Desmond was going crazy.
And for a man who had spent the last few years typing numbers and pressing a button to save the world, that was saying something.
But he could feel himself unraveling. First it was the lightning strike, which, for a while there, he had assumed was just a dream. He tried to convince himself of that, but the feeling that Charlie was in trouble wouldn't go away so he built the lightning rod. And saved Charlie's life. When the vision of the Claire drowning came, he knew it was more than a dream. Or a feeling. It was premonition. And he knew that if he didn't dive in to save the young mother, Charlie would die. So he sprinted to the water and prayed like hell he would reach her in time.
Desmond wasn't sure how long he would be able to keep this up, but he was determined to keep Charlie safe for as along as he possibly could. So when he saw Charlie and another survivor in the jungle, he knew something bad was going to happen. They walked through the thick underbrush, chatting. The girl that was with Charlie wasn't Claire, oddly enough. She had coppery red hair and a tight hold on the German Shepard at her side.
Something rustled in the leaves and the two stopped, their laughter dying quickly. There was a growl, and the dog barked a warning. A mass of white fur burst through the trees. The dog went hysterical. The girl screamed. Charlie moved to save her and the paw of a large, sickly looking polar bear blunted the back of his head. Charlie fell to the ground, the back of his skull shredded to pieces. Blood watered the jungle floor. The bear opened his mouth, lips curling over sharp, yellow teeth, and the roar rattled Desmond's rib cage.
Desmond blinked as he came back to the present. He looked over his shoulder to where Hurley was sorting the food they had collected from the hatch. Desmond scrambled to his feet, unsure of how much time he had before Charlie faced off with the polar bear. He didn't pause to muse over the fact that a polar bear was on the island. In fact, after all this time, after all that had happened, he didn't even question it. He just stalked up the beach determinedly.
"Where's Charlie?" he said.
Hurley looked at him, raised an eyebrow. "Hello to you too," he said.
"Come on, brother," Desmond urged. "It's important."
"Dude, I don't know," Hurley said, slightly annoyed.
Desmond pursed his lips. "The girl with the dog, then," he tried, "Where is she?"
Hurley looked at him, frowning slightly. "Shannon? She's dead..."
Desmond swallowed. He just saw her in a vision, getting mauled by a bear. She couldn't be dead. Not yet at least. Hurley was watching him carefully, a pained expression on his face. Desmond raked his fingers through his hair, glancing around.
"The red head?" he asked. He had to be sure. "With the German Shepard?"
Hurley looked confused. He shook his head, "I don't know who that is man. Sorry."
Desmond let out a frustrated grunt, then went to his lean to. "Have you seen Charlie?" he asked whenever another survivor passed, but no one seemed to know where Charlie was or who the girl with the dog was. Desmond rifled through his things, which wasn't much; a few borrowed clothes and a toothbrush, until he found his Makarov. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants, and started down the beach.
"Have you seen a girl with a dog come through here?" Desmond asked the man he had borrowed the golf club from. "She's got orangey hair. She's with Charlie?"
The Brazilian shook his head, then continued down towards the water with his girlfriend.
"You're looking for Grace."
Desmond looked over at the woman who spoke. She was black, with a firm mouth but kind eyes. She hung up wet laundry on the makeshift line.
"Grace?" he asked, stepping closer.
"Mh hm," she hummed. "She said something about going with Charlie to collect firewood."
"Do you know where she is?" Desmond asked desperately.
She shrugged. "If she went to find Charlie, she probably went to Claire's tent. That's where he always is, isn't he? Anyway, that was a while ago. They may have already left."
"Great, thank you dearie," Desmond said hastily. He sprinted towards Claire's tent, bumbling over the thick sand. Of course that's where Charlie would be. The boy couldn't stand to be more than a few feet from her and her baby. And if someone where to look for him, that would be the first place to start.
He saw them at the treeline, next to Claire's tent. The red head with the dog and Charlie. He jogged to them, only realizing when he was right beside them, out of breath, that he had no idea how he was going to talk his way into, or out of, this one.
"Des?" Charlie asked.
"Where are you going?" Desmond panted. Evidently, riding a stationary bike was nothing compared to running over sand. His lungs hurt. He'd have to start jogging at night again.
"Firewood," Charlie said simply, "For tonight."
Desmond nodded, catching his breath. The girl didn't look at him. She stared at Charlie's shoulder, a bemused smirk on her face. The dog, close to her side on a short leather leash, panted in the humidity. Charlie was frowning at Desmond. He'd grown suspicious of him over the last few days, ever since the lightning rod incident. He could tell Desmond was meddling, he just didn't know what in.
"Right," Desmond said, "Well how about I go instead?"
Charlie's brows furrowed.
"I just mean...if I'm going to be here, with the rest of the survivors, I might as well start pulling my weight?" he rambled, scrambling for a suitable excuse, "I figure firewood is a good place to start? Help out around camp?"
"Okay..." Charlie said, "You can come with us."
Desmond pursed his lips, watching as Charlie and the girl started towards the jungle.
"Actually," he said, going after them, "We don't need three people, yeah? Grace and I can manage just fine."
The girl perked at the sound her he name, cocking her head in Desmond's direction.
Charlie frowned, glowering at Desmond. "What's this about then?" he asked.
Desmond shrugged his shoulders in what he hopped was an innocent gesture. He wasn't sure how to tell Charlie he was going to die, and even if he did know how to say it, now wasn't the time. He just needed Charlie to trust him for a little while longer.
"Nothing," he replied, "It just seems like a waste; three of us collecting firewood when someone could be here at camp, doing something else. Helping Hurley with the food, or doing laundry, helping Claire with the baby..." This seemed to warrant the response Desmond was looking for. Charlie seemed to soften at the idea of staying back with Claire. Desmond nodded, moving towards Grace. "Right, so then, you'll stay here and we'll go get the firewood," he said, taking Grace by the elbow and pulling her towards him. She flinched, suddenly going stiff.
She turned, and place her palm on Desmond's chest, her lips screwed into a nasty frown. She shoved him back, hard, and he released her elbow, stumbling over the brush.
"Don't!" she snapped, "Don't, touch me."
She turned, the dog at her heels, and disappeared into the dense the jungle. Desmond looked questioningly at Charlie, who was grinning at him with that lopsided smile of his.
"She doesn't like being manhandled," he said. "Have fun collecting wood. Cheerio." he waved, the started down the beach back towards Claire's tent.
Desmond watched him go, drawing a sharp breath through his nose. He felt for the grip of his handgun, ensuring it was still in his waistband before going after the girl. He had no idea if his Makarov would ward off a polar bear, but at least Charlie would be safe on the beach, far away from harm. He sighed. Saving lives. It was risky, exhausting business.
He found her a few yards into the jungle, her red hair a beacon between the ferns and green moss.
"Listen," Desmond called after her, but she didn't slow her uneasy pace. "I'm sorry alright? I didn't mean to." He caught up to her, which wasn't difficult. She barley reached his shoulder height. She was young, around Claire and Charlie's age, ten or so years his junior. The shirt she wore was a soft blue that looked almost like a child's tee shirt. And her shorts were too big, cinched at the waist with a brown belt. Her hiking boots seemed to be the only item of clothing that was actually hers.
"It's okay," she said, turning her head his direction. She pointed to her face. "I'm sorry I snapped. It's just...people seem to think it's okay to grab me because I can't see, and...I just hate it."
Desmond stopped and looked at her, really looked at her. Her eyes were the color of whiskey, soft and brown. They looked forward, his direction, but never met his face. She stared unseeingly at the buttons on his shirt. They continued walking.
"Huh," was all Desmond could think to say. That explained the well trailed dog at her side. Her seeing eye dog, he would guess. He thought blind eyes looked different; like the milky color he saw on TV. But her eyes looked normal, with the exception of the constant flickering a person who could see had. Her's were steady and still. She moved fairly easily, but Desmond noticed the way she leaned into her dog. When the dog moved left, she moved to meet him. A gentle tug from the leash, and she followed. The dog lead her around trees with ease, but the thick underbrush had her stumbling over fallen branches.
"I really am sorry," she said. "But people seem to think the only way to get my attention is to touch me, and you couldn't possibly know how annoying that can be. People constantly tugging on your shirt, or tapping on your shoulder, or pulling you arm...it's a constant invasion of personal space. It's the worst."
"Sorry, I didn't know," Desmond said.
She waved her hand carelessly, "Really, it's okay. Without the service dog jacket and the harness, people here on the island kind of forget. Most everyone knows to give me space. In fact, most everyone finds it easier to just ignore me. And I'm okay with that."
Desmond recalled how most of the survivors didn't know who she was. He felt a bit of pity for her, but that vanished quickly. She didn't seem to mind her solitude, so Desmond wouldn't waste energy on doing it for her.
"Everyone that is, but Sawyer. He seems to think it's funny to yank my hair when he passes, like I don't know who's doing it," she continued, without being prompted. She seemed to like to talk, which was fine for Desmond, because he liked to listen. "But whenever he passes, I get a whiff of sweat, narcissism and eucalyptus," she joked, a smile crossing her face. "That tends to give him away."
Desmond smiled too. He glanced around the jungle, looking for flashes of white fur, or rustling palm leaves. His fingers and forearms were tense, ready to grab his gun and fire, if needs be.
"What's the dogs name?" he asked, noticing that Grace had fallen silent. He realized her talking kept him at ease. He wasn't even sure if they would see the polar bear, now that Charlie was no longer in the equation, but it didn't feel right to let his guard down. Her voice kept him from being too trigger happy.
"Joly," she replied.
"Odd name for a dog."
"I was fourteen."
"Ah."
Desmond reached down and picked up a dry piece of wood. "Here," he said, handing it to Grace. She held out her arm and he tucked it into the crook of her elbow. If, by some miracle, they returned to camp unscathed, Desmond figured they would need the wood so Charlie wouldn't grow even more suspicious of his motives. "Does he fetch?"
"Not especially," the red head replied. "He's a guide dog, so work time is his play time. When he's off the leash, him and Walt's dog usually wrestle and run around. Other than that, he hasn't left my side in the 10 years I've had him." She reached out, her fingers brushing over Joly's ears. "You're the man they found in the hatch, right?" she asked. "The other survivors have been talking about you."
"Aye, I'm sure they have," Desmond said, "I blew up the one working toilet they had."
Grace laughed. Something snapped a few feet to Desmond's left. He almost reached out to grab Grace and stop her, but then he remembered her thing about touching people, so instead he said, "Stop." She did.
"What?"
"Shush," Desmond hushed, listening. His hand went to the grip of his gun, fingers tightening around the Makarov. Grace was tense next to him, carefully moving closer and straining her ears.
"What's wrong?"
Desmond listened, eyes flickering through the jungle. Everything was moving and making noise; the leaves, the trees, the birds, the wind, the howlers, even their own uneven breathing. He couldn't pin point where he heard the twig snap, but he had. He head heard something approaching them. He turned, looking the other direction. Nothing. He pursed his lips, slowly releasing the grip.
"Come on," he muttered. "Let's keep moving. This place gives me the creeps."
He continued on through the jungle, Grace following cautiously after him.
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
Desmond glanced over his shoulder at her. She wasn't looking at him, rather to his left and at his feet more so than his face. Joly seemed to be paying attention, ears perked towards him.
Desmond almost gave his usual reply of "It's fine, love," but stopped himself. The Island was messing with his head, and he was desperate to tell someone about it. Someone who could sympathize with what was happening to him. If he could get it out in the open, then perhaps he could find some answers for how to make it stop. He didn't know Grace at all. She talked a lot, that much was evident, so perhaps she'd run to the first survivor and tell them that Desmond had gone crazy and was seeing visions. Then again, she mentioned how she liked to be left alone, so perhaps his secret would be safe with her. Desmond decided he didn't care, he just needed someone to know what he was going through.
"You remember when the hatch blew up?" he asked.
"Yes," Grace said, almost sullen. "I remember the noise it made."
"Well, ever since then I've been...seeing things. Visions. I keep seeing flashes of Charlie dying..." Desmond glanced at her again, trying to gauge her reaction, but her sightless, expressionless eyes gave nothing away, so he continued. "I saw Charlie and you in the jungle and Charlie got mauled by a polar bear. I convinced him to stay on the beach so that wouldn't happen to him, only I'm not sure if we're still in danger..."
He looked at her again. She was smiling.
"It's not a joke," he snapped.
"I never said it was," she replied, but her tone was teasing. "I just find it ironic that you get double vision, and I get none." She brushed past him.
It was then Desmond realized that she thought he was making fun of her. Annoyance surged through him, because this wasn't about her. It was about him, and that fact that ever since he arrived on this bloody Island, he had been nothing short of miserable. He grabbed her upper arm and spun her around, catching her other arm with his other hand. He gave her a firm shake, cutting off her protests. She dropped Joly's leash.
"Listen to me!" he snapped, "I'm telling you it's real! I feel like this Island is tearing my sanity away and I can't do anything about it!" He realized he was yelling, and Grace looked frightened. He sighed, dropping his voice and loosening his grip on her slightly. "I'm sorry, but I can't keep wondering if I'm going insane. I thought, maybe talking about it..." His sentence trailed and he was left feeling completely idiotic. He shouldn't have lost his temper like that. He definitely shouldn't have said anything to Grace. He sighed again.
"Okay..." Grace breathed. "Okay. Sorry. I just—it just seems unfair. I didn't mean to laugh, but, you come to this Island and start having visions of the future. John comes to the Island and he can walk again. Charlie quits his drug addiction. Sun gets pregnant. So why can't I see? Why doesn't the Island grant me something? It doesn't seem fair and the irony of it just got to me..."
"It's alright," Desmond said. "I guess we're even now."
Grace gave a strangled laughed. Desmond grinned and chuckled too, both shocked with the absurdity of their whole situation; arguing about being lost on and Island with mystic powers. Goddamn it all.
Desmond heard another crack. He was certain of it this time because Grace heard it too and the laugh died on her lips. She sucked in a breath and Desmond drew his weapon, yanking the slide back and chambering a round. He aimed at the shadowy movement between the trees. It moved closer. A big, lumbering being that growled and bristled it's white fur. Desmond turned the weapon skyward and fired two warming shots. The animal flinched violently, but did not shy away.
"Des?" Grace asked, her voice hitched with fear and uncertainty. Her head snapped one direction, then the other, unsure of what was happening. He still had a hold on one of her arms, and he kept her close to him.
The bear seemed to melt between the trees as it approached them, baring it's long teeth and moving through the jungle like an appiration. It was close enough Desmond could smell the damp rot in it's fur, see the scars on the bridge of it's nose. His finger pressed against the trigger, but did not fire. He wasn't sure if a one shot could take down the bear, and he couldn't risk angering it further. He saw what the bear did to Charlie.
Joly lunged forward. The German Shepard snapped his teeth in a frenzy, guarding Desmond and Grace. The bear paused and Desmond saw its muscles coil, ready to spring. He yanked the trigger back just as the polar bear sprung forward and snatched Joly between his jaws. The dog howled as he was lifted into the air by his leg. Grace cried out, screaming. Desmond fired another shot but the bear sunk back between the trees as effortlessly and terrifying as it had before, Joly withering in it's jaw.
"Joly! Joly!" Grace was crying.
Desmond lowered his gun, panting, brown furrowed as he watched the bear disappear. The animal moaned and a circle of blood from one of his bullets turned its fur pink. He blinked, and the bear was gone; come for a meal, just like in his vision, but leaving with much less.
Grace was still screaming. "Joly! Where's Joly! What happened? Des? Desmond!"
He took a step back from her, releasing her arm. She sunk to her knees, feeling around for a leather leash that was no longer there.
"Grace..." Desmond said gently.
She screamed again.
"Your dog's gone. I'm sorry."
"No!" Grace screeched. "Why didn't you shoot it!"
"I tried!"
She hiccuped, then took a shaky breath. Desmond was silent while she cried. He glanced around. He hadn't put away his Makarov, not yet. He wasn't sure if the polar bear was going to come back. Her sobs turned to muffled sniffles and sharp hiccups. A sheen of sweat had formed on Desmonds' forehead and the nape of his neck. He wanted it to stop. Grace's crying, his visions, this Island. He wanted it all to stop.
"We have to go," he said softly. "We have to leave in case it comes back."
Her face was puffy from crying, but she nodded anyways. She got to her feet. Desmond pursed his lips, contemplating saying a few comforting words to her. She lost her best friend and protector, after all. Ten years, she'd said. For ten years that dog and been her eyes and her closest companion, and now he was gone. Desmond was never the articulate type though, so the words were lost and he remained quiet. He turned, and started leading the way back towards camp, telling him over and over again, at least Charlie's safe. As long as he repeated those words, then maybe he wouldn't feel so guilty.
He could hear Grace behind him, tripping over rocks and branches and palm leaves, but keeping a steady pace. Her arms were stretched out in front of her protectively, fluttering over tree trunks and vines. She sniffled some more, trying to swallow back her tears. She didn't take anymore, and the silence felt pressing.
They made it a few yards before Desmond heard Grace stumble to the ground. He heard her whimper, then turned to see her on the ground, brushing wet leaves off her hands and knees. She stood up again, her lips set determinedly.
"Are you alright?" he asked. She nodded. He turned to continue walking, but she called his name.
"Desmond?"
"Aye?" He looked at her again. Her arm was outstretched, fingers open and waiting. Desmond's eyes flickered her hand, then back to her face...back to her blank stare. She waiting for him. He carefully took her hand in his, locking his fingers between hers. "Come on then," he said and began walking. She moved after him, more confident in her steps as he lead her along. "We've got to hurry or we'll never make it back before dark."
She snorted.
"Imagine that, not being able to see where you're going."
And Desmond smiled.
Authors Note: Quick one shot because I miss Lost and thank God Desmond spends 80% of his scenes with his shirt unbuttoned at the top.