A/N: I'm loving season 5. That's it. Augh. Seriously.

Feedback is always, always loved.

Maybe

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t do anything but sit there and tap his bloody feet, just sitting and waiting.

If there was anything in this world he hated more than hangovers and loneliness, it was waiting. He’d waited for too damn long, counted down repetitions of 108 minutes for aeons until salvation came in the form of one plane crash.

He shook his head irately. No, it wouldn’t do to dwell on that mountain of a mess right now.

Still jiggling his feet impatiently, he glanced up at the clock. Damn. Only eight minutes had passed since he’d looked last.

The indiscernible song playing over the tinny hospital speakers ended, the Italian words finally fading, something more upbeat, something achingly and terribly familiar started playing.

Desmond was on his feet and gazing at the haphazardly-placed speaker in the corner before he even had time to register what the song was; it was almost as if his threadbare heart had identified the chords before his ears had the chance to.

Today is gonna be the day that they throw it back to you.

By now you should've somehow realised what you gotta do.

The Scotsman, not caring that several people were staring darkly, chuckled, softly at first, and then leant his head back, giving a full-out, throaty, and watery, hysterical laugh.

“Mr. Hume?”

A broad, slightly melancholic grin still spread across the man’s face, he looked down, startled. “Aye?”

“Your wife had Braxton-Hicks. They were false contractions. She’ll be fine, but be prepared; the baby could be delivered any day, now.” The nurse, a weedy, slightly greasy Italian man gone to seed, looked nervous. Frankly, Desmond didn’t blame him; he supposed he did look a bit insane, laughing in the middle of a waiting room at nothing.

“Thank you, brotha,” he said, giving the man a firm handshake.

Penelope was wheeled out in a rusting wheelchair, looking sweaty, exhausted, and a bit put off.

“Ready, luv?” Desmond asked his wife, brushing a few stray locks out of her eyes.

She snorted. “Quite.” She stood up, waddling her way to the front door as he rushed to hold it open for her. “Honest, Des, when the baby does come, let’s not bother trying to run to a dock, bother the locals and tourists, find a hospital, and then deal with the linguistic barriers. Let’s just have the baby on the bloody boat, all right?”

Desmond grinned. “Whatever you say, Penny.”

They were out the door and heading towards the dock, hand in hand, her other hand resting lightly on her stomach, when Desmond stopped again, turning to her with a light smile. “Penny, do you have any names in mind for the baby?”

She looked startled. “No, I thought we weren’t going to discuss names until he came… Why?”

A fraction of a grin came onto his face, the light softening it somewhat as it hesitantly crept farther and farther along, the gleam in his eyes telling her he was somewhere else in time. “What about Charlie?” Seeing her hesitate for a moment, he added, “Well, Charles, really, after your father.”

“Is it really after my father, Des?” she asked, her eyes soft and understanding. They’d talked about Charlie a few times; he was obviously a sore spot for Desmond, as he’d still felt guilty for the boy’s death, but she’d heard enough to know that he’d been special to her husband.

Desmond shifted. “Well, if you want it to be.”

Penny’s smile broadened. “Hmm, name our child after my father, who never approved of you, or your friend, who died trying to save you and everyone else on that godforsaken island?”

He laughed, though it sounded watery even to her own ears, and he coughed suspiciously afterward. “If you wouldn’t mind….”

Penny bit the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from springing to her own eyes. “I think it’s perfect, luv.”