Luau Fic for Hollycomb!
Title: Like Moths to a Flame
Characters: Miles, Boone, Shannon, Charlie, Cooper, Daniel
Rating: PG 13
Warning: Spoilers up to Meet Kevin Johnson.
Words: 2000
Summary: For her Royal Highness Queen
hollycomb who asked for Miles and the ghosts
x x x
Miles is allergic to mold. It’s an occupational hazard since most of his jobs take him to dank basements and dusty attics. Before its demolition, he once wasted an entire weekend on his hands and knees going through every nook and cranny of The Ambassador Hotel hoping to encounter a ghost of Hollywood’s Golden Age or its most famous spectre, Robert Kennedy. The hotel had been picked over by spiritualists for years, so all Miles discovered was the forlorn spirit of a bus boy who had choked to death on a canapé in 1979 and enough fungus spores to keep him hopped up on antihistamines for weeks.
Now a sneeze is threatening to kill him. The boathouse is slick with mold. His eyes are moist and there’s a tickle at the back of his throat. Miles twists his shackled hands ever so slightly, trying to redirect a drop of sweat from his forehead downward so might pass over the itch on his left nostril. The drop falls short and lands on his chin. The itch persists and the sneeze continues to rise in his chest. Any moment it’s going to explode and he’ll lose the grip on the grenade clasped in his tired jaws. If John Locke were to return now and scratch his nose, Miles might just forgive him for everything.
He squeezes his eyes shut and begs his body to remain cooperative. As he waits, all he can think of is the puffy purple face of Simon Lutz, his former mailman who had passed on his talents in necromancy when he died of a heart attack after handing thirteen year old Miles his family’s mail, which included his rolled up copy of Rolling Stone, ironically featuring The Grateful Dead’s comeback tour on the cover. Seventeen years later, it seems like Miles was destined to join Lutz in the beyond.
Furtive whispers greet him from behind. They are unaccompanied by footsteps so Miles knows they belong to the throngs of the island’s restless undead who have probably gathered to watch him join their ranks. He counts four voices: three men and a woman, each of whom provide a short commentary on his predicament.
“This is sick. I can’t believe John did this,” a young man states with great disdain.
“Don’t get all excited. We won’t see any fireworks tonight,” a Southerner speaks. “My son doesn’t have it in him.”
“Try telling that to the bird from Manchester,” says another man whose accent echoes Naomi’s.
The last voice tries to cover her disgust with scorn. “Who cares? Boone, let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
They talk as if unaware he can hear them. Miles doesn’t know where their loyalties lie, but he hopes the situation is extreme enough to gain anyone’s sympathy. With his teeth still tightly clenched, Miles does his best to mumble something that sounds like, “Help me!”
His cries bring forth the four unfamiliar faces in front of him. Miles blinks rapidly, still unused to being able to see, as well as hear, the dead in this strange place.
The Brit studies him with great curiosity and asks, “Can you see us?”
Miles’s eyes dart back and forth, trying to demonstrate he can indeed see them. He murmurs again, this time more forcefully.
The other young man ducks down under Miles’s chin and looks up into his mouth. “I don’t know if it’s safe to take it out.”
Safe for who? Miles thinks, his eyes bugging out. He wants to tell them, “You’re already dead.”
The woman shakes her head. “Don’t Boone. He’s one of them.”
“I don’t care, Shannon. This is beyond cruel.” Boone looks to the Brit. “Charlie, you have more experience with grenades. What do you think?”
“Having one thrown at me by an insane Russian doesn’t qualify me as Rambo,” Charlie says with a shrug, but he steps up and peers into Miles’s mouth anyway.
The fourth ghost, the saggy middle aged man with the Southern drawl looks bored with the situation. He settles into a corner to watch the proceedings with a yawn.
Before anyone can make a decision, the sneeze suddenly arrives. As Miles predicted, the momentum forces the grenade out of his mouth and lands with a thud at his feet. While the four ghosts do nothing but stare at it in shock, Miles has the foresight to kick it across the room. It rolls across the clapboard floor and comes to a stop near a coil of rope about five feet away, still close enough to splatter his body across the boathouse’s moldy walls.
Miles has heard when death is eminent, time slows to a fine trickle. It feels like hours before the one called Boone moves. He dashes across the room and scoops up the grenade and exits the boathouse with the determination of a runner in some twisted relay race. Everyone’s attention is riveted on the doorway, waiting for an explosion that never comes.
After a few minutes, Boone returns holding the grenade, a look of fascination plastered across his features. “It’s a dud.”
“I told you,” sighs the man claiming to be Locke’s father. He plucks the grenade out of Boone’s fingers and holds it like a precious jewel.
“Oh brilliant, clearly you didn’t fuck him up enough to use a live one,” Charlie sneers. “I’m sure this seals the father of the year award for you.”
In response the Southerner, tosses the grenade to the scruffy blonde man. “Boo.”
Charlie catches it with great delicacy and scowls at the pitcher. “Nice. Let me get Sawyer, so I can throw him at you.”
Boone’s brow furrows. “I’m really worried about John.”
“The island loves John as much as it hates everyone else. No one’s going to stuff his mouth full of explosives.” Shannon waves her hand dismissingly and brushes dust off her legs.
The ghosts banter back and forth for a moment until Miles reclaims his senses and remembers he’s no longer encumbered. After adjusting his sore jaw, he sputters, “Hey!” and jangles his chains. “A little help here?”
Boone comes over. “We’re not letting you out, pal.”
“If you leave me like this, I’m as good as dead.”
“That’s your problem for biting off more than you can chew,” Shannon says, as she picks her way around the clutter in the boathouse and leaves without a backward glance. “I’m going back to the freighter.”
“I can help you pass over. I can get your messages to the living,” Miles pleads.
“Pass over?” Locke’s father laughs sourly. “We’re about as far over as you can get that we’re practically alive. And your talents are a dime a dozen around here. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry can converse with us if they try hard enough.” He exits in the opposite direction, his jowls still vibrating with laughter.
Miles stares down at the two remaining ghosts who appear unmoved by his plight. He’s dealt with belligerent spirits before, however, he’s never encountered ghosts who seemed to have it more together than the living. It’s intriguing to think that their confidence arises from recognizing that here, being dead is not necessarily any worse than being alive, and if anything, it’s less stressful. “Listen…”
“No, you listen,” Boone says. “Here’s some advice. Forget your plans for fortune and glory and focus on surviving each hour. You’ve gotten off to a bad start by throwing your lot in with Linus and double crossing those blood thirsty monsters on the freighter. Keep your head down and maybe you’ll get out of here alive.”
Miles snorts, “Is that what you did, Casper?”
“Hey, show some respect,” Charlie declares, stepping up so he’s face to face with Miles. “You need us more than we need you. You’re not lucky enough for it always to be a dud.”
“Oh, and you’ll rescue me with your sharp wit?”
“If we can make a difference, we will, but you’re not our priority. Stick close to our friends and maybe we’ll help you out too,” Boone suggests.
“Your friends, like John Locke?”
“Don’t count John out yet. He’s lost his way, but I have hope he’ll find it again,” Boone says solemnly, ignoring Charlie’s eyes rolling around at this assertion.
“Do you want me to put this back?” Charlie asks, holding the grenade up to Miles’s mouth. “I don’t know if it’s better to show you played along or found out his game.”
Miles steps back as far as his chains allow. “There’s no way you’re putting that thing back in my mouth again.”
“Suit yourself.” Charlie lays the disabled grenade gently on the floor in the corner. “You can tell Locke we were here if you want. That should effectively freak him out.”
“Remember,” Boone says, as they depart. “No point looking for trouble. It will find you soon enough.”
This time it was Miles’s turn to roll his eyes at Boone’s earnest words. He watches the last two ghosts leave the boathouse. They confer together in the doorway, and then go their separate ways. Once he’s alone, Miles lets out a long sigh and leans back on his heels, trying the stretch his back and legs as best as possible. He’s achy, thirsty and the itch along his nose still lingers, but now that matters of life and death have been erased, he’s able to focus more on his options.
Considering where he ended up, maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to jump start his own game plan when he didn’t know the rules. Initially it made sense to trust no one but himself. Maybe he did need allies among the dead, as well as the living, if he wanted to survive this mess.
Miles is reconsidering Boone’s advice when he’s interrupted by a loud popping sound behind him. He swings around and is surprised to come face to face with Daniel, or at least he thinks it’s the physicist from the boat. This man has the same twitchy, scattered eyes, but he’s even more dishevelled than normal, with long stringy hair grown passed his shoulders and a goatee. He’s dressed in an oversized tie-dye t-shirt and nothing else. He’s also clutching to his chest what appears to be a white rat.
“Faraday? It doesn’t surprise me that you bought the farm first, but when did you have time to stop by Haight-Ashbury?”
Daniel shifts to hold the rat in one hand and places one boney finger to his lips. It appears to be less a gesture that they need to be quiet, than a sign that he doesn’t want to bother talking which is a bit of a relief considering how Daniel can natter on. Then he reaches out the same finger, topped with a chewed nail, and Miles actually wonders if Daniel’s placing some sort of ghostly curse on him for the constant teasing aboard the Kahana or for throwing him out of the helicopter. Instead, in three quick strokes Daniel alleviates the itch on Miles’s nose.
The relief caused by Daniel’s touch is similar to that of the grenade not exploding. Miles feels renewed and thinks he could now possibly stand here chained forever. “Why?” he asks, perturbed at Daniel’s appearance and what it meant.
In response, Daniel shrugs and flashes him an enigmatic smile. “Just checking in...” He pauses to consult a series of names scribbled in smeared ink across his hand. “…Miles. See you later?”
Daniel presses the rat close to his cheek and disappears in a cloud of popping noises as suddenly as he appeared, leaving Miles alone to ponder what all this meant. At first he had presumed Daniel was dead, though his few short days on the island had already taught Miles not to presume anything. Whatever the case, the one thing the island had going for it was its dead and living were a hell of a lot more interesting than their counterparts back home.
If Miles wasn’t going to leave here with $3.2 million, maybe this was finally his opportunity to gain some insight into the differences, if there were any, between the wants and needs of those whose hearts still beat and those for whom it had stopped, whether they were judgemental spirits, megalomaniac dictators or oddball scientists/nose scratchers.
Characters: Miles, Boone, Shannon, Charlie, Cooper, Daniel
Rating: PG 13
Warning: Spoilers up to Meet Kevin Johnson.
Words: 2000
Summary: For her Royal Highness Queen
hollycomb who asked for Miles and the ghosts
x x x
Miles is allergic to mold. It’s an occupational hazard since most of his jobs take him to dank basements and dusty attics. Before its demolition, he once wasted an entire weekend on his hands and knees going through every nook and cranny of The Ambassador Hotel hoping to encounter a ghost of Hollywood’s Golden Age or its most famous spectre, Robert Kennedy. The hotel had been picked over by spiritualists for years, so all Miles discovered was the forlorn spirit of a bus boy who had choked to death on a canapé in 1979 and enough fungus spores to keep him hopped up on antihistamines for weeks.
Now a sneeze is threatening to kill him. The boathouse is slick with mold. His eyes are moist and there’s a tickle at the back of his throat. Miles twists his shackled hands ever so slightly, trying to redirect a drop of sweat from his forehead downward so might pass over the itch on his left nostril. The drop falls short and lands on his chin. The itch persists and the sneeze continues to rise in his chest. Any moment it’s going to explode and he’ll lose the grip on the grenade clasped in his tired jaws. If John Locke were to return now and scratch his nose, Miles might just forgive him for everything.
He squeezes his eyes shut and begs his body to remain cooperative. As he waits, all he can think of is the puffy purple face of Simon Lutz, his former mailman who had passed on his talents in necromancy when he died of a heart attack after handing thirteen year old Miles his family’s mail, which included his rolled up copy of Rolling Stone, ironically featuring The Grateful Dead’s comeback tour on the cover. Seventeen years later, it seems like Miles was destined to join Lutz in the beyond.
Furtive whispers greet him from behind. They are unaccompanied by footsteps so Miles knows they belong to the throngs of the island’s restless undead who have probably gathered to watch him join their ranks. He counts four voices: three men and a woman, each of whom provide a short commentary on his predicament.
“This is sick. I can’t believe John did this,” a young man states with great disdain.
“Don’t get all excited. We won’t see any fireworks tonight,” a Southerner speaks. “My son doesn’t have it in him.”
“Try telling that to the bird from Manchester,” says another man whose accent echoes Naomi’s.
The last voice tries to cover her disgust with scorn. “Who cares? Boone, let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
They talk as if unaware he can hear them. Miles doesn’t know where their loyalties lie, but he hopes the situation is extreme enough to gain anyone’s sympathy. With his teeth still tightly clenched, Miles does his best to mumble something that sounds like, “Help me!”
His cries bring forth the four unfamiliar faces in front of him. Miles blinks rapidly, still unused to being able to see, as well as hear, the dead in this strange place.
The Brit studies him with great curiosity and asks, “Can you see us?”
Miles’s eyes dart back and forth, trying to demonstrate he can indeed see them. He murmurs again, this time more forcefully.
The other young man ducks down under Miles’s chin and looks up into his mouth. “I don’t know if it’s safe to take it out.”
Safe for who? Miles thinks, his eyes bugging out. He wants to tell them, “You’re already dead.”
The woman shakes her head. “Don’t Boone. He’s one of them.”
“I don’t care, Shannon. This is beyond cruel.” Boone looks to the Brit. “Charlie, you have more experience with grenades. What do you think?”
“Having one thrown at me by an insane Russian doesn’t qualify me as Rambo,” Charlie says with a shrug, but he steps up and peers into Miles’s mouth anyway.
The fourth ghost, the saggy middle aged man with the Southern drawl looks bored with the situation. He settles into a corner to watch the proceedings with a yawn.
Before anyone can make a decision, the sneeze suddenly arrives. As Miles predicted, the momentum forces the grenade out of his mouth and lands with a thud at his feet. While the four ghosts do nothing but stare at it in shock, Miles has the foresight to kick it across the room. It rolls across the clapboard floor and comes to a stop near a coil of rope about five feet away, still close enough to splatter his body across the boathouse’s moldy walls.
Miles has heard when death is eminent, time slows to a fine trickle. It feels like hours before the one called Boone moves. He dashes across the room and scoops up the grenade and exits the boathouse with the determination of a runner in some twisted relay race. Everyone’s attention is riveted on the doorway, waiting for an explosion that never comes.
After a few minutes, Boone returns holding the grenade, a look of fascination plastered across his features. “It’s a dud.”
“I told you,” sighs the man claiming to be Locke’s father. He plucks the grenade out of Boone’s fingers and holds it like a precious jewel.
“Oh brilliant, clearly you didn’t fuck him up enough to use a live one,” Charlie sneers. “I’m sure this seals the father of the year award for you.”
In response the Southerner, tosses the grenade to the scruffy blonde man. “Boo.”
Charlie catches it with great delicacy and scowls at the pitcher. “Nice. Let me get Sawyer, so I can throw him at you.”
Boone’s brow furrows. “I’m really worried about John.”
“The island loves John as much as it hates everyone else. No one’s going to stuff his mouth full of explosives.” Shannon waves her hand dismissingly and brushes dust off her legs.
The ghosts banter back and forth for a moment until Miles reclaims his senses and remembers he’s no longer encumbered. After adjusting his sore jaw, he sputters, “Hey!” and jangles his chains. “A little help here?”
Boone comes over. “We’re not letting you out, pal.”
“If you leave me like this, I’m as good as dead.”
“That’s your problem for biting off more than you can chew,” Shannon says, as she picks her way around the clutter in the boathouse and leaves without a backward glance. “I’m going back to the freighter.”
“I can help you pass over. I can get your messages to the living,” Miles pleads.
“Pass over?” Locke’s father laughs sourly. “We’re about as far over as you can get that we’re practically alive. And your talents are a dime a dozen around here. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry can converse with us if they try hard enough.” He exits in the opposite direction, his jowls still vibrating with laughter.
Miles stares down at the two remaining ghosts who appear unmoved by his plight. He’s dealt with belligerent spirits before, however, he’s never encountered ghosts who seemed to have it more together than the living. It’s intriguing to think that their confidence arises from recognizing that here, being dead is not necessarily any worse than being alive, and if anything, it’s less stressful. “Listen…”
“No, you listen,” Boone says. “Here’s some advice. Forget your plans for fortune and glory and focus on surviving each hour. You’ve gotten off to a bad start by throwing your lot in with Linus and double crossing those blood thirsty monsters on the freighter. Keep your head down and maybe you’ll get out of here alive.”
Miles snorts, “Is that what you did, Casper?”
“Hey, show some respect,” Charlie declares, stepping up so he’s face to face with Miles. “You need us more than we need you. You’re not lucky enough for it always to be a dud.”
“Oh, and you’ll rescue me with your sharp wit?”
“If we can make a difference, we will, but you’re not our priority. Stick close to our friends and maybe we’ll help you out too,” Boone suggests.
“Your friends, like John Locke?”
“Don’t count John out yet. He’s lost his way, but I have hope he’ll find it again,” Boone says solemnly, ignoring Charlie’s eyes rolling around at this assertion.
“Do you want me to put this back?” Charlie asks, holding the grenade up to Miles’s mouth. “I don’t know if it’s better to show you played along or found out his game.”
Miles steps back as far as his chains allow. “There’s no way you’re putting that thing back in my mouth again.”
“Suit yourself.” Charlie lays the disabled grenade gently on the floor in the corner. “You can tell Locke we were here if you want. That should effectively freak him out.”
“Remember,” Boone says, as they depart. “No point looking for trouble. It will find you soon enough.”
This time it was Miles’s turn to roll his eyes at Boone’s earnest words. He watches the last two ghosts leave the boathouse. They confer together in the doorway, and then go their separate ways. Once he’s alone, Miles lets out a long sigh and leans back on his heels, trying the stretch his back and legs as best as possible. He’s achy, thirsty and the itch along his nose still lingers, but now that matters of life and death have been erased, he’s able to focus more on his options.
Considering where he ended up, maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to jump start his own game plan when he didn’t know the rules. Initially it made sense to trust no one but himself. Maybe he did need allies among the dead, as well as the living, if he wanted to survive this mess.
Miles is reconsidering Boone’s advice when he’s interrupted by a loud popping sound behind him. He swings around and is surprised to come face to face with Daniel, or at least he thinks it’s the physicist from the boat. This man has the same twitchy, scattered eyes, but he’s even more dishevelled than normal, with long stringy hair grown passed his shoulders and a goatee. He’s dressed in an oversized tie-dye t-shirt and nothing else. He’s also clutching to his chest what appears to be a white rat.
“Faraday? It doesn’t surprise me that you bought the farm first, but when did you have time to stop by Haight-Ashbury?”
Daniel shifts to hold the rat in one hand and places one boney finger to his lips. It appears to be less a gesture that they need to be quiet, than a sign that he doesn’t want to bother talking which is a bit of a relief considering how Daniel can natter on. Then he reaches out the same finger, topped with a chewed nail, and Miles actually wonders if Daniel’s placing some sort of ghostly curse on him for the constant teasing aboard the Kahana or for throwing him out of the helicopter. Instead, in three quick strokes Daniel alleviates the itch on Miles’s nose.
The relief caused by Daniel’s touch is similar to that of the grenade not exploding. Miles feels renewed and thinks he could now possibly stand here chained forever. “Why?” he asks, perturbed at Daniel’s appearance and what it meant.
In response, Daniel shrugs and flashes him an enigmatic smile. “Just checking in...” He pauses to consult a series of names scribbled in smeared ink across his hand. “…Miles. See you later?”
Daniel presses the rat close to his cheek and disappears in a cloud of popping noises as suddenly as he appeared, leaving Miles alone to ponder what all this meant. At first he had presumed Daniel was dead, though his few short days on the island had already taught Miles not to presume anything. Whatever the case, the one thing the island had going for it was its dead and living were a hell of a lot more interesting than their counterparts back home.
If Miles wasn’t going to leave here with $3.2 million, maybe this was finally his opportunity to gain some insight into the differences, if there were any, between the wants and needs of those whose hearts still beat and those for whom it had stopped, whether they were judgemental spirits, megalomaniac dictators or oddball scientists/nose scratchers.