[lost_dressing] Housewarming
His bed is somewhere. He knows where, he just doesn't feel like getting it. He's cleaned the house from abandonment back to something like human occupation, and the whole place smells like DHARMA brand Pine Sol. Everything but his "bed", the holdover from his time as a recovering cancer patient. It doesn't smell like anything good. Perhaps that's why he couldn't sleep in it. Doesn't quite explain how he went from there to Alex's room, but if he needs an explanation that will make sense in his mind, there it is. He couldn't sleep, so he decided to make himself miserable instead.
In a way he's happy he was enterprising enough to reclaim his house. He couldn't bear the thought of someone else clearing out her room, doing whatever they'd like in it--more drunken revelries that's made everyone other than him cozy in someone else's bed, someone else's tent, anyone else's place but his. For all that he's happy he's stopped people from destroying this room, he thinks it remarkably fitting that the only other company he has in here is a memory, a ghost, someone whose body is lying not too far away from here but will never occupy this room again. He had seen to that.
He's waiting for the tears to come, the avalanche of grief that never quite caught him as he circumnavigated the world, looking to hurt Charles Widmore, looking for something resembling a purpose. So far he's only managed to achieve a persistence in sitting on Alex' bed, clinging to the one drawing she had framed but had hidden over the years. It was a drawing of her and him on the beach, smiling--similar to the picture he hid from Locke, only the stick figures betrayed that this drawing was much older than this picture. That, and she had buried it deep in her closet so she wouldn't have to see it. So she wouldn't have to remember that in some point in her life, she had loved her "father".
The tears aren't coming, but he's finding it hard to move, hard to focus on anything but loneliness and loss.