Challenge/Prompt: 7snogs, #7. Milk
Summary: A “deleted scene” from the pilot episode flashbacks. Jack and Sawyer, flight 815, and an airplane bathroom. Need I say more? ;)
Author’s Notes: This thought randomly hit me; people [apparently] have sex in aeroplane toilets (notice how I can be British in the author’s notes, but not the fic? *teh sigh*), and, you know, the Lost people were on the plane for a good 8 hours before it went down…
This is not, Jack has to admit, the sort of thing that he normally does. Even with Sarah, this isn’t something that he would have considered doing. He is a doctor, for fuck’s sake, he has a good reputation, he has kept pretty good hold of his sanity, all things considered, and-
And none of that matters. Jack is feeling pretty crazy right now; he has a migraine and he’s sure that he’s drunk one- or three- too many cocktails, because the air hostess kept smiling at him and offering him more and who was he to refuse, really? His father died not all that long ago and now they’ll never be reconciled. Jack hates that he’d do anything right now for a pat on the back; still wishing for that whisper of forgiveness.
What he’s actually getting is something entirely different.
Airplane bathroom stalls are pretty damn tiny- Jack’s back is being pressed too hard against the sink and it hurts; he can barely breathe, crushed like this. The other man, though; he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
Jack met him outside the bathrooms; leaning against the wall waiting for one to come free. He’s tall, longish hair slicked back, a hint of stubble. He was tapping his fingers against his thigh urgently.
“They oughtta shoot whoever banned smokin’ on planes,” he muttered, voice more a growl than anything else. Jack’s brain obediently produced twelve different statistics on what exactly smoke did to the human body and how many people died as a result, but he wisely managed not to say any of them aloud.
The guy swept his eyes over Jack; cold, appraising stare reaching deep enough into Jack to make his stomach lurch, breath catch in his chest.
“Wanna help me take the edge off?” the man continued, smile spreading slowly across his face. It was the detached, practiced smile of a complete and utter bastard, but with enough charm in it for Jack to ask:
“What do you have in mind?”
So, now, he is here, crammed in the bathroom, with a total stranger, whose name Jack doesn’t know (and he suspects he will never find it out). There are strong hands pushing his suit jacket back over his shoulders and that unsettling smile is close enough that it would only take a moment for Jack to lean forward and-
“I don’t normally do this sort of thing,” he whispers, needing, for some unknown reason, to clarify. The grin broadens.
Then their mouths finally meet. Jack can’t stop himself from gasping, fingers digging hard into firm biceps. There’s nothing tentative about this kiss, nothing gentle or hesitant because they’re strangers. Jack can feel a tongue pushing its way into his mouth, and he wants nothing more than to surrender, completely and utterly.
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
Jack hopes the wanton groaning sound he makes stays in his head, and glares at the mystery guy, who is still grinning dangerously.
“’Cause if you ain’t sure, you can always go back to your seat, get a nice cold glass of milk, maybe some cookies, flirt with the air hostess, forget all about this. I ain’t gonna hold it against you.”
Here is his get-out clause, neon signposted. Jack should grab for it with both hands, slink back to his seat, blush the rest of the way back to LA. That would be the sensible option. The sane option.
“I never liked milk all that much anyway,” he says.
Following this, there’s a surprisingly short time where everything becomes distinctly blurry. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the altitude, or the fact there are a couple hundred people outside the door who could hear at any moment, or the voices in his head actually screaming: don’t do this, Jack, this is a stupid idea! Really, really stupid!
There isn’t enough space and it’s over pretty quick because a) they don’t actually want to get caught and b) there’s no room in here for anything lingering (Jack already thinks that he’ll never get the mark where the sink is wedged against his spine to fade). Jack mostly keeps his eyes closed, concentrates on touch, although he no longer knows whose hands are whose and there’s a mouth trailing hot kisses down his neck before coming back to claim his already bruised mouth.
This is not the sort of thing Jack normally does, but for a minute he can’t actually remember why.
Finally, they stumble out of the bathroom, and it seems insane that no one’s watching them. Jack half expected most of the plane standing there looking accusing, but there’s nothing.
“What’s your name?” he asks, glad he doesn’t sound the slightest bit breathless.
“Bit late to be askin’ that now, cowboy,” the guy drawls, but tells him anyway. “Sawyer.”
A pause of about a moment, and Jack knows he should move.
“Don’t need to know yours,” Sawyer informs him. “What seat’re you in?”
“23-B”, Jack replies.
“Might come track you down later,” Sawyer tells him. Off Jack’s look, he smirks. “It’s a long flight. You get the milk, I’ll bring the cookies.”
“I don’t even want to know what that’s a euphemism for,” Jack mumbles, but they’re interrupted by a harried-looking guy in his early fifties heading for the bathroom.
“See you around, cowboy”, Sawyer drawls, heading off down the aisle. Jack waits a moment, carefully wipes the post-coital smile from his face, and returns to his own seat in time to drain the last of his glass. The ice hasn’t even finished melting.
“How’s your drink?” the pretty, permanently smiling air hostess asks.
“Good,” Jack replies.
“That’s not a very strong reaction…”
“It’s not a very strong drink,” Jack points out.
And if you've seen the show, you know where it goes from here...