SO THIS IS SO NOT COMMENT FIC. I got carried away. Er. I hope it pleases? ;) also take it as a wacky AU where Boone survived S1 and they were rescued in S3 like sane people get rescued.
Surprisingly (for him), Boone is the one who drives almost all the time.
He doesn’t know why Jack had said that he’d really rather not, but it’s nice to be trusted with some responsibility once in a while, and so he’s totally okay with driving. Even if his legs hurts, and a lot, but he learned to ignore it.
Also, he’d have never pegged Jack for one who likes Nirvana blasting on the highway, but well, Boone likes Nirvana alright and if Jack feels like grunge, Boone is okay with it. Really.
After all, he can’t be that surprised. Or well, not after Jack rang his doorbell one year after they got rescued by that freighter full of crazy people. They hadn’t seen each other in all that time and when Boone opened the door, Jack was clean-shaven, had red-rimmed eyes and a shaking hand, and he asked whether he was up to go somewhere.
“Where exactly?” Boone had asked.
“I don’t care,” Jack had said, before adding that of course he’d have understood it if Boone said no. They hadn’t talked for a while and now he just rings his door and –
“Okay,” Boone had answered, because after all, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Shannon is dead, his mother calls but almost never comes and when she does she winces at the erratic scars on his forehead and cheek (well, one can’t live after one accident like Boone’s without consequences). And he just took random part time jobs he could do online because apparently he gets people upset whenever he tries for an interview.
So he said yes and here they are.
They crossed three states and Boone could count the times they had an actual conversation.
At times he wonders if he could just spill it and tell Jack that while on the island his hero worship wasn’t just simply that, but then he decides against it and drives faster. He doesn’t ask Jack why he takes methadone once each day, but he can guess too well.
--
They always go in motels that aren’t seedy but aren’t high class either, and Boone wonders when the hell is his leg going to give out because he sure has never driven so much since coming back to civilization. He never says anything about it.
--
“Why me?” he asks one evening, because he really would like to know. They’ve been on the same car for two weeks and he doesn’t even know why.
“Because you’re the only one in the area who wouldn’t have slammed the door in my face as soon as they saw me,” Jack answers, and Boone would really like to know who else was in the area, but he doesn’t say anything. “Also, you’re about the only person on that island whom I didn’t fail.”
Boone bites his tongue and doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t feel right, not just now.
--
“If you ever want to talk, you can,” he says one evening while they’re eating cherry pie in an absolutely not remarkable diner somewhere in Idaho.
“Thanks for the offer,” Jack answers, and he looks sincere, but his hand is shaking when his fingers tighten around the fork.
lost, jack/boone, road trip, confessions, wet + bonus spooning, R, 1/3
Surprisingly (for him), Boone is the one who drives almost all the time.
He doesn’t know why Jack had said that he’d really rather not, but it’s nice to be trusted with some responsibility once in a while, and so he’s totally okay with driving. Even if his legs hurts, and a lot, but he learned to ignore it.
Also, he’d have never pegged Jack for one who likes Nirvana blasting on the highway, but well, Boone likes Nirvana alright and if Jack feels like grunge, Boone is okay with it. Really.
After all, he can’t be that surprised. Or well, not after Jack rang his doorbell one year after they got rescued by that freighter full of crazy people. They hadn’t seen each other in all that time and when Boone opened the door, Jack was clean-shaven, had red-rimmed eyes and a shaking hand, and he asked whether he was up to go somewhere.
“Where exactly?” Boone had asked.
“I don’t care,” Jack had said, before adding that of course he’d have understood it if Boone said no. They hadn’t talked for a while and now he just rings his door and –
“Okay,” Boone had answered, because after all, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Shannon is dead, his mother calls but almost never comes and when she does she winces at the erratic scars on his forehead and cheek (well, one can’t live after one accident like Boone’s without consequences). And he just took random part time jobs he could do online because apparently he gets people upset whenever he tries for an interview.
So he said yes and here they are.
They crossed three states and Boone could count the times they had an actual conversation.
At times he wonders if he could just spill it and tell Jack that while on the island his hero worship wasn’t just simply that, but then he decides against it and drives faster. He doesn’t ask Jack why he takes methadone once each day, but he can guess too well.
--
They always go in motels that aren’t seedy but aren’t high class either, and Boone wonders when the hell is his leg going to give out because he sure has never driven so much since coming back to civilization. He never says anything about it.
--
“Why me?” he asks one evening, because he really would like to know. They’ve been on the same car for two weeks and he doesn’t even know why.
“Because you’re the only one in the area who wouldn’t have slammed the door in my face as soon as they saw me,” Jack answers, and Boone would really like to know who else was in the area, but he doesn’t say anything. “Also, you’re about the only person on that island whom I didn’t fail.”
Boone bites his tongue and doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t feel right, not just now.
--
“If you ever want to talk, you can,” he says one evening while they’re eating cherry pie in an absolutely not remarkable diner somewhere in Idaho.
“Thanks for the offer,” Jack answers, and he looks sincere, but his hand is shaking when his fingers tighten around the fork.