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Fallout	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1703 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Invisible Man, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Fallout/Disclaimer
- 1
Author's Notes:

Finally, this little saga is done! It's all Dawnebeth's fault I started writing Iman, when she gave me a five page snippet and said 'I can't think of a story to put this in'. It was a challenge I couldn't pass up, and this is the result. My most profound thanks to my ab-fab Betas who made sure I made this the best it could be. Check out their work, they are muy talented in their own right.

Chalie Rucco: http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=104652

Pipsqueak: http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=45784

Dawnwind/Dawnebeth: http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=119399

Warning: This story hinges on the aftermath of Sept.11 and the impact it could have on the Agency and the I-man project. For those who would rather not have the real world intrude on fantasy, skip this one.

Spoilers: Pilot, Father Figure, Three Phases of Claire, Brother's Keeper, Exposed, The Other Invisible Man, Flash to Bang, Ralph, those are the ones I noticed, but there may well be others…

Rating: soft R for language and violence (and the occasional slashy thought)

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did. I love them more than SciFi ever did. Making no $, just playing with my action figures.

Archive?: Yes, just let me know where.

Feedback: yes of course! To suzinsf@earthlink.net or fanficsf@earthlink.net

Summary: In the wake of 9/11, the Agency is under threat of dissolution, and in order to earn their keep, the Official accepts what seems to be a routine assignment to help out the ATF with an investigation of illegal small arms smuggling. Only it becomes far from routine when Darien is injured and Bobby is kidnapped…

The

Invisible Man

"Fallout"

By Suzanne Schellenberg

Inspired by Dawnwind

"I said 'no'. End of discussion." The Official is doing his best bullfrog impression for the pair of suits who're leaning over his desk, trying to muscle him into giving in to their oh-so-polite 'request'. "The I-man project is my asset, and that's the way it stays."

"And it's totally wasted on this nickel and dime operation you're running, Charlie, and you damned well know it!" The shorter of the two snarls at him. "Now, if you insist, I can go over your head and have this whole agency shut down, but in the spirit of inter-departmental cooperation, I'm giving you one more chance to play ball." He leans a little further over the desk, and I wonder if the 'Fish will back down.

"And for the last time, Rawlins, the answer is no. The project stays with me. I'm not going to turn it over to you bastards in Central Intelligence so you can send my agent off on some bug-hunt in Afghanistan! He doesn't have clearance for the kind of wet operations you want to throw him into."

Call it a guess, but I think I just heard the Official defending me against a hijacking. The weird sort of ache that's been in my guts since the morning of Tuesday, September 11^th, suddenly gets worse. A lot worse. Most of the time, I don't consider myself much of a worrier. No, I'm more of a 'roll with the punches' kinda guy. Now my partner, Bobby Hobbes, he's got the worrying thing down to a fine art. But this, this is making me nervous.

"Clearance can be taken care of, Charlie. That's by far the most trivial hurdle we have to jump with your pansy-assed little agent. What the hell possessed you to use an ex-con as your guinea pig? Now we're stuck with trying to turn a moral weakling into a freaking super-agent!"

"We? I don't recall you being invited to participate in my project's decision-making processes," the 'Fish snaps back, looking more like a bullfrog than ever. "Now get the hell out of my office, Rawlins, and take your stooge with you," he says as he stands up slowly and puts his hands on the desk, leaning in towards his visitor until they're just about nose to nose.

Rawlins shoots him a look that would melt steel and takes the suggestion, marching out of the office in a snit, his boy in tow, slamming the door shut after himself before I can squeeze my way out behind him. So now I'm screwed, at least until someone comes in to check on the boss-man.

In case I forgot to mention it, I'm doing about the best 'fly on the wall' impression you've ever seen, here. Or maybe it's 'never seen'. See, I'm the pansy-assed agent Rawlins mentioned so flatteringly. The Official's 'asset', as he put it. Not much of one, I'll grant you, but hey, it's not like I had a lot of options at the time I was recruited. See, Hobbes and I are government agents, which I still find cool to say, even after a year and a half. I've got this gland in my head - don't ask, it'd take way too long to go into - but suffice it to say I've got the unique and useful ability to go invisible. Yeah, see-through. Which is my current wardrobe. I'll say this much, it makes accessorizing a snap. Everything goes with clear. Even Jack Daniels.

I settle on the metal ladder-back chair against the wall under the windows, not wanting to give myself away by risking the whoopee-cushion effect the ratty vinyl-upholstered guest chairs are prone to, watching the Official pour himself a massive shot from the bottle he's just pulled out of his desk. Okay, so now I'm really worried. I wish I could get a shot of the stuff myself, not that I drink all that much, besides beer, I mean, but I have the feeling that getting drunk is a good idea, right about now.

He swallows off half of what he put in his glass, and then fills it again, and the gravel-pit in my belly turns into boulders. Dread is something I dislike, and I've spent most of my career as an agent feeling it, to one extent or another. It sucks. Big time. If the 'Fish is getting set to drown his sorrows, we — the editorial 'we', the flunkies that make up the nameless Agency that Charlie Borden gets his kicks out of ruling with an iron fist — are in for a really rocky ride. I watch him swallow another mouthful as if he's bracing himself for something, and then he picks up the phone and pages Eberts.

So now I'm wondering, do I stay, or do I take the opportunity to duck out the door when his Imperial Majesty's favorite slave and toady comes in, and miss out on the opportunity to listen in on the post game analysis? I waffle, hovering by the door, but not too close, 'cuz the chill coming off me when I go 'poof' is like standing in front of an open refrigerator door, for those not covered in the silvery stuff, also known as quicksilver, that lets me do this trick. From my perspective, it's more like being locked in an industrial freezer. Uncomfortable, but not immediately dangerous. Until I start accumulating too much quicksilver in my bloodstream. Then it gets dangerous in a hurry.

"Shut the door, Eberts," the Official snaps at his mild-mannered little file clerk, who's looking pale and as worried as I feel. So I stay, missing my second chance at escape. Eberts is another one of those masters of worry, but the expression on his face is several notches above anything I've seen there until recently. I figure what with New York suddenly becoming a war zone, and Covert Ops types beating down our door, I have a personal stake in knowing exactly what's going on. Knowing how bad 'bad' is.

"Yessir," he says, snicking down the lock on the doorknob to keep out casual intruders. He settles himself in one of the two vinyl covered chairs, looking like a kid who's just been called in front of the principal.

"We have a problem, Eberts," the Official says. Well, duh.

The hamster nods. "Yessir," he repeats unhappily. "I recognized Deputy Director Rawlins," he adds. "Are they going to disband the I-man project?" he asks.

"There's a distinct possibility they're going to try and take Fawkes away from us. For national security reasons." Oh, crap. That's what I was afraid of.

"But sir, without Agent Fawkes, we no longer have a raison d'être," Eberts exclaims. "His presence is the basis for our funding! We'll all be out of work if they do that!"

"Not all of us," the 'Fish corrects him with some of the usual 'kick 'em when they're down' pleasure in his voice. "Just you, me, Hobbes, and everyone besides the Keeper and Fawkes. And maybe Monroe. That girl has a knack for landing on her feet. Cheer up, Eberts, we can stand in the unemployment line together," he says snidely. I feel a little sorry for Eberts. He really does kinda look like a hamster, and he's as loyal as a dog. The Official kicks him around some, but he's such an inviting target, it's hard to avoid. My partner does it too, only Eberts doesn't do the 'grin and bear' it thing as well when it's not the boss-man chewing him a new orifice. He's a born bureaucrat. Woe betide anyone who disturbs his sacred files, or breaks his pencil sharpener, or uses up the paper in his calculator. He and Hobbes've gone a few rounds over his fondness for docking our paychecks to cover property damage a time or two.

"But sir, the project was your brain child. They can't do this!" he complains indignantly.

"I'll lay you odds they're going to try," the Official contradicts. "Especially when they realize who Fawkes's father is."

Eberts goes a scary shade of gray, looking like he can't quite get his breath. "Oh, dear," he manages eventually. It takes me a second longer to figure it out than it took him, but I have to bite my tongue on the curses that threaten to pour out of my mouth and give me away. See, I found out not too long ago that my old man is a former government employee himself. Of the lethal variety. He worked for the government, eliminating problems that could be solved by the judicious placement of a bullet or two. Yup, my daddy was a hitman. My brother, Kevin, and I grew up thinking he was a small-time thief and hood, in and out of jail dozens of times before he finally abandoned our mother and us. Turns out, he was off doing the government's dirty work. And as soon as the bastards who were in here earlier today make that connection, they're going to operate on the assumption that it runs in the family. The talent for marksmanship, I mean. Which means they're gonna enlist me to exercise my constitutional right to bear arms. And exercise the Presidents' newly granted powers to ignore that same constitution so he can go out and kill him some terrorists. And anyone else he wants 'removed' from the world stage. And a lot of innocent civilians, while he's at it.

Don't get me wrong: give me a gun and a clean shot at bin Laden, and I'd take it. I wouldn't even waste any anxiety over the morality of it. Sometimes, that kind of sickness has to be excised. I just have a problem with leveling a nation to get one guy.

That Tuesday, we all huddled around the TV in the Official's office like it was a campfire or something, watching the half hysterical news people cover the attack. I couldn't really believe what I was seeing, so I spent time watching everyone, kind of checking their reactions against my own. I don't think I've ever seen the 'Fish look that tired. He looked like he'd been in the hospital waiting for a coronary bypass, this pain on his face as he watched the World Trade Centers collapse onto the sidewalks of New York. Eberts was the same shade of gray he is now, rocking back and forth on the edge of his seat making these little moaning noises under his breath. I was tempted to offer him one of Bobby's tranquilizers, but Bobby was obviously gonna be needing them. He spent hours pacing around the Official's office doing one of his rants that starts getting a little scary-sounding if you listen too close to what he's saying. He's got a tendency toward hyperactivity on a good day, but on a bad one, he belongs in a straight jacket in a rubber room, a place he has more than passing familiarity with, I might add. And this was a very, very bad day. Claire, my Keeper, and my doctor, just sat in the metal ladder-back and cried silently, like she didn't even know she was doing it, tears running down her face for hours while we watched. Alex Monroe split the difference, vacillating between some of Hobbes's hysterical revenge babble and Claire's grief. She's the newest senior member of the Agency, and she kind of got herself stranded here when she finished up the assignment that brought her here in the first place. She's prickly, sarcastic, and hard to get to know. Hobbes is jealous of her connections. So's the Official, I think. I'd like to get past that 'don't tread on me' bitchiness and find out if there's someone worth knowing under it all, but she makes it hard. Especially the way she treats my partner.

Hobbes is my friend. That may not sound like much, but to me, it's kind of a new thing. Since I misspent my youth under the tutelage of a female second story expert thirteen years older than me who passed along any gifts I may have for petty theft — and not so petty ones — I never really did the usual stuff, you know, like varsity sports, dating, that kinda stuff, at the usual times. Friends were actually more like acquaintances, people I did the occasional job with. And you know what they say about honor among thieves: there isn't any. But Bobby makes up for it. Honor is practically his middle name. I didn't make it easy for him, either, since I have kind of a smart mouth myself. But he stuck with me. In his world, Bobby Hobbes does NOT abandon a partner. He was assigned the job of keeping an eye on me in the field, and he's done that, and more, risking his life for me more than once. Even when anyone else would have let me get my fool head blown off, just to be rid of me.

Actually, he's pretty much taught me anything I know about the field. Let's just say I didn't exactly graduate from secret agent school before I signed aboard this gig… So anyway, Alex has a tendency to treat the rest of us like we're a bunch of not-so-bright kids. And she treats Hobbes like a joke. Actually, to be fair, all of us do, occasionally, but he knows we don't mean it in a derogatory way. Most of the time. See, Bobby is a little… different.

Maybe a lot different. He's had one of those lives Ian Flemming could have based a Bond novel on. Only, unlike ole' James, Bobby broke under the pressure of serving his country in spook capacity and kind of went off the deep end when his partner disappeared, and his wife sued him for divorce. The paranoia he developed as a survival mechanism got out of control, and he started slipping across the borders into psychosis. He's fine as long as he remembers his meds… But when he doesn't, the world becomes a seriously unfriendly place from his point of view. Maybe he isn't so paranoid after all, considering what happened in New York.

I tune back in as Eberts speaks up again. "How are we going to handle this, sir?" he asks, always the faithful servant.

The Official takes another hefty swig of scotch and then blinks as though remembering Eberts is there with him. He fishes out a second glass and pours a splash into the bottom, handing it to the hamster, raising his own glass in a mock toast. "Let's drink to early retirement," he suggests sarcastically.

Eberts takes a tentative sip and the stifled cough tips me off to the fact that he's not exactly a heavy drinker. "Sir, perhaps a review of our Agency charter would be helpful. It should have guidelines stipulating the actions necessary to disband the organization…" he offers, taking another sip. He can't be doing more than wetting his lip in the stuff, 'cuz the level hasn't changed at all. The glint in the Official's eye, the sharpening of his already sharp expression, tells me that he hadn't thought of using the Agency's own by-laws to defend it against the piranhas out there.

"Get on it, Eberts," he commands with the usual imperiousness. "And keep it quiet. I don't want things any more disrupted around here than they already are."

"Yessir," Eberts answers as he puts down the glass with relief and gets up, heading for the door. I follow him, sliding out past him as he pauses in the doorway to glance back at his fearless leader, who's definitely not looking so fearless at the moment. The Official looks like he's seriously considering that early retirement he was joking about. At least, I think he was joking…

I head down the Agency halls, vintage institutional, circa the 1950's, shaking off the silver dust that falls away, leaving me my usual stylin' self, in living color. I'm heading for the Keep, our fond nickname for the lab/torture chamber/hospital my Keeper spends all her time in. It's also where I go to get my regular fix of counteragent, the stuff that keeps me from doing a 'Bobby Hobbes' and going psycho when the levels in my system get too high. I even have a little electronic monitor masquerading as a tattoo that lets me know when I'm getting close to the legal limit. Ain't technology grand?

The six-inch thick stainless steel door whooshes open in front of me like something on the set of Star Trek, and I ease on through before it's all the way open, looking around for Bobby and Claire. They're arguing, not exactly uncommon, but the tone is a little sharper than I'm used to, between them. He hasn't said anything to me, directly, but I think my partner is sweet on my doctor. I know she's a little sweet on him. So the snarky, pissy squabbling kinda catches me by surprise. "Hey, kids, no fighting, or no TV," I interrupt as I wander into firing range.

The Keeper turns to glare at me. "Darien, tell your xenophobic partner that just because I'm a foreign national does NOT mean I've suddenly become a security risk!" she demands. Claire is a Brit, stiff upper lip and all. She's also leggy, blonde, a knock-out. With an accent that says 'class' better'n any silver spoon I've ever seen.

"Hobbes, are you casting aspersions on our Keepie's patriotism?" I ask him, the tone light, our usual banter-mode. It's kinda weird, actually. I've always had a penchant for sarcasm and literary quotes, snappy one-liners and the like. But I've never had anyone who could keep up with me the way Hobbes can. We take turns playing straight-man for each other. I'm just Calvin to his Hobbes.

"All I said was, we need to tighten things up around here, what with bin Laden's whackos on the loose in San Diego," Hobbes responds. I can see from the sheepish twitchiness that he's backpedaling on whatever it was he actually said.

Claire sputters indignantly. "You are outrageous!" she shouts at Bobby. "You basically accused anyone who hadn't immigrated on the Mayflower of terrorist leanings!" she snaps at him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I hold up my hands to placate the savage beast, shooting a look over my shoulder at Hobbes, who looks a little pale. "Did you really put your foot in it that deep?" I ask him.

The sheepish look turns totally hangdog.

"He certainly did," Claire interjects coldly, and Bobby loses a little more color.

"I wasn't talking about — I didn't mean you," he says, Hobbesian for an apology.

"I'd say you'd better leave it at that, 'my friend'," I say to him, using one of his own favorite phrases, "or you're going to wind up with the other one in there, too," I warn him. "Besides, we need to talk." I'm not ready to spill what I've heard to the whole Agency. Not until I have Bobby's feedback on it. And it isn't a conversation I want to have inside Agency walls, either.

By this time, Bobby has worked with me long enough that he can tell something's up from the tone of voice I use, and he cocks an eyebrow at me, the little frown line appearing between his eyebrows as he nods. "Let's go get some lunch," he suggests. "I could use a break."

"So you gonna tell me what's up, or are we just gonna sit here and soak up the rays?" he asks at last, looking at me over the top edge of his sunglasses. I hate those glasses. They have geek written all over them. Bobby says I'm a fine one to talk, what with my fondness for thrift store wardrobes. He thinks they make him look cool. Bobby is big into 'cool'. My wardrobe, on the other hand, has nothing to do with 'cool'. It's a holdover from my days of hand-to-mouth existence as a thief, when the Salvation Army was about the only place I could afford to shop, most of the time. And with my tall, skinny body, all legs and elbows, I figure, why waste money on fancy clothes? It's kind of like trying to make the proverbial silk purse out of a sow's ear. Pointless. Besides, I still haven't gotten used to the steady paycheck, so playing dress-up hasn't become a priority. And there's no one in my life to impress, anyway.

I sigh and crumple my burrito wrapper up, pitching it the six feet into the nearest garbage can. "Hobbes," I start, then hesitate again. "We're friends, right?" I ask eventually, staring down at the pseudo-flagstone that paves the area around the fountain.

He grins briefly, then sobers. "Yeah, kid, we're friends. We're more than that. We're partners. All for one and one for all." His voice is light, almost teasing. And he's deadly serious, all at the same time.

"And you are me and I am you and we are all together," I mutter, the usual sarcastic edge missing. "Bobby," I look up at him to find him staring at me with worry in his face. "Would we still be friends, even if we stopped being partners?" I ask. Those dread-boulders are rolling around in my stomach again, mashing up the burrito I just ate pretty good.

"My friend, we will ALWAYS be friends," he says simply, oblivious to the redundancy. "What's up with you today? You look like someone stole your dog," he complains. "And how many times do I have to keep telling you — Bobby Hobbes never bails on his partner."

We say the last part in unison, and he grins again. "Damned straight," he says firmly. "So come clean, buddy — why the mood? The Keep topped you off two days ago, and we haven't been doing anything 'cept sitting on our hands for two weeks." I can hear his dissatisfaction with that state of affairs in his voice, too.

"I did a little snooping this morning in the Fat Man's office. You know, when those government types showed up, looking ready to storm the castle?" I turn it into a question, not sure how he's going to react. It depends on his mood. Sometimes he's all by-the-book, and other times he's a sucker for anything that'll jerk the 'Fishes' chain. Which one it is today, I can't even begin to guess.

He frowns, which I guess answers that question. "We can't be doin' stuff like that, Fawkesy," he scolds gently. "Not any more. Not after Tuesday."

I sigh again. Hobbes going all patriotic on me is understandable. He's a dyed in the wool romantic. And the country was attacked. Civilians were killed. Lots of civilians. It just bugs me that he's assuming responsibility for my eavesdropping, like he was right there beside me the whole time or something. "So you wanna hear this, or do you just wanna let the CIA close us down?" I ask, knowing what the answer is likely to be this time.

"CIA?" he repeats, and I can see the worry in his eyes as he pushes the damned sunglasses up onto his head where they rest on the top of his bald skull, so he can look at me. His eyes are brown. Really dark. Really expressive. I'd say they remind me of a dog I had as a kid, only Hobbesy'd get all offended. Most of the time, I think animals behave better'n people, so I don't think of it as a slight. But that's just me. I've noticed as we've gotten to know each other over the last year and a half or so, he's gotten better about eye contact. He was so squirrelly when I first started working with him, he'd barely look me in the face. I figured it was me, freak that I am, that weirded him out or something. Now I'm not so sure. I think maybe it was more like he didn't want me getting too close. Getting past all the tough-guy bullshit he puts on like his underwear every morning. Because that'd mean I'd see the self-doubt, the second-guessing he's been doing about himself since he wound up on a psychiatric leave of absence from the CIA that turned into a dismissal. And shit. If what I heard in the Fat Man's office today is true, he's screwed. "What's the CIA got to do with anything?" I can hear dread in his voice now, too. Welcome to the club.

"You ever heard of anyone named Rawlins?" I ask. "Eberts called him a Deputy Director."

Hobbes goes a little pale, some of the same sickly gray color under his tan that Eberts had this morning. "Nick Rawlins. Yeah. I heard of him. He was one of the bastards who got me drummed out on a section eight," he informs me.

Oh, great. "Crap," I say as I go back to staring at the pavement, noticing that I'm starting to wear out my latest pair of sneakers.

"Fawkes, what's going on?" he asks, going all quiet on me.

"Rawlins was in the Fat Man's office putting him on notice that the CIA is coming after the I-man project, namely me, in the name of national security." I glance up at him again to see how he's taking it. He's grim-looking, and I go on. "From what Eberts said, that means everyone is out on the streets except maybe Claire. And me. Can't have an agency dedicated to R & D with no lab rat," I joke, trying to make him laugh. It doesn't work.

"So what'd the Fat Man say?" he asks eventually.

"Basically, he told them to go commit a physically impossible act on themselves," I embellish slightly. That gets me a grin, a quick one, but it's there. I watch Bobby shake off the grim resignation to a fate that would castrate him emotionally, and smile at him, running a hand through my hair. It has a way of standing up in all directions, and nothing short of the most powerful styling gel out there will tame it, so usually I don't bother, just letting it go wild. Hobbes gave me a bad time about it until I retaliated with the obligatory bald crack, and he got the point. Now, sometimes, he critiques the overall dishevelment and's even been known to do his bit to improve the effect by ruffling it himself.

"Yeah, that sounds like him," Hobbes agrees, tossing his own burrito wrapper into the trash with a flourish. "He's not gonna let them take you away from him. Not without one hell of a fight. And we know just how dirty he can fight, huh?" he observes, the gleam of amusement back in his eyes. I go along with his show of optimism, and grin at him.

"Hey, the last game of the season is on tonight," I remind him. "Bring some beer and come over and watch it with me," I suggest, moving on to safer topics, knowing we'll cover it in depth later, when he's had a chance to think about it some.

"Sounds like a plan, my man," he responds with the cocky body language that lets me know he's moved on, at least for the moment. "C'mon, my friend, let's get ourselves back to the salt mines. Maybe the 'Fish'll have dug up something to do, so's we can earn our keep," he comments, getting up and sauntering off in the direction of the Agency.

******

Bobby shows up just as the pre-game chit-chat winds up, carrying Thai takeout and a six pack of Coronas. "We did Mexican for lunch," he explains, "so I thought we'd go Asian for dinner."

"You didn't have to bring food, man," I tell him, grinning, knowing all along he would.

"I did if I wanted to eat," he grins back at me. "There's only so much peanut butter and celery a man can take."

"I was thinking more like Cheerios right outta the box," I laugh. Let's just say I'm not known for my skills in the culinary department. Bobby gets by alright. I guess being married gave the basics — like boiling water — an opportunity to rub off on him.

Hobbes grimaces, taking a couple of long necks out of the six pack, and puts the rest in the fridge, then takes the cartons out of the plastic shopping bag he carried in, rooting around in my cupboards until he finds plates and silverware. "Soup's on," he tells me, looking up to see me watching him. Something in my expression must sink in, 'cuz he frowns. "What? You're not up for Thai?" he demands with mock surliness as he serves up a helping of everything he brought and hands the plate across the kitchen counter to me.

"Thai's fine," I assure him, taking my plate and watching him help himself as I munch on a vegetable spring roll.

"So stop staring at me, already," he complains as he comes around the end of the counter and flops down on my couch in front of the TV.

I sit down at the other end of the sofa, and we eat silently, watching the last Padres game of the season. It's not till the top of the seventh inning that Hobbes brings up the topic of our lunch conversation. He gets up and heads for the fridge, getting himself another beer. "Want one?" he asks, looking at me over his shoulder as he pries off the cap.

"Sure," I agree, suddenly wishing I had some of the Official's scotch.

He opens a second bottle and comes back in, dropping onto the sofa again, handing me my mine. "You know, Fawkesy, I been thinking," he opens. "If the Fat Man caves on us, lets them shut us down, you could do a lot worse for yourself than the CIA. I mean, the days of penny-ante spy-dom would be well and truly over, my friend. There's no end to the toys a budget like the company's can afford to make available to your invisible self," he tells me, eyes on the TV.

"Hobbes, I think you're missing the point, here," I disagree. "I'm the toy they want, and they don't care what it costs, they're gonna find a way to take me away from the Agency."

"Don't you think you're being a little pessimistic?" he asks, annoyed. "The Official isn't exactly a push-over," he points out.

"Maybe not," I concede, "but he's small potatoes in the whole glorious world of espionage. Tell me I'm wrong," I challenge.

"Not as small as you think, my friend," Bobby counters stubbornly. "So what's really goin' on with you? Huh?" He locks eyes with me, putting his beer down on the coffee table. I get distracted for a second by the announcer's gleeful description of a home run by the A's, bringing the score to dead even. Hobbes grabs the remote and hits the mute button. "Talk to me, buddy," he says.

"I'm not a spy, Bobby," I say.

"Oh, I dunno, we're still working some of the green off you, but you do alright for an amateur," he grins.

I sigh. "You just said it yourself, Bobby. I'm an amateur. I don't have the slightest idea what the hell I'm doing, most of the time. The only reason I'm still alive is 'cuz you're around to keep an eye on me. So what happens to me when the company gets its mitts on me?" I wait for a second, then plunge on. "I'm screwed, that's what. They're not going to leave the gland in my head, they can't afford to. It's more or less proven technology, now, and my usefulness as a guinea pig is pretty much over. They're gonna find some hot-shot super-spy to put it in. Someone who can do what they want done," I tell him.

"Sheesh, and you call me paranoid," Hobbes snorts. "First of all, you have experience using the thing, Fawkes. And you may not have been through all the training an agent usually gets, but you're a natural for this kinda work. Thieving should be on the list of required job experience, if you're any indication. Besides, taking the gland outta your head'd kill you."

I just look back at him, silently.

"Oh, come on, you don't think the Keeper is gonna let them do that to you, do you?" he demands.

"I don't think the Keeper is gonna be given a lotta say in the decision," I say.

"I'd never let them do that to you, you know that," he goes on, and I can see the anxiety behind the bravado in his eyes.

"You might not be able to stop them," I say softly, glancing back at the TV, not really seeing it.

"Watch me," he says flatly, total conviction in his voice, and I look back at him. There's fire in his eyes now, anger, dark, dangerous rage. I wonder if that's what my eyes look like when the quicksilver madness takes hold of my conscious mind, wiping out ego, restraint, civility, concern for anything but myself. "They'll dissect you over my dead body."

I feel my throat tighten, and my vision gets a little blurry. "Hobbes, even if they decide to take me along with the gland as part of some kind of package deal, it still means they're going to separate the two of us. I don't wanna play the game alone."

He's quiet for a second, then he leans back, all nonchalant, and smiles at me, that dangerous little smile that used to make my skin crawl when it was directed my way. "You won't be playing alone, Fawkes," he assures me. "And let me tell you, buddy, you could do a whole lot better for yourself than Bobby Hobbes in the nursemaid position."

The man has just told me he's willing to give his life for mine, and he says I can do better? I don't effing-well think so. "No, I can't," I say. "Do I have to list all the times you've been there to save my butt?" I ask, angry at the self-deprecating dismissal of his skills. "An agent never bails on a partner. You taught me that. And Darien Fawkes isn't about to start!" I state. As far as I'm concerned, it's not open to discussion.

"Alright, assuming for a minute that you're right, and not just suffering from some of Bobby Hobbes' paranoia, here. What makes you think the CIA is gonna care what you want? My friend, I burned that bridge three years ago, and there's nothing left but rubble, as far as my reputation in the company is concerned. They're not gonna invite me back in, not even if you say 'please'."

"I'm not going without you," I glare at him.

"I don't think they're gonna take 'no' for an answer, buddy. If you push them, they will cut you lose from that little blob of protoplasm in your head, no matter what it does to you. And why the hell are you so set on borrowing trouble, anyway?" he wants to know. "Working for the government has never been your dream job, I know that, but at least the CIA can afford to keep you in counteragent without stealing from Eberts' paperclip fund. So you trade one self-important boss for another. What's the problem? Don't you want to do some good for your country?"

Okay, that's dirty pool. I may not be up to Hobbes' level in the patriotism department, but I take it personally when a bunch of whackos from a nihilistic fundamentalist sect blow up New York. Or even just part of it. Not to mention the Pentagon. But I'm afraid what the CIA has in mind as far as my role in their program may be a lot more along the lines of vengeance than justice. "Even if they want to turn me into an assassin?" I ask him. "What happens when they figure out who my father is?" I remind him.

"Aww, crap," he mutters, staring at me, the implications percolating through his mind.

"I'm not a killer, Hobbes. I'll do a lot of things for my country, but that's over the line, for me. And what do you want to bet they're gonna try and turn me into their silver-plated private hitman." I watch him as he turns his head to stare at the TV, not really watching the silent game, thinking about it. Hobbes knows a lot more about this kind of stuff than I do, but it seems obvious even to me that that's pretty much all they'd be interested in. As a nation, we're gearing up for another cold war, this time against an enemy almost as nebulous as I am, in stealth mode. And it scares me that the president has already said that he has no intention of telling the American people what he plans on doing. Which means no accountability. Which means all sorts of opportunities for private agendas to suddenly get dusted off and acted on. With me as the tool they want to use to implement them. To me, that's not the American way. "Where's the truth and justice in that? Huh?" I say to him. "You taught me better."

Hobbes is frowning at the TV, and I can see him wrestling with an answer. "I taught you?" he queries at last. Not like he's disagreeing, more like he's surprised I'm admitting it.

"Yeah. You taught me. Whatever I know about the cloak and dagger biz is courtesy of Robert A. Hobbes and no one else. You're the one who's held my hand through this whole thing, Hobbes. Not to mention giving me a swift kick in the pants when you thought I needed one. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, man," I say, sarcasm not disguising my seriousness. "You are just about the only reason I get up in the morning, some days. When we're out doin' the 'spy thing', goofing on each other, sometimes I almost feel normal again. Maybe better than normal, even. And if they try and take that away from me, I really don't care what the hell else they do to me, because anything that's left isn't worth a damn to me." I know I'm glaring at him, daring him to make some smart remark, to downplay it.

Instead, he's just staring at me, this weird look on his face, like he can't quite believe what I'm telling him.

I get up and grab the empty plates off the coffee table, taking them into the kitchen, giving him some space. I don't know exactly what I'd figured on getting with that little speech, response-wise, but I figured I owed it to him to tell him why I'm planning on putting a bullet in my own brain before I let the CIA remake me in their image. I rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, and when I turn around, he's sitting on one of the stools on the opposite side of the kitchen counter from me, just watching me, that furrow between his eyebrows again.

His eyes are all serious, and a little sad, and he sighs. "Fawkesy, I am not going to let anything happen to you. You trust me, right?"

He waits for my nod. Oh, I trust him, alright. Maybe more than I've ever trusted anyone, anytime before in my life. I was never all that close to Kevin - it's hard to be close to perfection, when I'm so very far from it myself. But Hobbes… Hobbes is as screwed up as I am, basically. He understands what it's like to have fucked up your life, because he's been there. He gives me the kind of advice that's based on experience, not on judgement. And he's right there with me, even when I decide not to take it, to pick up the pieces afterward. I've never had faith in anyone being there for me, through everything - through anything - the way I do with Hobbes. But however much the hero he may be, going one-on-one with the CIA may see him as dead as it's likely to see me. "I trust you, Bobby. But this is bigger even than the Hobbes cahónes. If we can't find a way to keep things status quo, I'd say you can write off one Darien Fawkes, stealth spook."

"How do you know? You ain't never seen the family jewels, my friend," he snipes with some of the usual Hobbes sarcasm. "I also thought I taught you never to underestimate Bobby Hobbes," he adds. "We will find a way to make this rinky-dink little agency indispensable in all its present glory, or we're gonna die tryin'. Got it?" he demands sharply.

"Got it," I reply after a minute. "You think we should let the Keeper in on this?" I ask.

"Nah," he answers. "She's already got enough to worry about as it is. We don't want to give her any premature gray hairs, do we?" he says, half-seriously.

"Guess not, Romeo," I tease him.

"Cool it, gland-boy," he warns me good-naturedly. "The Keepie's coiffeur is off-limits as far as smart-ass comments from you are concerned, okay?"

I grin. "Hobbesy's got a crush on the teacher," I bug him, ducking his mock swing.

"Oh, yeah? And who was it who had his tongue down her throat on the piers a month ago?" he demands, "not to mention his hands all over her."

Okay, he has a point, but there were extenuating circumstances. "You know I can't be held accountable for my behavior when I get over the legal limit," I remind him. "And she wasn't exactly in her right mind, either."

"Excuses, excuses," he taunts, a flicker of his usual snide grin flashing across his face, then he sobers, settling on the stool, elbows on the counter. "Fawkes?" he says.

I can tell we're going serious again. "Yeah?"

"You ever, you know, thought about what it'd be like, being with her?"

Only every night in my dreams. "Yeah. What about it?"

He nods to himself, as if expecting that answer. "Yeah. Just about impossible to avoid, huh?" he agrees.

"You've had impure thoughts about her, too?" I goad him a little.

He snorts with self mockery. "Bobby Hobbes has just about the most impure thoughts of anyone out there, when it comes to a certain lady doctor," he agrees.

"Maybe we should compare notes sometime," I laugh.

He chuckles. "Strictly X-rated, my friend, strictly X-rated. Way too hot for a kid like you," he grins, waggling his eyebrows at me.

"Hey, I'm over seventeen," I protest. "Way over, in case you hadn't noticed." I don't tell him that it hasn't just been Claire I've had dreams about. Hobbes has been guest-starring in some of the most intense erotic dreams I've ever had in my life. Sometimes it's him and Claire, sometimes it's all three of us, sometimes even him and me. Telling him doesn't strike me as such a great idea, though. He's about as straight as they come, no pun intended. Most of the time, so am I. But you kinda run out of options in prison, and since I'm not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger, it was find a sugar-daddy or wind up being the boy toy for anyone who felt the urge. I'm nothing if not adaptable… I even got to the point where I kinda liked it. It was different than being with a woman, but not bad. And it beats the hell out of the last two years of near-complete celibacy. Hobbes clears his throat, and I get the impression he's been trying to get my attention.

"Daydreaming?" he asks with his usual dry irony.

It's my turn to wiggle my eyebrows. "Show me yours, I'll show you mine," I say, knowing he'll rabbit before he'll talk about his feelings for Claire in any detail.

True to form, he snorts again. "You wish, partner," he says. "Ever heard of penis envy?" he surprises me with the change of direction, making me wonder what he was thinking.

I laugh. "Hobbes, you've been on enough psychiatrist's couches to know that only applies to girls," I remind him. "Besides, how do I know I have anything to be envious of? I mean, we've got the same basic equipment, so what's an inch here or there?" I laugh, getting a chuckle from him in return. "'Sides, that wasn't what I was talking about. I meant, what sort of impure thoughts are you having about Claire?"

"Probably the exact same ones you are, buddy. Let's not besmirch a lady's honor by spilling all our kinky little fantasies, huh?"

"Chicken," I laugh again, reaching across the counter to polish his bald head with my sleeve. He swats me for my effort, then takes the fresh bottle of beer I hand him and we go back to the couch to watch the last part of the game.

*********

Claire is waiting for me in the hall when I trail in the next morning, my usual ten or fifteen minutes late, sipping on my sewer-sludge coffee from Seven-Eleven. From the groove she's worn in the linoleum with her pacing, I guess she's been waiting for me for quite a while.

"Darien, where on earth have you been? It's half-past eight! The Official wants us in his office in less than five minutes!" she demands before I can even open my mouth.

"'Morning to you, too," I reply, offering her the paper cup.

She takes one look at it, as though it were some questionable slime from one of her petrie dishes, then shakes her head. "No thank you, Darien. I've already had my tea this morning. Come on," she says sharply as she drags me into the elevator by the elbow and hits the button for the basement floor that houses the Keep.

"Hey, I thought we had a meeting with the Fat Man," I say as she drags me out into the hall and into her lair.

"We do," she confirms. "What I want is to know what it's about," she says, hands on her hips, glaring at me.

"Like I'm supposed to know?" I retort. So much for avoiding telling her anything.

"Darien, don't prevaricate. We don't have time. I know something's wrong, very wrong, and I want to know what it is."

"Keepie, I don't know why you think I have any more clue what's going on around here than you do," I complain. "I'm not exactly first in line when information's being handed out. It's usually on a need-to-know basis, and I'm usually told I don't need to know. I mean, I just work here, Claire," I snap irritably.

She favors me with that look she gets when she's deciding how to tear me limb-from-limb, a dangerous little frown on her oh-so-kissable mouth. "Don't be ridiculous, Darien," she starts, then is interrupted as Hobbes blasts on in.

"Hey you two, Eberts sent me to find you and drag your butts up to the Official's office, double time," he says, ignoring the tension in the air as he grabs me lightly by the scruff of the neck and marches me out the steel sliding door into the hallway, Claire right on our heels. She's still fuming as we ride up in the elevator, Hobbes and I doing one of our running dialogues that doesn't really have much to do with anything, except it kind of diffuses the anxiety level. The three of us walk into the 'Fish's office and take our usual spots, Bobby and I front and center, Claire in the metal ladder back to one side. Eberts hovers at the great man's back, and Monroe is perched at the edge of the Fat Man's desk, arms crossed over her chest, scowling at us. It occurs to me as I wink at her that she's consciously or unconsciously associating herself with the powers that be, rather than showing solidarity with the hired hands. Ah, well, whatever gets her rocks off. Hobbesy and I have a running bet that Alex is either a dominatrix, or a lipstick dyke. I vote for dom, he votes for dyke. I can just see her in black leather, with whips. With Eberts. I can't help giggling, and Bobby shoots me a strange look. I grin at him and twitch my head towards the power trio across the desk from us and get back one of those smothered grins of his, his eyes glittering with amusement.

"Would you like to share the joke with the rest of the class?" Alex asks with an arch of one perfect dark eyebrow.

I nearly bust up. Only Hobbes kicking me in the ankle keeps me from laughing out loud. "No, ma'am," I say in my best contrite school-boy voice.

"Alright that's enough out of the pair of you," the Fat Man interrupts before Alex can insist. "As you all know, the recent attacks on the east coast have spread the intelligence community's resources a little thin. Especially here on the west coast. I know you've all caught some of the news reports that place terrorist cells here in San Diego. Now, this sort of thing is usually outside our jurisdiction, but at the moment, there's an inter-department memo covering all branches of the Justice Department — which includes us — that stipulates any agent or agencies involved in covert ops is to render any and all assistance to any fellow agency that requests said assistance. Well, people, that request was made of this office about an hour ago." The Fat Man glowers at each of us in turn, making sure we get the gravity of the situation. "Rest assured, this is a low priority ATF operation, not something directly connected to national security," he pauses. "It is, however, more dangerous than some of our more routine assignments have been in the past." He ignores Hobbes' snort of cynical amusement.

What routine assignments? I wonder to myself. Between Chrysalis and Arnaud, not much has been 'routine' in my life for a good while, now.

"The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has reports that an Indonesian freighter will be docking this afternoon with a load of Saturday night specials and other assorted trash weaponry for sale through local gun shows and on the black market. Their sources say the cargo will be off-loaded and disbursed through a series of well-established fencing operations with ties to several known Asian gangs -"

"And it's our job to see those guns never make it off that dock," Hobbes interrupts with his best John Wayne cockiness in place. All he needs to do is hitch up his pants, and I'd swear he was auditioning for the role of sheriff in 'High Noon'.

"Wrong," the Official contradicts with a look at Hobbes that means trouble if he mouths off again. "Our job is to track those weapons to their points of distribution so we can close down the whole system, not just clamp off the supply lines," he says, with his gimlet-eyed stare at Hobbes cold enough to freeze the Prestone Bobby usually has running through his veins.

I'm watching Hobbes out of the corner of my eye, just making sure he's okay with the dressing down, so I catch the little frown of uncertainty. "How, exactly, are we supposed to keep track of all the weapons at the same time?" I ask. It's my job in our partnership to ask the stupid questions. Normally, I don't mind, 'cuz I'm such a greenhorn that I genuinely don't know. But it's also to cover for Hobbes, who tends to get chewed a new asshole if he asks things the Official thinks of as stupid questions. Not fair, but true.

"Good question, Agent Fawkes," Eberts pipes up rearranging the sheaf of papers

he's clutching. "The ATF has kindly loaned us an extensive electronic tracking system that will allow each case of weapons to be traced to their ultimate destinations. It will be your job, and Agent Hobbes', to attach one of these tracking devices to each crate in the shipment."

Hobbes and I exchange looks, shorthand for 'aw, crap,' and then we focus on the Official again.

"Tagging the cargo is going to be your job, Agent Fawkes," the Fat Man says needlessly. Who else is going to be able to slip aboard the old rust bucket and slap those little bugs on every crate on her under the noses of whoever's guarding them? It's gotta be yours truly, the Saran-wrap Kid.

"That's gonna mean a whole lotta counteragent," I observe, trying to ignore the nasty little anxiety attack that's gnawing at my guts again. Dread, my constant companion, shakes itself off and settles in for a long stay. See, the quicksilver that the gland in my head excretes is toxic as hell above certain concentrations. The counteragent deactivates it chemically, and keeps me from going psycho on people. And I'm not kidding, here. When I go too long without, I do a total Hannibal Lechter. I've nearly killed Bobby, and I've scared the hell outta Claire. 'Course, I also nearly crossed that doctor/patient line with her, the last time it happened. Only Hobbes and Monroe's 'timely' arrival prevented a groping from turning into something a lot more… compromising. And a lot more fun. It's the only time I've come close to getting any in the last year since my arch enemy-turned-savior, Allianora, a Chrysalis agent, infected me with a nano-probe bugging device during a sweaty little interlude on the floor of my apartment. Of course, I can't exactly solicit the wares of the working girls that hang out on the street corners four or five blocks from my apartment in the warehouse district, either. For one thing, I'm supposed to be top secret. For another, the quicksilver release is triggered by an increase in adrenaline. And guess what happens when things start getting interesting with a woman? You got it, I go see-through. It stinks.

"We've got that eventuality covered, Fawkes. The Keeper was put on notice that counteragent was to be kept ready at all times, with a multi-dose back-stock. I'd rather have it on hand and not need it, than need it and not have it," the Fat Man announces, surprising the hell out of me. The stuff has a real short shelf life, so the Keeper usually only synthesizes enough for a six to ten day period, unless she knows Bobby and I are on some kind of assignment. No wonder she was freaking-out in the hall when I came in this morning. It's expensive to manufacture, and the Agency has chronic funding problems, so the Fat Man keeps the Keeper on a pretty short leash when it comes to my medication.

"Sir, you know that the more frequently Darien is forced to use the counteragent, the more rapidly his immune system will adapt to it and build up a tolerance, rendering it ineffective! I have to protest this lack of caution, sir! Darien is risking a total psychological breakdown if and when that happens!" Claire leaps into the discussion in my defense. See, Claire is terrified that using it too often will make me resistant to it, and leave me totally and permanently whacko.

"Objection noted, doctor," the Official says dismissively, and Claire opens her mouth to argue, then clams up when he gives her one of his patented 'you are an employee and don't forget it' looks.

Instinct tells me this has something to do with the conversation I overheard the previous morning, and I decide to let Claire in on it as soon as the Fat Man is done with us.

Eberts hands out one of his little assignment breakdowns to each of us, and I give it a glance, knowing Hobbes will be the one who assumes responsibility for devising a workable plan. Chances are, we'll be doing a night job with this one, since I'm going to be coming and going on that cargo ship like it was equipped with revolving doors.

"Sir," Monroe looks up from her copy, scowling and ruining the exquisite symmetry of her pretty but pouty little face, "What is my role in this exercise?" she wants to know. She still hasn't gotten over the fact that she didn't replace Hobbes as my partner when she muscled her way into the Agency. According to her files, she's about the hottest of the hot shots the CIA ever trained up. She transferred to us while we were under the auspices of the Department of Health and Human Services. I guess I forgot to mention that we change cover Agencies every other week or so, as a way to mask the Agency's expenditures as well as its existence. She was looking for her infant son, kidnapped from the hospital after she gave birth to him. I still have a hard time believing the woman was ever pregnant. Her figure is sleek and muscled like an athlete's where Claire has some of the softness I like in women. Don't get me wrong, Claire's body is as gorgeous as everything else about her, it's just… more feminine. Part of it is that I don't think it's ever occurred to her that she has to beat a man at his own game. As the proverbial 'brains' of the operation, she can think circles around all of us. Who needs muscle, when you've got an IQ over 150?

"You'll be providing back-up for agents Hobbes and Fawkes," he informs her, clearly ignoring her disapproval. She may have allied herself with the management side of things, but obviously, the Fat Man didn't get the memo. "We need you on the tracking equipment. It's satellite based, so it's going to need someone with your intel background."

She gives him a dirty look that speaks volumes for those of us who've been on the receiving end of her barbed-tongued comments.

"Sir," Claire speaks up. "If you are going to insist on this operation, then I insist that I accompany Agent Fawkes to monitor the effects of such a sustained exposure to quicksilver," she informs him. I know that tone. She's not taking 'no' for an answer.

The Fat Man thinks about arguing with her, but he knows it's a lost battle. The Keeper is first and foremost a doctor. Which means her Hippocratic oath prevents her from knowingly doing a patient harm. And in her mind, letting me wander around the docks of San Diego with a potential quicksilver meltdown in the offing definitely constitutes harm. Not only to me, but to any other human being within five square miles. Eventually he gives the nod, and she relaxes slightly, though the worry in her expression is far from gone.

Some of it looks like it's rubbed off on Bobby, I notice as I give him a glance and find him watching me out of the corner of his eye, frowning slightly. Usually, he doesn't worry over-much about the psychotic monster lurking in my head, despite the fact that it's nearly killed him more than once already. But it sure worries me. This time, though, Claire's outburst has him really thinking about it, and I guess the idea of working that close to the edge is starting to freak him.

"Sir," he opens his mouth, "are you sure this is the only way to approach this particular assignment?" he wants to know. "I mean, Fawkes isn't exactly expendable."

Okay, so I was wrong. Something aches in my chest as his concern penetrates. It's my ass he's worried about, not his own. Gotta love the guy. And I guess I do. I'm closer to him in a lot of ways than I ever was to my brother. It's not that I didn't love my brother, that he didn't love me, we did. But he was always the perfect one. The whiz-kid, the genius, the straight-A student. And I… I was always the fuck-up. The troublemaker. The loser. He was a hard act to follow, so I didn't even try. That's one of the things Hobbes taught me along the way: to not give up. To keep trying. To really do my best. To take responsibility for my actions, and the effect they have on others. Which is why the red-eyed monster in my skull scares me shitless. Bobby doesn't understand just how strong that thing is, just how dangerous. He still thinks I'm in there, somewhere, underneath that raging id. And I guess I am. I just can't control it when that genie gets out of the bottle the counteragent keeps it locked in.

"No one is indispensable," the Fat Man disagrees coldly. "And Agent Fawkes' 'talents' are what brought the ATF to us in the first place. It's a mission they could only accomplish themselves at much greater risk to their agents — and a much lower probability of success. This is war, gentlemen," he gives us the bulldog glower as punctuation, "and we all contribute according to our strengths. This is ours." He leans back in his chair, shorthand for 'this meeting is adjourned', and we all get up and file out of his office, with the exception of Eberts.

"Agent Hobbes, keep me posted on your plans," Monroe says, the implication being that somehow she's suddenly in charge of things.

"Sir, yessir," Hobbes snaps off a salute his old Marine Corps commanders would have been proud of — if they hadn't noticed the sarcasm in his voice, that is. Monroe shoots him one of her withering glares and marches off in the direction of the elevators without a backward glance.

"You shouldn't keep antagonizing her," Claire says half-heartedly.

"Us? Antagonize her?" Hobbes protests, a wounded expression on his face. "How 'come no one's worrying about her antagonizing us?" he complains.

Claire sighs and looks at me as if she expects me to say something. I just grin at her. I'm in agreement with Hobbesy, personally. "Darien, she's trying to help."

"No she isn't, she's trying to run the show," Bobby disagrees. "C'mon, partner, lets go do some research on that tub coming our way," he suggests.

********

Research or not, there's no telling what we're getting into, here in the darkness of the dockside at midnight. The ship, named Hotei, docked around five in the evening, and Hobbes and I've been lurking on the rooftop of the flanking warehouse, watching the routine activities of the longshoremen as they tied her up and started unloading the legal cargo. As dark crept over the wharves like a fog, the regular crews finished up and headed for home, which is where I wish I was. We checked in with the Keeper every hour on the hour until the first sign of renewed activity started, around eleven p.m., and we braced ourselves for the start of a long night.

Claire, in her best black B&E outfit, arrives with three, count 'em, three, back-up syringes of counteragent just as I'm about to do the disappearing act for the first time. I have a satchel-full of miniature tracking devices and a pretty good idea what to do with the things. "Darien, I want you to be careful," she says pointlessly. Being careful is not what this business is all about. "Watch your monitor closely, and when you start feeling any of the preliminary symptoms, get out of there immediately. Am I making myself clear? and under no circumstances am I going to administer more than three doses of counteragent tonight, so pace yourself accordingly. If you can avoid using the gland, do so."

"Yes, mom," I quip, ignoring the temper I see in her eyes. She really is freaked by this, and since she knows the gland better'n anyone, I guess I should be freaked too, but I can't spare the time. I will that chilly silverplate into place and shimmy on down the access ladder to the wharf.

The ship reeks of machine oil, diesel fuel, tar, wet hemp and salt, and 'rust-bucket' is too kind a description. I'm amazed the thing is still afloat. But appearances can be deceiving, I realize as I slink my way down an inside corridor looking for the way to the hold, and pass an open stateroom door. The opulence inside is a complete contrast to the battered and poorly maintained look of the ship from topside. My thieving instincts are fully engaged by the incongruity, and in my younger days, I'd've probably spared time to check it for boostable items. But I guess Hobbes has rubbed off on me, so I leave it be, and find my way down into the darkness of the hold, following the noises of forklifts and winches being brought into play.

There's no avoiding using the gland, I realize, as I find myself unconcealed by anything more than a slight dimness at the edge of the echoing hold. The floodlights around the open hatches overhead shine down like the lights at a sports arena, only it's not a day at the ballpark, by a long shot. The hold is mostly empty, only a few pallets shoved against one wall remaining. A crew operating a pair of forklifts and loaders is moving the pallets and crates away from the bulkhead. It takes fifteen minutes or so until they have them reshuffled into the center of the floor space, and then return to the area they just cleared with pneumatic wrenches and begin unfastening the deck plating.

It doesn't take them long to loosen them, and one of the men signals upward for the cargo winch to be lowered. They use it to lift the heavy metal aside, and then four of them disappear into the gaping cavity in the hold floor. I move in for a better look.

And there it is. Crate after crate of small arms and god knows what else, tied in neat and orderly stacks to the sub-floor. I drop soundlessly into the smuggler's hold and ease my way among the crates towards where the crew is busy strapping the cargo cradle around the first of the crates. I have to do some fancy footwork to get close enough to tag a nearby crate without getting rammed in the ribs by a stray elbow, or stepped on by one of several sets of steel-toed work boots. At this rate, it's gonna take them a while to unload. Fortunately, it shouldn't take me anywhere near that long to trick out the crates with their little electronic flags. I start in the area closest to the cursing work crew, wondering what they're saying. It sounds Chinese, but I can't tell if it's Mandarin or Cantonese, not that it matters. I attach the little devices to the base of each crate below the bottom cleat that holds the sides together, letting that strip of wood offer what concealment it can for them. The one they were loading I'll have to tag on my way out of the hold, since there's no way I can get close to it with them swarming all around it. Instead I circle the center of the activity, tucking the little locators against each of the crates, working fast but carefully, as I spiral out into the darkness to avoid the pool of illumination provided by the spotlights so far overhead.

The pain that slams into my brain from the base of my skull catches me by surprise, and I nearly black out with the strength of it. Aw, crap. I'm too close to the limit, here. I have maybe five minutes to get clear before the demon in my head makes his appearance and all hell breaks loose. I scramble out of the sub-hold, grateful that the noise of their equipment is loud enough to cover any sound I make doing it, and take off for the passageways that brought me here to start with, dropping the invisibility act as soon as I clear the first door. I reacquire it briefly to get off the ship and into the shadows alongside the warehouse, where a panicking Claire meets me with my first injection of the night, a jab to the base of my neck that hurts like blue blazes. Hobbes has hold of me to prevent the convulsions triggered by the counteragent as it hits my bloodstream from sending me collapsing to the ground. I'm grateful for the strength in that compact body of his as I slump against him, like some wilting vine against a stone wall.

"Bloody hell, Darien," Claire says, her voice shaking. "I told you to be careful! You cannot leave it that long, and you know it! The risk of the madness is just too great!"

The icy-hot rush of the counteragent starts to dim as the shrieking demon in my brain is once more stuffed back down into the subconscious where it belongs, and I straighten. It's another second or two before Bobby lets go of me, and I can tell how worried he is. "You okay, there, kid?" he asks while Claire fusses with her medical kit, putting away the empty syringe.

"Yeah, just a little slow in getting off the damned boat," I say with forced lightness.

"It's a ship, Fawkes," he corrects me with a grin, the banter reassuring him that all is well, at least for the moment.

"Ship, boat, at least I didn't miss it completely," I whisper. I'm starting to feel better, and I take a deep breath of the damp, salty air as things stabilize inside me. "They've got themselves a whole second hold under the deck of the main one," I tell him, reporting the way he's taught me to. "Looked to me like there was something in the neighborhood of four or five dozen crates in there, along with some other stuff I didn't have a chance to get a look at. I tagged about a third of them, I think."

"Looks like you'll have just enough blue juice to finish the job, then," Hobbes says softly. "Just don't cut it so close, next time. Got it?" The command is gruff, but I can hear the worry back in his voice. "Don't kill yourself. This isn't worth it."

I flash him a cocky grin and he reaches up to rearrange my hair, ruffling it. "They'll have to do the killing Bobby," I assure him as I slip away from them, back towards the Hotei and her deadly cargo.

Round two goes about the same way, except I don't push it quite as close to the edge this time, and make it back with some time to spare. The only fly in the ointment is the fact that I have to 'fess up to having underestimated the number of crates by a goodly amount, which means we're gonna be pushing our luck to get them all marked before I run out of time, and we still have to allow time to get back to the Agency.

Round three goes without a hitch, from my perspective, though I can tell the counteragent isn't lasting as long as usual. I don't mention it, knowing Claire'll pull the plug on things if she has any idea. She gives me the third injection in my arm, since it disperses more slowly that way, and with less pain. The third shot of counteragent was supposed to be the one that'd set me up, post-mission, but it looks like I'm going to be making a dent in it in order to finish the job. Claire is NOT happy about it.

"I don't like this at all, Darien," she says in her lilting whisper, as though I'd done it on purpose or something. "Giving you three injections is bad enough, but I have no idea how you're going to react to a fourth!"

"It's not like we have a lotta options, here, Keepie," I point out, not wanting to argue with her here, now, with the clock ticking.

"You're wrong, Darien. We have the option of leaving this as is. We're playing Russian roulette with your sanity!" she contradicts.

The conversation I eavesdropped on in the Official's office flashes through my head. "No. We can't not finish this," I object. Not finishing it means risking everything that's started to mean something to me in the past two years — my career as an agent, my place in the world, and most of all, my partnership with Hobbes. If we don't finish this, it may be all the ammunition 'they' need to shut us down.

"Fawkes," Hobbes starts, and I know what he's going to say. He's gonna go all noble and self-sacrificing on me, the little prick, and I don't want to hear it.

"Gotta run," I interrupt, letting the cool second skin of quicksilver slide over my body like a wetsuit. I can hear Hobbes hissing after me in the dark as I jog back towards the ship and her cargo, calling my name, anger and frustration plain as day in his voice. Too bad. I'm not going to settle for hoping things will work themselves out. Not and risk losing everything. Granted, it's not much, but it's more than I expected to have, after they put the gland in my head. After Kevin put the gland in my head. My brother, who then got himself killed, trying to protect me — and it — leaving me stuck in a new life I never wanted. Only now I do. More than I've wanted anything in a long time. I spend the time it takes me to finish up tagging the crates thinking about the way things turn out better than you have any reason to expect, sometimes. It's not that I wouldn't have the gland taken out of my head in a second, if it was possible to do it without killing me, but I'm thinking I'd miss the things having it in there've brought along with the deal, like Hobbes. And Claire. And having a chance to do something a little more meaningful with my life than ripping people off. Kevin, well, Kevin's… ghost… once said he was of the opinion that the gland made me a better man, and that I still had things to learn about myself, about other people, and all that philosophical crap. It doesn't keep it from hurting that he might have had at least some clue how to get the thing out, and refused to do it, but maybe, sometimes, I kinda see why he did what he did. And in the meantime, Claire's still working on it, and I have Hobbes to keep me outta trouble.

Maybe it's because my thoughts are elsewhere that it takes me so long to notice the row of massive crates along the outer bulkhead, farthest from the opening to the hold above, lost in the shadows. I've let the quicksilver go, trusting those shadows to hide me at least as well as invisibility could and creep over between the stacked crates towards the big ones, not particularly concerned. But when I finally make out the designation stenciled on the sides, my heart rate kicks up another notch. Surface-to-air missiles, also known as stingers, are a whole different league than a bunch of crapola handguns that're at least as likely to kill the person using them as they are the person they're aimed at. Stingers are without a doubt military. And that changes the slant on this whole gig totally. All of a sudden it's starting to look like there may be some sort of connection to terrorism on home turf that we could never have predicted based on what we were told. I can just about guarantee that the ATF would never have handed it off to us if they'd had any clue US military hardware would be aboard. I pull out my Leatherman and work loose the top to the crate as quietly as I can, knowing that this is something I'm gonna have to be able to corroborate. Seeing is believing, so they say, and there it is, that olive-drab bit of nastiness, lying in it's molded foam cradle, a half dozen missiles nestled in their little alcove at one end of the crate. I tuck one of the locators inside the launch tube of the stinger and put the lid back in place and screw it down, my hands shaking a little.

When it's tight, I take a look at the tattoo on the inside of my right wrist, shaped like an ourobros, to check on how we're doing in the quicksilver department. The segments of the snake change color from green to red, one at a time, kind of like degrees on a thermometer. When they're all red, so are my eyes, and sanity is out the window. I start feeling the effects of the buildup about the time the red hits the seventh segment. We're okay at the moment, but I'm going to need another dose as soon as I get back to the agency, and Claire has already headed back to the ranch to make sure the bacon's sizzling and the flapjacks are cooking, so my breakfast of champions can be served up lickity split. Hobbes is waiting out there for me, and I know he's watching the clock. I figure I'd better hustle, so I tag the rest of the stinger crates, wondering if the other crates are as relatively harmless as rumor would have them.

I can't let it rest, so I take the little Leatherman and work it under the top edge of the nearest one, prying up the lid, careful to time it so the squeak of nails tearing loose from the wood is covered by the noise of the winch lifting it's load out of the smuggler's hold. I grope my way through the shredded wood that packs the crate until I feel the cold of metal, chilly even through the quicksilver on my fingers. I feel along it, and it doesn't take more than a second for me to realize it sure as hell is bigger than a Saturday night special. Hell, it's bigger than a breadbox. I slide my hand along the length of it, confirming it is what I think it is. High-powered military rifles, in this case, probably M-16s, have been in use for decades. There's probably thousands of the things scattered throughout southeast Asia, little souvenirs from Vietnam. Hell, they're all over Afghanistan, too, I bet. And now someone is returning them to where they came from. And not for any reason designed to let the average citizen sleep well at night. Oh crap-crap-crap-CRAP. This is not good. Not good at all.

The clang of the winch chain against the edge of the smuggler's hold covers the noise I make forcing the nails back into the crate to resecure the lid, and I can feel the first twinge of muscles in the back of my neck starting to clench as the sixth segment goes red. I've got about five minutes before I'm in trouble again, at full invisibility, a good bit longer if I can drop the act soon. It's time to get the hell outta Dodge, and I've just about run out of tracking bugs, so I hoist myself out of the secret hold for the last time and head back ashore to my waiting partner.

Only, he's not where I left him.

********

"Fawkesy? Buddy, can you hear me?" Hobbes' voice isn't loud, but the concern penetrates. He's worried. About me?

"C'mon now, Fawkes, you're scaring me. Wake up."

Okay, we've established what's scaring him, so that makes it my turn to talk. That turns out to be the hard part. "I kin hear you, I kin hear you," I mutter, my own voice sounding strange even to my ears.

"Then open your eyes."

I try, just for a minute. Not a good idea. A flashlight beam stabs through my skull like sabers. Closing my eyes again, I assess the situation by feel. I'm lying on the oily asphalt of the San Diego wharves, the smell of diesel and salt clogging my nose.

It takes another few seconds before I can remember what happened. Why I'm measuring my length on the ground. Hobbes was about to get brained by one of the crew unloading the Hotei's cargo. I guess the guy must've gone around to the shadowy side of the warehouse Bobby was hiding near, seen my partner, and gone after him with a crowbar. I saw him before Bobby did, and crashed into Hobbes, pushing him hard enough to knock him down and out of the way of the swing. The swing that then conked me on the head. In retrospect, probably not the smartest move in the world. But yelling wasn't much of a choice, either.

The crowbar must have hit me just above the scar my brother made when he inserted the gland and a little to the left of the one I made when I was eight and fell off the roof. Crap, big time.

I'm not just seeing stars, here, I'm seeing comets collide, super novas exploding and the whole fuckin' big bang theory. Thus Spake Zarathustra resounds triumphantly in my head, played entirely by a brass and percussion orchestra. I try opening my eyes again. This time, Bobby isn't shining the light in them, which at least makes it possible to keep them open, sort of.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Bobby asks, waving his whole hand in front of my face.

"Five," I answer, showing off my prowess with primary numbers with some effort. "How long was I out?"

"Too long." Bobby tugs on my arm to get me into a sitting position. It is definitely not an improvement on my situation. "You were see-through, and then wham, that schatz missed me with the crowbar and laid you out. I tripped over you tryin' to catch up with him."

"He's gone?" I ask, worried, and wondering why the hue and cry hasn't been raised.

Hobbes grins. "Bobby Hobbes always gets his man," he says, gesturing towards the deepest part of the shadows that conceal us. I turn my head to see a still figure sprawled in an ungainly heap not far away, and regret moving instantly. Bobby's voice is buzzing in my ears like a bee, and I'm beyond concentrating enough to understand what he's going on about. My head pounds harder and my stomach decides it no longer wants to keep the double cheeseburger, large fries and supersized coke I'd had for dinner. Bobby manages to leap out of the way to avoid getting the mess on his shoes.

"Geeze, Fawkes," he wrinkles his nose in disgust. "C'mon. The Keep needs to look at that head of yours. You got a lump on it the size of Mount Rushmore."

"Just as long as he didn't carve George Dubya on it," I try for levity, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my shirt.

Bobby ignores the quip, pulling one of my arms over his shoulders and hoisting me to my feet. "You're gonna haf'ta walk back to the van under your own steam, my friend, 'cuz there's no way I can carry you."

That's the understatement of the year. I top off at about six three in my stocking feet, and Bobby's like five foot six, in shoes. Somehow he manages to get me moving in the right direction, but I'm leaning heavily on Hobbes' willing shoulder. We must look like Laurel and Hardy doing some comic, swaying, drunken gag, staggering to and fro as we head for the van parked around the front of the building. When we reach it, Hobbes just about dumps me into it, panting audibly.

I groan. "You know we can't just leave that guy lying there," I say, having thought about it on the lengthy walk here. "As soon as he wakes up, he's gonna tell whoever's running the show that there was a little guy snooping around the docks, and their security is gonna go over things with a fine tooth comb. We're screwed if they find those tracking devices," I remind him, then remember what is was that sent me back out of that ship just in time to get my skull busted open. "We have to find out where those things are headed, Hobbes. Those crates aren't full of cheap handguns, they're packed with military hardware. And there's a half-dozen stinger missiles for dessert." The non-light that filters into the van's interior as Bobby lifts my legs inside, pausing to stare at me, is enough to show me that the color has drained out of his face, leaving him as pale as a two-day-old corpse.

"Aw, crap," he breathes. "Okay, we gotta get the hell outta here," he says, more to himself than me, and slams the door shut on me, the noise loud in my aching brain. He starts the van and coasts quietly back along the side of the building we just staggered our way around, and stops at the corner. He opens the side door again, and I roll onto my side to watch him skulk over to the unconscious dude on the ground, hoist him up into a fireman's carry, and haul his ass back to the van. I slide to one side barely in time to avoid having the guy dumped on top of me, and the door is shut on me again, this time quietly, not really latched securely, but good enough until we put some distance between us and this place.

I lie there on my back, head turned to avoid resting on the swelling lump at the back of my skull. It gives me a chance to watch Hobbes, who's muttering under his breath in a running monologue that tells me the pressure is getting to him. He only does his 'hearing voices' thing, carrying on two-sided conversations with the demons he lives with when the meds are wearing off. Just great. I'm a few minutes, tops, from quicksilver madness, and my partner didn't time his medication properly.

"Now, you ain't gonna go all QSM on me back there, are you?" he asks, worried while I try to find a comfortable position. "I hate it when your eyes go all red while I'm drivin' on the freeway," Hobbes is still speaking, but I'm not paying a lot of attention. My stomach is in full rebellion mode and I don't trust it for a second not to make another unpleasant delivery.

"Hobbes, I won't have the energy to do any damage even if I did," I promise, trying to peer at the tattoo on my right wrist. Unfortunately, it's too dark to see easily, and it's really hard to focus on anything with the entire cast of Stomp performing their routines in my head.

Maybe two sections left, tops. Under the pounding headache from the crowbar, I can feel the dark pain of quicksilver madness gathering forces. It's like two invading armies trying to gnaw pieces out of my brain using pick axes to break holes in my skull. Squeezing my eyes shut against the agony, I huddle in a fetal position, bracing myself against the unconscious body next to me, feeling every bump and pothole Golda's wheels encounter like another swing of the ax.

I can hear the seductive voice of the madness like a siren call, the red malevolent power seeping into my veins, trying to undermine my control, even with this mind-fucking headache. I can't afford to lose the upper hand. Never again. Not after the madness went platinum the one time. Now, that was definitely a one hit wonder. We're ditching that sucker off the playlist, and going for a catchy little tune called 'Darien gets his counteragent'. Maybe it doesn't have much of a beat, but I like it.

In order to keep the reins on the QSM, I have to let other things slide. Like time. One minute I'm curled up in the van, the next I'm walking down the halls of the agency. Or more correctly, being dragged down the hall between Hobbes and Eberts. I try helping, but my feet have gone on strike for the night, and aren't working. It's like there's been no elapsed time between the two events — I'm in the car, then I'm in the hall. Time skipping past like a rock across a lake.

The Keep is dark and cool, a safe cave, and for once I don't care how uncomfortable that damn dentist's chair is. It's home plate. I just have to make it across the floor, which seems to have expanded to football field length.

"C'mon, Fawkesy, just a little further." Hobbes keeps up an encouraging chant the whole way, with Eberts chiming in enthusiastic platitudes every few steps.

"Oh, my god, what happened?" Claire's voice. Both elegant and earthy, sexy even when it's pitched high with concern. She lays her cool hands on my arm, finding the vein quickly and sliding in that horse needle. For once I don't even flinch.

Relief. The familiar, burning rush of counteragent courses roughshod through my body. It's aggressive, fighting off the madness, and it hurts. A good hurt, 'cuz now I have one less thing to worry about. The numbing peace that comes after the seizures always leaves me lethargic, wasted, for a short while.

The counteragent revitalizes the tattoo, but it does nothing for the crowbar headache. That old friend, and I use the term loosely, is still hard at work with a jackhammer on the inside of my skull. The little coiled snake is nice and green on the inside of my wrist. Not that I can see it that well, my vision fading in and out like a light bulb with faulty wiring. But the madness is back in its cage.

Claire catches me off guard, shining a flashlight in both eyes. Red rockets explode behind the retinas, shooting sparks of pain across all my synapses. My brain feels like a blown transformer.

Crap, crap, crap. I snap my eyes shut against her intrusions, "No more, Claire. Can't you give me something for the pain? My head's gonna fall off."

"What the hell happened?" she demands, and I can hear Bobby shuffle his feet like a kid being yelled at by mom.

"Uh, well, see," he mumbles.

"Eberts, take a couple of men and go get the guy you'll find in the back of the van," I interrupt, eyes still closed. "He was trying to clock Bobby. I stopped him."

"With your head!?" Claire exclaims.

"You're always telling me I don't use it for anything," I try teasing her, struggling to ignore the nausea backing up my throat again.

"Darien, you've got a concussion at the very least," she snaps, unamused. I wonder if she's aware she's running a hand up and down my forearm, leaving a cool path along my skin. Claire's hands are always cool, even on the hottest day.

"The fat man's not gonna like that," Hobbes observes unhappily. Thanks, Bobby, for stating the obvious.

I can't see him, but I knew he's jittery, restless and twitchy. Hobbes obsesses about everyone and everything, but I guess I give him the most material for obsessing. The first time I met him, I never thought we'd work it out. Some time in the last year, though, we meshed, synched together like a pair of watches. Oh, yeah, there are times he drives me up a wall with his neuroses and I know I piss him off royally, but at the end of the day, he's my partner, and I'm glad.

"Bobby, I got my meds. Did you take yours?" I ask, leaning my head back against the padded upright of the chair, then wincing when I bump the bump.

"Well, I guess your sense of humor wasn't damaged," he grouses, but I know the banter cools him out, take the edge off. "You shouldn't have gotten between me and that yotz with the crowbar."

"I think it's a little late for that advice," I answer.

"I think our best bet is to go to Fort Levitt. They've got an MRI and the right security clearance." Claire's thinking out loud.

"Okay, point here, not that I usually like to agree with Hobbes, but -"

"I heard that!" he rebukes.

"- I know the 'Fish isn't gonna like this," I continue. Talking is like walking across broken glass, each word like forcing daggers into my own brain, but I can't just sit there quietly. It's not in my nature. "Fort Levitt is on his shit list after my last visit."

Claire glances at me, and a little frown of worry gathers between her brows. "Darien, you look terrible," she fusses. "I'll give you a half dose of morphine. It should take the edge off until we know what we're dealing with."

"Oh, good. You got another long needle? 'Cuz those are the best ones." Sarcasm, just one of the many services I provide, even blind with pain. She ties one of her little rubber hoses around my bicep again, and slides another needle in while I'm mouthing off, the point biting deep into my vein. The morphine hits with an almost orgasmic high. It isn't perfect but it's better than before. For about a second.

Cautiously I open my eyes again, only to see a shivery silver monochromatic world. I don't feel like I've quicksilvered. Am I visible? Claire and Bobby are peering at me, their expressions almost comically identical. Concern, confusion… either they can see me, or I'm invisible and they just know I'm still sitting on the exam chair. Either way something's way off kilter.

"Darien?" Claire gasps.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes says at the same time. "You okay, buddy?"

Oh, crap. This is bad.

"The x-ray is inconclusive, but it appears he has a hairline fracture along the occipital suture at the back of his skull. We really need an MRI to determine what sort of soft tissue damage there is."

Claire is standing beside the gurney I'm lying on, her hand on my shoulder in an unconscious sign of protectiveness. I guess this is marginally more comfortable than the dentist's chair where she administers my medications, or it might be, if I didn't hurt so bad I want to rip my own head off. She's trying to make a case to the Official that she needs to be allowed to take me to a security-cleared hospital for more extensive poking and prodding. All I want is for someone to turn out the lights that are beating down on me with all the brilliance of a desert sun. And to maybe turn the lights out on me permanently, while they're at it.

"Is there any damage to the gland?" the Fat Man asks. I can hear the worry under his usual brusque tone. I don't even care, right now, if it's for the stupid gland, or for the stupid lab rat carrying it around in this shattered-eggshell skull of mine. I'll lay odds it isn't for me.

"That's why we need the MRI, sir. There's no way for x-ray imaging to give us the sort of detail necessary to find out what's going on in there. And Darien is in a tremendous amount of pain. He has a concussion, possibly worse, and we need to get some anti-inflammatories into his bloodstream to keep things from swelling up."

"So why haven't 'we'?" he wants to know, impatient with her. I want to slug him.

"Because he's… having a reaction… to the morphine I gave him half an hour ago," she admits, unwillingly.

"Reaction? What kind of reaction?" he demands. "He looks fine."

Fine. I'm lying here with my brain leaking out my ears, and he says I look fine.

"Well he didn't when I gave him the morphine," Claire snaps. "He — I've never seen the quicksilver look like that," she flounders. "It was as if it completely escaped conscious volition for several minutes. He looked… he looked like a reflection in a pond that someone's thrown a stone into," she says, groping for a description. From what she and Hobbes both said when it happened, it must have been weirder'n hell. It was plenty weird from the inside, too, let me tell you.

"So give him an aspirin," the boss snarls and I can hear the soft sound of Bobby shifting into fighting stance.

"No, sir. We are going to take him to Fort Levitt, sir. For a thorough assessment." Claire's voice is uncompromising, and I open one eye a slit to look at her. She's never failed to back down in the face of one of the Fat Man's vicious little orders, but she's not doing it now. She's defending me. And Bobby is at her back, a good four inches shorter than she is, looking like he'll back her against bin Laden himself, if it comes to it. Friends. It's a strange feeling to know they're willing to risk their careers with the Agency. For me.

He glares at her for a long minute, and then snarls wordlessly with an almost obscene hand gesture. "Alright! Take him. Hobbes, I don't want you to let him out of your sight, this time. You're going to hold his hand through every procedure the good doctor puts him through. Got it? He gets his temperature taken, you hold the thermometer."

Oh, that paints a pretty picture in my aching head. But Bobby nods firmly, never moving from Claire's side. "He won't leave my sight, sir," he confirms.

I'm not really all there for the interminable van ride to Fort Levitt. Hobbes strapped the gurney into the back of Golda and drove like a maniac, Claire hanging on for dear life, and I just kind of let it all slip away. At least until they unloaded me at the hospital and wheeled me inside. I guess Eberts must have called ahead with authorization and stuff, because they're waiting for us when Bobby pushes me into the room housing the MRI chamber.

The next three hours are bearable only because I'm lying down and I don't have to do anything else. I'm fading in and out, pretty much ignoring everything, and amazingly, I'm feeling better. You know how there're times when you've been hurting for so long, you kind of forget what it feels like not too? Maybe the morphine is finally working. Or wearing off. I guess we won't be trying that again, anytime soon, anyway…

Hobbes has been holding an icepack to the back of my head for most of the last hour, an effort to make himself useful and stay out of the technician's way while they adjust, and scan, and reposition and scan again.

Claire is busy hanging over the technician who's calibrating the images on his computer screen, ignoring the initial exclamations when the first cross-sections of the gland in my head came up. She's keeping up a running commentary, most of it medicalese, and consequently gibberish to me, but the Reader's Digest version is that I cracked my skull on that damned crowbar, and my brain is swelling up like a sponge in water. She can't tell if there's anything specifically wrong with the gland, beyond being squashed even tighter in the already limited space between my ears. But the worry in her voice isn't doing much for the nausea, and I can see it's got Hobbes brooding, too.

Finally we're finished with the MRI and Hobbes wheels me out into the hallway, while Claire hustles off to make arrangements to have me admitted for an overnight stay. I can't say I'm sorry to not have to suffer through another 'Mr Toad's Wild Ride' type trip home with Hobbes at the wheel, so I close my eyes against the glare of the hall lights and let myself drift off again, the relentless throbbing in my head fading mercifully.

*********

"Fawkes." I hear Hobbes' voice from what sounds like the bottom of a well. "Fawkes, buddy, wake up. C'mon, kid, open those baby browns of yours."

The urgency startles me and I struggle with the weights that seem to be attached to my eyelids. "Whazza guy gotta do to get some sleep in this place?" I mumble, my mouth as fuzzy as the lint-catcher in a dryer. I feel hung-over, like I've been on a week-long bender and spent most of that time on the floor of some dive bar. Licking it.

"Fawkes, you gotta get up, man. C'mon, let's get you on your feet. Upsy-daisy," he encourages as if I was a cranky preschooler.

Hell if I'm going anywhere under my own steam, I decide, and lie there like I've been super-glued to the uncomfortable bed I'm in. Hobbes may be strong, but with my lanky build, I have the advantage of leverage. No way he's moving me if I don't want to be moved. And right now, all I want to do is sleep.

"Fawkes, dammit," he hisses, and it finally occurs to me to wonder why he's whispering.

I open my eyes, and the room is pitch black except for the dim glow of whatever monitor light it is they have me hooked up to. I can see the faint gleam of the almost nonexistent light in Hobbes' eyes as he scans my hospital room like a cornered animal looking for an escape route. "What's going on?" I ask, the words so blurry I wonder if he can understand me.

"We got company, my friend, and it's way past visiting hours," he tells me as he peels up the tape on my arm that's holding an IV line in place. With one smooth move, he has his thumb over the spot where the needle penetrates the skin, and has pulled it out, no fuss, no muss, none of his usual squeamishness in sight.

"Hobbes -" I start, protesting as he drags one of my arms over his shoulders and gets me upright in bed, then grabs my legs and drops them onto the floor. It's freaking cold, that damned linoleum, and I lift my feet back off the ground with a groan. "What the hell is going on?" I demand, refusing to let him haul me off the bed and onto my feet. The world is dipping and weaving, and I feel like I'm going to pass out again, so I swallow repeatedly to try to keep nausea at bay.

"For a high clearance establishment, this place leaks worse than the Titanic," he grunts, wrapping an arm around my waist and bodily dragging my ass out of bed. I feel the chill of the night wafting in through the back of the stupid hospital gown, and I wonder just how many times I've been bare-assed in hospital corridors in the last two years.

"Hobbes," I repeat, hoping for something at least remotely resembling an explanation. "Would you just tell me what's going on?"

"I've been standing watch since you zonked out two hours ago, kid, and about three minutes ago, I heard someone outside in the hall. I'm not taking any chances with you this time Fawkes, so lets get a move on, okay?"

"What makes you so sure it wasn't the night nurse or something?" I complain as I stumble across the floor under Hobbes' guidance.

"What, you think Bobby Hobbes is some kind of moron or something? The shift change is still an hour away, and the 5 am visit from the vampires who did a blood draw on you has already happened. They were trying the door, Fawkes. I locked it after the phlebotomist, and no one should be trying to get in till seven am."

"But-" I protest, letting him prop me against the wall as he pulls his gun and opens the door a crack to peer out into the corridor outside.

"Shh," he breathes, and I see his finger tighten on the trigger. He opens the door a little wider and sticks his head out, fast, then pulls it back in like a bald turtle. "Okay, they've moved on, whoever they are. We're getting you outta here, and back to the Keeper where you belong. I told her it was a bad idea to check you into this place," he rambles as he pushes open the door, then reaches back for me and drags me out into the hall. It's everything I can do to keep my feet under me and I stagger after him, one hand on the wall to hold myself up. We reach a junction in the corridor and he holds up a hand to get me to wait while he checks it out, sticking his head around the corner to take a look. I lean up against his back and peer out over the top of his head. There's a nurses station and a clear shot to the elevators, if you don't count the three men in dark suits who look like strays from some Secret Service convention who're standing in front of the counter giving the hapless charge nurse a bad time. I can't hear what they're saying over the pounding in my head, but whatever it is, it probably means trouble for Hobbes and me.

"Crap," Hobbes mutters under his breath and he steps back away from the corner and muscles me back down the hall the way we came towards the stairwell, whose 'exit' sign beckons tantalizingly at the opposite end of the corridor. "Sorry, kid, we're gonna have to do this the hard way," he apologizes and we slip through the door and down the stairs. It's only because Bobby is in front of me that I don't take a header down the concrete steps at least a half dozen times on our way to the ground floor.

Unfortunately for us, there's no direct route to the outside of the building except through the main entrance, and me in my oh-so-fashionable hospital togs flashing my hienie at the few early birds arriving for the shift change in twenty minutes is a fast way to generate a lot of unwanted interest. Hobbes is busy scoping it out and I just wait, breathing through my mouth in little gulps. "You're never gonna get me outta here without bringing security running after us with me looking like this," I tell him.

"Would you just shut up a minute and let me try to figure this out, huh? Will you?" he glares at me and goes back to peering out the cracked open door at the front lobby we have to get through somehow.

There are two options right now: go back upstairs and go back to bed, or put on the invisibility cloak and waltz on out the door. As things stand at the moment, my vote'd have to go for bed. I sigh and do my thing, and oh, crap, Houston, we have a problem. The ground tilts and I fall forward, unable to stand up. Given that this is California, for about a microsecond, I wonder if we're having an earthquake. Seeing Hobbes still standing, spinning around to stare at the place I was last, tells me it's no such luck.

It's me. My equilibrium is seriously shot. I let the quicksilver flake off, and magically, the ground goes back to where it's supposed to be. With me sprawled on it. Hobbes is looking down at me, real concern in his face as he kneels and lifts me up, an arm around my back, supporting me.

"Man, are you alright? You did that weird lava lamp thing again, and then you disappeared."

I blink at him. "What sort of meds did they put me on, any way?" I want to know as I let him help me to my feet.

"I didn't exactly take an inventory, pal," he retorts, tugging my gown back in place over my back. "So what happened?"

"I quicksilver, and I fall down," I state the obvious. "Looks like the only way I'm getting out of here is in plain sight."

Hobbes massages his chin for a second as he thinks about it, and I can see his devious little mind working. "Okay, wait here," he orders, and steps out the door, leaving me with my assets exposed in the chilly stairwell.

He's back within five minutes, and when he sticks a hand back into the stairwell, giving me the 'come hither' hand wave, I slip out to find him at the head of a gurney.

"Okay, all aboard that's coming aboard," he jokes as he gives me a hand. "Just lie down and disappear, kid, and I'll roll you right out the door."

I'm all for anything that gets me horizontal, and I lie back with relief, closing my eyes as I will the quicksilver into place. The world goes back to spinning off its axis as I feel Bobby shove me rapidly toward the emergency room doors. For a change, luck is with us, and we make it to the parking lot without raising the alarm, but the invisibility thing has got to go. I roll over and retch over the side of the gurney just as Hobbes pulls to a stop behind Golda, coughing up my guts in response to the vertigo that the gland seems to be producing at the moment. I ignore Bobby's disgust, since there's nothing I can do about it, and concentrate on trying to damp down the nausea.

"Geeze, kid, you making a habit of ralphing on me, now?" he bitches as he opens the side door and shoves the gurney against the van. I don't bother to answer, rolling off into the van, landing on my side on the floor with a thump that rattles my teeth. It's cold, lying on the metal floor in nothing more than a thin cotton smock, and I'm shivering by the time Hobbes climbs into the driver's seat and starts her up.

"You mind turning on the heat, there, Hobbesy?" I manage through chattering teeth, and he glances back at me as he turns it on full blast, aiming all the central vents straight back at me. The engine is cold, so it's not till we hit the freeway heading back into San Diego that it starts to warm up appreciably, and I'm shivering hard enough to shake loose whatever brains I have left.

"How you doin' back there, kid?" Hobbes asks as we pick up speed.

"Oh, just dandy, if you don't count the fact that I'm freezing to death," I chatter.

"This is San Diego. Dying of exposure is a long shot, pal," he tells me, a noticeable lack of sympathy in his tone.

"Yeah, well, you try lying on a metal slab in nothing more than your altogether, and then you're entitled to an opinion, partner," I answer as sharply as I can manage. "Besides, it's the middle of October."

"Oh, crap," I hear Bobby mumble and Golda swerves wildly as he heads for an off ramp he was almost past. "We got company, Fawkes," he warns me as I force myself to my knees and crawl up front to take the passenger seat, grabbing for the hand-hold to keep from ending up back on the floor. I belt myself in and peer out the side window at the mirror, catching sight of a nondescript government-type sedan roaring up the off ramp after us.

"They're still on you," I inform Hobbes, who runs a stop sign and guns Golda down the incline that leads back onto the freeway again. "What was that — the scenic route?" I ask sarcastically as we merge back into the early morning commute traffic. The sedan is still following us, and Hobbes puts the old van through her paces, weaving in and out of the other traffic like a stunt driver. "Who are those guys?" I ask Hobbes, watching them ride our tail like a CHP motorcycle cop.

"Now we're playin' Butch and Sundance?" Hobbes quips, and I shoot him a glare. "Fibbies, maybe, or Company dudes," he answers the question.

It takes me a moment to translate that into English. "Why'd the FBI be coming after us?" I want to know.

"Same reason the CIA would," Hobbes points out. You're an underutilized resource in their minds, and therefore fair game. We get to the Agency before them, and we shut you up in the Keep till they get the message that you're ours."

Oh, lovely. House arrest? So I can keep from being recruited against my will? I can hardly wait. "I hate to mention this, but I'm useless at the moment, what with the gland being on the fritz and all. Can't we pass the word on to them and convince them to pick on someone their own size?"

"You wanna dial 'em up, be my guest, Fawkesy," he says snidely. "But I'd suggest letting Eberts and the Fat Man have the pleasure of rolling out the red tape when we get back."

Yeah, whatever, I think as I go back to watching the sedan trailing after us like Hale Bop's tail. "How come they haven't called in the reinforcements?" I ask.

"Too early to say they haven't, my friend," Hobbes replies as he swerves off the freeway again onto the off ramp that'll take us downtown, and back to the Agency.

As if the question summoned the answer, three more sedans appear along side, jockeying for position. It's a good thing it's still only six thirty in the morning, because otherwise we'd be caught in the commute gridlock that congests the center of the city every morning. On the other hand, it's making it impossible for Bobby to shake them, and we're barely half a block in front of them when we reach the Agency parking garage and come to a screeching halt. Hobbes has his cell out, calling for reinforcements as I unbelt myself, stumbling out of the van almost before Hobbes brings it to a complete stop.

The four sedans that were behind us ring Golda like jackals around a wildebeest, coming to smoking stops as suited men pile out of them, guns pointed at me and Hobbes. Bobby, his own gun in hand, carefully lifts his fingers away from the grip and trigger, raising his hands slowly, and I struggle to keep my feet, standing, swaying, about ten feet closer to the elevator than Hobbes.

"You know the drill, Agent Hobbes," one of them says. I'd swear they were clones, they look so much alike, same suits, same dark glasses, same short haircuts, same overly muscled bodies.

"Well what're my partner and I supposed to think, huh? With you boys comin' after us like we were Bonny and Clyde after their last big job," he smirks at the man in charge with that patented Hobbes grin, all bluff, designed to buy us time.

"Why did you remove Agent Fawkes from the hospital?" the guy asks, his gun never wavering from it's bead on Bobby.

Bobby shrugs, the grin never faltering, as if to say, 'aw, you know how it is,' and eyes the lead dog speculatively. "Call me paranoid, but I was getting the feeling my partner wasn't

exactly safe at Fort Levitt. Know what I mean?" The not-so-subtle emphasis on the words 'my partner' isn't lost on me, and I watch Hobbes, wondering what's got him sounding so proprietary all of a sudden.

"We were there to protect Agent Fawkes," the big guy says, the gun still pointing at Hobbes. "Releasing him against medical advice wasn't exactly in his best interests, you have to admit."

Bobby snorts, his opinion of that theory pretty clear. "And letting you and your goons spirit him off to Langley or wherever is?" He eyes the man with that condescension only Hobbes can muster, and keeps on going. "You must think I'm a moron or something."

"Or something," the guy agrees cynically, and I pray Hobbes can keep his temper for a few more seconds as I notice the elevator floor indicator dropping towards 'B'. We'll have Agency backup in a heartbeat, and if Bobby can just hold them off that long, we might get out of this yet.

"Listen bub, you and your federal dicks come after us, what're we supposed to think, huh? Fawkes is banged up in the line of duty and when we take him to a security cleared facility, a bunch'a suits start haunting the hallways. You could be anybody. I wanna see your IDs. All of you."

Oooh, good move, Hobbesy, I give him a mental high-five. Playing the indignant victim of a misunderstanding here is a perfect delaying tactic. Big Dog recognizes it for what it is, and scowls, but what's he gonna do? At least, if he's legit, anyway. Annoyance in every movement, he reaches into a breast pocket and fishes out the credentials, flipping open the leather to reveal the ID.

"CIA," Hobbes says for my benefit, since I can't see the ID from where I'm standing. "Didn't you bother reading your Agency charter? You guys have no jurisdiction inside the country."

"We do when national security is at stake," Big Dog snarls, flipping the ID shut again and returning it to the pocket he got it from, and gesturing to his cohorts to move in on us.

And the elevator opens behind us, the Fat Man himself aboard, Glock in his beefy paw, surrounded by Eberts and a half dozen of the finest Agency muscle. They flow out of it like a commando squad. Big Dog's boys turn to face the new arrivals and it looks like a Mexican standoff is about to get under way when Hobbes nudges me in the ribs and jerks his head towards the elevator and the illusion of safety it represents. It takes a second before I figure out that he wants me to do the see-through thing and get my butt the hell outta there. "Hobbes, I can't walk that way," I remind him in the barest whisper.

"Just do it," he mouths silently. So I do. And he catches me before I can land on my face on the parking garage floor, dragging me bodily the ten feet to the elevator, our team parting to let him through as the Big Dog's boys mill around looking for me.

"Michelson, you can tell Rawlins that he doesn't get his hands on Fawkes without a presidential order disbanding this agency and reapportioning its assets. Now get the hell out of my building!" I hear the Fat Man roar as the elevator doors close between that little scene in the garage and Hobbes and me. I let the quicksilver go, slumping into the corner of the elevator as Hobbes props me up.

"Oh, man, did you see the looks on their faces when you went saran-wrap?" Bobby gloats.

I'm doing my best not to toss my cookies on him. "I need to lie down," I manage weakly.

"Just hang in there, kid. We're on our way to the Keeper," he encourages, voice contrite. The elevator drops away into the basement and the Keeper's domain while I try to keep from barfing all over Hobbes.

"Can I please just lie down?" I know I'm whining, but I can't help it.

Hobbes' arm around my waist tightens as the elevator door opens and he guides me out into the hall. "Almost, kid, almost," he reassures me as he steers me towards the steel doors of the Keep. Claire is waiting inside for us, and she helps him get me onto the administering chair, and mercifully, she rustles up a blanket from somewhere and drops it over me. She looks tired and rumpled, and I wonder if she ever made it home after leaving Bobby and me at the hospital earlier last night. I lie there in the dark behind my eyelids, my belly in open revolt, waiting for the next uprising as I listen to them discuss the events of the last few hours.

"I told you it was a mistake to leave him there," Hobbes is telling her, and I wish I had the energy to bop him for the sanctimoniousness in his voice.

"Bobby, he has a severe head injury and I'm not equipped to handle the potential complications here!" she defends herself. "It was leave him at Fort Levitt, or risk making his situation worse."

"Well you left him to the vultures, Claire," he says irritably. "The CIA was lurking outside his room, just hoping for a chance to get their hands on him. Fortunately for Fawkes, Bobby Hobbes knows his Agencies, and I figured on them making a move as soon as word got to them that he was in a secure facility."

"Bobby, I didn't leave him to their mercy, I left him in the care of physicians who could have helped me determine why the gland is malfunctioning!" I can hear her starting to pace the way she does when she's thinking on her feet.

"Yeah, well, I guess it doesn't matter to you which Agency funds the I-man project, you'll have a job either way. But if Fawkes gets 'appropriated' by the CIA, the rest of us are out of work. And I made Fawkes a promise that I wouldn't let that happen. The kid's been through enough, just carrying that thing around in his head for the past two years without having to start all over again in the trust department. And I think he was right when he said that as soon as they connect his records to his father's, he's going to be turned into a sanctioned operative. You know what that means, Claire. And we both know what he'll do to himself and your precious gland before he lets that happen." Well, it was one way of letting her in on the conversation I eavesdropped on a couple of days ago, but Hobbes' bluntness makes her step falter.

"You knew the CIA was planning on trying to usurp the project? Why didn't you say something?" she demands, angry, now.

"I just did, Keepie," he answers. "Fawkes listened in on the opening salvo in the Fat Man's office the other day. He told me about it the night before last, just before they gave us this damned assignment. And speaking of which, where the hell is Monroe?"

"Supervising the tracking of the weapons crates," Claire responds distractedly.

"Alright. I'm gonna go talk to her. Keep an eye on the kid, okay?" he orders needlessly and musses my hair a little on his way out.

"Darien," the Keeper starts, laying a hand over my forehead lightly. "I need you to tell me exactly what happens when you quicksilver. Can you do that?"

"I'm hurting and I'm tired, but I'm not a two year-old, Claire. Stop hovering and sit down," I sigh, leaving my eyes closed.

I hear her roll up her desk chair and feel the padding on the dentist's chair I'm in give a little under her elbows where she rests them on the seat next to my hip. "When was the last time you received pain medication?" she asks.

"I'm not sure. They had me on an IV until Hobbes pulled me out of there, but I'm not sure what was in it," I admit. "You think that the medication may have something to do with why the gland is on the fritz?"

"I don't know, but it's a reasonable theory. The swelling in your brain is putting pressure on the gland, and it's also affecting your equilibrium, none of which is surprising. What I don't understand is why adding a narcotic would cause the effects I saw earlier. Did the same thing happen again?"

I nod, then regret it. "Yeah. Hobbes said it looked like a lava lamp when I quicksilvered, and all I know is, I wound up sick as a dog, both times. I couldn't stand up to save my life."

Claire is quiet for a couple of minutes, and I can practically hear the gears churning away in her head. "I want you to rest in the next room for a few hours while I try and find out what they had you on at Fort Levitt, and wait for whatever it was to wear off. When you've gotten some sleep, I want to see you back in here. We have tests to run if we're going to find out what's happening inside that skull of yours."

About all I can manage by way of reply is another sigh, and I force myself back up, dropping off the edge of the administering chair to land unsteadily on my feet. She tugs the damned hospital gown closed over my backside and I try to ignore the embarrassment creeping through me as she takes my elbow and walks me across the lab to the adjoining room she outfitted as a hospital room early on, when my penchant for getting myself hurt in the line of duty showed itself. Mercifully, she hands me a pair of drawstring scrub pants to put on, and I fall into the bed, too tired even to pull the blankets up over myself. I mumble something meant to be 'thank you' when Claire does it for me, and I can feel her hesitate at the bedside for a split second, before I feel the brush of her lips on my forehead as the lights are turned out.

"Sleep well, Darien," she says softly as she shuts the door behind her, leaving me lying there with my eyes wide open, wondering what the hell just happened.

Even that can't keep me awake, though, and Bobby waking me up at two hour intervals to check on me and make sure my recitation of the alphabet and my ability to do simple arithmetic remains unimpaired fails to prevent me from passing out as soon as the room is dark again.

The third or fourth time, though, nausea makes it a little trickier, and I lie in the dark listening to Hobbes and the Keeper talking quietly out in the lab. Hobbesy didn't close the door all the way and their voices drift in clearly.

"How's he doin' Keep?" he asks her. I want to tell him to stop obsessing, because the worry in his voice is making me worry.

"I don't know, Bobby," she answers. "I've been trying to understand what it is that's happening to him while he's under the influence of the pain meds, but none of my simulations have come up with an explanation. According to the MRI, he has a subdural swelling that is crowding the gland in some way, and the effect is worsened when he's medicated."

"You telling me you can't give him anything for the pain?" Hobbes asks sharply, in full protective mode.

"Until I know what's causing this, no." There's a significant pause before she continues. "I'm sorry Bobby. I know you don't like seeing him suffer like this…"

It's a second before he answers. "It's just that he's been getting the shitty end of the stick for so long, this is the last thing he needs. I mean, that stupid gland hasn't made it easy for the kid, you know?"

"I know," Claire replies so softly that I almost can't hear her.

"First his brother buys it, then Arnaud makes his life a living hell every time he gets half a chance, not to mention Stark and Chrysalis and all their fun and games with him. Then losing Allianora like that, I mean, things are seriously screwed for him." Bobby's voice is pitched low, and I start to lose track of what he's saying, just listening to the low rumble of him speaking, hearing the concern, the frustration… Oddly, it comforts me in some weird way, knowing there's at least one human being on the face of the planet who cares more about the lab rat than he does about the experiment.

I drift off into sleep again without being aware of the transition, dreams trickling up from my subconscious seamlessly. I feel his hands on me, slow, gentle, and sigh, wanting that touch to be more than it is, to be more than it could ever be, and not really knowing why. He's a warm body, he's my friend, and he's more important to me than I'd ever have thought anyone could be. And right now, I need to feel the touch of a friendly hand more than ever.

Hobbes. My partner. It's not the first time he's shown up in my dreams, and I know part of it is simple sexual frustration on my part. But that's not all of it. I've never gone looking for same-sex partners outside of prison. Why bother, when there are women available? Maybe that's part of it, right there, since women aren't really available to me any more, not now, in this prison my life has turned into. But it's more than that, too. It's Hobbes himself. I guess what it is, is that I trust him. Without thinking about it, without analyzing it, without questioning it. He's become the bedrock on which I stand, and maybe the only reason I can, sometimes. Dammit, I love the man. So given that, I guess it's not that big a shock that the physical end of things starts slopping into my dreams like this…

Claire wakes me some time later, and I make her leave me a clean pair of scrubs. She gives me a look, but doesn't ask why, just leaves the room to let me change. There'd be no big mystery about it, if she saw the pair I had on when I sacked out, damp and sticky the way they are. One more little humiliation I don't need. I thought I'd gotten past the wet dream thing when I was involved with Casey, but I guess the sexual desert I've gotten stranded in has made it inevitable.

I stumble out into the lab to find Monroe, Eberts, Hobbes and the Fat Man all waiting for me, and I crawl into the damned chair and lie back, waiting for what looks like the other shoe to drop. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of the impending inquisition?" I ask sarcastically.

Claire turns my forearm so she can check the monitor. "Darien, I've been going through all your medical records from Levitt, and I still can't come up with a likely reason for the symptoms you've been experiencing," she tells me, and from the carefully blank looks on everyone's faces, I wonder what's coming next. "They had you on Demerol IV, but it's worked it's way out of your system by now. Darien…" she hesitates as if she'd really rather not say whatever it is, "I need you to try and quicksilver for me."

I give her a look. "Then I'd suggest you step back, 'cuz I'm probably gonna make a mess," I warn her. She takes it seriously and steps away from the chair as I let it come, feeling the familiar chill of it as the quicksilver coats me. As I've begun to expect, the world tips over like a carnival ride and I close my eyes, gripping the sides of the chair to keep from going with it, panting as nausea waters in my mouth. I can't hold the quicksilver any longer and I feel it flake away as I roll over to puke my guts up yet again over the side of the chair. "That answer that question?" I ask her.

"What question?" Hobbes asks, puzzled.

"The one no one's asking," I say flatly, having a pretty good idea what it is.

"How long before he's fit for duty?" The Official wants to know.

"You've just seen what happens when Darien uses the gland, sir. You can't expect him to go out into the field this way," she responds, incredulous.

"Doctor, I can and do expect it. In case you've forgotten, we have six dozen crates of US Military surplus weapons and a half-dozen stingers on the loose out there. The man Hobbes and Fawkes brought back refuses to talk, even under the influence of truth agents, and Monroe and Eberts have tracked the movements of those crates to a warehouse across town. With Fawkes' discovery about what they're moving through here, our emphasis has shifted to containment. We need to get to them while they're all in one place."

"But sir," she protests. "Darien is in no fit state to go running off on some potential wild goose chase! He can barely stand up!"

"Doctor, this isn't optional. These weapons could be bound anywhere in the nation, and we have the opportunity to stop them now, before they reach whoever it was that brought them into the country in the first place!" The 'Fish isn't gonna back down an inch, and the idea of those missiles ending up pointed in the direction of some other national monument, or at some commercial aircraft is making my skin crawl. I catch Hobbes' eye, and we exchange a look that tells me he's not liking it any better than I am, and that he knows I know we can't let it go.

I heave a sigh, and glance at Claire. "Keepie, you got anything for the nausea?" I ask her, resigned to doing this the hard way.

"Chief, you realize Fawkes isn't gonna be doin' us much good if he pulls the invisibility thing," Hobbes points out.

"Then the two of you will just have to rely on the native cunning and superior intellect you're always going on about, Agent Hobbes. Let me make this absolutely clear, gentlemen, this is not open to debate. Not only do we have a potential threat to national security on our hands, but if we don't stop these people in their tracks, without outside interference, this Agency will cease to exist. Any screw-up on our end is going to be blood in the water for the CIA, gentlemen, and you've already had a taste of just how far they're willing to go to get what they want."

And what they want, is me. Lab rat extraordinaire… By this time I have a pretty clear idea that any chance I have at something resembling a 'normal' life is only coming my way as long as I'm under the Agency's protection. Such as it is.

I sit there while Claire jabs yet another needle into me, and hope the nausea ends up under some kind of control. I don't bother to mention the pounding headache that feels as though it's crushing my brains into mush. I've already had a taste of what painkillers will do, thanks anyway.

"Sir, I'd like to accompany Fawkes and Hobbes," Monroe speaks up. "Eberts is perfectly capable of monitoring the GPS data on the tracking devises, and Hobbes is going to need competent back up."

Oh, great. Make me feel even more useless than I already do, why don't you, Alex? "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I say to her, not bothering to disguise the hurt feelings. She glances at me, and I can see her double-take as it sinks in that she might have put her foot in it.

"It's nothing personal, Fawkes," she apologizes. "But this is too important to take any chances with-"

"Request granted, Agent Monroe," the Official interrupts shortly.

And so we're off to Oz, Dorothy, the scarecrow, and yours truly, the tinman, with the cowardly lion on the electronic back-up.

********

As it turns out, Monroe was right. I'm useless to Hobbes this way, half blind with the headache, and struggling to keep my stomach from crawling up my throat. They leave me in the van when they go into the warehouse to do the initial recon, and relief fights with depression as I watch them blend into the shadows around the waterfront warehouse, guns drawn, every inch the consummate professionals.

Which is why I'm in a position to see trouble with a capital 'T' show up fifteen minutes later in the form of an SUV full of rent-a-thugs looking like they're there for a WWF Smackdown audition. I dial Hobbes' cell number and pray he has it turned on, listening to it ring, then kick me into voicemail. I should have known Bobby'd never leave it on while he's doing a little B&E. I watch as the five men march on into the warehouse and I get out of Golda, trying to decide what to do.

The invisibility thing is definitely out, so it's back to basics — those skills I acquired in the pursuit of other people's property. I'll say this, once I've learned something, it usually stays with me. I drift into the shadows after them and let their noise cover any sound I make sliding through the doors right behind them. I duck behind a forklift as they fan out and start investigating the crates stacked in the center of the floor, pulling off the tarps that cover them. I try to tune them out as I scan the dark interior for my partner and Monroe, hoping they've got sense enough to get the hell out of the building.

But no. We couldn't get that lucky. When a couple of the thugs fire up a forklift, it's instantly obvious that the guns are about to be moved. There's an empty semi pulled into the loading bay, and it occurs to me that if we let the muscle do what it's been hired to do, we might be able to turn it to our advantage, relieving them of the truck and it's cargo, all nice and neat. I settle in to wait, watching them work, hoping Hobbes and Monroe are thinking the same thing I am. I begin to work my way along the perimeter of the warehouse towards the loading bay.

I guess enough of me's rubbed off on Hobbes to have him thinking the way I am, because as if we'd rehearsed it, thirty seconds after the last pallet of crates has been loaded onto the truck, Bobby, Alex step out of the shadows and point their guns at the startled fivesome, then I follow them onto center stage.

"Hold it right there," Monroe announces as they go for their heat, to a man.

I can see them wondering if they can take us, and so can Alex, because she fires off a single round into the leg of the goon closest to her.

"Now drop your weapons, gentlemen," she orders pleasantly, in that 'don't mess with me because I'm a bigger bitch than you'll ever know' voice of hers.

There's no way to miss the fact that she's totally serious, and they go for the guns again, slowly, this time, taking them out of shoulder harnesses and letting them dangle from forefingers through the trigger guards.

"Now toss them over here," she demands. They do it.

"Fawkes, get the cuffs on them," she tells me, and I reach into the snug hip pocket of her black jeans and removing the handcuffs she keeps there, not above a little light groping in the process, which she ignores, true to form. I collect Hobbes' set as well, and use the three sets to link four of the five in a heavy metal daisy chain, not bothering to try and figure out what to do with the fifth one, who's lying on the concrete floor gripping his thigh in both hands, moaning as blood pools on the ground. It's the best I can do with only three sets of cuffs. I glance at her for the next order, and she doesn't disappoint me. "See if you can find some way of securing these bozos to something immovable," she tells me, and I scrounge around, coming up with a length of chain which I hook through one of the cuffs and then around the nearest thing I can find that doesn't look like it's going anywhere, in this case, a cast iron stand pipe. I look around for something to secure the chain, and have to settle for shoving a length of pipe through the links and bending it into a pretzel. It won't hold them long, but hopefully long enough. I can hear Bobby on his cell phone behind me, calling in the reinforcements, and in less time than I'd have expected, Agency muscle comes to the rescue one more time, and takes them, and the truck-full of weapons, off our hands.

By the time we get back to the Agency, yet another night is pretty much over, and I feel like thirty shades of hell. And what Eberts has to say when we get there doesn't help.

"The missiles weren't on the truck," he says, his voice accusatory, as if we had something to do with it.

"Whadda ya mean, they weren't on the truck?" Hobbes demands. "They loaded every crate in the place on board. They have to be there!"

"Robert, I have checked and rechecked the signal transmissions, and I can assure you, those missiles are not on the truck. You left them sitting in that warehouse unguarded, unsupervised!"

"No, we didn't," Monroe snaps at him. "Hobbes is right. There was nothing left in that warehouse when we made the bust."

"The GPS transmissions beg to disagree, Agent Monroe!" Eberts starts.

"Shut up, Eberts," the Official interrupts him irritably. "Send some of the boys back down to that warehouse and have them tear it down to the foundations, if they have too, but find those goddamned missiles!"

"Yessir," he caves, and heads for the door of the Official's office to do as he was told.

We're sent to bed without supper, and in my case, Claire forces me to sack out in the room next to the lab so she can keep an eye on me. Dinner is kind of pointless, for me, anyway, what with the nausea. It's almost five in the evening when I wake up again, and I wonder why they let me sleep as long as they did. I can hear Bobby and Claire out in the lab, talking quietly, and I get up and pad out to join in, barefoot and back in my borrowed scrubs.

"Hey, kid, how ya doin'?" Hobbes greets me. He looks like I feel, dead tired, and wrinkled, like he slept in his clothes.

"I been better," I answer, running a hand through my hair, knowing that makes it stand up in all directions, but not really caring. I'm not exactly a fashion plate in my current get-up.

"How's the headache, Darien?" Claire wants to know.

"The headache's just fine. It's not showing any signs of clearing up any time soon," I respond, knowing that's not what she meant. "Did they find the missiles?"

Hobbes shakes his head, worried. "Nah, there was nothing there. The Fat Man had the place torn up, and even the subbasement was empty, though I'll take any bet you wanna make that the stingers were there. They found five of the six transmitters in a dixie cup in the middle of the basement floor. Looks like they played us."

"How the hell did they know the crates were tagged?" I want to know.

Bobby shrugs. "My guess is that they didn't. Not till we took off with a whole truck-full of 'em. But that was sure as hell gonna tip them off that we knew exactly where those things were. If it was me, I'd'a gone looking for little electronic hitchhikers as soon as the coast was clear."

I sit down on the edge of the demented dentist's chair and glance at Claire. She looks as tired as Hobbes, and if she hadn't changed clothes, I'd swear she's been here since I saw her last night before our little excursion to the warehouse. "Any luck figuring out what's up with the gland?" I ask her.

She sighs, and that tells me the whole story before she says a word. "I'm afraid not, Darien. At this rate, the swelling will have to be allowed to go down on it's own. Did the anti-emetic work last night?" she asks hopefully.

"Not so's I noticed," I sigh in my turn, and she frowns, massaging the back of her neck.

Hobbes leans over and starts rubbing her shoulders, and she stiffens for a split second before relaxing into it. I watch them, thinking they make a cute couple. If you don't count the height difference, anyway. Dark and light, Claire all peaches and cream, with delft blue eyes, Hobbes like black coffee, or bittersweet chocolate. They say opposites attract, and I can't imagine anything more opposite than those two. I hope they figure it out someday. I'd love to be best man at their wedding. Second only to being the groom, maybe. Or maybe the bride…

"I wish I knew what I could do to help you," she says to me as she closes her eyes.

"Maybe you should go home and sleep on it," I tell her, completely serious. "You're not doing yourself — or me — any favors, staying up all hours of the day and night."

She smiles, her eyes still closed. "I think you can go home and sleep in your own bed, tonight," she says with another sigh. "Maybe we all can."

"Sounds good to me," Hobbes agrees. "There's nothing we can do until we can convince those bozos we brought in last night that spilling their guts isn't optional. We need to know who brought those weapons into the country and where they were headed. Until we have something to go on, we're just gonna have to hope Eberts and Monroe can locate the last tracking device and give us somewhere to start." He drops his hands to his sides, and Claire straightens up, a wistful look on her face. "C'mon, kid, I'll drive you home."

"It's a deal," I agree, and head for my soon-to-be former bedroom.

I don't bother changing out of the scrub pants, just pulling a T-shirt on and sticking my arms through the sleeves of my jacket before I slide my feet into my suede desert boots. "Ready when you are," I tell Hobbes as I come back into the lab.

"Okay, let's mount up," he answers, going John Wayne on me, heading for the door.

"'Head 'em up, roll 'em out, rawhide'," I quip under my breath as I follow him out.

He takes me home and insists on walking me upstairs to my apartment, since the elevator's broken again. I swear the landlord is even cheaper than the Agency. He waits while I drag on my pajamas, and watches as I climb into bed, arms crossed over his chest, forehead furrowed with that look that tells me he's gonna spend the whole night obsessing about the state of my health. "Would you just go home and get some sleep, Hobbes?" I ask when he doesn't show any signs of leaving.

"The Keeper told me to keep an eye on you. That's what I'm gonna do. It's your first night at home since that whack to the head, and I'm not gonna leave you on your own yet." He's being stubborn, and the only thing that'll change his mind is if I turn handsprings and break into song to reassure him he's worrying over nothing. Fat chance. Besides, a tiny part of me would rather not be alone right now, what with the CIA looking to hijack me into another Agency. And one thing I know for an absolute fact: they'll have to take me over Bobby Hobbes' dead body. It's really, really strange to have that much faith in someone I didn't even know until two years ago. But I trust him with my life. With everything I am. Might be. Wish I was. Hope to be.

I lie there blinking at him blearily, wondering how to make the suggestion that's hovering in my thoughts. "You want me to take the couch?" I ask instead. When what I really want is to ask him to sleep with me. Just sleep. Keep the demons at bay. Well, okay, I want more than that, but I know better than to hope for it, expect it, or even fantasize about it. The dreams are bad enough.

He snorts derisively. "That piece'a crap? Please. Fawkes, you really gotta invest in a sofabed or at least a couch that doesn't have all it's damned springs poking through the cushions. That way, your partner'd have a decent place to sleep when he's on babysitting duty."

"My partner can have the bed," I say, wishing I had the guts to take the opening he just unknowingly gave me. "I'll take the stupid couch. Why we gotta hear about it all the time, huh, Hobbes? If I wanted a new sofa, I'd get one. There's nothing wrong with that one. I sleep on it all the time." I glare at him without any real rancor. It's become an ongoing joke, and frankly, that's one of the reasons I haven't done anything about it. Besides, subconsciously maybe I think I'll get up the courage to invite him into my bed someday, maybe when we've had a few beers, or something, rather than listening to him complain about it one more time…

"Sorry, kid. You're the invalid, here. I get the couch. You just gotta sign the affidavits when the Official sees the workman's comp bill I'm layin' on him after I get my back tractioned." He grins at me, that smug little smirk that makes me laugh. He's like a kid, sometimes, Bobby is. Contentious, stubborn, affectionate, sure he knows everything, you know, the typical teenager. Amazing parents ever survive their kids' upbringing. He's also cute as hell when he gets like that, and I can't even get mad at him. Not when what I want is to hug him.

I settle for saying it. "Thanks, Bobby."

He looks vaguely startled, like he was expecting the usual witty repartee. "For what?" he asks.

"For bein' here. For stayin'. For… just bein' you," I answer, knowing this is going to get maudlin if I don't shut up now.

"Hey, pal, Bobby Hobbes aims to please. Now you want I should tuck you in? Read you bedtime stories? Get you a glass of warm milk?" he's joking around, but his eyes are dark with the same affection that curves his mouth, and I know he'd do any of those things if I asked him too.

I grimace a little, as the idea of warm milk makes my stomach churn, swallowing hard a couple of times to quell the nausea. "Ixnay on the milk, Hobbes," I say. "I'll take the story and the goodnight kiss, though."

"I don't recall a kiss bein' on the menu," he grins at me, oblivious to the fact that I'm serious. "Once upon a time there was an invisible man. He fought the bad guys and always won. The end. Now go to sleep, kid. I'll make sure the monsters in the closet don't come out and get you." With that, he turns out the bedside lamp and wanders across the room past the pool table, pulling off the dark brown wool suit jacket he's got on, and kicking off his shoes. I watch him from my little island of darkness as he rummages in my closet for a spare blanket, and flops onto the couch with a soft groan, reaching to turn off the lamp on the end table.

"Hobbes?" I ask as the darkness fills the room.

"Yeah?" he responds, sounding weary.

"Thanks, partner. For everything." I say softly, only hoping he knows how much I have to thank him for.

"Hey, you'd do the same for me," he answers, and I can hear the smile in his voice. And the total certainty.

And he's right. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him. Lie, cheat, steal, kill… die. I just hope that telling him the truth, that I'd give anything for more than just the working relationship, the friendship, enters into the grand scheme of things, someday. I know I'm in deep, because I can't — won't — even think about my life without him in it somewhere. Even if that means I'm stuck with this gland, and everything that comes with it, for the rest of my life. Because it's worth it to me. Hobbes is worth it to me. He's worth anything. What kills me, is he'd never believe it. Can't, maybe, after a career derailed by psychological problems, being treated like a joke at every agency he's ever worked for, and still doing the fucking job. Believing in it. Believing in his country, everything it stands for, enough to take it in the chops every day from the people he's worked with, being treated like a fool. Only I've seen enough to know he's no fool. Whacky, yeah, with a goofy sense of humor that meshes with my own so perfectly, sometimes we can tell each other the punch-lines to a joke we're only thinking. And know what the other is talking about.

I lie in the dark, trying to ignore the pounding in my head as I think about all the times I've seen people cut him down, ignore him, disregard his field experience. He never gets offended… well, almost never. It's as if he's gotten to the point where he expects it. Tells himself they're right. Except more often than not, he's the one who's right. I decide, then and there, I'm not going to stand around with my hands in my pockets the next time it happens. If I'm serious about this, then it's my job as his partner, as his friend, to back him up. One hundred percent. Period. Whether he likes it or not.

That resolution made, I drift back into the gray fog of unconsciousness.

When I wake up, it's daylight, and Hobbes is puttering around in my refrigerator with his nose in a carton of milk that I probably should have tossed a week ago. His grunt of disgust confirms it and he pours it down the sink, running the water to kill the smell of sour milk. What can I say? I'm a bachelor, with a bachelor's typically rudimentary cooking skills. Cleaning out the fridge isn't how I want to spend my off time, so things kinda turn into biology experiments. I've occasionally wondered if I should invite Claire over for an evening of 'culture', to run some of her damned tests on the weird things I've found growing in there.

I lie there, watching Hobbes rummage through my kitchen, opening cupboards at random till he finds the cereal box and takes it back to the couch, absently eating handfuls of dry Cheerios as he turns on the TV. True to form, he chooses some kid's show on PBS, Between the Lions, maybe, 'cuz it's too late for Sesame Street. I sit up in bed with a groan as my head protests the change in elevation, and I sit there with my skull throbbing, trying to keep it from exploding in all directions by gripping my head in my hands.

"How ya feelin' there, big guy?" I hear Bobby ask through the roaring in my ears.

"Just great, thanks," I manage sarcastically without looking at him.

"Yeah, you look great," he replies, equally sarcastic. "You want me to call the Keeper?"

"And tell her what? She's already said she can't give me anything for the headache, Hobbes, so what's the point?" I sigh and drop my hands to glance at him. "You mind getting me a glass of water?"

"Comin' right up, pal," he says cheerfully, getting up and filling a glass from the tap, bringing it to me.

I down the whole thing without stopping, wondering why I feel so dehydrated. "So what's on the agenda today?" I ask him when I've finished it, my mouth feeling less wooly.

"For you? I'd say bed rest, Fawkes. I'm gonna be checking in with Hobbesnet to see what the word on the street is, Eberts is supposed to try and dig up the paper trail on those weapons, and my guess is, Monroe'll be kicking his ass for him, trying to hustle him along."

I flip the blankets off my legs and put my feet on the floor, thinking about standing up. "Stop fussing over me, Hobbes," I say, exasperated. "I'm not dead yet. Just let me grab a shower, and I'll be right with you."

"I don't think so, partner. You're not gonna do me or yourself any good, pushing too hard. Besides, the gumshoe thing isn't your deal. Just cool your jets till we have something to go on, okay, kid? I promise, I won't go after these mashugganas without you." He grabs me by the calves and swings my legs back up onto the bed. "Now just lie down and stay that way, okay?" he commands as he pushes me in the center of the chest till I flop back onto the bed.

"You promise?" I ask, knowing if he says he promises, he's committed. Hobbes may try and bluff me, but his word is sacred. So when he hesitates a second before nodding, I know I've got him.

"Yeah, I promise. You'll be in on the hunt, as soon as we pick up the scent again. Happy now?" he asks sharply, annoyed with me.

"Overjoyed," I quip, and close my eyes again. "Have a nice day at work, honey," I manage as my parting shot, listening as he pulls on his coat and lets himself out, locking the door behind him. It's not till then that I realize he left the TV on. I sigh as I get up and stumble over to the couch, looking for the remote. I find it eventually, but not before I've gotten roped into an episode of Newton's Apple I've never seen before, so I lie there on the couch, watching whatever happens to be on, mostly Cartoon Network, and TNN's Andy Griffith marathon, dozing through most of it.

When I wake up the next time, TNN's running a Starsky and Hutch marathon, which I actually get into, until the pounding in my head gets to the point I figure I've gotta do something about it. I go into the bathroom and scrounge up some aspirin, dry-swallowing them, and then change into my wrinkled clothes from the day before. For what I have in mind, fashionability isn't a requirement. In fact, it may be a handicap. I find a jacket and head out of the building, walking the three blocks to the nearest street dealer's territory and in short order, I've scored an ounce of top quality Hawaiian marijuana. I get home without trouble, half amused at myself for the guilty conscience twinging at me. Amazing how little it takes to make me into a law-abiding citizen. I mean, it's not like I've ever done more than the occasional recreational toke or two, but all of a sudden, I'm flashing on Bill Clinton's 'I didn't inhale' speech.

Only, I have every intention of inhaling. I had a girlfriend in college who used to swear by grass to settle her stomach during her period. I figure, at this point, what've I got to lose? Either it'll help, or it won't, and I won't be any worse off than I am now. I get home and roll a joint, lying back down on the couch to smoke it and watch whatever TNN is showing now. Mission Impossible, as happens, and by the time I've finished half the joint, I'm noticing a lot of things; primarily that my headache has faded to bearable levels, but also that Leonard Nimoy without the Spock ears is a pretty good-looking guy, even taking the seventies' sideburns into consideration. Thank god for Melody and her cure for PMS, I think charitably as I bask in the comfortably uninvolved feeling that's replaced the throbbing pain of the last three days. College, and consequently Melody, didn't last long, but this pearl of wisdom was sure worth the price.

There's something about mind-altering substances that make you see things a little differently, by definition, I guess. Maybe it's four hours of Mission Impossible, but I'm lying here thinking about the weapons, about who'd be shipping them into the country, wondering where in Indonesia they came from, whether they actually came from Indonesia, or whether the trail is more complicated than that, and we've missed something. I start getting restless, and I stub out the partially smoked joint, putting the other half, along with the loose stuff, in my French coffee press. Not exactly an original stash, but it works. I pace around the floor, only half-listening to the episode that's playing at the moment, until something Jim Phelps says sinks in, and I sit back down, turning up the volume to listen to the dialogue.

I've missed most of the details, but it's an episode involving some international terrorist organization's plot to disperse some kind of bio-toxin or infection through the southern California area, and Mr. Phelps has amnesia, and can't remember what the mission is after a car wreck leaves him stranded in some nowhere truck stop. Naturally the IMF team has to go in and get him, but the bad guys beat them there, and they have to run an operation to find out what the actual target and weapon are, as well as rescue Phelps. I'm not sure what it is about this that's ringing a bell somewhere, but it is, and I turn off the TV when the episode is over, and sit there working on it as darkness creeps through the windows into the apartment.

It's pitch black and I never even notice till Hobbes comes rattling at the door, letting himself in with the keys I gave him over a year ago. He flips on the light, then does a double take when he sees me sitting there, blinking at him like an owl.

"What'cha doin' sittin' here with the lights out, Fawkes? You okay?" he asks, setting down a promising looking grocery bag and a six pack of Coronas.

I squint at him for a second, losing my illusive train of thought, and sigh. "Yeah, fine," I assure him.

He eyes me suspiciously for a second, before nodding reluctantly. "Well, you look a little better, anyway. How's the head?"

"Doesn't hurt as much as it did this morning," I tell him, rewarded with a Hobbes grin.

"That mean you think you can keep something down? You haven't eaten anything since four days ago, and that doesn't count 'cuz you ralphed it all over my shoes." He starts unpacking the bag, removing tempting looking takeout cartons that send a spicy scent wafting through the room. I sniff appreciatively and grin as my stomach stays put for a change.

"Try me," I say, relieved that maybe things are settling down. Of course, I haven't tried quicksilvering in the last twenty four hours, but I don't think I'm quite ready to press my luck that far, yet.

He serves up a helping of everything and brings the plate to me, along with a beer. "I guess I shouldn't be giving you this, but maybe it'll work better'n the Keepie's painkillers," he tells me as I take the beer.

"As long as I only drink a couple," I laugh. "Otherwise, the headache is going to have a little hangover to compete with." Maybe it's the weed, but I'm ravenous all of a sudden, like I haven't been since I got clobbered, and I fork beef curry and chicken with coconut and lemongrass into my mouth like a starving man. It's not until I scrape up the last of the rice that I realize Hobbes is just sitting there watching me eat, with this little grin tweaking the corners of his mouth. "What?" I ask, a little defensively. "I'm not allowed to enjoy a meal?"

The grin widens. "You wolfed it down so fast I doubt you tasted a thing," he answers. "Want seconds?"

I nod sheepishly, and his grin practically splits his face as he gets up and takes my plate away to refill it, bringing a second beer and then going to get his own dinner. He sits down at the other end of the couch and reaches for the remote with one hand as he takes a swallow of his own beer. He finds a game on ESPN and leans back into the angle between the far arm rest and the back of the couch, one eye on me, the other on the TV.

I'm eating a little more slowly by this time, my first helping finally having hit my stomach, and I watch him back, waiting for him to tell me how the day's sleuthing went. When he doesn't take the hint, I come out with it. "So what'd you find out today?" I ask at last.

He swallows a mouthful of curry before he answers, shrugging. "Not much, yet. Eberts and Monroe have been concentrating on the paper trail that tub left in it's wake, and I've been out on the streets, trying to see what I can pick up from some of my sources." He forks in another bite, chews, swallows, then continues. "So what about you?"

"What about me? I've been horizontal on the couch all day, Keeper's orders," I remind him sarcastically.

"So who was on Oprah today?" he laughs. "And what's her name — Sally Jesse Ramon?" he adds.

"Raphael, Hobbes," I correct him with a grin. "I don't know. I was watching Starsky and Hutch reruns all afternoon," I tell him. "TNN was doing marathons all day."

"Hey, did they do any of the Stooges? How 'bout I Spy?" he quizzes me, suddenly interested, and we launch into a discussion on sixties action series that leaves me wondering how come we've never really talked like this. I feel like I have some kind of handle on Hobbes that I didn't before, some idea what makes him tick, and when we start comparing notes on the Cold War, I begin understanding just how much a product of our generations we are. To me, it was a history lesson. To him, the fear was real. I guess he comes by some of the paranoia honestly. The eight or so years that separate us has never really mattered, before, and it doesn't now, except to remind me we have very different perspectives on things. Like God, country, duty. Or we did, up until September 11^th, anyway. Now I have a whole lot clearer idea what he means when he tells me that all he ever wanted to do was this kind of work. He was raised that way, his dad a Korean vet who somehow managed not to become embittered, who raised his kids to respect the flag, the President, and the government, even if the later two didn't always deserve it.

By the time he rinses off the dishes and puts the leftovers in the fridge, some of the blanks about himself Bobby's been careful to keep unfilled are starting to acquire a little detail. "Hey Hobbes?" I say as he shrugs back into his coat and gets ready to head for home. I'm surprised how much I don't want him to leave.

"Yeah, partner?" he asks, tugging the collar of his shirt out from under the coat.

"Thanks for bringing dinner," I say, not brave enough to ask him to stay another night on my lumpy couch.

"How many times I gotta tell you, Fawkes? Partners do for each other. Bobby Hobbes' meals-on-wheels is at your service, my friend." He looks at me for a second, and the expression on his face is intent, like he knows what I really want to say. "You gonna be okay on your own, tonight?" he asks eventually.

"Beats listening to you bitch about the couch again," I force myself to grin at him.

"Fawkes…" he starts, then stops, just watching me.

And I sit there on my fucking lumpy couch, wishing I'd bought a new one just so's I could ask him to try it out, goddammit, willing him to say he'll stay if I need him.

"You need me to stay?" he asks, right on cue, and the stunned half-laugh that explodes out of my lungs startles him.

"When'd you take up mind reading, Hobbes?" I ask, knowing he can hear the relief in my voice. "Sorry," I apologize, knowing it's stupid to make him stay, make him lose another night's sleep to hold my hand and protect me from whatever monsters are lurking out there. "Go home, get some sleep. Pick me up in the morning, okay?" I say raggedly, letting him off the hook.

"You sure?" he asks, doubtfully.

"You've already gone above and beyond the call of duty, buddy," I say, hoping it reassures him, and hoping at the same time he'll blow off my bullshit and stay. "One more night on the couch and I'll be visiting you in the hospital, right?"

He frowns at me. "I don't like the idea of leaving you alone, Fawkes," he says, turning the tables on me. "Michelson may get ideas about coming after you again. You don't want me to stay, and I can see about getting some Agency backup to keep an eye on you," he offers.

I swallow. "Uh," I mutter, fumbling for words that won't betray how much I appreciate his willingness to look out for me. "Yeah, well, I kinda wondered if he might try something again, but I figured if I started moaning about it, the 'Fish'd think I was pulling a Bobby Hobbes paranoia act, you know? And he'd probably put me back under house arrest."

"Hey, kid, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. You're probably right. The Fat Man'd put you under lock and key so fast it'd make your head swim." He stops, considering for a split second. "Okay, partner, I'm gonna go home, pack a bag and get back here before you have time to miss me, right? And you get the couch, tonight," he adds as he opens my front door.

That's the way it stays for the next three days, only I spend a lot of time cooling my heels in the lab, waiting around while Hobbes, Eberts and Monroe do the Private Eye thing. Hobbes has spent every night at my place, without even asking, without making some big deal out of it, and I wonder if he has any idea how grateful I am. Especially after the second night when we got woken up by something and found signs that someone had tried to force my door. It makes Hobbes antsy as hell, and he spends every evening over takeout trying to convince me that I need to upgrade my home security. Which I laugh off, and tell him that's what I've got him for.

The Keeper interrupts my preoccupation with a request that I try to quicksilver again, and it's the same old thing. Which reminds me that I've been meaning to try it after a joint to see what happens. It's an experiment I figure I'm better off trying on my own, since I don't know what Claire's opinion is on grass, but I'd be a lot happier if I was firing on all cylinders, so to speak. At least in the invisibility department. She runs another battery of tests on me, x-rays, blood panels, and everything else she can think of, complaining the whole time about how what she really needs is to get another MRI of my head to find out if the swelling is going down. Both of us figure that it'll be cold day in hell before the 'Fish'll let me go back to Fort Levitt, so it's wishful thinking on her part.

I'm lying there in the administering chair when Hobbes comes in to collect me for the evening.

"Let me guess," he says, taking one look at me, all pale and sweaty, then glowering at the Keeper. "You made him quicksilver."

"Right the first time," I say before Claire can get all defensive. "This time I got to ralph on her shoes." His grin convinces me I've diverted the worst of his incipient 'mother hen' attack, especially when he low-fives me.

"Way to go, partner," he laughs. "I'm gonna have a couple of the Agency's stiffs keep an eye on you tonight, at least for a few hours. I've got a meet with one of my street sources that sounds like it may finally give us a place to start."

I nod slightly, too queasy to do much more than that. "You want one of them to take over babysitting, tonight?" I ask, willing to let him retire from that duty if he's tired of the couch. Contrary to his little warning a few nights ago, he refused to let me trade bunks with him, so he's been snoozing on the sofa. At least he's stopped complaining about it, but I promise myself I'm going out to buy a new one as soon as I get my next paycheck.

"Nah, I'm getting used to listening to you snore while that couch of yours does it's 'bed of nails' impression," he dismisses the notion. "Just save me some takeout, will yah?" he requests as he hauls me to my feet, waiting until I steady a little before he lets go of me.

*********

Hobbes drops me off and briefs the three Agency guys he's got covering for him, then takes off for places unknown, leaving me with an entourage and a screaming need for pain relief. I feed the troops and send them out to patrol the building as per Hobbes' orders, and take out the other half of my un-smoked joint, lighting up as I gnaw disinterestedly on a slice of cold pizza. I made sure we got Hobbes' favorite, so he'll have something edible to come home to, whenever he finishes with his meeting. I can feel the old cannabis magic happening, and by the time I've finished the joint, I feel a whole lot better. Better enough to try my experimental stab at quicksilvering. I go into the bathroom so I can watch the effect in the mirror, and grab hold of the towel rod as I brace myself for the vertigo that's become standard with this model. It doesn't happen. Well, not as bad as without the weed, anyway, which is a major improvement from my perspective.

The quicksilver doesn't work as smoothly as usual, but except for a little lurch in the pit of my stomach, I'm more or less okay. The trick is gonna be getting enough time to myself to take advantage of the restorative powers of grass without getting Hobbes all suspicious. I'm seriously thinking about asking the Keeper if she can prescribe some of the stuff for me, since it really is medicinal. I make up my mind to ask the next day, when I go in for my daily checkup.

I shake off the quicksilver and wander back into the livingroom, plunking myself down onto the couch and turning on the TV. Nothing interests me, unlike that day-long viewing orgy of four days before, and I leave it on the news as I tuck myself into a corner of the couch, leaning against the armrest, and start brooding.

It's after eleven, and I'm starting to wonder what's keeping my partner when something catches my attention on the TV. I look up to see one of the local airhead blonde news anchors describing some sort of altercation downtown in an alleyway behind one of the places Bobby and I frequent, and I perk up my ears as I hit the volume button on the remote. She's mid-description and before I can react, they cut to a reporter broadcasting live from the scene. The alley is crowded with patrol cars, lights blazing, flickering like fireworks on the brick and stucco of the surrounding buildings. But it's the ambulances in the background that really have me freaking out. That and the totaled car resting on it's roof up against one of the far buildings.

"-Witnesses have thus far been unable to identify the gunmen, but police are questioning the survivor and are confident of making an arrest shortly in the shooting spree that left one man injured and two others dead, when they lost control of their car, leaving one of San Diego's most popular dining establishments riddled with bullets. Marley Davis, reporting live from the scene."

"Oh, crap!" I mutter under my breath, absolutely certain Hobbes is in the middle of that mess, somewhere. I reach for my phone and dial the Agency, hoping against hope the Official will be burning the midnight oil. Sure enough, he answers the phone with a cheerful snarl.

"It's me, Fawkes," I interrupt him before he can finish his clipped and irritable 'hello'. "Turn on the news, chief," I tell him urgently. "I think -"

"Since when is thinking one of your attributes, Fawkes?" he cuts me off.

"Since Hobbes went to a meet with an informant solo, and the news is reporting a shooting in the alley he generally uses, that's when," I snap back. "Can we get someone to check the hospitals for Bobby? Talk to the cops? Something?"

The several seconds of silence before he answers is filled with the noise of him rolling away from his desk and stomping over to the television in the corner of his office. I hear it when the volume comes on. Another local station, with another Stepford clone reporter in that back alley is starting up a similar report. I surf channels till I locate the one he's tuned into. Fortunately, it's one of the independents and they tend to have somewhat more thorough local news reports than some of the networks. The forty five seconds the first channel had on the story is a good minute plus story on this one, though the details aren't any more numerous.

What it boils down to, is that witnesses described seeing two men having a conversation at the back door of the Buffalo Joe's restaurant when two sedans blocked either end of the alley and the passengers opened fire on them. One of the men pulled out a gun and returned fire, the other man getting winged in the exchange, and so were two of the men in the one sedan. The man who returned fire is described as short, balding and dressed in dark clothes. And the thing that makes my stomach settle into my legs somewhere is the revelation that he was seen being forcibly stuffed into the sedan that still had its contingent of thugs. Which then disappeared into the night as the first cops arrived.

I stand there watching the TV, remote in one hand, phone held between shoulder and ear, the nausea I thought the weed had licked back with a vengeance as dread wallops me in the gut. The Official's muttered expletive echoes my own thoughts precisely.

"Fawkes, get the men Hobbes put on you tonight and get the hell down there and find out what happened," he orders. As if he could stop me.

"Already on it, boss," I say as I drop the remote and grab my gas station attendant's jacket, sticking an arm through one sleeve as I drop the receiver back into the cradle on the way out the front door.

We arrive at the alley behind Buffalo Joe's, my trio of bodyguards flanking me as I slip my way past the thinning crowds, flashing my oh-so-impressive Health and Human Services ID at anyone who looks like they're thinking about stopping me. I have enough experience with law enforcement types from a variety of perspectives that I can spot the detective in charge without any trouble at all, and I come up behind him, interrupting his quiet conference with the CSI people. "Uh, 'scuse me, Detective -?"

"Blaylock," The answer comes as he glowers at me over his shoulder. "Who the hell are you?"

"Special Agent Darien Fawkes," I reply, flashing the ID.

"Health and Human Services? What is this, some kinda joke?" he demands sharply, clearly getting pissed off.

"My partner may have been the man witnesses saw being forced into that sedan tonight, Blaylock. Now you wanna tell me again how this is some kind of joke?" I snap back, totally lacking the patience for ego massage at the moment.

"Back off, 'Agent'," Blaylock snarls, and only the grip of one of my own muscle-bound protectors on my upper arm keeps me from getting in the guy's face.

"Fawkes, back off," my companion hisses. "If you screw this up, we're gonna get diddley squat information-wise outta the local yokels. If the Official has to cut through the red tape he will, but your ass is gonna be in deep shit if you can't play nice," he reminds me. I grit my teeth and release the breath I've been holding, letting the raging need to hit something drain away.

Blaylock sees the fight trickle out of me and the glower lightens up a fraction. "So, 'Agent' Fawkes, what the hell is an HHS employee doing in a dark alley at night with a guy like Jimson Standish? The guy's a two-bit hustler with a knack for conning people into paying him for information that's three months outta date."

Well that tells me who Hobbes was meeting, at any rate, I think to myself as I consider how to respond. "Hobbes had an arrangement with Jimmy," I insist. We've actually found him to be reasonably reliable as a snitch, so the rep Blaylock associates with him isn't the one I have personal experience with.

"Yeah, right. My guess is, he sold your partner out," Blaylock scoffs. "The EMTs took him to San Diego General, if you wanna tag along for my little interview with the jerk," he offers.

"Yeah, that'd be good," I accept, hoping I don't sound a surly as I feel.

*********

"Hey-ya, Jimmy," I greet Standish as Blaylock and I find him in the emergency room, a nurse finishing up a set of sutures on the bullet graze across his upper arm that's his souvenir of the evening's activities.

"What up, Fawkes?" he responds, wincing as the last stitch is tied off. He ignores the nurse as she bandages him up. "They find Hobbes, yet?"

"Nah, that's kinda why we're here," I tell him, shrugging a shoulder at Blaylock, who's been letting me handle this up to now. "So tell me what the hell happened out there," I suggest.

"Wish I knew," he grimaces. "Hobbes'n me were just conducting a little private business, and blammo, outta nowhere, these two cars block either end of the alley and the bozos inside start tryin' to cap us. It was like something outta some 'Godfather' movie, man!" his indignant outrage sounds legit to me, but I glance at Blaylock to see how it's playing with him. He doesn't let much slip, that's for sure. Musta gone to the same school as Bobby in the 'don't mess with me' department. Same skeptical blank expression, sorta generic cop for 'You're a punk. Make me believe you' that I see all the time when Hobbes is doing the 'bad cop' routine. It's kinda nice to not be on the receiving end of it for a change.

"Did you get a look at the ones who snatched Bobby?" I ask him.

"Not really, it was dark and I was kinda busy tryin' to keep from getting shot, know what I mean?" he says apologetically. "I can take a look at the mug books if you want, but I ain't promisin' anything."

"We'll take you down to the station as soon as they release you," Blaylock puts in his two cents worth, finally. "In the meantime, how 'bout telling us what you were in that alley for in the first place?"

"Hobbes had word out he was lookin' for anything on anyone dealing specialized weaponry," Jimmy answers. "I heard rumors that one of the local homeboys was settin' something up. I don't know what he's got, but word is there's some pretty big out of town money comin' in to make a bid."

Now Blaylock looks interested. Not so's anyone'd be able to tell, but working with Hobbes has trained me in the finer points of the blank stare, so I see his eyes narrow, then he turns to me. "'Agent' Fawkes, I think we need to have a little conversation about what the hell your partner was doing asking about artillery," he says, and the tone of his voice tells me he's not buying the Health & Human Services cover ID. "It's a little out of the HHS jurisdiction," he adds sarcastically.

I sigh. "Thanks Jimbo, give the cops what you can on the IDs," I tell him and glance at Blaylock again. "At your convenience, Detective," I say with sarcasm that matches his.

We grab a couple of coffees from a vending machine in one of the hospital waiting areas, and find a quiet spot to have our little conversation. My three bodyguards flank us, facing out into the hallway, looking like muscle for some rock star or something.

Blaylock takes a sip from his paper cup, making a face at the burnt overtones that make a bad cup of coffee just about undrinkable. "So what's an Agent doing with his own security force?" he wants to know, meaning my entourage.

"You saw what happened to Hobbes when he slipped his leash," I bluff. "We've been working with the ATF in a support investigation on small arms smuggling, trying to keep the weapons out of the hands of local gangs. We know something's going down, something big, but we haven't been able to pin it down. This was supposed to be our first solid lead," I tell him, only partially lying. "There are people who obviously don't want anyone poking around in this, much less a couple of outsiders. There've been death threats made, Detective Blaylock, and unlike my partner, I'm taking them seriously."

He doesn't look like he's totally buying it, but until he can come up with a better theory, he's gonna have to run with it. "I'll need the name of your ATF contact," he says flatly, and I know it's not open to negotiation. "And whatever you've got on this thing so far."

"You muscling in on the investigation, or are you just walking away with it completely?" I mouth off, starting to get pissed off all over again. The last residual buzz from the grass I smoked is fading fast and my headache is back worse than ever. Not to mention that my partner and best friend has gotten himself snatched off the street in front of witnesses, and no one can tell me who the hell took him.

"See, that's what I get for being 'Mr. Nice Guy' and extending a little professional courtesy. You Federales really fry my bacon with this holier than thou attitude you got. And in case it escaped your attention, bub, I'm not the one whose partner just got nabbed." Blaylock is scowling and I can see this is going to turn ugly if I don't get the hell out of here before my big mouth gets me into trouble.

I turn and reach into the breast pocket of one of my guy's suit coats, take out a business card with the Health & Human Services logo on it, and hand it to Blaylock. "I'm not authorized to divulge that information," I tell him. "You'll have to talk to my boss. For all the good it's gonna do you," I add. "Ask for the Fat Man," I grin. That should pretty well ensure that Blaylock gets the 'need-to-know' routine. Sometimes I don't even mind that the 'Fish is too cheap to spring for business cards for Hobbes and me.

Blaylock snatches the card out of my hand and pushes past me, heading for the nearest payphone. I head back to the emergency room and another round of questions for Standish before Blaylock hustles him downtown and outta my jurisdiction.

He's just being given his walking papers when I meet up with him again, and I offer to treat him to a midnight snack at the hospital cafeteria. He takes me up on it, the endless appetite of a junkie making it a good bet that he would, and we troop down to the basement cavern that passes for haute cuisine in this place. I feel like a mother duck with the whole brood hustling after me, and I pray I find Hobbes damned quick, 'cuz this 'traveling in packs' thing is gonna get old. Even at this hour, the contrast between Jimmy and me, and the rest of the guys in their government-issue charcoal suits draws attention I'd rather do without, and I try to ignore the whispers that break out behind us like a case of the mumps.

Finally, everyone's settled with their coffee or whatever, and I start quizzing Jimmy about the details.

"Fawkes, I didn't see nothin'," he whines, and I wonder if that's how I sound to Bobby.

"Wrong, Jimmy," I contradict. "Just walk through it in your head one more time. Now tell me what Hobbes did when he realized these goons were coming after you." He furrows his forehead and I can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. I start wondering if he's gonna strain something, he's thinking so hard.

"He told me to find cover, so I ducked behind a dumpster when the first car came barreling right at us. Hobbes had his piece out and was pumping his rounds straight into them. They just kept coming, till he hit the driver and the car rolled. By that time the second car was practically on top of us, and they jumped him when he was changing his clip," Jimmy says. Already this is more detail than he gave me earlier.

I work on him some more. "What did they look like?" I ask patiently, hoping the questions will jog his memory a little more.

"You know, yuppie suits," he shrugs, then frowns. "One weird thing, though," he adds, "They were all wearing sunglasses. Kinda stupid at night, in a dark alley, huh? It was no wonder they couldn't see anything. They kept looking around like they were expecting company."

Bingo. Thermal goggles, or I'm dumber than Jimmy is. Which means it was probably Stark and his pubescent master-race goons. And I was the company they were expecting. Crap. Crap-crap-crap. I wish to god I'd been there. It might have gone down differently if I'd been covering Bobby's six, like I'm supposed to. Dammit, that's what partners are for! Beating myself up is an old habit, one I haven't broken, and things like this bring on a bad case of mea culpa.

I swallow the rest of my cafeteria coffee in one gulp and head for the door with a 'thank you' to Jimmy, the three bears scrambling after me. It takes about twenty minutes to get back to the Agency and I'm thinking hard all the way there. The Fat Man is in his office when I barge in, Eberts in civvies blinking sleepily at me in surprise. The 'Fish musta dragged him outta bed, 'cuz he's got that rumpled look, and the little crease marks from his pillow are still visible on his cheek. He's also out of uniform, the interchangeable gray suits he usually wears replaced by pajama bottoms and a t-shirt.

"Fawkes. What happened? Where's Hobbes?" The Official demands, looking up from whatever report he's holding.

"Snatched. And unless I miss my guess, Chrysalis and Stark are behind it. Which means he's behind that boatload of party favors, too," I inform him, pacing back and forth in front of his desk, still trying to come up with something that will get me my partner back in one piece. If they took him, there was a reason. Maybe to find out what we know about their sideline in gun-running, or maybe as leverage to get to me. Either way, it's nasty. Big-time nasty.

And that's when the phone rings. The 'Fish picks it up and snarls a one-word greeting into the receiver. "What?" Whoever's on the other end is bad news, because he gets a little blotchy like he does just before he's about to blow like Vesuvius. He just sits there and listens, getting more and more mottled looking, his wattles quivering like a turkey's on the way to the chopping block. The next words out of his mouth, and I know exactly who he's talking to. "No deal. Hobbes is a professional. He knows the risks." He glances across the desk at me, and I swallow, hard, ready to fight him. Whatever price Stark just put on Hobbes' head, I'll find a way to pay it. I reach out and try to snatch the phone away from him, and he bats me away like a mosquito as he slams the receiver down into the cradle to glare at me as if it's my fault Bobby got snatched.

"Okay, what's he after this time?" I ask flatly.

"That's need-to-know, Fawkes," the Fat Man says without hesitation.

"My partner has just been kidnapped by a bunch'a terrorists, and you're telling me I don't need to know what they want? Screw that, 'Charlie'. If you think I can't find out some other way, you've got an IQ the size of your shoe. I am tired of the 'need-to-know' bullshit. Hobbes is my partner. I need to know!" I glare back at him.

The Official stares back at me, and it doesn't take more than about thirty seconds for me to figure out that he's not gonna tell me squat. I put my hands on his desk and lean across it to snarl at him, literally, too angry to even swear at him. "You just made a bad mistake with me. Again. And this time is the last time. I am going to find Bobby. And I'm going to bring him back. Whatever it takes. Clear?" I say as I slam my palms against the wood and shove myself back away from the fat bastard, headed for the door as fast as I can walk.

"Fawkes!" I ignore the shouted epithet that follows my name as I slam the door after me on Charlie Borden and his little toady, Eberts the hopelessly servile.

Out of habit I check the monitor tattoo like I would the gas tank before a long drive. Good. Only one red segment. Which means I have something a little over four days, or not quite twenty minutes of full invisibility, whichever comes first, to find Bobby and get him back. It's almost four a.m., so I head down to the keep to wait for Claire to come in. She's usually there by six, so I figure I can kill the time trying to come up with some kind of strategy. To my relief, my unwanted bodyguards peel off and head for home when they see where I'm going, and I let myself in with my keycard, turning on the lights and waking up the collection of lab animals Claire keeps in here.

"Darien, are you out of your mind?" Claire demands two and a half hours later when I tell her what I have planned.

"No. I'm not. And I'm getting tired of everyone assuming I am, Claire. I'm also tired of being told that Hobbes is expendable. Or more expendable than me, anyway," I retort, angry at her, angry at everything, right now. "Are you going to give me your gun or not?" I snap at her.

"If you're getting involved with something that requires a gun, then it's something that requires someone who knows how to use one," comes Alex Monroe's sarcastic little comment from behind me at the door of the Keep. "What's going on, Fawkes?" she wants to know.

"Ask the Fat Man," I suggest with equal sarcasm as I turn to face her, knowing my body language is the same sort of aggressive as a cornered animal.

She raises her perfect eyebrow with the usual dose of mockery, and smiles sweetly. "Let me guess," she starts. "You're going after Hobbes. Without authorization."

I just stare at her, feeling my face freeze up in its usual punk expression that so pisses her off. "Very good, miss five-star-A rating. So how 'bout telling me what my next move is, too, just in case I hadn't gotten that far on my own?" I suggest, just to really finish making her mad.

She just smiles, crossing her arms over her chest, smirking at me like she knows what I'm doing. It only makes me angrier. "You're so predictable, Fawkes," she tells me, completing the effect. "We're about to be treated to another one of your displays of outraged machismo," she adds. "One where you spout off on the Bobby Hobbes school of thought and give us the usual song and dance about not bailing on your partner." She waits for a beat then grins. "Tell me I'm wrong," she concludes.

I turn back to Claire and glare at her. "Well?" I demand.

She looks back at me for a long second then turns away and fishes in her purse for the Glock she keeps there. Hobbes has one just like it, and he's had me practicing, so I even know enough to take it without blowing off a toe or anything. "Take care, Darien," she says quietly as she hands me a spare clip.

"You're arming him and letting him go running off on some wild goose chase?" Alex says to Claire incredulously. "What sort of Keeper are you?"

I've turned to face Alex again, so I miss the expression on Claire's face, but there's no mistaking the tone of voice she uses as she answers. And it sends a little shiver down my spine. "One who trusts her Kept," Claire responds coldly. "One who wants to see Agent Hobbes returned in one piece."

"Oh, honestly," Alex mutters as she drops her arms to her side. "This is getting downright maudlin," she says irritably, and I see her poised on the balls of her feet, and suddenly I suspect I'm about to get the crap kicked out of me. Again. "What's your plan, Fawkes?" she snaps. "If all you've got in mind is pulling some kind of John Wayne act and going into Chrysalis' headquarters with guns blazing, you're going to wind up on a slab with that seventeen million dollar gland oozing out your ears. Trust me. You won't find Hobbes that way."

"No. Really?" I snarl back. "Are you going to help me or are you just going to stand there and tell me it can't be done?"

She scowls at me impatiently. "Since you're going to do this one way or another, It's my job as part of this agency to make sure you don't end up dead — or in one of Stark's laboratories with your skull cut open so they can see what makes you tick. So what's your plan, Fawkes?"

"I'm going to find out what Stark wants, and I'm going to use it to make a deal for Bobby," I tell her, still short-tempered, but tentatively willing to call a truce if she's serious about this.

"I can tell you that," she says smugly. "He wants the weapons back. The whole warehouse-full. It seems we put a serious crimp in his plans, whatever they are, when we walked off with them."

I nod to myself. It makes sense. Whatever he has in mind for the weapons, it's on some sort of timetable that he's not going to be able to keep if he has to resupply his stock from overseas again. "So that's the deal I bring him," I agree.

"You can't really think that the Official is going to just let you hand them back to him," Alex scoffs.

"I'm not planning on asking his permission, Alex," I tell her flatly. "I'm a thief, remember? It's about time I brushed up on my skills," I inform her.

"Fawkes -" her expression is dangerous, and now she really is thinking about kicking my ass.

"Oh, relax, Monroe," I assure her. "I'm not handing them over. Stark just has to think I am. Bobby'd kill me himself if he thought I actually gave the things back to Chrysalis."

Alex frowns at me. "So what exactly do you have in mind?" she asks skeptically.

"You in?" I ask in return. "You're not going to rat me out to the 'Fish?"

Her expression is longsuffering. "Fawkes, please. I may think you and your partner are nothing more than a pair of overgrown juvenile delinquents with government IDs, but you're my coworkers, and I'm not especially fond of going to funerals. Besides, I'd like to see Stark get a little of what's coming to him. If we can positively connect him to that shipment of guns, we can get someone to take us seriously the next time we ask for a warrant. His 'respectable' patina is starting to get a little tarnished."

Never underestimate the fury of thwarted motherhood, I think to myself as I see the grim satisfaction on her face as I tell her exactly what I have in mind. Even Claire is looking a little less worried and a little more like she thinks maybe I can pull this off.

***********

"I hope you have some idea of the favors I've called in for you on this," Alex says as we go over the plan again, and I groan.

"Look, Monroe, you'll get first dibs on the pound of flesh you want to hack off Stark, I promise," I say.

"All of which presupposes he's going to go along with the idea that you'd willingly hand back the guns to him," she goes on.

"You're forgetting something, Alex," I remind her, pausing until I see the skeptical lift of her eyebrow as she waits for me to continue.

"And what exactly would that be?" she asks, her tone making it clear that she considers it unlikely in the extreme that she'd be capable of forgetting anything.

"I'm a punk. As far as he's concerned, I'm a loose cannon, and about as far from a team player as it's possible to get."

She snorts. "Well, he'd be right, then, wouldn't he?" she says then sighs as Claire starts getting all indignant on my behalf.

"Alex, that was uncalled for! Darien is impulsive, but his motives are generally sound," Claire interjects angrily.

"You haven't exactly earned a stellar reputation for yourself in the 'responsible behavior' department, Fawkes," she finishes.

"Which is exactly why he's going to believe that I'll do anything to get what I want, and that what I want is my partner back," I remind her. "No matter who else gets hurt."

She stares at me for a long second, and I can see her wondering just how much of that sentiment is the truth. I don't bother to tell her all of it is, and that the only thing that'd keep me from handing the weapons back to Stark is the fact that Bobby would literally kill me barehanded if he thought I'd actually done it. Which kinda defeats the purpose of getting him back. It's just that I've finally gotten a real handle on just how important the little tiger is to me, and how far I'm willing to go to have him back safe and sound. All for one and one for all. Or at least my life for his, if it comes to that.

"So when are you planning on making the call?" she asks eventually.

"As soon as we're sure he's buying the little drama we're staging for his prying eyes," I tell her. "This whole thing hinges on you and Claire selling the idea that I'm AWOL, and that whatever I'm doing, it's without the knowledge or authorization of the Agency," I remind her.

She laughs shortly. "It's not much of a stretch, Fawkes. In case you forgot, you are acting without any official sanction of any kind. If the Fat Man catches on, you can kiss your sorry ass goodbye."

"That's what I've got little miss five star for," I come back at her, every bit as capable of bitchiness as she is. "My sorry little ass is your responsibility, now. If you don't like it, now's the time to say so," I grin at her cheerfully.

I almost miss Claire's muttered: "There's nothing 'sorry' about it," as Alex and I go on sniping at each other.

Just about the only thing that makes me glad she's aboard, besides her connections, I mean, is the knowledge that what we're about to do goes against her grain in a big way. She's about to play backup for me in a scheme that may get me and Bobby killed, and she doesn't like it even a little. The only thing keeping her from walking out on our little strategy meeting is the fact that she can't stand being left out of anything. That and the fact that she has a personal score to settle with Stark. "You're sure that Stark's got the conference room bugged?"

Alex nods. "According to Eberts, they've left them in place in case the need for a little judicious misinformation ever came up. There's jamming devices set up in every other office in the Agency, so we're committed to the conference room for this one. The problem is, it's right across from the Offical's office, and if he catches Claire and me in there, he's going to know exactly what we're up to."

"Well, you're just gonna have to be sure he doesn't catch you, then," I shrug.

She glowers at me then turns to Claire. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" she says archly, grabbing Claire by the elbow and hustling her out the door of the Keep and off to the debut of their little two-woman show.

Half an hour later, they're back, chattering in girl-speak like a pair of gossipy old hens, and I have to wait for the end of whatever little girly anecdote Alex is in the middle of before I can find out how it went. "So?" I demand when I can get a word in edgewise.

Alex shrugs. "So, you got your Academy award performances, Fawkes. What more do you want?" she answers. "Claire did her little hysterical act and I played the bully, and Stark's eavesdroppers should be racing off to his office as we speak with the latest juicy agency gossip."

"I think it went rather well, Darien," Claire adds with a cheerful little smile. Sometimes she can be perky to the point of obnoxiousness. Only the fact that her mascara is a little smeary and her makeup a little smudged keeps my mouth shut. If she worked herself up to a case of histrionics, then she's probably right, and Stark got an earful.

"You're on next, Fawkes," Alex reminds me unnecessarily as she smirks at me, crossing her arms under her breasts and drumming her fingers along one arm. "Just don't blow this, huh?"

I glare at her as I head for the door of the Keep, knowing that this would be a good time to keep my mouth shut, or I'm going to end up pissing her off. And right now, I can't afford the luxury. Not if I want to see my partner again, alive.

"So. Darien. I was wondering how long it would be before I heard from you." Stark's smarmy, self-important voice in my ear is enough to make my teeth ache, a fingernails on the blackboard effect that I get a lot when self-styled authority figures get that tone in their voice.

"So. Jared. You've got something I want, I've got something you want. What say we make a deal?" I answer, careful to keep my voice cocky.

"This isn't some game show, Fawkes," he snaps back at me. "Do you have any idea what you and your Agency have cost me? This debacle is going to come out of your hide, Fawkes, not mine. Hobbes is of no interest to me, but it is absolutely imperative those weapons be returned to me. Immediately."

"Well sure, Jared, old pal. See, the thing of it is, is, your weapons don't mean diddly squat to me. Hobbes is the only thing I'm interested in right now. And if you want to see those guns again, you're gonna turn him over. To me. Personally." I lean up against the glass of the phone booth, shoving my free hand in my pocket as I slouch there, glancing around the pre-dawn streets that surround me. It's not quite noon yet, and I stifle a yawn, wishing I could go home and go to bed. I haven't slept in the last day and my head is pounding.

Stark's laugh is sharp, hyena-like. "Fawkes. What makes you think I trust you to return what's mine?" he wants to know.

"What makes you think I give a rat's ass if you trust me or not?" I respond. "All you need to know is that if you want to see the guns again, you've got to deal with me. Now is that such a difficult concept?" I tell him, smugly. "I don't get what the big problem is, Jared. I mean, the Official already told you 'no deal', so it's not like you're gonna get anywhere by going to him and asking nicely. Not when I'm the one with the weapons," I say. "If you want them back, then you're going to have to give me Hobbes."

"Fawkes, I have no intention of giving you anything. I do not generally make the same mistake twice, and after the Adam Reese incident, I'd think you'd know better than to try and pull the same con on me again," he says with smugness of his own.

I grit my teeth for a split second, fighting the rising nausea of panic, and force myself to smile, not caring that he won't see it, just counting on him hearing it. I shrug, shifting the phone to my other ear. "Well, it's no skin off my nose if you want to wait the two weeks or whatever it takes to get a fresh shipment of hardware delivered from wherever it is it came from in the first place, Stark, I've got all the time in the world. But something tells me you wouldn't have snatched Hobbes if time weren't of the essence, here. So who's trying to con who, huh?" I rub his nose in it then back off. "Look. I've pretty much burned any bridges I've got, boosting the weapons from the Agency's secure lockup. You think they're going to do anything to help me, or Hobbes, after this? They're going to harvest that gland, first chance they get, if I let them get anywhere close to me," I inform him, playing every ace I'm holding.

"Are you telling me you'll willingly exchange your life for Agent Hobbes?" he asks, curious, and clearly mystified.

"No. I'm telling you that I'll exchange the guns for Hobbes. Any deal you make with me about possible changes of employers is a separate negotiation. If Hobbes finds out I'm behind the exchange, he'll hunt me down and kill me himself," I sigh, knowing it's the truth. The planet isn't big enough to hide me if Bobby actually believes I betrayed him like that. "I need you to guarantee my safety, and a supply of counteragent. That and that you'll let Hobbes walk away. That's what getting the guns back will cost you."

"Darien, do you actually think I'd believe you'd betray the Agency you work for in order to retrieve a partner who'd then come gunning for you? I realize you have a death wish, but this seems foolhardy even for you," he says disbelievingly.

"I don't give a damn about the Agency, Stark. When was the last time they did me any favors? But Hobbes is a friend. I want him out there in the world, even if it means he's coming after me with a gun. I realize it doesn't make it into your dictionary as the definition of enlightened self-interest, but if you want the guns, that's what it'll take."

"Darien, naturally you realize I'm more than a little skeptical about your motives in this particular case. Do you really expect me to believe that you would allow the partner you propose rescuing to shoot you or bring you in so that the gland can be removed and transferred to a new host?" he laughs ironically.

"You can believe anything you want, Stark, but the truth is, invisibility isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's hard to have much of a life when it's been turned into some never-ending science fair project. Whatever life I've got is spent trying to keep this little thing in my head out of the hands of people like you who want to use it to make an army of invisible junior assassins. Sorry, I know I'm a thief, which makes any claim to the moral high ground pretty pointless, but I draw the line at putting anyone else through what I've been through with this thing. So whaddaya say, Jared? You ready to unload one slightly paranoid over-the-hill agent and a week's supply of counteragent in exchange for a cargo container full of military surplus?" I hesitate a moment then add; "Don't wait too long to decide, Stark, or I may decide to take my chances with the Agency, after all." I give him another heartbeat, then move to hang up the phone as his query echoes tinnily out of the receiver.

"Fawkes? Dammit, Darien, how do we reach you?" I hear as I hang up. I take a deep breath and let it hiss noisily out between my teeth. Unless I totally miss my guess, I'd say I've just hooked him. I head back to the Agency to make sure that if he checks, Stark will have it straight from the horses' mouth that the weapons are gone.

I give it another twelve hours before I call Stark back. It's a miserable wait. I can't go to my own apartment, not with the Official on the warpath, and there's not really anywhere else I can go that's remotely safe. Finally, I settle for breaking into Bobby's place and spending the afternoon there, checking out his security system. It's got all the latest bells and whistles, I'll say that much for it, but the reality is, anyone with some basic knowledge and a lock pick can disable most of what he's got here. It's even got a temperature-sensitive alarm, set at the threshold I reach when I'm invisible. My paranoid little partner doesn't even trust me. I don't know why that hurts, but it does. It must be hell to live like he does, believing that anyone is capable of anything. Even people you know and like. 'Cuz he does like me, I'm pretty sure. He calls me his friend, and I think I am, or at least as much of one as he'll let me be.

Which is part of why the wait is miserable. To pull off what I have in mind, Bobby's going to be left thinking the worst of me. That I've betrayed my country, and by extension, him. I only hope it goes the way I plan for it too, or I won't be around to explain it to him.

I know I shouldn't do it, but curiosity wins out and I do a little light snooping through Hobbes' condo, wondering if it looks the same as it did in some of the dreams I've had of it. Most of it doesn't, and I don't know why that disappoints me. It shouldn't, 'cuz I haven't spent any time here at all, to speak of. It's not till I get to his bedroom that I get this weird feeling of dejavu as I see an old jacket of mine hanging on the coat hook on the inside of his closet door. I've been wondering where the hell that stupid thing went for most of a year. I take it down and put it on, then realize why I haven't seen it. There's still dried blood staining the corduroy where an assassin's bullet winged me early on in my career as an agent, while I was protecting a talented little ten-year-old artist named Jessica, who had the misfortune to witness a killing that left her a prime candidate for the role of next target.

I'm kinda creeped out by it, and suddenly glad Hobbes never gave it back. But I still wonder why he didn't get rid of the thing right away. It's unsalvageable, grass and what I assume are water stains on it, front and back. Not to mention the dark brown blood stains. It's kind of an icky souvenir to keep hanging around for a year. A little grossed out, I hang it back up and poke around in Hobbes' dresser, just opening the drawers and nudging around in his clothes. It's the usual stuff, tank tops, boxers, socks — until I stir the socks around and find a black silk woman's camisole, lace trimmed, petite. It's the size that snaps me out of the image of Bobby in black silk. Cross-dressing is about as far from what I'd expect from him as I can imagine, and the fact that no way would this little piece of naughtiness fit him leaves me feeling a little relieved, and a little jealous. I wonder who she was, the owner of the camisole, and how often she visits him.

I make the mistake of checking out his bookcase, scanning the titles for a general trend. It's all over the map, subject-wise, travel books, books on politics, history, religion, even philosophy, all jumbled together in no particular order. I pick one up at random, opening it, and discover my little partner has made notes all along the margins. It's a book on the Judeo-Christian family of religions, their mutual histories, their clashes, and there's little comments and observations scattered through every chapter. Curious, I settle onto his bed and start reading, checking out his comments. I read for another six hours, until darkness makes it hard to see.

"So what'll it be, Stark?" I ask that evening, when I finally call back. This time, there's no layers of flunkies between me and him. He picks up on the first ring, unlike the first time I called and got shuffled along the intricacies of the Chrysalis phone network for ten minutes of bad musak before the head honcho got on the line with me.

"You have your deal, Fawkes. The weapons for Hobbes. We'll even toss in a dose of counteragent for good measure so you stay sane long enough to decide how you want to handle your resignation from the Agency. If you opt for a bullet, I have a number of people willing to volunteer for the job. Or, of course, you can join us. Your choice. Frankly, I can't say I care much either way at this point after all the headaches you've caused me," he tells me.

"Gee, thanks for the glowing recruitment speech," I say sarcastically. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather it was Hobbes than one of your stooges. I can count on him blowing my brains out, and frankly, I think it'd be best for all concerned if that little piece of scientific genius went with me when I go. He's enough of a friend that I can count on him to do that much for me, at least. No matter what he thinks I've done." The bottom line, right there. No matter how much I've pissed him off, I know he'll never let them get to the gland.

"So you've decided on the easy way out," he observes. "What happened to your quest to have the gland safely removed?" he wants to know.

"The gland has other ideas, Stark. It's made itself right at home. By this time it's so tangled up with everything else in there that there's no way anyone's getting the thing out in one piece." I have that on pretty good authority, if Augustin Gaither is any judge of biosynthetic glands. Claire is still working on the assumption it's possible, but I'm starting to doubt it. Even Kevin couldn't work out how to do it when his mRNA ruled my conscious mind for awhile. I have to believe that was part of why he chose to exterminate himself from my mind, even though the reason he gave was that he thought I was a better person with it than without it. Maybe so, but maybe it was that he finally realized he'd left me stuck in a situation even his genius couldn't get me back out of. I don't know. It makes my head hurt when I worry about it.

"Our scientists are years ahead of the pack, Fawkes. It may be possible to do something for you," he offers. It's a mark of the past two years that the bait doesn't even tempt me. Not this time. Not after the number of times my hopes in that department have been smashed. And not with Bobby's life on the line.

"Maybe, but I'm not sure I want the kind of help they're likely to give me, Stark," I answer cynically. "Let's just stick with the deal at hand, okay? Where do you want to make the exchange?" I change the subject, "and when?"

"Your intervention in things that don't concern you has seriously disrupted my timetable, Fawkes. For the sake of simplicity, I suggest you return the weapons to where you got them. Pier thirty eight, berth seven. I have my ship ready to set sail as soon as they're loaded aboard. High tide will be at eleven forty five tonight. I intend for those weapons to be aboard by then."

Okay, now we're getting somewhere. "They'll be there, Stark. Just make sure you bring Hobbes with you," I warn him.

He laughs. "Darien, I'm not the one who failed to live up to his end of our last bargain," he chastises me. "Don't worry, your precious partner will be there. I'll even make sure to put a round in his gun so he can put you out of all our misery, just to make the evening complete," he adds.

I operate on the assumption he's serious. "Gee, it's such a pleasure doing business with you, Jared," I say with the same snide humor.

"Happy to oblige, Darien. I'd be even happier if I was the one with his finger on the trigger, but after all, granting a dead man's final request has a long tradition in this glorious nation of ours." He goes serious on me then. "I expect you no later than ten thirty p.m.," he warns me. "It will take the crew some time to stow the cargo before they can sail."

"Don't worry, Stark. I know where the ship is, I know where the guns are. They'll both be at the wharves at ten thirty tonight. You have my word."

"Well, we know what that's worth, don't we?" he retorts. "Just remember that your partner's life is the price of any doublecross." This time he's the one who hangs up on me.

I've got all my ducks in a row and waiting when the meeting rolls around, and I meet Stark on the dockside next to the cargo ship he's found to replace the impounded Hotei. This one is bigger and even rustier than the last one, and I wonder what else he's got aboard her.

"Well, Darien. It's been a while since our last face to face meeting," Stark comments. "You're looking well. New hairstylist?"

"I didn't show up for an evening of social chit-chat, Stark. Where's my partner?" I interrupt, eyeing him in his expensive Saville Row suit, with his school tie, all polished and slick and psychotic. There's no sign of Hobbes anywhere.

"Where are my guns?" he demands, the tone going from congenial to sharp. "I'm warning you, Fawkes, I have a half-dozen marksmen scattered through the area, and all of them are equipped with thermal glasses. They are under strict orders to shoot to kill at the first sign of an Agency ambush," he warns me. Fortunately, he's standing close enough that I'm reasonably sure that the wire I'm wearing picked up the threat and transmitted it to Monroe in her vantage place in the cab of the big loading crane at the far end of the dock, next to the stern of Stark's garbage scow.

"Oh, they're hanging around here somewhere," I smirk at him and wave a hand vaguely in the air. The low groan of metal on metal and the dull cough of a diesel engine echo eerily along the silent wharf, and the cargo crane Alex is manning swings its boom out over the water, the container dangling from the end of the cargo hook rocking slowly back and forth as the crane stops, the container suspended forty feet over the water, and about the same distance from the safety of the stern of Stark's ship. The noise catches him off guard and he turns his head to glance over his shoulder toward the sound and then he swings back my way, a glare on his face that'd have killed me if I'd been a foot closer.

"I should have known you were completely untrustworthy," he hisses at me.

"Just chill, will ya? They're all safe and sound in their cozy little box. I'll drop them right into your lap. As soon as I see Hobbes." My own voice goes from joking to grim as I cross my arms over my chest, waiting to see how he's going to play this. "I don't see him, talk to him, and the container goes into the water. I'd like to see what a few hours in salt water is gonna do to those expensive toys of yours," I add.

Stark's pretty good at masking his emotions, but rage comes radiating off of him like the heat from a bonfire. "Fawkes, if that shipment is damaged, neither you nor your partner will be walking away from this alive," is the threat that goes with the anger.

"If Hobbes is damaged, neither will you," I tell him coldly. "Now where's my partner?"

Stark pulls a cell phone out of his inside suit coat breast pocket and dials. "Bring him," is all he says before he hangs up and goes back to glaring at me. The distant ring overhead of footsteps on steel plate decking gets both of us to look up and I see one of Stark's goons shove Bobby roughly up against the railing of the ship in the bow, almost directly above us. Hobbes' mouth has been duct-taped shut and from this distance, in this light, there's no way to see his expression, but he's pissed as hell. I can see it written all over him, the tension in his small frame, the way the muscles in his neck are standing out in the shadows and highlights of the deck lighting. His hands must be cuffed behind him, because his arms are at an awkward angle, elbows sticking out away from his body. I can't take my eyes off him. "Satisfied?" Stark breaks into my concentration on Hobbes.

I glance his way and shake my head slightly. "I want to see him up close and personal, Stark. I want to inspect the merchandise."

"Not until that cargo container is aboard the ship, Fawkes," he smiles at me without humor. "I have merchandise of my own to inspect."

I raise my hand again, circling the forefinger in the air and then jabbing it toward the ship, a Hobbesian kind of gesture out of the Green Berets or something, knowing Monroe will know what to do. Sure enough, she engages the clutch on the cargo crane and the container at the end of the boom moves jerkily towards the ship until it's dangling overhead. "Have them bring him down," I demand, looking back at Stark, who's watching the container sway over the middle of the ship's deck drunkenly, when Alex brings the boom to a stop again.

"I think not, Darien," Stark says meditatively. "I still have merchandise to inspect. I suggest you come aboard and confirm your partner's overall health and wellbeing while I check on my weapons," he counters.

Oh, crap. Monroe spent almost an hour earlier tonight while we were setting things up harping on the fact that under no circumstances was I to go aboard the ship. No how, no way. And it looks like I'm not going to have much of a choice in the matter. I know she can't cover me up there, but we do have all available Agency personnel down here with us tonight, on Monroe's say-so. It's a risk I'm just going to have to take. I shove my hands in my pockets and glance up at Bobby, then back at Stark. "After you, man," I say laconically, hoping he doesn't pick up on my case of nerves.

"Not at all, Darien. After you," he insists, gesturing at the steep boarding ramp behind me. Out of options, I turn and start climbing up it.

I can feel Stark behind me as we reach the deck of the ship and I look back over my shoulder at him before homing in on where Hobbes and his jailers are still standing at the bow alongside the railing about thirty feet away. I've only taken one step in their direction when Stark grabs me by the arm.

"First things first, Darien," he says. "Have your little helper in the crane lower the container aboard," he demands.

I glare at him for a long second, knowing Monroe is gonna be shitting bricks over this. "I'm going to have to be in line of sight with the crane," I tell him finally.

He snorts with ironic laughter. "They still haven't given you a cell phone?" he asks mockingly, shaking his head pityingly. "I really don't know why you've been as loyal to the Agency as you have, Darien. It's truly a misplaced allegiance."

I don't bother answering, turning and stepping up alongside the rail to make a chopping motion across my throat. Creaking and groaning, the container is lowered slowly down to the deck, Stark's men distracted by it as it settles aboard with a clang. The half dozen of them swarm all over it, hurriedly unhooking it from the winch cable on its roof and starting to work at the series of heavy gauge chains and locks on the end while Stark watches. I approach Hobbes and his guard, the guy trying to keep half an eye on the activity behind me at the same time he's watching us for tricks. I keep my attention on Hobbes, and I'm finally close enough to see his face and read his expression. It's the 'bad cop' look in spades, and I swallow, knowing exactly what he's thinking. As I approach him, I reach over and rip the tape off his mouth, seeing the slight flinch as the adhesive takes off skin and pulls on the three-day growth of stubble. I can see they've given him a pretty good going over, by the looks of things, a cut on his left cheek darkening into a nasty looking bruise, matched by the one lower down on his jaw. I wince as he spits in my face.

"Good going there, partner," he snarls, his anger as volcanic as I've ever seen it. If he weren't still handcuffed, I'd be afraid for my life. "You're handing him the weapons back in exchange for me, aren't you, Fawkes? You sniveling, whiney, self involved, friggin' BASTARD! I'm ready to die for this country and all you can think about doing is betraying it the first chance you get? Well, Bobby Hobbes is gonna come after you, Fawkes. Count on it. I will track you down if it takes the rest of my life, you traitorous little Benedict Arnold," he rants, and I'm starting to worry he'll have a coronary or a stroke or something, with the way the veins are standing out along his neck and forehead.

He's so angry, he's practically foaming at the mouth. I tune out the words, knowing he'd never be saying them if he had any idea what the truth was, trying not to let it hurt that he has so little faith in me, even now. Which is why I hear it when Alex and my little surprise gets sprung on Stark and his men. They scatter like a herd of gazelle as the team of the Agency's best Swat-types comes boiling out of the newly opened cargo container with all the lethal efficiency of a pride of lions, guns at the ready, shouting orders for everyone to stop where they are.

The thug who has his automatic pressed up against Bobby's ribs is distracted for just the split second it takes for me to launch myself at him and yank him away from Hobbes, shoving my partner to the deck with the other hand. My guy doesn't go down, though, and starts coming after me like Ali, or something, raining roundhouse punches down on me as I dodge and weave, trying to avoid the worst of it. He's connecting big time, and I'm the one who goes down, curling into a huddle as he goes after me with the pointy toes of his expensive loafers, getting me in the ribs and back. It hurts like bloody hell, to borrow one of my Keeper's expressions, and I can't help lying there, gasping for air with a ribcage that won't expand, my vision going dark and my blood roaring in my ears, wishing I had let Hobbes win the argument about self defense lessons. Dimly, I can hear Hobbes shouting something, and I see him scramble to his feet and hurl himself at the guy who's kicking the stuffing outta me, catching him with a shoulder to the midsection that would've floored me. Only the guy is almost a foot taller and probably forty pounds heavier than Bobby, so he still doesn't go down, Bobby does. Instead, he raises his gun and is all set to smash the butt into Hobbes' head when I roll onto my knees and throw my arms around the guy's waist, knocking his legs out from under him. And this time, finally, he goes down, falling backward against the railing.

Only I miscalculated the momentum and my quarry and I go careening over the bow railing and plummet the forty feet into the rock-hard water between the ship and the dock. All the way down, even over my scream and the racket of gunfire, I can hear Hobbes' wail as he shouts my name.

Hitting the water is like hitting an ice floe, liquid cold even more icy than the quicksilver, and the shock of the impact combined with the chill drives what air is left in my lungs out. Water comes poring in my mouth and nose, salty, bitter and foul with the tang of fuel and oil. I have no idea how deep I go. The water is as opaquely black as velvet, and I can't tell which direction is up as I flail around helplessly, praying I can reach the surface before I have to breathe. My lungs are burning with the need for air and if I can't find my way back up in seconds, I'm going to drown. Terror is probably what saves my life. The quicksilver, when it slides over me, unwilled, a purely instinctive response, transforms the blackness of my world to the shimmery silver of an old movie. Smeary light suddenly gives me a sense of direction as I see the broken ripple and swirl of the water's surface over my head, the black columns of the pilings reaching upward to the dock in rippled bands like reflections in a funhouse mirror. Ignoring the agony in my chest and lungs, I kick hard for the surface and break through, gasping, choking, the quicksilver flaking away to drift like pollen on the water as I splash my way feebly towards the rusty ladder bolted to a piling a few feet away. I hook an arm through the rung just above the water line, feeling for one below the water with my feet, too weak to even think about trying to pull myself out.

The chaos and hubbub of shouts and the rumble of equipment up on the pier above me flows over me unheeded as I cling to my rung and try to stop the shivers that are starting to shake me. It's Alex who comes to the rescue, and the first I know about it is when one of the Agency guys knifes into the water not ten feet from me in a dive so perfect Greg Louganis would have been proud. He bobs to the surface, shaking the water and hair out of his eyes and swims over to me, reaching up over my head to grab hold of the winch cable so recently used to hoist the cargo container onto the ship that dangles there. I can hear the directions being shouted down, but they might as well be in a foreign language for all the sense they make. I just hang there, limp, letting my rescuer wind the cable around my chest under my arms, looping it through the big steel hook in a makeshift lift line. When he's sure it's secure, he gives it a sharp tug, and I can see his partner overhead on the dock turn away and signal to Alex to start the winch.

I'm hauled out of the water like a prize swordfish and dropped dripping and shivering onto the asphalt and tar of the dock minutes later. I'm untangled from the line as a blanket is thrown over my shoulders, and I sit in my puddle and shiver as I hear the pitter patter of little Hobbes feet come thudding at full tilt down the metal and wood of the boarding ramp. It's hard to smile with my teeth chattering so hard, but I do my best, as he drops to his knees in front of me, face dead white, making his bruises stand out even more.

"Fawkes!" he exclaims, tilting my chin back so he can see into my face. "Goddammit, you scared the shit outta me! Don't you ever, EVER do something that stupid again!" he goes on in a similar vein, and I take it in like I would if Casey were whispering sweet nothings in my ear. I know it's just Hobbes saying he's forgiven me for the deception, that he's feeling like shit for not trusting me, just music to my soul, that's all. It's even better when he pulls me up against him, rubbing my back vigorously, trying to warm me. His shouts of "Claire!" go wafting over my head and my Keeper comes pelting up, her medical bag in hand, and together, they strip off my blanket, my shirt, and start looking me over.

"How is he?" asks Monroe, loping up to us as soon as she's finished making sure Stark and his boys are in the tender clutches of our Trojan horse team.

"Damned good question!" comes the Official's outraged bark. "And I've got an even better one for you, Agent Monroe! What in the HELL happened here?!" he demands. I thought Bobby was mad enough to foam at the mouth before. But the 'Fish is actually doing it, spittle flying from his lips as the dressing down continues.

It's not until Alex glances down at me, and I wink at her, that he shuts up, coming to a sputtering, frustrated halt. Behind him, Eberts looks visibly relieved.

"What the Official was wondering, is perhaps one of you would care to inform him of the nature mission that just concluded here, as it seems he was uninformed about the pre-game briefing?" Ebbes stutters, his usual placating diplomacy tinged with a noticeable degree of satisfaction as he glances at Hobbes with a slight smile. "It's a pleasure to see you back among us, Robert," he adds in an aside to Bobby.

Hobbes grins back at him. "Chief, we've just concluded a very successful hostage rescue," he says, sort of needlessly, in my book, since he's obviously no longer in Chrysalis' hands. "You've got yourself one hell of a team, sir," he says, the satisfaction in his voice making something warm inside me like a shot of brandy. "If you don't mind my sayin' so," he adds as he turns that grin on me, and I bask in his approval like a little kid.

The 'Fish looks momentarily startled, then reluctantly, a grin starts creeping over his face. "I do, don't I?" he agrees. "So which one of you is going to tell me how we come to have Jared Stark and a half-dozen of his punks in custody?" he asks after a minute, the thunder gone from his expression as he looks from one to the other of us, expectantly.

"Well, sir, it was all Agent Fawkes' idea," Monroe starts.

The snort the 'Fish gives speaks volumes. "Of course it was," he agrees sarcastically.

Hobbes gives his report verbally while Claire checks me over, her hands actually warm in comparison to the icy goose bumps that cover me.

"It was a trap, and I walked right into it," Bobby is chewing himself out, shaking his head, one hand still unconsciously on my thigh where it landed after they got my shirt off. It's warm through the soaking corduroy of my pants, and I try to center all my awareness on that little comfort, jaws clenched against the chattering of my teeth.

"There wasn't any way you could've known, Hobbes," Monroe breaks in, knowing he's beating himself up for no reason. "Fawkes talked with Standish after they snatched you, and he confirmed that the Chrysalis agents were tailing you. You got two of them by the way," she adds with approval.

Bobby grins. "Finally. Once in a while we actually get a little satisfaction. When they got me to whatever chamber of horrors they kept me in, I spent a fun-filled three days test-driving all their latest truth drugs. The only thing they wanted to know was, where the weapons were. I couldn't tell 'em what I didn't know, so they were stuck comin' to the Agency to make a trade. I coulda told 'em the boss-man'd never go for it. Actually," he cocks his head, Bobby-like, "I think I did. Anyway, long story short, you'll never guess who their new head of torture and inquisition is," he says, voice going grim.

"Who?" Claire asks obediently, taking my place as asker of dumb questions, since I can't talk, I'm shivering so hard.

"That Swiss-miss mother -" he starts and stops again as I sit up straighter, staring at him, going even colder, if such a thing is possible.

"W-w-w-wha-aa-t-t-t-t?" I clatter almost unintelligibly, focused on his reaction. God, a nightmare come true if Arnaud and Stark are really in bed together.

He nods slightly. "Yeah, it came as a nasty little surprise when I wound up on the receiving end of whatever truth agents it is he's cooked up for them. I don't know the whole story, but from what he and Stark let slip when they thought I was too outta it to be payin' attention, Stark went to Arnie after Fawkes' little lightning trip down amnesia lane, and Chrysalis is using De Phön's smuggling and terrorist connections to supply guns and arms to Stark's people. It looks to me like they're gearing up for a little civil disobedience pretty darn soon, my friends." That little bombshell has all of us looking at each other, and Claire's muttered 'oh, bum' pretty much says it all.

The Official turns to Monroe and glowers at her. "Tell me the weapons aren't in that cargo container," he demands, holding onto his temper by the skin of his teeth.

"Of course not," she confirms. "That was the only reason I helped Fawkes with this little scheme," she goes on. I made him promise to leave the weapons in the Agency lockup in exchange for pulling some strings and getting a counter-terrorist team together to make the bust."

"But, Agent Monroe, I checked!" Eberts looks between her and the Official, consternation in his expression, "There's nothing in the property room we had them stored in," he says hesitantly.

Alex's grin is Cheshire-like. "That's 'cuz Fawkes waited till he saw you bustling off to check, and quicksilvered the crates. They'd have been visible again in a few hours when the quicksilver biodegraded, but since they were just sitting there, not moving, it'd take someone stumbling over them to knock the stuff off. Since we were counting on Chrysalis having ears inside the Agency, we had to make it look like Fawkes was renegade or Stark would never fall for the idea of a trade. We know they probably have someone inside the Agency, probably low-level, but we couldn't take the chance. So we made the crates vanish, and all of a sudden, Fawkes' story holds water."

"What about the stingers?" the Fat Man asks, and Alex's smile disappears as if someone'd thrown a switch.

"There was no way to be sure they'd be here. We had to operate on the assumption that whoever these things are going to wants the whole shipment, so we're just going to have to take this rust bucket apart and hope Stark was planning on sending everything to the same destination," she answers.

"And what if he wasn't, Monroe? What then?" the Official asks grimly.

"Then there are a half-dozen stingers out there somewhere and we'd better start trying to find the things," Bobby says equally grimly, ready to head out to start looking this second.

"First things first," Claire interrupts impatiently as she jabs a needle into a shimmery blue vial of counteragent, drawing up a dose for me. There's still two green segments left on my tattoo, but I can already feel the QSM headache starting to build at the base of my skull like the grip of a vise. "Darien and Bobby have both been injured in the line of duty, the weapons, most of them, anyway, are secure, and Stark and some of his men are our guests for the moment. With all due respect, sir," she addresses the Official, "I think that it would be best if they went home. For an extended weekend, at the very least," she adds firmly.

"Doctor, are you telling me that Hobbes and Fawkes need a vacation?" the Fat Man glowers at her in disbelief.

"Yes sir, exactly. A vacation is precisely what they need." She jabs the needle into an exposed vein in my arm and I flinch as the counteragent burns along my bloodstream like icy fire, carefully not looking at the Chief. Bobby catches my eye, his face expressionless, but I can see the gleeful hope in his eyes.

"Did they put you up to this, Claire?" the Official asks, voice still gruff, but something in it makes me glance up at him.

"Of course not," Claire defends herself. "I'm their doctor. In my professional opinion, both of them are in need of a full physical work-up and an extended rest to recover from the injuries they've sustained," she tells the Fat Man as she glances at Bobby, worry furrowing her forehead as she caps the syringe and drops it into her bag so she can reach out to touch the eggplant colored bruises on his face.

I just love it when he blushes, and I grin at him as he gets all flustered.

"Aww, there's nothing wrong with me, Keepie," he protests. "I been roughed up worse than this plenty of times," he protests, and I smack him lightly on the chest with the back of my hand.

"S-s-sttt-o-p-p-pp-p bitc-c-ch-ing, B-b-b-b-obby," I stammer, trying not to laugh. "S-s-he's try-y-ying t-t-to s-c-c-core us a f-ff-few days off!" My chattering teeth gets me my blanket back, Claire tucking it tight around me as she takes over backrub duty.

"Eberts, how's the budget looking?" The 'Fish asks his pet bean-counter, and I figure we can kiss our vacation goodbye. I sigh.

"Actually, sir, since Agent Monroe was able to secure outside assistance, we are not responsible for the overtime this… rescue accrued. Which means that we have a certain… budgetary padding in this fiscal period." Eberts' self-satisfied expression mystifies all of us who aren't fluent in financial-speak and we stare at him expectantly.

"In English, Eberts," The Official prompts him when the little hamster's forehead starts to furrow at our dimness.

"As long as Agents Fawkes and Hobbes are willing to take the time at half-pay, we should be able to cover the expense of a week's vacation for each of them," Eberts says smugly.

Bobby's war-whoop sums it up pretty well. Time off — out of a hospital — and with pay? This is a first in my career at the agency and I can't help the grin that settles on my face, trying to ignore the pain my partner's enthusiastic thumps on my back generate.

Hobbes scrambles to his feet and low-fives Eberts, who looks startled and a little put out, shaking his stinging palm. "C'mon, man, it's time for you to be initiated into the secret handshake," Bobby tells him, grinning. "Any paper-pusher who can get this penny-ante agency to actually give me a week off is one of us," he smirks.

Eberts has the funniest look on his face, half annoyed, half pleased, and he does that little squaring-of-the-shoulders thing he does when he's on his dignity. "As it happens, Robert, I am already acquainted with a number of fraternal handshakes," he informs Bobby with a certain solemnity.

"What, like the Free Masons? Ebes, I'm talking the street fraternities, here," Hobbes tells him expansively, pulling his 'experienced agent' routine.

I can see it coming when Eberts shakes his head slightly.

"No, Free Masonry has never appealed to me, though from my understanding, it's organizational tenants would be likely to appeal to you," is Eberts' somewhat condescending response. "I was thinking more in the lines of the ritual greetings used between members of various local gangs," he continues, and proceeds to demonstrate, a flashy and cryptic series of finger signs followed by a quick slap to Hobbes' still outstretched palm and a rapping of his knuckles against Bobby's.

Hobbes' look is priceless. He's just been upstaged by the hamster. I can't help the laughter that bubbles up through my chest. "You da man, Ebes!" I congratulate him, reaching up with my fist and meeting Eberts' knuckles with my own in a celebratory rap. His pleased expression is worth the annoyance in Bobby's face.

"If you're finished asserting your dominance, Agent Hobbes, I suggest you take your partner home and see that he doesn't catch pneumonia," is Claire's prim little contribution to the aura of celebration that's unexpectedly descended on us

Bobby shakes off the disgruntled look and reaches a hand down to me, pulling me to my feet easily. It never ceases to amaze me just how strong he is. "So we really have the week off?" he turns to the Official who's looking like the cat who ate the canary. Bobby's not the trusting type, not when it comes to promises from the 'Fish — or his chief accountant and rule quoter, not trusting that Eberts' word is law, where the budget is concerned.

"If Eberts says we can afford it, then we can afford it," the Fat Man agrees shortly. "Now get out of here and leave the mop-up to the rest of us," he commands.

It's gotten to the point where I'm starting to be able to tell the difference in his styles of gruffness… little things meaning the difference between a royal reaming out and a job well done. This is one of the 'job well done' kind, and I give Bobby a little shove on the arm to get him moving before he can screw things up for us. "C'mon, partner, let's get outta here before someone changes their mind," I chatter at him, nudging him gently ahead of me, him looking over his shoulder at Eberts and the Official, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"If you like, Robert, I can demonstrate some additional ritual handshakes upon your return to duty," Eberts calls after us, satisfied to be having the last word, and Bobby's mocking, sotto voce Eberts-bashing drifts to me as I follow him down the pier, squelching.

"Demonstrate this, Eberts," Bobby replies. I grab his arm as he starts to raise a one-fingered salute over his head, a typical expression of his general dislike of Eberts.

"Hobbesy, would you quit with the teenaged bitchiness already?" I ask. "Cut the guy some slack, he just got us a week off with half-pay."

"What are you talkin' about? Bobby Hobbes knows how to be grateful. How am I not bein' grateful?" he glances over his shoulder at me, expression edging towards evil. "And when I'm finished bein' grateful, maybe I'll nominate him for sacrificial virgin. Whadda ya think, Fawkes? There's gotta be some whacko out there who'll get off on the whole virgin bit. We hand 'em Eberts, and all our problems are solved. Maybe he'll even get off on it," he adds nastily, eyebrows wiggling. "Then we'll see who's grateful."

I snort. In some magical Hobbesian universe, being grateful means flipping the bird to show Ebes that he's one of the guys. And it's just twisted enough that the two of them get it. I wonder if gratitude towards me is a possibility, and what it'd look like, if so. "You know, I saved your sorry butt there, my friend," I prompt,

"Uh, yeah, about that, Fawkes," he starts, "I uh, just wanted to say, you know, that I'm, uh, sorry about the whole spitting in your face kinda thing ..." He shrugs uncomfortably and looks up at me with those incredibly beautiful eyes of his. And that's the look that gets him off the hook, his very own version of my puppy dog eyes. I didn't even know he had it in him. I swear, just when I think I've gotten a PhD in Bobby Hobbes, he up and surprises me. I stare back into those brandy-colored eyes for a small lifetime feeling all warm and shivery inside, then break eye contact.

"S'ok," I mutter, shuffling along with my head down. "Hey, you hungry?" I ask him, going for casual. I'm suddenly ravenous and realize I haven't eaten anything since my tête-à-tête with Jimmy the night before.

"Yeah! You still got some of that take-out I brought by?" Hobbes is practically smacking his lips at the thought of food and I realize he probably hasn't eaten in even longer.

"Better than that, man," I inform him. "Garbage pie." I watch his eyes light up as he contemplates his favorite culinary disaster.

"Please tell me it has extra cheese."

"Extra cheese, just the way you like it. But no anchovies."

"Oh man, Fawkes, anchovies are what make it! What's wrong with you?" he asks as we squish-squash our way to my car.

And right then, there's absolutely nothing wrong me, for once in my life. My partner is back beside me, all safe and sound, and even the beatings we've taken can't dim the warmth of Hobbes' hand when he reaches up to grab me by the scruff of the neck affectionately. "You just got no taste, my friend," he tells me as he opens the front passenger door of my car and shoves me towards the bench seat. "Let's get you home, buddy," he finishes, fishing in my pocket for the car keys before I can protest. "I'll drive."

- [In Don Quixote, Cervantes wrote, "'Tis the only comfort of the miserable to have partners in their woes." I think he had the right idea, only, with the right partner, the woes don't make me as miserable as they once did.]- Darien Fawkes

Fin

Many thanks to Dawn, Pipsqueak and Chalie for their timely rescue from writer's block, and for their willingness to rise to the challenge of wraping up this little end scene for me!

Suz
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