Disclaimer: I do not own Lost – if I did Libby and Shannon would still be alive and a character who shall not be named would be dead. Or at least permanently missing.

Pre-Read Notes: This is a story about Jack's life post-island. I for one don't see a scenario like this ever actually playing out – but sometimes you just gotta switch things up for a story. And since fluff and humor are beyond my meager abilities, it's angst or nothing. And I apologize right away if my tenses shift. I'm writing the flashbacks in past tense and the current storyline in present tense and for whatever reason that messes with my mind.

I listened to two songs while I wrote this. "It's Getting Better all the Time" by Brooks and Dunn and "Whiskey Lullaby" by Brad Paisley with Allison Krause.

If Things Were Different

He lifts the drink to his mouth and he can't quite remember if it's his first or his seventh. If he switched from Bloody Marys to gimlets in the afternoon, or if he's been drinking whiskey since morning. All he knows is that the glass is never empty and his stomach is never full.

And he doesn't know how long he's been here, perched on this lopsided barstool staring out a murky window into a darkened street. And he doesn't care that with each sip he stumbles closer to the edge, to the downward spiral that consumed both his father and grandfather before him. So he takes another drink, savors the burn as it glides down his throat, and orders another round.

He's been back a year. One full year since the rescue boat's light appeared through the curtain of darkness that shielded the island from the rest of the world. A year since he said his goodbyes to Rose and Bernard, who'd chosen to live out the remainder of their lives on the island. To Locke, who'd disappeared into the jungle as soon as the ship's metal hulk had blinked on the horizon.

And to Kate, who'd left him standing alone on a ship's deck.

"I can't let them find me, Jack. I'm sorry." Her voice was a whisper, the movements of her lips stiff as if she couldn't quite bring herself to say the words aloud.

The words deflated him, and Jack could only stare at where she stood beside him at the ship's railing. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, the lines of her body tense. She looked frozen, an inanimate copy of herself. He willed her to look at him, to reassure him that her words didn't mean what he thought they did. But, as the silence between them lengthened, a hard knot formed in his chest.

"Kate..."

"No." She shook her head, refusing to let him try and convince her. "They'll be looking for me the minute we dock, Jack. I don't have a choice."

"I don't believe that." The doctor in him, the man who saved lives and fixed people, refused to give in.

"If there were any way, Jack..." Her voice pleaded, begged him not to press her. She dropped her chin to her chest and closed her eyes. A lock of hair worked it's way loose from her pony-tail and fell across her cheek. "I'm running as soon as we hit dry land. I'll be gone before the last person gets off this ship."

Her voice sounded resigned, final. She'd made her decision. Until that moment he'd managed to convince himself there was a way for them. That the fate that had brought them together on the island – and he admitted to himself now that it was fate - would keep them together when they were finally rescued. But her words were like a bucket of cold water on his back. His body stiffened and his hands gripped the railing in a spasm of panic. Briefly he wondered if he could ask the captain to turn around, to drop them back on the island and forget he'd ever found them. But Jack dismissed the desperate foolishness almost as soon as it crossed his mind.

Instead he took a step toward Kate, lifted one hand to grip her shoulder. He could feel the heat of her beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. She tried to shirk away at his touch, to distance herself, but he held firm. "Kate, there must be something we can do. Some way to fight this."

Then, for the first time since they'd loaded the ship, she met his eyes with her own. Her gaze was direct and unflinching, but a dullness lurked just past the surface and he knew she'd accepted what he could not.

"I'm sorry, Jack. After what I did...there can't be any happy endings for me."

The door swings open on squeaky hinges and a rush of cool air blows in. Jack, dressed in only a t-shirt and jeans, turns his back to the door and scrunches forward, tries to keep his meager warmth to himself.

"I thought I'd find you here." The voice penetrates the alcohol-induced haze that clouds his mind. Murky and distant, he recognizes the slow southern drawl that lingers indolently over each word.

Jack glances hurriedly over his shoulder, unsure if the what he sees is real or an apparition. In faded jeans and a worn jacket, Sawyer strides toward him, his mouth tugged in a lopsided smile. His hair is shorter and his face bare of the perpetual stubble from their island days. He walks with a limp, favoring his right leg, and Jack wonders what trouble he's been causing.

"Sawyer." Jack starts to stand but Sawyer waves him back.

"Don't stand on my account." He smiles and plunks down on the stool next to Jack's. "I wouldn't want you fallin' over and causing a scene."

"I can stand just fine." To prove it, Jack lurches to his feet and motions for the bartender to bring Sawyer a glass. "What do you want?"

"A little of what you're having will do just fine."

"Two whiskeys, please." The bartender nods and sets them up quickly, the bottle of whiskey never far from Jack's seat.

Sawyer downs his drink without hesitation. He slaps the empty glass on the table and releases a satisfied sigh before he turns back to Jack, as though just remembering he's there. "Now how come you don't seem surprised to see me?"

Jack shrugs slowly, too much alcohol and too little food taking its toll. "Maybe because not much surprises me these days." He smirks, an expression he's still not used to, and takes a sip from his glass.

"Ah." Sawyer nods thoughtfully. "A side-effect of living on a tropical island inhabited by polar bears, no doubt."

Surprised into laughter, Jack inhales his whiskey. He coughs violently and doubles over bar. Each hacking cough brings a wave of pain and he struggles to catch his breath. Sawyer leans toward him and slaps his back, hard thumps that vibrate through Jack's skull. The ex-con chuckles the whole time.

"It's alright," For a moment Jack thinks Sawyer is trying to comfort him. Then Jack realizes he's only smoothing things over with the bartender. Reassuring the man that Jack's not too drunk to be here. "I just told a joke at the wrong moment's all. He'll settle down in a minute."

Sawyer's hand grips Jack by the back of the neck. "Won't you, Saint Jack?"

Jack grabbed Kate's other shoulder and turned her whole body to face him. She resisted but he refused to let her back away. When they were face to face, mere inches apart, he was reminded of their first – their only - kiss. They'd stood just like this, him gripping her shoulders, her wide eyes staring into his. Only this time he was the one who needed comfort, the one who was drowning. And some sneering voice that lurked in the back of his mind told him there'd never be a way for either of them to fix this.

"What did you do? Tell me, Kate."

Her eyes flared at his request and he thought she might bolt. He tightened his grip and waited while she shook her head and grasped at his arms. Her fingers dug into the soft skin beneath his forearms, pleading without words for him to let her go. "I can't," she whispered. "I don't want you to know."

Jack shook his head. "I need to understand this, Kate. And I want to hear it from you." He didn't demand, but kept his voice gentle, almost coaxing.

Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and Jack could only watch while she tried desperately to blink them away. No match for the struggle, she bowed her head until the smooth skin of her forehead touched his chest. The warm, solid weight of her slender body leaned against him and Jack felt the first flood of her tears seep through his shirt.

Carefully he ran his hands down her arms, ready to wrap her shaking form closer to him. But Kate chose that moment to push away. She stepped back unsteadily, and the tips of her fingers hovered a hairs-breadth away from his chest as though to ward him off.

Her nose was pink and the twin streaks of her tears ran down her cheeks to her quivering chin. Her eyes were fixed on the top button of his shirt, and he could tell from the way her jaw worked that she was clenching her teeth. Visibly, she gathered herself. One deep, shuddering breath later she raised her eyes to his. The shimmer of unshed tears lingered in her eyes, but the aching vulnerability was gone. In its place was a detached resignation.

"I'm a murderer Jack. I killed my father."

"So, how are you Sawyer?"

Sawyer shrugs and plays with the label on the beer he's just ordered. "I'm doing alright for myself. You know, payin' the bills, stayin' out of jail. Life doesn't get much better than that."

Jack chuckles, not sure he believes. "Still up to your old tricks?" He doesn't condemn Sawyer, not anymore. He's fallen too hard from his own pedestal to judge another man's life.

"Who me?" Sawyer's voice gets high and he gives that innocent smile of his, the one that really isn't innocent at all. "I turned over a new leaf when we got home, Doc. An experience like the one we went through will change a man."

He holds Jack's eyes for a moment too long and Jack knows Sawyer's not just talking about himself. He wants to bristle, to get angry and indignant, but he doesn't have the will. Sawyer's right, their experience on the island did change him. It exposed a weakness he thought he'd avoided inheriting. But time proved it had only been lying dormant, waiting for the right moment, the right excuse, to take hold of his life and squeeze.

"So, you managed to get back on a plane yet?" Sawyer asks, his casual attempt to change the subject.

"No. I've tried, but I can't bring myself to do it." His laugh his self-conscious. "I even bought a ticket once. I was going to visit an uncle in Peoria." He shrugs and spins his glass absently. "I never made it to the airport."

Sawyer throws back his head and laughs appreciatively.

"What about you?" Jack asks, his voice challenging.

"Well, of course I've flown. I've never been a man to be ruled by irrational fear." Sawyer lifts his beer in a mock toast. "Flying is still the safest way to travel. And it sure beats the hell out of a thirty hour drive." He leans forward and gives Jack a conspiratorial smile. "Besides, I figure we've survived the odds. Even I haven't done anything to deserve death taking two swings at me."

Jack chuckles without humor. "You sure about that?"

"I'd bet the farm on it."

Their conversation lapses into silence and Jack has the uncomfortable feeling Sawyer is assessing him, measuring him. He motions for another drink, ready for a change he makes it a gimlet. The vodka is on the other side of the bar and Jack taps his fingers impatiently on the scarred surface of the bar, his chin resting in the other hand.

"You know, I met your father in a bar once. You remember that?" Sawyer's voice is soft, deceptively nonchalant.

"Yep." Jack keeps his answer is short and his eyes on the bartender. His father is not something he wants to talk about. Especially not with Sawyer.

"Yeah, me too." But Sawyer presses on. "I remember thinking that I'd never met a man so intent on drinking himself to death."

Jack jerks involuntarily and knocks over his empty glass. He moves to right it but Sawyer beats him to it. In one smooth movement he's set the glass down and grabbed a fistful of Jack's worn t-shirt. Surprised, Jack tries to lean away and break the other man's grip, but Sawyer gives one hard jerk and nearly pulls Jack off the barstool.

The switch is too quick for Jack's befuddled mind and he has to blink to clear his thoughts. When his vision comes back into focus he is staring at blue eyes alive with fury and lips curled in a sneer. "What the hell are you doing, Jack?"

The change is so abrupt, Jack has trouble following. He closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind. "Let me..."

Sawyer shakes Jack hard. "I ain't lettin' you do nuthin'. You look like shit and you smell worse."

Still reeling, Jack grabs Sawyer's wrist tries to twist free. Without a hitch, Sawyer reaches behind Jack's arm with his other hand and pinches Jack's triceps. Jack jerks backward, his hands drop from Sawyer's wrists and he nearly falls off his stool. Only Sawyer's choke-hold on the collar of his shirt keeps him upright.

"Damn it, Sawyer. That hurt."

"Good." Sawyer settles Jack back on his stool and leans in until Jack can smell the beer on his breath. "Now you listen to me you little shit, I don't know what the hell it is you think you've got goin' on here, but it has to stop."

Anger burns to life and Jack matches Sawyer's sneer with one of his own.

"Leave it alone, Sawyer. I sure as hell don't need advice from someone like you." Jack pushes against Sawyer's shoulder but the other man doesn't move. Too drunk to do much else, Jack goes limp, the fight gone out of him. Sawyer looks him over from head to toe, then snorts in disgust and lets him go with a shove. Jack teeters backward but manages to steady himself against the bar.

"We're getting out of here." Sawyer grabs Jack's wallet, which sits open on the bar. Casually the he flips through it before he extracts a handful of bills. He slaps them on the bar and grabs Jack by the shirt again. "I sure hope that's enough."

He'd expected something like this, but the wave of shock that crashed into him left him shaking, speechless. Seeing his reaction, Kate's lips twisted into a humorless smile.

"So what do you think about that, Jack?"

Her voice dripped with bitterness and her eyes had dropped to the ship's deck. She stood a mixture of defiance and uncertainty, as though she expected him to condemn her but hoped against hope that he wouldn't. Knowing her as he believed he did, as he knew he did, he couldn't turn his back on her.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to." Kate's words came out with a snarl, her defenses springing to life instantly.

"I know you had a reason, Kate." He took a careful step toward her. When she didn't back away, he took another.

She swallowed audibly. "Because he was a drunk. Because he was a drunk and he beat my mother and he..." Her throat seemed to close, her words strangled. She opened her mouth again, to speak, to tell him, but her voice had dried up.

"Oh, Kate." He didn't know what to say or where to start. He wanted to say so much, but they didn't have enough time for him to say everything. She'd told him the truth, and he was grateful. It didn't change how he felt, it didn't change his belief in her innate goodness. But he didn't know how to express it without making it sound like he was forgiving her for something that had nothing to do with him.

So instead of words he took another step toward her. Their bodies were mere inches apart and with each crest of a wave their bodies swayed toward one another.

"I wish it wasn't like this," she whispered, her voice so quiet that Jack had to strain to hear her over the lapping ocean. Jack wished it, too. "My whole life I've done nothing but wish things were different. But it's too late now."

Mist hangs in the air, coats Jack's bare skin with moisture. He supposes it should feel good, a change from the oppressive heat and smoke that had clogged his throat in the confines of a small-town bar. But he wants the bar back, with its smoke and anonymous faces and its forgetfulness. Anything to replace what he sees in Sawyer's eyes.

"What the hell are you doing to yourself, man?"

Jack shakes his head. Sawyer's presses into his chest, pushes him flat against the brick building. He wants to collapse, to crumple and curl into a ball and lay there until he dies.

"Do you know what she'd think if she could see you now?"

At the mention of Kate, Jack's head rolls forward and hangs over his chest. A calloused hand grips his chin and pushes his face upright. Like a rag doll, he doesn't resist.

"Yeah, you know," Sawyer sneers. "She'd be sick with disgust. She probably wouldn't even recognize you. Hell, she'd probably wonder why she ever fell in love with you in the first place." Sawyer bares his teeth at Jack, the expression almost predatory. But, slowly, a look of contemplation comes over his face, like a light dawning.

"No, that's not quite right," he whispers. "It wouldn't be quite like that, would it, Jacko?"

"Sawyer..."

"I'm not finished. There was a time when I thought I was the one who was supposed to disappoint her, to hurt her. But it seems as our roles have been reversed. If she could see you now it would break her heart right to pieces. And this time her pain would be all on you, Jack. Just you."

Jack has no words. No words to defend himself, to justify what he's become. The truth in Sawyer's words is deafening. But it's the same truth he confronts on his own ever morning he wakes up with an empty bottle in his hand. The same truth he sees every night he falls asleep with her mugshot – the only picture he has of her - between his fingers.

Sawyer's eyes skewer him with their disgust, their pity, and even their pain. And for the first time Jack allows himself, forces himself, to imagine what Kate might see if she were above him right now. A needle and thread will not patch him up this time. He's not even sure there's enough pieces of him left to be put back together.

Abruptly Sawyer's hand leaves his chest. Jack sinks to his knees, hits the pavement with a crack. He curls forward, into himself, and falls to the ground. Moisture seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, drenches his skin, but he doesn't notice the cold, not even when he begins to shake.

"Jesus, Jack." Sawyer's voice is a murmur through fog.

Jack closes his eyes and presses his face into the pavement.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he whispers.

"Will I ever see you again?"

"I...I honestly don't know." It hurt to hear the words but she was being honest. At least she could give him that.

Those green eyes searched his, combed across his features, and Jack knew she was memorizing his face, trying to commit him to memory.

He almost kissed her then. Lord knew he wanted to. He wanted to close his eyes and lean forward and press his lips against hers and keep them there until the day he died. But he had the very real fear that, if he did, he would not be able to stop himself from doing something stupid. Something that would put her and her flight in jeopardy. And he'd never be able to forgive himself.

So he stood still and let her eyes roam his face while his tried not to close beneath the combined weight of grief and regret.

Somewhere up ahead Jack heard someone call out that land was in sight. A spontaneous cheer rose up from the huddling group of castaways, their joy and relief palpable. But Jack's stomach dropped.

The change in Kate was automatic. Her body was primed for flight and Jack knew she was itching to hit dry land, to take off and disappear as only she knew how. The knowledge that this could be the last time he'd ever see her clawed at his gut. A mounting feeling of helplessness held him immobile while his mind roiled in fruitless anger.

"I'm sorry, Jack." Her hands cupped his face, caressed the stubbled planes of his cheeks. That simple touch broke him. Tears burned at the backs of his eyes.

"I..." Jack struggled for words, unable to find them in the aching depths of his hurt. He wasn't used to this, wasn't used to pain he couldn't control. He looked wildly around the ship, at anything but her. Even now the words would not come.

"It's better this way." She tried to reassure him, tried to soothe some of the wounds eating away at him.

"No, it's not." He shook his head, the tears of grief replaced with ones of anger. "I love you, Kate." He hadn't wanted to say it that way, full of anger and swimming in regret. He'd wanted them together for good, alone with each other and happy. Without secrets or uncertainty between them.

The hands on his cheeks trembled and slid from his face. Kate took a step back, as though she needed the distance to say what she had to stay. But her eyes stayed on Jack's and he imagined she was willing him to believe her, to acknowledge the truth she spoke but could not show.

"If things were different Jack... If things were different I'd walk off this ship with you and never look back. But we both know I can't." She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm so sorry, Jack."

Then she turned on one foot and walked away, leaving Jack with one hand pressed against his forehead, the other clutching the railing.

Post-Read Notes: I have a tendency to be a little abrupt with my endings, but I hope this one works because I wanted to leave Jack adrift, or in a sort of limbo. For right now I'm leaving this as a one shot,so the reader can decide Jack's future.