Lost fic: I'll Be Home [Jack/Sawyer, NC17, AU: country star verse]
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Notes: Continuing the country star 'verse begun in A Healing Touch and Stolen Rain. Jack/Sawyer, NC17. Using for fanfic100 #92, Christmas. 3550 words.
Summary: Jack goes home with Sawyer.
I'll Be Home…
by eponine119
October 4-14, 2007
It was December and the tour was over.
"Good job, good job," Sawyer kept saying, shaking hands with the crew gathered around him to say goodbye. Jack hung back, watching the way they'd nod and then head out, to go home to their own families or vacations or lives.
Jack knew he should join the group, but he just couldn't make himself. Not yet. It felt like something huge was ending. The tour would pick up again in a month or two, but he had a tough time believing it would be the same.
Finally it was down to just the two of them. Jack sighed, knowing this hadn't made it any easier. He should have gone while the getting was good. Now they'd have to talk. Make it personal. Make it real.
"Y'know, doc," Sawyer said, taking one slow step toward him. "Anyone who's got no place to go has always been welcome to come home with me."
"I've got someplace to go," Jack said. He could go home. He could go lie on the beach in Thailand until he was warm and tan and relaxed. He could go a million places, if only he wanted to.
"Where?" Sawyer asked, and watched as Jack's bravado faltered. "I used to have no place to go, Jack. No family, nothing to look forward to. That's why my door is always open."
Jack shook his head. In some small, stupid way it hurt his pride that Sawyer kept saying it was an offer open to everyone. He wanted to be special.
"Come home with me, Jack," Sawyer said. Jack just kept shaking his head, trying to find the voice to form the word "no." Sawyer put out his hand, and Jack took it, to shake. But Sawyer fooled him. Sawyer pulled him in close and put his arms around him. Jack's eyes closed as he inhaled the scent of leather and soap and sweat. Sawyer's hand patted him on the back. "C'mon," that hot voice whispered into his ear.
Jack got into the limo with him. He watched Sawyer grow tense as the car wound its way through the streets, from the busy thoroughfare into residences and then into modern day palaces. Sawyer's shoulders grew tight and his knuckles were white and his knee wobbled up and down. It wasn't like Sawyer, not at all. And Jack began to think he'd made a mistake.
The car pulled in, up a long drive and then stopped in front of the house. The architecture was Southern neoclassical, with columns rising up to the second storey. "Thanks, good job," Sawyer said to the driver. Jack put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and said nothing.
"This is it," Sawyer said. "My house. You like it?"
"Sure," Jack said, and Sawyer just looked at him. He pushed open the door and went inside. Jack took a moment to wonder what to expect before he followed Sawyer inside.
Jack expected that on the other side of the door would be Sawyer's family waiting with a warm greeting. He expected a house that bustled with atmosphere and life. He walked into a place as cold and silent as a museum.
The foyer was large and dark. A casual iron chandelier hung down over a round table. Open archways led off to other parts of the house. Sawyer set his bags down and they seemed to echo through open space. Jack couldn't imagine Sawyer lived here.
But then he didn't, not really. He lived on the road, on the bus, eleven months out of the year. This place was what he was avoiding.
"You want the grand tour or you wanna make yourself at home?" Sawyer asked.
"Um." Jack didn't know which to choose.
"Come on," Sawyer said, leading the way through a sterile white parlor and into a giant chef's kitchen. His fingers left smudges on the perfect stainless steel refrigerator as he opened it and withdrew two longneck bottles of beer. He cradled them in the crook of his arm a moment before passing one to Jack. Sawyer tipped it toward him in mock salute before taking a long swallow with his eyes closed. "Home sweet home," he said bitterly.
Jack ran his hand over the top of his head. "I was thinking of hitting the beach in Thailand. You wanna come?"
Sawyer laughed, lowering his head and pulling back his lips in a real smile that revealed his dimples for the first time since he'd left the concert stage that night. "It's not what you expected, is it?"
"No." Jack wasn't quite sure what he'd expected. Something that reflected Sawyer. Something warm.
Sawyer leaned against the counter and finished off his beer. He held the bottle in his hands as he explained, "Country music's an industry. They got these magazines, come out to your house, do interviews. Shows on the country music channel. It's about living the dream for your public. They don't wanna see some guy living in a crap shack with laundry on the floor and dishes that ain't been washed. They wanna dream a little 'n pretend it could be them."
"So you hired a decorator," Jack said.
Sawyer's smile turned false. "My wife hired a decorator," he said.
"Where is she?" Jack asked, cautiously.
Sawyer shrugged. "I told you it's been done for us for a long time."
Jack nodded. "I guess I didn't quite believe it."
"All this is the house that country music built," Sawyer said.
"You hate it, don't you?" Jack asked quietly.
"Hell no," Sawyer replied, his eyes turning dark midnight blue. "Music saved me." He said it with the breathlessness of a solemn oath. Then he dropped his bottle into the recycling bin underneath the sink and said, "Come with me."
Jack followed Sawyer through a doorway in the back of the kitchen, which led down a set of carpeted stairs. It felt like they should be descending to the servants' quarters, but at the end of the staircase was a more casual, lived in room, with rich deep couches and one wall completely buried in books. Jack felt himself relax slightly. This was what he'd been expecting. This room actually felt like Sawyer.
Another doorway led to a state of the art recording studio, which Jack glanced into with interest, because he'd never seen one before. It looked like the ones on television. When he stepped back out, Sawyer was sprawled out on the sofa looking more relaxed than he had the entire night. "Want me to show you the guest room?" he asked.
"You mean this isn't it?" Jack joked.
"You wish it was," Sawyer said, not quite a question. Jack did, because this place felt like Sawyer. It was warm and filled with his energy.
"Maybe you should show me the guest room," Jack said, because Sawyer had a look in his eyes that Jack recognized. A look that made Jack's breath come a little bit faster, because he knew what it meant. It meant the two of them, touching, together.
"Sit down, Jack," Sawyer said. "I'm not gonna bite you."
Jack sat down gingerly. It wasn't too late for him to leave, except he wanted to be here, with Sawyer.
"The rest of the house is for them," Sawyer said, and Jack wasn't sure whether he meant Sawyer's family or his fans. "This place is mine." Then Sawyer leaned over and kissed him, hard and wet and sloppy. His mouth tasted like the beer he'd drunk. Jack closed his eyes and kissed Sawyer back, reaching up to run his fingers lightly through the long hair covering the nape of Sawyer's neck.
"I thought I heard you come in." It was a woman's voice. Only slightly strident. But there was anger in her eyes when Jack pushed Sawyer away. Of course there was.
Sawyer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "This is Jack. He didn't have no place to go for the holidays, so I brought him home. Jack, this is Cassidy. My wife."
"Hi," Jack said, uncomfortably. He'd never been caught kissing someone's husband before. He could feel his face reddening, and he wondered with a flash of anger whether Sawyer had set this entire thing up. "You have a lovely home."
"Thank you," Cassidy said. "Can I show you to the guest room?" Jack started to reply and rise to his feet, but then she added, looking sharply at Sawyer, "Or do you have other plans?" Sawyer didn't answer, which made Jack feel almost as angry as Cassidy looked.
"I would love to see the guest room," Jack said, picking himself up from the couch. "It's just for one night. I have tickets out tomorrow." He could feel Sawyer's eyes burning into his back as he walked up the stairs, but Sawyer didn't accompany them.
"Can I get you anything?" Cassidy asked as they passed through the kitchen. "Sandwich, cookies and milk?"
"No, thank you," Jack said softly. He wished he could be as bold as Sawyer. He wished he didn't feel shamed by this, when Sawyer so obviously didn't. It wasn't being caught, so much as wondering whether he was one of many who had been treated this way.
Beyond the foyer was something of a grand staircase, and at the top was the guest room. It was richly appointed but just as clinically cold as the rest of the house. "I hope you'll stay with us just as long as you like," Cassidy said. "I know how awful it is to be alone at Christmas." Her implication was that she was the one who was alone.
Jack wanted to tell her to drop the anger and the bullshit, but he didn't know how. He didn't know what he wanted to say, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they had a lot to talk about. "Thank you," he said, and she pulled the door closed, shutting him inside.
It felt like a hotel room. Sterile and bland. There were even little soaps in the bathroom. Jack put on his pajamas and then washed his hands, not quite knowing what else to do. They were still damp when he walked into the main room, scouting for the remote for the television. He found it and lay down on the bed, scrolling through the stations mindlessly.
Jack's eyes had grown heavy when the door opened. Sawyer's hair was mussed. Jack could see where he'd dragged his fingers through it. His voice was dark and smoky when he asked, "You really takin' off for Tahiti tomorrow?"
"Thailand," Jack corrected. Although he didn't really have tickets, so Tahiti could be an option. So could Texas, or Toronto. Anywhere but Sawyer's house, with Sawyer's wife. He turned off the tv and looked at Sawyer, sagging against the wall.
"I want you to stay," Sawyer said.
"Why?" Jack asked, and watched Sawyer's eyes. "What are you trying to prove?" Sawyer looked down at the floor. "How many others have there been?"
"Just you," Sawyer said. Jack regarded him doubtfully. Sawyer sat down on the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. The gulf between them was considerable. "I told you, anybody's got no place to go, they can come here with me. There's been people here every year. But not like you, Jack."
Jack still wasn't sure he believed it. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I want you." The words were so plain, they surprised Jack out of his protests. Sawyer leaned over and kissed him slowly, reigniting the fire that had been so quickly extinguished earlier. For a long time, he just used his lips and his tongue, fingers curled in the effort it took to keep his hands by his sides. Something about that touched Jack deeply. It made him feel as though this went deeper than a casual physical encounter.
The kiss broke and they both lay there, trying to catch their breath. Sawyer nestled against Jack's shoulder so his mouth was close to Jack's ear. Now he let his yearning fingers lie against Jack's skin, at the side of his waist, filled with heated promise. "I want all of you, Jack," Sawyer's words were hot and damp against his ear. His thumb rubbed back and forth against Jack's skin. "I want you on your knees and open for me. I want you to let me inside." Sawyer let his hand slide down along Jack's hipbone, stopping tantalizingly close to his cock. "You want to let me do that, Jack?"
Jack's heartbeat was fast and thready inside his chest. The light behind his closed eyelids was an intense, dark red. He knew that in the morning he'd go to catch that plane, and in a month when Sawyer climbed on board his tour bus again, Jack probably wouldn't be there with him. He wanted it to make it easier for him to say okay. It didn't, but he said the word anyway.
Sawyer's hands were warm and soft, moving him, positioning him, peeling away his clothing. Jack knelt on the bed and pressed his face into the sheets. He could feel the hard pulse of blood filling his cock. Sawyer's hands stroked his back, reassuring along his spine. Jack folded his arms and put his forehead against them, breathing fast and deep. Then Sawyer's hands rounded his ass, palms kneading, and Sawyer made a sound deep in his throat, a sound of wanting and desire.
Closer and closer, teasing him. Sawyer dragged his fingertip around the opening, then backed off, rubbing Jack's balls, hand snaking up to touch his cock. Jack cried out, pleasure and a plea. Sawyer kept one hand there, as he used the other, rounding Jack's hole and then slipping inside.
Jack gasped, fighting to stay relaxed. Then Sawyer crooked his finger, and Jack felt the stretching and the red-hot wave of desire. Then Sawyer was inside. He grunted as he sank in deep and then held there. The only sound in the room was Jack's harsh breathing, and then Sawyer began to move in quick thrusts. His fingers settled on Jack's hipbones, light at first, and then digging in harder the closer Sawyer came to climax.
Jack could hear it in his voice, in the rough cries. Jack wanted to listen to that voice forever. He started to move his hips, rocking against Sawyer. The cries rose and then broke, in anguish and ecstasy. Sawyer thrust through it, ragged, erratic movements, and then he stilled. One last stroke of his hands against Jack's flanks, and then he withdrew and lay down beside Jack.
Jack looked at him. The whiskey darkness that half-closed his eyes, and the satisfaction that tugged at the corners of his lips, not hard enough to dimple his cheeks, but a sort of a smile nonetheless. Jack held that gaze as he reached down, taking his cock in hand, and quickly brought himself off, with a jerk and a grunt. It was enough. Enough to soothe his pounding pulse and let him sink, spent, against the mattress.
"You ever done that before?" Sawyer asked. Jack didn't say anything. Just lay there with his eyes closed, still feeling the warmth of Sawyer's body against his, and the cooling stickiness of his skin. "Times like this make me wish for a smoke."
"Me too," Jack sighed.
"So the doctor's got vices after all," Sawyer said, in a new voice Jack had never heard before. Jack could feel the heat rising to his face. Of course he had vices. They both did. They were here. But it seemed to be what Sawyer needed, to settle in against Jack's body. Jack watched the lines fade from his face as Sawyer fell headlong into a deep sleep.
…
Jack woke up too early. Sawyer had moved away during the night, to lie on his back with one arm outstretched. Jack leaned over him, and gently teased the golden hair back from his forehead, holding his breath to see if it would wake him. Part of Jack wanted it to, wanted Sawyer to open his eyes and smile in the pink light of a new day. But Sawyer just twitched and slept on. Jack checked on him again after a quick, cool shower, but Sawyer was lost deep in dreams.
Quietly, Jack eased out of the room, heading for the kitchen. A cup of coffee would clear his head, and help him decide whether to use the phone in his back pocket to call a taxi to take him to the airport, where he'd buy a ticket on the first flight as far away from here as possible.
The coffeemaker on the counter was just like the one at home. Jack's fingers worked by memory as he thought about that coffeemaker and home. It wasn't home anymore, and the machine was in a box in a storage unit. Jack could always go back there. They had beaches and sunshine too.
He took the phone out of his pocket and put it on the table.
"Pour me a cup." Cassidy's voice roused him from his thoughts. Her hair was tangled. She twisted the fabric of her bathrobe closer around her, feeling unconsciously nervous and exposed. Jack pushed a mug toward her with two fingers. She closed her eyes as she drank from it, and then carried it with both hands to the table and sat down.
It burned as Jack chugged the coffee down, standing at the counter. But he needed something before he faced her. His tongue turned bitter and ashy but the acid in his veins made him feel strong enough to face this day.
"You staying?" she asked.
Jack studied her face. It wasn't that she was pretty, or not pretty. She looked like the mom in a tv ad, for toothpaste or laundry soap, or coffee. But there was something about her. "I'm trying to decide." He picked up the phone and toyed with it.
"You can stay, you know," she said. "Me 'n Sawyer, it's been over a long time."
"That's what he said," Jack replied, and wondered how long it would be before he had that same look in his eyes. Acceptance, but longing. Of course she still wanted Sawyer. So did Jack. He put his head down and looked into the darkness of his coffee cup. He forced himself to swallow the rest of the vile liquid and then put the cup in the sink and walked away.
Back in the guest room, he thought he was alone as he slung his bag onto the bed. "You really goin'?" Sawyer's voice announced his presence.
Jack nodded, and zipped the bag closed.
"Want a ride?"
"Sure." It was one of the hardest words Jack had ever had to say.
The car in the garage was a Mustang, tawny and old and undeniably Sawyer's. Jack got in and Sawyer revved up the engine and they pulled away from that big house, leaving its luxury behind.
"How'd you end up here?" Sawyer asked him, eyes on the road, hands loose and comfortable on the wheel.
"You invited me," Jack reminded him.
"On the tour," Sawyer said. As Jack tried to find the words and decide if he wanted to say them, Sawyer added, "Everybody's got a story."
"Everything's just a story to you," Jack snapped.
Sawyer considered it, and shrugged. Agreeing. "Music's built on stories. So's life." He glanced at Jack. "What's yours?"
"I got divorced." Jack wasn't sure he'd ever said the words aloud before. "Blindsided."
"Cheating?"
"Yeah." Jack let the admission hang in the air. It still hurt, somehow. It shouldn't, but it did. "I wanted to crawl out of my own skin, but I couldn't figure out where to go. Somebody told me doctors worked on movie sets, places other than sterile white rooms. There's an agency. I signed up. They asked me if I wanted to hit the road, and I did." He took a breath, and wet his lips. "I never ran away from home before."
Sawyer nodded. "I'm not like you," he said. "I never had a home before that one. Thought it's what I wanted. But a man don't change."
"I tried," Jack said, and Sawyer nodded. They were coming up on the airport now, the curve of the road leading up to the terminal. Jack didn't want to get out of the car. Sawyer seemed to know it, and reached past him, to push the door open.
"See you around," Sawyer said.
"Yeah," Jack murmured, and walked away. Into the airport, with its white tile floors and florescent lights overhead. He turned around, expecting the car to be gone, but it was still there at the curb. Sawyer was looking straight ahead, hands on the wheel, like he was driving somewhere. But his lips were moving, and Jack knew the car was filled with a low, murmured tune, only half-existing, most of the notes missing and some of the words not arrived yet.
Jack got in line. Not doctor to a famous musician, not on tour. Just another guy standing in an airport line.
He raised a hand to wave, and Sawyer pulled away from the curb like it was what he'd been waiting for.
End.
yeah, you know there'll be more some time
Notes: Continuing the country star 'verse begun in A Healing Touch and Stolen Rain. Jack/Sawyer, NC17. Using for fanfic100 #92, Christmas. 3550 words.
Summary: Jack goes home with Sawyer.
I'll Be Home…
by eponine119
October 4-14, 2007
It was December and the tour was over.
"Good job, good job," Sawyer kept saying, shaking hands with the crew gathered around him to say goodbye. Jack hung back, watching the way they'd nod and then head out, to go home to their own families or vacations or lives.
Jack knew he should join the group, but he just couldn't make himself. Not yet. It felt like something huge was ending. The tour would pick up again in a month or two, but he had a tough time believing it would be the same.
Finally it was down to just the two of them. Jack sighed, knowing this hadn't made it any easier. He should have gone while the getting was good. Now they'd have to talk. Make it personal. Make it real.
"Y'know, doc," Sawyer said, taking one slow step toward him. "Anyone who's got no place to go has always been welcome to come home with me."
"I've got someplace to go," Jack said. He could go home. He could go lie on the beach in Thailand until he was warm and tan and relaxed. He could go a million places, if only he wanted to.
"Where?" Sawyer asked, and watched as Jack's bravado faltered. "I used to have no place to go, Jack. No family, nothing to look forward to. That's why my door is always open."
Jack shook his head. In some small, stupid way it hurt his pride that Sawyer kept saying it was an offer open to everyone. He wanted to be special.
"Come home with me, Jack," Sawyer said. Jack just kept shaking his head, trying to find the voice to form the word "no." Sawyer put out his hand, and Jack took it, to shake. But Sawyer fooled him. Sawyer pulled him in close and put his arms around him. Jack's eyes closed as he inhaled the scent of leather and soap and sweat. Sawyer's hand patted him on the back. "C'mon," that hot voice whispered into his ear.
Jack got into the limo with him. He watched Sawyer grow tense as the car wound its way through the streets, from the busy thoroughfare into residences and then into modern day palaces. Sawyer's shoulders grew tight and his knuckles were white and his knee wobbled up and down. It wasn't like Sawyer, not at all. And Jack began to think he'd made a mistake.
The car pulled in, up a long drive and then stopped in front of the house. The architecture was Southern neoclassical, with columns rising up to the second storey. "Thanks, good job," Sawyer said to the driver. Jack put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and said nothing.
"This is it," Sawyer said. "My house. You like it?"
"Sure," Jack said, and Sawyer just looked at him. He pushed open the door and went inside. Jack took a moment to wonder what to expect before he followed Sawyer inside.
Jack expected that on the other side of the door would be Sawyer's family waiting with a warm greeting. He expected a house that bustled with atmosphere and life. He walked into a place as cold and silent as a museum.
The foyer was large and dark. A casual iron chandelier hung down over a round table. Open archways led off to other parts of the house. Sawyer set his bags down and they seemed to echo through open space. Jack couldn't imagine Sawyer lived here.
But then he didn't, not really. He lived on the road, on the bus, eleven months out of the year. This place was what he was avoiding.
"You want the grand tour or you wanna make yourself at home?" Sawyer asked.
"Um." Jack didn't know which to choose.
"Come on," Sawyer said, leading the way through a sterile white parlor and into a giant chef's kitchen. His fingers left smudges on the perfect stainless steel refrigerator as he opened it and withdrew two longneck bottles of beer. He cradled them in the crook of his arm a moment before passing one to Jack. Sawyer tipped it toward him in mock salute before taking a long swallow with his eyes closed. "Home sweet home," he said bitterly.
Jack ran his hand over the top of his head. "I was thinking of hitting the beach in Thailand. You wanna come?"
Sawyer laughed, lowering his head and pulling back his lips in a real smile that revealed his dimples for the first time since he'd left the concert stage that night. "It's not what you expected, is it?"
"No." Jack wasn't quite sure what he'd expected. Something that reflected Sawyer. Something warm.
Sawyer leaned against the counter and finished off his beer. He held the bottle in his hands as he explained, "Country music's an industry. They got these magazines, come out to your house, do interviews. Shows on the country music channel. It's about living the dream for your public. They don't wanna see some guy living in a crap shack with laundry on the floor and dishes that ain't been washed. They wanna dream a little 'n pretend it could be them."
"So you hired a decorator," Jack said.
Sawyer's smile turned false. "My wife hired a decorator," he said.
"Where is she?" Jack asked, cautiously.
Sawyer shrugged. "I told you it's been done for us for a long time."
Jack nodded. "I guess I didn't quite believe it."
"All this is the house that country music built," Sawyer said.
"You hate it, don't you?" Jack asked quietly.
"Hell no," Sawyer replied, his eyes turning dark midnight blue. "Music saved me." He said it with the breathlessness of a solemn oath. Then he dropped his bottle into the recycling bin underneath the sink and said, "Come with me."
Jack followed Sawyer through a doorway in the back of the kitchen, which led down a set of carpeted stairs. It felt like they should be descending to the servants' quarters, but at the end of the staircase was a more casual, lived in room, with rich deep couches and one wall completely buried in books. Jack felt himself relax slightly. This was what he'd been expecting. This room actually felt like Sawyer.
Another doorway led to a state of the art recording studio, which Jack glanced into with interest, because he'd never seen one before. It looked like the ones on television. When he stepped back out, Sawyer was sprawled out on the sofa looking more relaxed than he had the entire night. "Want me to show you the guest room?" he asked.
"You mean this isn't it?" Jack joked.
"You wish it was," Sawyer said, not quite a question. Jack did, because this place felt like Sawyer. It was warm and filled with his energy.
"Maybe you should show me the guest room," Jack said, because Sawyer had a look in his eyes that Jack recognized. A look that made Jack's breath come a little bit faster, because he knew what it meant. It meant the two of them, touching, together.
"Sit down, Jack," Sawyer said. "I'm not gonna bite you."
Jack sat down gingerly. It wasn't too late for him to leave, except he wanted to be here, with Sawyer.
"The rest of the house is for them," Sawyer said, and Jack wasn't sure whether he meant Sawyer's family or his fans. "This place is mine." Then Sawyer leaned over and kissed him, hard and wet and sloppy. His mouth tasted like the beer he'd drunk. Jack closed his eyes and kissed Sawyer back, reaching up to run his fingers lightly through the long hair covering the nape of Sawyer's neck.
"I thought I heard you come in." It was a woman's voice. Only slightly strident. But there was anger in her eyes when Jack pushed Sawyer away. Of course there was.
Sawyer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "This is Jack. He didn't have no place to go for the holidays, so I brought him home. Jack, this is Cassidy. My wife."
"Hi," Jack said, uncomfortably. He'd never been caught kissing someone's husband before. He could feel his face reddening, and he wondered with a flash of anger whether Sawyer had set this entire thing up. "You have a lovely home."
"Thank you," Cassidy said. "Can I show you to the guest room?" Jack started to reply and rise to his feet, but then she added, looking sharply at Sawyer, "Or do you have other plans?" Sawyer didn't answer, which made Jack feel almost as angry as Cassidy looked.
"I would love to see the guest room," Jack said, picking himself up from the couch. "It's just for one night. I have tickets out tomorrow." He could feel Sawyer's eyes burning into his back as he walked up the stairs, but Sawyer didn't accompany them.
"Can I get you anything?" Cassidy asked as they passed through the kitchen. "Sandwich, cookies and milk?"
"No, thank you," Jack said softly. He wished he could be as bold as Sawyer. He wished he didn't feel shamed by this, when Sawyer so obviously didn't. It wasn't being caught, so much as wondering whether he was one of many who had been treated this way.
Beyond the foyer was something of a grand staircase, and at the top was the guest room. It was richly appointed but just as clinically cold as the rest of the house. "I hope you'll stay with us just as long as you like," Cassidy said. "I know how awful it is to be alone at Christmas." Her implication was that she was the one who was alone.
Jack wanted to tell her to drop the anger and the bullshit, but he didn't know how. He didn't know what he wanted to say, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they had a lot to talk about. "Thank you," he said, and she pulled the door closed, shutting him inside.
It felt like a hotel room. Sterile and bland. There were even little soaps in the bathroom. Jack put on his pajamas and then washed his hands, not quite knowing what else to do. They were still damp when he walked into the main room, scouting for the remote for the television. He found it and lay down on the bed, scrolling through the stations mindlessly.
Jack's eyes had grown heavy when the door opened. Sawyer's hair was mussed. Jack could see where he'd dragged his fingers through it. His voice was dark and smoky when he asked, "You really takin' off for Tahiti tomorrow?"
"Thailand," Jack corrected. Although he didn't really have tickets, so Tahiti could be an option. So could Texas, or Toronto. Anywhere but Sawyer's house, with Sawyer's wife. He turned off the tv and looked at Sawyer, sagging against the wall.
"I want you to stay," Sawyer said.
"Why?" Jack asked, and watched Sawyer's eyes. "What are you trying to prove?" Sawyer looked down at the floor. "How many others have there been?"
"Just you," Sawyer said. Jack regarded him doubtfully. Sawyer sat down on the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. The gulf between them was considerable. "I told you, anybody's got no place to go, they can come here with me. There's been people here every year. But not like you, Jack."
Jack still wasn't sure he believed it. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I want you." The words were so plain, they surprised Jack out of his protests. Sawyer leaned over and kissed him slowly, reigniting the fire that had been so quickly extinguished earlier. For a long time, he just used his lips and his tongue, fingers curled in the effort it took to keep his hands by his sides. Something about that touched Jack deeply. It made him feel as though this went deeper than a casual physical encounter.
The kiss broke and they both lay there, trying to catch their breath. Sawyer nestled against Jack's shoulder so his mouth was close to Jack's ear. Now he let his yearning fingers lie against Jack's skin, at the side of his waist, filled with heated promise. "I want all of you, Jack," Sawyer's words were hot and damp against his ear. His thumb rubbed back and forth against Jack's skin. "I want you on your knees and open for me. I want you to let me inside." Sawyer let his hand slide down along Jack's hipbone, stopping tantalizingly close to his cock. "You want to let me do that, Jack?"
Jack's heartbeat was fast and thready inside his chest. The light behind his closed eyelids was an intense, dark red. He knew that in the morning he'd go to catch that plane, and in a month when Sawyer climbed on board his tour bus again, Jack probably wouldn't be there with him. He wanted it to make it easier for him to say okay. It didn't, but he said the word anyway.
Sawyer's hands were warm and soft, moving him, positioning him, peeling away his clothing. Jack knelt on the bed and pressed his face into the sheets. He could feel the hard pulse of blood filling his cock. Sawyer's hands stroked his back, reassuring along his spine. Jack folded his arms and put his forehead against them, breathing fast and deep. Then Sawyer's hands rounded his ass, palms kneading, and Sawyer made a sound deep in his throat, a sound of wanting and desire.
Closer and closer, teasing him. Sawyer dragged his fingertip around the opening, then backed off, rubbing Jack's balls, hand snaking up to touch his cock. Jack cried out, pleasure and a plea. Sawyer kept one hand there, as he used the other, rounding Jack's hole and then slipping inside.
Jack gasped, fighting to stay relaxed. Then Sawyer crooked his finger, and Jack felt the stretching and the red-hot wave of desire. Then Sawyer was inside. He grunted as he sank in deep and then held there. The only sound in the room was Jack's harsh breathing, and then Sawyer began to move in quick thrusts. His fingers settled on Jack's hipbones, light at first, and then digging in harder the closer Sawyer came to climax.
Jack could hear it in his voice, in the rough cries. Jack wanted to listen to that voice forever. He started to move his hips, rocking against Sawyer. The cries rose and then broke, in anguish and ecstasy. Sawyer thrust through it, ragged, erratic movements, and then he stilled. One last stroke of his hands against Jack's flanks, and then he withdrew and lay down beside Jack.
Jack looked at him. The whiskey darkness that half-closed his eyes, and the satisfaction that tugged at the corners of his lips, not hard enough to dimple his cheeks, but a sort of a smile nonetheless. Jack held that gaze as he reached down, taking his cock in hand, and quickly brought himself off, with a jerk and a grunt. It was enough. Enough to soothe his pounding pulse and let him sink, spent, against the mattress.
"You ever done that before?" Sawyer asked. Jack didn't say anything. Just lay there with his eyes closed, still feeling the warmth of Sawyer's body against his, and the cooling stickiness of his skin. "Times like this make me wish for a smoke."
"Me too," Jack sighed.
"So the doctor's got vices after all," Sawyer said, in a new voice Jack had never heard before. Jack could feel the heat rising to his face. Of course he had vices. They both did. They were here. But it seemed to be what Sawyer needed, to settle in against Jack's body. Jack watched the lines fade from his face as Sawyer fell headlong into a deep sleep.
…
Jack woke up too early. Sawyer had moved away during the night, to lie on his back with one arm outstretched. Jack leaned over him, and gently teased the golden hair back from his forehead, holding his breath to see if it would wake him. Part of Jack wanted it to, wanted Sawyer to open his eyes and smile in the pink light of a new day. But Sawyer just twitched and slept on. Jack checked on him again after a quick, cool shower, but Sawyer was lost deep in dreams.
Quietly, Jack eased out of the room, heading for the kitchen. A cup of coffee would clear his head, and help him decide whether to use the phone in his back pocket to call a taxi to take him to the airport, where he'd buy a ticket on the first flight as far away from here as possible.
The coffeemaker on the counter was just like the one at home. Jack's fingers worked by memory as he thought about that coffeemaker and home. It wasn't home anymore, and the machine was in a box in a storage unit. Jack could always go back there. They had beaches and sunshine too.
He took the phone out of his pocket and put it on the table.
"Pour me a cup." Cassidy's voice roused him from his thoughts. Her hair was tangled. She twisted the fabric of her bathrobe closer around her, feeling unconsciously nervous and exposed. Jack pushed a mug toward her with two fingers. She closed her eyes as she drank from it, and then carried it with both hands to the table and sat down.
It burned as Jack chugged the coffee down, standing at the counter. But he needed something before he faced her. His tongue turned bitter and ashy but the acid in his veins made him feel strong enough to face this day.
"You staying?" she asked.
Jack studied her face. It wasn't that she was pretty, or not pretty. She looked like the mom in a tv ad, for toothpaste or laundry soap, or coffee. But there was something about her. "I'm trying to decide." He picked up the phone and toyed with it.
"You can stay, you know," she said. "Me 'n Sawyer, it's been over a long time."
"That's what he said," Jack replied, and wondered how long it would be before he had that same look in his eyes. Acceptance, but longing. Of course she still wanted Sawyer. So did Jack. He put his head down and looked into the darkness of his coffee cup. He forced himself to swallow the rest of the vile liquid and then put the cup in the sink and walked away.
Back in the guest room, he thought he was alone as he slung his bag onto the bed. "You really goin'?" Sawyer's voice announced his presence.
Jack nodded, and zipped the bag closed.
"Want a ride?"
"Sure." It was one of the hardest words Jack had ever had to say.
The car in the garage was a Mustang, tawny and old and undeniably Sawyer's. Jack got in and Sawyer revved up the engine and they pulled away from that big house, leaving its luxury behind.
"How'd you end up here?" Sawyer asked him, eyes on the road, hands loose and comfortable on the wheel.
"You invited me," Jack reminded him.
"On the tour," Sawyer said. As Jack tried to find the words and decide if he wanted to say them, Sawyer added, "Everybody's got a story."
"Everything's just a story to you," Jack snapped.
Sawyer considered it, and shrugged. Agreeing. "Music's built on stories. So's life." He glanced at Jack. "What's yours?"
"I got divorced." Jack wasn't sure he'd ever said the words aloud before. "Blindsided."
"Cheating?"
"Yeah." Jack let the admission hang in the air. It still hurt, somehow. It shouldn't, but it did. "I wanted to crawl out of my own skin, but I couldn't figure out where to go. Somebody told me doctors worked on movie sets, places other than sterile white rooms. There's an agency. I signed up. They asked me if I wanted to hit the road, and I did." He took a breath, and wet his lips. "I never ran away from home before."
Sawyer nodded. "I'm not like you," he said. "I never had a home before that one. Thought it's what I wanted. But a man don't change."
"I tried," Jack said, and Sawyer nodded. They were coming up on the airport now, the curve of the road leading up to the terminal. Jack didn't want to get out of the car. Sawyer seemed to know it, and reached past him, to push the door open.
"See you around," Sawyer said.
"Yeah," Jack murmured, and walked away. Into the airport, with its white tile floors and florescent lights overhead. He turned around, expecting the car to be gone, but it was still there at the curb. Sawyer was looking straight ahead, hands on the wheel, like he was driving somewhere. But his lips were moving, and Jack knew the car was filled with a low, murmured tune, only half-existing, most of the notes missing and some of the words not arrived yet.
Jack got in line. Not doctor to a famous musician, not on tour. Just another guy standing in an airport line.
He raised a hand to wave, and Sawyer pulled away from the curb like it was what he'd been waiting for.
End.
yeah, you know there'll be more some time