Fic: les quatre saisons [lost; daniel/charlotte]
les quatre saisons
lost, daniel/charlotte (naomi, miles, frank).
482 words, rated pg.
spoilers for season 4.
oxford 1996, island
a dark figure skitters in the distance, almost slips, regains; 31 minutes late.
he remarks on the ice, on it matching her eyes; his breath warms her pink nose. her marks are slipping.
she’s haunts the garden in the fall, practicing being invisible. people used to tell her she was a girl suited best for autumn.
the profession of people watching is tiring, she thinks. it makes you too existential and depressed after long. she practices alone.
the air is warm enough, with the sting of fall and it’s nearly perfect. the water falls calmly and she drifts away until interrupted.
there’s the creak, the old wood of the bench protesting before she hears him otherwise. he breathes soft. “now that is extraordinary” and she’s not quite sure if he’s talking to her or himself.
he speaks louder then, “hello there”. his vowels are sharp, foreigners words. “I’m Daniel.” he bites his lip, then adds a post script, “Faraday”.
he’s got his arm outstretched towards her, leaning over at an awkward angle. she punishes for the interruption, but only for a second. staring at the hand for an extra beat, her face unreadable, before she reciprocates.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Charlotte,” she smiles, “Lewis.”
-
she’s got a verse tattooed on her ankle, a catholic remnant. the sand brushes it harsh and she scratches raw lines.
-
her friends (not friends so much as people she doesn’t care enough about to study) caught wind of some scandalous rumor a month back, their bright polished nails fluttering over their mouths in shock. she tires of them.
she likes the pattern of cracks in the ice, random and harsh, spread like fingers. she buries hers deep in pockets, turns against the wind.
a dark figure skitters in the distance, almost slips, regains; 31 minutes late.
he remarks on the ice, on it matching her eyes; his breath warms her pink nose. her marks are slipping.
-
he wishes he could remember more, knows he should, needs to remember. (the truth: he would never have abandoned his research in favor of his past).
-
the country melts torturously into spring, time to clean.
they meet less and less. the last time is at a dingy coffee shop, bitter cups turning cold between them.
he’s flying home, losing ground in his life. she’s flying south, research and study and doing what she spent the last 8 years training for.
she leaves when the clock in the corner strikes four. there is no goodbye kiss.
-
he still sometimes cries without reason on the island. he tells them all it’s just sand in his eyes.
it hurts more that it should.
-
four, then eight years. she gets swirled up in mysteries deeper than she knows, gets recruited for ‘very important missions’.
there’s a mismatched team. the leader, uneasy and skeptical. the pilot, drunk but quick. a jackass, sharp and abrasive (and something else too).
she catches on the last, breath stalled, summer sun shinging on the deck.
“hello there. I'm Daniel Faraday.”
he doesn’t know her anymore (ever).
-
fin
lost, daniel/charlotte (naomi, miles, frank).
482 words, rated pg.
spoilers for season 4.
oxford 1996, island
a dark figure skitters in the distance, almost slips, regains; 31 minutes late.
he remarks on the ice, on it matching her eyes; his breath warms her pink nose. her marks are slipping.
she’s haunts the garden in the fall, practicing being invisible. people used to tell her she was a girl suited best for autumn.
the profession of people watching is tiring, she thinks. it makes you too existential and depressed after long. she practices alone.
the air is warm enough, with the sting of fall and it’s nearly perfect. the water falls calmly and she drifts away until interrupted.
there’s the creak, the old wood of the bench protesting before she hears him otherwise. he breathes soft. “now that is extraordinary” and she’s not quite sure if he’s talking to her or himself.
he speaks louder then, “hello there”. his vowels are sharp, foreigners words. “I’m Daniel.” he bites his lip, then adds a post script, “Faraday”.
he’s got his arm outstretched towards her, leaning over at an awkward angle. she punishes for the interruption, but only for a second. staring at the hand for an extra beat, her face unreadable, before she reciprocates.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Charlotte,” she smiles, “Lewis.”
-
she’s got a verse tattooed on her ankle, a catholic remnant. the sand brushes it harsh and she scratches raw lines.
-
her friends (not friends so much as people she doesn’t care enough about to study) caught wind of some scandalous rumor a month back, their bright polished nails fluttering over their mouths in shock. she tires of them.
she likes the pattern of cracks in the ice, random and harsh, spread like fingers. she buries hers deep in pockets, turns against the wind.
a dark figure skitters in the distance, almost slips, regains; 31 minutes late.
he remarks on the ice, on it matching her eyes; his breath warms her pink nose. her marks are slipping.
-
he wishes he could remember more, knows he should, needs to remember. (the truth: he would never have abandoned his research in favor of his past).
-
the country melts torturously into spring, time to clean.
they meet less and less. the last time is at a dingy coffee shop, bitter cups turning cold between them.
he’s flying home, losing ground in his life. she’s flying south, research and study and doing what she spent the last 8 years training for.
she leaves when the clock in the corner strikes four. there is no goodbye kiss.
-
he still sometimes cries without reason on the island. he tells them all it’s just sand in his eyes.
it hurts more that it should.
-
four, then eight years. she gets swirled up in mysteries deeper than she knows, gets recruited for ‘very important missions’.
there’s a mismatched team. the leader, uneasy and skeptical. the pilot, drunk but quick. a jackass, sharp and abrasive (and something else too).
she catches on the last, breath stalled, summer sun shinging on the deck.
“hello there. I'm Daniel Faraday.”
he doesn’t know her anymore (ever).
-
fin