Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.

20 Jimmy & Darcy: Conscience & Carrot Cake

11:35 am GMT, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941

Jimmy landed in Darcy's bedroom closet in the Mauve Flat with a small bang and walked to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of Earl Grey tea.

Oddly enough, there was already a cup waiting for him.

Celeste stepped out of the kitchen's shadows. "We need to talk."

Jimmy backed away toward the chaise sofa uncertainly, looking over his shoulder for a large and heavy lamppost to defend himself with. Celeste, rolling her eyes, impatiently motioned him over to the kitchen with a butter knife she'd been holding. "I'm not the enemy here, Jimmy."

Recovering from the unwelcome surprise, Jimmy found his voice at last. "First, can you please put the knife down? I can't concentrate with you waving that thing in my face."

"Well," groused Celeste. "I was going to slice up a bit of the carrot cake to go with that tea, but if you'd really rather just faint from hunger—"

"Fine." Jimmy marched into the kitchen and sat down at the table, sipping the Earl Grey tea that Celeste had prepared for him. Hm, not bad, he thought to himself. The other part of him thought it entirely possible that Celeste was drugging him or poisoning him, but he was so emotionally wrung out that he could have cared less.

"Eat." Celeste sat across from him and shoved a small plate of daintily-sliced carrot cake in his general direction. She picked up ate a piece, dabbing the crumbs from her mouth with the sleeve of her collar; Jimmy took a couple of nibbles from his morsel.

After several minutes of tea-sipping and cake chewing, Celeste spoke her mind. "Jimmy, taking Matias away from the Sarcana was not part of the plan. Tampering with fate can be a very dangerous thing." Jimmy made as if to speak, but Celeste put her hand up; she wasn't finished. "You can't let your feelings get in the way of your Good Samaritan actions toward others."

"I couldn't let Matias be raised in that dungeon" Jimmy replied. He felt an indelible bond with this innocent creature; he found it eerily comforting that the baby's eyes so matched his own, and that the boy had similar-hued ringlets of hair as that of Darcy. If not for the theory of relativity, Jimmy would have sworn Matias was his. He secretly wished that he could have kept Matias for himself and raised him on his own. He knew, however, that besides going against Darcy's express wishes, a bomb-infested Europe was a terribly dangerous place to raise a young child. And with what money? Jimmy had been on hiatus until September, and whatever little he made as a stagehand was nowhere near enough to feed clothe, and educate another human. It was for the best, he told himself resignedly.

"I realize that." Celeste took a sip of her own cup of tea. "But back where I'm from, we operate like well-oiled machinery, taking the greater good into consideration. It's a utilitarian perspective, really. I recommend it. That having been said, new intelligence I've received informs me that you did do a great deal to stop the Sarcana in its tracks. The magical community thanks you heartily."

"I did it for Darcy," Jimmy muttered.

"I know you did, Jimmy," Celeste responded. "Going back to the whole 'tampering with fate' though—" she looked at him pointedly. His eyes were bloodshot from having wept for so many hours of the day, his hair was tangled, and he had just lost his fiancée and what could have been his son, in less than 24 hours. And this was only day one. "What do you plan to do now?"

"I—I dunno. Go back to the theatre next month and perform more, I guess. Visit Darcy's grave whenever this blasted war ends. See Matias. Get to know Dora, Della, and little Morgana, the red-haired girl."

Celeste shook her head. "See here, Jimmy, you were supposed to guard and act as companion for Darcy until her expected death. Which you did, admirably. However, you were not supposed to discover the Sarcana's local convent stronghold, nor meet Darcy's sisters on the islands. The fabric of time could be ripped irreparably, creating time loops of which you would not even begin to comprehend."

"Meaning, I saw too much?" Jimmy asked. Celeste nodded.

"Your duty to Darcy and Matias is complete," she declared. Jimmy would have fought back, if Darcy were still alive and he knew they had a future. But Darcy was gone, and so was Matias for a awhile, and he had lost so much in such short a time.

"Are you going to kill me, Celeste?" he figured it was no use beating around the bush.

Celeste chuckled wryly to herself. "Child, you have given me so much work in the way of damage control, but you are not dying today. In fact," she paused, as if a lightbulb moment appeared before her, "I might find some use for you yet."

With that, Celeste whispered a few words, that went something like this:

Make your feeling memories disappear; let your past reappear.

Walk on home and find a wife; forget two souls but gain a life.

As soon as Celeste had uttered those words, Jimmy vanished into thin air, transported back to his own flat some distance away in the same town. If all had gone right, her charm would have wiped Jimmy's memory completely clean of Darcy and Matias. And well, if it had not, it was certainly not her problem anymore. Celeste surveyed the Mauve Flat with hawk-like eyes; she needed to spruce up the place for the next incoming witch renter, who was due to appear in less than a fortnight. The place was an utter mess.

1 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Jimmy's Flat, August 1, 1941

Jimmy woke up with a start in his flat. He had had the most wonderful dream, but upon waking, simply was not able to remember it at all. He hated when that happened. Yawning, he stumbled out of bed and made for the kitchen to fix himself some porridge. For whatever reason, though he knew he happily dreamt, he woke up feeling depressed and empty, as though someone or something were desperately missing from his lonely, ordinary life.

While boiling the requisite oats, Jimmy accidentally dropped his stainless-steel spoon on the floor. Picking it up, he noticed a peculiar reflection from it, realizing it was his foot. Lifting a toe, he spotted a tiny scar that looked as though it had taken two weeks to heal, but for the life of him, he was unable to recall where or how he had gotten that injury. I probably stepped on a broken pint glass in a pub, he thought to himself. Clumsy oaf.

Oldham, Greater Manchester, September 1941-August 1957

During the next decade-and-a-half, life became increasingly straightforward and yet, in some ways, more unpleasant than before. Due to Celeste's memory wipe of Jimmy that might have gone too far, he forgot that he had a minor congenital heart condition and was successfully drafted into the army this time around. It was also possible that the charm could have taught his heart ligaments to realign, but that was assuming quite a lot on Celeste's cardiothoracic healing acumen. It was more likely the former since Jimmy's death occurred so much sooner (three decades earlier) than anyone would have predicted.

In September 1941, Jimmy's drinking buddy fixed him up on a blind date with his younger cousin Clara. Jimmy knew it was fruitless to dwell on past dreams, daydreams, and ideals of what his life could have been, so he reluctantly went ahead and married her. Their apathetic, unremarkable union produced one son, an altogether sweet-tempered boy named Carter. Though Jimmy tried as hard as he might, he knew that his heart was not fully invested in being the most attentive husband and doting father. He always felt as though he was searching bars, pubs, and other Manchester streets but could never remember why exactly. At several points in their marriage, Clara accused Jimmy of being a terrible husband that was never around in the evenings to spend time with their child; deep down, he knew that she was right.

To add insult to injury, Celeste's memory charm affected more than Jimmy's heart ligaments; the charm, living up to its language of removing "feeling," had left him devoid of any realistic capacity of deep love toward another human being. This left him an empty shell of a man, finding solace in the most inappropriate of avenues, during the oddest hours of the night.

Jimmy Westwell, in short, lived up to his family name as a ne'er-do-well who always forgot birthdays, anniversaries, and other special occasions. He died alone in 1957.