#saintvivec

“Son of a --” He groans, rolling over where he was unceremoniously dropped, not quite making sense of his surroundings. It’s cold. It shouldn’t be cold. He’s living on a goddamn tropical island -- the least they can give him is nice weather, when it’s not fucking pouring.

“Sir?” An unfamiliar voice gets his attention.  “...Are you okay?”

Sawyer opens his eyes. Standing over him is --

-- He snorts.

Some chick in a Superman get-up.

“What is it, Halloween already?” He makes the quip almost automatically, and then remembers himself and freezes.  He doesn’t know her face. She wasn’t on the plane. That means -- 

“Whoa! Hey, relax,” the woman protests as Sawyer scrambles to sit up. “Looks like you just got here. I can help you.”

Just got here. Then it clicks.  The snow on the ground. The distinct sound of nearby traffic. The buildings towering around him.

He’s 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. He’s free. 

Except, assuming he’s back on the mainland, there’s nothing for him out here any more than there ever was. Nothing but a vendetta he’s clung to for most of his life, one he’s not even sure it’s possible to pursue anymore.

He thinks of the poor fuck he shot in cold blood back in Australia, and grimaces.

He isn’t free. Never was.

“Where the hell am I?” he growls, still eyeing Cape and Skirt dubiously.

She tilts her head.  “New York City. 2017 -- if that matters.”

It does matter, ‘cause last Sawyer heard it was 2004.  He pulls himself to his feet gruffly. “You pullin’ my leg, Captain America?” Either that or he’s dealing with time travel, which is a possibility he’s just not prepared to face.

“Uh. No.” Her brow furrows for a moment. “And it’s -- Supergirl.”

Sawyer snorts again. “Of course it is.”

He doesn’t ask her anything else - partly because he’s afraid of the answers, and partly because he’d rather find them himself - before he starts walking away. 

“Wait,” Super-whatsherface calls after him. “I should probably explain a few things --”

“Save it,” Sawyer insists without slowing or turning around. 

“But -- where are you even going to go?”

The truth is, he doesn’t really have an answer to that question, but it’s not like he cares what happens to him anyways. He’ll 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 would’ve 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 he’d gotten pretty good at working in his favor), the frequent opportunities for excitement (risking his life) -- not to mention all the spare time he’d had to read on the beach.

Here in this... other world (why the hell not), it’s back to business. He supposes that means back to conning, because that’s what he does best by now, however much he might hate himself for becoming the mirror image of the man he’s 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. 

Sawyer isn’t used to having people to miss. Not that that’s what’s happening, it’s 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 anyone’s bothering to keep an eye on Hurley now that Libby’s gone.

He just has to get used to being alone again, he tells himself (he’s not sure when he stopped being that -- alone. It feels dangerous).

But it’s a problem that can be solved at least temporarily by hitting up a bar, so that’s what he does. He just doesn’t expect to nearly trip over something on his way in the door.

-- Something? Someone?

“Watch where the hell you’re going,” the whatever-it-is snaps at him, and Sawyer just kind of stares at it for a moment.

It’s a raccoon.

"Did you just talk?” he grunts, not even sure why he’s so surprised at this point.

“Blind and deaf,” the raccoon sneers. “Well in that case, I guess I’ll have to excuse your stupidity.”

Sawyer wonders whether he can get away with kicking this asshole across the bar. “Keep walking, Jesse.”

This actually brings the raccoon up short. His ears twitch in a nonplussed sort of way. “Jesse?”

He hates it when people don’t get his references, and then actually have the nerve to comment on it anyway. “Jesse Coon,” he tries. Still nothing. “The raccoon? -- It’s from a book.”

“He’s not a raccoon,” a voice from behind them cuts in. Sawyer glances over to see an edgy looking brunette in her mid-twenties staring at him.  

“What are you, his girlfriend?” he retorts.

“Ha.” The not-raccoon snorts. “Drinking buddy, more like.”

“So, basically his therapist,” 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 they’re probably not the type he’s gonna get along with.  “I take it that’s what you’re here for,” he gripes, talking about the drinking, not the therapy.

“Well, we ain’t here to square dance.” Ranger Rick still sounds annoyed, but maybe that’s just his general state of being.

His lady friend glances over at the stage, currently empty of any live entertainment. “Not for some people’s lack of trying.”

They’re regulars, then, he’s 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. 

Dorothy and Toto aren’t 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 he’s worth engaging. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Name’s Sawyer, sweetheart,” he gives her a non-sarcastic answer reluctantly, if only because she looks mildly annoyed at being called ‘sweetheart’. “What about you and your furry friend?”

“Rocket,” the latter says as disdainfully as possible.

His ‘drinking buddy’ gives Sawyer a sharp sort of smile. “Silver Banshee.”

She looks mildly put out when Sawyer’s only response is, “What?”

“It’s just the name she puts on the business cards.” Rocket rolls his eyes. “Metaphorically speaking.”

This piques Sawyer’s interest a little, but he makes sure not to look it, taking a slow sip of his drink before he says anything else.  “And what kinda ‘business’ are you two in?”

“We’re bounty hunters,”  Silver-fucking-Banshee tells him as matter of factly as anything else. “Don’t suppose you know anyone who needs tracking down?”

“Or roughed up a little, free of charge?” Rocket adds flippantly.

Sawyer’s expression twists into a kind of grim smile. Hell. If only they knew.

“Sorry, kiddos. Not in this world.” He pauses then. He’s not sure why he does, but this... there’s something about these two assholes. Or maybe not about them, specifically, but -- hunting people. He’s gotten awfully hooked on that.

“You hiring?” he asks, half-joking, not even sure he means it.

Then he realizes he’s a little too interested in the answer.

Working every now and again with Rocket and Siobhan, it doesn’t take Sawyer very long to get caught in the line of fire... and, well, he’d have been lying to himself if he’d said that wasn’t part of what he was after, on the very fringes of his thoughts

Han and Chewie drag him to a metahuman doctor --

( “I ain’t a goddamn metahuman,” Sawyer protests. “Whatever that means.”

“Neither am I, technically.” Siobhan shrugs. “The important thing is, you don’t need medical insurance.

Which, alright, fair.)

-- and Sawyer does his best to look at least remotely invested until they’re out of earshot.

Then he tells Dr. Caitlin Snow, “Look. Don’t bother.”

Her brow furrows.  “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need nobody fussin’ over me. I’ll take my chances.”

“You were shot in the shoulder,” Dr. Snow tells him, so frank and deadpan and ‘are you some kind of goddamn idiot’ that Sawyer almost has to smile. “You’re bleeding out.”

“And your bedside manner is impeccable. Five stars!” Maybe if he’s obnoxious enough, she won’t feel much like saving his life.

Dr. Snow proceeds to drench his shoulder in alcohol, and Sawyer can’t tell if it’s in direct retaliation or if she’s just ignoring him and proceeding with her treatment. It stings like hell, though, and he hisses loudly.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Hold still.” Without missing a beat, she starts dressing the wound.

There’s not much point in protesting now, so Sawyer does.  “Why’re you even helping me?” he can’t help pushing regardless. “You don’t seem to like me very much.”

Dr. Snow meets his eyes for a brief moment.  “I just don’t trust your friends very much.”

“Then why are you helping them?”

“Hippocratic oath?”

Right. That. Her and Jack would probably get along.

“You know, if you went ahead and let me die,” Sawyer tries, not even sure whether it’s meant to be taunting or sincere. “I wouldn’t tell.”

She blinks, and Sawyer actually fancies she looks shocked for a moment.

“I’m gonna go ahead and stitch you up.” 

Well, she has resolve, he’ll give her that. He watches her with a frown.  “What, no anesthetic?” 

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.

It’s the simple things that keep him entertained while he’s recovering.

Like when he’s sitting in a coffee shop, minding his own business (well, so to speak, he’s 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 she’ll work just fine. 

He plants the ring on the ground - not too far from his table and in her line of sight - as she’s getting her coffee. It looks real enough to fool an every day admirer (Sawyer knows how to choose his fakes), but it’s worth maybe thirty or forty dollars at most.

Thankfully, it catches her eye as she turns -- this always works better when he doesn’t have to point anything out to the mark. He doesn’t watch her bend to pick it up, busying himself in his newspaper.

“Excuse me,” she says, turning to him. “You didn’t drop this, did you?”

Sawyer lowers the paper, glances at the ring, and gives her a brief smirk. “Well, I’m flattered you think I’m the fancy jewelry type.”

“I’m gonna take that as a no.”

Leaning a little closer regardless, he considers the ring as if he’s never seen it before. “Damn, though,” he comments. “Rock looks expensive. May I?”

She watches him with an unreadable expression. “I thought you just implied you weren’t the fancy jewelry type.”

“I implied I was flattered you assumed as much while I’m sittin’ here drinkin’ ninety-nine cent coffee.” He eases a little rogueish charm into the conversation, just to see if she’ll respond. She smiles at him, just a little, and hands over the ring. Sawyer takes his time looking it over, and then, when the moment’s right, idly lets out a low whistle.

“You some kind of appraiser?” she asks, still watching him. 

“Can’t take much credit for that. I have a friend who works over at Greenwich, on Trinity. Shame this fell out of someone’s pocket.” He shakes his head slowly. “Or finger. It’s a beautiful ring.”

The woman leans against his table. “How much?”

Well, there’s the golden question, and a lot quicker than Sawyer expected it. “How much is it worth?” 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, he’s not gonna argue with her.

“By your rough estimate.”

Sawyer regards the ring again. Then he shrugs. “Couldn’t say for sure without taking it in, but -- couple thousand, maybe. At least.”

“Really?”

“Well, like I said --”

The woman laughs, and Sawyer pauses.

“So you were gonna swindle me out of at least a thousand dollars,” she nods to the ring, casual as anything. “For that.”

It’s not that nobody’s ever caught on before, but she’s awfully damn direct. Still, she has no proof that he planted the ring, so he plays dumb. “Swindle you --”

“I mean, you must think I’m an idiot. A pigeon drop? Really?”

She even knows the name of the goddamn con, so the game’s pretty much up. Still, Sawyer’s never been one not to go down swinging.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells her, insolent and not even trying for convincing.

She laughs again, and Sawyer isn’t sure whether he should feel annoyed or not. It’s probably better than her trying to turn him in, as far as immediate reactions go.

“Glad I could entertain you,” he snarks at her dryly. What is he, some kinda street magician?

“Yeah. You really made my day.”

“Well, I guess that’s a better scenario than the one where I piss off some superhero with x-ray vision.”

The woman considers that for a moment with a look in her eyes that Sawyer doesn’t quite appreciate.  “So hard to find anyone normal around here, isn’t it?” She holds out a hand. “Sara. Thanks for trying to rob my blind.”

“Sawyer,” he tells her, shaking her hand as sarcastically as possible. “Thanks for being an asshole about it.”

“No problem. You seemed like you could use a taste of your own medicine.”

Well, that’s fair enough. 

“You sure know your basic cons.” Sawyer can’t help but me mildly interested. “Where’d you pick that up?”

He doesn’t expect a straight answer (it’s no good for banter, for one thing), and sure enough, Sara just shrugs. “Here and there.” 

“Well, if you ain’t too busy bein’ mysterious, I could buy you a coffee. Make up for almost scamming the hell out of you.” It’s not exactly an offer made out of the kindness of his heart, but he figures she’s worth scoping out in case he ever has to work a two-man con.

Sara’s lips twitch. “I have somewhere to be, but... maybe some other time.” She glances at the door and back. “Us normal people have to stick together, after all.”

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. “Yeah. See you around.”

She leaves, and he’s 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 wouldn’t be enough to change a person like him.

Even though -- well, damn. He’d gone without thinking about the island for almost fifteen minutes.