James "Sawyer" Ford

In the first few months after Clementine arrived in the city, Sawyer hated leaving her side for even a moment. It wasn't any sort of romantic parental instinct at play — far from it, it was nervousness that kept him attached to her at practically all hours for which he was home. Afraid that she'd fall, or break something, or otherwise be hurt beyond repair.

Ironically, now that she's been walking and making her own way around the apartment more, Sawyer feels at ease leaving her for longer days with her nanny. Something about the fact that Clementine can now point at a place on her body if it hurts, or offer different words when she needs help getting things, puts him at ease. He's been able to communicate with his child now in ways he never could before.

Which is why, when the nanny offers to add on another hour to her time with Clementine without charge, Sawyer takes it. Adds on the extra wage she'd be paid normally despite her protests, reaches in his fridge for a couple of beers, and makes his way to the roof of the building to watch the sun set.

It's not a bad way to close out the day.

When he spots a familiar face also emerging from the stairwell, Sawyer grins, holding up his second bottle of beer. It's too cold outside for there to be much condensation on the glass, but in spite of the way the goosebumps rise on his skin, Sawyer can't help but think that he feels more like himself right now than he has in months.

"Join me for a beer?"

Even though Sawyer decided months ago that there's no way to balance work, a kid, and starting as a student at the police academy, it sure doesn't stop him from wondering ever now and again. Sometimes, when he's not yet ready to try and put on a smile for Clementine as he comes home from work, Sawyer takes the longer path around the city, detouring until he can pass by the police station and give it a long, lingering look. With how often he does it, Sawyer wouldn't be surprised if the people inside are starting to grow wary of him.

But, hell. He's a one hundred percent law-abiding citizen now. No shady business. Far less cash, too, which is the real problem.

Being a straight shooter doesn't help sawyer put money towards keeping Clementine comfortable. She might be content with the way things are now, but sooner rather than later, she'll be ready for preschool. She'll start seeing what other kids have. Two parents for most of them, and better clothes, better lunches. That's the issue with a place like Darrow. It's too much of a city for Sawyer to pass himself off as one of the rest.

He glances over at the familiar building, stalling slightly in front of its doors before he takes a bite of the apple he purchased from the nearby convenience store. It's mealy, and none too fresh, but somehow, it feels like it buys him time.

Only after he's asked the opinions of practically every parent he knows in Darrow does Sawyer finally work up the courage to take Cleo to the beach. It's not a place he's gone to often, in spite of how he's been in the city for well over half a year. Even if the beach doesn't closely resemble the tropical climates he'd been in for years before arriving, he still can't look out at the water without expecting something to come out of it. Without imagining himself hurtling down, stomach flipping and turning on end, bracing for the impact.

Hell, he arrived here on a crashing plane. Sawyer thinks he's permitted a little nervousness.

But the weather's gotten a little warmer, and Cleo's old enough to be taken out for longer periods of time. There are only so many trips that Sawyer can make to the park before it gets a bit old, so he decides to take her by the water today.

It turns out that she loves it, the lapping and blinking of the sun over the waves. He's already caught her simply staring into the ocean several times, mouth agape and hands gently fisted in his coat. It's downright adorable, and makes the trip worth it.

The weather's not warm enough to let her dip her toes in the water, but Sawyer treks up to an abandoned pail by the side of the water and eases it deeper into the sand, sitting himself on top of the tired red plastic. He rests Cleo on his legs, letting her lie against his chest as she stares out at the water.

It's peaceful.

On the way over to Andrea's apartment, Cleo can't seem to stop kicking her legs in delight. Although there's no way for Sawyer to interpret the occasional babbling that she manages to squeeze around the fingers stuffed in her mouth, he likes to think that it's because she's getting to venture outside when the sun is high, that she's with Sawyer for a rare day off as they venture through town. There are times when he lets himself worry about the fact that Cleo spends more waking hours with her babysitters than directly with her father — but he's doing the best that he can, and she doesn't seem to have any trouble handling the hand-off.

So he'll forgive himself for the time being, for his inexperience and his lack of availability. And work until he can say that he's no longer behind in either.

"You ain't got the slightest clue what we're up to, do ya?" he asks the baby quietly, reaching for her washcloth to wipe away the drool on her fingers, trying to encourage her to take her pacifier instead. When she does so only after a sigh, he chuckles. "Yeah, I know. Papa's no fun."

Tugging her knit cap further down on her head, he presses a kiss on top of her forehead before taking Cleo up the elevator. She wiggles as the elevator picks up speed, wide blue eyes staring both up and down, towards the edges of the cart, one of her hands finding its way to Sawyer's collar and holding tight.

"It's okay," Sawyer says, hushing as he bounces her lightly, patting her back. "I'd take you up the stairs, but six floors makes for a bumpy ride. C'mon, let's go meet the other Clementine."

Once in front of Andrea's apartment, Sawyer makes sure to keep his shoulders back, trying his best to look presentable in spite of his windswept appearance, reaching out to knock sharply on the door.

It's been a long time since Sawyer's turned steadily to drink. The Island never let a person run too far away from their troubles, not in this way. When you had to carefully pick and choose the things that were brought into your world, the conscious decision to avoid bringing vices was easier. There was no profit motive, nothing for the Island to gain from it. That just wasn't why anyone went there in the first place.

But here in Darrow, the bartenders are nothing but encouraging when they fill Sawyer's glass to the brim.

Being in the city's been difficult. He knows that his life on the Island was destroyed, razed down to the ground, and that there ain't any meaningful rebuilding of that to be had. It's the idea that there's been some other part to his life that he can't fully remember, a case of memories mostly beyond his reach, that has him drinking now. A complication that he didn't foresee, that he doesn't know how to process, and the only way to get him to stop thinking about it is to make it impossible to think at all.

"I need your keys," the bartender said, and Sawyer snorts in amusement before tossing over the keys to the truck he uses for construction work.

"Wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon, anyway," he grits in reply before downing the rest of the glass.

Even though there's an apartment waiting for him a few blocks down, secure and safe and sound, Sawyer never spends very long in the space. After months of living on an island with the open air constantly above and around him, an apartment feels too enclosed, traps him in a way that he only ever associates with danger these days, so he leaves as often as he can, sparing only a few hours each evening to recharge with fitful, restless sleep.

He avoids practically every one of them at first, the individuals who happened across him at the site of the plane crash, their eyes too knowing and tones too soft to be a coincidence. A new city isn't terribly much to take in, but trying to find the line between friend and enemy is too much of a task when Sawyer sometimes feels like he's never been a good enough judge of character in the first place. Eventually, however, the questions gnaw at him, unwilling to leave as he tosses and turns in his sheets, and unless he wants to gradually let himself drain of all energy, it needs to be addressed.

Which his why he shrugs on a jacket, stalks into the street. He's done some odd jobs here and there, but nothing requiring regular hours, so instead he walks by some of the major living establishments, trying to find her. Kara Thrace, callsign Starbuck.

Something about the way she had approached him felt safe.

With enough nosing around, he managed to lock on a likely residence, and having a free day on his hands, Sawyer sat himself down near the entrance of Chelsea Cloisters with a book in his hands to ward off any suspicion.

Hopefully she was around.

Alcohol was something that one tended to ease themselves into. Taking a single drink, then another, never really intending to drink neck-high, but so easily crossing over with a few hours' spare time. For some time, Sawyer had been taking drinks as though they'd raise some type of fog around himself, but that day, he became all too aware, and thus was faced with the decision of whether or not to continue. An empty glass sat in front of him as he sat by the counter of the Hub, and he ran his finger along the rim before pushing it out to the tender.

"Just water," he requested, putting off the choice for that much longer.

There were plenty of things to drink to, plenty of reasons to drown himself in it, but for the first time in quite a while, Sawyer was starting to find some type of foundation under his feet.

Which, strangely enough, wasn't necessarily a great feeling.

Over two months on Tabula Rasa, and it's quickly growing evident that ain't coping well with the change. The two islands may be well and similar enough on the surface, but there ain't any pretending 'bout where the two of us are meant to be. Whatever amount of good we can do here, it ain't the same as what we did back home, keeping people safe, keeping them alive, bringing them home. I know Tabula Rasa gets up to all manner of crap, but thing is, you live here long enough, you start to see that nothing changes around here. Nothing but who's walking on the island, I guess.

People ain't dying. People ain't suffering. It's just a freaking train stop along the way. And the doc's never done well with being caged.

I know he's drinking, and I know it's starting to become a problem. I haven't been drunk off my ass for a while now, probably not since Kate left, but I'm sure hanging out at bars often enough that people might think otherwise. Most of the time, it's the Hub, less family-friendly and more like your usual dive. But sometimes, he heads to the Winchester too.

Like today.

I'm sittin' a couple tables away, keeping an eye on Jack while he drinks. More 'cause I know how well the good doc's capable of practically blowing up in front of others, and I ain't sure who all even knows how to start calming the guy down.

Although truth be told, I could use a little calm myself right now.