Lost fic: Entrance
Had been toying with the idea of writing in this second fandom when the sign-up post appeared at hiatus_stories. Read through prompt list looking for ideas, never intending to actually claim one. But what's a body to do when a plot bunny the size of a Mack truck hits you between the eyes?
Written in response to prompt 141a at hiatus_stories: Someone faces temptation.
Beta thanks go to jenthegypsy, who cheered when I claimed this prompt, and growled only a little when I pointed out the small bunny gnawing on her ankle.
Crossposted to hiatus_stories and ficinabottle.
~~ Entrance~~
He gazed at the woman lying beside him, delighting anew in his good fortune.
He could be still no longer; he buried his face in Pen's silky hair, nuzzling her neck and marveling at the simple pleasure of being able to do so. He gently stroked the soft curve of her breast while enjoying again the miracle that against all odds and reason, she'd waited for him, searched for him. Found him.
"Up and at 'em!"
"Just a little longer, yea?"
"Time to move out!"
"What? Pen, wha--"
"Paulo! Desmond! Let's go!"
The crushing weight of reality descended and the precious dream disappeared, shredded by John's fierce whispers. Desmond moved to the spring, went through the motions of a quick wash, then tugged on shoes and shouldered his pack. But some fragment of the dream clung to him; her face stayed before him, bringing both comfort and torment.
* * * * *
Lift up your eyes and look north
John had taken the words from the priest's stick as a personal message. Announced it was directed specifically at him, for why else would his name and birthdate follow the directive? And so they marched north, holding to the heading in an almost fanatical manner, forcing their way through vegetation and scrambling over more solid obstacles they could easily, and surely more comfortably, have avoided through the use of wee detours. The Boxman mulishly insisted on this precision so that no important sign would be missed. Naturally, when the door barred their path, John Locke insisted they must open it and enter, that their companions would undoubtedly be found on the other side.
When the door finally squealed open, they did not find another hatch behind it. No answer, no revelation. Through the door was a tunnel, long and straight, a passageway that disappeared in darkness. John had walked in, loudly counting paces until he reached twenty, then quicky returned, excited.
"It goes north," he said as he came back into the sunlight. "It's as straight and true as an arrow. It starts to ... to slope down about 25 or 30 feet inside," his hands mimicked the tunnel's shape, "but doesn't curve or bend. This is the way we're supposed to go, I'm sure of it." He smiled broadly, and the purity of his belief made his face radiant.
Sayid gave voice to the skepticism the rest of the party felt. "John, there is no guarantee the tunnel remains straight. It could turn out to be a waste of our time."
"Sayid, you still have that compass I gave you? Come with me and I'll show you I'm right."
John led Sayid several paces inside and laid the compass along one wall, patiently watching until the arrow was completely still. What he saw must have convinced him, for Sayid returned, tucking the tool into his pocket and looking resigned.
"It goes north," he said simply.
Sayid insisted they make camp outside the entrance, pointing out there was no way to know how long the tunnel was, and that they were safer sleeping in the open. Locke had agreed, reluctantly, and they had foraged for dinner and found the small spring as well.
* * * * *
They walked single file, the tunnel lit only by flickering torches, John's at the front, a second circle of radience in Sayid's hand at the end. Third in line, Desmond quietly followed Paulo while turning the majority of his attention inward, savoring the memory of the morning's dream and thinking about - torturing himself with - the last time he'd seen Pen.
He'd spoken of getting his honor back. Her eyes, and the single tear sliding down her cheek, said it didn't matter, that he'd never really lost it in the first place. That winning her father's race wouldn't matter to Charles Widmore, didn't matter to her, and shouldn't matter to him.
And he'd walked away.
He'd walked away from her, and still she'd saved his life when he'd thought he couldn't go on. Because all we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us ... I will wait for you. Always.
He closed his eyes as he walked, holding her words against his heart.
But it had been over three years. Over three years without a word, and he'd surely been declared dead long ago. She couldn't possibly still be waiting.
* * * * *
The tunnel's floor eventually leveled off, but continued without any turns or even a gentle change of direction. The cool air and slightly damp walls discouraged conversation, though Paulo felt the need to state the obvious shortly after they began a gentle ascent.
"We're going back up," he said, in case anyone had missed the change.
The exit, like the passage's entrance, was an upright door, and the latch handle moved easily. They slipped outside and waited while Sayid and the Boxman made a careful examination of their surroundings.
"Something's different," Locke's head was canted as if listening while he spoke, his brow furrowed. "Desmond, can you see what it is?"
"I can't see anything more than you can, brother."
"That's all right. I have a feeling our friends are nearby." John continued, unnecessarily repeating warnings he'd been making for the past two days, making sure everyone understood the importance of proceeding as quietly as possible. Sayid drew his gun; Paulo noticed the weapon and followed suit.
They continued heading north for nearly half an hour, and then, as they stepped into a low clearing, snatches of excited conversation came at them from all directions.
"They're over here!"
"To your left, I see them!"
"Don't let 'em get away again!"
Desmond was shocked to see a woman part the barrier of leaves and vines mere feet in front of him. Looking at her, it seemed the fragments from his dream had suddenly reassembled. She stood before him with easy confidence in a casually regal stance, her honey-blonde hair was restrained by some clasp, yet one thick lock had escaped and draped itself across her shoulder, and her tiny smile barely turned up one corner of the full mouth. But what held him in place was her intense blue gaze.
He went numb, unaware that nerveless fingers had allowed his gun to fall. This must be his second sight, but never, after those first few hours, had it shown him something so solid and immediate. His companions might have ceased to exist; the jungle, the whole island faded and Desmond stood rooted, completely incapable of movement.
"Pen." His whisper barely made it past the lump in his throat as he reached out to her.
Her eyes flickered away for a moment. He heard both her yell and a gunshot, and then the ground came up to meet his face.
* * * * *
"How are you feeling?"
His head hurt, and for some reason his eyes and ears seemed to be out of synch, not reporting correctly. Her hair ... the familiar, thick waves spilled down her shoulders and he wanted to reach for it, slide his fingers through the silky weight of it. But the voice, though calm and businesslike as expected, was ... American?
"You're not .... Who are you?"
Sayid's voice came from somewhere outside his view. "She says her name is Juliet. She is one of the Others, but she saved your life."
"I'm sorry?"
"Evidently the man we knew as Paulo was not on the plane. Presumably he was sent to us and assumed the identity of a dead passenger. When we found the group of Others after leaving the tunnel, he was about to shoot you, but her warning drew my attention. I killed him. After that we subdued the rest of their hunting party. We need to leave here as soon as you can walk on your own."
* * * * *
They hurried back through the tunnel, but took the time for Sayid to devise a kind of lock, made from several stout branches and a belt, to keep the door's latch from being turned. At the exit, where early this morning he'd dreamed he was a world away and reuninted with Pen, they blocked the door with two large rocks, one of which was nearly as tall as Sayid.
Feeling safer because of the precautions they'd taken, the group paused for a brief meal. As they went about the simple motions of gathering and preparing the food, Desmond found his eyes drifted again and again to the woman, to Juliet.
The four of them arrived back at the beach camp after full dark. Locke sent Sayid to find Paulo's companion, then called everyone to the signal fire and began sharing the story of their trip. When Sayid joined the gathering holding Nikki by the arm, John explained that there had been spies from the Hostiles within their community, but that he, Sayid and Desmond had taken care of the problem. He then announced that while their trip had not been successful, they now had enough information to go back and rescue Jack, and that Kate and Sawyer were already on their way home.
Desmond admired Locke's timing as the man introduced Juliet, told how she had saved them and encouraged the other survivors to accept her. Though negative mutters could be heard from a few people, there were positive murmurings as well. Des walked over to where Juliet was sitting, and joined her as a show of support.
As the most important topics had already been addressed, Desmond allowed his attention to wander until he found himself in a malestorm of conflicting thoughts and words remembered: his own, Penelope's, even a suddenly-remembered line from some forgotten movie stumbled across while flipping channels on the telly.
... what are you running from?
I've been gone more than three years.
... I will wait for you ...
This is all there is left. This ocean and this place here. We are stuck in a bloody snow globe. There's no outside world; there's no escape.
... all we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us.
... stuck in a bloody snow globe ...
... far better than any dream girl, is one of flesh and blood, one warm and caring, and right before your eyes.
This is all there is left...
Desmond scrubbed his hands over his face in an effort to stop the spiraling train of thought. He looked at the woman beside him, asked if she'd like to take a walk along the shore. They stood up, and he closed his eyes for a moment as the words escaped in a near-silent whisper, "forgive me, Pen."
>^..^<
Written in response to prompt 141a at hiatus_stories: Someone faces temptation.
Beta thanks go to jenthegypsy, who cheered when I claimed this prompt, and growled only a little when I pointed out the small bunny gnawing on her ankle.
Crossposted to hiatus_stories and ficinabottle.
~~ Entrance~~
He gazed at the woman lying beside him, delighting anew in his good fortune.
He could be still no longer; he buried his face in Pen's silky hair, nuzzling her neck and marveling at the simple pleasure of being able to do so. He gently stroked the soft curve of her breast while enjoying again the miracle that against all odds and reason, she'd waited for him, searched for him. Found him.
"Up and at 'em!"
"Just a little longer, yea?"
"Time to move out!"
"What? Pen, wha--"
"Paulo! Desmond! Let's go!"
The crushing weight of reality descended and the precious dream disappeared, shredded by John's fierce whispers. Desmond moved to the spring, went through the motions of a quick wash, then tugged on shoes and shouldered his pack. But some fragment of the dream clung to him; her face stayed before him, bringing both comfort and torment.
* * * * *
Lift up your eyes and look north
John had taken the words from the priest's stick as a personal message. Announced it was directed specifically at him, for why else would his name and birthdate follow the directive? And so they marched north, holding to the heading in an almost fanatical manner, forcing their way through vegetation and scrambling over more solid obstacles they could easily, and surely more comfortably, have avoided through the use of wee detours. The Boxman mulishly insisted on this precision so that no important sign would be missed. Naturally, when the door barred their path, John Locke insisted they must open it and enter, that their companions would undoubtedly be found on the other side.
When the door finally squealed open, they did not find another hatch behind it. No answer, no revelation. Through the door was a tunnel, long and straight, a passageway that disappeared in darkness. John had walked in, loudly counting paces until he reached twenty, then quicky returned, excited.
"It goes north," he said as he came back into the sunlight. "It's as straight and true as an arrow. It starts to ... to slope down about 25 or 30 feet inside," his hands mimicked the tunnel's shape, "but doesn't curve or bend. This is the way we're supposed to go, I'm sure of it." He smiled broadly, and the purity of his belief made his face radiant.
Sayid gave voice to the skepticism the rest of the party felt. "John, there is no guarantee the tunnel remains straight. It could turn out to be a waste of our time."
"Sayid, you still have that compass I gave you? Come with me and I'll show you I'm right."
John led Sayid several paces inside and laid the compass along one wall, patiently watching until the arrow was completely still. What he saw must have convinced him, for Sayid returned, tucking the tool into his pocket and looking resigned.
"It goes north," he said simply.
Sayid insisted they make camp outside the entrance, pointing out there was no way to know how long the tunnel was, and that they were safer sleeping in the open. Locke had agreed, reluctantly, and they had foraged for dinner and found the small spring as well.
* * * * *
They walked single file, the tunnel lit only by flickering torches, John's at the front, a second circle of radience in Sayid's hand at the end. Third in line, Desmond quietly followed Paulo while turning the majority of his attention inward, savoring the memory of the morning's dream and thinking about - torturing himself with - the last time he'd seen Pen.
He'd spoken of getting his honor back. Her eyes, and the single tear sliding down her cheek, said it didn't matter, that he'd never really lost it in the first place. That winning her father's race wouldn't matter to Charles Widmore, didn't matter to her, and shouldn't matter to him.
And he'd walked away.
He'd walked away from her, and still she'd saved his life when he'd thought he couldn't go on. Because all we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us ... I will wait for you. Always.
He closed his eyes as he walked, holding her words against his heart.
But it had been over three years. Over three years without a word, and he'd surely been declared dead long ago. She couldn't possibly still be waiting.
* * * * *
The tunnel's floor eventually leveled off, but continued without any turns or even a gentle change of direction. The cool air and slightly damp walls discouraged conversation, though Paulo felt the need to state the obvious shortly after they began a gentle ascent.
"We're going back up," he said, in case anyone had missed the change.
The exit, like the passage's entrance, was an upright door, and the latch handle moved easily. They slipped outside and waited while Sayid and the Boxman made a careful examination of their surroundings.
"Something's different," Locke's head was canted as if listening while he spoke, his brow furrowed. "Desmond, can you see what it is?"
"I can't see anything more than you can, brother."
"That's all right. I have a feeling our friends are nearby." John continued, unnecessarily repeating warnings he'd been making for the past two days, making sure everyone understood the importance of proceeding as quietly as possible. Sayid drew his gun; Paulo noticed the weapon and followed suit.
They continued heading north for nearly half an hour, and then, as they stepped into a low clearing, snatches of excited conversation came at them from all directions.
"They're over here!"
"To your left, I see them!"
"Don't let 'em get away again!"
Desmond was shocked to see a woman part the barrier of leaves and vines mere feet in front of him. Looking at her, it seemed the fragments from his dream had suddenly reassembled. She stood before him with easy confidence in a casually regal stance, her honey-blonde hair was restrained by some clasp, yet one thick lock had escaped and draped itself across her shoulder, and her tiny smile barely turned up one corner of the full mouth. But what held him in place was her intense blue gaze.
He went numb, unaware that nerveless fingers had allowed his gun to fall. This must be his second sight, but never, after those first few hours, had it shown him something so solid and immediate. His companions might have ceased to exist; the jungle, the whole island faded and Desmond stood rooted, completely incapable of movement.
"Pen." His whisper barely made it past the lump in his throat as he reached out to her.
Her eyes flickered away for a moment. He heard both her yell and a gunshot, and then the ground came up to meet his face.
* * * * *
"How are you feeling?"
His head hurt, and for some reason his eyes and ears seemed to be out of synch, not reporting correctly. Her hair ... the familiar, thick waves spilled down her shoulders and he wanted to reach for it, slide his fingers through the silky weight of it. But the voice, though calm and businesslike as expected, was ... American?
"You're not .... Who are you?"
Sayid's voice came from somewhere outside his view. "She says her name is Juliet. She is one of the Others, but she saved your life."
"I'm sorry?"
"Evidently the man we knew as Paulo was not on the plane. Presumably he was sent to us and assumed the identity of a dead passenger. When we found the group of Others after leaving the tunnel, he was about to shoot you, but her warning drew my attention. I killed him. After that we subdued the rest of their hunting party. We need to leave here as soon as you can walk on your own."
* * * * *
They hurried back through the tunnel, but took the time for Sayid to devise a kind of lock, made from several stout branches and a belt, to keep the door's latch from being turned. At the exit, where early this morning he'd dreamed he was a world away and reuninted with Pen, they blocked the door with two large rocks, one of which was nearly as tall as Sayid.
Feeling safer because of the precautions they'd taken, the group paused for a brief meal. As they went about the simple motions of gathering and preparing the food, Desmond found his eyes drifted again and again to the woman, to Juliet.
The four of them arrived back at the beach camp after full dark. Locke sent Sayid to find Paulo's companion, then called everyone to the signal fire and began sharing the story of their trip. When Sayid joined the gathering holding Nikki by the arm, John explained that there had been spies from the Hostiles within their community, but that he, Sayid and Desmond had taken care of the problem. He then announced that while their trip had not been successful, they now had enough information to go back and rescue Jack, and that Kate and Sawyer were already on their way home.
Desmond admired Locke's timing as the man introduced Juliet, told how she had saved them and encouraged the other survivors to accept her. Though negative mutters could be heard from a few people, there were positive murmurings as well. Des walked over to where Juliet was sitting, and joined her as a show of support.
As the most important topics had already been addressed, Desmond allowed his attention to wander until he found himself in a malestorm of conflicting thoughts and words remembered: his own, Penelope's, even a suddenly-remembered line from some forgotten movie stumbled across while flipping channels on the telly.
... what are you running from?
I've been gone more than three years.
... I will wait for you ...
This is all there is left. This ocean and this place here. We are stuck in a bloody snow globe. There's no outside world; there's no escape.
... all we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us.
... stuck in a bloody snow globe ...
... far better than any dream girl, is one of flesh and blood, one warm and caring, and right before your eyes.
This is all there is left...
Desmond scrubbed his hands over his face in an effort to stop the spiraling train of thought. He looked at the woman beside him, asked if she'd like to take a walk along the shore. They stood up, and he closed his eyes for a moment as the words escaped in a near-silent whisper, "forgive me, Pen."
>^..^<