Lost fic: Writing Truth [Sawyer, Jack, future]
Summary: Jack appears unexpectedly at Sawyer's book signing. Set in the future. Spoiler free.
Summary: Jack appears unexpectedly at Sawyer's book signing. Set in the future. Spoiler free.
Disclaimer: Lost isn't mine. No infringement intended.
Archive: Please ask first.
Writing Truth
by eponine119
May 28, 2005
His heart was racing and his palms were slick. It didn’t make any sense. He'd never once been this scared on the island.
"They're just people," his handler said, tightening his tie until it felt like a noose. "They already like you."
Sawyer tossed his hair back and tried to breathe. What the hell did she know anyway? His eyes flickered over her red hair and milk white skin and he estimated her age as 22, tops. But he knew she was right.
He hated this. Hated bookstores, hated L.A. But his agent told him this was the place to go, and so he went. His fingers dug at his throat, trying to get underneath the tie. The girl opened the door, propping it.
The people weren't what terrified him, not really. It was the book. Sawyer had spent years reading what other people had written. Books and diaries and notes, whatever he could get his hands on. Prying into the private spaces in their brains, holding their secret thoughts close. Using it against them whenever possible.
Now the tables were turned. They'd be reading words he'd written. They were eager for it. Parts of it were already out there, excerpted in various magazines leading up the book release, and that hadn't bothered him. Seeing them in person, looking them in the eye and knowing they'd know. That was what he couldn't stand.
He waved a hand, swaying dizzily, and they broke into applause. The girl was saying something beside him. Then there was an anticipatory silence. All eyes were on him. He was supposed to read. He'd marked a section in the text with sticky notes. The girl reached across him and opened the book, staring. He couldn't look at her.
His eyes found the blurred lines of text. He blinked slowly, shutting out the stirring, murmuring, coughing silence of his audience. Sawyer tried not to shake and failed. His voice was shallow and metallic in his ears. This was horrible.
Finally he reached the second sticky note and closed the book. He glanced up, tilting his head so as not to see their needy faces straight on.
"I thought we'd take some questions," the girl said to him.
"No," he pleaded hoarsely. She looked at him like he was being ornery. Couldn't she see what they were putting him through?
She relented, clapping her hands for the audience and then organizing them into a line. They all had the book in their outthrust hands. It was heavy when he took it from them. He hesitated, and a couple times he started the swerve of the S before he remembered these people weren't here for Sawyer. Wouldn't want his name in their book. He almost wished they did.
It was right there on the slick cover, the name he was supposed to write. The man he was supposed to be now. He wasn't unused to signing it, on checks and credit card slips. After all, it was his name, even if it had never felt that way. He always thought of it as his daddy's name, though he supposed that would only be true if the book said Jimmy Ford instead of James. Jamie. "Fuck," he murmured to himself.
He pushed the book back into its owner's hands. The girl was right there at his side. They'd both heard him. "Let's take a break," she said, casting him a dark look, one he was used to.
The crowd dispersed a little and Sawyer sank into a chair, feeling more like liquid than a man. "You should mingle," the girl said, but it was in her voice that she knew she couldn't make him do anything.
"How 'bout a drink?" he said, not really asking. She scurried away, leaving him alone. It was easier for him to look at the people now. They kept their distance, like there was an invisible bubble separating him from the rest of them. Was this how celebrities felt? Isolated. Kind of lonely, but scared of what would happen if he had to talk to any of them.
He'd never done anything to deserve being a celebrity. All he did was survive.
Sawyer looked at his readers, trying to get a clue about them. Why were they here, why did they care? What kind of people were they? The kind who watched life go by on television instead of living it, who went to theme parks instead of wilderness on vacation.
Safe. They were safe. And he was jealous.
He froze as a sound he recognized drifted toward him. It was just a laugh, but one he'd never been able to get out of his head. Sawyer blinked and his eyes were drawn to the man in the back.
For a moment, seeing him again was an absolute comfort. Sawyer's body jerked with the urge to go to him. Put out a hand for a shake, knowing he'd be drawn into the other man's welcoming embrace. Chocolate brown eyes would evaluate him and proclaim, "You look good."
But Sawyer held still and the harder he looked, the more details began to emerge. Grizzled stubble. Sun-scorched nose. Raggedy ripped seam over the dark brand of a tattoo. Of course the man he saw wasn't there. He was still on the island.
"You okay?" The girl reappeared with a bottle of water, which she nudged toward his hand. He'd hoped for coffee, if not something much stronger.
"No," Sawyer said. He dropped his head, digging the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he raised his head to look again, he was afraid of what he might see. The man was gone, but he didn't feel relieved.
"They're waiting," the girl said and he wished he could do something. Snap at her or hit her or stalk out of the room. But he wasn't that man anymore. Docile, he went back to the podium and looked at the people he still feared.
His hand cramped but he continued to scrawl the name, letters sliding into each other. It was a lie. The book should have been a lie, too. That would be easier to live with. He still would have gotten the million bucks advance. He could have written anything, why in hell had he made it the truth?
Finally they were gone. The door was closed, the pen was dry, and the room was dim. The girl picked up various debris left behind, ignoring him as he continued to stand there, feeling the weight of his words in his hand.
"Well, bye," he said, and she didn't even look up. He waited, but that was it. She really didn't care. Sawyer sighed and let himself out, considering the irony. Hundreds of people had come here to see him, and he had no one to talk to.
His hotel was next door. A limo was coming for him early the next morning, to whisk him off to New York for more signings, more press. Sawyer jabbed the button for the elevator, but then he heard the familiar clink of ice against glass. He turned and there was the hotel bar, luring him. He could leave his reality for a little while. He really didn't want to be alone, staring at four sterile walls.
But the bar was mostly deserted. The bartender left him alone with his drink. Sawyer flipped open the book, seeing where it opened to. Momentarily he was sucked into his own words, lost in his own thoughts, which were so vivid he could smell the ocean and the sweat and the death.
Someone sat down next to him. Sawyer didn't look up. The whole damn bar and they just had to sit down close enough to touch. Some people. He finished the drink and dropped his head over the book, trying to get that feeling back, but it was gone.
"You made a mistake."
Sawyer didn't want to turn his head and know that he was still crazy. He'd written the book in what was kindly called a retreat. He took pills every morning. He hated them, but he hated this more. His eyes were hot and burning when the other man said, "You know what I want you to write."
Jack looked the same as he did the day of the crash. Clean-shaven, crisp in a suit. But maybe not exactly the same. His eyes were shadowed. He had the rejected book in his hand.
Sawyer shook his head. "I'm not him, not anymore."
Jack traced the words in the book with a delicate fingertip. "You didn't even see me," he said, staring at the autograph. "Didn't even look up."
"I saw you," Sawyer admitted.
"What are you so afraid of?"
"You're not really here," Sawyer said. "Not real."
"What if I was?" Jack asked.
"That you'd read it." He could hardly even hear himself stating his fears. "That it's true. That it isn't."
"Sign it," Jack said, and moved to push a thick pen into Sawyer's hand. Sawyer flinched, knowing he'd lost it. But the hand that pushed against his was real, solid and warm and soft and slightly damp. Alive.
Sawyer signed the book and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He stared at Jack, looking for something. He didn't know what. Proof. He shoved his empty glass away and stumbled to his feet.
Jack blocked him. "You can't just walk away," he said. Sawyer stared at him, wishing for this to end and dreading that it would. There was nothing uneasy or self-conscious about the way Jack wound Sawyer into an embrace. Sawyer stood still, listening to the pounding in his ears. He could feel Jack's breath against his neck and the heat generated by his body. This was by far the worst one yet. How could it not be real? You couldn't hug a ghost. A delusion couldn't kiss you on the cheek.
"What happened to you?" Jack asked as he pulled away, eyes searching Sawyer's.
"You were there," Sawyer said, feeling colder than ever.
He wanted to stay. Wanted to trust this. Reality had so much less to offer him. But he knew he should go. Call for help, even if it meant going back to the hospital. He turned his back.
"Sawyer," Jack called. Sawyer could hear the need in his voice. "You can't just leave me here."
He tried to steel himself and failed. "G'bye, Jack," he murmured. He heard it call after him again, saying that name Sawyer. He looked down at the book that was somehow still in his hand and suddenly understood this was the end. If he could walk away now, the island would be gone and he would be free. He hesitated, not sure if he wanted that. He needed to remember.
The urge to look back, to see him one last time, was overwhelming. It would be so easy. But somehow he found it in him to resist, to keep his eyes focused straight ahead, even if he didn't want to. And so, where Sawyer had walked in still broken, James Ford walked out partially fixed, even if he still had a long way to go.
The end.
Summary: Jack appears unexpectedly at Sawyer's book signing. Set in the future. Spoiler free.
Disclaimer: Lost isn't mine. No infringement intended.
Archive: Please ask first.
Writing Truth
by eponine119
May 28, 2005
His heart was racing and his palms were slick. It didn’t make any sense. He'd never once been this scared on the island.
"They're just people," his handler said, tightening his tie until it felt like a noose. "They already like you."
Sawyer tossed his hair back and tried to breathe. What the hell did she know anyway? His eyes flickered over her red hair and milk white skin and he estimated her age as 22, tops. But he knew she was right.
He hated this. Hated bookstores, hated L.A. But his agent told him this was the place to go, and so he went. His fingers dug at his throat, trying to get underneath the tie. The girl opened the door, propping it.
The people weren't what terrified him, not really. It was the book. Sawyer had spent years reading what other people had written. Books and diaries and notes, whatever he could get his hands on. Prying into the private spaces in their brains, holding their secret thoughts close. Using it against them whenever possible.
Now the tables were turned. They'd be reading words he'd written. They were eager for it. Parts of it were already out there, excerpted in various magazines leading up the book release, and that hadn't bothered him. Seeing them in person, looking them in the eye and knowing they'd know. That was what he couldn't stand.
He waved a hand, swaying dizzily, and they broke into applause. The girl was saying something beside him. Then there was an anticipatory silence. All eyes were on him. He was supposed to read. He'd marked a section in the text with sticky notes. The girl reached across him and opened the book, staring. He couldn't look at her.
His eyes found the blurred lines of text. He blinked slowly, shutting out the stirring, murmuring, coughing silence of his audience. Sawyer tried not to shake and failed. His voice was shallow and metallic in his ears. This was horrible.
Finally he reached the second sticky note and closed the book. He glanced up, tilting his head so as not to see their needy faces straight on.
"I thought we'd take some questions," the girl said to him.
"No," he pleaded hoarsely. She looked at him like he was being ornery. Couldn't she see what they were putting him through?
She relented, clapping her hands for the audience and then organizing them into a line. They all had the book in their outthrust hands. It was heavy when he took it from them. He hesitated, and a couple times he started the swerve of the S before he remembered these people weren't here for Sawyer. Wouldn't want his name in their book. He almost wished they did.
It was right there on the slick cover, the name he was supposed to write. The man he was supposed to be now. He wasn't unused to signing it, on checks and credit card slips. After all, it was his name, even if it had never felt that way. He always thought of it as his daddy's name, though he supposed that would only be true if the book said Jimmy Ford instead of James. Jamie. "Fuck," he murmured to himself.
He pushed the book back into its owner's hands. The girl was right there at his side. They'd both heard him. "Let's take a break," she said, casting him a dark look, one he was used to.
The crowd dispersed a little and Sawyer sank into a chair, feeling more like liquid than a man. "You should mingle," the girl said, but it was in her voice that she knew she couldn't make him do anything.
"How 'bout a drink?" he said, not really asking. She scurried away, leaving him alone. It was easier for him to look at the people now. They kept their distance, like there was an invisible bubble separating him from the rest of them. Was this how celebrities felt? Isolated. Kind of lonely, but scared of what would happen if he had to talk to any of them.
He'd never done anything to deserve being a celebrity. All he did was survive.
Sawyer looked at his readers, trying to get a clue about them. Why were they here, why did they care? What kind of people were they? The kind who watched life go by on television instead of living it, who went to theme parks instead of wilderness on vacation.
Safe. They were safe. And he was jealous.
He froze as a sound he recognized drifted toward him. It was just a laugh, but one he'd never been able to get out of his head. Sawyer blinked and his eyes were drawn to the man in the back.
For a moment, seeing him again was an absolute comfort. Sawyer's body jerked with the urge to go to him. Put out a hand for a shake, knowing he'd be drawn into the other man's welcoming embrace. Chocolate brown eyes would evaluate him and proclaim, "You look good."
But Sawyer held still and the harder he looked, the more details began to emerge. Grizzled stubble. Sun-scorched nose. Raggedy ripped seam over the dark brand of a tattoo. Of course the man he saw wasn't there. He was still on the island.
"You okay?" The girl reappeared with a bottle of water, which she nudged toward his hand. He'd hoped for coffee, if not something much stronger.
"No," Sawyer said. He dropped his head, digging the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he raised his head to look again, he was afraid of what he might see. The man was gone, but he didn't feel relieved.
"They're waiting," the girl said and he wished he could do something. Snap at her or hit her or stalk out of the room. But he wasn't that man anymore. Docile, he went back to the podium and looked at the people he still feared.
His hand cramped but he continued to scrawl the name, letters sliding into each other. It was a lie. The book should have been a lie, too. That would be easier to live with. He still would have gotten the million bucks advance. He could have written anything, why in hell had he made it the truth?
Finally they were gone. The door was closed, the pen was dry, and the room was dim. The girl picked up various debris left behind, ignoring him as he continued to stand there, feeling the weight of his words in his hand.
"Well, bye," he said, and she didn't even look up. He waited, but that was it. She really didn't care. Sawyer sighed and let himself out, considering the irony. Hundreds of people had come here to see him, and he had no one to talk to.
His hotel was next door. A limo was coming for him early the next morning, to whisk him off to New York for more signings, more press. Sawyer jabbed the button for the elevator, but then he heard the familiar clink of ice against glass. He turned and there was the hotel bar, luring him. He could leave his reality for a little while. He really didn't want to be alone, staring at four sterile walls.
But the bar was mostly deserted. The bartender left him alone with his drink. Sawyer flipped open the book, seeing where it opened to. Momentarily he was sucked into his own words, lost in his own thoughts, which were so vivid he could smell the ocean and the sweat and the death.
Someone sat down next to him. Sawyer didn't look up. The whole damn bar and they just had to sit down close enough to touch. Some people. He finished the drink and dropped his head over the book, trying to get that feeling back, but it was gone.
"You made a mistake."
Sawyer didn't want to turn his head and know that he was still crazy. He'd written the book in what was kindly called a retreat. He took pills every morning. He hated them, but he hated this more. His eyes were hot and burning when the other man said, "You know what I want you to write."
Jack looked the same as he did the day of the crash. Clean-shaven, crisp in a suit. But maybe not exactly the same. His eyes were shadowed. He had the rejected book in his hand.
Sawyer shook his head. "I'm not him, not anymore."
Jack traced the words in the book with a delicate fingertip. "You didn't even see me," he said, staring at the autograph. "Didn't even look up."
"I saw you," Sawyer admitted.
"What are you so afraid of?"
"You're not really here," Sawyer said. "Not real."
"What if I was?" Jack asked.
"That you'd read it." He could hardly even hear himself stating his fears. "That it's true. That it isn't."
"Sign it," Jack said, and moved to push a thick pen into Sawyer's hand. Sawyer flinched, knowing he'd lost it. But the hand that pushed against his was real, solid and warm and soft and slightly damp. Alive.
Sawyer signed the book and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He stared at Jack, looking for something. He didn't know what. Proof. He shoved his empty glass away and stumbled to his feet.
Jack blocked him. "You can't just walk away," he said. Sawyer stared at him, wishing for this to end and dreading that it would. There was nothing uneasy or self-conscious about the way Jack wound Sawyer into an embrace. Sawyer stood still, listening to the pounding in his ears. He could feel Jack's breath against his neck and the heat generated by his body. This was by far the worst one yet. How could it not be real? You couldn't hug a ghost. A delusion couldn't kiss you on the cheek.
"What happened to you?" Jack asked as he pulled away, eyes searching Sawyer's.
"You were there," Sawyer said, feeling colder than ever.
He wanted to stay. Wanted to trust this. Reality had so much less to offer him. But he knew he should go. Call for help, even if it meant going back to the hospital. He turned his back.
"Sawyer," Jack called. Sawyer could hear the need in his voice. "You can't just leave me here."
He tried to steel himself and failed. "G'bye, Jack," he murmured. He heard it call after him again, saying that name Sawyer. He looked down at the book that was somehow still in his hand and suddenly understood this was the end. If he could walk away now, the island would be gone and he would be free. He hesitated, not sure if he wanted that. He needed to remember.
The urge to look back, to see him one last time, was overwhelming. It would be so easy. But somehow he found it in him to resist, to keep his eyes focused straight ahead, even if he didn't want to. And so, where Sawyer had walked in still broken, James Ford walked out partially fixed, even if he still had a long way to go.
The end.