you can have a head full of the best ideas

[confidenceman]

Not long after Alex Linus had departed from the island, the hut started falling slightly into disrepair. It wasn't a bad place to live, all things considered— neither Sawyer nor Hurley were particularly messy people, but neither were they the neatest guys around, and without a young woman around to provide extra incentive to tidy up, the hut had accumulated some clutter. Beds were left unmade. Doors held ajar. But as far as Sawyer was concerned, he had more important things to spend his time on, like catching up on sleep so that he could do his very best when patrolling as part of the IPD, or so that he wouldn't start drifting off in the middle of his radio show. Or even so that he could trudge on over to the kitchen whenever Hurley was cooking, sure to find something good roasting on the stove.

Being gone so much of the time, he hadn't even imagined that there would be a need to keep something out.

The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon when Sawyer heard a rustling, sounding like it was coming from the common room. Groaning, he buried his face in his pillow, trying to pull his sheets over his shoulders and coax himself back to sleep, but the racket continued.

"Hugo," he called out, voice heavy with sleep. "Y'mind keepin' it down?"

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[notcooldude.livejournal.com]

Hugo Reyes was not, in fact, anywhere near the common room, but down the hall in his own room, bent over a book. On how to play the guitar. It seemed like as good a time as any to try, and he'd been having trouble sleeping since Alex had left - somehow he'd gotten into habits, and they'd been uprooted already. When he heard Sawyer's voice, he didn't hear the words it was saying ... but it sounded cranky enough that his brows knit, and he abandoned his squinty early-morning reading, and left his own room to go over and see what was going on. Honestly, who knew? And enough had happened to Hurley in the last few years that he didn't feel like taking chances when it could have been an alien face-hugger or someone with a fire axe and a stone to grind it on.

Who knew?

But leaning around the corner of the door into the room (privacy was apparently not a first in Hugo's mind,) he didn't see any aliens or axe-murderers. He just saw Sawyer, tangled in his bed, looking cross - by which he meant, looking very Sawyer-like.

"Uh," he said, to register his confusion. "I'm, like, not ... making any noise. Maybe you're imagining it. Are you stressed out or something?"

[confidenceman]

The problem with doors in island huts was that they creaked. A lot. Unless one felt like prostrating themselves in front of Tony Stark's door, getting proper metal hinges for doors inside bamboo huts was a chore, one that just didn't seem worth it, and so the hut that Sawyer had originally secured for Alex and himself was one that was pretty sparse in comforts, though large enough that they'd both had more than enough room to themselves. But without the materials to make for the quietest of foundations, Sawyer had heard every step of Hurley's as the other man approached Sawyer's room, creaks and groans, and it only made him bury his head further under his pillow. Sometimes, one just felt like bitching, even if there wasn't anything particularly important to moan about.

That morning was one of those days.

"You accusin' me of hearin' things?" Sawyer asked incredulously, the tone coming through in spite of being muffled by his pillow. "You're the last person to point fingers 'bout being crazy, Hugo."

As though to emphasize his point, the rustling from the common room continued, and the scratching of something against the wall. Sawyer froze, then slowly pulled himself out from under his covers, brow heavily furrowed. "You heard that, right?"

[notcooldude.livejournal.com]

"I'm not accusing you of squat, okay? I'm just saying--"

Whatever it was that Hurley was just saying remained forever a mystery, even to himself, because before he could finish the thought (which was occurring at about the speed he was spitting the words out,) whatever it was that Sawyer heard ... he heard. He narrowed his brows first at Sawyer, as if it could be some kind of trick, and then turned his head down the hall, toward the common room.

"Nuh-uh, no," Hurley said. "I'll give you a dollar if you go first." He didn't have a dollar, but that wasn't really the point, was it.

[confidenceman]

Sawyer quickly got to his feet, shrugging on a pair of jeans that hung lowly around his hips— he probably needed a belt, but the clothes box hadn't seen fit to be the kindest to him as of late, never giving him anything quite appropriate for the weather. Stumbling on over, he clapped a hand on Hurley's shoulder, just a little gesture he used much of the time, partially to remind himself that his friend was indeed on the island, solid, not some type of island-borne hallucination. "Didn't you get the memo?" he said, brow raising and tone mocking, more of the island system than of Hurley himself. "Here, flowers're currency and we trade in hippie volunteer hour credits."

But as much as he would have liked going on making fun of Hugo at every turn, the noise from the common room had evolved into some sort of high-pitched whine and wuffles, Sawyer's entire body immediately tensing as he peeked around Hurley, even took a step out. Almost like he was going to brave it, before he decided better and whirled right back around.

"And hell, that ain't even worth a dollar!"

[notcooldude.livejournal.com]

Hurley almost complained at Sawyer's relative lack of, you know, dress in general, but then, it was Sawyer. He hadn't changed so far, and didn't seem likely to, any time soon. There were more pressing matters at hand, anyway. Like whatever the hell that noise was.

A monster. Obviously.

The hand on his shoulder was a little comforting, though. At least until he realized it was halfway meant to tell him that he was going first after all. He narrowed his brows, giving Sawyer the most put-out look in his very expressive arsenal, before slipping out of the doorway and past his retreating friend.

"You know what!" he half-shouted, and half-mumbled, as he stalked toward the common room. "If I die, you're gonna feel really, really bad about it! Like totally bad!"

[confidenceman]

From where Sawyer stood, he couldn't quite catch everything that Hurley was saying. The other man had a tendency of only emphasizing half of the words that he said, as though he still felt slightly too ashamed to make his full thoughts clear. Sawyer heard patches, something about 'really, really bad' and 'totally bad' and of course, it just had to be the most pessimistic snippets of Hurley's little tirade that made it to his ears. He hesitated at his door, before he groaned, rolled his eyes, and made right after his best friend.

"So what, you sayin' that if I die, you ain't gonna feel 'totally bad' 'bout it too?" Sawyer called out after Hurley, the volume of his voice far more consistent, though the confidence in his tone wavered. From the neat little pull-out drawer under the dining table, Sawyer pulled out a gun and stuffed it inside his pants, pressed against the small of his back. "Alright, dammit, I'm comin'. Sonuvabitch."

Not two steps out of his bedroom, Sawyer heard a high-pitched squeal from the common room.