Just a one-shot. I get bored easily. I think I have ADD. My mom says that people with ADD are more intelligent then other people. I haven;'t slept in 3 days, because from the end of November to the beginning of February, I get insomnia, usually caused by the drastic switch in Canadian weather. Because everything becomes cold, gray, industrial, and dead. So I have like in tune-in-ness with the weather. Or it has pathetic fallacy with me. Whichever one of us found out the other first I suppose. Anyways, be nice, this was written on no sleep for the past three days.
Oh I forgot, this was my version of whatever episode just played before I saw it. I think it's called 'What Kate Did.' So there's some minor spoilers.

Disclaimer: Like last time, I still don't own them. But I do own the cast of "Misplaced" rumor is that Jake and Kay are gonna get together.

A Simple Game

If it had been any other day, it wouldn't have mattered. If he was dragged back to camp the day before, or the day after, she wouldn't have cared. She almost didn't care, she told herself not to, that he didn't, but when she saw him, she saw her past, and Kate couldn't let sleeping dogs lie.

Perhaps it was her fault he went away on the raft in the first place, the constant, yet playful flirting that she batted between him and Jack became overwhelming and he backed down. He got away, figured she wasn't worth fighting for, or whatever other excuse came to his mind, and he took the one chance to run. That was her line.

She tried to inveigle her way onto the raft, but she came too close to burning him, and he exposed her for what she was. Some lowlife convict, but really, was he any better? She knew they'd both killed, that is if he stuck with the rules of 'I never', and what did drinking games reveal about anybody anyways? She'd lied through her teeth.

Her eyes burned with fatigue, her body ached for rest, yet she still sat unmoving, watching his body. It had just been a normal day, a good day even. A simple game of golf, a few obviously simple innuendos here and there, it seemed almost as if she and Jack were connecting at a level she presumed would remain untouched for the rest of her life. Jack was beginning to treat her like Tom did, starting to understand her like Tom did.

And it made her nervous.

She was tiptoeing around him like he was broken glass; she was starting to appreciate him more as just the doctor, or the hero. He was Jack, she could talk to him, and he would listen. She could yell at him, and he would take it. She could even cry with him, and he would comfort. It was all because the tension was gone, like their stressed muscles had finally found some relaxant, like the anxiety between them had finally subsided. Because Sawyer was gone.

And now, he was back.

His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged, and his shoulder wrapped up professionally in a bandage. When she saw him, she was surprised that he didn't wake up to bitch at her. To yell at her for not convincing him to give up his spot because all this would've happened to her instead. No doubt it would've infuriated Jack, not the words he spoke, but the obvious fact that he clearly meant the opposite.

She hadn't left his side. Jack had, several times; in fact he was away now. Shannon was dead and as Jack bluntly put it, there were more survivors to care for then just Sawyer. She didn't know what made her stay. Guilt? For not taking the spot? For not saying goodbye to him when she had a chance? For enjoying the time he was away? For forgetting him?

Just a simple game of golf, that seemed to progress into a game of risk. Taking countries. Fending off intruders. Shannon was dead. Sawyer was injured. Sayid was missing. These other survivors were clearly not playing golf.

A shiver ran through her body, cold sweat came and it dried even colder. Heavy eyelids preoccupied while shaky thumbs twiddled away the time. The room was so dark, so cool, so lifeless. Counterfeit daylight streamed through the window behind him, the air moved briskly through the vent that didn't utter as much as a hum.

Then her shoulders became weighty as warmth surrounded her. She didn't even hear him come in. In the last ten years she'd heard ever sound that'd happened in five yards of her, and now she didn't hear his heavy footsteps march down the echoing hallway. That's how much she trusted him. And he knew it.

After a thick, blue blanket was placed on her shoulders, almost as a suggestion, he brushed past her gently, finger tips barely touching, yet there was a feeling that neither one could describe in words. Then he took a seat on a beaten old loveseat across the room. And just stared.

He sighed, much like she did before, but his concern isn't for the man who was fighting a high fever with the shakes and the gaping bullet wound in his shoulder. It was for her.

They didn't speak, for a long time they didn't speak. The two of them, in an awkward, icy silence, almost poetic considering how far they've come. It seemed his reappearance sent them right back to square one in a split second.

Then finally he shifted uncomfortably, and she knew that the stillness became too much for him. His presence may have been annoying, but his voice was comforting.

"You should sleep," he suggested, his tone lined with vigor yet his eyes already saw the defeat that awaited him. Mud is smudged on his left cheek, and his face portrayed many sleepless nights.

Her first intuition is to go on the defensive. Flip the conversation, tell him to get some sleep, and that she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But in the last week he became savvy to her techniques, and frankly, around Jack she's given up trying them.

"I can't," she replied, barely above a whisper. Her face is painted a light blue by the light, making her freckles stick out against her pale skin. Her lips pursed together, the bottom trembled slightly, almost unnoticeably, before she continued, "Not until he wakes up."

His eyes wrenched shut, as if her words caused him physical pain. She watched him and thought that maybe they did. Maybe, because they almost hurt her to say. And she did the only thing she could, she looked away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him run a hand over his hair, the short hair that tickled her fingertips, the hair that she wanted to run her fingers over. The sweat glistened on his face, that cold sweat that dried even colder. It overemphasized his emotions, and made her heart want to break even more.

She wanted to be with him. More then anything she wanted to. She wanted to sit next to him. She wanted to feel him, to let him hold her, to let him embrace her, and feel her insecurities. But she can't. Because God forbid, every time she looked at him, part of her saw Tom.

Sometimes she heard Tom in his voice, or saw him in his actions. Sometimes she wanted to kiss him, lead her lips up and down his body, to see if he tasted like Tom. She knew he was not Tom, and she was grateful for that, but memories of Tom burdened and stained her.

"He did wake up." His words are curt. Cut straight to the point, and she knew that this was something he didn't want to tell her. Did he do it so she would forget Sawyer? She wished he did, but she can tell, after more then fifty days spent side by side, that that's not the reason.

She remembered the brief break she took, her legs cramped, her stomach empty, her bladder full. Her mind was against it, but Jack seemed intent, and she did it for him though she had a gut reaction to stay. She remembered coming back into the room, five out of six cots empty, and finding everything the same. Jack unmoved, Sawyer unmoved, the room still dreary and dreadful. It was almost too much the same.

"What did he say?" she questioned, her voice rounding out the harshness her mind wants Jack to hear. Maybe for not telling her, maybe for making her leave at that exact moment for those exact fifteen minutes. The callousness is draped over her heart.

His lips pursed, almost a straight line, and his eyes closed. His thumbs rubbed over them gently, trying to ease away the weariness that was omnipresent. She knew it was because of her, it was because he won't sleep until she did, and her heart began to burn.

"He said," Jack sighed again. His inhalation deeper this time, angered as the breath escaped his nostrils with a small sound of resentment. "He said he loves you."

She froze, he froze, the island froze. Time froze. She'd let it get to far. She'd played her game to well. At first she did it for camaraderie, if the rescue plane came, she'd have people to back her up. But then feelings started to grow and bonds were made. She never felt that way about him. If they were off the island, he's the kind of guy who would charm her up at a bar, hoping for a one night stand. And she's the kind of girl who would blow him off. After all, some of her morals still remained intake.

He could see her reaction, and gauged its severity. He wiped the sweat off of his forehead and spoke swiftly, "It could be the fever, or the pain, he's been through a lot of trauma," he pulled empty excuses out of the air like they were butterflies floating above him.

Guilt boiled in her veins. She was too much like him to be with him. And admitting that hurt her because she knew she was never going to be good enough for Jack. Her head turned back to him, and her eyes watched half focused as he stared at her, eyebrows slanted in a worried fashion. She didn't speak; she simply laid her head down into her hands, and sent a small, sad smile to him.

"What are you going to do?" he questioned. He kept talking, because in nervous or anxious situations, he would never stop talking until he talked out a solution to whatever problem he was faced with.

He was uneasy , she could sense it in his voice immediately, and rather then be annoyed with him for worrying about her, or for thinking that she was his in some sense of materialistic possession, or some other feminist excuse, she smiled. He cared about her, and in his own way, he was showing it. It reminded her of… a person she used to know.

"I don't love him Jack," she spoke slowly, clearly stating the words for the record. Her eyelashes spread out as her eyelids slavishly opened again, dancing across those curious green eyes. "We have a bond. A bond that you and I will never have," his face broke, and she swiftly continued, "Which is why you're such a relief," she informed, "It's why," she paused momentarily and contemplated her next words, "It's why I think I love you."

He froze, and her heart became still. Agitation twitched at her fingertips and all she could do was wait for him to say something or to not say something, it was as simple as that.

"What?" he questioned, a coy smile curled at his lips. His face seemed to lighten, and the room seemed to brighten. He rose from his seat and approached her, within arms length.

"I think I love you," Kate whispered vigilantly. Her voice had become softer, higher, as her skin became moist with a new layer of sweat.

He let out a carefree chuckle at her voice, and a grin grew on his face until it reached his eyes, "Well," he began, stretching out his hand and grasping hers. His touch warmed her, his hand comforting to her. She could feel the dirt on his fingers as they entwined with hers. "I think I love you too."

They'd never been quite this close before. They'd never held hands, they'd never let themselves hug as more then just friends, they'd never kissed. And she was confused. She was fairly confused all the time. She was confused when she woke up in the morning and found herself on an island for the fiftieth day in the row, or how she always woke up in the same place. Running for ten years tended to screw with your mind.

"What?" Sawyer mumbled from the bed. His stiff body raised a little as he stretched out his aching back; he'd only been in the same spot for twenty-two hours. His eyes half open, his tongue trying to wet his cracked, dry lips, and his face covered in the same damn cold sweat that dried even colder.

Once again, it was near poetic. Half admitted feelings and a bittersweet interruption from the man who made a relationship impossible to begin with. They both immediately went to him, both knowing the other had done a marvelous job at suppressing the irate groan that wanted to rip out of their throats.

"How do you feel?" Kate queried, leaning close to him. Quakes still shot down his spine, his hands were unbalanced, his hair was greasy and stuck to the side of his sweat soaked face, and his eyes were dizzying, unfocused. But his hearing worked perfectly.

"I'm going to go get some aspirin," Jack informed quickly, and left the room. It was too quick, and the glance she sent him verified that. He was leaving because he couldn't handle Sawyer right now. He couldn't hide his feelings so he was removing himself from the situation. And leaving her alone. In the back of her mind, she toyed with the idea that this might be some kid of sick test.

"What did he say?" Sawyer growled this time, his voice dropped down an octave and his eyebrows furrowing into that scowl she knew too well.

And once again she was confused.

Did she tell him? Tell him that she and Jack in some twisted way had just, indeed confessed their love for each other? Should she wait for Jack to get back, let him have fun explaining it to Sawyer? Should she lie? She wanted to, but every time she tried, she saw that disappointed look on Jack's face, and veered away from that solution.

Time was running out and she needed an answer. He looked up at her viciously as her mind raced to find words that would end this easily. It she couldn't end it nicely, she should end it point blank. Aim the gun and pull the trigger.

Her eyes darted away from him a moment, taking one final second to confirm what she was going to say, then her lips parted and words, heavy and sticky as molasses tumbled out ungracefully in big globs.

"I'm in love with Jack," five simple words. The answer was five worlds long, not hard to comprehend, but certainly the wrong five words. Because after holding his acidic glare for a few seconds, his hands seemed to remember what to do for defense and they clasped immediately around her neck.

Her eyes slammed shut as her cool fingers wrapped around his until they turned white, attempting to wrest them away from her neck. Her breath was short, inhaled in wispy little gasps that only allowed his hands to close tighter around her neck.

His strength had come back tenfold, his forehead feverish but his anger on fire, and to her surprise, she began to fall. Her fingers fought with his, trying to worm their way underneath with no such luck. She tried to plead with him to stop, but her voice only came off in squeaks.

She was leaning her back against the freezing floor. Her body sweating, her face red, her lungs screaming for air as she watched his figure from above her. She flung her foot out, tried to kick him, but she was already too weak.

She could see his eyes glaring at her, sending viperous thoughts into her head. She didn't need to doubt the fact that he'd killed before, she knew. The expression on his face told her everything.

"What the hell is going on here?" She heard Jack yell from the darkness to her right. She hadn't seen him return, nor heard him. All she could hear was the blood pounding through her veins like a whitewater rapid. She saw him vaguely enter her view, pushing Sawyer back, prying his hands from around her neck. A sudden rush of coolness swept over her as her neck burst into flames.

Her body fell back to the floor, the concrete floor, and she lay still wheezing in the air like Shannon had after the asthma attack. Her hand fell languidly over her chest and she could feel her own heart be a thousand times a minute as stabbing tears stung her eyes.

Jack's voice droned on in the background. It was constant but it was passionate. And she made out a few curse words, almost smiling to herself at her own stupidity. Her throat ached and she needed water badly, but her eyes feel closed on her once again.

A few seconds later she felt something warm around her and her body jerked at the sudden contact, "its okay," she heard him comfort, his voice drowned out as if she were underwater, "It's just me."

It's just me Katie, Tom's voice rang in her head. She saw him, the eighteen-year-old high school graduate, who shook her away from her nightmares as she tried to find solace in her sleep on his couch. He had his own apartment, which meant that she had her own little haven where she could go to get away from her dad after he hurt her. She had to leave soon; she couldn't take it much longer. If she stayed, something horrible would happen.

Jack set her on a couch in a different room. It was much lighter than the other one, more spacious too, and in her blurred vision, the lingering feeling of claustrophobia left her.

"I have to leave soon," her voice croaked to the blurry image, Jack or Tom it didn't matter, she trusted them both equally. Her eyes looked up to him, watery and glassy, there had to be a way to make this better.

"I have to leave," she repeated stronger this time. Pushing herself to sit up, off the couch, but she was caught by his hands, not hurting, but strong on her biceps.

"Kate, you can't go anywhere," he told her calmly, her eyes still weren't seeing clearly and she felt the cold sweat trickle down her face, "Sawyer just tried to strangle you. Your neck looks like a grapefruit."

"Let me go!" She demanded, her arms ripping away from him. His body didn't move, so she took charge, knocking him down surprisingly and running past him.

She rubbed her eyes as she ran through the weaving tunnels of the hatch. She hated it, it was like one giant maze, and she could never seem to find her way to the exit. She ran past Locke, and the man who brought Sawyer, in a flash. Not stopping as she heard Locke's questions from down the hall.

She could hear, but she intuitively knew that Jack was on her tail. He wouldn't leave her, not now as she slammed into the door of the hatch and ran out blindly into the jungle. Tom would. That's where they differed. Tom loved her, she knew he did, but he would only go so far for her. He stopped following her when she went on the run, because it wasn't right, it wasn't ethical, it wasn't the 'doctor way' of solving the problem. But Jack…

She stopped and swung around to find him stepping into the clearing which she had landed herself in. She could see him clearly, as his chest puffed for breath, as his hand wiped his eyes and his legs readied in case she took off again. He wasn't like Tom in that way, Jack understood her better then Tom ever did. Jack knew why she was running, while Tom would be shouting at her to stop running for a useless reason.

He walked a step closer, as if he was approaching a wild animal, and she flinched. Immediately, as if she had a weapon aimed at him, his hands came up defensively, "It's okay Kate," he coaxed, his hazel eyes pouring into hers as the sun danced over the leaves in the canopy above.

It was silent, it was still, and she slowly took a step backwards. She couldn't drag him into this too, her miserable fucked up life. She created it; it was her penance to live through it for the rest of her life. She might not be able to get off the island, but she could still run. Run until there wasn't a breath left in her body that would harm him.

"Don't run again," he told her as if he could read her thoughts, maybe he could. Maybe that's how good he knew her. "You'll have to deal with everything eventually," he began as he took a tiny step forward, "Wouldn't it be easier if you had someone to go through it with?"

"I don't want to ruin your life," she whispered bluntly, her voice soar, and her throat swollen, but she was still in a stance to run at the drop of a pin.

"It's already been ruined," he chuckled sardonically as he took another step closer, and she found herself amazed that she let him, "I've got a lot of problems back home to deal with if we ever get there."

"It's not just that Jack," she disclosed, her body eased up and she let her running stance go for the moment, "It's…"

"I don't care what it is Kate," he stated simple with a smile, "I can help you get through it, I want to help you get through it. I want to be there for you." His face was natural and his words were genuine. She inched closer and his disposition didn't change.

Her hands moved to his cheek and rubbed the smudged dirt away gently, "You're cold," she enlightened with a gentle voice as her fingers traced his jawbone back to his ear.

"I know," he answered, "It's this damn cold sweat that…"

She didn't let him finish. Her hands pulled his mouth towards hers, and she seized it. Her lips rubbed over his as her tongue coerced them apart. His face was surprised and his hands were fumbling, but he felt right. His chest pressed against hers, supporting her so she didn't fall into this too quickly.

His face was rough under her hands, the coarse hair on his cheeks prickling the soft tips of her fingers as they clung to him, refusing to let him leave. His eyes closed peacefully as his hand cupped the curvy edge of her hip.

And then it was over.

Her hands fell from his face and his hand slid off her hip. Her mouth closed and she bit her lips, in a surprised contemplation. He stood before her, confused, and she mimicked his feelings, not knowing what to do next. Old habits died hard, and her first, primal instinct kicked in.

She ran.

She knew he was following, and wished he wouldn't. He knew that she was exhausted and would stop soon enough, and she hoped that he wouldn't be there when she did. But he would, because he was just as selfish as her when it came to the two of them. But her mind had to play excuses in her head, reasons why she wasn't good enough for him, which included basically everything.

She did love him, which was obvious and understood. So maybe some sick part of her wanted to be chased.

Her pace had dawdled and foolishly, she ceased to notice. His hand reached out and grabbed her bicep. Hard. It wasn't meant to hurt, it was meant to retain, to capture. He turned her around with one swift movement, and just stared at her.

His eyes. They always told so much about him. Before Kate even knew him, knew he was a doctor, or that his dad had died, or that he was the reluctant hero, she knew so much about him just by his hazel eyes that wanted to make her melt at his feet and beg for his acceptance.

He was angry. Not as angry as he got when she lied, but angry none the less. His eyes seemed to crackled with a hidden fire of rage, yet he said nothing to her. He looked like he wanted to break out and reprimand her for running from him. Like he wanted to ask her what the hell she was doing? Ask her if this was some idiotic game.

He looked like he wanted hit her. But she knew he never would. But even so, under his grip came the familiar image of her own father, overpowering her, beating her senseless of no reason. And she crumbled.

Her face broke first, tears overflowing her eyes at an exceedingly fast rate, and her front teeth digging into her bottom lip to old it all back. Her eyes slammed shut, her face turning red, embarrassed at the downfall of dignity.

His fingers uncurled from where they were burning into her muscle, and she felt free once again. Her feet didn't run as she continued to cry, she stood idle in front of Jack, sobbing until his arms encircled her body, offering her warmth once again.

Her cries were muffled against his chest as his hand ran comfortingly over her hair. Slowly she maintained her grip on reality again, and her tears seemed to dry like cement on her cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his chest, mortified at her sudden flip in emotions. His hands smoothed out the roughness of her thoughts as she let out a ragged sigh.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he informed, his chin resting atop her head. The embrace was becoming too lengthy, and her intuition told her to pull away. But she didn't.

With one quick snap, she seemed to break free of its confines. She told herself to trust Jack, because he trusted her. To understand Jack because he understood her. To love Jack because he loved her. So she let him hold her.

That morning, they were on the beach. Smiling as she haphazardly slammed balls down the edge of the beach, not caring to go get them afterwards. That afternoon they were in the middle of the jungle, hitting balls, exchanging cheesy flirts, and playing for bragging rights.

Now she was with him, and not sure how to handle it other then one day at a time. Knowing he loved her unconditionally no matter what choices she had made in the past And it all started with a simple game of golf.

There you go. I was going for an informal, rather personal look at things, and I used what both commercials (The American and Canadian) gave me. So I hoped you liked it!