Four Feet Under - Lost - Charlie/Desmond
Title: Four Feet Under
Pairing: Charlie/Desmond
Word Count: 7000
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for charlielives Superpowers challenge with writing_rainbow's "Courage" prompt. Charlie's power here is taken from Kitty Pryde. AU from 'All The Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues'.
Summary: Charlie discovers the downside to waking up with a superpower.
This isn't right.
Rope around his neck, Charlie's suspended from the ground - desperate gasps for air yield nothing and though he claws at the rope with his hands nothing happens. His heart thunders. He's not going to die, not here, not like this, not when Claire needs him. He's survived a sodding plane crash: he can get out of this. Has to, has to, no other choice, but nothing's working and he can't hear anyone coming to help. No rescue mission. Jack and Sayid and Kate aren't going to charge in this time.
His legs kick uselessly and find nothing to give him purchase. The world goes blacker behind the blindfold and his lungs ache, his throat aches, every inch of him and- It's too late. He can feel it, the blinding desperation as his life slips beyond his grasp. Can't end like this, he thinks. The world slips away and he feels his body tingling all over, like static electricity rushing through every cell. There's no time to question it, though. He's gone, the fight fading. Useless.
He doesn't feel it when he thuds to the ground seconds later.
*
A slamming, blinding pain welcomes him as his thoughts crawl back to life. Still breathing, he realises. How the hell did that happen? Each breath leaves his throat feeling ragged. His mouth feels dry. He tries to move, the barest twitch of a muscle, and hears a faraway voice hushing him. It sounds like the loudest noise in the universe.
Blinking his eyes open, his vision feels fuzzy. Blurred splodges of colour are all he can make out, indistinct shapes. He closes his eyes again and waits a moment. The next time he looks it all seems a little clearer.
He's back on the beach, from what he can make out. In someone's tent. A hunched form sits by the edge of the bed, watching him worriedly. It takes a few more blinks before he can make out that it's Jack. Breathing through his nose, Charlie tries to swallow before wincing. God, he doesn't want to try that again in a hurry. It feels as if he's been chewing sandpaper.
"What happened?" he asks. His voice doesn't even sound like his own - scratchy and dry. Empty.
"Don't try to talk," Jack whispers.
If Charlie could summon the will to yell at him he would do. "What happened?" he asks again. "I…" He remembers it, the noose tight around his neck. His hand rises, ignoring his complaining muscles. The skin feels tender, stinging under the slightest pressure. "I should be dead."
Jack shakes his head. "You were on the ground when we reached you. Ethan must have…" He trails off and the words die: there's no explanation. "The vines were still there."
So no one untied him, no one saved him, nothing happened, yet here he is breathing and in one hell of a lot of pain. Great. Fantastic. Looks as if he's facing at another island miracle or the mighty hand of God. Charlie groans, wishing everything could be a little simpler for once, but he doesn't question it. He's alive, isn't he? That's all that matters.
"Water," he croaks as he tries half-heartedly to sit up. "And- Claire? What happened with Claire?" They must've got her back, they must've found her, she must've had an island miracle of her own, but Jack refuses to meet his eyes and instead distracts himself by fetching one of the bottles that sit by the tent's opening. "Jack, where is she? Where's Claire?"
Jack shakes his head. "We didn't find her," he says. "We're going to get her back, Charlie. I promise."
The shock of it hits him like a punch to the gut. "So she's…" He doesn't want to believe it. "She's still with that monster?"
"We'll get her back," Jack says again, but that's not enough. Who knows what Ethan's doing with her or why he took her in the first place? She's pregnant. Charlie should've been there to protect her. He should have done something, anything, instead of being so useless. "Don't blame yourself, Charlie."
"Who else would you suggest I blame?" Charlie asks, sounding every bit as bitter as he feels. He reaches out to take the bottle from Jack - he wishes there was something he could do, some way he could help - and doesn't notice for a few seconds as his hand floats right on through.
Jack's eyebrows raise and Charlie stares at his hand, tries again. This time he manages it, clinging on tightly to the plastic of the bottle. The water feels cool. "You just saw that, right?" he asks, just to make sure. "My hand, it…"
"It went through the plastic."
"Thought as much," Charlie confirms with a slow nod. Right. "How is that possible?" Jack shakes his head - and if their sodding doctor doesn't have an answer then what hope does Charlie have? "Did I die? Is that it? Am I a ghost?"
"You were alive when we got there, Charlie. Feel your pulse."
Charlie fumbles for his right wrist, pressing down and feeling that steady beating there. Okay. He's alive. Really alive. That's a pleasant idea - unliving out his days as a incorporeal ghost wouldn't have been ideal - but it still leaves him clueless. "I'm holding it now," he points out.
"Try again," Jack suggests. "See if you can…"
They don't even know what to call it. Cautiously, Charlie's fingers move from his wrist to the bottle instead. He can feel the plastic hard beneath his skin. When he presses hard against it the plastic creaks and bends but his finger doesn't slip through. "Bugger," he mutters. Maybe he's just going crazy - imagining himself having superpowers because he's so sodding useless without them. He isn't the doctor, isn't the soldier, isn't the convict, isn't anything but a screwed-up ex-junkie who managed to let some psycho abduct Claire and take her into the jungle.
The bottle slips through his hand - through his hand - and falls, down through his legs as well until it thuds on the bed beneath him. Charlie's eyes widen and if it didn't hurt so much he'd laugh. He has no idea how this is possible or why it's started happening now, but who cares? He's a goddamn superhero, and that means precisely one thing: he can get Claire back.
*
"Charlie, please, you need to listen to us," Sayid says, his hands outstretched. Charlie's trying hard to stay calm, so damn hard, but it's as if no one here actually wants to find Claire. "Both Locke and Kate have tried to find the trails. We do not know where she is and unless you have some way of finding her location then there is absolutely nothing we can do right now."
The others are there too, all the action heroes of the camp: Kate and Jack and Sawyer with Locke lurking by the edge of the circle. No one has any suggestions. No one can help and no one's trying, like they don't care that Claire's been gone for days now and like they don't give a damn about the ugly bruises that ring around Charlie's neck.
"I'm sorry," Kate says quietly. She looks genuinely sorry, remorse and pity in her eyes. It doesn't do any good. She goes to pat his shoulder but meets thin air instead: Charlie feels the same tingle he gets every time he goes through something. He can feel his feet sinking steadily into the sand and isn't surprised when the group begin to walk away from him, moving onto other plans and more 'important' matters of discussion.
He looks down at his feet and scowls at them, thinking as happy thoughts as he can to try and stop himself from sinking further. He's already ankle-deep. "Charlie," Locke says as he approaches him, watching Charlie's ankles too. Charlie hadn't even noticed that Locke hadn't gone with the others, but as he looks up at the man he sees a worrying twinkle in his blue eyes. A spark of genius or madness. "I think I could do with your help, if you're up for it."
Charlie stops sinking and frowns instead. "Will it help Claire?" he asks, not that it matters. If Locke wants his help then he'll definitely go along: he owes the man his life for getting him off those drugs.
Locke smiles enigmatically. "I don't know," he answers. "Meet me by the tree line in five minutes. Bring water: we're going hunting."
Hunting. Right. Charlie bites his tongue and turns to retreat back to his tent to find a bag, water and any other items that might be useful on a hunting trip. He knows that Locke is probably just taking pity on him like he did on Boone, giving him something to do that stops him from feeling quite so useless. He's a nice guy in that way, isn't he? Taking the screw-ups hunting so that they can attempt to scrape their self-esteem up from the floor. All it does is make him feel worse from ever: when he enters his tent he doesn't have to pull back the tarp that covers it.
*
Charlie looks down at the metal hatch sticking out of the ground, eyebrows raised. "And you just found it?" he asks, glancing to Locke and Boone. Boone hasn't spoken much since they came out here: his main communication has been by way of sly glares and rolled eyes. Charlie gets the impression that he isn't too fond of sharing this secret with him.
"Just found it," Locke confirms, smiling. "Boone and I had to split from Kate and Jack when we were looking for you. Found this in the rain."
"So what's inside it?" It's impossible to see through the tiny window, only murky blackness. Still, a manmade thing like that in the middle of a tropical island - it's almost as weird as the polar bear.
Locke's still smiling. "That's where you come in, Charlie. Boone and I can't get it open. You don't have to."
Charlie frowns and looks back down at it - the guy can't be serious, can he? - and feels visions of getting trapped down there plaguing him. "You want me to go in there?" he asks. He wishes that Locke would shake his head and say that's ridiculous, but Locke's calm smile sticks around as he nods. "Are you crazy?! We have no idea what's down there. And how am I supposed to get out again? No. No way, Locke. No sodding way."
"The island gave you this ability for a reason," Locke insists. It's not quite yelling but it's pretty damn close. Charlie takes a step back, his footsteps sounding louder than they should on top of the metal. "This is it. It gives me a door I can't get through: it gives you the way to get through it."
"So, what? This is 'fate'? 'The island', Locke? You're mental."
"Charlie," Boone says, stepping forward and uncrossing his arms from over his chest. "I think John knows what he's talking about."
"'course you do," Charlie mutters as he looks back down at the hatch. He'd never done anything like this before: he'd never been asked. He isn't the hero on the island and if there's anyone that ought to be exploring mysterious hatches it's not him. Jack or Sayid or Kate or Locke himself but not bloody him. He kneels down by the window and tries to peer inside. Nothing but blackness. Locke and Boone's expectant gazes are heavy on the back of his neck but he can't do this - they shouldn't be asking, Locke especially. He's just some washed-up good for nothing junkie. Not a hero. He's not brave enough for this.
As his fingers start to slip through the metal of the hatch he realises that he really should have known better than to start angsting on top of it: seconds later, his body tingles and he starts falling through the darkness.
Long way down, long damn way down, and his eyes screw shut as he mentally calls himself every single name he can think of in the blind attempt to keep this power activated so that he doesn't land terribly. Broken bones are the best he can ask for. Stupid Locke. Stupid Boone. Stupid him for ever agreeing to go out there with them. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
His body tingles all over and suddenly the blackness around him seems to lift into something a little lighter. The air is freezing but it's not rushing by his face any more: he's stopped falling. He peeps one eye open and finds himself knee-deep in the stone ground and still sinking.
"Charlie, you are fantastic," he says hurriedly, waving his legs to try and rise again. He only sinks further, the freezing ground crawling up the inside of his thigh. "You are fantastic and awesome and no one plays the guitar like you do. You're not useless. You're not useless." He reaches to grab onto his leg and pull up, but it doesn't work. If anything he sinks faster, his groin being covered as he dips further and further into the earth. "Charlie Pace, you are not doing this. Get up. Stop it," he mutters to himself, but the pep-talk isn't working. "You are a sodding Pace and this is not how you die, you hear me?"
No, not like this. He didn't die from being hung: he's not going to fall into the Earth and suffocate there. No way. If he survived a plane crash and he survived Ethan then there's no way he's going out like this: he's worth more than that.
And with that he stops. Up to his waist in freezing cement with one hand clinging to his leg and stuck down there, he stops sinking. Stuck as ever, but at least he's no longer in danger of suffocating. The ground's like quicksand when he loses control like that.
"Locke!" he calls into the dark chute above him. His heart starts to clamour as he remembers that Locke can't get in here: that's the entire point, isn't it? That was why he was sent down first. Getting himself stuck in the ground had never been factored into Locke's cunning plan, had it?
Charlie breathes slowly, trying to calm himself. It's almost pitch black in this place, but only almost: light is coming from somewhere, but not above. Not through that tiny little window. Somewhere else, then. Enough for him to be able to see shallow puddles of water and the vague outline of shapes - wires? - a little further up. "Stay calm," Charlie mutters to himself, especially when he hears the whirling sound of something moving in the darkness. "Hello!" he yells. "Is there anyone there? It's Charlie."
Then there's that sound, one designed especially to chill the blood: the sound of a gun being loaded. He can't tell where it's coming from, no matter how much he strains his eyes, but there's someone down here with him. "Hands over your head, brother," a voice from the dark orders. Scottish. That somehow makes it even scarier, as Charlie raises his left hand and tries desperately to pull his other hand free from the concrete. "Both hands."
"I can't," Charlie says. "I'm stuck. Might not've noticed it yet, mate, but I'm waist-deep in concrete. Don't think I'm really a threat right now, do you?" He sounds angry and that's okay - that's good, in fact. Angry's good. It's better than terrified at any rate. More productive.
There's a long, pregnant pause. "How'd you get stuck there?" the stranger asks eventually, sounding baffled.
"It's a long story," Charlie grumbles as he tries to wriggle his legs in an attempt at dislodging himself. It doesn't work. "You mind giving us a hand? I can't get out by myself."
He listens for footsteps - or, even better, the sound of a gun being put down - but it doesn't happen. There's a vague shuffle, but no lights are put on and no one reveals himself. "Are you him?" the voice asks dubiously instead.
"What?"
"Are you him?"
"I don't have a bloody clue what you're talking about."
Why is it that he keeps ending up surrounded by lunatics? What is it about this island? Now isn't the time to ask questions like that, though. He just needs out of here.
"What did one snowman say to the other snowman?"
"Is now really the time for joking?" Charlie asks, because he remembers that one from all his childhood Christmases with his dad. He hadn't found it funny back then either. The sound of the gun being loaded jerks his tongue to life. "Do you smell carrots?" He closes his eyes against the dim light and shrinks back from an assailant he can't see.
"Close enough," the figure agrees, "but you're not him, are you?"
"No. I'm not. I'm a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815 - we've been on this island for a few weeks now. Are you… Have you been down here all this time?"
There are footsteps now, moving away from him. Charlie swallows hard and wriggles more, but nothing helps. Nothing works and he tries not to panic, he really does. Panicking won't help and he can't insult himself either: he's in deep enough as it is. As he's working on it, fighting back the terror that's clawing at his throat, the darkness around him vanishes in a steady crawl of electric lighting.
Electric lighting.
Charlie grins and feels like laughing at the sight of it. Electricity on an island like this. That's got to mean something. That's got to be a good omen after so very long. The footsteps return and Charlie finally gets a look at the man: he seems unnaturally tall from this angle and his brown eyes are a little more manic than Charlie's comfortable with. Right now, however, Charlie couldn't give a damn. Another life on this hell hole, an underground bunker and working electricity… He keeps waiting to wake up.
There's a shotgun in the jumpsuited man's hands and Charlie should really feel a lot more afraid than he currently does. "I'm Charlie by the way," he says. He figures it's harder to shoot someone when you know their name.
The stranger walks forward, taking his time, and stops close by Charlie. He leans against the wall and slides down, even though Charlie thinks he remembers there being a puddle close to where he's currently sitting. "Desmond," he says. "Now d'you mind telling me exactly how you ended up stuck in my floor?"
And isn't that one hell of a story to tell?
*
It takes Charlie under twelve hours to work out that Desmond must be absolutely bat-shit insane. He disappears off every two hours or so when there's a mysterious beeping somewhere in this bunker. He's brought along a couple of pillows, a blanket and a portable heater, making this place as comfortable for Charlie as he can - but he says there's no way out other than the way Charlie came in, and that the ladder there broke off years ago.
Hadn't responded when Charlie had spluttered and asked if he was serious: trapped down here for the rest of his pitifully short life sounds like hell. "I'm sorry," Desmond had whispered, crouched down beside him. Then the alarm had gone off and Desmond had disappeared all over again and no amount of yelling seemed to get any response from Locke and Boone up above.
When Desmond reappears he carries something that makes Charlie nervous all over again. "What the hell is that, mate?"
"This?" Desmond hefts the object in his hand. "It's a needle, brother. The vaccine."
"Vaccine…" Charlie keeps his eyes on it. It doesn't look like any needle he's ever encountered and by now he considers himself quite the expert. "No way are you touching me with that thing."
"With all due respect," Desmond says with a flashing half-smile as he kneels down at Charlie's right side, "it's not like you have too much say in the matter. The sickness is up there."
"I told you, no one's been sick."
"Better safe than sorry, Charlie." He sounds almost apologetic, but he grabs Charlie's free wrist when he tries to shove him away. Trapped by the concrete around him, there's nothing Charlie can do but yell indignantly as Desmond manoeuvres the vaccine gun against his arm. There's pain, a short stab of it, and Charlie cries out with anger. "I'm sorry," Desmond mutters yet again when he takes a few steps back. "Had to be done. I'm so sorry."
Charlie looks down at his arm and the few drops of blood that spill from the mark left by the forced injection. "Going to leave a bruise that is," he complains. He wants to hold a grudge but - hell - he's stuck in the floor and Desmond might be the only company he has until he can figure out how to make his power lift him up instead of make him sink more. He's a sitting duck here: angering Desmond won't have any good consequences.
He looks down at his arm and just has to blindly hope that there are no side-effects.
"Sorry," Desmond says again, a perpetually broken record.
"It's fine. Had worse." Worse pains, worse injections, worse betrayals. He places his fingers over that spot and presses down hard despite the way that makes it hurt more: it'll stop him from bleeding all down his arm and considering that he has no idea when he'll next get a chance to wash up that seems smart.
"Worse than someone injecting you against your will?" Desmond sits down again, slouched against the wall opposite him with his shotgun resting beside him like a faithful pet. "Must be quite the life you've lived up there."
"Must be," Charlie agrees.
"I'll have to get you to tell me about that sometime." Desmond smiles and it's so close to being comforting that it's unnerving. "Want a drink?" Desmond asks, and Charlie finds himself nearly laughing again.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, definitely."
If there was ever a time to get completely wasted it's now. Desmond disappears and leaves him alone for what feels like eternity: when he returns, together they toast Charlie's first day in the hatch.
It goes on like that, day in and day out. Desmond makes it as cosy as he can out here and even tries to help him get out: whenever he tries he sinks deeper. By day three waist-deep has become stomach-deep and Charlie is trying so damn hard not to freak out about it. If Locke were here, if Jack were here…
"You'd think your friends would've found a way in by now," Desmond muses, looking up at the passage above them.
"Yeah," Charlie agrees emptily, remembering how easily they'd given up on getting Claire back, "you'd think."
*
"Des, mate, I've been down here for sodding eternity now -"
"It's been two weeks, Charlie."
"Yeah. Two weeks and you still haven't told me what that alarm is." Charlie looks as demanding as he can be when he's sunk even further in the time that's passed. "C'mon. It's not as if I'm going to spill your secret, is it? Who the hell am I going to tell - the mural?"
Desmond smiles a little and shrugs a shoulder, taking a square from the chocolate bar they're sharing - a very rare treat, Des says, because of how he's rationing his supplies - and passing it to Charlie's left hand. "You really want to know?"
"Would I have been nagging you this much about it if I didn't?"
"I'm saving the world, brother." Just like that, just like it's simple - like it's obvious. Charlie's tempted to crack a smile, but Desmond seems as earnest as ever. His brown eyes watch Charlie's reaction so carefully. "Every time that alarm goes off I go through to a computer further in the hatch. I sit down and I type in a code: 4 8 15 16 23 42. Every one hundred and eight minutes."
"And that saves the world, does it?"
"Aye." Desmond nods solemnly. "It does."
That really should be the most ridiculous thing Charlie's ever heard, but he can't doubt him. Looking into Desmond's eyes he can't even suspect that it's not true. "Bloody hell," Charlie whispers. "Guess that means I owe you a thousand thank yous, doesn't it?"
Desmond smile grows and he takes a bite from their chocolate bar. "Yeah," he agrees. "I'd say you do."
Charlie shakes his head with a surprised laugh: just when he thinks this place can't get any weirder…
*
When Desmond finally gets around to asking for a little more details about how exactly Charlie's ability works - on Charlie's twentieth day in this place - it isn't at all in the way Charlie expects. Desmond doesn't meet his eyes, looking down at the food they're eating for dinner instead. "I hope you don't mind me asking this, Charlie," he says awkwardly, "but…"
"Yeah?"
"How do you…?" He gestures in a somewhat disturbing nature with his fork. "Y'know. Stuck down there, how do you…"
Trying to follow what he's getting at, Charlie frowns - but his eyes widen as Desmond waves his fork again. He feels himself starting to blush and decides that embarrassing Desmond back is the only form of defence. "You're honestly asking me how I piss down here?"
"Well, you have been down there twenty days, brother," Desmond says sheepishly.
Charlie pushes the food on his plate around, suddenly feeling a distinct drop in his appetite. "It has the same ability that I do," he explains awkwardly. "So it just goes… When it… God, I can't believe you asked me that. You're so fucking gross, Des."
Desmond grins and seems little more than relieved that Charlie didn't fly off the handle when asked. Charlie supposes he can't blame him for that: he's already lost his temper so many times down here, trapped and frustrated as it becomes painfully clear that rescue isn't coming. Desmond's had his ear yelled and snarked off more than once.
"Sorry," Desmond says. "Just got curious. It's not every day you get the chance for a question and answer session with a bona fide superhero, is it?"
"Me?" Charlie grins. "You're the one saving the world every one hundred and eight minutes."
"Anyone can push a button, Charlie," he says. "It takes someone special to-"
"Get trapped in the floor of an underground bunker?"
Desmond slips down further in the seat he's made for himself, getting more comfortable. He's brought cushions and blankets and a record player through for them. "Yeah, guess so. I mean- Have you always been able to do that?"
"My talent for getting myself caught in disturbing situations has been there since I was a kid." Charlie shrugs. "The ability to walk through stuff, though, that turned up just a few days before I came down here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I was…" And, god, how does he explain that? "I kinda had an accident. This power… It cropped up just in time to save me."
"An accident?" Desmond asks, curious suspicion in those two words. "What kind of accident would that be?"
"The kind where you and a friend get kidnapped and you're left with a noose around your neck, hanging from a tree," Charlie snaps. "Left for dead. That's what kind." It's not Desmond's fault - he doesn't deserve the raised voice or that directionless anger. He's not done anything but be grateful for the company since the second Charlie got down here. When Charlie thinks about Ethan, about Claire… His blood boils.
The expression on Desmond's face is dangerous: contained anger and empty rage. He's gripping that set of cutlery a little too hard. "Charlie, I had no idea."
"I know," Charlie says wearily, forcing the anger from his chest with a long sigh. "I know, I shouldn't have snapped. Sorry."
"I'm glad you got that power, Charlie," Desmond says. "It saved your life. Probably saved mine too."
"What?"
"Brought you down here, didn't it?" Desmond's smile is so weak when he grabs their cleared plates and stands up sharply. "The alarm'll be going off in a few minutes."
He retreats and Charlie has no choice but to simply let him, unable to follow. He feels a stubborn ache in his chest and folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the pile of cushions collected in front of him. He closes his eyes - there's nothing else to do here - and breathes steadily as he waits for Desmond to return.
He hears his footsteps less than a minute after the alarm goes off. "That looks pretty uncomfortable, Charlie."
"It looks that way 'cause it is pretty uncomfortable." Charlie pops up again like a demented jack in the box, stretching awkwardly. "Not much we can do about it, though."
Desmond has to murmur in agreement, returning to his spot. Charlie tries to wriggle his legs - he's had the worst pins and needles in his left foot for ages now - even though he knows it won't work. He can't stop trying.
"You never finished telling me how it works," Desmond muses. "Your power, I mean."
"Not much to it," Charlie shrugs. "I just think bad thoughts and then suddenly I'm walk-through-able."
"Bad thoughts?"
"Yeah, y'know. I'm a useless, pointless, stupid and pathetic junkie who'll never be of any good to anyone. Not ever." There it is again, sinking another few centimetres down. It's slow, like sinking in jelly, but it's visible. "And then - I'm good with the guitar, I, uh, I'm loyal, I…" It's not working so he frowns and tries to think of something else, but he's still sinking as he realises that the bad really does outweigh the good.
"You're brave," Desmond interjects, reaching for his hand to stop him from slipping down any further: he passes right through, leaving an electrifying tingle behind. "Brave, funny, clever... Perfectly infuriating. Constantly sarcastic. And you're the best man I've been around in years."
"That's not exactly saying much, is it?" Charlie says, but the sinking's stopped. "I'm the only man you've been around in years."
Desmond doesn't quite meet his eyes when he agrees, but before he can ask about that he reaches forward to mess up Charlie's hair. "Yeah, guess so. Still - just keep that in mind the next time you're sinking."
There's a self-conscious burning in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he usually only gets when Claire smiles at him. "Yeah," he agrees, running his hand through his hair. "Will do."
"Also?" Desmond suggests. "Might want to think about freeing your right hand next as well."
Charlie looks down at where his right wrist is still captured down in the cement. He keeps panicking every single time he starts sinking, enough that he forgets to free himself. He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know. How 'bout you remind me next time?"
Desmond grins and nods. "Alright, that's a deal." They settle down together and get comfortable, talking away their shapeless hours.
*
Charlie swears under his breath, his elbows knocking against the hard concrete. He's gradually sunk over the last few days until he's chest-deep in the ground now: it's making it bloody awkward to do anything. There isn't much space and Charlie's just trying not to think about where he's going to be a few more days from now. He and Desmond can't come up with any ideas and his attempts at controlling just one part of his body always lead to him sinking further.
"Fuck!" he mutters when his elbow slams down again. He drops the razor to the ground and nurses his elbow instead: there are bruises there by now, as impressive as the ones on his right arm from Desmond's bloody 'vaccine', done once a week apparently. He glares at the mirror Desmond had brought for him: his reflection is marred with a selection of shaving cuts, foam and a half-present rash of facial hair. He looks a mess.
Desmond's footsteps approaching only serve to make the situation worse, more embarrassing. "Need any help?" Desmond asks, amusement threaded through his voice.
"I'm fine," Charlie insists - because, well, it's bad enough having to rely on Desmond to bring him food, water, blankets, absolutely everything. He'd like to be able to demonstrate at least a little self-proficiency.
Desmond moves forward anyway, plucking the razor from the floor. "Charlie, I don't mind helping you out." He kneels behind him, both of them watching the mirror. His hand is gentle but surprisingly demanding when he cups Charlie's chin; Charlie gives up arguing straight away, but his heart pounds when the blade of the razor is first pressed against him. "I like it. Gives me something to do down here, I guess."
"Glad I can amuse you," Charlie grumbles, before Desmond tells him not to talk right now. The water in the bowl in front of him splashes as Desmond pauses to dip the razor in there.
"I mean it," he continues. "Think I might've gone a wee bit mad down here if you hadn't turned up when you did."
"And I think I was too late for that, Des." Charlie gets a tap on the side of his head for speaking again while the razor skims over him. He bites his tongue to keep himself quiet, but it's impossible to do so when Desmond is so close to him. Nerves bubble whenever Desmond's hand shift and he can hardly even watch in the mirror. His mouth feels ridiculously dry and he's pretty sure he knows why, but he closes his eyes instead of watching any more: he just feels it instead, knowing Desmond wouldn't hurt him even with that blade against his skin.
He wants to tell him he's glad he came down here too, even if the fall landed him stuck in the ground and gradually sinking: that he wouldn't have wanted anyone else down here with him and that there are times when they're talking that he thinks he doesn't even want to get rescued any more. He wets his lips when Desmond splashes the razor head in the water again, but before the words can come there's a thundering boom from above.
Craning his head he still can't see anything up above - nothing but darkness. "What the bloody hell was that?" Desmond asks, his hand clutching tight to Charlie's shoulder.
"I don't know," Charlie answers. Could be his friends; or it could be the monster, or the polar bears, or whatever other horrors the island feels like throwing at him today. "I get the feeling we're about to find out."
"Stay here," Desmond says - and it's not as if Charlie has a choice, is it? Desmond scrambles to his feet and Charlie is left alone, staring into the blackness above him.
Desmond's still gone when the burning torch is thrown down, landing with a fiery thud less than a metre from where Charlie is stuck. "Guys?" he yells up, but there's no answer. Probably too far down for them to hear him, though he wants to rage and yell at them for taking so bloody long.
The lights go out and the only thing left is the dying flame from the torch. "Des?" Charlie calls. He hears footsteps again.
"I'm here," Desmond's hoarse voice whispers. "Don't worry - I'm not gonna run off and leave you."
"'cept for the part where you just did," Charlie hisses back. "I think they're my friends. They threw this down." He stretches as far as he can to let his hand wrap around the end of the torch. He picks it up, showing it off.
"Better safe than sorry," Desmond says. That seems to be his goddamn motto down here: Charlie hears that spine-chilling sound of the shotgun loading.
"Just… Just try not to shoot anyone, okay? At least at first?" Maybe if it was Locke or Boone that appeared he'd allow a little shooting, just for making him come down here in the first place. Wankers.
He thinks he can feel Desmond smiling in the darkness. "I'll try."
And then that's it, and then they're waiting, and then Charlie's watching the opening above him and waiting for whatever is to come next. It seems to take forever for anything to happen. Forever before he can hear yelling up above, a voice he recognises - is that really Kate? - and then the vague outline of a form above him.
"Kate?" he calls. "Kate, is that really you?"
Long second of silence passed before she responds. "Charlie?" she asks. "What are you doing down here?" A flashlight shines directly into his eyes as she touches down on the ground with an uncomfortable grunt. "Charlie?"
"Yeah. I mean - what? Locke sent me down here. And I got stuck. And… you didn't know?"
"You just disappeared one day," she says. It's good to see her again, good enough that if he wasn't trapped here he'd probably leap forward to hug her and never let go. Hearing her voice is enough for him for now. "You've…" She shakes her head and looks around the dark tunnel, flashlight sliding back and forth as she examines the area that's become a bizarre kind of home for him. "What is this place?"
"It's the hatch," Charlie says. It's nice to be the one in the know for once. "We save the world down here."
"'We'?"
"Well, more like Des. I'm here too, though. I keep him company."
"You mean there's someone down here with you?"
For the first time since he first crash-landed here it occurs to him that the situation is a little odd. After a while it had just started to seem completely normal. "Uh. Yeah. Des? Des, are you there? It's okay - I know her."
The lights are switched on again and there Desmond is, still clutching his gun so tightly. He looks as if he might run - not that, as far as Charlie knows, there's actually anywhere to run to, unless Desmond feels in the mood for hiding in the stock room.
"It's okay," Charlie says again, with a wavering smile. "It's… Yeah. It's okay."
Can't say anything more than that, not really. Kate looks between them, complete bafflement on her face, before she allows her gaze to linger on Charlie again. "Are you stuck in the ground, Charlie?" she asks.
Charlie laughs and nods, ready to explain that too: it's funny how the abnormal becomes accepted so bloody easily. Now that Kate's here the others will come too, and he'll finally get that rescue he'd been hoping for. He looks towards Desmond, takes in that fear and distrust, and has to privately admit that he might even miss this place.
*
Charlie stretches his legs; he doesn't think he's ever going to get over being able to move naturally again, no cement casing him in. There is, of course, a very alarming crater in the hatch now - and he found himself terrified that Sayid would end up smashing a hole right through him with that bloody pickaxe - but he's out and that's what matters. Out, and now he now knows better than to leap enormous heights relying on his power for protection.
He holds Aaron in his arms, rocking him to sleep: can't believe he missed the birth. Can't believe he missed Claire's return. Can't believe all the changes that have gone on here at the beach without him. Coming back had felt as if he was going somewhere else altogether.
Now he's on the outside of the group - and he's not the only one.
Further along the shoreline he can see Desmond sitting alone, staring out at the ceaseless waves. The other survivors seem to avoid him, not really knowing what to do with him. Charlie's just glad he didn't run off: and he's still bitter Desmond hadn't told him that the hatch had more than one entrance.
Carrying the baby, after a glance at Claire to make sure she's okay with him wandering off with him, he walks along the beach to find his friend. "Mind if I sit here?" he asks.
"Go right ahead," Desmond says, craning up at him. "And this is Aaron, I take it?"
"Yeah, this is the tyke." Charlie looks down at the baby and smiles: he doesn't think he's ever seen a more perfect kid in his entire sorry existence. "Not been seeing much of you lately, Des."
"Aye." Desmond shrugs. "Figured you were busy."
"Yeah, definitely. This whole 'living on a tropical island' gig really does leave my schedule full to bursting. Don't know if I could possibly pencil in more than, oh, two seconds with my personal superhero."
"Locke's the one pushing the button now, brother."
"That's not what I meant." Charlie looks up at him but Desmond is staring down at his hands, shoulders hunched. "I would've died down there if it wasn't for you."
"Sayid got you out."
"And if you hadn't been around I would've starved and gone mad and probably drowned in cement by the time that lot got around to rescuing me." Charlie shifts his grip on Aaron and makes sure to hold him more securely. "Do you want me to be grateful or not, mate?" Desmond smiles but it's sad and lonely - he really does have that martyr complex down to an art form, Charlie thinks, but he's not going to put up with it.
"You don't owe me anything, Charlie."
"Right, right. Whatever." Charlie shrugs and looks away again. "My tent's right up there, if you ever want to…" He trails off, not quite sure what it is that he's suggesting but knowing that he needs Desmond to want it to. What they went through down there - it means something. "I dunno. Just an offer. I'd better take this little guy back to his mother."
"Yeah," Desmond agrees without looking up at him. Charlie stands up, feeling dejected and useless: more fodder for using this stupid power, he supposes. "I, uh-" Desmond says before he's out of hearing distance. "I guess I'll see you tonight then."
Charlie bites his bottom lip to hold in a smile as he nods then begins to walk away. "Guess you will," he confirms. He gets the feeling that happy thoughts might come easier than negative ones, now.
Pairing: Charlie/Desmond
Word Count: 7000
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for charlielives Superpowers challenge with writing_rainbow's "Courage" prompt. Charlie's power here is taken from Kitty Pryde. AU from 'All The Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues'.
Summary: Charlie discovers the downside to waking up with a superpower.
This isn't right.
Rope around his neck, Charlie's suspended from the ground - desperate gasps for air yield nothing and though he claws at the rope with his hands nothing happens. His heart thunders. He's not going to die, not here, not like this, not when Claire needs him. He's survived a sodding plane crash: he can get out of this. Has to, has to, no other choice, but nothing's working and he can't hear anyone coming to help. No rescue mission. Jack and Sayid and Kate aren't going to charge in this time.
His legs kick uselessly and find nothing to give him purchase. The world goes blacker behind the blindfold and his lungs ache, his throat aches, every inch of him and- It's too late. He can feel it, the blinding desperation as his life slips beyond his grasp. Can't end like this, he thinks. The world slips away and he feels his body tingling all over, like static electricity rushing through every cell. There's no time to question it, though. He's gone, the fight fading. Useless.
He doesn't feel it when he thuds to the ground seconds later.
*
A slamming, blinding pain welcomes him as his thoughts crawl back to life. Still breathing, he realises. How the hell did that happen? Each breath leaves his throat feeling ragged. His mouth feels dry. He tries to move, the barest twitch of a muscle, and hears a faraway voice hushing him. It sounds like the loudest noise in the universe.
Blinking his eyes open, his vision feels fuzzy. Blurred splodges of colour are all he can make out, indistinct shapes. He closes his eyes again and waits a moment. The next time he looks it all seems a little clearer.
He's back on the beach, from what he can make out. In someone's tent. A hunched form sits by the edge of the bed, watching him worriedly. It takes a few more blinks before he can make out that it's Jack. Breathing through his nose, Charlie tries to swallow before wincing. God, he doesn't want to try that again in a hurry. It feels as if he's been chewing sandpaper.
"What happened?" he asks. His voice doesn't even sound like his own - scratchy and dry. Empty.
"Don't try to talk," Jack whispers.
If Charlie could summon the will to yell at him he would do. "What happened?" he asks again. "I…" He remembers it, the noose tight around his neck. His hand rises, ignoring his complaining muscles. The skin feels tender, stinging under the slightest pressure. "I should be dead."
Jack shakes his head. "You were on the ground when we reached you. Ethan must have…" He trails off and the words die: there's no explanation. "The vines were still there."
So no one untied him, no one saved him, nothing happened, yet here he is breathing and in one hell of a lot of pain. Great. Fantastic. Looks as if he's facing at another island miracle or the mighty hand of God. Charlie groans, wishing everything could be a little simpler for once, but he doesn't question it. He's alive, isn't he? That's all that matters.
"Water," he croaks as he tries half-heartedly to sit up. "And- Claire? What happened with Claire?" They must've got her back, they must've found her, she must've had an island miracle of her own, but Jack refuses to meet his eyes and instead distracts himself by fetching one of the bottles that sit by the tent's opening. "Jack, where is she? Where's Claire?"
Jack shakes his head. "We didn't find her," he says. "We're going to get her back, Charlie. I promise."
The shock of it hits him like a punch to the gut. "So she's…" He doesn't want to believe it. "She's still with that monster?"
"We'll get her back," Jack says again, but that's not enough. Who knows what Ethan's doing with her or why he took her in the first place? She's pregnant. Charlie should've been there to protect her. He should have done something, anything, instead of being so useless. "Don't blame yourself, Charlie."
"Who else would you suggest I blame?" Charlie asks, sounding every bit as bitter as he feels. He reaches out to take the bottle from Jack - he wishes there was something he could do, some way he could help - and doesn't notice for a few seconds as his hand floats right on through.
Jack's eyebrows raise and Charlie stares at his hand, tries again. This time he manages it, clinging on tightly to the plastic of the bottle. The water feels cool. "You just saw that, right?" he asks, just to make sure. "My hand, it…"
"It went through the plastic."
"Thought as much," Charlie confirms with a slow nod. Right. "How is that possible?" Jack shakes his head - and if their sodding doctor doesn't have an answer then what hope does Charlie have? "Did I die? Is that it? Am I a ghost?"
"You were alive when we got there, Charlie. Feel your pulse."
Charlie fumbles for his right wrist, pressing down and feeling that steady beating there. Okay. He's alive. Really alive. That's a pleasant idea - unliving out his days as a incorporeal ghost wouldn't have been ideal - but it still leaves him clueless. "I'm holding it now," he points out.
"Try again," Jack suggests. "See if you can…"
They don't even know what to call it. Cautiously, Charlie's fingers move from his wrist to the bottle instead. He can feel the plastic hard beneath his skin. When he presses hard against it the plastic creaks and bends but his finger doesn't slip through. "Bugger," he mutters. Maybe he's just going crazy - imagining himself having superpowers because he's so sodding useless without them. He isn't the doctor, isn't the soldier, isn't the convict, isn't anything but a screwed-up ex-junkie who managed to let some psycho abduct Claire and take her into the jungle.
The bottle slips through his hand - through his hand - and falls, down through his legs as well until it thuds on the bed beneath him. Charlie's eyes widen and if it didn't hurt so much he'd laugh. He has no idea how this is possible or why it's started happening now, but who cares? He's a goddamn superhero, and that means precisely one thing: he can get Claire back.
*
"Charlie, please, you need to listen to us," Sayid says, his hands outstretched. Charlie's trying hard to stay calm, so damn hard, but it's as if no one here actually wants to find Claire. "Both Locke and Kate have tried to find the trails. We do not know where she is and unless you have some way of finding her location then there is absolutely nothing we can do right now."
The others are there too, all the action heroes of the camp: Kate and Jack and Sawyer with Locke lurking by the edge of the circle. No one has any suggestions. No one can help and no one's trying, like they don't care that Claire's been gone for days now and like they don't give a damn about the ugly bruises that ring around Charlie's neck.
"I'm sorry," Kate says quietly. She looks genuinely sorry, remorse and pity in her eyes. It doesn't do any good. She goes to pat his shoulder but meets thin air instead: Charlie feels the same tingle he gets every time he goes through something. He can feel his feet sinking steadily into the sand and isn't surprised when the group begin to walk away from him, moving onto other plans and more 'important' matters of discussion.
He looks down at his feet and scowls at them, thinking as happy thoughts as he can to try and stop himself from sinking further. He's already ankle-deep. "Charlie," Locke says as he approaches him, watching Charlie's ankles too. Charlie hadn't even noticed that Locke hadn't gone with the others, but as he looks up at the man he sees a worrying twinkle in his blue eyes. A spark of genius or madness. "I think I could do with your help, if you're up for it."
Charlie stops sinking and frowns instead. "Will it help Claire?" he asks, not that it matters. If Locke wants his help then he'll definitely go along: he owes the man his life for getting him off those drugs.
Locke smiles enigmatically. "I don't know," he answers. "Meet me by the tree line in five minutes. Bring water: we're going hunting."
Hunting. Right. Charlie bites his tongue and turns to retreat back to his tent to find a bag, water and any other items that might be useful on a hunting trip. He knows that Locke is probably just taking pity on him like he did on Boone, giving him something to do that stops him from feeling quite so useless. He's a nice guy in that way, isn't he? Taking the screw-ups hunting so that they can attempt to scrape their self-esteem up from the floor. All it does is make him feel worse from ever: when he enters his tent he doesn't have to pull back the tarp that covers it.
*
Charlie looks down at the metal hatch sticking out of the ground, eyebrows raised. "And you just found it?" he asks, glancing to Locke and Boone. Boone hasn't spoken much since they came out here: his main communication has been by way of sly glares and rolled eyes. Charlie gets the impression that he isn't too fond of sharing this secret with him.
"Just found it," Locke confirms, smiling. "Boone and I had to split from Kate and Jack when we were looking for you. Found this in the rain."
"So what's inside it?" It's impossible to see through the tiny window, only murky blackness. Still, a manmade thing like that in the middle of a tropical island - it's almost as weird as the polar bear.
Locke's still smiling. "That's where you come in, Charlie. Boone and I can't get it open. You don't have to."
Charlie frowns and looks back down at it - the guy can't be serious, can he? - and feels visions of getting trapped down there plaguing him. "You want me to go in there?" he asks. He wishes that Locke would shake his head and say that's ridiculous, but Locke's calm smile sticks around as he nods. "Are you crazy?! We have no idea what's down there. And how am I supposed to get out again? No. No way, Locke. No sodding way."
"The island gave you this ability for a reason," Locke insists. It's not quite yelling but it's pretty damn close. Charlie takes a step back, his footsteps sounding louder than they should on top of the metal. "This is it. It gives me a door I can't get through: it gives you the way to get through it."
"So, what? This is 'fate'? 'The island', Locke? You're mental."
"Charlie," Boone says, stepping forward and uncrossing his arms from over his chest. "I think John knows what he's talking about."
"'course you do," Charlie mutters as he looks back down at the hatch. He'd never done anything like this before: he'd never been asked. He isn't the hero on the island and if there's anyone that ought to be exploring mysterious hatches it's not him. Jack or Sayid or Kate or Locke himself but not bloody him. He kneels down by the window and tries to peer inside. Nothing but blackness. Locke and Boone's expectant gazes are heavy on the back of his neck but he can't do this - they shouldn't be asking, Locke especially. He's just some washed-up good for nothing junkie. Not a hero. He's not brave enough for this.
As his fingers start to slip through the metal of the hatch he realises that he really should have known better than to start angsting on top of it: seconds later, his body tingles and he starts falling through the darkness.
Long way down, long damn way down, and his eyes screw shut as he mentally calls himself every single name he can think of in the blind attempt to keep this power activated so that he doesn't land terribly. Broken bones are the best he can ask for. Stupid Locke. Stupid Boone. Stupid him for ever agreeing to go out there with them. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
His body tingles all over and suddenly the blackness around him seems to lift into something a little lighter. The air is freezing but it's not rushing by his face any more: he's stopped falling. He peeps one eye open and finds himself knee-deep in the stone ground and still sinking.
"Charlie, you are fantastic," he says hurriedly, waving his legs to try and rise again. He only sinks further, the freezing ground crawling up the inside of his thigh. "You are fantastic and awesome and no one plays the guitar like you do. You're not useless. You're not useless." He reaches to grab onto his leg and pull up, but it doesn't work. If anything he sinks faster, his groin being covered as he dips further and further into the earth. "Charlie Pace, you are not doing this. Get up. Stop it," he mutters to himself, but the pep-talk isn't working. "You are a sodding Pace and this is not how you die, you hear me?"
No, not like this. He didn't die from being hung: he's not going to fall into the Earth and suffocate there. No way. If he survived a plane crash and he survived Ethan then there's no way he's going out like this: he's worth more than that.
And with that he stops. Up to his waist in freezing cement with one hand clinging to his leg and stuck down there, he stops sinking. Stuck as ever, but at least he's no longer in danger of suffocating. The ground's like quicksand when he loses control like that.
"Locke!" he calls into the dark chute above him. His heart starts to clamour as he remembers that Locke can't get in here: that's the entire point, isn't it? That was why he was sent down first. Getting himself stuck in the ground had never been factored into Locke's cunning plan, had it?
Charlie breathes slowly, trying to calm himself. It's almost pitch black in this place, but only almost: light is coming from somewhere, but not above. Not through that tiny little window. Somewhere else, then. Enough for him to be able to see shallow puddles of water and the vague outline of shapes - wires? - a little further up. "Stay calm," Charlie mutters to himself, especially when he hears the whirling sound of something moving in the darkness. "Hello!" he yells. "Is there anyone there? It's Charlie."
Then there's that sound, one designed especially to chill the blood: the sound of a gun being loaded. He can't tell where it's coming from, no matter how much he strains his eyes, but there's someone down here with him. "Hands over your head, brother," a voice from the dark orders. Scottish. That somehow makes it even scarier, as Charlie raises his left hand and tries desperately to pull his other hand free from the concrete. "Both hands."
"I can't," Charlie says. "I'm stuck. Might not've noticed it yet, mate, but I'm waist-deep in concrete. Don't think I'm really a threat right now, do you?" He sounds angry and that's okay - that's good, in fact. Angry's good. It's better than terrified at any rate. More productive.
There's a long, pregnant pause. "How'd you get stuck there?" the stranger asks eventually, sounding baffled.
"It's a long story," Charlie grumbles as he tries to wriggle his legs in an attempt at dislodging himself. It doesn't work. "You mind giving us a hand? I can't get out by myself."
He listens for footsteps - or, even better, the sound of a gun being put down - but it doesn't happen. There's a vague shuffle, but no lights are put on and no one reveals himself. "Are you him?" the voice asks dubiously instead.
"What?"
"Are you him?"
"I don't have a bloody clue what you're talking about."
Why is it that he keeps ending up surrounded by lunatics? What is it about this island? Now isn't the time to ask questions like that, though. He just needs out of here.
"What did one snowman say to the other snowman?"
"Is now really the time for joking?" Charlie asks, because he remembers that one from all his childhood Christmases with his dad. He hadn't found it funny back then either. The sound of the gun being loaded jerks his tongue to life. "Do you smell carrots?" He closes his eyes against the dim light and shrinks back from an assailant he can't see.
"Close enough," the figure agrees, "but you're not him, are you?"
"No. I'm not. I'm a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815 - we've been on this island for a few weeks now. Are you… Have you been down here all this time?"
There are footsteps now, moving away from him. Charlie swallows hard and wriggles more, but nothing helps. Nothing works and he tries not to panic, he really does. Panicking won't help and he can't insult himself either: he's in deep enough as it is. As he's working on it, fighting back the terror that's clawing at his throat, the darkness around him vanishes in a steady crawl of electric lighting.
Electric lighting.
Charlie grins and feels like laughing at the sight of it. Electricity on an island like this. That's got to mean something. That's got to be a good omen after so very long. The footsteps return and Charlie finally gets a look at the man: he seems unnaturally tall from this angle and his brown eyes are a little more manic than Charlie's comfortable with. Right now, however, Charlie couldn't give a damn. Another life on this hell hole, an underground bunker and working electricity… He keeps waiting to wake up.
There's a shotgun in the jumpsuited man's hands and Charlie should really feel a lot more afraid than he currently does. "I'm Charlie by the way," he says. He figures it's harder to shoot someone when you know their name.
The stranger walks forward, taking his time, and stops close by Charlie. He leans against the wall and slides down, even though Charlie thinks he remembers there being a puddle close to where he's currently sitting. "Desmond," he says. "Now d'you mind telling me exactly how you ended up stuck in my floor?"
And isn't that one hell of a story to tell?
*
It takes Charlie under twelve hours to work out that Desmond must be absolutely bat-shit insane. He disappears off every two hours or so when there's a mysterious beeping somewhere in this bunker. He's brought along a couple of pillows, a blanket and a portable heater, making this place as comfortable for Charlie as he can - but he says there's no way out other than the way Charlie came in, and that the ladder there broke off years ago.
Hadn't responded when Charlie had spluttered and asked if he was serious: trapped down here for the rest of his pitifully short life sounds like hell. "I'm sorry," Desmond had whispered, crouched down beside him. Then the alarm had gone off and Desmond had disappeared all over again and no amount of yelling seemed to get any response from Locke and Boone up above.
When Desmond reappears he carries something that makes Charlie nervous all over again. "What the hell is that, mate?"
"This?" Desmond hefts the object in his hand. "It's a needle, brother. The vaccine."
"Vaccine…" Charlie keeps his eyes on it. It doesn't look like any needle he's ever encountered and by now he considers himself quite the expert. "No way are you touching me with that thing."
"With all due respect," Desmond says with a flashing half-smile as he kneels down at Charlie's right side, "it's not like you have too much say in the matter. The sickness is up there."
"I told you, no one's been sick."
"Better safe than sorry, Charlie." He sounds almost apologetic, but he grabs Charlie's free wrist when he tries to shove him away. Trapped by the concrete around him, there's nothing Charlie can do but yell indignantly as Desmond manoeuvres the vaccine gun against his arm. There's pain, a short stab of it, and Charlie cries out with anger. "I'm sorry," Desmond mutters yet again when he takes a few steps back. "Had to be done. I'm so sorry."
Charlie looks down at his arm and the few drops of blood that spill from the mark left by the forced injection. "Going to leave a bruise that is," he complains. He wants to hold a grudge but - hell - he's stuck in the floor and Desmond might be the only company he has until he can figure out how to make his power lift him up instead of make him sink more. He's a sitting duck here: angering Desmond won't have any good consequences.
He looks down at his arm and just has to blindly hope that there are no side-effects.
"Sorry," Desmond says again, a perpetually broken record.
"It's fine. Had worse." Worse pains, worse injections, worse betrayals. He places his fingers over that spot and presses down hard despite the way that makes it hurt more: it'll stop him from bleeding all down his arm and considering that he has no idea when he'll next get a chance to wash up that seems smart.
"Worse than someone injecting you against your will?" Desmond sits down again, slouched against the wall opposite him with his shotgun resting beside him like a faithful pet. "Must be quite the life you've lived up there."
"Must be," Charlie agrees.
"I'll have to get you to tell me about that sometime." Desmond smiles and it's so close to being comforting that it's unnerving. "Want a drink?" Desmond asks, and Charlie finds himself nearly laughing again.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, definitely."
If there was ever a time to get completely wasted it's now. Desmond disappears and leaves him alone for what feels like eternity: when he returns, together they toast Charlie's first day in the hatch.
It goes on like that, day in and day out. Desmond makes it as cosy as he can out here and even tries to help him get out: whenever he tries he sinks deeper. By day three waist-deep has become stomach-deep and Charlie is trying so damn hard not to freak out about it. If Locke were here, if Jack were here…
"You'd think your friends would've found a way in by now," Desmond muses, looking up at the passage above them.
"Yeah," Charlie agrees emptily, remembering how easily they'd given up on getting Claire back, "you'd think."
*
"Des, mate, I've been down here for sodding eternity now -"
"It's been two weeks, Charlie."
"Yeah. Two weeks and you still haven't told me what that alarm is." Charlie looks as demanding as he can be when he's sunk even further in the time that's passed. "C'mon. It's not as if I'm going to spill your secret, is it? Who the hell am I going to tell - the mural?"
Desmond smiles a little and shrugs a shoulder, taking a square from the chocolate bar they're sharing - a very rare treat, Des says, because of how he's rationing his supplies - and passing it to Charlie's left hand. "You really want to know?"
"Would I have been nagging you this much about it if I didn't?"
"I'm saving the world, brother." Just like that, just like it's simple - like it's obvious. Charlie's tempted to crack a smile, but Desmond seems as earnest as ever. His brown eyes watch Charlie's reaction so carefully. "Every time that alarm goes off I go through to a computer further in the hatch. I sit down and I type in a code: 4 8 15 16 23 42. Every one hundred and eight minutes."
"And that saves the world, does it?"
"Aye." Desmond nods solemnly. "It does."
That really should be the most ridiculous thing Charlie's ever heard, but he can't doubt him. Looking into Desmond's eyes he can't even suspect that it's not true. "Bloody hell," Charlie whispers. "Guess that means I owe you a thousand thank yous, doesn't it?"
Desmond smile grows and he takes a bite from their chocolate bar. "Yeah," he agrees. "I'd say you do."
Charlie shakes his head with a surprised laugh: just when he thinks this place can't get any weirder…
*
When Desmond finally gets around to asking for a little more details about how exactly Charlie's ability works - on Charlie's twentieth day in this place - it isn't at all in the way Charlie expects. Desmond doesn't meet his eyes, looking down at the food they're eating for dinner instead. "I hope you don't mind me asking this, Charlie," he says awkwardly, "but…"
"Yeah?"
"How do you…?" He gestures in a somewhat disturbing nature with his fork. "Y'know. Stuck down there, how do you…"
Trying to follow what he's getting at, Charlie frowns - but his eyes widen as Desmond waves his fork again. He feels himself starting to blush and decides that embarrassing Desmond back is the only form of defence. "You're honestly asking me how I piss down here?"
"Well, you have been down there twenty days, brother," Desmond says sheepishly.
Charlie pushes the food on his plate around, suddenly feeling a distinct drop in his appetite. "It has the same ability that I do," he explains awkwardly. "So it just goes… When it… God, I can't believe you asked me that. You're so fucking gross, Des."
Desmond grins and seems little more than relieved that Charlie didn't fly off the handle when asked. Charlie supposes he can't blame him for that: he's already lost his temper so many times down here, trapped and frustrated as it becomes painfully clear that rescue isn't coming. Desmond's had his ear yelled and snarked off more than once.
"Sorry," Desmond says. "Just got curious. It's not every day you get the chance for a question and answer session with a bona fide superhero, is it?"
"Me?" Charlie grins. "You're the one saving the world every one hundred and eight minutes."
"Anyone can push a button, Charlie," he says. "It takes someone special to-"
"Get trapped in the floor of an underground bunker?"
Desmond slips down further in the seat he's made for himself, getting more comfortable. He's brought cushions and blankets and a record player through for them. "Yeah, guess so. I mean- Have you always been able to do that?"
"My talent for getting myself caught in disturbing situations has been there since I was a kid." Charlie shrugs. "The ability to walk through stuff, though, that turned up just a few days before I came down here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I was…" And, god, how does he explain that? "I kinda had an accident. This power… It cropped up just in time to save me."
"An accident?" Desmond asks, curious suspicion in those two words. "What kind of accident would that be?"
"The kind where you and a friend get kidnapped and you're left with a noose around your neck, hanging from a tree," Charlie snaps. "Left for dead. That's what kind." It's not Desmond's fault - he doesn't deserve the raised voice or that directionless anger. He's not done anything but be grateful for the company since the second Charlie got down here. When Charlie thinks about Ethan, about Claire… His blood boils.
The expression on Desmond's face is dangerous: contained anger and empty rage. He's gripping that set of cutlery a little too hard. "Charlie, I had no idea."
"I know," Charlie says wearily, forcing the anger from his chest with a long sigh. "I know, I shouldn't have snapped. Sorry."
"I'm glad you got that power, Charlie," Desmond says. "It saved your life. Probably saved mine too."
"What?"
"Brought you down here, didn't it?" Desmond's smile is so weak when he grabs their cleared plates and stands up sharply. "The alarm'll be going off in a few minutes."
He retreats and Charlie has no choice but to simply let him, unable to follow. He feels a stubborn ache in his chest and folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the pile of cushions collected in front of him. He closes his eyes - there's nothing else to do here - and breathes steadily as he waits for Desmond to return.
He hears his footsteps less than a minute after the alarm goes off. "That looks pretty uncomfortable, Charlie."
"It looks that way 'cause it is pretty uncomfortable." Charlie pops up again like a demented jack in the box, stretching awkwardly. "Not much we can do about it, though."
Desmond has to murmur in agreement, returning to his spot. Charlie tries to wriggle his legs - he's had the worst pins and needles in his left foot for ages now - even though he knows it won't work. He can't stop trying.
"You never finished telling me how it works," Desmond muses. "Your power, I mean."
"Not much to it," Charlie shrugs. "I just think bad thoughts and then suddenly I'm walk-through-able."
"Bad thoughts?"
"Yeah, y'know. I'm a useless, pointless, stupid and pathetic junkie who'll never be of any good to anyone. Not ever." There it is again, sinking another few centimetres down. It's slow, like sinking in jelly, but it's visible. "And then - I'm good with the guitar, I, uh, I'm loyal, I…" It's not working so he frowns and tries to think of something else, but he's still sinking as he realises that the bad really does outweigh the good.
"You're brave," Desmond interjects, reaching for his hand to stop him from slipping down any further: he passes right through, leaving an electrifying tingle behind. "Brave, funny, clever... Perfectly infuriating. Constantly sarcastic. And you're the best man I've been around in years."
"That's not exactly saying much, is it?" Charlie says, but the sinking's stopped. "I'm the only man you've been around in years."
Desmond doesn't quite meet his eyes when he agrees, but before he can ask about that he reaches forward to mess up Charlie's hair. "Yeah, guess so. Still - just keep that in mind the next time you're sinking."
There's a self-conscious burning in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he usually only gets when Claire smiles at him. "Yeah," he agrees, running his hand through his hair. "Will do."
"Also?" Desmond suggests. "Might want to think about freeing your right hand next as well."
Charlie looks down at where his right wrist is still captured down in the cement. He keeps panicking every single time he starts sinking, enough that he forgets to free himself. He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know. How 'bout you remind me next time?"
Desmond grins and nods. "Alright, that's a deal." They settle down together and get comfortable, talking away their shapeless hours.
*
Charlie swears under his breath, his elbows knocking against the hard concrete. He's gradually sunk over the last few days until he's chest-deep in the ground now: it's making it bloody awkward to do anything. There isn't much space and Charlie's just trying not to think about where he's going to be a few more days from now. He and Desmond can't come up with any ideas and his attempts at controlling just one part of his body always lead to him sinking further.
"Fuck!" he mutters when his elbow slams down again. He drops the razor to the ground and nurses his elbow instead: there are bruises there by now, as impressive as the ones on his right arm from Desmond's bloody 'vaccine', done once a week apparently. He glares at the mirror Desmond had brought for him: his reflection is marred with a selection of shaving cuts, foam and a half-present rash of facial hair. He looks a mess.
Desmond's footsteps approaching only serve to make the situation worse, more embarrassing. "Need any help?" Desmond asks, amusement threaded through his voice.
"I'm fine," Charlie insists - because, well, it's bad enough having to rely on Desmond to bring him food, water, blankets, absolutely everything. He'd like to be able to demonstrate at least a little self-proficiency.
Desmond moves forward anyway, plucking the razor from the floor. "Charlie, I don't mind helping you out." He kneels behind him, both of them watching the mirror. His hand is gentle but surprisingly demanding when he cups Charlie's chin; Charlie gives up arguing straight away, but his heart pounds when the blade of the razor is first pressed against him. "I like it. Gives me something to do down here, I guess."
"Glad I can amuse you," Charlie grumbles, before Desmond tells him not to talk right now. The water in the bowl in front of him splashes as Desmond pauses to dip the razor in there.
"I mean it," he continues. "Think I might've gone a wee bit mad down here if you hadn't turned up when you did."
"And I think I was too late for that, Des." Charlie gets a tap on the side of his head for speaking again while the razor skims over him. He bites his tongue to keep himself quiet, but it's impossible to do so when Desmond is so close to him. Nerves bubble whenever Desmond's hand shift and he can hardly even watch in the mirror. His mouth feels ridiculously dry and he's pretty sure he knows why, but he closes his eyes instead of watching any more: he just feels it instead, knowing Desmond wouldn't hurt him even with that blade against his skin.
He wants to tell him he's glad he came down here too, even if the fall landed him stuck in the ground and gradually sinking: that he wouldn't have wanted anyone else down here with him and that there are times when they're talking that he thinks he doesn't even want to get rescued any more. He wets his lips when Desmond splashes the razor head in the water again, but before the words can come there's a thundering boom from above.
Craning his head he still can't see anything up above - nothing but darkness. "What the bloody hell was that?" Desmond asks, his hand clutching tight to Charlie's shoulder.
"I don't know," Charlie answers. Could be his friends; or it could be the monster, or the polar bears, or whatever other horrors the island feels like throwing at him today. "I get the feeling we're about to find out."
"Stay here," Desmond says - and it's not as if Charlie has a choice, is it? Desmond scrambles to his feet and Charlie is left alone, staring into the blackness above him.
Desmond's still gone when the burning torch is thrown down, landing with a fiery thud less than a metre from where Charlie is stuck. "Guys?" he yells up, but there's no answer. Probably too far down for them to hear him, though he wants to rage and yell at them for taking so bloody long.
The lights go out and the only thing left is the dying flame from the torch. "Des?" Charlie calls. He hears footsteps again.
"I'm here," Desmond's hoarse voice whispers. "Don't worry - I'm not gonna run off and leave you."
"'cept for the part where you just did," Charlie hisses back. "I think they're my friends. They threw this down." He stretches as far as he can to let his hand wrap around the end of the torch. He picks it up, showing it off.
"Better safe than sorry," Desmond says. That seems to be his goddamn motto down here: Charlie hears that spine-chilling sound of the shotgun loading.
"Just… Just try not to shoot anyone, okay? At least at first?" Maybe if it was Locke or Boone that appeared he'd allow a little shooting, just for making him come down here in the first place. Wankers.
He thinks he can feel Desmond smiling in the darkness. "I'll try."
And then that's it, and then they're waiting, and then Charlie's watching the opening above him and waiting for whatever is to come next. It seems to take forever for anything to happen. Forever before he can hear yelling up above, a voice he recognises - is that really Kate? - and then the vague outline of a form above him.
"Kate?" he calls. "Kate, is that really you?"
Long second of silence passed before she responds. "Charlie?" she asks. "What are you doing down here?" A flashlight shines directly into his eyes as she touches down on the ground with an uncomfortable grunt. "Charlie?"
"Yeah. I mean - what? Locke sent me down here. And I got stuck. And… you didn't know?"
"You just disappeared one day," she says. It's good to see her again, good enough that if he wasn't trapped here he'd probably leap forward to hug her and never let go. Hearing her voice is enough for him for now. "You've…" She shakes her head and looks around the dark tunnel, flashlight sliding back and forth as she examines the area that's become a bizarre kind of home for him. "What is this place?"
"It's the hatch," Charlie says. It's nice to be the one in the know for once. "We save the world down here."
"'We'?"
"Well, more like Des. I'm here too, though. I keep him company."
"You mean there's someone down here with you?"
For the first time since he first crash-landed here it occurs to him that the situation is a little odd. After a while it had just started to seem completely normal. "Uh. Yeah. Des? Des, are you there? It's okay - I know her."
The lights are switched on again and there Desmond is, still clutching his gun so tightly. He looks as if he might run - not that, as far as Charlie knows, there's actually anywhere to run to, unless Desmond feels in the mood for hiding in the stock room.
"It's okay," Charlie says again, with a wavering smile. "It's… Yeah. It's okay."
Can't say anything more than that, not really. Kate looks between them, complete bafflement on her face, before she allows her gaze to linger on Charlie again. "Are you stuck in the ground, Charlie?" she asks.
Charlie laughs and nods, ready to explain that too: it's funny how the abnormal becomes accepted so bloody easily. Now that Kate's here the others will come too, and he'll finally get that rescue he'd been hoping for. He looks towards Desmond, takes in that fear and distrust, and has to privately admit that he might even miss this place.
*
Charlie stretches his legs; he doesn't think he's ever going to get over being able to move naturally again, no cement casing him in. There is, of course, a very alarming crater in the hatch now - and he found himself terrified that Sayid would end up smashing a hole right through him with that bloody pickaxe - but he's out and that's what matters. Out, and now he now knows better than to leap enormous heights relying on his power for protection.
He holds Aaron in his arms, rocking him to sleep: can't believe he missed the birth. Can't believe he missed Claire's return. Can't believe all the changes that have gone on here at the beach without him. Coming back had felt as if he was going somewhere else altogether.
Now he's on the outside of the group - and he's not the only one.
Further along the shoreline he can see Desmond sitting alone, staring out at the ceaseless waves. The other survivors seem to avoid him, not really knowing what to do with him. Charlie's just glad he didn't run off: and he's still bitter Desmond hadn't told him that the hatch had more than one entrance.
Carrying the baby, after a glance at Claire to make sure she's okay with him wandering off with him, he walks along the beach to find his friend. "Mind if I sit here?" he asks.
"Go right ahead," Desmond says, craning up at him. "And this is Aaron, I take it?"
"Yeah, this is the tyke." Charlie looks down at the baby and smiles: he doesn't think he's ever seen a more perfect kid in his entire sorry existence. "Not been seeing much of you lately, Des."
"Aye." Desmond shrugs. "Figured you were busy."
"Yeah, definitely. This whole 'living on a tropical island' gig really does leave my schedule full to bursting. Don't know if I could possibly pencil in more than, oh, two seconds with my personal superhero."
"Locke's the one pushing the button now, brother."
"That's not what I meant." Charlie looks up at him but Desmond is staring down at his hands, shoulders hunched. "I would've died down there if it wasn't for you."
"Sayid got you out."
"And if you hadn't been around I would've starved and gone mad and probably drowned in cement by the time that lot got around to rescuing me." Charlie shifts his grip on Aaron and makes sure to hold him more securely. "Do you want me to be grateful or not, mate?" Desmond smiles but it's sad and lonely - he really does have that martyr complex down to an art form, Charlie thinks, but he's not going to put up with it.
"You don't owe me anything, Charlie."
"Right, right. Whatever." Charlie shrugs and looks away again. "My tent's right up there, if you ever want to…" He trails off, not quite sure what it is that he's suggesting but knowing that he needs Desmond to want it to. What they went through down there - it means something. "I dunno. Just an offer. I'd better take this little guy back to his mother."
"Yeah," Desmond agrees without looking up at him. Charlie stands up, feeling dejected and useless: more fodder for using this stupid power, he supposes. "I, uh-" Desmond says before he's out of hearing distance. "I guess I'll see you tonight then."
Charlie bites his bottom lip to hold in a smile as he nods then begins to walk away. "Guess you will," he confirms. He gets the feeling that happy thoughts might come easier than negative ones, now.