Coda
Title: Coda
Characters/Pairings: Charlotte, Jack, Daniel (Charlotte/Dan; slight hints of Jack/Kate, Jack/Juliet)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "His mind reels, skips and catching like a broken cassette. There's flames and blood and a white light that seems to burn through every cell in his body." The reset works, but only some of them remember.
Spoilers: Up to end of S5; pure speculation for S6.
Warnings: References to character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: So finally wrote my own, self-indulgent version of a reset fic. Lyrics by The Killers.
----
Over and out, last call for sin
While everyone's lost, the battle is won
With all these things that I've done
All these things that I've done
If you can hold on
----
He doesn't remember until Sept. 23.
(Later, this will be ironic in the worst way.)
Jack folds his suit jacket over his arm, pulls his briefcase from the overhead compartment and shuffles down the aisle, shimmying past the big guy and the pregnant girl and the too-silent Asian couple, interest vaguely piqued by the woman in handcuffs, her expression sharp and sour, and the unshaven guy, reeking of smoke and sweat, who shoves by him with a gruff "move it."
Stepping into LAX's corridor feels like deja vu -- one eye interpreting information faster than the other, he knows -- or like someone left a window open, or there's a bill past due he forgot to pay. Something ... unfinished, Jack thinks, as he heads to the counter to collect his father's coffin.
It hits him with all the brute force of a wave -- a sudden tidal rush of information -- as he stands in line for coffee at the hospital's cafeteria the next morning. His mind reels, skips and catching like a broken cassette. There's flames and blood and a white light that seems to burn through every cell in his body. At the end he's just left with names, names that suddenly quiver with meaning, full of life and memories and moments they didn't have seconds before. Juliet, he thinks. Claire. Sawyer.
Kate.
----
She's dead and then she's not.
At first, that's all she knows.
Charlotte lays, gasping for breath, on her bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, the alarm clock's numbers -- just past midnight -- burning bright red in the pitch-black of her room. Lungs contract and restrict and jesus sodding christ, she's breathing; one hand flies to her nose, her chin, scrabbling for the coursing wetness that should be there.
Nothing.
Her hand scrambles for the bedside lamp and dim, soft light fills the room -- it's her flat in London and it should be January but Charlotte knows it's still September (again?) and suddenly the crush of everything is too much, and she sprints for the bathroom, retching.
Forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, she can still feel the phantom touch of Daniel's hand clasped in hers, his lumpy knapsack under her head, the brush of jungle dirt beneath her thighs; feels everything and nothing at all. I was there, and another wave of nausea cramps her stomach, I had it and now it's gone.
----
She spends two weeks trying to track him down, scouring listings and phone books and websites, first for Essex and then anywhere else. There's either too many or none at all, though, and by her two-dozenth "Faraday" that comes up a wrong number or disconnected Charlotte's ready to give up.
Of course she sees him on the street the next day.
He's in front of a totally unremarkable garden flat on a quiet side street in Hampstead; not one of Charlotte's usual haunts but she's begged off work the past few days with a so-called bad flu and mostly fills her hours with wandering around the city, feeling like she's seeing it for the first time. It's unfamiliar, all of it, in a strange way -- the sudden foreignness of London, of her home, of every inch of the space around her chafing at something inside.
A city bus flies by, crunching leaves and whipping up wind against her face, and Dan disappears for a moment, panic gripping her. Then the bus chugs away and he's there again, and his hair's shorter, like when they first met, and of course he's wearing a tie --
-- and there's a child in his arms.
Barely a toddler, Charlotte figures, her chubby arms clinging around his neck, dark hair wispy and fine. And the eyes -- big and brown and wide open to the world -- those eyes mean what Charlotte's figured since she woke up with a mind full of new memories weeks ago, that sometimes the world moves on.
She crosses the street anyway, at a wobbly pace that's half-cautious and mostly bristling with nervous energy. Dan's opening the back door of a car, placing his daughter (because it must be, Charlotte thinks, another of the island's cruel taunts) inside. She's there a second later and with a voice that wavers more than she'd like calls out his name.
His smile's friendly, but vacant -- pleasantly detached but searching, like when he used to forget which cabin was his on the freighter, or whether he'd actually answered a question -- and her heart drops. Her hands find his shoulders anyway, like she can will the memories back to him through her grasp, and Dan, she whispers, voice strangled in her throat, it's me. Don't you remember?
He laughs, nervous, looks down at her white-knuckled grip and then back at the child nestled in her car seat, uneasy gaze flicking between the two of them; Charlotte recognizes it, that protective instinct, knows she used to look at Daniel the same way.
"I don't -- um, I'm sorry. I think you've got me mistaken for someone else."
The anger, it's like a burst of pressure against the backs of her eyes -- at Dan for not remembering (and you were supposed to love me, she wants to shout, even though it's not fair and probably not even true), at herself for being able to, at the sodding island for giving and taking away like always -- and feeling desperate, launches into a reeling list of everything she knows about him, bits and pieces of information collected like artifacts, burrowed into her brain.
"It's me, Charlotte; c'mon Dan. You -- you're a physicist," she throws out, desperate, and the freighter and the island and Oxford and the father he never knew.
He stills for a moment and then, "I don't know you," he repeats, a little firmer this time, eyes flashing with something new and slamming the door shut. "Please."
Charlotte nods, short, and steps back, absorbing Dan's soft thank you as he moves past her and slips into the driver's seat. The reversing car makes way for a neatly-kept fence and the yard beyond -- children's toys littered across the grass, the bright colours almost garish, suddenly too much -- and it's just another reminder of what she's not supposed to know, what the island won't let her have.
----
Jack calls in sick to work for almost a week and watches Kate's trial on TV, tries to call the prison once and gets through, her voice cracking through the line's tinny buzz and he can almost imagine her, swimming in that orange jumpsuit and leaning against some hallway payphone, twisting the cord between her fingers.
"Jack what?" she asks, and the swelling, floating warmth that had kept him buoyant, the fervent wish that because he does she must remember too, turns cold and leaves him spinning.
"Shephard," he mumbles, head cradled in one hand and already tasting whiskey. "It's Shephard."
It's only a few moments more before he hears the firm click and the dial tone whining in his ear; I don't know you; leave me alone, she'd muttered, voice dark.
Juliet's in Miami -- back to Carlson though he manages to find her easily enough -- but her number lays, scribbled and scratched out in red pen, on his desk for days, and she would call, he thinks. If she remembered, she would call. Claire is missing; no leads in Sydney and even fewer in Los Angeles. He leaves a few messages with some OB/GYNs around L.A. and hopes for the best.
It's only a few days later when he heads back to his office and the blinking red light of his voicemail display, sinks into his chair and hits play, and it's her voice that filters out -- he thinks of beach camps and tense half-circle meetings, the rattling thud that made his teeth chatter as the freighter exploded -- stilted by hesitation.
"Dr. Shephard. Jack." A pause, then a long exhale. "I'm not sure -- I didn't know who else to call. It's Charlotte Lewis; I was on the freighter."
And her next words, they almost take his breath away --
I remember.
----
She's wished for it so many times -- every ring of the phone manages to send her heart leaping in her throat, always with a twisting knot of shame, deep in her stomach -- that at first she doesn't believe it. She arrives home in the middle of a grey, dripping day, and he's sitting on her stoop, jacket pulled tight around thin shoulders, hunched over against the drizzle.
Slowing to a stop, Charlotte pauses at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing him carefully. "Hi," she manages eventually.
Daniel -- rain running rivulets through his hair, dark and plastered against his face, and it feels so visceral, the connection between them; like a cord, attached to her insides and strung tight, and she wonders if that pull is there for him too -- clamours to his feet, startled. "Uh, hi," he echoes back, gripping the railing.
Charlotte moves towards him, up a step closer, and he mirrors the same, shuffling nearer with the beginnings of a smile, bashful, wavering on his lips. "Charlotte, right? I'm sorry, about how I acted the other day. And I hope -- I mean I'm sorry to, ah, barge in like this. But --" He pauses, expression shifting from a wash of confusion to something peaceful, almost tender, though still like he doesn't quite understand it. "-- I believe you."
I believe you. He stumbles down one more step and his breath whispers against her skin, and finally, she thinks, flooded with relief. Someone does.
They barely make it inside her front door and into the hallway of her flat before her mouth crashes against his, fingers fighting against the buttons of his jacket and peeling away layers of wet clothing. The couch is closer than the bed -- a remote digs into her spine and it's quick and desperate and sloppy but his eyes flutter open and he kisses her hard as he comes, and for the first time she feels that haze, that heady, dull feeling clamped down to her bones, finally lifting; for the first time everything feels real.
Afterwards, legs still tangled and entwined, she finally asks, "Why? Why did you believe me?"
"Well, you got some things ... not right," he smiles, tracing her ribs with his hand. "Never studied at Oxford, and I'm a pianist, not a physicist."
That would be shocking, give pause for wonder, but nothing does that to her anymore. Instead, Charlotte examines his fingers -- long, narrow -- with great care, kisses the pads of each one. "You told me that, that you used to play."
Dan toys with a piece of her hair, looking thoughtful; a gesture so familiar it makes her shiver.
"But I dunno. It's strange. When I saw you ..." He trails off, gaze on something distant, then shakes his head, hair tumbling across his forehead. "When you mentioned the island -- I was, uh, born there; grew up there. For a couple years, at least."
"What?" She sits up, startled. "You did?"
Her mind races as he laughs and strokes her cheek, starts to reminisce about tall grass and canvas tents and the smoky, sweet scent of campfire. How he left with his mother when he was young, left his father behind -- she chokes a little at that -- and never went back. "I've never told anyone," he gestures, vaguely, into the distance. "Not even my --"
Wife.
The word hangs between them and his hand twitches, the cool metal of his ring biting into her flesh. She moves her mouth to his neck, just below the Adam's apple, lips lingering a little too long. "Go home Dan."
His hand's still at her cheek and he's just staring, eyes wide and soft and wondering; she could change everything now, she knows, ask him to stay and he would. Because just like something strange and intangible drew him to her before -- you're so familiar, he'd mused during the early days on the freighter, cocking his head in the ocean breeze and squinting; mumbled, maybe I went forward, but the words meant nothing to her and he'd waved them off -- she can tell it's here now, too.
"Go home," she sighs again, biting her bottom lip hard before she can take it back.
He goes, and for the first time, she cries.
----
She calls her mother the night before she's due to fly to Los Angeles; an invitation from Jack -- "we need to do something," he'd said, frustration laced through every syllable. "There has to be something."
Before -- before it'd been all half-remembered glimpses and vague, hazy memories; snippets of conversation, a flash of something. Walking into the compound, bulletproof vest still dragging from her hand and she'd inhaled sharply -- even caught the attention of the big bloke who stared, curious -- everything suddenly filled in around the edges, like a waking dream.
As soon as the words leave her mouth -- the island -- her mother's warning tone kicks in, a practiced drawl of Charlotte, don't start. The rest leaves her in a rush, one quick exhale before she loses her nerve -- "all the houses were yellow and there was a swingset I always played on and we left on the sub because a man named Daniel told me to."
Her mother's stunned silence is all the confirmation she needs. She gets on the plane the next morning and it feels, finally, a little like letting go.
----
Jack picks her up at LAX and it's less of a greeting between two friends than resignation they both still exist. They go back to his place because neither of them can think of anything better, crack open a bottle of vodka that Jack digs out from behind the fine china (she doesn't comment, thinks absently of Daniel's body wrapped around hers).
There's so many questions but it takes a few mouthfuls to warm up the silence between them. And then -- we blew up a bomb, Jack shrugs. It's as simple as that, though the explanation makes Charlotte reel.
The question's still on her lips -- why us? -- and "don't," he sighs, gives her an imploring, pleading look and drains more liquor into their glasses. "Sometimes there isn't an answer."
It isn't much of a toast, but she drinks to it anyway.
----
They would call, Jack says again, on her third day there, and it's the millionth time they'd battered the words back and forth; Charlotte arguing they can't be the only ones, what's the damn point if they are? And did all of them really die so Hurley can wither away in some mental institution or Sun and Jin can keep hating each other and he won't even call Juliet --
The glass shattering, splintering against the wall stops her cold, shards gleam and twinkle from the carpet.
"It's our fault," Jack spits out, almost hoarse, the weight of his guilt etching lines into his face, along the slump of his shoulders. "The stupid, goddamn plan -- he did it for you, and I finished the job."
The air leaves her in a rush and she slumps in a chair -- oh Daniel -- the tips of her fingers and the pit of her stomach and everything in between trembling, vibrating violently. She tastes blood and for a second she's back on the island (it's everywhere; crusted on her chin, gagging at it drips into her mouth, she wipes one hand under her nose and it won't stop).
"I didn't know."
Her head's buried in her hands; Jack's face, twisted in misery, is too much to bear.
We did this, she thinks, and now we're paying the price.
----
One night after Charlotte's arrival insomnia finds both of them in the kitchen, pushing 3 a.m. and exchanging wan smiles. Jack starts to make tea without asking, the click and hiss of the stove burner flicking alight filtering through the silence.
He lifts the kettle on and doesn't know why but the words start to tumble out -- Claire's my half-sister and she never knew ("Oh," Charlotte starts and smiles, a little shyly. "I have a half-sister, too. Two of them, actually.") and I never kept my promise to Juliet and I love Kate but I think she's gone.
Watching him over the rim of her teacup, Charlotte nods slowly, hips pressed back against the counter.
"I remember dying."
Her voice breaks on the last word and she doesn't meet his gaze, repeats it again softly to herself, testing the words like they're new. Tears waver, trembling, in her eyes when she looks up again (he remembers her marching into the clearing, shrugging off Sayid's touch with a fierce glare; grounded at Daniel's elbow, arms tight across her chest and tossing words, protestations back at them) and then he's got one arm slung around her back, gripping her shoulder tight.
"I'm sorry," Jack says, and he means for all of this. For both of us.
"Me too," she whispers back. "Me too."
----
Her bosses welcome the sudden vacation; you've been working too hard, they coo, take some time for yourself. Get some sun.
She stays in Jack's guest room because around everyone else she just feels crazy, like a little girl again with stories about made-up islands and her mother's disapproving frown and London's just too hard for now (Dan had slipped a business card into her pocket, just before he'd left; "I know it's complicated, but please call me, okay?" and complicated, she'd laughed, that's a word for it.)
A few weeks later and Jack comes home beaming; "it's Claire," he rushes out, whisks her off to the nearest baby boutique to buy bags stuffed with presents, then to St. Sebastian, where the petite blonde waves shyly from her bed, Aaron nestled against her chest.
"A friend in the unit called when she was admitted, knew I'd been looking for a Littleton," Jack explains in hushed tones, hand on Charlotte's elbow and pulling her into the hallway. "She was pretty freaked out at first, but she believes me."
It's amazing, he grins, a miracle; what are the chances?
"Thought you didn't believe in fate, Jack."
It's sour, and mean, Charlotte knows, fighting the bitter surge of jealousy rising through her veins (why? she wonders for the infinite time) as Jack's face falls a little and he backs off, turning again towards Claire's room. She sulks near the vending machines until he's ready to leave, a raised quirk of the eyebrows the only motion he throws her way when he finally comes down the hallway; she follows him, two steps behind, to the lift. The main lobby's button illuminates and sorry, Charlotte murmurs as it clunks to life.
Jack reaches across the space between them, squeezing her hand in a brief pulse of motion. A bridge, it feels like, a link, keeping her tethered.
(For the first time, she doesn't want to let go.)
----
That night Jack dreams of the island, but it's on fire; he chokes on a mouthful of smoke and the heat from the flames singes his lashes, bakes his skin. There's a silhouette of white against the billowing black clouds -- so stark and clean -- and suddenly Christian comes into clear relief.
If he's ever looked gentle (not some grim figure of impending doom, half-hidden in the trees) it's in that moment, weathered face slack and soft, hands shoved demurely in pockets. He smiles, almost, and nods towards him.
"Do what you can, Jack."
He opens his mouth to reply but all he tastes is ash; when he wakes up he can almost still taste the burning.
----
Jack's visiting Claire at the hospital again -- still in observation after a rocky delivery -- when Charlotte shows up, holding potted flowers like a shield (the sugary-sweet card is in the trash bin down the hall); he's half-slumped in a chair next to his sister's bed, eyes fluttering closed to mimic Claire's peaceful sleep.
What now is on the tip of her tongue but he beats her to it, shifting and looking up at her, a tired smile creeping onto his face --
"You up for a trip?"
For a moment, the moon outside distracts her -- it's a clear night, sky painted a lovely deep-royal blue, and everything seems to shimmer -- and she remembers, vaguely, a late-night walk with Daniel, survivors' fires burning small and slow behind them, fading in place for the jungle's chirps and creaks. Home, she'd thought, feeling wrapped in it, air still humid enough to make her sweat, Dan's fingers brushing hers and sorry, he'd smiled, sheepish.
All past. All gone.
She turns back to Jack, hugging the flowers -- they were for Claire but maybe, Charlotte thinks, his apartment could use some colour -- closer to her chest.
"Why not?"
----
Jack hangs up his cellphone with a soft goodbye to Claire and Charlotte plants her feet up on the truck's dashboard, wiggling her toes at the cold rush of AC streaming through the vents. She leans forward to crank his CD -- Pearl Jam, she'd rolled her eyes; don't think I'll listen to rubbish grunge rock all the way to Florida -- a little louder and catches his grin from the corner of her eye.
They pull away from the curb and into the crush of midday traffic, sunshine dappling the coffee cups and sandwich wrappers tossed in cupholders and tucked in crevices, already-collected remnants from the beginning of their journey. Charlotte leans back and rests her head against the passenger window, glass cool against her skin and watching the rolling L.A. skyline. Turns back to Jack, smile matching his.
"Miami."
Maybe it's a new beginning and maybe it's not -- Daniel's business card is still tucked in her bag, ink smudged and corners creased from too many nights rolled against her palm, phone hovering in her hand -- and maybe it was never supposed to be a gift or a punishment at all, her cursed memory, but just another chance. It's a slow discovery that she's alright with any of them.
Jack nods, hands firm and steady on the wheel.
"Miami."
Characters/Pairings: Charlotte, Jack, Daniel (Charlotte/Dan; slight hints of Jack/Kate, Jack/Juliet)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "His mind reels, skips and catching like a broken cassette. There's flames and blood and a white light that seems to burn through every cell in his body." The reset works, but only some of them remember.
Spoilers: Up to end of S5; pure speculation for S6.
Warnings: References to character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: So finally wrote my own, self-indulgent version of a reset fic. Lyrics by The Killers.
----
Over and out, last call for sin
While everyone's lost, the battle is won
With all these things that I've done
All these things that I've done
If you can hold on
----
He doesn't remember until Sept. 23.
(Later, this will be ironic in the worst way.)
Jack folds his suit jacket over his arm, pulls his briefcase from the overhead compartment and shuffles down the aisle, shimmying past the big guy and the pregnant girl and the too-silent Asian couple, interest vaguely piqued by the woman in handcuffs, her expression sharp and sour, and the unshaven guy, reeking of smoke and sweat, who shoves by him with a gruff "move it."
Stepping into LAX's corridor feels like deja vu -- one eye interpreting information faster than the other, he knows -- or like someone left a window open, or there's a bill past due he forgot to pay. Something ... unfinished, Jack thinks, as he heads to the counter to collect his father's coffin.
It hits him with all the brute force of a wave -- a sudden tidal rush of information -- as he stands in line for coffee at the hospital's cafeteria the next morning. His mind reels, skips and catching like a broken cassette. There's flames and blood and a white light that seems to burn through every cell in his body. At the end he's just left with names, names that suddenly quiver with meaning, full of life and memories and moments they didn't have seconds before. Juliet, he thinks. Claire. Sawyer.
Kate.
----
She's dead and then she's not.
At first, that's all she knows.
Charlotte lays, gasping for breath, on her bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, the alarm clock's numbers -- just past midnight -- burning bright red in the pitch-black of her room. Lungs contract and restrict and jesus sodding christ, she's breathing; one hand flies to her nose, her chin, scrabbling for the coursing wetness that should be there.
Nothing.
Her hand scrambles for the bedside lamp and dim, soft light fills the room -- it's her flat in London and it should be January but Charlotte knows it's still September (again?) and suddenly the crush of everything is too much, and she sprints for the bathroom, retching.
Forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, she can still feel the phantom touch of Daniel's hand clasped in hers, his lumpy knapsack under her head, the brush of jungle dirt beneath her thighs; feels everything and nothing at all. I was there, and another wave of nausea cramps her stomach, I had it and now it's gone.
----
She spends two weeks trying to track him down, scouring listings and phone books and websites, first for Essex and then anywhere else. There's either too many or none at all, though, and by her two-dozenth "Faraday" that comes up a wrong number or disconnected Charlotte's ready to give up.
Of course she sees him on the street the next day.
He's in front of a totally unremarkable garden flat on a quiet side street in Hampstead; not one of Charlotte's usual haunts but she's begged off work the past few days with a so-called bad flu and mostly fills her hours with wandering around the city, feeling like she's seeing it for the first time. It's unfamiliar, all of it, in a strange way -- the sudden foreignness of London, of her home, of every inch of the space around her chafing at something inside.
A city bus flies by, crunching leaves and whipping up wind against her face, and Dan disappears for a moment, panic gripping her. Then the bus chugs away and he's there again, and his hair's shorter, like when they first met, and of course he's wearing a tie --
-- and there's a child in his arms.
Barely a toddler, Charlotte figures, her chubby arms clinging around his neck, dark hair wispy and fine. And the eyes -- big and brown and wide open to the world -- those eyes mean what Charlotte's figured since she woke up with a mind full of new memories weeks ago, that sometimes the world moves on.
She crosses the street anyway, at a wobbly pace that's half-cautious and mostly bristling with nervous energy. Dan's opening the back door of a car, placing his daughter (because it must be, Charlotte thinks, another of the island's cruel taunts) inside. She's there a second later and with a voice that wavers more than she'd like calls out his name.
His smile's friendly, but vacant -- pleasantly detached but searching, like when he used to forget which cabin was his on the freighter, or whether he'd actually answered a question -- and her heart drops. Her hands find his shoulders anyway, like she can will the memories back to him through her grasp, and Dan, she whispers, voice strangled in her throat, it's me. Don't you remember?
He laughs, nervous, looks down at her white-knuckled grip and then back at the child nestled in her car seat, uneasy gaze flicking between the two of them; Charlotte recognizes it, that protective instinct, knows she used to look at Daniel the same way.
"I don't -- um, I'm sorry. I think you've got me mistaken for someone else."
The anger, it's like a burst of pressure against the backs of her eyes -- at Dan for not remembering (and you were supposed to love me, she wants to shout, even though it's not fair and probably not even true), at herself for being able to, at the sodding island for giving and taking away like always -- and feeling desperate, launches into a reeling list of everything she knows about him, bits and pieces of information collected like artifacts, burrowed into her brain.
"It's me, Charlotte; c'mon Dan. You -- you're a physicist," she throws out, desperate, and the freighter and the island and Oxford and the father he never knew.
He stills for a moment and then, "I don't know you," he repeats, a little firmer this time, eyes flashing with something new and slamming the door shut. "Please."
Charlotte nods, short, and steps back, absorbing Dan's soft thank you as he moves past her and slips into the driver's seat. The reversing car makes way for a neatly-kept fence and the yard beyond -- children's toys littered across the grass, the bright colours almost garish, suddenly too much -- and it's just another reminder of what she's not supposed to know, what the island won't let her have.
----
Jack calls in sick to work for almost a week and watches Kate's trial on TV, tries to call the prison once and gets through, her voice cracking through the line's tinny buzz and he can almost imagine her, swimming in that orange jumpsuit and leaning against some hallway payphone, twisting the cord between her fingers.
"Jack what?" she asks, and the swelling, floating warmth that had kept him buoyant, the fervent wish that because he does she must remember too, turns cold and leaves him spinning.
"Shephard," he mumbles, head cradled in one hand and already tasting whiskey. "It's Shephard."
It's only a few moments more before he hears the firm click and the dial tone whining in his ear; I don't know you; leave me alone, she'd muttered, voice dark.
Juliet's in Miami -- back to Carlson though he manages to find her easily enough -- but her number lays, scribbled and scratched out in red pen, on his desk for days, and she would call, he thinks. If she remembered, she would call. Claire is missing; no leads in Sydney and even fewer in Los Angeles. He leaves a few messages with some OB/GYNs around L.A. and hopes for the best.
It's only a few days later when he heads back to his office and the blinking red light of his voicemail display, sinks into his chair and hits play, and it's her voice that filters out -- he thinks of beach camps and tense half-circle meetings, the rattling thud that made his teeth chatter as the freighter exploded -- stilted by hesitation.
"Dr. Shephard. Jack." A pause, then a long exhale. "I'm not sure -- I didn't know who else to call. It's Charlotte Lewis; I was on the freighter."
And her next words, they almost take his breath away --
I remember.
----
She's wished for it so many times -- every ring of the phone manages to send her heart leaping in her throat, always with a twisting knot of shame, deep in her stomach -- that at first she doesn't believe it. She arrives home in the middle of a grey, dripping day, and he's sitting on her stoop, jacket pulled tight around thin shoulders, hunched over against the drizzle.
Slowing to a stop, Charlotte pauses at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing him carefully. "Hi," she manages eventually.
Daniel -- rain running rivulets through his hair, dark and plastered against his face, and it feels so visceral, the connection between them; like a cord, attached to her insides and strung tight, and she wonders if that pull is there for him too -- clamours to his feet, startled. "Uh, hi," he echoes back, gripping the railing.
Charlotte moves towards him, up a step closer, and he mirrors the same, shuffling nearer with the beginnings of a smile, bashful, wavering on his lips. "Charlotte, right? I'm sorry, about how I acted the other day. And I hope -- I mean I'm sorry to, ah, barge in like this. But --" He pauses, expression shifting from a wash of confusion to something peaceful, almost tender, though still like he doesn't quite understand it. "-- I believe you."
I believe you. He stumbles down one more step and his breath whispers against her skin, and finally, she thinks, flooded with relief. Someone does.
They barely make it inside her front door and into the hallway of her flat before her mouth crashes against his, fingers fighting against the buttons of his jacket and peeling away layers of wet clothing. The couch is closer than the bed -- a remote digs into her spine and it's quick and desperate and sloppy but his eyes flutter open and he kisses her hard as he comes, and for the first time she feels that haze, that heady, dull feeling clamped down to her bones, finally lifting; for the first time everything feels real.
Afterwards, legs still tangled and entwined, she finally asks, "Why? Why did you believe me?"
"Well, you got some things ... not right," he smiles, tracing her ribs with his hand. "Never studied at Oxford, and I'm a pianist, not a physicist."
That would be shocking, give pause for wonder, but nothing does that to her anymore. Instead, Charlotte examines his fingers -- long, narrow -- with great care, kisses the pads of each one. "You told me that, that you used to play."
Dan toys with a piece of her hair, looking thoughtful; a gesture so familiar it makes her shiver.
"But I dunno. It's strange. When I saw you ..." He trails off, gaze on something distant, then shakes his head, hair tumbling across his forehead. "When you mentioned the island -- I was, uh, born there; grew up there. For a couple years, at least."
"What?" She sits up, startled. "You did?"
Her mind races as he laughs and strokes her cheek, starts to reminisce about tall grass and canvas tents and the smoky, sweet scent of campfire. How he left with his mother when he was young, left his father behind -- she chokes a little at that -- and never went back. "I've never told anyone," he gestures, vaguely, into the distance. "Not even my --"
Wife.
The word hangs between them and his hand twitches, the cool metal of his ring biting into her flesh. She moves her mouth to his neck, just below the Adam's apple, lips lingering a little too long. "Go home Dan."
His hand's still at her cheek and he's just staring, eyes wide and soft and wondering; she could change everything now, she knows, ask him to stay and he would. Because just like something strange and intangible drew him to her before -- you're so familiar, he'd mused during the early days on the freighter, cocking his head in the ocean breeze and squinting; mumbled, maybe I went forward, but the words meant nothing to her and he'd waved them off -- she can tell it's here now, too.
"Go home," she sighs again, biting her bottom lip hard before she can take it back.
He goes, and for the first time, she cries.
----
She calls her mother the night before she's due to fly to Los Angeles; an invitation from Jack -- "we need to do something," he'd said, frustration laced through every syllable. "There has to be something."
Before -- before it'd been all half-remembered glimpses and vague, hazy memories; snippets of conversation, a flash of something. Walking into the compound, bulletproof vest still dragging from her hand and she'd inhaled sharply -- even caught the attention of the big bloke who stared, curious -- everything suddenly filled in around the edges, like a waking dream.
As soon as the words leave her mouth -- the island -- her mother's warning tone kicks in, a practiced drawl of Charlotte, don't start. The rest leaves her in a rush, one quick exhale before she loses her nerve -- "all the houses were yellow and there was a swingset I always played on and we left on the sub because a man named Daniel told me to."
Her mother's stunned silence is all the confirmation she needs. She gets on the plane the next morning and it feels, finally, a little like letting go.
----
Jack picks her up at LAX and it's less of a greeting between two friends than resignation they both still exist. They go back to his place because neither of them can think of anything better, crack open a bottle of vodka that Jack digs out from behind the fine china (she doesn't comment, thinks absently of Daniel's body wrapped around hers).
There's so many questions but it takes a few mouthfuls to warm up the silence between them. And then -- we blew up a bomb, Jack shrugs. It's as simple as that, though the explanation makes Charlotte reel.
The question's still on her lips -- why us? -- and "don't," he sighs, gives her an imploring, pleading look and drains more liquor into their glasses. "Sometimes there isn't an answer."
It isn't much of a toast, but she drinks to it anyway.
----
They would call, Jack says again, on her third day there, and it's the millionth time they'd battered the words back and forth; Charlotte arguing they can't be the only ones, what's the damn point if they are? And did all of them really die so Hurley can wither away in some mental institution or Sun and Jin can keep hating each other and he won't even call Juliet --
The glass shattering, splintering against the wall stops her cold, shards gleam and twinkle from the carpet.
"It's our fault," Jack spits out, almost hoarse, the weight of his guilt etching lines into his face, along the slump of his shoulders. "The stupid, goddamn plan -- he did it for you, and I finished the job."
The air leaves her in a rush and she slumps in a chair -- oh Daniel -- the tips of her fingers and the pit of her stomach and everything in between trembling, vibrating violently. She tastes blood and for a second she's back on the island (it's everywhere; crusted on her chin, gagging at it drips into her mouth, she wipes one hand under her nose and it won't stop).
"I didn't know."
Her head's buried in her hands; Jack's face, twisted in misery, is too much to bear.
We did this, she thinks, and now we're paying the price.
----
One night after Charlotte's arrival insomnia finds both of them in the kitchen, pushing 3 a.m. and exchanging wan smiles. Jack starts to make tea without asking, the click and hiss of the stove burner flicking alight filtering through the silence.
He lifts the kettle on and doesn't know why but the words start to tumble out -- Claire's my half-sister and she never knew ("Oh," Charlotte starts and smiles, a little shyly. "I have a half-sister, too. Two of them, actually.") and I never kept my promise to Juliet and I love Kate but I think she's gone.
Watching him over the rim of her teacup, Charlotte nods slowly, hips pressed back against the counter.
"I remember dying."
Her voice breaks on the last word and she doesn't meet his gaze, repeats it again softly to herself, testing the words like they're new. Tears waver, trembling, in her eyes when she looks up again (he remembers her marching into the clearing, shrugging off Sayid's touch with a fierce glare; grounded at Daniel's elbow, arms tight across her chest and tossing words, protestations back at them) and then he's got one arm slung around her back, gripping her shoulder tight.
"I'm sorry," Jack says, and he means for all of this. For both of us.
"Me too," she whispers back. "Me too."
----
Her bosses welcome the sudden vacation; you've been working too hard, they coo, take some time for yourself. Get some sun.
She stays in Jack's guest room because around everyone else she just feels crazy, like a little girl again with stories about made-up islands and her mother's disapproving frown and London's just too hard for now (Dan had slipped a business card into her pocket, just before he'd left; "I know it's complicated, but please call me, okay?" and complicated, she'd laughed, that's a word for it.)
A few weeks later and Jack comes home beaming; "it's Claire," he rushes out, whisks her off to the nearest baby boutique to buy bags stuffed with presents, then to St. Sebastian, where the petite blonde waves shyly from her bed, Aaron nestled against her chest.
"A friend in the unit called when she was admitted, knew I'd been looking for a Littleton," Jack explains in hushed tones, hand on Charlotte's elbow and pulling her into the hallway. "She was pretty freaked out at first, but she believes me."
It's amazing, he grins, a miracle; what are the chances?
"Thought you didn't believe in fate, Jack."
It's sour, and mean, Charlotte knows, fighting the bitter surge of jealousy rising through her veins (why? she wonders for the infinite time) as Jack's face falls a little and he backs off, turning again towards Claire's room. She sulks near the vending machines until he's ready to leave, a raised quirk of the eyebrows the only motion he throws her way when he finally comes down the hallway; she follows him, two steps behind, to the lift. The main lobby's button illuminates and sorry, Charlotte murmurs as it clunks to life.
Jack reaches across the space between them, squeezing her hand in a brief pulse of motion. A bridge, it feels like, a link, keeping her tethered.
(For the first time, she doesn't want to let go.)
----
That night Jack dreams of the island, but it's on fire; he chokes on a mouthful of smoke and the heat from the flames singes his lashes, bakes his skin. There's a silhouette of white against the billowing black clouds -- so stark and clean -- and suddenly Christian comes into clear relief.
If he's ever looked gentle (not some grim figure of impending doom, half-hidden in the trees) it's in that moment, weathered face slack and soft, hands shoved demurely in pockets. He smiles, almost, and nods towards him.
"Do what you can, Jack."
He opens his mouth to reply but all he tastes is ash; when he wakes up he can almost still taste the burning.
----
Jack's visiting Claire at the hospital again -- still in observation after a rocky delivery -- when Charlotte shows up, holding potted flowers like a shield (the sugary-sweet card is in the trash bin down the hall); he's half-slumped in a chair next to his sister's bed, eyes fluttering closed to mimic Claire's peaceful sleep.
What now is on the tip of her tongue but he beats her to it, shifting and looking up at her, a tired smile creeping onto his face --
"You up for a trip?"
For a moment, the moon outside distracts her -- it's a clear night, sky painted a lovely deep-royal blue, and everything seems to shimmer -- and she remembers, vaguely, a late-night walk with Daniel, survivors' fires burning small and slow behind them, fading in place for the jungle's chirps and creaks. Home, she'd thought, feeling wrapped in it, air still humid enough to make her sweat, Dan's fingers brushing hers and sorry, he'd smiled, sheepish.
All past. All gone.
She turns back to Jack, hugging the flowers -- they were for Claire but maybe, Charlotte thinks, his apartment could use some colour -- closer to her chest.
"Why not?"
----
Jack hangs up his cellphone with a soft goodbye to Claire and Charlotte plants her feet up on the truck's dashboard, wiggling her toes at the cold rush of AC streaming through the vents. She leans forward to crank his CD -- Pearl Jam, she'd rolled her eyes; don't think I'll listen to rubbish grunge rock all the way to Florida -- a little louder and catches his grin from the corner of her eye.
They pull away from the curb and into the crush of midday traffic, sunshine dappling the coffee cups and sandwich wrappers tossed in cupholders and tucked in crevices, already-collected remnants from the beginning of their journey. Charlotte leans back and rests her head against the passenger window, glass cool against her skin and watching the rolling L.A. skyline. Turns back to Jack, smile matching his.
"Miami."
Maybe it's a new beginning and maybe it's not -- Daniel's business card is still tucked in her bag, ink smudged and corners creased from too many nights rolled against her palm, phone hovering in her hand -- and maybe it was never supposed to be a gift or a punishment at all, her cursed memory, but just another chance. It's a slow discovery that she's alright with any of them.
Jack nods, hands firm and steady on the wheel.
"Miami."