FIC: Odyssey In 14 (LOST)
[mood| melancholy]
[music| What She's Doing Now - Garth Brooks]


Title: Odyssey In 14
Author: chicafrom3
Rating: PG
Paring: Desmond/Penny. Also some Desmond/Elizabeth, at least if your mind works like mine which I suppose is far from a sure thing. But I have a special weakness for captain/ship pairings.
Summary: Snapshots of two lives intertwined.
Spoilers: Live Together, Die Alone.
Disclaimer: Not mine, woe. I'm not talented (or rich) enough to own Lost or the characters within. My opinion is neither copyrighted nor trademarked, and it's price competitive. If you like, I'll trade for one of yours.
Archive: Sure, just let me know so I can squee and feel proud and all that.
Warnings: Some language.
Author's Notes: Generously betaed by the excellent hanshi_woaini. The backstory extrapolation here is mine and mine alone and probably not based on things that make sense to the fandom at large. The section titles are intentional references to The Odyssey: see title. Namaste, thank you, and good luck.



I. Meeting

He was a year away from a doctorate in medicine and found himself spending the summer holidays bumming around England like a tourist, buying drinks for pretty girls, listening to lousy garage bands, and just generally slacking off for presumably the last time in his life.

He met Penny Widmore in a London coffee café, only he didn't know she was Penny Widmore. She was pretty and she was reading Great Expectations, apparently not noticing that her cup was empty.

He bought two cups of coffee and went to give her one.

She looked started for a moment and then bestowed a delicious smile on him. His first impression had been wrong – she wasn't pretty – she was gorgeous. "Oh! Thank you," she said, accepting the cup and taking a sip.

He flashed his own smile at her. "Couldn't help noticing your choice of reading material. I've always been a fan of Mr. Dickens' work."

"Bit of a newcomer to his work, myself."

He gave her a playfully disapproving look. "I've read every book he ever wrote, except for one. I'm saving that one to be the last thing I ever read."

"An admirable goal," she said solemnly, eyes sparkling.

"Indeed." He gestured at her book. "But that's certainly a great one. How far are you?"

"Pip is in London."

"Have you started disliking him yet?"

She giggled, and that was it, they were friends, chatting away as if they'd known each other all their lives.

She was surprised he was a medical student. "You don't seem serious enough to be a doctor," she observed, taking a drink of her coffee.

"What?" He pretended to take offense. "You think doctors can't be silly sometimes? What are you studying, then?"

"Physics – just finished my first year," she answered primly.

"No." He let his jaw drop. "Why, you're too much fun to be a physics student!"

"What, you don't think physicists can be fun?" she retorted, and they both laughed.

He didn't think to ask her name until hours had passed, the café was closing down, and they were preparing to part ways.

"I'm Desmond," he offered belatedly, extending a hand. "By the way."

She hesitated for a moment, then decisively seized his hand. "Penny."

"Well, Penny, may I see you again?"

He was rewarded with that brilliant smile. "I'd like that a lot, Desmond."



II. Ithaca

She was up to her eyeballs in coursework and halfway regretting the decision to study physics, but everyday another letter arrived from Desmond, and that was enough to keep her going.

He never seemed to run out of things to talk about. He related the oddest anecdotes and swore they were true, complained cheerfully about his course load, invited her to visit him in Scotland, recommended authors and books, recounted his family history, waxed eloquent about the future, enthused about hospital patients, and notated when he was writing to her from a session he was supposed to be paying attention to.

She read each letter two or three times and faithfully wrote long letters back, keeping him updated on her life and reading list. She carefully saved ever letter he wrote, stacking them in a shoebox under her bed.

Then one day he showed up on her doorstep out of the blue and announced that he had dropped out of med school and was planning on joining the Army but first he wanted to go to Australia and would she please like to come with him.

She said, "No, absolutely not, I have schoolwork and so do you, why on Earth would you drop out of med school this close to graduation?" only what came out of her mouth sounded more like, "Yes, lovely, I'd love to, let me get a leave of absence from the school."

He had that effect on her.



III. Opposition

He wanted to be a gentleman about this, so he approached Penny's father and asked permission to ask her hand in marriage. He was confident of the answer: after all, he was a Lance Corporal in Her Majesty's Army, he had honor, they had been dating for years and exclusive nearly as long, and they had even been off the continent together.

So he was understandably shocked when Charles Widmore smiled amiably and said pleasantly, "Stay the hell away from my daughter, Hume, or I'll have you killed in ways you can't begin to imagine."

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. I was willing to allow her little infatuation with you because I knew she would bore of it soon enough, but I will not let you trap her in a marriage."

He set his jaw. "I wasn't planning to trap her, and all due respect but you can't stop me from seeing her."

Widmore's eyes bored into him. "Oh," the older man said, still smiling. "Can't I?"



IV. Constant

She couldn't believe they were sending her Des to military prison.

She wrote him a letter. Encouraging. Reminding him that she loved him. That she'd wait for him.

She knew he'd need the reminder.

The letter was folded and slipped inside the front cover of Our Mutual Friend. It was the one place he'd turn to when he was in most need of the reassurance.

She kissed him goodbye and tried not to cry. He hugged her tightly and apologized and told her he loved her and walked off with the military police.

And she started waiting.

She dutifully learned about her father's businesses so that one day she would be prepared to run them. She went out with friends but never dated – "My boyfriend's away," she said whenever she was asked, which was quite often. Always away, never in prison – prison was an ugly word, one that didn't fit him. She said it so many times she started to forget where he really was.

And every day that passed and no letter came, her heart cracked a little more.

But she kept hope, and she waited, faithful Penelope.



V. Troy

He hated prison. He was bored and lonely and to take his mind off it he wrote long letters to Penny, filling the pages with dreams of the life they would have once his sentence was complete, promises that he'd make up this time apart to her, declarations of love.

More than once he wished he'd brought Our Mutual Friend inside with him, but in the end he was glad he hadn't. It was still an unattained goal and a reason to hold on.

He wrote bad poetry and laughed at himself. Talked philosophy with one of the guards. Read and reread. Slept a lot.

And wrote more letters to Penny.

He proposed marriage a dozen times in a dozen ways. He asked whether she'd rather live in Australia or the States, somewhere away from bad memories and her father, only he didn't say that. He suggested names for future children.

I love you and I miss you and I promise we'll never be apart for so long again if only you wait for me, Pen, just wait for me.

He counted down the days to his release.



VI. Suitors

She was starting to break and she hated it.

No word came from Desmond and time was running on and what if he'd given up on her? What if he'd thought about and decided against her?

She tried to hold to her belief in his love for her. And the next time Thomas Ruark asked her for a date, she said, "No, absolutely not, I can't do that, I love Des and he's going to come home and everything's going to be fine," only all that came out of her mouth was "Fine."

Her father seemed happy that she was "finally dating again" but she spent the entire evening miserable. Oh, it wasn't Thomas's fault; he was a nice enough bloke, and even vaguely interesting, probably. But he wasn't Des.

Still, when he asked if he could see her again, she agreed.

She checked the mail every day, and still no letter from Des came, and Thomas took her out most evenings. Thomas was sweet and gentlemanly and attentive and her father seemed to like him but he wasn't Des, and Des hadn't written her.

She wondered if he'd read his beloved book yet, and if he'd found her letter.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it was too saccharine, too dramatic, too clingy. Maybe that had scared him off. If so, it was her fault.

When Thomas proposed to her several months after they started seeing one another, she didn't say "yes".

But she didn't say "no" either.

Two weeks later Des's sentence was complete.



VII. Ship

He took a long, hard look. "So this is the Elizabeth," he said, and liked what he saw.

Not a big boat, not fancy, but clean lines and well taken-care of. She'd do. She'd more than do.

"This is the Elizabeth," Libby agreed. "What do you think?"

Instead of answering, he turned back to the strawberry-blonde-haired woman. "Are you sure about this, sister? You don't know me from Adam. I'm a complete stranger. And you're just giving a boat to me?"

"Is this your way of saying you don't want it?"

"Just giving you the chance to change your mind."

"David was a very generous person," she said, and smiled at him. "And you need it more than I do. So? Will you take it?"

He looked at the Elizabeth again and couldn't deny that he was already in love. He thought about what Charles Widmore's face would look like when he won the race. He thought about Penny.

Really, his decision was already made.

"I'll take her," he said, and Libby broke out in a wide beam.



VIII. Hero

She didn’t let it hurt as she got out of the car, even as Desmond took on a look of shock and dismay.

He didn't want to see her.

She didn't let it hurt.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

She took a deep breath. Emotions warred in her. Relief: here was her Des, whole and intact and real, her memories hadn't lied to her. Despair: he didn't want to see her, he didn't love her anymore. "The landlord at your flat told me you ran here everyday—"

"How did you find me," he cut her off fiercely, and she gave in and answered the real question:

"I have a lot of money, Desmond. With enough money and determination you can find anyone."

He didn't respond to that.

She had to know—had to know if he'd read her letter and if that had scared him off, had to know if it simply hadn't mattered enough to him. "Did you read your beloved book – the one you were saving?"

"Not yet."

She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, so she just swallowed and pushed on. "I thought you might have read it while you were away."

"I was in prison," he said viciously. "Not away."

"Why didn't you write to me?" broke out of her and her voice cracked horribly on the words and she fought against crying.

He didn't answer, didn't look her in the eyes.

She couldn't stop a tear from escaping, but she refused to blink, to show weakness.

He met her gaze, and she saw anguish in his eyes and hoped she wasn't imagining it. "When are you getting married, Pen?" he asked, and sounded like it hurt him as much as it was hurting her.

"How did you hear about that? Because it's not—I don't want to marry him, I want to marry you, but you didn't write to me," she shouted at him, only it came out as a subdued, "We haven't set a date yet."

But he heard her. "I'll be back in a year," and there was a promise in it.

She didn't want that. It wasn't enough. "What if you were back right now?"

He looked frustrated and turned away from her, and then looked back at her. "I'm going to win this race, Pen – his race. And in a year, I'll be back." He turned back to his car.

She shook her head. How was it possible for him to be so determined to prove himself to her father that he couldn't see she was right here, right now, waiting for him? "Desmond, what are you running from?"

He slammed the trunk closed and looked at her, eyes pleading for understanding. "I have to get my honor back," he said thickly. "And that's what I'm running to."

And it finally made sense.

She stood there and watched him run into the stadium, away from her, and struggled to stop crying.

When she returned to her hotel she called Thomas and cancelled the engagement.



IX. Poseidon

He made good time.

He'd never really doubted that he would.

The Elizabeth was strong and sturdy and sleek, and he loved her and knew her and could sail her in all the right ways.

He was going to win, and he was going to show Charles Widmore that he was good enough for Penny, and she…

Would she wait?…

The picture of the two of them in Australia sat below decks where he could see it anytime he wanted, next to Our Mutual Friend still waiting to be read.

He was going to win the race, and Libby would know that she wasn't wrong to give the Elizabeth to him, and her husband's memory would be honored.

He was going to win the race, and he would be able to look himself in the eye again.

He was going to win the race, and that was going to have to be enough, because it was the only thing he could keep his focus on.

There was a storm up ahead.

He started to get to work getting ready for it.



X. Charybdis

She was cleaning out her father's things. Charles Widmore had been buried eight days ago. It had been twenty-three days since the search for Desmond was called off and he was officially "missing at sea, presumed dead".

She found a box in the closet, unlabeled and buried under a ton of suit jackets. Not particularly interested in the contents – it was probably bills or something equally dull – she opened it anyway.

Her heart lurched violently in her chest.

"You bastard," she told her dead father, and again, "You bastard. You bastard!" only the only sound that came out was a violent sob. And then she was on her knees on the floor of the closet, crying bitterly, paper crinkling in her hands.

The box was filled with envelopes, each labeled in Des's wide handwriting: his name and the military prison's address in the up left corner, her name and address placed neatly center. There were dozens of them, hundreds.

He'd written to her. Her father had lied, had hidden them from her, but he'd written to her.

He hadn't stopped loving her, and she'd gone off to get engaged.

Why hadn't he told her?

Why had her father lied to her?

For God's sake, why was she only finding out about this now?

She ripped open an envelope and started reading, desperation and despair, drinking in words like a dying woman in the desert who's just found water, past caring about anything else but his handwriting, his words, his love.

He asked her to wait for him.

She just cried harder.



XI. Cyclops

For lack of anything else to talk about, and out of a need to hear his own voice, he told Kelvin…oh, everything.

He chattered on about med school, the army, prison, his discharge. He expanded the story of his failed race around the world to epic proportions. He rambled about his childhood and the future he might've had if Dharma hadn't stripped it away from him.

Not that Kelvin cared.

But he kept talking anyway. He talked about Charles Dickens and stuffed bunnies, about generous widows in American coffeehouses, about falling in love with a ship.

The only part of his life he never talked about was Penny. He never mentioned her name to Kelvin. And Kelvin never asked about the picture he kept by his bed, carefully maintained and protected.

He wasn't sure why he never talked about her to Kelvin, except maybe that he just didn't like the older man enough to share information about her. It was personal and private.

He'd told her he'd be back in a year, and instead here he was, buried under a ton of rock and dirt, pressing a damned button every hundred and eight minutes to save the world.

There were days when he was incredibly grateful to Kelvin, because otherwise, he'd be all alone down here and maybe he'd even forget that other people were real.

But then there were days when he hated Kelvin, hated him so much for being responsible for his being locked down here away from her, away from his life, for not letting him go outside, for being the only person around to be hated.

He missed her so terribly.

He slept with her picture close by and dreamed that Kelvin was blind.



XII. Laertes

Electromagnetism, her father's files said, and she latched on to that.

Des's boat had had a GPS, the race officials said, and she latched on to that.

She spent money liberally—that was what it was for, after all—and paid for research stations around the world: the Arctic, Australia, Fiji, Portugal, Brazil, the United States. Research stations investigating electromagnetic anomalies. Research stations tracking GPS signals. Research stations investigating places that didn't technically exist. She staffed them with well-educated scientists, top in their fields, well-paid and on rotation so they wouldn't get bored and stop paying attention. And her home number was listed to call if they found anything.

Charles Widmore's notes talked about the 'Dharma Initiative', so she fought for more information about that, but kept coming up on dead end upon dead end: a 1960s project led by two Berkley students, but surely that was deep in the past?

'Hanso' provided a bare handful of clues to follow: they'd provided the DeGroots with funding, they were studying electromagnetism (not coincidence, surely?), and there was some public suspicion on the ethicality of some of their projects.

She invested more money in trying to track down the hacker who called herself Persephone.

Enough money and determination, and she had plenty of both, thank God; she was going to find him. There just wasn't any other possibility.

She fought forward, day by day, waiting for her investments to pay off, keeping the Widmore Corporation running smoothly to keep bringing in money to pay for her search.

She knew some people might think she was deluded, willfully insane, but she preferred to think of herself as loyal, faithful, constant, and resolute.



XIII. Circe

"Hey. Hey, can I get some help? Can you help me?"

"I'm trying, brother."

It made sense again, all of it, all the pieces falling together:

the key

Kelvin's death

Penny's letter

the pounding on the hatch

the key

the boxman, the doctor, the other plane crash survivors

the plane crash itself

the button

the key

the film

Radzinski

Elizabeth

his inability to get out of this snowglobe

the key

He tried to explain to the boxman, made a mess of it and knew he wasn't understood, knew he couldn't waste time trying to explain properly. Prayed inside his head and climbed into the underground space where he'd found Kelvin oh so long ago.

Everything was going to hell and his hands were shaking as he tried to insert the key.

Maybe this was what his whole life had been leading up to. Maybe this was his destiny. Maybe this was why he'd loved and been loved by Penny.

He ran through the Hail Mary mentally and crossed himself quickly.

Maybe this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done and it would kill him, kill the three still in the station above his head, wipe this whole Island out of existence.

all we really need to survive is one person who loves us, and you have her

"I love you, Penny," he choked out, and turned the key.

The world went supernova behind his eyes.



XIV. Retrieval

It was three in the morning and she hadn't been sleeping.

She'd been thinking about Des, and time.

Three years had gone by, and nothing had turned up. Electromagnetic anomalies turned out to be just that: anomalies that didn't hold any evidence for her. The Hanso Foundation kept blocking her investigations into their organization. No signal had been found from his GPS.

She couldn't stand to concede defeat, but at three in the morning everything certainly looked deeply hopeless.

The phone rang and she automatically turned on the bedside light and reached for it. Her thoughts still dwelt on him, not on who would be calling her at this time of night.

"Miss Widmore?" an accented, vaguely recognizable voice asked.

"Yes?" she answered, trying to place a name to the voice. She should know this—

"It's us. I think we found it."

She sat up in bed, shocked, as the pieces fell together.