Guilt on your Shoulders, Blood on your Hands - Lost - Gen-ish (Desmond)
Title: Guilt on your Shoulders, Blood on your Hands
Characters: Desmond, Boone, Charlie, Sayid, Penny (various pairings)
Word Count: 3100
Rating: PG
A/N: Queen Janie_tangerine gave us 'hearts and minds' as a prompt… and I somehow ended up with this bizarre thing.
Summary: "He spends his time after the first few giddy days off the island clicking link after link, searching name after name, looking at face after face. People he doesn't recognise, people he can't recognise: the people who were dead long before he left his hatch."
He spends his time after the first few giddy days off the island clicking link after link, searching name after name, looking at face after face. People he doesn't recognise, people he can't recognise: the people who were dead long before he left his hatch. The people who never made it to the island.
If you'd just pressed the button… he thinks as he looks at the frozen photograph of a man named Edward Mars. He's by a river, proudly clutching a large fish. The smile on his face will be there forever.
If you'd never left the hatch… The photograph of Barbara Joanna Miller is in bright sunlight. She's wearing a scuba suit and is in the centre of a laughing group of friends. Her blonde hair is bright and, caught on film, she looks so full of life.
If you'd found out about Kelvin earlier - just one day earlier… The photo of Seth Norris is from years ago: there's a moustache on his face and he's holding onto a beautiful young woman. They look like newlyweds.
If you'd been a stronger man… Desmond stops as he stumbles across the photograph of Boone Carlyle. The young man is pouting - brooding, perhaps - and refusing to look into the camera. He stares out the ornate window of an extravagant building instead: he looks like some kind of male model, features striking and elegant.
Desmond leans back against the squeaking computer seat and stares blindly. That man is dead because of him, he thinks. Outside the night is dark, pitch black. The house he shares with Penny is creaking and quiet: she's asleep in their bed upstairs. If she was awake he wouldn't do this. It feels more embarrassing and more private than hunting for porn ever could. He doesn't want her to know: what he is, what he did, the deaths that hang over his head. Each drop of blood is on his hands. Stained red.
He stares at Boone for a moment or two longer then looks restlessly away. Escaping the island should have allowed him to leave this behind him. It should have allowed him to escape his mistakes -
But his search winds around, like it always does, until he finds himself on one of the hundreds of Driveshaft tribute sites. There are thousands of pictures in the galleries there: Charlie looks so different, so young… He can flick through the photographs like flicking through Charlie's life. He's so carefree in the beginning, eyes full of life, his brother's arm over his shoulders.
"I'm so sorry," Desmond whispers to an empty room. "I am so sorry, Charlie."
So sorry for it all: for the plane crash in the beginning and everything that followed. He stares at those photos for a few moments longer, then clicks the cross in the corner. Just like that - one twitch of his finger - the images disappear. As he waits for the computers to finish grumbling as it turns off, he looks up at the ceiling and has to close his eyes: he wishes he could escape his guilt so easily.
*
He doesn’t know why he ends up there, sitting in a large white room watching a hard-faced woman across the broad desk. Sabrina Carlyle's eyes look like they're made from stone. Her warm smile doesn't meet them, just falling short.
"Congratulations on your engagement," she enthuses. "It's a shame your fiancée isn't able to meet with us."
"Aye," Desmond confirms, trying hard not to think of Penny left alone back home. "It's a real shame - she's just so busy."
"Oh, I understand," Sabrina says. "I understand that perfectly."
He watches her as they throw around idle ideas for a wedding that will never happen: he tries to imagine her son working along side her. Perhaps this is right where he would have been if the plane had never crashed - or if he'd managed to be among the lucky six that left the island.
He can't imagine him here. It doesn't seem quite right.
"I'll definitely get in touch before the end of the week," he says at the end of the meeting, standing up. "Thank you for sparing the time."
She shakes his hand. "It's no problem, Mr Pace," she says. He tries not to wince at the fake name. It had been the first one he could think of. "It was a pleasure."
He smiles like a fractured mirror and is glad to leave this place behind him: he'd thought seeing it might help, somehow - but, god, he'd been wrong.
*
It's late when he dials the phone, hiding downstairs while Penny sleeps. So late it's unsociable - but Sayid's voice is still clipped when he answers. No slurring, no trace of sleep. "Desmond," he says before Desmond can speak. "Why are you phoning me? You know what the rules are."
No contact. Pretend they never knew each other. Fade away.
"I know," he agrees. "I'm sorry."
But he doesn't hang up and Sayid doesn't either. He listens to him breathing along the phone line for long, stretching moments. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. He closes his eyes and listens to the proof that at least someone got off of the island alive.
"Desmond-"
"Yeah. Yeah, I…" He shakes his head and prompts himself to ask the question that has been weighing on his mind. "Did you know someone called Boone Carlyle? Did he survive the crash?"
Silence crackles along the line: for a few moments Desmond thinks that perhaps Sayid has placed the phone down and left him.
"What has brought this on, Desmond?" Sayid asks eventually. His voice spills, silk-sleek, but there is a solid spike to it now. "Does it matter?"
"Yeah. I dunno why, Sayid, but it does matter."
"Then yes. He survived the crash. I didn't know him well but I did know his sister - they were good people. They didn't deserve what happened to them."
Desmond nods: he isn't sure if this news ought to make him feel better or worse. Hollow, that's it. That's all he can feel.
"Is everything alright?" Sayid asks. "Where is Penny?"
He clears his throat. "Upstairs. Sleeping. She's - she's fine. This is…"
"Do you want me to come over there, Desmond?" Sayid asks - as if it is simply a case of nipping around the corner, not hopping on flights and crossing continents and threatening their safety.
"No," Desmond says. He closes his eyes. "No, it's - it's fine. Everything's fine. It's…"
"I know it must be difficult for you." Sayid's voice makes him sound so close. "You were on the island for a very long time."
"Culture shock," Desmond agrees, though he's been back in the outside world for so long that he doesn't think that can be it. "I know - you're right. Of course you're right."
"Be careful," Sayid cautions. "Speak to Penny."
"I will. Yeah, I… I will. It was nice hearing your voice again, brother."
If Sayid smiles it isn't clear in his voice. "I miss speaking to you too," Sayid says, "but you can't contact me again. I am so sorry."
"Yeah…" Desmond agrees. "It's-"
"Fine?" Sayid cuts in before him: and, yes, there's a smile to the sound of his voice now.
"See you in another life," Desmond says. Can't make himself say goodbye: not right now. Not with the guilt heavier than ever on his shoulders.
"I hope so," Sayid agrees. The phone clicks and the dial tone rushes to take the place of his old friend's tempered breathing - but Desmond holds it to his ear for a little longer, clutching far too tightly. He can't let go. He doesn't want to.
*
He opens his eyes in their dusky bedroom, with Penny's arm draped casually over his waist: completely awake within seconds, he still blinks in disbelief as he finds a dead man waiting for him. It's almost impossible to make out his features in the near-dark, but Desmond feels like he recognises him anyway.
"Boone?"
Boone raises a finger to his mouth and signals for Desmond to keep his voice down. "We should talk," he says. His voice isn't as Desmond had imagined it but hearing it now it seems right. "Get some clothes on and meet me downstairs."
And he's gone - disappears like a fragment of a dream. Desmond lies uselessly on his front for a few moments, waiting for his body to catch up with his mind. There's a ghost in your house, he realises blankly. He waits for the panic to kick in, but nothing comes. After a moment or two he slips from Penny's embrace and finds his clothes scattered on the ground, pulling them on and narrowly keeping his balance.
Boone stands in the hallway, leaning against the wall with one foot raised against it. "Took you long enough. Are you ready to go?"
"Go where?"
Boone smirks. "Don't worry - we're just walking. I'm not here to abduct you."
Desmond nods shakily and reaches for his jacket: he doesn't ask any questions until he's closed the front door behind them. He doesn't want Penny to wake up. If he's really going crazy - just like he's heard Hurley has - then he doesn't want her to see him in the midst of it, talking to thin air. "You do realise you're supposed to be dead?" he breathes.
"Yeah, I had picked up on that," Boone says. "I thought you needed a visit. You've been looking us up recently."
"Us?"
"The dead. Disturbing our memories. Prodding around at sleeping dogs."
"I didn't mean to… disturb you?"
"I'm sure you didn't. It's not your fault at all - I think Charlie even liked it."
His heart hammers at the sound of that name: Charlie. Charlie. He spots Boone smirking again from the corner of his eye but he can't take notice of it. He can't dampen the excitement he feels from the mention of the friend he'd lost.
"He misses having you around," Boone says, "but that doesn't mean you should feel guilty about what happened."
"If it hadn't been for me you'd all still be alive. Every single one of you."
"Maybe." Boone lifts an elegant shoulder. "Or maybe not - landing on that island, Desmond… It's not just a coincidence."
"If I'd been there, if I'd pressed the button…"
"We probably still would've crashed. There are greater forces than you and I at work here."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what I said." They round a corner aimlessly. "It'll make sense eventually."
"Is that a promise?"
"Not really." Boone grins - white toothed and radiant - and looks towards him. Even in the moonlight his eyes are a startling shade of blue. "But you should enjoy this time while you can."
"What about that? What's that mean?"
Footsteps sound behind them and another voice enters the conversation with an alive and warm elbow nudging his ribs. "It means things are about to get a whole lot harder," Charlie says beside him. "You should make the most of it: you're in the sodding eye of the storm, mate."
And Desmond should say something in return. He knows that. He should ask questions and demand answers and finally make sense of the destroyed jigsaw puzzle his life has become but - he stares. Charlie looks as alive as he had when Desmond first met him. Shorter hair, cleaner clothes and his skin isn't sunburnt. His smile is bright and his eyes sparkle and seeing him like that makes it all worse.
"You're not going to start crying, right?" Charlie checks dubiously. "I'd rather you yelled than you cried. Please."
"I'm not going to cry," Desmond says. "It's just… It's a bit of surprise to see you again."
"I'd imagine so, yeah. Sorry for not visiting earlier - they said there wasn't any need to."
"They? Who's calling the shots?"
"It doesn't really work like that. There's not a 'someone' as such… More a - force?"
"Charlie," Boone says, disapproving.
Charlie falls silent again, though he stops to scowl. "Right, right. I know. Sorry, Des. We're not supposed to tell you too much."
"Uh-huh," Desmond agrees. He already feels like there's an information overload inside his head. The dead are walking, talking… It's like they're living again. "I can't…"
Charlie nods as if he understands. "Didn't mean to screw with your head. We were just trying to help."
"You did. You did help."
"Then I guess I'm not quite as bad at this job as previously thought."
"What's the job?"
"Dunno. Spirit guide? I kind of scared the hell out of-"
"Charlie," Boone snaps again. "Sorry, Desmond. We're going to have to go."
"Already?" Charlie complains. "I just got here."
"And if you had a little more self-control we might be able to stay longer."
"Fuck." Charlie kicks at the ground: a stone bounces across the road and falls into the kerb at the other side. Desmond thinks that might just be the most bizarre thing he's seen all day. "Been nice seeing you again, mate. Remember: stop angsting over the island, stop stalking my fansites, and enjoy the peace while you can."
"Stay a little longer," Desmond says - his voice is too ragged. "Please. I won't ask any more questions about… whatever."
Charlie looks hopefully past him to Boone on his other side. Boone's been dead longer, Desmond thinks. Maybe that denotes seniority.
"Don't do the whole puppy-dog-eyes thing, Charlie," Boone complains. "You're no good at it."
"Please?"
Desmond looks at him too, crossing his fingers behind his back as if that might actually help. He's never been superstitious before: however, considering that two ghosts are wandering the streets with him, he might have to reconsider his previous views on the supernatural.
"Ten more minutes," Boone grouches. Charlie's grin grows in an instant - he laughs, a long-gone and familiar sound.
They keep walking: Desmond thinks that talking to someone that you let die should be more awkward than this. He lets Charlie talk most of the time, answering questions when prompted though he has a feeling that the ghosts already know more about his current life than even he does. They smirk, sometimes - a lot more than is really polite, in fact.
"I miss having you around," he admits towards the end of their allocated ten minutes. "Having everyone around, in fact. I can't see them any more."
"I know, mate." They stop walking and Charlie's hand rests on his arm: so much warmer than it has any right to be. "It's gonna be sorted. I promise - I'm working on it. Everything's… Everything's going to be fine. Trust me."
"Charlie!" Boone sighs. "We've really got to go now. Jacob's going to be mad."
"Jacob can bite me," Charlie grouches. "I'm already dead - what else can he do?"
Boone's arched eyebrow seems to speak of a world of pain: the cocky strength behind Charlie's smile wavers uncertainly. Desmond places a worried hand on his shoulder. He'd like to beg him - both of them, in fact - to stay for just a little longer, but he doesn't want to get them into any more trouble than he already has. "Be careful, Charlie," he urges under his breath.
Charlie grabs him and pulls him in: arms around his torso, holding on tight. Hugging. Desmond could laugh - it seems so normal, so human, so real - but he can't make himself do anything but hold on tight and close his eyes. "You too, mate," Charlie whispers. "Take care of yourself. Keep your bloody head down."
"Charlie," Boone says - he sounds beyond irritated by now. Keeping Charlie in line is probably a full-time job, Desmond thinks. Boone's in his place now: looking after him. Not keeping him alive - it's too late for that - but keeping him safe. Out of trouble.
Who the hell is Jacob? Desmond thinks too late, but he doesn't voice it. Charlie would probably tell him and make the whole situation even worse.
"Um. Des?" Charlie says. "I kinda need to go now."
Desmond supposes that's his cue to let go: he could crush Charlie in a bear-like hug if he thought it might make a difference. Reluctantly he takes a step back - Charlie moves over to Boone's side instead.
"Don't worry," Boone says. "I'll watch out for him."
Charlie slaps his chest with the back of his hand. "Who the hell says I need any looking after?"
Boone snorts and an arm finds its way around Charlie's shoulders. They stand together, looking like perfectly comfortable polar opposites. Boone's male-model looks contrast with Charlie's worn-down rock star, but… It works. It works well.
Desmond's eyebrows raise as it clicks - "You two are…?"
"Yeah." Charlie nods. "We kind of are."
"I keep him in line."
"I don't need kept in line," Charlie argues again. "I'm a bloody rock god. The lines don't exist for me."
"They do for me." Boone's thumb traces along Charlie's jaw, gently teasing Charlie's face towards him. Desmond feels like he must be intruding on something a little too private. "Which means that they do for you."
Their lips touch - barely brushing, barely a kiss at all - and Charlie gives a breathy, soft laugh. Warmth spreads from them and suddenly their brittle interactions for the evening seem different: a couple bickering instead of two colleagues fighting.
Charlie looks back at Desmond. "Seriously, mate. We're fine: everyone here is fine. Quit with the guilt trip. You'll do your head in."
Boone moves a hand over his mouth before he can say anything more incriminating. "It's been nice to meet you, Desmond."
"You too, brother," Desmond breathes. "I guess it's time-"
"Yeah, we're kind of at the 'goodbye' stage now." Boone gives an apologetic shrug. "Go back home. Go back to Penny."
"Right. Aye. I…"
They wait, watching him, until he turns around in a blank daze and begins to walk back the way he came, past darkened houses and under bright streetlights. His heart beats at the volume of a concert's bass drum.
When he reaches the corner of the street and looks back at the corner he's left with an empty street: they're gone, fading back to the afterlife where they really belong.
*
"Desmond?" Penny mumbles when he crawls back into bed. His skin is cold from the outside air and his pulse still hasn't settled but he finds his place at her side and disappears into the comfort of her arms. "Desmond, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he breathes. His lips find the soft curve of her neck and press there, resting in the darkness. "Go back to sleep, Pen. I'm fine."
Enjoy it while you can, the ghosts had said.
His arms tighten around the body of the woman he loves: he won't lose her. Not again.
Characters: Desmond, Boone, Charlie, Sayid, Penny (various pairings)
Word Count: 3100
Rating: PG
A/N: Queen Janie_tangerine gave us 'hearts and minds' as a prompt… and I somehow ended up with this bizarre thing.
Summary: "He spends his time after the first few giddy days off the island clicking link after link, searching name after name, looking at face after face. People he doesn't recognise, people he can't recognise: the people who were dead long before he left his hatch."
He spends his time after the first few giddy days off the island clicking link after link, searching name after name, looking at face after face. People he doesn't recognise, people he can't recognise: the people who were dead long before he left his hatch. The people who never made it to the island.
If you'd just pressed the button… he thinks as he looks at the frozen photograph of a man named Edward Mars. He's by a river, proudly clutching a large fish. The smile on his face will be there forever.
If you'd never left the hatch… The photograph of Barbara Joanna Miller is in bright sunlight. She's wearing a scuba suit and is in the centre of a laughing group of friends. Her blonde hair is bright and, caught on film, she looks so full of life.
If you'd found out about Kelvin earlier - just one day earlier… The photo of Seth Norris is from years ago: there's a moustache on his face and he's holding onto a beautiful young woman. They look like newlyweds.
If you'd been a stronger man… Desmond stops as he stumbles across the photograph of Boone Carlyle. The young man is pouting - brooding, perhaps - and refusing to look into the camera. He stares out the ornate window of an extravagant building instead: he looks like some kind of male model, features striking and elegant.
Desmond leans back against the squeaking computer seat and stares blindly. That man is dead because of him, he thinks. Outside the night is dark, pitch black. The house he shares with Penny is creaking and quiet: she's asleep in their bed upstairs. If she was awake he wouldn't do this. It feels more embarrassing and more private than hunting for porn ever could. He doesn't want her to know: what he is, what he did, the deaths that hang over his head. Each drop of blood is on his hands. Stained red.
He stares at Boone for a moment or two longer then looks restlessly away. Escaping the island should have allowed him to leave this behind him. It should have allowed him to escape his mistakes -
But his search winds around, like it always does, until he finds himself on one of the hundreds of Driveshaft tribute sites. There are thousands of pictures in the galleries there: Charlie looks so different, so young… He can flick through the photographs like flicking through Charlie's life. He's so carefree in the beginning, eyes full of life, his brother's arm over his shoulders.
"I'm so sorry," Desmond whispers to an empty room. "I am so sorry, Charlie."
So sorry for it all: for the plane crash in the beginning and everything that followed. He stares at those photos for a few moments longer, then clicks the cross in the corner. Just like that - one twitch of his finger - the images disappear. As he waits for the computers to finish grumbling as it turns off, he looks up at the ceiling and has to close his eyes: he wishes he could escape his guilt so easily.
*
He doesn’t know why he ends up there, sitting in a large white room watching a hard-faced woman across the broad desk. Sabrina Carlyle's eyes look like they're made from stone. Her warm smile doesn't meet them, just falling short.
"Congratulations on your engagement," she enthuses. "It's a shame your fiancée isn't able to meet with us."
"Aye," Desmond confirms, trying hard not to think of Penny left alone back home. "It's a real shame - she's just so busy."
"Oh, I understand," Sabrina says. "I understand that perfectly."
He watches her as they throw around idle ideas for a wedding that will never happen: he tries to imagine her son working along side her. Perhaps this is right where he would have been if the plane had never crashed - or if he'd managed to be among the lucky six that left the island.
He can't imagine him here. It doesn't seem quite right.
"I'll definitely get in touch before the end of the week," he says at the end of the meeting, standing up. "Thank you for sparing the time."
She shakes his hand. "It's no problem, Mr Pace," she says. He tries not to wince at the fake name. It had been the first one he could think of. "It was a pleasure."
He smiles like a fractured mirror and is glad to leave this place behind him: he'd thought seeing it might help, somehow - but, god, he'd been wrong.
*
It's late when he dials the phone, hiding downstairs while Penny sleeps. So late it's unsociable - but Sayid's voice is still clipped when he answers. No slurring, no trace of sleep. "Desmond," he says before Desmond can speak. "Why are you phoning me? You know what the rules are."
No contact. Pretend they never knew each other. Fade away.
"I know," he agrees. "I'm sorry."
But he doesn't hang up and Sayid doesn't either. He listens to him breathing along the phone line for long, stretching moments. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. He closes his eyes and listens to the proof that at least someone got off of the island alive.
"Desmond-"
"Yeah. Yeah, I…" He shakes his head and prompts himself to ask the question that has been weighing on his mind. "Did you know someone called Boone Carlyle? Did he survive the crash?"
Silence crackles along the line: for a few moments Desmond thinks that perhaps Sayid has placed the phone down and left him.
"What has brought this on, Desmond?" Sayid asks eventually. His voice spills, silk-sleek, but there is a solid spike to it now. "Does it matter?"
"Yeah. I dunno why, Sayid, but it does matter."
"Then yes. He survived the crash. I didn't know him well but I did know his sister - they were good people. They didn't deserve what happened to them."
Desmond nods: he isn't sure if this news ought to make him feel better or worse. Hollow, that's it. That's all he can feel.
"Is everything alright?" Sayid asks. "Where is Penny?"
He clears his throat. "Upstairs. Sleeping. She's - she's fine. This is…"
"Do you want me to come over there, Desmond?" Sayid asks - as if it is simply a case of nipping around the corner, not hopping on flights and crossing continents and threatening their safety.
"No," Desmond says. He closes his eyes. "No, it's - it's fine. Everything's fine. It's…"
"I know it must be difficult for you." Sayid's voice makes him sound so close. "You were on the island for a very long time."
"Culture shock," Desmond agrees, though he's been back in the outside world for so long that he doesn't think that can be it. "I know - you're right. Of course you're right."
"Be careful," Sayid cautions. "Speak to Penny."
"I will. Yeah, I… I will. It was nice hearing your voice again, brother."
If Sayid smiles it isn't clear in his voice. "I miss speaking to you too," Sayid says, "but you can't contact me again. I am so sorry."
"Yeah…" Desmond agrees. "It's-"
"Fine?" Sayid cuts in before him: and, yes, there's a smile to the sound of his voice now.
"See you in another life," Desmond says. Can't make himself say goodbye: not right now. Not with the guilt heavier than ever on his shoulders.
"I hope so," Sayid agrees. The phone clicks and the dial tone rushes to take the place of his old friend's tempered breathing - but Desmond holds it to his ear for a little longer, clutching far too tightly. He can't let go. He doesn't want to.
*
He opens his eyes in their dusky bedroom, with Penny's arm draped casually over his waist: completely awake within seconds, he still blinks in disbelief as he finds a dead man waiting for him. It's almost impossible to make out his features in the near-dark, but Desmond feels like he recognises him anyway.
"Boone?"
Boone raises a finger to his mouth and signals for Desmond to keep his voice down. "We should talk," he says. His voice isn't as Desmond had imagined it but hearing it now it seems right. "Get some clothes on and meet me downstairs."
And he's gone - disappears like a fragment of a dream. Desmond lies uselessly on his front for a few moments, waiting for his body to catch up with his mind. There's a ghost in your house, he realises blankly. He waits for the panic to kick in, but nothing comes. After a moment or two he slips from Penny's embrace and finds his clothes scattered on the ground, pulling them on and narrowly keeping his balance.
Boone stands in the hallway, leaning against the wall with one foot raised against it. "Took you long enough. Are you ready to go?"
"Go where?"
Boone smirks. "Don't worry - we're just walking. I'm not here to abduct you."
Desmond nods shakily and reaches for his jacket: he doesn't ask any questions until he's closed the front door behind them. He doesn't want Penny to wake up. If he's really going crazy - just like he's heard Hurley has - then he doesn't want her to see him in the midst of it, talking to thin air. "You do realise you're supposed to be dead?" he breathes.
"Yeah, I had picked up on that," Boone says. "I thought you needed a visit. You've been looking us up recently."
"Us?"
"The dead. Disturbing our memories. Prodding around at sleeping dogs."
"I didn't mean to… disturb you?"
"I'm sure you didn't. It's not your fault at all - I think Charlie even liked it."
His heart hammers at the sound of that name: Charlie. Charlie. He spots Boone smirking again from the corner of his eye but he can't take notice of it. He can't dampen the excitement he feels from the mention of the friend he'd lost.
"He misses having you around," Boone says, "but that doesn't mean you should feel guilty about what happened."
"If it hadn't been for me you'd all still be alive. Every single one of you."
"Maybe." Boone lifts an elegant shoulder. "Or maybe not - landing on that island, Desmond… It's not just a coincidence."
"If I'd been there, if I'd pressed the button…"
"We probably still would've crashed. There are greater forces than you and I at work here."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what I said." They round a corner aimlessly. "It'll make sense eventually."
"Is that a promise?"
"Not really." Boone grins - white toothed and radiant - and looks towards him. Even in the moonlight his eyes are a startling shade of blue. "But you should enjoy this time while you can."
"What about that? What's that mean?"
Footsteps sound behind them and another voice enters the conversation with an alive and warm elbow nudging his ribs. "It means things are about to get a whole lot harder," Charlie says beside him. "You should make the most of it: you're in the sodding eye of the storm, mate."
And Desmond should say something in return. He knows that. He should ask questions and demand answers and finally make sense of the destroyed jigsaw puzzle his life has become but - he stares. Charlie looks as alive as he had when Desmond first met him. Shorter hair, cleaner clothes and his skin isn't sunburnt. His smile is bright and his eyes sparkle and seeing him like that makes it all worse.
"You're not going to start crying, right?" Charlie checks dubiously. "I'd rather you yelled than you cried. Please."
"I'm not going to cry," Desmond says. "It's just… It's a bit of surprise to see you again."
"I'd imagine so, yeah. Sorry for not visiting earlier - they said there wasn't any need to."
"They? Who's calling the shots?"
"It doesn't really work like that. There's not a 'someone' as such… More a - force?"
"Charlie," Boone says, disapproving.
Charlie falls silent again, though he stops to scowl. "Right, right. I know. Sorry, Des. We're not supposed to tell you too much."
"Uh-huh," Desmond agrees. He already feels like there's an information overload inside his head. The dead are walking, talking… It's like they're living again. "I can't…"
Charlie nods as if he understands. "Didn't mean to screw with your head. We were just trying to help."
"You did. You did help."
"Then I guess I'm not quite as bad at this job as previously thought."
"What's the job?"
"Dunno. Spirit guide? I kind of scared the hell out of-"
"Charlie," Boone snaps again. "Sorry, Desmond. We're going to have to go."
"Already?" Charlie complains. "I just got here."
"And if you had a little more self-control we might be able to stay longer."
"Fuck." Charlie kicks at the ground: a stone bounces across the road and falls into the kerb at the other side. Desmond thinks that might just be the most bizarre thing he's seen all day. "Been nice seeing you again, mate. Remember: stop angsting over the island, stop stalking my fansites, and enjoy the peace while you can."
"Stay a little longer," Desmond says - his voice is too ragged. "Please. I won't ask any more questions about… whatever."
Charlie looks hopefully past him to Boone on his other side. Boone's been dead longer, Desmond thinks. Maybe that denotes seniority.
"Don't do the whole puppy-dog-eyes thing, Charlie," Boone complains. "You're no good at it."
"Please?"
Desmond looks at him too, crossing his fingers behind his back as if that might actually help. He's never been superstitious before: however, considering that two ghosts are wandering the streets with him, he might have to reconsider his previous views on the supernatural.
"Ten more minutes," Boone grouches. Charlie's grin grows in an instant - he laughs, a long-gone and familiar sound.
They keep walking: Desmond thinks that talking to someone that you let die should be more awkward than this. He lets Charlie talk most of the time, answering questions when prompted though he has a feeling that the ghosts already know more about his current life than even he does. They smirk, sometimes - a lot more than is really polite, in fact.
"I miss having you around," he admits towards the end of their allocated ten minutes. "Having everyone around, in fact. I can't see them any more."
"I know, mate." They stop walking and Charlie's hand rests on his arm: so much warmer than it has any right to be. "It's gonna be sorted. I promise - I'm working on it. Everything's… Everything's going to be fine. Trust me."
"Charlie!" Boone sighs. "We've really got to go now. Jacob's going to be mad."
"Jacob can bite me," Charlie grouches. "I'm already dead - what else can he do?"
Boone's arched eyebrow seems to speak of a world of pain: the cocky strength behind Charlie's smile wavers uncertainly. Desmond places a worried hand on his shoulder. He'd like to beg him - both of them, in fact - to stay for just a little longer, but he doesn't want to get them into any more trouble than he already has. "Be careful, Charlie," he urges under his breath.
Charlie grabs him and pulls him in: arms around his torso, holding on tight. Hugging. Desmond could laugh - it seems so normal, so human, so real - but he can't make himself do anything but hold on tight and close his eyes. "You too, mate," Charlie whispers. "Take care of yourself. Keep your bloody head down."
"Charlie," Boone says - he sounds beyond irritated by now. Keeping Charlie in line is probably a full-time job, Desmond thinks. Boone's in his place now: looking after him. Not keeping him alive - it's too late for that - but keeping him safe. Out of trouble.
Who the hell is Jacob? Desmond thinks too late, but he doesn't voice it. Charlie would probably tell him and make the whole situation even worse.
"Um. Des?" Charlie says. "I kinda need to go now."
Desmond supposes that's his cue to let go: he could crush Charlie in a bear-like hug if he thought it might make a difference. Reluctantly he takes a step back - Charlie moves over to Boone's side instead.
"Don't worry," Boone says. "I'll watch out for him."
Charlie slaps his chest with the back of his hand. "Who the hell says I need any looking after?"
Boone snorts and an arm finds its way around Charlie's shoulders. They stand together, looking like perfectly comfortable polar opposites. Boone's male-model looks contrast with Charlie's worn-down rock star, but… It works. It works well.
Desmond's eyebrows raise as it clicks - "You two are…?"
"Yeah." Charlie nods. "We kind of are."
"I keep him in line."
"I don't need kept in line," Charlie argues again. "I'm a bloody rock god. The lines don't exist for me."
"They do for me." Boone's thumb traces along Charlie's jaw, gently teasing Charlie's face towards him. Desmond feels like he must be intruding on something a little too private. "Which means that they do for you."
Their lips touch - barely brushing, barely a kiss at all - and Charlie gives a breathy, soft laugh. Warmth spreads from them and suddenly their brittle interactions for the evening seem different: a couple bickering instead of two colleagues fighting.
Charlie looks back at Desmond. "Seriously, mate. We're fine: everyone here is fine. Quit with the guilt trip. You'll do your head in."
Boone moves a hand over his mouth before he can say anything more incriminating. "It's been nice to meet you, Desmond."
"You too, brother," Desmond breathes. "I guess it's time-"
"Yeah, we're kind of at the 'goodbye' stage now." Boone gives an apologetic shrug. "Go back home. Go back to Penny."
"Right. Aye. I…"
They wait, watching him, until he turns around in a blank daze and begins to walk back the way he came, past darkened houses and under bright streetlights. His heart beats at the volume of a concert's bass drum.
When he reaches the corner of the street and looks back at the corner he's left with an empty street: they're gone, fading back to the afterlife where they really belong.
*
"Desmond?" Penny mumbles when he crawls back into bed. His skin is cold from the outside air and his pulse still hasn't settled but he finds his place at her side and disappears into the comfort of her arms. "Desmond, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he breathes. His lips find the soft curve of her neck and press there, resting in the darkness. "Go back to sleep, Pen. I'm fine."
Enjoy it while you can, the ghosts had said.
His arms tighten around the body of the woman he loves: he won't lose her. Not again.