I'd like to say a special thank you to Silver Spider for betaing my chapters.
This chapter is dedicated to my reviewers: beancounters, Anne, KatieIsLost, LOSTfan, Orlando-crazy, and chelsey. Without you I wouldn't post. Thank you for being so kind! I'm glad you like it, it is so fun to write! Thank you!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Lost, nor am I making any money from it!
The girl strode into the room, ignoring the smell of stale sweat and vomit. The man was sitting on the bed, picking at the peeling black polish on his nails. He looked up as she walked in, a falsely bright smile painted across her face. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him, sitting cross legged on the narrow bed, his face pale grey and clammy. She hated these rooms, awash solely in white. White walls, white floors, white linens. They even dressed the patients in the white, though blood smeared the front of the hoodie that the man wore, like some symbolic cross.
He sat up a little straighter, pushing limp blonde hair out of his face with a shaky hand. He watched her as she lumbered into the room.
"Good day, Mr. Pace," she said, brightly. They had told her never to use first names. Never make eye contact. She waddled to the window and threw open the white curtains. The sunlight filtered thinly through the bars on the window. The effect was no more cheerful, serving only to highlight the cold sterility of the room. She sighed and turned around, determined to make a difference. Her last case, Mr. Finbar, had been found dead in his home this morning, after having been released last night. She wasn't about failure. Her own life had enough of that.
"Charlie, is it? I'm Claire." She looked at his eyes. They were a pleasant blue, although they were shot through with red and glaring at her through a haze of hatred. Her smile wavered a bit, but she managed to make it strong.
"I don't need any bloody company," he said, his voice low and deadly calm. His British accent was strangely comforting in this place, similar enough as it was to her own.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said pleasantly, pulling out a blood pressure cuff and scooting around till she was standing next to him. "Do you mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me."
"Sod off."
She shrugged and sat heavily anyways, rubbing her swollen belly as she did so. He pressed himself against the wall as if she carried an infectious disease. It was grimly funny, but she managed to suppress her tired giggle. It seemed oddly out of place. He seemed lacking of humor.
"I need to take your vitals, Charlie."
"Didn't I already tell you to piss off, Ms. Maybe-If-I'm-So-Damn-Cheery-He'll-Forget-He's-Not-Here-Voluntary. Do you know who I am?" he asked, pressing his face into hers. She saw a fleck of dried spittle on his chin. His eyes were so painfully bloodshot. "I'm a bloody rock god," his voice was still low, but took on a fevered pitch. "You are a nobody. Like that bitch that called the cops. I was fine. I'm not an addict! But that's fine. In another two and months I'll be out of here. And I'll be free to do whatever the fuck I want. So you want to take my vitals now and push more of that sissy shit on me, that's fine. Because it's better than jail. And because once I'm out of here, once Driveshaft is back on tour, there's not stopping me."
Her smile did crack and fade, and hard, cold reality swept through her blue eyes. She snatched his arm, harshly tugging the sweater up over his track marked skin. She sneered and tugged it in front of his face. "That's great. But I'll still be here when they drag your sorry ass back in from whatever toilet you fall and hit your head on this time," she patted his stitched forehead, roughly, "From whatever drugs you pump into your system to kill yourself with." She slapped the cuff around his arm, pumping it a little tighter than it needed to be. She slipped the stethoscope in her ears, barely containing the heated words she wanted to spit at him. She took his blood pressure, marking it carefully on his chart. She tore the cuff of him, trying to calm herself down. It didn't do her any good to get riled up, it didn't do the baby any good. It didn't do any good to get herself attached. She had to bite her lip to keep the tears at bay.
Dammit. Mr. Finbar said he was clean. Had said it with such sincerity she'd believed him. She had backed him for release. And had signed the papers. Signed the papers that had allowed him to turn the corner, purchase some low grade crack, and pump himself so high that he never came back down. Why was she so gullible? She had believed Malkin when he had given her money to come here as well. He had told her there were people, good people, to give her baby too. But there was no one. And when her money ran out, dried up, she was all alone. She swore never again. He said there had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. Something wasn't right. She had laughed at him. He wasn't right. He should go to a mental ward. She knew a good one, she worked the night shift, when she didn't pull hours at this rehab clinic.
She snatched Charlie's wrist that he had pulled back, glancing at her watch to take his pulse and respirations. Both were elevated. Dammit, so were hers. She flung his arm away, pushing herself off the bed with a bit of difficulty in her advanced pregnancy.
Charlie stared at her as she paced. She was so small, so tiny, with a stomach that seemed larger than life, and eyes that seemed to see too well into him. Her hair fell in a long ponytail down her back, cute little curls escaping to frame messily around her face, attributing to the fact that she was harassed. Harassed by patients like him. But it was her fault she was here. Her fault he was sweating and puking, and pulling at his stitches and bleeding from the nose. His nose that itched like hell. He rubbed at it, then at the stitches at his forehead. She took away his drugs, his sweet, sweet release into that heavenly euphoria, that exotic trip, that orgasmic, otherworldly experience that exceeded…she rounded on him, eyes a bit wild.
She came at him, wielding a pill like a knight wielding a sword. He was used to it, and she was small and fragile, unlike the nurse he had had for the first month, Fred. Fred had been able to physically force him to take the methadone. But he smirked as Claire attempted to force his jaw open. He even bit her finger lightly, for the hell of it. Her eyes glittered evilly, as she clamped her hand down on his nose, cutting off his air supply. He fought it, fought it till he turned blue in the face and tears ran from his eyes, then he opened his mouth, sucking in a deep gasp of air, the methadone pill, and the glass of water she poured relentlessly in after it, making sure that he swallowed. He pushed the paper cup away, brushing the water that cascaded out the sides of his mouth with a muffled curse. She was good. He'd give her that. He even admired her for the smirk she turned back on him.
She stood back, surveying her handiwork with a pleasant smile on her face. He hated her smile. She settled a hand on her stomach. He hated her stomach. The hope that the new life in their represented. The joy that it would bring her. He hated her for it. Hated her and her husband for it. Hated Liam's daughter, blonde haired and blue eyed like her. Hated Liam. He laid down and rolled so that he was staring at the wall. Because who he really hated wasn't Claire with her sunny voice and smile and eyes. It was himself. He squeezed his eyes shut. Charlie Pace, self proclaimed rock god, wished he could be anybody else.
She sat on the bed behind him as he rolled over. She had watched the transformation play over his unique features. The fear, the anger, the hatred, and the infinite sadness. She hadn't witnessed the despair, the grief, the acceptance, but she knew they would come. And she was determined to be there when they did. She placed a hand on his skinny back, feeling the sharp edges of his spine. He was so skinny from the drugs. She would see him fat and happy. She would. Because if he could make it, if he could survive, then she could too. She didn't know how, she didn't know why he signified it, but she put all her hopes, all her dreams, on this one. When he began to cry, she did the only thing she could think of.
She began to sing, quietly at first. But her voice grew in strength, as did her resolve, "Catch a falling star, and put it in your pocket. Never let it fade away! Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day!"
