"Between Rome and Ithaca," part 7B (for gemjam)
Title: Between Rome and Ithaca, 7B ( 7A or previous parts)
Summary: Jack and Sayid adapt to life after the island, one day at a time.
Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: Lost is all ABC's; no money/ownership here.
Author's note: Dedicated to
gemjam, who richly deserves it.
Comments, feedback, and criticism are always welcome.
By the time Sayid gets home the fruit trees have been shipped in and are planted behind the house, bare and tentative and waiting to flower. They’re the first thing Sayid wants to see once he’s back; he drops his bag on the doorstep and rushes into the backyard. Jack thinks he’d spend hours examining them if he weren’t still groggy from sedatives. As it is, soon enough Sayid has to go into the house and spend a few hours sleeping them off.
He takes a little while to get his bearings after he wakes up, and once he’s gotten them he’s desperately horny. It’s a pattern with him; Jack is pretty sure it’s an after-effect of the sedatives, which is one of the reasons he hates prescribing them. He has to remind himself that Sayid needs to make these trips, for the sake of other people and not just himself, and the thought of him, of any of them, flying without something - Jack hopes one day it will be laughable, or even something he can stand to imagine. Sayid’s never regretted the sex, anyway.
Jack is sitting at the kitchen table reviewing a medical textbook when Sayid makes his way downstairs and urges Jack from his chair. Jack gets up and kisses him lightly, resting a hand on his head. He’s missed the feeling of Sayid’s hair brushing against his fingers - he’s missed a lot of things, of course, but that one strikes him suddenly. “You have a good nap?” he asks.
“Yes.” Sayid presses closer against him. “I am awake now, though.”
“I noticed.” Sayid’s developed the strange habit, since they got off the island, of pressing his crotch against Jack at unpredictable moments, during quick hugs or when they’re standing together doing housework or watching the sunset. Jack’s never said anything about it, mostly because Sayid seems completely unaware of doing it, as if it’s an unconscious reflex of sorts. Maybe he just wasn’t comfortable enough to let his guard down that much on the island, wasn’t relaxed enough. None of them were.
Jack manages to guide Sayid back to the bedroom before Sayid starts pawing at his own pyjamas and Jack’s clothes. By now Jack has some idea of how things are going to go when Sayid’s like this, even if it doesn’t happen often. There’s not going to be a whole lot of foreplay, and Jack finds himself okay with that - a few weeks alone has made him awfully happy to see Sayid. Neither one of them says much as their hands and mouths careen down each other’s bodies, until Sayid leans his head to Jack’s ear and whispers, “I want to come with your cock in my mouth.”
Jack hears the rasp in his own voice, above the hint of teasing: “Sounds okay to me.” Sayid very, very rarely talks dirty - at least not in English; there’s sometimes garbled-sounding Arabic that he refuses to translate afterwards - but when it happens Jack thinks he’d do anything Sayid suggests, anything at all. He’s never really liked sixty-nine; it’s always been something he’ll tolerate when his partners exhibited a craving, nothing more. It’s no different with Sayid than anyone else: it always feels like a conflict between enjoying what he’s receiving and being attentive to what he gives, and as far as he can see there’s no way around the inherent clumsiness of it. But right now he can’t be bothered to mind.
He and Sayid manoeuvre themselves onto the bed. Jack does his best to focus on both parts of the equation, trying to appreciate Sayid’s mouth at the same time as what’s in his own. It’s the multitasking that’s difficult, and he tries to focus on the sensation. Sayid’s beard is coarse and thick as it touches Jack’s thighs, a feeling that Jack’s gotten used to over time but that has an appealing novelty to it after a few weeks apart. That absence is enough to make Jack come quickly, barely after Sayid does, even if the whole set-up isn’t his favourite. As they disentangle themselves Jack has the presence of mind to be aware of those contrasts of texture; he still hasn’t gotten used to the fact that Sayid removes his pubic and underarm hair, has ever since they got off the island. It made for an awkward moment the first time they got undressed together in the new house, with Jack not having time to conceal what must have been a surprised expression before he said “You shaved - ”
Sayid looked just as surprised as he must have, Jack remembers. “I thought everyone did. As a matter of hygiene.” Jack said no, not judging by most of the locker rooms he’d been in, and Sayid looked contemplative for a minute before he said, “Then it is one of those cultural differences to consider,” a note of irony in his voice, and he shrugged. “The island certainly left me adjusted to your way of doing things.” Neither one of them has said anything about it since, but they’ve each kept to their own habits.
Absent-mindedly Jack wonders if he might be reconsidering, though. Sure, the whole concept of still seems a little bit - fuck it, it just seems so gay to him, but he’s willing to give it a try. He’s paid a little bit of attention since that moment of surprise, not only to how Sayid’s skin seems even more sensitive than it was before, but noticing that his first observation wasn’t correct, that some of the guys at the gym and the hospital lockers do have the same habit - mostly but not entirely the younger men, mostly men he’s pretty sure have wives or girlfriends and not too many things lurking in their closets.
Jack rubs his fingers over the rough, coiled patch of hair. “You want me to do something about this?” he asks Sayid.
“You can do what you want,” Sayid says.
“But I asked what you want.”
“Right now I am more interested in fucking you.”
Jack grins. “I’m amenable to that.” He’s without the pharmaceutical alchemy that’s giving Sayid an almost adolescent recovery time, but he’s still in a state of mind and body to enjoy it for what it’s worth. The previous round seems to have taken enough of the edge off Sayid’s near-desperation that he’s able to go slowly, make it last. It’s not exactly thrilling for Jack, but there’s a certain low-intensity electricity to it, warm and pleasant. If it were a little more familiar to him it would be almost cosy, which is about the last thing he ever would have associated with the act. Jack doesn’t give it too much thought; he’s had no shortage of surprises much bigger than that.
Even Sayid is worn out afterwards, and once he’s washed up he retreats to the spare bedroom to sleep off his jet lag. It’s a room intended for one, with a twin bed, but after Jack’s finished up around the house for the evening, he brings in a pillow and lies down on the floor.
A day or two later Jack wakes up with a headache and a stuffy nose, which have developed into a robust flu by the evening. “Everyone in Arbil had the same sickness,” Sayid tells him. “Milder, because they are used to it. I must have given it to you.”
“Yeah, much appreciated,” Jack says, stirring his chicken soup idly.
“Yes, I am sorry. Finish your soup and then go to bed.”
“Let me finish with the charts first. I’m in the clinic tomorrow.”
“You most certainly are not. You will infect everyone unless you collapse in the car.”
“I’ll put on a surgical mask.”
“I don’t think that will encourage your patients.”
Jack purses his mouth and fixes Sayid with a hard look, which he doesn’t return. “Fine,” Jack says eventually. “I’ll call the physician in charge later on.”
Sayid picks up Jack’s phone from the table and thumbs through its menus. “Teo Casales?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Sayid hits the “call” button and hands the phone to Jack. “Tell him now.”
“Sayid, I’ll call him later on.”
“No, you won’t.” There’s a ring at the other end of the line before Jack can switch the phone off. “I know you too well for that, Jack.”
Jack wants to argue, but Teo picks up on the second ring. Jack’s feeling too sluggish to claim it was a misdial and winds up saying that he’s come down with whatever West Asian flu strain Sayid’s fought off. He offers to take Dr. Casales’ shifts at the end of the month, when his daughter’s family will be in town, and barely manages to end the call before his voice gives out.
He’s absolutely miserable for Sayid to take care of over the next few days, he knows he is. He bitches about the way Sayid washes his hands and opens medicine bottles, gives orders about what fluids Sayid needs to fetch from the kitchen when he’s too woozy to get them for himself. Sayid maintains his usual calm through most of it, but at one point, when Jack is trying to evict the cat from the bedroom, he loses his temper: “The women at the stable who are nurses always say that doctors and grown men are the worst to take care of. And when their patients are both, they would be happy to replace the saline drips with poison no matter what the consequences.” He sets Nadia back down on what she seems to consider her corner of the bed and takes the empty glass and water pitcher out of the room.
When Jack’s feeling well enough to act human again, Sayid spends most of the day with him, going to the gym and the stable at the crack of dawn and then returning to do quiet things at home: Jack’s usual half of the domestic chores, reading, helping Jack with the crossword. Eventually they get through the Times puzzle and spend a few minutes in comfortable silence. Then Sayid says, “I haven’t spoken much about my trip, Jack.”
“Do you want to?” He generally doesn’t, at least not much.
“Yes. And no.”
Jack doesn’t reply. They have an almost tacit policy on this: if Sayid wants to talk to Jack about the… about the discussions he has with people, about why he has to have them, Jack will listen to as much as Sayid is able to say.
“I think I will want to tell you when I am done with all this. With talking to people,” he clarifies. “The ones who are there to be found, anyway.”
“All right,” Jack says. He puts an arm around Sayid and pulls him into a tight half-hug, and for another few minutes they sit in silence. When Jack feels Sayid’s body relax against him he says, “We should get dinner started.”
“Are you sure you are feeling well enough?”
He nods. “Yeah. As long as it’s nothing too complicated.
“Just fasoulia and bread.”
“Sickbed food, in other words.”
“I thought you would be able to manage it.”
Jack kisses Sayid’s temple. “I’ll be able to manage it just fine.”
**Image credits: Ash at Lost Forum.
Summary: Jack and Sayid adapt to life after the island, one day at a time.
Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: Lost is all ABC's; no money/ownership here.
Author's note: Dedicated to
gemjam, who richly deserves it.
Comments, feedback, and criticism are always welcome.
By the time Sayid gets home the fruit trees have been shipped in and are planted behind the house, bare and tentative and waiting to flower. They’re the first thing Sayid wants to see once he’s back; he drops his bag on the doorstep and rushes into the backyard. Jack thinks he’d spend hours examining them if he weren’t still groggy from sedatives. As it is, soon enough Sayid has to go into the house and spend a few hours sleeping them off.
He takes a little while to get his bearings after he wakes up, and once he’s gotten them he’s desperately horny. It’s a pattern with him; Jack is pretty sure it’s an after-effect of the sedatives, which is one of the reasons he hates prescribing them. He has to remind himself that Sayid needs to make these trips, for the sake of other people and not just himself, and the thought of him, of any of them, flying without something - Jack hopes one day it will be laughable, or even something he can stand to imagine. Sayid’s never regretted the sex, anyway.
Jack is sitting at the kitchen table reviewing a medical textbook when Sayid makes his way downstairs and urges Jack from his chair. Jack gets up and kisses him lightly, resting a hand on his head. He’s missed the feeling of Sayid’s hair brushing against his fingers - he’s missed a lot of things, of course, but that one strikes him suddenly. “You have a good nap?” he asks.
“Yes.” Sayid presses closer against him. “I am awake now, though.”
“I noticed.” Sayid’s developed the strange habit, since they got off the island, of pressing his crotch against Jack at unpredictable moments, during quick hugs or when they’re standing together doing housework or watching the sunset. Jack’s never said anything about it, mostly because Sayid seems completely unaware of doing it, as if it’s an unconscious reflex of sorts. Maybe he just wasn’t comfortable enough to let his guard down that much on the island, wasn’t relaxed enough. None of them were.
Jack manages to guide Sayid back to the bedroom before Sayid starts pawing at his own pyjamas and Jack’s clothes. By now Jack has some idea of how things are going to go when Sayid’s like this, even if it doesn’t happen often. There’s not going to be a whole lot of foreplay, and Jack finds himself okay with that - a few weeks alone has made him awfully happy to see Sayid. Neither one of them says much as their hands and mouths careen down each other’s bodies, until Sayid leans his head to Jack’s ear and whispers, “I want to come with your cock in my mouth.”
Jack hears the rasp in his own voice, above the hint of teasing: “Sounds okay to me.” Sayid very, very rarely talks dirty - at least not in English; there’s sometimes garbled-sounding Arabic that he refuses to translate afterwards - but when it happens Jack thinks he’d do anything Sayid suggests, anything at all. He’s never really liked sixty-nine; it’s always been something he’ll tolerate when his partners exhibited a craving, nothing more. It’s no different with Sayid than anyone else: it always feels like a conflict between enjoying what he’s receiving and being attentive to what he gives, and as far as he can see there’s no way around the inherent clumsiness of it. But right now he can’t be bothered to mind.
He and Sayid manoeuvre themselves onto the bed. Jack does his best to focus on both parts of the equation, trying to appreciate Sayid’s mouth at the same time as what’s in his own. It’s the multitasking that’s difficult, and he tries to focus on the sensation. Sayid’s beard is coarse and thick as it touches Jack’s thighs, a feeling that Jack’s gotten used to over time but that has an appealing novelty to it after a few weeks apart. That absence is enough to make Jack come quickly, barely after Sayid does, even if the whole set-up isn’t his favourite. As they disentangle themselves Jack has the presence of mind to be aware of those contrasts of texture; he still hasn’t gotten used to the fact that Sayid removes his pubic and underarm hair, has ever since they got off the island. It made for an awkward moment the first time they got undressed together in the new house, with Jack not having time to conceal what must have been a surprised expression before he said “You shaved - ”
Sayid looked just as surprised as he must have, Jack remembers. “I thought everyone did. As a matter of hygiene.” Jack said no, not judging by most of the locker rooms he’d been in, and Sayid looked contemplative for a minute before he said, “Then it is one of those cultural differences to consider,” a note of irony in his voice, and he shrugged. “The island certainly left me adjusted to your way of doing things.” Neither one of them has said anything about it since, but they’ve each kept to their own habits.
Absent-mindedly Jack wonders if he might be reconsidering, though. Sure, the whole concept of still seems a little bit - fuck it, it just seems so gay to him, but he’s willing to give it a try. He’s paid a little bit of attention since that moment of surprise, not only to how Sayid’s skin seems even more sensitive than it was before, but noticing that his first observation wasn’t correct, that some of the guys at the gym and the hospital lockers do have the same habit - mostly but not entirely the younger men, mostly men he’s pretty sure have wives or girlfriends and not too many things lurking in their closets.
Jack rubs his fingers over the rough, coiled patch of hair. “You want me to do something about this?” he asks Sayid.
“You can do what you want,” Sayid says.
“But I asked what you want.”
“Right now I am more interested in fucking you.”
Jack grins. “I’m amenable to that.” He’s without the pharmaceutical alchemy that’s giving Sayid an almost adolescent recovery time, but he’s still in a state of mind and body to enjoy it for what it’s worth. The previous round seems to have taken enough of the edge off Sayid’s near-desperation that he’s able to go slowly, make it last. It’s not exactly thrilling for Jack, but there’s a certain low-intensity electricity to it, warm and pleasant. If it were a little more familiar to him it would be almost cosy, which is about the last thing he ever would have associated with the act. Jack doesn’t give it too much thought; he’s had no shortage of surprises much bigger than that.
Even Sayid is worn out afterwards, and once he’s washed up he retreats to the spare bedroom to sleep off his jet lag. It’s a room intended for one, with a twin bed, but after Jack’s finished up around the house for the evening, he brings in a pillow and lies down on the floor.
A day or two later Jack wakes up with a headache and a stuffy nose, which have developed into a robust flu by the evening. “Everyone in Arbil had the same sickness,” Sayid tells him. “Milder, because they are used to it. I must have given it to you.”
“Yeah, much appreciated,” Jack says, stirring his chicken soup idly.
“Yes, I am sorry. Finish your soup and then go to bed.”
“Let me finish with the charts first. I’m in the clinic tomorrow.”
“You most certainly are not. You will infect everyone unless you collapse in the car.”
“I’ll put on a surgical mask.”
“I don’t think that will encourage your patients.”
Jack purses his mouth and fixes Sayid with a hard look, which he doesn’t return. “Fine,” Jack says eventually. “I’ll call the physician in charge later on.”
Sayid picks up Jack’s phone from the table and thumbs through its menus. “Teo Casales?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Sayid hits the “call” button and hands the phone to Jack. “Tell him now.”
“Sayid, I’ll call him later on.”
“No, you won’t.” There’s a ring at the other end of the line before Jack can switch the phone off. “I know you too well for that, Jack.”
Jack wants to argue, but Teo picks up on the second ring. Jack’s feeling too sluggish to claim it was a misdial and winds up saying that he’s come down with whatever West Asian flu strain Sayid’s fought off. He offers to take Dr. Casales’ shifts at the end of the month, when his daughter’s family will be in town, and barely manages to end the call before his voice gives out.
He’s absolutely miserable for Sayid to take care of over the next few days, he knows he is. He bitches about the way Sayid washes his hands and opens medicine bottles, gives orders about what fluids Sayid needs to fetch from the kitchen when he’s too woozy to get them for himself. Sayid maintains his usual calm through most of it, but at one point, when Jack is trying to evict the cat from the bedroom, he loses his temper: “The women at the stable who are nurses always say that doctors and grown men are the worst to take care of. And when their patients are both, they would be happy to replace the saline drips with poison no matter what the consequences.” He sets Nadia back down on what she seems to consider her corner of the bed and takes the empty glass and water pitcher out of the room.
When Jack’s feeling well enough to act human again, Sayid spends most of the day with him, going to the gym and the stable at the crack of dawn and then returning to do quiet things at home: Jack’s usual half of the domestic chores, reading, helping Jack with the crossword. Eventually they get through the Times puzzle and spend a few minutes in comfortable silence. Then Sayid says, “I haven’t spoken much about my trip, Jack.”
“Do you want to?” He generally doesn’t, at least not much.
“Yes. And no.”
Jack doesn’t reply. They have an almost tacit policy on this: if Sayid wants to talk to Jack about the… about the discussions he has with people, about why he has to have them, Jack will listen to as much as Sayid is able to say.
“I think I will want to tell you when I am done with all this. With talking to people,” he clarifies. “The ones who are there to be found, anyway.”
“All right,” Jack says. He puts an arm around Sayid and pulls him into a tight half-hug, and for another few minutes they sit in silence. When Jack feels Sayid’s body relax against him he says, “We should get dinner started.”
“Are you sure you are feeling well enough?”
He nods. “Yeah. As long as it’s nothing too complicated.
“Just fasoulia and bread.”
“Sickbed food, in other words.”
“I thought you would be able to manage it.”
Jack kisses Sayid’s temple. “I’ll be able to manage it just fine.”
**Image credits: Ash at Lost Forum.