Isochronism
Title: Isochronism
Characters: Charlotte, Daniel, Naomi
Rating: PG
Summary: "Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." -- Albert Einstein. AU, I guess. Daniel has always been a champion of lost causes.
Spoiler Warning: Up to 5x12, to be safe; minor speculation until 5x14.
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
A/N: Winner of 'Best Het Fic' at lost_fic_awards for April 2009.
----
It's without much pomp or grace that Charlotte Staples Lewis is deposited in front of the Kahana early one Saturday morning, sun already blistering. It's mid-December but feels like the bloody peak of summer in the Fijian town, the heat of the bustling crowds pressing down on her. She sends her cabbie off with a handful of rumpled bills and a word of thanks, then weaves through the hoards of people with two heavy, canvas duffel bags in tow.
At the edge of the dock she spots a woman with a clipboard -- must be Naomi Dorrit, Charlotte considers, the one Mr. Abaddon mentioned -- who waves her forward, past a dark-haired man kneeling over his luggage. "Name?"
Charlotte heaves one bag higher onto her shoulder, stepping up to the table. "Charlotte Lewis," she says, taking measure of the towering, rusted freighter. Home sweet home, apparently.
"Okay, here we are." Naomi scans her list, crosses off Charlotte's name. "You can head --"
She's interrupted by the man, now risen from tending to his bag and clutching a leather-bound journal in one hand. He's tall-ish, reedy, definitely not sea-faring. Maybe another one of the team, Charlotte thinks, though who the hell wears a necktie on a long-haul sea voyage?
"Sorry -- Naomi? I need ... just need to speak with, uh, Ms. Lewis, for a moment."
Naomi's skeptical, but a growing crowd around the check-in table convinces her otherwise. "Fine -- whatever. But we leave port at 09h00."
"Thank you," he replies with a weird little half-bow. "Thanks."
The man turns back to Charlotte, her bafflement growing, and guides her away from the dock and across the street, towards the busy market tableau. They stop next to a fish stall, throngs of vendors and customers pushing past them.
Hands planted on her hips, Charlotte feels her patience wearing thin. "What exactly do you think --"
With a sudden, rough gesture he grabs her shoulder, fingers sinking into her flesh.
"Don't get on that boat."
Charlotte's too shocked by his words to struggle. A strangled "what?" is all she can manage.
"I know Charles Widmore hired you." The man's eyes are blazing. "But you can't get on the freighter."
"I bloody well am," she retorts, furious, regaining her senses and squirming out of his grasp. "And who the hell are you anyway?"
Sighing, he pulls back and rakes a hand through his shaggy brown hair, rabid determination giving way to nerves and uncertainty. "It doesn't matter." His frantic gestures echo his words, trying to drive the point home. "What matters is that you won't be safe on the boat -- it's dangerous."
Charlotte tries to catch Naomi's gaze across the crowded street, looking for backup. This bloke -- he's not all here, she thinks, panic rising. Not right in the head. Seeing her team leader busy loading crates, she moves to a different approach and narrows her eyes at the still-nameless man.
"Are you threatening me?"
"What?" He seems genuinely startled, even hurt. "No, no -- of course not! I'm here to help you. You've gotta believe me, Charlotte."
He grasps her shoulder again, but this time his touch is almost tender.
"I'm not ... I don't want to scare you," he says evenly, drawing in a deep breath. "I just -- I have some information, and I know that if you get on the freighter, your life could be in danger."
The plea is in his eyes, dark brown and boring right through her. "Please, Charlotte."
She pauses for a moment, feeling torn between her earlier annoyance and that familiar itch of professional curiousity. "You still haven't told me your name, and I don't believe we've met before."
He sort of half-smiles, hand trailing down her arm. "No, no, we haven't. I'm Daniel. Dan."
"Well, Dan, can you tell me how you know who I am? And why you're so convinced the freighter's unsafe?"
"Yes, yes I can." He's suddenly delighted, relieved, seizing the opportunity. "I can tell you -- well, almost everything. Everything I know."
Charlotte sighs, knowing she's caught, but unsure whether it's his puppy-dog eyes or the tantalizing mystery dangling right in front of her that changed her mind.
"Now I'm not promising anything -- this trip's important, very important, to me -- but we've got an hour before the freighter heads out ... and I'm willing to listen. I'll go leave my bags with Naomi, and then we can talk, yeah?"
He's grinning at her, journal still curled in one fist. "Okay, great -- great. I'll, uh, be here."
"Okay." Charlotte shifts her bags and turns back towards the freighter. She can't help but shoot him one more smile as she leaves, secretly pleased at the way his face brightens. (What a weirdo -- cute weirdo, though.) "Be right back."
Daniel is so preoccupied his victory (she's going to be fine, he thinks; I can show her the answers -- I can convince her) that at first he doesn't notice the screeching of the taxi's tires, the dull thud of impact. The screams and shouts (English and Fijian mingling together -- "Jesus Christ!" "She's hit! She was hit!" "Someone get a doctor --") reach his ears, though, and he looks up to see Charlotte crumpled on the ground, red gushing everywhere.
No.
Nonononononono.
He races into the street, the leather-bound book in his hand forgotten. The journal flutters to the ground, pages retaining its secrets, including one scrawled, desperate note --
Charlotte Staples Lewis -- you'll love her. Don't let her get on the boat.
Characters: Charlotte, Daniel, Naomi
Rating: PG
Summary: "Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." -- Albert Einstein. AU, I guess. Daniel has always been a champion of lost causes.
Spoiler Warning: Up to 5x12, to be safe; minor speculation until 5x14.
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
A/N: Winner of 'Best Het Fic' at lost_fic_awards for April 2009.
----
It's without much pomp or grace that Charlotte Staples Lewis is deposited in front of the Kahana early one Saturday morning, sun already blistering. It's mid-December but feels like the bloody peak of summer in the Fijian town, the heat of the bustling crowds pressing down on her. She sends her cabbie off with a handful of rumpled bills and a word of thanks, then weaves through the hoards of people with two heavy, canvas duffel bags in tow.
At the edge of the dock she spots a woman with a clipboard -- must be Naomi Dorrit, Charlotte considers, the one Mr. Abaddon mentioned -- who waves her forward, past a dark-haired man kneeling over his luggage. "Name?"
Charlotte heaves one bag higher onto her shoulder, stepping up to the table. "Charlotte Lewis," she says, taking measure of the towering, rusted freighter. Home sweet home, apparently.
"Okay, here we are." Naomi scans her list, crosses off Charlotte's name. "You can head --"
She's interrupted by the man, now risen from tending to his bag and clutching a leather-bound journal in one hand. He's tall-ish, reedy, definitely not sea-faring. Maybe another one of the team, Charlotte thinks, though who the hell wears a necktie on a long-haul sea voyage?
"Sorry -- Naomi? I need ... just need to speak with, uh, Ms. Lewis, for a moment."
Naomi's skeptical, but a growing crowd around the check-in table convinces her otherwise. "Fine -- whatever. But we leave port at 09h00."
"Thank you," he replies with a weird little half-bow. "Thanks."
The man turns back to Charlotte, her bafflement growing, and guides her away from the dock and across the street, towards the busy market tableau. They stop next to a fish stall, throngs of vendors and customers pushing past them.
Hands planted on her hips, Charlotte feels her patience wearing thin. "What exactly do you think --"
With a sudden, rough gesture he grabs her shoulder, fingers sinking into her flesh.
"Don't get on that boat."
Charlotte's too shocked by his words to struggle. A strangled "what?" is all she can manage.
"I know Charles Widmore hired you." The man's eyes are blazing. "But you can't get on the freighter."
"I bloody well am," she retorts, furious, regaining her senses and squirming out of his grasp. "And who the hell are you anyway?"
Sighing, he pulls back and rakes a hand through his shaggy brown hair, rabid determination giving way to nerves and uncertainty. "It doesn't matter." His frantic gestures echo his words, trying to drive the point home. "What matters is that you won't be safe on the boat -- it's dangerous."
Charlotte tries to catch Naomi's gaze across the crowded street, looking for backup. This bloke -- he's not all here, she thinks, panic rising. Not right in the head. Seeing her team leader busy loading crates, she moves to a different approach and narrows her eyes at the still-nameless man.
"Are you threatening me?"
"What?" He seems genuinely startled, even hurt. "No, no -- of course not! I'm here to help you. You've gotta believe me, Charlotte."
He grasps her shoulder again, but this time his touch is almost tender.
"I'm not ... I don't want to scare you," he says evenly, drawing in a deep breath. "I just -- I have some information, and I know that if you get on the freighter, your life could be in danger."
The plea is in his eyes, dark brown and boring right through her. "Please, Charlotte."
She pauses for a moment, feeling torn between her earlier annoyance and that familiar itch of professional curiousity. "You still haven't told me your name, and I don't believe we've met before."
He sort of half-smiles, hand trailing down her arm. "No, no, we haven't. I'm Daniel. Dan."
"Well, Dan, can you tell me how you know who I am? And why you're so convinced the freighter's unsafe?"
"Yes, yes I can." He's suddenly delighted, relieved, seizing the opportunity. "I can tell you -- well, almost everything. Everything I know."
Charlotte sighs, knowing she's caught, but unsure whether it's his puppy-dog eyes or the tantalizing mystery dangling right in front of her that changed her mind.
"Now I'm not promising anything -- this trip's important, very important, to me -- but we've got an hour before the freighter heads out ... and I'm willing to listen. I'll go leave my bags with Naomi, and then we can talk, yeah?"
He's grinning at her, journal still curled in one fist. "Okay, great -- great. I'll, uh, be here."
"Okay." Charlotte shifts her bags and turns back towards the freighter. She can't help but shoot him one more smile as she leaves, secretly pleased at the way his face brightens. (What a weirdo -- cute weirdo, though.) "Be right back."
Daniel is so preoccupied his victory (she's going to be fine, he thinks; I can show her the answers -- I can convince her) that at first he doesn't notice the screeching of the taxi's tires, the dull thud of impact. The screams and shouts (English and Fijian mingling together -- "Jesus Christ!" "She's hit! She was hit!" "Someone get a doctor --") reach his ears, though, and he looks up to see Charlotte crumpled on the ground, red gushing everywhere.
No.
Nonononononono.
He races into the street, the leather-bound book in his hand forgotten. The journal flutters to the ground, pages retaining its secrets, including one scrawled, desperate note --
Charlotte Staples Lewis -- you'll love her. Don't let her get on the boat.