Wow. When I said I was thinking about giving up Jate fics, I didn't expect such a strong reaction! I want to thank everyone for their kind words and support, especially Tahti and AtholBrose. I finally managed to come up with an idea that I like so I've decided to take everyone's advice and try writing an ongoing post-finale fic. Hopefully this one doesn't depress people. ;)

Chapter 1.

Los Angeles, California

Kate twisted the ring around her finger as she sat behind the wheel of her Volvo, outside the gates of the white two-storey mansion that had been Jack's home for the first eighteen years of his life. She wasn't sure what had prompted her to put it back on when she found it in the top drawer of her dresser – it wasn't like they were still engaged – she just found the familiar weight of it comforting. Somehow it made her feel connected to him, like he wasn't completely lost to her after all.

She had to go in some time, so with a sigh, she woke the engine and turned into the drive, where she got out at the foot of the tiled staircase that led up to an imposing red double door. Once she'd rung the bell, she wrapped her arms around herself to hide her unease as she waited for someone to open it.

The first thing she noticed about Jack's mother when she answered was that her dark eyes – Jack's eyes – were rimmed with pink as though she'd just finished crying. "Mrs. Shephard," she greeted her with a tight smile, forcing herself to hold her gaze even though there was so much of Jack in her – or her in Jack – that it hurt to keep looking at her.

She seemed surprised to see her there and for a moment Kate wondered if she even remembered her. "Kate? What are you doing here?"

"I'm here about…" Her voice caught in her throat; most days she couldn't bring herself to utter his name "…about your son," she finished, swallowing hard.

For the first time, Margo looked at her as if she were really seeing her. "Oh God. I didn't even think to call you," she whispered.

It had been all over the news since they got back: how Ajira Flight 316 from Los Angeles to Guam had crashed, killing everyone on board but the pilot and a handful of passengers, including four of the Oceanic six. Her name wasn't on the manifest, of course. Years on the run had taught her how to obtain fake travel documents so that she could pass borders undetected. "It's okay. I know," she assured her. That much, at least, was true.

The other woman's shoulders slumped with relief on hearing that she wasn't going to have to deliver any more bad news. "How are you holding up?" she asked Kate. "I know you and Jack were close."

It stung her to hear their relationship described in such vague terms, but then what were they to each other when he died? She loved him and he loved her, but what did that really mean? Not enough to keep him from sacrificing himself for the good of the island.

The truth was that she wasn't coping as well as she knew she should be. There was a part of her that was having trouble accepting the fact that he was really gone; she was still waiting for him to turn up, to finish what he needed to do on the island and come find her so that they could go back to the way things were before. If she went to a therapist, they would call it denial, but it was hard to deny something that you had no proof of, and the last time she saw him he was still very much alive.

"I feel like I should be asking you that," she told her, to deflect the question, but she didn't need to hear Margo's answer to know that she wasn't doing much better. In the space of three years she'd lost her husband, then her only son, only to find him and have him taken from her again. It was too much for anyone to handle.

That was why she was here: to bring her some peace. "Do you mind if I come in?" she asked her. "There's something you need to hear."

Margo seemed to remember her manners then. "No, of course not," she said, stepping aside to let her past.

She led her through to a sitting room that Kate had only seen once, not long after they'd gotten together, when Margo had invited them over for lunch so that he could formally introduce them. He hadn't wanted to bring Aaron, afraid that she would notice the resemblance to his father, but his mother had insisted. It felt strange being here without him now. A lot of things felt strange without him. It was hard to imagine that one day her life would return to normal and missing him would be something she only did occasionally.

She was too nervous to sit down so she perched on the edge of the sofa while Margo went to the liquor cabinet in the corner. "Would you like a drink?"

A pang of longing came over her as she eyed the bottle in the other woman's hand. During their first week back – she still refused to think of it as home – she and Miles had taken turns picking Sawyer up from various bars in the middle of the night when he was too drunk to drive himself. She wished that she had the luxury of succumbing to her grief the way that he had, but unlike him, she wasn't alone. There were too many people depending on her. "No, thank you."

Margo poured herself a glass of straight Scotch and carried it to one of the overstuffed armchairs. "So what's this about my son?" she prompted her once they were both settled.

Kate had spent the better part of a week trying to figure out the best way to tell her. "There's no easy way to do this, so I'm just going to come right out and say it, like he would," she began, pausing to gather her thoughts before rushing on. "Jack wasn't killed in a plane crash."

Margo drew in a sharp breath. "What are you saying? That he's still alive?"

She wished that she could agree, but in her heart, she knew that the man she loved was dead. Anything else was just wishful thinking. She shook her head. "I'm saying that's not what happened."

"How do you know what happened?"

"Because I was there."

Over the course of the next hour, she told Jack's mother everything, including about Claire, glossing over some of the details that seemed incredible even to her, like the monster who'd worn Locke's face.

"I know it's a lot to take in," she said once she'd finished describing how Jack had given his life to make sure the rest of them were safe, "but I thought you should know that your son died a hero."

Margo was silent as she digested this and Kate wondered how much of it she actually believed. "If you loved him, then why did you leave?" she asked finally. "Why didn't you try to stop him?"

It was the same question that kept Kate awake some nights. "He told me I had to get everyone on the plane, and I'm glad that he did, because it wasn't just me he saved."

She scooted forward until she was close enough to place her hand over Jack's mother's. It saddened her to think that if things had been different, she might be her mother now too. That the family that she'd come to love so much could have been hers. "There's another reason I came here today," she confessed. "I wanted to tell you that you're going to be a grandmother."

Until then, Margo had been focused on the drink in her other hand, but she glanced up at her in surprise. "You're pregnant?"

For the first time since she'd arrived, Kate smiled. When she saw the circle in her datebook, and realised that the date had been and gone, she bought three tests to make sure, all of which said the same thing. On the first, she prayed that it was true; on the second, she wished desperately that it wasn't. By the time she got her third positive she was resigned to the fact that she was having this baby with or without him. No amount of bargaining could change that. "Yeah," she agreed.

"Did Jack…?" Margo looked hopeful.

"I didn't find out until we got back," she admitted. Ever since then, she hadn't been able to stop wondering if it would have made a difference. She wanted to believe that if he had known, he wouldn't have been so quick to sacrifice himself, but she knew him well enough by now to know that it only would have made him more determined to ensure that they both got away safely, even if he didn't. It was one of the things that she both loved and hated about him.

"I'm not asking for anything," she assured her before she got it into her head that this was about claiming some kind inheritance. He'd already given her enough, including the one thing that she'd wanted more than anything else in the world. "I can provide for this baby on my own. But it would mean a lot to me if you would agree to be in its life. I think it's what he would have wanted." She knew from the stories he'd told her that he hadn't always gotten along with his parents, but that hadn't stopped him from loving them, and she had no doubt that they had loved him.

When she finally allowed herself to look at Jack's mother again, she saw that she was beaming at her through her tears. "Thank you," she whispered.

Tunisia

When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was in a long room full of low metal cots, each one occupied by someone who appeared to be worse off than him. All around him were the sounds of human beings in pain: some moaning or wailing while others cried out in a language that he thought must be Arabic, though he couldn't make out what any of them were saying.

"Where am I?" he demanded, grabbing the sleeve of the man who lent over his bed to examine him. The man muttered something incomprehensible and pushed him back down and feeling the sharp pinch of an IV tugging at his skin, he was forced to let go.

"You are in a hospital," a voice announced, and to his relief, he realised that whoever it was speaking English.

"How did I get here?" he asked when a man came into view.

"A group of men found you in the desert," he explained. "When you came to us you were severely dehydrated and delirious from heat stroke. We believe you had not had anything to eat or drink in several days."

Whatever they did to nurse him back to health must have worked because he felt fine now. He threw off the thin cotton sheet and sat up, noting for the first time, the almost symmetrical scars that marked his stomach above the waistband of his boxers: one small and neat, like those made during surgery, the other long and ugly, as if whoever or whatever had cut him had wanted to do as much damage to him as possible. Both looked to be between a few months and a few years old.

He shook off his surprise, returning his attention to making his escape. "Where are my clothes?" he insisted, his eyes travelling from the dresser to the chair by the bed in search of whatever clothing they brought him in.

"They were covered in blood so the nurses to destroyed them. We will find you some more when you leave," the man promised.

He checked the rest of his body for injuries, but however he'd ended up covered in blood, it couldn't have been his.

"You are an American, are you not?" the man continued. It was more of a statement than a question. "What were you doing out there without a guide?"

He must have gotten separated from the rest of his group. He tried to recall some detail that would help him piece together the events that had led to him wandering in the desert alone, but the truth was he had no idea what had happened to him. After a moment, he gave up and shook his head, both in response to the question and to try to clear it.

"You are still confused then?" the man said, sounding disappointed. "Never mind. Perhaps there is someone we can get in touch with. What is your name?"

That at least should be easy. But when he reached back into his mind for the answer, he came up with another blank. It was as if he hadn't existed before he'd woken up here in this hospital. "I don't… I don't remember."