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Title: Driving Blind
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 5,724
Rating: R
Author's Notes: Written for
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Spoilers: Up to Season 4 finale.
Summary: There's a man on the corner of Sycamore and West 21st one sunset, when the wind is still and the pavement is cooling.
There’s a man on the corner of Sycamore and West 21st one sunset, when the wind is still and the pavement is cooling. He’s stuck at a no turn on red, while cars speed by in the other direction, and he’s watching the people that walk up the sidewalks, and then Jack’s eyes fall on him, this man, and if the sun wasn’t at just the right height to glare at him and obscure his view, then maybe he would be able to say, with no doubt whatsoever, that the man who, as the cars stop, crosses the street, was Sawyer.
But he can’t.
And so he’s just the man wearing an old dark gray shirt, just the man with shaggy blonde hair, just a man on the street right outside of
---
His phone rings when he gets home.
He can hear it through the door and his hands hurriedly fiddle with the keys, missing the hole more times than he ever has, and when he finally gets it in he practically runs for the phone, not bothering to close the door behind him.
There’s no time to waste but his finger still shakes over the button.
“Hello?”
He screams it into dead air.
Caller ID only tells him it was a payphone and he leaves through the open door for the liquor store.
---
“Do you ever wonder if they somehow came back?”
Her sigh transmits through his cell phone like a gunshot, loud and distinct. “Why are you calling me?”
“I think I saw one of them.” He talks on, doesn’t pay any mind to her words that will only pick him apart. He calls to talk, even if it’s at her, because she’s the only he can talk to.
“Stop taking those pills, Jack. Stop drinking. And stop calling.”
And because this is after – after that call, after the alcohol, the half-empty bottle resting on his coffee table – he can’t argue with her.
She hangs up anyways.
---
The next morning the bottle lands itself in the recycling bin.
The next week his clothes land themselves in his suitcase and he starts driving that beat up old Jeep through California sunshine, across the border, and just keeps on going.
---
Jack decides he likes
He stops calling Kate. Long distance makes it enough of a hassle that he forgets his need to.
He’s still a doctor. Just without the scalpels and the blood and the ‘time of death’ as the green line runs flat on the monitor. The kind that points out flaws in X-rays, and diagnosis’s people before he sends them on their way to find someone else to fail them. Or save them. It’s a fine line, a risk he doesn’t want to take anymore. He’s sick of death and blood on his hands.
His phone rarely rings – no one knows him here and that’s just what he needs. To lose himself amid the faceless people on the streets, amid the skyscrapers and subway tunnels, where no one cares who the Oceanic Six were or if he’s one of them.
But one can only escape for so long, and he should know that already.
---
The knock at his door comes sometime after one in the morning. He’s asleep on the couch, all the lights still on, the curtains still open on the city that never sleeps.
It takes him a minute to undo the deadbolts, the locks that keep out the world, and his sleep-addled brain doesn’t register that opening the door might not be his best idea ever. He doesn’t even look through the peep hole.
The door opens on Sawyer, looking a little worse for the wear as he speaks in low tones, “Can I come in?”
Jack doesn’t think, he just steps back automatically, and re-locks the door, because, if he’s not dreaming, then Sawyer is not supposed to be here, not supposed to be alive, and standing in the hallway arguing with him is only going to draw attention from tired neighbors. Sawyer is a risk; someone to be hidden from anyone with a good memory, a computer, and the ability to put two and two together.
“You’re hard to find, Doc.” The nickname is a gut-punch. He’d forgotten how much he missed that. And Sawyer is closing the curtains, and poking his head into the bedroom, making sure they’re alone, but Jack is just standing there, dumbfounded. “You going to say something?”
Jack wets his lips, swallows, and tries to regain use of his voice. “How did you find me?” And it’s not ‘how did you get off the island’ or ‘did anyone else come with you’ because the small stuff is all he can really handle right now. It’s all he wants to handle.
But Sawyer, apparently, was only checking to make sure Jack hadn’t gone mute on him because he ignores the question entirely, opting for on of his own. “Is Kate here?”
He really shouldn’t laugh, it isn’t that funny if you’re not him, but he does, and Sawyer kind of frowns at him like maybe he worries for his sanity, so Jack just tells him. “If you’re looking for her then you’re looking on the wrong coast.”
“Good.” Which is about the last thing Jack expected to hear, but is interesting nonetheless.
“I thought she would be the first person you’d want to see.”
Sawyer’s eyes drift to the floor and he shakes his head, no hesitation there. “I’ve said my piece.”
He isn’t sure what Sawyer means by that, not that he finds himself caring a whole lot either.
“Heard about you own the news, saving people on that bridge you just happened to be on.” Jack’s pretty sure before this is all over he’s going to need a drink; so much for clean and sober. “You suicidal now?”
Where he may have lied to Kate about it, to Sarah, even to his mother, he has no trouble at all making half-admissions to the man in front of him because, if nothing else, they’ve gotten good at being honest with each other. There’s a certain comfort level, some kind of understanding, that finally developed between them on the island despite a solid month of more or less hatred. “If it didn’t work then why does it matter?”
Sawyer nods – there may be a ‘fair enough’ mumbled in there somewhere but it’s too low – and shrugs off his jacket, a delayed reflex. The leather is wet, tiny water droplets dotting it; he hadn’t realized it was raining. “This have anything to do with Jeremy Bentham? With Ben?”
Jack’s eyes dart to him, with a frown at the name. “So you don’t know about Kate but you know all about them?”
“Priorities, Doc. Priorities.” Sawyer’s sure taking his sweet time getting to the point and Jack wonders why the delay, and whether he’ll be here long. It’s not that he wants him gone, it’s just they don’t really excel at long conversations. “You can’t go back there.”
So that’s what this is about. Jack shakes his head, irritated and accusatory. “So who set you up to this?”
“I came here on my own time. Free will and all that.” He tells him, the makings of a glare plain on his face. “As far as everyone else knows I’m still on the damn island.”
“And why aren’t you?” Like he said, they’re not good at this.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” And Jack would grab him, get in his face and force it out of him, but you catch more flies with honey and Sawyer isn’t scared of him, not in the least, so Jack really doesn’t have intimidation or leverage on his side.
“So why can’t I go back?”
“For one thing cause Ben wants you to. Because Jeremy Bentham or Locke or whoever the hell he fancied himself wanted you to. They have their own agendas, always have, and you better believe you all going back fit in perfectly with them.”
He narrows his eyes. It occurs to him he has no idea what side Sawyer’s playing at anymore. “And what about your agenda?”
“I ain’t got one. Other than keeping you from wasting your time and walking into a death trap.”
“And you expect me to believe you came back for that?”
“I didn’t, so no, not really.” Sawyer shakes his head, sets his jaw. “Believe what you want, but when it comes down to it who the hell are you going to trust? Me or Ben?”
The answer to this one is fairly clear but Jack’s too stubborn to admit it.
---
“Look if I don’t get off this piece of land –“
Jack had shook his head as soon as he’d started the sentence, already knew what was coming. “We’re all getting out of here, Sawyer. Live together, die alone.”
“Yeah, you always say that.” There’s a note of doubt in Sawyer’s voice and this is just not what he needs right now. Not today. Not with the weight of the world still on his shoulders and miles to go and promises to keep (he’s quoting literature now, without really thinking). “Still, if we don’t.”
“Sawyer.” Just his name this time, a warning against continuing.
Sawyer never was very good at listening, at least not when you wanted him to. “Dammit, Jack.” The use of his real name is what stills any protest. “You’re still the closest thing I’ve got to a friend.”
And Jack nods, and he understands, he understands that the word ‘friend’ isn’t commonplace for Sawyer, that it means something, and he gets that even more than he did the first time he was referred to as such. Still, he tells him, “We’re going to get off this island. All of us.”
“Sure, Doc.” And he won’t fight him now; he said what he wanted and he knows Jack works best when he’s being humored. “Whatever you say.”
---
“You’re still here.” It’s a statement, over his morning coffee, when Sawyer wakes up from his spot on the couch. Jack had never told him to leave and so there he stayed while Jack tried to squeeze in another hour of sleep that refused to really overtake him. But there was caffeine and a cold shower that shocked him back to life and he was used to that routine from his days as an intern.
“Where exactly am I going to go?” It’s just a statement but it’s sad, in some ways.
Jack nods anyway, flipping through the newspaper as he does. “How long have you been back?”
“A month or so.”
“And
“Two nights ago.” His voice sounds annoyed, getting tired of questions. Sawyer doesn’t seem too fond of questions about his whereabouts, which most likely means some, or all, of what he’s been telling him is lies. Not that Jack isn’t taking everything he says with a grain of salt. “You working?”
“No.”
Sawyer nods, then falls silent again.
“I’m sorry about what happened on the helicopter.” Jack admits, because even if Sawyer jumped of his own free will he still feels responsible. He feels responsible for every death and every person they left behind. And so he’s sorry for him too.
Sawyer merely shrugs, playing at unaffected. “Water was nice. Plus I got to spend some good old quality time with your girl.”
It takes a long minute before images of bright blond hair and blue eyes come to mind, Juliet’s face with that careful smile that always said she knew more than she would ever let on. Sometimes he forgets about her, forgets the part of his life on the island, too much else going on that he would rather not relive and she tends to disappear along with it and he winds up hating himself for it. He can’t forget them. None of them. None of their faces. “She isn’t my girl.”
“She sure as hell wanted to be.”
Jack sets his coffee cup down with a little too much force. “Is this some sort of guilt trip?”
“Hardly.” His voice is rough enough, while he speaks of her, that Jack gets a bad feeling somewhere in the pit of his stomach and can’t help but entertain the thought that Sawyer speaks of her and her motivations in past tense for a reason. But he won’t ask. He can’t bring himself to. Sawyer looks at his hands in his lap, adding, “She thought you were dead anyways.”
The boat blew up, he thinks, and he hadn’t really looked at it from the people left on the island’s perspective. They must have thought they were all dead as soon as they saw the boat go up in flames. “But you knew we were still alive?”
“I refused to believe otherwise. You’re too stubborn to die.” Jack almost laughs; Sawyer does. It feels good. He can’t remember the last time he laughed, and he barely remembers the sound of Sawyer’s laughter. There wasn’t much to find funny towards their last month or so on the island.
“Thanks, I think.” He rises, intentions on depositing the mug in the sink, dishes to be done later, but as he’s turning back to his chair, he feels Sawyer’s hand on his arm, turning Jack towards him and, against better judgment, he goes willingly, and then he’s kissing him and Jack – well Jack’s quick reflexes, honed in surgery and on the island, kind of just all go to shit at once, and he forgets himself, and forgets the fact that he’s pressed up between Sawyer and the edge of the kitchen counter. Sawyer, who isn’t even supposed to still exist.
There’s a mumbled “bad idea” against Sawyer’s lips but he isn’t an entirely unwilling participant in this, so Sawyer just keeps on going, his tongue finding its way inside Jack’s mouth and Jack’s hand comes up to rope its way through Sawyer’s hair and he’s waiting for his brain to kick in and force him to push Sawyer away but it never does.
When he breaks the kiss, breath hot against Jack’s skin, his hand reaches down, to the waistband of Jack’s jeans, lingering there, like a question and, though Jack can feel his own erection straining against his jeans, he doesn’t really have it in him to say anything either way, so he just goes in for another kiss, this time rougher than the previous one, and somehow, they manage to take this into the bedroom, even with Sawyer’s hands making quick work of Jack’s jeans and a serious lack of the balance needed to keep them both upright.
---
Later, he listens to the sound of the bathroom faucet on full force, leaned over the porcelain sink, one hand massaging his temples.
Numbers (one, two, three, four, five) mumbled on wet, still swollen lips replace words of doubt and ‘what have you done’, and it isn’t until he hits five that he can finally breathe.
---
“So what’s with the beard?” This is after, once Jack has returned to bed, when he doesn’t have the heart to kick Sawyer out and tell him that he doesn’t have an idea what he’s doing, and if Sawyer’s bothered at all then he sure doesn’t show it. Considering he’s the one who initiated it, Jack would assume he probably isn’t.
“Felt like a change.” Jack tells him, which is a lie, he kind of just stopped shaving, or at least that’s what it was on the surface. He chooses not to dig any deeper.
There’s a chuckle and he feels Sawyer roll over beside him as he asks, “Are you sure it wasn’t just that you felt like hiding?”
He sees right through him and that makes Jack feel more vulnerable than lying here next to him, half-naked, ever will.
---
When he wakes up next, to a clock that tells him it’s two in the afternoon, Sawyer’s gone.
His style, Jack thinks, with a smile that he can’t help, and it doesn’t bother him all that much because it gives him time to think.
There’s only so far a person can go before they hit bottom and Jack’s pretty sure he already more than hit it the second he set foot on that bridge. He knew it then and he knows it now. But now with Sawyer – he can’t tell if he’s just started digging or if this is him getting back up.
The anonymity doesn’t help. It gives him too much freedom, not enough structure. Here, no one knows him enough to care who he’s sleeping with. There’s work and then there’s home, no in-between. He hasn’t lived here long enough to have anyone he considers a friend. But now there’s Sawyer and he isn’t sure where he factors into that.
He fucked him. That was it. Concrete, factual knowledge; there is no gray area in actions. What it meant – well that’s the question.
Sawyer isn’t back by
---
He’s in the shower shortly after sunrise the next morning and when he gets out, clothed in nothing more than a towel, Sawyer is in his living room.
“Where did you go last night?” He tries to make it sound as nonchalant and non-possessive as possible, and at that he actually manages to do a pretty good job.
“Out.” Again with Sawyer not liking questions. And not answering them either.
He can’t help the sarcasm when he tells him, “I realize that.”
“Why are you always asking so many damn questions?”
“I don’t know. Why are you never answering them?” He counters.
Sawyer runs a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes, considering his next words before, “I’m not here just because of you.”
Jack isn’t surprised. Maybe he’d like to think Sawyer is, but he isn’t a fool. “I’m not stupid, Sawyer.” He expects more of an answer, but Sawyer just stays silent, lets the sentence hang there, as if Jack is supposed to figure it out all on his own. “You’re working with someone. Or for someone. That’s it, right?”
“So is everyone else,” Sawyer mutters, and Jack frowns in response.
“What?”
He enunciates, far more clearly this time. “So is everyone else.”
It’s fairly obvious that Sawyer knows what he means, but is probably withholding that too. “Don’t play games with me.”
“I’m not. You keep any tabs on Sayid? Or Sun?” Sawyer asks.
Jack can’t say he does. Sayid’s hard to find; Sun is on the other side of the world. He’d been so focused on Kate, on Aaron, even on Hurley, that he didn’t have time to call or track the other two down. He didn’t even think about them all that much, so far removed from each other’s worlds. “No.”
“They’re working for Ben now. Not that they would tell you. Not that you’re supposed to know. But they are.” There’s a pause, for effect, then, “How’s that for a turn-around. Working for the enemy and all that.”
The first thing that comes to mind is that he should’ve known. He should’ve known that Ben showing up at the funeral home was a sign of something. That eventually he’d turn people over to his side somehow. It’s like a gut punch, betrayal almost, even if not directly. But he nods his head, masks the disappointment there, “And you?”
“I ain’t working for Ben if that’s what you’re asking.”
It’s only a relief because he isn’t aware of any of the alternatives. But it’s a relief all the same. “So who?”
“Someone independent of this little tug of war that seems to be going on between Ben and Charles Widmore.” Sawyer tells him. “Someone who isn’t intent on getting us caught in the crossfire between them.”
“Again I ask who.”
There’s a smirk that works its way to his lips. “Can’t tell you everything Doc. That takes all the fun out of it.”
---
Part 2