Wearing O' the Green
Title: Wearing O’ the Green
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Vague spoilers up through 2x12 “Fire + Water”
Disclaimer: Not Mine!
Summary: Um…I used St. Patrick’s Day as an excuse to write semi-silly drunk smut? I am so going to be smote by God. Oh, and there’s some Ink Kink in here for holycitygirl too. Just for good measure.
“You really think that it’s gonna work?”
Jack snaps his head toward the sound of Sawyer’s drawling Southern twang, the words slinking toward him like a slowly creeping cloud of smoke, surrounding and settling in the air around him, his voice encircling Jack entirely.
“Do I think what is going to work?” Jack replies after a moment, tilting his head upward as Sawyer walks out of the darkness behind him. He has something in his hand, something dark and heavy, sloshing with the sound of liquid. It’s only when Sawyer stops by his side that Jack can smell the heady scent of booze lingering in the light ocean breeze.
“Goin’ round with Ana LuLu like you are. Ignorin’ Freckles. You think that plan is gonna get you anywhere with her?”
”Which her are we talking about here, Sawyer?”
“Don’t play dumb, Jackass. You know ‘xactly who I mean.”
“You don’t know the particulars, Sawyer, and I don’t think you would like to know, so why don’t we just drop it? Go back to…whatever it was you were doing,” Jack waves him off with the snide comment, turning his attention firmly back out to the black blanket of the ocean, whitecaps of the waves as they roll to shore glimmering in the moonlight.
“What particulars might those be, Doc?” Sawyer looks down at Jack and arches an eyebrow, interest piqued. Jack doesn’t meet his questioning gaze, not looking up at him as he replies.
“I told you, you don’t wanna know.”
Sawyer grunts as he sits down next to Jack, a smirk playing at his lips.
“What, she fuck and run?” Sawyer guesses. He doesn’t particularly like thinking on the idea, but likes seeing Jack’s reaction to it.
“No. No, she didn’t…’fuck and run’,” Jack shakes his head as if in disgust at Sawyer’s words, then glances at Sawyer like he can’t believe Sawyer is really sitting next to him and making him go through this conversation.
“Then it can’t be that bad,” Sawyer shrugs, not bothered by Jack’s exasperation, only entertained. “C’mon, what’d she do to make you so god damn pissed off?”
“You were there, Sawyer, you saw-“
“You were angry before that, Doc, don’t try that shit,” Sawyer cuts him off. Jack doesn’t reply. “The more you refuse, the more it makes me wanna know. Just gotta satisfy my curiosity, is all.”
“Fine, you want to know? When you were sick, Kate left you alone in the hatch and ran off, left you there alone. I went to find her and she flipped out. Then she kissed me and ran away. Happy now?” Jack knows he didn’t have to include the beginning part, but does so just to dig at Sawyer, annoyed that the other man’s constant need to pester him, to try to get under his skin.
He doesn’t watch Sawyer’s reaction though, knowing if he sees Sawyer look hurt he’ll feel bad about saying anything. He regrets things far too easily and isn’t really in the mood for regret things tonight.
“Figured it was somethin’ like that,” Sawyer mumbles and lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a swig.
Both men are quiet for a moment, Sawyer drinking and Jack staring out at nothingness.
“So you think…what? Her seein’ you with Bossy McBitchalot is gonna make her regret runnin’ off? Make her come grovelin’ back?”
“Look. Kate’s with you, so I’m spending time with Ana. There’s nothing wrong with that. Can’t you just leave it alone? You got what you wanted, you should be happy.”
“Yeah, Kate mopin’ around my tent twenty-four/seven and glancin’ at you outta the corner of her eye all the time is more fun than I can handle. I’m lovin’ it,” Sawyer takes another drink and then shoves the bottle toward Jack.
“What’s this?”
“Whiskey,” Sawyer grunts. “It bein’ St. Paddy’s day and all, thought I’d dig it out.” Jack looks at him, surprised. “What, you thought you found all my stash? I still got stuff around, Doc.”
“It’s St. Patrick’s Day?” He asks, his face scrunching up as he tries to think of the exact date. He’d taken to counting days sequentially, 1-52, but hadn’t matched them back to any calendar in a long time. “It can’t be.”
“Oh, but it is. Thought I could use a drink.”
“Are you Irish?”
“No. But that hardly matters much, now does it? I’ll use any old excuse to get drunk, ‘specially here on this damn island,” Sawyer shoves the bottle at Jack again insistently and Jack takes it, then sips from it gingerly. “You Irish?”
Jack pulls the bottle away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “No.”
“Anybody down there Irish?” Sawyer nods his head toward the distant flickering lights of camp. Jack shrugs.
“I don’t have a clue. I don’t think most people know the date anymore anyway.”
“Well I got me a calendar. I been crossing off the days with big ol’ x-es, like we’re countin’ on down to something. What it is, I dunno. Probably run out of calendar ‘fore we get off this damn rock.”
“Probably,” Jack agrees. He hands the bottle back to Sawyer. “That stuff is awful, by the way.”
“It comes in a jug, what do you expect?” Sawyer retorts. “It’s booze, ain’t it?”
“That it is.”
Again, silence washes over them as they pass the heavy glass bottle back and forth, each drink making their bodies slightly warmer against the cooling night air and their spirits a little lighter in the oppressive darkness. Heavy black clouds move over the bright moon, cloaking the shoreline in deep shadows. Jack knows that the main camp is only a short distance away, ten minutes at most to the nearest fire, but he feels very separate, like he and Sawyer are entirely alone.
It feels strange that he finds himself content. It must be the alcohol, settling into his empty stomach. He hasn’t had a real drink in such a long time, it’s no wonder it’s going straight to his head. The bottles of tequila he shared with Ana were hardly big enough to make him feel anything at all. He and Sawyer have barely made a dent in his huge jug of liquor.
He glances at Sawyer, hoping the other man hasn’t a clue that Jack is already feeling a little tipsy. Sawyer didn’t seem like a lightweight at all.
“Why are you sharing this with me, Sawyer?” Jack asks him, breaking the silence. “Figured you’d much rather be usin’ it to get Kate liquored up or something.”
“Green ain’t a good color on you, Doc,” Sawyer replies. “Ain’t no use getting jealous over somethin’ that ain’t even happening.”
“Oh, it isn’t?”
”Me and Kate ain’t doing anything, just like you and Luce over there ain’t doin’ anything.” Sawyer states. “And we won’t be doing anything.”
“Why not?”
“Like I said, she’s hung up on you. And she ain’t the type to wallow in someone else’s arms. She likes to wallow all by her lonesome.” Sawyer drinks again, taking in a lengthy sip, and then passes the bottle off to Jack. He lays back onto the sand with a heavy sigh, relaxing and putting his hands behind his head. “I tell you, though, she’s too stubborn to admit she’s jealous. That’s why your little plan ain’t gonna fly. She’ll never tell you she wants to rip Ana’s hair out.”
“It’s not a plan,” Jack insists. “I don’t have plans when it comes to shit like that, Sawyer.”
“Well you should,” Sawyer replies. He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling tired. When he reopens them he glances toward Jack, and finds himself staring as Jack tilts his head back, swallowing the whiskey slowly and then drawing his lips off the bottle, setting it down by his side. Jack isn’t moving any differently than he should be, but it seems to Sawyer like he’s moving in slow motion. A surge of excitement jolts through his body, centering right in his groin. Sawyer is familiar with the sensation as desire but can’t believe that that’s what it is. It can’t be.
“You know any Irish songs or any shit like that?” Sawyer asks Jack, putting his forearm over his eyes as he closes them again, trying to will his body to calm down. He doesn’t know why he’s hard all of a sudden. It’s got to be the booze, talking about Kate, about sex.
“No. Why?”
“Just feel like we should be singin’ one or somethin’. You know, maybe drunkenly stumble down the beach howlin’ Danny Boy and keepin’ everyone up until we both fall flat on our faces and pass out?”
“Nice picture you’ve painted there, Sawyer.” Jack is grinning but Sawyer doesn’t have to look to know it. He can hear it in his voice. “I certainly wouldn’t inflict my singing upon anyone. Can’t imagine you singing either.”
”And how d’ya know I ain’t a good singer, boy?” Sawyer asks, pretending to be affronted. He makes the mistake of looking at Jack and finds the other man chuckling heartily. Jack turns his head and meets his gaze.
“I don’t know, Sawyer…something just tells me we both may not want to do any singing tonight, that’s all. Here.” He holds out the bottle but Sawyer doesn’t move. He suddenly doesn’t trust himself to sit up and take it. Doesn’t trust himself to do anything but lay there and try to keep his mind on safe topics. But he can’t even do that.
The thought’s crossed his mind before. Only once or twice and he had ignored it, figuring it had just been way too long since he’d been with someone and he was getting desperate for some contact, any contact. There’d been a dream, just one - long, hot and sweaty, Jack’s naked body writhing under his - but after he’d woken up with a start and a hard-on, he’d focused on Kate and took care of it while thinking of her instead.
The idea of wanting Jack seemed so unnatural to him that he positively knows there is a rational reason for it; pent-up tension and hostility, the need to dominate Jack in some way or another…he’s sure Libby would have a great, safe explanation as to why he had dreamed about screwing Jack into the ground if he ever asked her. Not that he ever would.
Jack is still holding out the bottle for him, waiting for him to take it. When it becomes obvious that Sawyer isn’t going to grab it, Jack shrugs and takes another drink, not knowing what else to do. Sawyer watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down against his throat as he swallows and he lets out a tiny noise, wincing.
“Would you quit that already?” He demands. Jack lifts the bottle away from his mouth and looks at Sawyer, confused.
“Quit what?”
Sawyer pushes up off the sand, sitting up and grabbing the bottle from Jack roughly. He drinks and drinks, swallowing down the harsh liquid like he’s unbearably thirsty and in need of relief. He knows Jack is watching him with confusion in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop. When he finally sets the bottle back down into the sand, he feels a slight rush go through his head, like standing up too fast after sitting for too long.
“Hey, listen, Sawyer, not that I don’t mind the free booze and all, but would you mind telling me what’s going on?” Jack inquires as Sawyer puts his head in his hands, feeling dizzy. Sawyer slowly tilts his head toward Jack, his eyebrows wrinkling in annoyance.
“What?”
“I just mean it’s not like you to sit here and have a normal conversation with me. So I’m just wondering what it is you’re looking for in return for this little St. Patrick’s Day Celebration we have here. Maybe you should just tell me and save us some time?”
“I don’t want anything…just saw you sittin’ here pinin’ away over Freckles and thought I’d come say howdy. Thought I’d do us all a favor and let you know she’s yours if ya want her. Goddamn yours. Bet you get everythin’ you ever want.” He’s starting to feel the whiskey now. He’d been drinking long before he sat down here next to Jack and the effects are beginning to set in.
“You know, Sawyer, green doesn’t look so good on you either,” Jack comments.
“Thanks for the advice,” Sawyer retorts, taking another drink even though he knows he should probably be stopping right about now. Jack holds out his hand, wanting another drink of his own. Sawyer shoves the bottle at him almost violently, genuinely irked that Jack is stirring up such strange emotions within him. He hates himself for not being able to stop staring as Jack lifts his arm to raise the bottle to his lips, for the way he feels his own eyes moving over Jack’s exposed arms, taking in the swirls and stars on the inside of his arm. “Why the hell does someone like you have fuckin’ tattoos, Jackass? You get hit on the head one night and think you’re tough or something?”
“Excuse me?” Jack almost chokes on his drink, startled by the loudness of Sawyer’s voice and the randomness of his sudden question.
“The stars and the symbols and the number and shit…you got tattoos of that crap for some reason, right? I’m just sayin’ the reason ain’t obvious to anyone who knows ya.”
“You think you know me?” Jack chuckles.
“From what I’ve seen, Doc, you ain’t the tattooing type.”
“Well obviously you’re wrong, Sawyer,” Jack shakes his head. He holds out his left arm and looks at his own tattoos, tilting his arm left and right to look at his shoulder and his inner arm. “These make it pretty clear that I am, in fact, the ‘tattooing type’.”
Sawyer tilts slightly to dig something out of his pocket. He holds up a pen and flicks off the cap, letting it fall in the sand.
“Well here, I got something for you then.”
“Sawyer, what are you-“
“Just sit still,” Sawyer orders him, grabbing his right arm and yanking it toward him. “You think your fucking tattoos are a turn-on, then let’s give you some more.”
"My tattoos are a what?" Jack thinks he can't have heard him right. Sawyer ignores him, knowing it makes no sense that he feels so pissed off at Jack; it’s not his fault that seeing his tattoos makes Sawyer want to trail his tongue along every dark line, to nip and suck at the sensitive flesh until Jack begs him to do more. But it’s Jack’s fault that he got them in the first place, and that’s enough.
Sawyer turns Jack’s right arm so his inner forearm is facing upward. Jack screws up his face in puzzlement as Sawyer scrawls something messy in pen over his skin.
“Writing on skin with ballpoint pen really isn’t a good idea, you know,” Jack’s voice almost sounds amused and that only serves to make Sawyer more annoyed. He finishes his sentence with a hard period, poking Jack in the arm with the tip of his pen. He considers his work for a moment and then draws something hastily as well. Jack tilts his arm back toward him and reads the message Sawyer has written. “I can barely even read that. And what’s with the shamrock?”
“It’s fucking St. Paddy’s Day, isn’t it?” Sawyer practically growls.
“You do realize you just wrote “You’re a fucking Jackass” on my arm, right?”
“You let me,” Sawyer mutters. “’Sides, ain’t like it’s permanent. It’ll wash off.”
“Any particular reason I’m a jackass this time, Sawyer?” Jack asks, bending his knees and resting his elbows on them. He looks a little amused, like the alcohol has taken the edge off of everything. The fact he let Sawyer touch him with the pen in the first place shows how much Jack is in the mood to not care.
“You need a reason? I just kinda thought you were all the time.”
“Okay.” Jack shrugs and drinks. Sawyer groans and reaches over, taking the bottle from Jack’s lips. Liquid spills down Jack’s face and onto his shirt. “Sawyer, what the-“
“I said fucking quit that,” Sawyer says with such force that Jack almost shoves him back, wondering what’s gotten into him, but Sawyer doesn’t give him a chance. He tosses the bottle to the ground, sloshing liquid over the sand, and crushes his lips to Jack’s, kissing him hard and fiercely, angrily.
Jack’s hands shoot up to Sawyer’s shoulders in protest, pushing him away.
His mouth moves but no words come out, just sputtering and syllables that make no sense. His eyes are wild with confusion and he’s breathing heavy, his whole body tight and wound up on the defensive.
Sawyer wants it again, the brush of rough stubble against his own, the desperate surge of his tongue sliding into Jack’s surprised mouth, the startling collision of their bodies. While Jack searches for the words Sawyer leans over him and harshly moves his hand to Jack’s crotch, cupping him through his jeans. He’s stunned to feel Jack’s cock already hard and getting harder, responding to his touch.
Jack’s own hands move to peel Sawyer’s hand away but it’s too late. Sawyer knows that Jack’s body apparently isn’t averse to the idea; give an inch and take a mile. He moves and straddles Jack’s waist in one swift movement, pushing him back violently against the sand. Jack collides with the hard ground with a heavy thud and a grunt.
Sawyer doesn’t feel the slight buzz of alcohol anymore. Everything is clear, if not intensified, all of his senses heightened and attuned to every single slight movement that Jack makes underneath him as he keeps up the pretense of a struggle.
Sawyer grinds downward against Jack, cock against cock through two layers of rough denim and two layers of soft cotton, the friction sweet and almost unbearable.
“See what you’re fucking doing to me, Doc?” He growls as he rocks against him, hard. “I ain’t supposed to want this. I ain’t supposed to want you. I’m supposed to want her..”
“Don’t you?” Jack gasps out, closing his eyes tightly like he’s trying to block out what Sawyer is doing, though his hands undermine him by gripping onto Sawyer’s waist tightly, moving with him as he thrusts. “Want her?”
“Not like this,” Sawyer mumbles, frantically unzipping Jack’s jeans and reaching into his boxers, gripping him and giving him a firm, hard stroke.
“Oh FUCK,” Jack groans, throwing his head back against the sand. His neck arches in the way it did before when he was drinking and it sets off every last nerve in Sawyer’s body. Any part of him that was holding reservations about this little encounter is suddenly gone. Sawyer leans back on his knees, resting his body on his heels, and hurriedly rips Jack’s jeans down his hips, then unzips his own. He takes both himself and Jack in his fist as he lays back down over Jack, stroking them both, one hard heat against another.
With his other hand he guides Jack’s arms up over his head, laying flat against the sand, and attacks Jack’s tattoo just like he had wanted to a few minutes earlier, his tongue moving over every last single line and star, running over every color as if he can taste the red, the yellow, the blue. He tastes Jack, the salt of his skin on his tongue and his smell, the smell of sweat and sand, the ocean and the heat, invading Sawyer’s senses. Jack is writhing underneath him now and it feels better than in his dream.
Before he knows what he’s doing Jack’s dick is in his mouth and Sawyer is urging him on, using his tongue now to slip along Jack’s length, feeling him tremble and quake between his lips as he tries to fight off the inevitable.
But he can’t. He comes within seconds, a white hot eruption that sears its way down Sawyer’s throat, Jack’s groan matching Sawyer’s, the sound vibrating down Jack’s cock as Sawyer sucks him off, Sawyer’s own come staining the sand between Jack’s feet.
Sawyer rests his head against Jack’s hip as Jack lays there, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, totally shocked by the enormity of what has just happened.
“Jack!”
Sawyer barely has time to move before Jack sits bolt upright, hurriedly zipping his jeans back up. Sawyer zips his own up at a leisurely pace that makes Jack nervous, but by the time Ana appears in their line of sight, Sawyer is sitting next to him and leisurely taking a sip of whiskey, like nothing out of the ordinary has just taken place.
“Jack.”
“Ana.” Jack’s voice cracks and Sawyer smirks against the lip of the bottle.
“You’re late for your shift in the hatch - Locke is looking all over for you.”
“Oh shit,” Jack mutters, clambering up from the sand quickly, awkwardly. “I’ll be right there.” He says this and waits for a moment, thinking that will be enough and Ana will turn around and leave, but she waits, evidently going to walk with him back to the hatch.
Sawyer stands up slowly, offering the bottle to Jack.
“One last hit for the road, Jack?”
“Sure,” Jack replies, taking the bottle from Sawyer, locking eyes as they make the pass between them. Sawyer takes a step toward him, glancing over his shoulder at Ana Lucia and lowering his voice to a husky whisper.
“Maybe we’re a little bit Irish after all,” he murmurs. Jack raises his eyebrows, unsure why Sawyer is saying this. “’Cause I think we both just got lucky,” he finishes before drawing back. Jack smiles despite himself and quickly tries to hide it, turning back to Ana. “Have fun on your shift, Doc.”
“Thanks for the drink, Sawyer.”
“Sure thing.”
Sawyer watches as Jack heads down the beach with Ana, trying not to notice how Ana walks so closely to Jack, the way her hand brushes over his arm. He definitely ignores the fact that she takes his hand and twists his arm toward her, evidently seeing Sawyer’s ballpoint handiwork. Jack waves it off but Ana runs her hand over it anyway, and then hesitates way too long before finally disentangling her hand from his.
He watches until they disappear from sight, wondering how long he should wait before following Jack to the hatch, demand a follow-up.
He manages to wait only an hour before heading down, finding Locke occupied in the computer room with a crossword puzzle and Jack in the bathroom, standing over the sink and trying to scrub off his makeshift tattoo.
Sawyer leans in the doorway and watches, waiting for Jack to notice his presence. It only takes a few seconds.
“Sawyer.”
“What, you didn’t want to keep it?” He greets him, gesturing to Jack’s arm.
“As lovely as it was….”
“Saw Kate on my way down here. Wants to know how you are. She’s worried,” Sawyer informs him. Jack nods.
“Oh.”
“Seems she saw you walking with Ana Lucia before. Told you she was jealous,” Sawyer states. “Though she don’t have a reason to be. Does she?”
“Sawyer…are you jealous?” Jack asks, half-teasing but half-serious. He has no idea what Sawyer wants now, whether the beach had been a fluke incident or the beginning of something new and dangerous. Not that Jack knows what he wants either, but his blood is still warm in his veins and his heart is palpitating just because of Sawyer’s nearness.
Sawyer steps into the bathroom and walks over to Jack, turning off the water and brushing a towel over Jack’s damp arm. The ink is almost gone. But his other real tattoos are still there, tantalizing against his tan skin, begging for attention.
He looks Jack straight in the eye, still angry with him for making him feel this way, but thrilled with the prospect of giving into that growing desire once again.
“Well it is St. Paddy’s Day, Jackass…someone ‘round here has to wear green.”
END
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Vague spoilers up through 2x12 “Fire + Water”
Disclaimer: Not Mine!
Summary: Um…I used St. Patrick’s Day as an excuse to write semi-silly drunk smut? I am so going to be smote by God. Oh, and there’s some Ink Kink in here for holycitygirl too. Just for good measure.
“You really think that it’s gonna work?”
Jack snaps his head toward the sound of Sawyer’s drawling Southern twang, the words slinking toward him like a slowly creeping cloud of smoke, surrounding and settling in the air around him, his voice encircling Jack entirely.
“Do I think what is going to work?” Jack replies after a moment, tilting his head upward as Sawyer walks out of the darkness behind him. He has something in his hand, something dark and heavy, sloshing with the sound of liquid. It’s only when Sawyer stops by his side that Jack can smell the heady scent of booze lingering in the light ocean breeze.
“Goin’ round with Ana LuLu like you are. Ignorin’ Freckles. You think that plan is gonna get you anywhere with her?”
”Which her are we talking about here, Sawyer?”
“Don’t play dumb, Jackass. You know ‘xactly who I mean.”
“You don’t know the particulars, Sawyer, and I don’t think you would like to know, so why don’t we just drop it? Go back to…whatever it was you were doing,” Jack waves him off with the snide comment, turning his attention firmly back out to the black blanket of the ocean, whitecaps of the waves as they roll to shore glimmering in the moonlight.
“What particulars might those be, Doc?” Sawyer looks down at Jack and arches an eyebrow, interest piqued. Jack doesn’t meet his questioning gaze, not looking up at him as he replies.
“I told you, you don’t wanna know.”
Sawyer grunts as he sits down next to Jack, a smirk playing at his lips.
“What, she fuck and run?” Sawyer guesses. He doesn’t particularly like thinking on the idea, but likes seeing Jack’s reaction to it.
“No. No, she didn’t…’fuck and run’,” Jack shakes his head as if in disgust at Sawyer’s words, then glances at Sawyer like he can’t believe Sawyer is really sitting next to him and making him go through this conversation.
“Then it can’t be that bad,” Sawyer shrugs, not bothered by Jack’s exasperation, only entertained. “C’mon, what’d she do to make you so god damn pissed off?”
“You were there, Sawyer, you saw-“
“You were angry before that, Doc, don’t try that shit,” Sawyer cuts him off. Jack doesn’t reply. “The more you refuse, the more it makes me wanna know. Just gotta satisfy my curiosity, is all.”
“Fine, you want to know? When you were sick, Kate left you alone in the hatch and ran off, left you there alone. I went to find her and she flipped out. Then she kissed me and ran away. Happy now?” Jack knows he didn’t have to include the beginning part, but does so just to dig at Sawyer, annoyed that the other man’s constant need to pester him, to try to get under his skin.
He doesn’t watch Sawyer’s reaction though, knowing if he sees Sawyer look hurt he’ll feel bad about saying anything. He regrets things far too easily and isn’t really in the mood for regret things tonight.
“Figured it was somethin’ like that,” Sawyer mumbles and lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a swig.
Both men are quiet for a moment, Sawyer drinking and Jack staring out at nothingness.
“So you think…what? Her seein’ you with Bossy McBitchalot is gonna make her regret runnin’ off? Make her come grovelin’ back?”
“Look. Kate’s with you, so I’m spending time with Ana. There’s nothing wrong with that. Can’t you just leave it alone? You got what you wanted, you should be happy.”
“Yeah, Kate mopin’ around my tent twenty-four/seven and glancin’ at you outta the corner of her eye all the time is more fun than I can handle. I’m lovin’ it,” Sawyer takes another drink and then shoves the bottle toward Jack.
“What’s this?”
“Whiskey,” Sawyer grunts. “It bein’ St. Paddy’s day and all, thought I’d dig it out.” Jack looks at him, surprised. “What, you thought you found all my stash? I still got stuff around, Doc.”
“It’s St. Patrick’s Day?” He asks, his face scrunching up as he tries to think of the exact date. He’d taken to counting days sequentially, 1-52, but hadn’t matched them back to any calendar in a long time. “It can’t be.”
“Oh, but it is. Thought I could use a drink.”
“Are you Irish?”
“No. But that hardly matters much, now does it? I’ll use any old excuse to get drunk, ‘specially here on this damn island,” Sawyer shoves the bottle at Jack again insistently and Jack takes it, then sips from it gingerly. “You Irish?”
Jack pulls the bottle away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “No.”
“Anybody down there Irish?” Sawyer nods his head toward the distant flickering lights of camp. Jack shrugs.
“I don’t have a clue. I don’t think most people know the date anymore anyway.”
“Well I got me a calendar. I been crossing off the days with big ol’ x-es, like we’re countin’ on down to something. What it is, I dunno. Probably run out of calendar ‘fore we get off this damn rock.”
“Probably,” Jack agrees. He hands the bottle back to Sawyer. “That stuff is awful, by the way.”
“It comes in a jug, what do you expect?” Sawyer retorts. “It’s booze, ain’t it?”
“That it is.”
Again, silence washes over them as they pass the heavy glass bottle back and forth, each drink making their bodies slightly warmer against the cooling night air and their spirits a little lighter in the oppressive darkness. Heavy black clouds move over the bright moon, cloaking the shoreline in deep shadows. Jack knows that the main camp is only a short distance away, ten minutes at most to the nearest fire, but he feels very separate, like he and Sawyer are entirely alone.
It feels strange that he finds himself content. It must be the alcohol, settling into his empty stomach. He hasn’t had a real drink in such a long time, it’s no wonder it’s going straight to his head. The bottles of tequila he shared with Ana were hardly big enough to make him feel anything at all. He and Sawyer have barely made a dent in his huge jug of liquor.
He glances at Sawyer, hoping the other man hasn’t a clue that Jack is already feeling a little tipsy. Sawyer didn’t seem like a lightweight at all.
“Why are you sharing this with me, Sawyer?” Jack asks him, breaking the silence. “Figured you’d much rather be usin’ it to get Kate liquored up or something.”
“Green ain’t a good color on you, Doc,” Sawyer replies. “Ain’t no use getting jealous over somethin’ that ain’t even happening.”
“Oh, it isn’t?”
”Me and Kate ain’t doing anything, just like you and Luce over there ain’t doin’ anything.” Sawyer states. “And we won’t be doing anything.”
“Why not?”
“Like I said, she’s hung up on you. And she ain’t the type to wallow in someone else’s arms. She likes to wallow all by her lonesome.” Sawyer drinks again, taking in a lengthy sip, and then passes the bottle off to Jack. He lays back onto the sand with a heavy sigh, relaxing and putting his hands behind his head. “I tell you, though, she’s too stubborn to admit she’s jealous. That’s why your little plan ain’t gonna fly. She’ll never tell you she wants to rip Ana’s hair out.”
“It’s not a plan,” Jack insists. “I don’t have plans when it comes to shit like that, Sawyer.”
“Well you should,” Sawyer replies. He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling tired. When he reopens them he glances toward Jack, and finds himself staring as Jack tilts his head back, swallowing the whiskey slowly and then drawing his lips off the bottle, setting it down by his side. Jack isn’t moving any differently than he should be, but it seems to Sawyer like he’s moving in slow motion. A surge of excitement jolts through his body, centering right in his groin. Sawyer is familiar with the sensation as desire but can’t believe that that’s what it is. It can’t be.
“You know any Irish songs or any shit like that?” Sawyer asks Jack, putting his forearm over his eyes as he closes them again, trying to will his body to calm down. He doesn’t know why he’s hard all of a sudden. It’s got to be the booze, talking about Kate, about sex.
“No. Why?”
“Just feel like we should be singin’ one or somethin’. You know, maybe drunkenly stumble down the beach howlin’ Danny Boy and keepin’ everyone up until we both fall flat on our faces and pass out?”
“Nice picture you’ve painted there, Sawyer.” Jack is grinning but Sawyer doesn’t have to look to know it. He can hear it in his voice. “I certainly wouldn’t inflict my singing upon anyone. Can’t imagine you singing either.”
”And how d’ya know I ain’t a good singer, boy?” Sawyer asks, pretending to be affronted. He makes the mistake of looking at Jack and finds the other man chuckling heartily. Jack turns his head and meets his gaze.
“I don’t know, Sawyer…something just tells me we both may not want to do any singing tonight, that’s all. Here.” He holds out the bottle but Sawyer doesn’t move. He suddenly doesn’t trust himself to sit up and take it. Doesn’t trust himself to do anything but lay there and try to keep his mind on safe topics. But he can’t even do that.
The thought’s crossed his mind before. Only once or twice and he had ignored it, figuring it had just been way too long since he’d been with someone and he was getting desperate for some contact, any contact. There’d been a dream, just one - long, hot and sweaty, Jack’s naked body writhing under his - but after he’d woken up with a start and a hard-on, he’d focused on Kate and took care of it while thinking of her instead.
The idea of wanting Jack seemed so unnatural to him that he positively knows there is a rational reason for it; pent-up tension and hostility, the need to dominate Jack in some way or another…he’s sure Libby would have a great, safe explanation as to why he had dreamed about screwing Jack into the ground if he ever asked her. Not that he ever would.
Jack is still holding out the bottle for him, waiting for him to take it. When it becomes obvious that Sawyer isn’t going to grab it, Jack shrugs and takes another drink, not knowing what else to do. Sawyer watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down against his throat as he swallows and he lets out a tiny noise, wincing.
“Would you quit that already?” He demands. Jack lifts the bottle away from his mouth and looks at Sawyer, confused.
“Quit what?”
Sawyer pushes up off the sand, sitting up and grabbing the bottle from Jack roughly. He drinks and drinks, swallowing down the harsh liquid like he’s unbearably thirsty and in need of relief. He knows Jack is watching him with confusion in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop. When he finally sets the bottle back down into the sand, he feels a slight rush go through his head, like standing up too fast after sitting for too long.
“Hey, listen, Sawyer, not that I don’t mind the free booze and all, but would you mind telling me what’s going on?” Jack inquires as Sawyer puts his head in his hands, feeling dizzy. Sawyer slowly tilts his head toward Jack, his eyebrows wrinkling in annoyance.
“What?”
“I just mean it’s not like you to sit here and have a normal conversation with me. So I’m just wondering what it is you’re looking for in return for this little St. Patrick’s Day Celebration we have here. Maybe you should just tell me and save us some time?”
“I don’t want anything…just saw you sittin’ here pinin’ away over Freckles and thought I’d come say howdy. Thought I’d do us all a favor and let you know she’s yours if ya want her. Goddamn yours. Bet you get everythin’ you ever want.” He’s starting to feel the whiskey now. He’d been drinking long before he sat down here next to Jack and the effects are beginning to set in.
“You know, Sawyer, green doesn’t look so good on you either,” Jack comments.
“Thanks for the advice,” Sawyer retorts, taking another drink even though he knows he should probably be stopping right about now. Jack holds out his hand, wanting another drink of his own. Sawyer shoves the bottle at him almost violently, genuinely irked that Jack is stirring up such strange emotions within him. He hates himself for not being able to stop staring as Jack lifts his arm to raise the bottle to his lips, for the way he feels his own eyes moving over Jack’s exposed arms, taking in the swirls and stars on the inside of his arm. “Why the hell does someone like you have fuckin’ tattoos, Jackass? You get hit on the head one night and think you’re tough or something?”
“Excuse me?” Jack almost chokes on his drink, startled by the loudness of Sawyer’s voice and the randomness of his sudden question.
“The stars and the symbols and the number and shit…you got tattoos of that crap for some reason, right? I’m just sayin’ the reason ain’t obvious to anyone who knows ya.”
“You think you know me?” Jack chuckles.
“From what I’ve seen, Doc, you ain’t the tattooing type.”
“Well obviously you’re wrong, Sawyer,” Jack shakes his head. He holds out his left arm and looks at his own tattoos, tilting his arm left and right to look at his shoulder and his inner arm. “These make it pretty clear that I am, in fact, the ‘tattooing type’.”
Sawyer tilts slightly to dig something out of his pocket. He holds up a pen and flicks off the cap, letting it fall in the sand.
“Well here, I got something for you then.”
“Sawyer, what are you-“
“Just sit still,” Sawyer orders him, grabbing his right arm and yanking it toward him. “You think your fucking tattoos are a turn-on, then let’s give you some more.”
"My tattoos are a what?" Jack thinks he can't have heard him right. Sawyer ignores him, knowing it makes no sense that he feels so pissed off at Jack; it’s not his fault that seeing his tattoos makes Sawyer want to trail his tongue along every dark line, to nip and suck at the sensitive flesh until Jack begs him to do more. But it’s Jack’s fault that he got them in the first place, and that’s enough.
Sawyer turns Jack’s right arm so his inner forearm is facing upward. Jack screws up his face in puzzlement as Sawyer scrawls something messy in pen over his skin.
“Writing on skin with ballpoint pen really isn’t a good idea, you know,” Jack’s voice almost sounds amused and that only serves to make Sawyer more annoyed. He finishes his sentence with a hard period, poking Jack in the arm with the tip of his pen. He considers his work for a moment and then draws something hastily as well. Jack tilts his arm back toward him and reads the message Sawyer has written. “I can barely even read that. And what’s with the shamrock?”
“It’s fucking St. Paddy’s Day, isn’t it?” Sawyer practically growls.
“You do realize you just wrote “You’re a fucking Jackass” on my arm, right?”
“You let me,” Sawyer mutters. “’Sides, ain’t like it’s permanent. It’ll wash off.”
“Any particular reason I’m a jackass this time, Sawyer?” Jack asks, bending his knees and resting his elbows on them. He looks a little amused, like the alcohol has taken the edge off of everything. The fact he let Sawyer touch him with the pen in the first place shows how much Jack is in the mood to not care.
“You need a reason? I just kinda thought you were all the time.”
“Okay.” Jack shrugs and drinks. Sawyer groans and reaches over, taking the bottle from Jack’s lips. Liquid spills down Jack’s face and onto his shirt. “Sawyer, what the-“
“I said fucking quit that,” Sawyer says with such force that Jack almost shoves him back, wondering what’s gotten into him, but Sawyer doesn’t give him a chance. He tosses the bottle to the ground, sloshing liquid over the sand, and crushes his lips to Jack’s, kissing him hard and fiercely, angrily.
Jack’s hands shoot up to Sawyer’s shoulders in protest, pushing him away.
His mouth moves but no words come out, just sputtering and syllables that make no sense. His eyes are wild with confusion and he’s breathing heavy, his whole body tight and wound up on the defensive.
Sawyer wants it again, the brush of rough stubble against his own, the desperate surge of his tongue sliding into Jack’s surprised mouth, the startling collision of their bodies. While Jack searches for the words Sawyer leans over him and harshly moves his hand to Jack’s crotch, cupping him through his jeans. He’s stunned to feel Jack’s cock already hard and getting harder, responding to his touch.
Jack’s own hands move to peel Sawyer’s hand away but it’s too late. Sawyer knows that Jack’s body apparently isn’t averse to the idea; give an inch and take a mile. He moves and straddles Jack’s waist in one swift movement, pushing him back violently against the sand. Jack collides with the hard ground with a heavy thud and a grunt.
Sawyer doesn’t feel the slight buzz of alcohol anymore. Everything is clear, if not intensified, all of his senses heightened and attuned to every single slight movement that Jack makes underneath him as he keeps up the pretense of a struggle.
Sawyer grinds downward against Jack, cock against cock through two layers of rough denim and two layers of soft cotton, the friction sweet and almost unbearable.
“See what you’re fucking doing to me, Doc?” He growls as he rocks against him, hard. “I ain’t supposed to want this. I ain’t supposed to want you. I’m supposed to want her..”
“Don’t you?” Jack gasps out, closing his eyes tightly like he’s trying to block out what Sawyer is doing, though his hands undermine him by gripping onto Sawyer’s waist tightly, moving with him as he thrusts. “Want her?”
“Not like this,” Sawyer mumbles, frantically unzipping Jack’s jeans and reaching into his boxers, gripping him and giving him a firm, hard stroke.
“Oh FUCK,” Jack groans, throwing his head back against the sand. His neck arches in the way it did before when he was drinking and it sets off every last nerve in Sawyer’s body. Any part of him that was holding reservations about this little encounter is suddenly gone. Sawyer leans back on his knees, resting his body on his heels, and hurriedly rips Jack’s jeans down his hips, then unzips his own. He takes both himself and Jack in his fist as he lays back down over Jack, stroking them both, one hard heat against another.
With his other hand he guides Jack’s arms up over his head, laying flat against the sand, and attacks Jack’s tattoo just like he had wanted to a few minutes earlier, his tongue moving over every last single line and star, running over every color as if he can taste the red, the yellow, the blue. He tastes Jack, the salt of his skin on his tongue and his smell, the smell of sweat and sand, the ocean and the heat, invading Sawyer’s senses. Jack is writhing underneath him now and it feels better than in his dream.
Before he knows what he’s doing Jack’s dick is in his mouth and Sawyer is urging him on, using his tongue now to slip along Jack’s length, feeling him tremble and quake between his lips as he tries to fight off the inevitable.
But he can’t. He comes within seconds, a white hot eruption that sears its way down Sawyer’s throat, Jack’s groan matching Sawyer’s, the sound vibrating down Jack’s cock as Sawyer sucks him off, Sawyer’s own come staining the sand between Jack’s feet.
Sawyer rests his head against Jack’s hip as Jack lays there, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, totally shocked by the enormity of what has just happened.
“Jack!”
Sawyer barely has time to move before Jack sits bolt upright, hurriedly zipping his jeans back up. Sawyer zips his own up at a leisurely pace that makes Jack nervous, but by the time Ana appears in their line of sight, Sawyer is sitting next to him and leisurely taking a sip of whiskey, like nothing out of the ordinary has just taken place.
“Jack.”
“Ana.” Jack’s voice cracks and Sawyer smirks against the lip of the bottle.
“You’re late for your shift in the hatch - Locke is looking all over for you.”
“Oh shit,” Jack mutters, clambering up from the sand quickly, awkwardly. “I’ll be right there.” He says this and waits for a moment, thinking that will be enough and Ana will turn around and leave, but she waits, evidently going to walk with him back to the hatch.
Sawyer stands up slowly, offering the bottle to Jack.
“One last hit for the road, Jack?”
“Sure,” Jack replies, taking the bottle from Sawyer, locking eyes as they make the pass between them. Sawyer takes a step toward him, glancing over his shoulder at Ana Lucia and lowering his voice to a husky whisper.
“Maybe we’re a little bit Irish after all,” he murmurs. Jack raises his eyebrows, unsure why Sawyer is saying this. “’Cause I think we both just got lucky,” he finishes before drawing back. Jack smiles despite himself and quickly tries to hide it, turning back to Ana. “Have fun on your shift, Doc.”
“Thanks for the drink, Sawyer.”
“Sure thing.”
Sawyer watches as Jack heads down the beach with Ana, trying not to notice how Ana walks so closely to Jack, the way her hand brushes over his arm. He definitely ignores the fact that she takes his hand and twists his arm toward her, evidently seeing Sawyer’s ballpoint handiwork. Jack waves it off but Ana runs her hand over it anyway, and then hesitates way too long before finally disentangling her hand from his.
He watches until they disappear from sight, wondering how long he should wait before following Jack to the hatch, demand a follow-up.
He manages to wait only an hour before heading down, finding Locke occupied in the computer room with a crossword puzzle and Jack in the bathroom, standing over the sink and trying to scrub off his makeshift tattoo.
Sawyer leans in the doorway and watches, waiting for Jack to notice his presence. It only takes a few seconds.
“Sawyer.”
“What, you didn’t want to keep it?” He greets him, gesturing to Jack’s arm.
“As lovely as it was….”
“Saw Kate on my way down here. Wants to know how you are. She’s worried,” Sawyer informs him. Jack nods.
“Oh.”
“Seems she saw you walking with Ana Lucia before. Told you she was jealous,” Sawyer states. “Though she don’t have a reason to be. Does she?”
“Sawyer…are you jealous?” Jack asks, half-teasing but half-serious. He has no idea what Sawyer wants now, whether the beach had been a fluke incident or the beginning of something new and dangerous. Not that Jack knows what he wants either, but his blood is still warm in his veins and his heart is palpitating just because of Sawyer’s nearness.
Sawyer steps into the bathroom and walks over to Jack, turning off the water and brushing a towel over Jack’s damp arm. The ink is almost gone. But his other real tattoos are still there, tantalizing against his tan skin, begging for attention.
He looks Jack straight in the eye, still angry with him for making him feel this way, but thrilled with the prospect of giving into that growing desire once again.
“Well it is St. Paddy’s Day, Jackass…someone ‘round here has to wear green.”
END