Let's Call The Whole Thing Off (Stardust 3/?)
Title: Let's Call The Whole Thing Off
Series: Stardust (and other possible impossibilities)
Rating: PG-13
Prompts: fanfic100 057. Lunch and psych_30 10. Approach-Avoidance (although I'm not sure I totally get this one)
Summary: Sawyer's issues with the Shephards come to a head in an unexpected way.
Notes: arabella_hope is the bestest ever. That is all. Oh, and click on the title to download.
Part 1 - Part 2
Part 3: Let's Call The Whole Thing Off
Over the next few days, Jack avoids everyone and everything. Sawyer watches him early mornings, slogging off to the fairgrounds while the rest of the crew is still waking up. Hurley has him working the front gate, which pisses off more than a couple of people, since he doesn't know or care about the subtleties of the ticket-selling position. Sawyer can't help but think that a man that painfully honest doesn't have far to go in this business.
Mid-week, they make the jump from Macomb, Illinois to a lot just outside of Des Moines. Sawyer finds himself in the cab of a truck with a fellow named Audie, seven and a half feet of human folded up in the passenger seat like a hermit crab retracting into its shell.
As a rule, Sawyer enjoys Audie's company because of his soft-spoken manner and his occasional bursts of absurdly literary imagination. His Scandinavian appearance gives him a pallor and timidity that counteracts his size. He's most likely no older than 22, although Sawyer's never bothered to ask.
Sawyer hasn't been asking any questions, in fact. He's given up on the question game altogether. Which is why it's almost funny when, after maybe 20 minutes of quiet driving, Audie turns to him (as much as he's able within the confines of the tight space) and says thoughtfully, “I think they're hiding some deep, dark secret.”
Sawyer almost misses a stop sign, ends up grinding the gears practically to dust.
“Who?” Sawyer's voice is a little too casual.
“The doctor and his son. Maybe they're running from the law.”
There's an excited flush to Audie's usually pale cheeks, and Sawyer suddenly notices that they're driving directly behind Christian Shephard's truck, which is hauling one of the carnival's many bunkhouses and a smaller, storage trailer behind that. Whenever the road curves, the distance gives him a clear view of the driver's side where Jack sits sternly, staring straight ahead.
“They ain't runnin' from the law,” Sawyer says skeptically. “Maybe just a couple of bad decisions.”
“What makes you say that?”Audie says.
“Junior told me,” he says, strangely proud. “Some poor sap died by daddy's hand. Guess they both just couldn't handle it, that's all. No secret life as fugitives.”
“I don't buy it,” Audie says, timidly insistent. “They have to have a sordid history. There's Greek mythology coming out both their asses.”
Sawyer laughs, as much at Audie's attempted crassness as at the idea of Jack and his father as mythological figures. “What do you know about Greek mythology?”
Audie shrugs, uncertain. “I know enough. Fathers and sons, sex and death.”
“Regular scholar,” Sawyer says.
Audie lets it rest, just kind of stares out the window for a while, as if he senses Sawyer's discomfort. The landscape outside goes from flat to flatter and the overcast sky goes from dull to duller, and it's not long before Audie starts to fidget. The kid has far too much restless energy for his own good.
His knees nearly whack him in the chin as he squirms in his seat, turning back to Sawyer with a fully formed thought in the form of a question.
“Where's the mother, then?”
Sawyer gives him a long, suspicious glance. Audie's white-blond hair hangs in his eyes, making him look just a little bit wild.
“It matter what I say, Sherlock?” Sawyer says. “Your mind's already made up about the mother, ain't it?”
“I have a few strong theories,” Audie says, almost to himself.
“Which you just came up with?”
“Of course.”
Sawyer chuckles and glances uselessly at the back of the trailer in front of them.
“All right, hit me, Beanpole.”
Audie's tone changes, becomes deliberate and scholarly. “The mother's whereabouts aren't what I'm interested in, although there are only two real possibilities where that's concerned.”
“You're losin' me,” Sawyer says, but Audie keeps talking anyway.
“Either she's alive or she's dead,” he says.
“Took you all this time to think that up?”
Audie jabs one long bony finger into the air, ignoring Sawyer's sarcasm. “If she's alive, then I think she probably abandoned them. Maybe because of bad behaviour. You think the dad drove her away and the son hates him because of it?”
Sawyer groans, wishing he'd been smart enough to drive away before anyone could climb in with him this morning. He does a lot better solo. The kid may be a shy one most of the time, but once you get him talking he just doesn't let up.
“Or what if she's dead? They probably blame themselves. They're both doctors, maybe it's to do with that. They couldn't save her.”
Heaving a big sigh, Sawyer says, “All right, I'll bite. Why aren't you that interested in where the mother is?”
“Because,” Audie says, a conspiratorial smile slowly igniting his features as he watches the scenery outside his window change, “It's so much more interesting to wonder who she is.”
It feels like Sawyer's missing something about Audie's big revelation. He shrugs.
“Some lady,” he says, “In this case, one with pretty awful taste.”
“Perhaps,” Audie says, his soft voice lilting smugly. “Or the answer might be more interesting. Like what if Dr. Shephard is both a father... and a brother?”
Sawyer must still be a bit sleepy, or maybe the repetitive nature of this road is making him stupid, because he doesn't know right away what Audie means. Then it just kind of dawns on him, and he strikes without looking, punching Audie in the shoulder, hard.
“You little bastard!” he chokes out, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. “You snuck that right up on me, didn't ya?”
“I mean it!” Audie says, but he's giggling like a little kid. “You've called him a motherfucker a bunch of times!”
Sawyer shakes his head, wordlessly admonishing Audie for his nasty thoughts. Then he scratches his chin, falsely ponderous.
“It would answer a lot of questions, wouldn't it?”
“That's all I'm saying,” Audie says, resuming his quiet stare out the window.
A little while later, the entire crew stops for fuel at a two-pump gas station. It takes them a while to fill all the tanks and Sawyer deliberately knocks into Jack just to say, “Sorry, brother.” Audie ducks around a trailer and laughs for five straight minutes.
**
Hurley's looking evil, and that's no small feat considering his usual teddy bear-like features. Or maybe it's all in Sawyer's head.
“I don't get it,” Hurley says, squinting at Sawyer and leaning in close as if it'll make everything clear. “You love the shooting games.”
They're standing in Hurley's office, which is actually a small, dark trailer littered with papers and invoices. The desk in the corner stays mostly unused.
Sawyer shuffles his feet.
“Maybe I'm tryin' to expand my horizons.”
Hurley positively snorts at that. “Oh, come on. You've been doing this since before I was born. What horizons could you possibly have left to expand?”
Sawyer gets huffy, reaches for the door. Why everyone seems determined to make him feel old lately, he has no idea.
“Never mind,” he says. “You're right, I love the shooting games.”
“What's gotten into you these days?” Hurley says as Sawyer jumps to the ground without bothering to use the trailer's three creaky steps.
“Don't know what you mean,” Sawyer says over his shoulder, already halfway gone.
“You're even more of an asshole than usual!” Hurley yells after him.
Sawyer grins and turns, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction. “Sorry boss, no time to chat. Gotta get back to the mill.”
He heads back to finish setting up and testing out the BB guns. It was worth a try. Sometimes Hurley is a hell of a pushover, sometimes he's got a bit more of a spine. Sawyer doesn't pay enough attention to really know the difference. Anyway, it's not the nature of the game he's running that's a problem. It's the placement of it.
“Let me guess, the sights are misaligned.”
Christian Shephard stands a few feet away, cocking his head as he watches Sawyer pick up a rifle and look down its length. As soon as he sees he's gotten Sawyer's attention, he goes back to pulling bottles from a wooden crate and stacking them under his manufactured storefront.
Sawyer doesn't answer, so Christian keeps guessing. “Triggers greased? Or stuck? Chambers jammed? Barrels dented?”
Sawyer sets up a couple of targets and leans back over the low wooden counter, cocking the rifle and taking aim.
“All of the above?” Christian says disdainfully.
There is a part of Sawyer that is gleefully imagining Christian's head in place of the little blue star on the target as he breathes in slowly and then squeezes the trigger. The click of release sounds, and then the ball bearing pierces the upper point of the star and lodges itself soundlessly in the waiting hay bale beyond.
“Try none of the above,” Sawyer says, approaching the used target and pulling it down from its clothespin. He examines the hole for a second before wadding up the paper and tossing it into a wooden basket at his feet. “There's other ways besides rigged equipment to make money.”
“Is there?” Christian says, and Sawyer's suddenly aware of his grammatical shortcomings.
He stops talking, instead starts fixing the weathered blue canvas in the spots where it's come loose from the wooden frame.
Shephard stares at him good and long before going back to stocking his cart. “I'm sure you'll enlighten me with that knowledge later,” he says into his stash of shitty booze.
Sawyer just pretends he's not there. It works, for about thirty seconds, before the sound of Christian's breathing somehow becomes the only thing he can hear. Breathe in. Count five. Exhale with a whiny little wheeze that makes Sawyer want to quit breathing altogether.
He picks up another rifle, gives it a couple of practice shots, but he's slowly being driven crazy by the noise.
“You gonna keep that up all day?” he says, poking his head around the flap of blue canvas and glaring.
Christian is just leaning against his counter like he was expecting Sawyer any second.
“Whatever it is I'm doing,” he says, “You can be sure I have no intention of stopping.”
Sawyer wonders how long it would take to rip all the canvas off its frame and stuff it down Dr. Shephard's aristocratic throat. But whatever the amount of time, he doesn't have it, because the gates have opened, which means this latest bout of bickering will have to be put off while the good people of Des Moines enjoy what the carnival has to offer.
For a while, Sawyer manages to forget about his neighbour. He hooks a couple of boys early on, the kind who've been itching to go hunting with their old man their entire lives, the kind who will gladly spend the entire day's funds on shot after shot, who don't really mind all that much when Sawyer tells them sadly that they stepped over the line, or that they were shooting at the wrong target, or any number of similar excuses that keep the big payoff just out of reach. They're handing over the coin so eagerly that he feels bad and eventually gives one of them a prize, even though he's done this many nights without giving away a thing.
When they wander away, elated and broke, he has a bit of downtime and lets his attention wander next door.
“Weakness and lethargy can be signs of disease,” Christian is saying gravely. “Have you been finding it difficult to get out of bed? Do you tire quickly? Are you easily bored?”
This is too much. Sawyer pokes his head around his makeshift wall and checks out Shephard's potential buyer. To his complete lack of surprise, he finds a worried looking blue-haired lady in a purple flowered dress.
“Ma'am,” Shephard says. He's nodding solemnly to hammer home his point. “It's never too early or too late to take precautions. Just a few spoonfuls of these fortifying herbs every day can help prevent the unthinkable for you and your family.”
“My granddaughter always has been a bit sickly,” the lady says, and Sawyer can see little flickers of fear in her eyes. He can just imagine a little kid swallowing that shit down. What a damn mess. Christian just stands there, still nodding like he's reinforcing every scared thought in the woman's head.
Disgusted, Sawyer gives a part of his attention back to the shooting booth, where a few burly guys are waiting to get taken for a ride. The woman finally wanders off after buying six bottles of the stuff. She's hesitant, as if she's not entirely sure she's bought enough of the precious mixture, and Sawyer scoffs and turns back to the two good old boys behind him, who are currently judging each other's hunting stances with all the pomp and ceremony of art critics examining fresh canvases.
Sawyer is momentarily blinded by the amount of plaid covering the both of them, but quickly recovers and slaps the biggest one on the shoulder, hard.
“All right, Bub, you ready to show your buddy what for?”
“Hell, yes,” the guy says, and his shorter friend stares intently at the target, his body still locked in shooting position.
“Anytime, boys. Don't let me stop you.”
The rifles start up with a double pop, and at first it seems like they're going for speed rather than accuracy. Bub glances warily at his bald-headed friend when the latter's shot pierces the wrong paper target. The little blue stars start to disappear, and Sawyer knows he's gotta just let them go at it for a while, so he just stands and watches them fire shot after shot. He notices that the great Dr. Shephard has wandered to the front of his wagon and is glancing over occasionally with a mask of disinterest covering his obvious curiosity.
He ain't fooling anyone. He wants a show, and he's about to get a show.
“Whoa, boys,” Sawyer yells over the clacking of the rifles, “Whoa now, gotta stop you just a spell, gentlemen.”
He waves his arms to get their attention and then steps in front of the rifles the second they've stopped firing. He turns and takes a look at the targets, does a little double take.
“Damn,” he says to the bigger fellow. “Nice.”
Then he turns to the little bald one. “Look, I had to stop you. You're leaning in toward the target, Joe, and it ain't fair to your friend here.”
The skinny fellow looks startled. “Leaning? What are you talking about?”
His brute of as friend looks visibly upset by the revelation, but he doesn't say anything. He's staring at the bald guy's target, on which only a small corner of the blue star remains.
“You don't gotta admit it,” Sawyer continues. “But I'm sorry. You're leaning over the line, and I gotta disqualify you for this round.”
Short And Skinny is fuming. The top of his head turns bright red. “Bullshit! I don't gotta admit nothing, because I ain't done nothing wrong!”
That's when his friend pipes, in, shoving him hard on the shoulder. “You always say that, but it's always something with you, isn't it?”
If Sawyer didn't know better, he'd think the look on Christian's face had shifted from thinly-veiled disgust to thinly-veiled amazement, as the big guy demands a replay and bullies his buddy into paying for a fresh load of pellets for both guns. Sawyer would give Christian three guesses as to what will happen next, but that would mean actually acknowledging his presence.
By the time the next bout of shooting has died down, without Sawyer's interference this time, the number of pesky snooping neighbours has doubled. Jack is now at his dad's side and they seem to be quietly exchanging words.
Sawyer swaggers over to the targets, and it's just like he thought - his shooters are distracted and tense, and have done a much shittier job the second time around. Out of the two, the big one's result is marginally better, with a little more than half the star gone, so Sawyer holds up both targets and eyes the smaller fellow with a look of barely repressed pity.
“Well, Joe, I see why you felt you needed a little extra help.”
Skinny guy bares his teeths as his buddy snorts from laughter.
“Fuck you both,” the little fellow says, sticking his hand deep into his pocket and bringing up a handful of change and a couple of small bills. He glares at Sawyer. “Just load me up again. I'm gonna do this.”
“Well, hell, me too.”
Sawyer calmly takes the money and loads up the rifles, then pauses long enough to grin at his judgemental audience. Jack and his dad wear matching frowns of disapproval. Jack sticks around just long enough to hear Sawyer taunt the little guy a bit more.
He manages to get three more games out of the bickering duo before the argument escalates beyond mere rifling ability. As they wander off, hurling insults back and forth, Sawyer catches a glimpse of Christian clapping a well-dressed man on the back and handing over a couple of bottles free of charge.
“I can't thank you enough, sir,” he says with a smarmy tilt of his head, and when the fellow turns to leave, Sawyer catches sight of a gun and gleaming badge under his jacket. “I'm sure you'll feel better soon.”
“I'm sure I will,” the cop repeats with a little smile. “And if not, I can always drop by for more, isn't that right?”
“We never close,” Christian, choking out a fake laugh.
“Oh, for Chrissakes...” Sawyer mutters to himself as the guy walks away.
He's not really all that hungry, but if he stays here any longer, Sawyer's going to grab one of these rifles and shoot a hole right through that sincere little pleat on Christian's giant forehead. So he bails the counter and pulls a flap of cloth down over the front of his concession.
“Lunch break!” he yells for the benefit of whoever might be listening. It strikes him as strange that he should care one way or another, but when he looks over his shoulder he can tell the good doctor is watching him.
They're here for another four days. He's gonna kill Hurley for this one.
**
There's a makeshift pantry set up under a large tent in the yard. Dust hangs in the air here, backlit by the sunlight that streams in through the open sides. Sawyer throws open a couple of small cupboards, tossing their contents around before finding a decent loaf of bread and some sort of leftover vegetable mush in a wax paper-covered coffee can. It doesn't smell too horrible, and he's pretty sure it made an appearance at yesterday's dinner, so it ought to be safe to eat.
“That's disgusting.”
Jack walks up behind him, pulling a face.
“And bursting with vitamins,” Sawyer responds as if they're already in the middle of a conversation.
Why isn't he more surprised? Jack's been avoiding him for days and now he's cleaning up after him, sorting through various tins and piling them back much neater than when Sawyer found them. And somehow Sawyer is unphased. He plunks his food down on the closest picnic table and then sits with his back to it, watching as Jack continues to organize the contents of the stacked cupboards.
“Taking a break from stealing other people's money?” Jack says.
Sawyer laughs. “Looking for a rag your dad can use to wipe the police chief's ass?”
“What?” Jack says, but the hunch in his shoulders says he knows what Sawyer's talking about.
“Your daddy,” Sawyer says. “Greasin' the wheels.”
Jack just sighs, shoving the rest of the stuff into the cupboard and leaning against the door. The structure wobbles on the uneven ground.
“My father can conduct his business however he likes. I don't get involved.”
“Smooth move,” Sawyer says, “When he gets arrested, he'll have you to bail him out.”
Jack doesn't answer, just looks at him, weariness reaching his eyes and making him look more like his father than Sawyer even thought possible.
“Or, worse comes to worse, you could continue the family tradition without him.”
“I can't see that happening,” Jack says. “Ever.”
“Hey,” Sawyer says, turning to his food and finally taking a huge bite of bread. It's slightly stale, but not too bad. “You do what you gotta do.”
“Oh, is that what you tell yourself?” Jack says.
Sawyer can't help but wonder why he's sticking around to chat if he's so overcome with disdain.
“I don't tell myself anything,” he says easily. “Don't need to justify what I do.”
Jack steps closer to him, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.
“You're just like him, you know that?” he says quietly. “Both of you, just...”
“Just what?” Sawyer says, getting to his feet. He's not angry, not yet, but he's getting there, and fed up with Jack looming over him. “Both of us what?”
“You're hypocrites. What's fine for you isn't so fine for the other guy.”
Jack seems to stare right through him. It's an intrusive feeling, one that Sawyer doesn't experience very often.
“That right, Shep?” Sawyer says, moving in a little too close. “No difference between us, huh?”
Jack says nothing, but his gaze is intense and he's standing his ground despite Sawyer's best efforts to intimidate him. Sawyer gives it another shot anyway.
“And what about you?” he says, barely repressing a growl. “Must be exhausting to look down on everyone all the time. Specially in a place like this, where everyone is so damn worthy of your disdain. You know, where I'm from, boys respect their fathers!”
“Good for them,” Jack says, untouchable, distant. He's not letting Sawyer turn him into the subject of the conversation. For some reason, that gets under Sawyer's skin far more than Jack's words.
“Listen, I am nothing like your old man, got it?” Sawyer snarls. “I do this because I have to. Got no other options, Doc, so what's your excuse?”
“And here comes the self-pity!” Jack says. His head tilts back with a manic laugh. “God, the resemblance is uncanny!”
Sawyer's hand shoots up, his fingers itching to squeeze Jack's exposed throat. The little bastard is practically gloating, and the worst part is that Sawyer thinks he might be a little bit right. He would never admit it, but it's always the parts of himself he most hates that he thinks he sees in others. When Christian looks at him like he's worthless, a deep down part of Sawyer makes its agreement known.
But Jack doesn't know that. Jack doesn't know anything, the guy is talking out his ass.
“You don't know me,” Sawyer says, barely restraining himself from doing Jack physical harm. “You have no idea.”
Jack sneers unevenly, and it strikes Sawyer that it's almost as if this entire conflict is just a surrogate for the fight he should be having with his father.
“Prove me wrong, then,” Jack snaps. “Go ahead!”
He's so wound up and so close that little flecks of saliva hit Sawyer in the face when he talks. Sawyer resists the urge to wipe them off.
“You fuckin' asked for it,” he says instead, reaching for Jack.
He doesn't quite know what he's doing until their lips meet. Sawyer was gearing toward hitting Jack until this moment, so his own behaviour comes as a bit of a shock. His curled fingers dig into Jack's shoulders, mainly to keep him from running away, but for once Jack is too rattled to react. Sawyer can feel the heat of agitation in his skin, and one hand slides to Jack's throat as if he's still thinking about choking the guy. But he's not, because Jack's mouth is moving slightly against his, and there's the unfamiliar sting of sweat and stubble bothering his chin, and the feeling is strange but not altogether unpleasant. Jack's hand presses against his chest, firm, but not hard enough to push him away. Not yet, anyway.
The small response sends a sort of jolt through Sawyer. He opens his mouth wider, his tongue skimming over Jack's stunned lips and tasting traces of whiskey and tobacco, even this early in the day. After a few seconds, Jack's breath gets shaky, like Sawyer has pierced something inside him, and Sawyer lets the kiss dissolve. But instead of stepping away, he leans in close, pressing his body against Jack's, breathing deep. Just this short encounter and he's half-hard - he feels like he should find embarrassment in that. But just then, Jack comes to his senses and shoves him away.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells, and Sawyer wants to laugh at his delayed reaction. Jack's cheeks are turning a shade close to puple.
“Something daddy wouldn't do?” Sawyer says with what he hopes is an evil smirk.
Jack's mouth opens and he takes a breath as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Then Sawyer does laugh, and a second later Jack's fist connects with his eye socket. There's a burst of bright colour that accompanies the burst of pain. Sawyer goes down hard, scrapes the palms of his hands on the ground. Still, he can't stop laughing. Jack just stands there glaring at him. When Sawyer looks up at him, he's blurry and the look on his face (what Sawyer can make out of it) is confused and vaguely disappointed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sawyer says. “Look what I made you do.” His left eye is throbbing; he touches it gingerly with the inside of his wrist and feels hot tears.
For a second it's like a tremor goes through Jack. Whether it's anger or hesitation, Sawyer can't tell, and the next moment he's gone again.
Series: Stardust (and other possible impossibilities)
Rating: PG-13
Prompts: fanfic100 057. Lunch and psych_30 10. Approach-Avoidance (although I'm not sure I totally get this one)
Summary: Sawyer's issues with the Shephards come to a head in an unexpected way.
Notes: arabella_hope is the bestest ever. That is all. Oh, and click on the title to download.
Part 1 - Part 2
Part 3: Let's Call The Whole Thing Off
Over the next few days, Jack avoids everyone and everything. Sawyer watches him early mornings, slogging off to the fairgrounds while the rest of the crew is still waking up. Hurley has him working the front gate, which pisses off more than a couple of people, since he doesn't know or care about the subtleties of the ticket-selling position. Sawyer can't help but think that a man that painfully honest doesn't have far to go in this business.
Mid-week, they make the jump from Macomb, Illinois to a lot just outside of Des Moines. Sawyer finds himself in the cab of a truck with a fellow named Audie, seven and a half feet of human folded up in the passenger seat like a hermit crab retracting into its shell.
As a rule, Sawyer enjoys Audie's company because of his soft-spoken manner and his occasional bursts of absurdly literary imagination. His Scandinavian appearance gives him a pallor and timidity that counteracts his size. He's most likely no older than 22, although Sawyer's never bothered to ask.
Sawyer hasn't been asking any questions, in fact. He's given up on the question game altogether. Which is why it's almost funny when, after maybe 20 minutes of quiet driving, Audie turns to him (as much as he's able within the confines of the tight space) and says thoughtfully, “I think they're hiding some deep, dark secret.”
Sawyer almost misses a stop sign, ends up grinding the gears practically to dust.
“Who?” Sawyer's voice is a little too casual.
“The doctor and his son. Maybe they're running from the law.”
There's an excited flush to Audie's usually pale cheeks, and Sawyer suddenly notices that they're driving directly behind Christian Shephard's truck, which is hauling one of the carnival's many bunkhouses and a smaller, storage trailer behind that. Whenever the road curves, the distance gives him a clear view of the driver's side where Jack sits sternly, staring straight ahead.
“They ain't runnin' from the law,” Sawyer says skeptically. “Maybe just a couple of bad decisions.”
“What makes you say that?”Audie says.
“Junior told me,” he says, strangely proud. “Some poor sap died by daddy's hand. Guess they both just couldn't handle it, that's all. No secret life as fugitives.”
“I don't buy it,” Audie says, timidly insistent. “They have to have a sordid history. There's Greek mythology coming out both their asses.”
Sawyer laughs, as much at Audie's attempted crassness as at the idea of Jack and his father as mythological figures. “What do you know about Greek mythology?”
Audie shrugs, uncertain. “I know enough. Fathers and sons, sex and death.”
“Regular scholar,” Sawyer says.
Audie lets it rest, just kind of stares out the window for a while, as if he senses Sawyer's discomfort. The landscape outside goes from flat to flatter and the overcast sky goes from dull to duller, and it's not long before Audie starts to fidget. The kid has far too much restless energy for his own good.
His knees nearly whack him in the chin as he squirms in his seat, turning back to Sawyer with a fully formed thought in the form of a question.
“Where's the mother, then?”
Sawyer gives him a long, suspicious glance. Audie's white-blond hair hangs in his eyes, making him look just a little bit wild.
“It matter what I say, Sherlock?” Sawyer says. “Your mind's already made up about the mother, ain't it?”
“I have a few strong theories,” Audie says, almost to himself.
“Which you just came up with?”
“Of course.”
Sawyer chuckles and glances uselessly at the back of the trailer in front of them.
“All right, hit me, Beanpole.”
Audie's tone changes, becomes deliberate and scholarly. “The mother's whereabouts aren't what I'm interested in, although there are only two real possibilities where that's concerned.”
“You're losin' me,” Sawyer says, but Audie keeps talking anyway.
“Either she's alive or she's dead,” he says.
“Took you all this time to think that up?”
Audie jabs one long bony finger into the air, ignoring Sawyer's sarcasm. “If she's alive, then I think she probably abandoned them. Maybe because of bad behaviour. You think the dad drove her away and the son hates him because of it?”
Sawyer groans, wishing he'd been smart enough to drive away before anyone could climb in with him this morning. He does a lot better solo. The kid may be a shy one most of the time, but once you get him talking he just doesn't let up.
“Or what if she's dead? They probably blame themselves. They're both doctors, maybe it's to do with that. They couldn't save her.”
Heaving a big sigh, Sawyer says, “All right, I'll bite. Why aren't you that interested in where the mother is?”
“Because,” Audie says, a conspiratorial smile slowly igniting his features as he watches the scenery outside his window change, “It's so much more interesting to wonder who she is.”
It feels like Sawyer's missing something about Audie's big revelation. He shrugs.
“Some lady,” he says, “In this case, one with pretty awful taste.”
“Perhaps,” Audie says, his soft voice lilting smugly. “Or the answer might be more interesting. Like what if Dr. Shephard is both a father... and a brother?”
Sawyer must still be a bit sleepy, or maybe the repetitive nature of this road is making him stupid, because he doesn't know right away what Audie means. Then it just kind of dawns on him, and he strikes without looking, punching Audie in the shoulder, hard.
“You little bastard!” he chokes out, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. “You snuck that right up on me, didn't ya?”
“I mean it!” Audie says, but he's giggling like a little kid. “You've called him a motherfucker a bunch of times!”
Sawyer shakes his head, wordlessly admonishing Audie for his nasty thoughts. Then he scratches his chin, falsely ponderous.
“It would answer a lot of questions, wouldn't it?”
“That's all I'm saying,” Audie says, resuming his quiet stare out the window.
A little while later, the entire crew stops for fuel at a two-pump gas station. It takes them a while to fill all the tanks and Sawyer deliberately knocks into Jack just to say, “Sorry, brother.” Audie ducks around a trailer and laughs for five straight minutes.
**
Hurley's looking evil, and that's no small feat considering his usual teddy bear-like features. Or maybe it's all in Sawyer's head.
“I don't get it,” Hurley says, squinting at Sawyer and leaning in close as if it'll make everything clear. “You love the shooting games.”
They're standing in Hurley's office, which is actually a small, dark trailer littered with papers and invoices. The desk in the corner stays mostly unused.
Sawyer shuffles his feet.
“Maybe I'm tryin' to expand my horizons.”
Hurley positively snorts at that. “Oh, come on. You've been doing this since before I was born. What horizons could you possibly have left to expand?”
Sawyer gets huffy, reaches for the door. Why everyone seems determined to make him feel old lately, he has no idea.
“Never mind,” he says. “You're right, I love the shooting games.”
“What's gotten into you these days?” Hurley says as Sawyer jumps to the ground without bothering to use the trailer's three creaky steps.
“Don't know what you mean,” Sawyer says over his shoulder, already halfway gone.
“You're even more of an asshole than usual!” Hurley yells after him.
Sawyer grins and turns, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction. “Sorry boss, no time to chat. Gotta get back to the mill.”
He heads back to finish setting up and testing out the BB guns. It was worth a try. Sometimes Hurley is a hell of a pushover, sometimes he's got a bit more of a spine. Sawyer doesn't pay enough attention to really know the difference. Anyway, it's not the nature of the game he's running that's a problem. It's the placement of it.
“Let me guess, the sights are misaligned.”
Christian Shephard stands a few feet away, cocking his head as he watches Sawyer pick up a rifle and look down its length. As soon as he sees he's gotten Sawyer's attention, he goes back to pulling bottles from a wooden crate and stacking them under his manufactured storefront.
Sawyer doesn't answer, so Christian keeps guessing. “Triggers greased? Or stuck? Chambers jammed? Barrels dented?”
Sawyer sets up a couple of targets and leans back over the low wooden counter, cocking the rifle and taking aim.
“All of the above?” Christian says disdainfully.
There is a part of Sawyer that is gleefully imagining Christian's head in place of the little blue star on the target as he breathes in slowly and then squeezes the trigger. The click of release sounds, and then the ball bearing pierces the upper point of the star and lodges itself soundlessly in the waiting hay bale beyond.
“Try none of the above,” Sawyer says, approaching the used target and pulling it down from its clothespin. He examines the hole for a second before wadding up the paper and tossing it into a wooden basket at his feet. “There's other ways besides rigged equipment to make money.”
“Is there?” Christian says, and Sawyer's suddenly aware of his grammatical shortcomings.
He stops talking, instead starts fixing the weathered blue canvas in the spots where it's come loose from the wooden frame.
Shephard stares at him good and long before going back to stocking his cart. “I'm sure you'll enlighten me with that knowledge later,” he says into his stash of shitty booze.
Sawyer just pretends he's not there. It works, for about thirty seconds, before the sound of Christian's breathing somehow becomes the only thing he can hear. Breathe in. Count five. Exhale with a whiny little wheeze that makes Sawyer want to quit breathing altogether.
He picks up another rifle, gives it a couple of practice shots, but he's slowly being driven crazy by the noise.
“You gonna keep that up all day?” he says, poking his head around the flap of blue canvas and glaring.
Christian is just leaning against his counter like he was expecting Sawyer any second.
“Whatever it is I'm doing,” he says, “You can be sure I have no intention of stopping.”
Sawyer wonders how long it would take to rip all the canvas off its frame and stuff it down Dr. Shephard's aristocratic throat. But whatever the amount of time, he doesn't have it, because the gates have opened, which means this latest bout of bickering will have to be put off while the good people of Des Moines enjoy what the carnival has to offer.
For a while, Sawyer manages to forget about his neighbour. He hooks a couple of boys early on, the kind who've been itching to go hunting with their old man their entire lives, the kind who will gladly spend the entire day's funds on shot after shot, who don't really mind all that much when Sawyer tells them sadly that they stepped over the line, or that they were shooting at the wrong target, or any number of similar excuses that keep the big payoff just out of reach. They're handing over the coin so eagerly that he feels bad and eventually gives one of them a prize, even though he's done this many nights without giving away a thing.
When they wander away, elated and broke, he has a bit of downtime and lets his attention wander next door.
“Weakness and lethargy can be signs of disease,” Christian is saying gravely. “Have you been finding it difficult to get out of bed? Do you tire quickly? Are you easily bored?”
This is too much. Sawyer pokes his head around his makeshift wall and checks out Shephard's potential buyer. To his complete lack of surprise, he finds a worried looking blue-haired lady in a purple flowered dress.
“Ma'am,” Shephard says. He's nodding solemnly to hammer home his point. “It's never too early or too late to take precautions. Just a few spoonfuls of these fortifying herbs every day can help prevent the unthinkable for you and your family.”
“My granddaughter always has been a bit sickly,” the lady says, and Sawyer can see little flickers of fear in her eyes. He can just imagine a little kid swallowing that shit down. What a damn mess. Christian just stands there, still nodding like he's reinforcing every scared thought in the woman's head.
Disgusted, Sawyer gives a part of his attention back to the shooting booth, where a few burly guys are waiting to get taken for a ride. The woman finally wanders off after buying six bottles of the stuff. She's hesitant, as if she's not entirely sure she's bought enough of the precious mixture, and Sawyer scoffs and turns back to the two good old boys behind him, who are currently judging each other's hunting stances with all the pomp and ceremony of art critics examining fresh canvases.
Sawyer is momentarily blinded by the amount of plaid covering the both of them, but quickly recovers and slaps the biggest one on the shoulder, hard.
“All right, Bub, you ready to show your buddy what for?”
“Hell, yes,” the guy says, and his shorter friend stares intently at the target, his body still locked in shooting position.
“Anytime, boys. Don't let me stop you.”
The rifles start up with a double pop, and at first it seems like they're going for speed rather than accuracy. Bub glances warily at his bald-headed friend when the latter's shot pierces the wrong paper target. The little blue stars start to disappear, and Sawyer knows he's gotta just let them go at it for a while, so he just stands and watches them fire shot after shot. He notices that the great Dr. Shephard has wandered to the front of his wagon and is glancing over occasionally with a mask of disinterest covering his obvious curiosity.
He ain't fooling anyone. He wants a show, and he's about to get a show.
“Whoa, boys,” Sawyer yells over the clacking of the rifles, “Whoa now, gotta stop you just a spell, gentlemen.”
He waves his arms to get their attention and then steps in front of the rifles the second they've stopped firing. He turns and takes a look at the targets, does a little double take.
“Damn,” he says to the bigger fellow. “Nice.”
Then he turns to the little bald one. “Look, I had to stop you. You're leaning in toward the target, Joe, and it ain't fair to your friend here.”
The skinny fellow looks startled. “Leaning? What are you talking about?”
His brute of as friend looks visibly upset by the revelation, but he doesn't say anything. He's staring at the bald guy's target, on which only a small corner of the blue star remains.
“You don't gotta admit it,” Sawyer continues. “But I'm sorry. You're leaning over the line, and I gotta disqualify you for this round.”
Short And Skinny is fuming. The top of his head turns bright red. “Bullshit! I don't gotta admit nothing, because I ain't done nothing wrong!”
That's when his friend pipes, in, shoving him hard on the shoulder. “You always say that, but it's always something with you, isn't it?”
If Sawyer didn't know better, he'd think the look on Christian's face had shifted from thinly-veiled disgust to thinly-veiled amazement, as the big guy demands a replay and bullies his buddy into paying for a fresh load of pellets for both guns. Sawyer would give Christian three guesses as to what will happen next, but that would mean actually acknowledging his presence.
By the time the next bout of shooting has died down, without Sawyer's interference this time, the number of pesky snooping neighbours has doubled. Jack is now at his dad's side and they seem to be quietly exchanging words.
Sawyer swaggers over to the targets, and it's just like he thought - his shooters are distracted and tense, and have done a much shittier job the second time around. Out of the two, the big one's result is marginally better, with a little more than half the star gone, so Sawyer holds up both targets and eyes the smaller fellow with a look of barely repressed pity.
“Well, Joe, I see why you felt you needed a little extra help.”
Skinny guy bares his teeths as his buddy snorts from laughter.
“Fuck you both,” the little fellow says, sticking his hand deep into his pocket and bringing up a handful of change and a couple of small bills. He glares at Sawyer. “Just load me up again. I'm gonna do this.”
“Well, hell, me too.”
Sawyer calmly takes the money and loads up the rifles, then pauses long enough to grin at his judgemental audience. Jack and his dad wear matching frowns of disapproval. Jack sticks around just long enough to hear Sawyer taunt the little guy a bit more.
He manages to get three more games out of the bickering duo before the argument escalates beyond mere rifling ability. As they wander off, hurling insults back and forth, Sawyer catches a glimpse of Christian clapping a well-dressed man on the back and handing over a couple of bottles free of charge.
“I can't thank you enough, sir,” he says with a smarmy tilt of his head, and when the fellow turns to leave, Sawyer catches sight of a gun and gleaming badge under his jacket. “I'm sure you'll feel better soon.”
“I'm sure I will,” the cop repeats with a little smile. “And if not, I can always drop by for more, isn't that right?”
“We never close,” Christian, choking out a fake laugh.
“Oh, for Chrissakes...” Sawyer mutters to himself as the guy walks away.
He's not really all that hungry, but if he stays here any longer, Sawyer's going to grab one of these rifles and shoot a hole right through that sincere little pleat on Christian's giant forehead. So he bails the counter and pulls a flap of cloth down over the front of his concession.
“Lunch break!” he yells for the benefit of whoever might be listening. It strikes him as strange that he should care one way or another, but when he looks over his shoulder he can tell the good doctor is watching him.
They're here for another four days. He's gonna kill Hurley for this one.
**
There's a makeshift pantry set up under a large tent in the yard. Dust hangs in the air here, backlit by the sunlight that streams in through the open sides. Sawyer throws open a couple of small cupboards, tossing their contents around before finding a decent loaf of bread and some sort of leftover vegetable mush in a wax paper-covered coffee can. It doesn't smell too horrible, and he's pretty sure it made an appearance at yesterday's dinner, so it ought to be safe to eat.
“That's disgusting.”
Jack walks up behind him, pulling a face.
“And bursting with vitamins,” Sawyer responds as if they're already in the middle of a conversation.
Why isn't he more surprised? Jack's been avoiding him for days and now he's cleaning up after him, sorting through various tins and piling them back much neater than when Sawyer found them. And somehow Sawyer is unphased. He plunks his food down on the closest picnic table and then sits with his back to it, watching as Jack continues to organize the contents of the stacked cupboards.
“Taking a break from stealing other people's money?” Jack says.
Sawyer laughs. “Looking for a rag your dad can use to wipe the police chief's ass?”
“What?” Jack says, but the hunch in his shoulders says he knows what Sawyer's talking about.
“Your daddy,” Sawyer says. “Greasin' the wheels.”
Jack just sighs, shoving the rest of the stuff into the cupboard and leaning against the door. The structure wobbles on the uneven ground.
“My father can conduct his business however he likes. I don't get involved.”
“Smooth move,” Sawyer says, “When he gets arrested, he'll have you to bail him out.”
Jack doesn't answer, just looks at him, weariness reaching his eyes and making him look more like his father than Sawyer even thought possible.
“Or, worse comes to worse, you could continue the family tradition without him.”
“I can't see that happening,” Jack says. “Ever.”
“Hey,” Sawyer says, turning to his food and finally taking a huge bite of bread. It's slightly stale, but not too bad. “You do what you gotta do.”
“Oh, is that what you tell yourself?” Jack says.
Sawyer can't help but wonder why he's sticking around to chat if he's so overcome with disdain.
“I don't tell myself anything,” he says easily. “Don't need to justify what I do.”
Jack steps closer to him, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.
“You're just like him, you know that?” he says quietly. “Both of you, just...”
“Just what?” Sawyer says, getting to his feet. He's not angry, not yet, but he's getting there, and fed up with Jack looming over him. “Both of us what?”
“You're hypocrites. What's fine for you isn't so fine for the other guy.”
Jack seems to stare right through him. It's an intrusive feeling, one that Sawyer doesn't experience very often.
“That right, Shep?” Sawyer says, moving in a little too close. “No difference between us, huh?”
Jack says nothing, but his gaze is intense and he's standing his ground despite Sawyer's best efforts to intimidate him. Sawyer gives it another shot anyway.
“And what about you?” he says, barely repressing a growl. “Must be exhausting to look down on everyone all the time. Specially in a place like this, where everyone is so damn worthy of your disdain. You know, where I'm from, boys respect their fathers!”
“Good for them,” Jack says, untouchable, distant. He's not letting Sawyer turn him into the subject of the conversation. For some reason, that gets under Sawyer's skin far more than Jack's words.
“Listen, I am nothing like your old man, got it?” Sawyer snarls. “I do this because I have to. Got no other options, Doc, so what's your excuse?”
“And here comes the self-pity!” Jack says. His head tilts back with a manic laugh. “God, the resemblance is uncanny!”
Sawyer's hand shoots up, his fingers itching to squeeze Jack's exposed throat. The little bastard is practically gloating, and the worst part is that Sawyer thinks he might be a little bit right. He would never admit it, but it's always the parts of himself he most hates that he thinks he sees in others. When Christian looks at him like he's worthless, a deep down part of Sawyer makes its agreement known.
But Jack doesn't know that. Jack doesn't know anything, the guy is talking out his ass.
“You don't know me,” Sawyer says, barely restraining himself from doing Jack physical harm. “You have no idea.”
Jack sneers unevenly, and it strikes Sawyer that it's almost as if this entire conflict is just a surrogate for the fight he should be having with his father.
“Prove me wrong, then,” Jack snaps. “Go ahead!”
He's so wound up and so close that little flecks of saliva hit Sawyer in the face when he talks. Sawyer resists the urge to wipe them off.
“You fuckin' asked for it,” he says instead, reaching for Jack.
He doesn't quite know what he's doing until their lips meet. Sawyer was gearing toward hitting Jack until this moment, so his own behaviour comes as a bit of a shock. His curled fingers dig into Jack's shoulders, mainly to keep him from running away, but for once Jack is too rattled to react. Sawyer can feel the heat of agitation in his skin, and one hand slides to Jack's throat as if he's still thinking about choking the guy. But he's not, because Jack's mouth is moving slightly against his, and there's the unfamiliar sting of sweat and stubble bothering his chin, and the feeling is strange but not altogether unpleasant. Jack's hand presses against his chest, firm, but not hard enough to push him away. Not yet, anyway.
The small response sends a sort of jolt through Sawyer. He opens his mouth wider, his tongue skimming over Jack's stunned lips and tasting traces of whiskey and tobacco, even this early in the day. After a few seconds, Jack's breath gets shaky, like Sawyer has pierced something inside him, and Sawyer lets the kiss dissolve. But instead of stepping away, he leans in close, pressing his body against Jack's, breathing deep. Just this short encounter and he's half-hard - he feels like he should find embarrassment in that. But just then, Jack comes to his senses and shoves him away.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells, and Sawyer wants to laugh at his delayed reaction. Jack's cheeks are turning a shade close to puple.
“Something daddy wouldn't do?” Sawyer says with what he hopes is an evil smirk.
Jack's mouth opens and he takes a breath as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Then Sawyer does laugh, and a second later Jack's fist connects with his eye socket. There's a burst of bright colour that accompanies the burst of pain. Sawyer goes down hard, scrapes the palms of his hands on the ground. Still, he can't stop laughing. Jack just stands there glaring at him. When Sawyer looks up at him, he's blurry and the look on his face (what Sawyer can make out of it) is confused and vaguely disappointed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sawyer says. “Look what I made you do.” His left eye is throbbing; he touches it gingerly with the inside of his wrist and feels hot tears.
For a second it's like a tremor goes through Jack. Whether it's anger or hesitation, Sawyer can't tell, and the next moment he's gone again.