercy and can only wait for her to reclothe him.
Instead her hand wraps around him again. “Poor Sayid,” she whispers, close to his ear, “it’s not very kind of me to leave you in such a state, is it?” She strokes him again, hard, pulling slightly. When she licks the head of his cock, he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Keeping one hand wrapped around his erection, she cups his balls with the other, scatching ever-so-slightly with her broken nails. It is only a matter of moments until he climaxes; he can’t bite back a groan as the warm come splashes on his belly.
As his heartbeat slows, he becomes aware of the numbness of his hands and the throbbing headache pounding behind his eyes.
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