So sorry for the delay! Work has been a killer lately! Enjoy!
Sunset arrived faster than expected, darkening the nefarious maze of the jungle, and forcing Kate and Sayid to stop and make camp. They both silently built the fire, scrounging up firewood and brush from surrounding areas, and lighting a small match, until the flames roared in front of them. There was a strange serenity between them now; they weren't fighting each other's natures anymore. Kate was free to believe in Jack's plan, and Sayid was free to doubt it, outright deny it. Tensions were extinguished from the second they walked on, leaving their difference of opinion behind them. But, they both knew that when it came to the forty individuals on the beach, nothing would be easy to explain, to believe, to conclude.
Sayid politely excused himself, pulling the handle of the lit torch that sat in the core of the campfire off of the ground, holding it high and following a worn path into the depths of the jungle. Kate, who sat in front of the fire, her elbow sat on the hill of her bent knee, her fist balled at her cheek, holding her head upright, the flames licking at the green specks of her sad, lifeless eyes, hadn't even looked up to see where he had gone. She couldn't possibly be angry with him, anymore anyways. She quickly began to understand that many of the people that Jack considered to be his friends really didn't know anything about him.
To be honest, how much did any of them know about each other? They'd spent close to three months on this Island, simply trying to survive, trying to coexist, co-habitat in a place they hadn't expected to be for very long. Obviously, being brought together through such a tragedy would bind them, they were definitely growing closer, a family of sorts, but there was still a lot she didn't know about her fellow survivors, especially why they were the plane. Everyone had a reason for being in Sydney, but no one was really open about it, as if their journey brought shame and embarrassment, but she knew that she had them all beat in that category. Jack inadvertently stumbled upon why she was so far away from home, and even after he found out about it, he opened up to her about his father's death, which made her feel terrible for making this good, decent, brave man break his back to get something, anything real out of her. Why was she always so good at pushing people away?
She combed at the tiny bundle of curls at her nape at that thought, her hair rained down her back and over her shoulders and upper arms, a sort of barrier against the cold gust of wind. The crackling fire's warmth embraced her just then, but still she felt detached from her surroundings, suspended in some kind of dream-state that wasn't real at all. She picked up a fallen branch, a piece of firewood that they hadn't thought to use, and poked at the fire, tiny reddish-orange sparks lifted from the conflagration, sizzled and burned away in a matter of seconds.
There was a great sense of dread that built up inside of her when her thoughts suddenly turned to Sawyer. What was she supposed to do when she saw him again? Give him a hug? A kiss? A hug and a kiss? Neither? Everything had become so complicated between the two of them; she thought as her fingertips bent into the migraine that was catching hold to her temples. She missed him, but there wasn't anything really crucial, dangerous or breathtakingly rushed about the emotion, she just missed being his friend, the comfortable way they picked on each other, like old pals who knew how to press each other's buttons. He was surely burned by her abrupt exit from the beach, especially since they weren't on good terms at all when she left.
Deep down, she knew that Sawyer was a good person; she saw his care and concern for Jack when they saw him being transported past the cages, his eyes wide and frantic; he was just too easily prone, permanently wired with satisfying himself over others. She really expected nothing more or less, which was why it never hurt to walk away from him, she never felt empty when she was away from him. Where Jack was concerned, her assurance that some distance between them would make her feelings go away never stood a chance, the fascination only worked against her, and she was back in the caves where she never wanted to be, returning to the beach from the hatch, plotting her next move in the jungle, beating whatever path that would lead her back to him with hungry, greedy fists, until her knuckles bled.
His 'Every man for himself' mantra was nauseating for her, downright disrespectful when Jack had done everything he could to save them both. She soon realized that it was really who Sawyer was, and judging from what she learned about his childhood, what he was looking for, and what he was running from, it was a way of life that he felt worked best for him. It wasn't the best for her and she could never delegate that into her reasoning. It wasn't who she was.
Was he expecting her to just lie back in a hammock with a nice paperback while Jack was all alone with people who could easily hurt, kill any of them without so much as a blink of an eye when the job was done? There was no conceivable way she could ever live with herself if she ever did that, and it wasn't just the bark of her conscience leading her to Jack, it was the drum of her heart, the slow lull of her soul. She soon realized that drum, that lull had existed inside of her very soon after she met Jack's eyes for the first time and long before she knew his name. She was in love with him, drastically, devastatingly, dangerously in love, and she was so inept with it that it made her hate herself for not getting it right sooner, because she didn't want to hurt Sawyer. That was the last thing she wanted to do, but there was no way around it. She didn't want him to feel what she felt right this second, an ache that no one but the one she loved could soothe. She couldn't be that for him, because she knew that he wasn't that for her. She finally figured it out. The heart wants what it wants.
Would she ever know what the rush of adrenaline at Jack's presence, the sound of his voice, whether it was frustrated with anger, wrought with need or ripe with amusement, felt like again, the way it was before the wall she felt around him in the game room ever existed? Was it already given away to another?
Kate's thoughts rammed into 'the blonde woman', better known as Juliet. She knew close to nothing about this woman. All she really knew was that she had long, blonde hair that shimmered like stars, that flowed like golden lace. Her eyes were a radiant, cascading azure shade, sharp and sure. She was slender, tall, statuesque, and could literally, and figuratively, meet Jack eye to eye. To put it bluntly, she was beautiful, the make and model of a woman that Jack should be dating, married to even, and successfully building a life with. A doctor no less, a brilliant one, which only made the measureless differences between their worlds-apart backgrounds all the more glaring and inappropriate.
Kate knew that Juliet worked closely with Ben, that she brought her to where Jack was, the glass house as Tom called it, and that she probably took him away too. She wondered why she'd done it, why she killed one of her own, Pickett, to save them. Had she done it to defy Ben? Had she had her own personal agenda in play that somehow factored into helping them escape? Was she doing it because Jack asked her to? Because she loved him? Kate's throat and chest tightened. She thought of the last time she saw Juliet; she was approaching Jack, a smile on her face, teasing, flirtatious. She was whispering something into his ear, and he pulled back with a charming, cocked smile of his own. There was such an ease to how they moved together, there was none of the friction that she and Jack always tried their best to absolve, there was no tension hindering their progress. The sky was the limit for the two of them. While Kate always felt the combustible physical and exhausting emotional chemistry with Jack that defied logic, reason and gravity itself, distance would only make it harder to hold onto, but she would try her best. It was the only way to make the long days and the longer nights tolerable until he returned.
Ben's commentary made everything worse. The insistence that Jack and Juliet had grown close, from a hateful, conniving, third party's observation, was crushing, unbearable for her, because she saw it with her own two eyes. It was real. A tear fell from her eye that she hadn't known was there until she felt it slide against the warmth of her cheek. Her eyes were shimmering with unshed sadness, fixated on the fire, because if she blinked, the liquid, physical emblems of her pain would show again. What was she thinking? She was going along as if Jack's promise to come back for her was a promise to be with her, and the devastating reality was that it wasn't what he meant at all. His promise was definitely an extension of his obligation to her, a member of a group that he promised long ago to protect. What if he came back hand-in-hand with Juliet? What if they had established themselves as a couple by the time he found the Island again? What if their many similarities bound them in a way that meant a life with no one but each other? A life where Jack was fulfilled by another was a life worse than death. The tears came, hot and steady, down her face, and rest lay out of her reach, but she would try to find it.
She gathered her backpack and laid her head against it. Her small body was balled up in the fetal position in the middle of the grassy meadow, her thighs brushed against her stomach; her knees were tucked against her chin and her tears slid over the bridge of her petite nose, pooling into the backpack's threaded material. She felt like a roller coaster that had ran off its set course, crashing into the walls on either side of it, completely out of control. Her emotions were in two places at once, ripping her apart. The larger part of her believed that Jack's promise was of his volition to vow, that he was doing it because he saw a future for them all that didn't involve being stranded on this Island and she would hold steadfastly to it. Her head throbbed, her heart pumped with cracks, leaks were stronger now with the quiet, doubtful drip that had become louder, deafening.
She closed her eyes, sleep came thunderously.
Jack turned to his side in the tiny bunk, the broad line of his shoulders reached towards the bottom of the bunk above him, the wire mesh scraped at the fabric of his shirt's short sleeve. After talking to Juliet, he laid down on his back and allowed the subtle propel of the submarine to lull him to sleep. He was wide awake now, still very tired but too anxious, excited to stay asleep any longer. He turned to Juliet's bunk, only to find it empty, the thin blanket covering the mattress neatly. As soon as the question of where she was rose to his mind, she came through the curtain that separated the bunks from the general area, her smile bright, and her hair tied into a tight ponytail.
He heard the hustle and bustle behind the curtain that Juliet closed behind her. Suddenly, a red light lit up the ceiling above them. "What's going on?"
She sat down beside him. "We're back. We're home." She said it with such a joy, Jack couldn't help but smile. He rubbed at his eyes, making sure it wasn't a dream, that he was actually awake. Juliet reached over to grab her bag from under her bunk.
"Where are we?" That was the next obvious question.
Juliet shrugged. "I'm not sure. From what Ben confided in me long ago, there are a few shipping ports along the two U.S. coasts that the Dharma Initiative used to ship things back and forth to the Island. It was easier to travel underwater, still is. We could be anywhere."
The Dharma Initiative? Why did that sound so damn familiar? He thought. His eyes lit up with recognition. The hatch. Desmond was wearing a pair of khaki coveralls, with an octagonal-shaped symbol embroidered on the top-left corner, above his name. He remembered the orientation video that he begrudgingly sat through with Locke, who sat completely intrigued, eyes bugged and glued to the projector. So as not to get roped into Locke's fascination, Jack never asked any questions about this Initiative, and why they were on the Island to begin with. His mind traced the memory of the payload full of food that dropped from the sky one cool night, the labels uniform with black and white, and the same octagonal symbol that Desmond wore like a badge of honor. Who were these people? What was the Initiative? What was their interest in the Island?
Before Jack could interrogate Juliet with his ever-growing list of questions, a man came through the curtain. "Good, you're awake." The younger man said, looking towards Jack with a pleased smile.
Brian. Jack remembered him from his time living among the Others. He met him once, he and his wife knocked on his door one day, thanking him graciously for saving Ben's life, showering him with praise and gratitude. They brought him a delectable green-bean casserole that he ate every spoonful of. He usually kept to himself, but he couldn't avoid his many neighbors; they were relentless with getting to know the surgeon that cured their revered leader. Jack wondered what Ben told these people, or better yet, what convenient lie he provided. They wouldn't have been too welcoming to him if they knew that killing Ben was what he really wanted to do.
"What's up Brian?" Juliet asked, pivoting her head to take in his expression. "Is this trip coming to a close yet or what?"
"Yes, it is. We've made it to our destination right on time. Jeff is docking the sub as we speak. You know how he is, doesn't like anyone stepping on his toes." Juliet shook her head, short, curt laughter filling the air. Brian joined in with her, and Jack felt like there was a joke he hadn't been let in on or just didn't understand, but that was beside the point.
"You don't mind me asking, where is our destination exactly?" He asked.
"California, a small shipping county on the southwest border, about two hundred miles outside of Los Angeles. There's a private port here that Mr. Linus has used on many occasions. The staff has been awaiting our arrival." Brian revealed.
A private port? Jack soon thought about the fact that he was popping back into a world that probably thought he died in that crash. His excitement was now riddled with doubt. How would he explain this to his family, or what family he had left? He hadn't thought about a proper lie at all, not even one that could pass for the truth. "Wait. I was on a plane that crashed. I'm supposed to be dead, I probably am dead to the people I left behind."
Was he supposed to tell them about the Island? Did he even want to? Who would sit through the recount of the horrific two months he spent on that hellhole? How would he argue going back to the Island? Should he keep that a secret too?
"That's what I came to talk to you about, Jack." Brian's face turned grave, serious. "I have extremely strict instructions from Mr. Linus that you're not to speak to anyone about the Island. In fact, as far as anyone else is concerned, there was no Island." Jack looked over at Juliet, who was already staring at him. She could read the dilemma in his eyes.
"Oh, you're actually surprised that Ben's first line of defense is to lie." There was a chuckle in Juliet's tone that made him smile. They were talking about Benjamin Linus, master manipulator. He had to steadily remind himself that the reason why he was getting off of the Island was because he provided Ben with a much-needed surgery, a surgery that he knew he had been manipulated into performing.
Jack turned back to Brian, who watched the exchange with a small grin. "What about the media? Surely they'll have questions about the plane crash and the rest of the survivors."
"Mr. Linus has taken care of that. He has made it a priority to make this transition very easy for you, Jack, but the Island has to stay a secret, which is why Mr. Linus has gone to such lengths with ensuring that your arrival back into civilization isn't bogged down by scrutiny and suspicion. It's just a necessary precaution." Brian reassured, but judging from the look on Jack's face, he wasn't assured of anything.
"If Ben made sure that the media wouldn't pursue me, then he must have come up with a story that I could use just in case they ever do."
Brian shook his head. "He doesn't anticipate that anyone would ask, but he knew that you wouldn't trust that, so yes, he came up with a cover story that he wanted me to go over with you right before you departed the sub."
Jack leaned over, his forearms resting over his thighs. "Lets hear it."
Brian cleared his throat. "Your plane crashed in the South Pacific, somewhere near Papua New Guinea. You washed up on the shore shortly after the crash, and since there was no one else around, you believed that you were the only survivor, and there was no sign of the crash. The plane sunk to the bottom of the Pacific." Brian could tell that Jack was adamantly following, so as not to miss a single detail. "On the beach, you discovered that two of your fellow passengers survived the crash as well, but they suffered from life-threatening injuries. You tried to save them, but they died."
Jack brought his hand to the back of his head, rubbing it anxiously. He didn't want to lie; he didn't want to live a lie. "You lived quietly in the jungle for two months, until a rescue team found you…and here we are."
It sounded so simple, so easy, too easy. He wasn't the only survivor and he wasn't going to act as if he was, but he couldn't reveal his plan to go back for them. If he had to lie for the time being, then he would. He would lie about the Island and the crash to anyone who asked, but he wouldn't go back on his promise to return for them. This would probably open the Island up to people that Ben wouldn't approve of, but that wasn't Jack's problem. His only concern was his friends and their safety, everything else landed on someone else's shoulders.
Brian saw how uncomfortable Jack was with it, but he tried to smooth things over with another friendly smile. "That's simply a back-up story if anyone asks you for details. Are you ready?"
Jack nodded. He knew that lying about the Island was the best way to protect his friends, at least until he came back for them. That was the only thought, purpose that would get him through this. "Yeah. I'm ready." He said, brimming with a steadfast determination. It was now or never.
Juliet took Jack's hand into hers, giving it a light, comforting squeeze. This had to be hard for him, she thought, harder than it was to actually walk away from John on that dock. She saw how hard he tried to hide it, how much he didn't want to care about Locke, about any of them, but he did, and it was one of the reasons why she liked him so much, he was loyal and kind. She felt a little bad for Jack, for how he still wasn't entirely free of the Island, because he would have to work at pretending that it didn't exist.
"Good." Brian said, a relieved breath left his lungs, trailing off of an affable laugh. "We should get you up on the pier. We have a shuttle van waiting for you, to take you to Los Angeles." Brian stood and placed his clipboard underneath his left arm, "Follow me."
Jack and Juliet followed him down the narrow hallway and stopped behind him as he reached a ladder that stretched up towards the exit door of the submarine. Juliet suddenly became teary-eyed, because no matter how much she wanted to go home, she had become very close to the people she lived amongst and worked with for the past three years. She might have hated Benjamin Linus with every fiber of her being, but she could never regret the connections she made to the people who knew little to nothing about the man they vowed their allegiance to. She wiped at her eyes, laughing at her unexpected showing of emotion. Brian smiled through his own tears and swept her up in a hug.
"I'm gonna miss you too, Juliet." They broke from the hug with happy, joyful smiles on their faces. He extended his hand to Jack, who stood by watching their goodbye. "Good luck, Jack."
Jack took his hand, shook it swiftly. "Thanks."
Once Jack and Juliet exited the submarine, they were greeted with the darkness of the night. The pier led to a small building, a dock station of sorts. Jack and Juliet were directed to a shuttle van that would drive them into the heart of Los Angeles. Home. The four-hour drive into Los Angeles was quiet, serene and full of nerve-wracking anticipation on Jack's part. He felt the closeness between him and Juliet escalate during the drive as she laid her head on his shoulder, and drifted off to sleep for a nap. At least one of them could sleep. He found that he couldn't close his eyes, not for a second. He was too excited, too wired, too anxious to breathe properly, the same feelings he felt while on the submarine were maximized. Once they were in the outskirts of the city, Jack gave the driver explicit directions to the condominium complex where he lived.
"Are you sure your apartment is still there?" Juliet asked.
"If I know my mother like I know my mother, she didn't give up on me." He smiled sadly, the idea that his mother had to endure his father death and his disappearance in such a short time made him sick to his stomach, but she was just as stubborn as he was, and wouldn't be so easily swayed to believe that her only son, her only child, was dead too. "It's still there."
Surely enough, when the driver stopped the shuttle bus in the parking area of the condominium, Jack spotted his rusted Bronco in the same spot he left it in before he called a cab to take him to LAX, the very same day he decided to chase after his father, to mend what he had broken, what it took the both of them to destroy. He smiled gleefully at the sight of the weather-beaten truck that his mother hated, that he insisted on driving ever since he bought it his second year of medical school. Jack's eyes rose to the windows of the building, reaching the top, where his apartment lay still, quite, for the past two months. He blindly hopped out of the van, mesmerized, entranced by his familiar yet foreign surroundings. It was as if he was truly seeing the place for the first time, which probably wasn't far from the truth. He was always so busy, to and from the hospital, that if asked what shade his residence had been painted, he wouldn't have a clue.
Juliet came up close behind him, worried. He stood there for a second, stiff and unresponsive. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
He stood under the glow of a nearby street light that lit the dark parking area. He nodded without turning to her; the tears in his eyes remained unshed. "Yeah." He lied.
She knew he was lying, and looked up at the complex. "Do you want me to go up with you?"
He turned to her, grateful, his eyes kind and gentle. "No. I'll be fine." It was just so surreal; he needed a moment to let it sink in. He wrapped Juliet up in his arms, giving her a tight hug. She hugged him back fiercely, her hands rubbing comfortably at his shoulders and neck. She had been his rock through it all, his confidante, a friendly reminder that he wasn't alone. She pulled from the hug, her eyes swimming with tears.
"You're not gonna make me cry too, are you?" She joked.
He smiled. "I just might."
"You call me if you need anything, okay?" Jack nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but Juliet interrupted him, "And please call your mother. Let her know that you're home, that you're alive. Don't let her hear about it from someone else."
He grinned at her, his best effort. "I won't. I promise."She returned his smile and turned, climbing back into the back of the shuttle van. "Juliet?"
Her eyes met his one last time. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. For everything." He could see the emotion in her eyes, swimming and daring to overflow. She simply smiled, her mouth growing wider until both rows of her perfect teeth shone in the night.
Before she closed the sliding door shut, she waved at him. He waved back, watching as the van careened onto the adjoining street and disappeared into the night. He finally reached his front door and moved for his secret hiding place. He was astounded that the silver key was still there. He turned the knob of the unlocked door and entered. He flipped the light switch and was greeted with a cold, tidy apartment, dark and dank with the aura of a home that hadn't been lived in for a long time. Things were in their proper place and he immediately knew that his mother had been there, tying up the loose ends of his former existence. She was the only other person that had a key. Her stamp was everywhere, from the neat stack of medical journals on his coffee table to the spotless kitchen that he walked into. Nothing was out of place. He looked at the counter-top and remembered a tall glass of orange juice, spiked with vodka for the rush. It had worn off before the flight to Australia had left the ground. He should have just nixed the orange juice, Jack thought with a wry grin.
He placed his hands palms-down onto the kitchen counter, staring off into the space. This was home, his home. This corner of one of the biggest cities in the world belonged to him, and he felt so...misplaced. He remembered half-listening, only half-interested in the realtor's enthusiastic presentation of the modern shelving, the Jacuzzi-style bathtub, the extra office space if he ever decided to bring his work home, which was often, and the spectacular view of downtown Los Angeles that opened the small dining room area. His only interest in the place was its size, perfect for a bachelor who didn't need much space and wouldn't know what to do with too much room, and most importantly, its close proximity to the hospital.
He rounded the corner to the dining area. His hand bumped into something that sat on a nearby end-table, both items fell to the ground with the twin thud of bricks. Not until Jack reached down to pick them up did he realize that they were a pair of shoes, loafers to be exact, worn black leather with cracks at the bend, its antiquity on display. What the hell were they doing in the dining room? Jack thought with confusion. The memory took hold of him, suffocating him.
Christian's shoes.
The shoes that he was supposed to be wearing when he and his mother buried him after a quaint and respectable service, a service that he'd been too preoccupied with getting over with that he completely forgot to pack them. He straightened from the floor, one shoe in each hand, his eyes roaming from one to the other, callous under his fingertips. He stared at them as if they were his father himself, a huge lump in his throat, tears burning his eyes. He held the responsibility of choosing what Christian would wear, a duty that Margo was too destroyed to perform. He chose them because of a memory he held dear from his childhood. Christian once told his four-year-old son that the shoes were his absolute favorite; memories of watching him pull them onto his feet and climb into a starched white coat before he left for the hospital filled his mind. How had things gotten so turned around? How did he go from adoring his father with the naïve, bright, impressionable eyes of a child who wanted to be just like him to a man who couldn't imagine making the decisions his father had?
He hadn't had the proper time to grieve. The shock of it still rattled him, made him question such black and white, clear-cut virtues as truth, honesty and bravery. Did he want relentless justice for the patient, or did he want to bank on the long-overdue opportunity to vilify his own father? Was he brave when he revealed the truth, or was he being vindictive and only hiding behind the guise of courage and integrity for his own protection? He still wasn't quite sure of the answer to these questions. There was only anger at not getting to him fast enough, at not pulling him out of some watering hole in Sydney's metropolis. It was the grief that haunted him to this day, an empty coffin, tangled up with debris from the plane crash lit a fire under his control and left it to burn.
The first person he told after his mother when he found out that his father died was Kate. She was so sweet, gentle, comforting. Her 'I'm sorry' meant more to him than all of the bare condolences that his father's ill-fated service would have evoked from people that Jack barely knew, from people who barely knew him. But Kate, this woman who snuck up on him when he needed someone the most, felt more familiar to him than anything he'd ever known, more familiar than the walls that surrounded him. He walked towards his bedroom, silently cursing himself for letting his thoughts roam to Kate. He was supposed to spend this time getting over her, forgetting about those feelings, the emotional connection, the comfort of it, the way he always leaned on it, because it was always there. Now it wasn't. He would have to get used to that.
He opened the door to his bedroom and immediately went for the closet, opening the double doors and flicking a switch, illuminating the small space with light. He bent down, placing his father's shoes in a corner, letting them mingle with his own footwear. He straightened and took in the long line of dress shirts, some solid colors of light blue and maroon, others striped. His ties hung from a rack that was tacked to the inside of the door and the broad shoulder-pads of his jackets and their matching trousers stretched a mile, if not longer. He went to a drawer in the corner and pulled out a white t-shirt and boxers before he moved towards another door that led to the bathroom.
He reached for the shower knob in the transparent shower stall, turning it and allowing the steam from the hot water to mask him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink and moved in to get a better view. He looked the same, thick, angled brows that shaded his dark, chocolate eyes, cropped brown hair with specks of grey at his temples and sideburns, stubble peppered over his jaws, cheeks and chin, but there was something about his eyes, he noticed. They weren't bright with the excitement that he should have felt about being home, about finally being off that Island. They were hardened, haunted, tortured with a bruised heart that would never love the same.
Visions of Kate with Sawyer flooded his mind's eyes and he immediately closed his eyes tightly, as if the heart-wrenching memory would fade on impact, would erase from his consciousness and walk over the line into dream territory, the fictional realm, but it hadn't. It was real. He hung his head low, breathing diligently, forcibly through the tight nostrils of his nose. He still saw them, in the cages, wrapped up in one another as if that were exactly where they wanted to be, and had always needed to be. Why couldn't he see her the way she was before? The steadfast, persistent, stubborn beauty that confused him just as much as she was there for him, always ready to prove herself, to fight the odds. He caught glimpses of her when she was on bended knees in front of him, begging him to stay, but even then he saw her the way she had before he told her to run, comforted by the arms, the closeness of another.
It was where she was supposed to be, he realized in the twenty-third hour. He finally saw that Sawyer was a competitor that was too much like her to be averse to her bad choices, to misunderstand and make things harder for her. They suited each other. Things were easier there, no heavy-lifting, no raising of voices, no walking away with flared tempers that would never settle, no need for drawn-out explanations and no disappointments. They were walking the same line in life, but, unfortunately, it didn't stop him from wanting her so badly he still tasted her on his lips and frequently licked at them just to feel closer to her. He needed her to be happy, that was the end result. If he wasn't happy, which he would never truly be without her, then the profit of his deficit was that she would go on, happily.
He thought about how he would find Kate and Sawyer when he came back. Would they have announced to the group that they were together? Would they be staying together in the same tent? Would he arrive to Kate's belly rounded with Sawyer's child? His face turned hot, scolding with his anger; an agonizingly raw grunt funneled through his lips as he leaned into the counter, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter-top so tightly his knuckles were bare of color. He felt like he'd been stabbed, and the knife's blade was still lodged in the crevices of his heartbeat. If it was removed, he would bleed until the rhythm faded into nothingness, but it hurt so badly that he almost willed it out of him, so he could finally rest without the pain. The tightness of his eyelids didn't allow the well of his tears to flow. What had he done? Where had he gone wrong?
The one moment they had together before he decided to do the surgery hadn't gone how he planned at all. He was so happy to see her, delirious with the way his eyes drunk her in, an ethereal epiphany of understated exquisiteness. She was glowing, so brightly he felt the urge to close his eyes, but he couldn't. She was so beautiful, even in her rumpled, tattered state. His thoughts drove into their relationship before they were captured, the never-ending push and pull of two people who felt the insistent grab, who fought its strength, because it was safer to be alone than to give over the power to destroy who they were to a person they barely knew. The attraction had run amok inside of him the moment he saw her, and never slowed down like it should have when he saw that pretty face painted from the grainy ink of a mugshot, a revelation that shook him, but hadn't snapped the tether that his heart formed with hers when he wasn't looking. The tether's strength surged over his ability to walk away clean, because he had to come back for her whether she waited for him or not, an involuntary promise that he couldn't take back.
Why had it always been so hard for the two of them? He suddenly asked himself. The answer was clear.
He couldn't budge and she couldn't stop.
It was as simple as that. Their chronically calamitous pattern that was addictive, intoxicating, in a nutshell. He had to get clean, and he hoped that she would too. Time and distance was their only salvation.
He opened his eyes and felt the hot tears slide down his cheeks. He looked up into the mirror and was greeted with a cloud of steam that lay over his now distorted reflection, evaporating into drips of water that fell from its bottom edge. He hadn't realized that he was grieving a relationship that had a snowball's chance in hell of happening while his bathroom filled with a blinding fog from the scolding hot water that flowed from his showerhead. Suddenly, he was so tired he could barely stand, but he had to wash the last two months from his skin, the last remnant of Kate's scent still clung to him. He had to wash her away and tuck away any hope that there was still hope for them.
He allowed the warm water to course down the curve of his back, between his bulging shoulder-blades as he leaned his head under the heavy stream. His large hands sat on the slick glass of the shower stall, his handprints permanent where they landed. He covered himself with the silky foam of his body-wash from head to toe, then leaned into the stream, watching the foam dissolve into a whirl down the drain.
He dried himself with a long terry-cloth bath towel and dressed into his pajamas. His plush, king-size bed felt so weird to him now, after days upon days of settling onto a hard plethora of sand every night. Even though his body craved rest in the worst way, his brain was still wide awake, thinking, plotting, planning. If he spent every waking moment trying to find a way back to the Island, he could get there in no time. It wasn't just an overworked thought tree that kept him awake. His heart was throbbing, and as he positioned himself onto his side, its merciless rumblings forced sleep to fight for dominance.
Ben's home office was where he decided to work from now on. Wheeling himself over to the main headquarters was starting to become laborious, tedious even, especially when he felt more at peace while surrounded by his things. His books, his collection of classical music. He desperately needed the comfort, especially after watching John Locke walk off of his compound, instead of being done away with for good.
He couldn't believe his plan hadn't worked. John was anything but predictable, he thought to himself. What had convinced Locke not to follow him? He had promised him everything he'd ever wanted to know, so what made him decline the offer of his lifetime? The old man was getting smarter, Ben thought. He had ruffled Kate to the perfect drum, twisting her feelings for Jack into a knot that choked her and made her temper boil until the blush of her cheeks ran hot. She was easy to rile up, she had lost all that mattered. She was emotional, a sea of irrationality, but there was something about John that hadn't played like a fiddle in Ben's hands. There was something about his refusal to cooperate, his confidence, his poise, his swift rejection, and not to mention, the bonafide flip-off as he prepared to walk away, that rattled him. He had nothing to lose, and that was more dangerous than a stray bullet. A rouge, renegade in every way was now John Locke's role, as it had always been, but more lethal than ever.
He stared at the little sheet of paper that Richard brought to him the night of the invasion, picking it up from the center of his desk. The very last list of instructions that Jacob needed him to perform. He had always done any and everything he asked, and had never once seen his face or even a corner of his existence. How was that fair?
He recalled asking Richard once, years ago, if he could talk to Jacob, have a meeting of minds per se, about the Island, about his plans for him, because there had to be more than lists, instructions, obscurity. He hoped for a yes, an invitation, only to receive a strict and fast decline. Richard's argument was that Jacob needed to stay elusive. He said that Jacob needed Ben to trust what he couldn't see, what he couldn't touch, and when the time was right, he would be able to do more than he ever dreamed, the fruits of his labor would be more than even he could consume. Richard always had the same final word of advice.
'Await further instruction, Ben.'
He always had, standing at attention to a man that he has never seen and it hadn't gotten him any closer to his destination.
Ben was finally proactive; he had finally done something out of the normal procedure that Richard laid out to him all those years ago. He tipped the scales and gambled on a risk that he hoped would pay off.
He had broken the one rule that he vowed to never disobey. He cheated.
There was a loophole he put in place, a failsafe that he believed would protect him if his plans unraveled, which he prayed would never happen. And the only guarantee he had that it wouldn't was that the Island could never be found. This was the only way it would work.
His phone rang, cutting through the silence of the room and the gravity of Ben's thoughts. He picked up the receiver, angled it around his ear and jaw-line. "This is Benjamin Linus."
"Shephard and Burke have been dropped off." A deep voice proclaimed. The reception was scratchy, a little inaudible, but Ben strained to hear, the information crucial to his next move.
A smile curled the edges of his lips. "Good." He dropped the folded piece of paper, leaning back into his chair, the tension in his spine dissolved. "Now, I want you to follow Shephard wherever he goes. I want to know where he gets his dry-cleaning done. I want to know his favorite coffee shop. Everything. Be very discreet; do not underestimate him for a single second, we can't risk him making the connection." Jack Shephard was smart enough to figure it all out if the plan didn't run smoothly. Ben had enough to deal with when it came to Locke. Adding Jack into the picture wasn't in his playbook. He needed him out of the way. "He doesn't make a move without me knowing about it. Is that clear?"
"Of course, sir." The man confirmed. "Is there anything else, sir?"
Ben's voice came through like a silver bell. He was in charge now and nothing could stop him. "No. Not right now." He looked down at the sheet of paper that Richard delivered, scowling, and then smiling slimily. "Await further instruction." Then, with a small click, he hung up the phone.
Ben took the folded sheet of paper, playing with it between his fingers, flirting with its tattered edges and fragile weight. He pulled out a long-necked lighter from a drawer in his desk. He flicked the lighter's switch and watched as the tiny flame sparked from the long neck's edge. Teasingly so, he took the piece of paper by its edge and fitted it over the lighter's flame, watching as it crackled and set aflame at the blink of his bulged eyes. He watched it burn to pieces, the thin sheet of paper quickly charring in his hand. Before the flames could reach his fingertips, he threw it into the nearby trash container, the flames left with nothing to burn, so they extinguished themselves.
Ben had never felt more powerful. Tempting the Island had never felt so liberating. It was his time. There was no turning back.
The game had just begun.