halfdutch (halfdutch) wrote,

Lay It Down (Jack/Sawyer) - R

Title: Lay It Down
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Summary: You know he won't just let you go
Rating: R
Spoilers: Up through Lockdown
Note: Second person - a first for me! For the fabulous lillyjk's birthday. *smooch*

You’re more than halfway back to the hatch when the distinct sound of a twig snapping underfoot comes behind you. Close. Too close. You spin to see who it is, the hair on the back of your neck rising. A friend would have called out your name by now.

You sweep the torch in front of you, a quick blur of light, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. A face flickers in the light of the fire and you stop holding your breath when you see it’s just Sawyer.

He grins to see he’s made you jumpy. That maddening, dimpled grin he unfurls whenever he’s sure he’s got the upper hand. The one you wiped off his face earlier today.

“You never came for your winnin’s, doc,” he says, holding out his hand. His fist opens to reveal two small plastic bottles.

You shrug, noting how his hand doesn’t retreat when you make no immediate move to claim the pills. “I didn’t need them yet.”

His body tenses and his face clouds, like he might toss them at your feet and storm off, but instead he just sighs. “Yeah, well, you won ‘em, so here,” he says without meeting your eye, stepping forward and pressing them into your free hand .

You let your hand linger over his for a beat too long, knowing he’ll look up with a flash of surprise that quickly disappears behind that smooth facade.

“Thanks,” you say, and turn to go. You wonder if he’ll follow or call after you, but you know he won’t just let you go. You hate to admit just how much you enjoy pushing him like this, denying him the satisfaction.

“Wait up, doc,” he says, as if on cue and you dutifully pause, face set in an expectant blank.

“What is it?”

“What’d you go through all that for, then? Just to make a fool out of me?” His voice rises, his frustration leaking through.

“You’re the one who always likes an audience, Sawyer,” you say evenly.

The few times it’s just been the two of you, Sawyer has always backed down. He likes to play to the crowd. To grandstand. Even if he loses, Sawyer still wins. But you don’t say any of that, don’t say you remember the first time he called you by your right name, that your threats were the only thing that ever bought his respect. You don’t say anything about what was said before he left on the raft, because he’s been too smart to ever let his guard down like that since.

“If I made a fool out of you, it’s because you let me,” is all you say, because you know it’ll make his blood boil.

“You sayin’ I let you win?” Sure enough, he’s angry enough to spit, heavy brows lowered in a warning that would make another man step back or reach for a weapon.

“Didn’t you?” And you smile. Nicely.

“No.” His eyes narrow and in that instant, his hatred burns hotter than the torch in your hand. “Why’n hell would I do that?” He throws out his arms, as if asking the whole island to bear witness to your insanity.

You sigh, the deep, aggravated sigh that only he seems to wring from you. “I don’t know, Sawyer. Why do you do anything? To get under my skin. To make me, or someone else, want to kick your ass. Or worse.”

He doesn’t say anything, just lets you talk. The flame flickers, mirrored in his pupils, and you think you’ve always seen it there, even in the daylight.

“Negative attention is better than none, right?” You say, waiting for him to react to the truth.

He lets out a sharp breath and he’s so close now, you can feel the air he breathes “You think that was about getting your attention?” he huffs.

“Well, it worked,” you say softly, and you somehow know that if you lower your voice, he’ll come closer. “You got my attention.”

“Lucky me,” he says with a disdainful toss of his head, but now he’s puzzled, offbalance. You’re not playing the game right. He wants your rage, your fists. He doesn’t want you. At least, you’re not sure, not until now.

“But you always want an audience,” you say, talking even quieter now, until your voice is nothing more than a rumble in your throat. “But here’s what I think.” You lick your lips before you go on and he waits, head cocked slightly to the side and that odd half smile that could mean almost anything.

“I think it’s me you want to get a rise out of. Because, once you have my attention, you stop.”

His face is a mask, but the pulse in his throat betrays him. “Yeah?” his voice has gone husky, a quality in it you’ve never heard before.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding now. “The card game. Kate’s suitcase. When it comes right down to it, you always let me win. That’s why I’m not worried about the guns. Because you want to give them to me. That’s why you took them in the first place.”

He throws back his head and laughs, breaking the tension. “Right, Jacko. I just live for your approval.” He shakes his head now and he’s looking at you with a kind of fond scorn.

“So you’ve just been bluffing?” You grin, sure now. You prop the torch in the ground and shrug off your backpack. Your shirt is next. You pull it over your head and the cool night air makes you shiver as it hits your bare skin.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” he asks, sounding an unexpected note of indignation.

“Calling your bluff. You want my full attention, you got it.” You take his shirt in your fist, pulling him closer. He’s startled, but he doesn’t resist. There’s that unspoken dare in his gaze you’ve seen before and now, at last, you’re going to answer it.

You let your mouth hover over his for nearly a minute, tasting his breath, waiting for him to move. But he doesn’t. “You want it?” you ask and his hand gripping your waist is all the answer you need. His mouth is open and your tongue slides over his lips, a jolt you can both feel, and then inside.

His breath is almost a gasp and you swallow it, taking him in, your skin galvanized by the feel of him against you. He melts into you, his body warm and eager under your fingers. You break the kiss, out of breath, your own heart pounding, and he leans against you, panting, already boneless in submission. He’s helping you undo his jeans and you stop to look into his eyes. You want to see him not broken, but whole, for once. His eyes are hooded in the shadows thrown by the torch, his pupils large even in the dim light.

“Jack.” He breathes out your name as you take him in hand, already hard. He’s hard because of you. He braces himself against you as you start a rhythm, his chest rising and falling against your shoulder and you feel the surge of power you felt every time you made that first cut in the O.R.

Sawyer is in your hands. He always has been. You’ve always had this power over him, holding him back from death, pulling him out of fights, protecting him from everyone else, from himself. Sawyer is yours.

He’s digging his hands into your shoulder and when he starts to shake, you hold him tighter. He bites down hard when he comes, his moan muffled against your chest and you cradle him as his body jerks, out of his control, but safe in yours.

You like the sight of him like this, eyes glassy and hair damp against his forehead and a drowsy smile playing over his face. You still can’t believe you were right, that he let you do this, and this, as you brush the hair out of his eyes.

“Think I needed that, doc,” he says, sounding almost drunk. He tosses his head again -- you like that he has to clear his head -- and then he’s sliding down your body, tugging at the densely curled hair on your chest, before making quick work of the snaps on your jeans. And then there’s nothing but the intense, wet heat of his mouth and the sweet, teasing pressure of his tongue and you know you’ve won.

He’s wanted you, needed you, and the knowledge makes you feel like a god, a giant. Sawyer is your strength.

As you bite your lip and your knees go soft, he instinctively holds you up. You’re helpless in his grip, groaning his name between strangled breaths when you come. You see white, then black as you mind goes blank and his heat burns through your body like a wildfire.

You come back to yourself and find he’s resting his cheek against your thigh as your fingers comb through his hair. You let out all the breath that’s left in you.

He can never know that he’s your weakness.
Tags: jack/sawyer, lost_fic, lost_fic_s2

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