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Pop Quiz	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1672 -:- 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
- 2
- 3
See part one for disclaimers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bobby winced as Fawkes turned to stare out the window. He cursed his short temper, and the hurt feelings he’d inflicted on Fawkes twice now in less than 30 minutes. The problem was, he hadn’t been lying. Fawkes was the poster child for sex. Long, slinky body, graceful, agile, athletic, lean — hell, skinny, except there was too much muscle for the kid to qualify as a stick. Hobbes could hardly look at his partner without feeling blood rushing to points south.

And then there were those nipples. Taut little nubs that always seemed to be erect, thrusting against the confines of whatever ratty retro shirt Fawkes happened to be wearing at any given moment. Not to mention his hair. Thick, dark, dusted with a hint of gold in the summer, and as erect as the kid’s nipples were. Bobby had woken up more than once from wet dreams in which he’d been doing nothing more than caressing that spiky mop. The waves and curls it had when it grew out a little made his mouth water.

He growled low in his throat, annoyed at himself. Here he was, sitting next to what was pretty much the hottest piece of ass in San Diego, and all he could do was fight with the kid? Hell with that. "Fawkes."

Darien ignored him, no big surprise. He swore, this time audibly. "Fawkes, dammit! Don’t you know a complement when you hear it?" he demanded.

Fawkes turned his head slightly, scowling fiercely. "Calling me a slut is a complement? Since when?"

Bobby’s growl intensified. "Fawkes, you are the frickin’ hottest thing I’ve ever been partnered up with. Bar none. You sit there day after day in your sprayed-on shirts with your goddamned gorgeous hair and eyes to frickin’ die for, and I can’t so much as lay a hand on you! Yeah. You’re a slut. A tease. A goddamned pain in my ass. Not to mention my dick, there, Batman." He knew he was making a monumental mistake, stepping over the line the Official had forbade him to cross when he’d first been assigned this junior G-man wannabe as a partner. But it was way past time for this to get out into the open. Darien had only himself to blame for priming the pump with his stupid sex quiz.

Fawkes’ scowl had evaporated, replaced by a smoldering look of such intensity, Hobbes felt as if he’d been caught standing too close to a wildfire — singed, scorched, and best of all, warmed more thoroughly than he’d ever been in his life. Oh, man, he was in deep, deep shit, here.

"Why not?" Darien asked quietly.

"Why not what?" Hobbes asked, feeling dazed, his train of thought totally derailed by the expression in his partner’s eyes.

"Why can’t you lay a hand on me?" Fawkes clarified patiently, as if talking to a three-year-old.

"Because Bobby Hobbes does not fish off the company pier, my friend. Or had you forgotten that little rule of mine? Top of the frickin’ list of things I. Do. NOT. Do." It came out as a snarl, unmistakable frustration punctuating the words.

"Your rule? Or the Fat Man’s?" Darien asked astutely. "And I never said I lived by the same ones there, Hobbesy. So if you won’t drop any bait over the side, well, then I have to, don’t I?"

Hobbes swallowed. "Jesus. You are a tease!" he said, stunned. "You mean to tell me, you’re aimin’ the skin tight shirts and the doe eyes at me?" His voice cracked a little.

Darien shook his head in mild amusement, a smile flickering on his perfect, goddamned cupid’s bow mouth, and Hobbes fought both the urge to belt him and to kiss the hell out of him. "For a veteran secret agent, you’re pretty slow on the uptake there, partner," Fawkes said wryly.

"Fawkes," Hobbes snarled dangerously.

"OK, you wanna know my favorite position, Hobbesy?" Fawkes interrupted, unperturbed by the lather Bobby was working himself into. He focused fathomless dark eyes on Hobbes and continued without waiting for a go-ahead. "Bent over the back of your leather sofa with you balls-deep up my ass."

This time, Hobbes gulped, light-headed with the rush of blood from his brain to his cock. "Awww, crap," he whispered, voice choked.

Darien looked smug, clearly satisfied at Hobbes' reaction. Picking up the magazine from the bench seat, he glanced at it, then back to Bobby with hands down the sexiest look Hobbes had ever seen. "So. Where is the most unusual place you have ever had sex?" Darien asked, presumably quoting from the magazine that now lay in his lap, nudged up against the visible bulge in his worn brown cords.

Bobby tore his eyes away from that blatant statement of Darien's interest to stare out the van' s windshield blindly. He considered for what seemed like an eternity, training that told him to avoid intimate relationships with partners at war with the instinct that told him he was face to face with the opportunity of a lifetime. For a long moment, he wavered on the knife-edge of indecision, then inhaled through his nose, filing his lungs. Because he was about to take that step off the company pier and into deep water. He only hoped he remembered how to swim…

He stole a sideways glance at Darien who just sat there, looking as though he could see every thought running through Bobby's head. Who knew? Maybe Fawkes really could. The way they were tuned into each other sometimes scared the hell outta him….

Exhilaration swept through him as resolution solidified. It was time to see just how big a splash he could make as he dove off that pier. "The women's quarters of Sheik Achmed bin El Kabar," he replied, turning his attention back out the window, reflex setting him to watching for their quarry.

Darien's startled inhalation was reward enough for taking off the kid gloves. His partner wanted an idea what he was getting into? Well, Bobby would be only too happy to oblige. No holds barred. Nothing would be too outré to confess. Every kink, every twist, every last outrageous escapade he'd ever indulged in was fair game, now.

"Wait. A sheik? Like, a real one? With, you know, the robes and palace and all that crap?" Fawkes asked, eyes a bit wider than before.

Bobby nodded. "And the harem," he added.

"Holy crap," Fawkes breathed. "They still have those?"

Bobby was pleased at the note of awe that colored his impressionable partner's voice.

"So?" Darien prompted. "What happened?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darien unconsciously leaned forward a little, expectant. He was only too familiar with Hobbes' prowess in the art of the tall tale. He'd long since lost track of the number of wildly improbable yarns his partner had tried to persuade him had actually occurred.

Of course, there had been that picture… of Bobby and Yasser Arafat. So at least one of the stories might have had a grain of truth in it. It'd be interesting to see if there was more than a grain. In more than one of the stories. But even if not, at least his partner's vivid imagination would prove a diversion from the absolute boredom of a stake out. And now that he'd put his cards on the table, anything that got Bobby talking sex had to be a good thing. He licked his lips a little, this a conscious gesture of enticement. If he'd had the correct equipment, he'd've been wet for Bobby right about now. As it was, his groin ached, cock perpetually tight in his baggy pants. Someday, he'd tell Bobby why he wore such loose trousers when he cultivated the skin-tight shirt look.

Bobby shrugged dismissively. "Just some old war stories, kid. Don't wanna bore ya or anything." He raised the field glasses again, focused on the world outside the van, much to Darien's irritation.

"Hobbes." Fawkes eyed his diminutive partner, annoyance warring with arousal. "What happened in the frickin' harem?"

"Ha-REEM, Fawkes," Hobbes corrected absently. "Not HAIR-um."

"Tomato, tomatoe." Darien glared unsatisfyingly at his oblivious partner. "Are you just gonna leave it like that? Me wondering how many dancing girls you screwed?"

The snort of laughter gave Hobbes' baiting away, and Darien resisted the urge to throw his magazine at Bobby with only the greatest of difficulty.

"They weren't dancing girls. Well, not all of 'em," Bobby admitted, still not making eye contact. "OK, some of 'em were, but the whole reason I was there was to track down the daughter of an American oil tycoon who'd gone missing from her college dorm in Oxford."

"Wait a minute. You were on some kind of hostage rescue mission?" Darien asked, struggling to follow Hobbes' peculiar brand of logic. "Where'd the sex come into it?"

Bobby's laugh was silent this time, but unmistakable in the shaking of his small frame. "One track mind. That's my partner," he commented as if to himself as he scanned the view out the front window of the van then finally turned to meet Darien's gaze. "She wasn't a hostage. She was a… well, I guess you could call her a white slave."

Darien couldn't help the skepticism that colored his reaction to this piece of absurdity. "Now you're starting to sound like one of those bodice-ripper romances," he complained. "Gimme a break, Hobbes. How stupid do you think I am?"

Bobby cocked a single eyebrow, and Darien reconsidered the question. "No, don't answer that," he recanted. "If you're yanking my chain, Bobby, I'm gonna -"

"Gonna what?" Hobbes asked with an evil grin. "Report me to the Romance Writers of America?" He waited while Darien struggled to muster a suitable response.

"Just tell me what really happened, Hobbes," Darien said at last, knowing the odds were against him getting Bobby to tell him the truth when a tall tale was so much more entertaining for his partner.

Hobbes shrugged placidly. "My CIA contacts got me into El Kabar’s palace as the assistant to a high-level rep from Standard Oil. My mission was to case the joint to see if I could track Melissa down. Our intel was sketchy, to put it mildly, but the Sheik's oldest son had been going to school at Oxford too, and he’d been expelled for stalking 'Liss two months before she disappeared." Bobby paused, as if waiting to judge Darien's interest level before he continued.

In spite of himself, Darien was intrigued. While he had his doubts about the harem line of BS, he'd come to recognize the hallmarks of a tiger's-tale that had at least some basis in reality. "'Liss?" he settled for asking, putting his best 'punk' inflection into it. He squelched the tiny flicker of mingled prurient interest and jealousy under that snide comment.

"Melissa Gordon, daughter of Stuart Gordon. Back then, he was near the bottom of the Forbes 500 richest men in the world. Now, well, I think he's up to about 23^rd, last I bothered to check." Bobby turned to glance out the van's window again, too much the agent to simply ignore the reason they had been sitting out here in the waterfront warehouse district for two interminable weeks. "Man. She was a sweet, sweet treat. Easy on the eyes doesn't even start to cover it. No wonder El Kabar's brat had the hots for her. So did half the blue-bloods in England."

Hobbes paused long enough that Darien wondered it that was the end of the story, then went on. "So anyway, her daddy was ready to call in every favor he had out there to get a black-ops team sent into the Sheik's palace in Dubä. The State Department talked him outta doin' anything at least 'til we had some idea if 'Liss was even there. So they sent me in to scope out the situation."

Another pause. This time it went on long enough that Darien began to lose his temper. "And?" he prompted.

"Huh?" Hobbes grunted, glancing back at Darien. "Oh, you mean what happened when I went in?" he asked disingenuously.

"No. I mean what happened when you went to the dentist last week," Darien snapped irritably. "Of course I mean what happened then, Bobby, geeze. You need to brush up on your story telling technique, there."

Hobbes' eyes sparkled with mischief, and Darien knew he'd been had, which only increased his resolve to get this story - whether real or imagined - out of his usually loquacious partner.

"Oh. Well, you coulda just said, ya know," Hobbes grinned.

"OK. Consider it said, Bobby. Now would you just tell me what the hell happened? And how you ended up in a ha-REEM?" Darien snarled, pointedly stressing the correct pronunciation of the word. "And if you ended up boffing the co-ed?"

Bobby chuckled. "Easy, there, junior. Bobby Hobbes never fucks and tells," he teased, and Darien groaned piteously.

Hobbes relented cheerfully. "OK, OK, I went in as an attaché to the Standard Oil big-wig, like I said, and while he was busy schmoozing bin El Kabar senior, I struck up a little line of chatter with the kid, Fiesal, who was skulking around the palace, kinda grounded for getting his ass kicked out of Oxford. We hit it off, actually, and he took me around the place for a grand tour when I put on the 'stupid American' act for him and started spouting off on what I supposedly knew about Arabic culture, a la Arabian nights kinda crap. Well, he thought that was a riot, and he spent the better part of three days, while his daddy and my cover story negotiated some deal for putting the squeeze on American consumers, setting me 'straight'. We went hunting warthogs, riding his daddy's prize Arabian mares, hawking for doves in this oasis at the edge of his estate, and lay around eating dates and drinking peppermint tea in the afternoons while we talked." Hobbes scanned the area around the warehouse outside once again before continuing.

"So, anyway, I started in on him, asking where the chicks were, you know, the belly dancers, and all that shit, and he finally got tired of me bugging him about it, because he took me into the part of the palace where the men get to cozy up to the ladies. Any way, to make a long story short, I spotted 'Liss, even through the disguise - not that transparent veils were much of a disguise."

Darien shifted restlessly, wondering when the question that had precipitated this whole fantastical tale would get answered.

"Am I borin' you, hotshot?" Hobbes asked sarcastically.

"Just cut to the chase, Hobbes," Darien suggested tersely. "That is, if there was one."

"The point, huh? Well, it turned out, the only way to get Melissa out was with the help of the household guard. Ended up they weren't any too thrilled with Junior's plans to marry an 'infidel', so after some carefully dropped hints, I secured the help of two guys who had connections with the Harem Guards. Lemme tell ya, those mooks have the best damned job in the frickin' universe, Fawkes." Bobby's brandy-colored eyes were warm with whatever memory he was reliving.

It was Darien's turn to snort. "Yeah, right. Get your balls cut off so you can spend all your time around a bunch'a half-naked women. Sounds like my personal idea of heaven, alright - NOT."

Hobbes snorted with amusement. "You got it wrong, my friend. No naked women, for one thing. And not a eunuch in the bunch. I hung with them for about 12 hours until I could get close enough to 'Liss to let her know I was there to get her out. Best 12 hours of my life." Bobby's contented sigh made Darien grit his teeth.

"That's it? You 'hung' with a bunch of castrati and call it the best 12 hours of your life?" he shook his head incredulously. "Your standards need some serious revising, Hobbesy. Upwards." Deliberately, he ran his open palm down his hip and out over his thigh, brushing past his still-rigid cock.

Annoyingly, Hobbes ignored the blatant suggestiveness. "No castrati, either, Fawkes. Nope, the whole castration thing, well, lets just say they've got themselves a workaround. Allah may not like fags, but they're the perfect foxes to guard the henhouse, if you get my drift," Hobbes grinned. "And foxy was no understatement. Me and the prettyboys, we had ourselves one hell of a good time, lemme tell ya."

Darien eyed his partner in exasperation. "Oh give me a frickin' break, here, Hobbes. First, there's no such thing as harems any more -"

"Ha-REEMs, Fawkes," Bobby interrupted patiently.

"-And even if there were, you can't tell me you spent 12 hours fucking the guards guarding the so-called honor of the women in this place that doesn't freaking exist!" Darien shook his head in patent disbelief.

Bobby laughed.

"Hobbes, asshole. Where is the most unusual place you've ever had sex?" Darien asked for the second time, voice taut with irritation.

"And like I said the first time you asked, Fawkesy; the women’s quarters of a Sheik’s palace." Bobby returned his attention out the window, apparently satisfied that he’d sufficiently annoyed Darien.

"Bobby, I swear to god -" Darien started, only to be distracted by the loud rap on the passenger window next to his head. He nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise and whipped around to see who was interrupting their stakeout conversation so inconsiderately. "Oh, crap," he muttered as he recognized two of the Agency’s bullpen come to relieve Hobbes and him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hobbes cursed silently even as he grinned at his partner’s over-reaction to the unexpected interruption. He checked his watch, surprised that it was in fact the end of their shift for the day. Fawkes’ startle response had thankfully resulted in the trashy magazine they’d been diverting themselves with ending up on the floor by Darien’s feet. Just as well. It was one particular foible he didn’t think was on the ‘need to know’ list of the rest of the Agency.

He and Fawkes removed themselves from the premises as quickly as they could, the handoff relatively smooth after two weeks of practice, leaving Agents Alice and Green in place to mind the warehouse.

They were a fair way from both the Agency’s downtown headquarters and their respective abodes, having to come in from Coronado Island across the bridge. The fact that it was rush hour and all the civilians who worked at the Navy shipyards on the island were going the same way made him wonder if they would be wise to find some dinner before they joined the lemmings on the roadways.

He took his eyes off the traffic for a split second to glance at his partner who sat brooding at the far end of the seat. "Hey. Fawkes. Wanna get some food before we head in to start the paperwork?"

Darien grunted unintelligibly.

"That a yes or a no?" Bobby asked. Darien was sulking. He’d lay odds he knew why, too: his partner’s little sex quiz hadn’t produced the results he’d clearly been hoping for. Or so the two-bit little thief thought. The opposite was closer to reality, however. Hobbes hadn’t been this horny in he couldn’t remember how long. The fact that it was his partner he felt that way about was something he didn’t want to look at too closely, having already decided to break his staunchest rule of engagement. The problem was, that first step off the old company pier was a doozy.

Another grunt met his question and he scowled. Darien was going to be a pain in the ass. Even more so than usual, apparently. Which was saying something. OK, if the kid wasn’t going to offer an opinion, he was just gonna have to take potluck. Hobbes kept a weather eye out for dining establishments, finally taking the turn-off towards the famous old Del Coronado Hotel. There were a half-dozen seafood places along the beachfront road leading to the massive red-turreted landmark. He pulled into the parking lot of the first one he came to, a deliberately down-at-the-heels looking place that had opted for the Cape Cod-rustic style of décor. The fact that it had some of the best fish and chips anywhere in San Diego was the only thing that allowed him to forgive whoever had decorated the place with dusty fishing nets, glass floats and ghastly plastic fish, crabs and seabirds.

As he turned off the van’s engine, Fawkes finally seemed to come out of the stupor he’d gone into when they’d left the warehouse behind.

"Where are we?" his disheveled-looking partner asked, peering around the half-full parking lot.

"Dunno about you, Fawkesy, but I could use some dinner before we tackle the paperwork for this week’s exercise in futility," Bobby announced as he released his seatbelt and opened the door. He waited patiently as Darien got out of the van, unfolding himself like one of those time-lapse nature videos of a plant sprouting, then led the way towards the restaurant, trusting that his partner would follow.

Hobbes flirted with the hostess, convincing her to seat them outside on the deck at one of the tables basking in the late afternoon summer sunshine while Darien stood at his heels like a lump. Maybe a few rays would cheer his partner up, though he suspected it would take a return to their earlier sexually fraught conversation to improve Fawkes’ mood much.

They ordered and their waitress brought them the beers Hobbes had insisted on, as well as a basket of potato chips to munch on while they waited for their food. They were at the farthest corner of the deck, where it protruded out over the surf, the slanting light of the sun blinding where it gleamed off the water. They sat side by side with their backs to the view, though, just reveling in the heat of the sun on their backs.

The silence went from sulky to companionable as daylight and alcohol defrosted Darien’s bad mood. Bobby bided his time, waiting to reintroduce the topic of conversation they’d been indulging in until after their meal arrived and the threat of interruption would be minimized. The sound of the surf more or less drowned out the conversation of other diners, so he was reasonably sure of their privacy.

When the waitress plunked down two extra large platters of battered shrimp, cod and lobster tails on a bed of crispy French fries, followed by a bottle of ketchup and pots of tartar sauce and cocktail sauce along with two more beers, he considered the time right.

"So, Fawkesy. You never answered the question," he observed as he dragged a fry through the ketchup and bit off the end, relishing the crispy texture.

"Huh?" Darien asked as he swallowed the mouthful he’d just taken.

"Where’s the most unusual place you’ve ever had sex?" Bobby asked with a waggle of eyebrows.

Darien shrugged a little, dropping his attention to the food. He took a fry and drew a figure eight in the pool of ketchup on his plate, carefully avoiding looking over at Hobbes.

Bobby frowned, wondering what the problem was. "Well, Penelope? Cat got your tongue?"

"No…." Darien said weakly. He shrugged again and looked up, this time at the windows of the restaurant eight or so tables away, glazed with some sort of tinted film to reduce the glare off the water. It served to turn them into effective mirrors, and Bobby wondered if his partner was admiring himself in the reflection. Fawkes went back to eating, the action of putting food in his mouth, chewing it, and swallowing it clearly mindless. By this time, Bobby knew all the signs of a Darien Fawkes in broody mode.

For a split second, his habitual insecurities flared up in an uncomfortable surge of anxiety, but even at his most deluded, he could never have mistaken the hard-on in Fawkes’ pants earlier for anything else. Darien was interested. He’d gone out of his way to make it clear. Hobbes worked on this as he ate his own meal, wondering what had changed Fawkes’ mood so drastically.

When he began running out of both food and room to put it, Bobby sat back with a sigh, taking a swig from his long-neck. "OK, then lemme guess." He shifted his chair a little so he could look at his partner. Darien ignored him. "Under the bleachers at the Home-Coming game. Probably with the Home-Coming Queen. They always go for the bad boys," he speculated.

Fawkes snorted, half-choking on the mouthful of beer he’d just swigged. Now that was more like it, Bobby thought, grinning as he pounded Darien on the back.

"Try the girl’s locker room during the junior prom," Fawkes corrected his guess. "Just like every other red-blooded, horny teenage boy in the universe, Hobbes. Not exactly the height of ‘unusual’," Darien scoffed.

"So where is the most unusual place you’ve had sex, then?" Bobby coaxed cheerfully.

Darien shrugged. "Here and there," he replied uncomfortably.

"Hmm. Right up there with the locker room for originality, there, Fawkesy. Come on, give." Bobby poked him in the ribs gently with an elbow.

Darien flinched away slightly, focused again on the remains of his food. He poked a cold fry into the tartar sauce and chewed slowly. "It’s gonna squidge you," he said without looking at Hobbes.

"‘Squidge?’" Bobby repeated ironically.

Darien nodded. "Squidge. As in creep you out."

Bobby couldn’t help it. He laughed. "Gimme a break, here, Fawkes. You think there’s anything I haven’t heard of? May be a few things I haven’t tried, personally, but it don’t mean I haven’t heard of other people who have. Don’t tell me. You fucked farm animals."

Darien made a face at him. "No, funny man, I haven’t fucked farm animals. Not yet, anyway." He opened his mouth to continue, but the arrival of their waitress with the bill forestalled his next words.

Hobbes paid for their meal and together they headed back to the van, climbing in. "So you gonna tell me this deep dark secret?" Bobby picked up where he’d left off.

Darien eyed him, a hint of wariness in his face. "Just spare me the lecture, OK?" he said sharply. "I already know how you feel about Liz."

Hobbes felt as if someone had kicked him in the belly, and he felt the smile on his face evaporate. "Liz," he hissed. "OK, no lecture." He paused, then went on when Darien didn’t continue. "Spit it out, Fawkes."

Fawkes sighed, staring out at the setting sun, squinting against the glare. "It was the first time she took me with her on a job. Told me it was time I started using what she was teaching me. God," he said wearily, shaking his head at himself. "I was so high on adrenaline, I could’ve made it to the moon and back." He paused again, a faint smile flickering on his mouth. "It went like clockwork. At least until the owners came home. We were trapped in the closet of their master bedroom when they came in and started… you know."

Hobbes snorted. "Boinking? Screwing? Fucking?" he cocked an eye at his partner. "Lemme guess. You were, what — 14? 15? You got yourself all worked up and conned the con-woman into a little voyeuristic hanky panky." He knew his disapproval came through loud and clear. Not because of what Darien had done, but because of what his criminal mentor had. He had disliked Liz Morgan on sight. No introduction had been needed to tell him this was the woman who had twisted a basically good kid up in knots and sent him down a path that had cost him far more than Bobby suspected Darien even realized. But what got his blood boiling every single time her name came up was the simple fact that she had essentially molested his partner. She had taken the kid’s virginity both emotionally and physically, and the fact that she’d been fully 14 years older than Darien and ought to have — hell, HAD to have known better — put her right at the top of his list of people whose knees he planned on breaking some day. And not to put too fine a point on it, he was jealous as hell of her, and had been since he first realized that 1) she’d fucked his partner, and 2) that he wanted to do the same.

"See? I told you it’d piss you off." Darien flopped back against the seat with obvious dramatics.

Bobby didn’t even think about what he was doing, simply leaned across the seat to reach down into the foot well on Darien’s side of the cab to retrieve the magazine on the floor of the van. And on the way down, he braced himself with one hand on Fawkes’ knee and brushed a rapid kiss over his partner’s groin, straightening before it could even register.

"Wha -" Fawkes managed, voice a little congested-sounding.

"Next question," Bobby said, thumbing through the magazine to find the quiz Darien had been reading from.

"Hobbes, you just -"

"What is the longest sex session you have ever had; repeated encounters without ever leaving the bed except for necessities," Hobbes read aloud, looking up to meet his partner’s flustered expression. He smirked. "Hey, you said you didn’t want the lecture, Fawkes. So no lecture. Now answer the question."

Darien opened his mouth, resembling a beached fish more than anything, struggling to find words, apparently. Which is when the phone rang. Hobbes silently cursed the timing as he fished the little cell phone out of his coat pocket and answered it.

"Hobbes here."

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