Post Mortem, or How Desmond Saved the World (But Not the Junkie)
Post Mortem, or How Desmond Saved The World (But N
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the beach, with the feeling of coarse sand rubbing against his skin and the taste of vomit in his mouth, he wasn’t entirely sure when or where he had thrown up, but he knew that he had. His head was pounding and his stomach was lurching, and oh God so much had happened to him in the last hour that his brain shouldn’t even be able to function right now-
He tried half-heartedly to push himself up, but the muscles in his arms had chosen that exact moment to spasm and he collapsed, coughing weakly against the ground. “Not Penny’s boat,” he mumbled awkwardly. “Not Penny’s boat… not…”
Jack, where was Jack, he had to tell him, had to warn him, but no- Jack would be at the radio tower by now, the signal was no longer being blocked, the girl Naomi would already be in contact with whoever the hell her people were, and he was too late to do anything about it. Worthless as usual, Desmond.
So tired, his head was spinning from exhaustion, and somehow all he could think about now was Charlie, Charlie’s face beaten to a bloody mess, Charlie’s excited cry of “Des! It’s Penny!”, Charlie’s hand splayed against the cold glass window right before-
His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing coming out. He gagged, raised his head, spat. His insides were curling up like a dying animal.
Focus. Focus.
He was trying to focus, he was trying to. Penny, God, what must she be thinking right now? He hadn’t even seen her, hadn’t gotten the chance to before Charlie had slammed that door and sealed himself out of Desmond’s life forever-
He blinked, grasped clumsily at his thoughts. No, no, not Charlie, he wasn’t thinking about Charlie right now, he was thinking about Penny- he wasn’t thinking about Charlie, he wasn’t, except he was and all he could see with his eyes closed like this was the memory of Charlie’s eyes, widened as the ever-present spark slowly drained out of them. Why…
How must it have felt, Desmond wondered, to go like that? Slowly, excruciatingly, the water pressing in around you, seeping inside you…
When had he started crying?
Charlie…
Desmond rolled over wearily, the ocean breeze washing over his sand-chafed face. He was too tired for this right now, too tired to think, too tired to even open his eyes, but dammit Charlie’s face and eyes and hand were still there and he couldn’t make them go away-
He opened his eyes. The sunlight glared down at him, silently accusing him. He waved a hand dismissively at it as if to say 'Leave me alone, what the hell do you want from me, what the hell was I supposed to do, how could I have possibly known the little idiot would actually go and get himself killed?'
You might as well get going, Des, a voice chided him, and he wasn’t quite sure whose it was- Charlie’s? Penny’s? His own?- but he followed it all the same, straining to raise his upper body and then to stand on unsteady legs, brushing the grains of sand from the front of his shirt.
Where to next? he asked the invisible voice.
Jack, it replied firmly, Jack needed to know and he needed to know now, because better late than never, right? And Desmond wiped the tears from his face and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t going to see Charlie every bloody time he closed his eyes from now on (even though he knew that was a lie, it was the easy lie to tell, and Desmond had always been quite dept at lying to himself whenever Charlie was concerned), and he began to walk with shaking steps towards the jungle.
He tried half-heartedly to push himself up, but the muscles in his arms had chosen that exact moment to spasm and he collapsed, coughing weakly against the ground. “Not Penny’s boat,” he mumbled awkwardly. “Not Penny’s boat… not…”
Jack, where was Jack, he had to tell him, had to warn him, but no- Jack would be at the radio tower by now, the signal was no longer being blocked, the girl Naomi would already be in contact with whoever the hell her people were, and he was too late to do anything about it. Worthless as usual, Desmond.
So tired, his head was spinning from exhaustion, and somehow all he could think about now was Charlie, Charlie’s face beaten to a bloody mess, Charlie’s excited cry of “Des! It’s Penny!”, Charlie’s hand splayed against the cold glass window right before-
His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing coming out. He gagged, raised his head, spat. His insides were curling up like a dying animal.
Focus. Focus.
He was trying to focus, he was trying to. Penny, God, what must she be thinking right now? He hadn’t even seen her, hadn’t gotten the chance to before Charlie had slammed that door and sealed himself out of Desmond’s life forever-
He blinked, grasped clumsily at his thoughts. No, no, not Charlie, he wasn’t thinking about Charlie right now, he was thinking about Penny- he wasn’t thinking about Charlie, he wasn’t, except he was and all he could see with his eyes closed like this was the memory of Charlie’s eyes, widened as the ever-present spark slowly drained out of them. Why…
How must it have felt, Desmond wondered, to go like that? Slowly, excruciatingly, the water pressing in around you, seeping inside you…
When had he started crying?
Charlie…
Desmond rolled over wearily, the ocean breeze washing over his sand-chafed face. He was too tired for this right now, too tired to think, too tired to even open his eyes, but dammit Charlie’s face and eyes and hand were still there and he couldn’t make them go away-
He opened his eyes. The sunlight glared down at him, silently accusing him. He waved a hand dismissively at it as if to say 'Leave me alone, what the hell do you want from me, what the hell was I supposed to do, how could I have possibly known the little idiot would actually go and get himself killed?'
You might as well get going, Des, a voice chided him, and he wasn’t quite sure whose it was- Charlie’s? Penny’s? His own?- but he followed it all the same, straining to raise his upper body and then to stand on unsteady legs, brushing the grains of sand from the front of his shirt.
Where to next? he asked the invisible voice.
Jack, it replied firmly, Jack needed to know and he needed to know now, because better late than never, right? And Desmond wiped the tears from his face and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t going to see Charlie every bloody time he closed his eyes from now on (even though he knew that was a lie, it was the easy lie to tell, and Desmond had always been quite dept at lying to himself whenever Charlie was concerned), and he began to walk with shaking steps towards the jungle.