title: In the Hours After
rating: NC-17 for sex, violence and graphic death
pairing: Ben Linus/John Locke
other characters: brief mention of Jacob, the Others and the Survivors
summary: Ben and Locke cope with the hours between Alex's death and moving the island.
word count: 4,200
setting: Last days of season 4.
prompt: from the 10_quotes community at lj. [029] Double Indemnity (1944) 2 "How could I have known that murder could sometimes smell like honeysuckle?"
warning: My apologies for this being kind of disjointed and erratic. Also, if you don't like slash and can't cope with character death, avoid this.
notes: I published this on my livejournal a long time ago but never posted it here. Hope you like it.
His arms reached forward needfully, encircling John's neck and dragging him down to the floor; down, down. They kissed desperately to the sound of the rain, which tapped insistently against the empty windowpane, dripping in through the open hole where the window had previously stood, trailing slippery rivulets across the floor. Not caring about the jagged shards of glass in his hair, nor the splintered furniture pressed against his back, Ben smoothed a hand across Locke's brow, searching those studious eyes for some hint of judgment, or regret. There was none, and he closed his eyes, diving in, tasting John's lips frantic and hot against his own.
Blood, smeared across his shirt. Blood from Alex's body, slick across his hands still, an enduring stain. Several hours earlier, he had knelt in the dirt at her side, holding her lifeless body as he had fought the desire to scream and go mad. Her skin had been pale and cool, her body limp like a rag-doll -- the last accusation from a now silent Alex. Her eyes, cloudy blind, had been devoid of the spitfire temper he had seen in her so frequently over the past year. Instead, they had been salt-rimmed and sticky with evaporated tears, the irises blue and glassy opaque, unfocussed, though he would of course always remember them wide and miserable with terror, as they had been the seconds before her death. He cringed at the memory of how she had curled in on herself and cried, her arms wrapped around her body. Ben gritted his teeth at the thought. And he had thought he could handle Keamy, as though it would be like the thousands of other negotiations he had made over the years, when he had bargained self and supplies, land and people. But this had been her.
My mistake...Oh, Alex, I'm so --
"-- sorry," he spoke out, as John's arms enfolded him, holding him tight and safe, as though he might cry. John's hands, delicate, as though he might break. He did neither, simply studying the other man, burning the image of John's face into his memory as he fought with himself, unsuccessfully trying to feel nothing for Locke. He'd had time, in the hours after the attack from the freighter crew, to think of all the things that mattered to him, and John was definitely high on that list.
Smoothing back Ben's hair, John nodded. He did not smile, nor offer any false hopes. There were no vacant words of reassurance. Locke just kept his hands on the other man, gently touching him, so that Ben would not have too far to drift. In the distance, he thought he could hear the roar of the surf pounding the beach, but it might have been thunder, or even the echo of guns, if the beach camp had been foolish enough to allow any of the freighter workers to live. It doesn't matter, he decided, ignoring the impulse to go, see, fight. Let Jack handle it.
"Do you want to talk --"
"No," came Ben's voice, certain. His lips pressed against John's throat a moment, then he worked his way up, his tongue flicking out to lip at John's lips like a cat, until the other man responded with a crushing kiss. He could taste salt, not from tears but from sweat, as the humidity pressed in against them and the heat between them rose. Fickle, the jungle weather beat down, lashing rain against the side of the house like a dominatrix wielding a whip even as the temperature of the island swelled. "I have to go soon. Jacob told you, I'm sure; there isn't much time."
Breath; hot sweat plumes against his needy skin. "Are you sure you don't need to talk about -- it?"
"No, John, I don't. And yes, I'm sure." Might as well be giving an order along the chain of command, with that tone, Ben chided himself. He wished he could feel stoic, that his swirling, panicky feelings would be tamed and that he would be as unaffected as he looked, but it was hopeless. Eyes green and shadowed in red from the tears that had been spilt glanced up at Locke, meeting him in silent communication. Ben's hands trembled as he reached for John's t-shirt and pulled it hastily over John's head, tossing it carelessly aside amongst the wreckage. Ben nodded as John looked at him for reassurance, nodding to John before the other man focussed on unbuttoning his shirt. "Don't ask me again," Ben spoke as he melted against the other man's body, feeling their bare skin meet where his shirt had been left hanging open. All I need is this. You, he thought, but did not articulate.
He had turned his back on another murder as he had crouched there next to Alex's body. Ben had just run his hand over her eyes to close them when the soldier had burst terrified and injured from the tangled foliage. Alex's face, in death, had been pale and calm, though he had not been able to conjure up the notion of peace, not after seeing her like that: screaming with a gun to her head. The soldier had tripped over his own bulky boots, fallen face-first onto the grass, and Ben had done nothing but waited, head bowed, as the smoke had come, black and coiling, to drag the man back to the feast. The air had been heavy with frantic bursts of gunfire, wood-smoke and thick, cloying honeysuckle. Wild and howling, it had spoken his fury for him, flashing here and there with electric sparks, whirling a typhoon around the men from the boat -- Widmore's men, the ones to whom he had given the authorisation to use whatever force they deemed necessary, including the murder of an innocent sixteen year old girl. He'd listened to the fierce rustle of monsters among the palm trees, the calcium crunch of bones, the thin shrieks of the soldiers, pleased at their misery. It had taken some of the fierceness from him, but it was still much too small to vindicate what had been done to Alex.
"I wish I could help you," John spoke. His expression was troubled, pained, and Ben felt a stab of some emotion go straight through him, though he could not identify whether it was gratitude, or some form of love; relief or fear.
"You can help me, John." That was the persuasive voice he had used so many years ago, when he had gone down to the supply clerk to obtain the gas canisters. Tim, the man's name had been, maybe Thom, or was it Todd? No matter. His Dharma work-shirt had been clean and neat, freshly pressed, but his hair had been shaggy and too long, and with that hazy smile he might have been a poster child for the entire Age of Aquarius. How his hands had shook, carrying those false requisition papers, but at least his gaze had been steady, and the five canisters had been duly handed over with ease: one for him, which he would use against Roger, the rest for the team diving down to the Pearl. It was the voice that got him what he wanted. "I want you to help me," spoke Ben, who always got his way. "Help me forget, John. And if you help me...." He trailed off, staring at the ceiling as he undid his pants. "I'll help you."
"How?"
"I'll tell you what you want to know. Everything you want to know," Ben promised, his gaze and voice steady. "About this damned Island." Thinking of the barely discernable trails, the hidden paths to places only he knew, ruins more complicated than he could explain in a single lifetime, he sighed as he felt John shift, standing up. Calloused hands grasped his own, pulling him to his feet. Carelessly, he collapsed sideways against John, who wrapped an arm around his waist. "I'll tell you how to find the cabin, even on the darkest nights, even when it isn't where you left it last time," he said, mumbling against John's lips. They exchanged as brief kiss as they walked away from the shattered room. Furniture was spilled in a haphazard jumble, some broken, other pieces intact. Gunshots had blasted a few holes, tearing through the curtains. Ben scarcely paid attention as John led him from the disaster. "And I'll tell you the history of this place, what I know of it, all the way back to the Black Rock," he added as John turned the brass knob on the bedroom door. "Just..." he trailed off. "Just let me forget what I've got to do, just for a little while."
Tenderly, John lowered him down onto the bed. Wind blew outside, muted by the windows. Here, all was intact, and darkened by the curtains, still pulled tightly shut. Ben held John's face with both hands before they kissed, their bodies pressing together. Locke's hands, roughly pulling away his belt and throwing it aside, then unzipping the trousers. Locke's mouth, hot and slippery wet upon him, sending shivers through his entire body.
Almost caught off guard by the quickness of John's movements, Ben moaned, his fists gathering up the bed-sheet beneath him which he clutched as the pleasure rippled through his body. Sucking in his breath through his teeth, he let Locke lure him into escapism, forgetting the tragic idyll of their surroundings until all reality constricted, limited to the bed which held him and John. He moaned again as John continued his ministrations, his movements slightly arrhythmic and made all the more effective by the imperfection. John's hands found his own, their fingers meeting briefly as John continued to work him over. Ben's back arched slightly, smiling somewhat, his breathing discordant and quick as he trembled under the force of the pleasure overwhelming. It was easy to forget, very easy. John's hands ran over his legs and the sensitive skin of his stomach and sides. Ben's hips bucked seemingly of their own accord, though he fought for control. He was on the verge when suddenly, John stopped. After the heat of their touch, even the warm, humid air felt chilly against Ben's body.
"Why did you --"
"Because," spoke John easily as he shifted up and reached for the bedside table. Opening the drawer, he rummaged through it for a moment, then smiled. Out of the assorted items, he picked up the container of lubricant and held it up, his smile widening. "I thought we might try something a bit different." He tossed the package over to Ben, who caught it one-handed as John stood up, removing his boots and pants. "Lie down," John instructed as Ben regarded him, one eyebrow raised.
Idly, Ben stroked himself, his mind locked in a daze of forgetfulness, concentrating only on John's body: the legs and chest and arms finely sculpted from a thousand jungle treks, a powerful body that had recovered so completely from the devastating paralysis that had previously gripped him. It was a privilege, this ability to lay hands on John's body, and Ben knew it. The other man regarded him as trustful now, as though Benjamin of Ten-thousand Lies might bother to tell the truth this time. Body slick with lube and sweat, he straddled John as the other man fell back onto the bed, breathless and waiting. They shared a kiss before John shifted, spilling Ben back down onto the mattress and rising up, one hand on Ben's back as though to lay claim and pin him down to the bed.
Under John's fingers, the scar from Ben's spinal surgery was visible. He traced it softly, then kissed it, his heart pounding with fear at the idea of the man's life having ever been in jeopardy. Working a trail of kisses up Ben's back, Locke smoothed the other man's hair, kissing his cheek. He bit his lips, wanting to say something, but there were no proper words to explain the way he felt, and his lust was undeniable, irresistible.
Teasing John mildly, Ben chose his position, glancing over his shoulder at John as he rolled onto his stomach, head pillowed in his arms. Ben could feel the other man's desperation, the heat and need that made Locke mouth "please...Ben...." against the his earlobe as Locke stroked him slowly, preparing him.
"What was that?" Ben asked coyly, with the predatory smile clear upon his lips.
Locke responded by reaching for Ben's wrists and pressing them firmly against the mattress with one hand, then reaching around and stroking Ben's shaft with delicious, tortuous slowness with the other. Ben shivered as John ran a hand down his back. The other man nudged Ben's legs further apart with his knee, then pressed himself inside, unable to hold back. The rhythm was controlled, though barely, but amid the roughness of the act there was emotion as well. Ben heard his name spoken by John's tongue as the other man nipped his shoulder affectionately, thrusting in deeper. For the first time in weeks, John apparently wasn't thinking about the wind-whipped beach or the curious yellow-housed Utopia of the former Dharma camp. He was not plotting the circuits that would carry him across the island, to Jacob's ramshackle cabin, or even thinking of his frustration with the limited mind of those other survivors, the ones who dreamed of boring lives back home rather than the mysterious grandeur of their castaway lives. All that mattered was Ben.
Ben smiled, feeling John above him, leaning over him, moving inside of him; John, whose hands ran tenderly along his glistening skin, then moved rapidly along his shaft, coaxing fragile whimpers from him.
Moans escaped from both men as they moved together, comfortably in sync, each one straining for release. The humid air swirled with pheromones, wild honey and distant sea. Locke pulled back, his hands on Ben's shaft, then dove into the other man's body once more, earning a breathless exhalation from Ben, who called out his name. He could feel the tension building within himself as the friction between them increased, and he thrust in deeper at the sound of Ben's deep, throaty moans.
They came in unison. John's rhythm turned haphazard as pleasure flooded him, and he called out Ben's name, his voice raw and needy, as he felt Ben grinding against his hand, coaxing the last ounce of pleasure from his body. Ben's breathing was erratic, but the smile on his face spoke of satisfaction, and as they separated, Ben twisted over onto his back, stretching languidly.
"That was --" John gave up as words eluded him, but turned, smiling at Ben.
"Yes," Ben agreed, with a faint smirk. His eyes, unblinking, took in the sight of John's blissful expression. "Yes, John, it certainly was." With a sigh, he turned onto his side, looking out towards the window as John's hand settled on his hip. The jungle was preternaturally quiet, devoid of the usual hum of bees and spinning insects, the macaw squawking and the wing-beats of birds in flight. Only the rain remained, reduced to the faintest drizzle, more a veil of water than a storm. He could hear it dripping resolutely against the leaves, but the wind was gone, and the smoke. His people, Ben knew, were safe in the Temple, where he had wisely sent them. The rest of the island, however, may have been inhabited solely by the dead, for all the noise there was. For all it matters, Ben thought, without a trace of shame at the frankness of his feelings. There was not even the high-frequency hum of electricity any longer, and Ben surmised accurately that some dedicated fool on the Widmore Industries payroll had cut it off in order to drive him out from the safety of the bunkers towards the main power station to repair it. For the moment, it was irrelevant. The Hostiles, as Ben had originally known his people, had survived on the island for ages without the comforts of modernity. It was the Dharma people who had brought power to the island.
Secure that his people, which now included John, would be able to cope fine without the electricity for the few days until the freighter team had been sacrificed and the island moved, Ben stretched again. For the first time in ages he felt properly relaxed. Some of the hollow, deadening ache that had knotted his stomach since he had watched through the window as Keamy had killed Alex had finally loosened somewhat, though the guilt still stabbed him, when he allowed himself to think of her face. He sighed at the memory. It was past time to forget. With the scant time he had left on the island, he ought to remember.
John ran his palm deftly over Ben's cheek, cradling it for a moment, then leaning in to administer another kiss. There was blood in his mouth, from biting his lip to hold back the moans at first, and when they kissed it tasted coppery, of blood. Ben's kiss was harsh, savage, but passionate as well, and his blue eyes were clear and expressive when he drew back.
"I wish I could stay," Ben said as he sat up and reached for his clothes. They were rumpled from having been tossed aside so carelessly, but although he was normally fastidious about his fine clothing, he no longer cared. Buttoning up the expensive dress shirt, he nodded to John, who had also risen. "But there's work to be done."
John pulled on his pants and reached for his boots. "All right then, let's go. What should we tackle first?"
Pausing, Ben quirked an eyebrow. "Not necessary," he spoke, tonelessly. With a shrug, he buckled his belt and stood. His gaze was faraway, his expression reserved. "This is my mess, John. I'll clean it up. Stay here. I'll be back before too long."
"I'm supposed to believe that?" Locke asked, incredulous. He reached out, his fingertips brushing Ben's bruised knuckles. "That if I just wait, you'll keep your word and come back for me? No," he said with finality, donning his t-shirt. "That's not the way it works, not anymore. You promised to tell me about the island --"
"And I will. Or, rather, my people will."
" -- and I'm not going to wait around and let you keep lying to me." Locke stood up, grabbing Ben by the collar of his shirt. Locke's eyes, bright green and bewildered, but also warm, met Ben's cool blue ones. "Don't you understand that you're the only one who can help me, and I'm the only one who can help you? Your people," he went on anxiously as Ben made to respond, "Maybe they're loyal to you, maybe not, who knows -- but I do know enough to understand not all of them are here because they want to be. Juliet," he offered in example. "I saw her face when the submarine was destroyed. She was crushed, because she wanted to go home so badly. Jack told me all about her. She wants her old life back, and she wants to be with her sister, more than anything. But me, Ben!" John's face was desperate, determined. "I know I'm here for a reason. This island is my home now, and I don't ever want to leave, and --" He broke off, releasing Ben, who stood still, listening. "You don't either. I see that in your eyes, the way you feel about this place. I'm someone you can teach, someone who will stay at your side and see it through. I will make life on this rock work. And, there's...more...between you and me, now," he added, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He pressed his hand to Ben's face, nodding. "Don't leave me behind again."
Ben paled slightly, biting his lip until he felt the reassuring sting and tasted the blood. Physical pain always seemed to ground him and give him strength. "Do you realise what has to be done? Widmore's men -- we can kill the ones that are left, certainly. That isn't the issue. What about the next boat of killers, and the boat after that? Charles won't stop, not now that he has the coordinates. He's found us. The only way to protect the island is to follow Jacob's instructions."
"He told me we needed to move the island."
"Precisely. And whomever moves the island can never come back, John, because once you leave, you can only return when the others who've left it do, not alone. Never alone." Ben gritted his teeth at the sudden rush of emptiness that went through him at the thought of being banished, but he held his ground, betraying no change in expression.
John shrugged. "So what's the problem?"
Hesitantly, Ben drew a deep breath. "This place," he said, softly. "I'll tell you what I know, if you walk there with me, but once we're in the station, then you'll need to go. My people, they're in a place called the Temple. They are safe there, for now, but they won't last long without a reliable leader. Richard is in charge, for now, and I trust Richard, but they need someone else, someone stronger. I want you to go to them, John. They'll tell you what they know too, answer your questions and follow your lead. But you can't come with me, no further than the outer door of the station. That's it. You can't go with me all the way."
"I told you the island is my home," John said. "And I'll do what needs to be done to protect it. You're right. The people do need a leader -- but that leader is you. I'd love to step into your shoes, Ben, but frankly, I'm not ready, and it's going to take more than an hour's walk for you to explain everything I need to know about this place." He nodded as Ben goggled at him. "How about you and I go outside now and bury Alex somewhere she'll be at peace, and then, why don't we go and move this island? Once we're off it, maybe we can solve this Widmore problem once and for all. You said we can come back, if we come back together, right? So, leave Richard in charge for a few more days. He seems capable enough to me."
Ben shook his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. His expression spoke loudly about the sentiments of a man who had grown up with the knowledge that, in the end, everyone would let you down. The idea that someone would take a chance on him was astounding, and for once, Ben, who was always in control, was caught off guard. "You'd really go --- with me?"
Locke nodded with more certainty than he had felt in weeks. Reaching forward, he took hold of Ben's hand, squeezing as he grasped Ben's fingers. Serious, he nonetheless offered a hint of reassuring smile at the frank shock on Ben's face. "Yes."
Outside, the rain slowed, though the clouds lingered, and the air was velvety with moisture and sweetness. Ben squeezed back, pulling John with him as he moved towards the door, satisfaction evident in his expression. "Well then, it seems we have work to do." His voice was still unsure and breathy. He held open the shattered, bullet-ridden door and breathed in the island air deeply. "After you, John."