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Blarney Stone (Jack/Sawyer PG-13)
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Title: Blarney Stone
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13
Summary: For a twenty-three-year-old suffering from chronic exhaustion, stress, melancholy, and lack of sex, it was the ideal situation.
When Jack was in his first year of med school, St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Friday, and his roommate, Ryan—one hundred and ten percent Irish with the red hair to prove it—had pulled him out of bed at seven-thirty in the morning and had him on a bar stool at the local pub by eight.
For a twenty-three-year-old suffering from chronic exhaustion, stress, melancholy, and lack of sex, it was the ideal situation, really. By noon he was licking his lips and leaning over the shoulders of petite sorority girls covered in green beads, whispering in their ears that he was a future doctor and wouldn’t they like to put their lives in his hands for a moment? They’d giggle or sigh, depending on their sobriety, and some leaned back into his chest for a moment before leaving him panting and desperate.
It wouldn’t have bothered him in the long run, the faint heckling that came from the far end of the bar, but Jack’s fuse had shortened in the past year. Maybe it was the redirection of his inconsequential anger at his father, who called him weekly to get status reports (“Remember, top ten at the bare minimum. No one wants a mediocre resident.”); maybe his god complex was starting early. Either way, he shoved the guy sprawled against the wall, head tipped back and smirking as he cooed in a soft drawl, “Doctor boy can’t get laid.” He didn’t seem to register that Jack had touched him; his hand still held his cigarette over the bar and his grin deepened. Empty shot glasses surrounded the ash tray and Jack’s brain paused long enough to wonder if the guy was more wasted than he was.
“Fuck off, townie.” Jack returned his smirk, trying to put extra bite into the insult. But the guy—he was young, couldn’t’ve been any older than Jack—just shook his head and grinned without closing his mouth.
“Fancy degrees and shit don’t get you pussy. Sorry you had to learn it from me.” He finished off the rest of his shot (whiskey straight up, and Jack hated the way his mouth watered) and sighed, smacking his lips. “Least you’re learnin’ somethin’ today.”
He was doing it on purpose, this smooth, drawn out baiting that should’ve been ignored, but Jack took it a little too eagerly and forced himself into his space.
“When I’m thirty I’ll be driving a Mercedes worth more than what you’ll make in a year,” he whispered with false confidence into the guy’s ear. But his heart was pounding, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think he was holding his breath in anticipation. A punch, a sneer, anything—there was something drawing him, making him want to push back, to wait for the cause and effect.
“Good for you. Maybe I’ll steal it.” He didn’t blink, this drunk with dark eyes and hair just long enough to let him shake it back from his forehead with a simple move that felt both practiced and unconscious. No, he held Jack’s stare, and Jack watched in fascination as his eyes flared when Jack fisted his hand into the guy’s shirt and jerked him forward.
Jack didn’t have a comment ready, didn’t really know where to go with any of this, but he did know he wanted to see that look one more time. It made him swallow hard, made his mouth go wet all over again.
Finally, after several long moments, the guy smiled. His chin lifted and Jack caught the way he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, a split second move that gave him away, showed his hand. That’s what Jack cared about, not the way his lip was now shiny and slick-looking.
“If you wanted to make out, you should’ve just said so,” he whispered. It was meant for Jack alone, there was no way anyone else in the bar could’ve possibly hear him, and that thought had Jack stumbling back from him, hands raised palms up like he’d touched a live stove.
“Whatever.” Jack tried to sound bored, like the guy wasn’t worth the air to say the word, but his fingers shook as he shoved them through his hair. He knew he walked a little too fast across the bar, knew his cheeks were hot as he yelled, “I’m outta here, O’Reilly,” to Ryan, knew without a doubt that the guy’s eyes were on him until the door closed behind Jack and he could fall back against the outside wall and breathe for what must have been, he felt, the first time in hours.
Jack would occasionally see Sawyer jerk his head to side to shake the hair from his eyes and he’d wonder if Sawyer knew of a small pub in New England called The Blarney Stone and if the term “townie” meant anything to him.
But he kept that question—and the memory—to himself.
Title: Blarney Stone
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: PG-13
Summary: For a twenty-three-year-old suffering from chronic exhaustion, stress, melancholy, and lack of sex, it was the ideal situation.
When Jack was in his first year of med school, St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Friday, and his roommate, Ryan—one hundred and ten percent Irish with the red hair to prove it—had pulled him out of bed at seven-thirty in the morning and had him on a bar stool at the local pub by eight.
For a twenty-three-year-old suffering from chronic exhaustion, stress, melancholy, and lack of sex, it was the ideal situation, really. By noon he was licking his lips and leaning over the shoulders of petite sorority girls covered in green beads, whispering in their ears that he was a future doctor and wouldn’t they like to put their lives in his hands for a moment? They’d giggle or sigh, depending on their sobriety, and some leaned back into his chest for a moment before leaving him panting and desperate.
It wouldn’t have bothered him in the long run, the faint heckling that came from the far end of the bar, but Jack’s fuse had shortened in the past year. Maybe it was the redirection of his inconsequential anger at his father, who called him weekly to get status reports (“Remember, top ten at the bare minimum. No one wants a mediocre resident.”); maybe his god complex was starting early. Either way, he shoved the guy sprawled against the wall, head tipped back and smirking as he cooed in a soft drawl, “Doctor boy can’t get laid.” He didn’t seem to register that Jack had touched him; his hand still held his cigarette over the bar and his grin deepened. Empty shot glasses surrounded the ash tray and Jack’s brain paused long enough to wonder if the guy was more wasted than he was.
“Fuck off, townie.” Jack returned his smirk, trying to put extra bite into the insult. But the guy—he was young, couldn’t’ve been any older than Jack—just shook his head and grinned without closing his mouth.
“Fancy degrees and shit don’t get you pussy. Sorry you had to learn it from me.” He finished off the rest of his shot (whiskey straight up, and Jack hated the way his mouth watered) and sighed, smacking his lips. “Least you’re learnin’ somethin’ today.”
He was doing it on purpose, this smooth, drawn out baiting that should’ve been ignored, but Jack took it a little too eagerly and forced himself into his space.
“When I’m thirty I’ll be driving a Mercedes worth more than what you’ll make in a year,” he whispered with false confidence into the guy’s ear. But his heart was pounding, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think he was holding his breath in anticipation. A punch, a sneer, anything—there was something drawing him, making him want to push back, to wait for the cause and effect.
“Good for you. Maybe I’ll steal it.” He didn’t blink, this drunk with dark eyes and hair just long enough to let him shake it back from his forehead with a simple move that felt both practiced and unconscious. No, he held Jack’s stare, and Jack watched in fascination as his eyes flared when Jack fisted his hand into the guy’s shirt and jerked him forward.
Jack didn’t have a comment ready, didn’t really know where to go with any of this, but he did know he wanted to see that look one more time. It made him swallow hard, made his mouth go wet all over again.
Finally, after several long moments, the guy smiled. His chin lifted and Jack caught the way he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, a split second move that gave him away, showed his hand. That’s what Jack cared about, not the way his lip was now shiny and slick-looking.
“If you wanted to make out, you should’ve just said so,” he whispered. It was meant for Jack alone, there was no way anyone else in the bar could’ve possibly hear him, and that thought had Jack stumbling back from him, hands raised palms up like he’d touched a live stove.
“Whatever.” Jack tried to sound bored, like the guy wasn’t worth the air to say the word, but his fingers shook as he shoved them through his hair. He knew he walked a little too fast across the bar, knew his cheeks were hot as he yelled, “I’m outta here, O’Reilly,” to Ryan, knew without a doubt that the guy’s eyes were on him until the door closed behind Jack and he could fall back against the outside wall and breathe for what must have been, he felt, the first time in hours.
Jack would occasionally see Sawyer jerk his head to side to shake the hair from his eyes and he’d wonder if Sawyer knew of a small pub in New England called The Blarney Stone and if the term “townie” meant anything to him.
But he kept that question—and the memory—to himself.