Sawyer tested positive for HIV in 1999. It wasn't really a surprise; when you spent about a month in a drug-induced haze, you didn't really care where that needle'd been. He tried to get healthier after. He tried to eat right, exercise, even tried that homeopathic shit. But despite everything, June 3, 2003 the doc told him that the blood results had come back, and sure enough, Sawyer had progressed to AIDs status.

He lived at home for another year-till a measly little common flu made him run to the hospital, coughing and choking all the way. That night of the flu had been the worst night of his life. Worse than when he went off the heroin cold turkey. Worse than the stomach flu he'd had when he was 12. The sheets were choking him when he woke up, curled around him like some sweat-drenched noose. Coughs racked his body, tearing through him like it was hell itself in his lungs. But he managed to catch a breath and another, stumbling up and grabbing his things.

The government wouldn't pay for an ambulance, and he didn't have the money for one. He wasn't in any sort of shape to drive. There were no willing, loving friends to drive him. So he took the city bus. Dim fluorescent bulbs cast a sallow light on his wincing face, bringing to life that fact that the wheels were whisking him away from his independence. Whisking him to where he was going to slowly die.

He stumbled through the doors into the painfully sanitary hospital, flagging the attention of a nurse, telling her about his AIDS status. The rest of the night he can't remember. There are flashes, a little blonde Aussie nurse holding his head as he puked and saying soothing, "That's right, just get it out, there you are," there's the one where he could have sworn the doctor turned into an elephant for a second, and he remembers how damned hot he was, but how they still kept piling blankets onto him.

The doctor had come in the next morning, all handsome and dark haired and rugged, a frown on his face, "Mr. Sawyer, why didn't you have a flu shot? You had clearance."

Shutting his eyes, he let out a sigh, as though asking why did he have to have such an idiot for a doctor. "I'm allergic to egg based vaccines. If you'd taken a look at my records you'd see I'd only had one tetanus shot in my life and that made me swell up like a balloon."

Grudging the doctor flipped through his medical history, nodding slowly, "My mistake. Well, we're going to keep you here for a while--" he held up a hand, trying to quiet his now seething patient, "because this year's flu has a bad habit of evolving into pneumonia. And with patients of… weakened immune systems-"

"Don't sugarcoat horse shit. I'm an AIDS patient."

After a cold glare, the doctor kept talking, "This flu has a habit of turning into pneumonia, so we're going to try to keep that from happening."

That was a month ago. Pneumonia had seeped into his lungs, slowly eating away at his health. The doctor was -- and he admitted this to no one -- alright and that little blonde nurse of his, Claire, was a sweet person. But little could break the sheer boredom of sitting in bed all day, waiting to die.

"Sawyer."

He lifted his head, awakening from his nap to see his social worker standing in the door, looking stressed and overworked, as usual. Sitting up, he graciously swept his hand around, motioning for his guest to sit in a chair, saying sarcastically, "A pleasure Michael, as always."

Michael rolled his eyes, sitting down wearily in the chair next to the bed. He was a thirtysomething black man, a hardass at times but mostly someone Sawyer got along with. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, asking tiredly but as blunt as usual, "Why aren't you letting the doctors give you painkillers?"

Sawyer snorted, shaking his head. Holding out his arm, he tapped the inside of his elbow, "Recovering heroin addict here. I ain't givin' in and puttin' that morphine crap in me."

"Oh. Oh yeah, that's right. Forgot about that, sorry. Well, what about one of the weaker painkillers, something not so addicting?"

"I wasn't just into heroin. Every painkiller out there, I've done illegally. Trust me, none of them'll make me hurt less without getting addicted again."

Michael nodded slowly, begrudgingly. "I'll tell the doctor then. He wanted me to force them on you, but I said you must've had a reason. And that's pretty valid."

Then the social worker began to fidget. Every once in a while he'd open his mouth, about to say something, but then he'd just shut it and shift around in his chair again. After watching the little display for a while, an eyebrow firmly arched, Sawyer asked with his full southern drawl, "What're ya' not tellin' me."

"You have about a month to live." Michael winced at having to say it, but he took a deep breath, continuing on. "You also have a house that's been fully paid for, and we found some of your parents old stocks. Altogether, you have a very good amount of money, but no will. We need to get that drawn up, and soon."

Sawyer snorted, shaking his head, "Yeah right, I have fancy stock out there that's gonna make me rich." After being pinned with a steely glare, he glared right back, asking dryly, "Fine. Tell me how the fuck I'm rich."

"When you were of age to collect your inheritance, you were high as a kite. Understandably, no one wanted to give the family's money to someone who'd just spend it on drugs. So they simply never told you about it." He let out a long breath, continuing, "So the question is, do you want to leave them your money, or give it to a charity?"

Scowling, Sawyer turned to Michael, "How much is it all worth?"

Clearing his throat, the social worker looked down at the ground, uncomfortable, "Half a million."

"Hot DAMN. I have half a fucking MILLION dollars squirreled away somewhere?"

"No, I'm lying to you because I take sadistic pleasure from it."

Sawyer grinned, "And that's why I haven't demanded another social worker. No political correctness for Mikey." Leaning back in his bed, he said lazily, resembling the proverbial cat who'd caught the cream, "Now let me think about this little issue for a while. Come back next week and I'll see what I can do."

Michael seethed with anger, saying icily, "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

To which Sawyer just shrugged, saying simply, "Not my fault." He leaned his head back onto his pillows, shutting his eyes. Smugly he listened to Michael grab his things and storm out of the room, enjoying his little pleasures in life, such as infuriating people just to see what they'd do.

All was quiet as he nearly slipped into a catnap till he heard a clipped, very grammatically correct voice say, with a touch of icyness, "That was not the nicest thing to do to a man simply trying to improve you life."

Sawyer snapped his eyes open as he startled a bit. Who the hell spoke with a British accent like that here, and who was anyone to say how he should act around Michael? So he sat up indignantly, very ready to rip into this guy till he saw him, his anger washing away to be replaced with pure shock.

He had wings. Honest to god, feathery black wings. Wings that he was moving. The man certainly didn't fit the idea of an angel though. What angel looked like some god damned Middle East terrorist? And angels were supposed to were big white dress thingies, not big black trench coats.

"What the fuck!"

The winged man tutted, shaking his head with amusement in his eyes, "Shame, such language. Now come on, we need to get you killed. I do have other people on my schedule, you know."

Angrily, Sawyer put his thumb over the red button that would call the nurse's in, "Get the fuck out of my room, or else security throw you out on yer ass. 'Ah ain't dyin' today."

In response, he only shrugged, "Bring them in. No one can see me except for you. And as for dying…" He stepped forward, saying with an honest voice, "Your lungs are burning. Don't try to deny it. Headaches are coming far more frequently. Your vision's dimming, you can't even walk to your bathroom without feel faint, and you're breaking out into cold sweats nightly. I'm offering you a chance to get out now while you're not completely miserable. You're going to die soon, and you're going to die in pain. Go now, and you won't have that hurt."

The blood in Sawyer's veins ran cold. He may have bitched constantly about his lungs, and Claire knew fully well about the night sweats (she was the one who had to change the sheets nightly) but no one, no one on earth, knew about the headaches, his vision or how faint he was getting on his little walks. Growling, he demanded, "How the fuck do you know that?"

The winged man shrugged, extending his wings (his glorious, beautiful wings that Sawyer couldn't help but envy) and saying, "I am Sayid. I was sent to escort you to the land of the dead. I know that you will die now of choking on phlegm that's building up in your lungs; a painless death comparative to how most with your affliction go. Now," extending a hand out to Sawyer, he said calmly, "let's be off."

Sayid was right. Sawyer was suddenly, painfully aware that he couldn't breathe. But obstinately he pressed the button, summoning Claire. He was NOT leaving just because some guy with wings was telling him he had to. And that was what kept him still forcing air through his lungs till the nurses flocked around him, shoving a tube down his throat.

But the whole time Sayid just stood there watching him with an impassive face, standing by as the nurses brushed past him. None of the nurses heard what he said, no one heard it but Sawyer. But oh, did he hear it.

"I will not take someone who does not wish to go. But I will not leave till I can lead you to death."