A/N - Alasse, you got your wish... haha
Thanks, as always, for your reviews, guys!
It had been drizzling all day, but it seemed that after he and Jin had parted ways, there was more rain than air. He'd never seen so much damn rain in his life. And here he was, stuck in it all, no car, no money for a taxi, and at least another mile to go. Just his luck. By the time Sawyer reached his destination, he was soaked to the skin. His shirt stuck to his chest and his hair was dripping onto his shoulders. Shivering violently, all he could think of was warm clothes and the monotonous hum of the heater.
But once Sawyer arrived, he wondered why the hell he'd wanted to be there so much. He was wet and cold, yeah, but… there were worse things. Like his grandmother complaining and his idiot cousin Mitchell annoying him. Yeah, he wasn't at a rowdy bar or a whorehouse like everyone he knew would probably assume he'd be. He was at his dying grandmother's apartment.
It was an ugly, crumbling condo building on a relatively quieter road of Chicago's usually bustling streets. In fact, it was located in a sketchy looking alleyway that always seemed dark and foreboding. It was what his grandmother could afford, and she used to be able to protect herself from whatever came her way. Besides, the place fitted her personality. She was the devil reincarnated, after all, Sawyer thought sardonically.
For an old bag, she was a real whack job. She hobbled along on her cane with a sinister expression that was a mix of a monstrous pout and a grimace. She growled and grumbled and yelled in her low-pitched, ever-angry voice. Now she was bed-ridden with a bad case of pneumonia, and refused to go to the hospital or be examined by a doctor.
"Why the hell not?" Sawyer had argued with her over the phone.
"Don't you tell me what to do, James Ford." She'd shrieked at him. He had had to remove the phone from his ear and held it away until she'd stopped screaming.
So he'd been forced to drive nine hours in his rusty, unreliable pickup to wait for her to croak. Maybe he wasn't thinking very graciously of her, okay, he knew he wasn't, but it was hard to think pleasant thoughts of his Dad's family.
They had never done anything for him, not one of them, and yet he felt obligated to take care of his grandmother. Why? Hell if he knew. But here he was, wishing he wasn't. He hesitated at the front step, looking gloomily at the door. His mind had ceased to be on his lousy grandmother, and had wandered back to Jin. He wondered where his wife was. Why had Jin said he had to stay in America?
"Huh." He sad quietly. Maybe there were more people after that damn crash running from something than he thought. Freckles… yeah she was caught, but she'd a got away if the crash hadn't happened. He didn't know how she would have, but she'd have found a way. She was tricky. Seemed like once they were rescued, she had run out of gas. She looked all deflated, like all her escaping had finally caught up on her. But if they hadn't been on that island so long… he was confident that she would have been fine. Probably the doc's fault. He probably convinced her somehow to give herself up. He was the kind of person who would do that.
Sawyer wondered how the old doc was anyways. Saving lives of other people, no doubt. Miracle doctor! Selfless, kind Jack the hero! Sawyer was getting annoyed just thinking about him. What Freckles had seen in that guy, he'd never know. Jack was just an obnoxious goody-goody asshole. He would, of course, be going to the wedding so people could adore him there. Sawyer snorted, thinking about the whole sickening image. If there was one person he couldn't stand on that island, it was Jack.
If it had been Jack getting mugged down that alleyway instead of Jin, Sawyer might have considered joining that street bum in beating him up.
"Hey James, what're you doing out here? You're soaking wet!" Mitchell had appeared at the door, interrupting Sawyer's train of thoughts. He was nineteen, eager to please like a damn puppy, and completely stupid.
Sawyer wanted to beat the crap out of him. He wasn't in the best of moods to start with, and Mitchell brought out the worst in him.
"Why, so I am!" Sawyer said, looking down at himself in mock-surprise. He looked back up and glared at his cousin, still standing in the rain.
"What were you thinking about, you were miles away." Mitchell snickered. "Is it a girl?"
Sawyer finally walked up the steps, scowling at Mitchell murderously. "You are a moron." He said. "You're acting like a fricking twelve year old."
Mitchell wasn't phased. He was used to Sawyer insulting him. Closing the door, he just grinned. "So, where were you all day?"
"Choir practice." Sawyer said sarcastically. "Do we have any beer?" He headed for the kitchen, his shoes squelching every step he took. He was still shivering. It was cold in here.
Mitchell nodded. "Yeah, we have a couple in the fridge… but…"
Sawyer turned, irritated. "But what?"
"But maybe you should change. I mean… you're getting the floor wet." Mitchell said, still smiling stupidly.
"I'm getting the floor wet." Sawyer repeated. The straw that broke the camel's back. "All hell has broken loose, I'm getting the floor wet!" he yelled suddenly. Mitchell was suddenly cowering, taking small steps backward from his cousin.
"It's not a big deal, it's just…"
"You're damn right it's not a big deal. You know, Mitch, I haven't been having myself the dandiest time lately. So, I am going to sit down and have a beer. And you know what? I'm going to get the floor wet. And guess what you're going to do? You're going to shut the hell up and stop pissing me off."
He opened the refrigerator, took out a beer and slammed it down on the table so hard it was surprising that it didn't shatter. Mitchell jumped.
Sawyer glared at his cousin maliciously, but he didn't leave. Mitchell was probably trying to figure him out. Probably wondering, why is James so pissed all the time? What goes through his screwed up head all the time to make him so mean?
"Well, you just don't see, do you?" Sawyer asked, not realizing he was talking out loud.
"Huh?" Mitchell looked at him, perplexed, and a little afraid. Well, good. He should be afraid.
"All this death has gotten me down." Sawyer said, trying to explain. He rubbed his forehead. He was getting a headache. His drink sat unopened on the table, and he suddenly had no interest in it. It was sheer pig-headedness, he realized, that he didn't go change into dry clothes. He didn't really want a beer. He was freezing.
He looked up at Mitchell, who was standing in the kitchen's threshold, leaning against the wall, a stupid expression on his face.
"Gram isn't dead yet." Is all Sawyer's idiot cousin said.
"No shit, but she's going to be." Sawyer said frankly. "And after…" he hesitated, not really wanting to be talking about this to anyone, and Mitchell, of all people. What the hell, he reasoned. His whole family thought he was insane anyways. "And after the plane…" he trailed off, suddenly feeling so vulnerable and weak that he couldn't go on. "Dammit," he muttered, wishing he hadn't started this conversation at all. What was he thinking, divulging in his own private business, his own thoughts, in Mitchell? Mitchell, of all people. He thought again. He chanced a look at his cousin, hoping irrationally that his cousin hadn't heard him, or didn't understand.
But Mitchell had a look in his eye, a look that clearly said that even though Sawyer had spoken only a few words, he understood what his cousin was getting at. He looked remorseful, and a bit sorry for him. Rage boiled up in Sawyer. The last thing he wanted was pity. It had been what he was given all his childhood.
"You mean," Mitchell said softly "You're sick of seeing death. The plane crash, and when you were little, your par-"
Sawyer stood up abruptly, feeling cornered. He brushed past his cousin, and walked briskly towards the guest room, where his suitcase full of clothes was. "When's Libby coming to pick you up?" he asked a bit too loudly.
Mitchell paused, clearly wondering how to act in front of his mood-swinging cousin. He gave Sawyer a weird glance, as if he had learned to understand some of him and was trying to learn more. "Oh. My mom's coming at six-thirty." He said. "We're staying in a hotel tonight. It's too cramped here."
Sawyer opened the closed door of the guest room and turned to Mitchell. "Well ain't that a shame. I'll miss saying goodbye to her." Then he closed the door, and hastily found a replacement of clothes and started putting them on. He needed to get out of here as soon as possible. He suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe, and his heart was pounding against his chest. Was he having a heart attack or something? He tried to ignore it, but it was getting worse every second.
He heard Mitchell pounding on the door. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"
Sawyer pulled the pistol out of his wet jeans pocket and put it on the bed. He chose not to answer his cousin, and instead pulled on a new pair of pants and then began throwing every possession of his lying around the room into his suitcase. He was full of rage; at himself for being so stupid and talking to Mitchell, to Mitchell for being a dumb ass (and for not being a dumb ass), to his bitchy grandmother, and to whoever popped into his head at the moment.
Mitchell burst through the door, all pity and fear of Sawyer gone. "Gram's sick, and you're just going to leave?" he demanded angrily. "Where are you going?"
Sawyer never stopped racing around the room. His chest was hurting, and he was breathing hard. Maybe he would die before Gram, he thought wonderingly. "LA." He finally answered Mitchell.
"LA?" Mitchell yelled. "Why? What could possibly –"
"I'm going to a wedding." Sawyer said, suddenly grinning insanely at Mitchell, who was thunderstruck. At first Mitchell didn't say anything.
"Since when?" Mitchell finally protested.
"I just made up my mind this very moment." Sawyer said, zipping up his suitcase.
Mitchell stoically stood in front of the door, arms crossed like a stubborn child. Hell, he was a stubborn child. "I won't let you go."
Sawyer was gasping for breath, but trying not to show it. "Oh no?" In a wild panic, he picked up the gun on the bed and pointed it at Mitchell's head. Though he was in pain and his emotions were haywire, he held the small black pistol steady.
Mitchell let out a low moan as if he'd already been shot. "What are you doing?" he whispered, his eyes suddenly bulging out of his head, his bottom lip quivering a little in fear.
"Let me by." Sawyer said.
But whether it was fear or principle, and Sawyer guessed it was fear, Mitchell didn't move.
An eternity seemed to pass by, with the two of them staring at each other, waiting for the other to do something.
So Sawyer did something. But instead of pulling the trigger, he threw the gun at Mitchell's stomach, hard. Mitchell, in panic, doubled over, but Sawyer doubted he'd hurt him much. Sawyer moved around him, carrying his suitcase. He glanced once more at his cousin, who was pale as a sheet, but quite unharmed. He had turned his head to see Sawyer go, and disbelief was on his face, disbelief and disgust. Not that Sawyer cared what Mitchell thought of him.
"Come on, cuz." Sawyer said, trying to breathe, and still trying to seem unaffected. His face was wet with sweat. "You didn't really think I'd hurt you, did you?" He had tried not to sound bitter, but he knew he did. Then he slammed the door and was out in the rain again.
Once out of sight of his grandmother's home, his suitcase fell from him shaking hand. Sawyer leaned against the narrow wall of the alley and slid down to the ground. All he could hear was his heart beating, getting slower and slower, and his breathing gradually going back to normal. Leaning his head on his knees, Sawyer clenched his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut.
After a long while like this, he took a deep breath, stood up shakily, and picked up his suitcase. Then he proceeded down the street as if nothing had happened at all.