Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.
Emily Dickinson
He twists his fingers around the tap, fiddling with it until the water reaches a reasonably lukewarm degree, letting it fill up the tub halfway.
"Hey, Charlie Charlie, hey," he whispers. "How do you like your bath?"
The baby coos.
"Sweetheart, you're going to spoil him." Penny, he knows, is trying to sound severe, but it's impossible for them both to get too angry with each other when their sweet reality of love and forever and family is still fresh and new, and the corner of her lip quirks up in spite of herself even as her hands rest disapprovingly on her hips.
"How's that?" He looks up from his fifth peanut butter building of the evening and smiles innocently. "I think that Charlie here is going to be a brilliant architect. Just look at the oh-so-artful placement of these crackers. Genius, I tell you." Charlie licks his fingers, messily.
"And do brilliant architects usually eat their parents out of house and home and use peanut butter, of all things, peanut butter for construction material?" She is smiling outright now.
"Naturally."
"No wonder it's such an unpopular profession." She crouches down to his eye level, tweaks his nose.
And he laughs, as Charlie surreptitiously pulls a cracker from his foundation, effectively, though unintentionally, toppling the little house. He looks to his father, wide-eyed, half-scared and half-thrilled, waiting for approval.
"Well done, son." He pats his downy curls reassuringly, and his goo-covered fingers, they stick in Charlie's dark blond hair.
They do their best to stay in the shipping lanes (wouldn't want to be sucked into the bloody Bermuda triangle again; that would just be pathetic), and to avoid storms. Penny misses civilization, and so sometimes, when the figurative coast is clear, they meander along the shore, and occasionally they even get radio reception.
Driveshaft is on all the damn time, even two, three years after the fact, as if their music is suddenly bettered, sanctified. (When the lead singer howls you allllll everybody it sounds eerie, like spirits.)
Charlie giggles appreciatively at the funny noise, but Penny hurries to the dial and twists it to something safe, like the news, or an Oldies' station (the Beach Boys or some such classic), and kisses Desmond's forehead softly, sympathetically.
He doesn't deserve her. Them.
That night he can't sleep; the sheets are too itchy and the waves are too loud and the baby is whimpering softly in his crib (bolted to the wall, in case of violent winds).
Desmond staggers to his feet, gently removing Penny's arm from its grasp 'round his waist, sticks a pacifier in Charlie's mouth, and stumbles to the cabinet in search of a nightcap. Just this once, you know.
He uncorks a dust-covered bottle of McCutcheon (Penny must've put it there, there's no other reasonable explanation, but why?), and the boat rocks tipsily, and he drinks, to success.
The next morning he wakes up in a cold sweat (he remembers).
He feels silly, like a poser, in his dark sunglasses in the middle of the morning. Like a groupie, or something. He figures he'll blend in perfectly in L.A.
Charlie is silent as he watches him prepare to leave, to go save the world or whatever the hell it is he's doing, and takes his thumb out of his mouth just as Desmond makes it to the trapdoor.
"Bye, Daddy." And he actually waves, the way kids do, hand paddling awkwardly through the air like a little bird's wing.
Desmond pauses, turns, fingers folding close around Our Mutual Friend in his pocket. Deja vu isn't quite the phrase, but it's close.
"Goodbye, Charlie. Be good for your mum, yeah?"
Charlie nods, dutifully, and goes off and Desmond hoists himself up onto the deck, the door locking into place with a crisp click under him, and it's a silly fancy but for a moment the salt air tastes of gunpowder.