On My Own

Simple Twist of Fate

…he felt a spark tingle to his bones

'Twas then he felt alone

And wished that he'd gone straight

And watched out for a simple twist of fate

-- Bob Dylan

He could smell the smoke and the iron of the city surrounding him in a thick, invisible cloud of scents and poisons. He hadn't remembered LA smelling this bad. It almost seemed to burn his lungs. Sawyer squinted into the sun and then slipped his sunglasses down over his eyes—it was harder for people to beg money off you if you didn't make eye contact with them.

The synthetic world around him seemed strange and foreign; after being on the island for four months, constantly in the sun and the warmth, with nothing but fresh air and the fragrance of salt water, being in a large city like LA was intimidating. The towering buildings and the unfamiliar faces made him want to cringe away.

He turned the collar of his jacket up and set his jaw firmly, trying to look unapproachable.

It had been almost three years since rescue had come. Three years back in the real world. Oceanic had given the survivors a gold pass; a passport that would allow them to fly anywhere, at any time, for free. Sawyer used it to move around the states, but he didn't dare fly across the ocean ever again. There was always that chance, eating at the back of his mind…

Every now and then though, he'd start to pine for those white sands and the flaming sunrise, for the fresh smell of the air after a heavy rain. It was like some part of him wanted to go back to the island, even when he was denying that. He ignored that part, pretended that he was happy to be rescued. But…

His whole life had been changed by that experience. He didn't con women at all any more. He'd tried it once or twice after getting back, but he hadn't been able to go through with it either time. Now whenever he was in bed with a woman, looking in her eyes, telling her that he loved her, it felt…wrong. Like he was cheating on someone. And he couldn't stop thinking about Kate.

He didn't know where Kate had gone, but he figured she was on the run or in jail or something. He hadn't seen her in over two years.

Last he'd known, she was trying to live a respectable life in California, with Aaron. Maybe he'd run into her while he was here; hopefully she wasn't living with Jack who, as far as he knew, lived in LA as well.

Sawyer started walking across a bridge, making sure to stay close to the rails so that a car wouldn't hit him. The water below looked choppy and dark. Not at all like the bright, aqua-green water of the island. This stuff looked totally polluted.

It was rush hour and the traffic was heavy. He would have called a cab, if he had any idea where he was going, but then, he didn't figure it would be easy to get one at this time of day either. He was going to have to walk.

Not that he even really knew where he was going. He didn't even know where he was, just some bridge in LA. He'd just arrived at LAX an hour ago and had been walking ever since. All he had was a heavy, blue travel bag that was sort of tattered and dirty, which he clutched closer now. It was all he needed.

Sawyer noticed a man walking toward him. He seemed to be in a hurry, and he jostled the con artist with his shoulder as he went by.

"Hey!" Sawyer snapped, "Watch where you're going!"

He turned around to watch as the other man kept going, was startled when he suddenly stopped and hoisted himself up onto the railing.

"Wait a minute! Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Sawyer ran back after him.

The man was standing tediously on the railing, holding onto a support beam, ready to jump at any second, and for a moment Sawyer felt like he was on the island again: no one else was around, the cars that passed and the people driving them did nothing to help. It was just him. He was needed. For the first time in a whole year someone needed him to do something. Not even thinking about it really, he grabbed the man by the hem of the shirt and yanked with all his might, dragging the crazy ass down to the ground.

They both fell. Sawyer felt his shoulder bruise when he hit, and the kamikaze diver landed on him, the back of his head smacking the con artist right in the chin.

The blow stunned him for a second, and then he shoved the guy off, practically screaming, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

A little slowly, the man rolled to his knees and started to climb to his feet, mumbling as he did so, "S-sorry…I just…suddenly felt like…" Instead of finishing, he offered his hand to help Sawyer out, but hesitated. He gasped.

"Sawyer?"

Sawyer blinked and stared up at him. Something about the man was familiar. The eyes and the nose and the shape of the head reminded him of someone…but his face was heavily bearded. And something about the look in his eyes was all wrong. Not noble like he had remembered it, but sad and tormented.

Even as he spoke he couldn't believe it. He was sure he had the wrong man. "Jack?"

"…Hey…"

Sawyer scrambled to his feet, pulling his sunglasses off as he did so to get a better look. It couldn't be. This was all wrong. It was…impossible. Jack looked like a total bum: his clothes were dirty, his beard was ill cared for, like he had totally forgotten about it, his eyes were distant, like he was doped up on morphine or something. He reeked of alcohol. It was a ghost of the man he had known on the island. Nothing at all like the brave, charismatic doctor who'd saved people for a hobby. Nothing at all like the friend he'd grown to trust and even care about.

"Jesus, Doc! What the hell happened ta' you?"

Jack smiled this slow, stupid grin. It was exactly like his old smile, only there was something different—vague and grief-stricken. The kind of smile that made Sawyer want to cry. The smile of a man who was at the end of his frayed, tattered rope. "Hey. Long time no see."

Sawyer didn't even attempt to smile back, "Jack," he looked him up and down, struggling to find the words he needed to express the horrible feeling he had in the pit of his stomach, "Jack…what the…how did ya'…"

The doctor just looked at him, not speaking. It was like he knew, and didn't understand at the same time.

Finally he said, "So, what're you doing in LA, Alabama boy?"

The con artist still couldn't quite get a handle on his own thoughts. His mind wanted to go four different directions at once. "What? Oh. Nothin'. I…I'm on business… What the hell are you doin' out here on this bridge?"

"I'm just," Jack shrugged, "goin' for my evening jog."

Skeptically, Sawyer looked him over, "Just now…ya' were tryin' ta' jump…weren't ya'?"

Jack totally ignored him, "You seen anyone else lately?" He sounded almost hopeful.

"No. Not since March."

The doctor nodded. Then he said quietly, "It's good to see you, Sawyer."

Sawyer wanted to say 'yeah, you too,' but the truth was it wasn't good to see Jack. It was awful seeing Jack like this. It was like the world was falling apart under his feet. He would have much rather never seen Jack again then run into this grungy, Jackish shadow. So he just said, "Yeah…" then added, "What 'bout you, Doc? Ya' seen anybody?" He didn't mention Kate specifically, even if that's who he was thinking of.

"Saw Hurley a while ago. Few months."

The con artist felt like asking 'what did he think of this?' but decided not to. And now he wasn't sure what to do. He had things to do here in LA. Personal things. And he was hoping to look up Kate at some point during his visit, see how she was doing, but he didn't think he could very well walk away and just leave Jack here like this. He might try to jump again. And if no one had stopped to help the first time then why would anyone stop this time? He tried to think of an excuse, a place they could go together, but nothing presented itself, other than a bar. And at the moment that was totally out of the question. Even though, he really could use a drink right now.

Jack found the excuse for him, "So, how 'bout it? Wanna' get a drink? Do some catchin' up…the whole 'friendship' thing?"

Sawyer could barely look at him as he muttered, "Ya' really think that's a good idea right now?"

"Sure. Why not?" Jack shrugged.

"I don't think it's a good idea, Chief." Jack already seemed wasted on something. Booze. Drugs. Maybe both.

"C'mon," Jack pleaded. He really sounded like he was begging. "I'll buy."

"Ya' got money, Jack?" That was hard to believe.

The doctor snorted, "I'ma' doctor, Sawyer…trust me, I got money."

Sawyer groped for another excuse, "What, we gonna' run ta' the bar?"

"My car's parked on the other side of the bridge. Now 'less you got any more good reasons not to…"

The con artist barely bit back a frown and an insult, forced them to become a smirk instead, nodded. "Yeah, alright. Fine."

Jack's face lit up like a kid's on Christmas and he pounded Sawyer's back drunkenly, "All right. Let's go."

Uneasy, Sawyer followed him. Jack wasn't trashed yet: he was walking normally and his words weren't slurred too bad. But that was sure to change after an hour or two at a bar. He'd have to think of a way to convince the doc to go home. Then he could get on with his own businees.

They walked along the bridge, silently. Every now and then Jack would look at him, like he wanted to convince himself Sawyer was really there, but he didn't say anything. After a while, they reached a brown and tan Bronco, pulled onto the side of the road. Sawyer hesitated as Jack clambered in, wondering if he should offer to drive.

"What're you waiting for? Get in."

Trying to suppress his worries, Sawyer went around to the passenger's side and got in, hefting his bag with him.

"You can just toss that in the back."

Sawyer glanced at Jack, then stuffed the bag down under his feet. "I'll just keep it here."

Jack shrugged and turned the key.

The car growled as it started, and then lurched to a start.

"Ya' said ya' saw Hurley a while ago." Sawyer said, trying to figure out what it was that had sent Jack over the edge.

"I did."

"Where?"

"Santa Rosa Institute of Mental Health."

Sawyer stared at him, waiting to see if that was supposed to be a joke. From Jack's expression he could see that the doctor was serious.

"Son of a bitch! What's he doin' there?"

"Dunno'."

"Well what did he do?"

Jack shrugged, "He didn't tell me. But…he seemed pretty normal."

"Looks like ev'rybody's goin' ta' hell." Sawyer muttered. Jack falling apart, not even shaving, Hurley in the mad house. Hopefully Kate was okay.

They drove the next fifteen minutes in silence, and then Jack pulled into a smallish bar squeezed between an Italian restaurant and a Laundromat.

"This looks promisin'." Sawyer muttered.

"It's a great place," Jack reassured, locking his car up, "I come here to drink all the time." He watched Sawyer slip his travel bag onto his shoulder, "You can just leave that out here. Pretty sure no one will take it."

"Think I'll just keep it with me."

Jack gave him an odd look but didn't say anything, then started walking for the door.

Sawyer followed after him, glancing at the shady characters that were hovering outside, smoking what smelled like weed. "Ya' drink a lot these days, Doc?"

The doctor didn't answer. He shoved the door open, nearly hitting a man on the other side. The man growled and cussed at them, but Jack sauntered forward like he didn't notice, ignoring everyone around him. Sawyer hurried to keep up.

Jack sank heavily onto a stool at the bar and immediately ordered his 'usual'. "This's my friend Sawyer—he'll have what I'm havin'."

"We're friends now, Doc?" Sawyer watched the barkeeper pour two glasses of whiskey on the rocks. He sipped it carefully. He wasn't here to get on a bender—besides, if Jack was going to get plastered he'd need to take him home. Or at least be able to call him a taxi.

The doctor gave him a weird look, downed a swallow of his booze, "Course we are." He looked at the barkeeper, "Just leave it, Miguel."

The barkeeper set his narrow gaze on Sawyer, then shrugged and went about tending to his other customers.

Sawyer looked around: the bar was full of trashy-looking people. Drunks and lowlifes. People like himself. It was no place for a doctor. "Ya' said ya' drink here a lot, Jack?"

Jack shrugged, taking another swallow and re-filling his glass, "It's a regular haunt, I guess."

He nodded. "What've ya' been up to lately, Doc?" He looked at him carefully, listening for any sort of indication to what could have caused this break down.

"The usual. Savin' people. Fixin' things. You know…"

"It's all right for ya' ta' go ta' work drunk?"

Jack laughed shortly.

"I'm serious, Jack."

For a moment the doctor wouldn't look at him, but when he did his eyes were hard, "Well what about you, Sawyer? Business? What're you really here for?"

Sawyer took a quick drink, "Seen Freckles lately?"

The doctor snorted, "Not for a few months."

"Few months?"

"She kicked me out."

The con artist's mouth went dry, "You guys've been livin' together?"

Jack looked at him knowingly. "Hey, buddy, you had your chance."

Sawyer didn't answer.

"I mean, you told her no. Why? If ya' love her soo much why'd you tell her no?"

"I ain't the settlin' down type."

"Ah. I get it." Jack slammed a little more whiskey and poured more in his glass, "It's 'cause of Aaron, huh?"

"It ain't got nothin' ta' do with the kid, Doc."

"But that's part of settlin' down, huh? Raisin' a kid?"

"I made a mistake." Sawyer murmured.

Jack nodded. "Was it just…you don't think you're good enough to be a dad?"

Sawyer glared up at him, "What the hell's that s'posed ta' mean, Jack?"

"Nothin'." More whiskey. "Just, you've never thought too much of yourself, right? Maybe y' thought…y' weren't good enough…to raise him…"

"Shut up, Doc." He took a gulp from his own glass, welcoming the familiar burn as it went down. "I told ya' it ain't got nothin' ta' do with the kid."

"Guess I'm not one t' talk…she kicked me out…said she didn't want an alcoholic around her son…"

Sawyer studied him, "You're an alcoholic, Doc?"
"I am…now…"

For a few minutes they sat there in silence, and Sawyer watched Jack down three more glasses of whiskey. He looked truly pathetic, drinking his troubles away, and something about him reminded Sawyer of Jack's father. He'd shared a bottle like this with Christian, back in Australia. Before the crash. Before Christian had died. Too bad he hadn't known then what he knew now.

Sawyer took a hit of whiskey, "What's this about, Jack'O?"

"What's what 'bout?" He looked at Sawyer with bleary but guarded eyes.

"All this," Sawyer waved a hand to indicate Jack as a whole, "the beard, the drinkin'…all of it."

"Just…y' know…just," Jack took a quick swallow, a pained look crossing his face, "it's been tough…lyin' an' ev'rything…"

"Right." Sawyer didn't believe that was the real answer. He moved a little closer, looking intensely into Jack's eyes, "Jack," he said softly, "what were ya' doin' tonight? On the bridge?"

Jack didn't answer.

"Ya'…were gonna' jump…huh?"

The doctor lowered his head.

Out of instinct, Sawyer put a hand on his shoulder, "Why?"

He watched Jack take another, longer swig of whiskey before refilling his glass. His hands were shaking really bad as he did so and he sloshed some of the alcohol on the bar. Without being asked, he refilled Sawyer's as well. "I…I think we made a mistake, Soy."

Ignoring the weird nick name, Sawyer prodded, "What the hell ya' talkin' 'bout, Doc? What kinda' mistake?"

"Leavin' th' island…" Jack looked at Sawyer sadly, "I don' think we were s'posed t' leave…"

The words turned Sawyer's blood to ice, and at the same time, they made him angry. He didn't want to face the truth in those words. "Why the hell would ya' think that? Ya' think we were supposed ta' stay there for the rest of our lives? After the shit we went through ta' get off, after you made all those promises and put us all in danger just ta' get up to that radio tower? Now ya' think we made a mistake?" He could barely help yelling. He just wanted to hit Jack right in the face.

Jack looked at him fiercely, "I jus' can't remember wha' it was I wanted t' get back t' so bad…can you? Here I am. I don' got anythin' worth livin' for." Then he shouted, "…At least…on that island I was a hero! I was needed! People looked up t' me! I don' have anythin' now! Not even Kate!"

Sawyer felt indignant that Jack was daring to yell at him. People around them were starting to stare, but he ignored them, "Well, excuse me, Fearless Leader—while we were there ya' weren't too hot on the idea, were ya'?"

"It was different then! It was…ah, fuck, you wouldn't understand, Sawyer! A jerk like you could never get it. I cared 'bout those people!"

"Oh, and I didn't?"

"Never acted like you did!"

Sawyer snarled, "Just 'cause I wasn't out runnin' around all the time, rubbin' Neosporin on everythin' don't mean I didn't care!"

"Please. Listen t' yersel', Soy…ya' were always stealin' from the group…an' lyin'…takin', not givin'…we all woulda' been better off…if you had just died in th' crash."

The words bit deep into him, clamping down with iron jaws and not letting go. It was like everything he had ever thought of himself had just come to life and was sitting next to him, looking at him through Jack's drink-hardened eyes. He knew Jack was just drunk and didn't really mean it-he wanted to think that anyway-but he couldn't just let the words slide off. They were too real.

"Thanks for the drink, Doc," He snapped, slamming his whiskey down and grabbing his bag. Jack could take himself home. Bitch to someone else. There was no reason why Sawyer should sit here and take shit from him. He started to get up, backed right into a big guy who happened to be stumbling by at the same time he was rising from the stool.

The man blinked at him stupidly, "Hey, hot shot…waz say y' watch…w'er yer goin'?" He shoved Sawyer back a little.

Sawyer slammed back against the bar, his already flaming anger turning quickly into rage, and he pushed the man back, "I ain't the one staggerin' through the bar so drunk I can't tell the bottle from my own dick!"

The drunk grabbed Sawyer by the collar, swinging him around, away from the bar, "Y' lookin' t' fight, Hombre?"

Sawyer was about to retort when Jack spoke up, "Get off 'im."

The man glared at the doctor. "Wha' was that?"

Jack got up a little slowly, setting his glass down so that it sloshed, articulating his words carefully, "I said, get offa' him."
"Stay outta' this, Doc." Sawyer snapped.

"I'd list'n t' yer friend if I was you…"

But Jack wasn't backing down: he had the confidence and poise of a truly drunk man, and his eyes were lit with dull cockiness, "I'd get offa' 'im if I were you. Or else…I'm gonna' make y'."

Sawyer rolled his eyes a little. It was the most pathetic threat he'd ever heard. On top of that, from the way Jack was swaying, he doubted he could hit the wall.

The man scoffed, "Really? Y' an' wha' army?"

"Well boys," Sawyer sighed, "ya'll are both just fulla' bright comments t'night."

Angrily, the man tossed him back into Jack, and they both stumbled, tripping over a stool and knocking glasses and bottles off the bar. Sawyer was sober so he kept his balance, but Jack was drunk enough to fall on the floor.

The con artist pulled him up, "Ya' all right, Doc?"

Jack pushed past him, his gaze drunk and menacing.

Sawyer grabbed his arm, "Just forget it, Jack. This asshole ain't worth it."

But the doctor shrugged him off and stepped up to the man, who was grinning like an ape, "I tried t' warn ya'…" He took a swing at the man, but totally missed, managed to knock the man's mug of beer out of his hand. The glass crunched on the floor and the golden liquid soaked the man's boots.

"Y' sonnuva' bitch!" The drunk reeled back, arm packed with a punch that would probably put Jack's lights out.

"Doc!" Sawyer shoved Jack out of the way just in time, and the fist caught him in the eye instead.

He hit the floor like a sack of bricks.

Sawyer checked the street sign and turned the corner. His right eye was throbbing, his head ached and he had bruises on his arms, chest and stomach. In the passenger's seat, Jack was singing along with the Steve Miller band and guzzling from a bottle he'd been keeping under the back seat, drunker than ever.

After the man had hit him, Sawyer had totally lost his temper. He'd jumped up and kicked the guy's drunk ass easily enough, but then he'd been confronted by the man's two friends: just as big and just as drunk. Because he was sober, Sawyer had won, but not without getting knocked around a little bit first. Then he'd dragged Jack out to the car and told him he was driving him home.

Jack had objected for a little while, saying he was fine to drive, but eventually he'd given in and climbed into the passenger's side, began giving somewhat cloudy directions to his house. They'd gotten turned around a few times, and Sawyer had gotten pretty frustrated with the doctor, but now they were going the right way. Or at least, that's what Jack said.

Sawyer was sure they were hopelessly lost. And the music was starting to get to him.

He reached over to turn it down.

Jack gave him a questioning look, "Wassamatta'? Y' din't lis'en t' Steve Miller when y' were a kid?"

"Not much." Sawyer glanced at him, then hurried to check the next crossroad, "This the right way, Jack?"

"Wha' 'bout Skynard?"

"Jack. Is this the right way?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. This's it…jus' few more blocks. Didja' lis'en t' Lyn'rd Skyn'rd, Soy?"

Sawyer gave him a look, not sure what he was talking about. "What?"

"Y' know." Jack broke into a grin, "Tha' song…" he started to sing again, "Swee' home Al-a-bama…where th' skies are so blue…swee' home Al-abama…oh, I'm comin' home t' you…"

The con artist drew a deep breath. He wasn't sure how much more of Jack's song-slaughtering he could take. "No." He snapped. "Not a Skynard fan, Doc. Now pay attention, dammit. We're gonna' miss your damn house."

"Jus'a' few more blocks." Jack repeated. At least his mood had improved. Not like the sad, sorry Doc on the bridge, seconds away from suicide.

For a few more minutes he went on singing Sweet Home Alabama, and then he suddenly pointed to a driveway they were already in the process of passing, "There. Tha's m' house."

Cursing, Sawyer whipped the steering wheel around and pulling into the driveway, nearly running over the trashcan as he did so.

Before he could even straighten the parking job, Jack was out of the car, staggering toward his front door, still singing, and tipping his bottle so that he was dangerously close to losing all of the Jack Daniels he was drinking.

With a sigh, Sawyer turned the car off and put the emergency brake on, out of habit. Then he sat for a few moments, watching Jack fumble with his house key. He thought about just getting out and walking away—let Jack figure out his own problems. But he didn't know where he was going, and at least if he went in he could use the doc's phone to call a taxi. It was only eight o'clock, but Sawyer just wanted to call a cab and tell the driver to take him to the nearest motel.

Thinking he heard a car door, Sawyer glanced around, but there was nothing. He wiped a little sweat off his forehead and grabbed the strap of his travel bag.

Finally, he got out and followed Jack inside.

The doc's house was big and clean, like a museum, with sparkling, glass windows and polished coffee tables. The couches were leather. The white carpet was fluffy. And everything was super-sized. Sawyer had been in big houses like this before, since most of the people he had conned over the course of his life had been well-to-do, but he still felt uncomfortable and out of place in his dirty, denim jacket and crumpled t-shirt. He looked around for a place to set his luggage, but was afraid that if he did it would leave dirt on the otherwise spotless floor.

Jack was heading for the kitchen, polishing off his booze bottle as he went, tottering unstably, "I'm gon' have a drink. Y' wan' one, Soy?"

Sawyer shook his head in disbelief, "Ain't ya' had enough t'night, Jack?"

"If y' don' wan' one, jus' say so." Jack snorted, getting out a tumbler glass and a bottle of scotch. The whole kitchen was cluttered with empty bottles of alcohol, so the doc hadn't been joking about being an alcoholic.

"What, gettin' us into a bar fight wasn't enough for ya'?"

Jack took a long slug of scotch before turning and looking at him, "G'head an' make yersel' comfort'ble, Soy."

Sawyer started to tell him to quit calling that before he smashed the scotch bottle over his head, but bit the words back and wandered aimlessly for a moment before sitting down at Jack's mini-bar. He didn't know how to act around Jack. Not when he was like this. He'd seen the doc drunk before, but this was something different. If it had just been a casual, Friday night happy-hour thing he would have joined him. But watching Jack slam drink after drink on a Wednesday evening made him nervous. He couldn't even crack a joke when his friend-a man who'd always been serious and respected and responsible-was drunk off his ass like this.

Finally he sighed, "Hey, Jack…I think there's somethin' I better tell ya'…'bout me bein' here in LA-"

Jack frowned at him, then leaned over close to Sawyer's face, tripping on a chair leg and nearly falling.

"What?" Sawyer demanded.

"Yer eye…tha' guy hit y' pretty hard…"

Tentatively, Sawyer touched his throbbing eye, could feel that a bruise was forming around the edges of the socket. "Yeah. Glad ya' noticed that." He muttered.

"I'll get y' some ice." Jack decided, wandering over to his freezer.

Groaning inwardly, Sawyer rubbed his head. If Jack was going to go into doctor mode maybe he'd just leave. The last thing he needed was for a drunk spinal surgeon to start messing with his bar fight injuries.

But Jack just brought back a pack of ice and handed it to Sawyer, "There y' go, man." He patted him on the shoulder and then slumped into a nearby chair, taking a swig of scotch as he did so.

Just to keep Jack off his back, Sawyer pressed the ice onto his eye, then sighed.

Jack laughed suddenly, "Still gotta' bail y' outta' fist fights, huh?"

"Oh, you bailed me out?" Sawyer glared at him irritably.

"Yer th' one tha' got clobbered."

"Right. Guess I owe ya' a thank-you then."

Jack was quiet for a minute, stirring his drink around a little, "Hey, so…y' gotta' place t' crash while yer here?"

The inward groan became audible as Sawyer recognized where this was going. "I was gonna' rent a room."

Nodding, Jack studied the floor, deep in thought. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, "Y' know…if y' din't wanna' spend th' money…y' coul' crash here…I gotta' extra room."

Sawyer shook his head, "Thanks, Doc, but…naw. It's alright. I'll just leave."

"'S'not like yer imposin' or an'thin'…"

"I gotta' go." He slid off the stool and shouldered his bag again. "Thanks for…ev'rything." He couldn't actually think of anything to thank Jack for, but that seemed good enough.

Jack watched him heading for the door, looking sort of sad. "Right. Sure. Wha'dya' gotta' go rushin' off for? Haven't seen y' in like, a year."

"What, didja' miss me or somethin'?" Sawyer grinned.

"I did…" Jack said quietly, his melancholy tone stopping Sawyer in his tracks. "Never thought I woulda', considerin' wha' a bastard y' could be…but I really did…sorta' missed your smart-ass comments…an' fightin' with ya' over stuff…medicine, guns…y'know? Kept thinkin' 'bout that day…when we played poker…jus' y' an' me…" he looked up at Sawyer sincerely, "I hada' lotta' fun that day."

The confession made Sawyer hesitate. He had thought that he'd be the last person Jack would ever think about or miss. He'd admittedly missed Jack, a little, but that was just because he was friendless and didn't have a regular job or even any real friends. Everyone he had ever cared about in his whole pathetic life had been on that island. It was a depressing thing to realize, but he really didn't have anything in the real world: no family or friends to come home to. His family-what little he had-had disowned him a long time ago, and he'd never had friends. Just business partners and victims.

"Ya' only had fun 'cause ya' kicked my insides out." He snorted at last.

"Yeah," Jack laughed, "prol'ly."

"Ya' really miss that goddamn island, don't ya'?"

"A lot."

"Why? What's so different about savin' people here? You're still a doctor, ain't ya'? Ya' got plenty ta' fix."

"I'm sicka' fixin' shit." Jack mumbled. "There wasn't so much t' fix on th' island…jus' survivin'… When we were there…I hated bein' th' leader…hated th' respons'bility an' th' pressure…but…ev'ryone looked up t' me…ev'ryone respected me…I was more than jus' their doctor…it was simpler, Soy…better."

Sawyer studied the doctor for a while. He looked so pathetic sitting there, with just his scotch, and that hideous beard. He felt guilty about leaving him here to drink all by himself. The rate he was going, he'd probably pass out at the table and not even make it to bed. The scotch was already a fourth of the way gone.

"'M glad y' showed up t'night, Sawyer…it was good t' see y'. I'd prol'ly be dead now if y' hadn't come along…I get why y' wanna' leave: I'ma' mess…but I haven't seen y' in a loong time, huh?" He looked up at him at last, "Hey, 'm I still…th' only friend y' got?"

He doubted Jack had the presence of mind to understand what he was saying, but that last question was enough. More irritated with himself than with Jack, Sawyer dropped his bag, relieved to let go of its weight, even just momentarily, and kicked it to the side, went to slouch into the chair beside the doctor and poured himself a glass of the scotch, figuring that even if he drank just a little bit it would be better than Jack drinking the whole thing by himself. He took a gulp of it and swished it around in his mouth, then snapped, "Jesus, ya' sentimental idiot, when're ya' ever gonna' forget I said that?"

Laughing, Jack rested his arm on Sawyer's shoulder, "Never, I guess." He tipped his own glass back, "So am I?"

Sawyer thought about Hurley and Kate and the rest of the survivors, and he knew that it wasn't true, not any more. It had been true once. Or he had thought that it was. But now it wasn't. Still, he knew what Jack wanted to hear, so he just nodded, "'Fraid so, Doc."

And they drank.