Author's Notes: This was a spur-of-the-moment type of thing. And it happens to be my first Lost fanfic, so…yay? And let's just say, for all intents and purposes, that Charlie and Claire moved back to their little beach shelter. And this takes place after the season one finale, mind you, so beware of spoilers.

Disclaimer: Why would J.J. write fanfiction? Lost is not mine. Also, the song "Let It Be" belongs to The Beatles.

Aaron was crying again.

Charlie sprung up. He didn't sleep much these days. Claire, on the other hand, took a little longer to stir. They reached the crib at the same time.

Awkwardness. Each silently dared each other to get the baby first.

I'm the mother, but if you wanted to help…

I'd love to help, but you're his mother.

A few people started to rouse, and Claire quickly grabbed the baby, giving Charlie a look that said I can handle this.

He sat back down in his makeshift bed. Pillow, sand, and satchel, to be more specific. Charlie looked behind his shoulder. Claire was still busy trying to calm Aaron down, bouncing him in her arms.

Things had changed between them since he had brought her child (and another thing Claire most certainly didn't know about) back to safety. Hell, it wasn't the two of them that had the problem—just Charlie, poor old Charlie had become withdrawn, despite Claire's attempts to get closer to him.

Charlie, do you want to talk?

I'm worried about you, Charlie.

Did something happen in the jungle with Sayid and Danielle?

I'll be here if you ever need me.

Finally, she gave up, but occasionally she'd give him determined looks that he would pretend to ignore. Poor old Charlie Pace didn't need fixing. He didn't need anybody but himself. And possibly his guitar.

He wasn't sure what kept him with them in the shelter. Maybe he knew that he was still needed, that Claire would have much more trouble raising this child alone. Even though he hadn't talked to her in a very long time, he continued to care for Aaron when she was overwhelmed. Not nearly as much as he should, he knew, but he had to back out at some point before it all went to hell, like everything he ever felt for always did.

Charlie looked behind him again and reached into his satchel. The Virgin Mary statue was in his hand, shining greedily in the moonlight.

It seemed to be a full moon that night. The young voice of Liam filled his head.

Werewolves, Charlie! The werewolves come out on the full moon!

Mum told me that there wasn't such a thing as werewolves, Liam.

That's because she is one herself. Better watch out tonight!

Shaking his head, Charlie knew that Liam wasn't the best thing to think about at the moment.

He hadn't taken any heroin. Yet. But he kept the statue with him, and he wasn't sure why he even took it in the first place. A reminder of his faith and sins? A possible escape for when things get bad? Charlie wasn't sure. But he rather liked to look at it and feel the smooth porcelain against his skin.

"What is that?"

He was startled and nearly dropped it. "Just…just a statue, Claire."

She sat down gingerly next to him. "Aaron just needed to be fed." Claire craned her neck, her hand slowly creeping towards it. "What's it for?"

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. Charlie stuffed it back into his bag.

Claire nodded in understanding, more to herself than him. "I found this rock once. It was very flat, and it reminded me of my mum, when she'd take me to skip rocks." She grinned slightly. Claire, back when they had their long, extensive talks, would often complain of her mother, but Charlie always figured that deep down, they loved each other. Kind of like the bond between he and Liam. "I stuck it under my pillow. I think of it as a good luck charm, but not exactly—more like a way for me to remember to have common sense, especially around Aaron."

She shook her head, and a few strands fell from her ponytail. "I'm sorry, Charlie, I talk too much." With that same determined look in her eyes, she glanced at him. "Is there anything you wanted to say?" she asked innocently, but Charlie knew there was a lot more to the question under the surface.

"No," he said shortly, and Claire looked slightly put out.

"It seems like this is the first time we've really talked ever since the," she coughed, trying to find the right way to phrase it, "incident." She glimpsed at him hopefully.

"Guess so," he muttered, playing with the sand under his foot.

Charlie could see Claire bite her lip. Her patience was fleeting, but at the moment, he didn't care.

It seemed like he didn't care much about anything these days.

"Does—does the burn on your head still hurt?" She brushed his hair away to look. He flinched.

"It's just a scar, Claire."

"Right."

Silence.

Charlie spoke firmly, "I'll be leaving here in the morning. I'm no longer a use anyway." He sighed. "If you ever need to calm Aaron down, Sawyer seems to do the trick. I'll camp with Hurley or something." He gave her a steady stare and added, "I've done my part, and I don't think I can do this anymore."

Claire took a deep breath. He sensed that she had reached her breaking point, and for the first time, Charlie felt very sorry about letting her. Her eyes flew open, fuming.

"You," she spat, her Australian accent thicker than ever, "have not been yourself since," she struggled for words, "since you saved Aaron. Which is a shame, because you proved yourself a father that day." With each word, her voice shook, and he knew she spoke the truth. He wasn't quite ready to acknowledge it, though.

Charlie was quiet. Both of them skipped around the fact that he was turning out to be quite the father figure for the young child. It seemed too intimate a phrase…after all, would it still be that way if they got off the island?

Finally, he replied. "I'm not Aaron's father, Claire. I don't know what has come over me while I've been stuck on this bloody island, but that's not the real me."

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

"You know it's true, Charlie. Thomas would not have done that for me."

Her words lingered in the air. He refused to look at her.

"Fine, if you're going to act like this…"

He looked at her for what seemed like the first time.

People don't seem to look me in the eye here.

I remember peanut butter.

Get him back, Charlie. Get Aaron back.

Charlie suddenly leaned forward and softly pressed his lips against hers.

"I-I'm sorry, Claire, I shouldn't have—"

She gripped his chin with her hand and hesitantly kissed his cheek, then the bridge of his nose, and finally, his mouth.

Much too hurriedly, it seemed, he was on top of her and they were frantically snogging like teenagers. Each kiss was filled with need and desperation and everything was moving so quickly and what if people woke up?

Claire stopped, tilting her head back. Charlie looked at her intently, his lips swollen and eyes glazed.

"I need to check on Aaron," she whispered quietly. He nodded, still in a daze. She stood up, starting to walk away.

"Claire, I was never a good man."

She stared at him. "You shouldn't sell yourself short." A hint of a smile appeared on her face. "You're a good man, Charlie Pace." With that, she turned around, starting to coo to a babbling Aaron.

He closed his eyes, making a decision. Slowly rising, he took the figurine and walked to the edge of the sand, looking into the horizon.

It reminded him of a Beatles song. When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Charlie looked at the statue of Mary in his hand, and threw it as far as he could into the ocean.

It was ironic, really. When he visited Liam in Australia, he loathed him and his perfect life. Now he had an ideal family himself. Smugly, Charlie silently noted that he had not been a wanker about it. He wouldn't have been like that with Liam, had the situation been turned around.

Hearing Claire call his name shook him out of his reverie.

Returning to the shelter, he took Aaron from Claire's arms and sang the tune for him. She gave him one of her brilliant smiles, tentatively putting her hand on top of Charlie's.

Perhaps he had changed, after all.