In 2008, a year after James managed to get off that godforsaken rock, he receives a visit from a young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair. She hands him a locket and a letter, then demands answers to questions that he didn't even know existed. Post season 6 (Suliet) - This story is also partly set during the DHARMA days.
"I'm pretty sure it's the engine. It's been giving me trouble for the past week and a half. There's this odd ticking sound," Phil jerked his index-finger back and forth, "that just won't let up."
"Uhu."
"I'm pretty sure I saw some smoke in my rear-view the other day as well."
"Uhu."
"And the backlight is busted."
"Uhu."
"Look, I would have brought it in sooner, but you know how LaFleur gets."
Danny snorted.
"I do, do I?"
"He's been up my ass all week about clocking in late. I told him, 'listen, I can't help it, sleep paralysis is a real thing, you know?' But he's just not been in a very sympathetic mood, lately."
"Uhu."
Danny stepped around back and unlocked the latch on the blue VW T2. He groaned, scratched the back of his head, reaching for a non-existing itch that was easier to define than the inside of this particular engine. That was a lie. He understood perfectly well. Trouble was, he didn't care to understand. Good American vans were easy to come by nowadays. In fact, just the other day he heard Mitchell talk about the latest Chevrolets, how they're taking the market by storm, and yet folks here imported German vans. German. Vans. It was irritating, not up to par, and he should have objected to this detail when they first assigned it to him. After all, his skill lay in engineering, not fixing Nazi cars.
He closed the latch and sighed; Phil was still babbling away in his left ear, something about sleep apnoea and narcolepsy. Where did the Initiative find this guy, anyway?
"I'll have Juliet take a look at it."
"Juliet?"
Phil's thick brows shot up, not quite disappearing beneath his thinning hairline.
"She's s'posed to start her shift at one."
"Juliet Carlson?"
"Uhu."
"You hiring women these days?"
Danny shrugged.
"Many of them emancipated ones want to grease up, try out some real jobs; I ain't complaining, the view's been much improved since she started tinkering away," he winked and motioned for Phil to step closer. "Nimble fingers, that one's got," Phil's eyes widened and Danny playfully punched him in the arm.
"You and her?"
"Ha! I wish. Pretty sure she's got a thing for your boss."
"LaFleur?!" Phil frowned. "How'd you figure that?"
"He comes 'round here lookin' for them blonde locks more often than Linus beats up his kid in a drunken frenzy."
"Danny!" Phil exclaimed, then dropped his voice to a low whisper. "We don't talk about that."
"We ain't talkin' 'bout lotsa things that's goin' on 'round here. Don't mean it don't happen, Phil."
"It's none of our business."
"Yeah? You gone say that to his kid if ever he come knockin' on ya door for help? 'Ain't none of my business, kid. Scram?' Or what about them recruits we buried last week? I ain't seen a single letter went out to them families. We also just gone pretend that ain't our business?"
The truth of the matter was, Danny wasn't wrong, he knew he wasn't; too many things were happening on the island that consistently and conveniently escaped members' attention. Just the other day, after he'd caught Linus beating the shit out of his sad puppy of a kid again, it occurred to him that he just couldn't be the only one who'd ever been witness to such a plain show of domestic abuse. How could he be? What a farce! The D.I. endlessly prattled on about life and death, war and peace, love and hate; they talked about everything that went above and beyond mere mortal comprehension; yet, when it really came down to it – whenever, Roger would turn up drunk for his shift again, or Ben showed up to class with a black eye and busted glasses – well, if anyone'd ask him, he'd say the DHARMA folk just didn't want to see. 'Them things that truly need fixin', them things that matter in the here and now; them such things don't matter to the DHARMA fuckin' Initiative.'
"It ain't! - I mean, it isn't!" Phil nervously pulled at his sleeves.
"Uhu," Danny sniffed. "Guess it ain't, then."
"Hi boys!"
Phil jumped, unprepared for the sudden intrusion. Danny jerked around, a genuine 100-watt smile gracing his face. At least the island provided him with some distractions; them nice blue eyes surely gave him palpitations from time to time.
"Well, well, if it ain't Jules. You early, doll. Your shift don't start 'til one."
"Hi Phil."
"Juliet," Phil gave her a curt nod, his eyes darting off to the side.
"I left early yesterday, figured I'd make up for the time today."
"Well, you're in luck. Phil here says his van needs some lovin'; told him you're just the gal he's lookin' for."
She grinned and crossed her arms in front of her chest.
"Suppose she's not your type, eh?"
"Nah, you know how I like 'em, big and busty. None of that angular, wide eyed crap" he winked.
Juliet shook her head, unable to hide the amusement that tugged at the corners of her lips.
She should be more outraged by such sexual innuendos, but this was Danny, and Danny was about as threatening as a baby hippopotamus. Ever since she'd signed up for the motor pool detail she'd expected backlash, ridicule, jokes about her inability to hold a screwdriver the right way up. But instead of huffing and puffing about her true place being in the kitchen, Danny had surprised her. His open-mindedness about her abilities made her feel welcome, and as a result she embraced his testing and teasing with a smile rather than a grimace. Also, she was capable of making some pretty sharp remarks of her own keeping Danny on his toes plenty.
"What seems to be the problem?"
She stepped closer to the van, and turned her attention back to Phil. He gave her an odd look and a quick once over before spewing forth an incomprehensible string off words.
"I – uh," a twitch tugged at his eye.
"I – eh," he scraped his throat.
"The engine is ticking and – uh– I."
He pulled at his collar.
"Uh, backlight –."
Danny sniggered, and put an arm around Phil's shoulder.
"The engine is givin' 'im some hiccups, and you're gonna wanna replace the backlight," he said.
"Right," Phil nodded. "That."
"Okay, no problem. I'll see what I can do," she moved towards the work station and slipped her gloves on. "Check back in at the end of the afternoon."
Phil gave her another curt nod.
"Anything else?"
"No," he said, his eyes sliding up and down her jumpsuit once more, then he turned to Danny, pursed his lips and said:
"See you later, Dan."
"later, Phil."
Juliet tilted her head to the side as she watched Phil stalk off in the direction of the barracks.
"What's with Phil?"
"What ain't with Phil?" he snorted.
She laughed.
" 'S got his panties all tied up in a knot when he heard his boss and you are sweet on each other."
She froze; the look in Danny's eyes imparting far more than she was willing to acknowledge. How in the hell did that rumor spread about?
"Where'd you hear that?" she asked, leaping back into movement. She opened the van's front latch, and propped the hood up.
"You ain't foolin' anyone, doll. He's up here more often than he's out 'n 'bout checkin' perimeters. Always somethin' "broke" on his VW. Uhu," he winked.
"It's not like that, Danny. You know that."
"I'm just tellin' 'em how I see 'em, doll. And I sure seen lotsa ogling happenin' 'round these parts lately."
"I'm telling you, you're seeing it wrong."
"I am, am I?"
He tapped his nose, then shrugged and slammed his hand against the side of the van.
"Don't forget to freshen the oil, doll," He turned away. "I'll be in my office. Say hi to LaFleur when he stops by."
He walked away.
"Shit," she whispered under her breath.
He wasn't wrong, James had been stopping by a lot, lately. In fact, his van would randomly break down at least twice a week, and whenever he wasn't able to make it to the motor pool he'd find some way to lure her out into the jungle. Not Mitchell, not Tom, not Danny; he always requested her. Stolen moments between noon and night time, where the undergrowth, vines and muddy soil created noisy friction and impossibly to wash out stains. To think that they were getting away with it, she snorted. So much for keeping the "un" out of the "complicated".
"Shit, shit, shit," she pulled off her gloves, and threw them back onto the work station.
"What ya cursin' at the world for, Blondie?"
And there he was, just like Danny said he would be; a dimpled smirk plastered onto the side of his face. She felt a flutter pull at her insides as he leaned against Phil's van and crossed his arms in front of his chest. There was a slight spark in his eyes today, burning holes into carefully constructed resolutions; just by looking at him she was already breaking promises that she'd only just made.
Fuck.
"What are you doing here?" she snapped.
"Thought you might wa–… you in some kind of trouble, or somethin'?"
She huffed.
"Danny thinks he's got us all figured out," she motioned between them.
"Oh…"
"Yeah, oh."
She shook her head and turned away from the station, but before she could brush by him he caught her arm in mid-stride. Another wave of flutters raced through her body, tripling her heartbeat; a thousand tiny wings flapping in the darkness, tying her to the present. This was crazy. What they'd been doing was crazy. There was a time, not too long ago, that these exact same eyes had looked at her with disgust. When he'd banded together with Sayid, had watched her from the corners of narrowed eyes. Nothing would have pleased him more than to have put a bullet through her head when she'd walked away with Claire's medicine, having revealed more about his life than she should have been able to know. But now? His hand pulled her back searing dark marks of desire into her skin. Now, he wanted her.
"It don't have to matter," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"We don't have to keep hidin'. Maybe, we should just try the whole out-in-the-open thing."
"The out-in-the-open thing?" she rolled her eyes.
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't actually. What do you mean, James?"
He smirked, his eyes sparkling with unleashed mischief; a second later he'd turned her to him and pushed her back against the side of the van, knocking the wind clean out of her.
She gasped, within seconds he had two, three, four buttons undone on her jumpsuit.
"You startin' to comprehend, doctor Burke?" he whispered into her ear as one of his hands disappeared down her jumpsuit. A shiver ran across her spine, and his lips curved against her throat; his slight kisses travelling upward, only momentarily halting to nip at her skin here, then there. This wasn't exactly the answer she'd been looking for, but as his lips found hers, his intentions read loud and clear. She responded without protest, not even wanting to resist, caught up in the lure of their game, she almost didn't hear…
"Ehum, ehum."
Her eyes flew open; the unmistakable cough of an accidental voyeur.
"James," she pushed at his shoulders, his grip tightened.
"James," she repeated.
He let out a low grunt but pulled back.
She coaxed her head in the direction of the sound; James half-turned, then a sly smile spread across his face and she mentally rolled her eyes. Of course, he would be excited about getting caught red-handed, he practically lived for the thrill of forbidden moments like these; out in the open, yet, far enough away from prying eyes.
"Goodmornin' Doctor Long," he said, his hands leisurely sliding out of her jumpsuit.
"Mr. LaFleur. Miss Carlson."
Juliet's cheeks flushed a brighter shade of red, but Long hardly seemed to notice. If anything, he looked rather blasé about the matter, as though he'd just taken a sip of a particularly bitter cup of coffee and had decided that nothing could possibly ruin his day more.
"What brings ya to this neck of the woods?"
"I was hoping to have a word with miss Carlson, here" Long said, studying the undone buttons on her jumpsuit with a raised eyebrow.
James inclined his head.
"Don't let me stop ya."
"In private," he added.
Juliet looked up in surprise; what could possibly be so important that it demanded her immediate attention? He could hardly be here about a van. Long did everything on foot; good for the lungs, he said. Suppose he didn't consider chain smoking his way through DHARMA meetings a tad more hazardous to his health than a sedentary lifestyle. Not for the first time since they'd arrived she'd marvelled at the general attitude of the 70s; 'the era of the wilfully ignorant and the blissfully blind', Miles had said at some point. He might be onto something there.
"You OK?" James asked, pulling her attention back to the present.
"Yeah," she nodded, finishing buttoning up her jumpsuit. "I'll finish up here; I'll see you tonight."
"OK, then," he shrugged, the subtle shift in his demeanour conveying that he was anything but OK with the abrupt brush off, but he would let it go for now.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Don't forget to bring the tacos."
"As long as you bring the game."
He laughed and winked.
"Count on it, Blondie."
With a knot in her stomach she watched him go. He'd soon realize that the stars in his eyes weren't truly meant for her. He longed for green emeralds, and lush brown curls. She knew; her name had slipped from his lips in his sleep on more than one occasion. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But neither time travel nor distance could make him want her. He had to come to that conclusion on his own. He might never, and that was OK too. It wasn't supposed to mean anything anyway.
She shook the thoughts from her head.
"What can I do for you, Doctor?"
"I'd rather we talk some place private. I do not usually discuss topics of a delicate nature out in the open like this."
"Delicate?"
Didn't he just clear her last week?
"Should I be worried?"
The way he stood there, chin up in full on doctor mode; it gave her pause. It was familiar. Too familiar. She used to approach women in the clinic in a similar manner. When their hopes of seeing two pink lines would be dashed by that disappointing singular one. 'I'm sorry; maybe, next time,' she'd say.
But Long wasn't a fertility doctor, and he certainty wouldn't be alluding to a next time of any sort, not after all he'd just been privy to.
"Let's go to my office, shall we?" his expression remained void of emotion and it did nothing to reassure her. She could almost hear James whisper in her ear: 'He'd make for a great Other. Stoic. Empty eyes. Soulless. Kinda like you in the beinning.'
She followed him across the square to the infirmary; inside Alice and Debra were seated behind long white desks. Fragments of excited conversation fluttered about the room, the air filled with an ease that she'd never quite associated with the infirmary before. She greeted them, and they responded in kind.
"Juliet," Long began, after he'd closed his office door behind her.
"Please, sit."
She almost laughed out loud; the irony of the situation crept through thick layers of unwritten pieces of paper and sticky post-it notes on yellow bare walls, this used to be her office. Or rather, it would be, 26 years from now. In her time, it looked more desolate, discolored paint peeling off the ceiling and walls, pieces of brown tape desperately trying to hold onto corners of hastily torn off leaflets. Here, right now, it looked freshly painted; no marks of wear or the inevitable sense of dread that would soon inhibit the place; it even smelled better.
"We found something in your blood that I think we should discuss."
"Oh?"
"How have you been feeling, lately?"
She shrugged.
"Just some headaches, but nothing so bad it'd be worth mentioning. Why?"
"You and LaFleur have you been seeing each other long?"
She narrowed her eyes at him; that was an odd question. What did that have to do with anything? And besides –
"I don't see how that's any of your business."
"Well, it becomes our business when you decide to procreate."
"Excuse me?"
"Procreate, it means –"
"I know what it means; I haven't a clue what you're talking about."
"The DHARMA Initiative has rules about pregnancies, Juliet. You have to submit the proper documents, and apply for absence of leave so that you can be thoroughly examined on the mainland before try outs start," he paused. "Unless you've decided to leave the island, of course. Obvously, you'd be free to do whatever you want, then."
"Try outs? What are you–?"
"There's no need to deny it; according to the data you provided last year you're not in the habit of regulating your menses, you've not been prescribed any type of birth control, and the Initiative has been denied requests to import male contraceptives. That only leaves us with one possible scenario. You planned for this to happen," he hesitated. "I'm a little surprised, though. Did you really think you could hide it from us? Surely, you must have known there'd come a time we'd find out."
She stared, her eyes all but rolling out of her skull.
"You're saying, I'm…?"
She shook her head. No, no, no.
"You're wrong,"
Something must have gone wrong with her blood test; a mix up, maybe. A false positive, surely. She grabbed the file from his desk and started flipping through it. The RFLP and SNP aligned perfectly with what she remembered from her med-school results. Her brows knit together. These were hers, but…
"It has to be a false positive."
"We're quite sure."
"I can't be pregnant."
"According to our–"
"You're not listening to me; I can't get pregnant."
Long frowned.
"You mean; you haven't been able to conceive until now?"
"No," was she really going to have to spell it out? Was he that dim?" I'm infertile."
It hurt to say; she'd never actually said it out loud before.
Long appeared confounded.
"You're infertile?"
"Yes, I – I– "
How could she ever explain that the adult version of the boy who currently lived three barracks down the road from her had been the cause of her infertility? How could she begin to explain that in 26 years' time he was going to lure her to the island, and lay claim to her as though she was his slave to keep: 'After everything I've done to get you here! After everything I've done to keep you here! How could you possibly not understand…that you're mine?!'
Ben had forced her hand, and after all this time the memories of that day continued to fester like big open wounds, growing more and more repulsive each day.
"There's this drug called Chlorhydelone. It's a trial drug," she began. "I took it a little over a year ago."
"Why?"
Why?
She watched little Benjamin Linus sometimes, from the window inside her barrack; the sight of him always ignited confusion. She hated him, but she also pitied him; a dichotomy of indecision forevermore debating with unrelenting thoughts, wracking havoc with her original proclamations.
He'd glanced up once, as though he'd sensed her eyes on him, and they'd stared at each other; this broken boy with his busted Harry Potter glasses complete with duck tape, minus scar, and the object of his future obsession, staring. She'd hastily stepped away, and pulled the shutters down with a force that vibrated through the entire house.
"I was told that it was safe," she lied. "But eventually, I learned that the effects of the drug had done irreparable damage to my reproductive organs."
Long shook his head.
"What was the trial for? Why didn't you mention this during your first medical exam?"
"I didn't think it worth mentioning."
"You didn't think infertility would be worth mentioning?" Long pinched the bridge of his nose, and leaned forward on his desk. "Juliet, don't get me wrong, this truly is quite a remarkable story. But you have to understand that from where I'm sitting, I'm having some trouble piecing together certain facts; why would you be involved in this? How did you get involved? Were there more people who were being tested on like you?"
"Evan," she put her arms on the desk, mirroring him. "I can't talk about the experiments, or who performed them," she lied. "And I didn't mention it, because–" she looked away, the painful reminder of what had happened in the weeks following her actions bubbled to the surface. It surprised her how much of that faded pain still felt so fresh.
"Because I couldn't."
Long regarded her with calculated suspicion over the rim of his aviator glasses. Then he sighed and pushed himself up from his chair.
"You should have been more forthcoming, Juliet. We could have run our own tests. This island–" he stopped.
"This island, what?" she repeated, knowing full well where he'd intended to go with that line of thought.
"Forget it," he waved the thought away with his hand. "The truth of the matter is that the tests we conduct here are very accurate. If what you're saying is true, then there's only one way to confirm it."
Debra applied the thick blue gel to her belly, squirting it out over her skin with flowery adolescent strokes. She shivered, her bellybutton's repurposed design looking oddly disturbing in all of its crooked glory. Debra laughed.
"First time?"
Juliet nodded, not quite sure how else to respond. She'd been through the motions countless times before: apply the gel, clearly express what the patient can expect, apply the proper amount of pressure to the probe, move it in the longitudinal plane across the belly–
"Longitudinal."
"Sorry?"
"You're holding it wrong."
Debra frowned.
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are," she placed her fingers on top of the young nurse's hand. "Let me show you."
Debra started to protest, but Juliet was already moving the transducer down to her pubic bone. She applied a little more pressure, and slowly maneuvered the device upward.
"See?"
Almost instantly an image popped up on the monitor.
Debra turned her head, her frown deepened as she scratched her head with her other hand.
"How did you know?"
"Just simple logi–" She trailed; her eyes arrested by the image on the monitor, an unmistakable flutter catching her attention. It appeared at the bottom of the screen, a steady rhythm, corroborated by the rapid thumping that emanated from the monitor's speakers. A heartbeat.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
"Omph! Careful," Debra said.
It was small. So small. She'd almost missed it; the size of a raspberry, and because she knew where to look did she see the tiniest of hands shift ever so slightly into view, showing signs of life that could not possibly be thriving inside her body.
"Oh my–" she whispered.
Up until that moment she'd been so sure. There'd been no morning sickness; no sign or indication of any sort that her body was preparing itself for radical changes. For all intense and purposes the Chlorhydelone should have completely destroyed both of her fallopian tubes and uterus. She hadn't had her period in months, and yet here she was bearing witness to the impossible.
She moved closer to the screen; Debra shifted the probe into a different position to accommodate her better.
"It looks to be about–"
"63 days," Juliet whispered. "9 weeks."
"How–?"
"I just do," she swallowed hard; her breath catching in her throat.
"Well," Debra shrugged, and turned her attention back to the monitor. "It looks healthy. Strong."
"It does," she smiled, betrayed by the tremor in her hand as she reached for the screen. Still captivated by the image, the tightness in her chest continued to expand further and further, until soft drops of relief and sadness carved red roads of opportunity down her cheeks. "It really does."
There was so much that she wished she could say to the young nurse, yet there was so very little she could actually reveal. The DHARMA Initiative would never understand the true power of the island. How it healed the irreparable, cure the terminal, restore fertility. But also, how it could take all of that away in the blink of an eye. Over the years she'd learned how the island acted as some type of enabler, pulling strings on puppets through time and space per Jacob's request. And now, she appeared to be in the eye of its hurricane.
She abruptly pulled her shirt down; the image on the screen cut off.
A/N: I am sooo excited to be sharing parts of this story with you guys already! If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to drop a line. It's going to be quite a ride. I don't even know how long this story is going to be, but it took me about a month to work out all of the details. I know how it ends! Just don't know how long it will take for me to get there! It will definitely be a Suliet story, but MANY of the other characters will also appear in this story, along with some original characters, like Danny! For every subsequent chapter and section I'll insert a place and time, because if I don't do that it will turn into a mess very quickly. So, I recommend that before you start reading each section you take note of where all of the characters in the story are and at what time!
Other than that, I hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter! And if you got this far, thank you so much for reading!
In 2008, a year after James managed to get off that godforsaken rock, he receives a visit from a young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair. She hands him a locket and a letter, then demands answers to questions that he didn't even know existed. Post season 6 (Suliet) - This story is also partly set during the DHARMA days.
The sound of a woodpecker hammering its beak against the side of a tree carried through the open window, intruding upon a stale conversation, that for the past half hour had been dominated by unimaginative splashes of silent exasperation. Dr. Stanhope asked a question, Theresa would answer, Stanhope would ask a follow-up question, or another question, Theresa would answer, etc…
"And how have you been sleeping lately?"
They'd been going back and forth like this for months now, getting positively nowhere. And while Abigail insisted that this was good for her, that she would soon come to realize that Stanhope was trying to help her understand her condition better; Theresa knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn't going to find any of her answers here, at these weekly one hour therapy sessions on the couch of a clueless psychologist in Aylesbury.
"Theresa?"
"Sorry?" she blinked, and sat up straighter.
Stanhope narrowed her eyes, and crossed her legs; stretching the thin line around her mouth into a forced smile.
"How have you been sleeping lately?" she repeated.
"Better," Theresa shrugged and stared down at her nails; she really should stop biting them. "But I do sometimes still wake up in the middle of the night, unsure of where I am, or how I got there."
"Hmm."
"And I've been having dreams."
"Oh?" Stanhope looked up from her notebook, pen hovering in midair.
"They're silly, really," she smiled, and shrugged. "I try not to think of them too much."
Stanhope nodded, mirroring Theresa's smile; it looked even less genuine than the first one.
"I'm not sure if you're aware of this," her expression morphed into a pensive grimace. "But, research has shown that dreams help the unconscious mind to process that which we've not been able to properly address with our conscious mind. Maybe, yours are simply a manifestation of your subconscious, trying to make sense of a reality that you've only recently become a part of again."
"Maybe."
Theresa bit her lip, suppressing the urge to explain how Stanhope's interpretation of reality lay tied to personal experiences that resided in a linear sphere of her own existence; a stable constant in spacetime. In truth, it was all relative; a construct that Theresa had believed to be true until it collapsed in on itself some seven years ago. From then on she'd resided in a vast void as an onlooker, her body wasting away while her mind remained trapped in a narrative that promoted senseless discontinuity; she was three, and looking for her dolly; she was twenty, talking to her father; she was ten riding her new bike in the rain. While in between those realities her body remained tettered to a drifting soul in an undead state. Alive, but not living.
"Trees," she said.
"Trees?"
"My dreams," she began. "Palm trees, banana leaves, and sometimes images of cobwebs with black circles, but they're not really cobwebs. They look more like the ones that you see in comicbooks, or cartoons," she paused, her mind sifting through the pictures of her dreams. "A swan, an arrow, and a rabbit. I think. They appear in black and white flashes. And there are more, but it doesn't matter, because it always ends with him."
"Him?"
"Daniel."
Stanhope had been listening to her with increased interest; the explanation of the dream chained to a piercing expression; but now her pupils had dilated even further at the mention of Daniel.
"Daniel Faraday? The man who put you in a coma?"
"He didn't put me in a coma," Theresa snapped. "I put myself in a coma!"
"Theresa–"
"I wanted it; I asked him. I knew the risks involved; we'd tested the rats, and understood that the human mind could potentially respond differently," she inhaled sharply. "I did it to myself!"
Stanhope didn't move, merely looked at her, tainted compassion melting down the sides of her face.
"I'm sorry," she leaned forward, and put a hand on Theresa's knee. "I spoke too abruptly, I didn't mean to upset you."
Theresa pushed her hand away, unwilling to accept such a thoroughly educated apology; she already struggled enough with Stanhope's ambiguous nature as it was.
They'd been tiptoeing around the "event" since she started these sessions, and Stanhope's demeanor would invariably change whenever Theresa so much as mentioned Daniel's name; it unnerved her. Why was she so interested in him? What did she want?
On more than one occassion Theresa had laid the memories out in front of her like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit into the picture of her past anymore, and in those instances it became obvious that it had always been and would always be Daniel who laid at the core of her trauma.
Was that it? Did Stanhope get off on that? She'd located the source, and now she wanted what? To excavate the neural pathways between her memories and emotions; tear down all of Theresa's defences, until she could stand it no more?
She wasn't ready to admit that she hadn't given up on him, yet. Nor ready to confess that his disappearance had ignited an overnight obsession. Every single day since she'd woken up from her coma, she'd been looking for him, and every single night he would appear to her. Speaking without words in dreams that proved to be impossible to decipher without properly working ears. But she was sure, so sure, that it meant something.
"He's still out there somewhere."
"He has been missing for over four years. Wouldn't it be better if you laid Daniel's memory to rest, and just moved on from all of this?"
Theresa snorted and crossed her arms in front of her chest; she almost sounded like Abigail. Move on, go out, meet other people; as though it was that easy to forget.
"Have you ever lost someone?"
"Yes, of course." Stanhope replied.
"Well then what if you knew for sure that they weren't lost, but still out there somewhere? Wouldn't you do anything you could to find them, and bring them back?"
Stanhope sighed and reclined in her chair.
"Theresa, there's a difference between rational dreams and irrational fantasies," she began. "Every 90 seconds someone on this planet goes missing. In the United Kingdom alone over 170,000 people are currently unaccounted for. Daniel has been gone for over four years; he disappeared along with an entire science team, and then some. I don't like to make a sport out of contradicting my patients, but it's my duty to make you understand that holding onto Daniel's memory makes it impossible for you to move on. From one scientist to another, you must understand that when that freighter lost contact with civilization in the middle of the South Pacific it wasn't because of a defective radio."
"They never found anything."
"They didn't find the Titanic until 1985, that doesn't mean it didn't sink before then," Stanhope uncrossed her legs, and capped her pen. "I understand why you're holding onto this; it's your lifeline. I see it all the time. But just because they weren't able to find that freighter doesn't mean it's still out there somewhere. You woke up months ago, it's time for you to let go."
Theresa clenched her jaw, shooting daggers at the woman across from her. In what world could this harpy ever have obtained a Master's degree in psychology from Yale university?
"With all due respect, I really don't give a damn about what you think happened. I know he's still out there," she rose from the couch; her nostrils flaring with contained anger. "And he's on that island!"
Stanhope stared, her jaw unhinged.
"Island?"
Theresa was done. Whatever Stanhope had to say, she wasn't interested in counterarguments any longer. At the end of the day she, herself, was the only person who understood what had happened, and maybe, just maybe, if she ever found him, Daniel would understand too.
"I think we're done here," she reached for the doorknob with a type of determination she hadn't felt in years.
Harper watched her storm out, the door slamming shut with a loud definitive bang. The silence that ensued reinserted itself with deafening determination, but for the woodpecker that continued to hammer out its frustrations into the tree just outside her office window; what she wouldn't give to be that bird right now.
She reached for her cellphone, dialed the number; the line almost immediatley connected.
Theresa Spencer had been one of her most frustrating cases to date. A stubborn young woman struggling with the after effects of temporal displacement syndrome. As an acting psychologist she had had trouble holding back. The way she'd treated the young woman had gone against everything that she had ever been taught in college: 'Never bait the patient. Respect their boundaries. Guide them through difficult experiences, never force their hand. Present tools, not the toolbox.'
She'd done none of that.
And she'd lied.
All in the name of–
"Yes?" the line clicked.
Harper rose from her chair, and looked out the window. She could see the woodpecker now; a bright red feathered crown bobbed up and down on its little head.
"I figured you'd want to know that she's ready."
"So soon?"
"It wasn't difficult; she did most of the work herself," Harper paused. "She still loves him, Eloise."
"Yes, that's what I counted on; I just didn't think she would start looking this soon. Are you sure?"
"She's been having dreams; she mentioned the island."
"Really?" Eloise paused, a static crack sounded on an exhalation.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
"Are you second guessing my motives, dear?"
"Of course not," Harper moved away from the window. "I haven't forgotten what you did for me; I'm just not sure it's healthy to go through such lengths. Most people, they take a pottery class, start croquetching; they don't–"
"Look dear, I appreciate your professional opinion, but if I wanted therapeutic advice, I'd ask. In the meantime, just do as you're told."
Harper sighed. 'Do as you're told', that had worked out so splendidly in the past.
She put the phone on speaker, then walked around her desk and sat down. The screensaver on her Windows XP immediately gave way to a bland desktop with the standard green hillside/blue sky background shining brightly, almost happily, in her face. She hadn't bothered personalizing the image; she wasn't going to be in England for much longer anyway.
"I looked into the information that you gave me."
"And?"
"I found a woman," she double clicked on an untitled folder, pulling up the file.
"Her name is Jamie Rachel Spinoza; she lives in Miami. Her parents are Bob and Mary Spinoza; he's a math teacher at a local highschool; she's a dentist assistant. I couldn't find any connection to the island, they seemed chosen randomly by the mother. But, if what Richard told you is true, then this Jamie will be your best bet. Her birth-certificate looks… improvised," she double clicked on another file, and a fadded brownish yellow scan of a 1970s Florida birth-certificate popped into view. "It appears to have been signed by Richard himself," she snorted. "Or at least it looks like his handwriting."
"Excellent!"
"Eloise," Harper turned away from the screen and pensively stared at her phone. "You should know that she recently gave birth to a little baby boy; I couldn't find anything on the father. He doesn't seem to be in the picture; if anything were to happen to–"
"Do you have an address?"
Harper closed her eyes, and sucked in her lips.
Unrelentless.
"Yes, I'll mail it to you."
"What about the other one?"
She scrolled down to the last item in the folder, double clicked.
"Kai Nieves?"
"Did he check out?"
"According to Adam he's 'the real deal'."
"Good, has he been recruited, yet?"
"They're negotiating," Harper scrolled through a list of pictures. He was a handsome man, dark skinned, blue eyes; an unusual combination of tough and kind mixed together, but very appealing nonetheless. "Apparently, Mr. Nieves isn't exactly in the business of promoting his gifts. He wants to know what he's getting involved in, and he wants to talk to you."
"Hmm."
Harper could almost hear the wheels in Eloise's head turning as she considered the demand.
"I think he would be more inclinced to accept our offer if we tell him what happened to his parents," she suggested.
"No," Eloise retorted. "Send his details to me; I'll visit him first thing in the morning. Then book me a flight to London."
"You're coming here?"
"Of course," Eloise's voice pricked up. "If you say she's ready, then it's high time I meet my future daughter-in-law."
"Abigail," Theresa sighed and looked up. Not this again. "Will you please stop trying to set me up with your colleagues?"
"This is the last one, I swear; he's the one."
Theresa closed The Hidden Reality by Brian Greene; thumb inserted between the pages as she sat up straighter to read the name and number on the napkin.
"Jack Hoff?" she narrowed her eyes. "Are you serious?"
Abigail shrugged.
"He's a really nice guy."
"Abby, just say that name out loud, and tell me again how he's supposed to be the one."
Abigail huffed.
"It's not his fault his parents didn't put proper thought into naming him when he was born; He's really nice."
"I'm sure he is," she pulled her legs in, motioning for her sister to sit.
Abigail flopped down; her shoulders slumped as she eyed Theresa.
"I'm worried about you."
"I'm OK," Theresa assured.
"Are you?"
"Better than a year ago."
"I'm not talking about that."
"I know."
"Why can't you just let it go, Trish?"
"Why can't you just quit setting me up with middle-aged men, Abby?"
Abigail rolled her eyes, and shoved Theresa's feet off the couch; the book slipped from her lap and landed on the carpet with a tud.
"Oy!"
"Because, dear sister; the world doesn't solely revolve around Daniel Faraday and his silly experiments!" Abigail motioned to the book as to emphasize her point. "You spent six years in a coma, and the first thing you do after you wake up is call out for a deadbeat ex-boyfriend who abandoned you eons ago!"
"You don't know that he left of his own accord!"
Abilgail gawked, her eyes bulging like that of a toad choking on a fly.
"Do you ever hear yourself?! Not a single call or message in six years, and you're still defending this guy?!"
Theresa pulled her legs back up and rested her chin on her knees; her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the diningroom chairs. The harsh consonants; the long drawn vowels; she was getting so tired of this eternal discussion that held neither answers nor solutions.
"Can we just not?" she heard herself say. "Just not today."
Besides, her mind hadn't exactly been on Daniel so much as it had been on other brainchilds and hypotheses. Two days ago, a sudden epiphany had her digging through files and old research that had lain stored away on Abigail's attic for some six odd years. Contrary to what her sister believed, Theresa hadn't just been Daniel's research assitant. She had had her own motives for wanting to work with him. Yes, he had been her boyfriend, but he had also been her colleague, and thanks to his invaluable insights he had gotten her involved in groundbreaking research that had held the potential to bring about an enormous paradigm shift. She owed him; she owed him so much more than Abigail would ever be willing to admit or accept.
"I guess it wouldn't hurt if we cut to the intermission early today," Abigail smirked, her expression softening.
Theresa snorted.
"The guy could bake one hell of a pancake, though; I'll give him that."
"Excuse me? What was that?" Theresa gasped, and put a demonstrative hand on her chest.
"Did Abigail Imelda Spencer just say something nice about Daniel Faraday?"
She reached for her sister's forehead.
"Dear! You're burning up. Maybe, you should…hold on," she theatrically pulled the napkin from her sister's chestpocket, and held it out in much the same manner Abigail had done moments before. "Maybe you should ring up Mr. Jack Hoff; see if he can help you flush that blush straight off your face," she winked.
"Oh, will just shu–"
The doorbell cut straight through their living room banter; both sisters simultaneously looked up.
Theresa frowned.
"You expecting someone?"
"No."
"I swear," Theresa began. "If this is one of your set ups come to take me out on a date; you're definitely crossing a sacred line, my precious sister."
Abigail rolled her eyes, and stood up.
"Oh, why don't you just stuff that napkin down your throat already?" she countered, before rounding the corner, down the hallway.
Theresa laughed, her attention momentarily drawn to the number underneath the name; even that seemed like a joke: +441296 366613. She flung it away, symbolically getting rid of Mr. Hoff and his digits, but as she watched the napkin flutter to the ground, she couldn't help but wonder what a date with a man called Jack Hoff would be like; maybe, he preffered to be called Jim. She would.
"Uh, Trish," Abigail reappeared, her expression grave as she stepped back into the living room.
"There's someone here for you, but I don't think–"
"Huh?" Theresa stood and crossed the room. "Who is it?"
Abigail caught her arm, pulling her backwards before she could peep around the corner.
"I'm not sure if you should."
"What are you on about?" she narrowed her eyes, twisting her neck in an impossible angle to catch a better glimpse.
"Maybe we should continue this discussion inside? It's raining cats and dogs out here."
Theresa's eyes widened; Abigail scowled.
"Mrs. Hawking?"
She pushed past Abigail, her jaw unhinged as she faced the woman in the doorway.
"Please, Eloise, dear. Mrs. Hawking was my mother's name."
Eloise stepped across the threshold, looking for all the world like Mary Poppins blown in on a regular Eastern wind as she surreptitiously closed her umbrella with an animated flourish. Abigail remained stoic, arms crossed in front of her chest, while Theresa felt an almost irrepressible urge to climb up on the rooftop to scrutinize the current position of the weather van, just to make sure.
"Forgot your broom, I see."
"Abigail," Eloise inclined her head. "It's nice to see you again."
"Nice?!
Theresa placed a hand on Abigail's shoulder, rage burning a metaphysical hole through the reality of their current situation. There was only one person her sister desired to manually vivisect more than Daniel, and neither of them ever expected that scenario coming to pass. Apparently, Abigail had just won Satan's lottery.
"Just let me handle this," Theresa whispered; Abigail continued to scowl, but refrained from speaking her mind further.
"Why are you here?" Theresa turned to Eloise.
The old woman took a step closer, the light illuminating her aging face. She appeared much older than the last time they'd seen each other. But then, it had been over a decade ago since they'd last spoken.
"I think it's time we talk."
"Talk?! I've been trying to contact you for the past year; my sister tells me you ignored her calls and messages for over five! Honestly, I'm not quite sure whether to let Abby have a go at you, or if I should just throw you out myself!"
"Oh please, Trish," Abigail gritted. "Just give me five minutes with her."
"Yes, an unfortunate lapse in judgment on my part; I assure you, it won't happen again."
Abigail snorted loudly; Theresa remained apathetic.
"No, it won't," she said. "It was nice of you to stop by, Eloise; but whatever you've got to say, I'm not interested anymore."
"My dear, I think you would want to hear what I've got to say."
"Not interested," she turned around, guiding a fuming Abigail back to the living room.
"Don't you want to know what happened to Daniel?"
She stopped, her back straight as an arrow, nerves wound tightly around an invisible coil of her own making.
"No, no, no," Abigail shook her head. "Don't even think about it, Trish!"
But she was already thinking about it. In reality, she had nothing to go on; she'd already dug up everything there was on the Kahana, even secretly visited its last known location, followed coordinates that had left her staring into the deep blue of a vast ocean that held onto whispered secrets as though bound by an unbreakable vow. It had ignored her, stared back at her and challenged her sanity. Eloise was the only person left alive who could possible shed some light on the unsolvable mystery of Daniel's disappearance.
"Abby, could you please make us some tea?"
"What?!"
Theresa looked back at Eloise, who had taken the liberty of unbuttoning her coat; the umbrella placed against the door, dripping water onto the fading words of the "welcome home" doormat.
"Are you off your rocker?"
Theresa stepped closer to her sister, voice dropping to a whisper.
"I need to know."
"No, I won't stand for this," Abigail countered, putting her hands in her sides. "It stops here, Trish."
"Why are you so hell bend on keeping me from finding out the truth?"
"The truth?! This is not about any truth, and you know it."
"Last time I checked, it wasn't you in that coma, Abby; it happened to me!"
Abigail snorted.
"'D'you really believe that?"
Theresa shrugged; her shoulders slumped. Why couldn't her sister understand? She was a scientist, a believer of facts and a seeker of truth, always on the side of the undiscovered. An inherent curiosity creature lived inside her brain, housed in her skull, fed on her neurons, and for months now it had been aided by a second creature that was slowly drilling holes into her heart, scarring the outer reaches of her soul. It was dark there, cold.
Truth? It had never just been about the how; it had always been about the why.
"I have so many questions, and nobody has been able to give me any answers! Why can't you understand that?"
Abigail scoffed.
"Why can't you understand that I'm right here? Right now. Why do you insist on chasing ghosts; aren't the living enough?"
Theresa stared, her stomach in knots. It wasn't fair; it wasn't true.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Abby."
Abigail let out a low frustrated growl, clenching her fists together in futile surrender.
"Yeah, me too," she said, then thundered down the hallway, shoving hard past Eloise as she reached for her coat.
"Good luck with this hag," she threw over her shoulder, leaving the which unsettled.
The loud bang of the door shutting closed momentarily shocked through the corridor, shaking the furniture before it resettled.
Theresa sighed.
"Tea?"
"Please."
With a heavy heart she made for the kitchen, uncaring of Eloise following. These fights had been getting more and more intense of late. Last week she'd even scanned open ads online for available flats in the surrounding area. It would break Abigail's heart if she moved out, but she simply couldn't take it anymore.
"This had better be worth my time, Eloise."
The old woman had followed her into the kitchen, and sat down at the table; Theresa reached for the kettle.
"Daniel's dead," Eloise said.
If there was a way to get straight to the point, then surely Eloise Hawking had just nailed it. Theresa whirled around; the kettle fell in the sink, water clattering off of it.
"He died on an island in the South Pacific Ocean in late 1977."
"1977?"
"I buried him myself."
"What?!"
"I shot my son in 1977," Eloise said it with such cold conviction it made it hard for Theresa to sympathize. Not a tear or tremor burst through her poised expression, stoic figure; it was like looking at a robot talking about murders yet committed.
Theresa closed the tap, leaned her palms on the counter; her back curving under the weight of a thousand questions. She asked only one:
"You're sure about this?"
"Positive."
She turned around; the making of tea; the cooking of water, all but forgotten.
"He did it then."
"If you're referring to his experiments, breaking through the barriers of space time," Eloise rolled her eyes, air quoting the words. "Then, yes, and no, I suppose."
Theresa slowly lowered herself into the chair on the opposite side of the table, her focus never having been sharper.
"What do you mean?"
"He traveled through time, but he wasn't the one who made it happen."
Over the next hour Eloise spoke of events that started with a plane crash on a beach in 2004, and ended with a riffle deep in the woods in 1977. All through her monologue Theresa refrained from asking questions. Instead, she sat with her hands crossed in her lap, her heart slamming against her chest as the old woman revealed all that Theresa ever wanted and needed to know. Daniel had lived and died, becoming part of an immense paradox that defied all reality known to mankind.
It occurred to her that any other person would have referred Eloise to the closest mental institution in the Aylesburg, but not her. For she knew that it was possible. They'd researched the brain's ability to travel; why not the whole body?
"Why do I get the sense that you're not just here to tell me that Daniel's gone?" Theresa said after Eloise had finished.
"Because he's not."
Theresa frowned.
"You just told me your past self killed your future son; how he is not gone?"
Eloise smiled and reached for her purse, pulling from it a leather-bound journal, Daniel's journal.
"I want you to take a look at this, and ring me once you've made up your mind."
She placed a card on the table, a foreign number written on it in black ink.
She stood.
"It's my personal number; I will not ignore you this time."
She placed a hand on top of Theresa's.
"What do you want me to make up my mind about?" Theresa asked.
"Thank you for the tea," she said by way of reply, then she walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and blew out of the house on a Western wind.
The kettle, wet from water, untouched on its side in the sink.
A/N: I know this chapter was way different! But it's all part of the story, it will make sense later on! I put some nice Easter eggs in this one, though. I'm curious to see if you guys can find and unwrap them! Let me know! I'm super curious!
Again, thank you all so much for the comments and warm messages on the previous chapter. It blows my mind that even one person would read this story, let alone several! Words really can't express how much I appreciate it.
And because I'm so grateful, I'll reveal to you that the next chapter will be set in Dharma Town again, and will include some much needed Suliet!
Thanks again! And hopefully I'll see you in the next chapter ;)
FYI: all of the characters who appeared in this chapter were on the show at some point or another. None of them were fabricated by me, but I did take some liberties with them, and expanded upon their respective story lines.
In 2008, a year after James managed to get off that godforsaken rock, he receives a visit from a young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair. She hands him a locket and a letter, then demands answers to questions that he didn’t even know existed. Post season 6 (Suliet) - This story is also partly set during the DHARMA days.
She started across the field at a brisk pace, but by the time she got to the path beyond the bushes she'd broken into a run. A sudden wave of nausea twisted her insides into knots, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was due to her newly discovered condition or genuine nerves. This could not be happening. Not to her. Not after all she'd done to prevent exactly this type of scenario from coming to pass. Hell if she'd ever deliver a baby on this island again. Hell if it ever be her own.
When the pylons sprung into view, she stopped. The giant misshapen percussion bells on concrete sticks of terror stood tall and proud across the field in all of their youthful glory, not quite made for musical bliss, but blissfully fulfilling a purpose that kept people as arrested as would a theatre filled audience. Different purpose, same effect.
She crouched down, and flipped the lid on the data pad. Funny how the code was always the same, no matter what decade: 1623.
"What do you think you're doing?"
She whirled around. What the–?
"Miles!"
Where in the hell had he come from? He looked straight at her, narrowed eyes darkening the core of his black pupils, he looked almost threatening, and a familiar tightness settled in her chest, spread all the way down to her spine and back up her arms. She hadn't been on the receiving end of this much blatant mistrust in a long time.
"You scared me," she said, and smiled.
"Where are you going, Juliet?" he wasted no time.
She shrugged, hoping for it to come across as casual.
"I thought I saw something on the security monitors, figured I'd check it out. You know how Horace gets if we sound the alarm prematurely."
"Does LaFleur know you're out here?"
"Of course James knows."
Miles narrowed his eyes even further, causing for his already impossibly narrow slits to turn into even sharper ones; it almost reminded her of dark light peeping through the cracks of a badly insulated shed. He wasn't buying it. Damn him for tempting her into playing so much late night Poker. Miles was good at deception, but he was even better at recognising it. He'd been able to figure out all of her tells straight off the bat, and now she didn't have many, if any, left.
"Why are you lying to me?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I saw you," he took a step closer, and she had to suppress the urge to take a step back. "You were nowhere near the observation deck. I only followed you out here because I saw you flail out of the infirmary like a possessed madwoman. What's going on?"
She bit her lip.
"Look Miles, even if I told you; you wouldn't understand."
"Well," Miles crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Let's see what LaFleur'll have to say about that then."
He reached for his walkie, but before he could so much as pull the device from his pocket she'd already launched herself at him, pinning him to the ground with two hands above his head.
"What the actual fuck, Juliet!" he trashed against her, but she had a good grip on him, her weight pressing down hard on his lower abdomen. Maybe, if he had been a little heavier, or more muscular like James, he would have been able to break free, but Miles was about as scrawny as a malnourished field mouse.
"Get off me!"
"You don't want to do this, Miles!"
She gave him a hard look.
"They'll have seen you on the monitors by now anyway," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if LaFleur is already on his way!"
She tightened her grip on his wrists.
"It would take them at least five more minutes to get here," she said. "Look, Miles, you're my friend and I really, really do not want to hurt you, but if you don't let this go, you'll leave me no choice."
He stopped, and stared, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull.
"You're serious?!"
She gave a curt nod.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me! Fine!" he slackened. "Go, then! You fucking Hilary Swank wannabe. See if I care."
She pulled his walkie from his pocket, and slipped it into her own jumpsuit before rolling off of him. He let out a loud, ever so exaggerated, cry.
"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, rubbing his wrists where red marks had already formed around them. She bit her lip.
"I'm sorry about that."
"Oh really? You're sorry?!" he spat. "LaFleur'll have a field day when you get back!"
"Please, don't tell him."
"You expect me to lie after you nearly broke my neck just now?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Hardly."
He let out a derisive snort.
"Yeah? Well, tell that to my impending hernia!"
Leave it up to Miles to add a side dish of drama to an already tense situation.
"If I'd wanted to break your neck, I would have."
"Well, THAT," he pointed at her. "That's a real comfort, thanks Juliet! I'll be sure to pass that along to the DHARMA folks at the next town meeting."
For all of his sarcasm she did feel guilty. Over the past year they'd become allies, friends even. Jin, Miles and James, the most unlikely group of people to have ever met and band together. Yet, over time, they'd all turned into more than just collateral casualties of time travel. If there was anyone she could trust it should be Miles, but there was just too much at stake. If she told him about her plans, then he'd tell James, and that would lead to more questions, and then accusations. She might even have time to stop and think, rethink. She couldn't risk that.
But then, maybe; she could throw him some breadcrumbs, some food for thought to chew on. It would give her a reasonable head start.
"Come," she said, holding out her hand. He took it, albeit reluctantly; she pulled him to his feet.
"I'm going out there to find Richard."
"Eyeliner Tarzan?"
She shook her head, that was almost amusing.
"You've been spending too much time with James."
"Says you."
"Excuse me?"
"You think that Jin and I would think that all of those bumps in the night we hear is just your furniture coming to life and humping itself? Which by the way–" He froze, catching her impending look of doom.
"One more word, just one more", her eyes threatened.
He cleared his throat, inching a calculated step backward.
"Why do you need to talk to Richard?" he changed the subject.
"Miles," the threat not completely gone from her eyes. "Just make sure that James doesn't follow me."
"Can't stop that guy from doing anything he doesn't want to do. Or, well… technically, wants to do."
He sniggered, amused by his own disaster of a joke, and she took that opportunity to slip between the pillars; as expected the pylons remained compliantly oblivious to her frame. Thank God for small mercies.
"Then stall him!" she threw over her shoulder.
"Whatever!" he yelled after her.
No matter his tone, she trusted Miles to be discreet. None of them should want to be stupid enough to ever risk their cover being blown, and besides where else could they go? Everything depended upon them keeping up appearances. Miles would reactivate the fence the moment she'd gone, and even though he denied it now, he would lie for her; if only for a couple of hours.
She sprinted down the overgrown path, twigs and leaves already sticking to her jumpsuit.
When James had first asked her about eyeliner Benjamin Button, she hadn't quite known how to respond. Before the 815 crash, Ben had only ever referred to Richard as his advisor, or the island's intermediator.
To her, Richard had simply been the mysterious man who'd first recruited her, and then delivered her to Ben as would a postman a package. Afterwards she only ever saw him sporadically. He preferred to live with another group at the Temple, a remote place in the jungle that even the D.I. had had a hard time locating in their day. But whenever he wasn't at the Temple he would intermittently show up at the barracks carrying perfectly symmetrically folded pieces of parchment paper; "Orders from Jacob", Ben would say.
The first time she heard that name, she'd asked:
"Jacob? Who's Jacob?" Ben had been evasive at first, but clear in his reply "Jacob protects the island; he protects us."
What Jacob was protecting them from, he wouldn't say. Instead, Ben would often talk about vague miracles and electromagnetic energy. She soon found out that they all looked to Jacob as worshippers would to a deity. She looked to Ben a lot back then, as he seemed to hold most of the answers in that regard, but after a while he started to misinterpret her intentions, invading her privacy in a manner that reminded her of how Edmund used to corner her out of nowhere.
Alarm bells screeched ear damagingly loud; she distanced herself from Ben, and turned to the others instead. She asked Amelia about the DHARMA stations, Harper about the Initiative, Ethan about the Sonar Fence and the submarine, but it wasn't until she asked Goodwin about the strange noises in the night that she finally received a truthful answer. "I'll show you," he said. The following day he took her out into the jungle, where they both silently watched an immense pillar of black smoke rise up and down into the air, moving about like a creature out of a horror movie.
She stopped asking questions after that, realizing that whatever was going on on the island didn't abide by any of the natural laws of the universe that she'd been taught to acknowledge rationally. The revelation didn't deter her inquisitive mind, though. So, without permission, she started looking for answers elsewhere. She rummaged through poorly conserved documents, discovered secret underground passageways, and abandoned DHARMA stations; still, whatever had happened to the D.I. remained a mystery that even she couldn't solve on her own. It wasn't until Alex took her out into the jungle, after a particularly heated argument with her father, that Juliet was finally able to lay that question to rest. Against Ben's explicit orders, Alex had shown her a pit filled with twisted curiosities that turned out to be decomposing bodies in faded navy colored jumpsuits. With a start she realized that it was them, that they'd never left, and had been there all along, so close to the barracks.
Horrified she asked what had happened, Alex replied:
"My father."
Like a homesick child Juliet'd crawled into bed that night, craving her sister's comfort more than ever. As she closed her eyes, she imagined that melodic voice soothing her; the feel of familial arms protecting her from the monsters that used to live in her bedroom closet when she was a little girl. For a moment she was eight again, and her sister her protector.
For months, she'd clung to those memories like a drowning woman to air, and with each new burning breath she watched herself drift further from the shores of that longed for existence, until one day, the image on the horizon curved and her sister dropped from view completely.
By 2002, Ben had her bound to an unbreakable promise, a chain and ball shackled to her soul. Goodwin taught her how to mask her longings, tempering her burning desire for home. And while, like a parasite, Ben continued to try to worm his way into her heart, (often dropping by unannounced with wild flower bouquets and Belgium chocolate) she taught herself to carefully stave off his advances, until she could stave them off no more.
Between 2001 and 2004, she lost nine women to a nameless invader that dragged her to the edge of insanity. It left no traceable data for her to analyse, and for months, she ploughed waist deep through a disease filled swamp of misery and despair. She located its entrance into the body, she watched how it tore through her patients, and she knew when it killed, but she remained blind to where it housed. All she could determine with absolute certainty was that it was happening, and that there was nothing she could do about it. And while over time, the memories of those nine wounds turned into rough skinned scars, any thoughts that she might have had of Richard slipped through the cracks of her subconscious, not to resurface until 1974.
Who was eyeliner Benjamin Button? James's guess was as good as hers.
She returned her attention to the road ahead, where she'd been trampling through bramble bushes, and wadding through clear water brooks for the past hour. She made sure to keep her estimated guess of the Temple's location on her right, while taking careful stock of her surroundings on her left, moving about with extreme stealth; the way she'd been taught to move about by them. It had become second nature to her now, like falling down and standing back up. But then, so had lying, cheating and manipulating her way out of impossible situations. There were moments, like these, when that realization hit her hard. She hadn't always been like this. In fact, she wasn't anything like the woman she used to know. That person had had morals, integrity, and no backbone whatsoever. It seemed like decades ago, but it had only been four short years since she'd last behaved like Edmund's string puppet, a lapdog with no discernible purpose. Not anymore. She'd learned her lessons the hard way: to lead or to be led, to harm or to be harmed, and to kill or to be killed.
She looked up, the wind had changed; she was close now. As another minute past she caught soft whispers, the kind that used to include hers. Pots clinging together, the crackle of a midday fire, the swishing of fabric, hands clapping, laughter. She stepped closer: shouting, more laughter; the careless rustle and bustle of people living their lives.
She could see them now, and for a moment she watched them from behind overgrown bushes. She crouched closer, twigs bending under the weight of her fingertips, but not snapping. She was more careful than that.
To her surprise, she recognized a lone woman next to a boiling cauldron that stood perched in the middle of the camp. A young Amelia. Pensively, she stirred the pot, cooking what smelled like a mixture of island vegetables and boar meat. A little to her left a young girl sat crossed legged in front of a boy, playing a clapping game. She couldn't quite make out their faces, but she briefly wondered about their names, if she knew them –would know them. There were more people, young and old. Some she recognised, others that had either died or left long before her arrival. Also, more children that would grow up to be vague acquaintances or book club participants.
She suppressed the urge to flee, deterring the heart racing expectation that foreshadowed her presence; the image powerful enough to change her mind. She rose slowly, then stepped out into the open with bold determination, her hands held high up above her head, one foot in front of the other. It was a stupid move. They were unpredictable and much more dangerous than their future counterparts.
She took another step closer, a branch snapped in two. Their reaction immediate: eyes turned on her at an inhuman speed, silence muzzled the buoyant atmosphere. Various threatening clicks snapped into place, weapons balanced high upon army trained arms. She counted five men swiftly closing in on her.
"Who are you?!" one yelled.
Why are you breaking the truce?" another demanded.
She turned to look at each of them, he wasn't among them.
"I need to speak to the person in charge."
They laughed; the echoes of their derisive mirth pressing down on her courage.
"I don't think you're in any position to be making demands, lady."
She really wasn't, but that didn't stop her from staring down a very young Tom Friendly. He couldn't be much older than twenty-five. Once, her superior in age and status, now her junior in years as well as knowledge. This was strange. Would he recognise her 26 years from now? Was that why he'd always been so nice to her? Because he knew?
"Stand down!" a rough accented voice suddenly cut through the group. Every face in the clearing turned, but Juliet had a hard time tearing her eyes away from Tom.
She'd never meant for him to die. If only she could warn him somehow, forge a connection through time and prevent a bad future outcome from coming to pass. "Whatever happened, happened", Daniel's voice thundered through her mind. Did her Tom know that she was the one who would end up digging his grave? Young Tom's riffle pointed straight at her, would he be the one digging hers? Would it come full circle, right here? Right now?
"What have we here?"
She forced her eyes away. A woman, roughly her own age and similar in looks, approached the group.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
Juliet blinked, confused, her mind half on Tom still.
"Where's Richard?" she blurt out.
The woman sniggered.
"Richard? What makes you think he'd want to speak to the likes of you?" affirming whispers, and nodding figures stepped up behind the woman.
"He'd want to know I'm here."
"He'd want to know you are here?"
Their amusement peaked.
"And what, pray tell, makes a DHARMA puppet such as yourself so special that Richard'd want to know?"
DHARMA puppet? She hadn't heard that one before. But if evidence was what they wanted, then she had nothing to worry about. They seared it onto her skin for a reason, after all.
"Check my back," she said.
"What?"
"My lower back, check it."
The woman's expression shifted, a concoction of amusement and disdain spawning forth some mild interest that stretched to the curving of her brows.
She looked at Tom.
"You heard the woman,"she shrugged. "Check her back, Tom."
Tom nodded.
"Unzip," he demanded.
Juliet compliantly pulled her jumpsuit down to her waist, revealing a white tank top underneath; with the barrel of his rifle Tom pushed the fabric up, and as the mark that lay seared upon her skin sprung into view, the tension in the air shifted once more.
Sharp intakes of breath seemed to suck the oxygen straight from the surrounding trees, travelling all around and down the wide clearing.
"Who gave that to you?" the woman asked, turning a whiter shade of pale as her eyes darted from Tom to the others.
"Let me talk to Richard first," Juliet repeated.
"Who gave you that mark?!"
"I'll tell Richard!" she countered.
"Tell me!"
"No!"
Her eyes darkened, and before Juliet could comprehend what happened next Tom had already slammed the butt of his rifle into her lower back. With a loud cry she crashed to her knees, rough hands pulled her up by her hair, and as the pain shot through her head and down her back it was hard to focus; the feeling similar to that of hundred needles sticking through her skull all at once. She looked up, the butt of another riffle hanging suspended in mid-air, aimed straight at her stomach. Reflexively she put her arms out, protecting that which she couldn't stand to lose.
"No! Stop!" she begged, her voice hoarse. "I'm pregnant!"
The man hesitated, his rifle poised, held back only by sheer doubt. He looked to the woman in charge.
"I'm one of you!" Juliet cried out, anger temporarily casting out all rational thought.
The woman motioned for the others to stand down, and Juliet heavily dropped to the ground, her heart hammering against her ribcage at a painful speed. She couldn't be sure of what she would have done if the man hadn't hesitated, but she sure as hell knew that the outcome wouldn't have been in his favor.
"You're no more one of us than any traitor who bears that mark will ever be again."
"At least it shows that at some point, I was one of you," she wheezed.
"A fleur-de-lis is hardly an original mark."
"Yet," she took in a painfully slow, but controlled breath. "This design is unique, and you know it."
The woman's upper lip quivered, extreme agitation forming around the corners of her mouth.
"Richard!" she called, never breaking eye-contact.
It was then that Juliet recognised her, the intense icy blues, the thick British accent. This had to be the famed Eloise Hawking. For some reason she'd always pictured her to be taller, and broader. The type of woman who enjoyed deer hunting and hammer throwing on early Sunday mornings right before dawn broke through the night. She'd imagined a wild tempered shark. But this? No. Not this. Eloise was slim, petite even, moving about with the same grace as a proud lioness. A hunter by nature, always with her pride in mind, nothing like a shark. Yet, the lines about her eyes mirrored Juliet's own mask, hiding an intense past filled with contradictions. Maybe, in another life, they would have been friends.
"Who's this?"
Richard appeared as summoned, popping into view like a genie out of a bottle. He looked exactly the same. He always looked the same. They locked eyes, and Juliet felt a shiver run down her spine. Bizarre, just bizarre.
"She bears the mark," Eloise barked. "How can she bear the mark?"
Richard looked confused, not quite comprehending what Eloise was referring to, but as he studied Juliet there lay sudden recognition in his eyes. It betrayed a thought, as though he'd been waiting for something like this to happen.
"What mark?"
"Our fleur-de-lis."
He stepped closer, Tom lifted Juliet's top again, stepping even closer Richard bend down, lightly touching the mark, his fingers cold on her skin.
"How is this possible?" he asked, looking up at Tom.
The young man stammered, but Richard shook his head, and waved him away.
"Where did you get this?" he said, for the first time really looking at her. "This is a very particular mark. Who gave this to you?"
"Jacob," she lied.
"What did you say?" a slow staccato punctuated each word.
"I want to talk to Jacob."
He studied her closely, his eyes burning holes into her skin. He knew more, much, much more.
"Take her to my tent," he ordered.
"What are you doing?" Eloise demanded.
"I need to talk to this woman in private."
"That's against the rules of the truce!"
"Jacob wants it so."
"How in the hell–"
"Eloise!" Richard cut off. "Trust me."
Juliet was sure that if Eloise had had fangs Richard surely would have fallen victim to her seething rage by now. But she stood her ground, respecting the wishes of a deity whose existence she probably had to take on faith as much as Ben had had to.
Firm hands guided her past Eloise, and the woman gave her one last foul look in passing.
Once inside Richard motioned for her to sit, then turned to the men behind her.
"Leave us," he ordered.
"I don't think–"
"I really don't care what you think, Brian. Leave us, now!"
Brian muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, but did as told, motioning for the other man to follow suit.
"What's your name?" Richard asked, once they'd left.
"My name?"
"Yes, you have one, I trust?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well?"
"Juliet."
"Last name?"
"Carlson."
"Carlson?" he frowned.
"Burke," she corrected. "Look, I–"
"Juliet Burke," Richard continued.
She stopped, rendered somewhat speechless by the interruption and this strange obsession with her name.
"You know what's funny, Juliet?"
Richard turned around, and sat down on the cot in front of her; the bed creaking beneath his weight as he pensively leaned forward on his arms.
"Two days ago, Jacob appeared to me," she sat up straighter; a pounding pain shooting through her back; she ignored it.
"He told me the strangest thing. Jacob said, that in a couple of days time, I should expect a woman by the name of Juliet Burke to come striding straight through the jungle into our camp, demanding to see him."
She stared, unmoved.
"Exactly, like you did just now," he paused. "Isn't that a funny coincidence?"
"I don't know what to tell you," she said, chilled by the thought of predestination. Although, by now she'd learned that there really was no such thing as a linear passage of time. She was living proof of that.
"No, I didn't think you would. But Jacob gave me a note," from his chest pocket he pulled a perfectly symmetrically folded piece of parchment paper, her name written in the centre in indelible ink, Jacob's ink.
She reached for it, but Richard held onto it, forcing her to look up to where his eyes met hers.
"I'm to go with you," he said.
"Go where?"
"Wherever it is you plan on going."
He let go of the note.
With trembling fingers, she unfolded it.
Jacob's message was short, poetic even:
"You may leave,
But only once.
Return,
and you are
to stay.
A/N: I know it took me a while to get this chapter up! I'm sorry! I always try to be as detailed and coherent as possible in my writing, and this one took a lot of time to figure out. I love writing from Juliet's POV, though! She's so incredibly complex, and I wanted to bring that to live more in this chapter. Hope it shows!
I decided to change the title of the story, because I just wasn't happy with it. I personally think that this new title does the story more justice; I just hope that changing it didn't make it too hard for you guys to find the story again. I promise, the title won't change again. This is it.
I also wanted to respond to the Guest who left a review on this story on ff.
First of all, thank you so much for your kind and encouraging words. I hope you'll continue to enjoy this story, and I truly appreciate the kind of detailed review that you left! I always love to hear what goes on in the minds of those who read my stories. Thank you for that! And also, yes the summary might give away a bit much, but it also only reveals the tip of the iceberg of what I've got in mind for this story! The true purpose of the summary was to create an expectation. I'm actually very curious to know what you think it means! But all in all, even if it means what you think it means, there's a lot more to it than just that one storyline/chapter. Ha! I hope I'm making sense!
Anyway, thank you all for reading this story. Hope to see you again in the next chapter!
