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Mint Sauce
Author of 19 Stories |
Author’s Note: This is a somewhat random, sweet little thing I wrote on a whim. Charlie/Claire, as usual. It takes place somewhere between “…In Translation” and “Numbers,” but that’s not really important. The last scene of this, for those of you who know me personally at all, has something of a special significance for me, which you may or may not understand. I hope it turns out to be as enjoyable a read as it was to write.
Disclaimer: All characters and settings are the property of JJ Abrams, Damon Lindelof, and ABC. The film Some Like It Hot is the property of Billy Wilder. Title mildly inspired by the most recent Tori Amos album. All inaccuracies on the subject of beekeeping are due to my ignorance of the process. I learned everything about it from secondhand experiences of my friends. Please forgive. ;-) –Minty
Charlie stood dutifully by the fireplace near his assigned “bed,” staring crossly at it. In his hand was a long stick, on which hung a small pot of water, suspended over the flames. It was a fairly simple contraption Locke had helped him make, and as a Brit, it and the few boxes of tea they’d found were his best friends.
That didn’t change the fact that making his own tea day after bloody day was a deathly dull and mind-numbing process. He glared at the pot, silently demanding that the water boil faster. It glared back at him, silently and inanimately reminding him that a watched pot is a leisurely bastard.
As if the tedium wasn’t bad enough, he was running out of tea. Soon he was going to actually have to find natural ingredients.
He looked around idly and saw Claire a fair distance away. He could tell it was her easily by her lovely light hair, her petite figure, the way she walked gracefully and thoughtfully along. And the fact that her stomach was the size of a small car compared to her helped, he supposed.
She stopped and talked briefly to Jack, who turned, looked around, and pointed right at Charlie. She apparently thanked him and started heading towards the fire. Charlie ducked his head down, feeling a blush spread across his face and mostly on his ears. He watched her feet approach.
“Hello, Charlie,” she said, cheerful as usual. He looked at her, feebly trying to act surprised. He almost managed to greet her back, but found himself tongue-tied, and instead managed, once again, to look like a complete idiot.
She looked curiously at his pot, which, he suddenly realized, had descended a little too far into the fire. He jerked it up sharply.
“What’re you doing?” she asked, and he could hear the undertone of a giggle.
“Making tea,” he forced himself to say.
She nodded as though realized that was how he did it. “Ah, Charlie,” she said, teasing him lightly. “That’s so sweet of you.” She grinned and he almost melted.
“Yeah, well,” he said unevenly, forcing himself now to look back at the unboiling water. “It’d be sweeter if it was halfway-decent tea, I suppose.”
There was a pause, and he glanced very quickly at her and saw her smiling mysteriously at him. She came around to him and sat down. “I think it’s very decent tea,” she told him.
He shrugged. “Could use a little cream.”
“Perhaps,” she said, leaning back. “Maybe some honey. But I really rather like it.”
Charlie turned and ventured another look at her. Her eyes were closed briefly as she arched her back a little, relaxing there beside him. She was really very incredibly pretty. It would be nice if he could get her something for the tea.
Somewhere in the midst of his pondering, she lifted her head and opened her eyes, and saw him staring vaguely in her general direction. She smiled, a bit shyly. “Charlie.”
He blinked and turned quickly away, jerking the pot back from the fire again. She laughed at him. It was a pleasant sound.
After a moment, steam started rising from the pot, and triumphantly he removed it from the fire, setting it down carefully. Keeping a close eye on it, he reached into his nearby bag and withdrew the two small recovered teacups. Dimly, he was aware of Claire watching him with some sort of interest.
Doing his best to ignore her (she made him shaky and more liable to knock over the water), he set up the cups with teabags and poured a little water in each. There was some left, so he put it aside for potential disgustingly lukewarm refills.
“Here,” he said, handing her a broken spoon and the cup that was designated as hers.
“Thanks.” She took it, smiling the whole time, and blew on it gently while stirring it. Grinning a little, he leaned back against a rock, nudging his way in beside her, and poked at the teabag with the other (shorter) half of the spoon.
“Anymore dreams?” he asked after an awkward pause.
She shook her head, swallowing her first sip. “No, no,” she said with that sweet accent of hers.
He nodded, gazing at her while absentmindedly taking a sip of his tea. He stiffened and swallowed with some difficulty, coughing.
Claire raised an eyebrow at him. “Too hot?” she asked, trying to conceal amusement.
“Burned my tongue,” muttered Charlie.
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, wincing.
“You Aussies are clearly insane.”
She laughed, tossing her head back a little and make her hair flutter, which in turn made his heart skip a beat. “Some like it hot.”
He chucked. “That was a good movie.”
She looked at him. “What?”
“Some Like It Hot,” Charlie said, feeling a bit self-conscious. “Jack Lemmon… Tony Curtis…”
“Marilyn Monroe,” they both said at the same time. Claire nodded. “I remember. I saw that a long time ago.” She smiled wistfully. “I always liked Marilyn Monroe… she had such grace and glamour… classic beauty… I wanted to be her when I was younger.”
Charlie found himself staring at her again as she reminisced, but he could not tear himself away. He, personally, found her already much like Marilyn Monroe, had Marilyn Monroe been Australian and alarmingly pregnant.
Claire smiled to herself, looking down at her tea. “Her name was Sugar, wasn’t it?” She looked back at Charlie.
Charlie averted his gaze quickly, contemplating his tea. “I guess.” He paused. “That’s what this tea could use.”
She laughed, and he grinned at her, somewhat pleased with himself.
“It’s fine,” she assured him, taking another sip and looking with satisfaction at him as though to further prove her point.
He smiled helplessly at her, yet somewhere in the back of his mind he couldn’t resist thinking that there was something he should be able to do to make the tea a little more interesting, and the very least.
And suddenly, out of nowhere, he remembered where he could get honey.
He stared crossly into the foliage. He knew he’d be able to trace his steps well enough, back to the place of his last attempted fix, where Locke had jumped him and he’d been assaulted by the serial killer bees. He shuddered. God, he hated bees.
He hesitated, wondering for a moment if he was better of asking Locke about milk or something, but he quickly decided it was his fight. He was just going to get it over with and brave his irrational fears.
Sighing, he trudged forward purposefully.
After making a completely unnecessary circle twice (once because he’d gotten lost and once because he was not savoring a return to the grounded hive), he managed to find his way back to the small clearing where he’d so ungracefully found himself atop a bee’s nest. He heard the buzzing almost instantly and grimaced. The nest, he saw, had been rebuilt fairly effectively, but still had a large crack down the center of it.
A few bees circled round him, and he barely resisted swatting at them in surfacing irrational fear.
He exhaled a few times. “Okay, Charlie,” he muttered. “Honestly, how hard can it be?”
Apprehensively, knowing he was probably about to do something very stupid, he lifted the towel and wrapped it haphazardly around his face in a makeshift sort of mask.
“You pathetic bugger,” he grumbled to himself.
He got as close to the hive as he dared, peering in through the crack. He could just barely see the outline of honeycomb. There were bees everywhere.
He almost backed off, but sucked in a breath and instead brought the jar up close. The bees, he noted with growing panic, were starting to take interest in him, buzzing more around his head. The towel almost slipped, and he jerked it up.
His heart pounding, he waited for the bees to clear off a little bit. Their movements were so erratic that it was nearly impossible. Pretty much without the slightest idea of what he was about to do, he reached very carefully and tentatively towards the hive.
Instantly he received about three stings on his hand. He snapped back and swore loudly. He paused, then reached back in with a foolish brashness and aggressive attitude that he hoped would allow him to catch them all off guard long enough to slip something out.
He was quite entirely wrong.
The stinging in his right arm was excruciating, and when he pulled away, the towel fell and he was unable to retrieve it. Immediately he was rewarded with several stings to the face.
He had had quite enough at that point. He turned back quickly, abandoning the towel on the ground, running away as fast as he could. He swore a few more times, staring angrily at his arm, now dotted with little red welts that stung like all hell.
Dispiritedly, he wandered back into the valley and made his way over to the water.
Charlie blinked and turned around, momentarily interrupting the meticulous business of watering his battle wounds. Locke stood over him, wearing his traditionally enigmatic expression, holding the forsaken towel.
“What?” Charlie blurted, simply because Locke unnerved him.
“I saw you with it earlier, and I just found it in the jungle,” said the very strange man.
Charlie looked uncertainly at Locke for a moment before nodding and taking it back cautiously, suspicious that there might be some espionage-attack bees hiding in it. “Yeah, I, um… yeah.” Explanation failed him.
Locke smiled vaguely and turned to leave. Charlie hesitated.
“Hey, Locke,” he said quickly, deciding he had better get whatever outside help was available to him. Locke turned to him and cocked his head patiently. Charlie swallowed. “Um… do you happen know anything about… beekeeping?”
Locke paused, looking almost dazed for a moment. “What?”
Charlie sighed. “You know, beekeeping… the guys with the masks who get honey and stuff like that? I just figured, since you have all these random talents, that you might…”
“Afraid not,” said Locke almost immediately, which was very disappointing. He glanced at the towel and the stings marks on Charlie’s arm and face, and grinned in his way. “But I do know that putting your hand in a hive is probably not the best method.” The grin became something of a good-natured smirk. “There’s always mud for that.”
Charlie nodded wearily, not having enough energy to be very annoyed.
Locke stroked his head, something he always seemed to do when lost in thought. “Why do you want honey, anyway?”
Good question. “Uh… well, you know how I’ve been making tea…” Charlie said lamely.
“Ah, yes.” Locke nodded. “Did you ever think to ask someone if we had any on the plane?”
Charlie looked up hopefully. “Did we?”
Smiling, Locke shook his head. “Not that I know of.” He turned and started to amble off.
Charlie watched him go, sighing. “Thanks,” he said dryly, knowing he shouldn’t have really expected anything else. He turned, dipped the towel in the water and wrapped it very gently around his arm, sucking air through his teeth.
“Charlie?” said someone who was definitely not Locke.
He felt himself hunch down with deep embarrassment. “Hey, Claire,” he muttered.
She sat down beside him, but he avoided looking at her. He felt her eyes on him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked innocently.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Why are you soaking your arm? Are you hurt?”
“No, I just—” he started to say, and turned to her before he could catch himself. Quickly he cut himself off and turned back away.
There was a pause while he sullenly concentrated on his sore arm. Then, from out of nowhere, he felt her hand gently touch his chin, and he stiffened, not knowing how to react. In all the time they’d spent together, they’d never made physical contact quite like this.
She turned him back towards her, and he obeyed sheepishly. She examined his face and drew away with a look of bewilderment.
“What happened?” she asked, clearly worried.
“I…” he faltered. He trailed off. She wouldn’t stop looking at him, so eventually he finished, “I was attacked by bees.” He glanced hastily up at her to see her reaction.
She looked surprised for a moment, then she almost laughed. “Bees?” she repeated.
He nodded. “Evil bees,” he felt the need to elaborate.
“For no reason?” she said dubiously.
He didn’t answer her. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Huh,” she said, leaning back. “I didn’t know there were bees on this island.”
He shrugged half-heartedly and went back to prodding the welts with the towel.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“It looks bad.”
“No, really, Claire,” he said, looking at her. “I’m okay.”
She smirked at him, then said, “Not the way you’re poking at them, you won’t be. Here.” She pulled him around again so he was facing her. Prudently, she cupped some water and poured it onto the dirt in front of her, stirring it around a little. He watched her, mildly fascinated.
Wordlessly and without looking at him, she took some of the concocted mud in her hands and began to spread it gently on his arm. He stared at her. There was nothing more he could do.
“Water doesn’t help that much,” she said reasonably, still focused on his arm. “Mud packs on better.”
“Yeah,” he said, very softly, not really listening.
She continued smearing the mud around, and it suddenly seemed to him that she was deliberately avoiding his gaze.
Finally, with his other arm, he reached out and touched her chin much in the way she had done moments ago. Her fingers stopped moving as he lifted her face gently. Their eyes met, and for a moment everything was silent and still.
“What?” she asked finally, her voice soft and somewhat shaky.
There were so many things he could have said, but he just smiled and took his hand away. “Thanks,” he said.
She took a moment to recover, then smiled and looked back down. “You’re welcome, Charlie.”
When she’d finished, she sat back and looked at him thoughtfully. “So… if there are bees on this island… that means there’s also honey.”
He looked up a little uneasily. “Yeah. I suppose. Unfortunately, the bees seem to be out to get me.”
She chuckled and said, “Well, I could try.”
Charlie was aghast. “What? No! I wouldn’t want you to get hurt or…”
“Charlie, I’ll be fine,” she said, grinning somewhat bemusedly at him. “Thanks for your concern, but…”
“No, trust me Claire, these bees…” Charlie chewed his lip in frustration. “Look…”
Claire picked herself up. “Would you be able to point out where the nest is?”
Finally, he just gave up trying to be covert. “Claire, hang on.” He sighed. “I was trying to get honey. That’s why I’m all stung up. I was trying to get it for… for the tea.”
She cocked her head at him. “That’s sweet,” she said gently, smiling.
He blushed and looked down. “Maybe. Didn’t go over so well.”
She hesitated, then sat back down beside him. “Well, it’s the thought that counts,” she said. “Thank you.”
Despondent, Charlie managed a grin.
“Sorry to wake you,” said Locke, “but I found something that may be of interest to you.”
Charlie rubbed his eyes and looked down blankly as Locke dropped a small, brownish cloth into his lap. Charlie picked it up uncertainly, staring at it. It was soft and very, very thin.
He looked up at Locke. “Mind explaining?” he asked, in no mood for philosophy games.
Locke grinned. “It’s a cheesecloth.”
“Sorry?”
“A cheesecloth. You use it to separate the wax from unrefined honey.” He knelt down. “I thought it might come in handy.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow at the mysterious man, managing to grin a little. “I thought you didn’t know anything about beekeeping,” he said.
“Well, I don’t. But I know something about making refined honey.” He patted his head like he always did. “Imagine my surprise when I found that among the rags and towels we’ve collected.”
Charlie nodded, looking thoughtfully at the flimsy little cloth in his hand. “What compelled you to look through there?” he asked.
“Trying to find something to clean the knives with.” Locke grinned, stood, and wandered off. “See you later, Charlie.”
“See you.” Charlie watched him go, somewhat incredulous, then looked back at the oddly named cheesecloth.
“Lot of help you are,” he muttered at it, then pocketed it.
He turned slowly and peered at it. It was half of a water bottle. In it was a chunk of honeycomb.
He sat up sharply, staring at it in confusion. He picked it up gingerly, turning it around and looking for some hint as to where it had come from, but this was not necessary… the answer appeared suddenly behind him.
“Hi, Charlie,” said Claire. He turned, looking up at her. She sat down, nodding at the half-bottle. “I hope it’s satisfactory. I thought your efforts shouldn’t go to waste.” She grinned at his bewilderment.
“How did you…?” he asked falteringly.
“Used lots of smoke,” she said wisely. “You have to get the bees sleepy enough to reach in properly.”
Charlie stared at her.
“I read it somewhere,” she said, giggling.
He continued to stare, but broke into a grin. “Wow,” he said. “Well, then. My attempts at being a gentleman went quite awry.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “And at least we have honey. Unrefined, but—”
“And I, miraculously, have a cheesecloth,” he replied, pulling it out. He grinned cheekily at her and pondered both items, wondering exactly how to go about this process.
An uncomfortably long silence provoked him to look back at her, and discover that she was looking at him with some combination of awe and amusement.
“Where exactly did you—”
“Locke.”
“Ahh.” She nodded. That was all the explanation that required. “So it all worked out, then.”
He grinned. “I guess so.” He eyed the cheesecloth thoughtfully. “Any reading on how to use this thing?”
She said nothing for a minute, then they both laughed softly.
Several failed attempts at sifting wax later, the two of them finally sat back before the fire, stirring the melted honey into their teacups. It was getting rather late, and they were pretty sure they were the only ones up, at least in that general vicinity. They sat there, mostly silent, sipping the now sweeter tea.
“Mmm,” Claire murmured. “This is good.”
Charlie nodded, glancing at her. Her face was outlined in the firelight, and he was struck again by how very beautiful she was.
After toying haplessly with some of the things he wanted to say during a long pause, he finally shifted his weight and said, shakily, “You know… you said earlier you wished you were Marilyn Monroe…” He trailed off, thinking maybe he should back out. It would sound ridiculous.
But she looked at him, and there was no backing out then.
He inhaled. “Personally, I don’t see that much of a… difference.” He let his breath out on the last word, refusing to look her way, hoping he hadn’t just made a complete fool of himself.
There was a long, horribly awkward pause.
“Wow,” she said finally, sounding quite shocked. “Um… wow, that was…” He chanced a look at her while she searched for the words. “…Quite an unexpected compliment.”
Charlie winced. “Oh, I’m sorry, I—” he fumbled.
“No, no, it’s cool, Charlie,” she said quickly, smiling at him. “It’s wonderful, in fact. Thank you.”
Charlie grinned, relieved. “Well, I think it’s quite accurate,” he said daringly.
She seemed flattered, and nodded shyly at him. There was another pause, then she said, “You know what classic actor you remind me of?”
“Humphrey Bogart,” he answered without dropping a beat. “Wait, wait, no… Cary Grant.”
“No…” she said, grinning, “well, maybe. A little. But no.” She took a moment to look him over as though verifying her choice. “Charlie Chaplin.”
Charlie looked at her for a minute before turning away and taking another sip of tea. “It’s just the name.”
She smiled. “No, it’s not just the name.”
“Then it’s just that I’m British.”
“No, no, it’s not that either,” she said gently.
Charlie gave her another cheeky grin. “Then you’re sending me a subliminal message that I should not talk at all.”
“No!” she laughed. “Listen.” She hesitated for a long time, thinking very carefully. He waited, curious for her reasoning.
“Charlie Chaplin was… a small man,” she said finally. “Gentle, sort of clumsy, yet…” She paused again, searching for the word. “Graceful. You don’t have his type of grace, exactly, but you’ve got your own kind. He was very sweet, very endearing…” Again she stopped, pondering her comparison. Charlie watched her, quite fascinated.
She looked up again, smiling kindly at him. “And no matter what,” she said, “he would always win the leading lady’s heart.”
He felt his own heart skip a beat at this. What did she mean?
She looked thoughtfully back at the fire. “Even whether or not they ended up together at the end… He could always make her laugh, no matter how bleak things were. That’s just what I think of when I think of Charlie Chaplin.”
Charlie stared at her. There was no way he could think of to repay such a vast compliment.
Seeming to want something else to finish with, she glanced down at her large stomach, patted it, and said wryly, “And, beyond the screen, he had very odd tastes in women!”
Charlie laughed good-naturedly at this, and she laughed with him. Then, realizing what she meant, he looked at her and said as sincerely as he could, “Oh, no. You’re not odd at all.”
She looked at him, smiling a little, seemed a bit surprised.
He smiled warmly. “Thank you, Claire,” he said. “It’s not often I feel proud to be compared to a short guy.”
She laughed, and he smiled. For a moment, they returned to drinking their honey and tea.
“Were they ever in a movie together?” he asked suddenly. “Charlie and Marilyn?”
“No,” said Claire. “They were from different generations, really.” She cocked her head, thinking it over. “But I’m sure… if they had been… it would have been lovely.” She looked at him. Their eyes met, which made him blush. “And they’d have been good friends,” she said softly. “Perhaps… even… more than that.” She quickly busied herself with the tea. And silence took them again.
Charlie paused for a long moment, thinking all of this over and gazing at her, wondering if he should do what he so deeply wanted to do. Eventually he gave up, leaned over, and kissed her. It was very gentle and brief, just a soft brush, really, but it filled him with an apprehensive delight and he pulled away, looking hopefully at her.
She hesitated for an equally long moment before turning to him and smiling that wonderful smile. Slowly, she slipped her hand into his.
Hesitantly, gaining a little confidence, he leaned over, shifting so they could be a little more comfortable. He held up his tea, grinning at it. “Thank you,” he whispered. “My beekeeper.”
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