sorrydontsuitme | March 1, 2074

March 1, 2074

Now how the hell does a cassette tape get in the middle of his damn magazines? He was just readin' 'em a minute ago and turned to look out the window 'cause that bird used to ride around on Vicious's shoulder flew by, and when he looks back, there's a dingy old cassette there. He picks it up, looks at the label on the side.

Kate and Tom 1989.

"Well, I'll be." He only knows one Kate, but he's pretty damn sure she didn't bring this thing in with her last time she was here, or the time before. Come to think on it, he ain't never seen it on the island neither, not that he's seen everything. Just most of it.

Maybe it ain't hers. He knows it ain't his. There's one way to find out: he picks up the phone and calls the operator. "I need a cassette player."

Whatever automated system it is puts him on hold, so he waits. And waits, and waits, until finally he gets disconnected. So he calls again: I need a damn cassette player. This time an automated voice comes back. No such item exists in inventory.

Son of a bitch. Of course it's old technology now. Plan B. Back to the phone, he calls his (Freckles') room. If she ain't still avoidin' him, maybe she'll pick up.

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After living first on the island and then here, she's betting it'll be pretty hard to get used to normal life again. Normal life with a public telephone number and the possibility of being called by anyone at anytime. Her phone here rings so rarely she's a little surprised every time it happens.

When it does, she knows it's probably either Sawyer or Spike. And after her conversation with Spike yesterday, chances are it's not him.

Game, she leans over and picks up the phone. "Hello?"

So she is there. It ain't like he's gonna screw the pooch by tellin' her what he's got. He ain't that obvious a player, although there's a time and place for that stuff. But this early in the game ain't the moment.

"How do, Freckles?" It's been a little bit.

He could invite her for a burger and fries, but that's met with mixed success. He could say pizza, but that goes back and implies he'll make another promise to try to behave, and he doesn't want to do that. He could talk passports, or rooms, or any of a hundred topics.

In the end, he settles for an old standby. "You busy?"

It's very much in spite of herself that she smiles, and she's sure he can hear it over the line.

"No."

She sits down on the edge of her bed, fighting the contrary urge to leave it at that one word and see what he'd have to say.

"You need me for something?"

Ain't that a sweetheart of a loaded question. Need her? Want her? Sure does, but maybe not in the way she'd probably suspect.

Thought you might be up for a burger and some fries. No, that didn't work last time, and he ain't the type to keep goin' back and tryin' the same angle. It either works or it don't. What he's got to do here is pique her curiosity.

"I was wondering. In your journeys back and forth on that motorcycle of yours, or on any walks through the city proper, you ever seen anyone selling antique appliances or electronics, beyond that guy who bought the heart rate monitor?" He didn't have no cassette players, as far as he recalls, but that might be a place to start.

Now the seed's planted, and he'll sit back and see what happens.

Okay, that wasn't what she was expecting at all, and she was expecting any number of things out of his mouth.

"Uh, I don't remember seeing much like that in the city, but--"

A vague feeling of being caught in some act constricts her throat for a second, but she swallows it down immediately.

"--there's an asteroid called Aphrodite no more than half an hour from here. A store or two there might have whatever you're looking for."

So maybe this wasn't just some excuse to talk to her.

An asteroid called Aphrodite. Well, ain't that all kinds of telling: just where the hell did she go that day? He didn't ask 'cause it wasn't none of his business, but he knew that looked like a shuttle ticket on her table there.

If she hadn't wanted him to know, she would've stuffed it away someplace. She's an interesting one, Freckles, and he can't take nothin' for granted with her. On the other hand, the last thing he wants is to spook her into runnin' someplace she won't come back from. Got to play it cool.

All righty then. "An asteroid called Aphrodite. You wouldn't happen to know if a man needs a passport to get there, would you?"

That's the other thing he wanted to talk to her about. Tuesday Night at the Movies can wait. There's more to life than makin' out in the back row, especially when it's all full of intrigue. And this definitely is.

His phrasing kind of gets to her, and she bites the inside of her lip for a second.

He's not even being pointed about it.

At the moment.

"No, you don't need a passport to go to any of the asteroids you can get to by the hopper that leaves the spaceport every few hours." She pulls one leg up and drapes her arm around it. "But I wanted to talk to you about that today, anyway."

She'd been thinking before he called that she'd actually stop by to see him later. Where a phone call should've made things easier -- safer -- this is not actually feeling much better than person-to-person after all.

But she'll take it.

"Passports, I mean," she goes on, aiming for fast enough to keep him from interrupting her. "You need to call Spike about it. He can probably help."

It's not so much what she does say as what she don't say that turns on the lightbulb in a few more informative ways. It's only him that needs a passport, 'cause otherwise she'd be on the phone to Spike herself gettin' what she needs. So that means she's probably already done it.

And honestly, he ain't gonna begrudge her nothin'. She don't owe him a thing, and so what if she's already got her passport? He's only got one thing to say about that: good for her. He's glad that's all cleared up. Honestly, he's a little surprised he ain't more annoyed over it but he ain't.

"So, World Traveler. Can you tell me how much I'm gonna need for this passport? I've been doin' my best at the casino and I'm up at the moment, but I'd kinda hate to make the call if I ain't gonna be able to pony up the woolongs I need."

That seems like a fair enough question to him, and he'd rather be havin' this conversation in person. But one thing at a time.

"300k and a little discretion."

He's still taking it better -- so far -- than she suspected he would.

She'll tell him what he needs to know, but there are some details he's really going to have to specifically ask for if he wants to know about them.

Holding the phone between the side of her face and her shoulder, she runs one fingertip back and forth over the side seam of her jeans. "You can pick out a name and date of birth for it. Birthplace, too."

"Damn, baby, you ought to help me pick."

300k and a little discretion: he knows how to do that. But the rest of it... he's got but one alias -- Sawyer -- and if it's up to him, he'll just have 'em put James Ford on the passport and call it a day.

"You be up for that? Buy you a beer and we can toss around some names and birthplaces." Hell, he just wants to see her. Spend some time with her. See where it ends up.

"What, you don't like James Ford?"

The breath she exhales is tinged with laughter, and she runs her hand through her hair.

"You want to meet me in the lounge and buy me a beer?"

She can do that. It's probably better than going to his room and definitely better than him coming to hers.

What name's on yours? It'd be the first thing he'd say to anyone else, but he's got a feeling that ain't gonna go over too smooth with Nancy Drew here, so he keeps it to himself. Later, when they're together, he can ask her... if he really wants to know.

He's betting it don't say Kate Austen.

"Sure. I'll meet you in the lounge and buy you a beer. See you down there in ten, unless you need more time to do that stuff girls do before they meet guys in lounges for beer." This ain't No-Mirror Island, after all.

He won't be bringing that cassette tape.

Laughing outright this time, she shakes her head.

"I'll see you in ten, Sawyer."

Yeah, she'll duck into the bathroom first and check herself out, but she doesn't have anything special in mind. It's just the lounge.

She might even meet up with him on the way down.

When they hang up, she does exactly what she figured she would: she runs to the bathroom long enough to smooth her shirt down, give her hair a quick brush. She comes back out, pockets her money card and passport, and grabs her keycard.

She gets any more cards like this and she may need a wallet.

It's only minutes before she's out the door and on her way.

So she's got a passport, knows about the asteroid next door, and ain't exactly what he'd call eager to get back in bed together. Whatever the hell's goin' on, it ain't what he expected. But it ain't what he didn't expect neither, kind of par for the course, maybe. She's skittish, Freckles, and about the most deer-in-the-headlights woman he ever met in his life, but that makes it all the more interesting.

Sometimes it's about the chase and sometimes it's about when the chase is over. He's got a feeling with Freckles, ain't never gonna be a day when the chase is over. Keeps a man on his toes, that kind of thought.

He likes it.

Running a hand through his hair, that ever-present just-in-case island stubble comfortable as anything on his face, he picks a fresh shirt out of the closet, buttons it up, makes sure his gun's in his waistband, and grabs his money card. He'll give Spike a call after this meetup with Amelia Earhart.

Don't take no more than about eight minutes till he's in the lounge. Sometimes you keep a woman waiting and other times, you surprise 'em by bein' early. Ain't no harm in neither.

Looks like he's just sitting down when she walks through the doorway, and there's not another soul in the lounge for the moment.

Just the ever-present bartender robot, tireless in his mixing and pouring efforts.

She heads straight for the bar stool next to Sawyer, and it... kind of sucks but even now he's magnetic. She feels it sharply in her gut as soon as she's beside him.

It's just hard, trying to work around what they've done. She can't look at him without knowing what those scruffy cheeks and chin feel like against her lips or bare stomach or inner thigh, and yeah, she'll admit it to herself: it's distracting as hell.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, cupcake." She looks damn adorable, and he shoves aside that whole hey, I'm doin' her and you ain't macho swagger crap now that they're face to face. There's a lot to like about her: the tilt of her nose, the way she rolls her eyes, the freckles splayed across her face, the way her hair curls and sticks to her forehead, that tiny waist. Her eyes. Her smile. The fact that she got a passport first and he didn't even know it or expect it; it ain't so easy to con a con-man. Makes him give her a measure of respect.

He ain't always done that with her, but no regrets. Not a single damn one.

The robot delivers the pair of ice-cold Fosters he ordered as a kind of an in-joke. Australia and all: she probably had a couple of those when she did her kindly volunteer work or whatever it was on the farm. And no, he ain't gonna ask.

Not today. In fact, he ain't even gonna bring up the whole passport thing, not yet. In good time. Sliding a beer over to her, their hands brush. "How you feelin'?" Last time she made noise about cramps, which he knows is girl for stay the hell away from me.

Her hand touches his longer than strictly necessary when he slides her beer over, and at first she assumes it's more him than her -- he's always done that kind of thing with her -- but a second thought makes her less certain, prompts her to pull her hand back very casually and raise her beer.

She smiles at him despite it, though, only a little bit crookedly.

"Fosters, huh? I'm feeling all right." The problem with that period excuse she gave him the night they went out to the movies after she got back is that it's only good for keeping some distance between them for so long. "How about you?"

This isn't the first time she's felt like they're sitting around and leaving a lot left unsaid.

"Me? I'm all right, Freckles." Let's see, he tells himself, ain't no one tryin' to kill him: that's good. Ain't no one trying to have him arrested: that's good. Ain't no one slappin' his face and tellin' him to get lost: that's good too. Ain't no one sayin' back off, Sawyer, the Mars deal's off. As far as he's concerned, that's real good.

For just a second he raises his hand like it's magnetically attracted to her hair. It wants to feel those silky strands between his fingers, let 'em cascade over the skin on the back of his hand. Yeah, he's got a thing for how it feels and usually he spends so damn much time figurin' out how to get what he wants he don't pay no mind to those little sensual pleasures. It's always the big picture, the end game, the con, the payoff.

Funny thing though: ain't no con here. This is real stuff, and what he wants to do is move those cans of Fosters ("it's Australian for beer, mate") away and give her a kiss she ain't likely to forget.

But that thought'll keep. Or it won't. It'll be there, persistent as hell in the back of his thoughts and then when he just can't stand it no more he'll give in to it like some damn Neanderthal claimin' his woman. And then they'll see where it goes.

"So what name you think I ought to use? Got any special requests for me to consider?" That's a good enough place as any to start, and there ain't gonna be no recriminations about how she already got her passport or went out into space by her lonesome or nothin' like that. No reason for that.

That really what you want to talk about?

She'd regret it as soon as she said it, so she bites the words back fiercely. She drinks some of her beer, then runs her index finger under her bottom lip.

"What was that actor's name? The one in the movie we saw?" The one in that Shooting Stars article in the magazine she read to him. "Dan Holson?"

Swiveling in her seat to face him, she grins.

"Bet you could have some fun with that."

Grinning fit to beat the damn band, he shakes his head, all amused. "I don't know, Freckles. Seems to me like there already is a Dan Holson. I ain't so sure I want to be callin' attention to myself like that."

She's right, though: he could have some fun with that. Yeah, imagine all the hubbub when people found out Dan Holson was on the shuttle, only to find out it's someone else with the guy's name.

No, they can do better than that.

"What name's on yours?" He asks it as casual as he can, but it'll confirm his suspicions one way or t'other. "Now before you get all mad at me, Freckles, let me just tell you one thing: don't matter to me if you got one already. All it means is that's less money I got to win at the slots to make sure the cost of two's covered."

It could be that the only business he takes seriously any more is the business of makin' sure Freckles got everything she wants. And that ain't like him at all, so it's takin' some gettin' used to. He's tryin'. Don't mean he'll always succeed, but he's makin' a damn good effort at gallantry.

There he goes again, dimpling up at her. If he laughs -- really laughs, his eyes crinkling and mouth open and head thrown back -- she could be a lost cause.

"Why would I get all mad at you?"

Their phone conversation alone was enough to tell her he suspected. She lifts her chin even though she doesn't keep her eyes on him the whole time.

"I asked about getting another one when I got mine, but Spike's guy suggested we wait a while before giving him a call." She shrugs a little, almost dismissive. "Mine's Marianne Lorress. Not my request," she admits with a small smile. "It's from a movie called A Lady Without Passport. I thought it worked well enough."

There's so many damn things he could say right now, everything from thanks for lookin' out for me to so when we go to Mars, does that mean I have to remember to call you Marianne? to I don't know, why would you get all mad at me to you're real pretty, you know that?

What he does say is this: "A Lady Without Passport: someone's got a sense of humor. I like the guy already." Smiling again, he takes a long pull of his beer before setting it down. "Hell, might as well just let the guy do the pickin'. My luck, I'll probably end up as Chewbacca or somethin'." That concept makes him laugh -- out loud and everything -- and the laughter's such a damn relief it's a minute before he can get himself to stop.

It ain't just anyone makes him laugh like this. Freckles must be somethin' special. Oh, hell, he knows she is.

His laughter makes her stop in her tracks, her beer can raised for another drink, and look at him with a frozen half-smile on her face.

And keep looking at him, her smile broadening against her will until she forces her lips to attach to the mouth of the can.

(And even then the edges of the smile are still probably visible.)

Don't laugh like that, she almost wants to tell him. Don't laugh and don't kiss me and don't touch my hair.

Back when she was Sunday school-age, she never thought being led into temptation would have anything to do with a scruffy con man with a make-you-melt grin and a bad attitude.

She should know better than this. She does know better.

And still she can't quite look away.

"Think Chewbacca would raise a few eyebrows." Another swallow of beer quickly follows the first. "What's got you needing to search for antique electronics anyway?"

He saw that smile. Hell, laughter's contagious and everyone knows it, and she sure does have a pretty smile. Ain't been much reason to smile on the island, especially not lately, and it's a damn nice thing to see on her.

That day they were breakin' rocks? When he stormed right over and kissed her? Sure, he did it to see what the resistance would be from the Others, but he also did it 'cause he couldn't stand goin' another damn minute without doin' it. It's like there was this little fishin' hole pond near where he grew up, before his daddy shot his mama and then himself, and in the heat of summer they'd all dare each other to jump in it first. They knew the water was gonna be cold as hell and a damn shock and it took some nerve to do it, but once you were in, did it ever feel good on those hot muggy Alabama afternoons.

That's what it was like that day: there was only so much he could stand not to do it, and it's the same thing here. He doesn't want to talk passports and names and he doesn't want to explain why he needs 20th-century electronics.

He just wants to kiss Kate.

And he can't put it off no longer: he pushes that beer can away from her lips and like she's the one he paid $10 to kiss at the county fair, leans in and takes what ain't his but ought to be.

Damn if she don't still taste like strawberries, even if this time it's tinged with beer.

Her heart seems to flutter up into her throat again, trapped. It's like every joint in her body is stubbornly rooted in place the second he leans in, and her protest when he moves her beer away never makes it out of her mouth.

It could, and it doesn't. It's almost a fully conscious decision.

Almost.

What is fully conscious is how her face turns toward him, the gradual parting of her lips against his, the choice she makes to keep her hands to herself but to kiss him until her lips feel like they're buzzing, until he's the one to back off.

She eyes him. "You trying to distract me?"

He used to answer her questions with smart-ass remarks or questions of his own. Now he's answering by moving in for a kiss.

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