Title: Amateurs
Author:  foxxcub
Rating: R for language, drug use, and drunken boy-snogging
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer (although here, it’s really Jack/James)
Summary: The fragments of memory that never really leave you.
A/N: AU and how. This is me taking Jack’s backstory and then running away with it laughing like a woman on crack. Thanks as always to halfdutch for talking me through this bad boy.

Written for the "childhood memory" challenge for lostfichallenge.
 

---

Amateurs. All of ‘em.

He leans against his dad’s wet bar and watches the way they all flush and sway as the shots start to take hold. He’d already done two more before everyone showed up, and he feels fine. Absolutely fine. There’s the slight loss of feeling in his fingertips, but nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

The faint scent of weed drifts into the air and Jack pauses to consider opening the screen door onto the patio and letting in the spring storm raging outside in the dark. Granted, his parents aren’t going to be home from the Caymans for another three days, so there’ll be plenty of time to air the rec room out. Fuck responsibility, he thinks and rubs at his arm. That’s what this week is about, after all.

He wants to smoke. Not the weed, it’s not his thing; he needs nicotine and realizes his last pack is empty and that he shouldn’t be driving anywhere at the moment (because of the numb fingertips and all).

And then he notices that guy Benson brought has cigarettes—he’s sprawled on the couch, playing with one behind his ear. That guy, James, who just five minutes ago did three straight hits of Jim Beam and didn’t even flinch. Who’s said all of three words since he walked through the front door. Benson said he had connections, could get them a good stash, and Jack agreed to the invite, not even caring that he didn’t get high and that James was the type you only looked at and never spoke to. He’s seen him around a few times, mostly in the bleachers smoking and reading some paperback. He doesn’t even know his last name.

For a guy who came with a good four ounces of pot, he isn’t even touching the joint that’s making the rounds. And yet no one questions it, just like no one questions his presence. It’s like he’s faded in and people barely take note.

Except for Jack.

He pushes off the bar and nonchalantly passes by the couch, where he crouches down and folds his arms over the armrest.

“Hey, can I bum a smoke?” He keeps his voice light, but when James cocks his head at him and raises an eyebrow, his pulse goes a little funny.

“No shit. The Great Jack Shepard smokes?” The corner of his mouth crooks up and shows his teeth. “Go figure.”

“So is that a yes or what?”

“Yeah, sure. You goin’ outside?”

He can still hear the rain hitting the glass. “No. Bathroom.” He jerks his head off toward the door in the corner.

James smirks at him. “Ya got smoke detectors in there, Prep?”

Funny, he’s never heard him speak so many words until now, never heard this soft Southern drawl that seems so perfectly out of place. He smirks back. “Not anymore. I took ‘em out when I started smoking in there so my dad wouldn’t catch me.”

“Well, a’right, then. Let’s go.”

They’re hardly missed as the noise level rises slightly, blending with the sounds of Bon Jovi from the stereo and thunder rumbling in the distance. Jack stumbles slightly as he shoves the door open and he ignores it, just like he ignores the liquid warmth that’s spread through his body. He glances at James and he looks fine, more than sober, and Jack hates it. He’s stronger than this.

“So.” It’s abrupt and a little pouty. “You drink a lot?”

James leans against the wall by the tub and slides to the floor, dangling his arms over his knees as he shakes two cigarettes out into his hand. He hands one to Jack and says dismissively, “Yeah, I guess.” But he glances up, like he’s waiting for more.

It’s always been, for several years now, Jack’s secret joy, his secret comfort, that he can hold his alcohol, that he’s not some idiot lush slamming into walls and puking his guts out in a bush somewhere. He’s never minded being a closet drinker, having spent just over sixteen years watching a master at work. But he’s drunk, he knows, and James just smiles.

“You hate bein’ drunk, dontcha?”

“Whatever.” Jack digs his Bic out of his pocket and concentrates on the flame as he leans against the sink.

“’Course you do. You’ve been tryin’ to hide it all fuckin’ night.”

He doesn’t stop to consider that James has been watching him. “I don’t have to hide shit, okay? It’s my fucking house.” He takes a long, hard drag and blows it in his direction. “And for your information, I’m not drunk.” Too bad he’s starting to slur, or he might almost believe himself.

There’s silence for a stretch, their smoke rising between them in transparent swirls, taking the room slightly out of focus for Jack. James doesn’t look at him, just stares at his hands, but he can feel his eyes on him somehow, and it’s weird and freakish and makes his heart pound again. Jack’s legs finally give out and he sinks to the floor across from him, their feet barely touching. They’re both flicking ash onto the tile, but he doesn’t care, just rests his head back on the cabinet and draws smoke into his lungs.

“Nice selection your dad’s got.”

Jack sits up, blinks. “What?”

“The liquor cabinet. It’s all his, right?”

“Yeah.” He sighs and throws the filter into the toilet next to him. “He’s gonna fucking kill me when he gets home, too.”

Then he starts to laugh, the silent kind that starts in the shoulders and chest and works its way up. He rubs his palms across his face and grins like an idiot. Yeah, and wait till his dad got a load of his arm, too.

There was a loud thunk from beyond the closed door, followed by shrieks of female laughter.

“Um, Jack?” It's muffled and high-pitched. “Can we get in there for a sec?”

“Fuckin’ girls.” James mutters it around his second cigarette, firmly held out the corner of his mouth James Dean-like.

“Hey, there’s a bathroom upstairs!” Jack yells at the door and kicks it shut with his foot when Kelly tries to stick her head in and sweet talk him. He’s not making out with her again; the last time was damp and boring and she liked to bite too much.

“But that’s far.”

“So? We’re busy in here.”

“You can smoke out here…with us. With me.”

James smirks again as Jack starts to blush. “Didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Prep.”

“Not my girlfriend. Ever. Jesus.” He kicks the door again and gets to his knees to flip the lock. “Fuck off, Kelly, go upstairs.”

“Screw you, Jack. Your party sucks anyway.” But there’s still the faint giggling that fades into the dull roar that’s now hidden from them, locked away.

He collapses back against the cabinet and chews his lower lip as he eyes the soft pack by James’s hip.

“Just ask, dumbass.” But he doesn’t bother waiting; he tosses the pack at him and Jack never asks again the rest of the night.

“Why are you even here?” Jack tries not to look at him as he lights up, tries to sound all cool and collected, because somehow James makes him feel too young, too…inexperienced.

James shrugs. “Dunno. Benson asked me to get him some weed, so I did. Then he said it was for some party at your house, and I just had to see where the Golden Boy of the junior class lived.” He paused, took a drag. “Gotta admit, it’s not all that.”

“What, I don’t have a maid or a marble staircase?”

“Naw, nothin’ like that. I just expected somethin’…more.”

“Gave ya free booze, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” He laughs softly, and it’s not malicious at all. “Shocker.” He’s playing with the soft pack, his fingers running back and forth over the plastic and Jack watches, fascinated.

“So didja fuck her?”

Jack jerks back at the word, nearly slamming his head on the sink. “What? No!” Shakes his head, feels his cheeks heat again. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” James stretches his legs out, at least as far as they can go until they hit the wall. He looks satisfied and Jack starts to shrink.

He’s talking when he shouldn’t be. “Just ‘cause I haven’t slept with a girl doesn’t mean--”

“—that you’re not still Golden Boy? Naw, it doesn’t, you’re right.” He doesn’t have to say anything else; that smirk is still in his eyes, and Jack’s positive that James’s slept with plenty of girls, could have any he wants, never has to prove anything, doesn’t ever feel that biting sense of inadequacy everytime a girl looks at him.

He’s suddenly on his feet and staggering out the door, practically sprinting to the wet bar to grab the bottle of whiskey that’s still sitting there, untouched since James last did a shot. He doesn’t bother looking for glasses.

James is still there moments later, slouched by the tub and seemingly unfazed.

Jack stands there, right in front him, feet braced apart, and takes a large swig straight from the bottle. His eyes water—he’s never done whiskey until now—and he senses his throat starting to tighten and make him cough, but he swallows it all before thrusting the bottle into James’s face.

“Here. You like this, don’t you?” He manages not to cough, but he’s panting instead.

James blinks at him slowly. “Sure.” He takes it from him, rubs his thumb over the label and takes a drink like it's nothing.

Before he even knows what he’s doing, Jack’s back on the floor and jerking the left sleeve of his gray t-shirt up to his shoulder.

“Would a ‘Golden Boy’ do this?” He holds his arm out to him, exposing the intricate patterns tattooed along the inside of his bicep and down to his inner elbow. Only yesterday had he been able to take the bandages off, letting him see exactly what he’d done to himself in a fit of adolescent rebellion. The skin was still tender to the touch, but it was there, bold and stark and real.

“Huh.” James takes another drink, his eyes widening slightly. He reaches two fingers out and starts to trace the different outlines etched along his skin. Jack shivers and holds his breath. “Nice.”

“Took five hours to do.”

“Uh-huh. You skip school to get that?”

He lifts his chin a fraction. “Yeah.”

“Nice.” The bottle slams on the tile with a loud clank and James doesn’t look so sober anymore. Jack doesn’t feel so small anymore, either.

“I hate needles.” James says it like it’s an excuse. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth and digs another cigarette out.

“’s not so bad. You just don’t look.”

“Dontcha hafta be eighteen or somethin’?”

“Not if you have a real good fake ID.”

James grins--really grins—and chucks a smoke at Jack’s chest. “Good call.”

Jack smiles, not wanting to admit the giddiness he feels at those words. They’re just words, after all, it’s not like he needs James to validate his rebel status…

The lights go out and there’s the sudden distinct silence of electricity dying.

“Aw, fuck,” Jack huffs.

But surprisingly enough, there’s loud laughter for the next few minutes and then everything sort of dies off into soft muffles.

“Did they all leave?”

James snorts. “Betcha ten bucks there’s a mass orgy takin’ place. Free booze and the dark? Get with it, Prep.”

Jack freezes for a moment and visualizes bodies and limbs tumbling and writhing together on and around the beat-up leather couch. It terrifies him and gives him a boner all at once.

“I should…um…maybe…”

“Jack.” A hand, warm and smooth, closes over his arm. “Just chill out, ‘kay? Everybody’s too drunk or high to rip you off, so it’s all good.”

The only light Jack can see is the slow, pulsing glow of James’s cigarette. He swallows hard, wishing James would let go of his arm so he can stop concentrating on the feel of his fingertips pressing into his skin.

“Where’s the bottle?”

“Here.” And somehow James finds Jack’s hand in the dark, lifting it and slipping the glass into his palm. Since he can’t see for shit, he tips it back and chugs until he’s sputtering.

“You don’t have to show off.” Jack wants to believe he sounds impressed all the same.

“I’m not showing off. It’s fucking dark.”

James flicks his lighter and the tiny flame glows, turning his face into dark orange shadows. “Not anymore.”

“Funny.”

“I thought so.” He lets the flame go out. Jack hears the glass bottle scrape against the tile as James picks it up, and he can actually hear him swallowing in the dark.

While all the feeling has seeped out of his body, he’s suddenly hot and way too conscious of the erection poking at his fly. He feels restless, like his skin is becoming a size too small; the room is becoming a spinning void, but he likes the sensation of not having to close his eyes.

“I’ve done stuff with girls before.” He’s stopped caring about cool and collected.

“Yeah?” James’s voice is starting to sound a little deeper, a little fuzzier. His drawl keeps lengthening. “Like what?”

“I can take a bra off one-handed.”

“And?”

“And I’ve…y’know…” Dammit, he was blushing again. “Touched ‘em. Down there.” Fuck. He's such a loser.

“It’s called fingering, Einstein.”

“I know.” But he doesn’t hear James laughing, and he’s ridiculously relieved.

“Anythin’ else?”

Jack sighs and lets his body lean forward, bumping into James’s legs. Without even thinking, he folds his arms over his knees and rests his chin there. “No.”

“’s okay. Ya got the tat. Girls’ll wanna fuck you like crazy now.”

Jack laughs, letting the sound of the honest humor in James’s voice sweep over him like warm wind. James is laughing, too, lower-pitched than Jack’s and rougher, and Jack’s heart is pounding and his skin feels so damn tight and it’s hotter than shit in the room…

It’s so dark that he’s not sure how it happens, but his mouth is sliding slow and wet over James’s, who sucks in a sharp breath right before letting out a sigh that holds that same roughened pitch of his laughter. Jack knows he’s between James’s legs, can feel them spread apart to accommodate him, but he struggles against him, wanting to be closer, and he quickly straddles his hips, blindly slamming his palms to the wall behind James’s head. Hands are at his waist, thumbs hooking into the belt loops of his jeans, and when Jack relaxes against him he feels it, right there, hard and hot and just barely rising up to him as James gives a small thrust upward, and Jack groans.

This isn’t like making out with a girl. Jack never knows what to do with his hands; the breasts, sure, but after awhile she starts to expect more and he’s always at a loss then. But he doesn’t have to worry now, there’s nothing but the scent of nicotine and whiskey and stale air and the here and now. As Jack rubs himself against James through his jeans he thinks there couldn’t possibly be this kind of friction with any girl, this tight, gasping sensation that makes his hands shake and his jaw clench so hard it aches.

James skims Jack’s shirt off, tugging it from the back, and Jack can only think yes. They’re kissing again, deeper this time, and James sucks Jack’s lower lip so hard he digs his nails into James’s shoulders, giving back, grinding into him slowly and making James gasp.

“Aw, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

And then James is thrusting up again, with more force and intensity, the tips of his fingers slipping beneath the edge of Jack’s jeans right above his ass. James holds him fast, pressing down, keeping Jack’s hips steady as his thrusts become faster, uncontrolled. Jack fights him, wanting to meet his pace, but as he tries to lean back and take over, he feels James’s cheek sliding over the skin of his inner left arm, over the tattoos, his soft stubble scraping back and forth. Jack feels teeth nipping along his elbow and he shudders and gasps and wills himself not to come, godpleasenonotnow—

“I gotta get me one of these.” He can feel the moist heat of James’s whisper in his skin.

He’s too close, and it’s too dark, and he’s surrounded by their sighs and moans and the rain pounding the bathroom window. Lightning flashes and for a split second he can see James clearly beneath him, hair in his eyes and lips shiny wet and parted as he gulps for breath. After that, everything is a lost cause, and they’re both coming, holding on tight to one another for dear life. Jack barely keeps from calling out and James groans another fuck deep in the back of his throat.

Dizzy. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by it, and he can’t even stop to think about the fact that he’s just come in his own jeans with a guy. With James.

“Wha…what’s your last name?” Jack pants as he rolls onto his back on the floor.

“Ford.” His voice is faint, tired, like he’s on the verge of passing out.

“Just wonderin’.”

Jack really does pass out, right on his bathroom floor.


///

When Jack wakes the next morning with his mouth glued shut and a massive headache splitting his brain, James is gone. The sun is shining and the power has returned and everyone is gone.

Jack crawls into the tub and lies there for several hours, not quite certain if he wants it all to be a dream or not.

///

Jack saw him on the plane and he remembered it all; the memory slugged him in the gut so hard he flinched. They’d never spoken since that night, and he’d figured that they’d land without James ever setting eyes on him, without ever having to find words to say.

But memory’s a bitch sometimes, and after he’d had James’s--Sawyer’s--blood on his hands and that look of contempt for things he could never be and those small fragments of jealousy over a girl that this time around Jack knew he could have, Jack knew he’d have to look back and remember.

And somehow, so did James.