Scars & Stitches Part Five - Too Soon To Tell
Series: Scars & Stitches
Title: Too Soon To Tell
Part: 5/6
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer, Jack/Sayid
Rating: R
Spoilers: None - AU
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
The crowd roars as the gates clang open and the throng of horses comes thundering out, bright swirls of color and flashes of sleek, shining muscle. Everyone looks forward raptly, following the race down the first straightaway and around the bend. Everyone, that is, except Sawyer.
He stares at Hibbs - the din of cheering voices, hooves pounding against hard dirt, it all fades away. On some days, days like this, Sawyer doesn’t know whom he hates more. Himself, or the man he had followed here.
Hibbs turns to him with a crackshot smile, his arm raised in victory, racing form clutched in hand. He guffaws and reaches across the two seats separating them, patting Sawyer on the cheek with his open palm.
“Buck up, Sawyer! We just won!”
“You just won, you mean,” Sawyer mutters, turning away and facing toward the yellow-brown track, the green midway, and the blue sky threatening to turn gray with rain. He kicks at the metal seat in front of him with his cowboy boot and frowns. Hibbs only chuckles.
“I’ll share my winnins,” Hibbs promises worthlessly. “Here, you can have ‘em all.” Hibbs hands him the paper and Sawyer shoves it back. “Naw, I insist.”
Sawyer takes it reluctantly, eying it, and then realizes its true worth.
“This is only gonna get me twenty bucks,” Sawyer snaps, glaring at him. Hibbs grins.
“Said we won, didn’t say we won much,” Hibbs chuckles. “Slow day at the races, boy.” Sawyer drops it to the ground, not in any rush to collect. Hibbs shrugs and takes a drink, accidentally spilling some iced tea on his khaki-colored suit. “Well now I’ve gone and done it. I ain’t gonna pass for no gentleman now.”
“You mean you were passin’ for one before?” Sawyer snorts with contempt. “’Sides, this ain’t Churchill Downs, there ain’t no gentlemen here.” He gestures around them to the occupants of the half-empty bleachers. “Only washed up white trash like us.”
“Don’t think the fine folk here gonna appreciate you puttin’ your shit on them, Sawbucks.” Hibbs replies, frowning scornfully. The humor drains from his voice, no longer softening his insults with a cushion of good cheer. “But I guess since you won’t be advertisin’ for Tampa Bay Downs anytime soon, I guess it don’t matter much what you think.”
Hibbs gets up, patting down his lapel with a napkin, and jerks his head toward the stairs. Sawyer grunts and follows his lead, picking up his half-eaten deli sandwich and tossing it into the garbage as they pass from the hot sunshine to dank shade.
“Are you ever gonna get around to doin’ any real work today, Hibbs, or are you just gonna piss me off?” Sawyer asks over Hibbs’ shoulder as the other man strides ahead, carefree and careless. Sawyer’s question goes by ignored so he reaches out with one hand and grabs Hibbs by the upper arm, pulling him to a harsh, jerking stop. “Lookit, Hibbs, I’m tired of dicking around down here, sitting with my thumb up my ass while you go off and charm some middle aged woman and her miniature poodle. We’re either doin’ this thing, or we’re not. Which is it.”
Hibbs grips Sawyer’s fingers and one by one pries them from his arm before flicking his hand away like an annoying insect.
“Who, if my memory recalls, sat around for months while you played house with the doctor?” Hibbs raises his eyebrow. Sawyer looks away at the mention of Jack, trying not to let it bother him. A fist tightens around his heart anyway, like it always does whenever he even thinks of what happened in New York. “And that my dear friend, was you being a self-indulgent wuss-ass. This is business. This one needs to be handled delicately. If you don’t trust me-“
“Of course I don’t trust you.” Sawyer snaps. Hibbs chuckles.
“I don’t mean trust like ‘babysit-my-kids, water-my-houseplants-while-I’m-gone’ kinda trust, I mean the ‘he knows how to get the job done right’ kinda trust, Sawyer. And lord knows, no matter what else I done, I at least ‘ave earned that from ya.”
“Oh you have, have you,” Sawyer challenges. Hibbs lips curl into a menacingly wicked smile.
“Sawyer, you came down here looking for me. You don’t like what I’m doin’, fine. Ain’t no one keepin’ ya here. I don’t need you.” Hibbs pats Sawyer on the shoulder condescendingly as he moves past him, making to leave. He’s a few lengths away before Sawyer turns in his direction, speaking to Hibbs’ receding figure.
“Except you do.”
Hibbs pauses, turns around slowly. His eyebrows knit in confusion and he spits out his words in impatience.
“Do what.”
“Need me. If you could use any old shill, you would’ve. You could’ve. But you didn’t. You asked me.” Sawyer walks toward Hibbs, who shrugs off his words.
“You were there. It was easier.”
“That ain’t true and you know it. The only way this mark’s goin’ down is if I come into play.”
“You needed an in, pal. You showed up with your tail between your legs and your little heart all broken into pieces and expected me to carry you through this deal.” Hibbs mocks him, pretending to brush tears from his eyes, pouting. “She ain’t met you yet.”
“Then find some other patsy to run your con. But there ain’t no one got the weight I do.”
“Sawyer, you ain’t got nothin’. You’re nothin’ but a Joe Buck. Tall, blonde, and stupid.”
“That make you Ratso then?” Sawyer points out snidely.
“Ratso had the smarts,” Hibbs taps his temple.
“Ratso wound up dead.” Sawyer growls. Hibbs shrugs, unbothered.
“And on that point, our paths will diverge.” Hibbs takes out a package of cigarettes from the front pocket of Sawyer’s shirt. He lights one up and puts the package in his own pocket. “Don’t forget, Sawbucks. It’s you who did the lettin’ down in New York. You owe me. It ain’t the other way ‘round.” He turns on his heel, sauntering away. “Don’t ever forget that.” He tosses back over his shoulder.
Sawyer doesn’t bother following. He knows his place without having to walk two paces behind.
*******
Sawyer ignores the grumbling of his stomach and the sting of the cold wind on his skin. His shirt is wearing thin and his jacket barely helps his cause, but he pulls it tighter around his body anyway, wrapping an arm around his midsection to hold it closed. It’s more a gesture of comfort than warmth.
He glances down at the address scrawled messily in faded pencil on the torn scrap of notebook paper in his hand. It’s rumpled and stained and smudged, two weeks worth of folding and unfolding, wavering in indecision.
He stares at the brownstone across the street, matching the house number to the one on the paper again.
He’s only stalling. He knows it’s the right place.
He knows, but it doesn’t change anything. He can’t make himself cross the street and walk up the steps, knock on the door.
Sawyer turns away blindly and nearly gets mowed down by a middle-aged woman with a double-wide stroller. He steps back on shaky feet, his boot catching the edge of the black iron arched fencing that form six inch high square barriers around every tree on the street, protecting the barren, stomped flat dirt that probably nourished flowers earlier in the year. Now the fences do nothing but trip people up. He stumbles over the edge and has to steady himself against the sturdy trunk of the tree. His hand comes away dirty from the rough bark.
He disregards the fences’ intention to keep him out and digs his heel into the earth in frustration, not caring that he’s on the wrong side of things yet again.
Out of the corner of his eye, movement captures his attention and he stops, then quickly steps behind the tree. It’s too thin to hide him but it’s beside the point. The point is that he makes the attempt anyway; too ashamed to be brazen, too ashamed to be noticed. The effort to hide, much like his refusal to take ten steps across the pavement that separates him from Jack like a dangerous moat, proves he’s even more of a coward than he ever imagined.
But he’s not too much of a coward to look. His breath catches in his throat that way it always does, the reaction equal parts relief and disappointment that the person he sees is not Jack.
It’s the same man again, the one from yesterday, and the day before. Curly, jet black hair and rich, dark skin, with a body that flows like silk and the self-assured prowling gait of a jaguar. He moves like a man who could easily dance a tango or stealthily defeat an enemy.
Sawyer doesn’t know who he is, exactly. He only knows that through Jack’s front window, unbarred by curtains, he’s watched this man smile at Jack in the warm light of their living room. He’s watched this man kiss Jack and hold him in an embrace that spoke nothing of danger but everything of love.
Today, as he walks down the street alone, he is wearing a dark green dress shirt and a black suit that shows off not only his fine form but also his wealth and his good taste. He carries a black leather briefcase and his shoes shine even in the dull grayness of the late fall day. Whoever he is, he’s more on Jack’s level. He’s the kind of person Jack should be with.
Sawyer despises him.
He never should’ve come back here, to New York. He should’ve known better. But broke and broken, all he could think about was finding Jack. Hibbs had screwed him over, taken the money and run, and Sawyer had turned around and bolted for New York without even thinking about what he was doing. It was instinct. Jack was home. Jack was safe.
Was.
It wasn’t until he had stumbled to Jack’s doorstep that the fear and the regret bowled him over. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t make things right.
He found the nearest liquor store, spent the last few dollars he had on a bottle of whiskey, and drank it all so fast his head spun. When he was throwing up against the wall of a Duane Reade on West 4th, he made acquaintance with a kindly officer from the NYPD and spent the next 24 hours drying out in a holding cell. Even then he feared that he had yet to hit rock bottom. There was still further to fall.
He’s still falling now, yet to reach the end of his abyss.
Sawyer watches Jack’s new…lover, boyfriend, partner?…turn and walk around the corner, disappearing from sight. He lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slumps against the tree.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sawyer moves.
It isn’t until he rounds the corner and spots the man a block ahead that he realizes what he’s doing. Somewhere deep down inside he knows it’s more than wrong, but he’s past that now. There’s only Jack and everything else…and he can’t turn and face everything else.
So he keeps looking straight ahead, moving straight ahead. He follows the man until he catches a cab and heads uptown. Sawyer’s pockets are too empty to follow and he watches the yellow car blend into the sea of traffic until it’s no longer possible to tell which car is his.
Pathetic. He thinks to himself. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, what he hopes to accomplish. Why does he want to know who Jack may be in love with now? The details will only make it worse for him, not better. It’s a masochistic urge that makes his heart twist like someone is wringing it with both hands. But he tells himself that maybe he wants to protect Jack, to make sure that this man isn’t going to hurt him too.
He tries to balance the self-destructive jealousy and the selfless worry in his head, but his demons always taunt him, reminding him it’s far more the former than the latter.
When he pickpockets a man’s wallet and lifts his credit card later that day, he ignores his conscience screaming at him to stop. A good night’s rest and a hot shower in a hotel room rather than a dingy mattress in a homeless shelter do him wonders. The haircut and the new suit make him feel stronger, more confident.
He makes sure he’s nothing like himself when he goes to Jack’s the next day, and his shoes are just as shiny as the man’s he’s shadowing when he falls into step behind him.
*******
“Assad?” Sawyer sets his hand on the man’s shoulder firmly. He has a fake, warm smile plastered on his face that he quickly and purposely drops when the man turns around, confused. Sawyer pretends to be flustered. “Ah, hell, I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“That is perfectly all right.” His reply is polite and smooth, delivered with a cool British accent and a hint of an amused smile. He starts to swivel back on his stool toward the bar but Sawyer keeps talking.
“You look exactly like an old roommate a mine, I really beg your pardon.” Sawyer leans against the bar, signaling for the bartender’s attention. The typical Abercrombie pretty fledgling actor turned barkeep flashes Sawyer a brilliantly polished white smile but Sawyer ignores it. He’s not here to flirt with the staff, not tonight. “I’ll have a gin and tonic?” He angles his body toward the man to his left and glances downward at the nearly empty glass in front of him. “Can I get you something?”
The man arches an eyebrow and levels him with a stare, a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. That same smile plays at his lips, concealing a straightforward laugh.
“I’m fine, but thank you,” he responds. Sawyer nods and then disregards his refusal, telling the bartender he’ll also take another of whatever his new friend is drinking. Sawyer boldly sinks onto the stool beside him and wraps his hand around the cool tumbler of alcohol placed in front of him.
“Do you find this method of introduction works well for you?” The man asks him, bluntly but without malice. Sawyer grins as he sets aside the piece of lime that came teetering on the edge of his glass.
“Sometimes.” He takes a drink, eying the man beside him as he is handed another snifter of brandy. Setting his drink down with heavy touch on the smooth bartop, Sawyer rattles the ice in his glass and musters up what he has always imagined to be his most sexually inviting gaze. It’s worked plenty of times before, on both men and women. “My name’s Danny.” Sawyer holds out his hand. “And I know you ain’t Assad…”
“Sayid,” he obliges with a slight nod of his head. He still gives Sawyer the feeling that he is secretly laughing at him, his dark eyes dancing in the low light of the bar.
“Nice to meet you, Sayid.” Sawyer smiles and lets his eyes wander over the well-dressed crowd, settled neatly at their tables and high backed booths beneath the old-fashioned tin ceiling. The warm glow of the subtle lamps hanging overhead and the soothing murmur of corporate talk and discreet romances, clinking glasses and rubbing elbows, makes Sawyer feel more intimate with Sayid already. This is certainly no dance club in Chelsea or happening hangout in the Lower East. This is not a place to pick someone up, but a place to take someone you’ve decided to keep. No one talks to one another here unless they want to be spoken to.
Sayid slides the drink Sawyer offered him a little off to the side and continues nourishing the drink he already had. He throws Sawyer a cursory glance as he asks him a question.
“Dare I ask…did you ever truly live with a man named Assad or was that pure fabrication?”
“Oh, I did once, for a stint in Boston, but I lied about him lookin’ like you,” Sawyer replies, focusing his attention back on him, then takes another drink. He leans toward him. “You’re a lot prettier.”
“Am I?” This time Sayid actually does chuckle, a throaty murmur slipping from his lips. “Well…Danny…” Sawyer is caught off guard by Sayid’s pause, and he can tell that Sayid doesn’t buy his fake name for an instant. For a split second he wonders if Sayid already knows who he is - had Jack told him, shown him his picture? “I suppose I should tell you that I am in a relationship. We wouldn’t want you wasting your time, after all.”
Sayid turns in his seat and he surveys the rest of the room. With his drink in his hand, he sticks out his pointer finger and gestures to the room practically full of handsome businessmen.
“I’m sure there must be many other eligible men here in need of a drink, if you are in the mood to take the risk and ask them.” He looks Sawyer up and down. “Something tells me you are.”
“Are you waitin’ for your boyfriend now?” Sawyer inquires, edging closer and ignoring Sayid’s suggestion to move on. “’Cause there ain’t no harm is merely talkin’, unless your boyfriend is the jealous type.”
“He can be jealous…” Sayid acknowledges in an off-hand fashion. He turns and sets his drink back down delicately. “But so can I. It is human nature, after all.” He shrugs, the idea of this imperfection not bothering him. “I know I would not enjoy Jack accepting drinks and conversation from a handsome stranger, so I imagine he wouldn’t be delighted at the prospect of me doing the same.”
“That’s his name? Jack?” Sawyer knows the words sound deflated and defeated as he tries to keep up his façade. He hadn’t quite realized until then that he held out hope he’d misinterpreted what he saw between them. He hadn’t quite realized he was that much of a fool to try to hope against assured reality. He can’t help the bitterness from seeping into his voice. “Well…ain’t that just too bad for me. Jack’s a lucky fellow.”
“I’ll make sure to tell him so, I assure you,” Sayid replies with a coy smile.
“He need to be reminded?”
“Most men do, do they not?”
Sawyer nods in agreement, knowing one such man all too well. He looks at Sayid and catches him taking a nonchalant glance at his Cartier watch.
“He gonna meet you here?” Sawyer discards his slinky lounging stance and stands up straight, panicking at the thought. He hadn’t imagined Jack being free at this hour of the day, but suddenly he realizes that he wouldn’t know. Jack could have quit medicine and become a waiter, a cab driver, a stripper - he almost laughs through his fear at that last ludicrous thought. Jack would be the worst stripper ever, all shy and blushing.
“Not tonight. I am merely killing time until an evening appointment…and what are you smiling about?” Sayid asks, gentle humor in his voice as he peers at Sawyer over the rim of his glass.
“Oh, nothin’,” Sawyer downs the last of his drink in one long swig. He takes out a twenty from the expensive wallet that is not his and lays it on the bar. “I s’pose I should let you be.”
“It was nice to meet you, Daniel.” Sayid extends his hand and Sawyer shakes it slowly. Sayid’s nails are slightly long and manicured with precision, and he has an understated silver band on his right hand. Sawyer notices this because it is not on his left. His hands are smooth like shea butter, except his fingertips, which feel slightly calloused. Sawyer never would’ve pegged him for a guitar player. Something decidedly elegant, like piano, maybe.
Jack plays piano. Thin long fingers dancing over ivory keys like they’d dance over his body, loving and tender.
“It’s Danny,” Sawyer replies, his smile growing tight as a knot starts to form in the pit of his stomach. Meeting Sayid has only made him feel worse. He raises the timbre of his voice and lays on the twang, overcompensating. “I ain’t nowhere near serious ‘nuff for Daniel.”
“Your smile may not be serious, Daniel, but your eyes give you away,” Sayid says this quietly and non-threateningly, in a casual way that makes Sawyer do a double-take, unsure of what he said. Sayid isn’t even looking at him. His fingers play along the rim of his glass. Contemplating something for a moment, Sayid then lifts it gingerly and takes the last sip of burgundy liquid, his finger tapping once against the expensive crystal as he sets it down carefully. He adjusts his black tie and the collar of his dark maroon shirt. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I have to go. My client is here.”
Sawyer looks over his shoulder to where a stately looking gentleman has paused in the entryway, his hands in the pockets of his expensive suit as he searches for Sayid. The man looks like he belongs here, like he owns the place and everyone in it. Sawyer glances at Sayid.
“You a lawyer?” Sayid nods in response to Sawyer’s question as he stands up, buttoning the middle front button of his suit coat. Sawyer sighs. “Well, then it’s just as well. Me n’ lawyers never were a good match.” He winks at Sayid and gets up from his stool as well. He stands about five inches taller than Sayid and he straightens up to feel the advantage, as it is the only advantage he seems to have.
“Just as well,” Sayid repeats. “Have a lovely evening, Daniel.”
“You too.” Sayid moves past him, leaving the drink that Sawyer bought for him standing alone on the bar. Rolling his eyes, Sawyer downs it with astonishing speed and settles his tab.
It isn’t until he’s out on the bustling city street that the image clicks and he stops in his tracks.
He’s seen Sayid’s client before. In photographs that never left the moving boxes, stashed away in a storage closet where he was never supposed to see them in the first place.
The man is Jack’s father.
*******
Sawyer walks up the staircase slowly, looking up at the complicated ironwork and marble archway over the entrance. The word knowledge is chiseled into the frieze, and Sawyer tells himself that is why he’s here. It may not be the knowledge offered by the outdated dioramas or the massive dinosaur skeletons reconstructed in the lobby, but he is seeking some kind of truth. Cold hard fact - indisputable and incorruptible.
He pauses before entering, turning to look anywhere but inside. He has to let Jack get far enough ahead that he can trail from a distance. Now, Sawyer can still see him at the security check, close enough that if Jack only turned in his direction, he’d certainly be found out. Sawyer takes another step backward, moving partially into the shadows.
Dried, dead leaves dance across the sidewalk below; the trees rise barren from behind the brick wall surrounding Central Park, just across the street. Everything looks empty.
The three banners that hang from the façade of the building flap loudly in the breeze. A few people shield themselves from the wind by standing beside the large statue of Teddy Roosevelt that stands guard over the sidewalk and steps. They’re using the large base as a wall against the autumn chill until they can successfully flag a cab. Sawyer imagines that the presidential outdoorsman would scoff at their weak constitutions, but Sawyer can’t blame them. He’s never done anything but take the easy route.
When he finally walks inside, Jack and his father are already walking toward the first exhibit. Sayid walks a step behind them, off to the side, deferring his place by Jack’s side to the elder man. Christian is pointing at something and speaking in what Sawyer can only assume is an authoritative, intelligent voice. Jack and Sayid nod respectfully, listening attentively to whatever he has to say.
He tries to keep tabs on their whereabouts as the lady behind the counter tries to explain suggested admission fees, but he’s not as talented at stalking as he is at conning. One minute they’re in his line of vision and the next they’re gone, and he has no idea which way they went. He forks over the full 15 bucks and hurries forward, but it’s another hour and forty-five minutes before he sees Jack again.
When he does find him, he’s in the Ocean Life hall, standing on the second story walkway, in front of the Andoros Coral Reef diorama. Sayid is reading something from a booklet and every once in awhile Christian interjects something, pointing out a feature of the serene island-scape depicted before them.
Sawyer watches openly, caught off guard by stumbling across them accidentally. He was sure that he wouldn’t see them again and his day’s pursuit would come to naught. But there Jack is, leaning against the black metal railing, looking every inch perfection in a pair of black pants and a button down shirt the color of the ocean. This is the closest Sawyer’s been to him since he had come back, with no glass or brick separating them. If he shouted out his name, Jack would hear. He would look.
He would look anyway, apparently.
Sawyer’s heart drops out of his chest when he suddenly realizes that he’s no longer just staring at Jack. Jack is staring back. It takes every ounce of courage in his body to hold his gaze. All he really wants to do is turn and run.
He stands incredibly still as Jack excuses himself quietly from his company and walks to the stairs. The distance kills him, the long walk around the circumference of the room to the staircase allowing a dreadful anticipation to build. Finally Sawyer wills his feet to move and meets Jack halfway across the room.
“What are you doing here?” Jack asks, his lips in a tight frown. He is pale, almost ashen, like he’s seen a ghost. But his eyes are ablaze. Sawyer’s breath leaves him; somehow he had forgotten this, how beautiful Jack is, how perfectly everything. Sawyer takes him all in, the urge to reach out and touch him overpoweringly strong. He’s so close, so right there. Finally.
Sawyer opens his mouth to speak but he can’t find his voice. Jack glances up toward his father and Sayid, then grabs Sawyer’s arm. He pulls him underneath the walkway of the second floor. The riot of life and color of the coral reef lights up the wall behind them, revealing what is hidden beneath the calm surface up above.
“Jack…” Sawyer starts, wincing, as Jack’s grip grows harsh on his arm. Jack snaps his hand away, pushing Sawyer free of his grasp, but Sawyer knows he probably left a bruise. He couldn’t care less.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack demands again. Sawyer tries not to notice that Jack’s bottom lip is trembling and his hands are shaking slightly. He ignores the fact that his hands are doing the same.
“I’m back in New York.” Sawyer says this and then hesitates. He sounds stupid. In all his imaginings of what he would say when the time came to talk, none of them began with a statement of the crushingly obvious. He looks up at the huge model of the blue whale that hangs from the center of the white criss-crossing arches of the ceiling, wishing it would fall and crush him, put him out of his misery.
“I can see that.”
“I’m sorry for running into you like this.”
Jack laughs bitterly.
“What do you need?” He asks cynically. Sawyer stares at him, dumbfounded.
“What do you…I don’t need anything, I…”
“Oh come on, Sawyer. You expect me to believe that? You just happen to be at this museum, of all places, on the same day as I am?” His voice rises higher, louder, and a woman nearby moves away. Jack subdues himself, his voice dropping low and tight. “You don’t even like natural history.”
“I like all kinds a history,” Sawyer replies. Jack snorts and Sawyer scowls. He shoves one hand in his pocket and rubs the side of this neck with the other, trying to think of the right thing to say. “It’s good to see you.”
“Forgive me if I can’t say the same.” His words are cold and clipped. The fire is slowly dampened in his eyes, his passionate anger settling into icy rage. “Just tell me what you want so I can go.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Sawyer insists. Jack is disbelieving. “It’s true.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I wanted…needed, “ Sawyer catches himself. “Needed to talk to you.” Jack crosses his arms in front of his chest and glances upward. Sayid and his father are still talking, directly above them, out of sight and unaware, but so very close. He licks his bottom lip and then bites it, looking at Sawyer expectantly.
“So talk.”
Sawyer fumbles, jarred by Jack’s cold stare.
“I…” Sawyer looks around, helpless. “I met your boyfriend the other day.” Jack raises an eyebrow and Sawyer can tell he’s trying to withhold his surprise, to remain indifferent. “Sayid, right?”
Jack’s eyebrow drops and a look of recognition dawns on his face.
“You’re the handsome Southerner with the bad pickup lines.” Jack shakes his head in dismay, understanding now. He chuckles sardonically.
“He told you ‘bout me, huh.”
“We don’t keep things from each other.”
“Then how come he didn’t recognize me?” Sawyer challenges. “I would think you might’ve mentioned it.”
“If by it you mean you, trying to use me for my money, then yeah, I mentioned it. But I threw out or sold everything I had that reminded me of you,” Jack states flatly. “Not much left to show him.”
“Yeah.” Sawyer looks down at the dark blue carpet, letting his hair fall into his eyes. In the silence Sawyer can hear the soft cooing voice of the narrator of the video playing on the large monitor across the room. After a moment he takes a deep breath and raises his head back up. He pushes the messy strands back behind his ear. Jack is looking everywhere but at him. “Seems like he’s pretty good friends with your pop.”
There’s an implied accusation there, suggesting perhaps Sayid’s not as upfront as Jack would like to think he is. Sawyer knows Jack hears it. He ignores it.
“He took over as our family lawyer about two years ago when ours retired,” Jack explains tiredly.
“Your daddy know his attorney is screwing his son?” Sawyer asks bluntly. Jack smiles at Sawyer’s attempt to offend. There is delight in his next statement.
“He’s the one who introduced us.” Jack pauses before continuing, letting this sink in with Sawyer. “He wanted to limit the availability of my trust fund after what happened. Turns out the idiocy of giving away money made the coming out seem like nothing. I guess it really is all relative.” Jack smiles but it’s as sarcastic and dishonest as all the ones previous. “Sayid convinced him to calm down, and then my father convinced me to take Sayid out.”
“Convinced him to keep tabs on you, more like. Keep you in line.”
“Not everyone is as cynical and twisted as you, Sawyer,” Jack retorts cuttingly. “I can trust Sayid.”
“Well ain’t that a happy little story,” Sawyer mumbles, dropping his head. He can feel Jack’s eyes burning into him and after a moment Jack speaks like he had finally come up with the perfectly awful thing to say.
“So, really, I should thank you,” Jack states, though he hardly sounds gracious.
“For what?” Sawyer’s brow furrows in puzzlement.
“If it weren’t for you, I never would’ve come out to my father. I never would’ve met Sayid. And I thank god everyday I met Sayid.” Sawyer knows Jack is trying to hurt him and he tries not to let it show that it’s working. He can’t get upset; he does deserve it, after all.
“Well. I’m glad somethin’ good came from it.” He says quietly, his voice trembling. “Seems like you’ve got it all worked out…or your father does, anyway.”
“My father-“
“Your father was your worst enemy, Jack.” Sawyer snaps, his resentment getting the better of him. “Now he’s here visiting, having meetings with Sayid - without you, I might add - and running your life all over again. I’m surprised you haven’t moved back to L.A.”
Jack is surprisingly silent in response.
“You’re moving back to L.A.” Sawyer realizes, the words coming in a slow sigh, his shoulders slumping. Jack averts his gaze and Sawyer thinks he almost looks ashamed. “Jack…why would you…? After all you’ve done to get away…”
“Turns out there wasn’t really anything to get away from,” Jack replies, facing him, the trace of shame dissipating and replaced with anger. “Unlike here, apparently.”
“Jack…” Sawyer reaches for him but Jack jerks away sharply like he’s been burned with a hot iron. “Don’t do this.”
Sawyer takes a step forward; Jack takes a step back.
“Don’t do what, Sawyer? Don’t you dare pretend you care. Don’t even.” Jack holds out a hand to warn him against coming closer. He takes a deep breath, refusing to let Sawyer make him lose control. “Sayid’s been dividing his time between N.Y. and L.A….it’s better if I just move back and-“
“And what? Live someone else’s life?”
“Well I don’t much like mine!” Jack exclaims loudly. Some people across the hall look toward them and Sawyer grabs Jack, pulls him back against the wall, into the darker shadows of the already dim room. He doesn’t want Sayid and Christian to look down, to notice, to interrupt. He cradles Jack’s face in his hands, trying to get Jack to look at him. But Jack closes his eyes and struggles to get away.
“Please, Jack…just stop. Stop. Look at me.” Jack starts to calm down underneath Sawyer’s touch, his thumbs rubbing circles against his clean shaven cheeks. “C’mon, just…look at me. Please?”
Jack inhales sharply and looks up, blinking. His hands find Sawyer’s wrists and he tries to pry Sawyer’s fingers away from his face, but his eyes lock with Sawyer’s, and Sawyer can’t help it. He leans forward, capturing Jack’s lips with his.
It’s just as he remembered, that perfect sensation that feels more than right.
And Jack gives into it, for one impossible moment. Sawyer kisses him desperately. If only he could understand. If he could feel what Sawyer felt, know what was in his heart…
Jack breaks away, tears brimming in his eyes.
“I loved you, Sawyer.” He whispers brokenly. “I loved you and you…you…”
“I know I did, Jack, but I didn’t mean it. I was in over my head and I was scared and I-“
“It’s too late, Sawyer. It’s just…it’s too late.” Jack shoves Sawyer away, ignoring his grasping hands as they clutch at the air, trying to keep him from leaving. Jack stalks off, wiping away his tears.
Sawyer stands there and watches him go, the feel of Jack’s kiss still on his lips. It feels like hope.
*******
“Sawyer?”
It takes him a moment to recognize the sound of his own name, he’s so lost in his thoughts. He looks up from his writing, his pen still clutched in his hand and poised mid-sentence, his word left unfinished.
A girl is standing a few feet away at the take out counter, a couple of dollar bills in her hand. She abandons her intent to order coffee and takes the few steps over toward his table. Sawyer struggles to remember her name, knowing that there is recognition buried somewhere in his memory if he could only dig it up.
“I thought that was you,” she says. Her smile is kind but tentative and Sawyer wishes he knew why. He attempts to cover his confusion but he must be too tired to adequately hide it. “It’s Cassandra,” she supplies. Still nothing. “Cassie? From St. Vincent’s. I work with Jack?”
Suddenly it clicks.
“Cassandra…hi.” He knows he sounds vaguely distracted as his eyes flick past her to the group of people he now notices waiting behind her: three - no, four - standing in the narrow space in front of the glass cases full of Ukranian desserts and breakfast pastries. His heart surges in panic and desperation, hoping and fearing that Jack is here along with her. He sees a few more faces that he knows he should be able to match with names, but Jack’s is not among them. “Uh…how are you?”
“I’m good, good…” She is at a loss for what to say, having thought no further than simple hellos. “How are you? Man…it’s been…awhile.” Her smile grows tighter, faker. Sawyer wonders how much she knows.
“Yeah, well.” Sawyer gives her a fake smile of his own, one that hurts his cheeks as he forces it on. “I don’t exactly move in those circles anymore.” Cassandra’s smile falters and she folds the dollar bills she has in her hands and then unfolds them.
“Yeah…sorry to hear about that. You and Jack. That…sucks.” Sawyer nods slightly. He doesn’t know how to reply and he doesn’t trust that the right words will come out, or that his voice won’t break. Cassie coughs and looks out the large windows to their left that provide a view of 9th Street; after a moment she turns to him with a puzzled expression, a thought occurring to her. “I thought you moved away?”
“I did. But you know, New York…” Sawyer shrugs, leaving his explanation at some vague pull that the city haves over people, drawing them back like moths to the flame. Cassandra nods but Sawyer can tell she has no idea what he intends to mean. Silence falls and she taps her feet once on the gray and black tiled floor.
Her eyes travel over his table and her face lights up, finally having thought of something to say.
“You’re writing?” She gestures with a finger to the messy notebook in front of him.
Sawyer looks down at the black ink scrawled over the rumpled lined paper. The corners of his notebook are frayed and bent, pages ripped loose from the warped spiral binding. He sets his pen down and looks at his words as if he’s only just become aware of what he’s doing.
“Uh…it’s nothing really.” He hesitates and then closes the notebook, leaving his palm flat against the faded red cover as if to protect it from her prying eyes.
“Oh. Well…” She glances toward her friends and then back to him, unsure what to do. She sticks her hands in the pockets of her beige overcoat and she bites her lip. It’s clear that Cassie had come over on an instinct of genuine kindness but now that she’s here, she realizes it was a bit misguided. She barely knows him, after all. And he, well, he could barely place her. “Well it was good to see you. Maybe we’ll run into each other again some time?”
“Maybe. Good to see you too,” Sawyer replies, picking his pen back up. Cassie nods and smiles awkwardly before backing up a few steps. She accidentally nudges another patron with her elbow and she apologizes in embarrassment before quickly turning and rejoining her friends. A couple of the girls that she is with glance questioningly in his direction and Sawyer picks up his coffee cup, pretending not to notice that Cassie’s lips form the name Jack and their gazes all immediately grow scornful. The guy with them, someone Sawyer should also remember, only smirks.
Sawyer dips his head and lets his hair fall into his face, hiding himself from their judgment. He doesn’t want to see them looking. He opens his notebook and leafs to the half-full page he had left off on; he scans over what he wrote and tries to remember where he was, what he had been thinking.
But he can still feel their reproach. Hear them whispering.
He chances another glance. They aren’t staring at him; they aren’t condemning him. They’re already out the door, walking down 2nd Avenue and onto other things, leaving him with only his guilty conscience and burning shame.
Somehow when he hadn’t been looking, it had grown dark outside. The awning of the grocery mart on the opposite corner is lit up; the brake lights of passing cars and cabs shine bright red, their reflections shimmering brilliantly in the rain-soaked street. The café has taken on a comfortable, sheltering glow, the old-fashioned fixtures hanging down overhead bouncing warm light off the metal ductwork on the ceiling and the shiny surface of the cream bar top and silver and green stools below.
There is a faint hum of conversation, the clink of silverware, and the sizzle of food from the kitchen. Sawyer absently puts more sugar in his lukewarm coffee. Even though not a single person in the Veselka seems to be paying him any attention, he can’t help but feel that from behind the rustling of their newspapers, the rims of their coffee cups, they all see him for what he is.
Sawyer abandons his work and flips to the inside cover of his notebook, where he has been keeping a makeshift ledger of his savings. For the past three months he has been setting aside the majority of his paycheck, stashing it inside an envelope and hiding it beneath his mattress. He only kept enough to pay the rent on his ratty apartment and for his steady diet of cheap diner food and too much coffee.
He wishes that he could find a better job than the one he’d groveled to get back at The Strand, but he’s not exactly qualified for much. There aren’t many straight jobs available for someone crooked like him. He eyes the figures he has added up on the manila colored jacket of his notebook and knows it’s going to be a long time before he has enough to pay Jack back the first $2,000, much less the 25 grand that Hibbs had taken from Jack’s willing but broken-hearted grasp. He’ll never have that much money, not without pulling another con.
Even in his desperation, Sawyer knows that trying to mend fences with Jack by committing yet another crime could only result in disaster. Jack knows as well as he that Sawyer could never come up with that money in any legal way.
With a heavy sigh of disappointment and despair, Sawyer shoves his notebook into his bag and wipes his hands on a thin paper napkin that is useless in cleaning the smeared ink from his fingers.
He wads the flimsy piece of tissue into a ball and leaves it on the table beside his half-empty coffee cup, his frustration evident as he digs a crumpled five from his pocket and leaves it there as well, not waiting for his usual bill of $1.35. He doesn’t care about the change; he just wants to leave.
Sawyer’s two steps from the door before he turns around and goes back to his table to collect the wrinkled five, thinking better of it. Each dollar he has is a dollar closer to squaring things with Jack and he’s in no position to throw even a penny away, even if he does want nothing more than to get moving, get out.
The air smells like winter when Sawyer finally steps outside, his change fresh in hand. He breathes it in deep, trying to calm his nerves. It’s starting to snow lightly, but flakes rarely stick here. They melt on the pavement, the city streets too warm to let a clean blanket of snow hide its dirt and its grime. Sawyer thinks about going to Central Park, where the snow stays for at least a little while, but Central Park reminds him of Jack.
In all honesty, it’s hard to find a place in the whole city that doesn’t remind him of Jack, because he seems to take Jack with him everywhere.
He walks past Jack’s place before going home. It’s blocks and blocks out of his way but he doesn’t care. He has to know that Jack hasn’t left.
And he hasn’t. Not yet.
*******
Jack wanders the aisles aimlessly, the contemporary pop song softly wafting through the air annoyingly getting in his head, where he knows it will rattle about for the next few days. He hums along vacantly every few notes or so even though he hates the singer’s voice and finds that the lyrics really don’t make much sense. His hands drift over the stacks of books organized neatly on the table in front of him. He stops every once in awhile, lifting one of their covers, but it’s really all pretense. He’s just killing time.
He looks toward the shelves of recent bestsellers lined up by the escalator, the new releases that Sayid is perusing. Jack watches him for a moment, wanting desperately to feel something more than he feels now. Even something akin to affection would be good, but as his eyes move over Sayid’s beautiful dark curls, his soft but serious expression, he can’t help but long for straight golden strands of Sawyer’s hair, the hard angles and playful mischievousness of Sawyer’s face. He wants Sayid, to be sure, but Jack knows the statement doesn’t end with a period. It continues.
He wants Sayid, to be sure, but only because he’s not Sawyer. Sayid could be anyone. Anyone at all, really, except one person. It’s not that Sayid has a unique Middle Eastern British-tinged accent, but that he doesn’t have a southern drawl. It’s not that Sayid is short and muscled but that he’s not tall and lean.
Jack turns away from Sayid. He knows this isn’t fair. Sayid is fantastic and everything he needs - and everything Jack wants to want. He’s everything he should be, but he’s not enough.
Because he’s not Sawyer.
Every day he wakes up and wishes that they’d never met, he and Sawyer. How simple it all might have been.
The large floor to ceiling windows in front of him look out across Union Square. In the dark night he can see the lights of the Virgin Megastore across the park, marking the continuation of Broadway. A few blocks in that direction and he could be amongst the narrow aisles and musty smell of The Strand, with Sawyer, instead of standing here in the carefully organized main floor and comfortable coffee haze of Barnes & Noble. He looks down at the green patterned carpet underfoot and thinks of the red logos of Sawyer’s store, wondering how two places so opposite could be so close to one another.
It’s been eight months since he’d last spoken to Sawyer, that day at the museum. It still feels like yesterday. He can still feel Sawyer’s kiss on his lips, no matter how many times Sayid’s mouth covers his. When he and Sayid make love, he still remembers how perfectly Sawyer’s body matched his and how, now, Sayid’s curves and angles meet his in all the not-quite-right, not-quite-wrong places. And when Sayid sleeps beside him at night, carefully ensconced on his side of their bed, he can still feel Sawyer’s loose and easy embrace, his body twined with his irregardless of any unspoken demarcation.
Sawyer never believed in sides of the bed.
But then Sayid believes in honesty, so perhaps little things like sides of the bed shouldn’t matter.
Jack turns back around and takes a deep breath, leveling his gaze at Sayid. He has to make this work, he has to move past Sawyer, no matter what lingering emotions he may have. That they weren’t obliterated by Sawyer’s deception and betrayal only prove his father right; he is weak, he doesn’t know what’s good for him.
As long as he remains in New York, it will never go away. He has lingered here, making excuses, but every time he makes an excuse to walk past The Strand in hopes of glimpsing Sawyer, he knows he may as well be walking in circles.
Jack walks to Sayid now and catches the other man off guard. Lost in a book, he is surprised when Jack suddenly pulls him close, kissing him. His lips move hard and desperate at first but then ease quickly, as if he realized he doesn’t need to be so passionate or demanding. Sayid smiles a pleasantly surprised smile when Jack breaks their kiss, running a hand through the wavy tendrils of his hair.
“What was that for?” Sayid inquires, sounding as pleased as he looks.
“Nothing. I just wanted to, that’s all.” Jack takes a step back, sheepishly sticking his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.”
Sayid sets down his book quickly, then grabs Jack’s hands and pulls them back out, squeezing them gently.
“Don’t apologize, Jack. It’s been far too long since I have been kissed for absolutely no reason.” He closes the space between them again. He lays a gentle kiss on Jack’s mouth, his lips still curving into a smile. Jack gives him a weak smile in return when they part, unsure. Sayid brushes his thumb over Jack’s cheek as Jack turns away, like he wished for more but Jack had already moved on.
“What were you looking at?” Jack gestures to the book Sayid had set down on the edge of the shelf.
“Merely last years’ collection of short stories,” Sayid explains, returning The Best American volume to its rightful location. “I never seem to have the time to read a complete novel.”
“Me either. We should get it.” He takes it back off the shelf.
Sayid arches his eyebrow.
“We?” He repeats. Jack looks at him blankly, holding the book in his hand. “You have not spoken in we’s in a long while, Jack.”
Jack’s gaze wavers and he looks down at the volume in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Sayid, I just…”
“No, Jack, it’s all right. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I’m only happy to hear it again, that is all.” Sayid sets his hand over his and then gently takes the book from him. Jack lets him take it but then takes Sayid’s free hand in his. Sayid looks down at their clasped hands and then back at Jack, sensing Jack has something more to say.
“I think I’m ready to go back to L.A.”
Sayid’s surprise is no longer soft and gentle but truly shocked.
“Jack?”
“I know what I said. About my father, about needing to live my own life, about the second thoughts I was having about leaving this behind and going back…” Jack frowns and holds onto Sayid’s hand tighter, like he needs to hang onto him to get this out. “But being here isn’t fixing anything. And being apart from you half the time is only making it worse. I thought I needed to be here, on my own…but…”
“Jack…” Sayid starts gently. “My home was open to you a long time ago. Whenever you want to return to L.A., you know I would welcome it.” Jack can see in Sayid’s eyes that he is tentatively happy, belied by a hint of suspicion. He knows he’s earned it, since he’s said these things before and then remained in New York anyway. Even now he’s not positive this is what he wants to do, though he’s sure it’s what he should. “Come…let’s buy our book and go home, shall we?”
“Yeah,” Jack agrees, following Sayid toward the checkout line. Sayid pauses before approaching a cashier, looking up at Jack with eyes that spark darkly with desire.
“And then maybe we can discuss our future plans.” Jack knows from Sayid’s look that he doesn’t mean for their discussion to include any actual talking. He nods once and stands beside Sayid as the clerk rings through their purchase. He takes Sayid’s hand as they leave, hoping that Sayid attributes his sweaty palms to eager lust, and he tells himself that the nervousness he feels is not anxiety but anticipation.
He wonders how long it takes for lies to become the truth.
*******
Sayid lays beside him, white sheets tangled loosely around his waist. It’s easy to forget Sayid’s straight-laced propriety in the late hours of the night, when his carefully chosen clothes are in heaps on the floor and his hair is a loose mess splayed over the soft pillows. It’s times like these when Jack can convince himself that he really is in love, when Sayid is wild and unkempt in the aftermath of their lovemaking.
Jack turns on the lamp and studies Sayid’s sleeping form as he is washed in golden light. He considers touching him, waking him up and taking advantage of this feeling that has come over him, but instead he picks up the book they had been reading earlier and flips open to a random story.
He quickly realizes as he grows bored that it’s one of the poorer choices made by the editor and seeks out the table of contents. Sayid stirs beside him at the sound of Jack’s movement - ever the light sleeper - and blinks drowsily. He murmurs something unintelligible and slides his hand over Jack’s midsection, smoothing up his chest.
Sayid lifts his head from his pillow and shifts closer.
“Can you not sleep?” He asks softly, his hand running back down the line of Jack’s stomach. Jack shakes his head. “I thought you would have no problems after this evening.”
“You know me, Sayid…I’m so used to not sleeping…my rhythms and patterns are all screwed up…” Jack starts, then sighs. He lets the book drop to his lap and Sayid moves his hand to his thigh, smoothing over the thin fabric of the sheet. “I don’t know…I’m tired but I can’t…”
“Relax?” Sayid supplies. He tugs on the sheet and slips his hand up Jack’s thigh, exploring his naked body. Jack flips a page purposely and lets his eyes traverse the page; he doesn’t know if another round with Sayid is going to help or hinder an easy night’s rest. “What are you reading?” Sayid inquires as he caresses the underside of Jack’s cock, featherlight and playful.
“Nothing, I…I’m just looking at the table of contents,” Jack skims the list.
"Well good, then I'm not interrupting..." Sayid makes a humming noise and kisses Jack’s shoulder as his hand encircles Jack’s length.
Jack tenses then, but not because of anything Sayid had done.
The words scream from the page, nine letters in black and white.
James Ford.
He snaps the book closed so fast that it makes a loud whooshing thump. His heart thuds against his rib cage and he breaks out in a cold sweat so fast it nearly makes his head spin. He sets the book down hurriedly, telling himself it’s not true. He didn’t really see that. Or maybe it’s not the right James Ford. It’s a pretty common name. Surely it’s another man, an author of no connection. He’d seen Sawyer writing, but he’s never published a word. Or at least he hadn’t, not then.
“Jack? Are you all right?” Sayid murmurs against his skin, feeling his whole body pull taut. Jack doesn’t know why, but he turns the book over on the nightstand, as if seeing the title of the edition is a horrible reminder of what’s inside that the back blurbs are not. Sayid presses his hand flat on Jack’s lower stomach, his touch steady, and pulls his head back, looking at Jack with concern. “Jack?”
Jack closes his eyes shut so tightly for a moment and then looks at Sayid, distressed. He needs Sawyer gone. He needs to stop seeing him wherever he turns.
“Fuck me, Sayid.” Jack pleads. He sounds so desperate he barely recognizes his own voice. He pushes forward and kisses him, yearning for something to make the pain stop. “Fuck me. Or…” He falters, not laying out the other options but letting Sayid know that anything would work, his hand, his mouth, his cock, whatever he wants. He leans his forehead against Sayid’s, breathing heavily. “Do something to me…anything. Please. Just make it stop.”
“Stop? Jack, you’re not making any sense. Make what stop?”
“Everything. Everything except me and you. I just want me and you.” Jack begs. Sayid nods. He looks scared and confused, and it’s the first time in Jack’s memory that he can recall Sayid looking that way. “I want to…” Jack begins but he doesn’t know how to finish. He wants to…what? Love him?
Sayid starts to say something but Jack cuts him off with another kiss, another plea. Sayid stops asking questions and gives, searching blindly for answers. When Sayid finally presses him back flat onto the mattress, when Sayid wraps his warm mouth around him, Jack wills himself to get lost in it, focusing intently on the sensation of Sayid’s lips and tongue between his legs, the soft hair of his beard brushing against his thighs.
When Sayid fucks him, Jack whispers Sayid's name over and over and over again for fear that if he stops he might accidentally say Sawyer’s. He wants to cry and scream in frustration when he teeters on the edge of oblivion for what seems like an eternity, unable to fall into its welcoming darkness. He wants to fall, he wants to forget.
Sayid pounds into him deep and hard, hands digging into his hips. Jack feels it and he knows that Sayid is doing this on purpose, because Sayid knows that it’s what he needs. Eventually Jack has no choice, pushed so far that he can’t help but come with an incredibly violent shudder, crying out and arching off the bed as Sayid fills him with one last definitive thrust.
Sayid holds him then, smoothing his hand over his sweaty forehead, trying to ease him back down. Jack feels worthless and small in his hold; he doesn’t deserve any of this, not when his heart still aches so longingly for that which destroyed it. But he lets Sayid hold him anyway. He falls asleep in his embrace and this time, Sayid doesn’t roll away.
Jack wakes in the morning and finds his night table empty. It’s clear that if Sayid didn’t realize what had upset Jack the night before, he knows now.
But the book is gone, and Sayid doesn’t mention it again.
That afternoon Jack calls his father and tells him he wants to come home. He almost means it.
TBC
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