Title: All the remains of our cadaver of days
Characters/Pairings: Daniel/Charlotte
Rating: PG
Summary: "It's just -- guess I didn't realize how much I miss them. My parents, I mean." Sometimes it's not the answers that matter most.
Spoilers: To 4x03, I guess.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Title from Mother Mother. Written for franza's request of Dan/Charlotte, Geronimo Jackson.

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She's staring into the flames when he stumbles out of his tent.

Arms wrapped around her shins, chin resting on knees, blue eyes blank and too bright. Hey -- his voice is a rumble of noise in the silence, loud against the crackling fire and waves crashing up onto shore. He moves to sit beside her, feels a swell of quiet warmth when she doesn't flinch or turn away.

"It's, um, pretty late -- what're you still doing up?"

Charlotte shrugs, the fire carving shadows across her face, rubs absently at the tender spot just past the collar of her shirt -- I was shot by Linus, she'd explained, voice dry and almost rueful, twice. Some welcome, yeah? -- and Dan feels his own hand twitch in response, wanting to fold his fingers around hers, like a shield. Like protection.

She doesn't answer his question, but -- "they kept me in one of the Dharma houses while I was there, did I tell you that?"

There's a shake of his head, no; "when they were holding me, in this house -- they had a Geronimo Jackson record there; I could see it on the bookcase. My dad used to play them all the time when I was little. It's just -- guess I didn't realize how much I miss them. My parents, I mean."

Daniel edges closer, sand shifting beneath him, his hand finding the base of her neck like always, fingers moulding into her flesh and trying to knead some of the tension away. Charlotte sighs, curls tumbling around her face as she drops her head, shoulders relaxing under Dan's touch and when did this become normal? he wonders; where, not even sure of his own name half the time, did this certainty of Charlotte come from?

"I came here for answers. Just figured I would have found some by now."

What kind of answers? he wants, desperately, to ask, but Charlotte's shifted closer, tucked herself under his arm, the fine weight of her hair grazing against his cheek as she pokes at the fire's dying embers with a nearby branch.

"It's getting cold out, yeah?"

Her mouth's set in a firm line, arms still pulled around herself and working hard to avoid his eyes. She's even more of mystery than she was a few minutes ago, but yeah, he echoes, matching her gaze into the flames and curling his grip around her shoulder (so maybe not protection, Dan figures, but comfort he can do).

And for Charlotte -- she manages the beginnings of a smile at the sound of his voice, temple almost resting against his neck, eyes finally starting to flicker and close in sleep -- he'll do what he can.