Because You Left, Chapter Twenty
Title: Because You Left, Chapter Twenty: The End is the Beginning (is the End)
Pairing/Character(s): Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Ben Linus Anderson, Finn Hudson, Sayid Jarrah, Artie Abrams, Brittany S. Pierce, Lord Tubbington, Santana Lopez (and her Abuelita), Ethan Rom.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Descriptions of a panic attack/nightmare, brief descriptions of the aftermath of a shooting.
Word Count: About 8,000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, with specific references to LOST 4x09, "The Shape of Things to Come. Spoilers up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
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. The song referenced in this chapter is "Catch a Falling Star."
Summary: It's this dream. Every time I have it, I know that something's going to happen. Something bad.
Author's Notes: So this is it, kids. The end of Season One (so to speak). After this, the fic is going on hiatus for four weeks so I can try to get caught up a little. Seriously, I didn't even finish this chapter until Tuesday; that's no good for any of us. But hopefully four weeks is enough time for me to get a few chapters ahead of myself, and things will go a little more smoothly.
I may also take some of that time to start a wiki up for this story, since I know some of you have been trying to use LOSTpedia and the wiki entries for the actual show, and I've changed so much that it's really more confusing than helpful. And there's a lot of information in this story. Like, a lot of it. So if you think a wiki might be helpful, let me know and I'll see what I can come up with.
Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost (which is now two chapters behind again. Sorry I'm a slacker).
The Sahara Desert
He comes out of the darkness gasping, staring up at the sky with his mouth working like a landed fish. For just a moment, the world is nothing more than a collection of images, brief flashes of sensation: the sky is blue, the sun is bright, the air is dry and hot and burns his lungs and he doesn't know where he is. For a moment --
But only for a moment.
He rolls to his side, pushing himself up to his knees, and almost immediately his stomach is protesting the gesture; he turns and hacks up a little fluid -- not much (he hasn't exactly had time for three solid meals and a few healthy snacks today), but enough that his stomach quiets down. Of course, he supposes that doesn't mean much when the taste of it is still in his mouth and there's nothing around him but sand, no water to wash that out and he wonders just how long it's going to take him to reach some kind of civilization.
The sound of hoofbeats, and Ethan smiles, pushes Edgar Halliwax's old jacket off his shoulders and pushes up to his feet.
This is going to be easier than he thought.
*
It's the sound of it that wakes Kurt up.
At first, he's not sure where he is -- he's on a bed, at least, but it isn't his. The blankets aren't his, he doesn't know where his pillows are, and there's something... Some sound, shaky and rough, like someone's... Like someone's breathing. Like Blaine's breathing. But it's too loud and it's too fast, and it --
Kurt pushes himself up, quickly, looks behind to see Blaine lying on his back, eyes tight shut. He's not thrashing or kicking, just... twitching a little, but he's breathing fast and hard and shaky like he's terrified.
It's this dream. Every time I have it, I know that something's going to happen. Something bad.
"Blaine," Kurt hisses, reaching out to shake Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine, wake up."
Blaine's head lolls as Kurt shakes him again, lips parting a little as his breathing gets even faster. "You said..." he mutters, tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes. "Said it was him... you said... oh God. Oh God."
Blaine whimpers, and Kurt leans in closer, shaking him again, reaching up to lightly slap at his cheeks. "Blaine," he says. "Blaine, please --"
"Dad," Blaine whispers, his whole body starting to tremble. "Dad, Dad, no, Dad, please -- please --"
He gasps, and for a second, Kurt thinks he's going to wake up, but then he just keeps gasping for air, his breath too loud, too high-pitched and wheezing, too short and too shallow, and Kurt does the only thing he can think of. "Mr. Anderson!" he shouts. "Mr. Anderson, please! Mr. Anderson!"
Blaine keeps hyperventilating, one hand coming up to clutch at his chest, face turning red, and Kurt grabs his shoulders but then doesn't know what to do, so he just holds on, babbling, "No, you're okay, you're okay, please, please be okay, please, please --" and calls out "Mr. Anderson!" again and hears the footsteps pounding towards Blaine's room and says "You're okay, you're okay, he's coming --"
Then the door bursts open, and Kurt looks up just in time to see Blaine's dad hurrying towards the bed. His eyes focus on Kurt for just a second, probably just long enough to see Kurt's tear-stained face and trembling lips, then settle on Blaine, still clutching at his chest and wheezing even louder than before. "He was asleep," Kurt says, the words running together, tumbling over one another in their haste to get out of him. "He was asleep, and then he started talking, and I tried to wake him up, I really did, but then he couldn't breathe and I --"
"Blaine," Blaine's father says, sinking onto the bed and reaching out, and Kurt snatches his hands away from Blaine's shoulders so Mr. Anderson can get to him, cupping Blaine's cheek with one hand and trying to pry Blaine's grasping fingers away from his chest with the other. "Blaine, Blaine, it's all right, I'm here. I'm here, Blaine. It's all right. It's all right."
"Jesus," Finn says -- Kurt looks up, startled, and sees him gaping in the doorway. "Is he -- Is it a seizure? Does he need the hospital? Shouldn't we -- You put things in their mouths, right? So they don't choke on their tongues? Because I've got my wallet in my pants, I could --"
"It's not a seizure," Mr. Anderson says, voice sharper than Kurt's ever heard it. "It's just a dream; it's just --" But Blaine's breathing is even shorter now, short and sharp and so loud, and Mr. Anderson obviously knows something's wrong, because he tries to lift Blaine's rigid body away from the pillows, but Blaine's shoulders slip away from him as Blaine twists, lashing out one-handed. "Blaine, Blaine, come on, please --"
"Don't --" Blaine protests, the words just barely audible, faint puffs of air that escape between the unnerving heep heep of his desperate struggles for breath. "Dad -- don't... run, you have to --" Then his eyes actually open, wide and unfocused and so starkly terrified that Kurt actually pulls back for a second, startled beyond belief. "No," Blaine breathes. "No, no, no --" He arches away from his father, shoving at him with both hands, trying to push him away, eyes still wide open and unseeing.
And all Kurt can do is stare, just stare for the longest time, as Blaine fights to get free of his father.
Then Mr. Anderson turns his head and looks at him, all messy hair and rumpled pajamas and desperate eyes, and somehow, that's enough to get him diving back in, trying to pin Blaine's arms down even as Mr. Anderson pulls the rest of him up, murmuring "No, no, no no no, Blaine, you're all right, I've got you, come on, come on, Blaine, please --"
It's harder than Kurt would have thought; Blaine is strong, and he's desperate, and Kurt doesn't want to hurt him, but when Blaine's right hand catches him on the jaw for the second time in ten seconds, he realizes he might not have much of a choice. He catches Blaine's wrists one at a time, gripping them tightly, and forces them into the small of Blaine's back, pushing him up into a sitting position and sliding in behind him to keep him there until Mr. Anderson can wrap his arms securely around his son, Blaine trapped between the two of them.
And the entire time, Mr. Anderson just keeps talking. "You're all right, Blaine," he says, voice cracking a little, desperate now. "You're all right, I've got you, I've got you, come on --" He rubs at Blaine's back and rocks him, gently, and Blaine lets out one last, loud gasp, his body arching away from his father's and back into Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt drops his wrists immediately because Blaine is hurt, maybe even dying, maybe even --
But then Blaine's hands find his father's waist, clutching tight at the striped fabric of his pajama top, and he sags forward again, breath still loud and raspy and far too fast, but starting to settle. "There," Mr. Anderson says, still rocking his son, every little backward movement making Blaine bump into Kurt's chest. "There, you're all right now. I've got you. You're all right."
Blaine shakes his head, still clinging to his father's shirt, still panting for breath. "You were gone," he sobs out. "You were gone, and Kurt -- Kurt --"
Kurt lets out a long, slow breath, sagging back against the headboard. Because that's Blaine, that's the voice that Kurt knows, and he's back. He's back. "I'm right here," Kurt murmurs, reaching out to pat at Blaine's arm. "I'm right here, Blaine."
"Kurt." Blaine twists in his father's arms, lifting his head, and his face is still red and blotchy from lack of air, but it's better than it was, and his eyes are focused again, and he's back, he's there, reaching out to cup Kurt's cheek in one hand, his other still clinging to his father's shirt. "Kurt, I'm so sorry, but you were -- You were gone for so long, and I was so scared, and I didn't know, and he --" Blaine's face crumbles, his breath hitching again, and when Kurt wraps his arm around Blaine's waist, he can feel Blaine's stomach jumping with little, aborted sobs. "And he said you were -- but that I could save you, if I -- and I thought --" Blaine turns back to his father, drops his head down to his father's shoulder, and starts sobbing in earnest. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry."
And the thing is, Kurt knows that he should pull back and let Mr. Anderson hold his son, let him be the one to calm Blaine down, but then Blaine's hand finds Kurt's, their fingers twining together against Blaine's stomach and he gives in to it, molding himself to Blaine's back and holding on tightly. And after a moment, Mr. Anderson's arms stretch to hold them both, his hands on Kurt's shoulders, pressing the three of them together, and it's awkward, but Kurt doesn't even care.
"It's all right," Mr. Anderson says, quietly. "It's all right now."
And Kurt half expects Blaine to say something like "It's not," because that's what Blaine always does, but he doesn't; he just keeps sobbing into his father's shirt, his shoulders shaking underneath Kurt's chest, and Kurt presses as close as he can and hopes that he and Mr. Anderson can somehow hold Blaine together.
*
The apartment is dark, silent, empty. Abandoned.
Sayid slips in through the door, pushing it shut behind him, and nearly reaches for the lights before thinking better of it. He wouldn't want to attract the attention of her neighbors, or anyone else. His flashlight will suffice for the task at hand. He plays the beam over the furnishings in her living room -- the books on the table, just beginning to gather dust, the cushions on the sofa still carefully arranged. It almost looks as though Juliet will come home any second.
She won't, of course.
"Ben Linus might not be able to parlay a few months into a good head start," she says. "But I bet you could, if you wanted to."
Of course, Juliet wouldn't have made that suggestion unless she had reasons of her own for wanting Sayid gone.
He follows his flashlight's beam into the kitchen.
The bowl of fruit on the countertop is gone; the cupboards are still well-stocked with canned goods, a few sealed boxes of pasta and unopened bags of rice, but the breadbox is empty. The dishes are still neatly stacked on the shelves, silverware in the drawers, but the refrigerator is empty of all but a box of baking soda and three different varieties of mustard. As he closes the door, Sayid notices something else. There had been a picture, held there with a magnet; a picture of a woman with a scarf tied around her head, a small boy on her lap, feeding her ice cream.
It's gone.
He contemplates the bedroom, decides not to bother. He already knows what he needs to. Juliet has left them.
He wonders, briefly, if he should find some way to avoid telling Sun. But of course, he can't do that. Out of all of them, she has the most to lose by this. Her husband is still on the Island, and Juliet was their only link to his captors. If she cannot be reclaimed...
But. With his skills, and Sun's resources, they'll manage it.
He turns on his heel and makes his way out of the apartment, locking the door behind him.
*
Finn is quiet at breakfast, picking at his french toast and ignoring his orange juice entirely (the bacon, of course, he wolfs down at once); he doesn't really look at Blaine at all, although Kurt doubts that Blaine would notice, since he's avoiding eye contact with anyone. He just stares at his plate, cutting his breakfast into ever smaller pieces and pushing them around a little with his fork. Blaine's father watches him do it, but doesn't say anything about it; Kurt can't help but notice, though, that he keeps finding excuses to brush his fingers across the back of Blaine's hand, nudge him with his shoulder. He notices, too, the way that Blaine seems to soften every time, his shoulders relaxing a little from where they're hiked up to his ears, his eyes falling shut for just a second before they open again, still fixed on his plate. Then, and only then, does Blaine stab a bit of french toast with his fork and shove it into his mouth, his face screwing up like chewing is the most painful thing he can do.
Kurt watches him, and after a little while, he pushes himself away from the table, claiming to need more coffee. As he passes behind Blaine, he reaches out and trails his fingers along Blaine's shoulders and Blaine actually looks at him, his eyes a little wide.
Kurt takes his time fixing his coffee, and is gratified to see that by the time he's returned to his chair, Blaine has eaten at least three more bites of his french toast. He looks up at Kurt, hazel eyes huge underneath thick, dark lashes, and Kurt smiles at him. Blaine doesn't smile back, but he does take another bite of his breakfast. It's the smallest possible progress, but it's still progress.
He glances over at Blaine's father, sees him watching -- Mr. Anderson nods, and Kurt nods back at him. He's not totally sure what it means; he thinks, maybe, he's just been given permission for something, although he's not totally sure what it is yet.
In the end, no one really finishes their breakfast -- Blaine's father gives up trying entirely after about half an hour and pulls Blaine away to change the bandages on his injured leg. As soon as they're gone, Kurt picks up their plates and carries them over to the trash, scraping off the leftovers before setting the plates in the sink. He doesn't really think that either Blaine or his father want him doing the dishes; it's just that they're not there to stop him, and he has to do something before he goes crazy. Finn must feel the same way, because when Kurt turns to grab his own plate, Finn's already got it in hand. Kurt hesitates for a second, then shrugs and starts picking up discarded glasses and coffee mugs.
He washes. Finn dries. They don't talk for a long time.
Finally, Finn clears his throat. "What do you..." He looks at Kurt for a second, then goes back to very intently polishing one of the knives. "What do you think he saw? Blaine, I mean. Because he was having that dream and he seemed pretty freaked out and I just -- What do you think he saw?"
Kurt attempts a nonchalant shrug; he doesn't think he's that successful but it doesn't really matter, since Finn's still staring at the knife. "I don't know," he says, quietly, and tries not to think about it.
Dad, Dad, no, Dad, please --
"But he said..." Finn glances over at him again, still polishing that same knife. "He said you were gone, Kurt."
"I know," Kurt says, and runs his sponge underneath the stream of water from the tap, and doesn't think of the way Blaine's voice cracked when he said Kurt's name, doesn't think of the way Blaine's hand shook when he reached out for him, doesn't think of the desperation in Blaine's grasp, the way he refused to let Kurt pull away even after he'd stopped crying. He said I could save you. "But I'm not going anywhere."
Finn's eyebrows draw together. "But Blaine said --"
"It was a dream, Finn," Kurt snaps, dropping his mug into the sink. "It was just -- It was just a dream."
Finn stares at him for a long time. "Okay," he says, finally. "Okay, Kurt. Okay."
"It was just a dream," Kurt repeats, and picks the mug back up, and scans the rim for chips and cracks.
I was so scared.
Once he's absolutely satisfied that the mug is intact, he passes it to Finn.
I'm so sorry, Dad.
*
Artie's kind of getting used to the fact that his girlfriend can just scoop him up and carry him around like he's a baby.
Which is not to say he likes it, necessarily, and he's pretty sure that if he was dating anyone but Brittany, it would genuinely be too humiliating to stomach. But he is dating Brittany, and dating Brittany is...
Dating Brittany is different. In a lot of ways. But he's getting used to them.
Some of them.
Not all of them.
The basement of Brittany's house... That's not something he's going to get used to any time soon.
"I'm still not sure that this is a good idea," he says, as she comes back down the stairs carrying his wheelchair, Lord Tubbington slinking after her. Artie's honestly kind of a little shocked that the cat is still so attached to Brittany, after everything. Of course, cheese is an excellent way to buy loyalty. And also, it's entirely possible that Brittany's "time machine" isn't anything more than a purple lamp attached to an old amplifier, with some extra knobs and wires thrown in to make it look convincing. In fact, it's the only possible thing he can possibly think about this whole situation; anything else would be absolutely impossible.
Except Artie's been dating Brittany for a while now, and if there's anything he's gotten used to, it's the impossible.
"Don't be silly," Brittany says, unfolding his chair and setting it out so he can transfer himself into it.. Sometimes, he thinks that's the reason why it's okay for her to carry him; she only does it when she has to, lets him do everything else. He appreciates that, that she doesn't treat him like he's completely helpless. "I mean, we already know it works one way, right?" She picks Lord Tubbington up and sniffs happily at his fur. "So, it'll work the other direction, too. We just need to reverse the frequency."
"Yeah, but." Artie watches Brittany pick Lord Tubbington up and set him on the table, underneath the lamp, and he tries to tell himself that it's okay, that it's just a lamp and Brittany's imagination, that it didn't work before and it won't work now. He tries to tell himself that he's just humoring her because she's been so good to him so far. He tries to tell himself that he has no real reason to be scared. "I mean, even if it does work. Like, doesn't that mean he'll -- you know, he'll start smoking again, won't he?"
Brittany just shrugs and moves over to the amplifier/control panel thing, glancing back at the chalkboard as if she's checking the math one last time. Which, honestly, is at least half the problem, because Artie knows he's smart but he's still only in pre-calc and high school level physics, and Brittany is... she's Brittany, and no matter what she's learned from that journal she keeps in her bedside table, there's no way the two of them, even put together, could ever actually make this work. Like, not ever. Not in a million years. "Well, then we'll re-reverse it," she says, fiddling with the knobs. "Send him back to the future. Like Michael J. Fox. And then we won't have to worry about him smoking anymore and we'll still know how to travel into the past, and then all we have to do is rework the math so it's in human time instead of cat time, and it'll all be okay again. And everything will work out."
Artie wheels closer to the table -- Lord Tubbington gives him a disdainful look and then rolls away, presenting Artie with a good view of his back. "No offense, Brittany, but isn't that a lot of time travel for one cat?" He's not totally sure why, but he thinks he's starting to feel a little desperate. "I mean, I've read Dr. Faraday's journal too. And the mouse? Eloise? She dies, Brittany. Her brain can't handle the temporal shifts, and she has an aneurysm, and she dies. How do you know that's not going to happen to Lord Tubbington? How do you know it's not going to --"
There's a moment where Brittany looks at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together, and Artie thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's starting to get through to her. But then she leans over the control panel and pulls a small catnip mouse from underneath a tangle of wires. Lord Tubbington perks up at once, eyes following the mouse with an almost scary level of interest. "Eloise," she says, "didn't have a constant." She wiggles the mouse, and Lord Tubbington sits up and watches it move, eyes wide and transfixed. "Lord Tubbington does. He'll be fine. I mean, apart from the smoking. But it's only for a few days. Which is like a month in cat time. I think. But we already accounted for that in the math, so."
"It's a toy mouse, Brittany," Artie snaps, and his voice is getting a little high and he thinks maybe he's starting to become hysterical, like this is all starting to slip out of his control, but he doesn't totally know how to stop so he just keeps going. "What happens when it goes under the fridge and we can't find it? Or if your parents throw it out, or..." He shakes his head, trying to get himself back under control, but he can't. He just can't. "What if we don't know what we're doing?" he asks. "What if this is too big for us? Too much? What if it's... What if we shouldn't be trying to change what happened? What if... What if we do something and it makes it worse? There's just too many variables, Brittany. There's too many."
Brittany stares at him for a long time. Then she turns away from the controls and makes her way towards Artie, reaching out, and he'd almost think she was apologizing if it weren't for the look on her face. Because he knows that look -- he's not used to it, but he knows it. It's that look that says it doesn't matter. That she won't change her mind. So it's not really a surprise when she slides one arm around his back and the other behind his knees and lifts him out of the chair without saying a word. It hurts, but it's not really a surprise.
"Brit," he sighs, and doesn't try to shift out of her hold, even though he wants to. Because usually, when she carries him around like this, he doesn't feel helpless at all. But right now? Right now he does. And it's nothing to do with his legs; it's just... It's just her. "Brit, come on. Put me down."
"Why?" she asks, and doesn't look down at him even once. She doesn't start moving towards the stairs, though, either. "Look, you don't want to do this. That's okay. It's fine. You don't have to. I'll take you upstairs, and you can go, and then you won't have to do anything you don't want to."
"But you're still going to, Brittany," Artie says, trying to ignore the fact that he's fighting with his girlfriend with his arms wrapped around her neck and her arms holding him cradled against her, because as weird as it is, that's Brittany. "Aren't you? Even if I left right now, you'd still do it."
She shakes her head, and stares at the door. "I have to, Artie," she says, quietly.
Artie sighs. "Look at me, Brittany."
She doesn't turn her head.
"Brittany," he says again. "Look at me. Please?" And when she finally does, he looks in her eyes and he asks her, "Do you want to do this, Brittany?"
Her eyes fill up with tears. "I -- I don't -- I have to, Artie," she says again. "I just... I know you don't understand, but Kurt and Santana and Blaine and Mr. A, and I just... I have to. Because I'm the only one who can."
Artie takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says. Then, "Put me down, Brit."
"You don't wanna do this," she says, like he needs the reminding.
"You don't either," he points out. "And if you're not leaving, then neither am I. We'll do this together, just like before."
Brittany sniffles and hugs him a little closer to her chest for a second. "You're the best boyfriend ever, Artie," she says, squeezing him. "I'm glad you're not a robot."
"I'm glad I'm not a robot, too," he says, as Brittany settles him back in his chair; he doesn't acknowledge the part where she called him the best boyfriend ever, because he knows that that isn't really true. Because if he was such a good boyfriend, he'd have found some way of talking Brittany out of this. He wouldn't be letting her push him towards the control panels of her homemade time machine; he wouldn't be watching her set the oscillation frequency and adjust the settings to the right number. If he was a good boyfriend, he'd find some way of stopping her.
But then, maybe he wouldn't be able to. Maybe no one can stop Brittany, in the end.
"Okay," she says, her hand settling on the switch. "Lord Tubbington, I'm gonna need you to hold really still for me, okay?"
The cat yawns, then curls up obediently underneath the lamp and falls asleep.
Brittany glances over at Artie. "You ready?" she asks.
And he isn't, not really, but there's nothing else he can do. Brittany's mind is made up, and he's helpless to change it now. So he reaches out for Brittany's free hand, and holds onto it as tightly as he can.
"Okay," Brittany says again. "Okay. Let's do this."
She flips the switch.
*
"That was pretty good," Blaine says, as Kurt leans against the wall next to him. Blaine hasn't shot yet (Kurt's not actually sure he's going to be shooting at all today, with his leg and everything), but he's still fully decked out with the giant orange earmuffs and yellow-tinted safety glasses. It makes him look strangely young. "You were good, I mean. You're a pretty good shot."
Kurt just shrugs. "It's a little different from my dad's old twelve gauge," he says, watching Mr. Anderson guiding Finn's hands to wrap around the grip, thumbs lining up just so. It's funny -- Finn was so excited to go to the firing range before last night; he wouldn't shut up about it all week. Except now that they're here, he's tense, twitchy, jittery. Kurt wonders if it's just the fact that he's here and actually holding a real gun, hearing the real sound of it, or if it's just...
He glances over at Blaine. Blaine's eyes are still fixed on his father, watching him adjust Finn's stance with steady, careful hands.
"But I guess," Kurt continues, and he's not entirely sure whether he's still talking about guns or not, but it feels like it's important to keep going anyway, so he just does, "I guess it's not that different. In the end."
The corner of Blaine's mouth turns up into the smallest, saddest smile Kurt's ever seen. "I remember, after we left Tustin," he says, "when we moved to Portland, I begged my dad to teach me how to shoot. Because I just... when they came for us, I felt so helpless, and I thought... But he always said 'When you're older.' He thought I was too young. And honestly, I probably was. But I just didn't... I felt so responsible for him." Blaine sighs. "And then after what happened in Portland, and I kind of really did have to take care of him, so."
"Can I ask," Kurt says, watching Blaine watch his father. Blaine flinches, just a little bit, the first time Finn fires the gun, but then his shoulders settle back against the wall, and his chin goes up. Kurt wonders, absently, how Finn's doing, but can't tear his eyes away from Blaine long enough to check. "What happened in Portland, Blaine?"
There's another burst of gunfire from Finn's lane; then it's over, and there's a pause, before finally Kurt hears Mr. Anderson say, "That's... That's better, Finn. But here, why don't we try --"
Blaine closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again. He's still looking at his father. "You know how, in the movies, when someone gets shot in the shoulder, they sort of just... You know, they grab it, and they stumble around for a little bit, and then they're okay again, more or less. It's not... In real life, it's not like that. Because there's all sorts of bones and joints and just... It's not just a clean shot, through-and-through. Things get broken, things get torn; it... it takes a while to heal. So even if he didn't want me doing things for him, taking care of him that way..." Blaine shrugs. "I think that was when it really hit him that he couldn't always be the one to take care of everything. That I might have to take care of myself sometimes, or might even wind up taking care of him. Which obviously was not something he was happy about -- I was pretty young and everything, but... My dad's always been practical like that. He does what he has to. So."
Kurt can't think of anything to say. He reaches out instead, tangles his fingers with Blaine's, and Blaine squeezes his hand gratefully.
A few feet away, Finn fires twice, and then twice more. There's a pause, and then Mr. Anderson's voice, gentle as always. "Better," he says, quietly. "That was better, Finn."
"It's funny," Blaine says, quietly, eyes still locked on his father. "He still doesn't really... Because it's so important to him that he's there to protect me. So he thinks that's what I'm scared of -- that if he's gone, if I'm alone, that I'll be scared because he's not there to protect me. But that's not what it is. It's what happens to him if I'm not there to look after him. That's what scares me the most."
Kurt studies Blaine's face for a few seconds, thinks about asking --
But he already knows the answer.
You were gone.
"I could help," he offers, tightening his fingers around Blaine's. "If I'm there, and you're not, or... or whatever happens. I could help keep an eye on him. So you wouldn't have to worry as much. I am a pretty good shot, after all. I could help take care of him, if you needed me to."
Blaine finally tears his eyes away from his father, turns to look up at Kurt, his lips pursed in something like a frown. "Kurt," he says. "I --" Then he shakes his head and laughs quietly, and Kurt has no idea what the joke is, so he just watches and waits. "I'm sorry." Blaine sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I get so mad when he does this to me, and then I just --" His eyes meet Kurt's again, and the almost painfully boyish sincerity is back in his expression. "Yes," he says. "Yes, you can help. In fact, I would be incredibly grateful, if you would do that for me."
Kurt smiles back at him, leans in a little bit to nudge Blaine's shoulder with his own. "And you can help me look after my family," he says. "We could help each other. If you wanted to."
"I do," Blaine says, still so earnest. "I do, Kurt."
"Good," Kurt says, and smiles at him a little longer, and then finally turns his attention back to the range.
*
And it's weird how suddenly even her abuelita's kitchen, which is arguably the safest place in the world, doesn't quite feel safe anymore. It's always been the one place she could go, no matter what else was happening, and just be... protected. And nothing about it has changed -- it's still got the same sheer white curtains, the same weird old-lady wallpaper, the same pictures on the refrigerator and the same pot of red beans and rice on the stove; it's just...
And maybe I shouldn't be talking to you about this, Santana, she'd said, sliding the manila envelope out of her purse and onto the pristine surface of Abuelita's kitchen table, but you deserve to know the truth. And if you don't want to, then... throw it away. You don't have to read any of it. But I wanted to at least give you the option. Because no one else will.
And honestly, most days Santana would have torn that envelope open right then and there, because she is a nosy bitch who likes getting up in other people's business, and after all, gossip is power. But she's just... She's just tired. Tired of the looks, tired of the questions, tired of being expected to give a fuck about any of this when as far as she's concerned, her part in the whole stupid drama began and ended in the home ec room, when Jennifer Karofsky's sainted frickin' son decided he hated the gays so much he was gonna shoot all of them up.
And maybe there's something in here that'll change things; maybe there's something that will make her feel sorry for Karofsky. But she just doesn't even want to. She wants to hate him. Hell, if she could, she'd hate the Anderbaby and Hummel too. But Anderson's all short and big-eyed and on crutches and everything, and Hummel's just... he's Hummel. And Santana's a stone-cold bitch, but she just can't hate them. She can't manage it.
That leaves her with Karofsky. And luckily for her, Karofsky is nothing if not hatable. She wants to hold on to that. She needs to. It's all she's got.
She runs her fingers over the surface of the envelope anyway, then snatches them back when she hears the front door slam. She can hear her abuela muttering in Spanish as she makes her way back into the kitchen, her eyebrows pulled tight together; her face only softens when she sees Santana still in the vinyl-backed chair, watching with her hands folded in her lap. "I am sorry, Santana," she says, quietly. "I should never have let that woman into my house. I should have known no good would come of it."
"It's okay," Santana says, and manages a small smile. Her abuela doesn't smile back at her. "Hey," she adds, reaching out. "Abuelita. It's not your fault. Besides, we're supposed to forgive, right? Like Jesus on the cross."
"That woman didn't want forgiveness," Abuela says, darkly, glaring back in the direction of the door. "She took her shame and she tried to give it to you. I won't allow it. Here, let me --" She reaches out for the manila envelope on the table; before she even knows what she's doing, Santana's laid her hand over her abuela's wrist, stopping her.
"No," she says, too quickly, and when Abuela looks at her -- a little surprised, a little angry, too -- she adds, "Just... If Mrs. Karofsky thinks this is so important, then maybe we should... You know. Let the cops handle it. If it's nothing, then they can just get rid of it, and if it's something, then... Then that's good. Right?"
Her abuela's eyebrows draw together again, and Santana wonders just who she really thinks she's fooling here. But then she smiles, and slides her hand out from underneath Santana's. "Of course," she says. "You do what you need to do, Santana."
Santana smiles back at her. "I always do, Abuelita," she says, and lets her hand close around the edge of the envelope.
And okay, maybe the truth is that she doesn't even know what she needs to do, not right now. Whatever it is, she's pretty sure it's not running to the cops with the envelope. But she's got a little time, anyway. She can figure it out.
Maybe, just maybe, what's in the envelope can help her with that.
There's only one way to be sure.
*
Blaine doesn't toss or turn, but there's something in the way he's breathing, something that Kurt just knows means he's lying there, awake. And he knows he's probably being forward and being pushy and being all those things that everyone's always accused him of being, but he can't just...
He can't.
He rolls out from underneath the covers, pushes up to his feet, and takes two steps over to the side of the bed. Blaine's in the middle, but it's a big bed -- Kurt could lie right down next to him and they wouldn't even be touching. But he doesn't go that far, not yet; instead he perches on the edge, one hand reaching out to touch Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine?" he asks, softly.
"Kurt," Blaine whispers; he stays flat on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, but he turns his head, glancing over at Kurt with wide, apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry. Was I -- I was trying not to be too loud, but I guess I just --"
"You weren't," Kurt said. "Being loud, I mean. I just..." And it's something in Blaine's eyes, the anxiousness and the care in them, and Kurt caves in, pulling his legs up onto the bed and rolling onto his side so he's facing Blaine. He reaches out again, just touching Blaine's shoulder like he did before. "Is this okay?"
Blaine tips his head to the other side, so Kurt can't see anything but the thick, messy curls that Blaine's usually at such pains to hide. "You don't have to," Blaine murmurs, his voice small and uncertain enough to make Kurt slide his hand down, wrap it around Blaine's arm just above the elbow.
"I know," Kurt says, trying to sound as encouraging as he possibly can. "But if I wanted to, Blaine -- and I do want to, but only if -- Is it okay if I sleep here? With you?"
"Kurt," Blaine says again, his voice thick with... something; there's too many emotions tangled up in the way Blaine says his name -- Kurt can't even guess at half of them. Then Blaine sighs. "Get under the blankets, dummy. You'll freeze."
It comes out a little rougher than Blaine meant it to, but Kurt's inclined to be understanding and forgiving after everything, at least with Blaine, so he obediently slides off the bed, lifts the covers, and comes back in properly. He doesn't cuddle in the way he might want to, just takes hold of Blaine's arm again, but he still feels better for having done it. And it's hard to tell what Blaine's thinking, exactly -- he takes one deep, rough breath after another, like he's just barely keeping hold of himself. But then he reaches up with his free arm and rests his hand over Kurt's, so Kurt's pretty sure that he isn't going anywhere.
Blaine rolls his head back until he's staring up at the ceiling. "It doesn't usually come back," he says, and Kurt has no idea what he's talking about, so he just holds Blaine's arm and waits for the rest of it. "Just... once, and then they come for us, and we move on, and then it's gone again. Until the next time they find us. But it's only ever once. It doesn't come back after that."
"You mean your dream, right?" Kurt asks, and he's not totally sure he wants to talk about this yet, because he hasn't totally figured out what to think about any of it. He trusts Blaine, would trust him with anything at all, but -- He's still himself, and psychic powers and dreams of the future are just... They're a little hard to swallow. "That's what you mean."
"Yeah," Blaine whispers. "So it shouldn't... I should be fine, tonight. I should be..." Kurt watches Blaine's adam's apple bob as he swallows nervously. "But this one was different," he adds. "So I guess I don't really know what it'll do."
Kurt curls in a little closer, his foot bumping up against Blaine's. "Can I ask a question?" Blaine keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, doesn't look at Kurt, but he nods. "How was it different, Blaine?"
Blaine closes his eyes, dark lashes heavy on his cheeks. "It was worse."
And Kurt knows he should probably say something, but he can't think of the words for it; all he really knows is that it doesn't matter so much whether there's a logical explanation for all of this or whether Blaine can actually see the future. It doesn't matter if it's rational, if it makes sense. What matters is that Blaine is scared, and Kurt can't stand it.
He slides in a little closer, drapes his arm over Blaine's waist -- Blaine's hand stays on top of his the entire time, not letting go. "This is going to sound stupid," he says, quietly. "But there's this song. My mom used to sing it to me, when I was little. And then, when she -- My dad took over. It's the only time I've ever heard him sing. But if you wanted, I could --"
Blaine's hand tightens around his. "Please?" he asks, and Kurt could almost cry at the longing in his voice.
But he can't. He's got a request, now. So he shifts a little higher on the pillows, careful not to let go of Blaine for even a second, and once he's got himself settled, he starts singing, as softly as he can.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --
Never let it fade away.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --
Save it for a rainy day.
Blaine smiles, just a little bit. "Oh," he murmurs, and Kurt stops singing for a moment, watching him. "So that's where my dad learned it."
Kurt pats at his side, then goes back to singing.
For love may come a-tapping on your shoulder
Some starless night...
*
Tozeur, Tunisia
Ethan isn't exactly thrilled by the prospect of having to re-acclimate himself to the outside world.
The truth is, he's never really wanted to leave the Island. Not for school (although he did, when he was told to), not to bring in new recruits, not for any reason at all. He's done what he has to, when he's had to do it, but he belongs on the Island; he belongs to the Island. He's known that from the start. And he wouldn't have left the Island this time if he hadn't known, deep in the core of him, that it was the only way he could save it. Not the people on it; he doesn't really care so much about them, but the Island itself --
The Island is what matters. The Island is the only thing that matters.
And so here he is.
It isn't all bad, of course. The bathroom of his suite is well-stocked with thick, soft towels and bottles of product that he couldn't even begin to identify, the shower is large and there's more than enough hot water to last him, and there's something enjoyably decadent about coming out clean and scrubbed and wrapped in a plush bathrobe to find a meal and a stack of newspapers waiting for him. It isn't something he'd ever allow himself to get used to, of course, but the indulgence is... appealing. He might even let himself think for a moment that he deserves it, after everything. Something like a vacation.
It is not, of course, a vacation. It's banishment. After all, the rules are very clear. Ethan turned the Wheel. He moved the Island. He can never return. The rules are very clear.
Still, there are nearly always loopholes, for those who know how to look.
Ethan carries the room service tray over to the bed, and settles in. The front desk clerk really outdid herself with the newspaper selection -- there's La Presse, of course, and The Guardian, but there's also USA Today, the Toledo Blade, the Columbus Dispatch, and most impressive of all, the Lima News. He pulls this last newspaper out from the bottom of the stack, unfolds it, scanning the front page with eager eyes. It isn't even that old; he was expecting something from a month ago, or perhaps a year, but no, this is from last week. This could be exactly what he needs.
And as he skims the text of the main article (the headline proclaiming: Accusations Fly after McKinley School Shooting), he realizes that it is.
Ethan's never really concerned himself much with these sorts of things: most children are small sociopaths; it never surprises him when they lash out. But as he skims the article, he sees the name Karofsky, over and over again. Not Paul Karofsky, of course; Ethan had never really expected Dr. Arzt to get his hands dirty. But his son, David -- there's someone made of slightly sterner stuff. Ethan can appreciate that.
Not quite as much as he appreciates the small picture in the lower left hand corner, with the caption reading: Teacher Tried to Reach Out to Troubled Student, Became a Target Instead.
Poor old predictable Benjamin. Dangle a child in front of him, and he'll do anything. Honestly, if Charles had only thought to do so years ago, so much could have been avoided. But. His loss, Ethan's gain.
After all these years, Jacob still wants Ben and his son. Ethan has no idea why -- they don't care about the Island; they'd never sacrifice themselves the way he has, they'd never do the things he's done, suffer the things he -- But it doesn't matter if Ethan understands, and it never has. The Island belongs to Jacob, and Jacob wants them. If they're with Ethan, if he's the one to bring them back to the Island, Jacob will let him return. He'll have to.
He just needs Benjamin and his son. And, as it happens, he's already got a team ready to help him acquire them.
Ethan reaches out to the tray, grabs a handful of dates, and flips the newspaper to the sports section. In the morning, he'll contact L.A., make arrangements for his trip to Ohio, get in touch with Juliet. He will set the plan into motion. But for now, just for now, it's enough to know that he has one.
He has a plan, and he'll be home soon. And that's all that matters.
Pairing/Character(s): Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Ben Linus Anderson, Finn Hudson, Sayid Jarrah, Artie Abrams, Brittany S. Pierce, Lord Tubbington, Santana Lopez (and her Abuelita), Ethan Rom.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Descriptions of a panic attack/nightmare, brief descriptions of the aftermath of a shooting.
Word Count: About 8,000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, with specific references to LOST 4x09, "The Shape of Things to Come. Spoilers up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
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. The song referenced in this chapter is "Catch a Falling Star."
Summary: It's this dream. Every time I have it, I know that something's going to happen. Something bad.
Author's Notes: So this is it, kids. The end of Season One (so to speak). After this, the fic is going on hiatus for four weeks so I can try to get caught up a little. Seriously, I didn't even finish this chapter until Tuesday; that's no good for any of us. But hopefully four weeks is enough time for me to get a few chapters ahead of myself, and things will go a little more smoothly.
I may also take some of that time to start a wiki up for this story, since I know some of you have been trying to use LOSTpedia and the wiki entries for the actual show, and I've changed so much that it's really more confusing than helpful. And there's a lot of information in this story. Like, a lot of it. So if you think a wiki might be helpful, let me know and I'll see what I can come up with.
Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost (which is now two chapters behind again. Sorry I'm a slacker).
The Sahara Desert
He comes out of the darkness gasping, staring up at the sky with his mouth working like a landed fish. For just a moment, the world is nothing more than a collection of images, brief flashes of sensation: the sky is blue, the sun is bright, the air is dry and hot and burns his lungs and he doesn't know where he is. For a moment --
But only for a moment.
He rolls to his side, pushing himself up to his knees, and almost immediately his stomach is protesting the gesture; he turns and hacks up a little fluid -- not much (he hasn't exactly had time for three solid meals and a few healthy snacks today), but enough that his stomach quiets down. Of course, he supposes that doesn't mean much when the taste of it is still in his mouth and there's nothing around him but sand, no water to wash that out and he wonders just how long it's going to take him to reach some kind of civilization.
The sound of hoofbeats, and Ethan smiles, pushes Edgar Halliwax's old jacket off his shoulders and pushes up to his feet.
This is going to be easier than he thought.
*
It's the sound of it that wakes Kurt up.
At first, he's not sure where he is -- he's on a bed, at least, but it isn't his. The blankets aren't his, he doesn't know where his pillows are, and there's something... Some sound, shaky and rough, like someone's... Like someone's breathing. Like Blaine's breathing. But it's too loud and it's too fast, and it --
Kurt pushes himself up, quickly, looks behind to see Blaine lying on his back, eyes tight shut. He's not thrashing or kicking, just... twitching a little, but he's breathing fast and hard and shaky like he's terrified.
It's this dream. Every time I have it, I know that something's going to happen. Something bad.
"Blaine," Kurt hisses, reaching out to shake Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine, wake up."
Blaine's head lolls as Kurt shakes him again, lips parting a little as his breathing gets even faster. "You said..." he mutters, tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes. "Said it was him... you said... oh God. Oh God."
Blaine whimpers, and Kurt leans in closer, shaking him again, reaching up to lightly slap at his cheeks. "Blaine," he says. "Blaine, please --"
"Dad," Blaine whispers, his whole body starting to tremble. "Dad, Dad, no, Dad, please -- please --"
He gasps, and for a second, Kurt thinks he's going to wake up, but then he just keeps gasping for air, his breath too loud, too high-pitched and wheezing, too short and too shallow, and Kurt does the only thing he can think of. "Mr. Anderson!" he shouts. "Mr. Anderson, please! Mr. Anderson!"
Blaine keeps hyperventilating, one hand coming up to clutch at his chest, face turning red, and Kurt grabs his shoulders but then doesn't know what to do, so he just holds on, babbling, "No, you're okay, you're okay, please, please be okay, please, please --" and calls out "Mr. Anderson!" again and hears the footsteps pounding towards Blaine's room and says "You're okay, you're okay, he's coming --"
Then the door bursts open, and Kurt looks up just in time to see Blaine's dad hurrying towards the bed. His eyes focus on Kurt for just a second, probably just long enough to see Kurt's tear-stained face and trembling lips, then settle on Blaine, still clutching at his chest and wheezing even louder than before. "He was asleep," Kurt says, the words running together, tumbling over one another in their haste to get out of him. "He was asleep, and then he started talking, and I tried to wake him up, I really did, but then he couldn't breathe and I --"
"Blaine," Blaine's father says, sinking onto the bed and reaching out, and Kurt snatches his hands away from Blaine's shoulders so Mr. Anderson can get to him, cupping Blaine's cheek with one hand and trying to pry Blaine's grasping fingers away from his chest with the other. "Blaine, Blaine, it's all right, I'm here. I'm here, Blaine. It's all right. It's all right."
"Jesus," Finn says -- Kurt looks up, startled, and sees him gaping in the doorway. "Is he -- Is it a seizure? Does he need the hospital? Shouldn't we -- You put things in their mouths, right? So they don't choke on their tongues? Because I've got my wallet in my pants, I could --"
"It's not a seizure," Mr. Anderson says, voice sharper than Kurt's ever heard it. "It's just a dream; it's just --" But Blaine's breathing is even shorter now, short and sharp and so loud, and Mr. Anderson obviously knows something's wrong, because he tries to lift Blaine's rigid body away from the pillows, but Blaine's shoulders slip away from him as Blaine twists, lashing out one-handed. "Blaine, Blaine, come on, please --"
"Don't --" Blaine protests, the words just barely audible, faint puffs of air that escape between the unnerving heep heep of his desperate struggles for breath. "Dad -- don't... run, you have to --" Then his eyes actually open, wide and unfocused and so starkly terrified that Kurt actually pulls back for a second, startled beyond belief. "No," Blaine breathes. "No, no, no --" He arches away from his father, shoving at him with both hands, trying to push him away, eyes still wide open and unseeing.
And all Kurt can do is stare, just stare for the longest time, as Blaine fights to get free of his father.
Then Mr. Anderson turns his head and looks at him, all messy hair and rumpled pajamas and desperate eyes, and somehow, that's enough to get him diving back in, trying to pin Blaine's arms down even as Mr. Anderson pulls the rest of him up, murmuring "No, no, no no no, Blaine, you're all right, I've got you, come on, come on, Blaine, please --"
It's harder than Kurt would have thought; Blaine is strong, and he's desperate, and Kurt doesn't want to hurt him, but when Blaine's right hand catches him on the jaw for the second time in ten seconds, he realizes he might not have much of a choice. He catches Blaine's wrists one at a time, gripping them tightly, and forces them into the small of Blaine's back, pushing him up into a sitting position and sliding in behind him to keep him there until Mr. Anderson can wrap his arms securely around his son, Blaine trapped between the two of them.
And the entire time, Mr. Anderson just keeps talking. "You're all right, Blaine," he says, voice cracking a little, desperate now. "You're all right, I've got you, I've got you, come on --" He rubs at Blaine's back and rocks him, gently, and Blaine lets out one last, loud gasp, his body arching away from his father's and back into Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt drops his wrists immediately because Blaine is hurt, maybe even dying, maybe even --
But then Blaine's hands find his father's waist, clutching tight at the striped fabric of his pajama top, and he sags forward again, breath still loud and raspy and far too fast, but starting to settle. "There," Mr. Anderson says, still rocking his son, every little backward movement making Blaine bump into Kurt's chest. "There, you're all right now. I've got you. You're all right."
Blaine shakes his head, still clinging to his father's shirt, still panting for breath. "You were gone," he sobs out. "You were gone, and Kurt -- Kurt --"
Kurt lets out a long, slow breath, sagging back against the headboard. Because that's Blaine, that's the voice that Kurt knows, and he's back. He's back. "I'm right here," Kurt murmurs, reaching out to pat at Blaine's arm. "I'm right here, Blaine."
"Kurt." Blaine twists in his father's arms, lifting his head, and his face is still red and blotchy from lack of air, but it's better than it was, and his eyes are focused again, and he's back, he's there, reaching out to cup Kurt's cheek in one hand, his other still clinging to his father's shirt. "Kurt, I'm so sorry, but you were -- You were gone for so long, and I was so scared, and I didn't know, and he --" Blaine's face crumbles, his breath hitching again, and when Kurt wraps his arm around Blaine's waist, he can feel Blaine's stomach jumping with little, aborted sobs. "And he said you were -- but that I could save you, if I -- and I thought --" Blaine turns back to his father, drops his head down to his father's shoulder, and starts sobbing in earnest. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry."
And the thing is, Kurt knows that he should pull back and let Mr. Anderson hold his son, let him be the one to calm Blaine down, but then Blaine's hand finds Kurt's, their fingers twining together against Blaine's stomach and he gives in to it, molding himself to Blaine's back and holding on tightly. And after a moment, Mr. Anderson's arms stretch to hold them both, his hands on Kurt's shoulders, pressing the three of them together, and it's awkward, but Kurt doesn't even care.
"It's all right," Mr. Anderson says, quietly. "It's all right now."
And Kurt half expects Blaine to say something like "It's not," because that's what Blaine always does, but he doesn't; he just keeps sobbing into his father's shirt, his shoulders shaking underneath Kurt's chest, and Kurt presses as close as he can and hopes that he and Mr. Anderson can somehow hold Blaine together.
*
The apartment is dark, silent, empty. Abandoned.
Sayid slips in through the door, pushing it shut behind him, and nearly reaches for the lights before thinking better of it. He wouldn't want to attract the attention of her neighbors, or anyone else. His flashlight will suffice for the task at hand. He plays the beam over the furnishings in her living room -- the books on the table, just beginning to gather dust, the cushions on the sofa still carefully arranged. It almost looks as though Juliet will come home any second.
She won't, of course.
"Ben Linus might not be able to parlay a few months into a good head start," she says. "But I bet you could, if you wanted to."
Of course, Juliet wouldn't have made that suggestion unless she had reasons of her own for wanting Sayid gone.
He follows his flashlight's beam into the kitchen.
The bowl of fruit on the countertop is gone; the cupboards are still well-stocked with canned goods, a few sealed boxes of pasta and unopened bags of rice, but the breadbox is empty. The dishes are still neatly stacked on the shelves, silverware in the drawers, but the refrigerator is empty of all but a box of baking soda and three different varieties of mustard. As he closes the door, Sayid notices something else. There had been a picture, held there with a magnet; a picture of a woman with a scarf tied around her head, a small boy on her lap, feeding her ice cream.
It's gone.
He contemplates the bedroom, decides not to bother. He already knows what he needs to. Juliet has left them.
He wonders, briefly, if he should find some way to avoid telling Sun. But of course, he can't do that. Out of all of them, she has the most to lose by this. Her husband is still on the Island, and Juliet was their only link to his captors. If she cannot be reclaimed...
But. With his skills, and Sun's resources, they'll manage it.
He turns on his heel and makes his way out of the apartment, locking the door behind him.
*
Finn is quiet at breakfast, picking at his french toast and ignoring his orange juice entirely (the bacon, of course, he wolfs down at once); he doesn't really look at Blaine at all, although Kurt doubts that Blaine would notice, since he's avoiding eye contact with anyone. He just stares at his plate, cutting his breakfast into ever smaller pieces and pushing them around a little with his fork. Blaine's father watches him do it, but doesn't say anything about it; Kurt can't help but notice, though, that he keeps finding excuses to brush his fingers across the back of Blaine's hand, nudge him with his shoulder. He notices, too, the way that Blaine seems to soften every time, his shoulders relaxing a little from where they're hiked up to his ears, his eyes falling shut for just a second before they open again, still fixed on his plate. Then, and only then, does Blaine stab a bit of french toast with his fork and shove it into his mouth, his face screwing up like chewing is the most painful thing he can do.
Kurt watches him, and after a little while, he pushes himself away from the table, claiming to need more coffee. As he passes behind Blaine, he reaches out and trails his fingers along Blaine's shoulders and Blaine actually looks at him, his eyes a little wide.
Kurt takes his time fixing his coffee, and is gratified to see that by the time he's returned to his chair, Blaine has eaten at least three more bites of his french toast. He looks up at Kurt, hazel eyes huge underneath thick, dark lashes, and Kurt smiles at him. Blaine doesn't smile back, but he does take another bite of his breakfast. It's the smallest possible progress, but it's still progress.
He glances over at Blaine's father, sees him watching -- Mr. Anderson nods, and Kurt nods back at him. He's not totally sure what it means; he thinks, maybe, he's just been given permission for something, although he's not totally sure what it is yet.
In the end, no one really finishes their breakfast -- Blaine's father gives up trying entirely after about half an hour and pulls Blaine away to change the bandages on his injured leg. As soon as they're gone, Kurt picks up their plates and carries them over to the trash, scraping off the leftovers before setting the plates in the sink. He doesn't really think that either Blaine or his father want him doing the dishes; it's just that they're not there to stop him, and he has to do something before he goes crazy. Finn must feel the same way, because when Kurt turns to grab his own plate, Finn's already got it in hand. Kurt hesitates for a second, then shrugs and starts picking up discarded glasses and coffee mugs.
He washes. Finn dries. They don't talk for a long time.
Finally, Finn clears his throat. "What do you..." He looks at Kurt for a second, then goes back to very intently polishing one of the knives. "What do you think he saw? Blaine, I mean. Because he was having that dream and he seemed pretty freaked out and I just -- What do you think he saw?"
Kurt attempts a nonchalant shrug; he doesn't think he's that successful but it doesn't really matter, since Finn's still staring at the knife. "I don't know," he says, quietly, and tries not to think about it.
Dad, Dad, no, Dad, please --
"But he said..." Finn glances over at him again, still polishing that same knife. "He said you were gone, Kurt."
"I know," Kurt says, and runs his sponge underneath the stream of water from the tap, and doesn't think of the way Blaine's voice cracked when he said Kurt's name, doesn't think of the way Blaine's hand shook when he reached out for him, doesn't think of the desperation in Blaine's grasp, the way he refused to let Kurt pull away even after he'd stopped crying. He said I could save you. "But I'm not going anywhere."
Finn's eyebrows draw together. "But Blaine said --"
"It was a dream, Finn," Kurt snaps, dropping his mug into the sink. "It was just -- It was just a dream."
Finn stares at him for a long time. "Okay," he says, finally. "Okay, Kurt. Okay."
"It was just a dream," Kurt repeats, and picks the mug back up, and scans the rim for chips and cracks.
I was so scared.
Once he's absolutely satisfied that the mug is intact, he passes it to Finn.
I'm so sorry, Dad.
*
Artie's kind of getting used to the fact that his girlfriend can just scoop him up and carry him around like he's a baby.
Which is not to say he likes it, necessarily, and he's pretty sure that if he was dating anyone but Brittany, it would genuinely be too humiliating to stomach. But he is dating Brittany, and dating Brittany is...
Dating Brittany is different. In a lot of ways. But he's getting used to them.
Some of them.
Not all of them.
The basement of Brittany's house... That's not something he's going to get used to any time soon.
"I'm still not sure that this is a good idea," he says, as she comes back down the stairs carrying his wheelchair, Lord Tubbington slinking after her. Artie's honestly kind of a little shocked that the cat is still so attached to Brittany, after everything. Of course, cheese is an excellent way to buy loyalty. And also, it's entirely possible that Brittany's "time machine" isn't anything more than a purple lamp attached to an old amplifier, with some extra knobs and wires thrown in to make it look convincing. In fact, it's the only possible thing he can possibly think about this whole situation; anything else would be absolutely impossible.
Except Artie's been dating Brittany for a while now, and if there's anything he's gotten used to, it's the impossible.
"Don't be silly," Brittany says, unfolding his chair and setting it out so he can transfer himself into it.. Sometimes, he thinks that's the reason why it's okay for her to carry him; she only does it when she has to, lets him do everything else. He appreciates that, that she doesn't treat him like he's completely helpless. "I mean, we already know it works one way, right?" She picks Lord Tubbington up and sniffs happily at his fur. "So, it'll work the other direction, too. We just need to reverse the frequency."
"Yeah, but." Artie watches Brittany pick Lord Tubbington up and set him on the table, underneath the lamp, and he tries to tell himself that it's okay, that it's just a lamp and Brittany's imagination, that it didn't work before and it won't work now. He tries to tell himself that he's just humoring her because she's been so good to him so far. He tries to tell himself that he has no real reason to be scared. "I mean, even if it does work. Like, doesn't that mean he'll -- you know, he'll start smoking again, won't he?"
Brittany just shrugs and moves over to the amplifier/control panel thing, glancing back at the chalkboard as if she's checking the math one last time. Which, honestly, is at least half the problem, because Artie knows he's smart but he's still only in pre-calc and high school level physics, and Brittany is... she's Brittany, and no matter what she's learned from that journal she keeps in her bedside table, there's no way the two of them, even put together, could ever actually make this work. Like, not ever. Not in a million years. "Well, then we'll re-reverse it," she says, fiddling with the knobs. "Send him back to the future. Like Michael J. Fox. And then we won't have to worry about him smoking anymore and we'll still know how to travel into the past, and then all we have to do is rework the math so it's in human time instead of cat time, and it'll all be okay again. And everything will work out."
Artie wheels closer to the table -- Lord Tubbington gives him a disdainful look and then rolls away, presenting Artie with a good view of his back. "No offense, Brittany, but isn't that a lot of time travel for one cat?" He's not totally sure why, but he thinks he's starting to feel a little desperate. "I mean, I've read Dr. Faraday's journal too. And the mouse? Eloise? She dies, Brittany. Her brain can't handle the temporal shifts, and she has an aneurysm, and she dies. How do you know that's not going to happen to Lord Tubbington? How do you know it's not going to --"
There's a moment where Brittany looks at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together, and Artie thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's starting to get through to her. But then she leans over the control panel and pulls a small catnip mouse from underneath a tangle of wires. Lord Tubbington perks up at once, eyes following the mouse with an almost scary level of interest. "Eloise," she says, "didn't have a constant." She wiggles the mouse, and Lord Tubbington sits up and watches it move, eyes wide and transfixed. "Lord Tubbington does. He'll be fine. I mean, apart from the smoking. But it's only for a few days. Which is like a month in cat time. I think. But we already accounted for that in the math, so."
"It's a toy mouse, Brittany," Artie snaps, and his voice is getting a little high and he thinks maybe he's starting to become hysterical, like this is all starting to slip out of his control, but he doesn't totally know how to stop so he just keeps going. "What happens when it goes under the fridge and we can't find it? Or if your parents throw it out, or..." He shakes his head, trying to get himself back under control, but he can't. He just can't. "What if we don't know what we're doing?" he asks. "What if this is too big for us? Too much? What if it's... What if we shouldn't be trying to change what happened? What if... What if we do something and it makes it worse? There's just too many variables, Brittany. There's too many."
Brittany stares at him for a long time. Then she turns away from the controls and makes her way towards Artie, reaching out, and he'd almost think she was apologizing if it weren't for the look on her face. Because he knows that look -- he's not used to it, but he knows it. It's that look that says it doesn't matter. That she won't change her mind. So it's not really a surprise when she slides one arm around his back and the other behind his knees and lifts him out of the chair without saying a word. It hurts, but it's not really a surprise.
"Brit," he sighs, and doesn't try to shift out of her hold, even though he wants to. Because usually, when she carries him around like this, he doesn't feel helpless at all. But right now? Right now he does. And it's nothing to do with his legs; it's just... It's just her. "Brit, come on. Put me down."
"Why?" she asks, and doesn't look down at him even once. She doesn't start moving towards the stairs, though, either. "Look, you don't want to do this. That's okay. It's fine. You don't have to. I'll take you upstairs, and you can go, and then you won't have to do anything you don't want to."
"But you're still going to, Brittany," Artie says, trying to ignore the fact that he's fighting with his girlfriend with his arms wrapped around her neck and her arms holding him cradled against her, because as weird as it is, that's Brittany. "Aren't you? Even if I left right now, you'd still do it."
She shakes her head, and stares at the door. "I have to, Artie," she says, quietly.
Artie sighs. "Look at me, Brittany."
She doesn't turn her head.
"Brittany," he says again. "Look at me. Please?" And when she finally does, he looks in her eyes and he asks her, "Do you want to do this, Brittany?"
Her eyes fill up with tears. "I -- I don't -- I have to, Artie," she says again. "I just... I know you don't understand, but Kurt and Santana and Blaine and Mr. A, and I just... I have to. Because I'm the only one who can."
Artie takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says. Then, "Put me down, Brit."
"You don't wanna do this," she says, like he needs the reminding.
"You don't either," he points out. "And if you're not leaving, then neither am I. We'll do this together, just like before."
Brittany sniffles and hugs him a little closer to her chest for a second. "You're the best boyfriend ever, Artie," she says, squeezing him. "I'm glad you're not a robot."
"I'm glad I'm not a robot, too," he says, as Brittany settles him back in his chair; he doesn't acknowledge the part where she called him the best boyfriend ever, because he knows that that isn't really true. Because if he was such a good boyfriend, he'd have found some way of talking Brittany out of this. He wouldn't be letting her push him towards the control panels of her homemade time machine; he wouldn't be watching her set the oscillation frequency and adjust the settings to the right number. If he was a good boyfriend, he'd find some way of stopping her.
But then, maybe he wouldn't be able to. Maybe no one can stop Brittany, in the end.
"Okay," she says, her hand settling on the switch. "Lord Tubbington, I'm gonna need you to hold really still for me, okay?"
The cat yawns, then curls up obediently underneath the lamp and falls asleep.
Brittany glances over at Artie. "You ready?" she asks.
And he isn't, not really, but there's nothing else he can do. Brittany's mind is made up, and he's helpless to change it now. So he reaches out for Brittany's free hand, and holds onto it as tightly as he can.
"Okay," Brittany says again. "Okay. Let's do this."
She flips the switch.
*
"That was pretty good," Blaine says, as Kurt leans against the wall next to him. Blaine hasn't shot yet (Kurt's not actually sure he's going to be shooting at all today, with his leg and everything), but he's still fully decked out with the giant orange earmuffs and yellow-tinted safety glasses. It makes him look strangely young. "You were good, I mean. You're a pretty good shot."
Kurt just shrugs. "It's a little different from my dad's old twelve gauge," he says, watching Mr. Anderson guiding Finn's hands to wrap around the grip, thumbs lining up just so. It's funny -- Finn was so excited to go to the firing range before last night; he wouldn't shut up about it all week. Except now that they're here, he's tense, twitchy, jittery. Kurt wonders if it's just the fact that he's here and actually holding a real gun, hearing the real sound of it, or if it's just...
He glances over at Blaine. Blaine's eyes are still fixed on his father, watching him adjust Finn's stance with steady, careful hands.
"But I guess," Kurt continues, and he's not entirely sure whether he's still talking about guns or not, but it feels like it's important to keep going anyway, so he just does, "I guess it's not that different. In the end."
The corner of Blaine's mouth turns up into the smallest, saddest smile Kurt's ever seen. "I remember, after we left Tustin," he says, "when we moved to Portland, I begged my dad to teach me how to shoot. Because I just... when they came for us, I felt so helpless, and I thought... But he always said 'When you're older.' He thought I was too young. And honestly, I probably was. But I just didn't... I felt so responsible for him." Blaine sighs. "And then after what happened in Portland, and I kind of really did have to take care of him, so."
"Can I ask," Kurt says, watching Blaine watch his father. Blaine flinches, just a little bit, the first time Finn fires the gun, but then his shoulders settle back against the wall, and his chin goes up. Kurt wonders, absently, how Finn's doing, but can't tear his eyes away from Blaine long enough to check. "What happened in Portland, Blaine?"
There's another burst of gunfire from Finn's lane; then it's over, and there's a pause, before finally Kurt hears Mr. Anderson say, "That's... That's better, Finn. But here, why don't we try --"
Blaine closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again. He's still looking at his father. "You know how, in the movies, when someone gets shot in the shoulder, they sort of just... You know, they grab it, and they stumble around for a little bit, and then they're okay again, more or less. It's not... In real life, it's not like that. Because there's all sorts of bones and joints and just... It's not just a clean shot, through-and-through. Things get broken, things get torn; it... it takes a while to heal. So even if he didn't want me doing things for him, taking care of him that way..." Blaine shrugs. "I think that was when it really hit him that he couldn't always be the one to take care of everything. That I might have to take care of myself sometimes, or might even wind up taking care of him. Which obviously was not something he was happy about -- I was pretty young and everything, but... My dad's always been practical like that. He does what he has to. So."
Kurt can't think of anything to say. He reaches out instead, tangles his fingers with Blaine's, and Blaine squeezes his hand gratefully.
A few feet away, Finn fires twice, and then twice more. There's a pause, and then Mr. Anderson's voice, gentle as always. "Better," he says, quietly. "That was better, Finn."
"It's funny," Blaine says, quietly, eyes still locked on his father. "He still doesn't really... Because it's so important to him that he's there to protect me. So he thinks that's what I'm scared of -- that if he's gone, if I'm alone, that I'll be scared because he's not there to protect me. But that's not what it is. It's what happens to him if I'm not there to look after him. That's what scares me the most."
Kurt studies Blaine's face for a few seconds, thinks about asking --
But he already knows the answer.
You were gone.
"I could help," he offers, tightening his fingers around Blaine's. "If I'm there, and you're not, or... or whatever happens. I could help keep an eye on him. So you wouldn't have to worry as much. I am a pretty good shot, after all. I could help take care of him, if you needed me to."
Blaine finally tears his eyes away from his father, turns to look up at Kurt, his lips pursed in something like a frown. "Kurt," he says. "I --" Then he shakes his head and laughs quietly, and Kurt has no idea what the joke is, so he just watches and waits. "I'm sorry." Blaine sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I get so mad when he does this to me, and then I just --" His eyes meet Kurt's again, and the almost painfully boyish sincerity is back in his expression. "Yes," he says. "Yes, you can help. In fact, I would be incredibly grateful, if you would do that for me."
Kurt smiles back at him, leans in a little bit to nudge Blaine's shoulder with his own. "And you can help me look after my family," he says. "We could help each other. If you wanted to."
"I do," Blaine says, still so earnest. "I do, Kurt."
"Good," Kurt says, and smiles at him a little longer, and then finally turns his attention back to the range.
*
And it's weird how suddenly even her abuelita's kitchen, which is arguably the safest place in the world, doesn't quite feel safe anymore. It's always been the one place she could go, no matter what else was happening, and just be... protected. And nothing about it has changed -- it's still got the same sheer white curtains, the same weird old-lady wallpaper, the same pictures on the refrigerator and the same pot of red beans and rice on the stove; it's just...
And maybe I shouldn't be talking to you about this, Santana, she'd said, sliding the manila envelope out of her purse and onto the pristine surface of Abuelita's kitchen table, but you deserve to know the truth. And if you don't want to, then... throw it away. You don't have to read any of it. But I wanted to at least give you the option. Because no one else will.
And honestly, most days Santana would have torn that envelope open right then and there, because she is a nosy bitch who likes getting up in other people's business, and after all, gossip is power. But she's just... She's just tired. Tired of the looks, tired of the questions, tired of being expected to give a fuck about any of this when as far as she's concerned, her part in the whole stupid drama began and ended in the home ec room, when Jennifer Karofsky's sainted frickin' son decided he hated the gays so much he was gonna shoot all of them up.
And maybe there's something in here that'll change things; maybe there's something that will make her feel sorry for Karofsky. But she just doesn't even want to. She wants to hate him. Hell, if she could, she'd hate the Anderbaby and Hummel too. But Anderson's all short and big-eyed and on crutches and everything, and Hummel's just... he's Hummel. And Santana's a stone-cold bitch, but she just can't hate them. She can't manage it.
That leaves her with Karofsky. And luckily for her, Karofsky is nothing if not hatable. She wants to hold on to that. She needs to. It's all she's got.
She runs her fingers over the surface of the envelope anyway, then snatches them back when she hears the front door slam. She can hear her abuela muttering in Spanish as she makes her way back into the kitchen, her eyebrows pulled tight together; her face only softens when she sees Santana still in the vinyl-backed chair, watching with her hands folded in her lap. "I am sorry, Santana," she says, quietly. "I should never have let that woman into my house. I should have known no good would come of it."
"It's okay," Santana says, and manages a small smile. Her abuela doesn't smile back at her. "Hey," she adds, reaching out. "Abuelita. It's not your fault. Besides, we're supposed to forgive, right? Like Jesus on the cross."
"That woman didn't want forgiveness," Abuela says, darkly, glaring back in the direction of the door. "She took her shame and she tried to give it to you. I won't allow it. Here, let me --" She reaches out for the manila envelope on the table; before she even knows what she's doing, Santana's laid her hand over her abuela's wrist, stopping her.
"No," she says, too quickly, and when Abuela looks at her -- a little surprised, a little angry, too -- she adds, "Just... If Mrs. Karofsky thinks this is so important, then maybe we should... You know. Let the cops handle it. If it's nothing, then they can just get rid of it, and if it's something, then... Then that's good. Right?"
Her abuela's eyebrows draw together again, and Santana wonders just who she really thinks she's fooling here. But then she smiles, and slides her hand out from underneath Santana's. "Of course," she says. "You do what you need to do, Santana."
Santana smiles back at her. "I always do, Abuelita," she says, and lets her hand close around the edge of the envelope.
And okay, maybe the truth is that she doesn't even know what she needs to do, not right now. Whatever it is, she's pretty sure it's not running to the cops with the envelope. But she's got a little time, anyway. She can figure it out.
Maybe, just maybe, what's in the envelope can help her with that.
There's only one way to be sure.
*
Blaine doesn't toss or turn, but there's something in the way he's breathing, something that Kurt just knows means he's lying there, awake. And he knows he's probably being forward and being pushy and being all those things that everyone's always accused him of being, but he can't just...
He can't.
He rolls out from underneath the covers, pushes up to his feet, and takes two steps over to the side of the bed. Blaine's in the middle, but it's a big bed -- Kurt could lie right down next to him and they wouldn't even be touching. But he doesn't go that far, not yet; instead he perches on the edge, one hand reaching out to touch Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine?" he asks, softly.
"Kurt," Blaine whispers; he stays flat on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, but he turns his head, glancing over at Kurt with wide, apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry. Was I -- I was trying not to be too loud, but I guess I just --"
"You weren't," Kurt said. "Being loud, I mean. I just..." And it's something in Blaine's eyes, the anxiousness and the care in them, and Kurt caves in, pulling his legs up onto the bed and rolling onto his side so he's facing Blaine. He reaches out again, just touching Blaine's shoulder like he did before. "Is this okay?"
Blaine tips his head to the other side, so Kurt can't see anything but the thick, messy curls that Blaine's usually at such pains to hide. "You don't have to," Blaine murmurs, his voice small and uncertain enough to make Kurt slide his hand down, wrap it around Blaine's arm just above the elbow.
"I know," Kurt says, trying to sound as encouraging as he possibly can. "But if I wanted to, Blaine -- and I do want to, but only if -- Is it okay if I sleep here? With you?"
"Kurt," Blaine says again, his voice thick with... something; there's too many emotions tangled up in the way Blaine says his name -- Kurt can't even guess at half of them. Then Blaine sighs. "Get under the blankets, dummy. You'll freeze."
It comes out a little rougher than Blaine meant it to, but Kurt's inclined to be understanding and forgiving after everything, at least with Blaine, so he obediently slides off the bed, lifts the covers, and comes back in properly. He doesn't cuddle in the way he might want to, just takes hold of Blaine's arm again, but he still feels better for having done it. And it's hard to tell what Blaine's thinking, exactly -- he takes one deep, rough breath after another, like he's just barely keeping hold of himself. But then he reaches up with his free arm and rests his hand over Kurt's, so Kurt's pretty sure that he isn't going anywhere.
Blaine rolls his head back until he's staring up at the ceiling. "It doesn't usually come back," he says, and Kurt has no idea what he's talking about, so he just holds Blaine's arm and waits for the rest of it. "Just... once, and then they come for us, and we move on, and then it's gone again. Until the next time they find us. But it's only ever once. It doesn't come back after that."
"You mean your dream, right?" Kurt asks, and he's not totally sure he wants to talk about this yet, because he hasn't totally figured out what to think about any of it. He trusts Blaine, would trust him with anything at all, but -- He's still himself, and psychic powers and dreams of the future are just... They're a little hard to swallow. "That's what you mean."
"Yeah," Blaine whispers. "So it shouldn't... I should be fine, tonight. I should be..." Kurt watches Blaine's adam's apple bob as he swallows nervously. "But this one was different," he adds. "So I guess I don't really know what it'll do."
Kurt curls in a little closer, his foot bumping up against Blaine's. "Can I ask a question?" Blaine keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, doesn't look at Kurt, but he nods. "How was it different, Blaine?"
Blaine closes his eyes, dark lashes heavy on his cheeks. "It was worse."
And Kurt knows he should probably say something, but he can't think of the words for it; all he really knows is that it doesn't matter so much whether there's a logical explanation for all of this or whether Blaine can actually see the future. It doesn't matter if it's rational, if it makes sense. What matters is that Blaine is scared, and Kurt can't stand it.
He slides in a little closer, drapes his arm over Blaine's waist -- Blaine's hand stays on top of his the entire time, not letting go. "This is going to sound stupid," he says, quietly. "But there's this song. My mom used to sing it to me, when I was little. And then, when she -- My dad took over. It's the only time I've ever heard him sing. But if you wanted, I could --"
Blaine's hand tightens around his. "Please?" he asks, and Kurt could almost cry at the longing in his voice.
But he can't. He's got a request, now. So he shifts a little higher on the pillows, careful not to let go of Blaine for even a second, and once he's got himself settled, he starts singing, as softly as he can.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --
Never let it fade away.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --
Save it for a rainy day.
Blaine smiles, just a little bit. "Oh," he murmurs, and Kurt stops singing for a moment, watching him. "So that's where my dad learned it."
Kurt pats at his side, then goes back to singing.
For love may come a-tapping on your shoulder
Some starless night...
*
Tozeur, Tunisia
Ethan isn't exactly thrilled by the prospect of having to re-acclimate himself to the outside world.
The truth is, he's never really wanted to leave the Island. Not for school (although he did, when he was told to), not to bring in new recruits, not for any reason at all. He's done what he has to, when he's had to do it, but he belongs on the Island; he belongs to the Island. He's known that from the start. And he wouldn't have left the Island this time if he hadn't known, deep in the core of him, that it was the only way he could save it. Not the people on it; he doesn't really care so much about them, but the Island itself --
The Island is what matters. The Island is the only thing that matters.
And so here he is.
It isn't all bad, of course. The bathroom of his suite is well-stocked with thick, soft towels and bottles of product that he couldn't even begin to identify, the shower is large and there's more than enough hot water to last him, and there's something enjoyably decadent about coming out clean and scrubbed and wrapped in a plush bathrobe to find a meal and a stack of newspapers waiting for him. It isn't something he'd ever allow himself to get used to, of course, but the indulgence is... appealing. He might even let himself think for a moment that he deserves it, after everything. Something like a vacation.
It is not, of course, a vacation. It's banishment. After all, the rules are very clear. Ethan turned the Wheel. He moved the Island. He can never return. The rules are very clear.
Still, there are nearly always loopholes, for those who know how to look.
Ethan carries the room service tray over to the bed, and settles in. The front desk clerk really outdid herself with the newspaper selection -- there's La Presse, of course, and The Guardian, but there's also USA Today, the Toledo Blade, the Columbus Dispatch, and most impressive of all, the Lima News. He pulls this last newspaper out from the bottom of the stack, unfolds it, scanning the front page with eager eyes. It isn't even that old; he was expecting something from a month ago, or perhaps a year, but no, this is from last week. This could be exactly what he needs.
And as he skims the text of the main article (the headline proclaiming: Accusations Fly after McKinley School Shooting), he realizes that it is.
Ethan's never really concerned himself much with these sorts of things: most children are small sociopaths; it never surprises him when they lash out. But as he skims the article, he sees the name Karofsky, over and over again. Not Paul Karofsky, of course; Ethan had never really expected Dr. Arzt to get his hands dirty. But his son, David -- there's someone made of slightly sterner stuff. Ethan can appreciate that.
Not quite as much as he appreciates the small picture in the lower left hand corner, with the caption reading: Teacher Tried to Reach Out to Troubled Student, Became a Target Instead.
Poor old predictable Benjamin. Dangle a child in front of him, and he'll do anything. Honestly, if Charles had only thought to do so years ago, so much could have been avoided. But. His loss, Ethan's gain.
After all these years, Jacob still wants Ben and his son. Ethan has no idea why -- they don't care about the Island; they'd never sacrifice themselves the way he has, they'd never do the things he's done, suffer the things he -- But it doesn't matter if Ethan understands, and it never has. The Island belongs to Jacob, and Jacob wants them. If they're with Ethan, if he's the one to bring them back to the Island, Jacob will let him return. He'll have to.
He just needs Benjamin and his son. And, as it happens, he's already got a team ready to help him acquire them.
Ethan reaches out to the tray, grabs a handful of dates, and flips the newspaper to the sports section. In the morning, he'll contact L.A., make arrangements for his trip to Ohio, get in touch with Juliet. He will set the plan into motion. But for now, just for now, it's enough to know that he has one.
He has a plan, and he'll be home soon. And that's all that matters.