Staggering backwards from the edge of the cliff, Sawyer stumbled and fell to his knees, looking about for who had called his name, though he already knew. Shins stinging from the fall, he looked around at the hand with which he'd held the vine. It was stained a vivid shade of green. Glaring angrily at it, he looked back up to Kate, who was standing over him with a concerned look of confusion in her eyes. She was going to say something, he could tell, but nearly ten minutes later, when his chest had stopped heaving, and she was still staring, he jerked himself to his feet, "What?" He spat contemptuously. It had been ruined. Again.
But she just stood, continuing to study him, mouth hanging open slightly as her lower jaw began to shake, almost imperceptibly. Kate tried disjointedly to understand what exactly it was he was doing here. Had he...? Surely he wouldn't do that. She remembered the cry from that morning.
"Uh..." she began, finding her voice at last, stomach squirming, unsure of what to say to him.
"Go away." He growled harshly, but in such a low tone that it provided a frightening contrast to the way in which he'd spoken the words.
She just kept staring, aghast. His face was filled with a rage she'd never seen in him before. Of all the angry looks she had received from him, this was the most hateful, "Sawyer..." she began calmly, trying to stop her voice from erupting into a baffled shriek, as she carefully stepped toward him.
Sawyer shook his head, cracking his spine in a purposely irritating gesture, narrowing his glare and pointing it to the ground. What did this mean? What had she just caught him tryin' to do? He breathed out tensely, feeling a sudden rush of embarassment at the realization that the voice he had ventured to call beautiful was Kate's. He coughed, discarding the thought, "why did you follow me?" he asked, resisting the urge to tell her once more to go. He didn't want her to, now that she was here.
"I..." Kate glanced back and forth, at a loss for an answer that would please him. She gazed uneasily at his discolored skin, and his still bloodied hand, confused. "I wanted to know where you were going." She glanced back at him momentarily, afraid of how he must be looking at her, "I was curious." On the way here, she had not expected to be greeted like this. Nearly laughing at the silly fantasy she'd had about being kissed and hugged and welcomed, she found herself turning away. Her throat was on fire.
Sawyer groaned quietly and forced himself to stand, mind racing for an answer that would keep her from going, "Yeah, well don't get too curious," he said, limiting his voice to that same, abrasive bark. She didn't turn. Swallowing, he called again, trying to throw laughter into his words, but still unable to carry them away from his distraught state of mind, "I wouldn't worry about me too much, Freckles."
She stopped, turning and looking over her shoulder, afraid to lie, afraid, for the first time ever, to hurt him. "What were you doing out here, Sawyer?"
He was indignant now, she had seen his weakness, but surely there was a way to hide it, "Thinkin'." he said fiercely, standing his ground.
Almost accidentally, Kate made a skeptical little snort, "Why were you standing on the edge of a cliff?" She looked at him seriously now, raising her hands to her hips, where they rested.
Sawyer looked again at her, feeling ill. She looked absurdly like his mother, standing there with her hands like that. He shivered as the thought crossed his mind, managing to use it to fuel his anger, "I slipped."
"Okay," Kate said, lowering her hands, seeming to believe him for a moment. "Don't hurt yourself, Sawyer."
So she knew. His temper rose, "Now why would I do that?" he asked, feeling his face grow hot as he took several steps in her direction, suddenly intrigued by the question, "I thought you didn't care about me, girl." he gritted.
Kate stepped away from him, angry now herself, startled as she backed into a tall, irregularly thin tree trunk that grew from the side of the bluff that met the upper level of the jungle floor, "Did I say I did?" She asked boldly, returning his stare as he continued to approach her. She looked around for a way out, he wouldn't hurt her, she knew him better than that, but still, she was fearful of him now. Afraid of his vengeful nature.
He stopped a few inches short of her, looking straight down into her face, "Don't follow me again. Go back." Now he didn't care. She had screwed it up, as usual. It was all her fault, and now he wanted her gone. As soon as she had left the cliff, he was going to finish what he'd started.
"Okay," Kate said again, lowering her eyes as she slipped nimbly away from him, "but... you have to come with me." She didn't care now, either, it didn't matter if her hints were everything but subtle. He had been trying to kill himself. Kate's natural compassion was alight, her eyes and face glowing in the heat they were both producing. He couldn't give up now, she thought faintly of the letter. If Sawyer gave up... she shook her head, looking up at him expectantly again, wanting an answer, dreading what she knew he would say.
"No," he breathed, confirming her fears, "leave." He turned, still glaring, to walk down the side of the cliff he'd come up.
It was uncannily like when Sayid had spoken to him days ago. But now he was being scrutinized by cold green eyes. They were like Kate's, he thought with amusement, lying there as he stared across the room at her, as he so often had at Kate. But this woman was different. She was taller, more worn. Her hair was a shade of faded gold, waving roughly, unlike Kate's smooth, dark locks. Her eyes were not warm, but, as he had previously noted, cold, almost heartless. The subtle creases of her face were hard to notice in the light, but she was older, and she was obviously thinking, despite the careless expression her face wore.
Her threadbare clothing was a nondescript hue of tan. Her arms looked sunburned. She was scrawny, he could tell, by the set of her collar bone, and her boney, sharp wrists. Her small, pale lips were moving. He suddenly felt sick with himself -- he'd been comparing her to Kate. To Kate. Was he nuts? But what was she saying? He was sure it didn't matter. He rolled over onto his side, turning away from Libby. She had been there when he'd awoken, and her presence had, instead of adding something to the room, made it feel as though he had lost something.
"Sawyer," she said again in the low, soothing voice. She sounded a little like she'd been a smoker.
He turned over now, he could hear her this time, "What?" He grumbled, perturbed. Was he allowed to sleep? It was preposterous, clearly he wasn't happy about something, so why was she pestering him? "Lemme 'lone," he murmured, only half-forming the words.
"Hey," she said, her lips twisting into a solemn little smile, "There's something wrong.You need to talk it out."
God, it was annoying, the way she talked to him. He rolled over to face her again, looking into those curious, understanding eyes. Oh yeah, he realized in an instant, she's a head doctor. He rolled his eyes, making sure she would notice, before sitting up on the pillows and fluffing his blankets with a flourish to air them out. He shot her a final glare before flopping back down. That negative feeling was striking him again.
"Kate, okay, that's a good place to start," Libby said, almost tauntingly, raising her thin eybrows. She just waited for his response, biting her tongue, knowing she'd struck a nerve.
Irately, Sawyer sat bolt upright again, flicking hair from his eyes, "What?" he asked incredulously, trying to sound as defensive as possible.
"Oh come on," Libby chided, trying to coax something out of him, it seemed, "we all know how you act around her."
He couldn't bear to look at her, he realized, removing a pillow from beneath his head to cover his face with. She looked just how he felt; Tired, stretched, and thin. The soft, hot fabric smothered him, sucking into his mouth everytime he opened it for breath, "Ugh!" He exclaimed aloud, cursing openly as he cast the pillow aside, sitting up again to find her still watching him, and, to make matters worse, looking slightly entertained, but, oddly, a little sad, too, "Look, I don't know what the hell you want from me--"
"I want to help," Libby said, straightening her face out in an instant, "I like to help people." Her features softened, leaving a serene smile.
There had to be a catch. He eyed her suspiciously. No one helped him out unless they had a reason-- they wanted some of his stuff, they needed a gun. And how did she know he cared about Kate? He didn't, right? And it wasn't his problem, either. She was in love with Jack. Distractedly, he continued to glare in Libby's direction, unknowingly allowing his eyes to betray his thoughts.
"Did you fight?" Libby continued to pry, searching him for any sign of an answer.
He just continued to glower at her. Libby did not care. She wanted something, so therefore, she couldn't care. "Go away." He said at last, destroying the quiet of the room, wanting the empty feeling her presence created to go away.
"Should I get Jack?" Libby asked, still scanning him with her eyes, "I mean, do you want to talk this out with him?"
Sawyer was incredibly angry now. She was just TRYING to force answers out of him at this point. "No," he said gruffly, melting down onto the pillows again.
Libby stood from her seat on the couch, looking around briskly, as though she were anticipating something. Her face fell suddenly, and she looked directly back to Sawyer. She drew something from behind her back, looking secretive, but also extremely sympathetic, all at once. He felt his heart stop, the blood running through him grew cold. Held between two of her thin, spider-like fingers was a crumpled, folded piece of paper, slightly off-white from age, "I read it," she said, eyes wide.
In a flash, Sawyer was on his feet. He sprang to where she stood, feeling a vein throbbing in his forehead, "Give it to me." he said dangerously, snatching sloppily for the paper, relieved when he easily retrieved it. He stuffed it rabidly into his pocket, nearly frothing at the mouth, "get out."
But the woman just stood there, just like a psychiatrist he had once known, staring up at him with the wide, thoughtful eyes. They looked less harsh now. Calmly, she spoke, "I think I've figured out what happened to... you," she started, "... and I really don't think..."
Sawyer felt victorious, it was clear by her ill-chosen sentence starters that she had no idea what he'd written the letter for, or what he planned to do once they left this god-forsaken-hell-hole. He wasn't about to tell her, either.
Libby looked down, conceding. She looked ready to walk away when she glanced up again, picking her way carefully about her next words, "Being angry isn't making things any better for you," she paused, "this will stay with you forever. There are ways to deal with--"
"Shut up," Sawyer growled, staring at her with nothing but hate in his heart, "go."
Talkin' to him. Pretending she cared. What did she know? He glared around again to make sure Kate wasn't following him like she had the previous night and morning. He was about half a mile away from the bluff now -- but he'd go back, as soon as he knew she wasn't going to be anywhere near the place. In fact, she was probably still sitting on the edge like she had been when he'd left, waiting for him to come back. He stopped now, surrounded by the towering, thin-trunked trees on all sides. Crack. His heart surged. What was the sound? Irritated, he coughed to rid himself of the feeling in his chest. And what was that? Anger...?
"Come out Kate," he growled in a low tone, trying to sound exasperated, but, as he'd realized, the quickening of his heartbeat was not one of anger -- it was one of excitement, and also a strange feeling he couldn't label.
A twig cracked again, and Kate nearly fell out of the space between two trees, looking disheveled and embarrassed. She felt her palms grow sticky, reminded of, just a few days ago, her picking Locke out of the bushes, "Sorry," she mumbled softly.
"Why're you followin' me, Freckles?" He asked, not particularly caring for the answer he would get.
"I..." she moved her jaw back and forth, looking for an answer. Breathing out, and setting her eyes hard on him, she began to speak slowly, "I'm worried about you." A horrid, burning-sick feeling began to dissolve her stomach. She twitched her eyebrows, "I know what you were doing... and..."
"So what?" he croaked, feeling slightly deflated.
She swallowed heavily, not wanting to say anything, but feeling she had to, "Why would you do that?"
"Do what?" he asked coarsely.
"Sawyer..." she said delicately, "Sawyer..." she took a step away from the trees, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I'm sorry." Her eyes were shining suddenly.
He felt as though someone was twisting a knife inside him, he wanted to run, to throw up, anything. Tightening his stomach muscles, he turned to her, wanting to scream in horror at the sight of her wet eyes, "Yeah," he said hoarsely.
She looked away. She mustn't have heard. "Come back to the camp."
"No," Sawyer said loudly, beginning to walk again, "Ain't goin' anywhere." He wanted to throw up again, now. He did want to go back, but he couldn't validate her. She couldn't be right.
"Sawyer," she said again, voice failing, "Why not?"
"I ain't goin' back," he said steadily, afraid to turn around to see her face once more.
"Okay," Kate said, her voice suddenly flat again, "Back to the cliff then. Together."
He was silent for a moment, seeming to consider, "Alright, sweetcheeks," he said, thrusting a tone of amusement into his voice. He whirled around, "But after tonight, you're goin' back. And you're gonna leave me to whatever I want," his eyes glittered maliciously -- this was more important than anything. Even her.
She nodded, to his surprise, "Okay. Let's go." She held a thin arm out to him, tilting her head back in the direction of the cliff.
He took it with his own green-stained hand, looking at her carefully. A thought flitted into his brain. She really is beautiful. He allowed himself a crooked smile. She had said sorry. Allowing her to take his wrist, he walked with her, back to the tall, jagged cliff. Back to his plans, though now, they were quite forgotten.
"What happened to your hands?" she asked curiously as she held his arm.
"Tch," Sawyer almost laughed, "war wounds."
"So..." The man let out a long sigh, raising a hand to his head, "what did you do this time?"
That had done it. Sawyer sat up, almost screaming, "'Scuse me, doctor?"
"Hey," the tall, dark-haired man started, eyes flaming, "you come back down here... looking pissed. I know you were talking to Kate, you expect me to ignore it every time you do this?"
"I didn't do ANYTHING to your girlfriend," Sawyer rumbled, "And you ain't my psychiatrist." The silent, staring deadlock they'd entered (as usual) had been broken with this sudden eruption. He sighed in frustration. Libby must have sent for him after he'd scared her off. He could hardly keep himself from jumping to his feet. What was her problem, anyway?
"Look Sawyer," Jack said, striding across the room to lean over Sawyer's bedridden body, "leave Kate alone."
Sawyer spluttered, confused, "What? Look, Hoss, I don't care about Kate," he paused for a moment after the words, swallowing briefly and continuing, though he wanted to do anything but, "I don't know about you, but--"
"I've been putting up with you, ripping her up, for god knows how long," Jack said sharply, returning the glare.
Sawyer flung himself from the bed, lunging at Jack, "I didn't do a goddamn thing. Shut the fck up, and leave me alone!" he roared.
"No." Jack said calmly, leaping back.
"Yeah, get out!" Sawyer felt exhausted, he was sweating profusely. This was the third time today he'd argued with someone.
"She told me," Jack's eyes sparkled.
"What?" Sawyer gritted, apprehensive.
"That you argued," Jack said slowly, seeming not to understand the trace of fear on Sawyer's face, "where did you think I just was?"
Sawyer wanted to laugh suddenly, inappropriately. An overwhelming sense of relief captured him. She hadn't asked Jack the favor. He looked down, thinking. What did that mean? Could he still tell her yes? "Yeah, whatever," Sawyer said, shrugging, still glaring at Jack.
Jack threw his arms out to his sides, turning to leave, "I'm going to the beach," he said clearly, as though he could not resist a parting shot.
"Yeah, don't hurt her feelings, it's the end of the month," Sawyer muttered, still angry at her for the words she had left him with... he had left her with. Her efforts to make him realize things about himself were maddening. He hated to admit it, but they weren't entirely worthless, either.
Jack stopped, shaking his head, "you just don't get it, do you? Do you have any idea how to act around other people?" He didn't turn, but continued to speak, "You know what Sawyer? I get it--"
"You don't even know the half of it," Sawyer barked through his teeth.
Jack ignored him, walking to the door, "I get it Sawyer. She doesn't care about you, so you treat her like this."
"What'd she tell you?" Sawyer yelled after Jack, uncaring as Locke and Libby's shocked faces appeared in the doorway Jack had just exited, "What'd she tell you!"
What had she said to Jack to make him say that stuff, anyway? He stared suspiciously after Kate as she led the way back to the cliff. What was she expecting to happen back there, anyway? Kate was gathering long, dry sticks as she walked, picking out those already dried from the previous day's rain, "Jack's probably looking for me," she called back in amusement.
Sawyer felt as though he'd been slapped, but couldn't resist responding to the 'worthless' feeling the mention of Jack's name produced, "Ain't he the perfect lover-boy?"
He'd expected Kate to shoot him an injured glance, but instead she just laughed aloud, "No."
When the cliff came back into view, the daylight was dwindling. Jogging ahead of her, he stepped onto the first of the rocks at its foot, "you need a hand, Freckles?" He chuckled shortly, feeling disturbed when he looked up to the cliff's top.
She was standing there, a few feet away from the rocks, a bundle of dry, long twigs in her arms, "Yeah," she said, sounding a little tired.
He reached out, taking several of the sticks from her. He looked away, swallowing, when his fingers brushed the length of her arm. Kate looked up at him, "going up?"
The top of the bluff was colder than the jungle floor, and as the last light of the day disappeared, it grew colder. Ridiculously, staring at the careless array of sticks, Kate realized they had no way to light a fire, "Do you have a lighter on you?"
"No," Sawyer said regretfully, suddenly feeling ravenous, "but I have food."
"What?" Kate asked brightly, neither of the two had eaten that day.
"Granola bars, some canned stuff," Sawyer said, his words sounding foolish, "Sorry," he mumbled, "I didn't really think before I--"
"Nah, it's fine," Kate said, waving it away and plopping down beside the pile of sticks, deftly catching the granola bar he tossed to her.
"So..." she said uncomfortably as they began to eat the meager meal, sounding eerily like Jack. It was dark, Sawyer couldn't really make out her pale features, but it was clear she was pondering something, staring deeply at him across the would-be fire.
"What?" Sawyer asked, looking out over the cliff, suddenly remembering again why he'd come here.
"It's cold," Kate said quietly.
"Then go back," Sawyer said emotionlessly, fixing his eyes on her, wanting, no, needing an answer.
"I can manage," Kate said rebelliously, returning his stare.
He looked away from her, avoiding looking over the cliff again, "then you can come over here," he said, unsure of what her reaction would be.
"Okay," Kate said, nodding, a broken smile showing on her face. Gracefully, she stood and tip-toed around the little pile of wood. He found himself staring hopelessly, admiring each of her steps, but in an instant, it had stopped-- she was seated beside him.
So they sat, side by side, afraid to look at one another. It was awkward, indeed, and he was hesitant to reach out and wrap his arms around her. But at last, he did; it was different now. She had said sorry-- he had honestly tried. He rested his chin over her shoulder, staring at the space in the air that should have been lit with the warm light of the fire, feeling oddly relaxed. She leaned her own head back onto his shoulder, whispering something he couldn't quite discern.
"Hm?" he asked, trying to sound, despite their embrace, disinterested.
"Can we talk?" She asked, sounding slightly tearful again.
"Now James," came that belittling voice again, wearing away at him. Patronizing him, "Now James I can't help you if you won't talk to me."
He rubbed a small hand over his eyes. They were still dry. They had been for weeks since he'd been sent away to live with his uncle. His old uncle, his old uncle whose house didn't smell of potpourri. He suspected at some point they would be dry no longer, but he wasn't going to let that happen. Not now. He scratched at his head, pulling nervously at the soft, shining locks of blond hair.
"James," the woman said, batting his hand away from his head with a round hand, "don't hurt yourself!"
He scowled up at her, clenching his small teeth, narrowing his eyes, hoping against hope that he was intimidating her. Instead of screaming or leaving, the woman just continued to look him over. She had short-cropped, dull, raven-colored hair, coming to her chin in small, sharp waves. Her face was old and exhausted-- even a little angry. Her skin was pale, the color of blank paper, no more, no less, and her lips, a bloody shade of red (thanks to waxy lipstick) were pursed in frustration. Her pudgy face twitched, chilling blue eyes wandering away from him for a moment, "so," she said, sounding a little sickened with him, "do you want to talk about your parents?"
She wasn't like the other therapists he'd talked to. She didn't cry when he pulled his hair and hit himself. She didn't falter when he described, in every heartless detail, what had happened to his parents. She didn't try to hug him, or speak to him in a coddling voice. He should have liked her for it, but she was so... his thoughts trailed off, "James," she said sharply.
"No," he sulked, leaning back in the blue armchair in which he sat. Its upholstery matching the black-haired woman's dark navy blazer. The jacket's bronze and gold buttons glinted in the buzzing fluorescent lights as she shifted in her own chair, leaning towards him a little.
"You should," she croaked, "it will help."
He didn't answer her-- no, instead he stared around the little white office in wonder. How had this wretched woman gotten so many certificates? They were all over the walls, sparkling with fancy writing and colors, framed in ornate silver backings. She wasn't helping him, so how was it that she had received all this?
"James," the woman said patiently, voice still lacking the sweet, reassuring qualities of most women in her line of work.
He couldn't exercise any control over the woman. He could hit himself, and she would just calmly grab his wrist and tell him 'no'. He could scream and she would take it full in the face. So he stood, allowing his small legs to carry him to the office's door. The woman said nothing, she just followed him, waiting, with her eyes, hands clasped in her lap. He wrapped his fingers around the metal door handle, pressing it down, and pushing the heavy door open. He was unable to stop himself from looking over his shoulder as he stepped through the threshold. She was watching, but her lips were pursed again, and she said nothing.
"Your uncle will bring you back tomorrow," she said, sighing as she turned to clear her desk of several manilla folders, stuffed with papers, "you can't stop that. No matter how stubborn you try to be. You see, James, there are lots of things we can't stop from happening." Her eyes flashed. He was thrilled. So he could make this woman tick! She wedged the folders into a black Attache case, "but James," she sighed, her voice returning to its regular calm, "you can't push help away from you," she seemed to know he was not listening, and she was right in that respect. She seemed to be speaking to herself, "one day it'll catch up with you."
Sawyer exhaled heavily, still resting his chin on her shoulder. They could talk. It would stop all this from catching up with him, if only for a few more hours, "okay," he breathed over her shoulder, voice changing to a resigned whisper, "about what?"