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Internal Combustion	By : DawnRice Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1293 -:- 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-Internal Combustion
- 1
Internal combustion

By

Dawnwind

The explosion sucked thegen gen from the room, creating, for just a second, the vacuum of space. Then, in the next instant, the air was full of matter; dust, shrapnel, wood and glass.

Bobby Hobbes slammed against the opposite wall from the bombed room, his head cracking against a brass doorknob on the front door. Glass from the shattered living room windows came raining down around him like deadly snowflakes. He tried scrambling to his feet but the floor tipped so precariously he was afraid to stand. His heart was hammering too fast in his chest and it was hard to breathe in the dust heavy air.

Grasping the doorknob still slippery with his own blood he stood unsteadily, "Fawkes! Fawkes!"

Darien had been less than ten feet ahead but already in the kitchen when the detonation occurred.

Too close.

Oh, God, where was he?

Lurching forward through the grungy indoor rainstorm of ash and dust Hobbes tottered into the ruins, searching wildly. The sink wall was engulfed in flames. "Fawkes, where are you?"

Burning beams and the remains of a table and chairs littered the floor making it treacherous to walk, "Show yourself!" Hobbes demanded, pushing a hand against the back of his head to slow the flow of blood.

Fawkes must have blinked out, the explosion spiking the adrenaline in his system to trigger the Quicksilver. That made it all the harder to find him. How do you see something invisible?

Coughing Hobbes took two steps forward nearly unable to see in the smoky, particle filled gloom. With a third stepbarkbarked his shin on something substantial but not visibly there. Fawkes!

As if the bump of Hobbes' leg were his cue Darien appeared, Quicksilver flakes sparkling like glitter in the red-hot flames.

Not bothering to worry whether Fawkes might have broken bones Hobbes grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him out of the inferno.

"Wake up, dammit," Hobbes gasped, his lungs filled with crud. Fawkes was dead weight and heavy. Bobby didn't have the strength to keep pulling on him and get the door open, too. Leaving his partner in a slightly untidy heap in the foyer Hobbes jerked the knob on the front door. At first the wood stuck in the frame, too damaged to open, but when he exerted more effort the door popped free letting in clean, fresh air. The extra oxygen fanned the blaze in the kitchen, encouragine fle flames to encroach further into the living room. Already fsnaksnaked across the wood floor like some red-gold serpent from an ancient legend intent on incinerating the couch. The shredded blue drapes went up in seconds; fire licking the ceiling, ready to feed on the rest of the house.

"C'mon, partner." Hobbes kept one eye on the burning curtains, hunching down on his knees to keep as low to the ground as possible. "It's way past time t'go here." His head was still bleeding; he could feel the wetness on the back of his collar. The wound stung fiercely, but if he couldn't get Fawkes conscious and at least on his hands and knees, a bleeding head wound was the least of his worries.

Darien convulsed, coughing raggedly, with horrible hitching breaths in between but his eyes were open and gazing transfixed at the flickering red demon now devouring a ladder backed rocking chair.

Seizing the moment Hobbes grabbed his partner's hand, urging him out the door. "Outside, Fawkes."

Turning his head carefully Darien focused on Hobbes with a frown. "I can't hear you."

Well, at least that explained why he hadn't materialized earlier when called. The bomb blast must have temporarily damaged Fawkes' hearing. At least Bobby hoped it was temporary. He pulled at Fawkes, crawling awkwardly out onto the porch.

At last Darien got the message, his brown eyes suddenly wide with fear and he scuttled after Hobbes, stumbling to his feet at the porch and plunging halfway across the brown lawn before he came to a halt leaning against the rough bark of an oak. He slid down in an exhausted heap among the exposed roots of the tree, trembling.

Because Fawkes' long legs had outstripped him Hobbes obtained the tree moments later. Both watched as the fire shot through the roof with a spectacular burs spa sparks.

"Crap," Darien swore his voice raspy and hoarse. He coughed, hunched over like an old asthmatic.

Hacking, Hobbes knelt, touching Darien's face with infinite tenderness. "Where're you hurt?"

"Hobbes, I still can't hear you and my head is ringing like a gong," Darien said irritably. With one blackened hand he pointed to the blood on Bobby's shirt, "But you're bleeding."

"I'll be okay," Hobbes assured distractedly, stiearcearching Fawkes over for injury, His fingers pressed too hard on bruised ribs and Darien let out a squawk, pushing the questing fingers away.

"I'm okay, what the hell happened?"

"Was a set up," Hobbes enunciated slowly, speaking loudly, so that the combination of lip reading and increased volume would convey the message. He still couldn't believe that they had both escaped and longed to pull the taller man into a heartfelt embrace but that was one of the things they could never do in public.

"I called 911!" A chubby man wearing a plaid bathrobe and matching slippers yelled from the sidewalk. He was surrounded by a swarm of nearly identical stairstep children all staring at the blaze as if they'd never seen fire before.

Just looking at them made Bobby's vision swim and he closed his eyes for a second. "Thanks, I hear the fire engine coming."

"Place is a tinderbox," the neighbor continued but luckily his voice was drowned out by the wail of the siren as the hook and ladder truck pulled onto the short street.

Before long the neglected garden was full of tramping boots, throbbing hoses and the shouts of fire fighters battling the flames. There was no use trying to save the house, it was too far gone by the time help had arrived, but the houses on either side stood right in the path of the out of control flames. Roofs were hosed down to make the shingles too wet to burn, but already number 378 to the right was singed and smoking. The elderly owner stood in the stood in the shadow of a behemoth fire truck, sobbing into an Irish linen handkerchief. Hobbes wasn't sure why he even noticed such trivial details, but his restless nature couldn't be still despite the impossibly young female paramedic's entreaties that he stay quiet until the ambulance arrived and breathe into the oxygen mask. His lungs hurt and the cacophony of noises fractured inside his head, creating a doozy of a headache. If this was anything close to what Fawkes had endured when he was going Quicksilver mad Hobbes had even more empathy for what his partner had gone through. Now he just tried to concentrate on breathing past the nasty tightness in the center of his chest, but there were too many distractions. The plaid robe's chubby blond children raced around in the starkly lit street as if this were all some sort of fabulous spectacle for their amusement, jumping over the fire hoses crisscrossing the sidewalk with squeals of laughter.

"Let go of me!" Fawkes' frantic voice broke through the wall of noise and Hobbes lurched to his feet. How could he have let Fawkes out of his sight? He was really losing it tonight. First, he'd let the idiot go into the house ahead of him and now he'd allowed them to be separated because the paramedics wanted to treat them in different locations. The firefighters needed as much workspace as possible, causing the paramedic vehicle to be parked four houses down. Hobbes had gone with the pretty blond girl who'd promised to bandage the back of his head, momentarily not noticing that Fawkes had stayed slumped against the oak tree in the yard with the male paramedic.

Now he could see Fawkes striding quickly between the maze of red and yellow trucks, the shorter brown haired, blue uniformed man trailing after him, trying in vain to get him to use a green oxygen mask. Colors seemed overly bright and he winced, recognizing the signs of a mild concussion. If he played his cards right, he wouldn't have to stay in the hospital even over night, but Fawkes was a different matter altogether. His whole body chemistry was different, special, with the added Quicksilver gland, and he had to be protected at all cost. $17 million in cost to be specific and that was three years ago. Interest compounded daily probably meant the amount was much higher now, and there was no way Bobby Hobbes could pay that out of pocket if the gland were damaged. As if he'd ever let that happen. The gland took up space inside the head of his dearest friend and lover. He'd kill himself if anything happened to Darien Fawkes. Plucking off the elastic band holding the oxygen mask to his face, Hobbes stood, motioning Fawkes over.

"C'mon, Fawkes, slow down, sit down before you fall," he said brusquely, not letting his tender emotions spill over in front of half of San Diego's emergency personnel.

Although privately, he was concerned. Darien looked even worse than before, bruises beginning to come out on his grimy face and bare arms. He was still breathing like he couldn't get in enough oxygen and wheezing loudly enough to be an asset to any Scottish bagpipe corps. His eyes were shot with bloody lines and for a moment Hobbes was scared sick. He grabbed his partner's right arm before he tumbled over a fire hose and got a glimpse of the boroboros tattoo. The green snake glowed through the dirty smudges obscuring the center portion, but enough was visible that Bobby could see there wasn't a single red segment. At least they had that going for them. Since the so-called 'cure', the madness was supposed to be a non-issue, but Hobbes still harbored doubt. Could anyone blame him? "Sit down, Fawkes," he insisted.

"Your friend has a pretty suntiantial concussion," the brunet paramedic grumped, pressing his stethoscope to Darien's chest after Fawkes had pretty much fallen, more than sat down on the bumper of the truck. "And he needs respiratory treatments for smoke inhalation. Most people dismiss that, but it can be serious, cause pneumonia…but he's refusing treatment."

"I didn't know where you'd gone," Darien said bleakly, addressing Hobbes, when he'd gotten enough breath back to speak.

"I'm good," Hobbes patted his hand. He batted away the blonde girl's efforts to put the plastic mask back on his face, just using it long enough to get a whiff of 100 proof oxygen before addressing the two emergency workers. "Bobby Hobbes, Darien Fawkes, we're Feds." He flashed his badge with practiced speed, not giving them time to read the words 'Department of Fish and Game' under the federal seal. "He has a private physician, for a rare medical condition. I already called her on my cell, she's…" He was talking without really planning what he was saying, always a bad idea, but his headache was too intrusive. Willing the pain to diminish long enough for him to stay in charge of the ruins of the assignment, Hobbes stood, lifting his chin. Still coughing he continued, "Dr. Keeply is on her way with necessary supplies. We're grateful for your efforts, but ah…"

"Sit down, John Wayne, before you fall." Fawkes' voice was muffled, the blonde girl must have finally gotten him to use the breather, but love, warmth and a hint of sarcasm still came through loud and clear. Hobbes complied, only because it was a whole lot easier to sit, shoulder touching Darien's warm one and accept the oxygen mask once more.

"Bloody hell," Claire's distinct British accent sounded like the voice of an angel. She marched through the chaotic confusion with determination and grit, carrying an old fashioned black medical bag. "What in the world did you two get yourselves into this time? Who's in charge here?"

"Joe Cavanaugh, ma'am, you're Dr. Keeply?" the brunet introduced himself. "If you plan to take these two away AMA, you'll have to sign a waiver."

"Then get it written up straight away, we're wasting time," Claire harrumphed. Hobbes wanted to give her a round of applause for Best-actress-in-the-role-of-inconvenienced-doctor-called-out-after-hours. When the two paramedics turned away to confer on the document, Claire swooped in on her charges. "Bobby, Darien, are you all right?"

"Got some bogus info and Gland boy walked straight into a bomb," Hobbes explained briskly.

Claire's eyes widened and she turned her attention to Darien, tipping his head back to look into his blood shot eyes. "How's your vision? D'you have a headache? Your breathing sounds like an aquarium pump."

"Claire!" Darien pulled out of her grasp with a grimace, coughing. "My head hurts, but I'm okay."

"I'll be the judge of that," she snapped.

"He can't hear you," Bobby added, pointing to his partner's ear. "Hearing's shot from the bomb blast."

"A walk in the park, you assured me earlier, Bobby Hobbes," Claire groused. "You two are lucky to be alive. Why would you even go after such a slim lead in the first place?"

"Arnaud was supposed to be renting the place," Bobby said stubbornly, but Darien's contd had hacking was majorly distracting him. What if there was something seriously wrong with his lungs? Bronchitis, pneumonia were both dangerous possibilities and Fawkes hadn't fared so well on his last go round with a respiratory illness. Sure, it was one fashioned by Arnaud especially for Darien, but he gotten very sick in a short period of time. "Shouldn't he be gettin' antibiotics or something?"

"Only if he really has a bacteria," Claire frowned, rubbing Darien's back while he raggedly recovered from the latest bout of coughing. "Smoke inhalation can be very irritating to the lungs, but hopefully he'll cough it all up. How are you feeling?"

"Chest is tight but I'll live." Hobbes took another whiff of the oxygen watching silently while Joe Cavanaugh explained the local hospital's concerns over Claire taking her two patients away without an ER doctor's examination. Claire simply held her ground and signed the proffered form with a firm hand.

"Darien," Claire said in a louder than usual voice, tucking her hand under his elbow. "We're going back to the keep."

"I'd prefer my own place," Darien argued in a raspy whine.

"Sorry, I'm driving and this Cherokee is only going one place." Claire directed Fawkes towards the SUV with Hobbes taking up the rear.

Hobbes reached out his hand, finally finding a sense of serenity amidst the chaos when Darien closed his fingers around Bobby's, giving them a tight squeeze. They'd both survived. Whatever injuries that had befallen them seemed slight and Claire was there to take them under her wing. "We can get one of the others to pick up Golda before morning," he said absently, tightening his grip on Fawkes' hand.

Claire's very thorough exam took over an hour for each of the agents, but in the end she had to admit that while Darien had a pretty serious concussion and some major smoke inhalation, he would live. She had him attempt to Quicksilver to check for any damage to the gland and while he complained that the odd sensation of seeing in 'Quicksilver vision' made him momentarily dizzy, the object of their scrutiny seemed to be in perfect working order. Hobbes' head required stitches, which he bore stoic, bu, but otherwise he had come off better than Fawkes. With obvious reluctance Claire pronounced her patients mostly fit and dropped them off at Darien's apartment. She would come in the morning to give Darien a breathing treatment but there wasn't really any reason to have either wounded man stay in the cramped hospital room next door to the Keep.

"Hey," Hobbes sighed, wishing his head would pick either the kettle drums or the snare and stick to one instead of vacillating between the two. It was highly distracting and most of all, it hurt. "How you doing, Fawkesy?"

"I could sleep for a week," Darien coughed into his hand, but his lungs already sounded less congested after the Albuteral Claire had insisted he inhale. "Does your head hurt as much as mine does?"

"Probably." Hobbes peered at his friend, seeing the grim set of his jaw and the hard, too-old lines around his eyes. "Into the shower, Smokey, you smell like a forest fire." He tugged at the taller man's arms, trying to pull him off the couch but Darien resisted, resulting in Bobby falling into his lap.

"You're not exactly a bouquet of roses yourself, but I kind of like this." Darien wrapped his arms around the unprotesting Hobbes, laying his head on Bobby's shoulder.

"No nooky tonight, sweet cheeks, doctor's orders" Hobbes reminded, but he didn't move, very much enjoying the feeling of sitting on Darien's lap. His hips and knees were a little too bony, poking Bobby in the buttocks and the back of his legs, but now that he was sitting down, he didn't want to get up.

"Didn't hear any doctor's orders about that," Fawkes negated. "She told us to go home and get into bed. Which is exactly what I plan to do." He coughed again, stifling it with his fist. "Into bed with my Hobbesy."

"I'm not sleeping next to someone who smells like he rolled in the fireplace, Cinder-fella," Hobbes insisted, twisting around to look Darien in the eye. He still looked overly pale and exhausted, but seemed to be bouncing back far more quickly than anyone in his condition ought to. "But if it makes you happy, we can share the water." Hobbes declared. "That way we get to bed faster."

"Save water, shower with a friend," Darien quipped.

Despite his bravado, Darien practically fell asleep standing under the cleansing spray. Hobbes was sincerely glad he'd gotten into the stall with his lover, since one wrong step and the sleepy Darien could have slipped on a wet tile and hit his head once again. Hobbes shivered at the thought, chilled despite the warm water, and directed his partner to soap up and rinse off quickly. Once they were out Hobbes belatedly recalled Claire telling him not to get his stitches wet. Well, too late for that. He examined the wound by craning his neck and holding the cabinet mirror at an angle to assess the damage. Claire had shaved away a small amount of hair around the stitches, but Hobbes was fairly confident that once what little hair he had grew back, it would be hide the scar.

Standing completely nude in the middle of the bathroom with his towel dangling from one hand Darien appeared to have forgotten what he was supposed to do next. His deep brown eyes were half closed, but he was watching Hobbes with a drowsy smile. Probably because Hobbes was naked, too.

"Hey, Fawkesy." Hobbes was starting to get worried at the unfocused expression on Darien's face. At least his breathing had much improved from the hot steamy shower. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"That's your thumb," Darien wise-cracked, tapping the correct digit. "And I know the president is a plant, not an animal and it's the year of the reality show on TV. wha what I really want to know is if Arnold becomes governor will he make his old movies required viewing in the school system?"

"Better than if Gary Coleman wins, 'Diff'rent Strokes' would be on every channel." Hobbes parried back.

"What you talkin' about, Willis?" Darien repeated the diminutive actor's most famous line.

"Okay, your brain is working for the moment." Hobbes conceded. "Make sure it stays that way. Did you take soainkainkillers?"

"Only if you do," Darien used his height advantage to lean forward and kiss Hobbes on the bald crown of his head. "That looks like it hurts, although remind me not to do that again." He straightened, his body tense with renewed pain and pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead.

"Into bed, now," Hobbes used his best Dr. Claire voice and for once Fawkes made no complaints. Pouring two glasses of water and collecting the bottle of Tylenol with codeine Claire had dispensed, Bobby joined Fawkes under the covers. "I'll set the alarm for every three hours to make sure you don’t have any more brain damage."

"Are you sure you can make an unbiased judgement?" Darien asked, burying into his pillow with a yawn.

"Takes one to know one," Hobbes smiled as he turned out the light. Everything had turned out all right once again and he was grateful for the simple pleasure of sleeping next to his bruised, but not badly hurt best friend.

After Fawkes blistered Hobbes up one side and down the other for waking him up three hours later, Bobby decided that any brain damage must be minimal, and undisturbed sleep was probably a good thing. Therefore, he snuggled up to the snoring Fawkes and didn't wake again until sunlight was pouring through a gap in the curtains.

Opening hies ses slowly Hobbes was pleased to note that his headache had abated to almost negligible levels and breathing was no longer a necessary but painful chore. He let his gaze linger on the man next to him, catang hng his body for any bruises not noticed the night before. In the bright light of day Fawkes looked pale and entirely vulnerable, dark circles under both eyes, even in sleep. His arms and bare chest were a patchwork of black and blue, but otherwise he was undamaged. Fear welled up in Bobby's throat, images of the explosion impinging on him once again. The sudden flash of fire and overwhelming rush of hot air propelling him back against the door--the knowledge that par partner was somewhere in that maelstrom, possibly burned. Fawkes had almost died in that house!

"Dammit Fawkes!" Hobbes shouted without warning.

Awakened so violently, Darien stared at his lover in shock. "Wha-what's wrong?"

"You could have been killed last night!" Hobbes yelled, his rational mind wondering what the hell was all about but overruled entirely by his rampaging emotions. He was hot, almost dizzy with the remembered heat from the flames, his whole body consumed by anger and something else. Somewhat startling, considering what they had just survived.

"What'er you blamin' me for? I didn't the the bomb," Darien argued reasonably, still more than half asleep. His hair went every which way, even more tousled from sleep than it usually looked gelled into spikes.

"You went in ahead of me. We were supposed to go together."

"Hobbes…"

"You didn't listen to me! I tol' you to wait, but did you listen?" Hobbes smacked Darien on his exposed biceps just hard enough to sting. "I couldn't find you in all that smoke!"

Fawkes flinched away from the blow, "But you did, man. You saved my life."

"I saved your ass, is what I did," Hobbes said fiercely, grabbing that tightly muscled arm again, this time in a strong grip. "And don't you forget it."

"Never, Bobby." Darien grinned sweetly. "But you're getting kind of intense here, not that I'm complaining or anything. Just think you can back off a little? A least until after breakfast, maybe." He looked across the rumpled sheets at Hobbes and gave a little gasp, obviously disconcerted by what he saw. "I'm kind of hungry."

"So am I, Fawkes. I'm hungry for this ass," Hobbes applied the heel of his hand to his prisoner's chest, pushing it back onto the bed and straddled the long body in one smooth movement.

"'Cause it's my ass." He smacked Darien hard on the flank, breathing heavily. "Mine."

"All yours, Hobbesy," Darien agreed, looking slightly dazed. Maybe even thunderstruck, his mouth half open in awe.

"And these are mine…" Hobbes rolled his thumb over one pert nipple, rewarded when it tightened instantly under his touch. "You like that?"

"Always."

"How about this?" Hobbes added his forefinger to the mix, pinching down just hard enough for Darien to hiss in surprise. "There's an old Chinese custom--I think it's Chinese--could be American Indian or mayben Fen Fijian, I'm not positive…" He grinned savagely, feeling Fawkes' cock rising up against his butt cheeks almost at the same time as his own was swelling and hardening with desire. Having tormented the right nipple just enough he gave the left nipple the same treatment until Fawkes was humming with pleasure.

"The Chinese like nipple play?" Darien asked cheekily.

"Nooo," Hobbes answered, licking his forefinger and swirling it in a circle around the nipple involved. "They say that when someone saves the other's life, the…let's call him save-ee, is indebted to his savior for the rest of his life."

"Indebted?" Darien repeated, closing his eyes as Hobbes continued to trace wet snail trails across his pectorals.

"Indebted, indentured…" Hobbes applied his tongue to the right nipple, biting down with gentle pressure and then, after an exquisite moment of heightened stimuli, he pulled back slowly, extending the delicate tissue tightly.

"H-hobbes!" Darien cried, raising his arms to stop the sensual assault, but his savior captured both wrists, shoving them almost roughly above his head without letting go of the tensed nub. "That hurts."

At that word, Hobbes let go, pressing a kiss just above the inflamed area. "It's mine, like your ass, and I can do whatever I want to any part of your anatomy."

"What?" Daritrugtruggled against the pressure holding him to the mattress but he really wasn't putting up much of a fight.

"Enslaved, Darien. Indebted, indentured and…" Hobbes slid down the lanky body, marveling as he always did at the phenomenal definition Fawkes had in his shoulders, chest and rock-hard, six-pack abs. There was definitely something to be said for prison bodybuilding. Even years after incarceration lazy-bones Darien still kept up his morning routine of bench presses and weight lifting, and it showed. A nervous breath rippled his abdomen, transmitting up Hobbes' thighs where they rested on Fawkes' body like Morse code along a wire. Moving back until Darien's thick cock popped up in front of him, standing sentry alongside Little Bobby, Hobbes said, "Enslaved."

Staking his claim by wrapping his fist around Darien's magnificence Bobby growled, testosterone roaring in his veins. He'd never gone after Fawkes with such savage lust, but it felt good, and the object of his attention was certainly aroused. "Along with the rest of you comes the prize--which I also claim." He pumped his hand down the shaft, feeling the bulging veins and arteries pulsing under his palm. Darien groaned with pleasure, his eyes dark and hooded, his hips just starting to thrust into Hobbes' hand, but Bobby changed the tune and clamped his fingers down tightly on the base. Darien howled in disappointment, his approaching orgasm backing off with a vengeance.

"Why, Hobbes?" Darien reached for his tormenter's cock, ready to do service to that needy organ, but again Bobby pushed his arms back to the mattress.

"Am I going to have to cuff you, Jailbait?" Hobbes warned, his voice low and feral. His heart was hammering in his chest, the constant overload of adrenaline making him dizzy and so very hot.

"Yeah…" Darien sighed, his face alive again and eager for the raunchy play.

"Then, that's the way it'll have to be," Hobbes snapped, working out the logistics quickly in his mind. He didn't really want to use their metal, government issue handcuffs. They weren't comfortable and could possibly damage wrists, not to mention scrape up the bedposts if the play got too enthusiastic. But he was too close to the edge right then to be logical. His hormones were in control and the need to take, thrust and batter his way into Fawkes' luscious ass hole was paramount. "Rope?" he asked aloud.

"Nylon climbing rope," Darien directed. "Bottom drawer of the dresser. You'll need scissors to cut it." He watched silently as Hobbes gathered all the equipment, including a tube of KY jelly, without taking his hands off the dowels on the headboard.

Hobbes sliced the silky smooth rope into four pieces. It was perfect--strong enough to hold a person's weight, and the black color was devilish. Looping it around Darien's right wrist he tied him tightly to the metal bed head. The black rope gleamed against Darien's pale wrist, darker than the bruises on his forearms, and Hobbes hastened to secure the other wrist. Darien didn't say a word, never protesting the rough treatment or complaining of pain. Bobby stared into those trusting brown eyes, feeling his penis alive and thrumming against his belly, and fiercely kissed the bound wrist he still held.

Using the two longer lengths of rope Hobbes tied them around Darien's thighs, just above the knee, raising them up, and knotted off the other ends to the head of the bed. Now Darien's legs were spread widely, exposing the most beautiful ass Hobbes had ever seen. He could have admired the view all day but his need was overwhelming. Get in there and plunder for treasure!

"HHo--bbbes," Darien begged, jerking arms. "Do me fast."

"I intend to." Bobby jumped up onto the bed directly between the two raised legs, the puckered little anus winking at him when Fawkes clenched his butt cheeks together.

Liberally applying lubrication to his member, Hobbes knelt down, centering in on his target. If he was lucky, he could go in in one single shot like a rocket blasting off at Cape Canaveral. It was all in the trajectory and angle--go in just right and he'd nail the prostate dead on. He was nearly shaking, the earlier flash of anger morphing into white-hot lust. Tying Fawkes up had given Bobby enough time to cool off slightly so that his first urge wasn't to consume, but only to burn brightly with the original thrust and then bank the flames down to a smoldering desire, keeping Fawkes on the edge for as long as possible.

"Oh, GOD!" Darien screamed when Hobbes drove in hard, plunging his whole length into that sweet, hot core.

Panting for air, Hobbes gazed at his lover's sweat drenched face. Darien was in ecstasy, his head thrown back baring his long elegant neck. Hobbes longed to taste that damp, flushed skin, sink his teeth in like a vampire and drink. He leaned over Darien like a blanket, engulfing him. Rage swept over him again in a windstorm of passion. "Damn you, Fawkes, don't-" he pulled out fast and drove in again in a violent thrust. "Ever-" Bobby punctuated his words by rocking his hips, sending Darien's suspended lower body swaying like a swing on a tree branch. "Do that to me again."

Heat radiated off Fawkes, igniting the conflagration that was Bobby Hobbes and they both went up in a firestorm, voices mingled together in a single raw scream of erotic power. Quicksilver flickered across Darien like freezing summer lightning, the ice sizzling away to nothingness by the spontaneous combustion.

Depleted by the incredible climax, Bobby rested his cheek on Darien's flat belly only to be roused by a throaty cough.

Dammit, he'd forgotten all about the smoke inhalation! How stupid could he be, letting his gonads take charge? Instead of nursing his wounded partner he'd practically attacked him. "Dammit," Hobbes said aloud. "Fawkes, you all right?'

"More'n all right, stud," Darien took a ragged breath, but the coughing fit had passed. "You were smokin'!"

"I was an idiot, every day and twice on Sunday," Hobbes muttered, quickly untying the ropes from Fawkes' legs. Horrified, he traced the reddened rope burns on both thighs, vivid testimony to his assault. "Shouldn't have done this… Bobby Hobbes does not rape his partner."

"Bobby Hobbes never raped his partner!" Darien corrected, locking his freed legs around the smaller man's body. "You made love to me--fantastic, bawdy, one for the letter page of Penthouse love, but it wasn't rape."

"I never asked you…"

"I distinctly remember you asking if I wanted to be cuffed," Darien corrected. "And I said yes. Hobbes, you may have enslaved me but I got a mouth and I know how to use it."

"That's the truth," Hobbes agreed ruefully, his equilibrium and sanity both normalizing. At least as normal as his sanity ever got. "Punk ass little thief."

"Your punk ass little thief, if I recall," Darien tightened his legs, coughing just a bit.

"Your head hurt much?" Hobbes asked worriedly running soothing hands over the red lines encircling both thighs.

"It ain't my head that hurts right now, stallion." Darien shook his bound wrists. "Gonna untie me so I can thank you properly for meritorious service?"

"Meritorious?" Bobby laughed, scrambling around Fawkes' lean length to loosen the ropes. "Is there a medal involved?"

"Could be," Darien kissed him, circling his neck one handed, still partially connected to the headboard. "Could make this an Olympic event--see if you can go for the gold?"

Heady with joy, Hobbes returned the kiss and gave out a few of his own. "You don't know what you're askin', Gland-boy, you might be Quicksilver, but Bobby Hobbes is solid gold."

"Mmmm," Darien hummed happily, so close that Hobbes couldn't see both of his chocolate brown eyes at once. He giggled as the humming vibrated both their lips. "Can we save that rope for another event?" Darien asked, tonguing Bobby's lower lip.

"That rope may have to go into the hall of fame…" Hobbes broke off at the sound of knocking on the front door. "Who the hell…?'

"Crap-in-a-can, it's Claire!" Darien groaned in a whisper, frantically jerking at the ropes on his left hand. "She said she'd come by to give me a treatment." His agitation set off another bout of coughing, which was loud enough to be heard by the doctor.

"Darien! Are you all right?" Claire called out. "Where's Bobby?"

"Comin', Claire! Comin'." Bobby pulled the last knot free, shoving the ropes under the bed. He grabbed up a ratty robe Darien let him use whenever he stayed the night and tossed a pillow and one of the blankets that had slipped to the flooringring their lovemaking onto the couch. Taking one last second to see that Darien had hopped out of bed to pull on a long sleeved t-shirt with the words 'Slave to Fashion' across the front and sweatpants, Bobby took a deep breath, dropping into the headspace he usually reserved for undercover work. At all costs don't think about what just happened.

Walking nonchalantly over to the door he pulled it open. "Claire! So nice of you to drop by!" he greeted unctuously, pumping her hand. "How're you doing this fine morning?"

"Just fine, Bobby, and how are you?" Claire asked, her tone slightly suspicious of his effusive welcome. "You look well recovered. Head doing better?"

"Me, I'm great--master of the world," he responded genially, sneaking another glance over at Fawkes who had one hand plastered over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with mirth. A cough emerged along with muffled giggling. "Fawkes, on the other hand, had a pretty rough awakening. He was just hanging around waiting for you to come."

"Darien?" Claire cooed, all sympathetic doctor. "Let me listen to your chest, sweetheart." She had her stethoscope out, gesturing with one hand for him to raise up his shirt. Bobby froze, the signs of their orgy would be plainly visible if she saw Darien's chest--or limbs. Bites on his nipples, rope marks on his wrists…

"C-cold, Claire…" Darien choked, swallowing the last of his laughter with an only partially faked cough. "It's cold in here. Uh--can't you listen over clothes?"

"It's not as effective, but all right." She placed the bell over the 'F' of fashion, telling him to breathe deeply and cough. "Sounds much improved, Darien. You're on the mend." Hauling a plastic inhaler out of her bag and the Albuteral vial, she assembled the pieces for the aerosol treatment. "Bobby, be a dear and make up a pot of tea while I'm tied up here with Darien."

Hobbes scrambled into the kitchen to hide his suppressed chuckles with tea bag hunting. Hidden by the dividing bar he guffawed into the teapot, unable even to look Darien's way for fear of losing control entirely.

"I'm so happy to see you two in such good spirits after that horrible blast last night," Claire remarked conversationally while adjusting the medicated steam towards Darien.

"Bobby had some issues to deal with," Darien said straight faced, muffled by the enveloping steam. "But he grabbed 'em by the tail, worked things through and tied the whole problem up in one neat solution."

"And that was?" Claire asked curiously.

"That I shoulda listened to my partner. He's the boss."

"Number one rule, Fawkes, or your ass is mine for the duration." Hobbes grinned triumphantly, dumping loose tea leaves into the pot. "Cuppa anyone?"
FIN
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Internal Combustion