fic, Lost: these two lanes will take us anywhere (Jack/Boone), R
Title: these two lanes will take us anywhere
Pairing: Jack/Boone
Rating: R
Words: 2000
Spoilers: goes AU from the end of S1 but there's some S3/S4 canon sneaking in. Anyway if you saw the S3 finale then you're okay.
Warnings: mention of drug and alcohol use, descriptions of scars.
Summary: After all, he can’t be that surprised. Or well, not after Jack rang his doorbell one year after they got rescued by that freighter full of crazy people. They hadn’t seen each other in all that time and when Boone opened the door, Jack was clean-shaven, had red-rimmed eyes and a shaking hand, and he asked whether he was up to go somewhere.
A/N: originally written for ozmissage at the five acts exchange; the prompts were road trip, wet and confessions, plus some bonus spooning. Title stolen from Bruce Springsteen.
Surprisingly (for him), Boone is the one who drives almost all the time.
He doesn’t know why Jack had said that he’d really rather not, but it’s nice to be trusted with some responsibility once in a while, and so he’s totally okay with driving. Even if his legs hurts, and a lot, but he learned to ignore it.
Also, he’d have never pegged Jack for one who likes Nirvana blasting on the highway, but well, Boone likes Nirvana alright and if Jack feels like grunge, Boone is okay with it. Really.
After all, he can’t be that surprised. Or well, not after Jack rang his doorbell one year after they got rescued by that freighter full of crazy people. They hadn’t seen each other in all that time and when Boone opened the door, Jack was clean-shaven, had red-rimmed eyes and a shaking hand, and he asked whether he was up to go somewhere.
“Where exactly?” Boone had asked.
“I don’t care,” Jack had said, before adding that of course he’d have understood it if Boone said no. They hadn’t talked for a while and now he just rings his door and -
“Okay,” Boone had answered, because after all, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Shannon is dead, his mother calls but almost never comes and when she does she winces at the erratic scars on his forehead and cheek (well, one can’t live after one accident like Boone’s without consequences). And he just took random part time jobs he could do online because apparently he gets people upset whenever he tries for an interview.
So he said yes and here they are.
They crossed three states and Boone could count the times they had an actual conversation.
At times he wonders if he could just spill it and tell Jack that while on the island his hero worship wasn’t just simply that, but then he decides against it and drives faster. He doesn’t ask Jack why he takes methadone once each day, but he can guess too well.
--
They always go in motels that aren’t seedy but aren’t high class either, and Boone wonders when the hell is his leg going to give out because he sure has never driven so much since coming back to civilization. He never says anything about it.
--
“Why me?” he asks one evening, because he really would like to know. They’ve been on the same car for two weeks and he doesn’t even know why.
“Because you’re the only one in the area who wouldn’t have slammed the door in my face as soon as they saw me,” Jack answers, and Boone would really like to know who else was in the area, but he doesn’t say anything. “Also, you’re about the only person on that island whom I didn’t fail.”
Boone bites his tongue and doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t feel right, not just now.
--
“If you ever want to talk, you can,” he says one evening while they’re eating cherry pie in an absolutely not remarkable diner somewhere in Idaho.
“Thanks for the offer,” Jack answers, and he looks sincere, but his hand is shaking when his fingers tighten around the fork.
--
It takes another three weeks, and then Boone learns that Jack and Kate hooked up after she was absolved (he isn’t surprised, and he tries to kill that small jealous voice in the back of his head), that it didn’t last (he doesn’t know if he’s surprised, either), that he ended up learning that Claire was his half-sister (that is a surprise). And that none of those things had good repercussions.
“Then I started to have nightmares about the goddamn island where Locke told me I had cheated destiny and then I lost it,” Jack mutters, his hand still shaking.
Boone can sort of get it. Also, he’s freaking glad he never had a dream about Locke and that they don’t risk running into each other since Locke is still on the island and Boone figures he’ll stay there until the end of times.
Which is good with him, since he never even received an apology.
“Then I tried to pull myself together but I just needed to get away from there,” Jack mutters, his left hand shaking harder.
Boone doesn’t say anything; he stands up, reaches the bed and twines his fingers around Jack’s.
Jack doesn’t move, actually he tightens the hold, but Boone still doesn’t say anything.
He thinks this is already too much and even more than he ever expected.
--
It’s been two months and they’re somewhere in Virginia. It’s hot, and they went through a backroad which was full of dust, and when they get into the motel room Boone can feel earth sticking to his face.
He thinks that considering that he still has a red, angry scar on his face, he should wash it as soon as possible, and so he calls dibs for the bathroom. He washes his hands trying not to finish the entire bar of soap and then he washes his face, wincing when his fingers touch the scar tissue; he hates touching it, but then again he’d rather have that than being dead, you know.
Then he raises his eyes and Jack is staring at him, leaning on the wall just outside the door.
“I’m sorry about those,” Jack whispers, shrugging. “But I really couldn’t do anything with…”
“Shut up,” Boone answers, turning and leaning on the sink for a second before taking a step forward. “It’s not like I’d rather be dead. Christ, Jack, you saved my life and now you apologize because I won’t ever become a professional model? Don’t worry, I’ll just live with it,” he ends, trying to sound like it really doesn’t matter, even if he doesn’t exactly feel comfortable joking about it.
But it’s the truth. It really just is.
“It’s just,” Jack says, then shakes his head like he doesn’t have the words. “Nothing. Sometimes I really think you’re the only person I didn’t end up disappointing in the last ten years or...”
Boone sort of gets it, but he can’t have that. Not when he has apparently spent his life disappointing people and when he got himself almost killed because he was just wanting to do a good thing for everyone and not giving it a try never was an option.
He reaches out, places his hand behind Jack’s neck, bends him down and kisses him.
For a second he’s sure that this will end very badly, and then Jack lets out a small gasp and kisses him back and Boone thinks that he could die now. He has had his share of daydreams (and regular dreams) about this. About just acting on that stupid feeling that never left his gut since Jack saved him from drowning while he was trying to save someone else, and he never thought he’d do it. Or that he’d have the guts to do it if he had the chance. But now he has and Jack’s tongue is tentatively searching for his, and Jack’s hands are shaking while closing around Boone’s waist. Jack tastes of something he can’t place, the burger they had before and the cigarette he smoked one hour ago, and it’s so good that he can barely compute. He doesn’t want the kiss to end but it does and then he figures he should have the guts to at least look Jack in the eye.
“What…” Jack breathes, and Boone shakes his head.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the island. And before you managed not to make me die for the second time. I just… I shouldn’t have, I know, but you were there and it’s been more than a year and I just -”
There’s a hand around his waist again and Jack’s lips are colliding with his; Boone moans into his mouth and nods and kisses back, and he’s pretty sure that it’s a lot better than what he had always fantasized about. Sure, in his fantasies Jack’s hands were as steady as they were when they stitched up his ribcage, and he didn’t taste of what is probably methadone, and he wasn’t this desperate, but it’s okay because this is real, and he doesn’t ever want it to end. Or not for a while, at least.
They end up under the shower, the clothes lost on the bathroom’s floor, and fuck, Boone hasn’t even tried to go out just to try and get laid once all this year because he never wanted someone to see the straight angry scar just over his lung that at times doesn’t work well. Or to see the long, pale pink one that runs along a leg that he has kept for some kind of miracle. But it doesn’t matter because Jack already saw them just fine and so he just stands up under the water and sighs in relief as grime rolls away from his skin. They rub against each other all the time, Boone against the wall and Jack in front of him, and it’s way too small but it isn’t an issue. Not when Jack’s hands are running along Boone’s wet skin and Boone has a fucking thing for Jack’s hands (long fingers, strong, warm palms, large but nicely proportionate), for the obvious reasons. He can’t get much farther than Jack, fuck and please, but then Jack’s hand is around his cock and well, after a year with just his own hand Boone does appreciate.
A whole damn lot.
Then at one point Jack takes the hand away and uses it to bring Boone’s head forward so they can kiss, while his erection rubs against Boone’s, and the friction is so delicious and so much better than he’d have ever dared to imagine that he can’t possibly last.
Boone comes first, but not my much, hard and long and with a sigh of relief that he fears people in the next room might have heard, and then Jack does too, his head falling over Boone’s shoulder, and if Boone’s hand reaches up and tries to grasp short strands in Jack’s hair, you can’t really blame him.
They stand under the shower until the hot water finishes.
--
The morning after, Boone wakes up in the same bed as Jack, with an arm thrown around his waist and a warm body pressed against his back. Jack’s hand is on his stomach pulling him backwards and for a second he thinks that it’s too good to be real and maybe this has all been a long, delusional dream.
“Are you alright?” comes from behind him, sounding just slightly worried, and Boone decides that if it’s a delusion, then he’s perfectly fine with it as long as it doesn’t end the next time he wakes up.
“Never better,” he answers, and it’s just the plain truth here. Then he presses back against Jack’s frame, that arm tightens around his hip and Boone thinks that accepting to leave without notice was the best thing he did in a very long time.
--
When Boone gets in the driver’s seat, Jack pushes a tape inside.
“Creedence Clearwater Revival?” he asks, and when until now all he has listened to was a variation on the Nirvana theme with Pixies being the group farther from the genre, Jack just shrugs.
“I needed a change.”
They look at each other for one second; Jack’s eyes aren’t that red anymore and his skin isn’t so pale. His fingers still shake around the tape he’s holding in his hand, but there’s something soft in his stare and Boone hopes that it’s in his own, as well. He offers a small smile and looks back at the road.
“You know, I think I needed one, too. Do we have someplace to go?”
“Wherever. You choose.”
Boone nods and when his foot pushes on the accelerator, the pain in his leg is barely there.
End.
Pairing: Jack/Boone
Rating: R
Words: 2000
Spoilers: goes AU from the end of S1 but there's some S3/S4 canon sneaking in. Anyway if you saw the S3 finale then you're okay.
Warnings: mention of drug and alcohol use, descriptions of scars.
Summary: After all, he can’t be that surprised. Or well, not after Jack rang his doorbell one year after they got rescued by that freighter full of crazy people. They hadn’t seen each other in all that time and when Boone opened the door, Jack was clean-shaven, had red-rimmed eyes and a shaking hand, and he asked whether he was up to go somewhere.
A/N: originally written for ozmissage at the five acts exchange; the prompts were road trip, wet and confessions, plus some bonus spooning. Title stolen from Bruce Springsteen.
Surprisingly (for him), Boone is the one who drives almost all the time.
He doesn’t know why Jack had said that he’d really rather not, but it’s nice to be trusted with some responsibility once in a while, and so he’s totally okay with driving. Even if his legs hurts, and a lot, but he learned to ignore it.
Also, he’d have never pegged Jack for one who likes Nirvana blasting on the highway, but well, Boone likes Nirvana alright and if Jack feels like grunge, Boone is okay with it. Really.
After all, he can’t be that surprised. Or well, not after Jack rang his doorbell one year after they got rescued by that freighter full of crazy people. They hadn’t seen each other in all that time and when Boone opened the door, Jack was clean-shaven, had red-rimmed eyes and a shaking hand, and he asked whether he was up to go somewhere.
“Where exactly?” Boone had asked.
“I don’t care,” Jack had said, before adding that of course he’d have understood it if Boone said no. They hadn’t talked for a while and now he just rings his door and -
“Okay,” Boone had answered, because after all, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Shannon is dead, his mother calls but almost never comes and when she does she winces at the erratic scars on his forehead and cheek (well, one can’t live after one accident like Boone’s without consequences). And he just took random part time jobs he could do online because apparently he gets people upset whenever he tries for an interview.
So he said yes and here they are.
They crossed three states and Boone could count the times they had an actual conversation.
At times he wonders if he could just spill it and tell Jack that while on the island his hero worship wasn’t just simply that, but then he decides against it and drives faster. He doesn’t ask Jack why he takes methadone once each day, but he can guess too well.
--
They always go in motels that aren’t seedy but aren’t high class either, and Boone wonders when the hell is his leg going to give out because he sure has never driven so much since coming back to civilization. He never says anything about it.
--
“Why me?” he asks one evening, because he really would like to know. They’ve been on the same car for two weeks and he doesn’t even know why.
“Because you’re the only one in the area who wouldn’t have slammed the door in my face as soon as they saw me,” Jack answers, and Boone would really like to know who else was in the area, but he doesn’t say anything. “Also, you’re about the only person on that island whom I didn’t fail.”
Boone bites his tongue and doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t feel right, not just now.
--
“If you ever want to talk, you can,” he says one evening while they’re eating cherry pie in an absolutely not remarkable diner somewhere in Idaho.
“Thanks for the offer,” Jack answers, and he looks sincere, but his hand is shaking when his fingers tighten around the fork.
--
It takes another three weeks, and then Boone learns that Jack and Kate hooked up after she was absolved (he isn’t surprised, and he tries to kill that small jealous voice in the back of his head), that it didn’t last (he doesn’t know if he’s surprised, either), that he ended up learning that Claire was his half-sister (that is a surprise). And that none of those things had good repercussions.
“Then I started to have nightmares about the goddamn island where Locke told me I had cheated destiny and then I lost it,” Jack mutters, his hand still shaking.
Boone can sort of get it. Also, he’s freaking glad he never had a dream about Locke and that they don’t risk running into each other since Locke is still on the island and Boone figures he’ll stay there until the end of times.
Which is good with him, since he never even received an apology.
“Then I tried to pull myself together but I just needed to get away from there,” Jack mutters, his left hand shaking harder.
Boone doesn’t say anything; he stands up, reaches the bed and twines his fingers around Jack’s.
Jack doesn’t move, actually he tightens the hold, but Boone still doesn’t say anything.
He thinks this is already too much and even more than he ever expected.
--
It’s been two months and they’re somewhere in Virginia. It’s hot, and they went through a backroad which was full of dust, and when they get into the motel room Boone can feel earth sticking to his face.
He thinks that considering that he still has a red, angry scar on his face, he should wash it as soon as possible, and so he calls dibs for the bathroom. He washes his hands trying not to finish the entire bar of soap and then he washes his face, wincing when his fingers touch the scar tissue; he hates touching it, but then again he’d rather have that than being dead, you know.
Then he raises his eyes and Jack is staring at him, leaning on the wall just outside the door.
“I’m sorry about those,” Jack whispers, shrugging. “But I really couldn’t do anything with…”
“Shut up,” Boone answers, turning and leaning on the sink for a second before taking a step forward. “It’s not like I’d rather be dead. Christ, Jack, you saved my life and now you apologize because I won’t ever become a professional model? Don’t worry, I’ll just live with it,” he ends, trying to sound like it really doesn’t matter, even if he doesn’t exactly feel comfortable joking about it.
But it’s the truth. It really just is.
“It’s just,” Jack says, then shakes his head like he doesn’t have the words. “Nothing. Sometimes I really think you’re the only person I didn’t end up disappointing in the last ten years or...”
Boone sort of gets it, but he can’t have that. Not when he has apparently spent his life disappointing people and when he got himself almost killed because he was just wanting to do a good thing for everyone and not giving it a try never was an option.
He reaches out, places his hand behind Jack’s neck, bends him down and kisses him.
For a second he’s sure that this will end very badly, and then Jack lets out a small gasp and kisses him back and Boone thinks that he could die now. He has had his share of daydreams (and regular dreams) about this. About just acting on that stupid feeling that never left his gut since Jack saved him from drowning while he was trying to save someone else, and he never thought he’d do it. Or that he’d have the guts to do it if he had the chance. But now he has and Jack’s tongue is tentatively searching for his, and Jack’s hands are shaking while closing around Boone’s waist. Jack tastes of something he can’t place, the burger they had before and the cigarette he smoked one hour ago, and it’s so good that he can barely compute. He doesn’t want the kiss to end but it does and then he figures he should have the guts to at least look Jack in the eye.
“What…” Jack breathes, and Boone shakes his head.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the island. And before you managed not to make me die for the second time. I just… I shouldn’t have, I know, but you were there and it’s been more than a year and I just -”
There’s a hand around his waist again and Jack’s lips are colliding with his; Boone moans into his mouth and nods and kisses back, and he’s pretty sure that it’s a lot better than what he had always fantasized about. Sure, in his fantasies Jack’s hands were as steady as they were when they stitched up his ribcage, and he didn’t taste of what is probably methadone, and he wasn’t this desperate, but it’s okay because this is real, and he doesn’t ever want it to end. Or not for a while, at least.
They end up under the shower, the clothes lost on the bathroom’s floor, and fuck, Boone hasn’t even tried to go out just to try and get laid once all this year because he never wanted someone to see the straight angry scar just over his lung that at times doesn’t work well. Or to see the long, pale pink one that runs along a leg that he has kept for some kind of miracle. But it doesn’t matter because Jack already saw them just fine and so he just stands up under the water and sighs in relief as grime rolls away from his skin. They rub against each other all the time, Boone against the wall and Jack in front of him, and it’s way too small but it isn’t an issue. Not when Jack’s hands are running along Boone’s wet skin and Boone has a fucking thing for Jack’s hands (long fingers, strong, warm palms, large but nicely proportionate), for the obvious reasons. He can’t get much farther than Jack, fuck and please, but then Jack’s hand is around his cock and well, after a year with just his own hand Boone does appreciate.
A whole damn lot.
Then at one point Jack takes the hand away and uses it to bring Boone’s head forward so they can kiss, while his erection rubs against Boone’s, and the friction is so delicious and so much better than he’d have ever dared to imagine that he can’t possibly last.
Boone comes first, but not my much, hard and long and with a sigh of relief that he fears people in the next room might have heard, and then Jack does too, his head falling over Boone’s shoulder, and if Boone’s hand reaches up and tries to grasp short strands in Jack’s hair, you can’t really blame him.
They stand under the shower until the hot water finishes.
--
The morning after, Boone wakes up in the same bed as Jack, with an arm thrown around his waist and a warm body pressed against his back. Jack’s hand is on his stomach pulling him backwards and for a second he thinks that it’s too good to be real and maybe this has all been a long, delusional dream.
“Are you alright?” comes from behind him, sounding just slightly worried, and Boone decides that if it’s a delusion, then he’s perfectly fine with it as long as it doesn’t end the next time he wakes up.
“Never better,” he answers, and it’s just the plain truth here. Then he presses back against Jack’s frame, that arm tightens around his hip and Boone thinks that accepting to leave without notice was the best thing he did in a very long time.
--
When Boone gets in the driver’s seat, Jack pushes a tape inside.
“Creedence Clearwater Revival?” he asks, and when until now all he has listened to was a variation on the Nirvana theme with Pixies being the group farther from the genre, Jack just shrugs.
“I needed a change.”
They look at each other for one second; Jack’s eyes aren’t that red anymore and his skin isn’t so pale. His fingers still shake around the tape he’s holding in his hand, but there’s something soft in his stare and Boone hopes that it’s in his own, as well. He offers a small smile and looks back at the road.
“You know, I think I needed one, too. Do we have someplace to go?”
“Wherever. You choose.”
Boone nods and when his foot pushes on the accelerator, the pain in his leg is barely there.
End.