Now I See You Everywhere (2/5) - Desmond/Penny
Title: Now I See You Everywhere (2/5)
Characters: Desmond, Penny, Sayid, Daniel, Sun, Charlie, Widmore, Ben
Rating: PG13
Words: 3100
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Spoilers: S4 Finale.
Summary: Desmond’s idyllic post-island life is shattered when Penny disappears, forcing him to confront everything he left behind. Go here for the prelude and part I.
x x x
Somewhere over the Atlantic, Desmond falls asleep for the first time in almost forty hours. One minute he was staring out the window into the darkness, a blinking light from the tip of the plane’s wing illuminating and swallowing his sallow reflection; the next, his fluttering eyelids lost their battle and he had slipped into one of those half sleeps where you’re only under for a few minutes, but it's deep enough to construct a dream.
Suddenly Desmond’s no longer on the plane taking him to London. Instead he’s walking through a fog of humidity that promises rain. His shirt rests wet and heavy with sweat against his back and chest. With every step, mud tries to suck his shoes from his feet. A mosquito buzzes back and forth across his vision before crawling up his nose. He can’t swat it aside because his hands, stretched behind, tightly grasp the folds of parachute that cradle Naomi. In the rear, another pair of feet shuffles forward, slapping the mud. Desmond knows if he were to crane his neck, his eyes would fall upon Charlie holding the other end of their makeshift stretcher. A long, low sigh reaches his ears, whose tone needs no words to convey Charlie’s unravelling patience at Desmond in particular and the universe in general.
Despite all his senses telling him otherwise, Desmond knows it’s just a dream. It’s always just a dream now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel the past crawling on his skin. It’s his very level of awareness that proves what he’s seeing and feeling is not real. When he had carried Naomi out of the jungle over two years ago he had been too absorbed with the news of Penny’s search to register anything else. So consumed with renewed hope, he had even put out of his mind Charlie’s latest and looming appointments with death
“Can we stop for a bit?”
Desmond acknowledges Charlie’s request by lowering the stretcher. He busies himself checking Naomi’s wound while Charlie disappears into the bushes. When they resume their hike back to the camp, Charlie takes the lead and he walks backward, facing Desmond and forcing him to finally meet his eyes. Unlike Desmond, he appears neat and tidy, gone are his wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and where scrapes and bruises once lay, his face is bright and clean. It’s not the only thing wrong with the shape of this memory. Jin and Hurley are nowhere to be found and Naomi lies unnaturally still with her hands folded in her lap.
“Not that I don’t enjoy hauling ‘Your Not Penny’ around the island, but we have a van now, you know. If you had been more forthcoming about your mysterious someone being possibly incapacitated we could have made this a road trip,” Charlie says with a minor smirk. He keeps treading backwards without a glance behind to help navigate over the uneven terrain. “‘Course then you wouldn’t have got the chance to play William Tell.”
Even though the words come out automatically, Desmond winces at their how feeble they sound. “Charlie, I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
“Everything.” He means the beginning with the plane and today with the arrow and the end in the Looking Glass. He also means the scraps of ink smeared paper that lay forlornly in an envelope marked Claire, lying inside his new copy of Our Mutual Friend, one unreadable morbid item tucked into another, both which now sit in his carry on, next to Daniel’s journal.
“Not everything.” Charlie pauses to adjust his grip on the parachute. His hands twist tightly around the material. “You’re not going to tell me you’re sorry for the last two years, Des. Our little underwater adventure got you pretty much what you wanted,” he says, dropping all pretence that their conversation is just a poor recreation of a day so long ago. “But that’s all changed now, hasn’t it?”
Charlie’s head dips downward, and Desmond’s eyes follow. Although he cannot see her face, he recognizes the honey blond hair, that he so loves to trail his fingers through, spilling over the side of the parachute, confirming that the present has run smack into the past.
“Oh god, Penny.” He stops in his tracks, wanting to see her properly, but he can’t bear to lay her down on this wretched piece of land.
“Let’s put her down over there,” Charlie says as if reading Desmond’s mind and gesturing with his chin to the left where an all too familiar floral settee sits in the jungle, freed from its river journey, two continents and a lifetime away.
Desmond’s not sure that’s a better option, but he does so anyway. They release her gently, and he rushes to her side, perching on the edge of the couch, his hands hovering over her face, almost afraid she’ll disintegrate if he makes contact. Although she’s pale as the moon with tiny blue veins crisscrossing over her closed eyelids, he’s relieved to see her chest rise and fall. He allows his thumb to graze her check and is momentarily relieved to find the skin warm until a thought occurs to him. “Tell me she’s not here with you,” he swallows.
“She’s not with me,” Charlie responds with confidence, peering at Penny over Desmond’s shoulder. He looks so tenderly at Penny, for a moment Desmond wonders if they are seeing the same lost person.
Desmond’s head shakes back and forth. “This is not real.”
“Of course it’s not, Des, but that’s never stopped you before.”
He hears the warning in Charlie’s voice, but can’t quite reach his meaning. “Charlie, I don’t know how to find her,” he confesses, tearing his eyes away from Penny for a moment to look at his one time friend. “I’m not as smart or strong as she is. I don’t understand anything. Even when I had all the pieces, I couldn’t even save you.”
“Well, a pity party for one isn’t going to get you anywhere.” Charlie crouches down beside him. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, never did. But I do know if you want another chance at a happy ending, you’ll have to get outside of your own bloody head and focus on what’s real, what’s tangible. The journal. Her father. Your trip to London. You’ll need to keep your wits about you, so you can figure out who you can trust and who you can’t.” Charlie stands, with his hands on his hips. His watery blue eyes remind Desmond of the ocean after a storm. “Starting with me.”
Desmond blinks once and with a rush of blood in his ears, he finds himself back on the plane. The soft touch of Penny’s cheek lingers on his thumb and Charlie’s presence hums in his ear.
His first instinct is to put distance between himself and the allusions and illusions that hang in the air. He fumbles with his seatbelt and is half standing before he manages to unbuckle it. He unceremoniously pushes passed the tangled legs of his sleeping seatmates, and strides down the aisle. In other circumstances, the plane’s tiny bathroom would be suffocating, but it offers him a space to breakdown in privacy. He sits on the edge of the toilet, head hung, while the tears flow freely. A few sobs escape but most remain trapped in his chest, anchored by a fear so weighty that Desmond’s surprised he’s able to move at all.
His wedding band wobbles, feeling unnaturally loose, as if a part of him has gone missing with Penny. He twists the band around and thinks, a day and half. That’s about as specific as he can be since he’s not sure at what point she went missing. Missing, he can’t bring himself to think taken. The thought of some stranger’s hands forcibly compelling her to leave makes him retch. Or did he only need words to convince her to go? A lie? A truth? A plea?
It doesn’t matter. Focus on what you do know, and concentrate on what's real, that’s what Charlie had said. If that’s true, the last thing Desmond needed to be doing is listening to visions or dreams or god knows what that trek in the jungle was, but Charlie knew better than anyone the cost of giving into something that might not really be there. Desmond owed it to him to listen to his message, be it a warning or some sort of test.
“You’ll need to keep your wits about you, so you can figure out who you can trust and who you can’t.”
That’s an understatement, he thought and checked his watch. In four hours he would set foot in London for the first time in over five years. He had not wanted to leave their home in case Penny returned, but he could not sit around doing nothing so he was travelling to the only place he thought there might be answers, where he would attempt to chase down three people, one of them a madman, and two of them for whom time and space were relative and would most likely not be haunting the halls of Oxford or an antique shop on Pembridge Road, but it was worth a try. As untrustworthy as he was, Desmond would have to start with Widmore because he was the only one Desmond was sure was not a figment of his imagination and he hoped the man’s love for his daughter might, for once, transcend whatever nefarious plans he had long enough to bring Penny home.
x x x
As he comes out of the tube at Marble Arch, London is laid out in front of Desmond like a memoir. The sights, the smells, the accents, are nothing like anything he’s experienced in years. He passes a pub and is overcome by the smell of fish and chips and Saturday afternoons with his dad and brothers. When he crosses Bayswater Street, he steps over a discarded playbill for a production of A Winter’s Tale which had been the first sets he had built for the Royal Shakespeare Company. He knows, if he were to look for it, there is or was a Cambodian restaurant around here that Penny had taken him to for his thirty-first birthday. How he would like to sink his teeth into every one of this these memories and hold onto them as something from before his life went mad, but it’s too distracting. Instead he checks the address scribbled on his hand against the buildings before him.
After acknowledging there were no right words to tell Penny’s father he had lost what was most precious to both of them, Desmond had crossed the threshold of Widmore Industries only to find that Charles was hosting a charity dinner across town. This news made Desmond somewhat relieved to confront Widmore on neutral ground.
Outside the Royal Lancaster Hotel is a sea of limousines. Desmond shifts his carry-on over his shoulder and tries to pretend he blends in with the crowd in fancy dress, while he’s still wearing his wrinkled work clothes from two and half days which undoubtedly carry the smell of cattle and desperation. He passes through the lobby unnoticed and is only stopped by a hotel employee when he tries to enter the ballroom.
“I need to see Mr. Widmore,” he states, rather than asks. “There’s been a family emergency.”
The employee nods, and opens the door to the ballroom. He follows Desmond, determined to assist in this crusade and simultaneously not wanting to let the bedraggled man out of his sight. The dinner has yet to begin and guests are milling about with champagne flutes and polite smiles. Desmond scans the crowd, trying to distinguish one tuxedo from another when the employee taps him on the shoulder and discreetly points to a corner where Widmore stands, holding court. Seeing him the flesh is more startling than Desmond had anticipated. He squares his shoulders and approaches, fists clenching and unclenching.
Widmore’s in the middle of recounting some sort of joke about the difference between Oxford and Cambridge when he spots Desmond out of the corner of his eye and the left side of his face droops ever so slightly. He continues speaking as if nothing is amiss, and delivers his punch line with deadpan nonchalance, then excuses himself from the crowd.
They meet and exchange only a long solemn look, as if there is an immediate understanding that only great tragedy would prompt this meeting. With a small nod toward the nearest exit, Widmore exits the ballroom and Desmond follows. They don’t speak until they enter Widmore’s suite on the fifth floor where impatience overrides both their desires to let the unspoken remain unsaid.
“You’ve only ever come to see me for one thing. I doubt that’s changed now, otherwise you would have paid me a visit two year ago,” Widmore begins, pouring himself a drink from the bar by the window. Outside dusk is falling; half the sky is fighting to remain blue while the rest has succumbed to browns, pinks, and reds. Widmore tips the bottle toward Desmond who declines with a small wave. He could use a drink, but he’s also in no mood to accept this casual gesture of benevolence and besides, he needs to keep his head clear. Widmore continues, “I take it this is about Penelope, and not some attempt at settling the scores you imagine need to be settled.”
Desmond would like to say a lot of things that wouldn’t even begin to settle scores, but there is only one reason he is here now and that makes this very simple. He starts off with his best case scenario. “Is she here? Do you have her?”
Widmore swallows visibly, and undoes his bowtie. He sticks a finger between his collar and throat. “Has she left you?” he asks with a hint of hope, not out of any real cruelty, but because that is his best case scenario.
A shake of Desmond’s head prompts Widmore’s face to drain of whatever placid countenance he had held onto since Desmond’s appearance. He tries to undo his collar but his fingers shake too much. He sits on the edge of a chair, and fumbles to place his hand over his heart, as if checking to see if it’s still there.
Desmond remains where he is across the room, unmoved that the man’s shaken demeanour mirrors his own response to this news. “Do you know where she could be?” he tries again, praying Widmore’s reaction means he can imagine what might have come to pass.
The man recovers enough to take a long sip of his drink. “Tell me what happened.”
“Two days ago I returned home and she was gone.”
“Home? You’re still in that cottage outside Río Grande?” Widmore remarks with an effort to show he’s not ignorant of everything.
“Yes,” Desmond responds, more surprised that the man admitted he knew this, rather than that he knew it at all. He hopes this is a sign Widmore would continue to be forthcoming. “There was no forced entry. Penny’s…,” his voices catches on her name. The last time he had said it out loud it had echoed in the empty cottage. “Penny’s purse and passport were left behind.”
“Which makes you think she had not just changed her mind about you?”
Desmond doesn’t rise to the insult because he had to admit that thought did cross his mind too. “That, and I have reason to believe Daniel Faraday is somehow involved.” Desmond waits for Widmore’s reaction to the name but his face remains completely blank.
Widmore clears his throat, and cocks his head. “Who is Daniel Faraday?”
“Let’s not do this, Charles.” Desmond sets his bag down and walks over to the bed. He speaks calmly and slowly, but with no hesitation. “You may not think I’m bright enough to put it all together, but you know right well your daughter is. I know who you are and I know what you did. There’s not need for you to pretend there was never any island or freighter or a team of scientists. If you waste my time, you’ll find out exactly how I intend to settle scores.”
Widmore rises and matches Desmond’s intense gaze with his own. The frailty that had flooded his face is replaced by his familiar stoicism. Desmond thinks they might just spend the rest of the night staring at each other, both refusing to look away, until Widmore makes the first move by patting Desmond’s upper left arm almost affectionately before squeezing by him to refresh his drink at the bar.
“Very well,” he swirls the scotch around his glass before drinking. “Why do you think Dr. Faraday has anything to do with this?”
“Because I know if anyone could make it off the island it would be him.”
Widmore’s eyebrows rise in slight amusement. “That’s how little you know about Faraday or the island.”
“And because I found his journal on Penny’s desk.”
“His journal?” A light goes on in Widmore’s eyes that Desmond find unsettling. “Let me see it!”
“I didn’t bring it,” Desmond lies, remembering Charlie’s warning. “I left it in a safe place.”
“But it’s here, in London?” Widmore presses, setting down his glass and approaching Desmond.
Desmond eyes narrow. “It is.”
“I need you to bring it to me as soon as possible. It could very well save Penny.”
“How?”
“I have enemies, Desmond. That much you know. If they have Penny, we might be able to trade Faraday’s research for her.”
“But whoever took Penny already had the journal and left it behind.”
“Maybe.” Widmore taps his finger on his lips and paces as he thinks. “Maybe Farday was there trying to stop what happened. If he is travelling back and forth from the island, then it would be chaotic. He wouldn’t necessarily be able to control what happens. He could have accidently left it behind.”
“Could he…,” Desmond pauses, afraid to give any credit to the sublime idea growing in his head. “Could he have taken a person back with him?”
Widmore looks genuinely baffled at this suggestion. “I don’t know. There is so much we don’t know,” he admits. “But if Penelope is on the island, then she’s safer than where I fear she is.”
It’s impossible for Desmond to comprehend that there’s anywhere worse than the island. “Where’s that?” he asks, this time certain he does not want to know the answer.
“With Benjamin Linus.”
x x x
Continued here.
Characters: Desmond, Penny, Sayid, Daniel, Sun, Charlie, Widmore, Ben
Rating: PG13
Words: 3100
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Spoilers: S4 Finale.
Summary: Desmond’s idyllic post-island life is shattered when Penny disappears, forcing him to confront everything he left behind. Go here for the prelude and part I.
x x x
Somewhere over the Atlantic, Desmond falls asleep for the first time in almost forty hours. One minute he was staring out the window into the darkness, a blinking light from the tip of the plane’s wing illuminating and swallowing his sallow reflection; the next, his fluttering eyelids lost their battle and he had slipped into one of those half sleeps where you’re only under for a few minutes, but it's deep enough to construct a dream.
Suddenly Desmond’s no longer on the plane taking him to London. Instead he’s walking through a fog of humidity that promises rain. His shirt rests wet and heavy with sweat against his back and chest. With every step, mud tries to suck his shoes from his feet. A mosquito buzzes back and forth across his vision before crawling up his nose. He can’t swat it aside because his hands, stretched behind, tightly grasp the folds of parachute that cradle Naomi. In the rear, another pair of feet shuffles forward, slapping the mud. Desmond knows if he were to crane his neck, his eyes would fall upon Charlie holding the other end of their makeshift stretcher. A long, low sigh reaches his ears, whose tone needs no words to convey Charlie’s unravelling patience at Desmond in particular and the universe in general.
Despite all his senses telling him otherwise, Desmond knows it’s just a dream. It’s always just a dream now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel the past crawling on his skin. It’s his very level of awareness that proves what he’s seeing and feeling is not real. When he had carried Naomi out of the jungle over two years ago he had been too absorbed with the news of Penny’s search to register anything else. So consumed with renewed hope, he had even put out of his mind Charlie’s latest and looming appointments with death
“Can we stop for a bit?”
Desmond acknowledges Charlie’s request by lowering the stretcher. He busies himself checking Naomi’s wound while Charlie disappears into the bushes. When they resume their hike back to the camp, Charlie takes the lead and he walks backward, facing Desmond and forcing him to finally meet his eyes. Unlike Desmond, he appears neat and tidy, gone are his wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and where scrapes and bruises once lay, his face is bright and clean. It’s not the only thing wrong with the shape of this memory. Jin and Hurley are nowhere to be found and Naomi lies unnaturally still with her hands folded in her lap.
“Not that I don’t enjoy hauling ‘Your Not Penny’ around the island, but we have a van now, you know. If you had been more forthcoming about your mysterious someone being possibly incapacitated we could have made this a road trip,” Charlie says with a minor smirk. He keeps treading backwards without a glance behind to help navigate over the uneven terrain. “‘Course then you wouldn’t have got the chance to play William Tell.”
Even though the words come out automatically, Desmond winces at their how feeble they sound. “Charlie, I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
“Everything.” He means the beginning with the plane and today with the arrow and the end in the Looking Glass. He also means the scraps of ink smeared paper that lay forlornly in an envelope marked Claire, lying inside his new copy of Our Mutual Friend, one unreadable morbid item tucked into another, both which now sit in his carry on, next to Daniel’s journal.
“Not everything.” Charlie pauses to adjust his grip on the parachute. His hands twist tightly around the material. “You’re not going to tell me you’re sorry for the last two years, Des. Our little underwater adventure got you pretty much what you wanted,” he says, dropping all pretence that their conversation is just a poor recreation of a day so long ago. “But that’s all changed now, hasn’t it?”
Charlie’s head dips downward, and Desmond’s eyes follow. Although he cannot see her face, he recognizes the honey blond hair, that he so loves to trail his fingers through, spilling over the side of the parachute, confirming that the present has run smack into the past.
“Oh god, Penny.” He stops in his tracks, wanting to see her properly, but he can’t bear to lay her down on this wretched piece of land.
“Let’s put her down over there,” Charlie says as if reading Desmond’s mind and gesturing with his chin to the left where an all too familiar floral settee sits in the jungle, freed from its river journey, two continents and a lifetime away.
Desmond’s not sure that’s a better option, but he does so anyway. They release her gently, and he rushes to her side, perching on the edge of the couch, his hands hovering over her face, almost afraid she’ll disintegrate if he makes contact. Although she’s pale as the moon with tiny blue veins crisscrossing over her closed eyelids, he’s relieved to see her chest rise and fall. He allows his thumb to graze her check and is momentarily relieved to find the skin warm until a thought occurs to him. “Tell me she’s not here with you,” he swallows.
“She’s not with me,” Charlie responds with confidence, peering at Penny over Desmond’s shoulder. He looks so tenderly at Penny, for a moment Desmond wonders if they are seeing the same lost person.
Desmond’s head shakes back and forth. “This is not real.”
“Of course it’s not, Des, but that’s never stopped you before.”
He hears the warning in Charlie’s voice, but can’t quite reach his meaning. “Charlie, I don’t know how to find her,” he confesses, tearing his eyes away from Penny for a moment to look at his one time friend. “I’m not as smart or strong as she is. I don’t understand anything. Even when I had all the pieces, I couldn’t even save you.”
“Well, a pity party for one isn’t going to get you anywhere.” Charlie crouches down beside him. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, never did. But I do know if you want another chance at a happy ending, you’ll have to get outside of your own bloody head and focus on what’s real, what’s tangible. The journal. Her father. Your trip to London. You’ll need to keep your wits about you, so you can figure out who you can trust and who you can’t.” Charlie stands, with his hands on his hips. His watery blue eyes remind Desmond of the ocean after a storm. “Starting with me.”
Desmond blinks once and with a rush of blood in his ears, he finds himself back on the plane. The soft touch of Penny’s cheek lingers on his thumb and Charlie’s presence hums in his ear.
His first instinct is to put distance between himself and the allusions and illusions that hang in the air. He fumbles with his seatbelt and is half standing before he manages to unbuckle it. He unceremoniously pushes passed the tangled legs of his sleeping seatmates, and strides down the aisle. In other circumstances, the plane’s tiny bathroom would be suffocating, but it offers him a space to breakdown in privacy. He sits on the edge of the toilet, head hung, while the tears flow freely. A few sobs escape but most remain trapped in his chest, anchored by a fear so weighty that Desmond’s surprised he’s able to move at all.
His wedding band wobbles, feeling unnaturally loose, as if a part of him has gone missing with Penny. He twists the band around and thinks, a day and half. That’s about as specific as he can be since he’s not sure at what point she went missing. Missing, he can’t bring himself to think taken. The thought of some stranger’s hands forcibly compelling her to leave makes him retch. Or did he only need words to convince her to go? A lie? A truth? A plea?
It doesn’t matter. Focus on what you do know, and concentrate on what's real, that’s what Charlie had said. If that’s true, the last thing Desmond needed to be doing is listening to visions or dreams or god knows what that trek in the jungle was, but Charlie knew better than anyone the cost of giving into something that might not really be there. Desmond owed it to him to listen to his message, be it a warning or some sort of test.
“You’ll need to keep your wits about you, so you can figure out who you can trust and who you can’t.”
That’s an understatement, he thought and checked his watch. In four hours he would set foot in London for the first time in over five years. He had not wanted to leave their home in case Penny returned, but he could not sit around doing nothing so he was travelling to the only place he thought there might be answers, where he would attempt to chase down three people, one of them a madman, and two of them for whom time and space were relative and would most likely not be haunting the halls of Oxford or an antique shop on Pembridge Road, but it was worth a try. As untrustworthy as he was, Desmond would have to start with Widmore because he was the only one Desmond was sure was not a figment of his imagination and he hoped the man’s love for his daughter might, for once, transcend whatever nefarious plans he had long enough to bring Penny home.
x x x
As he comes out of the tube at Marble Arch, London is laid out in front of Desmond like a memoir. The sights, the smells, the accents, are nothing like anything he’s experienced in years. He passes a pub and is overcome by the smell of fish and chips and Saturday afternoons with his dad and brothers. When he crosses Bayswater Street, he steps over a discarded playbill for a production of A Winter’s Tale which had been the first sets he had built for the Royal Shakespeare Company. He knows, if he were to look for it, there is or was a Cambodian restaurant around here that Penny had taken him to for his thirty-first birthday. How he would like to sink his teeth into every one of this these memories and hold onto them as something from before his life went mad, but it’s too distracting. Instead he checks the address scribbled on his hand against the buildings before him.
After acknowledging there were no right words to tell Penny’s father he had lost what was most precious to both of them, Desmond had crossed the threshold of Widmore Industries only to find that Charles was hosting a charity dinner across town. This news made Desmond somewhat relieved to confront Widmore on neutral ground.
Outside the Royal Lancaster Hotel is a sea of limousines. Desmond shifts his carry-on over his shoulder and tries to pretend he blends in with the crowd in fancy dress, while he’s still wearing his wrinkled work clothes from two and half days which undoubtedly carry the smell of cattle and desperation. He passes through the lobby unnoticed and is only stopped by a hotel employee when he tries to enter the ballroom.
“I need to see Mr. Widmore,” he states, rather than asks. “There’s been a family emergency.”
The employee nods, and opens the door to the ballroom. He follows Desmond, determined to assist in this crusade and simultaneously not wanting to let the bedraggled man out of his sight. The dinner has yet to begin and guests are milling about with champagne flutes and polite smiles. Desmond scans the crowd, trying to distinguish one tuxedo from another when the employee taps him on the shoulder and discreetly points to a corner where Widmore stands, holding court. Seeing him the flesh is more startling than Desmond had anticipated. He squares his shoulders and approaches, fists clenching and unclenching.
Widmore’s in the middle of recounting some sort of joke about the difference between Oxford and Cambridge when he spots Desmond out of the corner of his eye and the left side of his face droops ever so slightly. He continues speaking as if nothing is amiss, and delivers his punch line with deadpan nonchalance, then excuses himself from the crowd.
They meet and exchange only a long solemn look, as if there is an immediate understanding that only great tragedy would prompt this meeting. With a small nod toward the nearest exit, Widmore exits the ballroom and Desmond follows. They don’t speak until they enter Widmore’s suite on the fifth floor where impatience overrides both their desires to let the unspoken remain unsaid.
“You’ve only ever come to see me for one thing. I doubt that’s changed now, otherwise you would have paid me a visit two year ago,” Widmore begins, pouring himself a drink from the bar by the window. Outside dusk is falling; half the sky is fighting to remain blue while the rest has succumbed to browns, pinks, and reds. Widmore tips the bottle toward Desmond who declines with a small wave. He could use a drink, but he’s also in no mood to accept this casual gesture of benevolence and besides, he needs to keep his head clear. Widmore continues, “I take it this is about Penelope, and not some attempt at settling the scores you imagine need to be settled.”
Desmond would like to say a lot of things that wouldn’t even begin to settle scores, but there is only one reason he is here now and that makes this very simple. He starts off with his best case scenario. “Is she here? Do you have her?”
Widmore swallows visibly, and undoes his bowtie. He sticks a finger between his collar and throat. “Has she left you?” he asks with a hint of hope, not out of any real cruelty, but because that is his best case scenario.
A shake of Desmond’s head prompts Widmore’s face to drain of whatever placid countenance he had held onto since Desmond’s appearance. He tries to undo his collar but his fingers shake too much. He sits on the edge of a chair, and fumbles to place his hand over his heart, as if checking to see if it’s still there.
Desmond remains where he is across the room, unmoved that the man’s shaken demeanour mirrors his own response to this news. “Do you know where she could be?” he tries again, praying Widmore’s reaction means he can imagine what might have come to pass.
The man recovers enough to take a long sip of his drink. “Tell me what happened.”
“Two days ago I returned home and she was gone.”
“Home? You’re still in that cottage outside Río Grande?” Widmore remarks with an effort to show he’s not ignorant of everything.
“Yes,” Desmond responds, more surprised that the man admitted he knew this, rather than that he knew it at all. He hopes this is a sign Widmore would continue to be forthcoming. “There was no forced entry. Penny’s…,” his voices catches on her name. The last time he had said it out loud it had echoed in the empty cottage. “Penny’s purse and passport were left behind.”
“Which makes you think she had not just changed her mind about you?”
Desmond doesn’t rise to the insult because he had to admit that thought did cross his mind too. “That, and I have reason to believe Daniel Faraday is somehow involved.” Desmond waits for Widmore’s reaction to the name but his face remains completely blank.
Widmore clears his throat, and cocks his head. “Who is Daniel Faraday?”
“Let’s not do this, Charles.” Desmond sets his bag down and walks over to the bed. He speaks calmly and slowly, but with no hesitation. “You may not think I’m bright enough to put it all together, but you know right well your daughter is. I know who you are and I know what you did. There’s not need for you to pretend there was never any island or freighter or a team of scientists. If you waste my time, you’ll find out exactly how I intend to settle scores.”
Widmore rises and matches Desmond’s intense gaze with his own. The frailty that had flooded his face is replaced by his familiar stoicism. Desmond thinks they might just spend the rest of the night staring at each other, both refusing to look away, until Widmore makes the first move by patting Desmond’s upper left arm almost affectionately before squeezing by him to refresh his drink at the bar.
“Very well,” he swirls the scotch around his glass before drinking. “Why do you think Dr. Faraday has anything to do with this?”
“Because I know if anyone could make it off the island it would be him.”
Widmore’s eyebrows rise in slight amusement. “That’s how little you know about Faraday or the island.”
“And because I found his journal on Penny’s desk.”
“His journal?” A light goes on in Widmore’s eyes that Desmond find unsettling. “Let me see it!”
“I didn’t bring it,” Desmond lies, remembering Charlie’s warning. “I left it in a safe place.”
“But it’s here, in London?” Widmore presses, setting down his glass and approaching Desmond.
Desmond eyes narrow. “It is.”
“I need you to bring it to me as soon as possible. It could very well save Penny.”
“How?”
“I have enemies, Desmond. That much you know. If they have Penny, we might be able to trade Faraday’s research for her.”
“But whoever took Penny already had the journal and left it behind.”
“Maybe.” Widmore taps his finger on his lips and paces as he thinks. “Maybe Farday was there trying to stop what happened. If he is travelling back and forth from the island, then it would be chaotic. He wouldn’t necessarily be able to control what happens. He could have accidently left it behind.”
“Could he…,” Desmond pauses, afraid to give any credit to the sublime idea growing in his head. “Could he have taken a person back with him?”
Widmore looks genuinely baffled at this suggestion. “I don’t know. There is so much we don’t know,” he admits. “But if Penelope is on the island, then she’s safer than where I fear she is.”
It’s impossible for Desmond to comprehend that there’s anywhere worse than the island. “Where’s that?” he asks, this time certain he does not want to know the answer.
“With Benjamin Linus.”
x x x
Continued here.