The Paradox
The Paradox
Summary: Charlie chases a Scottish man through the rainy streets of London, which leads him to a fateful meeting in an antique shop. Written for the
charlielives challenge: Strange Encounters and
lostfichallenge Unconventional Pairings.
Characters: Charlie/Mrs Hawking, mentions of Desmond.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nope, I still do not own Lost.
Authors Note: It seems that rumours of my retirement have been greatly exaggerated! Let's say I'm retired to the same degree that Charlie is dead; meaning you may see me returning to Lost fanfic for the odd mysterious cameo and, who knows, maybe one day I'll come back in a big way.
Dedication: For
cylune9 who came up with the paradox theory and
pacejunkie who wanted see it in fanfic form. This is also a tribute to Charlie's appearance in the S4 trailer and the hope that it may be a herald of a future resurrection. We can dream, right?
Rainfall was pounding the London pavements while the grey skies rumbled up above. Charlie's feet splashed through the quickly forming puddles, his fringe hanging over his eyes in a dripping curtain. He stopped for a moment, swiping his wet hair aside and trying to focus on the man he was chasing. The Scottish man was streets ahead of him now, running like a spooked rabbit, shoving past pedestrians and darting through lanes of traffic. Charlie was seized by desperation. His legs started pumping again, harder this time. But he was by no means a fast sprinter and to make matters worse his guitar case kept slamming into people’s knees forcing him to halt and make clumsy apologies. It wasn't long before the Scotsman was almost out of his sight. Charlie tried yelling to him - “Wait! Please! How do you know me?!” - but he was so breathless his voice wouldn’t carry.
This is useless, Charlie conceded, gradually slowing his pace. I'm never gonna catch up with this feller. His shoes were leaking now and his jeans were soaked up to his knees. His thick leather jacket was the only thing shielding his body from the merciless downpour. He needed to get out of the chill wind or he was going to make himself ill. If he caught a cold then he wouldn’t be able to sing. If he couldn’t sing then he couldn’t make any money and if he couldn’t make money then he would soon have go crawling back to his parent’s house in Manchester and admit that his plans to find fame and fortune in the country's capital had been a miserable failure.
Charlie came to a reluctant halt beside a small antiques shop and decided to take shelter inside. A little silver bell jangled as he stepped through the door. He shuffled over to the glass cabinets and pretended to be browsing over the pieces of old jewellery. He knew that he wouldn't buy anything. The pitiful collection of notes and coins in his case would only just afford him supper. Besides there was only one ancient ring that Charlie had ever been interested in. And that ring was the birthright of his brother Liam.
“Wipe your feet...” said a voice.
Charlie startled and turned to see an owlish old lady standing behind the far counter. There was a curtained doorway behind her, but he hadn’t heard it rustle. It felt as though the woman had just appeared out of the thin air. Now she stood there bold as brass with a fixed smile on her lips and a sharp glint of disapproval in her eyes.
“I…I’m sorry?” Charlie stammered.
“Clearly you don’t have much money or any intension of making a purchase,” the woman trilled. “If you’re just loitering in my shop to keep out of the rain then you can at least show a little courtesy and not leave a trail of wet footprints over my carpet.” Her smile became tighter and her eyes widened. “So wipe your sodding feet, boy!” she concluded, snappishly.
Charlie quickly retreated to the shop's entrance and placed his squelching trainers on the welcome mat. If it hadn’t been pouring so hard he might have fled the shop. This prim old biddy was giving him the creeps.
“You’re out of breath, I see...” she continued, studying him critically. “You haven't stolen a wallet, have you?" She looked him up and down, grimacing as if he were a bad taste in her mouth. "Yes...you have the look of a pickpocket,” she said decidedly.
“You have the look of a snooty old busybody,” Charlie retorted, crossing his arms. “But I’ll try not to hold it against you.”
The woman laughed, seeming impressed. “Well then...we shall both have to prove there is more to us than appearances suggest.”
Charlie frowned, shook his head and turned back to the window. The raving Scotsman was out in those sprawling wet streets somewhere and he knew something about Charlie. Most likely the two of them would never cross paths again. Maybe their strange encounter didn’t mean anything after all. But for a moment there it had felt like something very important. Charlie at least needed to tell someone about it.
“I was chasing this Scottish bloke...” he began, haltingly. “He said that he knew me. He said something about…how we were on an island together. I thought he was a nutter at first. But then he predicted the rain. This rain! I mean...he said it was gonna start raining and...maybe he did know something about me...something about my future...maybe he…”
The lady raised her hand to silence his confused wittering.
“Yes, of course…” she nodded as if Charlie were recounting a news item that she was already familiar with. “That man just saved your life.”
Charlie blinked and spluttered. “I’m sorry…did you just say that he saved my life?" He shook his head at the absurdity of her suggestion. "Saved my life!" he repeated. "How the bleeding hell did he do that, missus?!”
“By talking to you,” she answered curtly. “If the Scottish man hadn’t spoken to you, then you would have taken shelter in the underground after the rain started. Then you would have caught a tube train back to the crummy little hostel where you are currently lodging. Then several years later you would have been involved in a plane crash and been left stranded on an island with that Scottish man.” She paused and took a breath. “But instead you chased that man down the street and ended up here in my shop. And that has made all the difference, Charlie.”
He flinched, his eyes widening in shock and bewilderment. “How…how do you know my name? Is everybody a bloody psychic today?!”
The woman sighed, apparently finding Charlie’s distress very trifling.
“Let me give you a piece of advice, boy. If you choose to take my advice then you will find your life on a very different path. One with a far better ending I assure you. And yes...this change may turn out to be very important for all of us.”
“Err…okay,” Charlie faltered, submitting to this weirdness. “And your advice is?”
“Don’t take Flight 815,” she instructed; her eyes stern and foreboding.
Charlie grinned stupidly. He glanced to the doorway at the back of the shop, now suspecting that there was a camera crew lurking behind its curtains. Maybe the old woman and the Scottish man were involved in some elaborate prank that was being played on him. Charlie decided he might as well play along with it for the time being. It was one way of getting himself on TV.
“Riiiight,” he said, nodding mechanically. He tapped the side of his head. "I’ll log that one away for future reference then...”
The old lady nodded too, seeming satisfied with his answer.
“Oh, one more thing…” she added, her smile lengthening. “On Christmas Eve in the year 2004 you will receive a phone call from a woman named Penelope Widmore. She will tell you that she has received a distress call from a young man named Charlie Pace who claims that he is stranded on an island following the crash of Flight 815.”
Charlie stared at her in stupefaction. He ran this last statement over a second time in his mind. Nope, it still didn't make any sense.
“But I'm…I’m not going to this island anymore!" he protested, his confusion mounting. "I thought we had just settled this. I’m not gonna take this doomed flight so I sure as hell won’t be crashing on any bloody island!!”
“Ah yes…this is the tricky part,” the woman continued. “You see this little paradox is only occurring after you have been on the island for two months. The Charlie Pace who is on the island can’t simply pop out of existence, though the universe has been making efforts to correct the anomaly. In fact the Charlie Pace on the island will drown shortly after speaking to Penny.”
“Drown?” Charlie felt his blood running cold. Strangely this part of her surreal fortune telling made sense to him. He had been frightened of water ever since he was a child, but he had never been able to figure out where his phobia came from. Maybe it was here.
“Yes, such a pity,” the old woman lamented. “He was a brave lad. He didn’t deserve the cruel fate that he suffered. But it had to be done. The universe can’t have two Charlie Pace’s in existence at one time, can it...”
Charlie winced. “But why…why get rid of him and not me?”
“Because you have destiny too, boy. You must finish what your other self started. After the phone call you will join Penny Widmore’s team. You will be responsible for bringing together a group of survivors who escaped from the island before they were supposed to. You will be the one who leads them back to their paths. And in the end you will get them rescued. You will do this for the young man who sacrificed his life for their rescue. You will do it for the girl and the baby that he left behind. And if you don’t do those things Charlie Hieronymous Pace every single living person on that island will be killed."
Charlie could feel a pulse throbbing in his ears. His jaw opened to question her further, but he found that his voice had dried up. The woman behind the counter smiled serenely and gestured for him to leave her shop. Charlie turned to stare blankly through the glass window. It was no longer raining outside. The sun was peeping through the clouds.
“Wait!” Charlie managed to choke out. “What...what am I supposed to do now?!”
The old woman raised her hands in a shrug. “Whatever comes next...”
With those words, she slipped behind the curtain.
The End
Summary: Charlie chases a Scottish man through the rainy streets of London, which leads him to a fateful meeting in an antique shop. Written for the
charlielives challenge: Strange Encounters and
lostfichallenge Unconventional Pairings.
Characters: Charlie/Mrs Hawking, mentions of Desmond.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nope, I still do not own Lost.
Authors Note: It seems that rumours of my retirement have been greatly exaggerated! Let's say I'm retired to the same degree that Charlie is dead; meaning you may see me returning to Lost fanfic for the odd mysterious cameo and, who knows, maybe one day I'll come back in a big way.
Dedication: For
cylune9 who came up with the paradox theory and
pacejunkie who wanted see it in fanfic form. This is also a tribute to Charlie's appearance in the S4 trailer and the hope that it may be a herald of a future resurrection. We can dream, right?
Rainfall was pounding the London pavements while the grey skies rumbled up above. Charlie's feet splashed through the quickly forming puddles, his fringe hanging over his eyes in a dripping curtain. He stopped for a moment, swiping his wet hair aside and trying to focus on the man he was chasing. The Scottish man was streets ahead of him now, running like a spooked rabbit, shoving past pedestrians and darting through lanes of traffic. Charlie was seized by desperation. His legs started pumping again, harder this time. But he was by no means a fast sprinter and to make matters worse his guitar case kept slamming into people’s knees forcing him to halt and make clumsy apologies. It wasn't long before the Scotsman was almost out of his sight. Charlie tried yelling to him - “Wait! Please! How do you know me?!” - but he was so breathless his voice wouldn’t carry.
This is useless, Charlie conceded, gradually slowing his pace. I'm never gonna catch up with this feller. His shoes were leaking now and his jeans were soaked up to his knees. His thick leather jacket was the only thing shielding his body from the merciless downpour. He needed to get out of the chill wind or he was going to make himself ill. If he caught a cold then he wouldn’t be able to sing. If he couldn’t sing then he couldn’t make any money and if he couldn’t make money then he would soon have go crawling back to his parent’s house in Manchester and admit that his plans to find fame and fortune in the country's capital had been a miserable failure.
Charlie came to a reluctant halt beside a small antiques shop and decided to take shelter inside. A little silver bell jangled as he stepped through the door. He shuffled over to the glass cabinets and pretended to be browsing over the pieces of old jewellery. He knew that he wouldn't buy anything. The pitiful collection of notes and coins in his case would only just afford him supper. Besides there was only one ancient ring that Charlie had ever been interested in. And that ring was the birthright of his brother Liam.
“Wipe your feet...” said a voice.
Charlie startled and turned to see an owlish old lady standing behind the far counter. There was a curtained doorway behind her, but he hadn’t heard it rustle. It felt as though the woman had just appeared out of the thin air. Now she stood there bold as brass with a fixed smile on her lips and a sharp glint of disapproval in her eyes.
“I…I’m sorry?” Charlie stammered.
“Clearly you don’t have much money or any intension of making a purchase,” the woman trilled. “If you’re just loitering in my shop to keep out of the rain then you can at least show a little courtesy and not leave a trail of wet footprints over my carpet.” Her smile became tighter and her eyes widened. “So wipe your sodding feet, boy!” she concluded, snappishly.
Charlie quickly retreated to the shop's entrance and placed his squelching trainers on the welcome mat. If it hadn’t been pouring so hard he might have fled the shop. This prim old biddy was giving him the creeps.
“You’re out of breath, I see...” she continued, studying him critically. “You haven't stolen a wallet, have you?" She looked him up and down, grimacing as if he were a bad taste in her mouth. "Yes...you have the look of a pickpocket,” she said decidedly.
“You have the look of a snooty old busybody,” Charlie retorted, crossing his arms. “But I’ll try not to hold it against you.”
The woman laughed, seeming impressed. “Well then...we shall both have to prove there is more to us than appearances suggest.”
Charlie frowned, shook his head and turned back to the window. The raving Scotsman was out in those sprawling wet streets somewhere and he knew something about Charlie. Most likely the two of them would never cross paths again. Maybe their strange encounter didn’t mean anything after all. But for a moment there it had felt like something very important. Charlie at least needed to tell someone about it.
“I was chasing this Scottish bloke...” he began, haltingly. “He said that he knew me. He said something about…how we were on an island together. I thought he was a nutter at first. But then he predicted the rain. This rain! I mean...he said it was gonna start raining and...maybe he did know something about me...something about my future...maybe he…”
The lady raised her hand to silence his confused wittering.
“Yes, of course…” she nodded as if Charlie were recounting a news item that she was already familiar with. “That man just saved your life.”
Charlie blinked and spluttered. “I’m sorry…did you just say that he saved my life?" He shook his head at the absurdity of her suggestion. "Saved my life!" he repeated. "How the bleeding hell did he do that, missus?!”
“By talking to you,” she answered curtly. “If the Scottish man hadn’t spoken to you, then you would have taken shelter in the underground after the rain started. Then you would have caught a tube train back to the crummy little hostel where you are currently lodging. Then several years later you would have been involved in a plane crash and been left stranded on an island with that Scottish man.” She paused and took a breath. “But instead you chased that man down the street and ended up here in my shop. And that has made all the difference, Charlie.”
He flinched, his eyes widening in shock and bewilderment. “How…how do you know my name? Is everybody a bloody psychic today?!”
The woman sighed, apparently finding Charlie’s distress very trifling.
“Let me give you a piece of advice, boy. If you choose to take my advice then you will find your life on a very different path. One with a far better ending I assure you. And yes...this change may turn out to be very important for all of us.”
“Err…okay,” Charlie faltered, submitting to this weirdness. “And your advice is?”
“Don’t take Flight 815,” she instructed; her eyes stern and foreboding.
Charlie grinned stupidly. He glanced to the doorway at the back of the shop, now suspecting that there was a camera crew lurking behind its curtains. Maybe the old woman and the Scottish man were involved in some elaborate prank that was being played on him. Charlie decided he might as well play along with it for the time being. It was one way of getting himself on TV.
“Riiiight,” he said, nodding mechanically. He tapped the side of his head. "I’ll log that one away for future reference then...”
The old lady nodded too, seeming satisfied with his answer.
“Oh, one more thing…” she added, her smile lengthening. “On Christmas Eve in the year 2004 you will receive a phone call from a woman named Penelope Widmore. She will tell you that she has received a distress call from a young man named Charlie Pace who claims that he is stranded on an island following the crash of Flight 815.”
Charlie stared at her in stupefaction. He ran this last statement over a second time in his mind. Nope, it still didn't make any sense.
“But I'm…I’m not going to this island anymore!" he protested, his confusion mounting. "I thought we had just settled this. I’m not gonna take this doomed flight so I sure as hell won’t be crashing on any bloody island!!”
“Ah yes…this is the tricky part,” the woman continued. “You see this little paradox is only occurring after you have been on the island for two months. The Charlie Pace who is on the island can’t simply pop out of existence, though the universe has been making efforts to correct the anomaly. In fact the Charlie Pace on the island will drown shortly after speaking to Penny.”
“Drown?” Charlie felt his blood running cold. Strangely this part of her surreal fortune telling made sense to him. He had been frightened of water ever since he was a child, but he had never been able to figure out where his phobia came from. Maybe it was here.
“Yes, such a pity,” the old woman lamented. “He was a brave lad. He didn’t deserve the cruel fate that he suffered. But it had to be done. The universe can’t have two Charlie Pace’s in existence at one time, can it...”
Charlie winced. “But why…why get rid of him and not me?”
“Because you have destiny too, boy. You must finish what your other self started. After the phone call you will join Penny Widmore’s team. You will be responsible for bringing together a group of survivors who escaped from the island before they were supposed to. You will be the one who leads them back to their paths. And in the end you will get them rescued. You will do this for the young man who sacrificed his life for their rescue. You will do it for the girl and the baby that he left behind. And if you don’t do those things Charlie Hieronymous Pace every single living person on that island will be killed."
Charlie could feel a pulse throbbing in his ears. His jaw opened to question her further, but he found that his voice had dried up. The woman behind the counter smiled serenely and gestured for him to leave her shop. Charlie turned to stare blankly through the glass window. It was no longer raining outside. The sun was peeping through the clouds.
“Wait!” Charlie managed to choke out. “What...what am I supposed to do now?!”
The old woman raised her hands in a shrug. “Whatever comes next...”
With those words, she slipped behind the curtain.
The End