Scars & Stitches Part Six - Healing Wounds
Series: Scars & Stitches
Title: Healing Wounds
Part: 6/6
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None - AU
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
The door opens before he even reaches the top step. He stops. Jack stops.
Sawyer swears that the whole world stops.
Jack stands still and Sawyer can see beyond him. It is packed cardboard boxes and bare white walls all over again.
This image of abandonment and departure seems irrevocably linked to his relationship with Jack Shephard.
As he looks past Jack into his barren flat he forgets what he came here for. The heavy envelope in his hand that carries his penitence is no longer there; the words on the tip of his tongue fall to the ground unused.
“Sawyer.” Jack says nothing more and he still does not move. He doesn’t know what to do.
“You moving?” Sawyer asks as if he has every right to know. Jack stares at him and for a moment his hand clutches the edge of the door as if he’s going to slam it in Sawyer’s face. He doesn’t say anything and Sawyer waits, waits, waits. “Can I come in?” He finally prompts, realizing Jack is not going to break his stunned silence. Sawyer takes a step forward to make his suggestion a reality and Jack suddenly snaps to attention, blocking his entrance. It’s a desperate protective reflex, a sharp movement to keep Sawyer at bay.
“You can’t be here, Sawyer.”
“Look, Doc, I waited to make sure that your guy wasn’t here…I didn’t want to ruin things for you or anything. That’s not what I want,” Sawyer assures him. He wouldn’t mind Jack being single, but he’s not about to purposely sabotage Jack’s chances with Sayid. His conscience is dirty enough already.
“That’s not-“ Jack starts and stops. His gaze falters over Sawyer, the beautiful sea blue sparkle of his eyes making Jack nervous. He can’t stay here, not with Sawyer looking at him like that. “I have somewhere to be. I was on my way out.” He makes like he’s going to walk outside but stops when it becomes clear that Sawyer is not about to move out of his way.
Sawyer finally takes in Jack’s clothes - black suit, white dress shirt, dark blue tie, black dress coat - and the package in his hand, replete with silver wrapping and card. Jack points to the street, signaling he has to go.
“Where are you going?” Sawyer takes one step back and pushes a wind-blown strand of hair from his forehead.
“There’s a birthday party for one of the interns.” Jack steps onto the small porch carefully and turns to lock his front door. He moves stiffly, keeping every inch of his body pulled in tight as to not accidentally brush against Sawyer. He has a bit of trouble with the key in the lock, the fumbling of his usually dexterous fingers betraying his nerves.
“Can you skip it?” Sawyer inquires selfishly. He knows what that sounds like and the risk he takes by asking. But he needs this, this moment with Jack, more than anything he’s ever needed. He’s been waiting so long. Jack looks at him and a small, bitter smile of disbelief crosses his face before he shakes his head. “Jack-“
“It’s the last time I’m going to get to see these people before I leave, Sawyer, so no, I’m not about to ‘skip it’.” He pushes past Sawyer and walks down the steps quickly, his anger providing him courage he had been lacking. Sawyer follows him to the curb as Jack flags down a cab with relative ease. When Jack opens the door and climbs inside, Sawyer catches the door frame, stopping him from closing it. Jack glares up at him warningly. “Sawyer.”
“Let me just talk to you on the way there, then. I promise I won’t hold you up. I just got some things I gotta say to you.” Sawyer clutches the envelope in hand and then stops, sadly realizing that in his nervousness he’s made the pristine envelope into a wrinkled mess. Jack hesitates and Sawyer knows he’s going to give. He waits for it.
“Fine,” Jack mumbles reluctantly and slides across the back cab, allowing room for Sawyer to join him. “Staten Island Ferry, please.” He says to the cabbie before situating himself in his seat, as far away from Sawyer as possible in the small space.
“Staten Island?” Sawyer tosses him a skeptical glance and Jack nods tersely.
“My friend’s parents have some kind of estate out there, I don’t know. Like I said, I’m only going to say good-bye to everyone.”
“Yeah. You said.” He mumbles, drawing in his bottom lip and worrying it with his teeth. Jack doesn’t say a word; he barely trusts himself to speak. “You’re really moving again, huh,” Sawyer continues quietly, rubbing his sweaty palm anxiously over the threadbare denim covering his knee. Jack stares out the window at the passing city. “Back to L.A., like you said you would?”
“Yes.”
“With Sayid?”
“Yes.”
Sawyer nods brokenly. Jack doesn’t tear his gaze away from the window. Sawyer can see his reflection in the glass but he’s not sure if the trouble he reads there is real or imagined.
“Is that really what you want?”
Jack shifts in his seat and glances at him once before stubbornly refocusing his gaze toward the skyline as the sun dips behind the skyscrapers. The sky is a brilliant orange and pink and Jack’s face is cast in its warm, fading rays of light.
“You don’t get to ask me that anymore, Sawyer,” he states. The lack of emotion in his voice is flat and forced and the deliberate lack signifies its hidden presence. Jack is acting a part, the part he wants to play, but Sawyer knows that there’s something far more honest just behind that mask, if he can get to it.
Sawyer sets his hand flat on the seat between them, black vinyl cool against his palm. He stares at his fingers, remembering a time when Jack’s fingers twined so comfortably with his. He sighs and reaches for the envelope of money he had set in his lap.
But Jack breaks the silence before Sawyer can say anything.
“I saw your story.”
“You did?” Sawyer is surprised. He didn’t think that Jack would have come across it. “What’d you think?”
“I didn’t read it.”
“Oh.” Sawyer is crestfallen.
“Congratulations though.” Jack dares to look at him again, his glance nonchalant. Sawyer has never felt so small.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Sawyer watches the meter click up another mile. “If you didn’t read it, how did you know that I wrote it?”
“I read the About the Authors section. Yours was remarkably free of truth,” he comments. His insult is tossed so offhand that it takes a moment for Sawyer to realize what he’s said. He opens his mouth to defend himself but catches himself.
“What did I do to you, Jack?” he murmurs softly in dismay, more to himself than to Jack. This is not the Jack he knows, and he knows he has turned him into this - bitter and angry and sad. Jack snaps his head toward him.
“The same thing you did to all those people before me, James,” he states without a hint of compassion. Sawyer holds Jack’s cold gaze, wondering if he can be defiant and apologetic at the same time. Deciding he can’t, he looks away first and picks up his battered envelope. He extends it toward Jack, because it’s all he has to offer by way of amends. Jack eyes it but does not take it. “What’s this.”
“It’s not all of it. But it’s what I got.” He forces it into Jack’s hand.
Jack opens the envelope and finds it stuffed with one hundred dollar bills. He snaps it shut quickly as if afraid he’s doing something illegal and about to be caught.
“Where the hell did you get this kind of money.”
“It’s seven thousand. I know it’s not-“
“What did you do, Sawyer?” Jack demands, verging on angry. Sawyer knows the suspicion is deserved and he expected it, but it stings far more than he was prepared for. He can’t stop himself from showing it.
“I didn’t do a damn thing except get published, not that you’d care,” he snaps. He immediately regrets his tone and closes his eyes, trying to remind himself that he’s the one looking for forgiveness here, not Jack.
“You got this money from your story?”
“I didn’t get barely anything for the story. I saved up two thou from workin’ at the bookstore and the other five I got when I signed up to write a book of short stories.”
“You’re going to write a book?”
“Not really. Just a collection of some short stuff I wrote. It’s nothing. But it’s money, and I owe you money, so…” He doesn’t want to look at Jack, afraid of what he’ll see. He wants desperately to find something like pride or understanding on Jack’s face but he knows it probably won’t be there.
“That’s…that’s really amazing, Sawyer,” Jack says, his voice catching. Sawyer dares to glance at him, surprised. Jack looks at the money in his hand and then to Sawyer. “I’m happy for you. Really.”
“Jack-“ Sawyer turns toward him but Jack holds up his hand.
“Don’t, Sawyer.” Jack stops him before he can speak. He can’t handle Sawyer saying anything more. He’s too close as he is, and Jack can barely take it. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Jack, I just wanna make it right.”
“Don’t you get it, Sawyer? You can’t.” Jack holds out the money to him insistently, waiting for him to take it back. Sawyer refuses but Jack keeps it between them, held in midair. Sawyer doesn’t relent, determined for Jack to keep it.
Eventually Jack just sets it down on the seat between them. He turns inward then, staying silent and staring out the window in deep concentration. Sawyer considers trying to fight this but Jack’s walls are impenetrable. The mere foot of empty space separating them from one another may as well be miles. He can see Jack, but Jack won’t see him. He won’t look, not the way he has to if he’s going to understand. Jack won’t notice that he’s changed; that he’s become the kind of man Jack always needed him to be.
The ride through the financial district to South Ferry is taut with tension; the only sound breaking the quiet is the Punjabi pop music that emanates from the front of the cab, intermittently interrupted by a garbled message from central dispatch over the two-way radio. The upwardly ticking red digital numbers of the fare clock mark the passage of time, without which Sawyer would’ve thought that minutes had slowed to a standstill.
The cab slows to a stop along Whitehall Street; the ferry terminal is lit up against the night sky, it’s purple-blue block neon letters looming beneath the luminescent glass façade. Green wooden panels with directions toward the subway mar the walkway in front of the building, concealing construction with an even more ugly display.
Sawyer digs out his wallet to pay the fare but Jack beats him to it, handing the cab driver the sum plus change and clambering out of the car without a word to anyone. Sawyer grabs his envelope hurriedly and goes after him.
“You’re not even going to say good-bye?” Sawyer calls after him. “This is how it ends?”
Jack walks into the terminal without looking back.
*******
Sawyer stares at the Statue of Liberty, alight in the distance, a bright spot in the dark night. Beyond her he can see the lights of Manhattan, glittering with promise across the bay. If he cranes his neck in the opposite direction, he can see the vast expanse of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, its red lights blinking and white lights dazzling like delicate chains of stars.
The midnight ferry has just pulled into dock but there’s no sign of Jack. He’s already grown sick of looking at the strange white spiked arch that decorates the St. George Terminal, ready to curse whatever architect made that ghastly decision. He shivers in the brisk chill of the October-slipping-to-November night and heads back inside. He’s been given enough suspicious looks by security that he actually stopped and explained to them the reason for his loitering, and now as he re-enters the building, one of the women greet him with:
“Still not here?”
He shakes his head no and she frowns sadly for him. Sawyer wonders if she finds him endearingly romantic or incredibly pathetic. He’d like to think his charm and good looks kept him from seeming too much a loser, but he suspects that his nervous back and forth between waiting inside and waiting outside has erased any remnant of dignity he may have had.
He’s hungry and thirsty but he knows the second he leaves to get something to eat is the second Jack will return from his party and he’ll miss him. He’s been waiting too long to risk losing out now.
Every time a car goes by outside or the doors open, Sawyer looks up expectantly, hopefully. But no Jack. He wonders if Jack is just going to spend the night wherever he is, doing whatever he’s doing. After Jack stalked away and left him open-mouthed and alone on the sidewalk in Manhattan, Sawyer had boarded the next ferry in an angry fury, determined not to let Jack brush him off with obstinate silence.
He hadn’t really thought his grand plan through, and halfway across the bay realized that pursuing Jack across the water was probably not the best idea he’d ever had. It left him with nothing to do for hours but sit there and wait for Jack to wander back in to catch the ferry home.
Five hours have gone by and Sawyer is starting to doubt his sanity. Yet even now, pressing his presence on Jack when it’s clearly not wanted, he feels better about himself than he has ever before. He’s never been more determined to see something through. Maybe if he felt it was wrong, he could see himself clearly as a borderline stalker, but he inherently knows this is right, and that somewhere, deep down, Jack is willing to forgive him and love him again.
Sawyer would call his actions romantic if he was willing to profess a belief in romance. But he’s never really believed in anything, anything besides Jack.
He immediately recognizes Jack’s familiar form as he steps out of a cab, even though he’s about 30 yards away and partially obscured by the entryway. Sawyer stands up and steps forward, eager, then halts, not knowing if it’s better to go and meet him or wait until he comes inside.
He goes outside.
Jack’s shoulders slump when he sees Sawyer walking toward him. Slow steps, loose black jacket, wind tousled hair, and an unsure smile that unfairly makes his heart seize with anticipation. Jack stops and almost turns back to the cab, runs away, but there’s nowhere to go. He is paralyzed with fear and indecision and it wells up within him so quickly he almost breaks into pieces right there over the brick walkway.
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” He asks desperately, still enough space separating him from Sawyer that he has to raise his voice to be heard. Tears of frustration spring to his eyes and he holds them back fiercely; he doesn’t know if he wants Sawyer to disappear or take him home and it’s all getting to be too much. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Sawyer waits to reply until he has closed the gap between them. He sets his hand on Jack’s forearm. He can smell a faint trace of alcohol on Jack’s clothes, his skin. But his step, though slow, is assured and his eyes, though tired, are burning brightly. When he opens his mouth to speak, Jack moves past him, shaking off his touch.
“I just want to go home, Sawyer. I don’t want to talk.” He goes inside the terminal, throwing the door open harshly, and heads for the queue. The dock is empty and they are about to lift the automated gangplank when Sawyer catches up, following Jack onboard. The large ferry, “The Spirit of America”, it’s called, is more like a ghost ship this time of night; only a smattering of passengers mill about its three levels.
Jack walks to the bow of the ship and leans on the orange railing. He doesn’t acknowledge Sawyer’s presence or purposely ignore it; when Sawyer stops beside him, he neither moves away nor moves closer. He doesn’t trust himself to do anything so instead he does nothing.
They don’t speak as the engines rumble back to full life and the whir of the gangplank being raised has faded away. The ferry pulls out over the black water and for a while it seems like the only assurance that the water exists is the sound of it slapping against the ship’s sides. It is so dark below that Sawyer can’t see much of anything.
His eyes adjust from the brighter lights of the terminal to the faint yellow fluorescent glow of the lights that line the interior cabin behind them. He watches Jack; the way that he looks out into the night, he’s sure Jack sees something that he does not. His cheeks grow slightly flushed in the chilly breeze but Sawyer stops himself from suggesting they go inside where it’s warm.
“You want a beer?” He inquires after twenty minutes tick by, him staring at Jack, Jack staring at the water. Jack turns to face him, considering his answer for far longer than such a simple question would necessitate.
Jack studies Sawyer as the wind pushes his long blonde hair back from his face. He looks the same as ever and it is both comforting and terrifying. Jack knows his cheeks would be rough if he brushed his fingertips over his jaw line and he knows Sawyer’s body would be warm and steady if he moved close and let Sawyer hold him. In these shadows, his eyes seem grey. Sawyer smiles the way he does when he doesn’t know what else to do and for a split second Jack is sure that he can forgive him absolutely anything.
“Sure.” Jack replies quietly, nodding once. Sawyer nods back with another tentative smile and makes his way to the snack bar. When he heads back, a bottle in each hand, he half expects to find Jack has moved, but he hasn’t. He takes the beer from Sawyer with a murmur of thanks and faces back out toward the water. Sawyer watches Jack take a long sip before taking a drink of his own, keeping his eyes trained on Jack the whole time.
Sawyer leans on the railing beside him once more, matching his stance: elbows on the rail, beer suspended out over the water in an easy grasp that could just as easily keep hold as let it fall. He stands closer to Jack than he did before, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his body radiating toward him. It’s inviting and familiar.
As if reading his mind, Jack speaks.
“I’m happy with Sayid. I really am.” Sawyer knows it’s a lie - he can hear it, see it, feel it - and he suspects Jack knows it too. Jack lets out a long breath, bowing his head for a second and then standing up, cocking his body toward Sawyer. There’s an anger still wired through his body, wound tightly and ready to spring. “I don’t know why you think you can come back and screw everything up for me.”
“That’s not what I’m tryin’ to do.”
“It’s not?” Jack challenges. His voice breaks from the effort of getting these words out. He attempts to square his shoulders and appear defiant, to cover his quickly weakening defenses. “I’m moving to L.A. with Sayid, Sawyer. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Oh, there’s not, huh.” Sawyer takes a vicious sip of his beer and turns toward the darkness. For a moment he thought he had felt things settle, but now Jack is trying to fight him back all over again. This time he’s the one who turns his head, levels Jack with his stare. “You tryin’ to convince me, or convince yourself?”
Jack’s eyes dart to the left and he swallows hard before steeling his gaze.
“I know what I want. It makes more sense to be in L.A.”
“It makes more sense to be where you’re happy.”
“I’ll be happy there.”
“You’re a fucking liar, Doc.” Sawyer smirks and takes another drink, beginning to feel some of his assured swagger and charm gaining strength. Jack shakes his head but Sawyer can see it all wash over Jack’s face, the realization that he’s fooling no one, much less himself. “A huge, fucking liar. And you know it.”
“I am not-“
Sawyer brings a hand to the back of Jack’s head and pulls him forward, kissing him with every last ounce of determination he has. He wants to take Jack’s breath away, make him dizzy and warm and unclear which swath of darkness is the sea and which is the sky. Jack’s entire body tightens in protest but Sawyer doesn’t budge, doesn’t give way until Jack opens his mouth and lets Sawyer dip his tongue inside. He tastes of liquor and beer but also like himself, something distinctly him and him alone.
They awkwardly clutch at one another’s waistlines with clumsy hands, bottles of beer impeding a true embrace. Sawyer moves closer, considering dropping the bottle and letting the glass shatter all over the deck just so he can run the flat of his hand over Jack’s back, or his stomach. Their kiss moves through different angles and depths, hard and soft, violent and passionate. It’s everything he wants and it’s also not nearly enough.
Jack breaks away with a desperate gasp for air and turns his back toward Sawyer rapidly, clutching at the rail. Sawyer breathes heavily as Jack takes a long drink and wipes his mouth of liquid and of Sawyer’s kiss. Sawyer waits for him to react.
“I’ve been with Sayid over a year now, you know.” Sawyer sets his lips in a tight frown. “Do you realize that’s more than twice as long as I was with you?” Jack chuckles to himself. “What we had, Sawyer…it was barely anything.”
“A year with Sayid and I bet you ain’t ever felt like you feel right now, Doc,” Sawyer remarks, pushing closer on Jack’s space, not letting him move too far away. “A year with Sayid and you don’t even love him-“
“I do-“
“Not like ya should. Not the way you love me.” Sawyer knows it’s more than daring to put that on the line, but he knows it’s not an assumption. It’s the truth, however arrogant or presumptive it might sound. “What we had was fast and hard and burned hotter than hell, and it woulda kept on goin’ like that if I hadn’t fucked everythin’ up. You know it. I know it.”
“It would’ve flamed out anyway,” Jack derides Sawyer’s hypothesis but Sawyer isn’t having it.
“Then why did you kiss me back?” He demands. “Why, if you don’t want me, do you always kiss me back?”
“Sawyer, that’s hardly-“ Jack paces away from him and back.
“Why haven’t you fucking moved to L.A. with your wonderful Sayid? Eight months ago you said you were goin’. Yet here you are-“
“Yes, here I am, my boxes packed and leaving in two days,” Jack cuts him off this time fiercely. “Don’t you get it, Sawyer? It doesn’t matter if I want you, I don’t trust you! I can never trust you.”
“That ain’t true. You can trust me, Jack, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I prove it to you. I will follow you to L.A. if that’s what it takes.” His voice grows louder, taking an edge of a fervent near growl that happens when emotion gets the better of him.
Jack opens his mouth to respond and stops. He tries again, but the words don’t come. They end up standing there, staring at one another, Jack clearly confused and at a loss for what to say and Sawyer waiting for him to find his way.
Jack runs his hand over his head, his short hair bristling underneath his finger tips, and turns to face the city as they grow nearer. He smiles wistfully.
“I came here to find myself…” He says quietly and Sawyer moves closer to hear his words. “And instead I found you.” Sawyer thinks he sees tears welling up in Jack’s eyes but he blinks and they’re gone. “Without you, I don’t know who I am anymore. You took that away from me.”
Sawyer takes Jack’s half-empty beer from him and tosses it into the trash, then takes his hand in his. He never thought he, of all people, would thrill at this simple touch, but his whole body surges like he’s touched electricity.
“I can give it all back,” he whispers, stepping close. Jack reaches out and tucks a piece of Sawyer’s hair back behind his ear, looking at him thoughtfully, his eyes watery and beautifully wide in the dim light.
“I don’t know if it works that way, Sawyer.”
“You could at least try.”
Jack moves this time and his kiss is gentle and timid. He brushes his lips against Sawyer’s with a subtle softness, lingering there in a moment of barely touching. The promise hangs in the breath between them, a mere whisper from more. He repeats the motion and Sawyer remains still, accepting Jack’s touch as the gift that it is. Each kiss grants him hope of the future. There will be more kisses like this, more perfect moments when he can see stars in the sky despite the clouds.
With a small noise of assent, Jack sinks into him, drowning in the sensation and letting Sawyer surround him; take his breath as his own. It is so indelibly perfect that Sawyer is afraid to open his eyes, sure that he’ll wake and find this heaven to be nothing more than a dream.
But when the boat comes to a full stop with a heavy thud against the dock, jarring them both from their intimate world, Sawyer is relieved to find that Jack doesn’t shove him away or run.
In the subway station he kisses Jack until the W rushes in, slowing to a stop and opening empty to them. They sit still on the tracks for a while before the train returns from whence it came back up through Manhattan. He keeps hold of Jack’s hand, ignoring the orange-yellow separation of seats and letting his leg press against Jack’s. Alone, he lays gentle kisses against Jack’s jaw line, his neck, lets his hand drift over Jack’s waist. The minutes go by so fast and yet so slow. The rocking bouncing of the subway car running over the tracks lulls them both with its monotonous drone. Sawyer feels like he’s been lost in Jack forever but also not long enough.
Their night has already been so long, covered so much ground, but in truth they’ve only just begun.
*******
Jack unlocks his door slowly, carefully turning keys in three different locks. Sawyer stands beside him, his hand barely brushing against Jack’s hip, dancing featherlight over his waist. When the final bolt clicks open Jack turns, pausing, his hand still gripping the key in the lock. Sawyer reaches up and caresses his face; he wants to remember Jack forever exactly like this, in this moment. Something about the way Jack looks at him is so open, almost innocent.
The street is hushed and the world seems so far away. The busy avenues of 5th and 6th border them on both sides but here, on the quiet street in between, most cars are parked and the windows of the brownstones are lit warmly from inside. The shadows of lives play out behind the curtains. Jack lives in the lull of the city, where traffic dies down at night and only soft streetlight washes over the darkness of the sidewalk.
Jack opens his mouth to speak but he is distracted before getting any words out. A group of ‘Burg hipsters in tight corduroys, lightweight coats and knitted scarves stroll by, undoubtedly heading from Quad Cinema judging from their animated discussion of contemporary Russian cinema. They give the two men standing on the steps no notice as they pass but Jack is too nervous to speak in their presence. Sawyer forgets to move his hand from Jack’s face until they’re already gone.
Jack lets his hand drop from the keys. They rattle once or twice against the door and then dangle there silently. Jack’s gaze becomes fixated on the brown stone steps underneath his feet; his forehead creases and Sawyer knows he’s worrying, trying to think of the right thing to say. As Sawyer studies him, Jack puts one of his hands on his hip, pushing back his dark peacoat, and shifts his feet.
“Sawyer…I…” He can see Jack’s breath in the cold night air and for some reason it makes Sawyer want to kiss him. But he doesn’t.
Instead Sawyer slides a finger under Jack’s chin, tilting his face back up, and smiles lightly.
“I don’t have to come in,” Sawyer murmurs gently, wistfully. Jack only hesitates a moment before responding but to Sawyer that moment lasts a lifetime.
“I don’t want you to go,” Jack states and Sawyer tries not to let his heart leap too far, not knowing yet where he’ll land. Sawyer expects Jack to say something more but he turns and turns the door handle, pushing the door open.
Jack steps inside and gestures for Sawyer to follow him. The front hall is tight and cramped yet Jack remains there, waiting for Sawyer to shift past him in order to move back and shut and lock the door himself.
They are so close that without trying they are already touching. The air between them is charged; they both yearn to stretch toward the possibility before them, but at the same time are drawing back and winding in tightly on themselves, afraid of reaching out to take it. Sawyer draws in a long, steady breath and keeps his hands firmly at his sides; he would give everything to touch Jack again but he’s suddenly terrified of asking for more than he should. Jack needs to be the one to do this.
Jack’s eyes are unfocused, cast downward, as he lifts his arms slowly and presses his palms lightly against Sawyer’s chest. His touch is almost hovering, a faint ghost of true contact. Finally he rests them fully against Sawyer and Sawyer feels a rush of relief that he tries to hide as Jack smoothes upward over the worn fabric of Sawyer’s dark coat, up to the collar. He fingers the points of it, the worn stitching, and then slides his hands underneath, touching the exposed skin of Sawyer’s neck above his shirt.
Sawyer inhales sharply, closing his eyes. He feels Jack’s touch so keenly; even this simple stroke of his fingers makes his heart palpitate.
Jack stares at his hands as they roam slowly over Sawyer’s body. His dreams have been filled with moments exactly like this, where everything seems to hang in the balance. The push and pull between them feels tangible, as if he were to move too fast, he might pull too hard and snap it, shatter it all to pieces.
He becomes fixated on Sawyer’s pale lips, perfect and parted. Pleasure is so close, firm and real under his fingers, Sawyer only inches away from being deliciously and completely flush against him. Jack wants this so desperately that he knows it’s probably unsafe and unwise to give into it, but Sawyer always could draw him in against his will. He’s like an addiction, a drug; even after months without him, Jack knows only one time is all it will take for him to fall under Sawyer’s spell. Sawyer has a power over him that he simply possessed; Jack never gave it to him; he just had it from the start.
Sawyer forgets to breathe as Jack’s hands move underneath his jacket and then push back against fabric, urging the coat over the gentle slope of his shoulders. He pauses as it reaches Sawyer’s elbows, then pushes it the rest of the way down to his wrists.
Sawyer pulls his arms upward to get free of the garment and lets it fall down to the ground around his feet. Then he reaches over and silently mimics Jack’s movements, peeling Jack’s much heavier coat from his body. He leans closer to Jack to push the thick wool jacket down his arms, his breath warm against Jack’s neck.
The smell of Jack’s cologne makes him hard, makes him want. When they’re this close, in such a small space, the scent surrounds him and all he can think about is the feel of Jack’s lips on his, the thrill of Jack’s body reacting to his touch. In Tampa he had caught a breeze of it on a man passing by and his heart had practically stopped. In an instant he was back in Jack’s arms, lost to the memory; when he came back to his senses and realized it wasn’t the case, he had ducked into the nearest men’s room and hid, gasping for breath as if someone had punched him in the chest. The ache was so overwhelming, so deep, he didn’t know if it would ever stop.
He keeps himself from kissing Jack’s neck now, though he desperately wants to.
Sawyer draws back and carefully leaves his hands flat against Jack’s chest; Jack’s heart is beating fast, thrumming hard underneath his fingers. He wonders if Jack can feel his heartbeat racing too, if he knows they are beating the same.
Slowly, so slowly, Jack works open the front of Sawyer’s shirt, its pale color reminding him of the grey-blue hue of Sawyer’s eyes. But he doesn’t look up into those eyes now, instead concentrating on the movement of his hands. One by one by one, tiny pearly white buttons slide in and out. Sawyer watches Jack’s nimble fingers take their time, moving all the way down until his shirt is hanging open, the taut expanse of his broad chest so close to being fully revealed to Jack’s gaze, Jack’s touch. He shivers when Jack brushes against his bare skin, stripping his shirt from his shoulders.
Jack’s blood runs hot and he feels hazy, almost drugged. Sawyer is barely touching him, but he feels encircled by the nearness of him. Sawyer’s skin is warm and smooth under his palms and when Sawyer’s muscles quiver under his fingers, Jack nearly shudders with arousal. So many nights he had woken up from dreams exactly like these, sweat-soaked and hard, cursing himself for his weakness. He fought this for so long, knowing that it would be dangerous to draw Sawyer back into his life. But he can’t help it. He shifts closer.
Sawyer needs Jack to kiss him. He needs Jack to close this miniscule gap left between their bodies and truly touch him, hold him, pull him close. It’s too much and not enough; he’s so damn close to having everything he wants. Sawyer closes his eyes as Jack’s hands drift over his bare chest, his fingers faintly tracing the lines of his stomach. Then his touch disappears.
When Jack’s hands don’t come back to his body, Sawyer forces his eyes open and finds Jack unbuttoning his own shirt, the white fabric rustling crisp and pressed under his fingertips. Three buttons down his fingers slip and Sawyer silently takes over, beginning at the bottom and working his way up to meet Jack in the middle. Jack’s hands cover his when they meet, holding him still.
Sawyer meets his gaze and he can tell Jack is searching out something in his eyes. Sawyer hopes against hope that this time he can give Jack what he’s looking for. He wanted so terribly to have given it to him the first time, when he should’ve, if only he’d known how.
He’s still not sure he knows how now, but he’s not running scared and he hopes that that’s enough. He hopes he’s enough.
For an instant he considers telling Jack all of this; how much he loves him, how much he regrets what he did. But Jack’s heard it all before. Words between them had come to mean so little; actions mean everything.
He holds his silence, staring back at Jack not challengingly but tenderly, until Jack leans forward. His kiss is gentle and his lips are soft. It feels different than their kisses on the ferry, different than their kisses on the subway. The walk to Jack’s place had cooled their lustful, rekindled desire and laced it with uneasy fear and pain once more.
Instead of ignoring it this time, Sawyer can feel Jack overcoming it. He can feel Jack decidedly pushing it aside and letting it go. Jack’s mouth is slack and open against his, moving languorously slow, his tongue tangling deep. Sawyer lets himself be kissed, lets Jack take the lead. He leans back against the wall and Jack guides their kiss, angling his mouth to push deeper, his movements sure and thorough.
Sawyer loses himself in it. He doesn’t have any idea how long they stay like that, Jack’s hands on his shoulders, his own hands on Jack’s waist, his fingers twining in the open folds of Jack’s dress shirt as their mouths move in a delicate, elegant dance.
He does his best to ignore the packed cardboard boxes that mar the corners of Jack’s barren rooms as Jack leads him to his bedroom. He tells himself that this will change, that Jack will stay. He couldn’t leave, not after this.
Jack’s room is dark until he crosses to his bed and turns on the small lamp on his night table. The room seems both comfortable and comforting in its soft shine. The light casts subtle shadows that blur the edges between where his body ends and Jack’s begins as they move together toward his bed. Jack’s shirt wafts to the ground before he lowers himself to the bed, sinking into the firm but supple cushion of the mattress. He toes off his shoes and socks while he looks up at Sawyer standing before him. After Sawyer does the same, Jack reaches up and puts his hands on Sawyer’s waist.
Sawyer sinks to his knees in front of Jack, his hands slowly moving over Jack’s thighs. He stares deep into Jack’s earthy brown eyes before deftly pulling Jack’s belt loose, fine black leather and shining metal tugged loose in his fingers. The button, the zipper…Jack lifts his hips and allows Sawyer to undress him, sitting back onto the bed as Sawyer pulls the last of his clothes down his legs and slides them aside.
Sawyer looks at Jack for a long time, looks hard and long, his gaze a caress over every inch of Jack’s bare skin. He touches the sharpness of Jack’s collarbone, the curve of his biceps, the firmness of his chest. His tattoos are more beautiful than Sawyer recalls; more vivid, more real. Jack is everything Sawyer remembered him to be but better. When he bows his head, when he finally lays his hands on Jack’s naked body, the thrill of something greater than desire shivers through him.
Jack buries a strong hand in Sawyer’s long hair as Sawyer makes love to him with his mouth, wet and hot and eager. Jack’s body pushes when Sawyer pulls, his rhythm as sure and strong as if they’d never been apart, never stopped giving one another this incredible pleasure. Sawyer finds he still knows him. Things may have changed, but this hasn’t.
Sawyer takes him in deeply, tasting him, laving every last inch with loving attention. With his tongue he urges Jack to give himself over, desperate to have Jack become his all over again, to swallow him down and feel Jack turn to putty in his hands. Jack’s sharp groan breaks the silence and his hands tug gently on the strands of Sawyer’s hair. Sawyer can feel the request in the pull of his fingers and drags himself away reluctantly.
When his vision focuses clearly his hands immediately go to the button of his jeans and he unzips. It’s automatic. He can’t stop himself; he’s straining so hard it’s painful and what he sees is too much to take. Jack is half-leaning back onto his vast bed, sitting at the edge with his legs spread wide. His eyes are hazy, lids dropping down, eyelashes fluttering. His lips are swollen, parted as he gasps for breath. His neck and face are rosy; his whole body seems flushed. His muscles are stretched taut and his stomach is just visibly trembling as he breathes sharply in and out. Between his legs his cock is dark and swollen, thick and lengthened in arousal and shimmering slightly from the work of Sawyer’s mouth.
Sawyer’s never seen anything so beautiful and his whole body jolts with want.
Sawyer purposely focuses intently on Jack’s face, wanting to capture Jack’s attention as he works his jeans and boxers off and steps out of them, leaving them crumpled on the floor. Jack struggles to focus, his gaze drifting over Sawyer’s lean, muscled body, his skin somehow permanently kissed golden. Jack had forgotten the precise beauty of the narrow cut of his slim hips, the tightness of his firm ass, but he hadn’t forgotten the warm, loving glint in Sawyer’s eyes. For a long time he wondered if he’d imagined the emotion he used to see there, but now, here again in this moment, he sees it all again, as plain as day.
Part of him wonders if Sawyer is still acting now as he had been acting then, or if his eyes were incapable of hiding his true feelings and his gaze had always undermined his lies. Jack pushes his doubts away.
Sawyer walks around to the other side of the bed and climbs onto the mattress behind Jack and they reach for each other without hesitation.
It’s a slow, exquisite burn, and Jack lights the match as he turns and lies down beside Sawyer, setting his hand on the sharp angle of his hip. They move against one another like the sensual slide of wax pooling into liquid and escaping, melting, trailing down the smooth length of a lit candle. They form to one another, their sweaty, warm skin almost malleable underneath the pressure of their hands and their lips. Sawyer is on fire, but the flame ignites in the depths of his body and crawls up his limbs to his fingers where his touch burns hotly against Jack’s broad back. He moans against Jack’s kiss, the wet heat of his mouth only fueling the flame.
Everything happens in a haze of smoke; Jack is lost, he can’t sort out where he is except in relation to Sawyer’s arms, Sawyer’s mouth. His world slows down to a standstill, each touch suspended indefinitely. He can feel every brush of Sawyer’s lips, touch of Sawyer’s fingers. Together they burn hot and intense but in a steady, constant way; a concentrated blue teardrop flame rather than a raging bonfire, out of control and unwieldy. He gasps for air as he and Sawyer pull apart, grinding, rubbing against one another as their limbs intertwine and their hands grasp for purchase.
Sawyer nearly falls apart as Jack envelopes him, engulfs him, enters him, taking him inside and out. Jack moves deeply, all the way in, his hips pushing hard, and Sawyer meets him thrust for thrust. The pleasure unfurls from Sawyer’s core like some kind o rapturous ecstasy, more powerful and overwhelming than any time before. Their moans and grunts mingle but Sawyer stifles his impassioned cries of Jack’s name, stops himself from begging for more. They haven’t spoken a word since this started and he doesn’t want to risk extinguishing what’s been re-ignited between them. Sawyer wants to say that he loves him and he wants this forever, but he swallows the fiery, potent words before they spark from his tongue.
Instead he wraps his legs around Jack’s waist and rocks with him, lifting his head and dousing out his declarations of love with a passionate kiss, sloppy with tongue and teeth, so much, so much that he can’t say but wants to. He feels it building up to a frenzy within him before he combusts, exploding white hot over his own flushed skin. Jack fills him with liquid warmth and pushes through it, his cock still half-hard and dripping when he pulls out, his come burning hotly against Sawyer’s thighs.
Jack sinks down over him as the fire settles into fading embers, not moving from his embrace until long after it has turned to ash. Sawyer kisses Jack’s fevered skin lovingly until it cools; Jack relaxes beside Sawyer until he falls asleep, their bodies left tangled and messy.
“I love you,” Sawyer whispers to him, half hoping that Jack will somehow hear him and say it back. But his eyes remain closed and Sawyer settles for holding him close, listening to his steady, even breathing.
Sawyer stays awake all night, just watching him. If he falls asleep, the morning will come far too soon.
*******
Jack lies on his side, his body perilously close to the edge of the bed. He tries to pretend that this is any other morning, but he knows that when he turns over, he won’t find Sayid lying there beside him.
So he stares at the minutes ticking by, the numbers slowly switching on his digital alarm clock, while his mind races ahead of time to a future unseen.
In the morning light, Jack sees that the previous night had been a mistake. Opening his eyes, he half expected to find Sawyer had left him, and even though Sawyer still lay beside him, the memories of the past quickly overcame his presence.
Jack doesn’t know how to do this. He can’t imagine a morning where he wouldn’t wake up afraid that this day would be the day it would all come crashing back down.
And Sayid…he closes his eyes tightly at the thought, ashamed. What will he tell Sayid?
Sawyer stirs behind him, the mattress shifting as he rolls over onto his side. Jack’s eyes snap open. He remains still, like if he doesn’t move maybe Sawyer won’t realize he’s awake. Sawyer murmurs something and yawns. Jack knows he’s blinking, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, running a hand through his bed-mussed hair.
Jack snaps his eyes shut again. He doesn’t want to think about that, Sawyer and his rumpled hair, his slowly awakening body, the way he always would drape an arm lazily over his hip and kiss his neck, his shoulders…
Like he does now. It’s so Sawyer that it almost hurts; this is what Jack wants but knows - knows - he’d be wrong to have again. He and Sawyer…
Last night had been a mistake.
Sawyer feels Jack’s body go rigid, his muscles tense under his palms, and he stops.
“Jack?” He asks and Jack can’t bring himself to turn over and face him. He sits up, the movement causing Sawyer’s touch to fall away. Sawyer sighs, his heart sinking. He never should have fallen asleep, should’ve known better than to dream. He judges the tightness in Jack’s shoulders and knows exactly what Jack is thinking.
He leans his head back against the headboard, his face pained. He speaks lowly, already defeated. “Please don’t, Jack.”
Jack pushes up off the bed at the sound of Sawyer’s broken words. He pauses as soon as he’s up; the reaction hadn’t been controlled and now he finds himself standing in the middle of his bedroom, naked and unsure what to do. He picks up his boxers from the floor and pulls them on slowly. Sawyer sighs, sitting up and drawing his legs in, his elbows on his knees. His voice turns assured and defiant, like he knows he can convince Jack he’s wrong.
“Things are diff’rent now, Jack. I thought last night-“
“Last night shouldn’t have happened, Sawyer.” Jack puts a hand out flat, interrupting him. His words are definitive but quiet. “You and I…” Jack seems to be grasping for something out of his reach, something he doesn’t quite know how to say. He looks over the floor and picks up his black pants.
Sawyer gets up and crosses the room to him, gripping his arms and turning Jack around to face him.
“Jack, no. C’mon. Don’t do this. Not now.” Sawyer’s hands are pushed away weakly when he attempts to touch Jack’s face. “You n’ me, we can do this.”
“I can’t…I can’t.” He backs up, putting space between them. Sawyer doesn’t reach for him again. He stands there, stunned. “I’m sorry.”
“So no matter what I do, it ain’t ever gonna make a difference, is it.” He asks flatly, his voice dark and lifeless. Jack doesn’t answer him but it’s only because it wasn’t really a question. It was a realization. Sawyer glares at him, willing Jack to turn and face him, look him in the eye, but Jack won’t move.
Sawyer turns away from him and finds his clothes on the floor, everything except his shirt. Jack doesn’t say anything at all as he dresses, his gaze turned firmly at some fixed point on the carpet halfway across the room.
Sawyer finishes buttoning his jeans.
There’s part of him that wants to scream and yell at Jack, demanding how dare he, after last night. He wants to say fuck you or something even worse or more hateful and then storm out. He wants to punch Jack, hurt him, so he understands what it’s like to have his heart ripped out just as it began to beat true again. He’s frustrated that he’s been made to beg and plead for something that Jack misled him to believe he could have, only to have it taken back.
Yet still Sawyer can barely keep himself from reaching out to beg and plead some more, his dignity left in a mangled heap, only shreds of what it used to be. He’s made himself a fool for this man because he’s had no reason to be proud. He’s crawled on hands and knees to earn forgiveness and he wonders if he takes even this, this cold wake-up call, and keeps going, maybe Jack will change his mind.
It all battles inside him as he stares at Jack, struggling silently to decide what to do. But the war ends quickly; everything dies and all he’s left with is an incomparable sense of loss. The emptiness fills him and pushes the anger and despair and the horrible need out. All hope seems to have vanished and all he feels is numb.
Sawyer walks from the bedroom and goes to the front hall, picking up his shirt and jacket from where they had been left the night prior. He finishes dressing slowly and stiffly. It suddenly hurts to move, to breathe, to exist.
Coat in hand, he goes back to Jack’s bedroom.
He pauses in the doorway. Jack is standing as he left him, unmoved. He doesn’t look up when Sawyer re-enters.
Sawyer crosses in front of Jack and sets his battered envelope on the unmade bed. The sheets are still warm. His hand lingers over the thin white paper; the seven thousand dollars inside feels like so little, now. He remembers how real it had all seemed only yesterday, when its weight in his palm felt like he was holding a dream made tangible. Now it’s no longer an apology. It’s not about making things right and starting over. It’s just seven thousand dollars in an envelope and it’s not enough.
He pulls his hand back, he lets it go.
He bites his lip hard, holding back tears. He coughs once, forcing himself to hold it together.
“Good luck in L.A., Doc.” He forces out, then turns on his heel and walks as quickly as he can from the room.
Jack closes his eyes sharply when he hears the front door shut and remains motionless long after Sawyer is gone. The house is so quiet that all he can hear is his own breathing.
He turns his head slowly toward the bed, seeing the envelope that Sawyer had left behind. Sighing deeply, he sits down and picks it up. He frowns as his thumb runs across the tops of the bills inside and then looks away. The envelope slips from his hands to the floor between his feet.
Jack sniffles once, then twice, and wipes his cheeks of the few tears that have already rebelled against him and fallen. He fights it for as long as he can but eventually his will breaks, his shoulders slumping as the sounds of his cries break the quiet.
He buries his face in his hands. Sawyer leaving hurts as much as the first time, if not more.
He’s never felt so alone.
*******
------->THIS PART CONTINUED...