Title: The Child is Father of the Man; or Five Times Sawyer Said No
Rating: PG
Summary: James held the social worker’s hand, but she wasn’t looking at him and he wasn’t looking at her.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lost. At all. I wish but alas...
Author's Note: For fosfomifira, who suggested the theme. The title belongs to William Wordsworth. This is mostly Sawyer-centric, but that wouldn't fit in the subject line with everything else.



“…the child is father of the man.”
– William Wordsworth, “My Heart Leaps Up”

5.

James held the social worker’s hand, but she wasn’t looking at him and he wasn’t looking at her. She was reviewing some paper work with another social worker and James was staring at the foot of his bed. At the bloodstain on the ground that he could still see, even though it had been washed away.

“Are you ready to go?” she eventually asked. James looked up at her, detached, and nodded. She smiled, good-naturedly, but even at seven years old, James could tell that there was nothing genuine about it. That it was for his benefit.

“Do you want to take anything with you?” she questioned.

James glanced around the room briefly, then turned back to her.

“No.”

4.

There was this girl at his last foster home before he ran away. He was thirteen. She was twelve. She wouldn’t talk to their foster parents, but attached herself to his side, wrapped her arms around him before she even knew who he was. He hugged her back for lack of knowing what else to do.

A little bit later, when they sat on the back porch, her in a hammock, him on the hard concrete, she asked him, “Your name’s James, right?”

He tossed broken fragments of concrete into the grass. “No.”

“Then what is it?” she followed up almost immediately, like she wanted to know everything about him when she’d known him for all of ten minutes.

It made him sigh, toss rocks a little bit harder. He hardened his expression, but without looking up at her – without seeking out her needy, desperate eyes, not wanting to watch her hope for a friend wither and die at his cold exterior, his indifferent expression – he answered, “It’s Sawyer.”

3.

Sawyer didn’t have many things to move into Cassidy’s place. Some clothes, some old paperbacks he can’t seem to get rid of. But, for the most part, he walks into a completely furnished house, into someone else’s home and someone else’s life knowing full well that he’s going to spend the next four months slowly tearing it apart.

He plasters on a fake smile when he hears her walking into the room, does his best to act like it’s the best day of his life, like he can’t wait to live with her and spend every waking moment by her side. Like he’s in love.

It must have worked pretty damn good, because her smile is wide and she certainly sounds like it’s the best day of her life.

Mission accomplished.

But he couldn’t keep the thought out of the back of his mind when he’s putting his clothes into the closet. He turned what he was doing over and over in his mind. Not about Cassidy; he’d pulled jobs just like this before. Except, he’d never lived with anyone. Never shared their space and their bed for more than an hour, maybe two at a time.

A house ain’t a home, he told himself. It’s just a house. Just concrete and brick and wood. You ain’t gettin’ attached to her, don’t go gettin’ attached to it.

“Hey.” She sneaked up on him, a smile on her face. He smiled back and hung up the shirt in his hand. She approached him and he tried to wipe his mind clear of every thought. “Something wrong?”

He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist. This part was easy, always had been. “No, darlin’,” he replied, kissing her. “Not a thing.”

2.

Kate shoved clothes in her bag while Sawyer sat in his living room, flipping through channels. His feet were up on the coffee table and, to the outside observer, he would appear very bored. The truth was, his mind was racing, working a mile a minute.

He heard the zipper zip and he sighed. Kate left the bedroom a few seconds later and looked at him like this was all his fault. Everything was always his fault, if she was to be believed. She may have never came out and said it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see it in her eyes.

“I have to go,” she said. That was the point, wasn’t it? That was her wasn’t it? She always had to go.

“I know,” he answered.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you going to say anything?”

In another life, maybe. At another time, sure. But he was tired. Tired of everything, but especially tired of her. It sounded awful, even in his mind, but they had been through so much, danced this dance so many times, and the bloom had eventually come off the rose.

So Sawyer said, “No.” And she left. He knew there would be no more next time. This time, she wouldn’t be coming back. The knowledge sat like the lead weight in his chest, but he also breathed a sigh of relief.

1.

After Kate left, Jack found him. Sawyer wondered why it had taken him so long. Maybe he stayed away because he knew Kate was with Sawyer. Maybe he stayed away because he wasn’t ready to see either of them yet.

But two days after Kate was gone, Jack was there. He looked haggard, hung-over, strung-out, and a bunch of other things that looked weird as hell on Jack. But Sawyer stepped back anyway, and Jack stumbled in, and promptly fell asleep on Sawyer’s couch.

“Drink this.” Sawyer forced a bottle of water in Jack’s face in the morning. Jack took it without question or complaint, and Sawyer guessed this wasn’t his first bender in the short period of time they had been apart. Sawyer wasn’t naïve enough to think it was him that Jack was drinking over.

“When did she leave?” Jack asked.

“Couple days,” Sawyer replied, with a shrug, like he didn’t care. He was getting closer to meaning it, but still not quite there. Kate had her reasons for leaving, Sawyer had his reasons for not asking her to stay. He had to leave it at that.

Jack nodded and leaned forward, kissing Sawyer. Sawyer didn’t do much but sit still and let him. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked against Sawyer’s lips. Sawyer let out a short puff of a sigh and leaned forward, rubbing his forehead back and forth gently against Jack’s. He heard Jack sigh and suddenly, his hands were in Sawyer’s, gripping, holding on. His fingers ran along Sawyer’s wrists lightly, and it made Sawyer sigh again.

“No.”