Idk what exactly I'm going to do with this, but a LOST/PP crossover has been on my mind for quite awhile. I might follow the show, I might go my own way, I might abandon it. Who knows. Stick around to find out.

Left Behind

Aubrey Posen hates dogs.

They're dirty. They smell. They bark. Honestly, there's a whole list of reasons that she could write out if she ever had the time between work and, well, work – with the final reason being that they drool.

That being said: Aubrey Posen does not own a dog – and her family in California, where she is supposed to be, most certainly does not either.

But it's a dog that wakes her up with its long, wet tongue sliding across the full length of her face. She cracks open her eyes to see it staring down at her, the bright blue sky and several beachy palm trees creating a blurry backdrop behind its head – and during that brief moment, hanging onto consciousness by a single, fraying thread, before the dog runs away and she drifts back off, it begins to sink in that she never made it to California.

Something happened.

More than that.

Her head lolls to the side as the unfamiliar patches of foliage and vacant space become nothing again. Something is very, very awry. That much is apparent. She doesn't know where she is or why, despite having just been right next to somebody - Beca, that was her name -, she's there alone.

xxxxx

Earlier That Morning:

"What do you mean you won't put it on the plane?" Aubrey stood first in line at the Customs desk, staring furious and confused at the woman behind the counter, "I called here twelve hours ago, and I was told by you-"

"It was not by me, Ma'am."

"By someone from this specific airline," Aubrey corrected herself, "That I could take my father to LA."

"I'm sorry, Miss Posen, but our policies state that the body must have the proper documentation. There is just no latitude."

"No latitude? That's the really great travel pun."

"Ma'am, I wasn't-"

Aubrey interrupted with a scoff and glanced over her shoulder at the line of impatient people lengthening behind her.

"Look, without the proper documents-"

"What documents?" Aubrey asked, her own patience growing thinner than ever, "No one said anything about 'proper documents' other than what I just handed you. You look – my flight is about to leave and I need to be on it with my father on it as well."

"Perhaps another carrier-"

"I'm not booking another fuckin' flight!" Aubrey slammed her hand down on the counter – causing people around her to jump and quiet down. She took a moment to catch her breath before slapping on an ever-so-pleasant smile and carrying on with her perfectly polished sweet southern tone. "I need you to listen to me. I'm asking you a favor. My mother is currently in LA tellin' all of our family and her friends, and is probably about to try to somehow convince the very army itself, god-knows what about how her husband died from natural causes on US soil. So I need his body to be in LA as soon as possible so she stops calling me every thirty minutes to tell me how difficult I am making this for her, okay? I need this to be her problem." Her vision began to blur and she took a long, deep breath to quell the anxiety that was beginning to sit heavy in her stomach. "And I need us to be on this specific flight. I called twelve hours ago and I was told that my father's body would clear Customs with the papers I just handed you and I could take him home. You guys talked to the morgue. Please."

The woman looked down at her computer in silence before typing something on her keyboard. "I trust you won't tell anybody about this."

Aubrey shook her head without hesitation.

She ripped the boarding pass from the machine as it printed and slid it across the counter. "Enjoy your flight. Next."

xxxxx

Oceanic Flight 815, 8:00 AM flight to Los Angeles, now boarding Business Class.

"Fuck," Aubrey whispered, trying to pull on her shoes. TSA had taken even longer than trying to convince an airline carrier to fly a dead body to another country, not that that could be considered shocking. She had even arrived at the airport early. She was always early – everywhere. Between getting stuck at Customs and there only being one line filing people through security, she's just lucky she wasn't any later. Screw the people who mocked her timeliness. They were the kind of people who completely missed their flights, and they deserved that. Aubrey, on the other hand, did not.

Oceanic Flight 815, 8:00 AM flight to Los Angeles, last call for Business Class.

The intercom was just rubbing it in now. No one loaded a plane that fast. She leapt to her feet and snatched up her carry-on. Just get to LA, Aubrey. Go to the funeral. Then you can go back to New York and get on with your life. This was all almost over. She spun around straight into some person standing next to the bench, trying to stuff a laptop back into her bag. "Watch where you're goin'," she snapped and marched around her.

"Dude! You watch where you're going!"

Whatever. Aubrey glided around the rest of the crowd with ease, because if there was one thing New York City taught her, it was how to get to where she was going – and how to get there fast when there was a shitload of tourists blocking her way.

Ocean Flight 815, 8:00 AM flight to Los Angeles, now boarding -

Like hell another class was boarding right now. Aubrey cut to the front of the line just as someone else was about to hand over his boarding pass and placed her own in the attendant's hand. "Business class," was all she said.

"You're just going to let her cut to the front of the line?" the man behind her asked as the attendant scanned her pass, "I did the early bird check-in on my phone. This is – this is outrageous. I want a manager. I demand to see the manager."

"You'll have to wait out here for her," the attendant told him.

"Well, never mind then. But I'm leaving you a review on Yelp and it's not gonna be a good one."

Aubrey took her pass back and let out a breath the moment she stepped foot onto the jetway. She was on the plane now. Her father's body was being loaded on with the luggage, soon to be her mother's problem. Everything was going to be just fine. She stuffed her bag into the overhead bin above an empty row and sat down next to the aisle. "The seat's occupied," she told every late to arrive person who tried to sit next to the window.

This is a full flight, the lady on the intercom announced minutes later, Every seat will be taken. Please be courteous and remember that personal items do not go into the overhead bins; there is room under the seat in front of you. I repeat: This is a full fight. Every seat will be taken.

"You've gotta be kidding," a voice muttered the exact words Aubrey was thinking.

She looked up at the small brunette woman standing beside the aisle. She was looking at Aubrey like she'd rather sit on the wing of the plane than beside her. The feeling was mutual, but Aubrey would rather sit on the wing of the plane than beside anyone right now. "What?"

"You don't remember me?" the woman asked as she made her way between Aubrey's legs and the seat in front of her.

"Should I?" Aubrey asked.

"You just shoved me in the bag check area. You almost broke my laptop."

Oh. Aubrey looked out into the aisle. "You were in the way," she said, justifying her choice of action, "I barely nudged you." Plus, it had been an accident.

"Wow." She took off the headphones from around her neck and placed them on her lap then leaned forward over them to dig her laptop out of its case – which, Aubrey mentally noted, would have been a simpler task had she leaned forward to get her laptop and then took off the headphones. She shot Aubrey a quick look, and Aubrey knew she wasn't the being fair. She could accept that these days – knowing she wasn't being fair. This woman had essentially done nothing except stand where she was trying to walk.

"I'm sorry," Aubrey blurted out just as she was about to put her headphones on, causing her to lower them back down, "I'm just…havin' a really bad day." It was more of a bad week, but that was besides the point. And now that she had apologized, they could proceed to ignore each other the rest of the flight. Great.

"Me too." Or it would have been great if this woman had responded by just putting on her headphones and ignoring Aubrey too. "I was trying to check my equipment, but there was some kind of crazy hold up at the Customs desk. I was stuck there forever."

"Oh," Aubrey all but sputtered, "Yeah, I got stuck there too. It's why I was in such a hurry. I can't imagine what was takin' so long."

She laughed. "I saw you arguing with the lady behind the desk. I'm Beca, by the way."

Of course she has seen that. Half the airport probably had. Aubrey's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink. "Aubrey Posen."

Beca smiled and lifted her headphones up over her head. "I'd say nice too meet you, Aubrey Posen, but you seem intent on ruining my day so far." The way she was looking at her seemed far less than frustrated about it. In fact, the tension had seemed to dissipate almost immediately the moment they started talking.

"Well, then maybe you should just stop followin' me around," Aubrey stated matter-of-factly. She glanced Beca's direction once more, cheeks still feeling warm, her stomach fluttering with pleasant surprise when she saw Beca was still looking at her with an amused smile. She was pretty. Stop it. She is a random seatmate on an airplane that you're not even going to talk to for the whole flight once this conversation is over. Don't look at her anymore. Easier said than done.

Beca opened her laptop, but whatever she was working on didn't stop her from looking at Aubrey again just a fraction of a second later. "No promises."

xxxxx

It almost worked - the whole not looking at Beca thing. In fact, they spent a long time in silence while Beca seemingly worked on her laptop and Aubrey occupied herself with whatever various activities she could find that would keep her from looking in that direction. But it didn't last. Eventually, Beca closed her laptop and pulled her headphones off, dropping them on top with a heavy sigh before putting everything into her bag. "This might be the longest flight of my life," she broke the silence, "So, Aubrey Posen…"

Aubrey lowered her pencil, welcoming the distraction from many hours of solving crossword puzzles – and trying to figure out how to strike up another conversation while pretending to solve said crossword puzzles. "You can just call me Aubrey."

"You're not from Australia," Beca pointed out, "And I can tell you're not from Los Angeles either. Where are you from, Aubrey?"

"I live in New York," Aubrey answered.

Beca lolled her head against the seat in Aubrey's direction. "New York is in the south now?"

Oh. The accent. "Yeah. There was, like, some kind of tectonic shift that happened a few years ago."

"I was just in New York six months ago, and I clearly remember it being in the North." Beca lifted her head and it felt a lot like she was searching for a real answer somewhere on Aubrey's face.

"I bounced around a lot growin' up," Aubrey admitted, "My father was in the army. Is. He is in the army. But we spent a lot of time in Tennessee. You?"

"Oregon – which is basically one of those states you forget even exists until someone mentions Portland. Fortunately, I grew up in Portland."

"Do you still live there?" Aubrey asked.

"No. I bounce between Los Angeles and Manhattan."

"Oh, I live in Queens; we're practically neighbors." Too eager, Aubrey. You sound like you have no friends – which is kind of true, but still. "You must have a lot of money to live in both LA and Manhattan." And that was a stupid thing to say – and that's why you don't have friends, among other reasons. She looked back out into the aisle, tugging awkwardly at her shirtsleeve.

"Do you want to get coffee or something?" Beca asked, "When we get to LA or next time I'm in New York?" She cringed seconds later. "Wow, I'm sorry, that was-" Far more eager than what Aubrey had just said. "We literally just met."

"I'd like that." Maybe staying until the funeral was over wouldn't be completely terrible. They could get coffee and that would be thirty minutes she wouldn't have to be berated by her mother.

"I don't usually ask random strangers out for coffee, at least not so forwardly," Beca said like it was a bad thing, "The thought literally just fell out of my mouth."

"I don't usually say yes," Aubrey responded, hoping the offer still stood, "But I guess I owe you seein' as I ruined your whole entire day."

"You did, but who says I want your pity coffee…? Here I was thinking this was you think I'm hot and we might never see each other again so we should probably go back to my place afterward coffee."

She was joking. Aubrey knew she was joking. She had to be joking. This was a joke about her being so forward asking about coffee. Aubrey could joke too. "Pity coffee, pity sex, they can go hand in hand."

"You're kind of an asshole, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"So, do random strangers ask you out for coffee a lot that you have to turn them all down?"

"They're either askin' me out or hatin' that there's women out there more successful than them," Aubrey answered, "Occasionally both. Those are the real winners – the ones who follow you to your car at night after work both hating you, yet being unable to accept that no you won't go out with them for an answer." None of this was coming out right. "I'm sorry; that sounded really pompous. There's just a lot of men who clearly aren't getting laid by anyone at my job."

"I get it," Beca said, "I work with a lot of douchebags too. You never know who's actually interested in you or who just wants a piece of your wallet. Dude, the worst are the ones who show up at your front door or figure out your phone number."

"Okay, nobody has ever been brave enough to go that far. They usually turn around when I threaten their life."

"Maybe I should hire you as a bouncer," Beca said.

Aubrey laughed. "That's a bit of a downgrade. I think I'll pass."

"Okay, okay, but if you change your mind, just remember I make enough money to live in both Manhattan and LA – and I'm not opposed to paying under the table."

"Noted. I'll keep that in mind."

"So what do you do?" Beca asked, "Do you work for like the FBI or NYPD or something that lets you go around threatening the lives of men?"

"Mm mm." God no. "I work for an engineering company that designs telescopes and various other 'space things' for NASA – and occasionally for the military. It's a very male dominated profession and not all of them are as impressive as their career."

"Seriously? NASA?"

"Mhm. I helped design a vehicle going to Mars soon."

"Pretty and smart. What's next? Financially and mentally stable?"

"For the most part," Aubrey answered – as long as an occasional concerning amount of Xanax to maintain that stability counted.

"Have you ever seen an alien?" Beca asked.

An alien? Well that took a turn. Aubrey furrowed her brows. "At least you have pretty and financially stable going for you. 50% isn't great, but it's better than some of the population."

"You design 'space things' for the military, but you don't believe in aliens? What about Area 51?"

"I'm not sayin' that there isn't a possibility of extraterrestrial life; I'm just sayin' it's probably not green with tentacles flyin' around earth in a spaceship like people imagine. More than likely, it's just micro bacteria."

"Well, have you ever seen that? If this is Top Secret, I will not tell anyone. Seriously. Not a soul. My lips are sealed."

"What do you do, Beca?"

"The fact that you're avoiding the question makes me think you have seen alien bacteria."

"Sorry to burst your bubbles; I've never seen alien micro bacteria."

"You actually strike me as the kind of person who likes bursting other people's bubbles," Beca replied, "So, I think I'm justified in not believing you."

That was hard to completely deny. "It depends on the bubble."

Their conversation was interrupted by a male flight attendant pushing a cart down the aisle. "Can I get either of you anything to drink?"

"Uh, yeah," Beca answered, "I'll take a gin and tonic."

"A Moscow Mule, please," Aubrey added.

"Are you a nervous flier?" Beca asked after the flight attendant walked off.

"I was hopin' my drink choice wouldn't make it obvious," Aubrey replied – though her nerves had less to do with the flight itself and more to do with arriving at her destination.

"Well, you seem to be doing fine so far."

Aubrey could credit the Xanax she took immediately upon exiting her cab – also, the conversation wasn't exactly unpleasant. She was barely thinking about her father in the luggage cabin beneath them. She should have been thinking about him. But she wasn't. She could do that later in privacy. Instead, all of the gears in her head were busy turning like mad trying to figure out if they were flirting. Was this flirting? Or just…normal friendly airline banter? "Thank you," she said when the flight attendant came back with their drinks.

Beca took a sip of hers then placed it on her tray table. "Thanks."

"How is it?" he asked.

"It's great," Beca answered though her tone was lukewarm about it.

"That's not a very strong reaction."

"It's not a very strong drink. But, no, it's good."

"We water them down a bit. I don't have any mini gin bottles on me, but…" He looked up and down the aisle then pulled two miniature bottles of something else from the bottom of his cart once the coast was clear. "My kid loves you."

"...Of course." Beca put on a tight smile and dug a pen from her bag. She used it to sign her napkin then passed it in his direction. In return, he passed her two bottles of vodka – leaving Aubrey to curiously observe the exchange. She watched him leave then passed one of the bottles to Aubrey.

Aubrey quickly slipped it into the inside pocket of her blazer. "What was-" The plane dipped. "Whoa." She quickly gripped the arm rest and the 'fasten seatbelts' sign came on.

"It's just turbulence," Beca pointed out, "Drink your drink, Nervous Flier, and maybe that vodka too."

Aubrey grabbed her cup and took a sip, trying to ignore how her stomach had almost risen up as the plane went down. Don't ruin this, Aubrey. "So, what was that? Are you famous or somethin'?"

Beca grinned at her drink. "Or something."

"What do you do?" Aubrey asked as she put her cup back down. She was even more intrigued by her now.

The plane bounced, sending their drinks along with others rolling to the floor.

"At least I still have vodka and now no napkin," Beca muttered over the announcement to stay in their seats. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Aubrey quickly mopped up the mess for both of them as best as she could with her napkin. She just needed a second to breathe – in the bathroom, with some Dramamine and possibly one more Xanax. "Excuse me for a moment." She unbuckled her seatbelt in spite of the sign and stood up, only to be knocked back onto her seat by the same flight attendant who brought their drinks in a rush to get past her. It's just turbulence, and motion sickness can be controlled by mind over matter. She turned back around and fumbled to relatch her seatbelt.

"These things usually only last a few minutes," Beca assured her, "I fly all the time and I've never-"

It felt like being struck by lightning even though the sky was clear. The drink cart slammed into the ceiling, luggage rained down from the overhead bins along with yellow oxygen masks falling from above, and Aubrey gripped the two ends of the seatbelt as they were to avoid flying right out of her seat.

Beca reached over and grabbed her by the arm – be it out of trying to save her or her own fear.

The plane's alarm blaring in her ears overwhelmed her senses and stole from her focus; she barely had a chance to fully comprehend that this definitely wasn't just turbulence before it all went black. They were falling right out of the sky.