Fic: Looking For Nothing (1/1)
Title: Looking For Nothing
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dogen, Jack Shephard, David Shephard, Dogen's son, Tom Friendly
Word Count: 1,478
Summary: He wishes the world made sense in numbers. For that_evening, who requested “The Others at the Temple” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title adapted from the poetry of Zen Master Dōgen Zenji.
Author’s Notes: For that_evening: In general, I’m not particularly fond of The Temple people, but admittedly, Dogen kind of intrigued me -- so with a little twisting of canon, here’s a bit of something featuring him for you; I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Queen Day!
Looking For Nothing
Dogen knows numbers, puts his faith in accruals and account balances, decimal points and dividends. He knows numbers.
When his son gets sick, numbers start taking on different meanings. More is sometimes less, and less is sometimes lethal. The things he knows aren’t quite so black and white, so cut and dry; and his confidence in digits, in quantified facts, seem to pale alongside his son’s wearied body in the children’s ward at Osaka University Hospital, his boy’s hair like ash against the sheets as he struggles for every breath.
When the doctors give him the odds, he holds his wife as she sobs into his the collar of his shirt, and he says nothing, because he knows numbers; knows when they can be turned, when they can be overcame and retrieved from the brink.
And he knows when they can’t.
He waits to cry, himself: his palms cupped around his child’s hand, careful of the lines, the drips, once his wife finally sleeps in the chair opposite his own -- he cries, and wishes, then, that he had faith in something bigger, something more.
When the man comes and tells him that he knows a way to make the numbers not matter, he wonders if it means something beyond random chance; something more than probabilities and statistical likelihoods coming together through mere coincidence.
Something strong enough to save the piece of his soul lying, wasting away on that bed.
--------------------------
When the man named Tom gives him his role, he tells Dogen to cultivate a persona, to tailor a story.
He gives him a baseball, waves a tale about his son that seems, somehow, more tragic than the truth -- Dogen had been successful, certainly, but never absent. He’d drank on occasion, but never to excess; made a point not to drive on so much as a sip of wine -- and never, never with his son.
Something sour, evil; something sinister churns in his gut as he listens, holds the ball in his hand -- feels the leather, worn, beneath the pads of his fingers as he takes it in: this part to play.
Tom asks him, idly, what he knows about the Red Sox, as he traces the stitching on the ball, the dirt beneath his nails catching against the thread; and all he can think is that his son played symphonies, not sports.
‘Does he have a son?’ he asks, unable to meet the other man’s eyes as he studies the crooks, the ancient etchings in the Temple walls.
‘No,’ and Dogen can hear the cynicism, the bitter humor in Tom’s laughing, leering voice; ‘he’d want to be that son.’
And so he talks, preaches about balances and scales -- takes the things that make no sense and couches them in what he does know. And it’s not all a bluff, in the end: he understands numbers, sacrifice; but he plays with faith like a child, running blind -- he waits on the promise that Jack Shephard will come to him, and his debt to this place will finally be paid.
He keeps count of the days, though; and the number as they pass in turn slowly becomes unfathomable, insurmountable -- and his faith still leans toward numbers, in the end.
--------------------------
When he remembers -- awakens in a bed next to a woman he’d loved in another life, another time; the mother of his child -- he knows immediately what he’s supposed to do.
He knows what he’s supposed to do before he knows his son is sleeping in the room down the hall; grown and healed and safe, so safe -- and that hurts more than anything: that he remembers his duty, before his purpose.
He pads to the kitchen before sunrise, looks at the calendar on the refrigerator; reads in his own hand meeting times, service groups and scrapbooking noted in a more feminine script; and on the square marking the 24th -- today -- in his son’s sloppy scrawl, is written Williams Conservatory, 6:45 PM.
It means something; he needs to be there. Not that he’d have missed it for the world.
Yet when Dogen catches Jack Shephard walking in halfway through an audition, the pieces -- the particulars -- fall into place, like an equation coming together and finally, finally, balancing out. He’s meant to step in, to plant the seeds of awakening in this man’s consciousness -- prepare him for what’s coming, what’s already come and gone; remind him of who he was and what he’s done, so that he can move on -- so that he can know peace.
But Dogen can see the light in his eyes, doesn’t miss the way he swallows around the emotion that rises when his son plays Chopin; the regret and the hope, the hurt and the shame that swirls in his gaze as his lower lis trembles almost imperceptibly, almost hidden -- and underneath the torment, Dogen thinks that maybe there’s already peace there: the first inklings of something worthwhile for this lonely man in the shadows, at the back of the hall. Perhaps this would be simpler than he’d suspected; simpler than things had been in that Temple, the scent of smoke at their backs.
It’s not until David Shephard has thanked his panel of judges over the echoing hum of his final notes that Dogen remembers: Jack Shephard doesn’t have any children.
Jack Shephard has no son.
Lead settles in his stomach, his chest tight as he watches Jack, realizes the implications of his purpose here, his intentions on this night. He draws his own son close, congratulates him with all the pride, the joy that swells in him before letting go, and it’s simple -- black and white; he knows what he needs to do, now.
It’s not what he was meant for; but maybe it’s what he’s made for.
Because he knows too well what it’s like to lose a child; and whatever lies beyond this place, this world, he knows, knows that he’ll burn for the sin of inflicting that same pain on another. Some things are simply unforgivable.
For the first time in this strange, ephemeral life, he remembers the sight of his son: still, his chest barely rising with his breaths, the whir of machines the only sign of life; he remembers what it’s like to have meaning wrenched away.
“They’re too young to have this kind of pressure.” The words are out of his mouth before he can ponder what it means to alter cosmic plans, to twist destiny with his own human hands, his own human heart. “Aren’t they?” So is anyone. So were you.
“It’s hard to watch, and be unable to help.” But I’m going to help you, Jack Shephard, he thinks to himself; I’m going to help you now, the only way that I know.
“Your son has a gift.” He stares at Jack intently, hopes the man can see what he means, the words beneath his words: Your son is a gift. Cherish him; cherish him for as long as you have left.
“How long as he been playing?” Find out. Ask him. Talk to him. Show him that you love him, more than any life you’ve known; he may be gone tomorrow.
He swallows hard -- knows to think of tomorrow might even be too hopeful; but he knows, knows that just a moment more before the end is worth everything.
Jack walks away from him, his shoulders heaving in the retreat against the tense line of his spine, and Dogen thinks that maybe his role, in the end, had nothing to do with baseballs and car crashes. There are no numbers, no digits -- no guarantees, and maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t know if it will help, doesn’t know if this is will end for good or ill. He doesn’t know.
But he thinks, perhaps, that he has faith; faith that this -- finally -- is right.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dogen, Jack Shephard, David Shephard, Dogen's son, Tom Friendly
Word Count: 1,478
Summary: He wishes the world made sense in numbers. For that_evening, who requested “The Others at the Temple” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title adapted from the poetry of Zen Master Dōgen Zenji.
Author’s Notes: For that_evening: In general, I’m not particularly fond of The Temple people, but admittedly, Dogen kind of intrigued me -- so with a little twisting of canon, here’s a bit of something featuring him for you; I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Queen Day!
Looking For Nothing
Dogen knows numbers, puts his faith in accruals and account balances, decimal points and dividends. He knows numbers.
When his son gets sick, numbers start taking on different meanings. More is sometimes less, and less is sometimes lethal. The things he knows aren’t quite so black and white, so cut and dry; and his confidence in digits, in quantified facts, seem to pale alongside his son’s wearied body in the children’s ward at Osaka University Hospital, his boy’s hair like ash against the sheets as he struggles for every breath.
When the doctors give him the odds, he holds his wife as she sobs into his the collar of his shirt, and he says nothing, because he knows numbers; knows when they can be turned, when they can be overcame and retrieved from the brink.
And he knows when they can’t.
He waits to cry, himself: his palms cupped around his child’s hand, careful of the lines, the drips, once his wife finally sleeps in the chair opposite his own -- he cries, and wishes, then, that he had faith in something bigger, something more.
When the man comes and tells him that he knows a way to make the numbers not matter, he wonders if it means something beyond random chance; something more than probabilities and statistical likelihoods coming together through mere coincidence.
Something strong enough to save the piece of his soul lying, wasting away on that bed.
--------------------------
When the man named Tom gives him his role, he tells Dogen to cultivate a persona, to tailor a story.
He gives him a baseball, waves a tale about his son that seems, somehow, more tragic than the truth -- Dogen had been successful, certainly, but never absent. He’d drank on occasion, but never to excess; made a point not to drive on so much as a sip of wine -- and never, never with his son.
Something sour, evil; something sinister churns in his gut as he listens, holds the ball in his hand -- feels the leather, worn, beneath the pads of his fingers as he takes it in: this part to play.
Tom asks him, idly, what he knows about the Red Sox, as he traces the stitching on the ball, the dirt beneath his nails catching against the thread; and all he can think is that his son played symphonies, not sports.
‘Does he have a son?’ he asks, unable to meet the other man’s eyes as he studies the crooks, the ancient etchings in the Temple walls.
‘No,’ and Dogen can hear the cynicism, the bitter humor in Tom’s laughing, leering voice; ‘he’d want to be that son.’
And so he talks, preaches about balances and scales -- takes the things that make no sense and couches them in what he does know. And it’s not all a bluff, in the end: he understands numbers, sacrifice; but he plays with faith like a child, running blind -- he waits on the promise that Jack Shephard will come to him, and his debt to this place will finally be paid.
He keeps count of the days, though; and the number as they pass in turn slowly becomes unfathomable, insurmountable -- and his faith still leans toward numbers, in the end.
--------------------------
When he remembers -- awakens in a bed next to a woman he’d loved in another life, another time; the mother of his child -- he knows immediately what he’s supposed to do.
He knows what he’s supposed to do before he knows his son is sleeping in the room down the hall; grown and healed and safe, so safe -- and that hurts more than anything: that he remembers his duty, before his purpose.
He pads to the kitchen before sunrise, looks at the calendar on the refrigerator; reads in his own hand meeting times, service groups and scrapbooking noted in a more feminine script; and on the square marking the 24th -- today -- in his son’s sloppy scrawl, is written Williams Conservatory, 6:45 PM.
It means something; he needs to be there. Not that he’d have missed it for the world.
Yet when Dogen catches Jack Shephard walking in halfway through an audition, the pieces -- the particulars -- fall into place, like an equation coming together and finally, finally, balancing out. He’s meant to step in, to plant the seeds of awakening in this man’s consciousness -- prepare him for what’s coming, what’s already come and gone; remind him of who he was and what he’s done, so that he can move on -- so that he can know peace.
But Dogen can see the light in his eyes, doesn’t miss the way he swallows around the emotion that rises when his son plays Chopin; the regret and the hope, the hurt and the shame that swirls in his gaze as his lower lis trembles almost imperceptibly, almost hidden -- and underneath the torment, Dogen thinks that maybe there’s already peace there: the first inklings of something worthwhile for this lonely man in the shadows, at the back of the hall. Perhaps this would be simpler than he’d suspected; simpler than things had been in that Temple, the scent of smoke at their backs.
It’s not until David Shephard has thanked his panel of judges over the echoing hum of his final notes that Dogen remembers: Jack Shephard doesn’t have any children.
Jack Shephard has no son.
Lead settles in his stomach, his chest tight as he watches Jack, realizes the implications of his purpose here, his intentions on this night. He draws his own son close, congratulates him with all the pride, the joy that swells in him before letting go, and it’s simple -- black and white; he knows what he needs to do, now.
It’s not what he was meant for; but maybe it’s what he’s made for.
Because he knows too well what it’s like to lose a child; and whatever lies beyond this place, this world, he knows, knows that he’ll burn for the sin of inflicting that same pain on another. Some things are simply unforgivable.
For the first time in this strange, ephemeral life, he remembers the sight of his son: still, his chest barely rising with his breaths, the whir of machines the only sign of life; he remembers what it’s like to have meaning wrenched away.
“They’re too young to have this kind of pressure.” The words are out of his mouth before he can ponder what it means to alter cosmic plans, to twist destiny with his own human hands, his own human heart. “Aren’t they?” So is anyone. So were you.
“It’s hard to watch, and be unable to help.” But I’m going to help you, Jack Shephard, he thinks to himself; I’m going to help you now, the only way that I know.
“Your son has a gift.” He stares at Jack intently, hopes the man can see what he means, the words beneath his words: Your son is a gift. Cherish him; cherish him for as long as you have left.
“How long as he been playing?” Find out. Ask him. Talk to him. Show him that you love him, more than any life you’ve known; he may be gone tomorrow.
He swallows hard -- knows to think of tomorrow might even be too hopeful; but he knows, knows that just a moment more before the end is worth everything.
Jack walks away from him, his shoulders heaving in the retreat against the tense line of his spine, and Dogen thinks that maybe his role, in the end, had nothing to do with baseballs and car crashes. There are no numbers, no digits -- no guarantees, and maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t know if it will help, doesn’t know if this is will end for good or ill. He doesn’t know.
But he thinks, perhaps, that he has faith; faith that this -- finally -- is right.