okay here is a (late) christmas present for @saintvivec!! he left the prompt up to me and i thought about various rp dynamics for awhile and then decided to do something... special to honor the fact that weâve been in lost hell for the past few months. i was too intimidated to try to write locke so the idea was âsawyer comes to denny and interacts with some of my rosterâ so here is. sawyer encountering several dc girls and generally going to hell. itâs sawyer after all!
eps, youâre one of my oldest online friends and iâm very grateful to have had that endured for so long. i know things havenât always been easy for you but i am genuinely proud of the progress youâve made and the strides youâve taken to be more comfortable and confident in yourself. even when shitâs rough for you youâre always willing to engage me and try to make me smile and check to make sure iâm okay too, and i really do appreciate that. thanks for always being there and for always having the ability to make me laugh. iâm really glad weâve found a new thing to share and enjoy together and hopefully this fic is a good tribute to that!!
âYou know, if you went ahead and let me die,â Sawyer tries, not even sure whether itâs meant to be taunting or sincere. âI wouldnât tell.â
âSon of a --â He groans, rolling over where he was unceremoniously dropped, not quite making sense of his surroundings. Itâs cold. It shouldnât be cold. Heâs living on a goddamn tropical island -- the least they can give him is nice weather, when itâs not fucking pouring.
âSir?â An unfamiliar voice gets his attention.  â...Are you okay?â
Sawyer opens his eyes. Standing over him is --
-- He snorts.
Some chick in a Superman get-up.
âWhat is it, Halloween already?â He makes the quip almost automatically, and then remembers himself and freezes. He doesnât know her face. She wasnât on the plane. That means --Â
âWhoa! Hey, relax,â the woman protests as Sawyer scrambles to sit up. âLooks like you just got here. I can help you.â
Just got here. Then it clicks. The snow on the ground. The distinct sound of nearby traffic. The buildings towering around him.
Heâs not on the island anymore.
He wracks his brain, trying to think of the last thing he can remember. What he should be feeling - what any normal person would be feeling, in this situation - is relief. He just got out of hell -- so to speak. Heâs free.Â
Except, assuming heâs back on the mainland, thereâs nothing for him out here any more than there ever was. Nothing but a vendetta heâs clung to for most of his life, one heâs not even sure itâs possible to pursue anymore.
He thinks of the poor fuck he shot in cold blood back in Australia, and grimaces.
He isnât free. Never was.
âWhere the hell am I?â he growls, still eyeing Cape and Skirt dubiously.
She tilts her head.  âNew York City. 2017 -- if that matters.â
It does matter, âcause last Sawyer heard it was 2004. He pulls himself to his feet gruffly. âYou pullinâ my leg, Captain America?â Either that or heâs dealing with time travel, which is a possibility heâs just not prepared to face.
âUh. No.â Her brow furrows for a moment. âAnd itâs -- Supergirl.â
Sawyer snorts again. âOf course it is.â
He doesnât ask her anything else - partly because heâs afraid of the answers, and partly because heâd rather find them himself - before he starts walking away.Â
âWait,â Super-whatsherface calls after him. âI should probably explain a few things --â
âSave it,â Sawyer insists without slowing or turning around.Â
âBut -- where are you even going to go?â
The truth is, he doesnât really have an answer to that question, but itâs not like he cares what happens to him anyways. Heâll figure something out, one way or another. He always does.
Readjusting to constant luxuries like electricity and running water and no food shortages whatsoever is harder than he wouldâve expected. Sawyer supposes he might strike most people as the type who likes to live in luxury, but island life had suited him in a strange sort of way. The ever-changing status quo (which heâd gotten pretty good at working in his favor), the frequent opportunities for excitement (risking his life) -- not to mention all the spare time heâd had to read on the beach.
Here in this... other world (why the hell not), itâs back to business. He supposes that means back to conning, because thatâs what he does best by now, however much he might hate himself for becoming the mirror image of the man heâs always hated. He goes out often, especially visiting that meeting place in New York to scan his prospects.
Also, because it takes his mind off things. People.Â
Sawyer isnât used to having people to miss. Not that thatâs whatâs happening, itâs just -- he keeps catching himself thinking about them. Kate, Jack, Jin, Michael -- he guesses he spent the most time with them, so it makes sense.
But he even wonders about other things, like how Claire and her baby are doing, or whether anyoneâs bothering to keep an eye on Hurley now that Libbyâs gone.
He just has to get used to being alone again, he tells himself (heâs not sure when he stopped being that -- alone. It feels dangerous).
But itâs a problem that can be solved at least temporarily by hitting up a bar, so thatâs what he does. He just doesnât expect to nearly trip over something on his way in the door.
-- Something? Someone?
âWatch where the hell youâre going,â the whatever-it-is snaps at him, and Sawyer just kind of stares at it for a moment.
Itâs a raccoon.
"Did you just talk?â he grunts, not even sure why heâs so surprised at this point.
âBlind and deaf,â the raccoon sneers. âWell in that case, I guess Iâll have to excuse your stupidity.â
Sawyer wonders whether he can get away with kicking this asshole across the bar. âKeep walking, Jesse.â
This actually brings the raccoon up short. His ears twitch in a nonplussed sort of way. âJesse?â
He hates it when people donât get his references, and then actually have the nerve to comment on it anyway. âJesse Coon,â he tries. Still nothing. âThe raccoon? -- Itâs from a book.â
âHeâs not a raccoon,â a voice from behind them cuts in. Sawyer glances over to see an edgy looking brunette in her mid-twenties staring at him. Â
âWhat are you, his girlfriend?â he retorts.
âHa.â The not-raccoon snorts. âDrinking buddy, more like.â
âSo, basically his therapist,â the woman adds, and the not-raccoon proceeds to flip her off.
Sawyer snorts, hoping it veils his wariness. Upon first impression, these people strike him as -- well, sort of like him. Which means theyâre probably not the type heâs gonna get along with.  âI take it thatâs what youâre here for,â he gripes, talking about the drinking, not the therapy.
âWell, we ainât here to square dance.â Ranger Rick still sounds annoyed, but maybe thatâs just his general state of being.
His lady friend glances over at the stage, currently empty of any live entertainment. âNot for some peopleâs lack of trying.â
Theyâre regulars, then, heâs guessing. But the prospect of alcohol is enough to make them worth tolerating for a few minutes at least, so he takes a seat and order his drink.Â
Dorothy and Toto arenât far behind him, though for a few minutes they keep to themselves as they knock back a couple of shots. That suits Sawyer just fine.
And then the woman suddenly decides heâs worth engaging. âWho the hell are you, anyway?â
âNameâs Sawyer, sweetheart,â he gives her a non-sarcastic answer reluctantly, if only because she looks mildly annoyed at being called âsweetheartâ. âWhat about you and your furry friend?â
âRocket,â the latter says as disdainfully as possible.
His âdrinking buddyâ gives Sawyer a sharp sort of smile. âSilver Banshee.â
She looks mildly put out when Sawyerâs only response is, âWhat?â
âItâs just the name she puts on the business cards.â Rocket rolls his eyes. âMetaphorically speaking.â
This piques Sawyerâs interest a little, but he makes sure not to look it, taking a slow sip of his drink before he says anything else.  âAnd what kinda âbusinessâ are you two in?â
âWeâre bounty hunters,â Silver-fucking-Banshee tells him as matter of factly as anything else. âDonât suppose you know anyone who needs tracking down?â
âOr roughed up a little, free of charge?â Rocket adds flippantly.
Sawyerâs expression twists into a kind of grim smile. Hell. If only they knew.
âSorry, kiddos. Not in this world.â He pauses then. Heâs not sure why he does, but this... thereâs something about these two assholes. Or maybe not about them, specifically, but -- hunting people. Heâs gotten awfully hooked on that.
âYou hiring?â he asks, half-joking, not even sure he means it.
Then he realizes heâs a little too interested in the answer.
Working every now and again with Rocket and Siobhan, it doesnât take Sawyer very long to get caught in the line of fire... and, well, heâd have been lying to himself if heâd said that wasnât part of what he was after, on the very fringes of his thoughts
Han and Chewie drag him to a metahuman doctor --
( âI ainât a goddamn metahuman,â Sawyer protests. âWhatever that means.â
âNeither am I, technically.â Siobhan shrugs. âThe important thing is, you donât need medical insurance.
Which, alright, fair.)
-- and Sawyer does his best to look at least remotely invested until theyâre out of earshot.
Then he tells Dr. Caitlin Snow, âLook. Donât bother.â
Her brow furrows.  âExcuse me?â
âI donât need nobody fussinâ over me. Iâll take my chances.â
âYou were shot in the shoulder,â Dr. Snow tells him, so frank and deadpan and âare you some kind of goddamn idiotâ that Sawyer almost has to smile. âYouâre bleeding out.â
âAnd your bedside manner is impeccable. Five stars!â Maybe if heâs obnoxious enough, she wonât feel much like saving his life.
Dr. Snow proceeds to drench his shoulder in alcohol, and Sawyer canât tell if itâs in direct retaliation or if sheâs just ignoring him and proceeding with her treatment. It stings like hell, though, and he hisses loudly.
âSon of a bitch.â
âHold still.â Without missing a beat, she starts dressing the wound.
Thereâs not much point in protesting now, so Sawyer does.  âWhyâre you even helping me?â he canât help pushing regardless. âYou donât seem to like me very much.â
Dr. Snow meets his eyes for a brief moment.  âI just donât trust your friends very much.â
âThen why are you helping them?â
âHippocratic oath?â
Right. That. Her and Jack would probably get along.
âYou know, if you went ahead and let me die,â Sawyer tries, not even sure whether itâs meant to be taunting or sincere. âI wouldnât tell.â
She blinks, and Sawyer actually fancies she looks shocked for a moment.
âIâm gonna go ahead and stitch you up.âÂ
Well, she has resolve, heâll give her that. He watches her with a frown.  âWhat, no anesthetic?âÂ
In a simple movement, Dr. Snow presses her hand to his shoulder, and Sawyer braces himself for pain -- but all that comes is a sudden sensation of controlled cold, just enough to make the ache from the bullet wound feel numbed.
Of course, he thinks, trying not to feel even remotely grateful. No one in this goddamn place is normal.
Itâs the simple things that keep him entertained while heâs recovering.
Like when heâs sitting in a coffee shop, minding his own business (well, so to speak, heâs got a cheap knock-off of a diamond ring on hand and is ready to use it) when some pretty blonde walks past dressed in clothes that look expensive, if surprisingly vintage. Sawyer sizes her up for a couple of moments and decides sheâll work just fine.Â
He plants the ring on the ground - not too far from his table and in her line of sight - as sheâs getting her coffee. It looks real enough to fool an every day admirer (Sawyer knows how to choose his fakes), but itâs worth maybe thirty or forty dollars at most.
Thankfully, it catches her eye as she turns -- this always works better when he doesnât have to point anything out to the mark. He doesnât watch her bend to pick it up, busying himself in his newspaper.
âExcuse me,â she says, turning to him. âYou didnât drop this, did you?â
Sawyer lowers the paper, glances at the ring, and gives her a brief smirk. âWell, Iâm flattered you think Iâm the fancy jewelry type.â
âIâm gonna take that as a no.â
Leaning a little closer regardless, he considers the ring as if heâs never seen it before. âDamn, though,â he comments. âRock looks expensive. May I?â
She watches him with an unreadable expression. âI thought you just implied you werenât the fancy jewelry type.â
âI implied I was flattered you assumed as much while Iâm sittinâ here drinkinâ ninety-nine cent coffee.â He eases a little rogueish charm into the conversation, just to see if sheâll respond. She smiles at him, just a little, and hands over the ring. Sawyer takes his time looking it over, and then, when the momentâs right, idly lets out a low whistle.
âYou some kind of appraiser?â she asks, still watching him.Â
âCanât take much credit for that. I have a friend who works over at Greenwich, on Trinity. Shame this fell out of someoneâs pocket.â He shakes his head slowly. âOr finger. Itâs a beautiful ring.â
The woman leans against his table. âHow much?â
Well, thereâs the golden question, and a lot quicker than Sawyer expected it. âHow much is it worth?â He tries to sound a little dubious, because it takes an interesting kind of person to leap right to wanting to make a profit - usually marks need a little subtle coaxing towards that - but hell, heâs not gonna argue with her.
âBy your rough estimate.â
Sawyer regards the ring again. Then he shrugs. âCouldnât say for sure without taking it in, but -- couple thousand, maybe. At least.â
âReally?â
âWell, like I said --â
The woman laughs, and Sawyer pauses.
âSo you were gonna swindle me out of at least a thousand dollars,â she nods to the ring, casual as anything. âFor that.â
Itâs not that nobodyâs ever caught on before, but sheâs awfully damn direct. Still, she has no proof that he planted the ring, so he plays dumb. âSwindle you --â
âI mean, you must think Iâm an idiot. A pigeon drop? Really?â
She even knows the name of the goddamn con, so the gameâs pretty much up. Still, Sawyerâs never been one not to go down swinging.  âI donât know what youâre talking about,â he tells her, insolent and not even trying for convincing.
She laughs again, and Sawyer isnât sure whether he should feel annoyed or not. Itâs probably better than her trying to turn him in, as far as immediate reactions go.
âGlad I could entertain you,â he snarks at her dryly. What is he, some kinda street magician?
âYeah. You really made my day.â
âWell, I guess thatâs a better scenario than the one where I piss off some superhero with x-ray vision.â
The woman considers that for a moment with a look in her eyes that Sawyer doesnât quite appreciate.  âSo hard to find anyone normal around here, isnât it?â She holds out a hand. âSara. Thanks for trying to rob my blind.â
âSawyer,â he tells her, shaking her hand as sarcastically as possible. âThanks for being an asshole about it.â
âNo problem. You seemed like you could use a taste of your own medicine.â
Well, thatâs fair enough.Â
âYou sure know your basic cons.â Sawyer canât help but me mildly interested. âWhereâd you pick that up?â
He doesnât expect a straight answer (itâs no good for banter, for one thing), and sure enough, Sara just shrugs. âHere and there.âÂ
âWell, if you ainât too busy beinâ mysterious, I could buy you a coffee. Make up for almost scamming the hell out of you.â Itâs not exactly an offer made out of the kindness of his heart, but he figures sheâs worth scoping out in case he ever has to work a two-man con.
Saraâs lips twitch. âI have somewhere to be, but... maybe some other time.â She glances at the door and back. âUs normal people have to stick together, after all.â
He probably should be suspicious, because all of this still seems a little too funny to her, but he gives her a sarcastic smirk back. âYeah. See you around.â
She leaves, and heâs left sipping his coffee. Old habits die hard, he supposes -- or never at all. He could spend ten years in this world, he bets, and it still wouldnât be enough to change a person like him.
Even though -- well, damn. Heâd gone without thinking about the island for almost fifteen minutes.
At least this place has no shortage of distractions. Heâs thinking itâs about time he made use of that.














