x x x
Everyday, all day, Sawyer's surrounded by women. It's not as exciting as it sounds. They have dead eyes and hunched shoulders and no conversation left. What's there to talk about? Nothing, he agrees, but he was never very good talking about something so nothing suits him just fine.
You wouldn't think Juliet's the type to wring her hands and Sawyer can't quite say that's what she does but she's always fidgeting. Gone is the quiet calmness, the wry smirk that used to make him keen to slap her when she was on the other side of the cage. Now, when she's not glued to a microscope trying to find the cure to all things evil, she stands on her half collapsed porch, her hands performing cat's cradle without the string.
Claire. He made the mistake of trying to fill her empty arms. They rolled around on his bed and had a pretty good time. When she had finished her wine and his, she giggled, grabbed his hair and kissed him hard, shoved her tongue so far down his throat he thought she was probing for his heart. It stirred something in him he didn't think was possible and he had actually thought okay, maybe this would be okay. Of course the next morning, Claire appeared to shrink before his eyes. Then she tried to smile but it was all teeth, small little white teeth that reminded him of a baby. It would have been better if she had just gone ahead and cried.
Alex comes and goes. She yearns to live as her mother did but she can't help be drawn back to the only home she knows. A week in the jungle means at least two back here in her pretty white bedroom with the yellow curtains. She's much more consistent about replicating Rousseau's crazy. Everywhere she goes, Alex carries this broken baby doll, with one glass eye missing, a trope more suitable for Claire. The damn dog sticks close to her heels and Sawyer has to remind himself its name is Vincent and not Karl.
Seeing them all like this makes him glad Kate's not here. Not that he thinks she would succumb to this way of only half living. She's a fighter and staying or going, her dreams wouldn't have been crushed in the same way Claire's or Juliet's or Alex's have been. Kate has no dreams, that's what keeps her safe. Still, with her gone, he doesn't have to admit his fantasy of playing house, had it become a reality, would have been over before it started. Like her absence is the only problem with that scenario. So he can blame her and miss her and hate her and love her and that's fuel enough for another day.
The only one with a spark of energy left is Charlotte. She's almost proud of it, stares smugly at the other women with their lank hair and limp faces. He thinks he could have some fun with her, make her face turn that special shade of pink only possible with redheads. But he can't be bothered; her superiority annoys him, makes him protective of the other ladies. To spend anytime with her feels like a betrayal. Try living here a little longer, sweetheart, he thinks when he sees her enter the day walking tall.
He lumps Desmond and Daniel in with the women, not because he's being mean but because they're a different species of man, dreamy and wistful, the only two with smiles still plastered on their faces. They're like starry eyed teenage girls, cupping their hands and whispering secrets in each other's ears, eternally faithful to their loves. Sawyer will be sorely disappointed if the Lady Penelope ever appears and she's not dressed in a suit of armour and riding a unicorn. Meanwhile, for Bill Nye the Science Guy, no fairy tale princess interests him, much to Red's disappointment. He's happy enough to revel in an orgy of matter and motion and space and time.
And Locke, well, Sawyer's not entirely sure he ever was a man, at least not a mortal one. He doesn't think you can be one and also be King of the Island. It doesn't matter; James and John don't come out to play anymore so there's no reason for a trip down memory lane. Remember the time I killed your father? Remember your brilliant plan to save us all? Remember, remember?
Sawyer's never been a man's man, slapping asses in the locker room or bonding over who caught the biggest fish. There was never any boyhood chum kicking the dirt beside him and eyeing the world for all it owed them. He's been about as solitary one can get without moving to the mountains and turning off the world. He had spent most of his life putting together a very short list of what people were good for but that all got turned upside down as soon as his plane forgot how to fly.
There's this tree outside his house, one that should be on Main Street USA because an Oak has no place in this rainforest. Sometimes he thinks it uproots itself and shifts ever so slightly to the left and right because he's walked home a number of times in the dark, sometimes completely sober, and slammed into it. And it only takes a light breeze to pelt his windows with acorns and keep him up all night. But he likes to sit under it and read, back pressed against its solid trunk, enjoying its shade. When no one's listening, he calls this tree Jack, a pain in the ass that proves itself useful enough that he doesn't want to chop it down all the time.
These days, Sawyer thinks he would pretty much near sell his soul for Jack or Hurley or Sayid's company. He considers it a personal affront, not that they left, well, there's that too, but that all the interesting people are gone. This is a thought he allows out on the penalty of death should his tongue ever dare speak of it.
Oh sure, with no more foes to fight and keep them distracted, they would soon turn on each other. Jack's lecture tone would get old real fast and they would be at each other's throat more often than not. Playing house with Hurley would end up about as sweet as it would with Kate. And before long, Sayid would realize there were some pretty good reasons for attacking him on day one. But at the end of the day, he'd like to think none of this would matter because they're all stuck on this damn rock together. Who wouldn't need someone to sit quietly with, preferably beer in hand, and not say anything, not because they've turned mute but because that's how it goes.
Christ, if he gets anymore maudlin and moony here, talking to trees and imagining his life as some sort of fraternal aftershave commercial, he might as well make camp with the wonder twins. There, he, Dessy and Danny can all build castles in the sky with their hopes and dreams.
So Sawyer considers his options. He's gonna end up like the women if he doesn't do something soon. Short of asking Locke if he could get his good friend Jacob to resurrect Boone, Eko or Charlie, three men he thinks would rather remain in their graves than spend time with him, Sawyer decides Juliet's the best candidate to bring back to life. So he drags her out of her lab for a little longer each day and puts a paint brush, hammer and saw in her hands to keep them from fiddling with invisible string. Together they start making the rounds, making repairs on the clapboard houses, making a strange pair. Her hands are small and neat and his are large and rough but surprisingly they work well in unison and start fixing what's been broken.
After a while there's a flicker of something in Juliet's eyes that resembles survival again. She's not interested in being his drinking buddy or sharing his bed but he's fine with that. Having one less zombie around is a start. And apparently the island thinks this good deed deserves a reward and so shines its benevolence down on him. It doesn't appear in the shape of a rescue helicopter or Ben's head on a stick or even a crate of something stronger than Dharma wine and beer.
Instead salvation comes in the form of Jin, who walks out of the jungle 124 days after Sawyer watched him get dragged into a hole in the ground by a cloud of smoke, 122 days after his wife flew up, up away. He's skin and bones, lost all his English and doesn't understand why Sun's not here. He's not exactly what Sawyer had in mind but every evening, he props a can of beer in Jin's hands and sits him up against his tree. Jin closes his eyes and doesn't say anything but then, nothing needs to be said.
x x x