Pennies From Heaven (1/?) (PG)
Title: Pennies From Heaven
Series: Stardust (and other possible impossibilities)
Characters: Eventual Jack/Sawyer (duh), Christian, various other cast members popping up incongruously
Summary: Sawyer meets a couple of newcomers to the carnival trade and attempts to make them feel welcome... sort of.
Prompts: fanfic100 50. spade and psych_30 6. Inferiority complex.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Yeah, it's a carnival AU. Precisely a 1930s carnival AU. And it's (as usual) all arabella_hope's fault, with her talk of circuses and carnivals - an actual plot came and whacked me over the head and I just couldn't ignore it, even though the idea was conceived completely in jest. A million thanks to her for the awesome beta job :) Also, this is for foxxcub, for rocking my world so constantly with her own AUs. Hopefully my first AU is up to some sort of semblance of scratch. ♥
Oh, yes, and I almost forgot. Your free mp3: Billie Holiday - Pennies From Heaven. So. Here goes.
Stardust (and other possible impossibilities)
Part 1: Pennies From Heaven
Sawyer both loves and hates this moment just after the gates open. The mounting cacophony of voices, the combined glow of electrical and lantern light, the smells - hay and sweat, vomit and sawdust, mustard and sugar - mixing in the humid air. It's both a sensory intrusion and an instant adrenal rush.
There isn't much for him to do tonight. He's considering a trip back to his trailer for a rendez-vous with a book and a near-empty bottle, having spent the brunt of the day hoisting canvas and driving tent spikes into the hard earth. They just rolled into town this afternoon. Now, as the sky starts to glow that dusky purple colour, all the lconcessions and rides are manned and the first show of the evening's about to start in the big tent. He can hear the booming voice of the talker outside, drumming up interest in the freaks and oddities within.
He's headed toward the back yard to escape the harsh mechanical noises of the rides starting up, threading through the opening-night crowd when he notices a concession wagon he's never seen before on the midway. It's been painted and distressed to look older than it actually is, but a meticulous blue awning stretched above the vendor's head betrays the illusion. Bottles of clear fluid are stacked in fancy pyramid shapes and backlit with special lanterns that give off a blue-tinged glow.
Standing behind the false front is a tall man with a pinched, conceited face and a very full head of grey hair. The blue light makes him look spectral and unreal, and Sawyer can only imagine how unintentionally terrifying he'll look when it's completely dark out.
Dr. Shephard's Health Tonic ~ Proven Results In Just 1 Week! reads a well-lit wooden sign above the awning. A panel on the side proclaims, Christian Shephard: Surgeon ~ Physician ~ Inventor. Sawyer could take three guesses at the guy's name, but that'd be an awful big waste of three whole guesses.
The crowd slowly filters down towards the back end, more and more of them drifting from trailer to trailer. Sawyer, interested enough to stick around and see what kind of spectacle this health tonic fellow puts on, figures he might as well make a buck while he's out here. He pulls up three nearby crates and digs a few tattered playing cards out of the back pocket of his worn jeans.
“Naughty boy.”
He whirls and finds Kate eyeing him with humour, feet working backwards in their beat-up boots because she's got somewhere to be. Girl always has somewhere to be.
“Even naughty boys gotta eat,” Sawyer says back, winking at her for a second before he resumes scanning the crowd for potential marks.
“Going at it without a stick? You're living dangerously, Sawyer.”
She's broadcasting his crooked intentions, and she knows it, too, the little bitch.
“I won't get my ass caught. Then who would you flirt with, Freckles?”
He tips one of the crates onto his narrow side, making a sort of table, and then sits on one of the lower crates, knees spread wide.
“It would be a hell of a tragedy,” Kate calls over her shoulder, already too far away to be adequately ironic to him.
He fingers the dog-eared cards, folds each one down the middle carefully and then glances back at the tonic joint. The grey-haired man has been joined by a younger version of himself, tall and broad-shouldered, reluctance and embarrassment plainly visible on his face. The family resemblance is undeniable.
Sawyer watches as the elder Shephard orders the younger around, having him check the brakes and set up a few more lights. Shephard Junior does what he's told with a kind of angelic bitterness.
“Step right up, folks!” Sawyer calls, still eyeing the booth but shifting the bulk of his attention to the possibility of making a buck or two. “Find the queen of hearts and win some of my hard-earned cash! Couldn't be easier, ladies and gents, just take a seat and let lady luck guide ya.”
A few passers-by slow their pace to catch the rest of his pitch, and he makes it good.
“Three Card Monte's the name of the game! It's a one-in-three shot, but tell you what, I'll give ya five-to-one odds, cause that's how good with numbers I am.” Laughter flutters through the assembling crowd. “Sit right down and try your luck, folks! Even a monkey could do it - hell, a monkey has done it on many an occasion...”
A young redhead in a flowered dress near the front of the crowd prods her boyfriend forward. The kid avoids eye contact as he digs around in his pockets for money. Sawyer scans the rest of the crowd for interested parties and is surprised to find the younger Shephard among them. He's hanging back, observing Sawyer's hand as he taps the queen of hearts with his finger along the folded top edge. His dark eyes meet Sawyer's for just a second before shifting to the ground.
A glance at Shephard the First finds him stomping around his cart, violently unfolding paper adverts and knocking over his display of business cards. Sawyer smiles, amused, and catches the son's eye again, surprised to note the same amusement on his face as well. The younger Shephard rolls his eyes and then shoves his hands into his pockets, ready for a show, which is good because the shy kid in the front has finally fished out a couple of singles and now takes a seat opposite Sawyer.
“All right, kid,” Sawyer says, laying the three cards face up on the crate. “All you gotta do is keep your eye on the lady.”
The kid nods, setting the money down on the table, and Sawyer flips the cards over and starts to shuffle, casually at first, then with increasing speed.
“Shouldn't be hard, seein' as how you got your own queen of hearts right here,” Sawyer says, nodding appreciatively at the girl in the flowered dress. He sees the kid redden, even though his eyes are riveted to Sawyer's hands.
“Piece of cake,” Sawyer says, slowing the shuffle down until he finally just stops and makes a little flourish with his index fingers. “Now, you find her, I owe you ten dollars. Easy as that.”
The kid doesn't look up at him, just slightly touches the middle card.
“You sure 'bout that one?”
Trying to be assertive, the kid finally looks up at him and nods. Sawyer smirks and flips over a four of clubs.
“Maybe next time, kid.” He picks up the cash in one swoop and turns to the crowd as the kid slinks back to his smiling girlfriend. “Alright now, I know one of you folks is dyin' to do what the kid couldn't, so who's it gonna be?”
There's a second of hesitation, which is when it would be good to have an outside man come in and win a few hands, like Kate suggested. But Sawyer prefers working alone.
He notices Shephard has shifted a bit closer, but he's still standing apart from the rest, off to the side and leaning against a freshly-erected light post as he watches Sawyer work. His father glares from across the way, face dark and clenched.
A big fat guy sits down opposite Sawyer and, to his surprise, lays a single and a fiver on the table - a rather high bet this early in the evening. The crate he's sitting on creaks under the weight and Sawyer wonders if maybe this crowd's gonna get a different kind of show in a second, but for now it seems to be holding. The big guy is stern and bald, not to mention vocal.
“Ya know, I'm onto you,” he says, his voice big and booming to match his frame. “I'm a detective. It's my job to notice things.”
Sawyer has to admit, his huge forehead does make him appear observant. Most grifters would let a cop win to throw off suspicion, he knows. But not Sawyer; his occupation is just going to make taking this rube's money that much sweeter.
“Alright, here she is,” Sawyer says, flipping the queen over for a second before palming two of the cards and beginning his patented trick shuffle. “Just don't let her outta your sight. That'll be the easiest thirty bones you ever made, won't it?” Sometimes he likes to stroke their ego before he lets them down.
The cop doesn't notice a thing, although Sawyer's pretty sure he hasn't blinked in about three minutes. His eyes are starting to water from the strain. From Sawyer's right comes a slight snort of amusement, and he lets himself look up for a flash. This Shephard guy seems to be trying to subdue his mirth as he watches the cop, whose contorted features squish together even further in concentration.
“All done,” Sawyer says. “Tell me where, and I might let you take her home.”
The rube cop jabs at the card on the right with a meaty finger. “Just might take you up on...”
His cockiness wanes when Sawyer reveals a six of spades. The big hands jerk forward, as if he's making a grab for his money, which Sawyer's already pocketing. The energy goes out of the gesture, though, as Sawyer dismisses him.
“Thanks for playin',” he says sweetly, already looking for the next sucker. The cop never even looks back.
Gradually, people either lose interest or lose a few bills to him. Bets start to get more cautious. One old-timer plays a fifty-cent bet sixteen times after Sawyer lets him win one early on.
Through it all, he keeps an eye on the concession across the way. The tonic seller's approach to business seems to be to keep quiet and attract only the most curious of passers-by, which is an anomaly considering his environment. He does manage to draw the attention of a few housewives and a couple of reputable-looking businessmen, Sawyer notes.
Eventually, Sawyer's crowd drifts off to the back end to ride the Whip or the Wheel - all but the truly fascinated. When only three or four are left floating around, watching warily from a distance, and Sawyer's about to pack up and retire for the night, that's when this Shephard guy surprises him by sitting down in the chump seat.
“What are you doing?” Sawyer says, elbows resting on his knees while he peers disbelievingly at the guy.
“I'm playing the game,” he says. “Just like everyone else.”
Sawyer's not sure why he's taken aback, but he hesitates for a second before spreading the cards back on the wooden crate.
“That your daddy over there?” Sawyer says, nodding at the trailer where Christian Shephard now stands bathed in creepy blue light, talking to a middle-aged farm couple. From the blank looks on both their faces, Sawyer thinks he's probably using very big words.
“Yeah, that's my dad,” the dark-haired fellow says, rubbing the back of his neck and making it a point not to look up at the blue-lit wagon. He puts three dollars down, aligning the money along the edge of the crate with a meticulous touch of his fingers. His cuffs are rolled up and a bit tattered, but Sawyer can tell the shirt cost a pretty penny. There's a shiny watch chain that disappears into his pocket, and Sawyer bets whatever's at the end of it is probably worth a bundle as well.
“I'm Jack.”
“Sawyer.”
He wishes he knew what this fellow's game was. He's got a kind of calm, unsettling presence.
“Are we gonna do this?” Jack says.
“Just makin' sure,” Sawyer says. “You just watched all those other people get up here all confident and then lose their money. You still want to do this?”
“I do.” He smiles, if a bit tightly.
“Well, alright, then,” Sawyer says. “Here she is, take a good look.” He turns the queen over for a long second and then flips her face-down again, the bent cards fitting nicely into his palms as he begins to scramble them. He makes it look good, lots of fast switches and little tricks, linking his fingers loosely when he's done.
“Think you got it?” he says. Jack's been watching, head bent, with that same calm expression that Sawyer is starting to hate.
He just nods.
“And?” Sawyer says.
“Well... If it's not here,” Jack says with the beginnings of a little smirk, flipping over the middle card, the four of clubs.
“And it's not here...”
He turns the card on the left face up, revealing the six of spades. With a little flourish to match Sawyer's, he indicates the remaining hidden card.
“Then I guess you owe me fifteen dollars.”
Sawyer didn't know his eyes could hurt just from glaring at someone. Jack just smiles politely like they're making dinner conversation. He sits back, relaxed, waiting for his cash. Sawyer's sorely tempted to throw that third card in his face, refuse to pay up on account of Jack not having found the queen after all - they both know what he's found is another six of spades, and if there's one thing Sawyer hates (and there are many things he hates) it's being backed into a corner. But it's not worth it to give up the secret, so he pulls his take out of his pocket (nearly forty dollars - always a steal on the first night in a new town) and counts out fifteen singles.
“Word of advice,” Sawyer says, voice low and cold, letting the red queen slip out of his sleeve and join its friends on the crate. “Carnival people keep their tricks to themselves. I wouldn't tell anyone what you think you know.” He eyes Jack, taking in his wide eyes and self-satisfied expression as he double-counts the cash. “And I wouldn't do that again.”
“Is that a threat?” Jack says, looking no more worried than he did a second ago. In fact, he seems even more pleased by Sawyer's words, his thin mouth quirking up at the sides like he can barely contain himself.
“Like I said, it's advice. We're mighty close around here. Like a family, see, and I wouldn't want my kin to take a dislike to ya. Especially if you're planning on stayin' awhile.”
“I'll take that into consideration,” Jack says with a solemn nod.
“Your daddy looks like one hell of an asshole,” Sawyer says, because Jack still hasn't gotten up to leave yet. Christian Shephard is taking money from and elderly lady in exchange for two of his bottles of magic concoction.
“Oh, he is.”
“What's that he's peddlin', anyway?”
Sawyer scratches absent-mindedly at his stubbled cheek, watching as the slick salesman convinces the woman to purchase a third bottle. He unfolds a large paper bag to handle her purchases.
“Gin,” Jack says flatly. “Bootleg gin, diluted with water and infused with mint and lavender oils. Tastes disgusting, doesn't do much. Medically, that is. Not unless what you're trying to cure is ten years living under prohibition.”
Sawyer can actually feel his eyes light up. “Oh, so that's how it is,” he says. “Little Shep, I do believe we're on our way to being even.”
“It's eight dollars a bottle, and I should tell you right off, my father doesn't believe in discounts.”
“He sounds like a fabulous businessman,” Sawyer says.
“Oh,” Jack says, not bothering to hide his hatred. “He is.”
“Can I give you a tad more advice?”
Jack's eyes flicker to Sawyer's face and then back to his hands - he's still playing with the tattered queen of hearts.
“About what?”
“That watch of yours,” Sawyer says, indicating the chain hanging from Jack's belt. “Better get rid of that fancy chain or it'll be fulfilling its purpose as a pocketwatch in someone else's pocket before too long.”
Jack slips his hand into his pocket and fingers the watch. It's the first time since he caught Sawyer's eye that he appears nervous.
“What is it exactly that you do around here, Mr. Sawyer?”
Sawyer smiles. It always tickles him when someone calls him 'mister'. It never lasts.
“You mean, besides the occasional friendly game of cards?”
“Besides the occasional swindle,” Jack corrects him.
“I do whatever needs doin',” Sawyer says.
“That's very vague,” Jack says, getting to his feet. Feeling strangely as if he's been dismissed, Sawyer does the same.
“Vague, but true.”
He sticks the cards into his pocket and kicks the middle crate carelessly as he steps over it.
“So, were you planning on buying any of our miracle tonic?” Jack spits the words out.
They've started drifting back across the way toward the blue-lit concession where Christian Shephard stands. He's too busy glaring at his approaching son to pay attention to the three or four potential customers that linger, reading his signs.
“Yeah, gimme a bottle,” Sawyer says. “I'm not feelin' my best.”
He takes out his hard-won money and peels a few bills off the top, stopping a couple of paces from the old man. Get any closer and he risks pissing the guy off more than he already has just by existing.
“Hey, Dad,” Jack says and snatches up one of the bottles from his father's display. He hands it to Sawyer, and there's a strange moment when they're both hanging onto the bottle, and they're both grasping the money, and then Sawyer lets go of the money and cracks open the goods. It's a home-made job, a rubber stopper held in place with a wire around the bottle neck.
“And where've you been?” Big Shephard is saying, although he knows full well the answer.
Jack shrugs and chooses to ignore this line of questioning completely. He watches as Sawyer sniffs the bottle's contents and makes a face.
“I told you,” he says. “Disgusting.”
Sealing the bottle back up and wedging it into his pocket, Sawyer says, “Hope you brought more than just what's on display. People out here in the tall grass are mighty thirsty, and once the word gets around about how healthy this stuff is...”
“We have more,” Jack says flatly.
“And this is?”
Christian comes around to the front of the trailer and stands next to his son. When they're next to each other, the effect is spooky, like Jack is standing next to a future version of himself, with more wrinkles and grey hair but the same long face, the same broad build and weak mouth. Christian's laugh lines make him look especially cruel.
“You can call me Sawyer.”
“Sawyer.”
Sawyer can tell the elder Shephard wants nothing to do with him by the way he rolls the name between his thin lips.
“No doubt a longtime resident of these quarters,” Christian says, looking him over.
Sawyer knows what he is. He doesn't need Christian fucking Shephard to confirm his status as a carnival rat. Especially considering the Shephards' own obvious situation. Surgeon, the sign said, and Sawyer wants to laugh in the asshole's face. But for some reason, he doesn't.
“Yeah,” he says instead. Jack is standing there shrinking next to his dad. When Sawyer speaks it's through clenched teeth, and he's already kicking up dust onto their shiny black shoes. “Welcome to the family."
TBC
Series: Stardust (and other possible impossibilities)
Characters: Eventual Jack/Sawyer (duh), Christian, various other cast members popping up incongruously
Summary: Sawyer meets a couple of newcomers to the carnival trade and attempts to make them feel welcome... sort of.
Prompts: fanfic100 50. spade and psych_30 6. Inferiority complex.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Yeah, it's a carnival AU. Precisely a 1930s carnival AU. And it's (as usual) all arabella_hope's fault, with her talk of circuses and carnivals - an actual plot came and whacked me over the head and I just couldn't ignore it, even though the idea was conceived completely in jest. A million thanks to her for the awesome beta job :) Also, this is for foxxcub, for rocking my world so constantly with her own AUs. Hopefully my first AU is up to some sort of semblance of scratch. ♥
Oh, yes, and I almost forgot. Your free mp3: Billie Holiday - Pennies From Heaven. So. Here goes.
Stardust (and other possible impossibilities)
Part 1: Pennies From Heaven
Sawyer both loves and hates this moment just after the gates open. The mounting cacophony of voices, the combined glow of electrical and lantern light, the smells - hay and sweat, vomit and sawdust, mustard and sugar - mixing in the humid air. It's both a sensory intrusion and an instant adrenal rush.
There isn't much for him to do tonight. He's considering a trip back to his trailer for a rendez-vous with a book and a near-empty bottle, having spent the brunt of the day hoisting canvas and driving tent spikes into the hard earth. They just rolled into town this afternoon. Now, as the sky starts to glow that dusky purple colour, all the lconcessions and rides are manned and the first show of the evening's about to start in the big tent. He can hear the booming voice of the talker outside, drumming up interest in the freaks and oddities within.
He's headed toward the back yard to escape the harsh mechanical noises of the rides starting up, threading through the opening-night crowd when he notices a concession wagon he's never seen before on the midway. It's been painted and distressed to look older than it actually is, but a meticulous blue awning stretched above the vendor's head betrays the illusion. Bottles of clear fluid are stacked in fancy pyramid shapes and backlit with special lanterns that give off a blue-tinged glow.
Standing behind the false front is a tall man with a pinched, conceited face and a very full head of grey hair. The blue light makes him look spectral and unreal, and Sawyer can only imagine how unintentionally terrifying he'll look when it's completely dark out.
Dr. Shephard's Health Tonic ~ Proven Results In Just 1 Week! reads a well-lit wooden sign above the awning. A panel on the side proclaims, Christian Shephard: Surgeon ~ Physician ~ Inventor. Sawyer could take three guesses at the guy's name, but that'd be an awful big waste of three whole guesses.
The crowd slowly filters down towards the back end, more and more of them drifting from trailer to trailer. Sawyer, interested enough to stick around and see what kind of spectacle this health tonic fellow puts on, figures he might as well make a buck while he's out here. He pulls up three nearby crates and digs a few tattered playing cards out of the back pocket of his worn jeans.
“Naughty boy.”
He whirls and finds Kate eyeing him with humour, feet working backwards in their beat-up boots because she's got somewhere to be. Girl always has somewhere to be.
“Even naughty boys gotta eat,” Sawyer says back, winking at her for a second before he resumes scanning the crowd for potential marks.
“Going at it without a stick? You're living dangerously, Sawyer.”
She's broadcasting his crooked intentions, and she knows it, too, the little bitch.
“I won't get my ass caught. Then who would you flirt with, Freckles?”
He tips one of the crates onto his narrow side, making a sort of table, and then sits on one of the lower crates, knees spread wide.
“It would be a hell of a tragedy,” Kate calls over her shoulder, already too far away to be adequately ironic to him.
He fingers the dog-eared cards, folds each one down the middle carefully and then glances back at the tonic joint. The grey-haired man has been joined by a younger version of himself, tall and broad-shouldered, reluctance and embarrassment plainly visible on his face. The family resemblance is undeniable.
Sawyer watches as the elder Shephard orders the younger around, having him check the brakes and set up a few more lights. Shephard Junior does what he's told with a kind of angelic bitterness.
“Step right up, folks!” Sawyer calls, still eyeing the booth but shifting the bulk of his attention to the possibility of making a buck or two. “Find the queen of hearts and win some of my hard-earned cash! Couldn't be easier, ladies and gents, just take a seat and let lady luck guide ya.”
A few passers-by slow their pace to catch the rest of his pitch, and he makes it good.
“Three Card Monte's the name of the game! It's a one-in-three shot, but tell you what, I'll give ya five-to-one odds, cause that's how good with numbers I am.” Laughter flutters through the assembling crowd. “Sit right down and try your luck, folks! Even a monkey could do it - hell, a monkey has done it on many an occasion...”
A young redhead in a flowered dress near the front of the crowd prods her boyfriend forward. The kid avoids eye contact as he digs around in his pockets for money. Sawyer scans the rest of the crowd for interested parties and is surprised to find the younger Shephard among them. He's hanging back, observing Sawyer's hand as he taps the queen of hearts with his finger along the folded top edge. His dark eyes meet Sawyer's for just a second before shifting to the ground.
A glance at Shephard the First finds him stomping around his cart, violently unfolding paper adverts and knocking over his display of business cards. Sawyer smiles, amused, and catches the son's eye again, surprised to note the same amusement on his face as well. The younger Shephard rolls his eyes and then shoves his hands into his pockets, ready for a show, which is good because the shy kid in the front has finally fished out a couple of singles and now takes a seat opposite Sawyer.
“All right, kid,” Sawyer says, laying the three cards face up on the crate. “All you gotta do is keep your eye on the lady.”
The kid nods, setting the money down on the table, and Sawyer flips the cards over and starts to shuffle, casually at first, then with increasing speed.
“Shouldn't be hard, seein' as how you got your own queen of hearts right here,” Sawyer says, nodding appreciatively at the girl in the flowered dress. He sees the kid redden, even though his eyes are riveted to Sawyer's hands.
“Piece of cake,” Sawyer says, slowing the shuffle down until he finally just stops and makes a little flourish with his index fingers. “Now, you find her, I owe you ten dollars. Easy as that.”
The kid doesn't look up at him, just slightly touches the middle card.
“You sure 'bout that one?”
Trying to be assertive, the kid finally looks up at him and nods. Sawyer smirks and flips over a four of clubs.
“Maybe next time, kid.” He picks up the cash in one swoop and turns to the crowd as the kid slinks back to his smiling girlfriend. “Alright now, I know one of you folks is dyin' to do what the kid couldn't, so who's it gonna be?”
There's a second of hesitation, which is when it would be good to have an outside man come in and win a few hands, like Kate suggested. But Sawyer prefers working alone.
He notices Shephard has shifted a bit closer, but he's still standing apart from the rest, off to the side and leaning against a freshly-erected light post as he watches Sawyer work. His father glares from across the way, face dark and clenched.
A big fat guy sits down opposite Sawyer and, to his surprise, lays a single and a fiver on the table - a rather high bet this early in the evening. The crate he's sitting on creaks under the weight and Sawyer wonders if maybe this crowd's gonna get a different kind of show in a second, but for now it seems to be holding. The big guy is stern and bald, not to mention vocal.
“Ya know, I'm onto you,” he says, his voice big and booming to match his frame. “I'm a detective. It's my job to notice things.”
Sawyer has to admit, his huge forehead does make him appear observant. Most grifters would let a cop win to throw off suspicion, he knows. But not Sawyer; his occupation is just going to make taking this rube's money that much sweeter.
“Alright, here she is,” Sawyer says, flipping the queen over for a second before palming two of the cards and beginning his patented trick shuffle. “Just don't let her outta your sight. That'll be the easiest thirty bones you ever made, won't it?” Sometimes he likes to stroke their ego before he lets them down.
The cop doesn't notice a thing, although Sawyer's pretty sure he hasn't blinked in about three minutes. His eyes are starting to water from the strain. From Sawyer's right comes a slight snort of amusement, and he lets himself look up for a flash. This Shephard guy seems to be trying to subdue his mirth as he watches the cop, whose contorted features squish together even further in concentration.
“All done,” Sawyer says. “Tell me where, and I might let you take her home.”
The rube cop jabs at the card on the right with a meaty finger. “Just might take you up on...”
His cockiness wanes when Sawyer reveals a six of spades. The big hands jerk forward, as if he's making a grab for his money, which Sawyer's already pocketing. The energy goes out of the gesture, though, as Sawyer dismisses him.
“Thanks for playin',” he says sweetly, already looking for the next sucker. The cop never even looks back.
Gradually, people either lose interest or lose a few bills to him. Bets start to get more cautious. One old-timer plays a fifty-cent bet sixteen times after Sawyer lets him win one early on.
Through it all, he keeps an eye on the concession across the way. The tonic seller's approach to business seems to be to keep quiet and attract only the most curious of passers-by, which is an anomaly considering his environment. He does manage to draw the attention of a few housewives and a couple of reputable-looking businessmen, Sawyer notes.
Eventually, Sawyer's crowd drifts off to the back end to ride the Whip or the Wheel - all but the truly fascinated. When only three or four are left floating around, watching warily from a distance, and Sawyer's about to pack up and retire for the night, that's when this Shephard guy surprises him by sitting down in the chump seat.
“What are you doing?” Sawyer says, elbows resting on his knees while he peers disbelievingly at the guy.
“I'm playing the game,” he says. “Just like everyone else.”
Sawyer's not sure why he's taken aback, but he hesitates for a second before spreading the cards back on the wooden crate.
“That your daddy over there?” Sawyer says, nodding at the trailer where Christian Shephard now stands bathed in creepy blue light, talking to a middle-aged farm couple. From the blank looks on both their faces, Sawyer thinks he's probably using very big words.
“Yeah, that's my dad,” the dark-haired fellow says, rubbing the back of his neck and making it a point not to look up at the blue-lit wagon. He puts three dollars down, aligning the money along the edge of the crate with a meticulous touch of his fingers. His cuffs are rolled up and a bit tattered, but Sawyer can tell the shirt cost a pretty penny. There's a shiny watch chain that disappears into his pocket, and Sawyer bets whatever's at the end of it is probably worth a bundle as well.
“I'm Jack.”
“Sawyer.”
He wishes he knew what this fellow's game was. He's got a kind of calm, unsettling presence.
“Are we gonna do this?” Jack says.
“Just makin' sure,” Sawyer says. “You just watched all those other people get up here all confident and then lose their money. You still want to do this?”
“I do.” He smiles, if a bit tightly.
“Well, alright, then,” Sawyer says. “Here she is, take a good look.” He turns the queen over for a long second and then flips her face-down again, the bent cards fitting nicely into his palms as he begins to scramble them. He makes it look good, lots of fast switches and little tricks, linking his fingers loosely when he's done.
“Think you got it?” he says. Jack's been watching, head bent, with that same calm expression that Sawyer is starting to hate.
He just nods.
“And?” Sawyer says.
“Well... If it's not here,” Jack says with the beginnings of a little smirk, flipping over the middle card, the four of clubs.
“And it's not here...”
He turns the card on the left face up, revealing the six of spades. With a little flourish to match Sawyer's, he indicates the remaining hidden card.
“Then I guess you owe me fifteen dollars.”
Sawyer didn't know his eyes could hurt just from glaring at someone. Jack just smiles politely like they're making dinner conversation. He sits back, relaxed, waiting for his cash. Sawyer's sorely tempted to throw that third card in his face, refuse to pay up on account of Jack not having found the queen after all - they both know what he's found is another six of spades, and if there's one thing Sawyer hates (and there are many things he hates) it's being backed into a corner. But it's not worth it to give up the secret, so he pulls his take out of his pocket (nearly forty dollars - always a steal on the first night in a new town) and counts out fifteen singles.
“Word of advice,” Sawyer says, voice low and cold, letting the red queen slip out of his sleeve and join its friends on the crate. “Carnival people keep their tricks to themselves. I wouldn't tell anyone what you think you know.” He eyes Jack, taking in his wide eyes and self-satisfied expression as he double-counts the cash. “And I wouldn't do that again.”
“Is that a threat?” Jack says, looking no more worried than he did a second ago. In fact, he seems even more pleased by Sawyer's words, his thin mouth quirking up at the sides like he can barely contain himself.
“Like I said, it's advice. We're mighty close around here. Like a family, see, and I wouldn't want my kin to take a dislike to ya. Especially if you're planning on stayin' awhile.”
“I'll take that into consideration,” Jack says with a solemn nod.
“Your daddy looks like one hell of an asshole,” Sawyer says, because Jack still hasn't gotten up to leave yet. Christian Shephard is taking money from and elderly lady in exchange for two of his bottles of magic concoction.
“Oh, he is.”
“What's that he's peddlin', anyway?”
Sawyer scratches absent-mindedly at his stubbled cheek, watching as the slick salesman convinces the woman to purchase a third bottle. He unfolds a large paper bag to handle her purchases.
“Gin,” Jack says flatly. “Bootleg gin, diluted with water and infused with mint and lavender oils. Tastes disgusting, doesn't do much. Medically, that is. Not unless what you're trying to cure is ten years living under prohibition.”
Sawyer can actually feel his eyes light up. “Oh, so that's how it is,” he says. “Little Shep, I do believe we're on our way to being even.”
“It's eight dollars a bottle, and I should tell you right off, my father doesn't believe in discounts.”
“He sounds like a fabulous businessman,” Sawyer says.
“Oh,” Jack says, not bothering to hide his hatred. “He is.”
“Can I give you a tad more advice?”
Jack's eyes flicker to Sawyer's face and then back to his hands - he's still playing with the tattered queen of hearts.
“About what?”
“That watch of yours,” Sawyer says, indicating the chain hanging from Jack's belt. “Better get rid of that fancy chain or it'll be fulfilling its purpose as a pocketwatch in someone else's pocket before too long.”
Jack slips his hand into his pocket and fingers the watch. It's the first time since he caught Sawyer's eye that he appears nervous.
“What is it exactly that you do around here, Mr. Sawyer?”
Sawyer smiles. It always tickles him when someone calls him 'mister'. It never lasts.
“You mean, besides the occasional friendly game of cards?”
“Besides the occasional swindle,” Jack corrects him.
“I do whatever needs doin',” Sawyer says.
“That's very vague,” Jack says, getting to his feet. Feeling strangely as if he's been dismissed, Sawyer does the same.
“Vague, but true.”
He sticks the cards into his pocket and kicks the middle crate carelessly as he steps over it.
“So, were you planning on buying any of our miracle tonic?” Jack spits the words out.
They've started drifting back across the way toward the blue-lit concession where Christian Shephard stands. He's too busy glaring at his approaching son to pay attention to the three or four potential customers that linger, reading his signs.
“Yeah, gimme a bottle,” Sawyer says. “I'm not feelin' my best.”
He takes out his hard-won money and peels a few bills off the top, stopping a couple of paces from the old man. Get any closer and he risks pissing the guy off more than he already has just by existing.
“Hey, Dad,” Jack says and snatches up one of the bottles from his father's display. He hands it to Sawyer, and there's a strange moment when they're both hanging onto the bottle, and they're both grasping the money, and then Sawyer lets go of the money and cracks open the goods. It's a home-made job, a rubber stopper held in place with a wire around the bottle neck.
“And where've you been?” Big Shephard is saying, although he knows full well the answer.
Jack shrugs and chooses to ignore this line of questioning completely. He watches as Sawyer sniffs the bottle's contents and makes a face.
“I told you,” he says. “Disgusting.”
Sealing the bottle back up and wedging it into his pocket, Sawyer says, “Hope you brought more than just what's on display. People out here in the tall grass are mighty thirsty, and once the word gets around about how healthy this stuff is...”
“We have more,” Jack says flatly.
“And this is?”
Christian comes around to the front of the trailer and stands next to his son. When they're next to each other, the effect is spooky, like Jack is standing next to a future version of himself, with more wrinkles and grey hair but the same long face, the same broad build and weak mouth. Christian's laugh lines make him look especially cruel.
“You can call me Sawyer.”
“Sawyer.”
Sawyer can tell the elder Shephard wants nothing to do with him by the way he rolls the name between his thin lips.
“No doubt a longtime resident of these quarters,” Christian says, looking him over.
Sawyer knows what he is. He doesn't need Christian fucking Shephard to confirm his status as a carnival rat. Especially considering the Shephards' own obvious situation. Surgeon, the sign said, and Sawyer wants to laugh in the asshole's face. But for some reason, he doesn't.
“Yeah,” he says instead. Jack is standing there shrinking next to his dad. When Sawyer speaks it's through clenched teeth, and he's already kicking up dust onto their shiny black shoes. “Welcome to the family."
TBC