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[jean-prouvaire.livejournal.com]

Crossposted to hatch_monkey_hq, lost_slash and my journal.

Title: Contagion
Pairing: "Henry Gale"/Bea Klugh, implied Henry Gale/John Locke
Rating: R
Summary: Henry can't let himself be psychoanalyzed--he knows his people would never forgive him if they knew the truth. A look into Henry's mind and politics among the Others.


Henry begins, as he always does, by pulling her shirt down over her shoulders. Sometimes she prefers when he tears it; it lends the rags-and-dried-fish act even more authenticity.

She doesn't want bodice-ripping or roughness tonight. This has gone on between them too long to be a game or a mistake anymore, and now she wants things her way. She catches his hands as he tosses his shirt and vest aside. "Let's take things a bit slower tonight, Henry."

He gives her a blank look. "Let's not," he says, pulling his hands away, "and say we did."

Tsk. There he goes again. Henry doesn't have the signs of a man unwilling to be sexually intimate--emotionally intimate, yes, but that's a different kettle of fish--but he is, and Bea is hardly too stupid to see why.

"There's no need to be angry with me because I'm not the person you want me to be, Henry," she says quietly.

He rolls his eyes. "And that's supposed to mean?" As if he doesn't know.

"You're incapable of being affectionate with me because I'm not him," she explains patiently. "You feel the gestures would be wasted on me."

Out in the open at last, and he barely reacts. "Is that it?" He smiles condescendingly. "No 'it's because your mother beat you with a wooden spoon when you were a little boy?'"

"Did she?"

"You're not funny." Henry sets his jaw stonily. Bea sighs.

"John Locke wants you dead, Henry. They all do. They'll never feel any differently."

She truly, truly wishes she could get this across to him. More than rescue, more than research, she wants him to understand and move on. It's nauseating to feel his longing for John when he lies in bed with her.

Henry shakes his head slowly. "Will you do me a favor and hand me my shirt?"

"Henry, don't be like--"

"Now, Bea."

She makes it very clear that she isn't happy about his leaving like this. He makes it equally clear that he couldn't care less, puts the shirt on, and leaves.

*****

Henry's dreams about Locke are rarely the kind that involve sweat or sticky sheets. They are pleasant, floating dreams, well-lit and low key. In these dreams, they talk at length, and as equals, and with warm, friendly overtones. He learns of John's childhood, of his former loves, of his family, but John never asks about Henry's life before the island. Henry is never made to talk of his former career, his ex-wife, the two children Dharma made him abandon. No matter what he says or omits, he is believed, and the warm sharing of company is never interrupted. Henry is never, ever asked about his given name.

On the occasions when the dreams move into physical territory, it is gentle, a little hesitant--John is shy with intimate matters, and that's all right.

Tonight, when Henry goes to sleep alone in his tent, he finds himself in Arrow Station. John doesn't know where Arrow is, which Henry, on behalf of his people, has always been grateful for. But there they are, on the couch. Henry shrugs.

"It's been a couple of days," he remarks. "Everything all right?"

John doesn't answer, even when Henry tilts his head expectantly.

"Why'd you kill Libby, Henry?" he asks, finally.

Libby. Libby...the blonde, from the tailsection. Goodwin had never had much use for Libby.

Henry's reaction time in dreams is slow. He doesn't fully understand what he's being accused of.

"I know you wanted Ana dead," John continues. "Shouldn't have thought a little belt with a crutch would stop you there. But what the hell did poor Libby ever do to you?"

"I didn't kill anybody, John." It's a simple truth, jarring for him--such honesty makes him feel chilled, flu-like. He never has to lie in dreams, but rarely does he not want to. Nothing about these dreams makes up for Henry's waking life.

"Why should I believe you?" John shakes his head, disappointed. "You've lied to us from day one, Henry. You haven't said a single thing that's the verifiable, God's-honest truth. And we all know you're a killer. Now tell me why you did it, will you?"

"John--" This isn't how it's supposed to go. There shouldn't be any more interrogations, no more traps. "I never killed anyone, John. I barely know who Libby is. I didn't know she was dead."

John is backing slowly away from him, still shaking his head. "I shouldn't have trusted you for a minute, Henry. Some goddamned fool I am."

His hand is on the Swan armory doorknob, his other hand carrying a coil of rope. Henry starts up off the old cot before they can tie him up again.

"I didn't kill her, John! Michael--it was Michael--" Yes, he remembers that now; Michael had Ana's gun, and there had been another woman on the floor..."John, come on now. Be reasonable."

"Reasonable? It's reasonable to believe that Michael did it, when all the evidence points to you? It's reasonable to believe that Michael's lying and you're not?" There are pliers in John's back pocket. Henry begins to sweat.

"John, I swear--"

"Don't swear, Henry. Don't insult me. I've had enough of that from you."

Henry has to stop John from using those pliers, that rope--worst of all, from leaving him alone in the armory again. He can't let the nightmare end that way. He says the only thing he can think of.

"My name is Simon." He swallows hard. "Simon Radzinski. From Charleston, West Virginia."

John is turning the doorknob, Simon-Henry is feeling ill. His mouth is moving independently of his mind, lest he think and shut up and let John go.

"I have a Ph.D in physics from Duke--I was married once, divorced in 1984--I--I had twins, Jake and Amelia, they were five when I left--I--John, for god's sake, please understand!" Oh, Christ, his chest hurts like hell. "My mother--Joanne Radzinski--she used to hit me with a wooden spoon when I pulled the dog's tail. I have a younger sister, Janine--"

"It's not good enough." John opens the door. "It's not good enough, Henry."

Henry opens his eyes, shivering, and lies awake as the hours pass like glaciers.

October, 2004

They know Swan Station's been discovered. Tom is working himself into a teeth-grinding fury.

Henry folds his arms and stares at the wall of the Pearl. Bea hates that he's bothered for the wrong reasons.

"Better that they all take shifts with the button than let the Scottish man keep doing it," she says. "He's unstable."

"Locke doesn't want to take shifts. He's already gotten attached to the fucking thing." Henry almost always reserves such language for the hatch he'd lived in for six years. Bea doesn't begrudge him the anger.

"So let him be attached. You like him, it makes him happy--"

"He'll be a slave, Bea." He casts a baleful glance towards the viewing screens.

"Then," she says, with quiet emphasis, "that's his problem. Not ours."

She can almost hear his teeth gritting.

"Henry--" She hardly ever touches him, but she wonders now if a hand to the shoulder wouldn't help.

He flinches, but softens. She nods encouragingly. "It's not right for you to care so much about him. About the job being done well, yes--"

"Bea, stop." He narrows his eyes. "I don't think I asked you, did I?"

"I'm just giving my professional opinion, Simon."

Perhaps he'll think that was a Freudian slip, and perhaps not. She's gotten him angry, as intended.

"I don't remember ever saying I wanted it. Is there a reason you seem to think you can just shove me down on the therapist's couch whenever you want and dispense unwanted quack advice?" He moves closer. "Because let me tell you, I don't like it."

"Medicine usually tastes bad," she says evenly. She has to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

"Let's not forget which of us is in charge here, Bea." His voice has reached its deepest, growling register.

She's never seen him so insecure in his authority that he has to remind her of it that way, and she tells him so. "I worry about you, Henry."

"No, you don't."

She knows when she's wounded him. Gently, she caresses his cheek.

"Why are you touching me?" He's gained control of himself again, his voice deceptively light. He's angrier than she's ever seen him.

"I think we need to talk about you maybe stepping down for a little while, Henry," she says, still squeezing his shoulder. "I just don't know if you're fit to lead when you're like this." Her hand trails sympathetically down his arm.

"Like what?" Has she ever heard him raise his voice before? Maybe once, twice before now. "When I'm like what, Bea?"

"Pining over one of them," she says baldly. "It's not right, Henry."

Oh, she can almost see the red mist behind his eyes, impassive as his face looks. His arm is rock-solid with tension under her hand.

"I'm every bit as fit to lead as I ever was, Bea," he whispers.

"You're not in love or lust with any of them?" Her hand slips down to his waist.

"No."

She's known him for eight years, and she's instantly aware of when he's lying through his teeth. "Well?" She smirks. "Prove it, then."

Five minutes later he's pressing her against the wall with his body, and she knows, inwardly smirking, that he won't let her go.

Present

It's four in the morning when Bea, wide awake, slips into Henry's hut.

He doesn't even try to fake sleep. It's Bea. It won't work.

"You were right," he murmurs.

Her three favorite words, and yet the satisfaction is distinctly lacking.

She takes off her stretched shirt, her pants, her scarf, and lies down next to him.

"I almost wish I weren't," she whispers against his shoulder.

The silence is so thick she begins to wonder if he really is asleep, until softly, he wraps his arms around her and lays his head on the shoulder she knows he wishes were John's.

And for once, as he skims light fingers over her side and kisses her tenderly, he doesn't contradict her.