Summary: Shannon picks up Jack in an airport bar
Word count: 1343
Note: For eponine119, who requested Jack/Shannon for her day as Queen at lostsquee. Thanks to zelda_zee for the beta. ;)
Shannon never paid for her own drinks if she could help it and an airport bar was no different than any other bar. She had just enough time to get a buzz on and maybe a bit more before the plane took off and she was not about to waste that time with Boone, not when she was going to be stuck with him for another twelve hours or however long the stupid flight was.
She scanned the tiny bar -- just a few stools and a counter, really -- and immediately zeroed in on the dark-haired guy in a suit nursing a screwdriver. Well, nursing wasn't the right word. More like taking a brief pause from downing them in quick succession, she realized as he knocked back the last of his drink and waved down the bartender for another.
A guy who was that free with his money was as good a bet as any. She slid into the stool next to his and gave him her most dazzling smile. He didn't even look her way.
The bartender asked what she'd like. She cast one more glance at Screwdriver Guy and said, pointedly, "What he’s having, thanks. That looks good." The bartender nodded and poured another, setting it in front of her with a crisp napkin and a brisk nod. She gave him her credit card, told him to start a tab. If she was lucky, it wouldn't be used at all.
Screwdriver Guy finally gave her a cursory glance. He was older than she'd thought at first. Touch of gray at the temples. Lines around the eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept -- or shaved -- in days, but he was still handsome in a rugged way that definitely appealed to her.
"Rough day?" she asked, nudging his foot with hers.
He gave a brief snort that might have been a laugh. "You have no idea."
At the sound of his voice, recognition finally dawned. "Oh, hey, I saw you at the ticket counter. They must have really messed up your flight. They did that to my brother and me. We were supposed to fly first class..."
She told him the whole story, annoyed but not yet discouraged that he didn’t seem to be listening to a word of it. "So why all the drinks?"
That odd sound came again and he shrugged his (really quite nice) shoulders. "Why not?"
"Oh," she said, at a momentary loss for words, so she sipped at her drink. "Yeah, sure."
A beat passed with nothing but the background buzz of the airport and the horribly Muzaked version of "Every Breath You Take," to fill it.
Shannon subtly swiveled on her chair, surveying her other options. She had far too much time to kill and this guy wasn't coming through for her at all, which was a shame. He was tall and built in a way that was so not like Boone and she could really go for that right about now. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the memory of Boone's hands on her, Boone inside her... when she realized her drinking companion was finally talking to her.
".... Australia to find him. And I did. At the morgue. He'd drunk himself to death," he said with a bitter laugh as he downed the rest of what had to be his fourth or fifth drink. "Like father, like son, right?"
"Oh," Shannon said, her hand going to her mouth. For the first time she saw his reddened eyes and pallor as overwhelming grief. "I'm ... I'm so sorry." She patted his arm, not knowing what else to do. "My father died two years ago. Traffic accident." Her words were flat, all her flirtatiousness gone. "I'd give anything to have him back."
Again came that bitter laugh. "I wasn't on the best of terms with mine. He hated me, in fact," he said, eyeing her for her reaction, as if she would recoil from a man whose own father despised him. His shoulders shook and he seemed to be laughing at his own little joke, until it became apparent that he was crying, not laughing.
She leaned in without thinking and kissed him. He stopped crying in his surprise and after a moment of stunned resistance, kissed her back.
"I have half an hour," she whispered in his ear, rubbing her hand on his thigh in case he couldn't figure out how she wanted to kill that chunk of time with him.
She signed her tab -- the bartender was an observant one and brought it right over -- and they left the bar. There was a handicapped bathroom right around the corner and she led him into it, taking his hand in hers. She locked the door and he was up against her, his legs between hers. He wasn't too drunk, she noticed appreciatively, her hand going to his already prominent erection. He groaned into her touch, his eyes closed tight as if he feared she might take her hand away if he opened his eyes.
She couldn't get his belt open fast enough, couldn't slip her panties down quick enough it seemed, but finally, she had her legs wrapped tight around his waist and he was fucking her right into the door. God, it felt good to have him slamming into her, hard, deep, almost to the point of pain, his breath already ragged, his hands digging into her hips. He was strong, able to hold her up without effort, and she willed her body to wipe out all memories of last night as she clung to his back, as she clutched at his muscular ass. This was the kind of man she fucked. Not little boys. Not little boys like Boone.
She didn't even know the name of this man fucking her as roughly and desperately as if it would be the last thing he ever did, and part of her wanted not to know anything else about him.
But when she felt her orgasm building inside her -- he was riding her high and hard enough for her to come -- she gasped in his ear, "What's your name?"
"Jack," he grunted, the name distorted by his groan of release, his hips stuttering against hers. He didn't pull out immediately, just kept rubbing his hands over her thighs, his face buried against her neck until he got his breath back.
She hadn't come after all but it didn't matter.
He didn't meet her eye as she slid off him, just hiked up his boxers and pants and redid his belt as if it were requiring all his concentration.
She balanced on one heel as she pulled her panties back up and straightened her skirt. She glanced at the mirror, smoothing her hair. Not too rumpled. Boone, that idiot, would never suspect a thing.
"I ... thank you," Jack said awkwardly, watching her in the mirror. "I don't know your name either."
"Oh, it's ... Lisa," she lied, as if it mattered. She'd never see this guy again. "That was great," she said, and that wasn't a lie. She reached into her purse for her lip gloss.
He stood there for a moment, watching her touch up her lips. "I'm sorry about your father," he said and she froze.
"Yeah, me too," she said, cringing at how insincere she sounded. "I mean, about your dad."
A flicker of regret passed over his face, for this encounter with her just now or what, she didn't know. He disappeared into the single stall, which was annoying because she'd wanted to use it. She thought she might wait but then she heard him sobbing softly. She'd already used up her one way of dealing with men who cry. The airport was full of restrooms. She could use the next one.
She closed the door softly behind her and glanced at her watch. She still had time for another drink. There must be another bar in this part of the airport.