Still a bit angsty - but I am a romantic so that won't last ;)

Chapter 7

He felt terrible: nauseous, exhausted, hollow and tremulous, his shoulder and arm aching to the bone. And there was a light shining straight through his clenched eyelids that would not go away no matter how much he batted at it or swore at it. It seemed to be always out of reach. He twisted on the scratchy uneven ground, trying to turn his head away.

"Cut that out, man." The light said in a strong English accent.

"Fucyou." Sawyer swore at it, keeping his eyes tight shut.

"Sawyer, I mean it. You're going to fall off the seat. You owe me three coconuts as it is; don't make it worse for yourself." The light replied nonsensically. "Can you sit up a bit?"

"Whathefuckorffsonnavafuckenb itemeasslikkensonnavabich-" He slurred back at it. If the goddamn limey light bulb wanted him to make it easier for it to shine in his eyes it had another thing coming.

"Charming." The light remarked. "I don't think this is going to work Rose. Maybe we should let him sleep. Jack will be back-"

"Jack said he had to eat something, so he's going to eat something. And he's darn lucky he's under doctor's orders to have this soup or I'd be feeding him soap with a mouth like that! Now, go around the other side and help me. That's it." The world suddenly lurched, and then there was chicken soup under his nose. Now he knew things were screwed up. Where on this island did Locke find himself a chicken to hunt? "I know you're awake somewhere in there." The other voice said. "So open up now." The warm metal edge of a spoon nudged his lower lip. He tried to turn away, but suddenly his mouth was full of lukewarm soup and he had to hurriedly concentrate on swallowing it down the right pipe (which was a damn site harder than he ever remembered it being). He coughed. More followed right after, and again without giving him room to pause, and suddenly he had to thrust aside thoughts of resisting or swearing for fear of choking on the endless spoons of soup.

"Hey Rose, that's pretty good!"

"You don't raise three kids, three 'boys', through every sort of ailment without learning a thing or two."

"I didn't know you had kids?"

"Uh huh. Three good boys. All grown up and left the nest now." The voice paused and so did the soup and Sawyer felt himself sinking immediately back into a deep sleep with the utter relief. "Alright, I think he's had enough now. Let's leave him be for a spell. Ooh, I'm stiff as a board. Charlie, help an old woman to her feet would you honey?"

The light and its pushy friend faded away like departing ships into sea fog, the world hushed with their parting, and he was instantly asleep.

When he woke again it was to the sound of strained voices. Men and women. All talking at once. He ignored them for a long moment, as he registered where he was: back on the beach. Lying on his now unfamiliar and, post bunk bed, very uncomfortable airplane seat with the sun shining right in his eyes. The warm tropical breeze ran its fingers though his hair; through the gaps in the shirt he was inexplicably now wearing. He opened his eyes and squinted around the painfully bright stretch of sand. And there they were, the noisy neighbours: Hugo, Jin, Sun, Charlie, a bunch of others he barely knew, chattering and panicking away (well, all except Jin who was, as usual, out of the loop and looking vaguely baffled), with no sign of their Commander and Chief. Jack was notably absent, as was… Sawyer felt his anger reheat, remembering the jungle confrontation and recognising the twin absence for what it was.

Fuck, he had been such a fool. He'd gone in like a whipped dog, all belly up and pissing himself with such a desire to please her, to be what she wanted, that he'd tried to throw away the one piece of himself that it seemed she had actually found to her liking: 'Sawyer.' He'd wondered if there was anymore to himself than 'Sawyer', wondered and fucking worried himself sick that there wasn't, and now the great god Irony had kicked him in the balls and rubbed his nose in the sick goddamn truth that the world didn't fucking 'want' there to be anything other than 'Sawyer'. That Kate didn't want anything but 'Sawyer' and all his nasty fucking tricks. He didn't know if that made her more screwed up than he was, but it didn't matter anymore. She'd woken up, realised her mistake, and gone looking for the good doctor, so all his ruminating and all his cursing and railing didn't amount to shit. She'd made her decision and moved on. And he hadn't even seen it coming. He twisted on the seat. He'd known it was too good to be true. He knew he hadn't deserved it. He knew it and he still rolled over and showed his belly like a fool, like the sort of sad sack he regularly picked as his mark.

Oh shit. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden swell of emotion. That was it! Enough! Enough! If there was one useful thing to come out of this fucking car crash of a day, it was that one useful piece of information: he was 'Sawyer'; and the world wanted 'Sawyer'. Everybody loved somebody to hate. Well then, he'd give them goddamn 'Sawyer'. He'd give them so much fucking 'Sawyer' they'd choke on it. She'd choke on it.

He sat up on the bed and swung his legs over the side, familiar raw anger rattling through his bones. It warmed him through and settled, burning, in his belly like a shot of JD. It felt like a homecoming.

"What do you mean 'took off'?" Mr StayPufft suddenly exclaimed. "By himself? That's crazy."

"He's gone after Walt. Jack and John have gone after him." Some woman he didn't recognise said.

Mike? Gone hiking back though the jungle. Alone? What the fuck was this? Sawyer pushed himself to his feet, keeping his arm close to his side.

"What's that?" He called out to the group. "What did you say?"

"Michael." The woman said, turning to look at him. "He took off after Walt."

"How long ago?" He asked and she shrugged. "Well, how long since the cavalry charge?"

"About 10 minutes, why?"

Sawyer ignored her and ducked into his tent. He pulled up his long abandoned pallet, throwing it aside and knelt to dig through the sand, scooping the rough grains aside with his good hand. He'd been keeping this little piece, safe and secure and hidden, for just this sort of emergency. And there it still was, the dull metal cover of the small strong box he'd found in the downed plane. He yanked the lid free and pulled out a small wrapped package. He stared at it, thinking. Shit. Why not? There was nothing left for him here.

When he re-emerged from the tent, the herd was still milling about, lost without their great cowpoke, Jack the Ass. He sneered at them, feeling a hot surge of contempt.

"So, which one of you folks' gonna point me in the right direction?"

"Dude, what are you doing? You can't go-" Hurley started.

"So stop me." Sawyer said with a smile that had no humour in it. He did not try to conceal the pistol in his hand and fat boy's eyes grew huge when he saw it pointed in his general direction. The rest of the herd grew quiet and still. "No? Well how about you stop tellin' me what I can and can't do, doughboy. Now, I repeat for the last damned time, which one of you folks is gonna point me in the right direction?"

"I liked him better when he was nearly dead." Someone commented in a loud theatrical whisper. Sawyer ignored them.

As he walked, Sawyer kept the pistol in his hand, fingers clamped around the grip, forefinger along the barrel ready to slide down to squeeze the trigger at a moments notice. He had kept true to the worn trail, leading out from the Hatch, for as long as he could. The jumble of overlaid boot tracks was clear on the thin muddy pathway, and he didn't need any sixth sense to keep him from straying, but somewhere halfway up the first open grassy hill, the track thinned and he had to slow to a steady walking pace as he strained to keep what was left of it in sight.

Ahead, across the small sea of rolling green hills, pocked here and there with thickets of gangly jungle trees and thorny bushes, if the pathway stayed as true, he was going to be pushing into jungle again – this time without a helpful track. Shit. He paused, breathing hard. This was tougher than he had thought it was going to be and he was a lot weaker than he'd realised. He had been walking for barely an hour and already he felt like dropping. So he took a small break and stood, and panted and grimaced and tried not to grab his shoulder, on the crest of the small hill and listened to the soft slither of the breeze through the grass. No sounds of voices came to him. No sounds of gunfire or shouting. He supposed that was a good thing, but it also meant he had to keep on towards the distant tropical forest - towards Mike and, now that he thought about it, towards the bastard that had put this hole in his shoulder that was aching so bad he wanted to bellow out some relieving obscenity.

Since that chick on the beach had told him what had gone down whilst he had been out to it, he'd had it in his mind to go after Mike, but the thought of returning the pirate's gift added an extra appealing dimension to this adventure. He put his head down, glared at the distant forest, and pushed on.

The trail was getting harder and harder to follow as he approached the jungle. The soft muddy ground on the pathway had left him clear imprints, and later the soft crushed grass of the hills had been almost as good, but now the ground was clearly drier and the grass less forthcoming with information. He swore under his breath. He would have to try to pick it up again in the softer ground of the jungle.

The wall of trees in front of him looked exactly the same as the one he'd just left. Except, now there was no pathway and it took him a good 10 minutes of precious time to find what he thought might be a sign: a small patch of crushed grass and mud that looked to him like it bore the imprint of a boot's tread. He entered the jungle. The lofty canopy closed over his head like a shroud. He brushed aside damp foliage, sticky leaves and tried not to slip on the mossy tree roots that seemed to pop up like plastic moles in a sideshow game, just at the wrong time and always in the wrong fucking place. He cursed, slipping and falling more than once. Yet, here and there he found marks and broken twigs and scuffed soil that looked like trail sign, and it kept him pushing forward.

Hours passed in stumbling and cursing moments, highlighted with banging his wounded shoulder into trees and getting more and more furious with the island, the pirates, with stupid fucking father's who should know better than taking off alone through this shit. Becoming more and more angry, and hating the fact that he hadn't been awake and there when Jack decided to get all heroic. For a start, it would have been useful to have Locke's great white hunter's eyes to find him a decent pathway free from these damned trees and roots and somewhere where the insects didn't have his name on their 'specials menu'.

Time passed by. It started to get dark.

No Mike. No John. No Jack. And no fucking Long John Silver to shoot.

And he was lost.

Fuck.

He came to a halt, panting and shaking. Beyond cursing with exhaustion, he sank down against a tree and sat in the mud, head drooped against his chest. The mouth of the gun poked, forgotten, in to the dirt.

"Don't move!" A voice suddenly spoke, softly somewhere out to the right. It was followed by a familiar sound, the click of a gun being cocked. "Don't make a sound."

"What-?" Sawyer raised his head, contrary to the last.

"I said, don't talk!"

"Mike? That you?"

"Shh!" Michael emerged from the thick green foliage to his right. He had a rifle raised and evidently loaded, pointed right at the man on the ground. Nervous sweat was stippling his brow and his movements were way too jerky for Sawyer's liking. The southerner stopped moving, stopped trying to talk. "Why are you following me?" 'Shit, I was really following someone!' "Who's with you?" The jittery man asked in a voice like sandpaper on wood.

"No one's with me, Mike." Sawyer whispered back, eyes now fixed on the mouth of the rifle. Shit. The guy had gone dark side and no one had thought to mention this little fact? He stayed completely still.

"Bullshit!" Mike thrust the gun at him. "Last time I saw you we all thought you were about dead. So you didn't come out here alone. Where are the others?"

"There ain't no others."

"Don't fuck with me Sawyer. I do not have the time for games."

"I ain't fucking with you! Do you see anyone with me? Where the hell are they then? Waiting to throw you a surprise party?" He snapped. He was too damned tired for this. A wave of exhaustion rolled through him and he sagged against the tree. "I'm too tired for this shit Mike. You wanna shoot me, go ahead. Getting sort of used to it."

"You're really out here alone?"

"Yeah, mores the pity. Could really do with a cappuccino right about now."

"You're insane coming out here like this, alone, with a bullet hole in your shoulder. You really do have a death wish don't you?" Michael suddenly withdrew the gun and a second later a water bottle was thrust in his face. "Here. Keep this." Sawyer took it without question and secured it between his legs so that he could attack the screw cap with his good hand.

"Where are you going?" He asked the armed man and sucked down a good half of the water from the bottle.

"I'm going after my boy." He said as he looked around the jungle, alert and antsy. "And I have to go."

"Wait, I'll come with you." Sawyer dumped the water bottle and jammed the lid back into place.

"I don't think so. You'll slow me down."

"I was fast enough to catch you."

"That's because I let you catch me! You are one noisy sonnavabitch Sawyer. I had to let you catch up before you brought the whole island down on me."

"Well, pops, either way I'm here now." Sawyer replied, hauling himself up using the mossy tree as a prop. He leaned heavily against it. "And, I brought my very own peashooter. Be a shame to go home without trying it out." He brandished the small pistol with a cocky grin. Michael just looked at him.

"Why do you want to come with me, man?"

"Us raft-ateers gotta stick together Mikey. One for all and all for one and all that shit." He dropped the grin. "I've come to help you get your boy back."

"No you haven't."

"Shit, Mike. Don't start that with me again. I've already got a hole in my shoulder to show for trying to help your kid. What else do you want: a leg off?"

"Yeah, and that's it isn't it." Mike nodded. "You want some payback. This has nothing to do with Walt. You just want to shoot that guy that shot you."

"Yeah, that too." Sawyer said ignoring Mike's disgusted look. "Nothing wrong with payback. But if we get your kid back and I don't get a shot at Cap'n Barbosa, I can live with that."

"No."

"Fuck it Mike-"

"No! I can't take any chances, I gotta go alone. That's what he said-"

"Who said?"

"I'm not talking to you anymore Sawyer. Go home."

"No. I walked all this goddamn way and I ain't going home now."

"Well, you aren't coming with me." Michael said with complete finality. He took a fresh grip on his rifle, staring at Sawyer. The southerner stared back, implacable. "I'll shoot you man. I swear. You follow me and I'll shoot you dead."

"No, you won't." Sawyer replied. "Ain't got murder in you Mike."

"You don't know what I got in me! Someone stands in between me and my boy and I got fucking genocide in me man." Michael retorted, starting to breathe hard. He was psyching himself up, Sawyer realised; trying to work himself up to a point where he could do just what he said, or at least do one part of it. Sawyer stared at him, feeling all his good-ol'-boy macho bullshit falling flat inside him. He recognised that look in Michaels eye. He'd seen it through the gap between the jam and his bedroom door all those years ago, when Momma thought was safe under his bed. She would never know that he hadn't stayed there. He couldn't. Not with Daddy yelling and roaring like that. He'd run to the door, terrified that he was gonna hit her again, but too frightened to go help her so he peered through the gap and saw this same look in his father's eyes right before he-.

"Don't do this Michael." He finally said.

"What the hell are you-?"

"Let me go with you. I don't keep up, fine: leave me behind and I'll stay there and stay quiet." He stared at the other man. "Don't go out there looking for murder. You'll find it. And Walt will be without a Daddy.

"Two is better than one, no matter what anyone told you. Shit, they don't got to know about it. Besides, I already got one bullet hole. If it comes down to the wire, another ain't gonna bother me none. And better me than you anyway."

"What-?" Michael was staring, bug eyed and speechless. "Who the hell are you?"

"Nobody you need to know. Now, we going or what?" Sawyer kept Michael's eyes on his and they stared at each other for a time. Sawyer could practically see the thoughts rushing through the other man's mind, and he could see the balance shifting in his favour as he ran through the calculations, the possible scenarios. Sawyer waited, not moving, not wanting to give the other man any reason to go back the other way.

Then a twig snapped.

They both dropped to the ground, guns raised, heads going back and forth like crazed tennis fans.

Footsteps. Sawyer found their direction and wagged a finger, pointing. Michael nodded and they both waited, barely breathing. More than one set of feet were coming from somewhere out to the left, deeper into the jungle. Sawyer eased the hammer back on his pistol and pushed the muzzle slowly through the leafy bush in front of him. When the time came, he did not want to waste time aiming.

More footsteps and the sounds of crackling undergrowth.

And Locke suddenly emerged from the jungle. Then Jack, carrying something large and awkward. The southerner sighed and let the hammer back down on the gun. He pulled his arm back.

"Hey Mike!" Sawyer hissed, jerking his head back to look at the other man. But he was gone. Gently bobbing fern fronds were all that remained. Sawyer stared after him, but there was no sign. Damn it.

He turned back to the approaching duo and froze.

Oh god.

Oh god no!

"Kate!" Sawyer burst from the bushes at a dead run. Both Jack and Locke stopped dead, the tracker raising the stick his had in his hands ready to strike. Jack nearly dropped his precious cargo, swore and righted himself. Sawyer ignored both of them. He came to a halt right in front of Jack. "What the fuck happened? What the fuck!" He reached out his hands but dropped them before he made contact. He swept his eyes the length of the unconscious woman, seeing nothing but her closed eyes, her pale face and the horrifyingly limpness of her body, dangling like a ragdoll over Jack's arms. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. He couldn't think. Sparkles glittered and flashed in front of his eyes.

"Sawyer, back off!" Jack barked at him. Locke grabbed his arms and pulled him back. "Back off!"

"What the hell happened?" Sawyer lunged forward again. "What's the matter with her?"

"She's alive." Locke had a good grip now and pulled him back. The younger man stumbled, suddenly light headed, everything swimming in front of his eyes. "Breathe dammnit! What are you doing out here?"

"What happened?" He gasped out again, ignoring the question.

"The Others happened." Locke said as Jack began walking again. Sawyer surged forward, suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to wrench Jack's burden from him and run across the treetops back to the safety of the camp. But he couldn't, he knew he just didn't have the strength back yet. Maybe not enough even to get himself back. "Come on, walk with me. Jack thinks she'll be all right. Just a concussion."

"He 'thinks' she'll be all right?" Sawyer spat. He surged after the doctor again. "You 'think' she'll be alright. You don't know? What the hell kind of doctor are you?"

"The only one you have Sawyer, so shut up and walk." Jack called back over his shoulder, not even breaking stride. His tone was hard and cold and brooked no argument. So Sawyer followed, hard on his heels, staring at one delicate hand that had slipped down and was dangling lifelessly, rocking in time to Jack's brisk march.

END CHAPTER