Note: Much of this story was previously part of my longer work "Love and Redemption (a.k.a. Aftershock)." This work was only on briefly; I removed it so I could break it up, edit it, add to it, and make it several separate stories of interest to different audiences. "Strange Love" features Sayid, Claire, Locke, and Charlie, with mention of Shannon and Nadia.

Chapter One

Sayid barely spoke to anyone for three weeks after Shannon's death. He didn't eat much either, and his pants had begun to hang rather loosely about his waist. He could not bring himself to sleep in the tent he had built for her, and so he slept on the beach, when he slept at all. In the daytime, he threw himself into work: grinding physical labor was the only relief he could find, and so he began to build shelters for those who were currently without individual lodgings of their own.

On the twenty-first night after her death, he was lying in the sand not far from Claire's shelter, gazing up at the brilliant night sky, when the clouds opened and the cool rain poured down. He didn't bother to move. Claire came out of her tent and begged him to take shelter with her. At first, he ignored her, but then for some reason, he rose and came inside. The baby was murmuring, but he was asleep.

Claire tossed Sayid a towel and then went back and sat down on her blanket. He sat on the tent's floor on the other side of the crib and began to dry his dark curls. "This tent is rather small," he said, "for you and the baby."

"It works," Claire replied. "Lie down, Sayid. Try to get some sleep. You haven't slept more than a few hours a night in…it's been a long time."

He didn't say anything in reply, and he continued to sit.

"I know Jack sent Libby to talk to you."

"Psychology is …" He didn't finish, he just lay back on the sand, his arms behind his neck.

"You didn't talk to her at all, did you?"

He didn't answer.

"You know, Sayid, you're not the only one to suffer loss on this island. We've all been through some pretty horrible things."

She didn't expect a response; she expected stony silence. Oddly enough, though, he spoke. Indeed, he started reciting poetry. "That loss is common would not make / My own less bitter, rather more/ Too common! Never morning wore / To evening, but some heart did break."

It was clear he had surprised her. "Tennyson," he said, by way of explanation. "I used to read a lot of poetry before the war, when I was at the University in Cairo. It's how I practiced my English."

"I've read Tennyson," she said, and surprised him by quoting some lines of her own: "'Tis better to have loved and lost / than never to have loved at all."

"Also from In Memoriam," he said. "You know it? You are young."

"What?" She laughed. "Too young to read good poetry?"

"No, it is merely that people your age usually do not bother to, that is…nevermind."

He was silent again.

"Well, what do you think of those lines?" Claire ventured.

"I might have believed them once," he said.

He had lost Nadia to the vaults of time, but he did not regret having once loved her, because that love had begun to transform him. When he had searched for her all those years, he had done so never knowing what he might find. A happily married woman? Perhaps. At least, she would certainly not be twiddling her thumbs and waiting for him. She was strong, determined…she would live her life fully, vibrantly, and with meaning. He had no doubt of that. But then again, he had been searching for more than just her, hadn't he?

Although he had once nursed a hope that Nadia might be free, he had discovered that clinging to that thought drew him farther and farther away from those around him. Nadia had not written that they would meet again so that he would languish in solitude, and he had not done her honor by clinging so fiercely and uselessly to a fantasy. He had deluded himself into thinking it had been an act of loyalty to close himself off to the world; in doing so, he only prevented himself from completing the transformation that Nadia's words had begun to work in him.

And that was why he had again opened himself up to the possibility of love. That was why he had let his guard down when he heard Shannon sing, why he had let the beauty of her voice prick his soul. And she had changed him too. But those wounds were too deep, too fresh to be endured…

"It would have been better never to have loved her," he said bitterly.

"Don't say that," Claire replied. "Would you, for any price, give away your memories of Shannon?"

For the longest time he did not answer. Claire thought she had pushed him too far. She would not press him farther. It was more than he had said to anyone in three weeks…it was, perhaps, as much as he could say. She rolled over on her blanket and tucked her hands under her cheek.

From the other side of the tent, she heard his voice faintly. "She did not say it back."

"What?"

"Shannon. She did not say it back. When I said I love you, before…before…She did not say it back."

Claire wanted to go to him, to hold the poor man in her arms like a mother…she hadn't felt like a mother all this time on the island; she had been so insecure with her own child…but she wanted to mother this grown man now.

She knew he would not permit it; he would not be vulnerable. So she remained where she was and said, "She loved you, Sayid. She loved you."

"How can you know that?"

"How can you not know it?"

She was nervous when he did not reply. But she was just as afraid of breaking the silence.

At last, he spoke. "Thank you, Claire." And then it sounded as if he turned over. "This place is really too small for you and the baby. I will never sleep in Shannon's tent. You and the baby should move into it. It is much more spacious, much more secure. I will take this place."

"Sayid…Sayid, are you certain?"

"Yes. It is senseless to allow her tent to go to waste. It is the best tent I have built. You and the baby ought to be the ones to benefit from it. Tomorrow, I will…I will bring our things here, and Charlie or Locke, I am sure, will help you move your things into Shannon's tent."

"Thank you, Sayid, I know it is…" She was going to say "a big step for you" and realized how condescending that would sound. "Thank you. If you change your mind…it's okay."

"I will not."

After that he didn't speak, but she heard his breathing level, and she thought he must have fallen asleep. Indeed, he had fallen asleep, and he slept for six hours straight, the longest stretch in three weeks. The baby's initial cries did not awaken him. When he finally awoke, Aaron was already suckling at Claire's breast. Sayid blushed in embarrassment, but Claire only shrugged. Modesty was a luxury now.

"I am going to start going through Shannon's things," Sayid said as he rose to leave the tent. On the way out, he almost bumped physically into Charlie. Charlie glanced at him, and then at Claire's tent. It was still quite early in the morning, and Sayid thought he saw jealousy and anger mixed in Charlie's countenance.

"I just went to tell Claire," Sayid said hastily, to preempt the possibility of any misunderstanding, "that I want her and the baby to have Shannon's tent. Will you help her move her things?"

"Of course," said Charlie, clearly relieved. "Yes, of course."

"I will return in awhile. I need to get Shannon's things."