New Fic: "Lines of Communication - 1/2"
Title: Lines of Communication
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Warnings: Adults only, language and sexual situations.
Note: I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH IT SUCKS I'VE WRITTEN SOMETHING!
Credit goes to
alliecat8, whom I love and adore beyond the telling of it,
although you can't blame her if it's craptastic.
More than a hint of crack but no Rambling!Jack, at least not in the way I usually write him.
Future fic, no spoilers.
***
Jack had always been terrible with words, at least with knowing what
words to say and when, or even if, he should say anything at all.
More often than not, when it wasn't work-related and sometimes even
when it was, he found himself trying to crawl out of hole he hadn't even known he'd fallen into.
He thought of Sawyer, who loved words and who loved to talk and did so
often and with a great deal of creativity. But by the time they had
realized rescue was imminent, Jack knew that Sawyer was, at least for
the time being, just as confused as Jack as to what to say and how to
say it or even if he should say anything at all.
Thus began a prolonged battle for each man to say what he meant with
the least amount of actual speaking possible. And without being in the
same room. Or even in the same state.
Jack was at a loss. In the war of non-words, at least, he was winning,
although he didn't feel anything resembling victory.
He felt lonely. Worried. Stupid.
Almost two months ago they'd boarded different flights headed for
opposite sides of the States, Sawyer saying only that he had 'stuff'
to take care of and he would try to make it out to L.A. when he got
the chance. Jack, although hurt and angry, hadn't pushed it simply
because he had absolutely no idea what to say.
The hurt had eased when Sawyer had called him almost immediately after
the return home and then proceeded to say practically nothing before
hanging up. But Jack, in truth, had never expected to hear from him
again. Not that he'd heard much after he'd answered his phone.
But that phone call consisting mostly of silence had reassured Jack,
though he had no idea why.
Since that first and only and rather awkward attempt at phone
communication, they'd kept in touch via e-mail. Jack had welcomed the
idea - this would be easier, since it gave Jack time to think about
what he said before he actually said it and, if it was incredibly
stupid, the chance to go back and delete it all before Sawyer actually
saw it.
Perfect, he thought, for a man so terrible with words. But finally,
after several aborted attempts and a great deal of editing and
deleting before finally sending something very much full of nothing,
Jack realized he was still falling into holes and now had no idea how
to dig himself out.
But that didn't keep him from trying. As Sawyer had often told him,
before they'd both found themselves at a mutual loss for words, he
didn't know when to fucking quit.
As the days wore on, though, it became obvious that Sawyer didn’t know
what to say or when to fucking quit, either.
***
Just checking in.
Jack sighed, then scowled.
still here.
He almost added 'and still waiting' but didn't want to give Sawyer the
satisfaction. Fewer words and fewer letters and absolutely no
expression of emotion meant Jack had won this particular electronic
battle.
Exchanges like this happened daily, occasionally several times a day.
But as good as it was to know Sawyer was out there, somewhere,
and apparently all right and apparently still . . . interested, for lack of a
better word, Jack thought, it still wasn’t quite enough.
***
One night, drunk and horny, he'd sat down at the computer and just
typed, his thoughts going much faster than his fingertips. For hours
it seemed he'd laid word upon dirty word on the screen, feeling
pleased with himself when he was finished and even hornier than he'd
been when he'd started. Then he paused, purely out of habit, before
hitting Send.
He'd re-read what he'd written, at least as much of it as he could see
with his vision as blurred as it was. Then, embarrassed by every bit
of it, he hurried to delete it. It was long and misspelled and poorly
written and downright filthy - lurid descriptions of Sawyer and
explicit details of what Jack was going to do to him once Sawyer got
his ass to L.A. and into Jack's bed.
After checking and double-checking and triple-checking that he hadn't
actually sent Sawyer a pornographic and typo-ridden e-mail ('cooock',
for God's sake, he thought, face buried in his hands), he tried again.
And deleted. Tried again, deleted, tried again, deleted once more.
Finally he settled on lame but safe and actually clicked Send:
see the game?
The reply came almost immediately:
No.
One part of him thrilled at the idea that Sawyer was as close as he
was likely to get for a while, close enough to touch, at least
cyber-wise. But the terseness and the sarcasm and the eye-rolling that
had to be happening the other side of the continent were more than
evident in those two little letters.
Jack sighed, gave up, closed out his e-mail and tried to console
himself by surfing for porn, but too many pop-ups and the eerie
feeling that Sawyer somehow knew what he was doing and was mocking him
viciously and without mercy forced him away from the computer and into
bed.
It only occurred to him the next day as he waited for his headache to
ease that Sawyer had probably been searching for porn, as well.
He still felt stupid, but not quite as stupid. Small consolation but
better than nothing, he thought.
Then he tried to check once more to make sure he hadn't sent Sawyer
the dumbest and dirtiest e-mail he'd ever written, but his computer
was locked up due to all the pop-ups.
He knew somehow that this was all Sawyer's fault and hoped Sawyer was
suffering the same stupid porn pop-up lock up fate.
***
Then Sawyer did the indefensible - attacked Jack via Instant Message,
a volley Jack hadn't expected and which caused complete and total
panic.
Miss me?
NO.
Still fewer words and fewer letters, but now Jack wasn't sure how
CapsLock figured into the scorekeeping.
Right. What are you doing?
nothing.
You naked?
Jack groaned, his thoughts going in a million directions at once. He
wanted to be naked and he wanted to be naked with Sawyer, but only if
he could actually touch him.
no, i am not naked, don't even start.
I'm starting. Get naked.
NO!!1!
Well, you need to get naked. I am.
Jack stared at the screen for about an hour, eyes wide and his entire
body tingling, before replying.
why? he typed out ever so slowly, even though he knew.
Because I'm jerking off while thinking about you, you dumbass. You
talk dirty to me while I pretend I've got my 'cooock' up your ass.
Jack immediately turned off the computer and went in search of a way
to kill himself. If he failed, he was confident sheer mortification
would kill him anyway.
And then he'd kill Sawyer. Jack knew this thought process made
absolutely no sense but nothing about his life had made sense since
Sawyer had first stormed into it and had then refused to leave.
Not that Jack wanted him to leave, he was gone enough as it was.
But still.
He wondered what kind of shape his teeth were in, he'd been grinding
them so often in frustration and irritation and now, thanks to the
'cooock' e-mail which he knew he would never live down, humiliation.
Obviously more drinking was in order.
***
He didn't want to check his e-mail, but then again, he really, really
did want to check his e-mail, so two days later he opened the server.
One message but with no subject and no words at all.
Just an attachment.
A digital picture, well-composed and actually rather artistic, of
Sawyer's dick. Just his dick (and Jack would know that dick anywhere,
by sight, feel, taste, touch, in the dark or in the light), rock hard.
Sawyer's dick. And with Jack's name written along the length of it.
Once Jack managed to bring his blood back up to his brain he wondered
when Sawyer had learned to use Photoshop. Then he set the picture as the
wallpaper for his desktop.
Then his blood went south again and his hand followed determinedly.
Something about seeing his name on Sawyer's dick made him insane.
After a day or two he had to remove it because he wasn't getting any
work done. Yellow tulips were just as gay but not nearly as hot.
***
Jack jumped at the annoying 'ding' that indicated he had an Instant
Message, clicked away from the porn site he was viewing (still
convinced that Sawyer had some preternatural ability to sense
things, at least as far as Jack and porn were concerned) and opened
the IM window.
You're avoiding me. I embarrassed the hell out of you, didn't I?
Jack sighed, there was so much smug in those two sentences he was
practically drowning in it.
i'm not avoiding you. at least not ALL of you i've got your dick in my
nightstand
WHAT?
well that's the only part of you that matters and now that i've got my
own copy who needs YOU?
Funny, Doc. Thought you might like that. Are you going to return the
favor? That e-mail was hot as hell, even though you can't spell for
shit when you're drunk, but I want pictures. Your dick. And your ass,
and my name all over both.
Jack rolled his eyes.
don't hold your breath
Come on, Doc, I'm dying out here. Bored as hell and you not around to
keep me entertained. I know you miss me, you're an even worse liar
like this than you are in person.
Sawyer was using as many words now as he had during their overheated
and exhausting but hugely satisfying interludes on the island, so Jack
was no longer sure what the rules were regarding any type of
communication.
But he no longer felt like he was winning. He had never really felt
like he was winning in this situation at all, except when they had
touched and words had ceased to matter.
He ached suddenly as he remembered.
when are you coming home?
He hadn't meant to say it, and the word 'home' was a ridiculous choice
since Sawyer had never even seen Jack's house, much less been in it.
But it was too late to take it back. There it was, laid out in plain type
and quite easy to read, both the actual words as well as the depth of
meaning behind them.
The answering silence was much too loud and went on for much too long,
and Jack tried to fix it, deflate it.
never mind, i -
I've got to go, Jack.
Then he was gone, he'd signed off, and Jack didn't hear from him again, no
matter how many idiotic e-mails he sent or the phone calls he finally
resorted to and the voice messages he left.
Done, over, and all because Jack didn't know what to say or how to say
it, but had said it anyway.
***
TBC