Title: Spirit House
Author: foxxcub
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Lockdown
Summary: Jack learned to bluff in Phuket.
A/N: more of an AU than anything, I suppose. Thank you *so* much to
eponine119
and
halfdutch
for the handholding, and to
hkath
for the fabulous beta job.
using
fanfic100
prompt 11 (red)
The lights of the downtown district are almost too bright against the paleness of the evening sky, the traces of clouds becoming shadows and the palm trees fading into black silhouettes. The air does not change, it always keeps its warmth.
During the day he lets the gentle roar of foreign voices envelop him, reminding him that he is long removed from the other side of the world and that here he is no one, less than no one. Phuket is rich, commercial, full of tourists no more worldly than he, and yet he can still sink into the background and feel lost without the worry of being found.
He says very little, uses his hands for language, but the locals still speak to him in English, assuming his western heritage. But he could be from anywhere—Canada, Ireland, Fiji—and he cherishes the anonymity.
When he sat down in the high-backed chair three days before, the man with the artist’s needle asked him carefully what it was he wanted. Jack took out whatever baht was left in his wallet, pressed the wad of cash into the man’s hand, and then pointed outside, to the burning reddish pink glow of the sunset bleeding into the ocean. Four hours later his inner arm was covered in etched flame and stars and waves. He sits now in the smoky half light and rubs his fingers against his skin, feeling alive.
Jack has frequented this place for the past two weeks, a bungalow on the outskirts of town with wooden shutters and a metal roof that almost chimes when the rain pounds against it. It’s what one would consider a gentleman’s club, had Thai natives even cared about such a thing; instead, it’s a place for men of means to come and forget themselves. There is no bar, only bottles driven in daily from the local liquor store, but there is a frequent supply of drugs. The presence of opium makes Jack feel like he’s in a black and white film noir. He doesn’t partake, only does a joint on the rare occasion that he’s dealt a ridiculously bad hand.
“Ante up, buddy boy.”
He blinks and looks away from the open window that gives a perfect view of the city spread out in the distance against the shore. The giant cliffs jutting from the ocean look like ships coming into port.
“I already called.” He drums his fingers once over his cards lying face down on the table.
“Like hell you did. I didn’t hear shit.”
In the four days since this man has come into Jack’s little world, Jack has been overly sensitive to his southern American drawl, a dialect that is both alien and familiar to him here. He will go an entire day hearing nothing but Thai and stilted, Asian-inflicted English, but the moment he’s in this room, with this man’s voice ringing in his ears, he feels an odd mixture of peace and anxiety he can’t quite explain.
He doesn’t know the man’s name; they never shook, never exchanged formalities. Jack simply walked in and he was there, across the room, a joint in one had and a hand of cards fanned out in the other. A bottle of Jim Beam rested at his elbow, and Jack couldn’t remember the last time he saw American alcohol.
At one point in the night, the man asked Jack, “Where you from?”
Jack stared at his cards for a long moment as his heart pounded. No one ever asked him that here. Finally, he answered, “California. I’m a surgeon.”
“No shit.” And he nodded, like it all made sense, even though the two of them had exchanged all of three words.
“You?” Jack threw a handful of sàtàang at the growing pile without meeting his eyes.
“Aw, now c’mon, doc. No real mystery there.” He raised Jack 20 baht, and then Jack lost for the first time.
That was four days ago. Jack wonders when he started keeping track.
They’re a little drunk and little more high, something about this evening making them breathe in the smoke and hold it in their lungs longer than usual as they pass a snifter of bourbon back and forth.
“I did call. You heard me.”
“Or maybe you’re so fucked up you just think you called.” But he grins out of the corner of his mouth. “So? Lay it down, hot shot.”
Jack flips his pair of queens over and the other man throws his head back and swears while the rest of the room nods in approval. Jack folds his arms on the dusty wooden table and says softly, “You heard me. You were just stalling.”
He shoves the pile of cash toward Jack and smiles, his eyes going dark. When he leans in his hair—dark blonde, to point of being almost brown—falls into his eyes, clings to his lashes. “Well, it’s not like you can prove it now, can ya?”
The words are nothing more than a rumbling set deep in his throat, and Jack finds himself thinking about sex, which he hasn’t had in weeks, maybe months. He doesn’t even sleep with his shirt off anymore. The memory—no, the sensation—of hot, bared skin assaults him almost violently, and he shuts his eyes against it as his jaw clenches.
“Besides, I’m outta money.”
“Bullshit.”
“What, you wanna search me?”
He’s joking, Jack knows he’s joking, and yet the way he’s tilting his head to the right and running the tip of his tongue along the inside of his lower lip is making Jack’s breath hollow out. There are women here, their lovely dark eyes downcast as they smile at the men in a silent promise of whatever they desire, but Jack never smiles back. He’s never paid for pleasure in his life, and he told himself the day he arrived he’d never make an exception. So he’s made do with himself and the quiet, empty dark on his sparse hotel room; by himself he can jab his thumbnail into the tender flesh of the tattoo as he comes in his hand, convince himself that pain and pleasure are simply a matter of his control.
Jack takes a long, slow swallow of bourbon. He makes a show out of licking his lips, and the man’s attention is all his. “That’s sweet, but no. I think I’d rather deal.”
Jack hands him the bottle, watching as their fingers brushed in the exchange. The man’s skin is warm, smooth, his nails slightly cooler.
“Suit yourself.” He drinks and his throat bobs like a deep, steady pulse. He sighs after swallowing, mimics Jack’s early movements as his tongue sweeps across his mouth, like he’s savoring something. “But I’m out.”
And at that he stands and nods to the rest of the room. The men murmur their goodbyes as the two women of the evening cling to his arm and pout up at him, their long red nails tracing small circles against his skin. Jack doesn’t look, keeps his eyes on the deck he’s idly shuffling, ignores the soft, gentle way the man whispers, “Not tonight, darlins,” before disappearing out the back door, his footsteps heavy against the wooden planks of the stairs descending into the dark, muddied path leading back into the city.
Since coming to this country Jack has denied himself very little. He has lived outside himself at every possible moment, wanting nothing but that rush of momentum when actions dictate everything. He doesn’t think, or at the very least, has convinced himself that he doesn’t think.
Jack is standing in the back alley, surrounded by darkened foliage that shivers in the ocean breeze. Other bungalows line the path, but it’s well past four in the morning and there is no light to be had except for a small series of lanterns hung along a fence off to Jack’s right. They cast a weak glow that turns the darkness a faint translucent red.
Jack lets him get a few paces ahead before he speaks.
“What’s your name?”
He stops, doesn’t turn around immediately. Jack swears he sees him duck his head.
“Does it really matter?”
“Yeah, it does. I’m asking.”
He turns, and Jack sees that he’s smiling almost smugly, as if none of this is surprising to him. “Maybe I don’t got a name. Maybe Jack isn’t really your name. Maybe we’re both here for the same goddamn reason, and names just fuck it all up in the end.”
He’s taking small steps toward Jack, drawing the words out in his drawl as he simultaneously drops his voice an octave. “Maybe you’re still missin’ somethin’ and you think I got it.”
“And what’s that?” Jack’s heart is pounding and he thinks yesyesyes. yes to all of it.
“If you knew, you wouldn’t be standin’ out here burnin’ through me with those eyes of yours.” He’s face to face with Jack, close enough to touch, feel his heat, smell his scent of sweat and musk and something else entirely that makes Jack’s mouth water and his hands clench. Jack swallows hard, sees the way the other man’s chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm.
When Jack starts to lean in, the man whispers, “Touchin’ the face is a sin, doc.” They are alone here in the red dark, but Thai custom forbids the touching of the head, which is considered sacred. No one would ever see—regardless, they are going to sin—but Jack still pulls back. He reaches his hand out and splays it low against the man’s stomach, focuses on his fingers sliding northward and catching the cotton of his shirt, baring his stomach. He hears him sigh, and then he suddenly grabs Jack’s wrist, stopping him right below his heart.
Jack looks up to find the man’s eyes shadowed. His lips are parted and he’s panting deeply, his shoulders lifting with each intake of air. Jack is instantly starving.
He lowers Jack’s hand, a slow trail down his torso, past the edge of his jeans. He twists Jack’s palm and cups it against him, where he’s hard and full. Jack swallows the groan struggling in his throat and wonders how long they’ve both been hard like this. He curls his fingertips in slightly, digs the heel of his hand in, and he bites the inside of his cheek when the man drops his forehead onto Jack’s shoulder and sighs without making a sound. Jack feels the hot rush of air on his skin and urges him on, wanting the feel of his hips thrusting into Jack’s hand, wanting the knowledge that he’s responsible for bringing another man this kind of sweet torment.
“What do you want?” Jack breathes into the man’s ear. Their bodies do not touch with the exception of Jack’s hand at his crotch and the man’s forehead pressed into Jack’s neck.
“This. Fuckin’ this, Christ.” He starts to fumble with the button fly of his jeans, but Jack is already there, his hand inside, and they both make strangled sounds of satisfaction when Jack takes the man’s cock in his hand and squeezes, once. His hips jerk forward as he gasps and Jack smiles. The tip is slick, the skin tight and hot, and Jack teases the underlying edge with his pinky nail the way Jack likes it. He wants to rub himself against this man, share in this pressure, this rhythm that is slowly slipping out of his control.
”Please.” The man is begging and Jack nearly comes apart.
“Tell me your name,” Jack pants as his lips accidentally graze the man’s cheek.
There’s a small growl, a tiny sound of defeat. “J…Sawyer. Fuck.” He has Jack’s biceps in a death grip, and in the next instant he’s shuddering, his body straining to the end before going boneless against Jack’s.
They still do not kiss, but Sawyer lifts his head and their mouths hover so closely Jack can almost feel the taste of him. Sawyer’s eyes are closed, the sweat running down his temples glinting in the lantern light. That Jack has broken this man, even for a moment, makes Jack feel like a god.
“I want to be in your mouth,” he whispers. He doesn’t consider his teeth sinking into Sawyer’s neck to brand him a sin.
Sawyer groans Jack’s name and slides down his body without ever opening his eyes. The slickness of Sawyer’s mouth engulfing Jack’s cock is both a shock and a relief; Jack tries to hold his breath, sees stars flashing behind his closed eyes, but then Sawyer cups his ass in both hands, shoves him forward in move that causes Jack to inadvertently buck into Sawyer’s mouth, and Jack yells, his voice lost in the quiet dark. It’s too much, he never thought it would be too much, this suction and heat and swirling of Sawyer’s tongue across the head before dipping down to lick his balls. Jack rests his hand against the top of Sawyer’s hair, but he shakes him off, grips his ass a little tighter, and Jack cannot remember the last time he nearly blacked out as he came.
The world is out of focus; Jack blinks several times and wills his knees to hold him up. Sawyer rises and they face off for long, silent moments.
Finally, because Jack cannot help himself, he grasps Sawyer’s face in his hands and thrusts his tongue into his mouth to taste himself there. Sawyer’s jaw goes slack and Jack can feel it, the momentary relinquishing of control as Jack delves deeper into his mouth. Nothing is sacred here.
Jack begins to feel himself slipping—Sawyer is biting softly at Jack’s bottom lip and it causes Jack to shiver and sigh without realizing until it’s too late—so he drops his arms and stumbles back. He loves the taste in his mouth too much; Jack scrubs the back of his hand across his lips and Sawyer smirks.
“You got a spirit house at your place?” he asks, his voice still rough with leftover desire.
“I guess. I don’t pay much attention to it.” A small wire cage the size of a bird feeder meant to capture the demons that haunted the home; there is one that hangs off the balcony of his hotel room, moss growing along its bottom.
“Maybe you should.” He buttons his jeans and jerks his head at Jack. “See you around, doc.”
Jack stands in the path, bathed in the red light, long after Sawyer disappears, his jeans still open and hanging at his hips