Thank to those who reviewed and made clear my mistake on Walt and Michael's names. . . I realized the mistake as well about an hour after posting it, but at that point I was too lazy to go back and change things. So for those of you that didn't catch it, Walt is Michael's son, not the other way around. Oops.
Hurley sat on a log, deliberating over what to do. What was he supposed to give to Shannon, the mother of all that is sarcastic and superficial? Any warm fuzzies that he'd kept stored up for a rainy day would be long gone by the time she got through with him. He cursed the fates for giving him the Devil in Heels as a gift recipient.
"Think, man. . . think. . ." the only thing Hurley knew about girls had come from his grandmother. Many an afternoon of his young life had been comprised of sitting on the couch watching Breakfast at Tiffany's with Grandma Jane. This, he reasoned, was why he had never been popular in high school. What kind of a guy can quote Audrey Hepburn movies and can sew like a maniac (kudos again to Grandma Jane), but can't throw a football?
Maybe. . . Hurley thought. It would mean braving a few unpleasant people, but this was the only thing that he could think of so far that might appease. He'd brave it.
For the sake of his own well-being, he'd brave it.
A few minutes later, Hurley found himself in a familiar place: outside Sawyer's little hovel on the edge of the jungle, trying to figure out how to talk to him and actually get something out of it. This time Sawyer wasn't lounging in a chair with crazy white and pink sunglasses, though. This time it took Hurley a moment to see him in the midst of all those leaves, sitting on the ground, intently concentrating on the piece of paper in front of him, pencil in hand. He looked halfway mad, and for a moment, Hurley looked about ready to turn back.
He stopped himself. This was the only thing he could think of, and he didn't relish trying to figure out another idea. A twig snapped underneath Hurley's foot, and Sawyer looked up sharply.
"I come in peace. . ." Hurley said quickly.
"Relax, frizzhead. You don't scare me."
"Umm. . .I meant. . ." What did he mean, 'you don't scare me'? Of course he didn't—Hurley thought that that was a given. Whatever.
"You meant. . . . what?" Sawyer was looking at him with a mix of sarcasm and annoyance.
"Do you have lots of clothes in the stockpile bomb shelter you got back there?" Possibly I should've considered my word choice before opening my mouth, he thought, as he saw the way Sawyer was beginning to glare at him.
"Yeah." Sawyer said, after a moment. "You're not expecting me to give you any, are you?"
"No," Hurley said, sighing with relief. Here was his cue. "I'm expecting you to trade me for some clothes.
"What've you got?" Sawyer's curiosity was perked, he could tell.
"Something you can't pass up."
"I'll be the judge of that."
Hurley revealed the unopened pack of Marlboros in his hand. Sawyer's eyes widened.
"Where'd you get those?"
"You're not the only one hoarding stuff."
Sawyer smiled at the joke.
"Take whatever clothes you want, just give me the cigarettes."
"Deal."
That went rather well, Hurley thought as he dragged off a suitcase of clothes and an airline complimentary sewing kit. Surprisingly well.
Hurley began whistling "Moon River" under his breath as he lugged the suitcase off to a quiet spot to sew.
Across the beach, Shannon and Boone were in a somewhat lesser state of tranquility.
". . . Quit being such a brat, Shannon!" Boone was shouting at her.
"What are you talking about? It's not like I'm doing anything wrong! It isn'tmy fault that I don't know anything about kids—"
"Jesus, Shannon! Figure it out for yourself! I'm not going to make a gift for you to give to that kid! Could you stop being self-centered for five seconds? Maybe then you could actually think of something to give him instead of running crying to me like you always do!"
". . . I cannot believe you're making such a big deal about this. . ."
"Well, I am making a big deal, Shannon. Believe it or not, I am. Maybe because this is just a goddamned repeat of my life for the past 15 years! I should have told you back when we were five, when you were having me steal popsicles out of the freezer for you, just to do something for yourself for once in your fucking life. . . I guess now is better late than never," he looked at her, disgusted. "Deal with this one yourself."
Boone stomped off without another word, leaving Shannon sitting in the sand with a surprising pang of hurt and embarrassment at his disappointment in her. She really would have to figure this one out on her own.
"What're you doing?" Charlie loomed over Claire, who was intently focused on drawing something on a yellow legal pad. She immediately flipped the pad closed as Charlie approached.
"Shhh! You can't look—" she said with a grin. "It's my Secret Santa present."
"Who've you got?" he said, trying to peak his nose over her shoulder to see what she was drawing. She shoved him away, laughing.
"Not supposed to tell, remember?"
"Yeah. . . but I'm an exception." Claire rolled her eyes.
"No, really!" Charlie continued. "Besides—you looked a little perplexed. Maybe I could help you with ideas."
"If you're so interested in mine, who've you got?"
"Not telling."
"Hypocrite."
"Precisely."
Claire laughed again.
"Get going—" she said, giving him another playful shove. "I gotta finish working on this."
"Fine. I can see where I'm not wanted." Charlie grunted to stand.
"Later Claire."
He stopped a moment.
"How's the baby?" he asked, a little more serious.
Claire still smiled, but Charlie could see the worry in her eyes. "Baby's fine." she paused a second. "He'll be coming pretty soon."
Claire laid a protective hand on her stomach, becoming lost in thought. Charlie crouched down beside her and touched her forehead with his.
"No whatifs now," he said, comfortingly. "You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."
Claire smiled slightly.
"Thanks, Charlie."
"No trouble." he said, smiling and walking away. He had been looking for inspiration.
He'd found it.
Michael looked out towards the sand to see the most frightening thing in his life coming towards him: his son.
"Whatcha doin'?" Walt asked when he'd caught up to his dad. Michael still didn't know how he was going to make this work. They'd been pretty much in isolation together for the past few months on this island, and he had yet to find a way to relate to Walt.
"I'm carving the branch into little figures." Michael explained.
"What's it for?" Walt sat down next to him. Maybe, Michael thought, just maybe I could make this work. Maybe this whole Christmas thing can be a way for us to start over.
"It's for that Christmas thing." Michael and Walt sat a moment in awkward silence. Michael's hopes began to sink. This past month, his emotions had gone up and down like a boat in a storm—with every airplane he thought he heard, with every patronizing comment that was made towards him, with every look from Mr. Locke, with every laugh or sigh from his son.
My son, he thought. He was still in a halfway frightened, halfway elated sense of shock, from the moment he picked up Walt to take him to the airport. Sure, he'd known he'd had a son, but before he'd lived with his mother an ocean away. . . the information had been like a clip of news that you pay attention to because you're supposed to and it's important, but you don't really hear because it never affects you.
It did now.
"You figured out a present for your person yet?" Michael asked, groping for conversation.
Walt broke out into a huge smile.
"Yeah," he said. "I've got it all figured out."
"Who is it?"
"Not telling."
"I'm your dad. You're allowed to tell me."
"Right." Walt said, as if to say, You're only my dad when it's convenient.
"Still not telling." he said, his face stern.
Michael sat a moment looking at Walt, searching for any way to get some sort of approval. He sighed, and touched his son's arm.
"I'm sorry man. I didn't mean it like that." Walt's look softened.
"S'alright dad." he said, smiling a little.
"You need any help?"
"Just show up at the beach tomorrow with everyone else, after everyone gets presents."
Michael grinned curiously. Walt was smiling. The waves of his hopes were riding high again.
"Okay. Whatever you say Walt."
"Looks like you had the same idea I have."
Kate looked up from the orange government-issue bag she was rummaging through, to see Jack standing over her with another piece of luggage in his hands, the makings of a smile playing on his face. She stood up and brushed the sand off of her pants.
"I have some great ideas if I can just find my bags in all this." she said. Jack stared a moment at the bag in her hand.
"You shouldn't have too much trouble if they all looked like that." He said, gesturing towards the ostentatious orange fabric. "We could've signaled planes with those things."
"What can I say, the American government doesn't hire Valentino to design my suitcases." Kate winced inwardly the moment she opened her mouth. She shouldn't have brought that up. Jack looked stoic a moment, but was compassionate enough to not press for details about the bags or the marshal that gave them to her. Thank God.
"I thought that you'd already gotten your bags when everyone else was rummaging through here." he said, changing the subject.
"I'd gotten my backpack out of here, but I hadn't found my other bag. My backpack had most of the stuff that I'd needed, so I hadn't had to worry up until this point." Never carry much baggage when you always need to make hasty exits, Kate thought.
"So what's in this bag that made you root through all this stuff for?" Jack asked.
Kate looked at him that was filled annoyance and bemusement.
"Do you honestly think that I'm going to tell you what I was looking for?" she asked him sarcastically. "That's the whole point of these secret present things. . .they're secret."
She smiled, and patted him on the cheek patronizingly.
"Hey—I was just trying to help. You know me, always around to solve a problem," he said, pushing. Kate looked at him a moment, waiting for him to finish.
". . .that, and I'm having a hard time figuring out ideas for a gift." he added. Kate raised her eyebrows at him.
"You need to learn how to be content with things, Jack," she said somewhat evasively. "You're always agitated, trying to fix everything and be a part of everything. Some of those demons that you've got lurking over your shoulder might go away if you'd just learn how to be content with yourself."
Jack was staring at her now like she was a creature from the Mars. Where had that come from?
"Have fun looking through the mess." she said, hefting her orange bag over her shoulder and leaving the way she came.
Jack watched her recede into the horizon, and long after she left was still standing quizzically in front of the mountain of luggage tags and discarded possessions, running his hands over her short hair and sighing.