Title: Life in Hell
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: Christian Shepherd meets Charlie Pace in a hotel bar in Sydney, September 21, 2004. One-shot.
Characters: Christian, Charlie
Word Count: 1,047
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine and the way things are going it never will be.
There were no happy people here. Looking around the hotel bar, Christian Shepherd saw specimens of humanity in various degrees of discontent and disrepair. Some looked ragged, others hardened. No one was smiling. Music played faintly in the background as if it were exhausted from the effort. People nursed drinks, stared at their hands, contemplating their sorry lives and the mistakes they had made. He fit right in.
Such was life in hell.
He shrugged and turned back to his third shot of Johhny Walker, the first two having worked their way through his bloodstream like a compassionate anesthetic. Sarah, the mystery woman from LAX had given up on him and left. Lindsay had refused to allow him to see his daughter and now he had nowhere else to go. Home wasn't an option; he had lost his job and his medical license and his son never wanted to see him again.
"Bartender, another please," he called, knocking back Johnny number three, already anticipating Johnny number four.
He wasn't numb enough yet.
"Nothing like a little self punishment, eh mate?" Came an accented voice to his right.
Christian looked over to see a young man, a kid really, with uncombed blonde tangles, dirty faded shirt and ash coloured half moons under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days. He was leaning half over the bar, holding out some bills to get the bartender's attention. Christian remembered this kid from when he had surveyed the room. He had been sitting at a small table with an impossibly thin woman in a cut off black T-shirt, looking like something that hell had spit up. She had been half fawning over the boy and half asleep. The boy had been smirking, loving the attention. So now he was buying a round of drinks.
"You know why they call it Down Under don't you?" Christian asked him.
"Pardon?" the kid asked.
"Because it's the closest you can get to hell without being burned."
He smiled. "So we're in hell, are we?"
"No offense," Christian added, realizing he might have offended an Aussie and knowing they didn't take that lightly. "Are you a local?"
The man winced, "No. I'm from England."
He felt relieved but at the same time foolish for never being able to tell those accents apart.
"What brought you here?" Christian asked.
The kid ordered two gin and tonics, dropped the money on the bar and turned back to him.
"I was visiting my brother," he said. "What about you?"
"I was seeking adventure," said Christian, spitting out the last word like it was rancid meat.
His companion looked at him more closely.
"Sounds more like you were running away from something," he noted. "Did it not work out?"
"To be honest, I think it worked out exactly as it was supposed to," Christian said, bringing Johnny number four to his lips to meet his cousins, a family reunion partying it up in his stomach and bloodstream, trashing his liver.
"What the bloody hell does that mean?"
He put down the empty shot glass. "Destiny my friend. You, me, we're living life's grand design."
The boy still looked confused, so Christian continued, the alcohol working its magic. As he spoke he kept an eye out for the bartender who would introduce him to Johnny number five.
"For example," he began, holding the kid's attention as if he were leading grand rounds at Saint Sebastian. "I should be calling my son right now in America. He's a surgeon and a better person than I'll ever be, and he did something for me that I should be thanking him for. I know I should call him, tell him I'm proud and that I love him, but I won't."
The drinks arrived and Christian and the bartender exchanged knowing glances: Johnny number five coming right up.
"And why's that?" the kid asked, his drinks and the lady both forgotten. "Destiny?"
"That's right. I'm weak and there's no hope in fighting it. It's why the Red Sox will never win the series."
The young man was silent for a moment, looking down at trembling fingers with varnished black nails that reminded Christian of the daughter he hadn't seen in years.
"My brother and I, we had a fight you see," he began. "I'm supposed to leave on this flight tomorrow and… he was trying to help me for the first time in our lives, but I didn't want it. I told him it was too late, but now…"
"Charlie?" a whiny tired voice called from the table, "Where are those drinks?"
The kid named Charlie glanced over at his slurring companion and Christian noticed him grimace slightly. He ignored her. At the table it had seemed like he was picking her up but now he looked conflicted, almost disgusted with her.
"So we should just follow our destiny is that it?" Charlie asked him, "Even if we're doomed?"
The girl was far from pretty, literally, as if she packed up and moved away from pretty a long time ago. Before Johnny number five could cloud his vision Christian took the kid in one last time. He was pale, shaky and thin. He didn't know what the two of them were on but he recognized addiction when he saw it. This pairing had nothing to do with companionship.
All at once Christian was overcome with a paternal instinct.
"You don't want to turn out like me, kid," he said in his most sincere voice. "Maybe you should call your brother before you go."
Charlie thought for a moment, absently scratching his arm, and finally picked the drinks up off the bar.
"Yeah, right," he smirked. "Cheers."
Charlie returned to the table and the girl, a date in hell. They sipped at their drinks and exchanged whispers and smiles. He reached into his pocket and withdrew something in a tight fist and when the girl leaned over and peeked in, her eyes came alive with desire. Whatever he had, it was more enticing to both of them than alcohol. Christian continued to watch them until they abandoned their drinks and left the room.
Another bit of advice unheeded, he told Johnny number five, and the two commiserated together.
Just another day in hell.