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ciirceeI wrote this about a week, week and a half, ago because I have some sort of thing about Charlie and hair and cuteness. It's very...well...it's squishy. It's the kind of fic that goes 'squish' when you touch it. I'm posting it because the lack of Charlie/Claire moments for the last two weeks is absolutely disgraceful. Shameful, even!
Edit: Okay, I'm breaking. Can somebody teach me how to make an LJ icon? I keep getting tempted to make them and then I realize I have no clue. And I don't have a ticket for the clue train. Also, I cannot find the train station. Plus, I am lost in clue-city somewhere on the main drag of 'clueless-ness'. I'll write you something... Um......and I'll finish it before the month is out!
Without further ado... Tanglements
Disclaimer: The recognizable stuff belongs to ABC and the creators of Lost.
Dedication: To the other Charlie/Claire shippers.
Tanglements
Charlie had only ever rarely let fear stop him from doing anything. Occasionally, as in the case of heroin, he wished that he had but this wasn’t one of those things he’d regret; it was one of those things that he wouldn’t do and then end up wishing for a do-over later.
Still, he had to clear his voice before he could speak, hesitating at the entrance to the camp’s tent. “Claire?”
“Hi, Charlie,” she turned to smiled up at him, setting down the knife she’d been using to clean fish. “Did you need something? The fish aren’t ready yet,” she said apologetically, “I’m still sort of learning how to do this.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” he nodded, edging inside. “But Hurley said that you were coming along fantastically.” He couldn’t help ducking his head as she beamed up at him, blue eyes bright even in the faint dimness under the canopy. “Um, I didn’t come for the fish; Michael and Sayid are still working on things out there.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I just…remembered that…well, you mentioned that you were looking for a hairbrush…”
Claire dropped the fish she was still holding onto the stone ‘table’. “You found one?” she asked excitedly.
“Not quite,” he inched a little closer to her, letting the flap close behind him. He pulled the plastic comb out his back pocket, offering it out. He winced, just a little, as her face fell.
“Charlie,” she began, but he held up his other hand to stop her.
“Wait, I know what you’re going to say. I have a mum and two sisters who aren’t blessed with hair like mine,” he gestured to his head; he was pleased to see her smile revive as she looked at his hair, which he knew for a fact was a complete mess thanks to the stiff, salty breeze coming in off the ocean. “But if you go at it really, really slowly, it should do the trick, yeah?”
She was still smiling apologetically. “It’d break,” she said simply. “With hair like mine and snarls like these,” she lifted one shoulder in a diffident shrug.
“It’s unbreakable,” Charlie grinned at her, willing her smile to come back. The real one. The happy smile, the one he almost always got from her. He widened his eyes in exaggeration. “Swear to you. ’S what the bloke at the airport said when he sold it to me. If it ever breaks I just write to the manufacturers and get a full refund. Two ninety-nine.”
She was giggling by the time he’d finished. “Impressive,” she was obviously trying to be deadpan about it, but her eyes were sparkling and that smile was flirting with the dimple in her cheek. “But we seem to be fresh out of stamps at the moment. Thanks for thinking of it though, Charlie.”
As she turned back to her work, Charlie swallowed hard. Three days had lead up to this moment and the fear was mixing it up with the nervous courage he’d managed to pluck up. He was honestly surprised to hear his voice, a little breathless, a little rushed. “I could…I could have a go at it, if you’d like.” He took a deep breath as Claire twisted to face him again. “I’m done with everything, um, outside. I was on firewood detail,” he explained, neglecting to mention that he’d been up hours earlier than necessary so that he’d be finished by mid-day, “and that’s easy. So I’m free.”
His feet, so hesitant before, took several quick steps to bring him right beside her. “And I’d see all the little knots, be able to work them out without pulling or breaking the comb and you, you could keep up with the fish.” The fish nibbled at his rationale, whispering a thought, and he grinned. “Probably better if I took care of your hair, besides, since your hands are sort of…” he gestured at her hands, covered in silver-black flakes of fish scales, and pulled a face.
“Don’t remind me,” Claire told him, wrinkling her nose.
“So, I could. If you wanted, I could have a go at combing-out your hair. If you wanted,” he repeated inanely. He looked down at his shoes. The laces were coated with sand, he observed.
“You’d do that? For me?” He was startled into glancing at her. Her eyes were open and puzzled but filled, too, with something so soft that Charlie couldn’t have named even if her face hadn’t momentarily knocked him senseless.
“Yeah,” he whispered, feeling a real smile of his own glowing inside him. Then he panicked as he realized how sincere he’d sounded, how honestly his voice had given him away, and how he’d been staring straight into her eyes when the rock-star had taken a hike so that the Catholic school-boy could look right at Claire with every hope in the world on his sleeve. “Well, yeah,” he beamed as best he could, waggled his eyebrows a bit. “Figured I could be the resident hairdresser. Wouldn’t be sent out into the jungle for firewood or up a tree for fruit; valuable hands, right?”
Claire laughed. “Oh, Charlie.” She turned, presenting her back to him. “In that case, I’m pleased to be your very first customer.”
“It’s very welcome you are,” Charlie said, sitting himself behind her, scooting as close to her as he really dared. Closer than reaching distance. He ran his fingers lightly over her hair, and then separated a section from the rest. “Trust me, once you’ve had your hair done by Charlie, you’ll never go to anyone else.”
She giggled. They sat in silence for few seconds before Charlie felt her move. “Is it all right if I…” she motioned at the half-finished fish and at those still waiting to be cleaned.
“No, yeah, sure, carry on.”
“It won’t…?”
“No.”
The silence returned and in it Charlie could hear the pounding race of his heart slow. He finished the first section, selected another.
“My hair is such a hassle,” Claire said conversationally. “I’ve been thinking about borrowing one of Mr. Locke’s knives and cutting it.”
“No!” Charlie’s protest burst out before he was ready for it. “You can’t cut your hair, it’s…” he stopped himself short, coughed, and mumbled the rest.
Claire shifted and Charlie touched her head to stop her from looking at him, pretending to be very busy with the hair in his hands. “I didn’t catch that.”
His courage nudged at him. “I said,” he felt his face get hot, hotter than the heat of the day could account for, anyway, “that your hair’s too pretty. Like gold in the sun.” He took note of how still she was. “Happy now that I’m blushing?” he muttered.
“Shannon’s blonde, too.”
He paused in mid-stroke. Unless he missed his guess, her ears had gone pink. “Yeah, but you’re not. Leastwise not so that I’d call it the same.”
“Oh.” The knife’s movements faltered.
Biting his lip, Charlie took a risk. “Claire? Can I ask you something?” he looked down. The word ‘life’ was wrapped around the fingers of his left hand.
“I’m a Capricorn,” she replied.
“What?”
“Sorry, I meant ‘sure’.”
“Sagittarius,” Charlie shrugged, knowing that Claire would probably feel it, listened to her ‘hmm’, and then asked, “Why were you flying to America? With the baby so close?”
“It’s going to sound stupid,” she said warningly.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better about sounding so stupid a moment ago?” He chuckled, gratified to hear her faint puff of laughter.
“Um,” she moved the fish she’d finished, took another with a faint sound of disgust, and blew out an audible breath. “America’s called ‘the land of opportunities’. A place for fresh starts. So…with everything…It just seemed like…” she trailed off.
He understood. “Yeah, know what you mean. Drive Shaft relocated to the States. Lead singer thought it’d give us more exposure.”
“Do you miss England?”
“I don’t really know.” He moved to her side, “finished back there,” he said by way of explanation. “The music is still the same, I still love playing, creating, but everything else is so far removed from St. Catherine of Alexandria’s Parochial that I just…don’t know.”
Claire tipped her head slightly, and he met her curious gaze with a smile. She looked down, shaking her head, then looked back up. “Catholic school? You?”
“Can’t picture it, can you, love? Nobody can,” he grinned at her and tucked her hair behind her ear. “And I was an alter boy, too.” He waited for her laugh. “My Mum,” he said seriously, “has pictures.”
He laughed along with her, delighted with her obvious delight.
“We are almost ready,” Sayid said, ducking into the tent. “Are the fish…ready?” The look on his face was, as far as Charlie was concerned, priceless. He tried to smother his laughter while Claire went into another fit of giggles.
“Almost!” he said brightly. “I was just helping out.”
“With a comb?” Sayid folded his arms imposingly.
It was as imposing as it could have been; Charlie could see his amusement. “Caught in the act, mate,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I have an incredible fetish to play hairdresser to the working class and if you’ll just pull up a spot of sand, grab a knife and a fish, and allow me to...” he waved the comb at him.
Sayid plucked it from his grasp and unbuckled the knife at his belt, handing it to Charlie with a look that was as good as a smile. “Clean the fish, Charlie,” he said, pushing him to sit, handing him a fish, and ducking out of the tent again.
Charlie looked at Claire. Claire looked back at him. And they burst into fresh peals of laughter even as Charlie handed his fish to Claire and claimed another one for himself. As they worked, silently laughing, Charlie discovered that he still wanted a do-over. Just for the last three days.
Edit: Okay, I'm breaking. Can somebody teach me how to make an LJ icon? I keep getting tempted to make them and then I realize I have no clue. And I don't have a ticket for the clue train. Also, I cannot find the train station. Plus, I am lost in clue-city somewhere on the main drag of 'clueless-ness'.
Without further ado... Tanglements
Disclaimer: The recognizable stuff belongs to ABC and the creators of Lost.
Dedication: To the other Charlie/Claire shippers.
Tanglements
Charlie had only ever rarely let fear stop him from doing anything. Occasionally, as in the case of heroin, he wished that he had but this wasn’t one of those things he’d regret; it was one of those things that he wouldn’t do and then end up wishing for a do-over later.
Still, he had to clear his voice before he could speak, hesitating at the entrance to the camp’s tent. “Claire?”
“Hi, Charlie,” she turned to smiled up at him, setting down the knife she’d been using to clean fish. “Did you need something? The fish aren’t ready yet,” she said apologetically, “I’m still sort of learning how to do this.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” he nodded, edging inside. “But Hurley said that you were coming along fantastically.” He couldn’t help ducking his head as she beamed up at him, blue eyes bright even in the faint dimness under the canopy. “Um, I didn’t come for the fish; Michael and Sayid are still working on things out there.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I just…remembered that…well, you mentioned that you were looking for a hairbrush…”
Claire dropped the fish she was still holding onto the stone ‘table’. “You found one?” she asked excitedly.
“Not quite,” he inched a little closer to her, letting the flap close behind him. He pulled the plastic comb out his back pocket, offering it out. He winced, just a little, as her face fell.
“Charlie,” she began, but he held up his other hand to stop her.
“Wait, I know what you’re going to say. I have a mum and two sisters who aren’t blessed with hair like mine,” he gestured to his head; he was pleased to see her smile revive as she looked at his hair, which he knew for a fact was a complete mess thanks to the stiff, salty breeze coming in off the ocean. “But if you go at it really, really slowly, it should do the trick, yeah?”
She was still smiling apologetically. “It’d break,” she said simply. “With hair like mine and snarls like these,” she lifted one shoulder in a diffident shrug.
“It’s unbreakable,” Charlie grinned at her, willing her smile to come back. The real one. The happy smile, the one he almost always got from her. He widened his eyes in exaggeration. “Swear to you. ’S what the bloke at the airport said when he sold it to me. If it ever breaks I just write to the manufacturers and get a full refund. Two ninety-nine.”
She was giggling by the time he’d finished. “Impressive,” she was obviously trying to be deadpan about it, but her eyes were sparkling and that smile was flirting with the dimple in her cheek. “But we seem to be fresh out of stamps at the moment. Thanks for thinking of it though, Charlie.”
As she turned back to her work, Charlie swallowed hard. Three days had lead up to this moment and the fear was mixing it up with the nervous courage he’d managed to pluck up. He was honestly surprised to hear his voice, a little breathless, a little rushed. “I could…I could have a go at it, if you’d like.” He took a deep breath as Claire twisted to face him again. “I’m done with everything, um, outside. I was on firewood detail,” he explained, neglecting to mention that he’d been up hours earlier than necessary so that he’d be finished by mid-day, “and that’s easy. So I’m free.”
His feet, so hesitant before, took several quick steps to bring him right beside her. “And I’d see all the little knots, be able to work them out without pulling or breaking the comb and you, you could keep up with the fish.” The fish nibbled at his rationale, whispering a thought, and he grinned. “Probably better if I took care of your hair, besides, since your hands are sort of…” he gestured at her hands, covered in silver-black flakes of fish scales, and pulled a face.
“Don’t remind me,” Claire told him, wrinkling her nose.
“So, I could. If you wanted, I could have a go at combing-out your hair. If you wanted,” he repeated inanely. He looked down at his shoes. The laces were coated with sand, he observed.
“You’d do that? For me?” He was startled into glancing at her. Her eyes were open and puzzled but filled, too, with something so soft that Charlie couldn’t have named even if her face hadn’t momentarily knocked him senseless.
“Yeah,” he whispered, feeling a real smile of his own glowing inside him. Then he panicked as he realized how sincere he’d sounded, how honestly his voice had given him away, and how he’d been staring straight into her eyes when the rock-star had taken a hike so that the Catholic school-boy could look right at Claire with every hope in the world on his sleeve. “Well, yeah,” he beamed as best he could, waggled his eyebrows a bit. “Figured I could be the resident hairdresser. Wouldn’t be sent out into the jungle for firewood or up a tree for fruit; valuable hands, right?”
Claire laughed. “Oh, Charlie.” She turned, presenting her back to him. “In that case, I’m pleased to be your very first customer.”
“It’s very welcome you are,” Charlie said, sitting himself behind her, scooting as close to her as he really dared. Closer than reaching distance. He ran his fingers lightly over her hair, and then separated a section from the rest. “Trust me, once you’ve had your hair done by Charlie, you’ll never go to anyone else.”
She giggled. They sat in silence for few seconds before Charlie felt her move. “Is it all right if I…” she motioned at the half-finished fish and at those still waiting to be cleaned.
“No, yeah, sure, carry on.”
“It won’t…?”
“No.”
The silence returned and in it Charlie could hear the pounding race of his heart slow. He finished the first section, selected another.
“My hair is such a hassle,” Claire said conversationally. “I’ve been thinking about borrowing one of Mr. Locke’s knives and cutting it.”
“No!” Charlie’s protest burst out before he was ready for it. “You can’t cut your hair, it’s…” he stopped himself short, coughed, and mumbled the rest.
Claire shifted and Charlie touched her head to stop her from looking at him, pretending to be very busy with the hair in his hands. “I didn’t catch that.”
His courage nudged at him. “I said,” he felt his face get hot, hotter than the heat of the day could account for, anyway, “that your hair’s too pretty. Like gold in the sun.” He took note of how still she was. “Happy now that I’m blushing?” he muttered.
“Shannon’s blonde, too.”
He paused in mid-stroke. Unless he missed his guess, her ears had gone pink. “Yeah, but you’re not. Leastwise not so that I’d call it the same.”
“Oh.” The knife’s movements faltered.
Biting his lip, Charlie took a risk. “Claire? Can I ask you something?” he looked down. The word ‘life’ was wrapped around the fingers of his left hand.
“I’m a Capricorn,” she replied.
“What?”
“Sorry, I meant ‘sure’.”
“Sagittarius,” Charlie shrugged, knowing that Claire would probably feel it, listened to her ‘hmm’, and then asked, “Why were you flying to America? With the baby so close?”
“It’s going to sound stupid,” she said warningly.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better about sounding so stupid a moment ago?” He chuckled, gratified to hear her faint puff of laughter.
“Um,” she moved the fish she’d finished, took another with a faint sound of disgust, and blew out an audible breath. “America’s called ‘the land of opportunities’. A place for fresh starts. So…with everything…It just seemed like…” she trailed off.
He understood. “Yeah, know what you mean. Drive Shaft relocated to the States. Lead singer thought it’d give us more exposure.”
“Do you miss England?”
“I don’t really know.” He moved to her side, “finished back there,” he said by way of explanation. “The music is still the same, I still love playing, creating, but everything else is so far removed from St. Catherine of Alexandria’s Parochial that I just…don’t know.”
Claire tipped her head slightly, and he met her curious gaze with a smile. She looked down, shaking her head, then looked back up. “Catholic school? You?”
“Can’t picture it, can you, love? Nobody can,” he grinned at her and tucked her hair behind her ear. “And I was an alter boy, too.” He waited for her laugh. “My Mum,” he said seriously, “has pictures.”
He laughed along with her, delighted with her obvious delight.
“We are almost ready,” Sayid said, ducking into the tent. “Are the fish…ready?” The look on his face was, as far as Charlie was concerned, priceless. He tried to smother his laughter while Claire went into another fit of giggles.
“Almost!” he said brightly. “I was just helping out.”
“With a comb?” Sayid folded his arms imposingly.
It was as imposing as it could have been; Charlie could see his amusement. “Caught in the act, mate,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I have an incredible fetish to play hairdresser to the working class and if you’ll just pull up a spot of sand, grab a knife and a fish, and allow me to...” he waved the comb at him.
Sayid plucked it from his grasp and unbuckled the knife at his belt, handing it to Charlie with a look that was as good as a smile. “Clean the fish, Charlie,” he said, pushing him to sit, handing him a fish, and ducking out of the tent again.
Charlie looked at Claire. Claire looked back at him. And they burst into fresh peals of laughter even as Charlie handed his fish to Claire and claimed another one for himself. As they worked, silently laughing, Charlie discovered that he still wanted a do-over. Just for the last three days.
