All the Melted Ice and Migraines
Title: All the Melted Ice and Migraines
Summary: Daniel and Charlotte don't talk because they don't have anything else to say. They don't talk because talking means remembering what they don't want to. Maybe some things shouldn't be left unsaid. Maybe they need to get back.
Point of view: Daniel Faraday
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Charlotte
Spoilers: Season 4. Post-island.
Words: 1106
Disclaimer: I don't own Lost. Pity.
Author's Note: I know, before I said that I'd have at least two fics by April 24th, but that seems pretty unlikely at this point. So this is it for now, what I wrote at one in the morning. Comments make me happy, thanks!
All the Melted Ice and Migraines
"Dan," Charlotte warns as I attempt to sit up.
"I'm fine, Charlotte." I force a laugh, waving off her concern, but maybe I shouldn’t.
Her grip on my shoulder is firm, and I finally give in and fall back to the softness of the pillows. My head hurts. It hurts to move. To talk. You don't realize how much it hurts to move until you try to.
This kind of pain might be alarming at another time. The first time I had a headache like this, I was afraid. Now, it's normal. As normal as a paralyzing headache can be. Now I wake up, and it's either a "normal day" or a "migraine day."
Charlotte picks up the wet towel I had just put on the nightstand and lays it back across my forehead. She scans my expression with her own cautious concern and doesn't say anything more.
I want to tell her it's okay to go, but I can't form any words. I think I want her to stay, and if I tell her she can go, she just might. It didn't used to be like this, but it is now. So I close my eyes, still aware of her hand on my shoulder, her thumb subconsciously stroking my collar.
If it were a few months before, just after we left the island, she would lay next to me, instead of sitting on the edge of the bed. If it were before, I would hold her gaze and she would never look away, either, instead of letting her own stare sweep over every little detail of the room. Everything except me. If we were still in the before times, this headache wouldn't be quite so painful.
Sometimes this throbbing in my head feels like maybe it's in my mind, not my skull. The steady thrumming speeds up when I try to think too much, and I feel afraid. Of myself, of everything else.
Memories are starting to fade. I knew it was coming, and at first, I didn't even realize it was happening. But it is. I'm forgetting everything. Sometimes, I wish it would just happen, and memories would be gone so I don't have to wait for it like this. Memories. Gone. Memories of what happened on the island. When we left. Memories of what I know is happening there now. Memories that cause this awful headache. But then I take back my wish, because if I forget everything, I forget Charlotte. If I forget Charlotte, I forget everything. You don’t realize how much it hurts to love until you love someone.
We never talk about it. We haven't talked about it except once. That first night after the island was gone and we had left. Charlotte said what we both already knew. We shouldn't have left. Leaving was wrong. Then Charlotte cried, and I cried. We haven't talked about it since. I've brought it up, but the subject of the conversation always conveniently changes. We live our lie. And it hurts, but not nearly as much as the truth we leave unsaid. You never realize how much the truth hurts until someone speaks it.
Charlotte thinks I don't know, but I do notice when I wake up in the middle of the night and she isn't by my side anymore. She doesn’t have the headaches, but she suffers from something of her own.
She sits for hours with her legs pulled up to her chest and stares out the arching back window of our house, just looking. Every night. She always has an entire glass of ice water, but the ice will melt long before she tears herself from the window. She never drinks it, which makes me wonder why she has it in the first place.
I think I should say something, but I don't. I just watch her from the top of the stairs.
We pretend. We pretend that all of the things that happened didn’t happen. We pretend we're fine. She pretends my memory is fine, my headaches just from not getting enough to eat. I pretend that her cheeks aren't tearstained every morning, pretend that I don’t have to repeat everything I say because she isn't listening the first time. We pretend we're here.
We're not.
"What do you… are you thinking about? Right this second, Charlotte." I ask, knowing the answer. I don't know why I say it, but I suddenly need to. Maybe tomorrow, maybe this afternoon, I won't have the chance.
Charlotte blinks and looks at me, clearly surprised that I'm still awake, or that she's still here. The question finally registers, and Charlotte looks away. "Don't start this, Dan. Please." She whispers.
"How do you know what--"
"Because I know you," She looks at the wall as she speaks, "You start with what I'm thinking, because you know it's all I can think about some days. Don't start."
She's absolutely right, and I'm not surprised. If it were before, I might stop at this point. Now, there's no stopping. Because I'm done with lying to everyone, including myself. Including Charlotte.
"We need to go back." I whisper. Silence sits between us, but it's not uncommon these days. Today, it's just heavier.
"We… can't." She finally replies, her voice cracking.
"That's just what they said. There must be-- there has to be a way back." I sit up, despite the increasing speed of the throbbing in my head.
This time Charlotte doesn't stop me. Her hand slides from my shoulder and she stands up. Indecision pulls her towards the door, and then makes her turn back around. She leans her head against the doorframe, tears in her eyes, and finally nods once, but her head doesn't come back up. Instead, she lets her chin rest on her chest. "I think so, too." She stammers quickly, still not looking up.
I don't think it's coincidence that my headache is beginning to fade.
"We'll go back?" I ask, failing to conceal the sliver of hope I'm holding on to.
Charlotte pushes off of the door and walks back to our bed. She's cautious as she lays down beside me. Once her head comes to rest on my shoulder, a strange relief fills me. Maybe the worst is almost over.
Charlotte trembles silently next to me and the tear soak through my shirt in a matter of minutes.
"Yes." She says after I was sure she had fallen asleep. "Yes. I want us to go back."
You don't know how much it hurts to need something back until after you’ve lost it.