Nailed - Part One
Series: Nailed
Title: In Disrepair
Part: 1/3
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Spoilers: Season 3 Generalities
Genre: Futurefic
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Dry dust billows up into the air as his truck bounces and bumps down the uneven driveway. The history of the place is temporarily written in the road, wide and deep ruts cut into the dirt from heavy cement trucks and lumber deliveries, and lighter, less severe treads from the daily in and out of the workers. Despite being tied down, the ladders on the rack above clang and clatter. A couple of tarps crinkle and flap and other things bounce around in the unprotected bed - tools he hadn’t bothered to throw into the set of bins, a bucket of coils and loose nails, capping leftover from last week’s job that that schmuck Nate had cut up and never used. Non-returnable now. Money down the drain.
Sawyer slows down as he comes up to the house, situated so far back off the road that anyone passing by probably would never guess it was here. What he wouldn’t give for a place like this. Not necessarily the size - he has no need for a gargantuan monstrosity with 5 bedrooms and 2 and a half baths - but the location. Out in the middle of nowhere. But living so far out is impractical; most of his work is in town where all the senior citizens are looking to get their roofs all set and pretty before they either shuffle off this mortal coil and leave the little Cape Cod to their kids, or the kids sell it before they shuffle off their parents to a nursing home.
Those little old ladies love him. They bake him cookies and make him lemonade, compliment his charming smile, drop mentions of their lovely and oh-so-single daughters or granddaughters who later “just happen to stop by”. Five years ago he might have made off with their retirement money but now he just takes what they owe him for the job and goes on his merry way. It doesn’t stop him from thinking about how easy it would be to con such unsuspecting folk though, that voice in his head never seeming to go away entirely. But he’s become much better at ignoring it.
He comes to a slow stop on the gravel strewn area in front of what will be the 3 car garage, his tires crushing and rolling the small rocks, rubber against stone. The gears of his old clunker stick a bit so he has to put extra effort to push it into park and he swears as he does so, reminding himself he’s gotta make the time to crawl under the sucker and check that out, see if he can fix it up. Pulling a flannel shirt over his beaten up tee to fight off the morning chill, Sawyer grabs his plastic mug of coffee from where it sits crookedly in the cupholder and steps down and out of his truck. He slams the door, choosing to ignore the flaking paint and rust chips that seem to shower to the ground whenever he does so, and looks up at the house.
He has his work cut out for him. Three dormers, two chimneys, 2 skylights in back…it’s going to be a lot of wasted time, cutting and fitting, caulking and tarring. Thank god he’d talked them out of a flat roof in the rear over the back enclosed porch. It’ll have enough pitch on it now to shield and shingle it - no dealing with torch-down or bitumen any shit like that. It’s supposed to be a hot enough day already and his guys definitely wouldn’t appreciate that extra heat.
Two short, annoying horn blasts cut through the morning quiet and Sawyer turns toward the sound. Nate and Jeff, the two smart ass punks he’d hired on to help him for the summer, barrel up the driveway in Nate’s car, music blasting loudly, even though Sawyer can only hear the overpowering bass beat. They both listen to crap. But it’s only Johnny Cash up on the roof, coming out of the tinny speakers of his beat up radio. He’s surprised it’s still working; it’s been dropped off the roof or into dumpsters enough times now that it should be trash. He’s sure Nate and Jeff will keep having “accidents” until they succeed in destroying the damn thing.
“Hey boss,” Nate grins goofily as he clambers out of his car, tossing his keys onto his seat as he slams the door, leaving the windows wide open. “You have a good weekend?”
“Just fine. How many times you throw up this time?”
“Only once, boss.” Sawyer glances at Jeff as he comes up behind his friend, shaking his head.
“Fucker was on the bathroom floor all night on Friday. He’s such a pussy, three beers and he’s crying for his mama.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
“Neither one of ya can stand up straight after four, so both of you are pansies,” Sawyer quells the building argument easily. “Point is, neither one of ya are still buzzed, right?”
“Totally cool, boss.” Nate assures him and Sawyer eyes them both carefully. They’ve both partied so hard on their weekends before that come Monday morning, they’re not even hungover yet, but still drunk. Last week had seen a Monday just like that and Sawyer had wound up not only sending them both back home, but driving them back himself. He'd fire them and try to find a new crew, but it’s construction - slim pickings. Roofing is shit work and no one who doesn’t have to do it would ever want to. So it’s the losers who have no other work and need the money, the crazies who don’t know any better, or people like him, who are insane enough in their own right because they find the punishing work somehow satisfying.
Sawyer doesn’t know what’s wrong with him but obviously something is, or else he wouldn’t be coming back to this job, day in and day out.
“Delivery came yesterday, everything should be to the right of the garage, 15#, 90#, ice and water, shingles, all the junk,” Sawyer points off the side of the house where he had instructed the supply company to set everything. He hadn’t been here to oversee it, so lord knows if it actually ended up there. “Grab the ladders off the truck and let’s set up a pick along the backside, work there first. It’ll be in the sun in the afternoon.”
Sawyer watches them as they nod and bound toward his truck. They’re eager to please but clumsy and stupid, like big Saint Bernard puppies that want approval but accidentally destroy the house as they lumber about. It’s strange to have them running around and doing as he says and it’s probably for that reason why he tends to forgive them anything, even though he snipes and criticizes them enough to make them fear that he won’t just let it go. His patience has grown considerably since he took them on; he’s never had people who looked up to him before and truth is, he kind of gets a kick out of it.
Some days he's tempted to tell them that they shouldn't respect him, shouldn't want his approval, dash their rosy-colored image of him by telling them both about his sordid past, but he doesn't. He looks at the life he's created for himself since he's been back and decides to let it be. He's a real live stand-up guy now, with business cards that actually have his real phone number and real name on them. The little white rectangles read James Ford, Ford Construction, but eventually he tells everyone to call him Sawyer. It's the one habit he just hasn't been able to break.
Sawyer walks around the back of the house, picking up a roll of felt paper and hefting it to his shoulder on the way. This bitch is going to take a week, at least, to get done. Maybe more, if Nate and Jeff skip out on a few days as they often do, leaving him to work alone. At least the one good thing about a new build is that he doesn't have to worry about hitting siding and landscaping with the trash, doesn't have to strip off layers of old shingles, doesn't have to worry about it if it rains because there's nothing inside yet to ruin. A lot less things to worry about. A clean slate.
He drops the roll of felt to the ground by the first ladder Nate has set up, watching the young guy as he puts up another one about fifteen feet away. It looks a little unsteady and Sawyer opens his mouth to tell him to fix it, but surprisingly Nate does it on his own. Maybe he's learning something after all.
“Be right back,” Sawyer mumbles to him and circles around the house, wondering where he'll find the hammer tacker today. It has a place in the tool bin but never seems to find it's way there unless he's the one who puts it back. Some days it never gets back in at all and he has to go buy a new one all together. Luckily, it only takes a few minutes of digging around in the bed of his truck until he finds it underneath a pile of rope. He grins triumphantly and then searches around for the box of staples, eventually locating them in the front cab of the truck on the floor of the passenger's side. Everything seems to be going well; the weather's good, supplies are here, his crew is here (and sober, no less), and he's finding everything that's usually lost.
Cradling the tacker and staples in one hand, he fishes around in the glove compartment for his pack of cigarettes and stuffs them into the front pocket of his plaid shirt for later on. Nothing's more annoying than having to climb down the roof for a smoke. As he heads toward the back yard again, Sawyer hears the sound of a truck's rumbling engine and tires rolling in the gravel; seems like the builders are here, set to keep working on the inside of the house. He doesn't bother to turn back and say hello, make nice. There's no need for cooperation between them and usually it's better if they just stay out of one another's way. Share a couple half-assed waves hello in the morning, maybe a couple of beers at the end of the day, but that's it.
“Ice and water shield up six feet and then felt the rest,” Sawyer instructs, dropping the handful of items he has to the ground unceremoniously and then looking up to the roof, wondering if the boys are gonna be able to do this as a sitter or if he's gonna have to jack it. Jacking it will slow everything down considerably so he hopes they can tough it out. It's a huge roof, but it's not that steep. He's walked worse.
“What're we gonna do for lunch today, boss?” Jeff asks, grunting as he and Nate heft the pick up off the ground and start climbing their respective ladders, maneuvering the awkward metal plank up and over the jacks and setting up the scaffold. Sawyer smiles, shaking his head, and snorts once.
“How about we focus on this first, boys? It's only 8 in the mornin'. We'll worry 'bout lunch at lunchtime, if you're even still workin' by then.”
“You're thinking only a half day?” Nate asks, hopeful. Sawyer chuckles.
“No, you dumbass, I'm thinkin' it's gonna get hot and you two are gonna wuss out on me,” he retorts and then gestures toward the end of the pick by Nate's hands. “Tie that off to be safe. Don't want none of you fallin'.”
“Sure thing.” Nate nods and jumps down onto the ground from four rungs up. Sawyer rolls his eyes, knowing it will only be a matter of time before one of these two knuckleheads either tumbles off a roof or shoots themselves in the foot with the nail gun or something equally stupid.
“Be careful, would ya? I ain't payin' your medical bills if you fall 'n break your leg,” Sawyer warns him and Nate just grins at him before running off toward the front to get rope. Sawyer bends down and lifts a heavy roll of ice and water shield up onto his shoulder, balancing it carefully before starting up the ladder. Jeff just watches him and Sawyer rolls his eyes again. “Well c'mon, don't just stand there, come on up and let's get started.”
An hour later they've got the back side shielded and felted and Sawyer stands at the peak, surveying their work. They've gotta roll roof the valleys before they can start shingling and truth be told, he really just doesn't want to. He hadn't slept that well last night and he's starting to feel it as the sun rises above the trees, starting to beat down on them as they work.
“Water break, boys,” Sawyer calls out and Nate and Jeff look at him, surprised.
“Already?”
“You can stay up here if ya want, but I'm fuckin' thirsty,” Sawyer replies and starts carefully heading down toward the ladder. He hears something skidding behind him and he turns, worried that one of the boys might be slipping, but it's just the hammer tacker sliding down the smooth surface of the black felt paper. Before he has time to try to stop it, it slips right past him and off the edge of the roof. He hears it clang against the pick and then tumble to the ground below. “You boys are lucky no one was standin' there,” Sawyer comments off-handedly, not really caring. Things fall off the roof far too often for him to truly give a crap about it. People should know better than to stand underneath men who are working up there anyway. If they're stupid enough to be there, they probably deserve a good bonk on the head.
The ladder clatters and bounces as he tromps down ungracefully. He finds the cooler, beat-up with tar stains and deep scratches, in the bed of his truck and pulls out the couple of bottles of water he had thrown in there this morning. On a new build, there's no water to be found anywhere, which is a bigger pain than anything else sometimes. Even more annoying than the lack of electricity.
“Oh fuck,” he curses, snapping the lid to the cooler down in frustration. He had forgotten to bring gas for the generator. He knew he had forgotten to do something yesterday. “Damn it.” He bangs his fist against the side of his truck and then kicks the tire. He could go get gas from town but it will take too long, as will nailing everything by hand, which he'll have to do if he can't plug in the compressor for the nail guns.
Reluctantly, Sawyer realizes that the best option is to go play nice with the building crew and see if he can run a line off their generator for the day. He sighs and wipes his hands on the front of his dirty jeans, accomplishing nothing, and then heads toward the house. He lifts himself up onto the front porch and walks inside, following the sound of loud hammering and conversation.
He enters what will someday be the kitchen and finds the guy who is standing there and doing nothing. Sawyer assumes him to be the one in charge, since in most cases that's usually who that guy is, and puts on his best smile. No one else ceases in their work, not even noticing that he's there, or noticing and not caring.
“Hey, man. Sawyer Ford - I'm doin’ the roof.” Sawyer extends his hand to him and the man takes it.
“I'm Joe, nice to meet you.” Joe shakes his hand firmly.
“Hate to bother ya but I was wonderin' if you could do me a favor, I'm in a bit of a jam.”
“Sure thing. What can I help you with?” Joe smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling up. He rubs his hand through his short grey beard and sets his pen down on his clipboard, giving Sawyer his attention.
“Ran out of gas for my generator. You mind if I hook up to yours, for a few hours? I gotta get shingling up there.”
“Not a problem, go ahead.” Joe states. They might not all hang out together, but there's a mutual respect that most crews tend to have and apparently Joe, to Sawyer's relief, believes in that. “Generator's out in the garage, I'll get one of my guys to show you. We're not using it today and it's a bit finicky in starting up. He'll get it set up, he's got the magic touch.” Sawyer nods gratefully and runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it has annoyingly fallen into his face. Joe turns around and scans the room, looking for someone. “Jack! Jack, hey, I need you for a minute over here.”
Sawyer looks toward the man Joe is waving to, trying to get his attention, and freezes.
His entire body goes cold and then floods with warmth, making him feel dizzy and strange. Everything about him is instantly familiar, recognizable within seconds, yet he looks different. Changed, somehow, though Sawyer would never be able to put his finger on exactly what because it's something more than appearance. It's the look on his face, the way he carries himself, something on an emotional level that seems to have manifested itself in a physical way.
Sawyer stares as Jack tucks his hammer into his tool belt and then adjusts the heavy belt on his thin waist. If Jack has seen him, he hasn't let on. He walks over to Joe and looks at him expectantly, his expression not cold or rude but hardly friendly. Just blank.
“Take this fella out into the garage and show him how to work our generator, would you please? He's going to use it for a little while.”
“Sure, yeah.” Jack nods and glances at Sawyer, his eyes not showing even a hint of recognition. He heads off toward the garage without another word, like Sawyer is just some random guy who he has no connection to, that he doesn't know. Sawyer watches him go, perplexed. Joe takes the stricken look on his face as a sign that he finds Jack's behavior rude and Joe smiles.
“Don't worry. He's just quiet. Damn good worker though. Any questions, ask him.”
“Yeah. Okay, thanks. I 'preciate it.” Sawyer stumbles, not able to smile back, and then sets off in the direction that Jack had gone. He finds him waiting for him in the cool shade of the garage, his hand resting on a piece of plywood set across two saw horses, a circular saw resting nearby and sawdust sprinkled over the gravel underfoot. 2x6's lay stacked up off to the side but other than that, there's nothing else in the garage besides the generator, him and Jack.
Sawyer climbs down from the house into the deep pit of the garage, the lack of stairs making him feel like he's descending into a cave. The smell is dank and stale enough to remind him of one, that's sure enough. He stares at Jack, the silence that fills the air making him uncomfortable.
“What are you doing here?” Sawyer asks him, not knowing what else to say. How does one begin a conversation with a person you haven't seen in 3 years? A person who at one time was probably the closest friend he ever had, a person who dropped out of his life as suddenly has he had dropped into it. Jack looks back at him, but it’s more like he’s looking through him, his face still stoic and emotionless.
“I'm showing you how to work the generator,” Jack replies. Sawyer continues to stare, waiting for Jack to say something else, but he doesn’t.
“You know what I meant -“ Sawyer narrows his eyes at Jack. “Here, in this town, on this job. What are you doing here?”
“I’m working.” Jack sighs impatiently, tapping his hand on the dusty top of the black box of the generator.
“Since when have you been working construction?”
“Since we got back,” Jack states and gestures to the generator, glancing upward toward the framework of the ceiling, avoiding Sawyer’s seeking eyes.
“What happened to the hospital-“
“It’s not anything worth talking about, Sawyer.” Jack casts his gaze down on the ground now and Sawyer can see him bite his lip. “Let me just tell you what to do and I’ll go on my way-”
“I don’t want you to go on your way, Doc, I want you to fuckin’ look at me for a second and-“
“Look, do you need to know how to do this or don’t you?” He asks flatly, putting his hand on his hip. He looks at Sawyer all right, but Sawyer finds his gaze lifeless and dark. Sawyer steps toward him, annoyed.
“What the hell, Jack? Three years and I run into you here, of all places, and that's all I get?”
“What do you want me to say, Sawyer. I didn't expect to see you here, but you're here, and that's that. I gotta get back to work, so why don't I just show you how to start this up and shut it down.”
“Fine, go ahead,” Sawyer mutters angrily, glaring at him. “Do whatever the hell you want, Jack.” Sawyer stands a few feet away from Jack as Jack shortly explains the ins and outs of the machine, his fist clenching and unclenching underneath his folded arms. He doesn’t understand and he hates it. He hates that Jack is standing in front of him and acting like they barely know one another - in fact, making a point of disregarding their shared history like it mattered not at all.
He remains silent until Jack finishes and he answers Jack with a short nod when Jack asks if he understands his directions. Shooting Jack a look, he does exactly what Jack had instructed and turns on the generator without any problem at all, clicking the buttons aggressively, glaring at Jack the entire time. If Jack cares, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t seem affected in the slightest. He just pulls his work gloves out from where they are tucked in his back pocket and heads back into the house.
“Holler if you need anything else.” Jack tells him, raising his voice to be heard over the loud noise from the generator. Sawyer chuckles bitterly, shaking his head at Jack’s retreating form.
“Will do,” he calls after him with sarcastic cheerfulness. Sawyer turns away and spits on the gravel beneath his feet, cursing under his breath. “Fuck.” He walks slowly toward his truck, kicking at the stones, and stops in front of it, leaning back against the front grille and staring at the house.
Jack is inside that house.
Jack is inside that house.
“God dammit!” He yells and turns around, kicking the bumper of his truck in anger. He pounds his fist against the hood and then reels back around, sitting down on the rusted metal he had just kicked. He puts his head in his hands and tries to regain control, but he can’t. His head hurts and his chest is tight and he feels slightly dizzy, his stomach twisting and making him nauseous.
Sawyer thought someday he’d probably run into Jack again. But he figured he’d be ready; a reunion or a purposeful trip, something planned and prepared. Not this, running into him in the very last place he would have ever expected to find him. Well, maybe second last. Prison…perhaps prison would be more of a surprise. But finding him with hammer in hand, building a house in the backwoods of Maine surely ranks high on the list of unexpected locations.
His mind races with questions: Why isn’t Jack working as a surgeon? Why in the world is he working a rough and tumble job like this? How did he end up in Maine, of all places? And why is he so unhappy to see him? Why the distance, the coldness? What happened? None of it makes any sense. The Jack he had just talked to is not the Jack he knows. He’s not the Jack that had been on the island with him.
He may look like Jack, but he is not Jack.
What surprises Sawyer most is how much it hurts. He’d thought occasionally about what it would be like to reconnect with everyone but it had never occurred to him that it could be like this. Sure, Sawyer had thought it might be hard, or that maybe it was better left alone, that they all went their own ways, but deep down even he, formerly the most detached, coldest one of them all, knows that they’re all connected for life and that if he met with them again, he would have no choice but to smile and admit that he missed them.
He wouldn’t act like they meant nothing. Even he wouldn’t do that.
“Boss? You all right?” Nate’s voice interrupts his thoughts and Sawyer snaps his head up to look at him.
“What?”
“You okay?” Nate asks, raising his eyebrows. “You were bent over like you were gonna ralph or somethin’.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look so hot, man-“
“I said I’m fine!” Sawyer snaps, standing up quickly, using his height to tower over the younger man intimidatingly. “Would you just git? Go do somethin’ useful, I ain’t payin’ you to act like my momma.”
Nate backs away from him, looking both wounded, offended, and frightened somehow all at the same time. Sawyer knows he should be sorry for causing that, but he’s too pissed to care. He just wants the kid to leave him the fuck alone.
“Go set up the air compressor, would ya? We gotta get shinglin’ sometime today, ya know. I don’t need you standin’ around starin’ at me like a fuckin’ moron, get your ass in gear.”
“Yeah. Right, boss,” Nate mutters, scuffing his feet through the dirt. He walks to the back of the truck and Sawyer feels the entire vehicle bounce as Nate drops the door down and pulls the heavy compressor forward and then down out and off of the bed. Sawyer glances at him as he staggers by with the awkward item, it’s not an easy thing to carry around. Nate doesn’t say anything at all. He just walks by, head down, not wanting to incur more verbal abuse and not sure he won’t spew back some of his own if Sawyer starts in on him.
Sawyer insults them often and criticizes them, but there’s always a hint of a smile, of light, in his face. Like their inadequacies amuse him, that even when they’re screwing up he still likes them. But when he had just yelled, his eyes had flashed with fiery anger and his face was so tight and his brow so furrowed that Nate knew it wasn’t like all the other times. Something is wrong.
He glances back at Sawyer as he sets the compressor down at the side of the house. He doesn’t want to go back and get the hoses but he’ll have to.
“Hey Jeff!” Nate shouts up toward the roof and moments later, Jeff pokes his head over the side.
“What?”
“Come on down here for a sec!”
“Oh fuck you, man,” Jeff moans but he disappears from view. Nate waits and sure enough he rounds the corner in a minute, wiping his sweaty brow with the bottom hem of his t-shirt. “What do you want?”
“Boss is pissed off about something and I don’t know what.”
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing! I walked over to him and he looked like he was sick, all I did was ask him if he was okay. He pretty much bit my head off.”
“You had to have done something more than that.”
“Shut up, you fucktard. He was fine a minute ago, and now he’s all worked up, and I didn’t do anything.”
“You made me climb down here for this?” Jeff raises his eyebrow and Nate rolls his eyes and jerks his thumb toward the truck, where Sawyer is rifling through his tool bin, pulling things out and dropping them harshly to the ground. He’s looking for something and obviously can’t find it.
“Need you to get the nail guns and the hoses from the truck.”
“You want me to go over there?”
“He ain’t pissed at you, so just don’t say anything and go get the damn stuff, would you?” Nate says and Jeff waves him off, annoyed, but does what he asks anyway. Sawyer slams his tool bin shut as Jeff walks behind him and Jeff jumps, startled, and hurries past.
Sawyer ignores him and grabs the coils of nails, holding them tightly enough for the sharp tips to dig into his palms. He heads back to work; Nate quickly hefts a bundle of shingles onto his shoulder as Sawyer stalks by, careful not to get his his boss’ way.
Nate climbs back up onto the roof slowly and eyes Sawyer, who is lining up coils of nails along the flat cement cap around the chimney. Nate drops the bundle of shingles with a loud, heavy thud and a groan of relief, happy to be rid of the load even if it means he has to climb back down and do it all over again.
As he climbs back onto the ladder, he spots Sawyer’s beat up tape player sitting in the gutter. He picks it up and switches the tape on, the sound of Johnny Cash’s deep voice booming out over the rooftop. It annoys the hell out of him but he knows Sawyer likes it. He glances over at him but Sawyer doesn’t seem to hear it. Shrugging, Nate starts back toward the ground.
He has just stepped down when something comes flying off of the roof, landing in the middle of the destroyed back yard with great force and cracking into pieces, bits of black plastic shooting every direction as “Ring of Fire” comes to an exceptionally abrupt end.
It’s going to be a long day.
*******
Sawyer downs his last shot of whiskey and sets the glass back onto the bar top with a shaky hand. His eyes are starting to go blurry and his other senses are dulled, but it’s still not enough. He still has it there, that nagging feeling that won’t go away.
He glances at the clock above the bar and he can’t figure out what time it is, so he guesses that means it’s probably time for him to give up and go home.
“Paul. Hey…” Sawyer tries to wave down the bartender but his attention is focused on a blonde down at the end of the bar. “Hey there! Paulie boy!” Sawyer shouts louder, his words slightly slurred. Paul looks down to him and nods, quickly making in his direction. Sawyer clumsily pulls out the keys to his truck and slams them on the counter, tossing his hair back even though it wasn’t in his face. It just felt like it was.
“You need a ride home?” Paul asks, taking the keys from him. Sawyer nods. He’d feel ashamed if he wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t manage it. He can’t remember the last time he’d had more than one drink, done anything more than a beer or a glass just to be social or just to take the edge off. But one drink wouldn’t do the trick tonight.
He’s not sure how many he ended up having because he’s having a hard time counting the glasses in front of him, but whatever the number was, it still wasn’t enough.
“Yeah, call Nate, would ya,” Sawyer mutters, trying to give Paul a gesture of thanks as he heads toward the phone. Sawyer pushes up off the bar and stands, his legs feeling a little unstable, but he manages all right. “I’m gonna…gonna go outside, get some air…” Sawyer points to the door, walking slowly as not to stumble. He could easily collide with the tables or the other people and he’s not sure he won’t be able to manage not to, but he still has enough self-possession not to want to suffer that embarrassment. There seem to be two doors before him, his vision doubling; he picks the one on the right and luckily is rewarded with a blast of cool night air.
The screen door thwaps shut behind him and Sawyer breathes in deep, the smell of pine trees hanging in the air. Mosquitoes circle around the yellow lights outside the door and Sawyer can hear their buzz along with the sound of cars passing on the road, the headlights cutting through the incredible darkness of night. Sawyer closes his eyes, wishing he could block it all out and cease to exist for one sublime, blissful moment, forget the look in Jack’s eyes when he stared back at him this morning. But it’s burned into his mind and he can’t shake it, can’t stop thinking about it.
When Sawyer opens his eyes, he still sees him. It takes him a moment to realize he’s not imagining it. But he’s there, sitting in a truck not at all dissimilar to Sawyer’s own, parked a row back from where Sawyer is standing. At first Sawyer thinks he is asleep, maybe slumbering off a bender of his own, and he feels a glimmer of absurd hope, like maybe seeing him had sent Jack into a spiral as well.
Then Jack shifts, his neck arching back, his lips parting in a gasp, a groan; even though Sawyer can’t hear it, it can’t be mistaken. Sawyer holds his breath as he stares, his suspicion confirmed when someone sits up beside Jack, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
His lips. His hand.
Sawyer exhales sharply. He suddenly feels stone cold sober. Confusion and disbelief set in instead, along with a heaping dose of panic. Here, outside of the central bar in town, a place full of twenty or thirty men who wouldn’t be so thrilled with what Sawyer had just witnessed, Jack Shephard was getting a blow job in the front seat of his truck, and from a guy who, by the looks of it, is half his age.
This might not be Texas but it ain’t Massachusetts either. Sawyer has to wonder if Jack’s developed a death wish and the only conclusion he can come to is that he definitely has.
He finds himself walking toward Jack’s truck in a daze, unable to stop himself. Jack’s special friend is already getting out and Sawyer pushes past him, his attention zoned in on Jack, needing to know why.
Jack looks at Sawyer as he stops at the open passenger side door. His expression conveys nothing. If he’s surprised to see Sawyer there, it doesn’t show.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jack?” Sawyer demands, his hand clenching around the frame of the door.
“None of your business, Sawyer.” Jack replies and then nods his head at something behind Sawyer, headlights streaming across the parking lot as someone pulls in and honks the horn. Sawyer doesn't move and neither does Jack, facing off against one another, refusing to back down. It isn't until Nate calls out his name that Jack looks away. “Your ride is here.”
Jack turns the ignition and his truck roars to life. Sawyer holds on tighter, like he’ll be able to hold Jack’s truck in place if he tries to leave.
“Jack, what the hell happened to you?” Sawyer asks, his voice breaking. Jack looks forward, flipping his headlights on.
“Nothing happened.” Jack states. “Your friend is waiting, Sawyer.”
Sawyer is silent, watching Jack for some sign, some flicker of how he used to be, but there’s nothing. Reluctantly he lets go of the door and steps back, slamming it shut. Jack barely hesitates before pulling out, leaving Sawyer standing alone next to the empty parking space.
“Boss!” Nate calls to him and Sawyer turns toward the car, letting his shoulders drop and his head hang low as he slowly walks over. He gets in and closes the door weakly, shutting his eyes and leaning his head against the window. “I couldn’t believe it when Paul called me. Usually he’s calling you to come get me!” Nate laughs, finding the whole thing funny, but Sawyer isn’t in the mood for chuckling at the irony.
“Well you owe me then,” he mutters.
“Why do you think I’m here at 2am? I was sleeping, you know.” Nate replies. Sawyer sighs.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve done it to you, I bet,” Nate shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk…you’re not much fun.” He observes as Sawyer slouches lower in his seat, wanting to disappear. Nate smiles. “Kinda honored that you called me, Boss.”
“Just take me home, Nate, please.” Sawyer mumbles. “I just wanna go home.”
“Sure thing,” Nate replies, swinging his car around and heading back out to the road. “Hey…who was that guy you were talking to?”
“What guy.”
“In the truck. Isn’t he working on the job?”
Sawyer shakes his head no.
“He’s no one I know. Just some guy.” Sawyer looks out the window, hiding the tears that are threatening to fall. “Nobody at all.”
TBC
Title: In Disrepair
Part: 1/3
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Spoilers: Season 3 Generalities
Genre: Futurefic
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Dry dust billows up into the air as his truck bounces and bumps down the uneven driveway. The history of the place is temporarily written in the road, wide and deep ruts cut into the dirt from heavy cement trucks and lumber deliveries, and lighter, less severe treads from the daily in and out of the workers. Despite being tied down, the ladders on the rack above clang and clatter. A couple of tarps crinkle and flap and other things bounce around in the unprotected bed - tools he hadn’t bothered to throw into the set of bins, a bucket of coils and loose nails, capping leftover from last week’s job that that schmuck Nate had cut up and never used. Non-returnable now. Money down the drain.
Sawyer slows down as he comes up to the house, situated so far back off the road that anyone passing by probably would never guess it was here. What he wouldn’t give for a place like this. Not necessarily the size - he has no need for a gargantuan monstrosity with 5 bedrooms and 2 and a half baths - but the location. Out in the middle of nowhere. But living so far out is impractical; most of his work is in town where all the senior citizens are looking to get their roofs all set and pretty before they either shuffle off this mortal coil and leave the little Cape Cod to their kids, or the kids sell it before they shuffle off their parents to a nursing home.
Those little old ladies love him. They bake him cookies and make him lemonade, compliment his charming smile, drop mentions of their lovely and oh-so-single daughters or granddaughters who later “just happen to stop by”. Five years ago he might have made off with their retirement money but now he just takes what they owe him for the job and goes on his merry way. It doesn’t stop him from thinking about how easy it would be to con such unsuspecting folk though, that voice in his head never seeming to go away entirely. But he’s become much better at ignoring it.
He comes to a slow stop on the gravel strewn area in front of what will be the 3 car garage, his tires crushing and rolling the small rocks, rubber against stone. The gears of his old clunker stick a bit so he has to put extra effort to push it into park and he swears as he does so, reminding himself he’s gotta make the time to crawl under the sucker and check that out, see if he can fix it up. Pulling a flannel shirt over his beaten up tee to fight off the morning chill, Sawyer grabs his plastic mug of coffee from where it sits crookedly in the cupholder and steps down and out of his truck. He slams the door, choosing to ignore the flaking paint and rust chips that seem to shower to the ground whenever he does so, and looks up at the house.
He has his work cut out for him. Three dormers, two chimneys, 2 skylights in back…it’s going to be a lot of wasted time, cutting and fitting, caulking and tarring. Thank god he’d talked them out of a flat roof in the rear over the back enclosed porch. It’ll have enough pitch on it now to shield and shingle it - no dealing with torch-down or bitumen any shit like that. It’s supposed to be a hot enough day already and his guys definitely wouldn’t appreciate that extra heat.
Two short, annoying horn blasts cut through the morning quiet and Sawyer turns toward the sound. Nate and Jeff, the two smart ass punks he’d hired on to help him for the summer, barrel up the driveway in Nate’s car, music blasting loudly, even though Sawyer can only hear the overpowering bass beat. They both listen to crap. But it’s only Johnny Cash up on the roof, coming out of the tinny speakers of his beat up radio. He’s surprised it’s still working; it’s been dropped off the roof or into dumpsters enough times now that it should be trash. He’s sure Nate and Jeff will keep having “accidents” until they succeed in destroying the damn thing.
“Hey boss,” Nate grins goofily as he clambers out of his car, tossing his keys onto his seat as he slams the door, leaving the windows wide open. “You have a good weekend?”
“Just fine. How many times you throw up this time?”
“Only once, boss.” Sawyer glances at Jeff as he comes up behind his friend, shaking his head.
“Fucker was on the bathroom floor all night on Friday. He’s such a pussy, three beers and he’s crying for his mama.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
“Neither one of ya can stand up straight after four, so both of you are pansies,” Sawyer quells the building argument easily. “Point is, neither one of ya are still buzzed, right?”
“Totally cool, boss.” Nate assures him and Sawyer eyes them both carefully. They’ve both partied so hard on their weekends before that come Monday morning, they’re not even hungover yet, but still drunk. Last week had seen a Monday just like that and Sawyer had wound up not only sending them both back home, but driving them back himself. He'd fire them and try to find a new crew, but it’s construction - slim pickings. Roofing is shit work and no one who doesn’t have to do it would ever want to. So it’s the losers who have no other work and need the money, the crazies who don’t know any better, or people like him, who are insane enough in their own right because they find the punishing work somehow satisfying.
Sawyer doesn’t know what’s wrong with him but obviously something is, or else he wouldn’t be coming back to this job, day in and day out.
“Delivery came yesterday, everything should be to the right of the garage, 15#, 90#, ice and water, shingles, all the junk,” Sawyer points off the side of the house where he had instructed the supply company to set everything. He hadn’t been here to oversee it, so lord knows if it actually ended up there. “Grab the ladders off the truck and let’s set up a pick along the backside, work there first. It’ll be in the sun in the afternoon.”
Sawyer watches them as they nod and bound toward his truck. They’re eager to please but clumsy and stupid, like big Saint Bernard puppies that want approval but accidentally destroy the house as they lumber about. It’s strange to have them running around and doing as he says and it’s probably for that reason why he tends to forgive them anything, even though he snipes and criticizes them enough to make them fear that he won’t just let it go. His patience has grown considerably since he took them on; he’s never had people who looked up to him before and truth is, he kind of gets a kick out of it.
Some days he's tempted to tell them that they shouldn't respect him, shouldn't want his approval, dash their rosy-colored image of him by telling them both about his sordid past, but he doesn't. He looks at the life he's created for himself since he's been back and decides to let it be. He's a real live stand-up guy now, with business cards that actually have his real phone number and real name on them. The little white rectangles read James Ford, Ford Construction, but eventually he tells everyone to call him Sawyer. It's the one habit he just hasn't been able to break.
Sawyer walks around the back of the house, picking up a roll of felt paper and hefting it to his shoulder on the way. This bitch is going to take a week, at least, to get done. Maybe more, if Nate and Jeff skip out on a few days as they often do, leaving him to work alone. At least the one good thing about a new build is that he doesn't have to worry about hitting siding and landscaping with the trash, doesn't have to strip off layers of old shingles, doesn't have to worry about it if it rains because there's nothing inside yet to ruin. A lot less things to worry about. A clean slate.
He drops the roll of felt to the ground by the first ladder Nate has set up, watching the young guy as he puts up another one about fifteen feet away. It looks a little unsteady and Sawyer opens his mouth to tell him to fix it, but surprisingly Nate does it on his own. Maybe he's learning something after all.
“Be right back,” Sawyer mumbles to him and circles around the house, wondering where he'll find the hammer tacker today. It has a place in the tool bin but never seems to find it's way there unless he's the one who puts it back. Some days it never gets back in at all and he has to go buy a new one all together. Luckily, it only takes a few minutes of digging around in the bed of his truck until he finds it underneath a pile of rope. He grins triumphantly and then searches around for the box of staples, eventually locating them in the front cab of the truck on the floor of the passenger's side. Everything seems to be going well; the weather's good, supplies are here, his crew is here (and sober, no less), and he's finding everything that's usually lost.
Cradling the tacker and staples in one hand, he fishes around in the glove compartment for his pack of cigarettes and stuffs them into the front pocket of his plaid shirt for later on. Nothing's more annoying than having to climb down the roof for a smoke. As he heads toward the back yard again, Sawyer hears the sound of a truck's rumbling engine and tires rolling in the gravel; seems like the builders are here, set to keep working on the inside of the house. He doesn't bother to turn back and say hello, make nice. There's no need for cooperation between them and usually it's better if they just stay out of one another's way. Share a couple half-assed waves hello in the morning, maybe a couple of beers at the end of the day, but that's it.
“Ice and water shield up six feet and then felt the rest,” Sawyer instructs, dropping the handful of items he has to the ground unceremoniously and then looking up to the roof, wondering if the boys are gonna be able to do this as a sitter or if he's gonna have to jack it. Jacking it will slow everything down considerably so he hopes they can tough it out. It's a huge roof, but it's not that steep. He's walked worse.
“What're we gonna do for lunch today, boss?” Jeff asks, grunting as he and Nate heft the pick up off the ground and start climbing their respective ladders, maneuvering the awkward metal plank up and over the jacks and setting up the scaffold. Sawyer smiles, shaking his head, and snorts once.
“How about we focus on this first, boys? It's only 8 in the mornin'. We'll worry 'bout lunch at lunchtime, if you're even still workin' by then.”
“You're thinking only a half day?” Nate asks, hopeful. Sawyer chuckles.
“No, you dumbass, I'm thinkin' it's gonna get hot and you two are gonna wuss out on me,” he retorts and then gestures toward the end of the pick by Nate's hands. “Tie that off to be safe. Don't want none of you fallin'.”
“Sure thing.” Nate nods and jumps down onto the ground from four rungs up. Sawyer rolls his eyes, knowing it will only be a matter of time before one of these two knuckleheads either tumbles off a roof or shoots themselves in the foot with the nail gun or something equally stupid.
“Be careful, would ya? I ain't payin' your medical bills if you fall 'n break your leg,” Sawyer warns him and Nate just grins at him before running off toward the front to get rope. Sawyer bends down and lifts a heavy roll of ice and water shield up onto his shoulder, balancing it carefully before starting up the ladder. Jeff just watches him and Sawyer rolls his eyes again. “Well c'mon, don't just stand there, come on up and let's get started.”
An hour later they've got the back side shielded and felted and Sawyer stands at the peak, surveying their work. They've gotta roll roof the valleys before they can start shingling and truth be told, he really just doesn't want to. He hadn't slept that well last night and he's starting to feel it as the sun rises above the trees, starting to beat down on them as they work.
“Water break, boys,” Sawyer calls out and Nate and Jeff look at him, surprised.
“Already?”
“You can stay up here if ya want, but I'm fuckin' thirsty,” Sawyer replies and starts carefully heading down toward the ladder. He hears something skidding behind him and he turns, worried that one of the boys might be slipping, but it's just the hammer tacker sliding down the smooth surface of the black felt paper. Before he has time to try to stop it, it slips right past him and off the edge of the roof. He hears it clang against the pick and then tumble to the ground below. “You boys are lucky no one was standin' there,” Sawyer comments off-handedly, not really caring. Things fall off the roof far too often for him to truly give a crap about it. People should know better than to stand underneath men who are working up there anyway. If they're stupid enough to be there, they probably deserve a good bonk on the head.
The ladder clatters and bounces as he tromps down ungracefully. He finds the cooler, beat-up with tar stains and deep scratches, in the bed of his truck and pulls out the couple of bottles of water he had thrown in there this morning. On a new build, there's no water to be found anywhere, which is a bigger pain than anything else sometimes. Even more annoying than the lack of electricity.
“Oh fuck,” he curses, snapping the lid to the cooler down in frustration. He had forgotten to bring gas for the generator. He knew he had forgotten to do something yesterday. “Damn it.” He bangs his fist against the side of his truck and then kicks the tire. He could go get gas from town but it will take too long, as will nailing everything by hand, which he'll have to do if he can't plug in the compressor for the nail guns.
Reluctantly, Sawyer realizes that the best option is to go play nice with the building crew and see if he can run a line off their generator for the day. He sighs and wipes his hands on the front of his dirty jeans, accomplishing nothing, and then heads toward the house. He lifts himself up onto the front porch and walks inside, following the sound of loud hammering and conversation.
He enters what will someday be the kitchen and finds the guy who is standing there and doing nothing. Sawyer assumes him to be the one in charge, since in most cases that's usually who that guy is, and puts on his best smile. No one else ceases in their work, not even noticing that he's there, or noticing and not caring.
“Hey, man. Sawyer Ford - I'm doin’ the roof.” Sawyer extends his hand to him and the man takes it.
“I'm Joe, nice to meet you.” Joe shakes his hand firmly.
“Hate to bother ya but I was wonderin' if you could do me a favor, I'm in a bit of a jam.”
“Sure thing. What can I help you with?” Joe smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling up. He rubs his hand through his short grey beard and sets his pen down on his clipboard, giving Sawyer his attention.
“Ran out of gas for my generator. You mind if I hook up to yours, for a few hours? I gotta get shingling up there.”
“Not a problem, go ahead.” Joe states. They might not all hang out together, but there's a mutual respect that most crews tend to have and apparently Joe, to Sawyer's relief, believes in that. “Generator's out in the garage, I'll get one of my guys to show you. We're not using it today and it's a bit finicky in starting up. He'll get it set up, he's got the magic touch.” Sawyer nods gratefully and runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it has annoyingly fallen into his face. Joe turns around and scans the room, looking for someone. “Jack! Jack, hey, I need you for a minute over here.”
Sawyer looks toward the man Joe is waving to, trying to get his attention, and freezes.
His entire body goes cold and then floods with warmth, making him feel dizzy and strange. Everything about him is instantly familiar, recognizable within seconds, yet he looks different. Changed, somehow, though Sawyer would never be able to put his finger on exactly what because it's something more than appearance. It's the look on his face, the way he carries himself, something on an emotional level that seems to have manifested itself in a physical way.
Sawyer stares as Jack tucks his hammer into his tool belt and then adjusts the heavy belt on his thin waist. If Jack has seen him, he hasn't let on. He walks over to Joe and looks at him expectantly, his expression not cold or rude but hardly friendly. Just blank.
“Take this fella out into the garage and show him how to work our generator, would you please? He's going to use it for a little while.”
“Sure, yeah.” Jack nods and glances at Sawyer, his eyes not showing even a hint of recognition. He heads off toward the garage without another word, like Sawyer is just some random guy who he has no connection to, that he doesn't know. Sawyer watches him go, perplexed. Joe takes the stricken look on his face as a sign that he finds Jack's behavior rude and Joe smiles.
“Don't worry. He's just quiet. Damn good worker though. Any questions, ask him.”
“Yeah. Okay, thanks. I 'preciate it.” Sawyer stumbles, not able to smile back, and then sets off in the direction that Jack had gone. He finds him waiting for him in the cool shade of the garage, his hand resting on a piece of plywood set across two saw horses, a circular saw resting nearby and sawdust sprinkled over the gravel underfoot. 2x6's lay stacked up off to the side but other than that, there's nothing else in the garage besides the generator, him and Jack.
Sawyer climbs down from the house into the deep pit of the garage, the lack of stairs making him feel like he's descending into a cave. The smell is dank and stale enough to remind him of one, that's sure enough. He stares at Jack, the silence that fills the air making him uncomfortable.
“What are you doing here?” Sawyer asks him, not knowing what else to say. How does one begin a conversation with a person you haven't seen in 3 years? A person who at one time was probably the closest friend he ever had, a person who dropped out of his life as suddenly has he had dropped into it. Jack looks back at him, but it’s more like he’s looking through him, his face still stoic and emotionless.
“I'm showing you how to work the generator,” Jack replies. Sawyer continues to stare, waiting for Jack to say something else, but he doesn’t.
“You know what I meant -“ Sawyer narrows his eyes at Jack. “Here, in this town, on this job. What are you doing here?”
“I’m working.” Jack sighs impatiently, tapping his hand on the dusty top of the black box of the generator.
“Since when have you been working construction?”
“Since we got back,” Jack states and gestures to the generator, glancing upward toward the framework of the ceiling, avoiding Sawyer’s seeking eyes.
“What happened to the hospital-“
“It’s not anything worth talking about, Sawyer.” Jack casts his gaze down on the ground now and Sawyer can see him bite his lip. “Let me just tell you what to do and I’ll go on my way-”
“I don’t want you to go on your way, Doc, I want you to fuckin’ look at me for a second and-“
“Look, do you need to know how to do this or don’t you?” He asks flatly, putting his hand on his hip. He looks at Sawyer all right, but Sawyer finds his gaze lifeless and dark. Sawyer steps toward him, annoyed.
“What the hell, Jack? Three years and I run into you here, of all places, and that's all I get?”
“What do you want me to say, Sawyer. I didn't expect to see you here, but you're here, and that's that. I gotta get back to work, so why don't I just show you how to start this up and shut it down.”
“Fine, go ahead,” Sawyer mutters angrily, glaring at him. “Do whatever the hell you want, Jack.” Sawyer stands a few feet away from Jack as Jack shortly explains the ins and outs of the machine, his fist clenching and unclenching underneath his folded arms. He doesn’t understand and he hates it. He hates that Jack is standing in front of him and acting like they barely know one another - in fact, making a point of disregarding their shared history like it mattered not at all.
He remains silent until Jack finishes and he answers Jack with a short nod when Jack asks if he understands his directions. Shooting Jack a look, he does exactly what Jack had instructed and turns on the generator without any problem at all, clicking the buttons aggressively, glaring at Jack the entire time. If Jack cares, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t seem affected in the slightest. He just pulls his work gloves out from where they are tucked in his back pocket and heads back into the house.
“Holler if you need anything else.” Jack tells him, raising his voice to be heard over the loud noise from the generator. Sawyer chuckles bitterly, shaking his head at Jack’s retreating form.
“Will do,” he calls after him with sarcastic cheerfulness. Sawyer turns away and spits on the gravel beneath his feet, cursing under his breath. “Fuck.” He walks slowly toward his truck, kicking at the stones, and stops in front of it, leaning back against the front grille and staring at the house.
Jack is inside that house.
Jack is inside that house.
“God dammit!” He yells and turns around, kicking the bumper of his truck in anger. He pounds his fist against the hood and then reels back around, sitting down on the rusted metal he had just kicked. He puts his head in his hands and tries to regain control, but he can’t. His head hurts and his chest is tight and he feels slightly dizzy, his stomach twisting and making him nauseous.
Sawyer thought someday he’d probably run into Jack again. But he figured he’d be ready; a reunion or a purposeful trip, something planned and prepared. Not this, running into him in the very last place he would have ever expected to find him. Well, maybe second last. Prison…perhaps prison would be more of a surprise. But finding him with hammer in hand, building a house in the backwoods of Maine surely ranks high on the list of unexpected locations.
His mind races with questions: Why isn’t Jack working as a surgeon? Why in the world is he working a rough and tumble job like this? How did he end up in Maine, of all places? And why is he so unhappy to see him? Why the distance, the coldness? What happened? None of it makes any sense. The Jack he had just talked to is not the Jack he knows. He’s not the Jack that had been on the island with him.
He may look like Jack, but he is not Jack.
What surprises Sawyer most is how much it hurts. He’d thought occasionally about what it would be like to reconnect with everyone but it had never occurred to him that it could be like this. Sure, Sawyer had thought it might be hard, or that maybe it was better left alone, that they all went their own ways, but deep down even he, formerly the most detached, coldest one of them all, knows that they’re all connected for life and that if he met with them again, he would have no choice but to smile and admit that he missed them.
He wouldn’t act like they meant nothing. Even he wouldn’t do that.
“Boss? You all right?” Nate’s voice interrupts his thoughts and Sawyer snaps his head up to look at him.
“What?”
“You okay?” Nate asks, raising his eyebrows. “You were bent over like you were gonna ralph or somethin’.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look so hot, man-“
“I said I’m fine!” Sawyer snaps, standing up quickly, using his height to tower over the younger man intimidatingly. “Would you just git? Go do somethin’ useful, I ain’t payin’ you to act like my momma.”
Nate backs away from him, looking both wounded, offended, and frightened somehow all at the same time. Sawyer knows he should be sorry for causing that, but he’s too pissed to care. He just wants the kid to leave him the fuck alone.
“Go set up the air compressor, would ya? We gotta get shinglin’ sometime today, ya know. I don’t need you standin’ around starin’ at me like a fuckin’ moron, get your ass in gear.”
“Yeah. Right, boss,” Nate mutters, scuffing his feet through the dirt. He walks to the back of the truck and Sawyer feels the entire vehicle bounce as Nate drops the door down and pulls the heavy compressor forward and then down out and off of the bed. Sawyer glances at him as he staggers by with the awkward item, it’s not an easy thing to carry around. Nate doesn’t say anything at all. He just walks by, head down, not wanting to incur more verbal abuse and not sure he won’t spew back some of his own if Sawyer starts in on him.
Sawyer insults them often and criticizes them, but there’s always a hint of a smile, of light, in his face. Like their inadequacies amuse him, that even when they’re screwing up he still likes them. But when he had just yelled, his eyes had flashed with fiery anger and his face was so tight and his brow so furrowed that Nate knew it wasn’t like all the other times. Something is wrong.
He glances back at Sawyer as he sets the compressor down at the side of the house. He doesn’t want to go back and get the hoses but he’ll have to.
“Hey Jeff!” Nate shouts up toward the roof and moments later, Jeff pokes his head over the side.
“What?”
“Come on down here for a sec!”
“Oh fuck you, man,” Jeff moans but he disappears from view. Nate waits and sure enough he rounds the corner in a minute, wiping his sweaty brow with the bottom hem of his t-shirt. “What do you want?”
“Boss is pissed off about something and I don’t know what.”
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing! I walked over to him and he looked like he was sick, all I did was ask him if he was okay. He pretty much bit my head off.”
“You had to have done something more than that.”
“Shut up, you fucktard. He was fine a minute ago, and now he’s all worked up, and I didn’t do anything.”
“You made me climb down here for this?” Jeff raises his eyebrow and Nate rolls his eyes and jerks his thumb toward the truck, where Sawyer is rifling through his tool bin, pulling things out and dropping them harshly to the ground. He’s looking for something and obviously can’t find it.
“Need you to get the nail guns and the hoses from the truck.”
“You want me to go over there?”
“He ain’t pissed at you, so just don’t say anything and go get the damn stuff, would you?” Nate says and Jeff waves him off, annoyed, but does what he asks anyway. Sawyer slams his tool bin shut as Jeff walks behind him and Jeff jumps, startled, and hurries past.
Sawyer ignores him and grabs the coils of nails, holding them tightly enough for the sharp tips to dig into his palms. He heads back to work; Nate quickly hefts a bundle of shingles onto his shoulder as Sawyer stalks by, careful not to get his his boss’ way.
Nate climbs back up onto the roof slowly and eyes Sawyer, who is lining up coils of nails along the flat cement cap around the chimney. Nate drops the bundle of shingles with a loud, heavy thud and a groan of relief, happy to be rid of the load even if it means he has to climb back down and do it all over again.
As he climbs back onto the ladder, he spots Sawyer’s beat up tape player sitting in the gutter. He picks it up and switches the tape on, the sound of Johnny Cash’s deep voice booming out over the rooftop. It annoys the hell out of him but he knows Sawyer likes it. He glances over at him but Sawyer doesn’t seem to hear it. Shrugging, Nate starts back toward the ground.
He has just stepped down when something comes flying off of the roof, landing in the middle of the destroyed back yard with great force and cracking into pieces, bits of black plastic shooting every direction as “Ring of Fire” comes to an exceptionally abrupt end.
It’s going to be a long day.
*******
Sawyer downs his last shot of whiskey and sets the glass back onto the bar top with a shaky hand. His eyes are starting to go blurry and his other senses are dulled, but it’s still not enough. He still has it there, that nagging feeling that won’t go away.
He glances at the clock above the bar and he can’t figure out what time it is, so he guesses that means it’s probably time for him to give up and go home.
“Paul. Hey…” Sawyer tries to wave down the bartender but his attention is focused on a blonde down at the end of the bar. “Hey there! Paulie boy!” Sawyer shouts louder, his words slightly slurred. Paul looks down to him and nods, quickly making in his direction. Sawyer clumsily pulls out the keys to his truck and slams them on the counter, tossing his hair back even though it wasn’t in his face. It just felt like it was.
“You need a ride home?” Paul asks, taking the keys from him. Sawyer nods. He’d feel ashamed if he wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t manage it. He can’t remember the last time he’d had more than one drink, done anything more than a beer or a glass just to be social or just to take the edge off. But one drink wouldn’t do the trick tonight.
He’s not sure how many he ended up having because he’s having a hard time counting the glasses in front of him, but whatever the number was, it still wasn’t enough.
“Yeah, call Nate, would ya,” Sawyer mutters, trying to give Paul a gesture of thanks as he heads toward the phone. Sawyer pushes up off the bar and stands, his legs feeling a little unstable, but he manages all right. “I’m gonna…gonna go outside, get some air…” Sawyer points to the door, walking slowly as not to stumble. He could easily collide with the tables or the other people and he’s not sure he won’t be able to manage not to, but he still has enough self-possession not to want to suffer that embarrassment. There seem to be two doors before him, his vision doubling; he picks the one on the right and luckily is rewarded with a blast of cool night air.
The screen door thwaps shut behind him and Sawyer breathes in deep, the smell of pine trees hanging in the air. Mosquitoes circle around the yellow lights outside the door and Sawyer can hear their buzz along with the sound of cars passing on the road, the headlights cutting through the incredible darkness of night. Sawyer closes his eyes, wishing he could block it all out and cease to exist for one sublime, blissful moment, forget the look in Jack’s eyes when he stared back at him this morning. But it’s burned into his mind and he can’t shake it, can’t stop thinking about it.
When Sawyer opens his eyes, he still sees him. It takes him a moment to realize he’s not imagining it. But he’s there, sitting in a truck not at all dissimilar to Sawyer’s own, parked a row back from where Sawyer is standing. At first Sawyer thinks he is asleep, maybe slumbering off a bender of his own, and he feels a glimmer of absurd hope, like maybe seeing him had sent Jack into a spiral as well.
Then Jack shifts, his neck arching back, his lips parting in a gasp, a groan; even though Sawyer can’t hear it, it can’t be mistaken. Sawyer holds his breath as he stares, his suspicion confirmed when someone sits up beside Jack, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
His lips. His hand.
Sawyer exhales sharply. He suddenly feels stone cold sober. Confusion and disbelief set in instead, along with a heaping dose of panic. Here, outside of the central bar in town, a place full of twenty or thirty men who wouldn’t be so thrilled with what Sawyer had just witnessed, Jack Shephard was getting a blow job in the front seat of his truck, and from a guy who, by the looks of it, is half his age.
This might not be Texas but it ain’t Massachusetts either. Sawyer has to wonder if Jack’s developed a death wish and the only conclusion he can come to is that he definitely has.
He finds himself walking toward Jack’s truck in a daze, unable to stop himself. Jack’s special friend is already getting out and Sawyer pushes past him, his attention zoned in on Jack, needing to know why.
Jack looks at Sawyer as he stops at the open passenger side door. His expression conveys nothing. If he’s surprised to see Sawyer there, it doesn’t show.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jack?” Sawyer demands, his hand clenching around the frame of the door.
“None of your business, Sawyer.” Jack replies and then nods his head at something behind Sawyer, headlights streaming across the parking lot as someone pulls in and honks the horn. Sawyer doesn't move and neither does Jack, facing off against one another, refusing to back down. It isn't until Nate calls out his name that Jack looks away. “Your ride is here.”
Jack turns the ignition and his truck roars to life. Sawyer holds on tighter, like he’ll be able to hold Jack’s truck in place if he tries to leave.
“Jack, what the hell happened to you?” Sawyer asks, his voice breaking. Jack looks forward, flipping his headlights on.
“Nothing happened.” Jack states. “Your friend is waiting, Sawyer.”
Sawyer is silent, watching Jack for some sign, some flicker of how he used to be, but there’s nothing. Reluctantly he lets go of the door and steps back, slamming it shut. Jack barely hesitates before pulling out, leaving Sawyer standing alone next to the empty parking space.
“Boss!” Nate calls to him and Sawyer turns toward the car, letting his shoulders drop and his head hang low as he slowly walks over. He gets in and closes the door weakly, shutting his eyes and leaning his head against the window. “I couldn’t believe it when Paul called me. Usually he’s calling you to come get me!” Nate laughs, finding the whole thing funny, but Sawyer isn’t in the mood for chuckling at the irony.
“Well you owe me then,” he mutters.
“Why do you think I’m here at 2am? I was sleeping, you know.” Nate replies. Sawyer sighs.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve done it to you, I bet,” Nate shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk…you’re not much fun.” He observes as Sawyer slouches lower in his seat, wanting to disappear. Nate smiles. “Kinda honored that you called me, Boss.”
“Just take me home, Nate, please.” Sawyer mumbles. “I just wanna go home.”
“Sure thing,” Nate replies, swinging his car around and heading back out to the road. “Hey…who was that guy you were talking to?”
“What guy.”
“In the truck. Isn’t he working on the job?”
Sawyer shakes his head no.
“He’s no one I know. Just some guy.” Sawyer looks out the window, hiding the tears that are threatening to fall. “Nobody at all.”
TBC