author’s note This is something I wrote on a whim into a letter I was sending a friend. I haven’t written LOST fic in a while (sorry, Anagram-readers… I’ll be back on track soon!) so this was refreshing. It’s just a little drabble/ficlet/thing, some mild season two speculation. Enjoy. –Minty

disclaimer I know nothing of season two, and I have no connection to ABC or the LOST creators, and am making no profit from this.

Charlie lay on his back, uncomfortable on the rough ground, but too tired to care. The scar on his forehead burned like there was still flame upon it. All he could smell was burning flesh. The nightmarish scent had been all he was aware of as Sayid had literally melted his wound shut—the pain had been too immense to concentrate on anything else. It was all he remembered of the incident; it was all he could smell now.

He sighed, staring up at the night sky he had reluctantly become used to. He really needed to clear his mind. And his sinuses.

Slowly, dread twisting a knot in his stomach, he turned to look at the shadow that was his bag. He knew what was in it. He knew he shouldn’t have taken it—it shouldn’t be in there at all. But he remembered the high. He remembered his thirst being quenched, hunger satisfied, losses fading in the sweeping ecstasy. And he wanted that feeling back, now more than ever.

Turning, he reached for his bag with a shaking hand. Twice he forced himself to withdraw; twice he gave in again. The distance between him and the bag was only a little over a foot, but it felt like several miles.

A noise behind him jerked him away out of a fear of being seen, and he quickly turned back.

It was only Claire, shifting in her sleep. Beside her Aaron slept peacefully in the small cradle Locke had made.

He gazed at her, chewing his lower lip. Why did she have to be so beautiful? She made his heart ache. She had so much trust and respect for him, and here he was—just a useless junkie at the heart of it all.

Sighing, he turned back to his bag. He felt a pain like guilt and regret in his chest. He reached forward again.

She sighed—a simple, delicate little piece of a dream. It permeated every bit of him, paralyzed and taunted him. He inhaled unevenly, tasting it, and bit his lip enough to draw blood so he could taste that instead. He stared at his bag. Swallowing, he tossed inhibition to the wind and lunged.

This sudden movement came as a shock to him, and the wind blew the inhibition right back in his face. What was he doing? A few hours ago he had returned to the caves a valiant hero with a rescued baby in his arms. Claire had thrown her arms around him and thanked him endlessly in the way that required no words. Now he was betraying her. He was betraying himself.

Gradually, as his hand lingered over the bag, his fingers curled back into a weak fist, and he backed out for the night. The drugs could wait. Tonight he was still a fine, upstanding man.

He glanced once more at Claire before resigning his sleepless self to the stars. He could not bring himself to look at her for the rest of the night.

fin