2.

Homecoming – Thunderstruck - Screwdriver – Howdy, Neighbor! – Anthuriums and Progress

Charlie fussed in his mother's arms. Not to the point of wailing and scrabbling, but that busy, babbling fidget of an active toddler that pulls in cooing bystanders like iron filings to a magnet. They clucked and hovered in their white antiseptic uniforms, tapped his nose while giggling, and offered chocolatey biscuits after giving his mother a look for her approval. Penelope Hume did so every time, absently helping to manage crumbs and smeared cocoa, her eyes never fully leaving the still (but breathing, thank God, he's breathing) form of her husband in the hospital bed. She was frightened to blink, to look away and then back and find him gone again. Every time the memory of waking up and finding her husband stolen from her flashed to the forefront of her mind, her grip tightened on their son and she would have to rock him gently to stop the startled tears. The furrow still wouldn't leave her brow, though she had cried out all her relief when he was wheeled back into the small, private room.

The note remained clenched in her other hand, the one most firmly wrapped around the little boy and the one free of chocolate specks. She'd read it once when the nurses handed it to her, didn't understand the words for the English they were, and read it again, that time refusing to believe them. The ink had smeared under the moisture that remained on Desmond's palm and then the sweat of her hand, but it would still be readable hours later, that fine copperplate shorthand. Two short sentences only, one on each side of the scrap of paper.

It's over.

I'm sorry.

It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. She could see him clearly in her mind, this memory like a scar. Like many other scars. The raised arm, the gun, the white jacket, the bumbling sounds of Charlie behind her, and then – here her memory tried to interpret, to see in different ways and try to understand – the trembling dip of the wrist less than a second before the blur of her husband's form took over the memory. Had she really seen that?

The note crunched in her hand. It didn't ask for forgiveness. It didn't clarify what she'd seen.

It doesn't matter. It's over, if I can believe that. Des is home. Des is home! Her lips trembled again and this time she was able to reach out and touch her husband. Charlie slipped away from her to wobble around the room as she stroked the sleeping man's cheek. Time passed as she reminded herself again and again that he was real.

"Mrs. Hume?"

Penelope gasped and looked up at the tall figure in the dark suit through bleary eyes. Perhaps it was one of the doctors. "Yes?"

He handed her an envelope. "You're being served, Mrs. Hume."

She blinked at him, the action making her vision temporarily worse. "Wh-what?"

"Have a nice day, ma'am. Glad your husband's back with you." He turned on his heel and left before she could manage another question or get a good look. Her mouth worked soundlessly as she fumbled the envelope open. Within was a thick sheaf of papers informing her in nearly impenetrable legalese that her inherited claims to her father's shares of Widmore Corporation were to be challenged in court.

Penelope's stomach settled somewhere in her feet. Her father was dead. She suspected – had imagined the possibility when the hospital called her. She hadn't known. No one had said. There had been no contact. Now, only a cold document that brought her a new challenge.

No. It isn't over. Not all of it.

Despite a hundred memories of Charles Widmore to the contrary, Penelope Hume broke into tears at the sudden knowledge of loss. After a long, startled moment, Charlie began to add his own hearty wails.

. . .

"This is Mary Lang, reporting in for Action 8 News! Behind me, John, you see the residence of two-time missing millionaire Hugo Reyes. Now, just a little while ago, we saw his mother, Mrs. Carmen Reyes, enter the home with an unidentified guest. We're hoping for a statement tonight."

Daniel Norton watched the live broadcast with a blank expression. He remained seated, hands placed lightly atop the thin, black briefcase. He could sense the approaching storm behind him, huffing and muttering, weight shifting from foot to foot and then becoming the bang of stomping feet as the reporter banged on the door. Norton experienced it as if in stereo, watching the reporter on the TV, watching Mrs. Reyes out of the corner of his eye as she neared the door.

"MI DIO!" she snarled, followed with other, more ornate Spanish invective. The door flung open. He watched the reporter take a half step back and then try to collect herself. The camera view wobbled.

"Mrs. Reyes!" The voice chirped in that weird stereo and Norton ignored the brief sense of unreality. "Do you have a statement about-"

"I HAVE NO STATEMENT, YOU SQUEAKY LITTLE CHIPPIE! YOU TAKE YOUR CAMERA AND YOU GET AWAY FROM MY HOME. I HAVE LAWYERS, LITTLE GIRL. I WILL TELL YOU NOTHING ABOUT MI BEBé!" The door slammed shut with a doubled crack of thunder.

Norton reflected for a moment about how Mrs. Reyes shouting voice was really not that much louder than what he'd experienced since arriving as a slightly suspicious guest. Perhaps he'd just gotten used to it that quickly. Meanwhile, on the TV, the reporter had now fully staggered back and was flashing the cut-off signal at the cameraman. The image went black for a split second and returned to a pair of startled newscasters sitting in a quiet, air-conditioned studio.

A shadow fell over the lawyer. He turned his face up to it with a pleasant, professional smile.

"Mr. Norton, you said? I'm very sorry about that." She clasped her hands in front of her, wrists trapped in a ruffle of green and blue fabric. The voice was still bombastic, though muted far from what he'd just overheard. "Would you like a glass of something?"

"Lemonade would be fine, Mrs. Reyes. Or a soda, whatever you had."

She huffed a little, her round face amused. "Ai-yi, I was thinking a screwdriver myself. You'll have the same."

"I-"

"Just a little one, you'll be fine." She patted his shoulder and began to move around the room. He heard the clink of glasses behind him. "Now, who do you say you represent?"

"I'm representing the interests of Mittelos Bioscience. We had a business deal being prepared with your son shortly before the Ajira flight." While technically a lie, he had been given a sheaf of papers that had been pre-dated, notarized, and signed by Reyes. Norton had developed a habit of not asking Mr. Linus questions beyond what he absolutely had to. He simply accepted the paperwork as the legal word of God.

"I knew nothing about that!" Another mutter as the sound of orange juice hitting the glass was replaced by the more ominous sound of glugging vodka. Norton had left his assistant in the car. He was suddenly thankful for his foresight as a large and overfilled glass entered his field of view. "He said nothing to me. Oh, my baby." Norton turned to see her hand placed over her heart and an expression of deep woe on her face. Dramatic, hammy even, but something about her sold the earnestness of the action. Her eyes narrowed at him and his throat began to close at the darkening storm that built. "You know something."

Norton took a careful sip of liquid courage. "Mrs. Reyes, I'm happy to report that your son is fine, but-"

"WHERE IS MY HUGO? YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW OR I TAKE YOUR COLON AND PICKLE IT IN A JAR! GOD WILL FORGIVE ME."

Daniel Norton, a man who had in the course of his work engaged in cutthroat corporate takeovers, legally tried to steal adopted children, and bailed accused murderers out of jail, began to wish hell and torment on Benjamin Linus for sticking him with the job and not doing it his own damned self. He began to work heavily on the drink Mrs. Reyes had given him.

. . .

Rose Nadler watched Hurley shuffle carefully around her makeshift island garden for several minutes before calling out a greeting to him. The sound of her voice made him jerk back, and he caught her eyes with his, looking surprised and a little guilty.

"Hi, Rose!" He popped up a hand in a little wave. "How're you? He out hunting?"

"Hurley, you're a sweetie, but Bernard and I-"

His shoulders dropped a little and she stopped, bending her lips in a wry expression. "Don't want to see any of us. I know, I know, I just. Can you let me say my thing and I'll go?"

She leaned her rake against the side of the cabin and loosely crossed her arms. Her eyebrows furrowed together, contemplative but not disapproving. "Go ahead."

Hurley stood a moment with his mouth open, closed it again, then shrugged. An oversized cotton shirt billowed around him as he cleared his throat. "It's over, Rose. Nobody's gonna come by to scare you anymore. Ever. And I just came by to say that if you still want nobody at all to bug you, that's cool. I'll make sure everyone sticks to that. I promise." His voice speeded up. She had the sense he was afraid she was going to cut him off. She didn't. "But, like, if you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or something, I'm here. I'll be a good neighbor and even if you never see me, I'm gonna take care of you guys."

He shrugged again. "And that's all."

Rose looked down at the ground around her feet. Small weeds and speckled grass sprouted up, little flowers. The air smelled fresh. She had to admit, it was like the world had finally gone serene. She looked up again, fixed his eyes again with her own dark ones, and nodded. "All right, Hurley. I don't have an answer for you right now, but all right." She unfolded her arms, considered a moment, and then stepped towards him, putting a hand out. "Jack's dead, honey. Did you know?"

Hurley's lip trembled and he nodded. He tilted his head slightly, looking at her with wet eyes that threatened to spill over. "How'd you know?"

"We found him. Bernie and I. Vincent led us to him." She took another step and put her hand on his arm. "We buried him right where we found him, in this pretty little stand of bamboo." That was it for Hurley. Rose found herself hugging him, trying to give what comfort she could to the gentle, sobbing giant. Between sobs he thanked her, over and over, for taking care of their friend.

. . .

Benjamin Linus left his suit jacket draped over the bench, his shirt sleeves already buttoned to the elbows and a tiny bit of sweat tickling down the back of his neck. Hugo Boss was not meant for island wear, but he hadn't bothered to change yet.

The sounds of construction reached him, and he narrowed his eyes against the fiery setting sun to see a handful of the remaining islanders patching and cleaning the Dharma homes. The skeletons of new construction stood as well, smaller houses being prepared for more off the grid utility. Hurley had moved fast while he was away. Ben noted one of them had a side room, decided it was probably the outline of the study he had asked for. He didn't want his old house back. There was some kind things to starting fresh.

Behind him, the ground was still marred by holes left by pulled stakes and fences. He refused to turn and see the wide patch of fresh tilled earth. Beneath its surface lay the seeds of anthuriums taken from the Orchid station, waiting to sprout. Further beneath, he preferred not to think of, though he did anyway, always, and lied to himself about it. He also ignored the knot in his throat, clearing it away as Hurley stepped into view from jungle's edge. He forced a smile, then managed to make it genuine. "Hello, Hugo."

"Hey, dude." His voice was subdued. "Rose is doing great. I just got around to visiting her."

"I see. That's very good, Hugo." Ben tilted his head, tactfully skipping the fact that Hurley had been visibly afraid to visit her since before Ben left on his business. "I have good news."

Hurley managed a smile of his own. "My ma?"

"She's fine. And your father. They are much better now that they know you're fine. I'm informed she nearly ate my lawyer, and I don't think he wants to hear from me for a while." The return of the little lip quirk. "Everything is legally arranged. You are now the primary stockholder and CEO of Mittelos. There's been some trouble avoiding the press on the topic, but as I say, it's a small firm. They'll grow more bored after each employee informs them they know nothing. And they don't."

"Great, dude." Hurley moved to sit on the bench as Ben tugged his jacket further to the side. "So, uh, what else is going on in the world? How's it look?"

"Dire, as usual." Ben arched an eyebrow, then sat next to Hurley. The jacket bunched behind him. "What would you enjoy? The beginner's guide to disaster in the Middle East? How much the two Koreas still hate each other? Internal strife in the Americas? The presidential election is next year, that'll be marvelous. The bile on the newscasts could already fill buckets. This Chicago fellow looks good, though. Might be a nice bit of history coming."

"I think I get the idea." Hurley looked down. "You're the smart one. You know how to look at stuff and be all tactical about it. Serious."

"A good word is pragmatic." Ben kept his tone gentle, avoiding condescension.

"See? I don't even know how to spell that, dude."

"You're not stupid, Hugo. An example and indictment of public schooling perhaps, but we're not discussing that." He waited while Hurley processed what he said. "I know what you're thinking. Light and darkness on the island, and yet beyond, the warfare capability of nearly any given country and mankind's ability for cruelty makes this feel pale and thin. Like protecting a precious little porcelain doll while the world is on fire."

Hurley sniffled. "I don't think I'd say it like that, but pretty much, yeah."

"It's still worth it to do so, Hugo. I believe that."

The other man nodded slowly. "Good. Because yeah, that's what we gotta do. But more than that, we gotta show people why it's worth it."

Ben remained quiet, a glimmer of doubt spreading on his face.

"We can bring miracles back, dude. The more hope that's out there-" he waved a hand in the general direction of a near shore. "Maybe the more a little place like this can be. Maybe even brighter. It doesn't have to be the same thing forever."

"Doesn't have to remain status quo."

"...Yeah. We can do more. We can learn about this place and teach with it."

Ben nodded slowly. A thoughtful expression moved in, drew blue eyes into lidded deepness. "I may know someone you'd like to meet. If you're willing to risk a short leave."

"Where'd we be going?"

Thin lips quirked into a light smile. "Africa."