Challenge/Prompt: 7snogs, 3. Embrace
Summary: Jack and Sawyer after the events of 2x13 “The Long Con” (you know, the one where Sawyer gets hold of all the guns with a little help from Charlie)
Author’s Notes: God, I love this pairing. And I quite like this fic, too.
The darkness at this end of the beach isn’t subtle.
It isn’t punctuated by other people’s campfires or the sounds of the other survivors preparing themselves for the evening. It is pure black and people’s faces are pale slashes in the night, unrecognisable, clearly not recognising Jack either as he walks down the beach.
He shouldn’t be here and he knows that but somehow the warm embrace of the night around him feels like a kind of protection against the lost helplessness he feels.
Down here he feels pleasurably anonymous and relieved, like a load of pressure’s been taken off his shoulders. Down here it’s dark and quiet and there’s nothing but the waves on the shore and the disconcerting rustling from the forest and the image of him in his head.
Sweat trickles down Jack’s skin from the humidity and maybe something else.
Jack knows that Sawyer’s got a gun. Got lots of guns. Perhaps this will get him killed. Perhaps it won’t.
He licks his lips in the darkness and they taste like salt. And for a moment he wonders what Sawyer will taste like and if he can still risk it. But he wants to know and to be honest he’s got nothing at all left to lose.
“Hey Doc,” comes the lazy drawl and Jack pretends he can’t see Charlie slinking away into the shadows, hood up, eyes dark pools in the bitter heat of the night. He doesn’t want to know. Sawyer’s barely lit and Jack is afraid and not. He could still walk away. He could take a step back or make up a lie or hit the Texan.
But he does none of those things.
Mouths connect and fingers tear fabric and streak across skin hard- too hard (Jack feels blood run down his back, bites down in reply, hears a groan and tastes bloody saltiness in his mouth that isn’t his). It’s dark down here, too dark, and Jack can’t see what he’s doing and he likes that.
He imagines Sawyer saying “I could break you all and I will just so that I can truly tell I can.” (Sawyer imagines Jack saying “I want a gun”, just so all of this passion can become a business transaction and nothing more.)
He imagines what the two of them look like, tanned skin twisted together and nails digging in hard enough to bleed and denim rubbing against denim looking like they want to kill each other except of course that’s not quite the sort of death Jack is looking for and oh God he can’t breathe.
It’s inky black here and he can’t see what he’s doing and it doesn’t matter and there’s sand sticking in all sorts of places in a way that makes him want to laugh but Jack also knows if there’s one burst of laughter that will be it.
The darkness is a physical presence, like some kind of sick ménage a trois and it’s just like wearing a blindfold (Sarah tried that once and Jack had found at the time it did nothing for him but right now it’s- oh God, it’s definitely doing something).
Like this hasn’t been building for weeks anyway.
And neither of them says a thing because they both know there are no words they could say that won’t stop this in its tracks and all there is here is the slide of skin against skin and the taste of blood on another man’s tongue.
“You want a gun, Doc?” Sawyer asks, much later on when they’re both naked in the dark and Jack can’t see anything except the sheen the faint moonlight gives the sweat on Sawyer’s skin.
“Go to hell,” Jack replies softly, leaving him there, walking back through the dark, heavy and warm around him, steadfastly refusing to look back.
And then he sits wide-awake in the hatch all night, waiting for the sun to rise.