HOLIDAY HAPPENINGS CONTINUED

AULD LANG SYNE

We two have run about the hills,
and pulled the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

- Robert Burns

Chapter One

It was the afternoon after Christmas, and in his new hut Sayid had just unlatched his suitcase. He had shared a dresser with Hurley, and although he had built the furniture himself, he had not had the heart to take it with him. Between Claire and Aaron, however, there wasn't much room in Claire's dresser, so he shut the suitcase again and placed it in a corner.

"What do you want me to do with this?" Claire asked, motioning towards his backpack.

He suppressed an instinctive tickle of annoyance. Sayid had every intention of taking care of the backpack and putting it away neatly. Yet she could not wait for him to do it, could she? She had to ask what he wanted her to do with it. Nothing, of course. He wanted her to leave it alone. He would get around to it. He supposed, however, that this was what living with a woman meant, and it was a very small price to pay for the rewards that would no doubt follow. "I have a change of clothes in there," he said mildly. "If you have any room left in your dresser, you might put them in."

He turned back to the suitcase and contemplated whether the corner was the best location. He heard her opening the drawer and pulling things out of the backpack, and suddenly she seemed very silent. He was about to turn when he heard her ask, "Who is she? Your sister?"

He walked over to the dresser, where she stood holding the photograph of Nadia, the one that had lingered deep inside his backpack, the one he had reclaimed from the ruins at Rousseau's. He had never thought of getting rid of it, because it marked the first step on the road to his new life. For a brief moment he considered answering yes. It was not that he believed she would be upset to learn he owned a picture of someone he had once loved. After all, she knew he kept the photograph of Shannon he had taken from Boone's wallet, and Claire herself had reserved for Charlie's guitar a place of honor in the hut. But if Sayid told Claire who Nadia was, then he would also have to tell her who he was.

Claire knew what Sayid had done on the island, and she had looked past his torture of Sawyer, the rumors of his uncontrolled beating of Gale. Yet those had been rare cases, perpetrated under extreme circumstances, in a place where everyone was struggling to survive. He had not told her that he had once made a six year career of such actions. He thought of how she had held Charlie at bay, even after she had believed he was clean, for fear of what he had been and what he might become again.

Sayid swallowed. "No," he said. "She is not my sister."

"Then who is she?"

He looked down at the ground and attempted to gather the right words. How did he tell this story? He had told it only once before, under threat of torture.

He did not realize his posture might appear guilty until Claire moaned, "Oh, God" as she dropped the picture to the floor. Her hand flew to her forehead, and she closed her eyes hard as if she were attempting not to cry. "You're married, aren't you? Back home. You're still married."

"What? No! How could you think…If I had been married…No!"

She looked embarrassed by her assumption, relieved by his answer, and generally confused. "Then why won't you answer me?"

So he did. He told her everything: what he had been, what he had done, and who had first drawn him from the unfathomable pit he had mined for himself. And then he waited for the disgust to begin working its way across her features. He waited for the fear. He waited for some reaction, any reaction.

She put her arms around his waist and buried her head against his chest. He could feel his shirt growing wet from her tears. He held her, and still he waited, until the warm wetness stopped growing. "Claire?" he asked cautiously. "Tell me…please tell me you know I am no longer that man." And again he waited. He waited while she clung to him. He listened to her breathing, which was still raspy from the crying. He closed his eyes and felt the clutching, intrusive fingers of a hollowness he had not known since the months that followed Shannon's death.

Her hand slid from around his back and grasped at his hand. "I know," she said, and she began guiding him toward the blanket that was spread out on the floor. Some of the survivors had attempted to build bedframes, but no mattress they could manage to manufacture from the products of the jungle proved as comfortable as a simple blanket spread atop the sand. "Make love to me," she said.

The wave of relief, the tremendous surge of tenderness came first. Then he glanced nervously at the curtain divide. "But…Aaron…"

"He's napping, Sayid."

"Yes, but he has been asleep awhile. How long do we have?"

Claire smiled that smile. The smile that usually arose when he had made some cultural gaffe. The smile that told him she adored him, and which made him feel simultaneously beloved and foolish. "There's no telling," she said. "You're going to be living with a very active toddler. You have to learn to make the most of time."

He followed her to the bed and lay down with her. Even though it was a warm afternoon, he made sure they were fully covered with a blanket. They had not been kissing and caressing one another for long, however, before he forgot his concern. She was right: he was going to have to learn to make the most of time, and she was an exceptional teacher.

Afterwards, she cuddled against him, and he felt a sense of gratitude he did not quite know how to express. Claire was going to accept him. When things were uncertain, she was going to listen to his explanations. She was never going to go out of her way to instigate a fight with him. He could not explain just how overpowering a sense of liberation washed over him as he thought, This is going to work. Somehow, someway, this is always going to work. So he just said, "I love you."

She kissed his shoulder, softly, lightly. "I love you, too."

As they continued to lie together, he listened intently and thought that every creaking of the hut, every distant wave upon the shore, every passing person outside was the sound of Aaron stirring. He continued to hold one arm wrapped around Claire while he stretched the other out to grab his pants.

She had been drifting off and was awakened when her position was disturbed. "What are you doing?" she murmured.

"Getting dressed. We had best get dressed."

She laughed and sat up and said, "Fine. Hand me my clothes."

When both were dressed, they snuggled together again. She kissed him and pressed her jean clad hips against him and teased him with her movements. He groaned and dipped a hand into the waistband of her pants, but a second later he tore it out when he heard the cry of "Mummmeeeeeee!" coming from behind the curtain. Claire smiled apologetically and rose.

Sayid lay back, stared at the ceiling, and tried to concentrate on square roots and integrals. Meanwhile, behind the curtain, Claire soothed a groggy, waking Aaron by singing off-key and out of tune. The child didn't care how she sounded. His love was unconditional.

Sayid smiled. It would not be long before his heart was irrevocably tied to that boy. Nevertheless, he wasn't going to build a mere wood partition. He was going to build a room with a door. A door that locked.