fic, Lost: And Your Memory Cannot Keep Me Warm But It Never Leaves Me Cold (Jack/Boone), NC17
Title: And Your Memory Cannot Keep Me Warm But It Never Leaves Me Cold
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Jack/Boone
Words: 6165
Summary: Daniel's plan worked and Jack remembers everything. Boone doesn't.
Spoilers: heavy for the S5 finale, and I mean it.
Disclaimer: Ha, not mine. This would happen next season.
A/N: birthday fic for elise_509 who left me one of the most delicious prompts I could ask for. Clearly it got completely out of hand but it was in the package. ;) Using for un_love_you #25, you remind me of someone; title from a certain Steve Earle song which I like far too much.
It’s question of a split second.
One moment Jack is wearing a Dharma suit and his hands are gripping Sawyer’s waist, trying to get him away from the trap where Juliet fell; the next one, a blinding white light fills his vision; the next one, he opens his eyes and he’s sitting on a plane that he recognizes beyond doubts as Oceanic Flight 815.
Jack’s hands shake as he looks at his clothes; he’s wearing a suit, good shoes, a shirt, his seatbelt is fastened and that hostess, Cindy, is walking down the aisle.
Jack breathes heavily for a couple of times, the words itworkeditworkeditworkeditworked running through his head in a spinning circle; it’s five minutes before he dares raising his eyes.
It’s the same but not; or at least, the only difference he notices is that Rose isn’t in the seat across the aisle or anywhere to be seen. He spots Sawyer’s head a couple of rows behind him and his heart doesn’t strangely break as he sees Kate sitting in a row ahead with her hands handcuffed and a very alive Edward Mars sitting next to her.
It wasn’t meant to be.
Suddenly he needs to wash his face. He stands up and walks down the aisle in the restroom’s direction; suddenly he hears some chattering and when he turns, he sees that Charlie is deep in conversation with the person sitting next to him, who happens to be Hurley. He smiles just slightly at that, realizing that he really should find Claire as soon as the plane lands. They might have hit reset, but it doesn’t change that he knows now and that she deserves to know that their father is dead. He wonders if she remembers, if they all remember; he figures he’ll find out soon. Even if Charlie and Hurley didn’t seem too freaked out.
He gets back to his seat after washing his face thoroughly in cold water more than once, he still feels blood sticking to his skin; he barely has time to cast a look out of the window when a female and annoyed voice from three or four rows behind screams something about not knowing shit about overstepping boundaries and another voice answers well, Shan, thank you so much and just fuck off.
And there’s the noise of someone standing up and Jack shivers because he recognized the voice just fine and last time he heard it, it said tell Shannon and then nothing and Jack doesn’t think he can...
“Excuse me?”
Jack jerks on his left and well, there he is. Same blue shirt under an orange jacket, jeans, striking blue eyes fixed on his, lips curved in a half-embarrassed smile. Jack half-smiles back, hoping that it doesn’t show that his hands are shaking again.
“Yeah?”
“Do you... uhm, I just... the place next to you is empty and... would you mind if I...”
“Oh, sure.”
Jack unfastens his belt, stands up and lets Boone pass; when he sits down again, he feels a bit more calm. Not when Boone mouths thanks and smiles at him for a second though; Jack feels shivers and doesn’t know if he can make it through this trip now. Also because it’s kind of obvious that if someone else apart from him remembers something, well, it’s not Boone. Which maybe is actually a good thing because he’s sure no one wants to remember their death.
He shakes his head and reaches for the plane magazine in front of him; the date says September 2004. He flips through a couple of services on Australia’s natural beauty, an interview with Nicole Kidman asking her about her sentimental life, the list of jewels/parfumes/alcohol he could buy if he wished to, and sees that there’s a crossword in the end.
Well, why not. It might take his mind off the fact that a person who basically died in his arms before he set the clock back is sitting in the place next to him.
He searches for a pen in the pocket of his suit jacket only to realize he doesn’t have one; he almost curses when a hand lands softly on his shoulder.
“Hey, do you... do you need a pen?”
Jack turns to his right as Boone searches for something in the pocket of his jeans and comes out with two ballpoint pens, a blue one and a black one.
“Just see which one works best.”
Something gets caught in Jack’s throat then, and he honestly feels like he could cry. He should have imagined it was bound to happen this way again, but as he wraps his fingers around both of the pens, his skin slightly brushing Boone’s, he can’t help smiling genuinely and probably way too fondly. If only Boone knew.
“I’m sure they’ll be perfect. Thank you.”
Boone nods at him and slightly blushes even more so as Jack tries the pens on the magazine and gives him back the blue one; as he watches Boone put it back in place from the corner of his eye, Jack feels selfishly and pretty much fucking happy that they did it and that it worked.
--
Jack is halfway through the crossword and stuck on damned 16 vertical. He mutters something under his breath, turning the pen between his fingers.
“Hey, do you... uhm... I’m not that good at crosswords, but maybe...”
“Well, it’s kinda... I don’t know why the hell should they ask this in a crossword on Oceanic magazine but... wedding company based in Southern California, seven letters, starts with C...”
“Carlyle.”
“Oh, wow. Thanks. How did you...”
“My mother owns it.”
Boone looks actually half-ashamed as he admits it; Jack hadn’t known or remembered, but he does remember Sabrina Carlyle from when they were rescued and he can’t help noticing again just how different they are.
“Oh. Wow, well, that was some luck I guess. I take that you could also tell me 42 horizontal, maybe?”
“Well, I could try.”
“Pearl Jam’s lead singer, full name, starts with...”
“Eddie Vedder, man. You really didn’t know it?”
Jack has to blush himself there.
“No, not really. I’m not that great music person.”
“Well, I guess the world is beautiful because it’s made of different people, right? Also, since you know my surname by this point, I think we could actually... uhm...”
Boone suddenly looks not too sure of the advance and Jack is quick at holding his hand out to shake.
“Of course. I’m Jack. If you want the surname, too, to be even... Jack Shephard. Nice to meet you.”
“Well, you already know the Carlyle part, right? I’m Boone.”
As Boone takes his hand and shakes it, Jack bites his tongue in order not to say I know.
--
It’s another two hours of casual remarks and silence before Jack manages to finish the crossword, mostly because he was barely thinking about it; and suddenly he realizes something and turns to his right just to find Boone looking intently at him.
He stops it before Boone can start apologizing.
“Hey, it’s fine. Just, is there any particular reason?”
Boone sighs and leans back in his seat.
“I... God, if I tell you, you’d probably take me for crazy.”
“Try me,” Jack thinks. Maybe he does remember.
“It’s just... it’s like you reminded me of someone I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure I never met you anywhere before and I don’t think I know anyone else who looks like you, but you just look... I don’t know, familiar? Sorry, it doesn’t make sense. I probably sound like a freak.”
Except you aren’t, Jack thinks. Of course. I remind you of me, and how is he supposed to explain that this plane once crashed and that they survived but then Boone didn’t fall of a cliff and died in front of him? And of course Boone thinks he feels familiar. When someone is attached to your hip during the six hours it takes you to die, he’s bound to feel familiar even if Jack has hit reset.
“Oh, you don’t. I mean, it happens. Who know, maybe we bumped into each other at the supermarket once.”
Boone laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, that wouldn’t exactly make you familiar. Or would it?”
“Who knows. Maybe,” Jack answers, and if only he could say the truth. If only. But he won’t.
--
It’s another two hours and one to go before the flight lands. Boone ended up sleeping on his seat and Jack has barely looked in his direction. Fine, he’s alright and breathing and everything, but he can’t exactly see Boone with closed eyes. Not yet.
He thinks about Juliet and Desmond and Ben. The plane is almost arrived and it obviously won’t crash; Ben will probably die in a couple of weeks and Juliet maybe will manage to leave and Desmond... maybe Desmond will crash another plane. Or definitely go crazy in there. Or...
Jack thinks that maybe he should give Penny Widmore a call, when he’s back in Los Angeles. Even if by all sense he should try to leave this all behind and just start from scratch.
And then he hears a small whimper coming from his side. And then another. Jack turns and Boone is stirring in his sleep, his lips tight against each other, his expression distressed; when he winces visibly, Jack places a hand on his wrist and Boone’s eyes jerk open.
“What...”
“It... looked like you weren’t having a good time.”
“Fuck, no. What a fucked up dream. Sorry if...”
“No problem. I just thought I’d wake you up. Though, if you want to talk about it...”
Jack bites his lip soon after; dammit, he needs to stop forgetting they don’t really know each other. But Boone looks mostly amused, even if he’s kind of pale.
“What, are you a psychologist?”
“No, I’m a surgeon. But I did take a psychology class, it was required.”
“Well, it... I don’t know. Was weird. I just... it was like I was in a jungle and falling from somwhere, and then there was blood everywhere and I could taste it in my mouth, but I couldn’t really get what was going on. And then there was someone asking me my blood type and saying they were going to save my life and then I woke up. It was... I mean, it wasn’t pleasant, but it was also kind of familiar. I wasn’t too freaked out. And it was like I knew that other person would have managed to fix whatever happened, but... I can’t remember already. Sorry. Weird, right?”
“Yeah,” Jack answers, blinking desperately and curling the hand Boone can’t see into a fist so tight it hurts. “Very weird indeed.”
--
When they get the message saying to fasten their seatbelts, Jack lets out a breath of relief. As soon as it lands they’ll be safe and...
“Hey, do you live in Los Angeles?”
“Excuse... yeah. Yeah, I do. Any particular reason?”
Boone’s cheeks flush pink and Jack can’t really get why he’s getting so worked up. Because he is.
“I just... uhm, thought we could... sometime... I don’t know, grab a cup of coffee? Just... sorry if...”
“Oh, well, I’d... I’d like it. Really, I would.”
And he isn’t lying. Right now he indeed would. Anything just to keep the miracle in front of his eyes happening.
“Great. Wow. I mean, that’s good. Well, this is my number. For, anything.”
Boone hands him a business card and Jack frowns when he sees what’s written on it.
“You work for the wedding company?”
“Yeah. I don’t exactly like it, but... it gives me some money to put aside. Why, what do I look like?”
“Like someone who works for Amnesty International and goes to marches,” and Jack would really like to throw himself out of this freaking plane now because he’s really pushing this too far.
Boone’s eyes widen.
“Why... how did you know?”
“What, about Amnesty International?”
“I wish I worked there. No, about the marches.”
“Oh. Well, uhm...”
Jack tries to find some suitable explanation because fuck, you just can’t tell someone that he looks like the person who goes marching and sure as hell he can’t tell him of how Charlie had reported the whole marches incident three days after they were back from that hike. And then he notices and relaxes.
“Well, you’ve got a peace symbol pendant there. I figured it wasn’t for show.”
Jack tries not to think too much about how pleased Boone looks as Jack gives him his own business card.
--
There’s the funeral and Jack finds it almost strange not to see Sayid and Kate and Nadia in the crowd; Claire is there though, and she actually did listen to him when he stopped her at the airport and right now she’s running a hand over her swollen belly. Jack feels somewhat grateful even if he avoids looking at his mother.
And then Christian’s body is buried (buried for good runs through his head) and everyone leaves; Claire goes to her hotel and says she’ll call one of these days and Jack answers sure. His mother shoots them a reproachful look and for a second Jack longs for those times after the rescue that didn’t happen when she’d look at him and smile like he really was a gift from the heavens.
He finds himself alone soon after, staring at the brand new headstone and at his dad’s face on it; he almost screams when a hand tentatively touches his shoulder but then when he turns his back on the grave he meets deep, wide blue eyes again and lets out a breath of relief. Boone is wearing a black suit and a tie and he’s biting his lip and flushing again and Jack can’t avoid thinking he looks just so good briefly before trying to set things straight.
“Oh, hi. I guess you weren’t around by chance, right?”
“Actually... well, it’s two years since Shan... my sister’s dad died. He’s buried here, actually. I brought her here and then saw that there was a funeral and I recognized you, but I didn’t think it would have been appropriate to join, you know.”
Jack nods, even if something doesn’t add up.
“Her dad?”
“Well, she’s my step-sister actually. Was... was it a friend or...”
“No, my father as well.”
“... oh, Christ. I’m sorry, I didn’t get... I really...”
“Hey, it’s okay. Actually, he died in Australia. I was on that plane to bring him back. I’ve had the time to do the whole processing grief thing, or how it’s called.”
Boone lets out half a chuckle and Jack wonders when it was that he actually started to make awful jokes about his dad’s death. Maybe because he had three years to get over it, even if technically he hasn’t.
“Well, still sorry. It’s awful really.”
“Yeah, it... fuck, it sucks,” Jack admits, and it sounds way too much like something he wouldn’t say, but it’s true. It sucks. That’s pretty much it.
“Doesn’t it just. Sorry, it’s just that mine died ages ago but I still remember it and... sorry. This really isn’t the place and I probably should get Shannon. I hope we can get that coffee though. In... better circumstances.”
“I... I hope too. Oh, and this is yours,” Jack adds soon after, taking the pen out of the pocket of his jacket. He’s had it on him since the plane landed, actually.
“Oh, the... keep it. I don’t really need it.”
“You sure?”
“Of course.”
Boone then turns and goes straight to the left; Jack’s hand is shaking again as he puts the pen back in place.
--
Two weeks later, he should get off his night shift at eight AM, but then something happens as usual and it isn’t until ten that he manages to call it a day, or night, or whatever. He walks through the infirmary and then out of an ER waiting room which one day each month is used for donating blood; and then he sees Boone lying on one of the beds, an IV bag slowly filling with red, thick liquid and Jack wants to throw up. But Boone barely looks surprised when he notices him, and actually kind of pleased; Jack comes closer.
“So, you work here?”
“You found me out. So what, you go to marches and you donate blood, too?”
“Kind of. I like to feel useful, you know.”
Something in Jack’s heart breaks at that.
“Anyway, I always do it here. Once every three months, you know.”
“Wow. That’s... that’s great of you.” Lame, but Jack can’t really cope with this. Not now.
“Well, yeah, except that I probably don’t have much use with the kind of blood I got, but still.”
“Why, what kind is it?” Jack asks, knowing he shouldn’t, something getting caught up in his throat and how he wishes to just say everything.
“A negative. Sucks because it only goes to A positives and negatives, you know.”
“Then you’d probably envy me.”
“Why, are you zero negative?”
“... yeah, I am.”
“Well, it... I don’t know. It kind of... suits you or something. I don’t... it just makes sense. Don’t... it sounds crazy, sorry. It’s always that thing on the plane. Like I kinda knew it, but didn’t. Sorry, clearly not having eaten anything and being caffeine-deprived makes me lose any sensible speech pattern.”
“Oh, no. Don’t worry, it... whatever. Just drop it. Listen, what about... I’m off shift. And you’re almost done with that. If we went getting that coffee when you can go?”
Boone’s small smile is actually radiant.
“Sure. Sure, I’d love to.”
--
Jack takes a drink from his cup of black coffee as he sits at the table of the hospital’s cafeteria; Boone is taking small bites from a pancake and equally small sips from a cappuccino. He actually eats very slowly and Jack has to look everywhere but at his mouth. There’s something about those lips around the pancake (which is also covered in raspberry syrup actually) that is making his head dizzy and it isn’t the time when he should be dizzy.
The coffee is bitter on his tongue, and it burns, but Jack feels like he’s washing away alcohol even if he hasn’t drank anything stronger than a coke since he got off the plane.
“... a piece?”
Jack shakes his head and realizes that Boone had been talking.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch it. Long night. What did you say?”
“I just... it looks like you could use something to eat. Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s your breakfast, not mine. And you’re half a liter of blood short.”
“Yeah, but it still looks like you could use eating. Are you sure you don’t...”
“No, thanks. I’ll just grab something at home after I’ve slept this shift off. So, how... I mean, is everything alright?”
Boone winces for a second but then takes another bite and Jacks pretends that he hasn’t seen it.
“Yeah. More or less. Apart from that dream of the plane... I mean, I get it more often than not, but it isn’t even that disturbing. I mean, fuck, one should be disturbed if he dreams he’s dying, right?”
Jack is glad he didn’t get something to eat.
“I figure one should,” and he swallows the last of his coffee. It’s bitter, but it’s just as it should be.
--
The following day, Jack decides he doesn’t have it in him for surgeries or anything too complicated, also because he spent the evening having dinner with Claire and his mother and it was... better not think about it. So he asks if he can get the clinic hours and everyone looks at him like he’s crazy, but he really needs to deal with easy stuff.
He really thinks that someone is having his perverse fun somewhere upstairs when he only has one patient to go and then his shift is over and the last patient is none other than Boone, who has a nasty cut on his cheek, a gash on his forehead and is holding a cloth against both.
He feels a deja vu so strong that he thinks he might faint.
“Looks like it’s destiny that we meet here,” he jokes as Boone sits down on the infirmary bed and Jack proceeds with cleaning the wounds. Both quite recent.
“Don’t tell me about it. Christ, today was just all wrong.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I was... well, I had half a fight with my sister first because... nevermind.”
Jack doesn’t ask. He knows. After all, Shannon had told him the day after the funeral.
“Then I had another with my mother and I really think I should apply for Amnesty soon.”
Jack nods and cleans the cut on the forehead slowly. It’s neat, very neat, and pretty deep.
“What happened there?”
“Beer bottle. I mean, I figured, after such a day I might go and waste myself somewhere, right? Except that I walk into this bar and sit next to this blond guy with a freaking Tennessee accent or whatever it is. And I get that feeling I get with you. Like I know him but I don’t. He looks at me, widens his eyes, says son of a bitch and looks at me like he knows me too. I shake my head and tell him that he must have got the wrong person, he says sure as hell not. Then he says something like you were dead, I answer that thank you very much I’m not planning on dying anytime soon. I was figuring he was drunk, you know?”
Jack shivers and stitches the gash on Boone’s forehead. Then he isn’t the only one.
He should have a talk with Sawyer, but it’s not the main concern now. He thinks he knows how the story goes.
“And then he says that someone was all wrong and that it’s fucking unfair that I don’t remember and he has to, and at that point I was seriously wanting to get out. And then he gave me a punch in the face, I don’t know why, I tried to fight back and then he broke the bottle he was drinking from and someone brought me here. And you know what’s the funniest thing?”
“What?” Jack asks, not trusting his own voice.
“I couldn’t be angry at him. I just... he was so devastated that I just couldn’t. And he reminds me of something too but I just can’t place it and just... fuck, it’s crazy.”
And Jack would really want to say that he’s sorry, but he can’t. He can’t and while knowing that Sawyer remembers too and that of course he’s devastated, it isn’t enough to make him feel sorry for this. Not for Boone’s skin warm under his hands as he carefully stitches the cuts, not when there are those wide, vibrant, alive blue eyes set on him and not when he still remembers blood flowing from his arm into Boone’s for nothing.
If that makes him selfish, well, fine. Just fine.
“There. All done. Be careful not to pull them.”
“Thank you. Well, see you around?”
Boone’s voice sounds almost hopeful and Jack doesn’t meet his eyes as he answers, “Sure.”
--
He goes to change and finds Boone in the entrance of the hospital seemingly fighting with the public phone hanging on the wall. He stays far enough not to hear the conversation, but then Boone slams the phone in its place with a certain rage and Jack can’t help getting closer.
“What’s the matter?”
“What’s.... oh, hi. See you around indeed. Nothing, I’ll just have to find myself an hotel for the night, or so it looks like.”
Jack doesn’t ask why. Maybe it has something to do with Shannon, or maybe not, but he just doesn’t want to dwell about this. Now or never, he thinks.
“Well, I have a free couch if you want to crash there.”
Boone’s eyes widen for a second and he looks at Jack like... like Jack just said that he once died on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere.
“You’re kidding.”
“In fact, I really am not. It’s no problem really, and it’s late anyway, I don’t know how much it’d take to find...”
“Are you really sure?” Boone asks, and Jack is smart enough to sense that this isn’t just about his couch.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
--
Boone doesn’t even have a bag or anything; he made clear that passing from his place wasn’t going to be possible and Jack tries to keep himself from panicking as he hands Boone an old plain t-shirt of his which is way, way too large on him, as the pair of trousers from an equally old tracksuit.
“Will this do?”
“Sure. Thank you, you really didn’t have to, but...”
I had to, Jack thinks, but shrugs and gets out of his living room.
--
Jack knows that there’s a police station near the hospital; if someone brought Boone there, then the bar was near and if someone brought Sawyer somewhere...
He calls the centraline and when he’s connected, he asks the policeman if there’s a James Sawyer Ford in there. When he’s told yes, he asks if he can talk to him.
When Sawyer answers, his voice is venom.
“How the fuck did you know?”
“I was on clinic duty. By the way, hello.”
“Fuck off, Jack. What do you want?”
“To tell you one thing and ask you a couple.”
“Be my guest, Doc.”
“Tomorrow I’m bailing you out, or the day after. When I manage. Don’t ask me why because I doubt you’d want to know it. And about what I need to ask... you remember, don’t you?”
“Seems to me that it’s obvious that I fucking do.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Christ, Doc, he was there and looking fine and not remembering shit and sorry but it isn’t fucking fair and you know it. Why he doesn’t and we do?”
Jack can feel how tense Sawyer’s voice is; if he broke down, Jack wouldn’t be surprised.
“Sawyer...”
“Fuck, I saw her die. It isn’t fair that...”
“Sawyer. You saw her die. But she probably isn't dead right now, if we did this. And if we didn't crash, Ben isn't ever getting cured and she'll probably manage to get back here when he isn't forcing her there. Who knows, she might turn up in Miami in the next sixth months and if everyone who was there remembers and everyone who wasn't doesn't, then she will. And... it'd be your choice, I guess. Hell, if you want to search for her I'll be glad to give you a hand, I owe the both of you this much. And that's about her. But... he died. And I was there and I can fucking assure you that it wasn’t quick, it wasn’t painless and it wasn’t anything anyone would want to remember. I’d be glad not to remember it either. Sorry but I think it’s everything but unfair.”
There’s labored breathing on the other side of the phone.
“You know, I had to give him my own blood because no one fucking knew their type. And he bled on the inside for six hours. And he fucking got a plane falling all over him and he did it so that we could get rescued. And he asked me to let him die. Do you really think it’s unfair that he doesn’t remember it?”
There’s still silence for maybe twenty seconds, and then the voice answering him is just tiredness and not venom anymore.
“You still bailin’ me out?”
“Yeah. Of course I am.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, Jack. Believe me, I know.”
--
Jack changes into some old pajama which is kind of worn thin but at least comfortable; he doesn’t bother for shoes when getting into the kitchen for a glass of water and it was a very, very wrong idea because Boone seemingly had had the exactly same one. Except that he’s wearing just Jack’s shirt and trousers; the first leaves half of his shoulder bare and the latter are way too long and pretty much all over the floor. The cuts look even more red in the neon light and Jack curses the day Sarah wanted neon in the kitchen.
“You wanted a glass of water, too?”
“Yeah, but couldn’t find the glasses.”
Jack shrugs and picks a couple, fills them up, hands one over; his fingers brush against Boone’s and he shivers. The silence is so thick that he almost jumps when Boone settles his glass on the kitchen counter.
“Who was on the phone before?”
Jack suddenly stops dead in his tracks.
“You heard?”
“Just some talking, I didn’t really get anything. Also, it’d be kind of rude, right?”
Jack smiles in relief. “Just... an old friend, I guess.”
“Oh. Well, guess I’ll just go. Thanks again, you really didn’t have to...”
“It’s alright. Really.”
“It’s just that I... it’s crazy, I just can’t...”
“What?”
“There’s something that... how can I explain it, damn... it’s just that since the plane I couldn’t... oh, fuck this.”
When Boone takes a step and kisses him without much frills, mouth against mouth, definitely nothing friendly and definitely not to be mistaken for anything which isn’t what it is, Jack freezes for a split second, but then when he’s about to kiss back Boone’s lips are gone.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...”
“Oh no. You should.”
Jack takes his wrist and doesn’t even try to rationalize it as he kisses Boone again; suddenly arms are around his neck and Boone’s frame melts into his as soft, warm lips open up without an hesitation. Jack’s tongue trails over them tentatively and Boone moans as he brings Jack closer (if closer is possible) and kisses him like it was the last thing he’d ever do. It almost feels desperate and Jack doesn’t do anything to slow it down, not really, not when Boone’s hands are probably leaving bruises on his shoulders and it just feels so good that he can’t not go with it. He places his hands on Boone’s waist pulling him closer and holding him there, his hands going under that shirt and touching warm, soft skin; Boone’s heart is beating wildly against his and Jack feels like crying.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts but at one point their mouths are inches away and their bodies are still melting against each other, and do they fit just perfectly.
“Fuck, I... it was...”
“How it was?”
“Like I had wanted to kiss you since months when I’ve met you three weeks ago or so. And... I just... actually it was since the plane. It’s just crazy, isn’t it?”
“... maybe, yeah,” Jack blurts, realizing what this means.
You just look... I don’t know, familiar?
I wasn’t too freaked out. And it was like I knew that other person would have managed to fix whatever happened, but... I can’t remember already.
I mean, I get it more often than not, but it isn’t even that disturbing. I mean, fuck, one should be disturbed if he dreams he’s dying, right?
Like I had wanted to kiss you since months.
And then Jack thinks, if only I had understood it then, if only, maybe he... and then he shakes his head because it’s not then, it’s here and now and he won’t lose another second.
“Just...” Boone says then, and Jack can see some uncertainity there, and he aches to fix it. “If you’re not sure... I’d get it, but say it now. Because if we... and then... I just had kind of a harsh breakup and I don’t think...”
Jack knows. He remembers what Shannon told him the day after the funeral, when she had tried to shoot Locke and there really wasn’t anyone else to talk to for the both of them.
“Believe me, I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t sure of it.”
He can’t say anything he wishes he could say, not I’m sorry that I didn’t get it before or I know you had and I get it just fine; he settles for obvious, but then Boone kisses him again and Jack drowns in there, not even noticing how hard they’re both getting until it aches. He takes a second to look at Boone; he half-lost his clothes (Jack’s clothes) and he’s actually holding the trousers up while the shirt is leaving all of his shoulder exposed, his face is all different shades of pink, his lips are swollen, his eyes glinting and Jack pushes a vision covered with blood out of his head before his hands are on Boone’s hips again and he realizes they won’t make it out of the kitchen, not like this.
Next thing he knows, he grabbed some oil from a drawer which is thankfully near and when he turns back, Boone is sitting on the kitchen counter and is taking his trousers off, or better, stopping to try to hold them up. He comes closer slowly and places the oil on the table before his hand covers Boone’s cheek and kisses him slowly, without the urgency that was before, and the way Boone’s fingers curl slowly around his neck feels even more intimate, to a degree he thinks he’s terrified to fully understand. It’s too early and too much, and then it becomes faster and Boone is getting rid of his shirt and roaming his hands over Jack’s back and leaving a trail of light kisses over the tattoo on his shoulder; it’s not long before they lose all clothes except for Boone’s shirt which just stays there (Jack thinks that he likes seeing his clothes on Boone, he wishes he knew why but he won’t start fussing about it now) and Boone’s legs are around his waist while Jack pushes slowly in two fingers covered in oil. Boone is moaning in his ear, the sound enough to make Jack harder if it was even possible. And it’s fucking hard not to come on the spot when Boone grabs the bottle from his hands, pours some in his palm and Jack thinks that the noise that came from his throat as Boone’s hand slicks him up was pretty much undignified, but who cares. Really, who cares.
The motions are actually smooth and as Jack slips in slowly thinks that everything is way less awkward than he’d have though; there wasn’t a moment’s hesitation on both parts and maybe it does mean something more than he can grasp but right now thinking isn’t the first priority, not when Boone is just perfectly tight and his nails are digging into Jack’s skin; Jack thinks they’re both beyond coherent speech or at least they reach that point after he starts thrusting harder and when Boone’s hips match his pace. His hand which isn’t bracing them on the counter reaches down and Boone comes with a couple of strokes, he already was at the limit; but Jack was at the limit too and when he hears his name coming from Boone’s lips he gives a last thrust and comes hard, harder than he could remember in a long time which includes the years that didn’t happen.
Maybe it should have happened on a bed and not on his kitchen counter, but he really can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels pretty much sated and everything he wants to do is kiss Boone for a while. Not bad that Boone seemingly has the same intention.
They manage to get from the counter to the bed though, even if definitely some time later; as his back hits the cool sheets underneath, Jack thinks for a second about a time with Kate that didn’t happen and which had been the last; for good, and it hadn’t really been that incredible either, but... it didn’t happen. Not anymore, and when his hand reaches a red bruise on Boone’s hip he can’t take his mind off it.
“You know something funny?”
“What?” Jack answers, his fingers still trailing over the exposed skin.
“Do you know when I started thinking you were familiar?”
“When was it?”
“When I gave you that pen. I mean, it almost felt like you asked for it without actually asking. Crazy, right?”
“Not so much, you know.” Jack’s voice is soft as he raises his eyes and he doesn’t keep any fondness out of his smile. No, not crazy at all, even if he doesn’t think he will ever manage to explain Boone that he had indeed asked, one time that didn’t happen. But this time is happening and for once he fixed things and he’s determined to have them staying this way.
End.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Jack/Boone
Words: 6165
Summary: Daniel's plan worked and Jack remembers everything. Boone doesn't.
Spoilers: heavy for the S5 finale, and I mean it.
Disclaimer: Ha, not mine. This would happen next season.
A/N: birthday fic for elise_509 who left me one of the most delicious prompts I could ask for. Clearly it got completely out of hand but it was in the package. ;) Using for un_love_you #25, you remind me of someone; title from a certain Steve Earle song which I like far too much.
It’s question of a split second.
One moment Jack is wearing a Dharma suit and his hands are gripping Sawyer’s waist, trying to get him away from the trap where Juliet fell; the next one, a blinding white light fills his vision; the next one, he opens his eyes and he’s sitting on a plane that he recognizes beyond doubts as Oceanic Flight 815.
Jack’s hands shake as he looks at his clothes; he’s wearing a suit, good shoes, a shirt, his seatbelt is fastened and that hostess, Cindy, is walking down the aisle.
Jack breathes heavily for a couple of times, the words itworkeditworkeditworkeditworked running through his head in a spinning circle; it’s five minutes before he dares raising his eyes.
It’s the same but not; or at least, the only difference he notices is that Rose isn’t in the seat across the aisle or anywhere to be seen. He spots Sawyer’s head a couple of rows behind him and his heart doesn’t strangely break as he sees Kate sitting in a row ahead with her hands handcuffed and a very alive Edward Mars sitting next to her.
It wasn’t meant to be.
Suddenly he needs to wash his face. He stands up and walks down the aisle in the restroom’s direction; suddenly he hears some chattering and when he turns, he sees that Charlie is deep in conversation with the person sitting next to him, who happens to be Hurley. He smiles just slightly at that, realizing that he really should find Claire as soon as the plane lands. They might have hit reset, but it doesn’t change that he knows now and that she deserves to know that their father is dead. He wonders if she remembers, if they all remember; he figures he’ll find out soon. Even if Charlie and Hurley didn’t seem too freaked out.
He gets back to his seat after washing his face thoroughly in cold water more than once, he still feels blood sticking to his skin; he barely has time to cast a look out of the window when a female and annoyed voice from three or four rows behind screams something about not knowing shit about overstepping boundaries and another voice answers well, Shan, thank you so much and just fuck off.
And there’s the noise of someone standing up and Jack shivers because he recognized the voice just fine and last time he heard it, it said tell Shannon and then nothing and Jack doesn’t think he can...
“Excuse me?”
Jack jerks on his left and well, there he is. Same blue shirt under an orange jacket, jeans, striking blue eyes fixed on his, lips curved in a half-embarrassed smile. Jack half-smiles back, hoping that it doesn’t show that his hands are shaking again.
“Yeah?”
“Do you... uhm, I just... the place next to you is empty and... would you mind if I...”
“Oh, sure.”
Jack unfastens his belt, stands up and lets Boone pass; when he sits down again, he feels a bit more calm. Not when Boone mouths thanks and smiles at him for a second though; Jack feels shivers and doesn’t know if he can make it through this trip now. Also because it’s kind of obvious that if someone else apart from him remembers something, well, it’s not Boone. Which maybe is actually a good thing because he’s sure no one wants to remember their death.
He shakes his head and reaches for the plane magazine in front of him; the date says September 2004. He flips through a couple of services on Australia’s natural beauty, an interview with Nicole Kidman asking her about her sentimental life, the list of jewels/parfumes/alcohol he could buy if he wished to, and sees that there’s a crossword in the end.
Well, why not. It might take his mind off the fact that a person who basically died in his arms before he set the clock back is sitting in the place next to him.
He searches for a pen in the pocket of his suit jacket only to realize he doesn’t have one; he almost curses when a hand lands softly on his shoulder.
“Hey, do you... do you need a pen?”
Jack turns to his right as Boone searches for something in the pocket of his jeans and comes out with two ballpoint pens, a blue one and a black one.
“Just see which one works best.”
Something gets caught in Jack’s throat then, and he honestly feels like he could cry. He should have imagined it was bound to happen this way again, but as he wraps his fingers around both of the pens, his skin slightly brushing Boone’s, he can’t help smiling genuinely and probably way too fondly. If only Boone knew.
“I’m sure they’ll be perfect. Thank you.”
Boone nods at him and slightly blushes even more so as Jack tries the pens on the magazine and gives him back the blue one; as he watches Boone put it back in place from the corner of his eye, Jack feels selfishly and pretty much fucking happy that they did it and that it worked.
--
Jack is halfway through the crossword and stuck on damned 16 vertical. He mutters something under his breath, turning the pen between his fingers.
“Hey, do you... uhm... I’m not that good at crosswords, but maybe...”
“Well, it’s kinda... I don’t know why the hell should they ask this in a crossword on Oceanic magazine but... wedding company based in Southern California, seven letters, starts with C...”
“Carlyle.”
“Oh, wow. Thanks. How did you...”
“My mother owns it.”
Boone looks actually half-ashamed as he admits it; Jack hadn’t known or remembered, but he does remember Sabrina Carlyle from when they were rescued and he can’t help noticing again just how different they are.
“Oh. Wow, well, that was some luck I guess. I take that you could also tell me 42 horizontal, maybe?”
“Well, I could try.”
“Pearl Jam’s lead singer, full name, starts with...”
“Eddie Vedder, man. You really didn’t know it?”
Jack has to blush himself there.
“No, not really. I’m not that great music person.”
“Well, I guess the world is beautiful because it’s made of different people, right? Also, since you know my surname by this point, I think we could actually... uhm...”
Boone suddenly looks not too sure of the advance and Jack is quick at holding his hand out to shake.
“Of course. I’m Jack. If you want the surname, too, to be even... Jack Shephard. Nice to meet you.”
“Well, you already know the Carlyle part, right? I’m Boone.”
As Boone takes his hand and shakes it, Jack bites his tongue in order not to say I know.
--
It’s another two hours of casual remarks and silence before Jack manages to finish the crossword, mostly because he was barely thinking about it; and suddenly he realizes something and turns to his right just to find Boone looking intently at him.
He stops it before Boone can start apologizing.
“Hey, it’s fine. Just, is there any particular reason?”
Boone sighs and leans back in his seat.
“I... God, if I tell you, you’d probably take me for crazy.”
“Try me,” Jack thinks. Maybe he does remember.
“It’s just... it’s like you reminded me of someone I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure I never met you anywhere before and I don’t think I know anyone else who looks like you, but you just look... I don’t know, familiar? Sorry, it doesn’t make sense. I probably sound like a freak.”
Except you aren’t, Jack thinks. Of course. I remind you of me, and how is he supposed to explain that this plane once crashed and that they survived but then Boone didn’t fall of a cliff and died in front of him? And of course Boone thinks he feels familiar. When someone is attached to your hip during the six hours it takes you to die, he’s bound to feel familiar even if Jack has hit reset.
“Oh, you don’t. I mean, it happens. Who know, maybe we bumped into each other at the supermarket once.”
Boone laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, that wouldn’t exactly make you familiar. Or would it?”
“Who knows. Maybe,” Jack answers, and if only he could say the truth. If only. But he won’t.
--
It’s another two hours and one to go before the flight lands. Boone ended up sleeping on his seat and Jack has barely looked in his direction. Fine, he’s alright and breathing and everything, but he can’t exactly see Boone with closed eyes. Not yet.
He thinks about Juliet and Desmond and Ben. The plane is almost arrived and it obviously won’t crash; Ben will probably die in a couple of weeks and Juliet maybe will manage to leave and Desmond... maybe Desmond will crash another plane. Or definitely go crazy in there. Or...
Jack thinks that maybe he should give Penny Widmore a call, when he’s back in Los Angeles. Even if by all sense he should try to leave this all behind and just start from scratch.
And then he hears a small whimper coming from his side. And then another. Jack turns and Boone is stirring in his sleep, his lips tight against each other, his expression distressed; when he winces visibly, Jack places a hand on his wrist and Boone’s eyes jerk open.
“What...”
“It... looked like you weren’t having a good time.”
“Fuck, no. What a fucked up dream. Sorry if...”
“No problem. I just thought I’d wake you up. Though, if you want to talk about it...”
Jack bites his lip soon after; dammit, he needs to stop forgetting they don’t really know each other. But Boone looks mostly amused, even if he’s kind of pale.
“What, are you a psychologist?”
“No, I’m a surgeon. But I did take a psychology class, it was required.”
“Well, it... I don’t know. Was weird. I just... it was like I was in a jungle and falling from somwhere, and then there was blood everywhere and I could taste it in my mouth, but I couldn’t really get what was going on. And then there was someone asking me my blood type and saying they were going to save my life and then I woke up. It was... I mean, it wasn’t pleasant, but it was also kind of familiar. I wasn’t too freaked out. And it was like I knew that other person would have managed to fix whatever happened, but... I can’t remember already. Sorry. Weird, right?”
“Yeah,” Jack answers, blinking desperately and curling the hand Boone can’t see into a fist so tight it hurts. “Very weird indeed.”
--
When they get the message saying to fasten their seatbelts, Jack lets out a breath of relief. As soon as it lands they’ll be safe and...
“Hey, do you live in Los Angeles?”
“Excuse... yeah. Yeah, I do. Any particular reason?”
Boone’s cheeks flush pink and Jack can’t really get why he’s getting so worked up. Because he is.
“I just... uhm, thought we could... sometime... I don’t know, grab a cup of coffee? Just... sorry if...”
“Oh, well, I’d... I’d like it. Really, I would.”
And he isn’t lying. Right now he indeed would. Anything just to keep the miracle in front of his eyes happening.
“Great. Wow. I mean, that’s good. Well, this is my number. For, anything.”
Boone hands him a business card and Jack frowns when he sees what’s written on it.
“You work for the wedding company?”
“Yeah. I don’t exactly like it, but... it gives me some money to put aside. Why, what do I look like?”
“Like someone who works for Amnesty International and goes to marches,” and Jack would really like to throw himself out of this freaking plane now because he’s really pushing this too far.
Boone’s eyes widen.
“Why... how did you know?”
“What, about Amnesty International?”
“I wish I worked there. No, about the marches.”
“Oh. Well, uhm...”
Jack tries to find some suitable explanation because fuck, you just can’t tell someone that he looks like the person who goes marching and sure as hell he can’t tell him of how Charlie had reported the whole marches incident three days after they were back from that hike. And then he notices and relaxes.
“Well, you’ve got a peace symbol pendant there. I figured it wasn’t for show.”
Jack tries not to think too much about how pleased Boone looks as Jack gives him his own business card.
--
There’s the funeral and Jack finds it almost strange not to see Sayid and Kate and Nadia in the crowd; Claire is there though, and she actually did listen to him when he stopped her at the airport and right now she’s running a hand over her swollen belly. Jack feels somewhat grateful even if he avoids looking at his mother.
And then Christian’s body is buried (buried for good runs through his head) and everyone leaves; Claire goes to her hotel and says she’ll call one of these days and Jack answers sure. His mother shoots them a reproachful look and for a second Jack longs for those times after the rescue that didn’t happen when she’d look at him and smile like he really was a gift from the heavens.
He finds himself alone soon after, staring at the brand new headstone and at his dad’s face on it; he almost screams when a hand tentatively touches his shoulder but then when he turns his back on the grave he meets deep, wide blue eyes again and lets out a breath of relief. Boone is wearing a black suit and a tie and he’s biting his lip and flushing again and Jack can’t avoid thinking he looks just so good briefly before trying to set things straight.
“Oh, hi. I guess you weren’t around by chance, right?”
“Actually... well, it’s two years since Shan... my sister’s dad died. He’s buried here, actually. I brought her here and then saw that there was a funeral and I recognized you, but I didn’t think it would have been appropriate to join, you know.”
Jack nods, even if something doesn’t add up.
“Her dad?”
“Well, she’s my step-sister actually. Was... was it a friend or...”
“No, my father as well.”
“... oh, Christ. I’m sorry, I didn’t get... I really...”
“Hey, it’s okay. Actually, he died in Australia. I was on that plane to bring him back. I’ve had the time to do the whole processing grief thing, or how it’s called.”
Boone lets out half a chuckle and Jack wonders when it was that he actually started to make awful jokes about his dad’s death. Maybe because he had three years to get over it, even if technically he hasn’t.
“Well, still sorry. It’s awful really.”
“Yeah, it... fuck, it sucks,” Jack admits, and it sounds way too much like something he wouldn’t say, but it’s true. It sucks. That’s pretty much it.
“Doesn’t it just. Sorry, it’s just that mine died ages ago but I still remember it and... sorry. This really isn’t the place and I probably should get Shannon. I hope we can get that coffee though. In... better circumstances.”
“I... I hope too. Oh, and this is yours,” Jack adds soon after, taking the pen out of the pocket of his jacket. He’s had it on him since the plane landed, actually.
“Oh, the... keep it. I don’t really need it.”
“You sure?”
“Of course.”
Boone then turns and goes straight to the left; Jack’s hand is shaking again as he puts the pen back in place.
--
Two weeks later, he should get off his night shift at eight AM, but then something happens as usual and it isn’t until ten that he manages to call it a day, or night, or whatever. He walks through the infirmary and then out of an ER waiting room which one day each month is used for donating blood; and then he sees Boone lying on one of the beds, an IV bag slowly filling with red, thick liquid and Jack wants to throw up. But Boone barely looks surprised when he notices him, and actually kind of pleased; Jack comes closer.
“So, you work here?”
“You found me out. So what, you go to marches and you donate blood, too?”
“Kind of. I like to feel useful, you know.”
Something in Jack’s heart breaks at that.
“Anyway, I always do it here. Once every three months, you know.”
“Wow. That’s... that’s great of you.” Lame, but Jack can’t really cope with this. Not now.
“Well, yeah, except that I probably don’t have much use with the kind of blood I got, but still.”
“Why, what kind is it?” Jack asks, knowing he shouldn’t, something getting caught up in his throat and how he wishes to just say everything.
“A negative. Sucks because it only goes to A positives and negatives, you know.”
“Then you’d probably envy me.”
“Why, are you zero negative?”
“... yeah, I am.”
“Well, it... I don’t know. It kind of... suits you or something. I don’t... it just makes sense. Don’t... it sounds crazy, sorry. It’s always that thing on the plane. Like I kinda knew it, but didn’t. Sorry, clearly not having eaten anything and being caffeine-deprived makes me lose any sensible speech pattern.”
“Oh, no. Don’t worry, it... whatever. Just drop it. Listen, what about... I’m off shift. And you’re almost done with that. If we went getting that coffee when you can go?”
Boone’s small smile is actually radiant.
“Sure. Sure, I’d love to.”
--
Jack takes a drink from his cup of black coffee as he sits at the table of the hospital’s cafeteria; Boone is taking small bites from a pancake and equally small sips from a cappuccino. He actually eats very slowly and Jack has to look everywhere but at his mouth. There’s something about those lips around the pancake (which is also covered in raspberry syrup actually) that is making his head dizzy and it isn’t the time when he should be dizzy.
The coffee is bitter on his tongue, and it burns, but Jack feels like he’s washing away alcohol even if he hasn’t drank anything stronger than a coke since he got off the plane.
“... a piece?”
Jack shakes his head and realizes that Boone had been talking.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch it. Long night. What did you say?”
“I just... it looks like you could use something to eat. Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s your breakfast, not mine. And you’re half a liter of blood short.”
“Yeah, but it still looks like you could use eating. Are you sure you don’t...”
“No, thanks. I’ll just grab something at home after I’ve slept this shift off. So, how... I mean, is everything alright?”
Boone winces for a second but then takes another bite and Jacks pretends that he hasn’t seen it.
“Yeah. More or less. Apart from that dream of the plane... I mean, I get it more often than not, but it isn’t even that disturbing. I mean, fuck, one should be disturbed if he dreams he’s dying, right?”
Jack is glad he didn’t get something to eat.
“I figure one should,” and he swallows the last of his coffee. It’s bitter, but it’s just as it should be.
--
The following day, Jack decides he doesn’t have it in him for surgeries or anything too complicated, also because he spent the evening having dinner with Claire and his mother and it was... better not think about it. So he asks if he can get the clinic hours and everyone looks at him like he’s crazy, but he really needs to deal with easy stuff.
He really thinks that someone is having his perverse fun somewhere upstairs when he only has one patient to go and then his shift is over and the last patient is none other than Boone, who has a nasty cut on his cheek, a gash on his forehead and is holding a cloth against both.
He feels a deja vu so strong that he thinks he might faint.
“Looks like it’s destiny that we meet here,” he jokes as Boone sits down on the infirmary bed and Jack proceeds with cleaning the wounds. Both quite recent.
“Don’t tell me about it. Christ, today was just all wrong.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I was... well, I had half a fight with my sister first because... nevermind.”
Jack doesn’t ask. He knows. After all, Shannon had told him the day after the funeral.
“Then I had another with my mother and I really think I should apply for Amnesty soon.”
Jack nods and cleans the cut on the forehead slowly. It’s neat, very neat, and pretty deep.
“What happened there?”
“Beer bottle. I mean, I figured, after such a day I might go and waste myself somewhere, right? Except that I walk into this bar and sit next to this blond guy with a freaking Tennessee accent or whatever it is. And I get that feeling I get with you. Like I know him but I don’t. He looks at me, widens his eyes, says son of a bitch and looks at me like he knows me too. I shake my head and tell him that he must have got the wrong person, he says sure as hell not. Then he says something like you were dead, I answer that thank you very much I’m not planning on dying anytime soon. I was figuring he was drunk, you know?”
Jack shivers and stitches the gash on Boone’s forehead. Then he isn’t the only one.
He should have a talk with Sawyer, but it’s not the main concern now. He thinks he knows how the story goes.
“And then he says that someone was all wrong and that it’s fucking unfair that I don’t remember and he has to, and at that point I was seriously wanting to get out. And then he gave me a punch in the face, I don’t know why, I tried to fight back and then he broke the bottle he was drinking from and someone brought me here. And you know what’s the funniest thing?”
“What?” Jack asks, not trusting his own voice.
“I couldn’t be angry at him. I just... he was so devastated that I just couldn’t. And he reminds me of something too but I just can’t place it and just... fuck, it’s crazy.”
And Jack would really want to say that he’s sorry, but he can’t. He can’t and while knowing that Sawyer remembers too and that of course he’s devastated, it isn’t enough to make him feel sorry for this. Not for Boone’s skin warm under his hands as he carefully stitches the cuts, not when there are those wide, vibrant, alive blue eyes set on him and not when he still remembers blood flowing from his arm into Boone’s for nothing.
If that makes him selfish, well, fine. Just fine.
“There. All done. Be careful not to pull them.”
“Thank you. Well, see you around?”
Boone’s voice sounds almost hopeful and Jack doesn’t meet his eyes as he answers, “Sure.”
--
He goes to change and finds Boone in the entrance of the hospital seemingly fighting with the public phone hanging on the wall. He stays far enough not to hear the conversation, but then Boone slams the phone in its place with a certain rage and Jack can’t help getting closer.
“What’s the matter?”
“What’s.... oh, hi. See you around indeed. Nothing, I’ll just have to find myself an hotel for the night, or so it looks like.”
Jack doesn’t ask why. Maybe it has something to do with Shannon, or maybe not, but he just doesn’t want to dwell about this. Now or never, he thinks.
“Well, I have a free couch if you want to crash there.”
Boone’s eyes widen for a second and he looks at Jack like... like Jack just said that he once died on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere.
“You’re kidding.”
“In fact, I really am not. It’s no problem really, and it’s late anyway, I don’t know how much it’d take to find...”
“Are you really sure?” Boone asks, and Jack is smart enough to sense that this isn’t just about his couch.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
--
Boone doesn’t even have a bag or anything; he made clear that passing from his place wasn’t going to be possible and Jack tries to keep himself from panicking as he hands Boone an old plain t-shirt of his which is way, way too large on him, as the pair of trousers from an equally old tracksuit.
“Will this do?”
“Sure. Thank you, you really didn’t have to, but...”
I had to, Jack thinks, but shrugs and gets out of his living room.
--
Jack knows that there’s a police station near the hospital; if someone brought Boone there, then the bar was near and if someone brought Sawyer somewhere...
He calls the centraline and when he’s connected, he asks the policeman if there’s a James Sawyer Ford in there. When he’s told yes, he asks if he can talk to him.
When Sawyer answers, his voice is venom.
“How the fuck did you know?”
“I was on clinic duty. By the way, hello.”
“Fuck off, Jack. What do you want?”
“To tell you one thing and ask you a couple.”
“Be my guest, Doc.”
“Tomorrow I’m bailing you out, or the day after. When I manage. Don’t ask me why because I doubt you’d want to know it. And about what I need to ask... you remember, don’t you?”
“Seems to me that it’s obvious that I fucking do.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Christ, Doc, he was there and looking fine and not remembering shit and sorry but it isn’t fucking fair and you know it. Why he doesn’t and we do?”
Jack can feel how tense Sawyer’s voice is; if he broke down, Jack wouldn’t be surprised.
“Sawyer...”
“Fuck, I saw her die. It isn’t fair that...”
“Sawyer. You saw her die. But she probably isn't dead right now, if we did this. And if we didn't crash, Ben isn't ever getting cured and she'll probably manage to get back here when he isn't forcing her there. Who knows, she might turn up in Miami in the next sixth months and if everyone who was there remembers and everyone who wasn't doesn't, then she will. And... it'd be your choice, I guess. Hell, if you want to search for her I'll be glad to give you a hand, I owe the both of you this much. And that's about her. But... he died. And I was there and I can fucking assure you that it wasn’t quick, it wasn’t painless and it wasn’t anything anyone would want to remember. I’d be glad not to remember it either. Sorry but I think it’s everything but unfair.”
There’s labored breathing on the other side of the phone.
“You know, I had to give him my own blood because no one fucking knew their type. And he bled on the inside for six hours. And he fucking got a plane falling all over him and he did it so that we could get rescued. And he asked me to let him die. Do you really think it’s unfair that he doesn’t remember it?”
There’s still silence for maybe twenty seconds, and then the voice answering him is just tiredness and not venom anymore.
“You still bailin’ me out?”
“Yeah. Of course I am.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, Jack. Believe me, I know.”
--
Jack changes into some old pajama which is kind of worn thin but at least comfortable; he doesn’t bother for shoes when getting into the kitchen for a glass of water and it was a very, very wrong idea because Boone seemingly had had the exactly same one. Except that he’s wearing just Jack’s shirt and trousers; the first leaves half of his shoulder bare and the latter are way too long and pretty much all over the floor. The cuts look even more red in the neon light and Jack curses the day Sarah wanted neon in the kitchen.
“You wanted a glass of water, too?”
“Yeah, but couldn’t find the glasses.”
Jack shrugs and picks a couple, fills them up, hands one over; his fingers brush against Boone’s and he shivers. The silence is so thick that he almost jumps when Boone settles his glass on the kitchen counter.
“Who was on the phone before?”
Jack suddenly stops dead in his tracks.
“You heard?”
“Just some talking, I didn’t really get anything. Also, it’d be kind of rude, right?”
Jack smiles in relief. “Just... an old friend, I guess.”
“Oh. Well, guess I’ll just go. Thanks again, you really didn’t have to...”
“It’s alright. Really.”
“It’s just that I... it’s crazy, I just can’t...”
“What?”
“There’s something that... how can I explain it, damn... it’s just that since the plane I couldn’t... oh, fuck this.”
When Boone takes a step and kisses him without much frills, mouth against mouth, definitely nothing friendly and definitely not to be mistaken for anything which isn’t what it is, Jack freezes for a split second, but then when he’s about to kiss back Boone’s lips are gone.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...”
“Oh no. You should.”
Jack takes his wrist and doesn’t even try to rationalize it as he kisses Boone again; suddenly arms are around his neck and Boone’s frame melts into his as soft, warm lips open up without an hesitation. Jack’s tongue trails over them tentatively and Boone moans as he brings Jack closer (if closer is possible) and kisses him like it was the last thing he’d ever do. It almost feels desperate and Jack doesn’t do anything to slow it down, not really, not when Boone’s hands are probably leaving bruises on his shoulders and it just feels so good that he can’t not go with it. He places his hands on Boone’s waist pulling him closer and holding him there, his hands going under that shirt and touching warm, soft skin; Boone’s heart is beating wildly against his and Jack feels like crying.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts but at one point their mouths are inches away and their bodies are still melting against each other, and do they fit just perfectly.
“Fuck, I... it was...”
“How it was?”
“Like I had wanted to kiss you since months when I’ve met you three weeks ago or so. And... I just... actually it was since the plane. It’s just crazy, isn’t it?”
“... maybe, yeah,” Jack blurts, realizing what this means.
You just look... I don’t know, familiar?
I wasn’t too freaked out. And it was like I knew that other person would have managed to fix whatever happened, but... I can’t remember already.
I mean, I get it more often than not, but it isn’t even that disturbing. I mean, fuck, one should be disturbed if he dreams he’s dying, right?
Like I had wanted to kiss you since months.
And then Jack thinks, if only I had understood it then, if only, maybe he... and then he shakes his head because it’s not then, it’s here and now and he won’t lose another second.
“Just...” Boone says then, and Jack can see some uncertainity there, and he aches to fix it. “If you’re not sure... I’d get it, but say it now. Because if we... and then... I just had kind of a harsh breakup and I don’t think...”
Jack knows. He remembers what Shannon told him the day after the funeral, when she had tried to shoot Locke and there really wasn’t anyone else to talk to for the both of them.
“Believe me, I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t sure of it.”
He can’t say anything he wishes he could say, not I’m sorry that I didn’t get it before or I know you had and I get it just fine; he settles for obvious, but then Boone kisses him again and Jack drowns in there, not even noticing how hard they’re both getting until it aches. He takes a second to look at Boone; he half-lost his clothes (Jack’s clothes) and he’s actually holding the trousers up while the shirt is leaving all of his shoulder exposed, his face is all different shades of pink, his lips are swollen, his eyes glinting and Jack pushes a vision covered with blood out of his head before his hands are on Boone’s hips again and he realizes they won’t make it out of the kitchen, not like this.
Next thing he knows, he grabbed some oil from a drawer which is thankfully near and when he turns back, Boone is sitting on the kitchen counter and is taking his trousers off, or better, stopping to try to hold them up. He comes closer slowly and places the oil on the table before his hand covers Boone’s cheek and kisses him slowly, without the urgency that was before, and the way Boone’s fingers curl slowly around his neck feels even more intimate, to a degree he thinks he’s terrified to fully understand. It’s too early and too much, and then it becomes faster and Boone is getting rid of his shirt and roaming his hands over Jack’s back and leaving a trail of light kisses over the tattoo on his shoulder; it’s not long before they lose all clothes except for Boone’s shirt which just stays there (Jack thinks that he likes seeing his clothes on Boone, he wishes he knew why but he won’t start fussing about it now) and Boone’s legs are around his waist while Jack pushes slowly in two fingers covered in oil. Boone is moaning in his ear, the sound enough to make Jack harder if it was even possible. And it’s fucking hard not to come on the spot when Boone grabs the bottle from his hands, pours some in his palm and Jack thinks that the noise that came from his throat as Boone’s hand slicks him up was pretty much undignified, but who cares. Really, who cares.
The motions are actually smooth and as Jack slips in slowly thinks that everything is way less awkward than he’d have though; there wasn’t a moment’s hesitation on both parts and maybe it does mean something more than he can grasp but right now thinking isn’t the first priority, not when Boone is just perfectly tight and his nails are digging into Jack’s skin; Jack thinks they’re both beyond coherent speech or at least they reach that point after he starts thrusting harder and when Boone’s hips match his pace. His hand which isn’t bracing them on the counter reaches down and Boone comes with a couple of strokes, he already was at the limit; but Jack was at the limit too and when he hears his name coming from Boone’s lips he gives a last thrust and comes hard, harder than he could remember in a long time which includes the years that didn’t happen.
Maybe it should have happened on a bed and not on his kitchen counter, but he really can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels pretty much sated and everything he wants to do is kiss Boone for a while. Not bad that Boone seemingly has the same intention.
They manage to get from the counter to the bed though, even if definitely some time later; as his back hits the cool sheets underneath, Jack thinks for a second about a time with Kate that didn’t happen and which had been the last; for good, and it hadn’t really been that incredible either, but... it didn’t happen. Not anymore, and when his hand reaches a red bruise on Boone’s hip he can’t take his mind off it.
“You know something funny?”
“What?” Jack answers, his fingers still trailing over the exposed skin.
“Do you know when I started thinking you were familiar?”
“When was it?”
“When I gave you that pen. I mean, it almost felt like you asked for it without actually asking. Crazy, right?”
“Not so much, you know.” Jack’s voice is soft as he raises his eyes and he doesn’t keep any fondness out of his smile. No, not crazy at all, even if he doesn’t think he will ever manage to explain Boone that he had indeed asked, one time that didn’t happen. But this time is happening and for once he fixed things and he’s determined to have them staying this way.
End.