Work Text:
It’s all Nathan’s fault.
That’s what Jackson decides anyway, sitting there in the middle of nowhere, cold, wet, and miserable. After all, whose idea was it to head into the jungle on one last gathering trip before the rain came in? Whose idea was it for them to split up into pairs? Whose idea was it to send their partner back to the rest of the group while they took one last look around?
Okay, admittedly, that last one was all Jackson. Melissa had tried to protest, but Jackson had assured her that he would be right behind her, just taking a bit of a detour to ensure they hadn’t missed anything edible during their hunt.
And he’d fully intended to do just that. Of course, he hadn’t planned on tripping over a root and tumbling over the side of a cliff onto a ledge fifteen feet below.
He shifts slightly and hisses through his teeth, making a mental note not to do anymore moving around as his shoulder sharply reminds him that, yes, it is most certainly dislocated, and no, it doesn’t appreciate being jostled. He sighs and lays his head back against the dirt behind him, closing his eyes and letting the raindrops pelt his face.
It was raining on that night too, remember?
Jackson’s eyes fly open, and he hurriedly pushes the thought away. No, he doesn’t remember, he tells himself—doesn’t want to, thank you very much. He’s done his best to forget ever since it happened, but even with all the crazy things happening in his life recently—you know, surviving a plane crash on a deserted island, stuff like that—the memory still lurks in the back of his mind, waiting to pounce.
And here, all alone and defenseless, Jackson is helpless to stop it.
There was a steady drizzle coming down that night, but he was so excited to tell them about the trip he was going on that he went downtown anyway. He wove through the alleys and back streets, around the broken-down cars and overflowing dumpsters as easily as if he’d never left. And then he spotted them—the whole gang, hanging out under the roof of an abandoned garage.
Jackson shudders and pulls his knees up to his chest, hardly aware of the stabbing pain that lances through his shoulder at the movement. He desperately tries to shove the memories down, but they refuse to leave him alone, playing out in front of him even as he squeezes his eyes shut.
He was so stupid, so incredibly, insanely stupid, for even remotely thinking it was a good idea to tell them about this trip. But he hadn’t been this excited about something in a long time, and he was dying to tell someone, so he turned to the only ones he thought would care.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Jackson echoes his own thoughts, wrapping his good arm around his knees as he does his best to curl into as small a ball as a person with a dislocated shoulder can.
He knew he was bragging, but he wanted so badly to show them that he was moving on in life, climbing up out of the hole the rest of them planned to live and die in. And that just made them angry.
“You think you’re better than us? Huh?”
“You think you’re a good guy now, Jackson? Is that it?”
“Don’t kid yourself. You’ll be back here before you know it.”
One person was on his side, just one.
“Guys, leave him alone, okay?”
And then there was a shove and then a scuffle and the flash of a blade and blood and everything was spinning, and Jackson couldn’t breathe—
Jackson’s eyes fly open as his hand slams against his chest. His chest hurts and he can’t breathe, and his heart is thumping a mile a minute. His vision tunnels, and everything is blurry and fading in and out and no matter what he does he can’t seem to catch his breath—
Jackson blindly slams his hand against his chest over and over, trying to keep himself from going completely off the deep end. He’s gasping for air, eyes squeezed shut against the world spinning around him, and he keeps seeing the knife and the blood and the body dropping to the concrete—
And then an agonizing pain rips through him and nearly tears a scream out of his throat, and the world slows down until he realizes he’s crumpled over onto his side—the side with the dislocated shoulder. The pain is so bad he doesn’t even try to get up, just lies there as still as possible and lets his breathing and heart rate return to normal, and asks himself what just happened and isn’t sure he really even wants to know.
“It’s fine, he was fine,” Jackson mumbles to himself, ignoring the way the raindrops hit his skin just like they did that night.
Maybe the other guy was fine, but Jackson isn’t, no matter how much he doesn’t want to admit it.
~F29D~
It’s another hour before he hears voices above him, calling out his name. He draws in a deep breath and then shouts back as loudly as he can.
“Down here!”
Melissa’s face is the first to appear, popping into view over the lip of the cliff. “Jackson! Thank God! Are you okay?”
“Shoulder’s dislocated."
Nathan is next, and the others aren’t far behind.
“Just hang tight, we’ll find a way to get you out,” Daley calls down.
“How’d he even end up down there?” he thinks he hears Eric say.
Jackson slumps back against the cliff wall and finally allows himself to relax ever so slightly. He’s not sure why—these people hardly even know him, and he doesn’t think they really count as friends—but somehow, he feels a little safer, a little warmer, a little less miserable, knowing that they’re here and they’re going to get him out. And that scares him, just a little, because he’s afraid that means he trusts them, if only a little. And trust isn’t something he can afford to give, especially to people who don’t know the truth about who he is, what he’s done.
He doesn’t know what he’d do if they ever found out.