Author's note and disclaimer: The inspiration for this work came from many places aside from Lost. I would like to credit Le Portrait De Petit Cossette, Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves, Stephen King's The Dark Tower, the various writings of Chuck Palahniuk, and an anonymous piece of creepypasta I found during my online wanderings.

Lost and its characters are not mine. I claim no ownership of them, and this fic is not for profit.

Passages from House of Leaves are not mine. I claim no ownership of them, or anything else I borrowed with artistic licence.

I am eternally thankful to Cynthia Watros and Jorge Garcia for delivering performances that stuck with me enough to desire to write 69 pages devoted to their characters. You'll never know how much of an emotional impact you have on me.

Advisory: This story contains instances of graphic smut, blood/gore, and horror concepts in later chapters. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Please review if you read! Feedback helps me improve.

Glass

Chapter of Wine

The angles of your wrists
preserve a certain mystery,
unknown by any lips
or written down in history.

- House of Leaves

--

When they came home, the six of them, they were international headlines. Breaking news segments that interrupted daytime programs. Interviews and authorized biographies. Not individual people anymore; just the reflection of a lie based only a bit on real life, projected onto a television screen.

He, in particular, was an attention-grabber, despite wanting no part of it. A lottery winner who had gone on to survive a plane crash where almost all his fellow passengers died? Anymore, the name Hugo Reyes was associated with luck. Never mind that he had signed all of his cursed lottery winnings to his parents; the out-of-court settlement from Oceanic Airlines more than covered his needs. And never mind that he considered himself the unluckiest person in the world. Most of all, never mind that he had come to wish that he hadn't just remained stranded there, but died there. Things like that don't have anything to do with miracles. A suicidal survivor does not a feel-good legend make.

Eventually, the worst of the attention faded to background noise, just snow on the giant TV screen his life had become. News crews ceased to follow his every movement. He was left to live his life in as much peace as the accidental heroes of the world are allowed to. When the guilt of leaving them all behind became too great, he ate. He ate and ate until it felt like the food would eat him alive instead, and at that point, he checked himself in for a sunshiny stay at Santa Rosa. The pills and the therapy helped him choke back his guilt and function again, but it's not what made him stop binging. That was something he wasn't allowed to talk about to anyone, not even the psychiatrists who were required to keep their mouths shut; he couldn't talk about it with the rest of the Six, either. He might have been able to talk to Kate about it, to cry on her shoulder and share memories, but she was entangled in her own legal battle. He would feel weird going to Jack about it, and Sayid and Sun were just too far away. And Aaron? Are you kidding?

No, he just had to pretend that the two of them had never even locked eyes, he and the woman he had almost-maybe-sort-of-loved. As far as anyone was concerned, she had died in the crash. They had never conversed about things he told nobody else, he couldn't describe her appearance down to the last detail...hell, he didn't even know her damn name.

Thinking about it, he realized that last part was at least half right.

--

Once he had checked out, he realized that he hadn't been this lost even on an island in the middle of nowhere. They had always said you can't go home again, and it turned out that they were right, whoever they were. He wasn't the same person, and going back to live with his parents would only be uncomfortable. His mother's concern suffocating him, and his father being there, possibly for him but mostly for the money...

No. That wouldn't work for him at all, not since he had come to terms with what his father meant to his mental state.

Oops. There he was again, thinking about realizations that he'd never had, people who had never saved his life in more ways than one. He had to stop doing that, to start coming to terms with reality as it was, laid out on every news site that had ever existed. If he was ever unsure about what exactly had happened to him on the island, he could just left-click on a computer mouse and there it would be, in his own words, laid out black in ten-point font. He'd do good to remember that.

In the end, when he got himself a nice little place in a small town, he decided to collect antiques. Relics, the years coated dusty-thick upon their surfaces until he wiped them clean and laid bare their stories...the idea of it appealed to some part of him that hadn't existed before all this. Their steady, insistent oldness calmed him, and the elbow grease required to restore them allowed him waking time where he didn't have to think deeply at all.

He bought a decrepit grandfather clock first and taught himself how to repair and replace the worn-out old parts, working until it was able to measure the passage of time once more. Stripping and staining it with the glossy dark syrup from the hardware store, until the whole place stank of sharp fumes. Cleaning the glass face, and polishing the brass pendulum. Then came the silver candelabra; before using the polish designed for such a purpose, he burned nearly an entire notebook full of blank paper and rubbed the ashes into its surface. When the crumbly flakes drifted to the floor, they took the worst of the tarnish with them, and then it was merely a case of polishing and re-polishing until it seemed to glow like the moon. Or like something alive.

Not like pale green eyes, clear and pure as fresh water. Eyes that to look at, when one was thirsty, would banish the need at an instant. Most certainly not. He didn't think these things...but when he didn't not think them, it was in feelings rather than words. He had never been the poetic type.

His cozy house began to fill up. Clocks, candlesticks, cloudy paperweights and old radios. Never paintings or other art, because he only wanted what he could fix or clean or work on in some other way. Work was release, work was time he could spend out of his own head, where the ghosts couldn't follow him. He bought and bought, restoring objects by removing the rust and tarnish and cobwebs that told their stories. Re-birthing them by erasing and reshaping their history, until their newfound gloss and cleanliness was all that the world got to see. All that the world needed and wanted to see. The purchases piled up.

Then came the day when he bought the wineglasses.

--

They were packed into a wooden crate, sawdust and crumpled paper cushioning their grimy surfaces, and he bought the whole lot of them. The packing hadn't been perfect; a fair number of them had shattered, and he cut his hands during their removal. There were a number of partial sets there, mismatched, and some that were the only surviving members of their respective styles. Taller ones, shorter ones, ones with larger bell-like cups, ones with thinner stems, clear and tinted ones. He cleaned them all as he went, placing them into a refurbished cherrywood cabinet that had housed china in a former life. The surviving ones had to be resilient in order to not crack like their peers, but they were still so delicate. Full of years, their outdated style shining through, and yet still unbelievably lovely. And they did not make him think of any beautiful, sensitive-strong older women, with traces of dark circles under their eyes and full lips and a tendency to sunburn.

The final intact one was his favorite. It was transparent with swirling, shifting pools of color, like a puddle of oil reflecting the sun from the pavement: greens and blues, reds and dusky roses. This one he placed upon a little circular table, resting on an old and fragile doily he had hand-washed with the mildest soap, in order to better catch the light. Shifting his head minutely as he sat produced the most spectacular, slick colorations, and as he lost himself in them, he also lost himself in deep feeling, just a step below waking thought.

What had her last name been, he wondered? He couldn't even begin to guess: none of his ideas seemed suited to her, able to capture her soul in the same way her first name did. She had been, more than anything, Libbyish, and this adjective was so nebulous that even he, who had coined it just for her, couldn't untangle everything it meant. He could not, for example, figure out why such an unbearably lovely woman—one who had to have been at least ten years his senior, with such an intelligent occupation and carefree smile—had taken a liking to the morbidly obese underachiever with a streak of horrible luck and an eating disorder. Sawyer and Jack and Sayid had all been there, with their easy good looks and rugged demeanors. Had she seen him as a charity case, just another person to counsel and support?

Even in his darkest moments, the times when he hated himself the most, he thought not. There had been some spark, some quality in her or in the space between them that answered his question with a resounding NO. Had she really liked him? It seemed like she did, and not just because she had assured him so with her words. The question then became, did he really like her?

Of course he did. From the moment he had seen her, fumbling with the construction of her shelter, he had felt something that he had never felt for any of the other women on the island. Sure, Kate was attractive, and he'd never pretend that he hadn't taken a few good looks. Claire was cute, and he was fond of her; Shannon possessed a stark and icy beauty, and Sun was the classic, muted type of gorgeous. But when Libby smiled at him, grateful for his assistance with the tarp, none of the others seemed to even exist anymore. Yes, he had liked her from hello, and the feeling had only grown deeper as the days passed. Thinking about it now brought pain, but the worst part was that he couldn't honestly say that the pain was from having actually loved her and then lost her. No, what hurt was the fact that given enough time, he could have loved her—just a little longer together, and he would have been there.

Somehow, the loss of someone who he would have soon loved, rather than someone he did love, felt even worse. They were so close to being there, the two of them, despite the world falling apart around them. And then his forgetfulness, his exuberance, his almost-love of her left her bleeding out on a cold floor, two holes punched ragged into her body and coughing up thick black blood. Her hand, feeling so cold and waxy in his, his not-quite-love had stopped her heart along with those bullets. They never even had the chance.

That's when he saw it, nearly obscured by the mist of his wandering subconscious, reflected in or maybe actually in the glass: the curve of a wrist, pale and slender. Just that, and no more. It was confusing enough to make him think that he had imagined it, although the briefly clear, crisp image stood opposed to his rational thought. He was on his feet so fast that he almost managed to knock the armchair over, which was no easy feat. He stumbled to the little table, falling to his knees as he grabbed the glass. Turning it over and over in his hands produced nothing but that unintelligible and mesmerizing swirl of colors: whatever the magic had been, whether true miracle or wishful thinking or descent into delusion, it was gone now. Even so, he found himself unable to relinquish his hold on the object, staring into it just in case the owner of that delicate white wrist decided to show herself once more.

--

It was a late, sleepless night when it happened a second time.

Having just retrieved a carton of cookie dough ice cream from the freezer, he plunked himself down in his armchair. The television was before him, but he tilted his gaze towards the little table and his precious wineglass instead, something he found himself doing more and more often these days. If she of the glass did not reappear tonight, he had decided, then he would just give up. On everything. Part of him, a big part, felt horrible, like he was disgracing her memory, destroying himself when she had poured forth her soul in order to save him. The rest of him felt that either way, she was dead, and that even someone as wise as she wouldn't try to make him remain in the so-called life he was leading now. He knew better, of course—she had believed that he could change, that he could seize his life and better it—but he told himself otherwise, because it made his choice a little easier.

It wasn't like he was planning to commit suicide or anything. That involved a gun, or a razor, or pills—something violent and sudden. Eating until your heart has to work quadruple to pump your blood, and you keel over with a hand to your chest...that wasn't suicide. It was just weakness.

So he kept his eyes on the glass, a spoon sticking out of the frozen dessert container on his lap, and waited. And waited. And waited. An hour passed, then two: nothing. His heart sinking lower and lower into his gut with every passing minute, he began to cry. It was only two or three tears, but it was enough, and he shook with the force of trying to hold the rest of them back. Finally, his renewed grandfather clock tolled midnight, and he allowed more tears to slide down his face as he covered his eyes with one hand. He knew that is was stupid. That it was crazy. And even so, he had hoped...he had even come close to believing. He thought, for the billionth time, that he should have died instead of her; that if he hadn't forgotten, she would still be alive. Maybe if they had ignored the blanket, she could have even gotten rescued with him, making it the Oceanic Seven. He tried to imagine the two of them back in the real world: would they have stayed together? Moved in together? Maybe they could have gotten a pet...was she a cat person, or a dog person? She seemed like the dog type, but he couldn't be sure, and he'd never have a chance to ask. So many things he'd never have a chance to learn, no matter how much he regretted or how many tears he cried.

He was ready to begin his slow spiral into the promise of death; he only waited to calm his sobbing, his tears falling into the mostly-melted ice cream. Before he could do anything, however, he heard a voice, speaking as though from far away.

"–nt to d–"

The ice cream container smacked into the floor, spilling a sticky, sugary mess across the carpet. Of course he knew the voice; he hadn't heard nearly enough of it for one lifetime, but he could have picked it out of a crowd of yelling strangers with ease. Falling before the glass, he strained his eyes, tears blurring the mass of colors even further. "Please," he whispered. "Oh god, please."

As if in response, a shape began pulling itself from the miring pigment. It took a few moments to make out the fuzzy shape, but once he did, there was no mistaking it: the softly angled plane of a jaw. As he looked closer, it pulled back, and there was more: the gentle swell of a cheek, a small, slightly pinched nose, a fringe of bright eyelash. It became clearer and clearer until finally he had one precious glimpse of a pale liquid green enclosing watery black. An eye. It locked gazes with him, and a single beat later, it all disappeared once more.

"No!" he cried, slamming a fist against the floor. Even if it was a delusion, he didn't want it to stop. Although he had feared Charlie when he visited, and Charlie had been his good friend...this was different. It might have been the fact that he still saw himself as having played a principal cause of her death. It might have been the thing that could have developed into love. It might have been something totally different. Whatever it was, he didn't care. He just didn't want it–her–to go away and leave him again. "What are you trying to tell me?" he cried, fresh tears springing forth. "I don't get it. I couldn't hear you." He trembled with the weight of his grief: it was as if she had been brought back to life for one shining moment, and then killed in front of him again. "I don't understand!"

"I said, 'I know you don't want to do this, Hurley'." The voice rang out, soft but clear, in the space behind him. He froze; in spite of how much he had wanted this, he was terrified. "You've come so far. Don't give up now."

He turned to face the speaker; he went so slowly, it felt as if the air around him had turned into molasses. Some part of him was afraid of what he might see. Twin gunshots torn into her guts? Blood splattered from her lips, staining her face, her neck, her teeth? Or, god forbid, rotting as she would be back in her grave, half-covered in her makeshift blanket shroud? If it were possible for her to be speaking to him now, anything might be possible. So when he had at last turned around, his eyes were squeezed shut, and it took him several harsh breaths before he could open them. Finally, he looked.

There she was, standing before him, looking down at where he sat crouched on the floor. She was in her dark jeans and green t-shirt, the same understated outfit she had been wearing on their first date; the same one she was wearing when she was shot, and when she finally gave her last breath. But there was no blood, no wounds, not even a trace of pain to mar her face. Her expression was colder, more distant than it had been in life, but he sensed no ill feeling radiating from her. He drank in her face: the skin gently worn into slight bags beneath her eyes, her thin-ish nose—all these supposed flaws just as beautiful, if not more so, than her best features—the curve of her cheek, the fullness and symmetry of her lips, the perfect angle of her jaw, and of course those eyes.

For a few long moments, he found himself floored, unable to move. When he rose at last and hesitantly approached her, he didn't dare reach out to touch. Something from deep inside himself, beyond where rational thought would dare to tread, told him that to do so would shatter whatever magic had brought her here. A hand stole out, as if to cup the side of her face, but he jerked it back. "Libby?" he murmured, his voice disbelieving even then. "Is it...is it really you?"

Lithely, she stepped closer. "I know you don't really want to die. That's why you can't bring yourself to just end it: you're afraid of death, but you don't know how to deal with your grief, and it's got you stuck." With a flick of one hand, she indicated the spreading puddle of ice cream. "So you go back to your eating disorder, something you've dealt with for most of your life. It's painful, and it's miserable, but it's also familiar. And you try to convince yourself that you're doing it to die, but you're not. You're doing it both because it's something you know how to handle, and because you feel that you need to be punished."

He didn't know what to say; he just stood there feeling frightened and ashamed, mouth slightly agape, as her stern words laid into him. "But you don't, Hurley," she finally said, searching his face for a flicker of understanding. "You don't need to be punished. You haven't done anything to deserve what you're putting yourself through. I need you to know that. I don't blame you for my death." At this, he began to sob again, harder this time; he wanted to say so many things, but he couldn't form the words. As he cried, she finally smiled at him: her lips trembled so very slightly, and tears filled her lower eyelids. "I had a good time with you, you know?"

"Libby," he choked, his voice thick. He wanted to believe her, to believe that he didn't deserve this; her words had been able to make him believe anything before, even that someone could love him, see the worth in him. He wanted to tell her so. But he had never been the most articulate guy to begin with, and the crying and surreal nature of the situation just made it so much harder. Knowing that she wouldn't be able to take them, he reached his hands out anyway, as if in supplication.

"I really did," she said, closing her eyes as the tears spilled over. "I'm glad...I'm so glad I had a chance to meet you!" The smile grew wider, holding itself together for a few moments, before her expression crumbled. She wiped at her eyes, slumping her shoulders. "I just wish...that we had a chance...t-to..."

He tried to wait for her to compose herself, he really did, but he wanted to know. He needed to know. "A chance to what?"

After taking a few more moments to collect herself, she smiled up at him again, a small laugh escaping the regret. "A chance to drink that wine together."

--

As it turned out, that situation was easily remedied.

When Hurley tried to hand the miraculous glass to her, she shook her head. "I want you to use that one." So he gave her one of the clear, shorter-stemmed glasses from the cabinet instead, being careful not to brush hands, and he himself sipped the Cabernet from the relic that had brought her back.

"So," he said, ignoring the libation in his hand in order to bask in Libby's visage. "Like...what made you come back? Are you really here, or am I just...imagining it?"

She smiled sweetly from over the rim of her glass, sipping at intervals. "You're not drinking." Dutifully, he lifted the glass to his lips and drank of it; he was honestly more of a beer guy, but he didn't think he'd tasted anything better in his life. "I came here because I needed to."

"You needed to? Why? Is it because of me?" He could have hit himself for how egotistical that sounded.

Nibbling at her lower lip, she turned her gaze off to the side, trying not to make eye contact. "It's not something I can just tell you about yet. It doesn't work like that."

He shifted in his seat–now that he wasn't alone, they sat together on the couch–attempting to meet her eyes. "What d'you mean? What doesn't work like that?" He was thoroughly confused; if she was really dead–which he knew she was, he had held onto her as she breathed her last–she should be able to do whatever, right? Ghosts do whatever the hell they please, although that usually seemed to consist of scaring the crap out of people, if the movies he watched were to be believed.

"There are rules," she said, almost too quickly.

"Break them?" It came out more like a question than a request.

"It doesn't work like that!" she cried, exasperation edging its way into her voice; Hurley winced, and she gave him an apologetic half-smile. "I mean, it's not a rule you can break. It's not like I've been given some kind of order, and I can choose whether or not I follow it. It's like..." She thought for a moment, eyes rolled up as she considered how best to elucidate. "It's like dropping something. If you were to let go of your glass right now, it would fall down. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't make it fall upwards."

"Oh." He looked down at the glass in his hands, moving his hand in a Mobius pattern and watching the wine swish in half-circles. He didn't know what else to say. Dude, what are you supposed to say when your dead not-really-girlfriend comes back from the great beyond, and then tells you things that make you even more confused than you were before you heard them?

She studied him, and he felt himself heat up under her gaze. "Look, we don't have to talk about that. It'd just lead us around in circles, and no answers would come of it. I want to hear about you, Hurley. What you did with the other survivors since the last time we were together, how you got off the island, what you've been doing since."

"Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like you would kind of know all that stuff already." He didn't want to offend her—can you offend the dead?—but he tended to speak whatever was on his mind without thinking overly hard about it. And didn't people suddenly know everything when they died? Omniscience and all that?

Then her smile again—seeing it made him feel richer than when he had first won the lottery, and he thought then that maybe he would have rather been paid by getting to watch her eyes crinkle up at the corners in amusement—and she said something that made him feel as if he were melting like the mess of ice cream on his rug.

"That doesn't mean I don't want to hear it from you. I liked it when you brought me that flower, and told me what had happened when the Others sent you back to the beach...when you told me that you missed me. You can start from there."

Well, after that, there was no way he could have refused anything she requested of him. So he told her everything, not only what had happened, but how he felt about it, and all the times he had done something and wished she were there to experience it with him. And together they drained the bottle of Cabernet, Libby getting drunk much faster than he did because of the weight difference—which honestly surprised him, because before tonight, he hadn't known that ghosts could eat or drink at all, let alone get tipsy.