Title: A world of white
Pairings or Characters: Daniel/Charlotte; Eloise, Charles, Richard
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It doesn't snow for another five days. Then Daniel shows up on her doorstep. AU; no Purge, no bomb, no Flight 815, just two people moving in and out of each other's lives.
Warnings: None; spoilers up 5x14 at least.
Author's Notes: Charlotte's birthday is kept to the original date of 1979, and if there are any logistics that seem out of place, call it artistic license. ;D
London, 2004
December 3rd
It's too green.
That's what Charlotte thinks, staring out across the sad little portion of lawn that came with her garden flat when she bought it the year before, feeling the warmth sink through her fingers, wrapped around a cup of tea, and watching out her kitchen window at the grass, damp with melted snow. She never grew up with it, snow at Christmas - only the few holidays her mother took her to visit her aunts and cousins up north, and then not again until she left for uni at Oxford - and maybe that's why she looks forward to it, almost childishly, every year. But it's the first week of December and the weather's been so warm and the snow so light that everyone on the telly's calling for a green Christmas, and though she misses home and her parents most of the time (her sisters defected to England as soon as they turned 18, too; one's finishing up a medical degree at Cambridge, the other already married off to some rich lawyer type Charlotte hates, both more practical than anthropology, her parents cluck) not having the snow there in London makes her morehomesick, as strange as it is. Reminds her there might not be anywhere other than the place she was born (not really born but raised; whatever) where she really feels she belongs.
It doesn't snow for another two days. Then Daniel shows up on her doorstep.
Her mother always jokes that Charlotte doesn't have a romantic bone in her body (they were always too much alike; scientists, realists, practical, no time for anything that didn't produce tangible results, quantifiable effects).
And she doesn't - doesn't have time for it, doesn't care for it. She's had boyfriends, sure, even men she's been serious with, been in love with (never enough that she'd settled more than half a year anywhere or stuck around London past more than two seasons without leaving for a dig or excavation, but still).
But still, there'd been Daniel.
Thinking back, she feels like it's the history that's maybe made it more than it was - they'd been young when they'd first met (10 years old and she'd wandered out into the jungle herself, furious with her mummy for stealing away the chocolate she'd gotten from the cafeteria, that she'd so carefully hidden under her pillow and saved until after school; he'd been 12 and had followed a rabbit from his camp, gotten turned around in the trees) and that it'd always been so secret (her parents had figured out by her 14th birthday there was a boy, assumed it was some classmate and watched her curfew even more carefully) and that she'd left, had only seen each other – briefly – during one trip home, a few letters exchanged, since.
It could be, more than that, the fact she'd shared first everythings with him, so close in age; he'd even said I love you first, said it again the night before she'd left (not a romantic, her, but with him it was like every part was exposed, open to the world) and she'd shook her head, what's the point?, buried her face deeper into the collar of his flannel shirt instead. She was leaving and he was staying and that was the end of that (well, minus that two weeks she'd gone back after uni had let out – not like getting there was ever an easy trip, and the Initiative was only willing to foot the sub bill for her parents so often, and he'd stayed after that too, made the decision for her).
And thinking back, it's silly now – foolish daydreams of a marooned teenager, believing they'd ever manage (between their families and his responsibilities and how desperate she'd been to leave, even if she misses it now) – and nice for a good bit of nostalgia when she's complaining to her friends about how dating in London is the worst, or for brooding over her tea when it's a quiet day and she's feeling a little lonely, but that's it, that's all.
(It could have been that she'd loved him just as much.)
That's all, and mostly she's just shocked when the bell chimes right after dinner – she's up to her elbows in soapy water, halfway between annoyed and curious as she wipes off her hands and heads to the door – and it's Daniel, shivering even though he's in a winter jacket and with the same canvas messenger bag crossed against his chest, same dark, shaggy hair, a thousand different things spilling out through those big eyes, the wavering expression.
"Charlotte, hi."
Her first instinct's to slam the door shut, too overwhelmed to process any of it, and the second's to tackle him into a hug; she settles on grabbing him by the sleeve of his jacket, yanking him inside with you must be freezingafter a too-long pause. He looks even stranger standing in her front entrance, but mostly she notices his hands, his neck, where the skin's red and raw from the cold.
"You don't have gloves? Or a scarf?" She feels bloody ridiculous, standing in her hallway in the sweatpants she always trades for work clothes, interrogating Daniel like she's his mother. Maybe not any more ridiculous than the fact he's there at all, though.
He smiles, gentle, says forgot how cold it gets hereand she almost laughs, because hereis practically anywhere in the world for him, and that's ridiculous too, takes one of his hands between hers instead, not really thinking but only wanting to see if she can take some of the chill away and maybe, hell, to make sure he's actually real.
"Daniel," she starts; wants to start, clears her throat and tries again. "Dan, what are you doing here? When did you get to London, and how did you - I mean, you didn't even write to say you were coming."
She realizes she's still holding his hand, pulls away under the pretence of offering to take his coat.
"I know." He slips his bag off his shoulders, doesn't break his gaze. "I'm sorry."
"Where's the rest of your things?" A fair question, a safe question; she almost feels proud for not giving way to the million other things she wants to ask, likehow did you get here and how long will you stayandwhat, exactly, does it mean?
Daniel blushes, and for a second looks exactly like that little boy in the jungle, too small for all the trees. "They're in the car," he gestures, vaguely, outside. "I, um, I came here, right from the airport."
Oh, well good, Charlotte says as she picks up his abandoned bag, gestures for his jacket with the other, still marvelling at her own sense of calm, you can stay here then. It only takes a second before he's stumbling through a polite refusal, mentioning something about hotel reservations; he fishes a battered-looking envelope she recognizes as one of her own, her address scrawled in the top corner, out of his pocket, saying that he just wanted to see her first –
She feels her chest tighten at the last part, ignores it and shakes her head; don't be foolish, she mutters,I've got a spare room and how often are you in London, anyway?
"I'm here on business, for my father," is his reply, like it's some kind of answer to a question she didn't ask, looks more apologetic than anything until she rolls her eyes, steps closer and lifts one hand to his cheek, stilling him even as his eyes grow wider (she remembers this part, how to slow his racing mind).
"Daniel, I'd like you to stay."
He blinks at her, smiles; she can feel the crease of it under his palm - okay.
"Okay." Her own grin's even in return, matches, finally gets the jacket peeled away from his shoulders, shuffles everything into the closet. "Now let's finally get out of my hallway, shall we?"
Charlotte slips her hand into his again as they make their way towards the kitchen, without really meaning to, just for a second, his grip loose, familiar, weaved through hers; familiar like a thousand things she can't be close to, that she feels like she might finally have a piece of again.
She dreams that night, for the first time in weeks – dreams of that first time she'd stumbled into Daniel between the trees, where he'd been rubbing tears from his eyes.
I'm lost, he'd whispered, I don't – I can't find my way back home.
You're lost? she'd questioned, still twisting around roots, the hem of her dress fisted into her hand. That's silly. I'm 10 years old and I don't get lost. She'd watched him for a second, feeling more curiousity than pity, thinking he was too skinny and too pale to be living in the jungle – and he must have been one of those, one of the bad people her parents whispered about that lived just beyond their fence, though he doesn't look bad at all – that was so full of so many interesting, wonderful things.
How old are you? she asked.
I'm 12, he'd sniffed, and she'd rolled her eyes, grabbed his hand in one quick movement – c'mon - steered him back towards where the leaves and grass had been creased underfoot (her mummy and daddy had taught her how to mark the trees, find things to remember which way you'd come, figure out footsteps), followed the path until smoke had started to scent the air and think I'm home, he'd whispered, his gaze darting between her and the tops of the tents she could spot.
Thank you ..., he started, humble, words drifting away as he looked up, waiting for her name.
Charlotte, she'd answered primly, taken his hand like she'd watched all the grown-ups do when they were trading names, and Daniel, he'd replied, shyer than before. Then, brow creased with thoughtful concern –do you know the way back? Of course, she'd snorted, the silliest question in the universe, and he'd acquiesced, smile wan. She was already started back towards the path, hands swinging by her sides, brushing against the folds of her dress when he spoke next.
I hope I see you again, Charlotte. There weren't any tears or questions or pauses, then.
She hadn't answered, just turned and smiled – already late, already thinking about what excuses mummy and daddy would believe, why she'd been gone so gone – figured it was enough (I hope so too) before she'd slipped back between the trees.
Even then, she hopes.
The wind's rattling at her window when she wakes up, takes in the fuzzy, familiar shapes in her room; isn't sure if it's the wind or something else that brought her from sleep but Daniel is the next thought, and after she slips down to the kitchen for some water she pauses by the spare room, glass still in hand, not sure exactly what she's looking for, what excuse she'd use. The door's cracked open and Charlotte glances in through the slot of darkness, expects to see the shape of him curled in bed. But he's not there – the blankets are still perfect, patted down – and the panic that grips her is almost surprising, that he's practically still a spectre in this existence (just doesn't make sense without the jungle full and green behind him, without the shore silhouetting his figure) but she feels that lack, that empty spot, so much.
Charlotte doesn't even bother changing out of her pyjamas, just throws on a jacket and boots and opens the front door against a snow that's suddenly blowing hard, snowflakes swirling around her ankles. It takes a decent 10 minutes but she manages to find the indents of his footsteps, crescent moons left by the heels of his boots (even growing up in the wilderness and still half the time he'd never thought to cover his tracks), follows the path down her street and to the park, just a small patch of green surrounded by houses, at the end of her block.
He's the only thing she sees, against a grey-scoured sky and empty space, head tilted back and hands dropped to his side, snow batting down against the grass.
Daniel - she doesn't mean to shout his name but it comes out loud, and his gaze swings around, open-mouthed, and she's by his side a few seconds later, partly charmed, mostly infuriated; this – Daniel, too romantic and flighty and captured by the smallest things in the world – she knows. What are you doing out here?
"Oh. Charlotte." He doesn't turn again, just throws the words over his shoulder, still transfixed on the sky, sounds pleased to see her and not at all bothered, not like there's anything even slightly crazy about being out in the middle of a storm half-dressed and convening with the weather gods like an absolutenutter(she doesn't care enough about her neighbours to worry if they've noticed, instead remembers the way he used to get caught up in how the trees shifted or the angle of the light or shadows stretching across one of the valleys during their afternoons together); the snow, coming faster and harder, making it look neutral, like negative space. "I'm sorry. It's been, uh, I think it's been a long time since I've seen ... this."
There's a well-worn sigh ready on her lips – Dan, she'll scold, like she always does, ready to steer him back to reality – but then she looks up at him again, at the smile that's almost rapturous and the snowflakes threading in his hair, and she can't, just can't, take the moment away from him. Charlotte, he says again, in a way that settles her thoughts, clears away the rest of it, matches her gaze to meet his up towards the sky (it's beautiful, she realizes, like it's some kind of revelation), and when her arms draw around his waist – cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, against the wool of his sweater – all she sees, all she feels is the snow.
The island, 1989
The next time she sees him it's just along the borders of the barracks, a few months later. That dark-haired man – Richard; she'd heard his name whispered by the adults before, almost in awe, seen him meet with Dr. Chang and Dr. Goodspeed and all the other very important people who worked with mummy and daddy – is there, just outside the fence pacing (with an angry look like sometimes daddy would wear when he came home from work or when him and mummy would talk at each other in loud voices), along with a blonde woman. She's not supposed to be out at the playground after dark but her parents are still busy cleaning up after dinner and she manages to slip out the kitchen door while they're doing dishes, the swing creaking under her weight as she pushes into the dirt and watches her feet against a purple-blue sky.
She's never seen them so close up (most of the other adults are all meeting in the rec centre and everyone else at home; it feels like she's the only spectator to whatever's going on), and she watches as Dr. Goodspeed emerges from a crop of buildings and stalks into the treeline, exchanging a tentative shake with the blonde woman, another with Richard. They disappear into the shadows and Charlotte leaps off the swing, figures it's as good a time as any to sneak her way over to the fence (Dr. Goodspeed's kept it off, at least for a few minutes), follows along until she sees a group of silhouettes gathered beside some bushes and she's two more steps into some tall grass to hide – barely close enough to overhear the rumble of voices – before there's something hard and painful around her arm and she's being jerked up from the ground.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
The voice is gruff, angry, and all she gets is the impression of smells (dirt and smoke and meat and sweat, kind of like her daddy but less clean), of long hair and a beard, grime-covered clothing; the arm around her wrist is big and weathered.
She has enough time to be terrified before there's a second voice - don't- and she thinks she knows that one, lifts her eyes up (and there are no tears, she's not crying, even though her knees starting to bleed and sting, she's not a little baby) and it's Daniel, that boy from the jungle, standing so tall and straight for a second she doesn't recognize him at all. And he doesn't say another word, just watches the man still clinging to her arm (it hurts, the way his fingers, his nails, dig in, and his smile's so mean and big it looks like it might split his face); that Richard man appears in her line of sight and speaks up - she's an intruder; she's broken the truce - and Daniel only moves to tilt his head, tell him no, she isn't, in the same calm, slow voice. The man beside her's getting restless, she can tell, but finally Richard breaks his gaze with Daniel, waves in her direction; let her go.
The pretty blonde lady comes back then - Charlotte feels a minor thrill when she speaks just like her and her parents; England, her mummy had called it, even though she doesn't remember being there as a baby, like some big, magical place where anything could happen - and she's quiet too, watching Daniel and Richard and the man, frown pursing her lips. Let her go, she echoes, and the man releases Charlotte's arm with a huff, sneers as he pulls away.
She doesn't like the way the woman who talks like her mummy is looking at her; mad and sad and the same kind of stare her parents give her if they're upset with her when she disappears into the jungle and lies saying she was at the beach, oh Charlotte, go to your room and think about the worry you've caused. Then Daniel's hands are on her shoulders – you need to go home, he tells her, not even stern but like he's trying to say something between every word, and good thing because he's not the boss of her, but suddenly she gets that this isn't another game or fun or her just being naughty.
There's another look exchanged between him and the woman, and Daniel steers Charlotte back to the fence while the blonde lady scowls; Charlotte scowls back until her attention's drawn again to Daniel, who's whispering we can't break the truce, we'll get in troublebefore he guides her the last few steps, turns to leave and she scrambles back across before Dr. Goodspeed returns, watches Daniel's retreating form for a few seconds more.
Just to show him – she steals the code for the fence a few months later, figures out the security camera's blind spots just after her 11th birthday (there's so much about the place she doesn't know; he does, and she's not going to let that go) and by the time she's sneaking out every other week she has a new friend.
In the morning Charlotte decides to skip the burnt toast and rubbery eggs (she's still better at cooking in cast iron over a campfire than she'll ever be in a kitchen) and takes Daniel out for a proper English breakfast at the pub just around the corner. She knows he's only left the island a half a dozen times; he still seems on the edges of social engagement, watching too long and too quiet when they pass through the crowds bustling around her neighbourhood market, when the waitress comes to take their order, still the gentle intensity but none of the calm leadership she'd seen back home in the way he'd played off his parents – and christ, Eloise and Charles were the furthest thing from soft – and taken control of his people, the jungle, even as a boy. She'd called him heir to the island once as a joke, and he'd gotten quiet, face still and dark in a way she knew to take seriously, told her that's not how it works, Char, our leaders aren't chosen by birth; please, she'd countered, finger pointed his way, you can't tell me Richard, your parents, aren't grooming to take charge, to impress that Jacob bloke. (He hadn't had a reply for that.)
Even still, Daniel explains he'd had a head enough for numbers (always, always better than her at maths growing up, music too, though social sciences had stumped him) that his father had wanted him to get a handle on the family's investments, how they did their business, made him a vice-president of research and development solely on his name; it's not bad, so far, he says, the research's fascinating, especially in such a primary stage. Could do without the parties, though.
"So how long will you be here for?" The sugar packet feels thick between her fingers; she rips at a corner, stirs it into her mug.
"Oh, uh, only a couple weeks." He shrugs, a wry smile blooming. "My mother doesn't feel the same about ... the necessity of me leaving the island."
"Well, no surprise there." Charlotte takes a sip - strong, too strong - and tries not to make a face. "So, what - meetings?"
"Guess so."
"You sound so pleased."
Daniel looks weary, all of a sudden, leans forward and drums his fingers against the tabletop, pauses just as quick like his body's finally managed to catch up with his brain. "What're you doing here, Charlotte?"
"Here?" She glances around the pub with exaggeration, dim lights warming against dark wood panels and bits of tinsel strung along the wall, only a few other diners for breakfast. "Having a crap cup of coffee and waiting for my food, which is taking a bloody long time now that you mention it."
"I mean … so far away from home." The words catch on his hesitation, but his expression's firm; not pushing, never pushing, but asking for the truth.
It surprises her, the hot, coiling anger that seems to catch in her chest in the moments after his words, like who does he think he is to appear out of nowhere and start judging her choices, the island's golden boy and she's the crazy one for wanting to prove she could exist outside of it, make a life that wasn't just theirs, Dharma's or Jacob's or whoever else controlled that tiny universe of green; "there's more to the world than the island, Dan," she snaps, tries to ignore the wounded look painted across his features, the hurt and surprise there.
"You never even asked if I had a boyfriend, or a husband. Hell, a girlfriend." She's fully aware her voice's rising, in octave and pitch too, that the waitress is starting to watch from behind the bar but she couldn't give less of a damn; she's furious, all of a sudden. "So what, you figured you'd just show up at my door and we'd get on like always and that would be that? I'm not your bloody guest house in the real world."
Throwing a fistful of bills on the table and storming out would be the immature thing to do, Charlotte knows.
She does it anyway.
When she's gotten back to the house and had a proper pout – and christ, she feels stupid but also like she's 16 again and totally adrift in a million feeling she can't understand – she puts on some water for tea, curls up into her favourite section of the couch with the reading she needs to finish for work. Daniel shows up a half-hour later with a bouquet of flowers already wilting from the cold under one arm and a tiny toy polar bear, a big red bow drooping around its neck, under the other.
"I just wanted to tell you, I just thought -" He sighs, the flowers and the bear held out in front of him like some kind of offering. "I'm sorry. It's not - it's none of my business asking you that. And I'm glad, I mean, I'd like to stay, if that's, um, if that's okay with you."
Charlotte accepts both, settles the bouquet on the side table and the bear in her lap, its chubby, plush paws splayed out against her notes on ancient Carthage. "Apology accepted. And I meant what I said, but I didn't have to be a right bitch about it." She tugs at the bow, perking up the ribbon. "So I'm sorry for that."
He joins her on the couch after that, looking relieved – she is too, that he didn't run off to the posh hotel he should be taking advantage of instead of being cooped up in her tiny flat – and eventually the notes and the books get shuffled aside for some sickeningly sweet holiday movie on the telly, and after that somehow Dan's feet get tucked in behind hers and by the time most of the daylight's gone and the television's starting to flicker shadows across the ceiling, everything in a wash of blue, she's resting her head on a pillow tilted against his thigh (definitelylike she's 16 again), not minding at all the feeling of his hand threaded through her hair.
December, 1993
It's the lights that get his attention – strung from the living room windows of each of the little yellow houses, wound around a few of the smaller trees – and he asks why they're there when they meet up just beyond the fence for another nightly walk. She's 14 so Santa doesn't hold much appeal anymore but she tells him about the holidays anyway, about Father Christmas and gifts under the tree and snow. Daniel mulls it over, murmurs that it seems nice, and sounds a little wistful; of course his people didn't do anything like that, though she remembers him mentioning something about funerals that sounded much more interesting than anything the dumb old Initiative ever did.
The next week when they meet – this time so Daniel can keep teaching her about the native plants, which heals and which is good to eat and which to stay away from – she brings photos pilfered from her mum's album, from Christmases with her little sisters and her parents, in their pyjamas and surrounded by wrapping paper, and they sort through them when they stop next.
Really, he's fascinated by anything that exists beyond the island's grasp – the music (later, when she's just past 16 she borrows a van on the pretence of a supplies run to the Orchid, spends the afternoon playing Geronimo Jackson and some classical piano tapes from the rec centre for Daniel while they lounge in the backseat), the food (he loves Apollo bars almost as much as she does), the books (she starts a secret stockpile of science literature with every sub trip, brings him a new one every month). It's a trade-off, really – in return she spends hours poking around the Black Rock, searching through the dust and moss and dirt for whatever treasures she can find, escaping the summer's heat under the waterfall Daniel shows her (the water makes her tank top stick to her sides and she catches him staring a little too long), even sees a lighthouse and a foot, of all things, that Dharma doesn't know about, has her itching to explore but he makes her promise to stay away, whispers one word - Jacob- and it sounds so much like a curse (or a threat or a prayer; she's not sure) that she listens and stay away.
(That's about the same time she starts to realize there are things about the island – dark, scary, terrifyingthings – she doesn't understand. Like when that clanking sound of metal-on-metal first fills her ears; Daniel grabs her hand, pulls her into a crop of banyan trees with a jerk and they both kneel there, his heart beating a staccato rhythm between her shoulder blades and his thin arms strung hard against her stomach while whatever it is – smoke, it looks like smoke – passes and disappears.
"What – what was that?" she whispers when the cold feeling prickling the back of her neck's gone, hating how shaky her voice sounds. He's still breathing fast, doesn't let her go; "something bad," he answers, and she gets the idea there might not be anything more – anything that means anything – to it than that.)
On the 25th, she sneaks some leftover turkey and stuffing and vegetables (her last Christmas before she leaves for university there'll be eggnog and spiced rum, too) into a container, grabs the flat, square gift she'd wrapped and hidden under her bed weeks before and stuffs everything into a knapsack, hopes the after-dinner cleanup and her sisters on sugar highs will keep her parents from noticing she's gone.
They meet in their usual spot, and he tucks into the food so fast she barely has enough time to watch him it ("it's delicious," he mumbles through a mouthful of cranberries and potatoes); while he's still wiping his hands she pulls out the present, offers it in upturned palms. Daniel accepts, his lips round with surprise, and tears back the red-and-green paper, runs his fingertips along the journal's leather binding.
"I thought with how much you like music and all that physics stuff, you should have somewhere to write it all down -" She trails off when she notices that Daniel's flipped open the front cover and is reading the inscription (Merry Christmas. Love, C- her pen had hovered over that last bit before she'd written it).
Charlotte doesn't have a second to think before his arms are around her, smothering her in a hug, breath noisy in her ear as he kisses her cheek. His lips rest against the curve of her face until she ducks her head, inch by inch, and when he finally says thank youshe feels the words along her skin before he's kissing her again, this time his mouth pressed against hers and she figures she's more than happy to give Daniel presents every year if this is the kind of thank you she gets.
At first all the touristy day trips make Charlotte feel ridiculous (the Thames, Big Ben, Piccadilly, the lights on Oxford Street) – minus the natural history museum; she could recite the floorplan by heart – but he loves it enough she stops feeling silly after a while.
A week after he arrives she even stops on the way home from work at whatever shop has Christmas stuff left and spends an hour hanging stockings and decorating a pathetic-looking tree before Daniel gets back from wandering the city. (He does it every day while she's at the office, walks and walks and comes back with a dozen stories about things she never would have looked twice at; a few times while she's trying to juggle her briefcase and coffee out the front door he's come down the stairs in a suit, looking better than she's willing to admit, drives her to work in a town car that gets impressed whistles from her friend at the Anthropology department building.) She's still fidgeting with a string of lights – 15 minutes through the battle of untangling wires – when Dan gets back.
"Charlotte. Wow."
The breathlessness threading through his tone takes her back (that one book, she'd given him that book on physics ordered from a sub; when she'd snuck him into the rec centre to see the piano – he'd played one during the handful of off-island trips with his father and loved it – while she was supposed to be in bed and the grown-ups had been at one of their boring meetings), a burst of memories, and it's that same surprised elation, like it's the best thing he could image, that still gets her.
I know it's not much, she gestures to the tree, the lights blinking white and red against the curtains, but it's the holidays, yeah? and Charlotte, he shakes his head, all gentle disagreement, kneels next to her on the carpet, the tree above them, it's great - it's ... amazing.
He picks up one of the ornaments when she doesn't say anything after, reaches out to hang it from one of the branches and sturdies it carefully, picks up another and lets it dangle near where her fingers are resting in the pine needles, still trying to untangle the same thread of lights. Before she can fully process what's happening he's leaning over, his lips just brushing hers, the faintest impression of anything, dry and soft and barely there, and then he's pulled away again, concentrating on the next decoration.
She's shocked, for a second, only a little more than when she opened her door to him on the front step, lost in memories a million miles away; something in her chest sort of flips, halfway between panic and nervous excitement before she murmurs you should stay.
She barely says it, more like breathes it, he's still so close and it feels like anything more will scare him away. "You're never here, and I could take a few weeks off work. And it's - well, it's Christmas."
The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles; "you want me to spend Christmas with you?"
There's a chance to keep this light, she knows, he's giving her a way for this not to mean what it could; he grins again and all of a sudden she doesn't want to take it.
"Yes." Then, because that doesn't seem like enough, fingers curling around his collar, she kisses him, pulls away and only gives herself a fraction of space to add -
"- absolutely."
This is what she remembers, always, even when she won't admit it to herself: the deck's wooden splinters catching at her heel, how the heat of his palm, imprinted half against her shirt, half her skin, along the small of her back had made her sweat, her arm angled around his neck and how the ends of his hair had tickled, the up-and-down rise of his chest against hers, shallow and breathless. It'd felt so new and terrifying, those first kisses, with everything warm and strange and she'd had a second to think am I doing this right? Even after the first ones she'd still felt a sort of thrill, uncertainty and excitement and like everything was moving endlessly around her, could come crashing down at any second but it never did (not until that last kiss on the dock, before she'd left on the sub for university – he hadn't even said goodbye, just I'll see you soon, like it was something inevitable – and then again when she'd visited, the sub only an hour from loading and he'd kissed her just as sweetly, face cupped between her hands, told her I'll always love you, Charlotteand she'd known that he meant it, every word, but he still didn't leave, didn't leave with her).
Not so much crashed to an ending but flickered and died, when he chose. When they didn't make a choice at all.
(The island chooses you, and you have to choose it back, he had said once, and she knows now – knows it watching Daniel finishing the decorating and how the tree's blinking colours play off the creases of his smile – that any light gone out can be relit.)
On Christmas morning they bundle up against a storm that's suddenly turned slushy, rain and ice pelting down from the sky, slosh through it to her sister's house just outside the city; they're soaked by the time they get there and Charlotte's a little white-knuckled from the drive, but when Abby opens the front door it's a rush of baking and pine needles and her three tiny nieces and nephews flying at her (Oliver attaches himself to Daniel's leg and he grins at her, bright-eyed) and she's happy, really, to be there.
Once the kids are settled in to their mountain of presents, Abby's husband joins Daniel on the couch and her sisters drag her into the kitchen, waiting until the swinging door's settled before the questions start spilling out; where'd you meet? and how long has this been going on? and are you sure you've never brought him 'round before?
(The answers: "we're old friends, we'rejustfriends and no, I'm positive.")
Elizabeth shrugs – "strange, I swear he looks familiar" – and then she's on to where he works and whether they've slept together yet. Later, when she's pouring coffee, Abby pulls Charlotte to the other side of the kitchen island, smile sly.
She feels her brows furrow in confusion. "What?"
"I know him, Char." Abby leans closer, whispering. "He was on the island, wasn't he? When we were little? I remember seeing you come back from sneaking out from my window and he was with you."
Charlotte doesn't say anything – Elizabeth starting to watch, curious, from the other side of the kitchen with the coffee pot in hand – but her smile creeps up anyway.
"Well." Abby grins again, pleased, squeezes Charlotte's hand before she grabs a plate of biscuits and heads back to the sitting room. "I'm just glad you found each other again."
The door swings open in Abby's wake and for just a second she sees Daniel, still on the couch and smiling at something she can't see, and me too, she thinks.
Me too.
December, 1996
That last Christmas on the island, there is definitely eggnog. And rum. And even more rum, and somewhere along the way of swapping back and forth the bottles curled up next to the big tree near the fence they get the genius idea to sneak into his camp (she'd only been close enough to see them, before; Daniel's parents, their leaders, the rest of his people andI can't well leave not even having seen the island's indigenous people up close,she'd slurred, knocking Dan in the shoulder, s'not being a very good anthropologist, is it?). They'd crept through the brush, skirting around the last campfire and the last person up keeping watch, and into his tent, with his cot and his books and the place under his mattress where he kept his journal; she feels like it's an entire new world, wants to know every corner of it, feels like it's the easiest thing to step in the circle of Daniel's arms, kiss him soundly, fold herself into his embrace as he kisses her back with just as much fierceness.
Merry Christmas, he whispers, and it's the last thing she hears before she gets lost to it, shrouded in the warmth of it all.
When she wakes the tent's already capturing the heat of the day, sunshine filtering through the canvas and Charlotte groans against a headache that's already grown large, the blankets stifling all of a sudden and Daniel's arm still hanging loose against her hips and how the hell did she fall asleep? Her parents will be losing their minds and that's if she even manages to sneak out of camp at all -
"Daniel -" She hears the voice muffled by distance and the tent's flaps, and then suddenly the glare's spilling in and it's so bright, for a second all she sees is a silhouette, then blonde hair like a halo. Eloise doesn't say a thing, just stares at them through narrowed eyes – Daniel's stubbornness, Charlotte knows where it comes from suddenly, the steel under the surface – and Charlotte can't help but squirm a little under the blankets, pulling them closer and feeling every inch of them against her skin while Daniel bristles, features set as close to defiance as she's seen him get.
"Daniel." Eloise's voice, it's like ice – crystallized hardness, unyielding – and she doesn't spare Charlotte another glance. "Outside. Two minutes."
They both slip into their clothes as fast as they can – Charlotte fights back the redness creeping into her cheeks; more from anger than embarrassment – and move out into the clearing, where Eloise and Charles (she knows him from sight, from stories) and even Richard are waiting. It's blue on blue, both their gazes; evenly divided between sharp anger and gentle amusement, and Charlotte tries not to shrink back into her sweatshirt when Eloise turns those eyes on her again.
Her voice is low, dangerous. "Daniel, I can't even begin to imagine what you were thinking bringing her" – there's a snide half-wave in Charlotte's direction – "here. You broke the truce. You put your people in danger."
"She's not a danger to us." Daniel's tone is just as quiet, as even, a fearlessness to it.
Eloise laughs, shakes her head just slightly; beside her, Charles stays quiet, though Charlotte catches the look, vaguely impressed, he sends towards his son. "And how would you know that, you silly boy?"
For a second Daniel doesn't seem anywhere near as young, his expression softening, just the slightest hesitation, and then steeled with resolve as he throws a look back Charlotte's way – "because I'm in love with her," he says, and it's enough to shock the rest of them into silence, before Richard grins to himself and Charles bites back a happy laugh, watching Eloise, who stays grim-faced.
"Leave it, Ellie," Charles speaks up, quietly, hand at her back, and she seems to blink back to consciousness, firms up her stance without looking at him and issues an get her back to the border, Daniel before she stalks away.
Still smiling, Charles steps towards them, eyes Charlotte carefully. "And you're with Dharma, yes? You were raised on the island?"
Charlotte keeps her expression set firm, shoulders back; "I've lived here since I was two years old."
Charles laughs again, claps Daniel on the shoulder – you could do worse, son - and follows Eloise's path, Richard trailing behind. When they're all gone Charlotte grabs Dan's hand, dares to kiss him again; can't believe that worked, she murmurs, feels relief at his laugh, the other words still beyond her (still a choice she can't make).
She leaves two weeks later – a semester behind everyone else but she figures other students aren't travelling on a bloody sub's schedule – and swears she won't cry as she boards.
(She almost makes it).
It's only when the tires crunch over new snow, settled in the driveway she'll have to shovel the next day, that Daniel's eyes crack open, smiles at her half-asleep from the passenger seat, the back of her car loaded with leftover turkey and presents.
Charlotte clicks off the ignition, leans back in her own. "We're home."
"Good." Daniel sighs, blinks a little more into wakefulness. "Charlotte, listen …"
She's still watching the snow blowing across the front walk, gathered in wisps and moving, shuffled by the wind, like grains of sand; three weeks ago and she'd felt so homesick, a little lost, and maybe she doesn't know anything more, anything different, but it feels like she couldand that's enough; her life could be or the island could be and that's for her to decide.
"I'll stay," Daniel's saying, as soft and open as ever, his expression pinpricked by the shadows of falling snowflakes through the windshield. "I mean, I won't go back if you don't want me to."
"Is that even a choice, Dan?" Charlotte sighs, studies the steering wheel like it's the most absolutely fascinating thing she's ever seen, some uncovered treasure; his words burn in her memory.
He doesn't flinch. "I'll make it one."
"And what if I want to go back with you?" Even saying the words, making that tangible connection between her mind and her mouth, her breath stutter in her throat, because she doesn't know what she wants, thinks maybe with Daniel she could. "What if I want to go back home?"
"You'd leave ... you'd leave all this?" He ends up waving at mostly her flat and her car, but it's her job, too, and her sisters and her friends and London and travelling, not to leave or lose but change; return.
"Maybe." (She means each syllable.)
"My parents live there," Daniel points out, after a pause; so do mine, she echoes back, teasing, and I'm sure they'd be thrilled to meet the boy I've been sneaking off into the jungle with since I was 10.
They both laugh, and then he's leaning forward, one hand pressed against her neck and the other at her hair, pulling her closer; so - the word comes out as warm breath against her cheek, makes her smile – I guess we'll, uh, figure it out then?
"I guess so," she murmurs back, hoping he's not close enough to see the sparkle of tears she swears she feels against her eyelids, doesn't want him to think she's sad when really it feels like everything might be falling into place, wherever she lands. "Now let's get the hell out of the cold and enjoy the rest of our Christmas, yeah?"
He nods, grinning, gathers her even closer for just a second, kisses her before they part, before they slip outside (his hand finds her, the warmth just enough) and disappear into the swell of white that's all the world.