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Jul. 14th, 2005 08:37 pmThe sun is setting but it's still pleasantly warm out by the lake. Charlie holds Bartleby's hand loosely, the baby monitor tucked in his pocket. He sighs with contentment.
(no subject)
Jan. 4th, 2005 09:46 amStill dressed in the tuxedo from Meg--and still a bit damp and chilly--Charlie lets himself into his room.
He smiles to see Bartleby there.
"Hey, you."
He smiles to see Bartleby there.
"Hey, you."
(no subject)
Nov. 30th, 2004 11:18 am[ooc: post first date. yes, seriously messing with milli-time.]
Charlie sits cross-legged on the bed, guitar in his arms, playing a song of happiness.
It was a very good night. Practically perfect. The only thing that would make this better would be to not be alone in the morning--but he tells himself there's plenty of time.
Charlie sits cross-legged on the bed, guitar in his arms, playing a song of happiness.
It was a very good night. Practically perfect. The only thing that would make this better would be to not be alone in the morning--but he tells himself there's plenty of time.
Date Night
Nov. 26th, 2004 10:34 amCharlie lays out his entire meager wardrobe on the bed and frowns at it. He has two pairs of jeans and a few t-shirts, and two sweatshirts both worn so often the fabric starting to look thin in places.
He sighs, wishing the bar weren't out of commission so he could request some nicer clothes, and pulls on the newer pair of jeans and newest t-shirt. Attempts at smoothing his hair have tamed it somewhat, though it's always a losing battle; and he even trimmed his beard a bit.
He can't remember the last time he went on an actual date. He's more nervous than he was before his very first.
He sighs, wishing the bar weren't out of commission so he could request some nicer clothes, and pulls on the newer pair of jeans and newest t-shirt. Attempts at smoothing his hair have tamed it somewhat, though it's always a losing battle; and he even trimmed his beard a bit.
He can't remember the last time he went on an actual date. He's more nervous than he was before his very first.
no post office here. no stamps.
Nov. 14th, 2004 12:00 pmWhile everyone rests and eats, Charlie writes a letter.
Angel baby,
I may get sentimental. Be forewarned.
I have realized today I am at cross-purposes here. My question for the Landlord is "how do I get home" but if I go home in all likelihood I lose Milliways.
And if I lose Milliways I lose you.
My brother, and his wife and daughter, are the only family I have left. My grandparents and my mum are long gone and I haven't seen my father since I was nine years old so I couldn't tell you if the old bastard is living or dead. (If he's dead, good riddance to him, all I can say.) And I want my family.
Trouble being you're my family too. And David. And Loki. And Richard. And Moiraine and Penny and Meg and Gavroche and everyone here, everyone whose lives have opened to make room for me.
Storge, you called it, yeah? Love of family. I am filled with storge and I don't want to give up any of it, not a one. Not you. Not Jack and Kate and Claire and Hurley and Locke. Not Liam. Least of all, Liam.
I don't want to make the choice but I'm afraid the choice is waiting for me. One man can only walk one pathway, not three.
So here's the point: if it comes down to staying here or going home, I'm going home. I know I said I'd come back and maybe someday I will: maybe I'll walk through a door in Sydney or Manchester or Los Angeles and find myself at the end of the universe again. Maybe not.
But I'm choosing storge over eros, angel baby. Not because I want you any less. I just want my family more.
Well, I think I managed to get through this without saying anything embaressing. I'm absurdly proud of that.
Yours,
Charlie
He rips out the page and folds it in half, writes "Bartleby" on the outside, and put the page away.
Angel baby,
I may get sentimental. Be forewarned.
I have realized today I am at cross-purposes here. My question for the Landlord is "how do I get home" but if I go home in all likelihood I lose Milliways.
And if I lose Milliways I lose you.
My brother, and his wife and daughter, are the only family I have left. My grandparents and my mum are long gone and I haven't seen my father since I was nine years old so I couldn't tell you if the old bastard is living or dead. (If he's dead, good riddance to him, all I can say.) And I want my family.
Trouble being you're my family too. And David. And Loki. And Richard. And Moiraine and Penny and Meg and Gavroche and everyone here, everyone whose lives have opened to make room for me.
Storge, you called it, yeah? Love of family. I am filled with storge and I don't want to give up any of it, not a one. Not you. Not Jack and Kate and Claire and Hurley and Locke. Not Liam. Least of all, Liam.
I don't want to make the choice but I'm afraid the choice is waiting for me. One man can only walk one pathway, not three.
So here's the point: if it comes down to staying here or going home, I'm going home. I know I said I'd come back and maybe someday I will: maybe I'll walk through a door in Sydney or Manchester or Los Angeles and find myself at the end of the universe again. Maybe not.
But I'm choosing storge over eros, angel baby. Not because I want you any less. I just want my family more.
Well, I think I managed to get through this without saying anything embaressing. I'm absurdly proud of that.
Yours,
Charlie
He rips out the page and folds it in half, writes "Bartleby" on the outside, and put the page away.
(no subject)
Oct. 6th, 2004 11:38 pmCharlie sits on the bed crossed-legged and writes.
Last night with Bartleby, he did . . . something. In my head. Moved something away or sheilded it or covered it or something. So I was still sick and sore, but I wasn't begging for horse anymore. That's a step up.
He's a real, actual angel and that must be why when I'm with him I feellike someone worth saving so damn good.
Nothing about this place makes any sense if you look at it in parts, but if you look at it all together, it's really quite wonderful. It's a bit like the island, really: a hodgepodge of people with their own histories, coming together out of necessity.
I just don't want to disappoint anyone this time.
Got to play for hours and no one complained of the singing. I blame the Muse entirely.
He puts the notebook aside and curls up on the bed.
Last night with Bartleby, he did . . . something. In my head. Moved something away or sheilded it or covered it or something. So I was still sick and sore, but I wasn't begging for horse anymore. That's a step up.
He's a real, actual angel and that must be why when I'm with him I feel
Nothing about this place makes any sense if you look at it in parts, but if you look at it all together, it's really quite wonderful. It's a bit like the island, really: a hodgepodge of people with their own histories, coming together out of necessity.
Got to play for hours and no one complained of the singing. I blame the Muse entirely.
He puts the notebook aside and curls up on the bed.
(no subject)
Oct. 4th, 2004 02:45 pmCharlie makes his way downstairs by touch, not bothering to search for a lightswitch or even a torch in the wall. He pauses every few steps, swaying and shivering, and slowly makes his way from the stairs to the corridor that leads to the staff rooms. He mutters to himself, "Third door on the left, third door on the left," through chattering teeth.
He knocks softly when he reaches the third door on the left. "Bartleby?"
There's no answer for a moment, so he knocks louder. "Bartleby? It's Charlie."
He knocks softly when he reaches the third door on the left. "Bartleby?"
There's no answer for a moment, so he knocks louder. "Bartleby? It's Charlie."
