Fic: Concourse (1/1)
Title: Concourse
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 1,654
Summary: He doesn’t even recognize himself anymore. For invisiblelove, who requested “Jack/Sawyer and Post-Island speculation” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the psych_30 Prompt #8 - Phobia. Allusions to Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, brief mentions of Character Death; General Spoilers through Season 5, Post-Island.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For invisiblelove: This bit of frantic internal monologue turned out way angstier than I’d intended, and Jack’s much more broken than I’d meant to make him (too broken, maybe); but it’s got a happy(ish) ending, so hopefully that’s okay :) It’s just that, when I tried to put post-Island and Jack/Sawyer together in my head this time around, all I could come up with was how screwed up they more than likely would be when it was all said and done.
Concourse
His heart’s in his throat, and he can barely breathe around it; his mouth dry and his mind’s numb and everything’s moving too slow (too fucking fast) for him to process, and it’s heads and tails at the very same time and his world’s coming apart before his very eyes, and he can’t say anything (there’s nothing to say), and his lungs collapse and there’s no more air anymore, no more anything.
He can’t remember the last time he felt this nervous (and he’s sipping his coffee like nothing’s wrong, like he can actually read the front page of the Daily News when he can’t even make out the letters for the nausea, the anxiety, the fear) and it’s completely unnecessary and illogical and really fucking wrong, all things considered, that his father and the dural sac, that the crash (first and last), that death and dying and the sheer weight of the unknown can’t quite compete with the utter terror that’s causing his freshly-brewed Folgers to break against the ceramic floodgates (like the fucking waves on that fucking beach on that fucking Island) and spill down across his trembling fingers as he clutches hard (too hard) to his mug (like dried blood around his knuckles as he sears off his fingerprints).
Jesus, he doesn’t even recognize himself anymore.
“Mornin’, Doc.”
There’s a hand on his shoulder (and it’s warm, always so warm, like the bastard doesn’t even know how to be cold), and there’s not enough time to lean into the touch (he wishes there was) as Sawyer walks to the refrigerator and gets out the orange juice (because it turns out Sawyer doesn’t care all that much for coffee, and Jack doesn’t either, if he’s honest; he just clings to the pretense because it’s a habit and it’s steady and he needs that, somehow, even as he chokes down the dregs).
Jack doesn’t say anything back (but Sawyer’s already at the toaster and doesn’t notice, because sometimes - oftentimes - Jack just doesn’t say anything), and he doesn’t remind Sawyer that calling him ‘Doc’ is kind of pointless these days (because what’s a title, really, if you don’t use it?) and besides, he never was the sort of medical student who was in it for the honorific (just in it because his daddy wanted him to be, and because Christian had been paying). They don’t talk about what Jack doesn’t do anymore (and maybe they should; they probably should), but Jack’s grateful for the silence, because it’s hard for him, hard to think about how who he is (was) isn’t who he is; how he can’t be a healer anymore, how the sight of blood takes him back there (to Kate with half her chest clawed open and to Sun who bled out from her leg and to Hurley who they only found half of and... and...); how he can’t save anyone (couldn’t save them), not after that (not when he’s the one who needs saving).
“Comin’ to see me off?” And that drawl’s as thick and smooth as the marmalade (marma-fucking-lade, because his momma loved it and they all have their crutches, their indulgences of the past) still on his lips once he finishes his toast. Jack’s eyes avoid the corner by his keys where the boarding passes sit under Sawyer’s cellphone, and he feels like the walls are caving in on him (and he has to blink away the images of Rose and of Ben and the sound of the screams and the flash of the light and the way that sometimes he has to force himself to wear a seatbelt in the car because the click of it takes him back to Oceanic 815 every single time), but he just folds the paper over and walks to the sink, dumping what’s left of his coffee down the drain (and doing his best to ignore the rattle of the plates under the running water and the way it mimics the rattle of his pulse against his ribs).
His hands are slipping against the countertop when the word slips out: “Don’t.” And it’s not just a ‘don’t’ - there’s so much in that single word that Jack Shephard will never be the sort of man to say (like “don’t do this,” and “don’t put me through this,” and “you know that I can’t handle this,” and “I know it’s unreasonable,” and “I’m sorry I’m not who I used to be,” and “fuck all, but I don’t know how to do this without you anymore”) and Jack hates that he’s said anything, because he disappoints himself enough nowadays that disappointing anyone else is too much for him to handle (and the disappointment of knowing that Sawyer can’t possibly understand all the unspoken things he needs that word to mean right now; well, that might be his undoing).
“Just...” And he breathes, breathes like he’s falling, like he’s drowning, like he’ll never breathe again, and it’s against his better judgement (though in the better interest of his sanity) that he even finishes the thought: “Don’t leave.”
And there were so many answers to that, so many ways to respond (like ‘it’s only a week,’ or ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ or ‘you’re such a fucking mess that one of us has to make a living here, Jacko’), but the one he gets is different, the one he gets is new. Because while it had come as a surprise to find that Sawyer could be so damn patient with him (though it shouldn’t have, really - the man had created an entire identity around a vendetta for more than half his life), even Sawyer has his limits, and Jack’s not an idiot (at least, not when it comes to this) - he knows that he’s being unreasonable (that’s sort of the point of irrational fears, isn’t it; only his is completely justified - completely fucking justified), and frankly, one of them does have to pay the bills.
But his answer is silence. His answer is in eyes and breathing patterns and postures and the way the blinks line up with the sighs and the way that chest rises and falls (because this is the one thing Jack managed to save - he is the one thing Jack managed to save; the last thing he’d managed to save). His answer is in the way that Sawyer stares at him (into him), crossing his legs (at the ankles, propped against the bottom of the table the way that Jack’s always telling him not to because it scuffs the wood) and leaning back (and when the cufflinks come off and catch the light from overhead, and the suit jacket draped across the back of the chair wrinkles beneath his weight, things almost seem to expand, seem to settle - almost). And Jack, he almost dares to hope because he knows the flight leaves at quarter after eight (as if that wasn’t a big red flag or anything, as if that wasn’t enough; at least he’s flying Continental this time) and even Sawyer won’t be able to get to LAX in time if he doesn’t leave soon (even if he does think he’s Evel Knievel behind a fucking steering wheel, and Jack wishes like hell he’d be a little more cautious, a little more careful, because he doesn’t think that he can’t patch him up anymore, doesn’t think he can fix him if he breaks, and Jack knows he won’t be able to fix himself alone). He watches the clock instead of looking at Sawyer, counting the seconds as they cool in his veins, and he thinks that maybe there’s hope for them yet, that this doesn’t have to be something pivotal, something final, something filled with the kind of loss that they (he) can’t bounce back from (and there’s still some of the settlement money left; they’ll make do, they always have).
Jack doesn’t breathe until he knows it’s too late to make the flight (between rush hour and check-in and security and final boarding calls and the sheer volume of people milling about the concourse), and it’s nothing, really (such a little thing), in the grander scheme of all they’ve been through, the fact that Sawyer’s still sitting there, fingers loosening his tie and watching Jack like he’s a puzzle that Sawyer’s got the last pieces to, and just doesn’t know where they fit yet (but he’ll figure it out, because Sawyer’s been trying to save him, in his own strange way, since day fucking one); it’s such a little thing.
But to Jack, it means the world.
(And then some.)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 1,654
Summary: He doesn’t even recognize himself anymore. For invisiblelove, who requested “Jack/Sawyer and Post-Island speculation” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the psych_30 Prompt #8 - Phobia. Allusions to Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, brief mentions of Character Death; General Spoilers through Season 5, Post-Island.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For invisiblelove: This bit of frantic internal monologue turned out way angstier than I’d intended, and Jack’s much more broken than I’d meant to make him (too broken, maybe); but it’s got a happy(ish) ending, so hopefully that’s okay :) It’s just that, when I tried to put post-Island and Jack/Sawyer together in my head this time around, all I could come up with was how screwed up they more than likely would be when it was all said and done.
Concourse
His heart’s in his throat, and he can barely breathe around it; his mouth dry and his mind’s numb and everything’s moving too slow (too fucking fast) for him to process, and it’s heads and tails at the very same time and his world’s coming apart before his very eyes, and he can’t say anything (there’s nothing to say), and his lungs collapse and there’s no more air anymore, no more anything.
He can’t remember the last time he felt this nervous (and he’s sipping his coffee like nothing’s wrong, like he can actually read the front page of the Daily News when he can’t even make out the letters for the nausea, the anxiety, the fear) and it’s completely unnecessary and illogical and really fucking wrong, all things considered, that his father and the dural sac, that the crash (first and last), that death and dying and the sheer weight of the unknown can’t quite compete with the utter terror that’s causing his freshly-brewed Folgers to break against the ceramic floodgates (like the fucking waves on that fucking beach on that fucking Island) and spill down across his trembling fingers as he clutches hard (too hard) to his mug (like dried blood around his knuckles as he sears off his fingerprints).
Jesus, he doesn’t even recognize himself anymore.
“Mornin’, Doc.”
There’s a hand on his shoulder (and it’s warm, always so warm, like the bastard doesn’t even know how to be cold), and there’s not enough time to lean into the touch (he wishes there was) as Sawyer walks to the refrigerator and gets out the orange juice (because it turns out Sawyer doesn’t care all that much for coffee, and Jack doesn’t either, if he’s honest; he just clings to the pretense because it’s a habit and it’s steady and he needs that, somehow, even as he chokes down the dregs).
Jack doesn’t say anything back (but Sawyer’s already at the toaster and doesn’t notice, because sometimes - oftentimes - Jack just doesn’t say anything), and he doesn’t remind Sawyer that calling him ‘Doc’ is kind of pointless these days (because what’s a title, really, if you don’t use it?) and besides, he never was the sort of medical student who was in it for the honorific (just in it because his daddy wanted him to be, and because Christian had been paying). They don’t talk about what Jack doesn’t do anymore (and maybe they should; they probably should), but Jack’s grateful for the silence, because it’s hard for him, hard to think about how who he is (was) isn’t who he is; how he can’t be a healer anymore, how the sight of blood takes him back there (to Kate with half her chest clawed open and to Sun who bled out from her leg and to Hurley who they only found half of and... and...); how he can’t save anyone (couldn’t save them), not after that (not when he’s the one who needs saving).
“Comin’ to see me off?” And that drawl’s as thick and smooth as the marmalade (marma-fucking-lade, because his momma loved it and they all have their crutches, their indulgences of the past) still on his lips once he finishes his toast. Jack’s eyes avoid the corner by his keys where the boarding passes sit under Sawyer’s cellphone, and he feels like the walls are caving in on him (and he has to blink away the images of Rose and of Ben and the sound of the screams and the flash of the light and the way that sometimes he has to force himself to wear a seatbelt in the car because the click of it takes him back to Oceanic 815 every single time), but he just folds the paper over and walks to the sink, dumping what’s left of his coffee down the drain (and doing his best to ignore the rattle of the plates under the running water and the way it mimics the rattle of his pulse against his ribs).
His hands are slipping against the countertop when the word slips out: “Don’t.” And it’s not just a ‘don’t’ - there’s so much in that single word that Jack Shephard will never be the sort of man to say (like “don’t do this,” and “don’t put me through this,” and “you know that I can’t handle this,” and “I know it’s unreasonable,” and “I’m sorry I’m not who I used to be,” and “fuck all, but I don’t know how to do this without you anymore”) and Jack hates that he’s said anything, because he disappoints himself enough nowadays that disappointing anyone else is too much for him to handle (and the disappointment of knowing that Sawyer can’t possibly understand all the unspoken things he needs that word to mean right now; well, that might be his undoing).
“Just...” And he breathes, breathes like he’s falling, like he’s drowning, like he’ll never breathe again, and it’s against his better judgement (though in the better interest of his sanity) that he even finishes the thought: “Don’t leave.”
And there were so many answers to that, so many ways to respond (like ‘it’s only a week,’ or ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ or ‘you’re such a fucking mess that one of us has to make a living here, Jacko’), but the one he gets is different, the one he gets is new. Because while it had come as a surprise to find that Sawyer could be so damn patient with him (though it shouldn’t have, really - the man had created an entire identity around a vendetta for more than half his life), even Sawyer has his limits, and Jack’s not an idiot (at least, not when it comes to this) - he knows that he’s being unreasonable (that’s sort of the point of irrational fears, isn’t it; only his is completely justified - completely fucking justified), and frankly, one of them does have to pay the bills.
But his answer is silence. His answer is in eyes and breathing patterns and postures and the way the blinks line up with the sighs and the way that chest rises and falls (because this is the one thing Jack managed to save - he is the one thing Jack managed to save; the last thing he’d managed to save). His answer is in the way that Sawyer stares at him (into him), crossing his legs (at the ankles, propped against the bottom of the table the way that Jack’s always telling him not to because it scuffs the wood) and leaning back (and when the cufflinks come off and catch the light from overhead, and the suit jacket draped across the back of the chair wrinkles beneath his weight, things almost seem to expand, seem to settle - almost). And Jack, he almost dares to hope because he knows the flight leaves at quarter after eight (as if that wasn’t a big red flag or anything, as if that wasn’t enough; at least he’s flying Continental this time) and even Sawyer won’t be able to get to LAX in time if he doesn’t leave soon (even if he does think he’s Evel Knievel behind a fucking steering wheel, and Jack wishes like hell he’d be a little more cautious, a little more careful, because he doesn’t think that he can’t patch him up anymore, doesn’t think he can fix him if he breaks, and Jack knows he won’t be able to fix himself alone). He watches the clock instead of looking at Sawyer, counting the seconds as they cool in his veins, and he thinks that maybe there’s hope for them yet, that this doesn’t have to be something pivotal, something final, something filled with the kind of loss that they (he) can’t bounce back from (and there’s still some of the settlement money left; they’ll make do, they always have).
Jack doesn’t breathe until he knows it’s too late to make the flight (between rush hour and check-in and security and final boarding calls and the sheer volume of people milling about the concourse), and it’s nothing, really (such a little thing), in the grander scheme of all they’ve been through, the fact that Sawyer’s still sitting there, fingers loosening his tie and watching Jack like he’s a puzzle that Sawyer’s got the last pieces to, and just doesn’t know where they fit yet (but he’ll figure it out, because Sawyer’s been trying to save him, in his own strange way, since day fucking one); it’s such a little thing.
But to Jack, it means the world.
(And then some.)