Home is

If you think of me,

If you miss me once in a while,

Then I'll return to you.

I'll return and fill that space in your heart.

Remembering your touch, your kiss, your warm embrace.

I'll find my way back to you,

If you'll be waiting.

"It's my number and home address in LA. And the hospital where I work." He begins the instant the door is safely closed behind the nurse, at which point, he takes her hand and places in it the slip of paper. It looks like a crumpled receipt, straightened out to be used as an improvised calling card. She wants to ask where he got it, where he lifted the pen from and when, in between the media frenzy and the medical inquiries, did he find the time to write it. But her mind, as of the moment, is busy trying to calculate the host of meanings behind the gesture. He has just given her his phone number, home address and workplace, which means that he actually wants to maintain contact, which ultimately means that there is a possibility that this isn't the last time she's going to see him.

It is both an unwelcome and welcome prospect but she knows what needs to be done. So she tries her best to rein in all the emotions, erase all their minutest indications. She gives her all in what could very well be her hardest lie, the most challenging performance of her known life. "When I run, I don't look back, Jack." She manages to look him in the eyes; as to how, she doesn't know. But for a second, she thinks she just might be able to convince herself to believe her own words.

She sees his eyes flicker, and for a moment, the usual certainty in them wavers in doubt and in hurt. They made a mistake, she then remarks absently, they had been both careless and stupid to give each other the power and position to influence one another, to hurt each other. She should have put a stop to it from the beginning, from the very moment she had seen him by a cluster of trees, under the shade of the foliage. Even as he was on his knees asking her for help, even with a gash gaping open on his back, she should have said no. She should have ran, just as her instincts were telling her to, just as what she'd done countless times before. What was it that kept her there? For the past years, she'd been able to evade the question, but today, there's no more room to hide. It's the same thing that keeps her pinned to her seat right this moment. And it's the same thing that makes her feel a bit more bold, a little more reckless enough to keep her nerves at bay, to suspend her impulse to run. Sometimes, it's even enough to hold up the illusion, the hope that this just might work out. It's the look in his eyes; the intensity in them that she swears she'd never seen in anyone before, the kind that can pry the truth out of her, the kind that with sheer will and strength can bring dead people back to life, the kind, she hopes, that can save her from herself.

He's repositioned his chair, dragging the thing so that he's facing her full on. "I don't know anything about the law, I hardly have any connections." There it is, the light in his eyes; she decides she could spare the illusion a few more moments. "But I can help. I want to help you", he pauses. She takes this chance to prepare herself to say no to the kind but misguided offer. She's sure that once she enumerates the probable complications of being associated with a known and wanted criminal, how he'll be dragged into the mess she called her life with no assurance that he'll ever get out, he will, at the very least, be forced to think twice. And if that's not enough, she could always recount a story of a man who also wanted to help her but instead ended up strapped into his own car with a bullet in his chest. For the clincher, she could also throw in the little detail that she, his best friend of practically their whole lifetime, ran and left him for dead. She should also probably tell him about the woman whom she made a widow and a little boy whom she made fatherless. But that's to risk getting sidetracked, she concludes.

But his eyes seem to have shift to a shade darker, and in them is a confident intensity that's unfamiliar even to her. "I need to help you, Kate." And it's then that she realizes she's underestimated him again. It is then that she comprehends how dangerously committed this man is. Which gives her all the more reason to run, both for her sake and his.

She wants to shout at him, then, ask him what the hell is wrong with him. And maybe it's the frustration she feels for his seeming irrational, obsessive compulsion to help her, or her irritation at his plain stubbornness, or the gratitude she feels for his concern, or maybe it's just their unnerving proximity, but all such feelings find articulation in a kiss.

She pulls him into her in one swift motion, her hand at the back of his neck. Perhaps it's because he'd anticipated it or have planned to do it himself, but he doesn't seem the least bit surprised at the sudden move. Her lips are insistent with urgency but his are slow to respond, slow and light, as though he was testing the texture of her lips, the taste of her tongue. He slides his hands to her cheeks, cupping them in place. She feels it now, the intensity of his eyes flowing into his lips, pouring into the kiss. She feels him mimicking her pace, the need in her kisses, and they fall into rhythm. It feels natural, real. It feels right. It's then that the tears fall quietly, but neither she nor he seems to notice, seems to mind. She cries at the thought that she may never have this again.

He's the first one to break away, whether it's for the lack of breath or simply because he's had enough or hadn't want this in the first place, she can't be sure and doesn't want to speculate. But he's not completely letting go yet; his hands remain on her cheeks, as he rests his forehead on hers, his warmbreath washing over her face. It leaves her in an odd calm.

"If you're going to run," he says in between heaves of breath, "I suggest you start now."

"I don't want to run," she has to let him know that. "But I don't really have a choice."

"There's always a choice, Kate."

He lifts his head, pulling back so that he could see her eyes. "And you have to make one soon, very soon."

"But you have to know, that whatever decision I make, I make it for both of us, okay?" Fresh tears make new paths on her cheeks, down to her chin. "I did it for both of us. You have to understand that, Jack."

"I'll try to understand, Kate."

Just then, the door creaks open and they have to pull apart. "Jack Shepard."

"Yeah."

"Sorry for the delay." He closes the door with his right hand, holding the clipboard with the other. "That guy that came before you, Sawyer is it? Well, he was giving the doc one hell of a time." She knows she has to, but she can't stop crying just yet. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." It's amazing how his demeanor shifts so easily, how his eyes lose their sadness, how the tears are pushed back so neatly, leaving no trace at all. He's even managed to project a smile. "She just can't believe we're finally back."

"I can't even begin to imagine, man. Two years. That's crazy."

"Tell me about it." He can even joke.

The man crouches, and tries to talk to her, perhaps with the intent of giving her some comfort. "Hey, you're home. You gotta believe that, Joanna; everything's gonna be all right from here on in." But all she's made to feel is more guilt as she wonders what price she'd have to pay for that name. She wipes her face with her hands.

"I'll come back for you, okay?" His hand comes to rest on her shoulder. "Just going to escort Jack here to the doc."

She nods, trying to put on her lips some semblance of a smile. He then stands up and leads Jack to the door. She can only follow him with her eyes, as she takes in whatever detail of him she can, until the door clicks shut. And because the only thing that was keeping her here's gone, she runs.

-----

"Ma'am?" The question snaps her out of reverie.

"I'm sorry. You were saying something?"

"Just askin' if the lady has a name." The question catches her off guard. And while she's usually quite adept at forming life stories and resumes in a split second, her real memories have left her disoriented. The old man interprets her silence as mistrust and apparently feels the need to explain.

"We gonna be on the road for two days. Just want to know who I'm ridin' with. No harm in that, I reckon." It occurs to her then that she doesn't need to lie anymore.

"Of course." She nods her head in agreement. "Sorry for being rude. You're riding with Kate."

"Bradley Ackerman at yer service, ma'am." He tips his hat, returns the smile, wrinkles, lines and all. "Honored to have your company."

"Well, Bradley, the honor is all mine." The conversation fades into a lull, or so she thought.

"So Miss Kate, where you headed?" It's just small talk, she reminds herself, a way to pass the time – no ulterior motives, no overdue mortgage to be paid, no more wanted posters painted all over town.

"LA."

"That's mighty far from here," he manages to comment while keeping his eyes on the road.

"Yeah, that's where you come in. Thank you for the ride."

"What's a young lady like you doing out here, anyway? That is, if you don't mind me askin'."

"Oh, just wanted to see the world. You know how we college kids get; can't stay still for two minutes." The lie rolls out her tongue so smoothly, she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to; some habits just take a bit more work to break.

"You finally going home, then," he asks, stealing a glance at her as he does. Home, the word rings in her head. For a long time, home was anywhere; the backseat of a car, a barn, someone's shed, the underside of a bridge and up until recently, a four by six cell. But now all the word conjures up is an image of his face.

"Yeah, you could say that," is all she can come up with.

"Ain't no feeling like it, eh?"

"Pardon?" She heard it, of course, but the question is not along the small talk variety she'd expected that it takes her by surprise; it's the kind that gets under your skin, and into your nerves.

"Going home." His gaze settles on her, not minding the road. "There's no feeling like it." He says it with such warmth and pride. And although the idea was foreign to her for most of her life, she thinks she finally knows what it means.

"Yeah, no feeling like it," she agrees, a smile finding its way to her lips.