confidenceman | children, your time is done; if you say it's done together

When James Ford woke up that morning in an unfamiliar building, in a bed larger than the one in his house and a room so bare that it almost reminded him of the hospital, he didn't panic. Most things seemed unfamiliar to him, those days. Places that had once been familiar, like his grandparents' house, like the classrooms in his school, or even the pews of his church, never seemed the same anymore. The world had wrapped itself in velvet, almost, something dark, heavy, and against which James couldn't push very far, keeping him from feeling much of anything of the outside word. Keeping him trapped in his own thoughts. Wherever he was, it didn't matter— he was sure that someone had put him there for a reason, and that someone would find and whisk him away again before long— and so James simply slid his legs off the side of the bed and dropped to the floor.

Whoever had dressed him for bed hadn't done a very good job. The t-shirt that he wore was several sizes too large, and his underpants were just about falling off. Tugging them up as well as he could, James quickly stumbled over to the large dresser in the room, pulling every drawer open until he spotted a few plain t-shirts that looked like they'd only be slightly too big, and a pair of jeans that could be held up well enough with the aid of a belt. Wordlessly dressing himself, James peeked around the rest of the room, a faint voice in the back of his mind reminding him that today was the funeral date.

(And the thought alone brought tears to his eyes, but he shook his head vigorously; mama wouldn't have wanted him to cry.)

He pushed past the curtains of the room, unseeing. Pushed into another room, where a projector was playing cartoons in the background, where a bookshelf was piled high with books. Spotting a pen and pad on a nearby table, James looked carefully around before sliding them off with quiet hands and tucking the pad under his arm. He passed through a kitchen filled with sights, sounds, smells, but it didn't matter— he wasn't hungry. Standing in an empty hall, James looked down both ends, before turning left, to the doors marked as an exit, quietly pushing one just a fraction before he stood under the brilliance of the sun, a porch and steps in front of him.

Peeking around again, James pressed his lips together, walked forward to sit himself on the top step, and laid the pad across his knees. Now that he was alone, he could do this.

Dear Mr. Sawyer, his pen scrawled in uneven writing.

[ Eight-year-old Sawyer, after a night spent in the dorms for easier access to the showers, is now sitting on the front steps of the Compound and writing his famous letter. ST/LT more than welcome, no limit on threads. Replies will come from

giveyouthis. ]

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He sounds so serious, so dire, that it makes something turn in the pit of Lexie's stomach. While she doesn't really have any clue what she and Sawyer were or are or will be, she does know that she loves him, in a way, and seeing him like this, so young and yet seeming to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, trying to look out for her, God, it hurts. It shouldn't have to be like this; if anything, someone else should be protecting him, but it's clearly far too late for that. All she can do is try to pick up the pieces, offer something that will hopefully carry over when he's an adult again, because he deserves something so much better. She's not the kind of person who'd ever feel guilty for the childhood she got, practically idyllic, but rather she wishes that everyone else could have known it, too, and that's stronger than ever now.

"I will," she says, though she has no idea what this Sawyer looks like or how she'd be supposed to know it's him. "I promise." She bites her lip. "Do you have anybody looking out for you? Because, because you should stay safe, too."

Everyone's been telling him to be careful and be happy. James thinks that it's pretty hard to get the both of those things together. If you're careful, if you're really careful, then that means that you're also scared, and James can't remember the last time he's been happy and scared at the same time. Not really scared, anyway. Not the kind of scared that has him waking up at night and crying, wishing that his mama would be at his side. He used to think that things like hide and seek were scary enough, but it's really nothing compared to this. But when he really thinks about it, it's not James who should be scared, and it's not him who's scared for himself. He's just worried about other people.

People who actually have something to lose.

"Mr. Sawyer won't come after me," he explains quietly. "I don't got no money, and I don't love him none. He... he pretends to be a hero, like he wants to make your life better. But I know he ain't gonna make mine any better. I don't think he can hurt me, then."

"Alright," Lexie murmurs, though it's hard, still, for her to leave it at that. Even if this is all an exercise in futility when the real Sawyer isn't anywhere near this place and when this Sawyer is more than capable of taking care of himself when he actually is himself, the fact remains that things aren't right, now, and he shouldn't have to be alone. Whether he even remembers this later or not, he should know that he has someone, that he's cared about, that she would protect him if she could. Tempted to pull him in close to her, she instead rests a hand on his little shoulder, wondering at the very fact of it, how strange it is. "If you think he might, though, you come find me, okay? And you and I will stay somewhere safe together."

He wants to trust her more than almost anything right about now. Definitely more than anything else within his grasp, anyway. No kid wants to be alone, and James is able to recognize this in himself, the loneliness that makes him want to reach out for all of the adults who walk by, even if he doesn't. He doesn't, because he can't be that little boy anymore, always looking for comfort from adults, comfort that might get ripped out right from under him. Instead, his gaze lingers on the hand that rest on his shoulder, pausing. Maybe he just has to lie this time. Maybe that's the only way out.

So he does. "Okay," he lies, even though he know that he won't reach out to no one, not if Mr. Sawyer comes back.

But he does allow himself another look, green eyes flickering up to meet hers. "What's your name?"

"I'm Lexie," she answers, keeping her hand where it is. Of all of this, she thinks this part has got to be the weirdest, introducing herself to someone she introduced herself to a long time ago, whom she knows, whom she has history with. At least it helps that he's so young and looks so different, that she's without what would typically prompt an immediate spark of recognition in looking at him. She can play along. For his sake, she can, because she's pretty sure he needs it. "I'm a doctor, I work in the clinic inside."

"Lexie," he repeats quietly, committing the name to memory. Names never used to matter all that much, not even just a few weeks ago. With a name as common as James, somehow it became a lot easier for people to forget, substituting in whatever popular name first comes to mind. If it's not James, it's John. If it's not John, it's Jason. James has been called so many names that until recently, he couldn't imagine them actually mattering so much or him needing to ask someone for theirs, but he needs to now. It's a feeling that he won't come to recognize for years yet, what amounts to a lack of trust, but broken hope that still seems to hang on in spite of it.

"Doctor Lexie," he corrects himself. "I'm James."

"Hi, James," Lexie says, smiling warmly down at him. He's been through a lot, unimaginably so (God, just losing her mother was hard enough, and she was an adult when it happened and her death was in a hospital), but that isn't all there is to him, and she has a feeling that people might have been acting as such lately. Or were back when he was actually this young, whatever. The point is, she might not be able to make a lasting difference, but she can do something now, and he ought to have that. Someone in his corner, someone who cares, someone who doesn't just pity him and who'll forget a little while later. "It's really nice to meet you. I know things have been rough lately, but I promise we're gonna see you through this, okay?"

There's something sweet about her smile. His mama's smile was never really quite like that, because a part of her, James remembers, was always looking away. Looking far into the distance, like she was just waiting for some white knight to come out of the fields and save her. (That storyline only becomes clear now, he thinks to himself, now that enough people have mentioned his mama loving Mr. Sawyer that he can see it too, in retrospect, all the little things that mama and pa once did lowering in number and frequency.) Doctor Lexie seems to only care about her patient, which James supposes is him now, and the kindness it must take and that she's gotta have in her heart is overwhelming to him now as he tries to blink away tears that he can't afford to shed.

And even if he doesn't really believe what she's got to say, it's hard not to hope. That maybe everything's just one giant mistake. "Okay," he replies softly, not because he's entirely convinced. But instead, because there aren't many other options to turn to at all.

children, your time is done; if you say it's done together

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