The plan, such as it was, was crude to say the least; lacking any of Ben's usual sophistication and guile. He preferred to play the long game - breaking down his target's defences little by little, using psychological warfare before the physical – but now he no longer cared. All he cared about was vengeance, and the remote hope that killing Widmore would somehow deliver Annie back to him.
And so, abandoning any pretensions of tactical thinking, Ben simply opened his wallet; offering obscenely generous bribes to all of Widmore's security and housekeeping staff, requesting that they leave their posts at the agreed time and turn a blind eye to whatever took place. He had intended to have Sayid deal with those who refused, but none did. Loyalty, Ben had learned over the last few months, was a very fragile thing, particularly when the staff appear to be as wholly immoral as their employer. Everything can be bought if one has enough money. That had been Widmore's philosophy before, and Ben had despised it. Now he was resorting to the same methods. Under different circumstances, he would be thoroughly ashamed of himself.
He had reminded Sayid over and over how crucial this last assignment was; how it would mean the difference between life and death for everyone left on the Island. What he hadn't told him was that the bribes and preparation costs had left Ben practically penniless. If they failed, there would be no more chances for either of them.
It had been almost suspiciously easy for Sayid to gain entrance to Widmore's home; a simple case of stealth, timing and the ability to pick a lock. Ben's plan was indeed straightforward, so much so that, had anyone else come up with it, Sayid would have asked more questions or possibly refused to play a part. But Ben knew how to get results. Ben always had a plan. And, he told himself repeatedly, Ben would be well and truly out of his life once it was finished.
He moved almost silently along the corridor, the gun ready in his hand. Widmore's housekeeper had, in return for a rather large bundle of cash, informed Ben that Widmore kept to his study in the evenings and described the location of the room within the almost labyrinthine mansion. Sure enough, Sayid could make out a thin sliver of light under the closed door. He paused and took a few deep breaths, steadying his nerves, then approached the door and knocked.
He heard Widmore's muffled voice from inside: "Enter."
Raising the gun, ready to aim and fire as rapidly as possible, Sayid's left hand located the doorknob and turned it slowly.
Then the shot rang out.
Sayid staggered back from the door and collapsed to his knees, the gun falling from his hand as he clutched at his chest, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. A moment later, the now-damaged door opened and Widmore stood casually over him, his own gun hanging loosely in his grip. "Good evening, Mr. Jarrah," he said, a cold smile playing at his lips. "No, please, don't get up."
Sayid could only gasp for air, his eyes wide as he stared at the other man in disbelief.
"So, the plan was to somehow get rid of my security team," Widmore said, "then disable all the cameras in the house. Hm. A little unsophisticated, but it might just have worked. If you hadn't missed one."
Feeling dizzy and weak, Sayid shot out a hand to steady himself against the wall, but his strength had all but left him and he slumped to the floor, his eyes half-closed, his breathing laboured. Widmore crouched down beside him and met his pained, despairing gaze. "I saw you coming from all the way down the hall," he explained. "It was a nice try, Mr. Jarrah, but as you can see, even when I'm alone, I'm not entirely defenceless. Never mind though. Well played."
As Sayid felt his final breath escape his lungs, he remembered what Nadia had written the last time he had seen her alive; that she would see him in the next life, if not in this one. He hoped she was right. He hoped that she at least knew he had tried.
Widmore surveyed Sayid's body for a few moments with a cold, indifferent expression, then reached over and picked the phone up from the floor where it had fallen from Sayid's pocket as he fell. Examining it, he found with no surprise whatever that there was only one number programmed into the contacts list. Rising to his feet, he strode back into his study. It was time to call Benjamin Linus again.
The phone in Ben's coat pocket vibrated gently. He retrieved it and brought it to his ear. "Is it done?", he asked. "Sayid?"
"I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but the Iraqi failed." Ben could hear the amused satisfaction in Widmore's voice at the other end of the line. "I have to say, I expected better of you, Mr. Linus. Full marks for getting him inside, but one man and one gun? Risks like that only ever pay off in bad films. And you seemed like such a realist."
"Curses, foiled again," Ben replied as nonchalantly as possible, moving towards the door, his footsteps making no sound on the thick carpet.
"Oh, don't try to pretend that wasn't your final attempt, Mr. Linus. If you were desperate enough for that, you're clearly out of options. Either that or you're just losing your touch. Perhaps it's the grief. I hear it's rather traumatic, losing a loved one like that."
"I told Sayid that the simplest plan is often the best one," said Ben, his left hand resting on the door handle. "You're not as bright as you think you are."
"Were your friend Sayid still breathing, I'm sure he'd disagree with you."
Ben smiled, a thin, humourless smirk, then tossed the phone onto the floor, pulled the gun from his coat, flung the door open and fired. Widmore's eyes widened as he slumped to the floor, propped up against the desk, blood streaming from his stomach.
"Misdirection," Ben explained, stepping into the study. "Another staple of bad movies, I believe."
"You... you sent him here to die?", Widmore gasped, hopelessly trying to stem the flow of blood with his hands. "You were in the... the next room and you-"
"Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Honestly, Charles, do you really imagine I'd forget to turn that last camera off? Give me a little more credit. No, I let you watch him, I let you kill him and I let you believe you'd won. You've been at this game long enough, Charles; you should know that it's always at those moments when you're at your most vulnerable. Your mistake, of course, was imagining that I wouldn't want to get my hands dirty, when really, I just wanted the satisfaction of dealing with you myself."
'Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"...'
At the sound of the music – faint and short-lived, but distinct enough - both Ben and Widmore suddenly turned to the window to see Annie standing there, looking as solid and real as the two men. She looked younger and her hair was long, falling over her shoulders. She was wearing a simple, elegant white dress that Ben recognised instantly. It had worked. She had come back.
"You're supposed to be dead," Widmore said, more confused than afraid.
"I am dead," she answered, polite yet cold, "but I'm also here."
"I... I don't understand." His face contorted in pain as he clutched at his stomach. Blood was pooling around him, spreading darkly across the carpet.
"No, you don't," Ben snapped. "Which is why I don't want you anywhere near my island." He raised the gun and aimed it squarely at Widmore's chest. "Everything I have done, I did for that place," he said, his gaze steady. "But this is for her."
He fired, just once, and it was over.
Returning the gun to his coat, Ben turned back to the window. "Annie...", he began.
"Let's go outside," she said, glancing a little uneasily at the bodies of Sayid and Widmore before opening another door to her right and stepping out into the garden. Ben followed, his eyes never leaving her as she walked lightly over the grass, the breeze blowing her hair back off her face. After a long pause, Ben was finally able to speak.
"Is it really you?", he asked warily, "or just the island?"
She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she considered how to asnwer. "I'm me," she said slowly, "and I'm the island, and I'm a hell of a lot of other things even you couldn't understand. But mainly, I'm just me."
"You're wearing your wedding dress."
"So I am." She smiled warmly, reassuringly. "I'm glad you noticed."
He dropped his gaze, feeling thoroughly undeserving of that smile. "I'm so sorry, Annie," he said.
"What for?"
"For sending you away. For getting you killed. There's quite a long list."
"I know," she said softly. "I know everything you've done, Ben."
"Then I don't even want to imagine what you think of me." He looked off to the side, trying to avoid meeting her gaze. If she really had seen everything he had done, seen the man he had become in those eighteen years without her, he could not fathom why she should choose to speak to him now.
"That's the thing about being in my position," she explained. "You get a better view on things. You get to see the big picture."
"Do you see anything else?", he asked, not sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.
"You need to go home. Your people need you."
"I think they've made it perfectly clear that they don't. Not any more."
"What people want and what they need are often very different." She stepped towards him, her gaze steady. "Take back what's yours, Ben. Go home, before there's no home left for you to go to."
The night air had grown bitterly cold and Ben's hands were freezing, but Annie did not even shiver in her thin dress. "Will I see you again?", he asked her quietly.
"You'll see me if I'm needed."
He finally looked directly at her, his eyes pleading. "I need you now," he said, stepping closer to her. "I always need you."
She shook her head gently. "No, you always want me. And I think we just covered all that. Look at all the things you've done, Ben. You did all of it without me."
"Victories feel pretty empty when you have no one to share them with."
"No one ever said it was fair," she told him, a harder note in her voice. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're saving your island, Ben. You're saving the world. As far as destinies go, that's not bad."
He smiled a little then, despite himself. "Eighteen years apart, and all you can do is tell me off," he said.
"Not much changes, huh?", she laughed.
He paused as she stared at him intently. "I don't suppose I can touch you?", he asked.
"Well, that would defy all logic now, wouldn't it?".
He nodded, unable to keep the disappointment from his face. She moved in closer, leaving only inches between them.
"Worth a try though," she said, her gentle smile becoming almost mischievous.
Slowly, tentatively, as if he feared she might evaporate on contact, Ben brought a shivering hand up to touch her face. His breath caught as she leaned into him and he felt the icy coldness of her skin. "Annie, you're freezing," he said. "Here." He pulled her close and wrapped his winter coat around both their bodies. He remembered how she had constantly complained of being cold on the island and how it had always irritated everyone; one especially mild summer evening, she had shivered so much she had borrowed Ben's sweater for warmth. When she gave it back to him, it had smelled of her.
"It won't help, you know," she said, a little sadly, her hands reaching up inside the coat to rest on his chest. "Not that I'm complaining."
They stood in silence, Ben savouring every moment of his proximity to her, knowing that he did not have long before she left him again. He was rarely silent in company and there was an infinite number of things he was desperate to say to her, but he knew that none of them would be enough to keep her with him. Her sad brown eyes met his as she tilted her face upwards and his hand slid from her cheek to her hair.
For the first time in eighteen years, they kissed.
Annie's lips were almost unbearably cold, but Ben couldn't have cared less. Her kiss was slow and tender, her hands tugging gently at his shirt to draw him in deeper. He buried his hand in her hair, never wanting to let go, momentarily forgetting the cold and the sadness and losing himself entirely in her. Finally she broke from the kiss and Ben's stomach churned as he expected her to step away and leave him. Instead, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear, her lips brushing his skin: "I am so proud of you."
The sound of footsteps and raised voices from the house made Ben suddenly whip his head round to make sure they had not been seen. In that instant, he felt her hair slip from his fingers and her hands push away from him. He turned back, wanting to hold onto her, to make her stay longer, but she was gone.
His breath steamed in the cold night air and he drew his coat tightly around him. As the footsteps grew steadily closer, he turned and walked out of the garden; within seconds, he had blended into the shadows, unseen and unheard. He continued to walk purposefully, his pace quickening as he rounded a corner and headed along a narrow, winding street. The pavement was silent and deserted, but Ben no longer felt alone. He could still feel the coldness of her lips and her breath on his skin. She was out there somewhere; she was watching over him and he would see her again. But not yet. He still had work to do. He had no idea how he would reach the island again, but he would find a way to raise the money; after all, he always had a plan. He would find his way home somehow. He was needed.