Author's Notes: Well, I said this story was going to be a one-shot but I lied. I suppose if you can't lie to yourself, who can you lie to? Feel free to disregard this chapter if your tastes run toward a more angsty bent and you preferred leaving Jack drunk on a rain soaked sidewalk lamenting his existence. This chapter takes place roughly three weeks after the first chapter.

Also, if this feels a bit rushed or has a lot of typos, I apologize, but I really wanted to get this posted before tomorrow because (yikes!) I have no idea how I'm going to be feeling after tomorrow's episode. I'm almost too nervous to watch and I may not have the strength to write scenes with Sawyer and not have rocks falling from the sky to bash him in the face. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy Sawyer (most of the time) but if I have to pick between him and Jate, well, there's no contest. And I may go overboard with the...um, melodrama on this but sometimes things just gotta happen.

I wrote this listening to "Forgive Me" by Evanescence. I'd just watched a fanvid with this song and I LOVED it and was instantly motivated to write this.

If Things Were Different - Chapter 2

Kate paces the length of her motel room, her hands clasping and unclasping spasmodically, distractedly at her waist. She's just showered and her hair is still damp, falling over her shoulders in dark, tangled waves. It was the first real shower she's had in days and it felt better than anything has in a long time. She lingered beneath the weak spray, unwilling to deny herself the pleasure of such a luxury, until the hot water was gone and she was driven out by the frigid chill streaking down her skin.

Her clothes are a luxury, too. They're clean, almost new, paid for by the odd jobs she's taken to scrape by since her return from the island. If she were smarter, more practical, she wouldn't waste money on something so frivolous. Clothes can last decades if you treat them right. But she doesn't care about being practical and hang being savvy. She knows, somewhere beneath the layers of denial and self-deception, that she bought the fitted top and these jeans that cling in just the right places, with this day in mind. That if she doesn't look her best, if she's faded and worn, if she looks how she feels, he might not want her.

She knows it's ridiculous, that her fears are as unfounded as her dreams are hopeless. But still, doubt assails her and, for what seems like the hundredth time in the last half hour, she wonders if she's crazy. If after years of running and deceit, she's finally lost it. Or if she was born with the same defective gene as her mother, the one that dooms her to always make the wrong decision.

Weak with nerves, she sits on the edge of her bed and cradles her head with hands that shake. She thought she had self-control, that her resolve was strong and that she could be true to promises made with conviction. For months it seemed like she was winning the battle, the battle she thought she was fighting for him. But time, instead of blunting the edge of her pain, has sharpened it like a razor, until every touch, the slightest brush, draws blood. Each morning she wakes up alone, she realizes how weak she is and discovers anew how many ways a person can hurt. And she doesn't quite understand how it can be this way or how she let it get this way. All she knows is that it is.

A knock sounds hard against the door and her head snaps up. Two short strides is all it takes and she's across the room, staring out the peep-hole. She's not as nervous of being followed these days, but some habits don't go away. Satisfied, she steps back and opens the door.

The man who stands in her door is tall, with short blond hair and a clean-shaven face. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he leans, posed like some poor man's imitation of James Dean, against the door jam. A cigarette dangles from his lips and he looks at her from beneath lowered lashes, his head tilted just slightly to the side.

"You're late." It's not a greeting but she doesn't care. She has other things on her mind than pleasantries or Sawyer's feelings. He looks hurt, but she knows he's not. When he steps into her room he gives her a mock bow, ash drops from his cigarette to glow against the worn carpet.

"Hey there, Freckles." He speaks slowly, like he's savoring her nickname on his tongue and the smile he throws her way is more like a grin that promises long nights and sweaty sheets. "You sure know how to make a man feel welcome."

Kate shrugs and ushers him inside, impatient to shut the door behind him. He moves slowly, just to press her buttons, and glances back toward the parking lot like he's looking for someone. When he looks back at her, his expression is sly.

"Are you nervous about something, Freckles?"

She doesn't answer. Instead she grabs his forearm and pulls him into the room, not bothering to be gentle. He stumbles a bit and acts offended, but she knows he was expecting it, waiting for it. It's how he operates and she's learned to accept it.

The door shut and locked, she turns to Sawyer who's managed, a matter of seconds, to take off his shoes and lounge comfortably on her unmade bed. He's propped up against the headboard, his hands clasped behind his head, looking relaxed, like he hasn't just worked double time to give the appearance of nonchalance. One side of his mouth quirks in a smile and Kate can see the devil that lurks in his eyes. She almost smiles back but her nerves are tearing at her control and she can't quite find it in her to be pleasant.

"Have you seen him? Have you talked to him?" The questions tumble from her mouth before she can consider them, frame them to her advantage. She doesn't want to sound so hopeful, so desperate, but her words filter out uncensored and she realizes there's no point in dissemblance. They both know why he's here, why she sought him out almost a month ago.

"Yeah, I've seen him." His mouth stretches into a coy smile and he makes a show of settling more comfortably on the bed. "What's it worth to you?"

"Sawyer." She's not sure if he's playing with her or seeing how far he can push her. Thinking that, maybe, if he wrangles long enough she'll give in.

"Oh, you heard me." He sits up suddenly and his pale eyes lock with her own. "Just how badly do you want to know about the good doc?"

Impatience makes her roll her eyes. Silence stretches between them, just long enough to become uncomfortable, then she crosses her arms over her chest and takes a step forward. "Give it up, Sawyer. You're being ridiculous."

His gaze darts away, then back. "Come on. You could have us both and no one would ever know."

"I thought we'd finished with this game." Her tone is flat, her face a mask devoid of emotion.

Sawyer studies her face, his eyes unreadable and she doesn't try to guess what he's thinking. She refuses to speak first and when he finally breaks the silence it's to laugh quietly, a little exhalation of air really, and shake his head. One smooth motion and he's back against the headrest, his body stretched out and his legs crossed at the ankles.

"Does this place have a buffet?" He drops one hand to his stomach. "All this intelligence gathering has made me a little hungry."

For a second she's tempted to throw something at him. She's not choosy, anything within reach will do as long as it will make a dent in his thick hide. But the moment passes and a sudden sadness engulfs her. Here they are, both of them maybe worse off than they were on the island. Drifters never able to get ahead, rescued from one kind of harsh uncertainty only to be dropped into another.

"I doubt it." Kate hesitates, mentally counts the cash in her pants' pocket and combines it with the change she scrounged from beneath the bed last night. It's not a lot, but it will probably be enough.

"Would you like to go somewhere?"

Sawyer laughs. "Are you asking me out, Freckles?"

"I'm asking you to breakfast." She hesitates. "To repay the favor. And it won't be anything special. McDonald's will have to do."

"Wow." Sawyer shakes his head and the grin he gives her spreads from ear to ear. "You sure pull out all the stops, don't ya Freckles? Do you suppose McDonald's serves lobster this early in the morning?"

Kate rolled over and slammed her hand against what passed for a pillow on the island. She'd been awake for what felt like hours, restlessly tossing and turning within the confines of her makeshift tent. She'd counted sheep, tried the other side of her worn mattress, and even whispered a half-forgotten lullaby into the darkness. But sleep was elusive and slipped easily from her feeble grasp to dance tauntingly just out of reach.

For the fifth time in as many nights she grudgingly admitted defeat just before dawn, chalking up another easy victory to insomnia, her newly discovered foe. Disgusted, she kicked out of her tent and almost howled her frustrations at the pastel-streaked sky, as if it shared some responsibility for her plight. Only consideration for the forty odd people who shared her beach front home kept her silent.

Kate spent the next hour walking the beach, hoping to shake off the restlessness that plagued her. But the semi-darkened sky only fed her nameless fears, heightened the creeping sensation that something was about to happen. It wasn't anything she could put her finger on, just a vague awareness that stole over her, most often at night when the day's activities had wound down and her mind was finally quiet.

She'd thought of confiding in Jack but, beyond worries that had no explainable cause, she had nothing to say. Certainly nothing important enough to bother him with, not when he had so many other responsibilities on the island. So she kept to herself, hoping each time she walked the beach at dawn would be the last time.

Fatigue pulled at her eyelids, but she knew that if she went back to her tent, she'd never fall asleep. So, stubbornly, she kept walking, trying to enjoy the beauty of the nature that surrounded her. It was at times like this, when she had only the island itself for company , that she truly appreciated how alone they were here, in this place no one could find and no one could leave. She'd known her share of solitude, that feeling of being so removed from civilization that it was difficult to believe any of it still existed. But that feeling was never so complete as it was here, where the isolation was so total.

On this beach, the life she'd lead outside the island didn't matter. Every person she cared about, everything she needed, was here. Of course she missed certain things, like scented soaps and settling on the couch to watch football on Sunday afternoons, but if she never experienced those things again it wouldn't matter. The things that were most important, the experiences and the people, were all here.

So many on the island had lives they wanted to get back to, friends and family they ached to see. But not her. Before the crash, her life had become as isolated as this island. Existing only for itself, for the sake of being alive and having a place somewhere on earth. Real and alive, but always, inherently alone.

Their pancakes are eaten and their hash browns almost gone before Kate brings him up. She's not sure what she's avoiding, the truth won't change if she ignores it so better to confront it head on. Straightening her shoulders, she drops the napkin she's been tearing to shreds for the last ten minutes and gets it over with.

"How is he?"

Sawyer, his hash brown half raised to his mouth, becomes still. The hesitation, the odd trepidation in his eyes, speed Kate's already frantic heart and she wishes she could call the question back. But wishes rarely come true and she already sees the answer in his eyes. There's no turning back from that, and even if she tried she's already ruined.

"To be honest, the first time I saw him he was a mess." Sawyer pauses and dips his chin forward. He looks pained, like the words hurt him as much to say as they will for her to hear. Kate's not used to this from Sawyer, such obvious emotion, and she almost wishes for his mocking smile, his calculating gaze. Anything to dull the impact.

When he speaks again his voice is tight, wary. "He sorta fell into his the same trap as his old man."

Kate's stomach plummets to her feet and her face flushes with heat. She knows two things about his father, that he was a surgeon, and that he was an alcoholic. It doesn't take a giant leap to understand the meaning of Sawyer's words.

"No." But it's not the denial Sawyer thinks it is. It's a protest, a plea, that somehow she's heard him all wrong. For weeks she's been terrified that Jack hates her, that if she tried to contact him he'd ignore her or curse her or, worse, greet her as a friend. It never crossed her mind that he wouldn't be well, that he'd be fighting demons he might not be able to defeat.

Sawyer shrugs. "It's the truth. He was three sheets to the wind and looking for a fourth when I found him. From what I've seen, that's how he spends most of his time these days."

Wordlessly, Kate shakes her head, as if that denial will change the truth, make Sawyer admit he was only joking and isn't he funny maybe he should try stand up. Or maybe she's fighting the burgeoning horror that she is somehow responsible for Jack's plight. That if she hadn't left him, or if she'd told him how much she cared, he'd be okay. Maybe not perfect, maybe hurting, but he wouldn't be doing this.

"I'm sorry." Sawyer's voice is kind, unbearably so. He reaches across the small table and puts a comforting hand over one of her own. Kate wants to say something, thank him for his compassion, for his help in finding Jack but her throat is too clogged with emotion. She's afraid that if she moves, if she even blinks, she will burst into tears.

"He's going through a rough patch right now but he's trying to get better." He squeezes her hand and then pulls back, suddenly self-conscious. But his gaze is earnest and Kate wishes she could find comfort in it.

"But he's not okay," she murmurs, but her voice is so soft it never reaches his ears.

"Kate, is that you?"

"Jack? What are you doing up?" Kate veered toward Jack's tent where he was kneeling just outside.

"I could ask you the same thing." Jack smiled as she approached, then brushed his hands against his thighs and stood up. "It's a little early, even for you."

"And how would you know?" She couldn't resist teasing him, even if it was only a little. He smiled so little, had so much pressure pushing down on his shoulders that he rarely just relaxed. She found herself wondering sometimes if he'd smiled more before the island, if he'd laughed and joked everyday ease. Somehow she didn't think so.

"Because I get up early and I don't usually see you until just before noon."

"That's because I'm already in the jungle picking fruit."

Jack chuckled and shook his head. Kate was flattered that he could be this way with her, act like he was just a normal guy in a normal place. But she wasn't sure she wasn't playing a dangerous game with herself. It made her think things that she probably had no right to think, entertain hopes that she'd buried years ago, long before she should have. But knowing she shouldn't do something had never stopped her before and she knew it couldn't stop her now.

Her sudden change of mood must have registered with Jack because his smile vanished and his gaze became probing. And though he was being serious, he looked adorable with his eyes squinting against the sun and the ridge of his nose burnt pink.

"Kate, are you sure you're alright?"

And because he was honestly concerned and because it felt good to confide in him, she answered truthfully. "I couldn't sleep."

He shifted closer, and suddenly he was the doctor on the island. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that he didn't need to look so worried, but – unwillingly – she admitted to herself that she liked the attention. She loved it when Jack was focused on her, only her. It made her feel giddy and special and all the feelings that she'd sought and spurned her entire life.

"Just last night or…"

"Jack, I've just felt a little stressed, that's all." She put a hand on his arm and squeezed just because she wanted the contact, the heat of his skin beneath her hand.

He hesitated a heartbeat. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Kate shook her head.

"You know, you could have woke me up." He gestured over his shoulder to his tent. "If it happens again…"

"Jack, I'm not going to bother you just because I can't sleep. You, of all people, need your rest. No one likes a grumpy, sleep-deprived doctor."

He laughed a little at that. "Kate, I really don't sleep that much. Besides, I think most people would say I'm always grumpy."

Kate smiled but shook her head. "I think you're just stressed."

"Then that makes two of us."

"I guess so."

Voices became audible up and down the beach, distracting Kate as she realized the sun was fully up and people were emerging from their tents to greet the day. When she looked back at Jack he was staring at her oddly.

"Kate, you can talk to me, you know that don't you? I don't just sew cuts, I can listen, too."

He looked so earnest, so full of doubt, that it broke her heart a little bit. If there was one thing she'd learned over the past three months it was that Jack would always be there for her. He was a rock, her rock, and nothing had ever made her feel so safe or so free.

"I know, Jack." And she really did.

She's either finally doing what's right or ruining everything, but she doesn't know which. No matter how she tries to dress it up, she's still a fugitive on the run. There is no settling down for her, no staying in one place and pretending to live like a family. When she left Jack on that ship she promised herself she'd never see him again, that she'd let his love for her fade so he could move on and live a real life with a woman who could be all the things he needed. Because he deserved better than she could honestly give, more than her.

But here she is, standing at his front door, intent on shattering her promise. Because he's in pain, because she's in pain, and because she thinks he might need her. She knows she needs him. And if there's anything she can do to help him, any way to be his strength, she will do it. There is no question of that, there has never been.

And as hard as she tries, she can't deny herself either. She doesn't want to open old wounds, doesn't want to start something they may not be able to finish, but the guilt and regret are nothing in the face of her need. The physical ache she feels at the mere thought of seeing him again, touching him again, is overpowering. She's struggled against it for more than a year and has been overtaken in the process. She won't deny it any longer.

It takes a year and a day for him to answer the door. She stands with her hands shoved into her pockets, her shoulders hunched against the chill wind that buffets her back. Uncertainty assails her in the unending moments, fear that he'll see her and slam the door in the face or stare at her with nothing but coldness in his eyes. Somehow, she doesn't think she could blame him for either.

The nightmare scenario is rolling through her head when the outside lamp turns on. She starts, her heart jumping into her throat, and she takes an involuntary step backward. Then the door swings open and suddenly, after a year of separation, he's standing before her, no longer a dream but real and solid and within arm's reach.

His face is pale and thin, his cheeks more pronounced than she's ever seen them but he's still the most beautiful man she's ever seen. Tears fill her eyes and she doesn't want to cry, doesn't want him to know how much it hurts her to see him, how much it heals her to see him, but she cries anyway.

His eyes, blessedly clear, widen with recognition at the same moment she steps forward, no longer able to stand even that distance between them. She whispers his name and cups his cheeks with hands she can't stop from trembling. The skin of his face his smooth beneath the pads of her fingers and there are no words to describe how it feels just to touch him again, to know that he's right here, and she thinks she could stand just like this for the rest of her life.

"Kate." His voice is hoarse and he looks at her like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. His eyes roam her face and, though she might be imagining it, he looks like he's never seen anything more wonderful in his life. Slowly, he lifts his hands to gently pull at her waist, tugging her to him. "How did you get here? What are you doing here?"

Kate tries to smile through her tears but she's not sure she succeeds. "I came to see you," she whispers. "I couldn't..."

She can't finish, her emotions too wild and uncontrolled to be captured with speech. Her hands drop from his face to curl around his neck and Jack pulls her even closer, lets her bury her face in his shoulder. With her body pressed so tightly against his she can feel the thinness of his frame and a fresh jolt of pain mingles with her joy. But she forces the worry away, there will be time enough for that later. Now she only wants to enjoy him, the knowledge that she is here, with him, in real life. Holding him so tightly that she's sure he can't breath, being held so tightly she knows she'll never be able to leave.

Kate still doesn't know if there is a happy ending for her, but she does know there is no other ending than this.

End Note: I believe in Jate!