Title: Gonna Try (With a Little Help From My Friends)
Characters/Pairings: Miles, Daniel
Summary: "One thing he's never been very good at (in all the things he's not very good at) is lying to himself." Miles and Dan share a moment in the midst of Dharma karaoke.
Rating: T, for language.
Spoilers: Up to 5x08, I guess.
Word Count: 1,100
Warnings: Mention of character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written for Livejournal's lostsquee luau. Title from the Beatles.
----
It's quiet, for once, around the Dharma compound, as Miles lounges on the front porch of their too-tiny home -- muted conversation from a couple houses over and flies buzzing through the evening air, thick with dusk and humidity, his only company -- and he's planning to enjoy every minute of it, slouching back in his chair and feet propped on the railing, beer bottle rocking absently in his hands.
His peace doesn't last long, though, with Dan's stumbling arrival back from one of his nightly walks; directionless, wandering treks around the compound he's made a daily ritual. It freaks out some of the other Dharma recruits -- and Miles doesn't blame them, even though they've explained Daniel's bereavement; it freaks Miles out too.
He followed him once, on Sawyer's orders, back when they were still worried he might walk himself through the sonar fence or take a plunge off the sub dock. (They still are; Miles sees it in the looks exchanged with Juliet, their firm, grim expressions -- the when and not the if.) With his slow, ambling gait, Dan was the furthest thing from hard to track, cutting a path through the barracks and towards the fence.
He stopped a few feet from the threshold -- still far enough away that Miles wasn't thinking suicide and fumbling for his walkie -- and just stared, gaze trained on something in the distance. Not even looking but remembering, fingers twitching, the motion unnerving with the rest of him so still. Stared and stared and stared for almost an hour -- Miles remembers his legs going numb, all pins and needles with the waiting -- tears dripping into his beard, and then leaving as suddenly as he came.
Ghost and spirits and messages from the great beyond, fine. Miles can deal with that; Miles has made his life dealing with that. But Dan -- living, breathing Dan -- seems more dead than alive most of the time now and it freaks out him in a different way. (Because that's what happens, he considers, that's what happens when you actually care. And it's enough proof that he's got a good thing going, with the resolutely not-caring.)
Stepping up on the porch steps, the physicist gives a little wave before his hands drop, limply, to his sides again, like he's not quite sure what to do with them. And that's pretty much Dan in a nutshell these days, Miles thinks; he wants to say regression, devolution in the weeks since Charlotte's death, but even to him it sounds too cruel.
(They're all lost, bumbling around the fucking '70s without a clue -- Dan just a little more than most -- taking the khaki jumpsuits and bad haircuts and shittier music with a "whatever" laissez-faire kind of resignation, because what else is there to do?)
"Where, ah, where is everyone?" Daniel gestures to the empty bungalow, usually bustling with its five unwilling roommates pressed into every corner, still waiting on permanent housing assignments.
Miles smirks, the strains of CCR floating through the courtyard. "Dharma karaoke."
"Huh." Daniel turns, gesturing half-heartedly, vaguely, into the distance. "I guess I'm gonna --"
"Keep wandering around like a weirdo?" Miles rights his chair with a thud. "Just sit down, Dan."
There's a moment of hesitation and then he nods -- more to himself than Miles -- shuffling over to the next chair and settling in, elbows meeting knees as he hunches forward.
"Beer?" Miles wags his bottle in Dan's direction, but he only shakes his head.
"No -- no thanks."
Shrugging, Miles stretches out his legs again -- this time it's the Beatles he hears wafting over from the rec centre -- and takes another swig. Daniel's silent, eyes downward and fidgeting with the cuff of his jumpsuit.
It's quiet, except for the chords of 'With A Little Help from My Friends' strumming in the background, and then -- "I couldn't hear her. Charlotte, I mean."
The words tumble out of his own mouth before Miles even has a chance to think, and he figures the surprise on Daniel's face must mirror his own.
"I tried, but ... nothing."
He sees hope light up in the other man's eyes and he swallows back a pang, his next words hurried and sharp, already regretting his lame attempt at comfort. "No, Dan. All it means that her body was -- is -- too far away."
"But I tried," he adds, says it like an offering, almost defensive with the weakness of the gesture.
"Thanks, Miles."
The defeat in Dan's voice mostly pisses him off, but that's cancelled out by the genuine inflection behind his gratitude and Miles is left just feeling sorry for the guy again. He drains the last of his beer and fingers the bottle, wanting to toss it onto their perfectly-manicured lawn, smash it against the too-bright yellow, peeling paint of the bungalow -- something reckless, something that says I don't give a shit.
Instead, Miles deposits the bottle next to one leg of his chair, careful not to let it drop, because one thing he's never been very good at (in all the things he's not very good at) is lying to himself.
He shifts in his seat, prodding the railing's flaking paint chips with the toe of his boot. "I never got Charlotte, I guess." He notices Dan start, recoil, at the sound of her name, but keeps his head ducked, hands clasped together. "I mean, she could be kind of a bitch, but she was pretty funny sometimes."
A hint of a grin, crooked and soft, in return.
"Yeah," Dan murmurs, straightening up a little. "She was."
"And when she mouthed off to Keamy -- remember? -- when we were doing weapons training? Figured she'd get smoked in the face for that, but she didn't even care."
Another smile, stronger this time, then faltering.
"I miss her, Miles."
He's busy brushing imaginary dirt off his knee, engrossed in the task, but Miles can see his reddened eyes, hear the hitch of breath in his voice.
"I know." Miles looks up, gazing into the green-black expanse of jungle surrounding them, that somewhere -- sometime -- holds Charlotte's body. "She was a real ballsy chick."
Daniel laughs -- a real, honest-to-goodness chuckle -- and swipes at his eyes, creasing half-dried tears against his face. Then he turns in his seat, makes a motion inside the house.
"Does the, uh, offer still stand? The beer, I mean."
Miles throws a thumb back towards the kitchen -- "help yourself" -- and he ambles off in that direction, the smile sticking this time.
So maybe the night's not turning out exactly like he expected, Miles thinks as he twists another bottle open and listens to Dan clatter through the fridge, but nothing is these days, and for once that's just fine with him.