Across Enemy Lines

by Dreamality

Disclaimer: Lost and all related characters, settings, plots, etc. belong to J.J. Abrams and ABC. I claim no ownership and make no money from this venture.

-----

Chapter Four

Locke was up when the sun rose nearly every day. So was Charlie, not because he was an early riser but because he no longer slept for more than a few hours every few days. The cravings kept him up until he was exhausted enough to pass out.

As he built up the fire that had gone down during the night, Locke watched Charlie sit against the wall of the cave, the hood of his jacket casting his face into shadow. It was hard to decipher his expression, whether it was worried, fearful, or just indifferent. After Locke had piled more firewood atop the embers, he walked over to Charlie and knelt in front of him.

"What happened yesterday?" he asked bluntly. He had seen Charlie return from his foray into the jungle with a look on his face that suggested he'd seen a ghost, or worse. He had gone straight to the stream to get a drink and wash his face, then went to the edge of their camp and sat with his back to the fire, his guitar in hand. Locke hadn't bothered him that night, wanting to give him a chance to catch his breath and reflect on whatever experiences he'd had, but now that it was morning he wanted to check on him.

Charlie glowered at Locke. He was obviously in the middle of a craving and his emotions were unpredictable. Locke wasn't afraid, but he was cautious. His muscles tensed, preparing to rise quickly and back away should Charlie choose to vent his frustrations on the one who had confiscated his drug.

"Bugger off," he muttered.

"Look, son, I'm only trying to help you," Locke said gently.

"I said, bugger off. I'm not in the mood for a bloody therapy session, thanks," Charlie hissed, his voice warning and threatening.

"Charlie, if something happened to you out there, you can tell me–"

"Piss off!" Charlie shouted, standing up quickly and marching past Locke to where his guitar was kept. Hurley and Jack, who had been cooking something over the fire, watched him with expressions of disbelief, then glanced questioningly at Locke. The old man sighed as he rose to his feet and watched Charlie grab his guitar case and carry it into the jungle. A few seconds later, they all heard his faint music.

"Is he all right, John?" Jack asked.

Locke looked at the doctor, his face expressionless. "He just needs a moment."

"Or maybe a shrink. What's he thinking, going off into the jungle all by himself? He's going to be snack food soon if he's not careful," Hurley commented. Jack laughed a little, but Locke was not amused. He frowned at Hurley for a moment before striding off in the direction Charlie had taken.

It was never hard to locate Charlie when he was near the camp. His guitar was his constant companion, and he played it for hours on end. Locke simply followed the sound of the music until he found Charlie sitting on a fallen tree, rocking back and forth with the music. Locke stayed silent, watching him from the shadows. He would play for a few seconds before hitting a sour note and stop. Sometimes he would utter a curse and sometimes he would just take a deep breath and start again. There was obviously something bothering him, something beyond the drugs.

When there was a lull in the music as Charlie's head drooped and he sat still, apparently lost in thought, Locke took the opportunity to come forward and sit beside him on the log. Charlie didn't react to his presence, and when Locke didn't say anything right away he just ignored him. His hands were trembling again, and there was a fire in his nerves. His foot was kicking again and icy sweat was pouring off his forehead in buckets.

Blimey, but he needed a hit. Just a little one, not too much, maybe he didn't even need to snort it. Just a little on his upper gum, just enough to relax him and let him just kick back for awhile. It would make dealing with his racing thoughts much easier. His mind would just go blank and everything would be blissful and he wouldn't have to worry about pregnant ladies with pretty smiles and soft lips and trusting eyes…

"What is it about the drug, Charlie?" Locke asked. He did not look at Charlie but instead studied the treetops that shaded them.

"Release," Charlie said. "I don't have to be anyone anymore. I don't have to live up to anyone's expectations."

"You think people rely on you too much?"

"People don't know what it's like. It's so glamorous, being a rock star. It's such a great life. I thought so, too, until I realized how much bloody work it is. People always around you, you never get a moment to yourself, and it's hard, damn it, it's bloody hard. The drugs make it easy." Charlie's eyes rolled back in his head and his whole body started to twitch. He wanted to die. He wanted it all to be over. He wanted his drugs.

"So it lets you run away," Locke commented casually.

"No!" Charlie snarled, his eyes flying open in indignation. "I don't run away! I'm not a pansy."

"Obviously you use the drugs to get away from your problems. That sounds like running away," Locke said.

"I don't run away from things. Don't talk to me like you know me, Locke. You don't know anything about me," Charlie spat.

"You're right, Charlie. I don't know anything about you, but that is not for lack of trying. You refuse to open up to me, and I understand that. But the last three days, you've been going somewhere and finding something or someone. Did you open up to her, or whoever she was?" Locke asked.

Locke's understanding and gentle patience irked Charlie for an inexplicable reason. He made an indecipherable noise and strummed the strings of his guitar again, trying to let loose a melody within him. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't play it right. There was something wrong with his fingers, his hands, his entire body. It was rebelling against him, causing him pain when he was doing something that should have been pleasurable. If he only had some of his drugs, he would be able to do it right. He would make beautiful music that the whole world would love, if only Locke hadn't taken his drugs.

"Something scared you away yesterday." Locke's words were a statement, not a question, but Charlie chose to interpret them as one anyway.

"No, I wasn't scared," he argued.

"It's all right to admit it, Charlie. No one's going to condemn you for being human here," Locke said.

"Shove off, Locke. Get off your damned soapbox," Charlie growled. He turned away from Locke slightly and tried to play the notes again. He messed up on only the third note, and a string of curses erupted from his mouth.

"You miss her," Locke commented.

Charlie froze, his entire body tensing up. A new craving rose up over the heroin craving and filled him with a need so immediate, so strong, that he felt like he might pass out. He remembered leaning against a soft, warm body. He remembered a soft voice soothing his ears, quieting the voices within. He remembered being touched by perfection and not cringing. He remembered the kiss. His shoulders shook and he curled up, hugging the guitar to him as he pressed his fist to his mouth, trying to stem the flood of emotion that was rising within him.

"Shite, John, I just want to be with her!" Charlie exclaimed suddenly. He felt a hand on his back that was oddly comforting.

"Why aren't you?" Locke inquired.

"That… that thing… it came up on us yesterday. It was so close, and she can't run as fast as me. I took her back to her camp and came back and I laid awake all night just thinking, what if I hadn't gotten her back in time? What if it had gotten her? I don't want to go there and take her into danger and risk losing her. I'd rather not be with her than put her into danger," Charlie said passionately.

Lock nodded in understanding and patted Charlie on the back a few times. "It's all right, son, there's no reason to beat yourself up over it. You're doing the right thing. There's just one thing I'd like to point out. Let me see your hand, Charlie."

"My hand?" Charlie repeated in questioning. Locke reached for his left hand and held it up to Charlie's face, even though its image was permanently ingrained in Charlie's mind. The tape was gone now, having worn off. He had run out of the tape almost exactly when his drugs disappeared, and the Sharpie had gotten lost somewhere along the way as well. One night during a particularly bad craving he had been prowling the camp, tearing through the suitcases that had been found near the section of the plane. He found a pen and began to write on his fingers, like always. The word FATE was spelled out on his fingers in bold black letters, directly on his skin rather than on the white tape. Unlike the tape, this was permanent, at least until the sun faded it and the skin cells died and floated away.

"Fate," Locke read. "Everything happens for a reason, Charlie. This island is giving. It has already returned your guitar to you, and it would seem that it is leading you to something else. What are you willing to give up in return?"

"You're saying I should give myself to the monster. Give the island my life." Charlie stared at Locke in disbelief. This guy was supposed to be helping him, not encouraging suicidal thoughts.

"No. That's not what I said. Charlie, just think about it. Fate. Everything happens for a reason," Locke repeated. He stood up and walked away, leaving Charlie alone and confused. The Brit strummed his guitar a few times as he contemplated Locke's words before deciding he would never be able to understand that crazy old git. He sat alone on that log for most of the day, playing his guitar in an effort to block out the conflicting cravings that were battling within him for supremacy.

Claire was restless. She tried to tell herself it was because she missed Charlie, and that was part of it. She couldn't stop thinking about him and wondering if he made it back safely. Yet underneath her worry for Charlie there was something else causing Claire to pace along the beach and rearrange her sleeping area five times and ask almost everyone on the beach if they needed help doing whatever they were doing, only to be politely brushed aside.

It had to do with her baby. It wasn't like her worry before when he had stopped moving. Now he was almost constantly in motion, but there was something about the nature of his motion that worried her. His kicks landed higher up than usual, as if his feet were in a different place. As if, and Claire almost couldn't bear to think it, as if he had turned. If that were true, it meant she was almost ready to give birth. With no hospital or doctor in sight.

Sayid and Sawyer were the unofficial leaders of the camp, and it was they who rationed the food. Three times a day, the survivors lined up to receive whatever was on the menu. It was usually fish or coconuts, with an occasional side of banana or fig and very sporadically, some boar. No one ever questioned how the got the food or the water, considering that the best sources were all near the jungle camp, so long as the supplies kept coming. At midday, Claire wandered towards the signal fire, where meals were always served. She was the last in line that day, and when she got to the front only Sayid was there. Sawyer had gone to put more wood on the fire.

As Sayid handed her half a coconut and a banana, he glanced at her stomach, as always. Sounding forcedly casual, he said, "You must be getting close to your due date."

"I think so. I don't keep track of the days anymore, but I was eight months when the plane crashed. It's been a month, hasn't it?" Claire asked. Sayid nodded. Claire turned to go, then paused and looked back at Sayid. Fearfully, she asked, "Sayid, when the time comes … when I go into labor… you'll send for Jack, won't you?"

For the first time that Claire could recall, Sayid looked at her face. She almost wished he hadn't because his expression was so full of wrath and anger. "Jack? Oh no. He has turned his back on us. He will not provide us with any help. Going to him would be like offering your neck to the enemy's sword."

"But Sayid, how will I give birth without a doctor?" Claire asked desperately, shocked that he would refuse so bluntly.

"We will all help you. Surely one of the women has been a mother or has seen a birth; someone will know what to do," Sayid replied dismissively. Claire bit her lip and walked away, taking her food back to the chair near her sleeping area. She barely nibbled at the banana and left the coconut untouched. Her eyes followed Sayid as he walked over to Sawyer and said something to him. They both glanced at her for a second, then back at each other. After speaking for a few moments, Sayid went to the tent that had been Jack's infirmary but was now their food warehouse. Sawyer stayed by the fire for another moment, watching the smoke curl into the sky, before getting up and walking into the jungle alone.

Within Claire's body, her baby was trying to tell her something. She could only hope she was misinterpreting the message.

The sun was beginning to set and the temperature was dropping. Charlie finally stood up from the log after securing his guitar in its case. His legs and bum were so numb that he almost fell down after taking the first step and had to wait a moment until he regained feeling in them. When he got back to camp, most of the people were grouped around the fire, with a few on the outskirts already asleep. Charlie sat on the ground between Hurley and Boone, who both glanced at him warily. Since the split, and since trading his drugs away, Charlie had not made any real attempts to reach out to his fellow survivors, and he was sure to them his behavior was strange or even frightening. He didn't care anymore, what they thought of him, because he had plenty of more important things to worry about.

"You sure play that guitar a lot," Hurley said in an attempt to start a casual conversation, as if they were mates in a pub. "You in a band or anything?"

Not so very long ago, such a comment would have sent Charlie into a long speech about Drive Shaft, their accomplishments, and their future plans. Now, Charlie just shrugged. "Played bass in a rock and for awhile."

"Anyone I'd have heard of?" Boone asked.

"You're a Yank, yeah?" Charlie asked. Boone nodded. "Then no, it's not probable. Name Drive Shaft ring a bell?" Boone shook his head. "We were big in England, not so much overseas, but for awhile, we were big."

"What's it like?" Boone asked curiously. "It must be pretty great. I mean, sex, drugs, rock 'n roll… all a guy needs to live, right?"

Charlie turned to look at Boone. The dancing firelight cast shadows on his face and lit up his eyes. He looked frightening, as though he might at any moment blow up. Boone leaned back slightly, away from him, but found it impossible to look away from his shockingly intense blue eyes. Within them could be read a thousand lifetimes, none of them with happy endings. Very softly, Charlie murmured, "All a guy needs to live one life and die a thousand deaths."

Boone and Hurley were both struck silent. Charlie remained sitting at the fire and stared unseeingly at the flames that devoured the wood long after they and the others wandered off to sleep. There would be no rest for Charlie that night, this he knew for a fact. Charlie's mind was blank, except for the occasional pangs of yearning for heroin and Claire, alternately.

A noise in the jungle attracted Charlie's attention. He had no idea what time it was, but the darkness told him it was either far too late or far too early for anyone in the camp to be prowling around the food supply, which was kept underneath a manmade canopy just beside the cave. The minimal noises suggested small size, and the lack of squealing or grunting ruled out boars. When a slightly louder noise was accompanied by the softest utterance of a curse, Charlie realized that whatever it was, it was human, and it was trying not to be heard. A prowler.

Boone always slept close to the cave entrance. If there was an intruder crawling about camp, Charlie didn't want to face it alone, and Boone was physically intimidating, so he was a good candidate for assistance since Jack slept near the back of the cave. Silently, Charlie crept over to Boone and prodded him with his foot until his eyes opened a crack. Charlie put a finger to his lips and pointed towards the food supply. Boone frowned and sat up, not understanding until they heard leaves rustling.

"Thief," Charlie breathed, and Boone nodded. He stood up and followed Charlie towards the source of the noise, both of them hardly daring to breath. The firelight and the moonlight combined provided just enough light to display the silhouette of the figure within, who was dropping coconuts and bananas into a large knapsack.

"On my count," Boone said into Charlie's ear. "We jump him. One… two… now!"

Charlie and Boone lunged forward simultaneously and tackled the burglar to the ground. A short scuffle ensued, and the yelling was loud enough to rouse everyone in the cave. Locke and Jack came forward to pull apart the tangle of limbs and Kate came forward with a flashlight. She shone the light on Charlie first, then Boone, and finally the thief.

Sawyer flashed his trademark smirk at Kate and the rest of the camp. No remorse or guilt or even fear appeared on his face.

"Hello, Freckles."

-----
To Be Continued…