A doctor and a lawyer walk into a bar...
Title: Everything Is Alright
Fandom: Oz/Lost (crossover)
Pairings: Beecher/Keller, Jack/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: HBO, Tom Fontana, ABC, JJ/Damon/Carlton = so not me
Summary: A small bonding session over drinks and careers.
A/N: I have this on-going fascination with comparing Toby and Jack, and it manifested itself into this, I guess. This is an AU in both fandom cases, although it's more of a future fic for Lost. Safe to say, one set of boys got off the island, while the other set got parole. :) Many thanks to rileyc and inthekeyofd for the general inspiration, and to halfdutch for the ever faithful quickie beta job. :)
It wasn’t so much the way the guy had poured himself onto the bar stool or even the way he’d tugged at his tie, like he didn’t have the energy left to pull it free, that Toby noticed. No, it was the large double shot of whiskey the guy ordered immediately, only to leave it sitting on the bar, staring at him as he circled the rim of the glass with his index finger.
Toby felt his mouth water, just a little, before looking down into his plain ginger ale. And he wondered if the guy three stools down from him was somehow in the same boat he was, only braver, stronger, able to look temptation square in the mouth.
Or he could just be too fucking tired to drink, Toby thought with a smirk as he caught the guy rubbing his cheeks, his thumbs digging hard into his eyes before sighing heavily. Toby knew that look well.
“Tough day?” he asked lightly, pausing for second before glancing over.
The guy almost started, as if he’d forgotten there were people around. Then he smiled, ducked his head. “Always.”
“I figured. You’ve been having a serious staring contest with that shot.”
That caused a quiet laugh, one that stretched his smile and had him finally meeting Toby’s gaze. He glanced at the ginger ale.
“I guess I don’t need to explain to you about old habits,” he said, his tone both sad and wistful.
Toby picked up the glass, saluted him with it. “Nope.”
He no longer smiled; instead his look was pensive and matched his tone. “Do you mind me asking how long?”
“You mean sober? Five years next month.”
He nodded. Then he sighed again, and Toby couldn’t help but think there needed to be a change of subject. So he stuck out his hand.
“Tobias.”
Ah, there it was, that smile that seemed almost too young for his face. It was charming and sweet, but Toby’d seen sweeter.
“Jack.”
“So, Jack, you spend your days saving the world or what?”
“Yeah, just about.” Jack laughed like it was natural, like it was nervous habit. “I’m a surgeon.”
“Oh. No wonder you look like shit.”
“Thanks.” But he was still grinning.
“What kind of surgery?”
“Spinal.”
“Fuck. I’d be a basket case in no time.”
“Well, I haven’t killed anyone. Yet.”
Toby snorted. “And, just for curiosity’s sake, how many hours of sleep have you had in the past twenty-four hours?”
Jack started playing with the glass again, spinning it slowly on the bar. “Three.” He didn’t look at Toby.
“Uh huh.” He knew without asking that Jack more than likely had slept those three hours at the hospital. Besides, he was the last person on earth to pass judgment where careers were concerned.
“You work around here?” Jack asked.
“Not really. My firm’s downtown.”
Jack tilted his head, regarded Toby as if he were just now completely seeing him. “You’re a lawyer.”
“I was.” It’d been a year since his parole and he still flushed at those words, so much harder to say outside, in the real world. “It’s my father’s firm. I just do legal research now.”
He watched as Jack stared at his hands, fingers threading together, pulling apart, starting all over again. There were wheels turning in Jack’s brain, Toby was certain of it.
“So…your father’s a lawyer?”
“Yeah.”
“And you…always wanted to follow him?”
It was a question Toby had pondered for years; it started as a nagging whisper at Harvard and grew into a full-blown accusation of sorts by the time he’d married Gen. He wasn’t ashamed of the answer; there was nothing to be ashamed of, not when you didn’t truly know the answer.
He sighed. “I…don’t know. Maybe.”
There was a heavy pause, and Toby figured the conversation was over. But then Jack said in a rush, “My dad was a surgeon. Chief of Surgery, even. My whole life, that’s how I knew him, as a doctor.”
Toby took a drink, waited a long moment as he chose his words. “He doesn’t practice anymore?”
Jack’s jaw twitched. “No. He doesn’t.”
“And what, you’re saying you never wanted to be him?”
“No, I did.” He chose that moment to finally take the shot, swallowing the whole thing in one smooth take. He stared at the empty glass in his hand. “If anything, I wanted to show him that I could, you know? That I had it in me.”
And maybe that was the difference between him and this man, Toby thought. Jack completed the cycle, while Toby let it disintegrate.
Jack let his head drop into his hands. “Sorry. There’s no reason for me to tell you this.”
“No, it’s okay. Just as long as you realize that this-,” he pointed to the shot glass, “-doesn’t do shit in the long run.”
“Tell that to my father.”
Well. There you go. “You always come here after a bad day, Jack?”
“If you’re insinuating what I think you are, the answer’s no. I’m meeting someone.”
“Look, I wasn’t-”
“I know. And it’s not like I haven’t been there.”
Silence fell between them in the pretense of them watching the Mets game on the HD along the wall.
“Is your dad proud of you?” Jack’s voice was quiet, like an afterthought.
Toby laughed, felt the familiar painful clench of his heart. “More than he should be.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just the trials and tribulations of being the oldest son.” No need to disclose details.
But Jack replied in that same quiet voice, “At least you know,” and Toby suddenly wanted to know more, wanted the history, and yet he knew it was completely unfair to ask.
The melancholy mood was suddenly broken as a man practically materialized out of nowhere at Jack’s side and announced, “Christ, doc, this place is a shithole. You got fuckin’ lousy taste in rendezvous points.”
Jack shook his head, but Toby recognized the hidden smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you named this place.”
“Whatever. I’m classy.” The guy had a drawl that was too smooth to be comical.
“Classy.” Jack laughed, an honest, happy laugh. “That’s a good one.” He started to pull his wallet out, but the other guy grabbed his wrist.
“I got it, doc. You can buy me dinner.”
Toby couldn’t help but watch their hands, the man’s thumb lingering against the inside of Jack’s wrist, the way it swept back and forth quickly before he pulled away. Their eyes held for a moment, and Toby could feel it, the subtle heat shimmering below the surface.
Yeah, he knew that heat well.
He wasn’t surprised one bit that Chris chose that moment to come charging out of the back kitchen, arms loaded with a rack of clean pilsner glasses. The dishwasher kid had called in sick, so Chris was doing his best attempt at double duty, “It’s not like I ain’t never washed a dish before,” he’d smirked.
He dropped the rack onto the bar without any fanfare, but then his eyes landed on Jack’s guy, and in pure Chris Keller fashion, said, “Do I fuckin’ know you?”
The guy (Toby thought he heard Jack call him Sawyer) narrowed his eyes slightly, and for a second the two faced off.
“Naw, man. I don’t think so.”
Chris started waving his finger at him. “No, I think I do. Tampa, right? You and fucking whatshisname…Huggins…or fuck, I forget….”
Sawyer was off the bar like it was fire. “C’mon, doc. Like I said, this place is a shithole.”
Jack shook his head, unfazed. He reached into his suit jacket and handed Toby his card. “Nice meeting you, Tobias.”
“Yeah, same here.” He ignored the momentary pang of remorse over the fact that he’d long since stopped carrying his own business cards. “If I need my spine messed with, I’ll look you up.”
He laughed, waved over his shoulder as he followed Sawyer out the door.
Toby was still looking on as Chris leaned over the bar plucked the card from his hand.
“ ‘Jack Shephard, Spinal Surgery’,” he read, flicking the card back at Toby. “You flirting with doctors now, Tobe?”
“Gotta do something to pass the time.” But he still caught Chris’ hand, did his own variation on the way Sawyer had touched Jack, only he ended it with a quick kiss against the heel of Chris’ palm.
“My fucking luck to buy a bar next to a damn hospital.”
“Yes, a real tragedy.” Toby sighed as he let his hand go, wishing it was closing time.
Fandom: Oz/Lost (crossover)
Pairings: Beecher/Keller, Jack/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: HBO, Tom Fontana, ABC, JJ/Damon/Carlton = so not me
Summary: A small bonding session over drinks and careers.
A/N: I have this on-going fascination with comparing Toby and Jack, and it manifested itself into this, I guess. This is an AU in both fandom cases, although it's more of a future fic for Lost. Safe to say, one set of boys got off the island, while the other set got parole. :) Many thanks to rileyc and inthekeyofd for the general inspiration, and to halfdutch for the ever faithful quickie beta job. :)
It wasn’t so much the way the guy had poured himself onto the bar stool or even the way he’d tugged at his tie, like he didn’t have the energy left to pull it free, that Toby noticed. No, it was the large double shot of whiskey the guy ordered immediately, only to leave it sitting on the bar, staring at him as he circled the rim of the glass with his index finger.
Toby felt his mouth water, just a little, before looking down into his plain ginger ale. And he wondered if the guy three stools down from him was somehow in the same boat he was, only braver, stronger, able to look temptation square in the mouth.
Or he could just be too fucking tired to drink, Toby thought with a smirk as he caught the guy rubbing his cheeks, his thumbs digging hard into his eyes before sighing heavily. Toby knew that look well.
“Tough day?” he asked lightly, pausing for second before glancing over.
The guy almost started, as if he’d forgotten there were people around. Then he smiled, ducked his head. “Always.”
“I figured. You’ve been having a serious staring contest with that shot.”
That caused a quiet laugh, one that stretched his smile and had him finally meeting Toby’s gaze. He glanced at the ginger ale.
“I guess I don’t need to explain to you about old habits,” he said, his tone both sad and wistful.
Toby picked up the glass, saluted him with it. “Nope.”
He no longer smiled; instead his look was pensive and matched his tone. “Do you mind me asking how long?”
“You mean sober? Five years next month.”
He nodded. Then he sighed again, and Toby couldn’t help but think there needed to be a change of subject. So he stuck out his hand.
“Tobias.”
Ah, there it was, that smile that seemed almost too young for his face. It was charming and sweet, but Toby’d seen sweeter.
“Jack.”
“So, Jack, you spend your days saving the world or what?”
“Yeah, just about.” Jack laughed like it was natural, like it was nervous habit. “I’m a surgeon.”
“Oh. No wonder you look like shit.”
“Thanks.” But he was still grinning.
“What kind of surgery?”
“Spinal.”
“Fuck. I’d be a basket case in no time.”
“Well, I haven’t killed anyone. Yet.”
Toby snorted. “And, just for curiosity’s sake, how many hours of sleep have you had in the past twenty-four hours?”
Jack started playing with the glass again, spinning it slowly on the bar. “Three.” He didn’t look at Toby.
“Uh huh.” He knew without asking that Jack more than likely had slept those three hours at the hospital. Besides, he was the last person on earth to pass judgment where careers were concerned.
“You work around here?” Jack asked.
“Not really. My firm’s downtown.”
Jack tilted his head, regarded Toby as if he were just now completely seeing him. “You’re a lawyer.”
“I was.” It’d been a year since his parole and he still flushed at those words, so much harder to say outside, in the real world. “It’s my father’s firm. I just do legal research now.”
He watched as Jack stared at his hands, fingers threading together, pulling apart, starting all over again. There were wheels turning in Jack’s brain, Toby was certain of it.
“So…your father’s a lawyer?”
“Yeah.”
“And you…always wanted to follow him?”
It was a question Toby had pondered for years; it started as a nagging whisper at Harvard and grew into a full-blown accusation of sorts by the time he’d married Gen. He wasn’t ashamed of the answer; there was nothing to be ashamed of, not when you didn’t truly know the answer.
He sighed. “I…don’t know. Maybe.”
There was a heavy pause, and Toby figured the conversation was over. But then Jack said in a rush, “My dad was a surgeon. Chief of Surgery, even. My whole life, that’s how I knew him, as a doctor.”
Toby took a drink, waited a long moment as he chose his words. “He doesn’t practice anymore?”
Jack’s jaw twitched. “No. He doesn’t.”
“And what, you’re saying you never wanted to be him?”
“No, I did.” He chose that moment to finally take the shot, swallowing the whole thing in one smooth take. He stared at the empty glass in his hand. “If anything, I wanted to show him that I could, you know? That I had it in me.”
And maybe that was the difference between him and this man, Toby thought. Jack completed the cycle, while Toby let it disintegrate.
Jack let his head drop into his hands. “Sorry. There’s no reason for me to tell you this.”
“No, it’s okay. Just as long as you realize that this-,” he pointed to the shot glass, “-doesn’t do shit in the long run.”
“Tell that to my father.”
Well. There you go. “You always come here after a bad day, Jack?”
“If you’re insinuating what I think you are, the answer’s no. I’m meeting someone.”
“Look, I wasn’t-”
“I know. And it’s not like I haven’t been there.”
Silence fell between them in the pretense of them watching the Mets game on the HD along the wall.
“Is your dad proud of you?” Jack’s voice was quiet, like an afterthought.
Toby laughed, felt the familiar painful clench of his heart. “More than he should be.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just the trials and tribulations of being the oldest son.” No need to disclose details.
But Jack replied in that same quiet voice, “At least you know,” and Toby suddenly wanted to know more, wanted the history, and yet he knew it was completely unfair to ask.
The melancholy mood was suddenly broken as a man practically materialized out of nowhere at Jack’s side and announced, “Christ, doc, this place is a shithole. You got fuckin’ lousy taste in rendezvous points.”
Jack shook his head, but Toby recognized the hidden smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you named this place.”
“Whatever. I’m classy.” The guy had a drawl that was too smooth to be comical.
“Classy.” Jack laughed, an honest, happy laugh. “That’s a good one.” He started to pull his wallet out, but the other guy grabbed his wrist.
“I got it, doc. You can buy me dinner.”
Toby couldn’t help but watch their hands, the man’s thumb lingering against the inside of Jack’s wrist, the way it swept back and forth quickly before he pulled away. Their eyes held for a moment, and Toby could feel it, the subtle heat shimmering below the surface.
Yeah, he knew that heat well.
He wasn’t surprised one bit that Chris chose that moment to come charging out of the back kitchen, arms loaded with a rack of clean pilsner glasses. The dishwasher kid had called in sick, so Chris was doing his best attempt at double duty, “It’s not like I ain’t never washed a dish before,” he’d smirked.
He dropped the rack onto the bar without any fanfare, but then his eyes landed on Jack’s guy, and in pure Chris Keller fashion, said, “Do I fuckin’ know you?”
The guy (Toby thought he heard Jack call him Sawyer) narrowed his eyes slightly, and for a second the two faced off.
“Naw, man. I don’t think so.”
Chris started waving his finger at him. “No, I think I do. Tampa, right? You and fucking whatshisname…Huggins…or fuck, I forget….”
Sawyer was off the bar like it was fire. “C’mon, doc. Like I said, this place is a shithole.”
Jack shook his head, unfazed. He reached into his suit jacket and handed Toby his card. “Nice meeting you, Tobias.”
“Yeah, same here.” He ignored the momentary pang of remorse over the fact that he’d long since stopped carrying his own business cards. “If I need my spine messed with, I’ll look you up.”
He laughed, waved over his shoulder as he followed Sawyer out the door.
Toby was still looking on as Chris leaned over the bar plucked the card from his hand.
“ ‘Jack Shephard, Spinal Surgery’,” he read, flicking the card back at Toby. “You flirting with doctors now, Tobe?”
“Gotta do something to pass the time.” But he still caught Chris’ hand, did his own variation on the way Sawyer had touched Jack, only he ended it with a quick kiss against the heel of Chris’ palm.
“My fucking luck to buy a bar next to a damn hospital.”
“Yes, a real tragedy.” Toby sighed as he let his hand go, wishing it was closing time.