Numb3rs ficlet: "Don't be my tree" (Amita/Charlie)
Title: “Don’t be my tree”
(or “if n doesn’t equal 5, make n=5”)
Pairing/Characters: Amita, Charlie; mention of a friend of hers.
Rating: PG-17
Summary: Amita asks one thing of Charlie.
Charlie’s POV.
Word Count: 428.
Spoilers: Nothing.
Notes/Warnings: I am not making a single thing up…except for Amita having a High School friend (which is probably mentioned in an ep I haven’t yet seen)
Disclaimer: I own none of the canon characters.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I stumble upstairs after a long - day? days? its almost midnight of…I don’t know offhand - and make my way to my room. Fully intending to plop down on my bed and doze off (fully clothed, again), I open the door, and see Amita sitting on my bed.
She’s wearing a nightgown, though ‘wearing’ seems a dishonest word, given how its just hanging in place, sheer and soft and - (I fell asleep in the middle of an equation again, didn’t I? this is another dream)
“Amita,” I both say and ask. And while it’s a sight better than ‘hi’ or ‘hominahomina,’ I still hate how tongue-tied I am.
She stands up, nightgown flowing with her every movement and most breaths -(I’m definitely definitely dreaming)- and she comes up to me, leaning against me. I feel course and unshaven and unworthy.
Okay, so I’m not dreaming - I am all those things.
“Charlie?” Amita says to me.
“Yes?”
“Do you like me?”
Now I know what Colby and the others mean by ‘oh sweet God in heaven!’ “Yes.” There’s no doubt of that. There isn’t an equation perfect enough to describe how I feel about you.
“Don’t be my tree,” Amita asks me, whispers it into my ear.
“Tree?” is all I can manage to say.
I feel more than see her nodding. “I’ve a friend from High School, her parents took her back to India a few years back, convinced her to marry a tree. Promise me, Charlie,” almost sobbing the “promise,” “you won’t be a tree.”
One tiny part of my brain - the part that stays at a safe remove from everything - is making me a note, to ask Larry if it’s possible to be too eco-friendly. That same piece of brain then makes another note - to ask Amita about her friend…later. Definitely later.
“I promise,” I tell Amita.
She takes that assurance and pulls back just a little bit, just enough to look in my eyes. “Notice me. Look at me.”
I want to, Amita, I really -
Wait, why are you walking to the guest bedroom?
When I think I can move, I go sit down on my bed, sitting where Amita was. Her perfume-free fragrance lingers, for which I’m thankful. (not as thankful as I’d be if Amita were here still, but that variable is in the guest bedroom at the moment)
I need to check the Guiness Book of World Records…if I’m not in it yet, I will be soon, for Most Questions to Brother on the Subject of Women. All I can ask is, “Trees?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The End
(or “if n doesn’t equal 5, make n=5”)
Pairing/Characters: Amita, Charlie; mention of a friend of hers.
Rating: PG-17
Summary: Amita asks one thing of Charlie.
Charlie’s POV.
Word Count: 428.
Spoilers: Nothing.
Notes/Warnings: I am not making a single thing up…except for Amita having a High School friend (which is probably mentioned in an ep I haven’t yet seen)
Disclaimer: I own none of the canon characters.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I stumble upstairs after a long - day? days? its almost midnight of…I don’t know offhand - and make my way to my room. Fully intending to plop down on my bed and doze off (fully clothed, again), I open the door, and see Amita sitting on my bed.
She’s wearing a nightgown, though ‘wearing’ seems a dishonest word, given how its just hanging in place, sheer and soft and - (I fell asleep in the middle of an equation again, didn’t I? this is another dream)
“Amita,” I both say and ask. And while it’s a sight better than ‘hi’ or ‘hominahomina,’ I still hate how tongue-tied I am.
She stands up, nightgown flowing with her every movement and most breaths -(I’m definitely definitely dreaming)- and she comes up to me, leaning against me. I feel course and unshaven and unworthy.
Okay, so I’m not dreaming - I am all those things.
“Charlie?” Amita says to me.
“Yes?”
“Do you like me?”
Now I know what Colby and the others mean by ‘oh sweet God in heaven!’ “Yes.” There’s no doubt of that. There isn’t an equation perfect enough to describe how I feel about you.
“Don’t be my tree,” Amita asks me, whispers it into my ear.
“Tree?” is all I can manage to say.
I feel more than see her nodding. “I’ve a friend from High School, her parents took her back to India a few years back, convinced her to marry a tree. Promise me, Charlie,” almost sobbing the “promise,” “you won’t be a tree.”
One tiny part of my brain - the part that stays at a safe remove from everything - is making me a note, to ask Larry if it’s possible to be too eco-friendly. That same piece of brain then makes another note - to ask Amita about her friend…later. Definitely later.
“I promise,” I tell Amita.
She takes that assurance and pulls back just a little bit, just enough to look in my eyes. “Notice me. Look at me.”
I want to, Amita, I really -
Wait, why are you walking to the guest bedroom?
When I think I can move, I go sit down on my bed, sitting where Amita was. Her perfume-free fragrance lingers, for which I’m thankful. (not as thankful as I’d be if Amita were here still, but that variable is in the guest bedroom at the moment)
I need to check the Guiness Book of World Records…if I’m not in it yet, I will be soon, for Most Questions to Brother on the Subject of Women. All I can ask is, “Trees?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The End