Disclaimer: And, yet again, I say: I don't own anything except the plot of this story. And really, I only own like half the plot.

Chapter 3- Meetings

Michael had never been one to stick his nose in other's business. He had certainly never done anything like he did on the island, butting into Sun and Jin's life like it was his life too. He'd just never done that kind of thing. People's business was their business. But suddenly, he was on the island, watching Sun being mistreated, and he'd started sticking his nose in it. He'd made it his problem.

Now, it seemed, he couldn't stop. The couple sitting across the fire from him eyed him warily, and paid no heed to Jin at all, ignoring him entirely, as if he didn't exist. They'd long since stopped their translations, and now he had down 'thank you' 'sand' 'tree' 'fire' and 'ocean'…or 'water'. He wasn't quite sure which one Jin had meant, and Jin was no better off.

They'd been on the beach for two days when Sawyer deemed to join them, looking for all the world as if nothing had happened to him, and when his shoulder had an occasional twinge it was hard to tell if he was hurting or if he was just making a face at something someone had said. For some reason he was becoming a worker-bee, restless and unable to sit still for more than a few minutes. He'd taken to dishing out jobs as per Ana's order, and taking up slack wherever it was needed, and the boy who had earlier attempted to wake Michael was fast beginning to idolize Sawyer. He followed him like a lost puppy, and others watched, amused, when Sawyer took him under his wing. Not to say that he didn't put up a fight at the beginning, but by the fourth day of blatant hero-worship, Sawyer had smacked the boy upside the head, muttering something along the lines of "Calm down, boy, or you ain't ever gonna learn anything from me."

He had an uncanny propensity of getting in Sawyer's way, and talking his ear off to the point that everyone who saw could tell Sawyer was itching to smack him again. He never did, though, and the only condescending thing he deigned to say had to do with how goddamned annoying he was, and did he know how annoying he was?

The boy always responded "No. But I've got you to tell me that."

However amusing it was to watch Sawyer become a mentor, it made Michael feel his loss ten times more. He'd only had Walt with him a few months, and now he was gone. People were determined to find him, and Sawyer himself was organizing groups to go looking for Walt, but it seemed futile to hope. Walt had been taken from him, and whoever had taken him was obviously better at survival than they were. It was obvious they were still somewhere on the island, that tugboat couldn't possibly be strong enough to take them very far, but it was impractical to expect to find him. These people had been on the island far longer than the crash survivors of Flight 815, Michael imagined, and there was nothing that was going to stop them from keeping Walt hidden until they were done with him. And Michael wouldn't dare think about what would happen to his son when that happened.

"Hey…your name's Michael, right?"

He stared up from the fire at the man a few yards away from him, sprawled ungracefully across the sand, shoveling food into his mouth as those around the fire watched.

"Yeah. I'm Michael."

"Okay, so…what's the deal? Are you the defacto loner? You sit around and mope all day. You never do anything. Are you just lazy or what?"

Ana's head snapped sharply up. "Jason, what the hell are you---?"

"No." Michael waved her off. "No, you're right. I don't pull my weight around here."

"You just lost your son," Ana argued.

"And six weeks ago I crashed on an island and my son wouldn't even talk to me. What's different now?"

"You just lost your son."

Michael shook his head. "I didn't lose him. He was stolen. And I'm going to get him back."

"We all want Tattoo back. Ain't half as fun without telekinetic kid around."

Michael gave him a confused look. "What?"

"You telling me you haven't noticed how weird things always happen around him? He gets angry something weird happens. You tell him the rudder's the most important thing on a raft and five seconds later we hit a log in the middle of the ocean. He was testing you."

"So?"

"So if anyone on this island can take care of himself it's him. He'll be fine until we find him."

Michael nodded absently. "Yeah. Yeah, he'll be fine."

Sawyer lifted the wood with his free arm, the other gripping the axe in his hand, and Ian, next to him, continued to speak. "…so I was in this band, you know, the one I told you about. It was kind of stupid, actually, because I was the bass and my friend was the guitarist and we had drums, but the lead singer was a stoner and she barely ever showed up for practice, and when she did half the time she was too high to do anything. But we had this gig, at CBGB's, which is the place to play if you want to make it. The Strokes played there. I mean, the STROKES. And the Shins and the Ramones and the Shirts and Dead Boys and Down By Law. And so we were all pumped and ready to go, and it's this full house and everything is totally awesome, and we get on stage…and the drummer just chokes."

"Sorry to interrupt, Pongo, but I don't know who the hell half those bands are."

"Well, they're famous. And they're awesome."

"Well I never heard of most of them, so they can't be that famous."

"Well, yeah. But you're old."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, you aren't into all the new music. I bet you listen to Bluegrass, and Guns and Roses…classic, sure, but they aren't part of the new scene."

"CBGB started out as Bluegrass, you idiot. And I hate Guns and Roses."

Ian was silent for a moment. "You know about CBGB?"

"Everyone and their mama knows about CBGB."

"And you hate Guns and Roses? What do you listen to?"

"Led Zeppelin and ACDC, mostly. I listened to it, anyway. Can't listen to it anymore. All I got is a washed up Driveshaft bass player on the other side of the island makin' up songs about island monsters and singing them to a baby."

Sawyer stopped, cringing. He had realized his mistake a moment too late, and now all Ian would be able to think about was Charlie Pace, the heroin addict of the former back Driveshaft "I didn't say that."

"Driveshaft? There's a guy from Driveshaft on this island? You said the bass…Charlie Pace is on this island? He was on my plane?"

"He was on my plane too."

"No, dude, this is serious shit right here."

"Watch your mouth."

"Watch my mouth? You cuss like nobodies business."

"Seniority, CBGB. Ain't you ever been to school? You gotta learn seniority."

"My ass."

"Hey! I said watch your mouth. You kiss your mama with that mouth?"

"You kiss your mama with your mouth?"

In an instant it was quiet, and without a word, Sawyer sped his pace, hurrying through the trees at what could be roughly considered a trot, ignoring Ian's voice as he moved. He'd pushed his way out of the trees and was already stacking wood on the beach when Ian caught up to him. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Time for a break, kid. Leave me alone for five goddamn minutes and maybe I won't murder you."

Ian backed away, his arms raised. "Okay. So, I obviously said something that upset you. What? Problem with Guns and Roses?"

Sawyer slammed a fist against the piles of firewood, and about a foot of it crumbled in a heap it his feet. "Get the hell away from me! I swear to all that's mighty in this world, if you don't leave me alone---."

"I'm going. Fine. Whatever."

He rushed off down the beach, and Sawyer attempted to calm himself. He breathed deeply, running a hand through his hair before leaning over to pick up the fallen wood he'd been collecting. It was a long time before he was willing to move away, and for a while after he was done he stared out at the water, wondering what he'd done. Knowing he'd probably spoken too harshly, and wondering why he even cared that the boy was hurt by his sharp anger.

"You're going soft, James," he muttered to himself, and then looked up quickly when he heard yelling down the beach a ways. He cleared a tent in time to see Michael reel backwards, a fist catching his jaw, and rushed forward as Ana, across the beach, did the same.

He pulled Michael back in time to save either from permanent damage, Michael wiping away blood from his upper lip.

"What the hell just happened?" Ana commanded, her voice hard and angry.

The other man, Greg, he thought, gestured. "The frickin' Asian guy was getting up in my face, yelling at me for no reason! And so when I told him to back off, he wouldn't do it."

"So you shoved him!"

"And then you come barreling in like a madman, fists flying, and Asian guy over here just stands there YELLING at me!"

Sawyer shook his head. "Alright, jackass, settle down. For one, he's Korean, not Asian. And two, what exactly was he sayin' to you to get you so angry?"

"I don't know, he was yelling in whatever language he speaks."

"Yelling."

"Yeah, yelling, hands flying, face beat red."

Sawyer nodded. "So the hand gestures had nothing to do with trying to help explain what he was trying to say."

"He was yelling at me."

"Sure. And the red face couldn't be because he was embarrassed to have no way of communicating to you."

"I'm telling you, he was yelling at me."

"I'm sure you're absolutely right. He was yelling at you and that's the end of that."

Jin spoke softly, and Michael turned to listen. Sawyer caught the spark of understanding in his eye.

"He wanted to know if you had any nets. Fishing supplies."

"Oh, so you speak Asian."

"Korean, Braino." Sawyer seemed as shocked as everyone else by the way it came out. That was twice he'd corrected a man for proclaiming the wrong heritage, and for some reason, it was Sawyer who was breaking, instead of making the fights.

"Whatever."

"Listen. Why don't you just shut the hell up and tell me if you got any fishing supplies."

"Yeah," he muttered sulkily. "I have fishing stuff."

"Well, be a good boy and fetch them, so that we have food to eat tonight."

"And you don't think I can fish?"

"By all means, fish your heart out. But right now, I don't see you doin' any fishing. You're not doing fishing, let someone else do it."

The man glared at Sawyer, then, in an act that screamed of defiance, turned toward Ana as if expecting her to take a side.

She gave a soft sigh. "Landon, you aren't doing any fishing. You've never caught fish for anyone before. Let him have a hack at it."

He gave her a shocked glance, and then, looking as if he'd been stricken, he threw his hands in the air. "Fine. Okay, I'm going."

They all watched him as he walked away, and then Ana pointed a finger at the group of men. "Look. I don't know what kind of anarchy you had going on on the other side of the island, but here, where you're standing, you're Musketeers. Your actions affect everyone on this island, and I won't stand for any cliques or laziness. Everyone pulls their weight around here, and everyone gets along whether they want to or not. So figure it out amongst yourselves what you're going to do. But don't start fights. We're alone on this island unless we change to fit the lifestyle. Figure out how the hell you're gonna change." She stopped, shaking her had in amusement when she realized that all three heads were down, staring guiltily at their shoes and shifting back and forth, all three looking for the world as if they were three little boys that had just been caught traipsing mud through a clean house. Even Jin, who for all intents and purposes, could only have possibly understood about three words of that, had caught the tone of her speech. "And Sawyer." His head snapped up, eyes leery, as if afraid of a reprimand. She decided to save him that onslaught for a later time, instead giving him a quick shot to his healthy shoulder. "I call the shots around here."

He nodded succinctly swallowing as he ducked his head quickly down again.

Ana shook her own head, chuckling. "Jeez, do I wish we had a time out right about now."

Michael and Sawyer realized that it was forgiveness the moment it came out of her mouth. They both glanced back up, and Ana turned, waving to them.

It was a while before any of them spoke, and then it was Jin who did the speaking. He spoke words Sawyer didn't know, and when Michael seemed to get the gist of the message, he felt a twinge of curiosity, wishing he could understand as well.

"He wants to know how your shoulder is."

Sawyer watched the Korean man. "My shoulder?"

Jin nodded, pointing to his own left shoulder.

"It'll heal fine. Got you to thank for that."

Michael struggled to convey the message, as it was obvious Jin had understood very little. He stuttered, fumbling over the foreign words, but Jin finally seemed to get the message, for he went oddly silent, shooting Sawyer and intense look.

Sawyer had known, of course, that it was unlikely he'd make it back to the island alive, if his medical facts were straight, and he'd had only two regrets. One was Kate. The other: never finding Sawyer and killing him.

The wound was small; bit it had hit close to the webbed veins in his arm, right through muscle, and that had caused it to bleed a lot. By the next morning he'd felt the dizziness and fatigue that he imagined would be the end, clinging weakly to the metal that had survived the flaming chaos of the raft. As he'd begun to lose consciousness he'd noticed that Jin had been tending to his arm, ripping strips from all three men's shirts in order to stem the flow of blood, and idly, Sawyer had wondered why it would matter when, as was most likely the case, the wound got infected and he died slowly from infection instead of quickly and unknowingly dying of blood loss.

In the end, Jin and Sawyer's shirts had been tied together in an attempt to keep Sawyer afloat if, and when, he lost consciousness.

Jin spoke again, and Michael translated. "He says thanks. For earlier. You know, defending him."

Sawyer studied the man who had potentially saved his life, then glanced at Michael. "How do I say 'you're welcome'?"

"He understands that."

"How do I say it?"

Michael seemed surprised, but finally relayed the words to him. "Oso oseyo."

Sawyer repeated it. "Osa oseo."

Laughing, Michael shook his head. "No. 'Oso oh-say-oh.'"

Again, Sawyer said the words, and this time received a response. Jin's face lit, and he nodded, speaking rapidly, sounding excited.

Michael grinned again. "Now he says, 'For a redneck, you aren't half bad at speaking Korean.'"

"And now you're just screwing with you."

"Yeah, man. All I understood out of that was 'fire' and 'shorts'."

"Odd combination."

He was all smiles. "Redneck and speaking Korean is a pretty odd combination, man."

"He didn't say that."

"I don't know. Maybe in between the fire-shorts he said it. In all those words, it's very possible."

Before Sawyer could respond Michael had turned and begun his trek down the beach.

The fire crackled before his eyes, and suddenly, he had a flash of Kate's face blinking across his minds eye. He couldn't even explain why, because, after a moment, it was gone, and only the fleeting image of the dots on her nose was left, until that, too, was gone.

He watched the fire blaze bright against the night sky. Just as suddenly, the fire was blocked, and his eyes were slow in their perusal of the body standing before him. He began at the legs, clad in a pair of too-big jeans, and scanned upwards, past the belt and the white blouse, to a face with no blatantly obvious amazing beauty. Her nose was slightly turned up, her eyes were average, almond-shaped and tinged brown…probably hazel in the light, and her face was on the edges of becoming too thing, framed by wild, curly hair that seemed far out of control and screamed for a brush.

She dropped a small black airplane meal into his lap, and tossed utensils to go with.

Light caught her face at the right angle, and he noticed the freckles dotting her nose. He felt an uncontrolled urge to count exactly how may there were, and quickly squashed the uncommon mental over physical feeling of attachment.

She stared for a moment, as if expecting something, and he sighed, gesturing to the food. "Thanks."

She nodded. "You're welcome."

"Why are you delivering it, anyway? Thought Andre was doing that?"

Either she didn't get the reference to Andre the Giant, or she had no desire to work herself up about it. "Yeah, well, I decided to help. And you're kind of not including yourself in the group."

"Not a groupie, darlin'."

"And I'm not your darling."

He studied her a moment more, then stuck out a hand. "Sawyer."

She glanced at the hand a moment before she took hold. "Kate."

He held onto her hand longer than was strictly necessary. The doc got you doing all his dirty work?" he asked, not bothering to drop her hand, letting his fingers slide across her soft palms.

She sighed. "His name is Jack, and I volunteered. Now can I have my hand back?"

He grinned bemusedly. "Sure you can."

Again, she sighed, frowning now. " May I have my hand back?"

He dropped it, and she shook her head, trying to hide her own smile as she took in the dimples that were so many women's downfall.

She gestured to people further down the beach "I have to go. Make sure they have food."

"Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

She took off at a snails pace, turning back a few yards away from him. "Maybe you could help light fires with your lighter instead of burning up your lungs with those cigarettes."

"Not likely," he told her. She rolled her eyes, and turned away, moving off down the beach.

A shadow was in his eyes now. He glanced up, and Ian looked back at him. "I figured it out. I was running the conversation through my head, and I figured out what I said."

"You're in my light, boy."

Ian shifted so that the fire was in full view. "It was the comment about your mom."

"You ever shut the hell up?"

"And I wondered why it would bother you so much. I ran through a list of things, but it all came down to one thing."

"That you were tired of thinking up scenarios and defunct theories in your head?"

Ian sat heavily at his side, and it was quiet for a while.

"Your mom died." Ian said. There was no pity in his voice, no blanket of "I'm sorry"s. It was a statement of fact, and Sawyer understood what it was meant to say. Ian was apologizing.

His forgiveness came in his next, five word sentence. "I was eight."

Ian snorted. "Lucky."

"Pardon?"

"You were lucky."

"How was that lucky?"

He seed to debate the merits of telling Sawyer what he'd meant, teetering on the edge of decision. Finally, after innumerable silent minutes, he spoke. "My mom died in a car crash when I was two weeks old. I never knew her."

A shadow consumed his light, and he looked up from his position, sprawled across a large piece of shrapnel. His eyes drifted open as he took another drag of the cigarette, and he drank in the sight of Kate. She was in an orange shirt now, hiking boots on her feet, one hand in her pocket, and the other curled around the gray shoulder strap of her backpack.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"We're going on a walk," she explained.

"We? Who exactly is we? Because baby, if it's just you and me in that forest, I can think of a lot of things we'd be doin' in the forest, and none of them have to do with walking."

She rolled her eyes, looking disgusted. "We're going to try to get a signal from the transceiver."

"Do it here."

"There isn't a signal here. We need to get to higher ground."

"And again I ask, who is we?"

"Me and Sayid."

"Sayid and I."

"What?"

"Just correcting your grammar, Freckles."

"I've got a good enough grasp of the English language, thank you very much. So do you want to come or not?"

"As partial as I am to staring at your behind, sweets, I'm gonna have to pass. If you hadn't noticed, me and Saddam don't exactly get along so well."

"Suit yourself," she said, turning to go, and he sat, leaning back on his elbows.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Well I guess it just doesn't bother you all that much that Sayid is the only one going up there. According to you it's all just sabotage on his part."

He grinned. "Reverse psychology. Nice try though."

She shook her head. "Later, Sawyer."

He waved at her retreating back, eyes roving up and down her body for a moment as he sucked in a breath, and then he let himself fall back on the heavy metal. His head made a hollow noise as it hit the burned out engine shrapnel, and then it was quiet, the waves lapping up on shore, people speaking not far from him, rummaging through bags for supplies. He sighed and shut his eyes again, taking another drag from the cigarette in his hands.