Paaaiiiin and a fic
Last night I managed to wrench my back pretty badly, resulting in extreme pain and a sleepless night. This morning, I could barely move or stand up straight, let alone drive or sit in a straight-backed chair for six hours, so I called in sick to the museum and spent all day languishing in bed. On the plus side, it gave me the time to finish this fic I've been working on the past couple of days. My first ever Lost fic, I might add. I know I have barely any Lost fans on my flist, but I finished the darn thing and I'm gonna post it.
On a related note, I saw the Time Traveler's Wife trailer the other day, and it reminded me so much of Daniel/Charlotte (which I'm thinking was probably not a coincidence, given a few comments I've seen online). I haven't read the book, but I think I'm going to see the movie for exactly that reason. And because Eric Bana is hot, of course.
Anyway, fic.
Title: Shatter
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairing: Daniel/Charlotte. Charlotte-centric.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,852
Spoilers: Up through 5x14, "The Variable"
Summary: His fingers stretch towards her and stop, trembling in midair, like she’s one of the shiny glass sculptures on the mantelpiece that Mum and Dad never let her touch.
Notes: I believe this is the first time I've ever really written a British character. Gulp. Hopefully there aren't too many Americanisms in here. Oh, and I know there was a bunch of ridiculousness about Charlotte's real age thanks to the writers forgetting their own canon, but I went with the first age she was given, since it just seems to fit better in my opinion.
Charlotte Lewis, age six and a half, is already as smart as a whip. So say her proud parents whenever they have visitors to their tidy little Dharma home.
She’s also very naughty.
Her mum has switched hiding places for the chocolate bars at least half a dozen times, but Charlotte is a clever little girl with a sweet tooth as accurate as a bloodhound’s nose. She’s more than a little pleased with herself as she perches on the swingset, nibbling at the treat that’s only tastier for its forbidden nature.
She almost doesn’t notice the man in the gray Dharma jumpsuit until he’s right in front of her, and by then it’s far too late-the chocolate’s been seen. Pleasure turns to guilt, flashing through her in a sharp pang as she pictures her mother’s exasperated face.
“I’m not allowed to have chocolate before dinner,” she tells the man, her eyes downcast. It’s part confession, part resignation to the punishment she’s now sure to receive.
If she were a little older, she might notice his quick intake of breath, the spasm of emotion that flickers across his face. But she’s only six and a half.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, and his voice sounds funny, like the way her mum’s does when she’s watching a sad movie and using up all the tissues. “I won’t tell.”
He’s smiling, but his eyes are brighter than they should be, and when he kneels down in front of her she can see them shining with tears. Suddenly she feels scared, like her tummy’s turning over inside of her. Grown-ups aren’t supposed to cry.
He talks to her, says a lot of things that she doesn’t understand, but she can tell from his eyes and the tone of his voice that it’s very, very important. It makes her tummy flip faster and her lower lip begin to wobble. And as his voice winds down, his fingers stretch towards her and stop, trembling in midair, like she’s one of the shiny glass sculptures on the mantelpiece that Mum and Dad never let her touch.
She imagines them lying shattered, tiny pieces on the floor, and she feels like that, too. She’s confused and scared and crying because he’s crying, this strange, strange man that she’s never seen before.
“I won’t break,” she says, but it’s more of a question than anything, and she looks down at her toes so she won’t see his eyes spilling over.
“Charlotte,” he whispers, like he can’t say her name out loud. “I wish that were true.”
When he leaves, he turns to look at her for one last long moment, as if he’s trying to make sure he’ll never forget her, ever. And then he walks away.
Charlotte looks down at the chocolate bar clutched tightly in her hand. She doesn’t feel like eating it anymore.
* * *
Charlotte isn’t one of those women who falls in love at the drop of a hat. She doesn’t fall in love at all, really. She’s had men in her life, of course-even one or two that she cared about, really cared about. But as far as the popular definition of love goes, that frothing, pulse-pounding, swoon-inducing business that the movies all seem to promise, she can’t say she’s ever experienced anything like that.
Quite frankly, she’s pretty sure that’s because such a thing doesn’t even exist in real life.
She knows the kind of reputation she’s gained, with opinions like that one and the blunt, unapologetic way she expresses them. Cold, people call her. Cynical. Bitchy. She supposes it should bother her, but it doesn’t really. Maybe it used to, long ago, but she has more important matters to concern her now.
More important matters, like a certain island that haunts her memories in frustrating glimpses and scattered fragments.
When she boards the Kahuna, that island is her single-minded focus, the pursuit of her young life’s work finally within her reach. She doesn’t go out of her way to avoid the freighter’s other denizens, but she makes no special effort to connect with them, either. She’s not there to make friends, after all.
And she certainly isn’t there to find a boyfriend, which is why her attraction to one Daniel Faraday catches her more than a little off guard. Especially since he’s completely not her type at all. He isn’t even all there, for starters, and she doesn’t usually go for mad scientists. Like her, he doesn’t spend much time interacting with anyone else on board, although she thinks that’s less because of any personality issues and more because he’s so caught up in his science experiments that he hardly even registers the other people around him.
He’s elbows-deep in one such experiment when she meets him for the first time, on the freighter’s deck in the middle of one particularly balmy afternoon. She’s heading back to her tiny room after a trip to the galley, and she spots him standing near the railing and talking to himself, so engrossed in a tangle of complicated contraptions that a seagull could start pecking at his head and he probably wouldn’t notice.
She watches him for a long moment, both curious and amused, catching a few of his mumbled words when the wind shifts just right. Normally she would just walk right on by, but the bright sun and the food in her belly have put her in a more relaxed mood than normal, and she finds herself taking a step in his direction.
“Need any help, there?”
His head shoots up, eyes almost comically wide. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t, uh, didn’t see you there.” He tilts his head a little to one side, shifting back and forth on both feet, and studies her intently. “Do I…have we met?”
Charlotte smiles, possibly the first genuine one she’s had when meeting someone on this boat. “We have now,” she replies, and steps forward to offer her hand, which he takes with just a hint of hesitation. “I’m Charlotte Lewis.”
“Daniel,” he says, and very briefly clasps her hand in both of his. She finds it a little odd, but not in a bad way. “I’m Daniel. Uh, Faraday.”
“Nice to meet you, Daniel.” She releases his hand and looks down at the mess of wires, timers and other assorted devices in front of him. “I would ask what it is you’re doing, but physics wasn’t exactly my best subject in university.”
He laughs; it’s a pleasant, if slightly distracted sound. “It’s all right, it’s a little hard to explain anyway. Listen, uh…Charlotte, as long as you’re here, would you mind holding this while I…” He trails off, pushing a piece of equipment into her hand while he fiddles with a dial protruding from a different object. “Just hold it steady like that…yes, that’s perfect.”
He punches a few buttons and stares at a monitor, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation on his face. A few seconds pass before he lets out a breath, his tension replaced by an ear-to-ear grin. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very good.”
He looks up, his smile transferring to her, and she can’t help but smile back.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” he says earnestly, taking the device from her. “That was very helpful. Thank you.”
She stifles an urge to laugh, not wanting him to think she’s laughing at him-especially since she suspects that’s probably happened to him on more than one occasion. “Anytime.”
And when she says “anytime,” she doesn’t actually mean it literally. But the voyage is long, and as the time passes she comes to find Daniel’s company strangely appealing. Certainly moreso than that of anyone else on the ship, anyway, and she suspects Daniel feels the same way. They’re different from the other travelers, after all-both brainy academic types, while nearly everyone else on board is either a beefy soldier or a weatherworn sailor.
They’re both the type of people who live to soak up new information, and as the long hours bleed together on the freighter, they slowly begin to uncover new facts about each other.
Charlotte learns that Daniel suffers from problems with his memory, that he used to teach at Oxford-alma mater to them both-and that she reminds him of his old research assistant. She learns that he used to play the piano but now he doesn’t remember how, and his look of profound yearning and regret when he speaks of it is enough to make her stomach clench.
She also discovers just how much he expresses through his hands, how he’s almost addicted to the sensation of touch. It’s one of the areas where they most differ, and the first time he reaches out to tentatively stroke her hair, she has to force herself not to recoil in surprise.
But it surprises her even more how quickly she comes to like it. And from what little he divulges of his mother and his childhood, she suspects she knows the source of his craving for that physical connection.
She’s more than willing to help him make up for lost time.
* * *
Surrounded by swirling, blinding flashes of white and stricken with the worst headache she’s ever experienced, Charlotte knows she’s going to die.
Daniel valiantly tries to convince her otherwise, insisting he won’t let anything happen to her, but she can see the fear and helplessness in his eyes. Everything he feels is written all over his face; it’s always been one of the things she loves about him, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world even now. Besides, it doesn’t take a physician to know that repeatedly losing consciousness and bleeding profusely from the nose aren’t generally the best of signs.
Well. This isn’t exactly how she’d envisioned she would go out-only twenty-eight years old, with so much left to experience. She’d always assumed she would have a long and fulfilling anthropological career, make discoveries and publish articles, earn the respect of her peers in the academic community. Maybe she would have had a husband and a child or two, though her thoughts of such things had always been second to her dreams for her career.
Very little of it matters now. All that’s left is her, and Daniel, and this bloody island that she fought so hard to find, which now fights with equal determination to make sure she’ll never leave.
But as she lies sprawled on the ground under a canopy of trees, surrounded by the dappled sunlight and the birds’ carefree songs, Charlotte looks up into Daniel’s tear-bright eyes and remembers. The fear of death subsides, replaced by a child’s mischief, and she smiles as she tastes forbidden sweets on her tongue.
“I’m not allowed to have chocolate before dinner,” she tells him, this strange, strange man that she knows she’s seen before.
And as her vision begins to fade, she knows it’s going to be okay. Knows, because any minute now, he’s going to tell her so.
It’s okay, sweetheart, echoes in her memory, the last thing she hears. I won’t tell.
On a related note, I saw the Time Traveler's Wife trailer the other day, and it reminded me so much of Daniel/Charlotte (which I'm thinking was probably not a coincidence, given a few comments I've seen online). I haven't read the book, but I think I'm going to see the movie for exactly that reason. And because Eric Bana is hot, of course.
Anyway, fic.
Title: Shatter
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairing: Daniel/Charlotte. Charlotte-centric.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,852
Spoilers: Up through 5x14, "The Variable"
Summary: His fingers stretch towards her and stop, trembling in midair, like she’s one of the shiny glass sculptures on the mantelpiece that Mum and Dad never let her touch.
Notes: I believe this is the first time I've ever really written a British character. Gulp. Hopefully there aren't too many Americanisms in here. Oh, and I know there was a bunch of ridiculousness about Charlotte's real age thanks to the writers forgetting their own canon, but I went with the first age she was given, since it just seems to fit better in my opinion.
Charlotte Lewis, age six and a half, is already as smart as a whip. So say her proud parents whenever they have visitors to their tidy little Dharma home.
She’s also very naughty.
Her mum has switched hiding places for the chocolate bars at least half a dozen times, but Charlotte is a clever little girl with a sweet tooth as accurate as a bloodhound’s nose. She’s more than a little pleased with herself as she perches on the swingset, nibbling at the treat that’s only tastier for its forbidden nature.
She almost doesn’t notice the man in the gray Dharma jumpsuit until he’s right in front of her, and by then it’s far too late-the chocolate’s been seen. Pleasure turns to guilt, flashing through her in a sharp pang as she pictures her mother’s exasperated face.
“I’m not allowed to have chocolate before dinner,” she tells the man, her eyes downcast. It’s part confession, part resignation to the punishment she’s now sure to receive.
If she were a little older, she might notice his quick intake of breath, the spasm of emotion that flickers across his face. But she’s only six and a half.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, and his voice sounds funny, like the way her mum’s does when she’s watching a sad movie and using up all the tissues. “I won’t tell.”
He’s smiling, but his eyes are brighter than they should be, and when he kneels down in front of her she can see them shining with tears. Suddenly she feels scared, like her tummy’s turning over inside of her. Grown-ups aren’t supposed to cry.
He talks to her, says a lot of things that she doesn’t understand, but she can tell from his eyes and the tone of his voice that it’s very, very important. It makes her tummy flip faster and her lower lip begin to wobble. And as his voice winds down, his fingers stretch towards her and stop, trembling in midair, like she’s one of the shiny glass sculptures on the mantelpiece that Mum and Dad never let her touch.
She imagines them lying shattered, tiny pieces on the floor, and she feels like that, too. She’s confused and scared and crying because he’s crying, this strange, strange man that she’s never seen before.
“I won’t break,” she says, but it’s more of a question than anything, and she looks down at her toes so she won’t see his eyes spilling over.
“Charlotte,” he whispers, like he can’t say her name out loud. “I wish that were true.”
When he leaves, he turns to look at her for one last long moment, as if he’s trying to make sure he’ll never forget her, ever. And then he walks away.
Charlotte looks down at the chocolate bar clutched tightly in her hand. She doesn’t feel like eating it anymore.
* * *
Charlotte isn’t one of those women who falls in love at the drop of a hat. She doesn’t fall in love at all, really. She’s had men in her life, of course-even one or two that she cared about, really cared about. But as far as the popular definition of love goes, that frothing, pulse-pounding, swoon-inducing business that the movies all seem to promise, she can’t say she’s ever experienced anything like that.
Quite frankly, she’s pretty sure that’s because such a thing doesn’t even exist in real life.
She knows the kind of reputation she’s gained, with opinions like that one and the blunt, unapologetic way she expresses them. Cold, people call her. Cynical. Bitchy. She supposes it should bother her, but it doesn’t really. Maybe it used to, long ago, but she has more important matters to concern her now.
More important matters, like a certain island that haunts her memories in frustrating glimpses and scattered fragments.
When she boards the Kahuna, that island is her single-minded focus, the pursuit of her young life’s work finally within her reach. She doesn’t go out of her way to avoid the freighter’s other denizens, but she makes no special effort to connect with them, either. She’s not there to make friends, after all.
And she certainly isn’t there to find a boyfriend, which is why her attraction to one Daniel Faraday catches her more than a little off guard. Especially since he’s completely not her type at all. He isn’t even all there, for starters, and she doesn’t usually go for mad scientists. Like her, he doesn’t spend much time interacting with anyone else on board, although she thinks that’s less because of any personality issues and more because he’s so caught up in his science experiments that he hardly even registers the other people around him.
He’s elbows-deep in one such experiment when she meets him for the first time, on the freighter’s deck in the middle of one particularly balmy afternoon. She’s heading back to her tiny room after a trip to the galley, and she spots him standing near the railing and talking to himself, so engrossed in a tangle of complicated contraptions that a seagull could start pecking at his head and he probably wouldn’t notice.
She watches him for a long moment, both curious and amused, catching a few of his mumbled words when the wind shifts just right. Normally she would just walk right on by, but the bright sun and the food in her belly have put her in a more relaxed mood than normal, and she finds herself taking a step in his direction.
“Need any help, there?”
His head shoots up, eyes almost comically wide. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t, uh, didn’t see you there.” He tilts his head a little to one side, shifting back and forth on both feet, and studies her intently. “Do I…have we met?”
Charlotte smiles, possibly the first genuine one she’s had when meeting someone on this boat. “We have now,” she replies, and steps forward to offer her hand, which he takes with just a hint of hesitation. “I’m Charlotte Lewis.”
“Daniel,” he says, and very briefly clasps her hand in both of his. She finds it a little odd, but not in a bad way. “I’m Daniel. Uh, Faraday.”
“Nice to meet you, Daniel.” She releases his hand and looks down at the mess of wires, timers and other assorted devices in front of him. “I would ask what it is you’re doing, but physics wasn’t exactly my best subject in university.”
He laughs; it’s a pleasant, if slightly distracted sound. “It’s all right, it’s a little hard to explain anyway. Listen, uh…Charlotte, as long as you’re here, would you mind holding this while I…” He trails off, pushing a piece of equipment into her hand while he fiddles with a dial protruding from a different object. “Just hold it steady like that…yes, that’s perfect.”
He punches a few buttons and stares at a monitor, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation on his face. A few seconds pass before he lets out a breath, his tension replaced by an ear-to-ear grin. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very good.”
He looks up, his smile transferring to her, and she can’t help but smile back.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” he says earnestly, taking the device from her. “That was very helpful. Thank you.”
She stifles an urge to laugh, not wanting him to think she’s laughing at him-especially since she suspects that’s probably happened to him on more than one occasion. “Anytime.”
And when she says “anytime,” she doesn’t actually mean it literally. But the voyage is long, and as the time passes she comes to find Daniel’s company strangely appealing. Certainly moreso than that of anyone else on the ship, anyway, and she suspects Daniel feels the same way. They’re different from the other travelers, after all-both brainy academic types, while nearly everyone else on board is either a beefy soldier or a weatherworn sailor.
They’re both the type of people who live to soak up new information, and as the long hours bleed together on the freighter, they slowly begin to uncover new facts about each other.
Charlotte learns that Daniel suffers from problems with his memory, that he used to teach at Oxford-alma mater to them both-and that she reminds him of his old research assistant. She learns that he used to play the piano but now he doesn’t remember how, and his look of profound yearning and regret when he speaks of it is enough to make her stomach clench.
She also discovers just how much he expresses through his hands, how he’s almost addicted to the sensation of touch. It’s one of the areas where they most differ, and the first time he reaches out to tentatively stroke her hair, she has to force herself not to recoil in surprise.
But it surprises her even more how quickly she comes to like it. And from what little he divulges of his mother and his childhood, she suspects she knows the source of his craving for that physical connection.
She’s more than willing to help him make up for lost time.
* * *
Surrounded by swirling, blinding flashes of white and stricken with the worst headache she’s ever experienced, Charlotte knows she’s going to die.
Daniel valiantly tries to convince her otherwise, insisting he won’t let anything happen to her, but she can see the fear and helplessness in his eyes. Everything he feels is written all over his face; it’s always been one of the things she loves about him, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world even now. Besides, it doesn’t take a physician to know that repeatedly losing consciousness and bleeding profusely from the nose aren’t generally the best of signs.
Well. This isn’t exactly how she’d envisioned she would go out-only twenty-eight years old, with so much left to experience. She’d always assumed she would have a long and fulfilling anthropological career, make discoveries and publish articles, earn the respect of her peers in the academic community. Maybe she would have had a husband and a child or two, though her thoughts of such things had always been second to her dreams for her career.
Very little of it matters now. All that’s left is her, and Daniel, and this bloody island that she fought so hard to find, which now fights with equal determination to make sure she’ll never leave.
But as she lies sprawled on the ground under a canopy of trees, surrounded by the dappled sunlight and the birds’ carefree songs, Charlotte looks up into Daniel’s tear-bright eyes and remembers. The fear of death subsides, replaced by a child’s mischief, and she smiles as she tastes forbidden sweets on her tongue.
“I’m not allowed to have chocolate before dinner,” she tells him, this strange, strange man that she knows she’s seen before.
And as her vision begins to fade, she knows it’s going to be okay. Knows, because any minute now, he’s going to tell her so.
It’s okay, sweetheart, echoes in her memory, the last thing she hears. I won’t tell.