Summary: They can lie to each other and they can lie to themselves, but both Kate and Sawyer know that there is no lie good enough that they can fall for. Visions of colors drag them back to harsh reality. (Sawyer. Kate. Character studies. One Shot.)

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters. If I did, I would not allow for any kind of hiatus!

Author's Note: Some spoilers, as this does delve into events of the episode "What Kate Did." Please feel free to comment on this story, whether providing me with positive or constructively critical feedback. Enjoy. Thanks.

A confidence man. A fugitive. And the perfected lies that neither of them were meant to believe.


They can lie to each other and they can lie to themselves, but both Kate and Sawyer know that there is no lie good enough that they can fall for. Visions of colors drag them back to harsh reality.


In his feverish delirium, one would assume he would be dreaming of wonderful things. Things that would push him to get better – things that'd give his body the strength to fight off infection and his mind the resilience to stay grounded. (He's faced worse than a bullet wound, after all.)

He thinks his dreams would be full of childhood memories of him and his parents enjoying Saturdays, watching the cartoons on television … before all things went to hell, that is. Dreams shaded in a gleaming bright yellow with tints of green emitted from the rough grass; the very quintessence of a gorgeous Southern summer. Dreams of Southern belles sporting cotton white dresses with the shortest of hemlines and lowest of necklines. Dreams of his fingertips tracing the tan, smooth, arm of a woman whose legs, now crossed innocently, would not remain that way for very long…

But Sawyer sees no jovial yellows, whites, or greens. Because even his subconscious won't bother lying to him, easing his worries if only for a few moments.

He only sees blues and reds. Blue like the spacious ocean. The dark sapphires of the ocean and the oscillating waves that challenged him, though he was half unconscious, to stay put on the shattered raft. And red – he cannot forget about the red, reminding him of pain. The red that tainted the navy blue of the ocean with the very insides of a shark. The crimson blood on his fingers that overtook his senses, allowing him to see only black in a very short time.

Sawyer dreams only of blues and reds; of empty space and agony.


I saw a horse. Yeah, that's what happens when you don't sleep. If she could sleep, she hopes she'd dream of illusions. Imaginary instances that have never happened, and never will. Still, though, she'd wish she could have those kinds of dreams, as imaginary as they may be. They would let her believe, for a few seconds, that she was at peace.

Maybe, just maybe, if she'd wake up under warm, soft covers, those dreams made of fake memories – like pure plastic, cheap and easily produced – could fool her into believing that she was normal, that she okay. A normal girl with the perfect life; engaged to her childhood sweetheart, planning her wedding day … She'd never admit it, but she often wished her dreams would be colored by hues of pink. She wanted everything from hot pink, as bright as the morning dawn, to pale pink, bordering on the cusp of white, the epitome of innocence and chastity. And silver. Kate dreamed to dream of silver heart-shaped balloons and silver metal cans dangling from the back a white limousine on her ideal wedding day.

But Kate sees no childish pinks or shining silvers. The closest she ever gets to is gray. A dark, disgusting gray that would make an ill person want to vomit. She dreams about the curved bends of hatch's corridors. The ordinary gray walls that trap her within them. Once the small bulb above the computer went out and she searched for a replacement. The gray walls soon turned black. Lost and blind, she stumbled through the hatch's halls, so frightened that she wanted to run at the squeak of a rat. It's only grays, and blacks. And oranges… for some odd reason; she also dreams in orange. But not a bubbly orange – never that shade. Her oranges are combined with reds and yellows, matching the exact color of the sunset that she often watched alone, ever since she landed on this island.

Kate dreams only of blackened grays and oranges; of confinement and solitude.


He dreams of water.

He dreams of the cold rain that permeated through his shirt as he walked down the back alley. He dreams of the way the gun slipped in his grip because of the wetness. He dreams of the way his index finger still fit around the trigger perfectly, despite the conditions, and tightened about the mechanism to fire the bullet. He feels as if he was born to hold a gun. With a finger that determined, that eager, to pull the trigger, he feels as if he was made for this – for killing. In another life, he would have been a cowboy, with hat on his head and a pistol at his side, ready for action.

Sawyer dreams of impatient fingers, of frigid showers, and of blue arctic lips.


She dreams of fire.

She dreams of the cool summer breeze that chilled her spine as she calmly left the house and ambled toward the motorcycle. She dreams of way she simply turned her back to a burning edifice, and rode to her mother's workplace. She remembers how composed she was as she parked the motorcycle, and nonchalantly entered the bar. She had had it all figured out. If she had had the chance, she could have been a member of the secret service – so clandestine, so clever. Most of all, though, she dreams of the sudden detonation, of the orange hue of fire that surged through the roof of her home.

Kate dreams of panicked composure, of occasional breezes, and of orange blazing explosions.


Sawyer dreams in red, like the oozing blood, quickly washed away by the rain, of the man he killed.

Kate dreams in black, like the haphazard horse, appearing in her moments of madness, of the man she killed.

They both dream of blood and death. They both dream of devastation.


They had both been too smart for their own good. Too surreptitious, too sly, too shrewd.

They've been lying for far too long. They both claim to be optimists, when, deep down, they've forgotten the meaning of the word. They've been corrupted by a life of troubles, of manipulation, and deceit. They're scoundrels – forgotten how to be anything else.


He refused to believe Sun when she sat by his side and sweetly told him he would be all right. He wanted to laugh in her face. I got a hole in my shoulder, I'm shaking like a damn leaf, and my body's burnin' up. I ain't gonna be all that fine, Mrs. Chewie. And if it weren't forthe sudden jerks in his body, his confusion, and his hurt, he'd have told her that.

He doesn't mind the thought of death too much, though. Sure, in his heart of stone, he's scared, but he'd never confess it. Mostly, he thinks it's his time. Vengeance – payback time, right? An eye for an eye. Somewhere, the man with the bullet in his chest and the blue icy lips is watching over him and leering.

Sawyer can't blame him for doing it.


She couldn't grasp a word that Jack said as she panicked over her imminent insanity. He was holding her, caressing her, soothing her … he was trying to make her feel better. Kate, Kate, Kate, it's okay, it's okay. But she couldn't understand him. How could everything be all right? She was losing her mind.

She couldn't think; she couldn't breathe. Her thoughts were jumbled in her head. Was this her punishment? Would she be forced to see the ghost of her murdered father the rest of her life? Did she even care, apart from the fact that it drove her crazy? She hated him. She hated that he hurt people, that he was dishonorable, that he was a good-for-nothing. She hated that she feared she would be like him – her DNA screaming at her to embrace her destiny.

Kate, most of all, detests, though … that she kind of already is.


They cannot trust one another. Though, ironically enough, as complete strangers, they know each other too well. They are the other – complements to decadence and depravity.

And therein is the problem.

They are both too adroit.

They are both too skeptic.

Sawyer won't believe he'll live. Kate won't believe she's still sane.

And even if they tell each other the lies – lies of healthiness, both physically and mentally – they won't be duped by them for a second. If Kate would whisper timid reassurances into his ear and if Sawyer would try to comfort her by saying she's been daydreaming, it won't do either of them any good.

Both scoundrels, they have mastered the art of lying. The words to say, the way to say them – smilingly, serenely.

Learning to lie, however, requires how to tell a lie apart from the truth.

Consider the sources. A confidence man. A fugitive. And the perfected lies that neither of them were meant to believe.