Author's Note: I had some trouble designing this and the next two chapters so I hope it works out well. Oh and my new avi has words from this chapter. Also if you're following the time progression of the story, it goes something like this: Central Park trip was a day ago, restaurant and cloths shopping was two days ago, traveling to New York was the previous evening, and escape from Boston was three days ago. I know it probably feels like longer but that's just because the days have been so hectic. Again, thank you to all my reviewers. I love you guys. Episode Connections: Confidence Man

Chapter 21

He didn't return to the hotel that night. Kate fell asleep on top of the covers of her bed, waiting for him to return, not really knowing if he would. All his things were still in the hotel room, but that didn't mean anything since his wallet and cellphone were gone. Kate would have called him, but she didn't have the number, so she spent the night curled into fetal position until sleep finally took over.

He wasn't there in the morning either, and Kate was really starting to worry. At least the last time they fought and he'd stomped out, he was back in the morning, making breakfast in apparent content. Back then he was willing to let the fight go, but somehow she knew that would not be the case this time. Too much was discovered. Kate still didn't know why he had her mugshot and the Marshal's card, but her latest discovery about the true meaning of his letter made Kate realize how grossly she'd misjudged him and how little she really knew about Sawyer.

No, not Sawyer. It occurred to her that she had no idea why he chose to call himself by the name of someone he clearly despised. Kate didn't know exactly what had happened to him or why he kept a letter for all these years, a letter which seemed nothing more than the expression of a child's bitterness with the tragic events of his life. She only hoped that he would give her the chance to better understand him. Whether he realized it or not, they really were frighteningly similar.

She tried reading a little during the day, tried watching TV, even spent a few hours just sitting and thinking. It was starting to get dark outside again, but still Sawyer didn't come back. Kate checked outside and saw that the silver Mazda was still parked in front of the hotel, but that didn't reassure her. If the car was that easy to steal in the first place, he could have easily decided to abandon it. Kate had to wonder if he hadn't abandoned her as well.

She glanced at the old hotel phone at least once every few minutes, hoping to hear from him with no luck. Kate wished she had asked for his cellphone number when he first got it in case of an emergency, but she hadn't and now there was no use dwelling on it. Kate was almost ready to settle down again and try her hand at probably yet another futile attempt to read when the phone finally rang.

If he allowed himself to get drunk every time things got rough, Sawyer would have been able to match Christian himself shot for shot. Not that he was at all used to abstaining from liquor, but Sawyer usually drank just enough to numb the pain a little. Not tonight. Tonight he wasn't leaving the bar until he was plastered with enough alcohol to set off a bomb.

Christ, what the hell was wrong with him? He'd been so careful not to say anything, let her think he was the man in the letter. Sawyer knew that it was at least partially true; he may not have been the same man, but he was just as bad. Better she think of him that way than pity him. Eight-year-old James deserved her sympathy, but Sawyer sure as hell didn't, and he wasn't James anymore. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sawyer realized that the bar reminded him of the one in Boston. Just like that one, it smelled of booze and nicotine, small enough that it was crowded even on a weekday night. Had it been a weekday where he first laid eyes on her? Sawyer couldn't remember anymore. What if I hadn't? he wondered. Would the damn Marshal have gotten to her? Would he and Jack be sharing a drink right now? Would he have gone up in smoke along with the apartment?

The cellphone vibrated inside his pant pocket, and Sawyer fumbled around with unsteady hands almost spilling his drink before he finally managed to pull it out and look at the caller ID. 617 area code. Boston. Unless Jack had decided to speak to him, there was only one other person who could be calling. Sawyer stared down at the phone as it vibrated in his hand and finally pressed the red hang up button. No way in hell was he talking to Christian in his condition. He was too disgusted with himself to face the man. Feeling like the biggest hypocrite in the world, Sawyer took another swing of his drink.

It was only nine in the evening, and the bar was still a buzz with activity. Men were huddled near the small television screen, watching the latest game, while a few women tried their best to get their attention. One sat down to Sawyer's right and ordered a drink, smiling at him seductively. When he ignored her, she got up with a huff and went to find another conquest. Even Sawyer himself found it hard to believe that sex was the last thing he wanted to think about at the moment. His immediate plan was to get so drunk that he wouldn't have to think at all.

"Well well well, you sure get around," Sawyer didn't move, but he suddenly felt very sober at the sound of the slimy snarky voice to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the chair that was previously occupied by the woman being pulled away, and someone clearly male sat down. Sawyer lifted his tired eyes to meet the man's questioning silver ones.

"Who the fuck are you?" Sawyer asked gruffly, even though he knew exactly who it was. He hadn't forgotten the Marshal.

"Don't remember?" the man said, drolly. "We ran into each other about a month ago outside a bar in Boston."

"You're gonna have to be more specific," Sawyer snorted. "Got any idea how many bars there are in Boston?"

"Oh don't play dumb, Mr. Ford," the Marshal laughed. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You lied to me, Mr. Ford, and I don't like being lied to."

Sawyer's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. How the hell did this bastard know his name? "I lied to you? Probably right. What of it?"

"Do you realize that aiding a fugitive is a serious crime?" the man lowered his voice leaning closer. "You really want to add that to your already rather impressive rap sheet?" He paused, letting the thought sink in. "On the other hand, if you were to, maybe, make up for that little offense, I'd be willing to overlook some of your other misadventures. Where is she, James?"

In one smooth motion, Sawyer's right elbow connected with his jaw, and before the Marshal could react, he jumped to the ground, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming him against the wall behind him. All the effects of the alcohol were suddenly forgotten completely. He could live with 'Mr. Ford,' but Sawyer would be damned if he let this asshole call him James, as if they were suddenly friends. The bar grew very quiet, the customers staring at them.

"There a problem here, gentlemen?" the bartender asked seriously. " 'Cause if there is, you'd better settle this outside."

"No, no problem at all," the Marshal smirked, prying Sawyer's hands off him. He pulled his badge out of his coat pocket and flashed it to the bartender. "Just a little misunderstanding. Come on, James. Let's go for a walk and chat a little about your new friend Katie."

He literally dragged Sawyer out of the bar. Outside Sawyer just glared at the man, rolling back his shoulders and trying not to stumble too much. He leaned against the wall of the nearest building and casually took out his pack of Marlboro reds. Nicotine and alcohol was the only way to go. Sticking the cigarette between his teeth, he glared at the Marshal.

"I don't know what the fuck you want from me, hoss, but you're barkin' up the wrong tree."

"There's no point in pretending, Mr. Ford," the Marshal smirked. "Your story back in Boston was less then convincing, so I kept you in mind. Few days ago, I hear some apartment got blown up, so I thought I'd check it out. It's her M.O., you know. Anyway, I thought it sounded familiar so I checked it out. Much to my surprise, the neighbors told me that the place belonged to a Sawyer. Lease was signed by a James Ford, but what the hell, right? So apparently this Sawyer, who lived on his own for six months, took in this young woman right around the time that a certain fugitive, Kate Austen, arrived in the city. Then a month later, the apartment goes up in smoke and both tenants mysteriously vanish. No bodies, no trace, nothing but two people matching your descriptions in the video tape from South Station."

"I don't know about any Kate Austen," Sawyer finally said, his speech slightly slurred. "Girl I was with called herself Annie, and she ditched me soon as we got to New York. Don't know where the hell she is now. Don't care much either."

"Sure you want to stick to that story?" the Marshal asked, clearly unhappy with his answer.

"Yep," Sawyer nodded, immediately wishing he hadn't as his head began to spin. "Bitch scammed me out of five grand and then took off. You see 'er around, you tell 'er I want my money back." He thought for a moment. "And that she wasn't as good as she said she was."

The Marshal laughed a little at the last comment, not really believing Sawyer. "Good night, Mr. Ford. Go sleep of that whiskey." With that he turned around and headed down the empty street.

"Will do," Sawyer called after him.

As soon as the Marshal was out of sight, he growled under his breath. No way in hell was he going back to the hotel and lead that bastard right to Kate. Sawyer was fairly sure that the Marshal planned on following him, though he couldn't guess for how long. Either way the hotel was out of the question, but the Marshal had been right in at least one thing: Sawyer really did need to sleep off the alcohol.

Wandering around the block, he found the cheapest possible motel in the area and decided to crash for the night. The Marshal would no doubt be waiting right outside the building, but as long as he was nowhere near Kate, Sawyer didn't much care. He really did need a good night's rest. Hoping his head would be clearer in the morning, Sawyer headed inside. He had just enough energy left to throw the money for the room at the desk clerk and climb the single flight of stairs before his strength gave out. As he fell asleep on top of the covers, Sawyer's last thought was of the hangover he was sure he wouldn't be spared.

He slept through the night and well into morning. When he finally rose at eleven thirty, only a half hour before check out time, Sawyer groaned at the splitting headache that pounded at both of his temples. There was nothing but tap water in the room, so he ventured back out into the city, cringing at the bright lights and sounds of what was nearly lunch time traffic.

Having learned when to exercise caution, Sawyer looked around for the Marshal. At first he didn't see any sign of the man, but then Sawyer spotted him a block away casually strolling down the street with a brown paper bag in his hand. He caught Sawyer looking in his direction and gave him a mocking two-finger salute. Sawyer cursed under his breath, knowing full well he couldn't go back to Kate. He looked down at his cellphone, contemplating whether or not he should call her but decided against it. There was no need to worry hear prematurely.

Sawyer spent the remainder of the day wandering the city, crashing at a Barns 'n' Noble book store for several hours. Casually ordering a cup of coffee that he hoped would help his lingering hangover. At one point Sawyer found himself in a big comfortable chair engrossed in a strange book about bunnies that he randomly picked up of the shelf. To his surprise, it was quite good and kept him occupied for hours. Eventually his head cleared, and when it started to get dark again, he put the book down and looked out the store window. Sure enough the Marshal was there, hovering closely by one of the exits. Sawyer cursed. Fuck this shit, he thought. It was time to take matters into his own hands.