You gotta get out of this place. Drunk men give good advice.

Blue eyes snapped open, pupils dilating dramatically, changing from blind blackness to small black pinpricks. Shit. He had fallen asleep on the less than comfortable couch. An aura of heat surrounded his outstretched body, creating a distorted view of the things around him. He propped his neck up on one of the couch's circular arms, wincing at a sharp pain that lanced through his muscles. His skin glowed with a transparent film of sweat, shining brightly on his cheeks. Allowing his chest to rise and fall in slow, controlled breaths, he peeked over the low, curving back of the couch, shaking a string of sweat-sodden hair from his eyes.

She was still there, breathing softly, sleeping peacefully. Resting his chin on the couch's side, he surveyed her face. Pale, angelic, glittering in the dark, masking all her secrets. Someone must have turned that damned fake light off. Sitting up even further, he peered at the doorway, there was a warm light flowing in through the arching doorway. Locke or Jack must be pressin' the button. Nightmares always roused Sawyer. His brow creased into a stern look of worry as he lowered himself back onto the couch. The quiet of the room rang in his ears, he ached to hear a sound, of any kind, just to destroy the tension that was quiet. He raised a large hand to his forehead, outstretching two fingers and pressing them to his skin, moving them in slow circles. Just go back to sleep.

Continuing to massage his forehead, he sought for a way to occupy his other hand. Tensely, he ran it through his still damp hair, sighing exhaustedly. He felt an urge, again, to reach into the left pocket of his jeans, to draw the paper out, and to hold it, if nothing else. Reassurance that his nightmare was nothing more than just that -- a nightmare, it was in his hands, almost. He sighed again, running his hands over his face now, scratching his stubble-covered jaw. He turned his body restlessly onto its side, clenching his hands into tight fists, allowing his fingernails to dig into the moist skin of his palms.

One day this would all just go away. After they got off this place, it would be better. He sighed again, frowning at himself, and pushing up against the back of the couch until he was sitting up straight. Resting his forehead in his hands for a few brief moments, he shook his head again. Don't read it. Don't touch it. Kate's old words needled at him suddenly, he just 'couldn't get over his baggage'.

Impatiently, almost unconsciously, in spite of his thoughts, he let his hand stray to his pocket, not caring as he fished around in its frayed, lint littered depths for the old piece of paper. At last his fingers fell upon it. He ran them pensively over its crumpled yet smooth, cool surface, an easy contrast from the heated, rough denim which clung tenaciously to his perspiring body. Right back where I started, he realized in disappointment as his fingers closed around the thing. He pulled it slowly from his pocket, still upset at his lack of willpower. Placing the crumpled, folded square of paper in his lap, he let go as though it had burned him, flexing his fingers and hanging them over it, fighting with his urge to unfold it and allow his eyes to pour over its contents.

Sawyer noticed, with distress, that his hand was shaking tensely as he held it suspended above the paper. He heaved another sigh, this time an angry one. Grow up. He steadied his hand, allowing it to fall again to the paper. Closing his eyes, he allowed his free hand, too, to drop to it, and winced shortly as he slowly began the process of smoothing the aged paper over his shins. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter still, he worked out every groove of the sheet. He lifted his hands from it again, resisting, all at once, the urges to open his eyes and read it, to covet it, and to rip it apart. He clenched his fists again, feeling with his fingertips where his nails had punctured just minutes earlier. Opening his eyes, and his palms, he looked down at his hands, they were red, sweating, and most shamefully of all, shaking.

He balled them again to stop the tremors running through them, carefully avoiding sending his eyes past his fists and down to the presently out-of-focus paper. Stretching his fingers again, he leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling, breathing deeply. Don't go soft. Determined, now, to keep his goal in sight, he allowed his eyebrows to draw together in the customary scowl, and turned his head back down to the object of his obsession. It was a simple thing, just a crinkled old paper, he thought, ignoring the writing on it. A child's writing, scrawled in the messy, underdeveloped hand only a youth could manage. He winced as he noticed it. No goin' back now. He allowed his now darkened eyes to trace over the letters, reading each word again and again:

"Dear Mr. Sawyer,

You don't know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done. You had sex with my mother and then stole my dad's money all away. So he got angry and he killed my mother and then he killed himself, too. All I know is your name. But one of these days I'm going to find you and I'm going to give you this letter so you'll remember what you done to me. You killed my parents, Mr. Sawyer."

Clutching the paper in his fist, he lifted it from his legs and stuffed it hurriedly back in his pocket, glancing self consciously around the room. No one was watching. Good. He laid back down, stiffly staring up at the ceiling again. One day.

"We need the money now."

"Yeah, yeah," a voice said sheepishly from a darker corner of the hotel room.

"You can't just borrow and not pay back," said a deeper voice, menacingly adding, "that's not how it works."

"I know," said the quieter voice again, stepping out of the shadows. He was a tall boy, but probably no older than twenty, his face was smooth, unhardened, its angles soft, unpronounced. He shook shaggy blonde hair out of his face, revealing serious, dark brows that bunched together in worry. If any part of that clean shaven face had not fit with its other components, it was those eyes. However unworn the boy's features looked, his eyes were steely, sharp, shrewd, hardened as though they had seen too much for a boy of such age, a dark contrast from his youthful, attractive face. He went on in a somewhat alluring southern drawl, "I'll have it by Friday."

"It's Wednesday," the other man reminded him warily, his deep voice resonating throughout the room. He sat on the edge of the room's bed, a hard, square thing with rough, tacky, brown covers. He shifted his weight hesitantly, causing the springs beneath the lumpy, uneven mattress to scream in protest, "if you don't have it..."

"I will," said the boy again, his voice growing louder and more confident as he reassured himself, "I've almost got it now."

The other man's dark eyes lit up, his wrinkled, reddened face twitched. The boy could see he had overstepped his bounds, and quickly withdrew into the shadows. There he felt safe, invulnerable, unseen. He cast his eyes about the grubby room, the whitewashed walls were anything but. Above the bed's scratched plastic headboard hung a portrait of flowers, bright yellow things. The carpet, a hideous hue of yellow itself, was peeling up along the walls and the corners.

There was no television in the room, no telephone, or any other connection with the outside world, for that matter. Just a cheap bedside table, with a circular, blue-flecked Formica top, and a curving, black metal leg that found its way to the floor, where it stood securely on five divisions of itself. Upon the table was a black, leatherbound volume, with golden embossing on the cover, "the Holy Bible." The boy turned his head away, nonplussed, he felt himself weakening under the man's watch.

"Why you stayin' here anyway?" He asked, fidgeting as he stared around the poorly furnished, unattractive room, itching to be given a chance to get out, "don't you have..." he paused, uneasy at where his question was leading. His voice dropped to a cautious whisper, "don't you have cash?"

"Times are tough," the man sighed, allowing his voice to ease from the deep, guttural sound in which he had talked before.

"Can I...?" The boy began timidly.

"You can go, boy," he said sleepily, waving a hand to dismiss him.

Gratefully, he began shuffling towards the fake wooden door, welcoming the freezing door knob. It stung to touch, but it was better than the room, better than a lot of things.

"Wait," the man called thoughtfully.

The boy's heart sank, he was silent, fiddling impatiently with the sleeves of his denim jacket, "Sir?"

"Just remember," the man said softly, almost cooing, "you know what'll happen if you don't bring it..." his voice trailed, "everything you do for me brings you closer and closer. Paying your debts is the first step in succeeding."

Sucks, don't it? He thought, upset as he returned, once more, to the realm of consciousness. He opened his eyes and ears, casting his eyes about the room. There were people in the hatch now, that damned light was on again. Kate was gone, though. Sucks to not have anyone to care about you. He set his jaw firmly, gritting his teeth. Not gonna show that. You're stronger than that. He sat up again, still covered in the layer of sticky sweat produced from his night's dreams. Sitting up, his muscles tensing, he began to think, where had she gone, anyway? He leaned back again, feeling sore in every possible way.

Locke peered in at him from the computer room, "I don't think you're well," he said astutely, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes.

"I think I know how I feel," Sawyer said curtly, leaping up from the couch, "which is fine, thanks," he finished, standing and all but falling to the floor.

"Lookin' for Kate?" Locke asked with a little smile.

Sawyer cast him a sulky glare, sticking his lower jaw out fiercely, but begrudging him an answer. What the hell was with that smile of his?

Locke continued to smile, his eyes glimmering, "She's out on the beach," Locke continued in a quieter voice, as though sharing a secret, pointing to the door.

Sawyer just continued to stare at him, blinking stupidly, not registering his words. Lazily, he backed away and slumped against the opposite wall, looking around the room. He was eager to leave. To find Kate. He clenched his teeth, looking dismally at the ancient record player. She wouldn't wanna talk to me. "I need air," he suddenly said, feeling queasy.

Locke nodded understandingly, granting him another one of his little smiles, before slinking back to his shift in front of the computer. Sawyer stumbled sloppily to the door. Turning the wheel-handle, he found himself slumping on the handle, using it to maintain his balance, turning it only weakly. This is because of last night, he thought, feeling pained as he finally succeeded in opening the door. The sudden touch of cool air on his wet skin thrilled his senses, refreshing his mind. He stumbled, if possible, more coherently than before, along the path that he was sure, recalling the previous morning, she had followed before arriving at his tent.

Sorry. That's why she'd been there. Maybe that's why he was going to find her. Not only that. He needed to gain ground back for not going with Jack to bring her back to the hatch. Cursing himself, he rejected his jealous impulses, they had already led him astray enough. She wasn't going to accept any silly little apologies. He'd just have to go make his presence known to her, then. There it was, that sprawling blanket of white-- the beach. Leaning heavily on one arm against the last tree before the break in the jungle, he breathed deeply of the ocean air, scanning the beach for any sign of Kate. He strained to see past the locks of hair that tumbled into his eyes, shaking his head to avoid them.

Everything seemed blurry, surreal. He couldn't focus, he realized, feeling sick at himself. Pushing away from the tree at last, he stumbled onto the sand, still searching the beach for a trace of her. The blue tarp of his tent caught his eye, and furthermore, the graceful, dark haired figure that sat directly in front of it. Weird. What was she doin' there anyway?

Suavely, shoulders rocking from left to right as he walked, he approached her stooping form. She didn't seem to notice him, though he knew she could feel him there when he stood just a few feet away from her, "Hey, Freckles," he said brazenly.

Kate didn't answer, in fact, she didn't even move. He sighed, "No need to be moody," he started, "I didn't do anything..." he paused, hesitating, unable to read her emotions, "today." He had to pretend he didn't care.

"It takes two to tango." I'm eatin' my words.

Sawyer kicked his feet up against the end of the bunkbed, "Just one more week down here," he said, smiling. It was a few days since their last conversation, and he readily welcomed the site of Kate in the hatch with him again. Apparently she had been mad, for one of her usual ungodly reasons. He hadn't really done anything last time they'd talked, after all... discounting the incessant smiles aimed at pissing her off.

"I'm happy for you," Kate glittered.

Something wasn't right, Sawyer gazed around the room. Kate was leaning against the wall in her usual position. Nothing was missing. Oh. She's not teasing me. Almost laughing at his good fortune, he said heartily, "This is alright."

Kate raised a brow, "Hm?"

"Not bein'..." he paused, sounding -soft- again.

"Angry," Kate finished for him, nodding in fervent agreement.

He blinked at her, annoyed at the artificial light, this was insane. No one was mad. No one wanted sex. They were just... talking. He smiled, flashing his teeth and laying back on the bed, "So..." he said, not sure what he was leading on to.

"I need a favor," Kate said, biting her lip, as if it completely explained her presence.

"Ahhh," Sawyer breathed, subduing his grin a bit, "figures."

Kate cast her eyes down, "I..."

"Yeah?" Sawyer asked, impatiently.

Kate was weighing her options, but finally she lifted her face to his, "I can trust you, right?"

Sawyer glanced shiftily from her to the doorway, as if they were speaking of something conspiratorial, yet he kept his mouth shut. What the hell was she talking about?

Kate bit her lip again, taking his silence for agreement, "it's more of a promise, actually..." she said tentatively, watching his face. A small flash of interst danced across his features, but still, he kept his defiantly set mouth, his thin lips, sealed.

"When we get off this island--"

Sawyer was apprehensive, there was only one way to relax himself, he knew, "You anticipatin' that's gonna happen sometime soon, sweetheart?" he asked, half-grinning at the absurdity of the idea.

"No, Sawyer, I'm serious," she went on, her expression reflecting her words, her features looked meaningful, driven, in an indistinguishable way, "when we get off..." she took a step towards him, "you have to promise..." she paused again... taking another step.

Sawyer almost rolled his eyes, sighing, "enough of the dramatic pauses, sweet cheeks, get on with it."

Fully bridging the gap between them, she leaned against the bedpost, "You have to promise that you'll hide me..." she whispered, looking hesitantly at him.

"What?" He asked gruffly, quite taken aback at her demand. Sure, they'd had sex, sure he'd hugged her. Sure, he MIGHT have said he loved her. But those were just words, actions, what did any of that mean, in the long run? His mind raced, how could she ask him to do -that-?

"You're one of the only people I trust here..." she waited for a minute, looking uncomfortable, "what am I supposed to do when we... you know..."

He glowered at her, almost ready to say, "fess up", until he realized that the statement would apply to him, too, in the future, and at the present. His heart skipped a beat. Why did he follow Kate around? Why did he regard her the way he did? He had to feel something for her, right? Had he ever felt like thi-- He stopped himself, his brain felt fit to burst, "I ca-an't help you," he said hoarsely, ashamed of the crack in his own voice.

Her face at that moment was equivalent to being punched in the stomach. Even her twice repeated whispers of "that's alright" failed to quell the unrest growing in the pit of his belly, he could have just said yes. After all, what was he himself going to do once they got away from this place? They would get off this place, after all... For the first time since the crash, he felt a horrible, sickly feeling of uncertainty.

It was not until after Kate had left the room that he realized why he had given her no clear answer.

Sawyer slid to a sitting position beside Kate, "What'd I do?" he asked, trying to sound more mocking than concerned. What's more important now, how I look, or how she feels? His throat felt incredibly dry, he swallowed scratchily.

"Why didn't you come with Jack?"

"Huh?"

"To get me, why weren't you there?" Kate asked quietly, also feigning indifference.

"I didn't feel so great last night," he lied, "I couldn't."

"You started out with him," Kate said accusatorially, still trying vainly not to sound too concerned.

"You called his name," Sawyer shot back, feeling as though that sealed it.

Kate opened her mouth to speak, before she realized that was, in fact, what she had done. Sawyer lifted himself to his feet, shaking sand from his legs. At last, Kate turned around to look at him, looking a bit confused, "Where are you going?"

"No use stayin' here, I got somethin' to do."

"COME BACK!" screamed the panicked voice of a woman. Tossing a dark chocolate colored suitcase nonchalantly into an old, run down, dumpy looking Volvo, the young boy slammed the car door, rolling the window up with the crank on the door, ignoring the pleas of the woman ouside.

"This isn't how you said it would work!" she screamed again, sobbing now, red hair flying everywhere.

"Life ain't fair," he called after her through the smallest remaining crack of the window before rolling it completely up to drown her voice totally.

Unconsciously, he stuck the keys in the ignition and backed out of her driveway, uncaring as he noticed her husband struggling with her in the family's front lawn. Smugly, he began the drive back to the hotel he had visited just two nights prior. Swindling people certainly wasn't new to the boy, he'd probably been working at that since age thirteen. And using sex to get what he wanted? Oldest trick in the book, and it had operated well for him since around the age of fifteen. Life wasn't exactly easy, the way things were, but it worked out, sometimes. "Knew I'd have the money fast," he chuckled self-assuredly as the car tires crunched on the gravel outside the beat up motel.

Suitcase in hand, he climbed the flight of stairs that led to the walkway in front of the second floor hotel rooms, blinking away the neon glow of the motel sign with those harsh, calculating eyes. Enjoying the sound of his footsteps on the iron walkway, he savored each footfall, making sure to take his time in getting there. Several minutes later, he arrived in front of the room, its door was scratched and scuffed all over, in the center, where there should have been a shiny little metal room number plaque, there was just a spot of paler faux-wood, unexposed for as long as the rest, to the forces of nature. Straightening his black leather jacket, he rapped sharply on the door with a boney, graceful knuckle. Almost instantly, it swung open. There was his wrinkly, red-faced employer, looking quite drunk, and smelling strongly of alchohol. Cautiously, the shaggy-haired boy offered him the suitcase, which the man promptly took inside and cracked open on his bed, checking the bills inside for watermarks.

"Cold, hard cash," the boy said, proud of himself.

"This is good, James, very good," slurred the man, "I'm glad you founda' way ta' pay m'back s'fast."

"Pleasure to do business," he said, disregarding the incoherently mumbled praise.

"Right, James, good an' well," said the man, "you should be on yer way then, night. You gotta get out of this place. You could have a future, boy." Abruptly, the door was slammed in the boy's fair, fine featured face, leaving him standing alone in the chill night air.

"You could have a future," he considered, thoughtfully, a slow realization striking him. Suddenly, his heart felt as if it had been turned to ice. Every muscle in him froze, his breath became labored, if it came at all. He recognized what he'd done to the woman in an instant, the most awful, drawn out instant of his nineteen years of life. He had become the man who had destroyed him.

Sawyer crept inside the tent, gathering numerous items, there was the gun, which he quickly secured in the back of his jeans. He snatched a backpack up from the ground inside, tossing a box of ammo (which he had reclaimed from the fuselage before it had been burned) inside. Various things found their ways into the pack. A blanket, a few pairs of clothing. Then there were the things he'd been given from the hatch, the non-perishable food items he kept in his tent. Carelessly throwing three bottles of water and several cans of... something into the pack, he zipped it up, feeling set. He swung the blue and black cloth bag over his shoulder, exiting the tent.

"Sawyer?" Kate called after him as he walked along the beach, away from the camp, "What are you doing?"

"Goin' for a walk," he lied, "hope you don't have a problem, you seem to go for walks a lot."

Turning away from her completely, he continued to make his way down the beach under the morning sun. He could go far in today's light alone. He felt a desperate need to be away from everyone. Away from people in general. Away where he couldn't get blamed for peoples' problems and accused of being an asshole. What's the point of stickin' around just to have people pissed at ya'? What's even the point of tellin' anyone I'm leavin'? Hell, nobody cares! Maybe I'll just pull a 'Kate the Jungle Princess' and meditate in the woods for a few days, he thought sarcastically.

It's my turn to run away.