Lost fic: Vieux Carre * Part X [Jack/Sawyer, historical AU]
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Summary: Anytime and anywhere, they are who they are. Historical AU.
This part: 2424 words, NC17. This is the final part.
previous parts
Vieux Carre
by eponine119
Chapter 10 [of 10]
Jack shivered, even though heat seeped through his skin. Rain lashed the windows. Jack's hand was hot and dry between his own. Sawyer held it because he didn't know what else to do.
Jack would know what to do. Jack always knew what to do.
Thinking back on the time he'd spent lying in this bed after being shot, Sawyer found he mostly remembered the times he was alone. He remembered the darkness and the trees and the horror of his dreams. He didn't remember what Jack had done to bring him through it.
He sat with Jack because he didn't want him to be alone. Pressing his hands on either side of Jack's was the closest he'd come to praying in a long time. He didn't know how it was supposed to work, and didn't move his lips to mumble up at God. He figured if there was such a thing, He could look into Sawyer's heart, though what He found there wasn't likely to inspire any favors.
But it didn't make any difference whether he sat with Jack or not. Jack wasn't aware of his presence. He was alone in his feverish dreams, just as Sawyer had been. He spoke, the way he sometimes talked in his sleep, but now the nonsense pulled the muscles of Sawyer's shoulders tight with worry, and eventually he turned away.
He stalked through the rooms on the lower floor, searching for anything that would tell him what to do. In Jack's small office, the shadows from the tiny candle flame loomed large, monstrous and black across the walls and ceiling. Sawyer pulled the books from their shelf, letting them drop to the floor like bombs. A collection of tiny glass bottles lined one shelf, an apothecary's shop in miniature. The labels were hand-written, Jack's hand. He touched them, sure that one contained exactly what he needed, if only he knew which one. Only the thought that they could save Jack's life kept him from shattering them across the floor in his frustration.
He crossed the dark, covered alley to the kitchen. The building held the smell of bread and fire within its rough brick walls. Everything was cold and empty and abandoned.
Sawyer looked for coffee, determined to stay alert for as long as Jack needed him. What he found instead was a tin of tea. The smell of the rough leaves was familiar. He closed his eyes and could see Jack's long, pale fingers holding a delicate teacup. Jack had given him this tea for his fever, for the infection. He closed the tin hard with a shaking hand, scattering a thin trail of leaves along the table, and ran back into the house.
The shock of cold, damp air hit him when he carried the same china teacup to the sickroom. The doors to the balcony had been flung open and the bed was empty. "Jack!" Sawyer cried, above the pounding of the rain. Jack stood at the railing, shirt clinging and transparent, one hand outstretched and pointing. "No," Sawyer said, putting himself between Jack and the graves he was pointing at. He pushed Jack back into the room and slammed the doors closed behind him.
Jack's body shook hard with chills. His skin was still scalding as Sawyer worked the wet clothes off him, letting them fall to the floor, drawing the heavy quilts over Jack's naked form and holding them around him. Sawyer's own clothes were wet and his hair clung to his forehead but he didn't care. He held Jack, thinking he could get him warm, even as fever raged inside him. "I'm here," he whispered into Jack's ear, over and over again, soothing them both. When he remembered the tea, he forced it through Jack's lips.
Sawyer woke, dazed, in the fresh pink light of dawn. He didn't recall having slept. Jack was mumbling, lost in dreams. Sawyer lay a gentle hand against his forehead. Cooler, he thought, but wasn't sure. He stroked Jack's face, selfishly because Jack was somewhere faraway, beyond Sawyer's reach.
It became a vigil of tea and delirium. Sawyer opened one of the fallen books from Jack's office, searching for answers he knew he wouldn't find. There was no cure. You either died or you lived. He discovered he could only ignore Jack when he was half-conscious, moving restlessly or rambling on in monologue. It was when Jack lay still and peaceful that Sawyer's heart hitched in his chest, and he held his breath and watched closely, terrified of finding himself suddenly alone in the room. At those times, Sawyer crawled into the bed with him, close enough to feel his reassuring heartbeat or the shallow rise and fall of his breath.
The night grew impossibly long. Jack remained pale and still. Sawyer's eyes burned. He'd tried bargaining, silently, but Jack slept on. He was losing him.
Sawyer didn't remember much from the years his parents were alive. Most of his memories had been wiped out in a loud blast of horror. Now, sitting here, arms wrapped around Jack, he could remember his mama's voice, soft against his ear. Telling him the fairy tale of the life he'd one day have, if only he came through this.
Sawyer didn't believe in fairy tales. Never had. But he found his dry lips working to tell Jack a story all the same. This one just happened to be true. He started it out with "once upon a time," though, just to try to make it easier.
"Once upon a time," his voice was rough and scared, "there was a man and a woman. They were married. Had a little boy. The woman had a little bit of money in her family. Man said he didn't care about it, and he didn't, till it was gone. She lost it to a confidence man. Took the money, left a mess behind." He sighed. Skipped ahead. "That boy, he wrote himself a letter. 'bout how he was gonna find that con man and make him pay…"
He broke off. Even after this many years had gone by, it hurt too much to tell anyone, even Jack. Especially Jack.
"You."
Sawyer's body jolted at the sound of Jack's voice. "You're awake." Sawyer touched his face and found it cool. "Fever broke."
Jack nodded, sitting up. "For now."
The words inspired dread. "What?"
"It's how it works," Jack said. "I've seen it. Everything gets clear. Then you get sick again. Worse. A lot worse. And either you die or you don't."
He was so calm. It enraged Sawyer. "You're not gonna die."
"I might," Jack said.
"No," Sawyer insisted. "Tell me what to do."
"There's nothing you can do," Jack said.
"No," Sawyer said again. "God damn it, Jack, I love you, you're not gonna die on me." Even though everyone he'd ever cared about did.
Jack smiled knowingly, even as he shivered. "I love you, too," he said, sinking back into the quilts. He pulled Sawyer down into a brief kiss, just a touch of their lips. Jack closed his eyes. "Bury me here," he said. "With them. Then go back home and forget about me."
"No," Sawyer said, but Jack had slipped back into sleep. His skin was still cool to the touch. Maybe he was wrong, Sawyer thought stubbornly, but the sick knot in his stomach told him that he was lying to himself. Jack knew what he was talking about.
His body aching, Sawyer moved silently out of the room and down the stairs. He walked outside, into the alien sunshine. He wrapped his arms around himself and stood there, listening to the soft sounds of the river, looking up into the trees. Trees that had stood long before they were born and would stand for centuries after they were dead. They made him feel meaningless and small, and he found there was a power in that.
He cut across the field to the graves marked with crosses. People who had lived in this house. Lived with Jack and known him. A woman he loved once. A son he'd never gotten to know. "You can't have him," Sawyer said. Still meaningless. He opened his hands and shouted it, to the trees and the river and the heavens above. "You can't have him!"
He stood there in the echoing silence of his words, breathing hard. Then he dropped his arms and walked back to the house, returning to Jack's side. Already his skin was tinged with pale yellow, the deadly jaundice that gave the fever its name.
…
Sawyer did what he could. It didn't feel like enough. He stayed by Jack's side, bathing him with cool water and making him drink. The fever held Jack in delirium, babbling and raving. Sawyer fought, but he knew deep down that now they were just both waiting for Jack to die.
Around midnight, Jack's lips fell silent. In the candlelight, his skin looked pale and creamy, but Sawyer knew it was a lie. His skin still blazed with fever. Exhausted, Sawyer walked out onto the verandah into the coolness of the night, but it wasn't enough. He left Jack behind. He found a heavy shovel and began to dig a third grave beside the other two.
As he strained to move the earth, Sawyer thought about his own death. Wondered when it might come and at whose hand. Jack would be lying here. If not for Jack, Sawyer would have died months ago, from the gunshot wound. He should have drowned in the deep, muddy waters of his beloved river. It was because of Sawyer that Jack had been in New Orleans. Without Sawyer, he'd been safe in his big empty house, still lost in the memories of the family he mourned. It was Sawyer's fault Jack lay dying. It was always Sawyer's fault.
Dawn came by the time the job was done. Sawyer wiped the sweat from his face with the shirt he'd discarded along the way and faced the house. The doors to the room still stood open. Sawyer dug his hands into his hair. By now it would be done.
He walked slowly to the house and then up the stairs inside. He would fight with Jack and love him, but he wouldn't watch him die. He disgusted himself with his cowardice.
Jack lay in the bed, covers drawn up to the pale white skin of his neck. His eyes were open and Sawyer started to turn away in agony. But then those eyes blinked and moved, and the corners of his mouth began to turn up in something very like a smile. Sawyer's throat closed up and he stood frozen for so long that Jack patted the blanket beside his hip.
Sawyer went to him, burying his face against Jack's neck, where Jack's pulse beat strong and steady. The danger was gone. Sawyer tried to find the words to apologize, but there were none. Jack held him, clinging just as tight and with just as much fear. They'd both faced death in this house, and survived.
Epilogue
Sawyer sucked the end of a broken stalk of sugar cane in the golden glow of afternoon. Jack's eyes had been on him since he appeared on the horizon, and now they lingered close and hot. "Could sell this stuff, make a fortune," Sawyer said.
"Or keep it for ourselves," Jack replied. The discussion had been going on for weeks, as summer began to fade into autumn. What to do with the land, the house, their lives.
"You think any more about patent medicines?" Sawyer leaned against the porch railing.
"It's fraud."
"Hell, you say that like it's a bad thing." Sawyer flashed a dimpled, teasing grin.
"I accepted my father's old position at Tulane," Jack said, ignoring him. "This house is too cold in winter anyway. And I know you miss the city."
"You're the city boy, doc," Sawyer said, working at the cane again with his tongue to get the last sweet juice from it. Jack took it away from him, wrestling it from his hand and letting it fall. He covered Sawyer's mouth with his own, sucking the sugar from his lips. Sawyer met Jack's tongue with his own, kissing hard.
They were panting when the kiss broke. Sawyer stared into Jack's dark eyes, heavy-lidded with arousal. "I got it on my fingers, too," he breathed, holding up his hand. Jack licked Sawyer's fingers, nipping gently before pulling one into his mouth to suck on. Sawyer swayed with desire, watching Jack's face. His eyes closed with concentration. His lips closed around Sawyer's finger. Watching was an experience completely separate from what he felt: the hot, rough wetness of Jack's tongue working against his skin and the way he felt his pulse throb all the way down to his cock with every stroke.
He moaned, gruff and deep, and Jack let his hand drop. Sawyer wrapped it around the porch rail as Jack sank lower, unfastening his trousers and taking the length of him into his mouth. Sawyer let his head drop back and his hips thrust involuntarily, knees half-buckling.
But then Jack pulled back, leaving him hard and damp and exposed. "Take me," Jack whispered into Sawyer's ear, sending a jolt through his body. They'd found a multitude of ways to love each other, but the right time had never come for this. Sawyer looked at Jack and saw that he was sure.
Sawyer removed Jack's trousers with slow, gentle hands. Jack stepped out of them. Sawyer nodded, feeling himself tremble with anticipation. Jack turned to face the trees and the river, bracing his hands against the porch rail. Sawyer caressed the silken curve of Jack's ass, then pushed inside.
They breathed together, savoring that first moment in stillness. Then Sawyer started to move, and Jack made a tortured sound. Sawyer put his hands over Jack's, clutching in time with his thrusts. Jack's hips moved in answer to his own, body shaking wildly as Sawyer's cock dragged against that tender spot inside. He came with a delicious shudder that Sawyer felt and moved against until it took away his breath with the violent pleasure of his own climax.
Sawyer withdrew, but remained close, wrapping his arms around Jack's chest and resting his cheek against his spine. Eyes shut, just being. Too soon, Jack moved, but it was only to face Sawyer in the embrace. "You saved me," Sawyer said, low.
Jack held him closer. "We saved each other."
The End
Notes: It's done. A great big thank you to everyone who's read and commented over the past six weeks. I appreciate your patience and your encouragement and your feedback. This wouldn't be the same story without you. *applauds* I'm dedicating this fic to alliecat8, because without her my trip to New Orleans wouldn't have been half as good or as inspiring.
Summary: Anytime and anywhere, they are who they are. Historical AU.
This part: 2424 words, NC17. This is the final part.
previous parts
Vieux Carre
by eponine119
Chapter 10 [of 10]
Jack shivered, even though heat seeped through his skin. Rain lashed the windows. Jack's hand was hot and dry between his own. Sawyer held it because he didn't know what else to do.
Jack would know what to do. Jack always knew what to do.
Thinking back on the time he'd spent lying in this bed after being shot, Sawyer found he mostly remembered the times he was alone. He remembered the darkness and the trees and the horror of his dreams. He didn't remember what Jack had done to bring him through it.
He sat with Jack because he didn't want him to be alone. Pressing his hands on either side of Jack's was the closest he'd come to praying in a long time. He didn't know how it was supposed to work, and didn't move his lips to mumble up at God. He figured if there was such a thing, He could look into Sawyer's heart, though what He found there wasn't likely to inspire any favors.
But it didn't make any difference whether he sat with Jack or not. Jack wasn't aware of his presence. He was alone in his feverish dreams, just as Sawyer had been. He spoke, the way he sometimes talked in his sleep, but now the nonsense pulled the muscles of Sawyer's shoulders tight with worry, and eventually he turned away.
He stalked through the rooms on the lower floor, searching for anything that would tell him what to do. In Jack's small office, the shadows from the tiny candle flame loomed large, monstrous and black across the walls and ceiling. Sawyer pulled the books from their shelf, letting them drop to the floor like bombs. A collection of tiny glass bottles lined one shelf, an apothecary's shop in miniature. The labels were hand-written, Jack's hand. He touched them, sure that one contained exactly what he needed, if only he knew which one. Only the thought that they could save Jack's life kept him from shattering them across the floor in his frustration.
He crossed the dark, covered alley to the kitchen. The building held the smell of bread and fire within its rough brick walls. Everything was cold and empty and abandoned.
Sawyer looked for coffee, determined to stay alert for as long as Jack needed him. What he found instead was a tin of tea. The smell of the rough leaves was familiar. He closed his eyes and could see Jack's long, pale fingers holding a delicate teacup. Jack had given him this tea for his fever, for the infection. He closed the tin hard with a shaking hand, scattering a thin trail of leaves along the table, and ran back into the house.
The shock of cold, damp air hit him when he carried the same china teacup to the sickroom. The doors to the balcony had been flung open and the bed was empty. "Jack!" Sawyer cried, above the pounding of the rain. Jack stood at the railing, shirt clinging and transparent, one hand outstretched and pointing. "No," Sawyer said, putting himself between Jack and the graves he was pointing at. He pushed Jack back into the room and slammed the doors closed behind him.
Jack's body shook hard with chills. His skin was still scalding as Sawyer worked the wet clothes off him, letting them fall to the floor, drawing the heavy quilts over Jack's naked form and holding them around him. Sawyer's own clothes were wet and his hair clung to his forehead but he didn't care. He held Jack, thinking he could get him warm, even as fever raged inside him. "I'm here," he whispered into Jack's ear, over and over again, soothing them both. When he remembered the tea, he forced it through Jack's lips.
Sawyer woke, dazed, in the fresh pink light of dawn. He didn't recall having slept. Jack was mumbling, lost in dreams. Sawyer lay a gentle hand against his forehead. Cooler, he thought, but wasn't sure. He stroked Jack's face, selfishly because Jack was somewhere faraway, beyond Sawyer's reach.
It became a vigil of tea and delirium. Sawyer opened one of the fallen books from Jack's office, searching for answers he knew he wouldn't find. There was no cure. You either died or you lived. He discovered he could only ignore Jack when he was half-conscious, moving restlessly or rambling on in monologue. It was when Jack lay still and peaceful that Sawyer's heart hitched in his chest, and he held his breath and watched closely, terrified of finding himself suddenly alone in the room. At those times, Sawyer crawled into the bed with him, close enough to feel his reassuring heartbeat or the shallow rise and fall of his breath.
The night grew impossibly long. Jack remained pale and still. Sawyer's eyes burned. He'd tried bargaining, silently, but Jack slept on. He was losing him.
Sawyer didn't remember much from the years his parents were alive. Most of his memories had been wiped out in a loud blast of horror. Now, sitting here, arms wrapped around Jack, he could remember his mama's voice, soft against his ear. Telling him the fairy tale of the life he'd one day have, if only he came through this.
Sawyer didn't believe in fairy tales. Never had. But he found his dry lips working to tell Jack a story all the same. This one just happened to be true. He started it out with "once upon a time," though, just to try to make it easier.
"Once upon a time," his voice was rough and scared, "there was a man and a woman. They were married. Had a little boy. The woman had a little bit of money in her family. Man said he didn't care about it, and he didn't, till it was gone. She lost it to a confidence man. Took the money, left a mess behind." He sighed. Skipped ahead. "That boy, he wrote himself a letter. 'bout how he was gonna find that con man and make him pay…"
He broke off. Even after this many years had gone by, it hurt too much to tell anyone, even Jack. Especially Jack.
"You."
Sawyer's body jolted at the sound of Jack's voice. "You're awake." Sawyer touched his face and found it cool. "Fever broke."
Jack nodded, sitting up. "For now."
The words inspired dread. "What?"
"It's how it works," Jack said. "I've seen it. Everything gets clear. Then you get sick again. Worse. A lot worse. And either you die or you don't."
He was so calm. It enraged Sawyer. "You're not gonna die."
"I might," Jack said.
"No," Sawyer insisted. "Tell me what to do."
"There's nothing you can do," Jack said.
"No," Sawyer said again. "God damn it, Jack, I love you, you're not gonna die on me." Even though everyone he'd ever cared about did.
Jack smiled knowingly, even as he shivered. "I love you, too," he said, sinking back into the quilts. He pulled Sawyer down into a brief kiss, just a touch of their lips. Jack closed his eyes. "Bury me here," he said. "With them. Then go back home and forget about me."
"No," Sawyer said, but Jack had slipped back into sleep. His skin was still cool to the touch. Maybe he was wrong, Sawyer thought stubbornly, but the sick knot in his stomach told him that he was lying to himself. Jack knew what he was talking about.
His body aching, Sawyer moved silently out of the room and down the stairs. He walked outside, into the alien sunshine. He wrapped his arms around himself and stood there, listening to the soft sounds of the river, looking up into the trees. Trees that had stood long before they were born and would stand for centuries after they were dead. They made him feel meaningless and small, and he found there was a power in that.
He cut across the field to the graves marked with crosses. People who had lived in this house. Lived with Jack and known him. A woman he loved once. A son he'd never gotten to know. "You can't have him," Sawyer said. Still meaningless. He opened his hands and shouted it, to the trees and the river and the heavens above. "You can't have him!"
He stood there in the echoing silence of his words, breathing hard. Then he dropped his arms and walked back to the house, returning to Jack's side. Already his skin was tinged with pale yellow, the deadly jaundice that gave the fever its name.
…
Sawyer did what he could. It didn't feel like enough. He stayed by Jack's side, bathing him with cool water and making him drink. The fever held Jack in delirium, babbling and raving. Sawyer fought, but he knew deep down that now they were just both waiting for Jack to die.
Around midnight, Jack's lips fell silent. In the candlelight, his skin looked pale and creamy, but Sawyer knew it was a lie. His skin still blazed with fever. Exhausted, Sawyer walked out onto the verandah into the coolness of the night, but it wasn't enough. He left Jack behind. He found a heavy shovel and began to dig a third grave beside the other two.
As he strained to move the earth, Sawyer thought about his own death. Wondered when it might come and at whose hand. Jack would be lying here. If not for Jack, Sawyer would have died months ago, from the gunshot wound. He should have drowned in the deep, muddy waters of his beloved river. It was because of Sawyer that Jack had been in New Orleans. Without Sawyer, he'd been safe in his big empty house, still lost in the memories of the family he mourned. It was Sawyer's fault Jack lay dying. It was always Sawyer's fault.
Dawn came by the time the job was done. Sawyer wiped the sweat from his face with the shirt he'd discarded along the way and faced the house. The doors to the room still stood open. Sawyer dug his hands into his hair. By now it would be done.
He walked slowly to the house and then up the stairs inside. He would fight with Jack and love him, but he wouldn't watch him die. He disgusted himself with his cowardice.
Jack lay in the bed, covers drawn up to the pale white skin of his neck. His eyes were open and Sawyer started to turn away in agony. But then those eyes blinked and moved, and the corners of his mouth began to turn up in something very like a smile. Sawyer's throat closed up and he stood frozen for so long that Jack patted the blanket beside his hip.
Sawyer went to him, burying his face against Jack's neck, where Jack's pulse beat strong and steady. The danger was gone. Sawyer tried to find the words to apologize, but there were none. Jack held him, clinging just as tight and with just as much fear. They'd both faced death in this house, and survived.
Epilogue
Sawyer sucked the end of a broken stalk of sugar cane in the golden glow of afternoon. Jack's eyes had been on him since he appeared on the horizon, and now they lingered close and hot. "Could sell this stuff, make a fortune," Sawyer said.
"Or keep it for ourselves," Jack replied. The discussion had been going on for weeks, as summer began to fade into autumn. What to do with the land, the house, their lives.
"You think any more about patent medicines?" Sawyer leaned against the porch railing.
"It's fraud."
"Hell, you say that like it's a bad thing." Sawyer flashed a dimpled, teasing grin.
"I accepted my father's old position at Tulane," Jack said, ignoring him. "This house is too cold in winter anyway. And I know you miss the city."
"You're the city boy, doc," Sawyer said, working at the cane again with his tongue to get the last sweet juice from it. Jack took it away from him, wrestling it from his hand and letting it fall. He covered Sawyer's mouth with his own, sucking the sugar from his lips. Sawyer met Jack's tongue with his own, kissing hard.
They were panting when the kiss broke. Sawyer stared into Jack's dark eyes, heavy-lidded with arousal. "I got it on my fingers, too," he breathed, holding up his hand. Jack licked Sawyer's fingers, nipping gently before pulling one into his mouth to suck on. Sawyer swayed with desire, watching Jack's face. His eyes closed with concentration. His lips closed around Sawyer's finger. Watching was an experience completely separate from what he felt: the hot, rough wetness of Jack's tongue working against his skin and the way he felt his pulse throb all the way down to his cock with every stroke.
He moaned, gruff and deep, and Jack let his hand drop. Sawyer wrapped it around the porch rail as Jack sank lower, unfastening his trousers and taking the length of him into his mouth. Sawyer let his head drop back and his hips thrust involuntarily, knees half-buckling.
But then Jack pulled back, leaving him hard and damp and exposed. "Take me," Jack whispered into Sawyer's ear, sending a jolt through his body. They'd found a multitude of ways to love each other, but the right time had never come for this. Sawyer looked at Jack and saw that he was sure.
Sawyer removed Jack's trousers with slow, gentle hands. Jack stepped out of them. Sawyer nodded, feeling himself tremble with anticipation. Jack turned to face the trees and the river, bracing his hands against the porch rail. Sawyer caressed the silken curve of Jack's ass, then pushed inside.
They breathed together, savoring that first moment in stillness. Then Sawyer started to move, and Jack made a tortured sound. Sawyer put his hands over Jack's, clutching in time with his thrusts. Jack's hips moved in answer to his own, body shaking wildly as Sawyer's cock dragged against that tender spot inside. He came with a delicious shudder that Sawyer felt and moved against until it took away his breath with the violent pleasure of his own climax.
Sawyer withdrew, but remained close, wrapping his arms around Jack's chest and resting his cheek against his spine. Eyes shut, just being. Too soon, Jack moved, but it was only to face Sawyer in the embrace. "You saved me," Sawyer said, low.
Jack held him closer. "We saved each other."
The End
Notes: It's done. A great big thank you to everyone who's read and commented over the past six weeks. I appreciate your patience and your encouragement and your feedback. This wouldn't be the same story without you. *applauds* I'm dedicating this fic to alliecat8, because without her my trip to New Orleans wouldn't have been half as good or as inspiring.