Chapter 21: Tender is the Night
The next morning, Valerie and Ben packed up and got on a plane to Paris.
He picked the hotel without consulting her—there were a few options to choose from, and he decided that a suite in large luxury hotel would suit their need for anonymity better than a boutique hole in the wall or a hostel.
Valerie took a quick shower as soon as they checked in and changed into the cleanest looking clothes she had—a black tank top and a pair of black jeans. She pilfered a clean button up shirt from his bag and threw it on, rolling up the sleeves.
"Do I look normal?"
He glanced at her. With her long hair pulled into a messy ponytail and his shirt, she looked just like any fashionable young woman out in the city.
"You look fine," he replied cautiously.
"I can work with 'fine,' I guess," she huffed, already halfway out the door. "I'll be back."
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I need a few things," she answered.
"What sort of things?"
"Nice things," she explained, waving a wad of cash in the air.
She returned to their room a couple of hours later, arms weighed down by several large shopping bags. He did not recognize the brands, but he got the sense that her stack of cash had been made considerably slimmer by her purchases.
"That was efficient," he commented.
"I knew where I was going—and what I was looking for." She tossed three of the bags at him. "Those are for you," she informed him, setting another two bags down on a sitting chair. "Just to get us through the next few days," she explained. She took the rest of her bags back into the bathroom.
She'd bought him a couple of fresh outfits. He did not really appreciate her choosing his clothes for him, but—as he examined her selections—he realized she'd brought him things she knew he'd like. He was particularly happy to find a new pair of shoes—and fresh socks.
As Valerie tinkered away in the bathroom, Ben passed the time making phone calls and watching the news. Hours had passed since she'd returned—he'd heard her take another shower. He was impatient, and he was growing very hungry.
"Val," he called through the closed door, "had you given any thought to dinner?"
"I'm almost done—is there a vacuum in the closet?"
"A vacuum?"
She stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. "I cut my hair."
At first glance, she was nearly unrecognizable. She'd cut her long wavy hair into a neat bob that fell a couple of inches past her chin. Her hair was shiny and pin straight, parted neatly on one side—and perhaps a couple of shades darker. She'd put a whole face of makeup on, he realized—her skin was even and luminous, her eyelashes seemed even thicker, and her lips were a dark, rich red.
"You cut your hair," he agreed.
She grinned at him.
"Yourself?" he added, surprised that she'd done such a good job.
"You learn a few things when you live on a remote island," she explained as she rifled through the shopping bags. "I guess can vacuum later."
He peeked into the bathroom. The floor was covered in dark hair and the counter was covered in expensive looking jars and vials. She'd been busy.
"As for dinner," she continued, "we are in Paris—we might as well go somewhere nice." She fished a black dress out of one of the shopping bags.
He turned around as she started dropping the towel.
"You can look now," she told him. It was a simple sleeveless dress—knee length with a high neck. It covered her bullet wound well, which he imagined was why she'd chosen it. It was also very form fitting.
She stepped into pair of very tall heels.
He'd never seen Val like this. He was very aware that she was pretty—but on the Island she hadn't really put much effort into looking pretty. He'd assumed she wasn't really the type of woman to care much about getting made up and wearing nice clothes. But she certainly knew how—and he found himself a bit tongue tied.
"I suppose—I ought to—I'll get changed, in that case."
"Probably a good idea," she agreed.
She made a reservation somewhere while he was getting changed. The restaurant wasn't too far away, and Val wanted to walk. In her shoes she was nearly as tall as he was. She didn't seem uncomfortable slinking around in a tight dress and heels—quite the opposite; she seemed more herself than ever. He couldn't take his eyes off of her.
At the restaurant, she had a quick conversation in French with the waiter, who seated them in a quiet corner.
He was entranced by the shadow that her eyelashes cast in the warm candlelight.
"So," she murmured, "let's talk about Charles Widmore."
Two weeks after that dinner, Canadian honeymooners Roderick and Alanna Cruikshank checked into a hotel in the Seychelles. Two nights after they arrived, Alanna wandered down into the bar and had a long chat with a man named Peter Avellino, who turned up dead the next morning, the victim of an apparent poisoning.
Four months later, Fred and Miranda Clegg arrived in Berlin. Within a week of their arrival, CCTV footage captured a woman with short dark hair appearing to push a blonde woman in front of a moving train at Potsdamer Platz. Neither woman could be identified by the authorities. An older man with an apparent connection to the blonde woman was discovered days later in his hotel room—though his cause of death could not be determined.
There was a man in Krakow who received a fatal injection of some kind while enjoying a private show from a woman that none of the other dancers at the strip club could identify, one in Seattle who collapsed mysteriously at the gym, and another in Cape Town who was shot in the head in his apartment while he ate in front of the TV.
There was a woman who was strangled to death with her own purse strap in Singapore. And finally, there was a man named Ivan who was gunned down in a residential Moscow street—in broad daylight, with no apparent witnesses.
Valerie liked Moscow—she spoke enough Russian to get by, thanks to her mother. She loved the history she could experience just walking around the older parts of the city. The weather appealed to her too—she'd grown up in the cold, and while much of her life had been spent in warm places, she had a soft spot for an icy cold day.
Ivan hadn't been too much trouble. Word had spread through Widmore's associates that people were being picked off—and the rumor was that a woman was behind it. Ivan had realized what she was doing the moment she approached him, and he'd just started running.
She'd hit him from about twenty feet away, but she hadn't killed him. She caught up to him quickly and shot him twice in the back of the head before he could try to plead for his life.
It had only taken Ben a little bit of convincing to agree Valerie was right for the job. She had waited until he was tired—and a bit distracted by her lipstick and stilettos. In that pliable state, she'd been able to talk him into letting her do it. It wasn't that she was eager to kill Widmore's people—she had just wanted to keep the grieving, angry Sayid out of it.
The work wasn't exactly new to her, either. Keamy and the mercenaries hadn't been the first men that she'd killed in defense of the Island.
She stepped lithely into Ben's car and twisted the silencer off of her handgun before handing them both to him. She peeled off her gloves and tossed them out the window as he drove away.
"You alright?" he asked, noting how numb she was to the violence that she'd inflicted.
She blinked slowly. "I'm fine," she assured him. "It's not my first fucking rodeo, Linus."
"I know," he replied. "I just—you know I worry."
"I know." She smiled to herself. "Where to now?" she asked.
"There's a place in the south of France I'd like to take you to," he said. "It's lovely this time of year."
She raised an eyebrow. "Back to France? I thought Ivan was the last one?"
"He was," Ben confirmed. "There's no one else. I promised you we'd keep this to a minimum."
She smirked at him. "So, what—it's a vacation?"
"I suppose you could look at it that way."
She was annoyed by his obfuscation, but she knew better than to try to pry more information from him. He was insufferable when he was openly keeping secrets.
They flew from Moscow to Paris and traveled by rail for the last leg of the trip. Valerie remained on edge despite the peaceful rocking of the train.
She watched him as he read. He was distracted—nervous maybe. He glanced at her briefly and quickly turned back to the book. She was certain that he had an ulterior motive, but she couldn't imagine what he'd want to keep from her.
They had much grown closer, in a sense. They'd used nearly a dozen false identities over the last year. They always traveled a couple, always stayed in the same hotel room, and almost always slept in the same bed—it was the easiest thing to do, and it hid them from Charles, who would be expecting Ben to travel alone.
Their constant proximity did not seem to bother Ben—there was actually something comfortable about the arrangement. He'd grown to depend on her presence; he talked his plans through with her, took her advice, and deferred to her judgment. She shouldn't have been surprised—they'd always made for a good team.
Despite the closeness, however, Ben was very careful not to touch Valerie when they were alone—always keeping a cautious, respectful distance. She shouldn't have been surprised by that either—Ben always put up a wall when he was working through his own thoughts, and he still needed space to figure this all out.
They hadn't spoken about the kiss. She knew that he hadn't really intended to do it—it had happened in the wake of his nightmare coming to life. It was a moment of passion drawn from the echoes of another man's memories.
She sighed. She loved Ben, in an obvious sort of way. She'd spent a long time wondering whether she loved the man himself, or the ghost he carried with him. But it had been the wrong question to ask. It was both—she just loved him for all of the same reasons she'd fallen for him in the first place. And while there was something reassuring about admitting that to herself, the grief she carried for the man she'd lost still lingered.
It was early evening when they arrived at their destination—a little apartment overlooking the water in Antibes. The living room was simply furnished with wicker couches and a little glass dining table. Gauzy white curtains billowed in the warm breeze, bringing a hint of sea air into the room. Valerie loved the place immediately.
She caught him smiling at her reaction, and she smiled back. She dropped her bags in the kitchen, took a quick shower, and changed into a nice dress while he busied himself with unpacking.
They went out for a quick dinner at a small waterfront restaurant. He seemed tense. She worried that he was planning a meeting he didn't want her involved in.
"Why are we in the Riviera, Ben—really?" she asked through a bite of her dessert. "I mean it's lovely—it is, but I don't understand what we're doing here."
He hesitated before answering, his eyes shifting nervously. "You've done so much—for me, Val. And I realize that you—but, you know—and all that, but—I wanted you to have something nice," he stammered sincerely, "after all that unpleasantness." He looked at her, the longing in his eyes tempered by self-doubt.
She suddenly understood the source of his discomfort—all of this was for her.
She instinctively took his hand from across the table and squeezed it gently. He looked at it, surprised, then carefully ran his thumb along her knuckles.
The tenderness of his touch sent a sharp pang of anticipation into her chest, electrifying her skin. She looked up at him, acutely aware of the fact that their mutual desire had finally been acknowledged. They locked eyes for a moment. He had a pained look on his face, as though he was struggling to find the right words.
He glanced down at their hands.
She could feel the tension in the air. It was the only thing she could feel.
She bit her lower lip.
"I think we should go back to the apartment," she suggested, her voice a low whisper.
His eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed.
They didn't speak as they walked hand-in-hand back to the building.
Her heart was pounding. She could feel the beat of her pulse in her fingers, intertwined in his.
She was desperate to be alone with him.
They rushed inside, walking quickly up the stairs. Her entire body burned with anxious energy.
He fumbled a little with the key. He opened the door for her and closed it softly behind them.
The white walls of the unlit apartment gleamed blue in the pale evening light. The only sound she could hear over her heartbeat was the whisper of the curtains billowing in the breeze.
They were alone.
She looked at him.
He held her gaze, very deliberately locking the door.
She felt a feverish heat rising up from her collarbone, curling behind her ears and flooding her cheeks. She wanted his hands on her body so badly that she could barely breathe.
He walked over to her; his eyes filled with intention.
He stopped for a moment, a breath away from her face, tilting his head down. He carefully moved his hands to her waist. She could feel them trembling.
He was nervous—more than nervous. Even after everything he knew—everything he'd been through with her—he was still afraid to touch her.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. He exhaled heavily. She could see the tortured look in his eyes as he struggled to center himself.
She placed her hands on his shoulders. He glanced at her lips.
"I love you," she breathed, and pressed her mouth to his before he could say anything.
She felt the fire inside him roar to life. He ran his hands up her ribs, under her shoulders, pulling her into him. Her body was in chaos—there was a storm of electricity in her chest, surging through her at his touch. She grasped at his arms, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. He was hungry for this—even more than she'd realized.
It was very easy to mistake Ben for someone cold and emotionless—it was, after all, a perception he actively cultivated. But Valerie knew him—and she knew that the opposite was true. Ben maintained strict control over his impulses—religiously stifling all of his anger and fear and desire. But he couldn't snuff it out. It always churned beneath the surface—buried deep, but ever-present. Losing that control—or choosing to let go of it—unleashed something powerfully alive.
He walked her up to the bed, his mouth traveling down the side of her neck.
She let herself drown in the sensations—the smooth zip of her dress coming off, his hands on her thighs, the leather of his belt in her hand, the rough heat of his bare chest, the taste of his mouth, the cool softness of the sheets, the weight of his hips between her legs, the warmth of his wavering breath in her ear, his hair between her fingers, and the look in his eyes as they shared a moment of shuddering relief.
He held her tightly as he slept, as though he was afraid she might disappear. The first time they'd spent the night together, he'd done the same thing.
She'd missed him so much. Part of her felt as though he'd been brought back to life—but it was impossible to know whether the man holding her now was the man who had held her before. There was a bitterness in that uncertainty, torn as she was between the ache of grief and the ebullience of new love.
She sighed. It was an unanswerable question—he was both the same man, and a different man. He was both alive and dead—cold and buried in a place she'd never return to, just as his warm breath hushed steadily against her neck.
He woke to the light pouring in. The sun reached through the tall windows, diffused by the sheer white curtains. She was still sleeping, her face painted by the warmth of the daylight.
He'd woken up beside her so many times, but never like this.
It hadn't been the same feeling as it had been in that dream. He'd been so unsure, then, and so hopeful. The anticipation and uncertainty had heightened everything—every sound, and every touch. And, he supposed, it was all amplified by the transient nature of the memory—that feeling was what he remembered most, and so it swallowed up the rest of the experience.
In the dream, he hadn't known what he wanted until it was standing right in front of him. This time he'd known for quite a while. They'd been dancing around this for months—both feeling it was inevitable, both unsure if the other felt the same way.
When he'd touched her, he'd felt as though his skin had gone up in flames, and for a blissful moment the world had burned away, and he had disappeared into her—where there was nothing to feel but lips, and heat, and skin.
She loved him. He played the words over and over again, her throaty whisper echoing in his mind.
He felt something real for her—different from his thoughtless infatuation with Juliet—different from anything he'd felt before—so different that it defied comparison. He did not know if it was love—but he was ready to admit that it might be.
He couldn't be certain how much of what he felt was his own, and how much was the product of the memories gradually seeping into his consciousness, though that didn't worry him as much as it once did.
He looked over at her—her naked body draped in thin white sheets. She was immeasurably beautiful.
He got out of bed, careful not to disturb her. He showered and dressed, slipping into the kitchenette to make breakfast for her.
She'd left her bag leaning against the wall next to the table. She'd always guarded that bag so carefully that he hadn't even had the chance to betray her trust by looking through it. Curiosity got the better of him.
He glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign of movement from the bedroom.
He opened the bag and rifled through it as quietly as he could. There was nothing remotely out of place—just some of her clothes and toiletries, their stack of passports, a few wads of euros and American dollars, a couple of guns, and a somewhat alarming array of knives.
He was about to put the bag back where he found it when he noticed fraying along an inner seam. He tugged at it, revealing a tiny zipper that ran all the way to the bottom of the bag—a hidden compartment. He unzipped it and reached inside. He felt paper.
He slid it out of the seam in her bag carefully.
It was a large envelope. It held some documents—large photographs.
When he brought it to the table, he realized that she had expected he would eventually find it. She had written a warning across the flap.
Ben—please don't look inside. I needed to remember him. I don't think you'll want to see this.
Of course, it did nothing to dampen his curiosity. He opened the envelope.
There was another note inside the flap.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
He slid the photos out of the envelope and onto the glass tabletop.