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Jack never realized how drab his life had been; pale green and salmon all over the walls of the hospital, the sky black when he drove in early, went home late.
So when things are quiet he walks to the shore and watches the many blues the water turns as the sun rises. He counts them, names them in his head: Cornflower, Air Force blue, teal, ultramarine.
Then he stands there until the most beautiful blues on the island stroll by. They always do -- Sawyer may be lazy as fuck but he’s lazy on a set schedule.
“’Mornin',” he mumbles, towel over a shoulder, soap in hand. He must have slept well ‘cause there’s no grumble in it.
Steel blue, Jack thinks as he nods in reply. The eyes that have sneered at him, stared death at him, teased and, yeah, flirted with him. The eyes that couldn’t meet his the other week when he called Jack the closest thing he had to a friend.
Jack hadn’t said anything back. He’d been afraid to screw the moment up royally. Habit of his.
He stands with his hands in his pockets and watches the ritual begin: Sawyer will walk far enough away from camp for politeness, drop the jeans and hit the water. And he can stay here and watch for about the fortieth time, or he can do something, say… something. Any words might be better than no words. Even the wrong ones.
“Sawyer,” Jack says it, doesn’t yell it. Sawyer’s a fair distance away but he must have heard because he turns. There’s some ‘what the hell do you want’ in his gaze but there’s something else right behind it. Confusion? No, it's hope.
Electric blue. That’s what they are.
“Wait up,” Jack says, and starts walking.
Enough drab. Jack needs more blue in his life. A lot of it, every day.