A/N: I've had this going on Lost-Forum for a couple of weeks and thought I'd go ahead and bring it over here. This is a Sawyercentric fic set after Episode 2.04, Everybody Hates Hugo. Rated T for language, eventual romance, and all-around snarkiness.

Summary: By now, she was probably shacked up with the Doc in a nice, state-of-the-art cave with a damn white picket bamboo fence out in front. They'd get married – probably with the Bald Messiah performing the ceremony – and go off on their honeymoon where they'd feed each other pineapple and have eight minutes of missionary-type sex every night.

Chapter One

Sawyer was cold.

His teeth chattered as another chill racked his body, hitting him so suddenly that it damn near stole his breath. No, cold didn't even come close to summing up how he felt; he was fucking freezing. With a scowl, he snatched the blanket that Rambina had casually tossed him, shivering as he curled beneath it like a damn toddler.

How in the hell could he be so cold when it was at least a hundred degrees in this godforsaken bunker?

Jack's warning after Sayid had carved up his arm all those weeks ago echoed in Sawyer's mind. For two days you're going to think you're all good… the day after that the fever's going to come and you're going to start seeing red lines running up and down your arm.

It'd been exactly three days since he'd gotten shot.

Son of a bitch.

Sawyer used the wall to prop himself into an upright position before he unbuttoned his shirt just enough to study the wound in his shoulder. Sure enough, the damn thing was infected, pus oozing out of the center and red lines stemming from it like a macabre spider web.

Well didn't that just figure. He'd survived a plane crash, evaded loan sharks, real sharks and polar bears in his lifetime, only to be killed by an infected flesh wound.

He laughed, a short, bitter sound that held absolutely no humor. Finally, the giant clusterfuck that had been his life was going to end. He'd been expecting it; hell, over the years he'd looked for it time and time again. With every con, he'd push it farther, raise the stakes in the hope that maybe the next pissed-off husband would be competent enough to catch up with him and put him out of his misery.

No such luck.

Somehow he'd always managed to be a little smarter, a little faster than all of his marks. Even the goddamn mafia hadn't managed to catch him when he'd ripped off a hundred grand from right under their noses. He couldn't deny that there was a certain thrill that came with each successful grift, but there was another part of him that wanted it to end already. But he couldn't just walk away from what he'd become, it wasn't that simple. He'd chosen his path a long time ago. Whether he liked it or not, he was Sawyer.

There was only one out for him now. Ol' Mikey'd pegged it on the raft, alright.

He'd wanted to die.

Hell, in thirty-six years, what had he accomplished, anyway? Not a goddamn thing. He couldn't even track down the bastard who'd killed his parents. Instead, he'd gone from a punk, to a grifter, to a murderer.

Even here, where he'd been given a clean slate, he'd still managed to fuck it up. He wasn't going to apologize for looking out for number one – he didn't need or want to be part of Captain Jack's grand utopian vision – but it did eat at him that he'd managed to alienate the one person on this damn island who gave a rat's ass whether he lived or died.

He'd done a good job of it, too; pissed her off enough to make her leave without even telling him goodbye.

Kate. In a way, it was fitting that his last thoughts would be of her.

By now, she was probably shacked up with the Doc in a nice, state-of-the-art cave with a damn white picket bamboo fence out in front. They'd get married – probably with the Bald Messiah performing the ceremony – and go off on their honeymoon where they'd feed each other pineapple and have eight minutes of missionary-type sex every night.

The part of him that wasn't a selfish asshole knew that it was for the best.

The part of him that was a selfish asshole wondered why he gave a damn.

Because you have feelings for her, dumbass.

And wasn't now a hell of a time to figure that out?

"Sawyer?" Michael's voice brought him out of his reverie. He felt a cool hand cover his forehead and he opened his eyes, blinking until Michael's face came into focus. "You're burning up, man." Sawyer watched as Mike turned to their captors, or hosts, who were watching from across the room. "We need to get him to the other side of the island, to the doctor there. The fever's getting worse."

"Not gonna happen." Sawyer wasn't surprised to hear Xena pipe right up with a scratch in the 'Let the Redneck Son of a Bitch Die' column. "It's too risky. Look at him, he can barely sit up. It'd take two of us to carry his ass, and if they find us, we won't stand a chance."

He should know better by now, but no way could he keep his mouth shut after that comment. "Well gee, sweetheart, if you want to keep me all to yourself, you should just say so," he drawled, smirking at the glare she shot in his direction.

"Shut up." Ana stalked over to him, her gaze settling on the inflamed wound in his shoulder. Something flashed in her eyes – he'd have guessed it was concern, if the chick hadn't stuck her boot in the fucking thing a couple days ago. When she met his gaze, her face had settled into its usual ice bitch expression.

Concern. Yeah, right. Fever had to be worse than he thought for that hallucination.

"You know what? Since you're clearly well enough to be a smartass, there's no reason why you can't haul your own weight," Ana told him matter-of-factly, her eyes flat, hard. She pushed herself to her feet, turning to face the rest of the group. "Fine. Our odds are going to be a lot better in a larger group, but we need to get there by nightfall. Grab only what you need and let's move out."

Not a single person argued or asked questions. Sawyer had to give the Devilita her due; when she gave an order, things got done. The others were packed and ready to go within ten minutes, and within fifteen, they were trekking through the jungle.

The first half hour or so wasn't too bad. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take one step at a time, bracing his good arm against Michael's shoulder. One foot in front of the other. Easy enough. A wave of nausea swept over him, but he tamped it down and forced his feet to keep moving. He wasn't giving Ana the satisfaction of seeing him stumble.

Sawyer managed to make it another hour before the pain became too much and he finally collapsed. He was scarcely aware of the hands on him, could barely make out the voices above him. More pain, a sudden sharp edge, and he closed his eyes against the force of it.

"Hang on, buddy." He recognized Michael's voice. Barely. "Jin, help me get him up!"

"Why the hell didn't you say something?"

"Just leave him. We'll bring your doctor back."

"We can't just leave him here!"

"What if we went back to camp?"

"It's too late to go back."

"The wound is festering. He doesn't have much time."

"…infected…"

"…blood poisoning…"

"…he's gonna die…"

"Ezz googa mufoo orrrrrrragheeeee tuma?"

A question, directed at him. He caught that much. Sawyer forced his eyes to open, and damned if there weren't two Rambinas crouched beside him. He swallowed, smirked up at them.

He supposed there were worse ways to go out than beneath a pair of dominatrix Mexican twins.

Sawyer closed his eyes, saw a vivid image of long curly brown hair, green eyes, lithe curves and freckles. He held onto it even as the voices faded around him.

Yeah, there were worse ways to go out… but there were better ways, too.