So here's the first half of my Secret Santa for makealist - I was so excited to get her for this but I found the requests HARD, so I hope you like it. Thanks so much to kab16 for organizing this, and to propernice over at livejournal for so patiently allowing me to bounce ideas off her.

The other half should be up in the next couple of days.

Prompt: Anytime (months, years, your choice) after S6. Hurley sends a message to Sawyer via Ben.

"The bed is unmade, like everything is.
Dark little heaven at the top of the stairs.
Take me like that, ruin it all.
Then build it again, by the light in the hall."

- Stars, "One More Night (Your Ex-Lover Remains Dead)"

The cracked patio out back is sunken enough that last night's rain has turned it into a damn lake, but all the same, James knows the girl's gonna be just fine with it, that they'll make boats out of fallen leaves because the little white plastic boats just aren't as fun, apparently.

December in Albuquerque, and he can't remember the last time he'd seen snow, they get it now and then, but not in a few years now, not that it really matters, anyway. Ain't like he'd want to shovel at his age anyway, would probably have a damn heart attack on the sidewalk like they're always talking about on the news.

And it's Monday, Lila Monday, her official day with him, or his official day with her, however that works, so he just pulls on his rain boots, goes out to the back with a towel to wipe down the swing set, a non-negotiable deal between them re: swinging contests, and he usually pretends to lose. Not always, 'cause he's gotta keep her head from swelling up too big. If possible.

And as to how ridiculous it probably looks, well, he's just glad no one else has to witness those swinging contests.

Actually, strike that "glad no one else has to witness" part.

(Always always thinking stupid things like that, even all this time later, but what's the point anymore? Jesus Christ.)

The swing set dried off, James heads back inside, drapes the towel over the rack in the downstairs bathroom. Her apron is still hanging there, from last weekend's finger-painting during an impromptu visit before they headed out to pick up trees for both houses. Her mother had finger-painted, too, and damned if the three of them didn't end up creating a mural of an island. Every time he thought they were done, Lila had begged for "just one more," and every single time James had relented, reached for the scotch tape. Taped another piece of paper onto the next, over and over, eight panels wide, until it was time for them to get going.

But before her piano lesson, they'd added a pirate ship, even a lighthouse. Lila's own ideas, except for the volcano - her mother's. Finally (because, fuck it), James had painted a little yellow house at the base of the volcano.

"Who's that for?" Lila had asked. "For you and me?"

"Maybe it's for whoever gets stuck on the island."

"Nuh uh, no one is stuck there." Lila reached into the white and added a boat against the blue. Added a green sail. A way off, a way out. So fuckin' simple.

Clem is running late today, and when he finally hears that huge SUV in the driveway, Lila's already hefting her backpack up, skittering toward the house. Clem rolls down the driver's side window. "Sorry, got a class in fifteen!"

His little girl, teaching college. Jesus fucking Christ, how quick the time goes. (And how slow.)

"Bye, Mommy!" Lila yells as Clem backs down the driveway, waving furiously.

"Heya, sweetpea." James leans down for the kind of hug he used to get when Clem was this age, or almost. Fierce and protective and totally trusting. "How was school today?"

"Boooooring." Lila pulls off the backpack, dumps it inside the door. "Hey, can we play the game with the horse pieces today?"

"The horse pieces?"

"Yeah, the white and black ones with the queen and the king?"

James grins. "Chess. Yeah." He's spent practically a whole afternoon last week trying to teach her; six's way too young but he couldn't bring himself to dampen her enthusiasm.

"OK. And then we should do our swinging contest. And did you get the mail yet?"

"Saved it for ya."

"Yay!" She bolts out the door as he yells after her to watch for cars, not to cross the sidewalk, and should he go after her, or no, she's old enough, right? Lila is about the same age Clem was when he'd finally met her, and sometimes lately it feels like everything's come around full circle, for better or worse, except his fingers tighten at the doorframe at the thought of exactly what worse means, and goddammit, he probably knows worse as well as anyone.

Lila comes back in with the mail, and they decide on graham crackers and apple slices for an after-school snack. "Boring, bill, boring, junk mail," she says with her mouth full of graham cracker, crumbs tumbling down onto the table. "Address labels, can I have the stickers? Oh, Christmas cards! Cuh I open them?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full. Yeah."

Lila opens them up, one from Miles and the little wifey. Un-fuckin'-believable, that one. Guy never worked an honest day in his life 'til Dharmaville (not that James should talk) and now he's a damn detective? Well, time is a funny thing, after all.

The other card's from Rachel. "Who's that? Is that your girrrrllllfriend?"

"Naw, baby. Rachel? You've met her. My friend from Florida who visited, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Simone's your girrrrllllfriend, right? And can we play the chest game now?"

"Chess, sweetpea. No 't'. Gimme a minute, lemme take a look at this, OK?"

Lila slides off the seat and disappears into the living room after a brief whine. James opens Rachel's card, a jolt in his stomach. They don't stay in touch so often anymore these days. In the beginning, after Chesty LaRue somehow managed to land their duct-taped plane without harming a single chest hair, James and Rachel had spent an awful lot of time together. In fact, he'd even taught Julian to ride a two-wheeler, once upon a time.

Somehow those visits managed to soothe something within him and rip off the scab all at once.

After a couple years though, he'd finally settled in Albuquerque, slowly worming his way back into Cassidy's good graces. All right, not necessarily good, but not totally hate-filled, either.

(He told himself he wanted to make her proud. 'Her': easier than letting himself think of a name.)

He still saw Rachel, though, sometimes. Usually on what would have been... her milestone birthdays he'd fly into Miami; they'd look at pictures or some depressing shit like that. Once they'd planted a tree. A couple times they'd spent an evening serving dinner at a shelter, even though she probably would have made some smart-ass remark about that.

A few times they just got really, really fucking wasted. Julian tried to humor them both, still does, it was clear the guy thought these two old loons were hanging on far too long, and of course they'd never gotten drunk when he was around, not even once he was an adult, but Jesus Christ, sixty-five next year? Don't even seem possible.

James - Just got my five-year scans back, Rachel had written. Everything looks good, Merry Christmas to me, right? Anyway, hope you have a great Christmas/New Year, and send my love to Clem, Matt, Lila & Simone. Julian says he's sending you a card, too, but we'll see how that goes. Maybe we'll see you next year? Xo, Rachel.

Daughter, son-in-law, granddaughter. Sure, sure, sure. What is it with everyone so desperate to shove him and Simone together? Sure, they're together, he ain't gonna argue about that, but just because they met at book club doesn't mean they're soul mates or anything. Her husband died not even two years ago, and if anyone thinks they're finding refuge in each other - well, it's just, grief isn't something he likes to talk a whole lot about.

Lila gets bored of her chess lesson exactly sixteen minutes in, which is a whole minute longer than last time, but hey, it's something. James dutifully puts in his time on the swings, thanking his fucking stars he'd sprung for the heavy-duty wood set. Although if he'd bought the cheapo one, he could have claimed it was only suited for kids, so how lucky and/or smart he was about that shit is still up for debate.

"Wait wait wait," Lila protests a moment after she kneels down to inspect the lake of the sunken patio as he goes to look for the toy boats he knows will be abandoned for fallen leaves, anyway. "My braid got messed up, can you do it for me?"

James Ford. Ex-conman, convicted felon, grandpa who knows how to braid little girls' hair. Yep, no identity dilemma here. None at all.

"C'mere, sit on the bench."

Lila wrinkles her nose at the damp wood but finally acquiesces, and he gets to work on making the prettiest (i.e., probably not very) braid he knows how to make. Except there's a car pulling into his driveway, around the side of the house where he can't see, and he listens closely. Maybe someone needing a place to turn around on this narrow street, except the engine cuts off.

He keeps braiding, 'cause if he stops now he'll lose the whole damn thing, and whoever it is (Simone?) will just have to wait, 'cause it's a Lila Monday.

After a minute, long enough for Anonymous Uninvited Visitor to ring the front doorbell and wait around, very precise footsteps approach, and he's not sure why, but for some reason he's reminded of Sun, her careful precision, and he has to take a sharp breath to keep his hands from shaking on Lila's hair as he secures the purple elastic band at the bottom of her braid.

And then Benjamin fucking Linus is standing there, his hands clasped in front of him, outfitted in neatly pressed khakis, a pale blue button-down shirt that matches those unnaturally wide eyes. And James is sitting here with lines on his face and white in his stubble and more gray hair than not, and that bug-eyed bastard hasn't aged one damn day.

"Hello, James." Ben's voice is way too serene, it has to be some sort of game. "I never took you for the hair-braiding type. I suppose Hugo was right."

His voice comes out as a growl even though the last time he saw Ben, he was digging the guy out from under a fallen tree. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"No swearing, Poppy," Lila hisses.

"Babycakes, go inside for me, all right?"

Lila gazes at Ben distrustfully, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow. "Fine."

Ben chuckles as she disappears into the house. "She's very much like you, you know."

"What the hell would you even know about it? What are you doin' here? Why not Hugo?" James demands, his hands balling up into fists.

Ben is still, very still. "Hugo couldn't make it today, unfortunately. Island affairs. He sends his best wishes, of course."

"Yeah, well, that don't sound like Hugo."

"Would you feel better if I called you 'dude'?" Ben smirks.

James doesn't need to sit around and deal with this shit, it's all over and done with, been over and done with for a long, long time. "I ain't seen you in almost thirty years, and I ain't seen Hugo either, ain't heard a peep from either one a you. And you ain't aged one fucking minute since the day we left. So let's cut with the chitchat and you tell me what you're doing in my yard."

"I wasn't aware that you had such a pressing schedule. But of course, let us get right to business." Ben casts a long gaze on the bench, but it's clear to both of them that they have no desire to sit so close to each other.

Oh, for Christ's sakes. He cocks his head to one side, gesturing toward the back door in an over-exaggerated fake-butler manner. "Fine. You wanna come in?"

Ben blinks, possibly for the first time since he'd shown up here in New Mexico suburban heaven/hell. "I thought you'd never ask."

The second half will be up within the next day or two. Thanks for reading!