Scars & Stitches Part Four - Internal Injury
Series: Scars & Stitches
Title: Internal Injury
Part: 4/6
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: psych_30 #18, "Instinct"
Spoilers: None - AU
Disclaimer: Not Mine!
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3
Jack inhales deeply and then concentrates as he exhales, trying to match his breathing to the rhythm of his even and controlled footfall. Sweat is pooling between his shoulder blades and his t-shirt clings to his skin damply as he rounds the bend, kindly moving to give another jogger, a mother doing double the work by pushing a stroller, room to pass.
The city awaits him a few blocks in either direction, the upper east and west sides creeping over the edge of the green tree tops, shining glass and cold stone attempting to dwarf nature’s beauty with a modern magnificence of its own. Its reflection slides over the surface of the clear blue water in the reservoir but its domination is interrupted all too easily with merely the flutter and flap of a pair of paddling ducks.
His stopwatch, black, heavy and utilitarian in his clammy palm, beeps once loudly, threateningly. His father had purchased it for him in high school and it has a vast array of completely needless tasks that it can still do. Jack had programmed it not only to keep track of his current time, but also to let him know when he was supposed to have finished each 1.5 mile loop around the upper track. He is at least a minute behind schedule now. 1.5 should be heading on into 3, his second circuit, but he has yet to arrive back at his starting point.
Jack ignores the tightening of the stomach muscles in his left side and the dull throb of an oncoming shin splint and pushes harder, picks up his pace. It’s supposed to hurt. If it doesn’t, it means he's doing something wrong. Going easy. Slacking off.
The surface is soft but his feet are pounding it too hard; he tries to ease off and decrease the harsh impact that sends shock waves up his calves to his knees. The last thing he wants is to do is trade off looking good at 26 for aching joints at 40.
There are very few things that Jack does without thinking about the repercussions.
Very few.
He makes up that lost minute easily by the time he reaches the place where he always begins his twice-weekly run, that spot where he can catch a glimpse of the white arches and curves of the delicate ironwork on the gothic bridge over one of the lower paths. It is one of his favorite places in the entire 843 acres of the park and he makes it a point to mark his distance from this very position. It really is of no particular distinction but one day he decided that was where he’d begin and it quickly became one of those habits that truly had no rhyme or reason but just was.
Those hard-earned 60 seconds of Jack’s evaporate into thin air when instead of finding the bridge and another mile and a half of track leading out before him, he finds Sawyer, leaning against the 4 foot high wrought iron fence separating the track from the reservoir. His gaze is cast down to the ground, dark sunglasses and messy hair shadowing his face. His back is toward the beautiful view of blue sky blue water behind him and if the slump of Sawyer’s shoulders is any indication, it probably hasn’t occurred to him to turn around and enjoy it.
“Sawyer?” He looks entirely out of place here, dark faded jeans and black leather jacket, lounging idly with his heavy boots still as men and women race past him in running shorts and sweaty tees. But no one seems to notice him standing there; they are all closed off from the world by the music blasting through their headphones or by their own thoughts. Sawyer doesn’t seem to notice them either. “Sawyer? Hey. What are you doing here?”
Jack sets his hand on Sawyer’s shoulder gently, not wanting to startle him. Sawyer shifts slightly and lifts his head only a little.
“Hey, Doc.” He doesn’t seem at all surprised to see Jack beside him and Jack is sure then that Sawyer was waiting for him purposely, not even bothering to keep an eye out for him because he knew Jack would see him and stop of his own volition. “How’s your run goin’.”
“What’s the matter?” Jack steps closer, his hand dropping from Sawyer’s shoulder. He doesn’t make another move, apprehensive, until Sawyer turns completely toward him and Jack finally gets a good look at his face. Both hands immediately go to the sides of Sawyer’s face and he stops Sawyer from pulling away at the sign of his concern. “Sawyer, what happened to you? Are you all right?” Jack’s words always move more quickly and sharply when worry drives them.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. I just had a lil’ run in with someone not so nice last night,” Sawyer mutters, only halfheartedly trying to push away Jack’s careful touch. What is he doing now, in this moment, hurts more than any bruise or cut on his face. He wants to avert his eyes in shame; instead he removes his shades and reveals the entirety of the damage to Jack’s warm, worried gaze.
The manipulation stings like alcohol seeping over an open wound.
He folds the sunglasses and puts them in the front chest pocket of his jacket and tosses his head with a short jerking motion, just enough to flick a stray piece of hair from his forehead. Jack stares for only a fleeting moment before it all begins.
“Sawyer, oh my god.” His fingers brush over the swollen deep purple skin surrounding Sawyer’s closed eye. Jack is appalled now that he can see the extent of Sawyer’s injury. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No, I told ya, I’m all right.” Making like it’s nothing when it’s very obviously something makes him seem less guilty. Sawyer knows this. He is playing it down, counting on Jack to ratchet it all back up to an even higher level of anxiety. “It’s only a couple a bruises. Don’t make a big deal.”
“Someone used your face as a punching bag and I’m not supposed to make a big deal?” Jack withdraws his hands from Sawyer’s face and he moves back, his mouth a crisp, angry line. “Who did this to you?”
“Why, you gonna go kick ass and take names?” He makes sure Jack sees how difficult it is for him to muster a smirk; his face burns and his muscles twinge. Jack glances out over the water, running his fingers over his clean-shaven chin. He faces Sawyer again with a hard snap of his body, definitive in his motion.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened, Jack. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Bullshit, Sawyer. You come all the way up here to the park and wait for me and then you don’t want to talk about it?” Jack gestures around him, to the passing runners, to the still, calm surface of the res. “What. Happened.”
“I came up here ‘cause I wanted to see you, Doc.” Sawyer pulls on the hem of Jack’s bright red tee with his thumb and index finger, snapping the fabric down and then letting go. Jack shifts and Sawyer glances down at Jack’s expensive running shoes, his split lip twinging as his mouth curves dutifully into a crooked smile and he forces his gaze upward. “Had a bad night and I just…” Sawyer pauses, wavering, implying sweet vulnerability. “Just wanted to see you.”
“Sawyer…” Jack shakes his head and looks out over the expanse of water stretching out to his left. He places his hand on his hip and bites his lip, stopping to think before saying anything else. “I know you like your secrets but this one…Sawyer, you can’t do this. You can’t show up bruised and bloodied and not talk to me about it. And don’t pretend like you didn’t know that.”
“Well I ain’t about to tell you, and I wasn’t about to hide out from you until I healed all up, so you’re just gonna have to deal.”
“I won’t ‘deal.’ ” The expression on Jack’s face is the clear, concise definition of not amused. “Not as your doctor, not as your boyfriend. So either tell me what the hell is going on or I’ll go find out for myself.”
“Oh you will, huh?” Sawyer can’t stop the smirk from edging onto his face at Jack’s toothless threat. “And how you gonna do that.”
Jack stares back at him with such vicious determination that for a split moment, Sawyer suddenly believes him. There’s no rational way Jack could discover him, his fake reality or his true situation, but the look in Jack’s dark eyes shakes him straight through. He immediately thinks of the countless hours Jack devotes to searching for solutions to this or that day’s medical mystery and the thought of that translating directly into Jack obsessively digging through Sawyer’s mess to seek the truth sends a red flag racing up the pole.
He had planned on letting Jack stew for a little while, truly get worried, so when he admitted it was a gambling debt, Jack would almost be relieved. He knows that would still work. That it would take awhile for Jack to feel the need to follow through on his assertion. Yet he bails on his carefully constructed strategy like a sailor abandoning a quickly sinking ship, a momentary worry escalating rapidly to a nagging doubt.
Sawyer swallows hard, pushes hair back from the right side of his face with his left hand, and then fixes Jack with the best look of self-shame he can conjure up. It's not hard to fake it.
“I owe some money to a couple a guys. It was a gambling thing from awhile back…’fore I met you. Thought I was all settled up but turns out…I ain’t.”
“Gambling?” Jack is an expected mixture of relieved, disappointed, and pissed off.
“Horses.” Sawyer shrugs just a little and lets a heavy sigh escape. “It was stupid.”
“How much?” Jack asks.
“Not that much.”
“How much, Sawyer.”
“Two grand.” Sawyer mumbles like a small child admitting that yes, it was he who broke the vase or stole the cookie from the counter. “It’ll be fine. I can make it up. I can pay ‘em in a few weeks or so.”
“They’re going to let you slide another few weeks?” Jack gestures to Sawyer’s beaten face. “I doubt they’re going to let this go another few days.”
“Well they ain’t got much choice. They’ll get their money, they know I’m good for it now, they’re just gonna hafta wait.” Sawyer snaps with just the right tone of defensiveness, pulling away and knowing Jack will follow, not about to let him retreat into a false shroud of self-sufficiency, not when Jack could easily fix the situation.
“I don’t think they'll much like waiting.” Jack replies tightly. Sawyer’s sigh sounds reluctant. He digs a pack of cigarettes out from the front pocket of his jacket and goes about the business of lighting one up, his eyes trained carefully elsewhere than on Jack.
“It’ll be fine.” He repeats quietly. His fingers slip on his lighter as he tries to spark a flame. His thumb rolls three times unsuccessfully before Jack reaches out and takes the small plastic tube from his grasp. Sawyer turns to him, thinking Jack is going to make it work, but Jack lifts the cigarette from between Sawyer’s lips with his thumb and forefinger and then tosses it into a nearby garbage can. Sawyer narrows his eyes. “What’d you go ‘n do that for.”
“I can give you the money.”
“I ain’t askin’ you for no money, Doc.” Sawyer mutters, snapping the lighter back from Jack’s hand and shoving it into his pocket.
“I know you’re not asking. I’m offering.” Jack leans against the low fence and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at Sawyer and Sawyer struggles with the surge of nausea that overwhelms him as he achieves success.
Always make them think it was their idea.
He didn’t ask for the money. He’ll even deny the offer a little longer, protest Jack’s generosity and make up lame excuses as to why he can’t take it, excuses that Jack will crush and sweep aside as easily as swatting a fly.
This had all been just as easy as he had expected it to be. It will be like taking candy from a baby and right now Sawyer feels every inch like the kind of monster who would do such a thing.
Deep down he had wanted Jack to be smarter than this but a man who thinks with his heart and not his head is never smarter than this.
Damn it.
*******
Jack signs the check with the harsh lines of his impatient doctor’s scrawl, that writing which always appears hasty and slightly angry even when inked in complete calm. He rips the check from his leather-bound ledger with equal clinical proficiency.
Jack holds it out to Sawyer like an impersonal gift, a business transaction, and Sawyer wishes with all his might that he didn’t have to reach and take it from Jack’s clasped hand.
But he does take it. He looks down at the slip of paper in his hands and frowns deeply. It’s made out to cash. It would have been easier if Jack had simply handed him a wad of money. Going to the bank only extends this misdeed to a longer length; the check will burn his hands the longer he has to keep it, a telltale heart folded in his back pocket throbbing with the accusation of guilt.
When Sawyer had started working at the bookstore, he had, for the first time since his high school days, a reason to open a bank account, a reason to sign checks and remember account numbers. Going to the bank each week to deposit or cash his paychecks made him feel responsible, adult.
He doubts he’ll ever enter a bank again after this without feeling some degree of shame.
“I’ll pay you back.” Sawyer says lowly, forcing his eyes up from his guilty hands and setting his jaw. Jack sighs and presses up from his thighs as he stands.
“This isn’t a loan, Sawyer,” Jack states. “Just pay those assholes off and let’s forget about this, okay?”
“Jack-“
“Sawyer, please.” Sawyer is a bit startled by how much it sounds like Jack is begging him. Jack closes his eyes and lets out a long breath before opening them again. He turns back toward his desk and closes his bank ledger, dropping his pen back into the holder. When he speaks his words come out exhausted and exasperated. “You made a mistake, I’m able to fix it. I can help, I want to help. Just…don’t do it again. All right?”
“I ain’t in the habit of takin’ money from people without givin’ nothin’ back, Jack,” Sawyer replies. It’s not exactly a lie, not really. He always gives his targets exactly what they need; makes them feel important, listened to, loved, whatever they need. For a brief moment in their lives, he makes them brilliantly, shiningly happy.
No matter that when he disappears he takes that all with him too.
“If it is going to make you feel better to pay me back, then fine. But know that it’s not necessary.” Jack gives up on trying to convince Sawyer to do otherwise. He knows it’s pointless and Sawyer’s refusal to simply admit to himself that he won’t be able to return the cash is almost grating on his nerves.
He doesn’t expect to see a dime from Sawyer. His insistence on the money being a gift had just as much to do with him not wanting Sawyer to feel indebted as it did with him not setting unrealistic expectations. He has no illusions. He knows Sawyer. And he knows that he’ll never see that two thousand dollars again. If that mattered to him, he wouldn’t have given it.
There are many things, had they mattered to him, that would have stopped him from writing that check. The small nagging voice in the back of his head that has been whispering endless warnings that something’s not right. The way his memory pushes forth scenes from that evening outside the bar when he’d overheard Sawyer’s conversation with “Bob”. The fact that he thinks of that man’s name in quotation marks, so sure is he that everything he had been told was a bold-faced lie, is enough reason that he shouldn't have done what he just did.
But check number 415, now stowed in Sawyer’s back pocket, is evidence that he doesn’t care. He’s not even sure if he trusts Sawyer or not. This isn’t an act of blind faith or trust and love and even a foolish romantic such as he can’t trick himself into believing it to be so.
Maybe it’s a test. Maybe he wants to know what he’s been too afraid to ask. Maybe he’s daring Sawyer to prove his doubts wrong.
There’s a saying somewhere about courting danger, probably something along the lines of dancing with the devil and getting burned, but Jack can’t think of the exact words. The lesson is still clear. He’s inviting trouble.
Sawyer steps toward him and Jack has to force himself not to withdraw, reminding his feet to remain planted as they are and his face not to turn away. When Sawyer touches his arm, his fingers seem foreign to him, his touch no longer a familiar comfort.
“I am gonna pay you back, Doc…but thanks all the same,” Sawyer murmurs, running his index finger up the length of his forearm and then his bicep, his nail scraping along the lines of his tattoo. Sawyer moves closer, his other hand moving possessively to Jack’s right hip. When he angles his mouth to capture Jack’s, he sees and feels Jack flinch. “What’s wrong?”
Jack falters; he hadn’t wanted to cringe but it happened. The thought of being with Sawyer right now…
“I don’t want you to pay me back like that…” Jack says weakly.
“Like what?” Sawyer cracks a small smile and the strained shifting of his bruised face makes Jack all the more aware that now is not the best time.
“Not…not tonight, okay?” Jack tries to explain without explaining, but Sawyer doesn’t seem to follow. “I’d just rather...I’d rather not have sex right after I gave you a check. It makes me feel like a prostitute.”
“You’re payin’ me, Doc, that makes me the prostitute,” Sawyer corrects, an edge of annoyance slicing into his voice. Jack sighs. He should’ve said he wasn’t in the mood and left it at that. “What’s the time limit on this, then? Can we have sex tomorrow or is it still gonna be botherin’ you then? ‘Cause if me borrowin’ dough means we ain’t ever gonna fuck again, I’ll rip it up right now.” Sawyer pulls the check from his pocket and makes a motion as if he would tear it up, though he has absolutely no intention of doing so and hopes Jack doesn’t call him on it.
“No, Sawyer,” Jack replies quickly, grabbing his hands to stop him from ripping. “Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean it like that.” Except he did and he knows it. Sawyer might be in this for the cash and Jack is paying him, knowing there’s that chance, because he wants him. Needs him. Would rather be an idiot than be without him. “I was being stupid. It doesn’t matter.”
“I’d still be kissin’ you right now even if you hadn’t saved my ass,” Sawyer says, closing the space between them once more and brushing his lips over Jack’s. “I’d still wanna jump your bones, money or not. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with that.” Sawyer kisses Jack harder then, happy after an evening of lies to finally say something true. When he breaks off the lustful demand of his lips, he nuzzles Jack’s neck, his breath hot against his ear. “You still want me just the same, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Jack’s eyes drift closed as Sawyer grips his hips, rubbing against him purposefully once, twice, three times, each careful urge of his body matched with a delicious panting little moan.
“Then this is like any other night.” Sawyer’s lets his wide palms slide over the angle of Jack’s hips to his ass, groping the tight muscle and pushing Jack’s body closer. His tongue pushes deep into Jack’s mouth; he doesn’t wait for permission, forces him open. Jack whimpers in resistance. His hands find purchase on Sawyer’s shoulders and he attempts to shove Sawyer back, but Sawyer stubbornly refuses to be put off.
“Come on, Doc,” Sawyer pleads and steps backward clumsily toward the bed, pulling Jack with him. Jack tears his lips away from Sawyer’s and pushes Sawyer, hard. Sawyer is downright startled. He didn’t think Jack’s reluctance was real; a little prodding and he figured Jack would cave, stop worrying his pointless worries and move on. He always did. “Jack.”
Jack stares at him, so breathless and so freshly kissed, his eyes so wide and his cheeks so flushed, that Sawyer has to draw upon every last reserve of will power not to grab him again.
He manages to remain still, however, and does nothing but watch as Jack opens his mouth to speak and gives up before he even makes a sound. He holds either side of Sawyer’s face and initiates their next kiss; this time, Sawyer almost has to stop, taken aback by the force of Jack’s lips attacking his. There has not been so much desperation lingering in Jack’s kiss since their very first time together, when their attraction and lust basically exploded continuously like a volcano all night long. He feels that molten heat roiling in the pit of his stomach now, the escalating intensity gathering just below the surface.
Suddenly the idea of making love to Jack seemed less like a pleasurable way to assuage his guilt and more like a necessity to live. He doesn’t even stop to wonder how he’ll survive without this because he knows he’ll simply have to. He gives back what Jack is giving and doesn’t protest when Jack turns him around, slams him against the side of his desk, and starts pulling at his jeans.
“I love you,” Jack says roughly, spitting out the words like he doesn’t want them. Sawyer grunts as Jack reaches around and takes him in hand, stroking him with a harsh touch.
“I lov-“
“Please don’t say it back.” Jack’s voice breaks. He rests his head against Sawyer’s shoulder, his breath hot through the thin layer of Sawyer’s t-shirt; his hand trembles against Sawyer’s length so badly his touch slips. Jack lets him go instead of trying to regain his composure and then fumbles with his own zipper, shoving his jeans down over his hips with little ceremony.
“Jack…?” Sawyer tries to turn, look over his shoulder at him, but Jack grips his shoulder and twists him back.
“Just…”
Jack doesn’t finish the thought but he doesn’t need to. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want anything sweet and tender from the way his cock jabs into the small of Sawyer’s back, insistent and hard.
It’s not about Sawyer asking for the money. It’s not about him giving it. The anger is just there. It’s there in the way he doubts Sawyer’s feelings for him. It’s there in his own self-hatred for his inability to face facts and demand some honesty, it’s there in his own cowardice. He doesn’t want to be angry with Sawyer but he can’t help it. For once in his life he had found happiness all on his own, by finally listening to his own desires, and now it’s gone.
Even if Sawyer’s troubled tale is the truth, it’s too late. Something has changed; something has been ruined. The way he takes Sawyer now, punishing and hard, pounding into him from behind, proves it. If Sawyer hasn’t destroyed this, he has.
Sawyer lets Jack do it, mild terror running a neck and neck race with pleasure as Jack throbs inside of him and Jack’s body surrounds him. His hands and his mouth are everywhere, pulling and biting and panting in a way that is both frighteningly unfamiliar and powerfully arousing. It could simply be that Jack is in the mood for animalistic, instinctual fucking, but Sawyer senses it’s not the case.
If he’d been found out, if Jack knew, Jack would have said something. He never would’ve given him this money, never would’ve let him back in through his door. But as Jack thrusts into him, bending him slightly forward over the desk and gripping his hips like a vise, Sawyer has to wonder if Jack suspects.
Scarier still, he finds himself perversely enjoying their rough sex, masochistically reveling in getting some semblance of retribution. He knows he deserves whatever Jack feels like doling out. If fucking him so hard that he’ll feel it for days is what Jack needs to do, he won’t stop him. As far as penalties go a round of brutally hot fucking is hardly punishment at all.
“Fuck, Jack…” He breathes out, urging him on, wanting it even faster, harder. He covers Jack’s hand with his and thrusts into their combined grip, moaning enthusiastically. His other hand slides over the desktop and his fingers claw at some of Jack’s paperwork, his sweaty palms slipping and paper crinkling. All he can hear of Jack is his heavy breathing and the sound of their bodies slapping together, all he can see of Jack is his careful surgeon’s hand holding his thick cock, liquid shining on his fingers as he pumps Sawyer up and down. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Sawyer whispers over and over, matching the rhythm of Jack pushing in, pulling out.
His blood burns white-hot and his mind erases when he comes, shuddering violently, a surge of liquid seeping between Jack’s knuckles and coating his fingers. He is sure that he screams Jack’s name, loud and unabashed, unable to stop and not wanting to even if he could. He is flooded with warmth after four incredibly sharp and deep thrusts, rewarded with a hard, strangled grunt and a muttered fuck.
Jack’s strong fingers clutch at his waist, holding him steady as he pulls out. Just like that he lets go, steps away, prying his other hand, sticky, from Sawyer’s softening length. Sawyer doesn’t want to speak until Jack breaks the silence but when he hears Jack pull up his jeans and zip himself back up, he can’t hold his tongue.
“Geez, Doc, you’re all business tonight, ain’t ya,” he comments slyly, hiking up his own pants before turning to face him. Jack’s face is already ashen and pale, as if the exertion had drained him of his energy rather than revitalized him. Sawyer smirks as he slowly pulls his zipper closed, his fingers toying with it teasingly. “Ain’t wastin’ no time.”
“Sawyer, I...I’m sorry, I…did I hurt you?” Jack is concerned and ashamed but he still takes a step further back from Sawyer, placing distance between them.
“Hurt me? Naw, you didn’t hurt me. Kinda liked it.” His eyes are smoky with intensity, his slight smile incredibly sexual. “Been awhile since you were on top.”
“Sawyer, I-“
“Don’t ‘pologize. Everyone needs a down n’ dirty fuck now and again. We ain’t had one in a good long while. If I didn’t want it, I woulda stopped ya.” He closes the space that Jack has created and puts his hands on Jack’s hips. He places his feet firmly on the ground shoulder width apart and then tugs Jack toward him roughly. “An’ trust me, I wanted it. Wanted it as bad as you.” He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feeling the raw cut there, surprised not to taste blood, having figured it would’ve split open by now. “Now you should get on in bed, ‘cause I want it again.”
The desire in Jack’s eyes burns like dry ice instead of a flame, a cool spreading fog rather than a heated spark. When he tugs his shirt over his head and goes to take a shower instead, Sawyer is not surprised. He just follows.
*******
Jack tries to stop the horrible movie comparisons in his head; he’s an obsessed stalker, an investigator, a man on a mission. He shakes off each stigma as he steps out of the subway car onto the platform, pushing past the throng of people who can’t seem to grasp the concept of standing aside and letting people off before attempting to push their way on. He manages to keep his eyes locked on Sawyer, a car length ahead, as he bobs and weaves his way through the crowd toward the stairs with the expert ease of someone who had turned getting out of an annoyingly crowded station into an art form. Jack has to hurry to keep up.
First he’s too close, than too far away. One look back and Sawyer would see him. He’s not good at this and his heart is beating rapidly in his chest, crying out from the stress. The hellish ride up the length of Manhattan on the 1 had lasted an eternity, made even longer by the creeping anxiety that grew with every passing minute. When he steps out into the bright sunlight and the entirely unfamiliar neighborhood of Washington Heights, he immediately wishes he had thought better of this.
Sawyer goes down 168th Street, his head down and his hands shoved in his pockets. He doesn’t bother looking around him but Jack gets the sense he’s very aware of everything going on anyway. He doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb the way Jack is positive he does. Even in his jeans and black hoodie he had worn to “blend in with the crowd”, he feels like a blatant idiot who doesn’t belong. Maybe he could pass for a thrill-seeking yuppie trying to score some recreational drugs, but even that would be a supreme stretch.
He follows Sawyer anyway. Having come all this way, it would be pointless to give up now. He’d tailed Sawyer to the bank, watched him stick the envelope full of cash into the inside pocket of his jacket, shadowed him to the subway stop at Canal Street. He wants answers. And he needs to know those answers aren’t lies so he forgoes asking Sawyer and opts to do the leg work necessary to be sure.
The apartment building that Sawyer unknowingly leads him to is broken down and smells faintly of garbage. The tiled floor in the foyer is cracked and dirty but it is evident that once upon a time the place might have been something beautiful. He waits in the foyer and counts the echoes of Sawyer’s footsteps up the stairwell, keeping track so he knows how far to go. Someone calls down the hallway in Spanish and he can hear the faint deep bass thump of rap music from a pair of young boys with a boom box on the front stoop, the dopplering wail of a siren as an ambulance screams by. The sounds are distracting but he manages to guess three floors that Sawyer has walked up before he stops climbing.
Then he waits.
Fifteen minutes later Jack ducks into the recess under the stairs, holding his breath as Sawyer thunders down the steps and goes outside, pausing only for a moment to light a cigarette before disappearing from view.
Jack closes his eyes and sighs, partially relieved that at least this part is over. One fear, the fear of Sawyer realizing what he’s been doing, is gone. The next fear waits for him up the stairs, ready to face him down.
He walks up the three flights of stairs slowly. His feet drag and his heart is heavy; maybe he doesn’t want to do this. Maybe ignorance is bliss and he should just stop questioning, stop wondering. Whether Sawyer is using him or not, does that change what Jack is receiving from him?
Jack laughs bitterly at himself. Of course it changes. Only someone as desperate as he is would still be making excuses and trying to pretend it doesn’t matter.
He knocks on the first door he comes to and an elderly woman’s voice croaks out from behind it. It’s not the kind of neighborhood to open a door to just anyone. After he asks her if she’d just had a visitor, a southern man with blonde hair, he is warned to leave her alone or she would call the police immediately. He apologizes and moves on, somehow feeling ashamed for having bothered her.
The next door the he knocks on is opened without regard for who might be waiting on the other side.
“You forget somethin’, Sawbucks?”
“You.” The syllable drops from Jack’s stunned lips with a heavy thud.
“Well if it isn’t Dr. Jack Shephard.” He emphasizes each part of Jack’s name with equal force, smiling widely. “How ‘bout that, I was just talking about you.” His grin slides into a smirk. He knows the jig is up and like any good con man, slathers on the charm and tries to slither his way out of it.
“Imagine that,” Jack mumbles. “Mr. Howard-“
“Real name’s Hibbs. Come on in, I’ll pour ya a drink.”
“I’d rather not. I’d rather just know why you’re extorting money from Sawyer.” Jack clings to the hope that this is true, whispering please oh please inwardly, let this man be the bad guy.
“You’ve got your head on backwards, boy.” Hibbs grins again and Jack’s fist curls of its own volition, wanting so badly to knock his teeth out.
“I’m going to go to the police and tell them what you’re doing. You’ll-“
“You don’t know what I’m doing, Doc,” Hibbs remarks, his tone pompous, just egging Jack on. “Before you go runnin’ off to tattle, don’t you think you should at least have your facts straight?”
“Oh, so you’re going to set me straight.” Jack arches his eyebrow and Hibbs steps aside from the doorway, gesturing for Jack to come in. Jack hesitates.
“You want the skinny on our boy Sawyer or don’t you?” He asks point blank. Jack steps inside and Hibbs pushes the door shut. No going back now.
*******
Sawyer taps his hands to the rhythm of the song stuck in his head, fingers hitting his thighs as he watches the machinery of the elevator move. It’s actually a tune he hates, something that a street performer had been singing in the underpass between the 6th Avenue L and the 14th Street 1-2-3-9. He hums it lightly but stops as the elevator comes to a screeching halt at Jack’s floor.
With all the money sunk into these swanky loft apartments, one would think the elevators could be in better shape, but apparently the whole aesthetic of a warehouse lift had its strange appeal to the upper class taste. He lifts the gate and heads toward Jack’s door.
Everyday it’s getting a little harder to pretend the end isn’t coming; he hasn’t slept since the short slumber he’d had after his and Jack’s all-nighter and he’s sure it’s starting to show. It shouldn’t ache so much to be awake.
He should also feel lighter now without that money burning a hole in his pocket, but when he had handed it over to Hibbs, he had lost something else too. It’s ironic that the emptiness inside of him is actually weighing him down.
He’d hid from Jack for two days against his own better judgment, calling to leave him messages when he knew Jack’s phone would be off, when he was at work. It was an elaborate maneuver to make Jack feel he wasn’t avoiding him when in actuality he was.
But he had expected a call back. He wouldn’t have answered, but still, he expected the phone to ring. It hadn’t.
Expectations and assumptions will do in even the cleverest of men.
After taking the money he should have been more involved in Jack’s life than ever. He should have come over the next night and done something sweet like trying and cutely failing to make dinner. He should have made a show of picking up extra hours at the bookstore so Jack would easily believe that he meant to pay him back. Even better, he could have stopped by the hospital and made Jack check his injuries, complained of pain and let Jack take care of him. It would’ve made Jack feel useful and needed as well as quell any lingering doubts that Jack had about giving him the cash to avoid future repeat incidents.
All great, well thought-out ideas that would’ve ensured his relationship with Jack would continue on solid ground. He needed Jack and he also needed a bigger payday. But Sawyer had chickened out and hid and in doing so had endangered everything.
Self-destruction is his regular state of being but this ran more closely toward self-sabotage. He didn’t want this scheme to succeed, even if failure meant personal and financial disaster.
Sawyer knocks on Jack’s door instead of using his key, his fist hitting wood rather than simply going in a testament to how guilty he feels. The second he does so, he freezes and remembers that he shouldn’t be acting differently. He fishes his key out of his pocket and unlocks the door quickly, letting himself inside.
He does a double take, turning and looking back at the number on the door and the key in his hand. For a moment he thinks the apartment has been robbed but quickly the logic of cardboard boxes and packing tape tosses that theory aside.
It’s like he has traveled back in time. Jack’s loft looks exactly like it had the first time he had come here. Barren, lonely, impersonal. Once again his bed is the only item that is left standing.
“Jack?” Sawyer drops his keys out of habit on the foyer table that is no longer there. They clang hard onto the ground. He leaves them where they lay, his attention focused elsewhere, on finding Jack. “Jack? You here?”
He glances into the kitchen and then stalks toward the bathroom, throwing open the door without a thought to privacy. It doesn’t matter because there is no one there. Sawyer looks around the rest of the open space; nowhere left for Jack to hide. Confused, he opens the first box of items and rifles through the neatly stacked books, all of which are Jack’s.
“What the…” Sawyer mutters, abandoning that box and going to another stack, finding the contents of Jack’s dresser drawers within the first crate. He turns back toward the doorway and catches sight of a smaller box sitting there on the floor, something he must have walked right past when he entered.
His name is written on it in black marker. Not Sawyer.
His name.
He stares at it, unmoving, in too much shock to realize that he’s no longer alone.
“Excuse me, may I help you?”
Sawyer snaps to attention and shaking his head, looks at the middle aged woman with short red hair standing in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob. A girl with a pinched face and a man with a sour expression are standing behind her, peering over her shoulder into the apartment.
“How did you get in here, young man?” She asks secondly, somehow both accusatory and polite.
“Where’s Jack?” Sawyer blurts out, his frown creasing his face.
“Did Dr. Shephard send you over to look at the place?” She offers this explanation with a pleasant note of hope, more than happy to have that be the reason. “Are you a friend of his?”
“I’m his boyfriend,” Sawyer snaps. He can’t believe this is happening and his body seems to agree with his mind. Suddenly he feels like his head is swimming and he can’t catch his breath. He turns away from the realtor and tries to focus on the huge windows on the opposite end of the loft.
If he’d had his bearings he would’ve played it sweet and suave right from the start, agreeing why yes, I am a friend of Jack’s and softly needling all the details from her that he could in order to figure out what was going on. It’s far too late for that; he’s fallen over the edge.
“What the hell is going on here?” He demands loudly. His two steps toward the woman must seem menacing because she scampers back into the hallway, putting her arms out to protect the pair of prospective renters behind her. “What are you doing?”
“Sir, I’m merely showing the apartment.” She explains calmly, with that careful voice someone would use when trying to talk a gun out of someone’s hands. She slowly lifts something from the planner she clutches in her hands and extends her business card out to him. He takes it from her roughly. “Any other questions should probably be directed to your boyfriend.”
The last part of her statement rings with a mixture of condescension and pity. Sawyer glares at her viciously before pushing past her and out of the loft, not caring what feathers he ruffles by elbowing his way out.
“Wow…what a way to get dumped.” He hears the man say with a rude snicker; his girlfriend, wife, whatever, shushes him with an admonishment. Sawyer rushes for the stairs, not about to stand there and listen to them. His face burns with embarrassment, dismay and anger and his eyes sting with tears. By the time he reaches the ground floor those tears are falling freely, searing their way down his cheeks, his choked back sobs tightening sharply in his chest and making it hard to breathe.
Sawyer leans against the wall, his forehead against cool concrete, and clamps his eyes shut, trying to make it all stop.
“Fuck…” he breathes out, wincing as if in pain. He stands up straight and wipes his face, then turns and puts his back to the wall. He looks back up the steep flights of stairs, back up toward Jack’s apartment, and is overwhelmed with the immensity of what he has just lost. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!”
He doesn’t know what to do now.
He’s never been the one left behind.
*******
“The deal’s off.”
Hibbs takes one look at Sawyer’s scowl and turns around, walks back into his apartment. He leaves Sawyer standing in the open doorway.
“Did you hear me? It’s off. Everything’s shot to hell.”
“Have a little lover’s quarrel, did you? Or is this another attack of your so-called conscience.”
“He knows.” Sawyer states. “Or I’m assuming that’s what him fucking moving and not telling me means.”
“Come on in, Sawyer…take a load off.” Hibbs pours himself a drink and sits down on his couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table.
“Are you not understandin’ me or somethin’? Are you a fucking idiot?” Sawyer walks inside, towering over his partner on the couch. “Three months you’ve been harpin’ on me to get this clinched and I tell you it’s gone south and you’re just gonna kick back and have a drink.”
“The only one goin’ south is me,” Hibbs grins. “Got a lead on a sweet deal in Tampa.”
“You’re leavin’.” Sawyer shakes his head, disgruntled. “Just like that, you’re gone.”
“Well I sure ain’t gonna sit here and tread water for another three months, if that’s what ya mean,” Hibbs retorts. “You’re the one who blew it, Sawbucks, not me.”
“How are you even gonna go? You ain’t even got any cash, other than that couple thou I gave you this week.” Sawyer points out angrily. Hibbs sits up, depositing his feet back on the floor, and looks up at Sawyer.
“Well see, that’s where you’re wrong. I got me a nice big check for 25 grand with my pretty little name on it.” He takes a sip of his drink and sets it on the table carefully. He then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“How the hell’d you get 25,000 bucks?”
Hibbs holds out the check to Sawyer and waits for Sawyer to unfold it, his face serious but a smug hint of glee in his narrow eyes.
Sawyer falls deathly silent as he looks at the check, the exact same gray and dark blue markings giving away Hibbs’ mysterious benefactor even before he reads the small black type of Jack’s name.
Hibbs stands up and lifts the flimsy paper from Sawyer’s shaking hands and grins.
“I could’ve asked for more, I think, but I was feeling magnanimous.” Hibbs winks and then glances down at the way Sawyer’s hand has expectedly curled tightly into a fist, readying for a hit. “Go ahead, son, but it ain’t gonna change a thing.”
“What did you do.” Sawyer spits out through clenched teeth, rage seething within him as Hibbs sits back down, lounging, relaxing, as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
“Your boy paid me a visit the other day. Right after you. Must’ve followed you here.” Hibbs paints on an overdramatic, whimpering frown. “How’s that for trust…”
“Fuck you. What did you do?”
“More like what did you do. Somehow he knew something wasn’t right and there was no way you were gonna get another dime outta that kid. I tried feeding him a line of b.s., you know, I was your ailing, alkie of an uncle and you were lyin’ to try and get cash to help me out, yada yada, you know how it goes.” Hibbs waves his hand around, bored with the story. “He didn’t buy it. You gotta stop pickin’ smart ones, boy.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“The truth.” Hibbs shrugs. “Or at least a version of the truth.” He chuckles. “And tell you what, just when I thought for sure that he’d go runnin’ to the cops on you, you know what he did?”
“What.”
“Asked me how much it would take for me to let you out of our partnership. How much it would take to get me to leave you alone.” Hibbs lets out a loud guffaw, tears of laughter rising in his eyes. The springs of his beaten up couch squeak as his body moves. “You believe that?”
“He offered you money to…” Sawyer turns away, both his hands going through his hair, pulling it back from his face as he pulls on the strands in stress and frustration. “And you just took it.”
“Of course I took it!” Hibbs replies. “Self-preservation. It's a helluva instinct, ain't it."
"You don't need that cash to survive, you stupid son of a bitch."
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. It’s free money, son! You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Some guy wants to give me 25 grand simply to git, you think I’m gonna pass that up? Hell, my bags are packed and I’m ready to go.”
“Then why ain’t you gone.”
“Loose ends. Ya know how it is,” Hibbs gives him a knowing smile and a wink, the implication that it’s some woman left unsaid. “And I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to you…” It’s a taunt deliberately set to rile Sawyer up. “Tampa’s gonna be fun, too bad you can’t come.”
“Fuck you. I can’t believe you sold me out for so little as 25. What the fuck can you do with 25?”
“More than I can do with nothing, I bet.” Hibbs drains the last of his drink and gets up with a grunt of exertion. “Plenty enough to get me started on some con down there.”
“And you’re just hanging me out to dry.”
“I don’t think he’s turning you in, kiddo, don’t worry.” Hibbs pats him on the shoulder as he walks by and Sawyer shrugs off his touch harshly. “Kinda amazing that he’d shell out those kinda bucks for you after finding out what you done, don’t you think? What a nice guy. One in a mil.” Hibbs jabs and Sawyer grits his teeth, once again fighting back the urge to throw a punch.
“Guess it was a good-bye gift for you just as much as it was for me,” Hibbs adds, filling his glass and then sauntering back to his small living room. Sawyer watches him sit down and lean back into the worn cushions, every passing second growing more angry at Hibbs’ complete lack of remorse for ruining everything.
He stares and stares and Hibbs just ignores him, picking up the remote and turning on his clunker of a television with a self-satisfied smile.
Finally Sawyer can’t hold it back any longer and his arm flies out, connecting with the nearest wall in frustration and anger. His fist dents the drywall, caving it in and sending a spider web of cracks out through the plaster. The pain is intense and he hears something crack but he doesn’t cry out. He just clutches the wall with both hands and breathes out sharply, tears once again holding him hostage.
“Well now, there goes my deposit,” Hibbs comments with a disappointed air. “No mind. I can spare it.”
He doesn’t look at Hibbs again. He hunches his shoulders and heads for the door slowly, defeated and broken.
Hibbs manages one final insult before Sawyer weakly slips out the door.
“I’ll send ya a postcard from Florida, James.”
Hibbs’ laughter chases him down the hall.
*******
Sawyer wanders around the darkness of the city streets for hours. It’s strange how a place so crowded and alive could feel so lonely and dead. Wandering the desolate 10th Avenue stretch of warehouses, gas stations, and rental parking lots that hide in the shadows of Hell’s Kitchen is one thing but walking 5th at 11th, amongst the hustle and bustle of NYU kids and escapees from Union Square, is another. Yet in both places he feels equally abandoned and alone.
His feet, clad in his pair of worn boots, are starting to ache each time they hit the sidewalk and his hand is throbbing. His fingers are swollen and his middle knuckle is turning a lovely shade of purple. It’s broken and he knows it but he can’t bring himself to care.
The Washington Arch looms straight ahead, a brilliant beacon of white light marking the end of one of the city’s most famous thoroughfares. The park beyond it is full of skateboarders and stoners, the daily droves of students and performers merely ghosts amongst the few stragglers huddled on benches listening to music or simply cutting through to get to the surrounding bars and restaurants.
He finds a five buried in the recesses of his pocket and stops in a dive on Bleecker for a drink, but it doesn’t dull the edges at all, not even a little, like he’d been foolishly hoping it might. But he doesn’t have the cash for another and he’s in no shape and has no desire to charm a drink off of someone else. He heads back out for the street shortly after he’d walked in.
It’s no surprise when he next finds himself standing outside the entrance to St. Vincent’s, looking up at the tall building and trying to gather the courage to go through its doors.
Sawyer knows he would probably be better served to leave quietly. Let Jack go and disappear. It would be wiser to leave the city all together, just in case Jack wakes up one morning soon and decides he needs retribution and heads for the nearest precinct. Rather than standing motionless on 12th Street, he should be sitting on the L out to Bushwick, with the next step being emptying out his pit of an apartment and making for the state line.
But he takes a deep breath and walks into the hospital instead.
“I need to see Jack Shephard.” He says quietly to the woman at triage check-in. She looks back at him blankly. “He’s an intern here. I need to see him. It’s kind of important.” Sawyer falters and swallows hard. “Not kind of. It is important.”
“The interns are on rounds right now, I’m sure,” she explains and Sawyer sighs.
“Could you maybe check?”
“If you’d like to leave me your name, I can try and get a hold of him for you. But in the meantime, if you would take a seat in the waiting room.” She puts a piece of scrap paper and a pen on the counter for him. The pen rolls and Sawyer reaches for it, realizing quickly from the stabbing pain that he won’t be able to write a word even if he wanted to. “Sir, your hand.” She nods to his injury as if perhaps he had been too stupid to notice.
“I know. Can’t you just page him or something?” Sawyer asks. He doesn’t want to give her his name; if Jack knows it’s him, he won’t come.
“I told you I will try to reach him if I can. Would you like to sign in and have someone look at that hand?” She points with her own pen to his swollen fingers and Sawyer shakes his head no sharply.
“No. No thanks.”
“Sir-“
“I don’t got health insurance. But thanks anyway,” he mumbles and walks to the nearest seat. He’s hoping keeping within earshot will shame this woman into actually doing what she has promised. He gets one phone call upstairs immediately, but for the next hour she makes no attempt to try again. When he looks at her questioningly, all she says is that she had someone send a page to his beeper. She doesn’t seem willing to extend herself any further than that.
Sawyer doesn’t flip through any of the health or parenting magazines that are laying about and the flicker of the television is nothing but a slight distraction out of the corner of his eye. He sits, unmoving, his hands in his lap, and waits.
He hears Jack’s voice before he sees him and stands up, expectant. When he rounds the corner, moving en masse with the other six interns, the nurse Sawyer had asked so long ago to locate him looks up, directly at Jack, and goes back to work.
“Jack.” Sawyer calls loudly and they all stop talking and look at him. Jack looks away. The older doctor, who Sawyer vaguely remembers as Dr. Hegarty, starts speaking again and they continue on their way. Sawyer walks to the counter and gestures toward Jack, frustrated. “Thanks for nothing.”
“I’m sorry sir, it’s a big hospital. I don’t actually know your friend personally, I wouldn’t know him by sight.”
“Well that’s him.” Sawyer mutters. She sighs with the patience and practice of someone who deals with difficult people all the time and pushes back on her wheeled chair. “Let me go see if I can interrupt for a moment.”
Sawyer knows he should wait, let Jack come to him when he’s given permission, but he follows the nurse down the hallway. He pauses a few feet away as she breaks into their discussion. She speaks and she points and Jack looks again, shakes his head.
“Just tell him I’m busy at the moment.” He can hear Jack say quite clearly.
“Jack, please.” Sawyer says, his voice carrying down the hall easily. Jack bites his lip and glances at the ground.
“You can go, Jack,” Dr. Hegarty excuses him with a slight smile. Some of the other interns shoot Jack reproachful looks; the price of being teacher’s pet. Jack shakes his head again, murmuring something about how he should stay. Dr. Hegarty just nods toward Sawyer once more, this time saying something that could either be interpreted as insulting or understanding. If he knew the older doctor at all, he might’ve been able to tell. “The hospital can survive without you for five minutes. Go attend to your friend.”
Jack reluctantly backs out of the circle of interns and turns slowly toward Sawyer. He takes his time coming to him.
“What are you doing here, Sawyer?” He asks, his lips settling into an incredibly tight frown that turns his whole face rigid and cold.
“I didn’t get you in trouble, did I?” Sawyer asks nervously. Jack fixes him with a flat stare. “I’m sorry. I had to see you…I had to explain-“
“There’s nothing to explain.” Jack cuts him off.
“There damn well is, Jack. You don’t understand-“
“I understand just fine, James.” Jack snaps. “And I’m sorry you didn’t get the big payday you were hoping for. All that hard work for nothing. Must be awful.”
“Jack, you n’ me…it wasn’t…It wasn’t a job. It wasn’t about the con. Everything that happened was-“
“Was what? Real?”
Sawyer closes his eyes. He’s never heard such bitterness in Jack’s voice before; he’s the one who put it there.
“Save it. I don’t believe a single thing you say.” Jack turns to go and Sawyer grabs his arm.
“Why’d you do it?” He demands. Jack’s shoes squeak on the linoleum as he tries to pull his arm from Sawyer’s grasp but Sawyer holds tight. “Why did you pay Hibbs to dump me as his partner?”
Jack doesn’t tell him why but Sawyer can no longer read him. He can’t understand. He’s made him into a stranger.
“If you found out about me and what I was doing, why in the world would you…that’s a lot of money. Why the hell would you throw it away.”
“Maybe I thought I could get you out of it, Sawyer.”
“Out of what.”
“The game. The con. Whatever the hell it is that you’re in.” Jack folds his arms over his chest. Sawyer stares at him, his eyes wide, still not fully getting the why.
“That guy said he owned you, that you owed him. Now you don’t. You’re free to do what you want. Maybe you can start over.” Jack’s eyes drift over him but Sawyer doesn’t feel like Jack is truly seeing him. “Somewhere else.” He adds quietly.
“I want to start over here. With you.” His openness is his desperation. Now is no time to hide anything.
“Well you can’t.” Jack bites out. Sawyer reaches for him again, instinctively using his left hand. He winces as his fingers close over Jack’s and Jack looks down. “What did you do to your hand?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sawyer says quickly. It hurts to hold him but he doesn’t let go. Jack eases his fingers off and looks at them. Sawyer reminds himself that this simple touch doesn’t mean much. He has to, because his heart skips and his breath catches, anticipating the resurrection of something supposedly killed.
Jack lets go of Sawyer’s hand and then glances down the hallway. His group has already moved on. He sighs and then looks around.
“Come on.” He mumbles and leads Sawyer into the nearest open examination room. “Sit down.” Jack orders, pointing to the table. The white paper crinkles underneath Sawyer’s weight as he sits on the cushion. He feels vulnerable with his feet not even able to touch the floor.
Jack doesn’t say anything more as he rifles through the cabinets and finds what he needs. He sets a couple of things down on the counter and with cool, detached efficiency goes about splinting Sawyer’s finger. No words are exchanged during the entire procedure; every time Sawyer opens his mouth to say anything, he knows it’s not right. Jack never warns him of what pain is coming and doesn’t ask him if he’s okay. He just does what needs to be done.
“This should do it. I should have done x-rays but I know you can’t afford them. It doesn’t look too bad but you should go to a clinic or something tomorrow and have it checked properly.” He pauses, smiling bitterly to himself. “But I know you won’t.”
“Jack…”
“Aspirin will help with the pain and the swelling, you can take a prescriptive dose of 800 mg three times a day. I can’t write you a script so you’re going to have to make do.” Jack says all of this without looking at Sawyer once. Even in such a small room he stays far away, busying himself with straightening up.
“I didn’t come here to fix my stupid finger, Doc.” Sawyer states. “Would you please at least stop for a damn second and look at me?” Jack stops quickly but is slower to turn around and face him. “I didn’t want to do this. When I started I didn’t know…I love you. I fell in love with you. I just…I got in too deep, I owed too much, I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice. And you chose, Sawyer.” Jack replies tersely.
“You gotta understand-“
“To me it’s just money. It’s only a part of a trust fund that I did nothing to deserve. I would’ve given more. I would’ve given you anything you needed if you’d been honest and asked.”
“Jack-“
“I would’ve done it because I loved you.” Tears spring to Jack’s brown eyes and he looks away, not wanting Sawyer to see. “But for you it was all an act. I never meant more to you than cold hard cash.”
“That’s not true.”
“I can fix your finger but I can’t fix your life. And I’m not about to let you keep breaking mine.” Jack starts to leave but hesitates in the doorway. His words are choked but Sawyer knows he means them, knows it because they cut deep and sharp. “I don’t want any part of you, of this, anymore.”
“Please don’t say that,” Sawyer interjects quickly but it doesn’t make a difference. Jack gives him one long last look and blinks away his tears.
“I never want to see you again. Leave me alone.”
He walks out and Sawyer can only stare at the empty space where he once was.
Jack loved him but it didn’t matter. He’d never heard Jack say anything he meant more than his parting words.
I never want to see you again. Leave me alone.
Jack, cold, broken, crying, will be the last memory he has of the only person he’s ever loved. A perfect picture of Sawyer’s cold-hearted actions.
He never had to witness it before. He’s left countless people in such a state. Robbed of their money, their dignity, and much, much worse, their hearts.
The weight of his regret lands so hard upon him that for a moment he forgets how to breathe. Too late, he scrambles from his seat and races into the hallway, shouting Jack’s name.
But Jack is long gone.
TBC
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