Chapter Text
Skyfall
Dedicated to DimpleCurlAeternaGirl. Happy Birthday! Going to have some fun with this one.
Chapter 1: The Engagement
Los Angeles, 2040
Aaron Austen checked his watch—a sleek holographic band that projected the time in a soft blue glow against his wrist. 7:42 PM. He was late, and Claire would never let him hear the end of it.
The trauma surgery had gone longer than expected, as they often did. A twenty-three-year-old with multiple gunshot wounds to the abdomen had been wheeled in just as Aaron was signing out. Three hours and eleven units of blood later, the kid had a fighting chance. It was days like this that made Aaron grateful for his career choice, despite the toll it took.
The restaurant was one of those new fusion places that had popped up in downtown LA, where classic dishes were deconstructed and reassembled with molecular gastronomy techniques—a far cry from the comfort food he preferred. But tonight wasn't about him. It was Claire and Jay's rehearsal dinner planning, and Claire had insisted they meet here. Something about the chef being a patient of hers who'd promised them special treatment.
Aaron parked his electric sedan in a nearby garage, the vehicle powering down with a soft hum. As he walked to the restaurant, the city buzzed around him. Los Angeles in 2040 was a curious blend of the familiar and the futuristic. Holographic advertisements hovered above buildings, transit pods zipped along elevated tracks, and personal drones delivered packages overhead. But beneath the glitz, it was still LA—eternally caught between glamour and grit.
"Dr. Austen," the hostess greeted him with a warm smile as he entered. The restaurant's recognition system had clearly flagged his arrival. "The rest of your party is already seated. Let me show you to your table."
Aaron followed her through the dimly lit space, scanning the faces until he spotted them. His cousin Claire sat with her back perfectly straight, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She looked so much like Aunt Kate it was sometimes jarring, though her mannerisms were all Uncle Jack. Across from her, Jay LaFleur lounged with the easy confidence that seemed genetically inherited from his father. His blond hair was styled with deliberate carelessness, and his blue eyes—Juliet's eyes—lit up mischievously when he spotted Aaron.
"Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence," Jay called out, loud enough to turn a few heads. "If it isn't the good Doctor Austen, savior of the masses and keeper of really bad excuses."
Claire rolled her eyes but smiled. "Ignore him. He's been insufferable all day."
"So, just a normal Tuesday then?" Aaron replied, bending down to kiss Claire's cheek before taking the empty seat. "Sorry I'm late. Emergency trauma came in right as I was leaving."
"Let me guess," Jay drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Life or death situation, only you could save them, blah blah blah. Meanwhile, I've been sitting here listening to your cousin list the fifteen different ways the flowers could be arranged for optimal feng shui or whatever."
"It's not feng shui, it's basic aesthetics," Claire shot back, though her tone was more amused than annoyed. "And it was only seven options, not fifteen."
"Felt like fifty," Jay muttered, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Your dad's been calling every hour on the hour to 'check in.' I think he's got some kind of alert system set up to monitor my activities."
Claire laughed. "He's just excited about the wedding."
"He's excited about making sure everything goes his way," Jay countered. "The man's a control freak of epic proportions. Yesterday he asked if I'd considered changing the venue to the hospital chapel because—and I quote—'the lighting would be more conducive to a dignified ceremony.'"
Aaron chuckled, flagging down a waiter to order a drink. "Uncle Jack means well."
"Oh, I know he does, Doc," Jay said, using the nickname he'd given Aaron years ago. "Doesn't make it any less annoying when he sends me articles about the statistical likelihood of outdoor wedding disasters. Did you know that eighteen percent of outdoor ceremonies in Southern California are disrupted by unexpected weather events? Because I do now, thanks to Chief Shepherd's morning brief."
Claire laughed, a rare sound that transformed her serious face. "He's excited. You know how he gets when he can apply surgical precision to something."
"I offered to elope," Jay reminded her. "Still on the table."
"And miss seeing you in a tux? Not a chance, LaFleur," Claire retorted. She reached across the table to take Jay's hand.
"You love him and you know it."
"I tolerate him for your sake," Jay replied, but there was no real heat in his words. Everyone knew that despite the bickering, Jay and Jack had formed a bond over the years that went beyond mere tolerance. Jack Shephard had been there on the worst day of Jay's life—the day they'd lost Sawyer. Jay had been twenty-six, fresh out of CalTech with his second Ph.D. and newly recruited to the FBI's Cyber Division. He and his father had argued that morning—a stupid, meaningless fight about Jay moving across the country for work.
The last words Jay had spoken to his father had been angry ones. Hours later, Sawyer suffered an aneurysm while driving, resulting in a fatal crash. Jack had been the one to break the news, and then stayed with Jay and Juliet through the long, dark days that followed. For all his complaints about Jack's controlling nature, Jay had never forgotten that.
"How's Juliet doing with all the wedding preparations?" Aaron asked, accepting the martini the waiter brought him. Dr. Juliet Burke had been a constant in his life growing up, almost like a second aunt alongside Kate.
Jay's expression softened, the cocky façade momentarily falling away. "Yeah, Mom's doing better. This wedding's given her something to look forward to. Been a rough couple of years since Dad..."
"Your dad would be proud of you," Aaron said quietly. "Both as an agent and as the man you've become."
Jay cleared his throat, discomfort with emotional moments so reminiscent of his father. "Yeah, well, he'd probably also be laughing his ass off that I'm marrying a Shepherd. The universe has a twisted sense of humor."
Claire reached across the table, squeezing Jay's hand. "He'd be happy you found someone who doesn't put up with your bullshit."
"Just like Mom never put up with his," Jay agreed with a small smile. "This morning was good—she's been helping with everything—the flowers, the menu, even helped Claire pick out her dress."
"She has amazing taste," Claire added warmly. "And it's been nice spending time with her. She tells the best stories about Jay as a kid."
"Oh god," Jay groaned. "Please tell me she didn't show you the holo-recordings of my third-grade play."
Claire's eyes widened with delight. "She didn't! But now I absolutely need to see those."
"Over my dead body, Sparks."
Aaron watched their banter with quiet amusement. Despite all his complaining, it was clear Jay was happy—perhaps the happiest Aaron had ever seen him. The wedding was bringing their families closer together, healing old wounds that had never quite closed.
A companionable silence fell as they studied their menus, which were displayed on thin, flexible screens that updated in real-time with chef's recommendations and ingredient substitutions.
"So," Claire finally said, setting her menu aside. "Have you heard from Sam?"
Jay groaned dramatically. "Radio silence for three days now. Meanwhile, I'm stuck with Agent Chen. The guy wears a tie to crime scenes. A tie! And he keeps trying to make small talk about the weather like we're at a damn garden party. Last week he filed an HR complaint because I called him 'fortune cookie' once. Once!"
"Which was inappropriate and you know it," Claire admonished, though Aaron caught the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"It was a term of endearment!" Jay protested. "Sam never complained about 'Paw Patrol' or 'Mountain Man' or any of the other perfectly crafted nicknames I bestowed upon him."
"That's because Sam actually likes you, against all evidence of good judgment," Claire replied dryly.
Aaron chuckled. "Any idea when he's back from Antarctica?"
"The official line is 'upon completion of the mission,'" Jay said, making air quotes. "But between you and me, I think he's dragging it out because he's enjoying the peace and quiet. You know how much Paw Patrol loves his solitude. Probably sitting in some igloo with that wolf of his, growing out his beard and communing with penguins."
"Koda is a husky, not a wolf," Claire corrected automatically. "And there's no way the Bureau would let him take a dog to Antarctica."
"Please," Jay scoffed. "You think Sam Shepherd follows protocol? The man once smuggled that beast into a five-star hotel in Dubai by claiming it was a service animal for his 'rare condition.'"
"What rare condition?" Aaron asked, unable to help himself.
Jay grinned. "Chronic stick-up-the-assitis. Apparently, the only cure is having a 70-pound furball shed all over your tactical gear."
Even Claire laughed at that one. "I miss him," she admitted. "It's weird planning all this without him here."
Jay snorted. "Well, if I have to spend one more day with Agent Fortune Cookie, I might actually commit a federal offense."
Aaron shook his head, amused. "Sam said he'd be back for the horses couldn't keep him away."
"Or polar bears," Jay added. "Though I wouldn't put it past him to try to tame one and ride it to the ceremony."
"He better not," Claire warned. "I need both my brothers there."
Aaron felt a warm glow at her words. Though they weren't biological siblings, Claire and Sam had always treated him as their brother. It was a bond forged in childhood and strengthened through the years, despite the complicated family history that none of them fully understood.
Claire shook her head. "And Mom's going crazy with worry, Dad too, but they'd never tell him that."
"Bet the Chief loves having both twins on opposite sides of the planet," Jay commented. "You rebellious Shepherd kids, always making trouble."
Claire set down the dish with a thump. "Says the man who once hacked the FBI database on a dare."
"That was before I joined the Bureau, Sparks. Now I only hack criminals' databases." Jay's dimples deepened as he grinned. "Plus, that little stunt is what got me recruited in the first place."
"And paired with my brother," Claire added.
"Best damn partner a guy could ask for," Jay said with surprising sincerity. "Unlike this temporary nightmare they've stuck me with. Chen actually wanted to follow protocol yesterday. Protocol! Can you believe that shit?"
Aaron laughed as he served himself from the dish the waiter brought them—a traditional pasta with a modern twist of lab-grown seafood that was indistinguishable from the real thing.
"You know," Jay said thoughtfully, twirling his fork, "it's weird that none of our parents ever talk about how they met. I mean, I know they were in a plane crash together, but beyond that? Radio silence. My mom changes the subject every time. Your dad gets that constipated look on his face. Kate just walks out of the room."
Aaron nodded slowly. "I've noticed that too. Whatever happened on that island... it's like they made a pact never to discuss it."
"Dad has nightmares sometimes," Claire said quietly. "I've heard him. He calls out names I don't recognize. And once, I found him staring at an old photo—a group of people on a beach. When I asked about it, he locked it away and said it was nothing."
"My mom has a drawer she keeps locked," Jay added, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "I found the key once when I was fifteen. Inside was a Dharma Initiative jumpsuit with 'LaFleur' stitched on it, and a photograph of her and my dad standing in front of some weird seventies-looking houses."
Aaron frowned. "Dharma Initiative? What's that?"
Jay shrugged. "No idea. I asked her about it, and she freaked out. Told me never to look in there again. It's the only time I've ever seen her truly angry."
"There's something they're not telling us," Claire said, lowering her voice though the nearest diners were tables away. "Something big. I've tried researching the crash, but all the information is weirdly vague. It's like the details have been scrubbed."
"Maybe we should ask them," Aaron suggested. "Directly, I mean. We're all adults now."
Jay snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that. The one time I pressed my mom about why she and Dad were using different last names in some old document I found, she had a panic attack. Full-on couldn't breathe. After that, I stopped asking."
They fell silent, each lost in thought. The mystery of their parents' past had always hovered at the edges of their lives, an unspoken shadow that seemed to stretch longer the older they got.
The main courses arrived, momentarily distracting them from the somber turn in conversation. Claire was grateful for the interruption. Something about discussing the island always left her feeling uneasy, as though she was touching the edge of a wound that had never properly healed.
"Enough doom and gloom," Aaron declared, raising his glass. "We're supposed to be celebrating. To the future Mr. and Dr. LaFleur-Shepherd."
"That's a mouthful," Jay remarked, raising his own glass. "Maybe we should just go with 'The Incredibly Attractive Couple' instead."
"To the incredibly attractive couple, then," Aaron said with a smile, clinking his glass against theirs. "May your marriage be long and your arguments entertaining."
"I'll drink to that," Jay replied, taking a healthy swig of his whiskey. "Though I take exception to the implication that I ever lose an argument."
Claire snorted. "You lose every argument. You just talk so much that sometimes I let you think you've won to make you stop."
"That's—" Jay began, then paused, narrowing his eyes. "Actually, that tracks. Carry on."
They were laughing when Aaron's watch suddenly emitted a shrill beep. At the same moment, Claire's and Jay's devices activated as well, filling the restaurant with the unmistakable sound of an emergency alert.
"What the hell?" Jay muttered, tapping at his wristband to silence it.
Aaron's blood ran cold as he read the message scrolling across his device:
EMERGENCY ALERT: SIGNIFICANT SEISMIC ACTIVITY DETECTED. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Before any of them could react, the floor beneath them began to tremble. Glasses rattled on tables. The hanging lights swayed ominously.
"Earthquake," Aaron said, instinct kicking in. "Get under the table."
They'd barely moved when the trembling intensified dramatically. The restaurant's windows shattered inward, sending glass flying in every direction. People screamed, ducking for cover as the building groaned around them.
Aaron felt Claire's hand grip his arm, her nails digging into his skin. Jay had moved with surprising speed, pulling both of them down and shielding them with his body as a section of the ceiling collapsed nearby.
"Stay down!" Jay shouted over the cacophony of breaking glass and splintering wood.
But something was wrong. The earthquake didn't feel right. Instead of the familiar rolling motion, Aaron felt a strange pulling sensation, as though gravity itself was fluctuating. The air around them seemed to crackle with electricity, raising the hair on his arms.
"Aaron!" Claire's voice sounded distant despite her being right beside him. "Something's happening—"
Her words were cut off as a blinding white light engulfed them. Aaron felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, like the feeling of a rollercoaster drop multiplied by a thousand. His ears popped painfully, and for a terrifying moment, he couldn't breathe.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
The screaming ceased. The crashing and breaking fell silent. The white light faded.
Aaron blinked, disoriented. His head throbbed, and nausea rolled through him in waves. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.
Gone was the restaurant with its modern décor and shattered windows. Gone were the sounds of car alarms and emergency sirens that should have followed an earthquake of that magnitude.
Instead, he found himself lying on his back, staring up at a canopy of stars more brilliant than any he'd ever seen, unobscured by the light pollution of Los Angeles. The air smelled of salt and vegetation—fresh in a way city air never was.
"Claire?" he called out, his voice hoarse. "Jay?"
A groan to his left answered him. Jay sat up slowly, clutching his head. "What the actual hell was that?"
"I don't know," Aaron replied, pushing himself to a sitting position. His doctor's training kicked in automatically as he did a quick self-assessment. No broken bones, no major injuries—just bruises and a splitting headache.
"Claire?" he called again, panic rising.
"Here," came a weak voice from a few feet away. Claire was struggling to sit up, a small cut on her forehead dripping blood down her temple.
Aaron crawled to her side immediately, examining the wound with gentle fingers. "Superficial," he declared, relief evident in his voice. "You might have a concussion, though. Any dizziness? Nausea?"
"Besides the nausea from whatever just teleported us to the middle of nowhere?" Claire asked shakily. "I'm fine."
Jay had gotten to his feet and was turning in a slow circle, taking in their surroundings. They appeared to be on a beach, with dense jungle visible just beyond the sand. The moon hung low and large in the sky, casting enough light to see by.
"Either I've had way too much to drink," Jay said slowly, "or we are definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto."
Aaron helped Claire to her feet, keeping a steadying hand on her arm. "This doesn't make any sense. Earthquakes don't... teleport people."
"No shit, Doc," Jay replied, but the sarcasm couldn't mask the unease in his voice. "Any other brilliant observations?"
"We need to figure out where we are," Claire said, ever practical even in crisis. She reached for her wrist, then frowned. "My comm band is dead."
Aaron checked his own. The sleek device that had been projecting holographic displays just minutes ago was now nothing more than a dark band of metal around his wrist. "Mine too."
"Same here," Jay confirmed, tapping uselessly at his wristband. "No signal, no power, nothing. It's like—"
He broke off suddenly, staring at something over Aaron's shoulder. His face had gone pale, the moonlight making him look almost ghostly.
"Jay?" Claire prompted. "What is it?"
Instead of answering, Jay pointed. Aaron and Claire turned to follow his gaze.
There, silhouetted against the night sky, was the unmistakable outline of a commercial aircraft's tail section, partially buried in the sand.
"Is that...?" Claire breathed.
Aaron felt his stomach drop. The tail section bore a familiar logo—Oceanic Airlines.
"No way," Jay muttered, already moving toward it. "No fucking way."
They approached cautiously, as though the wreckage might disappear if they moved too quickly. Up close, it was undeniably real—twisted metal, torn seats, scattered debris. But it looked...old. Weathered. As though it had been there for years.
"This doesn't make sense," Claire repeated, her voice tight with confusion and fear. "This plane crashed decades ago."
"Maybe it's a different Oceanic flight?" Aaron suggested, though he didn't believe it himself.
Jay had moved past the tail section and was now standing at the edge of the beach, looking at something else. "Guys," he called, his voice oddly subdued. "You need to see this."
They joined him, and Aaron felt his breath catch in his throat. Beyond the immediate area of the tail section were the remains of what appeared to be a small camp. Tattered tarps and makeshift shelters, mostly reclaimed by nature but still recognizable. Nearby, the blackened remains of a large signal fire, long since extinguished.
"It's the survivors' camp," Aaron whispered. "From Flight 815."
Claire shook her head in disbelief. "That's not possible. That was over forty years ago."
"Tell that to the evidence in front of us," Jay replied. He picked up a tattered piece of fabric from nearby—a faded blue airline blanket with the Oceanic logo still visible. "Either we've time-traveled, or..."
"Or what?" Claire demanded when he didn't continue.
Jay looked between them, his expression grim. "Or the stories our parents never told us about this place were even weirder than we imagined."
A soft groan from deeper in the jungle cut through the night air, silencing their speculation. The three exchanged glances.
"Someone's out there," Aaron said, already moving toward the sound. His doctor's instincts overrode any hesitation.
"Aaron, wait," Claire called after him. "We don't know what's in there!"
But Aaron was already pushing through the underbrush, following the sound. After a moment's hesitation, Claire and Jay hurried to catch up.
The jungle was dense and disorienting, especially in the limited moonlight that filtered through the canopy. Aaron moved cautiously but quickly, guided by the occasional pained sound that grew slightly louder as they progressed.
Finally, they emerged into a small clearing dominated by a grove of tall bamboo. And there, lying in the center of it, was a man.
Aaron rushed forward, Claire close behind, their medical training taking precedence over everything else. Jay hung back slightly, scanning the surrounding jungle warily.
The man was middle-aged, with short cropped hair. He wore tattered clothing—a navy shirt stained with dirt and blood, dark jeans equally worn. But it was the wound in his side that immediately captured Aaron's attention. A deep puncture wound, still oozing blood, though sluggishly now.
"He's lost a lot of blood," Aaron said clinically, pressing his fingers to the man's neck to find a weak, thready pulse. "And he's burning up. The wound is infected."
Claire had torn a strip from her own shirt and was using it to apply pressure to the injury. "We need antibiotics, proper medical supplies..."
"Yeah, good luck finding a pharmacy in the middle of Jurassic Park," Jay muttered, still keeping watch.
Aaron ignored him, focused entirely on the patient. He tilted the man's head back gently to ensure an open airway, then froze, his hand still supporting the back of the man's neck.
"Claire," he said, his voice suddenly strange. "Look at his face."
Claire glanced up from the wound she was tending, and Aaron saw the moment recognition hit her. Her face drained of color, and she jerked back as though she'd been shocked.
"Dad?" she whispered.
Jay's head snapped around at that. "What?"
Aaron couldn't speak, couldn't move. Because it was true. The unconscious, gravely injured man lying before them was unmistakably Jack Shepherd—not the seventy-year-old Chief of Surgery they knew, but a much younger version. The Jack who had been on the island all those years ago.
"That's impossible," Jay said, moving closer for a better look. "Jack is back in LA, probably rearranging my wedding seating chart as we speak."
"It's him," Claire insisted, her voice breaking. "It's my father."
The dying, unconscious form of Jack Shepherd lay on the bamboo grove floor, his face pale and drawn, a stark contrast to the lush greenery surrounding him.
"He's in septic shock," Aaron reported, his voice clinical despite the turmoil inside him. "The wound is infected, and he's lost a lot of blood."
Claire knelt opposite him, her hands already examining the deep gash in Jack's side. Even through her professional demeanor, Aaron could see the tremor in her fingers as she assessed her own father—a younger version of the man who had raised them.
"Penetrating trauma," she said, swallowing hard. "Looks like a knife wound. Deep. Possible intestinal perforation based on location." Her voice caught slightly. "He needs surgery, antibiotics, blood..."
"None of which we have here," Aaron finished grimly. He looked up at Jay, who stood frozen, staring at Jack's face with an unreadable expression. "Jay, I need you to go back to the beach camp. Look for any medical supplies, anything that might be useful. Alcohol, clean cloth, fresh water if you can find it."
Jay blinked, then nodded sharply. "On it," he said, then disappeared back through the vegetation toward the beach.
"We need to move him," Aaron told Claire, already assessing how best to transport the unconscious man. "Get him to shelter, clean the wound as best we can."
Claire nodded, her professional demeanor firmly in place despite the impossible situation. "I'll take his legs if you can support his upper body."
Together, they carefully lifted Jack, who groaned but didn't regain consciousness—a bad sign, Aaron knew. They moved slowly through the jungle, trying to jostle their patient as little as possible, until they emerged back onto the beach.
Jay was already there, rummaging through the abandoned shelters. "Found some stuff!" he called, holding up a faded backpack. "First aid kit, some old antibiotics—expired, obviously—and what looks like a sewing kit."
"Bring it to that shelter," Aaron directed, nodding toward the sturdiest-looking of the structures. "We need to get him out of the sun."
Hours passed like molasses. The makeshift shelter—little more than salvaged metal and wood covered with airplane tarp—trapped the humid island air inside. Aaron wiped sweat from Jack's brow for what felt like the hundredth time, his movements mechanical, his mind spinning.
They had done everything they could with their limited resources. The wound was cleaned and stitched, but Jack's condition continued to deteriorate. His skin burned with fever, his breathing became increasingly labored, and occasionally he would thrash in delirium, muttering names they didn't recognize.
"The antibiotics aren't working," Claire said, her voice tight with desperation as she checked Jack's pulse again. The professional mask she'd maintained was beginning to crack, revealing the terrified daughter underneath. "Aaron, his fever's still climbing."
Aaron nodded grimly, placing a damp cloth on Jack's forehead. "We need stronger medications. The infection is spreading."
Jay, who had been keeping watch at the entrance of the shelter, turned to face them. "I've been through every structure in this camp. If there's anything else medical here, I can't find it."
"There has to be something," Claire insisted, her voice rising. "We can't just let him die. He can't—" She broke off, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to fall.
"Hey, Sparks," Jay said softly, moving to her side and placing a hand on her shoulder. "We'll figure this out. Your dad's too stubborn to check out this easily. Trust me, I know—the man's been threatening to haunt me for years if I ever hurt you."
A weak smile flickered across Claire's face before fading. "This isn't my dad, Jay. Not yet. He doesn't even know who I am."
The reality of their situation hung heavy in the air. The man before them was Jack Shepherd, but not the Jack who had raised them, who had taught them, who had loved them. This Jack was decades younger, wounded and dying in a time before they were even born—or in Aaron's case, when he was still a baby.
Aaron pushed himself to his feet. "I'm going to search the rest of his things. Maybe there's something we missed."
He moved to the corner of the shelter where they'd placed Jack's battered backpack. As he began methodically going through it again, Jack suddenly jerked on the makeshift bed, his back arching in pain as a hoarse cry escaped his lips.
"Dad!" Claire exclaimed, rushing to his side.
Jack's eyes flew open, wild and unfocused, darting around the shelter in confusion. "Kate?" he gasped, his gaze landing on Claire. "Kate, you came back..."
Claire froze, her breath catching. The resemblance between her and her mother had always been remarked upon, but now it seemed like a cruel twist of fate. To Jack's delirious mind, she was Kate Austen—the woman who would one day become her mother.
Aaron and Jay exchanged a worried glance.
"Yes," Claire said softly after a moment's hesitation, taking Jack's hand. "I'm here."
Jack's fingers curled weakly around hers. "I thought you were gone," he murmured, his voice raw with emotion and pain. "I thought I'd lost you too."
Claire's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised, her voice thick.
Jack's eyes drifted closed again, his body relaxing marginally, though the fever still burned bright in his cheeks. Claire continued to hold his hand, her shoulders shaking slightly with the effort of containing her emotions.
Jay moved silently to her side, placing a supportive hand on her back. "You okay?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
Aaron, meanwhile, had continued his search through Jack's belongings, trying to give Claire a moment to compose herself. His fingers suddenly brushed against something hard and rectangular at the bottom of the backpack. Frowning, he pulled out an old metal first aid box he hadn't noticed before. It was faded and dented, but when he opened it, his heart leapt.
"Claire," he called urgently. "I found something."
Inside the box were several vials of medication, a few sealed syringes, and a bottle of what appeared to be oral antibiotics. Aaron quickly examined the labels, his medical training allowing him to identify them despite their age.
"Morphine," he confirmed, holding up one of the vials. "And some broad-spectrum antibiotics. They're old, but not as old as the ones we found earlier. They might still be effective."
Claire looked up, hope flickering in her tear-streaked face. "Strong enough to help?"
"Not ideal, but better than nothing," Aaron replied, already preparing a syringe. "The morphine will help with his pain and might bring down his fever a bit. The antibiotics..." He hesitated. "They're not as strong as what we'd use for a perforated intestine, but they're our best shot right now."
He handed the syringe to Claire. "You should do it. He seems to respond to you."
Claire took the syringe with a trembling hand, then steadied herself with a deep breath. She gently rolled Jack's arm to expose the vein at the crook of his elbow, swabbed the area with an alcohol pad from the kit, and administered the morphine with the precision of a practiced surgeon.
"The antibiotics are oral," Aaron said, shaking two pills into his palm. "We'll need to get him to swallow them somehow."
Claire nodded, already reaching for the water bottle Jay had found. "Jack," she said softly, using the tone she'd heard her mother use a thousand times to calm her father. "I need you to wake up for a minute. You need to take these pills."
Jack's eyelids fluttered, and he moaned softly as consciousness returned.
"Kate?" he murmured again, his gaze unfocused.
"Yes," Claire replied, her voice steady despite the emotional turmoil she must have been feeling. "I need you to take these, Jack. They'll help with the infection."
Jay watched in silence, his usual sarcastic demeanor nowhere to be seen as he observed the strange, heartbreaking scene before him—his fiancée pretending to be her own mother in order to save her father's life.
Jack struggled to sit up, grimacing in pain. Aaron moved forward to support him while Claire held the pills to his lips.
"Swallow these," she instructed gently.
Jack complied without question, trusting 'Kate' implicitly. After getting the pills down with a few sips of water, he collapsed back against the makeshift bed, exhaustion evident in every line of his body.
"Stay," he whispered, his fingers weakly grasping for Claire's hand. "Please stay."
"I will," Claire promised, her voice thick with emotion as she reclaimed his hand.
Jack's eyes drifted closed again, the morphine beginning to take effect, smoothing the lines of pain from his face. Within moments, he was unconscious once more, though his breathing seemed slightly less labored.
"You should rest," Aaron told Claire gently. "I'll watch him for a while."
She shook her head stubbornly. "I'm not leaving him."
"At least sit down before you fall down," Jay insisted, guiding her to a seat beside Jack's bed. "You're no good to him if you collapse from exhaustion."
Claire relented, allowing herself to be seated, though she maintained her grip on Jack's hand. After a moment's hesitation, she began to speak softly, her voice barely audible over the distant sound of waves.
"When I was little, maybe six or seven, I had nightmares. Bad ones. Dad would sit by my bed for hours, reading to me until I fell asleep." A sad smile touched her lips. "He had this book of old myths and legends. I loved the Greek ones, especially. He'd read them over and over, night after night, in that calm doctor voice of his."
Jay knelt beside her chair, his expression softer than Aaron had ever seen it. "Tell him one," he suggested quietly.
Claire looked up, startled. "What?"
"Tell him one of the stories," Jay repeated. "It might help. You know, somewhere in that feverish brain of his."
Claire hesitated, then nodded slowly. Settling more comfortably in her chair, she began to speak, her voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of a storyteller.
"Once, long ago, in the golden age of gods and heroes, there lived a healer named Asclepius..."
Aaron stepped outside the shelter, ostensibly to get more fresh water, but in reality to give himself a moment alone. The weight of their situation—trapped in the past, trying to save a man who would one day raise them—was crushing down on him with each passing minute.
Jack's condition was worse than he'd let on to Claire and Jay. The signs of peritonitis were unmistakable to a trained trauma surgeon like Aaron—the rigid abdomen, the increasing fever, the laboured breathing. The antibiotics they'd found might slow the infection, but without surgery to repair the intestinal perforation, Jack's chances were minimal.
And surgery was impossible with their current resources. No sterile environment, no proper instruments, no anesthesia beyond the limited morphine they'd found. Attempting it would likely kill Jack faster than the infection.
The realization hit Aaron like a physical blow. After everything Jack had done for him—raising him when his own mother was lost, guiding him through medical school, being the father Aaron had never known—he might fail to save the man's life when it mattered most.
The irony was almost unbearable.
Aaron made it to the edge of the jungle before the emotions overwhelmed him. With a strangled cry of frustration, he slammed his fist into the trunk of a tree, welcoming the sharp pain that shot through his hand. Again and again he struck the unyielding bark, his professional composure shattering completely.
"Damn it!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the trees. "What's the point of being a surgeon if I can't save him? What's the fucking point?"
His legs gave out suddenly, and he sank to his knees in the sand, his bloodied hand throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Tears blurred his vision—tears he hadn't allowed himself to shed since they'd found Jack lying in that bamboo grove.
"I can't lose you," he whispered, though there was no one to hear his confession. "Not like this. Not when I never got to tell you..."
A movement at the edge of his vision made Aaron freeze. He wasn't alone.
Slowly, he turned his head to see a figure standing at the treeline—a tall man in what had once been a suit but was now little more than tattered rags. His silver hair was long and unkempt, his face weathered and bearded, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—were sharp and alert, taking in Aaron's distress with clinical detachment.
"Christian," Aaron whispered in disbelief, the name coming to him from old photographs he'd seen in Jack's study. "Christian Shepherd."
The man tensed, his hand moving to what Aaron now realized was a crude spear at his side. "How do you know my name?" he demanded, his voice hoarse as if from disuse, yet still carrying the unmistakable tone of authority.
Aaron stared, momentarily speechless. Christian Shepherd had died years before Oceanic 815 crashed on this island. Yet here he stood, looking very much alive—and like he'd been surviving alone in the jungle for months.
"You're supposed to be dead," Aaron blurted out, still kneeling in the sand.
Christian's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the spear. "And you're supposed to answer my question," he countered, taking a step forward. "How do you know who I am? You're not from the flight. I've watched the camp. I know everyone who survived."
Before Aaron could respond, the jungle behind Christian erupted with movement. A fiery streak cut through the air, embedding itself in a tree just inches from where Christian stood—a flaming arrow.
"Get down!" Aaron shouted, launching himself forward on instinct. He tackled Christian to the ground as more arrows arced through the air, trailing fire against the darkening sky.
"What the hell?" Christian sputtered as Aaron dragged him toward the beach.
"Run now, questions later," Aaron replied tersely, pulling the older man to his feet and propelling him toward the camp.
They sprinted across the sand, more flaming arrows falling around them like deadly rain. Shouts and the sound of gunfire erupted from the direction of the shelter where Aaron had left Claire, Jay, and Jack.
"Claire! Jay!" Aaron called as they approached.
Jay appeared at the entrance of the shelter, a sleek pistol in his hand—his federal-issue sidearm that Aaron hadn't even realized he was carrying. He fired two precise shots into the treeline, then beckoned urgently.
"Get in here!" he shouted. "We've got company, and they're not the welcoming committee!"
Aaron pushed Christian ahead of him into the shelter, diving in after him as an arrow thudded into the sand where he'd been standing. Jay continued to provide covering fire, his expression grim but focused.
Inside, Claire was hunched protectively over Jack's unconscious form, her eyes wide with fear. "Aaron! What's happening?"
Christian's gaze immediately locked onto Jack's prone form, and for a brief moment, his weathered face revealed raw emotion—shock, grief, concern—before his features hardened again into the inscrutable mask he'd worn before.
"Jack," he whispered, taking a step toward the makeshift bed.
Claire instinctively moved to block his path, her body positioning itself between Christian and Jack with a protectiveness that was almost feral. "Who are you?" she demanded, though the resemblance between father and son made the answer obvious.
"Hostiles," Aaron answered her earlier question, cutting off any response from Christian. "They're attacking the camp."
Jay ducked back inside, reloading his weapon with practiced efficiency. "At least a dozen, moving through the trees. Primitive weapons mostly, but they know what they're doing." He glanced at Christian, his eyes narrowing. "Who's this?"
"Christian Shepherd," Aaron replied simply. "Jack's father."
Jay's eyebrows shot up, but he merely nodded, accepting this impossibility with the same aplomb he'd shown for their time travel. "Well, family reunion's gonna have to wait. We need to move. This shelter's too exposed."
Another volley of arrows struck the structure, one piercing through the tarp roof and landing dangerously close to Jack's bed. Claire flinched but stood her ground, still positioned protectively between Christian and her father.
"The fuselage," Christian said, his voice rough but authoritative. "It's more defensible. Thick metal walls."
"How would you know that?" Claire challenged, her suspicion evident.
Christian's eyes narrowed, assessing her with a calculating gaze that reminded Aaron forcefully of Jack. "Because I've been on this island for months, young lady. Watching. Surviving." He gestured to his ragged appearance. "You think I look like this for fashion?"
Another arrow struck the shelter, ending the standoff. "Debate later, move now," Jay ordered, taking charge with the smooth authority of his federal training. "Aaron, help me with Jack. Claire, grab the medical supplies. And you—" he pointed at Christian, "—make yourself useful and lead the way."
Christian bristled visibly at being ordered around but seemed to recognize the urgency of the situation. With a curt nod, he moved to the entrance, peering out cautiously.
"Clear for the moment," he reported. "But they're regrouping. We need to move fast."
Jay and Aaron carefully lifted Jack between them, while Claire gathered the precious medical supplies. As they emerged from the shelter, the hostiles immediately renewed their attack, arrows and spears raining down from the treeline.
They sprinted across the exposed beach, Christian leading the way with surprising agility for a man his age. Jay and Aaron struggled to keep Jack stable between them, and Claire brought up the rear, occasionally turning to fire Jay's backup weapon at their pursuers.
They had almost reached the relative safety of the fuselage when a new sound cut through the chaos—a deep, mechanical rumbling that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"What the hell is that?" Christian shouted over the noise, faltering in his stride.
The air above the beach shimmered like a heat mirage, and suddenly, impossibly, a massive aircraft appeared out of thin air—materializing as if by magic approximately fifty yards from their position. It was unlike anything Aaron had ever seen—sleek, matte-black, and unmistakably advanced even by 2040 standards.
"That's our ride!" Jay whooped, recognizing the craft despite its apparent impossibility.
A ramp lowered from the rear of the aircraft, and a figure appeared in the opening—tall, dark-haired, with a military stance and a high-powered rifle that he immediately began firing with precision at the hostiles in the treeline.
"Sam?" Claire gasped, momentarily shocked into immobility.
"Move your asses!" Sam Shepherd shouted, continuing to provide covering fire. "And bring the tourists!"
Next to Sam stood a large, gray and white Siberian husky, its hackles raised as it growled toward the jungle, ready to defend its master.
"Even brought the furball," Jay muttered under his breath, though relief was evident in his tone. "Typical Paw Patrol."
They changed course, sprinting toward the aircraft instead of the fuselage. Christian hesitated briefly, eyeing the impossible craft with suspicion, but the renewed barrage of arrows from the jungle convinced him to follow.
Sam continued firing precise shots, forcing the hostiles to keep their distance, while the husky—Koda—barked ferociously beside him, adding to the psychological deterrent.
"Inside, now!" Sam ordered as they reached the ramp. "Jay, covering fire on the left flank!"
Jay immediately moved into position, firing in perfect coordination with Sam, the two agents working with the seamless efficiency of longtime partners despite their apparent separation.
Aaron and Claire managed to get Jack up the ramp and into the craft, while Christian followed more cautiously, his eyes darting around the advanced interior with undisguised shock.
"What the hell is this thing?" he demanded, taking in the sleek control panels, holographic displays, and what appeared to be a fully equipped medical bay at the rear of the main cabin.
"Questions later," Sam replied tersely, backing up the ramp with Koda at his heels. "Jay! We're clear!"
Jay fired a final volley before retreating into the aircraft.
The ramp sealed with a hydraulic hiss, cutting off the sounds of the island and enclosing them in the sleek, futuristic interior of the aircraft. For a moment, no one spoke, the sudden transition from primitive jungle to advanced technology leaving them momentarily disoriented.
Sam moved immediately to a control panel, his fingers dancing across holographic interfaces. "Engaging full cloaking protocols. They won't be able to see or detect us."
The aircraft hummed softly as systems activated, and through the small viewports, they could see the hostiles outside searching the area with confused expressions, arrows nocked but with no target to aim at.
Christian stood rigid near the closed ramp, his eyes darting around the cabin with barely concealed shock. His weathered appearance was even more striking under the aircraft's bright lighting—ragged clothes hanging off a frame that had once been powerful but was now lean with months of rough island living, his silver hair long and matted, beard untrimmed. But his eyes remained sharp, calculating, taking in every detail of their impossible surroundings.
His gaze immediately locked onto Jack, who lay unconscious on the emergency stretcher Aaron and Claire had used to carry him aboard. Without a word, Christian strode toward his son, only to find his path blocked by Claire, who stepped between them with her jaw set in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Jack himself.
"Back off," she said, her voice low but firm.
Christian's eyes narrowed. "That's my son."
"I'm well aware of who he is," Claire replied, not budging an inch. "But right now, he needs immediate medical attention, not a family reunion."
Christian studied her face, recognition flickering in his eyes. "You look like her," he said abruptly. "Kate. But there's something of Jack in you too." His gaze sharpened. "Who are you people? Really?"
"That's not your concern right now," Aaron interjected, already moving to transfer Jack to the medical bay. "What matters is saving his life."
Christian's weathered face hardened. "I'm a surgeon. I can help."
"We've got it covered," Claire replied coldly.
"The hell you do," Christian snapped, his professional demeanour cracking to reveal genuine concern. "That's a perforated bowel with advanced sepsis. He needs immediate surgery by someone with experience, not whatever amateur hour you two are planning."
Jay stepped forward, positioning himself between Christian and the others. "Amateur hour?" he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "Doc and Sparks here are two of the best surgeons on the west coast in our time. So maybe dial back the attitude, Grizzly Adams."
Christian's eyes flashed. "I don't know who you think you are—"
"He's my fiancé," Claire cut in sharply. "And I'm Jack's daughter."
The declaration landed like a physical blow. Christian stared at her, momentarily speechless, then his eyes narrowed in disbelief.
"That's impossible," he said flatly. "Jack doesn't have children."
"Not in 2007, he doesn't," Sam interjected, joining the standoff after securing the aircraft's systems. "But in 2040, he has two." He gestured to himself and Claire. "Twins."
Christian's gaze swung between them, assessing, calculating. "You expect me to believe you're from the future? That you're my... grandchildren?"
"Believe what you want," Claire replied, her focus already returning to Jack. "But we're wasting time. Aaron, help me get him to the medical bay."
As they began to move Jack, Christian stepped forward again, his face set in stubborn lines. "I'm coming with you. Whatever you might think of me, I'm a surgeon, and that's my son."
"No," Claire said firmly. "You're not."
Christian's composure finally broke. "Listen to me, young lady—"
"No, you listen," Claire snapped, whirling to face him, all her fear and stress focusing into anger. "For thirty-five years, I've heard stories about Christian Shepherd. The brilliant surgeon. The demanding father. The man whose death broke Jack so badly he could barely function. The ghost that haunted him for years." Her voice cracked slightly. "So forgive me if I'm not eager to let you anywhere near him now."
Christian recoiled as if slapped, but his own anger quickly reasserted itself. "You don't know the first thing about me, or my relationship with my son."
"I know enough," Claire retorted. "I know he spent years blaming himself for your death. I know he carried that guilt until it nearly destroyed him."
"Claire," Aaron said quietly, placing a hand on her arm. "Jack needs surgery. Now."
The urgency in his voice cut through the tension. Claire nodded, visibly composing herself, and turned away from Christian to help Aaron move Jack to the medical bay.
Christian made to follow them, but Jay stepped deliberately into his path. "That's not happening," he said simply.
"Get out of my way, boy," Christian growled, the months of island survival evident in the feral edge to his voice.
Jay didn't budge. "Not a chance."
For a moment, it seemed like Christian might physically try to force his way past, his body tensing with controlled fury. Sam moved quickly to intervene, placing a hand on Christian's shoulder.
"Dr. Shepherd," he said firmly. "We need to talk. Upstairs."
Christian shrugged Sam's hand off violently. "My son is dying, and you want to chat?"
"Your son is in the best possible hands," Sam replied, his voice steady but with an edge of steel. "Aaron and Claire will do everything they can to save him. And you're going to come with me, or I'll have you restrained."
The threat hung in the air between them. Christian's eyes darted toward the medical bay, then back to Sam, measuring his options. Finally, with visible reluctance, he nodded once, sharply.
"Fine," he bit out. "Lead the way."
Sam gestured toward a spiral staircase at the far end of the main cabin. "Upper level. Now."
As Christian moved ahead of him, Sam exchanged a quick glance with Jay. "Keep an eye on things down here. I'll handle him."
Jay nodded, his expression grim. "Be careful, Paw Patrol. That one's got teeth."
"So does Koda," Sam replied with a thin smile, nodding toward the husky who had remained alertly at his side throughout the confrontation. "Come on, girl."
The upper level of the SHIELD616 was configured as a combination of command center and living quarters, with advanced communications equipment alongside more mundane amenities like a small kitchenette and seating area. Christian took it all in with a quick, assessing glance before turning to face Sam, his posture defensive.
"Say what you have to say," he said curtly.
Sam studied him for a moment, noting the exhaustion that Christian was trying to hide behind hostility. The man had clearly been surviving on his own for months, and it had taken a toll, despite his efforts to maintain his authority and dignity.
"When was the last time you ate a proper meal?" Sam asked, the question clearly not what Christian had been expecting. "Or slept somewhere safe?"
Christian's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What does that matter?"
"It matters because you're about to fall over," Sam replied bluntly. "And that won't help Jack."
Something flashed in Christian's eyes—genuine concern for his son breaking through the hard exterior—before his mask slammed back into place. "I'm fine."
"You're not," Sam contradicted him, moving to the kitchenette area. "Sit down before you fall down. I'll get you some food while we talk."
Christian remained standing, his stance rigid. "I don't need your charity."
Sam sighed, turning back to face him. "It's not charity. It's basic human decency. Now sit down, Dr. Shepherd, before I make you sit down."
The implied threat hung between them. Christian's eyes narrowed as he reassessed the younger man, clearly noting the quiet confidence in Sam's posture that spoke of advanced training.
"You think you could take me?" Christian asked, his tone almost curious beneath the hostility.
"I know I could," Sam replied simply. "But I'd rather not have to."
For a long moment, neither man moved. Then Christian gave a short, humourless laugh and sank into one of the chairs, the movement betraying just how exhausted he truly was.
"Fine," he conceded. "Food would be... acceptable."
Sam nodded and turned back to the kitchenette, retrieving a meal pack and bottle of water from a storage compartment. As he prepared the food, he kept Christian in his peripheral vision, noting how the older man's eyes continued to take in every detail of their surroundings.
"So," Christian said after a moment. "You claim to be Jack's son. From the future."
"I don't claim anything," Sam replied calmly, placing the food and water in front of Christian. "I am Jack's son. And you're my grandfather, whether either of us likes it or not."
Christian eyed the meal suspiciously before hunger won out and he began to eat with controlled restraint, clearly trying not to appear as ravenous as he must have felt.
"You have no proof of this," he pointed out between careful bites.
"Beyond the family resemblance and the fact that we just rescued you with technology that won't exist for another thirty years?" Sam asked dryly. "I suppose not."
"Technology can be faked," Christian countered. "And resemblance is circumstantial at best."
Sam sighed, leaning against the counter. "You want proof? Fine. Your full name is Christian Alexander Shepherd. You were born in 1948 in Springfield, Massachusetts. You married Margo in 1963, and Jack was born in 1966." He paused, watching Christian's face. "And in 2004, Operation Cerberus went sideways, forcing you to fake your own death to protect your family."
The effect was immediate and electric. Christian's entire demeanour changed in an instant, food forgotten as he launched himself from the chair with surprising speed, slamming Sam against the wall with his forearm pressed against the younger man's throat.
"Who the hell are you?" Christian hissed, his eyes wild with a dangerous mixture of fear and rage. "CIA? Hanso? How do you know about Cerberus?"
Koda growled, hackles raised, but remained at heel when Sam gave her a quick hand signal. Despite the pressure on his windpipe, Sam remained calm, making no move to defend himself yet.
"I told you," he replied evenly. "I'm your grandson. And in my time, some of those files have been declassified."
"Bullshit," Christian snarled, increasing the pressure. "No one knows about Cerberus except the people who were there, and they're all dead. All except—"
"All except you," Sam finished for him. "The spook who went too deep and had to disappear when it all went to hell."
Something dangerous flickered in Christian's eyes. "You're lying."
"I'm not," Sam replied calmly. "And you need to let me go now, Dr. Shepherd. Before this gets unpleasant."
Christian laughed harshly. "You think I'm afraid of you, boy?"
"No," Sam said, still making no move to free himself. "But you should be."
The warning was clear, but Christian was too far gone in his paranoia and protective rage to heed it. "Tell me who sent you," he demanded. "Tell me now, or—"
Sam moved.
It happened so quickly that Christian had no time to react. One moment Sam was pinned against the wall, the next Christian was flat on his back on the floor, arm twisted painfully behind him, with Sam's knee pressing into his spine. The reversal was so complete and efficient that it momentarily shocked Christian into silence.
"I told you," Sam said quietly, maintaining the hold without apparent effort. "I'm Jack's son. Samuel Christian Shepherd. Named after you, though I'm starting to wonder if that was a compliment or not."
Christian struggled briefly, then went still, recognizing the futility of resistance against someone with clearly superior training and physical condition.
"How did you—" he began, then broke off as Sam shifted position slightly, allowing him to turn his head enough to see his captor's face clearly for the first time.
The resemblance to Jack was unmistakable from this angle—the same shape to the jaw, the same intensity in the eyes. But there was something else there too, something harder, more controlled. Something that reminded Christian, uncomfortably, of himself.
"Let me up," Christian said, his voice calmer now.
Sam studied him for a moment, then nodded and released the hold, stepping back to give Christian space. Koda remained alert at Sam's side, still watching the older man warily.
Christian rose slowly, dignity somewhat restored despite his ignominious defeat. He eyed Sam with new respect and wariness.
"That wasn't standard federal training," he observed, rubbing his wrist where Sam's hold had restrained him.
"No," Sam agreed simply. "It wasn't."
Christian nodded slowly, processing this. "Night Division," he said, the words not a question. "Like me."
Sam didn't confirm or deny, merely gesturing Christian back to his seat. "Your food's getting cold."
After a moment's hesitation, Christian returned to the chair, though his posture remained tense. "You still haven't explained how you know about Cerberus."
Sam sighed, taking a seat across from him. "Like I said, some files get declassified eventually. Not all the details, but enough." He paused, studying Christian's weathered face. "I know you weren't just a surgeon, Dr. Shepherd. You were a Night agent using medical missions as cover for intelligence operations. And Cerberus was the one that went bad."
Christian's face remained carefully neutral, but something in his eyes suggested Sam had hit close to the mark.
"You expect me to believe that Jack told you all this?" he asked skeptically. "My son had no idea about my... other work."
"He didn't," Sam confirmed. "Not for many years. It was declassified enough to tell him a small part of it when I was sixteen. Someone from the agency came to the house." Sam's expression grew distant with the memory. "Dad didn't take it well at first. Got impressively drunk that weekend, if I recall."
A flicker of what might have been guilt crossed Christian's face before he masked it. "And he told you?"
Sam shook his head. "Not right away. It was years later, when I was in my late twenties and joining the academy myself. That's when he gave me your medals."
"Medals," Christian repeated, his voice carefully neutral but with an undercurrent of surprise. "Jack kept those?"
"In a locked box in his office," Sam confirmed. "Along with your service photo. The official one, not the surgeon publicity shot."
Christian looked away, his expression unreadable. "And what did Jack tell you about me, exactly?"
"Not much," Sam admitted. "I think he still doesn't know the full scope of what you did. But he understood enough to know you saved a lot of lives. That you weren't just the man he thought you were." Sam paused. "It changed things for him. Helped him find some peace with your memory."
Christian absorbed this in silence, his hands clasped tightly on the table. Finally, he looked up, his gaze direct. "And what about you? What do you think of your grandfather the spy?"
Sam considered the question carefully. "I think you did what you thought was necessary to protect people. Including your family." His expression hardened slightly. "But I also think the way you handled your disappearance caused Jack more pain than it prevented."
Christian flinched almost imperceptibly. "You have no idea what I was protecting him from."
"Maybe not," Sam conceded. "But I do know what it did to him. The guilt he carried for years, believing he was responsible for your death."
"That wasn't my intention," Christian said quietly, an unexpected vulnerability in his voice. "The drinking, the malpractice—that was all real. I had... lost my way. The agency was using that, building my cover as a washed-up surgeon." He shook his head. "When Cerberus imploded, they helped me disappear. It was rushed, messy. I never wanted Jack to blame himself."
Sam studied him, seeing beyond the hardened exterior to the genuine regret beneath. "But he did. For a long time."
Christian nodded once, his eyes distant. "And now? In your time?"
"He's found peace," Sam replied honestly. "Built a life. Became a better father than you ever were to him." He held Christian's gaze steadily. "No offense."
A ghost of a smile touched Christian's lips. "None taken. It wouldn't be hard to improve on my parenting."
An unexpected moment of understanding passed between them, grandson and grandfather united in their assessment of Christian's failings as a father.
"So," Christian said after a moment, gesturing around the aircraft. "Night Division has come a long way from my day."
"SHIELD616 isn't standard issue," Sam admitted, accepting the change of subject. "It's a prototype. I... borrowed it when Claire, Aaron, and Jay disappeared."
Christian's eyebrow raised. "Borrowed without authorization, I'm guessing."
"Something like that," Sam confirmed with a slight smile.
"And the dog?" Christian nodded toward Koda, who had settled at Sam's feet but remained alert.
"Koda," Sam supplied, reaching down to scratch the husky's ears. "My partner. Specially trained for fieldwork."
Christian nodded, professional interest overriding his earlier hostility. "I've never seen an agent and animal work so seamlessly. She didn't even attack when I had you pinned."
"She would have if I'd given the signal," Sam replied calmly. "But I didn't need her help."
"Clearly," Christian conceded dryly, rubbing his shoulder where it had impacted the floor. After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "How bad is Jack by your standards? Really?"
The abrupt return to their most pressing concern caught Sam slightly off guard, but he appreciated the direct approach. "It's serious," he admitted. "Perforated intestine, systemic infection. In our time, it would be challenging but manageable. Here, with limited resources..."
"But you have resources," Christian pointed out, gesturing around the aircraft. "This thing is practically a flying hospital."
"It is," Sam confirmed. "But Aaron and Claire are still working limited resources and agency equipment they've never used before. There's a learning curve."
Christian's face darkened. "Which is why they should let me help. I may not have your future tech, but I've got thirty years of surgical experience."
Sam studied him thoughtfully. "They will," he said finally. "If they need it. But you have to understand their hesitation. To them, you're not just Jack's father—you're the man whose 'death' nearly destroyed him. The ghost that haunted him for years."
Christian absorbed this in silence, his expression troubled. "I never meant for it to happen that way," he said finally, his voice softer than Sam had yet heard it. "I loved my son. I still do."
"I believe you," Sam replied quietly. "But you have a strange way of showing it."
Christian looked away, unable to dispute the assessment. "How did you end up here?" he asked after a moment, clearly seeking safer ground. "On the island, in this time?"
Sam leaned back in his chair, giving Christian the space to process his emotions. "We're not entirely sure. Claire, Aaron, and Jay were having dinner in Los Angeles when some kind of temporal event occurred. They vanished. I tracked the temporal signature and followed them here in the SHIELD616."
"And Jack?" Christian pressed. "How did he end up half-dead in a bamboo grove?"
"That, we don't know," Sam admitted. "In the history we know, Jack survived the island. He was rescued, along with Kate and a few others. He went on to rebuild his life, marry Kate, have Claire and me, raise Aaron..." He shrugged. "Whatever happened here, in this version of events, it's different from the timeline we know."
Christian's brow furrowed in thought. "Time travel," he muttered, shaking his head. "As if this island wasn't strange enough already."
Koda suddenly raised her head, ears perked, and let out a low whine. Sam immediately tensed, his hand moving to his weapon.
"What is it, girl?" he murmured.
The husky stood, padding over to the stairs leading down to the medical bay, her posture alert but not aggressive. A moment later, Aaron appeared in the doorway, his expression grim.
"We need help," he said without preamble. "Jack's going into hemorrhagic shock. We need another set of hands."
Christian was on his feet instantly. "I can help," he said, all previous antagonism gone, replaced by professional urgency.
Aaron hesitated briefly, then nodded. "Scrub in. We're using an auto-sterilization field, but standard protocols still apply."
As Christian followed Aaron toward the medical bay, Jay moved to intercept them. For a tense moment, it seemed like he might block Christian's path, but instead, he simply looked the older man directly in the eyes.
"Just so we're clear," Jay said quietly, "that's not just your son in there. That's Claire's father, Aaron's uncle, and Sam's father. He raised us. All of us. So if you do anything—anything—to jeopardize his chances, you'll be dealing with me. Understood?"
Christian held his gaze steadily. "Understood. But you should know something too, young man. Whatever you might think of me, whatever Jack might have told you—I love my son. I always have."
Jay studied him for a moment longer, then stepped aside. "Prove it," he said simply. "By saving his life."
Christian nodded once, then followed Aaron into the medical bay.
Jay returned to where Sam still stood, Koda now back at his master's side. "Think we can trust him?" he asked quietly.
Sam scratched the husky's ears absently, his expression thoughtful. "I think we don't have much choice right now. And besides..." he glanced toward the medical bay, "family is complicated. But it's still family."
"Speaking of complicated," Jay said, dropping into a seat with a sigh, "what the hell took you so long to find us, Paw Patrol? Get lost chasing rabbits with the furball?"
Sam's lips twitched, the tension of the moment broken by their familiar banter. "You know, some people might show a little gratitude for being rescued from hostile territory."
"Gratitude?" Jay scoffed, though there was no real heat in his tone. "I had everything under control."
"Right," Sam drawled, patting Koda's head as the husky settled at his feet. "That's why you were running for your life while being shot at with flaming arrows."
"I prefer to think of it as a strategic relocation," Jay countered. "Besides, if you'd been there from the start instead of playing Antarctic explorer with Lassie here, we might not have ended up in this mess."
Koda growled softly at the nickname, and Sam smiled. "She doesn't appreciate the comparison to a collie. Huskies have standards."
"That mutt would sell you out for a piece of bacon, and you know it," Jay retorted, though he reached down to give Koda an affectionate scratch when she padded over to investigate him. "Traitor," he muttered as the husky leaned into his touch.
"So what's the plan?" Jay asked, his tone shifting to seriousness. "Assuming Jack pulls through, how do we get home?"
Sam's expression sobered. "I've been tracking the temporal distortion patterns. There seems to be some kind of... ripple effect. Like waves in a pond, but through time instead of water."
"Very poetic, Shakespeare. What does that actually mean for us?"
"It means," Sam explained patiently, "that we might be able to ride one of those ripples back to our time. The SHIELD616 has temporal shielding that could potentially protect us during the transition."
"Might? Potentially?" Jay repeated skeptically. "Those aren't exactly the confidence-inspiring words I was hoping for."
Sam shrugged. "It's experimental tech. And we're dealing with time travel, Jay. Not exactly an exact science."
"Fair point," Jay conceded. "And what about our newest family member?" He nodded toward the medical bay where Christian had disappeared. "We bringing Grandpa Grizzly Adams back with us?"
Sam frowned, considering the question. "I don't know. That might create a paradox. If Christian returns in 2007, it changes our entire timeline."
"But if he doesn't, he stays trapped here alone," Jay pointed out. "Which, given what he did to Jack, might be fitting, but still..."
"It's not our decision to make," Sam said firmly. "When the time comes, we'll present the options. But ultimately, it will be up to him."
Jay nodded, uncharacteristically somber. "And up to Jack, if he pulls through."
"When," Sam corrected. "When he pulls through. They're the best medical team we could ask for."
"Even with Dr. Frankenstein in there helping them?"
Sam smiled faintly. "Christian Shepherd is many things, but by all accounts, he was a brilliant surgeon. And right now, that's what Jack needs most."
The conversation lapsed into silence, both men lost in their own thoughts as they waited for news from the medical bay. Outside, the island continued its mysterious existence, indifferent to the drama unfolding within the cloaked aircraft. And inside, three generations of Shepherds fought together against time itself, determined to rewrite a history that had not yet come to pass.
TBC...
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