#WHERE ARE THE DAN FANS PSPSPSPSPSPSPS

[actual-lea]

Hello it is a new chapter of this thing please read it if you wanna?

AO3 | First chapter | Previous chapter

Daniel’s hands don’t stop shaking for the entire ride back to the motel. It’s not until he empties the contents of his backpack onto the bed, until he flings his journal and everything in it into the too-small trash can in the corner, that the adrenaline finally begins to wear off.

That’s when the ache in his chest returns, radiating in waves from his still-healing ribs. It echoes with his every sob, stealing his breath until he's on his knees gasping for air, clutching the sheets of the bed like a lifeline. It hurts like his lung is collapsing in on itself all over again, the cracks in his bones split open from his scuffle with Widmore’s security.

He closes his eyes and wraps an arm around his chest. He’s being overdramatic; the six weeks since his hospital stay have nearly passed, and he won’t go back now. He can’t.

He just needs to breathe, to feel the air fill his chest and let it go.

In, and out. In, and out.

Slowly, the pain begins to ebb, leaving him hollow and shivering in its wake. He stays on the floor, his forehead pressed to the side of the mattress, his eyes screwed shut in a futile attempt to stop the tears. He counts his heartbeats as they pass, loses track somewhere around three hundred and has to start over twice.

He’s only made it to forty-two on the third count when a sound shakes him from his stupor: a cell phone vibrating.

Daniel pushes himself to his feet, carefully, and leans forward to sift through the rubble of his meaningless life. It takes too long to find the phone, too long to flip it open with his clumsy fingers, too long to make his eyes focus on the name written on the screen, long enough that it should have stopped ringing already.

Finally, he brings the phone to his ear with a shaky hand. “Hello?”

Four heartbeats pass before he hears a response. “Daniel?”

The familiar voice should feel like a salve to the burning in his throat. It doesn’t. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Yeah, it's me. Uh…” He should have figured out what to say before he answered the phone. What do people say on the phone? “How's– how are you?”

“Fine.” Concern colors the word. “We're all fine, but you don't sound so good, brother. What's happened?”

Daniel runs a hand through his hair. “It's a long story,” he says, biting back a humorless laugh. “Do you think you could…meet me? Somewhere?”

There’s a long pause on the other end. “Pick you up, you mean? Does that mean you’re–”

“Yes.” He’s done with the island. He’s done with all of it.

“Then, yeah. Of course. Where, ah…”

“California,” Daniel provides. “Los Angeles, preferably, but I’m not picky.” He hasn’t left the country since his return several months prior, and trying to use the passport of a dead man probably won’t go over well, even if he is the dead man in question.

Another pause, and some faint shuffling in the background. “Aye, we can do that. Though, it’ll take some time.” More shuffling. “A few weeks, at least. You have somewhere safe to stay in the meantime?”

Safe. He nods slowly, then remembers Desmond can’t see him. “Yes. Yeah. I can… I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” Desmond doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t press.

“What, um…” Daniel swallows against the lump in his throat and wills his voice to steady itself. “Why did you…call me?”

Desmond exhales. “Yesterday was Charlie’s birthday.”

Shit. Daniel squeezes his forehead with one hand and fights the urge to sink to his knees again. “I’m sorry, I… I completely forgot,” he chokes out, like it isn’t obvious.

“Don’t worry about it, brother,” Desmond says. “I hadn’t told anyone you were planning to call. I don’t think he understands yet how phones work, anyway,” he adds, with a smile in his voice, “So he’ll be much gladder to see you rather than just hearin’ your voice.”

Daniel nods mechanically.

They’re both silent for a long moment. “D’you wanna talk about it?”

Daniel shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “No.” It’s the only word that he won’t choke on.

“Right.” Desmond's voice is gentle. “Hang in there, brother. We’ll see you soon, yeah?”

------

The FOR SALE sign in front of Daniel’s childhood home sways in the breeze, emitting a harsh creak with each particularly strong gust.

Daniel stands across the street from the house, still in the same spot where the taxi dropped him off. He wraps his jacket tighter around himself to keep out the cold wind, idly wondering whether he ever actually missed the New England weather, or just the idea of it.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out, watches the fog from his exhale dissipate into the evening air, and finally crosses the quiet street without bothering to look both ways.

He pauses at the gate to take a closer look at the FOR SALE sign, with its weathered corners and slightly faded ink. He could call the realtor’s phone number to ask how long the house has been on the market, though he probably wouldn’t get a straight answer.

It doesn’t really matter; the house will be just as empty, either way.

The front door is locked, so he circles around to the back porch. Finding the spare key hidden among the potted plants hanging from the eaves takes longer than it should, considering that he was probably the one who left it there long ago. It takes a bit of effort to force the slightly rusted key into the lock – or maybe that’s all in his head – but it still fits, and he opens the door.

The dining room table is gone.

He stares at the small nicks in the hardwood floor where it used to stand, the scratches from years of chairs being pulled in and out, the only signs left – besides the thin layer of dust settled on the countertops – that the space isn’t just a model kitchen from a demo home that’s never been lived in.

The single step he takes echoes in the vacant room, and he resists the ingrained habit to take off his shoes before walking into the house. He won’t be here long; not in the grand scheme of things, anyway.

It’s probably not the safest place he could go to wait for Desmond, if he’s being honest. If someone’s looking for him, his one known address in the country would be the logical place to start.

Of course, it doesn’t actually matter; Widmore’s made it abundantly clear that he can find Daniel anywhere, after all, so what difference does it make if he stays in one all-too-predictable place? At least it’s familiar.

Well, sort of.

He steps into the living room. White sheets cover all the furniture – the couch, the coffee table, the lamp in the corner. The only sign of life is the large windowsill with its neatly arranged row of plants he always forgot the names of. He was never actually sure if they were real or fake; the fact that they aren’t dead would suggest the latter.

Otherwise, the room is empty, the walls bare. The house is silent and still as a mausoleum.

Daniel frowns. Something is missing.

A ridiculous thought, considering just how much is missing from this place he once called home. Still, he can’t shake the feeling as he makes his way upstairs to investigate his old room.

Everything’s mostly intact there, at least; there’s still a bed and a desk, even if the chair and CD player are gone.

He sets his backpack down on the bare mattress, but doesn’t start unpacking just yet, aside from digging out his journal. He could’ve left it behind in Los Angeles rather than retrieving it from the trash can mere minutes after throwing it away, but there are too many years of his life contained within, in the form of so many contextless equations and scattered notes and half-finished diagrams. Maybe he’ll let it go one day; maybe months from now, he’ll drop it into the middle of the Pacific Ocean with little fanfare, watch it sink to the depths from the deck of Our Mutual Friend.

For now, he places it in the center of the desk and busies himself with searching for a set of sheets from the hall closet. It’s a mess, unaffected by the vanishing act of the rest of the house, and it takes a surprising amount of rummaging around to unearth a matching set.

Downstairs, the front door opens.

Daniel freezes. He tries not to flinch when it swings shut. Footsteps, unhurried and incautious, cross the bare floor somewhere below.

He glances over the contents of the closet, but no weapon presents itself. He doesn’t own a baseball bat, or a golf club, or anything helpful, and so he creeps down the stairs with nothing to defend himself except a wooden chess set clutched in both hands, ready to swing.

The faucet in the kitchen turns on, and he freezes again. Is Widmore's thug filling a glass of water for himself? Maybe he’s thirsty, didn’t stop anywhere for a drink on the drive from the airport.

The water stops, and the footsteps begin again, alongside a soft sound that Daniel can’t identify at first.

Humming.

A woman humming, bright and cheerful.

Slowly, he lowers the chess set to the floor and descends the last few stairs.

The woman leans over to water one of the plants on the windowsill, her back to Daniel, her short blonde hair golden in the sunset streaming through the curtains.

“Caroline?”

She yelps in surprise, splashing water on the floor as she whirls around. Her shocked expression only intensifies when she sees him. “Daniel?”

He nods hesitantly. What is he supposed to say? “What…are you doing here?”

Caroline stares. “What am I doing here?” She shakes her head. “Dan, I– I thought you were…”

Oh. Right. “Dead?” he finishes for her, with something like a shrug. “Well…I’m not,” he adds when she doesn’t respond.

She sets down the glass and takes a small step toward him. “You're not,” she repeats, like she’s still convincing herself, and then she laughs in disbelief. “You’re not.”

She hugs him, and he freezes momentarily before awkwardly returning the embrace. When she pulls away, she’s beaming. “Oh, I am so happy to see you!” she declares, taking his face in her hands a bit too tightly.

“I’m glad to see you too, Caroline,” he says, and he means it. “But…what are you doing here?”

“I drop by every few days to check on the house,” she says, returning to the windowsill. “Take care of the flowers, make sure things are nice and tidy. Helps keep the resale value up.”

Daniel watches her in silence for a few seconds. “So, my mother is selling the house?”

“That’s right,” Caroline says. She pauses, then turns back to him, her face twisted with concern. “Does your mother know? That you’re alright?”

He laughs once, a sharp, surprising sound. “Yeah, she knows. She definitely knows.” The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He clears his throat. “I, uh… I don’t guess she told you how it happened? Or, uh. Supposedly happened?”

“No, she never did say,” Caroline replies. “She only mentioned that there was some kind of accident.”

“Hm.” He crosses his arms and drums his fingers on his elbow. Why would his mother go around telling people something that she didn’t definitively know herself? Why would she tell Caroline unambiguously that he was dead, when she had no way of knowing whether or not it was actually true?

Caroline is staring at him. “What?” he asks.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re…different, than the last time I saw you.”

Functioning, she means. Able to act like a normal person, or at least a close approximation of one. Able to hold a full conversation without forgetting the beginning halfway through.

The last time she saw him must have been three years ago, at least – before the island. She was his caretaker then; after his mind shattered, it only made sense for his mother to hire Caroline, the kind neighbor he’d known since he was a child, someone who used to babysit him for weeks at a time, someone who wouldn’t have to reintroduce herself to him multiple times a day.

He remembers only the rough edges of that period in his life, like the vague outline of a dream he can’t recall. Even his clearest memory – his mother urging him to take the job he’d been offered by Charles Widmore – persists only in bits and pieces, fragments of sensory experiences with no context attached. The jingling of car keys set on a table, the click of his mother’s shoes on the hardwood floor, the smooth resin of the piano keys beneath his fingertips.

He freezes. Something is missing. “Where’s my piano?”

“I think she sold it, not long after you left,” Caroline says quietly.

Daniel steps into the empty space in the corner of the room, struggling to fill the matching empty space in his chest with logic. Of course she sold it. He was gone. Dead, for all she knew. There would be no reason for her to keep it. He’s never known his mother to be particularly sentimental when it comes to mementos.

And it doesn’t matter anyway. Even if he could remember the last time he played, it still wouldn’t matter. He won’t be here for long, after all, so why should it matter?

“How long has the house been for sale?” he asks, turning back to Caroline. “I mean, has anyone made any offers, or…?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of, no. Although, you’d have to ask the listing agent. I have her number, if you want it,” she adds, crossing the room to grab her purse.

“No, thank you, that’s alright,” Daniel says quickly. The last thing he needs is for his mother to drop by unannounced; better to avoid speaking with anyone who might be in regular contact with her.

“I’m not sure how long it’s been since the last open house,” Caroline continues. “Several months, at least.”

Daniel nods and takes a deep breath. “Well, in that case, is it… Is it alright if I…stay here? For a little while?” What an odd question to ask in his own home.

Then again, is it his home? He’s lived more than half his life here, but it’s not as if he has any real claim to the house; it’s his mother’s name on the deed, not his. Legally speaking, he’s technically trespassing.

“Of course.” Caroline smiles and laughs a bit. “It’s your house, Dan.”

He forces a smile of his own. “I guess it is.”

She steps forward and gives him another quick hug. “Welcome home.”

------

The next few days pass without incident. A week, two weeks, then three, all without anyone kicking down the door to drag Daniel away on Widmore’s orders.

He spends most of the time reading back issues of old tech magazines, the few remnants of his collection that haven’t been cleared out along with everything else. Most of the pages are decorated with small wrinkles and creases, a clear indication that he’s spent some time – a lot of time, probably – thumbing through them before. More than likely, he’s read them all cover to cover hundreds of times, each time the first, since he undoubtedly didn’t retain any of the information within.

It's a full month of finding ways to while away the hours before Desmond calls, early one morning, to let him know they’re only a few days out from Los Angeles.

Daniel starts packing as soon as he hangs up. He might as well leave now, so he can meet them on arrival. Maybe he’ll have a chance to say goodbye to Hurley as well; they haven’t spoken since the last time Dan visited Santa Rosa, since he left abruptly to track down Locke.

He's stuffing the last of his things into his backpack when a knock at the front door shakes him from his thoughts; Caroline, no doubt, delivering the usual semi-weekly supply of groceries despite his protests. He’s more than capable of buying his own, regardless of the mass of fast-food wrappers she’d found in the trash the first time she came to check on him.

He puts on his backpack as he descends the stairs. He’ll have to be more adamant in his refusal, since he’s leaving today. He opens the door.

“Morning,” says one of the two men standing there. He holds up a badge. “You Daniel Faraday?”

“Uh…” Daniel blinks. “Yeah?”

“Cool. Gonna need you to come with us, then.”

He blinks again, not understanding. “What… Who–”

The second man steps forward, producing a pair of handcuffs.

Daniel steps back. Is he being arrested? “Why are you– What’s the charge?”

“Arson. Murder.” The first man shrugs. “Jaywalking. Take your pick.”

The second grabs Dan’s arm roughly to spin him around and cuff him, and Daniel stares at the floor, too dumbfounded to do anything else.

Arson. Murder. The library at the University of Michigan? Leon? How could anyone try to blame Daniel for any of that? How could anyone have even connected him to it, when he wasn’t using his real name?

He’s escorted out of the house and deposited into the back seat of a car idling in the street. It’s not until the car pulls away from the curb that he finally understands. “You aren't really cops,” he says quietly, almost a question but not quite.

Neither of his kidnappers respond.

Daniel exhales. What was even the point of the police façade, then? “So, what, you're working for Widmore?”

The first man, the driver, laughs. “Is that what you think this is?”

“It… It was.” Daniel shifts uneasily. “Who are you, then?”

The second turns around in his seat to face him. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about, my friend.”

Daniel’s mouth is too dry. He swallows. “Like…what?”

“You still don't even realize you're playing for the wrong team.”

“I…wasn’t aware there were teams,” Daniel says flatly. He swallows again. “So, what team am I on, exactly?”

The man grins like he’s said something funny. “The one that's gonna lose.”