We do what we need, for crickets (original) (raw)

Title: we do what we need
Author: angela_weber
Recipient: crickets
Pairing and/or Characters: Jack/Claire. Sawyer.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Incest, obviously.
Prompt: Anything G through NC17 is fine. Thematically speaking I would say I prefer a bit of angst but that doesn't mean everything has to be all doom and gloom -- I like a little hope/goodness mixed with my angst. I like atmosphere -- abandoned places, road stories, old cars, secluded houses, ghost towns, ghost stories, friendly locals, unfriendly locals, weather (storms, rain, snow, blizzards, being snowed-in, heat, humidity), passage of time, food/drink (cooking food, the smell of food, sharing food), gardens, the outdoors, etc. In keeping with the fact that this is a "holiday" gift exchange I also love anything to do with halloween, thanksgiving, christmas, hanukkah, winter solstice, or new years.
Summary: When Sawyer finally shows up it's 3 AM and Claire is asleep on Jack's shoulder, Jack nearly drunk with exhaustion himself.
Author notes: Title from "Rootless Tree" by Damien Rice. Thanks to crickets and her wonderful prompt vault for providing lots of inspiration during the writing process! Many thanks also to my amazing proofreader, missy_useless.

The third day in New York, Claire says "Tennessee," and Jack says "okay," because really, who is he kidding, he'll never be able to stop giving her what she wants. He'll never be able to convince himself that what she wants isn't what he wants, too.

They stop to eat at a picnic table by a splintered wooden railing by the sheer-drop smoky green edge of one of the Appalachians; Claire pickpockets him for his lighter (it isn't difficult to distract him, definitely easier than it should be), sets all their maps afire in the abandoned ashes of what probably used to be a campfire. Jack watches them burn, stomps the out the blaze with the sole of his shoe just in time. They don't want a forest fire on their hands.

They take the scenic route. They get not one, but three flat tires over the course of two weeks and Claire starts reading tea leaves for omens, signs from above or below or whatever. By the time they reach Nashville it's late November and the leaves have torn themselves from the trees, or else hang alone from the frailest twigs like men on the gallows, ivy climbing up the trunks like miles of twisted rope. The sky is so dark sometimes it hurts his eyes. The radio is on all the time to fill up the silence, and Claire claims to have always loved country music. Her hair is a softer, darker blond than he remembers it, or maybe he's just going crazy, developing selective amnesia in his middle age.

They stop by a Wal-Mart for groceries, and Jack invests in a pair of heavy warm fleece sweaters, one-size-fits-all, or so they say, though he's not sure he believes it. The man in front of them at check-out has a voice like honey and hair that sweeps into his eyes; it takes a moment for Jack's heart to stop racing, half hope, half nausea, half everything.

"We don't even know if he's still here," Claire says gently once they've paid, and when did she become the sane one, the responsible one?

"Yeah," he says, "I know." He runs a hand down over his face, leaves it half-cupped at his neck. Claire finds them a phonebook.

-

Sawyer isn't at home, predictably, but at least he has one, a few miles down a backroad off the highway. There's an abandoned air to the place, a bleak blackness in the curtainless windows that makes Jack keep Claire close to his side. Claire plants herself on the front stoop, knees pulled up to her chest, denim skirt swirling around her ankles, and refuses to leave. There's a stillness in the way she holds herself, a tension that wasn't there before. It's a nice little house, run-down but serviceable, and Jack doesn't really want to think about why he can't quite believe it.

He walks the sidewalk up and down. Step on a crack, break your mother's back, he mutters without thinking, and Claire grows more silent still. It's a few minutes before Jack realizes why, and he knows his apology will come too late to mean anything.

When Sawyer finally shows up it's 3 AM and Claire is asleep on Jack's shoulder, Jack nearly drunk with exhaustion himself. It's strange, just the cold dark night and the sharp scent of Sawyer's cologne and a whispered "hi there, doc," and then Claire's in Sawyer's arms and they're going inside, all before Jack can process what's happened.

There's something natural in the way she fits against his chest, limp and pliant, tiny limbs dangling, and it makes Jack's stomach turn a little, jealousy, affection, anticipation, all of the above. They whisper so as to not wake Claire. It's too dark inside for Jack to really get a feel for the place, too dark to see anything but Sawyer's eyes glinting shards of soft night light, and the last thing he remembers his the scratch of a sofa cushion against his neck, a warm hand brushing against his cheek.

-

Jack wakes up to muted laughter and a sharp white light creeping behind his eyes. Claire hands him a mug of coffee and Sawyer says, "afternoon, Sleeping Beauty." Jack stretches, groans. The room is small and dingy and full of windows, and there's a drift of snow pressing against the glass. "We're snowed in," Claire sings happily from the adjoining room.

Sawyer grins at Jack. “No shit, Sherlock.” Claire hits him across the back of his head and Jack raises his eyebrows, laughing.

Sawyer's boots have left dark tread marks across the carpet, and the crick in Jack's neck is probably never going to go away. Jack spends a total of three seconds contemplating the utter and supreme weirdness of a snowstorm in Tennessee on Thanksgiving day, and the still more profound weirdness of actually spending Thanksgiving with Sawyer, but before he can vocalize any of it Sawyer raises his eyebrows at him, says "yeah, weird shit, I know," and turns on the tv. It's the Macy's parade. Jack doesn't think they'll be having a turkey, but that's okay.

-

Somehow November becomes December. Sawyer gets a job, or says he does, the money’s gotta be coming from somewhere, and Claire learns to bake. Jack concentrates on keeping their secret, keeping them safe. Sleeps with a knife under the mattress. He does a little home improvement on the side, too, fixes up the sagging front porch, gives the garage a new paint job. Claire is their in between, keeps him and Sawyer both sane and keeps the peace at the same time, makes the worst days bearable and the best days better. Jack’s done feeling guilty.

It’s three weeks before Sawyer finally sees them. It’s two in the morning and Sawyer’s supposed to be away on some sort of business. Jack’s got a hand up Claire’s sweater, and she’s perched on the kitchen counter with her knees bracketing his hips in such a way that by the time Sawyer walks in there really isn’t any plausible explanation besides ‘yeah, I’m fucking my sister.’ Sawyer mutters something that Jack doesn't hear over the heavy pounding of blood in his ears and Claire lets out a breathy sigh of a laugh against his neck, fingers curled tight in his hair. Sawyer’s face is red with cold and he’s tracked ice water all across the floor. The wind outside gasps a mournful howl. Sawyer smirks in a way that makes Jack's blood run cold, but the next night Claire starts sleeping in Jack's room and Sawyer doesn't say a thing.

-

Sawyer disappears periodically, sometimes days at a time, and Jack gets frantic despite himself, can't stop thinking about Widmore and conspiracies and hit men and how everything catches up with everyone in the end. Claire wraps her arms around his neck, says “he’ll be fine. Isn’t he always?” She offers to read his lifeline to put his mind on other things, but once she’s done she won't tell him what it means.

Christmas Eve, Sawyer’s out late and Jack builds a fire, resolves to fix the central heating sooner rather than later. Claire leaves a plate of sugar cookies by the tree. It’s so cold on the second floor that they have to wear three layers of socks at all times just to keep their feet from sticking to the steps, a chill like a stabbing twig between the ribs, every breath so visible it’s nearly solid. They sleep on the couch in the main room instead, a knit blanket that smells like cough syrup and woodsmoke and sleep curled around their shoulders.

Midnight comes, and Sawyer comes home, stretches out in the armchair closest to the fire, long limbs loose and pliant. Red and blue and green tree lights dance across his face, still and slack with something like surrender. “Merry Christmas,” Claire whispers, and he snores deep and low. Claire puts her palms to Jack’s and he folds his fingers over, trapping her calluses against his, and her sleepy-soft weight across his chest is almost no weight at all.

End.