Lost fic: Camarilla [Jack/Sawyer]
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Notes: Set sometime during season 2. Using for fanfic100 #57, lunch, and psych_30, #3, addiction
Summary: An unexpected meal in the hatch. Jack/Sawyer, PG13.
Camarilla
by eponine119
May 28, 2007
He didn't find the card until he picked up Watership Down to read it again. It was wedged firmly between pages fifteen and sixteen. It didn't tumble out, stuck fast and deep into the binding. Sawyer closed his eyes and inhaled, the scent of fire so intense that for a moment he could feel the knot of turbulence in his stomach again and hear the screaming.
It was a simple index card, scorched around the edges, nothing important or significant. He'd tucked it away because he found it and that's what he did with things that he found.
He thought he could feel heat coming from it now as he held it between his fingers, studying it more carefully. A recipe was written in old-fashioned penmanship. Sawyer started to shake his head. Why would anyone carry such a thing on an airplane? He sighed and put his head back against the headrest of his seat, overcome with the thought of someone filled with hopes and plans, with the images of a thousand tiny white cards falling from a great height to waft gently into the sea.
With one hand he tossed the book back into his tent, changing the direction of his day. The card slipped easily into the back pocket of his jeans. Time for a walk in the woods.
…
The hatch was empty. Sawyer was glad to be alone, but at the same time he felt something uncomfortable prickling between his shoulders. The hatch reminded him of his uncle's 1970s basement, cold and dank and just fuckin' creepy.
Wait. He turned around. The hatch wasn't supposed to be empty, because that would mess up the honorable John Locke's score in the Donkey Kong tournament. "Hey," he said, and listened to his own voice echo back to him. This place always felt like one day he was going to walk in and find a couple of people dead or bleeding on the floor. He edged into the bedroom cautiously.
Jack lay face-down against a pillow in the bottom bunk. His arm spilled over, the back of his hand against the floor, fingers curling loosely. Sawyer crept close, leaning down over him, heart racing with the knowledge that at any second Jack would wake up and wonder what he was doing. He did it anyway, dragging one fingertip lightly across the open palm of Jack's hand, watching his fingers tighten and convulse like a jellyfish. Sawyer sat for another moment, wanting to do it again, but he knew if he did, it'd just wake Jack up and he wanted to be alone.
He pushed his way into the pantry. The cupboard was bare, even though there'd been a food drop not too long ago. Stuff got eaten and hoarded away. Most of what was left sat on shelves on the beach. Sawyer couldn't blame people for not wanting to come down here.
The card still smelled of heat and smoke when he slid it from his back pocket. Simple enough, he thought, gathering cans and pouches from the shelves, cradling them between one arm and his body. Then he set each one down gently on the counter in the kitchen, mindful of Jack sleeping in the other room.
He thought Jack was weird to sleep down here. It was cool, and it was quiet, but you could find that on the beach without an alarm blasting every hour and a half. Sawyer thought about it while he absently gathered his tools from the cabinets and drawers. It couldn't be cause Jack was bored, cause Jack was the kind of man who'd never get bored. He could find something to worry over or boss around, or someone less important to babysit the button.
Twisting the knob brought up the heat in the burner. Jack wanted to be alone, Sawyer thought, but not just that. He felt safe down here. Safe enough to sleep, knowing the hike would discourage anyone except in the most dire emergency, so there'd be no one around to mess with him or watch him. Funny how Jack felt safe closed in, underground, and Sawyer felt safe out in the open.
His fingers made quick work of the ingredients. The card stayed safely in his back pocket. Having read it over, he didn't need to refer to it again. That was how his mind worked with details. It paid in his line of work. Soon everything was simmering and he could wander away.
He didn't wander far, though having discovered what he considered to be Jack's secret, he was tempted to return to the bunk room and watch him sleep, just for pure ornery fun. But Sawyer knew he couldn't face the dark, unfocused confusion in Jack's eyes when he got caught, so he went to the bookshelf instead.
The books lived in disarray, stuffed together upside down and pages out as though they'd been thrown to the floor in a rampage and haphazardly returned. He wondered where the books had come from. If the Dharma creeps had picked them out, or if the flunkies who lived down here brought them along to kill the time, just like the collection of airplane books he'd compiled in his suitcase. He tried to figure out just what each book implied about a person, because that was how he lived his life, absorbing tiny clues in hopes that one would lead to something he could use.
It unsettled him not to know, so he stepped over to the record collection, running his thumb along the thin cardboard spines lettered with tiny print that would make his eyes cross. He knew he was the kind of guy you expected to see leaning up against a jukebox, which is what made it funny that he just didn't give a shit about most music. It was there or not. As long as it wasn't useless noise to make his jaw tighten and his head ache, he didn't care what it was. Flipping through the albums, he didn't know who half these people were. Geronimo Jackson? Probably Dharma mind control anyway.
Back to the pot. Adjust the heat, and stir it slowly with the wooden spoon. He closed his eyes to savor the smell of it cooking, and when he opened them, Jack was standing there. He had one arm bent to rub the hair at the back of his head and it made his t-shirt rise to expose a soft, pale strip of skin. His eyes were dark and sleepy. "Howdy, chief." The words were stupid and Sawyer regretted them.
"I was dreaming about that smell," Jack said.
"Oh really."
"I could taste it in my sleep." His tongue was kitteny pink as it poked out to moisten his lips. Jack sat down on the other side of the counter, but leaned across it, close enough to touch. It made Sawyer think about the things he'd tasted in his own dreams. He stirred.
"It's done," he said, and shut off the burner. He looked up to see Jack blinking at the stove. "What?"
"There's no pasta?"
Sawyer's heart sank. He'd been too focused on the recipe to care. "Guess not." He knew without checking he hadn't seen any in the pantry. "I think there's crackers."
"It's okay," Jack said, leaning across the counter to seize the wooden spoon. He tasted the sauce tentatively at first, just the tiniest of nibbles. He must have liked what he got, because he went back for more, leaving Sawyer to hunt for a spoon of his own.
They ate it straight out of the pot. It was thick and rich, with enough substance that after a few bites it seemed as though pasta would have been overkill. "I'm surprised you can cook," Jack said.
"Man's gotta eat."
"That's why God invented TV dinners," Jack said, with a bitter grandiosity as though he was quoting someone. His father, Sawyer guessed, without saying a word.
"You eat that crap?"
"Don't all divorced men?"
Sawyer filed away that statement for further analysis. "Wouldn't know. 'm not divorced." He said it proudly, with a charmed smile, because he knew it would piss Jack off.
Except it didn't. Jack looked at him a moment, then scraped the bottom of the pot with the wooden spoon, which he licked until it was clean and then kept at it. He was hungry, Sawyer observed. Not just for food.
"You used to smoke," Sawyer said.
Jack raised his eyebrows and gave a guilty nod.
Sawyer nodded back, in camaraderie. But he didn't lick his spoon. He turned it in his fingers, considering that maybe he should. See if Jack watched, hungry with sudden ideas. Instead he dropped it in the pot and touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth, licking away the last taste of sauce.
He took the pot off the burner and put it in the sink. Jack followed, reaching across him to drop the wooden spoon into the pot as well. Sawyer kept his eyes on the sink, surprised by Jack's sudden closeness and the way he could feel the sleep-heat of his body, wondering why Jack had followed him over here. He turned his head and looked at Jack, somewhat carefully. Measuring the darkness of his eyes and the color in his cheeks and the hunger. He knew for a fact Jack was the kind of man who waited to be kissed. Good thing Sawyer was used to being the aggressor.
He pressed parted lips against Jack's mouth, hard for a moment and then softening. Sawyer's tongue slipped between Jack's lips, finding Jack's tongue and moving against it. He tasted like spices, and Sawyer swore there was a trace of nicotine there too, burning with addiction. Sawyer groaned, and he could feel the vibration of it shudder through Jack's body.
Then the alarm blared and Jack was gone before Sawyer even opened his eyes. Gone to type the numbers into the computer that tethered him here. Sawyer let his head drop forward for a moment, then shoved the sink handle too hard to start the water flowing.
"I'll clean up," Jack said, from the doorway of the computer room, like it was an afterthought. Sawyer shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him because they felt hot and wild. "Go on," Jack insisted. Dismissing him.
Sawyer slammed the water off. He glanced at Jack for just a second, long enough to see Jack's face and know that Jack saw him. He forced himself to leave the hatch slowly. He'd be damned before he set foot in there again.
End.
Notes: Set sometime during season 2. Using for fanfic100 #57, lunch, and psych_30, #3, addiction
Summary: An unexpected meal in the hatch. Jack/Sawyer, PG13.
Camarilla
by eponine119
May 28, 2007
He didn't find the card until he picked up Watership Down to read it again. It was wedged firmly between pages fifteen and sixteen. It didn't tumble out, stuck fast and deep into the binding. Sawyer closed his eyes and inhaled, the scent of fire so intense that for a moment he could feel the knot of turbulence in his stomach again and hear the screaming.
It was a simple index card, scorched around the edges, nothing important or significant. He'd tucked it away because he found it and that's what he did with things that he found.
He thought he could feel heat coming from it now as he held it between his fingers, studying it more carefully. A recipe was written in old-fashioned penmanship. Sawyer started to shake his head. Why would anyone carry such a thing on an airplane? He sighed and put his head back against the headrest of his seat, overcome with the thought of someone filled with hopes and plans, with the images of a thousand tiny white cards falling from a great height to waft gently into the sea.
With one hand he tossed the book back into his tent, changing the direction of his day. The card slipped easily into the back pocket of his jeans. Time for a walk in the woods.
…
The hatch was empty. Sawyer was glad to be alone, but at the same time he felt something uncomfortable prickling between his shoulders. The hatch reminded him of his uncle's 1970s basement, cold and dank and just fuckin' creepy.
Wait. He turned around. The hatch wasn't supposed to be empty, because that would mess up the honorable John Locke's score in the Donkey Kong tournament. "Hey," he said, and listened to his own voice echo back to him. This place always felt like one day he was going to walk in and find a couple of people dead or bleeding on the floor. He edged into the bedroom cautiously.
Jack lay face-down against a pillow in the bottom bunk. His arm spilled over, the back of his hand against the floor, fingers curling loosely. Sawyer crept close, leaning down over him, heart racing with the knowledge that at any second Jack would wake up and wonder what he was doing. He did it anyway, dragging one fingertip lightly across the open palm of Jack's hand, watching his fingers tighten and convulse like a jellyfish. Sawyer sat for another moment, wanting to do it again, but he knew if he did, it'd just wake Jack up and he wanted to be alone.
He pushed his way into the pantry. The cupboard was bare, even though there'd been a food drop not too long ago. Stuff got eaten and hoarded away. Most of what was left sat on shelves on the beach. Sawyer couldn't blame people for not wanting to come down here.
The card still smelled of heat and smoke when he slid it from his back pocket. Simple enough, he thought, gathering cans and pouches from the shelves, cradling them between one arm and his body. Then he set each one down gently on the counter in the kitchen, mindful of Jack sleeping in the other room.
He thought Jack was weird to sleep down here. It was cool, and it was quiet, but you could find that on the beach without an alarm blasting every hour and a half. Sawyer thought about it while he absently gathered his tools from the cabinets and drawers. It couldn't be cause Jack was bored, cause Jack was the kind of man who'd never get bored. He could find something to worry over or boss around, or someone less important to babysit the button.
Twisting the knob brought up the heat in the burner. Jack wanted to be alone, Sawyer thought, but not just that. He felt safe down here. Safe enough to sleep, knowing the hike would discourage anyone except in the most dire emergency, so there'd be no one around to mess with him or watch him. Funny how Jack felt safe closed in, underground, and Sawyer felt safe out in the open.
His fingers made quick work of the ingredients. The card stayed safely in his back pocket. Having read it over, he didn't need to refer to it again. That was how his mind worked with details. It paid in his line of work. Soon everything was simmering and he could wander away.
He didn't wander far, though having discovered what he considered to be Jack's secret, he was tempted to return to the bunk room and watch him sleep, just for pure ornery fun. But Sawyer knew he couldn't face the dark, unfocused confusion in Jack's eyes when he got caught, so he went to the bookshelf instead.
The books lived in disarray, stuffed together upside down and pages out as though they'd been thrown to the floor in a rampage and haphazardly returned. He wondered where the books had come from. If the Dharma creeps had picked them out, or if the flunkies who lived down here brought them along to kill the time, just like the collection of airplane books he'd compiled in his suitcase. He tried to figure out just what each book implied about a person, because that was how he lived his life, absorbing tiny clues in hopes that one would lead to something he could use.
It unsettled him not to know, so he stepped over to the record collection, running his thumb along the thin cardboard spines lettered with tiny print that would make his eyes cross. He knew he was the kind of guy you expected to see leaning up against a jukebox, which is what made it funny that he just didn't give a shit about most music. It was there or not. As long as it wasn't useless noise to make his jaw tighten and his head ache, he didn't care what it was. Flipping through the albums, he didn't know who half these people were. Geronimo Jackson? Probably Dharma mind control anyway.
Back to the pot. Adjust the heat, and stir it slowly with the wooden spoon. He closed his eyes to savor the smell of it cooking, and when he opened them, Jack was standing there. He had one arm bent to rub the hair at the back of his head and it made his t-shirt rise to expose a soft, pale strip of skin. His eyes were dark and sleepy. "Howdy, chief." The words were stupid and Sawyer regretted them.
"I was dreaming about that smell," Jack said.
"Oh really."
"I could taste it in my sleep." His tongue was kitteny pink as it poked out to moisten his lips. Jack sat down on the other side of the counter, but leaned across it, close enough to touch. It made Sawyer think about the things he'd tasted in his own dreams. He stirred.
"It's done," he said, and shut off the burner. He looked up to see Jack blinking at the stove. "What?"
"There's no pasta?"
Sawyer's heart sank. He'd been too focused on the recipe to care. "Guess not." He knew without checking he hadn't seen any in the pantry. "I think there's crackers."
"It's okay," Jack said, leaning across the counter to seize the wooden spoon. He tasted the sauce tentatively at first, just the tiniest of nibbles. He must have liked what he got, because he went back for more, leaving Sawyer to hunt for a spoon of his own.
They ate it straight out of the pot. It was thick and rich, with enough substance that after a few bites it seemed as though pasta would have been overkill. "I'm surprised you can cook," Jack said.
"Man's gotta eat."
"That's why God invented TV dinners," Jack said, with a bitter grandiosity as though he was quoting someone. His father, Sawyer guessed, without saying a word.
"You eat that crap?"
"Don't all divorced men?"
Sawyer filed away that statement for further analysis. "Wouldn't know. 'm not divorced." He said it proudly, with a charmed smile, because he knew it would piss Jack off.
Except it didn't. Jack looked at him a moment, then scraped the bottom of the pot with the wooden spoon, which he licked until it was clean and then kept at it. He was hungry, Sawyer observed. Not just for food.
"You used to smoke," Sawyer said.
Jack raised his eyebrows and gave a guilty nod.
Sawyer nodded back, in camaraderie. But he didn't lick his spoon. He turned it in his fingers, considering that maybe he should. See if Jack watched, hungry with sudden ideas. Instead he dropped it in the pot and touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth, licking away the last taste of sauce.
He took the pot off the burner and put it in the sink. Jack followed, reaching across him to drop the wooden spoon into the pot as well. Sawyer kept his eyes on the sink, surprised by Jack's sudden closeness and the way he could feel the sleep-heat of his body, wondering why Jack had followed him over here. He turned his head and looked at Jack, somewhat carefully. Measuring the darkness of his eyes and the color in his cheeks and the hunger. He knew for a fact Jack was the kind of man who waited to be kissed. Good thing Sawyer was used to being the aggressor.
He pressed parted lips against Jack's mouth, hard for a moment and then softening. Sawyer's tongue slipped between Jack's lips, finding Jack's tongue and moving against it. He tasted like spices, and Sawyer swore there was a trace of nicotine there too, burning with addiction. Sawyer groaned, and he could feel the vibration of it shudder through Jack's body.
Then the alarm blared and Jack was gone before Sawyer even opened his eyes. Gone to type the numbers into the computer that tethered him here. Sawyer let his head drop forward for a moment, then shoved the sink handle too hard to start the water flowing.
"I'll clean up," Jack said, from the doorway of the computer room, like it was an afterthought. Sawyer shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him because they felt hot and wild. "Go on," Jack insisted. Dismissing him.
Sawyer slammed the water off. He glanced at Jack for just a second, long enough to see Jack's face and know that Jack saw him. He forced himself to leave the hatch slowly. He'd be damned before he set foot in there again.
End.