It was still freezing, but they were not touching. He had broken away from her and traversed the pile of dry sticks, and now he was crouching there, looking across at her. It was too dark to see Kate's face, but he knew the worry that would no doubt be upon it. His browned arms hung from where they were propped on his knees. He let out a slow, measured breath through his nose.
She blinked slowly, looking away from him, hair cascading over her left shoulder, her legs stretched out to the side. She traced a pattern in the thin layer of dirt on the rocky cliff, clicking her tongue. She looked up again at the sound of his breath, more worried than before. Chewing her lower lip, she scanned his face for a breach in his defenses, "Well," she murmured softly, turning her head so that the white light of the moon filtering through the trees cast a delicate filigree of shadows on her cheeks.
He couldn't take his eyes off her; as with so many things, he was angry and pleased, all at once. They hadn't exactly started the conversation well. 'You're suicidal and you need help' really isn't the greatest way to begin a 'little talk'. He had left her there in the cold, and now he regretted it-- she was shaking like a dead leaf, growing paler by the minute. She would surely catch cold. He tossed his hair, wiggling his toes inside his sneakers. He would catch cold, too. At least they would suffer together. He glanced down so she would not read the worry in his eyes.
"Well," she said again, gently, "is there anything you want to... talk about?"
He scoffed, looking scornfully at her, "well hell Freckles," he said, finding it hard to speak considering the circumstances, "you suggested it." He was disturbed by how much she sounded like all those damn psychiatrists. She even sounded like the blonde woman.
"Nnhh," she made a soft groaning noise, swinging her legs forward, dragging them over the sticks with an unceremonious raking, clattering sound. She drew her legs in to her chest, as she so often sat, patting her jeans off to rid them of the fine, beige cliff silt. She turned her shadow-laced face up again, resting her chin in the crook between her knees. Her eyes widened, she lifted her hands, fanning her fingers in front of her, "we're the same."
He seemed to consider for a moment before chortling loudly, shaking himself, "Really?"
Kate was not swayed. She just rolled her eyes, dropping her hands, "Yes, we are," she grew silent, "do you remember... the game?"
He laughed again, this time hollowly, mirthlessly, "well, girl, I never," he said, drawing out the last two words.
"Yeah," Kate murmured, "the same."
Sawyer twitched his shoulders, rolling his head back, god damn it, why wouldn't she just stop saying that? "I can think of a hell of a lot of things that ain't at all the same," he finished dryly, still staring her down.
"I can think of a hell of a lot that are," Kate said, intent, "but you don't want the list."
"You made one?" he shot back, unsmiling.
She sighed. "When I was a kid..." her voice faded into a miniscule choking noise, she wrapped her arms around her legs, trying to avoid looking up again. Her lower lip shook tremulously, and her voice was broken when she spoke again, "My dad... he left when I was litte, he--" she was strangling on the words, "he left and... there was my stepdad," she stopped tentatively, forehead on her knees.
Suddenly, at the start of her actions, he wanted to scream. He wanted to slap her. In that instant, watching her cry, cry and say things of her past, he felt as though he was being murdered. Killed in the most gruesome, heartless way. Anything to make her stop. He could hit her. He could do anything now to make her stop. He had never seen this before. He had heard it once, in the hatch, while he had feigned sleep, but he had never seen this, and it was killing him.
"Kate!" he yelled hoarsely, voice scraping at the night. No answer, she just sat there, crying onto her knees, spilling her guts all over the lonely, moonlit rock, "Kate!" he nearly screamed, "Stop!"
A final, dying sob ripped in her throat, she curled up even tighter, each breath a hot, sweaty effort. "I'm... I'm sorry," she stammered, face still buried, "W-we were talking about you, and I..."
"No," Sawyer answered, finally returning his voice to a normal volume, rising to his feet. He looked over his shoulder, revolted, at the cliff. That was why he'd come here, and, he realized with a jolt, that was still why he was here. But now, now he had to put it off. He had to put off what that black-haired blue-eyed demon of a psychiatrist had told him would find him. He had to hold her.
"Kate," he said again, walking numbly to stand behind her. She stood, too, and he blanched. She didn't want to be near him, of course. He stretched his arms, allowing his face to drop. No. He reached out and caught her shoulder, "Kate." He pulled her to him, delighted when she turned round. And he held her, just as he'd known he had to.
Something was wrong. His senses tingled, he held her waist tighter, she was sliding away from him. His shoulder was wet. She was crying again.
"He hurt..." she whispered with labored breaths, slipping from his grasp and falling to her knees at his feet, tearing her fingers through her hair nervously, "he hurt." She rocked back and forth gently, the skin around her eyes pink and tender from tears.
"I had to."
Sawyer crouched beside her, self-image forgotten. He reached his hand to her shoulder again, touching it softly. What was there to say? Everything's gonna be okay. The words were on the tip of his tongue, so why couldn't he say them? "S'ok," he said instead, gruffly, squeezing her shoulder.
"Fire," Kate said, her eyes wide, sounding like a child, "It was a bad thing."
Harder and harder now, her foot was pressing down on the gas pedal. It was like a strange, delirious high. She couldn't stop moving, but she didn't want to go. She wanted to take her foot off the gas, but it was frozen in place. It was a good thing, too, that the long, straight road was empty that night, as the little silver bullet of a car flying down it would not have hesitated to shear through anything in its way.
A sharp feeling of guilt struck up inside her. She'd just left him there. Lying in the mud, the rain. On the side of the road. She felt nauseous, barely able to keep her eyes on the quickly passing road. What if he got sick? What if he was run over? Her heart beat faster with each notion. What if he died?
I could always go back, she thought, sure for a but a moment that she would do so. She shook the thought from her mind, jerking the wheel suddenly to keep the car from swerving into the shoulder of the road. He couldn't die. He was a horrible man, sick, awful. Oh the things he'd said, just to make her cry. She gritted her teeth. It didn't matter. He didn't deserve it any more than...
She looked up, startled, as she became aware of the fact that she had been looking down at her pale, thin hands, a burning white as they clutched the wheel tightly. She gasped, terrified. There was a large, tan log spread across the stretching black road, it shone lucidly in the headlights of the marshal's car. Mustering a great deal of strength, Kate forced her foot from its spot on the gas pedal, flooring the brake with a huge kick. The wheels of the car made a horrible screeching noise on the soaking asphalt outside. She felt as if her head would burst-- the car was not going to stop.
The old model's weak, failing brakes slowed the car to a rolling halt, but only after it collided with the rough bark of the fallen tree. The car's low-set headlights shattered, its left light went out.
She let go of the wheel, holding her hands, stretched, above it, looking around. Her wide, green eyes flashed. Clutching the wheel once more, she shook herself violently as she held it, jaws tight, tears spilling copiously down her cheeks, "No!" A loud, scratching scream rent the hot, dry air inside the car. She shook her head vigorously, unlocking the door and kicking it open, tumbling out of the driver's seat and into the watery mud pooling at the side of the road.
She lay, huddled there, on her knees, "N-no." She said, more quietly this time, balling her fists and lifting them above her head. With another yell, she brought them down into the muddy water, unabashedly slapping the surface of the mud and splashing it into her face, her eyes, her hair. Her tears, hot and salty, mingled now with the cool, fresh rain, and, had it not been for her swollen, reddening face, one could not have told she had cried at all.
Still sobbing, another sharp feeling struck her-- but this one was not of guilt. It was amazement. She opened her eyes, the dark water surrounding her was blurred, whitened by various exploding, melting spots that burst fantastically, like fireworks, before her. The spots reminded her painfully of the fire, the explosion she had caused. She had witnessed it with a final, fleeting glance over her shoulder. Now she wished she had never looked back. Her stomach hurt-- now she wished she had never done it.
Could have told someone. It could have stopped it. The thoughts placated her, though she knew, with a sickening sense of disgust and relief, that she'd done what she had to. But now, now it would never go away, she let out another, smaller cry. Letting her arms fall into the slowly rising water, she turned her face up to the heavens again, opening her mouth to scream. A tiny rasping noise escaped her lips, and now it was silent, aside from the calm, murmuring susurration of the rain. Unblinking, she let the falling water wash into her eyes, her mouth, her nose. The marshal, she thought, stomach lurching, did not deserve to die. No matter what he said to her, he didn't deserve it.
Wayne was the only one who had. She felt justified, to her extreme discontent-- justified in what she'd done to him. Wayne is gone now... and the only person left who doesn't deserve this life... is me.
It was silent now, save the occasional sniffle. His hand was still upon her shoulder, and her hands were on her face. She hid herself, as though ashamed she had cried in front of him. "Sorry," she said at long last, looking up again, biting her lip, mouth turned down.
He sat back, letting his hand fall to her arm, his own eyes wide. Guiltlessly, he let his surprise to show on his chiseled features, fighting to keep his mouth closed. Kate had killed a man. She actually had, just as she'd said she had. He looked her over. She couldn't be capable of that... right? Yet here she was, whimpering, crying for the murder of her step-father. Maybe they weren't so different, after all.
He shook his head. No. They weren't the same. He had been different, he scowled, he would always be different. Especially from her. She looked up with a small cough, clearing her throat, "You wanna share?" Her face was flat, emotionless, but her mouth had contorted into a sad, meek sort of smile.
The heated feeling of rage boiled up inside him, and for an instant, he wanted to yell at her. His face softened upon looking at her, and he withdrew his arm, propping himself up on it as he leaned further back to scan her again. She looked miserable, but her face wasn't swollen now, and because it was no longer blotchy and red, he could see the vague sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
He had never told anyone what he'd done, and now she was asking. Was this another favor? He couldn't let her down again. This would make it right. He swallowed heavily. To Kate, he thought, cheering himself. "Okay," he said in a near whisper, careful to make sure his voice was not too quiet or soft.
Kate sat still, surveying him. Eyes finally resting on his, she nodded briefly, focusing on his words as his mouth began slowly, haltingly, to move.
"You know the... the letter," he said, feeling a little angry again now. Wait. Why should she know this? He looked up at her for the sign of disinterest he knew must be upon her face. Nothing, there was nothing there. Just those same, attentive eyes, locking with his, waiting for him to continue, a serious expression on her face. She nodded again.
He gulped, his throat dry. He fidgeted, dragging the backpack to him, unzipping it and removing an Oceanic water bottle, filled with clear spring water. It was lukewarm to the touch. He shrugged, unscrewing the white cap and taking a long swig. "You know about the letter," he said again, feeling the tight, cramping sensation in his chest that he knew all too well begin to loosen a bit, "you know what happened..." his voice fell to a ragged murmur, "I was in Australia... to find the guy." With each word, his throat grew more dry and hot, despite the gulp of water he had just taken, yet the constricted feeling inside him was lessening. Now he couldn't stop.
Kate nodded to herself again, her eyes falling again as his gaze found her. Her eyes were gleaming, glossy once more, "Oh," Kate whispered softly.
Sawyer let out a slow, measured breath, "I never found him..." he said, irritated with himself, "I'm never going to."
A tall, grizzled, blonde man set the tiny, transparent glass down on the plastic countertop with a resounding clinking noise, gesturing to the bartender for another shot of Vodka. Distractedly, the man obeyed his request, satiating the southern man's need for alcohol. He lifted the glass to his lips, tossing the clear liquid into his throat, which it washed freely down, burning his insides as he swallowed it. He glared around, vision swimming a little for a moment.
It was a seedy place, or rather, he realized, twitching his upper lip, just a downright disgusting one. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and there were laughing, drunken faces all around, cheeks rosy from the humidity and their drinks. If only he could laugh now. He beckoned to the bartender again, who came over, laughing now from something a tipsy customer had whispered in his old, withering ear, "This is yer fifth one, Sawyer," he said with another wheezing laugh as he poured the glass.
"Yeah, I'll pay before I go," Sawyer snarled, snatching the shot glass again.
The man peered at him, studying him from under heavy, bristling, white eyebrows, "You been cryin'?" his voice sobered instantly, and his wrinkled, leathery cheeks fell.
Sawyer tried to restrain himself. The man was old, he reasoned, thinking of what he had done just hours ago. That man had been old, too. And so was the man he was looking for... "It's rainin' outside," he said coldly, poorly controlling the anger in his voice.
"Oh," said the old man, his own southern accent suppressed.
Shaking himself on the rickety barstool on which he sat, he murmured under his breath as the hapless old man retreated to serve more customers, "Jackass."
Everyone came here to wash it all away-- to forget. So why, after five shots of Vodka, could he not? He tugged at his hair, setting the glass down again. Really fucked up this time. The familiar thought recurred, striking him painfully. I'm just one big fuck up, then. It wasn't going to change, ever. He'd killed the wrong guy, and now the poor son of a bitch was lying dead in the rain, shot by someone he didn't even know. He couldn't stop himself planning on what he'd do to Hibbs once he saw him again. Hibbs had lied. That was all there was to it. It couldn't be his own fault.
Extending an arm, he gripped the little glass in his hand, closing his fingers around it. He couldn't let go of this, everywhere he went, the letter was in his pocket. It always would be. His fingers tightened around the glass, where was Frank Sawyer, anyway? He felt his fingers growing numb from his hold on the little cup. What if the bastard wasn't even out there anymore? What if he was dead? The thought burned him, just like the Vodka has his throat.
"Hey," there was a hard tap on his shoulder, and a rusty, familiar voice addressed him in a New York accent.
That was the man himself-- the one who had lied to him. He could tell before he turned around that Hibbs would be standing there. The man's reddish hued skin and deep-wrinkled forehead met Sawyer's eyes. Sawyer's shoulders tensed, and a loud, hollow crack shattered the thick, stale air. He opened his hand, looking to it, slightly surprised. Long, shining shards of laid in his palm, from which fresh blood was trickling. Tossing the glass from his hand, he stood, balling his fists.
"What d'you want?" Sawyer barked, coming face to face with the man.
"Well," Hibbs laughed, spreading his hands wide, "that's no way to talk to your employ-"
His blood-drenched fist made contact with the side of the man's face, producing a satisfying whacking noise. Sawyer withdrew his hand. Hibbs staggered backwards, his own hand to his cheek. Looking offended and angry, the red-faced man regained his balance, taking an aggressive step towards Sawyer, "Hey now, Son."
Swinging back, Sawyer threw another punch at the man, this one landing squarely on his left shoulder. Hibbs' arm jerked back grotesquely, and he crashed into one of the wrought-iron stools in the little bar, falling clumsily to his back. There was a tremendous clattering sound as the man's falling body and the stool overturned a flat-topped table, causing it to fall over onto a swaggering man with a beard.
Sawyer jumped up instantly, maintaining a steady walk as he strode to the door, flicking blood from his cut hand. It was still raining outside, and he couldn't help thinking of the man, laying by a dumpster, with a gunshot wound-- he shivered.
The door of his small, black car slammed after him as he jumped inside. With a huge sigh, he felt himself fall into a crumpled heap on the faded seat cover. That all I'm good for? Beating the shit out of people and shooting innocent guys? Hell, that damn bastard probably is dead, for all I know.
Driving down Sydney's main traffic vein, the sparkling lights of downtown faded from view. There was nowhere to go. The hotel room was far away, it would be useless to try and get there as fast as he wanted to go someplace right now. Cars whizzed past him at alarming rates of speed. Blurred, incoherent images of car wrecks flitted through his mind. An idea came to him. Without a second thought, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal. I deserve to die.
Kate felt vindicated, she had been right, she thought, they were the same. Yet her tears were flowing anew -- she wanted to say sorry to Sawyer, for what he'd done. She wanted to hug and to hold him, to make everything right for him. He would have none of that, so instead she kept his gaze, struggling to keep the tears from welling out of her eyes, she licked her lips, "See?" she said, almost inaudibly.
Sawyer looked away. The odd stinging feeling from under the tree on the beach had returned to him, and he wanted nothing more than to hide it. His heart beat freely, and the knot in his throat was not one of self-hatred or disappointment. Looking back at Kate, he found her to be shivering again, clutching her knees once more.
"C'mere," he said, steadying a shaking voice, dusting off the ground beside him with a thickly callused hand.
Kate looked uneasily at him. She moved her legs slightly, "okay."
"Tired?" he asked, the question sounding strange to his ears.
"Yeah," Kate murmured, laying herself down on the spot he had indicated, and curling up on her side, hands beneath the side of her head.
He watched her for a moment, worry scarring his face when she continued to shiver. Slowly, gently, he settled himself down beside her, curling his body around hers, placing a hand on her shoulder. The cliff hove into view again, and the well-known stabbing feeling jarred his stomach muscles. A wave of an indescribable feeling washed over and through him, chilling him to the marrow; more than the cool night air ever could. Sorry Kate. I have to. He couldn't say it -- maybe thinking it would suffice.
Dark hair whipping behind her, she was down in the hatch again, looking around every corner, searching desperately for something. A look of anger and irritation was upon her face, and she was forcefully avoiding his following eyes. "Where's Jack?" she called loudly, hoping Locke would answer her query.
"Lookin' for you," Sawyer said jealously, "Miss Priss."
"Shut the hell up, Sawyer," Kate sneered rather uncharacteristically, finally looking at him. Her face softened a little as their eyes met.
"'Scuse me?" Sawyer shot, surprised at her words. Kate was never so... blunt. This was an act. Clearly.
"Did you say something to him?" Kate asked sharply, walking towards the bunk bed and Sawyer's outstretched form.
"Well, Freckles," Sawyer began frankly, "I'm a little more concerned with what you said to him. Did somethin' about me come up? Or does your doctor just like to accuse people of hurtin' his precious princess' feelings?"
A sharp pain stung at his right cheek. He lifted a hand to it, rubbing the smarting flesh, "What was that for?" Kate was standing above him, eyes flaming, one hand raised above her, ready to strike again.
"Don't talk about him like that!" She said shrilly, "Just don't."
"Sorry," Sawyer said sarcastically, the hurt and envy in his voice becoming more and more obvious by the second, "I forgot you two were in love."
"Shut up, Sawyer," she said again, letting her hand fall limply to her side, looking defeated.
"Aha!" He declared loudly, jumping up from the bed and weaving around her so that he was free in the open room, "So you are."
Kate shook her head a little, everything in her body, her crossed arms, her pursed lips, her squeezed shut eyes, saying 'no'. "Jealous?" she asked, contradicting the signs she was giving.
"Not a bit," he said, looking down at her, narrowing his eyes.
She wheeled around to face him, voice elevated to what could be taken for a scream, "It was just a favor, you know? Don't you care about other people, at all?" She leaned forward, pushing him away from her with her hands, collapsing back onto the side of the bed.
"What, this is my fault now?" He asked, incredulous, "Just because you can't find your damn boyfriend doesn't have anything to do with the stupid favor." He stepped back, stumbling against the side of the couch and falling back onto it, as well.
"Stupid?" she asked, face chalky, "Stupid favor? Me surviving once we get away from here is a stupid favor?"
"Sorry to break it to ya', sweetcheeks, but we ain't gettin' off this island..." he paused, pushing himself, annoyed, up off the couch, "And even if we do, I ain't gonna watch over you. Get Saint Jack to do that for you."
"You don't get it, do you?" She said, quieter this time, the husky growl in her voice sounding nothing like her.
"Selfish, are we now, Kate?" He leered, waving her away with a flick of his wrist, "I don't have time for you."
"You're telling me about selfish?" she laughed, a cold, triumphant laugh.
Approaching her again, he stared menacingly down into her eyes, sorely regretting ever promising not to hit a lady. "Get out," he said quietly.
"No," she said defiantly, reaching out to give him another shove away from her.
"Get the hell out!" he roared into her face, "I don't have time for you!"
Kate looked injured, startled at first, but soon her fearful eyes turned into sad, shining ones, tainted with a fury he head never known her to have, "Yeah." She whispered weightily, her words sounding unusually bitter, "Yeah, 'cause you're so busy doing other things, aren't you, Sawyer? You'll never care about anyone but yourself. You're just a selfish bastard, and you'll never be anything else! You're useless, Sawyer. I don't want anything to do with you."
"Yeah, Kate?" he called after her as her footsteps faded into the hatch's airlock, not counting on her to hear the next words, "Yeah, I don't care about you. In fact, you know what? I don't want anything to do with you either."
The words found Kate's ears, and she left the hatch in search of Jack, feeling dizzy and ill, wanting, no, needing to fall over and never get up. He couldn't have meant that, could he?
It was a long way down. The thought came to him again. It looked painful. He couldn't help but be delighted by this -- he deserved it. White tree roots crawled up the bottom half of the rocky cliff-face, but towards the top there was nothing but cold, jagged, unforgiving stone. It wouldn't be hard. Just close your eyes, and... He looked over the edge again, horrified at his sense of apprehension. It hadn't broken the case open, so would it break him? He shrugged, shaking out his left leg, thrilled by the loss of balance that resulted, causing him to wobble dangerously on the cliff's edge.
He looked to the east. Vaguely, just over the tops of the smallest, weakest trees in the jungle, he could see faint, velvety rays of sunlight fading the dark onset of the night. The stars were going out. Millions of little lives -- destroyed. The new light revealed a lovely, dark shade of green in the canopy, coloring the ground strikingly. He inched a foot close to the end of the cliff, watching its most brittle edges crumble and fall to the ground under his weight.
"Sawyer."
There was that beautiful voice again. He allowed himself a small smile. Something about it was warm, yet steely, too. And everything about it seemed to fit into the island. Maybe the island was talking to him, he mused. Yes, that could be the voice of the island itself. Beautiful, and horrible. Everything. He blinked softly -- who was it, really? He faced about, and she stood there, just as at home in this green-painted world as her voice had been. Her eyes matched the color in the canopy. A ripple of her dark, richly shaded hair tumbled over her left shoulder, and a look of hunger shone on her features.
"Take me with you," she said, her voice, again, just as arresting as her eyes, "I want to go with you." She held out a long, thin arm, as though expecting him to take it. He shook his head firmly, not wanting to speak. He didn't deserve to speak to her.
"Please," she said, taking a light step in his direction, "you know what I've done," she looked down, regret lighting her face, "I know what you've done. Why should I stay, when you leave?"
He looked her over, speaking in spite of himself, "Kate," he said gruffly, "you deserve to stay."
"I want to stay with you," she said again, determined, "I want to go with you. We can go. Together. We'll stay together."
He had to admit to himself, he was in love with the idea. He was jumping to tell her 'yes', to tell her to come with him. It would be an awfully selfish thing to do. With a sudden ache, he remembered her words; 'You're a selfish bastard." He was just a selfish bastard. He wanted to stay with her. He wanted her to be with him. She wanted to go with him. It was just like making up for the favor he had never been able to aid her with, after all. They could go together.
Unaware of what he was doing, Sawyer raised his arms to her, tilting his head to call her to him. Slowly, gracefully, she glided over to him, her feet seeming not to touch the rough, gray stone. When she was beside him, he wrapped his arms gratefully around her, "I'm sorry."
Holding him tightly she nodded her head, squeezing her eyes snugly shut, "Me too."
"You ready?" Sawyer asked, unable to stop his own heart from beating wildly, without pattern, rhyme or reason, in his chest.
"Yeah," Kate whispered into his shirt, nodding decisively.
Together, they took a step to the right. Sawyer's heart dropped when his foot came in contact with nothing but air. He held her tighter, as they stepped, again in unison, once more. Suddenly they were plummeting, down, down...
A horrific snapping noise rang through the air. A terrible pain tore through his leg. Heavy, labored breathing came from beside him. He was still holding Kate. They had hit the ground, and they were both still breathing. He couldn't move.
"Kate?" he mumbled, unable to think of anything else to say.
Silence. The breathing stopped beside him. Her body grew limp, and he became increasingly aware of the blood spilling from a gash in her arm.
"Kate?"
"Yeah?" The tired, failing peep of a voice, the island's voice, came to him.
"I'll do it... I'll take care of you."
---------------------
"It is better to have loved and lost than never to have lost at all."