God, so sorry for the delay. I got some bad news that really distracted me from continuing with this story, but I'm back. I hope you're still here, readers! A very long one ahead, folks. Expect the intrigue and the plot to thicken just a little! We're on our way to the big stuff! I promise.
Jack awoke with a slight start. He stirred, his eyelids opening slowly, and he realized that he was right where he remembered collapsing the night before, on his couch. His memories of last night were hazy at best and he had this sinking feeling that something happened that he was supposed to remember, but couldn't. He threw the blanket from his legs and sat up slowly, and noticed the hard wood floors that he rarely saw for all the trash and maps that were once scattered all over the place. Within the bundled fabric of the blanket next to him, he noticed a corner of a piece of paper sticking out. He picked it up and unfolded it, reading the neat handwriting with ease.
Jack,
Sorry I couldn't stay until you woke up, but I had an early morning consult that I couldn't miss. I tidied up the apartment, thought it might help your state of mind, give you some clarity. I don't know what else I can do for you, to help you, so I've decided to step away, and give you the space you need.
Good luck Jack. I hope you find what you're looking for.
Juliet
That was what he had forgotten. Juliet was there. They were talking and…and…he found that he couldn't figure out the rest, the holes in his memory between talking to her and falling asleep remained empty. He immediately reached for his cell phone, desperate to call her and figure out what happened, and why it was so abundantly clear from her note that she wasn't telling him everything, better yet, why she suddenly decided to distance herself from him, especially after hounding him for a week to talk to her. He waited through the voicemail greeting and cleared his throat before speaking, his voice still hoarse from sleep.
"Hey Juliet, it's Jack. I got your note, and," he took a breath, unsure of how to articulate himself, "if I did something or said something to upset you, I'm really, really sorry. I understand why you can't be around me right now, but please know that I uh," his voice broke away, sadness clinging to every word, "appreciate all that you've done for me. Thank you for cleaning up, you didn't have to do that. I hope to hear from you soon. Bye."
He hung up then, pivoting the side of the phone against his mouth as he became engulfed in the silence of his apartment. He just might have lost the only friend he had left and he couldn't stand the thought of it.
He rose with a screaming headache, far from merciful, and stumbled towards the kitchen, finding the once cluttered sink and counter completely cleared, the recycle bin full of glass beer and wine bottles, and the trash can full to the brim. Had he actually accumulated that much debris and had gone completely unnoticed for so long? He prepped the coffee pot, replacing the old filter with a new one, filling it with his favorite roast and turning it to the proper settings. The low buzz of it was sweet music to his ears. He moved towards his bedroom and bathroom slowly, his head threatening to explode with every step.
His bathroom, surprisingly, hadn't been destroyed like the rest of his apartment had, probably because he never went in there except for when nature called. He got a good look at himself in the mirror and mentally cringed. His eyes might as well have been closed, because the bright light of the vanity only made his head hurt, so he squinted. Large, droopy bags under his eyes seeped into his upper cheeks, aging him considerably. The lack of sleep had caught up with him. That stubborn cow-lick at his hairline had grown even more mulish and untamable as he let his hair grow out. Quite frankly, he looked like hell. No wonder Juliet took one look at him and tears sprouted to her eyes. He barely recognized himself. The man who stared into that mirror more than a month ago was far from who stood there now.
He scratched at the growth on his face, and as his body shifted, he felt the small bottle in his pocket, reminding him that he had put it there before Juliet burst through the door. He reached in for it, the light rattle of the pills inside brought back memories of last night. He was going to take them, and let himself go, but a knock on the door stopped him. Juliet stopped him, but there was no one here to stop him now. He stood tall over the sink and opened the bottle, greeted by the pills that seemed to have all the answers just a short while ago. Now, they didn't comfort him at all, they only reminded him of how much he failed, and how much he wanted to give up.
In the periphery was the sink's drain. All he had to do was dump them and they'd be gone, out of his space, out of his mind, but he couldn't, because there was still a part of him that needed them, a part of him that wanted to rest, and wouldn't be able to until he took them and faded to black. He realized with deft reality that he'd be no better than his father if he did that, if he left the ones he loved behind by acting selfishly, by thinking only of himself and his own pain. That wasn't who he was. He didn't know much, but he knew that.
He could hear his heart pumping in his ears, the need for numbness, for release to take hold. He gripped the sides of the counter and fought against it, taking practiced breaths in and out. He rocked the bottle ever so slightly in his fingertips, tilting it towards the drain and back, back and forth. He did that for what felt like hours, slipping the bottle further and further towards the drain, until he watched every single pill tapper down into the tiny hole. He straightened while turning on the faucet, letting the cold water heat up and push the pills away. He cupped his hands under the streaming water and splashed it over his face, and repeated the action once more, coating his wild hair with cool water, letting it drip down his neck and shoulders.
There was a knock at his front door. He reached for a towel and wiped at his face and hair while making his way towards the living area, his head still pounding, but not as much as it had before. He opened it after the second knock, to someone he had never met before in his life. A man of moderate, almost frail build, early thirties, dark eyes, long, scraggly brown hair, and a shaggy goatee stood at his doorstep. The man smiled widely, his eyes hopeful.
"Hello, are you Jack Shephard?" The man asked eagerly.
Jack ignored his question, looking the man up and down. "Who wants to know?"
"Uh, I'm Dr. Daniel Faraday." He extended his hand, but Jack didn't take it. He pulled his hand back with another smile, not fazed by the unwelcomed attitude Jack oozed. He expected as much. "I've come here to—"
Jack, having realized that he said 'doctor', sucked in an aggravated breath, mumbling underneath it. "How many times is the hospital gonna send someone to my front door?" He spoke up then, his stance defensive and annoyed. "Look, for the very last time, I am not interested in the Chief of Surgery position and I would appreciate it if—"
"Wait, what?" Faraday asked, genuinely confused, then he understood the misunderstanding. "Oh, oh no. I don't work for any hospital. I have a Ph.D., a few actually." There was a beat before he spoke again. "I'm a scientist. A physicist to be exact."
"A physicist, huh?" Jack looked disbelievingly, unsure of why a scientist was knocking at his door. "What do you want from me?"
"Actually Jack, it's not what I want from you, it's what I can help you with." Faraday admitted.
Jack, intrigued, asked the appropriate follow-up. "And what exactly are you here to help me with, Dr. Faraday?"
He sucked in a shaky, excited breath, having waited a considerable amount of time to say this. He clamped his hands together, his head tilted, his voice precariously low, but stern.
"I'm here to help you find the Island."
Richard sat at the desk in his tent, hunched over in the chair he sat in, the glasses that sat over the bridge of his nose slipping. Long tweezers slithered through the slender neck of a glass bottle, revealing a miniature sailing ship, encapsulated by the clear glass. With dexterous ease, Richard maneuvered the tweezers and adjusted one of the fragile sails that had collapsed, its crinkled fabric straightened, holding to the tiny hook. It was finally complete and it was perfect.
This was his favorite hobby; it was the only thing that truly calmed him, something that he could do for countless hours at a time and never come up for air. It was high afternoon, the sweltering heat radiating through the camp. Thirsty, and realizing that his coffee cup was empty, he ventured out into the camp. People were darting to and fro, sitting around in congregation and busying themselves with the maintenance of their little community. Richard stopped at a table and took a tin pitcher by the handle, pouring water into his cup. He took a drink, soothing his parched throat, when he heard someone speak to him.
"I thought you'd never come out of there." A gruff tone said snippily. He turned to the tall, demanding presence of Tom, who wore a gnarly, teasing grin. Richard still didn't understand why he was here, but he had the suspicious feeling that he did know, but it wouldn't matter. Tom would never tell him what Ben was planning, or preemptively preventing.
"I guess I got caught up." Richard took another drink from his coffee cup, savoring the cool, crisp taste. He looked over to Tom again, smiling playfully. "Ben send you here to keep tabs on me?"
Tom shrugged his shoulders. "You know Ben, if he could be two places at once, he would, and I'd be on my porch back at the barracks reading the morning paper." He griped, never having felt comfortable in the Hostiles' camp. "I gotta tell you though, these tents are the most uncomfortable things I've ever slept in. I miss my bed. My back can't take much more of this." He laughed heartily, bringing his cup to his lips again for another long gulp.
Richard, with a distrustful air, his ears perking at what Tom just said, or what he didn't realize he'd admitted, decided to speak again. "So you're here to spy on the camp for Ben?"
Tom's smile turned into a defensive frown. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." Richard snipped back, edgy and defensive in his own right. "He's expecting Locke to come back, isn't he? And he sent you in case he does."
Tom wore his poker face well, not rising to anger at Richard's accusations, even if they were true, which they were. "Like I said, you know Ben." His voice was calm and brisk, taunting, but stern in his defense. That was all that Richard or anyone would get out of him, and he had no problem with their feeble attempts to try. Richard relented, scoffing as he took another drink from his cup.
"You think Ben did the right thing?" Tom asked, honestly curious.
"About what?" Richard asked, startled by the question, because he had never seen such uncertainty in Tom's eyes, such disharmony with what Ben thought was best for all of them.
"Letting John Locke live." Tom elaborated. "Because, between you and me, I think that the Boss should have killed him when he had the chance."
Hmm, Richard thought. This was the first time he ever heard Tom outright disagree with a decision that Ben has made. It was refreshing, because he found himself questioning Ben more and more these days. "Well, between you and me, I think that Ben did what he thought was best, but I'm not so sure his intentions were genuine."
"What do you mean by that?" Tom asked, validly interested.
Richard stepped in closely, his voice below a whisper. "There is something that Ben is afraid of Locke finding out about, and he let him go to show everyone else that he doesn't care about what he does next, but you and I know different."
Richard continued to pour out his thoughts, having held them in for so long that it felt good to tell someone. He looked over his shoulder. "John Locke knows something. I can't explain or even comprehend how he could, but I feel like…" He looked up to Tom, who was suddenly catatonic, staring off into the distance, his mouth falling open. He turned to where Tom's eyes were glued, his expression falling between confusion and awe.
"Well, I'll be damned." Tom mumbled, a smile curled up on his lips at the sight. Ben, pivoted by a cane that literally sparkled in the sunlight, walked with a methodical, practiced stride. Mikhail, who followed close behind him, stepped into the circle of the camp, everyone literally stopping to watch them pass, murmuring.
"Hello, Richard. Tom." Ben acknowledged both men once he reached them, Tom more excited to see Ben than Richard, who still watched with shock that hadn't worn down.
"Good to see you, Boss." Tom chimed with a smile. "Nice legs." Against his will, Ben chuckled, happier than he thought he would be to see his old friend. He turned to Richard, stretching his hand to him in a solid attempt at a greeting.
"Ben." Richard took his hand, letting it go after a firm shake. "I didn't think I'd see you again so soon."
"Well, you can clearly see why I had to expedite our reunion." Ben said slyly, gesturing to Mikhail, who has risen from the grave as far as everyone understood. Richard nodded, still battling the shock of seeing the man alive after Locke so arrogantly boasted about having killed him. He wondered now. Was Locke lying about killing Mikhail to hurt Ben, or had he actually believed that he'd ended his life? The conviction in Locke's eyes told a story, a very clear, decisive story. He believed that he'd killed him. It wasn't a game. Richard didn't know how he knew that, but he did.
He couldn't help the next bit that fell out of his mouth. "Are you sure that coming here was a good idea, Ben? You're recovering from major sur—"
"I've been recovering for weeks now Richard, and my legs are pretty much back to normal." Ben interrupted stubbornly, tired of everyone treating him like tempered glass. "Besides, we need to talk." He moved aside, clearing a path for Richard to lead him out of earshot of the others. "Shall we?"
Richard chuckled wryly, setting his coffee cup down, looking between Tom, Ben and Mikhail. "If you insist, right this way." He gestured towards his tent as he walked ahead, leading the way.
Once they were in the confines of the tent, Richard tried, like he always did, to ease into the conversation. "Rumor has it Tom is your resident eyes and ears."
"Hmm." Ben hummed, not yet prepared to neither confirm nor deny those claims. He surveyed the tent, his eyes landing on the desk and the project that Richard had just completed. He walked over to it, bending to take in the intricate details of the miniature ship, an uncanny replica of the real-life version that still sat in the jungle, aging under the damp dew of wet leaves, the wooden base two shakes from caving.
"So this is what you've been doing in your spare time?" Ben asked, still angled over the long bottle that sat peacefully in its display stand. "The cursed bow of the Black Rock, settled between glass for all time. Impressive."
Richard crossed his arms, suddenly shied by Ben's spying eyes. Why did he suddenly feel so uncomfortable? "What are you doing here, Ben?"
Ben didn't waste any time, daring to incur Richard's wrath with raptured delight. "I've been trying to find Jacob."
"What?" Richard exclaimed, his mouth dropping. "You know you can't do that, Ben." He warned, his voice harsh and castrating
Ben stood stoically, but life danced in his eyes, a bitterness he held to for years. Watching Richard crack under that calm and confident posture was always a sight he dare not miss. "Of course I can't." His voice rang condescendingly, soaking with bored apathy for Richard's predicted scolding. "You've made that glaringly clear for years now, which is why I've come to you." He stepped in closer, pacing his cane in front of his wobbly stride.
"I need you to go to him, Richard. You're the only one who can."
Richard shook his head, incredulously so, shocked that Ben thought he was in a position to make such a demand. "That's not how it works and you know it. You don't just go to Jacob, Ben, you're called."
"Something is wrong." Ben stressed loudly, worriedly. Richard could actually see the calamity in his eyes, the agony, the sickening concern. "Jacob hasn't been calling much lately, actually, at all. You do realize that he hasn't sent any instructions in over a month?"
"As the one who delivers any correspondence from Jacob right to your doorstep Ben, I am very aware of that." Richard said, still not rising to anxiousness as quickly as Ben would have liked or anticipated.
Ben squinted, studying the man before him, trying to get a read on what was going on here. Richard should feel just as pent up about this as he was, even more so since he knew where Jacob was and at the very least how to reach him. Ben couldn't bring himself to believe that he was this carefree. "And it's not unsettling for you? Don't you want to know why?"
"I never said that it wasn't unsettling, but it has happened before." Richard defended himself. "Whenever Jacob has something to say, he says it, and it is my job to make sure that when he decides to say it, everyone hears it. That's how it's always been. You know that."
"Maybe things are finally changing." Ben snapped back, challenging, uncompromising in his stance.
Richard rose to that challenge, presenting one of his own. "Or maybe he has nothing else to say for the time being." Ben shook his head piteously; his eyelids sliding down with sympathy for Richard, a man whom he thought had the capacity to see this for what it really was.
"Well, that would be a pity wouldn't it, Richard?" He placed his cane forward before stepping with it, anchoring himself, deciding to make a move when he saw fit. That was Ben in a nutshell, always calculated, careful, with every step, literally and figuratively, large and small, measuring each move with its pro and con, never surprised, only challenged to change his tactic.
"All those years of serving Jacob, of taking every single order to the very letter, of protecting him, keeping his whereabouts hidden and he just closes the door right in your face." The anger that burned over Richard's features was like candy for Ben, it didn't last long, but it was delectable for the time it had.
Richard unconsciously balled his fists, ready to pummel the man he has known since his childhood. "Or maybe he's closed it in yours." The sharp barb caught Ben off guard, giving him less than seconds to recover, to feign indifference to the verbal gab. Richard stepped forward for the first time, giving Ben little personal space, little wiggle room, room that he was so used to slithering through.
"What are you up to Ben?" He asked it so politely, showing that he wasn't upset, but curiously, accusingly, but with so much restraint. He didn't want to fight, he wasn't build for it. He advocated for peace, civility, partnership. That was what Jacob was all about, and it had always been the person he was, never quick to aggression and anger, but somehow, Ben wanted to test him, push him, and he was finding it harder than ever to control the decision not to push back. "Why are you so concerned about what happens next?"
"Ah. I understand." Ben gasped, his lips tightened into a thin line, the smirk he wanted to display burgeoning behind it. "You're still upset about Locke, aren't you? You're upset that I didn't go the route that you wanted me to."
Richard was completely exasperated now, his attempt to smooth this over, to connect with him on a level that they hadn't in a very long time failing. He turned away, sitting his hands on his hips harshly, so as not to ball his fists and swing, a frustrated move that delighted Ben to no end. What did Locke have to do with anything they were talking about? This was classic Ben. Deflection, a play on ignorance, when he knew exactly what this was about.
Ben spoke up, attempting to plead his case for what felt like the millionth time when Richard wouldn't respond. "I offered him everything, but he decided to leave. He didn't want to stay Richard. He didn't want me to tell him about the Isl—"
"Because he knew that you weren't going to." Richard exclaimed once he turned back to him. "He knew that you were trying to play him, he could smell it the second we walked through the door." He took a deep, sizzling breath through his nostrils, his composure found again. "He's become pretty good at reading your tells, and it really bothers you that he's done following idly behind you, that he wants to know the truth and he won't stop until he finds it and he doesn't need you for that." He could tell that he was onto something, that he had picked up on the tension from the last time Ben was in the same space as Locke pitch perfectly.
"Is that why you have Tom camped out here?"Richard pointed to the tent's wall. "You're hoping that Locke shows up so you can finish what you started?" Ben's silence spoke volumes and the look on his face, the disbelief he felt that Richard thought so little of him evident. "You don't trust that I can handle Locke myself, so you sent Tom to babysit."
"That's absolutely ridiculous, Richard." Ben denied, sounding just as hurt as he needed to sound.
"Oh is it, now?" Richard asked sarcastically, not eating the bull Ben was trying to feed him. "Just as ridiculous as not giving me the heads up about Mikhail being alive before you showed up here. I thought he was dead." Ben enjoyed the attention of that moment, he knew. Showing up out of the blue, anchored by someone they all mourned. It was the attention that he wanted.
Smugly and nonchalantly, acting as if what Richard said hadn't hurt him on some emotional level, Ben spoke like tempers hadn't just erupted, monotonously yet sneeringly. "I'm sorry I didn't have the time to radio you about Mikhail, Richard. Between trying to raise a teenage daughter who hates me and suffering through hours of physical therapy every single day in order to literally get back on my feet, it slipped my mind."
"But since you just have to know, he showed at the barracks late last night. As it turns out, Locke lied about killing him. He used it to try to get back at me for stopping him from blowing up my sub."
Richard let out a derisive chuckle, not surprised that Ben jumped at the chance to make it look like Locke had been the deceptive one. "Maybe Locke didn't lie. Maybe he just doesn't know that he didn't kill him."
"That's the second time you've defended John Locke to me, Richard." Ben noted irritably, that unaffected shell cracking. "You should be very careful about where you draw that line."
Richard shrugged, taunting that crack in Ben's shell, poking at it until it crumbled a little more. "Maybe there is no line between you and me and Locke. Maybe that's the point of all of this. Maybe that's why he keeps trying, because he's supposed to."
"You're joking, right?" Ben's face contorted into the most effective showing of disgust and disapproval.
"There is something about John Locke that I can't get over, Ben." Richard admitted, his voice low so that no one else could hear him, even though they were talking in private. "Do you remember when we went to see him, after he was captured on the docks? He asked me a question. He looked me right in the eyes and I literally felt compelled to tell him the truth."
"Do you know what that is? Do you know why I felt drawn to a man that you say is a threat to all of us?" Richard asked, desperate for an answer. Ben looked just as lost as Richard did in that moment, startled by his confession, but not letting that much show.
"It's obvious that you feel sorry for John and that's not a surprise to me Richard, because no matter how long you've lived on this Island, you're still human. You see a man who's hurt and you want to heal him, but I have somehow earned your distrust because of Locke's pain, and I have no idea how to fix it." Richard was oddly affected by that admission, because it seemed like Ben wanted to be trusted, by him, so badly that he felt unarmed without it.
"I don't know how to get you to trust me again." Ben seemed hopeless himself, expressing his failings so emotively, those round eyes of his gleamed, all the anger in them dissipated.
Before Richard could speak, Ben continued, having pinned his catch with the most effective bait. "I grew up on this Island. It's been my home for over thirty years. You would know that better than anyone, wouldn't you?"
Richard lowered his head, the truth in Ben's words were the first touch of sincerity that he felt from the man since he arrived. "I actually remember the day we met. I was this scared little, pimply-faced kid, running around in the jungle searching for his dead mother, because he couldn't face that she was really gone, that she really left me there with him." Ben's voice cracked into submission as he turned away from Richard's view.
In front of Richard's eyes, this man that he'd known since his adolescence cowered into that very child he remembered so vividly, the transformation effortless, unhitched. He understood that children who went through traumatic events would grow up to be adults who were trapped in that experience, their emotions still suspended in time that had long past, their outward growth stunted by their inner demons. He had been abused by the father who was supposed to love and protect him, and that need for approval, for acceptance, ran deeper than Richard had ever imagined. He sought that acceptance from him, from Jacob, from the Island.
Ben stood with his back to Richard, speaking up so that he was heard. "I was searching for a family, when you found me. But do you want to know what I was really searching for?" He turned to gauge Richard's reaction. He was no doubt growing just as emotional as he just had. Richard shook his head, signaling that he had no idea what Ben was really looking for all those years ago.
"A way to feel special, to feel like I belonged somewhere, to someone, to something greater than myself, than my circumstances." He admitted, ripping scabs away from old wounds that would never heal. "And suffice to say, there are times when I feel like that scared little boy all over again. Powerless and alone. "
"Do you know what it feels like, Richard? To finally have something special happen to you, you can't bear the thought of screwing it up, of losing it like you've lost everything else?" Richard stood corrected, sympathy for Ben seeping through his eyes, his soft facial features melding into a sea of empathy and compassion. "No? Well, I do."
Ben stepped over to Richard, wobbling slightly, but keeping steady for most of the trip. "Do you remember what you said to me when I asked, literally begged to go with you? You said, 'You're gonna have to be very, very patient.'"
Richard silently shook his head, recalling the moment that he asked him to wait for the right time, to go back to that house, to that man, who continued to beat him and treat him like a lesser being who had no proper, effective way of defending itself.
"With all due respect Richard, I waited, I did exactly what you told me to do and, honestly, I think that thirty years is patient enough."
Richard smirked a little, a tiny smile shining through. He looked into Ben's eyes. "I'll do it," was all he said. "But I can't promise you that I'll get any answers, but I'll try."
Ben placed his hand over Richard's shoulder, squeezing and rubbing gratefully, passing all that he couldn't say through the gesture. "That's all I ask for. Thank you, Richard."
"Don't thank me yet." He warned. "We still don't know if it'll work, if Jacob will even respond."
"It's definitely worth a try." Ben said. "I should head back now, not that Alex misses me."
Richard laughed, settling his hand over Ben's opposing shoulder. "We'll be in touch."
Ben walked through the leaves of the jungle, precisely on the trail of footprints they strategically left behind. His back was killing him and his knees burned like acid, but he never had the guts to admit such a thing. He just needed to get back home and lie down. The pain, every bit of it, was worth it, for what was to come, for what would soon be his. He couldn't wipe the smirk off of his face since leaving the Hostiles' camp. He hadn't said a word to Mikhail, who travelled silently next to him, expecting him to let him in on the news any minute now, growing more disappointed that he kept it all to himself.
"Did he agree to it?" Mikhail finally asked, with nothing but the chirp of birds high in the trees to fill the silence.
Ben continued walking, slapping the overhanging vines from his trail. "Of course he did." He said confidently, as if it required zero effort on his part.
Richard's suspicions of him were terribly hard to get around, but somehow, he'd done it. He played on Richard's good nature, his memories of a child that was stripped of its innocence and morality long ago. Honestly, on the inside, Ben was worried. Very worried. He hadn't heard from the private investigator he based in Los Angeles in quite some time, meaning that someone had caught on to him. But who? Luckily, nothing could be traced back to him, the accounts used to pay him and the number used for contact untraceable, basically non-existent. Changing the tactic, that was what he had to do now.
Mikhail grinned slightly. "I take it you were successful in deceiving him."
Ben suddenly stopped and turned to Mikhail, his eyes waltzing with mischief. "Richard has no idea what he's agreed to. Now it's your turn to work your magic, Mikhail. Are you ready to do your part?"
"Aren't I always?" Mikhail asked, his burlish Russian accent smugly self-assured.
"Yes." Ben laughed, nodding in the affirmative. "Yes, you are."
Jack stood with eyes that still struggled to open, drips of water from his hair rolled down his cheek. He shifted his hand to the frame of the door, leaning in it for strength and pivoting himself to shut the door right in this man's face, but not before he asked him one last question. "What did you just say?"
"The Island, Jack." Faraday repeated himself, his voice still low and peculiar. "I know all about it and I know that you're looking for it. I can help you find it, that's why I was sent here."
He barely got his explanation out before Jack shut him down. "Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I don't have time for this." He moved to slam the door.
"I know why you were in Australia." Faraday suddenly blurted through the remaining crack of the door. Jack, interested now, stopped the door from slamming, pulling it back. Jack's eyes begged for an explanation that he wasn't up for hearing five seconds ago.
The lump in his throat forced his voice back down, but he cleared it, still speaking low and secretively. "I know about your father's death, Jack, and I know about the rest of them, the other passengers, the people that you're trying to get back to."
"Who the hell are you?" Jack asked again, his voice softer than it was before.
"I'll make you a deal, I'll tell you everything you want to know and how I know about all of this, and if you're still not convinced that I just want to help you, you can kick me out and I'll gladly leave." Faraday propositioned. "Deal?"
He stood at the wide, open windows of Jack's balcony moments later, watching at its high perch, the Los Angeles skyline breathtaking from here. He took in the minute details of his apartment. Maps and books were neatly stacked on the nearby table at the far wall adjacent to the couch, the recycle bin in the kitchen was full of empty bottles, and the state of the man himself looked less rumpled after he came out of his bedroom wearing a clean dark blue t-shirt.
Jack reappeared from the kitchen with two cups of coffee, offering one of them to his guest. Faraday gladly and gratefully took it. "Thank you." He took a small sip and was pleasantly surprised by how good it was. There was a hint of creamer and the depth of two or three sugars. "You got a nice apartment here, Jack. The view's pretty amazing."
"We might as well skip the small talk and get started with you telling me how you know about me and the Island." Jack demanded as he sat down on the couch, drinking from his own coffee cup.
"Okay then." Dan sighed, grabbing a chair from the dining table, settling into it slowly while dropping his cup next to him. After a beat, he spoke. "My mother, her name is Eloise Hawking, and she's a very powerful woman. She acquired information about your plane crash, more specifically, where your plane crashed. I know about you, because she has taken an interest in your cause and wants to help you."
"The obvious next question is why does she care? Why does she want to help me?" Jack asked, disbelief and skepticism obvious in his tone. "Planes crash all the time, all over the world. Why does your mother care about this one?"
"She wants to help protect the Island and the people who crashed there, mainly you." Faraday said after another sip from his cup. "She was instrumental in keeping your plane crash out of the press. Only she and a select few knew about it."
Interesting, Jack thought. He remembered the conversation with Juliet's friend Brian about the media catching wind of the story and how, because of strings that Ben pulled, no one would ever know about the crash, the Island and how it had to stay that way, and now he was hearing that this Eloise Hawking was the puppet master. What was the truth? Who was all involved? What was so important about that damn Island?
"Why does she care about protecting some Island in the South Pacific and a group of people she's never met? What's in it for her?" Jack asked.
Faraday shrugged. "She said that she's indebted to an old friend."
"Who's the friend?" Jack asked.
Faraday sighed, very certain that Jack wouldn't like his answer. "She didn't tell me." Jack laughed mockingly as he closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead with one large hand.
"She didn't tell you." He repeated with a long sigh for punctuation. How convenient, he thought. Everyone was telling him to do something, to trust them, to follow them, they were all so good at it, but they could never answer his questions with solid answers. They could never give him what he needed. Walking blind was not his favorite hobby and everyone was asking that of him.
"My mother is very protective of her secrets, Jack. I was lucky to get that much out of her." Faraday defended himself.
Jack suddenly felt a hint of understanding. He could definitely sympathize with him on that point. Christian had possessed the surreptitious nature of a CIA agent. He never knew what he was up to and how much damage it would do. Of everything that had gone wrong in their relationship, of all the mistakes made on both sides, having to learn from someone he hadn't known for much more than two months that he had a sister and a nephew, that was the deepest cut. He was still full of so much anger and resentment towards his father for not telling him. He wondered if his mother knew too, for how long and if she just didn't tell him to protect him, or to protect Christian. The man was dead and gone and he still lingered everywhere. If only he had found him on that Island and was able to bring him home and bury him. That part of his pain would have closure at least, but that was just too much to ask.
"Well, what did she tell you, Dan?" Jack asked.
Faraday pivoted his folded arms over his thighs, leaning in, bracing himself. "She was very particular about this part, very clear. She said that no matter what happens, you need to go back to the Island as soon as humanly possible." He sat back, puzzled suddenly. "She said something else, it was very ominous, very strange."
Jack leaned in. "What was it?"
"She said that it was your destiny?" Faraday said it questioningly, unsure of what his mother knew about this man and why he had to go back to the Island.
Jack snorted sardonically, his head nodding, anger rolling. "My destiny." He repeated, his tone far from amused. That word had the power to make him see red, but then he realized that it wasn't necessarily the word, it was the man who used the word like a bargaining chip to get him to do what he wanted him to do. He stood from the couch, walking past Faraday and towards the wide windows of the balcony door.
"Your mother sounds exactly like John Locke." Jack said, focusing his attention on anything else but this conversation.
"The English philosopher?" Dan asked
Despite his frustration, Jack laughed lightly, Dan's social ineptness oddly endearing. "John Locke is one of the crash survivors. He believes that the crash happened for a reason and that I'm supposed to do something, that I'm important somehow." He explained.
"He could be dead." Jack corrected himself, recalling the last time he ever saw John, a gun to his head with nowhere to turn. Emotions he never thought he would feel towards Locke blossomed. The man drove him insane, made him question his purpose in ways he never thought possible to question it, but if he were dead, there was a part of him that would mourn and feel remorse, a part of him that already did.
"This John Locke," Faraday said, turning in his chair to watch Jack as he continued to stare out of the balcony window, "what makes him believe that the Island is your destiny?"
"I don't know," Jack shook his head, resoluteness in his tone, "and I don't want to know."
"I get the sinking feeling that's not true, Jack." He commented, but Jack didn't respond, still standing stoically at the window. "It's a pretty big coincidence that my mother and this John Locke have said the same thing about why you need to go back."
"Do me a favor, will ya Dan?" Jack asked, turning around to face him, his eyes hard and steely. "Don't mistake coincidence for fate." Off that, he turned, walking back towards the couch, pacing even, deep in thought. There was something missing. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about this wasn't adding up.
He turned to Faraday when it dawned on him. "So, your mother knows about the plane crash and the Island, but how did she find out that I'm trying to go back?" He hadn't told anyone but Juliet about his plans.
"She got ahold of the flight's manifest, and when you popped back up here in Los Angeles, after having been missing for months, she put people on you."
"People? As in spies?" Jack asked, deftly interested in an answer. It felt good to get that one straight-forward answer out of this guy.
"People who work for my mother, people who could account for your every move, yes." Dan said with a short nod. "You hadn't taken your job back at St. Sebastian and you were barely seen leading the life that you had before, which tipped her off. You weren't planning on staying here."
Jack thought about that logic and had to agree with it. He wasn't trying to fool anyone into believing that he was staying permanently, except for his mother, who still didn't know that her son planned to leave her again. She still left messages that he hadn't even listened to, his inbox filling fast. That was what he hated about lies, they alienated, and they made things harder than they had to be. He never meant to make it harder, but he had. She would lose him all over again and he hated to do that to her.
"But a few days before she made the order to have you followed, she discovered that someone already was." Dan continued, breaking through Jack's thoughts.
He stopped in mid stride, his hand falling from the nape of his head, where he rubbed roughly, his body still achy and sore. "Who?" The question spewed out of him on a shaky breath.
"A private investigator. He said he was hired and paid a large sum of money to know everything about your activity since leaving the Island."
"Who hired him?" Jack asked, his heart rate jumping.
"A man by the name of Henry Gale." Faraday confessed. "We couldn't come up with any more specifics about the guy. It's like he doesn't even exist."
At the sound of that name, Jack's heart literally stopped beating and Faraday's voice drifted away. His eyes bulged and his features lit up with dread and utter shock. What the hell was going on? He thought as he brought one hand up to rub at his forehead, his other hand reaching for the armrest of the couch. He fell into the cushions slowly, his stomach suddenly tied up in knots.
Faraday immediately noticed the change in Jack's demeanor. "Does that name mean anything to you?" Rhetorical question, he knew, but he still had to ask. Jack sat with both hands covering his face.
"Jack?" Faraday asked softly, but firmly. "Do you know who that is?"
"Yeah." Jack huffed loudly once he uncovered his face, recovering some of his jilted composure. "The name is an alias. The man's real name is Benjamin Linus. I met him about a month or so after the crash." He shook his head in disbelief, his eyes glued to the floor. "He stumbled into our camp, lied to us about who he was, how he got there and he used that name to do it." He still couldn't believe he was saying that, that Ben was still a factor, an issue, a problem. Faraday wasn't sure who this man was, but judging from the look of disgust and revelation on Jack's face, this man had complicated life for him tremendously while on the Island.
"He must have told the P.I. not to give his real name in case something like this happened." Jack said completely to himself. Before Faraday could ask his question, Jack spoke up again, answering it. "He's the one who helped me get off the Island."
Shock blew into full-on confusion for Jack, who fisted his hands through his tea-length hair, aggravated with himself for having another question that he would never get the proper answer to. "Why would Ben have someone following me? It doesn't make any sense."
Only it made perfect sense, to two people who warned him that Ben was only out for himself, who told him that Ben wasn't done, that he was never done. He closed his eyes, shaking his head in shame. "John was right, so was Juliet."
"Juliet Burke." Faraday said. "We looked her up after you went to see her last week. He had someone watching her too."
"They both tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen." Jack said, a seething hatred for himself ran rampant.
How could he not have seen it? Was he that desperate to leave, that vulnerable and stupid to believe in the honor and word of a man he thought he could trust after what he'd done for him? He was heartbroken, upset and confused, and Ben took complete advantage of that. He became flooded with memories of the moments before he boarded the submarine, of Locke, blooded and bruised, bowed to his knees by force, pleading with him. He could still hear him in his head, bits and pieces floating through.
'Ben wants you to believe that he's doing you a favor, but he's not Jack. He's only out for himself.'
What had he done? He rubbed a hand through his hair as he rose from the couch, pacing like a caged lion ready to pounce. What if Ben hadn't let Kate and Sayid go like he promised he would? Oh God, Kate, he thought desperately. He'd left her there, handcuffed, alone, right in the hub of Ben's territory, his lair. He told her not to come back for him, but that was beside the point now. What if Ben decided to hurt her after all? He couldn't possibly live with himself if he left her in a situation that got her killed. He was tough enough to take on a lot, but that, that was his breaking point.
He felt sick to his stomach. He gripped his forehead, the pain there agonizing. "I don't understand." He cried out sharply. "Why is this happening?"
"I don't know," Faraday shook his head, wanting to do more, but finding that he couldn't, not in the moment, "but we'll figure that out together."
Jack looked at Faraday through the tears in his eyes. "Together?" He asked, his voice choked with emotion. "What makes you think I can trust you anymore than I can trust him?"
"Because…" Faraday deliberated the question, suffering under the importance of his answer and how it would affect the rest of this conversation. "I knocked on your door, Jack, with the knowledge that there was a very big possibility that you would slam it in my face, and I'm sitting here at your dining room table and I'm telling you that we've been watching you for the past month. Call me brave or call me stupid, but I'm not lying to you and you can trust me."
"If I'm to give you my opinion, I would say you and your friends shouldn't have survived. The statistical probability of more than ten of you surviving that crash is less than five percent. The impact alone should have killed you, but it didn't." Faraday commented.
"I think that there's a bigger reason why you need to go back, one you don't even realize, and I think you know that." He took a breath, clasping his hands in front of him. "We don't know each other Jack, but I know haunted when I see it. Something is closing in on you and you can't fight it much longer."
How did he know that? Jack thought. At the core of all his anger and confusion, it was still there, loud, clear, like a whistle, piercing and sharp. That call to the place he just wanted to be done with. It felt like it was so close he could touch it, yet so far away that nothing could possibly reach it. What was he supposed to do with that? What Locke said to do? To live out a destiny he was no surer of than anything else in his life? He didn't want any part in this.
It was easier admitting his vulnerabilities, his weaknesses to Juliet, because he knew that she would fight him on it, that she would oppose and defend, think him crazy for suggesting what he was suggesting, because she was the old him, before all of this happened, before he started to lose what was left of his mind. Doubts about what he was doing, what he was feeling, continued to unfold. He was losing his grip, losing his sense of reality, and whenever he was confronted with the truth, it was his reality to deny it, to push it down for no one else to see, even though inside he felt the quakes of its accuracy.
"No." Jack groaned, his voice deep and twisted. "The only thing I'm meant to do is save my friends. Everything else, it doesn't matter."
"What if it does? If Locke was right about Ben, what else could he be right about?" Faraday pointed out. Not waiting for Jack's answer, he stood, reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope that was folded at the center. "Somehow, my mother knew that you would need something to help you understand, to help you take that next step." He handed it to Jack.
"What's this?" He asked, unfolding the envelope from its crease. It had his address written on it, but there was no return address. He noticed the fading penmanship, recognized it immediately. He'd seen it a million times before.
"This is my father's handwriting." He whispered, his eyebrows furrowing, looking up at Faraday with a suspecting eye. "How did your mother get this?"
Faraday could tell that heat was scorching beneath those hazel eyes and that he was in the direct line of fire. "She didn't tel—"
"Do not", Jack erupted, gripping his jacket into his fist, balling it into a tight knot. His voice quaking as it rose, a pitch lower than a shout, but just as fierce, "lie to me, Dan." Faraday took a step back as Jack took one forward, holding the letter up between his other fist, aggression exuding from his skin, his eyes intense, wide.
"How did your mother get this?" He punctuated each and every word with a bullet.
"I don't know." Faraday said honestly, slowly, very scared that he would be physically pummeled at any second. "The only thing that I was told to tell you is that it's a letter from your father. He wrote it when he was in Australia, and he was supposed to send it to you, but he, uh, he died before he could."
Jack suddenly got ahold of himself, staring into Dan's eyes, eyes that dripped with fear. He backed away slowly, unraveling his fist from his jacket, the letter still in his hand. He looked down at it, still dumbfounded by its existence. "His body was on the plane with me and now, it's somewhere on that Island," he said softly.
He stepped up to Faraday again, his eyes bruising, his voice harsh again. "If your mother had this letter, that means that she knows exactly where he is."
"Jack—" Faraday started, but Jack would hear none of it.
"I want to talk to your mother Dan, in person." He demanded, crazed now, determined anger seizing through his system. "I want to know the truth, all of it, starting with how she got this letter."
"She's out of the country, and will be for months." Faraday confessed, shaking his head. Jack knew he was telling the truth. "I'm all you got, Jack, and how she got this letter, it doesn't matter, not if you don't let me help you. We're running out of time."
With that, Jack threw the letter onto the dining room table, his hands raking through his hair again, tousling the thick mane even more. He felt like he couldn't breathe, and no matter where he turned, there was a wall, a reminder that he wasn't in control, that he was trapped. He moved towards the open windows, panting, "You need to leave." He whistled through clinched teeth, his voice cracking. "I need you to leave right now."
Faraday felt a soaring sympathy for this man, who was so alone with so much. Having given up for the moment, he pulled a small card out of his pocket and sat it on the table near the letter and let himself out, hoping that time would bring Jack around.
Once he knew Faraday was gone, Jack turned, round tears spilling down his cheeks, his features contorted with sadness and anger. He stared at the crumpled letter that seemed to stare right back, daring him to open and feast.