Title:  “Of Wrestling with Angels”
Author:  uberaeryn
Fandom:  ‘Lost’
Pairing:  Jack/Sawyer
Rating:  Adult
Warning:  Spoilers
Note: I’ve messed with the timeline and other events. A certain conversation takes place several days earlier than in canon. Revised thanks to eponine119 :)
 

Jack had never really thought about it before, about the importance of names.

But now as he sat every evening on the beach as the sun set, staring unseeing out at a dismally empty horizon, he realized that names meant everything.

Your name was who you were; it defined you and who you belonged to. It gave you status and whether that status was good or bad was determined by those who came before, by those who shared your name.

Sometimes you hid from your name, when everything associated with it was blood soaked and painful; you buried it, changed it, maybe borrowed or stole someone else’s in a futile effort to become someone else.

Your name, when shouted from the distance, could frighten you, excite you, make you laugh. Your name, when whispered hotly in your ear or against the sensitive skin of your neck could make you hard, make you come. Your name, when spoken in just the right way could make you weep, make your breath come faster, make you feel guilty.

He remembered how he’d felt the first time Sarah had called him by name instead of by ‘doctor.’ The way his father had sounded when introducing him after he’d finally started practice. The way Sarah had said his name when they’d first made love, the hard edge her voice had taken on when she’d asked for a divorce. The impersonal tone of the police when they’d called about his father.

Since being stranded, Jack had mostly heard his name said only in urgent tones which always raised the hair on the back of his neck; when someone said his name here, when someone said or shouted ‘Jack’ it meant it was time to fight, time to fix, time to save, time to die, time to watch someone else die.

Until the other night.

***

“Still haven’t decided?” Jack asked, pausing in the midst of the hectic bivouac planning by where Claire sat leafing through a book of baby names. Comforting, he thought, that at least someone had something else to worry about than the unknown threat heralded by the smoke rising up from the jungle.

She looked up at him and then over at the baby, lying quietly on his back on blanket beside her, drowsing. “No,” she said, sighing heavily. She looked back up at Jack. “It’s a big deal, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jack said quietly, having thought about it so much recently. “I know.

“I want to make sure it’s right, that it fits him, that it’s his.” Claire sighed again and then smiled wryly up at Jack, squinting slightly in the glare of sun, wind whipping her hair across her face. “Maybe I could wait, let him name himself?”

Jack smiled and ran one thumb across his lower lip. “You could, I guess, although that would mean everybody will be calling him ‘turniphead’ until he’s old enough to pick a name.”

She rolled her eyes and then frowned. “Charlie’s going to pay for that one, you know,” she said, pointing one finger at Jack. “Once off was fine but I didn’t think everyone would start calling him that. Sawyer was right,” she said, sighing again and looking at the baby. “He liked Sawyer, for some reason. I think it was the accent.”

Jack stiffened slightly. “Sawyer?”

“Yeah, that’s where I got this,” she said, indicating the book. “Just before they left he came over and just kind of threw it at me and said ‘Wouldja name that kid already? If I hear Shorty call him ‘turniphead’ one more time I’m gonna kick his little English ass,’” she said, scowling, shaking one finger furiously and doing a fair approximation of Sawyer’s drawl.

Again Jack smiled and knelt beside her, taking the book and leafing through it. “Sounds like Sawyer,” he murmured.

“Do you think they’ll make it?” Claire asked her gaze now cast out over the crash of the surf.

Jack followed her eyes out across the vast expanse of empty seascape and sat silent and thinking. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “It’s only been four days. But I hope so.”

She sighed. “I hope so, too,” she said softly and looked at him again. “Any suggestions?” she asked, nodding at the book which lay open across his lap.

He looked down and read:

James – Meaning: ‘supplanter’; of Hebrew origin, English derivative of the name Jacob, ‘holder of the heel’ – Jacob was beloved of God, known for stealing the inheritance of his brother, Esau, and later that of his wife, Leah; Jacob wrestled with an angel throughout the night and was then blessed by the angel with the name ‘Israel’ meaning ‘one who has struggled with God,’ and Jacob said ‘ . . . I have seen the face of God and my life is saved.’ Gen. 32:30. Others who bore the name James were two of the apostles, brothers James the Greater and James the Lesser, as well as James the Just, who, according to the New Testament, was the blood brother of Christ by Mary and Joseph.

Something tightened in his chest and Jack looked again out at the empty horizon and shut the book with a snap. “Nope. But I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said, smiling slightly and handing it back to Claire.

“Yeah. Thanks,” she said and sighed heavily once more and started flipping through it again as Jack stood and headed off to the caves, thinking of thieves who wrestled with angels and were beloved by God.

***

Nine days ago Sawyer had given Jack the gift of his father.

And it had been a gift, Jack thought, when he’d finally gotten a moment alone to breathe and think and finally weep. He couldn’t even put a name to half the emotions buffeting him now, and a lot of them hurt but more of them, now, did not.

His father was still dead but at least now, in Jack’s head and in Jack’s dreams, his father no longer hated him. And Jack slept easier, the feeling he’d had ever since hearing of his father’s death of bursting from his skin with restless grief and rage and guilt now eased, somewhat. Even with the black smoke on the horizon and the undercurrent of fear in the camp due to the ‘others,’ Jack still slept more soundly than he had in a very long time.

And this because of Sawyer. Because of Sawyer’s words and the way they had spilled forth from his mouth, the way he spoke and what he said, as if he were telling a story, and Sawyer was nothing if not a storyteller, Jack thought later, telling a story that still ended in death and separation for father and son, but now the story also ended with forgiveness and love.

A gift. From Sawyer.

And one he hadn’t necessarily deserved, Jack thought.

. . . supplanter . . .

Nine nights ago, after Sawyer hold told his story and given his gift, Jack had wept himself to sleep and then woke in the deep of the night, sweaty and exhausted but mind clearer than it had been in weeks and he’d grabbed a flashlight to make his way quietly to one of the pools, feeling that now, since his heart had been cleansed, it was time to do the same for the body.

He’d slid into the cool water slowly and then dove, striking out blind in the dark for the falls and he’d surfaced directly underneath them and stood there, reveling in the pounding of the water against his face, against his neck, against his back; tilting his face upward to let the water wash away the grit and the grime and traces of tears. He’d stood for what seemed like hours, letting the hard touch of the water sluice down his body, then he’d dove again, eyes closed, and surfaced near the bank where the water was almost chest deep to find Sawyer standing in the water front of him.

“Sawyer,” Jack said by way of greeting, watching Sawyer closely as he stood there in the water, arms crossed and head tilted, watching back in the manner he always did.

“Doc,” Sawyer had answered, unmoving
.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Jack said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Walked right past me,” Sawyer said, his eyes like black in only the light of stars. “Must’ve been a bit distracted.”

Jack sighed and scrubbed at his eyes. “Yeah. Listen, Sawyer, about earlier, I wanted to say . . .”

“No,” Sawyer said firmly.

“No?”

“No. No . . . thanks, no apologies, no questions, no more talkin’, no nothin’. It’s just done, okay?” Sawyer said, sighing, before leaning back to immerse the entire upper half of his body, to let water sweep his hair back out of his face.

Jack had stared for a moment, still feeling something was unfinished between them. “Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. It’s just that . . .”

“No,” Sawyer said again, standing upright once more and glaring.

“Fine. Fine,” Jack said, holding up his hands in surrender before turning to head back toward the bank. “But still, thank you, Sawyer.”

Jack was stopped by a firm, warm grip on his arm. “I said no more thank yous,” Sawyer muttered.

“I know,” Jack said, irritated now, turning to face him again. “And I said it anyway.” He watched, frowning, as the muscles in Sawyer’s jaw worked. “And I meant it, Sawyer.”

“James.”

Sawyer had said the name as if it had meant something important, something Jack should already know, and he had stood waiting, his posture tense and as if he expected something, needed something from Jack, and Jack had stared at him, confused. “What?”

“My name. James.”

“James,” Jack had repeated quietly, and it was as if Sawyer had become a completely different person; his stance changed, his face changed, his eyes changed. He was wide open and vulnerable and, Jack thought in wonder and something like sadness, broken.

“Say it again,” Sawyer, James had whispered, eyes dark and hard like a firm stroke against Jack’s skin.

Jack did so, and then blinked in surprise when Sawyer’s head fell forward to rest against Jack’s shoulder and before he could stop himself his hand was knotted in the wet hair on the back of Sawyer’s head, fingers moving soothingly against the base of his neck.

“Are you scared?” Jack whispered, still puzzled, and Sawyer’s shoulders had hitched but he remained silent, face still hidden against the skin of Jack’s shoulder and his fingers digging into the skin of Jack’s arms and Jack realized that yes, of course he was, just as frightened as Jack was at the thought of the four of them leaving, at the thought of losing any of them, and he thought that Sawyer was on the eve of a useless fool’s journey that would more likely take him to his death than bring the rest of them salvation, and that Sawyer was well aware of this.

“Sawyer - James, you don’t have to go . . .” and then he stopped speaking, because suddenly Sawyer’s mouth was against his own, softer than he would have thought and he had thought about it, dreamt about it, but just as hot and wet as in his dreams and now he was opening his own mouth to Sawyer, inviting him inside, offering muted, muffled noises of encouragement as his hands moved to frame Sawyer’s face and his tongue slid wetly against Sawyer’s and against the softness of his lower lip, where he nipped lightly and then again, harder, at Sawyer’s reaction, at the way his hand slid around Jack’s neck as the other arm slid around Jack’s waist and their bodies were tight against each other in the water even as Sawyer tore his mouth away and stared at Jack, breathing hard and resting his forehead against Jack’s.

“Have to,” he muttered, his breath hot against Jack’s mouth.

“Why? Jack whispered and was cut off once more when Sawyer kissed him again.

“Just have to, Doc,” Sawyer whispered against his mouth and Jack gasped when Sawyer’s hand moved underneath the water to touch him, stroke him, and he bit down hard on Sawyer’s lower lip, drawing blood and a growl of pleasure and a tightening of the hand around his cock and he arched against Sawyer’s grip, groaning.

“My name,” Jack murmured, licking at Sawyer’s lower lip.

“Jack,” Sawyer whispered and Jack shuddered at the sound of it before Sawyer moved to take Jack’s mouth again, but Jack shifted, sliding his mouth along Sawyer’s jaw and up to his ear.

“Good,” he whispered, tongue tracing the outer ridges of Sawyer’s ear. “James.”

Then the hand around his cock was moving faster, thumb brushing roughly across the head with each stroke and again Jack gasped, heat gathering low in his belly and he planted his mouth under Sawyer’s ear and bit. “God, don’t you fucking stop, Christ,” he growled, his fingers and teeth digging into Sawyer’s flesh as Sawyer stroked him and then he came with a loud groan, back bowing, and he stood trembling for a second, resting against Sawyer as his body quieted, and then his mouth was on Sawyer’s again as he walked him backward up to the bank, pushing him on to his back and taking Sawyer’s cock in his mouth.

“Fuck!” Sawyer groaned, James, Jack reminded himself as he watched with a great deal of pleasure through heavy-lidded eyes as he writhed under the touch of Jack’s mouth. “Jesus, Jack, please,” he begged and Jack sucked harder, tongue and lips and teeth working and then James came, hard, hips lifting high off the ground as he shot off into Jack’s mouth and he swallowed, mouth moving in slower and more gentle strokes until the body beneath him collapsed back on to the bank.

“Taste that?” he whispered, tongue delving into James’ mouth. “You. James.”

“Jesus,” James hissed, sucking hard on Jack’s tongue. “Fuck, not done with you just yet . . .”

“No,” Jack whispered, hands wandering. “Not yet.”

. . . thief . . .

For five nights, and for the greater part of five days, they were together constantly, sometimes talking but always touching, Sawyer, James, calling Jack away from his work under one pretext or another, away from his work and into the jungle, sometimes falling to his knees and sometimes forcing Jack to his, both of them fighting with and against one another and inside one another for that blinding, white hot pleasure and odd comfort, Jack would think, hands tightening in Sawyer’s hair when both were finally spent and sleep was lurking even as the ‘others’ loomed on the horizon.

The fifth night was the most desperate, the most frantic; the raft was set to sail the next day and separation was imminent, so they spent the majority of their last night together connected physically, cursing each other at the thought of the impending loss and neither one trying to change it, but still touching, stroking, whispering, shuddering and coming, and as the dawn broke on the day the voyage was scheduled to begin Jack had to admit to himself that his heart was being broken yet again.

“Sawyer,” he said, seated on the beach, arms looped around his knees and hands clasped in front of him, staring at the sky as it began to lighten. “James, I mean . . .”

“Don’t say it,” came the whisper against the back of his neck. “No goodbyes, no nothin’. Don’t you fuckin’ say it, you hear me? I’m comin’ back, I’m fuckin’ bringin’ help, then you can say it, can say whatever you want and I’ll say it back, got it?”

Jack sighed, shaking in rage and fear and hope and closed his eyes, then pulled him close and kissed him hard before shoving him away and stalking off toward the caves without another word.

It was the last time Jack ever saw him.

. . . beloved by God . . .

Jack still found time every evening as the sun set, in the middle of the evacuation, to sit in the surf and stare out at the horizon, which remained empty, and he would think about the importance of names.

He would now also think about thieves who were strong enough to wrestle with angels and struggle with God and yet still be beloved by God, and he would think that maybe, just maybe, they all might get out of this alive.

And he practiced that name, rolled it around on his tongue, said it aloud over and over, matched it to the many images now in his head.

Jack wanted to be ready, ready for when he finally came back, brought help.

Ready for when it was time to go home.

***
End