(no subject)
Title: At What Cost
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Michael, Walt. Mentions of too many others to count.
Prompt: #29 - Guilt for
50_darkfics
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,286
Summary: A glimpse into what happened after Michael and Walt sailed off at the end of "Live Together Die Alone".
Author's Note: I know a lot of people don't like Michael (hell I don't most times) but I strongly encourage you to give it a chance. I'm actually pretty proud of this fic, which is rare for me, and it's a little different than a lot of things I see out there. I'm trying to go for a variety instead of just OT3 things. Anyway, just please read. Feedback is appreciated, if you have the time.
He didn’t know what he thought would happen after. He wasn’t thinking about the after part when he plucked the gun from her hands, when he set the whole thing in motion. He was thinking of the immediate, of the main goal of this elaborate charade.
Michael wanted his boy back, that’s all. There was no thought about whether or not people would die (they would) or get hurt (tortured, subjected to mind games, and eventually separated). There was just a man running on autopilot, going through the motions, each lie, each death, getting him that much closer to having his son back.
He didn’t realize he’d be stuck with his guilt.
---
They sailed back, following Henry’s - or whatever his name really was - instructions exactly. Of course there was the nagging feeling that this could very well be a trap, a set up. There was always a catch, he reminded himself, though he never showed any outward signs of worry to his son.
Walt, for his part, had gotten over the initial joy of being rescued, of being taken away from the Others. While he was more amenable towards Michael than he had been before (the island that is, or maybe even before the first raft burned) there was an odd distance between them now, and sometimes he would see a hint of disappointment and even disgust in the child’s eyes.
“What are they going to do to them?” Walt asked, day three on their voyage home. He hadn’t broached the subject before.
Michael kept his eyes level, looking out into the blue abyss in front of them. There was no land anywhere near there as far as he could tell; they still had awhile to go. “I don’t know.” He wished that he had a better answer than that. “But I do know they promised not to hurt anyone so I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
Walt frowned at him. “Their leader needs surgery.” Now Michael looks at him, the simple statement drawing his attention. Off his look, Walt continued, “The blonde lady said so. I heard her in the hall talking to someone. She said they needed the doctor and that the others were for leverage.”
By the look on the boy’s face he understood what was meant by leverage just as much as Michael himself did. Manipulation, blackmail, torture, whatever they had to do to gain control of Jack, to make him do what they want. Jack didn’t give in easily, he fought, even where there was no point.
That was the first time Michael truly realized that people were going to get hurt, be broken, maybe even die. And it was going to be his fault.
---
That first day sailing away he saw there were two islands. The larger one, the one he’d left from, and then another two miles off from it, this one about a third of the size of the main island.
He never noted the significance of until now (there won’t be rescue for the captured survivors because they’ll inevitably end up on the other island that no one even realized was there).
---
It took them nearly two weeks to hit land. When they did, they found themselves on a small island that’s only claim to fame seemed to be a touristy resort that spammed the bulk of the island. That and the airport.
He booked the first flight he could find out of there that went somewhere that sounded familiar. Sydney, Australia.
---
Back to square one yet again, he found a different carrier (he’ll never fly Oceanic again, in fact after this he’ll never fly) to take them to Los Angeles. The woman in the row adjacent to them gives him an odd look, staring for a full twenty minutes, before asking, “Aren’t you one of the people who was on the missing plane. Is that your son? Wasn’t he missing too?”
Michael swallowed nervously, putting a hand on his son’s arm, who looked over with questioning eyes, the headphones he wore drowning out all the sound. He put on his best fake smile and replied, “No, we’re not from that flight.”
“You sure look like them,” the woman responded, suspiciously. Clearly she had been monitoring this story far too closely. It couldn’t still be in the news, there was just no way. “It’s a real shame what happened to those people.”
He leaned back into his seat with a heavy sigh. Yeah, it’s a real shame.
---
Turned out they were still in the news. People were still searching for them, even three months after the fact. A little investigation revealed that it was because of a woman named Sabrina Carlisle, who happened to have a lot of money and a very personal interest in the safe return of these survivors.
It took him a few days to make the connection, and remember that Boone’s last name was Carlisle. He almost wished he could tell the woman to give up, that her son was six feet in the ground, encased in a blue airline blanket instead of a coffin, but that would cause too many questions as to why Walt and him were the only ones who came back, so he never did.
---
When he dreamed (and he rarely did anymore) he always saw the docks. He always ended up back there. The glare Jack shot him, the fear in Kate’s eyes, the betrayal in Sawyer’s; it’s all there.
“Traitor,” he could hear someone whisper, right before he woke up.
---
He had both their last names changed to avoid anyone finding out who they were.
---
“Why haven’t you told anyone about the island? Why don’t we tell someone where everyone else is? You said we’d send help for them when we got back.” Walt asked, not for the first time. Honestly Michael was surprised that Walt had been playing along as long as he had. To his knowledge his son had never breathed a word about who he really was to anyone.
“We’re not supposed to tell, that was part of the deal,” he lied through his teeth. The real reason was that he didn’t want to face what he’d done.
“So? They can’t do anything from all the way on an island.” Walt reminded him. The problem with that logic of course was that it wasn’t just restricted to the island. He didn’t need to be told by them that they had outside connections; he could tell simply by the confidence in Henry’s tone when he told him they would be watching him, by the way they seemed to know things they couldn’t possibly know without outside interference.
“It’s more complicated than that, man.” Michael finally responded, trying to end this conversation once and for all. He wasn’t entirely comfortable feeding his boy lies, especially when he knew Walt wasn’t buying it for a second.
Walt didn’t contradict him, in fact he dropped the subject completely and Michael assumed that was that.
---
That afternoon his car collided with a deer on his way home from work. The car was totaled but Michael was fine, just a few minor injuries.
“Haven’t seen a deer in these parts. Not this close to the city.” The police officer who had come to the scene told him. “It’s real damn strange.”
Michael thought about polar bears appearing on tropical islands and comic books written in Spanish. That was strange.
From then on he always believed those two events weren’t completely unrelated, and he started treading a little more carefully around his son.
---
Walt’s teacher called him up one day and requested that he come in for a conference. The tone of her voice told him he shouldn’t schedule anything else for that Saturday morning.
“He’s a very special boy, isn’t he?” The blonde observed from across the desk they sat at. She was leaning toward him, voice low, face serious. “I don’t just mean his intelligence either. He’s a very bright boy but I get the feeling that there’s something different about him.” He did his best to appear confused even though really he’d been waiting hoping you could tell me just what that is.”
“I haven’t noticed anything like that.” He told her, mind already made up that he would play dumb. She raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. “He lived with his mother until he was ten; I just got custody a year ago. I’m not sure I would know even if there was.”
“Well is there some way I can get in touch with his mother?” She pressed, obviously determined.
“She…” he paused, for dramatic effect, hoping the sympathy card would throw her off. “She died last year.”
It worked like a charm. Her expression softened, “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware. Walt never talks about his mother…”
“No, it’s fine.” Michael reassured, cutting her off, straightening in his chair like he was eager to leave.
She stood, taking the hint. “Well if you do notice anything out of the ordinary or perhaps you remember something she might have told you please give me a call.”
He followed with, shaking her hand and giving her a smile. “Yeah, of course. And I appreciate your concern Mrs. Shephard.”
The woman inhaled sharply. “Oh no it’s Mrs. Blasko now. Sarah, actually. It’s my last husband’s last name. They just haven’t changed the sign on the door.” Mistaking his look for one of curiosity, she continued. “I just remarried.”
“I’m sorry about your husband,” he replied, doling out the same condolences as she had previously.
“We were divorced for a while anyway. He was…” she trailed, staring off into space for a moment, lost in thought. “He died in a plane crash about a year ago.”
Michael had to force himself to maintain eye contact and form decent sentences.
---
He pretended that the fact that the rain would stop minutes after Walt wished it so was a coincidence. Just as he pretended that killing Ana-Lucia and Libby was necessary, the right thing to do even.
---
Walt’s thirteenth birthday had just passed when he first saw the news reports. The survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 had been located and were en route to the States.
Michael watched them list the names of the people who had survived, and then the names of the dead, along with pictures.
The last name listed is also the one that stuck out the most. Jack Shephard.
---
In the days following the media seemed to manage to interview every survivor, as well as every family member of the ones who had died.
A woman who might have been Kate was led past the cameras in handcuffs, weary and red-eyed. Sawyer followed, barely a minute later, being led out but without said restraints simply telling the cameras to “fuck off”. These were the two that got the most attention, most likely because they were the most messed up; they made for the better story.
They showed Ana’s mother, a police chief in the city, and he had to turn the television off. He couldn’t watch the woman cry over what he had done.
No one mourns Jack, and Michael wonders if the man had anyone left.
---
Hurley turned out to be a millionaire and the big guy with all his money and all his resources managed to track them down despite the name changes. Walt spent an hour on the phone with him that first time he called; Michael never picked up when the caller ID flashed Hugo Reyes.
---
It’s unnerving to see his own picture displayed on the list of the deceased.
---
Two years later, in the boiling hot month of August, the seven a.m. news informed him that Katherine Austen, former fugitive and survivor of the crash of 815, had been put to death via lethal injection earlier that morning.
Barely a month before that James Ford was killed during a robbery gone wrong. Michael never knew what side of the law he had been on in that instance.
In a few weeks time the calls from Hurley would stop and only months later would he find out from Walt, who had all but disconnected himself from his father, that he too was dead.
Michael was now the only person to make it out of that jungle trek and off those docks alive. Last man standing.
---
He hates the number three for many reasons. It’s in corny sayings like ‘the third time is the charm’. It’s the number of times he proposed to Susan and was then shot down. It’s the number of minutes he was given with his son in the Others’ camp.
It’s also the number of deaths he’s responsible (at least partially) for.
---
“Do you feel bad about what you did?” His boy (he’s a man now, eighteen years old in five days) asked.
”Don’t you ever feel guilty?”
All the time, he wanted to say. “I did what I had to so I could get you back and get us home.”
He kept on lying until the bitter end.
---
Not long after Walt went off to college Michael put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
---
If he could go back (and he can’t, there’s no going anywhere for him now), he would’ve done things differently. He wouldn’t have made the deals he did. People wouldn’t have died; there would be no torture and no mind games. There would be plans made and set into motion. He would’ve gotten his boy back and everyone would’ve made it through this.
There’s no going back through. No going forward either.
His story ends here.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Michael, Walt. Mentions of too many others to count.
Prompt: #29 - Guilt for
50_darkfics
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,286
Summary: A glimpse into what happened after Michael and Walt sailed off at the end of "Live Together Die Alone".
Author's Note: I know a lot of people don't like Michael (hell I don't most times) but I strongly encourage you to give it a chance. I'm actually pretty proud of this fic, which is rare for me, and it's a little different than a lot of things I see out there. I'm trying to go for a variety instead of just OT3 things. Anyway, just please read. Feedback is appreciated, if you have the time.
He didn’t know what he thought would happen after. He wasn’t thinking about the after part when he plucked the gun from her hands, when he set the whole thing in motion. He was thinking of the immediate, of the main goal of this elaborate charade.
Michael wanted his boy back, that’s all. There was no thought about whether or not people would die (they would) or get hurt (tortured, subjected to mind games, and eventually separated). There was just a man running on autopilot, going through the motions, each lie, each death, getting him that much closer to having his son back.
He didn’t realize he’d be stuck with his guilt.
---
They sailed back, following Henry’s - or whatever his name really was - instructions exactly. Of course there was the nagging feeling that this could very well be a trap, a set up. There was always a catch, he reminded himself, though he never showed any outward signs of worry to his son.
Walt, for his part, had gotten over the initial joy of being rescued, of being taken away from the Others. While he was more amenable towards Michael than he had been before (the island that is, or maybe even before the first raft burned) there was an odd distance between them now, and sometimes he would see a hint of disappointment and even disgust in the child’s eyes.
“What are they going to do to them?” Walt asked, day three on their voyage home. He hadn’t broached the subject before.
Michael kept his eyes level, looking out into the blue abyss in front of them. There was no land anywhere near there as far as he could tell; they still had awhile to go. “I don’t know.” He wished that he had a better answer than that. “But I do know they promised not to hurt anyone so I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
Walt frowned at him. “Their leader needs surgery.” Now Michael looks at him, the simple statement drawing his attention. Off his look, Walt continued, “The blonde lady said so. I heard her in the hall talking to someone. She said they needed the doctor and that the others were for leverage.”
By the look on the boy’s face he understood what was meant by leverage just as much as Michael himself did. Manipulation, blackmail, torture, whatever they had to do to gain control of Jack, to make him do what they want. Jack didn’t give in easily, he fought, even where there was no point.
That was the first time Michael truly realized that people were going to get hurt, be broken, maybe even die. And it was going to be his fault.
---
That first day sailing away he saw there were two islands. The larger one, the one he’d left from, and then another two miles off from it, this one about a third of the size of the main island.
He never noted the significance of until now (there won’t be rescue for the captured survivors because they’ll inevitably end up on the other island that no one even realized was there).
---
It took them nearly two weeks to hit land. When they did, they found themselves on a small island that’s only claim to fame seemed to be a touristy resort that spammed the bulk of the island. That and the airport.
He booked the first flight he could find out of there that went somewhere that sounded familiar. Sydney, Australia.
---
Back to square one yet again, he found a different carrier (he’ll never fly Oceanic again, in fact after this he’ll never fly) to take them to Los Angeles. The woman in the row adjacent to them gives him an odd look, staring for a full twenty minutes, before asking, “Aren’t you one of the people who was on the missing plane. Is that your son? Wasn’t he missing too?”
Michael swallowed nervously, putting a hand on his son’s arm, who looked over with questioning eyes, the headphones he wore drowning out all the sound. He put on his best fake smile and replied, “No, we’re not from that flight.”
“You sure look like them,” the woman responded, suspiciously. Clearly she had been monitoring this story far too closely. It couldn’t still be in the news, there was just no way. “It’s a real shame what happened to those people.”
He leaned back into his seat with a heavy sigh. Yeah, it’s a real shame.
---
Turned out they were still in the news. People were still searching for them, even three months after the fact. A little investigation revealed that it was because of a woman named Sabrina Carlisle, who happened to have a lot of money and a very personal interest in the safe return of these survivors.
It took him a few days to make the connection, and remember that Boone’s last name was Carlisle. He almost wished he could tell the woman to give up, that her son was six feet in the ground, encased in a blue airline blanket instead of a coffin, but that would cause too many questions as to why Walt and him were the only ones who came back, so he never did.
---
When he dreamed (and he rarely did anymore) he always saw the docks. He always ended up back there. The glare Jack shot him, the fear in Kate’s eyes, the betrayal in Sawyer’s; it’s all there.
“Traitor,” he could hear someone whisper, right before he woke up.
---
He had both their last names changed to avoid anyone finding out who they were.
---
“Why haven’t you told anyone about the island? Why don’t we tell someone where everyone else is? You said we’d send help for them when we got back.” Walt asked, not for the first time. Honestly Michael was surprised that Walt had been playing along as long as he had. To his knowledge his son had never breathed a word about who he really was to anyone.
“We’re not supposed to tell, that was part of the deal,” he lied through his teeth. The real reason was that he didn’t want to face what he’d done.
“So? They can’t do anything from all the way on an island.” Walt reminded him. The problem with that logic of course was that it wasn’t just restricted to the island. He didn’t need to be told by them that they had outside connections; he could tell simply by the confidence in Henry’s tone when he told him they would be watching him, by the way they seemed to know things they couldn’t possibly know without outside interference.
“It’s more complicated than that, man.” Michael finally responded, trying to end this conversation once and for all. He wasn’t entirely comfortable feeding his boy lies, especially when he knew Walt wasn’t buying it for a second.
Walt didn’t contradict him, in fact he dropped the subject completely and Michael assumed that was that.
---
That afternoon his car collided with a deer on his way home from work. The car was totaled but Michael was fine, just a few minor injuries.
“Haven’t seen a deer in these parts. Not this close to the city.” The police officer who had come to the scene told him. “It’s real damn strange.”
Michael thought about polar bears appearing on tropical islands and comic books written in Spanish. That was strange.
From then on he always believed those two events weren’t completely unrelated, and he started treading a little more carefully around his son.
---
Walt’s teacher called him up one day and requested that he come in for a conference. The tone of her voice told him he shouldn’t schedule anything else for that Saturday morning.
“He’s a very special boy, isn’t he?” The blonde observed from across the desk they sat at. She was leaning toward him, voice low, face serious. “I don’t just mean his intelligence either. He’s a very bright boy but I get the feeling that there’s something different about him.” He did his best to appear confused even though really he’d been waiting hoping you could tell me just what that is.”
“I haven’t noticed anything like that.” He told her, mind already made up that he would play dumb. She raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. “He lived with his mother until he was ten; I just got custody a year ago. I’m not sure I would know even if there was.”
“Well is there some way I can get in touch with his mother?” She pressed, obviously determined.
“She…” he paused, for dramatic effect, hoping the sympathy card would throw her off. “She died last year.”
It worked like a charm. Her expression softened, “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware. Walt never talks about his mother…”
“No, it’s fine.” Michael reassured, cutting her off, straightening in his chair like he was eager to leave.
She stood, taking the hint. “Well if you do notice anything out of the ordinary or perhaps you remember something she might have told you please give me a call.”
He followed with, shaking her hand and giving her a smile. “Yeah, of course. And I appreciate your concern Mrs. Shephard.”
The woman inhaled sharply. “Oh no it’s Mrs. Blasko now. Sarah, actually. It’s my last husband’s last name. They just haven’t changed the sign on the door.” Mistaking his look for one of curiosity, she continued. “I just remarried.”
“I’m sorry about your husband,” he replied, doling out the same condolences as she had previously.
“We were divorced for a while anyway. He was…” she trailed, staring off into space for a moment, lost in thought. “He died in a plane crash about a year ago.”
Michael had to force himself to maintain eye contact and form decent sentences.
---
He pretended that the fact that the rain would stop minutes after Walt wished it so was a coincidence. Just as he pretended that killing Ana-Lucia and Libby was necessary, the right thing to do even.
---
Walt’s thirteenth birthday had just passed when he first saw the news reports. The survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 had been located and were en route to the States.
Michael watched them list the names of the people who had survived, and then the names of the dead, along with pictures.
The last name listed is also the one that stuck out the most. Jack Shephard.
---
In the days following the media seemed to manage to interview every survivor, as well as every family member of the ones who had died.
A woman who might have been Kate was led past the cameras in handcuffs, weary and red-eyed. Sawyer followed, barely a minute later, being led out but without said restraints simply telling the cameras to “fuck off”. These were the two that got the most attention, most likely because they were the most messed up; they made for the better story.
They showed Ana’s mother, a police chief in the city, and he had to turn the television off. He couldn’t watch the woman cry over what he had done.
No one mourns Jack, and Michael wonders if the man had anyone left.
---
Hurley turned out to be a millionaire and the big guy with all his money and all his resources managed to track them down despite the name changes. Walt spent an hour on the phone with him that first time he called; Michael never picked up when the caller ID flashed Hugo Reyes.
---
It’s unnerving to see his own picture displayed on the list of the deceased.
---
Two years later, in the boiling hot month of August, the seven a.m. news informed him that Katherine Austen, former fugitive and survivor of the crash of 815, had been put to death via lethal injection earlier that morning.
Barely a month before that James Ford was killed during a robbery gone wrong. Michael never knew what side of the law he had been on in that instance.
In a few weeks time the calls from Hurley would stop and only months later would he find out from Walt, who had all but disconnected himself from his father, that he too was dead.
Michael was now the only person to make it out of that jungle trek and off those docks alive. Last man standing.
---
He hates the number three for many reasons. It’s in corny sayings like ‘the third time is the charm’. It’s the number of times he proposed to Susan and was then shot down. It’s the number of minutes he was given with his son in the Others’ camp.
It’s also the number of deaths he’s responsible (at least partially) for.
---
“Do you feel bad about what you did?” His boy (he’s a man now, eighteen years old in five days) asked.
”Don’t you ever feel guilty?”
All the time, he wanted to say. “I did what I had to so I could get you back and get us home.”
He kept on lying until the bitter end.
---
Not long after Walt went off to college Michael put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
---
If he could go back (and he can’t, there’s no going anywhere for him now), he would’ve done things differently. He wouldn’t have made the deals he did. People wouldn’t have died; there would be no torture and no mind games. There would be plans made and set into motion. He would’ve gotten his boy back and everyone would’ve made it through this.
There’s no going back through. No going forward either.
His story ends here.