giftie fic for jenthegypsy!! (reboot!Sawyer)
Happy birthday, jenthegypsy!!
It's days like this that I become really frustrated that we live so far apart. Oh, would that Ames and Re and I could come gather you up, pass out funny hats and a blowy things and spend the day together!
/wistful
So, what to do to make your birthday special? Well, I sure wasn't gonna send you a snow shovel! (*gigglesnort*) But there was this fic idea we discussed that you were rather partial to… Yes, there is fic here, fic that you've seen only part of (for how could I not show you some when you knew I was working on it?). No, it doesn't cover the entire scope or range of time that we talked about (I'm s--l--o--w, remember?), but it does take care of a rather major issue.
*takes deep breath and jumps off cliff*
Reboot!Sawyer fic, general spoilers for 6x01, 02, LA X; a smidge over 1000 words. A stand alone fic, certainly, but I do intend to continue.
~~ Whispers ~~
Sawyer relaxed his hold on the well-worn sheet of paper, watching it fold closed of its own accord before sliding it back into the envelope. He hadn't needed to look at it, the words written by an angry, lonely boy were scars burned deep into his brain. One of these days I'm going to find you, he recited with the barest breath as he picked up the picture, the 357 a comforting weight in his pocket.
*****
He fled, gravel churning beneath the wheels. Driving one-handed, his left fist pounded against the inside of the door as he swore: at Hibbs, at the man he knew as Sawyer, at his father, but mostly at himself. All those years of planning and dreaming about how it'd be when he finally found the scum, about the satisfaction he'd feel avenging his mother's death, and he'd turned chicken while the worn out con man shuffled shrimp.
He needed a drink. Several, in fact, and so he pulled in to the first place he saw with a Toohey's sign and focused strongly on taking care of that need, steadily downing one shot after another. Some indefinite number of drinks past several, he was able to unclench his fist and knew he was approaching enough. He called for another refill.
"Are you sure about that, mate?" The bartender feigned a look of concern while reaching for the bottle.
The guy who'd been sitting half way down the bar since before Sawyer stomped through the door decided it was time for camaraderie and so defended his new best friend's capacity for liquor. And then begged a drink.
Apparently out of gratitude for the whiskey, he lurched into conversation. Sawyer tried to discourage him with single word answers to every question (why couldn't he ever find a bar devoid of garrulous drunks?) but the guy just plowed on, talking some bullshit about being an important doctor, and that his kid betrayed him but he was happy about it.
He'd jokingly suggested they were in hell, and went on about how some people are supposed to suffer and then made what Sawyer figured was supposed to be a profound observation about his baseball team. Then he was back to talking about his kid and how he couldn't bring himself to call him.
That was just pathetic. Drawn in despite his intent to remain indifferent, Sawyer couldn't help but ask why not.
"Because I am weak." He tossed back another swallow and shamed Sawyer with the pointed insistence that he get back on task.
And damn, but the old guy was right.
He slammed the door of the rental, glaring at the rain. Hell of a night to be out, but the lousy weather could be an advantage - nobody'd be out unless they needed to; nobody'd see him get rid of the bastard who'd ruined his life.
The wipers slapped hard and fast across the windshield, but were doing a shitty job of clearing the glass and he nearly missed the lot holding the roach coach.
He cut the lights, turned the car so it was nearly headed back at the road and stepped into the downpour. He walked toward the shrimp trailer, fast, trusting the heavy rain to cover the sound of footsteps. The mother-fucking con wasn't in his tin box kitchen - Gone! Damn it, he'd missed his chance! - but as Sawyer turned on his heel toward the car he heard a clang! and saw a shadow tossing garbage bags into a dumpster around behind.
Beside the dumpster in a moment, Sawyer focused on Duckett's back, thinking you made me, you son of a bitch, and blinking hard at the water in his eyes. He hesitated, uncertain whether to pull out the gun or the letter first. The pause was a heartbeat too long; Duckett turned. He jumped, startled.
"You nearly scared the life out of me!" A small, self-deprecating laugh preceded a statement of the obvious, that there would be no more shrimp tonight.
And with the man smiling, no, beaming, at him, all welcoming and wet and helpless holding a bag of garbage in the rain and the dark, Sawyer's brain clenched. The hand drawing the gun from his pocket faltered and then stopped, but his mouth - apparently set to automatic courtesy of his grifter's instincts - went on. Sawyer heard himself apologizing for running off earlier, coming up with some bullshit excuse and then offering to spring for drinks as a sort of repayment for the shrimp he'd left behind. By the time he'd finished the invitation, it had started to make sense; he'd shoot the old hustler at the end of the night.
Later, after Sawyer told the tale of the young orphan, James, and his letter, in all its grisly glory, Duckett told his own story. He spoke about the dream he'd had to let go and the woman he loved but left behind when he'd run to Australia to get out from under a debt he couldn't pay.
"You know, I thought Hibbs was helping me because he was a friend," Duckett said as the last of the potato wedges disappeared into his mouth, "but turns out he was nothing but a damn shylock."
For the second time that night, Sawyer's mouth was saying things without conscious direction while his brain fought to catch up. Bottom line was that Hibbs had conned him; not only did that piss him off, he'd have to do something about it when he got back to the States. Wait, what had Duckett just asked him?
Sawyer put on his second best poker bluffing face, raising his eyebrows slightly as he shifted his position into an easy slouch and asked for a repeat.
"I wanted to know, did you feel better after killing the guy?"
"What the hell d'you mean?" Eyes wide ... pure shocked innocence as he hunched over his beer, leaning on both elbows. "That wasn't--"
"Course it was." Duckett had become steel, with a wickedly sharp edge to his voice.
Sawyer dropped all pretense, staring hard at Duckett for a minute or more before finally admitting he hadn't been able to do it.
And in a heartbeat Duckett had reverted to the friendly shrimp cooker, face filled with smiles, and let Sawyer know he'd done the right thing.
"It'll come back around."
>^..^<
It's days like this that I become really frustrated that we live so far apart. Oh, would that Ames and Re and I could come gather you up, pass out funny hats and a blowy things and spend the day together!
/wistful
So, what to do to make your birthday special? Well, I sure wasn't gonna send you a snow shovel! (*gigglesnort*) But there was this fic idea we discussed that you were rather partial to… Yes, there is fic here, fic that you've seen only part of (for how could I not show you some when you knew I was working on it?). No, it doesn't cover the entire scope or range of time that we talked about (I'm s--l--o--w, remember?), but it does take care of a rather major issue.
*takes deep breath and jumps off cliff*
Reboot!Sawyer fic, general spoilers for 6x01, 02, LA X; a smidge over 1000 words. A stand alone fic, certainly, but I do intend to continue.
~~ Whispers ~~
Sawyer relaxed his hold on the well-worn sheet of paper, watching it fold closed of its own accord before sliding it back into the envelope. He hadn't needed to look at it, the words written by an angry, lonely boy were scars burned deep into his brain. One of these days I'm going to find you, he recited with the barest breath as he picked up the picture, the 357 a comforting weight in his pocket.
*****
He fled, gravel churning beneath the wheels. Driving one-handed, his left fist pounded against the inside of the door as he swore: at Hibbs, at the man he knew as Sawyer, at his father, but mostly at himself. All those years of planning and dreaming about how it'd be when he finally found the scum, about the satisfaction he'd feel avenging his mother's death, and he'd turned chicken while the worn out con man shuffled shrimp.
He needed a drink. Several, in fact, and so he pulled in to the first place he saw with a Toohey's sign and focused strongly on taking care of that need, steadily downing one shot after another. Some indefinite number of drinks past several, he was able to unclench his fist and knew he was approaching enough. He called for another refill.
"Are you sure about that, mate?" The bartender feigned a look of concern while reaching for the bottle.
The guy who'd been sitting half way down the bar since before Sawyer stomped through the door decided it was time for camaraderie and so defended his new best friend's capacity for liquor. And then begged a drink.
Apparently out of gratitude for the whiskey, he lurched into conversation. Sawyer tried to discourage him with single word answers to every question (why couldn't he ever find a bar devoid of garrulous drunks?) but the guy just plowed on, talking some bullshit about being an important doctor, and that his kid betrayed him but he was happy about it.
He'd jokingly suggested they were in hell, and went on about how some people are supposed to suffer and then made what Sawyer figured was supposed to be a profound observation about his baseball team. Then he was back to talking about his kid and how he couldn't bring himself to call him.
That was just pathetic. Drawn in despite his intent to remain indifferent, Sawyer couldn't help but ask why not.
"Because I am weak." He tossed back another swallow and shamed Sawyer with the pointed insistence that he get back on task.
And damn, but the old guy was right.
He slammed the door of the rental, glaring at the rain. Hell of a night to be out, but the lousy weather could be an advantage - nobody'd be out unless they needed to; nobody'd see him get rid of the bastard who'd ruined his life.
The wipers slapped hard and fast across the windshield, but were doing a shitty job of clearing the glass and he nearly missed the lot holding the roach coach.
He cut the lights, turned the car so it was nearly headed back at the road and stepped into the downpour. He walked toward the shrimp trailer, fast, trusting the heavy rain to cover the sound of footsteps. The mother-fucking con wasn't in his tin box kitchen - Gone! Damn it, he'd missed his chance! - but as Sawyer turned on his heel toward the car he heard a clang! and saw a shadow tossing garbage bags into a dumpster around behind.
Beside the dumpster in a moment, Sawyer focused on Duckett's back, thinking you made me, you son of a bitch, and blinking hard at the water in his eyes. He hesitated, uncertain whether to pull out the gun or the letter first. The pause was a heartbeat too long; Duckett turned. He jumped, startled.
"You nearly scared the life out of me!" A small, self-deprecating laugh preceded a statement of the obvious, that there would be no more shrimp tonight.
And with the man smiling, no, beaming, at him, all welcoming and wet and helpless holding a bag of garbage in the rain and the dark, Sawyer's brain clenched. The hand drawing the gun from his pocket faltered and then stopped, but his mouth - apparently set to automatic courtesy of his grifter's instincts - went on. Sawyer heard himself apologizing for running off earlier, coming up with some bullshit excuse and then offering to spring for drinks as a sort of repayment for the shrimp he'd left behind. By the time he'd finished the invitation, it had started to make sense; he'd shoot the old hustler at the end of the night.
Later, after Sawyer told the tale of the young orphan, James, and his letter, in all its grisly glory, Duckett told his own story. He spoke about the dream he'd had to let go and the woman he loved but left behind when he'd run to Australia to get out from under a debt he couldn't pay.
"You know, I thought Hibbs was helping me because he was a friend," Duckett said as the last of the potato wedges disappeared into his mouth, "but turns out he was nothing but a damn shylock."
For the second time that night, Sawyer's mouth was saying things without conscious direction while his brain fought to catch up. Bottom line was that Hibbs had conned him; not only did that piss him off, he'd have to do something about it when he got back to the States. Wait, what had Duckett just asked him?
Sawyer put on his second best poker bluffing face, raising his eyebrows slightly as he shifted his position into an easy slouch and asked for a repeat.
"I wanted to know, did you feel better after killing the guy?"
"What the hell d'you mean?" Eyes wide ... pure shocked innocence as he hunched over his beer, leaning on both elbows. "That wasn't--"
"Course it was." Duckett had become steel, with a wickedly sharp edge to his voice.
Sawyer dropped all pretense, staring hard at Duckett for a minute or more before finally admitting he hadn't been able to do it.
And in a heartbeat Duckett had reverted to the friendly shrimp cooker, face filled with smiles, and let Sawyer know he'd done the right thing.
"It'll come back around."
>^..^<