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Small Packages	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1631 -:- 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
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Author's Notes:

This is the first of three epilogues to "Fallout", http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=514513 written in three separate Points of View. This story is from Darien's perspective, as Hobbes tends to his battered partner in the aftermath of a mission. 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

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: NC 17 for language and explicit m/m sex. Pairing: Bobby/Darien

Disclaimer: Ain't doin' this for the $, just for fun. No ownership implied, no money made.

Archive?: Yes, just let me know where.

The

Invisible Man

"Small Packages"

by Suz

I hobble into my apartment, Hobbes shutting and locking the door behind us, always Mr. Paranoid. With good fucking reason, I'm forced to admit to myself as I limp to the kitchen and fumble a glass out of the cupboard, filling it from the tap and swallowing it without stopping. I stand there, head down, hands braced on the either side of the edge of the sink, my head still pounding with the residual thud of the whack I took over a week before.

God. Less than two weeks? All this, and it's only been eleven days? I feel like I've been awake every hour of every one of them. I hurt. There isn't a cell in my body that doesn't ache. I wish I kept aspirin in the kitchen, because it's too damned much effort to walk into the bathroom to the medicine chest. I'm not sure I can even make it to the couch, much less my bed, at this point. I wonder if I can convince Bobby to go home so I can just curl up on the floor of the kitchen and sleep for the whole week the Official just gave us off. Half-salary, but hey, it beats nothing.

"Fawkes," Hobbes says quietly. It takes a couple of repetitions before I can muster enough energy for a reply.

"Nhuh," I grunt, unable to make an articulate sound.

I feel a strong hand at my back, Bobby's arm sliding around my waist as he draws my arm over his shoulder and leads me out of the kitchen towards my bed. I wouldn't have figured, what with the difference in our heights, that it would have been much help, but he's warm and sturdy against my side and he moves as though he's afraid I'll break.

About a month later, we make it to my bed and I stand there, asleep on my feet as he yanks the covers down, then peels me out of my wet clothes. I can't do anything more than just stand there and let him, shivers starting to tremble through muscles already too weak for their job.

"C'mon, kid, let's get you warmed up," he says firmly, but I can hear the concern under the casual tone. He holds one elbow while I try to remember how to make my knees bend, my body move, and eventually, I find myself horizontal, the blankets up under my chin, shivering as though I'd just stepped out of an arctic storm.

Hobbes goes back to the kitchen and puts a pan of water on to boil and looks through my cupboards for coffee, tea, something. "Left hand side, next to the refrigerator," I help him out. Jamaican Blue Mountain, almost forty bucks a pound, last time I bought some at the Starbucks near the Agency. I hear him fumbling around some more, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering, and wait. He finds the french coffee press - and its stash of primo Hawaiian weed - but doesn't say a word as he tosses the ganja down the garbage disposal and fills the bottom of the press with ground coffee, adding the boiling water. He brings it, and a couple of mugs, across the room to my bed and puts them on the night stand, then goes and drags a chair from in front of the TV over to the bedside and drops into it with a sigh. For the first time, I realize he's as whipped as I am. He slowly filters the coffee, watching as the murky liquid clears, the grounds trapped under the filter plate. "So what'cha doin' with the grass, Fawkes?" he asks as he pours out two mugs of coffee.

"It was medicinal," I stutter, my teeth chattering so hard I sound like Derek Jacoby on a bad day.

"Yeah, well, 'medicinal' this," he snipes halfheartedly as he hands me a mug.

I sit up, stuffing all the pillows behind my back, and lean against the headboard, the covers sliding down around my waist as I take the mug and wrap both hands around it, bending my head down to let the steam warm my frozen nose. It smells better than just about anything I've had anywhere near my nose in days, and I sigh, closing my eyes again.

"Seriously, Fawkes. Why the weed?" Hobbes repeats, after a minute or two.

I can hear the frown in his voice, the cautious disapproval. I turn my head to glance at him out of one eye. He's sagging deep into the chair, nursing his own mug. "Seriously, Hobbes. It was medicinal. Claire couldn't give me the usual painkillers for that crack on the head, and none of the nausea drugs she tried on me worked. It was the weed, or you were gonna have to reupholster Golda by the time we finished this up. You ever had a concussion?" I ask him, a little defensively.

He does his non-committal head wobble and shrugs slightly. "A couple of 'em," he admits eventually. "Not as bad as yours, but I know what you mean about the vomiting thing," he concedes at last.

I sip my coffee, fine with letting it rest there. Neither of us say anything as we drain our mugs, and I put mine on the nightstand and start to wriggle back under the covers. Bad idea. In the time I've been sitting there, I've stiffened up to the point where I can hardly move, and I groan as I start to feel every one of the bruises and wrenched muscles across my back from where Stark's goony-boys beat the crap out of me tonight.

Hobbes sits up hurriedly, putting his mug next to mine, and reaches forward to steady me, shifting to the edge of the mattress as he grips me as gently as he can by the biceps. "Fawkesy?"

His worried query earns him another hiss of pain from me as I try to keep from moving, breathing, anything. Oh, man, I hurt. It takes a minute before I can talk again. "Didn't mean to scare you, Hobbesy," I try to reassure him. "I'm just feeling my age, tonight."

He snorts, appreciating the irony. "More like you're feeling mine," he corrects, a grin flickering over his face.

I have to laugh at that, and it puts me back where I was a minute ago, and I groan again. "No fair making me laugh," I complain, my voice raspy, rough.

"Man, kid, you're really hurting, aren't you?" he asks, brow furrowing.

I let my forehead drop onto his shoulder, letting him take more of my weight, and I feel his hands, warm now, slide around to my back. I just sit there, letting him check me out by feel, looking for broken ribs, sprains, anything more serious than the bruises and pulled muscles I have in spades.

"I don't feel nothin' on that side," he says at last, one hand dropping to his lap, the other stroking up to the nape of my neck. "Lie down and let me check your chest," he says in his best bossy Hobbes voice.

"I promise, Hobbes, nothing is broken. I've been beaten up enough times to know," I try to convince him, knowing his 'mother hen' tendencies are in full gear by now.

"Yeah, well, indulge me, kid. Lie down so's I can take a look at you," he orders, the hand at the back of my neck firming up its grip as he pushes lightly on my chest with his other hand, tilting me backwards. He supports me all the way down, yanking away all the pillows so I'm flat on my back on the bed. He checks me thoroughly, and as I lie there with my eyes closed, feeling the warmth of his hands on my still clammy skin, it strikes me that his touch is astonishingly gentle. Insistent, but gentle.

"Nice bedside manner, Hobbesy," I murmur. "Ever thought about going into medicine?" I tease him.

"Can't stand the blood," he shudders dramatically.

I open one eye to look at him. His head is down, his expression intent, totally focused on what his hands are telling him. I can see the lines in his face, emphasized by the lamplight slanting across his features, weariness etching them deeper than usual. It's strange to see that complete concentration, his ability to shut out everything extraneous, because he almost never does it in the field. His typical MO is to have that radar of his going in all directions, searching for any telltale hint of danger. It isn't often I get to see Bobby focused on a single thing. And it's weird to be that thing.

"Nope, nothing broken, that I can tell," he agrees with me a couple of minutes later. "We should still have the Keepie look you over, though. Roll over, Fawkes."

"You've already done that side," I remind him irritably, unwilling to move.

"Yeah, but you've got yourself all tied in knots, my friend. What you need is a Bobby Hobbes special, a grade-A, A-number-one, gen-u-ine Shiatsu massage," he tells me.

"Since when do you know anything about massage?" I want to know.

"Since you started insisting on throwing your back out every six months," he answers. "Since the Acupuncturist from hell got her mitts on you, you've been careful, but when the needles worked so well on you, Claire and I figured it couldn't hurt for one of us to bone up on acupressure, so we can keep it in-house from now on. I volunteered." He shrugs, and I swear, there's a little bit of a blush under that tan of his.

"You volunteered? Robert A. Hobbes volunteered?" I'm having a hard time with the idea that he'd go out of his way to acquire a skill just to help me out. "Didn't your commanding officers in the Marines teach you better than that?" I ask, the tone light, but I see the color deepen in his face.

"Hey, man, I figure the chicks'll love it," he answers flippantly, not looking at me. "So stop giving me a hard time, here, and get yourself on your face before I have to take drastic measures," he snaps with that half kidding, half serious voice of his.

That sounds more like the Hobbes I've come to know and love, so I hitch myself onto one side, slowly, feeling his hands on me, supporting me, and let myself flop face-down onto the mattress with another groan.

He starts to work on me. Gentle touches, fingertips only, at first, gauging where I hurt, and how bad, from my involuntary responses. He's obviously mapping the sore spots, because he starts getting serious right about then, shoving the blankets down so they're bunched up over my ass to get better access to the bottom of my deltoid muscles where they attach to my pelvis. Thumbs start to dig in a little deeper, fingers working along the grain of the muscle as he follows it up along my spine. He works at it for a few minutes before grunting in annoyance. When his hands vanish from my back, the place they were resting last is cold.

"Why you stopping?" I complain. I sound whiney, even to me.

"Fawkes, your skin is all salty from that dip in the harbor tonight. Too much friction," he explains. "You got anything? You know, like body oil? Hand-lotion? Anything?"

"What do you think this place is, a drugstore?" I ask, cranky, then I think about it, doing a mental inventory. I don't use much of that kind of stuff, and after Casey dumped me, I ditched most of what she left behind. Too many memories. "Maybe… There's some hand-lotion in the bathroom, I think. Medicine chest."

I see Hobbes nod once as he gets up to fetch it, and I call after him; "Get me some aspirin, will you?"

He's back in a minute or less, with both the aspirin and a jar of Vaseline I didn't even know I had. He hands me the aspirin and I swallow them dry as he scoops out a dollop of grease and spreads it over his hands. To my surprise, he doesn't just settle onto the edge of the mattress next to me, he kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the bed, straddling my waist on his knees before he touches me again. He must sense my curiosity, because he says, "better leverage," as he leans down and starts over again.

He wasn't just kidding. With him centered over my back, he can really put some muscle into it. What impresses me, as he chases knots of tension along my back, is how good he is at this. He has some sort of instinct for where I hurt, and how much pressure to apply. He's working in a kind of rhythm that has me half hypnotized: ass to shoulders, ass to shoulders, over and over, slow, steady, his hands warm with the friction and his blood in his veins. My breathing starts to echo that rhythm, every exhalation ending in a little subvocal groan of relaxation, pleasure.

I try to shut up, but there are things unwinding inside me I didn't even know were all tangled up, and I try to remember the last time a human hand touched me this intimately - a friendly one, I mean. With this kind of gentleness. With this kind of assurance. Years. God. Hobbes has reached a layer of hurt I didn't even know about, with his quiet concentration, the warmth of his hands, and there are things tearing loose inside me, things that scare me to death. Feelings that ooze out into nerves, through blood vessels, along muscles. God. I need this. Need to be touched. I thought I'd come to terms with the fact that the kind of physical contact I'd be allowed with other people was going to be minimal, between the Agency's not-so-subtle reminders that I'm supposed to be top secret, and the gland's little quirks. I was wrong. Totally and completely wrong. And every brush of Hobbes' hands on my skin makes me hurt, only this time, it's inside, where no one, nothing, can reach it. My body wants this, is screaming for it, no fear, no anxiety, just want, like I've never felt it before. For Hobbes.

"Hobbes. Stop," I whisper. God dammit, I feel like I'm going to cry.

"We're not done," he answers quietly, voice mellow, as relaxed as the rest of his body language is at the moment. "Am I hurting you or something?"

"No. Just… stop. Please." I can hear my voice break, and so can he, because the massage stops instantly, his hands resting lightly on my back at the shoulder blades.

"I am hurting you, dammit," he says, and I can hear the anxiety, the remorse in his voice as he scrambles to one side, kneeling beside me to stare anxiously into my face. "Fawkes, what is it?"

"Just… don't touch me, okay? Please?" I know he's confused, even hurt by that choked request, staring down at me, those dark eyes of his really worried, now.

I roll away from him, onto my back, clutching the blankets at my waist, hoping the bunched cloth will disguise the raging hard-on. But when has Hobbes ever not noticed everything? Every detail. Every clue. I look away, shutting my eyes. I can't meet his look, don't want to see the rejection, the revulsion, don't want to watch our friendship destroy itself in his face.

"Fawkes."

His voice sounds like it's coming from light-years away as I swallow, hard, trying not to come apart in front of him, trying to hold on to the tired isolation he's just totally destroyed.

"Darien. Look at me."

I feel his hand, slippery, the grip strong on my chin despite the Vaseline, forcing my head back towards him. I resist, but it's pointless. When he gets like this, there's no stopping him.

"Fawkes. How long has it been?" he asks. The gentleness is back in his voice, and I feel my face heat with a blush that must look like second degree burns. I don't answer, still can't look at him. And now, dammit, I am starting to cry. I can feel the heat-on-heat of tears trailing down my cheeks, into my ears, down my neck. "How long has it been since… Since you slept with someone?" he clarifies needlessly, hesitantly, knowing he's walking on uncertain ground here.

"Not counting Allianora?" I ask sharply, bitterly, eyes finally snapping open so I can glare at him, curse him silently for adding one more little humiliation to my life. He nods, once. "Since Casey left me. Since they put this thing in my head. Since my life went totally to hell. That answer your question?"

He just looks back at me, those big brown eyes of his as sad as I've ever seen them. "Why, kid? You're good-looking enough, I mean, I've seen the babes give you the once-over. So why not work on the social thing, huh?"

"What are you, Dear Abbey?" I gulp, angry, miserable, feeling really sorry for myself. "You think there aren't days I'd just about kill to get laid? I'm six blocks from the highest density of whores in the city, and they're as off-limits to me as every other woman on the freaking planet!"

He rocks back onto his haunches, arms folded across his chest, frowning. I can see him thinking it through, working it out for himself.

I don't bother to give him the chance. "As long as this thing in my head is classified, I am shit-out-of-luck, Hobbes. Every time I get to the good part with a woman, 'poof', I disappear. It kinda wrecks the mood, you know? And it lets the cat outta the bag, big time. Which leaves the Agency as the only dating pool around I can wade into that wouldn't compromise 'national security', or whatever. And my partner has spent the last two years drumming it through my thick skull that you don't 'fish off the company pier'," so tell me, Hobbes, how, exactly, am I supposed to work on the social thing, huh?"

Hobbes looks down at me, and the empathy in his expression only makes me angrier. Ignoring the pain in my muscles, I roll onto my side, facing away from him. "Go away, Hobbes. I need to get some sleep," I say tonelessly, closing my eyes.

I feel the bed shift as he moves, and he doesn't say anything for a long time. It's not until I feel the heat of his body along my back that I realize he didn't get off the bed, after all.

"Maybe it's time to rethink that policy," he says against the back of my skull. I can feel his lips through my hair, careful, gentle, on the residual lump on the back of my head. His hands are back on my skin, smoothing their way down my spine, one snaking across my waist to rest warm on my belly.

My throat aches, so tight I can hardly swallow, barely breathe. I can't seem to focus on anything besides the heat of the body that fits along my back like a sun-warmed brick wall, holding me up, bracing me.

Warm. If I had to choose a single word to describe Hobbes, right now, that'd be it. Damn. Maybe hot. Hot tempered, opinionated, fierce, whacko, brave to the point of reckless, brilliant in a totally off-beat way, loyal. Everything I can say about him, even all the little neurotic, paranoid, annoying-as-hell quirks, make me think of heat, the steady glow of the sun, warm, life-giving, scorching, dangerous. And constant. Something it's easy to take for granted, if you aren't careful. Only, if nothing else, I've learned not to take too much for granted. Not any more.

"Hobbes…" I start, not sure what it is I want to say.

"Fawkes, just shut up, okay?" he says against my head. Quiet. Real quiet. The hand on my stomach is moving in slow circles, and I don't know if it's conscious, or just some sort of reflex, like petting a cat that happens to be in your lap.

"Bobby," I try again.

He sighs. "Didn't I just tell you to shut up?" he scolds softly. And I know, suddenly, that that touch is deliberate, as his fingers trace around my navel and down, weaving into my pubic hair, down along the top of my thigh past my balls.

"Bobby -" I say, more insistently, moving my own hand to cover his, stopping its wanderings. I can feel him go still, that calm before the storm sort of feeling. "Why are you doing this?"

He doesn't say anything for so long I think he's not going to answer, but at least the feeling of impending thunder, that sense of ozone Hobbes generates when he's angry has started to dissipate. "Tell me something, kid. You think you've got the market cornered in solitude? Huh? You ever wonder how I spend my nights? How many of 'em I've spent alone since Vivian decided she couldn't take my craziness any more?"

He's not mad, but I can't figure out what emotion it is I'm hearing in his voice. I turn onto my back again so I can look at him, part of me vaguely surprised when his hand stays where it is, along the inside of my thigh. He doesn't move, letting me find a comfortable place to settle, letting me decide how to handle this. The memory of his hands on my back, the want they triggered, is fresh in my nerve endings, and I don't pull away. I feel him sigh, and his face is tired, his eyes closed.

"Let's face facts, Fawkesy. I'm not exactly a prize catch, between my job and my meds. Why'd any woman look at me twice? Shorter than your average fifteen year-old, and bald on top of it all? I mean, let's get real, here. So I know what it's like, at least a little… Okay, so I can get some when the opportunity presents itself, but who the hell has time to look when you spend all your time trying to keep your smart-ass punk of a partner in one piece, huh?" Resignation. I get it, at last. When he opens his eyes again, I'm looking right into them, studying them, thinking about what he just said. Where I fit into it. What part of the puzzle that is Bobby Hobbes I'm seeing, right now.

"So what're you telling me, Hobbes? That I'm too much work?" I'm floundering along without any real idea where this is going, what he's trying to tell me.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" he says, the ghost of one of his classic grins flickering across his face so fast I'm not sure I saw it at all.

"So my partner tells me - on a regular basis," I answer, letting a little sarcasm find its way into the voice. This time the grin is real. It makes me catch my breath, and I just stare at him. Hot. I was right. Hobbes is hot. The expression on his face smolders with something I'm afraid to put a name too. Something that looks like affection, something that looks maybe a little like lust, something totally Hobbes. And it's there for me. Me. My heart starts to beat harder, still slow, no fear, just… amazement.

"Yeah, and I'm gonna keep right on telling you till you stop pulling stunts like the one tonight, my friend," he says, sarcasm coming back at me. "Yeah, you're too much work," he says, and I can tell he's teasing me. "You're too stubborn, too pig-headed, too big a pain in the goddamned ass for anyone besides Bobby Hobbes to handle, you punk. And I wouldn't trade you for anything."

I can't seem to stop staring at him, and my brain feels like it's in some alternate universe. "Uhmm, I'm still not gettin' it, Hobbes," I manage, focused on his face, on the little Mona Lisa smile that's still curving his mouth. I want to know what it tastes like, that smile. My breathing is coming faster, more shallow, and for the first time, I realize I've finally stopped shivering with cold. Now I'm shivering with something else.

"Yes you are, finally," he disagrees, and the hand on my thigh starts moving again.

He's looking right back into my eyes, so he sees my reaction when he strokes me, the palm of his hand curved around the shaft of my cock. I groan. Again. The same guttural exclamation I've been making since he got me home, only it's a whole different kind of hurt, now. And he knows it. I don't close my eyes as he leans his head closer, don't close them as his lips brush along my jaw, don't close them as he kisses my mouth, don't close them as his tongue slides over my lower lip.

Jesus, god, he's good at this…

Slow. Sweet. I can taste the coffee we just drank. His tongue dives deeper, and I finally start to believe this is actually happening. That Bobby Hobbes has his mouth and hands all over me. I roll over to face him, cupping his face in my hands. "Hobbes," I mumble against his mouth, the word garbled by the movement of his mouth on mine. "Why are you doing this?" I ask him again.

"Because I want to." It's a statement. Unequivocal. "Because you want me to."

As if he's given me some kind of permission, I slide my hands down to fumble my way through the buttons on his shirt, my coordination out the window as he rocks my world with his mouth, his hands on my naked skin. His palms are still slippery with the Vaseline and he's touching me everywhere he can reach, and I'm harder than I have ever been in my life. I can't get the blasted shirt off him, and I finally take hold of either side of the front of it and yank it open, popping every button at once. I lunge for him again, my mouth fastened over his, doing my own little taste test while I pull his undershirt out of the waist of his pants and up towards his arms. I have to break the lip-lock long enough to get it off over his head, and it gives him the chance to laugh, low in his throat, like he did in the last dream I had of him, and me, in bed… doing what we're doing now. Soft. Sexy. Like someone's just given him the punchline of a raunchy joke. "What's so funny?" I want to know, not sure if my feelings should be hurt.

"Nothing," he grins at me, that dirty chuckle still reverberating in his chest.

"Don't give me that," I say, by now pretty sure I should be offended. "What, I'm too much of an amateur, here, for the great Bobby Hobbes, secret agent?" I demand as I get the undershirt over his head and fling it out away from the bed, my hands going for his belt next.

He doesn't stop laughing as he catches one of my wrists in a grip like steel and I glance into his eyes, my heart hammering, suddenly wondering if I've completely misread things, wondering if maybe he's slipped into one of his psychotic breaks. And disregard the idea when he guides my hand to rest on his groin. He's as rock hard as I am.

"I was just thinking, so much for the 'no fishing' signs I've had hanging up in my head for the last two years," he says, and I can feel him arch against my hand. My heart is still pounding, but for the right reason, now. "We've got the poles all ready to go."

And I bust up, relief, surprise, all of it, making me giddy, as light-headed as a hit of the grass he tossed down the drain less than an hour before would have. "Two years? You're telling me you've…. For two years?" I manage eventually, intrigued, astonished.

He just gives me one of his looks, the one that's one part smug, two parts amused, and the last part embarrassed. "Let's just say a man can't be held responsible for the things his subconscious mind drags up when he's asleep," he answers. "Wet dreams about smart-mouthed ex-thieves aren't exactly my usual style, kid."

And I stare at him, my mouth going dry. "You've had 'em too?" I ask, expecting to hear the Twilight Zone theme echoing eerily in the apartment as Rod Serling's sonorous voice-over chronicles twenty four months of mutual wet dreams.

Hobbes stops laughing, startled. "You've had… you know, dreams? About this? Us?"

"Oh, man." We just stare at each other for a minute longer. "You remember the first one you had?" I ask him.

"Like I'd ever forget the best blow job of my life?" Hobbes smirks. "I consider that dream one of my prized possessions, buddy. What about you, Fawkes? What was the first one you remember having?"

I swallow. "Breaking into your condo and catching you naked in the shower, then eating you alive," I tell him, waiting to see what the reaction is going to be. It doesn't disappoint. His eyebrows go up, his eyes going wide.

"And you deep throated me like Traci Lords," he finishes for me.

Oh, crap. This is just too weird. Hobbes and I have always been on more or less the same wavelength, but this is pushing the limits. "Did you have the one… You know, with Claire? And the strawberries?" I blurt out before I think about the way it'll sound if he didn't. I can feel the blush burning in my face again.

Hobbes is still creeped out, but his interest has been well and truly piqued. "You mean the 'Nine-and-a-half Weeks' one? With the whipped cream and chocolate sauce, and you -" He stops, staring at me. "I think we're gonna have to compare notes, there, my friend," he says after a minute.

We stare at each other for a long time, thinking about it. Or at least, I am. And thinking maybe, just maybe, the part of Claire that kissed me under the influence of Beta-C last summer has been thinking along the same lines as Hobbes and I have. We're gonna have to compare notes, for sure. And if Bobby has abandoned the 'no fishing' rule, then she's fair game. For both of us.

Somewhere along the line here, we've distracted ourselves from the business at hand, and I shake the mental image of Claire drizzled with chocolate sauce, lying across my bed, along with Hobbes and me. Hobbes hasn't broken eye contact the whole time we've been talking, and I realize it's maybe the first time I've ever had the chance to really look at him, immerse myself in his eyes, the same color as the chocolate sauce in my dreams, and as bittersweet, as rich. I can't help it, moving to kiss him again, cradling the back of his skull in my hands. I hadn't realized how soft his hair is, wavy, thick, what there is of it, and as I trace the inside of his lower lip with my tongue, I watch his eyes drift shut, feel the little exhalation, not quite a moan, as he kisses me back, hard.

"Fawkes," he says, the tone a little strangled, breaking for air, and I just look at him, wondering how on earth I got so lucky. Wondering how many little hidden kinks my favorite straight man has been keeping from me. "What?" he asks, confused by my scrutiny.

"Again with the 'what'," I give him a bad time, smiling as I kiss him again, stifling whatever he was about to say. "I was just thinking," I tell him, the words blurred against the line of his jaw. I can feel the day's growth of beard, scratchy and rough, and I lick the hollow of his throat, tasting the sweat there.

"You were thinking," he repeats. "About what, Einstein? Quantum Physics? Philosophy? Dinner?"

"About how lucky I'm about to get," I grin against his throat, and he laughs, the sound music to my ears, Bobby at his macho best. "So I guess you could say it was dessert," I add. The chuckle lingers as I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at him, giving him the once-over. I think this may be only the second time I've ever seen him without a shirt, and it strikes me as an oversight I'll have to remedy – as often as possible. Even with the bruises Stark's thugs gave him, he's freaking beautiful, broad-chested, narrow waisted, and almost hairless.

"So you feel, lucky, huh? You punk, I'll show you lucky," he grins up at me, and knocks my elbow out from under me, capturing my mouth with his own as soon as it's in range. "You want lucky? You got lucky," he says and bites me on the ear.

I run a hand down Hobbes' chest from collarbone to nipple. He's solid muscle. "You been working out on me," I accuse "You've got abs like Sylvester Stallone's." I run the hand further down, over the ridged muscle on his belly. I swear, he was softer, showed a little of his age, when we first hooked up. When the hell did he acquire the Charles Atlas body, for god's sake?

It's his turn to blush a little, and he shrugs slightly. "Hey, when your junior partner spends as much time with his shirt off as you do, a guy kinda starts to develop an inferiority complex," he answers, his own hands back on my skin where they belong. "Besides, it was doctor's orders. Claire has me doing a lot of weight training to see if she can pull me off some of the stress meds." He explores me in silence for a minute or two, and I return the favor, tasting him, trying to figure out what aftershave he uses, and whether the subtle spicy muskiness that's filling my nose is him, or the Old Spice. "Tell me something, Fawkes," he starts, "where the hell do you get your tan? You don't have a tan-line on you anywhere." His hands are running down my back and come to rest around my ass, warm, slick with Vaseline, his thumbs moving in little circles against the top edge of my pelvis.

"Roof," I answer, grabbing a mouthful of Bobby Hobbes. "Best tanning salon in the city," I add around his lower lip, which I've taken possession of again, my tongue searching for his.

"I knew it," he says, moving his mouth away from mine, easing over to my right earlobe. "You're an exhibitionist at heart, my friend."

"Hey, I've shown you mine, Hobbesy, so how's about showing me yours?" I agree with him as I reach for his belt again, unbuckling it and then moving on to the button and zipper of his pants. He lifts his hips enough to let me push the pants down past his groin, and I get distracted again by his mouth on my throat, the sharp edge of his teeth grazing the muscle right at the angle between my neck and shoulder. I inhale sharply when one of his hands trails over the top of my hip to touch me again. He grabs a handful of my cock like it's a baseball bat, pumping along the length of it for three hard, fast strokes, then releasing me, a fingertip circling the head of it lightly as he bites me on the shoulder, then kisses the spot by way of apology. I whimper, unable to help it, and he smiles into my eyes like he's been waiting to hear me moan like this all of his life. "Jesus, Bobby, please," I beg.

He lets go of me long enough to wiggle out of his pants and boxers and dump them onto the floor next to the bed, and finally, gloriously, I've got the naked body of Robert A. Hobbes pressed up against me like a friendly cat. "Please what, Fawkes? Please this?" he suggests as he laps at my left nipple, and ohmygod, one hand cups my balls, thumb stroking behind them. I can't seem to get my breath, and I can feel the prickle of quicksilver breaking between my shoulder blades.

"Oh, crap, Hobbes," I mutter as I feel the chill of it on my skin, coming between us, cutting me off from an intimate touch yet again.

"Or this?" he inquires as he switches nipples, and I moan again, fighting the reflex that's triggering the gland into action. I lose the battle when I feel him reach farther back, fingers easing into me.

My world goes monochrome, and the heat from Hobbes' body can't penetrate the icy silver that slicks my skin. And thank you, Jesus, it doesn't stop him. He keeps going, and this close, there's no way to keep the quicksilver from spreading onto him, too, as he moves down my body, trailing little kisses along what would be the center of my abdomen, if it were visible. "Or maybe this?" he asks as he reaches my cock, and I feel the heat of his mouth at last, as he joins me in the wonderful world of transparency.

But that's the way it was with Allianora, too. When she seduced me… When I let myself be seduced… we did the same hat trick Hobbes and I are doing now, and as soon as the quicksilver covered us both, it was like having some sort of conductor between us, powering us up for the heaviest-duty sex I've ever had, till now. I swear to god, it feels like everything he's doing is magnified, amplified, focused like a beam of light through a magnifying glass. Every nerve ending feels things separately, firing in little groups, like cluster bombs, and I moan again, getting Hobbes' raunchy laugh as a reward. "You know what you're doing, right?" I pant.

I feel him move his fingers deeper in response, and I can see the orangey glow that is Hobbes raise his head and look up at me. "What, it feels like I don't?" he asks sarcastically as I moan again. "Coulda fooled me, buddy. The noise you're making is the sound of another satisfied customer, my friend. Now tell me again how you don't think I know what the hell I'm doing," he teases me as he wedges a pillow against the small of my back, rolls me onto it, then moves between my legs, rubbing his own prick along the inside of my thigh as he settles over me, mouth back at my nipples as his fingers do that thing they do, relaxing me, opening me up, totally turning me on.

God, he's fucking huge for such a small man, not so much long as thick, his cock as solid and sturdy as the rest of him, and I curse myself for not getting a look at him before I disappeared us both. I have to settle for an alternate sense, and I reach down between us to grab hold, my turn to laugh when he groans. He was raised Jewish, so it's not surprising that he's circumcised, though I'm not, and I lightly brush all of my fingertips upward along the cockhead, feeling the wetness that beads at the tip, then down the length of the shaft. The vein along the bottom is bulging like a tree root, and I know he's as close to the edge right now as I am. The groan that touch gets me is smothered by my mouth over his as I suck it out of him, swallowing that helpless sound along with as much of his tongue as I can get into my mouth. And he's all over me, kissing me back with the sort of manic energy that personifies Bobby Hobbes. I reach for the Vaseline where he left it on the nightstand with my free hand and scoop out enough to grease up the whole Chargers defense, reaching back down to slather it on, taking the opportunity to pump him the way he did me a few minutes before.

"Fawkes, stop, or it's all gonna be over before we've even gotten started," he gasps against the hollow of my throat.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," I tell him as I clamp down on him, preventing anything of the kind, and go on to tease him some more, feeling him quiver under my hands, every muscle in his body knotted up with the effort to hold on, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. "I'm not planning on having you shoot your load this fast, Hobbes," I warn him as I go back to kissing him, backing off on the hand work for the moment. It doesn't stop him, though, and I feel his fingers on me again, pulling, stroking, milking me until I scream soundlessly into his mouth with the sheer overwhelming pleasure of being touched.

"Tell me what you want, Fawkesy," he urges, whispering against my ear. Even just the movement of his breath against the ear ridges is enough to bring me to the edge.

"Goddammit, Bobby, please!" I pant, my hands on his hips, trying to guide him downward. He's resisting me, intent on teasing me to death, I think, and I moan again, this time with frustration so intense I think I'm gonna have a meltdown, right here, right now, if we don't get this show on the road.

"Tell me, Darien," he murmurs as his tongue and teeth trace the edge of my jaw.

"Fuck me now, Bobby, or I sweartogod…"

"What? What do you swear? Swear to me you want this, kid. Swear, for both of us."

"I swear, Iswear - IswearIswearIswear! Goddammit, insert tab A into slot B before I have to give serious thought to raping you!" I'd be shrieking if I could get enough air into my lungs to get the volume beyond a whisper. "Whaddyou want me to do, draw you a fucking diagram or something?"

"Bobby Hobbes doesn't need no diagram, my friend," he says against my throat just below the ear, and finally the immovable object gives way to the irresistible force and all of a sudden he's letting me move him, guide him. I bring my knees up to brace him, along either side of his body, lifting my hips upward to allow him access, and there he is, moving against me, into me slow, easy, and I grab hold of his biceps, anything to anchor me against the storm that's about to break on us. We might as well be fucking in the dark, since we're doing it all by feel, but god in heaven, it feels better than anything has in way too long, and I will myself to relax, feeling him slide deeper. When he rams my prostate, my hips buck upward to meet him in a reflex I couldn't have controlled if I'd wanted to. He hesitates for just the slightest moment, and I wish to god I could see his expression, see what he's thinking. Because if he thinks I'm ever letting him go again, he's got another thing coming, that's for goddamned sure. "You're sure," he says, more a question than a statement.

"You trying to frustrate me to death or something?" I croak as I bite him on the chin, lightly. "Yes, I'm sure – you want it in writing or what?" I'm almost ready to burst into tears again, this time out of sheer overload.

"Just checking," he says, and then nails me like a pile driver, and I can't suppress the howl of pleasure, my head dropping back onto the pillow as every stroke drives another moan out of my lungs, drives him deeper into me. Sweat and Vaseline and quicksilver lubricate the rocking of our bodies, chaotic, uncoordinated in everything but intent, and I wonder if this is what they meant when they call orgasm the 'little death'. Actually, maybe it's the sweet agony of getting there that feels like it's gonna kill me -- and make me happy about it. I want it to last forever, and if it goes on any longer, I think my lungs are going to explode. I can't get air past the bottom of my throat, because I'm too busy chanting Bobby's name. I can feel him shaking with the cell-deep tremors that tell me he's at his absolute limit and I arch up higher against him, feeling his belly slide against my cock, and he sets me free.

I feel like I'm going to snap my spine as I come, convulsing like an epileptic, my hands full of Hobbes' ass, pulling him deep while the wet heat of my orgasm slicks our bellies. And then it's his turn, and the quicksilver flakes away at the instant it hits him, so I can lie there underneath him and just drink in the sight of Bobby Hobbes in extremis, every tendon in his neck standing out like buttress roots on a tree, his jaw clenched, steely-eyed, that same absolute concentration in his face that was there earlier, when he was checking me out for broken bones. His body shakes against mine like an earthquake, and I almost laugh out loud as joy makes a triumphant return to my life, at last. He collapses against my chest and I wrap my arms around him, holding him where he fell, feeling his heart hammer against mine as if it was trying to get in, and I rub his back lightly, gentling him, taming the savageness in him that was there in his face.

"Fuck!" he groans against my shoulder, drawing in a lung-full of air that'd float the Hindenberg.

"No, Hobbes, it's 'Fawkes'," I correct him, trying not to laugh.

"Jesus Christ, Darien," he sighs, raising his head to glare down at me. "Always you gotta make with the smart remarks. Your pillow talk could use some work, my friend."

"I'm open to suggestions," I murmur in his ear as I lick the edge of his earlobe. "Think I could talk a certain Special Agent into some private lessons?"

"I think I'm the one who needs lessons, buddy. It ever been like this for you before?" he asks, hesitantly, as he eases free of me and slides off my chest to lie alongside me on his back.

I drop a leg over his, pinning him gently and prop my head on one hand, elbow on the mattress as I roll onto my side. I ignore the twinge of muscles that remind me of Stark's less than friendly attentions to my person earlier that night. "Hobbesy, I'd say it was safe to say that that was just about the finest minute or two of my life, there."

"Yeah?" he says, and I can see him blush slightly, something a little uncertain in his eyes.

"Oh, yeah," I assure him. "I may not be an expert, but I know what I like – and I definitely liked. So how often have you done this? You know, with another guy."

"Counting tonight?" he asks.

I nod, dropping down to land a kiss on his sweaty forehead, burying my face against his shoulder as I lay my arm across his chest.

"Once."

I sit up in astonishment, staring down at him in disbelief. No one who didn't know what the hell they were doing could have made me feel the things he did just now. "Are you kidding me?" I ask, then grimace as I pull something.

"You okay, kid?" he asks, reaching up to steady me.

I lie back down beside him, nose to his shoulder as I think about the little bombshell he just dropped on me. "Fine… hell, more than fine. The word 'partner' has just been totally redefined in the Darien Fawkes vocabulary by a man who just stepped out today?"

"I'm not stepping out, Fawkes," he says, and I glance up into his face to see what he's thinking. "I'm too claustrophobic to ever have lasted in any kind of closet you care to name, my friend. No, I like women. I've always liked women. I always will like women. But for you, I'm willing to make an exception." He's quiet for a second, then goes on. "I'll admit, though, I wasn't too happy about the dreams at first. I swear, I thought I was losing it."

I nod against his shoulder. "I know the feeling," I agree wholeheartedly. It's taken me the whole two years I've worked with Hobbes to figure out what those dreams were telling me. "But I think it's about trust, Hobbes. I don't know why, but we've always known we could trust each other. I don't always remember it, not all the time, not yet, because it's been way too long since there was something – someone – like that in my life."

It takes him a minute before he answers, and the hand that strokes my hair carefully is gentle, affectionate. "Yeah, well there is now," he informs me.

I smile against his skin and close my eyes. "So does that mean we can bring Claire into this?" I ask, only half teasing.

"In our dreams," he chuckles, that raunchy laugh zinging through me.

"Hey, there, partner, don't knock it," I remind him as I run my hand over his chest.

"Hmmm," he mumbles against my forehead.

I can't help smiling as I realize he's falling asleep on me, and I rest my cheek on his chest so I can hear his heartbeat, the steady rhythm of his life, and mine, synched like watches. They say good things come in small packages… All I can say, is, they must have had Bobby Hobbes in mind.

*******

I wake up before Hobbes and just lie there, my head propped on my hand, elbow on the bed, watching him sleep. It amazes me how different he looks when he's totally relaxed. Sleep is the one place those lightening reflexes and manic energy of his can't follow him, and it's good to see the lines of worry that have started to carve themselves into his face in the last month smoothed away. The words 'peaceful' and 'Hobbes' aren't two I'd ever thought I'd use in the same sentence, but he really does look peaceful. I can't help the smile that keeps creeping over my face as I watch him breathe, a soft snore assuring me he's still dead to the world. I take the opportunity to really look at him, the sheets tangled around us both, more off than on. He may be small, but he's damned near perfect. Everything is proportioned like the Golden Mean, or Da Vinci's 'The Measure of Man', legs slightly longer than his torso, shoulders broad, waist narrower, with those rippled abs I was totally surprised by last night. It's all I can do to keep from touching him, waking him up, and only the fact that he's at least as tired by the last week and a half as I am restrains me. Because I'm ready for a rematch. The 'Fish gave us a week off, and if I have my way, Hobbes and I aren't getting out of bed for any of it.

For all his teasing about my tan lines – or lack thereof – I can't help noticing his own are virtually nonexistent, and sure as hell less than modest. So my partner isn't as big a prude as he sometimes pretends, though I guess after last night, I should have figured that one out. The grin is threatening to erupt again, and with Hobbes' preternatural paranoia, I'm a little surprised I haven't woken him up just by staring at him. But I intend to enjoy the view as long as possible, so I'm not complaining. I spend a long time just watching his face, the strong, almost beaky nose straight and well proportioned, the clean line of his jaw and chin, dark eyebrows, the faint lines that are just beginning to bracket his mouth and line his forehead. I miss his eyes, I realize, miss their depth, their humor, their way of betraying what he feels if you know what to look for. The only time I can't read him is when he's pulling his bad-ass 'Federal Agent' persona out for the benefit of some schmuck we're trying to bully into cooperating.

It's weird to lie here watching him, thinking about him in ways I've never really done with much conscious deliberation before. I mean, I've never really codified it, but I have the ability to instantly pick up on whatever's going on in that convoluted brain of his, emotionally, at least, just by osmosis. I think about it, wondering what it is that tips me off, how I can know how he's feeling without any significant outward cue, a lot of the time. Of course, a lot of the time, he's clear as glass, too. When he's really pissed off. Or when he's feeling good. Which is more often than it used to be, thank god. For both of us, most of the time. He's got an expressiveness about him that really draws the eye, which is what I think finally got the Keeper's attention, made her clue in that there's a whole lot more going on in Bobby's head than the sometimes tongue-tied outward appearance would necessarily lead you to believe. Which is the difference between Claire and Alex, I realize suddenly. Alex has already made her judgement about Hobbes, and it's gonna take some major changes on her part to realize she's missing a lot more than she's seeing. But I've seen the way Claire looks at him, when she thinks no one's paying attention. She gets it. Gets him.

Hobbes is like the paint on an old building. The surface coat is pretty much what you see, but here and there, it's been chipped away, revealing the ones below, or some of them. And like a building that's been repainted over and over, the details, the little nuances, start to blur, get filled in, smoothed over, obliterated by the accumulation of layer after layer of experience. Those glimpses fascinate me and make me want to spend a very long time slowly stripping away those layers of camouflage to unearth the elemental Bobby Hobbes. It might take a lifetime, but all of a sudden, I can't think of anything I'd rather spend that lifetime doing.

It's not until the sun slides across the floor and up onto my bed, falling across his face, that Hobbes finally wakes up. Slowly. Unlike every other time I've ever seen him wake up. Usually, it's like seeing a switch thrown. Instant on. All senses engaged. This time, though, he just lies there, eyes closed, and the only reason I know he's awake is because he's stopped snoring. Oh, and the little smile that hovers on his mouth kinda gives him away, too. "Morning," I say quietly, trying not to laugh.

He can hear it in my voice, because the smile gains a little more ground. "Morning yourself, Penelope," he says without opening his eyes. "Been lying here, feeling you stare at me for the last hour, partner."

"Well," I defend myself, "I've got quite an eyeful, 'partner'."

"Just as long as you're liking what you see," he says, trying to keep the grin under control as he opens his eyes at last, the sun sparking through the irises like fire, and the molten chocolate whets my appetite for more as he turns his head to look at me.

"Mmmmm," I confirm, dropping back onto my side so we're face to face, our noses less than an inch apart. "'Like' isn't a strong enough word, pal," I tell him, watching the faint color dust his face. His embarrassment is totally charming me, and I can feel joy effervesce through my heart again. God, it feels good. Make that great. "Hobbes," I begin, intent on asking the question his precipitous descent into sleep the night before prevented me from voicing, "if this is the first time…" I trail off.

He cocks an eyebrow.

"You know, that you've, well, slept with… You know," I stammer, suddenly embarrassed in my own right.

"What, you think you're the only one in this partnership who's ever cracked a book?" he answers with that mock cynicism that tells me he's amused as hell.

"You mean you researched – uh – I mean, geeze, Hobbes, you mean you actually studied up?"

"Boned up, more like," he grins at his deliberate pun, and I grin back. "The first six months, those dreams were driving me even closer to totally nuts than I already was, kid. I finally 'fessed up to my therapist, and he told me to start really thinking about what it was that was bugging me about them. Was it that I didn't want you, you know, like that? Or that I did? It took another six months, at twice a week, to work my way through that one, let me tell you. I mean, I'd never thought much about it, until you started showing up behind my eyelids on a regular basis at night, you know? Other guys -" he shrugs slightly, quirking his mouth, "- I just never had the urge, you know? Didn't interest me. Like I said, Darien, I like girls." He pauses, looking at me, his eyes darkening with that thing that looks like lust again. I can't even tell you what a turn on that is, seeing it there in his face, for me. "But you're my partner. And like you said last night, this was kind of a broader definition than I was used too."

I nod, grinning. "Oh, yeah," I agree.

"And then there's the whole thing with not getting that close to someone I work with. So there I am, realizin' I'm having wet dreams about my partner, and thinking 'now what the hell do I do?'," he continues. "The problem is, it was way too late to change things. You're my partner. You think there's anything I wouldn't do for you? I've been ready to walk in front of a bullet for you from the get-go, kid. At first, it was because that was my job. To protect you. But it didn't stay all nice and compartmentalized like it's supposed to, Fawkes." He's staring into my face, his expression intense, like he's trying to force me to understand what he's saying. "I think the day it changed for me was when you shoved that syringe full of retrovirus into your leg and shot it into yourself. To force me to give Claire the antidote. Because I was your partner. And it was the only way you could think of to save my life. To risk your own."

I feel my throat tighten abruptly, my eyes blurring a little. "Hobbes," I start, swallowing to try and keep my voice from rasping. "I know you didn't think much of me when they first stuck you with me. I'm a punk. I've always been one. I always will be. But I knew you'd keep me alive, Bobby, whether I wanted to be or not. That you'd risk you own life to make sure of it. And after… after the 'Fish tried to saddle me with another 'partner', I figured out that you meant more to me than just a security blanket. I trusted you, Hobbes. I don't know if you know how much that means to me. I don't know if there's any way you could," I say softly.

His soft laugh lacks humor. "Oh, I think I have some clue, Fawkesy. Trust isn't exactly my specialty, either. But I trust you, kid. I think I always have, punk or not. And for the record? Your moments of punk-dom are coming fewer and farther between. Sometimes I think even the Fat Man is proud of you," he says.

"God forbid," I shudder melodramatically, the punk in me rebelling against the 'truth-or-consequences' air that's descended on us in the last few minutes, feeling the reflex smirk tweak my mouth, knowing it's likely to get Hobbes' goat, big time. I don't know what it is that makes me mouth off like this. I know it's some sort of self-protective thing. An authority figure like the Official voicing approval of someone like me, a troublemaker from childhood, screwed up by family, circumstances and my own stupidity, is just beyond my ability to believe.

He just looks at me, and I can see he's not going for the easy joke, the 'Fat Man bashing' we're both prone too. What he says next rips my heart apart.

"I'm proud of you," he tells me, catching my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes.

I feel myself tear up and I blink against the unexpected ache that tightens my chest. "Yeah?" I ask, looking for reassurance.

"Yeah." It's as emphatic a statement as I've ever heard from him, and I grin, trying not to sniffle.

"Yeah?" I repeat uncertainly.

"Yeah!" he states and ends the discussion by attacking me with his mouth. We're both breathless when he lets up for a second and he glares down into my face fiercely. "Convinced?" he snarls with mock savagery.

I laugh up at him, reveling in the astonished joy coursing along my veins. "A kiss like that'd convince me of anything, buddy," I assure him, and pull him back against me, nuzzling the side of his neck as I nip little kisses along the tendon beside his adam's apple. "So you actually did some research, huh?" I tease him, my tongue savoring the salt that's dried on his skin from the night before. I'd like nothing better than to lick him all over, eating my breakfast in bed.

"Hey, wiseguy, you're not the only one who knows how to read," he chastises me. "When I finally figured it out, you know, that you were more to me than a job, I figured, what the hell. People've been doing it forever. There's gotta be how-to information out there, like there is for the garden variety kind. I went looking." He buries his face in my hair and laughs softly, his hands running over me again, setting me on fire.

"'Garden variety'?" I giggle, not caring if it sounds silly. He won't hold it against me. "These days, I'm not sure that there's anything but garden variety sex, Hobbesy," I voice my opinion.

He chuckles as he tips my face up towards his own, and his eyes are so dark they look black. "Yeah, I found that out," he agrees. "Name your kink, and it's out there. With instruction manuals."

I laugh against his lips as he kisses me again, grabbing hold of me and rolling onto his back so I'm sprawled half on top of him. I rest my chin on his chest, gazing up at him as he stares at the ceiling, one hand behind his head, the other stroking along my upper back and shoulders. "I have to tell you, Fawkes, there's nothing 'garden variety' about you, my friend," he says eventually, glancing down into my face. I don't think I've ever seen him look so vulnerable. My heart clenches inside my chest, knowing exactly what he just said, by this time fluent in Hobbesian.

"You either, Bobby," I answer, knowing it's the truth. "You're a unique specimen, my friend, one-of-a-kind. And you're mine. Don't forget it."

He stares at me, startled. "Yeah?" This time he's the one looking for reassurance. I swarm up him, throwing one leg over his, pressed along him, hoping to fuse our bodies permanently together, and glare into his eyes.

"Yeah. You're my partner, Bobby. My best friend. I love you, dammit," I say with the same emphatic tone he used earlier.

The blush that darkens his face, and the awed incredulity in his expression, make it worth the risk of saying the words. "Yeah?" he repeats, the tone almost shy.

"Oh, yeah," I repeat, and seal it with a kiss, pressing up against him even harder, knowing he can feel the stake I intend to use to make my claim on him. "And I'll keep telling you until you believe me, you moron," I warn him, kissing him again, this time on the scabbed over cut on his cheek, keeping it gentle.

"Yeah?" he says again, this time with that Bobby Hobbes amusement sparkling through it, and his hands slide down my spine and over my ass, making me groan, his grin brilliant, happier than any I've ever seen on his face. There's no cynicism, no sarcasm, no pain, none of the bitterness he tries to deny. Just happiness. And I put it there. I did. Me. Darien Fakes. Who may never have made another human being on the planet feel that way before. The feeling of power is unbelievable, and I swear, I will spend every day of the rest of my life living up to that promise, for both of us.

"I." I kiss him violently on that smirking mouth, swallowing it whole, then move down to his chest. "Love." I lap his nipples, suckling at them the way I would with any woman, tasting the differences between him and softer, female flesh, relishing it as another landmark in Hobbes territory, my personal garden of delights. I slide down the centerline of his abdomen, feeling his hands tangle in my hair as I reach his groin and the erection that arches up against his belly like Moses' staff. "You." I say in the instant before I engulf him, and he convulses, moaning his pleasure as he grips my skull. I let him thrust into my mouth, finding his rhythm, then go deeper around him, timing my breathing as I stifle the gag reflex. I bury my nose in the musky maleness of his pubic hair, one hand curving over his balls, tumbling them gently in my palm as my tongue plays over the base of his shaft. Like those softly melodic tai chi balls, I roll them over my fingers, and I make him chime, feeling him come like a nuclear detonation in my mouth, my name in his.

"Darien! Jesus!" he howls in a strangled voice, and trembles, shaking, quivering as I hold him, taking everything he gives me, then carefully lick him clean and crawl back up his body to kiss him. His tongue explores my mouth with a hunger no one's ever kissed me with before, searching out the taste of himself. When he's managed to draw all the air out of my lungs, he finally lets me go, and we lie there panting, breathing each other's air, grinning like fools. "Forget what I said last night about the dream, Fawkes," he says raggedly. "That was the best blow job of my life."

My grin widens. "What, that? That was just the beginning, buddy. I'm gonna make you wonder why the hell you waited two years to tell me about those damned dreams, Hobbes. Show you what you've been missing. So scrap any ideas you have about what you're planning on doing with your week's vacation, 'cuz I've already made plans."

"You have, huh?" he laughs, his arms coming up around me warm and tight. "You gonna let me in on it, or you planning on surprising me?"

"Surprise you? Bobby, I'm gonna blow your mind," I laugh back, lacing my fingers into the hair behind his ears.

"You already did that, Fawkes," he grins as he kisses me again, and I know it's going to be one hell of a vacation.

Fin
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