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stefanie_beanChapter 3: Death Comes for the Marshal
Pair: Hurley/Claire
Characters: Hugo Reyes, Claire Littleton, Jack Shephard, Kate Austen, ensemble
Genre: Slow-build Romance
Length: 2629 words
Rating: M
Notes: WIP, canon-divergent
After the Oceanic 815 crash, Jack told Hurley to stay with Claire. In this retelling, Hurley does just that, and they fall in love. Also, people talk to each another more. And a lot less people die.
Chapter 3: Death Comes for the Marshal
Every time Claire gets up at night to crouch behind a tree, Hurley wakes up. He wouldn't mind, except that just as he drifts off to sleep, she gets up again. He keeps his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, not wanting her to feel badly about her night-time trips.
What makes it worse is that drifting off isn't so easy. Late last night, in the medical tent, he found the mugshot of that cute brunette Kate Austen. He feels weird knowing her name when she's never told him. It's like Superman using his X-ray vision to peer into other people's houses, or underneath their clothes.
Kate looks like a real hard-ass, but Hurley knows that mug shots aren't the most flattering. When his brother Diego got arrested, he brought his mug shot home and showed it off up and down the block. Dad had left only two years before, and Hurley's mother still had hope. “When your father gets back,” she said to Diego. “Just wait till he gets back.”
Diego laughed in their mother's face. The grainy photograph made him look heavy-jawed and beetle-browed, years older than sixteen.
“You look like a thug,” his mother said.
“It wasn't my fault, Ma,” Diego protested. “I didn't know the car was jacked. I was just a passenger.” Still, he bragged about it. He taped the photo up in his and Hurley's bedroom until their mother tossed it in the trash.
Just because Diego had a run-in with the cops didn't make him a bad guy. The juvie judge must have thought so, because he let Diego off. Maybe it'll be like that for Kate. But the way the marshal mutters her name, the way he half-opens his glazed, bloodshot eyes whenever she walks by, that points to more than a kid jacking a car.
Hurley's still puzzling it out when Claire gets up again. A tiny sliver of sunlight glitters on the eastern ocean, so Hurley pushes himself up. He's not getting back to sleep, that's for sure.
As he heads down to the shoreline, he spies that Chinese guy Jin. Or maybe he's Japanese. Who knows, since nobody can understand him. Jin roots around in the rocks at the shore, picking up clams and stuff. Maybe Hurley can find some seafood of his own, if he gets lucky.
* * * * * * * *
After wading in the shallows for half an hour, Hurley hasn't found a thing to eat. Up the beach, Jin already has a shirt full of irregular, dark objects that are probably pretty tasty inside.
The sun's fully up now, clear and bright. Seagulls drift overhead, then power-dive the water. Everything knows how to find its breakfast, except him. His shoes are full of water and they squelch.
“G' morning.” Claire wades in the surf beside him, tennis shoes in one hand, finger-combing her hair with the other. Pink sunlight paints her face with rosy highlights. “Sorry I kept you up.”
Hurley doesn't know where to look. He desperately wishes for something to give her: a fish, a succulent piece of fruit, a pearl. His hands are empty, though. He has nothing. Worse than that, a guilty burden weighs on him. What if Kate's a kidnapper or baby-stealer? Should he warn Claire? In all the movies, kidnapping's a federal crime. Maybe that's why Kate was being towed by a US marshal.
Claire's still trying to apologize. As he stammers, “Nah, I'm too hungry to sleep anyway—” shouts ring out up and down the beach.
Yesterday evening, Sayid led a group in a trek up the mountain. Now he has returned, followed by the redneck jackass called Sawyer. Behind them troop the gleaming Shannon and her equally glossy brother Boone. There's Charlie of the taped-up fingers, and bringing up the rear is Kate herself, eyes downcast.
“Everyone gather round,” Sayid says in a commanding voice. “I have something to share.”
Hurley has no trouble believing Sayid was a military officer, even if he was on the wrong side. He brushes Claire's arm to get her attention, the first time he's deliberately touched her. “Lemme know what he says, OK? I'm gonna go get Jack.”
Before she can answer, Hurley darts away. He runs hard, as much to get back to her quickly as to let Jack know that the explorers have returned.
* * * * * * * *
Sayid doesn't say much about their overnight on the mountain, but he has lots of ideas for organizing the survivors. He appoints himself head of water-collection efforts. A plump, bespectacled guy called Jerome volunteers to collect electronics. When Sayid mentions food rationing, Hurley's hand shoots up before anyone else's.
Not that there's much food left to ration.
“Pretty awesome, huh?” Hurley says to Jack. They've found a real prize, a box full of tarps. Hurley's helping Jack tie one atop the medical tent, while the marshal lies wheezing beneath.
Jack doesn't answer, just nods.
Hurley points to the unconscious marshal. “What's wrong with his breathing?”
“Pneumonia,” Jack says in a terse voice. “It causes fluid build-up in the lungs.”
Suddenly Hurley doesn't want to know any more, so he changes the subject. “Don't you think it's kinda weird that Sayid's doing water, when he's like, Mr. Radio Man?”
Jack stops lacing one tarp to another, his face patient and serious. “If we don't have a reliable source of water, Hurley, no one's going to be doing anything, much less repairing electronics.” He starts up again, his fingers working the cords into tight, elegant knots. “Three days. That's as long as anybody lasts without water. The sick, the elderly, the pregnant... they go faster.”
At “the pregnant,” Hurley scans the beach for Claire. She's with a couple of women, rummaging in a piece of the fuselage which broke off from the main section.
Over Jack's shoulder, Sayid and a few others lay tarps across angled sections of scrap. They look like blue water slides. Rainwater will flow down into collectors made of more tarps, set up in wooden frames.
Nobody calls Sayid “Mohammed” or “Al-Jazeerah” anymore.
Claire and the women have made quite a haul, boxes full of fresh fruit, oranges and apples. Another box has a cache of airplane peanuts.
“Plain, honey-roasted, and praline,” Hurley reads out loud. His mouth waters, but he doesn't take any.
* * * * * * * *
A tall, bald man named Kenneth has been traveling across the Pacific for the past three months, taking photos for nature magazines. He and two other men have missed Sayid's meeting, having been on a trek of their own, exploring the coastline.
Kenneth listens to Hurley's account of Sayid's speech, then remarks, “So that's all they had to say about their trip, eh?”
Hurley is suddenly very aware of three pairs of eyes, drilling into him.
Kenneth puts his hands on his narrow hips, and in the same lazy voice says, “You know, on every island I've been to, the beaches all have some garbage. Plastic bags, cups, crates, you name it. But there's nothing here. Not a scrap.”
“How 'bout that,” Hurley says. He wants to offer something of his own to these men, something of value. “So, I guess you heard about the bear.”
“There are bears here?” another man says, his voice suddenly sharp. He's some kind of old hippie, long gray hair blowing about in the morning breeze.
“One, at least, up on the mountain.” Now Hurley's sorry he brought it up, because they all look skeptical. “It was white. Somebody said it was a polar bear, but that's crazy.”
“Not all white bears are polar bears,” the old hippie says. “Islands up by Vancouver have lots of them.”
“That where you're from?” Hurley asks.
The old hippie nods. “Name's Brian,” he says, offering his hand. His grip is like steel.
“Damn, we could use some bear meat,” the third man says, and the others voice their low agreement.
Kenneth still has something on his mind. “You know, a beach this gorgeous should be crawling with tourists.”
“Maybe it's, like, private,” Hurley offers. “What if some rich dude's got his own zoo here or something? That would explain the bear. And the animal noises.”
Kenneth nods, interested. “If it's a private zoo, then someone's here for sure. Caretakers, if nothing else.”
Hurley's touched, because he expected the men to laugh at his suggestion.
Kenneth has obviously decided something. “Let's head west this time, see where this shoreline goes.” He pauses, looking Hurley over with pointed scrutiny. “Want to come along?”
Suddenly Hurley feels young and pudgy, in contrast to their gray, lean masculinity. He can see himself bringing up the rear, puffing and out of breath. Unable to meet Kenneth's face, Hurley gazes over the wreckage-strewn beach for a few seconds.
Over by a fallen section of wing, Claire and Charlie are moving luggage with that abandoned wheelchair, the one nobody wants to touch because it's obvious that whoever needed it is long since gone. Claire smiles, running her hand through her hair as if a little nervous. Charlie gestures, full of lively animation. Inside, a sharp pain reminds Hurley of an old wound.
Kenneth's waiting for an answer, so Hurley says, “Nah, I'm in charge of cafeteria service. Maybe some other time.”
“You got it,” Kenneth says.
“You guys, uh, want something before you go?”
“We'll forage along the way, man,” Brian says. “The shoreline's full of food.”
“Save it for the ones who need it,” Kenneth says. His eyes follow Hurley's over to Claire.
Turning their backs to the morning sun, the three men leave Hurley hollow and full of echoes, standing there in the sand.
* * * * * * * *
By the time Hurley makes it back to the bag-sorters, Charlie's gone. Hurley catches a glimpse of him heading into a dark thicket, where the jungle starts. Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go, Hurley figures.
Claire sits at the edge of the sorters. She scoots an open wheeled bag over towards him with her foot. “I think this is yours. There's no name on it, but—” She holds up an orange t-shirt big as a tent.
The handle of Hurley's carry-on bag has been sheared clean off, along with the name tag, but that shirt can't belong to anyone else. Hurley's used to being the biggest guy in the room, on the block, and now on this beach. It stings a little, though, because he's still thinking about the older men, all hard muscle and self-assurance. Somehow in his mind they line up with Charlie, and the smile he put on Claire's face.
“That'd be mine,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. “Thanks.”
It's not the bag Hurley really wanted, though. At the airport he'd checked his bigger blue suitcase, the one full of new clothes. Really sharp stuff, which he'd bought right before leaving LA for Sydney. This carry-on one just has some cargoes, t-shirts, faded board shorts.
Claire checked two bags besides her carry-on satchel, and this one isn't the one she wants, either.
"Got a hairbrush in there?" she asks Hurley.
He roots around in the suitcase, but nothing turns up. His brush must have been in the checked bag, too. Secretly he's glad, because he doesn't want her to use his hairbrush. God knows when he cleaned it last. So he just grunts, non-committal.
There's something else he's looking for, and there, at the very bottom, he finds it. “Dude,” he whispers. It's his Sony Walkman, headphones, and a fully-loaded CD case. He had put in fresh batteries twenty minutes before the plane broke up. “Hey, Claire, look at this.”
She smiles, not so bright as before, but happy for him.
* * * * * * * *
The sunset is the most beautiful the survivors have seen so far, a riot of red and gold glory. No one can enjoy it, though, because the wounded marshal begins to scream.
* * * * * * * *
After the sun goes down, Claire huddles in their sleeping spot, her body curled up like a shrimp around her belly. The luggage which made up their “fort” has all been moved, leaving only their three lone bags. Their shelter looks naked and exposed now, defenseless.
All the luggage on the beach, though, won't protect them from the sound of a dying man's agony.
An idea comes to Hurley. “Here, take these,” he says, handing Claire his headphones. He empties the Walkman of Damien Rice's O, shoving it into an empty sleeve in the CD case. Not that one. Anything else, but not that.
In the firelight, he flips through one CD after another. Ah, here's one. American Beauty, by the Grateful Dead. Easy, laid back. She'll like it.
Claire shortens the headphones while Hurley loads up the Walkman, setting the volume high enough that the sounds from the medical tent are muted, but not so loud that she can't get to sleep.
When she relaxes into the gentle nonsense of “Box of Rain,” he slips away to tell Jack about how Kate's been walking around with a gun jammed into the back of her jeans. Somebody has to.
* * * * * * * *
Hurley's too late, though. He and Jack stand outside the medical tent, helpless, while Kate exits, leaving the gurgling, dying marshal inside. She hesitates for a moment, as if waiting for something. When the sound of gunfire rings out from inside the tent, Hurley gives a terrified jump. Kate sends a blank gaze to Hurley and Jack both, then walks away.
Shame washes over Hurley, because his first thought isn't for the marshal, but how glad he is that Kate isn't the one who shot him. It's Sawyer who staggers out of the infirmary tent, pistol in hand, mumbling excuses. Leaving Jack to clean up the mess.
When the gasping, gurgling marshal finally falls silent, Hurley doesn't stick around to comfort Jack, or to confront him either.
Everyone in camp has heard the report of the gun. They all know what the silence from the medical tent implies. Hurley thumps across the sand, dodging debris and peoples' shelters in an effort to get back to his own.
Claire's cries fill the deadly night with life as she calls out, “Hurley! Hurley!”
The headphones lie in the sand where she's dropped them. He collapses beside her, not sure at first what to do. When she rests her head on his thigh and clings tightly to the leg of his shorts, he's almost too surprised to speak. He's afraid to touch her. When he gets his voice back, he tells her that the marshal is dead.
"Someone shot him," Claire says in a strangled whisper. "Was it Jack? Did Jack shoot him?"
Hurley thanks heaven that he doesn't have to lie. "No."
She doesn't ask who did. That suits Hurley fine, because he doesn't want to tell her that Sawyer fired the gun and botched it. That the doc who might deliver her baby was the one who eased the marshal into eternal silence.
A faint buzz comes from the headphones, Jerry Garcia on endless loop. Hurley can't reach the "Off" switch, but not even the prospect of dead batteries can make him move, so long as Claire's head rests on his leg.
Gradually Claire's death-grip on Hurley's cargo shorts relaxes. He leans back against the cold fuselage metal and looks skyward. He can sleep sitting up. No biggie.
Black clouds blanket the sky, taking the usual Milky Way light show off the air. Welcome silence descends onto the beach.
(continued)
Pair: Hurley/Claire
Characters: Hugo Reyes, Claire Littleton, Jack Shephard, Kate Austen, ensemble
Genre: Slow-build Romance
Length: 2629 words
Rating: M
Notes: WIP, canon-divergent
After the Oceanic 815 crash, Jack told Hurley to stay with Claire. In this retelling, Hurley does just that, and they fall in love. Also, people talk to each another more. And a lot less people die.
Chapter 3: Death Comes for the Marshal
Every time Claire gets up at night to crouch behind a tree, Hurley wakes up. He wouldn't mind, except that just as he drifts off to sleep, she gets up again. He keeps his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, not wanting her to feel badly about her night-time trips.
What makes it worse is that drifting off isn't so easy. Late last night, in the medical tent, he found the mugshot of that cute brunette Kate Austen. He feels weird knowing her name when she's never told him. It's like Superman using his X-ray vision to peer into other people's houses, or underneath their clothes.
Kate looks like a real hard-ass, but Hurley knows that mug shots aren't the most flattering. When his brother Diego got arrested, he brought his mug shot home and showed it off up and down the block. Dad had left only two years before, and Hurley's mother still had hope. “When your father gets back,” she said to Diego. “Just wait till he gets back.”
Diego laughed in their mother's face. The grainy photograph made him look heavy-jawed and beetle-browed, years older than sixteen.
“You look like a thug,” his mother said.
“It wasn't my fault, Ma,” Diego protested. “I didn't know the car was jacked. I was just a passenger.” Still, he bragged about it. He taped the photo up in his and Hurley's bedroom until their mother tossed it in the trash.
Just because Diego had a run-in with the cops didn't make him a bad guy. The juvie judge must have thought so, because he let Diego off. Maybe it'll be like that for Kate. But the way the marshal mutters her name, the way he half-opens his glazed, bloodshot eyes whenever she walks by, that points to more than a kid jacking a car.
Hurley's still puzzling it out when Claire gets up again. A tiny sliver of sunlight glitters on the eastern ocean, so Hurley pushes himself up. He's not getting back to sleep, that's for sure.
As he heads down to the shoreline, he spies that Chinese guy Jin. Or maybe he's Japanese. Who knows, since nobody can understand him. Jin roots around in the rocks at the shore, picking up clams and stuff. Maybe Hurley can find some seafood of his own, if he gets lucky.
After wading in the shallows for half an hour, Hurley hasn't found a thing to eat. Up the beach, Jin already has a shirt full of irregular, dark objects that are probably pretty tasty inside.
The sun's fully up now, clear and bright. Seagulls drift overhead, then power-dive the water. Everything knows how to find its breakfast, except him. His shoes are full of water and they squelch.
“G' morning.” Claire wades in the surf beside him, tennis shoes in one hand, finger-combing her hair with the other. Pink sunlight paints her face with rosy highlights. “Sorry I kept you up.”
Hurley doesn't know where to look. He desperately wishes for something to give her: a fish, a succulent piece of fruit, a pearl. His hands are empty, though. He has nothing. Worse than that, a guilty burden weighs on him. What if Kate's a kidnapper or baby-stealer? Should he warn Claire? In all the movies, kidnapping's a federal crime. Maybe that's why Kate was being towed by a US marshal.
Claire's still trying to apologize. As he stammers, “Nah, I'm too hungry to sleep anyway—” shouts ring out up and down the beach.
Yesterday evening, Sayid led a group in a trek up the mountain. Now he has returned, followed by the redneck jackass called Sawyer. Behind them troop the gleaming Shannon and her equally glossy brother Boone. There's Charlie of the taped-up fingers, and bringing up the rear is Kate herself, eyes downcast.
“Everyone gather round,” Sayid says in a commanding voice. “I have something to share.”
Hurley has no trouble believing Sayid was a military officer, even if he was on the wrong side. He brushes Claire's arm to get her attention, the first time he's deliberately touched her. “Lemme know what he says, OK? I'm gonna go get Jack.”
Before she can answer, Hurley darts away. He runs hard, as much to get back to her quickly as to let Jack know that the explorers have returned.
Sayid doesn't say much about their overnight on the mountain, but he has lots of ideas for organizing the survivors. He appoints himself head of water-collection efforts. A plump, bespectacled guy called Jerome volunteers to collect electronics. When Sayid mentions food rationing, Hurley's hand shoots up before anyone else's.
Not that there's much food left to ration.
“Pretty awesome, huh?” Hurley says to Jack. They've found a real prize, a box full of tarps. Hurley's helping Jack tie one atop the medical tent, while the marshal lies wheezing beneath.
Jack doesn't answer, just nods.
Hurley points to the unconscious marshal. “What's wrong with his breathing?”
“Pneumonia,” Jack says in a terse voice. “It causes fluid build-up in the lungs.”
Suddenly Hurley doesn't want to know any more, so he changes the subject. “Don't you think it's kinda weird that Sayid's doing water, when he's like, Mr. Radio Man?”
Jack stops lacing one tarp to another, his face patient and serious. “If we don't have a reliable source of water, Hurley, no one's going to be doing anything, much less repairing electronics.” He starts up again, his fingers working the cords into tight, elegant knots. “Three days. That's as long as anybody lasts without water. The sick, the elderly, the pregnant... they go faster.”
At “the pregnant,” Hurley scans the beach for Claire. She's with a couple of women, rummaging in a piece of the fuselage which broke off from the main section.
Over Jack's shoulder, Sayid and a few others lay tarps across angled sections of scrap. They look like blue water slides. Rainwater will flow down into collectors made of more tarps, set up in wooden frames.
Nobody calls Sayid “Mohammed” or “Al-Jazeerah” anymore.
Claire and the women have made quite a haul, boxes full of fresh fruit, oranges and apples. Another box has a cache of airplane peanuts.
“Plain, honey-roasted, and praline,” Hurley reads out loud. His mouth waters, but he doesn't take any.
A tall, bald man named Kenneth has been traveling across the Pacific for the past three months, taking photos for nature magazines. He and two other men have missed Sayid's meeting, having been on a trek of their own, exploring the coastline.
Kenneth listens to Hurley's account of Sayid's speech, then remarks, “So that's all they had to say about their trip, eh?”
Hurley is suddenly very aware of three pairs of eyes, drilling into him.
Kenneth puts his hands on his narrow hips, and in the same lazy voice says, “You know, on every island I've been to, the beaches all have some garbage. Plastic bags, cups, crates, you name it. But there's nothing here. Not a scrap.”
“How 'bout that,” Hurley says. He wants to offer something of his own to these men, something of value. “So, I guess you heard about the bear.”
“There are bears here?” another man says, his voice suddenly sharp. He's some kind of old hippie, long gray hair blowing about in the morning breeze.
“One, at least, up on the mountain.” Now Hurley's sorry he brought it up, because they all look skeptical. “It was white. Somebody said it was a polar bear, but that's crazy.”
“Not all white bears are polar bears,” the old hippie says. “Islands up by Vancouver have lots of them.”
“That where you're from?” Hurley asks.
The old hippie nods. “Name's Brian,” he says, offering his hand. His grip is like steel.
“Damn, we could use some bear meat,” the third man says, and the others voice their low agreement.
Kenneth still has something on his mind. “You know, a beach this gorgeous should be crawling with tourists.”
“Maybe it's, like, private,” Hurley offers. “What if some rich dude's got his own zoo here or something? That would explain the bear. And the animal noises.”
Kenneth nods, interested. “If it's a private zoo, then someone's here for sure. Caretakers, if nothing else.”
Hurley's touched, because he expected the men to laugh at his suggestion.
Kenneth has obviously decided something. “Let's head west this time, see where this shoreline goes.” He pauses, looking Hurley over with pointed scrutiny. “Want to come along?”
Suddenly Hurley feels young and pudgy, in contrast to their gray, lean masculinity. He can see himself bringing up the rear, puffing and out of breath. Unable to meet Kenneth's face, Hurley gazes over the wreckage-strewn beach for a few seconds.
Over by a fallen section of wing, Claire and Charlie are moving luggage with that abandoned wheelchair, the one nobody wants to touch because it's obvious that whoever needed it is long since gone. Claire smiles, running her hand through her hair as if a little nervous. Charlie gestures, full of lively animation. Inside, a sharp pain reminds Hurley of an old wound.
Kenneth's waiting for an answer, so Hurley says, “Nah, I'm in charge of cafeteria service. Maybe some other time.”
“You got it,” Kenneth says.
“You guys, uh, want something before you go?”
“We'll forage along the way, man,” Brian says. “The shoreline's full of food.”
“Save it for the ones who need it,” Kenneth says. His eyes follow Hurley's over to Claire.
Turning their backs to the morning sun, the three men leave Hurley hollow and full of echoes, standing there in the sand.
By the time Hurley makes it back to the bag-sorters, Charlie's gone. Hurley catches a glimpse of him heading into a dark thicket, where the jungle starts. Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go, Hurley figures.
Claire sits at the edge of the sorters. She scoots an open wheeled bag over towards him with her foot. “I think this is yours. There's no name on it, but—” She holds up an orange t-shirt big as a tent.
The handle of Hurley's carry-on bag has been sheared clean off, along with the name tag, but that shirt can't belong to anyone else. Hurley's used to being the biggest guy in the room, on the block, and now on this beach. It stings a little, though, because he's still thinking about the older men, all hard muscle and self-assurance. Somehow in his mind they line up with Charlie, and the smile he put on Claire's face.
“That'd be mine,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. “Thanks.”
It's not the bag Hurley really wanted, though. At the airport he'd checked his bigger blue suitcase, the one full of new clothes. Really sharp stuff, which he'd bought right before leaving LA for Sydney. This carry-on one just has some cargoes, t-shirts, faded board shorts.
Claire checked two bags besides her carry-on satchel, and this one isn't the one she wants, either.
"Got a hairbrush in there?" she asks Hurley.
He roots around in the suitcase, but nothing turns up. His brush must have been in the checked bag, too. Secretly he's glad, because he doesn't want her to use his hairbrush. God knows when he cleaned it last. So he just grunts, non-committal.
There's something else he's looking for, and there, at the very bottom, he finds it. “Dude,” he whispers. It's his Sony Walkman, headphones, and a fully-loaded CD case. He had put in fresh batteries twenty minutes before the plane broke up. “Hey, Claire, look at this.”
She smiles, not so bright as before, but happy for him.
The sunset is the most beautiful the survivors have seen so far, a riot of red and gold glory. No one can enjoy it, though, because the wounded marshal begins to scream.
After the sun goes down, Claire huddles in their sleeping spot, her body curled up like a shrimp around her belly. The luggage which made up their “fort” has all been moved, leaving only their three lone bags. Their shelter looks naked and exposed now, defenseless.
All the luggage on the beach, though, won't protect them from the sound of a dying man's agony.
An idea comes to Hurley. “Here, take these,” he says, handing Claire his headphones. He empties the Walkman of Damien Rice's O, shoving it into an empty sleeve in the CD case. Not that one. Anything else, but not that.
In the firelight, he flips through one CD after another. Ah, here's one. American Beauty, by the Grateful Dead. Easy, laid back. She'll like it.
Claire shortens the headphones while Hurley loads up the Walkman, setting the volume high enough that the sounds from the medical tent are muted, but not so loud that she can't get to sleep.
When she relaxes into the gentle nonsense of “Box of Rain,” he slips away to tell Jack about how Kate's been walking around with a gun jammed into the back of her jeans. Somebody has to.
Hurley's too late, though. He and Jack stand outside the medical tent, helpless, while Kate exits, leaving the gurgling, dying marshal inside. She hesitates for a moment, as if waiting for something. When the sound of gunfire rings out from inside the tent, Hurley gives a terrified jump. Kate sends a blank gaze to Hurley and Jack both, then walks away.
Shame washes over Hurley, because his first thought isn't for the marshal, but how glad he is that Kate isn't the one who shot him. It's Sawyer who staggers out of the infirmary tent, pistol in hand, mumbling excuses. Leaving Jack to clean up the mess.
When the gasping, gurgling marshal finally falls silent, Hurley doesn't stick around to comfort Jack, or to confront him either.
Everyone in camp has heard the report of the gun. They all know what the silence from the medical tent implies. Hurley thumps across the sand, dodging debris and peoples' shelters in an effort to get back to his own.
Claire's cries fill the deadly night with life as she calls out, “Hurley! Hurley!”
The headphones lie in the sand where she's dropped them. He collapses beside her, not sure at first what to do. When she rests her head on his thigh and clings tightly to the leg of his shorts, he's almost too surprised to speak. He's afraid to touch her. When he gets his voice back, he tells her that the marshal is dead.
"Someone shot him," Claire says in a strangled whisper. "Was it Jack? Did Jack shoot him?"
Hurley thanks heaven that he doesn't have to lie. "No."
She doesn't ask who did. That suits Hurley fine, because he doesn't want to tell her that Sawyer fired the gun and botched it. That the doc who might deliver her baby was the one who eased the marshal into eternal silence.
A faint buzz comes from the headphones, Jerry Garcia on endless loop. Hurley can't reach the "Off" switch, but not even the prospect of dead batteries can make him move, so long as Claire's head rests on his leg.
Gradually Claire's death-grip on Hurley's cargo shorts relaxes. He leans back against the cold fuselage metal and looks skyward. He can sleep sitting up. No biggie.
Black clouds blanket the sky, taking the usual Milky Way light show off the air. Welcome silence descends onto the beach.
(continued)
(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-21 01:29 am (UTC)That euthanasia scene, even though it was off-screen, was hard to take. Jack did the right thing, though. Imagine being a doctor with nothing to ease your patients' pain.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-21 11:37 pm (UTC)Euthanizing the marshal was dreadful in canon as it was. Jack, while he has his problems, isn't a hard man. In canon, when Sayid diffidently explains to Jack that "the others are getting upset," I wanted to go a bit deeper into what that really meant. Sayid's pretty understated about it.
I hope Kenneth & co. didn't come off too harsh. If it wasn't clear that Kenneth was referring to Claire when he said, "Save it for the ones who need it," I should fix that.
Again, thanks so much for R&Ring!