Fic: Black Sheep (1/1)
Title: Black Sheep
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 1,291
Summary: Sawyer never saw him the way the others did; never accepted what he did - what he said - at face value. Jack had always respected that more than anything. For elise_509, who requested “a reminder of why she once loved James Ford and why she should love him still now” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the psych_30 Prompt #17 - Groupthink. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For elise_509: I wrote this mostly during lunch hour, so apologies if it feels rather rushed. To me, what Sawyer lost in S5 was an element of unpredictability - the genuine question of whether or not he’d do the “right thing,” of what his motivations really were. So, instead of going back and “fixing” that, I figured I’d just try to weave it back into what we were given on the show. With some Jack-loving thrown in. Hopefully it’s to your liking!
Black Sheep
“Sit down, Jack.”
And the fact that they’re even here is a red flag from the get go, because the Sawyer Jack knows would never have asked him to sit, wouldn’t have bothered with it. Sawyer had never dealt with frivolities, never minced words or gestures; Sawyer never saw him the way the others did, never accepted what he did - what he said - at face value. And while he’d never say it, then or now, Jack’s always respected that more than anything.
This man, though - for all his pretending to know Jack so fucking well, to point out the faults in his leadership and the dents in his character over a pair of dated reading glasses and a fucking novel; Jack doesn't know if this man actually sees him at all.
“M’folks died when I was eight years old; I ever tell you that?”
And if Jack wasn’t sure before, he’s damn sure now - this Jim LaFleur isn’t Sawyer, and maybe that’s the whole point. Because Sawyer never said shit like that, never shared things that could give him away; so this man with Sawyer’s face and Sawyer’s voice who isn’t Sawyer is sort of a disappointment, because in the years that stretched blank and untempered between them, Jack had wanted nothing more than to feel the jolt of vibrant, thrumming hate that surged so violently through him when he clashed with Sawyer, that spiked so viciously to dance that fine line at its edge between hostility and something else - something more - and made him feel so fucking alive - and it’s a dose of that nameless something that he desperately needs, that this impostor is powerless to give.
“What I do understand is a man does what he does ‘cause he wants something for himself.”
Jack takes note at that, because the end of the words drift into something he knows, something he recognizes; that slow, somehow condescending drawl that penetrates Jack’s sophistication, the veneer of concentrated and contained self that he’d never felt quite comfortable in, cutting through it and ripping out what lies beneath, and Jack clings to that, grabs hold, because that’s Sawyer, damnit. That’s Sawyer.
“What do you want, Jack?”
The tone of the question, the soft entreaty of it, the exasperation - it would have fooled anyone. Except that, of all Jack’s flaws, the fact that he still thinks the best of people, even now, is the most dangerous of all; and Jack, ever the optimist when it matters least, thinks he hears something he recognizes in that voice, something small and wild, like the way they used to fuck in the trees and swallow their moans, quiet and vague but white hot so no one would notice, except for them.
Jack notices.
So when he stands, feet steady for the first time since he set foot on this Island again - like this is his destiny, and he doesn’t have look for it, ‘cause it’s already coming from him - when he leans down and presses his hot, sweat-salted lips to Sawyer’s, mouth closed and hands off just like they used to, he thinks it’s not much of a surprise, really - thinks it’s kind of a fucking given.
And when Sawyer doesn’t respond, but doesn’t pull back, either; when Jack finally breaks the contact and sucks in air quick through his nose while he spends a long second licking at the familiar taste lingering on his bottom lip; when those sharp knuckles clench into a fist and crack against his jaw, fire in those baby blues as Jack reels against the impact of the punch - that’s not a surprise, either.
“You fucker,” Sawyer - because finally, finally this is the man Jack left behind without meaning to, without thinking there was anything to lose - growls with the sort of gravely rage that always went straight to Jack’s groin, that makes him hard even as Sawyer’s palms push fierce against his shoulders, throwing him and everything he represents to the wind. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
And Jack doesn’t answer, because it’s a moot fucking point by now to pretend that either of them knows who they hell they are; that either of them can deny the fundamental pieces that define them, that make them - that are there, scratching at the surface, no matter how they try to hide.
The truth is, they’re just cowboys, the both of them - two cowboys with daddy issues whose saddles got broken, and because they were too big of fucking pussies to ride it home bareback, they were stuck here, lost on the ground.
And Sawyer, he’s been trying like hell to play the sheriff. Jack - he’d just tried to be anything but what he was, and always will be - and wound up being nothing instead.
The song remains the same, though - you can’t escape destiny. They aren’t special; they aren’t exceptions to the rule. And this is their lot, their purpose: this is how they fight, the two of them. This is how they communicate, the language of two souls as twisted as their own - it’s the only words they know.
Jack’s a little taken aback that he doesn’t get another fist to the nose before Sawyer’s mouth is on his, hands in his hair tugging hard, rough against him, but he’s not complaining, because for the first time in more than three fucking years, Jack feels like he’s got this. And it’s not right, really - far from it - it’s not like returning to the starting point or coming home or any of that bullshit; but this is something he can move with, work within, fall between, and still be okay after the adrenaline dies.
He swallows hard, the split in his lip reopened and leaking as Sawyer pulls back, and Jack thinks that this might be one of those moments, those epiphanous moments in which things suddenly make sense - or else it could have been, had he been paying much attention. As it happens, there’s only one thing that stands out, and that’s the blood on his tongue, slipping down his throat. It tastes of mangos and half-raw fish and the burn of recollection, its tang rife with stale beer and stolen prescriptions, the orange of it in the leaf-strained sun just like those bottles, labeled with names of people long dead, faces they’d never even known - and Jack doesn’t know if he’s really doing this to save them, anymore, to save those faceless names, because he was never as noble as everyone wanted him to be.
And Sawyer - well, he’d known that all along.
Smeared with spit and dirt, lips bleeding and staining their teeth between breaths as one mouth attacks the other - this is how two fuck ups make love, goddamnit. This is how they make love.
“We ain’t heroes, Jack,” Sawyer breathes hard against the tear in his cheek, and the burn of it almost overwhelms the shiver it sends down his spine. “Don’t know why you’re thinkin’ otherwise.”
They can pretend all they want that things are different now, that three years have made them into different men.
Truth is, nothing’s changed that’s worth a damn.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 1,291
Summary: Sawyer never saw him the way the others did; never accepted what he did - what he said - at face value. Jack had always respected that more than anything. For elise_509, who requested “a reminder of why she once loved James Ford and why she should love him still now” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the psych_30 Prompt #17 - Groupthink. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For elise_509: I wrote this mostly during lunch hour, so apologies if it feels rather rushed. To me, what Sawyer lost in S5 was an element of unpredictability - the genuine question of whether or not he’d do the “right thing,” of what his motivations really were. So, instead of going back and “fixing” that, I figured I’d just try to weave it back into what we were given on the show. With some Jack-loving thrown in. Hopefully it’s to your liking!
Black Sheep
“Sit down, Jack.”
And the fact that they’re even here is a red flag from the get go, because the Sawyer Jack knows would never have asked him to sit, wouldn’t have bothered with it. Sawyer had never dealt with frivolities, never minced words or gestures; Sawyer never saw him the way the others did, never accepted what he did - what he said - at face value. And while he’d never say it, then or now, Jack’s always respected that more than anything.
This man, though - for all his pretending to know Jack so fucking well, to point out the faults in his leadership and the dents in his character over a pair of dated reading glasses and a fucking novel; Jack doesn't know if this man actually sees him at all.
“M’folks died when I was eight years old; I ever tell you that?”
And if Jack wasn’t sure before, he’s damn sure now - this Jim LaFleur isn’t Sawyer, and maybe that’s the whole point. Because Sawyer never said shit like that, never shared things that could give him away; so this man with Sawyer’s face and Sawyer’s voice who isn’t Sawyer is sort of a disappointment, because in the years that stretched blank and untempered between them, Jack had wanted nothing more than to feel the jolt of vibrant, thrumming hate that surged so violently through him when he clashed with Sawyer, that spiked so viciously to dance that fine line at its edge between hostility and something else - something more - and made him feel so fucking alive - and it’s a dose of that nameless something that he desperately needs, that this impostor is powerless to give.
“What I do understand is a man does what he does ‘cause he wants something for himself.”
Jack takes note at that, because the end of the words drift into something he knows, something he recognizes; that slow, somehow condescending drawl that penetrates Jack’s sophistication, the veneer of concentrated and contained self that he’d never felt quite comfortable in, cutting through it and ripping out what lies beneath, and Jack clings to that, grabs hold, because that’s Sawyer, damnit. That’s Sawyer.
“What do you want, Jack?”
The tone of the question, the soft entreaty of it, the exasperation - it would have fooled anyone. Except that, of all Jack’s flaws, the fact that he still thinks the best of people, even now, is the most dangerous of all; and Jack, ever the optimist when it matters least, thinks he hears something he recognizes in that voice, something small and wild, like the way they used to fuck in the trees and swallow their moans, quiet and vague but white hot so no one would notice, except for them.
Jack notices.
So when he stands, feet steady for the first time since he set foot on this Island again - like this is his destiny, and he doesn’t have look for it, ‘cause it’s already coming from him - when he leans down and presses his hot, sweat-salted lips to Sawyer’s, mouth closed and hands off just like they used to, he thinks it’s not much of a surprise, really - thinks it’s kind of a fucking given.
And when Sawyer doesn’t respond, but doesn’t pull back, either; when Jack finally breaks the contact and sucks in air quick through his nose while he spends a long second licking at the familiar taste lingering on his bottom lip; when those sharp knuckles clench into a fist and crack against his jaw, fire in those baby blues as Jack reels against the impact of the punch - that’s not a surprise, either.
“You fucker,” Sawyer - because finally, finally this is the man Jack left behind without meaning to, without thinking there was anything to lose - growls with the sort of gravely rage that always went straight to Jack’s groin, that makes him hard even as Sawyer’s palms push fierce against his shoulders, throwing him and everything he represents to the wind. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
And Jack doesn’t answer, because it’s a moot fucking point by now to pretend that either of them knows who they hell they are; that either of them can deny the fundamental pieces that define them, that make them - that are there, scratching at the surface, no matter how they try to hide.
The truth is, they’re just cowboys, the both of them - two cowboys with daddy issues whose saddles got broken, and because they were too big of fucking pussies to ride it home bareback, they were stuck here, lost on the ground.
And Sawyer, he’s been trying like hell to play the sheriff. Jack - he’d just tried to be anything but what he was, and always will be - and wound up being nothing instead.
The song remains the same, though - you can’t escape destiny. They aren’t special; they aren’t exceptions to the rule. And this is their lot, their purpose: this is how they fight, the two of them. This is how they communicate, the language of two souls as twisted as their own - it’s the only words they know.
Jack’s a little taken aback that he doesn’t get another fist to the nose before Sawyer’s mouth is on his, hands in his hair tugging hard, rough against him, but he’s not complaining, because for the first time in more than three fucking years, Jack feels like he’s got this. And it’s not right, really - far from it - it’s not like returning to the starting point or coming home or any of that bullshit; but this is something he can move with, work within, fall between, and still be okay after the adrenaline dies.
He swallows hard, the split in his lip reopened and leaking as Sawyer pulls back, and Jack thinks that this might be one of those moments, those epiphanous moments in which things suddenly make sense - or else it could have been, had he been paying much attention. As it happens, there’s only one thing that stands out, and that’s the blood on his tongue, slipping down his throat. It tastes of mangos and half-raw fish and the burn of recollection, its tang rife with stale beer and stolen prescriptions, the orange of it in the leaf-strained sun just like those bottles, labeled with names of people long dead, faces they’d never even known - and Jack doesn’t know if he’s really doing this to save them, anymore, to save those faceless names, because he was never as noble as everyone wanted him to be.
And Sawyer - well, he’d known that all along.
Smeared with spit and dirt, lips bleeding and staining their teeth between breaths as one mouth attacks the other - this is how two fuck ups make love, goddamnit. This is how they make love.
“We ain’t heroes, Jack,” Sawyer breathes hard against the tear in his cheek, and the burn of it almost overwhelms the shiver it sends down his spine. “Don’t know why you’re thinkin’ otherwise.”
They can pretend all they want that things are different now, that three years have made them into different men.
Truth is, nothing’s changed that’s worth a damn.