Post by coaxialcreature on Jul 2, 2007 7:48:53 GMT -5
Fandom: Lost
Title: The Moth
Series: The Moth
Author: Dex, LJ id ouronlyhunter, ff.net id coaxialcreature
Characters: Locke
Rating: pg-13
Disclaimer/claimer: I wrote the words, but own none of the characters or settings. Basically, most of the elements of this story belong to not me, and I’m not making money, so please don’t sue me. Oh, and character death - uses events in/up to the first season episode The Moth although it takes place a couple days after. Please don’t repost this as it’s a story I decided to dedicate to Baby. If you’re interested for some reason, leave a comment, and I’ll get back to her. It’s a fairly disturbing story, so you’ve been forewarned. Flames will be ignored.
Summary: Locke does what the island tells him . . . or he’s a little crazy . . .
Other Notes: First part in a series of vignettes
Locke knew that he had to work fast, and alone, despite the ache, spreading from his back to his arms, his legs. It hadn’t been easy work so far, even before he’d had to start digging. He glanced up, pursing his lips; it would dawn, soon enough, too soon. He wasn’t worried about being gone, since the other survivors were used to him being gone, before the sun rose, to hunt or scavenge, or just explore.
Charlie, though, would be missed.
He paused, spearing the shovel in the dirt, so that it stood, on its own, panting slightly, and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The shovel was holding up nicely, even though it was made from a thicker branch he’d found, a curved - and slightly charred - piece of metal from the ship and twine. He’d have to take it apart, after he was done, unless he came up with a good explanation for why he’d suddenly needed a shovel. Any explanation would be suspect, though, so Locke decided to simply cut the twine and separate the pieces that made up the tool later.
Locke eyed the shallow hole in the ground. Only about halfway deep as he needed, and heaving a sigh, he picked up the shovel again. Trying to focus on the rhythm - pulling into the ground, and throwing it over his shoulder, again and again and again - he hoped it would take away from why he was exerting himself, to the point of exhaustion. It wasn’t physical, either, not for the most part. He simply didn’t want to be doing this.
Gritting his teeth, he put as much of himself as he had left into dirt, pounding into the ground with the shovel. When he looked up, his breath was ragged, and he was coated with sweat, plastering his clothes to his skin.
The drugs, or the guitar Charlie. You can’t have both.
Locke didn’t hold it against Charlie, that he hadn’t been able to make the choice. He also believed the younger man, when he said that he’d wanted the guitar more than the drugs. He’d needed the drugs, however. Addiction was a disease, and Charlie had fought it off as best as he could. Locke felt only regret that he hadn’t been able to help him, any more than he’d done. That hadn’t stopped him from doing what had to be done. He had too much to risk himself.
The thoughts were less painful than before, due to the exercise, Locke guessed. It had done enough, taken his mind off the situation long enough for him to finish digging the grave. He deposited the shovel, metal in the ground so that the handle stuck up. Easier for him to pick up when he had to finish this.
There wasn’t anything left to do but put Charlie to rest. Locke climbed out of the hole, and carefully picked the body up. There was no need to be rough, now. The island had tested Charlie, and he’d failed; Locke saw no reason for Charlie to pay any more than he had already. He was just as gentle putting Charlie into grave, making sure he was in a comfortable looking position at least before he turned back to the shovel. It was easier shoveling the dirt back in, over the body. Knowing that this task was almost done. Dawn came, before Locke finished his job, but he wasn’t too worried. While Jack, maybe a couple others, would be up already, it was doubtful that they’d have missed Charlie so soon, given the blond’s tendency to sleep late. And even if they had noticed the disappearance, it was unlikely they’d have noticed in time to discover where he was.
Locke glanced around the small clearing that he’d chosen. It wasn’t near anything important, a food source, or water. There was nothing here, in fact, that the others could find anywhere else. No reason for them to come wandering out here. It was also far enough from anything that was useful that Locke reasoned that anyone would be less likely to come around here. Still, there was no reason to take any chances. He disrupted the ground, around the grave, to it didn’t seem as obvious, before making sure that it was just as strewn with the debris nature created. Sticks and stones. He paused at the thought, looking around, and then running his hand over his head.
It was over. And it felt like there should have been something more to it.
All that Locke had left was the shovel. He pulled a knife from the backpack on the ground, and cut the twine of the shovel. The branch could be left here, but the metal and twine would look suspicious. They both went into his bag. He could explain the twine, but he wanted to put the metal near the rest of the plane, or at least near the beach, as if it had already been there. Locke double-checked his pack, to make sure he’d taken all of Charlie’s supplies as well. He had the knife, and the bottle of water, and those were the big ones. He didn’t bother looking for more. He wasn’t going to go back to the spot where he’d left the backpack. He hadn’t been able to move it from where Charlie had died. Locke held his breath, and looked up, around him, chilled by the mere thought.
No one was there, to see him, other than the island and its natural occupants. They’d wanted this. It had been another test, Locke assured himself, and the proof that he’d passed was that he had been allowed to carry out the murder, and perform the burial, uninterrupted. Locke froze, taking in a harsh breath. It was the first time he’d thought of it as a murder, and he was still conflicted about the word, and the use of it in this situation. There was nothing left to do, and too little time to think this over, as much as Locke would have liked. He stood swiftly, swinging the backpack over one shoulder, and wiping his hands on his pants. He stopped, and then started again, squinting, and looking around the clearing, before heading back the caves.
---
Locke stopped by the beach, tossing the metal onto the dirt near enough to the sand that it wouldn’t be questioned. It was the final thing he had to do, before he could completely wipe his hands of this. Start to put it behind him.
Claire was talking to Jack near the mouth of the caves, her expression frantic, the panic and wrinkles making her look far older than normal. Jack was squinting, arms crossed over his chest, and he listened to the girl, watched as she pointed back at where she’d been sleeping. Charlie had camped out near her. So they knew, that he was gone at least. Locke didn’t pause, did nothing that would seem unusual. He nodded at Jack, who glanced back at Locke, before turning back to Claire. No change of expression on the doctor’s face, and Locke edged closer, to hear Claire add, “He wasn’t there. I mean, when I got up. That’s not like him.”
Jack nodded, and turned to the small group who had gathered, Hurley and Sayid and Michael up front. Sayid nodded, forehead wrinkling as he mused over the situation. He eyed Locke, before turning back to Claire. “I do not believe that we should jump to any conclusions, Claire,” he attempted to soothe her. “It would not be out of the question that Charlie simply woke up early.”
Claire puckered her lips, and shook her head, hard. “Yeah, but he usually sticks around. And I called out for him. He wasn’t there. No one’s seen him, have they?”
There were mutters, and shakes of heads. Some of the group backed up, to wander off, having heard the newest gossip. The details didn’t seem to interest that much, nor did what they perceived as the over worry of a pregnant woman.
“We should set up some search parties,” Jack offered. Sayid nodded. It would comfort Claire, after all, and wouldn’t hurt just in case Charlie really was lost. The suggestion still made Locke tense, rubbing at his neck to try and loosen things up.
“John?”
Locke looked up at his name, nodding at Jack. “Sure. Who’s coming?” It came down to Michael, Sayid, Jack and Locke. Jack insisted on going with Locke, which left Michael and Sayid.
Locke insisted on moving quickly, and no one argued. Within minutes, they were on their separate ways. Locke was already exhausted, thinking and moving slower than usual. After spending all night out in the jungle, the last thing he wanted to do was go back out, to look for Charlie. He didn’t want to lie to Jack, either, but that was unavoidable at this point.
“What do you know about it?”
Locke met Jack’s gaze. They stood, in the middle of trees, and faced each other, each one trying to read the other. “I don’t know anything, Jack. Except what you do, and probably less. Charlie’s gone, and we’re out looking for him.” Locke spoke, as if it were obvious. It was - both of them knew these facts.
“Don’t lie to me . . . ” Jack’s voice was a breath, pleading, and he took a step closer. And then any trace of kindness was wiped from his face, and he grabbed Locke’s arm. “I know you know something. Charlie’s missing, and you come back right as he’s gone?”
“Coincidence,” Locke insisted, making sure not to take his eyes off Jack’s. Looking away would only indicate guilt.
“Fine, then.” Jack let go of Locke’s arm, and shook his head. “Do you want to explain what you were doing out there that would take that much energy?” He motioned at Locke, the clothes still drenched with sweat.
Locke gave in, closing his eyes, and shaking his head. He hadn’t anticipated how hard this would be. He’d been able to brush off questions, to do what he would without feeling that he had to defend himself. But he hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to lie to Jack. Then again, lies had been his undoing before, lies that he’d thought had been in his best interest.
And when he stumbled upon the solution, Locke felt shamed, because he hadn’t thought of it before. And more so because he knew he’d use the excuse. “No, I don’t really want to explain that, Jack.”
Jack frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was apparent that the words failed him.
“I don’t want to, but I know I’m going to have to. The truth is, we’re not going to find Charlie.”
Jack’s frown deepened, and he shook his head again. “If you knew where he was, why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
“I didn’t want to upset Claire.” Locke glanced, to the side, studying the sun that filtered through the branches, and then met Jack’s eyes again. “It was an overdose . . . ”
Jack took in a sharp breath, and nodded. “I thought he was . . . He seemed to be doing well, on the Valium?” Jack made it a question.
“He slipped, Jack. It was regrettable, but we all did what we could.” Locke shrugged.
Jack clenched his fists. “Dammit!” He shook slightly, trembled really. “Why didn’t you . . . Where is he?”
“He’s already been buried.” Locke caught the flash of anger in Jack’s eyes, and anticipated the question. “He didn’t want the others to know. Claire, in particular.”
Jack’s expression softened, became faraway somehow. “How do you know?” His voice was starting to sound raw, and Locke felt, for the first time, guilt over the action. Yes, he’d had to do it, but he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. Not Charlie, even. Locke had made sure the death itself was as painless as possible, but he didn’t have that luxury now. No matter how he softened this blow, it would do irreparable harm.
“I wasn’t in time to do anything. He didn’t want anyone to know.” Locke shrugged, again, squirming a little. “I’m sorry, Jack.” His spoke softly, unable to look at the doctor anymore.
Jack moved forward, almost brushing his lips against Locke’s, Jack’s hand on the older man’s shoulder, before suddenly pulling away. Flashes of the last time Jack had initiated contact, although Locke had to remind himself that Jack had been half-crazy with the visions of his father, and in shock. He’d nearly lost his life, and Locke had simply... been there. Been accessible as proof that Jack was not, in fact, dead. And perhaps that he wasn’t crazy. Jack had been swift to put Locke in his place, admitting that it had been a mistake, although only after he’d worked out his issues with his father. “You know more than you’re letting on,” Jack spat out, pushing himself away from Locke, who watched Jack as he turned away, to head back to the caves. Locke supposed that he shouldn’t be quite so shocked, not after everything else Jack had done, and how he seemed to have picked up the ability to read Locke since Jack’s visions had stopped.
It was another test, Locke told himself, as he began to follow Jack.
Title: The Moth
Series: The Moth
Author: Dex, LJ id ouronlyhunter, ff.net id coaxialcreature
Characters: Locke
Rating: pg-13
Disclaimer/claimer: I wrote the words, but own none of the characters or settings. Basically, most of the elements of this story belong to not me, and I’m not making money, so please don’t sue me. Oh, and character death - uses events in/up to the first season episode The Moth although it takes place a couple days after. Please don’t repost this as it’s a story I decided to dedicate to Baby. If you’re interested for some reason, leave a comment, and I’ll get back to her. It’s a fairly disturbing story, so you’ve been forewarned. Flames will be ignored.
Summary: Locke does what the island tells him . . . or he’s a little crazy . . .
Other Notes: First part in a series of vignettes
Locke knew that he had to work fast, and alone, despite the ache, spreading from his back to his arms, his legs. It hadn’t been easy work so far, even before he’d had to start digging. He glanced up, pursing his lips; it would dawn, soon enough, too soon. He wasn’t worried about being gone, since the other survivors were used to him being gone, before the sun rose, to hunt or scavenge, or just explore.
Charlie, though, would be missed.
He paused, spearing the shovel in the dirt, so that it stood, on its own, panting slightly, and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The shovel was holding up nicely, even though it was made from a thicker branch he’d found, a curved - and slightly charred - piece of metal from the ship and twine. He’d have to take it apart, after he was done, unless he came up with a good explanation for why he’d suddenly needed a shovel. Any explanation would be suspect, though, so Locke decided to simply cut the twine and separate the pieces that made up the tool later.
Locke eyed the shallow hole in the ground. Only about halfway deep as he needed, and heaving a sigh, he picked up the shovel again. Trying to focus on the rhythm - pulling into the ground, and throwing it over his shoulder, again and again and again - he hoped it would take away from why he was exerting himself, to the point of exhaustion. It wasn’t physical, either, not for the most part. He simply didn’t want to be doing this.
Gritting his teeth, he put as much of himself as he had left into dirt, pounding into the ground with the shovel. When he looked up, his breath was ragged, and he was coated with sweat, plastering his clothes to his skin.
The drugs, or the guitar Charlie. You can’t have both.
Locke didn’t hold it against Charlie, that he hadn’t been able to make the choice. He also believed the younger man, when he said that he’d wanted the guitar more than the drugs. He’d needed the drugs, however. Addiction was a disease, and Charlie had fought it off as best as he could. Locke felt only regret that he hadn’t been able to help him, any more than he’d done. That hadn’t stopped him from doing what had to be done. He had too much to risk himself.
The thoughts were less painful than before, due to the exercise, Locke guessed. It had done enough, taken his mind off the situation long enough for him to finish digging the grave. He deposited the shovel, metal in the ground so that the handle stuck up. Easier for him to pick up when he had to finish this.
There wasn’t anything left to do but put Charlie to rest. Locke climbed out of the hole, and carefully picked the body up. There was no need to be rough, now. The island had tested Charlie, and he’d failed; Locke saw no reason for Charlie to pay any more than he had already. He was just as gentle putting Charlie into grave, making sure he was in a comfortable looking position at least before he turned back to the shovel. It was easier shoveling the dirt back in, over the body. Knowing that this task was almost done. Dawn came, before Locke finished his job, but he wasn’t too worried. While Jack, maybe a couple others, would be up already, it was doubtful that they’d have missed Charlie so soon, given the blond’s tendency to sleep late. And even if they had noticed the disappearance, it was unlikely they’d have noticed in time to discover where he was.
Locke glanced around the small clearing that he’d chosen. It wasn’t near anything important, a food source, or water. There was nothing here, in fact, that the others could find anywhere else. No reason for them to come wandering out here. It was also far enough from anything that was useful that Locke reasoned that anyone would be less likely to come around here. Still, there was no reason to take any chances. He disrupted the ground, around the grave, to it didn’t seem as obvious, before making sure that it was just as strewn with the debris nature created. Sticks and stones. He paused at the thought, looking around, and then running his hand over his head.
It was over. And it felt like there should have been something more to it.
All that Locke had left was the shovel. He pulled a knife from the backpack on the ground, and cut the twine of the shovel. The branch could be left here, but the metal and twine would look suspicious. They both went into his bag. He could explain the twine, but he wanted to put the metal near the rest of the plane, or at least near the beach, as if it had already been there. Locke double-checked his pack, to make sure he’d taken all of Charlie’s supplies as well. He had the knife, and the bottle of water, and those were the big ones. He didn’t bother looking for more. He wasn’t going to go back to the spot where he’d left the backpack. He hadn’t been able to move it from where Charlie had died. Locke held his breath, and looked up, around him, chilled by the mere thought.
No one was there, to see him, other than the island and its natural occupants. They’d wanted this. It had been another test, Locke assured himself, and the proof that he’d passed was that he had been allowed to carry out the murder, and perform the burial, uninterrupted. Locke froze, taking in a harsh breath. It was the first time he’d thought of it as a murder, and he was still conflicted about the word, and the use of it in this situation. There was nothing left to do, and too little time to think this over, as much as Locke would have liked. He stood swiftly, swinging the backpack over one shoulder, and wiping his hands on his pants. He stopped, and then started again, squinting, and looking around the clearing, before heading back the caves.
---
Locke stopped by the beach, tossing the metal onto the dirt near enough to the sand that it wouldn’t be questioned. It was the final thing he had to do, before he could completely wipe his hands of this. Start to put it behind him.
Claire was talking to Jack near the mouth of the caves, her expression frantic, the panic and wrinkles making her look far older than normal. Jack was squinting, arms crossed over his chest, and he listened to the girl, watched as she pointed back at where she’d been sleeping. Charlie had camped out near her. So they knew, that he was gone at least. Locke didn’t pause, did nothing that would seem unusual. He nodded at Jack, who glanced back at Locke, before turning back to Claire. No change of expression on the doctor’s face, and Locke edged closer, to hear Claire add, “He wasn’t there. I mean, when I got up. That’s not like him.”
Jack nodded, and turned to the small group who had gathered, Hurley and Sayid and Michael up front. Sayid nodded, forehead wrinkling as he mused over the situation. He eyed Locke, before turning back to Claire. “I do not believe that we should jump to any conclusions, Claire,” he attempted to soothe her. “It would not be out of the question that Charlie simply woke up early.”
Claire puckered her lips, and shook her head, hard. “Yeah, but he usually sticks around. And I called out for him. He wasn’t there. No one’s seen him, have they?”
There were mutters, and shakes of heads. Some of the group backed up, to wander off, having heard the newest gossip. The details didn’t seem to interest that much, nor did what they perceived as the over worry of a pregnant woman.
“We should set up some search parties,” Jack offered. Sayid nodded. It would comfort Claire, after all, and wouldn’t hurt just in case Charlie really was lost. The suggestion still made Locke tense, rubbing at his neck to try and loosen things up.
“John?”
Locke looked up at his name, nodding at Jack. “Sure. Who’s coming?” It came down to Michael, Sayid, Jack and Locke. Jack insisted on going with Locke, which left Michael and Sayid.
Locke insisted on moving quickly, and no one argued. Within minutes, they were on their separate ways. Locke was already exhausted, thinking and moving slower than usual. After spending all night out in the jungle, the last thing he wanted to do was go back out, to look for Charlie. He didn’t want to lie to Jack, either, but that was unavoidable at this point.
“What do you know about it?”
Locke met Jack’s gaze. They stood, in the middle of trees, and faced each other, each one trying to read the other. “I don’t know anything, Jack. Except what you do, and probably less. Charlie’s gone, and we’re out looking for him.” Locke spoke, as if it were obvious. It was - both of them knew these facts.
“Don’t lie to me . . . ” Jack’s voice was a breath, pleading, and he took a step closer. And then any trace of kindness was wiped from his face, and he grabbed Locke’s arm. “I know you know something. Charlie’s missing, and you come back right as he’s gone?”
“Coincidence,” Locke insisted, making sure not to take his eyes off Jack’s. Looking away would only indicate guilt.
“Fine, then.” Jack let go of Locke’s arm, and shook his head. “Do you want to explain what you were doing out there that would take that much energy?” He motioned at Locke, the clothes still drenched with sweat.
Locke gave in, closing his eyes, and shaking his head. He hadn’t anticipated how hard this would be. He’d been able to brush off questions, to do what he would without feeling that he had to defend himself. But he hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to lie to Jack. Then again, lies had been his undoing before, lies that he’d thought had been in his best interest.
And when he stumbled upon the solution, Locke felt shamed, because he hadn’t thought of it before. And more so because he knew he’d use the excuse. “No, I don’t really want to explain that, Jack.”
Jack frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was apparent that the words failed him.
“I don’t want to, but I know I’m going to have to. The truth is, we’re not going to find Charlie.”
Jack’s frown deepened, and he shook his head again. “If you knew where he was, why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
“I didn’t want to upset Claire.” Locke glanced, to the side, studying the sun that filtered through the branches, and then met Jack’s eyes again. “It was an overdose . . . ”
Jack took in a sharp breath, and nodded. “I thought he was . . . He seemed to be doing well, on the Valium?” Jack made it a question.
“He slipped, Jack. It was regrettable, but we all did what we could.” Locke shrugged.
Jack clenched his fists. “Dammit!” He shook slightly, trembled really. “Why didn’t you . . . Where is he?”
“He’s already been buried.” Locke caught the flash of anger in Jack’s eyes, and anticipated the question. “He didn’t want the others to know. Claire, in particular.”
Jack’s expression softened, became faraway somehow. “How do you know?” His voice was starting to sound raw, and Locke felt, for the first time, guilt over the action. Yes, he’d had to do it, but he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. Not Charlie, even. Locke had made sure the death itself was as painless as possible, but he didn’t have that luxury now. No matter how he softened this blow, it would do irreparable harm.
“I wasn’t in time to do anything. He didn’t want anyone to know.” Locke shrugged, again, squirming a little. “I’m sorry, Jack.” His spoke softly, unable to look at the doctor anymore.
Jack moved forward, almost brushing his lips against Locke’s, Jack’s hand on the older man’s shoulder, before suddenly pulling away. Flashes of the last time Jack had initiated contact, although Locke had to remind himself that Jack had been half-crazy with the visions of his father, and in shock. He’d nearly lost his life, and Locke had simply... been there. Been accessible as proof that Jack was not, in fact, dead. And perhaps that he wasn’t crazy. Jack had been swift to put Locke in his place, admitting that it had been a mistake, although only after he’d worked out his issues with his father. “You know more than you’re letting on,” Jack spat out, pushing himself away from Locke, who watched Jack as he turned away, to head back to the caves. Locke supposed that he shouldn’t be quite so shocked, not after everything else Jack had done, and how he seemed to have picked up the ability to read Locke since Jack’s visions had stopped.
It was another test, Locke told himself, as he began to follow Jack.