Common Enemies
Summary: A little bar in Los Angeles, where all sorts come to dull the pain. SawyerJackFriendship, no slash.
Rating: T for language.
Disclaimer: This has been officially disclaimed.
Random little post-island drabble that started creeping into my brain late last night and begged to be written. Sort of a companion piece to Memorabilia, since a lot fits into that very broad Drabble-Universe, but it stands alone. Sorry if they're both OOC.
On that note, please no spoiler reviews. I like finding out on my own, thank you.
I realize this won't show up before tonight's episode airs, but I finished it before and so if everything deteriorates in the show it isn't entirely my fault. (By the way, looks like SawyerTorture… fun!)
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If anyone ever asked Jack Shepard why he pulled over in front of the little bar that night, he would have had to claim insanity. He had just gone for a drive, to see the streets of Los Angeles at night again, and he ended up parked in front of the too bright place, his hands still on the steering wheel as he stared into the neon sign so long that it burned into his retina.
Finally, he twisted the key in the ignition and waited until a few seconds after he felt the car power down beneath him. Moving slowly, almost reluctantly, he opened the door and got out, slamming it quietly. Maybe it was high time that he tried his father's version of medicine, just to see if it would do him any good. So he exhaled slowly and walked towards the door, slipping his keys into the pocket of his sweater. He felt uncomfortable even walking into a bar like this, after the frustration of dealing with his father's alcoholism, but it would be just a few drinks.
On the inside, it had that particular smell of liquor and tobacco that was unique to these places. A small, overhanging television in unreliable color displayed some football game, but no one was paying any attention. A faint tremor of music could be heard half-heartedly attempting to be heard over the murmur of the customers and the clink of glasses. No one even looked up when Jack walked in, and he strolled over to take a seat on one of the stools. Before he quite got there, though, he spotted a man with unruly blond hair, slouched down over a half-drained glass.
He wasn't really surprised to recognize him, and in fact it was a little unnerving to discover that he had almost been expecting to find him there. He sighed and stalked over to the empty stool next to the man, leaning over to see his face even better despite the fact that he was convinced. "Sawyer," he stated wearily. The man looked up at him, blue eyes still clear but acquiring the dull haze of drink.
"Well, well," Sawyer said, voice resigned and picking up on a slur that marred his southern drawl with the universal language of drunks. "Look at you. It's the damn King of the Island." He accented the words with a mock salute with his glass and downed the rest of the liquid coating the bottom. He set it back down and gestured vaguely. "Pull up a seat, why don't you."
Jack sat, even as the bartender came back around and filled Sawyer's glass, pushing another container toward Jack with the same concoction without even asking if he wanted it. Jack didn't touch it.
"What are you doing here, Sawyer?"
"Same thing you are, Jack-o. Drownin' my sorrows." He gave him that infuriating cocky smile that made Jack grit his teeth together in annoyance. Sawyer never changed.
"How's your shoulder?" he asked, just as Sawyer raised the cool glass to his lips. Without lowering the drink, Sawyer shot him a lazy but exasperated look out of the corner of his eyes.
"Shoulder's fine," he drawled, and drank deeply.
"And your eyesight?"
The southerner let the glass fall back to the table a bit harder then he had probably intended and glared at his interrogator. "You ever get tired of asking so many questions, Doc? 'Cause the rest of us get a tad sick of hearing it." His typical vicious humor made Jack's temper boil, but he took a drought from his beverage to gather some response. The amber liquid burned all the way down his throat, and he recognized the bitter taste.
"Whiskey?" he asked, all thoughts about Sawyer's previous comment forgotten for the time. Sawyer nodded, keeping a careful eye on Jack's face in expectance of revulsion, but he was disappointed when Jack took another gulp and showed no sign of aversion to the liquor. "Exactly how many have you had?" he asked critically. He slipped into the doctor role automatically around another survivor, having donned that occupation all the more on the island as in a hospital.
"Haven't been countin'. Not enough."
"You're different," Jack observed. Sawyer shook his head.
"I'm drunk."
"But also different."
Defensively, Sawyer pointed out, "So are you. The Jackass on the Island would never end up in one of these places. He'd have heroics to do. Say, aren't you supposed to be out saving lives somewhere? Isn't there some damsel in distress waiting for her knight in shining scrubs?"
"I don't work all hours of the day, you know."
"You did on the Island."
For the first time, Jack noticed the stress Sawyer put on the word 'island'. He capitalized the word with a reverence that never would have been present during the long days after Oceanic 815 crashed. Jack could have sworn he was making a mistake, since of all of them Sawyer was the last one to have a philosophical or even sentimental view of the place that had inadvertently become home to a crowd of strangers.
Then again, Sawyer had been the first to make the place home. True, he never stopped complaining about the conditions and wanted rescue just as heatedly as any of his unwilling neighbors, but he was the one who threw up a tent and settled in with his books and sunglasses while everyone else (with the exception of Locke) was still stumbling around trying to wrap their heads around what had happened. Jack had a sneaking suspicion that this was because Sawyer didn't have much that he was willing to go back to. The doctor would never take a sympathetic view of his rival, but the tone was different in a dark Los Angeles bar then it was on a hot, humid island filled mystery and danger. What they had all been on the island, despite how preoccupied they were with scrambling for survival, was far different from what they were now, where they had more in common then not. Jack was still obligated to dislike Sawyer and Sawyer was still obligated to be a nuisance, but now, in a bar full of people who never went through the turmoil of the aftermath of a plane crash they could tolerate each other.
"That was the island," Jack finally said. "We had to survive there."
"And now that we're here, we're supposed to just die off?" Sawyer shot back.
Jack bristled at the comment and straightened up in his seat to respond. "Well, it's different here, I'm not the only one who-"
"Don't get excited, hot shot. I know how the world works. Have a drink." Jack let the silence lie for a while; suddenly wishing he had never stopped at this place. His day would have gone substantially better if he hadn't ended up dealing with Sawyer again. He glanced at the man, wondering if he should just get up and leave. Before he could though, Sawyer spoke again. "Don't you ever…" He shook his head like he thought better of it.
"Don't I ever what?" Jack asked.
"Ever miss being the hero. Getting to run around with a damn halo over your head while everyone else, including Freckles, tags along after you kissing the ground at your feet. Tell me you don't miss that."
"I don't, Sawyer." It almost wasn't a lie. The responsibility on the island had nearly killed him, had pushed him to his wit's end and back again. Half of the time he had found it so hard just to stay strong for the rest of the castaways and not fall apart at the seams when everything looked so hopeless. But now that he was back in L.A., he missed the days where the patients were familiar, where he could think of their name and age and hold a conversation that consisted of something more substantial then musings on the weather. So he did miss the community of the island, and maybe even being the hero, but not for the reasons that Sawyer had mentioned.
Sawyer scoffed into his whiskey and muttered, "Yeah."
"I'd ask if you missed being a jerk, but you seem to have maintained that role."
"Woo, a swing and a hit for the good doctor!" Sawyer crowed. "So, you been in touch with any of the rest of our Gilligan group?"
"No, not lately. Work has been busy."
"Sure," the southerner responded like he didn't believe it. Jack felt the back of his neck burn as if he had been caught in a lie even though his mind insisted it was true. Sure, he could have picked up the phone and called up Rose or Charlie or Ana Lucia, but the similarities were gone once they got to the city. The connection to all the survivors was gone. Sawyer continued, "Hey, King Jack, don't drink any more if you wanna drive home. Finding a taxi is hell."
"How exactly are you going back, then? Because if you crash I can't guarantee that I can fix you."
"Hardy-har-har. Very clever, Doc. I'll take my chances with a taxi. I live life dangerous."
"What, being in danger of getting tossed out at the wrong building?"
Sawyer chuckled. "What can I say? They don't make no rampaging boar in the city." He scoffed. "Pity. Don't have any mystery hatches, tree-eating security systems, or ex-felons, either, and they don't let the spinal surgeons do the torturin'."
"No. Now we have muggers, real felons, and burglar alarms."
Sawyer shook his head. "Why did we ever leave the Island? It's a pain coming back from the 'dead', y'know. Bank account completely gone. Was a richer man on the beach with a hole in my shoulder." He stood abruptly, disturbing his glass with a careless swipe of his hand. "Right. I've had just about enough wallowin' for a day. See ya later, Jackass. Go rescue some pretty lady or whatever the hell it is you do as a hobby." He slapped some money down on the table, enough to cover all of his drinks and Jack's.
"Why are you doing that?" Jack asked. "Being nice and all."
Sawyer grinned. "On the Island, I woulda cut your throat in a second. Here, we've got a common enemy."
"What would that be, Sawyer?"
"The goddamned memories."
He turned on his heel and shuffled out of the dark bar, ears shut to the chatter of the people around him, the foreign people who spoke a language separate from the Oceanic castaways. It was all just a murmur. The entire roaring city was muted; the smog, the blaring car horns, the dazzling lights that hid the once so stunning stars, none of it registered. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, where there was still sand mixed in with the lint, and signaled a cab.
Jack sat in the bar for a while longer, nursing his whiskey with careful deliberation. He had to stay sober enough to drive home, and it was about time he gave up on these particular spirits, anyway. He had never been much of a drinker and only indulged in a little liquor on holidays or when he really felt he needed it, but the stay on the island had more than effectively turned a little whiskey into a more bitter concoction than he remembered.
He followed Sawyer's path into the night, digging his keys out. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," he muttered to himself as he unlocked the doors and slid into the interior of the car. It had been a pain getting his license renewed after everyone had thought he was dead. Sawyer was right, coming back was a nuisance, more than just a couple of useless credit cards and the complete annihilation of all his belongings (most of his clothes had been donated to charities by his mother and everything else she had disposed of or kept as now-unnecessary memorabilia). It was strange, now, waking up in the morning under blankets and not covered in blood and dirt all the time. He had missed showers (the one in Desmond's parody of an apartment didn't qualify) and radios and the worst, greasiest, most unhealthy fast food the city had to offer.
But he also missed the ocean, Sun's plants, and even that accursed beeping computer in the basement of the Island. If only there was a way to get the best of them both, to have the simplicity of the island and the complexity of society (he could do without taxes or vengeful security systems).
It was too late now. The survivors would never be at home anywhere other than the Island and there was no sense in denying it.