My first fic, so it may be kind of silly. Constructive criticism welcome.
She finds it strange now, her nickname for Charlie. Growing up she never questioned it; the world was the way it was and there was no reason to it. She never asked questions, even when she had learned to talk and could voice her opinions. Uncle Sawyer said it was strange: kids were supposed to wonder about everything and drive everyone to the brink of insanity with their constant questions. Though she was young, she calmly accepted life as it was through her threes, fours, fives and even sixes. But on the eve of her seventh birthday, she found herself wondering, with the insatiable curiosity of a child, why she called Charlie "P.C."
Throughout the day she mulled over this, for though she was a bright child (none of the islanders knew quite what they taught to first and second graders these days, so she knew much more than normal seven year olds) she couldn't remember a time she heard anyone else call him that. Sometime around noon she decided that if she didn't know where this strange name came from (after all, it was just two letters stuck together), maybe someone else did. This decided, she hurriedly told her mum and the object of her pondering that she would be with one of her many Aunts and Uncles, and wandered over to where a group of castaways had gathered for lunch.
She stood debating where to start when Uncle Doctor Jack walked by, free of his usual flurry of activity. Although he looked like he wanted to eat undisturbed, she decided to ask him first. After all, if he got upset at her pestering him she could flash him an innocent, dimpled smile and get off the hook. With that in mind, she strode over to where he was sitting and plopped herself down next to him. He flashed her an annoyed smile, but when he voiced no complaints she blurted out her question:
"Why do I call Charlie P.C.? What does it mean?"
Jack's forged smile disappeared and, as he thought about the question, his doctor look replaced it. After a minute or so he smiled genuinely as he reveled in the chance to share his knowledge.
"Well, many nicknames that are formed when a baby first learns to speak don't make sense. This is due in part to the fact that they don't understand names yet and in part because they can't always pronounce what they hear. Babies often latch onto something that sounds familiar or distort words, repeating the mispronunciation until it becomes normal and the new name sticks. Some people retain the name in their everyday vocabulary until adulthood or longer."
"Uh . . . ok," she mumbled, trying to decipher his meaning. "So, I could've been trying to say something else, but I couldn't say it right?"
"Precisely," Jack replied, sounding scholarly.
"Thanks then," she remembered to say, before getting to her feet and wandering off.
She scanned the horizon, still a bit muddled from the explanation she received, until she caught Uncle Hurley out of the corner of her eye moving wood into a pile next to the fire. Figuring Uncle Hurley was a good friend of P.C. and he would give her a straighter answer than her previous choice, she meandered over to the growing pile of wood. When he noticed her he showed much more enthusiasm than U.D.J. had:
"Hey dude! Erm, dudette! What's up?"
"Actually," she replied as she smiled shyly up at him, "I was wondering if you knew where the name P.C. came from? Uncle Doctor said I mispronounced his name, but I don't think P.C. sounds like Charlie at all."
" Well, Jack knows his stuff, so he's probably right. I call him Pacey, myself. Maybe you got it from that? I really don't know, though, maybe you should ask someone else."
"Sure, Uncle Hurl, and thanks!"
"No problem!" he called as he walked back toward the jungle to gather more wood.
She decided she would ask Shannon next. Since Shannon ditched the princess bitch attitude, Shannon had become friends with her mum, so maybe she knew where the name originated. Besides, Shannon was the island gossip; she had to have some information. She found Shannon multitasking: lying on the sand in a bikini attempting to darken her already too dark tan while sorting through papers written in some weird language.
"Hey, kid," she said as she looked up from her work, "come to get the daily scoop? I'm afraid not much has happened today, but there was this one thing, right? So, the . . ." Shannon trailed off as she saw the confused stare she was receiving. "That's not what you're here for, is it? You have any gossip I haven't heard yet? Come on then, dish!"
"Actually, I was just wondering if you knew where the name P.C. came from?"
"P.C., like what you call Charlie, right?"
After seeing the nodded reply Shannon continued, " Well, I don't know the real story, but ever since your mum told me the peanut butter story, I've always imagined "peanut butter cupid." Like cupid, except he used food instead of arrows, right?" At which point Shannon launched into a "wildly romantic story" about a rock star, a pregnant lady, memory loss, and concealed love. Then Shannon remembered her work, returning apologetically back to the papers, so she walked off. She wondered how the story had anything to do with the question as she walked purposefully toward Michael and Walt.
Vincent barked and ran forward as she approached and she patted his head awkwardly as she tried to dodge his tongue.
"I was wondering," she began, not bothering with a 'hello', "where did P.C. come from? It seems to be such a strange name."
"I really couldn't say," Michael, said apologetically, "it's Charlie's initials backwards."
Walt, stuck between childhood and adulthood but trying to appear the latter, added in a too-mature voice, "you know, it's the same as his last name if you take the vowels out."
Although she doubted these thoughts coincided with her own at the young age at which she started the nickname, she thanked them anyway and decided to go in search for Mr. Locke. As she made her way to the place where he was cleaning the boar for dinner, she thought about how strange it was that the only people on the island she didn't call "Uncle" or "Aunt" were her mum, P.C., and Mr. Locke. Her mum she understood and Mr. Locke always seemed too wise to be dubbed "Uncle", but she couldn't figure out why P.C. wasn't "Uncle P.C." or "Uncle Charlie." Her mum had always insisted he was too special to be called "Uncle", but why?
Her thoughts were interrupted when Mr. Locke called out a greeting, to which she responded in turn.
"You look determined," he observed. "On a mission?"
"I'm trying to figure out what P.C. means," she blurted out, "but no one seems to know any more than me."
"Hmm," he pondered, "I don't know why a baby's mind would come up with those letters. Perhaps your mind was guided by an unseen power while it was still moldable and willing to listen to unseen forces." He stood silent for a few moments before asking, "Do you know what 'per calamitas' means?" He didn't look surprised when she shook her head, merely continued with his thought. "It means 'through misfortune.' Quite fitting, I'd say. Perhaps the island had that in mind and directed you towards it."
"Why is it fitting?" she asked, bewildered.
" Because without misfortune, none of us would be who we are or where we are. You would not know Charlie and he wouldn't care for you and your mother the way he does. Misfortune builds our character and pushes people together. So if you look at it that way, you have love and protection 'through misfortune.' Many things that seem bad turn into blessings when we aren't looking."
"Thanks, Mr. Locke," she said, a bit mystified and awed by his knowledge, before deciding to forgo the remainder of her quest.
Even though her question was never actually answered by any of the islanders she had asked, she felt as if the real reason didn't really matter anyway. She found her mum on the beach with P.C., and they walked toward the caves while she thought about how everyone's reasons made sense in an odd sort of way. When they reached the glow of the camp P.C. hoisted her into the air for a bear hug and kissed her mum on the cheek before striding off towards his own bed. As she sat curled up on her mums lap amidst the thin pile of blankets that they knew as their bed, she decided to give her question one last go.
"Mum?" she whispered sleepily, "what does P.C. mean?" Her mum smiled against her hair, "why it means "Prince Charming", of course."
"What does that mean?" she asked, and was answered with a wonderful story about a poor servant girl who fell in love with a prince, and lived happily ever after.
"Will we live happily ever after?" she wanted to know.
"We already are," was the contented reply.
As she snuggled down under the blankets, she decided she liked her mum's answer best.