Because You Left, Chapter Eight
Title: Because You Left, Chapter Eight: Contact
Pairing/Character(s): Kate Austen, Roger Linus, Ben Linus Anderson, Holly Holliday, Michael Dawson (briefly), Blaine Linus Anderson, Wesley Kim, Sun Hwa Kwon, Ji Yeon Kwon, David Karofsky, Paul Karofsky (aka Leslie Arzt), Sayid Jarrah. Various Warblers. Couple dead people.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief, vague discussion of kidnapping and possible assault.
Word Count: About 7000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X07, "The Substitute."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: In which we see dead people.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
This chapter has a lot more LOST in it than previous chapters do. Like, a lot. If you are a non-LOSTie and you are confused by anything, please either ask in the comments or via pm. I will answer.
1977
He watches her vanish into the shadows beyond the sonic fence, and he doesn't say anything. He can't say anything. Just stands there and watches until her blue dress and blonde hair are long gone, like everything else, and he doesn't say anything at all.
Alice, he thinks. Alice in Wonderland. That's what she looked like.
Ben was always scared of that movie. 'Course, Ben's always been scared of everything. Sometimes, Roger even thinks the boy is scared of him. Never mind that everything Roger's done since Emily died has been for that boy, never mind everything he gave up by coming to this island to earn a better life for them (only to wind up some sort of glorified janitor, and how the hell is that "working for a better tomorrow," him making supply runs and emptying trash cans and generally shoveling these eggheads' shit? He'd like to know.) But at least it seemed to be good for him and Ben, at least at first -- Ben's never liked new people, so he sort of latched himself to his dad's side, holding his hand and hiding behind him. And yeah, he was way too big to be acting like that, way too old to be that scared of strangers, but at least it was something.
Now it's like every time Roger looks at him, the boy flinches. Runs off to find that girl, Annie, or if she's not around, he finds some other skirt to hide behind. That Miss Shannon, maybe, who helps around the school, or even worse, that --
"Evening, Roger."
Well. Speak of the god-damned devil.
He turns around, slowly, and watches the new head of security stroll up to him like she owns the whole god-damned island. Like she's better than him. Better than everyone. It takes everything he has just to be polite. "Evening, Ms. Austen."
She doesn't tell him to call her Katie. Everyone else, it's "Call me Katie," but not with Roger. She doesn't like him. Doesn't trust him. The feeling is undeniably mutual. "You looking for something out there?" she asks, settling her hands on her hips. Trying to look tough, like she's not just some little girl dressed up in a man's uniform, doing a man's job.
Hell, if it's not the most unfair thing he's ever seen in his life.
"Just... thinking," he says, and it comes out easy enough, but it's plain from her face that she doesn't buy it. And hell, it's not the truth either, but what's he supposed to say, exactly? Just thought I saw my dead wife come out of the jungle, so I came for a closer look? Like hell. She'd only ask him how much he'd had to drink that night (and yeah, he'd had some, but not enough to start seeing dead people unless there was something damned queer happening).
"Huh," Ms. Austen says, and doesn't sound impressed. "You know, that fence doesn't do a lot to keep the natives out." It didn't do much to keep her out, either. But Roger's not dumb enough to say so. "So you might want to find somewhere else to think about things. Like your house, maybe. Where your son is. You know, Ben? Your son?"
"'Course," Roger says, and forces a smile. Because he might not like Ms. Austen; he might in fact be pretty damned angry about the way she came strolling out of the jungle with her friends and just took over the damn place, leapfrogging over several other highly qualified people who'd been here a lot longer than she had; he might hate the way she's always jumping into his business and telling him how to raise his son, but she's still the head of security and he's not dumb enough to piss her off. "Yeah, of course. Guess I'll be seeing you around, Ms. Austen."
She nods, and doesn't take her eyes off him once, watching him as he walks away from the fence, around her, and back towards the Barracks. "Goodnight, Roger," she says, once he's turned around and is heading towards home.
He keeps walking.
But then something starts to feel off to him. Like before, when he saw Emily come out of the woods and start heading towards his house. And it's not about being drunk; it's something else entirely. Something... Something he'd only feel on the island, for whatever reason. So he turns back.
Ms. Austen is still standing near the fence, staring out at the jungle. And it's the damnedest thing, but Roger'd swear that, for just a second, he sees a man in a business suit, staring back at her. Only for a second, and then the man is gone again. Like Emily. And Ms. Austen turns and heads off again, north along the line of the fence, like nothing happened at all.
And maybe it's just his imagination, but still. Roger can't help wondering if he's not the only one seeing dead people in the jungle.
*
now
Every so often, he sees a familiar face out there in the world.
It's usually nothing, of course. Just his mind, searching for patterns. Looking for someone he can recognize. Someone from the Dharma Initiative, maybe; he still thinks of Annie every time he sees a woman with light eyes, of Miss Katie every time he sees a head of curly hair. Or sometimes he sees one of his own people, although that's rarer. But he's seen Richard a few times, actually seen him off the Island, out on the streets. And there's another man, one he never really knew, a blond. Sometimes Ben sees him, and the man sees Ben, and usually they acknowledge each other from a distance and then move on. Ben's not particularly worried about that man. He's not worried about anyone that he recognizes.
It's when someone recognizes him. When some stranger, someone Ben has never seen before, takes one look at him and just stares, like they're seeing a ghost. That's what makes Ben particularly nervous.
Of course, Charles has never sent anyone that Ben knows personally to come and fetch him home to the Island. It's always been strangers.
He muses on this as he sits tucked into a corner table in this shabby little pub that Holly has brought them to, as he watches Holly stand at the bar, chatting with the bartender. She smiles; she leans in; she tilts her head back when she laughs. It's just this side of blatant. And yet, the bartender barely even looks at her, just quick glances now and then when she's particularly loud.
Mostly, his eyes are fixed on Ben.
Ben, of course, has no idea who the man is.
He is well aware that Holly is attempting to draw him into something; for the moment, he's willing to humor her. At least until he's figured out what she wants.
"Scotch for the gentleman," Holly says, crushing peanut shells under her high heels as she strides towards their table, drinks in hand. She sets a tumbler down in front of Ben, leaning just a little closer than she should, holding the position just a little longer than she should. She smiles. It's a disarmingly innocent expression. Then she pulls back, sliding into her own seat with her beer still firmly in hand, and takes a sip of it before she continues speaking. "Oh, and I already told Michael you'd be paying. That's not a problem, is it?"
Ben just raises his eyebrows. Whatever her real agenda is, Miss Holliday's approach is... well, it's unique. He'll give her that. "Michael?" he asks.
Holly shrugs and waves her hand at the bar; the bartender is currently serving someone else, but he glances at them again, like he knows he's being talked about. "The bartender. Really great guy. Kind of surprised you don't know him, actually. His son goes to Dalton. With Blaine."
"Really," Ben says, quietly. He looks down at his scotch, looks up at the bartender -- the man is still watching him.
"Really," Holly agrees, taking another sip of her beer. "He's an interesting character. Well, I mean they both are, really -- him and his son -- but Walt doesn't talk a lot. I guess it's been kind of rough on him, these last few years. What with the plane crash and everything."
Ben blinks at her, his fingers closing around his glass, feeling it cool and smooth under his fingers. He's not planning on drinking anything that Holly Holliday gives him, but he feels that he'll be wanting something to hold on to soon enough. "Plane crash," he repeats.
Holly nods. "Yeah, have you heard about that?" she asks. "I mean, I guess you haven't, since this is the first time you two've met. I mean, you haven't really met yet, but you know what I mean. Seen each other. Whatever. Not that it would matter, really, since he doesn't talk about it anyway." She leans in, arms folded on the table, wicked smile on her face. "It's a secret," she whispers. Then she leans back, picks up her beer, takes another sip. "But it's the craziest thing. See, I guess they were on that plane that went down in the Pacific about two years back. You know, Oceanic 815? The one that crashed in the middle of the ocean, with absolutely no survivors? And yet here they are. Isn't that crazy?"
"That's..." Ben clears his throat, and wonders absently where he'll be able to find a roster for that particular flight. Both to verify Holly's claims, and... well. If one man can walk away from a plane crash, why can't another? Or several? He needs to be prepared. "That's unbelievable, Holly."
"And what's really crazy," Holly continues, cheerfully, "is that Michael and Walt? They're not the only ones. There's at least two other people from that plane crash that are just... walking around. In Ohio. Within like, fifty miles of Lima." She beams at him. "Isn't that just the weirdest thing?"
Ben will definitely need that roster. And possibly an exit strategy, if it comes to that. Not that he wants to, not when they've just gotten settled again -- and now there's the Warblers, too, and Kurt, and there's no way that Blaine won't take this badly, and of course if they leave now it'll throw off whatever treatment Ben needs for his -- But he'll do what he has to, in the end. He'll keep Blaine safe. Even if it kills him.
Which it might, this time. It really might.
He's got the tumbler raised halfway to his mouth before he remembers that he probably shouldn't drink anything that this woman has given him, and lowers the glass again.
Holly laughs at him. "Chill out, Ben," she says. "I didn't slip you a roofie. And Michael didn't mess with your drink either, trust me. I was watching his hands the entire time. You know, you can tell a lot about a guy from his hands? And by 'a lot about a guy,' I mean a lot about his --" Ben feels his eyebrow arching up, and Holly laughs again. "Jesus, no wonder your students are intimidated by you. I mean, I'm a grown woman, and even I'm a little nervous right now. Well. Nervous and also kind of turned on. Seriously, that scary-intense thing you've got going on right now is totally working for me."
Ben rests the glass on the table, folds his hands together, and leans back. "Holly," he says, quietly. "What do you want?"
The manic gleam fades from her eyes as quickly as it came; she tilts her head, studying him for a few moments. Then she takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again, it's slower. More controlled. "Guess you’ve got me pegged, huh?” she asks.
It’s not really a question, but Ben answers it as though it was. “If I had you pegged, Holly,” he says, “I wouldn’t be here now.”
She smiles at him, looking more than a little pleased with herself. “Really,” she says. “Wow. I mean, not like I wasn’t trying to cover my tracks, because I totally was. But... I mean, you’re good. Really good. I honestly expected you to have something on me right now, just because... Because you’re you.”
“Oh, I have something,” Ben says, quietly correcting her. It’s an outright lie, of course, but he’s good at that, lying. And he doesn’t have much shame in it, either. Not when he’s trying to protect his son. “Not much, but I have something. I simply haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.”
Holly’s smile broadens. “It's Penny,” she says. “Isn't it? You’ve got Penny Widmore.”
It takes everything that Ben has not to react to that name, Widmore; unwilling to trust his voice, he simply inclines his head, implying acknowledgement.
“Look,” Holly says, leaning in a little bit. She spreads her hands flat on the table, as if laying down all her cards. It's almost as though she was expecting this; not for the first time, Ben is extremely grateful for his reputation. “I know your history with Charles Widmore. I mean, I don’t know all of it -- I don’t think anyone knows all of it. But what you need to understand is that I’m not here for you. What I’m doing -- what Miss Widmore hired me for? It’s got nothing to do with you. Not really.”
“You’ll forgive my saying so, Miss Holliday,” Ben says, careful to keep his voice calm and neutral, implying nothing, “but I find that extremely hard to believe.”
Holly shakes her head, settling back a little in her seat. “Okay," she says. "I mean it does, but it doesn’t. I mean... I’m not here because of you. I’m here because Michael’s here, and Michael’s here because of you. So I guess in that respect, yeah. It’s got a lot to do with you. But I'm not planning on... I'm not here to like, kidnap you, or anything. If that's what you were thinking. Which, you know, you would be entitled to think. Considering.”
Ben blinks at her, closing his hand once more around the glass of whisky in front of him. It's a lot of words, but not necessarily a lot of content. He needs to coax more specifics out of her. “You’re here for Michael,” he repeats.
“Well, not him, either,” Holly says. “I mean, on the one hand, I need him almost as much as I need you. But on the other hand, he's basically just some construction worker from New York who got on the wrong plane and then crashed on an island and wound up stuck in this mess that he doesn’t really understand. He doesn’t really know who you are or why you’re important; he just knows that he needs to get his hands on you and your son. But there's someone else, someone running the show. That's who I want."
"Well, you're ambitious," Ben says. "I'll give you that." He picks up his glass, swirls it so the whisky comes up the sides and slides back down again, but he doesn’t drink. Not yet. He will, if Holly's saying what he thinks she's saying. But he needs to be sure, first. "And you need me for... what, exactly?”
“Like I said, you’re good.” Holly reaches out for her beer again, turning the bottle in her hands. She is, possibly, a bit nervous about this part. Ben keeps his eyes on her, unwilling to give her a moment to relax. “If you wanted to, you could walk right out of this bar, and... poof." She raises her hands, fingers outspread, like the end of a magic trick. "You’d be gone. No one would ever see you again. And Michael and his friends? They’d have to start all over.”
Ben nods, feeling that certain satisfaction as the pieces begin to fall into place. “And so would you.”
Holly looks up at him, her face almost shockingly serious. “And so would I.”
“So you need me,” Ben says, quietly. “You need me to sit still and act as bait. And more than that, to offer my son up as bait. I hate to be the one to break this to you, Holly, but I’m not really inclined to do that."
Holly's face softens a little; she smiles at him, but it's gentle. "I know," she says. "Honestly, I was kind of expecting you to be gone by now. I figured as soon as you heard the name Widmore, you’d bolt. And then I saw Kurt and Blaine at the show last night, and I thought... Especially with Blaine breaking down like that, you know? God, I just felt so terrible for him, having to leave everything behind, Dalton and the Warblers and Kurt, and...”
Again, Ben does his level best not to react to that. But he feels like, this time, he doesn’t quite succeed. Holly really needs to give herself more credit; she is, among other things, a remarkably perceptive woman.
“But I guess you must have been thinking about that, too,” Holly says, quietly, and yes, very perceptive indeed. “Because here you are.”
“Here I am,” Ben echoes, not bothering to pretend that she's wrong. Because it would be devastating for Blaine to have to leave this place -- the school that keeps him safe, the friends that he loves, the life that they’ve finally built for themselves. And Blaine would survive; of course he would. They always do.
But Ben has always wanted more for his son than mere survival. If he hadn’t, they’d still be on the Island.
Ben studies Holly for a little while, and she waits him out, patient under his scrutiny. Then he lifts his tumbler from the table, raises it to his lips, and takes a slow swallow. He raises his eyebrows. "MacCutcheon?" he asks, eyeing Holly over the rim of the glass.
She shrugs. "I figured you for a man of taste," she says, calmly. "And don't worry -- it's not the super-old, thousand-dollars-a-glass kind. We're both teachers; I know you're not made of money. But I figured you could let yourself splurge, just this once? Since I've got such an awesome proposition for you, and everything."
Ben nods, takes another sip, then sets the glass back down. "All right," he says. "I'm listening."
*
Blaine's only half listening as Jeff goes on and on about the Warblers' choreography, and how it would be so great if only they could do a little bit more than their standard step-touch step-touch step-ball-change, and by the time Thad starts methodically shooting Jeff's arguments down around a mouthful of pizza bagel, he's stopped paying attention entirely. Honestly, he's pretty sure that Jeff and Thad have this fight every single time there's a Warblers Game Night. He could probably recite the whole thing from memory. Both sides. With hand gestures. And even if he does miss some new argument that one of them comes up with... well, he'll hear it again. And again. And again.
Anyway, he's got more important things to think about. Like Kurt. Or Kurt's mom. Or Kurt's mom telling her son stories about taking trips on a submarine and seeing polar bears in the middle of the jungle and being attacked by hostile natives while she was in school. Kurt's mom and her life on the Island, her time spent as an actual part of the Dharma Initiative and maybe even his dad's friend, maybe even --
"Blaine," Jon says, holding out one of the controllers, shaking it a little bit.
Blaine blinks at him, a little bewildered, called back from his thoughts about Kurt and the Island and their parents and the weird, pervasive sense of fate that's been hanging over him -- not just since last night, but his whole life. Like it doesn't matter how hard they run, or how far, or how much they're willing to leave behind. The Island's going to keep coming for them, keep trying to pull them back. And sooner or later, he and his dad are gonna run out of places to hide.
Sometimes, he even thinks maybe it'd be better if they just gave up, if they just --
"Blaine," Jon says again. "C'mon, man, it's your turn."
Blaine looks at the controller for a second, then up at Jon, then at the tv screen (where Dhalsim is still floating, cross-legged, in front of the Russian train station), then swallows hard. For just a minute, he feels like he did last night, standing in the middle of that half-empty theater, the center of attention and totally exposed. But honestly, it's just Jon and Aaron, looking at him with expectant eyes. Everyone else is too engrossed in Jeff and Thad's argument to care.
Well. Everyone except Jon and Aaron, and also Wes.
"Actually," Wes says, pushing up to his feet, his eyes never once leaving Blaine. "I was thinking we're about ready for some more refreshments. If you wouldn't mind giving me a hand, Blaine?"
"Sure," Blaine says, because while he knows that Wes is making a totally transparent ploy to pull him aside for a Serious Conversation, he kind of doesn't mind that so much right now. He's kind of... kind of ready. For a conversation. With someone. He scrambles to his feet. "Sure, no problem. I'll just... I'll just jump back in next round."
Jon and Aaron look at him, then at Wes. Then they shrug. "All right, Nick, you're up," Aaron calls.
"Sweet," Nick replies, and pretty much crawls over Trent's lap in his haste to get to the XBox. Blaine has to take several steps back to get out his way, and he almost knocks Wes down, but Wes just catches his elbow, steadying him.
"Come on," Wes says, and leads Blaine out of the room.
He lets go as soon as the door shuts behind them, lets Blaine walk a little behind him, both of them with their hands jammed in their pockets. It's always weird seeing Wes out of uniform; he looks so much younger without the blazer and the striped tie. But his shoulders are still set, his posture still perfect. He's still so adult, somehow. Which is maybe why Blaine feels like it's okay when Wes gives him a sideways glance and says, "So. How's your dad doing?"
Well, it's almost okay. Nothing's really okay, and it's not going to be okay until --
Blaine shakes his head and stops walking, leaning with his back against the wall. Cream-colored walls, cream-colored carpeting -- Wes's house is as much a museum piece as Dalton is, which somehow makes Blaine feel perfectly at home. There's a comfort in these pristine spaces, just like there's a comfort in Wes's straight-backed rigidity. It makes Blaine feel... sheltered, somehow.
It's not necessarily enough to make him tell Wes everything, of course. He's not ready for that. But maybe he's ready for... for a little more.
"Honestly?" he asks, and Wes nods, his expression carefully neutral. "I don't know. I won't -- We won't know until the tests come back in."
Wes just nods again, and leans against the wall next to Blaine. He's even careful in this, every move measured. It reminds Blaine a little of his father, for reasons he's not sure he wants to analyze right now. "So," Wes says. "Maybe a little beyond the chicken soup stage, then."
Blaine feels like he should laugh at that, but somehow he can't quite muster it. Instead, he sighs. "Little bit," he admits, sagging against the wall in a way that Wes never would. His eyes drift shut; he doesn't mean them to, necessarily, but lately he's just so tired. It's hard to sleep, lately, what with his dad and Kurt and everything.
And the light, too. He doesn't want to see the light again.
But he can't tell Wes about that, either.
"Blaine," Wes says, and then stops, and then tries again. "Look. You don't have to tell us anything, okay? If you're not comfortable with... whatever. You don't have to. But you can, if you want. We're all here for you."
Blaine swallows hard at that, because God. He's still not used to this, Warbler Game Nights and familiar arguments and Thad talking with his mouth full and the eerie serenity of Wes's perfectly kept house. "I know," he says. "I do, I know; I just..." He sighs, keeping his eyes tight shut. "It's stupid, but I just feel like... Like if I say it, then it's --"
"Yeah," Wes says, and rests his hand on Blaine's shoulder, a warm and comforting weight, keeping Blaine grounded.
"But it's not that I don't trust you guys," Blaine continues, because it's the truth. Mostly. "Because I do. You've been -- you've been amazing. All of you. Not just now, but... since I transferred, and everything, and I just..."
Wes squeezes his shoulder, firmly, and it's such a grownup thing to do, and it just makes Blaine feel so much better. "Like I said, you don't have to tell us anything, Blaine. You can, but you don't have to. No one's going to push you."
And it's the weirdest thing, but just the idea kind of makes Blaine want to break down a little bit. Because no one does push him, not really -- he's been afraid of it all his life, of someone asking too many questions that he can't answer, but it's never happened. His dad says it's because most people wouldn't think to ask unless they already know the answers, and anyway, most people are too busy with their own lives to care about his. But it's still overwhelming, sometimes, to hear someone say that they don't care. To hear someone say that they trust him.
(they wouldn't, of course.)
(not if they knew.)
(kurt, maybe, but kurt is very trusting.)
"Hey," Wes says, as Blaine drops his head, his breath hitching, fighting for control. He shouldn't be crying, not in Wes's house, not at Warbler Game Night. He cried last night, with Kurt; he shouldn't need to -- "Hey, Blaine; it's all right; whatever it is, you're going to be --"
His hand tightens on Blaine's shoulder, and down the hall, a door creaks open.
Blaine straightens at once, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. When he finally manages to open them, he sees a vaguely-familiar woman walking out of one of the bedrooms, clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle to her chest. Her mouth is moving like she's whispering, but her voice is too faint to be heard. She bounces the bundle -- not the bundle, the baby -- in her arms as she moves towards them. It's obvious she doesn't have any real intentions, doesn't even see them there. All of her attention is on the child in her arms.
For some reason, it makes Blaine ache to see her.
"Aunt Sun," Wes says, his hand still steady on Blaine's shoulder. The woman doesn't quite startle, but her eyes are wide when she looks at him; if Blaine hadn't already guessed it, this would be the moment when he figured it out -- she didn't know they were there. "I'm sorry; were we --"
"No," the woman says, coming towards them with more purpose now. She smiles; she's beautiful -- small and fragile-seeming with dark hair and a round face, a more refined version of Wes's mother, perhaps. "No, not at all. She's a little restless; I thought maybe a walk would help calm her down. That's all." Her eyes settle on Wes's hand, still on Blaine's shoulder; she glances up at Blaine's face, and he wipes his eyes again, realizing too late that he's only calling more attention to the fact that he's been crying. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
Wes simply shrugs, and tugs Blaine away from the wall, his hand falling off Blaine's shoulder once Blaine is standing on his own again. "You've met my friend, Blaine, right?" he asks, and it's the smallest thing, but it means so much. My friend, Blaine. Not Blaine -- he's a Warbler, or he goes to my school, but my friend.
"Of course," the woman says, cradling her child a little closer to her chest with one arm, so she can reach out with the other. Blaine takes her hand; her grip is surprisingly firm. "I remember Blaine."
Blaine flushes a little bit, embarrassed, because he honestly can't place her right now. "I'm sorry," he says, dropping her hand and ducking his head. "I'm afraid I don't..."
"It's all right," the woman says, smiling. "It was a few months ago. My name is Sun. I'm Wesley's aunt."
"And this," Wes adds, reaching out to his aunt, "is Ji Yeon." Sun passes the baby over readily, the two of them smiling at each other. Wes cradles the baby in his arms like an expert, turning so Blaine can see past the blankets.
Blaine leans in to look, and almost immediately forgets to be embarrassed. He knows he's inherited his father's fondness for children, and has an especially large soft spot for babies. And Ji Yeon is probably the prettiest baby Blaine has ever seen, all shining eyes and fine, dark hair. "She's beautiful," he says, a little awed. "How old is she?"
Sun smiles at him. "Almost five months, now." She reaches out, traces one finger down Ji Yeon's cheek. "Getting so big."
Wes looks at his aunt; the two of them seem to share a moment of silent communication. Then Sun steps back, and Wes holds Ji Yeon out, just a little ways away from his body. "Do you want to?" he asks.
"Can I?" is Blaine's only response -- too hopeful, too eager. But Sun nods at him, still smiling, so Blaine holds his arms out and lets Wes lay Ji Yeon in them, careful to cradle the back of her head with one palm, the other supporting her bottom, keeping her safe and secure. Ji Yeon's eyes focus on him, looking a little perplexed, and then she purses her lips and blows a raspberry at him. Blaine laughs, delighted. "Oh my God," he says, absolutely entranced by Ji Yeon's frown, the way she slaps at him with one chubby hand, as if testing his face for... for something. "Hey. Hey, Ji Yeon. Hey. Hi."
She coos back at him, still patting at his face, and Blaine smiles so hard that it hurts a little.
"I think he's in love," Wes deadpans; Blaine flushes at that, but doesn't respond. Anyway, there's not much he can say, seeing as how it's basically true. He's always been this way with little kids and babies; maybe it's just because he hardly ever gets to see them, even out here in the world, but they just... they just amaze him. They're so new. Then Wes pats him on the shoulder again. "I'm going to head to the kitchen, start getting things together. Come find me whenever you're ready."
That gets Blaine's attention; he looks up at Wes and sees him looking back, his eyes somehow so knowing. "I could --" he says, because he feels he has to at least offer, but Wes just shakes his head.
"Take your time," he says, and smiles, then turns away, jamming his hands back into his pockets as he strolls down the hallway in his pink hooded sweatshirt and loose jeans, and it's so weird sometimes, how Wes can be so... so old, and yet he's only seventeen. Blaine doesn't understand it.
He wonders, sometimes, about Wes. He wonders a lot.
But then Ji Yeon makes a discontented noise, this one more petulant than her earlier babbling, closer to a cry, and Blaine immediately shifts her so she's tucked into his chest more, starts bouncing up and down on his toes a little bit to help calm her down. "Sssh," he croons, smiling down at her. "Sssh, it's okay. It's fine; it's okay."
Her whole face scrunches, and then she yawns, and he just beams at her because he can't help it.
"You're good with her," Sun says, and Blaine blinks at her, startled. He'd almost forgotten -- "Do you have a lot of brothers and sisters at home?"
"No," he says, and can't quite keep the regret out of his voice. Not that he's not happy with his dad, or anything. He is; of course he is. Just... it gets lonely, sometimes, when they have to keep moving and there's never anyone else to come along with them. "No, it's just me and my dad. But I... When I was younger, I used to go to a lot of dinners and things with my dad. Work stuff. And a lot of his colleagues would have babies, and I guess I sort of wound up, like... designated babysitter. Because I was always the oldest kid there, so. But I liked it; it was always more interesting than listening to the lecture or whatever." Sun nods at him, her eyes very round, and Blaine tries to laugh, to hide how self-conscious he's suddenly feeling. "Sorry. I'm babbling. Here, I should probably --"
But Sun turns away before Blaine can give Ji Yeon back.
"I always wished my parents had more children," she says, wandering down the hallway, and Blaine follows after her, bouncing Ji Yeon a little as he goes. "When I was younger. A brother or a sister. Or both, perhaps. Our housekeeper had a little daughter; I used to pretend, with her. But it was never the same."
Blaine frowns at that, a little puzzled. "But I thought -- I mean, Wes's mom; isn't she your --" he says, before catching himself. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."
Sun just gives him a small, quiet smile. "It's fine," she says. "No, the Kims are my husband's family. They offered to let me stay with them, after he..." The smile fades away, and she doesn't finish. She doesn't really need to.
"Oh," Blaine says, because there's nothing else to say. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
Ji Yeon burbles against his shoulder, and he absently rubs his hand in circles on her back, shushing her.
"Of course, my father wanted me to come home to Seoul," Sun says, and she sounds a little bitter, maybe. "But I thought... I thought it might be better for us here. And Wesley's family has been very kind."
"Yeah," Blaine says, glancing at the open door of the kitchen, where Wes is waiting for him. "Yeah, they're like that."
When he looks back, Sun is two steps ahead of him. "But your father," she says, as he lengthens his strides to catch up. "He raised you by himself? That must have been hard, for him."
Blaine can only shrug, careful not to jostle Ji Yeon too much when he does so. He feels like, maybe, she's drifting off; there's a laxness to her now, although she's too small to really be considered heavy in his arms. "I guess," he says, because while parts of their life have definitely been hard, that's usually not too much about the two of them. It's everyone else that's the problem. "I don't know. I mean, I'm sure it is, but he just... He makes it look easy." Sun gives him a glance that he can't quite categorize, and Blaine just shrugs again. "I don't know. I mean... yeah, it's hard sometimes. But I love him, and he loves me, and we just... we make it work, somehow. Together."
"I worry," Sun says, confidingly, looking at Blaine for only a second before dropping her gaze back to the floor. "About what will happen. When we leave here and it's just the two of us. I worry that I won't be able to give her everything she needs."
"I don't know if it's that complicated," Blaine says, quietly. Because it's true, really. He's wanted things, sometimes, things that his dad couldn't give him. But he's always had what he's needed. "I think that if she knows you love her, then that's enough. Well, that and food. And, like, a house." Sun actually laughs a little bit at that, like she's startled but pleased at the same time, and Blaine feels proud out of all proportion to what he's actually done. "Love, food, and a house," he repeats. "And you'll be fine."
Sun smiles at him for a little longer, before her gaze finally shifts to the baby in his arms. "I think she's asleep," she says, softly, reaching up. Blaine sets one hand at the back of Ji Yeon's head, cradling her carefully as he lowers her down, back into her mother's arms. One little fist waves aimlessly in the air for a second, and then Ji Yeon settles, content. Sun watches her daughter sleep for a moment, then looks back up at Blaine. "Your father," she says. "He did a good job."
Blaine just nods, and wonders if it'd be too presumptuous of him to tell Sun that she'll do a good job too. It probably is, but he kind of wants to anyway. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, he did."
"It was nice to meet you, Blaine," Sun says, and smiles at him one last time before turning to walk back down the hallway, fussing with Ji Yeon's blankets as she goes.
"Yeah," Blaine says, watching her leave. "Yeah, you too."
And the strangest thing is how much better he feels about everything. Because yeah, it has been hard sometimes. And this -- the mass and the doctors and the tests and everything -- this is going to be hard, too. But he and his dad have always gotten through the hard stuff together, and they always will. They'll get through this.
He can't give up, not yet.
*
"I'm telling you," his father says, and Dave knows he should start the game back up, drown his father's voice out, but he can't. He's gotta listen; he needs to know. "This is the best way. Divide and conquer. Works every time."
"Not every time," the Iraqi points out, his voice softer. "And to divide them means to divide our own team as well. I'm not sure that's the wisest course."
"You're kidding, right?" There's that something in his dad's voice that has always made Dave feel a little uncomfortable, the way he almost sounds like he's joking but he's really just pissed off. His dad sounds like that a lot, lately. "Divide our own team? When have we ever not been divided, Sayid? Huh? You sit down for dinner with Mrs. Kwon lately? Or go to the bar with Michael for a beer? We try to pull everyone back together into one happy family now, we'll never get anything done. Too busy fighting over everything, just like we did on the -- Like we did before. And look where that got us."
The Iraqi doesn't say anything for a little bit, and Dave thinks about hitting the pause button again, about drowning them out the way he's supposed to. But he doesn't. He can't. "And Michael and Sun," the Iraqi says. "Are you sure they're the right ones to send after the boy? Because I find it hard to imagine either of them --"
"It's not like we're asking them to hurt him, Sayid," his dad says. "Just... bring him home. Hell, maybe he wants it. It's not like leaving was his choice in the first place. I mean, that Linus guy basically kidnapped him. He probably wants to go home. He'll probably thank us."
"You don't really believe that," the Iraqi says, still soft-voiced and calm.
It only makes Dave's father sound more brittle by comparison. "Look," he says, and his voice is all strained calm, and Dave kind of curls in on himself a little bit. "It doesn't matter what I believe. Okay? The man in charge wants us to bring them back. So we're bringing them back. What happens after that? Not our problem."
"That's assuming that all goes well. But what if it doesn't?" There's a silence, and then the Iraqi continues. "Remember, you're not only risking yourself with this plan. Your son is in danger too."
"My son," Dave's father says, "can handle himself."
"Really." The Iraqi doesn't say anything else; he doesn't need to. His meaning is perfectly clear. And Dave thinks that maybe he should be offended by that, but then he remembers standing in the hallway with Mr. Anderson staring up at him with those eyes of his, and he can't quite manage it. Because honestly, he's not so sure he can handle this at all.
His dad just sighs. "Look, Sayid, this is the plan. You don't like it? Fine. Go back to the man in charge. See if you can get him to change his mind. But you better hurry, because God only knows what's gonna happen to that girlfriend of yours while you're off screwing around. Me personally? I doubt it's gonna be anything good."
The silence that follows is heavier than anything, and Dave pushes himself off the floor a little, listening intently for a sound, for a sign that he needs to get his butt out there. Because maybe he agrees with the Iraqi a lot more than he agrees with his own dad these days, but that doesn't mean he's gonna let his father get hurt. "And I, personally, doubt that anything good is going to come of my staying," the Iraqi says. "But. I suppose someone needs to be here to protect the others when this blows up in your face."
"Your objections have been noted," Dave's father says, his voice still sharply edged. "Now. Let's talk tactics. Obviously, we're going to have to rough both of them up a little bit, but we need to make sure that they both stay alive long enough to get to the --"
Dave swallows hard and hits the button on his controller, filling the room with the sounds of gunfire and screaming. He's fine with that, in a video game. He's not fine with the idea of his dad getting involved in that in real life.
He's not fine.
Pairing/Character(s): Kate Austen, Roger Linus, Ben Linus Anderson, Holly Holliday, Michael Dawson (briefly), Blaine Linus Anderson, Wesley Kim, Sun Hwa Kwon, Ji Yeon Kwon, David Karofsky, Paul Karofsky (aka Leslie Arzt), Sayid Jarrah. Various Warblers. Couple dead people.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief, vague discussion of kidnapping and possible assault.
Word Count: About 7000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X07, "The Substitute."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: In which we see dead people.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
This chapter has a lot more LOST in it than previous chapters do. Like, a lot. If you are a non-LOSTie and you are confused by anything, please either ask in the comments or via pm. I will answer.
1977
He watches her vanish into the shadows beyond the sonic fence, and he doesn't say anything. He can't say anything. Just stands there and watches until her blue dress and blonde hair are long gone, like everything else, and he doesn't say anything at all.
Alice, he thinks. Alice in Wonderland. That's what she looked like.
Ben was always scared of that movie. 'Course, Ben's always been scared of everything. Sometimes, Roger even thinks the boy is scared of him. Never mind that everything Roger's done since Emily died has been for that boy, never mind everything he gave up by coming to this island to earn a better life for them (only to wind up some sort of glorified janitor, and how the hell is that "working for a better tomorrow," him making supply runs and emptying trash cans and generally shoveling these eggheads' shit? He'd like to know.) But at least it seemed to be good for him and Ben, at least at first -- Ben's never liked new people, so he sort of latched himself to his dad's side, holding his hand and hiding behind him. And yeah, he was way too big to be acting like that, way too old to be that scared of strangers, but at least it was something.
Now it's like every time Roger looks at him, the boy flinches. Runs off to find that girl, Annie, or if she's not around, he finds some other skirt to hide behind. That Miss Shannon, maybe, who helps around the school, or even worse, that --
"Evening, Roger."
Well. Speak of the god-damned devil.
He turns around, slowly, and watches the new head of security stroll up to him like she owns the whole god-damned island. Like she's better than him. Better than everyone. It takes everything he has just to be polite. "Evening, Ms. Austen."
She doesn't tell him to call her Katie. Everyone else, it's "Call me Katie," but not with Roger. She doesn't like him. Doesn't trust him. The feeling is undeniably mutual. "You looking for something out there?" she asks, settling her hands on her hips. Trying to look tough, like she's not just some little girl dressed up in a man's uniform, doing a man's job.
Hell, if it's not the most unfair thing he's ever seen in his life.
"Just... thinking," he says, and it comes out easy enough, but it's plain from her face that she doesn't buy it. And hell, it's not the truth either, but what's he supposed to say, exactly? Just thought I saw my dead wife come out of the jungle, so I came for a closer look? Like hell. She'd only ask him how much he'd had to drink that night (and yeah, he'd had some, but not enough to start seeing dead people unless there was something damned queer happening).
"Huh," Ms. Austen says, and doesn't sound impressed. "You know, that fence doesn't do a lot to keep the natives out." It didn't do much to keep her out, either. But Roger's not dumb enough to say so. "So you might want to find somewhere else to think about things. Like your house, maybe. Where your son is. You know, Ben? Your son?"
"'Course," Roger says, and forces a smile. Because he might not like Ms. Austen; he might in fact be pretty damned angry about the way she came strolling out of the jungle with her friends and just took over the damn place, leapfrogging over several other highly qualified people who'd been here a lot longer than she had; he might hate the way she's always jumping into his business and telling him how to raise his son, but she's still the head of security and he's not dumb enough to piss her off. "Yeah, of course. Guess I'll be seeing you around, Ms. Austen."
She nods, and doesn't take her eyes off him once, watching him as he walks away from the fence, around her, and back towards the Barracks. "Goodnight, Roger," she says, once he's turned around and is heading towards home.
He keeps walking.
But then something starts to feel off to him. Like before, when he saw Emily come out of the woods and start heading towards his house. And it's not about being drunk; it's something else entirely. Something... Something he'd only feel on the island, for whatever reason. So he turns back.
Ms. Austen is still standing near the fence, staring out at the jungle. And it's the damnedest thing, but Roger'd swear that, for just a second, he sees a man in a business suit, staring back at her. Only for a second, and then the man is gone again. Like Emily. And Ms. Austen turns and heads off again, north along the line of the fence, like nothing happened at all.
And maybe it's just his imagination, but still. Roger can't help wondering if he's not the only one seeing dead people in the jungle.
*
now
Every so often, he sees a familiar face out there in the world.
It's usually nothing, of course. Just his mind, searching for patterns. Looking for someone he can recognize. Someone from the Dharma Initiative, maybe; he still thinks of Annie every time he sees a woman with light eyes, of Miss Katie every time he sees a head of curly hair. Or sometimes he sees one of his own people, although that's rarer. But he's seen Richard a few times, actually seen him off the Island, out on the streets. And there's another man, one he never really knew, a blond. Sometimes Ben sees him, and the man sees Ben, and usually they acknowledge each other from a distance and then move on. Ben's not particularly worried about that man. He's not worried about anyone that he recognizes.
It's when someone recognizes him. When some stranger, someone Ben has never seen before, takes one look at him and just stares, like they're seeing a ghost. That's what makes Ben particularly nervous.
Of course, Charles has never sent anyone that Ben knows personally to come and fetch him home to the Island. It's always been strangers.
He muses on this as he sits tucked into a corner table in this shabby little pub that Holly has brought them to, as he watches Holly stand at the bar, chatting with the bartender. She smiles; she leans in; she tilts her head back when she laughs. It's just this side of blatant. And yet, the bartender barely even looks at her, just quick glances now and then when she's particularly loud.
Mostly, his eyes are fixed on Ben.
Ben, of course, has no idea who the man is.
He is well aware that Holly is attempting to draw him into something; for the moment, he's willing to humor her. At least until he's figured out what she wants.
"Scotch for the gentleman," Holly says, crushing peanut shells under her high heels as she strides towards their table, drinks in hand. She sets a tumbler down in front of Ben, leaning just a little closer than she should, holding the position just a little longer than she should. She smiles. It's a disarmingly innocent expression. Then she pulls back, sliding into her own seat with her beer still firmly in hand, and takes a sip of it before she continues speaking. "Oh, and I already told Michael you'd be paying. That's not a problem, is it?"
Ben just raises his eyebrows. Whatever her real agenda is, Miss Holliday's approach is... well, it's unique. He'll give her that. "Michael?" he asks.
Holly shrugs and waves her hand at the bar; the bartender is currently serving someone else, but he glances at them again, like he knows he's being talked about. "The bartender. Really great guy. Kind of surprised you don't know him, actually. His son goes to Dalton. With Blaine."
"Really," Ben says, quietly. He looks down at his scotch, looks up at the bartender -- the man is still watching him.
"Really," Holly agrees, taking another sip of her beer. "He's an interesting character. Well, I mean they both are, really -- him and his son -- but Walt doesn't talk a lot. I guess it's been kind of rough on him, these last few years. What with the plane crash and everything."
Ben blinks at her, his fingers closing around his glass, feeling it cool and smooth under his fingers. He's not planning on drinking anything that Holly Holliday gives him, but he feels that he'll be wanting something to hold on to soon enough. "Plane crash," he repeats.
Holly nods. "Yeah, have you heard about that?" she asks. "I mean, I guess you haven't, since this is the first time you two've met. I mean, you haven't really met yet, but you know what I mean. Seen each other. Whatever. Not that it would matter, really, since he doesn't talk about it anyway." She leans in, arms folded on the table, wicked smile on her face. "It's a secret," she whispers. Then she leans back, picks up her beer, takes another sip. "But it's the craziest thing. See, I guess they were on that plane that went down in the Pacific about two years back. You know, Oceanic 815? The one that crashed in the middle of the ocean, with absolutely no survivors? And yet here they are. Isn't that crazy?"
"That's..." Ben clears his throat, and wonders absently where he'll be able to find a roster for that particular flight. Both to verify Holly's claims, and... well. If one man can walk away from a plane crash, why can't another? Or several? He needs to be prepared. "That's unbelievable, Holly."
"And what's really crazy," Holly continues, cheerfully, "is that Michael and Walt? They're not the only ones. There's at least two other people from that plane crash that are just... walking around. In Ohio. Within like, fifty miles of Lima." She beams at him. "Isn't that just the weirdest thing?"
Ben will definitely need that roster. And possibly an exit strategy, if it comes to that. Not that he wants to, not when they've just gotten settled again -- and now there's the Warblers, too, and Kurt, and there's no way that Blaine won't take this badly, and of course if they leave now it'll throw off whatever treatment Ben needs for his -- But he'll do what he has to, in the end. He'll keep Blaine safe. Even if it kills him.
Which it might, this time. It really might.
He's got the tumbler raised halfway to his mouth before he remembers that he probably shouldn't drink anything that this woman has given him, and lowers the glass again.
Holly laughs at him. "Chill out, Ben," she says. "I didn't slip you a roofie. And Michael didn't mess with your drink either, trust me. I was watching his hands the entire time. You know, you can tell a lot about a guy from his hands? And by 'a lot about a guy,' I mean a lot about his --" Ben feels his eyebrow arching up, and Holly laughs again. "Jesus, no wonder your students are intimidated by you. I mean, I'm a grown woman, and even I'm a little nervous right now. Well. Nervous and also kind of turned on. Seriously, that scary-intense thing you've got going on right now is totally working for me."
Ben rests the glass on the table, folds his hands together, and leans back. "Holly," he says, quietly. "What do you want?"
The manic gleam fades from her eyes as quickly as it came; she tilts her head, studying him for a few moments. Then she takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again, it's slower. More controlled. "Guess you’ve got me pegged, huh?” she asks.
It’s not really a question, but Ben answers it as though it was. “If I had you pegged, Holly,” he says, “I wouldn’t be here now.”
She smiles at him, looking more than a little pleased with herself. “Really,” she says. “Wow. I mean, not like I wasn’t trying to cover my tracks, because I totally was. But... I mean, you’re good. Really good. I honestly expected you to have something on me right now, just because... Because you’re you.”
“Oh, I have something,” Ben says, quietly correcting her. It’s an outright lie, of course, but he’s good at that, lying. And he doesn’t have much shame in it, either. Not when he’s trying to protect his son. “Not much, but I have something. I simply haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.”
Holly’s smile broadens. “It's Penny,” she says. “Isn't it? You’ve got Penny Widmore.”
It takes everything that Ben has not to react to that name, Widmore; unwilling to trust his voice, he simply inclines his head, implying acknowledgement.
“Look,” Holly says, leaning in a little bit. She spreads her hands flat on the table, as if laying down all her cards. It's almost as though she was expecting this; not for the first time, Ben is extremely grateful for his reputation. “I know your history with Charles Widmore. I mean, I don’t know all of it -- I don’t think anyone knows all of it. But what you need to understand is that I’m not here for you. What I’m doing -- what Miss Widmore hired me for? It’s got nothing to do with you. Not really.”
“You’ll forgive my saying so, Miss Holliday,” Ben says, careful to keep his voice calm and neutral, implying nothing, “but I find that extremely hard to believe.”
Holly shakes her head, settling back a little in her seat. “Okay," she says. "I mean it does, but it doesn’t. I mean... I’m not here because of you. I’m here because Michael’s here, and Michael’s here because of you. So I guess in that respect, yeah. It’s got a lot to do with you. But I'm not planning on... I'm not here to like, kidnap you, or anything. If that's what you were thinking. Which, you know, you would be entitled to think. Considering.”
Ben blinks at her, closing his hand once more around the glass of whisky in front of him. It's a lot of words, but not necessarily a lot of content. He needs to coax more specifics out of her. “You’re here for Michael,” he repeats.
“Well, not him, either,” Holly says. “I mean, on the one hand, I need him almost as much as I need you. But on the other hand, he's basically just some construction worker from New York who got on the wrong plane and then crashed on an island and wound up stuck in this mess that he doesn’t really understand. He doesn’t really know who you are or why you’re important; he just knows that he needs to get his hands on you and your son. But there's someone else, someone running the show. That's who I want."
"Well, you're ambitious," Ben says. "I'll give you that." He picks up his glass, swirls it so the whisky comes up the sides and slides back down again, but he doesn’t drink. Not yet. He will, if Holly's saying what he thinks she's saying. But he needs to be sure, first. "And you need me for... what, exactly?”
“Like I said, you’re good.” Holly reaches out for her beer again, turning the bottle in her hands. She is, possibly, a bit nervous about this part. Ben keeps his eyes on her, unwilling to give her a moment to relax. “If you wanted to, you could walk right out of this bar, and... poof." She raises her hands, fingers outspread, like the end of a magic trick. "You’d be gone. No one would ever see you again. And Michael and his friends? They’d have to start all over.”
Ben nods, feeling that certain satisfaction as the pieces begin to fall into place. “And so would you.”
Holly looks up at him, her face almost shockingly serious. “And so would I.”
“So you need me,” Ben says, quietly. “You need me to sit still and act as bait. And more than that, to offer my son up as bait. I hate to be the one to break this to you, Holly, but I’m not really inclined to do that."
Holly's face softens a little; she smiles at him, but it's gentle. "I know," she says. "Honestly, I was kind of expecting you to be gone by now. I figured as soon as you heard the name Widmore, you’d bolt. And then I saw Kurt and Blaine at the show last night, and I thought... Especially with Blaine breaking down like that, you know? God, I just felt so terrible for him, having to leave everything behind, Dalton and the Warblers and Kurt, and...”
Again, Ben does his level best not to react to that. But he feels like, this time, he doesn’t quite succeed. Holly really needs to give herself more credit; she is, among other things, a remarkably perceptive woman.
“But I guess you must have been thinking about that, too,” Holly says, quietly, and yes, very perceptive indeed. “Because here you are.”
“Here I am,” Ben echoes, not bothering to pretend that she's wrong. Because it would be devastating for Blaine to have to leave this place -- the school that keeps him safe, the friends that he loves, the life that they’ve finally built for themselves. And Blaine would survive; of course he would. They always do.
But Ben has always wanted more for his son than mere survival. If he hadn’t, they’d still be on the Island.
Ben studies Holly for a little while, and she waits him out, patient under his scrutiny. Then he lifts his tumbler from the table, raises it to his lips, and takes a slow swallow. He raises his eyebrows. "MacCutcheon?" he asks, eyeing Holly over the rim of the glass.
She shrugs. "I figured you for a man of taste," she says, calmly. "And don't worry -- it's not the super-old, thousand-dollars-a-glass kind. We're both teachers; I know you're not made of money. But I figured you could let yourself splurge, just this once? Since I've got such an awesome proposition for you, and everything."
Ben nods, takes another sip, then sets the glass back down. "All right," he says. "I'm listening."
*
Blaine's only half listening as Jeff goes on and on about the Warblers' choreography, and how it would be so great if only they could do a little bit more than their standard step-touch step-touch step-ball-change, and by the time Thad starts methodically shooting Jeff's arguments down around a mouthful of pizza bagel, he's stopped paying attention entirely. Honestly, he's pretty sure that Jeff and Thad have this fight every single time there's a Warblers Game Night. He could probably recite the whole thing from memory. Both sides. With hand gestures. And even if he does miss some new argument that one of them comes up with... well, he'll hear it again. And again. And again.
Anyway, he's got more important things to think about. Like Kurt. Or Kurt's mom. Or Kurt's mom telling her son stories about taking trips on a submarine and seeing polar bears in the middle of the jungle and being attacked by hostile natives while she was in school. Kurt's mom and her life on the Island, her time spent as an actual part of the Dharma Initiative and maybe even his dad's friend, maybe even --
"Blaine," Jon says, holding out one of the controllers, shaking it a little bit.
Blaine blinks at him, a little bewildered, called back from his thoughts about Kurt and the Island and their parents and the weird, pervasive sense of fate that's been hanging over him -- not just since last night, but his whole life. Like it doesn't matter how hard they run, or how far, or how much they're willing to leave behind. The Island's going to keep coming for them, keep trying to pull them back. And sooner or later, he and his dad are gonna run out of places to hide.
Sometimes, he even thinks maybe it'd be better if they just gave up, if they just --
"Blaine," Jon says again. "C'mon, man, it's your turn."
Blaine looks at the controller for a second, then up at Jon, then at the tv screen (where Dhalsim is still floating, cross-legged, in front of the Russian train station), then swallows hard. For just a minute, he feels like he did last night, standing in the middle of that half-empty theater, the center of attention and totally exposed. But honestly, it's just Jon and Aaron, looking at him with expectant eyes. Everyone else is too engrossed in Jeff and Thad's argument to care.
Well. Everyone except Jon and Aaron, and also Wes.
"Actually," Wes says, pushing up to his feet, his eyes never once leaving Blaine. "I was thinking we're about ready for some more refreshments. If you wouldn't mind giving me a hand, Blaine?"
"Sure," Blaine says, because while he knows that Wes is making a totally transparent ploy to pull him aside for a Serious Conversation, he kind of doesn't mind that so much right now. He's kind of... kind of ready. For a conversation. With someone. He scrambles to his feet. "Sure, no problem. I'll just... I'll just jump back in next round."
Jon and Aaron look at him, then at Wes. Then they shrug. "All right, Nick, you're up," Aaron calls.
"Sweet," Nick replies, and pretty much crawls over Trent's lap in his haste to get to the XBox. Blaine has to take several steps back to get out his way, and he almost knocks Wes down, but Wes just catches his elbow, steadying him.
"Come on," Wes says, and leads Blaine out of the room.
He lets go as soon as the door shuts behind them, lets Blaine walk a little behind him, both of them with their hands jammed in their pockets. It's always weird seeing Wes out of uniform; he looks so much younger without the blazer and the striped tie. But his shoulders are still set, his posture still perfect. He's still so adult, somehow. Which is maybe why Blaine feels like it's okay when Wes gives him a sideways glance and says, "So. How's your dad doing?"
Well, it's almost okay. Nothing's really okay, and it's not going to be okay until --
Blaine shakes his head and stops walking, leaning with his back against the wall. Cream-colored walls, cream-colored carpeting -- Wes's house is as much a museum piece as Dalton is, which somehow makes Blaine feel perfectly at home. There's a comfort in these pristine spaces, just like there's a comfort in Wes's straight-backed rigidity. It makes Blaine feel... sheltered, somehow.
It's not necessarily enough to make him tell Wes everything, of course. He's not ready for that. But maybe he's ready for... for a little more.
"Honestly?" he asks, and Wes nods, his expression carefully neutral. "I don't know. I won't -- We won't know until the tests come back in."
Wes just nods again, and leans against the wall next to Blaine. He's even careful in this, every move measured. It reminds Blaine a little of his father, for reasons he's not sure he wants to analyze right now. "So," Wes says. "Maybe a little beyond the chicken soup stage, then."
Blaine feels like he should laugh at that, but somehow he can't quite muster it. Instead, he sighs. "Little bit," he admits, sagging against the wall in a way that Wes never would. His eyes drift shut; he doesn't mean them to, necessarily, but lately he's just so tired. It's hard to sleep, lately, what with his dad and Kurt and everything.
And the light, too. He doesn't want to see the light again.
But he can't tell Wes about that, either.
"Blaine," Wes says, and then stops, and then tries again. "Look. You don't have to tell us anything, okay? If you're not comfortable with... whatever. You don't have to. But you can, if you want. We're all here for you."
Blaine swallows hard at that, because God. He's still not used to this, Warbler Game Nights and familiar arguments and Thad talking with his mouth full and the eerie serenity of Wes's perfectly kept house. "I know," he says. "I do, I know; I just..." He sighs, keeping his eyes tight shut. "It's stupid, but I just feel like... Like if I say it, then it's --"
"Yeah," Wes says, and rests his hand on Blaine's shoulder, a warm and comforting weight, keeping Blaine grounded.
"But it's not that I don't trust you guys," Blaine continues, because it's the truth. Mostly. "Because I do. You've been -- you've been amazing. All of you. Not just now, but... since I transferred, and everything, and I just..."
Wes squeezes his shoulder, firmly, and it's such a grownup thing to do, and it just makes Blaine feel so much better. "Like I said, you don't have to tell us anything, Blaine. You can, but you don't have to. No one's going to push you."
And it's the weirdest thing, but just the idea kind of makes Blaine want to break down a little bit. Because no one does push him, not really -- he's been afraid of it all his life, of someone asking too many questions that he can't answer, but it's never happened. His dad says it's because most people wouldn't think to ask unless they already know the answers, and anyway, most people are too busy with their own lives to care about his. But it's still overwhelming, sometimes, to hear someone say that they don't care. To hear someone say that they trust him.
(they wouldn't, of course.)
(not if they knew.)
(kurt, maybe, but kurt is very trusting.)
"Hey," Wes says, as Blaine drops his head, his breath hitching, fighting for control. He shouldn't be crying, not in Wes's house, not at Warbler Game Night. He cried last night, with Kurt; he shouldn't need to -- "Hey, Blaine; it's all right; whatever it is, you're going to be --"
His hand tightens on Blaine's shoulder, and down the hall, a door creaks open.
Blaine straightens at once, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. When he finally manages to open them, he sees a vaguely-familiar woman walking out of one of the bedrooms, clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle to her chest. Her mouth is moving like she's whispering, but her voice is too faint to be heard. She bounces the bundle -- not the bundle, the baby -- in her arms as she moves towards them. It's obvious she doesn't have any real intentions, doesn't even see them there. All of her attention is on the child in her arms.
For some reason, it makes Blaine ache to see her.
"Aunt Sun," Wes says, his hand still steady on Blaine's shoulder. The woman doesn't quite startle, but her eyes are wide when she looks at him; if Blaine hadn't already guessed it, this would be the moment when he figured it out -- she didn't know they were there. "I'm sorry; were we --"
"No," the woman says, coming towards them with more purpose now. She smiles; she's beautiful -- small and fragile-seeming with dark hair and a round face, a more refined version of Wes's mother, perhaps. "No, not at all. She's a little restless; I thought maybe a walk would help calm her down. That's all." Her eyes settle on Wes's hand, still on Blaine's shoulder; she glances up at Blaine's face, and he wipes his eyes again, realizing too late that he's only calling more attention to the fact that he's been crying. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
Wes simply shrugs, and tugs Blaine away from the wall, his hand falling off Blaine's shoulder once Blaine is standing on his own again. "You've met my friend, Blaine, right?" he asks, and it's the smallest thing, but it means so much. My friend, Blaine. Not Blaine -- he's a Warbler, or he goes to my school, but my friend.
"Of course," the woman says, cradling her child a little closer to her chest with one arm, so she can reach out with the other. Blaine takes her hand; her grip is surprisingly firm. "I remember Blaine."
Blaine flushes a little bit, embarrassed, because he honestly can't place her right now. "I'm sorry," he says, dropping her hand and ducking his head. "I'm afraid I don't..."
"It's all right," the woman says, smiling. "It was a few months ago. My name is Sun. I'm Wesley's aunt."
"And this," Wes adds, reaching out to his aunt, "is Ji Yeon." Sun passes the baby over readily, the two of them smiling at each other. Wes cradles the baby in his arms like an expert, turning so Blaine can see past the blankets.
Blaine leans in to look, and almost immediately forgets to be embarrassed. He knows he's inherited his father's fondness for children, and has an especially large soft spot for babies. And Ji Yeon is probably the prettiest baby Blaine has ever seen, all shining eyes and fine, dark hair. "She's beautiful," he says, a little awed. "How old is she?"
Sun smiles at him. "Almost five months, now." She reaches out, traces one finger down Ji Yeon's cheek. "Getting so big."
Wes looks at his aunt; the two of them seem to share a moment of silent communication. Then Sun steps back, and Wes holds Ji Yeon out, just a little ways away from his body. "Do you want to?" he asks.
"Can I?" is Blaine's only response -- too hopeful, too eager. But Sun nods at him, still smiling, so Blaine holds his arms out and lets Wes lay Ji Yeon in them, careful to cradle the back of her head with one palm, the other supporting her bottom, keeping her safe and secure. Ji Yeon's eyes focus on him, looking a little perplexed, and then she purses her lips and blows a raspberry at him. Blaine laughs, delighted. "Oh my God," he says, absolutely entranced by Ji Yeon's frown, the way she slaps at him with one chubby hand, as if testing his face for... for something. "Hey. Hey, Ji Yeon. Hey. Hi."
She coos back at him, still patting at his face, and Blaine smiles so hard that it hurts a little.
"I think he's in love," Wes deadpans; Blaine flushes at that, but doesn't respond. Anyway, there's not much he can say, seeing as how it's basically true. He's always been this way with little kids and babies; maybe it's just because he hardly ever gets to see them, even out here in the world, but they just... they just amaze him. They're so new. Then Wes pats him on the shoulder again. "I'm going to head to the kitchen, start getting things together. Come find me whenever you're ready."
That gets Blaine's attention; he looks up at Wes and sees him looking back, his eyes somehow so knowing. "I could --" he says, because he feels he has to at least offer, but Wes just shakes his head.
"Take your time," he says, and smiles, then turns away, jamming his hands back into his pockets as he strolls down the hallway in his pink hooded sweatshirt and loose jeans, and it's so weird sometimes, how Wes can be so... so old, and yet he's only seventeen. Blaine doesn't understand it.
He wonders, sometimes, about Wes. He wonders a lot.
But then Ji Yeon makes a discontented noise, this one more petulant than her earlier babbling, closer to a cry, and Blaine immediately shifts her so she's tucked into his chest more, starts bouncing up and down on his toes a little bit to help calm her down. "Sssh," he croons, smiling down at her. "Sssh, it's okay. It's fine; it's okay."
Her whole face scrunches, and then she yawns, and he just beams at her because he can't help it.
"You're good with her," Sun says, and Blaine blinks at her, startled. He'd almost forgotten -- "Do you have a lot of brothers and sisters at home?"
"No," he says, and can't quite keep the regret out of his voice. Not that he's not happy with his dad, or anything. He is; of course he is. Just... it gets lonely, sometimes, when they have to keep moving and there's never anyone else to come along with them. "No, it's just me and my dad. But I... When I was younger, I used to go to a lot of dinners and things with my dad. Work stuff. And a lot of his colleagues would have babies, and I guess I sort of wound up, like... designated babysitter. Because I was always the oldest kid there, so. But I liked it; it was always more interesting than listening to the lecture or whatever." Sun nods at him, her eyes very round, and Blaine tries to laugh, to hide how self-conscious he's suddenly feeling. "Sorry. I'm babbling. Here, I should probably --"
But Sun turns away before Blaine can give Ji Yeon back.
"I always wished my parents had more children," she says, wandering down the hallway, and Blaine follows after her, bouncing Ji Yeon a little as he goes. "When I was younger. A brother or a sister. Or both, perhaps. Our housekeeper had a little daughter; I used to pretend, with her. But it was never the same."
Blaine frowns at that, a little puzzled. "But I thought -- I mean, Wes's mom; isn't she your --" he says, before catching himself. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."
Sun just gives him a small, quiet smile. "It's fine," she says. "No, the Kims are my husband's family. They offered to let me stay with them, after he..." The smile fades away, and she doesn't finish. She doesn't really need to.
"Oh," Blaine says, because there's nothing else to say. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
Ji Yeon burbles against his shoulder, and he absently rubs his hand in circles on her back, shushing her.
"Of course, my father wanted me to come home to Seoul," Sun says, and she sounds a little bitter, maybe. "But I thought... I thought it might be better for us here. And Wesley's family has been very kind."
"Yeah," Blaine says, glancing at the open door of the kitchen, where Wes is waiting for him. "Yeah, they're like that."
When he looks back, Sun is two steps ahead of him. "But your father," she says, as he lengthens his strides to catch up. "He raised you by himself? That must have been hard, for him."
Blaine can only shrug, careful not to jostle Ji Yeon too much when he does so. He feels like, maybe, she's drifting off; there's a laxness to her now, although she's too small to really be considered heavy in his arms. "I guess," he says, because while parts of their life have definitely been hard, that's usually not too much about the two of them. It's everyone else that's the problem. "I don't know. I mean, I'm sure it is, but he just... He makes it look easy." Sun gives him a glance that he can't quite categorize, and Blaine just shrugs again. "I don't know. I mean... yeah, it's hard sometimes. But I love him, and he loves me, and we just... we make it work, somehow. Together."
"I worry," Sun says, confidingly, looking at Blaine for only a second before dropping her gaze back to the floor. "About what will happen. When we leave here and it's just the two of us. I worry that I won't be able to give her everything she needs."
"I don't know if it's that complicated," Blaine says, quietly. Because it's true, really. He's wanted things, sometimes, things that his dad couldn't give him. But he's always had what he's needed. "I think that if she knows you love her, then that's enough. Well, that and food. And, like, a house." Sun actually laughs a little bit at that, like she's startled but pleased at the same time, and Blaine feels proud out of all proportion to what he's actually done. "Love, food, and a house," he repeats. "And you'll be fine."
Sun smiles at him for a little longer, before her gaze finally shifts to the baby in his arms. "I think she's asleep," she says, softly, reaching up. Blaine sets one hand at the back of Ji Yeon's head, cradling her carefully as he lowers her down, back into her mother's arms. One little fist waves aimlessly in the air for a second, and then Ji Yeon settles, content. Sun watches her daughter sleep for a moment, then looks back up at Blaine. "Your father," she says. "He did a good job."
Blaine just nods, and wonders if it'd be too presumptuous of him to tell Sun that she'll do a good job too. It probably is, but he kind of wants to anyway. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, he did."
"It was nice to meet you, Blaine," Sun says, and smiles at him one last time before turning to walk back down the hallway, fussing with Ji Yeon's blankets as she goes.
"Yeah," Blaine says, watching her leave. "Yeah, you too."
And the strangest thing is how much better he feels about everything. Because yeah, it has been hard sometimes. And this -- the mass and the doctors and the tests and everything -- this is going to be hard, too. But he and his dad have always gotten through the hard stuff together, and they always will. They'll get through this.
He can't give up, not yet.
*
"I'm telling you," his father says, and Dave knows he should start the game back up, drown his father's voice out, but he can't. He's gotta listen; he needs to know. "This is the best way. Divide and conquer. Works every time."
"Not every time," the Iraqi points out, his voice softer. "And to divide them means to divide our own team as well. I'm not sure that's the wisest course."
"You're kidding, right?" There's that something in his dad's voice that has always made Dave feel a little uncomfortable, the way he almost sounds like he's joking but he's really just pissed off. His dad sounds like that a lot, lately. "Divide our own team? When have we ever not been divided, Sayid? Huh? You sit down for dinner with Mrs. Kwon lately? Or go to the bar with Michael for a beer? We try to pull everyone back together into one happy family now, we'll never get anything done. Too busy fighting over everything, just like we did on the -- Like we did before. And look where that got us."
The Iraqi doesn't say anything for a little bit, and Dave thinks about hitting the pause button again, about drowning them out the way he's supposed to. But he doesn't. He can't. "And Michael and Sun," the Iraqi says. "Are you sure they're the right ones to send after the boy? Because I find it hard to imagine either of them --"
"It's not like we're asking them to hurt him, Sayid," his dad says. "Just... bring him home. Hell, maybe he wants it. It's not like leaving was his choice in the first place. I mean, that Linus guy basically kidnapped him. He probably wants to go home. He'll probably thank us."
"You don't really believe that," the Iraqi says, still soft-voiced and calm.
It only makes Dave's father sound more brittle by comparison. "Look," he says, and his voice is all strained calm, and Dave kind of curls in on himself a little bit. "It doesn't matter what I believe. Okay? The man in charge wants us to bring them back. So we're bringing them back. What happens after that? Not our problem."
"That's assuming that all goes well. But what if it doesn't?" There's a silence, and then the Iraqi continues. "Remember, you're not only risking yourself with this plan. Your son is in danger too."
"My son," Dave's father says, "can handle himself."
"Really." The Iraqi doesn't say anything else; he doesn't need to. His meaning is perfectly clear. And Dave thinks that maybe he should be offended by that, but then he remembers standing in the hallway with Mr. Anderson staring up at him with those eyes of his, and he can't quite manage it. Because honestly, he's not so sure he can handle this at all.
His dad just sighs. "Look, Sayid, this is the plan. You don't like it? Fine. Go back to the man in charge. See if you can get him to change his mind. But you better hurry, because God only knows what's gonna happen to that girlfriend of yours while you're off screwing around. Me personally? I doubt it's gonna be anything good."
The silence that follows is heavier than anything, and Dave pushes himself off the floor a little, listening intently for a sound, for a sign that he needs to get his butt out there. Because maybe he agrees with the Iraqi a lot more than he agrees with his own dad these days, but that doesn't mean he's gonna let his father get hurt. "And I, personally, doubt that anything good is going to come of my staying," the Iraqi says. "But. I suppose someone needs to be here to protect the others when this blows up in your face."
"Your objections have been noted," Dave's father says, his voice still sharply edged. "Now. Let's talk tactics. Obviously, we're going to have to rough both of them up a little bit, but we need to make sure that they both stay alive long enough to get to the --"
Dave swallows hard and hits the button on his controller, filling the room with the sounds of gunfire and screaming. He's fine with that, in a video game. He's not fine with the idea of his dad getting involved in that in real life.
He's not fine.