Blessed are the Forgetful

Synopsis: Daniel Faraday travels back in time and attends a Driveshaft backstage party in order to find Charlie and deliver a message from Desmond. This fic is written in response to the Day 2 prompts from lostsqueeblending the cliche prompt 'Amnesia' with the kink prompt 'Sex in Public Places'. It is also an entry for the New Friends challenge at charliepacefic.

Characters: Daniel Faraday, Charlie, Liam and Desmond.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I do not own Lost.

Warning: Refrences to sex and drug-taking.

Authors note: For pacejunkie. Thanks muchly for your beta reading and for giving me the inspiration for Desmond's message. I hope this fic lived up to your expectations. Thanks also for nudging me into writing Faraday (he is a darling!) Hmn. There seems to be several Charlie/Faraday fics popping up recently - is this a new fandom cult?

Faraday was overwhelmed to finally meet Desmond Hume.

Technically it wasn't their first meeting of course. There was their lengthy discussion in his office at Oxford University and their brief crossing of ways at the helicopter site. But it wasn't until Desmond returned from the Freighter that the fog lifted from Faraday's memory and he recalled exactly what this man meant to him. Desmond was the single most important figure in his life's work; his anchor, his constant. It was all there in his journal and now it was clear in his mind too.

It seemed Desmond had experienced a similar moment of revelation after speaking with his own constant, Penelope. He came to Faraday brimming with excitement and possibilities. He had some incredible idea of how he was going to travel back in time and save his friend Charlie from drowning. It took Faraday several hours to talk Desmond down from his euphoria. He insisted that it wasn't possible for him to change Charlie's path or his death. If he attempted to do so the universe would course correct to prevent a paradox. When he spoke the words 'course correct' Desmond's face fell and Faraday knew he understood this concept of fatalism. But still Desmond attempted to bargain with him. He promised that he wouldn't change too much. He just wanted another chance to save Charlie's life. Faraday continued to discourage him, repeating that it was no longer possible.

Desmond only came to understand the importance of Charlie's fate when the real rescue arrived; the rescue effort that had been launched by a single transmission received by Penny Widmore on December 23rd 2004; a transmission evidencing that there were survivors of Flight 815 marooned on an island and exposing the lies of the Oceanic 6. Yes, Charlie's transmission had saved them all...

It was only then that Desmond relented. After he considered everything that Charlie's sacrifice had achieved he imagined that Charlie himself would not ask for it to be changed. But still Desmond wanted to go back and talk to Charlie. He insisted to Faraday that he wouldn't attempt to change things or meddle with the timeline. He just wanted to speak with him. There was still one last thing that he needed to tell Charlie. Faraday implored Desmond again, saying that even the smallest interaction with Charlie in the past could throw the universe out of line. He convinced Desmond to take a shot of the vaccine that would dull the side effects of his condition when he passed through the barrier. Once Desmond arrived on the rescue boat he submitted to being strapped to a mattress while Penelope sat by his bedside, holding his hand, keeping him anchored...

Faraday however spent the voyage alone in his cabin. He hadn't taken a shot of the vaccine himself and now he was separated from his constant. While he had decided that it would be too problematic for Desmond to visit Charlie in the past, Faraday himself had never met Charlie Pace on the island. That in itself minimised the risk of creating a paradox effect. Faraday deemed that he could go back and talk with Charlie on Desmond's behalf. He felt he owed Desmond that much.

He lay down, he closed his eyes and waited…

Faraday had never really been to a concert before. There were the orchestras and jazz recitals he had occasionally attended with his colleagues from Oxford, but they were always very formal affairs; sitting down, sipping wine and clapping politely. He had never owned many CDs; his music catalogue consisted of a few classic symphonies, a Best of Dolly Parton album and a box set of Greatest Disco Anthems that he sometimes danced to when he was alone. When he arrived back in the past and purchased a ticket to see Driveshaft playing at the Carling Academy, Faraday wasn't quite prepared for the blast of the amplifiers, the overdrive of electric guitars or the roaring fans forming a violent mosh pit before the stage.

Faraday kept to the back of the venue, taking nervous gulps from his bottle of mineral water; a safe distance from the rain of sweat and the jabbing elbows of the crowd. When the band's encore set had drawn to a merciful close, he approached one of the doormen and, after a brief discord, he managed to convince him that he was a journalist working for the New Musical Express wishing to conduct an interview with the band. The bouncer shrugged and casually admitted him to the backstage party.

Faraday thought he might be able to fit in with the alternative rock scene. He still had his long hair and beard. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit with a skinny tie that hung outside his white shirt. He had estimated that this was his third year living in England and he was currently in his late twenties. Faraday should have been fairly inconspicuous at this party, but he often found that even if he looked the part he still managed to feel hopelessly out of place. He was receiving many frowns and raised eyebrows as he shuffled through the crowd of musicians, roadies and groupies. Champagne glasses were being passed around before him. Scents of nicotine and marijuana hung in the smoky haze that filled the room. The music pulsing from the stereo seemed almost as loud as the concert itself. Faraday was already looking forward to returning to the future where his eardrums would be fully recovered…

…but before he travelled through time again he needed to find him. The rockstar. The hero of Flight 815. He needed to find Charlie Pace so that he could pass on the message that Desmond had wanted to tell him.

Faraday didn't have a photograph or any idea what Charlie looked like, but it didn't take him long to find the rockstar. It would be hard to miss him. He was sprawling on a couch in the centre of the room with a gorgeous blonde tucked under each of his tattooed arms. The rockstar was tall and handsome, dressed in tight leather pants and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan 'Music Slut'. His brown hair was spiked up like a gelled crown. With the young women draped over his chest, one of whom was holding his cigarette for him, the other whose hand was sliding over his crotch; it certainly seemed he was the king of this party. It wasn't hard to imagine him as a hero.

"Err…hello there…Mr Pace?"

Faraday offered a timid handshake to the rockstar who squinted up at him in confusion and unmasked annoyance.

"Yeah, who wants to know?" he snorted.

"I'm…I'm Daniel Faraday…a reporter for the New Musical Express…I was hoping for a quick interview if you're not too…"

"Oh, tell him to piss off, Liam!" one of the groupies sneered, giggling into his ear and tonguing at his neck. "You're not seriously gonna spend the party talking to this spazzy little yank, are you?"

Liam smirked and pressed his mouth against hers, smearing her lipstick over her chin. Faraday shifted uncomfortably, waiting for them to surface for air.

"Errr…actually…I was hoping to speak to Charlie Pace. Is he here?"

Liam frowned, then peered over the back of the couch and yelled 'Oi! Baby brother!' in the same tone of voice you might use to call a dog to heel. After calling for Charlie twice Liam gave up and shrugged his shoulders.

"Dunno where he is, mate…" he muttered. Judging by the expression on his face he didn't care to look. Faraday nodded and walked away.

He pressed on through the minefield of discarded shoes, plastic cups and ashtrays that littered the floor. Faraday was trying to keep his eyes turned downwards because, unless he was very much mistaken, people were actually having sex in this room. With a brief glance to his right he had seen a girl, illuminated by the light bulbs of a dressing room mirror, pressed up against the glass, her skirt hitched up around her thighs while a man with a Mohawk thrust between her splayed legs. Faraday shuddered, feeling a little nauseous. Everything felt so hot and unhealthy in here. The tables were smeared with puddles of beer and lines of powder. His sharp eyes noticed little cellophane bags being passed discreetly from hand to hand.

When Faraday dared to raise his head, he spotted a blonde kid sitting huddled on a beanbag in the corner of the room. His flies were unzipped exposing the bright blue Superman boxer shorts that he wore underneath. His dirty blonde hair was ruffled and a large purple love-bite was colouring the left side of his neck. He was clutching a beer bottle in his hand and rocking slightly, his eyes staring into space. Faraday thought he must be a young fan with a backstage pass that had had a little too much to drink. But the boy was the first person that Faraday had stumbled across who wasn't completely intimidating to him. He crouched down by his side.

"Err, excuse me…I'm looking for Charlie Pace…do you know where he…"

"Yeah, that's me," the blonde boy muttered, turning to face him and rubbing his eyes as if he had been woken from a trance.

Faraday blinked in surprise. To say that Charlie Pace wasn't quite what he had been expecting would be an understatement. He guessed that he must be a little older than he looked. He was still only a kid though, nineteen or twenty at the most. He was dressed in the same punk fashion as the other revellers, though he didn't seem quite so comfortable in these clothes as his brother. His face was pale and clammy; shadowy craters of liner and glitter rimming his large dilated eyes. His hands were marked with biro scribbles and his painted fingernails tapped nervously against the neck of his beer bottle. He was the sort of kid that Faraday could imagine his mother describing as 'confused'. Yet this was Charlie Pace; the hero of Flight 815.

"Well then…wow…pleased to meet you. This is amazing!"

Faraday quickly realised that he must be smiling too hard, because Charlie was already leaning away from him and beginning to look a little unsettled. He raised his hands.

"Don't worry…I'm a journalist. I was wondering…"

"You want to do an interview?" Charlie interrupted, his eyes widening. "Yeah, yeah! That's cool. I'll be interviewed. I'm the one who writes all the songs, you know. Only you wouldn't know, cos on the CD sleeve it just says music and lyrics by Driveshaft, even though that's not exactly true. I do all the writing. But that's okay. It's all about the music, right? The album's coming out this summer, so...will you be doing a review? Because there's much better songs on the album than 'You All Everybody'. That was more like a novelty track. It's radio friendly, but it's not really what we're about. I want to be taken seriously, you know…my influences are like Dylan, The Beatles, The Kinks. I'm talking proper music…"

Charlie rattled off these answers in fluid succession, even though Faraday had yet to ask him a single question. It was like he was conducting his own interview and had been planning these answers in his imagination for a long time. Charlie paused for breath, took a swig from his bottle and then grimaced.

"Does this beer taste funny to you, mate?" he asked anxiously.

Faraday really did not wish to find out, but Charlie was pressing the bottle into his hand so he took a tiny experimental sip and then quickly spat it out into a nearby ashtray. It was subtle, but there was a distinctly salty aftertaste lacing the beverage. He imagined it had been spiked with a dissolvable sedative; ketamine or benzodiazepine perhaps. One of those notorious date rape drugs that men slipped into girls drinks at parties so that they can take advantage of them without any resistance. Faraday took a second glance around the room, taking in the glassy eyes and slack faces of the groupies. A few of them looked under-aged. None of them seemed happy.

Faraday turned back to Charlie, who was now fidgeting on the beanbag, his head in his hands and his fingers raking through the greasy strands of his hair.

"I feel really lousy…" he moaned, faintly. "I haven't had that much to drink. I don't really like these parties. It's not what I'm about. I know…I should quit the band. I want to go home. I wanna go back to Manchester. It was supposed to be about the music. Bollocks. I feel dizzy. I'm just tired I guess…"

Faraday swallowed, feeling worried for Charlie, but not really knowing what to do. He placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and looked around the room. The people around them were all busy either snorting something or thrusting against someone. Faraday wondered whether he should fetch his brother, Liam and let him know that Charlie wasn't feeling very well and needed someone to look after him. Then he remembered how Liam was presently occupied with the two groupies on the sofa. He probably wouldn't take too kindly to any interruptions.

Faraday sighed, feeling defeated by this dissolute enviorment. He liked to think of himself as a good person, but the truth was that he was passive. He was timid. He was a weakling. Bad things happened around him all the time, but even if he saw a person being hurt in front of him, he would usually just cringe, bow his head and slink away. Faraday didn't like seeing people being hurt. It upset him very deeply. But he never tried to stop it. He didn't intervene. He just let these things happen because he knew he couldn't make a difference. He just wasn't strong enough.

Charlie was wheezing a little now, his skin growing rapidly paler. His hands were twitching where they clung to his upper arms. The kid was a real mess. But one day this kid will be a hero, Faraday considered.

Well, if Charlie Pace could be a hero surely anyone can.

"Hey listen…" said Faraday, finding his voice and his courage again. "How about we go somewhere quieter? Is there some place quiet we could do the interview?"

Charlie nodded numbly, eyes still clouded and unfocused. His hand dipped down to his jeans and tugged a set of keys from his pocket.

"The van…" Charlie began, his keys slipping through his sweaty fingers to land on the floor. Faraday picked them up for him.

"Here, let me help you…" he said.

Faraday slipped an arm around Charlie's shoulders and raised him to his feet. Charlie wobbled precariously on his legs. Faraday was hoping that he didn't collapse, because however heroic he was feeling right now, he wagered that he wouldn't be able to carry the kid in his twig-thin arms. But Charlie just leaned heavily against his chest as Faraday steered him out of the party. And for all these people knew he could be some random pervert dragging Charlie away to molest him in a dark corner, but neither his band-mates, the bouncers or any of his so-called fans tried to stop him.

They staggered out into the car park and Charlie waved his finger at the dark blue van that was illuminated under the street lamps. Before they reached the vehicle, Charlie tripped and crumpled onto his knees, his arms clamping around his stomach. Faraday took a step back from him, fearing that he was about to throw up. But Charlie just curled himself into a ball on the tarmac, whimpering and moaning. He lifted his head and turned to the stage door, calling for 'Liam' in a thin reedy voice that would never be heard above the din of the party music inside. Faraday stooped down and tried to help him to his feet again, but Charlie scowled at him and shoved his hands away.

"I don't know you!" Charlie snapped at him. "Leave me alone!"

Faraday forced a smile, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture and speaking to him in a soft kindly tone which his caretaker had often used with him when he had become agitated and disorientated. He took his second bottle of mineral water from his bag and urged Charlie to drink and rehydrate. After he had quickly drained two thirds of the water, Charlie pushed out his lower lip, his face creasing up and his eyes straining. For a moment it seemed like he was on the verge of tears. Then just as suddenly Charlie let out a sigh and grudgingly allowed Faraday to help him stand again.

Faraday took the keys and opened the backdoor of the van. Charlie crawled inside through the clutter of equipment, luggage, empty crisp packets and crushed beer cans. There was a battered old mattress on the left side of the vans interior. Charlie threw himself down on this mattress, curling up like a cat and pulling a threadbare blanket around his pale shivery form. He looked like he was ready to fall asleep.

"Err…the interview?" Faraday reminded him.

"Oh yeah, sorry…" said Charlie, raising himself on his elbows.

Faraday took a breath, realising that he now had Charlie's full attention and the quiet privacy that would allow him to deliver his message.

"Okay. Okay…there is something I need to tell you," Faraday began haltingly. "This is going to be hard for you to believe, but I need you to listen very carefully. I…I've become unstuck in time. It is a side effect of exposure to electromagnetism. I have traveled here from an island...an island in the future…"

Faraday felt his nerves failing him. Charlie frowned torpidly and then suddenly he erupted into a fit of giggles. It seemed the fresh air had made him giddy. He shook his head and smirked in dizzy delight.

"So what…are you some sort of alien then?" he asked, teasingly. "Are you like a time lord?! Have you got your tardis parked outside?"

"No, no…" said Faraday, struggling to keep a straight face. "I don't physically travel through time. I don't have a tardis or any sort of time machine. But…what I mean is…I have knowledge of the future. Your future..."

"Oh, I get it! So you're like a psychic?" Charlie suggested, gleefully, like they were playing a guessing game. "Hey mate, if you can see into the future can you tell me if Driveshaft's ever gonna have a platinum record?"

Faraday swallowed, staring into the boy's wide expectant eyes.

"What…what I can tell you, Charlie…" he started hesitantly, wondering how much he should divulge. "Is in the future…you…you're going to save some people. A lot of people. You are going to be considered a hero."

Charlie's grin froze on his mouth. He raised an eyebrow like he was waiting to hear the punch line of a joke. Receiving none, he snorted and rolled his eyes.

"You're having a laugh, aren't you mate?" said Charlie. "We're only at number 16 in the charts, you know!" He shook his head. Then suddenly he frowned, seeming to consider Faraday's words afresh.

"That would be what I aspire to though," said Charlie, his voice now serious and reflective. "Saving people and all that…saving people through my music. That would be the ultimate, you know. My mum…she's very religious. She always reckoned I could save people with my songs if I really tried..."

Faraday winced, realising that Charlie was misunderstanding him. But he supposed he had got the essence of his point across. He remembered being told that the Looking Glass transmitter had been decoded with the notes from a Beach Boys tune; a code that had required a musician to input it. So in a way they had been saved by Charlie's music.

"You…you will save people," Faraday repeated to him. "I promise you. I know because I'm from the future and I've seen it happen. I came here with a message for you, Charlie…a message from Desmond…"

Charlie squinted. "Desmond? Is he a fan or something?"

"He's…yeah, I guess that he's a fan of yours…" Faraday smiled, falling in with this metaphor. "He's a really big fan actually..."

Charlie's face broke into a delighted smile. He sat upright on the mattress and began rummaging through a cardboard box that was propped up behind him.

"Hey, you know, we've got some autographed CDs back here. You can have one for your mate if you like." Charlie pulled a disc from the box and glanced down at its cover. "Oh bollocks…looks like I'm the only one who has actually signed these…" He exhaled and took a marker pen from his pocket. "Don't worry, I can forge Liam's signature pretty good. Your friend Raymond will never know the difference. There! That's a freebie. Gotta give something back to the people, haven't ya?"

Charlie grinned happily as he handed him the signed CD of his band's latest single. Faraday was struck with a sudden inspiration.

"Well…is there anything you would like to say to the people?" he suggested. "The people whose lives you are going to save?"

Charlie frowned again. "You mean…the fans?"

Faraday nodded, finding this to be the simplest explanation.

"Well, err…" Charlie seemed to draw blank for a moment and then he snapped his fingers. "They should know that the album is coming out this August so tell them to pick up a copy and listen to it, because…like I said, there are better songs on it than 'You All Everybody'. Songs I'm really proud of..."

Faraday nodded respectfully. He was sure the survivors would be willing to purchase a Driveshaft album in Charlie's honour when they returned to home soil. It seemed like such a token gesture, but clearly his music was very important to him.

"Okay, I'll tell them," Faraday assured him. "Is…is there anything else? A personal message maybe? A message for the fans… "

Charlie lay back on the mattress, draping one of his arms over his forehead and gazing up at the deep blue ceiling of the van.

"Err…I love you all?!" Charlie proclaimed elaborately and then began to snigger. "That's such a cliché when rockstars say that line, isn't it?" He yawned, letting his eyelids flutter closed. "But I really do mean it, you know…love you all…"

Charlie's head drooped to the side and his breathing grew heavier. Faraday realised that he had drifted off to sleep mid-sentence. He reached out and shook him by the shoulder, but Charlie could not be woken. Faraday tensed with concern. He had heard terrible stories of people who had their drinks spiked at parties falling into comas or suffering with brain damage due to the uncontrolled dose of sedatives. He wondered if he should telephone for an ambulance...

Then Faraday realised that his worry was unnecessary. Charlie was in no real danger tonight. The universe had already settled on the time and the circumstances of this death and there was nothing that could change that fate now. Faraday imagined the course correction was at work right now, protecting the timeline from further paradoxes. That was probably why he had only been allowed to travel back to a night when Charlie was drugged up to the eyeballs and unlikely to remember their meeting when he woke the next morning. The universe wouldn't let Charlie know about his destiny until the time was right. He wasn't ready to know anything yet. He was just a kid.

Faraday tucked the blanket closely around Charlie's shoulders so he wouldn't wake up with a chill at least. His heart was sinking deeper into his chest as he realised that he had completely failed to deliver Desmond's message. Somehow he had missed his chance. Charlie had been speaking too fast while he had spoken too slowly and hesitantly. Faraday sighed, wishing that there was something he could do to compensate.

Then suddenly he noticed the marker pen that had fallen from Charlie's hand. The sharpie was currently staining the mattress with the black ink of its felt tip. Faraday remembered how Desmond had told him that Charlie's final act of heroism had been to write the message 'Not Penny's Boat' on his hand; a warning to his friends.

Feeling inspired once more, Faraday picked up the marker pen, rose onto his knees and peeled Charlie's fingers away from his palm. Then on the soft skin of Charlie's hand Faraday wrote the message…he wrote the one thing that Desmond and the survivors of 815 had wanted to say to Charlie, but could not...

Thank You

After they were rescued, Faraday moved back to England.

He visited Desmond regularly, almost once a week in fact. Every time that he felt his memory slipping he would call up his friend and ask if he might stop by for an hour or more. It was like recharging a battery. Desmond didn't mind his intrusions. Theirs was a relationship of necessity, but since they shared the same condition, Desmond could understand and sympathise with Faraday's need to connect with his constant. And as Desmond often told him he had gained more than one true friend from these fateful bonds the universe had thrust on him.

As Faraday sat in Desmond and Penny's living room he couldn't help thinking that the Driveshaft CDs looked very strange on the shelf between his records of Mozart and Bach. He knew that Desmond kept them there in pride of place and listened to them often. He told Faraday that he liked the youthful naivety and the earnestness of the songs on the debut album. He believed that their music might have matured into something very strong and special if only it had been given the chance.

Desmond didn't have many memories of Charlie these days. He confessed that sometimes it felt rather like he had imagined him; the doomed young man who had appeared and expired in so many frightful visions. Desmond's real memories were clouded and confused. The night that he told Charlie about his fate had been erased by the hangover of their whisky binge. His and Charlie's shared ordeal in the Looking Glass station had been eclipsed by the effects of a concussion he suffered with after being struck with a paddle. And, of course, there was the list of Charlie's own memories that, like the man himself, had been lost to the depths to the ocean.

There were only little snatches of Charlie that remained to Desmond now. He could remember Charlie asking him for help during the hatch crisis. He remembered Charlie bickering with Hurley over which superhero was faster. He certainly remembered showing Charlie his picture of Penny and Charlie talking to Penny via the screen in the communications room. Desmond remembered everything clearer when Penny was there.

Faraday dearly wished he could remember his own meeting with Charlie. But Charlie Pace was the ultimate variable for both of them. He was random and chaotic. They couldn't anchor their memories of this man who had lived and died in so many kaleidoscopic ways. Every time that Faraday tried to recall his visit to Charlie in the past the picture would spin, fizzle and then fade. Sometimes he was tempted to invent things so that he didn't have to disappoint Desmond. But he couldn't have lied to him if he tried. They both knew their memories might as well have been piles of dust that the universe was slowly sweeping under its vast carpet to keep the timeline tidy.

No, no…there was nothing. Only mist and fragments now. There was no clear picture of Charlie anymore. But Faraday found it strange that every time Desmond played his Driveshaft CDs, they both began to cry.


The End