Chapter 20: No Way Out but Through
Ben awoke with a gasp, flat on his back in the desert. He had a flash of déjà-vu and, for a moment, was surprised to see Valerie lying next to him.
"I fucking hate doing that," she groaned.
"Are you alright?"
"Probably." She rolled over and vomited. "It was worse last time."
He stood up and pulled the parka off, then doubled over to vomit into the sand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"There you go," she muttered, semi-encouragingly.
Ben could hear hoofbeats. Two Bedouin riders were approaching from a distance.
"We've got visitors," he informed Valerie.
She pulled herself up and threw off her own coat. "Do you want to start with diplomacy, or should we just apologize after the fact?" she asked, squinting at him.
"I'll try to talk to them," he suggested.
She raised an eyebrow.
"They'll get closer to us if they're trying to hear me," he explained, and she tilted her head in tacit agreement.
She stood close behind him as they approached.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. The thin straps of her tank top left her bandages readily visible. He reached into his pocket and slid the wedding band back onto his finger.
"Help," he asked, waving them down. They were both well-armed, and they seemed suspicious.
"English?" he asked.
The men spoke quickly to each other in Arabic. Ben could follow some of it, but their regional accent made it a bit difficult. From what he gathered, they were confused at how he and Valerie had arrived without leaving any tracks in the sand.
"I can explain," he offered. He tried again in Arabic.
"Parlez-vous Français, mes amis?" Valerie asked.
The men didn't respond.
"Please—my wife needs help," he cried out, quickly falling back into their old lie. He gestured at the wound under Valerie's collarbone. "She needs a doctor. Doctor!"
Both men dismounted, approaching the pair. Ben kept his hands in the air as one of the men patted him down. The other man leered at Valerie's chest, but he didn't touch her.
Ben felt the man find the baton in his pocket. He pulled it out of Ben's pants and showed it to his partner, unsure of what it was.
Ben smiled innocently at the man. He glanced over his shoulder locked eyes with Val for a moment. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
He snatched the baton from the man's hand and extended it, immediately landing a blow to his would-be captor's head. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He turned to help Valerie.
Her man was on his back. She'd already slung his weapon over her shoulder.
Ben tried to hide how startled he was.
"What?"
"One of these days, you're going to explain to me why you're so good at that."
"You taught me," she answered. "Obviously."
"I'm not that good," he noted.
"Not yet," she replied. "We had a lot of time to practice. And we needed to make sure we could protect the Island, if it ever came to that."
"And did it?"
"A couple of times. Nothing the two of us couldn't handle."
He shot her a skeptical look.
"You were in pretty good shape, for an old man," she teased.
Ben made a face at her, and she snickered.
The Bedouins' horses had not wandered very far. He wrangled them while Valerie gathered anything useful from the unconscious men.
"We should leave their water," she suggested frowning at them. She'd propped them up against a rock, safely in the shade.
"I suppose we should," he agreed. "Are you ready?" he asked, holding out the reins.
She nodded—then stopped herself, holding up an index finger. She vomited again into the sand.
"I think that's the last of it," she announced, grabbing the reins from him and pulling herself up into the saddle.
It was hours later that Ben noticed how much she was disfavoring her left shoulder—letting it hang limp as her right arm did all the work.
"Does it hurt?"
"You're going to have to be more specific."
He rolled his eyes.
"Your fresh bullet wound, Valerie. Does it hurt?"
She looked over at him. "It'll heal."
"You can tell me if you're in pain," he insisted. "You don't have to be tough."
"Oh, well, if you insist," she replied sarcastically—then let out a long, expletive-laden explanation of precisely how it felt and just how unpleasant that was.
He regretted asking.
Their journey from the exit point to Tozeur was long—and while it was not particularly enjoyable, it was—mercifully—uneventful.
They arrived in the early evening. Valerie led the way through the city. He watched her move with confidence through the narrow streets. She was tired—they both were—but her spirits seemed lifted by the bustle around them.
She took them on a quick detour through a market and bought a keffiyeh to wrap around her neck, covering her wound.
"I'd rather not have to answer questions," she explained.
They stepped out of the warm night and into the cool lobby of the hotel
Valerie recognized the receptionist on duty and ran up to talk to her. The woman remembered her well—they spoke French with each other, much too quickly for him to understand the conversation.
"Il est Monsieur Moriarty?" the receptionist asked Valerie, eyeing Ben with a curious smile.
"Oui, le même—yes," Valerie replied, switching to English for his benefit.
"You have a very agreeable wife, Monsieur—very sympathetic. Generous to the staff."
He flashed Valerie a bemused grin.
"She is certainly one of a kind," he agreed.
"They'll just need a moment to get our suite ready," Valerie told him.
"Thank you," he told the receptionist, and she hurried off.
They sat together in the lobby, silently watching people and enjoying the cool air.
His eyes wandered back to Valerie. He'd caught himself looking at her more and more lately. She'd picked up a tan in the Saharan sun—she had a bit of a burn on her shoulders and across her back. There was a fresh smattering of freckles across her shoulders and chest—and along the bridge of her nose, though she'd gotten a bit of sunburn there as well.
She noticed him staring at her and her lips creased into a slight smile.
Valerie was always so deliberate in her expressions—a slightly furrowed brow, a mischievous look in her big eyes—all of it could communicate volumes. She was gorgeous, he'd come to realize, but it was that expressiveness that he found beautiful.
Her liveliness seemed muted here. It took him a moment to realize why—the last time she had been here, she'd been in an acute state of grief. Returning to this place had surely brought some of that pain back to the surface.
He smiled back at her.
It wasn't long before the receptionist signaled them that the room was ready. She handed Valerie two sets of keys, and Valerie thanked her warmly.
An old-fashioned elevator took them to their floor. Valerie unlocked the door and flicked on the light as she walked into the room. He followed her in, quietly latching the door behind him. The suite was large, with a dining area and sitting room. The lamps were a bit dim, giving the room a firelit glow in the dark.
She switched on the TV and found the BBC. She sat on the foot of the bed and watched for a few minutes as Ben organized their things and showered.
"We lost a few months," she informed him when he emerged from the bathroom fully dressed in the fresh clothes Val had packed. "Almost a year."
He nodded. "That's usually how it goes."
"The Oceanic Six made it off the Island," she noted, gesturing at the TV.
"The what?"
"That's what they're calling the six of them on the helicopter—Jack, Hurley, Kate, Sayid, and Sun."
"That's five."
"And Claire's baby," she added.
"The baby counts, Val."
"I guess."
He sat next to her. They watched the news for a while, catching up on what had happened in the time they'd missed.
"You lived through all of this already, I take it," he noted with a slight frown.
"Yeah—I remember watching the Oceanic Six story. I was in college."
He raised an eyebrow and stopped himself from saying something.
"When we met, I was almost thirty. You were forty-nine. It wasn't—honestly, it hardly seemed important." She smiled slyly. "In case that's what you were wondering."
He stifled a smile.
"The Oceanic Six—they were the same six people?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Yeah," she confirmed.
"So even though you affected so many things—this still happened the same way?"
"I guess so. I guess a lot of things ended up the same—a lot of the same people died—Boone, Shannon, Libby, Charlie—Goodwin and that woman who was with him. The freighter blowing up."
Ben frowned deeply. "Alex should have died," he noted.
"But she didn't. And neither did Karl, or Danielle, or Ethan. We don't really know how it works—the Island may course correct, but it might not. I mean, everyone dies eventually. She's alive now. You didn't choose to let her die. That matters."
A familiar face splashed across the TV, interrupting their conversation. "Is that Sayid?" Valerie asked, standing up to get a closer look.
Ben waited for the text to appear on the screen. "It would seem so. Someone murdered his wife."
"Widmore, right?"
"That would be my guess. Wouldn't you know?"
"You didn't like talking about this time very much—after Alex…" she trailed off.
Ben was quiet for a moment as he read the chyron. "Sayid might be useful—motivated. How would you feel about a trip to Tikrit for her funeral?"
"I know what you're thinking."
"Of course you do."
"You don't need him."
"Oh?"
"You need someone to help you dismantle Charles's network—cut him off from the resources he needs to find the Island again. Don't drag that man into this. He's been through enough."
"You're proposing yourself?
"How hard do you think it would be for me to get close enough to a man to slip something in his drink? Or stick him with a needle?"
"You're in no shape to—"
"It will heal."
"Valerie, you're a fighter, but you're not a killer."
She squinted at him. "You do remember Keamy, don't you? And the rest of the mercenaries?"
"I know what you are capable of, Val. I mean that it's not who you are," he clarified. "You are not a killer."
"Neither is he," she replied, pointing at the TV. "Neither are you," she added, with conviction. "We do what we have to do."
He frowned at her. He didn't know how she could believe he wasn't, knowing all the things she knew he'd done—all the death he'd caused. Part of him wanted to argue—convince her that she was wrong about him and that she was being foolish in suggesting she could kill the way that a soldier like Sayid could. But now was not the time.
"We'll discuss this later, Val," he said instead. "How's your shoulder?"
She glared at him. She knew he was deflecting.
"You can have a look," she conceded, taking a seat on the ottoman as she peeled the bandage pads off.
He reached into his bag and dug around for the first aid materials he'd collected in the Orchid.
He pulled his glasses out of his pocket and dragged a lamp over to the ottoman. He put the glasses on and knelt beside her to get a better look at her stitches.
He started with the back. The area was very red and a bit swollen—a touch of infection, probably made more painful by her sunburn. It did appear to be healing, but it would fare better if cleaned and bandaged.
He tore open an antiseptic pad.
"This is going to hurt a bit," he warned.
She gave him a look.
"Alright," he replied.
She hissed a bit as he pressed it against her skin. He resisted the urge to comment.
He worked as quickly as he could; his brows furrowed as he squinted through his glasses.
She watched him.
When he was finished applying the bandage, he looked up and noticed the wistful way she was staring at him. He was suddenly very aware of their proximity. He felt his heart beating in his chest.
"There," he said softly.
She bit her bottom lip and sighed.
His eyes were drawn back to her face—sunburnt and beautiful with that heartbroken look in her eyes. He knew what she was thinking about.
"Val," he asked carefully, "who are you seeing right now—me or him?"
She met his gaze, the depth of her pain suddenly very clear to him. "I don't know," she murmured, shaking her head. "Is there really a difference?"
He thought about it for a moment. It wasn't as though he only shared a couple of memories with the man she knew—he had lived the same life for forty years. "I don't know either," he replied slowly, helping her to her feet.
"I loved him," she said simply.
He nodded. "I know."
"I—" she stopped herself.
She would tell him that she loved him too, he realized, if she were certain it was true.
"You should get some rest," he suggested, and pulled back the sheets.
She looked at him gratefully and eased into the bed.
He turned the lights and the TV off, took off his shoes and slipped in beside her.
The room was quiet, save for the steady whirr of the ceiling fan.
She rolled onto her side and draped her arm over his chest, her head over his heart.
She'd held him like this once before—in their tent on the beach, long before he'd understood why she was so good at pretending to love him.
This time she'd done it intentionally—and this time he didn't want to pull away. He found her embrace comforting in a way he hadn't expected. He wrapped his arm around her—tenderly.
He craned his neck to meet her gaze.
"Ben," she breathed.
There was something profoundly unsettling in the way she said his name—with complete trust and genuine affection.
"Go to sleep, Val," he whispered.
She pulled herself closer to him and closed her eyes.
He cared about her—more than he'd realized he could.
He couldn't let himself be distracted by whatever it was that he felt for her. As wonderful as it had been, it had been a mistake to kiss her. He had let impulse drive his actions, and he wasn't even certain that the impulse had truly been his own.
But he couldn't ignore how he felt either—not with her always so close. And it didn't help that he knew just how the curves of her slender body felt in his hands.
It had just been a dream—but it haunted his thoughts almost as persistently as the kiss.
In this life, no one had ever wanted him like that. He'd never felt that kind of thing from another person—never felt that sort of thing from himself. Part of him wanted it—wanted her to make love to him—but he couldn't presume to ask. And even if she wanted the same thing, he wouldn't know where to begin.
At the same time, it seemed wrong to even think about sleeping with Valerie. She was still grieving a dead lover. And no matter how much he had in common with the man in that dream, to her they weren't the same person—not quite.
He absently pressed his lips to the top of her head.
She slept soundly, her chest rising and falling steadily through the night.
He didn't sleep at all.
The moment Valerie had walked out of his house, Ben had become unsure of whether or not any of it had been real. He stumbled back into his room, collapsed backwards onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts clattered around in his head, too loud and disjointed for him to make any sense of them.
It might have been an hour or two before he gave up on attempting to sleep and got up to take a shower. He felt tired, but he felt decidedly alive.
The world seemed quite a bit brighter when he stepped out of his door—he squinted at Hugo who walked towards him, the sun at his back.
"Hey man—good morning!"
"It is a good morning, yes."
"What?"
"It's a lovely day, Hugo," Ben replied, a broad smile on his face.
"What has gotten into you?" Hugo asked, chuckling.
"I couldn't say," he answered, one eyebrow raised, attempting unsuccessfully to stifle the grin.
Hurley stared at him skeptically for a moment, deciding whether or not to keep prying. He decided against it. "Well, it's a good day to work on the boat—weather wise. Des and Walt have gone down to the dock."
"You know, I think Val's going to stay a while, Hugo," Ben said quietly.
"I hope so—doesn't mean that we shouldn't fix up her boat. We've got to let Des and Penny get back to the real world." He slapped Ben on the shoulder and started walking down towards the dock.
Ben grinned again and followed his friend.
It was noon by the time Valerie finally showed up.
"Val, where the hell have you been?" Walt called out to her.
"No one came to get me! It was a fucking ghost town when I got up."
"Language, please, both of you," Penny interjected, tilting her head at Charlie, who was very focused on an increasingly elaborate sandcastle.
Ben glanced at Valerie. She looked particularly radiant.
"Linus," she greeted him, flashing him a smile.
"Val," he said.
He made eye contact with Penny for a moment. She smirked but held her tongue.
They spent the day working on the boat. He was yearning to hold her again, but he settled for the brushes of skin as their shoulders bumped together. Part of him felt it would be simpler if they all just knew, but there was something undeniably fun about keeping it a secret—at least for now. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure what she wanted.
Eons seemed to pass before the group of them finished their dinner and retired for the evening. He hadn't slept in almost two days now, and he should have been exhausted, but—waiting for the night to finally start—he had never felt so awake.
She touched his arm as she was leaving to head home.
"I'll see you later," she murmured, a sly look in her eyes.
He held her gaze for a moment. "Later," he agreed.
He waited what he felt was a reasonable amount of time before creeping back out of his house and darting across the green to hers. His heart was pounding in anticipation. He found her door left ajar. He stepped into her foyer and locked the door behind him.
"Valerie," he whispered into the dark hallway. She stepped out of her bedroom.
"Hi," she said, a mischievous grin on her face.
"I—" he wasn't sure what to say.
They locked eyes.
Her face grew serious.
Last night he'd been overcome with desire, but this was different. He had a desperate need to touch her, but it wasn't lust that consumed him.
He hadn't had the time—or the presence of mind—to really think about the way she must feel. But he could see it now, plain on her face. In his life, no one had ever looked at him the way she was looking at him now.
He had lived a very lonely life. There had always been people around him, but even those closest to him had kept themselves at arm's length—even Alex had kept her distance once she had grown old enough to see him for what he was.
He had been indifferent to Valerie at first, and—in his apathy—he had never bothered to mask the ugliness he carried with him. And she had never been repulsed. But she was perceptive—she had understood who he was from the beginning. She had seen him in all his complexity—and had somehow seen the shades of something worthwhile.
The more he really considered it, the more he realized how unfathomably lucky he was that she felt the way she did. He hadn't spent a day apart from her in more than a year. She had cured his loneliness, and he'd hardly noticed it happening. It was far more than he deserved.
He could tell that she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She leapt into his arms and held him as tightly as she could, pressing her face against his neck. He hesitated for a moment before squeezing her back. He kissed the side of her head.
She leaned back and raised her lips to his. He folded into her—dissolving into the warmth of her body. She drew him in closer.
He'd gone his whole life without this—not categorically devoid of it, of course—but nothing that came close to the honest intensity of Valerie's desire for him—her hungry trembling hands, the fire of her skin, the rapid cadence of her breathing.
She needed him, he realized, in a way that he'd never been needed. There was a newness in that feeling—electric and intoxicating. He felt everything at once as he fell into bed with her—yearning, lust, uncertainty—and, above all, relief.
He was awoken the next morning from a very deep sleep by a pounding on the front door. Groggy and disoriented, he located most of his clothing and dressed himself—his shirt was missing but he'd found his white undershirt, so that was no huge problem.
"Coming," he shouted down the hall at the door.
He vaguely registered that the shower was running in the background, and he hoped no one would ask any questions.
"Ben?" he heard Hugo's muffled voice from outside.
He opened the door.
"Yes, Hugo?"
Hurley stared at him, a perplexed frown on his face, waiting for an explanation. "Are you—is everything okay?"
Ben rubbed his eyes. "Is it late?"
"A bit," Hugo replied, fighting a smile. "We were just wondering where you were—"
Ben looked at him, visibly confused.
"—because you weren't at home," Hurley continued.
Ben suddenly became aware of his surroundings, realizing—much too late—that the door he had answered was not his own.
He winced. "Oh. This isn't—it's not—it's not what it looks like," Ben attempted half-heartedly, noticing his shirt crumpled on the floor of the hallway.
Hugo glanced at the shirt and grinned.
Valerie emerged from the bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel. She noticed their guest and immediately started laughing.
"Hi Hurley," she said sheepishly.
"Hey Val," he replied. "Ben says it's not what it looks like."
She laughed again. "Oh?"
"That's what he tells me."
"And what does it look like, would you say?"
Hugo stifled a grin.
"Definitely not what it looks like," she agreed sarcastically. She slipped back into the bedroom, holding in a giggle as she closed the door.
"Did you know, Hugo?" Ben asked, incredulous.
"Not exactly—I guess I kind of had an idea though."
Ben could see Penny walking towards the house from around the corner.
"Oh, you found him," Penny called out from across the green. She didn't seem particularly surprised.
He sighed. "Does everyone know?"
"Penny asked me about you two at dinner the other night," Hugo explained. "I thought, like, no way—but then I thought about it, and—and it was just obvious, you know?"
"We found Ben!" Penny called over her shoulder. Desmond and Walt trotted over. Ben could feel himself blushing.
"Do we have to make a spectacle of this?"
"We do, I'm afraid," Desmond answered.
"Jesus Christ, finally," Walt announced, rolling his eyes.
"Et tu, Walter?"
"Man, you've been in love with her since we pulled her out of the boat. It was obvious. Painfully obvious."
Ben winced and turned back to Hugo. "Painfully obvious?"
"Well—I mean, I wouldn't put it like that exactly, but—"
"Thanks Hugo, I get the point.
Valerie emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed. He felt her hand slip into his and he looked down at her. She had that self-satisfied smirk on her face.
"Did you really want to keep sneaking around?" she asked quietly.
He looked down at her face—her big brown eyes meeting his gaze with warmth and a hint of mischief. He shook his head. "I suppose not," he replied, and he kissed her.