Lost fic: Second Chances [Jack/Sawyer, 2800 words, R+]
Summary: Sawyer meets Jack in that bar in Sydney instead of Jack.
Second Chances
by eponine119
March 12-19, 2022
It’s cool in the bar, and dark. Sawyer finds it soothing and cave-like compared to the bright sun and heat outside, even though it’s supposedly springtime in this upside down part of the world. He looks down at his hands, wondering when they stopped shaking.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, so he does what he always does when he doesn’t know what to do. He drinks and motions to the bartender that he wants more.
For the first time, he notices he’s not alone in here in the middle of the afternoon. There’s another guy, about his age, sitting down the bar from him. He’s got on a suit jacket but no tie. Both his forearms rest against the bar and his head is down over them.
Sawyer thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to be alone. Maybe the other guy in this bar could also use some company.
“You get fired?” he asks, venturing a guess for the outfit and the defeated posture.
“No,” the guy replies, with the huff of a laugh. He shakes his head. “No, my dad died.”
Somehow Sawyer knows it’s the first time he’s said those words out loud, and it weighs on him. Sawyer doesn’t remember his own first time; he just remembers saying it a lot after that. It got easier. But he’s not going to tell this guy that. He touches the letter in his pocket out of habit and says, “I’m sorry.”
The other guy nods. “Heart attack. But that wasn’t really it. He finally did it, finally drank himself to death, the old bastard.” He holds up his glass. “Here’s to him.”
Sawyer nods and raises his glass slightly before swallowing it down. He takes in the suit jacket again. Thinks about the American accent. “Were you and him here on vacation?”
“I came here looking for him. He was here…” Again, he shakes his head. “I wish I knew. He was here because this is where he always came, when things got hard. When he had something to run away from.”
“What was he runnin’ from?”
The guy laughs, and it’s a crazy, high-pitched giggle. “Me.” He drinks. “Himself. Everything.”
Sawyer nods slowly, like he understands.
“I just came from the morgue. It’s gonna take a couple of days before I can… before I can take him home.”
Sawyer sighs. “You here all by your lonesome?”
He nods. Sawyer nods back, making a decision. The bartender sweeps by and Sawyer asks him to leave the bottle, which he then pushes along the bar. He sits down closer to the other guy, leaving one stool unoccupied between them. The rest of the place is empty. There’s no music, and the TV is on mute.
“He taught me how to drink,” the guy says, of his father, as he refills his glass. “Taught me how not to, too.”
“Which one is this?” Sawyer asks, and he gets a smile in return, a smile that displays one charmingly crooked tooth.
“If it’s a disease, this is the cure,” he says slowly, like he’s quoting. He sighs and puts his head down.
Sawyer looks at his own hand, wrapped around the glass bottle. Thinking about how he couldn’t do what he came here to do. The shame and the loathing is so strong he can taste it.
“You wanna get out of here?” Sawyer asks. There’s nothing that’s made him think the other guy would be open to it. It’s just a feeling he has. Either that or he’s really looking forward to getting punched in the face.
“Yeah.” The guy staggers a little as he gets to his feet. Sawyer looks at the casual stack of hundreds in the man’s wallet as he fishes one out to take care of his tab, leaving it on the counter in his wake.
The sun is still hot and strong outside, beating down on them. Sawyer notices the guy’s eyes in the sunlight, how they’re a beautiful, clear hazel: light brown with just a hint of green.
The hotel is swanky and expensive, with tasteful decorations and modern furniture along with crisp white linens. Sawyer has always loved fancy hotels. He has the feeling his new friend doesn’t think of it that way at all; to him, it’s just a hotel. He’s used to paying for things and doesn’t question it or even notice it. He throws his keys down casually, emptying his pockets onto the dresser.
Sawyer kisses him. It’s wet and it’s sloppy and it’s just like the expensive hotel - exactly the kind of thing Sawyer likes but doesn’t get very often. It’s the feeling of a strong, hard chest against his, and long thin fingers snarling into his hair. When he tugs at it, Sawyer moans a little in the back of his throat and pushes his hips against the other guy’s, moving against him.
The kiss breaks and they stay there for a moment, breathing fast in each other’s space. Then Sawyer drops to his knees and sets to work unbuckling the expensive leather belt. His new friend is only halfway hard, probably courtesy of however much alcohol he put away before Sawyer appeared on the scene. But that’s easy enough to fix.
Sawyer unzips the man’s trousers and pushes down his white underwear, then sits back on his heels with a little smile when he sees what he’s got to work with. He wraps his hand around the semi-erect cock and looks up into those hazel-green eyes. “You got a name, cowboy?”
“Jack.”
Sawyer takes this in, and then moves his hand in a long stroke along Jack’s soft, hot skin. He feels the reaction with his fingers - thickening, straining upward.
“What’s yours?” Jack asks.
Sawyer opens his mouth but the words die before he can give voice to them. He remembers back to that afternoon, the same question, and the same pause as he realized the name he goes by would give the game away, since it also belonged to the man he came here to deal with. He was too blank to think of a lie, so his real name came out, rusty and unused.
But he didn’t kill the original Mr. Sawyer. So now he’s not sure who the hell he is. Who he’s going to be anymore.
He can feel Jack looking at him, wondering at the pause, which feels decades long in his head. “James,” he says, and then makes it all go away in the next second, makes it so it doesn’t matter.
He takes Jack into his mouth, licking and sucking, letting Jack fill up his senses and take all of his attention. His thoughts retreat into the back of his mind so he can focus on the hitch in Jack’s breathing, what makes him moan and what makes him thrust against Sawyer’s tongue.
Jack shudders and he comes. He cries out roughly as Sawyer swallows him down, and then Jack jerks away. Sawyer sits back again, looking up at him, smiling.
“What about you?” Jack asks.
“Oh, I’m just gettin’ started,” Sawyer promises. He gets to his feet and leans in, kissing Jack deep and thoroughly, expecting to be pushed away. But Jack kisses him back eagerly, and it’s incredibly hot.
He finds Jack’s wrists, taking them into his hands. Jack’s pulse is strong underneath Sawyer’s touch as he pins Jack to the textured wallpaper on the wall. Sawyer feels his own heartbeat throbbing in the delicious, hard ache between his own legs.
Sawyer could do this all day, but they both need to breathe and it’s getting intense. Jack tries to follow him a little as he takes a step back. His eyes sweep down over Jack’s body, and then smiles at Jack again as he reaches for the door on the minibar. He pulls out a couple of airplane-sized bottles and tosses one over.
He twists the top of his bottle and swallows half of it, watching Jack look down at the bottle, thinking about drinking it. He turns it over in his hands. Sawyer wets his lips, trying to think of what to say.
“How do you like it, Jack?” Sawyer asks.
Jack’s head comes up and his eyes meet Sawyer’s, not understanding the question at first. Sawyer raises his eyebrows and nods toward the bed. “Either way… I guess.” He sits down on the edge of the bed.
Sawyer stops to wonder if this is the best idea. Of course it isn’t; when has that ever stopped him? He thinks about the decision waiting for him when he leaves this hotel room and gulps down the rest of his booze.
Gently, he reaches over and takes the tiny bottle out of Jack’s hands and sets it on the nightstand. “You done this before?” he asks, shaking the hair out of his eyes to meet Jack’s gaze directly.
“Yeah,” Jack says roughly. He doesn’t look away.
“Okay then.” Sawyer doesn’t move. He just watches Jack, giving him another moment to put his hands against his chest and shove him away, drive him out.
But he doesn’t. Jack is thinking. Sawyer is pretty sure he’s thinking about his father. His dead dad. Maybe he’s wondering if this is the reason why the father came to Australia to get away from his problems. Maybe he was here meeting someone, or meeting a lot of someones.
Sawyer doesn’t want to think about dead fathers, or Jack’s problems, or his own. So he moves in, sliding his hands over Jack’s shoulders. Jack looks up at him in a way that makes him ache, and they kiss again.
From there, it’s a flurry of activity as they strip off their clothes, kissing as they go, touching newly exposed skin. Jack stretches out on the bed and Sawyer stops again. He takes it all in, the sight of Jack’s lean muscles, the hair on his chest, the way his lips are pink and soft. Those hazel-green eyes of Jack’s have turned dark and burning.
They have a little silent conversation, and Jack nods, almost imperceptibly, so Sawyer keeps going.
After, Sawyer rests his head against Jack’s back. He listens to his heartbeat, the strong thread of life. Sawyer closes his eyes, but he can’t rest. His head aches as his thoughts return to what he’s come here to Australia to do. It seems nothing will drown them out - not booze, not sex. He feels Jack’s body relax and lays there for a while longer, listening to him breathe in the peace of sleep.
He’s a little sorry as he slips out into the hallway. Sorry for not staying to have a morning with Jack, to drink coffee and have a real conversation, because he felt a connection, a little spark between them which is so rare Sawyer can’t remember the last time he experienced it.
He waits for the elevator, staring at the hotel room door. Half wishing for it to open. But he knows he’s never going to see that guy again. It dings and the doors slide open. Sawyer knows what he has to do, now.
It’s better this way, he thinks, in the dark and the rain, as he turns his rental car back toward the shrimp truck.
…
After the adrenaline rush of the crash, time seems to stretch as he sits on the beach, observing and smoking and thinking.
He spotted Jack immediately, because it’s hard to miss a guy in a full-on black suit running up and down the beach, frantically yelling and trying to save everyone at once.
It takes Jack a lot longer to notice him. Jack is busy, and Sawyer is still. It’s easy to overlook him in the chaos.
Sawyer watches and he waits. He watches them all - the fat guy, the screamer, the revived black lady, the pregnant girl - but he watches Jack in particular.
He tries to figure out what he’s going to say, how he’s going to work it, but other thoughts keep intruding. He can’t focus. His hands finally stop shaking once he lights up and takes the first, delicious drag of nicotine. Then the letter doesn’t rattle in his hands as he reads it over again, thinking about what he did on that rainy night, how he got conned and took a life. And then he looks down the beach and watches some more. This is no second chance, not for him.
He sees Jack see him, finally. Jack’s eyes go wide. Sawyer is instantly overcome with the urge to scowl and look away, and it shocks him. Jack’s face changes. He looks utterly destroyed. It makes Sawyer’s stomach ache and he wishes he had turned away. But they are all destroyed, here.
Sawyer gives him the acknowledgment head nod and then shoots him a grin that borders on sarcastic. Jack just keeps looking at him, like he doesn’t understand. Sawyer turns his head and then looks down, clumsy fingers working on the stage business of lighting another cigarette. He expects Jack to come over to him, but when he glances up again, deliberately, Jack is gone. Moved on to some other task, emergency, someone else who needs him.
He’s going to have to do it himself, then. Mind made up, he heads for the water cooler, which is near the medical tent - Jack’s territory, since Jack is apparently a doctor. Sawyer grabs a warm bottle and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, noting there aren’t many bottles left.
Jack approaches, and for a second Sawyer thinks it’s because he wants to talk to him. But Jack stops, wary, when he notices Sawyer.
Sawyer lets the cooler cover drop just to hear the noise it makes. “You want a smoke, doc?”
Jack just looks at him like this is the craziest thing he’s ever experienced, and Sawyer has to allow that he might be right about that. “Yeah, I think I do.”
Sawyer moves to retrieve the pack, to light one up for him, but Jack holds up his hand to stop him.
“I quit,” Jack says, and then repeats it, like he has to be sure. “I quit.”
“Sure you did,” Sawyer agrees amiably. He guesses he’s going to be quitting himself here in a few days. He looks at Jack. He sees Jack trying to process it, him being here, all of it, everything that’s happened to them.
“What are you doing here, J--”
“I go by Sawyer,” he says, clean and sharp.
“Sawyer,” Jack repeats, his eyebrows going up with a little surprise.
Sawyer sighs, because it’s true. He knows who he is, now. There’s no chance at that other life, not after the things he’s done.
Jack looks at his face, and raises his hand, reaching out. Sawyer ducks back a moment, not wanting to be touched, a moment before he realizes Jack just wanted a better look at the cut on his forehead.
“I’m fine,” Sawyer says.
“Good. That’s good, Sawyer,” Jack says. “What was it?”
“Plane crash,” he replies, sarcastically, like Jack hadn’t noticed.
“I mean, was it metal? Wreckage or --”
“Didn’t see it. But don’t worry, doc, I’m up on my tetanus shots.” He shifts his weight, and gives Jack a sly grin. “But if you wanna play doctor…”
“I’m not gay,” Jack says quickly. Defensively. Like he thinks that’s why Sawyer came over here.
“Right,” Sawyer says, and he’s surprised a little by how much it stings. “I knew that. I seen you makin’ time with Freckles.” He glances at Jack. “Me either,” he declares. “Don’t look so surprised. Even in the South, we heard of them types who go both ways. Just so happens I am one of ‘em myself.”
“You’re bi,” Jack says, doubtful.
“Hell, doc, I just do what feels good. We ain’t gotta give it a name.”
Jack is still frowning at him, and Sawyer thinks about kissing him. About what it was like. About what it would be like. But it’s not going to happen.
“And it don’t much matter who with,” Sawyer adds, just to make sure he hurts him. He watches the words land, and Jack gives him a little nod. It’s so brave it almost breaks his heart. Even though Jack was the one who started out this conversation with rejection, with telling Sawyer how it was going to be here, between them.
“I’d still like to look at that cut --” Jack begins.
“See ya, Doc.” Sawyer walks away, down the beach. He wants to look back, to see Jack standing there, but he knows he can’t. When he finally does, Jack is gone, back into his tent.
It’s just as well. Sawyer’s busy. He’s got plans. No one is coming, and that means he has to fend for himself. After he trades this water to the Asian guy for one of his fish, there’s a whole big plane full of cargo, just ready for the taking.
(end)
Second Chances
by eponine119
March 12-19, 2022
It’s cool in the bar, and dark. Sawyer finds it soothing and cave-like compared to the bright sun and heat outside, even though it’s supposedly springtime in this upside down part of the world. He looks down at his hands, wondering when they stopped shaking.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, so he does what he always does when he doesn’t know what to do. He drinks and motions to the bartender that he wants more.
For the first time, he notices he’s not alone in here in the middle of the afternoon. There’s another guy, about his age, sitting down the bar from him. He’s got on a suit jacket but no tie. Both his forearms rest against the bar and his head is down over them.
Sawyer thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to be alone. Maybe the other guy in this bar could also use some company.
“You get fired?” he asks, venturing a guess for the outfit and the defeated posture.
“No,” the guy replies, with the huff of a laugh. He shakes his head. “No, my dad died.”
Somehow Sawyer knows it’s the first time he’s said those words out loud, and it weighs on him. Sawyer doesn’t remember his own first time; he just remembers saying it a lot after that. It got easier. But he’s not going to tell this guy that. He touches the letter in his pocket out of habit and says, “I’m sorry.”
The other guy nods. “Heart attack. But that wasn’t really it. He finally did it, finally drank himself to death, the old bastard.” He holds up his glass. “Here’s to him.”
Sawyer nods and raises his glass slightly before swallowing it down. He takes in the suit jacket again. Thinks about the American accent. “Were you and him here on vacation?”
“I came here looking for him. He was here…” Again, he shakes his head. “I wish I knew. He was here because this is where he always came, when things got hard. When he had something to run away from.”
“What was he runnin’ from?”
The guy laughs, and it’s a crazy, high-pitched giggle. “Me.” He drinks. “Himself. Everything.”
Sawyer nods slowly, like he understands.
“I just came from the morgue. It’s gonna take a couple of days before I can… before I can take him home.”
Sawyer sighs. “You here all by your lonesome?”
He nods. Sawyer nods back, making a decision. The bartender sweeps by and Sawyer asks him to leave the bottle, which he then pushes along the bar. He sits down closer to the other guy, leaving one stool unoccupied between them. The rest of the place is empty. There’s no music, and the TV is on mute.
“He taught me how to drink,” the guy says, of his father, as he refills his glass. “Taught me how not to, too.”
“Which one is this?” Sawyer asks, and he gets a smile in return, a smile that displays one charmingly crooked tooth.
“If it’s a disease, this is the cure,” he says slowly, like he’s quoting. He sighs and puts his head down.
Sawyer looks at his own hand, wrapped around the glass bottle. Thinking about how he couldn’t do what he came here to do. The shame and the loathing is so strong he can taste it.
“You wanna get out of here?” Sawyer asks. There’s nothing that’s made him think the other guy would be open to it. It’s just a feeling he has. Either that or he’s really looking forward to getting punched in the face.
“Yeah.” The guy staggers a little as he gets to his feet. Sawyer looks at the casual stack of hundreds in the man’s wallet as he fishes one out to take care of his tab, leaving it on the counter in his wake.
The sun is still hot and strong outside, beating down on them. Sawyer notices the guy’s eyes in the sunlight, how they’re a beautiful, clear hazel: light brown with just a hint of green.
The hotel is swanky and expensive, with tasteful decorations and modern furniture along with crisp white linens. Sawyer has always loved fancy hotels. He has the feeling his new friend doesn’t think of it that way at all; to him, it’s just a hotel. He’s used to paying for things and doesn’t question it or even notice it. He throws his keys down casually, emptying his pockets onto the dresser.
Sawyer kisses him. It’s wet and it’s sloppy and it’s just like the expensive hotel - exactly the kind of thing Sawyer likes but doesn’t get very often. It’s the feeling of a strong, hard chest against his, and long thin fingers snarling into his hair. When he tugs at it, Sawyer moans a little in the back of his throat and pushes his hips against the other guy’s, moving against him.
The kiss breaks and they stay there for a moment, breathing fast in each other’s space. Then Sawyer drops to his knees and sets to work unbuckling the expensive leather belt. His new friend is only halfway hard, probably courtesy of however much alcohol he put away before Sawyer appeared on the scene. But that’s easy enough to fix.
Sawyer unzips the man’s trousers and pushes down his white underwear, then sits back on his heels with a little smile when he sees what he’s got to work with. He wraps his hand around the semi-erect cock and looks up into those hazel-green eyes. “You got a name, cowboy?”
“Jack.”
Sawyer takes this in, and then moves his hand in a long stroke along Jack’s soft, hot skin. He feels the reaction with his fingers - thickening, straining upward.
“What’s yours?” Jack asks.
Sawyer opens his mouth but the words die before he can give voice to them. He remembers back to that afternoon, the same question, and the same pause as he realized the name he goes by would give the game away, since it also belonged to the man he came here to deal with. He was too blank to think of a lie, so his real name came out, rusty and unused.
But he didn’t kill the original Mr. Sawyer. So now he’s not sure who the hell he is. Who he’s going to be anymore.
He can feel Jack looking at him, wondering at the pause, which feels decades long in his head. “James,” he says, and then makes it all go away in the next second, makes it so it doesn’t matter.
He takes Jack into his mouth, licking and sucking, letting Jack fill up his senses and take all of his attention. His thoughts retreat into the back of his mind so he can focus on the hitch in Jack’s breathing, what makes him moan and what makes him thrust against Sawyer’s tongue.
Jack shudders and he comes. He cries out roughly as Sawyer swallows him down, and then Jack jerks away. Sawyer sits back again, looking up at him, smiling.
“What about you?” Jack asks.
“Oh, I’m just gettin’ started,” Sawyer promises. He gets to his feet and leans in, kissing Jack deep and thoroughly, expecting to be pushed away. But Jack kisses him back eagerly, and it’s incredibly hot.
He finds Jack’s wrists, taking them into his hands. Jack’s pulse is strong underneath Sawyer’s touch as he pins Jack to the textured wallpaper on the wall. Sawyer feels his own heartbeat throbbing in the delicious, hard ache between his own legs.
Sawyer could do this all day, but they both need to breathe and it’s getting intense. Jack tries to follow him a little as he takes a step back. His eyes sweep down over Jack’s body, and then smiles at Jack again as he reaches for the door on the minibar. He pulls out a couple of airplane-sized bottles and tosses one over.
He twists the top of his bottle and swallows half of it, watching Jack look down at the bottle, thinking about drinking it. He turns it over in his hands. Sawyer wets his lips, trying to think of what to say.
“How do you like it, Jack?” Sawyer asks.
Jack’s head comes up and his eyes meet Sawyer’s, not understanding the question at first. Sawyer raises his eyebrows and nods toward the bed. “Either way… I guess.” He sits down on the edge of the bed.
Sawyer stops to wonder if this is the best idea. Of course it isn’t; when has that ever stopped him? He thinks about the decision waiting for him when he leaves this hotel room and gulps down the rest of his booze.
Gently, he reaches over and takes the tiny bottle out of Jack’s hands and sets it on the nightstand. “You done this before?” he asks, shaking the hair out of his eyes to meet Jack’s gaze directly.
“Yeah,” Jack says roughly. He doesn’t look away.
“Okay then.” Sawyer doesn’t move. He just watches Jack, giving him another moment to put his hands against his chest and shove him away, drive him out.
But he doesn’t. Jack is thinking. Sawyer is pretty sure he’s thinking about his father. His dead dad. Maybe he’s wondering if this is the reason why the father came to Australia to get away from his problems. Maybe he was here meeting someone, or meeting a lot of someones.
Sawyer doesn’t want to think about dead fathers, or Jack’s problems, or his own. So he moves in, sliding his hands over Jack’s shoulders. Jack looks up at him in a way that makes him ache, and they kiss again.
From there, it’s a flurry of activity as they strip off their clothes, kissing as they go, touching newly exposed skin. Jack stretches out on the bed and Sawyer stops again. He takes it all in, the sight of Jack’s lean muscles, the hair on his chest, the way his lips are pink and soft. Those hazel-green eyes of Jack’s have turned dark and burning.
They have a little silent conversation, and Jack nods, almost imperceptibly, so Sawyer keeps going.
After, Sawyer rests his head against Jack’s back. He listens to his heartbeat, the strong thread of life. Sawyer closes his eyes, but he can’t rest. His head aches as his thoughts return to what he’s come here to Australia to do. It seems nothing will drown them out - not booze, not sex. He feels Jack’s body relax and lays there for a while longer, listening to him breathe in the peace of sleep.
He’s a little sorry as he slips out into the hallway. Sorry for not staying to have a morning with Jack, to drink coffee and have a real conversation, because he felt a connection, a little spark between them which is so rare Sawyer can’t remember the last time he experienced it.
He waits for the elevator, staring at the hotel room door. Half wishing for it to open. But he knows he’s never going to see that guy again. It dings and the doors slide open. Sawyer knows what he has to do, now.
It’s better this way, he thinks, in the dark and the rain, as he turns his rental car back toward the shrimp truck.
…
After the adrenaline rush of the crash, time seems to stretch as he sits on the beach, observing and smoking and thinking.
He spotted Jack immediately, because it’s hard to miss a guy in a full-on black suit running up and down the beach, frantically yelling and trying to save everyone at once.
It takes Jack a lot longer to notice him. Jack is busy, and Sawyer is still. It’s easy to overlook him in the chaos.
Sawyer watches and he waits. He watches them all - the fat guy, the screamer, the revived black lady, the pregnant girl - but he watches Jack in particular.
He tries to figure out what he’s going to say, how he’s going to work it, but other thoughts keep intruding. He can’t focus. His hands finally stop shaking once he lights up and takes the first, delicious drag of nicotine. Then the letter doesn’t rattle in his hands as he reads it over again, thinking about what he did on that rainy night, how he got conned and took a life. And then he looks down the beach and watches some more. This is no second chance, not for him.
He sees Jack see him, finally. Jack’s eyes go wide. Sawyer is instantly overcome with the urge to scowl and look away, and it shocks him. Jack’s face changes. He looks utterly destroyed. It makes Sawyer’s stomach ache and he wishes he had turned away. But they are all destroyed, here.
Sawyer gives him the acknowledgment head nod and then shoots him a grin that borders on sarcastic. Jack just keeps looking at him, like he doesn’t understand. Sawyer turns his head and then looks down, clumsy fingers working on the stage business of lighting another cigarette. He expects Jack to come over to him, but when he glances up again, deliberately, Jack is gone. Moved on to some other task, emergency, someone else who needs him.
He’s going to have to do it himself, then. Mind made up, he heads for the water cooler, which is near the medical tent - Jack’s territory, since Jack is apparently a doctor. Sawyer grabs a warm bottle and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, noting there aren’t many bottles left.
Jack approaches, and for a second Sawyer thinks it’s because he wants to talk to him. But Jack stops, wary, when he notices Sawyer.
Sawyer lets the cooler cover drop just to hear the noise it makes. “You want a smoke, doc?”
Jack just looks at him like this is the craziest thing he’s ever experienced, and Sawyer has to allow that he might be right about that. “Yeah, I think I do.”
Sawyer moves to retrieve the pack, to light one up for him, but Jack holds up his hand to stop him.
“I quit,” Jack says, and then repeats it, like he has to be sure. “I quit.”
“Sure you did,” Sawyer agrees amiably. He guesses he’s going to be quitting himself here in a few days. He looks at Jack. He sees Jack trying to process it, him being here, all of it, everything that’s happened to them.
“What are you doing here, J--”
“I go by Sawyer,” he says, clean and sharp.
“Sawyer,” Jack repeats, his eyebrows going up with a little surprise.
Sawyer sighs, because it’s true. He knows who he is, now. There’s no chance at that other life, not after the things he’s done.
Jack looks at his face, and raises his hand, reaching out. Sawyer ducks back a moment, not wanting to be touched, a moment before he realizes Jack just wanted a better look at the cut on his forehead.
“I’m fine,” Sawyer says.
“Good. That’s good, Sawyer,” Jack says. “What was it?”
“Plane crash,” he replies, sarcastically, like Jack hadn’t noticed.
“I mean, was it metal? Wreckage or --”
“Didn’t see it. But don’t worry, doc, I’m up on my tetanus shots.” He shifts his weight, and gives Jack a sly grin. “But if you wanna play doctor…”
“I’m not gay,” Jack says quickly. Defensively. Like he thinks that’s why Sawyer came over here.
“Right,” Sawyer says, and he’s surprised a little by how much it stings. “I knew that. I seen you makin’ time with Freckles.” He glances at Jack. “Me either,” he declares. “Don’t look so surprised. Even in the South, we heard of them types who go both ways. Just so happens I am one of ‘em myself.”
“You’re bi,” Jack says, doubtful.
“Hell, doc, I just do what feels good. We ain’t gotta give it a name.”
Jack is still frowning at him, and Sawyer thinks about kissing him. About what it was like. About what it would be like. But it’s not going to happen.
“And it don’t much matter who with,” Sawyer adds, just to make sure he hurts him. He watches the words land, and Jack gives him a little nod. It’s so brave it almost breaks his heart. Even though Jack was the one who started out this conversation with rejection, with telling Sawyer how it was going to be here, between them.
“I’d still like to look at that cut --” Jack begins.
“See ya, Doc.” Sawyer walks away, down the beach. He wants to look back, to see Jack standing there, but he knows he can’t. When he finally does, Jack is gone, back into his tent.
It’s just as well. Sawyer’s busy. He’s got plans. No one is coming, and that means he has to fend for himself. After he trades this water to the Asian guy for one of his fish, there’s a whole big plane full of cargo, just ready for the taking.
(end)