Three times they almost met (and one time they did)
Title: Three time they almost met (and one time they did)
Characters/Pairings: Daniel/Charlotte (brief appearances by Richard, Eloise and Miles)
Summary: It takes four tries for Daniel Faraday and Charlotte Lewis to make a connection. AU, though references to canon.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to end of S5, I guess.
Warning: References to character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written for luau queen
roseys_fics's request of Dan/Charlotte. It was originally supposed to be a "Five Times ..." fic, but I didn't want it to get epic in length.
----
i.
He goes with Richard to clean up the bodies.
He goes with Richard and there's so many of them -- more than he expected -- crumpled in the grass like marionettes with their strings cut. Collapsed. Too peaceful. One slouched back on a bench, book he'll never finish splayed across his lap; another in a heap next to the pathway, bag of fruit still half in her hands and apples spilled like breadcrumbs behind her.
There's a smaller body, next to the swingset, and it makes Daniel retch a little, though he doesn't let Richard see. He'd heard the strained, hushed whispers, voices low, back at camp --
"He's only a child, Eloise."
"For god's sake, Richard, he's almost 16. Take him with you."
-- though she won in the end, like always.
It's her voice he hears again, as he soaks in Richard's commands and turns to slide his arms under the closest corpse, wanting to hurry and finish the job before the stench -- that sickly-sweet smell of death; he knows all about it, learned early on from his mother, from Richard what it means, whether in animal or human -- starts to waft through the air.
("Chin up. You need to learn to be a man." His mother, tone laced with disdain, showing him the freshly-caught deer carcass and sharpening her knife. "I've got no use for weakness, son. Life is hard -- you'll learn soon enough.")
She's young, the one he's carrying -- maybe only a couple years older than him -- with hair as red as the blood dribbling down her chin, feathered against his arm. Her skin's still warm where his sweaty palms are tucked under her knees and Dan tries not to notice -- her name, stitched in dark relief on her white polo; Charlotte -- and if it weren't for the blood he would almost look chivalrous, he thinks.
But life is hard, right? She's learned it, and so has he.
There's nothing gallant about body disposal so he lays the girl, without ceremony, into the pit they dug along with all the others. The best he can do is pass a hand over her sightless blue gaze -- blue like the expanse of sky over the valley where they camped out last summer -- ending it forever, and then he's heading back for the next one, the pattern of her name still imprinted against his eyelids when he goes to sleep that night.
----
ii.
It's across a crowded room that Dan first spots her, but it's not exactly a Hollywood moment. Usually, he figures, there'd be fewer sweaty drunks grinding and swaying between them, and the reek of smoke and spilled drinks and too much perfume wouldn't be so bad. Plus, she probably wouldn't have that guy -- who's got at least five inches and probably 50 pounds on him -- hanging off her arm.
He asks anyway.
"Who's that?"
Miles snorts, pushing more of his weight against the bar and sucking back on his beer. The sound system's pounding bass makes his bottle rattle against the wood grain of the countertop.
"Charlotte Lewis. Her parents are big-time scientists at Hanso."
Surprised, Daniel turns towards the other man. "They work with your dad?"
"Different divisions but same projects sometimes." He tips the bottle back again, then wipes his mouth with the heel of his hand. "I dunno."
Daniel's gaze is back on the girl -- it's her hair, he thinks, that's what grabbed his attention. It's a shock of red in a sea of blondes -- mostly bottle -- moving and cascading in waves when she dances, downs a glass of champagne in one go then plants herself next to some couches, almost haughty, her date drifting to her side. And she's pale, way more pale than anyone in L.A. usually is -- a city of sun-worshippers and all that -- and Dan likes (really, really likes) that she just doesn't seem to give a shit what anyone else thinks.
(He could use more not-giving-a-shit in his life.)
"C'mon Dan -- she's obviously with that guy." Miles hunches over the bar, elbows folded, and toys with his beer. "And no offence? But I'm putting my money on him in a fight. I mean, she's smokin', but so are 90 per cent of the girls in here."
He pauses, signalling for another drink then glancing back at his friend. "Didn't you have to be in an investors' meeting tomorrow morning anyway?"
Dan shrugs, still distracted. "Dad'll handle it."
"Oh yeah, I'm sure Charles Widmore is fine with getting stood up." Miles tosses a crisp $20 towards the bartender in exchange for his beer, waves away the change. "Aren't you supposed to be his vice-president or something?"
"Research and development."
"Yeah, exactly."
Dan pulls a face and polishes off his scotch. "Fine. Point made."
They wander out of the bar a few minutes later and his shoulders almost brush with hers as they cross the dancefloor. (He's half a second too slow, though, and Dan's out into the cool night air before she has a chance to turn around.)
----
iii.
He's a total git.
Charlotte's heard about his reputation; her flatmate, Emma, had a friend in Oxford's physics department who railed at length about this one professor, some genius. Brilliant, but younger than any of them, and twice as arrogant as he had any right to be -- she'd listened to it all.
So she has to admit her surprise when she spots the Faraday bloke in the walkway leading to where most of the physics labs are housed -- her archeological sciences seminar is one building over; her favourite course of her D.Phil so far -- with his neck craned towards the sky.
His briefcase's dropped at his feet, haphazard, and his legs, arms bent and ready but unmoving. He's watching, or looking -- Charlotte can't tell, though she can see his eyes scanning wildly, flicking back and forth across the horizon.
She pauses a few metres away, feeling almost like she's intruding, though the most she seems to be interrupting is confusion, and she leans against one of the stone pillars, clutching her textbooks a little tighter.
Their eyes catch -- and god, that hair alone should be the first warning sign -- but there's something there. He looks so ... lost, really, and it piques at a deep well of empathy, of compassion she didn't really know she had for overbearing profs or flighty academics. Not even pity -- just that Charlotte knows, knows she needs to make contact, say something, speak to him; a nameless realization pounding in her chest -- so she takes a resolute step forward.
Another student's already beat her to the punch, though; some tall, thin bloke with glasses, waving a paper in the man's direction and questioning his grade. He blinks, the tether with Charlotte broken, and turns wide eyes on the student, slowly, recognition eventually dawning.
He starts to lash into him, something about his disappointment of a research project, while Charlotte turns back towards her destination, seminar waiting, chiding herself for indulging that sort of nonsense. But she can't help but feel a little surge of disappointment -- a feeling she doesn't manage to shake the rest of the day -- for the whatever she missed in the moment, the something that slipped away.
----
iv.
It's August and it's too hot -- weirdly boiling, sticky humidity for a London afternoon -- so Dan cracks open the window in his flat's front room, raising dust and severing cobwebs, then grabs a folder of music from his desk and settles in at his piano, golden-yellow light filtering in and catching on the particles now scattered through the air.
His neighbours don't mind -- mostly -- when he plays, as long as it's during daytime hours, though sure, once he'd forgotten himself and rehearsed until the pounding on his door made him glance up where the clock chiming midnight didn't.
(Maybe twice.
Okay, a couple time.)
He launches into Chopin, barely glancing at his music as his hands fly over the keys and then finishes with a flourish, the final strains and notes reverberating through the room. It's in the silence that a voice pipes up from his window -- or more specifically, the fire escape just outside his window.
"That was beautiful. Really lovely."
He jumps -- right out of his skin, it feels like -- and manages to knock his sheet music off the rack, floating to the ground in a flurry of white paper.
"Oh christ, I'm so sorry." He sees a blur of red and she's already slipping through the window, rushing over and collecting the scattered papers before he's got a second to think. "Didn't mean to scare you."
He's still staring, frozen to the spot with a fan of music slipping out of his fist, so she pauses and offers a tenuous grin, tucking her hair behind one ear. "I live upstairs and I heard you playing; I swear I'm not some kind of creeper."
Dan laughs -- a little too loud and a little too long, because of course it can't get any more awkward, right? -- and feels a blush crawling up his neck. "Thanks, I guess. And don't worry about it," he amends in a rush, offering a hand. "I'm Daniel. Dan."
Her shake's strong, firm, calloused palm brushing against his. "Charlotte. Just moved in."
She straightens and shuffles the music, fussing a bit with the edges, and then hands the pile to him, her smile still apprehensive. "So how long have you been playing, Dan?"
He straightens up as Charlotte follows suit, resetting the pages on his rack.
"I'm, ah, studying at the Royal College of Music."
Eyebrows raised, she gives him a look of faint awe and raises her hand a little, in a gesture of me too. "Huh. I graduated from Kent this spring. And you're a Yank, I take it -- what brought you to England?"
"My parents -- well, and my sister, and her husband and son; everybody, actually -- they're all British." He grins, sort of. "Everyone but me."
Charlotte perches herself on the arm of the sofa while he speaks, listening; Daniel pauses, half-turning towards the kitchen and gesturing over his shoulder, debating social etiquette for random strangers who tumble in through windows.
"Do you want, uh, something? I don't drink tea, but I have ... coffee? Does that work?"
"Dan." Her voice is firm, but her expression's soft. "That's sweet, but I'm the one who barged into your flat and scared you silly."
She eyes him, appraisingly.
"Besides, it's too bloody hot for that. I'd love to see more of the neighbourhood, if there's a pub nearby. Maybe buy you a pint, yeah?"
There's a moment's hesitation -- in surprise, really; good-looking women don't tend to suddenly appear in his flat and offer to take him out for a drink -- and then he nods in acceptance, feeling the flush returning as he grabs his wallet and keys.
"I don't know, Dan." She's smiling again, almost cheeky, as she leads out into the hallway. "Maybe this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."
He laughs, more to himself than anything because maybe it is, and shuts the door behind him with a grin.
Characters/Pairings: Daniel/Charlotte (brief appearances by Richard, Eloise and Miles)
Summary: It takes four tries for Daniel Faraday and Charlotte Lewis to make a connection. AU, though references to canon.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to end of S5, I guess.
Warning: References to character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written for luau queen
roseys_fics's request of Dan/Charlotte. It was originally supposed to be a "Five Times ..." fic, but I didn't want it to get epic in length.
----
i.
He goes with Richard to clean up the bodies.
He goes with Richard and there's so many of them -- more than he expected -- crumpled in the grass like marionettes with their strings cut. Collapsed. Too peaceful. One slouched back on a bench, book he'll never finish splayed across his lap; another in a heap next to the pathway, bag of fruit still half in her hands and apples spilled like breadcrumbs behind her.
There's a smaller body, next to the swingset, and it makes Daniel retch a little, though he doesn't let Richard see. He'd heard the strained, hushed whispers, voices low, back at camp --
"He's only a child, Eloise."
"For god's sake, Richard, he's almost 16. Take him with you."
-- though she won in the end, like always.
It's her voice he hears again, as he soaks in Richard's commands and turns to slide his arms under the closest corpse, wanting to hurry and finish the job before the stench -- that sickly-sweet smell of death; he knows all about it, learned early on from his mother, from Richard what it means, whether in animal or human -- starts to waft through the air.
("Chin up. You need to learn to be a man." His mother, tone laced with disdain, showing him the freshly-caught deer carcass and sharpening her knife. "I've got no use for weakness, son. Life is hard -- you'll learn soon enough.")
She's young, the one he's carrying -- maybe only a couple years older than him -- with hair as red as the blood dribbling down her chin, feathered against his arm. Her skin's still warm where his sweaty palms are tucked under her knees and Dan tries not to notice -- her name, stitched in dark relief on her white polo; Charlotte -- and if it weren't for the blood he would almost look chivalrous, he thinks.
But life is hard, right? She's learned it, and so has he.
There's nothing gallant about body disposal so he lays the girl, without ceremony, into the pit they dug along with all the others. The best he can do is pass a hand over her sightless blue gaze -- blue like the expanse of sky over the valley where they camped out last summer -- ending it forever, and then he's heading back for the next one, the pattern of her name still imprinted against his eyelids when he goes to sleep that night.
----
ii.
It's across a crowded room that Dan first spots her, but it's not exactly a Hollywood moment. Usually, he figures, there'd be fewer sweaty drunks grinding and swaying between them, and the reek of smoke and spilled drinks and too much perfume wouldn't be so bad. Plus, she probably wouldn't have that guy -- who's got at least five inches and probably 50 pounds on him -- hanging off her arm.
He asks anyway.
"Who's that?"
Miles snorts, pushing more of his weight against the bar and sucking back on his beer. The sound system's pounding bass makes his bottle rattle against the wood grain of the countertop.
"Charlotte Lewis. Her parents are big-time scientists at Hanso."
Surprised, Daniel turns towards the other man. "They work with your dad?"
"Different divisions but same projects sometimes." He tips the bottle back again, then wipes his mouth with the heel of his hand. "I dunno."
Daniel's gaze is back on the girl -- it's her hair, he thinks, that's what grabbed his attention. It's a shock of red in a sea of blondes -- mostly bottle -- moving and cascading in waves when she dances, downs a glass of champagne in one go then plants herself next to some couches, almost haughty, her date drifting to her side. And she's pale, way more pale than anyone in L.A. usually is -- a city of sun-worshippers and all that -- and Dan likes (really, really likes) that she just doesn't seem to give a shit what anyone else thinks.
(He could use more not-giving-a-shit in his life.)
"C'mon Dan -- she's obviously with that guy." Miles hunches over the bar, elbows folded, and toys with his beer. "And no offence? But I'm putting my money on him in a fight. I mean, she's smokin', but so are 90 per cent of the girls in here."
He pauses, signalling for another drink then glancing back at his friend. "Didn't you have to be in an investors' meeting tomorrow morning anyway?"
Dan shrugs, still distracted. "Dad'll handle it."
"Oh yeah, I'm sure Charles Widmore is fine with getting stood up." Miles tosses a crisp $20 towards the bartender in exchange for his beer, waves away the change. "Aren't you supposed to be his vice-president or something?"
"Research and development."
"Yeah, exactly."
Dan pulls a face and polishes off his scotch. "Fine. Point made."
They wander out of the bar a few minutes later and his shoulders almost brush with hers as they cross the dancefloor. (He's half a second too slow, though, and Dan's out into the cool night air before she has a chance to turn around.)
----
iii.
He's a total git.
Charlotte's heard about his reputation; her flatmate, Emma, had a friend in Oxford's physics department who railed at length about this one professor, some genius. Brilliant, but younger than any of them, and twice as arrogant as he had any right to be -- she'd listened to it all.
So she has to admit her surprise when she spots the Faraday bloke in the walkway leading to where most of the physics labs are housed -- her archeological sciences seminar is one building over; her favourite course of her D.Phil so far -- with his neck craned towards the sky.
His briefcase's dropped at his feet, haphazard, and his legs, arms bent and ready but unmoving. He's watching, or looking -- Charlotte can't tell, though she can see his eyes scanning wildly, flicking back and forth across the horizon.
She pauses a few metres away, feeling almost like she's intruding, though the most she seems to be interrupting is confusion, and she leans against one of the stone pillars, clutching her textbooks a little tighter.
Their eyes catch -- and god, that hair alone should be the first warning sign -- but there's something there. He looks so ... lost, really, and it piques at a deep well of empathy, of compassion she didn't really know she had for overbearing profs or flighty academics. Not even pity -- just that Charlotte knows, knows she needs to make contact, say something, speak to him; a nameless realization pounding in her chest -- so she takes a resolute step forward.
Another student's already beat her to the punch, though; some tall, thin bloke with glasses, waving a paper in the man's direction and questioning his grade. He blinks, the tether with Charlotte broken, and turns wide eyes on the student, slowly, recognition eventually dawning.
He starts to lash into him, something about his disappointment of a research project, while Charlotte turns back towards her destination, seminar waiting, chiding herself for indulging that sort of nonsense. But she can't help but feel a little surge of disappointment -- a feeling she doesn't manage to shake the rest of the day -- for the whatever she missed in the moment, the something that slipped away.
----
iv.
It's August and it's too hot -- weirdly boiling, sticky humidity for a London afternoon -- so Dan cracks open the window in his flat's front room, raising dust and severing cobwebs, then grabs a folder of music from his desk and settles in at his piano, golden-yellow light filtering in and catching on the particles now scattered through the air.
His neighbours don't mind -- mostly -- when he plays, as long as it's during daytime hours, though sure, once he'd forgotten himself and rehearsed until the pounding on his door made him glance up where the clock chiming midnight didn't.
(Maybe twice.
Okay, a couple time.)
He launches into Chopin, barely glancing at his music as his hands fly over the keys and then finishes with a flourish, the final strains and notes reverberating through the room. It's in the silence that a voice pipes up from his window -- or more specifically, the fire escape just outside his window.
"That was beautiful. Really lovely."
He jumps -- right out of his skin, it feels like -- and manages to knock his sheet music off the rack, floating to the ground in a flurry of white paper.
"Oh christ, I'm so sorry." He sees a blur of red and she's already slipping through the window, rushing over and collecting the scattered papers before he's got a second to think. "Didn't mean to scare you."
He's still staring, frozen to the spot with a fan of music slipping out of his fist, so she pauses and offers a tenuous grin, tucking her hair behind one ear. "I live upstairs and I heard you playing; I swear I'm not some kind of creeper."
Dan laughs -- a little too loud and a little too long, because of course it can't get any more awkward, right? -- and feels a blush crawling up his neck. "Thanks, I guess. And don't worry about it," he amends in a rush, offering a hand. "I'm Daniel. Dan."
Her shake's strong, firm, calloused palm brushing against his. "Charlotte. Just moved in."
She straightens and shuffles the music, fussing a bit with the edges, and then hands the pile to him, her smile still apprehensive. "So how long have you been playing, Dan?"
He straightens up as Charlotte follows suit, resetting the pages on his rack.
"I'm, ah, studying at the Royal College of Music."
Eyebrows raised, she gives him a look of faint awe and raises her hand a little, in a gesture of me too. "Huh. I graduated from Kent this spring. And you're a Yank, I take it -- what brought you to England?"
"My parents -- well, and my sister, and her husband and son; everybody, actually -- they're all British." He grins, sort of. "Everyone but me."
Charlotte perches herself on the arm of the sofa while he speaks, listening; Daniel pauses, half-turning towards the kitchen and gesturing over his shoulder, debating social etiquette for random strangers who tumble in through windows.
"Do you want, uh, something? I don't drink tea, but I have ... coffee? Does that work?"
"Dan." Her voice is firm, but her expression's soft. "That's sweet, but I'm the one who barged into your flat and scared you silly."
She eyes him, appraisingly.
"Besides, it's too bloody hot for that. I'd love to see more of the neighbourhood, if there's a pub nearby. Maybe buy you a pint, yeah?"
There's a moment's hesitation -- in surprise, really; good-looking women don't tend to suddenly appear in his flat and offer to take him out for a drink -- and then he nods in acceptance, feeling the flush returning as he grabs his wallet and keys.
"I don't know, Dan." She's smiling again, almost cheeky, as she leads out into the hallway. "Maybe this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."
He laughs, more to himself than anything because maybe it is, and shuts the door behind him with a grin.