confidenceman | okay, who's the head honcho here?

"Stupid— piece of crap—"

Not a morning person on the best of days, when Sawyer woke up to some unknown weight blocking his door, he again began to consider the potential merits of packing it all up and moving into the Compound. However depressing the building was, it at least offered reliable air conditioning, and the bolts of the doors weren't the type to expand in the rain or creak from too much rust. His door jammed, and frequently, the hut initially chosen because Sawyer was too damn impatient to wait for the Building Crew to give him a new place all his own, and later on, too damn lazy to pack up his stuff to move from one spot to another. But there was something different about the resistance the door put up today. Shoving his shoulder against the wood almost made it... bounce.

Strange.

Briefly considering rounding the hut to climb out the window, Sawyer gave his door one last, lengthy shove, until he felt something skidding against dirt, slipping through the cracked opening, only to stumble, his hands grabbing onto something that felt distinctly familiar. Almost like heavy-duty shrink wrap. The sound of ruffling papers fluttered in the distance, and pages upon pages spilled out over the dirt in any number of brilliant colors, with cars, trucks, and SUVs on each cover.

But, aside from a moment's confusion as to why it looked like every issue of Car and Driver magazine had appeared on his doorstop, what drew Sawyer's attention the most was a heavy pallet of toilet paper blocking entrance to his home. Toilet paper.

Charmin's, looked like.

"The hell?"

[ Yes, that's right. All of Car and Driver magazine has turned up on Sawyer's doorstep. As well as a year's supply of Charmin's best toilet paper. This post is dated January 25th, but will be linked to the main comm in February. ST/LT welcome, no limit on tags, open to all. ]

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The revelation catches Sawyer off-guard, unable to completely hide his surprise as his brows raise at the thought. He likes Sean well enough, that goes without a doubt, but the thought of being the guy's best man is nearly inconceivable to Sawyer. The thought of being anyone's best man is inconceivable to Sawyer. Because what is he, after all? A heckler. Occasionally a good shot. But certainly not the kind of guy who makes for the best of friends, or is well-spoken enough to deliver a memorable toast.

"Think you probably made the right call in goin' with someone else," he snorts, allowing himself a grin. "Would've poked fun at you the entire time, knowing me."

"Aye, that's what I figgered," Sean says, mockingly serious for just an instant. Honestly, Logan probably hadn't been that much better on that front, and things had turned out fine. And of course there's nobody who can hold a candle to Tom when it comes to letting the wind out of Sean's sails, no matter how complicated things with his cousin grew over the years. "I've got to maintain some appearances, yet."

"You've married a world-class surgeon; even if you wanted the part of an eternal couch potato, think you've already got appearances set, doc-in-law," Sawyer points out. As far as he's concerned, however lightly the joke's made, there's a great amount of truth in it as well— having the right people by one's side always helps one go further. Even on the island, people play favorites. The very nature of the Council election seems to further that.

"Then again, guess you ain't the type who much likes to be a trophy."

"Yeah, yeah, everybody an' their dog knows I married up from me station, I get it," Sean says dryly, although most of his insecurities regarding that have dried up nicely (he'll never admit it, but her agreeing to the hyphenate last name had helped). "Problem is, there's nae much else t'be in a place like this, least fer a fellow like me."

"What, you ain't ever done a job back home that's got some kinda equivalent over here? I mean, hell, none of what I started doin' in the months before I got here was really relevant to this place, but if I wanted to stretch further back, there's always bein' a busboy," Sawyer points out, head generally nodding in the direction of the Winchester. "Or a bartend. Building crew. The hell did you do back in your world anyway? 'fore you got here."

"I was a cop," Sean answers simply, even if it hasn't been a simple answer for a long time, that old righteous pride he'd felt having slowly evaporated with the time he's taken to properly evaluate his actions in those last weeks. "'Twas a far cry from goin' on what this place calls a patrol, though."

"Cop," Sawyer blinks appraisingly, surprised at the small knot of jealousy that seems to dig itself straight into his gut. Because Sean's right. No matter what any of them does on the island, it's never going to be the same as things are in their worlds, never going to be any sort of proof that they can handle themselves, or a show of growth. "Hell, Cass, that's damn respectable. Don't blame ya for not carin' for the kind of group we've put together here. Ain't a lie that we don't do too much day to day."

"Ah, it's nae so bad," Sean reluctantly admits, as much as he truly does hate the stagnation, that sense that he's just standing still. "It suits the place, I'll put it that way. Jus' like Interpol tried ta suit the world I left behind. I should be grateful that we dinnae have more t'do 'stead o' grumblin' 'bout it, it means we're doin' alright."

Not that that bit of logic stops him. It shouldn't make him a bad person to wish he could help more, but when that amounts to wishing for trouble to befall others...

At least it's something that Meredith's always understood all too well.

"You ain't gotta apologize for bein' a little restless," Sawyer argues with a nod of his head. There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't wake up and wonder where he is, how he's still managed to stay on this island, what he should be able to come and expect in coming days. How the peace won't last. Even if he has no desire to find himself in a world more troubled than the island, the mere thought that problems are bound to leak in has him often wishing that there was a way to be more proactive.

"But hey, there's more t'do lately than when I first got here. There's a whole friggin' city underneath the island, that's gotta count for somethin'."

"Booze is better, too," Sean deadpans, about the only thing he has to say on the matter. It counts for something, sure, but a whole friggin' city still isn't the world. A larger prison is still just that.

Sawyer raises a brow, hearing the unspoken statement that comes under such a reply— booze and turbulent towns are ultimately nothing more than consolation prizes compared to all the action Sean must've been accustomed to back in the day. Even Sawyer knows that there's a bit of restlessness that underlies everything else. Being on the other island was different.

However difficult, it was still possible to leave that island by choice.

"Booze is better, too," he agrees then, deciding to leave it at that.

okay, who's the head honcho here?

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