already seen (lost - charlie/claire)
Title: Already Seen
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Charlie/Claire, Des
Rating: PG
Summary: 5 times Charlie and Claire's lives could have crossed over, and one time they met.
Notes: 1125 words. Written for tura35 , who asked for season six Charlie/Claire - happy birthday, again! And story_lottery prompt 03 - a park bench. Spoilers up to 6x11.
I.
Charlie’s browsing the cereal section of the supermarket, when a small child runs into his legs and promptly falls over.
“Oh, hey there buddy,” he says, crouching down to help the boy out.
And there’s something about the boy’s eyes, and his hair, as if he’s seen it before and he realises that he has. In another life. The girl, woman he saw.
“Sorry, mister!” the boy pipes up, staring at him with huge eyes.
“Er…” Charlie’s not quite sure what to say, but then the boy grabs a large jar of peanut butter and skips off down the aisle, and he’s left staring after him.
“Right.”
II.
It is October 26th when Charlie, sitting down at the bar of his hotel with a drink in hand, meets a man called Richard Malkin. Apparently he’s a psychic, but as he goes on about the uselessness of tea leaves and how he much prefers palm reading and simply ‘feeling’ (he thinks he’s a little drunk), Charlie can’t help but think that he knows a little more about ‘fate’ and ‘destiny’.
So it’s just natural that he’s only half-listening when Malkin goes on to talk about Charlie’s aura, some girl he followed to LA to ensure she met up with the adoptive parents for her unborn child because that was absolutely vital, and did he know that the Red Sox will win the Series? Though Charlie doesn’t really follow American Major League Baseball, he knows of the Boston Red Sox losing streak, and that’s about the point where he switches off.
The next day the Sox wins the Series, and it’s then that Charlie thinks he should have paid more attention to the bumbling man beside him.
III.
He’s back at the pub the next day, two stools left of a Jay Baskum, who’s drunk as hell and only remaining in the bar because he’s just sober enough to dig into his pocket for another couple of dollars every time. Charlie, from experience, doesn’t usually want to even make eye contact with a heavily intoxicated person, but his burning curiosity makes him lean a little over and say something like, “Bad break-up?”, or something equally as bad a conversation starter.
Jay seems (drunkenly) angered at Charlie’s curiosity, but his mood swiftly swings into distraught and mopey.
Definitely a bad break-up.
“’Ma wife left me. Well, the other way ’round. Or wait…”
Charlie’s starting to regret it bringing it up, but then Jay mentions “an’ we were going to adopt a baby together ’n’ everything. Ain’t that a traj… trad… tragedy?”
He nods numbly in response, brows furrowing at the vague memory of last night’s Richard Malkin anecdote about the pregnant girl and today’s connection.
Coincidence? He muses, and then snorts at that thought.
IV.
Charlie isn’t quite sure what makes him stop in the middle of the hospital corridor, but he does.
It’s a feeling, he surmises wryly. All this is getting a little repetitive.
But he stops anyway, and looks around wildly. At first glance, it’s just a normal corridor; white, sterile walls, a noticeboard on his left, a doctor in scrubs passing through the hall, an open door on his right…
An open door.
He edges towards it, pounding heartbeat unusually loud in his ears. His shoes make a squeaking sound on the polished floor; he winces at the noise. (A little further…) Charlie peeks inside, only then vaguely registering he still has the hospital gown on, and then finally lets out the breath he’d been holding in.
Nothing.
He backs out, disappointed. He starts to doubt, starts to think that all this searching is fruitless, that maybe following his instincts is just continually leading him to dead ends. But he can’t stop that flicker of hope inside him, that voice that tells him she’s out there somewhere. That blinding image of a girl he’s never met.
V.
He’s sitting, just sitting at the picnic table, staring out over the grey ocean. It isn’t winter, not even near it, but the wind already holds a frosty bite as it tears through Charlie’s thin hoodie.
A piece of paper flutters towards him in the wind, pausing as it hits his ankles with a crisp snap. Charlie looks down, and instead of lifting his foot and ignoring it, he bends to pick it up. It’s folded and a little tattered and crumpled, but he smooths it out on top of the wooden table.
With a shiver that is completely unrelated to the cold, he begins to read.
‘To whom it may concern, we are survivors of Oceanic Flight 815.‘
(He’s walking beside a semi-deserted road when a silver sedan drops into pace beside him. He isn’t in a particularly shady part of town, but Charlie still shrinks back into the dark hoodie, wishing he had some sunglasses to cover his face a little more.
The lightly tinted window rolls down, and Charlie sees a shaggy-haired head pop out slightly in his peripheral vision.
“Charlie! Don’t ignore me, brother.”
There wasn’t any mistaking that voice.
Charlie stops abruptly, blinking at Desmond. “What are you doing here?” His tone is blunt, but then, he had never been one for patience. He starts walking again, pulling the strings of the hoodie tighter.
The car rolls to a stop. “Look, mate. Just listen to me. I think I can help you.”
“Help me?” Charlie questions, stopping again. “And why would you ‘help me’?”
“Charlie, I met Penny. I know what you’re talking about.”
He still looks hesitant, so Des continues.
“If I’m correct, her name is Claire Littleton.”)
VI.
Charlie’s sitting there, just sitting on this park bench, wondering what in god’s name he was doing, when a flash of blonde enters his peripheral vision, and his head follows, and blue eyes and then-
(“Blonde. Rapturously beautiful.”)
“Hey! Er, you! ’Scuse me!”
She turns around at his voice, and he realises he’s on his feet. He suddenly feels shy, like he’s never been a rock star in front of thousands of people.
“Do you want to go out for coffee sometime?”
The questions spills from his lips before his slightly dazed brain catches up with his words. But it’s her.
“Um… Excuse me?”
She has an accent, he realises. Australian, maybe. New Zealand? He’s not sure. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He rubs the back of his head, realising that although he feels like he’s known her forever, she doesn’t. “Er… I’m sorry. I’m Charlie.” He sticks out a hand.
She stares at his hand for a moment, and he can tell she’s wondering what the bloody hell is wrong with him, asking out a complete stranger. And she finally shakes it with a smile pulling at her lips, and Charlie swears he’s done this before, he knows her touch, the feel of her hand in his, her smile and blue, blue eyes, and it’s so damned familiar - but then she drops her hand and the moment is gone.
Lingering and imprinted into his mind, but gone.
“I’m Claire,” she says, a faint smile on her lips, and is that recognition?
“Claire,” he repeats, smiling broadly. It’s almost muscle memory, as if he’s already tattooed the name to his tongue, a far off memory breaking the surface.
(“And I know her. We're together. It's like we've always been, and always will be... this feeling, this love.”)
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Charlie/Claire, Des
Rating: PG
Summary: 5 times Charlie and Claire's lives could have crossed over, and one time they met.
Notes: 1125 words. Written for tura35 , who asked for season six Charlie/Claire - happy birthday, again! And story_lottery prompt 03 - a park bench. Spoilers up to 6x11.
I.
Charlie’s browsing the cereal section of the supermarket, when a small child runs into his legs and promptly falls over.
“Oh, hey there buddy,” he says, crouching down to help the boy out.
And there’s something about the boy’s eyes, and his hair, as if he’s seen it before and he realises that he has. In another life. The girl, woman he saw.
“Sorry, mister!” the boy pipes up, staring at him with huge eyes.
“Er…” Charlie’s not quite sure what to say, but then the boy grabs a large jar of peanut butter and skips off down the aisle, and he’s left staring after him.
“Right.”
II.
It is October 26th when Charlie, sitting down at the bar of his hotel with a drink in hand, meets a man called Richard Malkin. Apparently he’s a psychic, but as he goes on about the uselessness of tea leaves and how he much prefers palm reading and simply ‘feeling’ (he thinks he’s a little drunk), Charlie can’t help but think that he knows a little more about ‘fate’ and ‘destiny’.
So it’s just natural that he’s only half-listening when Malkin goes on to talk about Charlie’s aura, some girl he followed to LA to ensure she met up with the adoptive parents for her unborn child because that was absolutely vital, and did he know that the Red Sox will win the Series? Though Charlie doesn’t really follow American Major League Baseball, he knows of the Boston Red Sox losing streak, and that’s about the point where he switches off.
The next day the Sox wins the Series, and it’s then that Charlie thinks he should have paid more attention to the bumbling man beside him.
III.
He’s back at the pub the next day, two stools left of a Jay Baskum, who’s drunk as hell and only remaining in the bar because he’s just sober enough to dig into his pocket for another couple of dollars every time. Charlie, from experience, doesn’t usually want to even make eye contact with a heavily intoxicated person, but his burning curiosity makes him lean a little over and say something like, “Bad break-up?”, or something equally as bad a conversation starter.
Jay seems (drunkenly) angered at Charlie’s curiosity, but his mood swiftly swings into distraught and mopey.
Definitely a bad break-up.
“’Ma wife left me. Well, the other way ’round. Or wait…”
Charlie’s starting to regret it bringing it up, but then Jay mentions “an’ we were going to adopt a baby together ’n’ everything. Ain’t that a traj… trad… tragedy?”
He nods numbly in response, brows furrowing at the vague memory of last night’s Richard Malkin anecdote about the pregnant girl and today’s connection.
Coincidence? He muses, and then snorts at that thought.
IV.
Charlie isn’t quite sure what makes him stop in the middle of the hospital corridor, but he does.
It’s a feeling, he surmises wryly. All this is getting a little repetitive.
But he stops anyway, and looks around wildly. At first glance, it’s just a normal corridor; white, sterile walls, a noticeboard on his left, a doctor in scrubs passing through the hall, an open door on his right…
An open door.
He edges towards it, pounding heartbeat unusually loud in his ears. His shoes make a squeaking sound on the polished floor; he winces at the noise. (A little further…) Charlie peeks inside, only then vaguely registering he still has the hospital gown on, and then finally lets out the breath he’d been holding in.
Nothing.
He backs out, disappointed. He starts to doubt, starts to think that all this searching is fruitless, that maybe following his instincts is just continually leading him to dead ends. But he can’t stop that flicker of hope inside him, that voice that tells him she’s out there somewhere. That blinding image of a girl he’s never met.
V.
He’s sitting, just sitting at the picnic table, staring out over the grey ocean. It isn’t winter, not even near it, but the wind already holds a frosty bite as it tears through Charlie’s thin hoodie.
A piece of paper flutters towards him in the wind, pausing as it hits his ankles with a crisp snap. Charlie looks down, and instead of lifting his foot and ignoring it, he bends to pick it up. It’s folded and a little tattered and crumpled, but he smooths it out on top of the wooden table.
With a shiver that is completely unrelated to the cold, he begins to read.
‘To whom it may concern, we are survivors of Oceanic Flight 815.‘
(He’s walking beside a semi-deserted road when a silver sedan drops into pace beside him. He isn’t in a particularly shady part of town, but Charlie still shrinks back into the dark hoodie, wishing he had some sunglasses to cover his face a little more.
The lightly tinted window rolls down, and Charlie sees a shaggy-haired head pop out slightly in his peripheral vision.
“Charlie! Don’t ignore me, brother.”
There wasn’t any mistaking that voice.
Charlie stops abruptly, blinking at Desmond. “What are you doing here?” His tone is blunt, but then, he had never been one for patience. He starts walking again, pulling the strings of the hoodie tighter.
The car rolls to a stop. “Look, mate. Just listen to me. I think I can help you.”
“Help me?” Charlie questions, stopping again. “And why would you ‘help me’?”
“Charlie, I met Penny. I know what you’re talking about.”
He still looks hesitant, so Des continues.
“If I’m correct, her name is Claire Littleton.”)
VI.
Charlie’s sitting there, just sitting on this park bench, wondering what in god’s name he was doing, when a flash of blonde enters his peripheral vision, and his head follows, and blue eyes and then-
(“Blonde. Rapturously beautiful.”)
“Hey! Er, you! ’Scuse me!”
She turns around at his voice, and he realises he’s on his feet. He suddenly feels shy, like he’s never been a rock star in front of thousands of people.
“Do you want to go out for coffee sometime?”
The questions spills from his lips before his slightly dazed brain catches up with his words. But it’s her.
“Um… Excuse me?”
She has an accent, he realises. Australian, maybe. New Zealand? He’s not sure. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He rubs the back of his head, realising that although he feels like he’s known her forever, she doesn’t. “Er… I’m sorry. I’m Charlie.” He sticks out a hand.
She stares at his hand for a moment, and he can tell she’s wondering what the bloody hell is wrong with him, asking out a complete stranger. And she finally shakes it with a smile pulling at her lips, and Charlie swears he’s done this before, he knows her touch, the feel of her hand in his, her smile and blue, blue eyes, and it’s so damned familiar - but then she drops her hand and the moment is gone.
Lingering and imprinted into his mind, but gone.
“I’m Claire,” she says, a faint smile on her lips, and is that recognition?
“Claire,” he repeats, smiling broadly. It’s almost muscle memory, as if he’s already tattooed the name to his tongue, a far off memory breaking the surface.
(“And I know her. We're together. It's like we've always been, and always will be... this feeling, this love.”)