fic, Lost: Room Without Love (Charlie/Claire), PG13, for hopelessfangirl
That'd be the first of the fics-written-clandestinely-on-my-mom's-laptop. And I'm almost caught up with the luau stuff, I just miss four or five people and two are getting their gift tomorrow or the day after, if I manage.
Title: Room Without Love
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Charlie/Claire
Word Count:
Disclaimer: If Lost was mine it'd never have come to this point.
Summary: It’s not fun, when you find out how much you really love someone just when they’re gone.
Spoilers: for the S4 finale.
A/N: for Queen hopelessfangirl at lostsquee, who asked for Charlie/Claire. Now, I like the pairing but never felt too much involved with it so I was at a loss until I heard Room Without Love by Nils Lofgren (yeah, if it isn't Springsteen it's his guitarist) which kind of gave me the bunny, so I went with it. I wish I could link the lyrics only but they aren't on the net *shrugs*. And even if it's post S4 finale it shouldn't be too angsty, or so I hope. Also, first shot at the pairing and at Claire altogether so uhm, go easy on me?
Claire is pretty positive that this is the closest to her old room at the Barracks that Sawyer and Juliet could find for her.
She’s been staying in this room since they brought her here after she woke up in the jungle with no memory of what happened since she was with Miles and Sawyer in the woods. She has figured out by now that they won’t tell her what happened except that Aaron is safe, or so they seem to know. And they surely didn’t need to tell her that other five people had gone with him.
Pretty small consolation, after all.
Days are lonely, now; Sawyer is off with Juliet more times than not, she won’t go near Locke or the Others or anyone else, Charlotte isn’t much company (Miles has never been and Daniel, well, he can be some decent company, when he remembers her name, which isn’t often). Sure, Rose and Bernard are, but days are lonely nonetheless.
She lives with Juliet now, she insist on not letting her out of her sight for too much time and while Claire suspects it has something to do with what she doesn’t remember, she doesn’t object. It’s not like being alone would be much better anyway.
She has this room and it’s pretty nice really; it really does resemble the one she had for a short while before the house fell down on her.
The walls are covered in pretty flowered paper, tiny blue forget-me-nots on a light yellow background, her bed is pretty big and soft, with a nice orange blanket, that in the late afternoon is one with the color of the sun as it sets. It’s a beautiful room, really, but it lacks something.
Or better, someone.
She has tried not to think about him, to make as if everything was back to normal, she really did and maybe for a couple of days it worked; until her house fell on her.
She had seen him for a couple of seconds then, blond hair and warm brown eyes and Highway 61 t-shirt, smiling at her for just that little while.
Then he was gone and there was Sawyer.
It’s not fun, when you find out how much you really love someone just when they’re gone.
She knew she had loved him, God, she had loved him since he showed up with the imaginary peanut butter. They had kissed, true, but not really that much; they never went farther than that because she really wasn’t sure.
Claire sighs as she sits on her bed; funny, oh so much, that she found out she was in love with him the second she knew he was dead. This room is perfect, but it just lacks what she had in her tent without even acknowledging it; it lacks a contagious smile, jars of imaginary peanut butter, a voice singing about pilots and smoke monster, a perpetual strumming on a red guitar, worn jeans, a good dose of unrequited British humour and a not so soft Manchester accent saying bloody one time too many.
It lacks the love that once was and well, a room without Charlie is really a room without love. She can’t put it any other way.
She spends her time asking herself where he might be right now; maybe he isn’t anywhere and what she had seen was only in her head. She feels empty, just thinking about it; but she just can’t not.
--
Even if the room is lacking, she doesn’t actually have a problem with it. In the sense, she doesn’t feel claustrophobic when she’s there, she doesn’t want to run away from there, she doesn’t want to throw herself at sea or anything of the sort.
She feels calm here, even if it doesn’t do much for that sensation of utter emptiness. Sometimes she feels like this room is one with her, like the walls actually shed tears when she does; and maybe giving a room such an ability is the definitive sign that she’s going mad, but it’s not like someone would care, here. Or like someone would have a problem; she understood long ago that being sane here and being sane in the real world is not really the same thing. Not at all.
--
It always happens at night. Not much, not really. Just once in a while.
It’s when the bed is more cold than usual, the moonlight more ghostly than usual and when pale, white shadows dance on her walls making them look a dull hue of grey that she hears her voice, thin and almost inaudible if not for the utter silence surrounding her.
God, Charlie, where are you?
She just misses him so, so much.
--
She has never really hoped in an answer; but one night, as soon as she asks that question, she thinks someone replies here.
And she thinks it’s his voice, but when she looks around the room it’s as empty as it was before. She doesn’t want to think that she’s hallucinating; it’s not like on this island rational is the best answer anyway and it has never been.
--
It’s another of those nights, but she can’t find it in herself to speak; and of course that’s the first time it happens, because well, wasn’t he the one to always do the talking?
“You know, you really shouldn’t.”
Claire jerks to her left and there he is, sitting on a chair in the corner, exactly as she remembers him except with shorter hair and better clothing, maybe.
“What…?”, she mouths, almost inaudible, her body completely frozen.
“This whole late grieving business. Not that I’m not touched because I really am, but well, it’s just a bit unhealthy. Not in the, you know, mental sense. I mean the practical sense. I mean, you really should go out sometimes.”
Claire shakes her head, not really placing the way he’s almost blushing and looking at the ground while smiling apologetically at her. And well, he’s right, she can’t remember the last time she took a walk, but…
“Is that really you?” is the only thing she can say.
He stands up, a hand lightly scratching the back of his head.
“Affirmative. Well, kind of more dead than I was last time we met, to be really honest, but hey, you take what you can get. Right?”
He goes towards her a bit and she nods, giving up on giving him a proper response. She can’t think about a response altogether, proper is asking too much.
He sits on the bed across her and suddenly she has this idea that she could touch him, if she only extended her hand. She doesn’t, though. He might disappear.
“I was wrong,” she says lowering her head and biting her lower lip, not knowing what else she could say. She can feel him nodding but doesn’t dare looking up at him. What if he’s resenting her (and he’d have all the reasons to)?
“Well, everybody’s wrong sometimes,” he answers singing that sentence.
She jerks her head up when she realizes that it was Everybody Hurts with wrong instead of hurts and that she had told him once that it was her favourite song.
She should feel outraged, but truth is, she finds herself laughing without being able to stop it, more heartily than she ever has since he’s gone (and well, she hasn’t laughed much and when she did it was faking), so much that she can feel tears in her eyes.
“Of course, everybody also needs somebody and all that jazz but I reckon you wouldn’t hear that one.”
“God, it really is you.”
“Pretty much. Sure, as Boone says I’m not exactly alive, but you get adjusted.”
“What? Who…?”
“Hey, we have a pretty cozy and nifty zombie club there. I’d invite you sometimes but you know, I’d rather have you alive.”
Suddenly his hand is on her face and it’s warm, the skin soft except for his fingers which are as rough as she remembers them and oh, damn it, it’s now or never, she thinks as she closes the gap and her lips joins Charlie’s.
Now, each of their kisses had always been pretty chaste; Claire can’t remember if she actually ever knew how he tasted. She figures she’ll learn now, even if he probably won’t taste as he would have when he was alive.
Insignificant details, she decides bringing her hands behind his head, pulling him closer; he leans in after maybe a second or two and his hands go to the small of her back, holding her to him, and then her lips part, his lips part and heat creeps under her nightgown as her tongue meets his.
There’s something sweet about the way he tastes and something frantic about the way their lips move together; it seems to her like there won’t be an inch of her mouth he won’t have traced when this is over and she resolves on reciprocating him the favour. When they part she’s breathing heavily, her lips are swollen and his are, too, and God, why now and never before?
Suddenly he stands up and she feels something close to panic taking hold of her.
“Are you going?”
“Sadly, I must. But you know, I’m here. Even if you don’t see me.”
“You really are?”
“I’m always here, Claire,” he answers before smiling sadly at her and disappearing just as he showed up.
But the room doesn’t feel cold anymore.
--
Claire has come to love that room; she leaves it more often than before, but it’s alright. Because when she comes back in, it’s just cozy and the forget-me-nots on the walls look just as she had just plucked them up and that yellow hue behind them has never looked so warm.
It’s just, it isn’t a room without Charlie anymore, even if she can’t see him most times, and that’s alright. Knowing he’s there it’s just enough and now the walls don’t shed tears with her anymore; rather, they laugh with her every time she feels a slight breeze brushing through her hair when the windows are closed.
End.
Title: Room Without Love
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Charlie/Claire
Word Count:
Disclaimer: If Lost was mine it'd never have come to this point.
Summary: It’s not fun, when you find out how much you really love someone just when they’re gone.
Spoilers: for the S4 finale.
A/N: for Queen hopelessfangirl at lostsquee, who asked for Charlie/Claire. Now, I like the pairing but never felt too much involved with it so I was at a loss until I heard Room Without Love by Nils Lofgren (yeah, if it isn't Springsteen it's his guitarist) which kind of gave me the bunny, so I went with it. I wish I could link the lyrics only but they aren't on the net *shrugs*. And even if it's post S4 finale it shouldn't be too angsty, or so I hope. Also, first shot at the pairing and at Claire altogether so uhm, go easy on me?
Claire is pretty positive that this is the closest to her old room at the Barracks that Sawyer and Juliet could find for her.
She’s been staying in this room since they brought her here after she woke up in the jungle with no memory of what happened since she was with Miles and Sawyer in the woods. She has figured out by now that they won’t tell her what happened except that Aaron is safe, or so they seem to know. And they surely didn’t need to tell her that other five people had gone with him.
Pretty small consolation, after all.
Days are lonely, now; Sawyer is off with Juliet more times than not, she won’t go near Locke or the Others or anyone else, Charlotte isn’t much company (Miles has never been and Daniel, well, he can be some decent company, when he remembers her name, which isn’t often). Sure, Rose and Bernard are, but days are lonely nonetheless.
She lives with Juliet now, she insist on not letting her out of her sight for too much time and while Claire suspects it has something to do with what she doesn’t remember, she doesn’t object. It’s not like being alone would be much better anyway.
She has this room and it’s pretty nice really; it really does resemble the one she had for a short while before the house fell down on her.
The walls are covered in pretty flowered paper, tiny blue forget-me-nots on a light yellow background, her bed is pretty big and soft, with a nice orange blanket, that in the late afternoon is one with the color of the sun as it sets. It’s a beautiful room, really, but it lacks something.
Or better, someone.
She has tried not to think about him, to make as if everything was back to normal, she really did and maybe for a couple of days it worked; until her house fell on her.
She had seen him for a couple of seconds then, blond hair and warm brown eyes and Highway 61 t-shirt, smiling at her for just that little while.
Then he was gone and there was Sawyer.
It’s not fun, when you find out how much you really love someone just when they’re gone.
She knew she had loved him, God, she had loved him since he showed up with the imaginary peanut butter. They had kissed, true, but not really that much; they never went farther than that because she really wasn’t sure.
Claire sighs as she sits on her bed; funny, oh so much, that she found out she was in love with him the second she knew he was dead. This room is perfect, but it just lacks what she had in her tent without even acknowledging it; it lacks a contagious smile, jars of imaginary peanut butter, a voice singing about pilots and smoke monster, a perpetual strumming on a red guitar, worn jeans, a good dose of unrequited British humour and a not so soft Manchester accent saying bloody one time too many.
It lacks the love that once was and well, a room without Charlie is really a room without love. She can’t put it any other way.
She spends her time asking herself where he might be right now; maybe he isn’t anywhere and what she had seen was only in her head. She feels empty, just thinking about it; but she just can’t not.
--
Even if the room is lacking, she doesn’t actually have a problem with it. In the sense, she doesn’t feel claustrophobic when she’s there, she doesn’t want to run away from there, she doesn’t want to throw herself at sea or anything of the sort.
She feels calm here, even if it doesn’t do much for that sensation of utter emptiness. Sometimes she feels like this room is one with her, like the walls actually shed tears when she does; and maybe giving a room such an ability is the definitive sign that she’s going mad, but it’s not like someone would care, here. Or like someone would have a problem; she understood long ago that being sane here and being sane in the real world is not really the same thing. Not at all.
--
It always happens at night. Not much, not really. Just once in a while.
It’s when the bed is more cold than usual, the moonlight more ghostly than usual and when pale, white shadows dance on her walls making them look a dull hue of grey that she hears her voice, thin and almost inaudible if not for the utter silence surrounding her.
God, Charlie, where are you?
She just misses him so, so much.
--
She has never really hoped in an answer; but one night, as soon as she asks that question, she thinks someone replies here.
And she thinks it’s his voice, but when she looks around the room it’s as empty as it was before. She doesn’t want to think that she’s hallucinating; it’s not like on this island rational is the best answer anyway and it has never been.
--
It’s another of those nights, but she can’t find it in herself to speak; and of course that’s the first time it happens, because well, wasn’t he the one to always do the talking?
“You know, you really shouldn’t.”
Claire jerks to her left and there he is, sitting on a chair in the corner, exactly as she remembers him except with shorter hair and better clothing, maybe.
“What…?”, she mouths, almost inaudible, her body completely frozen.
“This whole late grieving business. Not that I’m not touched because I really am, but well, it’s just a bit unhealthy. Not in the, you know, mental sense. I mean the practical sense. I mean, you really should go out sometimes.”
Claire shakes her head, not really placing the way he’s almost blushing and looking at the ground while smiling apologetically at her. And well, he’s right, she can’t remember the last time she took a walk, but…
“Is that really you?” is the only thing she can say.
He stands up, a hand lightly scratching the back of his head.
“Affirmative. Well, kind of more dead than I was last time we met, to be really honest, but hey, you take what you can get. Right?”
He goes towards her a bit and she nods, giving up on giving him a proper response. She can’t think about a response altogether, proper is asking too much.
He sits on the bed across her and suddenly she has this idea that she could touch him, if she only extended her hand. She doesn’t, though. He might disappear.
“I was wrong,” she says lowering her head and biting her lower lip, not knowing what else she could say. She can feel him nodding but doesn’t dare looking up at him. What if he’s resenting her (and he’d have all the reasons to)?
“Well, everybody’s wrong sometimes,” he answers singing that sentence.
She jerks her head up when she realizes that it was Everybody Hurts with wrong instead of hurts and that she had told him once that it was her favourite song.
She should feel outraged, but truth is, she finds herself laughing without being able to stop it, more heartily than she ever has since he’s gone (and well, she hasn’t laughed much and when she did it was faking), so much that she can feel tears in her eyes.
“Of course, everybody also needs somebody and all that jazz but I reckon you wouldn’t hear that one.”
“God, it really is you.”
“Pretty much. Sure, as Boone says I’m not exactly alive, but you get adjusted.”
“What? Who…?”
“Hey, we have a pretty cozy and nifty zombie club there. I’d invite you sometimes but you know, I’d rather have you alive.”
Suddenly his hand is on her face and it’s warm, the skin soft except for his fingers which are as rough as she remembers them and oh, damn it, it’s now or never, she thinks as she closes the gap and her lips joins Charlie’s.
Now, each of their kisses had always been pretty chaste; Claire can’t remember if she actually ever knew how he tasted. She figures she’ll learn now, even if he probably won’t taste as he would have when he was alive.
Insignificant details, she decides bringing her hands behind his head, pulling him closer; he leans in after maybe a second or two and his hands go to the small of her back, holding her to him, and then her lips part, his lips part and heat creeps under her nightgown as her tongue meets his.
There’s something sweet about the way he tastes and something frantic about the way their lips move together; it seems to her like there won’t be an inch of her mouth he won’t have traced when this is over and she resolves on reciprocating him the favour. When they part she’s breathing heavily, her lips are swollen and his are, too, and God, why now and never before?
Suddenly he stands up and she feels something close to panic taking hold of her.
“Are you going?”
“Sadly, I must. But you know, I’m here. Even if you don’t see me.”
“You really are?”
“I’m always here, Claire,” he answers before smiling sadly at her and disappearing just as he showed up.
But the room doesn’t feel cold anymore.
--
Claire has come to love that room; she leaves it more often than before, but it’s alright. Because when she comes back in, it’s just cozy and the forget-me-nots on the walls look just as she had just plucked them up and that yellow hue behind them has never looked so warm.
It’s just, it isn’t a room without Charlie anymore, even if she can’t see him most times, and that’s alright. Knowing he’s there it’s just enough and now the walls don’t shed tears with her anymore; rather, they laugh with her every time she feels a slight breeze brushing through her hair when the windows are closed.
End.