Now and Then

Sawyer's POV:

Lately I've been thinking about this girl I used to know.

At six she was the perfect little doll; pale blonde hair, huge blue eyes, killer smile. Perfect smile, perfect girl. Her name should have been Elizabeth, but her parents had gotten cute with it and split it, so it was Eliza Beth. Eliza Beth Johnson.

Every Valentine's day all the boys in the class would compete to give Eliza Beth the prettiest handmade card, and she gave us all kisses in return for it. She had a sweet nature, our Eliza Beth. If she wasn't the smartest girl that ever lived, we didn't care. When she sang in the Children's Choir at church, that was the only time during the entire service that I really heard the Word of God.

And Eliza Beth made us all believe in God when we were teenagers. In the back of the movie theater, in the backseat of our cars, under the bleachers at the stadium. We all got to know Eliza Beth very well during those years. No one held it against her, and I don't remember ever hearing any of the nasty talk you usually hear about 'girls like that'.

Even though Eliza Beth was easier than instant pudding.

When Eliza Beth started getting sick in the morning, so did half the boys in town. To be honest, I don't know who was responsible. The baby looked a lot like Charlie McGee, and Eliza Beth said it was his, and old Charlie did what was expected of him and married her. That was all right before I left town. I heard later on that they had a nice happy marriage, and Eliza Beth popped out a lot of little McGees, and that was that.

You never forget your first love, they say, and I don't know that I did love Eliza Beth. I was fascinated with her, I was attracted to her, I dreamed about her. But I can't remember ever dreaming of being married to her, raising a family with her, growing old with her. If the baby had been mine, I would have married her, but I don't think it would have been a happy life. Sooner or later, I would have grown bored with her.

Maybe with me it's always been the hunt more than the kill. I loved going into nightclubs in Sydney, picking my prey from across the room, plotting my moves. I was a damn good hunter; I knew how to step lightly and I knew exactly the right words to say. I knew which game to go after, and which game to avoid.

I like steak. I think steak is wonderful. That doesn't mean that I want to eat steak every single meal for the rest of my life. Variety is the spice of life, and I was careful to avoid anyone who didn't believe that as well. I wasn't looking for a wife and kids; hell, I could have gone back home and had that easy enough. Anyone who looked like she was boyfriend/husband shopping I avoided like Black Death.

What I guess I'm trying to say to you is, don't expect too much out of this and don't expect too much out of me. Because maybe there isn't that much there to give. I liked Eliza Beth because we understood each other, we understood what we were in it for, and we didn't have unrealistic expectations of each other.

You take a tom cat, and you declaw him, and you chop his balls off, and what do you have left? Something mother nature never intended. Some kind of sick parody of what he used to be. That scares the hell out of me. The idea of getting all domestic and comfortable with someone scares me a hell of a lot more than the idea of that someone being another guy.

I just don't want there to be any misunderstanding between us, that's all. I'm not ready to be anyone's husband, and I'm sure as hell not willing to be anyone's wife.

Sayid's POV:

You mentioned cats, and that reminds me of Marid.

Marid was my cat when I was a boy. My father had found him half-starved in the streets and brought him home for us, thinking he'd catch the mice that kept getting into our grain. Marid did not disappoint him. He was a born hunter.

Marid also had an unusual trait about him. He hated closed doors. As long as the door to my room stood open, he would be content to sleep on my bed for hours. But the moment the door was shut, he would fuss and cry until I opened it again, and he would immediately flee to another part of the house or outside.

As long as I gave him the option to leave, he was content to stay by my side. So I learned at a very young age the value of giving freedom to those I care for.

Marid always returned to me. No matter where he roamed or how far, he always ended up back in my bed. Because he understood that no matter where he slept, only one place would ever truly be home.

Sawyer's POV:

When I wake up now, there are moments when I don't know where I am. I sometimes expect to see the walls of a hotel room, or the door of my car, or sometimes my old room at home. Then I see the woven walls, and I feel the breath against my neck, and I remember.

In the beginning, I always left before he awoke, but now sometimes I stay. I watch him sleep, watch his eyelids flutter in REM and I wonder what he's dreaming about. I never ask him and he doesn't offer to tell me.

If I wait long enough his eyes open, and I see the same sleepy confusion in them at first. Then his head tilts to the side and he smiles, and I can see that he's pleased I stayed the whole night with him. He reaches out and I'll feel the rough tips of his fingers against my forehead, then my right cheek, then my left one, and then finally against the tip of my nose. It's an odd little ritual of his, but I like it. If he sees that I'm agreeable, those touches may be followed by faint brushes of his lips, and if I'm agreeable to that, it may be quite some time before we get around to leaving his shelter and joining the others.

In the mornings I don't stay, I can't stay, I slip out of his shelter go down to the beach. I've decided that I love to go jogging in the sand as the sun is coming up, and before the other passengers are trooping down to bathe, or sun themselves, or go fishing. For just a little slice of time, the beach is mine.

Well, usually. Sometimes Walt's dog joins me on my run, and I don't mind that. The dog is a good listener, and Walt doesn't mind sharing him with me for a little while.

But lately, the mornings jogging with the dog are being outnumbered by the mornings with Sayid. I don't know how I feel about that, to be honest. It frightens me.

Today is a beach morning, and Vincent has beat me to it, already splashing in the waves. I begin my jog and he runs at my side, his tongue hanging out and his tail swishing back and forth. Alive, the doggy grin on his face seems to say. I'm ALIVE and I'm loving it!

I trip and fall down into the waves, and lie there on my back laughing, because it is a good morning, and I had one hell of a nice night, and more to look forward to.

And I am ALIVE.