TITLE: Sympathy for the Devil

AUTHOR: Mari

EMAIL:

RATING: Fairly hard R

SPOILERS: Vague S5 for Angel, up to 'Confidence Man' for Lost.

DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss (damn him), they belong to Abrams (double damn him). But, hey, if you guys want to do a very special flashback episode involving blowjobs, you'll get no argument from me.

SUMMARY: They're both con artists, in their own way.

PAIRING: Lindsey/Sawyer, blink and you miss it implications of Angel/Lindsey.

FEEDBACK: Yes, please, especially if we're talking concrit. I'm still feeling my way around Sawyer's character, so anything short of "OMG U H0R!1!!" will be treasured.

Sawyer doesn't like that truck.

It's been there too long, for one thing, drawing the eye like the bleary neon sign that blinks above the battered Fords and Chevy's that fill the lot, making Sawyer acutely aware that there are now a lot of people out in the wide world who wouldn't have the kindest greetings for him if they were to come across him on the street. Kilo's reach is far, and not for the first time Sawyer's thinking that maybe panicking and leaving the seed money behind doesn't count among the savviest moves that he's ever made.

Neither is pulling into the parking lot in spite of the fact that the truck and its ungodly shade of redneck orange is there again, just as it's been there for the last four nights, when Sawyer made a point of learning all the regulars' vehicles by sight and knows that this isn't the sort of place that appreciates new faces. Now when there are so many others in Sawyer's position, or close enough of needing to duck down from the creeping edge of authority for a little while. The hard-worn Chevy that Sawyer replaced the Lexus with-way too easy to trace, especially in the kinds of places where Sawyer intended to go to ground-makes a sputtering, popping sound and goes silent as he slides the key out of the ignition. The truck blends in so perfectly that even he will have trouble distinguishing it from the others as soon as he steps down from the cab, and Sawyer feels the rare twitchings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He's been playing this game of 'Now you see me, now you don't' for far too long not to have developed a certain talent for it. Sawyer doesn't think there's a person left on the planet who would recognize the upper middle-class boy if they were to see him now.

That truck, though. That damned truck and what Sawyer has already mentally dubbed its Damned Owner. In his mind's eye Sawyer sees a mask, the local boy done good and now coming back to try and prove that he's still one of the guys. Well, that or Kilo's finally caught up with him and Sawyer can expect a long and definitely unpleasant end as soon as he dares to poke his head out of his shell.

Neither option does an impressive job of disturbing him, actually, but this is a part of the larger thought that Sawyer will keep at bay in the back of his mind at all costs, circling it only in rare moments and facing it head-on never. The jangling noise that the keys make as he bounces them against his palm is the only sign of nervousness that he allows to show, and even that is smothered by the humming of mosquitoes. Sawyer scratches absently at his neck, feels the squelch of blood beneath his nails.

Cigarette smoke fills his lungs and the sounds of Toby Keith wailing about patriotism assault his eras as he steps inside the bar. Sawyer feels his mouth twist a little more, turning the faint smile from the parking lot into something that would serve as a warning warding others off in different surroundings, because he knows a little something about opportunism. He's barely two steps inside the door, pausing just long enough for the other regulars to look him over and decide that he passes the test before he's running his eyes across the room's occupants in turn, looking for one of these things that's not like the others. And in the end, it isn't so hard. The Damned Owner of Damned Truck has the wary, edgy hostility-cum-arrogance that's only derived from learning how to fight, and fight hard, at a long-distant age, but if there's one thing that Sawyer knows how to find, it's a mark. He watches Damned Owner's place at the bar from the corner of his eye as he settled in several seats down, looking for the quick glance or angling of the body in Sawyer's direction that will mark this guy as one of Kilo's.

Not so much as a twitch of acknowledgement, but Sawyer doesn't find himself relaxing. He's always had a certain talent for predicting when his life is about to change-hey, irony, he had been wondering where that got off to-and that sense began screaming about two days ago, after six months of silence following the botched con. Hasn't stopped since. Frankly, Sawyer thinks it could have started raising its voice in warning about six months ago and been a hell of a lot more useful to him, but whatever. The constant thrum of adrenaline rushing down his veins is beginning to make him feel like a cat who's been shoved into the canine section of the pound, maybe not the best level of twitchiness to be exhibiting around people who don't need a lot of provocation to cause a ruckus in the first place. Sawyer's not quite sure yet what this oppressive…thing (though there's a sly voice in the back of his head whispering that among the more civilized branches of society it's often known as a conscience) that's been rising in his chest is, but it's not quite strong enough to make him bolt from his cover and throw himself onto Kilo's tender mercies. Not today, and probably not tomorrow. Sawyer's not letting his mind dwell on events far beyond that.

The woman running the bar spots Sawyer and ambles over. Old habits get to live for a little while longer as Sawyer flashes her a grin that makes her smile back and blush in spite of the fact that her giggling schoolgirl days are a good thirty years behind her. Sawyer orders a beer and is quietly marveling at the fact that he could have charmed it out of her for free but actually didn't, when he realizes that he's being watched. Sawyer can guess who the owner of the gaze is without bothering to turn his head. He indulges his curiosity all the same, meeting eyes every bit as blue as his own and possessed of a chillness that he won't master for a while yet, staring out from a measuring, scrutinizing expression that Sawyer has seen before, has turned onto others before. He likes to think of himself as an equal-opportunity operator, an all around open-minded kind of guy, but Old Blue Eyes is going to get his ass beat if he keeps up that open kind of stare for much longer. Most people in this neck of the woods can't be counted on to have Sawyer's open mind or-he pauses for a brief mental grin-easygoing nature.

The bar matron returns with Sawyer's beer, fumbles the money for a moment beneath the force of his bright, false smile. It's easy, nearly too easy, and Sawyer feels his amusement dimming by a shade or two. Hell, he isn't even trying that hard. Sawyer pulls at the beer, uses it to wash the bitter edge back down his throat. He lifts the bottle ever so slightly in Blue Eyes's direction when realizes that the staring is not coming to a halt any time soon, just to let the yuppie is sheep's clothing know that he's not half as smooth as he thinks he is. The attention is being noticed, and while there are a few ways of ending this evening that would be less dignified than a bar-wide brawl in a dive located in the asshole of nowhere, it's a short list.

A grin crosses Blue Eyes's face, swift-moving and magnetic enough to make Sawyer shift his original assessment by a notch or two. Could just be that he's looking at a kindred spirit here. Sawyer experiences the eerie dual sensations of his stomach trying to lurch into his throat and fall down to his kneecaps at the same time. Blue Eyes shakes his head and returns to his drink. He doesn't look Sawyer's way again, overtly or otherwise. The feeling of some warped kind of kinship stretching from one body to the other might exist only in Sawyer's mind, but he's never been good at turning away from that apple when it's offered to him. He used to be much better at lying to himself than this, though; the feeling of the last vestiges of that skill sliding away from his grasp is not one of the most pleasant sensations that Sawyer has felt on that night or any other. He wastes no time in ordering another beer. The woman takes one look at his face, devoid for the first time of flirtatious mask, and this time her hands are swift and sure as they gather up the money. 'Well, damn. Guess the honeymoon's over.'

Sawyer's not sure how many beers later it is when Blue Eyes rises to his feet and steps away from the bar, leaving a tip large enough to put the sort of smile that Sawyer can understand on the bartender's face. The state of his blood alcohol level-the state of anything beyond this three foot radius of space and the muted voices in his head really does not number among the most important of Sawyer's concerns tonight. A ripple runs through the bar as soon as the door swings shut behind Blue Eyes, like a series of screws that are being loosened by half a turn all at once, and Sawyer doesn't think there's enough money in the world and certainly not enough in his own pockets to make any man or woman in there acknowledge that uneasiness in sober daylight. Blue Eyes might have passed temporary muster as far as newcomers went, but a newcomer he was, and something else besides. Sawyer purses his lips around the last swallow of beer and listens as the world begins a series of faint side-to-side rocks around him, like the rolling of the sea. He's tossed down enough money to cover his bill and staggered to his feet before he can decide that the feeling of déjà vu has been brought on by anything more than too much to drink. If there are eyes noting Sawyer's progress towards the door, then he doesn't halt long enough to give them so much as a glance. It was time that he began moving on, anyway. Putting down roots allowed too many things, of the Kilo-shaped variety and otherwise, to come sneaking back up on him with sly little steps.

Blue Eyes isn't waiting for him outside of the bar door, and the realization that he might even be losing his touch sends a thorn of mingled disbelief and annoyance straight into Sawyer's side. It only deepens when his eye is drawn towards the garish orange color of Damned Truck as irresistibly as iron filings to a magnet, only to see a figure dressed in denim and flannel faded too carefully to have ever seen real work grinning back at him. "Was wondering if you were going to take the bait," Blue Eyes calls across the parking lot, his voice echoing against the metal flanks of the cars and doubling back on itself several times before it finally reaches Sawyer. The words have a slurred quality to them that Sawyer is far more willing to chalk up to echo than intoxication; sprawled, arrogant manner aside, he has the feeling that Blue Eyes is one of the most stone-sober that he's ever seen. Sawyer wishes to hell that the world would quit that damned ocean-like rocking around him, or that Blue Eyes could at least do him the courtesy of pretending to be too drunk to notice.

"It's too glib," Sawyer says when he's close enough to speak without raising his voice. He draws to a halt while still a few feet away, the gravel crunching beneath his boots and the world finally, thankfully, settling down enough to reassure him that he's still on dry land. "Too easy. I'd have you pegged for a mark within the first five minutes." The voice of paranoia, which is still halfway convinced that Kilo has started putting pretty over smart where his thugs are concerned and that this place is going to erupt at any given second, screams in indignation. Sawyer pays it no mind. It's just not fun unless you're standing close enough to the cliff to give yourself a healthy dose of vertigo.

There's a glitter beneath Blue Eyes's easy affability, only for a second, and barely long enough for Sawyer to get the sense of depths best left unprodded. The feeling of camaraderie wobbles on its base, and Sawyer feels his eyes narrowing a tick before it settles again. Blue Eyes leans back against his truck with a wire strung through his shoulders, one that Sawyer will never be able to disregard now that he's noticed it. "That so?" The amused rasp in his voice is from further west than Sawyer's, though he's willing to bet that the distance is not a great one. Texas or Oklahoma, maybe, perhaps even so far east as Missouri. "An hour ago I would have said the same about you." But Blue Eyes isn't moving away, and Sawyer is finding that his feet are still steady enough to carry him forward. "What's your name?"

"Adam." He only stumbles over his real name for a moment. Blue Eyes's brow doesn't quirk upward so much as it twitches, a movement suppressed too quickly to be noticed by anyone who doesn't make a living out of gauging the reactions of everyone around him. "You?"

"Doyle." And Sawyer will be damned if he isn't being lied to every bit as soundly as he's lying in return, but hey. They're not looking for soulmates here. "Doyle's" grin is a quick flash of teeth in the moonlight, and the unconscious gesture manages to be more seductive by far than any of this other carefully choreographed moves. Sawyer doesn't think that he'll be telling Blue Eyes that, though. Somehow he doesn't figure that this is a guy lacking in ego, and the opinion is confirmed when he sees Blue Eyes tilting his head a little to bring the cold, cutting light of the stars down to greater advantage.

Hell, Sawyer thinks, even if the beer goggles are making his misread every signal to an absurd degree, the worst thing that'll happen is he'll get socked one for his trouble. The final few feet are covered in the span of a step. His head inclines down to meet lips that are cool, firm, and part for his own with the barest moments of resistance. The angle is awkward, making their chins bump together as Sawyer pulls away. "Always with the tall ones," he feels/hears Blue Eyes mumble, whatever that means. Truth be told, Sawyer's not feeling real inclined towards introspection at the moment. Arrogant or not, Blue Eyes kisses with talent layered over by skill, and Sawyer's fast discovering that his balance is the only thing being impaired by the beer.

"You had better not be one of Kilo's," he mutters before he leans in again. Blue Eyes snorts, makes even that manage to sound equal parts puzzled and amused, kisses Sawyer thoroughly enough to start the world rocking again, and puts his hand down lightly on Sawyer's shoulder. The downward pressure is faint, scarcely there at all, but Sawyer slides to his knees all the same. The sound he makes while drawing Blue Eyes's zipper down is scarcely audible over Sawyer's own breathing. He lowers his head.

Ten minutes later, Blue Eyes has Sawyer back on his feet and backed up against the side of Damned Truck-Lord above, it's even uglier up close, except Sawyer is for once in his life biting back the comments that rise to his lips and is replacing them with a long, drawn-out groan in their stead. Lindsey has Sawyer's jeans undone, has his own hand down the front of them, and is proving that kissing isn't the only area where talent and skill have blended and made a merry match for themselves. Sawyer's knees have long since unhinged themselves, and the cool, hard weight of the Damned Truck at his back is the only thing that continues to hold him up. He makes a mental note to never, ever admit this, but if the soft sound that Blue Eyes makes when Sawyer bends his head to his neck is any indication, then he already knows. Or maybe, Sawyer thinks as he works his head further downward in a series of sly, teasing bites, it's just that he has a little of the ol' talent/skill combo working in his own favor, too.

Down to Blue Eyes's collarbone now, such a fascinating expanse of heated skin. The sudden hitch in Blue Eyes's breathing has nothing to do with rewarding Sawyer for a job well done, however. The skin here is swollen, scabbed; by leaning back a few inches, Sawyer can see a series of tattoos so new that the skin is still puffy and inflamed around the ink. They look vaguely like the tribal markings that still remain popular here and there, but this is a pattern that Sawyer has never seen before, and he can't imagine that any legitimate parlor would be willing to do so large a job in one sitting. Looking at them for too long fills Sawyer with a vague, untraceable sense of unease, like looking at a terrible secret.

"Am I boring you?" Blue Eyes sounds amused, irritated, maybe even a little worried if Sawyer cocks his head just right.

Sawyer feels his mouth turn up in a grin. "So try harder."

The sound that Blue Eyes makes might be a laugh, is more likely the sound of a challenge being accepted. It's only a few minutes later that Sawyer is throwing his head back hard enough to make the muscles in his neck creak, hearing a stream of nonsense syllables running past his lips and seeing flashes of color that explode and recede too quickly to be quantified in spite of the fact that starlight has bleached the rest of the world into the black and white of old cinema. Sawyer pants and sags, waits for his knees to resolidify and reluctantly reclaim the task of holding him up, before he says carefully, "Those look like they hurt."

The geniality drops away, only for a moment, and Sawyer gets a glimpse of the look that makes him wonder if Blue Eyes is also getting the feeling of looking into a mirror. Blue Eyes pauses to clean off his hand, and when he looks up again not a shadow remains. "Somethin' I've been meaning to do for a while," he says. "I'm a little overdue for my bout of teenaged rebellion." His smile is almost enough to make Sawyer believe it.

Almost. But, hell, that cliff is looming bright and beautiful before Sawyer's eyes, and looking over the edge doesn't feel like vertigo nearly so much as it does flying. Sawyer allows Doyle, Blue Eyes, Joe Bumpkin if that's what he wants to be called, to lead him towards the rear of the truck. Turns out the bed is more comfortable than it looks.

---

The sun wakes Sawyer up, arcing over the horizon and striking him full in the face as he lies in the bed of his own truck. He winces, turns his face away, and feels a half-dozen different muscles strike up a protest. Sawyer's hands find their way to his temples as his brain gives it the old college try at exploding right out of his skull. The creak-slam of a door opening fires a bullet straight into his temporal lobe.

The bartender from the night before gives Sawyer a curious look that quickly morphs into a knowing one as she carries a bag of trash out to the dumpster. There is vindication in her backward glance, and Sawyer scowls. He's so glad that he was able to make her day.

Sawyer rubs his hands across his eyes, his jaw, as he slides down from the bed and walks towards the truck's cab. Damned Truck and Blue Eyes are nowhere to be seen, which is about what Sawyer expected. He's relieved, if he wants to get right down into the nitty-gritty of it. Those tattoos made Sawyer feel as if there were ants crawling across his skin.

The engine turns over twice after Sawyer slides his key into the ignition, finally starts up with a sputtering roar. He dips his head and swears as the sunrise reflects off the chrome, but he doesn't look back. That feeling of onrushing change is pouring over him again, unnerving and inescapable. It's time he moved on. The question of where, though, remains unanswered. Sawyer can't imagine a place where Kilo won't find him eventually, with the proper amount of time and luck.

Actually, now that Sawyer thinks about it, maybe it's time that he left the country altogether. It will only be for a while, after all.

End