the island's children; richard/alex; g
Her father is in a mood, and it is her fault. Alex can tell. He doesn’t yell or hit; she almost wishes he would. Ben is not one to expend valuable time and energy trying to shock a little girl into obedience. He simply ignores her and goes about his business-reading, making little notes, drinking tea, all without the merest acknowledgement of her existence. She sits on the carpet of the living room, chubby legs sprawled in front of her and her fingers in her mouth as she wills him to grant her even a glance. Hot, sluggish tears leak from her eyes, but she is silent.
It hurts more than anything he could do or say, and deep in her developing mind, she knows he knows that as well. Never ask a question without already knowing the answer, and never execute a plan unless the objective is already in sight: that’s the way of Benjamin Linus.
At last, with a choked whimper, Alex gets up and darts for the front door, her unruly dark curls bouncing along behind her. Perhaps she’ll die alone in the jungle, starved and bloodied, her face expressing the vague recognition of death. That would teach him. He’d cry so long and loud he’d dissolve into a little puddle called Ben. Or maybe he’d just keep reading and drinking tea.
But just as her determined little hand reaches up for the door knob, it turns and the door swings open. She hears the man’s voice, deeper and younger than her father’s, before she sees him.
“Ben, Ellie’s got the Orchid up and running…” He trails off to look down at the wretched creature blocking his way. It’s the Frenchwoman’s girl, called Alexandra, if he remembers correctly (and he always does). She was a rosy-cheeked toddler the last time he saw her. Four years with Ben have not seen her well; she is well-fed and well-clothed, but there is a certain hollowness around her eyes, and her posture, even as she stands stock-still at the door, is slumped. She shrinks as he watches, trying to make herself as small and unremarkable as possible.
“Hello, Richard.” Ben glances up from his notebook. “Oh. That’s just Alex. She’s being punished.” After jotting down a final line, he leans back in his chair. “You were saying?”
“The Orchid’s nearly in full working order, so that’s two we’ve gotten to so far.” He pauses to watch Alex sit on the floor against the wall. Her eyes never leave his face, like she is trying to memorize him before he can leave. Their desperate focus almost unnerves him.
At Ben’s quiet cough, he returns to business. “But there’s something wrong with the elevator. It’s stuck between floors at the moment, and the gap is too narrow for any of us to reach into. It’ll take some time to fix.”
“I can do it.” The voice is quiet but sharp and both men turn to the little girl in the corner. “I’m small enough. I can help you, if you want.”
Her father studies her with unwavering eyes before saying, “Yes, Alex. Good girl. Richard, if you wouldn’t mind…?”
Richard shakes his head no and opens the door wider to let her in. She slips under his outstretched arm and over the threshold faster than a tomcat being let out for the night. Richard turns to say goodbye to his leader, but Ben has already moved on, absorbed with the next thing on his desk. Richard leaves without a word.
Waiting for him as he makes his way down the porch, she stares nakedly again, as a child will do. He stops, gives her a concerned once-over, nods and says, “Follow me, Alex.”
He has not taken one step before she is at his side, little hands holding fast to his sleeve. She entraps his arm to her chest, anchoring herself to him and keeping him there. Her shoulders tremble as she cries into the crook of his elbow, quiet but heavy.
Before he quite knows what it is he’s doing, his old, old knees bend and they are eye-to-eye. He says nothing, because nothing can make her feel better. Except perhaps time, which he has plenty of.
She is so young. Younger than he ever was. There are so few children here but she is the island’s child, and in that way they are alike. Even now, he can see a strangeness, an otherness in her that a normal little girl would never have. His face softens and he lets her have her cry. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment as she rubs her eyes, but a hand on her shoulder gives her something like peace.
“Come on,” he murmurs. She nods and he picks her up in his arms as if she weighs no more than a ragdoll. Her head fits by his collarbone, and her hands are folded neatly, like a lady in a carriage. The dappled sunlight plays on her face, and suddenly her eyes brighten in their hollows, like flashes of water at the bottom of a well. She smells the air and closes her eyes, and one arm lolls to the side as she drifts off to sleep.
He looks at her, and something shifts in him. He cannot name it, but it is there. For the man who is beyond time, beyond life as most people know it to be, this is a first. He allows himself a small smile, and continues on their way. In moments they are gone, swallowed by the green.
It hurts more than anything he could do or say, and deep in her developing mind, she knows he knows that as well. Never ask a question without already knowing the answer, and never execute a plan unless the objective is already in sight: that’s the way of Benjamin Linus.
At last, with a choked whimper, Alex gets up and darts for the front door, her unruly dark curls bouncing along behind her. Perhaps she’ll die alone in the jungle, starved and bloodied, her face expressing the vague recognition of death. That would teach him. He’d cry so long and loud he’d dissolve into a little puddle called Ben. Or maybe he’d just keep reading and drinking tea.
But just as her determined little hand reaches up for the door knob, it turns and the door swings open. She hears the man’s voice, deeper and younger than her father’s, before she sees him.
“Ben, Ellie’s got the Orchid up and running…” He trails off to look down at the wretched creature blocking his way. It’s the Frenchwoman’s girl, called Alexandra, if he remembers correctly (and he always does). She was a rosy-cheeked toddler the last time he saw her. Four years with Ben have not seen her well; she is well-fed and well-clothed, but there is a certain hollowness around her eyes, and her posture, even as she stands stock-still at the door, is slumped. She shrinks as he watches, trying to make herself as small and unremarkable as possible.
“Hello, Richard.” Ben glances up from his notebook. “Oh. That’s just Alex. She’s being punished.” After jotting down a final line, he leans back in his chair. “You were saying?”
“The Orchid’s nearly in full working order, so that’s two we’ve gotten to so far.” He pauses to watch Alex sit on the floor against the wall. Her eyes never leave his face, like she is trying to memorize him before he can leave. Their desperate focus almost unnerves him.
At Ben’s quiet cough, he returns to business. “But there’s something wrong with the elevator. It’s stuck between floors at the moment, and the gap is too narrow for any of us to reach into. It’ll take some time to fix.”
“I can do it.” The voice is quiet but sharp and both men turn to the little girl in the corner. “I’m small enough. I can help you, if you want.”
Her father studies her with unwavering eyes before saying, “Yes, Alex. Good girl. Richard, if you wouldn’t mind…?”
Richard shakes his head no and opens the door wider to let her in. She slips under his outstretched arm and over the threshold faster than a tomcat being let out for the night. Richard turns to say goodbye to his leader, but Ben has already moved on, absorbed with the next thing on his desk. Richard leaves without a word.
Waiting for him as he makes his way down the porch, she stares nakedly again, as a child will do. He stops, gives her a concerned once-over, nods and says, “Follow me, Alex.”
He has not taken one step before she is at his side, little hands holding fast to his sleeve. She entraps his arm to her chest, anchoring herself to him and keeping him there. Her shoulders tremble as she cries into the crook of his elbow, quiet but heavy.
Before he quite knows what it is he’s doing, his old, old knees bend and they are eye-to-eye. He says nothing, because nothing can make her feel better. Except perhaps time, which he has plenty of.
She is so young. Younger than he ever was. There are so few children here but she is the island’s child, and in that way they are alike. Even now, he can see a strangeness, an otherness in her that a normal little girl would never have. His face softens and he lets her have her cry. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment as she rubs her eyes, but a hand on her shoulder gives her something like peace.
“Come on,” he murmurs. She nods and he picks her up in his arms as if she weighs no more than a ragdoll. Her head fits by his collarbone, and her hands are folded neatly, like a lady in a carriage. The dappled sunlight plays on her face, and suddenly her eyes brighten in their hollows, like flashes of water at the bottom of a well. She smells the air and closes her eyes, and one arm lolls to the side as she drifts off to sleep.
He looks at her, and something shifts in him. He cannot name it, but it is there. For the man who is beyond time, beyond life as most people know it to be, this is a first. He allows himself a small smile, and continues on their way. In moments they are gone, swallowed by the green.