The Last Bottle of MacCutcheon

"If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus, what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not? let us eat and drink; for to morrow we die." - I Corinthians

The nightmares were thoroughly ranked right up there with buggery. Charles supposed that the best that could be said for them was that they were a fine excuse to work steadily through his private stock. The worst that could be said for them was that they might cause him to work through his private stock before life was done working through him.

He grimaced, examining the mostly-empty bottle next to him. This one had marked sixteen nights thus far. Its prior brother had lasted well over a month. Things were getting worse, no doubt about it. Charles grunted and grabbed the bottle, thrusting the bed's coverings away and hoisting himself upright with his free hand. He padded down the hall and into his study, flicking on the light. His eyes darted back and forth, assuring himself that no stunted, blue eyed goblins were lurking. Doubtful – the brat had said his piece and slithered off, and that was all there was to it. For now, at least. But the nightmares... well, paranoia had its costs, and jumping at shadows was one of them.

Not that shadows were ever entirely harmless, in his old world and his newer. He groused to himself, the sour, wordless mutterings of old lions, while he crossed the room and pushed a wheeled case aside with the barest effort. It revealed a safe, not his most secure or most hidden, and he cast open its lock with the speed of long practice.

Inside were the final half a dozen bottles of a private run of single grain MacCutcheon scotch, his finest soldiers, always there to stand with him. The run had cost him a hefty price, and his specifications causing not a few raised eyebrows, but it had been worth every bit of coin. Each sip had contained every taste he wanted – including the sour, over-aged taste that he had specified. It had horrified the purists, but damn them. It was memory he drank, to drown memory and dream.

Behind the half dozen sat a fine box of mahogany and velvet, and a cover of crystal. Within it lay the very last bottle, his most precious prize. On the darkest nights, nights that he felt his crusade go awry, he would pluck it from its cozy tomb and caress it, thinking of the day he might at last crack it open. Thinking of the day he might finally go home.

Sometimes, after long sips from its brothers, he would also think of possibly sharing it with that freakish little bastard. There on the dock of the Pala Ferry, a last, civil confrontation between two fine enemies. A gun resting between them – perhaps it had but one bullet in the chamber. Perhaps it would be fully loaded. Perhaps they both would die. None of these outcomes particularly disturbed Charles, so long as Ben was dead and his own feet had touched sacred earth once more.

With a disgusted snarl, Charles shut away his safe and sat down at his desk. He poured himself yet another shot, now his third of the night, and thought.

It was a bottle of MacCutcheon that sat with him after Desmond Hume left, thoughts of a race around the world embedded in the fool's mind. There had been another bottle when Desmond had taken up the challenge to his honor, though his daughter's eventual rage at her ex-lover's disappearance had cut the celebration short.

It was a bottle of MacCutcheon he turned to after beating a man to death, knowing full well that Ben would know of it, know of the message he was sending, that the battle was indeed still on.

It was a bottle, no, two bottles over the course of three days that he drank upon hearing of Oceanic 815, a celebration of opportunity. In his delight at this confluence of fate, he had attempted to contact Eloise. She had not returned his message. It had not dampened his renewed fervor for his island.

It was a bottle that comforted him when word of the Kahana's destruction had reached him. Oh, but that had been a dark day for his company and his assistants. His roar had shaken them into a kind of religious terror of him, a sensation that that only enraged him further as it had been years, decades, since he inspired that in his own people.

And it was a bottle that stood by him as he played and replayed the footage he had arranged to be privately taken at Penelope's wedding. The fool had won out – and rather than despair at his daughter's choice of fortune, as he ought, he took Desmond's role in the new future with a sense of auspicious hope. He had defied prediction. That was worth something. Surely he could use it.

There were many bottles, but thus far, the sweetest tasting one had been the bottle cracked open when he discovered that Ben's attack on the marina had failed. Penelope would never understand, but he did love, in his way. He supposed he could count himself ahead of his enemy on that score.

Charles Widmore tossed introspection aside as he finished his glass and glowered into the coming dawn. He never knew what it brought anymore. He found that a fine thing, and welcomed the anonymity of an unknowable future.

* * * *

1993

Ben examined the lists that had been left for him by Isabel. On the other side of the portable table sat Richard, who watched him silently. From time to time, Ben's lips pursed and his brow furrowed.

"Honestly, Richard, much of this makes no sense. What exactly did Charles think to gain shuttling these things off the island?" He glanced up as the dark man shrugged his shoulders, saying nothing in response. "It was rhetorical, I realize you don't know. Personal reasons are like that." He sighed and dropped a sheet of handwritten work atop its brethren, then removed his glasses and laid them down. Sunlight caught itself in a lens and scattered a little rainbow across the paper.

Richard watched all of this, unblinking. "Like childhood artifacts," he said. His tone was musing.

There was a long silence from Ben. "Yes," he finally replied. "Something like that, I suppose." He gestured at the lists. "Still, really. Barrels from the Black Rock?" He arched an eyebrow disbelievingly. "Empty, no less."

"Perhaps he wanted to keep things in them."

Ben sighed and shoved himself away from the table and turning to stalk off. "I doubt we'll ever know. Not as if he's our problem anymore."

"Isn't he?" Richard cocked his head incuriously, watching Ben's back carefully.

Ben had no response to that, though his footsteps hesitated, and his shoulders sagged as if under a great weight. It might have been a good moment for a drink.

~Fin

(ABC's LOST is not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own.)

2009/21/4 MDS