No Second Chances (C/C; Angst; PG-13)
Title;; No Second Chances
Author;; Jessa the Phantom Fanchick
Pairing;; Charlie/Claire
Rating/Genre;; PG-13 [for implied drug usage]/Angst, A/U
Summary;; An off-island role reversal.
Disclaimer;; Charlie and Claire come from ABC’s LOST. I don’t claim ownership of them, as much as I wish I could.
Author’s Note/Dedication;; This fic exists all thanks to prompts (secrets, addiction, music) from pippin1983 when I was lacking for plot bunnies. Therefore, this is dedicated to her with lurv! Thanks so much!
He used to believe in me. There was a time when we had high hopes for the future. We used to lie in bed at night, wrapped around each other, and talk for hours about what it would be like to grow up. Names for our children, boys or girls, were chosen early in life and we always knew what our wedding would be like.
Things don’t always turn out like you expect. Things you dream about when you’re sixteen and seventeen rarely come into fruition.
I don’t even know why I’m here. I look like crap. Dark circles surround my eyes, making my bright pupils stand out in stark contrast. My clothing is old and worn - I can’t afford anything new. Not with a habit like mine. It’s consumed my life. He’ll take one look at me and realize this. The fact that I’m sober probably won’t mean a thing. I’ve only been sober for a half a day. I try to forget the fact that there’s a small stash of heroin in my pocket just waiting to be ingested. My pulse quickens at the notion and the shakes that I’d been staving off refuse to be ignored any longer.
The noise of the crowd grates painfully on my nerves, which are seriously thin. My head slowly rises. I’m fearful and eager to see him up on stage. He looks just like I remember and for a moment it takes me back to those nights in each other’s arms. It can’t last long though; I feel too terrible. I need his help.
Even amongst the hundreds of people packed into the smallish club, his eye catches mine and he freezes. The music he’s playing doesn’t falter but it's easy to see he’s spotted me. Surprise registers on his face and he leans back into the mic. His gaze never drifts from mine but the audience doesn’t appear to notice. They’re too busy basking in his talent for melody and poetry. They groan when he announces that he’s taking short break. To appease them, he promises to make it very short.
I make a subconscious and vain effort to tidy myself up, running my fingers through my mass of hair, dyed black to suit my perpetual depression. A second later he’s next to me. He doesn’t look happy.
“What do you want?” he demands. The harshness in his voice makes the void in my heart even larger.
“I had to see you,” I reply timidly. It’s too late to regret the decision. A sigh escapes his lips. I can see his resolve waver and I couldn’t be more grateful. “Please, just hear me out.”
He nods but says nothing. I slip past him, heading for the door and hoping he’ll follow. It’s too loud in the club. He catches on quickly and we exit one after the other.
After finding solace a ways from the entrance, he turns to face me, crossing his arms over his chest in such a way that I feel completely disconnected from him.
“Well?” he asks.
I suck in a breath. The trembling in my limbs is no longer only a result of the drugs.
“I’m a mess,” I say. He looks away as if he’s trying not to notice this very apparent fact. “I need you.”
“You’re still using,” he replies. It’s not a question. We both know the truth.
“I’m sober,” I contribute lamely. It does nothing for my case.
He shakes his head and says, “Today. Did you even try to give them up, Claire?”
My eyes are on my feet. This is the only answer he needs.
“You lied to me… for months,” he continues. “You were doing this to yourself in our house and lying to me.”
This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation; every time we do I have nothing to say in my defense. He’s right.
“I wish I could take it back, you don’t even know how much I wish I could take it back,” I say.
“It’s too late for that.”
That one sentence makes me break down. The tears that have been burning behind my eyelids since I woke up on my bathroom floor that morning flow over my cheeks.
“Don’t say that,” I beg, whimpering pathetically.
His eyes convey his sorrow. He always hated to see me cry.
“I wish I didn’t have to,” he whispers.
One last locking of our eyes, blue on beautiful grey, and he’s gone. Any second chances I once had are gone along with him.
THE END.