Hugo in the High Castle

1.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

Sometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane. - Philip K. Dick, VALIS

5150. More numbers. Add 'em. Eleven. Add those, two. Not a number. Okay. Five times one.
Five. Times five. Twenty-five. Not a number. Okay. Alright. It's a good number. It's a safe number.
Wait. Five and one. Reverse them. One and five. Fifteen. Fifteen. It's a number, it's got a number in
it. Ah, crap, dude, it's a number. Not directly, but still pretty uncool. I shoulda thought of that when
the guy put me in here. Should have thought of it when he finished the form.
5150. 72-hour involuntary psychiatric hold, as processed by a police officer. Not so
involuntary for Hugo Reyes – he'd all but skipped to the officer's Ford Interceptor to be dropped off at
Santa Rosa. Not exactly 72 hours, either. He'd given up on tracking time. Every three days (three was
safe), his ma would visit. Every Friday, the pudding was chocolate with sprinkles. The sixth day of the
week. That one was safe, too, mostly. Sixteen, there was a six, but without the one, it might be okay.
How many threes and sixes had there been since he freaked out in a stop and shop? He didn't know.
Didn't worry about it. Every twenty-five hours a nurse would come by with the Clonazepam, and
things would be better again. For a while. He'd insisted on the just slightly off-kilter schedule,
twenty-four had a four in it and he liked to hedge his bets if he could. With the two there, it was
probably safe. It wasn't really a four. But it was a chance he could control.
Is he gone yet? Bracing himself, Hurley slowly winched open an eye. He was alone at last. No
sign of Charlie. Sorry, dude. I just gotta hold on a little while. Just a couple more hours, man, and
you're out of here. I just gotta wait for Brooks.
Is this how, like, crackheads feel waiting for a dealer? Man. Lame. But I'm getting my dosage
upped. That's good, right? Wouldn't let it go up if it was bad. But you're coming around way too
much, dude. I can't take it. You're not supposed to see dead people, right, and you're dead. I said
goodbye. I said goodbye to all of you.
Something moved by the door and he jerked in his seat, the heavy cotton bathrobe swishing
around his ankles. It wasn't even dawn yet, the morning rounds still to come, the floor locked and
secure. He looked around, huge eyes darting, picking out details of cheap corners, of cobwebs, of tree
shadows on the bland off-white of the door. Just shadows. Not Charlie. It didn't make him feel any
better. Hurley knew what could be in shadows.
Three more hours. Three was safe. Then the pill.
Maybe Charlie would finally leave him alone.

***

“How's the new dosage settling in, Hugo?” The doctor scribbled something illegible on the
clipboard, glasses sliding down his nose. He absently shoved them back up and gave Hurley a quick
glance, like a bird. His blond hair had given way to a little more grey, but the lips were still pursed in
that tight but genuinely friendly smile. He always seemed to like Hurley, and Hurley had long since
forgiven him for being so blunt over the Dave thing.
“Pretty okay, Dr. Brooks.” Hurley cocked his head and looked around, trying to be sure he was
telling the truth. Nope. No Charlie hanging out in the corner, no little wave, no grunge-rock sweater
that smelled like strong Irish beer. How did you smell a hallucination? Hurley was deathly afraid to
ask the doc.
 Nod, nod. Scribble, scribble. “Any side effects? Hearing anything, sleeping more? It was a
pretty strong jump for you, full half milligram. I'll be surprised if nothing's changed.”
Hurley shrugged, looking sheepish. “I dunno.” He tried to think, still feeling a little dopey. “I
guess I'm not as hungry.”
“Do you remember me asking you this exact question yesterday?” Brooks looked down at him,
expectant.
“Uhhh...”
Nod. Scribble. The pen was clipped into place. “It's all right. It'll mess with your memory a
little, probably to be expected. I'll check with you again tomorrow. If memory trouble persists, we're
going to have to drop you back.”
“Do you gotta, dude? I've really slept a lot better.” It was true. Heck, it was like playing
catchup on three years worth of sleep. Brooks gave him a hard stare, and Hurley tried to take it without
feeling too self-conscious. There was more color in his face, less tension. Three days with no Charlie.
No sounds. No whispers. It had been pretty awesome, actually. He'd have to really work to remember
the question for tomorrow. He liked the new dose.
“We'll take it day by day, Hugo. Just like we always do.” Reassuring smile. The fingers
flexed, wanting to take up the pen, but just grasped the side of the clipboard. He gave Hurley the same
birdlike headbob and left. Just lunch remained. Pudding. Must be Friday.
Hurley took a look around the room, silent and alone. He felt comforted for the first time since
coming back to Los Angeles.

***

Day five. Hurley felt a little snappish, mumbling cranky things under his breath in Spanish
while Brooks took his notes. He kept it quiet, though. Cranky, tired, but no Charlie. No ghosts.
Anything was worth that. He could suck up the irritability. Just so long as he didn't haul off and smack
that one dude in the game room. Guy laughed like a horse, long and loud and weird.
The therapy session was pretty unremarkable otherwise. Brooks checked him over, asked him
about his dreams, talked more about the crash – everything was about getting over the past. Like
erasing stuff was going to do any good, but Hurley just rolled with it like he always did. Kept up the
lie. Anything for the pills. For the sleep.
“Well... it looks like you're doing pretty okay, big guy.” Brooks looked at him with a hawklike
expression. Different than the meek bird he usually was– a sparrow maybe, or a thrush. The piercing
eyes were something else. Hurley fidgeted. Was he picking up on what Hurley was holding back?
The .5 just hadn't been enough. It hadn't. He couldn't go back. He offered the doctor a big smile.
Madre de Dios, buy it, dude. Brooks nodded and dropped his eyes. “We'll keep going with this a little
longer. Now,” and at this he got up from his chair. “I'm on vacation for the next week. You'll be
working with Dr. Stillman until I get back.”
“'Kay, dude. Have fun.” He scratched under his chin. “Where you going?”
“Oh, Guam. My son's stationed at Andersen.” Quick smile. Little wave. Hurley blinked a
little. Who goes to Guam?
“Oh! I forgot.” Dr. Brooks spun on his heel and pointed his pen at Hurley. “You have a visitor
today.”
“Uh... I don't think my Ma's due till day after, man.”
“Someone else. I didn't catch the name. They're down in the lobby.”
Hurley racked his brain. “Jack?” But the doctor had already slipped out the door.

***
 Hurley shuffled down the hall, his feet in slippers, his robe clean, soft clothes with no ties all
set. He looked as presentable as a man can get in a mental institute. It'd be okay to see Jack, he
supposed. Sun would be better, but pretty much nobody else. He liked being alone more and more
these days. Because until the drugs had really kicked in... he was never alone.
Down the corridor and around the corner, he saw the barest bit of a man in a dark suit. He
paused. It was pretty small to be Jack. Maybe it was Sun, after all. He moved closer, his shaggy, curly
head tilting. No, male shoulders. Slender, small, but still broad enough to be definitely male. The
figure stood up, out of his view for a moment, and then, suddenly, was framed at the end of the hall.
“Oh. Oh no, dude. Not you.” He backed away, feet nearly tangling. He put a hand against the
wall to steady himself. “You can't be here, dude. No frigging way!”
“Hugo.” The voice was soft, low and almost musical, the tone somber. “Hello again, Hugo.”
The small form gave a quick dip of the head, like a beckoning. Hurley wanted to retreat further, but
found himself frozen by that stare. Cold blue eyes, like a snake. It was a nightmare come to life.
“You're still back there, dude!”
Benjamin Linus cocked his head, and gave him a look of polite disbelief. “And yet here I am.”
The strange little smile, scuttling across crooked lips. “We need to talk.”
“No way, dude!” Hurley broke free of his horrified trance and began to back away fast, never
taking his eyes off the small man. Nurses stuck their heads into the corridor watching him retreat, his
face deathly white.
Hurley made it back to the door that marked the living areas. No footsteps chased him. No soft
thwick! of that baton.
Just words, carried down the antiseptic hall.
“Tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Hugo.”
It sounded like a promise from Lucifer.
 2.
From Russia With Love

Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away. - Philip K. Dick, How To Build A
Universe...

“Mrs. Reyes, he's not taking any visitors.” The nurse looked apologetic, unconsciously leaning
back away from the fire in the lady's eyes. “I'm very sorry, I'll be happy to try and see if he'll change
his mind, but the doctor-”
“Never mind the doctor,” she snapped, pulling her arms back to cross them over a full, paisley-
wrapped chest. “You tell my Hugo his ma is here and is getting very worried.” She huffed. “Why, he
wouldn't even take my phone call last night!”
“Yes, Mrs. Reyes.” The nurse tapped at her board, trying to get an orderly on the line. When he
picked up, she briefed him, trying to keep the harried defensiveness out of her tone. A few moments
later, the orderly returned with a response. A few tiny beads of sweat popped onto the nurse's brow.
“I'm extremely sorry, but he's simply refusing.”
“Let me in there anyway!” Carmen Reyes moved to stride past the desk and gestured irritatedly
at the visitor's door. “Buzz me in.”
“Ma'am, I can't.” Her face was pleading, and the tight brown bun at the back of her head felt
like it weighed a ton. “It's against the rules, I'd get into so much trouble-”
“You're getting into trouble now, missy!”
“What seems to be the matter here?”
The nurse whirled to find Dr. Stillman appearing out of a hallway. She breathed an internal sigh
of relief and gestured politely towards Mrs. Reyes. “Her son's refusing any visitors, sir, and Mrs.
Reyes is very concerned.”
“I see.” His tone was even and polite. “Mrs. Reyes, would you come with me, please?”

***

“You see anyone, dude?” He remained huddled at the back of the shabby pillow fort, a smaller
cushion gripped in his hands like it could be the arrow of God. It had taken most of the morning to get
cooperation going (not to mention getting the orderlies to not interfere with what a doctor finally called
a 'harmless diversion'), but after two days of avoiding constant visitor calls, Hurley was adamant on the
project. Ben had promised to return. He was just going to have to assume the man would lie and say
he was there on behalf of Hurley's mom. It was what he did. Everyone had told him the scariest things
about Ben, and it was his fault about Charlie, wasn't it? God. All this, and Charlie was still on his
mind. A flash of irritation creased his face.
Several dozen pillows, couch cushions, and bathrobes formed a relatively small igloo with a
floppy roof. There were no real architects among Santa Rosa's residents at present. A larger cushion
formed the door, which remained always half open. A symbolic door, rather than a particularly useful
one. Beyond, a manic paranoid called Larry watched for any who approached. He muttered a quick
negative to Hurley's question. Orderlies had automatic approval and came by at ten minute intervals to
ensure the situation in the room and within the soft igloo remained stable.
He'd needed the help to build the thing, needed to bargain away his next several puddings to
hire the assistance. It felt like his hands were huge and dumb, and he was getting tired all the time.
Last night, he'd woken up under his cot. Luckily, he'd managed to scramble back up and get on the bed
before the nurses arrived.
He exhaled. It was safe. No way that creeper was going to get in.
Larry murmured something to a passing orderly. Hurley glanced out, saw the white pants and
shoes go away again. “He said ten minutes, then we gotta break this down. Lunchtime.” Larry licked
his lips. “Probably put arsenic in the lunchmeat again. They do that, you know.”
“Least the pudding's safe, dude.” Larry kind of bugged Hugo, but he was okay if you just rolled
with it. Lunchtime meant the early visitor hours were over. That was good.
“Whole milk, though.” Larry sounded doubtful. “They do stuff to the cows.”
Hurley gave it a whirl. “I can keep the pudding, if it'd make you feel better.”
Pause. “Nah. Small risk. The lunchmeat, though. Ham's the worst. It's ham today.”
Hurley sighed.

***

“I don't understand what you're telling me. My son has the right to not see me?” She paced the
room.
“He has the right to deny visitors if he and our staff agree that it might upset him.” Dr. Stillman
shrugged. “I'm monitoring a change to his medication, and there's signs of it aggravating certain
aspects of his condition. If that continues, we're going to have to make further adjustments. It's very
important that he not be unduly stressed during those times so that we know we're doing the right thing
by him.”
She sniffed at him, worry creasing the corners of her eyes.
The doctor spread his hands. “I promise you, Mrs. Reyes. We want the best for him. He's in a
very paranoid state right now, the nurses have observed some signs of sleepwalking, and he's extremely
irritable. These are all very common side effects to increased dosage and they won't harm him in the
long run.” He offered a comforting smile. “He's eating regularly and his sleep patterns have improved,
though. I feel confident that he'll make it out of the trial period just fine and better than ever. He just
needs a little space meanwhile.”
“You're sure.” Mrs. Reyes wrung her hands and inspected his framed diploma.
He broadened his smile and dipped his head. “Absolutely sure. His paranoia will pass very
soon with no aftereffects. Just give him a couple of days and I'm certain he'll be thrilled to see you
again.”
“All right.” She sniffed once more and tossed her head back. Contritely, she offered a hand to
the doctor. “Thank you, doctor, for taking care of my baby.”
“Of course.” He got up from his desk, leading her out.

***

“Orderly.”
“All right.” Hurley put the small cushion down with real reluctance. It felt better to hold it. He
swiveled his head around for a moment, examining the soft walls with regret at their coming departure.
The white legs had appeared again outside and Hurley listened to Larry's soft footsteps shuffle off
towards food. The rest of the patients had already left. The orderlies had agreed to help disassemble
the project earlier, looking more amused than anything else, so Hurley thought nothing of this one that
still lingered.
Legs bent, the pristine shoes still in clear view, and a man's head appeared in the igloo's gap.
Hurley made a loud, gurgling YAARK! and kicked the small pillow towards the orderly. He missed by
inches. Ben never moved, only arching a dark eyebrow at him. “You did want lunch, didn't you,
Hugo?”
Hurley moved backwards away from the staring eyes, forgetting about the plush wall. He
stumbled against it, put a hand out to steady himself, and found a gripful of polyester and cotton. The
wall fell away and he fell with it, landing with a whumph! atop the pile while the bathrobe roof netted
him. Undeterred, he continued to try and wriggle, kicking his legs free of terry-cloth and cotton as he
went.
Ben straightened, continuing to observe. “Now this is just getting silly, Hugo. You know I can't
hurt you in here. We're only going to talk about some very important things.” He folded his hands
together, head slightly cocked, while Hurley eventually made it to the far wall.
“Get out of here, dude.”
“Hugo-”
“GET OUT OF HERE.” With surprising violence, Hurley heaved more pillows at the man.
Ben dodged easily, ducking a couple and simply sidestepping others. More orderlies began to appear in
the doorway. “Get him out! Get him out!” Hurley's breath began to come in terrified sobs as he
repeated the cry, completely losing control of his emotions.
Through bleary eyes, he watched the small man heave a heavy sigh and brush by the other
orderlies in a smooth, silent march. The orderlies took no notice of their ersatz 'colleague,' far too busy
looking stunned at an outburst by a patient they regarded as a gentle giant.

***

Hurley had calmed down by dinnertime, kept away from the rest of the patients and only one
orderly sent in to check on him at regular intervals. He knew he was in trouble. His dinner was a small
sandwich and a banana, no implements necessary. They wouldn't let him have his bathrobe, and he was
given his least favorite set of pajamas, a set of coarse cotton pull-ons with elastic. No buttons or ties.
They didn't question him, clearly disbelieving that a man was able to sneak in among them, and
there was no sign of Ben among the orderlies passing in the outside hall. If they'd known anything
about the guy, they'd have known it was possible. Hurley felt another gnaw of terror.
He'd overheard a bit about calling Dr. Stillman at home, and he thought he heard another bit,
this even more vague, about calling Brooks in Guam.
A whole lot of trouble. He poked at the sandwich with his thumb. Mustard squelched out its
side. Ham. He thought of Larry (was that really just this afternoon? He felt unsure, like he was
forgetting something) and pushed his plate aside with a grimace. He looked at his reflection in the
window – hairy and awful. He hadn't showered. He felt sticky, grimy, guilty. The loneliness he'd
grown to embrace felt stifling.
Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted out. Away. Away from all of them, where Ben
couldn't find him, where Jack and his lies couldn't catch up with him, where he could get as far inland
as possible, away from islands, God and Jesu, anything for that.
On a whim, he got up from his bed and put his hand on the doorknob. What would he even do?
There wasn't a way out. They always locked and triple checked everything. It was an impossibility.
Impossibles had gotten to be a way of life for Hurley. He thought of smoke monsters and his
stomach flipped.
His hand turned the knob.
The door opened. He froze for ten seconds that felt like forever, and then he fled.

***

There was an unlocked truck in the lot, with the keys falling into his hand from where they had
been hidden in the visor. Another surge of unreality passed through Hurley. This had all been far too
easy, like a ballet of luck and fate. Orderlies turned away as if choreographed, doors left open, cameras
swiveling, patients hooting down cold and antiseptic halls for extra distractions.
The sun was setting and the sky was on fire with it. The distant horizon held ominous purple
clouds and the setting orange reminded him of all the fires he'd seen in his California lifetime. He
licked his lips, feeling ill again, feeling scared. Feeling alone.
With a grunt, he hauled himself the rest of the way into the beaten vehicle and jammed the key
into the ignition as his door slammed shut. Beside him, a rustle and another shut door.
The vehicle roared into life as Hurley's head whipped around to behold his small, sleek,
personal nightmare. Ben wore a black suit, the sort of thing he might have imagined on a Russian
mobster. Improbably, a fedora sat jauntily on his dark head. Hurley's eyebrows crawled up into his
hairline while the cold, cold eyes turned to regard him. A smile crawled along that pale face (death's
head), and gloved hands (somehow, that's the worst, dude. When he kills me, no fingerprints) gestured
towards the road with menacing grace.
“Drive.”
Trapped, Hurley did. Behind them, sirens rose from the hospital.
 3.
Judgement Day

Can anyone alter fate? All of us combined...or one great figure...or someone strategically placed, who
happens to be in the right spot. Chance. Accident. And our lives, our world, hanging on it.
-Philip K Dick, The Man in the High Castle

They drove for what felt like long hours. Hurley's dark companion said little, except to help
guide him through a confusing snarl of on-ramps and off-ramps. He took Ben's words as enforceable
instructions, unsure of his final destination, though much of Los Angeles County was familiar to him.
He felt woozy and tense, his chest tight, and he sweat large patches through the awful cotton pajamas.
Hurley had offered the driver's wheel to Ben twice, and both times, the sleek little man in the suit said
nothing in response. He continued to look out the passenger window, the fedora in his lap. At what,
Hurley never asked. Meanwhile, those freaky eyes weren't looking at him.
It would be coming up dawn in an hour or so, he reckoned. Hurley began to wonder if the
journey was ever going to end. He had slipped out of the hospital a bare hour after lights out, miles of
freeway already lost in his hazy memory.
“If you're taking me to Mexico, dude, I could probably use a passport and we're gonna need a
lot more gas.”
The sleek head turned ever so slightly, the profile cast in shifting shades of dark-light-dark as
the streetlights zoomed by. Crooked lips barely parted to murmur. “We're not going to Mexico, Hugo.
It would be transporting an escaped mental patient across international borders. I don't need that on my
conscience.”
Hurley shot him a disbelieving look. “Are you being funny, dude?”
The head turned with slow deliberation and fixed him with a droll, blue-eyed stare. A shoulder
lifted and fell in a tiny shrug. Ooooookay, then.
“Take this exit.”
On pure reflex, Hurley did, the tires of the truck squeaking in protest. He never even looked up
at the off-ramp sign, although it would have told him only as much as his creaking memory now gave
him – they were heading towards the Santa Monica Beach.

***

Hurley parked the car in one of the lots next to the pier, the famed landmark itself jutting into a
black ocean that occasionally flashed a quick silver gleam. A blink from unknowable depths, granted
by sea and sky. Fading moonlight glanced off the windows of the Looff Hippodrome, Hurley seeing
the unlit ferris wheel hunching against the horizon like some grand kaiju monster rising from the sea to
stomp the sleeping city.
He followed Ben's path, the man never hesitating in his silent, sure stride towards the beach
even as the sky drew to its deepest dark before the burst of morning light. It never occurred to Hurley
to run, mostly because he believed running from Ben would be an impossibility. Sawyer had told him
how fast the man was, the untrusting and drawn expressions from Kate on the topic sealing Hurley's
fears.
They walked together for a little while, and then Ben chose a spot on the sand with
unceremonious finality, settling himself on it cross-legged with no regard for his fine suit. The hat had
been left behind in the truck, though he still wore the gloves. With more than a little hesitation, Hurley
plopped next to him with a heavy thud.
“We're going to watch the light, Hugo.” The voice was so low, a faint and threatening harmonic
hum against the sound of lapping waves.
 Hurley swiveled his head towards him, towards the ocean, and then back over his shoulder.
Wind ruffled his shaggy, curly hair. “Uh, dude. I don't know how to gently remind you of this, so I'm
just gonna say it. The sun rises in the east.” He pointed at the choppy ocean. “That's west.”
“Yes. I know.” He fell into a long silence, and they sat there together on night-moist sand, one
small, one large, the typical asymmetrical pair. To the moon, Benjamin! Hurley knew he was mad, so
the sudden mental image of Ben as hapless Norton to his flustered and bulky Kramden didn't faze him
so much as it frightened him. There were no episodes where the skinny sewer worker had gone ape on
someone with a tactical baton, but there was one playing clearly in Hurley's mind. Blood glistening
wetly in a black and white world, and this Kramden was screaming, and screaming. His throat worked,
unable to hide how scared he felt.
“You're afraid of far too much, Hugo.”
Now it was his turn to reply with silence. It was true. It was also unwelcome, a heart's secret
burden laid out to study.
“Perhaps it's only understandable to be. You also see far too much.”
That was also unwelcome. Hurley's gorge rose in a new bout of terror. Uselessly, he leaned
away. Ben's crooked, off-center lips parted in a soft sigh, the gloved hands still resting in the man's lap.
The head turned towards him slightly.
“You hate me the most of everyone on the island because, if for no other reason, I lie – but you,
Hugo. You and your friends lied to the whole world.” Ben's head cocked, an eyebrow arching in
amusement. “I should be so adept as that.”
“Dude.” Hurley's mouth went dry. His entire body felt thick and unmoveable.
“You think too much of me, made me into a boogeyman despite my insistence. We're only
human, Hugo. You and I are the same.”
“Dude!” But the monologue wouldn't stop.
“I haven't lied once tonight, despite your ideas of me, but you're still living your lie, aren't you?
And you wonder why they won't leave you alone.”
“How can you know about them?” Fresh nausea.
“Charlie? Mr. Eko? That doomed little pair of siblings? Of course I know about them, Hugo.
How can I not know? But that's not important right now. Your drugs are very bad for you. They're
making you sick, making you lie to yourself. You know that's the worst lie of all. You need to stop
taking them.”
“If I do, they'll never leave me alone!”
“They already don't. You just won't let yourself see. They have so many things to tell you, and
you know you need them to. If you won't hear, we all might be doomed.”
“What?”
“Watch with me.” Languidly, a gloved hand rose and gestured towards the ocean. Hurley
squinted at the horizon. Impossibly, a flash of orange gleamed there. He whipped his head around
again – all dark to the east.
“Watch.”
The orange light burst, then the sky went black again. Starless and dark, the moon gone, but
only for a moment. Sickly purple light rose slowly to encompass the entire sky, then began to rise
through the spectrum, shining lavender and pale and then hot-white. A hum rose in his ears, familiar
and unearthly, and then heat against his face. Then it all went black again.
He imagined that he heard screams. And then silence. Hurley watched as the water began to
recede, boiling away towards the horizon. Pale sand began to scorch black, heat rising from it. Numb,
he scrambled to his feet and began to turn to run. Ben remained where he sat, a statue, a monument to
revealed lies and terrible secrets. The blackening sand approached him, but he did not stir.
“This is not something you can flee from, Hugo.” Ben's head never turned, even as sand began
to smoke and sear against his pants.
 He ran anyway, his breath heaving in huge pants and gasps as the pier began to snap apart, the
wood creaking like a screaming crone. The ferris wheel fell, agonized metal crying accusations to
Hurley over a rising wind. Sand hissed at his heels, and pavement cracked even as he reached it. The
truck was gone. The parking area was empty. Like Lot's wife, he turned back against his better
judgement to look at the empty ocean and saw nothing but interminable darkness. Ben was gone.
Everything was gone. Before him, everything else would be gone in moments.
Ben had not lied. There was nowhere to flee. The blackness encroached around him, hissing
like hot steam. Like monsters in a jungle. He began to scream, flailing his arms out and striking –
solid metal and concrete wall.
Hurley's breath continued to come in hitching gasps. Suddenly, forcefully, he threw up in the
corner of the stifling industrial room. Then he passed out.
 Epilogue: What A Long, Strange Trip

“Say you'll come back when you can

Whenever your airplane happens to land
Maybe I'll be back here, too
It all depends on what's with you.” ~ The Grateful Dead, 'Cosmic Charlie.'

Hurley sat huddled within himself, eyes fixed on the featureless wood and formica table.
Seated across from him, Dr. Stillman continued to examine the bedraggled man with a weary face.
“You have no idea how you got out of your room and into the basement of the facility, that's
what you're telling me?”
“No, sir.” His voice was toneless, his face drawn and haggard.
“And you won't tell me anything else. Except that you want off your medication.”
“Yes, sir.” He had refused the day's dose when the nurse brought it. He had already been in
dutch for being found by a janitor after a massive all-night search after a random roomcheck found
Hurley's bed empty, and the refusal of his dosage had brought in the doctor from his weekend break.
Doubly irritating for Stillman – the necessity of him being here coupled with the rising certainty that
his presence meant nothing for the situation save a signature on necessary reports.
“Can I call Dr. Brooks, sir? He might understand.”
Dr. Stillman blinked. “Dr. Brooks? He hasn't been here in months, Hugo. His son came
home.”
Hurley's head rose to fix a stare on him. The patient looked unhappy but unsurprised. “Okay.
Can I go now? I think I've got some stuff to do today. Stuff to think about.” He jutted his chin
towards a chess board that he'd been setting up as the doctor arrived. The knights and the rooks were
juxtaposed in the wrong position, but the doctor let it pass without remark. He licked his lips.
“Are you sure we can't at least get you to try a lower dose?”
“No thanks. I know you can force me, but I'd rather you didn't. I think-” The doctor watched
as Hurley paused, eyes narrowing as if focusing very hard. “I think they were kinda making me worse.
I started seeing stuff, I guess.”
Dr. Stillman sighed, the irony of Hurley's words blowing right over him, and rubbed his eyes. A
nurse appeared at the door, knocked once, and mouthed at him. He read the words 'Mrs. Reyes –
phone' from her lips and groaned inwardly. For not the first time in his life, he felt tempted by the idea
of a drinkable, alcoholic lunch.

***

“They're wrong, mate.” Bandaged fingers waggled at the chesspieces. “Just a coupla 'em, but
it'll count. Those pair, yeah.” As directed, Hurley adjusted the little horse and tower pieces. “It's all
patience and thinking, this game. I'm not very good at it, maybe one of the others are.”
“I'm sure someone'll be by eventually, dude.” His voice was still low, exhausted and dispirited.
He glanced up. It was, as ever, just Charlie. The pale munchkin face caught his look and broke into a
rueful smile to try and cheer him.
“I'm really sorry you had a bad night, Hurley.”
“S'alright.” He shrugged. “But did it have to be Ben that came and talked to me?”
Charlie shook his head. “Wha?” He looked puzzled. “I didn't know that. I don't even think
he's around. Not near, anyway.” His head reared back, and he squinched an eye shut in a dramatic
look of puzzlement. “Isn't he still back on the island?”
“'Kay. Think I figured that.” Hurley prodded a pawn with a thick finger, nudging it forward a
square. Charlie kept watching him.
 “Whassat?”
“It's all just me, dude.” He sighed. “Just me.”
“Yeah, but at least you're not alone.”
Hurley heaved a brief snort. After a moment, he began to laugh more, a real belly laugh rising
from deep within and causing tears to stream down his cheeks. Charlie watched him for another
moment and then joined in, sweeping a hand through light, close-cropped hair.

***

“You're sure you can arrange nothing.” Ben's gloved hand gripped the slender little Nokia with
rising aggravation. “You're sure. Yes, Moscow was fine, don't change the topic, Norton.” He sighed.
“So I can't get in there. At all. No, I can't get to his mother, and I won't try. Don't go there.” He tinged
his voice with threat. Obviously, the man on the other end got the hint. “Thank you. Yes. Yes, I want
Jarrah also kept an eye on. He'll likely do something dramatic, like give puppies to orphans or
something equally humanitarian.” Sardonic emphasis. He thought of the passports he'd arranged for
Sayid and grimaced slightly. Hopefully Norton would have enough tact to not mention the extra
difficulty Ben had handed him.
Norton rang off, promising to doublecheck everything. With sour irritation warping his lips,
Ben turned to regard the cold, unassailable facade of the Santa Rosa Mental Institute. His own gaze
was just as cold. An idea was forming about how to get inside and speak with Hugo, an idea that might
tie together two separate matters, but he set it aside for later consideration. There was no real hurry yet,
no immediate looming threat he had to manage. He turned and entered his rented silver Lexus with
easy grace, peeling away and headed for the freeway.
Benjamin Linus was just made of time.

~Fin

(ABC's LOST and its characters are not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the
above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. The depiction of both mental
illness and the drug Clonazepam/Klonopin is fictional and should not be regarded as a fair or accurate
assessment of either. All errors are my own.)

2009/9/28