There Is Only This Time (NC-17)
title - There Is Only This Time
rating - NC-17
disclaimer - This is way off in the left field of what is not mine.
summary - for foxxcub, on her 27th birthday. She asked for Jack/Sawyer AU set during World War II, and out of the many takers I seem to have drawn the POW camp straw.
notes - cmonkatiekatie wins at life for stepping up to beta and putting up with my craziness.
They arrive at the camp just as night is falling. The old Vaudeville joke doesn't work, no matter how he spins it. Sawyer's been walking for six days and boy, are his legs tired. His Southern body wasn't made to slog through snowdrifts.
The road into the centre of the Stalag isn't wide enough for all of them. Sawyer's frayed coat sleeve keeps catching on the chain link fence. On the other side, a sea of hungry-looking men stirs and then settles again.
The address the head honcho gives the new prisoners is a lot like Sawyer would have expected, a staccato speech on the topics of hygiene, discipline and the Allied troups' eventual defeat, delivered in pristine English. Sawyer stares past the Commandant, focuses on a blurry white hill a few miles off.
Whatever happens now, it's all out of his control. There's a certain relief in that.
::
A hundred and sixty-seven other guys in his barracks, and somehow Sawyer is assigned the shittiest bunk - bottom edge, nearest the door. Not for long, of course. He'll begin bargaining for a better spot tomorrow, if he can find anything at all worth bargaining with. But for tonight, he has to make do with the billow of his breath around his face, the creep of frost along the edge of the worn blanket. He's wearing every item of clothing he came in with.
While the other men sleep, he listens. Listens to the way they almost breathe as one. To the stove crackling in the corner and the wind outside, slamming itself into the thin clapboard buildings. He hears the jingle of keys and the scratch of gravel, hears the dogs' mouths working somewhere underneath the barracks - the soft, wet flop of tongue.
There's a rustle and when he looks up he meets a gleaming pair of eyes, cast in the reddish light of embers from the stove.
“Evenin',” Sawyer whispers across the cramped space. He doesn't remember marching in with this guy. Not that that means anything.
The guy doesn't answer. He doesn't sleep, either.
::
Sawyer negotiates his way a few bunks deeper into the sleeping quarters. It's like pulling teeth, or maybe breaking fingers, but he manages.
His reputation as a reckless idiot seems to have preceeded him, so maybe that has something to do with it. It may also be a factor in the attention being paid to him. Even after his quick debriefing, he never seems to be out of the sightline of an officer, as if they're waiting for him to fulfill his promise as a loose cannon.
He keeps his head down and keeps to himself. Turns out most of the men are working on some kind of Christmas variety show to pass the time, and Sawyer's not really the glee club type. He finds the library instead and works his way through a couple of Jules Verne novels bound in plain paper.
He learns some things about himself. For instance: he'll take a giant squid any day over a truckload of Nazis.
::
It's in the mess hall that he runs into his friend the insomniac again. Sawyer looks up from his supper of dark, gritty bread and sauerkraut soup and meets those same dark eyes across the table. The guy glances back down at his plate, awkwardly massaging the back of his neck.
Sawyer doesn't take the hint. “Shephard,” he says, scanning the guy's uniform, spotting the patch on his sleeve. “Medic, huh? How long you been here?”
Shephard takes his sweet time swallowing a mouthful of sour mush.
“Three weeks.”
“They ever change the menu?” Sawyer asks, and gets only a quick shake of the head for a response. “Not the most socially promiscuous fella here, are you?”
The guy meets Sawyer's eyes again, and clears his throat, like he's out of practice at talking.
“That's a strange choice of words. I could say the same about you...” Shephard's just noticed his missing dogtags, the ragged hole in his shirt where his name used to be. “Corporal.”
Sawyer ignores the slight tightening in his throat and takes a giant bite of soup-soaked bread.
“It's Sawyer,” he says around the food. “Just Sawyer.”
Shephard's tired eyes light up.
“Sawyer,” he repeats. “People have been talking about you.”
“All good, I hope,” Sawyer says with an empty smirk, knowing full well what they're saying.
“How many were there, really?” Shephard says.
He doesn't have the usual look of wary awe that comes with the question. Makes it easier for Sawyer to ignore. He forces the last spoonful of bitter broth down his throat and stands, grasping his tray in both hands.
“A few,” he says. “See ya later, Doc.”
::
What his new bunk gives up in draftiness, it makes up for in odor. The mattress smells like a woodland creature died while trying to mate with it. The stench doesn't seem to be bothering the guys on either side of him, or the ones above and below, but Sawyer holds his breath, has to swallow air to keep from gagging. It only works for so long, though, and then he feels his stomach clench and has to run for the latrine in the back of the barracks.
Supper burns coming back up. He's suddenly grateful for the small portions.
Groping his way in the dark, he finds the tap on the back wall and gives the knob a few turns, waits for something to happen. There's a scurrying sound near his feet, probably a mouse, possibly a rat. He doesn't look. The faucet stays dry, and Sawyer rests his weight against the chilled outside wall. He starts to wonder if the pipes are frozen. Spits on the floor to try to chase away the rotten taste.
“Here.”
The medic with the puppy eyes is in the open doorway, holding out a banged-up canteen.
No telling how long he's been there. Sawyer straightens, squaring his shoulders. His first instinct is to snarl at Shephard and send him packing. Only he's really fucking thirsty, so he makes like a gentleman.
“Thanks.”
Icy cold water trickles down his throat, makes Sawyer wish he could just stroll outside right now. The crisp air might do him some good.
“You want to talk about it?”
Sawyer takes another long drink, coughs when his throat can't keep up.
“What,” he says. “About dinner? Wasn't all that notable the first time around.”
Shephard tilts his head, keeping an eye on his canteen. He apparently has no tolerance for evasive humour.
“Lemme tell ya, though,” Sawyer says with a sorry smile. “You can really taste that sawdust on the way up.”
“Yeah,” Shephard says flatly. “I know.”
He's still watching Sawyer with that same wide-eyed patience. Makes Sawyer feel about ten inches tall. As if the damn medic knows anything about what he's been through. As if Sawyer's story is any different from any other soldier's in here. Just because they both happen to be night owls, doesn't mean they have anything else in common.
He hands the canteen back with a curt nod.
“You ever sleep, Doc?”
“Sometimes,” Shephard says. There's a wry curl to his lips that says he's lying.
“Yeah,” Sawyer says with a sigh, reentering the barracks. “Me too.”
Giving up on the bunk, he stretches out on a skinny, bowed bench near the stove. The rough boards poke into his back, but at least his right side is pleasantly warm.
“Good luck,” Shephard says before climbing back up into his middle bunk.
Sawyer doesn't answer. He closes his eyes, pretends he's the only person around for miles.
::
He finds out by accident. He's in line, waiting for his breakfast of one watery cup of coffee, when he hears some guys in front of him talking. At first, he doesn't pay much attention - they're talking about someone named Jack they both knew in basic. Then one of them says, “Shame what happened to him, though. Never thought Shephard would see more action than I did.”
Sawyer tunes in, stares at the back of one of their heads while they keep talking, voices lowered.
“Why didn't they just kill him, anyway?”
They're discreetly watching Shephard as he hangs back, standing by the steps outside the theatre, hands shoved in the pockets of his green wool coat.
“Can't harm a medic who isn't threatening them,” the taller guy says.
They watch as Shephard pulls a stub of a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, head down against the sharp wind.
“Nothing to stop them from making him watch while they harm everyone else.”
::
Whether it's out of curiosity or masochism, Sawyer isn't quite sure, but he eventually wanders into the theater. It's really just another barracks with the bunks taken out, folding chairs heaped in the corner and a sad little elevated platform at one end. A few small tables scattered around the room house card games and other quiet activities. On the stage, someone's practicing a Winston Churchill impression so chillingly accurate it makes Sawyer's skin crawl.
He's about to head back to his tiny library and its piles of disorganized books when he notices Shephard, sitting alone in front of a half-played game of checkers, chin resting heavily on his palm, fast asleep. Sawyer considers walking away, but then he chuckles to himself and takes a seat.
“Checkmate,” he says, scooping up all the red pieces and stacking them neatly in front of him like poker chips.
Shephard's eyes pop open, but he relaxes when he sees it's only Sawyer. He rubs vigorously at his unshaven face, lets out a wolfish yawn.
“That's chess.”
“It's a better game.”
“It might be, but we don't have the pieces.”
Sawyer leans forward, knocking the stacks of checkers over with his elbows, and grins, something which he's grown unaccustomed to doing. “Excuses, excuses.”
“What time is it?” Shephard asks. He's still pawing at his sleep-swollen eyes.
Sawyer shrugs. “Afternoon. Who were you playin' with?”
Jack looks down at the scattered game pieces and sighs. “Nobody. Myself.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Sawyer says, dragging a chair closer with his boot. He props his feet up, slumping until he barely qualifies as upright. “Hey, you got any smokes?”
Shephard looks reluctant, but then he pulls a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes out of his front pocket. “One,” he says, extracting the slightly bent cigarette. “You can have it.”
“Naw,” Sawyer says. The table is so small that his feet are right up against Jack. He pokes him in the side with the tip of his boot. “We share.”
Jack strikes a match on the table, leaving a streak on the unfinished surface.
“Looks like an interesting show,” he says, nodding toward the stage, where two guys wearing shabby straw hats are telling knock-knock jokes.
Sawyer just winces, stretching forward to take the cigarette Jack offers him. For a minute they just both sit and watch as one of the guys flubs his lines and turns bright pink. Then Sawyer nudges Jack with his boot again and passes the smoke back.
“I heard about what happened to you.”
Shephard doesn't ask what he means. Just takes a long drag. “Yeah.”
::
Shephard's footlocker is filled with other people's possessions. Pictures, letters, watches, a couple of shirts rolled into tight bundles, even a beat up violin. He only opens it when he thinks no one else is looking. Sawyer can be stealthy, when he wants to be.
He wonders how well Jack knew those guys in his squad, the ones whose things he's holding on to. Wonders if Jack would do that for him. He thinks he might, now that they're friendly.
The thought of it makes Sawyer's stomach go sour.
::
He finds Shephard in the empty barracks just after morning count. He looks somber and exhausted, and Sawyer considers just leaving him alone. He's not convinced they're good for each other.
“It was one guy.”
Jack doesn't ask what he means, just sits hunched on his bunk and waits for Sawyer to finish.
“I thought I should tell you,” Sawyer says. “Just one guy, not a few. I don't know what you heard.”
“Okay,” Jack says. He doesn't get up, doesn't stop looking at Sawyer with that patient face of his, so Sawyer feels like he probably should keep talking.
“I evaded for two days, did you get that part of the story? Got separated from my platoon... big fuckin' mess there.”
He runs a hand through his hair, anxious.
“Anyway. They got close on the first night. I was hiding in this little shed out behind a farmhouse, and this guy, this... he comes in the door, got his rifle pointed right at my goddamn chest, but his eyes ain't adjusted to the dark yet, I guess, and for some reason he's got no light with him.”
He swallows the metal taste that's flooding his mouth and realizes he's been biting the inside of his cheek. Jack is staring at his hands.
“So I'm standing right in front of him,” Sawyer says. “Got my knife out just in case. Couldn't afford a gunshot, y'know, in case someone was listening. So I waited. Thought if only he'd turn around and look behind him... and he did.”
He feels like he can't breathe. Jack hasn't blinked in ages.
“It was real fuckin' quiet. Just a couple of gurgles. Poor sap didn't even think to fire his gun before I took it from him. So that's...”
Jack just nods, folds and refolds his hands. Sawyer takes a weird, raspy breath.
“Just wanted you to know, because you've got that locker full of stuff, and... shit, I don't know. Fuck.”
What he doesn't need to say is that he got caught anyway. That there was never even a chance. He should have known that, shouldn't even have bothered.
His bootheels slam the floor as he hurries away. The entire building seems to tremble from the impact.
“Sawyer,” Jack calls after him.
And for some reason, Sawyer stops. Jack is still sitting on the edge of his bunk, expression blank. Sawyer can't look directly at him.
“You were scared,” Jack says, surprising Sawyer with the emotion in his words, more despair than sympathy. “You don't have to confess to me. Doesn't matter anyway.”
Sawyer goes to him then, joins him on the middle bunk, head bowed to fit in the tight space. He's immediately aware of Jack's scent, a sort of meaty musk that clings to his garments and bedding.
“My name,” Sawyer says. “It ain't... it's James Ford.”
Jack blinks, and his gaze goes to the rip in Sawyer's shirt, to the spot of white undershirt that's showing underneath.
“Could say Sawyer's more of a job description.”
“Because you saw logs for a living?” Jack says, spitting out a dry little laugh which he covers with one hand.
Sawyer's life before the war hardly seems real. He shakes his head. “It's just what everyone calls me.”
He stretches his legs behind Jack, trying to find a position where he doesn't feel like his spine is slowly collapsing under the weight of the bunk above them. Jack moves too, shifts a bit closer and clears his throat. He's tense, avoiding Sawyer's gaze. The odd silence between them reminds Sawyer of the nights spent lying thirty feet and twenty guys apart, waiting for sleep, acutely aware of each other.
Sawyer realizes he's been fiddling with the broken seam of Shephard's field jacket, pulling on some loose strings there. Perhaps in response to this, Jack inches even closer.
“You know what I keep thinkin' about?” Sawyer says quietly. “The last chick I did it with. Fuck, if I'd known it was gonna have to last me this long, I'd have paid more attention.”
Jack's long face produces a sardonic grin, breathy giggles escaping his throat.
“Well, you win. I don't even remember the last time.”
Sawyer smirks. “Married?”
“On paper,” Jack says with a shrug.
“Shit,” Sawyer says.
He's trying to express proper sympathy, but feels himself start to lose it, maybe the result of being shut in, of too much emotion in too short a time. Soon he's laughing so hard he can't breathe, so hard it's painful all across his belly and chest. He's laughing and he's climbing all over Jack.
“Gotta let the little Doc out,” he says, yanking on Jack's fly with very little finesse. “Let him breathe, or he's gonna fall right off. That's a fact.”
Jack wriggles, trying to get free or to shove Sawyer's hand away from his privates.
“He's quite happy where he is, thanks,” he says stiffly. Or tries to say, rather. His breath catches on the last word, making a kind of “thck” sound that fades into a startled groan as Sawyer snaps his trousers open and grabs crudely at his cock.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” Sawyer teases. He's got the most vulnerable part of a man's body in his hands, under his control. It's nothing he's much thought of before meeting Jack, but he can see now how one could get drunk with power from this. For now he's content just to feel the soft, natural pulse there. It deepens as Jack becomes aroused.
“I don't think... God, Sawyer...” he says. He's already painfully erect, throbbing with sensation in Sawyer's clumsy hands. Sawyer starts to stroke him - long, light strokes that are meant more as a tease than anything else. Jack swallows thickly, then shifts under Sawyer, aligning their bodies for better access even as he tries to protest. “What if someone walks in? The guards...”
“Let 'em,” Sawyer says.
He frees Jack from his trousers, pauses when he sees exactly what he's doing to him, the helplessness of it all, Jack's long, graceful cock straining deliciously upwards. Jack's hips shift, pushing him further into Sawyer's grip, and Sawyer gives him a rewarding squeeze, then lets his fingers wander instead, run through the thick, dark curls. Sawyer watches as the movement causes Jack's eyelids to flutter, his breath hitching in surprise.
Sawyer gets to his knees, uncovers his own erection. It twitches, anticipating his own touch. When he looks down, it's an arrow pointing right at Jack.
Jack startles him by pulling him close. He tries his own hand at things, squeezing Sawyer's cock in a gentle, experimental way that makes Sawyer shudder and beg for more.
“Fuck, yeah, I need it hard, Doc, c'mon...”
“Be quiet,” Jack says, barely a whisper, but he listens to Sawyer, makes a firm fist and pumps him quickly.
Sawyer moans, digs his fingers into Jack's shoulder as if it'll keep him from crying out. When Jack's sweat-slick hands wrap around the both of them at once, Sawyer's almost jealous he didn't think of it first. He thrusts slowly, carefully into Jack's grip, overwhelmed by the intensity of so much friction.
“Oh, fuck,” Jack says, breathing hard. “Hang on.” He spits into his palms and resumes his tight, massaging hold on the both of them. Sawyer tries to hold off as much as he can, wanting to make it last, but his body urges him to move against Jack's hot flesh.
He looks at Jack then. His flushed face keeps changing, overcome with sensation every time Sawyer pushes against him. Sawyer wonders if his face is anything like Jack's, and for some reason the thought turns him on even more than he already is.
His movements speed up, despite his efforts to keep things mellow, and he feels that old familiar tension begin in his belly.
Jack's eyes drift shut, his mouth opens in a constant gasp, and Sawyer has an idea that he's not usually this quiet, either.
“Fuck, Jack...” Sawyer whispers when he'd normally be screaming. “I'm gonna... So close already...”
Jack nods, almost as if to give him permission, but then he beats Sawyer to it, his grip on both of them faltering for a just a second and then growing even more firm as a shudder goes through his whole body, rocking him. He does cry out then, a quick, “Ohh!” that cuts off abruptly as his hips raise off the thin mattress once, twice, and then again.
Sawyer thrusts just once more into the slick, hot centre of their connection. He bites into whatever's close - the collar of Jack's field jacket, his jutting collarbone. His cock throbs against Jack's, spilling hot come all over Jack's hands. Somehow, he doesn't make a sound.
He tastes salt, isn't sure at first if it's sweat or blood, so he pulls back, alarmed, and finds the spot where he bit Jack slightly reddened, the skin unbroken. He kisses the place where his teeth have made little jagged marks in Jack's neck, and feels Jack shiver.
“We should...” Jack says.
“Yeah.”
When Sawyer sits up, his head spins a little. He feels goofy.
Jack looks doubtfully at the sorry-looking towel draped over the edge of the bed, then cleans up with a handkerchief instead and hands it to Sawyer. He looks stunned, and Sawyer for some reason feels the need to apologize.
“I'm sorry,” he says, wiping his hands clean and not quite looking at Jack. “I didn't mean to... make you.”
“S'alright,” Jack says with a bemused little smile, like he doesn't believe what they just did, or like he doesn't believe Sawyer's apologizing for it.
“I should...” Sawyer says, shifting away from Jack on the bunk. He stands for only a second, then sits on the middle bunk across from Jack's. Facing him, he can clearly see the still-flushed glow of his skin, the glaring toothmarks on his neck, which will turn into a dark bruise before too long.
Sawyer stretches out, far more comfortable on someone else's bunk than on his own. In the distance, a group of men are singing Silent Night in tentative harmony. He hears Jack laugh bitterly at the sound, turns on his side to face him. Jack's lying on his back in his own bunk.
“Fuckin' variety show,” Sawyer says. “Those guys are gonna embarrass the hell out of themselves.”
“In front of who?” Jack says. “A couple of guards?”
“Us, I guess.”
“They need some distraction,” Jack says, staring at the bedslats above him. He reaches up and touches something that's carved there, running a finger along the grooves of the letters. Sawyer will have to come back another time to find out what it says.
“Still can't sleep,” Sawyer says, digging his hands under the stranger's pillow, pressing it against his face.
“Me either.”
“Just wanna lay here a while longer, though.”
“Okay,” Jack says. “Yeah.”
rating - NC-17
disclaimer - This is way off in the left field of what is not mine.
summary - for foxxcub, on her 27th birthday. She asked for Jack/Sawyer AU set during World War II, and out of the many takers I seem to have drawn the POW camp straw.
notes - cmonkatiekatie wins at life for stepping up to beta and putting up with my craziness.
They arrive at the camp just as night is falling. The old Vaudeville joke doesn't work, no matter how he spins it. Sawyer's been walking for six days and boy, are his legs tired. His Southern body wasn't made to slog through snowdrifts.
The road into the centre of the Stalag isn't wide enough for all of them. Sawyer's frayed coat sleeve keeps catching on the chain link fence. On the other side, a sea of hungry-looking men stirs and then settles again.
The address the head honcho gives the new prisoners is a lot like Sawyer would have expected, a staccato speech on the topics of hygiene, discipline and the Allied troups' eventual defeat, delivered in pristine English. Sawyer stares past the Commandant, focuses on a blurry white hill a few miles off.
Whatever happens now, it's all out of his control. There's a certain relief in that.
::
A hundred and sixty-seven other guys in his barracks, and somehow Sawyer is assigned the shittiest bunk - bottom edge, nearest the door. Not for long, of course. He'll begin bargaining for a better spot tomorrow, if he can find anything at all worth bargaining with. But for tonight, he has to make do with the billow of his breath around his face, the creep of frost along the edge of the worn blanket. He's wearing every item of clothing he came in with.
While the other men sleep, he listens. Listens to the way they almost breathe as one. To the stove crackling in the corner and the wind outside, slamming itself into the thin clapboard buildings. He hears the jingle of keys and the scratch of gravel, hears the dogs' mouths working somewhere underneath the barracks - the soft, wet flop of tongue.
There's a rustle and when he looks up he meets a gleaming pair of eyes, cast in the reddish light of embers from the stove.
“Evenin',” Sawyer whispers across the cramped space. He doesn't remember marching in with this guy. Not that that means anything.
The guy doesn't answer. He doesn't sleep, either.
::
Sawyer negotiates his way a few bunks deeper into the sleeping quarters. It's like pulling teeth, or maybe breaking fingers, but he manages.
His reputation as a reckless idiot seems to have preceeded him, so maybe that has something to do with it. It may also be a factor in the attention being paid to him. Even after his quick debriefing, he never seems to be out of the sightline of an officer, as if they're waiting for him to fulfill his promise as a loose cannon.
He keeps his head down and keeps to himself. Turns out most of the men are working on some kind of Christmas variety show to pass the time, and Sawyer's not really the glee club type. He finds the library instead and works his way through a couple of Jules Verne novels bound in plain paper.
He learns some things about himself. For instance: he'll take a giant squid any day over a truckload of Nazis.
::
It's in the mess hall that he runs into his friend the insomniac again. Sawyer looks up from his supper of dark, gritty bread and sauerkraut soup and meets those same dark eyes across the table. The guy glances back down at his plate, awkwardly massaging the back of his neck.
Sawyer doesn't take the hint. “Shephard,” he says, scanning the guy's uniform, spotting the patch on his sleeve. “Medic, huh? How long you been here?”
Shephard takes his sweet time swallowing a mouthful of sour mush.
“Three weeks.”
“They ever change the menu?” Sawyer asks, and gets only a quick shake of the head for a response. “Not the most socially promiscuous fella here, are you?”
The guy meets Sawyer's eyes again, and clears his throat, like he's out of practice at talking.
“That's a strange choice of words. I could say the same about you...” Shephard's just noticed his missing dogtags, the ragged hole in his shirt where his name used to be. “Corporal.”
Sawyer ignores the slight tightening in his throat and takes a giant bite of soup-soaked bread.
“It's Sawyer,” he says around the food. “Just Sawyer.”
Shephard's tired eyes light up.
“Sawyer,” he repeats. “People have been talking about you.”
“All good, I hope,” Sawyer says with an empty smirk, knowing full well what they're saying.
“How many were there, really?” Shephard says.
He doesn't have the usual look of wary awe that comes with the question. Makes it easier for Sawyer to ignore. He forces the last spoonful of bitter broth down his throat and stands, grasping his tray in both hands.
“A few,” he says. “See ya later, Doc.”
::
What his new bunk gives up in draftiness, it makes up for in odor. The mattress smells like a woodland creature died while trying to mate with it. The stench doesn't seem to be bothering the guys on either side of him, or the ones above and below, but Sawyer holds his breath, has to swallow air to keep from gagging. It only works for so long, though, and then he feels his stomach clench and has to run for the latrine in the back of the barracks.
Supper burns coming back up. He's suddenly grateful for the small portions.
Groping his way in the dark, he finds the tap on the back wall and gives the knob a few turns, waits for something to happen. There's a scurrying sound near his feet, probably a mouse, possibly a rat. He doesn't look. The faucet stays dry, and Sawyer rests his weight against the chilled outside wall. He starts to wonder if the pipes are frozen. Spits on the floor to try to chase away the rotten taste.
“Here.”
The medic with the puppy eyes is in the open doorway, holding out a banged-up canteen.
No telling how long he's been there. Sawyer straightens, squaring his shoulders. His first instinct is to snarl at Shephard and send him packing. Only he's really fucking thirsty, so he makes like a gentleman.
“Thanks.”
Icy cold water trickles down his throat, makes Sawyer wish he could just stroll outside right now. The crisp air might do him some good.
“You want to talk about it?”
Sawyer takes another long drink, coughs when his throat can't keep up.
“What,” he says. “About dinner? Wasn't all that notable the first time around.”
Shephard tilts his head, keeping an eye on his canteen. He apparently has no tolerance for evasive humour.
“Lemme tell ya, though,” Sawyer says with a sorry smile. “You can really taste that sawdust on the way up.”
“Yeah,” Shephard says flatly. “I know.”
He's still watching Sawyer with that same wide-eyed patience. Makes Sawyer feel about ten inches tall. As if the damn medic knows anything about what he's been through. As if Sawyer's story is any different from any other soldier's in here. Just because they both happen to be night owls, doesn't mean they have anything else in common.
He hands the canteen back with a curt nod.
“You ever sleep, Doc?”
“Sometimes,” Shephard says. There's a wry curl to his lips that says he's lying.
“Yeah,” Sawyer says with a sigh, reentering the barracks. “Me too.”
Giving up on the bunk, he stretches out on a skinny, bowed bench near the stove. The rough boards poke into his back, but at least his right side is pleasantly warm.
“Good luck,” Shephard says before climbing back up into his middle bunk.
Sawyer doesn't answer. He closes his eyes, pretends he's the only person around for miles.
::
He finds out by accident. He's in line, waiting for his breakfast of one watery cup of coffee, when he hears some guys in front of him talking. At first, he doesn't pay much attention - they're talking about someone named Jack they both knew in basic. Then one of them says, “Shame what happened to him, though. Never thought Shephard would see more action than I did.”
Sawyer tunes in, stares at the back of one of their heads while they keep talking, voices lowered.
“Why didn't they just kill him, anyway?”
They're discreetly watching Shephard as he hangs back, standing by the steps outside the theatre, hands shoved in the pockets of his green wool coat.
“Can't harm a medic who isn't threatening them,” the taller guy says.
They watch as Shephard pulls a stub of a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, head down against the sharp wind.
“Nothing to stop them from making him watch while they harm everyone else.”
::
Whether it's out of curiosity or masochism, Sawyer isn't quite sure, but he eventually wanders into the theater. It's really just another barracks with the bunks taken out, folding chairs heaped in the corner and a sad little elevated platform at one end. A few small tables scattered around the room house card games and other quiet activities. On the stage, someone's practicing a Winston Churchill impression so chillingly accurate it makes Sawyer's skin crawl.
He's about to head back to his tiny library and its piles of disorganized books when he notices Shephard, sitting alone in front of a half-played game of checkers, chin resting heavily on his palm, fast asleep. Sawyer considers walking away, but then he chuckles to himself and takes a seat.
“Checkmate,” he says, scooping up all the red pieces and stacking them neatly in front of him like poker chips.
Shephard's eyes pop open, but he relaxes when he sees it's only Sawyer. He rubs vigorously at his unshaven face, lets out a wolfish yawn.
“That's chess.”
“It's a better game.”
“It might be, but we don't have the pieces.”
Sawyer leans forward, knocking the stacks of checkers over with his elbows, and grins, something which he's grown unaccustomed to doing. “Excuses, excuses.”
“What time is it?” Shephard asks. He's still pawing at his sleep-swollen eyes.
Sawyer shrugs. “Afternoon. Who were you playin' with?”
Jack looks down at the scattered game pieces and sighs. “Nobody. Myself.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Sawyer says, dragging a chair closer with his boot. He props his feet up, slumping until he barely qualifies as upright. “Hey, you got any smokes?”
Shephard looks reluctant, but then he pulls a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes out of his front pocket. “One,” he says, extracting the slightly bent cigarette. “You can have it.”
“Naw,” Sawyer says. The table is so small that his feet are right up against Jack. He pokes him in the side with the tip of his boot. “We share.”
Jack strikes a match on the table, leaving a streak on the unfinished surface.
“Looks like an interesting show,” he says, nodding toward the stage, where two guys wearing shabby straw hats are telling knock-knock jokes.
Sawyer just winces, stretching forward to take the cigarette Jack offers him. For a minute they just both sit and watch as one of the guys flubs his lines and turns bright pink. Then Sawyer nudges Jack with his boot again and passes the smoke back.
“I heard about what happened to you.”
Shephard doesn't ask what he means. Just takes a long drag. “Yeah.”
::
Shephard's footlocker is filled with other people's possessions. Pictures, letters, watches, a couple of shirts rolled into tight bundles, even a beat up violin. He only opens it when he thinks no one else is looking. Sawyer can be stealthy, when he wants to be.
He wonders how well Jack knew those guys in his squad, the ones whose things he's holding on to. Wonders if Jack would do that for him. He thinks he might, now that they're friendly.
The thought of it makes Sawyer's stomach go sour.
::
He finds Shephard in the empty barracks just after morning count. He looks somber and exhausted, and Sawyer considers just leaving him alone. He's not convinced they're good for each other.
“It was one guy.”
Jack doesn't ask what he means, just sits hunched on his bunk and waits for Sawyer to finish.
“I thought I should tell you,” Sawyer says. “Just one guy, not a few. I don't know what you heard.”
“Okay,” Jack says. He doesn't get up, doesn't stop looking at Sawyer with that patient face of his, so Sawyer feels like he probably should keep talking.
“I evaded for two days, did you get that part of the story? Got separated from my platoon... big fuckin' mess there.”
He runs a hand through his hair, anxious.
“Anyway. They got close on the first night. I was hiding in this little shed out behind a farmhouse, and this guy, this... he comes in the door, got his rifle pointed right at my goddamn chest, but his eyes ain't adjusted to the dark yet, I guess, and for some reason he's got no light with him.”
He swallows the metal taste that's flooding his mouth and realizes he's been biting the inside of his cheek. Jack is staring at his hands.
“So I'm standing right in front of him,” Sawyer says. “Got my knife out just in case. Couldn't afford a gunshot, y'know, in case someone was listening. So I waited. Thought if only he'd turn around and look behind him... and he did.”
He feels like he can't breathe. Jack hasn't blinked in ages.
“It was real fuckin' quiet. Just a couple of gurgles. Poor sap didn't even think to fire his gun before I took it from him. So that's...”
Jack just nods, folds and refolds his hands. Sawyer takes a weird, raspy breath.
“Just wanted you to know, because you've got that locker full of stuff, and... shit, I don't know. Fuck.”
What he doesn't need to say is that he got caught anyway. That there was never even a chance. He should have known that, shouldn't even have bothered.
His bootheels slam the floor as he hurries away. The entire building seems to tremble from the impact.
“Sawyer,” Jack calls after him.
And for some reason, Sawyer stops. Jack is still sitting on the edge of his bunk, expression blank. Sawyer can't look directly at him.
“You were scared,” Jack says, surprising Sawyer with the emotion in his words, more despair than sympathy. “You don't have to confess to me. Doesn't matter anyway.”
Sawyer goes to him then, joins him on the middle bunk, head bowed to fit in the tight space. He's immediately aware of Jack's scent, a sort of meaty musk that clings to his garments and bedding.
“My name,” Sawyer says. “It ain't... it's James Ford.”
Jack blinks, and his gaze goes to the rip in Sawyer's shirt, to the spot of white undershirt that's showing underneath.
“Could say Sawyer's more of a job description.”
“Because you saw logs for a living?” Jack says, spitting out a dry little laugh which he covers with one hand.
Sawyer's life before the war hardly seems real. He shakes his head. “It's just what everyone calls me.”
He stretches his legs behind Jack, trying to find a position where he doesn't feel like his spine is slowly collapsing under the weight of the bunk above them. Jack moves too, shifts a bit closer and clears his throat. He's tense, avoiding Sawyer's gaze. The odd silence between them reminds Sawyer of the nights spent lying thirty feet and twenty guys apart, waiting for sleep, acutely aware of each other.
Sawyer realizes he's been fiddling with the broken seam of Shephard's field jacket, pulling on some loose strings there. Perhaps in response to this, Jack inches even closer.
“You know what I keep thinkin' about?” Sawyer says quietly. “The last chick I did it with. Fuck, if I'd known it was gonna have to last me this long, I'd have paid more attention.”
Jack's long face produces a sardonic grin, breathy giggles escaping his throat.
“Well, you win. I don't even remember the last time.”
Sawyer smirks. “Married?”
“On paper,” Jack says with a shrug.
“Shit,” Sawyer says.
He's trying to express proper sympathy, but feels himself start to lose it, maybe the result of being shut in, of too much emotion in too short a time. Soon he's laughing so hard he can't breathe, so hard it's painful all across his belly and chest. He's laughing and he's climbing all over Jack.
“Gotta let the little Doc out,” he says, yanking on Jack's fly with very little finesse. “Let him breathe, or he's gonna fall right off. That's a fact.”
Jack wriggles, trying to get free or to shove Sawyer's hand away from his privates.
“He's quite happy where he is, thanks,” he says stiffly. Or tries to say, rather. His breath catches on the last word, making a kind of “thck” sound that fades into a startled groan as Sawyer snaps his trousers open and grabs crudely at his cock.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” Sawyer teases. He's got the most vulnerable part of a man's body in his hands, under his control. It's nothing he's much thought of before meeting Jack, but he can see now how one could get drunk with power from this. For now he's content just to feel the soft, natural pulse there. It deepens as Jack becomes aroused.
“I don't think... God, Sawyer...” he says. He's already painfully erect, throbbing with sensation in Sawyer's clumsy hands. Sawyer starts to stroke him - long, light strokes that are meant more as a tease than anything else. Jack swallows thickly, then shifts under Sawyer, aligning their bodies for better access even as he tries to protest. “What if someone walks in? The guards...”
“Let 'em,” Sawyer says.
He frees Jack from his trousers, pauses when he sees exactly what he's doing to him, the helplessness of it all, Jack's long, graceful cock straining deliciously upwards. Jack's hips shift, pushing him further into Sawyer's grip, and Sawyer gives him a rewarding squeeze, then lets his fingers wander instead, run through the thick, dark curls. Sawyer watches as the movement causes Jack's eyelids to flutter, his breath hitching in surprise.
Sawyer gets to his knees, uncovers his own erection. It twitches, anticipating his own touch. When he looks down, it's an arrow pointing right at Jack.
Jack startles him by pulling him close. He tries his own hand at things, squeezing Sawyer's cock in a gentle, experimental way that makes Sawyer shudder and beg for more.
“Fuck, yeah, I need it hard, Doc, c'mon...”
“Be quiet,” Jack says, barely a whisper, but he listens to Sawyer, makes a firm fist and pumps him quickly.
Sawyer moans, digs his fingers into Jack's shoulder as if it'll keep him from crying out. When Jack's sweat-slick hands wrap around the both of them at once, Sawyer's almost jealous he didn't think of it first. He thrusts slowly, carefully into Jack's grip, overwhelmed by the intensity of so much friction.
“Oh, fuck,” Jack says, breathing hard. “Hang on.” He spits into his palms and resumes his tight, massaging hold on the both of them. Sawyer tries to hold off as much as he can, wanting to make it last, but his body urges him to move against Jack's hot flesh.
He looks at Jack then. His flushed face keeps changing, overcome with sensation every time Sawyer pushes against him. Sawyer wonders if his face is anything like Jack's, and for some reason the thought turns him on even more than he already is.
His movements speed up, despite his efforts to keep things mellow, and he feels that old familiar tension begin in his belly.
Jack's eyes drift shut, his mouth opens in a constant gasp, and Sawyer has an idea that he's not usually this quiet, either.
“Fuck, Jack...” Sawyer whispers when he'd normally be screaming. “I'm gonna... So close already...”
Jack nods, almost as if to give him permission, but then he beats Sawyer to it, his grip on both of them faltering for a just a second and then growing even more firm as a shudder goes through his whole body, rocking him. He does cry out then, a quick, “Ohh!” that cuts off abruptly as his hips raise off the thin mattress once, twice, and then again.
Sawyer thrusts just once more into the slick, hot centre of their connection. He bites into whatever's close - the collar of Jack's field jacket, his jutting collarbone. His cock throbs against Jack's, spilling hot come all over Jack's hands. Somehow, he doesn't make a sound.
He tastes salt, isn't sure at first if it's sweat or blood, so he pulls back, alarmed, and finds the spot where he bit Jack slightly reddened, the skin unbroken. He kisses the place where his teeth have made little jagged marks in Jack's neck, and feels Jack shiver.
“We should...” Jack says.
“Yeah.”
When Sawyer sits up, his head spins a little. He feels goofy.
Jack looks doubtfully at the sorry-looking towel draped over the edge of the bed, then cleans up with a handkerchief instead and hands it to Sawyer. He looks stunned, and Sawyer for some reason feels the need to apologize.
“I'm sorry,” he says, wiping his hands clean and not quite looking at Jack. “I didn't mean to... make you.”
“S'alright,” Jack says with a bemused little smile, like he doesn't believe what they just did, or like he doesn't believe Sawyer's apologizing for it.
“I should...” Sawyer says, shifting away from Jack on the bunk. He stands for only a second, then sits on the middle bunk across from Jack's. Facing him, he can clearly see the still-flushed glow of his skin, the glaring toothmarks on his neck, which will turn into a dark bruise before too long.
Sawyer stretches out, far more comfortable on someone else's bunk than on his own. In the distance, a group of men are singing Silent Night in tentative harmony. He hears Jack laugh bitterly at the sound, turns on his side to face him. Jack's lying on his back in his own bunk.
“Fuckin' variety show,” Sawyer says. “Those guys are gonna embarrass the hell out of themselves.”
“In front of who?” Jack says. “A couple of guards?”
“Us, I guess.”
“They need some distraction,” Jack says, staring at the bedslats above him. He reaches up and touches something that's carved there, running a finger along the grooves of the letters. Sawyer will have to come back another time to find out what it says.
“Still can't sleep,” Sawyer says, digging his hands under the stranger's pillow, pressing it against his face.
“Me either.”
“Just wanna lay here a while longer, though.”
“Okay,” Jack says. “Yeah.”