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ciirceeThis fic is an (unofficial) fic for the Snuggly OTP Ficathon--a link to the ficathon is found in the story header, as is more information regarding this story. It's fairly short (written in about an hour and a half) and mostly unbeta'd (written in an hour and a half) but it does contain Musician!Charlie, singing just a little bit.
Disclaimer: Bad Robots! Bad Robots!
Note: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hobbitgwen. She wrote me a fic for the Snuggly OTP Ficathon and it was…beyond my expectations. ‘Wonderful’ is a poor word to describe it and ‘hot’ isn’t much better. She hasn’t yet (and yes, it IS only 1st January) received her ficathon fic and so I wrote a fic for her using her request (i.e. musician Charlie, possibly singing, fluffy). Hobbitgwen, I still might want to be you when I grow up. I don’t care if you’re eleven years younger than I am.
One-Hit Wonder
“Baby blue eyes, sweet-honey hair” Charlie sang to himself, his fingers skipping quickly over the strings of his guitar. “That’s her, that’s my girl, my Claire,” he continued. Then he stopped and glared down at the instrument he cradled. “That,” he announced to it, “is so horrible that I don’t even know where to begin. There mightn’t even be a place to begin,” he said informatively. He looked over at the woman sitting next to him. “Sorry, Sun,” he apologized.
Sun cocked her head at him and said something in Korean, gesturing at the papers between them.
He didn’t understand a word she said, but he figured her meaning was fairly clear. “You’re right. I can’t keep that. That was so…beyond words.” He set the guitar down and crumpled up the top sheet, sighing. “I don’t know if it’s the lyrics that are the problem or the music itself. Maybe I should stick with something more traditional for a love song, yeah?”
Tilting her head the other way, Sun didn’t say a word.
“It’s just…It’s not me. Traditional music, I mean. Drive Shaft was about…energy and rebellion and non-conformity.” He doodled a heart in the sand and then drew music notes exploding out of it. Irritated, he scuffed them out. “I don’t know,” he repeated.
He glanced up as Sun reached out tentatively and drew the notes again. She told him something, with great conviction and he smiled.
“Yeah? Maybe it is the lyrics. ‘You All Everybody’ was great, but it was about an issue, not a love. Of course,” he frowned, remembering, “of course, the last song I wrote about love involved a lady becoming a prostitute.”
Sun folded her hands in her lap and fussed with her skirt.
Charlie grinned. “No, it wasn’t like that. It was about high society and selling yourself for the empty dreams of wealth and status.”
With a shake of her head, Sun picked up his scrunched up ball of sheet music. She smoothed it and handed it to him.
Picking up the guitar Charlie played the first few notes and looked at her. “Play it again, Charlie?” he asked.
She nodded.
“All right.” He shuffled the other papers left on the ground and selected one at random. He laid it beside the first and looked up at Sun with a smile. “Same tune, new lyrics. Don’t hold back, now.” He waited a few bars longer than he had on the previous rendition and then sang. “Claire, you make me stupid/ I go mental and I see Cupid…”
Sun stood up and dusted herself off.
“Wait!” Charlie protested, dropping his pick in the sand and scattering his papers. “I’ve got more!” He paused to look up at her, suddenly concerned. “Was it really so bad?”
“It wasn’t great,” a new voice said.
“Claire.” Charlie croaked. His eyes crawled up to meet Sun’s. “How long has she been there?” he whispered.
In answer, Sun gathered all his music together and handed it to him.
Charlie gaped. “The entire time?”
Behind him he heard a muffled giggle. “Yes.”
Unexpectedly, Sun giggled too. It made Charlie smile. “Sneak. Bet you had this planned.” He grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it. “Thanks for your help, love.”
As a blushing Sun left, Charlie turned to finally look at Claire. “She told you about our practice sessions, didn’t she?”
“Charlie,” Claire grinned, “she doesn’t speak a word of English.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Charlie responded dryly. He leaned back against the palm tree behind him and motioned for Claire to have a seat beside him. “Where’s the baby?”
“Walt is watching him, back at the caves.”
That surprised him. “Walt?”
He tucked his arm around Claire’s shoulders as she snuggled into his side. “Mm-hm. He was so earnest and sweet when he told me how ready he was to take his share of responsibility. I couldn’t say no. Besides, Michael and the others are constructing the showers not more than a stone’s throw from the cave’s entrance.”
“Ah.” Charlie tipped his head back and closed his eyes, feeling peaceful and cozy in the warm sunshine and the ocean breeze.
“Charlie? Why were you writing a love song about me?” Claire’s murmured question made his face heat.
He kept his eyes closed. “Because it was for you. Didn’t seem right to write it about somebody else.”
Claire’s giggle was so quiet that it was more of an idea than a sound. “Then, why were you writing a love song for me? And don’t say,” she warned him, “that ‘it was about you, it seemed wrong to give it to somebody else’.”
“You’re getting good,” Charlie said approvingly, opening his eyes and looking at her. He snagged her hand without looking and carried it up to lie over his heart, covering it with his own. “Because,” he said seriously, “you make me want to write love songs.” He curled her in closer using the arm around her shoulders, pressing her head down to rest beside their hands. “Because you make me want to sing ballads.”
“Oh, Charlie,” she said softly; he felt her fingers curl into his shirt.
He curved his fingers over hers, twining them together. “I can’t explain it, Claire, can’t explain how you make me feel like falling and flying and crying and shouting with laughter. I just can’t. So I thought maybe a song might do.”
“You explain it perfectly,” she whispered.
Charlie kissed the top of her head, his whole body humming with contentment. “I still want to write you love songs,” he told her.
Disclaimer: Bad Robots! Bad Robots!
Note: This is for
hobbitgwen. She wrote me a fic for the Snuggly OTP Ficathon and it was…beyond my expectations. ‘Wonderful’ is a poor word to describe it and ‘hot’ isn’t much better. She hasn’t yet (and yes, it IS only 1st January) received her ficathon fic and so I wrote a fic for her using her request (i.e. musician Charlie, possibly singing, fluffy). Hobbitgwen, I still might want to be you when I grow up. I don’t care if you’re eleven years younger than I am. One-Hit Wonder
“Baby blue eyes, sweet-honey hair” Charlie sang to himself, his fingers skipping quickly over the strings of his guitar. “That’s her, that’s my girl, my Claire,” he continued. Then he stopped and glared down at the instrument he cradled. “That,” he announced to it, “is so horrible that I don’t even know where to begin. There mightn’t even be a place to begin,” he said informatively. He looked over at the woman sitting next to him. “Sorry, Sun,” he apologized.
Sun cocked her head at him and said something in Korean, gesturing at the papers between them.
He didn’t understand a word she said, but he figured her meaning was fairly clear. “You’re right. I can’t keep that. That was so…beyond words.” He set the guitar down and crumpled up the top sheet, sighing. “I don’t know if it’s the lyrics that are the problem or the music itself. Maybe I should stick with something more traditional for a love song, yeah?”
Tilting her head the other way, Sun didn’t say a word.
“It’s just…It’s not me. Traditional music, I mean. Drive Shaft was about…energy and rebellion and non-conformity.” He doodled a heart in the sand and then drew music notes exploding out of it. Irritated, he scuffed them out. “I don’t know,” he repeated.
He glanced up as Sun reached out tentatively and drew the notes again. She told him something, with great conviction and he smiled.
“Yeah? Maybe it is the lyrics. ‘You All Everybody’ was great, but it was about an issue, not a love. Of course,” he frowned, remembering, “of course, the last song I wrote about love involved a lady becoming a prostitute.”
Sun folded her hands in her lap and fussed with her skirt.
Charlie grinned. “No, it wasn’t like that. It was about high society and selling yourself for the empty dreams of wealth and status.”
With a shake of her head, Sun picked up his scrunched up ball of sheet music. She smoothed it and handed it to him.
Picking up the guitar Charlie played the first few notes and looked at her. “Play it again, Charlie?” he asked.
She nodded.
“All right.” He shuffled the other papers left on the ground and selected one at random. He laid it beside the first and looked up at Sun with a smile. “Same tune, new lyrics. Don’t hold back, now.” He waited a few bars longer than he had on the previous rendition and then sang. “Claire, you make me stupid/ I go mental and I see Cupid…”
Sun stood up and dusted herself off.
“Wait!” Charlie protested, dropping his pick in the sand and scattering his papers. “I’ve got more!” He paused to look up at her, suddenly concerned. “Was it really so bad?”
“It wasn’t great,” a new voice said.
“Claire.” Charlie croaked. His eyes crawled up to meet Sun’s. “How long has she been there?” he whispered.
In answer, Sun gathered all his music together and handed it to him.
Charlie gaped. “The entire time?”
Behind him he heard a muffled giggle. “Yes.”
Unexpectedly, Sun giggled too. It made Charlie smile. “Sneak. Bet you had this planned.” He grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it. “Thanks for your help, love.”
As a blushing Sun left, Charlie turned to finally look at Claire. “She told you about our practice sessions, didn’t she?”
“Charlie,” Claire grinned, “she doesn’t speak a word of English.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Charlie responded dryly. He leaned back against the palm tree behind him and motioned for Claire to have a seat beside him. “Where’s the baby?”
“Walt is watching him, back at the caves.”
That surprised him. “Walt?”
He tucked his arm around Claire’s shoulders as she snuggled into his side. “Mm-hm. He was so earnest and sweet when he told me how ready he was to take his share of responsibility. I couldn’t say no. Besides, Michael and the others are constructing the showers not more than a stone’s throw from the cave’s entrance.”
“Ah.” Charlie tipped his head back and closed his eyes, feeling peaceful and cozy in the warm sunshine and the ocean breeze.
“Charlie? Why were you writing a love song about me?” Claire’s murmured question made his face heat.
He kept his eyes closed. “Because it was for you. Didn’t seem right to write it about somebody else.”
Claire’s giggle was so quiet that it was more of an idea than a sound. “Then, why were you writing a love song for me? And don’t say,” she warned him, “that ‘it was about you, it seemed wrong to give it to somebody else’.”
“You’re getting good,” Charlie said approvingly, opening his eyes and looking at her. He snagged her hand without looking and carried it up to lie over his heart, covering it with his own. “Because,” he said seriously, “you make me want to write love songs.” He curled her in closer using the arm around her shoulders, pressing her head down to rest beside their hands. “Because you make me want to sing ballads.”
“Oh, Charlie,” she said softly; he felt her fingers curl into his shirt.
He curved his fingers over hers, twining them together. “I can’t explain it, Claire, can’t explain how you make me feel like falling and flying and crying and shouting with laughter. I just can’t. So I thought maybe a song might do.”
“You explain it perfectly,” she whispered.
Charlie kissed the top of her head, his whole body humming with contentment. “I still want to write you love songs,” he told her.
