Baby we haven't lost the world yet
Title: Baby we haven't lost the world yet
Characters/Pairings: Charlotte/Daniel; Jack, Penny, Eloise, Sayid, Frank, Charles
Rating: R
Summary: Post-S4 AU.
Spoilers/Warnings: Up to end of S4/some violence, not-fun stuff.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Inspired by ozmissage and mollivanders’ prompts for the Five Acts meme ( here and here); a whole mishmash of things, really -- angsty cheese or cheesy angst, I guess, with very little sexy stuff considering the origins. Either way, I didn't have the time to participate when it was actually happening, but their prompts were too awesome to pass up -- thanks for the phenomenal bout of inspiration, ladies!
----
When they leave the island, they don’t stop running.
The freighter sinks and the helicopter drops and the trees and beaches disappear behind them in a flicker of white; Charlotte swipes away tears when she thinks no one’s looking and there’s the ocean -- then the slick rubber of the life raft, then the rocking lull of Penny’s boat -- beneath him but still Daniel feels like it’s not the end, not nearly.
Night four-or-five-or-six on The Searcher (he’s lost count, when it’s all the same eternal expanse of blue, water and sky, in front and behind and all around them) and there’s the soft click of his cabin door swinging open, company only to Frank’s up-and-down snores from the bunk overhead, then footsteps, quiet and measured, before Charlotte slips in between the sheets of his bunk, wordless, the weight of her body pressing into the mattress bringing him from sleep. Her hair, damp and tangled from the shower, tickles his cheek, leaves wet imprints on his pillow, along the collar of her borrowed T-shirt, the worn, soft cotton clammy against his skin and her feet (cold, though he won’t complain) tucked under his.
“Dan.”
It’s a whispered tone that filters through the warm haze of dreams again, and he cracks an eye open against sleep’s pull, slings an arm around one freckled shoulder (she makes him brave, is what he’s realized; no island or miraculous healing, even though he still hasn’t tried kissing her and she still keeps her distance, slides into his bed and curls up against him every night and he always wakes up alone); "what is it, Charlotte?”
“What do we do now?”
He’s close enough, even in the barely-there light, to see her worry, something deeper -- stronger, more painful -- cresting just below the surface, something he doesn’t understand (I’ve been looking for the island all my life, is what she’d said, the first day they met, passing time watching waves billow off the freighter’s stern, the blot of colour of Tahiti growing smaller and smaller behind them).
It’s not the answer he wants to give, but -- we keep moving is what he whispers, tugs her closer, thinks of Keamy and Omar and the doctor’s body and Abaddon’s frosty, not-quite smile and they know too much, they’ve both realized that.
We don’t stop.
Frank doesn’t hesitate, slings the canvas bag on permanent loan from Penny higher up on his shoulder, takes stock of the harbour while The Searcher drifts away in the distance -- don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting the hell out of the country; got a friend at LAX I can bully into chartering me back to Barbados.
Charlotte stretches her legs, restless and cramped from the boat’s tiny quarters, watches the pinprick of white still left of Penny and Desmond on the horizon and then turns back to Frank.
“Don’t you figure Widmore’ll think of that?”
His shrug’s a lazy gesture, almost resigned, and it takes that for her to realize how exhausted they all are, bone-deep -- all three of them, Dan practically slumping against the weight of his knapsack beside her, and it’s more than just a couple weeks and some decent rest, what the island’s taken, what she never got back from it anyway -- and “okay,” she amends, “be careful, and call us soon.”
The us sort of lingers; Dan perks up, watches both of them with a cautious gaze from the outskirts of conversation, stays quiet. Charlotte doesn't miss it, and after Frank’s gone, cab hailed and to the airport, she curves one hand along the arch of his neck, the other to his cheek, steps forward and brushes her lips against his, soft and careful and christ she’s wanted to do this for ages but it’s only now with the marina walkway under her feet that everything’s starting to feel better (normal, real) again.
When she pulls away his eyes flutter open, and the warmth there makes her grin; “we’re sticking together, yeah?”
His lips find hers again, and the absolutely -- unquestioning, unconditional -- is in his kiss.
The first night they pay cash for a too-nice hotel room in Santa Monica -- Penny worked magic, it seemed, handing them money and guns and disposable cell phones and bags full of clothes, warning them to wait a few months before trying to touch base, make it out of the country -- and every channel’s playing footage of the miraculous reappearance of the Oceanic 6.
She watches enough to make sure they all made it alright -- Reyes, Kate, Jack, the baby -- and then blinks the news off with a click of the remote, tosses it next to the room service menu and her gun, piled on the bedside table. Daniel’s drifted to sleep, still dressed but wrapped in one corner of the hotel duvet, and he looks even younger, if it's possible, eyes closed and nose, cheeks, freckled from two weeks’ worth of sun on The Searcher’s decks. One arm’s flopped across the mound of pillows and Charlotte stops, presses her mouth to the soft inside of his wrist before she can hold herself back (it’s some kind of reassurance, the beat of his pulse under her lips, thinks of the Tempest and Jin’s threats and the freighter exploding, so many ways he could be gone) and rises from the bed, feeling aimless.
It not a total surprise when she feels the pull towards the balcony, view spanning a long stretch of beach and dark water, and it’s almost mesmerizing, the glint of the moon off the waves, brings her back to her first night on the island, a glimpse of the ocean beyond the barracks houses before they’d pulled her into the rec room and stood guard.
Who knows how long passes before she feels Daniel behind her, his grip hanging low on her hips, gentle pressure along her shoulders, neck -- what are you still doing up?
The laugh comes out of nowhere, surprises her bubbling in her throat; "no idea." Waves roll and crash, never stopping, endless, and wanted to see the water, I guess, Charlotte adds, stepping into him, feels his arms crisscrossed against her, holding her still, holding her there.
"No idea," she says again.
(She wishes it weren't her answer for everything these days.)
It’s a gritty, filthy neighbourhood they end up in later that week, rental car (Charlotte has a friend of a friend who’s made a trade in fake passports; what? she’d shrugged off his bemused look, not every country in the world exactly welcomes English anthropologists) rolling to a stop in front of a brick walk-up in Encino that’s seen better days.
“I still don’t understand what we’re doing here, Dan,” Charlotte comments, thumbing the radio presets, stops when he slips a torn-off phonebook page out of his pocket, the Straume, M. outlined in blue ink.
The landlord’s more than happy to take the 12 months’ worth of rent payments with no questions asked, waves Daniel off with a cheery thanks once the money passes hands; Charlotte’s standing outside, leaning against the passenger-side door and fixes him with a stare he can’t quite decipher.
“What’s the point?” She crosses her arms, expression overcast, watches as Daniel shades his gaze and peers inside the darkened windows, scans dusty junk littered across couches, mostly empty, unlived-in looking (a man who chases ghosts living like one; the irony doesn’t escape him). “I mean, it’s sweet of you, but we don’t even know if he’ll be back, or where the island even is --”
“When. When he comes back.”
He lopes down the rest of the steps, strides straight to the car and clicks the ignition to a rumbling start (there’s no room for debate, not on this and not for him, because if he survived and the rest of them didn’t, if one Zodiac trip was the difference between life and death for him and Charlotte, it can’t be on his mind, tearing away at him with the almosts and the should have beens for the rest of his life).
Her look’s bordering on a sneer when she slides into the other seat; even now her temper still gets the better of him sometimes -- “what do you mean, when? We saw the bloody thing disappear right in front of our eyes!”
Silence falls heavy after her words, fills up the air between them; Daniel clenches the shift tighter but doesn’t say a word, knows she gets it even if there’s something else, something hidden, breathing life into her anger.
“I’m sorry, Dan,” Charlotte sighs, rubbing at her temples. “You’re trying to do a good thing. I just -- I thought I would get something else from going to the island, you know? And now we’re right where we started and even worse off and we couldn’t get back if we wanted to. Just feels like a waste, is all.”
This isn’t, he wants to say, though it doesn’t feel like the time. We aren’t. Instead he grips the keys, turning the car back off, leans over and slides his arms around her, inhales the sweet smell of her hair. It's not much, and he can't even start to understand -- knows there's something, about the lull of the island and the mysteries sketched in its sand -- what she's dealing with, what keeps her staring, wistful, out the car window at the ocean, lost in her thoughts, most of the time.
It's not much, what he can do (draws her closer as her head sags and hangs on his shoulder, and he's never seen her look so small), but he hopes it's enough.
Two days later buy a used car from a guy in Riverside that looks at their money more than them and L.A. gets swallowed up in the miles behind them; they follow gas station maps and winding back roads, live off bad coffee and diner breakfasts, watch every car’s dark-tinted windows, scan every gaze that lingers a little too long. There are rules: no more than six hours’ sleep at a time, trade up names between towns (they juggle three passports each, slit a thin line through the fabric under one seat to store them), stay away from security cameras, always a gun within arm’s reach.
(They won’t get us, they trade between them, like a promise, like they can burn it into their skin, burn it down to their cores and never let it go.)
When they finally make it out to the country Charlotte starts teaching him to shoot (Naomi’s tutorials on the boat got him far enough along to work a gun but never really hit much), lining up soda cans and old bottles along the top of the rotting wood fence framing some abandoned pasture.
The sound of the bullet -- the dozenth, at least -- echoes through the scrub; the can trembles, but doesn’t fall, like all the others.
Charlotte’s grip around his wrists is firm, guiding, her breath tickles stray hairs at the back of his neck and he can feel her growing smile; stand a little straighter, Dan, frame up your shoulders.
He nods quick, silent, wanting to be good at this, impress her, even though Charlotte’s practically a sharpshooter and the broadside of a barn wouldn’t have any worries from him, make sure she knows he’ll do what he can to protect her too.
The sight lines up and the gun kicks back a little when Daniel pulls the trigger, blinks away the smell.
“Dan, look!”
She steps to his side and points, excitement clear -- you did it!
The can’s gone, tossed into the grass a couple feet off, metal curled and jagged marking the bullet’s path; he clicks the safety back in place and offers the gun to her, grip still feeling clumsy in his hand. “Take it. Just wanted to make sure I could.”
Her expression creases in a look (and they’re becoming familiar, well-worn, all of them; he loves the little secrets revealed in a certain duck of her head, the shift of her hip) that says you sure? but she palms the gun anyway, repositions it along the small of her back. Fingers thread around his in its place -- okay, she smiles, kisses him swiftly -- but he can’t forget the feel, the bite of metal, cold and heavy and foreign.
(He hopes it’s the last time. He’s pretty sure it isn’t.)
They play games to pass time on the road, as dusty earth and endless sun turns to redwoods and thick forest and rain, California to Oregon to Washington, like I Spy and 20 Questions, toss out memories and quirks and habits, old and new dreams, favourite movies. There's things he learns: she doesn't eat her food so much as attacks it, even if she's not sure of the words she still hums along with the radio, the way she looks at him that's all soft around the edges, soft and quiet and like all the light's in the universe's filtering through her grin.
Daniel falls in love mile by mile.
In Westport they manage a meet-up with Penny and Desmond -- one late-night phone call on the road the week before and they take a detour along the coast, early mornings with the sun peaking out the driver’s side window -- and they come off the boat smelling like salt water and sunscreen, Penny’s cheeks rosy from the hours outside and something else.
It’s only later -- Charlotte idles behind her as she makes her way down the supply store’s aisle, picking up twine and another lantern, inspecting the shelves with a close eye; she keeps one hand cupped to her stomach, and oh, Charlotte thinks, realizes, feels a twinge she can’t really name.
”How far along are you?”
Penny puts down the handful of candles she’d been considering, suddenly softer and stronger at the same time. “Three months, just about.”
”Are you going to stay on the boat?”
”Nowhere else is safe.” Her fingers clench around the candles again, looks pained. “Especially now.”
”You’ve managed to stay ahead of him, Penny; so have we --”
Her shopping basket gets hoisted up higher, Penny’s mouth a thin line and features downturned, and that’s where you’re wrong. He’s let us get this far. Des and I are leaving North America again, as soon as we’re all stocked. Maybe you and Daniel should decide what you need to do too.
When The Searcher disappears on the horizon again and it’s just the two of them -- “y’know, they’re going to name him Charlie, after that musician from the crash,” Charlotte remarks, thinks briefly of his file, pilled on dozens of others, mostly casualties, collateral, for some place they never wanted to end up -- waving into the sunset, Dan grabs her hand, grasp slippery, keeps staring out at the water.
”Are you ever going to tell me why you came on the freighter?” He stops, licks his lips, other hand twitching against his thigh. “I mean, Miles was there for the money, and Frank wanted to find his friend -- that pilot -- and I wanted to be well again, to get better. But you -- why?”
Her voice is carefully casual, tinged with callousness, more than she likes -- ”looking for adventure, I guess.”
It’s not the answer he deserves, but sarcasm’s always been her best defense mechanism, her secret suit of armour, and she turns to head back up the dock, back to the car, Dan following in what she figures is resignation but when he speaks next it's more disappointed than quiet, words that drag her to a stop. ”What are you so scared of?”
”Nothing.” Her mouth pulls at the word, petulant, thinks of her mother and ghost of a father and a place that took so much and gave so little. (Everything.) “Nothing at all.”
It’s rush hour at the latest diner where they’ve stopped to eat and Charlotte steals the waitress's pen, circles cheap one-bedroom flats in the local newspaper while Daniel nurses another coffee, picks at the crust of his toast, a slow, looping scrawl that spirals along the newsprint. It's stupid, really, that she's even looking, that right now her I wishes have settled on a place they can actually stay more than a week and a decent cup of tea and being able to introduce herself by her real name (the last stop she used Juliet on a stupid whim and Dan turned almost grey, didn't speak to her for an hour).
"It's really beautiful here."
She gets a pair of raised brows in reply, Daniel mid-way to another sip.
Doesn't meet his gaze, but -- "I mean, if we ever wanted to stop anywhere --"
"Charlotte." He says her name like it breaks his heart, realizes he's thinking of the burly Russian that tailed them for almost a day before they shook him off, the too-interested owner of the last inn they stayed at, that Penny and Desmond haven't phoned in weeks since they last cast off. "You know we can't."
At the next payphone along the roadway she dials her youngest sister’s number with trembling fingers, feels her legs start to lose their balance as she listens to the too-familiar voice (it carves at something she didn’t realize never healed, that sound of home), laced with confusion, the multiple hellos and then the blare, sting, of the dialtone in her ear.
“It’s like we’re dead -- they all think we’re dead,” Charlotte murmurs to him that night, against the space between his shoulder blades; he can feel the tears in her lashes.
We’re just ghosts.
"So where exactly are we now?"
Daniel fumbles with the alarm clock -- flicks the switch on the blaring noise, groaning as a follow-up to his question -- and Charlotte for their latest map, still squinting against the morning, pushes back a flop of curls and peers at the tiny clusters of black ink dotting lines of yellow and purple and blue.
“Near Spokane, I think? Almost to Montana.”
She stretches forward over the edge of the mattress, dropping the map back on the carpet; her tank top catches in the sheets and rides up, the skin a puckered, twisted line in the inches exposed, where he reaches to touch and feels her start, an ugly wound stretching from spine along back, a mark he's noticed before but never wanted to ask, intrude, feels like too much of her is still a mystery sometimes -- how’d you get that?
“It’s stupid, really.” Her lips purse, hand straying, covering his. “Tripped at a dig site and landed on a metal stake.”
He can’t stop his jaw from dropping -- “you impaled yourself?”
Charlotte rolls over, leans back against her elbows, takes him in sleepily. “If you want to get dramatic about it, yeah. But someone onsite knew first aid and it missed any organs, apparently, and we weren’t too far from a Red Cross field hospital. So.”
“But that’s --" His hands hover, not sure where to land, shaking his head. "I mean, you could have died.”
She yawns, pulls a shrug. “But I didn’t.”
“You could have.”
“But I didn’t.”
There’s heat in her voice suddenly and it’s like steel, her gaze, won't let him go; her embrace snakes around him, clings close, mouth urgent and fierce and tongue pushing past his, sheets twisting as she slides her body flush with his, like it's proof (of her, of them, a tangible connection, I'm here and so are you).
There's a moment and then Charlotte stops, rests on her forearms and fixes him with that inscrutable stare again, the length of her hair tickling against his cheek.
"I grew up on the island."
Every word's measured, even (he can read the caution there, a wavering sort of expectancy in the clenched set of her jaw), and his questions -- there are so many, though answers now too where there weren't before -- get swallowed, silenced, by another kiss; ask me later, she whispers and he listens, kisses her back with just as much force (your secret's safe with me) and thinks of white sand and green trees and water the colour of her eyes.
Sparring’s next in her lesson plan (you need to know this stuff, Dan, she’d insisted, sealing her argument with hips pushed, rolled, against his and he can't say no), even though it’s too hot for the season and the state and the fan in their room had rattled and died the night before; Charlotte pulls the dingy double mattress from the bed and drops it on the floor, ties back her hair and mops sweat from the nape of her neck.
Let’s see what you’ve got, she grins, chiding, rolling her shoulders.
Daniel smiles in return, squints out his disbelief and moves towards her, and in less than two minutes is flat on his back, watching Charlotte hover -- smug pride lighting up her features -- above him; “too easy,” she jokes, helping him up.
There's a moment where they both stand, idle and smirking at each other, sinking into the mattress, and he takes advantage that she's off-balance or at least unsuspecting and shoves his forearm against her middle, drives forward and gets her twisted around with wrists pinned under his arm, up against the room’s scuffed wardrobe. Charlotte's breathing hard, close enough to see the curls plastered to her forehead, the beads curling in her hairline, feel the pressure of her arms arching under his, pushing, daring him on -- too easy, Dan murmurs, smile curling his words, though even the brush of warmth from her skin still sends his stomach flipping, a cool flush of feeling through his whole body.
Her body torques, still trapped between him and the furniture (letting him win; he doesn't doubt for a second), and he won't let her move but shifts closer, grips her hands and feels cold wood underneath flesh, draws fingers down the cotton of her T-shirt and under as her breath grows shallow, stilted, then past the waistband of her shorts, the heat of her blazing almost as strong as the rest.
She sighs his name, syllables stretched through air, eyes squeezed shut and skin slick against his; rhythm picks up and the breath exchanged is heavy, panted, and god, Charlotte exhales again, rubbing against him and moving the inches she can, fingernails digging into the lean line of his wrist, arm. There's a dull thud when her head falls back against the dresser, everything tense and building, his teeth catching on the space between her neck and collarbone and her eyes are on him -- so blue -- as he touches her, lets her hands down and she grips his neck, hard, arched up and away. Her knee pulls up to his waist and the warmth (surrounding him, everywhere) is almost too much to take, pushing against his breath, sticking in his throat.
He doesn't stop and then there's a shudder that runs through her whole body, hips bucking, a sort of soft cry that comes with it, collapsing against him; she stays still for a moment and then blows out a breath, looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, still hazy.
Her hand finds the front of his jeans (guess you win), grins in a way that makes him think he can feel every inch of his skin; " -- this time."
They find the first bar in Coeur d’Alene once they cross into Montana after hours on the road, and dim light catches along his glass of whiskey (Frank’s brand, thinks of Tahiti’s humidity sheened against his skin, the pilot pounding another shot back, slamming another two down, drink up, Dan; who the hell knows when we’ll be back on solid ground again), throws a spectrum of colour across the wood grain of the bar, along his fingers -- playing with his drink, rolling it from hand to hand -- and between the blues and pinks and yellows realizes he is drunk.
Charlotte’s across the room destroying a couple of truck drivers in a game of pool, cue laced through her fingers, crooked under her body like she owns the place, and damned if he doesn’t miss her red hair (it’s a mousy brown now; she’d picked up the box of dye in some small-town pharmacy with distaste, tossed it into her shopping cart; it stands out too much, I can’t risk being remembered as the red head). Her cheeks are flushed, the heat of the tiny basement room and the thick press of the crowds and one beer too many, so much colour where the rest of her’s so pale, especially with dark hair framing her face, trailing the curve of her shoulder (and arms and legs and the plane of her back and she’s all white skin and freckles, Daniel knows).
Her laugh makes it to him before she does, wobbling on the balls of her feet as she leans forward against the bar stool to drape her arms around him, slides a wad of twenties into the inside of his coat with a smirk, truckers glaring daggers behind her (she exhales tequila shots against the side of his cheek, almost trips; so it’s not just him, then). There’s the sweet of lemon, the taste of salt, with her kiss, and I love you, he murmurs while she pulls away, into the folds of his plaid shirt she always wears, claimed for her own (thinks of a thousand things he could love about her forever), before he loses his nerve.
She smiles even wider than before, tilts her head just so, takes him in with a long, lingering look -- "you're ridiculous" -- and then slings herself closer, mouth against his jaw, what she says next still audible over the pulse of the bass and music pounding through the speakers.
You too.
When they roll into the outskirts of Billings Charlotte's cellphone buzzes in her pocket; she flips it open while Dan snores in the passenger seat, sees a Los Angeles number she doesn't recognize and clicks accept to the call, listening silently -- "call me back when you're alone," a prim English voice offers, drops to the drone of a dialtone. While Daniel's paying for gas she slips around the corner and hits redial, waits feeling tension creep up her spine (Widmore's people, it has to be).
"A wise choice, Ms. Lewis," the woman drawls. "I presume my son is not with you?"
Her inhale's sharp enough to hear, and across the static the stranger chuckles; "yes, Daniel. I don't suppose he would have mentioned me. That’s fine. And here’s what you need to do now."
A couple hours after they’ve settled into the next-door motel, Dan juggles two coffees -- sugar and too much milk in his, black for her -- against his keycard and fumbles through the front door of their third room in as many nights (still feeling spooked by the dark-coloured SUV that hung too close on their tail the week before, by Charlotte shunting her cellphone in the backseat at the gas station without a word and a pale face earlier that afternoon).
The door swings open to an empty room, Charlotte’s latest anthropology book (grabbed from the library in the last town where they’d stopped) abandoned on the bedside tale, one of her sweaters slung over the back of an easy chair, and it’s like his heart’s all the way in his throat, taking stock of the fact she’s not there, that she’s gone (left or taken he’s not sure, the first bad and the next so much worse).
Eloise meets her at a church five streets over with a creased manila envelope stuffed tight with cash, expression pinched with something close to displeasure.
“Daniel doesn’t know you’re here?”
They’re two lone silhouettes between rows of wooden pews -- Charlotte doesn’t even blink, but pockets the money, smoothing out of the front of her coat, runs fingertips over the reassuring outline of the gun tucked into the waistband of her pants -- and that’s probably for the best, Eloise sighs, he wouldn’t understand.
She seems to hesitate a bit, relax into her own weariness; “my son, is he alright?”
”Dan’s fine.” (We’re fine is the childish refrain Charlotte doesn’t bother adding.)
There’s a pause, a hush of silence, where another parishioner passes by; Eloise shrugs her shawl closer, turns a critical eye on Charlotte. “And you’ve managed to avoid attracting attention?”
“Of course.” It’s a point of pride that she manages to keep her frustration, the mounting anger, abated, balls hands against the sides of her thighs and tries to keep breathing. “We’ve been tracked on and off, though. Widmore’s people show up every once in a while; been able to lose them quickly enough.”
If Eloise notices her rising emotion she doesn’t show it, arches one eyebrow instead. “Well whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. And stay in the country -- Charles is having the borders and the airlines watched. I’ll do my best as well to keep him off your trail but there’s no guarantees.”
Charlotte anchors her stance, sarcasm drenching her words -- ”you managed to find us” -- and Eloise utters a delicate laugh, shakes her head just slightly; silly girl.
“Of course I did.”
They watch each other stiffly for a beat before Eloise sweeps over to the votive candles, fingers one match and strikes it into flame, watches it without lighting, Charlotte still catching the last of her words even as she slips out the doors and back into the night.
Good luck, Ms. Lewis. And I do mean that.
When she gets back to their room Dan’s livid, concern and fear shifting, spiralling to anger as she steps in the door.
“Where were you?”
She’s seen him upset before -- even at her, back at the beach camp (years ago, it feels like) though he’d pulled her aside and stumbled through an apology less than a half hour later -- but this time his voice rises, a raising crescendo of pitch that radiates fury through what happened? and I’ve been trying to call everybody; Frank, Penny, Jack even and jesus, Charlotte, you couldn’t have left a note?
The breath seems to leave him after that; he takes a step forward, hand imprinting his forehead, almost shading his eyes against the sight of her -- “I was just -- I was worried about you. Where did you go?”
Charlotte sucks in a breath, mirrors him, hand ghosting along his collar and then resting against his chest, still tentative, his name -- Dan -- like a warning.
”You’re not going to like this, but … I saw your mother.” He bites back a reply and Charlotte rushes through the rest; one jacket pocket gets emptied, the envelope of cash tossed onto the nearest bed. “She called me and wanted to meet. To help us, I guess.”
It’s more confusion filtered by surprise, what’s on his face now. “She contacted you? And besides, we’ve got all the money we need from Penny --”
“We can’t keep going back to her forever, Dan. Plus your mother, she’s keeping Widmore off our trail somehow. We need her, for now at least.”
He’s fidgeting in that way she knows means he’s measuring his words, weighing responses, hands wringing then moving to the hem of his shirt, his hips, dropping again, imprinting the carpet with the back-and-forth shifting of his movement.
”You should have told me,” Daniel says, and there’s nothing questioning about it; “I know,” she replies, not an apology but still an admission, I just want to keep you safe wrapped up in her words and then her grasp, tight around his neck.
They circle twice around the Midwest, spend time in New England (they make it to Boston just after Charlie’s born and take turns holding him, the baby’s weight so new and uncertain in their arms, for two days before Desmond and Penny head back south, chance the American Museum of Natural History in New York City the next week and they’re in the exotic birds section when Daniel stumbles down onto one knee and through a proposal and of course she says yes), do a six-month detour through the South -- they exchange pawn shop rings at city hall in Wilmington, sign a marriage license with names that aren’t familiar -- and it takes until Arizona before it all falls apart.
Charlotte recognizes him before Dan does, the flash of dark hair and darker eyes, feels all her hair stand on end and the air, it's like it's electric, but by then Sayid Jarrah has a gun to the centre of Daniel's back and he's ordering them, move, out of the general store where they'd stopped for supplies (they'd spent the last few nights camping out in some state park along the edges of the desert and she'd convinced Dan to sleep out under the stars and that's all she can think about, as Jarrah grabs her elbow and directs her out the door, the crack of the campfire and how the smoke had clung to Dan's hair, neck, and how the space of the sky had made her feel like they'd never run out of places to go).
He takes her gun and ties them both up, binds their hands, puts Daniel in front and twists back to Charlotte with a gaze that's more empty than cold (nothing left to lose, is what she thinks, recalls some news story she’d scanned in the paper about an Iraqi woman run over in L.A.) and calmly informs her if you try anything, he will die.
"We helped save you from the island."
There's a familiar click and the gun's back pointed at Daniel's chest, Sayid's other hand still gripping the wheel, the only acknowledgment of her words; she sits quiet and still during the rest of the five-hour ride, memorizing passing landscapes and watching the back of his head, Dan hunched over in the passenger seat.
Los Angeles starts to rise in the distance when Sayid's phone buzzes; he answers, listens and mumbles a brief ascent, forcing the car off the road and into an industrial park in some suburb outside the city. Hustles Daniel out of the passenger seat and onto his knees on wet concrete first and then her. As he's turning to shut the car door she spots some desperate window of opportunity and heaves her full weight forward, trying to connect her head with his midsection. It works, slamming into him in a way that makes her dizzy, and for a second he's stunned -- bowled over and gasping for air -- while Charlotte tries to stumble to her feet, only gets halfway before he's up and raising his gun, bringing it down against the crown of her skull.
Dan shouts her name and blood's running, dripping, into one eye, the pain like an explosion, white-hot, makes her gasp and falter, dropping to her knees again. Sayid just straightens his jacket, repositions his gun; her question rings out, tinged with desperation and that whine of pain still behind her eyes -- "why are you doing this to us?" -- at the same time as Daniel's gentle plea, Sayid, please (she notices, barely, out of the corner of her eye something tucked under his leg, realizes with a start Sayid searched her but never him, Dan’s soft demeanour making him sloppy, assuming). The second entreaty seems to stop him, make him pause, eyes flickering downward, then --
"Plans have changed," he states crisply, like it's some kind of explanation. "My employer prefers a more ... efficient method of problem-solving than what was initially selected."
She can see movement just to the right of her, Dan shifting against his bindings, thinks hurry, please --
-- but it’s too late.
“I’m sorry,” is all Sayid says as he pulls the trigger.
It’s pure luck Sayid had left the keys in the ignition when he crumples face-first to the pavement, Daniel’s bullet blossoming red along the back of his blazer, and Charlotte’s thoughts are too much of a blur to think cellphone or ambulance, instead loading Dan -- and he’s bleeding too, so much, from where she doesn’t even know -- into the car and somehow through her haze of blind panic following the signs towards the hospital (luck’s on their side again and it’s only a couple miles away).
He’s slender but taller than her, and Charlotte struggles to grip him close, support his weight as they stumble out of the car and across the emergency room’s threshold, dripping spatters of red behind them. Daniel’s skin is turned almost grey, eyes barely flickering open, and jesus, she can’t block the blood; it sifts between her fingers and hands, paints her clothes, doesn’t stop.
They make it through the sliding doors and there’s people all around them, surrounding them, the whites and blues and greys of medical scrubs; Dan gets lifted onto a gurney and still all she can see is red, too panicked to even think of any of the identities on the three passports they juggle, make up some story, just repeats his name over and over -- you’ll be fine, Dan, don’t worry; everything’s alright -- behind the flurry of nurses and doctors.
“Charlotte?”
She almost doesn’t hear her own name, turns sharply, still watching as they wheel Dan behind the closest curtain. It’s Jack Shepherd looking back at her from across the corridor, clipboard in hand and eyes wide, scanning the blood on her jeans, in her hair.
“It was Sayid,” she chokes out. “I think he’s working for Widmore.”
Then the world slides sideways and it all goes black.
Daniel’s already been in surgery three hours and she hovers around Jack’s office, swimming in his spare sweatshirt and scrub pants and nursing a crap cup of coffee from the cafeteria. Giving up on her fifteenth loop around the small, utilitarian room, Charlotte folds herself back up in one of the chairs, tucks knees beneath chin, watches the blur of late-night traffic through L.A.’s hills without really looking.
The framed photograph on the edge of his desk catches her eye; Jack and Kate and a blond little boy that must be Aaron, and the envy that fills her whole body’s almost crushing, the force of it, that they’re playing house and her and Dan move apartments every other month, that they’re the happy family and they can’t even use their real names. She’s holding it when Jack comes back in, pauses next to her, the briefest glimpse of a smile tugging at his lips.
He motions to her wedding band, the gold glowing dull and almost rusted-looking. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Off Charlotte’s non-reply, adds -- “Kate and I, we’re engaged.”
“That’s nice,” she intones, dry, like it’s not at all. (She doesn’t care. Can’t care, not right now.) “Any news on Dan?”
Jack shakes his head, rueful. “Nothing yet.”
He pauses, re-positions the picture frame along the corner of his desk, moves to stand above her and peel away the edges of the bandage along her top of her head; let me check out that wound.
The tape pulls a little at her scalp and she hisses out a breath, Jack replacing the dressing and stepping back.
“Looks fine.” He pauses, hands staunch on hips, silent while Charlotte burrows deeper into her sweatshirt, slides down on the chair. “You’re sure it was Sayid?”
“’Course I’m bloody sure. I just watched him shoot my husband, didn’t I?”
(And there’s that ragged grief, making her feel frayed around the edges, the desperate chant of please be okay, please be okay on a loop through her brain, Dan’s pale, slack face the only thing she sees against her eyelids, and she feels like all she’s wanted her entire life is for him to be okay, for him to wake up again.)
Jack’s expression reflects back her frustration with confusion as he settles against the desk, brow furrowed and thoughtful. “Why?”
Charlotte grits out a face she knows is childish -- “sorry, didn’t have a chance to ask once he pulled the gun”; it’s harsh-slung, sharp, her words -- and then sighs, slumping deeper, like the weight of everything’s filling her veins, two years of crappy motel rooms and bad Chinese and sleepless nights weighing her down.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she whispers. “I appreciate what you’ve done, I really do. I just …”
Another almost-smile ghosts across his lips, the first she’s seen in what feels like years (can’t figure out if she remembers how herself); “it’s hard. I know.” He pats her shoulder, gently, murmurs something about a vending machine down the hall and going to check in on Daniel’s surgery; she dozes off, or at least she figures as much, wakes up with hair mussed and mouth dry, curled in Jack's chair.
Orange-gold's just starting to peak over the hills through the window, and Daniel is the first thing filtering through her brain, panic clenching hold, driving her from her seat and away from the office, through the hospital corridors at a pace that draws looks. Charlotte's rounding on the corner towards the ICU and that's when she sees him, a solitary, serious figure against the washed-out white of the hospital walls.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
Charles Widmore doesn't get past Ms. Lewis, I -- before she's storming towards him and if he's expecting a slap he doesn't get one; instead Charlotte balls one fist hard, slams it against the line of his jaw and then his chin, and she's not even sure where she's hit and there's not much finesse to her punches but it doesn't matter because she just wants him to hurt, anger so strong it's like red in front of her eyes, making her tremble as she grabs the lapel of his suit, shoves him against the wall -- this is your fault, you sodding bastard. I know you sent Jarrah after us.
“What?” He gasps it out, patting his split lip and eyeing the blood against his fingertips. “Why would I do that?”
She’s inches from him, breathing hard, practically snarling out her words -- “because we got off that damn island. Because we knew too much about your secondary protocol.”
If he’s surprised he doesn’t show it, instead edging out of her grasp, straightening his collar and looking more like the man who sealed his offer of employment with a drink of MacCutcheon’s, shook her hand with a hard, firm grip she returned in full, an understanding that it was more than just business, what they were agreeing to, running through it like an undercurrent.
“I sent you to the island to capture Benjamin Linus. There was no intention for anyone else to get hurt. Keamy --”
Charlotte steps back but stays close, crossing her arms. “Martin Keamy was a psychopath.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Yes, well, hindsight’s 20/20, now isn’t it? And besides, I have it from reliable sources that Mr. Jarrah has apparently taken it upon himself to clean out my staff on orders from Linus. Which is likely why he came after you two.”
“But that’s not important.” She watches his expression soften, attention stray back to one of the ICU rooms nearby, can’t stop the swell of curiousity. “I’m here to make sure Daniel’s alright.”
“And why would you care what happened to him?”
It’s with some kind of understanding that Charles turns his gaze back on her, swallows hard before continuing, a wash of emotions trembling just below the surface.
“Because he’s my son, Ms. Lewis. And you’re not the only one with a connection to the island -- for a time it was his home too.”
She feels winded, like she’s been sucker-punched, barely exhaling an of course, thinks of the research grant Dan said materialized out of thin air, that he was hired for the freighter sick and barely functioning; it makes sense, though the thought still manages to surprise her.
Jack appears just then, hedging just down the hallway, confusion at Widmore’s identity clear, coughs briefly and then steps forward; I thought you’d want to know that’s Dan’s awake. And he’s going to be fine.
Fine. The relief grabs hold of her so quick she’s almost dizzy, exchanging smiles with Widmore despite herself, trailing behind Jack and then pushing past him -- only steps to Daniel’s bedside, feels a twinge at the bandages just above the collar of his hospital gown, the IVs sprouting from his arms, the dreamy, sagging expression.
Charlotte crouches, rests against the mattress and brushes wisps of hair from across his forehead; the shifting wakes him, cracks his eyes open and gives her a tender look -- sighs hey sweetheart with a voice that’s barely above a whisper.
She bites her lip, tries not to cry, manages to croak out a hi Dan before the tears spill and fall, running messy down her face, blurring her vision, arms folding around his neck and breathing him in.
You could have died filters out, before she can stop herself.
His smile’s weak, forced, still manages to draw all the breath from her lungs; but I didn’t.
“Daniel --”
He anchors his hand under hers, lifts it to meet his lips, murmurs against her palm -- “but I didn’t.”
The last place she wants to be is anywhere away from him, fusses and smoothes at the blankets draped over his legs, still knows Charles is hovering just beyond the door, pacing a tight circle along the hospital’s scuffed hallway.
“There’s someone else here to see you.”
Daniel’s head tilts back against the pillow, questioning, and Charlotte’s smile comes out crooked, unsure, no words to even start to explain, every possible rationalization faltering and dying in her throat; “it’s Charles Widmore, Dan.”
The curious look grows deeper -- “Widmore? Here? Why? -- and don’t worry, she amends, a rushed appendix, it wasn’t him, who sent Sayid. Benjamin Linus was behind it. I think he’s -- I think he wants to help us.
Her lips meet his temple; “I’ll leave you two to talk.”
She rises, waves Charles (and it’s nerves, she realizes, creasing his face, the solid, stoic wall gone) in and the door swings shut -- sees him perch, gingerly, at the edge of Dan's bed, head ducked and coat still clenched in his lap -- and Charlotte's left standing idle in the hallway until a familiar voice rings out somewhere behind her.
“How is he?”
Eloise emerges and strides forward, her heels clicking as she crosses the corridor and pauses alongside Charlotte -- “he’s alive,” she mutters like an aside, still bordering on suspicious when Dan’s mother is concerned -- takes a moment watching Charles and Daniel speaking through the window.
There’s a glimmer of tears when Eloise looks up again, something more humbled, honest than when they last met -- “thank you, dear. You saved his life.”
Charlotte matches her gaze, even, doesn’t waver as Eloise straightens, neck arched, pulls back her shoulders; “Charles said Dan was from the island. Neither of you ever told him the truth.”
”It’s … complicated.”
“’Course it is.”
Eloise barely takes a breath before shifting the subject, tone testing, slow -- “you know Charles will find Benjamin Linus now. Jarrah too, if he’s still alive. I’m sure if you wanted, you could be there as well. They almost killed you and your husband, after all.”
The shake of Charlotte’s head is firm, without hesitation -- no. “Whatever you lot are playing at, whatever foolish island game this is, I don’t want any part, and I don’t want Dan involved either.”
She moves back towards the window as she says the last of it, takes in the sight of Daniel talking and breathing and living -- and swears there’s a smile as Eloise turns away.
A month later and the smell of pine is what hits Charlotte before anything else does, eyes squeezed closed and cheek against the cool, smooth surface of the half-open window; “don’t look,” Daniel murmurs, “not yet.” The car rolls to a quiet stop, tires crunching against gravel, and we’re here, he adds, feels his hand curl in her hair (it’s red again, much to his relief).
Her gaze cracks open to a dark-wooded cabin, tucked in between fir trees, along that same stretch of backwoods highway she vaguely recalls from months and highways and long, bleary days of driving before --
“This is ours?”
Dan smiles, wheezing a little as he slides out of the driver’s seat, still favouring his side where his injury -- a crescent-shaped wound, flesh raised and red and now we both have one, she’d considered, tracing its curving lines; battle scars, he’d joked in return -- isn’t quite healed.
“It’s ours.”
She sits back against the hood of the car, feels warm metal against the backs of her thighs, waits as Daniel rests his weight against her, arm slung around her shoulders; does anyone else know?, she hums against the bow of his neck, smiles at the nope in reply.
Charlotte doesn’t move, relaxes in the feeling of not going anywhere at all -- “so what now?”
Dan considers the cabin in front of them, kisses her briefly, gently. “Think maybe we should … be still for a while.”
For a moment, after his words, she can feel the weight of all of it fully, everything they’d done and everywhere they’d been. She feels it, feels it and lets it go -- the island, the miles, the movement and the stasis of it all, two years of going in circles in every way possible -- grasps his hand and leads him up the front walk; to whatever comes next, he adds, murmurs as the lock clicks open, and next, she thinks, squeezing her palm against his and swinging the front door wide, sounds just about right.