Author's Note: Gentle Reader, I'm actually an avid Desmond/Penny shipper. Not only do I consider them the OTP of Lost, I consider them THE OTP of any fandom. However, I've chosen to write a Desmond/OFC here because of the inherent conflict such a pairing provides, plus I don't know enough about Penny at this point to feel comfortable writing her in a fic.

CIRCE sprang up as a friendly motivation technique and fic trade-off between me and the fanfic writer Pandora Nervosa. The Desmond Hume character, so beautifully realized and portrayed by the talented Henry Ian Cusick, represents one of my favorite heroic archetypes. That, combined with some brief commentary Mr. Cusick had in TV Guide about Hume's character on the island, has been my main inspiration for writing this fanfic. This is not an attempt to adhere to strict canon (obviously not since I have a pairing that doesn't exist in canon), though I'll work to keep it in line as much as possible. I hope you enjoy. On with the show.

CIRCE - Part Two

"A small rock holds back a great wave." Homer – The Odyssey

She wasn't a beautiful woman. Desmond watched from the shelter of a swaying palm as Catherine Morland stood on the beach chatting animatedly with Claire. Her black hair, bound in a ponytail, swung against her back and shoulders as she twined bits of cloth around a contraption of blue tarp and twigs. The morning sun cast her profile in silhouette, outlining a high cheekbone and a slender nose that was a little too long, a little too aquiline.

Some might consider her features too strong, too angled to be pretty. Desmond thought they made her striking. Combined with her height—she towered over Claire—she'd stand out in any crowd.

"Hey Legs! Barbie! Y'all just gonna stand there yackin' all day, or are you gonna show little Aaron how to fly that kite?"

Sawyer heckled the two women from where he reclined on one of the airplane seats, book in hand, a pair of glasses perch incongruously on his nose. Desmond rolled his eyes. The de facto leader now that Jack, Locke and Sayid were gone, Sawyer took on his new role with a faint uncertainty. He hadn't lost his sarcasm or the habit of baptizing everyone with some inane nickname, but Desmond sometimes caught an expression of unease on his arrogant features, as if he wore his mantle of leadership reluctantly.

While the nicknaming convention annoyed him, Desmond had to admit Sawyer's name for Catherine fit. She was tall, her long legs shown to their best advantage in a pair of wrinkled kaki shorts. Thigh muscles flexed and contracted as she saluted Sawyer and began running down the beach, the makeshift kite of blue tarp and twigs bouncing in the wind behind her. Claire laughed and lifted Aaron in her arms, pointing as the kite caught the perfect air current and jerked straight up into the cerulean sky.

"Wahoo!"

Catherine's exclamation of triumph sounded over the steady roar of the tide. For a moment Desmond forgot his entrapment, his melancholy and the siren song of the woman he'd left behind, and watched the kite soar.

"Dude, you just gonna stand there with that dead pig, or do you want help dragging it into camp?"

Hurley's matter-of-fact question jolted him out of his reverie. Desmond glanced down at the travois by his feet. A wild boar, a juvenile by his estimation, stretched out on the makeshift conveyance, blood still trickling from one nostril. He'd shot it this morning, another contribution to the camp's stores of food. Luckily, he didn't have Sawyer with him this time, and the hunt had gone much quicker without the conman's steady stream of swaggering invectives to distract him.

Desmond eyed his companion. Hurley was too large to run fast, but he was strong, and the growing ache in his shoulders from dragging the boar through dense jungle encouraged him to accept the help. "Aye," he said. "Take one side and we'll drag it near the water there." He pointed to a spot not far from where Sawyer lounged in his tent. "We'll hang it from one of the big palms and butcher it."

He adjusted the rifle strap on his shoulder and grabbed one side of the travois while Hurley grabbed the other. A chorus of cheers and excited calls greeted them as they hauled the pig into camp. Despite the messy work involved in butchering the meat, there was no shortage of volunteers to do the job and set up a smoke pit. Sticky with tree sap and drenched with sweat from dragging the heavy kill a good half mile through the jungle by himself, Desmond gladly left such chores to the others and walked down the beach. He kicked off his shoes and waded straight into the sea strand. Waves dragged at his scruffy pants and shirt; salt stung his eyes when he submerged beneath the water, but it was cold, refreshing and a welcome relief from the itch of bug bites and the musky smell of dead boar.

He swam closer to the shore, stripped off his shirt and threw it on the sand. The island sun warmed his shoulders and back as he butterflied through the water. Were he at a more isolated section of beach, he'd toss the pants with the shirt, but the camp of survivors was too close. Respect, more than modesty, kept him from shedding down to his skin in the clear water. He could wait. A pool fed by a nearby waterfall was only a short distance into the island's interior. A few of the survivors visited periodically, but most avoided it, preferring the relative safety of the beach to the risk of meeting the black smoke that lurked within the trees and had already killed one of their own. Desmond was as wary as the others of the strange creature, but his instincts for sensing danger were better than most, and the privacy, as well as fresh water and a real bath was worth the risk in his opinion.

The current beneath him carried his unresisting body down the beach, along the same path Catherine had taken, the kite flying behind her as she ran. He no longer saw the diamond shape dip and float in the breeze, nor the woman who anchored it to earth with twine and graceful hands. Instead, he caught a glimpse of Claire adjusting Aaron on one hip, the kite dangling from her hand. He scanned the crowd of survivors but didn't see Catherine.

Water droplets shimmered in his eyes as he shook his wet mane of hair. He'd looked for her too often lately. Since that first moment when she'd strolled toward him with the plate of fruit and a hesitant smile, he'd watched for her. She'd sat with him long enough to clean her plate and reveal small hints of her character. They hadn't spoken of God or snow globes, only of surface things.

"Once we're rescued, I'll never set foot on a plane again," she declared. "And if I do, I'm flying only to cold countries where there's snow nine months out of the year and fir trees instead of palms. If I never see another coconut or eat pineapple again, it will be too soon." Tiny crows feet accentuated the corners of her eyes as she smiled at him.

"You're an optimist, yeah? You said 'once we're rescued' not 'if we're rescued.'"

The smile faltered a little, and Desmond regretted the darkness of his words.

"I prefer hopeful realist over optimist." She nibbled on a banana slice and squinted against the sun's glare bouncing off the waves. "I have a son at home. His name's Nicholas. He's almost six." Her eyes were a pale hazel overlaid with flecks of gray, solemn as she met his gaze. "I have to believe this is only temporary."

They stared at each other for a moment before looking once more at the water. A comfortable silence stretched between them until Desmond broke it.

"It's always good to hope."

"Yes it is."

The silence again, and again he ended it. "So, are you like your namesake? Given to fits of imagination? Of gothic castles and the ghosts of murdered wives haunting their halls?"

She laughed. He liked her laughter. Like her voice, it was low-timbered and measured. "No. Afraid not. I have a degree in English Lit, so I've read more than my share of Bronte, but the most fanciful I ever got was when I was a young teen and sometimes imagined myself as a Greek goddess, preferably Hera. She was more than capable of knocking some sense into Zeus on occasion."

Desmond chuckled when she winked. He could easily picture her as a Greek goddess. Not Aphrodite nor Astarte, not even Hera, but Athena. He knew very little about Catherine, didn't know if she was wise or not, but that image seemed fitting.

"And you, Desmond?"

"Me? I'm a bit a like my namesake I suppose." He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, my middle name is David. Good guess."

"You're a determinist?"

She didn't ask about the Hatch, didn't pry into why he was trapped on this island with her and her fellow Oceanic survivors, but she was dangerously close to those things with her simple question.

"Aye," he murmured. "I am now." He watched as she drew lazy circles in the sand and turned the subject away from himself. "You know your philosophers."

Recognition of his tactic gleamed briefly in her eyes. She nodded her acceptance of his wishes. "Yep. Minored in philosophy. My dad wanted me to be an engineer, my mom an attorney. Instead I earned an education in stuff that would never make me a red cent." She grinned. "I ended up okay. Did some substitute teaching, worked in a bookstore and finally landed a job as an intern for a museum in Tallahassee and worked my way through the ranks. I'm an acquisitions liaison for a fine arts museum in Orlando."

She reminded him a little of Penny. Self-assured, possessed of an easy humor that showed itself with little coaxing. Catherine was different in that her confidence came not from privilege, but from resilience. He frowned. Not that Penny wasn't strong. She was. Stubborn too. He frowned even harder. He had no business comparing the two. Penny was his hope for living, for breathing, for clawing his way through time with broken fingernails in the belief he could make things right in his future by correcting his past.

"Oh yes, Catherine," he thought. "I'm the quintessential determinist."

"I'm sorry, Desmond. Did I say something to offend you?"

Catherine's expression was quizzical, disappointed, and Desmond gave her a sad smile. "No. Sorry. Sometimes my thoughts ambush me."

"Maybe I'm just boring." A raised eyebrow and twinkle of humor in her eyes made him laugh.

"I don't think so. I'm glad Hurley sent you my way, yeah?"

She rose gracefully from her lotus position, and he followed suit, holding out his hand to steady her. Her fingers touched his briefly. A spark of warmth shot up his arm. If Catherine felt the same, she didn't show it, only brushed the sand off her skirt and legs.

"I have to get back. I've been slacking off too long, and it's my day for laundry duty." A faint blush graced her high cheekbones. "Thanks for the invitation to sit. Maybe we'll talk again?"

Desmond almost refused. A dull sense of guilt wedged itself below his sternum though he'd done nothing to inspire such feeling. He'd enjoyed her company, more than he cared to admit.

"You just want the companionship, Des. Haven't you had enough solitude?" That inner voice quieted the guilt.

"Aye," he answered. "I'd like that. See you around, yeah?"

She grinned. "Sure. See you around."

He watched her leave, watched the flutter of her colorful, tattered skirt and gentle sway of her hips as she walked—a tall, black-haired, displaced Gypsy woman. The fanciful thought made him snort. When had he become so ridiculous?

A wave lapped over his head, sending him spluttering and coughing sea water. Desmond cursed. He'd drown by his own inattention. He drifted farther down the beach while lost in memory. The camp was nothing more than patches of dried palm and tarp, of movement as the survivors went about their daily business of living. A speck of blue lay on the sand—his abandoned shirt. He struck out for the shore, emerging from the water as a lone figure bent to pick up the shirt.

His soaked pants dragged against his legs as he made his way to the waiting woman. Catherine gave him a teasing smile and hefted the garment in one hand.

"You tossed the shirt but not the pants? What? Afraid we'll make fun of your knickers? Let me guess. You're wearing smiley faces."

Her lighthearted mockery cheered him, and he gave as good he got. "I'm the only smiling face you see here, Catherine. And I'm not wearing knickers." He grinned when she blushed.

"I suppose that might be a little awkward having you running around in the buff."

"Just ask Hugo."

He reached for the shirt, but she snatched it out of his reach. "I can wash it if you like."

"That isn't necessary."

"I wouldn't offer if it was a problem, Desmond. Come on. You just brought in a week's worth of pork chops for everyone. The least we can do is offer to launder your clothes."

He drew alongside her as she walked back to the camp. "Fair enough."

"You can bring me your pants when you're in dry clothes." Her gaze traveled briefly over his bare torso and sodden pants before returning to his face. Her eyes were shuttered, revealing no secrets, but Desmond fancied he felt trails of heat from where her gaze touched on him.

She turned away. Later, when he was alone beneath his tent with a mantle of stars to keep him company, he would question, pick apart and go over a thousand times why he did what he did.

"I'm off to a pool farther inland. Fresh water and a waterfall. It's worth the trip if you haven't seen it. You can bathe there with privacy and get the sea water off you. You're welcome to join me. You'd be safe. I promise."

He held his breath as she faced him once more. Anticipation warred with dread in his gut. He wasn't sure if he anticipated her refusal or dreaded her acceptance. A vision of Penny rose in his mind, and his stomach churned even more. He almost rescinded the invitation.

Those light hazel eyes watched him a moment, taking his measure. A tiny smile lifted one corner of her mouth. "Sounds heavenly. Let me get some clothes and soap. I'll meet you at your tent."

Desmond nodded and looked over his shoulder at the sea. "What am I doing?" he whispered.

!!