Lost Fic: keep the car running (Jack/Sawyer)
Title: keep the car running
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R (sex)
Words: 900
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Title from the Arcade Fire song.
Summary: Jack always finds him, but it’s not like Sawyer’s doing much hiding. AU season four.
A/N: Written for Queens invisiblelove and ciaimpala who requested “Jack” and “Reunions”. I hope you ladies don’t mind sharing. <3
The sign reads welcome to Alabama.
Jack smirks despite himself, he’s not so sure a welcome is what he’s going to receive today.
The time for worrying passed at least fifty miles back though, so he rolls down his windows and lets the humid, summer heat flow through the car, keeps driving towards his destination as Zeppelin blasts from the speakers.
*
The house is small, white paint chipping from the walls, grass too high. Jack bangs on the screen door and listens to the sound of heavy feet lumbering towards him. He sees Sawyer’s boots first, caked with mud, a hole beginning to wear at the toe. It makes Jack unreasonably happy that he still hasn’t thrown them out.
Jack imagines the dirt is from the island, still clinging to the soles of Sawyer’s shoes somehow, just like it seems to be clinging to everything Jack touches these days.
Sawyer swears when he sees him, doesn’t even bother to hide his surprise.
“Son of a bitch, Doc. What the hell happened to you?”
Jack runs a hand over the three days worth of stumble on his chin and shrugs.
“It was a long drive.”
*
Sawyer invites him in, pours him a glass of sweet tea that’s far too strong to be called sweet. It’s bitter on Jack’s tongue, but it’s cold and that’s good enough. The living room is piled high with things, remnants of a life being stuffed hastily into trash bags and boxes.
“How’d you find me?”
He always asks.
This time there was an obituary, a couple dozen phone calls, a check written out to the right name---Sawyer is the most elusive of the Oceanic survivors, it drives the media nuts, but Jack takes great pleasure in turning finding him into an art form.
“The papers found out about your uncle. I’m sorry, by the way.”
“Ain’t like we were close,” Sawyer says. “Didn’t stop him from leaving me his fortune though. I got myself a genuine color TV and a whole cabinet full of collectible plates. Looks like I can retire early after all.”
Jack snorts and Sawyer leans back in a dust covered chair, his smile slowly fading.
“I haven’t set foot in this house since I was fifteen years old, Doc.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Sawyer shakes his head.
“Not a damn thing.”
*
Sawyer doesn’t ask about Kate. Jack doesn’t ask about anything.
Sawyer offers him something anyway.
“Stopped by Albuquerque a few weeks ago.”
He pulls a folded picture of a smiling little girl out of his wallet and Jack flinches. He’s got one of those too, only his is of a little boy whose mother never came home.
“She’s beautiful,” Jack says.
Sawyer stuffs the picture back in his wallet, his eyes suddenly sharp.
“Yes she is.”
*
They spend the night fucking on the hardwood floor between boxes of plaid shirts and twenty years worth of Sports Illustrated magazines. Jack falls asleep listening to the constant rattle of the ceiling fan and the steady rhythm of Sawyer’s breathing. It’s the first night in two months he hasn’t reached for a bottle to lull him to sleep.
He wakes up to the sound of a whistle echoing in the distance. Sawyer feels him jump and wraps a hand around his arm.
“It’s just the train,” he mumbles. “The tracks are behind the house.”
Jack relaxes against him, listening as the train disappears into the night.
He turns to Sawyer in the darkness and Sawyer looks away.
“Don’t say it, Jack.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“Go back to your fucking play house and live your damn life. It ain’t that complicated, Doc.”
“We have to,” Jack says quietly.
“I don’t have to do anything,” Sawyer shoots back.
Jack wants to say come with me, but he’s said it before. In Los Angeles, over beers in Detroit, against Sawyer’s ear right before he came all over the sheets in a dirt cheep roadside hotel outside of Pittsburg. The answer never changes.
“I ain’t going back. I didn’t lose anything on that rock.”
Jack chuckles like it’s funny, reaches around Sawyer’s back and wraps a hand around Sawyer’s cock making him hiss.
“That makes one of us.”
*
They leave early the next morning. Sawyer takes nothing with him as far as Jack can tell, just sets what’s left of his uncle’s life by the curb.
“Where are you heading?” Jack asks.
Sawyer leans against his car door and flashes Jack a grin, dimples and all.
“I could tell you, but that’d take all the fun out of it.”
“What if I stop looking for you?”
“That don’t exactly seem likely to me.”
Jack extends a hand and they shake. Anyone watching them would think it was a formal gesture, but Sawyer’s rubbing a rough thumb over the back of Jack’s hand and Jack’s holding on for dear life.
“I could come with you,” Jack says.
Sawyer lets go and climbs into his car.
“No, you couldn’t. I’ll see you around, Doc.”
“Take care of yourself, Sawyer.”
He nods once before driving away. Jack thinks he sees him glancing back in his rearview mirror, but he doesn’t stop.
*
Jack ignores the sweat dripping down his back, soaking his t-shirt, and concentrates on the road in front of him. He’s ten miles outside of Alabama when his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID and smiles.
“It starts with an “M”,” Sawyer says when Jack answers.
“What does?”
“The state I’m in.”
“I’ll see you soon, Sawyer.”
Jack tosses his cell phone on the passenger seat and starts driving towards Mississippi.
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R (sex)
Words: 900
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Title from the Arcade Fire song.
Summary: Jack always finds him, but it’s not like Sawyer’s doing much hiding. AU season four.
A/N: Written for Queens invisiblelove and ciaimpala who requested “Jack” and “Reunions”. I hope you ladies don’t mind sharing. <3
The sign reads welcome to Alabama.
Jack smirks despite himself, he’s not so sure a welcome is what he’s going to receive today.
The time for worrying passed at least fifty miles back though, so he rolls down his windows and lets the humid, summer heat flow through the car, keeps driving towards his destination as Zeppelin blasts from the speakers.
*
The house is small, white paint chipping from the walls, grass too high. Jack bangs on the screen door and listens to the sound of heavy feet lumbering towards him. He sees Sawyer’s boots first, caked with mud, a hole beginning to wear at the toe. It makes Jack unreasonably happy that he still hasn’t thrown them out.
Jack imagines the dirt is from the island, still clinging to the soles of Sawyer’s shoes somehow, just like it seems to be clinging to everything Jack touches these days.
Sawyer swears when he sees him, doesn’t even bother to hide his surprise.
“Son of a bitch, Doc. What the hell happened to you?”
Jack runs a hand over the three days worth of stumble on his chin and shrugs.
“It was a long drive.”
*
Sawyer invites him in, pours him a glass of sweet tea that’s far too strong to be called sweet. It’s bitter on Jack’s tongue, but it’s cold and that’s good enough. The living room is piled high with things, remnants of a life being stuffed hastily into trash bags and boxes.
“How’d you find me?”
He always asks.
This time there was an obituary, a couple dozen phone calls, a check written out to the right name---Sawyer is the most elusive of the Oceanic survivors, it drives the media nuts, but Jack takes great pleasure in turning finding him into an art form.
“The papers found out about your uncle. I’m sorry, by the way.”
“Ain’t like we were close,” Sawyer says. “Didn’t stop him from leaving me his fortune though. I got myself a genuine color TV and a whole cabinet full of collectible plates. Looks like I can retire early after all.”
Jack snorts and Sawyer leans back in a dust covered chair, his smile slowly fading.
“I haven’t set foot in this house since I was fifteen years old, Doc.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Sawyer shakes his head.
“Not a damn thing.”
*
Sawyer doesn’t ask about Kate. Jack doesn’t ask about anything.
Sawyer offers him something anyway.
“Stopped by Albuquerque a few weeks ago.”
He pulls a folded picture of a smiling little girl out of his wallet and Jack flinches. He’s got one of those too, only his is of a little boy whose mother never came home.
“She’s beautiful,” Jack says.
Sawyer stuffs the picture back in his wallet, his eyes suddenly sharp.
“Yes she is.”
*
They spend the night fucking on the hardwood floor between boxes of plaid shirts and twenty years worth of Sports Illustrated magazines. Jack falls asleep listening to the constant rattle of the ceiling fan and the steady rhythm of Sawyer’s breathing. It’s the first night in two months he hasn’t reached for a bottle to lull him to sleep.
He wakes up to the sound of a whistle echoing in the distance. Sawyer feels him jump and wraps a hand around his arm.
“It’s just the train,” he mumbles. “The tracks are behind the house.”
Jack relaxes against him, listening as the train disappears into the night.
He turns to Sawyer in the darkness and Sawyer looks away.
“Don’t say it, Jack.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“Go back to your fucking play house and live your damn life. It ain’t that complicated, Doc.”
“We have to,” Jack says quietly.
“I don’t have to do anything,” Sawyer shoots back.
Jack wants to say come with me, but he’s said it before. In Los Angeles, over beers in Detroit, against Sawyer’s ear right before he came all over the sheets in a dirt cheep roadside hotel outside of Pittsburg. The answer never changes.
“I ain’t going back. I didn’t lose anything on that rock.”
Jack chuckles like it’s funny, reaches around Sawyer’s back and wraps a hand around Sawyer’s cock making him hiss.
“That makes one of us.”
*
They leave early the next morning. Sawyer takes nothing with him as far as Jack can tell, just sets what’s left of his uncle’s life by the curb.
“Where are you heading?” Jack asks.
Sawyer leans against his car door and flashes Jack a grin, dimples and all.
“I could tell you, but that’d take all the fun out of it.”
“What if I stop looking for you?”
“That don’t exactly seem likely to me.”
Jack extends a hand and they shake. Anyone watching them would think it was a formal gesture, but Sawyer’s rubbing a rough thumb over the back of Jack’s hand and Jack’s holding on for dear life.
“I could come with you,” Jack says.
Sawyer lets go and climbs into his car.
“No, you couldn’t. I’ll see you around, Doc.”
“Take care of yourself, Sawyer.”
He nods once before driving away. Jack thinks he sees him glancing back in his rearview mirror, but he doesn’t stop.
*
Jack ignores the sweat dripping down his back, soaking his t-shirt, and concentrates on the road in front of him. He’s ten miles outside of Alabama when his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID and smiles.
“It starts with an “M”,” Sawyer says when Jack answers.
“What does?”
“The state I’m in.”
“I’ll see you soon, Sawyer.”
Jack tosses his cell phone on the passenger seat and starts driving towards Mississippi.