[fic] the sandman is callin' where shadows are fallin'; lost, jack/sawyer; pg
title; rating: the sandman is callin' where shadows are fallin'; pg
fandom, pairing; wordcount: lost, jack/sawyer; 297
notes: post-series au, no spoilers, for ciaimpala and the sweet drabblethon
These days, Jack only sometimes feels the guilt he once did about the island. Most days, most nights, he can close his eyes and see nothing but black, instead of the faces of lost souls -- people he was once responsible for.
It's comforting, sinking into that darkness. It's peaceful. He can finally rest.
Sawyer usually wakes him when he comes home, even if he doesn't mean to, the sound of heavy boots falling to the hardwood floor by their bed. He works some nights at the bar down the street, to keep busy, to keep from going stir-crazy.
Jack sometimes teases that he just likes trying his hand at playing neighborhood psychologist -- the bartender with all the answers. Sawyer won't tell him that he's right.
He slides under the clean sheets, presses his chest against Jack's naked back. Jack responds to his touch and turns to kiss Sawyer on the mouth. It's in these moments that Sawyer knows he'll always be okay -- as long as Jack's there when he climbs into bed.
In this warm little place of theirs, he can finally rest.
Sawyer still wakes sometimes in those early morning hours, the phantom sound of gunshots ringing in his ear. If he calls out for his mother, Jack never says a word.
"Hey," Jack whispers. "Come here," he says and pulls Sawyer close again.
Jack thinks maybe this is why he can close his eyes and see the black -- as long as they take care of each other, as long as they try.
He shivers when he thinks of life being any other way. But the fear only last a few seconds until Sawyer relaxes, and Jack can feel the tension leaving him too.
They both know it never will be.
-fin
fandom, pairing; wordcount: lost, jack/sawyer; 297
notes: post-series au, no spoilers, for ciaimpala and the sweet drabblethon
These days, Jack only sometimes feels the guilt he once did about the island. Most days, most nights, he can close his eyes and see nothing but black, instead of the faces of lost souls -- people he was once responsible for.
It's comforting, sinking into that darkness. It's peaceful. He can finally rest.
Sawyer usually wakes him when he comes home, even if he doesn't mean to, the sound of heavy boots falling to the hardwood floor by their bed. He works some nights at the bar down the street, to keep busy, to keep from going stir-crazy.
Jack sometimes teases that he just likes trying his hand at playing neighborhood psychologist -- the bartender with all the answers. Sawyer won't tell him that he's right.
He slides under the clean sheets, presses his chest against Jack's naked back. Jack responds to his touch and turns to kiss Sawyer on the mouth. It's in these moments that Sawyer knows he'll always be okay -- as long as Jack's there when he climbs into bed.
In this warm little place of theirs, he can finally rest.
Sawyer still wakes sometimes in those early morning hours, the phantom sound of gunshots ringing in his ear. If he calls out for his mother, Jack never says a word.
"Hey," Jack whispers. "Come here," he says and pulls Sawyer close again.
Jack thinks maybe this is why he can close his eyes and see the black -- as long as they take care of each other, as long as they try.
He shivers when he thinks of life being any other way. But the fear only last a few seconds until Sawyer relaxes, and Jack can feel the tension leaving him too.
They both know it never will be.
-fin