Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I am never anywhere, anywhere I go"

Ketchum, ID, boygenius

Sawyer dangles his cigarette over the ocean, wanting to drop it in for no real reason other than to see if anyone would say anything. He’s not sure who would; he’s the only one on the deck. So he puts it back in his mouth and lets his lungs burn. 

He supposes that’s the plus to this goddamn boat, that he can smoke. But a plane wouldn’t take three fucking weeks, so he wouldn’t need to as bad anyway. 

He’s still not sure why he let that sunburned fucker put his ticket in the pot as opposed to cash, but you can’t change the past. And here he is, taking a drag staring out at the endless water, and he guesses there are plenty of worse places he could be.

(Like with the cops. If he’d been stupid enough to get caught, which he’s not. Though he was stupid enough to shoot the man in the first place, so who knows.)

Thinking about that, about the rain and the pull of the trigger and the body slumped against the dumpster, makes the hand squeeze around his heart again, fingers digging into the arteries. He clenches his jaw and grabs the cigarette, flicking it out into the water.

Maybe one of the fish is in need of a fucking break.

“Was that a cigarette?”

His scowl deepens somehow, and he glances back over his shoulder with a mean look in his eyes. But what he finds is something he doesn’t expect. 

She’s standing there with a challenging gaze, eyes as blue as the ocean below them and sunlight making her blonde hair glow. He’d think she was an angel sent down to do God’s dirty work if it weren’t for that look on her face. It looks less holy and more like she just realized she left the sugar out of her lemonade.

“You got a problem, sweetheart,” he snarls. There’s something about her that’s holding his attention. He wonders for a brief moment if they’ve met, but no. He’d remember her. It’s just those eyes piercing his soul. They make him uncomfortable, but he can’t turn away; like a car wreck on the side of the road.

She crosses her arms, and he notices her bag is about to slip off her shoulder. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’d do that.”

He frowns, eyeing her up and down once more. Her dress is plain and boring and he can’t pinpoint what it is that’s making his chest feel tight.

“Why does anyone do anything?” he grumbles. He grabs the box of cigarettes from his pocket and fiddles with the top, popping it open and closed, open and closed.

“And now you’re just having another one.”

He glares at her in that dangerous way he’s grown comfortable with. “Why’re you still talking to me?”

“You’re right.”

And then she turns and walks away.

For a moment his guard drops, and he stands there dumbstruck.

She just walked away.

There’s a second where he almost chases after her. But then he asks himself who the fuck he thinks he is. She doesn’t look like someone with money, or someone who’s married to someone who is. He has no interest in her. (At least, he shouldn’t.) Besides, she’s not the type he usually goes for. She seems too smart for his act.

He shoves the box back in his pocket and takes one last look down at the deck before turning the other way and heading back to his room. The sun’s killing his eyes.

********

Sawyer steps through the threshold of the restaurant, grimacing when a kid runs past him. The mom follows behind it, scrambling with an apology he ignores.

He walks around the bar, searching for an empty seat. He finally finds one, plopping down into it and glancing at the menu. The bartender comes around and he puts a hand up.

“Could I get a bourbon? Neat.”

He nods and Sawyer mutters a thanks. As he waits, he glances to his right, eyes falling on a head of dark curls. She turns just a bit, sipping her drink, and he gets a view of her face. There are freckles dusted across her nose, and a green tint to her eyes.

He can’t help himself when he thinks of Cassidy, and nausea pools in his stomach.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone?”

She snaps her head toward him, a borderline disgusted frown on her face. “Excuse me?”

Oh, God she doesn’t just look like her.

He puts a hand up in surrender. “Sorry, that was . . . lemme start over.” He reaches that same hand out toward her. “Name’s Sawyer.”

She eyes him suspiciously. “Is it, really?”

He just smiles, dropping his hand.

She takes a sip of her drink. “Clare.”

“Are you, really?”

She frowns. There’s a darkness to her eyes, and it’s easy for him to see that she’s more than just a pretty girl in a bar. Maybe that’s why he’s so captivated by her. 

“What do you want?” she asks.

The bartender returns, setting his drink down. He grabs it and takes a long sip. “Just making conversation.” She doesn’t seem convinced, so he adds, “Gets lonely. All alone on this big ship.”

“There’s plenty of people.”

“Mmm, I suppose you’re right.”

She finishes her drink and sets the glass down. She reaches into her bag, but he’s quicker, plucking a bill from his wallet and setting it in front of her. She stares at it, long and hard.

“I can pay for my own drink.”

“Let me. For wasting your time.”

She gazes warily at him, and then stands up. “Enjoy your drink, Sawyer.” She puts emphasis on the name.

He chuckles, watching her walk away. What’s it with the women on this boat, he wonders, thinking about the blonde from earlier. He shakes his head and downs the rest of the bourbon. He almost waves the bartender down again, but then decides against it, setting another bill on the counter and shoving his wallet back in his pocket.

On his way out, he can’t help overhearing the Asian couple arguing by the entrance, presumably waiting for a table. He has no clue what they’re saying, but something about it irks him. He isn’t a saint; not even close. But he’s always been bothered by the sight of husbands treating their wives like shit. Maybe it’s just the part of him that aches with the memory of how his father treated his mom.

They don’t even speak English. He keeps walking, and wonders what the hell is wrong with him, suddenly wanting to get involved with everyone’s business.

He’s just gotta get through the next week. (And then he has a whole bunch of other shit waiting for him.)

********

Sawyer stares out at the distance, vaguely unnerved by the elusive horizon, sky bleeding into the dark water. He fumbles with the cigarette in his hand, pulling it from his lips and taking a deep breath.

He touches his pocket, fingers brushing against the worn paper inside. But he leaves it there, not wanting it to slip out of his hands and into the water below. Besides, he knows every word by heart. 

Dear Mr. Sawyer, You don’t know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done.

“Excuse me?”

Sawyer’s resting frown deepens. He wishes they let him smoke in his room so he didn’t have to deal with every fucker on this boat wanting a word with him.

He turns, glancing at the dark-haired man standing there. He’d look put together with his button up shirt tucked into his slacks, but the dark circles under his eyes and the tension radiating off his body give him away.

“What?”

The man stands there for a second, just staring at him, and then he shakes his head. “Never mind. Sorry for bothering you.” He ducks his head and begins to walk away, earning a pissed glare from Sawyer. And then he pauses.

“You know what?” He sighs, gesturing vaguely to Sawyer’s hand. “Can I have one of those?”

He takes a drag, staring at the cigarette in his hand. He’s close to running out, bored and working through them quicker than usual. But this man is the definition of needing a smoke. 

He pulls the box out of his pocket, popping it open and reaching it out. The man plucks one out and grabs the lighter Sawyer hands him. By the way he fumbles with it, Sawyer would say it’s been a long time since he’s done it. (But he’s done it. He can tell.)

“Needed a break from the wife? Kids?” Sawyer asks, shoving it back in his pocket and eyeing him curiously. 

He considers this a moment, and then laughs wearily. “No. No.”

So business trip, then, he thinks, and wonders what’s got him so fucked up that he’s smoking with a stranger at 11pm. 

After a long while of silence, he speaks up again. “I was married.”

So that’s what it is.

“We were supposed to go on this trip together.”

Sawyer feels stiff, wanting to put the cigarette out and leave. This man is the pathetic kind of sad. It’s plain depressing.

“What happened?” he asks emptily, humoring him.

“She left me. For someone else.”

“Well, damn. Sorry,” he says, void of any real pity. Knowing how this works, he probably deserved it. 

The man shakes his head. “You know, what? I’m going to go.” He puts the cigarette out. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sawyer mutters as he walks away. Probably to one of the bars, if he had to guess. He takes a drag, returning his gaze out to the distance.

After a moment, he reaches into his pocket again and pulls out the wrinkled envelope, getting over his earlier fear. He unfolds the yellow paper, finger running over the faded ink. 

Dear Mr. Sawyer . . . 

If he shuts his eyes he’s right back there in the rain, cold metal in his hand. He can still see the life draining out of those eyes.

It’ll come back around .

He shoves it back in his pocket. Fucking Hibbs. As soon as he gets off this goddamn boat he’s going to show that bastard what karma feels like. Damn right it comes back around.

He drops his cigarette, watching it disappear into the black. He could follow it. He thinks about it, the scene playing in his head. It would be a hell of a lot easier than what’s waiting for him the minute he steps off this hunk of metal.

Drowning’s the worst way to go. If he waits a week, at least he can get a gun.

********

Sawyer isn’t a creep. At least not in the standard creep sense. Though he will admit that he wouldn’t be sitting out here under the blazing sun trying to ignore the constant chatter and laughing around him if it weren’t for her, sitting on one of the lounge chairs on the other side of the pool. But what else is he going to do? He seems to be the only bored one on this traveling nightmare. 

Her blonde hair is up in a bun, the only woman here not in a bikini. (Though he can see the straps under her tank top.) Her book rests on her stomach, and he watches her face as she flips the page, noticing every vague shift as she reacts to the words.

She’s reading East of Eden . Not his favorite Steinbeck—that would be Of Mice and Men —but good nonetheless. It’s an interesting choice. Based on the looks of her he’d have assumed she’d be reading one of those trashy romance novels they sell in the gift shop across from the bar. 

(But he should’ve known she was above that. Just based on the disdainful tone she used on him before.)

It’s habit, when he begins to work a script out in his head. Pretty and smart. You might just be my dream woman. No. That would never work on her. He’s surprised it works on anyone. (Though it has, in the past.) Steinbeck. You have some good taste. Haven’t read this one in a while, but you don’t forget something like that. 

While he’s playing dolls in his head, he misses her close her book and gather her things. By the time she’s caught his attention once again, she’s standing up and walking away. Shit.

He isn’t sure what it is that’s got him hooked on her. There’s a strange tug in his chest, a magnet pulling him in her direction. It’s the cabin fever getting to him. (It’s those impossibly blue eyes getting to him.)

It only takes a moment of staring for him to notice the book. It’s still sitting there on the edge of the seat, just waiting for someone to take it. She’s getting farther away by the second, so close to stepping out of his sight.

Slowly, casually, he stands up and walks around the side of the pool to her seat, picking up the book and holding it in his hands. It’s a new copy, the cover pristine. But she dog-eared her page. Ugh. Maybe he should just keep it. It’d be in better hands.

That thought doesn’t stick, and he picks up his pace, not wanting to lose her in all the people. As he gets closer, he suddenly realizes that for the first time possibly ever, he has nothing to say. Somehow, he knows she’d see through anything he’d planned, or could come up with.

But it’s too late to backtrack. He has no control over himself, leaning forward and tapping her shoulder.

She turns around, frowning for a moment before her eyes widen in recognition. 

“You,” she says, voice cold.

“Me.” 

“Don't you have more cigarettes to throw in the ocean?”

He smirks. “I have the day off.”

“How nice,” she says dryly.

He holds the book out. “I was gonna keep it, but I wouldn’t want ya not to finish it. It’s a pretty damn good book.”

She narrows her eyes, hesitantly pulling it from his hands. “You’ve read it.”

“‘Course. Ain’t his best, though.”

“Steinbeck?”

“Yeah. I like Of Mice and Men.”

She holds the book to her chest, a stoic mask on her face. Those baby blues are barely peeking through. “Thank you.”

He puts a hand out, playing up the charm in his voice. “I’m Sawyer.”

She huffs a laugh, and his facade cracks. He drops his hand. “What?”

“Sawyer. Really? Like the book? Tom Sawyer.” She shakes her head, turning around.

He should let her leave. She’s cold, and condescending, and a fucking bitch. He’s wasting his time.

“James.”

She halts, and his blood runs cold. It felt clunky on his tongue. It felt wrong. It’s like he uttered a curse, or some deathly secret he swore to keep. It’s a lie. (James is still under that bed, eight years old and shaking like a leaf in the wind.)

She turns. 

“James.”

He barely nods, unaware of the action. His stomach is burning like he’s hungover, but he didn’t even drink last night.

She scratches her eyebrow, and then drops her hand, carefully eyeing him up and down. She finally meets his gaze, those oceans sweeping him under their calming waves.

“I’m Juliet.”

“Juliet,” he says, and he likes the shape of it in his mouth. And then he smirks, and it’s only half an act. “Like the play. Juliet Capulet.”

She smirks, seemingly amused by his thievery of her lines. “I’m not a Shakespeare fan.”

“Is anyone, really?” There’s a twinkle in her eyes. “What are ya a fan of, then?”

She considers it. “Stephen King.”

He raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Are ya?”

She nods, and there’s something about her that makes him feel like he’s walking on clouds. 

“It was nice to meet you, James.”

He bristles at the sound of that name. “Likewise.”

And then she’s gone, and he feels stupid standing there feeling like he’s burning from the inside out. He frowns, as deep as he can, and pushes through people to make his way back to the elevators. 

Who the fuck does he think he is? Some troubled protagonist in a romance novel. Fuck that, and fuck her, and fuck him for playing a game he shouldn’t even be watching.

Sawyer doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to get close to anybody. He knows what that leads to. A bullet to the face. A couple hundred thousand gone from your bank account.

(And James . . . James doesn’t get to want anything. James is going to get him in worse trouble than he’s already in, and the hot water’s already up to his waist.)

********

Sawyer downs the whiskey, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and calling the bartender for another one. As he waits, a tornado of a girl storms into the bar, coming up to the spot beside him.

“Can I have a cosmopolitan?”

Sawyer eyes her up and down, smirking at the sight of long legs and a tiny skirt. She sighs, sitting down in the stool beside him and pushing her blonde hair off of her face. (When the image of Juliet sneaks into his mind, he swats it like a fly. He’s talked to her twice and now other girls are reminding him of her? Get a fucking grip.)

“Hey there,” he says, flipping the switch.

She glances over at him, wearing the look of a sixteen year old pissed at her dad. “Hi.”

“What’s got your panties all in a bunch?”

She gives him a repulsed glare, and he expects her to call him disgusting, or a pig. But then she scoffs, turning away and shaking her head. “My pain in the ass brother. But it’s nothing new.”

“Ah. That right?” The bartender sets his drink down, and he nods a silent thank you.

“I finally got away from him. Thank God.” She reaches under her shirt and adjusts her bra, fixing her shirt once she’s done. “What’s your name?”

“Sawyer.”

She really looks at him for the first time. And then they set her drink down and she busies herself with that. After taking a sip, she smiles at him. “I’m Shannon.”

“Shannon.” He smiles in return. “You’ve got some pretty eyes.”

“You can thank my father.”

There’s an edge to her he likes. “How’s that drink?”

She swirls the glass. “Bland.”

“Here.” He calls the bartender back over, lowering his voice. Once he’s done, he turns back and smiles. “Just you wait.”

“How do I know you’re not poisoning me?” she asks, but her tone tells him she doesn’t think he’s capable of that.

“I’m not. Promise.” He sips his drink, watching her over the edge of the glass.

She smirks back at him, and he finally feels normal again. This is what he’s used to. This is what he knows. There’s no harm in this.

The bartender returns, setting down the new drink.

“Try it,” Sawyer says, pushing it toward her. She grabs it, studying it for a moment before taking a cautious sip.

“Oh, that’s so much better.”

He grins. “Told ya.”

Yeah. Yeah. He’s good at this.

********

He barely finishes locking the door before she’s on him, hands on his shoulders and tongue in his mouth. He groans, kissing her just as hard and putting a hand on her back, the other sliding up her thigh. 

She pulls away, looking around. “I’m surprised your room’s this clean.”

“Not for long,” he says, voice low, before pulling her shirt up over her head and tossing it to the floor. And then he’s on her again, and she’s kissing back with a force he should’ve expected, pinning him against the door. His lips move down her neck and her chest until he’s sucking marks into the top of her breasts. She moans loudly and moves her hands down until they’re at his jeans, deftly undoing them. 

He groans when she wraps her hand around him, sliding it down to the tip. He lifts his head, leaning it back as she gets down onto her knees in front of him. The minute she puts her mouth around him, he knows she knows what she’s doing. 

“Mmm,” he groans, putting his hands in her hair. She takes him deep in her throat, tongue circling. He needed this; a distraction. 

He can feel the rubber band stretching, and pushes her away before it can snap. 

“You know how to use your mouth,” he breathes, eyes heavy. 

She stands up, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “They say practice makes perfect.” 

And then her hand’s on his shirt, tugging him to the bed. He chuckles, letting her take control, letting her push him down on the mattress.

She swings her leg over his chest, straddling him and pressing her mouth to his. He pushes his hand up her skirt, grinning at the noises she makes when he touches her.

And then someone starts banging on the door.

They break the kiss, the two of them snapping their heads up toward the sound.

“The boat’s sinking!” someone yells, panicked voice muffled. It gets increasingly quiet as they seems to walk away. “This is not a drill!”

Sawyer turns, looking up at Shannon. She looks down at him, eyes wide and wild.

“What the actual fuck?”

Chapter Text

"I'm in the back seat of my body
I'm just steering my life in a video game
Similar accent, a different name"

Stay Down, boygenius

“What the actual fuck?”

Shannon gets off of him, and he lets his head fall back onto the bed, groaning in annoyance. She grabs her shirt from the ground, hastily pulling it back on. 

“Where’re you going?”

She looks at him, face tight in pissed disbelief. “To see what the hell’s going on!”

“It’s a fucking prank,” he says. Cruise ships don’t sink. That’s just not something that happens. God, he needs a cigarette.

She scoffs. “Fine, then. Stay here and die, I don’t care.”

When he realizes she’s really leaving, he scrambles up from the bed, grabbing his jeans from the ground. “Well, hold on a sec.” He pulls them on, stumbling after her toward the door. He follows her out, still zipping his pants up, and sees people doing the same; stepping out of their rooms, walking up and down the deck looking for some answer to what’s going on.

And then the intercom crackles, loud enough to make his ears pulse. 

“This is not a drill. All passengers and non-essential crew members make your way safely and efficiently toward the location shown to you during the first day safety briefing. Stay calm, and await further instructions.”

Sawyer feels his stomach drop to his knees. “Son of a bitch.”

“Boone,” Shannon says all of a sudden, horror creeping into her face. “I’ve got to find him.”

“Who?”

She turns to face him, and oh God her eyes are filling with tears. Shit. “My brother!”

“Right.” The pain in the ass. He has no interest in holding her hand and playing hero. Every man for himself, right? 

“Just head to wherever his room is. I’m sure you’ll find him there,” he dismisses, turning to head back into his own room.

“Where are you going?” she asks, voice quivering. 

He looks back at her. “To take care of my own shit. You’re a big girl. You can handle yourself just fine.”

He doesn’t stick around to see her reaction, disappearing into his room and shutting the door. It’s easy to pretend this is just another quick getaway. He’s used to those. He travels light, knows how to quickly stuff his bag.

It hasn’t hit him that in a few hours this thing’s going to be underwater. Or maybe he isn’t letting himself process it. 

He shoves his book on top of the balled up clothes at the bottom of his messenger bag, throwing his cigarettes and lighter in and zipping it up, leaving space on top.

He scans his room one last time and then slips out, staying close to the wall and pushing past all the people heading in the other direction. He thinks about every step, tightly gripping his focus and forcing it to stay on that instead of anything else. He ducks when he sees a crew member leading people along, slipping around a corner and sighing in relief to find himself exactly where he wants to be. 

The gift shop’s abandoned, lights off, but he still stays low. He grabs the bags of junk food, pushing them into the top of his bag. His eyes light up when he sees the shelf with all those crappy paperbacks, not taking the time to look at the covers and shoving a few in with everything else. 

If things end well, he guesses they get rescued. If things don’t—as they usually seem to—who knows. Why not be prepared?

And then something catches his eye. On the counter, beside the candy in front of the register; a metal oval. He steps over, picking it up and feeling a lightbulb flick on in his head. It’s a badge for one of the officers. Some guy named Mitch. Well God damn it, today’s his lucky day.

He shoves it in his pocket and steps out of the store, joining the crowd of people on the deck and pushing through crying kids and distressed couples clinging to each other.

And then he sees her.

The moon catches on her hair, glowing almost silver, and suddenly he’s tripping over his own feet. She’s barely walking, being moved along by the crowd, and he doesn’t notice that he’s stepping toward her until he’s too close to move away.

“Juliet.”

She turns, and he sees the panic in her eyes. And then there’s a flicker of recognition. He steps over, grabbing her arm and pulling her along with him.

“James?” she asks, stumbling beside him. What the hell is he doing, he thinks, looking down at her distraught face. Her eyes are so fucking blue.

Since when did he start giving a fuck about anyone but himself? He just let Shannon go on her own. 

It’ll give him an upper hand, he thinks. Having a woman with him. He’s thinking about Titanic, women and children or whatever. He doesn’t think it’s like that anymore (and now he has the badge), but it can’t hurt.

“Just stay with me,” he mutters, practically dragging her. She must snap out of her daze, because she starts moving quicker, following him as he pushes through the crowd, ignoring protests.

“Where are we going?” 

“To get on a lifeboat.”

He crosses over to the right, not wanting to get shoved in line by a crew member.

“The boat’s sinking,” she says, so soft he has to strain to hear it. He turns and looks at her, at the utter disbelief on her face.

“Yeah,” he says. “And we don’t wanna be on it when it does.”

She goes quiet, and gives a barely noticeable nod. He nods back and they keep going.

It isn’t long before they reach the end of the deck where they’re helping people into the boats. He grips Juliet tighter.

“Just play along,” he whispers.

“What?”

He doesn’t elaborate, pulling her out past the invisible barrier. “Let us on that one.”

“Sir, we have a system,” the man says.

Sawyer pulls the badge out of his pocket and flashes it. “Officer’s orders.” He squeezes Juliet’s hand so tight he feels her bones grind against his. 

The man’s eyes light up. “Alright, sir. Yes, go ahead.”

Sawyer nods and pulls Juliet along with him. He helps her climb down into the boat, and shrugs off the man’s outreached hand as he gets in. When he steps down, Juliet’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“I didn’t know you were an officer.”

“I’m not,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “It ain’t mine. I found it.”

And then the door to the boat closes. They both look up at it. When he looks back down, Juliet’s eyes are wide.

“Then who’s going to steer this thing?”

He stares at her for a moment. And then it hits, cool dread sliding down to the bottom of his stomach. 

“Shit.”

He fucked up. He really fucked up.

“What’s going on?” someone asks, and Sawyer is suddenly aware of all the forty-something people sitting in the rows of seats staring at them. He turns, meeting this guy’s stare. 

His eyebrows shoot up in recognition. “You.”

It’s him. The sad guy who stole one of his cigarettes.

“You,” he says, eyes narrow.

“You know him?” Juliet asks.

“No,” Sawyer says quickly.

Cutting them off, the boat suddenly moves. Sawyer keeps his feet steady, grabbing Juliet’s arm when she stumbles forward. She looks up, panic in those baby blues.

“No, they can’t let us down yet.”

“It isn’t filled all the way,” the blonde girl in the corner says, a thick Australian accent coating her words. He notes she’s very pregnant. That can’t be good. “They aren’t going to be able to get everyone off.”

“You’re worrying ‘bout the wrong people, sweetheart,” Sawyer mutters.

“What’s going on?” the man asks again, adding this little condescending laugh onto the end that makes Sawyer want to punch something.

Juliet looks at Sawyer. “He lied. He told them he was an officer. He stole a badge.”

“I found it,” he defends. “There’s a difference.”

“Sure you did.”

He recognizes that voice. He looks over, smiling bitterly. “Well look who it is.”

The girl with the dark curls (he still doesn’t buy that Clare’s her real name) scowls at him.

“So what you are saying is that we have no one to steer this?” the Iraqi guy asks.

The sad guy shakes his head. “I took a few boating classes. I’m not certified, but . . . I can probably manage.”

Of course he can, Sawyer thinks.

“What’s your name?” the Iraqi asks the sad guy.

He sighs. “Jack.”

“Sayid,” he introduces. And then says, “I think you are supposed to stay near where the boat goes down. We should see if there is an anchor.”

Jack nods, and the two of them head down to the front of the boat.

“There aren’t enough of us in here,” the pregnant girl says again. “There are empty seats. They won’t be able to get everyone off.”

Dark curled girl from the bar rubs her back. “It’ll be alright. We have to take care of ourselves first. They’ll handle it.”

Sawyer is looking for a place to sit down when all of a sudden a loud voice booms over everyone else.

“You asshole.”

Fuck.

Shannon stands up from the middle of the boat, pushing through people to make her way over to him. How the hell did she get on the boat that quickly?

“First you abandon me,” she says. “And now you screw us all over.”

When she reaches him, she wastes no time slapping him hard across the face. He doesn’t fight back, just stands there half astonished and half amused.

A guy about her age rushes behind her. “What the hell, Shan!”

“You must be the brother,” Sawyer says, rubbing his stinging cheek.

He frowns. “And who are you?”

He raises an eyebrow at Shannon, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, I think that’s her story to tell.”

She fumes, glaring hard at him.

Sawyer grabs Juliet’s arm, attempting to pull her toward the seats. But she stands her ground, pulling away from him harshly.

“What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that you lied and somehow got us into more trouble than we were already in!”

“You probably wouldn’t ‘a even made it onto a boat if it weren’t for me. You should be thankful.”

She scoffs. “Thankful? I could’ve handled myself.”

“Oh, sure you could, sweetheart. I’d have liked to see that.” 

She glares, and he doesn’t understand how fire can burn so hot in those ocean eyes.

He gives a sarcastic nod and turns, pushing past Shannon and her brother and walking down until he finds an empty section of seats in the middle, plopping down in the seat all the way at the end. If they all want to blame him, fine. It’s not like he gives a fuck. 

He just has to wait until the rescue boats come. Then he can get the hell away from all this shit. 

********

Sawyer’s head is pounding, like someone’s repeatedly pressing their fists against the inside of his forehead. He leans his head back and pushes his thumb and forefinger against his eyebrows, hoping the pressure will relieve the pain. It doesn’t.

The constant chatter around him isn’t helping, either. Rescue better hurry the fuck up. Or he might just take his chances and jump off board this thing.

The sun is beginning to bleed into the horizon, burning through the windows, and you know what? That’s a pain in the ass, too. He shuts his eyes, regretting everything that led him to this hard seat in this crowd of insufferable people.

“Do you see that?” he hears someone ask, voice floating above everyone else’s. 

Sawyer opens his eyes, tiredly looking back down at the book in his hand.

“Holy shit!” someone exclaims. 

“That wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Is that an island?”

That comment piques Sawyer’s interest. But not enough for him to get up. He watches everyone crowd around the windows on the other side, all staring wide-eyed at something in the distance.

Must be a shared hallucination or some shit, he thinks. There’s no island. They would’ve seen it before.

Sayid and Jack approach the group from where they’d been at the front of the boat, trying to push people aside. Sawyer watches them, amused. No one’s letting them through.

Their voices are muffled beneath everyone else’s, and despite Sawyer’s urge to hear their conversation, he can’t get himself to stand up and join the mob.

He does, though, spot a familiar head of blonde hair in the corner, looking over people to see out the window.

“Does anyone remember seeing an island yesterday?” Jack asks, raising his voice.

Sawyer can’t help himself, keeping his eyes on the page as he comments, “Doubt anyone would’ve kept that to themselves, Ahab.”

“We have been in one place all night,” Sayid says, talking loud enough now that Sawyer can hear. “An island could not have just appeared.”

“What if there are people on it?” someone asks, voice filled with so much hope Sawyer feels sick just hearing it.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” someone else reasons. “It’s probably deserted.”

“And what about the rescue boats?”

All the yelling is just making the fists press harder. He wishes he’d grabbed a pair of ear plugs from that gift shop.

“Everyone calm down!” Jack yells, as if he has any authority over these people. But they listen, everyone going quiet and turning to look at him. Their fearless leader, Sawyer thinks bitterly, and flips the page. 

He sighs. “It’s been over eight hours. Rescue is coming. But we’ll be easier to spot on that island. We can start a signal fire.”

“Are you sure about this, Jack?” Sayid asks. 

Sawyer hopes one of them throws a punch sometime soon. At least then he’ll have something to watch.

“Well, what do you suggest?”

He looks at the forty-something pairs of eyes staring at them. “Maybe we should talk in private.”

Jack nods. “Alright.”

And then they excuse themselves, leaving everyone to talk in hushed whispers again. Sawyer catches sight of dark-curled girl following them, and he raises an eyebrow, amused. What does she think she’s doing? He loses sight of them all quickly and shakes his head, looking down and flipping the page.

When they come back (the girl following behind), everyone quickly shuts up. Jesus Christ, these bastards really have a hold on them, don’t they? 

“We’re going to head to the island,” Jack says. But Sayid and the girl are standing behind him with frowns on their faces, so he assumes it wasn’t a unanimous decision. “It’ll be the best option for us to get rescued.”

Voices rise in protest among the people. But Jack doesn’t seem to hear them (or, more likely, elects to ignore them). Until one voice practically yells.

“How will rescue teams know where to find us?”

Before an answer can be given, someone else raises their voice. “If rescue was coming they’d be here already.”

This comment seems to unnerve everyone.

Sawyer agrees, though. Sure, you can hope and pray that they’ll come. But it’s unrealistic. It’s been eight plus hours. What would take them so long?

Jack puts his hands out, attempting to calm the people. “They’re coming. And that’s exactly how they’ll be able to spot us. A tiny boat in the water isn’t noticeable. But an island is. We can start a fire, and then they’ll see us.”

“Sure they will,” Sawyer mutters. But they either don’t hear him or ignore his comment.

Jack nods, looking around. “Okay. Okay.” And then he turns and heads back to the front of the boat. 

Sayid stays behind and turns, talking in a hushed voice to dark-curled girl. Oh, how wonderful. They’re a team now.

Sawyer finishes the chapter and decides there’s no point in starting another one. He’ll probably have to reread the last one anyway; he was too distracted. As he shoves the book back in his bag, he has nothing to focus on except the hunger eating away at his stomach. He wishes now that he’d eaten more last night. Eaten anything, actually. All he had were those whiskeys. 

He leaves the food in his bag, though, not wanting to resort to it yet. He thinks of these people turned savage, having visions of them roasting each other on spits. Yeah, he’ll save his pretzels until he really needs them. 

He feels the boat shift as they move, and distantly wonders about all the other lifeboats. He glances out the window behind him and sees nothing but endless ocean. Where the hell could they have gone?

Maybe they’re all on that island already. But that seems unlikely. 

Something catches his eye, and he looks up to see Juliet walking past, her face drawn together tightly.

“Hey, Blondie,” he says, getting her attention. She stops, and her frown somehow deepens when she turns toward him. “You ever read Lord of the Flies?

She stares tiredly and turns to walk away.

“Hey, wait.” He sits up, relieved when she stops. 

He gestures for her to come closer with his hand. She hesitates, and then walks toward him.

“What?”

He leans forward, looking up at her and playing up the softness in his voice. “Look. I know I told ya my name was James. But, it ain’t really. That’s not what I go by.”

“And Sawyer is.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smirk. “Ding, ding.”

Her face is blank, staring through more than at him. “Okay.”

And then she’s walking away. It was that easy. (Too easy, he thinks. He’d expected her to give him a hard time.) This is what he gets for letting his guard slip; for thinking he’d get away with going soft. 

Sawyer shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. Out of habit, his hand touches his pocket, feeling the worn paper.

He still feels like he’s in a dream, or watching a movie through someone else’s eyes. Though that isn’t a foreign feeling. It’s been a long time since he’s felt truly present; since his memories have felt like his. Maybe he never has been. 

But the fact that he escaped a sinking ship just hasn’t hit him. He doubts it ever will. He’ll be standing on the sand on that island and feel like he’s living someone else’s life.

It feels like both forever and a moment has passed when the boat stops, everyone around him scrambling.

“Everybody calm down,” Jack yells. “We don’t know what’s out there. So let’s just . . . be careful. Okay? Sayid and I will go out first.”

“Who put you in charge?” someone yells, and Sawyer resists a chuckle. They’re right. Who’s this jackass to decide everyone’s lives should be in his hands?

Jack looks almost pathetic, standing there trying to come up with a response. “Well, if you want to go first, be my guest.” No one moves. “That’s what I thought.”

As they move to open the door, Sawyer stands up with a sigh, stretching his arms up toward the ceiling. He yawns, grabbing his bag from the seat and pulling it over his shoulder. 

After a moment, Jack returns.

“Okay. Let’s try and head out one by one—”

His words get ignored, people immediately pushing each other and trying to force their ways out of the door. Sawyer waits, not understanding the point of rushing. They’ll all get out there at some point. It’s not like this ship’s going to sink too.

Eventually they all file out onto the beach. Sawyer squints, scowling at the overly bright morning sun. Everyone stands around like idiots, looking at the jungle and the ocean and each other with no idea what to do.

“Where are all the other lifeboats?” the pregnant girl asks. He only hears because she’s a few feet away.

“Maybe they already got rescued,” someone else says. “And they missed us.”

“We would’ve seen the helicopters.”

Jack steps in, ever the savior. “There’s a chance we just can’t see them. Maybe they’re too far away, or are on the other side—”

“So we’re too far away for rescue to see us?” someone cuts him off, voice shaky.

“That’s not what I’m saying. Rescue will find us.”

Sawyer scoffs. “Keep telling yourself that, Lee.”

He turns, glaring hard at him. “What is your problem?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m just peachy.” His smirk flickers into a scowl, the act too hard to maintain. 

Sayid puts a hand on Jack’s arm. “Jack. We should discuss what to do next.”

Jack finally tears his eyes away from Sawyer, nodding. Sawyer gives a sarcastic nod he can’t see as he walks away.

He looks at all the people on the beach around him and feels deep discomfort. An itch on his bones, one he can’t scratch. He shakes his head and turns to walk away. Either no one notices or no one cares. 

He grabs the cigarettes from his bag, standing there a few feet away from the shore. That’ll be what pisses him off. When he runs out. But God, he needs one now more than ever. He slips it between his lips and lights it, staring out at the vast ocean stretching as far as the eye can see.

That’s going to get real boring real quick.

********

Sawyer is one more ache away from saying fuck it and heading back out to the beach. He’s sure sand stuck in spots he didn’t even know of is better than these hard, plastic seats and the loud hum of whispers around him.

He’d thought it was the better option, when some of the folk decided to head back into the lifeboat. No sun, no sand, a seat. There are about twenty of them in here, nineteen too many if you ask Sawyer. The other half are back on the beach, not counting the few who made the trip into the jungle.

That was the stupidest decision of them all. 

Jack, who has proclaimed himself as some modern day Odysseus, claimed he was collecting firewood and looking for any other forms of life. What did he think he was going to find, bigfoot? Dark curled girl, who he’s now learned is actually Kate (he knew it), went with him. So did Sayid and the British munchkin, and his good friend Shannon. Her brother tagged along too.

Sawyer doesn’t get the appeal. Sure, it’d be nice to do something. But he has no interest in going on a hike in this heat, into that jungle full of who knows what. 

He flips the page and finds himself at the end of the chapter, sitting up and groaning at the tightness in his lower back. God, when did he get old?

As he shuts his book and shoves it in his bag, he glances over at the pregnant girl in the corner. Claire, he heard her say. (Funny, thinking about Kate and her alias.) If he’s holding out any hope for rescue, it’s solely for her. He does not need to deal with all the crying and screaming that comes from a baby, if she were to have it here.

He gets up, stretching his arms and walking around people to head back to the exit. He’s not sure what he’s going to do out there that’s better than what he’s got in here. But at least Juliet’s out there. Maybe he’ll waste time watching her, counting the flyaway curls.

When he steps out onto the sand, it’s much more evident that the sun’s gone down. It’s immensely cooler, a breeze blowing past and raising goosebumps on his arms. He’s glad he’s wearing jeans, for once. 

He spots her quickly. She’s still in those striped pajama shorts and the sweater she’s been in all day. Of course she is, she has nothing else to wear. He’s thankful, now, that he packed his bag.

While he has no complaints about the view, eyeing those long legs, he knows she must be fucking freezing. Now, especially, as the evening chill sets in.

He reaches into his pocket and brushes his hands over the crushed cardboard of his cigarette box. But he doesn’t pull them out. He doesn’t need one right now. He can’t just use them to waste time anymore.

Fuck it, he thinks after a bit and sits his ass down on the sand. He’s going to regret it later, but it’s a nice change. He bitterly thinks about the tropical vacation he’s always dreamed of, and how this is probably the closest he’ll ever get. Where the hell are the mai tais?

The people are quieter out here. Maybe he can make this work. Find a good tree with some nice shade and work through his books. He can be as bitter as he wants, it’s a hell of a view.

He senses her presence, all of a sudden. He knows it’s her. He’s not sure how, but he does. 

“What can I do for you?” he drawls, leaning back on his hands. The sand sticks to his palms like he’s bathed them in glue.

She keeps looking down at him. “They haven’t come back yet.”

He glances over, eyes traveling up those long legs to her concerned eyes. “And whaddya want me to do ‘bout that, sweetheart? Ain’t my fault they thought a jungle hike was a good idea.”

She furrows her brow. “Why aren’t you worried?”

He shakes back a strand of hair that’s fallen in his face, frowning out at the water. “After a while ya learn the only person to worry about’s yourself.”

“That sounds like something an asshole would say.”

“Bingo.”

Her eyes, disapproving like every teacher he’s ever had, burn his skin,

And then, suddenly, the calm of the night is shattered by a monstrous roar. 

Sawyer feels it in the sand below him. His head whips around, staring into the darkness of the trees. He scrambles up, standing beside Juliet and watching as something moves through the jungle. Something bigger than any animal, pushing trees and foliage out of its path. 

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, 

“What is that?” Juliet whispers, shell-shocked, terrified beside him. She starts to move forward toward the crowd of people building closer to the edge of the jungle, but he puts his arm out, keeping her close.

That noise, it’s not like anything he’s ever heard. It clicks and it roars and he can feel it echoing in his ears. 

And then it stops, as quick as it started.

“Fucking Jurassic Park.”

“Dinosaurs aren’t real,” Juliet says.

He looks at her, scowling. “And whatever that was, is?”

She turns, absolute terror in her eyes, though the rest of her face is impressingly stoic. And then they widen.

“The others. The ones that are out there . . .”

He looks out, thinking about all the trees they watched fall. He doesn’t say it, only because he knows she’s thinking the same thing.

He’d be shocked to see them walk out of the trees alive.

His arms fall to his side. 

Wonderful. And he thought this couldn’t get any fucking better.

Chapter Text

"I am busy doing nothing
And you're rudely interrupting"

The Shell, Lucy Dacus

Sawyer thinks things would’ve been better if those six never came back; if whatever monstrous force residing in the jungle had done to them what it’d done to everything else in its path. But, alas, they came back the next morning with nothing but their panties in a bunch. And whatever the fuck it is hasn’t come back to finish what it started.

Sawyer would feel bad about that thought (eh, maybe) if he didn’t have personal vendettas against half of them. And if the other half weren’t just plain annoying. He’d think it about any of them, if he’s being honest. Six less nuisances infesting the beach. 

But it’s a pointless thought, since it’s been two days since they came back and the monster seems to have gotten cold feet. Sawyer supposes it isn’t too bad, all things considered. He’s found himself a nice tree, providing him an ample amount of shade to read to his heart’s content. Most of the pests are smart enough to avoid him. And those who aren’t learn soon enough.

Hell, throw in a bed, a shower, and some alcohol and this would rank pretty high up on the list of weeks in his life. 

He glances up from his book when the laughs from a few yards away get increasingly—annoyingly—loud. Jack and Kate, hamming it up like they’ve known each other all their lives. Not an uncommon sight. The doc and the mistress of secrets have hit it off, which Sawyer thinks is absolutely delightful. (Not.)

He doesn’t care. Not really. Sure, Freckles is more than easy on the eyes. Pretty face, nice tits, nicer ass. If it wasn’t so damn hot maybe he’d have the energy to be jealous. But the humidity’s leaving his skin slick and it’s not worth the trouble.

Besides, he’s got his own pretty thing to look at. 

The more he watches Juliet (because he’s not ashamed to admit he’s been watching her) the more he notices. Like how she wrings her hands together, fidgeting with her fingers in what he assumes is a bad habit. Or how, when she’s not doing that, she’s touching her face, scratching her eyebrow and pushing her hair back. Or how the longer they spend here the pinker her skin gets. Or how when she smiles on rare occasions it lights up her face, like pure sunlight. Or how blue her eyes are. But he already knew that one.

And maybe if it—again—wasn’t so damn hot, he’d worry about how affectionate he’s grown for her from afar. But it’s easier to sit here sweating like a pig and pretend like all he’s thinking about are her tits (because good lord, he’s definitely thinking about those) and not how nice it would be to run his hands through her hair and listen to her talk about books (because he’s definitely not thinking about that).

She probably has a nice, wholesome, rich boyfriend (no ring) back home to go along with her nice doctor job, another thing he’s picked up during his daily people watching. 

He slams his book shut, wishing he’d taken the five fucking seconds to actually consider what he was grabbing in that gift shop so he didn’t end up with whatever shit this is, a half naked couple on the front and a meandering plot with paper thin characters. But it’s better than nothing, he supposes. He opens it back up with a sigh, rubbing the skin above his eyebrows. His head’s fucking killing him.

Someone steps into his light, cloaking him in shadow. He looks up, frowning. Hurley and—would you look at that—Juliet standing beside him.

“Hey, dude. We’ve been trying to gather all the food for like, rationing. And I—”

“What? Could smell my stash from across the beach? I ain’t supplying hand outs, Lardo.”

“Sawyer,” Juliet scolds, narrow eyes searing his skin.

He smirks, crossing one outstretched leg over the other. “Why the stick up your ass, Blondie? You chip a nail?”

She fumes, and he smiles, satisfied. He knew that’d do it; Doctor Juliet, offended by the idea of being a ditz.

“You know, you don’t have to be an ass,” she says, and her disappointed tone digs its way under his skin. He scowls. He doesn’t care what she thinks. 

“It’s a choice, sweetheart. Seems it’s working.”

There she goes, thumb to the eyebrow. She looks at Jabba, lowering her voice. “He’s not worth it.”

He nods, but gives Sawyer one last look; almost, pitiful? Sawyer does not need anyone’s pity, especially not fucking Porky Pig’s. He grimaces and looks down at the page as they walk away, sun spreading back over the words.

Maybe he heads a half mile down the beach where no one will bother walking to. But he likes this tree, and he likes the view. (By view he mostly means Juliet.) 

He shakes his head of that thought and refocuses on the words. He doesn’t think about the way she looked at him, because it doesn’t matter. 

He doesn’t think about her at all.

********

Sawyer pushes a large leaf out of his way, trying to recall if he took a left or a right at the hundred and somethingth tree on the path. They all look the fucking same. It’s like they hit copy and paste two hundred times until jungle filled all the empty space.

He huffs and turns right. It only makes sense; that’s the direction the beach is in. But it’s all fucking beach and he probably got turned around, so his deduction skills are pointless. Where’s a trail of breadcrumbs when you need one?

He pushes past another huge leaf jutting right out into the path and bitterly thinks of bulldozers and construction work. That’s what this place needs; a tropical resort. Except that brings along another thousand something people, so he may need to rethink that plan.

As he walks around what may be the same tree from before, he’s halted by a soft sound breaking through the foliage to his left. For a brief moment he worries about a boar or some other animal. But no, this sounds distinctly human.

Sawyer should keep walking. He’s very motivated to. But there’s a nagging curiosity tugging at his chest. And just taking a peek can’t be too bad, can it? Hell, what’s it going to be? Someone jerking off a safe distance from camp? He gets a good chuckle and walks away.

He shakes his head, needing to stop thinking about it.

He pushes through the leaves until he gets to the edge of the jungle, the point where the sand and the dirt begin to overlap, attempting to stay quiet as he peeks through and looks out at the stretch of beach.

Oh.

He stiffens. He knows those blonde waves even from behind, pulled up in a messy ponytail. He knows those sounds; soft, stifled sobs.

He should’ve just kept walking.

There’s a foreign ache in his stomach, watching her. (It’s nothing. He’s hungry. He hasn’t eaten right in days.)

He takes a step back, resting his foot down gently so as not to make any noise. But as he turns, his other foot catches on a hidden rock, sending him stumbling. He’d have tripped to the ground if he hadn’t grabbed onto the tree to his left.

“Son of a bitch,” he grumbles.

“Sawyer?”

He turns and she’s looking over her shoulder, staring right at him. He stands up straight and smiles, nodding his head and ignoring the redness around her eyes. 

“Blondie.”

She frowns. “What . . .?”

“Just making my way back,” he tells her. “Had to take a leak.”

She stares blankly, gesturing toward the right with her head. “It’s that way.”

“Thanks,” he says, giving her a nod.

She turns back around, resting her chin on her knees and staring out at the water.

He should turn around. He should pull himself out of the mess he stepped foot in and forget he ever saw anything. 

But he can’t.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, that he can’t walk away from her. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep getting to him (as if he’s slept well a single night in his life). Or maybe this island has some weird voodoo shit that’s messing with his brain. Hell, it has a monster. It’s not crazy to imagine.

But without even thinking it out, considering the outcomes and working a script out in his head, he’s stepping out toward the beach and toward her, sitting down a good foot away.

She turns, lips parted and brow furrowed, silently asking what the hell he thinks he’s doing. As if he has an answer.

Neither of them speak, waiting for the other to start. But eventually she turns back toward the ocean, accepting the quiet.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know what this is.

It’s not all that strange, even, to find her like this. The whole lot of them have been on edge ever since that girl drowned. He should’ve let her be. She came all the way here to be alone and he fucked that up.

But he can’t just get up now. 

“So,” he starts, leaning back on his hands. “What’s up?”

She looks at him again, somehow more confused than before, if that’s even possible. The bridge of her nose is pink from the sun.

“I don’t get it,” she says after a moment. “You aren’t supposed to be . . . nice.”

He smirks. “I’m a complex guy, sweetheart.” 

Her eyes soften just a tad, more curious than suspicious.

“And,” he adds. “I ain’t being nice. Just saw a pretty girl crying. What, was I supposed to leave her there?”

“So, what? This is all an attempt to get in my pants.”

He shrugs. “Your words, not mine.” He lowers his voice. “Not that I’m opposed to the idea.”

She scoffs, but she’s not crying anymore so he calls it a win.

“So what’s it that got you all worked up?” he asks, because he knows he’s supposed to. “Some secret theater I don’t know about playing Sleepless in Seattle ?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Does Sleepless in Seattle make you cry?”

“No. Just thought it would. For you.”

She shakes her head, rubbing her eye with her hand. 

For a little bit he thinks she’s not going to tell him. He thinks that’s better than if she did, just sitting here in silence. At least then he can pretend he’s not crossing lines and breaking rules.

But then she sighs, and her voice comes out quiet. “I didn’t even want to go on the stupid cruise.”

“Then why did ya?”

She shakes her head again. “My sister said I deserved a vacation.” She laughs, and it’s anything but joyous.

He looks at her, and her eyes are so deep with hurt. It shakes him; he has to look away.

“Have a feeling this ain't what she meant,” Sawyer says.

She makes a soft noise that may have been a chuckle or may have been her holding back another sob.

“No, it’s not.” She sniffles. “And now I’m never going to see her again.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” She nods. “It’s been days. No one’s coming for us.”

He sighs, because she’s right.

“And my nephew,” she says, talking more to herself now than him. “He won’t even remember me. He’s so little.” She inhales shakily, pressing her hands to her face.

The desperation in her voice reverberates through his chest and the strong urge to touch her overcomes him. He stifles it down, shoving it in a corner where he’ll never find it.

“You’re gonna see ‘em again,” he tells her, because something about her shaky exhales is making that pain in his stomach flare up. She shakes her head, so he says, hard, “You will. I promise.”

Her breath catches, and she looks at him. “No. Don’t . . . don’t say that.”

“I promise,” he says harder. And maybe it’s fucking stupid, to make a promise he knows he can’t keep. To care so much about someone; to put himself on the line. (He knows better than this. He knows better.) But something inside him is pushing the words up and out of his throat. Something inside him seems to think he has to.

She huffs, and it turns into a small laugh, disbelief in her eyes.

The loud sound of rustling in the trees cuts through him. He tears his gaze off her, looking out at the source of the noise. She turns, following his eyes.

“Who’s there?” Sawyer calls harshly. Maybe it’s just a boar.

He waits a moment, ready to stand up and see what it is for himself.

But then a man comes stumbling out of the jungle, disheveled, panting. A man Sawyer’s never seen in his life, definitely not someone from their boat.

And definitely not a boar.

********

Sawyer stares this Ethan down, as if suddenly he’s going to develop x-ray vision and be able to stare straight into his mind and see the truth. Or maybe that’s telepathy, reading others thoughts. Whatever it is, he doesn’t have it. So he just keeps staring, like maybe at some point he’ll break under Sawyer’s dark eyes. But he doesn’t, just continues to squirm. And that’s not enough to accuse him of shit because anyone would squirm if they were getting stared down for ten minutes straight.

Breaking the still comes Jack stomping across the beach, each step throwing sand up that coats Juliet’s legs. Beside him’s Sayid, and Sawyer feels the scowl deepen on his face. Jack was going to be bad enough. 

You know, he’s shocked Freckles didn’t tag along too.

As they get closer, the Doc’s eyes flick to Sawyer, wearing a glare hard enough that he might believe he was the one who’d come traipsing out of the jungle with some story about being the only survivor from his lifeboat.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Sawyer just looks at Juliet. “You didn’t tell ‘em?”

She’s on the verge of panting, catching her breath. “I tried.”

“I’m Ethan,” he says, putting out his hand. No one grabs it, so he lets it fall awkwardly by his side.

“Ethan,” Sayid says, tone cold and tight. “Juliet provided a brief overview of your story, but I would like to hear it, in your own words.”

Ethan nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I was on one of the lifeboats. We were on our way here, to the island. I’m still not exactly sure what happened—it all happened very quickly—maybe something with the engine. But the lifeboat, it began sinking. Just like our ship. We tried to escape but unfortunately we were pretty far from land. I was the only one who made it.”

Sawyer stifles a scoff. It’s fucking bullshit. Anyone with two working ears can tell you that. 

“How have you been surviving by yourself?” Sayid asks. “Presumably you have no water, no food.”

“I ventured inland. After a while I found fresh water.”

Jack lights up at that, him and Sayid sharing a look. “Where?”

Sawyer’s aware enough to know they’re running out of the plastic water bottles from the lifeboat.

“Not too far. Maybe a mile? It’s a cave structure, with a small waterfall inside.”

“Caves,” Jack says.

Sawyer meets Juliet’s gaze. Her lips are pursed, eyes narrow. Seems the two of them may be on the same page.

“Do you think you’d be able to show them to us?”

“Jack,” Sayid says. He looks at Ethan. “Excuse us for a moment.”

He nods. “Sure.”

They step aside, Sayid giving a weary look when Sawyer and Juliet join their huddle. But they’re the ones who found the fucking guy. And if they think he’s just going to let the big guys handle it, then they know nothing about him. They may have some control over the rest of the saps on the beach, but not him.

“What?” Jack says, hands on his hips.

“Jack, we should not be so quick to trust this man.”

“He knows where fresh water is. I don’t care if we trust him or not.”

Sayid sighs. “For all we know, he could be lying. It could be a ploy.”

“A ploy,” Jack says, scoffing like Sayid had just suggested he was actually bigfoot.

“Jack,” Juliet says, speaking up. “His story doesn’t add up. We didn’t see any other lifeboats.”

“And how the hell’s he the only one who made it,” Sawyer adds.

Sayid considers this. “They are right. How do we know he is telling the truth?”

“Showing us where the water is would be proof.”

“You sure ‘bout that, Doc? Anyone on this island could know ‘bout those caves.”

He grimaces, and Sawyer can’t help a smirk at the expression. “What else are we going to do? Bringing a new person to the group is already going to put everyone on edge. Bringing him in proverbial handcuffs won’t make things better. We’ll just . . . keep an eye on him.”

“Are you sure about this, Jack?”

He sighs, running a hand down his face. And then he nods. “Yeah, I’m sure. This is our best chance.”

Sayid doesn’t seem convinced. But he still nods, and Sawyer wonders what the hell Jack has that convinces everyone he’s right about every little thing. 

The two of them turn and walk back to Ethan. But Sawyer grabs Juliet’s arm, holding her back.

“You believe him?”

She stares at the three men, talking once again, and after a moment shakes her head. “No.”

He nods. They are on the same page. “Good.” He lets his hand slip off her arm, letting her go. But she doesn’t make any move to walk away. “Don’t let your guard down. And don’t let him get you alone.”

He swears he sees her lip tremble. But she just nods. “I know.”

And then she walks forward toward the group. He follows, listening in on their conversation.

“And where was our ship heading to and from.”

Ethan sighs, as if these questions are extensive and pointless. “We left from Sydney. Heading to LA. Come on, guys. You don’t really think I’m lying?” He’s the only one who laughs.

Jack ignores the question. “You’re going to take us to the caves. And then you can come back with us to our camp.”

“If that’s what you want.”

He turns to walk back toward the jungle, the four of them following. But then Jack stops and looks back.

“Sawyer, Juliet. You two aren’t coming.”

“The hell not?”

“The two of us gone is plenty. Head back to the beach. If anyone asks, tell them we’ll be back. Don’t say anything about Ethan yet.”

Sawyer is fucking sick of this. Being treated like he’s a citizen of Jack city. But before he can snap back, Juliet’s cool hand is sliding up his arm. He stops, as if she hit his brakes.

“Okay,” she says, and Sawyer finds himself biting his tongue as the three men begin their descent into the jungle. Once they’re gone, her hand drops. “We don’t need a fight.”

“He’s asking for it.”

She sighs, shaking sand from her leg. It’s a fruitless endeavor. Her pale skin is still freckled with the coarse powder.

Sawyer shakes his head. “I never saw him on the ship.”

“There were thousands of people,” she says flatly, and then she’s walking back across the sand. He watches her, ponytail swaying back and forth with each step. And then he follows, feet sinking into the sand.

And Sawyer was starting to think this whole deal wasn’t too bad.

********

Sawyer scowls, flicking open the lighter over and over until it sparks a flame. He brings it up to the cigarette between his lips—one of his last ones. He better savor the hell out of it.

That’s hard, though, with the sonorous voices of the crowd filling every gap of silence. Their constant whispers and words all pile on top of each other and lay over the atmosphere like a constant blanket, trapping him in with the noise.

It doesn’t help that Jungle Boy’s now arrived, causing ever the ruckus. Some people are treating him like some war hero just off the flight home, crowding around him asking questions about how he survived and what it was like. Others’ questions lean a little into an accusatory tone, digging into his story as if they’ll pick something up that no one else has yet.

Others are too busy arguing with Jack and Sayid, asking what the hell they were thinking, bringing some rando into their camp. Sawyer’s with them, but he’s got no interest in worming his way into the chaos.

His eyes catch on the blonde curls lit orange by the fire, standing away from the group. As if she can feel his stare, she looks over at him across the beach, gaze meeting his. He takes a drag, smoke curling up from his lip as he nods. 

She looks down.

“Calm down!” Jack shouts, voice booming over everyone else’s and tossing salt into the wound of his aching head. “Calm down! I understand your concerns, but we can’t have this—we can’t pit ourselves against each other.”

Sawyer leans his head back, looking up at the stars freckling the dark sky. He has no interest in this motivational speech Jack’s about to preach to the gullible fools surrounding him. Well, maybe a little interest. He’s sure it’ll be somewhat amusing.

“It’s been five days, and we’re still waiting. Waiting for someone to come. But what if they don’t? We have to stop waiting.”

Sawyer raises an eyebrow. For once, Dr. Do Right’s making a lick of sense. 

“We need to start figuring things out, okay? You all are surrounding this man, accusing him of things, accusing me of things. Well thanks to him we now have fresh water! This every man for himself thing isn’t going to work.”

Sawyer looks at the lit end of the cigarette, glowing orange in the dark night. It doesn’t matter what Jack says; he isn’t going to drink the kool aid and sing kumbaya with these chumps. That’s when you get yourself into trouble, when you start relying on everyone else; when they start relying on you.

“Now the caves where the water is . . . I think they may be a perfect shelter. I’ll take a group in at first light. Everyone else, find some other way to contribute.”

Yeah, alright. He didn’t seem to want Sawyer’s contributions earlier. It’s whole fucking load of bullshit.

“Last week most of us were strangers. But we’re all here now. And God knows how long we’re going to be here. But if we can’t live together, . . . we’re going to die alone.”

Sawyer almost chokes, stifling a laugh. He holds the cigarette away, coughing instead to cover it up. If we can’t live together, we’re going to die alone. Yeah, okay Charles. 

He looks at Juliet—maybe out of habit, maybe out of something more. She doesn’t notice, too busy watching Jack as he turns away from the crowd. Don’t tell him she’s fallen for it. But he doubts it. There’s something about her; he thinks she’s smarter than that. She’s not someone to just go along with whatever crap someone tells her.

He takes one last deep breath, dropping his burnt cigarette and putting it out with his foot. She’s turned away now, taking her ponytail out and putting it up again. He could spin right around and walk away, get a good laugh out of tonight’s events and play with his lighter until his eyelids weigh themselves down.

But there it is, that tugging again. It’s deep in his chest, like he’s swallowed a magnet and it’s pulling him toward her. So he gives in. It can’t hurt, a little harmless flirting with a pretty girl.

A pretty girl that knows his real name.

He shakes his head, feet sinking into the deep sand as he walks toward her.

“Too bad we weren’t recording. Feel like we just saw history being made.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t go past her barely upturned lips.

He scratches his cheek with his thumb. “You’re worried.”

“No.” She tucks a curl behind her ear, and he finds his stomach churning with a strange jealousy for her fingers. 

“Well, you look very calm,” he says, and she glares at him. “Just saying.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Jack says the caves could be a good shelter. No sand, right next to the water. Shade.” She frowns a little at that, and he wishes he had some sunscreen to give her. He thinks about rubbing it over her face, fingers sliding over the smooth stretch of her skin. 

“You ain’t serious. Moving a mile into the jungle?”

“Why not?” And she sounds shocked he’s questioning her at all.

But he doesn’t get it. I mean, he does, somewhat. But it doesn’t make sense. “Rescue can’t see ya back in there.”

“Rescue’s not coming.”

“They might. You don’t know.” She’s working her bottom lip between her teeth, turning the flesh white. “What about your sister—”

She looks at him, so sharp it sucks the air from his lungs. “Don’t talk about her.”

It’s so hard, but he can hear the small waver in her voice. He’s self-trained to catch things like that.

She’s hurting.

“Okay,” he says. 

She’s scratching the skin above her eyebrow now. “I’m going to go live in the caves, once Jack says we can.”

“I don’t think you should.” He doesn’t want her to. He wants to be able to watch her walk past and call out remarks that earn him glares because he likes when she looks at him. He wants to keep catching glimpses of her smile, when Hurley says something that makes her laugh.

“I don’t care what you think, James.” She says his name like it’s some offensive slur, and to him it is. It slices through him, leaving him speechless as she walks away.

He shouldn’t give a fuck what she does.

(He made a promise. Why, he’s not sure. But he’s not one to not keep his word.)

Tomorrow, he’ll get some more wood for the signal fire. Yeah. His book’s getting slow, anyhow.

Live together, die alone. Eugh. It makes him gag just thinking about it.

He’s not doing it for anyone but himself. He wants to get off this rock just as much as anyone else.

Which is why he’s staying exactly where he is. And if no one comes, well it ain’t the worst view.

Chapter Text

"It's the mercy I can't take"

Song in E, Julien Baker

By the time Sawyer finally makes it to the caves he’s sweat through his shirt and he has a cramp in his side, not to mention his feet are killing him. If anything’s going to convince him to make the move up here it’s that long fucking walk through the jungle. It doesn’t help that he got lost a couple times and thinks he might’ve gone in circles for a good fifteen minutes halfway through before finding the path again. 

But it’s kind of fucked up—scratch that, it is fucked up—that just because he decided he wants to keep living on the beach he has to make this trek every time he runs out of water. The doc’s bullshit about making sure the folks on the beach would have a supply of fresh water obviously didn’t stick.

His first order of business, while he stands there catching his breath and waiting for his cramp to ease off, is to find Juliet. His eyes scan the caves, finding her where he usually does. She’s sitting in the small area she’s claimed as her own, looking up at Sun, who’s trying to communicate through vague gestures. Well, good luck with that.

He strides over to the small clear pool in the back, wondering vaguely where the source of the waterfall is. But he doesn’t find himself caring enough to worry about it. 

He crouches down with a grunt, pulling the empty water bottle from his bag and filling it up. Before he’s done, he brings it up to his lips and chugs down half the bottle. He sighs when he’s done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning back down to refill it.

Once it’s full, he spins the cap back on and puts it back in his bag, standing up and stretching his arms up with a yawn. He doesn’t even want to think about the walk back.

He turns, eyes finding Juliet once again. Sun’s gone now, and she’s working to retie her ponytail. He just watches her for a moment, like he used to.

It can’t hurt.

He works a hand through his hair, pushing it back, and walks over to her. 

“Think your hair’s gotten longer since the last time I saw ya.”

She looks up. When her eyes settle on him, he swears a small small creeps onto her face. It turns his stomach.

“Sawyer.”

He nods. “So. I got a proposition for ya.”

“A proposition.” She raises an eyebrow, interested. 

“Yeah. An arrangement, if you will.” He leans his shoulder against the wall of the cave. “You bring me water back down at the beach, and I give ya access to all my books.”

“All of them?”

“‘Cept the one I’m reading.”

She narrows her eyes, staring wearily as if he’s gonna jump and attack her at any moment. It’s better than the smile. 

“Why?”

“What do ya mean?”

She pulls her knees in, sitting cross legged and looking up at him. “Why me? You could ask anyone to do it.”

Good question. A question he has to think about an answer to.

“I know you read. You’ll appreciate it.” She smiles, tucking a curl behind her ear, and he adds, “Plus, ya never got to finish East of Eden.”

“Oh, no, I did.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did ya?”

“Yeah.”

“And what’dja think?”

She shrugs. “It was alright.”

“Alright?”

“It was a good book, I enjoyed it. Just not one of my favorites.”

“Hmph.” He shakes his head. “Whatever. We got a deal or not?”

She seems to consider it. “How much water are you expecting me to bring you?”

“I don’t know. How ‘bout you come down every other day?”

“Okay. And do I get a book now, for my troubles?”

“For your troubles,” he mutters. “Sure.”

A grin grows on her face at that. “Okay, fine. We have a deal.” She puts her hand out and he grabs it. Her skin’s cold against his, refreshing.

He pulls away.

He stares at her for a minute, at the pinkness in her cheeks. He can vividly remember tears staining the skin, running down from red eyes.

He tears his gaze away, opening his bag and pulling out a book at random, handing it to her.

“Here.”

She looks down at the cover, a smirk teasing on her lips. “Untamed Passion.”

“Hopefully the book’s half as good as that cover.”

She snorts, covering her mouth with her hand. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. A deal’s a deal.”

He nods, and it takes a moment to build the strength to walk away. What is it about her that captivates him like some sailor falling for a siren's song? Maybe she’s a goddamn witch. It would make more sense than any other scenario.

He fans his shirt as he begins to descend down the path, trying not to think about those eyes or the visible slickness of her skin from the humidity or that smile and the way he can feel it in his knees. Everybody gets a little delusional when it’s hot. Fucking mirages and hallucinations and shit.

You know what they need? A goddamn sidewalk. The so-called path is nonexistent, and it’s not like there are signs pointing you in the right direction. He’s daydreaming about those bulldozers again, pushing a leaf out of his way.

And then a rustling noise in the trees up ahead stops him. He turns his head, listening carefully.

Before he can call out or steel himself for an attack, pretty boy—Shannon’s brother, he forgets his name—comes running out onto the path.

Sawyer puts his hands up, a smirk playing on his lips. “Woah there, boy. Who’s chasing ya?”

He stops, catching his breath, and looks up at Sawyer with dark eyes. “You. You fucking asshole.”

“Me?”

“Where is it?”

He steps closer, but Sawyer stands his ground. He’s not scared of this panting kid with his red face.

“Who do ya think you’re talking to?”

He jabs his finger toward Sawyer. “Where's Shannon's inhaler?”

“Where's what?”

And then he steps closer, attempting to reach for his bag, and Sawyer’s instincts kick in. He swings his fist forward, hitting him straight in the jaw.

Ah, hell. This is just what he needs.

********

Sawyer’s shocked every day that the piece of paper permanently residing in his pocket hasn’t fallen to pieces, disintegrating in his hands. Looking at it, he knows the ink’s faded, unreadable if it weren’t for every word being tattooed on the inside of his skull.

All I know is your name. But one of these days I’m going to find you and I’m going to give you this letter so you’ll remember what you done to me.

You killed my parents Mr. Sawyer.

As he lazily plucks the cigarette from between his lips, blowing smoke up into the air, the doc comes stomping up the beach toward his tree.

Sawyer instinctively folds the letter back up, slipping it into his pocket.

“Where is it?” Jack stands there, hands on his hips as if he’s in any way intimidating. 

Sawyer grins up at him. “Hey, Doc. Long time no see.”

“Where is it?” he asks, harder. Sawyer puts the cigarette back in his mouth, crossing his hands on his lap.

“Where’s what?”

He scoffs, incredulous, as if Sawyer isn’t being extremely courteous for someone who’s getting interrogated out of nowhere.

“Shannon’s inhaler. Where is it?”

Sawyer’s teasing smirk falls into a scowl. This fucking thing again. “Oh, that.”

He already beat up one guy over this. Seems Jacko here’s interested in raising that number. He doesn’t even know what the hell they’re talking about. 

“You attacked a kid for trying to help his sick sister.”

“I whooped a smart ass for trying to jump me in the middle of the jungle.”

“You think you’re the victim here?”

Sawyer’s blood is boiling in his veins, like Jack’s slowly increasing the heat. Sawyer’s done a lot of shit. But what do these fuckers think, that he stole the girls’ medicine? That’s just plain fucked up. What would he even gain from that?

But if they’re intent on making him the bad guy, then hell, he’ll play the part. 

“Yeah, I do. Maybe you should be talking to the kid instead of me. Teach him a lesson.”

Jack’s fuming, face screwed up in amusing anger. “Get up.”

“Why? Ya wanna see who’s taller?”

“Get up.”

Sawyer puts the cigarette out in the sand beside him, crossing his legs and looking up at Jack with a smirk.

“You sure ya wanna make this your problem, Doc?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure.”

He chuckles, sighing and pushing himself up to his feet. Jack’s staring right at him, pissed. This is going to be fun.

And then out of the treeline comes Juliet, walking fast and breathing hard. It only takes a second for her to spot them, storming over.

“Jack!” 

He turns to look at her, and Sawyer smiles.

“Hey, Blondie. Just in time for the show.”

She glares at him hard, icy eyes piercing his skin. She grabs Jack’s arm, pulling him away.

Sawyer’s smile flickers into a frown, watching her fingers gripping his bicep, watching the way his body brushes hers as he turns to face her.

Funny. That’s what’s bothered him the most out of all this.

********

Sawyer’s face is turned up toward the sun, appreciating for once the warmth of it on his skin. He’s holding his book open in his lap, the damsel in distress on the page awaiting his return. He’s not really eager to go back.

The sound of stomping along the sand prompts him to open his eyes, finding an angry looking Juliet making her way toward him. She must have completed Jack’s talking to. Looks like it’s his turn. 

He puts on a content smirk, flashing his dimples. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, sweetheart?”

She stops a few feet away from him, arms crossed and face screwed up in a scowl. She’s cute when she’s pissed.

“I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” He shuts the book, setting it to the side and resting his hands in his lap.

“Do you really have the inhaler?”

He just smiles. “What do you think?” he asks, voice betraying nothing.

“I think you’re better than that.” 

His mouth twitches into a frown. He’s fucked up, if he’s made her believe he’s better than anything; if he’s led her to think that he’s anything more than a piece of shit waiting to get stepped on, baking in the sun. 

In response to his silence, she continues. “I don’t buy it.”

“Buy what?” He scowls at her, digging his heel into the sand.

“This act. Playing the bad guy. You try too hard, James.” He bristles at the sound of his name. That’s what he regrets most of all, letting that slip out. He’s an idiot. He knows better. “It’s all show, the nicknames, and the comments, and the scowls. You wouldn’t steal medicine from a woman who can’t breathe.”

He resists the urge to snap. It would just prove her erroneous point, in her head. If she doesn’t think he’s a bad person, that’s her fault. If she wants to try and reach her hands into the flames, that’s on her. The blame’s not on him when she burns the delicate skin of her fingertips trying to get close to something blatantly vicious. 

“I’ve seen you.”

He grinds his teeth together, hearing it echo in his ears. “Seen me what?”

“The paper—the one you keep in your pocket. I’ve seen the look on your face when you read it. And how careful you are, folding and unfolding it. It means something to you.”

He feels hot anger (searing shame) burn inside of him. What does she know? She thinks she knows anything about him? She thinks the way he looks at that piece of paper proves he’s good? It makes him want to punch the hard bark of the tree behind him. It makes him want to rip up the letter right in front of her face.

“You can play games all you want, but underneath this jerk you’re playing, there’s a human in there. I remember how you were on the boat, when you returned my book.”

He stands up, worried he’s going to explode if he stays down like a ticking bomb. She just barely flinches when he steps toward her, and it satisfies him in just the right way.

“You think you know me?”

“I think—”

“Shut up.”

She presses her lips together, staring right back at him. She’s just a pretty girl with a big heart, looking for a beast to tame. But that’s not him. Life isn’t a fucking fairytale. He’s not what she thinks he is. He’s much worse.

“You want to know what kind of human I am?” He reaches into his pocket, harshly grabbing the letter and staring her down as he pulls it out of the envelope and shoves them both into her hand. “Read it.”

She stares at him, the slight tremble of her lip giving her away.

“Out loud,” he says darkly, each word dripping venom.

She swallows, looking down at the faded ink. She struggles to read the words.

“Dear Mr. Sawyer, you don't know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done. You had sex with my mother and then you stole my dad's money all away. So he got angry and he killed my mother and then he killed himself, too.” 

Her voice wavers as she reads. He can hear the words washing over her.

“Don’t stop now,” he tells her, getting a sick pleasure out of her slow realization. This’ll show her. “You’re just getting to the good part.”

She meets his eyes for the briefest of moments, those blue pools burning into his.

“All I know is your name. But one of these days I'm going to find you and I'm going to give you this letter so you'll remember what you done to me. You killed my parents, Mr. Sawyer.”

She looks up at him again, her face still. He smiles, dark and dangerous. 

“How’s that for human?”

He hopes she’s scared of him. He wants her to be. It’s better than anything else. 

Her eyes flick back down to the letter, finger brushing over the yellowed paper of the envelope. He wants to rip it from her hands. 

“America’s Bicentennial. Knoxville, Tennessee.”

“What?”

She looks back up, and her eyes are sad now. It burns worse than any anger could.

“You were what, eight? Nine?”

He feels like he’s swallowed bleach.

Fucking bitch.

He reaches forward, tearing the paper from her hands. It rips just a little in the corner. 

“You wrote this.”

“Get out,” he seethes. He takes one more step toward her, getting into her space. 

She backs up. “James—”

“Get. Out.”

It gets through to her now. She stares at him for one more moment, pity dripping from her gaze, and then she’s turning and walking away.

He stands there for a while, letting the blazing anger seep from his skin. 

She knows. She can see right through him; right through all of it. 

He shoves the paper back in his pocket and rubs a hand down his face harshly. That fucking boat and this fucking island and this fucking girl. It’s like his own personal hell. 

He’s a bad person.

If she can’t see that, it’s no one’s fault but hers.

********

She told them all he didn’t have it. She told everyone that she’d talked to him, that he’d admitted the truth to her. She got them to believe her.

She lied.

It makes him want to light the whole fucking jungle on fire, makes him want to take back the book he lent her. 

She made him look like some fucking idiot; a fucking pansy gone soft for her blue eyes. (He hasn’t.) But he can’t argue. Not now that they found the inhaler jammed in the sand by where Shannon and her brother had been staying before they moved to the caves. Not now that Juliet’s story seems so true, works so perfectly into their narrative.

She’s brought him water once since then. Neither of them said anything. He didn’t say thanks; he didn’t want to. She didn’t ask him about the letter; he didn’t want her too.

But now he’s run out—there’s a chance he’s been drinking more water than he needs to out of boredom—and she hasn’t returned. He can’t take it anymore. So here he is, trekking through the jungle once again. Maybe he takes his book back while he’s there, even though she technically hasn’t broken their deal.

When he gets to the entrance of the caves, he stops to catch his breath, pulling his shirt up and wiping sweat from his face. No one seems to notice his arrival, and he likes it that way.

He doesn’t think about it when his eyes find Juliet, silently reading in the same spot she always is. She doesn’t notice him either.

He likes it that way.

As he walks toward the back of the caves, Kate steps in his path, arms crossed and eyes looking up at him. He dons an easy smirk.

“Well, hey there, Freckles.”

“Sawyer.” There’s a curl in her face. He resists the urge to push it away. She’s pretty. (He can’t not think of Cassidy when he looks at her.) “What’re you doing here?”

He gestures his head toward the water behind her. “Refilling my bottle. ‘Less that ain’t allowed.”

She’s wearing a small smile, but he can tell she's not amused. 

He wonders where the doc is, since he’s usually two steps behind her. 

He steps past her and crouches down, pulling the bottle out of his bag and leaning in to fill it up.

“You know, one of these days you’re going to wake up with the ocean up to your waist,” she says, still standing behind him. “The tides.”

He looks up at her over his shoulder, taking the time to let his eyes trail from her feet up to her face. “What, you looking for a roommate?” 

“No.” She smiles. She’s got a good smile. “I’m just saying. We got room up here. You should consider it.”

“You worried about me, Freckles?”

She tucks that curl behind her ear. “If you move, it won’t be long before everyone else follows.”

He chuckles, shaking his hair back and twisting the cap onto his bottle. “Doubt I’ve got any power over these bastards.”

“You’d be surprised.”

She walks away, and he watches her ass as she goes. 

He doesn’t know what she’s going on about, him having some sway over the people. The heat must be getting to her. She’s lost her damn marbles.

He shakes his head, standing up and shoving his water in his bag.

“What were you and Kate talking about?”

He almost jumps, turning to find Juliet staring at him. He frowns at her. If he’s so standoffish, why does everyone seem to want to have a word with him? Jesus Christ.

“The hell do you care?”

He pushes past her, walking out of the caves.

“I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Satisfaction brought it back.”

He stops, turning and almost bumping into her. He jabs a finger in her direction. 

“What the hell do you want?”

She looks up at him carefully, like he’s a puzzle she’s trying to solve.

“I helped you.”

He scoffs. “You and I have very different versions of the word helped.”

She presses her lips together. “Why do you want them to hate you?”

He digs his heel into the dirt. He wants her to hate him.

He looks down, hair falling in his face. “You don’t understand me, Blondie. Quit trying.”

He turns, walking away from her. He doesn’t need this. His day was going perfectly well until she decided to wedge her way into it.

He can hear her steps on the ground behind him. 

“If you wrote the letter,” she starts, and he tenses up. “Then why do you go by Sawyer?”

He stops. There’s a part of him—most of him—that is seething. She’s like a fly he can’t swat. She’s a termite who’s eaten her way through his walls, stuck inside with him now. No one ever gets in. But she did.

But when he turns around, face to face with her, he finds himself unable to do anything but stare. 

For a pest, she’s really fucking beautiful.

“It don’t matter,” he says, sharp.

She licks her lips, dry from the sun. “You’re the one who made me read it. And now you won’t talk about it.”

And what a goddamn mistake that was. 

He steps closer, wishing she would flinch. But she stands her ground.

There's nothing to lose now.

“Sawyer was a confidence man. Romanced my momma to get the money. Wiped them out clean, left a mess behind.” He shakes his head. He doesn’t think about the bits and pieces of memories. Doesn’t think about his mother’s body lying awkwardly in a pool of blood right beside his toy truck. “So I wrote that letter. I swore I was going to find him.”

She’s looking at him with these big eyes, pity-filled. It makes him feel like that eight-year-old, for a moment. I’m so sorry for your loss.

“I’m sorry.”

He laughs darkly. “Hold your horses, sweetheart. That ain’t even the sad part.” He sighs, running a hand down his face. “When I was nineteen, I needed six grand to pay these guys off I was in trouble with. So I found a pretty lady with a dumb husband who had some money. And I got them to give it to me.”

He wishes she’d look disgusted or disappointed or anything but sad by his words.

“How’s that for a tragedy? Became the man I was hunting.”

She opens her mouth and he stops her.

“Don’t.” He looks hard at her. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

She stares back. And this time when she opens her mouth it’s to ask, “Did you find him?”

He doesn’t think about the slamming of the rain on the dirt or the squeeze of the trigger or the slumped body against the dumpster.

“Not yet.”

She nods.

“I answered your question. Now get the fuck out of here.”

She doesn’t move, just continues to watch him.

“You heard me,” he snaps.

There’s that disapproval he was craving.

“We’re going to be here for a long time, James.” She makes sure to put emphasis on his name. “You may not want to get on everyone’s bad sides.”

“I already am,” he says with a smile.

She stares one more moment and then turns, walking back the way she came. He watches her go.

What he doesn’t understand is why he can’t seem to get on her bad side. 

Can’t take too much longer.

He sighs and begins the walk back to the beach, kicking a branch out of the way.

********

A bottle of water hits him in the chest, hard.

“Son of a bitch,” he cries, looking up and squinting at Juliet. “The hell was that for?”

“Can I sit?”

He looks around. “I’d rather you not.”

She ignores him, sitting down beside him on the sand. Something in her face tells him this is more than just another attempt at small talk, or more questions trying to dig into his past. It’s serious.

“Who died?” he jokes, shutting his book.

She scratches the side of her face. “Claire was attacked last night.”

His smirk falls, sitting up straighter. “What?”

“She says someone injected her with a needle. Had their hand over her mouth when she woke up.”

“The hell?”

Juliet shakes her head. “Jack thinks it was a nightmare. She’s had them before. Woken up screaming.”

He considers this. “You don’t.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who would attack her? Don’t think anyone here’s got a secret stash of needles lying around.”

Juliet looks over at the few people sitting a few yards to the right of them. And then she turns, lowering her voice.

“Ethan’s living in the caves.”

Sawyer tightens his jaw. “You think it was him?”

“I don’t know,” she says again, pressing a hand to her forehead. 

“He acting weird?”

“What qualifies as weird?” She shakes her head. “He keeps to himself. But he’s nice enough. He always asks what he can do to help.”

“But out of everybody . . . only one with any real reason to suspect him.”

She puts her finger in the sand, swirling it into a shape. “That’s what I was thinking.”

He looks at her, eyes downcast. Despite everything—how on edge he is, knowing she knows what she knows—she’s the only one even close to being on the same page with him.

“You could move down here,” he tells her, and she looks up, shocked. He quickly adds, “Don’t want you to be next.”

Not because he cares. She could be useful, if things get hairy. She’s the closest thing to an ally he’ll let himself have.

“No, I can’t.” She shakes her head again. “I can keep an eye on things up there.”

Last time he saw her he couldn’t get away fast enough. Why is there some innate need inside of him to make sure she’s safe, now? What is wrong with him?

“Be careful,” he tells her. 

His brain cruelly draws up an image of her lying awkwardly on the jungle floor, blonde hair matted and blood soaking into the dirt. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It makes him think of his mother.

“You could move to the caves,” she tells him. “Since you care so much.” She says it borderline sarcastically, like she doesn’t believe him.

Being honest, he doesn’t believe himself either.

“I can keep an eye on things down here.”

She stares at him, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to tell him to be careful. But then she stands up.

“I’m almost done with the book.”

“Come back when you are. I’ll give you a new one.”

He’s thankful she doesn’t comment on the fact that he could make things easy and give her one now; that he wants her to have to come back.

She nods, and then she’s turning and walking away.

He can’t make up his damn mind about her, can he?

She’s gotten too close; that’s a fact. But if he extends his arm again, keeping her at a distance, it can’t hurt to hold her there. It can’t hurt to have an ally here.

An ally. That’s all.

If things came down to it, he’d throw her under the bus. Of course he would.

But for now, this is alright. He can handle this.

He takes a long sip of his water. 

It's perfectly alright.

Chapter Text

"When you cut a hole into my skull
Do you hate what you see?
Like I do"

Souvenir, boygenius

A bead of sweat rolls down the middle of Sawyer’s chest, and he leans his head back against the tree, letting out a deep sigh. He’s this close to stripping off his jeans too. He’s never hated denim as much as he does now.

It’s too god damn hot to trek through the jungle toward the caves, empty water bottle in hand. But it’s too god damn hot to wait around here either. It’s too god damn hot to read. It’s too god damn hot to do much of anything.

He’s considering walking up the beach and finding a secluded spot to take a dip, daydreaming about cool ocean water, when something falls to the sand beside him.

He looks up, staring at Juliet. She’s looking down at him with a soft smile, and he doesn’t want to think about it. Just like he’s not thinking about how blue her eyes are or how her face is flushed pink from the walk or how a flyaway curl is stuck to her forehead.

He does, though, think about the slickness of her glistening skin and the drop of sweat rolling down her collarbone and into her cleavage.

There’s nothing wrong with finding her attractive, with thinking about licking those beads of sweat off her pale skin, thinking about the salty taste on his tongue.

It’s just human; she’s fucking hot.

He grabs the water bottle from the sand, unscrewing the top and sending a nod toward her way. “About time. Hundred degrees out here.” 

As he practically pours the water down his throat, he notices her eyes flick down to his bare chest and his lips curl up in a smirk.

It’s just human. He’s used it to his advantage enough times to know he’s fucking hot.

She lifts her eyes, crossing her arms and looking around. “Where’s Claire?”

“Hmm?” 

She looks back at him. “Claire. And Charlie. Where are they?”

“How the hell would I know?” he asks, shaking hair off his face. “You’re the one living with ‘em.”

Her eyebrows draw together, lips turning down in a tight frown. “Claire was moving down here. Charlie went with her.”

He glances around, like maybe he missed them. But the Mom-to-be’s pretty hard to miss, bursting from the seams.

“Ain’t seen them.”

Something in her face shifts, those eyes going wide. “They never made it?”

“They’re slow. Probably still making the way down,” he tells her. But the worry on her face is starting to spread its way to his gut.

She shakes her head. “There’s only one path. I would’ve passed them.”

He sits up. “Could've got lost.”

“They could have,” she says, like she doesn’t believe it.

He’s not an idiot. 

He remembers what she told him, what they talked about. How Claire said she'd been attacked. How only one of them raised any suspicion at all.

“You seen good ol' Freddy today?” He leans over and grabs his shirt from where it lies in the sand, shaking it off, clarifying, “Ethan.”

She presses her lips together. “Early this morning. I don’t think he was there when I left.”

He pushes himself off the ground, standing up with a soft grunt. 

She looks back down at the path where she’d come, and when she turns back to him she looks like she’s going to vomit. “Oh my god.”

He pulls the shirt over his head and meets her gaze. Those eyes, looking at them is what makes it finally hit. Not just the facts, but what that means. 

His stomach bottoms out.

Before he can say anything she’s running, turned away and heading back to the path. He doesn’t think about it, forgetting to grab his water or his bag or anything and following her. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, doesn’t know why he’s getting himself involved. He should sit his ass back down in the sand and hear about what happened through the island grapevine like usual.

But she’s running and for some reason he can’t get his feet to stop.

Besides, he may not be a great guy but he’s got a shred of decency. And a pregnant chick and her failed rockstar boyfriend going missing from right under their noses is fucking crazy.

After a couple of minutes she slows down a little, thank god. He doesn’t know how the hell she has such good stamina. Does she run marathons in her free time?

She could. He knows nothing about her.

He wants to ask what their plan is, what they’re running toward. He wants to ask himself why he cares, why he’s here at all.

But he’s barely caught his breath before she’s running again, and he has no choice but to pick up the pace.

He does have a choice. He actively chooses to.

He doesn’t want to think about what that means.

The running makes it quicker, though it feels like years and years of his boots slapping against the jungle floor before they come to a stop at the entrance to the caves.

Their abrupt entrance draws attention, people turning to stare at them.

“What’s up?” Jack asks, lighthearted in a way that makes Sawyer want to kick his teeth in.

Juliet shakes her head, panting and working to get the words out between heavy breaths. “Ethan . . . is he here?”

“Ethan? What, why?”

“Is he here?” she asks, more forceful.

Mikey must’ve heard the commotion, stepping over. “No, he went to get some wood. Took off on the path to the beach. He okay? What happened?”

Sawyer huffs, wiping sweat from his brow. “What happened is I called it from the start.”

Juliet ignores him. “Claire and Charlie never made it to the beach.”

Jack frowns. “What?”

“I’ve been on the path twice now. They aren’t there, and they aren’t on the beach.”

Oh, great, Freckles is here now. “What do you mean? Where else would they be?”

“Where do you think?” Sawyer asks. 

“Are you implying Ethan . . . what, took them?” Jack asks, looking at Juliet.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know what happened to them, Jack. But Claire thought someone attacked her, and I think there’s only one of us who could’ve done that.”

“Someone who’s conveniently missing right now,” Sawyer adds.

“Oh my god,” Kate says, pressing a hand to her forehead.

Jack’s eyes are a little wild, looking out into the jungle behind them. And then he starts running, pushing past them, and god Sawyer’s going to stay here because he can’t do it anymore.

“Jack,” Locke calls, running after him. Great. Let those two sort it out.

Sawyer sits himself down right there on the ground, pulling his shirt up and wiping his face.

“Are you sure they’re gone?” Kate asks, words soft like she’s in shock. She probably is.

“She’s pregnant,” he says. “Pretty hard to miss.”

Juliet looks like she’s about to cry, and it makes Sawyer’s chest feel tight. He has to look away.

“Who says it’s Ethan?” God damn Lardo asks, joining in on the pow-wow.

Juliet shakes her head again. “Who else could it be? All of us, we were on the ship. We wouldn’t have any reason to . . . hurt anyone. But we don’t know where Ethan’s from.”

“You think he’s from here?”

She sighs. “Maybe.”

“What if there’s a whole group of people out there? Natives or something.”

“Well I doubt he’s living by himself,” Sawyer mutters, thinking about a group of uncivilized people, dirty feet and wild eyes. 

He leans back, stretching his legs out with a sigh. He fears by running after Juliet he’s gotten himself into a much bigger mess than he intended. But he’s in it now. No turning back.

Not that he’s trying to play the hero or anything. That’s not him. Anyone would try and help. God damn crazy man went and kidnapped two of their people. Doesn’t make him some savior, just because he wants to help. It doesn’t make him a good person.

********

Sawyer thinks it was a really smart fucking idea to let the only one in their group who knows how to stitch a wound run off into the jungle, chasing a supposed kidnapper. A great use of resources. Not that he’d be too bothered if Jack got mangled by a boar or something. He needs a good beating. At least it would shut him up a little.

To be honest, Sawyer has no clue why he’s out here at all. He doesn’t know why he insisted he come when Locke said he had enough people in his search party.

Except that’s a lie because he knows exactly why. It’s because of the blonde ponytail swinging in front of him. It’s because, despite how much his gut wrenches at the thought, he would be bothered if she got mangled by a boar or something.

He’s not sure what he’d do to stop it from happening, but he could figure something out.

And he guesses that’s not the only reason. Claire and Charlie definitely didn’t just wander away, with marks in the jungle floor suggesting a struggle. And Sawyer can never turn down a fight. Besides, he wants to find this Ethan fucker; wants to show him what he gets for making a fool out of them.

And maybe coming along and assisting in the savior’s mission could get him on a better side of the camp than he is now. Not that he cares. It just may be nice to have some people that wouldn’t kick dirt on him if they found his body in the jungle.

The trail of prints that Locke’s been following proves itself to be helpful when Jack comes stomping around the corner. Sawyer takes in the shirt sticking to him with sweat and the hard set to his jaw and decides that he’s been as successful as them.

“It’s a good thing you were going in a circle,” Locke says to him, hands on his hips. “Not much of a search grid, but we never would have found you otherwise.”

He sees Jack take in the group, eyes passing over Boone, Kate, and Juliet. They stop when they get to him, brow furrowing in slight shock.

“Did you find anything?” Kate asks, not exactly hopeful but close enough.

The doc shakes his head. “No.”

“You should go back to the caves,” Locke tells him. 

He gives a resolute shake of his head. “You found me. We can find Claire and Charlie. Do you have a trail to follow or not?”

“Jack, this was my fault,” Locke says, and Sawyer can imagine him in cahoots with their boogeyman. He’s not exactly the most disarming guy.

“What?”

“I hunted with Ethan, spent time with him. I never sensed anything . . . off. But for everything that I know about hunting, tracking . . . whoever he is, he knows more. If we catch up with him, I don't want anything to happen to the only trained physician on the island. So go back, be the doctor. Let me be the hunter.”

Seems everyone’s feeling guilty for this. Well, not him. But Jack, Locke, Juliet. It’s none of their faults, and yet. 

Sawyer knows a thing or two about guilt, he thinks, hand absentmindedly running over the worn paper in his pocket.

He had a point, though, about the doctor being out in harm's way. But he knows Jack won’t have it. He won’t let anyone else be the hero.

“Can we go now?” he asks, hard, challenging Locke to argue.

He just sighs. “Follow me.”

They go back to walking, Sawyer’s legs cursing him and his decision to come out here. He steps forward and nudges Juliet’s shoulder after a moment, getting her to look at him.

“You think he knows where he’s going?” he asks, gesturing up toward Locke with his head. Juliet looks away, considering the question. And then she nods.

“I do. I trust him. He found Jack, didn’t he?”

“Well something tells me this guy won’t be as easy to find as Jack.”

Juliet sighs, pushing her hair back. “What else could we do?” She looks at him, almost tired.

He shakes his head. “How the hell would I know?”

She seems to be studying him, reading something behind his eyes. He resists the urge to turn, hide whatever she’s discovering and lock it back away.

“Why are you here, Sawyer?” she asks, and he hates the way she says his name, like it’s some sort of slur.

What does she want him to say? He’s not the guy who saves the day. He’s no Superman. He’s not Jack. She knows that.

“Figured they needed someone with some sense. These fuckers acceptted Buffalo Bill with open arms. Now look where we are.”

Her eyes seem to fall, as if she’s disappointed.

Good. She’s not someone he should be impressing.

(He wants to impress her. He has such a deep urge to, something he has to actively stifle. Something’s wrong with him. She’s the hot coffee to his motherboard, the scissor to his wires.)

She doesn’t say anything, so he falls back into place behind her.

She’s not someone he should be impressing.

********

Figures that Kate’s been keeping it to herself that she can find a footprint in the dirt. Just another secret to add to the list. Next thing you know she’s going to admit she’s a convicted killer. He wouldn’t be shocked.

But yeah, they’re lucky she’s here. Two trails, two trackers. It’s almost too perfect. 

“Sawyer,” Jack says, grabbing his attention. “You go with them.” He gestures to Locke and Boone, waiting by the other trail.

Sawyer scowls. He’s pretty damn sure Locke has a better idea of where to go, but he’d rather them just kill him now than go wander around with Batman and Robin all night. Besides, that defeats his whole purpose here, since Juliet’s all huddled up with Jack and Kate over there.

“Nuh uh,” Sawyer says. “I’m going with you all. They can handle themselves.”

“It should be even,” Kate says, and he gives her a sarcastic smile.

“Oh, should it? Well, I ain’t stopping one of you from going.”

They share a look. No one moves.

“That’s what I thought.” He turns to give Lewis and Clark a salute before stomping his way toward the other trail.

“Be careful,” Locke calls out as the four of them head on their way. Daniel Boone here picks up the pace and steps past Sawyer so he can be in front. Bastard. Kate passes him too, and Sawyer has to walk faster since Jack is almost jogging.

Juliet passes him after a few moments and he’s about ready to give up and call it quits. No one warned him they’d have to run a goddamn marathon out here. Especially on this rocky terrain, up and down and up and down and over a root and a rock that almost trips him up. 

“Please, slow down,” Kate says, exasperated. Thank god she said something before Sawyer did. She’s a lot nicer than he is.

“You said they went this way,” Jack says, harsh and barely slowing. Who put a stick up his ass?

“I think they went this way. I'm not as good at this as Locke is.”

Jack finally stops, turning and staring hard at Kate. “So where did you pick up the tracking skills, Kate? Was that before or after you were on the run?”

Sawyer almost trips, stumbling but catching himself. Son of a bitch. Maybe his wild guess about her next reveal isn’t too far off.

Juliet and him share a look—a little confused and a little uncomfortable. Kate looks back at them, wearing a pleading look, and Sawyer sighs.

“Let’s go, Blondie,” he mutters, continuing to walk past where Freckles and the doc are standing. She listens, following behind. They only head a couple of yards down the trail before stopping, waiting for them. He has no idea where to go.

He can hear their voices—well, Kate’s voice—but not clear enough to make out the words. Juliet unzips her bag and pulls out a water bottle, taking a long sip. She leans her head back and Sawyer shamelessly stares at the pale expanse of her neck.

When she’s done, she reaches it out to him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing it and bringing it to his lips. He stares at her while he pours it down his throat, thinking about how her mouth had been wrapped around this bottle the same way his is. Thinking about her mouth wrapped around other things.

He pulls it away, holding her gaze and handing it back to her. She grabs it, and then tears her eyes away to put the bottle back in her bag.

Kate comes stomping up the small hill they’re at the top of, walking past them. “Let’s go.”

They share a look and then follow behind her. It only takes a moment for Jack to catch up, pushing past and walking a few steps in front of Kate.

He’s starting to regret coming this way, stuck between this lover’s quarrel; stuck being led by Jack. He wonders if he’ll even let them go back, if it gets dark and Barbie and Ken are nowhere to be found.

Or maybe he will let them go. Maybe he’ll just stay out here himself. With their luck it’ll make their missing person count go up to three. (Four? Does Ethan count?)

But there’s nothing he can do about it now. He made his bed, now he’s gotta lie in it. Or well, walk in it.

God, he’s never going to walk again after this.

********

Sawyer was delusional to think they’d head back when it started raining. Not just raining, pouring. In a matter of seconds. Hard, too, like bullets being shot from the sky. It’s soaked through the denim of his jeans and into his boxers. It’s glued his hair to the side of his face. He’s shivering, unable to help it. 

This is hopeless, and he wonders if he’s the only one who can see that. The rain’s washed any tracks away. They’re on a wild goose chase, and the farther they go from camp the harder it’ll be to find their way back. He feels like he’s in the goddamn Blair Witch Project. When are the severed fingers going to show up?

This is what he gets for trying to help. He knows better than that. 

Jack comes to a stop, everyone slowing behind him. Sawyer puts his hands up to block the downpour, a futile attempt, and watches him lean down

“I guess we were right.” When he turns, he’s holding one of Chuckie’s finger tapes. Well, would you look at that? Maybe they are onto something. “Where to now?”

That’s when he hears it. 

A loud noise, echoing over the loud pounding of raindrops on the jungle floor. He’s trying to make it out—is it an alarm or something?—when suddenly, clear and loud, a scream pierces through the jungle.

Jack’s running before Sawyer even digests the noise.

But it doesn’t take him long, and then Sawyer’s running too. He’s not sure what it is, like some fight or flight instinct kicking on inside him. But he’s running and he’s not stopping.

Vaguely, he hears Freckles yell something behind him. Jack, Jack where are you going? Jack shouts something back. Didn’t you hear her? But he’s not listening. He’s too focused on his steps, too focused on not slipping on the wet ground as he sprints after Jack.

They reach a hill, steeper than most of the ones they’ve passed so far. Or maybe it’s just more menacing now, slippery and dark. He can’t even see the top, blocked by low-hanging branches and roots.

But Jack’s grabbed onto a vine, pulling himself up, and Sawyer doesn’t think, just follows. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, his sudden urge to head toward the screams rather than away. His sudden urge to help.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Rather, he thinks about the way his boots are slipping in the mud, and god, how it’s so fucking cold. How was it so hot earlier? Jesus christ. The rain’s dripping into his eyes and every time he makes some sort of progress he slides back down a little, but he can’t stop. He thinks Kate and Juliet are behind him, but he can’t be sure. He can’t turn. He can’t look anywhere but up.

And then there’s another scream—bloodcurdling like something straight from a horror movie—and Sawyer’s hand finds a particularly muddy spot of vine. His fingers slip and the momentum of it causes him to lose his footing, only one second in between him holding on for dear life and tumbling down the hill. He swears he hears someone yell, James!, but he’s too preoccupied with the rocks jabbing into him and the mud sticking to his skin and getting in his hair and his mouth.

He feels like he’s tumbling down for fifteen minutes before he hits the bottom, head slamming into the hard ground. He groans, rolling over and shutting his eyes, breathing hard and thinking vaguely, this is what you get for trying to play like you’re a good person . 

He blinks his eyes open, squinting at the harsh downpour. And then his vision focuses, and he realizes what he’s staring at.

Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought.

Ethan’s standing there, soaking wet and looking like Satan’s most pathetic lapdog.

Before Sawyer can really process it, he’s stepping forward and putting his foot on his chest. He chokes out a pitiful cough, staring hard into those dark eyes.

“If you do not stop following me, I will kill one of them.” He presses his foot down so hard he can almost hear his ribs crack. “Do you understand?”

Sawyer’s been in compromising positions more times than he’d like to admit. Surprisingly, this isn't the first time he’s had a boot to the chest. (Though first time after falling thirty feet down a hill.) Even with his head throbbing, he’s conscious enough to figure shit out. To feel the fucking fury festering beneath his crushed ribs.

With effort, he reaches and grabs Ethan’s ankle, twisting it and pushing him off. He stumbles back, giving Sawyer just enough time to push himself to his feet. 

He wipes the mud from his eyes and ignores the throbbing, pulsing, overwhelming pain screaming from inside of him, stepping toward Ethan and throwing a punch. But he may be more disoriented than he thought, because he only hits him once before he’s grabbing his arm and punching him once and another time and another time so hard he stumbles back.

Now Sawyer’s never been the greatest in a fight. He can admit that. But god, he’s getting his ass kicked. (Though it’s not a fair fight when Sawyer started out with a possible concussion and probably some broken ribs.)

He gets back up, that fury burning hotter than before. He was angry before. But this has been turned up to one hundred.

Except, it doesn’t really matter. Because Ethan ducks and his swing misses, and then he’s on him again, fists beating him down into the goddamn muddy rain water. He spits, breathing hard, feeling like the world is spinning around him.

“No more warnings,” Ethan says, but it sounds echoey and garbled, almost like those sounds from earlier.

This fucker’s going to pay, Sawyer thinks.

And then the fucker’s foot collides with his skull and he’s not thinking anything anymore.

********

There’s a brief moment between consciousness and not where Sawyer thinks maybe someone made a mistake and he’s in heaven. Through blurry, half-opened eyes he catches sight of blonde wispy hair and big blue eyes staring down at him and can’t make out if it’s an angel or his mama.

His eyes shut again and it’s another few moments before the consciousness is seeping back in and he’s able to really lift his eyelids.

“James?”

He blinks a couple of times. The world comes into focus around him: evening sun breaking through the trees, mud sticking to his skin, hands on his face.

Hands on his face. 

Juliet’s staring down at him with these big eyes (so fucking blue), and he must’ve hit his head really hard because he’s not thinking anything at all.

“James?” She pushes his hair back off his face. “James, are you okay?”

“Don’t call me that,” he mumbles, pushing her away and making himself sit up. He groans, every nerve on fire, every bone and muscle screaming in pain. The taste of blood is nauseatingly strong in his mouth. “God . . . fuck. How long was I out?”

“I don’t know . . . you slipped. On the hill, it was muddy.” Freckles’ voice is the only reason he remembers him and Juliet aren’t the only ones here.

The doc looks like a ticking time bomb, standing there almost jumping up and down with impatience. “Are you—”

“Ethan,” Sawyer says, pressing his hands to his eyes, so hard he sees stars. He shakes his head. That bastard.

“What?” Juliet asks, putting a hand on his arm. 

He pushes her away. (He’s a fucking mess. Got fucking beat up.) 

(She’s not someone he should be trying to impress.) 

“Ethan was here.” He pushes himself up, a somehow fiercer pain shooting through his legs. He groans, pushing through it. “He was—”

“You hit your head really hard,” Juliet says, putting a hand to the back of his head. He winces, flinching away.

He knows what she’s implying.

He didn’t fucking hallucinate getting the shit beaten out of him.

“He was fucking here.”

“He was here?” Jack asks, like a lightbulb flicked on. “What did he say? Did he—”

God, his ears are ringing. Can people just stop talking for a second?

“He said . . . uh, what was it. Fuck.” He remembers a foot on his chest, seethed words.

“What did he say?” Jack asks, harder.

“Jack!” Juliet says, too fucking loud. “He has a concussion.”

“I fucking saw him!”

“The rain’s washed away the trail, even if you did see him,” Kate says, in this whiney voice he can’t stand.

Sawyer shakes his head and immediately regrets it, feeling like he shook a jar of loose change and it’s all clattering around his skull. “He was right th . . . he came from that way.” He points with his hand, though he’s not quite sure at all. 

He has to say something.

He’s not making this up.

He saw that bastard. (Didn’t just see him.)

And, who could’ve guessed, Saint Jack's storming off in that direction.

“Jack! You’ve got to stop!” Kate calls, following after him.

Juliet puts a hand on Sawyer’s arm, getting his attention.

“We need to get you back—”

“To what?” he asks gruffly. “Our doctor’s half a mile that way.”

She frowns. “I’m a doctor.”

“Okay,” he says, a little sarcastic. 

And then he’s pulled away from her and he’s ignoring the shooting pain, walking himself in the same way Jack did. It’s around the hill, thank god, because he doesn’t think he could’ve made it up that fucking thing.

But he would’ve tried.

He’s not letting that fucker get away with this.

He doesn’t want to think about how he’s beginning to sound like Jack a little bit. He doesn’t want to think about how he’s fueling the doc’s anger with his own, doesn’t want to think about how he’s following him.

“James!”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Sawyer, you have to stop! You’re hurt—”

“I’m not letting that bastard just . . . walk away.”

She’s following behind him. She’s not stopping him, and he’d smile if he had a little more energy. But his ribs cry out every time he takes a breath so he doesn’t have much energy for anything. 

“Walk away? Sawyer, what . . .”

She trails off. She must’ve realized there was no point.

He doesn’t want to think about how, in a way, Juliet’s become the Kate to his Jack. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that she cares about him enough to argue, cares enough about him to want him to get help.

Thinking makes his head hurt.

God, his head hurts. 

********

If you do not stop following me, I will kill one of them.

That’s what Ethan had said, foot crushing Sawyer’s ribs. He remembers now, staring at Charlie’s limp body hanging from a tree; staring at Jack trying to hold him up and Kate trying to climb up to cut him down and Juliet crying and running over to help in any way she can.

He remembers now, standing there a few feet away doing nothing but staring and remembering.

It’s his fault. That’s not him craving pity, craving someone to tell him it’s not. That’s not something he’s going to whine about, apologize for. It’s just a simple fact. Charlie wouldn’t be dead if they’d stopped.

Except, would he? Did Ethan just assume they would keep following? Would he have done this anyway? He’s a sick bastard.

Probably. He probably would have. 

But there’s still a part of Sawyer that feels his deep drive for revenge has resulted in another body. 

Nausea churns in his stomach. It’s not death that unnerves him. He’s all too familiar with that. It’s not the body. He’s all too familiar with those. It’s not even that it’s fucking Charlie, because sure it’s a tragedy and sure it’s sad but Sawyer’s not particularly going to miss the musician.

It’s just . . . well, he’s not exactly sure. He’s not sure why he feels so sick about it.

In a moment the rope breaks and he falls to the ground, him and Jack and Juliet all landing in a heap on the jungle floor. And that’s what breaks Sawyer out of his trance, getting him to walk forward. He doesn’t know what to do. There’s nothing he can do.

He’s still just standing there, the only difference that he’s so close he can smell the desperation clinging to Jack as he breathes into his mouth and pumps his hands over his chest.

It’s pointless. He’s dead. He’s been dead for god knows how long. It’s pointless.

Kate’s there holding Charlie’s hand. Juliet’s on her knees beside her, staring at his lifeless face with those big blue eyes, so teary and deep with shock and hurt. He knows she’s a doctor. He wonders if she’s ever seen a body. He wonders if this is the closest she’s been to death.

“Breathe. C’mon, breathe,” Jack’s muttering over and over again like it’ll do something. And Kate’s crying and Juliet’s crying and Sawyer thinks he may actually vomit. 

“Jack,” Kate shudders, voice weak. “Jack, stop.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her. He pauses, breathes in deep, and then lifts his fist and slams it against Charlie’s chest.

Sawyer inhales sharply, regretting it as soon as he does.

“Come on, Charlie,” he mutters like some sort of spell, beating his fist against his still chest.

Kate whimpers. “Jack, Jack, please. Stop. He’s not . . .”

Juliet looks up, those eyes meeting his. She looks like she’s begging, begging him to do something. But what’s he supposed to do? If this is what Jack needs to come to terms with what’s happened, let him.

It’s not hurting anyone.

Besides, he doesn't think he could stop him if he tried.

Kate’s rushed to Jack’s side, trying to grab his wrist to stop him. But Jack throws her off, continuing to slam his fist down and down and down again on Charlie’s sternum.

Juliet stands up, turning away. Her hand goes to her mouth and he sees her shudder, sobbing silently. In almost robotic movements, she turns and walks past the body and finds Sawyer, leaning into his chest.

It shocks him.

He doesn’t think when he puts his arms around her, rubbing a reassuring hand up and down her back. He doesn’t scowl at the way her tears soak into his shirt or how the pressure of her body on his is making the pain of his bones throb harder than ever.

For once, there’s not a single part of him pushing against her contact, pushing against her.

(Later, he’ll remind himself he has a concussion. He’s not thinking straight.)

Her sobs rack through her body; he can feel her shaking and tightens his hold on her. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Kate’s saying to Jack, trying to get him to stop, and he wonders if she knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing she could say. Because none of this is okay and it’s bullshit to pretend it is.

She’s clawing at his arms, trying to pull him away. But Jack’s stronger. And he’s so goddamn determined. Sawyer doubts he’s even processed that it’s Kate who’s trying to stop him; processed that there’s anyone here but Charlie.

He’s pounding on his chest and it’s so violent and Sawyer feels the need to turn away. Like this isn’t something he should be witnessing. Like this is between Charlie and Jack and whatever guilt is eating away at him.

If Juliet wasn’t clinging to him, he’d step over and pull Kate away from Jack.

There’s nothing she can do.

There’s nothing Jack can do.

There’s nothing any of them can do. It doesn’t matter.

And then Charlie gasps.

Sawyer goes stiff, mouth falling open in shock.

Juliet turns, pulling away from Sawyer, letting out a sound that’s almost a laugh. And Kate’s definitely laughing, a little delirious, the relief pouring out any way it can.

Jack’s grinning. He’s grinning so wide, eyes crinkling at the corners. And Charlie’s coughing and he’s alive. He’s breathing. Charlie, breathe, Jack says and he does.

Sawyer’s still just standing there, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

He’s alive.

Son of a bitch. 

There’s no such thing as miracles, but if there were this would be pretty damn good proof.

********

Sawyer flinches, pulling away from Juliet’s gentle touch.

“I told you, I’m fine,” he grumbles.

She sighs, letting her arm fall by her side. She’s looking at him sadly, as if he’s the one who was just hung and beaten back to life on the jungle floor. 

By the time they got back it was too dark to make the trek down to the beach. So here he is, in the caves with none of his shit and Juliet poking and prodding at the blood on his face.

“I think Jack has Tylenol,” she tells him. “If it hurts.”

“Yeah, it hurts.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she walks away presumably to get it and Sawyer feels a strange urge to call her back. But he doesn’t want her here. He wants this goddamn pain to subside so he can go to sleep. He’s exhausted.

He reaches his hand up and touches his face, wincing and feeling the mix of dried blood and mud caked to his skin. Where’s a shower when you need one.

Juliet’s back before he knows it, two pills in hand. He usually takes more, but whatever. He grabs them and pops them in his mouth, taking them dry.

“You should drink something,” she tells him.

He smiles bitterly. “If ya didn’t realize I don’t have any water on me.”

She doesn’t react to his harshness, just leans down and unzips her bag, digging through it and pulling out an almost-empty water bottle. She hands it to him and he downs it in one sip. 

She stares at him for a long moment, as if studying every detail. It’s unnerving. 

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

“Are you okay?” he shoots back, because her eyes are all bloodshot and red rimmed and her pretty hair’s all tangled with mud.

She smiles softly, eyes slipping shut when she nods. He thinks about the way she shook against his chest earlier and doesn’t want to think about it ever again.

She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and sighs. She looks at him a moment more and then leans forward and puts a hand on his thigh. He almost jumps, the sudden closeless sending a jolt through him.

“You did good, James.”

He swears a shiver runs up his spine.

That word. Good. Having it applied to him is like having an organ transplant, something inside of him that doesn’t belong. His body's rejecting it.

He’s not good. He’s never been good. He hasn’t done any good and he never will.

He doesn’t understand what she sees when she looks at him. Because it’s not the truth.

“I didn’t do nothing.”

She looks at him like you look at a kid saying he’s Superman; like she knows he’s lying to himself. She pats his leg and then pulls her hand away, letting it fall by her side. His skin feels cold where she pulled away from; empty.

“I’m gonna keep an eye on you,” she says.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I’m going to.” She smiles, and then shakes her head. “It’s not a bad thing for people to care about you.”

She cares about him. He knows that’s what she’s saying, in so many words.

Nobody cares about him. He doesn’t even care about himself.

She shouldn’t care about him. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t.

“Good night, James,” she says.

For once, he doesn’t feel the need to fight her on that name. It’s not so bad when she says it.

He smiles, just a little. “Night, Juliet.”

And then she’s walking away, leaving him with fading pain and a storm brewing inside of his chest; conflicting emotions at war beneath his broken ribs. 

She shouldn’t care about him. But she does.

He shouldn’t care about her. (But he does.)

Chapter Text

"And here everyone knows you're the way to my heart"

Punisher, Phoebe Bridgers

The minute Sawyer gets back to the beach he is never stepping foot in this goddamn jungle again. If he sees another vine or almost trips on another rock jammed into the dirt he is going to kill someone. 

“What’d that tree do to you?” Juliet asks softly after he kicks a big root sticking out into the path. 

He grunts. “Remind me why you’re here again?”

“To make sure you get back.”

“I don’t need a chaperone,” he grumbles, stomping through the dirt. Her steps are gentler, barely disturbing the island ground.

“I’m not your chaperone, I’m your friend. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

He stops, almost tripping—though there’s nothing in his way. Whipping his head around to look at her, she just seems confused as to why they’ve paused.

I’m your friend.  

“We ain’t friends,” he tells her. “And I told you I’m fine.”

He turns, continuing to walk. Friends. That’s so fucking stupid. What are they going to do, make each other bracelets and play dollies? Braid each other’s hair? Uh uh. Sawyer doesn’t have friends. Friends are complicated. Friends get in the way.

“You have a concussion,” she says in response. “I’m sorry I want to make sure you don’t die out here.”

He doesn’t need the reminder of his injuries. Every step rattles whatever’s loose in his aching head. Every breath incites a striking pain in his ribs. There’s no mirror here, but if there was he’s sure he’d be looking back at a face painted with purple bruises.

“Oh, thank you for your service,” he mutters, sarcastic. If she really didn’t want him to die, she probably should have brought someone else along too because he’s pretty sure they lost the path a couple of turns ago.

Suddenly she stops.

He turns, frowning. “What?”

She shakes her head, putting up a finger. “Shh.” She looks at him. “Don’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

He holds his breath, straining and trying to pick up what she is. And then he hears it, a quiet hum. Well, not a hum. More like . . . more like rushing water.

He looks at her, taking in the curious, eager look on her face. She breaks into a small, hopeful smile and turns, heading to the left.

He sighs, following behind. He’s not going to split up out here. Besides, he can’t deny his own curiosity. They only walk for a moment or two before they’re pushing their way through a wall of big palm fronds and branches and stumbling into a large clearing.

“Son of a bitch.”

Scratch what he said earlier about not coming back to the jungle. Back then he didn’t know this was here.

It’s a large pool of water, huge, at the bottom of a cliff. And coming off that cliff is a strong waterfall, pouring into the water below. It’s beautiful, but maybe that’s just the idea’s refreshing quality making its way to the sweat on the back of his neck.

He pushes past her, almost running toward it.

“What are you doing?” she asks, following slow behind him.

He turns back to her, standing at the edge and pulling his boots off. “Come on, Blondie. You don’t think we deserve a good time after all the shit this island’s put us through?” He puts his hands on his hips, tilting his head. “What, you going to say no? I forgot, you’re a big fancy doctor. You don’t got time for this. You’re one of ‘em navel-gazing, no fun, mopey types.”

She furrows her brow. “I am fun. And what does being a doctor have to do with that?”

“You seen Jack, ain’t you?”

She shakes her head, a small smile creeping onto her lips. 

“Fine, stay out here, then.” He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside and then reaching down to undo his jeans. He watches her watch him, wanting her to stare. He thinks about if she came in, stripping off that tank top. He thinks about wet skin, bodies pressing together underwater.

(He’d think that about anybody.)

He tosses the jeans aside—leaving him in his boxers—and smirks at Juliet, still watching him carefully, as he climbs into the water. 

And then her hands on her jeans, undoing the button.

His eyebrows shoot up, mouth breaking into a wide grin. “Would ya look at that.”

She doesn’t look at him, shaking her head and setting the jeans aside. He takes in the view of her long, pale legs. She’s fucking gorgeous. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t have to like her to think that. It’s pure fact, it’s what he sees with his eyes. He doesn’t have to like her to see it. 

Unfortunately, she doesn’t take off that tank top. But she does walk to the water, stepping in. He watches her with a smile, moving back to give her room.

“Oh, gosh it’s cold,” she says, standing there at the edge.

“It’s nice,” he calls back, because it is. It’s like ice on his sore ribs and his bruises, like a fan on his overheated body. It’s perfect.

She goes in deeper, a hesitant look on her face.

“What’re you scared of, Blondie?” he asks loudly.

She looks at him. “I’m not scared.”

“You sure look it.”

She shakes her head, and then as if to prove him wrong she dives in headfirst.

He laughs, loud and unbridled. He wasn’t expecting it. She keeps finding ways to shock him. 

It has nothing to do with liking her. She’s an interesting person. She’s someone amusing to watch. It has nothing to do with liking her.

When she surfaces again she’s much closer, taking deep breaths and staring at him with those big, piercing (so fucking blue) eyes. She pushes back the strands of hair that came loose, wet and dripping. 

“So you can have fun.”

She smirks. “I told you. I’m very fun.”

And then, without any warning, she puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him under. He comes up sputtering, laughing, shaking his wet hair back.

“Jesus, woman! Thought you were trying to keep me from getting killed.”

“Oh, this was my plan all along,” she says, sporting a sarcastic grin.

He can’t resist a smile back. He can’t. He doesn’t know what it is about her smile or the way it lights up her face that puts him under some kind of spell. He doesn’t know what it is about her that puts him under some kind of spell.

It has nothing to do with liking her.

“I won’t go down without a fight,” he shoots back, reaching out and pushing her under. 

When she comes back up she’s laughing too and it all feels so juvenile, like he’s just a little boy again. Except when he was a little boy he never had anything like this, so it’s more an idea of what he thinks being a kid would be like.

He wonders what Juliet was like as a kid, if she used to laugh like this with her sister, all baby-faced and adorable.

(Thinking about her has nothing to do with liking her! He thinks about plenty of people.)

“What now, Marco Polo?” she jokes, wading her hands through the water.

“Or we could dive off the rocks.” But he’s not joking.

She looks at him like he can’t be serious. “Need I remind you you’re concussed.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, doctor .” He dives underneath the water, swimming forward. It’s foggy down there, but when he does open his eyes he can see Juliet swimming too. 

He keeps on watching her even when his lungs start to burn, only kicking himself up to the surface once she does.

They swim, laughing and splashing, until the sun rises to the middle of the sky. Climbing out, the two of them sit on the edge, feet dangling down into the cool water as they wait for the sweltering sun to dry them off.

“That was nice,” she says, and the soft smile she’s wearing is the most genuinely delighted look he’s seen on her face since he’s known her.

“Better than nice.” He rests his hands on the rock behind him, sighing and staring up at the sky. The ache in his ribs has lessened a tad. 

“We have to tell everyone. They’ll—”

“Hey,” he says, stopping her. “We ain’t telling no one ‘bout this.”

She frowns, pressing her lips together. “What do you mean?”

He leans in closer to her. “You want this place to become the public pool? Or do ya want to keep this to ourselves. Come and take a dip. Have some peace and quiet.”

She furrows her brow, just a little. But the corner of her lip quirks up. “That’s not right.”

He shrugs. “Finders keepers, right?”

She shakes her head, but that smile’s growing. “ . . . you have a point.”

“Usually do.”

She exhales through her nose, smirking. She pushes her damp hair back off her face. 

“We should head back to the beach.”

He moves his foot through the water, watching it ripple. “Don’t have to.” He thinks about the beach, crowded and hot and everyone scrambling to ask about what happened in the jungle yesterday.

He thinks about this, cool water and her.

(He doesn’t have to like her to find that a better option.)

“Thought you’d wanna get away from me as soon as possible,” she says wryly, looking up at the sun. It makes her glow, like some mythical creature. Like a mermaid, born from the water. Like an angel, born from the sky.

He shrugs, splashing the water with his foot. “Ain’t about you.” Even though, it is. Part of it. But he can barely admit that to himself, let alone out loud. Let alone to her.

She nods, and he swears she almost looks disappointed. (She should be. And he should be telling her the truth. He shouldn’t want to stay with her. He shouldn’t feel anything for her at all.)

“Right,” she says. “We aren’t friends.”

“Nope,” he says, flatly. And he doesn’t know how she buys it.

God, what is it about this island that’s turned him into such a shitty liar?

********

Sawyer is trying to read this goddamn book, which is hard when his brain isn’t exactly right and the words were already stupid before hand, when shadow covers the page. He narrows his eyes, looking up to find Hurley standing there.

“You’re blocking the light, Hammo,” he grumbles.

“Sorry,” he says, sitting himself down on the sand beside Sawyer. He scowls. His head’s killing him and he’s already dealt with a million questioning beach folk. That’s what he gets for acting like an upstanding citizen; not a moment of peace and quiet.

“Ain’t a damn theater,” he says. 

“Well, I wanted to ask ya something.”

“So ask it.”

He looks around, as if someone may be eavesdropping on their conversation. As if whatever this is requires the utmost secrecy.

“Everyone’s been so down, with Claire. And Charlie.”

“And the fact we’ve been playing Swiss Family Robinson for a couple of weeks,” he says.

“Yeah, exactly.” He taps his finger on his knee. “So I was thinking that we should do something fun. To lift everyone’s spirits—”

“Woah there, Tubby. Who’s we?”

He shrugs. “Well I just thought, since you’re like a hero now—”

“I ain’t no damn hero,” he snaps, and he feels like his head is spinning. “Didn’t even do nothing ‘cept get my ass kicked.”

“Tell that to them,” he says. 

It makes Sawyer acutely aware of the fact that people keep sneaking glances at him. A hero? Him? That’s plain stupid. 

He’s no hero. He’s not good.

Only reason he was out there was to keep an eye on Juliet. That don’t make him Superman.

If anything they should be mythologizing Jack, who beat a man back to life.

“So, will you help me?”

“Hell no,” Sawyer says. He’s not helping with no charity work. He’s not helping anyone. He’s gonna keep sitting here reading his book and snapping out rude one liners like the asshole he is.

Hurley sighs, standing up. “Alright, man. You know, you're on everyone’s good side right now. You should try and keep it up.”

“I don’t care ‘bout being on no one’s good side, Lardo.”

Hurley doesn’t even seem offended, more disappointed, which irks Sawyer to no end. It’s as if he’s lost all intimidation, lost all power. They know he’s harmless now. They think it’s an act.

But it ain’t an act. He’s not a good person.

If they want to make fools out of themselves, let them. It’s not on him.

********

Sawyer steps into the lifeboat and wonders why the hell he hasn’t been spending more of his time in here. The sun still burns his eyes through the window, but it’s not nearly as hot. And he could sit in an actual seat. 

But, back to what he’s here for.

He heard Jack talking about supplies, about going to see what’s left in the boat. And Sawyer would like first dibs on that. Before it’s put into the doc’s secret stash.

Not like there’s much left, anyway. He glances into each of the aisles of seats as he walks down toward the other end of the boat, looking for anything.

That’s when he sees it.

He stops, squinting. He’d have missed it if the sun wasn’t glinting off the metal. It’s tucked deep under the seat. It almost blends in with the ground.

Beneath the last seat at the end of the row by the window is what looks to be a metal case of some sort. He steps over, crouching down with a grunt and pulling it out. It’s jammed under there pretty tightly, but he gets it out. 

He sits down in the seat and sets the case in his lap, investigating it. It looks harmless. Not like it’s a bomb or something. 

He carefully unbuckles the lock, flipping the top open.

Son of a bitch.

It’s a handgun, sunlight glistening off the metal. It looks new too, or at least not too scuffed up.

Why the hell is there a gun in the lifeboat? 

How the hell did someone get a gun onto a cruise?

He pulls it out of the case, and feeling it in his hand immediately takes him back to that night. (It’ll come back around.) He ignores the creeping sense of dread, pulling back the slide. Fuck, it’s loaded. 

He shoves the gun into the back of his jeans, shutting the case and sliding it back under the seat.

Whoever went through the work to get a gun onto the ship isn’t going to be too happy when they realize it’s gone.

As he stands up, he can practically feel the weight of it, pulling him down. He’s still reeling from the fact that he found a gun. A fucking gun! This is why he came here before they could.

He thinks about the faces of the survivors, wondering who could be the owner. Seems every one he considers is suspicious. He knows nothing about any of them, well any of them save like five of them. But hell, it could be any of theirs too.

Not Juliet. It’s not Juliet’s gun.

That leaves, what, forty four people? Forty three? He’s not quite sure anymore. Plenty of faces to weed though, that’s for sure. Not that it matters. He doesn’t really care who it belongs to. It’s his now.

He’s not going to use it. Not unless he needs to. But he likes the safety that having it with him brings. He likes knowing he’s got the upper hand. He’s finally getting it back.

There’s nothing else, really. A couple of supplies that he’ll leave for Jack and co to find. He doesn’t want to make it look like he ransacked the place. He doesn’t need another confrontation. He’s goddamn exhausted.

Gun cold against his back, he gets back out of the boat and walks his way back to his tree on the beach. He doesn’t even have the time to sit down before Hurley’s walking over again.

“We’re doing a tic tac toe tournament. If you want to join.”

“A what?” he asks, squinting and setting his bag down by his feet.

“Tic tac toe, dude. Like with Xs and Os.”

“I know what tic tac toe is,” he grumbles.

Hurley nods. “So, does that mean you're in?”

“In on what?” he asks, exasperated.

Hurley looks at him like he’s stupid, which is frankly a little offensive. “The tournament. We’re drawing the games in the sand. And then the winners play each other and those winners play each other and it keeps going till there’s one champion.”

Sawyer frowns. “No, I ain’t in.”

“Juliet’s playing.”

The sound of her name rattles through him, a coin being dropped in a slot.

“The hell does that have to do with anything?”

His eyes widen just a little. “Sorry, dude, I thought you guys were like . . . close.”

He scowls. Close. Where the fuck would he get that idea? They aren’t close. Sawyer isn’t close to anyone. His arm is out, keeping her at a safe distance. 

They aren’t friends.

(They don’t have to be close for him to care.)

“We ain’t close,” he mutters. Is this a thing? Do they all think him and Juliet are shooting the shit in their free time? Jesus. This is why he hates people. They speculate and they make assumptions and they’re never right.

Because Juliet and him aren’t close and they aren’t friends and he doesn’t care that she’s playing tic tac toe with everyone else. Tic tac toe. Ugh, it’s so stupid.

He shakes his head and sits down. He can feel the gun digging into his back as he pulls his book out, trying to return to where he’d been before. He should probably just quit it, his head is killing him. But it’s fine.

He blatantly ignores the fact that, despite being described as brunette, the love interest in the novel is blonde in his head. 

********

Shadow covers his book—probably the same damn page as before since he’s barely made any progress—and he’s about to rip Hurley a new one when he looks up and sees Juliet.

“You shouldn’t be reading in your condition,” she tells him, arms crossed in front of her chest. But she’s smiling, just a little.

He wants her to stop smiling at him.

He wants her smile to stop making him feel like this.

“If you can even call this reading,” he mumbles, because he feels like the words are nonsense, all blending together.

“Hurley said you aren’t participating in his tournament.”

He looks up at her, tilting his head and smirking. “You asking ‘bout me, Blondie.”

She just keeps smiling. “Come on.”

“No.”

“James,” she exasperates.

He shuts his book. “Told ya not to call me that.” And if the reason before had solely been that it’s not who he is anymore, now it’s tied together with the fact that he’s beginning not to mind the sound of his god-given name on her tongue, and that’s scarier than anything.

“Sawyer,” she says, with a voice akin to an eye roll. “Will you play me in tic tac toe?”

“What are we, eight years old?”

“Why is it a kid’s game?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Just is.”

She stares at him for a long moment, blinking slow. He feels he’s under a microscope.

“As your doctor I prescribe you to play a game with me.”

He wrinkles his nose. “You ain’t my doctor.”

“So you don’t want the pain meds I brought down here with me?”

He looks away, breathing out a long sigh. “Fine.”

She grins, satisfied, and it’s oxygen to the fire of annoyance in his chest. But then she’s reaching into her bag and tossing him the small bottle of pills and he can’t be annoyed anymore.

“We’re almost out,” she tells him as he pops it open and pours two into his hand.

“Great,” he mutters, putting them in his mouth and washing them down with the little bit of water in his bottle.

She pulls out another one, full, and tosses it down into the sand. “Here.”

“Thanks,” he says.

“Now get up.”

He frowns up at her. “I have to?”

“Yup.”

He groans, getting to his feet. He reaches his hand back and adjusts the placement of the gun in the waistband of his jeans, pulling his shirt over it and following Juliet.

“You know how dumb this is?”

She shakes her head. “It’s fun. We all need that.”

“There are plenty of other ways to have fun,” he says suggestively, lip turning up in a smirk.

“You’re disgusting,” she says, but he hears the smile in her voice.

“What, your boyfriend don’t make comments like that? He as prudish as you.”

She stops, looking back at him over her shoulder with a frown. “I’m not a prude. And I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He pauses.

She doesn’t have a boyfriend.

Not that it matters. Not that he cares. Not that it affects anything at all. He’d already assumed, since she never talks about one.

It’s just . . . interesting. He’s building the file of her he has in his head. That’s all.

“Mmm how ‘bout that.”

She blinks slow, seemingly unamused by the comment. Good. He meant nothing by it. It meant nothing.

She turns and they walk over to where Hurley and some of the others are standing. When they stop, he crosses his arms and stares away from the group, wishing he was anywhere but here.

“I’m glad you changed your mind,” Hurley tells him, stepping over. Juliet has a stupid little smirk on her face.

He just grunts. “Whatever.”

It takes probably ten minutes for Hurley to finish explaining the rules, as if they matter. As if none of them know how to play. Finally, he dismisses them to go set up their game. Not that Sawyer’s happy about that, getting to spend time with Juliet. It’s just better than standing here with everyone. He’d think the same if it was anyone else. Of course he would.

She uses a stick to draw the board in the sand.

“You have to try,” she tells him. “No losing on purpose.”

“Ok, Mom.” He rolls his eyes, tapping his stick against his palm.

She finishes, stepping back to admire it. “You want to be Xs or Os?”

“Do I look like I care?”

She ignores his bad attitude. Why does everyone do that? It’s supposed to get under their skin.

“Alright, I’ll be Os. You go first.”

He sighs, stepping forward and drawing an X in the middle. She seems to really consider her move before making an O in the spot below his. He just draws an X in the spot closest to him, beside hers. She puts her O in the other corner, preventing him from making his row.

That’s when he sees it.

If he goes into the corner on the other end, he wins. There’d be two ways for him to go.

He kind of wants to let her win.

But she’s the one who made him play. And he doesn’t want to listen to her you made a bad move on purpose! bullshit. 

He draws in the X, grinning wickedly.

She stares at it for a moment, seems to take in what it means, and then purses her lips. “Crap.”

He feigns cluelessness. “What?” And then the grin returns. He can’t help it. “Ya told me not to lose.”

“On purpose.” She shakes her head and draw in an O. 

He scratches in his X and then draws a line through his row. “Would ya look at that.”

“Good game.” She reaches her hand out, and he hesitates for a moment before grabbing it. It’s so soft, skin somehow cold against his.

“We can say you won,” he tells her.

She frowns. “We’re not going to lie.”

“I don’t wanna play any of ‘em.”

“You won. You have to.”

He scowls. “I should’ve just let you win, then.”

She shakes her head. “Come on. This’ll be fun.”

“Define fun,” he grumbles, following her back toward the group. This is just wonderful.

She excuses herself to talk to Hurley for a moment, and then returns, smiling in a way that worries him. 

“You have to play Walt.”

“Who the hell . . .” Before he can finish his question he sees the kid sauntering over like he owns the place. Right. Walt.

“Hey,” he says, squinting at the sun and standing there with his hands on his hips.

Sawyer looks at Juliet. “I ain’t playing a six year old.”

“I’m ten,” he argues.

Juliet just smiles and shrugs. “You said it was a kids game.”

They’re both staring at him expectantly. He sighs exasperatedly. “Whatever.”

“I’ll draw the board for you,” Juliet says, drawing in the sand with her stick.

He eyes the kid, trying to size him up. He stares right back.

“What’re you looking at?” he asks, a little curious actually.

Sawyer just shakes his head and looks away.

“Done,” Juliet says, stepping back. She looks like she needs a bucket of popcorn, watching them eagerly. 

In the end, the kid beats him.

Which is fine. Out after two rounds? Great. Two rounds too many if you ask him. And if it’s a little embarrassing to be beat by a kid, no it’s not. It’s stupid, anyway.

He could probably leave. Juliet would probably let him. Not that he needs her permission to do anything.

But what’s he going to do, sit and sulk? He can’t read. He’s too uncomfortable to sleep, and it’s too sunny out. So why not stand here and watch these idiots? Why not stand here and make comments that get scoffs out of Juliet and stand so close he can just feel her presence even when he’s not looking at her? Why not?
It has nothing to do with her. Of course it doesn’t. It’s just entertainment for him. He’d stand and watch with anyone else.

Yeah.

Yeah.

It has nothing to do with her. He swears.

********

Sawyer doesn’t think he’s felt this kind of peace his entire life, lying on his back in the water, eyes shut as the warm afternoon sun shines down on his skin. All he can hear is the soft rush of the water, cool beneath him. No thinking about the ache in his chest or his head or his muscles. No thinking about this damn island or all the shit he left behind.

No thinking about her.

Snap.

The noise breaks through the quiet like a pin dropping in a quiet room. He’s getting up, starting to swim over to the edge, ready to grab the gun sitting beneath his jeans crumpled up on the rocks, when something comes breaking through the leaves.

Oh, great. The her in question.

She seems startled to see him there, but her face shifts into a small smile pretty quickly. Damn it.

“Hey.”

He grunts, swimming back from the edge. “Hey.”

“Looks like we had the same idea,” she says, setting her bag down. As if it’s a beach and this is a normal day and they’re not trapped on a damn tropical island.

“Not much else to do around here,” he says. Besides, he’s using it as a laundry day, wet his shirt and set it out on the rock to dry. Not like there’s a washer machine around here.

“Hm.” 

He looks over and notices her skin’s increasingly pink since the last time he saw her.

“Assuming they’re still out of sunscreen,” he comments.

She just glares at him. “Not funny. You try having this kind of skin in this place.”

He knows. The bridge of his nose and his shoulders are burnt from the sun and he can’t stand it. He can’t imagine how it feels for her.

“You know, just because we’re the only ones here doesn’t mean you should be a slob,” she tells him, a hint of playfulness in her voice. But then she’s stepping over toward his things and panic thuds through his broken ribcage.

He quickly swims over, snapping a quick, “Don’t touch my shit.”

But he’s too far away. He’s too slow. She picks up the pile of his socks and jeans from the ground, gun clattering down onto the rocks.

She stares down at it.

Sawyer stares at it, and then stares at her.

She turns, looking at him with this ghostly expression on her face—big eyes and parted lips, skin gone pale.

“Why do you have a gun?”

“Look, I can explain—”

“How do you have this?” She drops the jeans, bending down and picking it up.

He pulls himself up out of the water. “I found it.”

“You found it?” she asks, incredulous, not believing him.

“On the ship.” He pushes his wet hair back off his forehead, standing up. “I went on to see if there was anything good, food or something. There was a case jammed under one of the seats. That was inside.”

“And you took it ?” 

He takes a step toward her and she backs up. Fuck. 

“Why wouldn’t I? You’ve seen the shit that happens here.”

He can see her mind race behind her wild eyes, looking between the weapon in her hands and his face. He wonders if she’s ever held a gun before. He wonders if this is the first time.

He wonders if she’s scared of him yet. If this is what it finally took.

“And you’re ready to kill someone with this?” she asks, voice paper thin.

He swallows, thinking about pouring rain and the pull of the trigger and the body slumping against the dumpster. (It’ll come back around) “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“But you’re carrying it around with you.”

“For safety! Fuck, Blondie, you done yet? Or is this interrogation going to take all day.”

She doesn’t laugh, eyes narrow and lips pressed together. “I’m giving it to Jack.”

He scoffs. “The hell you are.”

“I am.”

“Who made Saint Jack the leader, huh? How do you know he ain’t gonna go on a killing spree? You don’t know anything ‘bout him.”

“You should’ve said something when you found it.”

“Well, I don’t report to the doc. Or you.”

She’s squeezing the metal so tight. He almost reminds her there’s a trigger on that thing.

He steps closer, and this time she doesn’t move. “Juliet,” he says, softening his voice, utilizing the tactics he knows all too well. “Juliet, just give it to me. It’s in safe hands.”

She hesitates, staring at him like if she looks long enough she’ll be able to see into his head. But she can’t, and after a long moment she steps forward and carefully reaches it out to him. He grabs it, letting his arm fall down by his side.

“I’m telling Jack,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Do whatever the hell you want. I ain’t giving it to him.”

“Why?”

He looks at her, hard. “Because I found it.”

She looks disappointed in him. She looks almost disturbed. 

“Only one us got their head kicked in. But I learned my lesson.” He steps closer to her. “Ain’t gonna happen again.”

He leans down and grabs his jeans from behind her, tugging them on. 

“It’s not safe,” she tells him.

He shakes his head, shoving his feet in his boots. “You got it wrong, sweetheart. This island’s what ain’t safe.”

He flashes her a smirk and can almost see the way it turns her stomach. Good. This is good. This is the way he was finally able to do it, it seems. Push her away.

So why does he feel so sick himself?

“Enjoy your swim.” He steps past her, picking his damp shirt up off the ground and pulling it on as he walks back into the jungle.

It’s not his fault the sight of a gun has got her panties all in a twist. It’s not his fault she grew up in a respectable family and lives a respectable life and has never had to see one. Never had to think about them.

It’s not his fault it scares her.

She’s gotta take a look around and see where the hell they are. 

And he’s gotta stop letting her get under his skin. Letting her get in his head. It’s fucking stupid. What does he think he’s doing? Who does he think he is?

She’s a pretty, sweet, angel of a girl and he’s a mess—a con artist, a murderer. The list goes on.

She’s going to get off the island and go home to her sister and her perfect life and he’ll be back in the trenches.

She’s good. He’s bad. 

She’s terrified by the thought of a gun while he’s never felt as comfortable as he does with it in his hand.

Snap.

The noise behind him, soft but echoing in the silence, makes him whip the gun out and turn, pointing it right at . . .

A man. A man he doesn’t recognize. Not someone from the boat—because he’d remember this guy.

Son of a bitch. Here we go again.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sawyer growls. Even though he knows. He’s one of them. From wherever Ethan’s from.

This guy just smiles, as if watching a puppy bark. As if Sawyer’s so amusing. 

“Why don’t you put the gun down, James.” Sawyer jolts, that name a lighting bolt striking through him. “We can have a civilized conversation.”

“Civilized, huh? Like last time.” His chest throbs in reminder.

“Ethan’s actions were . . . extreme. Those were not his orders. I apologize for what he did to you.”

“But there ain’t any issue with kidnapping a pregnant girl, is there.”

Sawyer wants nothing more than to wipe the eerie smile off this bug-eyed fucker’s face.

“We have our reasons.”

“Hm.” He tightens his grip on the gun, finger ready over the trigger. He could shoot him right now. He doesn’t even seem fazed, just standing there with his hands clasped in front of him. 

He could shoot him.

“Let’s start on a better foot. My name is Benjamin Linus.”

Sawyer eyes him—barefoot, dirty, shabby clothes. He looks like a genuine island native. Almost too stereotypical. Like it’s a costume.

“Seems you already know everything ‘bout me,” he spits.

His smile stretches wider. “Everything is excessive.”

“What do you want?” 

“You know, the gun is really unnecessary—”

“I’ll decide what’s necessary,” he says, low, finger hovering over the trigger. He could hit him right between those freakish eyes.

He doesn’t seem bothered by Sawyer’s non-compliance. “Alright, then.” His gaze seems to bore into him before saying, “James, I am here because I need your help.”

Sawyer narrows his eyes. “My help.”

“Yes.”

“With what?” His arm’s beginning to ache, tired from being held up. But hell if he’s going to drop it. He knows what they’re capable of, these people. He doesn’t buy this nice guy, business meeting act.

His smile stretches wide again. “There are three people from your camp that I need you to bring to me.”

So he doesn’t even really need him, does he. 

He thinks about Juliet and feels his heart clench. Who knows what the fuck these people want. He’s not throwing her to the wolves. He’s not giving her to them.

(He can tell himself it’s not about her, but hers is the only name he’s begging not to hear.)

“What, you can’t just have one ‘a your men kidnap ‘em? Bring an extra to hang from a tree on the way?”

Benjamin exhales from his nose, making a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. As if that’s amusing to him. 

“That was a different situation.”

“I’m sure it was.” He adjusts his grip. “Who?”

It looks like that question is exactly what he wanted to hear. Like Sawyer’s playing right into his trap. “Jack Shephard, Kate Austen, and Hugo Reyes.”

He almost sighs in relief at the lack of Juliet’s name.

“Hugo—”

“Hurley, I believe you know him as.”

Look at that. He ain’t the only one going by a fake name.

“What do ya need ‘em for?” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

He grinds his teeth together. “You gonna kill them?”

He breathes out a laugh. “We aren’t killers, James.”

He doesn’t bring up Charlie, and the sight of him lifelessly hanging there; the way Jack’s fist beat down on his chest. 

“Why would I help you?”

“I’m a reasonable man. I wouldn’t make you do this without getting something in return.”

Sawyer’s like a dog, ears pricking up at the sound of a treat. Or here, the sound of a reward.

“Something like what?”

“We have a boat. And we have the compass bearings to lead you home.” He smiles so delightedly. “And we’d let you take her with you.”

He stills, feeling the harshness in his face soften. 

He doesn’t have to ask. He knows what he means.

He just doesn’t know how the fuck he knows anything about him and her. Or the lack of a him and her. Because there’s nothing between them besides maybe an alliance of some sort.

“What’s the catch?”

He offers a small head shake. “No catch. Bring me those three and you and her are on your way.”

Sawyer runs his tongue over his lip, thinking. His brain’s all fucked up and this is insane and he feels like he’s lagging. What is he supposed to say? I mean, yeah, that sounds fucking great. He doesn’t care that much about the doc or his girlfriend or Gumby. Or at least not enough to not get Juliet home.

Juliet. Juliet who cries over her sister. Who he stupidly promised he could get home.

Juliet who he can now keep his promise to.

“I’ll give you a week to decide,” he says, in response to Sawyer’s silence.

“What happens if I say no? You gonna kill me?”

That smile seems to turn brighter, more sinister. It sends dread up Sawyer’s spine.

“I told you, we aren’t killers. But if I were you, I’d say yes. I have my eyes on her.”

A primal protectiveness lights up inside him.

He growls, “If you touch her—”

“A week, James. I trust you’ll make the right decision.” 

There’s a noise behind him, sounding like a bird taking flight through the trees. He turns, finding nothing.

When he turns back around, Benjamin’s gone.

He’s alone.

The right decision.

Son of a bitch. He can’t catch a break, can he?

Chapter Text

“And if I could give you the moon
I would give you the moon”

Moon Song, Phoebe Bridgers 

Sawyer’s head hurts.

It’s been almost two weeks since Rosemary Woodhouse got taken into the jungle and he got his head kicked in. His concussion’s close to gone, or at least him and the side effects have parted ways. He should be fine.

He’s not.

It’s not the faded concussion that’s doing it.

He’s a quick thinker. He’s trained himself over the years to make decisions in the blink of an eye. And good ones, too. He’s observant, he reads situations well. He’s able to know what’s right and what’s wrong. (Not morally, but considering what’ll aid him best. Morally . . . it gets a little gray.)

But this island has done more harm than a few broken ribs and sunburnt shoulders. 

He doesn’t know what to do. For maybe the first time in his life he’s at a crossroads and there’s not one clear path to follow.

It’s given him a goddamn migraine. 

He only has four days left until he’ll come face to face with the Crypt Keeper again, and he has to come to a conclusion by then. Every time he thinks he has, every time he thinks it all points in one direction, a thought intrudes and tears it all down.

It’s wrong. He doesn’t have to be a good person to know what’s good and what’s bad and he knows that tricking Jack and Kate and Hurley into some trap isn’t the act of a saint. He knows Jack wouldn’t do it, if the roles were reversed.

But he isn’t Jack.

This Benjamin guy doesn’t seem like someone who’s going to back down. If Sawyer says no, it’s just as likely he’ll find some other, weaker chump who’ll do his dirty work for him. And then Sawyer’s stuck on this rock while that fucker gets a one way ticket home. 

And he can hear that voice, curling into his ear. 

I have my eye on her.

It’s selfish, and vaguely distressing, that he’d be willing to screw three people over to secure Juliet’s safety. If it was his own, sure. That makes sense. No thought about it. But why is that he’s so distraught over the idea of putting her in harm’s way? He can’t comprehend why he cares for her so much.

Because he does care for her. More than he’s even aware of. 

So maybe that’s the reason. That’s why he does it, tells Benji yeah and leads those three to their doom. To protect, and help, Juliet. He thinks it’s a good enough reason. Besides, wouldn’t he be doing everyone a favor? He’s sure Juliet wouldn’t quit until people are out there looking for the island. Until all of these people are home safe.

So he’d be doing the right thing.

He’d be keeping his promise. The one he stupidly made what feels like so long ago, when he told Juliet he’d get her home to her sister. He likes to stay true to his word, and this is how he does that.

It’s the right decision.

He thinks, at least.

Is it right to betray three people who haven’t really done anything to deserve it, no matter how much an annoyance they are?

God, since when did he care about what was right?

He glances up from the book he’s not really reading and stares out at the calm waves. He thinks about how people idolize this view and how to be honest he’s getting a little sick of it.

Something catches his eye and he turns to the right, a little shocked to see the council huddled in some sort of pow wow at the other end of the beach. The doc, Sayid, Locke, Juliet. Even Charlie. Only one they’re missing is Kate.

Curious, he gets up to his feet with a grunt, dropping his book and dusting the sand from his jeans. He situates the gun tucked in the back of his waistband and looks around. Eager to know what the fuss is about, he stops the first guy he sees.

“You know what the committee’s discussing over there?” he asks, nodding his head toward them.

This guy (Scott, maybe? Something with an S.) shrugs. “Probably Claire.”

He frowns. “What about her?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?” He hates this, being out of the loop. Maybe he should move into the caves. At least then he’d have some clue about what the fuck’s going on. No one ever cares to tell him anything. 

“Claire’s back. They found her in the jungle. I think she has amnesia or something.”

“Son of a bitch.” Easy as that. They just found her. 

Amnesia. Yeah, right. What does that even mean? She doesn’t remember anything? Hard to believe. It raises suspicion, that’s all.

You know what else raises suspicion? That she wanders back now. Right after Sawyer’s run-in in the jungle. 

He turns, heading toward the path up into the jungle.

“Where are you going?” the guy calls after him.

“Nowhere. Thanks, uh . . . Scott.”

“I’m Steve,” the guy groans.

Whatever. 

He heads down the worn path quickly, determination carrying him through the jungle. If so many feet hadn’t walked the trail, he wouldn’t be able to follow it so easily. No matter how many times he’s traveled it, he still has no clue where he is. Every tree looks the same. But nonetheless, he finds his way, entering the caves and stopping to take a deep breath.

Scott (or Steve, or whatever) wasn’t lying. There she is, sitting there sadly fiddling with a water bottle. There are dark, purplish red bruises around her eyes, as if she hasn’t slept in weeks. He walks over to her slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.

“Hey, Claire.”

She jolts and it’s like his voice awakes her from a trance, eyes going big and staring up at him. “Uh, hi.” She puts on a small, weary smile, and after a moment says, “I’m sorry, but uh, who are you?”

He frowns. He’d think she was putting on an act except it’s so genuine, and he doesn’t think she has the ability to fake something that well.

“You really don’t know?”

She presses her lips together—it sort of resembles a smile—and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs. Well, this is pointless, then.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He begins to turn away, having the decency not to hassle this girl who’s obviously going through it.

“Wait.”

He stops, turning back to look at her.

“Um, what’s your name?”

He works his jaw, thinking a moment before saying, “Sawyer.”

“Sawyer. Why did you come over here?”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” She looks like she doesn’t believe him, and he sighs. “You really don’t remember anything?”

She shakes her head. “No. I . . . I’ve tried.”

“So, the name Benjamin doesn’t ring a bell?”

She frowns, brow pinched together. She opens her mouth, but before anything can come out, a voice thunders from the cave's entrance.

“Sawyer!”

He turns to find Jack storming over, the whole goddamn cavalry behind him. Oh fun. What did he do this time?

“Hey, Doc,” he says, innocent smile curling up on his lip.

Jack stops a few feet away from him, fuming, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “What are you doing?” He looks at Claire. “What did he say to you?”

“I . . . I don’t—”

“What, I ain’t allowed to converse with the citizens of Islandville anymore?” And now he’s really pissed. Not just pissed, he’s furious. Because he knows he isn’t a good guy. But Jack’s acting like he’s the spawn of Satan; like he’s going to corrupt the good hearts of his people. And that’s pushing it just a little too much for his taste.

The doc doesn't seem to think so, staring hard right into his eyes. His voice is sharp. “We need to talk.”

“Let’s talk,” he says, and smirks because he knows this is how he gets under his skin.

“Alone.”

Sawyer exhales through his nose, dimples deepening when he says, all sickeningly sweet sarcasm, “I want my lawyer.” 

It does what he wants it to, Jack looks like he’s about to explode. If he were a cartoon character his face would be burning red, steam fuming from his ears. And Sawyer decides he doesn’t need a broken nose today.

“Lead the way, boss,” he says, gesturing forward dramatically with his hand. His eyes meet Juliet’s by accident, and he can tell this is all making her a little sick. He doesn’t feel bad about it.

(Of course he fucking does.)

Charlie scurries over and sits down beside Claire, who doesn’t seem all too thrilled to see him, and the rest of the crew walks into the jungle just away from the caves. Jack, Juliet, Locke . . . it’s an awful lot of people for a conversation that was meant to occur ‘alone.’ 

“Didn’t agree to meet with the council,” he sneers.

Jack doesn’t acknowledge his comment. He just stands there, hands on his hips. “Give me the gun.”

“Hmph,” Sawyer huffs. So that’s what this is about. He should’ve guessed, with Miss Bleeding Heart back there shaking with guilt. “Why?”

Jack frowns, and his every expression is so overdone and dramatic it makes Sawyer want to misalign the bones in his face just to see how well he can express himself then.

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

Sawyer works his jaw. “Give me one good reason it’s in better hands with you than me.”

“I swear—”

“Please, enlighten me. One reason, and it’s yours.”

There’s a fire blazing behind his eyes. Sawyer can see it. “Do you know what happens when everyone finds out you have a gun? People start asking questions. And they come to me. And when they tell me they don’t feel safe, or ask where you got it, what am I supposed to say?”

“You don’t tell them anything. ‘Cause they won’t know. In fact, I think the only reason you got any idea about it is ‘cause Blondie opened her mouth. Ain’t that right?”

He glances at her, and the look on her face is one he’s familiar with. One that’s been worn by teachers and principals and social workers and every other person who he’s disappointed. (One worn by his mother, but only in dreams.)

“Sawyer, don’t you think it’d be safer to have the gun somewhere more secure? So none of us could use it unless it was discussed first?” Locke tries to reason.

“Don’t know ‘bout you but where I’m from that sounds like premeditated murder. Now, unless y’all have something else to say I’ll be on my way.”

He turns, confident in that none of them are stupid enough to follow him back to the beach. He’s not giving it up. Especially not now that he’s involved in all this drama with the natives. 

“Sawyer.”

He stops, glancing over his shoulder. Jack’s deathly serious.

“When I want the gun, I’ll get it.”

He stares back, just as hard. “Alright, Doc.” And then he turns again, leaving them behind as he storms down the path toward the beach. 

You know, maybe he shouldn’t feel too bad about screwing Jack over. He certainly wouldn’t care all that much if the roles were reversed.

(He should resent Juliet just as much as he does Jack.)

(He doesn’t. He can’t understand why.)

(He knows why. Of course he does.)

Once he’s made enough turns and pushes enough leaf fronds out of the way to know they’re not following, he slows down. It gives him time to think about how goddamn righteous Jack is. Who made the decision to give him power over the island? Because Sawyer certainly wasn’t involved in that decision. 

He thinks about the fit he’d throw if Sawyer asked him for the gun and wonders what makes it different when it’s the other way around.

He knows. Jack’s the good guy, and Sawyer’s the villain. It’s as simple as that.

Well, if that’s how they want to play this. Sawyer can be the villain. He can be the bad guy.

His ears prick up at the sound of something moving through the leaves behind him, and he stops, moving as quiet and as slow as he can to face the path. His hand reaches behind him, fingers wrapping around the gun, when suddenly she comes rounding the corner, hair wild from what seems like her rush to catch up to him. He slides his fingers off the metal, dropping his hand.

“You can run on home, Sweetcheeks. I ain’t giving it up.”

Her breaths are so heavy. “James, please just listen.” 

He doesn’t speak, just watching her. Her lips are parted, skin slick with sweat, a curl glued to her forehead. He watches her, and he thinks about if he’d met her in some hotel bar back in the real world and how he would have avoided her at all costs. She’s the kind of woman he’d immediately turn away from.
It’s not that she’s not gorgeous. It’s the fact that she is. She’s almost too pretty. Too soft and ethereal and angelic. Holy, in a sense. Even he knows he’s too good to touch that. She wouldn’t give him a second look. So he’d move on, go to the next girl, someone loud and mouthy who looks like every other girl who’s fluttering her eyelashes and practically calling out to him. 

But he’d think about her that night. He knows he would because he thinks about her every night now.

He doesn’t protest, so she catches her breath and speaks. “I trust you.”

He thinks his mask slips. He thinks maybe she sees the way those words strike him, unexpected and deep. Because they’re said so seriously, so genuinely, and it doesn’t make sense. She shouldn’t trust him; she has no reason to.

If she does see, she doesn’t comment on it. She continues on, “But it doesn’t change that I don’t trust anyone with a gun. Not even Jack.”

“So what, you wanna keep it for yourself? That’s the only way to keep things safe?” He has no idea where she’s going with this. The whole I trust you thing is getting pretty damn convoluted. 

“No, that’s not what I’m going to do. I don’t trust myself with it either. If we keep it somewhere safe, then we have access if we need it. But it’s not just around to cause trouble.”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Pretty sure most ‘a the time someone needs a gun, it’s somewhat of an urgent issue.”

She sighs, hand coming up to press against her eyebrow. She drops it after a moment, and meets his eyes. 

“James, you don’t have to do this.” A soft smile spreads across her face, and he narrows his eyes.

“I don’t know ‘bout you, Blondie. But in my world, it’s every man for himself. And I gotta watch my back.”

Her expression is solemn, though there’s an odd tenderness to it. A kindness, almost, as she steps toward him. 

“I have your back.”

He breathes out a laugh because it’s so absurd. “Yeah, Juliet. I’m sure you do.”

“I’m serious.” Her eyes are so fucking blue. He hates it. He hates it because he loves them. He hates it because he can’t look away.

He hates it because they’re distracting enough that he lets her reach her hand around his body and grab the gun, carefully plucking it from the waistband of his jeans. Her hand brushes against the skin of his lower back and he flinches, shaking himself from the trance she put him in.

He grabs her wrist, gripping it hard in his big hand. 

“James,” she says, eyes bigger now. 

He presses his thumb into her pale skin and hopes it leaves a bruise, so she thinks about him every time she sees it. If there wasn’t enough proof to back up his claim that he’s innately bad, there you go. He’s willing to hurt her just to do something to her at all. 

It’s in his nature, to harm. He doesn’t know how to care. It’s all a blur in his mind, in his fucked up head. To him, breaking the blood vessels beneath her porcelain skin is as good as lips brushing against her cheek.

It’s safer, anyway.

He slides his fingers off of her skin, letting her go, and she pulls her hand back. She tucks the gun in her own jeans. (Kate’s, maybe. He’s always curious but never asks where she gets the clothes she wears. He remembers her pajamas from the night the cruise sank.)

(Sometimes he forgets about the ship, with everything else that’s happened.)

“Thank you,” she says, softly.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he says, and he doesn’t know how true it is.

She nods. “I know.”

He knows he shouldn’t touch her, but he wants to. He wants to, and he hates himself for it. For how much he desires to feel the softness of her face and her body and her skin underneath him. How desperate he is to know how she tastes, and how she’d react to every touch. The sounds she’d make.

“I meant it,” she tells him, and he sees the faint smile that graces her lips before she turns and begins her way back toward the caves.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do with that.

********

Sawyer’s eyes are shut, head leaned back against the tree, when there’s a thud in the sand beside him.

He blinks them open, staring up at Juliet. Neither of them say anything. They just stare at each other.

“I brought you water,” she says. “I get a book.”

Despite the fact that the sight of her puts a funny feeling in his stomach, he smirks. “Didn’t know that deal was still on.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

He shrugs. Things were a lot different, then. What feels like months ago but was only weeks. 

She reaches into her backpack and grabs the last book he gave her, tossing it into his lap.

He doesn’t want to talk to her. He doesn’t like how he feels, under her gaze. (Real, present, acknowledged. Cared for.) He doesn’t like feeling pathetic, knowing she practically fucking conned him. He still doesn’t know what happened, how she spun her words and left him dumbfounded enough to let her walk away with the gun.

But she’s standing here and she’s just like all of his other problems. He can’t just ignore her until she goes away.

He leans over and shoves the book in his bag. “You got any preference?”

“I’m not picky.”

There’s a crime novel. It’s what he was saving to read next. He pulls it out of the bag and reaches his hand up, not turning his face up to look at her.

She grabs it. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“James.”

He frowns, because the way she says his name makes his heart swell. He wants to rip it out and stomp his heel into it, beat it into the sand so it can never flutter again at those five forbidden letters on her tongue.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

It startles her, two words he absolutely did not expect to hear. It’s what finally gets him to look at her.

“Huh?”

She smiles softly, in that way that lights her up. She’s like the sun, and he’s a fucking flower, eating it up. He wants to burrow into the ground and never feel her rays again.

“Yesterday, I . . . I know you found it. You were trying to keep yourself safe. And I’m sorry.”

She’s talking about the gun. He wonders if Jack has it now. If it’s tucked into the back of his jeans.

He doesn’t forgive her.

(He doesn’t even blame her for anything. He’s the weak fucker who let her walk all over him.)

“Okay.”

She furrows her brow. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He leans his head against the tree again. “You got your book. You said your sorrys. You got anything else?”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and it takes so much resolve not to look at her.

“Sometimes I think your sole goal in life is to confuse people.”

The hell’s that supposed to mean? 

He grabs the bottle she brought for him, uncapping it and pouring back some of the water into his mouth. “Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but none of my actions are catered to ya.”

“Like that,” she says softly. “‘Cause sometimes I think they are.”

He frowns, and it’s such a meaningless expression for the fact that he feels like he can’t fucking breathe. 

Is it that obvious? It must be, because she figured him out. She figured him out when he hasn’t even figured himself out.

She shakes her head, and before he can say anything retreats. “Sorry, I . . . Thanks for the book.” 

And he’s startled by the fact that she seems to be choking up. Her eyes are welling with tears as she turns and it’s like he’s choking on glass. His throat feels sharp, tight, and he doesn’t know what to say but it hurts.

“Juliet.”

She stops, and after a moment turns. She’s composing herself, but if he looks closely he thinks her hands are shaking.

“You got something in your eye?”

A sad smile stretches across her face, and she looks down, whispering so gently, “Yeah.”

He thinks about the sobs he’s seen her let out, and his chest tightens.

He regrets it almost the minute he asks, “Your sister?”

Because now her resolve is broken, and even from here he can see the tears that roll down her burnt pink cheek. She lets out a laugh, but isn’t really a laugh at all.

“It’s her birthday. This week.”

He doesn’t know how she keeps track of dates and weeks. It could be Christmas and he’d be none the wiser.

“I’m sorry.”

She nods, like it’s all she can do. And then she turns and heads back on her way.

He reaches up and roughly pushes a hand through his hair, slamming his head back against the tree and wincing at the sharp pain.

Fucking Juliet, and the fact that she’s awakened some foreign empathy he didn’t even know he had.

Fucking Juliet.

Fuck.

********

Sawyer needs a cigarette. 

He’s not addicted. He’s gone plenty of stretches back in the real world without any. But he thinks then there was always the option to drop into the nearest convenience store and get a pack. Unless there’s a corner mart a little farther up the beach that he hasn’t seen yet then he’s screwed.

He flicks the lighter open and closed, watching the flames and wishing they were on the end of a smoke instead.

Movement catches his eye, and he glances over to see Kate coming out of the jungle, looking damp from the rain. Something about the slouch of her shoulders piques his curiosity. He knows they’d all been planning something. He’d seen them all circled up earlier, scheming. He hadn’t paid much attention, not wanting his eyes to fall on Juliet for so long he couldn’t tear them away.

His every goddamn thought has been about her.

Why?

He doesn’t know. (He knows.) He doesn’t want to think about it. Rather, he wants to know what happened that’s got Freckles so down in the dumps. 

He shoves the lighter in his pocket and gets up, dusting sand from his jeans and taking slow steps over toward where she stands in front of the signal fire. It burns bright in the darkness of the night.

“Howdy, Freckles,” he greets, and she glances up at him tiredly.”

“Sawyer.”

He digs his heel into the sand. “What’s got you all down in the mouth? The doc dump you?”

She looks up, mouth turned down in disgust. He smiles. It did what he wanted it to.

She looks back at the fire. “Ethan’s dead.”

His stomach lurches.

“What?” The act is gone, genuine shock bleeding through his words.

She chews on her bottom lip, shaking her head. “Charlie killed him.”

He thinks about his lifeless body hanging from that tree. (He thinks about the pull of a trigger and the body slumped against the dumpster, rain soaked to the bone.)

(At least one of them got the right guy.)

“How?” But it’s stupid because he already knows.

“Your gun.”

He huffs out a laugh, giving a wry tilt of his head. “Well. Seems Jack’s whole ‘it’ll be safer with us’ spiel really worked out, huh?”

She narrows his eyes, looking up at him. “We didn’t realize . . . We were going to get information out of him.”

“You think he would’ve said anything?”

There’s an odd vacancy in her eyes.. “It doesn’t matter now, does it.”

“Guess not.”

He can’t shake the paranoia that creeps up his spine. Ethan was Benji’s buddy. He was his man. And he was killed with a gun that Ben knows he had.

It could fuck it all up.

Kate wraps her arms around herself, hands gripping her elbows. Looking at her, he thinks she’s exactly the kind of woman he would’ve approached in the real world. He doesn’t have to think it. He knows.

(It’s too often that he looks at her and thinks of Cassidy, and it makes his heart ache.)

(It’s too often he thinks of a baby with big blue eyes.)

“You got a life out of this place, Freckles?”

She snaps her head toward him. “What?”

He thinks about meeting her in that bar on the ship. Clare. He thinks about what he heard, days ago in the jungle. The conversation between her and Jack. Was that before or after you were on the run?

He thinks maybe the two of them are more alike than either of them realize.

“Why were you on that cruise?”

She studies him closely, and then offers a small shake of her head. “Vacation.”

“By yourself?”

She frowns, face pinching together tightly. “What are you getting at, Sawyer?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Just curious.”

Her eyes are scrutinizing, staring at him, and finally she turns away. The fire dances across her skin, flames reflected in her eyes. She’s all heat, fire. She burns.

Juliet is like ice. She’s like cool water on a warm summer’s day. She’s like a breath of fresh air.

He has his own fire, blazing furious inside of him.

Wordlessly, he turns and walks away, leaving the fire behind him.

Kate doesn’t have anything back home. She was on the run, if Jack meant what he said to her. He knows that’s not a glamorous life. He knows it all too well.

Because to him, he often wonders what awaits him if he ever escapes this place. If the life he had back there is really any better than the one here.

But Juliet’s is. Juliet has something to go home to, a sister and a nephew. Something worthy of crying over. Juliet has a life.

So what if he screws over a couple people without them to get her back to hers.

He thinks he’d light the world on fire for her. Burn the whole jungle down if it meant getting her home.

He’s never been loyal to anything but himself and the letter in his pocket. He doesn't know what to do with the fact that his every breath seems to be for her these days. One more moment he gets to live under the same moon as her.

He doesn’t know how to handle the fact that his whole universe has come to revolve around her.

He doesn’t know how to handle the fact that his loyalty lies with her. That he cares for her more than he even realizes he does.

(That he . . .)

(No.)

(He can’t.)

(He can’t.)

Chapter Text

"I don't know who I am
But I know what I want"

Emily, I'm Sorry, boygenius

Sawyer just planned to cool off before making his deal with the devil. That was it. He didn’t consider that Juliet might be there, feet in the water. It’s not his fault she is, that he’s stuck at the edge of the clearing with his eyes glued to her, a deer in headlights. It’s not his fault she hasn’t noticed him.

Or well, hadn’t until he tries to shift his position and brushes against the foliage, causing her to whip her head around and spot him.

She frowns, because he’s standing there. And he frowns because her eyes are red rimmed.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

She shakes her head, turning back toward the cliffs. “It’s alright.”

He takes that as an invitation, stepping forward. He pulls his boots off and sets them aside, sitting beside her and putting his feet in the cold water. It sends an icy shock up his legs, but it’s refreshing in the warm humidity of the jungle.

“Did you hear about Ethan?” she asks after a moment.

He nods. “Yeah.” Worry’s been brewing in his gut ever since he found out. It scares him, that it could affect his deal. That Ben could blame him for it.

She presses her lips together, and shocks him when she says, “It’s my fault.” Her voice wavers, even though the tears on her face are long dried.

“No it’s not,” he reassures the best he can. It’s not, and he knows the pain of blaming yourself for something out of your control. But he feels like a newborn deer, wobbling on his legs, clumsy and awkward. He doesn’t know how to be real. And he doesn’t think the act will work on her anymore.

She shakes her head. “I should’ve left the gun with you. It’s . . . Charlie wouldn’t have—”

“Chuckie was going to do that one way or another.” He reaches up and pushes his hair back. “It ain’t the worst thing in the world. The guy wasn’t exactly Mr. Rogers.”

“We could’ve gotten answers. About why he did it.”

He thinks about telling her everything. About Benjamin and his threats and the plan. But he can’t. Not yet.

“We don’t need them.”

“We do. His people could—”

“Whatever happens ain’t your fault. You did what you thought was right. You couldn’t control what Bilbo was gonna do.”

She shakes her head again, but stays silent. Her eyes are bluer than the water she’s staring out at.

He wants to ask her about her sister. Wants her to tell him about her just to hear her talk about someone she loves.

But he doesn’t know how. He’d always been so good at talking until he met her.

“Why are you here?”

He looks at her. “It’s a hundred fucking degrees out here. Just needed—”

“No, why are you here with me?” She moves her foot and it sends ripples through the surface of the water. “You could’ve come back later.”

He doesn’t want to come back later. He wants to be here, with her. He wants to be shin deep in the same water she is and listen to the music of her words and look at how the light reflects off her eyes as she looks out at the light reflecting off the water.

“I didn’t want to.”

She looks at him, brow pinched together, and he thinks about how she’s completely unaware of the fact he’d kill for her. She has no idea the things he’d do if she asked. She doesn’t know she’s taken the starring role in the film playing in his head. 

“I’m happy it’s you who knows about this place.”

His lips part in shock. She smiles at him, delicate and tender, and he feels like all breath has been sucked from his lungs.

“No one gets it like you do,” she admits softly, turning away again.

He doesn’t know what it is that he gets. If she means this place, or if she means herself. Because he doesn’t understand her at all. She’s this beautiful enigma he’s too scared to touch and try to unravel. 

He feels so raw and open, a fresh wound vulnerable to the elements. She has this way of tearing him open. 

So he smirks, and fights to build a scab, hardening himself once again and shoving her shoulder with his. “Well, you ain’t the worst company either, Blondie.” As if he wouldn’t give anything just to sit here like this with her.

She grins, chuckling and looking down. It makes him grin back, full and unbridled. He can’t help it. 

He’s spent most of his life crafting love like it was a paper mache sculpture, something he could mold and put together and shape to fit his needs. It never really sunk in that he didn’t truly know what love was, or what it felt like. He didn’t know.

Juliet beams and the sun glistens on her hair and she looks at him and he feels just a little more knowledgeable than he was this morning.

********

Sawyer pushes a leaf frond out of his way and wonders if Ben even knows where to find him. There was no specific place or time or instructions. He’s an idiot, coming out here unarmed and unprepared. Though he’s not sure what else he could do.

He wonders if this is it for him. If they’re going to kill him; if he’s never coming back. It shakes him that the first thing he thinks of is Juliet and that he’ll never get to see her smile again.

It’s such a stupid thought. He’s not going to die.

He’ll get to make her laugh again. 

There’s a rustling of the leaves behind him and he whips around to see Benjamin standing there as if he hasn’t moved in years, hands clasped and eerie smile plastered on his face.

“It’s nice to see you again, James.”

He clenches his jaw, flexing his fingers and wishing he had a gun to squeeze his palm around the handle of.

“I’m sure it is.”

The smile stretches wider, and after a moment, he remarks, “You know it’s unfortunate, what happened to Ethan.”

“Yeah,” Sawyer says, and his ribs feel tight. “But I had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, I know,” Ben says, like the thought is laughable. “You’re not nearly that stupid.”

It sends a chill up his spine. It puts a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Can we get this over with?”

“Of course. I’m assuming that means you’ve made the right choice.”

He grits his teeth and nods. It feels like the weakest surrender he’s ever made. It feels like the worst thing he’s ever agreed to.

“Yeah. I’ll do your dirty work. As long as you keep your word.”

Ben smiles. “I always do. As long as you keep yours.” But there’s a malicious glint in his eyes that suggests otherwise. “Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?”

“Well, you ain’t exactly been crystal clear about it, Yoda.”

He stays so still. It’s unnerving, those big eyes boring into him. “All you have to do is get the three people whose names I gave you to follow you up the beach. North bound. Right, if you're facing the water. Once you’re far enough away from your camp, we’ll take it from there.”

“What do I tell them?”

“I believe you know a thing or two about making up stories, James.”

He stiffens, hand clenching into a fist at his side. But he’s right. He does. It may be the only thing he’s any good at.

He slides his tongue over his teeth, and then decides there’s no better way to ask than simply, “And Juliet?”

The expression that Ben’s face shifts into doesn’t make him feel better about this at all. “Bring her too.”

“And you’ll give us a way off?”

“I will.” He drops his hands by his side. “She’s something special, isn’t she?”

It’s like someone dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt, though simultaneously a fire erupts angry in his chest.

“What?” he seethes.

“Oh, nothing. Once upon a time I tried to recruit Juliet to work with us here, on the island. She was a fantastic candidate. Best I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t take it. It’s a shame.”

The words sink into him, turning his stomach. He feels sick. The way he talks worms its way into his brain, and he can’t work out what’s true and what’s not. What does that mean? That Juliet knew about the island and just opted not to say anything? Or is he just lying completely? 

“Shall we plan for tomorrow?” he asks, as if he didn’t just jostle Sawyer’s already unsteady world on its axis. 

“Day after that,” he says. “I need time.”

Ben presses his lips together, but he nods. “Good enough. We have a deal, then.”

“Guess we do.” Neither of them make any move forward; any move to shake hands or solidify the agreement. 

“We’ll meet again soon.” He just stands there for a moment, as if he expects Sawyer to turn away so he can do that whole disappearing into thin air act. But he doesn’t, so he turns and descends back into the jungle. 

Sawyer considers following him, but knows it would do no good.

He just stands there for a long time, even after he’s gone, and thinks about what’s coming. His gut churns, dread being pumped through his heart, and for the life of him he can’t figure out if he’s doing the right thing.

But then he thinks of Juliet and he knows it is. There was nothing else he could do.

********

The dirt beneath his feet begins to include more sand until the granules are overtaking the jungle soil completely, and Sawyer’s shocked when he steps out onto the beach and his eyes find a blonde head sitting against his tree. Panic floods him as he walks over, because something being wrong is the only explanation he can come up with for why she would be here.

But she must hear him, because she looks up and she’s perfectly fine. She’s smiling, actually. It’s soft, but it’s still a smile. It makes him stop, something he can’t place fluttering inside him.

“Hi,” she says.

“What’s up, Blondie?”

She shakes her head. “I just . . . I wanted to get away.”

He nods, even though it doesn’t really make sense. Sitting by his tree isn’t getting away when a good ten or fifteen people are in the general vicinity tossing wood into the signal fire and going about their business. But he doesn’t need to point that out. He doesn’t need her to leave.

“Well, welcome to Casa Sawyer. Lucky for you we got plenty of vacancy.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Where were you?” she asks as he sits down beside her, setting his bag down in the sand. He wonders how this has become so normal. He wonders if she can sense the shift. Because two days ago he wouldn’t have sat here willingly and let himself look at her the way he is.

“Just taking a walk.” He realizes how stupid it sounds, so he adds, “Might’ve gotten a little lost.”

She grins. “I don’t think we should let you out there anymore. At least not alone.”

“What, you going to keep me company?”

“Maybe.”

He stares at her face, at the softness in it, and thinks that she’s being such an idiot for someone so smart. No. She could never be an idiot. He hates himself for even thinking that. But she should know better than to treat him with kindness. Doesn’t she know how terrible of a person he is? He’s tried so hard to show her; to push her away. And yet she stays, as if she’s blind to it.

She’s like a bird, heading straight for the windshield of a car, unable to see the danger in front of her face.

She turns away from him, staring out at the horizon. At the sun melting into the ocean. He thinks about what Benjamin said about her. About the island. He shapes the words with his tongue, but they don't come out right. There's no way to ask her without revealing his secret. And maybe he doesn't really want to know. That bastard's just trying to get into his head.

After a moment, her voice breaks through the silence. 

“We were going to go to Disney World.”

He looks at her. She doesn’t look at him, and there’s a haziness to her eyes, like she isn’t really here with him at all. She’s out there, back home celebrating her sister’s birthday in the Happiest Place on Earth.

“It’s our favorite. We haven’t been since my nephew was born, but she figured he was old enough now to somewhat enjoy it. I was going to get her one of those stupid birthday pins.”

“What’s her name?” He doesn’t know. He wants to. He wants to know everything about her.

It breaks her out of her trance. She looks at him, and smiles sadly. “Rachel.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older. By three years.”

He nods. He doesn’t know what to do with that information, but he’s happy he has it. He’s starting to fill in the information in the file in his head. There’s still so much empty space. He doesn’t know her favorite type of cereal or how many pillows she sleeps with or if she pronounces it pee-can or puh-kahn. There's a right way, but he wouldn't care if she used it or not. He'd just be happy to hear her voice at all.

“And your nephew—”

“He’s almost three.” She nods. “He really likes trains. And Batman. Or . . . he did. I don’t know if . . .” She takes a deep breath. “At that age, you know. They just . . . it’s all so fickle.”

“Well, soon enough you’ll get to hear about his new thing with dinosaurs, or whatever.”

She looks at him, and he knows she doesn’t believe him. He can see it in her eyes, the quiet resignation. She doesn’t know he’s got it all planned out. She doesn’t know that in a week’s time she’ll be scooping the kid up in her arms again.

“Yeah,” she says weakly. 

He digs his hand into the sand, filling his palm with the grains and letting them slip between his fingers. “I’ve never been.”

“What?”

“To Disney World.”

Her eyes widen. “Never?”

He shakes his head. He used to see the ads on TV, as a kid. But he never had the chance. He was in Orlando once like ten years ago; he remembers seeing all the signs and not letting himself want it even though he desperately did. 

“It’s the best.”

“I’m sure it is.” There’s a small, irresistible pang of jealousy that strikes through him. She had a nice childhood, he thinks. A nice life. One where you go to Disney once a year and go all out on Mickey ears and turkey legs and never worry about death or where you’re going to get your next meal.

She shakes her head. “I’ll take you. When we get back.”

Now it’s his turn to be shocked. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mmhmm. You can come with us. It’s better with four people anyway.”

“Ain’t it for kids?” he asks. And it’s stupid because he knows, really, it isn’t. But he needs to say something that isn’t please or that’s all I want or I think I love you. 

She scoffs. “No. Kids can’t even ride space mountain. They’re too short.”

“Hm.”

“You’ll love it. I’ll get you a first time visitor badge.” She grins at that, and he can’t help chucking.

“Sure. If ya say so.”

“I’m serious!” And he believes her, even if moments ago she’d seemed so sure they were never leaving this place. “Everyone has to go at some point.”

“Then I guess we have to.” He thinks about holding her hand and squeezing it tightly when the cart drops and screaming and laughing and their thighs pressing together in the tiny seats. He doesn’t have a life off this island but maybe he could.

“It’s a date,” she says, and looks away, as if realizing what those words insinuate. 

“It’s a date,” he repeats. And he’s never felt so giddy. Whatever he’s about to do for that bug eyed creep is worth it if afterwards he gets this. If afterwards she’ll take him to see the castle and the characters and the magic.

She brings her knees up, resting her chin on one. “You and Rachel would get along. You remind me of her.”

“What, is she also extremely handsome and charming?”

She snorts. “No, but she’s sarcastic as ever. And she’s the smartest person I know.”

He thinks about the dead of winter, and wrapping yourself in the warmest comforter, and isn’t even sure that could describe the warmth he feels inside of him.

“Well, she sounds great.”

She nods, looking out at the ocean. “She is.”

Sawyer swallows. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks and he finally says, “I’m keeping my promise. You’re gonna see her again.”

She turns to look at him. “You don’t have to say that, James.”

“I ain’t just saying it.” 

She stares at him for a long time, and he can see the conflict behind her eyes. He understands. He wouldn’t believe himself, if things were flipped. It doesn’t make sense that he’d ever be able to get her off the island, much less want to try. He isn't good. She knows that. 

But he found a way. And he’d do anything for her.

She sighs, and everything suddenly seems to move in double speed as she scoots closer and rests her head down on his shoulder. It’s so quick that things change, and the breath is stolen from his lungs. Her arm is pressed against his, skin on skin, and it sends lightning through his body. Her hair is ticking his neck and he wants to bury his face in it. He wants to bury into her and never come out.

In his life, touch has always had a purpose. It’s always been a means to an end. It’s always been a calculated step to lay out his plan. Touch her shoulder, tuck her hair behind her ear. Make her comfortable. Turn her on. When she touches your arm it means she likes you. It means everything is going according to plan.

There’s no plan anymore. There’s just her head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck and the fluttering of what feels like hummingbird wings in his ribcage.

He melts into it. He lets himself relax; lets his guard fall. He’s safe with her. He’s safe he’s safe he’s safe. He lets his arm slide around her because it feels right; natural. It feels good. With her, he feels like maybe he can be good. 

He's being good. He's getting her home.

He just wants to be with her.

So he does. He lets himself be with her. Not Sawyer. James. In all his glory.

And maybe being James isn’t so bad if it feels like this.

Chapter Text

"Wanted so bad to be good
But there's no such thing"

Guthrie, Julien Baker

Sawyer never slept the night before a con. He was a tightly bound ball of nerves, the noise of his mind racing too loud to let him drift off. But he never minded, because it meant all his nerves were gone by the time he actually walked into the room. By the time he had to compose himself and slip into the act his mind was clear. All his energy was put into becoming the lie. 

He didn’t sleep last night and he’s still about to fucking vomit as he comes up the path toward the caves.

He spent the entire night meticulously working out every detail of this plan (and trying to remember every detail of how Juliet’s head had felt on his shoulder). But it relies on a lot of hypotheticals. One wrong, unplanned move by one of his pawns and it all crumbles beneath him.

He’s been out in the middle of the jungle for hours today, since sunrise. It’s necessary for all of this to work. But it left him with a lot more time to let that worry curdle in his gut. It left it a lot more time to infect every inch of his body. 

But there’s no time to sit here and try to find the antibiotics to stop it. He just has to let it overtake him; let the nerves fester as he puts the plan into motion. 

He stops at the entrance to the caves and takes a deep breath, eyes scanning the scene in front of him.

His heart jolts.

The two heads he was looking for, blonde and curly,  standing there together laughing at something. 

Step one of his plan is find Hurley. Step two is find Juliet. He’s about to hit two birds with one stone. Besides, one of the issues he’d been ruminating on was how to explain why he’d go to Hurley first to tell this information. Now that issue’s solved. He was going to tell Juliet, and Porky just happened to be there.

The world works in mysterious ways. It’s starting to feel like maybe those ways are beginning to be in his favor.

He breathes heavily and lumbers over to where they’re standing. He doesn’t even have to fake his exhaustion from trekking through the jungle all day, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Both of them look up, smiles sliding into frowns. Hurley’s out of confusion and Juliet’s in concern.

“Whoa, dude. What—”

“You’ll never believe what I just found,” he says, out of breath and wide-eyed, selling the act.

“What?” Juliet asks, reaching out and putting her hand on his arm. Her touch sends a jolt through him, and for a moment it’s like his brain malfunctions. He forgets his lines. He forgets what he’s doing here, and what he’s supposed to have seen. He forgets everything but her ocean eyes staring at him and her hand cool on his sweat-slick skin.

And then he snaps out of it and looks at Hurley instead to break the trance. 

“The others’ camp. Ethan’s people.”

“What?” Juliet cries, and he looks at her again.

“What? Where?” Hurley asks, loud, and Sawyer glares at him.

“Keep your mouth shut,” he hisses, looking around for extra flair. 

“What do you mean you found their camp?” Juliet asks in a hushed but urgent voice.

He shakes his head. “I was going to find wood for the fire and I got a little twisted around. Heard a noise and hid. It was these guys, looked like hobos or something. I don’t know. But I followed ‘em.”

“Why were they out here?  Do you think they were coming for us?” Hurley asks.

He shakes his head. “No. Talked about hunting for boar or something. But none of ‘em even had guns.”

“At the camp?” Juliet asks.

He nods. “It was just a bunch of tents. They had no defense.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, face scrunched up as she works it out in her head. 

“Yeah, I watched ‘em for a while. They had no idea I was there.”

“We have to tell Jack,” Hurley says. Bingo.

“Yeah,” Juliet agrees. 

Sawyer puts a hand out to stop them, because it’s what’s expected of him. “We need to go. I don’t know if they’re going to move, and we gotta get there before they do. They have no idea we’re coming.”

“Right now? The three of us?” Juliet asks, raising an eyebrow incredulously. 

He sighs, a planned reaction to a planned conversation. “Fine. Go run and report back to the boss.”

She shoots him a disapproving look. “He has the gun, anyway.”

“Oh, right. Of course,” he comments dryly.

“Did you say they looked like hobos?” Hurley asks, frowning.

He shrugs. “Yeah. Like they were wearing . . . sacks or something. I don’t know. They were all in brown.” He’s not sure how accurate that is, but if Ben was, why not the rest of them?

“Ethan wasn’t.”

“I’m just saying what I saw, Tubby! Take it up with their king when we storm the castle.”

“We’re not storming anything yet,” Juliet says, spotting Jack in the other corner of the caves. “Come on.”

They follow her over to where the Doc is, what do you know, talking all giddy and giggly with Freckles. It’s like they’re in fucking middle school all the time, Jesus Christ. 

“What’s up?” he asks, glancing over at the group curiously, grin fading a bit.

Juliet gestures to Sawyer, who rolls his eyes for show. “Sawyer found Ethan’s people.”

Jack’s eyes almost bug out of his head. “He what?”

“Wait, you found them?” Kate asks, doubtful. “Where?”

He sighs. “I heard ‘em in the jungle. Followed them until I got to their camp.”

“What do you mean camp?” Jack asks, too interrogative for his liking. But arguing would throw a wrench into the plan so he bites his tongue.

“There were a bunch ‘a tents. They didn’t have any guns, though. No guards or weapons. They weren’t prepared.”

“Are you sure?” Kate asks, like she doesn’t believe him. Of course she doesn’t. “They could’ve been hiding or—”

“I know what I saw,” he says. “I was there for a while. They were just milling about.”

“Where is this?” Jack asks, arms crossed.

He gestures with his head. “A good two hours . . . uh, north?”

“North?” Juliet asks.

“I don’t know. I could lead ya there, but I don’t got the directions.”

“Jack,” Juliet says, getting his attention. “Do you think it’s a good idea? Going over there.”

“Of course it is. They don’t know we’re coming,” Sawyer argues, but they ignore him.

“I don’t know. We aren’t really armed, either,” he says. But he shakes his head. “Sawyer’s right though. We have the element of surprise.”

“You think we should take one of them? Like they did with Claire?” Hurley asks.

“Hell yeah,” Sawyer says. “We lost our chance with Ethan. Taking one of ‘em would get us answers.”

Kate shakes her head. “No. No, that just makes us as bad as they are.”

“It ain’t even close to the same.”

“It’s actually not too bad of an idea,” Jack admits, and Sawyer can almost hear the gears turning in his head.

“Jack,” Juliet says, almost disapproving. “Are you sure?”

He looks around, rubbing a hand down his face, and then faces her. “They made the first move. We have a right to know why.”

“So you’re going to kidnap one of them?” she fires back.

Sawyer scowls. “What, like they did to us? Least we ain’t hanging one of ‘em on a tree.”

“Sawyer,” Jack warns, and it’s taking everything in him not to connect his fist to his nose. “This is how we get the upper hand.”

“Upper hand?” Kate asks, her and Juliet on some little team it seems. His worst nightmare. “You’re making it sound like we’re in a war with them!”

“Maybe we are,” Jack says, seriously. 

This is fucking wonderful. He got the Doc on his side, somehow. He’s going to do all the work for him now, without even realizing it. If Jack thinks it’s a good idea, it’s happening.

“You can see if they have a boat or something,” Hurley says, and Sawyer’s chest tightens. “So we can get home.”

“We can see,” he says. “You’re coming too, Hoss.”

He frowns. “Why would I want to come?”

Sawyer works his jaw, piecing together words in his head until they form something vaguely reminiscent of an answer. “Don’t need you blabbering about this to everyone. Safer if we keep this between us. ‘Sides, we need a lookout. Don’t trust no one else.”

“Sayid,” Jack says. “We should get him on board—”

“No,” Sawyer says, shaking his head. “The more people we tell, the more dangerous this is.”

“Dude, don’t you think if we’re going to war we should recruit the one guy who’s actually been in a war,” Hurley says. It’s plain reason. It’s common sense. Sawyer doesn’t know how he’s supposed to beat that, but he knows he has to.

“Well, he don’t gotta come with us. He can go around another way, so we get ‘em from different directions.”

Jack shrugs. “I’ll talk to him. See what he thinks.” He nods toward Sawyer, a serious look on his face that he isn’t used to. “This is good, Sawyer.”

For a moment, a strange pride grows in his chest. But it’s quickly infected by guilt, something just as unfamiliar.  He shouldn’t feel bad about what he’s doing. He shouldn't. He never feels bad about anything. 

(But that’s a complete lie and he knows it. Just because he doesn’t let himself acknowledge the feeling doesn’t mean it isn’t there.)

“Hurley,” Jack says. “You in or out?”

He looks to Sawyer, who nods encouragingly. “Yeah. I’m in.”

He’s sporting his poker face, but internally he’s popping open a can of beer and doing a celebratory dance. It’s all coming together. Each domino is falling, and the grand finale’s in sight.

He’s getting her home.

“Great,” Jack says. “I’m going to talk to Sayid. We can reconvene tonight . . . make sure we have a plan set.” They all nod, except for Kate, who follows after Jack when he walks away, seemingly to argue about something. 

Hurley sighs and turns, heading in the other direction and leaving Sawyer alone with Juliet. Just her presence beside him makes his every nerve tingle, the carpet to his fuzzy socks. There’s something electric about her. He can’t explain it.

“Hey,” she says softly. “I was looking for you, earlier.”

His heart flutters in his chest. “Damn it. Wouldn’t have left the beach if I knew.”

“It’s okay. You were . . . busy.” She’s smiling, but there’s something sad about it. “You’re here now.”

“I’m here,” he says, so serious. He doesn’t think she knows the weight it carries. That he’s never really just been anywhere. He’s never been able to say I’m here without plans to skip town in the back of his mind.

They’re getting off this rock, but they’re getting off of it together.

She nods, and then looks over her shoulder. “You can stay here tonight. If you want.” When she sees the shock register on his face, she adds. “It’s easier. Since we’re all here. Kate moved up yesterday.”

He didn’t know that. There’s something inside of him bubbling up at the opportunity; at the idea of being here with her. But it’s so stupid, and he knows he shouldn’t. He knows there’s no point, and that if he wants to think and prepare for tomorrow he can’t be here with her. She’s distracting enough when she’s miles away. She’s still overtaken his brain just by existing.

“Thanks for the offer, Blondie, but I like my beach villa just fine.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t know how you don’t get sick of it.”

How does he tell her he is? How does he tell her he won’t have to worry about it much longer?

“It ain’t too bad.” 

What are they even talking about, he thinks, looking at her. He wants to kiss her, even if he knows he shouldn’t. Couldn’t. He doesn’t want to talk to her because he worries he’d bare his soul. Because he wants to tell her everything. He wants to talk to her forever.

She nods. “Well, you can stay here now. Jack’s going to want to talk to us.”

“I can stay,” he says. The truth in it startles him.

She smiles, and it’s like the sun shifting from behind a cloud and lighting her up. “Good.”

“Good.”

He’s ready to do anything for her. Betray the closest thing he has to friends to get her home. Stay.

It doesn’t feel like a weakness right now.

********

The early morning chill gnaws at any exposed skin, and Sawyer suppresses the urge to close the top few buttons of his shirt. It’s alright. It’s good. It’s waking him up, since his eyelids are heavy as lead and he’s running on maybe three or four hours of sleep. 

His boots are digging into the sand as he stands there, mostly tuning out Jack’s speech about what they’re doing and how it has to be handled and blah blah blah. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. He almost sighs in relief when he finally finishes, gesturing to Sawyer to lead the way. 

Unlike he’s been boasting about, he isn’t exactly sure where he’s going. He knows what Ben said, but the directions weren’t exactly the clearest. He just hopes they’ve got it under control, hidden somewhere keeping an eye on them. He can only do so much.

Like convince Sayid to take a different route. He’s still shocked they listened to him, since they never seem to think that’s a smart idea. (For good reason.) But him and Locke (interesting choice, but whatever) are heading deeper into the jungle to come at the ‘camp’ from another direction. It got them out of the way. 

And now the only people that matter are following him down the border between jungle and beach. He’s walking in the front. He doesn’t mind. He thinks there’s a part of him that might get sick if he stares at them all for too long.

Why is it that he’s spent his whole life numb to the bad things he does, the ruin that comes from his hands, and now he’s choking on guilt over the one good thing he’s ever done? It’s the right thing. He has to remind himself of that.

Or he doesn’t have to, because soon Juliet is stepping up to walk beside him, and one look at her is enough to make it all make sense again. Make it all feel necessary. 

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” she asks, but she’s joking. He can tell. “I’m not sure you know your lefts from your rights.”

“Ha ha.” He rolls his eyes. He smiles. “You underestimate me, Blondie. I know exactly where we’re going.”

“Oh, exactly. Wow, that’s perfect,” she says, grinning despite herself. 

He shakes his head. “You’ll see.” She will. She’ll see. Beside all the conflicting feelings brewing inside him sits clean, untouched excitement. He’s getting her home, and it’s the best thing he’s ever done. He wants to see her with her sister. He wants to see her scoop her nephew up in her arms as he crumbles into a fit of giggles. He wants her to grab his hand on the tallest ride at Disney and he wants to squeeze hers so tight when it drops.

He wants to hear her tell him he did the right thing.

“I believe in you,” she says, smiling, and he doesn’t even need anything else but that. His heart swells so intensely it’s cracking at the edges, and he’s never felt anything so wonderful.

He nods, and says, “I appreciate that.” But it’s not nearly enough to explain how much it means.

She believes in him, and he’s getting her home, and any doubt he had before is gone. Or at least shoved down so deep he can’t find it.

Nothing’s ever felt as right as this.

********

Sawyer is either intensely paranoid or Jack suspects that something’s up. Every time he looks back, Jack’s staring at him. It shouldn’t mean anything, but there’s something about it that feels odd. He’s learned to trust his gut, and his gut is telling him something’s up.

But there can’t be. There’s no way anyone would know about what he’s doing. He hasn’t told anyone. No one saw him with Ben.

He’s getting too deep in his head, letting his worry get to him. 

But it’s just something about that look.

He glances over his shoulder and feels sudden dread crawl up his spine like ants up a log, making a home in the depths of his brain. Jack and Kate are talking in hushed whispers, both of their eyes trained on him. Kate’s gaze flicks down, as if that’ll convince him she wasn’t staring.

Jack takes a moment longer before looking away.

He turns back around and squeezes his fist by his side. It’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. Everything’s going perfectly. They won’t ruin this. They can’t.

“Are you okay?”

He looks over. Juliet’s eyes are soft. Concerned. Prying. He shakes his head. “I’m fine.” He doesn’t think she believes him, but it doesn’t change anything.

“Do you guys hear that?” Hurley asks all of a sudden, and Sawyer turns and frowns.

“Hear what?”

An answer comes quicker than anyone could come up with their own. A whoosh from the jungle. A dart in Jack’s neck.

“What the hell?” he cries, reaching a hand up. And then he’s spasming, falling to the ground and Kate is screaming and Juliet’s screaming (the worst sound he’s ever had) and all Sawyer can do is stare.

He wishes Ben had told him what was going to happen.

“Sawyer!” Kate yells. As if he can do anything about this. As if he’s not the reason it’s happening.

And then there’s more. It all happens so quickly, he loses track. Hurley’s down, then Kate—twitching on the jungle dirt. It leaves Juliet. He looks at her and realizes he’s going to have to explain it all to her right now. From the horrified look on her face, he doesn’t think it’s going to go over well.

How did he ever have any hope? He can’t remember how it felt. It’s all gone now.

“Juliet,” he says, and his voice shakes.

She looks at him, eyes blown, and opens her mouth. But before anything comes out, another noise from the jungle. And so quick it’s there—a dart piercing the pale, perfect skin of her neck. It’s so sudden. It doesn’t wash over him; he can’t do anything but stare as her eyes (so fucking blue) widen, as she reaches out her hand toward him, as she crumples to the ground.

She hits the dirt and it’s like something snaps inside of him.

No no no no no no no no.

He’s on his knees so fast, hands hovering over her as his mind races, searching for an answer as to what to do. But there’s nothing. Her eyes are shut and her lips are parted and her limbs have finally stopped convulsing and there is nothing he can do. And god, there’s no words to encompass the intensity of the anger that floods through him, pulsing to the beat of his heart.

She wasn’t supposed to get hurt.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It’s only a moment before people—Ben’s people—are coming out of the jungle. Distantly, he acknowledges he was right with his assumption, taking in their makeshift brown outfits.

“What the hell did you do?” he growls, putting a protective hand on Juliet’s limp arm.

“We’re just following orders,” one of them says calmly, as others approach Jack and Kate and Hurley, roughly grabbing their slack arms and tying their wrists together with rope. Others sling bags over their heads.

 Sawyer watches, and decides then and there that if they even try to touch Juliet it’s all off. They’re dead.

“We were told not to touch her,” the woman says. “You can take her the rest of the way.”

He clenches his jaw. “This ain’t touching her?”

“It’s safer this way. She’ll be alright. She’ll wake up soon.”

And then the woman turns, and Sawyer isn’t a concern anymore. 

He looks down at Juliet, beautiful but lifeless, and his chest tightens. His hands are so big, so rough and so full of anger. But when he reaches out and slides one hand under her knees, the other under her back, he channels a gentleness he didn’t know he was capable of.

He can be soft for her. He’s so soft with her. 

After a few moments, they begin heading back down the beach, dragging Jack, Kate, and Hurley along. They don’t say anything, but Sawyer follows. Her weight is nothing in his arms. It’s like he was made to hold her. He doesn’t watch where he’s going; doesn’t look at the sand beneath his feet. He looks at her. 

Her head rests against his shoulder, her body turned toward his. There’s something so peaceful about it, even if he knows it’s nothing of the sort. Her face is so calm. She looks like she’s glowing, pure and perfect. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, but he’s known that since the first moment his eyes caught sight of her on the deck of that boat.

She’s a million times more beautiful when she’s laughing, nose scrunched up and unbridled giggles pouring out of her. 

He’s sorry. He’s so sorry.

But as soon as they’re on that boat, as soon as she realizes what it was all for, she’ll understand. He’s doing it for her. She’ll be thankful. She has to be.

He’s doing the right thing.

(He has to convince himself that the only reason it feels so wrong is because he’s not used to being good.)

(But he’s being good.)

(Right?)

********

She starts to stir about maybe an hour later.

At first, it’s nothing much. It’s her shifting her body a bit, leaning closer into him. It makes his heart soar. It makes his heart plummet when he realizes she’s waking up. 

He’d have to guess it’s around five minutes later when she blinks. Her eyes don’t stay open long, but they’re open for a moment. It’s enough for his mind to start racing. He doesn’t know what to do. They still have a ways to go, it seems (his legs are killing him), and he doubts this is the best place to have a conversation. But she’ll have questions. So many questions.

He adjusts his hold on her—tightens his grip—and she curls into him. She groans softly, eyebrows pinching together. There’s only a moment before she’s blinking again. And this time when she opens her eyes, they stay open.

She stares up at the sky, gaze empty, for a long moment as her consciousness seems to seep back in. Then, she looks at him and frowns. 

“James?” she murmurs.

“Shhhh.” He slows down, steps taking just the slightest bit longer. If he falls behind even a little bit, maybe they won’t hear him. 

“What’s happening?” she asks, voice thick. She attempts to lift her head, eyes flicking around the beach.

“Hey, look at me.” 

She listens, looking up at him. There’s a dimness to her eyes that breaks his heart. 

“You’re safe. I got you.”

She shakes her head. “What happened? They—”

“I got it under control. Okay?” He knows how it sounds. He knows there’s no reason for her to believe him, still half awake and remembering why. But she has to. She has to understand. “Do you trust me?”

She frowns, as if she doesn’t get it. But then she nods. “Yes.”

If they weren’t in such a dire situation, he’d let that really sink in—that she trusts him. But it doesn’t, not right now. All he can register is that it’s good she does, because that means this all goes a lot smoother. 

“Then trust me,” he says. “It’s all gonna be okay. You just gotta stay quiet.”

Her eyes skirt around before finally meeting his again. He’s not aware that he’s holding his breath until she says, “Okay.”

He smiles, even though really there’s no reason to. But he doesn’t need any reason except her.

“I got you,” he says again. Because he needs her to know. She nods, and he knows she does.

He hopes wherever these guys are leading them to isn’t much farther. At some point she’s going to realize everything wrong about what’s going on.

He hopes that doesn’t come too long before she realizes it’s all for her. That this is good.

He hopes she realizes it’s good.

At some point along the way, she tugs on his shirt and gestures for him to put her down. He stutters to a stop, considering it. He kind of doesn’t want to. He wants to keep her close; he doesn’t want anyone saying anything to them. But he understands. She’s a grown woman, and she likely doesn’t get as much joy from being curled up against him as he does. He likely doesn’t bring her as much joy as she does him.

Hopefully that changes soon. Hopefully he brings her so much joy when he tells her what he’s arranged.

So he puts her down, because she wanted him to. He pauses to make sure she’s fit to stand, but only brief enough no one notices.

It shocks him when she reaches her hand out and intertwines her fingers with his. She doesn’t look at him, but she squeezes his hand and he feels like he’s bursting. Like a too-full water balloon in some kid’s tight fist. 

He shouldn’t be overtaken with such intense good feelings when they’re right behind their abducted . . . friends? (He doesn’t want to call them that.) But he can’t stop them when she’s soft and sweet and beautiful and holding his hand even though he’s rough and cruel and bad.

She keeps looking at them, while they walk. At Jack and Kate and Hurley. They’ve begun to wake too, which means they’ve begun to fight. They’re on their feet now, struggling against the others’ grip. He doesn’t want to watch, so he watches her and how all her features are drawn up in concern. He wants to tell her to stop; to not worry about them. But he can’t.

He only looks away from her when something catches his eye in the distance. He squints, trying to make it out, and hope rises in his chest when he realizes it’s a dock, jutting out into the water from the island.

It’s really happening. He’s really getting her home.

Juliet sees it too, after a moment, and it finally gets her to look at him. Her eyes are wide, questioning (still deep with such distress) and he doesn’t know what to do except stare back and offer the smallest sort-of smile. She doesn’t give him one back. 

It’s alright. She’ll be smiling later. (She will be. She has to be. She’ll be happy. She has to be.)

It only takes a couple of minutes to get there, the wood creaking under their feet as they step out onto the dock. He can’t look at the others, being dragged to the end and pushed down to their knees, so he looks out at the calm waves of the ocean instead. Out at the boat coming toward them.

His chest tightens, watching it. It’s all suddenly so much more real. Maybe he didn’t believe it would actually happen.

“James?”

He looks at her. He just wants to tell her everything. About this, about him. But now’s not the right time. Maybe it never will be. “Hm?”

“What’s happening?”

He squeezes her hand. “It’s gonna be okay. Just—”

“You’re not giving me an answer.” She drops his hand, and it’s like someone turned the lights off. Like a cold breeze blowing through his once warm chest and lifting the dust.

Before he can even open his mouth to respond (though he’s not sure what he would even say), they’re pulling the bags off the others’ heads and she’s turning to look at them instead. As they adjust to the sudden light, all three of their eyes land on him and Juliet, faces contorting in confusion. 

The guilt is trapped in his stomach, teeth gnawing at his flesh trying to escape. It won’t find a way out. He’ll be stuck with it forever. 

“Everybody, let’s calm down,” one of the guys says, and Kate glares up at him defiantly. Even if she tried to speak (or any of them, for that matter), no one would be able to hear her with that gag in her mouth.

The boat pulls up to the dock, slowing to a stop, and everyone turns to stare. He wants Juliet to smile. He wants to see her face light up when she realizes what’s happening. But he’s starting to think that won’t happen.

Benjamin climbs out of the boat, and Sawyer stands up straighter. First, he steps closer to the others and smiles, leaning down.

“Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

None of them are comforted by the greeting. Jack looks like he’s going to kill someone the moment his wrists are loose.

He stands back up and turns, smile stretching eerily wide when he looks at Juliet. It makes Sawyer’s stomach turn. She feels it too. He knows because she takes a small step back, putting distance between them. 

He thinks about what Ben said about her, and can tell by the look on her face that she’s never met this man in her life. But the way he’s looking at her . . . there’s something behind it that makes Sawyer want to punch him hard in the face and whisk Juliet away so his eyes are never again graced by the sight of her.

“Juliet,” he says, nodding his head. His eyes shift to look at Sawyer. “James. Let’s take care of business, shall we?”

“Who are you?” Juliet asks, hard.

He just laughs softly. “My name is Benjamin Linus. I’m here to help you.”

She looks at Sawyer, as if for confirmation. All he can do is nod. It’s true, isn’t it? At least somewhat.

He turns to face Sawyer, stepping closer toward him. “You lived up to your word. I told you, we live up to ours. Do you know how to drive a boat?”

He hesitates, and then nods. “Yeah, I can drive a boat.” It’s not a total lie. He did it once, a long time ago when a woman had invited him out onto her husband’s. He can figure it out again.

“Good. You're going to take this boat and follow a compass bearing of 325, and if you do that exactly, you will find rescue.”

He frowns. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

It sounds too simple. No catch? No tricks? No selling their souls to get on the boat?

“What if I tell people where we were? Get ‘em to come back and get everyone else?” 

“You won’t do that, James. Besides, it won't matter. Once you leave, you'll never be able to get back here.”

He’s right. He won’t. Juliet, though . . . somehow he believes deep in his chest that she’ll find a way. She’s smarter than anyone. If someone can do it, she can.

“And you ain’t gonna hurt them?” he asks, gesturing to the others, watching him horrified.

“What did I tell you? A deal’s a deal.”

He nods. That’s it. 

“James.” He stills. He turns and looks at Juliet, breathing hard and staring at him like he’s a stranger. “. . . You did this?”

He frowns, eyes flicking over to the end of the dock. To the boat. Back to her. He steps closer. “Let’s go.” He reaches out to grab her hand, her arm, anything—but she flinches away from him.

“I’m not . . .”

“I’m getting you home,” he says, voice low. He looks at her meaningfully. She has to understand. She understands, doesn’t she? She wants it so bad. It’s all she wants, and he’s getting it for her.

“No.” She shakes her head. “No. You can’t—”

“This is what you wanted.”

“Not like this!”

She begins to back away, looking around wildly like a cornered deer. Like she’s going to run. So he does the first thing that comes, on instinct. He doesn’t think about it. 

He steps forward and grabs her, gripping her tight before she can pull away.

“Let go of me!”

“We gotta go,” he says. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry. He says it a million times in his head as he lifts her up over his shoulder. As she kicks and fights and bangs her fists on his back like a toddler throwing a tantrum. As she screams. 

It’s the most gut wrenching sound he’s ever heard. This—the way she struggles in his arms, is the worst thing he’s ever felt. But he keeps his grip strong. He doesn’t look anywhere but straight ahead as he carries her onto the boat. She’ll thank him later. She will. She will.

He starts the boat, and doesn’t let go of her until they’ve begun to move, driving away from the dock. 

The first thing she does is slap him. Hard. His cheek stings like it’s been hit by a breeze in the freezing arctic. He winces and mutters a pained sonofabitch.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she shouts, tears in her eyes. The idea that he’s the reason for them hurts more than anything. “What did you do?”

Before he can answer, or defend himself, she’s rushing to the end of the boat, leaning over the edge and staring out at the dock they're leaving behind. He should be figuring out how the hell to work this thing, but he just watches her. Maybe he’s scared she’ll jump. But she doesn’t. She just watches, and he turns to figure out the compass bearing.

When she comes back a few minutes later, her eyes are puffy and red and she looks angrier than he’s ever seen it. She carries a fury that shakes him.

“What did you do, James?” she asks, and her voice wobbles.

He shakes his head. “It ain’t what you think—”

“What I think is that you helped those people. Who hurt us. You led our friends right to them.”

“He said they won’t get hurt.”

“And you believe him?” She looks at him like he isn’t James. Like he isn’t someone who shares books and their secret spot by the waterfall and is going to go to Disney World with her when they get back home. “Did you . . . with Claire?”

“No,” he says, and he’s never been seasick but he thinks he might vomit. “Why would you even think that?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Juliet.” He reaches his hands out, but she steps back, daring him to try again with her eyes. He drops them by his side, and weakly tells her, “I did it for you.”

“Don’t.” She shakes her head. “Don’t.”

“I did,” he insists. 

She scoffs, but it comes out shaky. “You did this for you, James. Don’t you dare drag me into it more than you have already.”

“I’m getting you home!” She flinches at his raised voice, but he can’t help it. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. She was supposed to be thrilled. She was supposed to be happy. “I promised you I would.”

“I told you you didn’t need to do that.” She sounds so desperate, and he hates it. “You didn’t need to do this!”

“What, you don’t care about your sister anymore? She doesn’t matter.” And it’s cruel, but cruelty’s what he wields best, isn’t it?

“Don’t you dare,” she seethes. She exhales heavily, smoothing her hair back with her hand. She shakes her head again. “I didn’t want you to do this.”

“But I did,” he says. He doesn’t understand why she can’t see that he’s done the right thing. He did. Because he helped her. “You should be thanking me.”

She huffs. “Thanking you for what? Leading us into that trap? For lying to me?”

“For getting you home!” he yells. 

For a moment, no one says anything. It’s quiet, save their heavy breaths and the sound of the boat cutting through the ocean water.

“It wasn’t worth it,” she finally says, voice no louder than a whisper.

He presses his teeth together, the sound of it echoing loud in his ears. “It was to me.”

For a moment, she just looks sad. He wants to wrap his arms around her body and hold her. Not like before. He wants to pull her into his chest and feel how their bodies fit against each other. Wants to run his fingers through her hair and press his lips to the top of her head and feel her melt in his arms. He wants her to be comforted by his touch.

He wants to kiss her, and wants her to understand.

But he can’t and she doesn’t, so—in a moment of idiotic desperation—he reaches into his soul and pulls out what he knows, offering it to her as if a white flag of surrender.

“I love you.”

(She smiles.)

(She steps forward and tugs him close and presses their chests together, her head fitting into the crook of his neck.)

(She kisses him.)

(She says it back.)

(She loves him.)

She doesn’t do any of it, any of the scenarios in his head that only happen in books and movies and stories where perfect people get happy ever afters. She doesn’t do any of it, because he’s not perfect and he’ll never get a happy ending.

She frowns. So deep it wrinkles her forehead and brings tears to her eyes. She frowns like she was just told the worst news in the world.

“Screw you, James.”

(He thinks it’s worse how quiet she says it.)

“I mean it,” he says, and he sounds like he’s begging. Maybe he is. Because he needs her to know that saying it, those were the most natural words have ever felt in his mouth. Like they belonged there. Like they were true.

He needs her to know he feels it every time he looks at her or hears her laugh or closes his eyes and thinks of her smile.

“No you don’t,” she says, and he loves her but in this moment he thinks he hates her. (He doesn’t. But he wishes he could.)

“I do.”

“You don’t know what love is,” she says, cold, and he suddenly understands what people mean when they say their heart is breaking. He always assumed it was hyperbolic, just something people said, but no. She could stab him and it would hurt less.

Because she’s right, and they both know it.

(He does know, he thinks. He knows because of her.)

“This isn’t love,” she continues. It can be, he wants to tell her. It is. “You did this for you.”

He shakes his head, because maybe for the first time in his life he wasn’t thinking about himself at all. “No. You don’t understand.”

“I know that deep down you want to be good,” she says, looking like she can see right through him. “So you’re saving the princess from her tower. But you just killed half the town to do it. What you did was wrong.”

He shakes his head. He feels like a kid, desperate to throw a fit and cry and kick his legs until she realizes the truth. But he knows it doesn’t matter. He knows she won’t believe him, no matter what he does. 

“I just wanted to get you home,” he says, a final, pathetic attempt. 

She shakes her head. “Not like this.”

His hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know what to say except repeat himself. As if it’ll change everything.

“I love you.”

She looks like she’s going to punch him. Or maybe like she’s going to cry. He can’t take it if she starts crying. But then she just turns and walks away, back out to the end of the ship. 

When he was young—twenty, maybe—he got shit faced at some bar in New Orleans. He had a stack of cash and a craving for numbness, and in the morning he thought he was going to die. His vision had blurred, his head was pounding so hard it drowned out any thoughts, he felt his stomach was emptying itself out, acid burning his throat. He was face down on the motel bathroom tile sure in any moment he was going to shut his eyes and be met with the bright smile of his mother. 

That was nothing compared to how he feels standing here now like a dog with a bird between his teeth. A gift created through violence, that somehow he thought she’d want. Of course she didn’t. Of course she was disgusted by something so rotten. Something no one would ever want. Could ever want. 

Maybe for a little bit there he’d let his tail wag. Maybe for a little bit he thought she’d see what that dead little bird meant.

His eyes sting, but he isn’t crying. It’s too much, all building up inside of him, and he whips around and slams his fist into the side of the boat, cursing at the pain that shoots up his knuckles into his wrist.

He slides down and sits his ass on the cold metal ground, leaning back against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hands against his face.

It’s all just fucking bullshit. Good and bad and love. None of it’s even fucking real.

He was doing the right thing—the good thing—and look how that turned out. He was letting his guard down and letting her touch the soft flesh behind the armor and he was keeping his promise and getting her home and none of it matters.

He was never going to be good. 

She was never going to love him.

He lost the lessons he’s been taught his whole life over and over again. He surrendered and he was shot down. He surrendered and she hit him where it hurts, because she knows the exact spot because she knows him. And that’s why she’ll never be able to love him.

It doesn’t matter if they return to the real world and part ways, never seeing each other again, or if she calls him every Christmas with emotionless well wishes or if he dies in some bar fight somewhere and she sees it in the paper and cries because she remembers holding his unconscious body that rainy afternoon in the jungle. It doesn’t matter what happens because she’s never going to put a dead bird up for display on her mantle, or hold it close to her chest at night and let it stain her sheets.

She’s never going to want him. An angel will never want a resident of hell. A flower burns in a fire. Good doesn’t want bad.

And that’s never going to change.