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"Why do you let him talk to you like that?”
The kitchenware clattered shamefully as it struck the floor.
John didn't know how that comment had sparked such anger in him- why he had reacted so violently to something as simple as words. Perhaps it was because the question had been an insult- yes, in a vague way it had hurt, because it suggested that he was weak, that he ‘let’ other people do things to him; he had been that kind of man before, and he had hated it, and so to think that now- when he assumed himself reborn, forged of stronger stuff- he was still as he used to be was awful. But perhaps he was angry because the question had been a compliment- the way it was phrased, the delicately indignant tone of the voice that rang even now in his ears, had implied that he was doing himself a disservice, that he was better than he put himself up to be, that he was the stronger man and only behaved weakly out of habit. Or maybe- and this option bothered him the most of all- it was because he didn't have an answer to that question, because he didn't have the answers to so many questions, ones that burned in his chest and on the forefront of his mind.
So many facets there were to that one simple sentence, so many ways of looking at one thing that changed its colours completely. Yes, with Henry, everything he said was the same as he was- convoluted and confusing and layered, unknown, interpretable as both wicked and good. So many of those aching questions in John’s heart were about Henry. Why would he say something like that? If he was evil, one of the Others like Jack thought, then it would be a way of dividing the heroes, of creating strife between the two leaders (he thought he was a leader, surely he was, Jack talked to him, they worked things out together, he wouldn't let himself think otherwise). And if Henry was good, if he was who he said he was, then the remark was pure sympathy- a sign that he respected John, that he thought John deserved more. It was so complicated- just trying to think about it, trying to sort out those strands of truth wove circles in his mind, and yet he couldn't stop himself. Even now, he sat alone in the hatch, surrounded by wonders, mysteries greater and purer than this- and yet all he could think about were those brilliant blue eyes.
Henry Gale was a captivating creature, that was for certain.
John didn't know why he was so fascinated by- attracted to, dare he say it- the little man. He had felt similar passion for only one person before, his darling Helen (though that hadn't exactly ended well), every other passing desire had been vague and lacking solidity, blurred faces of unnamed men and women seen from afar or through the lense of a television screen. In comparison to them Helen had shone like a sun in his lonely life, and he had thought he would never feel for anyone else as he had for her. Yet here he was.
Henry was not an especially handsome man, but there was something rather sweetly appealing about him, in the way his shoulders drew into themselves, the way he turned his head when speaking, the soft look of his skin. And then of course those incredible eyes. They were so huge, and electrically intense, John always felt like he was a fish struck through by a spear whenever Henry looked at him, like the other man could see things within him he didn't even know were there. It was a little frightening maybe, when considering Henry’s possible association with the Others, but at the same time there was a kind of hypnotic magnetism to the sight.
John couldn't help the warm feelings in his chest, couldn't help how- even in anger- he wanted to get closer, wanted to get to the core of Henry’s twisted words, have him in the light of complete truth. Already he felt guilty for his roughness earlier- Henry was such a pitiful thing really, so breakable and easily bruised. It hardly seemed possible that he was one of those cruel and eerie savages that had kidnapped Claire and nearly murdered Charlie, the ones that inspired such fear. He must be innocent, there was no way that someone so ordinary, so small could have strength enough to do any harm at all...but he couldn't know that for certain, not yet, anyway.
John groaned aloud to himself, feeling sweat run down his back, even exercise wasn't helping to clear his head. It did no good to him, thinking like that, nothing could come of nurturing that obsession, that desire that was flickering in his heart. He should give up on it now, before it consumed him, stop wondering what the soft skin on the back of Henry’s neck felt like, how his lips would taste, what it would be like to hold him. Such feelings would never be reciprocated, and no good leader- no good man- could guiltlessly pursue the affections of his prisoner, of someone he and the rest of his people had hurt so much.
But still- and he tried to ignore this- a deep desire to have Sayid and the rest come back with good news was digging into his soul. It should only be a few more hours. He wanted to see them return and say that Henry was telling the truth...
Suddenly a sound reached John’s ears- a sound other than his own heavy breathing, than the thoughts spinning in his head. Distorted, clipped noises bounced around the interior of the hatch, and he found their source only gradually. He had never heard the speakers do something like this before. Where could the transmission be coming from? Was that a woman’s voice he heard? What was it she said? Numbers...
The end of that countdown marked the beginning of one of the most terrifying, and most humiliating, experiences of his life. It happened so fast- he was barely able to stuff the bar under the blast door before it shut, and even as he did it his thoughts were filled with a terrible fear. What about the button? That was the most important thing, already he could feel the timer burning in his mind. How many minutes had been left on it? How long did he have before his chances ran out, before the end of the world? Being trapped was one of the worst feelings he knew, he had to get out, had to escape, down here was too much like the world beyond the Island, where he had suffered so much. But he had no way of making it out on his own…
It was painfully, deceptively easy to let Henry out of the armoury. It was such a simple thing to put his trust in the other man’s hands, for deep down underneath the confusion of his rational mind, perhaps John trusted him already. And he seemed to want to do good, Henry, he wanted to help. Jack and the others, they must surely be wrong about him, Henry seemed so innocent and open in that moment, even though John had been cruel with him earlier. He was a better person then Locke was himself, so quick to aid his captor, those wide eyes full of nothing but sweetness and mild light. And what did he want in exchange for his assistance? Only that John promise he wouldn't be hurt anymore...Locke found his heart aching as he agreed, aching for the touch of those soft hands and with the knowledge that this poor man had been terribly misunderstood, and his face still bore the marks of the unjust violence done against him.
(And it was perhaps a little good for John’s ego, to know that Henry thought so well of him, thought him strong enough and good enough to be a protector.)
John cursed himself for his own stupidity and haste as the blast door closed on his leg, as the timer went down and down; he could almost feel those numbers ticking away to his doom as he sat there, paralyzed and helpless, just like he had been before. And Henry, dear Henry, trying to help and only hurting himself further.
The sound of that alarm signaled more than the end of the world to John, it was the voices of everyone he had ever known before the Island, the people that had told him he couldn't. And this time, that harsh sound screamed that they were right- poor Henry had been wrong, he wasn’t able to protect anyone.
Even if he shouted the other man’s name until his throat hurt, it seemed to be for nothing, he felt the dread of a deer whose eyes reflected oncoming headlights, a man staring down the barrel of a gun. He could do nothing to save himself, nothing to save anyone, in the end he was weak and a failure and it had all been for nothing…
Then, in the pinnacle of his despair, John saw the sign.
He didn't have enough time to memorize all of it before the lights came back on and the door came back up, though he certainly tried. He wasn't sure what he had seen, even with the image still burned behind his eyelids. A map, perhaps? A code? Or something of both? Another mystery to solve but also, more importantly, something to dispel those terrible fears, something to let him know once again that he was important. That he did have a place in the end game, a purpose. What an incredible relief that was. They had all been saved- and even the pain in his legs didn't sour that feeling, for at least he felt pain there, instead of nothing, which would have been much worse.
“Henry?” he called one last time as he wiggled his way into the computer room, reassured to see the timer ticking serenely away down there, with the computer in its proper place and nothing damaged or destroyed. It was even more reassuring when Henry replied, stepping out from behind the door. John found the relief of that sight stronger than he had expected; even if it was natural for him to do so, John hadn't wanted him to run away.
“Thank you, Henry,” he said, and his voice shook under the weight of the emotions he found inside himself. “Thank you for not leaving me.”
“Of course,” said the other man, and he knelt, reaching out with a kind of tenderness. “Do you need any help?”
John would have usually refused any kind of physical assistance- his mind rejected the concept so violently now- but it felt different with Henry. Henry wasn’t patronizing him, it wasn't because he thought John was weak, because he thought John needed his charity- it was because he cared. He was a good person.
And it felt so right, so comfortable, being held by Henry as they made the painful three-legged shuffle from the computer room to the living quarters. Perhaps John was being presumptuous, but in the aftermath of that harrowing event he felt that certain walls had been taken down- the barrier that was ‘prisoner, captor’ had been broken. He felt closer to Henry then he ever had to anyone else in that moment; there was such a quiet, gentle intimacy in how he was set down on the couch, how the other man tried to gingerly dress his wounds with supplies found in the hatch.
As he explained what had happened during the lockdown- when the lights had gone out- John was more captivated by the sound of his voice then by his words. What he said- about the hieroglyphs, the countdown, the doors coming up- was concerning, but John had only enough emotional tension left to worry about it in a vague, background sort of way. He would solve the mystery, like the Island wanted him to- maybe with Henry’s help, that idea was extremely pleasant- but he didn't need to start right now. He could enjoy this man’s company for a while, first. And oh, though he shouldn't think this way, he was ultimately a man- despite the at times excruciating pain in his leg, he was captivated by Henry’s soft touches and tiny smiles, the brightness in those blue eyes. Was he crazy to think that some of his desire was reflected in them? There was something a little seductive in those delicate lips and hands.
“You can probably sit up now, if it's more comfortable,” said Henry, and John let him guide his body into a seated position, internally enjoying the warmth on his skin from the leading touches on his shoulders and damaged thigh (how affectionless his life had been up until now, that he found this simple closeness so enjoyable). When he was upright Henry sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed, and when he turned those incredible eyes were burning into his.
“Quite an adventure, hmm,” said Henry softly, and John hardly heard him over the sound of his own blood in his ears, because the other man had rested his hand ever so gently at the top of John’s leg, just above the injury- and if that gesture wasn't something with a certain meaning behind it, he would eat his boot.
Henry looked cute, and if it was a strange thought to apply to a grown man John didn't care, his eyelids fluttered so prettily, and his breath hitched high and soft in his lungs. He turned his head like a cat, and when John didn't move- too stunned by that vision, by the force of his own heart- he seemed to grow shy, pulling the warmth of his presence ever so slightly away, and even the minuscule chill was unbearable.
“I'm too presumptuous,” Henry murmured, drawing his hand back to his own lap, and John shook his head, the spell of stillness broken by the loss of those eyes on him.
“No, no, Henry, you…” he began, but the rest of the sentence died in his mouth when Henry looked at him again, and John found himself reaching out to touch his cheek. There was a frozen instant where the world narrowed down to nothing but the simple stimulus of the moment- the warmth of the air, the skin under the pads of his fingers, even the pain in his leg- everything seemed marvellous and fresh.
And John had never been so bold a man before, had never done anything like this, not before or after the Island. Perhaps if some things had been different- if they hadn't just saved the world together, in a sweaty and terrified half-hour, if Henry hadn't bandaged his wounds, hadn't sat so close- he would never have dared. But he was still riding the release that came from finding safety after great danger, and the sight of that hidden map had filled him with such confidence, and it seemed very clear that Henry wanted it, too.
No matter the reason, it took only the space of one breath and less courage than one would have thought for John to kiss him.
It was gentle and chaste, like all of their touches that day, seemingly fueled by affection more than carnal desire. Henry’s lips were slightly chapped, but there was a hint of softness in them still, and he made the tiniest noise John had ever heard, something so soft it was barely more than an exhale. Adorable. He was a precious little thing, John would make sure his promise from before was kept, he wouldn't let the other survivors hurt this one ever again.
He pulled away slightly to look, watching Henry’s eyes flutter open, his gaze flickering to John’s lips and up again, their faces still close enough to breathe in each other’s air. Underneath the sickly yellows and purples marring his face, John could see a bit of pink. Then they kissed again, but this time Henry started it, closing the minuscule distance between them once more. He missed slightly, his lips pressing more to the side of John’s mouth, which was incredibly endearing. John turned into it and found his arms wrapping around Henry’s shoulders and hips, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle, and this kiss was deeper- less timid, more curious, exploratory. When they next broke apart it was for air.
“Henry,” said John, for no reason at all other than to say it, a confirmation of reality. At the sound of his name Henry smiled a little, close-lipped, and there was a touch of mischief in his expression, his hand spread out on Locke’s chest.
“John,” he replied, and the sound of it made Locke shiver. He could have kissed Henry again then, over and over, held him and touched him everywhere, stayed in that position on the couch in the hatch for hours, and nothing would have made him happier. But it was not to be.
In a number of shocking noises, the bubble was suddenly popped- outside of their little haven metal slammed, there came the sound of rushing footsteps and loud voices. Henry jumped visibly (cute) and scooted further down the couch, untangling the obvious intimacy of their position. John was smiling like a fool, he didn't mind the thought of keeping a secret like this one, and he was happy to see who was coming, he could make out their voices- it was Sayid and the rest, back at last. John knew exactly what they were going to say. It was going to be wonderful to let Henry out of that armoury.
But Jack stormed up with such anger on his face- it was surprising, he didn't understand. And when Henry was grabbed and tossed aside he found himself suddenly both angry, and worse, afraid.
“What are you doing? He was helping me-”
Jack was shaking his head. Why was the atmosphere so hostile? John could feel a panic rising up inside his throat, swelling against his heart too fast and too hard. Their eyes were all so righteously cold, this wasn't what was supposed to happen at all. He wanted to stand- whether to protect Henry, or just to make himself feel strong, he didn't know- but his leg throbbed, he couldn't do it. Why was he so helpless? This was too much like before, he was going to be ill from the fear, he was paralyzed. Why were they hurting Henry again? Why?
Then Sayid explained, his voice as cold as ice, and John felt shards of that ice piercing his heart. All the warmth was bleeding out. No.
The final strike that damned him was the driver’s licence, showing a very different Henry Gale in the tiny photograph, a stranger. But of course, Henry was a stranger. A stranger they had locked away because everyone had said he was bad, and John’s pathetic heart had deluded him into thinking otherwise- but in the end everyone had been right.
The betrayal was more excruciating than the wound in his leg. It froze John in his seat more surely than his fall from that window had been, all those years before. And worse than anything was that wild animal in his chest, the mixture of panic and despair, wondering how he had managed to end up here again- unable to walk, his heart pierced by the talons of a liar. Parts of him were still reeling in disbelief- Henry was so sweet, he had been so helpful, he hadn't run away when the doors went up. And before that, even, he had known his story so well- he had told it so convincingly, never slipping up the details. That kiss...it had seemed so affectionate, so genuine, how could that have been a deception? Nothing made sense.
But as the others were dragging Henry away, taking him back to his prison, John saw something that settled the confusion in his head, plunging his feelings into a black despair. For an instant a terrible expression crossed Henry’s face- a cold, arrogant expression, his eyes gleaming with a light fierce and cruel, completely unlike the man from just moments before. His gaze darted over to meet John’s, pinning him there with a wicked satisfaction that made his heart freeze and his blood boil.
Then the armoury door closed.
He didn't understand yet, but though John had known Henry Gale for days, that was the first time he had ever seen Benjamin Linus.