In Shallow Seas We Sail

Author's Note: Back to regular updates! Go me! I'm starting to figure out where I'm going with this fic. Kinda. :) I know FF is being a little retarded to all of us, which is why I'm okay with not getting too many reviews last chapter. To those of you who did review, however, I'm sorry I didn't reply, because the reply function was down until today. So anyone who reviews to this chapter will get a nice reply. Haha.

Also, thanks to you all who reviewed on Noun, Verb and Portraits, since I didn't get to reply to all those reviews either.

Enjoy,
Sara

*

If you think you can save just one,
you've failed them all.
The Weak's End

[11]

Cassidy awoke the next morning with something like dread lurking in the pit of her stomach. She didn't know exactly what she expected; she had three crazy people in her home – one of them was a fugitive, one of them was a con-man, and one of them was a complete stranger. She hadn't slept well, waking almost every hour to make sure that Clementine was in her bed and safe. She found Clementine's room empty and hurried down the stairs.

Her living room was filled with the sounds Saturday morning cartoons, so she took that as a good sign. She was relieved to see the little girl and Kate sitting in front of the TV, both cross-legged and still dressed in their pajamas. Clementine was chewing thoughtfully on an icing-covered Pop-Tart. They both looked back when she entered. Cassidy placed a kiss on Clementine's forehead and made her way into the kitchen. A few moments later, Kate appeared behind her.

"They leave already?" Cassidy asked, feigning disinterest while pouring a cup of coffee.

The kitchen chair scraped the floor behind her as Kate settled into it. "Yeah, before the sun was up." There was a cool silence before Kate spoke again, "You don't have to believe us, Cass."

"Good," Cassidy replied, but the truth was, she didn't know what to believe. Their story was outlandish, impossible; how did they expect her to believe them? But something about it, the way they all agreed, the way he'd changed (and he had, she saw it, and it couldn't have possibly happened as quickly as it seemed to her).

"It's all true, through," Kate said, more to herself, staring down at her clasped hands on the kitchen table.

Cassidy didn't reply.

"And it's true, too, what he's told you. He has changed."

She kept her mouth shut. She didn't want to talk about this; she didn't want to be any more convinced than she already was. She tried to keep her resolve strengthened. She couldn't let Clementine be played like she was. Sawyer, James, whatever is name was – he was not a good man.

"And he loves her," Kate said, "Juliet – he'd do anything for her, and if you'd let him, he'd be the same way with Clementine."

She narrowed her eyes at Kate, wondering why in the world she was taking up for him. What had he ever done for her? But there was over three years that, for Cassidy, didn't even exist, that she knew nothing about, if she chose to believe them. If.

"I guess I don't blame you for your decision though. I know how it is to get burned by someone. It takes a while to trust them again. But he – you – " Kate took a breath as if she was unsure of what to say, "It's his place, to be her father, if that's what he wants. He won't fight you, but you know as well as I do, it's not right."

Cassidy's nostrils flared. "I'm keeping you in my house, my home, with my daughter. You're a damn fugitive, and I'm letting you stay here." She looked at Kate square in the face, daring her to look away. "You have no right to tell me what's right and wrong. You have no room to talk about morals."

Kate looked hurt, but Cassidy wouldn't take it back – couldn't, now. She was too close to believing, too close to trusting, and that could only lead to pain.

*

Locke wasn't supposed to remember, but after all that had happened to Hurley, he didn't even do a double take when he saw the man sitting in the visitor's lounge.

"Hello, Hugo," he said with a knowing smile.

Hurley opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't think of any one thing to say. Why is that man in my dreams? Why do you remember now? Why do we have to go back?

"Take a seat," Locke instructed, and dumbly, Hurley sat in front of him. He was dimly aware of Locke's wheelchair – he half-expected Locke to have shed that when he got his memory back, as if he could remember how to walk. "I'm sure you have many questions."

Hurley only nodded. "You remember?" he asked, but the answer was obviously.

Locke chuckled and nodded. "Of course, I remember. Jacob made sure of that."

"Jacob?" Hurley asked. The name was familiar; he'd heard it before, on the island, spoken by some of them, but it never bore any relevance.

"Yes, Jacob. He is the one that wants us to come back."

"But why?"

The older man bowed his head. "If we don't go back, people will die."

"I'll die," Hurley said, without really realizing the words that escaped his mouth.

"Why do you say that, Hugo?" Locke asked in a way that implied that Hurley was correct in his assumption.

"He's driving me crazy. Jacob, or the island, dude. Palm trees, and sand, and faces, and memories. And nose bleeds." The words that poured from his mouth couldn't be escaped.

Locke looked back at him, eyes and voice unwavering, "Perhaps you'll right. Perhaps we'll all die."

*

John Locke was a lucky man, that's what they always tried to tell him. He could have died, being paralyzed was nothing compared to that, right? Right.

Dejected and beaten, he boarded Flight 815 to Los Angeles, the first to board, the last to exit – that's how it always was. As if he was not an equal, as if he was inferior. Left to wait and fester in his seat, directed to come and go by others, as if his very consciousness had been paralyzed as well.

There was a time while John Locke's full potential had been revealed; a time that he lived, and led, and died, but that time was erased from his memory. A clean slate. A second chance at life.

It's hard to remember your own death. He went about his life for nearly three months, not aware of the years that had been taken from him, like his ability to walk, like his ability to live.

Dreams. Always dreams of walking, of being healed. They were common, but this time – a man, a man he knew, but he didn't. Someone he couldn't place.

"I chose you for a reason," the man said, "Wake up, John."

"What? I don't understand."

The man smiled, a smile similar to that of a mother to her child. "Don't be afraid. It will only hurt for a moment."

Then a flash that shook his very being. He sat up in bed, fingers digging into his tempers, trying to stop the pain, trying to force his eyes to close, to stop this light. He cried, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, screams ripped from his chest. Planes and hatches and death and blood and knives and names (Jack, Boone, Ben, Richard, Jacob) and instructions and flashes and living and dying.

And the last thing he could remember was Ben's face, Ben's face. He was a fool to trust him.

But he'd been given a second chance.

*

"Jack? Sawyer?" Hurley craned to look around Locke's shoulder, and Locke, too, turned to look at them, still smiling.

Sawyer remembered pulling so hard on the rope, he's down there, he's down there, and waiting so patiently (or impatiently) for them to come back because that's how John said it would happen, and then they did come back, and it was nothing like he expected.

"What are you doing here?" Jack asked, voice hostile. He and John Locke had not been such good terms on the island, but Jack had changed when he returned – he had almost become John Locke – it all comes down to faithfaithfaith and destiny.

"I might ask you the same question," Locke said, "since I've been trying to track you down as well. It seems Hugo here was the only one who I could locate."

"The only one of who?"

"The only one from Jacob's list." Locke stared back at Jack, eyes hardened and knowing.

Jack opened his mouth to argue, but to Sawyer, it seemed pointless.

"Waita minute, waita damn minute, why do we have to argue about it if we're all looking for the same people?" Sawyer asked, slapping his hands on his thighs, "Seems like we got lucky."

"Dude," Hurley said, and the other three turned to look at him. "Jacob's list?"

"Of the ones that must got back, Hugo. We have to find them and convince them to go back."

Jack cleared his throat. "There won't be much convincing."

Locke tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"Ben took Juliet, so Sawyer has to go back. Kate is…sick, so she has to go back, and I – " he looked down at the floor.

"You love her, so you have to go back," Locke finished for him.

"I'm going crazy, dude, and this Jacob guy, I guess that's who he is, he told me I had to go back, and I said I didn't want to, and then he started making me crazy. So I have to go back." Hurley sighed.

"And I will follow Jacob's instructions," Locke said. "If we all work together, this will go a lot more smoothly."

"How do we get back?" Sawyer asked.

"A way will arise," Locke answered, causing Sawyer to tighten his fist in indignation.

"A way arisin' doesn't get Juliet back," he fumed.

"And then what's next, John?" Jack asked. "When we get on the island, what's next?"

Locke seemed to contemplate this for a moment, then looking at both Jack and Sawyer. "The war, of course."