Ben woke up early on his birthday. He stepped into his office to grab some papers, making some effort to be quiet.

He watched Valerie as she slept on the sofa. She was curled up, facing the back of the couch, the thick blanket pulled up to her neck.

He sighed to himself. It had been weeks, and he hadn't been able to put that dream out of his mind.

There was a bitterness in knowing the way that Valerie had felt about her version of him—knowing that she had burned for that man—ached for him—made love to him. It wasn't that he wanted her—it was a far simpler thing; he had never understood what he was missing—never really known what that kind of genuine passion was like. Now that he had tasted how it felt to be so intensely wanted, the absence of meaningful intimacy in his life stung in a way that it hadn't before.

"Happy birthday," she said, yawning. She stretched, cracking her stiff neck.

He was startled—suddenly nervous that she'd noticed him watching her.

"I didn't get you anything," she added, her lips curling slowly into a sly grin.

"That's alright," he answered dismissively.

"Let me make you breakfast," she offered, sitting up.

"You don't have to do that." Her generosity made him uncomfortable.

She made a face at him.

"Fine," he conceded. "Thank you—for remembering."

She frowned slightly before replying. "It's not the kind of thing I could forget."

She pulled her long hair into a high ponytail as she stood up. She'd taken to wearing an old undershirt of his to sleep in, and it hung loosely over her stretchy black shorts. He'd tried not to read anything into the choice, but the conclusion that she'd worn his clothes out of some affection for him was hard to avoid.

She stretched, contorting herself until her back let out a series of pops.

"Not the best mattress," she noted idly.

"You could sleep with me, I suppose," he suggested. "In my bed, I mean," he corrected immediately, feeling the hot rush of blood to his cheeks. "It's more spacious than the tent was," he added sheepishly.

"If you're worried about the optics, Linus," she replied, "you could always sleep on the couch." She shot a smirk over her shoulder as she disappeared into the hall.

He followed her to the kitchen and leaned against the door frame, watching silently as she floated around, pulling what she needed out of the fridge, spinning around to grab some spices from the cupboard, and turning the stove top on—all in a single smooth motion.

She seemed content—and she was so intently focused that he felt almost as though he was intruding on private moment. There was a familiarity in the way that she moved—this had been her kitchen once, he realized—or rather, their kitchen.

She glanced over her shoulder and noticed him watching her.

He was briefly ashamed to have been caught staring again, but she grinned at him—a broad, warm smile so genuine that—for a moment—his heart stood still.

He returned the smile reflexively, overcome with a strange, aching happiness. He'd seen that smile before—he knew in his bones that he had.

It wasn't his own memory, but it was hard to tease that truth away from the very real feeling it gave him. She was there, somewhere, in his mind.

"What?" she asked, still smiling.

"Nothing," he lied, unable to come up with anything more convincing.

She turned back to the stove, a little grin still on her lips.

He wandered back into his office and sat down on the couch, pushing Valerie's blanket out of the way. He reached into his pocket and started fiddling with the wedding band she'd given him.

He'd taken the ring off when they'd returned from infiltrating the survivors, but he hadn't wanted to get rid of it. He'd justified keeping it by telling himself that it could be useful—that he might need to invent another marriage in the future. He realized now that he kept it because he liked what it symbolized—or a small part of him did, at least.

He supposed that he did have feelings of some kind for her—there was no use in denying it. But that left him wrestling with an obvious question—would he feel this way if he had never had that dream?

It was as vivid in his memory as it had been in his sleep—the taste of her lips, the way her breath felt as she gasped into his ear. He shuddered.

In truth, he wasn't sure if the dream was where it had begun. At Hydra, when she'd faced off with him—had he not felt something then?

The feeling he had for Valerie—whatever it might be—was decidedly strange. It was not at all the awed possessiveness that he'd once felt for Juliet—nothing like the infatuations he'd struggled through in his youth.

Valerie sparked a fire in him. She was a challenge—irreverent and clever and shamelessly manipulative. While both of them were intelligent and brave, Val had none of Juliet's self-righteousness—or any of her inherent compassion or kindness. Valerie was cynical, shrewd, and largely indifferent to everyone else.

His attraction to Juliet had driven him to create a version of himself that he imagined she might find appealing. Valerie had no such effect on him. In spite of all the lies they had told together—and to each other—he'd felt far less compelled to put on act around her. With Valerie, he was surprisingly comfortable in his own skin.

Perhaps it had been because he hadn't really liked her at first—there was something crass and domineering about her that had irritated him when they'd first met. He'd felt no desire to impress her. She'd mocked him, and argued with him, and refused to take him as seriously as he took himself. And for a while, he had hated her for it—but it had never been hate, he realized now. It had been a formless passion—an intensity of feeling that he had not understood how to interpret or control.

In some ways, learning that she'd loved him in another life made all of this easier to swallow—but it confused him as well. He knew he wasn't the man she'd loved. He knew that if she wanted him at all, it was only because he was a shade of the better man she'd known—one who had already atoned for his sins.

He'd be a fool to assume her smile had really been for him.

"It's ready," she called from the kitchen.

He shook himself out of his daze and made his way to the table.

She'd prepared what could only be described as a small feast.

"This is incredible, Val," he told her.

"You haven't even eaten anything," she replied.

He took his seat and let her fill his plate.

The food was, unsurprisingly, delicious—a recipe honed to his own tastes.

He chewed in thoughtful silence, musing over what their lives together must have been like. It certainly hadn't been limited to that one night—she had been a part of his life.

"Can I ask you something," he asked eventually "about you—and him?"

She nodded, her mouth full of eggs.

"You and he were—you were—involved, as it were?"

She smiled at him, amused by his stammering. She nodded again.

"And—because, I suppose I've never been very—and you are—I imagine—how did that transpire?"

"The usual sort of way, I guess," she replied evasively.

"What does that mean?"

"Why do you want to know?"

He wasn't really sure why he'd asked. There were so many other things that he needed to understand—what had happened to him—to the Island. But he was fixated on Valerie—on how a woman like her could have wanted him as much as she did. He supposed that he needed to be certain that it wasn't merely a dream.

"It's my birthday. Humor me."

"We spent a lot of time together. You were kind of stuck with me. One thing led to another."

She spoke to him not as though they were discussing another man, he realized, but as though he was an amnesiac—as though these were his memories—as though one day he might wake up and remember the life they'd shared. He wondered if that was what she was hoping for.

"How?" he asked.

"How did one thing lead to another?"

He nodded.

"Specifically?" she asked. He was surprised to see a hint of a blush on her cheeks.

"Yes, specifically."

She bit her lip before answering.

"I was in love with him," she began, switching deliberately to the third person, "just really, stupidly in love with him. I was losing my mind over it—I'd never felt so sure of anything in my life." She grinned and glanced down at the table. "And you—he—I don't think he even noticed. He didn't really like me very much at first. But I was—and this may shock you—a bit stubborn."

He chuckled to himself.

"I think it didn't even cross his mind that I could be pining after him—"

Ben nodded.

"—but he figured it out eventually," she continued, with a wry smile. "He walked me home from the beach, once, in the middle of the night. He invited me in. And then—well—one thing led to another."

He felt his cheeks grow hot.

"That's the gist of it—unless you need me to be more specific?"

"Oh, no, no—I think—I think know."

She reached across the table and patted his hand. "I know it's strange," she reassured him. "I know you're not the same person. I mean, in many ways, you are—but as much as I want him back, I know better than to expect..." she trailed off.

"Val," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I think—"

He was interrupted by a firm knock at the door.

"Benjamin!" Richard demanded, a clear urgency in his voice. "It's here."

Ben froze for a moment, frowning at Valerie.

He jumped up and rushed to the door, just as Richard was letting himself in. He was startled to see John Locke standing behind Alpert.

Alpert marched directly into the kitchen, locking eyes with Valerie just as she took another bite of her breakfast.

"Morning," she said, her mouth full.

He shot her a derisive look and turned back to Ben.

"The Kahana, Ben—it's already offshore. Someone parachuted in a few days ago—the survivors kept it hidden from Jack and Juliet."

Ben blinked. "Alright," he answered simply. "Are you going to explain what John Locke is doing in my house, Richard?"

Richard shrugged. "We found him at the fence—trying to figure out a way around it."

"And you invited him in?"

John was irritated by Ben's dismissive comments. "Nice to see you too, Dean—or Benjamin, I guess it is."

"I'm sorry, John. The ruse was a necessary evil, you understand. I trust there are no hard feelings."

Locke tilted his head thoughtfully. "Remains to be seen," he replied.

"The parachutist—do we have him?"

"Her," Locke corrected. "Naomi. She's at the beach camp. She said she was looking for your friend from the Hatch—Desmond Hume. Nice guy—seems a little disconnected from reality, but he's a good man. Seems to think you're alright. Likes your wife. The parachutist—she says her ship is some sort of rescue mission."

Ben glanced at Valerie. "It's not a rescue mission," he told Locke.

"That's what the Doc said—but he's having a hard time convincing the rest of them—especially Desmond."

"Were you convinced?"

"I had an interesting conversation with a man in the jungle," Locke explained.

"A man in the jungle?"

"My father. Told me to come here and ask you about a man named Jacob."

Ben frowned.

"He said you're lying about the ship to keep us all on the Island."

"So that's why you're here? To expose us? The people on that ship will kill us all before letting a single one of you leave, I assure you."

"No—I'm here to help you. If there's anything I know about Anthony Cooper, it's that I should never trust a word he says."

"Ben," Valerie interrupted suddenly, "where's Alex?"

It was still early enough in the morning that he hadn't grown concerned by her absence, but Valerie was right—this much activity should have woken her up. He tore down the hallway and opened the door to her room, finding her bed empty.

"She's not here."

"I'll go find her."

"We'll have to leave the Barracks—head to the Temple," Ben told her, grabbing her hand. "We'll have to go now."

"I'll get her—she's probably with Karl. We'll meet you there," she ducked back into the kitchen to stuff a last bite of breakfast into her mouth and disappeared into his office.

Ben covered his mouth as he stared out the window. He'd been so distracted by the freighter—and Valerie—that he hadn't noticed Alex was gone.

She emerged from his office ready to head into the jungle—she'd changed out of the white t-shirt she'd pilfered from him and into a black tank top and drab cargo shorts, and pulled her hair into a tight braid.

"In case I don't see you again, Linus, it's been nice knowing you," she said, as she stepped out onto his porch. There was a cheerful sort of sarcasm in her voice that he immediately understood was meant to mask the pain she was in.

He followed her outside.

"Thank you," he said simply, and he meant it. She would give her life to save Alex, if it came to that. They both knew it was a possibility. A simple thank you was far from adequate—but he could not find any better words.

Her eyes were screaming out for him. He was surprised to realize that he understood what she was feeling. Valerie had said a final goodbye to him before, and she was struggling not to see the man that she lost. She was holding back the words she would have said to her version of him.

He was struck suddenly by the beauty of her face—that slender upturned nose, those big dark eyes, the thick eyelashes that cast a delicate fluttering shadow on her lightly freckled cheeks. And her lips—full and expressive—pursed tightly now as she contained whatever storm of emotion she was experiencing.

She turned away to leave.

"Val," he said urgently.

She looked back in acknowledgment.

"I—" He faltered. He just wanted to touch her.

He stared dumbly at her, hoping that she'd know what he was thinking.

She seemed to have some idea, because she rushed back to him, throwing her arms tightly around him. He closed the embrace, feeling the softness of her hair against his nose.

She pulled away and looked up at him. "Sorry about this," she warned, and firmly kissed his cheek.

He was too startled to respond.

She pulled back again with a hint of disappointment in her eyes.

"Take care of yourself, Val," he called after her as she trotted away.

"I'll see you later," she told him, biting down a smile.

"Later," he agreed breathlessly, unable to produce a more complete response.

Richard met him at the door with a judgmental frown.

"Don't give me that look."

"What look?'

"It's not what you think," Ben snapped.

"What is it, then?"

He scoffed at Richard. "Not that," he answered, waving his hand in the air. "It's complicated."

"Hm," Richard grunted in reply.

"John?" Ben called, shooting an annoyed glance over his shoulder at Richard.

"In here," Locke's voice replied from his office.

Ben found Locke inspecting his collection of books.

"This isn't a library, John. What can I do for you?"

"Something my father told me—he said that Jacob is the reason I am here, and that I needed you to take me to him."

Ben frowned. "I thought we already established that your father is a liar."

"He is—of course, that wasn't really my father, was it?"

"I rather doubt it."

"Who is Jacob?"

"The best person to ask just left to find Ben's daughter," Richard interjected from the doorway.

Ben raised an eyebrow and glanced back at Richard. There was something slightly accusatory in his tone of voice—he knew it was a lie. Richard had never trusted Valerie.

"Well, Richard, no one has known Jacob as long as you have."

"Why do I feel like I'm missing part of this conversation?" Locke interjected.

"John," Ben answered, "we're all about to head out. You're welcome to join us."

"I need to talk to Jacob," John insisted. "I need to know why we're here—why I'm here—why he gave me my legs back."

"Well, my tumor was very real, and yet, as you can see, I too am up and walking—it just seems to be something he does." He paused to let John understand that his situation was not unique. "We're going to a place we call 'The Temple'—does that interest you?"

Locke's brows shot up.

"It's a start, I guess."

"Wonderful," Ben replied. "Let's get ready to leave."

***

Valerie's thirtieth birthday came a little more than six months after her arrival on the Island. She'd hoped that it might elude the attention of her new family, but she had no such luck.

Walt had opened the door to her house and let Vincent wake her up. The dog's big slobbery kisses were, admittedly, a welcome surprise. Hugo informed her that they'd managed to get something special dropped in and were planning a dinner for her.

One the one hand, she was touched that they'd put in so much effort just for her—but on the other, she didn't feel that she deserved it.

She spent the afternoon moping around distractedly. She sat at her own kitchen table, staring blankly out of her window. She was only here because of the horrible, selfish things that she'd done. That knowledge lingered ominously at the edges of her mind—she would have to pay for what she did, eventually.

Hurley had never pressed her for the truth—it wasn't important to him, so long as she meant well now. He was forgiving, and kind—and naïve.

Ben was a different story. Ben had a darkness too—she could tell that there were parts of himself that he wished he could excise. He'd alluded to some terrible things—violence and cruelty. She'd assured him that she was certain it wasn't as bad as he was making it out to be, but privately she was sure it was worse.

It didn't bother her at all—not because she had a particular capacity for forgiveness, but because she'd fallen horribly in love with him.

It had happened almost immediately.

She remembered the exact moment. She'd been sitting by herself on the swing set at night and while watching him stroll over to talk to her, she'd been struck by his icy, unreadable stare. There had been that telltale catch of breath in her chest—that electricity of new attraction—and she'd just known.

He had not felt the same way. In the beginning, he'd made no secret of the fact that he was annoyed by her presence. He seemed to dislike her company, and while he clearly felt that helping her was his responsibility, he avoided doing more than the bare minimum.

His apparent disdain for her diminished with time—and with her persistence. They'd grown closer, and he seemed to have developed a sort of trust in her. But he was oblivious to the tension she was feeling, and she had resigned herself to living with that frustration.

Because of his callousness, she'd struggled to figure out why she felt the way she did, at least at first. Infatuation is a funny thing. Ben was twenty years older than her, not handsome in any traditional sense, and had been distinctly unkind to her—and yet she'd never been more attracted to a man in her life. It was something about his eyes—the tired grief that he carried around but never acknowledged, or maybe the deliberate intellectualism in the way he spoke, or the palpable sense that he was constantly trying to atone for something. Maybe it was that she saw shades of herself in him.

But as she'd corroded his defenses, that rigid callousness had warmed into an easy friendship, and what had started as a surprising physical attraction became a deeper feeling. With his walls down, his kindness had begun to peek through—she could see it in his love for this place and the almost boyish exuberance he had in sharing it with her. She wondered if he'd been hiding that softer side from her, or if he'd only just discovered it was there.

He'd almost kissed her once—or so she'd convinced herself. They'd been swimming in the pool of water by the Pearl. She'd felt something from him—but the moment had passed. They'd never spoken of it, and she carried the weight of that unasked question around with her like a heavy shadow.

"Not big on birthdays?" Ben's voice suddenly inquired, startling her out of her thoughts.

He'd let himself in and was standing in her kitchen, staring at her—his expression characteristically unreadable.

"Jesus fucking Christ—you scared the shit out of me," she informed him, sitting upright.

"I did knock," he replied.

"Sorry—I was in my own head a bit, I guess."

"I'm not big on birthdays either, really," he continued, taking a seat across from her.

"We had a whole—thing—on your birthday," she pointed out. It had felt a little bit like a date at the time, but she knew it wasn't how he would describe it, so she avoided using the word.

He nodded thoughtfully. "It was a good one," he conceded, "but I always find them a bit painful." His face creased into a deep frown. "My mother died the day I was born," he told her. "I was alone with my father for a long time. He marked that day every year in mourning."

"What was he like?" she asked gently. Ben had never told her anything about his parents, and she assumed there was a great deal of pain behind that omission.

"Roger? Roger was a lonely, bitter man—angry—a drunk."

The reason Ben didn't drink much, she suspected.

"He blamed me for her death, and he was a cruel, selfish father." He sighed and looked at her seriously. "I killed him."

She raised her brows at him but didn't say anything. The look on his face told her that he'd expected her to recoil from him. She wasn't bothered—she wasn't even particularly surprised.

"It was during the purge," he added. "I made a point of watching him die."

Ben had told her about the purge in loose terms, and with some degree of shame. He hadn't orchestrated it, but she understood that he had been involved—probably more involved than he'd wanted her to know.

He looked at her intently, waiting for her reaction.

"I killed a man," she blurted out, the words tumbling from her mouth before she could think about whether or not she should speak them.

"Did you really?" he replied, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. She had—like him—expected a different reaction—revulsion, or perhaps concern—but he was intrigued.

Valerie sighed, meeting his curious gaze. She'd never really felt guilty for what she'd done. If anything, she felt bad about keeping it a secret from Ben. She hadn't really wanted to explain it to him—she wasn't sure how he'd think of her after he'd heard the truth.

"I got involved with some shady people," she explained "which is to say I deliberately involved myself in their business. This was while I was a prosecutor—which was what made me useful to them. It had all spiraled into something larger than I'd ever intended, but I was managing."

She leaned back in her chair and turned her eyes back to the window. It was easier to confess if she wasn't looking at him.

"We'd made enemies who were threatening things I didn't want a hand in causing. The man I was working with—a spineless, limp-dicked narcissist—grew a backbone when I suggested some alternatives that threatened to reduce his income. They weren't going to just let me leave." She stopped herself and glanced at Ben. He was staring with intense focus at her face.

"He confronted me, and I realized that they were going to have me killed," she finished.

Ben's face curled into a frown.

"I didn't have to think about it. I didn't really see any other choice. I had a gun in my bag, and I shot him—three times, just to be sure. He didn't deserve to die. He wasn't a good person, but he didn't deserve to die. He was just—he was in the way."

She made eye contact with Ben. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"I knew the guys we worked for would assume he was killed by the people who'd been threatening us. I knew that would probably mean more people would die—but it bought me a bit of time. We'd considered seizing the Rabbit in one of my drug cases, so I knew where it was—and I took it. And the rest, you know—more or less."

"So this moping really isn't about your birthday is it?"

"No. I just—this place has been a safe haven. I don't feel all that guilty for what I did—even though I probably should—but I know that I can't deserve this."

Ben started laughing—a little chuckle that grew into a warm belly laugh.

"What?" she asked, unable to stop herself from laughing with him.

"Val—you do realize that you fit right in here, don't you?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, leaning over onto her elbows to face him. "Why is that funny?"

He smiled slightly. "You're no worse than any of us. Least of all me."

"I know what you've done, Ben. It doesn't bother me."

"I haven't told you everything."

"Of course not, but I know you're not a fundamentally bad person."

He glanced at her, hesitating. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Tell me."

"I'd rather not."

"It's my birthday," she reminded him.

"I suppose that means I'm not allowed to refuse?"

She smirked, nodding at him.

"Alright," he conceded, a slight grin on his lips.

He told her everything—the purge, taking Alex as a baby, the usurping of control from Charles Widmore and all the manipulations that followed. He told her about Juliet, and Goodwin, and the other lives he'd so callously sacrificed. He told her about how his blind quest for vengeance led him to point a gun at Penelope Widmore and her three-year-old son. He told her about Jacob, and how, in spite of everything, Hugo had offered him redemption.

She could tell by the shift in his voice that it was a relief for him to unburden himself.

She fell into a sort of hopelessness as she listened. He didn't see her the way she wished he would—not at all. He cared about her, but he didn't want her the way she wanted him.

"I've already told you about my daughter," he added quietly. "I can't imagine doing anything more unforgivable than what I did in that moment. I'll never shake that memory from my mind."

Val nodded. He'd told her about Alex, and she knew the details were too painful talk about.

She reached out and touched his hand—almost without thinking. He looked at her sharply. There was something in his eyes—a vulnerability she hadn't seen before—a window into the depths of his grief.

She wanted to kiss him.

Instead, she did something she hadn't been able to do in years—she started to cry.

The tears flooded her eyes and ran unbidden down her cheeks. He frowned and stood up, walking around the table to her. He pulled her out of her chair, and she folded into his shoulder, sobbing freely into his sleeve.

She was crying for selfish reasons—she was crying because this might be the only time he would hold her, and she was crying because he didn't love her. But the tears came from a deep well—she cried for future that she had lost, for the family she would never see again, and for the things that she had done.

She felt him rest his cheek on the top of her head, and she clutched at the fabric of his green shirt, letting the sobs run their course.

"It's alright," he hummed reassuringly. She inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth of his arms and committing the smell of his chest to memory.

She bit her lip to hold back the things she wanted to tell him.

"Thanks," she said instead, releasing him from the embrace. "I didn't know I needed that."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I know how you feel," he said, and she believed him.