Fic: Habit
Title: Habit
Author: hkath
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Prompt: fanfic100 prompt 023 "Lovers"
Wordcount: 967
Spoilers: very, very vague ones, if any.
Summary: Ten times.
Notes: This just sprung up when I was trying to do other stuff. It's a little bit lyrical, and I like it, and yeah, okay, it gets kinda uncharacteristically mushy.
Habit
The first time it happens, it’s like a moment inserted itself between two others when they weren’t looking. They both have other things on their minds, other things to do, other pleasures to abstain from. Yet, somehow, it happens. And it’s a little like slipping and falling into each other. Except it’s more like Jack slipping and falling into Sawyer.
Repeatedly.
*
The second time is like a scene-by-scene replay of the first time. Comfortable and compulsive, strapped in and careening down the back roads of each other’s bodies. Both have a vague sense of establishing landmarks: hard angle of the nose, curve of the spine, hidden ridge where the fingers catch. And when one of them suddenly smiles, it’s because he knows the destination, knows for certain it exists. They’ve been there once before.
*
The third time, they veer slightly off-course, arrive somewhere new. That’s when it first becomes beautiful, this thing between them. When they miss a turn or three and arrive at a dead end. They stare at each other, slack-jawed and breathless, and Sawyer runs the inside of his wrist lightly along the length of Jack’s cock, then cradles it solidly in both hands. Like a gift, something which becomes precious in the offering. Sawyer couldn’t say no if he tried.
*
The fourth time is like starting all over again.
Like temporary amnesia, only it’s intentional. One minute they’re discussing the pros and cons of button-pushing, and the next minute they’re naked and still locked in discussion.
“Why do anything?” Jack asks the universe.
His tongue circles Sawyer’s left nipple like a target, like he’s creating emphasis.
And Sawyer says, “Why not?”
When Sawyer talks, he talks to Jack.
*
There is no fifth time, only Sawyer pressing Jack painfully against the outer wall of the hatch.
“I’m starting to need this.”
“Yes.”
Jack’s chin tilts, his whole face opens up. Eyes dark.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Need.”
*
The sixth time is the best time, tinged with failure and stinging like salt. It lasts for hours, or seems to. When Sawyer comes, there’s a moment of slow, creeping clarity. And for a second, he can’t remember his name, or what year it is, or what he had for breakfast. He’s only aware of Jack. Jack, who seems, with all his trademark intensity, to be howling at the moon.
“Come here,” Sawyer says. Grabs him by the scruff of the neck.
Kissing Jack is a bit like kissing the bow of a 350-foot freighter. Wet. Hard. Overwhelming. Sawyer keeps his eyes open.
*
The seventh time is all talk. Jack whispers pleas in Sawyer’s ear, mutters curses against his stomach, giggles wildly while nibbling on his inner thigh.
“This is dangerous,” Sawyer says, rolling Jack, pinning him. Teeth grazing his neck. “This makes us weak.”
“No,” Jack says, head falling back. Offering. “No.”
*
Eight happens inside Sawyer’s tent, more intimate somehow than anything they’ve done before. Just Jack’s presence is a little like an assault, and he knows it. Smooths all his angles, tightens the hinge of his jaw. Sawyer fights the urge to hit him for a full five minutes. Reaches for him instead, fingers trembling when they hook into the neck of Jack’s threadbare t-shirt. When Jack takes him in, it’s with a calculated calm and a soft smile that says he can do whatever he wants.
Some not-so-small part of Sawyer still wants to hit him. Right across the mouth. But he doesn’t.
*
Nine is an interlude: rough and dirty, and against a fallen tree. Broad daylight. Every touch, every cry slightly exaggerated, as if they’re being filmed. Really, they’re performing for each other.
This is the instance each will remember most clearly in the following weeks. Not just because it’s the last, but because it was designed to be memorable. One last bright moment before they both march off to war.
What Sawyer remembers: a driving, desperate need in Jack that nearly (physically) breaks him in half.
What Jack remembers: tenderness and a helpless trust, like the look of blank flesh the second before the scalpel mars it.
*
Sawyer creates nine and a half out of thin air.
When Jack’s breath becomes shallow and his skin goes the colour of sidewalk chalk, Sawyer gets angrier and angrier, fingernails digging into his palm. Hitting Jack now would probably kill him, send him finally tumbling over that edge.
Later, when all eyes are cast down and all shoulders rigid against the slump of defeat, he clings in vain to the worst version of himself. Walks out on all of them.
But that mask doesn’t fit right. None of them do. So, full of failure, he slips back inside the hatch, back, past the dazed faces of his fellow fighters.
He finds Jack wrapped in damp sheets and calling for his father. Climbing in, Sawyer lets the sweat soak through his clothes and tells Jack the story of the doctor in the bar. Tells it again and again. Gets him through the night.
He never tells Jack about nine and a half. Maybe no one ever does.
*
The tenth time is a first time. Each notices something new.
Sawyer feels stoned. Watches an ant crawl over Jack’s forearm, sees the tiny hairs bristle and twitch in response. It’s evidence, he thinks cloudily. Proof that Jack is alive. The bug crawls onto a bright red tattooed star, and Jack shifts his arm, brings his hand up to rest against Sawyer’s neck.
“You love me,” Jack says.
“Sure.” Sawyer grins, more lopsidedly than usual.
“I can see it,” Jack says. He grazes Sawyer’s neck with the back of a knuckle, lingering at his Adam’s apple, barely warming the skin. “Right here.”
Sawyer closes his eyes. Swallows the reply.
Author: hkath
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Prompt: fanfic100 prompt 023 "Lovers"
Wordcount: 967
Spoilers: very, very vague ones, if any.
Summary: Ten times.
Notes: This just sprung up when I was trying to do other stuff. It's a little bit lyrical, and I like it, and yeah, okay, it gets kinda uncharacteristically mushy.
Habit
The first time it happens, it’s like a moment inserted itself between two others when they weren’t looking. They both have other things on their minds, other things to do, other pleasures to abstain from. Yet, somehow, it happens. And it’s a little like slipping and falling into each other. Except it’s more like Jack slipping and falling into Sawyer.
Repeatedly.
*
The second time is like a scene-by-scene replay of the first time. Comfortable and compulsive, strapped in and careening down the back roads of each other’s bodies. Both have a vague sense of establishing landmarks: hard angle of the nose, curve of the spine, hidden ridge where the fingers catch. And when one of them suddenly smiles, it’s because he knows the destination, knows for certain it exists. They’ve been there once before.
*
The third time, they veer slightly off-course, arrive somewhere new. That’s when it first becomes beautiful, this thing between them. When they miss a turn or three and arrive at a dead end. They stare at each other, slack-jawed and breathless, and Sawyer runs the inside of his wrist lightly along the length of Jack’s cock, then cradles it solidly in both hands. Like a gift, something which becomes precious in the offering. Sawyer couldn’t say no if he tried.
*
The fourth time is like starting all over again.
Like temporary amnesia, only it’s intentional. One minute they’re discussing the pros and cons of button-pushing, and the next minute they’re naked and still locked in discussion.
“Why do anything?” Jack asks the universe.
His tongue circles Sawyer’s left nipple like a target, like he’s creating emphasis.
And Sawyer says, “Why not?”
When Sawyer talks, he talks to Jack.
*
There is no fifth time, only Sawyer pressing Jack painfully against the outer wall of the hatch.
“I’m starting to need this.”
“Yes.”
Jack’s chin tilts, his whole face opens up. Eyes dark.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Need.”
*
The sixth time is the best time, tinged with failure and stinging like salt. It lasts for hours, or seems to. When Sawyer comes, there’s a moment of slow, creeping clarity. And for a second, he can’t remember his name, or what year it is, or what he had for breakfast. He’s only aware of Jack. Jack, who seems, with all his trademark intensity, to be howling at the moon.
“Come here,” Sawyer says. Grabs him by the scruff of the neck.
Kissing Jack is a bit like kissing the bow of a 350-foot freighter. Wet. Hard. Overwhelming. Sawyer keeps his eyes open.
*
The seventh time is all talk. Jack whispers pleas in Sawyer’s ear, mutters curses against his stomach, giggles wildly while nibbling on his inner thigh.
“This is dangerous,” Sawyer says, rolling Jack, pinning him. Teeth grazing his neck. “This makes us weak.”
“No,” Jack says, head falling back. Offering. “No.”
*
Eight happens inside Sawyer’s tent, more intimate somehow than anything they’ve done before. Just Jack’s presence is a little like an assault, and he knows it. Smooths all his angles, tightens the hinge of his jaw. Sawyer fights the urge to hit him for a full five minutes. Reaches for him instead, fingers trembling when they hook into the neck of Jack’s threadbare t-shirt. When Jack takes him in, it’s with a calculated calm and a soft smile that says he can do whatever he wants.
Some not-so-small part of Sawyer still wants to hit him. Right across the mouth. But he doesn’t.
*
Nine is an interlude: rough and dirty, and against a fallen tree. Broad daylight. Every touch, every cry slightly exaggerated, as if they’re being filmed. Really, they’re performing for each other.
This is the instance each will remember most clearly in the following weeks. Not just because it’s the last, but because it was designed to be memorable. One last bright moment before they both march off to war.
What Sawyer remembers: a driving, desperate need in Jack that nearly (physically) breaks him in half.
What Jack remembers: tenderness and a helpless trust, like the look of blank flesh the second before the scalpel mars it.
*
Sawyer creates nine and a half out of thin air.
When Jack’s breath becomes shallow and his skin goes the colour of sidewalk chalk, Sawyer gets angrier and angrier, fingernails digging into his palm. Hitting Jack now would probably kill him, send him finally tumbling over that edge.
Later, when all eyes are cast down and all shoulders rigid against the slump of defeat, he clings in vain to the worst version of himself. Walks out on all of them.
But that mask doesn’t fit right. None of them do. So, full of failure, he slips back inside the hatch, back, past the dazed faces of his fellow fighters.
He finds Jack wrapped in damp sheets and calling for his father. Climbing in, Sawyer lets the sweat soak through his clothes and tells Jack the story of the doctor in the bar. Tells it again and again. Gets him through the night.
He never tells Jack about nine and a half. Maybe no one ever does.
*
The tenth time is a first time. Each notices something new.
Sawyer feels stoned. Watches an ant crawl over Jack’s forearm, sees the tiny hairs bristle and twitch in response. It’s evidence, he thinks cloudily. Proof that Jack is alive. The bug crawls onto a bright red tattooed star, and Jack shifts his arm, brings his hand up to rest against Sawyer’s neck.
“You love me,” Jack says.
“Sure.” Sawyer grins, more lopsidedly than usual.
“I can see it,” Jack says. He grazes Sawyer’s neck with the back of a knuckle, lingering at his Adam’s apple, barely warming the skin. “Right here.”
Sawyer closes his eyes. Swallows the reply.