gentle little Henry Gale fanfic

Watching Season 2 again, I feel so sorry for Henry Gale. Why does everyone hate him so much? And is it really acceptable that for all the time he's in the hatch, no-one is even remotely nice to him? No wonder he turns out the way he does. ..
This is my attempt to correct the balance.

Note: I tried putting a link to my L/J here, but it's getting rather difficult to keep all my fics tidy, so here it is in full.


SYMPATHY.
For all his greater size and bulk, Ana nearly knocked him flat. She shot out of the hatch like a rocket, her face clenched into an expressionless fist. Hurley got out of her way in time – if he hadn’t, he thought, she would probably have walked straight over him. There was a streak of blood across her forehead, and her eyes were tiny slits of rage.
He protested weakly. “Hey, Ana, dude.”
Ana-Lucia barely looked back. That didn’t surprise Hurley at all – the newcomer from the tail section had shown no interest in him thus far, treating him with silent contempt. He’d heard she was some kind of cop, and that in itself made him wary of her. Cops were tense, in Hurley’s experience, and in her case, the tension led to violence. He just wondered what it was that made someone like Libby want to be around her. Libby was cool, Libby was gentle, and most of all, Libby was –
“Hey!” As Hurley entered the hatch, Locke’s voice roused him from his pleasant thoughts. The alarm was beeping. “Ana! Quickly! Over here!” yelled Locke.
Hurley followed the sound of Locke’s voice to the armoury, the door of which was slightly ajar. Automatically he fixed the alarm on the way - entering the numbers still gave him an unpleasant thrill, as did the sound of the card display as the countdown fluttered back to the beginning – and turned again to the half-open door. He wasn’t supposed to be here, he knew. He’d only come to fetch some supplies for the picnic, and he felt half-inclined to turn and go, and to leave Locke to whatever he was doing in there, but curiosity got the better of him. For the last week or so he’d heard persistent rumours of a guy in the hatch - one of the Others, Charlie had said - though Jack always kept Hurley out of the loop, as if being fat made him somehow less reliable than the rest of them.
From inside the armoury came the sound of Locke’s crutch, and something heavy being dragged across the floor.
Hurley moved towards the door. “Dude?” he said, and pushed it open.
There was a cot in the room. Locke was standing next to it, out-of-breath, using his crutch as partial support. At his feet lay the motionless body of a man, a stranger, dressed in filthy khakis and the scissored remains of an orange T-shirt, curled up into a foetal position on the concrete floor.
Locke frowned on seeing Hurley. “Where’s Ana?”
“Gone, man. Is he – I mean -” He gestured at the guy on the floor. “Is he, like - is he dead, or what?”
Locke shook his head. “I had to hit him with my crutch. He’ll come round in a minute or two.” From his pocket he pulled out a length of nylon rope and used it to bind the unconscious stranger. First he tied his hands and feet together, then looped the rope around his neck and fastened what was left to a steel ring set into the ground. To Hurley it looked like the guy was going to be very, very uncomfortable when he finally came round.
“So – what’d he do?” Hurley said.
Locke stood up with the aid of his crutch and manoeuvred Hurley towards the door. “He’s been on hunger strike for three days. No food, no water, nothing to say. Then he went for Ana-Lucia. If I hadn’t got to him in time -”
Hurley’s face puckered in confusion. “He doesn’t look that dangerous.”
“Believe me,” said Locke grimly. “He is. Now tell me. How can I help you, Hugo?”
“I came to see if I could get some supplies. For a picnic, you know? And -” I kinda trashed my food stash, he almost said aloud, retreating back through the armoury door with a last wary glance at the guy, as if even now he might attack. “So - he’s one of them?” he whispered in awe.
Locke nodded and swung the door shut.
“And he’s been in there for over a week?”
Once again, Locke nodded.
“Dude.” Hurley’s baby face drooped with concern. He’d already heard the rumours, of course - how Sayid had tortured the prisoner, but hadn’t managed to make him confess - and it struck him then that he knew exactly what Libby would say if she had come here in his place. You can’t solve problems with violence, she’d say, and then she’d probably insist on talking to the guy, finding out his story, doing her thing, befriending him – just the way she’d befriended Hurley. That girl could feel sympathy for the devil, he thought. And if he was to deserve her some day -
He made a decision. Turned to Locke. “Man, shouldn’t we see if he’s okay?”
Locke stared at Hurley in disbelief.
“I mean, what if you hit him too hard?” he said. “What if he swallows his tongue, or something?”
Locke shrugged. Locke was cool, Hurley thought, but something was eating away at him. Something that made him angry inside. He’d seen it in the way he’d tied up the stranger in the armoury. And the guy was hurt, he’d seen that. There had been a dressing on his shoulder, cuts and bruises on his arms and face. Maybe Ana had hit the guy. Maybe that was why he’d gone for her. What goes around comes around, Libby said. It was karma, or dharma, or something like that. He moved once again to the armoury door.
“Don’t go in there, Hugo,” said Locke.
“I just wanna see him, that’s all,” he said. “Bring him a drink of water, at least -”
Locke sighed. “Assuming he’ll take it,” he said.
Hurley shrugged. To Locke he looked like a big, scared, puzzled baby, the underlying sweetness in his puffy features a silent reproach to the rest of them. Trust Hugo to think of that, he told himself with a dry smile. Because Hugo’s one of the good guys. The question is, he thought – Am I?
“Okay. You can try,” he said at last. “But Hugo – take care. He’s dangerous. Don’t untie him, and whatever you do, don’t believe a word he says. I’m going to see if I can find Ana. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Alone in the computer room, Hurley took a deep breath. He was terribly afraid of the guy in the hatch – in fact, deep down, Hurley was afraid of most people – but the voice of Libby in his mind was impossible to dismiss. The guy was a human being, after all. If he’d already gone three days without food – plus God knows what violence at Sayid’s hands – well, it was kinda barbaric, dude.
He poured some water into a cup and picked up an energy bar from the stores. Hoped the guy wasn’t like Hannibal Lecter in the movie, and wouldn’t bite the hand that fed him. Then he went back into the armoury.
The guy had moved. Hurley saw that at once. Now he was slumped against the wall, head almost touching his chest. He opened his eyes as Hurley came in, and a new expression – fear or maybe anticipation - seemed to animate his narrow features.
“Hey,” said Hurley.
The guy looked up. His eyes, Hurley saw, were a strangely luminous grey-blue, ringed with fading bruises. His mouth was wry with scratches and scars. Hard to believe he was one of them – whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. To Hurley he looked just like a regular guy, no bigger, no stronger, no different – except perhaps for his unusual stillness, and the measuring look in those blue eyes…
“What happened to me?” the stranger said.
“Ah – Locke - kinda hit you, man. With his crutch.”
The stranger nodded. “I see. And Ana-Lucia?”
“She’s okay.”
The stranger pulled a face. “Pity.”
“So -” said Hurley. “What’s your name?”
The stranger shrugged. “You can call me Henry,” he said. “It’s not my name, but it’ll do.” His voice, though soft, was slightly abrasive, as if he’d lost the habit of talking, or as if his mouth was very dry.
Hurley said; “I brought you some food. I thought you might be – you know. Hungry?”
“A last meal for the condemned man? Thanks, Hugo. Nice touch.”
“You know me?” It was scary, he thought. That the guy in the hatch knew his name, like some weird kind of a psychic trick.
“What do you care?” said Henry, shrugging. “You’re going to kill me anyway. So go on, do it. Don’t drag it out. Put me out of my misery. Think of it this way, if you like – what could possibly be worse than this?”
The guy was some kind of actor, he thought. But Hurley was feeling a little uneasy. He knew the sound of despair very well – had heard it many times during his months in the hospital – and he could hear no trace of it in Henry’s voice. He might sound beaten, Hurley thought. But all of that was just an act. Henry was tough - a born survivor. Hurley began to wonder if his instinctive sympathy for the man had perhaps been somewhat misplaced. And yet – there was something compelling, he thought, something that made him want to confide, to tell his tale to the man on the floor, as if Henry, of all people, might understand.
“No-one’s going to kill you, man.”
“Really? I feel better already.”
“I mean,” he went on. “They’re not bad people. Just a bit – tense, you know –”
“Yeah. I noticed,” Henry said.
Hurley bent down and held out the cup of water. “Dude, you wanna drink?” he said.
“Do you want to untie my hands?”
“Sorry, man. No can do. But I can hold the cup for you.” He put the cup to Henry’s mouth. Nothing happened for a while. Instead those eyes looked blue murder into Hurley’s mild brown ones, as if Henry – whoever he was – would rather die than be beholden to any of them – even for such a small thing as a drink of water. They’re animals, Ana had said, speaking of the Others the day she had arrived. But in Hurley’s experience animals – like people - tended to react better to kindness than being kicked.
“Dude, please -” Hurley said.
And at last –
Henry drank. Some colour returned to his face; the shadow of a rueful smile appeared on his scarred lips. “Thank you, Hugo.”
“No sweat.” Now Hurley broke off a piece from the energy bar and carefully fed it to the prisoner. Henry ate it with a stoic indifference that was surely faked, and once again, it seemed to Hurley that he looked a little better.
“You okay?” Hurley said.
Henry gave him a penetrating look. “You know, I think you’re the first,” he said.
“First what?”
“The first of your people to be - humane. The first one to show me any concern. I promise you I won’t forget that.” It sounded almost like a threat.
Hurley felt uneasy again. “I gotta go,” he said. “Locke’ll be back. Besides -” I’ve got a date with Libby – once more, he nearly spoke aloud; the compulsion to confide in – to confess to - this strange, intense man was almost overwhelming now. Instead he turned towards the door, keeping his eyes off Henry’s face. But Henry’s voice was insidious; hypnotic; hinting slyly at dark matters, of secret schemes, of lies, insanity and dread.
“You’re one of the good ones, Hugo,” he whispered as Hurley reached the door.
One of the good ones? Hurley thought. What was that phrase supposed to mean? Why did he think he’d heard it before? And why did it fill him with such dismay?
With an effort, he yanked open the door. Outside lay sanity – sunshine – Libby – light-
Behind him, Henry - a ticking bomb. And how did he know there’d be a smile, a tiny smile on Henry’s face?
“Later, dude, okay?” he said.
And staggered out towards the light.