Summary: After the rescue, Claire and Desmond begin a friendship which quickly turns into something else.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Ch. 1: Not Alone

The red, digital clock winked suggestively at Claire as she stared at it, too dazed from a lack of sleep to want to change the batteries and too mesmerized by its glow to turn away. She knew it couldn't have been only midnight—the gray of dawn was just coming in through her window and her body was stiff from tossing and turning all night in an empty, queen-sized bed. At least Aaron hadn't gotten up, a good sign that his ear infection may have been wearing off.

Saturday.

Saturday meant leaving the flat and running errands, brushing against strangers on the sidewalk and occasionally signing an autograph or shaking hands. Saturdays were busy, often giving Claire a headache before 3 pm, but at least Aaron got some fresh air. At least he was happy, oblivious to his previous life on the island and already so well-adapted to normal civilization.

Claire turned over in her bed and kicked the sheets off her warm body. A month. It had been nearly a month since their rescue, a month since Claire landed back home in Sydney. The press was still buzzing around her apartment, begging for an interview with the mother who survived nearly six months on an island in the middle of nowhere. She gained her royalties, of course—mostly from Oceanic Airlines trying to make amends and prevent her from suing—and although Claire welcomed her new, small fortune, she couldn't help but wonder why she felt so lonely when the whole world now wanted to be her friend.

A whole month and not one person from the island came to see her.

Claire had read about her fellow survivors in the paper over time—a few relocated back to L.A. while others faded into obscurity, avoiding the spotlight altogether but promising to stay in touch with those who mattered. Most promised to at least give her a call from time to time, and Claire had even seen Hurley on an American talk show the other week, but none had followed through on their promise. For now, then, it was just Claire and her baby. She ran errands and took Aaron to the park and that was as good as it was going to get. Lonely, but not alone.

Claire sat up in bed and stretched her arms, rubbing her face and wishing to hell she hadn't taken the last of her sleeping pills the night before.

“More errands,” she mumbled to herself.

Claire took the blinking clock from the wall and set it on her bed as a reminder to replace the batteries, stepping foot on the cold floor and rubbing her arms. It was different to be able to sleep in real pajamas, to not have to worry about sand fleas or sudden rain showers outside a dinky tent. Claire took her sweater as it hung on the bedpost and wrapped it tightly around herself, moving across the dark room to her closet. She turned the on light and stared at the racks of new clothes she had for herself—jeans and t-shirts and shoes to make any celebrity jealous. A red sun dress was draped on a hanger in the back, a dress Claire thought she might wear if any of her fellow survivors had dropped by. She ran her fingers along it carefully, pursing her lips and stretching her arm to retrieve what she had really been looking for in the shelf above.

As Claire took the white shoe box from the shelf, she handled it tenderly as if it were as precious as her own child. Prying it open gently, Claire's eyes went directly to the silver ring on the bottom amongst newspaper clippings and a single piece of white paper with black writing. She took the ring from the box, holding it by the chain it was connected to and picked up the white paper along with it.

Claire sat on the floor of her closet, resting her head on the door frame and setting the shoe box next to her. She held the ring between her fingers for a moment, feeling its bulkiness with the initials DS melded onto it. She placed the chain around her neck and let the ring dangle between her cleavage, unfolding the paper and reading the black Sharpie letters over and over again.

The night I met you.

Claire bit on her bottom lip and crumpled the paper in her hands, squeezing her eyes shut to keep the warm, salty tears from flowing down her face like twin waterfalls. Her emotions overtook her, though, and soon Claire was crying and holding the ring and paper to her forehead as if they were holy relics, chanting a mantra she had become all-too familiar with:

“I'm sorry, Charlie. I'm so sorry.”

000

Saturday meant errands but it also meant a nice, long afternoon in the park with Aaron. Maybe they would get lucky today and not be bothered by a fan or a member of the press, but Claire didn't hold her breath on the matter. This was her life now, days of running to the grocery store and playing at the park with her son. No more, no less.

As Claire waited in line at the chemist to refill her bottle of sleeping pills, she could feel the other customer's eyes watching her, not because she was at the head of the line, but because she was, in fact, Claire Littleton—the woman who survived the plane crash of Oceanic 815 and managed to keep her baby safe.

You don't know the half of it, Claire thought amusingly to herself. She tapped her fingers restlessly on Aaron's stroller and waited for the chemist to refill her prescription, feeling the creeping sensation of someone standing a bit too close behind her in line. Claire turned her head slowly to see a woman smiling at her. She turned her body and gave the stranger a weak grin.

“Hi,” Claire said.

The short, stodgy redhead smiled wider and gave her a nod. “I've seen you on the telly,” she said eagerly, “you're the girl from the plane crash, yeah? The one with the baby?”

Claire forced a polite smile and nodded again. “Yeah, that's me.”

The woman pulled a pen and paper from her bag and held it out to Claire. “Mind if I get an autograph?”

Claire looked back to see if her pills were on the counter yet, and took the woman's paper to sign. “Sure,” she said,” what's your name?”

“Abigail,” the redhead beamed, practically bursting with excitement. “Is that him, then?” she asked, motioning towards Aaron.

Claire smiled genuinely. “Yeah, that's him.”

“Oh, he's brilliant,” Abigail said.

Claire gave back her paper with her signature and the woman giggled, leaning in closer as if she were an old school friend with juicy gossip. “Is it true about you and the dead rock star?”

A twinge of pain shot through Claire's heart. She felt her face drop but didn't move her eyes away from the middle-aged woman. Instantly Claire's hand went to her chest, feeling for the chain and the ring around it near her heart. Before Claire could open her mouth to utter a single word, the chemist announced her name from behind the counter and Claire quickly turned around to get her prescription. She tucked it away in her purse and wheeled Aaron's stroller out of line, brushing past the redhead and the other strangers staring at her.

“I'm sorry, I have to go,” she muttered.

Not here, not now.

Claire didn't want to break down in the pharmacy of all places, not with her child in tow and especially not with the press potentially lurking around every corner. Once outside the store, Claire stopped on the sidewalk, took a deep breath, and squeezed her eyes shut.

The dead rock star. Was that what Charlie had been reduced to? There had been quite a fuss made when they announced he survived the crashed but died on the island, rumors flying around that he and another survivor had been close during their time away from home. He had had a proper funeral once the coverage calmed down, a greatest hits album and a cult following from the time of the crash. But now that things were settling down and only a few reporters sniffed about, Charlie's status was dissolving into oblivion as quickly as a celebrity break-up in a tabloid magazine. And yet, there was still the question of the mystery girl Charlie Pace had been associated with, a girl only his brother, Liam, was aware of—

Claire wiped her eyes with a shaking hand and sighed heavily. Not today. Today was Saturday and there was a park to be visited.

“What do you think, Aaron?” Claire asked her son, pushing the stroller down the street. “Shall we take a ride to the park?” Aaron only cooed in response, an action Claire took as a definite 'yes' as she crossed the street, her heart lifting a bit from its melancholy constraints.

000

The park was Claire's favorite part of Saturday and, she guessed, was Aaron's as well. There may have been a greater chance that a reporter would stop by, but Claire liked to take the chance and figured even a greasy tabloid columnist wouldn't dare bother a mother and her son on a sunny day in the park.

She laid out a blanket for them both, picking Aaron up from the stroller and setting him on the soft comforter in the moist grass. As Claire lay on her side, jiggling a toy in front of her son's bright, curious eyes, she looked out across the lush park at the other families sitting on park benches and children running in the playground below the hill. Everyone seemed so happy, so content with their lives. There was no wondering where their next meal would come from or whether or not a group of vicious island-dwellers would steal their children—there was only a nine-to-five workday and a few bills to occupy the minds of these mommies and daddies. Claire hoped that one day she could eventually relax and become as boring as them.

“Hey,” a voice said suddenly to Claire, “hey, there.”

Claire turned her eyes toward the slope of the hill and put her hand in front of her face to block the sun. She sat up and instinctively moved closer to Aaron, watching cautiously as a man approached. He smiled and hesitantly stepped forward, waving as if to indicate that he came in peace and rubbed his balding head.

“Can I help you?” Claire asked.

The older man in khakis and a sweater vest did an awkward half-bow towards her and held out his hand. “Oh man, it's you,” he said with an American accent.

Claire put her hand down as he blocked the sun, trying to figure this stranger out. “Do I know you?” she said.

“No, but I've seen you on TV,” the man said, his face twisted in a nervous kind of amusement, “you're Claire, right? The one with the baby?”

Claire made no move, but watched this curious man carefully, always keeping one eye on her baby.

“You survived the plane crash,” the stranger went on, “you were on that island.”

Claire hesitated, giving the man a strained smile. “Yeah, that's me.”

The stranger stared at her for a moment, his mouth slightly open and his hands clasped together. “I think you're wonderful,” he sighed.

Claire nodded, feeling her stomach churn at the way this man was looking at her. “Well, thank you,” she said politely. He took another step forward.

“You are so brave for surviving,” the man said in a reverent, serious tone. “I've been watching you on the news and I can't believe how brave you are.”

Claire stood slowly, bending over to pick up her child and held him in her arms as he fussed. Her instinct to get away was kicking in, but she found herself rooted to her spot in fear. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe he was just another star-struck fan or a rather unorthodox reporter trying to get a scoop.

“Is that your son?” the man asked, looking at Aaron.

Claire flinched and stepped away, holding him tighter.

“He's beautiful,” the stranger sighed,” just like his mommy.”

Claire finally turned away from the man and placed her son in the stroller. “We really have to be going—”

“You're even prettier than on TV,” the bug-eyed stranger said, “I wrote you a letter, I wanted to let you know how wonderful I think you are—”

“Okay, that's great,” Claire said, bending over to pick up the blanket. Her heart jack-hammered in her chest, her need to get away even greater than before as this gaping stranger continued to stare.

“You are so beautiful . . .”

Claire felt the man reach his hand out and touch the back of her hair and she whipped around, terrified. “Hey—!”

“Is there a problem here, brother?”

That voice. There was no mistaking that Scottish accent or familiar catchphrase. Claire's legs nearly gave out as she heard the voice from behind her, feeling as though she had slipped into a dream without realizing it.

“No problem,” the stranger said, backing away. “I was just saying hi.” He turned and began walking back down the hill, looking behind as he went. “I'll see you later, Claire,” he called, disappearing from sight.

Claire lowered her head but didn't move, didn't want to turn around to discover that the voice behind her was only an apparition, only hope come to life from the recesses of her mind . . .

“You, uh, need a hand with your blanket, sister?”

It was real. He was real. Claire spun around to see Desmond standing near Aaron's stroller, tall and lean and as warm as ever. He stood with a smile, clean-shaven and sharp in a buttoned-up shirt. His face felt so familiar, so pleasant and inviting, Claire couldn't help but drop the blanket she was holding and run to him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and burying her head in his shoulder.

Finally, after all this time. Finally someone had come to see her.

TBC