Same disclaimer. Lyrics from DR's "Grey Room."

Have I still got you to be my open door?

Have I still got you to be my sandy shore?

Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm?

Have I still got you to keep me warm?

Desmond fell asleep some time around dawn. When he woke up, the sun was shining brightly through the windows. He winced, wondered where he was for a moment, then remembered in a rush of sweet anxiety. He rolled over, expecting Claire to be gone. Instead, she was lying next to him, propped up on two pillows, her eyes closed. There was an addition to the scene—Aaron, asleep and cuddled up on her chest.

Desmond smiled at the picture before him. It looked like the kind of dream image found only in baby food advertisements or medieval madonna and child paintings. He cautiously let his mind expand the image a little to include him, as he was, at the edge of it. Man, woman, child. It would have seemed so perfect, if it were really that simple.

He got up, trying to rise slowly so that he wouldn't shake the bed and disturb the sleeping pair, but Claire apparently had the mother instinct of instant wakefulness. Her bright eyes popped open, bleary for a moment, then clear as she recognized him.

"Good morning," he said, grinning a little sheepishly at his failure of stelath.

"Good morning. I didn't mean to go back to sleep…" She sat up, cupping the back of Aaron's head protectively.

Desmond was looking at his shirt and pants, lying crumpled on the floor. He didn't really feel like putting on his formal outfit from the party, but he didn't have any other clothes. He wasn't going to exactly ask to borrow Charlie's sweatpants.

He settled for pulling on his slacks, but leaving his belt and shirt folded by the bed. He looked over at Claire and saw that she was watching him, her lips curled up mysteriously.

What?"

"C'mere." She reached one hand out to him, and he stepped over to take it. To his surprise, she pulled him toward her and gave him a small kiss on the lips. "Just wanted to say good morning."

The smile seemed permanently embedded on his face. "I thought we already said it."

"Not properly." She stood up, slowly, cradling Aaron to keep him from waking. "Do you want breakfast?"

"Sure. I can make it, if you'd like."

"We can make it together." She took his hand again and led him down the kitchen, treading with the slow rhythm of a bride.

Desmond let himself sink into this facsimile of domestic bliss. Aaron woke up during the trip down the stairs, and he cooed happily from his high chair as Claire mixed scrambled eggs with a whisk, a dishtowel tied around her slim waist. Desmond fried the bacon and sliced fruit. He slid up behind her while the bacon crackled and put his hands over the edge of the towel, feeling how perfectly she fit in the curve of his fingers. She tilted her head back to lean it on his shoulder, and just when everything felt perfect, the phone rang.

Claire slid out of his grasp slowly and picked up the receiver. The moment she did, he saw her deflate, the glow leave her face, and he knew who it was on the line.

Her side of the conversation consisted mostly of admiring exclamations—"Oh, really? Ah! Good. Right, then." She finished with, "I'll see you tonight." Tonight?

As she set the phone down, Desmond bit his tongue to keep himself from interrogating her.

"That was Charlie," she said unnecessarily. "He's got a sore throat, so he's cutting the tour short. He's flying out in a few hours and he's going to be home tonight at eight." Her voice was quiet and clipped, and her eyes wouldn't meet his.

"Well, then," Desmond said uselessly. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No. Not at all."

"Do you want me to stay until he gets here?" He didn't know what to ask.

"I want… I don't know." The eggs were burning, so he took the spatula out of her limp hand and rescued them.

"I'll do whatever you want."

"Stop being so nice to me, Desmond. I'm feeling awful right now." She looked anxious for a moment, then chuckled. "I guess that was kind of a stupid thing to say." She smoothed her hands over her face and looked a bit more like herself.

"No. Not really."

"I guess I know what I want."

"Yeah?"

"I want a day with you. I want to spend all day with you and pretend that nothing's wrong and that we're always together like this. I don't want to worry about what will happen when he gets here. I just want to be happy." She took a deep breath. "That's what I want, but I don't want to ask you for that. I know it's silly."

"It's not silly. It's perfect." He felt the lie as soon as he spoke it. "It's perfect, but… we can't go on like this, you know. We can't pretend that there's no future or past."

"I know. This is the last time I'll ever ask." She was wringing her hands, her beacon eyes downcast, leaving him in the dark.

"OK. So let's have our day, then." He began doling out the breakfast, giving her a hearty kiss on the forehead along with her plate.

The day passed all too quickly. They lay on the couch in a tangle of limbs, Aaron nestled between them like a cozy hot water bottle. They lay on the couch while Aaron took his nap, kissing fervently until baby cries over the monitor interrupted them once again. They went out to lunch, then went grocery shopping at the whole foods market, the air heavy with spices and the smell of uncooked wheat. While Aaron took his afternoon nap, they ate orange slices and listened to the White Album, Desmond expostulating on the pros and cons of each song while Claire teased him for being old, laughing with the real, chortling laugh that he so rarely heard. She sat primly in the lotus position, trying to meditate while he tickled her ribs until she couldn't help but smile, then kissed her neck until she couldn't help but moan.

They made dinner together, both of them moving slowly, knowing that the day was about to end. They ate with the slow, deliberate air of prisoners with their last meal, or troubled families in old movies. When seven o'clock rolled around, Desmond hesitantly rose.

"I guess I should be going. What if he comes home early?" Charlie no longer needed a proper name; a masculine pronoun would do the trick.

"Flights are never early. Please don't leave yet." She jumped up from the table and cast herself into his arms, like a child jumping into his mother's arms, like a shipwrecked woman clinging to wreckage.

He smoothed her hair and stayed for another fifty minutes, washing dishes and stealing kisses while he could. He left at last with a long kiss goodbye for Claire, and a little kiss left on Aaron's chubby cheek. He walked to the car slowly. He was holding his belt and shirt, and a plate of leftovers, but somehow his arms felt empty.

He kept thinking of her words—"This is the last time I'll ever ask."

After this, everything would change. It would change, or it would end, and he didn't know what he feared more.