Lost: Man Down
Title: Man Down (1/1)
Author: Northlight
email: temporary_blue (at) yahoo.ca
Fandom: Lost
Summary: Boone is full of bitterness and hero-worship. Jack doesn’t notice.
Pairing: Boone/Jack-ish
Spoilers: White Rabbit
Rating: Hard PG13/light R for language, and slash of the non-explicit variety.
Distribution: My site; those who care to ask.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Date: Oct. 23, 2004.
Choking on water and air, Boone said: “I’m all right; save her.” He leaned harder into Jack: fought him with words, but clung to the other man with all the desperate love of life within him. Heaved water and humiliation onto the beach, and didn’t need to hear Kate’s breath catch to know that Jack was the hero of this story, again, now, always.
He blamed Jack, later, for being a hero, and for being human. Throat burning with each breath, and muscles quivering with fatigue, Boone blamed Jack for making a choice. The wrong choice, Boone said, again, and again--as shrill and mindless as a child, and as easily dismissed. Stood furious and glad to be alive, and watched as Jack walked away from him.
*
Boone woke to the smell of fuel, and fire, and charred flesh. He woke to the sound of flames, the agonized tearing of metal, and Shannon’s screams. He opened his eyes, and the sky was burning, people were dying, and they were alone. Fear claimed Boone as its own: closed his throat, and left him trembling in hopeless, helpless terror.
Lay on his back in sand, and blood, and debris. Didn’t scream, and couldn’t be proud of his strength when Shannon was on her feet. Dug his fingers into hot, wet sand, and turned his head to feel himself move. Saw Jack, then: bloodied, and shaky, but full of purpose. He shouted orders, and people listened. He touched bodies with careful, competent hands, and was strong enough to smile at the dying.
Boone rolled to his knees, pushed himself to his feet, and went to Jack.
*
In his dreams, everything was different. In his dreams, Boone was a hero in more than intent. He rose from the water, the woman secure in his arms, her breath feather-light against his shoulder. The others stood crowded along the shore, and rushed towards him, cheered him, clapped at his shoulders and back. Shannon smiled, and Jack lay his hand on Boone’s arm and said, low and intent: “you did good out there.”
In his dreams, Boone never hesitated, never failed.
In his dreams, Boone was a hero.
Boone woke up, and he was: the pretty boy, the brother, the one who’d needed Jack to rescue him. That son-of-a-bitch who tried to steal their water. A fuck-up, and he could have hated Jack for how *easy* being a leader came to him; and for how hard he fought against being the very thing Boone couldn’t be. He could have hated Jack, because no one would ever forgive Boone for *taking* responsibility, and no one would ever remember that Jack had run from them all.
He could have hated Jack.
He didn’t.
*
Boone tripped over the dead and the dying, shouted his urgency into stunned faces. Dug through purses, and briefcases, and suit pockets until his fist bristled with pens. Stumble-ran-slid back to Jack’s side, flushed with heat and success, and offered his fistful of pens like a plea.
Felt like he’d taken charge of *something,* until Shannon curled her lip at him. “Pitiful,” she said, and scowled just as fiercely at the sand embedded in her drying nail polish.
Hours later, in the light of their smoldering plane, the rising moon, Jack nodded at Boone. Pens nestled in his shirt pocket, against his heart. Shannon was already asleep, so Boone hugged his vindication to himself, and tried not to shake.
*
In his dreams, Jack said: “you did good,” and fit his palm against the nape of Boone’s neck. He looked at Boone, really *looked* at him, and didn’t just think that Boone had a pretty face, a fuckable mouth. Looked at Boone, and saw that he was a brave man, good, and intelligent, and *worthy.* Kissed under strange trees, to the sound of distant waves, the wild beating of their own hearts.
In his dreams, Boone imagined what Jack would look like on his knees. Thought of Jack’s hands, steady, certain, and imagined the weight of them against his hips, thighs, cock. Wondered if Jack had done this before, and yes or no, he always opened his lips wider when Boone rocked his hips and murmured: “yes, yes, oh fuck, oh fuck, *jack.*”
In his dreams, Boone fucked Jack--made him claw against soft, wet earth; made him gasp, and cry out, and forget everything, everyone but Boone. His dreams ended, and he woke with a muffled sob, imagining Jack moving over him, in him--and he was hard, so fucking hard, and he beat his hands against his thighs as he listened to Shannon’s wheezing breaths, her sleepy little girl snuffles.
*
It would have been easy to hate Jack.
He didn’t.
--end
Author: Northlight
email: temporary_blue (at) yahoo.ca
Fandom: Lost
Summary: Boone is full of bitterness and hero-worship. Jack doesn’t notice.
Pairing: Boone/Jack-ish
Spoilers: White Rabbit
Rating: Hard PG13/light R for language, and slash of the non-explicit variety.
Distribution: My site; those who care to ask.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Date: Oct. 23, 2004.
Choking on water and air, Boone said: “I’m all right; save her.” He leaned harder into Jack: fought him with words, but clung to the other man with all the desperate love of life within him. Heaved water and humiliation onto the beach, and didn’t need to hear Kate’s breath catch to know that Jack was the hero of this story, again, now, always.
He blamed Jack, later, for being a hero, and for being human. Throat burning with each breath, and muscles quivering with fatigue, Boone blamed Jack for making a choice. The wrong choice, Boone said, again, and again--as shrill and mindless as a child, and as easily dismissed. Stood furious and glad to be alive, and watched as Jack walked away from him.
*
Boone woke to the smell of fuel, and fire, and charred flesh. He woke to the sound of flames, the agonized tearing of metal, and Shannon’s screams. He opened his eyes, and the sky was burning, people were dying, and they were alone. Fear claimed Boone as its own: closed his throat, and left him trembling in hopeless, helpless terror.
Lay on his back in sand, and blood, and debris. Didn’t scream, and couldn’t be proud of his strength when Shannon was on her feet. Dug his fingers into hot, wet sand, and turned his head to feel himself move. Saw Jack, then: bloodied, and shaky, but full of purpose. He shouted orders, and people listened. He touched bodies with careful, competent hands, and was strong enough to smile at the dying.
Boone rolled to his knees, pushed himself to his feet, and went to Jack.
*
In his dreams, everything was different. In his dreams, Boone was a hero in more than intent. He rose from the water, the woman secure in his arms, her breath feather-light against his shoulder. The others stood crowded along the shore, and rushed towards him, cheered him, clapped at his shoulders and back. Shannon smiled, and Jack lay his hand on Boone’s arm and said, low and intent: “you did good out there.”
In his dreams, Boone never hesitated, never failed.
In his dreams, Boone was a hero.
Boone woke up, and he was: the pretty boy, the brother, the one who’d needed Jack to rescue him. That son-of-a-bitch who tried to steal their water. A fuck-up, and he could have hated Jack for how *easy* being a leader came to him; and for how hard he fought against being the very thing Boone couldn’t be. He could have hated Jack, because no one would ever forgive Boone for *taking* responsibility, and no one would ever remember that Jack had run from them all.
He could have hated Jack.
He didn’t.
*
Boone tripped over the dead and the dying, shouted his urgency into stunned faces. Dug through purses, and briefcases, and suit pockets until his fist bristled with pens. Stumble-ran-slid back to Jack’s side, flushed with heat and success, and offered his fistful of pens like a plea.
Felt like he’d taken charge of *something,* until Shannon curled her lip at him. “Pitiful,” she said, and scowled just as fiercely at the sand embedded in her drying nail polish.
Hours later, in the light of their smoldering plane, the rising moon, Jack nodded at Boone. Pens nestled in his shirt pocket, against his heart. Shannon was already asleep, so Boone hugged his vindication to himself, and tried not to shake.
*
In his dreams, Jack said: “you did good,” and fit his palm against the nape of Boone’s neck. He looked at Boone, really *looked* at him, and didn’t just think that Boone had a pretty face, a fuckable mouth. Looked at Boone, and saw that he was a brave man, good, and intelligent, and *worthy.* Kissed under strange trees, to the sound of distant waves, the wild beating of their own hearts.
In his dreams, Boone imagined what Jack would look like on his knees. Thought of Jack’s hands, steady, certain, and imagined the weight of them against his hips, thighs, cock. Wondered if Jack had done this before, and yes or no, he always opened his lips wider when Boone rocked his hips and murmured: “yes, yes, oh fuck, oh fuck, *jack.*”
In his dreams, Boone fucked Jack--made him claw against soft, wet earth; made him gasp, and cry out, and forget everything, everyone but Boone. His dreams ended, and he woke with a muffled sob, imagining Jack moving over him, in him--and he was hard, so fucking hard, and he beat his hands against his thighs as he listened to Shannon’s wheezing breaths, her sleepy little girl snuffles.
*
It would have been easy to hate Jack.
He didn’t.
--end