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Up For It	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1235 -:- 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-up for it
- 1
Title: Up For It

Author/pseudonym: Suz

Fandom: Invisible Man

Paring: Bobby/Darien

Rating: NC 17 for graphic m/m sex

Status: Complete

Archive: Yes, WWOMB; atherthers let me know

E-mail address: suzinsf@earthlink.net

Series/Sequel: No

Other websites: Also archived on Fanfiction.net

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, just like to play with 'em

Notes: This is a little apology to Hobbes for the traumas of 'I Know'. The ferris wheel was all Dawnebeth's idea. Thanks to the Fab-Four Betas who keep me on track, and make sure I don't mangle the spelling too badly while I'm at it…

Summary: A silly little PWP?: Darien wants a PDA, and not the electronic kind…
>War>Warnings: none

The Invisible Man

Up For It

by Suz

"Hobbes," he says in that wheedle-voice of his.

"What," I answer. It's not even a question, 'cuz I know what. I finish putting relish on my hotdog and wrap the paper around it again so it won't all come squooshing out when I take my first bite.

"Please?" he keeps on it, just not taking 'no' for an answer.

I ignore him and turn away, takine fie first bite of my lunch, and hear him sigh behind me.

"C'mon, Hobbesy, please?" He's friggin' relentless.

I throw him one of my looks. "What part of 'surveillance' don't you get?" I want to know. I swear, he's like a kid, most of the time. "We're here to do a job, Fawkes, not play games," I remind him, then take another bite of my lunch.

We're wandering around after a mook who's spent the whole day at the San Diego County Fair, dragging his girlfriend and their screaming brats along on every ride in the place. It's getting old, let me tell you. Especially since it's like, oh, a hundred and fifty degrees in the sun. I mean, I'm all for the patriotic observance of our nation's first day of independence, but if I had my way, I'd be doin' it at the beach, where there's maybe a chance of catching a breeze. At least I'm getting a hotdog outta the deal.

The mark and his family are scoping out the food court for an empty table and Ich ach as they settle down to inhale their own meal. I feel Fawkes nudge me with his elbow.

"C'mon. Hobbesy, they're gonna take a few minutes. We've got time for at least one," he says quietly in my ear.>

The soft moistness of his breath makes me a whole different sorta hot, let me tell you, my friend, and I turn around to glare at him. "Fawkes, would you give it a rest?" I snap at him, too hot as it is without this. I lean up against the edge of the concessions stand and concentrate on my lunch, one eye on our targets while I make a dent in my hotdog.

Fawkes stays quiet for the five minutes it takes me to eat, and I haven't even finished chewing when he nudges me again, his hands in his pockets, bumping me with one arm, real gentle. I glance at him, and wish I h't. 't. He's doin' the beaten puppy look, and he knows I friggin' buckle every time he turns those big brown eyes on me, the bastard.

"What about that one?" he shrugs a shoulder in the direction of the row of carny games that line one side of the concessions court.

"Which one?" I ask, pissed off, but knowing he's gonna get his way.

"That one," he says, doing the shoulder thing again. There's no way in hell I can tell which one he means and I grit my teeth.

"That cleared it up, thanks, pal," I tell him sarcastically.

I see the flash of his grin as he realizes he's getting his way. "That one. The one with all the Looney Toons characters," he says. I can even hear the smile in his voice, the prick.

I scan the game booths, and sure enough, about four up from the end closest to our targets is one festooned with every Warner Brothers cartoon character there is. It's even a target-shooting game, which means my odds are better than average. "What the hell are you planning on doing with a life-sized Daffy Duck?" I ask him as I head along the edge of the court towards the booths.

"Sleeping with it," he answers, laughing, "at least when my own Daffy partner isn't around," he adds.

"Remarks like that will not get you what you want, my friend," I warn him, shaking my head. The last time I did this was when I was still married, and Viv and I were at Disneyland for our third anniversary. She bugged me and bugged me to win her a stuffed animal, and I caved under the pressure, just like I'm doin' now. I hand the booth-keeper the three buck fee and check out the rifles and get a feel for the set-up. Ten shots for three bucks. Two bulls eyes gets you a keychain-sized Tasmanian devil, three gets you a Wiley Coyote about a foot high, and so on up the scale till you get to a ten-shot booby prize of a five-foot-high Bugs Bunny. Just great. Like Fawkes needs another piece'a junk cluttering up his place. The kid just has no taste.

The targets are moving ones, different speeds, different distances away and unless I miss my guess, the ones farthest away, the ones you have to hit in order to win the giant stuffed toys, are probably rigged not to go over unless it's a direct hit. Fair enough, I suppose, and I sight along the barrel and draw a bead on the first one. It goes down. Of course. This is like shooting fish in a barrel, as far as I'm concerned, and I get into the rhythm of it, and the next nine shots find their marks along the back row of targets. I've fired as fast as the toy gun will let me, so it's not more than ninety seconds till Fawkes has his prize.

He's grinning like a fool, and low-fives me as soon as I put the rifle down. "You the man, Hobbes. You the man!" he laughs. "I didn't know my buddy Starsky was a dead-eye," he finishes as he takes the giant toy the booth guy has pulled off the nearest hook. Fawkes ties Bug's arms in a knot and slips his head into the makeshift noose, so the rabbit is dangling down his back like some lumpy gray superhero's cape, and I can't help shaking my head. So much for keeping a low profile. Sometimes I wonder if the kid'll ever get the point of this job…A whacko superhero cape for a sometimes whacko partner. Maybe I can borrow it when the mood strikes. Fawkes and me, we kinda switch off in the whacko department.

He's grinning at me like he's gonna power New York city for a night, and I can't help grinning back. "You happy now?" I ask him, all snarky-like.

"Yup," he admits, shoving his hands back into his pockets and sauntering back the way we came, me right beside him, doing the mindless banter thing while I keep an eye on our targets. They're finishing up their lunches and the brat-from-hell is tearing around the food court while his older sister is trying to corral him. Neither of them is watching where the hell they're going and I can see it coming the split second before the girl runs smack into Fawkes.

He stumbles, but the girl goes down, and I make a grab for the boy, nabbing him by the collar. "Whoa, there, kid," I say as he dangles from my grasp. Fawkes crouches down to check on the girl, who's lyin' on the pavement kinda dazed, staring up at my partner with the same goo-goo eyes any female gets around him, regardless of age. She must be about eleven or so, and I guess puberty is looming on the horizon, cuz she's turning red, then white and every shade of pink in between. Fawkes, the dweeb, isn't clueing in. I swear, he likes kids, but he doesn't know the first thing about 'em. This one isn't thinking like a kid, not with that look on her face. If she was about seven years older, I'd be worried about the competition, but Darien isn't gonna spot the prepubescent lust.

"Are you okay?" he asks her, reaching out a hand to help her sit up. "You didn't hit your head or anything, did you?" he wants to know. There's no mistaking the nasty-looking scrapes on both her elbows, and Fawkes frowns at the smear of blood that's seeping from the grazes.

"No, uhm, I'm alright, really," she stammers, and settles on the magenta blush. "I didn't hurt you did I?" she adds, a little shy, looking up at Darien from under dark lashes. Okay, so I lied. If she keeps on making eyes at him like this, even Fawkes, my socially impaired partner, is gonna figure it out.

He smiles, one of those gentle ones that make me go totally weak in the knees, and I can see it's having the same effect on Cinderella, here. "Nah, not at all," he assures her, wrapping his fingers around hers and standing, drawing her to her feet after him. "You should get those scrapes cleaned up," he tells her and she blushes again, ducking her head.

The brat I'm still holding onto has been watching this with the eagle-eyes of a younger sibling, and as soon as she's on her feet, he starts to squirm free, taunting his sister. "Hannah's in lo-ove, Hannah's in LO-OVE," the punk torments her, and the look she shoots him is nine shades of lethal, as the blush goes another shade darker.

"Andrew, shut UP!" she hisses, then bravely looks up at Fawkes, who towers over her by almost two feet. "I'm sorry, he's just such a… pain," she tells Fawkes, who smiles at her again.

"No problem," he assures her. "Younger brothers usually are. I should know. My brother thought I was a total pain, too." The reassurance lightens the blush a little, and she smiles back at him, a little tentatively. "Here," he starts, reaching to unhook Bugs from around his neck. The toy is taller than Hannah is, but she takes it, hugging it up to her flat little chest like someone just handed her the keys to the kingdom. "My pal here could use a good home, and he's pretty good at handling minor nuisances like him," he tells her, nudging a shoulder at the fuming little brat I've still got hold of.

"I can't take this," she stammers, obviously startled.

"Sure you can," Fawkes disagrees. "It'll make up for the skinned elbows I gave you," he adds.

"But that wasn't your fault," she protests, flustered.

Darien sticks his hands back in his pockets, doin' the 'aw shucks, ma'am, twarnt nothin'' foot shuffle. "'S okay," he answers.

"Your folks around here?" I interrupt the little love fest, knowing Fawkes is going to pick up on my warning.

Andrew the brat nods vigorously, and wriggles some more. "Yeah, and you're gonna be in such big trouble when Mom sees your elbows," he starts in on her again.

"And who's gonna be in trouble when we tell your mother how she scraped them?" Fawkes asks the boy, who goes a little pale and mercifully shuts up. "Want us to take you to her and explain what happened?" he asks Hannah, who glares at her little brother with unmistakable triumph, then decides to be magnanimous. "No, that's okay," she says, all dignified now. "I think I can handle it."

The sulky gratitude on the boy's face convinces Fawkes, and me, too, that this one can take care of herself. "Fair enough," Fawkes goes along with it, and I swallow the sigh of relief. I know Darien well enough to know that he wouldn't have let a little thing like our assignment keep him from doing what he thought was the right thing, and taking the kids back to their parents.

"Take care of yourself," he adds as I set Dennis the Menace loose again.

"Thank you," Hannah answers and folds Bugs in half ss les legs aren't dragging he ghe ground, then turns and heads back across the court toward where her oblivious parents are squabbling over something or other.

I wait till the kids are out of earshot. "So after all that whining, you give away your bed partner, just like that?" I ask, a little miffed.

Fawkes shoots me one of those looks of his, a little smug, a little cocky. "No I didn't," he disagrees. "She'd never have taken you home. You're just not cute and fuzzy enough," he teases me.

"Was that a crack about my hair?" I ask, starting to get grumpy.

"What hare? I was talking about the 'wabbit'," he laughs, and I slug him lightly in the ribs.

"Jesus, Fawkes, you are such a punk!" I say, exasperated.

"But you love me anyway," he answers.

And right then, I'm so tempted to make the point it's all I can do not to grab him by the hair and drag that smirk into range.

And he sees the w thi thing on my face, because he grins at me, daring me. I grab him by the elbow and hustle him past the concessions stand and into the shadows behind it, shoving his back up against the wall. It's not private, but it'll do. So I grab him where it hurts, feeling the half-hardness of him through his perpetually baggy pants, knowing he's been angling for this all afternoon. We're standing chest to chest, my hand on him, our hips grinding against each others', and I hear tow mow moan as he stares down into my face, surprised as hell, and turned on, too. "Don't push me, Fawkes," I warn him and run my free hand over his chest, brushing his nipples. I know just how to get a little satisfaction, because his eyes go wide and dark, and he's on the way to steel under my other hand, his hard-on stiffening up real nice.

"Christ, Bobby," he whispers, all shaky-voiced.

I step away, throwing a sharp look at him, the one he calls my bad-cop expression. "Hold that thought," I suggest snidely, turning and heading back into the sun and past the corner of the concessions stand to pick up our targets again. Only they're gone. "Fucking hell, Fawkes," I snarl under my breath as I scan the crowds for a glimpse of the perfect American family. "We lost 'em!"

He's about a foot behind me, still kind of dazed-looking. "We weren't out of sight more than a minute - two, tops!" he whines. He's glancing around, his eyes darting everywhere, desperately trying to locate the quarry.

I ignore him as I take the two-way out of my hip pocket. "Monroe, come in, over." I speak quietly into the mike.

"Hobbes?" her voice crackles over the radio. "What's up, where's Delgado?"

"We lost 'em, Monroe. Fawkes the greenhorn got distracted and he blew my concentration." I'm making sure the blame gets pinned securely where it belongs, and I ignore Fawkes' whine of aggrieved protest.

"Are you sure you two stooges didn't get made?" she demands, totally sure that that's what happened.

"Yes, I'm sure, little miss five-star-A," Irk brk back. Damn but the woman pisses me off. "Me'n Fawkes are gonna find some high ground and see if we can pick 'em up," I inform her. "Keep your guys on the exits. We'll find 'em eventually," I tell her. Surveillance is old hat for me, so it really bugs me that I let myself get distracted and blew an operation this simple. I turn to glare at Fawkes, who's still scanning the crowds for our prey. "C'mon, junior," I say, grabbing an elbow again and hauling him across the court. My target is the Ferris wheel. It's the highest vantage point in the place, and from the top of the wheel we should be able to spot Delgado and company, especially if they're still toting that stuffed rabbit.

Being an old fashioned kind of ride, the line is short, and in under five minutes, we get into a gondola. I take out the mini binoculars and start scanning the crowds as we creak our way up one section at the time while the ride jockeys load the gondolas below us with an assortment of old ladies and small children. Fawkes and I are practically the only guys on the damned thing. As if he somehow heard my thoughts, Darien pokes me in the side to get my attention.

"Hobbes?" he says.

"Huh?" I grunt, ignoring the nudge as I sweep the south side of the fairgrounds with the binoculars.

"I think I see them," he tells me, a little hesitant.

That gets my attention, and I turn to look at him, field glasses at the ready. "Where?" I demand, leaning over him to see his side of the fairgrounds, sighting along his pointed finger.

"There," he answers.

I scan the crowds on his side and don't spot them. "Where!?" I ask again, annoyed.

"Right there!" he repeats, reaching his right arm along mine so he can he nudge my field glasses to the left a little.

I still don't see anything, and I'm starting to get a little pissed off, at this point. I look away from the eyepieces of the glasses at him. "Where, dammit?"

"Just give me the glasses, would you, Hobbes?" he says, reaching for them.

I hold them away from myself, and from him, and he struggles a little to reach them, his chest hard up against my shoulder, warm and solid and Jesus fucking Christ, the total switch in my focus makes my head spin. I'm sitting here, seventy five feet above the ground with my partner's arm around me, and right there, in full daylight, in public, with the faint breeze ruffling that crazy hair of his, I turn my head and kiss him. Right on the mouth. Like I've been wanting to all afternoon. The way his arm tightens around me tells me he was waiting for something like this, and I break the liplock to glare at him. "Fawkes, you prick," I say, and he grins as he wraps his other arm around me, nuzzling my ear.

"Hmm? Hobb You You have a problem?" he asks softly against my ear, nibbling on the lobe like he does when he's seriously horny and hoping to get me into the same frame of mind.

"Yeah," I snap in agreement, trying to hold onto some kinda professional attitude while my partner does his damnedest to seduce me. "And it's name is Fawkes," I add, in case he hasn't gotten there on his own yet. "Let me go, will ya?"

"Hmm? Where, exactly, are you planning on going?" he asks, running his tongue around the edge of my ear, then nuzzling his way down my neck towards the collar of my polo shirt so he can bury his face against the angle of my shoulder. I feel the suction and the heat of his mouth as he works on me, and I am seriously losing it if I'm really thinking about letting this happen, here, in the middle of the county fairgrounds, on the fourth of July weekend, for fuck's sake. Fuck. A word I really shouldn't be thinking about right now. No 'fuck me now, Fawkes', no 'dammit, let me at you, you little shit', no-no-NO! "Fuck. Fawkes-"

"Exactly," he mumbles, sliding his left arm down so his hand is resting on my lap, long-fingered, warm through my pants. And damned if he isn't going for it, unzipping me and sliding those talented fingers of his inside. I'm ready to freaking explode, here, and I groan, trying to pull away. But shit, there's nowhere to go, dammit. Talk about being a captive audience.

"Fawkes, we've got a job to do," I play my trump card, knowing it's not going to matter a damn to him. "Give me a break , kid," I groan as I feel his hand slip into my boxers and brush naked skin. Hot, wet, leaking naked skin. Fuck-fuck-fuck-FUCK! "Darien," and all I can manage is a croak, so he knows he's got my full attention.

"Yeah, baby?" real casual as he bites my earlobe and brushes his mouth along my jaw.

"Cut. It. Out." I bite off every word, my teeth gritted. Like I could think about anything else but him when his hand is wrapped around me like this. I raise the glasses to my eyes again, trying to bluff my way into getting him back on track. I blink against the eyepieces, my vision blurred with the blood pounding in my ears, and try to concentrate. And like the answer to a prayer, there's that damned rabbit.

I drop the field glasses into Fawkes' lap and fumble the two-way out of my hip pocket again. "Monroe, Hobbes to Monroe, come in, Monroe."

"Where are you, Hobbes, over?" she answers a split second later, but I almost don't notice, because Fawkes is running fingertips over the head of my cock, spreading the pre-cum around like he's slathering butter on toast.

I swallow hard before I can answer. "Up," I manage, trying to get the strangled sound outta my voice.

"Oh, yeah," Darien whispers in my ear, and I can feel him smirk.

"I didn't copy that, over," she interrupts.

"Nothing," I start, then go on before she can demand that I repeat myself. "I've got a twenty on Delgado," I inform her. "Heading for the east gates," I add as I watch Bugs bob along close to the ground in Hannah's death grip. "Probably for the first aid station," I continue, trying to keep my eyes from crossing as Fawkes ignores the seriousness of the situation and pulls me free of my shorts so he can work on my whole cock.

"First aid station?" Monroe's skeptical response sputters across the agency frequency. "Why the first aid station?"

"Kid got hurt," I stutter, the explanation as abbreviated as I can manage. "Follow the hare," I add and let up on the transmit button so I can moan as Darien's fingers curve around me. "Jesus, Fawkes," I whisper as Monroe's answering hail bursts out of the radio.

"Hair? What the hell are you talking about, Hobbes?" she demands.

Darien's laugh is low, totally sexy. And the tail end of it is broadcast across the fairgrounds to Alex Monroe's eager little eardrums. "The rabbit," I correct myself. "The stupid Bugs Bunny doll, one of those life-sized ones," I rush through the exatioation so I can let up on the transmit button again to moan louder. Fawkes has let me go, is pushing me into my corner of the gondola seat, and is leaning into my lap. Fucking hell, he's gonna go down on me here? For real?

"Bugs Bunny? Hobbes would you give me a decent sit-rep, please?" she snaps, clearly pissed off.

The situation, miss-freaking-wonder agent, is that I'm about to get a blow job from my studly partner eighty feet over your head, I want to shout at her. So leave me the hell alone for about ten minutes here so I can really enjoy it! "The older kid won one of those big stuffed animals. Bugs. Find it. Follow it. That clear enough for you?" I ask sarcastically.

"Got 'em," her confirmation comes a minute later in a burst of static.

By this time, our gondola is at the very top of the Ferris wheel, the whole fairgrounds spread out below us. It'd be a beautiful view if I happened to be looking at it, but all I can see is the top of Darien Fawkes' fluffy head in my lap, him bent over all uncomfortable-looking as he hums and licks and sucks at me. I let the radio drop onto the seat and wind my fingers into that hair, hair I love touching, love teasing him about, hair that always looks like he went to bed with it wet. "God, Fawkes, hurry," I beg, not just because I can't stand it much longer, but because the people in the gondola behind us will have one hell of a view, too, as soon as we start the downward trip.

The Ferris wheel starts moving again, then shudders, a low shriek etaletal on metal wafting up from the machinery below. Fawkes looks up at me, and the punk friggin' winks at me as the wheel comes to a grinding halt. Literally.

Okay. So we're stuck at the absolute apex of a Ferris wheel, my partner exercising one of his most intimate talents as he sucks me off, taking his sweet time now that we unexpectedly seem to have all we need. And it is sweet. He makes me squirm in my seat, my hips bucking upward as I thrust into his mouth. He's as talented at cock-sucking as he is at petty theft. Make that more so. When he finally lets me come, I'm panting hard enough to make my lungs burn, and I feel as wrung out as if I'd gone five rounds in a martial arts tournament. He licks me clean and tucks me in, then straightens, his eyes still dark with the same lust that I triggered in them earlier in the grope behind the concessions stand. When he looks at me like that, I know we're usually in for spectacular sex. Long, hot, sweaty, nothing like the way it's ever been for me before Darien Fawkes. This time it's my turn to shove him into the corner of the gondola, and I get a mouthful of him, sucking his tongue into my mouth, stroking it the way I'm stroking the bulge in his pants, feeling him through the thin fabric as his cock twitches and throbs under my fingers.

"Bobby," he moans into my mouth, his hands running up and down my back, looking for some skin to skin contact. Believe me, I'd love to help him out, but this is just a little too public for safety, much less decency. "Please…"

"Didn't I tell you to hold that thought, gland-boy?" I growl at him, low in my throat, knowing it'll send him over the edge of rational thought. I know he's hurting with it, hurting with the want we have for each other. I've never wanted anyone the way I want Darien. Not even my ex-wife comes close to this kind of obsession. And that's sayin' something. And this time, by some miracle, the one I want, wants me back. If there's a heaven, I'm willing to bet this is it. There's no way of knowing how long we have before they get this contraption moving again, so I free him up, pulling his cock out of his pants so I can return the favor. As I go to bend over him, his arms tighten around me, and he whispers against my mouth; "No," and goes back to kissing me, or rather forcing me to kiss him. I know what he wants, and I'm only too happy to oblige. I love seeing the look on his face, in his eyes, when I make him come.

I'm half lying on top of him, and I grope down between our bodies to reach him, fisting him and running my thumb over the head of his cock. He's not circumcised, so when the foreskin tightens down on it, touching him like this just about sends him through the roof. Or into orbit, out here in the open, under the July sun. I swear I'll take him to escape velocity and make him pay for this whole annoying day tonight when I cat hit him home and into bed. But for now, I settle for the best hand job I can manage under the circumstances, and we have the gondola rocking gently under us by the time he's ready. I can taste the quicksilver in his mouth as I kiss him, which is when I know he's there, and it's just in time, because Fee Ferris wheel is rumbling and trembling as it slowly starts to move. Fortunately his yowl of pleasure is masked by a second rending shriek of metal on metal and I catch his wad in my fist, feeling the wet heat flow into my palm in sticky spurts. He's panting and shaking as bad as this hunk of junk we're riding, his arms tight around me, one leg invisible in extremis. We've been practicing biofeedback to bring his adrenaline response under control in situations like these - sex, not exhibitionism, and he can usually limit the quicksilver to one or two limbs, now. Which is great, since it means I actually get to see my partner when I bring him off, unlike the first few months after we got together.

And man, he's worth looking at. If I believed in angels, I'd think I was looking at one when he gets this look on his face. Sweet, wide-eyed, mouth all wet and swollen with the kisses I dropped on those lips of his. He's fucking beautiful. And he's mine. All of him. All mine. I smile at him as I wipe my hand on his shirt tails where they flap in the breeze of the Ferris wheel's movement, and he grins back at me as I close up his pants and tuck in his shirt. "So how much did you pay the ride guys to rig the machinery?" I ask him, teasing.

"Who cares?" he answers. "It'd have been worth half the agency's budget for the year to get you somewhere where I could get my hands on you, Hobbesy. Just call it payback for that little prank behind the hotdog stand."

I grin wider. So I have a dirty mind. Sue me. Hotdogs. Behind. Words guaranteed to have me hard again in no time. And the thing I love most about my partner? Well maybe it's that he can read my mind… The two-way radio sputters and Alex's voice crackles out of my pocket. "Come in, Hobbes."

"Hold that thought, Starsky," he grins back at me as our gondola finally makes it to the ground and the ride operators hustle us off and down the ramp to the concrete and asphalt of the ground.

I fumble the radio up to my face and hit the transmit button. "Hobbes here, Come in Monroe, over."

"Just thought I'd let you know we've got Delgado at the east gates if you'd care to be in on the wrap-up," she announces smugly.

I glance at Fawkes who's got the old 'cat who ate the canary' look on his face, hands back in his pockets as he walks beside me, elbow bumping mine. "We're on our way," I answer, "out."

It takes us about three minutes to wade through the crowded fairgrounds to the east gate, and by the time we get there, Monroe has Delgado in cuffs and the girlfriend and kids have been hustled off in an Agency sedan. I can sense Fawkes' relief that he's not going to have to confront Hannah. A small trust he doesn't have to betray. I'd never have figured him for a total softy, but my partner is a sucker for kids. Strays. Women in distress. Slightly off-centartnartners. One of those things I'm grateful for, even if I don't really get it, sometimes.

"What's up, doc?" Fawkes asks Delgado, the flippancy lost on the perp, but it makes me grin.

Monroe glares at him, then squints, taking in the tucked in shirt, and the relaxed shuffle he moves with. He looks a little tidier than he did when she saw him this morning at the start of this gig, if you don't count his hair. Me running my hands through it has it sticking up in all directions even more than it usually does except where the sweat has made it stick to his face around the ears and forehead. He looks like he just got laid, and I straighten a little self-consciously as Alex's razor vision is turned on me. "Took you two long enough," she observes cynically, her expression suspicious.

"We had some… technical difficulties," I shrug.

She doesn't look like she's buyin' it.

"Hey Hobbesy?" Fawkes interrupts the little stand-off Monroe and I have going, "Sincex mex made the bust, she's gonna be filing the paperwork on this one. Wanna go for a beer or something? All the excitement's kinda got me a little overheated," he suggests, sticking a finger into the gap between buttons and flapping his shirt away from his skin.

I have to bite my tongue to keep a straight face. "I'm up for that, partner." I raise an eyebrow at Monroe, daring her to say something. "Carry on, Agent Monroe," I smirk just a little.

I think I hear her snort as she turns and walks away, and Fawkes drops an arm all casual-like over my shou as as we walk after her towards the gate, trading minor insults and squabbling over the Padres' chances for making it to the pennant race. We pass by Monroe, who's watching as one of the Agency muscle guys she brought with her packages Delgado into the back of one of the sedans. She looks our way as we pull even with her, giving us one of those bitch-goddess looks of hers, an eyebrow riding up her forehead in the old sarcastic mode when she sees Fawkes' possessive little gesture.

"You two make such a cute couple," she smirks, and Fawkes laughs.

"Nice of you to notice," he answers, totally unfazed. Since Claire took care of the QSM and Fawkes came back to the agency under his own steam, he couldn't care less if the world knows about us, but I've been a little less comfortable with the idea of springing the relationship on the Agency. Not that I really mind Monroe wondering, cuz I've seen the way she looks at Fawkes sometimes. Reminds me of a black widow or something. Carnivorous.

"If you don't mind a suggestion, you might want to try combing your hair after your partner's been running his hands through it. It looks even worse than usual," she tells him, her voice poisonous.

"Aw, you're just jealous it wasn't your fingers doin' the running," I put in my two cents worth. Damned if I'm gonna let her carve chunks outta my partner like that. I don't really care what the hell she thinks is going on between us, anyway. Besides. It's the truth.

"In your dreams!" she says, shuddering. "Take him, he's all yours." She waves us past.

"Hear that, Fawkesy?" I nudge him in the side to get him moving. "Class has been dismissed, partner."

"Right. So let's go get that beer, hmm? Partner?" he leers at me, the 'partner' emphasized suggestively.

"I dunno. Dunno if I oughta be seen with a guy with Ferris Wheel Hair..." I pretend to hesitate as we head on out, reaching up to give it another ruffle.

I swear, Monroe's' eyes are boring into the back of my skull, and I laugh. Let her wonder.
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