Title : Our Own Little Corner of Hell Characters : Frank, Sawyer (Gen) Summary : Sawyer's just the kind of drinking buddy he likes. Rating : PG-13 Spoilers : General S4. This one's purely speculative. Frank misses flying, misses it like hell. Not just the freedom of it; he misses the rush of the takeoff, the challenge of nailing the landing, the pride of knowing he was damn good at both. Maybe even more than that, he misses being the pilot, the man in charge. Here he's just another marooned schmuck. There isn't enough Dharma Beer on the whole island to change that fact. He might be fond of his drink, but he's not stupid. Definitely not stupid enough to cozy up to Locke. He keeps his distant from the crazy bald coot. Sawyer had it right when he pegged him as Col. Kurtz. They'e all slowly going mad here but Locke has a headstart on them all. He's stark raving bonkers. Sawyer's just the kind of drinking buddy Frank likes, one who doesn't talk too much except to make the odd, wry joke. They share a bitter laugh over their shared misery and then get back to making a serious dent in the Dharma booze stash. It doesn't matter how much they drink -- just when things looked their bleakest, more always arrives. Frank started to wait out the Dharma drops, just to get a glimpse of the copter flying overhead, the one he wasn't on. Could have been his job, flying out to God knows where, making drops of God knows what to God knows who. He could keep his mouth shut, dammit. He shouldn't be stuck here, waiting for more of the same crappy beer to fall from the sky. He should be up there, headed off somewhere new, somewhere, anywhere, else. He tried signaling the pilot, but of course that did no good. He was told of the SOS that Bernard had started, the abandoned one on the beach, and it was only then that the depth of his fellow castaways' indifference to being rescued hit home. They'd dug in here, in this bizarre little village, each closing their own door on the others at nightfall, eager to retreat into his or her own fantasy world where this was home, where your neighbors weren't psychotic murderers. A world where you could come and go as you pleased, wander down to the local bar, or hell, drive across town to one you've never even been in before. Where you could meet a beautiful woman and be fucking her in the alley at the end of the evening, instead of this same boring menu of sad women who want nothing to do with you. Maybe Frank's the only one who's still new at this, who's still daydreaming about the real world. Trying that line of conversation with Sawyer gets him shut down every time.