Darkness was beginning to make it difficult for her to make her way through the jungle. She should have been at the hatch already, but she had left the beach late and hadn't found the willpower to hurry.
Someone, and she suspected that that someone was Hurley, had decided that she would like to spend her evenings on button duty in the hatch with Jack. Not that she could blame him, not if she was honest with herself. When the plane had first crashed she had found herself attracted to Jack. Amongst all the desolation he had risen as a hero, saving lives and offering hope. She found herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame, coming inevitably closer to being burnt. To begin with he had cautiously responded to her attentions, and the unusual pleasure of being treated like a human being had convinced her that he was a good man, one that she could love.
But that initial attraction and the novelty of acknowledgement had worn off quickly. Jack had revealed himself to be a petty individual, controlling and cold, and she had found that there were other people who treated her far better than his condescending judgement would allow him to. Not only that, but she had felt herself drawn to the irritating redneck with his quick mind and quicker temper. He was far more complicated, and she found everything about him more tempting than the superior doctor could ever offer.
But Jack did offer something that Sawyer couldn't, he was the sort of man who could be manipulated by a sweet smile and a soft kiss. He would be beyond suspicion if a rescue ever did come, and she had no doubt that he would hide her if she asked him to. So she had kept up the pretence of being attracted to him, never letting him get as close as he had done the day she had got Tom's plane back, but still staying close to him and flirting lightly when the chance arrived.
Hurley, being Hurley, sweet, generous and an awful gossip, had decided that weekly nightshifts at button duty would be the perfect set up for the two of them, and she could think of no way to get out of it. So she was trudging through the jungle, each footstep slightly shorter than the last as she drew closer to the hatch and another evening spent in the company of the hero of the island.
It wouldn't be so bad if he let her do what she did on her shifts with Locke during the day. Then she read books, played the occasional game of table-tennis, at which Locke never failed to beat her, and had light conversation. But Jack didn't seem to understand that conversation involved both people speaking. Her shifts with him consisted of him droning on at her for several hours about what he'd spent his day doing and how everyone on the island took such awful advantages of the fact that he was the doctor. Occasionally, Kate might interject a sympathetic noise, but that was mostly frowned upon. So she spent the 4 hours she was there sat silently on the sofa next to Jack, whilst he gradually moved closer to her until she was squashed into the side. The only escape was the alarm for the numbers to be entered, which she was never allowed to do anyway in case she did it wrong. Quite how being a doctor qualified you to enter six numbers into a computer any more than the next person she wasn't sure, but Jack assured her it was the case.
In the several years she had spent on the run the idea of being stranded on a deserted island had been a favourite fantasy of hers. But in all her imaginings, she had never guessed that it could be as boring as this.
Jack was getting worried, Kate had never been as late as this before. She was generally a few minutes late, unreliable as most women were. He'd often suggested that he accompany her from the beach to the hatch for her safety, she'd always refused, saying that she was perfectly safe on her own. Now he could see that he should have pressed the issue, she was half an hour late and it was dark out. Even if she had just started out late it was unfair of her to worry him in such a way. He would definitely make sure that he accompanied her next week.
But it was more than just concern at her getting lost in the jungle that had annoyed Jack. He had been planning this evening all week, and her turning up late was upsetting his plans. He'd lit candles a few minutes before she was due to turn up, wanting to set the perfect atmosphere for the night he had in mind and had put on the annoying country music that she had mentioned she liked. He'd put so much effort into setting this up that her not turning up on time was damaging to his ego.
His brooding was interrupted by the door to the hatch swinging open to reveal a very windswept Kate, a sight that made his jaw drop. Her hair was blown about her face and she was running her fingers through it in an attempt to get it straight; her cheeks were flushed and there were goose pimples raised along her arms. Jack was instantly reminded of why he had arranged with Hurley to have his night shifts with Kate. There was no one who could do to him what she was doing just by standing there and looking like that.
"Sorry I'm late," Kate uttered with an attempt to sound like she meant it. The fake smile she was cheerily displaying fell from her face as she took in the lit candles and the sound of Patsy Cline playing softly. There was no other way the situation could be interpreted, Jack intended to use their evening on button duty to make his move on her.
Although she'd been playing him to keep him onside, she had been careful not to lead him on too much. Since the day he'd left her crying in the jungle over the only thing she had left of the man she had loved, she'd lost all respect for him. She'd kissed him desperately in the jungle, hoping against hope that his touch might eradicate newly awakened memories, but it had only made matters worse, and in the end the only thing she could do was flee from him. The idea of kissing him again, let alone sleeping with him, was not one that was in any way pleasant.
Jack, however, was blissfully unaware of any of this, and was making his way closer to her, fingers outstretched in front of him as if he was going to grab her. The invasive bleeping of the timer on the computer was even more welcome than it usually was, and Kate rushed from his touch into the other room, even though she knew she wasn't going to be allowed to enter the numbers.
Jack sighed at the nuisance of the button, once again wishing he'd never let himself be talked into pushing it. He entered the numbers quickly, his fingers jabbing aggressively at the buttons. Turning to Kate he saw her standing anxiously against the wall. His heart went out to her; she'd just walked in late and realised how much effort he'd put into setting this up, no wonder she was worried. Moving towards her so that she was between him and the wall he brushed his fingertips against her cheek and whispered, "You are beautiful."
Kate tried not to recoil at his touch and portrayed what was hopefully a shy smile. She tried desperately to think a way out of this that wouldn't destroy their relationship completely, but couldn't come up with anything. He'd forgiven her for running away from their kiss and doting on Sawyer, but there was no way she could get out of this evening without hurting him irretrievably.
Sawyer burst angrily into the hatch, deliberately swinging the door as hard as he could so that he was rewarded with it clattering heavily against the wall. He'd spent the day attacking wood with an axe under the pretence of making firewood. Really he just wanted to hit something, hard, and there was nothing in the harmonious beach town that readily suggested itself. Kate had come by to attempt conversation, but he was in no mood for it, not today. Today was a day for anger and pain, and he didn't want to involve her in either.
He was expecting the usual depressing greyness of the hatch, but instead got romantic music and candlelight. It was so alien to what he wanted to see that he found himself growing angry at it. He slid his hand to the back of his pants, feeling the cold metal and allowing some of his fury to seep into it. He let his fingers play with it, an instrument that had caused him so much pain.
He heard the noise of someone rushing towards him, but it was an effort to pull his attention away from the gun. When he did, he wished he hadn't. Kate, with her hair tousled and her cheeks lightly flushed, and Jack, with that same superior look he always had. The music and candles made sense now, and even through his haze of built up anger, he found himself hurt by it.
He pushed that hurt away, ignoring it with whatever Jack was grunting at him. He'd come here for one reason, he was going to get that and then get away from here. Brushing past the pair of them he stalked into the kitchen to get the only thing that had lured him to this place. He had turned his alcohol supply over to Jack for medical purposes, but right now he needed it more than anyone else could. It could take the edge off the pain in a way that nothing else ever would. Pulling open the cupboards he grabbed a couple of tiny bottles and shoved them into his pockets, wishing there was something a bit stronger available.
Kate watched him with a sick fascination. He was tearing the place apart and he hadn't even reacted to the fact that she was here with Jack. She wondered what had happened to him. When he shoved a couple of bottles of alcohol into his pockets she felt Jack start to bubble over and quickly placed herself between the pair of them. Trying to make herself sound angry rather than worried, she yelled at him, "What the hell do you think you're doing Sawyer?"
Without even looking at her, he stalked back towards the exit, crashing into Jack and knocking him sideways. "Think the doc might need some more of your 'attention' Freckles."
He was gone as quickly as he came, the door clattering just as angrily as it had a minute ago. Jack was up in an instant, furious and desperate to be after Sawyer. "Get out of my way Kate."
She kept herself in his path, her hands gripping his arm, trying to appeal to his reason and to calm his temper. If he went after Sawyer the way Sawyer was at the moment, Jack would come back beaten to a pulp. "Let me go Jack. You won't find him in the dark, and one of us has to stay here for the button. I can talk to him."
Jack was shaking his head at her words, and she knew she hadn't got through to him. Resorting to what she had been trying to avoid earlier, she leant in and kissed him gently, a soft peck on the lips. "Let me do this."
Jack's temper was instantly quelled as her lips touched his, surprise overtaking him. He managed to find his voice as she went through the door, but couldn't find any words with which to protest. Instead he said, "Be careful."
She nodded at him and gave him a small smile before walking once more into the darkness. Jack watched her go, standing motionless for a moment. Once she was gone, all his protests came flooding to him, not least that it wasn't safe for any of them to be alone in the dark. But she was right, one of them needed to stay for the button, so he would stay. Rather dejectedly he went around the room blowing out each and every one of the candles and turning off the music before slumping onto the couch.
Sawyer had clumsily made his way through the jungle, tripping at every turn, to a deserted bit of beach. He settled himself in the sand, ever so carefully laying out each of the things he'd brought with him. Five small bottles of alcohol, none of them that strong, and certainly not enough to get him as drunk as he would like, but maybe enough to dull the memories ever so slightly. Next was the gun, extracted from his pants with shaky hands and placed directly in front of him, the moonlight glinting off the metal. Then a cigarette from one pocket and a lighter from the other; not something that was necessary, but still, a good way to start. Last was the reason for all of this, the reason for his anger today, the reason he'd torn apart the kitchen in the hatch for the alcohol: a crumpled letter written twenty five years ago.
He'd been eight years old then, dressed in a stupid black suit with its white shirt and black bow-tie. Why he'd had to wear it he didn't know, he hadn't worn it whilst his parents were alive, but apparently he had to wear it to the funeral. He'd listened to strangers talk about his parents as if it meant something, and had been to lay flowers on the pieces of stone that marked where they were buried. None of it meant anything. His dad had killed his mom and then killed himself. He was tired of people apologising, tired of them talking to him as if he were stupid.
So he snuck off, hiding in the car of the aunt who'd brought him, needing to hide from the people so desperate to give him their sympathies. He'd sat in the car for twenty minutes, focusing his eyes on the steering wheel, willing the world away. Then he saw the stationary set on the dashboard, as pretentious as it was. It was another ten minutes before he set the pen onto the paper, but as soon as he did the words began to flow in the way that the tears wouldn't. Even so, he'd only just finished in time to hide it in his pocket by the time his aunt came to the car, tutting at him and whispering to the man next to her how unfortunate it was that he was so like his father.
Even now, the memory of writing those words was fresh, oozing pain through his mind; today especially, the anniversary of his mother's murder and his father's suicide. That was what the alcohol was for, and the gun, just in case. He'd spent the last fifteen years remembering this day in the same way, and it was too engrained in him not to do it today. Whether or not the gun would reach his temple this year he didn't know, but he could already feel the cold metal biting into his skin, could imagine his finger shaking over the trigger.
Kate watched him lay out each of the bottles so carefully on the sand, and sucked in a breath when he placed the gun in the middle of them. She'd felt relieved when he pulled out and lit a cigarette, but that relief had faded when she saw him take out the letter. Her fingers unconsciously slipped to the plane in her pocket, clutching it as reverently as Sawyer was holding his letter.
Feeling uncomfortably like she was watching something private, she decided to announce herself rather than continue watching him. She stepped out from the tree she was behind and walked to the beach far more noisily than when she had followed him.
Without even looking up Sawyer knew who was there, and he really wasn't in the mood. "I'm busy Freckles."
She walked into his eyeline, but when he didn't look up she crouched down in front of him, putting her face in front of his. "What are you doing Sawyer?"
He caught her scent, she had some of the jungle in her, but there was something still somehow unquestionably feminine. His fingers stopped inching their way towards the gun, and instead made their way to her face, brushing across soft skin to silky hair. Ever since he was eight years old he'd spent this one evening alone, the first time trapped behind a pair of boots, and since then he'd always slipped away to be alone in his grief. With the comfort he had found in women, he wondered why it had never crossed his mind to spend it with one.
Kate found Sawyer's fingers to have a completely different affect to Jack's. Instead of spreading cold shivers of disgust across her skin, he left warm tingles of pleasure in their wake. She felt her eyes close as she turned her head into his hand. His fingers found her hair and her eyes flickered open to find his face close enough to hers that she could feel his warm breath dancing on her face. Looking into his eyes she felt all the reservations that she should have had melt away.
She met his kiss freely, with as much ferocity as he himself gave. He moved closer to her, needing to have her, to touch every inch of her body. Underneath his knee the glass bottle he knelt on gave way, cracking into two and embedding itself in him. Without meaning too he bit down on her lip, his mouth instantly flooded with the taste of her blood. Both of them jerked away from each other, Sawyer swearing loudly and profanely.
With some difficulty he pulled his knee out from under him, trying not to look at the blood dribbling from Kate's mouth. Ignoring Kate's protestations, he yanked the piece of glass from his knee in one sharp movement. Watching the blood start to flow from it he was entranced by it. This day was a day of blood, and somehow it seemed oddly fitting. He looked at Kate now, at the red blood against her skin, and then down at what lie between them.
His fingers reached the gun just as his mind realised the answer to the question he had asked himself only moments before. The reason he had always spent this night alone, the reason he had never spent it in the way that he spent so many others. It was too easy, too fitting. Him and Kate and a gun, a fitting end to the circle of misery that had brought him here, an ending that worked in so many ways.
He grasped the gun more firmly, but still pointing it at the sand. He let his eyes drift from it, to look at Kate. There was no fear in her eyes, he didn't understand that. There was supposed to be fear. He had heard it in her voice when she'd told him to hide, and then a few seconds later when she pleaded with his dad.
Even more bizarre, she smiled at him, a sad, knowing smile. Her hand had come slowly towards him until it was touching his, and the gun as well. Her fingers were steady as she extracted it from his hand, her eyes never leaving his. His hand had begun to shake, and he found he couldn't put up a fight when she took it from him.
With the gun out of his hands she threw out of reaching distance, watching as his eyes followed it. Once she had his attention again she whispered, "There are better ways than that to forget." Her voice was gentle, but she couldn't hide her own pain.
Instead of letting him question her, she reached out and pulled his shirt over his head. He would get her meaning soon enough.
He hadn't believed her when she had said there were better ways to forget. There was no way to forget, no way to stop the sound of gunshots echoing through his mind. He'd let her strip him, thankful of her care at removing his jeans over his knee. She stripped herself, paying him no attention as she did, and he almost felt as though he were intruding as he appreciated her body illuminated in the moonlight.
When she did turn to him, a nymph framed on either side by crashing waves and the soft rustle of leaves whispering to the wind, he found that forgetfulness was something not so far away. The wind caught her hair, whipping it around her body so that each strand shimmered in the moonlight. She made her way towards him, the lithe movements of her body drawing his mind further away the gun lying just metres away from them. It didn't take long to realise that she was in fact right, there were better ways to forget.