Little Yellow Houses
Title: Little Yellow Houses
Summary: He remembers he was sitting right here and thinking about something... something important.
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Daniel/Charlotte
Spoilers: Season 4
Words: 850
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. Pity.
A/N: Hooray for Charladay.
--
He remembers now. He remembers he was sitting right here and thinking about something... something important. His fingers had been tapping the rocking chair-or maybe his foot was tapping. No, it was his hand; he'd been scraping the paint off the chair. And thinking something important.
Well, there's no time to think about it now: the door of the house has swung open.
Wait, no, that's it! He'd been thinking something important about her.
"Here, Daniel." The woman hands him a mug of coffee with half a smile. It's become a habit of his-theirs-though he doesn't quite know how it started. He just comes to sit on their porch every morning and she makes coffee.
"Thank you..." Her name. Why can't I remember her name?
"Charlotte." She supplies him with it, again.
"Charlotte." He repeats.
Every time he can't remember that name, he sees her break a little more. He just doesn't know why.
--
Sometimes she tells him stories while they drink their coffee. She tells him once-upon-a-times about a physicist and an anthropologist and a ghost whisperer and a drunken pilot. They came to a mysterious island to fight evil and save people stranded there. But then they got stranded, too.
It wasn't so bad, though, because they stayed on the island and went on great adventures and discovered things about the island that they didn't know before. They escaped from monsters, too. And the physicist and the anthropologist fell in love. They were happy. The End? He can't remember how it ends.
Sometimes, these stories pull at something inside of him. He thinks maybe it's another important something.
No, probably not, because these are just stories.
--
He often finds himself sleeping next to her. He'll turn in his sleep, late in the night, and his face will fall into those spiraling red curls of hers. She smells so nice, so familiar.
Sometimes she even whispers his name, and though he doesn't know if she's awake or asleep, he wants to whisper her name back. If only he could remember what to call her.
And then... then she's never there when he wakes in the morning, so he's left to wonder if she was ever there beside him in the first place. He wonders, but can never bring himself to ask.
--
One day, he walks past these houses and swing sets and people who give him strange looks. He walks until he sees a jungle. A jungle he can't believe he didn't know about, stretching to a distant place he can't see. And light... he can tell from here, something's about the light is just off. Then comes a row a pillars-a fence.
"Daniel! Dan!"
He turns because he hears her voice.
"What are you doing? You can't just-"
"Where are we?"
Her face softens, but she doesn't answer for a while. Instead, he takes his hand and leads him back to the barracks. He doesn't resist.
When they reach a certain little yellow house (which looks like all the rest but must be his/hers/theirs), she says, "We're home."
--
It was something important. It was about her... her and him. Together.
It's raining today.
"Here, Daniel," She hands him a mug of coffee.
"Thank you..." He says, hesitating, "Charlotte."
"Oh," She glances up at him over her mug at the sound of her name, surprise clear on her face, "You're welcome." She looks down, smiling to herself, but looks back to share it with him. It lights up her eyes. This is hope.
--
She's not crying. She's never cried-at least, he's never seen her cry. For her to start now would be just strange.
Still, there are tears running down her face, playing connect-the-dots with her freckles as she stares out at the rain. It's raining again.
"Charlotte?" He can call her by name most of the time, nowadays, "What's wrong?"
It takes her too long to answer, but she does eventually, asking him, "Don't you remember the anthropologist?"
He nods, "From the stories-"
She's angry. He can always tell when she's angry, but never if she's angry at him or herself. "From here, Daniel."
The rocker still creaks behind her after she stands and places herself inches before him. He doesn't move. Her voice is dry when she speaks again. "Right here."
Daniel feels the anger dissipate when she kisses him. It's all gentle hesitance from both of them now and the feeling is all too familiar.
That something's pulling at him again, harder, and maybe he's finally reaching that important something as distant as those wondrous jungles.
Her fingers brush his skin, sparking memories, and then it comes to him, or he comes to it. Once he hears it over in his mind, it's a simple as that. But, oh, it's so much more complex.
He realizes he'd been thinking about it long before the peeling paint of rocking chairs because, beyond little yellow houses and sonic fences, the physicist had fallen for the anthropologist.
Yes-that's it.
Once upon a time, he loved her.
--
Summary: He remembers he was sitting right here and thinking about something... something important.
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Daniel/Charlotte
Spoilers: Season 4
Words: 850
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. Pity.
A/N: Hooray for Charladay.
--
He remembers now. He remembers he was sitting right here and thinking about something... something important. His fingers had been tapping the rocking chair-or maybe his foot was tapping. No, it was his hand; he'd been scraping the paint off the chair. And thinking something important.
Well, there's no time to think about it now: the door of the house has swung open.
Wait, no, that's it! He'd been thinking something important about her.
"Here, Daniel." The woman hands him a mug of coffee with half a smile. It's become a habit of his-theirs-though he doesn't quite know how it started. He just comes to sit on their porch every morning and she makes coffee.
"Thank you..." Her name. Why can't I remember her name?
"Charlotte." She supplies him with it, again.
"Charlotte." He repeats.
Every time he can't remember that name, he sees her break a little more. He just doesn't know why.
--
Sometimes she tells him stories while they drink their coffee. She tells him once-upon-a-times about a physicist and an anthropologist and a ghost whisperer and a drunken pilot. They came to a mysterious island to fight evil and save people stranded there. But then they got stranded, too.
It wasn't so bad, though, because they stayed on the island and went on great adventures and discovered things about the island that they didn't know before. They escaped from monsters, too. And the physicist and the anthropologist fell in love. They were happy. The End? He can't remember how it ends.
Sometimes, these stories pull at something inside of him. He thinks maybe it's another important something.
No, probably not, because these are just stories.
--
He often finds himself sleeping next to her. He'll turn in his sleep, late in the night, and his face will fall into those spiraling red curls of hers. She smells so nice, so familiar.
Sometimes she even whispers his name, and though he doesn't know if she's awake or asleep, he wants to whisper her name back. If only he could remember what to call her.
And then... then she's never there when he wakes in the morning, so he's left to wonder if she was ever there beside him in the first place. He wonders, but can never bring himself to ask.
--
One day, he walks past these houses and swing sets and people who give him strange looks. He walks until he sees a jungle. A jungle he can't believe he didn't know about, stretching to a distant place he can't see. And light... he can tell from here, something's about the light is just off. Then comes a row a pillars-a fence.
"Daniel! Dan!"
He turns because he hears her voice.
"What are you doing? You can't just-"
"Where are we?"
Her face softens, but she doesn't answer for a while. Instead, he takes his hand and leads him back to the barracks. He doesn't resist.
When they reach a certain little yellow house (which looks like all the rest but must be his/hers/theirs), she says, "We're home."
--
It was something important. It was about her... her and him. Together.
It's raining today.
"Here, Daniel," She hands him a mug of coffee.
"Thank you..." He says, hesitating, "Charlotte."
"Oh," She glances up at him over her mug at the sound of her name, surprise clear on her face, "You're welcome." She looks down, smiling to herself, but looks back to share it with him. It lights up her eyes. This is hope.
--
She's not crying. She's never cried-at least, he's never seen her cry. For her to start now would be just strange.
Still, there are tears running down her face, playing connect-the-dots with her freckles as she stares out at the rain. It's raining again.
"Charlotte?" He can call her by name most of the time, nowadays, "What's wrong?"
It takes her too long to answer, but she does eventually, asking him, "Don't you remember the anthropologist?"
He nods, "From the stories-"
She's angry. He can always tell when she's angry, but never if she's angry at him or herself. "From here, Daniel."
The rocker still creaks behind her after she stands and places herself inches before him. He doesn't move. Her voice is dry when she speaks again. "Right here."
Daniel feels the anger dissipate when she kisses him. It's all gentle hesitance from both of them now and the feeling is all too familiar.
That something's pulling at him again, harder, and maybe he's finally reaching that important something as distant as those wondrous jungles.
Her fingers brush his skin, sparking memories, and then it comes to him, or he comes to it. Once he hears it over in his mind, it's a simple as that. But, oh, it's so much more complex.
He realizes he'd been thinking about it long before the peeling paint of rocking chairs because, beyond little yellow houses and sonic fences, the physicist had fallen for the anthropologist.
Yes-that's it.
Once upon a time, he loved her.
--