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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Kate and Tom, 1989.

The words sound foreign rolling off Sawyer's tongue. Rather than flush, self-aware, she feels a chill creep up her neck and into her cheeks.

She thinks she's staring at him.

This is crazy. She's never mentioned that tape to anybody here or anybody they left on the island.

It's not mine, she wants to say, the instinct rising in shell-shocked slow motion, I don't know what you're talking about.

But if she tells him it's not hers and plays it down, he won't give her this easy chance at it again.

And if she reacts honestly, he sees what it means to her.

"Can I see the tape?"

"It's in my room."

That's the truth. She wants it, she comes up there and looks at it. Will she walk out with it? Hell, he don't know; he can't read the damn future. The only thing he knows for sure -- beyond the taste of her lips and the way she sets his stomach all to butterflies -- is that tape ain't his and for once in his life, he ain't interested in connin' no one out of what's theirs. Is he curious? Hell yes. Does he want to know what's on it? Hell yes. Will she share it?

Probably not. It'll be a price he has to be willin' to pay, though, or else this whole deal between him and her is off and he knows it. He doesn't want her goin' back to that damn island without him.

He doesn't want her goin' anywhere without him. He wants to go everywhere together, and like he told her that night on the island, he's never been in love.

That might be about to change.

(He can't read the damn future.)

"Come on up."

Meeting his eyes, she doesn't say anything for a second. She doesn't know if he'll really just give it to her. She doesn't know what he could have up his sleeve.

Tipping her head back, she drinks the last of the beer in her can and places it on the bar with a thin metallic tink. "All right."

After a barely noticeable nod, she rubs her hands against the thighs of her jeans.

"Let's go."

Now that was easier than he thought it was gonna be to get her in his room, but s till: there's somethin' a little tense about this whole thing. What the hell's on that tape?

He needs to know. It's sure got her rattled.

The ride up to the fourth floor is equally quiet; this ain't the time for no idle flirtation. He ain't gonna put no moves on her or nothin'. Once they're in the elevator, he rests his hand on her shoulder, but that's it. It's a move he could use on any friend and it wouldn't mean much more, except... it does. This thing they got is the one thing he don't want to lose. Tape's a tape, but there's only one Freckles.

And if he doesn't stop actin' like a damn lovesick puppy, he ain't never gonna get nowhere. Wasn't no damn boy scout who survived a plane crash and gettin' shot on a raft and tortured by a member of the Republican Guard and captured by Others. He wasn't no sorry predictable romantic.

No, he's got to be true to himself. As they leave the elevator and get to the door, he slides the key in, holds it open for her.

"Ladies first."

Already, a little bit of a plan's forming. He can't help it: that's what he does and it's who he is, and she knew that gettin' into this whole thing together.

His hand on her shoulder is almost a sweet gesture (or at least that's how she thinks of it) and his ladies first doesn't surprise her -- thanks, she has the presence of mind to tell him -- but tension steals up her spine as she walks through the door to his room.

And immediately, her eyes sweep the room, searching for the tape.

As if he'd have it out in the open.

It's probably stuffed in his pillowcase or tucked in his underwear drawer. When she turns her eyes back to him, it's a little bit expectantly.

"Guess you've stashed it away?"

They butted heads -- very literally -- over the Halliburton. She's not so sure they won't over this, too.

A little eager, ain't she? He guesses he could understand about that; he would be too. 1989 was a while ago, and she would've been how old then? Twelve? Somethin' like that.

"Stashed? That's cold, Freckles. I was just keepin' it safe. Didn't want the robots cleanin' it up, up, and away." Moving over to the bureau, he opens the top drawer and takes the tape out. It ain't stashed. If he wanted to keep it stashed, he'd hide it someplace way better than the first place anyone would look.

It's just a damn tape.

She wants to see it and he'll be more'n happy to show it to her. She didn't ask to have it, just to see it, so he holds it forward so she can do just like she asked.

"What'd you put on it?"

Her exhale is an abrupt little huff of air through her mouth, and she shakes her head a little. "I didn't mean anything by it. Just that you tucked it away somewhere."

As he opens that drawer and takes out the tape -- her tape -- she watches, eyes riveted, and it's exactly what he said it was. It's exactly what she was afraid (and afraid to hope) it was.

Kate and Tom, 1989.

It's been a long time.

She reaches out, her hand closing on the tape. "Nothing important." It comes out of her mouth automatically, and she knows there's no way that'll satisfy him. "It's just... mine."

This was gonna happen, he just knew it: they've both got Kate and Tom, 1989 in their hands and he ain't lettin' go and she ain't lettin' go. "Technically, Freckles, it's mine. It got delivered to me, not you. So maybe somethin' or someone here wants me to know what it is, or give it a listen."

Finders, keepers, right? Least this time she ain't pretendin' she don't care; it's obvious she does. "How about you tell me how come it's so important to you? Then maybe I'll give it over."

Probably not, but it's worth a try. The one thing he really doesn't want to do is have the thing break. Fixin' a cassette ain't easy business. He don't even have no Scotch tape at hand.

Her mouth goes ever-so-slightly slack, but her grip on the tape doesn't.

A little disbelieving, she raises her eyebrows.

"Technically, Sawyer, I don't see your name on it." She lifts her chin stubbornly. "So how about you give it over, and then maybe I'll think about telling you about it."

"How's about I know you better'n that, Freckles." He gives the tape over, he never sees it again. "Just ask yourself this: why the hell would someone deliver a tape with your name on it to my room?"

Unless...

Unless...

Well, how do. He gets it now: it's because him and Freckles swapped rooms, ain't it. Slowly, he lowers his hand.

"You find anything strange in your room lately, Sassafras?" That seems like the most likely next question. Now to see if she gives him a straight answer, for once.

After all that, it's hard to believe he just lowers his hand and lets her have the tape, but she takes it in both hands and doesn't waste time stuffing it into the pocket of her jeans. Whatever his reasoning is here, it's not the same as it was with the Halliburton -- even though her body's prepared for that, adrenaline flooding her veins, her whole body two steps short of fight-or-flight mode -- and she'd probably be smart not to question it.

"Why? You thinking I got something of yours there?"

Could've happened. The only reason he got the tape was because this is the room that's under her name.

She shakes her head once for an answer, then pauses and meets his eyes again. "Not unless there's a picture of a baby that means something to you."

A picture of a baby? He almost wants to ask her: cute little thing, round face, big blue eyes, little thatch of yellow hair? but that'd be stupid. He'd be givin' everything away all at once and he don't want to lose two hands in a row.

"What kind of a baby?"

His throat dries and he can feel his stomach drop all the way to the damn floor. Who's gonna send a picture of her? She ain't here and even if she was, she'd be old now.

What the hell's all this about?

For the first time since he said the words Kate and Tom, 1989, she cracks a smile.

Crooked. Slight. But it's a smile.

"How many kinds of babies are there?" She spreads her hands out low, near her pockets, and shrugs a little bit. "Older than Aaron, but not a year old. Big baby blues, chubby little cheeks. Fuzzy blonde hair."

For now, anyway.

Pausing a second, she considers him. "It's not you, is it?"

"Do I look like a damn baby?" He shakes his head, all defensive denial. "No, it ain't me."

He knows the picture she's talkin' about is the thing, and it ain't somethin' he accepted the first time but he's had a lot of time to think it over. Maybe Cass wasn't lying about her being his. Hell, no matter what, he owes her that much. He took a hell of a lot of money from her, left her high and dry, and Dimples wasn't a bad woman. And the kid, no matter whose she is, deserves to have someone take care of her.

That's how come he set her up with that reward money.

"You got the picture with you?"

Looks like now it's his turn.

"No," she answers automatically, eyes sharp even though she doesn't roll them this time. He just acts a little bit like one every now and then, wanting people to react a certain way to him. "But unless there's something I don't know about you--"

There's plenty she doesn't know about him.

"--you used to be one."

She shakes her head again. The picture means something to him just like the tape means something to her. He can't follow up that defensiveness he gave her the way he did and then try to pretend it doesn't. "I didn't bring it with me."

Damn, damn, damn.

There's only one thing to do, and that's strike a bargain. "Look, Freckles. You got your tape. Fair trade: your tape for the picture." He ain't even sure it's his picture. Make that Cass's picture.

Clementine. Clementine Phillips. Sure is a pretty name.

He has a daughter. (I ain't got no daughter.)

The sudden pang of responsibility and regret don't last all that long but still, he's spent a night or two wonderin' about her. He ain't completely hard-hearted.

"What do you say to that? We got a deal?"

That sharp look is back in her eyes.

It's easy for him to say that now that he's already given up the tape. Before he let go of it, she's not sure he would've been willing to make this deal.

"What'd you do if I didn't agree to it?" She has to ask. "Try to take the tape from me?"

That, he thinks, would've been a fair enough question for her to ask a couple weeks ago but today it stings. After what they shared, it stings. Right or wrong, it does. His brows furrow and his voice is low and determined.

"No, Kate. I'm not gonna take your tape away."

There's reasons he never let himself fall in love before, damn it all, and most of the time he wishes it wasn't happenin' right now. But then she looks at him with her eyes all heavy-lidded and he gets lost all over again.

Suddenly she's not Freckles. She watches him, and she's not sure what she's looking for.

But she believes him, whether she should or not. She believes him because he did turn the tape over before he knew about the picture. It surprised her, but he did it.

"Come on."

He's taken away any reason she could have had to keep the picture from him, and she'd never do it just to spite him. She almost steps closer toward him -- close enough to smell his cologne -- and puts her hand on his arm, but in the end she doesn't go through with it.

"Unless you want me to bring it back here for you."

She'd like nothing better than to ask him a few questions right now, but it's guaranteed that she wouldn't get any answers. Since she wouldn't answer his, there's no way he's going to answer hers.

He probably wouldn't even have answered if the picture had come up before the tape did.

"I'll go with you." It ain't 'cause he don't believe she'll bring it back. It's 'cause he worked too damn hard to get where they are now to risk watchin' it walk out the door away from him. His hand slides down to cover hers.

He wants to see that picture. He wants to see Clementine; he only saw her the one time, when Cass first showed her to him.

Why that picture? Why here, why now?

Watch, he tells himself, they'll get all the way there and it won't be her. It'll be someone else's baby. Some other picture. That'd be just his luck: he'll have given up the cassette tape just like a damn fool, and it'll all have been for nothin' at all.

Her expression softens a little.

"All right."

His hand's rough in hers, and she wonders if it's just a remnant of island life or if they were always like that. The first couple of times their hands touched what his hands felt like wasn't something she lingered on much. And then it turned into something she tried hard not to linger on much.

And now it's something she lingers on whether she wants to or not.

She lets go of him as they reach the stairwell, taking the stairs as fast as possible, and when they reach her room she unlocks the door and holds it open for him much like he did for her at his doorway.

Like the tape, the photograph of the baby is safely hidden in a drawer. When she moves away from the door, letting it close behind her, she immediately retrieves it and holds it out to him.

"It was on one of my pillows this morning."

Ain't that just weird. Not so much about the picture bein' on her pillow this morning; he's here from Magic Island where time stands still, polar bears roam, all the French chicks are crazy, smoke monsters guard the jungle, and kids get kidnapped off rafts at gunpoint. He's seen stranger things happen. No, what's weird is the way his feet practically fall out from under him when he sees that picture, although he does his best to hide it.

For a long time he just stares at the picture, glad she handed it over without any crap. He's havin' a hard time looking away and it's all instinct when he settles down on the edge of her bed, still staring at Clementine. Finally, he looks up at her, nods, and parrots her words from earlier.

"It's mine."

And ain't that such a loaded statement he can hardly stand it.

She hesitates.

"The picture?"

The baby isn't him. She think she may've even spotted evidence of tiny pierced ears in that picture. The confirmation that it's his picture is probably just as good as a confirmation that it's his baby.

Questions stick guiltily somewhere in her throat on the way out.

For a guy who's made a living of conning women, who's gotten around as much as he claims, can it be a surprise if somewhere along the way he got some woman pregnant?

No.

He could be harsh. He could snap at her. He could tell her somethin' like yeah, the picture, what'd you think I meant, Miss Suspicion? or what the hell else would I be talkin' about, that ain't my kid, I ain't got no daughter. He could just take the thing and stuff far far away like she did with her tape, so damn eager for him not even to be touching the thing any more, or like he was gonna grab it back after he already gave it to her.

In the end, though, he just says one word.

"Yeah."

Clementine, Freckles. Her name's Clementine, and I already did what I could for her. Do I look like daddy material to you? Hell no, she's better off without me, trust me on that one. I ain't no role model.

No, he ain't got no intention of sharing the story with her. No proud papa moments here; he simply tucks the picture into his shirt pocket, then leans over and kisses Kate like it could make the past go away for both of 'em.

It can't, but he sure as hell wishes it could. It ain't no kiss of seduction, but it is a kiss askin' for help. Askin' her to make lookin' at this little infant not be so damn hard, askin' her to forget their guilt over whatever the hell happened in the past together. As much as he likes to know and to pry and to ask questions, he hates to answer 'em himself so for right now, he ain't gonna ask her to explain a damn thing.

Her stance is almost awkward until he rises again, the picture disappearing into his pocket, and he kisses her.

It's not like before, when they were down in the lounge. There's need -- even want -- but it doesn't feel like he's going the extra mile to send desire spreading through her like wildfire, and she knows what it's like when he does.

Even so, his kiss burns into her mind like the presence of the tape in her pocket does. He has her attention; her hand spreads against his jaw until the kiss is over.

And when it is, she's not sure what to say.

"Thanks." The words are thick when they come out. "For the tape."

Whatever his reasons were, they don't seem to matter much at that moment.

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