James "Sawyer" Ford

Over the past few weeks, Sawyer has learned that bringing ideas to fruition is much harder when trying to look out for the interests of an infant. Joining the police department may be an idea that sounds nice in theory, but with Clementine being too young to drop off at most affordable day cares and Sawyer's guilt being just enough not to feel comfortable dropping her off at Naruto's apartment for even longer than he already does, attending classes on top of his usual contracting work is just too much.

Tiring as the work is, Sawyer's caught in a bind, one that he doesn't see himself escaping in the next couple of years. Which is fine. There are worse things he could be forced to endure for her safety.

Sometimes, the days feel pretty damned long, though.

He gets the idea in his head to visit Newt after one of his customers has been particularly intolerable. Dissatisfied with the choice of marble for her bathroom counter top, even though they'd asked twice over whether or not she was satisfied with the slab, laying it out on the space just to make sure. She's willing to front the bill for the attention marble needed, but it's rough work on his shoulders regardless, and Sawyer needs to just get away from everything resembling stress for a couple of hours. Listen to someone else talk, without being forced to rub together two cells of his own.

He shows up at Newt's place with a six-pack of beer, not actually sure whether or not he can still drink the stuff, but figuring it's safer to treat him normally than to step around him on eggshells. Sawyer knocks sharply on the door, ruffling his hair as he waits.

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."

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.

The problem with a job that only loosely qualifies as security is that not all clients are up all hours of the day. Sawyer hasn't set his sights very far yet on who he dares try to track down, but petty criminals are easy enough, and con men even more so — easy to navigate the waters of the devils one knows. Without the ability to drop the men at a doorstop in the middle of the night, he ends up being forced to bring them back home, where his apartment should be enough to keep them tied up for a little while.

Of course, some of Sawyer's catches refuse to go into the building without a fight. The thug in his arms now is significantly taller and broader than Sawyer, but trailing after him had been enough to show a weakness in his knee that Sawyer took great joy in exploiting. In spite of his muffled yells against the gag tied over his mouth, the criminal can do nothing more than limp through the halls when Sawyer gives him little taps on the side of his knee to guide him along.

"Alright, guido. You should feel so lucky that I ain't just makin' you sleep in the streets," grits Sawyer, shoving his door open and pushing the man inside.

That's when he realizes that his neighbor's watching. Both brows raising, Sawyer pauses for a second, almost tempted to laugh at the timing.

"You know, this guy keeps on skimpin' on his half of the rent," he tells the woman, not trying very hard to mask the lie, but it's enough to help someone turn their gaze in the opposite direction if they'd like. "I just plumb wasn't gonna let myself be taken advantage of any longer."

Darrow offers Sawyer more of a warm welcome than the Island arguably ever did. Within hours of being stranded on the beach, he's shown the way to the train station, where he dubiously picks up a packet that has what can only be called a starter kit to the city — place to live, full bank account, identification. For all the comfort that Sawyer should feel, it has instead the effect of making him feel like he's just a rat in someone's large maze, and considering how well that turned out the last time he settled down, he's not keen on trying that again.

Still, there's a difference between being healthily wary and deliberately making life harder for himself, so Sawyer takes small advantage of the bounty that's been offered him. He stays in the apartment, already furnished with a bed, and finds small jobs that earn him enough to pay for a few more shirts, a couple trips to the laundromat. He'll stay in one place until he finds his feet, but the top priority is making sure he can sever ties with the location and identity that Darrow have forced on him.

He needs cash. He needs a considerable sum of it.

With that in mind, he's started to stalk some of the areas inhabited by people in the middle class, with enough money to pay for significant menial labor, but not enough that hiring professionals comes easy. He sticks around by a couple of the home improvement warehouses, cigarette caught between his lips, wondering who'll drag him home next.

To all who come across him, he's only known as Jim. It feels safe, in a way he knows it shouldn't.