jack, charlie
jack, charlie
season 2, post-"Fire + Water"
PG-13
appx 400 words
It took Jack quite a while to figure out why he had this sixth sense for Charlie, somehow knowing when his light would sputter, when something would give just enough breath to the candle to make the flame flag with a shudder just before it went out. He knows he likes to fix things that are broken, which is why even though he's angry and frankly a little scared of what Charlie might do, he goes to him anyway and paints on that face of fatherly disapproval.
Jack wishes he had a bottle right about now. He could use the alcohol for Charlie's cut, still seething with dark blood, but he really wants the bottle for himself. He still has days that he can taste the gin on his tongue, clean and comforting. It's good that he's got this resigned face to look into. Maybe not quite resigned: shell-shocked, as if Charlie still hasn't quite puzzled out why things suddenly flew apart. That's a face he knows well, and it's perversely satisfying to see it on someone else.
Jack believes him when he says he isn't using. He is sincere about everything, even the fucking up. For so long, Jack had thought maybe the sincerity was what made his eyes scan the beach to find him. He felt like there must be some signal he was sending out, that bounced clean off Charlie and returned to him, told him how close he was to going off like a bomb.
Jack hadn't seen it coming this time. He'd only known it after the fact, long after the fire spread. What he didn't know was why, and he realized he hadn't for a second cared. As he peered into the split skin on Charlie's face, he let himself think about how tending to somebody else's wounds is always easier than tending to your own. You can see them better. You see them so well you start to look for them. You get so good at finding pain that you can almost feel it in your own bones. What you can't do is fix any of it.
Jack needs to clean the cut on Charlie's face. He needs it like he needs his father to be alive, to hand over a bottle.
season 2, post-"Fire + Water"
PG-13
appx 400 words
It took Jack quite a while to figure out why he had this sixth sense for Charlie, somehow knowing when his light would sputter, when something would give just enough breath to the candle to make the flame flag with a shudder just before it went out. He knows he likes to fix things that are broken, which is why even though he's angry and frankly a little scared of what Charlie might do, he goes to him anyway and paints on that face of fatherly disapproval.
Jack wishes he had a bottle right about now. He could use the alcohol for Charlie's cut, still seething with dark blood, but he really wants the bottle for himself. He still has days that he can taste the gin on his tongue, clean and comforting. It's good that he's got this resigned face to look into. Maybe not quite resigned: shell-shocked, as if Charlie still hasn't quite puzzled out why things suddenly flew apart. That's a face he knows well, and it's perversely satisfying to see it on someone else.
Jack believes him when he says he isn't using. He is sincere about everything, even the fucking up. For so long, Jack had thought maybe the sincerity was what made his eyes scan the beach to find him. He felt like there must be some signal he was sending out, that bounced clean off Charlie and returned to him, told him how close he was to going off like a bomb.
Jack hadn't seen it coming this time. He'd only known it after the fact, long after the fire spread. What he didn't know was why, and he realized he hadn't for a second cared. As he peered into the split skin on Charlie's face, he let himself think about how tending to somebody else's wounds is always easier than tending to your own. You can see them better. You see them so well you start to look for them. You get so good at finding pain that you can almost feel it in your own bones. What you can't do is fix any of it.
Jack needs to clean the cut on Charlie's face. He needs it like he needs his father to be alive, to hand over a bottle.