She's exhausted and she's hurting in ways that she never expected. She's close to tears, through exhaustion or high emotion or both, but her daughter is here, in her arms, safe and whole and perfect. It's something that Charlie never expected to happen, not for her. It feels like she's been waiting for this for a very, very long time ( Read more... )

Charlie's not naturally the tidiest person in the world; she sort of thrives on clutter. She knows that it drives Ianto mad so she's learned to pick up after herself and, today, she's padding around in shorts and one of his t-shirts, gathering up armfuls of art supplies and textbooks, putting them back where they go. It's hot today and she's a ( Read more... )

She's done every damn piece of laundry in the whole house. Hers. Iantos. The pillow that Delilah sleeps on. The blanket that Bill managed to pee all over. Everything. Some days, it feels like one of Ianto's favourite pastimes is bitching at her about dirty panties on the floor, yesterday's night-gown on the floor, so she'd gathered it all up ( Read more... )

Standing at the foot of the bed, Charlie straightened her suspender and grinned when elastic snaps against tan skin. She'd been up for an hour, curling her hair, strapping herself into her best, fancy panties. Sequins. Feathers. She hoisted her tits a little higher in the push-up bra and gets back onto the bed. There was something so sexy ( Read more... )

It had been such a shame to put sweaty running clothes back on over clean skin, but at least it wasn't a long walk home. The ends of her red hair were still dripping when she walked through the door. Banon came running as Charlie toed out of her shoes. It had been a few days, and she's not even entirely used to being back yet ( Read more... )

Home again, Charlie sat down, still in her running clothes, in the middle of the floor in the room that had been the library when she staying there, but which had become hers, slowly, while she'd lived there. Ianto had built her a wide desk, which, at the moment, was occupied with an unfinished painting on a large, rough canvas. She was getting ( Read more... )

On mornings when she didn't get up to go running, Charlie slept late. She spent almost every night over at Ianto's most nights, her mess encroaching on Ianto's tidiness, but she didn't think that he minded too much. She was spending almost every night there, so she'd gotten used to waking up there, wrapped around him, as close as she could get. ( Read more... )

Charlie had been for a walk, the origami rose from yesterday pinned into her hair behind her ear. It was a nice day, one of those weekends, but quiet. Nobody screaming. Nobody crying. Charlie figured that telling the truth wasn't the worst thing that could happen ( Read more... )

Inside, the hut was still and dim. She'd piled all of Donald's things into a box, and she hadn't decided whether or not to burn them, but she wasn't thinking about that just then. There was a pulsing heat in her belly, a tightness between her legs that precluded thought and made it the easiest thing in the world to step in to Ianto as he closed ( Read more... )

It was dark, almost full dark, by the time Charlie left the hut. She'd waited until she was sure that the party was over, that everyone was gone. She was still so angry, even after talking to Duck, and she didn't trust herself with people ( Read more... )