Lost fic: A Healing Touch [AU, J/S, NC17]
For Queen haldoor, who asked for music and suggested the boys could be in a rock band.
Notes: Using for psych_30 #18, instinct, and fanfic100 #41, shapes. Close enough.
Summary: Sawyer's traveling with his doctor. AU, J/S, NC17
A Healing Touch
by eponine119
August 22, 2007
Sawyer Ford was a rising star in the country world. He spent upwards of 300 days on a tour bus. He had a wife at home and a kid named Clementine. He had a girlfriend on the bus named Kate. He wasn't like other modern pop-country singers. He wrote his own music, and didn't pay lip service to stardom, nationalism, or being nice. He still preferred venues with sawdust on the floor. His biggest hit was called "Con Man's Mama."
The latest addition to his entourage was a doctor. It caused a lot of gossip, which Sawyer could stop with one glare of narrowed eyes. It went on behind his back, of course, but he didn't care. Let 'em say what they wanted as long as they kept buying his albums at Wal-mart. His surly bad-boy image only enhanced sales.
When Sawyer got off stage that night, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand, which he then ran through the long hair that had fallen into his eyes. "You okay?" Kate was right there on him, looking at him with concerned eyes. He shook her off and kept walking, toward the bus.
Kate's hand slid round his arm again. "It's going to take a couple of hours for load-out," she said. "Relax." It was a plea. She should have known better.
"I'll relax on the bus," he said. "You and the guys can catch up later." This tour had gotten so big there were two buses now. It wasn't the first time Sawyer had banished everyone to the other bus - but it was the first time he'd left Kate behind. He turned stonily away from her hurt look. He figured as soon as he was out of sight, she'd head for the opening act, Sayid, America's first Bollywood country singer. He'd seen them eyeing each other. He didn't give a damn. That was the problem.
"Doc," Sawyer said, and caught the startled raise of the other man's head from the corner of his eyes. "You're with me." He pushed out through the stage door to the large custom bus waiting outside.
He lay down on the bench seat in the dining area. Let the doc think he's a lazy fool, he thought. Sawyer heard the doors of the bus close and opened his eyes. The doc was clutching the thick medical journal he'd been reading, dark eyes eager. This was the first time Sawyer had ever spoken to him. Though Sawyer had been watching him.
"Hi," said the doctor uneasily. "I'm Jack."
"I know." The wheels began to turn beneath them, and they were on their way toward another dark highway and another town. "Let's take it back here." Sawyer dragged himself to his feet and stumbled back through the bunk beds for the band, to the small bedroom that was his. He collapsed on the bed. "Close the door," he said to the doc, once he was in.
"You okay?" He didn't sound like a doctor. He sounded like Kate: worried.
'Not really," Sawyer replied. He was breathing hard and he could feel the cool dampness of his skin.
"What'd you take?" Jack asked, perched on the chair that was just inches from the bed.
"Don't worry, you ain't no Doc…Doc Holliday, Captain…" He could find the name he was looking for. "And I ain't gonna start wearing a beaded jumpsuit and a cape like a damn superhero and die on the crapper. It's my head."
"What about your head?" Jack asked, voice gentled.
"It hurts," Sawyer groaned, and put his hands over his eyes, curling up on the bed.
"The light hurts your eyes." Jack's voice was even softer. Light fingers came to rest at the back of his neck, cradling his head. Sawyer's body jerked with tension at first, then relaxed. "You're seeing flashes of light."
"Shapes."
"Shapes." Jack repeated the correction. "Sound hurts, too. You're nauseated." He wasn't really asking now, just listing. Like he understood. "You know it's just a migraine, Sawyer."
"It don't feel like 'just' anything," Sawyer snapped. He hated the tired, broken sound in his voice. "Gimme something for it."
"You take an aspirin?" Jack asked, for a second, Sawyer wondered if the man actually had a sense of humor.
"Aspirin don't touch it," Sawyer replied. "Nothin' does. Not anymore." The room was silent, so he opened his eyes again. Jack had dimmed the lights so they didn't sting as hard. "Do somethin'!"
Jack reached out and took his hand. Sawyer tried to pull away, but the doctor was firm. He turned the guitar-calloused hand over, and pushed two fingers against the pulse in his wrist. After a moment, he said, "Stand up."
Sawyer did, and the room swayed. Jack nodded. "First of all, you're dehydrated." Sawyer gave him a dark look. "Lie back down." The doctor disappeared through the door of the room and Sawyer let himself drop back onto the bed. The room was dark and quiet, and Sawyer could feel the roll of the road beneath him.
"Two sips," Jack said, returning, with a cup in his hands. He held it while Sawyer drank, like a child. Then he set the cup on the table and sat down on the bed, warm weight tugging down one corner of the mattress. "Tell me about your life."
"Hell, you can read about it in the magazines in the supermarket, just like everybody else."
"No," Jack said. "I want to hear it from you."
"Oh. All doctor-like," Sawyer said. Jack shrugged. "I got a wife and a kid at home. I'm on the road 300 days a year. Get home, record an album, head back out. I been doin' this, oh, fifteen years now."
"It's stress. Take a year off," Jack said.
"No," Sawyer growled.
Jack lay his hand against Sawyer's head, so tenderly Sawyer had to close his eyes. "You've got no choice."
"Damn right. I stop, I'm dead," Sawyer said, struggling up to a sitting position.
"Go home," Jack persisted.
"This is home!" Sawyer let his eyes close again. "I go home, I get divorced. We already are, without the paperwork and the legal fees and the press."
"But it's not that," Jack said.
"You know that song?"
"Which song?" Jack asked.
"THE song," Sawyer sighed, looking Jack in the face. "It's true. Every word. I lived it. I ain't goin' back to it." He watches Jack's eyes darkened with understanding. "Nobody else knows that."
"Why tell me?"
"I gotta tell someone."
He could feel the deep breath Jack took. "You're lonely."
Sawyer didn't answer. He couldn't. He sank back down. Thought he'd turn away, but Jack pulled him into his arms, holding him tight, rocking ever so slightly. Sawyer felt the first bit of pain recede. Jack stroked his hair, fingertips almost electric against Sawyer's scalp.
Sawyer jerked away. "Just gimme something to make it stop, knock me out."
Jack smiled slightly. "My bag's on the other bus."
"Then why in hell are you here," Sawyer snapped, exhausted.
"I've been riding around on buses for a month," Jack said. "I've read three years' worth of medical journals. This is the first time anyone on your crew has said anything to me other than 'Dude, you're in the way.'"
"You want me to say sorry?" Sawyer snarled.
"No. I want you to let me help you."
Sawyer sagged back on the bed, looking at Jack through half-closed eyes. "Why?"
"It's why I'm here," Jack said, and moved closer. He leaned over Sawyer and touched his face, still with those impossibly gentle hands. A healing touch that soothed Sawyer's pain. Jack's thumbs skimmed over the heavy inner curve of his nose and along the bones above his eyes, shading out the dim light. Then they pressed into the tight tension at the hinge of his jaw. He could feel Jack's warm breath against his face and opened his eyes, to see Jack's, so close and unfocused with concentration.
Sawyer could feel his lips tingle with anticipation of being touched, but Jack's fingers moved up underneath his hair again, rubbing his scalp. Sawyer could feel his body growing heavy with relaxation.
"The best thing for pain is endorphins," Jack said softly, withdrawing. Sawyer practically came up off the bed, wanting to follow his touch. Then Jack's hand skimmed through his hair again. Different this time, somehow. And Jack's other hand reached for his belt buckle.
Sawyer was going to let him, but Jack stopped, staring hard at him, like he wanted words or permission. Sawyer just put his hand over Jack's, rough and heavy.
His hips jerked when Jack touched him, and he made a sound deep in the back of his throat. Already his pulse was pounding, a counterpoint to the throb in his head. This pain was pleasure, as Jack wrapped those long, delicate doctor's fingers around his cock, thumb scraping over the sensitive tip. Sawyer wanted Jack's mouth on him, but Jack used only his hand, holding back when Sawyer thrust and strained against it, rubbing harder when Sawyer lay back and moaned quietly.
When he came, the world faded away for a second, lost to heated darkness he saw reflected in Jack's eyes. Jack's breath was quick, and his cock was pressing against his jeans. Neither of them did anything about it, but Sawyer could feel it when Jack lay down next to him, and said with words soft against his ear, "How's your head?"
"It still hurts but I don't care." A half-truth. It didn't hurt as much. "So much for 'not tonight, I've got a headache.'" He could barely keep his eyes open. Satisfied sleep tugged at his consciousness.
He felt Jack move against the mattress, getting up. Sawyer put out his hand without opening his eyes. "Don't leave me alone," he said, making contact with Jack's arm. He decided not to let go, even as he drifted off into pain-free dreams.
Sawyer woke once in the night. Jack was curled up against him, mumbling incoherently. It made him feel secure. The road unspooled beneath the tires of the bus, carrying them on toward morning, and Sawyer was safe and comfortable, traveling with his doctor. A man to whom he owed much, and who he'd only just begun to get to know.
End.
Notes: Using for psych_30 #18, instinct, and fanfic100 #41, shapes. Close enough.
Summary: Sawyer's traveling with his doctor. AU, J/S, NC17
A Healing Touch
by eponine119
August 22, 2007
Sawyer Ford was a rising star in the country world. He spent upwards of 300 days on a tour bus. He had a wife at home and a kid named Clementine. He had a girlfriend on the bus named Kate. He wasn't like other modern pop-country singers. He wrote his own music, and didn't pay lip service to stardom, nationalism, or being nice. He still preferred venues with sawdust on the floor. His biggest hit was called "Con Man's Mama."
The latest addition to his entourage was a doctor. It caused a lot of gossip, which Sawyer could stop with one glare of narrowed eyes. It went on behind his back, of course, but he didn't care. Let 'em say what they wanted as long as they kept buying his albums at Wal-mart. His surly bad-boy image only enhanced sales.
When Sawyer got off stage that night, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand, which he then ran through the long hair that had fallen into his eyes. "You okay?" Kate was right there on him, looking at him with concerned eyes. He shook her off and kept walking, toward the bus.
Kate's hand slid round his arm again. "It's going to take a couple of hours for load-out," she said. "Relax." It was a plea. She should have known better.
"I'll relax on the bus," he said. "You and the guys can catch up later." This tour had gotten so big there were two buses now. It wasn't the first time Sawyer had banished everyone to the other bus - but it was the first time he'd left Kate behind. He turned stonily away from her hurt look. He figured as soon as he was out of sight, she'd head for the opening act, Sayid, America's first Bollywood country singer. He'd seen them eyeing each other. He didn't give a damn. That was the problem.
"Doc," Sawyer said, and caught the startled raise of the other man's head from the corner of his eyes. "You're with me." He pushed out through the stage door to the large custom bus waiting outside.
He lay down on the bench seat in the dining area. Let the doc think he's a lazy fool, he thought. Sawyer heard the doors of the bus close and opened his eyes. The doc was clutching the thick medical journal he'd been reading, dark eyes eager. This was the first time Sawyer had ever spoken to him. Though Sawyer had been watching him.
"Hi," said the doctor uneasily. "I'm Jack."
"I know." The wheels began to turn beneath them, and they were on their way toward another dark highway and another town. "Let's take it back here." Sawyer dragged himself to his feet and stumbled back through the bunk beds for the band, to the small bedroom that was his. He collapsed on the bed. "Close the door," he said to the doc, once he was in.
"You okay?" He didn't sound like a doctor. He sounded like Kate: worried.
'Not really," Sawyer replied. He was breathing hard and he could feel the cool dampness of his skin.
"What'd you take?" Jack asked, perched on the chair that was just inches from the bed.
"Don't worry, you ain't no Doc…Doc Holliday, Captain…" He could find the name he was looking for. "And I ain't gonna start wearing a beaded jumpsuit and a cape like a damn superhero and die on the crapper. It's my head."
"What about your head?" Jack asked, voice gentled.
"It hurts," Sawyer groaned, and put his hands over his eyes, curling up on the bed.
"The light hurts your eyes." Jack's voice was even softer. Light fingers came to rest at the back of his neck, cradling his head. Sawyer's body jerked with tension at first, then relaxed. "You're seeing flashes of light."
"Shapes."
"Shapes." Jack repeated the correction. "Sound hurts, too. You're nauseated." He wasn't really asking now, just listing. Like he understood. "You know it's just a migraine, Sawyer."
"It don't feel like 'just' anything," Sawyer snapped. He hated the tired, broken sound in his voice. "Gimme something for it."
"You take an aspirin?" Jack asked, for a second, Sawyer wondered if the man actually had a sense of humor.
"Aspirin don't touch it," Sawyer replied. "Nothin' does. Not anymore." The room was silent, so he opened his eyes again. Jack had dimmed the lights so they didn't sting as hard. "Do somethin'!"
Jack reached out and took his hand. Sawyer tried to pull away, but the doctor was firm. He turned the guitar-calloused hand over, and pushed two fingers against the pulse in his wrist. After a moment, he said, "Stand up."
Sawyer did, and the room swayed. Jack nodded. "First of all, you're dehydrated." Sawyer gave him a dark look. "Lie back down." The doctor disappeared through the door of the room and Sawyer let himself drop back onto the bed. The room was dark and quiet, and Sawyer could feel the roll of the road beneath him.
"Two sips," Jack said, returning, with a cup in his hands. He held it while Sawyer drank, like a child. Then he set the cup on the table and sat down on the bed, warm weight tugging down one corner of the mattress. "Tell me about your life."
"Hell, you can read about it in the magazines in the supermarket, just like everybody else."
"No," Jack said. "I want to hear it from you."
"Oh. All doctor-like," Sawyer said. Jack shrugged. "I got a wife and a kid at home. I'm on the road 300 days a year. Get home, record an album, head back out. I been doin' this, oh, fifteen years now."
"It's stress. Take a year off," Jack said.
"No," Sawyer growled.
Jack lay his hand against Sawyer's head, so tenderly Sawyer had to close his eyes. "You've got no choice."
"Damn right. I stop, I'm dead," Sawyer said, struggling up to a sitting position.
"Go home," Jack persisted.
"This is home!" Sawyer let his eyes close again. "I go home, I get divorced. We already are, without the paperwork and the legal fees and the press."
"But it's not that," Jack said.
"You know that song?"
"Which song?" Jack asked.
"THE song," Sawyer sighed, looking Jack in the face. "It's true. Every word. I lived it. I ain't goin' back to it." He watches Jack's eyes darkened with understanding. "Nobody else knows that."
"Why tell me?"
"I gotta tell someone."
He could feel the deep breath Jack took. "You're lonely."
Sawyer didn't answer. He couldn't. He sank back down. Thought he'd turn away, but Jack pulled him into his arms, holding him tight, rocking ever so slightly. Sawyer felt the first bit of pain recede. Jack stroked his hair, fingertips almost electric against Sawyer's scalp.
Sawyer jerked away. "Just gimme something to make it stop, knock me out."
Jack smiled slightly. "My bag's on the other bus."
"Then why in hell are you here," Sawyer snapped, exhausted.
"I've been riding around on buses for a month," Jack said. "I've read three years' worth of medical journals. This is the first time anyone on your crew has said anything to me other than 'Dude, you're in the way.'"
"You want me to say sorry?" Sawyer snarled.
"No. I want you to let me help you."
Sawyer sagged back on the bed, looking at Jack through half-closed eyes. "Why?"
"It's why I'm here," Jack said, and moved closer. He leaned over Sawyer and touched his face, still with those impossibly gentle hands. A healing touch that soothed Sawyer's pain. Jack's thumbs skimmed over the heavy inner curve of his nose and along the bones above his eyes, shading out the dim light. Then they pressed into the tight tension at the hinge of his jaw. He could feel Jack's warm breath against his face and opened his eyes, to see Jack's, so close and unfocused with concentration.
Sawyer could feel his lips tingle with anticipation of being touched, but Jack's fingers moved up underneath his hair again, rubbing his scalp. Sawyer could feel his body growing heavy with relaxation.
"The best thing for pain is endorphins," Jack said softly, withdrawing. Sawyer practically came up off the bed, wanting to follow his touch. Then Jack's hand skimmed through his hair again. Different this time, somehow. And Jack's other hand reached for his belt buckle.
Sawyer was going to let him, but Jack stopped, staring hard at him, like he wanted words or permission. Sawyer just put his hand over Jack's, rough and heavy.
His hips jerked when Jack touched him, and he made a sound deep in the back of his throat. Already his pulse was pounding, a counterpoint to the throb in his head. This pain was pleasure, as Jack wrapped those long, delicate doctor's fingers around his cock, thumb scraping over the sensitive tip. Sawyer wanted Jack's mouth on him, but Jack used only his hand, holding back when Sawyer thrust and strained against it, rubbing harder when Sawyer lay back and moaned quietly.
When he came, the world faded away for a second, lost to heated darkness he saw reflected in Jack's eyes. Jack's breath was quick, and his cock was pressing against his jeans. Neither of them did anything about it, but Sawyer could feel it when Jack lay down next to him, and said with words soft against his ear, "How's your head?"
"It still hurts but I don't care." A half-truth. It didn't hurt as much. "So much for 'not tonight, I've got a headache.'" He could barely keep his eyes open. Satisfied sleep tugged at his consciousness.
He felt Jack move against the mattress, getting up. Sawyer put out his hand without opening his eyes. "Don't leave me alone," he said, making contact with Jack's arm. He decided not to let go, even as he drifted off into pain-free dreams.
Sawyer woke once in the night. Jack was curled up against him, mumbling incoherently. It made him feel secure. The road unspooled beneath the tires of the bus, carrying them on toward morning, and Sawyer was safe and comfortable, traveling with his doctor. A man to whom he owed much, and who he'd only just begun to get to know.
End.