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Lost fic: Et In Arcadia Ego [Ben Linus, post-series gen]
So, we finally watched the Lost finale this week (yes, I'm one of those suckers who waited for the DVDs - I'm compulsive like that :) ) and loved it. More coherent meta and/or squee might follow, if and when I'm capable of it, but for now I just needed to write fic instead. Call it therapy, if you'd like. *wipes eyes*
Title: Et In Arcadia Ego
Summary: "I have some things that I still need to work out. I think I'll stay here a while." On Benjamin Linus and letting go.
Word Count: ~ 1500
Rating: G
A/N: I wrote this in a day (a long and feverish day, but still a single day at that), which only happened to me once before, so it must really have needed writing. Also - yes, it's sentimental, but I just sat through the finale, darn it, so I believe I'm entitled. :) And it's not more sentimental than said finale, for sure, so not to worry too much.
Any kind of feedback - positive, critical or mixed - is welcome, as always.
Et In Arcadia Ego
He isn’t sure, in the end, why he chooses to stay. Or, no, that’s not quite true, isn’t it? He does know the reason – he’s never done anything without one in his life and, let’s be honest, death would be a crappy time to start – but not why it would be his reason altogether.
It feels strange, a lapse like that. As strange as anything feels in this place where dead men walk, wrapped in skins of their own making. Like his own skin, not a day after meeting Desmond Hume’s fists, looking as unbroken as it ever did.
No, wrong again: as it never did.
If that’s meant to be symbolic, he doesn’t buy it.
There’s a click when Hugo shuts the church door behind him, and then he’s sitting, alone, in the half-darkness, staring down at hands folded in his lap. His nails are clean, pink, neatly filed down to the fingertips. For a second, the thought that his subconscious considered clean fingernails, of all things, essential enough for inclusion in his afterlife, is almost too comical. Except when he wants to start laughing, it doesn’t come out as laughter at all.
He pulls his jacket about him, compulsively, stops himself with an indrawn breath. Well, what does it matter, anyway? What do jackets matter when it comes to letting go, or – not to?
So he feels cut off. What else is new? He can hardly remember a time that he didn’t. Not even with Hugo, not quite – though that was hardly Hugo’s fault – but it never made a difference before, or at least he never let it, so why would it begin to now? He’d say death must have softened instead of hardened him, but that was too lousy a joke even for him.
What if, he thinks, rubbing his fingers because he can’t help it, because he’s freezing and even knowing he no longer has fingers to rub, not in a non-metaphysical sense anyway, the reflex is still there – what if he’s taking the easy way out? Easier to stay, maybe, than to go with them, which would imply admitting that he wants to. There are maybe three people in that church he could admit that to. Possibly four, if Ilana’s there, which somehow he doubts. And some of those he could tell – some of them named, say, Juliet – might not even want to hear.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there when it sinks in. The light in the church has died down to a glimmer, and then he doesn’t know how he can be so certain they’re gone, only that he is. They’ve left, all of them, and whatever he thought he was waiting for, or was expecting to feel when they did, he didn’t feel a thing.
It’s only when he picks himself up and walks away, past the wheelchair sprawled uselessly on the pavement, that he realizes there’ll be nothing easy about this. Nothing at all.
He drives to class the next morning, same as always. Not because he wants to, but because he doesn’t know where else to go. The teacher’s lounge is out of coffee – no kidding, really – and the last thing he wants is to brew a fresh pot, but he ends up doing it anyway. They bought the cheap kind again, the kind he’s always thought smells slightly of burnt rubber or some obscure chemical, but it’s hot and blessedly tasteless going down. By the time he’s done and is rinsing out his cup, his hands are actually steady.
Somehow, knowing the truth makes it all worse, not better. Alex’s face is a bright blur at the back of the classroom, lighting up whenever he asks a question and, inevitably, she gets the answer right. It takes him three days to convince himself she is Alex, the real one, not some construct of his guilt-ridden mind – or at least, no more than he’s a construct of hers. He doesn’t know what it would mean if he is, if it would mean anything, and he feels faint even thinking about it, so he tries not to.
Later that week, he’s picking up his briefcase from the locker room when, in an impulse, he finds himself looking for John’s. The label just says “Locke”, no first name, no title, and it feels like the most obvious thing in the world to peel it off, carefully, slide it into his pocket like it belongs there. No trace of the key, of course, but he’s not even surprised when the door opens without one. Whatever secrets John Locke used to have, he supposes they’re no longer secrets now.
There’s not much inside except for a smattering of pens, an empty notebook and two pictures. One of a woman, smiling, the other of an older man. Neither of whom he knows, and he puts them back after a long moment. Shuts the door and, without warning, has to breathe around a sense of loss that hits harder than Desmond’s punches did.
“Dr. Linus?” a voice says from the doorway, and of course that has to be Alex, showing up with the same unearthly timing that seems to run galore here. “Dr. Linus, are you all right?” And it’s all he can do to make himself turn and smile, like he always does, rather than turn and run, like he wants to. She still doesn’t know, and though he can't get through an hour without wondering what will bring it back for her, he’s terrified of what will happen when it does.
Some nights, when he can’t sleep, he thinks of Hugo. It’s strange, but for all the time they spent together, parts of it are already slipping away. Parts like Hugo’s voice, the way it had of taking the edge off his anger, his self-loathing, bit by tiny bit. Then, inevitably, he thinks of his father. How, returning from the church that night, he was fully prepared to go right back to hating him, only to realize he couldn’t. He wonders how much of that is Hugo’s doing, too.
It happens one night, as he walks home after history club. He didn’t see Alex leave, so he’s surprised to spot her just outside the school gates. Even more to see she isn’t alone. There’s a boy with her, a tall, gangly boy who looks vaguely familiar, a nagging kind of familiarity that he can’t for the life of him put a finger on. And it’s none of his business, really, none at all, but that doesn’t stop him from moving in closer. Another few steps, and he’s just on the other side of the fence. Close enough to hear them talk, and laugh, and see –
How he’s kissing her, or trying to. Alex making a noise that’s either a giggle or a yelp, starting to kiss him back, only to pull away again, mutter “Karl, not here, please –”
And then he’s out from behind the fence and out on the street, and before he knows what got into him he has the boy’s parka in both of his fists and is hissing, “You leave her alone, you hear me? You keep your hands off my –”
“Dad?”
He stares.
The first word that comes to him is white, because she is, white and wide-eyed and small, looking for all the world like she’s going to pass out, or break into a run.
Then she says “Dad?” again, and he thinks he just might.
The boy – Karl; God, Karl – squirms in his grip, and he lets go, only to find he has no idea what it is he needs to do. Alex is watching him, white hands plucking at her sweater, looking shocked or disgusted or terrified, he can’t tell which, and he doesn’t even know how to take her in his arms, or even if he should.
“Alex,” he says, or tries to. “Alex – I’m so sorry.” He takes a step towards her, then, when that doesn’t send the sky crashing down, blurts, “I was wrong, you know. I was trying to protect you. All I ever wanted was to keep you safe, and even that I couldn’t –”
“I know,” she whispers, and then he stares again.
“Well, that’s not going to buy you anything, now, is it?” he gets out. “Honestly, Alex – you can’t tell me that’s even close to good enough.”
“It's – close,” she says, shakily. And then he’s not quite sure if he’s in her arms or she in his, but when he lets go, her face is wet, too, and oddly enough that doesn’t even feel wrong.
“I can’t come with you, Dad.” Softly, like it’s the most obvious thing that he’d ask. “Karl, my mum… They still need to –”
He glances at the boy, tight-lipped and pale and clearly having no clue what the hell’s going on. “I understand,” he says, and he actually does. “Alex –” He’s having some trouble seeing, he thinks. Or maybe it’s just that he feels so much lighter suddenly, because if this is what breathing was like in life, he can’t imagine he was ever able to stop.
“It’s all right,” she says, and for a moment he could swear she’s smiling. “You go on, Dad. We’ll see you around.”
And there’s no bright light to follow, nothing grand or spectacular or even remotely symbolic when he, finally, lets it take him away.
But the look on her face is all the light he needs.
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It's a great epilogue for Ben, and I love the quiet melancholy and longing. The way you pay tribute to his relationships with Hurley (and I loved that this enabled him to return to his father, memory intact, without the old hatred), with Locke (the label in Ben's pocket is perfect) and of course with Alex. Alex remembering and forgiving him as the one thing that sets Ben free feels so right, and you don't oversell it by letting Alex make love declarations or say outright "I forgive you". "It's - close" is just perfect.
Lastly: It takes him three days to convince himself she is Alex, the real one, not some construct of his guilt-ridden mind – or at least, no more than he’s a construct of hers. He doesn’t know what it would mean if he is, if it would mean anything, and he feels faint even thinking about it, so he tries not to.
That's the kind existential reflection that this show enables on occasion, and I love that you incorporate it.
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Not overselling it was definitely the hardest part in writing this (otoh, getting into sideways!Ben's head went unexpectedly more smoothly than I'd thought) and I must have re-written those last few paragraphs about a dozen times before I was more or less satisfied. At some point, I did have versions with either of both of them saying "I love you", before I threw that out altogether along with most of the rest of the dialogue. :) So chiming in when it comes to the strength of understatement.
Existential reflection: this one came from my own pondering that it's hardly possible for all of the people in the sideways world that we were shown to be both constructs in someone else's afterlife, and be in the process of crafting their own. Anthony Cooper, for one, surely wouldn't have put himself in the position Locke put him, i.e. crippled for life and unable to communicate, so I'd say he can't have been the real Cooper. And maybe the reason why Helen wasn't with Locke at the end was because she wasn't the real Helen either, but an illusion he'd created for himself. So, once you start taking it there, then who is real? *loves and curses show for messing wit our heads like that*
Incidentally - I peeked at your Lost recs (without reading anything, so far, because I wanted a blank slate for writing this) and found one recent post, being this one. Are there any others I missed? Or, if not, have you read any other fics since then you can recommend? For one, I'm sure other people have written the Ben-letting-go-storyline as well, and I'm curious as to whom and how, but so far I haven't found any. And I'm a little reluctant to start digging into AO3 or FF.Net without a map. Seems like
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http://tellshannon815.livejournal.com/103741.html
http://archiveofourown.org/works/107267
http://archiveofourown.org/works/107219
http://purpleseas.livejournal.com/1916.html
http://purpleseas.livejournal.com/4477.html
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As for the Ben/Rousseau fic - are you referring to the one that starts out quite promising, with a pondering Ben outside the church and a few good interactions with Alex and Rousseau, then around the halfway mark takes about five lines of dialogue for a rushed yes-you-stole-my-daughter-and-then-let-her-get-killed-and-got-me-killed-as-well-but-I-totally-forgive-you sort of thing, followed by Great Sex? Well, no, not even that - I think it was more like "It's okay, shut up, let's have sex now"? Because if so, I ran into it too, just today, and was, shall we say, slightly disappointed. Even more because the author did seem to have a good grasp on both writing and the characters, and that story could have been so much more if (s)he had just taken the time to actually, you know, tackle some issues before getting on with the sex.
And I'm surprised that my own natural post-finale reflex, i.e. to tie up the story of the one character the writers hadn't given closure, wasn't shared by at least some other people writing Lost fic. I was sure I was rehashing half a dozen fics that'd been written before, but - seems not, then.
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Serious, now, I think there's a huge difference between what a reconciliation with Alex would take as opposed to one with Rousseau. With Alex I could see it go two ways: it could be a purely instinctive asking for/giving of forgiveness and be over in a heartbeat (which was the take I went for here), seeing as she has known Ben for a lifetime, therefore must have happy memories of him as well, and just the fact of him coming clean might be all she needs to accept, if maybe not forgive. Or it could be a Very Big Deal, in which case a single conversation could never be enough. With Danielle, who has no connection at all with Ben, and for whom the Big Deal isn't even 'just' about her own life but her daughter's - I frankly can't see any scenario in which getting her forgiveness wouldn't be a long and painful process. Otoh, if there were ever a fic where that did happen... *yearns*
Ah, I do hate being picky sometimes. :)
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Ah, the ironies of life. :)
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Of course, I agree with you: Alex has positive memories of Ben in addition to the negative ones and given the glimpse we get at her childhood where he's pushing the swings, there was definitely a time when she loved him and did not doubt he loved her. Danielle Rousseau has nothing of the sort, but she does have memories of two decades of pain and separation from Alex thanks to Ben, and do we remember Rousseau's way of saying hello involves a bit of torture?
It's not that I can't understand the give-Ben-a-hug impulse after the finale. But of all possible candidates, Rousseau is not one (with her memories intact, and without them, it would make for more skeevy behaviour on Ben's part if he'd permitted it). (I feel reminded of an old fandom of mine, Blake's 7, where the much-loved-by-fandom morally ambiguous character does a few really crappy things and in fanfic still ends up consoled by the very characters he did them to.)
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Um - no, still can 't remember. Blocked it, definitely.
And I have to admit I was just a little peeved here, not at the fact of other people finding this Rousseau IC but rather how I found it kind of hard not to read the comment as "whoops, you kinda forgot one major aspect of Ben here, honey, like, where is the sex?" :)
Okay, will stuff foot in mouth now. *mphrgh*
About Ben, Alex and Rousseau, we agree entirely. And I'm not familiar with Blake's 7, alas, but I suppose it happens in many fandoms. And, admittedly, the show always did do a great job of making us forget, at least temporarily, just how many horrid deaths Ben has on his conscience (at least the ones like Locke and Jacob were hardly innocents; most of the Dharma people were.) Oh, and:
It's not that I can't understand the give-Ben-a-hug impulse after the finale
Please do not put those images into my head, please. Not unless you want me to end up spending the rest of my days writing fic about sweet magnificent woobie-bastard Ben with the nerdy glasses and the fashion-suicide vest and his arm in a sling looking all forlorn and helpless no no no no because DON'T THINK I'M NOT TEMPTED. *slaps own hands repeatedly*
There. And now I want to write post-finale Rousseau POV fic. To show I can. *g*
(That last bit was serious, by the way.)
(eta: um, does DW not allow to edit one's own comments? Was looking for the button but couldn't find it, which seems strange. Or is it layout-dependent?)
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rather how I found it kind of hard not to read the comment as "whoops, you kinda forgot one major aspect of Ben here, honey, like, where is the sex?" :)
While I think it's more likely the poster simply wanted to point you to another Ben h/c post epilogue fic, fandom mentality being what it is, your interpretation also has a certain plausibility. Because the healing sex is basically married to the h/c genre, no matter how appropriate or not.
I would love to read a Rousseau pov! That she wasn't explored more is one of my lasting Lost regrets, because she was such an intriguing character. (Also, always nice to see Mira Furlan again.)
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It was tough to write, though - tougher than Ben's, in fact, because there's just so much there to tackle and no easy answers at all. (which is, of course, why we love our shows, no? :) )