doing everything by halves, got a real flare with excuses

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.

party's over and you don't look so good

Somewhere along the lines of learning how to live with and support an infant, Sawyer completely forgot that he was a smoker.

Well, that wasn't completely true.

He hasn't smoked regularly for years now. It wasn't a habit that Juliet was fond of, and Sawyer wasn't in the habit of denying her anything that she asked of him. He'd picked it up briefly again after her death, but in the last stretches of tumult that the island threw at them, there wasn't much time for it. Even in Darrow, he's only smoked to be social more than anything else — too many troublesome rules and laws about where they're permitted to smoke in the city for him to bother with. It's easier going without.

And when Cleo came along, well. He was too engrossed in constantly being by her side to even think about stepping away for a smoke. The rare occasions that he returned with the smell of it on his clothes from others in construction, he'd thrown those clothes directly in the hamper. Hell, if he were shaving regularly, he might even look cleaned up.

But for some reason, when he's at the grocery store today, his gaze turns towards the cigarettes. And then towards the alcohol. Would it be so bad if he bought a couple of beers? He stands in the middle of the aisle, looking slightly helpless, before a man gives him a glare for stopping right in the middle of the walkway.

"Sorry," he mutters, hanging his head briefly. "Damn it. Just hit the list and get your ass home, LaFleur."