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Pop Quiz	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1671 -:- 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
Fandom: Invisible Man

Pairing: Bobby/Darien

Spoilers: probably. Who cares?

Rating: Hard R for language, adult concepts

Disclaimer: No owning, no selling, promise. If you ever find anyone who made a cent from writing fan fic, let me know who figured out how to without getting the lawyers' drawers in a bunch about it. In the meantime, it's safe to assume that I am not profiting. Simply borrowing some underused boys for some fun and games. I'll put them back when I'm done.

Pop Quiz

By Suz

(blame this on the Tawny discussion topics)

Darien shifted uncomfortably, the van's old bench seat lumpy with sprung springs and worn padding. This stake-out thing was getting seriously old. This was week two of an ongoing investigation about which he personally couldn't have cared less. Janitorial supplies? Could the Fat Man possibly sink any lower in his pimping of the Agency's finest? I mean, come on. Not even the wildest stretch of the imagination could possibly link this case with the current national security craze. He shook his head ruefully, cast one last glance out the window at the warehouse that he'd come to call 'home' and then eyed his partner's profile. Hobbes was focused as always, mini binoculars held before his eyes as he scanned the area for any signs of activity.

That there was none, by this time came as no surprise to Darien. Or Bobby, either, he'd be willing to bet. He heaved a sigh, hoping to spark some sort of comment from his partner. It failed, as had pretty much every other conversational gambit he'd put forth in the past 3 days. Hobbes was irritable in the extreme and their close, ongoing confinement together was wearing on both of them. Darien, however, was willing to be it wasn't for the same reasons. Not the same reasons at all.

OK. This was getting him nowhere. Glancing around at the detritus that littered the van's cab, he spotted the crumpled brown paper bag at his feet. He reached down, grabbing and opening it, pouring the contents into his lap. He sorted through the collection of mail he'd brought along when Hobbes had come to collect him that morning, opening bills, scanning the junk mail for anything interesting, then finally tearing open the opaque gray mailing wrapper of his favorite magazine.

He'd debated a long time over whether or not to reveal this particular eccentricity to Hobbes, and had finally decided that he wasn't going to make much in the way of progress towards realizing his favorite wet dreams if he didn't start somewhere. At the very least, it'd let him know in no uncertain terms what Hobbes' opinion of homoerotica was.

As usual, the cover featured a mostly unclad studly hunk of masculine perfection, this one not dissimilar in build from Bobby, though naturally with a full head of hair, and Darien relished the thought of some quality masturbatory time with this month's centerfold.

He scanned the cover's headlines, noting the article on gays in prison, the top 10 homo-friendly cities in the country, the assorted top male porn models featured in the current issue, and the catch phrase; "Pop quiz: How well do you know him?"

Now that sounded interesting, and he flipped open the magazine, scanning the abundant, exposed male flesh in passing, until he reached the correct page. He read the introductory few paragraphs with scant attention, then browsed the list of 7 questions. Hardly a daunting number, given that it claimed to be the basis for honesty in a relationship. Not that many gay men, or even bisexual ones, were interested in relationships, if magazines like this were any sort of accurate cultural barometer.

Darien was still unsure where he stood on the issue of relationships, but one thing he was sure of: his partner, Bobby Hobbes, turned him on. Big time. More than that, he couldn't even imagine a day in which he didn't spend 80% of it in the little tiger's company. It was way more than the simple lust, though that was part of it, and a welcome one, given he hadn't felt that way about anyone since his disastrous courtship of his former girlfriend. It was the fact that they seemed able to talk about nearly anything together. No subject was off limits. Darien had enough faith in that comfort to push the limits a bit further than he had ever before.

"Hey, Hobbesy. Pop Quiz. Describe your favorite sexual position."

That got Bobby's attention in a way nothing else had for days. "What?" he asked, clearly non-plussed.

"You heard me, describe your favorite sexual position," he repeated, wagging his eyebrows at Bobby, who had lowered his binoculars in surprise and was starting at Darien bemusedly.

"I heard you, I just don't see what that's gotta do with a stake-out," he said shortly, raising the glasses to his eyes again. Only, Darien caught the slight tremor of his partner's hand.

"Call it a way to kill time while we wait for 'Mr. Clean' to show up," Darien suggested dryly.

The binoculars came down again and Hobbes threw him a skeptical look, reaching over with his free hand to flip up the magazine Fawkes held so that he could see the cover. "'Men'?" Hobbes queried, voice flat.

Darien couldn't tell if his choice of reading material had shocked his smaller partner or completely failed to impress. So he grinned and nodded. "It beats Penthouse for raunchy," he said impishly.

And was rewarded with a luminous glint in Hobbes' amber-brown eyes. "That it does," he agreed.

Darien's heart skipped a beat before accelerating into hyperdrive. Hobbes knew this magazine. Personally. Oh, man. Talk about serendipity. His grin widened. "So what is it?" he pressed.

"What is what?"

"Your favorite sexual position," Darien grinned, knowing the day's boredom had just been banished.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Hobbes responded sarcastically as he raised the glasses coyly.

"Yeah, I would, actually, "Fawkes grinned wider. "So spill it."

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

Bobby considered this in all seriousness, still processing the startling revelation that he and his partner had one more, rather unexpected, thing in common. He had to give the kid credit for balls. The casual perusal of a gay erotic magazine he himself subscribed to in plain sight, in broad daylight, well, that won points for both honesty and ingenuity.

The fact that his partner shared his refusal to limit his romantic, or at least sexual, prospects to one or the other gender won him some additional points, too, and all in all, Bobby considered the day, indeed the whole to-date pointless stakeout, suddenly worth his time. He mulled over the question, wondering if Fawkes was actually ready for the answer to this, or any other of the questions the magazine proposed. Even the split-second glimpse of the cover had betrayed the sex quiz inside those titillating pages, which meant at least a dozen provocative questions still awaited exploration.

"You really wanna know this?" he asked Fawkes, lowering the glasses again, one eyebrow arched inquiringly.

"What, you think I could care less how you like to fuck?" his partner quipped.

Hobbes blinked at the sudden turnabout, until Fawkes' teasing tone clued him in that sarcasm was a double-edged sword. That little tidbit swayed his decision and he smirked slightly, prepared for anything. He shrugged, and returned his binoculars to his eyes nonchalantly. "Then don't ask," he replied pleasantly.

There was a minute or two of frustrated silence from the other end of the van's bench seat.

Bobby stifled a grin that fought his conscious control, and eventually relented. "I dunno, it's kindova tough choice. I guess it depends a little on who I'm with. Male, usually doggy style. You get the best penetration that way. Better for them, better for me. Women, well I want what they like best, so it's a crap shoot, most of the time. Gotta admit, though, I like it when a chick rides me. Takes control and makes sure she gets what she wants."

He didn't lower the field glasses to check on the sort of reaction this had received, the audible gulp from the opposite side of the van a good indication that his point had been made.

A few moments later, he went on. "But I guess the old reliable is still the best bet. At least with someone I'm serious about. I wanna see their face when I do the deed. When I fuck 'em for all I'm worth."

The sputter of laughter from his partner made his mouth twitch in the effort to suppress the grin that threatened to split his face, along with his chance to turn the tables on his smart-aleck partner.

"You're kidding me, right?" Darien asked incredulously.

Hobbes made no response, exercising the control learned over years in the espionage business. He thumbed the focus wheel of the binoculars casually as if striving for a clearer view.

"Hobbes. The *missionary* position?" Fawkes demanded, still clearly shocked at this pedantic choice.

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it, my smooth-talkin' friend. When's the last time you actually fucked someone you cared about?" Bobby asked pleasantly.

This time, the silence was… painful. Bobby gritted his teeth unhappily, knowing that had been a low blow. He lowered the binoculars and turned to face his partner, ready to accept responsibility for an unfair snipe.

Fawkes was staring out the windshield of the van blankly, his thoughts obviously a million miles away.

"Fawkes. Hey, kid. I… I was tryin' to make a point there, hotshot. There's a reason the classics are classics, right? I mean; Mister king of the Clif Note, you seen every basic scenario there is. But when you care about someone, well, at least for me, I wanna *see* them. Wanna know I'm the only thing they're thinking of. Wanna know that I'm the one they're fantasizing about while we fuck. Hell, kid, sex is 80% mental, 20% physical. It's the mental part that really gets you off, big time. Tell me I'm wrong, Fawkes."

This time the silence was contemplative, even if 'hurt' still infused it. Damn, but he was keyed into Fawkes if even the kid's speechlessness could be correctly interpreted.

"When you screwed what's-her-name, the Casey dame, tell me you didn't do it missionary style most of the time. Maybe I'll even believe you." He didn't look away from his partner, knowing that Darien Fawkes was nothing if not a romantic. He had a soft spot for people he cared for a mile wide. That, and the foot-thick calluses Darien had in some other areas of his life, were what made day-to-day life with his partner interesting.

Fawkes considered this, and unlike most of his partnerships, Bobby was reasonably certain that Darien really *was* thinking about the question instead of framing a reflex denial.

"OK, maybe, yeah. But it's not exactly excitement central, most of the time, is it?" Fawkes asked rather sharply.

"Speak for yourself, Romeo," Bobby responded. "Excitement is a state of mind, my boring friend."

Fawkes' indignant exhalation spoke volumes. "State of *mind*? he demanded.

"Yeah," Bobby reiterated. "Mind. Like mind over matter. That kinda stuff. Your mind is the biggest sex organ you got, pal. The sooner you start thinkin' about it that way, the faster you're gonna get laid."

"Hobbes. Hobbesy. Anyone ever tell you you are fulla shit?" Fawkes asked with suitable mock-seriousness.

"All the time, partner, all the time," Bobby grinned at Darien smugly. "So… What's yours?"

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

Darien debated whether or not to be honest - or go for shock value. He decided on honesty, mostly because the stirring in his pants made him wonder if this conversation might, just possibly, lead to an evolution in his partnership with Hobbes. Well, that and the fact that Bobby had clearly been forthright with him, when he'd finally answered the question. Never let it be said that Darien Fawkes could be bested in the true confessions department.

He pondered his top options, wondering which to pick as his favorite, then mentally shrugged. Since Hobbes had voiced several, then so could he.

"Like you said, it depends who I'm with. Guys, well, I like the full frontal rub-off, you know, classic frotage. Something about feeling another guy's dick along mine just does it for me… But I gotta say, I'm an oral kinda guy," he qualified himself with a slight smirk in Hobbes' direction.

"No kidding," Bobby responded dryly. "The amount of gum you chew, not to mention the cheese burgers you chow down on, that's not exactly breaking news, slim."

Darien made a face at his partner. "You wanna hear this or not?" he demanded with a hint of his trademark whine.

Hobbes grinned and shrugged. "Hey, there, wiseguy, you're the one who brought it up. I was just agreein' with ya."

Darien paused a moment, then elected to go on. "I like goin' down," he said succinctly.

Hobbes waited a moment, then nonchalantly returned the binoculars to his eyes, apparently assuming Darien was finished. Damn. So that hadn't been enough of a hint, clearly. Darien decided to indulge himself, to see if he could tease his partner into betraying his interest in the topic.

"You know how the head tastes? The sort of salty-bitter taste? Well, that's gotta be one of my favorite flavors. It's up there with chocolate. And I like the way the skin on a dick kinda stretches and wrinkles when I lick it… And I love it when a guy is cut. Man, a slick, smooth head, that really gets me going. And they aren't as likely to go off on me before I can really give 'em a good going over. " He paused, eyeing his apparently oblivious partner out of the corner of his eye, watching for any hint that this was messing with Bobby's self control. Damn. Nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. This was shaping up to be more of a challenge than he'd figured on. "And that big vein underneath… Oh, and the hair on his balls. Not too much, just enough to kinda tickle my tongue. And the way a guy smells, when you get your nose right into his pubes."

He was looking out the windshield of the van, ostensibly ignoring Hobbes, but the tiny strangled noise from his partner was unmistakable. He shoots, he scores! Darien thought smugly to himself. He let Hobbes dwell on that series of images for a moment or two.

"With a chick, well, I like the oral there, too. You ever notice how a woman tastes different, depending on where in her cycle she is? Everything from lemon to catch-of-the-day." With that small observation, Darien shut up, content to let his little partner stew in those particular juices.

To Hobbes' credit, it was nearly five minutes before he managed a response. "You never said what your favorite position was," Bobby pointed out with strained casualness, still veiling his eyes with the ubiquitous binoculars.

Darien chose to ignore the prod. "Any sign of McInerney?" he asked instead, doing his best to sound interested.

Hobbes grunted, a world of annoyance in the sound. Serves you right, you sadist, Darien laughed to himself.

Bobby lowered the binocs long enough to glare at Darien. "Like you could care less?" Hobbes asked rhetorically.

"Actually, the sooner our king of clean shows up, the sooner we can get off this pissant detail and back to work," Darien said calmly, mimicking Hobbes' delivery a few minutes before.

"Back to work?" Bobby growled. "Whaddya call this -" he waved the hand holding the binoculars in a small arc. "- chopped liver?" He glowered at Darien evilly. "In case you forgot there, Gilligan, surveillance is the cornerstone of any investigation. "

The grin Darien had been struggling with crept out of his control, and as it registered with Hobbes, he could see his diminutive partner fuming over on his end of the bench seat. "Whatever you say, there, Hobbesy," Darien replied, not bothering to conceal his satisfaction at having gotten a rise out of Bobby yet again. Too bad it wasn’t the kind of rise he'd spent many a night fantasizing about, but at this point, he'd learned to take what he could get. There was more than one way to tease his tiger.

Hobbes smacked the field glasses onto the seat beside him as he twisted to fix an angry glare on Darien. "You tryin to piss me off?" he asked, fuming. "Cuz if you ain't, you're getting mighty close to dangerous territory."

Darien ignored the outburst, gazing out the windshield instead, humming to himself. When Bobby had turned in his seat, Darien had been hard-pressed to ignore the telltale bulge in his partner's pants. One that corresponded ever so nicely with the one in his own. Take that, Hobbesy, you prick tease, he taunted silently to himself.

"Fawkes. Answer the question. What's your favorite position?" Bobby demanded, voice raspy with something Darien couldn't quite identify. Anger? Lust? Annoyance? All of the above, most likely.

"I've pretty much never met a position I didn't like," he said casually, still not looking in Hobbes' direction.

Bobby's snort of ironic amusement was explosive. "Why does that not surprise me?" he retorted. "Fawkes, you're a walking poster boy for sex. I bet I look it up in the dictionary, 'slut' would have your name next to it."

Darien smarted under that observation, eyeing Bobby with wide-eyed hurt. "You're calling me a slut? I haven't been laid more'n 3 times since my brother put this gland in my head, and all I get to hear about on Monday mornings is how you went out tom-catting all weekend. Pot, meet kettle."

He looked away again, a sudden surge of loneliness sweeping through him like a tidal wave. It was pretty much a fantasy love life he'd had to make due with in the last 2 years. A fantasy life that put his little partner front and center. As well as behind and center. Or on his knees and center…

It was in the wake of Hobbes' foray down the paths of artificial genius that he had had his first wet dreams about his partner. He'd really tried not to think about the ramifications of what he'd done, what he'd risked when he had purposefully injected himself with the same retrovirus that had transformed his instinctively brilliant partner to an intellectually brilliant one. The fact that it would have literally killed him if Hobbes had not relented and, voice choked with emotions neither of them had ever put a name too, given Claire the formula to destroy the mutation the virus carried, was something he'd tried awfully hard to ignore. Only, the look in Hobbes' cinnamon-colored eyes that afternoon, bright with tears and something far more, had haunted him since.

And then, not 4 months later, he had foolishly taunted a suspect instead of apprehending him, a suspect who had then pitched Bobby off a fire escape in a fall that caved in his skull. It was an injury that would have rendered Hobbes unfit for duty permanently if a research doc with delusions of grandeur hadn't used his partner as a guinea pig and restored function to the damaged area of Bobby's brain. He'd nearly lost Hobbes twice in rapid succession. It had been a revelation he'd done his best to dismiss, and had failed utterly. The wet dreams, and then the fantasies that had slowly become the only way he could get himself off, had made it clear that for him at least, Hobbes was a partner in far more then their work.

It wasn't until recently, though, that it had even occurred to him Hobbes might harbor similar feelings. The day not so long ago that he and Hobbes had been sent to retrieve a suspect and been involved in one of their usual pointless arguments designed to bug the shit out of Monroe. The day Bobby, out of a clear blue sky, had said, apropos of nothing that Darien could identify; 'we love each other, right?'

If they hadn't been on their way in the front door of the suspect's abode, Darien would have marched Hobbes back to the van and proven the point right then and there. He'd had the best jerk-off session of his life that night, reliving that awkwardly casual statement by his partner. Oh, yeah, he loved Bobby Hobbes. Loved him in ways he had no experience with. Loved him obsessively, possessively, helplessly. Loved him enough to smile with gritted teeth and nod through Bobby's relentless tales of his sexual prowess with the ladies in his alter-ego of successful textile salesman. Loved him enough to hope he succeeded with Claire. Loved him to the point that he'd reached today; the point where he could admit what he felt, consequences be damned, because he wanted Hobbs so badly he could taste it. And his partner though of him as a slut. Figured. He couldn't win for losing. He heaved a sigh and rested his forehead against the passenger window, doing his best to shut down both lust and hurt.

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