All Women Are Mary
"Men do not change, they unmask themselves." ~ Madame de Staël
1. London.
His name is Benjamin Linus, and he is in London. The city seems to suit him, or perhaps he suits it. Complementary pair – both wear a veil of fog and checkered history. It was the gloaming hour, where the sun had given way to a soft shade of cobalt blue. Stars peeked out among hazy clouds, the last remnants of an otherwise rainy day.
The view from the Tower Bridge is spectacular on any occasion, though that night he barely saw it from behind his thoughts. Pedestrians moved back and forth, lost in their own worlds and own stories. He had passed up the high walkway in favor of open air and the smell of old water, the financial district and Widmore's throne of power far behind him. He was not thinking on that, either, though he knew he ought. Instead, his gaze flickered along choppy water, the soft lapping sound of it lost against the wilder rushes of traffic. His thoughts flickered the same, dancing around a topic that he did not seriously contemplate (or so he told himself), and yet courted out of a vague curiosity. His face was pale, eyes heavy-lidded and unstaring for once, and he leaned against the rail with a weight that belied his small form.
He did not notice the woman who watched him from a few yards away, leaned against a stretch of rail herself. Until she moved closer – within some subconsciously recognized range of threat – and then he did, facing her with eyes now wholly alert. She stopped, then nodded to him with a little smile. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to startle you." Her voice was American enough, midwestern even, although she had picked up a little of a northern European sound. He remained on edge.
"Something I can do for you?" he said, his tone brisk.
She laughed. "Probably not. I was just wondering what was so interesting about the river. You've been looking at it for quite a while." She tilted her head. "Or were you? Heavy thoughts, maybe. Of which are clearly not my business."
"Clearly not."
"I just..." She shrugged. "I thought for a moment there that you were going to throw yourself off."
He didn't say anything to that, though his mouth tightened very slightly.
"Maybe I was wrong. Thought I'd check, you know. Not let anyone's vacation get ruined. Much less yours." She put her red-gloved hands on the rail and pushed herself away from it a little, a light, perhaps nervous, bounce that was followed by a little chuckle.
"I'm here on business." Apropos of nothing. He wasn't quite sure why he said it, or why he hadn't yet denied her assumption. It was just a thought, after all. He wasn't actually going to do it, of course. Just a thought game. His mouth tightened further.
"So am I!" She beamed at him. "I'll bet it's a rather different business, though."
"Safe guess." He turned away and looked at the river again. "If that's all, I'm fine. Pleasure to meet you, have a nice trip."
"Nicer than yours, by the sound of it. Look – um. I think we got off on the wrong foot here, I'm not trying to get in your face-"
"You haven't. Enjoy London."
She exhaled her breath in a soft puff of exasperation.
"What?" His own irritation sharpened the query.
"You want to get a drink?"
He looked at her, disbelief crinkling the side of his face. "What for?"
She shrugged. "So I can be sure you don't drop off the moment I leave."
"Oh, for-!" He uttered a laugh still marked by disbelief and distrust, a short, brusque sound like knuckles on wood. "Fine. Fine, a drink, I'll write out a note promising I'm not going to drown myself and then everyone can have a nice evening. For the love of..." Instinctively, he shoved his hands in his pockets, making sure his baton rested inside his long coat. What else would someone ask for his company for but to be a threat?
"I'll take you up on the note. I will. I'll have it framed."
"Put it in with your collection, I'm sure. Guardian angel of the Thames or whatever you want."
She laughed at him. "Come on. Pick a place, I don't care."
* * *
The Dove was widely known for its diminutive bar, however finding a quiet nook in its much larger dining area proved simple. It was not the height of tourist season, and further, Ben had a way with forcing his preferences without leaving much offense behind. They were served quickly despite the lateness of the hour, a pair of dark ales left in the wake of a polite young man who still seemed baffled by the gentle, friendly pressure of Ben's manner.
"Nice trick; I wish I could use that attitude on auto mechanics." She sounded admiring.
"Always rent a car, then it's someone else's problem. Easy." He took a long sip of the ale, waiting for her to do the same so that he could examine her without being caught in a stare. Finally she did, after an amused noise at his words. Dark hair, lightly olive skin. Middle age. Oval face, upturned nose. Not a perfect, classic beauty, but she knew what she had to work with and made do, turning simpler features into something clean and nearly regal. Her hair was knotted back and pinned, with tendrils left to artfully escape and frame. A Greek look. Professional, with expensive, well-kept clothes. A string of tiny pearls and silver links. What business? Too much humor for a banker. "What's your name?"
"Who cares?" She shrugged.
"I do, actually. I don't sit around and let unknown, unnamed people drift close. Get shot like that."
"So, you're a paranoid." She set her ale down, her lips quirking at him. "The reverse for me. Most people I meet, it's only for a little while and they're more comfortable that way. More privacy."
Ah. Of course. It would figure with his luck. If it wasn't a Widmore plant, it would be this. His expression didn't change.
She smiled at him, a lopsided, slightly rueful quirk. "Thanks for not immediately blurting it out."
"That'd be rude." He dropped his gaze and took another drink of his ale. Of course. He felt privately offended though, angry. Of course. Nobody ever spoke to him without wanting something out of it.
Her brow furrowed a little, wrinkling her smooth face. "I don't proposition as a rule. Not the nature of my business, and I'm sorry to bring it up so fast. But at the same time, if the subject came up later, you'd make the assumption even worse and get angry about it." She flicked her eyes towards the door, looking distant. "Or at least that's how it usually goes. Get one whiff of the job and everyone assumes. Makes having a normal conversation a real bitch, let me tell you."
"Mm."
"...And here's another one in the dumpster. Fine, I'll pay for the drinks. Have a better one." She began to push herself away from the table, snapping up her purse. Her eyes were darkened.
A flash of guilt at her obvious and sudden distress. "Wait."
She looked at him and shrugged. "What for?"
He paused a moment, then tried to make his tone lighter. "I think we got off on the wrong foot here." A shrug, then more serious. "I do, as it happens, know a little bit about normal conversations never quite going well."
She hovered a moment, caught in that state of not quite sitting, not quite standing. The server poked his head around a corner to be sure everything was all right, then disappeared again. Then, reluctantly, she settled back down into her seat. She watched him for a moment, silently. "I'm Meredith."
"Benjamin. Ben. Doesn't matter." Awkward. Curiosity struck. "If you don't pro – rude again." He shut up and drank more ale.
She quirked another little smile. "Specifically, I'm a madam. My main office is in the Netherlands, which never seems to surprise anyone. Can't fathom why. Maison close, if you know the term, and we abide by the efforts and suggestions of De Rode Draad."
"Sorry?"
"Ex-workers, they're trying to, well, clean matters up a bit. There's some absolutely shameful bastards in the business, and it makes it much harder for anyone legitimate or respectful of the profession."
"Ah."
"This is the point in the conversation someone usually brings up the temples of Ishtar and some sort of riff on the historical holiness of sex work, but nobody ever brings up the Yankees for some reason." She examined his blank expression. "Random, I know. I'm sorry, I ramble. I don't get many of these 'normal' talks. As I said. Another ale?"
"Definitely. What else have I missed, assuming this was your usual stereotypical conversation on the topic?"
She beckoned for the waiter, who took the hint and went to pull the keg. "Um... 'how did I get into the business?' 'Did I do a paper on feminist history in college?' and 'How much do you charge?'"
"I think I'll skip all that. It's not my business, is it?"
"No – well, maybe the last if that was your thing - but some men comfort themselves by saying how empowered I am for knowing the history. While I'm trying to – well. Whatever makes them happy. Which is, after all, the point. You'd think."
He thought for a while, fiddling absently with his mug. "Is it really happiness they're going to a prostitute for?"
Naturally, with the timing instilled in every good staffer of eateries the world over, the waiter came by with more ales right then and lingered for a moment, rather obviously listening.
"Now that's a good question! I think that's what they tell themselves."
"But you don't agree."
"Nope." Meredith beamed up at the young man. "'Mary,' take a right when you face the Oude Kerk, we take all international cards and, of course, cash. Thanks for the ale, you can go now."
He made an embarrassed squeak, snagged the empty mugs, then left. Ben ran a hand over his face.
"Weird night, huh?"
"I tend to end up in strange situations with a regularity that would shock you, but yes, actually, this night is being rather special."
"And here I am talking about me. Let's talk about you."
"Let's not."
"Oh, come on. Might be fun."
"'Fun' implies board games, amusement parks, and children. Very little about my life is 'fun.'"
"You don't strike me as a party animal, no."
He stared blankly at her. "Are you this irreverent during your business?"
"Only if I think the client would enjoy it. Roleplay and all that."
"God."
"I think He'd be a bottom. Change it up a bit."
"Dear God." He began to laugh, the utter absurdism of the conversation striking him. There was an element of enjoyment at for once having a conversation where he could never quite seem to have the upper hand. It was relaxing, in a curious way. There was nothing to win, and nothing at stake. Except perhaps a little dignity, but the ale left that hazy.
"You're Catholic, aren't you?"
"I- no. Not really."
"Damn. I was pretty sure. You've got that vaguely morose, glib, guilty attitude down pat. Do you know how many Catholics I see a year? Don't answer that, it's rhetorical, and I was trying to change the topic."
"Um."
"That said, it's a lot." Meredith took a long sip of ale, then settled into her chair comfortably. "Good ale."
"Yes. It is." He seized on a tactical thought, something to deter the topic away from himself. "I think they're trying to close, actually."
"So they are." She looked around, noted tables being bused and left empty. "You said you were on business."
"Yes. I'll be traveling for a while, I'm afraid."
"Tell you what, a little game. Going around Europe?"
"For now."
"Okay. First – you owe me that note." He laughed again and she flicked a finger at him, gesturing. "Come on, I said I'd force it. Second – fine, I don't know what you were doing up on the bridge-"
"I was not going to kill myself." Ben pulled a clean napkin from the bottom of a short pile on the table while digging a pen out from his coat. I solemnly swear that on this day in London of the year 2007, I am not going to drown, jump into a subway path, shoot myself, nor otherwise engage in some fatal self-inflicted method not described here. He finished by scrawling a looping version of his first name across the bottom corner. He clicked the pen and pushed the napkin across the table towards Meredith, who took it.
"That's legally binding, Ben. Well, anyway. Pick a city. I'll meet you there."
"Why?"
"Why not? Business is boring. Maybe some conversation to look forward to might make it a bit more fun."
"I-" He contemplated. What was his other company, Jarrah? His resistance gave slightly at the comparison. "Maybe."
"Pick a city. And not Paris, everyone picks that one. This is not a Brando movie. Or Florence."
"I like Florence." His voice sounded defensive.
"So did Hannibal Lecter. They put that on my last inflight movie, can you believe it?" She made an exaggerated, dramatic shudder.
"I have more hair than Lecter."
"He makes a joke!" She grinned at him, delighted. "Where? Italy, Spain, Austria..."
Benjamin looked at her for a moment, noticing again her hair and olive skin. Connections came together in his mind, random thoughts of temptation, history, literature, and myth. "Heraklion."
"Greece?" She reared her head back a little, thinking. "That works. Heraklion."
"I'll look for you at the Morosini. One week from tonight. Twilight." Ben took what control he could and rose to leave. "Good night," he said, and he did not look back. Though after he passed through the door of the little pub and into the dark, the question finally occurred to him – what had she been doing standing around on the bridge?