A/N: Yay! New story time! This story is an AU look at what could have happened in season 4. So it contains spoilers for season 4. Also it started off as a oneshot, but I think I'm going to continue it and bring more characters into it.

Left Behind

The sky is a dull gray when she decides that there's no use in trying to sleep. Too much is happening way too fast and even when she rests, her brain still tries to analyze the pile of events that created the last few months.

The only thing that greets her as a swift wind helps to pull back the tarp is the looming sky. It's tarnished like ancient silver, copper swirls decorate the horizon, the only sign of the growing sunrise. The spring weather brought around harsh storms that ravaged the beach; they used to sleep in the caves, not only for protection, but because they were closer to the clearing that way.

She bends over, and her fingers struggle to reach the frayed ends on her cargo pants. The same pants she was wearing when they crashed here one hundred and eighty-four days ago. After a few minutes, she successfully rolls the thinning material halfway up her leg to rest just underneath her knee, and then mimics the action with her left leg.

Even though the wind is strong, the water is barely lapping at the shore, the slate color disappearing into the sand before the next lazy wave collapses on top. Her feet move into the sand, smooth grains coating her rough heels as she takes the last few steps into the surf. She immediately starts to sink.

Cold water pricks at her toes like needles when the waves fall over her feet. The air on the beach is cold too, but that's not what's making her uncomfortable. The beach is empty. Abandoned and destroyed shelters stand alone on the beach like sentinels. They're old and worn from the constant change in weather, the sporadic rainfall and hurricane winds.

She glances down at her feet, now numb and finds they are invisible to her. The impossible is happening, and a discontent sigh escapes her mouth as her eyes scan the horizon for any sign of a helicopter. But like every day for the thirty-one days, there is none.

"Hey," he means for his voice to beckon her away from the water, but she doesn't even bother to look behind her. She knows it's him. They're the only ones left.

He sets down a backpack by what's left of the kitchen, though now it's more like a bin containing the remaining Dharma food. He tries to approach her casually, act like he isn't afraid of what might happen, or why she's up, "are you okay?"

It's an obvious question to ask when someone is standing in icy waters and heavy winds before sunrise, but the answer is an obvious one as well; she's not discomforted by anything except being left behind. "I'm fine, Jack."

Jack's teeth flash as he grins, but she knows it's an act. For the last thirty-one days they've been on this beach with only each other, she knows when he's faking, knows that he's forcing this friendship between them because he doesn't want her to be alone. "Couldn't sleep?"

It's too early to be angry, though his constant questions are a match for her gunpowder keg. She decides that she doesn't want to be irritated with Jack, at least not right now, "I swear the sand is lumpier now, it hurts my back."

"You could try sleeping with a pillow between your legs," Jack's concentration is elsewhere as his eyes scan from her bare feet in the water, to her bare arms in the wind, "Where's your sweater?"

"It doesn't fit anymore," her voice is stoic and her eyes are now back on the horizon, praying that the helicopter will grow against the sunrise as it had so many times before, but only the cool metallic sky remains.

Jack fidgets beside her, and before she can look over, the dark blue sweater he was wearing a minute ago is crumpled in his hands, and being thrust into hers, "Here."

"Jack," her eyes dart from the sweater to his face, so unaffected and almost naïve, it cools her anger and she shakes her head, "I'll go back to my tent, keep your sweater."

"You don't have to go back, just take the sweater, you're going to need it sooner or later anyways," his hands pressure the knitted wool into hers.

She smiles a thank you and pulls the large sweater over her head and is shocked when the heat is instantaneous. The material hangs off her arms and it's almost long enough for her to wear as a dress, but there is less give around her abdomen where she needs it. She stares down at her hands, almost completely covered by fuzzy wool, and wants to hug Jack.

Heat spreads through her arm as his hand closes over her bicep, grabbing her attention. When her eyes meet his, they're wide and full of fear that he is trying to pass as concern, "Are you really okay?"

"Yeah," she nods and resists touching his hand with hers, "I was just looking for the helicopter," at her revelation his face drops a bit, and his eyes grow dark with shame, "I was thinking that it might be better if I just stayed here."

Jack's jaw sets and his hand drops. Whatever he's thinking is what's going to happen, "You can't stay here Kate," he shakes his head trying to vent the aggravation that she thinks stems from his inability to leave her, "If you stay here you'll die."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs and tucks a piece of her hair the wind is playing with behind her ear, "If I go back I'm going to get the death sentence, so I guess it's pretty much even."

"You can't stay here Kate," he repeats, his voice and posture the same. He still won't look at her sinking in the waves, arms crossed over her chest trying to hide what they both can see so clearly. "Sawyer doesn't know."

"Sawyer doesn't want to know," her voice runs bitter with hate. Hate that she doesn't even have a justification for, because Sawyer really doesn't know.

Jack can sense her mood change, see her body arch away from his, her eyes turn into slits as she glares at the motionless ocean. His hand reaches over and takes hers from where it's stuffed under her arm; the pads of his fingers are light on her skin. Whenever he touches her now, he's always overly cautious, like she might shatter at any moment.

Tears cloud her vision for a moment, but she manages to blink them away and stare at their hands awkwardly entwined. "I will get you off this island Kate," his voice is clear and strong with full belief in the words he speaks, "I promise you that I will get you off this island."

Kate doesn't know who initiates it, maybe it was her stumbling as she pulled her feet from the sticky sand, or his endless need to care for her, but they hug. His arms press against her waist, keeping clear of her stomach as she wraps her arms around his neck. It's impromptu and the weirdest action either of them have ever participated in, but they both draw comfort from it.

Her head rests against his shoulder, her chin against the thin gray shirt she left him in, her cheek against the cooling skin on his neck, "I believe you."