Some more deep Ana and Sawyer thoughts and an appearance from Locke who is a bugger to write I might add! Damn him for being so hard to capture. And apologies if his part comes out stupid. Also, just to clear up a few things. Ana and Sawyer are NOT related in ANY way. Her dad is just the guy that Sawyer's mum had an affair with. Their parents are completely different, seperate people. Come on girls! I'm a rabid Sana shipper! Why on earth would I make them related? ;D Just wanted to clear that up, sorry if I confused people.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue!

Chapter 10.

Sawyer had disappeared from his tent the previous night and she had not stopped him. He'd been about to kiss her, she had felt his breath hot on her face. He'd been about to intensify their strange friendship and she had prevented him from doing so. Her lips had begun moving, speaking words that she should have kept to herself. Words that had perhaps ruined their connection where Kate had failed to do so earlier the day before and though Ana had taught the other woman never to meddle in their affair again, her own actions had made certain that Kate's will was done. She and Sawyer were over before they had even begun.

Ana had sat staring at the blue plastic sheets through the darkening night, which Sawyer had disappeared between, swiping at them, desperate for escape. And she hadn't gone after him. The absolute shock consuming his body, making his movements staggering and dizzy, had told her that he had reacted to her revelation badly. He needed to be alone. He needed space to breathe and process the terrible thing that she had told him and then he would come back to her, sat in his shelter, and deliver his ultimatum. His final decision which could only be either of two outcomes. He could accept it. Accept that her father had been the cause of his mother's murder, of his father's incensed insanity and suicide. Or he could tell her to get out. Of both his shelter and his life and that he never wanted the misfortune of seeing her again. From where Ana had sat, staring at the blue tarps shaded by night, the latter of her two theories was sounding the most likely.

She had needed to tell him though, before he had started something that their past's would never let them see to conclusion. Had she allowed him to kiss her, allowed events to transpire and had he found out at a later date of who she really was, his rejection of her, which she had begun to believe was imminent, would only hurt her all the more. She had never believe in the cock-and-bull proverb that 'it was better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all'. She had never believed that love with Sawyer would have been possible even during their sudden struck up camaraderie the week previous. But she saw the warning signs of her caring for him within herself too clearly to pass it off as mere friendship, or flat out hate. That was one saying that she did believe in, however. That there was a fine line to walk between love and hate and she was most certain that her revealed secret had tipped the balance to the less favourable of those states-of-mind.

And so she had stopped it. So that she could be more prepared for when he shunned her. So that she wouldn't be in so deep that her heart would break. Why then did it feel like it already was? Why did she feel despair striking deep, buried in her chest?

Too tired to think, too consumed with the pain of a thundering headache and a throbbing nose, to puzzle it out, Ana had reached across the establishment that the other survivors had made for Sawyer once he had fought off the infection in his arm. They had done so to get him out of the caves and make their lives easier. She reached for his copy of Watership Down and she removed his letter, the letter that had started it all, carefully laying it down beside her. She had known that there would be no way she would sleep that night, though exhaustion filled her entirely. She felt like curling up, going to sleep and never waking up but her eyes refused to close and her mind refused to shut down. She didn't want to have to deal with the mess closing in on her, like water rushing over her head, drowning her, smothering her. And so she read. She read from beginning to end until the pale light of dawn crept across the darkened sky. Every word. Every sentence. Every chapter.

-oOo-
He had stumbled his way down to the beach once he had staggered out of his shelter and away from the woman who had brought his world crashing back down around his ears. He didn't stop walking until he strode across the icy-cold sand and broached the white crested waves of blackness, frigid sea water crashing up against him powerfully, trying to keep him on the island, trying to push him back where it wanted to keep him. It almost knocked him off his feet, but his sheer fury kept him upright.

The night air around him filled with furious crescendo of the salty waves lapping against the shore, the wind whipping past his face, bitter cold suddenly, clawing at him, stabbing at him, biting at him.

He was numb, though not because of the extreme weather or the water he was standing knee-deep in.

Emotions so long buried, so long carefully controlled, raged around inside him desperate for an outlet. He felt as if he might burst if he didn't do something. Like a champagne bottle being shaken and then popped open as he had done many times while wooing different women for their fortunes. Just like the real Sawyer. Just like Ana's father.

He wanted to cry so desperately. A grown man. An emotionless, self-centred conman wanted to cry like he hadn't in years. Like the child that had died inside him that night his daddy had pulled the trigger.

All because of one man. One single man who the woman in his tent had called 'Papi'. She had loved the man who had murdered his parents, at one point in her life at least, if not now. She had looked up to him like every child does their father. Like he had looked up to his own at one time, before his daddy had been driven mad by jealousy.

All because of one man. Robert Sawyer. Roberto Miguel Cortez.

The irrational, distraught part of his mind wanted to hate Ana-Lucia for carrying such a man's blood in her veins. He wanted so desperately to find someone to place the blame upon, someone real and there before him, not the ghost that he had been tearing around the world after for what seemed his entire life. And there she was. The daughter of the real Sawyer, placed before him on a goddamn silver platter. An ends to a means. Finally, after eternity, he had come across someone to focus all of his pent up anguish and anger upon.

And yet, in the back of his mind his conscience stung with guilt for even thinking such terrible thoughts. They had been drawn together, like moths to the dancing flame and perhaps it had all simply been subconscious. Perhaps they had inadvertently sensed in each other the same ruined childhood or the same wasted life searching for the man that had ruined them both. He did not know. He didn't know anything anymore, standing, waist deep now, in the crashing sea. Freezing. Icy. Cold.

What could he do? What should he do?

"If you're looking for answers," the soft yet surprisingly hard and powerful voice of the bald-headed hunter wove out to him in the night, rising clearly above the tumult of roaring waves and wind and his own drumming heart.

Sawyer turned, fixing John Locke with an irate stare. He wasn't in the mood, nor the right frame of mind, to deal with that man's wacko-island bullsht.

"You won't find them out there." Locke shrugged as if he were merely commenting upon the weather to the tall, blonde man soaked to the bone.

"You wanna mind your own business, Elmer!" Sawyer growled through teeth clenched so tightly that his voice came out distorted.

"Elmer…" Locke mused, a small, knowing grin spreading across his thin lips. "Yes, I see. A nickname derived from Elmer Fudd. The little guy who always use to hunt Bugs Bunny on those Saturday morning cartoons. Very good. I'm bald and a hunter too. Hilarious."

A laugh filtered out from his smiling mouth and Sawyer turned his back, scowling more intently out into the night, wishing that the older man would just take the hint and leave him be. Locke, however, was either very persistent or very stupid, ignoring Sawyer's hostility and continuing to speak to the back of his head.

"Did you know that Canadian Geese migrate every winter to escape the cold? They fly south."

Sawyer shook his head, though the action was out of incredulity and not an answer to Locke's question and the man continued to speak, seeming unperturbed by Sawyer's fury and lack of interest.

"Some birds are born with the migration instinct, the swallow for instance. They know exactly which routes to take, where to land and rest, where to get their food and even where their destination is without ever having seen it or been there. It's a miracle. Amazing." he paused to take a brief draft from his water bottle, clearing his throat before continuing, his hands moving to illustrate his words and Sawyer, turning to glance over his shoulder again, found himself unable to take his stare off him.

"But geese?" Locke shook his head, eyes taking on a glassy, glazed-over sheen to them as if he were somewhere else entirely, immersed in his lecture. "They need to be taken on that very first migration in order for them to remember where to go and what to do so that the following year, when they have mates and goslings of their own, they can continue the cycle. They can teach their young the way that their parents taught them and so on for generations and generations…For years!"

The older man's blue eyes gleamed with an eerie light in the moonshine, flashing through the darkness as he was enthused by what he was talking about, hands gesturing wildly around him until he suddenly focused upon Sawyer once more.

"I'm assumin' this little lesson's got a reason behind it." Sawyer growled, turning back towards the beach fully, his back taking the brunt of the waves crashing into him, slowly shifting him closer to the strange man so intent on talking to him.

Locke only nodded, sniffing excitedly as he continued and Sawyer neared him.

"Say the parents get killed, for argument sake, by a poacher's gun, or a predator's jaws or natural causes and the goslings are raised by hand. They will never know the way to go. They will break the link, the vicious cycle." he beamed up at Sawyer who stepped finally onto the dry, firm sand, icy rivulets of water running down his body and legs leaving puddles behind him where he had walked. Locke's eyes connected with his completely and he hefted his backpack a little higher into his back, offering a slap for Sawyer's soaking shoulder and making a clapping sound that resonated across the vast expanse of dark beach. "Children do not always follow the same path as their parents. Aren't always cut from the same cloth." he turned abruptly on his heel, beginning to walk away, back to the tree line. "Sometimes we're given a chance to right past wrongs. To stop the vicious circle from passing down to the next generation like with hand-reared goslings. The wrongs of the father can be absolved by the rights of the child."

And with that final comment, called over his shoulder with a knowing quirk to his thin lips, the enigmatic man disappeared into the night. Mingling with the deep shadows and moving as silently as one, leaving Sawyer standing alone and beginning to shiver.

-oOo-