fic: such heavenly ways
lost. summary: our sins are only deadly because we allow them to be. sawyer; hurley, miles, dr. chang, etc. sawyer/juliet. 5,575 words. rated: pg-16.
disclaimer: not mine!
a/n: written for emiliglia as part of the luau at lostsquee. prompt: s6 speculation.
By the time he comes to, they're already in the middle of the jungle again.
His eyes feel sealed shut. There are voices close, their sound tuning in and out of focus in a fog. All of his skin is sticky with sweat, that much he figures, but the stale spots, those could be dried tears, mud, or blood.
Kate is beside him, sitting with her arms encircling her legs, all closed upon herself. When he finally tries to sit up, her hands are hesitant to help him. They recoil and then push, gently from his back to his shoulder, like a second thought.
He sees Jin and Hurley standing against a tree. Both have their heads downcast, but Hurley's eyes flicker every so often behind his lowered eyelids. Following the direction of his look, Sawyer finds Jack and Miles crutched over an extended body.
At first, he's sure the man is dead. There's just too much blood, and it keeps spreading, dark red lines against the bright white. It takes a second to dawn on him that the improvised bandage is on the man's arm and that it's his only wound. Jack is saying something about metal lodged in the flesh, throwing around terms like infection and amputate as though they’re words in a dictionary and damn if that isn't panic in Miles' face.
Dr. Chang's voice is weak when he speaks up, but behind it is the determination of a man used to barking orders.
"Everyone who wasn't evacuated must have gone into hiding by now. Horace will wait for a signal before bringing them back. The barracks -"
His breath falters. Miles runs a hand over his father's forehead, easy as a summer day. To be honest, Sawyer never thought the guy had that in him.
" - The barracks should be empty. Everything you'll need is in the medical facility -"
It all comes back in flashes, then.
There was a phone call.
There were ghosts.
Everything went up in flames like a damned hippie van on fire.
"Are you okay?" Kate asks, her voice in velvet whisper; his throat is velvet too. His lips, they're cracked with salt, the way you'll get when you cry yourself to sleep.
(There it is.)
There was a hole in their plastic empire.
There were chains around her waist.
"Where's the van?" he says. It comes out louder than he meant to. Everyone stares back, their mouths open but their voices lost. "Well?"
Miles is the one to speak. His newfound sympathy, it's nothing Sawyer wants.
"It was pulled in."
Jack can't look at him; Kate can't look anywhere but him.
(Juliet just let him go.)
"Well, we'd better get a move on then. It ain't gonna be less than a couple of hours to Dharmaville and it's lookin' like it's 'bout to rain."
Hurley's feet fidget like a flinch; Jin's forehead crinkles with concern. Sawyer picks himself up and starts walking. Every bone and muscle in his body, so alive with the ache.
He doesn't stop to check if they're following.
These days, they spend them running around the village trying to find something to do, anything to mend the pieces of whatever it is they have broken.
Jin watches the monitors, searching the island for signs of Sun, comes home every night with a new wrinkle on his face. Jack occupies his hours in the infirmary and Kate is often there, to keep him company or maybe just kill time. Hurley pretends not to notice that they go back to the same house every night. Instead he ransacks the cafeteria and every other common building, stuffs backpacks with food, clothes and yes, I think we'll need some soap, preparing their inevitable departure. Miles eats lunch with him in between shifts at the security room, all the while pretending to abhor his presence. He takes his time returning to work so that the pause in his step as he passes the infirmary is almost imperceptible, one foot that twists right and quickly turns back away.
Sawyer's door remains closed.
On their forth day back at the barracks, Hurley remembers the rituals. He catches Radzinsky coming home from wherever it is that he goes every morning, and it's not like they didn't know he was there, but in an unspoken agreement they all did their best to avoid each other. They saw his house lights turn on at night, his door left open in the afternoon as if defying them to go in and give him one more bad name to call them by. It's an accident that they do cross paths and Hurley ends the moment as quick as his feet will carry him, going back into the safety of his own house. But as he passes, his eyes swiftly meet Radzinsky's glare; it makes him think of death.
The next day, he goes in search of the perfect spot and finds it in a clearing in the middle of the jungle. He guesses there must be a Dharma cemetery, like Dharma beer and Dharma notebooks and Dharma everything else, but it's not right.
He makes the crosses himself, and buries them alone. Only a couple of inches of earth between them, the bodies aren't there anyway. The light comes in through the trees, their yellow particles falling just so on the rough pieces of wood.
(What a pathetic little picture it makes, but it's not like he didn't try to get them to come. They all dismissed him, faces crooked with disbelief that he would even think to do that, like there's a secret to the island that they know and he doesn't: the living are worse off than the dead.)
For Sayid, he says something about kickass moves, and saving lives. Hurley calls him a friend and a good man, and knows this would mean something to this man.
When he turns to Juliet, he stumbles on his words. In the rush of going home, he never got to know her all that well. He pictures her face and sees a different blonde. So he settles.
"For what it's worth, I liked you even when you were an Other," he says, and it's true enough. Swinging his head slightly to the direction of the barracks, he adds:
"And he loves you."
That's where he feels tempted to say something sad about heartbroken people and unfair universes, or just simply ask, why?. But there's no point in stirring a corpse that's not even there, so he just says, "Amen."
The prayers he learned as a child, Hurley never says them out loud.
Radzinsky taps his fingers rhythmically with one hand while the other one holds the arm of the chair so forcibly that it makes his skin turn red. It has Dr. Chang contemplating how thoroughly this man can express himself without even noticing. All his raging energy and all this fanaticism to turn it to.
The silence between them is heavy with unspoken words unwilling to come out. It makes Chang impatient, but, then again, so many things do. He pushes anyway.
"Well?"
That's all Radzinsky needs to loosen his tongue. He is loud and mad as he talks himself in circles of − how could you bring these people here? Let them stay in our houses, after what they've. How can you bring them back?
The whole thing gets tiring fast. Pierre wishes the other man had bothered to turn on the light when he came in; the lamplight is so weak. His voice is grave with sleep as he interrupts, "Stuart. Haven't you done enough damage already?"
Radzinsky sits suddenly still. His blood might be rushing but his heart feels like it's stopped.
Our sins are only deadly because we allow them to be.
"I'm so sorry," Kate tells him, her green eyes pleading for a reaction, of any kind. Baiting for an angry sorry for what, Kate?, begging for a sad for comin' back?, or maybe for your boyfriend deciding to blow up the damned island?, or just a crass for never knowin' whatever the hell it is you want?.
And yes, every part of her is sorry, for all of that.
But this? This empty shell of a man has nothing that she can recognize and she feels like crying, or slapping him, or both.
There's all this rage in him that he thinks might be dying with the numbness. What it's really doing is sitting there, bottling up until the day it bursts.
(She would have seen it coming and when it happened, she would have been there with a hand on his arm and her eyes unwavering on his.
Her fingertips would have been cool upon his skin, against the tropical warmth of the day.
"There's nothing you can do," she would probably say. Her voice, that sixth sense she had for his moods, the easy way that she could calm him down.)
He feels like causing Kate pain. Making her hurt so bad, until she doesn't know which side is up and which is down. Or maybe he wants to touch her, fuck her and leave her high and dry. He never could tell with her.
Instead he just looks at her, and looks away.
Hurley walks with fast steps, making a beeline for the bedroom door.
"You don't even bother knockin'?" drips from behind him as he passes the kitchen area. His body jolts to a stop halfway into the corridor, chest heaving with exhaustion and surprise.
"Dude, you scared me."
A lamp is flickering on the ceiling. This changing light, it makes all the yellow in the house look sickening green.
"I just came to tell you that Dr. Chang is giving the signal. You know, for the Dharma Initiative?"
The room keeps slipping in and out of darkness; Hurley thinks it might be enough to drive anyone mad. "They're coming back. We have to get out of here."
Sawyer runs a hand through his hair and his eyes look a little dangerous, but it might be just the shade.
"Well. Ain't that exciting."
It's only when they start walking toward the jungle that they realize Miles isn't coming with them.
"You're staying," Jack is the one to state.
"Yeah." Miles scratches the back of his neck uneasily, looks at anyone but the people he's lived with for the past three years. "Look, my - my dad will need somebody with him. With my mother gone... you don't even know if he'll be able to move his arm again," he says.
Silence meets him as everyone tries to absorb the sentiment he isn't willing to let through.
It's Hurley who interjects, with confusion, "but, dude, I don't think the townies will like having you around after you, like, tried to explode their island."
Jack shakes his head. "No, Chang told me he might be able to cover for Miles and Jin, it's just us, Sawyer and." The name chokes on his throat; he pauses and moves on. "We are the ones who have to leave."
Miles nods and continues, "we'll just say that while we were out doing the thing for my dad, Hurley overpowered me and took me as hostage to the Swan, or something. Jin, I'll have to tell them you were killed in the fight. Just so they won't think I was involved in it because I was on the boat crew."
"That's okay. They won't see me again." Jin shrugs easier than he should. "I hope."
"What about Radzinsky and his people?" Kate asks, skeptical.
"I can take care of 'em." Sawyer's voice is low and it gives her chills. His eyebrows knit together while his hands twirl into fists.
Miles mouth falls a bit open. "No, no. It's fine. You just get out of here. We'll find a way to keep him quiet. Anyway, I'm not sure he even knows I was involved in it. We'll convince him I was just there because I was with Chang."
The group stands there, taking the man in. There are more questions to go over, without a doubt, but the one who will have to answer them seems assured in his ability to do so safely. Comprehension arises; it's not up to them anymore.
Jin takes a step forward, tentative, thoughtful, and puts an arms around Miles. "Goodbye," is all he says.
Then comes Hurley, his hug more effortless. Miles pats him on the back twice, "yeah, yeah. Good luck to you too."
As he squirms out of the embrace, Miles notices Jim closer than he was a minute before. But he knows better than expect a sentimental farewell from this one. He pulls the walkie from the clip on his overall and throws it his way. "Take that. If there's anything coming your way on the course to the caves, I'll give you a warning −
And Jim? If you ever need anything," Miles tells him, the significant offer in his eye.
Sawyer stares for only a second, and then moves his head in a fast nod. "Yeah."
The group goes quietly, unaware of the heavy load that is: while every one of them has lost, Miles has found and because they can't deal with that, they just walked away.
Dr. Chang tries to move his fingers to little result; still, better than his elbow, which is the true hopeless cause. He is not naive enough to believe he will ever be able to move it properly again. Yet, he sees the door open with his son stepping half in, and smiles with contentment.
Miles steps out of the infirmary one day after they've left to find him standing alone in the middle of the lawn.
"Hey, kid!" he calls out, loud, but the boy turns around unshaken.
"Yes." There's no question or surprise in his voice, just contempt that is too profound for someone this young. His small frame stands alone in the empty village, eyes piercingly cold.
Miles feels a shiver run from the base of his neck, all the way down his spine. So this is how it happens − his back straightens, sensing ghosts of people who aren't dead yet.
The boy waits for only a little longer before turning around and going inside his house.
Ben never wonders what happened to make everyone leave. He only basks in the satisfaction of the Dharma Initiative gone.
There's water dripping in entrance of the cave, like a hundred taps leaking at the same time. If someone were to ask him, Sawyer would say that it's their noise keeping him awake.
Outside, Jack and Kate are discussing what in God's name they're all supposed to do now. Sawyer is sure they think their voices are hushed, but they're wrong and it's just another one in a line of stupid mistakes.
"We have to go back, Kate," he hears Jack say, "this is not our time." He just wishes the doctor would keep his damned opinions to himself.
"For Christssake," he mumbles under his breath, it stirs something a few feet away from him.
"Oh, you're awake," Hurley whispers. It's bait for conversation and Sawyer decides not to take it. He knows it won't matter, because whatever the young man wants to say, he'll end up saying anyway, there's no need to encourage it.
Soon enough it comes: "Hey, dude? Do you know those sport cars - GM Chevrolet, two-door convertible...John Cusack had one in that show, what was it called? You know, released in the sixties to compete with the Mustang but much cooler. Man, it's not even that old right now!"
Sawyer listens to the ramble, somewhat stunned. "Hugo, we're sleeping in a cave, in Gilligan's Island gone slasher, it's the fucking seventies and you're layin' there thinkin' of a damned pony car?"
The sound outside gets quiet; Hurley stays still to avoid the tears threatening to come down. He doesn't speak until he hears Kate start, "I'd like that too, but we don't have the first clue about how to -"
"I can't remember what they're called. I used to have one, back in our time. Now I can't, can't remember what they're called," Hurley says. Sawyer thinks maybe he can recognize in his scared voice all the other things he can't remember the names of.
He sighs. "Camaro."
"Oh. Oh, that's it. Thanks," Hurley retorts, relief in his tone. "It just kept slipping my mind, you know?"
Sawyer almost wants to offer some comfort, tell him that there's no need to explain, that he understands just fine. But now there's no chance of ever being that guy. "Yeah, just go to sleep, Shaggy."
When he hears a rowdy snore, Sawyer begins counting the rules she set for him - no walkies after his shift. No watching important games with people other than their crew. No towels on the bed. And.
What else?
These parts of her, these acts he learnt to perform for her, they keep slipping away from him. Details of the life they perfected over the course of three years, something he can't quite place.
Of all the things this place has done to him, this has got to be the worse.
(Her fingers would slide down the line of his chest to find his sternum, then slide a few inches to the left. She would say that this was the place where her hand covered his heart and in that place her hand would rest, making sure his heartbeat was still strong, still steady, making sure it was still there.
She would be the first to say, "I love you," because she almost always was. And he would smile that one smile that always said I am loved in a half surprised, half self-satisfied way. But it would be okay, 'cause that smile said, "I love you", too, before he could even drawl the words from his mouth.
Now Sawyer thinks he would have liked to ask her how come she could say it so often.
Perhaps she would laugh and tease, "why? Should I stop?"
And he would squirm, a little vexed while answering, "'Course not, it's just that... in my experience, sayin' it ain't that easy for people."
Perhaps she would get serious, then, and rest her chin on the hand over his chest, the way she always did when she wanted to look him in the eye. "No, it was never easy for me either."
He thinks she would add: "But I guess it's just easy to feel it now."
And he would understand.
Perhaps.)
His fingers slide down the line of his own chest, to the cavity and to the left.
Yes, it's still there.
Outside, someone is saying we weren't supposed to remember all this.
That's when he decides.
Sawyer doesn't have much trouble getting the Others to call Richard the second time.
Sneaking up on them turns out to be pretty easy, there's tension in the camp now. They're staying inside their tents, a nervous hum emanates from every shed and Sawyer can feel it, theirs is the quiet of animals in the jungle before a storm.
Amongst cold and suspicious gazes, Richard tells him it's best if they talk in private. The men guarding the field fume with anger. Sawyer nods in agreement.
"So, James?"
"How's the kid doin'?" he begins. It's not that he cares, in fact, he half hopes Ben is six feet under, it's just that three years with Juliet has taught him to keeps his cards to himself early in the game.
"Hm, fine. We sent him back to your side of the fence a few days ago, actually," Richard tells him with a confused look on his face that soon gives room for concern, "hasn't he arrived?"
Try as he might, Sawyer can't figure out the man before him. The air of mystery surrounding him, yet every emotion on his face so sincere. "Yeah, probably. Dharma and I ain't exactly in speakin' terms right now."
Richard pushes his chin up, his eyes flicker to the side. He asks for the point of this visit and sounds less curious and more beat than perhaps he should, and that is how Sawyer knows this will work just fine.
He starts by accounting for the events of that day; his fingers curl around the seat of his stool compulsively. He talks bomb, never thinks fall. We didn't erase a damned thing and then comes what is nearly a speech about Dharma, anger and war. Sawyer has never been one for preaching, but the bitter thought here is - hell if it didn't work well enough for the Doc.
Richard listens carefully, already aware of the essence in what James says: nothing goes unpaid for. Nevertheless the point is something else entirely. It turns up after a pause and a meaningful gaze.
"But... all of this death and destruction you’re about to face? I can stop it."
And Richard is almost afraid to ask, "how?"
"All I got to do is come forward as the leader of a riot that ain't got nothing to do with you. These people, they've lived with hostility for long enough to believe anyone is trying to kill 'em."
Sawyer watches as Richard advances in his chair, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. "And how are you going to do that without putting yourself and your people in danger, James?"
Sawyer just shrugs. "We're trouble either way. Anyway, that ain't no concern of yours."
Leaning back in his seat, Richard nods. Withdrawing a sigh, he replies, "I guess the question I have to ask is: what do you want in exchange for that?"
Easy like that; Sawyer almost smiles mockingly, but manages to keep his grave exterior in place. "Protection, for one. Anytime you cross a group of Dharma suits looking for them in the jungle, you send it off the wrong way."
"Them?"
"That's the second part of the deal. I do this, and I get out of here."
The man's surprise is evident on his face; it gives Sawyer inexplicable satisfaction. As Richard mumbles something about the second one of their group to ask him this and calls the way to leave the island 'privileged information', he sits impassive. It's all a bluff anyway. Jack figured right away that it would be better to fight off a search party than be caught in the crossfire of a war, and therefore prepared Doctor Chang to tell this to the DI before they even left the barracks. Making decisions alone, another one of Dr. Feelgood's lovely traits.
"Listen, I ain't lookin' for no DeLorean ticket back to the future," Sawyer interrupts rashly. Then, remembering who and when he's talking to, he recoils with a headshake. "I've filled my quota of sacrifices for this place. I want out, back to the real world. In the seventies, in two thousand fuckin' fifty, I don't care. I don't believe you people ain't got a single way to make that happen."
Richard remains still for a moment, taking this in. His eyes anchor on Sawyer's face almost uncomfortably. In a split second, a decision is made; Richard rests his hands intertwined on his lap. "You would just abandon your people?"
It's a statement more than a question, but there's no trace of repulse in his voice, just a deep need to comprehend.
Sawyer nods, realizing that Richard's resolution has been made. Standing up, he answers bitterly to himself, "well, they'll follow Jack anyway."
"I gotta go. Today, I'll take care of my end of the bargain. I'll trust you to keep yours," he says as he reaches for the canvas of the tent. Like a second nature, he lies, "if all fails, I guess I'll go straight to Jacob."
Ignoring the perplexed protests behind him, Sawyer steps out into the sun again, moving along the unwelcoming faces. The light falls uneasy on his eye; from behind him there's the sound of a gun being raised.
"Now, you stop right there," comes a female voice, British accent. Sawyer only turns his face halfway, but it's enough to allow the stunned woman to recognize the man she met nearly two decades before.
"If I were you, I'd think twice before shootin' people in the back again."
He catches a glimpse of her blond hair before he goes.
A few days later Sawyer wakes up in the middle of the night with a piece of cloth pressed to his mouth. His cry for help is smothered back his throat before it ever gets a chance to get out.
Next thing he knows he's lying on the beach with fingers poking him awake, but instead of Jack and Kate, the first thing he sees is a horde of giggling children who run away screaming and laughing as soon as he opens his eyes.
It's the middle of the day, the sun burns hot on his skin and his first thought is I'm in hell.
His second:
Tahiti.
The ring of the bell signals the door opening. Sawyer throws back the shot of whiskey; the alcohol leaves a burn trail on his throat, it's the strongest thing he's felt in years.
The look on the bartender's face tells him, before the boy even sits down on a stool, that, unless the kid is ordering water, he isn’t getting any service here tonight. He is charming, Sawyer will give him that, but his excuse for having no ID lacks the substance to make it believable. The clean chin incriminates him as not a day over sixteen; a scruff would lend an older appearance.
"C'mon. It's a quarter to three, there's no one in the place 'cept you and me. So set 'em up, Joe!"
The man over the counter seems amused, if thoroughly unconvinced. Funny, he seemed much less amicable the last time. There's no response, and Sawyer recognizes his cue.
When he speaks up, his voice is rough, unpolished like an abandoned fortress. It doesn't quite achieve the drunken cheerfulness he was aimed for. "C'mon, I can tell just by lookin' at the man that he ain't no minor."
They turn to him with surprise. The kid gapes, gives a hollow look that has Sawyer thinking this whole scene is about to break, like in a movie where one of the characters remembers something that hasn't happened yet and shouts hey, this isn't how it's supposed to go!. Woody Allen caricatures come to life.
But the moment passes, and Sawyer sees a glint of mirth in the boy's eye again.
The barkeeper's left brow shoots up, asking for a reason for this intervention. His arms cross over chest. Sawyer frowns. "Look, why don't you leave me that bottle and get me another glass?"
The guy just shakes his head with disbelief. "It's on you."
The grin on the young man's face is wolfish. He slides to Sawyer's side with a mocking drawl, "thank you, sir." He takes a sip of whisky and it twists him right up to his nose. His mouth opens wide to pull in a gulp of air like it's some sort of refreshment.
"Jesus," he bellows. His eyes follow the liquid rising as Sawyer pours it. "Today was my first day doin' a honest man's work."
It's a lie. Sawyer indulges, raising his drink in an appreciative toast. "You got a name, kid?"
The boy smiles.
"Yeah. Sawyer."
The liquor rides him down to his very lungs, this bitter taste in his mouth. "James."
The smile falters. Sawyer keeps his appearance carefully blank and sees the kid chalk it up to coincidence.
"Pleasure to meet you, James," he answers cheerfully. Then, figuring that the more they talk, the more he drinks, he adds, "how 'bout you? What are you celebrating?"
The glass hits the table with unexpected force. It sends a shrill sound into the air like the borderline of crackling.
"I'm not celebrating."
(He visited her only once.
It was easy to pick her out from the crowd. Her blond curls were as wild, and her skin, as pale, as he remembered them. But everything else - her face was younger, her cheeks still carrying the plump of childhood not yet left behind. Her lanky body looked as though it had been through a stretcher, bony and curveless, and she was awkward in its length.
In a circle of girls who looked about two or three years older than her, she stood oblivious. Her eyes focused deeply on a tree behind one of her friends, she was in a bubble of her own making. And in this misplaced girl, he could almost recognize the woman he had known all those years ago, and would meet, again, decades from now.
The scene played before him like a suburban spell. Children spilling out of the school in packs, their lively plans for the weekend echoed all over the neighborhood. They got away from the building as fast as they could; walking in groups, waving while getting into cars, standing on the lawn, laughing, anxious; girls played with their hair, boys watched from afar.
All of a sudden, about five feet away from her, a fight broke. The bubble burst. A boy was getting beat up by a group of bullies, right there, in front of everyone. And he tried, poor kid, he really did try to defend himself, but when he opened his mouth, the wrong thing came out and oh, he was really getting his shit kicked now.
Everybody stood there frozen, eyes glued to the spectacle going on; his eyes stayed on her. He watched her lips tremble just slightly and her hand fly to her mouth, the gesture so soft, like a yawn of womanhood making its way through her. But her fright was nearly palpable. Where he would expect her to be cool and collected, she was messily emotional. Her inaction left him stunned, as everything he thought he recognized in her came crumbling to the ground.
It was then that he realized that the years weren't enough to explain the difference between the girl and the woman, just like an ocean wouldn't tell you how far he's traveled. Just like the distance from him to her couldn't be measured in yards.
He stuck around to watch one of the girls in her circle intervene. She spoke to the boys calmly, pulling one out of the way and standing in front of the weak kid. If not fearless, she was firm. The love and admiration he saw in Juliet's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Sawyer turned around and never saw her again.)
They stumble awkwardly through the backdoor. An arm on Sawyer's shoulder can barely keep the young man steady, his staggering steps only carry him so far into the alley before he loses balance and falls on his knees in front of the brick wall.
From inside the building comes a steady beat, a Brenda Lee song that mocks him with a soft piano. His first time through this night, the same tune played inside the decayed seven-eleven where he finally decided to make a stop after trying every pub and joint in this town.
"Boy, I ain't gonna sell you no alcohol," the beefy clerk told him with a consorting air, "but nights like these, when I was yer age, I'd steal my dad's ride and drive around for hours."
So, Sawyer stole a car off the desert street and drove until there was nothing but road behind him.
As different as this second time around has turned out to be, there's a careless elation he can recognize. It feels like penitence now.
He didn't even realize it was coming until he saw the date on the newspaper. Guess he was too busy wandering adrift, perhaps in search of a girl who is still far from existing. It's just what he's been doing since '78: wandering, reading, meeting girls who turn tricks in the silent of the night. Money on the nightstand and then a different place; no one that he knows.
And this is where the cycle began. The day he pulled his first successful con. It was an easy one, a sucker mother for a victim, and a charming smile from an abandoned boy. He had shown up at her doorstep after watching the house for a week, claiming to be a friend of her son's whose flight had been delayed and was left with nowhere to go in the city. All it took was a teary anguish face after the inevitable my son died last year and the woman let him come in to spend the night. He had played the part of a southern gentleman in the making perfectly until everyone in the house fell asleep.
That's when he took everything of value he could put his hands on − he even took the jewelry from the couple's bedroom − before walking out, through the fucking front door.
Despicable.
It makes his stomach churn with disgust now.
His younger self is on his knees, puking his guts out. Still, there's the delight of something that tastes like freedom, it makes him imagine a grin on the kid's lowered head and Sawyer has to take a step back. Behind him, the metal door snaps shut.
The gun weights heavy on his hand.
end.
disclaimer: not mine!
a/n: written for emiliglia as part of the luau at lostsquee. prompt: s6 speculation.
By the time he comes to, they're already in the middle of the jungle again.
His eyes feel sealed shut. There are voices close, their sound tuning in and out of focus in a fog. All of his skin is sticky with sweat, that much he figures, but the stale spots, those could be dried tears, mud, or blood.
Kate is beside him, sitting with her arms encircling her legs, all closed upon herself. When he finally tries to sit up, her hands are hesitant to help him. They recoil and then push, gently from his back to his shoulder, like a second thought.
He sees Jin and Hurley standing against a tree. Both have their heads downcast, but Hurley's eyes flicker every so often behind his lowered eyelids. Following the direction of his look, Sawyer finds Jack and Miles crutched over an extended body.
At first, he's sure the man is dead. There's just too much blood, and it keeps spreading, dark red lines against the bright white. It takes a second to dawn on him that the improvised bandage is on the man's arm and that it's his only wound. Jack is saying something about metal lodged in the flesh, throwing around terms like infection and amputate as though they’re words in a dictionary and damn if that isn't panic in Miles' face.
Dr. Chang's voice is weak when he speaks up, but behind it is the determination of a man used to barking orders.
"Everyone who wasn't evacuated must have gone into hiding by now. Horace will wait for a signal before bringing them back. The barracks -"
His breath falters. Miles runs a hand over his father's forehead, easy as a summer day. To be honest, Sawyer never thought the guy had that in him.
" - The barracks should be empty. Everything you'll need is in the medical facility -"
It all comes back in flashes, then.
There was a phone call.
There were ghosts.
Everything went up in flames like a damned hippie van on fire.
"Are you okay?" Kate asks, her voice in velvet whisper; his throat is velvet too. His lips, they're cracked with salt, the way you'll get when you cry yourself to sleep.
(There it is.)
There was a hole in their plastic empire.
There were chains around her waist.
"Where's the van?" he says. It comes out louder than he meant to. Everyone stares back, their mouths open but their voices lost. "Well?"
Miles is the one to speak. His newfound sympathy, it's nothing Sawyer wants.
"It was pulled in."
Jack can't look at him; Kate can't look anywhere but him.
(Juliet just let him go.)
"Well, we'd better get a move on then. It ain't gonna be less than a couple of hours to Dharmaville and it's lookin' like it's 'bout to rain."
Hurley's feet fidget like a flinch; Jin's forehead crinkles with concern. Sawyer picks himself up and starts walking. Every bone and muscle in his body, so alive with the ache.
He doesn't stop to check if they're following.
These days, they spend them running around the village trying to find something to do, anything to mend the pieces of whatever it is they have broken.
Jin watches the monitors, searching the island for signs of Sun, comes home every night with a new wrinkle on his face. Jack occupies his hours in the infirmary and Kate is often there, to keep him company or maybe just kill time. Hurley pretends not to notice that they go back to the same house every night. Instead he ransacks the cafeteria and every other common building, stuffs backpacks with food, clothes and yes, I think we'll need some soap, preparing their inevitable departure. Miles eats lunch with him in between shifts at the security room, all the while pretending to abhor his presence. He takes his time returning to work so that the pause in his step as he passes the infirmary is almost imperceptible, one foot that twists right and quickly turns back away.
Sawyer's door remains closed.
On their forth day back at the barracks, Hurley remembers the rituals. He catches Radzinsky coming home from wherever it is that he goes every morning, and it's not like they didn't know he was there, but in an unspoken agreement they all did their best to avoid each other. They saw his house lights turn on at night, his door left open in the afternoon as if defying them to go in and give him one more bad name to call them by. It's an accident that they do cross paths and Hurley ends the moment as quick as his feet will carry him, going back into the safety of his own house. But as he passes, his eyes swiftly meet Radzinsky's glare; it makes him think of death.
The next day, he goes in search of the perfect spot and finds it in a clearing in the middle of the jungle. He guesses there must be a Dharma cemetery, like Dharma beer and Dharma notebooks and Dharma everything else, but it's not right.
He makes the crosses himself, and buries them alone. Only a couple of inches of earth between them, the bodies aren't there anyway. The light comes in through the trees, their yellow particles falling just so on the rough pieces of wood.
(What a pathetic little picture it makes, but it's not like he didn't try to get them to come. They all dismissed him, faces crooked with disbelief that he would even think to do that, like there's a secret to the island that they know and he doesn't: the living are worse off than the dead.)
For Sayid, he says something about kickass moves, and saving lives. Hurley calls him a friend and a good man, and knows this would mean something to this man.
When he turns to Juliet, he stumbles on his words. In the rush of going home, he never got to know her all that well. He pictures her face and sees a different blonde. So he settles.
"For what it's worth, I liked you even when you were an Other," he says, and it's true enough. Swinging his head slightly to the direction of the barracks, he adds:
"And he loves you."
That's where he feels tempted to say something sad about heartbroken people and unfair universes, or just simply ask, why?. But there's no point in stirring a corpse that's not even there, so he just says, "Amen."
The prayers he learned as a child, Hurley never says them out loud.
Radzinsky taps his fingers rhythmically with one hand while the other one holds the arm of the chair so forcibly that it makes his skin turn red. It has Dr. Chang contemplating how thoroughly this man can express himself without even noticing. All his raging energy and all this fanaticism to turn it to.
The silence between them is heavy with unspoken words unwilling to come out. It makes Chang impatient, but, then again, so many things do. He pushes anyway.
"Well?"
That's all Radzinsky needs to loosen his tongue. He is loud and mad as he talks himself in circles of − how could you bring these people here? Let them stay in our houses, after what they've. How can you bring them back?
The whole thing gets tiring fast. Pierre wishes the other man had bothered to turn on the light when he came in; the lamplight is so weak. His voice is grave with sleep as he interrupts, "Stuart. Haven't you done enough damage already?"
Radzinsky sits suddenly still. His blood might be rushing but his heart feels like it's stopped.
Our sins are only deadly because we allow them to be.
"I'm so sorry," Kate tells him, her green eyes pleading for a reaction, of any kind. Baiting for an angry sorry for what, Kate?, begging for a sad for comin' back?, or maybe for your boyfriend deciding to blow up the damned island?, or just a crass for never knowin' whatever the hell it is you want?.
And yes, every part of her is sorry, for all of that.
But this? This empty shell of a man has nothing that she can recognize and she feels like crying, or slapping him, or both.
There's all this rage in him that he thinks might be dying with the numbness. What it's really doing is sitting there, bottling up until the day it bursts.
(She would have seen it coming and when it happened, she would have been there with a hand on his arm and her eyes unwavering on his.
Her fingertips would have been cool upon his skin, against the tropical warmth of the day.
"There's nothing you can do," she would probably say. Her voice, that sixth sense she had for his moods, the easy way that she could calm him down.)
He feels like causing Kate pain. Making her hurt so bad, until she doesn't know which side is up and which is down. Or maybe he wants to touch her, fuck her and leave her high and dry. He never could tell with her.
Instead he just looks at her, and looks away.
Hurley walks with fast steps, making a beeline for the bedroom door.
"You don't even bother knockin'?" drips from behind him as he passes the kitchen area. His body jolts to a stop halfway into the corridor, chest heaving with exhaustion and surprise.
"Dude, you scared me."
A lamp is flickering on the ceiling. This changing light, it makes all the yellow in the house look sickening green.
"I just came to tell you that Dr. Chang is giving the signal. You know, for the Dharma Initiative?"
The room keeps slipping in and out of darkness; Hurley thinks it might be enough to drive anyone mad. "They're coming back. We have to get out of here."
Sawyer runs a hand through his hair and his eyes look a little dangerous, but it might be just the shade.
"Well. Ain't that exciting."
It's only when they start walking toward the jungle that they realize Miles isn't coming with them.
"You're staying," Jack is the one to state.
"Yeah." Miles scratches the back of his neck uneasily, looks at anyone but the people he's lived with for the past three years. "Look, my - my dad will need somebody with him. With my mother gone... you don't even know if he'll be able to move his arm again," he says.
Silence meets him as everyone tries to absorb the sentiment he isn't willing to let through.
It's Hurley who interjects, with confusion, "but, dude, I don't think the townies will like having you around after you, like, tried to explode their island."
Jack shakes his head. "No, Chang told me he might be able to cover for Miles and Jin, it's just us, Sawyer and." The name chokes on his throat; he pauses and moves on. "We are the ones who have to leave."
Miles nods and continues, "we'll just say that while we were out doing the thing for my dad, Hurley overpowered me and took me as hostage to the Swan, or something. Jin, I'll have to tell them you were killed in the fight. Just so they won't think I was involved in it because I was on the boat crew."
"That's okay. They won't see me again." Jin shrugs easier than he should. "I hope."
"What about Radzinsky and his people?" Kate asks, skeptical.
"I can take care of 'em." Sawyer's voice is low and it gives her chills. His eyebrows knit together while his hands twirl into fists.
Miles mouth falls a bit open. "No, no. It's fine. You just get out of here. We'll find a way to keep him quiet. Anyway, I'm not sure he even knows I was involved in it. We'll convince him I was just there because I was with Chang."
The group stands there, taking the man in. There are more questions to go over, without a doubt, but the one who will have to answer them seems assured in his ability to do so safely. Comprehension arises; it's not up to them anymore.
Jin takes a step forward, tentative, thoughtful, and puts an arms around Miles. "Goodbye," is all he says.
Then comes Hurley, his hug more effortless. Miles pats him on the back twice, "yeah, yeah. Good luck to you too."
As he squirms out of the embrace, Miles notices Jim closer than he was a minute before. But he knows better than expect a sentimental farewell from this one. He pulls the walkie from the clip on his overall and throws it his way. "Take that. If there's anything coming your way on the course to the caves, I'll give you a warning −
And Jim? If you ever need anything," Miles tells him, the significant offer in his eye.
Sawyer stares for only a second, and then moves his head in a fast nod. "Yeah."
The group goes quietly, unaware of the heavy load that is: while every one of them has lost, Miles has found and because they can't deal with that, they just walked away.
Dr. Chang tries to move his fingers to little result; still, better than his elbow, which is the true hopeless cause. He is not naive enough to believe he will ever be able to move it properly again. Yet, he sees the door open with his son stepping half in, and smiles with contentment.
Miles steps out of the infirmary one day after they've left to find him standing alone in the middle of the lawn.
"Hey, kid!" he calls out, loud, but the boy turns around unshaken.
"Yes." There's no question or surprise in his voice, just contempt that is too profound for someone this young. His small frame stands alone in the empty village, eyes piercingly cold.
Miles feels a shiver run from the base of his neck, all the way down his spine. So this is how it happens − his back straightens, sensing ghosts of people who aren't dead yet.
The boy waits for only a little longer before turning around and going inside his house.
Ben never wonders what happened to make everyone leave. He only basks in the satisfaction of the Dharma Initiative gone.
There's water dripping in entrance of the cave, like a hundred taps leaking at the same time. If someone were to ask him, Sawyer would say that it's their noise keeping him awake.
Outside, Jack and Kate are discussing what in God's name they're all supposed to do now. Sawyer is sure they think their voices are hushed, but they're wrong and it's just another one in a line of stupid mistakes.
"We have to go back, Kate," he hears Jack say, "this is not our time." He just wishes the doctor would keep his damned opinions to himself.
"For Christssake," he mumbles under his breath, it stirs something a few feet away from him.
"Oh, you're awake," Hurley whispers. It's bait for conversation and Sawyer decides not to take it. He knows it won't matter, because whatever the young man wants to say, he'll end up saying anyway, there's no need to encourage it.
Soon enough it comes: "Hey, dude? Do you know those sport cars - GM Chevrolet, two-door convertible...John Cusack had one in that show, what was it called? You know, released in the sixties to compete with the Mustang but much cooler. Man, it's not even that old right now!"
Sawyer listens to the ramble, somewhat stunned. "Hugo, we're sleeping in a cave, in Gilligan's Island gone slasher, it's the fucking seventies and you're layin' there thinkin' of a damned pony car?"
The sound outside gets quiet; Hurley stays still to avoid the tears threatening to come down. He doesn't speak until he hears Kate start, "I'd like that too, but we don't have the first clue about how to -"
"I can't remember what they're called. I used to have one, back in our time. Now I can't, can't remember what they're called," Hurley says. Sawyer thinks maybe he can recognize in his scared voice all the other things he can't remember the names of.
He sighs. "Camaro."
"Oh. Oh, that's it. Thanks," Hurley retorts, relief in his tone. "It just kept slipping my mind, you know?"
Sawyer almost wants to offer some comfort, tell him that there's no need to explain, that he understands just fine. But now there's no chance of ever being that guy. "Yeah, just go to sleep, Shaggy."
When he hears a rowdy snore, Sawyer begins counting the rules she set for him - no walkies after his shift. No watching important games with people other than their crew. No towels on the bed. And.
What else?
These parts of her, these acts he learnt to perform for her, they keep slipping away from him. Details of the life they perfected over the course of three years, something he can't quite place.
Of all the things this place has done to him, this has got to be the worse.
(Her fingers would slide down the line of his chest to find his sternum, then slide a few inches to the left. She would say that this was the place where her hand covered his heart and in that place her hand would rest, making sure his heartbeat was still strong, still steady, making sure it was still there.
She would be the first to say, "I love you," because she almost always was. And he would smile that one smile that always said I am loved in a half surprised, half self-satisfied way. But it would be okay, 'cause that smile said, "I love you", too, before he could even drawl the words from his mouth.
Now Sawyer thinks he would have liked to ask her how come she could say it so often.
Perhaps she would laugh and tease, "why? Should I stop?"
And he would squirm, a little vexed while answering, "'Course not, it's just that... in my experience, sayin' it ain't that easy for people."
Perhaps she would get serious, then, and rest her chin on the hand over his chest, the way she always did when she wanted to look him in the eye. "No, it was never easy for me either."
He thinks she would add: "But I guess it's just easy to feel it now."
And he would understand.
Perhaps.)
His fingers slide down the line of his own chest, to the cavity and to the left.
Yes, it's still there.
Outside, someone is saying we weren't supposed to remember all this.
That's when he decides.
Sawyer doesn't have much trouble getting the Others to call Richard the second time.
Sneaking up on them turns out to be pretty easy, there's tension in the camp now. They're staying inside their tents, a nervous hum emanates from every shed and Sawyer can feel it, theirs is the quiet of animals in the jungle before a storm.
Amongst cold and suspicious gazes, Richard tells him it's best if they talk in private. The men guarding the field fume with anger. Sawyer nods in agreement.
"So, James?"
"How's the kid doin'?" he begins. It's not that he cares, in fact, he half hopes Ben is six feet under, it's just that three years with Juliet has taught him to keeps his cards to himself early in the game.
"Hm, fine. We sent him back to your side of the fence a few days ago, actually," Richard tells him with a confused look on his face that soon gives room for concern, "hasn't he arrived?"
Try as he might, Sawyer can't figure out the man before him. The air of mystery surrounding him, yet every emotion on his face so sincere. "Yeah, probably. Dharma and I ain't exactly in speakin' terms right now."
Richard pushes his chin up, his eyes flicker to the side. He asks for the point of this visit and sounds less curious and more beat than perhaps he should, and that is how Sawyer knows this will work just fine.
He starts by accounting for the events of that day; his fingers curl around the seat of his stool compulsively. He talks bomb, never thinks fall. We didn't erase a damned thing and then comes what is nearly a speech about Dharma, anger and war. Sawyer has never been one for preaching, but the bitter thought here is - hell if it didn't work well enough for the Doc.
Richard listens carefully, already aware of the essence in what James says: nothing goes unpaid for. Nevertheless the point is something else entirely. It turns up after a pause and a meaningful gaze.
"But... all of this death and destruction you’re about to face? I can stop it."
And Richard is almost afraid to ask, "how?"
"All I got to do is come forward as the leader of a riot that ain't got nothing to do with you. These people, they've lived with hostility for long enough to believe anyone is trying to kill 'em."
Sawyer watches as Richard advances in his chair, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. "And how are you going to do that without putting yourself and your people in danger, James?"
Sawyer just shrugs. "We're trouble either way. Anyway, that ain't no concern of yours."
Leaning back in his seat, Richard nods. Withdrawing a sigh, he replies, "I guess the question I have to ask is: what do you want in exchange for that?"
Easy like that; Sawyer almost smiles mockingly, but manages to keep his grave exterior in place. "Protection, for one. Anytime you cross a group of Dharma suits looking for them in the jungle, you send it off the wrong way."
"Them?"
"That's the second part of the deal. I do this, and I get out of here."
The man's surprise is evident on his face; it gives Sawyer inexplicable satisfaction. As Richard mumbles something about the second one of their group to ask him this and calls the way to leave the island 'privileged information', he sits impassive. It's all a bluff anyway. Jack figured right away that it would be better to fight off a search party than be caught in the crossfire of a war, and therefore prepared Doctor Chang to tell this to the DI before they even left the barracks. Making decisions alone, another one of Dr. Feelgood's lovely traits.
"Listen, I ain't lookin' for no DeLorean ticket back to the future," Sawyer interrupts rashly. Then, remembering who and when he's talking to, he recoils with a headshake. "I've filled my quota of sacrifices for this place. I want out, back to the real world. In the seventies, in two thousand fuckin' fifty, I don't care. I don't believe you people ain't got a single way to make that happen."
Richard remains still for a moment, taking this in. His eyes anchor on Sawyer's face almost uncomfortably. In a split second, a decision is made; Richard rests his hands intertwined on his lap. "You would just abandon your people?"
It's a statement more than a question, but there's no trace of repulse in his voice, just a deep need to comprehend.
Sawyer nods, realizing that Richard's resolution has been made. Standing up, he answers bitterly to himself, "well, they'll follow Jack anyway."
"I gotta go. Today, I'll take care of my end of the bargain. I'll trust you to keep yours," he says as he reaches for the canvas of the tent. Like a second nature, he lies, "if all fails, I guess I'll go straight to Jacob."
Ignoring the perplexed protests behind him, Sawyer steps out into the sun again, moving along the unwelcoming faces. The light falls uneasy on his eye; from behind him there's the sound of a gun being raised.
"Now, you stop right there," comes a female voice, British accent. Sawyer only turns his face halfway, but it's enough to allow the stunned woman to recognize the man she met nearly two decades before.
"If I were you, I'd think twice before shootin' people in the back again."
He catches a glimpse of her blond hair before he goes.
A few days later Sawyer wakes up in the middle of the night with a piece of cloth pressed to his mouth. His cry for help is smothered back his throat before it ever gets a chance to get out.
Next thing he knows he's lying on the beach with fingers poking him awake, but instead of Jack and Kate, the first thing he sees is a horde of giggling children who run away screaming and laughing as soon as he opens his eyes.
It's the middle of the day, the sun burns hot on his skin and his first thought is I'm in hell.
His second:
Tahiti.
The ring of the bell signals the door opening. Sawyer throws back the shot of whiskey; the alcohol leaves a burn trail on his throat, it's the strongest thing he's felt in years.
The look on the bartender's face tells him, before the boy even sits down on a stool, that, unless the kid is ordering water, he isn’t getting any service here tonight. He is charming, Sawyer will give him that, but his excuse for having no ID lacks the substance to make it believable. The clean chin incriminates him as not a day over sixteen; a scruff would lend an older appearance.
"C'mon. It's a quarter to three, there's no one in the place 'cept you and me. So set 'em up, Joe!"
The man over the counter seems amused, if thoroughly unconvinced. Funny, he seemed much less amicable the last time. There's no response, and Sawyer recognizes his cue.
When he speaks up, his voice is rough, unpolished like an abandoned fortress. It doesn't quite achieve the drunken cheerfulness he was aimed for. "C'mon, I can tell just by lookin' at the man that he ain't no minor."
They turn to him with surprise. The kid gapes, gives a hollow look that has Sawyer thinking this whole scene is about to break, like in a movie where one of the characters remembers something that hasn't happened yet and shouts hey, this isn't how it's supposed to go!. Woody Allen caricatures come to life.
But the moment passes, and Sawyer sees a glint of mirth in the boy's eye again.
The barkeeper's left brow shoots up, asking for a reason for this intervention. His arms cross over chest. Sawyer frowns. "Look, why don't you leave me that bottle and get me another glass?"
The guy just shakes his head with disbelief. "It's on you."
The grin on the young man's face is wolfish. He slides to Sawyer's side with a mocking drawl, "thank you, sir." He takes a sip of whisky and it twists him right up to his nose. His mouth opens wide to pull in a gulp of air like it's some sort of refreshment.
"Jesus," he bellows. His eyes follow the liquid rising as Sawyer pours it. "Today was my first day doin' a honest man's work."
It's a lie. Sawyer indulges, raising his drink in an appreciative toast. "You got a name, kid?"
The boy smiles.
"Yeah. Sawyer."
The liquor rides him down to his very lungs, this bitter taste in his mouth. "James."
The smile falters. Sawyer keeps his appearance carefully blank and sees the kid chalk it up to coincidence.
"Pleasure to meet you, James," he answers cheerfully. Then, figuring that the more they talk, the more he drinks, he adds, "how 'bout you? What are you celebrating?"
The glass hits the table with unexpected force. It sends a shrill sound into the air like the borderline of crackling.
"I'm not celebrating."
(He visited her only once.
It was easy to pick her out from the crowd. Her blond curls were as wild, and her skin, as pale, as he remembered them. But everything else - her face was younger, her cheeks still carrying the plump of childhood not yet left behind. Her lanky body looked as though it had been through a stretcher, bony and curveless, and she was awkward in its length.
In a circle of girls who looked about two or three years older than her, she stood oblivious. Her eyes focused deeply on a tree behind one of her friends, she was in a bubble of her own making. And in this misplaced girl, he could almost recognize the woman he had known all those years ago, and would meet, again, decades from now.
The scene played before him like a suburban spell. Children spilling out of the school in packs, their lively plans for the weekend echoed all over the neighborhood. They got away from the building as fast as they could; walking in groups, waving while getting into cars, standing on the lawn, laughing, anxious; girls played with their hair, boys watched from afar.
All of a sudden, about five feet away from her, a fight broke. The bubble burst. A boy was getting beat up by a group of bullies, right there, in front of everyone. And he tried, poor kid, he really did try to defend himself, but when he opened his mouth, the wrong thing came out and oh, he was really getting his shit kicked now.
Everybody stood there frozen, eyes glued to the spectacle going on; his eyes stayed on her. He watched her lips tremble just slightly and her hand fly to her mouth, the gesture so soft, like a yawn of womanhood making its way through her. But her fright was nearly palpable. Where he would expect her to be cool and collected, she was messily emotional. Her inaction left him stunned, as everything he thought he recognized in her came crumbling to the ground.
It was then that he realized that the years weren't enough to explain the difference between the girl and the woman, just like an ocean wouldn't tell you how far he's traveled. Just like the distance from him to her couldn't be measured in yards.
He stuck around to watch one of the girls in her circle intervene. She spoke to the boys calmly, pulling one out of the way and standing in front of the weak kid. If not fearless, she was firm. The love and admiration he saw in Juliet's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Sawyer turned around and never saw her again.)
They stumble awkwardly through the backdoor. An arm on Sawyer's shoulder can barely keep the young man steady, his staggering steps only carry him so far into the alley before he loses balance and falls on his knees in front of the brick wall.
From inside the building comes a steady beat, a Brenda Lee song that mocks him with a soft piano. His first time through this night, the same tune played inside the decayed seven-eleven where he finally decided to make a stop after trying every pub and joint in this town.
"Boy, I ain't gonna sell you no alcohol," the beefy clerk told him with a consorting air, "but nights like these, when I was yer age, I'd steal my dad's ride and drive around for hours."
So, Sawyer stole a car off the desert street and drove until there was nothing but road behind him.
As different as this second time around has turned out to be, there's a careless elation he can recognize. It feels like penitence now.
He didn't even realize it was coming until he saw the date on the newspaper. Guess he was too busy wandering adrift, perhaps in search of a girl who is still far from existing. It's just what he's been doing since '78: wandering, reading, meeting girls who turn tricks in the silent of the night. Money on the nightstand and then a different place; no one that he knows.
And this is where the cycle began. The day he pulled his first successful con. It was an easy one, a sucker mother for a victim, and a charming smile from an abandoned boy. He had shown up at her doorstep after watching the house for a week, claiming to be a friend of her son's whose flight had been delayed and was left with nowhere to go in the city. All it took was a teary anguish face after the inevitable my son died last year and the woman let him come in to spend the night. He had played the part of a southern gentleman in the making perfectly until everyone in the house fell asleep.
That's when he took everything of value he could put his hands on − he even took the jewelry from the couple's bedroom − before walking out, through the fucking front door.
Despicable.
It makes his stomach churn with disgust now.
His younger self is on his knees, puking his guts out. Still, there's the delight of something that tastes like freedom, it makes him imagine a grin on the kid's lowered head and Sawyer has to take a step back. Behind him, the metal door snaps shut.
The gun weights heavy on his hand.
end.