LOST - four times dan didn't kiss charlotte (and one time he did)
Title: Four Times Dan Didn't Kiss Charlotte (And One Time He Did)
Characters/Pairings: Dan, Charlotte. Dan/Charlotte.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1350
Summary: Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing. He won't let it. (He can't stop it.)
A/N: For yesterday's Queen, valhalla37, at the lostsquee Luau, who wanted Tropes and loves Dan/Charlotte. I'm probably cheating, but "five things" fics count as a fandom trope, right? ;) Also for un_love_you , Author's Choice.
1.
There is no "for now." If you don't come with me, "for now" could be forever.
The first time they say goodbye, it isn't goodbye at all.
She tells him she's staying, and everything more or less stops. The words and numbers and inevitable endings running mad loops in his head. The breath (choking, paralyzing) heavy in his lungs. His heart beating determined in his chest. Bad things-terrible, terrible things-will happen if she stays. Terrible things are probably happening already. But his voice suddenly stops, too, cut off in his throat, and he can't make her understand. He can't understand it himself. Why? That's all that comes out.
Her eyes are so blue and so calm and so unafraid. As always. The wind caresses his cheek. She puts a hand on his shoulder and another on his face and leaves a mark of her own there. Her lips feel cool against his skin, and his hands flutter uselessly around her shoulderblades. He should kiss her back. He would, if he could. The bright brilliance of the sea wavers behind his eyes when he closes them, just for an instant. He sways a little as she pulls away. The moment doesn’t end.
2.
I thought you were on the freighter.
It feels like it’s been days since he’s seen her. (It probably has.) He doesn’t laugh. He can’t do anything but breathe and hold onto her and be glad that she’s okay and try not to remember what happens next. She’s honestly glad to see him alive and he’s turning bright red and he can’t control that, no more than he can control any of the rest of it. There’s still a ringing in his ears, still a resilient bright whiteness behind his eyes. She lets go after a moment, and he lets her, because it would probably be weird if he started crying, and even weirder if he kissed her. They’re just friends. (It’s not untrue.) That’s the least of his worries now.
3.
I just can't seem to shake this bloody headache.
The night air’s a little heavy, a little wet, a little too cool for comfort, and he breathes in deep, lets it fill him up. There’s a quietness in it that doesn't abate when she joins him-it settles thick inside him, coating his lungs, cutting off his neurological impulses, turning the world upside down. The stars smile at him, reflected (reversed) in her eyes. He puts his journal away quickly, before she sees, and tells himself that this time-this time-he won't tell her. Although he should. But not yet. Not when he doesn't even know if his fears are justified. (theyaretheyaretheyare. But even if they are-isn't it better not to risk scaring her?)
When she says she can't remember her mother's maiden name he's thinking of Theresa, and how it had started with her. It's the weirdest thing, she'd said, and laughed when he couldn't. First, the nosebleed. Then, the forgetting. The thin blue shadow of terror in her eyes. And finally the moment when there was nothing left in her eyes at all.
He loves loves loves Charlotte more than he's loved (probably) any(most)thing(s) in his life and that's why he can't tell her. Can't surrender her to the sickness. But he can't lie to her either-Charlotte's smart and would figure him out, as always, and he thinks the guilt would kill him, anyway. He tries to relax. Thinks maybe if he kissed her-maybe-she wouldn't pull away. Maybe it'd make her happy. Maybe it'd make her forget the bad things and remember the good ones. Maybe. He's frozen, filled to the brim with two kinds of terror. The hourglass flips and he still can't move. A statue made of sand.
People start shouting and before he can even gather his thoughts there are flaming arrows falling from the sky. He grabs her hand tight when she falls. Can't (won't) let go.
4.
I said what I said because I meant it.
And he did. He is in love with her, and he would never do anything to hurt her. Even though he is hurting her more and more with every day, every hour, every moment that he lets pass him idly by. Every moment he doesn't tell her. But telling her would hurt her as well, and he has chosen the lesser of two (infinite) evils: the cost-benefit equation works out in his mind. No remainders. She won't know, and he won't tell her, and she won't hate him for not being able to stop it. The light in her eyes makes it all worth it. He won't be able to live with himself (by himself) if he has to watch that light go out.
Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing. He won't let it. (He can't stop it.) His hands are tied, tight.
1. (in another world:)
Nothing's forever.
It is summertime and the golden light falls backwards through the screened-in window-glass. Sunlight pours across Charlotte's skin and he wakes up with her, her body facedown beneath the blankets and his shadow flat on the wall.
She stirs, shoulderblades rolling beneath his hand, and he shivers. It is a feeling almost like dying-like falling forever. At least, that is what he would say if he knew what it is like to die. Which he doesn't. He can only theorize-expostulate-guess. He likes to imagine that dying is beautiful. Dying stars make the most wonderful suns. But Charlotte-Charlotte is too beautiful to die, to alive to be anything but that. There is always an exception, always a loophole, and he knows that she is that.
She turns over and looks at him and the way the light dances off her eyes, blue, blue, a bright light blue like the morning sky-it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and it gets more beautiful every time he sees it, defying all laws of probability.
The light bounces off and over and through her and it scatters just right. When she laughs at him for staring-"is there something in my teeth or is your face just stuck like that?"-he only cares a little. He traces his fingers across the smooth warm curve of her back. Like he used to trace his equations on a chalkboard, used to write their fates in the sand.
Once upon a time, he flushed every single time he touched her, and worse, turned a brilliant shade of scarlet whenever she touched him. That was a long time ago. Now they are in a hotel in the middle of nowhere ("it's Tunisia, dummy," that's what she said last night when they checked in) and her research is going well, so well that she says she thinks she might actually be on the verge of a breakthrough, and he knows that someday it will end, someday she will find something better, but he cannot help knowing the future. All he can do is hold it high above their heads, like Atlas suspending the world on his shoulders, refusing to let it crush them. He smiles, thinking of the last night, and the night before, and the day in between, and the night before that, and maybe tomorrow and tomorrow night too, all of the tomorrows that he can count and then some. He thinks of the way she feels when she is wrapped up in him and he is holding her, holding on as tightly as the night sky twists around stars, but where the sky is only empty space he is full, and happy, and inconsolable with love.
"Morning," he says quietly, even though it is probably going on noon, but it's not like time matters anymore. (Did it ever?) She pushes herself up on an elbow and swings her hair out of her face and pulls him down to her, her fingers twisting and tugging and pulling the fabric of his shirtsleeve nearly from his arm, fingernails sharp and light against his sensitive skin. The inside of her mouth tastes just like chocolate.
Characters/Pairings: Dan, Charlotte. Dan/Charlotte.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1350
Summary: Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing. He won't let it. (He can't stop it.)
A/N: For yesterday's Queen, valhalla37, at the lostsquee Luau, who wanted Tropes and loves Dan/Charlotte. I'm probably cheating, but "five things" fics count as a fandom trope, right? ;) Also for un_love_you , Author's Choice.
1.
There is no "for now." If you don't come with me, "for now" could be forever.
The first time they say goodbye, it isn't goodbye at all.
She tells him she's staying, and everything more or less stops. The words and numbers and inevitable endings running mad loops in his head. The breath (choking, paralyzing) heavy in his lungs. His heart beating determined in his chest. Bad things-terrible, terrible things-will happen if she stays. Terrible things are probably happening already. But his voice suddenly stops, too, cut off in his throat, and he can't make her understand. He can't understand it himself. Why? That's all that comes out.
Her eyes are so blue and so calm and so unafraid. As always. The wind caresses his cheek. She puts a hand on his shoulder and another on his face and leaves a mark of her own there. Her lips feel cool against his skin, and his hands flutter uselessly around her shoulderblades. He should kiss her back. He would, if he could. The bright brilliance of the sea wavers behind his eyes when he closes them, just for an instant. He sways a little as she pulls away. The moment doesn’t end.
2.
I thought you were on the freighter.
It feels like it’s been days since he’s seen her. (It probably has.) He doesn’t laugh. He can’t do anything but breathe and hold onto her and be glad that she’s okay and try not to remember what happens next. She’s honestly glad to see him alive and he’s turning bright red and he can’t control that, no more than he can control any of the rest of it. There’s still a ringing in his ears, still a resilient bright whiteness behind his eyes. She lets go after a moment, and he lets her, because it would probably be weird if he started crying, and even weirder if he kissed her. They’re just friends. (It’s not untrue.) That’s the least of his worries now.
3.
I just can't seem to shake this bloody headache.
The night air’s a little heavy, a little wet, a little too cool for comfort, and he breathes in deep, lets it fill him up. There’s a quietness in it that doesn't abate when she joins him-it settles thick inside him, coating his lungs, cutting off his neurological impulses, turning the world upside down. The stars smile at him, reflected (reversed) in her eyes. He puts his journal away quickly, before she sees, and tells himself that this time-this time-he won't tell her. Although he should. But not yet. Not when he doesn't even know if his fears are justified. (theyaretheyaretheyare. But even if they are-isn't it better not to risk scaring her?)
When she says she can't remember her mother's maiden name he's thinking of Theresa, and how it had started with her. It's the weirdest thing, she'd said, and laughed when he couldn't. First, the nosebleed. Then, the forgetting. The thin blue shadow of terror in her eyes. And finally the moment when there was nothing left in her eyes at all.
He loves loves loves Charlotte more than he's loved (probably) any(most)thing(s) in his life and that's why he can't tell her. Can't surrender her to the sickness. But he can't lie to her either-Charlotte's smart and would figure him out, as always, and he thinks the guilt would kill him, anyway. He tries to relax. Thinks maybe if he kissed her-maybe-she wouldn't pull away. Maybe it'd make her happy. Maybe it'd make her forget the bad things and remember the good ones. Maybe. He's frozen, filled to the brim with two kinds of terror. The hourglass flips and he still can't move. A statue made of sand.
People start shouting and before he can even gather his thoughts there are flaming arrows falling from the sky. He grabs her hand tight when she falls. Can't (won't) let go.
4.
I said what I said because I meant it.
And he did. He is in love with her, and he would never do anything to hurt her. Even though he is hurting her more and more with every day, every hour, every moment that he lets pass him idly by. Every moment he doesn't tell her. But telling her would hurt her as well, and he has chosen the lesser of two (infinite) evils: the cost-benefit equation works out in his mind. No remainders. She won't know, and he won't tell her, and she won't hate him for not being able to stop it. The light in her eyes makes it all worth it. He won't be able to live with himself (by himself) if he has to watch that light go out.
Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing. He won't let it. (He can't stop it.) His hands are tied, tight.
1. (in another world:)
Nothing's forever.
It is summertime and the golden light falls backwards through the screened-in window-glass. Sunlight pours across Charlotte's skin and he wakes up with her, her body facedown beneath the blankets and his shadow flat on the wall.
She stirs, shoulderblades rolling beneath his hand, and he shivers. It is a feeling almost like dying-like falling forever. At least, that is what he would say if he knew what it is like to die. Which he doesn't. He can only theorize-expostulate-guess. He likes to imagine that dying is beautiful. Dying stars make the most wonderful suns. But Charlotte-Charlotte is too beautiful to die, to alive to be anything but that. There is always an exception, always a loophole, and he knows that she is that.
She turns over and looks at him and the way the light dances off her eyes, blue, blue, a bright light blue like the morning sky-it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and it gets more beautiful every time he sees it, defying all laws of probability.
The light bounces off and over and through her and it scatters just right. When she laughs at him for staring-"is there something in my teeth or is your face just stuck like that?"-he only cares a little. He traces his fingers across the smooth warm curve of her back. Like he used to trace his equations on a chalkboard, used to write their fates in the sand.
Once upon a time, he flushed every single time he touched her, and worse, turned a brilliant shade of scarlet whenever she touched him. That was a long time ago. Now they are in a hotel in the middle of nowhere ("it's Tunisia, dummy," that's what she said last night when they checked in) and her research is going well, so well that she says she thinks she might actually be on the verge of a breakthrough, and he knows that someday it will end, someday she will find something better, but he cannot help knowing the future. All he can do is hold it high above their heads, like Atlas suspending the world on his shoulders, refusing to let it crush them. He smiles, thinking of the last night, and the night before, and the day in between, and the night before that, and maybe tomorrow and tomorrow night too, all of the tomorrows that he can count and then some. He thinks of the way she feels when she is wrapped up in him and he is holding her, holding on as tightly as the night sky twists around stars, but where the sky is only empty space he is full, and happy, and inconsolable with love.
"Morning," he says quietly, even though it is probably going on noon, but it's not like time matters anymore. (Did it ever?) She pushes herself up on an elbow and swings her hair out of her face and pulls him down to her, her fingers twisting and tugging and pulling the fabric of his shirtsleeve nearly from his arm, fingernails sharp and light against his sensitive skin. The inside of her mouth tastes just like chocolate.