Chapter 2: Blank Slate

She turned the water on in the bathroom and tiptoed back into the bedroom. She fished the envelope out of the bag and confirmed that it was sealed. She gingerly lifted one of the nightstands, as quietly as she could, and placed the envelope underneath. She made sure the dents in the carpet were completely realigned when she set the nightstand down again.

She then stripped her dirty clothes off and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water rinse over her.

She started crying almost immediately. Seeing Alex had almost done it to her, but seeing Ben—it had taken everything she had to hold it in. He seemed well—though she knew that the news of the tumor would be weighing on him.

She let the tears fall as she scrubbed the dirt and blood away, and by the time she was done showering, she had cried enough to pull herself together. She wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at her reflection.

I look like shit.

It was mostly exhaustion. Her eyes were wearied with grief and sleeplessness. She had lost a great deal, and she had given up a lot to get here. And dealing with a cantankerous Ben was not the reward she had been hoping for. But she'd expected that he would be unkind and distrustful, at least for a while. She had known she would have to steel herself against that.

She brushed out her long dark hair and stepped back into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel. Her clothes were filthy. She crept towards the door and pressed her ear against it.

Silence.

"Are you standing right outside, Linus?"

She heard a muffled cough.

"Could you get me some of your daughter's clothes please? Mine are covered in blood and swamp musk."

There was no answer.

"If you don't, I'm just going to wear yours. And I don't think your briefs are really going to fit me very well."

She heard him ambling off down the hallway, and she grinned to herself.

He knocked, and she opened the door a crack, snatching the clothes from his hands.

"Thanks," she said, and promptly closed the door again.

When she was dressed, she made her way back to the kitchen and sat back down in the seat Alpert had dropped her in.

Ben reappeared, surprised to see her.

"Can you make me a coffee?"

He stared at her blankly.

"Please."

He wordlessly started a pot.

"Eight scoops for the full pot," she instructed.

"I know."

"You don't usually make the full pot."

"I know."

"Can you get the chocolate powder for me?" she asked.

"Get it yourself," he snapped back

"It's in the cupboard above the fridge behind the extra coffee filters, and I can't reach it."

"You need to stop it with these parlor tricks," he said slowly, handing her the DHARMA issue chocolate powder.

"Is that what they are?"

"You're not a psychic."

"I never said I was. I just have a lot of information. And I retain it well."

"About the contents of my kitchen?"

She shrugged.

He brought the pot to the table and poured himself a cup before handing it to her. She scooped chocolate power into the mug and stirred the coffee in a bit at a time. She sipped it slowly, the taste immediately improving her mood.

He watched her attentively, trying to size her up. It had been a long time since anyone had the audacity to treat him with this much disrespect.

"What's your real name?" he asked her again, this time softly.

"Valerie."

"Valerie what?" he pressed, pronouncing the h with a distinct breathiness.

"Just Valerie."

"Are you married?" he asked, nodding at her wedding band and engagement ring. She fidgeted with them, spinning the engagement ring around her finger. She shook her head.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I was pretending to be."

"Why?"

"To make the next part easier."

He frowned. "I am afraid I don't follow."

"Those people saw me on the plane. They saw me on the beach—I made sure of that. I wandered off looking for my husband right after the crash. If you come back with me, they won't have any reason to suspect that you weren't on 815 with the rest of us."

"With me?"

She nodded.

"As your husband?"

She nodded again, ignoring his obvious skepticism.

"To what end?"

"To make them like you, enough to want to help you—enough to forgive you when they figure out who you really are—what this place really is."

"Do you really think anyone would believe that I would be your husband?"

She shrugged. "Why wouldn't they?"

He searched for tactful words.

She knew what he wanted to say—she knew that she wasn't the type of woman he saw himself with—and that his unrequited feelings for Juliet might complicate things.

"Don't you think it would be easier believe that than to believe someone on the plane knew it would crash precisely here?" she supplied.

"Perhaps," he answered. He thought about it for a moment. "I suppose it's credible enough. But why would I trust you?"

She was prepared for the question.

"Have you ever seen someone die from the type of tumor you have, Ben?"

"I have not."

"Well, I have. It's painful to watch. It's excruciating to live through. Jack will do the surgery, I promise. I don't expect you to trust me—I'd be more surprised if you did. But you can trust that I don't want you to suffer through this disease. I've seen what it does. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Even you."

"Who is Jack?"

"Jack Shephard. The passenger. Spinal surgeon."

"Oh. Of course." He paused, trying to find some reason not to believe her. "Why does Jacob want me to stay alive?"

"I wouldn't pretend to know that, Ben," she answered quickly, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you think he'd want you to die?"

The question threw him off guard, if only momentarily. There were many reasons he might deserve a slow and painful death. His mind flashed to his father. He frowned at her.

"What do you suggest we do."

"We'll go back to their camp. Gain their trust. Then when you ask for their help, they'll come willingly—no hostages or threats or kidnapping needed."

"Kidnappings?"

"No kidnappings," she reiterated.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"And no tests on the pregnant girl—it will just cause problems."

"There's a pregnant girl?"

"Never mind," she replied, realizing that he probably didn't have that information yet.

"Are you trying to give me orders?"

"Didn't Alpert tell you that Jacob sent me?"

He sighed. "Alright."

She grinned at him.

"But I am not going anywhere with you yet. We're looking into your story. If anything raises concerns, your plan is off the table."

"You won't find anything."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

"No, you don't understand. You won't find anything. That will probably raise concerns, so I just wanted to tell you myself. You're welcome."

"I'm sure we'll find something."

"Okay," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "You won't, but okay."

"We'll see."

Valerie was right. When Juliet knocked on his door a few hours later, she came more or less empty handed.

"We tracked her trip back to Rome. She flew to Turkey and stopped in Hong Kong before arriving in Sydney. Nothing before that—and I mean nothing. She used a different passport for each trip—and from what I gather, you might find some of these names familiar?"

She opened the manila folder she was carrying and pointed to a short list.

Ben nodded thoughtfully, taking the folder from Juliet. "It's almost like she's using these names to taunt me," he mused, "or to convince me she's genuine, perhaps." He flipped through the pages, looking for some explanation. "What else?"

"Before that—nothing. We couldn't find records of anyone with both her birthdate—which appears to stay consistent—and any of the names on her passports. And I don't think that Valerie is her real name either—there was an article in the LA Times from the day of the crash about the death of a teenager named Valerie Bonaventure—it's in there. I think she probably read it on the plane."

"No other connection to the girl?"

She took the folder back, flipped to the article and handed it to Ben.

Valerie Bonaventure

April 8, 1985 – September 19, 2004

The story featured a picture of the girl—with her light blonde hair and long, side-swept bangs. He squinted at it.

"The birthday is the same as the passport. April 8. The year is different, obviously. Hers is 1976."

"So what do you think? This isn't her is it? She's not a nineteen-year-old girl."

He looked at it again. Hair can be dyed, and he couldn't really see the face that clearly—but if there was any resemblance, it wasn't obvious.

"I don't think so," Juliet replied. I think she read the story, saw the birthday, and picked a new alias. Maybe she just liked the name. I don't think there is much else there."

"How did this girl die?"

"Natural causes, apparently—a freak aneurysm. It's a sad story. She was a promising college student at Yale."

Ben nodded, his mind thrown back to the image of Alex with a gun to her head. He bit the inside of his cheek.

"She did warn me."

"What's that?"

"She said we'd find nothing," he said absently, thumbing through the pages Juliet had handed him

"She wasn't on the manifest until a couple of hours before departure. It looks like a couple of passengers moved to a later flight, and she was able to get on Oceanic 815."

"Is that significant?" Ben asked, frowning.

"Maybe. Hard to say. If nothing else, she definitely knew to be on this flight."

"I think that's beyond question at this point."

"There's more—you're also on the manifest."

"What?"

She showed the document to him. "Dean Moriarty—with your passport number and everything."

A look of genuine surprise flashed across his face. "Well that's a nice touch," he murmured to himself.

"What does she want?" Juliet asked, her voice growing quiet.

"She wants to help."

"Help with what?"

"To help me—with…" he trailed off for a moment, raising an eyebrow. "With the tumor."

Juliet leaned against the door frame. "She knew about the tumor?"

"Does anyone else know, Juliet?"

She shirked back, understanding the question as an accusation. "I didn't tell anyone."

He stared her down for a few moments, and decided she was innocent.

"Are there any symptoms you didn't tell me about? Vivid dreaming? That sort of thing?"

Juliet shook her head, startled by the sudden shift in topic. "No—no it's on your spine not in your brain."

"Of course," he replied.

"Does this have something to do with the woman?"

"It might. It's hard to say. She knows far more than she should, in any rate. I'm inclined to believe that she's some sort of emissary of Jacob's."

"What are you going to do with her?"

"I think I'm going to do as she asks," he replied, surprised at his own answer.

"What is she asking you to do?"

"Go back to the survivor's camp with her. Infiltrate them."

She frowned. "You already sent Ethan and Goodwin." Her eyes flashed with anger.

"And their work is important too." He paused, eyeing her slowly. "He's married, Juliet," Ben said suddenly, "and he's not married to you."

She was taken aback by his sudden lack of subtlety.

"I—"

"It's fine," he interrupted, surprising himself. "But don't expect these things to stay hidden. It's hard to keep a secret like that in a place like this."

She nodded curtly, snatched the folder from his hands, and walked away as quickly as she could.

Ben wasn't sure what had happened. Surely, Juliet knew that he'd been harboring some feelings for her. And he had, of course, known her interests were elsewhere. But suddenly, that stung a little less. It was the dream, perhaps. There were more important things to care about.