The Man In The Blue Suit
Title: The Man In The Blue Suit
Characters: Boone, Charlie, Libby, Eko, Shannon, Ana Lucia, Michael, Jacob.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for The Incident.
Summary: The flashbacks we didn't see in The Incident.
Malibu, California. 1988.
"Are you okay there?"
Six-year-old Boone glanced warily at the man in the blue suit, who had asked him the question.
The man tried again. "Are you lost?"
Boone stuck out his lower lip. "Theresa told me I'm not s'posed to talk to strangers."
The man crouched down so he was eye to eye with Boone. "Does Theresa know where you are?"
Boone shook his head. "Maria's my nanny now."
Boone didn't like Maria. She was old, strict and talked with an accent he couldn't understand. Boone also thought she smelled funny. He liked it a lot better when Maria wasn't around. He didn't think he'd ever call this nanny up and down the stairs, even without what happened to Theresa.
"Well, does she know where you are? Or your mother, or father maybe?"
Boone shook his head. "I went out without telling her. She's horrible, I wanted to get away. And now I don't know how to get home from here."
The man nodded and smiled. "Where do you live?"
"It's one of the big houses. 4 Magnolia Walk."
"I know it. Right on the edge of town." The man took Boone by the hand and led him through the streets. "Listen, if you don't like your nanny, maybe you should talk to your mom about getting her replaced."
Boone shook his head. "Maria's my punishment."
He remembered the day he'd called for Theresa, and Theresa had not come. Slowly, he'd realised something was wrong, and had tiptoed out of his room to find her lying at the foot of the stairs, neck in a funny position.
He'd gone to her, taken her by the hand, shaken her shoulder.
"Wake up, Theresa. Come on, this isn't funny, wake up!"
But Theresa had never woken up again.
Boone wasn't sure how long he'd sat with her before Sabrina had come home and taken charge of the situation, before the ambulance had taken Theresa away. He just remembered looking up at Sabrina and saying "I didn't mean it."
Not long after, Maria had arrived.
"I'm sure that's not true." the stranger said. "Look where we are now."
Boone glanced up to see his home. "Doesn't look like Maria's missed me."
"Then you should definitely talk to your mother about getting her changed," the man replied. "She's obviously not doing her job."
Boone stared up at the man. "You won't tell her I ran away, will you?" he asked.
Jacob placed a finger to his lips. "It'll be our little secret."
Covent Garden, London, England. 1997.
"Maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me..."
Not for the first time, Charlie began to wonder why he was putting himself through this. All he ever got for his troubles was a handful of loose change, half of which was foreign money and therefore not much use anyway. The only people to ever take any notice of him were either mad people or hecklers like the gang jeering at him at that moment. "Gerroff, you're rubbish! Change the bloody record, mate!"
Liam kept saying that it wouldn't be much longer. Only a matter of time, and he'd have negotiated them a recording contract. But Charlie was starting to think that this was just more of the usual bollocks Liam came out with.
"And after all, you're my wonderwall..."
Oh, marvellous, Charlie thought as it began to rain. Hastily he grabbed his guitar case, shrugged his leather jacket over his head and ran for the nearest shop doorway.
"You okay there?"
Charlie glanced up to see a blonde man in a blue suit holding out an umbrella. American, he thought from the accent.
He forced a smile as he accepted the umbrella. "Cheers, mate."
"I was watching you out there earlier," the stranger continued.
Charlie sighed. "To be honest, I'm thinking of packing it all in, becoming a butcher like my dad always wanted." He tried not to think of Simon's reaction if Charlie did come home saying he'd given it up after all. He still remembered the day Simon had finally given him his blessing, although that had been a bit backhanded. Maybe you're better off with your music after all. Bloody pansy.
The man looked at him oddly. "I don't think you're destined to be a butcher."
Charlie stared at him. "Sorry, what?"
Jacob smiled. "Forgive me, I expressed myself badly. I meant that when I was watching you earlier, your passion for music was evident. I don't think you'd be happy doing anything else. Don't give up on your dreams," he glanced at the sign, "Charlie Pace."
As the two men shook hands, Charlie noticed it had stopped raining.
Newport Beach, California. 2000.
"What do you mean, you're calling off the search?" Libby demanded of the coastguard.
The middle-aged man shook his head. "It's getting too dark now," he explained. "Visibility's poor. We wouldn't see a damn thing."
Libby grabbed hold of the man's jacket. "But my husband's still out there!" she screamed, tears running down her face, mingling with the ocean spray and rain. "You can't just leave him!"
Another pair of hands reached for Libby's, prised her hands away from the coastguard's jacket. "Come on, Libby."
Libby spun around to see her father.
"He's right. There's nothing they can do." Her father attempted to lead her away.
"Damn fools," muttered a nearby man. "Didn't they see the forecast? What were they thinking, going out in weather like this?"
"That really isn't helping," came a new voice. Libby glanced up to see a man in a blue suit who she hadn't noticed before, but who she supposed must have been there all along. "Come on, Libby. I'm sorry you had to hear that. Come and sit over here." The man draped a blanket over Libby's shoulders, then held out a thermos full of coffee towards her. "Drink this. You'll feel better."
Libby shook her head. She closed her eyes, then immediately opened them again. She'd seen exactly what she knew she would, what she'd probably see every night; the argument she'd been having with David, then the moment she'd struck him right before he'd fallen backwards, tumbling overboard.
"I hate that boat," she muttered at last. "Things happen when it's around." David had presented it to her on their wedding day, she remembered. He'd given a whole long speech about how he'd planned a surprise honeymoon for them, how they'd sail the Mediterranean together.
They never had made that journey.
After collapsing during that speech, Libby had been rushed to hospital, suffering an ectopic pregnancy. The honeymoon had been put on hold indefinitely.
Now they would never go.
"Well, if the boat's going to upset you that much," Jacob said, "maybe you should let it go, give it to somebody who's gonna use it."
London, England. 2001.
"Go in peace, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ."
"In the name of Christ. Amen."
As Eko watched the congregation file out, he wondered if it would ever become any easier, carrying out these services in the full knowledge that Yemi should be performing them instead, and that the reason he wasn't was all down to Eko.
He could barely remember the first service he had performed back in Nigeria, even though it was a few short weeks ago. He did remember it was a marriage ceremony, though. Eko couldn't even picture that couple now, so strong were the memories of his guilt over Yemi that day.
As he turned to prepare the communion wine for the next service, he realised his hands were shaking. In any other circumstances, he might almost have laughed. The guerillas back in Nigeria had called him "Mr. Eko" precisely because he had not shown fear. He wondered how they would react if they could see him now, afraid that Yemi was judging him and finding him wanting.
My signature does not make you a priest, Eko.
Are you a bad man?
You owe Yemi one church.
These voices from the past flashed through Eko's memory as he prepared the communion wafers.
"Forgive me, Yemi," he whispered, kneeling and crossing himself.
He didn't know how long he'd been in that position when he suddenly became aware of someone else's presence. He turned around to see a man in a blue suit hovering uncertainly among the pews.
"I'm sorry," the newcomer said. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm visiting the area, and thought I'd have a look around."
"That is all right," Eko replied, forcing a smile. "Let me know if you need any assistance."
"I'm told you're new to the parish yourself," Jacob said, offering a hand for Eko to shake.
"That is right," Eko accepted his hand. "My name is Father Tunde."
Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France. 2002.
Ugh, thank God that flight's over, Shannon thought as she waited at baggage reclaim. There was nothing like being sat next to a screaming baby for several hours to put anyone off long haul flights.
You do realise you're actually gonna be taking care of screaming kids all the time now, Shan?
Boone's voice popped into Shannon's head, unbidden. "Shut up, Boone," Shannon muttered, ignoring a quizzical look from a man in a blue suit. She didn't need Boone to remind her of what she'd taken on. Nor did she need to think about the argument they'd had right after she accepted the job.
"This is crazy. You're a ballet instructor, not a nanny. You don't even like babysitting. You can't accept this job."
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Boone. You think I can't take care of kids?"
"That's not what I meant. Look, my trust fund's kicked in now. I'll give you the money for your internship."
"I don't need your money. I can stand on my own two feet."
And she didn't want to think about what Sabrina had said either.
"An admirable sentiment. I know Philippe and Dominique well. I am sure you will be very happy there. Your father would have been proud."
It had been the mention of her father that had got to her, more that the gleam of triumph in Sabrina's eyes which she had seen and Boone hadn't because he'd stormed out by that point.
There was her bag now, coming off the carousel. It was heavier than she'd remembered; Boone had taken care of it at check in.
"Damn it!" she winced as she dropped the bag on her right foot, then struggled to lift it off again.
"Here, let me." said a new voice. It was the man in the blue suit she had noticed earlier who approached her, taking one of the handles of her bag.
Shannon gave him a quick once-over. More attractive than she'd first thought, although she couldn't tell his age.
"Are you going to be okay with this?" Jacob asked. "Or is there anything more I can do for you?"
It was almost with disappointment that she saw Philippe.
"That's okay. The guy I'm meeting just arrived."
St Sebastian's Hospital, Los Angeles. April 2004.
"It's just hospital policy," the nurse explained. "All our patients leave in a wheelchair when they're discharged."
"I said, I don't need it," Ana Lucia scowled.
"Just leave it, Ana," Teresa Cortez sighed. "You're getting out today. You're lucky."
Sure, lucky to be alive, Ana thought sarcastically. They'd all been telling her that ever since she'd been in here. And yet she felt dead, hollow inside, as though they'd removed part of her along with what had been her baby.
Danny had visited her once, told her he was going to clear out all his stuff before she got out.
It was better this way, Ana told herself. She didn't need another round of what had happened when he left.
"Your mother and I both told you you should take it easy, go on desk duties until the baby was born. But you didn't listen. You killed our baby, Ana Lucia."
She's seen that in her nightmares every night since. Or sometimes it's the baby speaking. Why'd you kill me, Mommy?
Ana wondered if it would get any easier once she was back in her own apartment, next door to the family with the noisy baby whose every screech would probably serve as a reproach to her.
Teresa had told Ana she could stay with her for a while, but Ana had vetoed that one. She didn't think she could deal with having her mother around her all the time. It was best that she get used to being alone again.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Teresa sighed. "I ordered that cab for fifteen minutes ago. What's happened to it?"
A man in a blue suit stepped away from the one he'd been about to get into. "Have this one if you like."
"Are you sure?" Teresa asked.
The man nodded. "Take it. I can sort out another one."
"Well, thank you very much!" Teresa exclaimed. "Come on, Ana."
As Ana turned to get into the cab, Jacob touched her on the shoulder.
"I wish you a speedy recovery," he said.
The Hotel Earle bar, New York. December 2004.
Michael stumbled blindly out of the penthouse, ignoring Tom's shouts for him to come back. Tom couldn't be serious. It was killing that had landed him here in the first place. Killing again wasn't the way to redeem himself, to win Walt back.
He found his way to the bar, ordered a beer, then cursed under his breath when he realised his wallet only contained a handful of loose change. "Uh...I'm sorry."
"That's okay, I'll get this." said a man in a blue suit at the next stool. "Same for me too, please."
Michael looked at him. "Uh, thanks, man."
"No problem." the stranger smiled. "Come and join me for a drink."
"No thanks." Michael didn't want company right now. He needed to be alone, to try and make sense of all he'd heard. The island wouldn't let him die? Someone faked the wreckage of Flight 815? None of it made sense.
"No, really, I insist...Michael."
Michael froze. "Do I know you? Wait - are you one of them? The Others?"
"If by that you mean my people from the island, then yes," Jacob replied.
"Look, I already told your pal who used to wear the beard, I'm not doing it," Michael began, but Jacob continued "So what, you're just gonna keep trying and failing to kill yourself? Trying to get Walt back even though he doesn't want to see you?"
Michael glared at him, not knowing what to say.
"What if I were to tell you that boarding the freighter is the only way the island will let you go?"
"I won't believe you," Michael began, but with less conviction than before.
"And that it's the only way you'll regain the affection of Walt?" Jacob watched Michael's face and knew that had hit home. "Go back upstairs, Michael. Tom will finish giving you your instructions."
Slowly, mechanically, Michael got up from his bar stool.
Jacob raised his glass. "Good luck, Michael."
Characters: Boone, Charlie, Libby, Eko, Shannon, Ana Lucia, Michael, Jacob.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for The Incident.
Summary: The flashbacks we didn't see in The Incident.
Malibu, California. 1988.
"Are you okay there?"
Six-year-old Boone glanced warily at the man in the blue suit, who had asked him the question.
The man tried again. "Are you lost?"
Boone stuck out his lower lip. "Theresa told me I'm not s'posed to talk to strangers."
The man crouched down so he was eye to eye with Boone. "Does Theresa know where you are?"
Boone shook his head. "Maria's my nanny now."
Boone didn't like Maria. She was old, strict and talked with an accent he couldn't understand. Boone also thought she smelled funny. He liked it a lot better when Maria wasn't around. He didn't think he'd ever call this nanny up and down the stairs, even without what happened to Theresa.
"Well, does she know where you are? Or your mother, or father maybe?"
Boone shook his head. "I went out without telling her. She's horrible, I wanted to get away. And now I don't know how to get home from here."
The man nodded and smiled. "Where do you live?"
"It's one of the big houses. 4 Magnolia Walk."
"I know it. Right on the edge of town." The man took Boone by the hand and led him through the streets. "Listen, if you don't like your nanny, maybe you should talk to your mom about getting her replaced."
Boone shook his head. "Maria's my punishment."
He remembered the day he'd called for Theresa, and Theresa had not come. Slowly, he'd realised something was wrong, and had tiptoed out of his room to find her lying at the foot of the stairs, neck in a funny position.
He'd gone to her, taken her by the hand, shaken her shoulder.
"Wake up, Theresa. Come on, this isn't funny, wake up!"
But Theresa had never woken up again.
Boone wasn't sure how long he'd sat with her before Sabrina had come home and taken charge of the situation, before the ambulance had taken Theresa away. He just remembered looking up at Sabrina and saying "I didn't mean it."
Not long after, Maria had arrived.
"I'm sure that's not true." the stranger said. "Look where we are now."
Boone glanced up to see his home. "Doesn't look like Maria's missed me."
"Then you should definitely talk to your mother about getting her changed," the man replied. "She's obviously not doing her job."
Boone stared up at the man. "You won't tell her I ran away, will you?" he asked.
Jacob placed a finger to his lips. "It'll be our little secret."
Covent Garden, London, England. 1997.
"Maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me..."
Not for the first time, Charlie began to wonder why he was putting himself through this. All he ever got for his troubles was a handful of loose change, half of which was foreign money and therefore not much use anyway. The only people to ever take any notice of him were either mad people or hecklers like the gang jeering at him at that moment. "Gerroff, you're rubbish! Change the bloody record, mate!"
Liam kept saying that it wouldn't be much longer. Only a matter of time, and he'd have negotiated them a recording contract. But Charlie was starting to think that this was just more of the usual bollocks Liam came out with.
"And after all, you're my wonderwall..."
Oh, marvellous, Charlie thought as it began to rain. Hastily he grabbed his guitar case, shrugged his leather jacket over his head and ran for the nearest shop doorway.
"You okay there?"
Charlie glanced up to see a blonde man in a blue suit holding out an umbrella. American, he thought from the accent.
He forced a smile as he accepted the umbrella. "Cheers, mate."
"I was watching you out there earlier," the stranger continued.
Charlie sighed. "To be honest, I'm thinking of packing it all in, becoming a butcher like my dad always wanted." He tried not to think of Simon's reaction if Charlie did come home saying he'd given it up after all. He still remembered the day Simon had finally given him his blessing, although that had been a bit backhanded. Maybe you're better off with your music after all. Bloody pansy.
The man looked at him oddly. "I don't think you're destined to be a butcher."
Charlie stared at him. "Sorry, what?"
Jacob smiled. "Forgive me, I expressed myself badly. I meant that when I was watching you earlier, your passion for music was evident. I don't think you'd be happy doing anything else. Don't give up on your dreams," he glanced at the sign, "Charlie Pace."
As the two men shook hands, Charlie noticed it had stopped raining.
Newport Beach, California. 2000.
"What do you mean, you're calling off the search?" Libby demanded of the coastguard.
The middle-aged man shook his head. "It's getting too dark now," he explained. "Visibility's poor. We wouldn't see a damn thing."
Libby grabbed hold of the man's jacket. "But my husband's still out there!" she screamed, tears running down her face, mingling with the ocean spray and rain. "You can't just leave him!"
Another pair of hands reached for Libby's, prised her hands away from the coastguard's jacket. "Come on, Libby."
Libby spun around to see her father.
"He's right. There's nothing they can do." Her father attempted to lead her away.
"Damn fools," muttered a nearby man. "Didn't they see the forecast? What were they thinking, going out in weather like this?"
"That really isn't helping," came a new voice. Libby glanced up to see a man in a blue suit who she hadn't noticed before, but who she supposed must have been there all along. "Come on, Libby. I'm sorry you had to hear that. Come and sit over here." The man draped a blanket over Libby's shoulders, then held out a thermos full of coffee towards her. "Drink this. You'll feel better."
Libby shook her head. She closed her eyes, then immediately opened them again. She'd seen exactly what she knew she would, what she'd probably see every night; the argument she'd been having with David, then the moment she'd struck him right before he'd fallen backwards, tumbling overboard.
"I hate that boat," she muttered at last. "Things happen when it's around." David had presented it to her on their wedding day, she remembered. He'd given a whole long speech about how he'd planned a surprise honeymoon for them, how they'd sail the Mediterranean together.
They never had made that journey.
After collapsing during that speech, Libby had been rushed to hospital, suffering an ectopic pregnancy. The honeymoon had been put on hold indefinitely.
Now they would never go.
"Well, if the boat's going to upset you that much," Jacob said, "maybe you should let it go, give it to somebody who's gonna use it."
London, England. 2001.
"Go in peace, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ."
"In the name of Christ. Amen."
As Eko watched the congregation file out, he wondered if it would ever become any easier, carrying out these services in the full knowledge that Yemi should be performing them instead, and that the reason he wasn't was all down to Eko.
He could barely remember the first service he had performed back in Nigeria, even though it was a few short weeks ago. He did remember it was a marriage ceremony, though. Eko couldn't even picture that couple now, so strong were the memories of his guilt over Yemi that day.
As he turned to prepare the communion wine for the next service, he realised his hands were shaking. In any other circumstances, he might almost have laughed. The guerillas back in Nigeria had called him "Mr. Eko" precisely because he had not shown fear. He wondered how they would react if they could see him now, afraid that Yemi was judging him and finding him wanting.
My signature does not make you a priest, Eko.
Are you a bad man?
You owe Yemi one church.
These voices from the past flashed through Eko's memory as he prepared the communion wafers.
"Forgive me, Yemi," he whispered, kneeling and crossing himself.
He didn't know how long he'd been in that position when he suddenly became aware of someone else's presence. He turned around to see a man in a blue suit hovering uncertainly among the pews.
"I'm sorry," the newcomer said. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm visiting the area, and thought I'd have a look around."
"That is all right," Eko replied, forcing a smile. "Let me know if you need any assistance."
"I'm told you're new to the parish yourself," Jacob said, offering a hand for Eko to shake.
"That is right," Eko accepted his hand. "My name is Father Tunde."
Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France. 2002.
Ugh, thank God that flight's over, Shannon thought as she waited at baggage reclaim. There was nothing like being sat next to a screaming baby for several hours to put anyone off long haul flights.
You do realise you're actually gonna be taking care of screaming kids all the time now, Shan?
Boone's voice popped into Shannon's head, unbidden. "Shut up, Boone," Shannon muttered, ignoring a quizzical look from a man in a blue suit. She didn't need Boone to remind her of what she'd taken on. Nor did she need to think about the argument they'd had right after she accepted the job.
"This is crazy. You're a ballet instructor, not a nanny. You don't even like babysitting. You can't accept this job."
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Boone. You think I can't take care of kids?"
"That's not what I meant. Look, my trust fund's kicked in now. I'll give you the money for your internship."
"I don't need your money. I can stand on my own two feet."
And she didn't want to think about what Sabrina had said either.
"An admirable sentiment. I know Philippe and Dominique well. I am sure you will be very happy there. Your father would have been proud."
It had been the mention of her father that had got to her, more that the gleam of triumph in Sabrina's eyes which she had seen and Boone hadn't because he'd stormed out by that point.
There was her bag now, coming off the carousel. It was heavier than she'd remembered; Boone had taken care of it at check in.
"Damn it!" she winced as she dropped the bag on her right foot, then struggled to lift it off again.
"Here, let me." said a new voice. It was the man in the blue suit she had noticed earlier who approached her, taking one of the handles of her bag.
Shannon gave him a quick once-over. More attractive than she'd first thought, although she couldn't tell his age.
"Are you going to be okay with this?" Jacob asked. "Or is there anything more I can do for you?"
It was almost with disappointment that she saw Philippe.
"That's okay. The guy I'm meeting just arrived."
St Sebastian's Hospital, Los Angeles. April 2004.
"It's just hospital policy," the nurse explained. "All our patients leave in a wheelchair when they're discharged."
"I said, I don't need it," Ana Lucia scowled.
"Just leave it, Ana," Teresa Cortez sighed. "You're getting out today. You're lucky."
Sure, lucky to be alive, Ana thought sarcastically. They'd all been telling her that ever since she'd been in here. And yet she felt dead, hollow inside, as though they'd removed part of her along with what had been her baby.
Danny had visited her once, told her he was going to clear out all his stuff before she got out.
It was better this way, Ana told herself. She didn't need another round of what had happened when he left.
"Your mother and I both told you you should take it easy, go on desk duties until the baby was born. But you didn't listen. You killed our baby, Ana Lucia."
She's seen that in her nightmares every night since. Or sometimes it's the baby speaking. Why'd you kill me, Mommy?
Ana wondered if it would get any easier once she was back in her own apartment, next door to the family with the noisy baby whose every screech would probably serve as a reproach to her.
Teresa had told Ana she could stay with her for a while, but Ana had vetoed that one. She didn't think she could deal with having her mother around her all the time. It was best that she get used to being alone again.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Teresa sighed. "I ordered that cab for fifteen minutes ago. What's happened to it?"
A man in a blue suit stepped away from the one he'd been about to get into. "Have this one if you like."
"Are you sure?" Teresa asked.
The man nodded. "Take it. I can sort out another one."
"Well, thank you very much!" Teresa exclaimed. "Come on, Ana."
As Ana turned to get into the cab, Jacob touched her on the shoulder.
"I wish you a speedy recovery," he said.
The Hotel Earle bar, New York. December 2004.
Michael stumbled blindly out of the penthouse, ignoring Tom's shouts for him to come back. Tom couldn't be serious. It was killing that had landed him here in the first place. Killing again wasn't the way to redeem himself, to win Walt back.
He found his way to the bar, ordered a beer, then cursed under his breath when he realised his wallet only contained a handful of loose change. "Uh...I'm sorry."
"That's okay, I'll get this." said a man in a blue suit at the next stool. "Same for me too, please."
Michael looked at him. "Uh, thanks, man."
"No problem." the stranger smiled. "Come and join me for a drink."
"No thanks." Michael didn't want company right now. He needed to be alone, to try and make sense of all he'd heard. The island wouldn't let him die? Someone faked the wreckage of Flight 815? None of it made sense.
"No, really, I insist...Michael."
Michael froze. "Do I know you? Wait - are you one of them? The Others?"
"If by that you mean my people from the island, then yes," Jacob replied.
"Look, I already told your pal who used to wear the beard, I'm not doing it," Michael began, but Jacob continued "So what, you're just gonna keep trying and failing to kill yourself? Trying to get Walt back even though he doesn't want to see you?"
Michael glared at him, not knowing what to say.
"What if I were to tell you that boarding the freighter is the only way the island will let you go?"
"I won't believe you," Michael began, but with less conviction than before.
"And that it's the only way you'll regain the affection of Walt?" Jacob watched Michael's face and knew that had hit home. "Go back upstairs, Michael. Tom will finish giving you your instructions."
Slowly, mechanically, Michael got up from his bar stool.
Jacob raised his glass. "Good luck, Michael."