Stumble
Title: Stumble
Author: mag0rian
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Characters: Michael, Charlie
Words: 585
Disclaimer: Property JJ Abrams and ABC television. Don’t sue.
Notes: This was written for themoononastick as part of the Lost Hidden Connections Ficathon. It sort of ended up turning into a bit of a simple character portrait of Charlie. And I apologise for the lateness; I’ve had this finished for ages I just forgot about the deadline.
There was an itching in his skin, a burning, gnawing, nagging feeling of unrest. It was enough to drive him mad at times, enough to drive him to do things that often went against his better judgement. Charlie clutched the tiny piece of paper in his sweaty hand, trying his very best to look nonchalant and unobtrusive. His knee was bouncing impatiently, seemingly disconnected from the rest of him. His head was turned up toward the ceiling as he tried to block out the drone of whiny voices, all complaining about their woes, all looking for sympathy. Fuck them. Fuck them and their stupid trivial problems.
Charlie rolled his head forward with an exaggerated sigh. His fingers began tapping a rhythm, and his head bobbed in response. A neat little beat struck something within him and he tried to repeat it. Index, middle, middle, palm, fist, index . . . index, index, middle . . . index, index, middle, palm-
The man across from him was watching him through narrowed eyes. Charlie clasped his hands together on his lap as a peace offering. The man resettled himself in his chair and closed his eyes. Charlie looked at the floor, pleading for them to fetch the fucking meds already so he could get out of this deadening place. Coma-inducing, really. His eyes drifted over to the man’s sandal-clad feet and up to the black brace that fit tightly around his knee.
“Dawson, Michael,” came the receptionist’s voice from behind the counter. The man stood and made his way through the waiting area to the counter. Charlie watched him go, watched him hand over his prescription, sign a piece of paper, and receive a small paper bag with a clearly-defined bottle within. Yeah, enjoy your drugs, you unappreciative bastard.
“Pace, Charlie.”
“About fucking time,” he muttered, standing stiffly and crossing the area to the receptionist’s window. He handed her the paper and stuffed his hands in his pockets. She surveyed it and looked at him appraisingly.
“Vicodin,” she said shortly.
“Yeah, I er, twisted my neck last week. Real bugger, I’m on tour right now. Have you heard of my band, Drivesh--”
“Yeah, real pain,” she cut in, uncaring. She passed a receipt toward him. “Sign here.”
Charlie picked up the cheap plastic pen and scrawled his practiced signature, winking at the woman. “You’re a saint.”
She smiled blandly and called, “Hopkins, Denise.” Charlie snatched up the paper bag and walked away, head bent. He was so close. He had almost gotten through this without suspicion, almost passed the counterfeit prescription . . .
The automatic doors of the hospital slid open swiftly and an icy breeze swept over him. Charlie ducked into the nearby alley, tearing at the paper bag. He leaned against the cool brick wall. His hands were shaking, hardly able to do what he wanted. He pushed on the bottle cap impatiently, turned it and tipped several of the small pills into his hand-
A sudden clang caused Charlie to look up quickly. That man was there, kneeling at the chain around his bike and watching him with an odd expression. He stood when he saw Charlie looking back and stiffly wheeled the bike from the alley into the street beyond, trying to appear as if he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Charlie looked down at the pills in his hand then up again. The man was coasting past the backed-up traffic, weaving through cars and trucks with ease. Charlie popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed hard. Bastard.
Author: mag0rian
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Characters: Michael, Charlie
Words: 585
Disclaimer: Property JJ Abrams and ABC television. Don’t sue.
Notes: This was written for themoononastick as part of the Lost Hidden Connections Ficathon. It sort of ended up turning into a bit of a simple character portrait of Charlie. And I apologise for the lateness; I’ve had this finished for ages I just forgot about the deadline.
There was an itching in his skin, a burning, gnawing, nagging feeling of unrest. It was enough to drive him mad at times, enough to drive him to do things that often went against his better judgement. Charlie clutched the tiny piece of paper in his sweaty hand, trying his very best to look nonchalant and unobtrusive. His knee was bouncing impatiently, seemingly disconnected from the rest of him. His head was turned up toward the ceiling as he tried to block out the drone of whiny voices, all complaining about their woes, all looking for sympathy. Fuck them. Fuck them and their stupid trivial problems.
Charlie rolled his head forward with an exaggerated sigh. His fingers began tapping a rhythm, and his head bobbed in response. A neat little beat struck something within him and he tried to repeat it. Index, middle, middle, palm, fist, index . . . index, index, middle . . . index, index, middle, palm-
The man across from him was watching him through narrowed eyes. Charlie clasped his hands together on his lap as a peace offering. The man resettled himself in his chair and closed his eyes. Charlie looked at the floor, pleading for them to fetch the fucking meds already so he could get out of this deadening place. Coma-inducing, really. His eyes drifted over to the man’s sandal-clad feet and up to the black brace that fit tightly around his knee.
“Dawson, Michael,” came the receptionist’s voice from behind the counter. The man stood and made his way through the waiting area to the counter. Charlie watched him go, watched him hand over his prescription, sign a piece of paper, and receive a small paper bag with a clearly-defined bottle within. Yeah, enjoy your drugs, you unappreciative bastard.
“Pace, Charlie.”
“About fucking time,” he muttered, standing stiffly and crossing the area to the receptionist’s window. He handed her the paper and stuffed his hands in his pockets. She surveyed it and looked at him appraisingly.
“Vicodin,” she said shortly.
“Yeah, I er, twisted my neck last week. Real bugger, I’m on tour right now. Have you heard of my band, Drivesh--”
“Yeah, real pain,” she cut in, uncaring. She passed a receipt toward him. “Sign here.”
Charlie picked up the cheap plastic pen and scrawled his practiced signature, winking at the woman. “You’re a saint.”
She smiled blandly and called, “Hopkins, Denise.” Charlie snatched up the paper bag and walked away, head bent. He was so close. He had almost gotten through this without suspicion, almost passed the counterfeit prescription . . .
The automatic doors of the hospital slid open swiftly and an icy breeze swept over him. Charlie ducked into the nearby alley, tearing at the paper bag. He leaned against the cool brick wall. His hands were shaking, hardly able to do what he wanted. He pushed on the bottle cap impatiently, turned it and tipped several of the small pills into his hand-
A sudden clang caused Charlie to look up quickly. That man was there, kneeling at the chain around his bike and watching him with an odd expression. He stood when he saw Charlie looking back and stiffly wheeled the bike from the alley into the street beyond, trying to appear as if he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Charlie looked down at the pills in his hand then up again. The man was coasting past the backed-up traffic, weaving through cars and trucks with ease. Charlie popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed hard. Bastard.