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Count on it	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1076 -:- 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-Count on it
- 1
Title: Count On It

Author: Suz

Fandom: Invisible Man

Spoilers: Big ones for the New Stuff

Paring: Bobby/Darien, of course!

Rating: R for implied violence, and language

Status: New/Complete

Archive: Just fine, WWOMB, QS Archive, others, let me know.

E-mailressress: suzinsf@earthlink.net

Series/Sequel: Not really

Other websites: Fanfiction.net

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, wish I did, cuz I'd never have canceled them! No $ made, no harm, no foul.

Notes: Many thanks to all the Betas (Pipsqueak, Dawnebeth, Doug, with post game analysis from Devyn and Chalie, I hope) who took time to really whip this into shape, and many, many thanks to Doug for letting me adopt his bunny.

Summary: Bobby's POV on the events of the New Stuff, and a missing scene at the end of that ep.

Warnings: We find out what happened between Bobby and Jones, and it ain't pretty. Some (non-graphic) discussion of rape, in several forms.

The

Invisible Man

(Missing Scene(s) from The New Stuff)

"Count On It"

by Suz
It's a good thing Claire is sitting between us the whole drive back into downtown San Diego, babbling like a brook and working off the adrenaline rush. It makes the quiet between Fawkes and me a little less obvious. Still, even the beta-C type babble has died down to an occasional comment by the time we pull into the Agency parking lot and unload the RDVs. We check in the equipment, get signed off on it, and then take Claire home, since she refused to leave her car at the Agency while we went off to try and stop Chrysalis' latest plan for world domination. I joke about it cuz if I didn't, I'd probably freak. Because that's exactly what they're doin', near as we can tell. We've been fed a line of crap from everyone we've ever questioned about that creepy gang of whackos. It still seems weird to me that maybe the best intel we've gotten came from someone I trust even less than Stark.

Arnaud de Phôn is the one responsible for the tightrope my partner has been walking for two years, and the last thing I'd ever expect was that there'd be a situation where I'd believe anything Arnaud had to say. But about Chrysalis, he'd have no reason to lie, not the way I see it. For once, someone actually put one over on that Swiss miss motherfucker. I just hope someday, Fawkes and I'll get to do an encore of Stark's little doublecross. Personally, I'd like a little satisfaction. Still, he coughed up a cure for the QSM, so I guess I owe him for that, even if it nearly cost me the best friend I ever

I remember standing at Fawkes' back, behind the chair he'd spent two years getting shots in, watching him writhe and moan as Claire drew up a dose of the counteragent, a medication that was fast losing its effectiveness. When he collapsed at my feet out in the dust of that cornfield, I nearly lost it. I had to make Farmer Ray help me get him into the van and strap him into his seat so I could break the land speed record getting back into the downtown area. I'd have called ahead for Claire to meet us half way, but the cell phone was out of range or on the fritz or something, so I just floored it and prayed we'd get to the Harding Building before he went totally red-eye on me. I had to carry him the last part of the way down the Agency halls to the Keep. I still don't know quite how I got all those long arms and legs high enough off the ground to get him there. I don't think I'd ever seen him in that much pain, and it scared me to death. I hustled him inside as fas I s I could move, him moaning "ouchy, ouchy, ouchy," into my shoulder as I lay him in the administering chair. I was mouthing off to the Keeper while hue hustled around, prepping the shot, trying to tell her how to do her job. Always a bad idea, but I wasn't caring whose toes I stepped on at that point. She rammed the needle home, shooting the blue juice straight into a bulging vein in his right arm.

It was a minute or so before the stuff kicked in, and he finally relaxed, the pain dying down to a dull roar.

"Hey buddy, you alright?" I asked him as he uncurled from the knot he'd tied himself up in.

"You know what? Screw that budget of yours," he told Claire, voice still a little shaky. "I think I'm gonna need two of these a week, huh?" His eyes were wide, and I could see the fear lurking in them. Claire turned her back to us, and the expression on her face as she did made me go cold.

"No, than'tn't be good enough," she said quietly.

I could feel Fawkes' panic radiating off him like heat off a furnace, and I practically jumped down her throat. "Whaddaya mean!? Get him three, then. Get him everything he wants!" I said and inched closer to his chair, about half a second from a total freak-out myself, here. "Anything you want, pal," I dropped my voice, trying to reassure him. It wasn't as if I could make it happen, I mean, shit, what do I know about science? But seeing him huddled there in that damned chair, I knew I'd damned well try. Hell, if I had to, I might just have been able to find a way to do it…

Claire turned around, and I could see the wetness in her eyes.

"Aw, crap…" Darien whispered.

It was my turn to panic. "Whaddya mean?!" I demanded.

"I mean none a week," Claire answered. She looked like she was trying not to cry.

"What's that?" Fawkes said, confused.

"Before Arnaud left, he gave me the cure for quicksilver madness." I could see her swallow. "The key is a designer gene that can be inserted on the same viral vector that Dr. Gaveston used on Bobby. Only this one kills the toxin producing cells. Permanently." She stood there, telling us she'd known how to stop this roller coaster, and hadn't done it, and my belly knotted, nausea churning in it. I didn't know what to think. How to feel. I mean, I'm a little in love with the woman, but this was my partner we were talking about.

"Wait a minute… uh, why didn't you tell me?" Fawkes asked. I could hear the confusion, the hurt ane ane anger in that quiet question. I kept my eyes on him, my fingers crossed that he wouldn't lose it, and heard the heavy tread of the Official and a couple of mooks from the Agency bullpen as they stepped into the Keep behind Darien and me. The Fat Man moved past me, closing on Fawkes, and I cursed the timing that brought him into the middle of this before I had a chance to try and talk my partner down.

"Doctor, I warned you," he told Claire, and I saw her stiffen, her eyes never leaving Fawkes'. My mouth went dry, and I tensed, wondering just how ugly this was gonna get. I didn't know who I should be protecting here; my partner or Claire, because the Fat Man looked ready to kill 'em both.

"He said he'd kill you," she informed my partner, and I saw it hit home in the long muscles of his back as they tightened almost imperceptibly.

Oh, crap. Claire was doing her best not to cry. I think the only thing keeping the tears from falling was the heat of her anger. She never gets that pissed. But she sure as hell was now. And that's when it occurred to me that she'd picked her side. She was with Fawkes, even if Fawkes wouldn't recognize it for a while. I got ready to back whatever play she made.

Fawkes turned around slowly, facing the fat bastard who's made his life hell for two years. "Well here I am," he dared the Official, and the two goons he brought along drew on us, one covering me, the other drawing a bead on him.

One of them, Richards I think his name is, gave us the standard warning. "Stay where you are."

"Hey! Holster the heat there, gentlemen," I suggested, annoyed that they were so eager to draw on some of their own. What the heid tid this bozo know about the situation, anyway?

"Agent Hobbes, clear and lock your weapon," he warned me. I didn't move.

"Me? You talkin' to me?" I dissembled, hoping to keep him distracted. What he didn't know about diffusing a situation woulda filled an encyclopedia. We really gotta get these greenhorns some hostage negotiation trainin' or somethin'.

The Fat Man's attention was focused on Fawkes. "What you don't understand Darien, this was never about you. I've got a job to do. And national security to safeguard." He glanced at the muscle covering me. "Richards, confiscate the contents of her refrigerator. She will not administer this drug to Agent Fawkes."

"Well that's a bit late, isn't it?" Claire spoke up, the hint of insubordination in her voice making me catch my breath. "I've just given the injection to Darien." Her eyes flicked back to Fawkes, the insubordination fading to sadness, and a strange sort of relief. "The last shot you'll ever need," she told him softly, a note of finality in her voice.

"You've made a serious error, Doctor," the Official bit off each word, spitting them at her like venom.

"No Charlie," Fawkes disagreed, his voice going all sing-song like it does when he's going QSM. "You did. You blew it. I would have stayed," he added, and the acid in my guts started a slow burn. Oh, hell. Fawkes was about to rabbit. He hadn't twitched a muscle, but he was SO outta there. And with his talent for disappearing, it was probably gonna take even me a few days to find him and convince him to drag his sorry butt back into the fold.

"You ARE going to stay," the Official snarled, ignoring the dangerous look in Fawkes' eyes. Eyes that silvered over as he disappeared in front of the Fat Man. "Fawkes?" he growled.

My partner didn't waste any time, and I didn't waste any sympathy, as he slugged Richards, knocking him out cold. "Tsk-tsk-tsk," I clucked mockingly.

"Hobbes, get after him," the Official ordered.

I don't blame Fawkes for walking out like he did. He deserved a damned sight more respect than he'd gotten. I know what that feels like, let me tell you, my friend. I ejected my clip, emptied the chamber, and told him; "Sorry, chief. Weapon's cleared and locked." Nothing on the planet woulda made me go after my partner right then.

I just hadn't figured on Darien not coming back.

Claire's expression was… I dunno; bleak. I guess that's the best way to describe it. But she was angry, too. I've seen her annoyed, but I've never seen her deep-down pissed off like that as she straightened up walked past the Fat Man without a word. He'd wanted my pal on the needle, a junkie hop-head, dependant on his royal fatness for his next fix. He'd never had any intention of allowing the gland to be removed as long as he could jerk Fawkes around like a puppet on a string. He didn’t know Claire'd made a promise. A promise she kept, the best she could. The gland might not be out, but at least the craziness that went with it was gone.

Claire was outta there within twenty four hours, and with Monroe off on some hush-hush assignment somewhere, I was basically the only ranking agent left at the Agency. It was sorta weird, you know? I'd spent the past two years playing nursemaid to a wet-behind-the-ears partner with more brains than sense, and now I was solo again. I didn't like it. Damn, I missed Fawkes. Missed the arguments, the sarcasm, the banter, the way we have of knowing what the other is thinking, all of it. Missed it with the kinda pain that reminds me of a toothache that won't go away.

I've never had a partner stick with me as long as Fawkes did. Not that he had much choice, but still. Maybe it's because we're both a little nuts. Sometimes more than a little. Whatever, why ever, we just clicked, in a way I don't think I've ever experienced with another human being.

I spent most of the next week thinking about the kid, wondering how he was doin', what he was doin', praying he wasn't gonna wind up in some kind of jam he couldn't get out of. I was havin' a hard time sleeping, and when the fifth night of nightmares woke me up, I knew I had to make up my mind where we stood. I spent the morning thinking about the difference between a partnership and a friendship, and making up my mind whether I could live without at least one of them. When I decided I couldn't, I tightened my belt, so to speak, and drove over to Fawkes' apartment.

I knew he'd still be angry, knew that'd be a long time fading, and I can't blame him, but the restless edginess in him set off all my alarm bells as I asked him if he was gonna let me in. This was not good.

Hell. I had no fucking idea how bad it was about to get.

I danced around it for a minute or two, then came out with it, telling him he didn't exactly have the resume or the references to go out and earn a living anywhere besides the Agency. My mistake. My next mistake was to go all cocky as I grabbed a beer out of his fridge, telling him a life of crime was out, since he'd had a taste of the righteous life, and had to see it was better than doing life in the nearest penitentiary. It was the way he answered that warned me I was wading around in a minefield.

"For completely different reasons, I agree," he said.

And a knock came on the door as he stuffed a shirt into the suitcase he was packing.

"Expecting someone? Got a date?" I snarked at him as he went to open the door.

The look he threw over his shoulder at me reminded me of a kid caught with his hands in the ie jie jar, defiant, embarrassed, angry. When Jonesy and his flunkies waltzed on in like they owned the place, I knew why.

"Hi, Darien, you ready?" Jones asked, not noticing me where I sat on the barstool at the kitchen counter, my blood running cold.

"You guys are early," Fawkes muttered uncomfortably.

"Jones." It came out as a low hiss. Half a decade of bad blood and worse history lay between us.

"Lithium Bob," Jones raised an eyebrow in my direction, then glanced at Fawkes. "What's he doin' here?" he demanded as I stiffened and raised my chin.

The nasty hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach turned into this massive void as I put it together. I know the hurt was there in my voice, I know he heard it. "No…. Not the FBI, Fawkes. Why?" I stared at my ex-partner, knowing he was as gone as my ex-wife. Outta my life. "Fawkes…" I could see he knew what this was doin' to me, apology mixing wthe the same grim anger that'd filled his face since I'd gotten to his place. I knew he wasn't mad at me, but he was sure taking it out on me.

"Maybe he's tired eingeing teamed up with a joke," Jonesy suggested sarcastically.

I lost it. "You wanna hear a joke? Why Bobby Hobbes kicked Jones's face downstairs. Because he wanted to. Hahaha!" I went for him, ready to rip out the bastard's throat, only Fawkes got in the way, pulling me off the smarerk erk before I could thim him my joke up close and personal.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa, Hobbes!" Darien dragged me off, muscling me away from the rest of the Feds. "C'mon! You said it yourself. I'm not goin' back to burglary."

"Why the Feds, Fawkes? Why the Feds?" I asked, still trying to swallow that low blow. He knows my history, or enough of it, to know he couldn't have made a worse choice, as far as my feelings on the subject were concerned. The black hole in my guts sucked away a little more of what I'd thought was a solid friendship.

"All the movies I seen, they're usually the least corrupt. And they're paying me at GS-9" He looked at me, knowing he was tearing my heart out here, a weird mix of cocky and insecure.

This was the guy I'd worked with for two friggin' years, a guy whose life I'd saved, who'd saved mine. I knew how he works. Knew he was all caught up in the self-centered bullshit he dragarouaround with him most of the first year I worked with him. I forced myself to try and see it from his point of view, to really get what he was feeling, but it was damned hard. Because what I felt was worthless. "GS-9…" I repeated. The stupid schmuck. His trick should be netting him a lot more than that, if money was gonna be the reason he sold me out.

"Is that good?" he asked, low in his throat, almost soundless. I could see the uncertainty in his expression. I wanted to slug him. But it's better than either of us make - made - with the Agency. Enough better that that little indignity stung, too.

Behind us, the local FBI bigwig along for pick-up duty was apparently eavesdropping, because he chimed in with; "And your own office!"

Fawkes nodded slightly. "New office and digs downtown…"

I just looked at him, trying to swallow past the vice grip around my throat. "GS-9…" I managed, barely abo whi whisper. "That's good."

Fawkes stared back at me, the beaten puppy look creeping into his eyes. He knew what this was doing to me. Knew this was ripping me open, must have seen it in my face, because he raised his voice, pitching it to carry to the little cluster of suits near the door. "Guys, I've got a problem," he said.

The head honcho wasn't much liking the sound of that. "Not with our deal, I hope."

"That depends on you," Darien answered, still not breaking eye contact with me.

"What do you want?" he asked Fawkes.

"Since I would like to avoid, uh, being teamed up with a joke, I would like you to hire Bobby Hobbes, here, as my partner," Fawkes told him, still eyeballing me, watching me for some clue how I was taking this latest little indignity. The kid just didn't get it. Just because he was the king of shortcuts, just because he had no pride, didn't mean I didn't.

"What?" Jones snorted disbelievingly.

"At the full GS-9 salary rate," Fawkes added, seeing the look on my face, hoping to sweeten the deal.

"No way!" Jones piped up again.

"Oh, and could you transfer Jones to Alaska? Please?" Fawkes added another condition.

"Done," the head suit said flatly, ignoring Jonesy's strangled outburst.

Fawkes watched me expectantly, one hand coming up for our ritual low five, so damned sure he had me figured, so damned sure I'd go along with his egocentric little scheme. I just stared back at him, wondering if he had any idea what kind of knife he'd just driven into me. "Don't leave me hangin' brother. Here we go," he coaxed, wheedling, that little kid attitude of his showing up one more time. "Give it up. C'mon…"

"Sorry, partner," I said quietly and walked away from him, putting my beer bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Excuse us," he told the suit contingent, following me and catching me, leaning over to whisper into my ear, his breath warm against my face. "Dude? G…S…9," he dragged out the only carrot he had.

I didn't look him in the eye when I answered, because I knew he wasn't getting it. So I decided to be blunt. "When Bobby Hobbes returns to the majors, it's gonna be on my own average, my friend."

"Okay, uhm, you know what, Hobbes? I don't think you really understand, here. We can rule this joint. I'm their Golden Boy-" he said, totally missing the point.

I turned to stare at him for the last time. "You sure are," I agreed, brushing past him and heading for the door. "Thanks for the beer. I'll see you around, partner…" and I walked away. Let him go. Hell, he deserved whatever it was they'd do to him, I told myself, not believing it for a second. He just didn't have a clue what he was letting himself in for.

It still smarts. I guess that's the problem. I don't know if I've got either a partnership, or a friendship left with Fawkes, really. I guess it depends on him. Which is why the quiet when we drive away from Claire's suburban bungalow makes my head ache. We stopped the bad guys, but the good guys may not be ridin' into the sunset together at this rate…

The afternoon Fawkes defected to the Dark Side, as I think of the FBI while it's populated by vicious and vindictive bastards like Jones, I drove away from his apartment trying to calm down, doing my relaxation breathing, using all the tricks my army of therapists have taught me over the years, trying to get a handle on what I was feeling. What it boiled down to, was it hurt. It was a little like when Viv told me she was planning on marrying Brock. Jilted. That's what it felt like. Which was stupid, since we didn't really have that kind of relationship, ri Not Not that I'd've necessarily minded… But the feeling was the same. Someone I trusted, someone I loved, had basically as good as told me that they didn't want me. And had fucking humiliated me in front of a numb-nuts like Jones.

I still hadn't finished working it through when I ran into Fawkes again with his new cronies out at the smoking remains he The TerraGen research lab. He was standing around with his hands in his pockets, as per usual, and I'm sure Jonesy's boys figured he was just taking up space. But I trained the kid. He knows how an investigation works. He is nowhere near is stupid as the fibbies likely thought he was. He was taking it all in, thinking about what he was seeing, just like I taught him. There's this fancy German word for it, called 'gestalt'. That's what Fawkesy called it anyways, when he finally figured out what it is I do when I poke around a crime scene for the first few minutes. It's the first, best thing an investigator can do. Don't touch anything, just take it all in

So when I ducked under the yellow tape, I watched him while Jonesy tried to head me off at the pass, snapping back at the moron while he tried to bully me into leaving. When he sicced a pair of Bureau musclemen on me, Fawkes stepped in, urging them off as he assumed responsibility for my presence. It was too early to tell if that was a good sign or not, but since my ego was still stinging, it didn't really matter.

"So how ya doin'? he asked me, shuffling his feet through the ashes and debris, glancing at me through those 'official' FBI shades of his.

"Pretty good," I answered. "How you doin'?" I watched him out of the corner of my eye, reading his discomfort about the bum's rush Jonsey'd tried on me. At least he had the grace to be embarrassed by his new pals.

"I'm good," he answered, not very convincingly, in my book. "Good. You takin' care?" He looked at me over the top of his sunglasses, and I could see the little furrow in his forehead that told me he really wanted to know.

"Me? I'm great. You?" I asked, going along with it, trying not to let it piss me off that it wasn't me here with him, partners. Because I was about as welcome around here at the moment as a case of the flu, and taken about as seriously. A nuisance, not a threat. We babbled a little more before I turned to glare at him. "I can't believe you're working with these deltoids," I told him, angry, trying to keep it together.

"Hobbes, save your breath, all right?" he shot me a look, annoyed, trying not to be.

"Breath? For what?" I asked, knowing he figured I was here to bring him back.

"I'm not comin' back." He straightened, watching me.

"That why you think I'm here? To ask you to come back?" I stared at him. It wasn't like the idea hadn't occurred to me, but I knew Fawkes well enough to know anything that made him feel like he was being played would drive him off faster than just about anything else.

"So why you here?" he asked, still suspicious.

I leaned a little closer, annoyed "Guess you can't see very good through those FBI sunglasses, can you, huh?" I said sarcastically.

He frowned at me. "I see just fine through these sunglasses."

"I don't think so. It's a cover-up, my friend."

"Huh. A cover-up?" He was looking at me like I was doin' the usual whacko routine. He was writing me off as a total nutcase. It sure hadn't taken long for Jonesy and his morons to destroy his faith in me.

"It's got Chrysalis written all over it," I pointed out, as if I was explaining it to a fourth-grader.

He actually thought about it for a second, but the skepticism didn't fade outta his expression. "Ol' cover-up?" he repeated.

I was getting impatient. "The ol' cover-up," I confirmed. "The terrorists are patsies. Think about it, huh? This place makes super seeds for farmers like old man McGillicuddy and his corn." If I had to spell it out for him, I would.

"Yeah, but why?" he asked

"Why what?" I answered shortly.

"Why?" he frowned at me again. "Why would Chrysalis hit this place, then hit farmer Ray? I don't get it. What's the connection? Whadda they gonna gain?" He was trying to work it out, and I wished I had an answer for him, but I wasn't the one with the clearance to poke around the scorched debris that had once been a greenhouse.

"The answer is right over there in that evidence," I pointed out. "Over there, right?" I gestured at the coolers and plastic bags that cluttered up the forensic guys' makeshift workbench. "Why don't you go over there and do a little see-through and tell us what Stark's really up to? Why don't you do that, huh?" I suggested cynically, doubting I could convince him to help me out.

"Alright, Hobbes. I gotta put my foot down, bro," he answered, his expression going a little remote, like I hurt him somehow.

"What?" I whined, giving him a little of his own back.

"We're brothers. You know that, right?" he said seriously, taking off the glasses.

I just looked at him. "I don't know, maybe," I muttered, refusing to let him con me. How do you tell someone who's just laid you open, disappointed the hell outta you, that he doesn't have a clue how I feel about him? And if Fawkes thinks that's the way brothers treat each other, then he's got a strange idea of what brotherhood is.

Actually, I can't exactly throw stones in that department. My own brothers weren't anything to write home about. I was kinda the runt of the litter, so I was on the receiving end of a lot of the bullshit kids do to each other. Even my younger sister was bigger than I was until I was a junior in high school. I'm not clto ato any of them, and when my marriage to Viv crashed and burned, and I got fired from the FBI, they pretty much wrote me off. I haven't stayed in touch.

So yeah, okay, maybe he had treated me like a brother, at that. Sometimes I forget he's got his own issues with family. Like being abandoned by his father, losing his mom when he was just a kid, and being stuck with a brainiac brother whose idea of filial loyalty was to stick a gland in his little brother's head that made him go invisible - oh, and also made him go nuts on a regular basis. So neither of us has the world's most normal family. But what we had, him and me, was a whole lot more than a blood relationship. We were brothers by choice. Outta shared experience. Outta trust. Outta love. And out of respect. It's been a long time since I'd had someone who respected me the way Fawkes did. Maybe no one ever has. He teases me, bugs the shit outta me a lot of the time, but he knows I know what I'm doing. He let me teach him stuff. Let me show him the ropes in this business. He knew there was more goin' on than the whacko image I've acquired, thanks to schmoes like Jonesy. He also knows that I use it to my advantage a lot of the time, like I did when I first started working with him.

It gives me time to get a feel for someone without them being able to do the same. Most people are more than happy to jump to the conclusion Id thd them towards. Yeah, I've got my problems, but sometimes they can be assets. As long as I don't lose my temper. Then I really do flip out. But Fawkes, he could talk me down. He did for me, like I did for him when he went QSM. But I played the whacko burn-out when I first got stuck with the kid, till I started figuring out there was more to him than just another pretty face.

The thing about Fawkes is, the kid is no slouch in the braieparepartment, either. He pays attention to stuff. Notices things. He's actually got a fair amount of natural talent at the whole investigation thing. So he was a quick study. It didn't take him long to figure out that Bobby Hobbes wasn't the moron everyone else thinks I am. He started payin' attention to what I was doin'w I w I was doin' it, when I was doin' it, that kinda thing. Not that he didn't argue about every little thing, or cop this long-suffering attitude, bhathat's what it was, most of the time; attitude. He got pretty good at figuring me out.

And I got used to being able to count on that. Count on him knowing what I was gonna do, sometimes even before I'd figured it out myself. Got used to being able to count on him, period. Whenever. Whatever. That's a first for me. Even when I was in the CIA, the partners I had never meshed with me the way Fawkes did. I guess that'd be what I missed the most about havin' him gone, the last two weeks.

"Right. Well the Official knows it too. I'm not going to let him screw up our friendship by using you to get to me. I ain't going back there. I ain't gonna work for him!" And I heard something in his voice that made me really think about what he was sayin'. He was scared outta his mind that the Fat Man would do what he'd threatened, and kill him for that damned bit of goo in his head.

"You're some piece of work. You know that?" I told him, stepping away from that tack.

"You know how long you've been telling me that?" he snapped back.

Since I met him, I thought to myself. It was still true, or I wouldn't keep sayin' it. Sometimes I forget how new he is to the whole intelligence game, because he handles himself so well, most of the time. But every once in a while, he'll say something that reminds me what a greenhorn he is. Like I'd ever have let the Fat Man kill him for that stupid gland…

I shrugged a little. "Why don't you put those FBI sunglasses back on?" I suggested. I might not be able to get him to give me what I needed, but maybe I could give him a nudge in the right direction. He might be out of the Agency, but Chrysalis and their agenda hadn't gone anywhere, and the Agency was the only branch of the DOJ, as far as I knew, that was working on trying to stop them. Hell, we were probably the only onho kho knew they existed in the first place.
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Count on it