Summary: Sawyer refuses to wear a motorcycle helmet
Note: Written for lostsquee queen uhzoomzip, who wanted Jack & Sawyer and motorcycles. A little snarky, a little sexy, a little angsty and a lot schmoopy. (And more than a little rushed.) And I think I can use this for the.fanfic100 "Independence" prompt.
“Steve McQueen never wore a motorcycle helmet,” Sawyer groused, straddling his Harley. He shook his head, sending his beautiful golden locks flying, as if to emphasize what a crime it would be to cover them up.
“Sawyer,” Jack began, hands on hips as he stood in the door to the garage, hating that he sounded like he was giving a lecture. Why did he always had to be the voice of reason? “Why don’t you use the helmet I got you?” He pointed to the two full-face helmets sitting neatly on their designated shelf. Jack had picked them for their safety rating, choosing white because it increased visibility. Sawyer had hated them both on sight and refused to wear either one.
“Ninety eight percent of motorcycle fatalities happen because of a lack of a helmet.” Jack was saying, sounding like a broken record. He walked over to the bike, the better to admonish Sawyer with just how serious he was.
“Gosh, you got statistics on your side and everything,” Sawyer smirked up at Jack as he caressed the handle bars in a decidedly obscene manner. “Kind of defeats the whole purpose of ridin’ though, don’t it?” He leaned closer to Jack, expertly keeping his balance as he did so. “Kinda like forcin’ a man to wear a condom. Where’s the fun in that?”
Jack frowned but Sawyer’s dimples and seductive, low drawl and the mention of sex had already given him a raging hard-on. Somehow with Sawyer, every conversation came back around to sex. It’s not like he ever thought about much else when Sawyer was so close, smelling sinfully like musk and cigarettes and leather.
Getting angry with Sawyer only led to sex that much faster, made it rougher and hotter. Jack wondered if that’s why they fought so hard, so often. He tried to remember the next part of his argument as Sawyer’s hands roamed from his bike to Jack’s leg, tracing the inseam of his jeans all the way up to his crotch.
That night Sawyer didn’t ride his motorcycle without his helmet -- he didn’t ride his motorcycle at all. Instead he rode Jack until they were both covered in sweat and gasping and swearing, until both their bodies gave out and they collapsed blissfully, argument forgotten, into damp sheets.
The next night, Jack was ready. When Sawyer went out for ride, a brand new helmet was hanging by its strap from one handlebar.
“What the hell is that?” Sawyer demanded, pointing at it like Jack had placed a dead rat on his baby.
“It’s your new helmet,” Jack grinned, shoving Sawyer towards the bike. “German style. Very sleek. You’ll barely know you’re wearing it.”
Sawyer continued to eye it suspiciously from a distance so Jack took the liberty of bringing it to him. “See? It’s black and it won’t cover all your hair or that gorgeous face. And you can still eat all the bugs you want.”
Sawyer had to laugh at that and he grudgingly took it and placed it on his own head. He adjusted the chin strap and walked over to the motorcycle so he could examine himself in one of the side mirrors. “I dunno...”
“Clooney wears one just like it,” Jack said, placing a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder as he admired his reflection in the mirror. “Very hot. And see, your hair looks great in it.”
Sawyer turned this way and that, frowning slightly. It was true. Plenty of his blonde hair peeked out, quite attractively, underneath, flipping up slightly at the ends.
“I still say McQueen wouldn’t be caught dead in one of these. Especially a German one. He spent all of The Great Escape tryin’ to get away from the Nazis, not join ‘em!”
Jack sighed. “Even if no one can see your face -- and they still can -- you’re still the hottest piece of ass on a Harley in San Francisco County. That what you want to hear? You pull up on that thing, helmet or no helmet, and every one, man or woman, uncrosses their legs and wants to buy you a drink.”
Sawyer sniffed and finally nodded. “Okay, Doc Safety. I’ll give ‘er a whirl. But this is just to get you off my back, you miserable tightass.”
“You’re welcome,” Jack laughed, leaning in for a kiss and then he had to hurry to get his own helmet on because Sawyer had already revved his bike and raced off down the hill, his usual farewell whoop of joy clearly audible over the roar of the motor.
It was a fucking good thing, an amazing stroke of luck, Jack thought as he sat in the emergency room, that Sawyer had picked tonight of all nights to wear a helmet. It could have been so much worse, he told himself, echoing the doctor’s words. As it was, Sawyer suffered only a broken arm, three broken ribs and a fucked-up knee.There was some swelling in the brain, but the doctors couldn’t say if there’d been any permanent damage. Jack prayed, even though he knew no one was listening, that Sawyer would be okay.
Jack had seen it all happen in slow motion ahead of him: Sawyer’s bike suddenly swaying to one side and then flipping over, sending him flying right into a lamp post with a sickening crunch. Jack was just seconds behind him and when he got there, Sawyer was unconscious but still breathing, his arm bent at an ugly-looking angle. The new helmet cracked, but it had done its job. Sawyer was alive.
Jack hovered over Sawyer in the recovery room, kissing his scraped-knuckles, waiting for him to wake up to prove that he really was okay.
When Sawyer woke, he was a little punchy at first, but the first thing he asked about was his bike.
“It can be fixed,” Jack smiled, eyes pricking with tears of relief.
“Good,” Sawyer said with a weary smile, eyes closing already. Very quietly, so quietly Jack could barely hear him, he added. “Thanks, Jack.”
”The damn helmet,” he sighed. “Saved my life, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think it did,” Jack said, squeezing his hand.
”Shit. I’m gonna ... have to do everything ... you say from now on, won’t I?”
”Maybe,” Jack laughed, bending to kiss Sawyer’s forehead.
“Like give up riding?” Sawyer squinted at him with one eye. He sounded sarcastic but there was an underlying fear there.
Jack didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t imagine Sawyer without his Harley. He couldn’t ask that of him, even now. He sighed. “No, that’s up to you. Wouldn’t want to come between a man and his bike.”
Sawyer’s hand was still clasped between his and now Sawyer squeezed back. “I owe you... “ He seemed to want to say something else but he didn’t have the strength.
“Save it,” Jack said, tucking Sawyer’s hand back under the covers. “You can tell me later.”
Sawyer was already out. Jack settled into the chair next to his bed, determined to get some sleep himself. Sawyer’s bike would be ready for him by the time he was well enough to ride, he vowed. He’d get him a new helmet too. Maybe a blue one, to match his eyes.