Lost fic: Adversaria [Jack, Sawyer, PG]
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Author's notes: Spoilers through season one. Written for psych_30 #26, Obsession, fanfic100 #80, Why?, and also my claim at hiatus_stories. Also, alliecat8's prize for winning the stalker meme.
Summary: Sawyer's two obsessions collide.
Adversaria
by eponine119
November 17, 2006
Sawyer watches Claire and Jack. They're having a quiet conversation. Hard to tell what it might be about. No hand gestures, no out of the ordinary facial expressions. He strains, thinking he might just be able to overhear it from where he's sprawled comfortably in the sand, but between the roar of the ocean and the has-been fiddling with his guitar, he doesn't have a chance.
He feels his heart inexplicably begin to race when Claire hands Jack the book. The expression on her face is earnest; his is afraid. He barely wants to touch it, let alone take it from her. She raises her eyebrows in that mother-knows-best look she's already cultivated. Finally Jack nods and Claire begins to walk away.
Jack stands there, holding the book, looking down at it for several seconds.
Then he turns his head and looks directly at Sawyer, like he knows. Sawyer dives back into his paperback, but perhaps not quickly enough. He can't risk glancing up to be sure. When he finally dares, Jack's gone.
…
In his regular watching of Jack, he finds himself searching for signs. Ink-stained fingers. Something.
Lying in bed, unable to sleep in the warm darkness, Sawyer wonders what sorts of words flicker through Jack's brain. What do his innermost thoughts focus upon, and what forms do they take?
Finally, he can stand it no longer. He flings himself up, out of bed, to stalk along the beach. He's not the only one awake. There's always someone with a light glowing in their tent, or sitting and watching the unending sameness of the waves crashing on the sand. It's quiet, though, quiet enough that he holds his breath when he approaches the doctor's tent, thinking, crazily, that he'll be able to hear the scratching of ballpoint against paper.
What he hears is something very different. The heavy breaths of someone trying to cry silently. It's a sound that clutches at something within Sawyer's chest with painful recognition.
His first instinct is to push open the tent flap. To put his comforting hand against the back of Jack's neck. But Sawyer doesn't know how to comfort anyone, and he can imagine the accusatory look he'd see in Jack's eyes if he intruded. He'd need an excuse, and he doesn't have one.
So he walks back to his tent, eyes scouting protectively to see if anyone else overheard what he did. No one is paying attention. Sawyer settles himself back into bed, trying to figure Jack out. What was the doc crying about, why now, why tonight? And how does one get to be the sort of man who can let himself cry?
…
There is only one solution, of course. The usual solution. He comes around to the decision as the sun is just beginning to paint the sky the palest pink, and having decided, finally Sawyer can let himself relax into sleep.
…
His hands tremble when he holds the book, unable to make himself open the cover. The emotions brewing inside him are uncomfortable. He's felt guilt before, rarely, because he can't stand it. Most things he can justify, so they don't gnaw at his stomach. This has no justification, beyond curiosity, beyond obsession, beyond desire.
He thumbs the edge of the cover. Sees a heavily inked box where a name used to be written. The original owner, someone who plummeted from the sky with them, but didn't survive. Everything they own here has been touched by death.
Pages have been torn out, and Sawyer wonders by whom. He can't imagine Claire having the heart to do such a thing, and he can't imagine that Jack would care. Yet between the two of them, the pages are gone. Sawyer pauses a moment to mourn for what must have been written on them. The life of someone lost. Who were they? What did they write about? Now no one will ever know.
The first page is blank, and for a moment Sawyer thinks all this has been for nothing: he's gone to the trouble of feeling guilty for stealing a blank book. But the page beyond that has writing on it. Dark, slanted, looking embarrassed somehow to be captured on the page.
Jack's writing. Not just his handwriting, which Sawyer glosses over with his thumb. But the thoughts that live in that shorn head of his. A piece of Jack's soul is here in his hand.
He can't not read it.
…
When he's finished, he's almost sorry. Jack is human, just like Sawyer is. He's lonely and he's frustrated and he's scared. He feels responsible, for their lives and for their deaths. And there's no one on the island he can admit it to.
He has a way with metaphors that Sawyer likes. They're unusual and mundane at the same time. Jack's taken to writing, not without a certain stiffness of style (it is Jack, after all). What he's written is utterly unselfconscious. Enough to trigger Sawyer's guilt again, even though this is what he wanted. He wanted to peer into Jack's head, listen in on his thoughts.
Sawyer turned each page hoping, selfishly, to discover his own name written there. It wasn't. Nor did Jack write about Kate. The only person on the island Jack wrote about was Boone; specifically, his failure to save him. Jack still didn't seem to see that he had been unsaveable.
And Sawyer knew now the reason behind Jack's sobs the night before. Jack's father was a bastard, and he was dead. Jack blamed himself, of course. Sawyer wished he could talk to Jack, because he understood. But Sawyer knew if he tried, words would fail him. They always did when he tried to tell the truth.
Sawyer feels a sudden urgency. Much as he'd like to keep it, he has to put the book back before Jack misses it. Except he's too late. He finds he's being observed, by Jack, whose face is blank, hiding whatever emotions he's feeling. (Sawyer assumes rage.)
He tries to smirk and look nonchalant, even as he holds out the book for Jack to take. He doesn’t say anything. He can't. The words are caught inside.
Jack doesn't reach for the book. He contemplates Sawyer with eyes as flat and shiny as glass. "You keep it," he says. "I'd like to know what goes through that head of yours." The implication is clear: Sawyer will bare his soul and one day Jack will take that away from him.
Sawyer shakes his head and holds out the book more firmly. What Jack doesn't know is that the only words that live inside Sawyer are the ones he wrote in pencil on a piece of worn notebook paper that he still carries with him.
"I won't do it again," Sawyer says. A solemn promise. One which Jack does not accept. Jack's probably right. But Jack takes the book from him, weighing it with his long fingers, as though something is now missing from it.
"Why?" Jack asks, as though it's an afterthought.
Sawyer wants to tell him. Wants it so bad his heart pounds. But he can't say it. All he can say is, "You know me, Doc." It's not a lie, but it doesn't even come close to the truth. Jack fixes him with a look that seems to see right through him. Then he and the book are gone, leaving Sawyer once again alone.
End.
Author's notes: Spoilers through season one. Written for psych_30 #26, Obsession, fanfic100 #80, Why?, and also my claim at hiatus_stories. Also, alliecat8's prize for winning the stalker meme.
Summary: Sawyer's two obsessions collide.
Adversaria
by eponine119
November 17, 2006
Sawyer watches Claire and Jack. They're having a quiet conversation. Hard to tell what it might be about. No hand gestures, no out of the ordinary facial expressions. He strains, thinking he might just be able to overhear it from where he's sprawled comfortably in the sand, but between the roar of the ocean and the has-been fiddling with his guitar, he doesn't have a chance.
He feels his heart inexplicably begin to race when Claire hands Jack the book. The expression on her face is earnest; his is afraid. He barely wants to touch it, let alone take it from her. She raises her eyebrows in that mother-knows-best look she's already cultivated. Finally Jack nods and Claire begins to walk away.
Jack stands there, holding the book, looking down at it for several seconds.
Then he turns his head and looks directly at Sawyer, like he knows. Sawyer dives back into his paperback, but perhaps not quickly enough. He can't risk glancing up to be sure. When he finally dares, Jack's gone.
…
In his regular watching of Jack, he finds himself searching for signs. Ink-stained fingers. Something.
Lying in bed, unable to sleep in the warm darkness, Sawyer wonders what sorts of words flicker through Jack's brain. What do his innermost thoughts focus upon, and what forms do they take?
Finally, he can stand it no longer. He flings himself up, out of bed, to stalk along the beach. He's not the only one awake. There's always someone with a light glowing in their tent, or sitting and watching the unending sameness of the waves crashing on the sand. It's quiet, though, quiet enough that he holds his breath when he approaches the doctor's tent, thinking, crazily, that he'll be able to hear the scratching of ballpoint against paper.
What he hears is something very different. The heavy breaths of someone trying to cry silently. It's a sound that clutches at something within Sawyer's chest with painful recognition.
His first instinct is to push open the tent flap. To put his comforting hand against the back of Jack's neck. But Sawyer doesn't know how to comfort anyone, and he can imagine the accusatory look he'd see in Jack's eyes if he intruded. He'd need an excuse, and he doesn't have one.
So he walks back to his tent, eyes scouting protectively to see if anyone else overheard what he did. No one is paying attention. Sawyer settles himself back into bed, trying to figure Jack out. What was the doc crying about, why now, why tonight? And how does one get to be the sort of man who can let himself cry?
…
There is only one solution, of course. The usual solution. He comes around to the decision as the sun is just beginning to paint the sky the palest pink, and having decided, finally Sawyer can let himself relax into sleep.
…
His hands tremble when he holds the book, unable to make himself open the cover. The emotions brewing inside him are uncomfortable. He's felt guilt before, rarely, because he can't stand it. Most things he can justify, so they don't gnaw at his stomach. This has no justification, beyond curiosity, beyond obsession, beyond desire.
He thumbs the edge of the cover. Sees a heavily inked box where a name used to be written. The original owner, someone who plummeted from the sky with them, but didn't survive. Everything they own here has been touched by death.
Pages have been torn out, and Sawyer wonders by whom. He can't imagine Claire having the heart to do such a thing, and he can't imagine that Jack would care. Yet between the two of them, the pages are gone. Sawyer pauses a moment to mourn for what must have been written on them. The life of someone lost. Who were they? What did they write about? Now no one will ever know.
The first page is blank, and for a moment Sawyer thinks all this has been for nothing: he's gone to the trouble of feeling guilty for stealing a blank book. But the page beyond that has writing on it. Dark, slanted, looking embarrassed somehow to be captured on the page.
Jack's writing. Not just his handwriting, which Sawyer glosses over with his thumb. But the thoughts that live in that shorn head of his. A piece of Jack's soul is here in his hand.
He can't not read it.
…
When he's finished, he's almost sorry. Jack is human, just like Sawyer is. He's lonely and he's frustrated and he's scared. He feels responsible, for their lives and for their deaths. And there's no one on the island he can admit it to.
He has a way with metaphors that Sawyer likes. They're unusual and mundane at the same time. Jack's taken to writing, not without a certain stiffness of style (it is Jack, after all). What he's written is utterly unselfconscious. Enough to trigger Sawyer's guilt again, even though this is what he wanted. He wanted to peer into Jack's head, listen in on his thoughts.
Sawyer turned each page hoping, selfishly, to discover his own name written there. It wasn't. Nor did Jack write about Kate. The only person on the island Jack wrote about was Boone; specifically, his failure to save him. Jack still didn't seem to see that he had been unsaveable.
And Sawyer knew now the reason behind Jack's sobs the night before. Jack's father was a bastard, and he was dead. Jack blamed himself, of course. Sawyer wished he could talk to Jack, because he understood. But Sawyer knew if he tried, words would fail him. They always did when he tried to tell the truth.
Sawyer feels a sudden urgency. Much as he'd like to keep it, he has to put the book back before Jack misses it. Except he's too late. He finds he's being observed, by Jack, whose face is blank, hiding whatever emotions he's feeling. (Sawyer assumes rage.)
He tries to smirk and look nonchalant, even as he holds out the book for Jack to take. He doesn’t say anything. He can't. The words are caught inside.
Jack doesn't reach for the book. He contemplates Sawyer with eyes as flat and shiny as glass. "You keep it," he says. "I'd like to know what goes through that head of yours." The implication is clear: Sawyer will bare his soul and one day Jack will take that away from him.
Sawyer shakes his head and holds out the book more firmly. What Jack doesn't know is that the only words that live inside Sawyer are the ones he wrote in pencil on a piece of worn notebook paper that he still carries with him.
"I won't do it again," Sawyer says. A solemn promise. One which Jack does not accept. Jack's probably right. But Jack takes the book from him, weighing it with his long fingers, as though something is now missing from it.
"Why?" Jack asks, as though it's an afterthought.
Sawyer wants to tell him. Wants it so bad his heart pounds. But he can't say it. All he can say is, "You know me, Doc." It's not a lie, but it doesn't even come close to the truth. Jack fixes him with a look that seems to see right through him. Then he and the book are gone, leaving Sawyer once again alone.
End.