Chapter Text
1:08AM—
Desmond awoke to the sound of a knock at the door, which, at this ungodly hour, was—to say the least—rather shocking.
He stood up, not bothering with the lights, and fumbled around in the dark until he found the most convenient shirt. Half awake, he walked out into the hall, flicked the lights on, and opened the door.
Leaning there with deliberate nonchalance (a statement that would sound like an oxymoron to anyone who had not witnessed this), with one hand against the frame and the other on his hip, stood, of all people, Charlie Pace—and he looked like utter hell, in his tattered and war-torn Green Day t-shirt and black hooded jumper that was just a bit too large on him. His blond hair was unkempt and unwashed, and the eyeliner that typically ringed his eyes was smudged and streaming, as if he'd been crying only minutes before. His expression now, however, was completely deadpan, as if he'd gotten bored already of waiting for Desmond to answer the door.
Before Desmond could speak, Charlie walked forward, right past him, into the hall.
"Liam kicked me out," he said coolly. Presumptuously, he sat down on the sofa in one rag-doll motion, leaning his head back. "Again."
Desmond took a second to process this. "Why’d he do that, then?" was all he could come up with in response.
"Search me," Charlie replied with a shrug, though he obviously must have known. It was, however, a completely stupid hour, and thus Desmond was in no mood to press him any further.
He rubbed one eye with the base of his palm. "Alright," he said. "Get some sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."
"You're letting me stay, then?" Charlie asked, expertly masking the hidden please? beneath his lack of tone.
"Aye," Desmond half-muttered half-sighed in confirmation.
Charlie sighed with obvious relief, evidently having expected to be kicked out of Desmond's flat, too. Blearily, Desmond thought that he ought to have known better than that by now; he'd never been unwelcome before.
Blessedly, Desmond was tired enough to fall back asleep almost immediately upon returning to bed. This was a rare occurrence, and one worthy of celebration, if he had been the type to celebrate things like that.
When he awoke (much later than he would typically be comfortable with), he'd nearly forgotten he had a guest, until he walked out of his bedroom to find Charlie still asleep, sprawled out in a position that didn't look particularly comfortable at all. He decided to leave him alone; he'd looked like he could use the rest, anyway. He took the opportunity to shower, get dressed and prepare something quick and simple to eat (while also taking care to leave something for Charlie, in case he wanted any).
He was startled when the phone rang—he'd been expecting a call, but not for a while, at least. He wondered briefly if something had come up, until he picked up the phone.
"Is this Desmond?" said the audibly concerned voice of Liam Pace, on the other end.
"Aye."
"Is my brother with you?"
"Aye. Do you want to speak with him?"
"No, I'm just making sure he's safe," Liam replied, the relief evident in his voice.
"About as safe as he ever is," mused Desmond, knowing that anyone who knew Charlie would understand. "He's asleep right now," he added.
"Good. Thank you."
Ponderously, Desmond switched gears, saying, "Can I ask you a question, brother?"
"Yeah?"
"If you're so concerned about his well-being, why'd you kick him out?"
There was an inhale from the other end as Liam considered this. "You know about his—drug habit, yeah?"
There was another pause. "Aye, I believe I do," Desmond answered hesitantly.
Another brief silence, before Liam said, "He didn't really quit, you know."
"Ah."
"I found his stash," he went on. "Told him to get rid of it, but he refused. I can't have it around—I swore I'd never touch the stuff again. So I told him to leave."
"Right." Desmond furrowed his brow, glancing through the doorway into the room where Charlie was still lying on the couch, shifting positions slightly.
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"Yeah?"
"I need you to promise me you'll keep him safe," Liam said hesitantly. "Take care of him. At least until he can come back home. He's my baby brother."
After a moment's thought, Desmond said warmly, "I'll do what I can."
"Thank you," Liam replied.
A few minutes later, Desmond walked out into the living room, to see Charlie now sitting upright on the sofa, fidgeting with a black marker he must've found in a drawer somewhere. He'd used it to fill in the spaces where his dark nail polish had chipped, and now he was scribbling absentmindedly on the cuffs of his jeans.
He looked up. "Was that my brother on the phone?"
"Aye."
Charlie clicked his tongue. "What'd he want?"
"He asked me to take care of you," Desmond answered, walking back into the other room.
Charlie huffed in agitation. "Of course he did. I can take care of myself; I'm not a bloody child."
"I don't doubt it."
"Did he say anything else?"
Desmond glanced back through the doorway for a moment. "No," he lied, turning away again.
"Any special reason why he's talking to you and not me?"
"None that I'm aware of."
Unsatisfied with this, Charlie folded his arms, pressing his back into the sofa cushion behind him. "He's probably already planning the party he's going to throw now that I'm gone."
"Well, if that's the case, neither of us were invited," Desmond replied pleasantly, once again returning to the room. "Have you eaten?"
"Yeah, yeah..." He glared up at him. "Don't go around treating me like I'm your baby brother now. I can take care of myself," he repeated.
"I was only making sure," Desmond said, unphased by Charlie's look.
Charlie looked him up and down, regarding him with suspicion. "What're you all dressed up for, anyway?" he asked. "You have a date, or something?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"That'd be why you're in such high spirits, then." Then he grinned. "Let me guess. It's that pretty blonde, isn't it? What was her name?"
"Penny."
"Penny, right. Lucky you, eh?"
Despite himself, he couldn't help but smile at this. "Aye, I am, aren't I?"
As if on cue, the phone rang again, and Desmond practically bolted for it; he picked it up before it even finished.
"Wow," said Penelope's voice on the other end, "that was fast."
Merely the sound of her voice was enough to make him start grinning like an idiot; from the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie give him a look, which he pointedly ignored, leaning a shoulder against the nearest wall as if he were trying to perform nonchalance for a woman who could not, in fact, currently see him.
"Hello, Penny," he said.
"Hello, Desmond," she replied cheerfully. "Still on at six o'clock, then? I hope you're planning on being as punctual getting there as you were answering the phone," she added playfully.
"Aye, I'll try my best," he responded lightly.
"Oh, you'll be fine. It's not like it's an audition. We've done this before."
He said, "Right." And: "I'm not worried."
"Good. Now—" There was a sound of rustling fabric. "Should I wear my red dress, or my blue dress?"
"Whichever you prefer," he answered honestly, because the mental image of her in either was nearly enough to knock him unconscious.
"Blue, then," she decided. "I'll see you at six."
"I'll be looking forward to it."
After the call, Desmond stood there for a few more seconds, smiling at nothing like a cartoon character who'd just been hit on the head, until Charlie brought him back to his senses.
"That girl must really be something, to have you acting all concussed."
Lost in his thoughts of Penny, he'd nearly forgotten Charlie was even there; he turned to him and blinked. "She is," he said simply, and walked past.
He went into the bathroom to study his reflection in the mirror. From the other room, he heard Charlie call, "When did you meet her, anyway? I don't think you ever told me."
He pondered this as he reached for the razor. "Not long after I quit that job at the lab at Oxford."
"Really? Then why did I only start hearing about her a few months ago?"
"It's—" He paused. "Complicated," he dismissed.
"Ah, I see," Charlie said, in his I'm-about-to-say-something-mischievous voice. "Keeping your passionate love affair a secret, were you? How cinematic of you!"
"Hardly a secret, " Desmond mused.
"You've known her longer than you've known me, and I've hardly heard a word about her. Sounds pretty star-crossed to me."
"Oh, yes, we're quite the Shakespearean tragedy. Ow," he added under his breath as he accidentally made a small cut just under his chin with the razor. "Damn," he huffed.
Charlie must've started peering around Desmond's flat, because he could hear him shuffling around from the other room. He said, "Come on, Des, you can tell me. She's married, isn't she? Is that it?"
All cleaned up now, Desmond stepped into the doorway and said, unperturbed, "Whatever you've just stolen, put it back."
"They'll be calling you Humewrecker, " Charlie said, ignoring his request.
Desmond sighed, then laughed, putting a hand over his eyes in exasperation. Charlie grinned, knowing he'd won.
"No, Charlie, she isn't married. I do have some semblance of decency."
"Since when?"
Desmond huffed in mock-offense. "I'll ignore that remark," he said, and: "You'll be alright on your own here when I head out, yeah?"
Charlie, who was now sitting on the kitchen counter (a habit of his Desmond had gotten used to a long time ago), looked at Desmond with mild irritation. "I am a grown man, you know."
"Well, I just want to be sure. And I don't want you breaking anything in here, either," he added. Or doing heroin, he thought to himself, but I suppose not much can be done about that now.
This only annoyed him further. "If anything," he said, a tad pettishly, "it'll be a relief when you're out of here."
"Don't forget whose flat you're in, brother," Desmond responded with a mock-warning tone.
"Yeah, yeah," Charlie said, because he didn't really have an argument for that; this was the sort of half-hearted debate they had every time Charlie had to stay over, and nothing had changed in the years they'd known each other. Then he switched gears, saying, "Well, if you need me gone for any reason—if you're planning on bringing your girl home tonight—" He appended this with a wink. "—I can always go bother your neighbors."
The thought of this mildly horrified Desmond, not only because he knew he'd really do it, but because he had done it before. "If you really feel you must," he said defeatedly.
"You said six, right? Best get a move on, then."
He looked at him with suspicion. "Trying to get rid of me, are you?"
"Wouldn't want you to be late, is all."
This was extremely conspicuous behavior from Charlie, and it unnerved Desmond somewhat, but he didn't say anything about it—he was right, after all; it was about time he left.
Glancing at his watch, he admitted, "I suppose I should go." He looked back at Charlie and added, "Try not to burn the building down while I'm out, yeah?"
"Just your flat, then."
"I'd expect nothing less of you."
Shortly after, he left the building, leaving Charlie alone to do whatever it was he was so anxious to do. (He dreaded to think.) The moment he started the engine of his car, his thoughts immediately turned to Penny—a place they were quite at home at. It had been a pleasant day out—well, about as pleasant as it ever was—and he had hope that his plans for the evening would run smoothly. It had gone well the last time, at least; everyone advised against rekindling old flames, and though he'd been apprehensive, it seemed that they actually had the potential to work out. This time, anyway. Having said that, he feared he'd spoken too soon, too, and that he'd somehow wind up fucking it up again. It was inevitable. Unless it wasn't.
He'd give it a try. He'd always give it a try. He'd give it a thousand tries if he thought she'd let him. When he thought of her, he thought of a thousand things he wanted to do with her, a thousand things he'd say to her if only he had the guts. He thought of how badly he wanted her, and what an angel she was for giving him a second chance he knew he didn't deserve. That was why he had to make it count; he couldn't waste any more of her time, couldn't hurt her anymore. It would be fine. It would go fine.
He repeated this in his head a few more times— it'll go fine, it'll go fine— as he turned a corner, because absolutely nothing could be worse for him right now than panicking.
...Or so he'd thought.
About thirty or so minutes into the drive, he glanced out the window to the left of him, and then, processing and not believing what he'd seen, looked again. Then, forced to accept that he was not hallucinating, swore under his breath and rolled the window down.
"Charlie!" he shouted through the window.
Charlie, who had been running down the street as if his life depended on it, paused, startled at the sound of his voice.
Desmond continued, "Get in the car!"
"What?!"
" Get in! "
Charlie looked around and swore, but he obliged. The moment he shut the door, he commanded, "Drive!"
Desmond did as he was told, but not without saying, "What the hell are you doing? "
Charlie's attention was divided between the windows, paranoid glances going every which way. He had a black eye, and his nose was bleeding; in general, he was a wreck. It had always impressed Desmond how quickly this could happen to him.
Instead of answering the question, Charlie said, "Why are you turning around? "
"I'm taking you back to my flat."
"No, you're not! What are you doing?!"
"What am I doing?! Who were you running from? What's going on?"
"I don't know! Someone just attacked me, I have no idea what's going on!"
"Then why don't you want to go back?!"
"They might be following us! Look, just please, please—"
"Alright! Alright." After a minute or two of driving in a panicked silence, Desmond said, "What the hell did you do, anyway? How did you get all the way out here?"
"I was looking for something."
"Looking for what? "
Charlie clenched his teeth. "I can't explain it right now—"
"You'd best figure out how to!"
"What do you care?!"
"You're running through the streets covered in your own blood, and you're asking me what I care? "
"I thought you had a date. Why did you pick me up? Did you get stood up, or what?"
"No." He checked his watch and added wretchedly, "I've just stood her up."
Charlie sniffed, unimpressed. "Why'd you do that, man?"
"You know damn well why. I have to call her," he said, and he unwisely removed his cell phone—the existence of which he had always mildly resented, but had to admit was a necessity—from his pocket, and dialed Penny's number with one hand, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth between it and the road (which briefly added another fear to his growing list: I'm going to crash and die! ).
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
"She's not answering," he said, and: "Fuck. She's not answering."
"Maybe she doesn't like being bailed on," Charlie, ever the genius, remarked.
"Come on, come on, come on, Pen," he pleaded, only to be met with more ringing, and then her voice-mail; he gave up. This was it; it was over; he'd fucked it up for good this time. "Shit. Fuck!"
"You know, you could have avoided this. Very easily, in fact."
Losing himself in his frustration, he snapped, "You realize this is your bloody fault, right?"
The hurt look Charlie gave him made him regret his words instantly; Charlie said, "How is this my fault? You could have left me alone. You should've just left me alone, man."
"You know I couldn't do that."
"Why not?! Do you owe my brother a favor, or something?"
"No, I just can't allow you to keep doing this!"
"Doing what? "
Now it was Desmond's turn to clench his jaw, so hard it hurt. He said in measured tones, "Why did you tell me you quit?"
There was a pause. "Quit what?"
"Heroin, Charlie."
Charlie looked aghast. "I did. "
"That's not what Liam told me."
Another silence, as this washed over Charlie. "So he told you, then." When Desmond nodded solemnly at this, Charlie went on: "So, what, then? You're going to kick me out, too? Is that it?"
"No."
He was practically outraged at this. "Why not?!"
"Why do you want me to? "
"Maybe I think that you should. Maybe I'd rather you just stop trying to take care of me!"
" Somebody has to , since you seem so hell bent on destroying yourself!"
"I'm not destroying myself! I'd be perfectly fine without you, or Liam! You're the ones with the problem!"
"We're just trying to help you, brother!"
"I don't want your help, brother, " Charlie sneered in retort, adding inflection to the last word in mockery of Desmond's accent. "Just stop pretending to care about me, when I know you both hate me!"
This stunned him. "I don't hate you, Charlie, I've never hated you!"
"Stop the car."
"What?"
"Stop the car!"
Bewildered, Desmond obliged. He'd gone all the way to the harbor, and almost the moment he pulled over, Charlie climbed out. Desmond followed him. It was the first time he'd noticed that it'd started raining, and it was coming down in sheets.
"Charlie, what are you doing?"
"Fuck off," was Charlie's response. Helplessly, Desmond watched him pull a ring off his finger—the one that Liam had given him for Christmas before Desmond had even met him—and throw it forcefully into the harbor.
Desmond ran forward toward him. "What are you doing?" he repeated.
Charlie glared at him, wiping the blood from his nose, diluted by the rainwater falling down on him. "I'm sick to death of you," he said. "Of both of you! I'm sick to death of people who keep trying to save me, and taking it out on me when they fail, as if it were my fault! It's your own bloody fault, Desmond! You failed!"
Tears were welling in Desmond's eyes, lost in the rain; in horrified incomprehension, he shouted back, "I'm not the one who's trying to kill you, Charlie! That's you! That's always been you!"
"I hate you!"
"I don't care!"
At this, Charlie took off running, like a child, shoes splashing against the ground. It was at this point that it occurred to Desmond that it was possible Charlie was not sober at the moment, but this didn't do anything to make him any less nauseous. He took off after him, and although he could usually run much faster, rage seemed to propel Charlie at a speed that rivaled his, and he feared he'd lose sight of him.
All at once, Charlie stopped, and it took a few seconds for Desmond to register why—there was somebody there, somebody that had Charlie backing away in genuine fright. Desmond stopped a little ways behind him, remaining tense, prepared for...whatever.
The man standing in front of Charlie was tall—and this observation came from Desmond, who was tall himself—and wore a mask, clearly with intent to conceal his identity. With him, he had two others standing behind him, also masked, silent and threatening. The effect was generally terribly imposing, and it worked very well on Charlie; Desmond quickly came to the conclusion that this was who Charlie had been running from.
"Look who's back!" said the man in maliciously jovial tones; he had a distinctly American accent, which struck Desmond as odd. "Who's your friend?"
Charlie gave Desmond a quick, terrified glance, and said in harsh tones, "He's not my friend. Leave him alone."
"Is that true?" said the tall man, addressing Desmond.
Desmond said, "Who are you?"
The tall man ignored the question, turning his attention back to Charlie. "I'm getting impatient," he warned in a sing-song tone.
"I already told you, I don't have what you're looking for, man."
"See, I'd love to believe you, but, well...I was told not to take no for an answer!" He stepped forward; Charlie stepped back.
"What do you want?" Desmond growled.
All the tall man offered him was a glance. "Oh, he sounds mad. Are you sure he's not your friend?"
"Leave him out of this. Desmond, go away," Charlie added, a mild quiver of undisguised desperation entering his voice.
"Yeah, Desmond, go away," repeated the tall man.
Desmond stepped forward threateningly. "What do you want with him?"
"Tell you what," said the tall man pleasantly, "if you can calm down, I'll cut you a deal—you run away and tell nobody about what you saw, and I won't kill you. Sound good?"
"Just go," said Charlie urgently, but Desmond simply wasn't having it.
He moved forward again, now standing in front of Charlie, and said darkly, "I'm not going anywhere without him, brother."
The tall man sighed, as if this bored him to death, and said to the men standing beside him, "Do something about him."
This instantly set off an alarm in Desmond's head, which meant he was already prepared to fight back before they seized him. As they made to grab his arms, he elbowed one in the ribs as hard as possible, and swung on the other, connecting with their jaw with the dull sound of flesh colliding with flesh. The second staggered back, but the first steadied themself quickly, and grabbed both his wrists in a vise-grip. He thrashed his entire body weight against this, but he could not break free, and he was dragged backwards. As he struggled, he watched as the tall man instructed his other lackey to knock Charlie unconscious, which they did with ease, before Charlie even had time to react. This reignited Desmond's fury all at once, and he slammed his captor backward into the railing by the water, making them lose their grip on him long enough so that he could ram the base of his palm into their nose and push them into the water. Then he immediately spun around and charged at the tall man.
The tall man pulled a gun on him. "Not so fast," he chided, seemingly quite entertained by the way this forced Desmond to pause his strike.
Having already grabbed the tall man by the jacket collar, he did not back away, but merely froze. "Let him go before I rip your bloody head off, brother!" he screamed in the man's hidden face. This did not have the desired effect.
"What's with the brother thing?" he asked, clearly amused. "What, are you a monk or something?" When Desmond had no response for this, he said, "No, you're too angry. Alright, we'll play it your way." He nodded toward the other man, who was holding Charlie's unconscious form like a rag-doll, and said, "Go ahead and let him go."
The other man let him go—by dropping him directly into the water.
Immediately, Desmond tried to run toward the railing, but the tall man grabbed him by the arm. His grip was surprisingly strong, despite how Desmond tried to pull free; the man pressed the barrel of the gun into Desmond's face.
"Now, hold on a second," said the tall man. "You didn't think you were getting out of this that easy, did you?"
"Let go of me," he growled. "I'll give you whatever you want, if you just let go of me."
"I don't think you can do that for me, unless you know where he's keeping what he stole."
"What?"
"And this is why we don't need you!" the man said with a laugh. He pulled Desmond over to the railing and, gun still firmly pointed at him, grabbed him by the hair and forced him to stare down into the water. "You see that floating shape down there? That's your friend Charlie. He's the idiot who thought it'd be a great idea to steal from a powerful billionaire; I'm the guy you hire to get rid of idiots. Wanna see my business card?"
Desmond only snarled at this; "Let me go," he demanded again, which made the man laugh more.
"You're really not in any position to be making demands of me," he said. "But," he continued, "I don't think it matters. Your friend's probably long gone by now, and I'm feeling nice. So I'll let you go with a warning."
The moment he pulled the gun away, however, Desmond couldn't help himself—he slammed his fist into the tall man's arm as hard as he could, sending the gun flying out of his grasp; with his other hand, he punched him in the stomach, catching him off guard and leaving him doubled-over and coughing. When the other man rushed forward, he hit them again before he could act—in the same spot he'd hit them before. Then he climbed over the railing and dived right into the water.
He found Charlie with relative ease and, with him in tow, swam as quickly as he could for solid ground, pulling him onto the shore. Without giving himself even a moment of recovery, he attempted every means of resuscitation he was physically capable of, until he was weak and out of breath. Charlie was unresponsive.
Charlie was not breathing, nor did he have a pulse, which Desmond had checked for at least six times by now. There was absolutely no indication that he was even alive at all.
That was the thought that did it.
All of the fury and panic within him seemed suddenly to be drained out of his body like blood from a gunshot wound; only an absolute sense of guilt and despair remained in its wake. He realized that this entire time, he'd been muttering to himself, pained little whispers of " No, no, no, " as if Charlie would hear him and say you're right, my mistake. (It wasn’t, anyway. It was Desmond's mistake.)
This seemed to go on for a lifetime, and for how unreal it felt, it was like he was watching himself staring at Charlie's lifeless face, willing it not to be so, muttering and swearing and pleading, and completely powerless to do so much as stand up and walk away.
He fell silent; silence overpowered him; he promptly collapsed under an unspeakable weight, and he heard a sound.
1:08AM—
Desmond awoke to the sound of a knock at the door, which he found rather shocking, because he could not for the life of him remember having gone to sleep in the first place.
He stood up, too dazed to bother with the lights, reaching blindly for the most convenient shirt. Lightheaded, he stumbled out into the hall, and opened the door.
It took him several seconds to register that he was looking at Charlie Pace.
Charlie hardly looked at him as he walked past him, into the living room. He said, "Liam kicked me out," sitting down on the sofa, and: "Again." Then he noticed the way Desmond was looking at him, and added, "What?"
Desmond thought about it for a moment, and said, "Nothing." Then: "I've just had the strangest dream."