Author's Notes: There is less than a month left until the premiere of season two—do you know where your sanity is? (hee.)
This idea has been marinating in my mind for awhile now. It should've had five potential ways for a meeting, but I preferred the original four I came up with. The concept's taken from the idea that all of the islanders have some sort of connection. But, of course, you knew that.
As always: Lost and the characters of aren't mine. They belong to the good people of Bad Robot and JJ Abrams. And if, by some twist of fate, Kate and Sawyer actually did meet in one of the ways I mention in here… um, I'm just psychic. Or the writers read fan fiction for ideas.
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1. strangers on a train (1995)
It had been easy enough to buy the train ticket. When the stern looking man had given her a look when she'd asked for a one-way ticket to New York, she had smiled innocently and said, "I'm going to visit my mom for the weekend. This is the first time I'm going to see her since the divorce." Despite that, as he slid the train ticket to her, he seemed to be unconvinced.
But it didn't matter now. Kate absently turned the ticket over and over in her hands. At 5:20 she'd be able to leave. At 5:20 she could start over again. At 5:20, Katherine Austin would cease to exist. She opened a can of Sprite and looked at her surroundings as she casually sipped it.
The rest of the station was practically buzzing with energy. As people passed by, their wet shoes squeaked and skidded across the floor. Commuters shook their coats, causing droplets of water to scatter everywhere. Families with children came in and walked to their gates, umbrellas dripping. People stood in line for the pay phones, and as she watched them, Kate felt a momentary pang of guilt. She'd left Des Moines a day before and had made it to Atlanta. She hadn't said goodbye to anyone. She didn't really have anyone to say goodbye to, except Tom. I should call him. She picked up her backpack and slowly approached the pay phones, reaching into her pockets for loose change.
She stood behind a tall blonde man who was drumming his fingers on top of the phone and was most likely talking to his wife or a girlfriend. He punctuated his mumbled sentences with the occasional "baby" or "sweetheart" and he sounded distracted. Kate sighed, wondering how much longer he'd keep talking, and if he'd be done in enough time for her to make her own call. Barely a minute later, he finished, saying, "Don't worry, I'll bring the money later. 'Bye." He turned sharply and walked past her, his arm heavily brushing against hers.
A phone. Finally. As she wrapped her fingers around the receiver (noting that it was still warm from the man's touch), she pulled a quarter from her pocket. Just as she was about to drop it into the slot, she spotted the wallet. She let go of the receiver and picked it up. It was an average brown leather billfold, and as she opened it she saw that it was stuffed to the gills with credit cards, business cards, and other various slips of paper. Nothing could've prepared her for the sight of the money, though.
Pushed inside was a stack of bills—at least six hundreds, about twelve fifties, and at least ten twenties. Her eyes widened at the thought of it. If she kept all of that money...
She couldn't.
Instead, she did the next best thing: grabbed two of the fifties and shoved them into her pocket, then ran in the direction that she'd seen the man walking in. As soon as she spotted the top of his head, she picked up speed. "Sir!" she called out, clenching the wallet tightly between her fingers. "Sir!"
He stopped and turned towards her, looking plenty annoyed at being flagged down by some random teenage girl. "What?" he asked as Kate stepped a little closer. He was chewing on a toothpick, and he slowly pulled it from his mouth with his left hand. Kate noticed then that he wasn't wearing a ring.
"You... you left this on top of the phone." She held the wallet out to him and then smiled a little. "You might need it."
He took the wallet from her and shoved it into his back pocket. "Thanks, kid," he said, turning.
"Wait!" Kate tapped him on the shoulder. "Um... what time is it?"
"There's a clock over there," he said, pointing above her head. "It's 5:13."
5:13. "Thanks," she responded, walking away quickly. She took one final look back at the man, who was probably going to catch a train himself. As she walked towards the gate, she felt the now-crumpled fifty-dollar bills in her pocket, and smiled to herself.
She had a train to catch.
2. the customer is always right (1997)
James Ford hated the Midwest.
It was February and he was driving down a narrow street in some tiny town in Iowa on business for Hibbs. He had somehow managed to get himself lost, and here he was, driving through mile after mile of indistinguishable flat land.
It was times like this when he was reminded of all the things that he hated in the world, and he hated plenty of things: overly starched shirts, orange juice with pulp, decaf coffee, Chihuahuas (and all other breeds of ankle-biting dogs), and pickles on burgers. Of course, most of his hate was directed at the son-of-a-bitch who had ruined his life (and whose name he was currently using), but at this point, he was certain that his hate for the flat stretch of land he was currently driving down was rising higher and higher on his list of hated things.
He found himself sitting alone in a booth at one of those tin-sided restaurants that was probably built in the '50s and looked like it could survive a nuclear holocaust. At least they had a smoking section. As he lit a cigarette, he heard the sound of sneakers squeaking on the freshly mopped linoleum. "What can I get you, sir?"
He found himself staring at her nametag, pinned to the right side of her pressed white shirt and with "Katie" etched into the plastic. "Coffee," he said, barely bothering to look up at her.
"Have you looked at the menu?" Katie asked.
He finally looked at her. She was a pretty thing, with dark wavy hair pulled back and no makeup on. "No, coffee's good," he responded. "Black. No decaf."
"No decaf." She repeated it almost solemnly, as if he'd told her the meaning of life or something. "I'll be right back."
She returned shortly with the coffee. "Anything else?" she asked. When he shook his head, she sighed, almost in relief. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I... it's just been a long night. And I'm waiting for my shift to end and for a friend to come and pick me up."
Curiosity got the better of him. "Boyfriend?"
"Excuse me?"
"Is your boyfriend comin' to pick you up?"
She looked away, almost shyly. "I don't have a boyfriend."
Right. "How does a pretty girl like you not have a boyfriend? Unless..."
"And no, I don't have a girlfriend either," she said, finishing his thought. "I'm not into relationships right now."
He considered this for a minute. "Could you give me the check?"
She nodded. "Sure."
When she returned, he gave her a twenty and waited for her to return with the change. He didn't hear the twinkling of the bells over the front door of the diner tinkle merrily as it came open, but he did hear Katie's voice squeal, "Tom!" He smiled to himself and stood up; walking past her and the guy she was talking to. Smiling, he said, "Keep the change." As he walked out the door and to his car, he laughed a little. "Doesn't have a boyfriend my ass."
3. birthday wishes (2000)
Kate sometimes forgets that her last name is Dodd now. It has been Dodd for six months, and she still has to think for a second before signing her name on a check. She almost doesn't believe it, mostly because it doesn't feel real. She's been married for six months, but she feels exactly the same.
The only thing that does remind her of her taken status is the ring. Her wedding band is extraordinarily ordinary: gold band and a conservatively sized diamond. As she stares at it, she frowns. It doesn't look like belongs to her. It never has, not even on the day when he'd slipped it onto her finger. The ring belongs to a woman who wouldn't forget that she had a new last name—one who had probably practiced signing her first name with her husband's last starting on the day they got engaged, maybe sooner than that. Whenever Kate looks at it, she always feels like pawning it and taking the money from it and running.
Instead of running, she often opts to take the ring off, put it in her jacket pocket, and go to a bar.
She is sitting at the bar, thinking about things when she feels the hand on her shoulder. Startled, she turns around, almost expecting her husband to be there. He isn't. Instead, there's a stranger—tall and good-looking, smiling at her like she's an old friend. "Excuse me," she says. "Do I know you?"
"Maybe you do," he comments, sitting next to her.
"I believe I don't." She turns around and tries to ignore him.
"You waiting for somebody?" His voice is music to her ears. Ever since she came to Chicago, everyone has sounded exactly the same to her, and his mellow Southern accent sticks out like a sore thumb. An incredibly attractive sore thumb.
Turning slightly to her left, she stares at him. "What gives you that idea?"
He gently places his right hand on her left. "That lovely band o' gold, of course."
Damn. How did she forget to take off the ring? She's always been good at remembering that.
"Who are you waitin' for?" he asks. "Boyfriend? Fiancée? Husband?"
"I'm not waiting for anyone." She whispers this, as if she's trying to convince herself. "I'm here alone."
"That's a damn shame," he says. "How 'bout I just buy you a drink, at least."
Kate sighs. "Sure. I'll just have what you're having." She rarely drinks, and when she does, she prefers champagne or beer. She's never liked girlie drinks, like cosmos or anything like that. After the bartender takes the order, she turns and idly taps her feet on the barstool. "So, what do you do?" she asks. When he looks at her, she elaborates. "Your job. What do you do?"
He lights up a cigarette. "What do I do?" He laughs. "I... I'm kinda like Robin Hood."
"You steal from the rich and give to the poor?"
"Something like that." He half-smiles at her and exhales, making thin lines of smoke flutter in front of her face. "What do you do?"
"Nothing." That part was true. "I'm kind of..." She doesn't want to say housewife. "In between jobs right now."
"Interesting." He slides the other beer down to her.
They sit in silence, until she gives him some line about having to go. She gives him the flimsiest excuse, and all he does is smile at her knowingly. "Tell the mister he's a lucky bastard," he says as she walks toward the door. Kate wonders if she'll ever see him again as she leaves, and wouldn't you know it, she does.
It's barely a week later, at the same bar. She's shooting pool at an empty table this time. When she looks up, there he is, taking a cue off the rack. "You want to join me, Robin?" she asks, gathering the balls together under the rack.
"Nice to see you too," he comments, using the chalk cube to prep his cue. "You have a name, sweetheart?"
She pulls the rack away from the balls and looks up at him. After finding the cue ball, she finally answers. "Marian. You first or me?"
"Ladies first, Maid Marian," he says, smirking as she breaks. "How long?"
She moves over to allow him to take his shot. "How long what?"
"How long have you been married, darlin'." He smiles and sinks the seven ball in the right side pocket.
"Why does it matter?" she asks, sitting on one end of the table.
"Curious." He shoots again, only to miss.
Sliding off her end, she walks past him. "Six months. Still a newlywed."
"I could tell."
"How?" The fourteen and six balls fall into the left corner pockets. Kate brushes a loose strand of hair from her eyes and looks over at him. He's twirling the cue with his right hand almost like a majorette in a parade. When he drops it, she can't help but laugh.
"I just know," he responds after picking up the cue. "By the way, what does the mister think about you hanging 'round in places like these?"
Kate bites her bottom lip and takes another shot. "He doesn't know." He's out of town. "Anyway, what about you? Tell me something about yourself."
"You missed," Robin remarks. "And, well, today's my birthday."
"Did you wish for anything in particular?" she asks as he moves to the side of the table that she is standing by. She likes how he is looking at her, but for a moment she feels the slightest twinge of shame, especially now that he is standing close to her, leaving barely six inches between them. She inhales, and she can smell his cologne.
He's practically leaning on her, and she can feel his warm breath on her cheek. "Not much. 'Cept... maybe you."
At this, she backs away. "I'm married," she says, her voice wavering.
"Happily?"
She hesitates. "Of course."
"Bullshit." He puts his cue down and glares at her. "If you were happily married you wouldn't be here right now, and you know it." Kate closes her eyes tightly as he continues talking. "So, why'd ya marry the guy?"
Kate opens her eyes. "I... I don't know. I guess... I guess I thought that if I married him, I'd change." She stops for a moment, wondering why she's telling this to a stranger in a pool hall. Usually she tries to even prevent herself from thinking about her motivations, so she doesn't know why she feels compelled to explain them to him. She wonders if she just finally wants to say it, to let it actually be something real instead of just an idea. "I've done some things I'm not proud of. A lot of things. I thought that if I married him, I'd change and stop doing them."
He's standing close to her again, leaning against the pool table. "Know what I think you should do?" He didn't say anything until she looked at him. "I think you should, ah... explore other options. Not sayin' that they could all necessarily be with me..." he laughs at this—"but if you ain't happy, what's the use of staying?"
She wants to say that he's wrong. She wants to say that she has to try and make this work and be a good wife because if she doesn't, she knows she'll just leave because she is terrified that her marriage will end up like her parents'. She wants to say this, to be the good one for once. But instead, she looks up at him and kisses him softly, lightly even. At last, she's finally made her choice.
When she pulls away, she smiles at him. "Happy birthday, Robin." It's the last thing she says to him before she turns around and leaves.
Two weeks later, Kate goes into a pawnshop and leaves with a wad of cash. She goes back to her apartment and packs up her bags. She leaves when he's gone to work and she doesn't bother to leave a note. She's not that type of woman. As she watches the skyscrapers shrink in her rearview mirror, she feels free for the first time in six months.
When she gets caught four years later, though, the name on her mug shot says "Katherine Dodd".
4. close quarters (2004)
The first thing she said was "You're American."
He'd blinked a little and stared at her. Her hair hung messily in front of her eyes, obstructing her features. She didn't seem to mind this.
The second thing she said was "What're you in here for?"
He didn't feel like talking. All he was doing in this cell was waiting for the damn cop to finally let him go free. He felt surprisingly relieved at the thought of being deported. At least he would be out of the country whenever they found Frank's body.
"Where are you from?" she asked. "I mean, as far as..."
He cuts her off. "Why are you asking so many damn questions?"
"I've been in here awhile." She sounded exhausted. "Nice to hear an American accent, though. It's been awhile since I heard one."
He reached into his pocket for his lighter, then stopped. Right. They still had his lighter—and his Marlboros. Shit. He drummed his fingers on the bench he was sitting on, not knowing what to do with his hands. He looked at the girl across from him. She was sitting cross-legged on her bench, her hands primly positioned on top of her knees. It was weird to see her like that, her hair all in her eyes and her sitting that way.
"What're you in here for?" she asked again.
"Got in a fight at a bar," he mumbled. "And what about you?"
"A lot of things," she said. She never did elaborate.
He sat across from her for the next fifteen minutes, and then they let him leave. They'd handed him his jacket (cigarettes and lighter still in the pockets) and a plane ticket and sent him on his merry way. He didn't think about that girl in the cell when he got to the airport that day. In fact, he'd almost forgotten about her.
But then the plane crashed and he kept seeing that girl, the one with the long wavy hair. He'd gotten close enough to see the freckles across her nose, close enough to see the little spots of gray in her eyes. He'd always been excellent at noticing things like that in women; it was always part of his carefully concocted cons. He'd wondered about her from that first moment on the hike when she asked about using a gun, and since then he'd been watching her. Certain things she did piqued his curiosity more. Her interest in the Halliburton briefcase they'd retrieved, demanding to come along during that hunt for Ethan, and so on. It began to slowly make sense. But it all came together when he found out she was trying to get on the raft.
As he watched her fumbling though bags, he wondered if on that first day she'd remembered him sitting across from her in that jail cell in Sydney.