fic: the child(ren)'s chours (walt, lost)
the child(ren)'s chorus
fandom: lost
disclaimer: not mine
rating: pg
word count: 1010
characters: walt; ensemble
summary: stop shaking the snow globe, son. (the children never forget).
notes: spoilers through season two.
-
son of man,
you cannot say, or guess, for you know only
a heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
and the dry stone no sound of water.
(t.s. eliot)
-
His first day out of the hospital - delirium, the doctors had mumbled behind clipboards, pencils and straight-line smiles, exhaustion - they make him see a therapist.
“You know, Walt,” she says, straightening her skirt about her knees. “Polar bears don’t live in the jungle. They live in the arctic, in the cold, where there’s snow. They never - they couldn’t - live in the jungle. You know this. Right?”
He nods and watches the fish swim the length of the bright tank behind her left shoulder.
The nameplate on her desk reads Libby.
-
His father shaves his beard on their second day back and smiles at the mirror.
“See?” he says, pouring cereal in a bowl, sharp noise against the hum of the air conditioning and the traffic report on the radio, volume turned too low. He runs a hand over his clean jaw. “Doesn’t that look better?”
Walt drips milk down his chin.
-
Later that afternoon Walt sits on white bed sheets and comforter and listens as his father arranges job interviews on the phone.
Cartoons are interrupted for breaking news, and the newscaster scrambles Iraq with freedom with terrorist and across the screen it scrolls:
Hunted Terrorist Sayid Jarrah Dead.
“Dad!” Walt says, and Michael turns toward the screen, a familiar face flashing there.
“Yeah,” Michael says. “Wouldn’t peg you as a hardcore American patriot.” There’s a laugh and the dialing of the phone.
“No, but, Dad,” Walt tries again, in vain - Michael introduces himself with a cheerful greeting, a condensed version of his resume.
“We know him,” Walt whispers.
-
“What about Vincent?” Walt asks that night.
Michael has a hand at the back of his neck, his face turned away toward the closed door -
“I’m sorry, man.”
He grits his teeth like there is sand.
-
His father doesn’t sleep much at night.
Michael thinks Walt doesn’t know this, he thinks closed eyes are trained on the wall next to him, that they’re not really slanted open and slight and watching him.
He’ll open the curtains in their hotel room - we’ll get a real place soon, man. real soon. a nice place, a home - and city lights will play against the glass, across his face -
“I would’ve done it again. I would’ve done it again in a heartbeat,” he’ll whisper.
His breath will cloud the glass (hot, angry, honest, sorry).
-
Time moves slowly here.
The press crowds the lobby with microphones and cameras poised, hungry for sound bites and footage.
They call them miracles, survivors.
His father always swallows funny at that word -
He never did explain to him how he arranged their ride home.
(When Walt asks him, Michael shakes his head - stop, Walt, please. When he asks again, Michael blames Brian Porter, and none of this makes sense).
-
“He’s…special,” Brian had said, on more than one occasion.
Let’s not be silly: Walt heard him.
-
They buy a house, California, and Michael returns to construction, drawing pictures on placemats at night, take-out containers in the trash.
But, first -
Michael talks about having the home inspected first, muttering about how the two of them don’t need any more disappointments. Walt stares at maps as his father speaks and his fingers travel along the coast of California into the bright blue sea and down.
There are packed boxes Walt can’t explain and Michael carries. A white van pulls up, a bald man steps out.
“Hello, there!” he calls; he shakes Michael’s hand.
They talk quietly, bent heads, and Walt watches the sky.
When he looks up, he breathes “Mr. Locke?” and the man smiles, a finger pressed to his lips - shh.
-
“You remember the beach, Dad?” he asks one night.
“I haven’t been in years,” Michael answers, distracted.
Walt shivers; he dreams of creaking metal and burning cloth. He dreams of the trees.
-
On his father’s computer, he types in oceanic 815 crash.
His search doesn’t yield an answer.
-
They sometimes eat fast food. There’s a place that serves chicken just a little down the street, to the left, past the traffic light that stays red too long.
Walt shuffles in behind is father, and when the man behind the counter says, welcome, Walt’s fingernails line the insides of his palm.
If his father notices - the curls, the smile, the weight - he doesn’t say a word.
He does say keep the change.
He says, dude - thanks.
-
“We have to go back!” he yells that night, his father’s face a frown, bewildered.
“Back where, Walt?”
“We have to go back to them - we have to - ” His nostrils flare and he takes a deep breath.
“Dad, you promised. You promised me. When we were in the hospital, you promised me we’d go back.”
Michael looks away (like always, Walt would say) and under his breath he says: “I have to call Libby, I can’t do this anymore, I have to call Libby - ”
-
Libby stands and moves behind her desk, his file laid out on polished wood; Walt fidgets.
She makes a note on a post-it, sleek silver pen, and when she looks up, she smiles.
“I’m referring you to another doctor, Walt. A better doctor. He’s a good man, a great man -
Have your father call on Monday and set up an appointment.”
Walt leaves her office, business card in hand.
It reads Dr. Benjamin Linus on the front.
-
“He’s safe now,” The Boy says and his Sister holds his hand.
“Good,” she sighs. “Good.” The other Children nod and smile, white teeth and grimy clothes.
Rain starts to fall. She holds the teddy bear a little tighter.
-
fin.