Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Feedback Loop	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1863 -:- 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-RestStopDisclaimers
- 1
Author’s Notes:

This is the third of three epilogues to "Fallout", written in three separate Points of View. This story is from Claire’s perspective, as Bobby and Darien recover from a mission. Together.

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/Claire

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

Feedback: suzinsf@gmail.com

The

Invisible Man

"Feedback Loop"

"Claire?" I hear Bobby’s voice, the barely suppressed anxiety, and my heart rate doubles instantly. I know the tone of voice he uses when he’s worried. "I’m at Fawkes’. He’s in QSM. Get over here with the counteragent as soon as you can. I’ll try and keep him calm, okay?" And with that dreadful little bombshell, he’s hung up on me, damn him. The only thing I can think about, as I raid the lab refrigerator for the next to last dose of counteragent, is what on earth would have triggered the madness if Darien was supposed to be on vacation. By implication, the word ‘vacation’ suggests the absence of work. And Darien knows all too well that the use of the gland is to be kept strictly to a minimum, though the Official has finally had to give up on the notion that he be allowed to use it only with authorization.

‘Authorizing’ and ‘Darien’ do not go hand in hand by anyone’s definition, so I breathed a rather significant sigh of relief when he let that one go. But as headstrong as Darien is, he is far from stupid. Or so I’ve always believed. But this, this is just impossible to credit. I shove the syringe into its insulated case and shrug out of my lab coat, pulling my sweater off the coat tree along with my purse as I dash out the door of the keep. I know it’s the fear that’s making me angry, the fear that Darien’s done himself some sort of injury, or tried to hurt Bobby the way he did the time he went QSM and nearly strangled Bobby in a phone booth. My hands are shaking so badly I have a hard time getting the key into the ignition of my Jeep Grand Cherokee, dropping the whole bunch on the floor twice before I finally succeed and turn the engine on.

It’s a drive I’ve made more than once, and never at anything less than break neck speed, worry for Darien strengthening as I near the fringe neighborhood he calls home, as if that anxiety were a beacon lighting the way. I fish my pistol out of my purse and lay it on the seat as I park outside Darien’s building, disregarding the fire hydrant I block. I’ll make him pay the parking fine if this is all because he spent the first three days of his vacation playing practical jokes, I swear under my breath as I ignore the elevator in favor of the more reliable stairs.

I’m slightly winded when I reach his floor, and I pound emphatically on his front door, hoping I won’t have to batter my way in, but prepared to, if Bobby’s been incapacitated. When the door doesn’t open instantly, I level the gun at the doorknob, calling out, "Bobby? It’s Claire, are you alright? Open the door this minute!"

I can hear him through the door. "Be right there, Keepie," he responds. I’m so relieved to hear his voice that even the loathsome nickname he and Darien have taken to using fails to anger me. The door opens, and Bobby is standing barefoot, bare-chested, in the entryway, a faint flush to his skin I’d swear was embarrassment. A tiny part of my brain has the chance to register what a nice chest it is, broad across the shoulders, slender at the waist, well-muscled, abdominals taut and rippled, before I force my way past him and into Darien’s apartment. "Uh, Claire? Just so’s you know, this is… exactly what it looks like," I hear him say behind me as I take in one of the most amazing sights of my life.

Distantly, I hear the door close, but my mind is completely short-circuited by the panorama I have of Darien’s sleeping quarters. And Darien. Nude, he’s handcuffed to his bed, and he is lying sprawled on it, totally ignoring his state of undress. And of arousal. He is perhaps the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry, then starts to water, and I’d be drooling if I hadn’t been more gently reared than to let on how shockingly titillating the view is. He is breathtakingly gorgeous. I’ve always found him attractive, charming, witty, and profoundly irritating, but ‘stunning’ is the only word to come to mind right now. The long, slender body is uniformly golden, and if I thought Bobby’s chest was lovely, Darien’s is possibly more so. As his physician, I’ve certainly seen him naked before, more than once, but from this perspective, there is no possibility of clinical detachment. He is wonderfully, unselfconsciously male, and unbidden, I flash on his brother’s smaller, though equally slender body as I had grown to know it at CalTech. Comparison is pointless, but unavoidable, and Darien is at least his brother’s equal. The split second I hesitate where I stand is enough for me to take in every detail and have it burned permanently into my mind’s eye. I doubt I will ever be able to shut my eyes again without seeing that spectacular body, and if that’s the case, I can only offer up a prayer of thanks.

As a doctor, I ought not to be so totally nonplussed by the sight of a naked patient, but the oddly sweet little smile that hovers on his mouth is as far from one of Darien’s expressions as it’s possible to get. "Hi-ya, Keeper Claire, come to play with the big bad wolf?" he asks, and the gleam in his eyes is scarlet.

His words break the spell, and I suddenly find myself able to move again. I walk towards the bed, steeling myself to let none of my reaction show on my face. It’s a lost cause, I realize when I feel the blush that stains my cheeks. I remember the last time he invited me to play — and I took him up on it. Or would have, if we hadn’t been interrupted. That neither of us were in anything approaching our right minds goes without saying. But oh, if he invites me again, I don’t know if I can refuse. I lick my lips unconsciously as I approach the bed, and see his smile broaden.

"I told you she’d play with us, Hobbes," he says over my shoulder to Bobby whom I can feel standing behind me, the warmth of his body radiating toward me like the glow of a fire. It’s not until I settle on the edge of the mattress that I become aware of the heady male muskiness of sweat and semen that perfumes the apartment. And in that instant, I realize what Hobbes must have meant by his words at the front door.

Bobby? And Darien?! I feel my jaw drop with that stupendous revelation, the blush intensifying as I gape at Darien, then glance behind me to where Bobby stands, face implacable, unreadable. But the answering blush in his own cheeks gives him away. "Bobby?" I squeak, my voice suddenly refusing to work.

"Think we can wait with the ‘truth or dare’ session till after you give him his shot, Claire?" he says, a little sharply, and I refocus on the reason for my visit, fumbling the case out of my purse and removing the counteragent. Since Darien’s restrained, and apparently relatively calm, I elect to give the injection in his arm, in one of the exposed veins that run blue under the skin. It’s less painful than the jab to the base of the skull, but also somewhat slower to take effect, and for that reason, not usually my first choice under QSM circumstances. I wipe down the area with a packaged alcohol wipe I’ve liberated from its packet and glance back at Bobby again. "How did this happen?" I ask, meaning the madness.

"Uh, do we really have to go into that right now?" he answers uncomfortably, shifting his stance. "Let’s just deal with the big problem, here, okay? Think we can do that?"

"Bobby, Darien is my patient," I say stubbornly, angry again for reasons I don’t understand. I turn to face him, glaring at him, swab in one hand, syringe in the other. "As his doctor, I need to know what triggered the gland, and why he’s at madness, when he got a shot less than four days ago! If this is some kind of tolerance developing, then I need to know about it!" I’m not shouting, not quite, but Darien is responding to what he, in his current state, perceives as a threat. To his lover. I still cannot comprehend that turn of events, and I’m caught by surprise when Darien twists onto his side, long legs wrapping around my waist tightly. The shock of the heat of his thighs against my midriff, bare where my knitted shirt has rucked up, is nothing compared to the shock of having his fully erect penis brush my arm.

"Play nice, or Hobbesy’s gonna cuff you to the bed, next, sweet thing," Darien says impishly, devilment in his expression as he sees he’s distracted me from my diatribe. I freeze as my eyes are caught by his for the split second before Bobby moves, and my mouth goes dry again as other parts of me liquefy. The slow smirk that curves Darien’s mouth narrowly avoids being cruel, and I swallow, feeling the heat reappear in my face. Whatever state the QSM puts him into, it seems to heighten his intuitive awareness of others’ emotional state.

"Fawkes," Bobby starts, scurrying to try and pry apart his partner’s legs to free me. A part of me, a gibbering, primal, female part of me, wants him to mind his own damned business. "C’mon, partner, the Keeper’s just tryin’ to do her job. Let her go. She’s not gonna hurt you."

The grin Darien throws Bobby is feral, dangerous. "It’s not me I’m worried about, partner," he answers, voice going noticeably husky on the last word, a sultry, seductive tone that I’ve never heard there before, and that’s when it hits me. Jealousy. Like waves of vitriol, it floods my bloodstream the way quicksilver floods Darien’s. It leaves me speechless as I struggle with the unaccustomed feeling. The conversation going on around me could be taking place in another room, tinny, distant as the dialogue of some television show. Almost as strong as the jealousy is astonishment. Primarily at myself, for such an unbecoming emotion, but also at the behavior of two men I thought I had a reasonable familiarity with. Men who have, in their own awkward ways, expressed their interest in me as a woman, small flirtations, gentle affection, the looks in their eyes when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. But most of all, friendship. The same sort that I’ve watched evolve between them in the two years my Kept has worked with Robert Hobbes. And now I’ve been excluded, eliminated from that comfortable warmth as they’ve turned to each other to fulfill emotional and, apparently, physical voids in their lives. It’s physically painful, my sudden isolation.

I’ve tried more than once to discuss Darien’s sex-life with him, as his doctor, since I am well aware of the constraints both the gland and his work have placed on him when it comes to the opportunities for intimacy. And prolonged celibacy in a young, healthy male is simply not normal, and certainly not by Darien’s choice. But he’s always deflected my concerns, seemingly embarrassed by his unwanted chastity. It’s not until that moment though, that I recognize that he would have to turn to someone in the Agency to meet those basic human needs. It is simply inevitable. There are no other reasonable options than to resort to a coworker, someone who knows the gland, of its existence, and his, as an Agent of the US government. Because Darien is an appalling liar, at least when it comes to things of an emotional nature. He’s a master con artist when it’s only money, but he feels things so strongly that it makes it difficult for him to obfuscate them. Emotional subterfuge is not one of his skills, though he’s not beyond using other’s against them, occasionally. Those beseeching eyes of his can undermine even my judgement.

In that light, I suppose it’s not a surprise that he and Bobby found their way into an intimate relationship together. They are similar in that regard, though Bobby is somewhat better at disguising what he feels, at least from the casual observer. It startles me to recognize that a man I initially thought rather cold, rather… ordinary, is anything but. I’m not sure when I began to be aware that Bobby was faceted in ways that in some lights made him look callous, uncaring, and in others, fiercely loyal, devoted, warm. Or perhaps more accurately, layered. Like sweaters on a brisk Oxford winter’s day, the outer layers are practical, even utilitarian, but the closer you get to the skin, the more revealing those layers become. And right now, I am seeing both of them without pretense, without any of the usual bluff and bluster, no banter, simply one half of a partnership I thought I understood caring for the other half.

Which is when I make another realization. That I have not, after all, been excluded, rather, that I have been given something profound; their unthinking trust. Bobby called me for help, knowing full well that I would immediately discern the truth of their relationship. The rush of relief — and of something else — leaves me light-headed.

"Claire? Can we get this show on the road, here?" Bobby’s question jars me out of my abstraction, my attention returned to the pair into whose most intimate lives I’ve just been invited.

Darien’s lips twist in a mocking, ironic snarl all too familiar from previous bouts of QSM, and my heart begins to race as he tightens his grip around my waist. "You’re no fun, Hobbesy," Darien complains with that surliness he’s been known to demonstrate even outside QSM. "Besides, you know drugs aren’t what I want right now," he adds, and with a deliberate lift of his hips, brings the length of his penis into full contact with my forearm.

I freeze, the syringe gleaming, the icy blue color of the counteragent cold against the warm hues of Darien’s tanned skin, needle wavering infinitesimally with my every heartbeat, dislodging several droplets onto the sheets. I glance at Bobby, hoping to take my cue from him. He is focused as I have seldom seen him, all his awareness riveted on his partner, their gazes locked, as though dominance is to be determined by sheer force of will.

Darien rocks his hips gently, almost unconsciously, masturbating himself against me defiantly, and I feel Bobby settle onto the mattress, easing over next to Darien, eyes never leaving his lover’s. The exquisite softness of Darien’s skin brushing my arm, the wetness that weeps from the head of his penis, is overwhelmingly erotic, and my heart hammers behind my sternum, my muscles locking in resistance to the impulse to touch back.

"Darien, cut it out, babe. I told you, shot first. Then you get what you want. It’s quid pro quo, my whacked out friend, quid pro quo. And I’m the one holding the keys, remember? Now behave yourself and let the Keep give you your medicine." He strokes Darien’s hair out of his eyes with astonishing tenderness, and without thinking about it at all, bends his head to kiss Darien. A kiss I am sweating to be on the receiving end of, and it’s a split second before I can tear my eyes away and find the vein I had targeted earlier, slip the needle in, and send the counteragent home.

The usual seizures hit as it enters his bloodstream, his reaction one of pain, and Bobby, ready for it, holds his head firmly in his hands, gaze never wavering, until the pain eases, and Darien slumps into Bobby’s embrace, Bobby pulling him into his arms, holding him, comforting him. "You okay there, partner?" he asks against the crown of Darien’s tousled head, as Darien’s grip on me loosens and his legs fall away. When he buries his face against Bobby’s chest, shoulders shaking quietly, I know I have overstayed my welcome. I cap the syringe and start to get up, only to be held by Bobby’s glance at me, naked, vulnerable. "Claire," he starts, then stops, at a visible loss for words when Darien draws his long legs up against his chest in a fetal position, shielding himself from my view.

"I really think I should go, Bobby," I manage with a semblance of calm that amazes me. "Both of you need a little privacy at the moment," I suggest, knowing that I am in at least as much need of it as they are.

"No," Bobby disagrees forcefully. "What we need here is a little conversation, Keepie."

"About what?" I ask, puzzled.

Bobby waves one hand randomly through the air. "What else?! This!" he responds, agitated, but trying to retain a grip on his temper.

"This?" I repeat, my own temper fraying. "Bobby, this is none of my business. This is between you and Darien, and I have no right to an opinion."

"Yeah, well the Fat Man’s gonna have an opinion, isn’t he, Claire? I can just see Eberts’ face when he files the paperwork on this one, the little paper-pushing bastard." There’s a pinched look to his face and it suddenly occurs to me that I am witnessing Bobby Hobbes approaching tears. "Claire…" he trails off the entreaty in his voice matched by that in his eyes. "Don’t let them separate us. Just don’t let them do anything else to the kid. Please. If you feel anything. For either of us. Don’t let them take him away from me."

All I can do is stare at him, shocked that he would honestly think I could go straight to the Official with this. That he trusts me so little, and yet called me in spite of it. My eyes burn with the knowledge that Bobby is not the only one near tears, and I blink, staring at him, trying to find my voice, the solitude, the loss of trust, of friendship I didn’t even know I treasured so deeply, stealing it away. For the first time since I came to this country to attend grad school, I feel alone. Completely and utterly alone, oceans separating me from family, old friends, and even greater gulfs separating me from new ones. And it hurts. Hurts in ways I have no description for. Not even the news of Kevin’s murder, and my recruitment into his project, left me feeling this way. I close my eyes for an instant. "Bobby, I have no intention of saying anything to the Official. Darien is my patient, my responsibility, but he’s entitled to a certain degree of privacy. And as my friend, my friends -" I emphasize the word, hoping I can convey some small fragment of my disillusionment, "I would have expected you to know me better than that, by now." I look away, refusing to meet his eyes, stowing my syringe back in its case, back in my purse, and then move to stand again.

"Claire," he says again, this time regret in his voice. I ignore him, standing, only to find my wrist caught in his grip. The strength in his fingers would be alarming if I didn’t know absolutely that he would never hurt me. "I’m sorry, Keepie. I was outta line," he states, accepting responsibility as he has so often, whether it was his to accept or not. This time I meet his look, and hold it for a long moment.

"Yes, Bobby. You were."

"Claire. Oh, god, I’m so sorry," Darien’s voice is watery, mortification in tortured eyes as he rubs his face across his pinioned forearm, then gazes up at me. It is a look that goes beyond embarrassment, beyond self-hatred, to the borders of despair. And it breaks my heart. I have helped do this to him.

"Darien, none of this is your fault. We go through this every time we don’t get you your medication in time. The quicksilver is a disinhibitor. It overrides your limbic system, and affects judgement and emotional control. It is beyond your conscious control, and beating yourself up about it is pointless. Besides, no harm done," I smile at him, hoping to ease his conscience, and I touch his flank, lightly, in reassurance. His skin is like silk, warm, smooth, and my breath catches in my throat as desire washes over me. It is definitely time to go. Unfortunately, I still need to know what caused the gland to be triggered, and what led to the early onset of the QSM. As much as I’d like to flee, I need the answers to those questions first. I have failed him too many times to take the risk of doing it again. "Are you up to answering a few questions?" I glance between them.

The color drains out of Darien’s face, his expression bleak, dreading what he’s come to see as his role as lab rat. "Mind if I get cleaned up first?" he asks so softly I can hardly hear him. Bobby, meanwhile, has retrieved the handcuff keys from under the bed where they must have fallen in his efforts to restrain Darien, and sets his partner free.

Darien, resigned to both his nudity and his fate, sits up, absently rubbing his wrists, lightly abraded by the cuffs he undoubtedly struggled against, eyeing me for my answer, waiting for permission.

I nod. "Maybe Bobby can make us some coffee?" I suggest as he climbs gracefully out of bed and walks across the apartment to the bathroom, disappearing inside. I stare down at the counteragent stains on his bed and clench my teeth. A place that should be a sanctuary should not bear the reminders of all the things standing between Darien Fawkes and happiness.

Bobby, standing beside me, watching Darien’s retreat, sighs. "You have to do this now?" he asks sadly.

"Yes, Bobby, I’m afraid I do. I’m not willing to risk that there isn’t some sort of tolerance building up. I need to understand what happened to trigger the madness so much earlier than it should have been a problem." I pause for a moment, then touch his bicep gently, trying to get him to focus on me rather than his partner. "I’m sorry, Bobby. More than you know."

He blinks at me, surprised. "Sorry for what? Doing your job? Keepin’ him safe? Don’t be." He takes a deep breath and tries a smile, weak, but better than nothing. "You still up for some coffee?"

I nod. "Yes." Something to normalize the situation seems called for, especially since I know how awkward this whole thing has become. "Where does Darien keep his clean linens? I got counteragent all over his bed. I’ll change the sheets while you make the coffee."

He eyes me in confusion for a moment, then nods and retrieves a set of clean sheets, handing them to me before padding barefoot across to the kitchen, assembling coffee and rummaging in cupboards.

By the time Darien emerges from the bathroom, dressed in running shorts, hair wet, spiky and wild-looking, I’ve remade the bed and am sitting on the couch, sipping coffee with Bobby, who’s pulled on a shirt, though it remains unbuttoned. "Hey, kid, you got anything besides Cheerios to eat around here?" Bobby asks as Darien joins us, folding himself into the arm chair at one end of the couch, face shuttered and still flushed with the heat of the shower, or perhaps embarrassment.

"Not much," he shrugs apologetically. "Haven’t felt much like cooking the last two weeks, not to mention eating." He fingers the slowly receding lump on the back of his head unconsciously, and Bobby nods.

"I’ll see what I can scrounge up," Bobby says, getting up and heading back into the kitchen, giving Darien and I some modicum of privacy.

"Darien, I’m sorry," I repeat my apology to him, and like Bobby, he looks up at me, surprised.

"Why?" he asks, genuinely startled. "You haven’t done anything. I’m the one who acted like a pervert. Again," he adds, looking away, the color in his face deepening again.

I can’t help sighing. "Darien, that wasn’t you. How many times do I have to keep telling you that? And it’s not as though I’m unacquainted with male anatomy," I remind him. "Besides, I’m your doctor. Believe me, I’ve seen worse." Much worse. Like all the many times he’s been brought beaten or bleeding to me, the expectation being that I will blithely patch him up and send him out to be hurt again. "In fact, I quite enjoyed the view," I tell him, truthfully.

He glances up at me, the most incredibly charming look of confusion in his face.

"Darien, you have a beautiful body. How can I not have enjoyed seeing it?" I tell him recklessly, wanting to say something that will make things all right between us again. Besides, it’s the god’s own truth. He will be the fodder for wet dreams for months. Perhaps years. I just hope his isn’t the name I call out when next I find myself in bed with someone. Not that that seems likely in the near future. But I want him to know that he is incredibly appealing to me as a woman, that I don’t regret seeing him. In fact, my only regret is not telling him any of this long ago. But it’s no more appropriate now than it would have been then, and the attraction is one I cannot act on in good faith. Particularly since he seems to have found what he needs in a partner, with Bobby. A twinge of the jealousy flickers again behind my breastbone, but it is more in the nature of envy, by this time. It is disconcerting to miss Kevin at this moment, miss the relationship we had. Or more peculiarly, miss the Kevin that inhabited Darien’s body so briefly. To have had — and lost — the opportunity to have them both. There are moments I surprise myself.

"I do? I mean, you did?" he stammers, and the look of schoolboy embarrassment mixed with the first hints of pleasure lightens the haunted look in his eyes. He has the most expressive eyes. Beautiful. The color of Guinness in a glass, lit by candles. Chocolate and caramel and coffee. Delicious.

"You do. And I did." I can’t help smiling at the bashful grin that flashes over his mouth as he ducks his head, then peers up at me through dark lashes. I smile back, and I see him relax for the first time since I gave him the counteragent.

"Sorry ‘bout the mess, ‘n all, but Bobby an’ me, we’ve been… busy," he waves a hand in general indication of the scattered clothing that litters the floor around his bed.

I laugh. I can’t help it. And Darien laughs with me. I’m aware of Bobby’s attention on us from the kitchen, and I can feel him relax, even from here. Astounding. "So I gathered. Now. Tell me what happened to trigger the gland," I request, ignoring the return of embarrassment. I prompt, still laughing, "I take it sex was involved?"

A half-hour later, he’s managed to tell me, haltingly, that the loss of control that comes with orgasm is what sets the gland off. From his description, the effect doesn’t last long, only the last minutes before climax, and the solution I have in mind should make both him and Bobby happy enough, since it requires practice. I also intend to plead a case to the Official that all the counteragent used in the assignment they just completed has caused Darien to develop the beginnings of a tolerance, and that increased doses will be required until I can determine how to wean him off it. That small deception should buy them time to master what I have in mind.

Bobby has been busy, and the most amazing scents are wafting out of the kitchen when he joins us, carrying three mismatched dinner plates with an assortment of finger foods. He sets them down, interrupting, handing Darien a bottle of wine and the corkscrew, before returning to the kitchen for wineglasses. Darien obediently opens the bottle while I examine Bobby’s creation. Or perhaps reinvention might be more accurate. He seems to have taken the assorted leftovers of a week’s worth of takeout food and recombined it to create a selection of appetizers. Leftover pizza has been cut into chunks, garnished with a slice of olive and a sprinkle of parmesan, heated till bubbly again. Leftover rice has been combined with a beaten egg and spices then formed into patties and pan-seared. These are topped with a leftover shrimp, or a piece of curried chicken and warmed through. And lastly, we have tortilla chips arranged in a layer, with some sort of bean concoction and salsa with sour cream spooned on top. I’m ravenous. And amazed. "Bobby! You cook?" I demand as I help myself to one of the selections.

He shrugs. "I get by," he says modestly. "I kinda had to learn after my divorce, or I was gonna end up like inviso-boy here, and wind up subsisting on Cheerios and takeout." He puts the wineglasses down on the coffee table and Darien fills them, handing one to me and one to Bobby. Bobby takes his and settles onto the armrest of the chair Darien is seated in, and like magnets, they are drawn together, leaning shoulder to shoulder, unconsciously touching. Which is when I realize this is nothing new. They have been doing the same thing for much of the time they’ve known each other, always responding to each other with a casual or comforting touch, seeking and offering reassurance. It’s charming, and I smile into my wineglass as I take a sip.

"So what’d you and the punk come up with?" Bobby asks as he sips from his own glass, reaching forward to pick up one of the plates and offer the contents to his lover. The word no longer seems strange in context. Rather, it’s become inevitable, something that merely waited upon the pair to arrive at the same conclusion.

"If you mean the gland," I begin, "I have some thoughts on that that may help. Bobby, you’ve done biofeedback, haven’t you?" I ask him, and he nods, setting the plate back down. "Since extreme sexual arousal is biochemicaly indistinguishable from any other adrenaline reaction from the gland’s point of view, I propose that you help Darien master some of the basic techniques to control that part of the reaction. With practice, he should be able to virtually eliminate the effect."

"Practice, huh?" Bobby grins. "I don’t think that’ll be a problem, Keep. But I was never very good at the biofeedback thing, so I’m not sure exactly how much help I’m gonna be, here," he adds ruefully.

"Actually, I suspect that Darien should have very little trouble with it. It’s really only a question of training himself — and the gland — to fine-tune the invisibility response. Darien has already achieved a significant degree of control, so I don’t anticipate that he’ll have too much difficulty adding this to the repertoire. All it will take is a little practice." I let my amusement show in my expression. "And in the meantime, I’ll simply tell the official that Darien will be needing additional counteragent until I can wean him back to his previous tolerance levels." The surprised gratitude on both their faces makes my conscience twinge in response, another small illustration of their feelings of isolation. They have come to rely totally on each other, and help from an unexpected quarter catches them by surprise.

Bobby solicitously plays host, making sure my glass is full and that I have my share of the nibbles he put together. We spend a pleasant couple of hours doing something I seldom have the opportunity to do, which is to socialize, and I’m enjoying myself tremendously, particularly as the wine begins to go to my head. I even stoop so far as to tease them gently about being a third wheel in their company.

"Well, you know what they say about triangles, Keepie," Bobby responds to this with a grin, one matched by Darien’s.

"All right," I give in when he just smirks at me, an eyebrow arched whimsically, "what do they say about triangles?" I ask.

"That they’re one of the most stable shapes in mathematics," he answers, a little smile flickering over his mouth as his eyes sparkle. Darien laughs and reaches up to pull Bobby’s head down for a kiss, and there is no hesitation on Bobby’s part at all. It is quick, affectionate, and even so, bears the undercurrent of passion that was present in the kiss they shared when I first arrived. I feel it even from my place on the couch, and the shivery little tingle that runs through me settles as a pleasant ache in between my legs.

"You’ve been watching too much PBS, partner," Darien teases him, grinning.

"Yeah, well, I’ll leave the Starsky and Hutch reruns to you, buddy," Bobby laughs back. "Give me Carl Sagan any day of the week."

"Oh, don’t give me that," Darien says in mock annoyance. "Who’s the one who told me he used to watch the show for pointers on high-speed pursuits?"

Bobby shrugs, a gesture that says eloquently that the point has been made. "All I’m sayin’ is, man does not live on cop shows alone, Fawkes. ‘Specially since we practically live in one," he continues as he gets up to find another bottle of wine.

"So’d you tell her about the dreams?" he asks Darien from the kitchen as he pulls another bottle from the wine rack on the counter.

"What dreams?" I ask as Darien blushes.

"Uhm, well, see, that’s kinda how this whole thing with me’n Bobby got started," he attempts to explain, succeeding only in confusing me.

"What do you mean, how it started? Are you telling me that you dreamed about a relationship with Bobby?" I ask, my professional interest piqued.

"What he dreamed about was hot monkey sex with the ‘monkey boy’," is Bobby’s contribution from the kitchen as he continues to rustle around in the refrigerator and freezer, searching for something.

I sputter with laughter and Darien’s blush deepens to furious.

"Yeah, well I wasn’t the only one having wet dreams about my partner, was I?" Darien retorts, mildly miffed, and Bobby laughs.

"Nope," he agrees readily enough. "But you didn’t tell her the good part," he prods his partner.

Darien’s blush darkens again, and he glances at me. "We were kinda having the same dreams," he says to me.

"Well that’s not particularly uncommon, " I tell him, still smiling at his discomfort. "Especially since the two of you have a very close working relationship. I’ve see the way the two of you work together, after all," I assure him.

"No, Claire, we weren’t having sorta the same dreams, we were having exactly the same dreams. Right down to the chocolate sauce," Bobby contradicts from the kitchen.

"What?" I stare over my shoulder at him as he proceeds to scoop a helping of ice cream into each of three bowls, topping the whole thing with Hershey’s syrup and a spritz of whipped cream from one of those aerosol cans of Rediwhip. When each has been topped by a cherry, he brings them into the livingroom and sets them on the table.

"They were exactly the same dreams, Claire," he repeats, and goes back for the wine, returning with it, then settling onto the armrest of Darien’s chair again to look at me, a strange expression on his face as he hands me my impromptu dessert.

I’m intrigued. "Darien has had episodes of prescient dreaming in the past," I speculate aloud. "Do you think something like that is happening again?"

"Then why’d I have ‘em too?" Bobby asks, reasonably.

I have no answer for that, and I absently pop the artificially red cherry into my mouth, sucking on it before I eat it. "I’m not sure, Bobby," I confess, swiping a forefinger through the whipped cream, looking up to see them both eyeing me intently, as if expecting something. "What?" I ask, startled by their intensity, licking the cream off my finger. They’re both watching me as if fascinated.

"Sometimes, you were in ‘em, Claire," Bobby continues a long moment later, looking at me expectantly.

"I was in them?" I ask stupidly, feeling a little disoriented by the turn the conversation has taken. I’ve drunk just enough wine that my judgement isn’t all it could be, and clearly the same can be said of my mental faculties. I seldom remember my dreams, and only the knowledge that everyone dreams assures me that I do, too. Usually they vanish into the place they came from, almost never remaining long enough in my conscious mind to disturb me.

Darien nods solemnly. "Yeah. And you were… uhm, well, you were…" he trails off, leaving me perplexed.

"I was what?" I ask, then as if the gates of memory have been jarred loose, I flash on a dream I had after my recovery from the Beta-C exposure. A dream that had remained fixed in my memory for weeks afterward, and had made for some awkward moments between Darien and Bobby and myself. I stare at them, feeling my brain fog over with shock. "Oh, my god…" I say as I stare back at them.

"You had it too," Bobby says, nodding, as if his expectations had been confirmed. "With the whipped cream, and the chocolate sauce," he states, the sparkle in his eyes brightening. "Only we’ll have to make do with the maraschino cherries. Fawkes doesn’t have any strawberries." The smile that begins to flicker on his mouth is echoed by Darien’s, and the roaring in my ears is the rush of blood through my veins as the invitation penetrates.

Bobby gets up and approaches me, reaching for my hand and pulling me out of the sofa. My knees are wobbling and I stare into his eyes, unable to string a rational thought together. "You have whipped cream on your nose," he tells me, and kisses the end of it.

I have never thought of the nose as an erogenous zone. I was wrong. Wonderfully, fantastically, gloriously wrong. The warmth of his lips travels next to my own and the kiss is gentle, yet passionate, sending a thrumming through my nerves that leaves me vibrating like a harp. I feel myself sway with the heady combination of lust and alcohol and the knowledge that I am about to do something I would never have thought myself capable of. And for that, I offer up a fleeting thanks to Augustin Giather who came up with the Beta-C in the first place for opening the door I am about to walk through.

"Sorry about the strawberries," Darien’s voice murmurs as the warmth of his body heats my back, his lips soft against my ear.

I can’t help giggling as I feel his arms encircle my waist, Bobby’s kiss becoming more insistent, hungrier. I feel my body respond on a primal level, as hungry for them as they are for me, wet heat pooling between my thighs. "Cherries will do nicely," I tell them.

Wine and ice cream forgotten, we find our way to Darien’s bed, my clothing left behind like a trail of breadcrumbs, ensuring I can find my way back from whatever magical realms I’m about to enter in the arms of my knights errant. They, on the other hand, have the advantage of being largely unclothed, and when Darien has dropped me into the flannel softness of his bed, he and Bobby reveal themselves as they have revealed me, beautiful in their differences. Even the slowly fading bruises that discolor their bodies cannot dim my appreciation for the view before me. I am giddy at the sight of them together, images of them in the throes of the passion that has unexpectedly lapped outward to enclose me in that warmth unreeling in my mind’s eye like a silent film.

My impression of Darien when I first arrived, of stunningly beautiful masculinity, is confirmed as he stands naked before me, smiling down at me in my inelegant sprawl on his bed while Bobby drops his pants to the floor, stepping out of them as he shrugs out of his shirt to join us in the splendid display of flesh. He too is beautiful, smaller, proportions compact and perfect, muscles he didn’t have a year ago now taut and defined under the gleam of his skin.

"You’ve been exercising," I complement him, unable to keep from voicing my professional opinion.

"Doctor’s orders, Keepie," he grins at me, pleased by my notice.

"Very nice," I add, reaching out a hand to run my fingers over his abdominal muscles, rippled and hard, catching and holding his eyes as I descend into more dangerous territory.

"Ah, god, Claire," is the low groan that greets my intimate discoveries. I stroke him, fascinated by the feeling of his penis hardening under my fingers, satin smooth skin warming, tightening in my grasp, and I use the leverage I have to draw him to me. As he collapses onto the bed beside me, I turn my gaze to Darien, who has been watching me with open amusement — and open arousal — as I’ve explored his partner.

"‘Come to my arms, my beamish boy’," I quote and he laughs, toppling down alongside us, his long limbs enveloping us both.

"‘O frabjous day, Callooo, Callay’," he quotes back at me as Bobby eyes us questioningly.

"Jabberwocky," we tell him simultaneously, and he groans.

"Christ, Claire, now he’s got you doin’ it too! Quit with the quotes, you two, We’ve got better things to be doing with our mouths then yapping," he complains, and proceeds to demonstrate.

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

Together they conspire to seduce me, overwhelm me, reduce me to raw nerve-endings and sweat-drenched lust. It’s glorious. Sex as the wellspring of endorphins. No one has ever touched me this way, and the cherries, rescued from obscurity, assume a symbolic role in my debauching, warmed in their mouths, secreted about my body, searched for by each of them like chocolate eggs at an Easter egg hunt, the braggarts keeping score until only the carmine liquid remains in the jar on Darien’s nightstand.

Darien has found the last of them, and he consents to share it with me, lapping his way up my body as he samples the evidence of his and Bobby’s presence on my skin. When he arrives at my lips, the cherry held lightly in his teeth, he lowers his mouth over mine and drops the fruit into it, following it with his tongue, weaving and dancing with my own like players in a tennis match. And throughout this, Bobby is warm against my back, hands roaming my body, holding me at a fever pitch, every nerve-ending screaming for the release that’s trembling just beyond my grasp, a place beyond their willingness to let me go alone. I no longer know which of them touches me, or where, my entire body responding to the erotic stimulus at once, no longer able to discern separate input. It is my last coherent thought before we test Bobby’s theories on the stability of a triangle.

The quicksilver, when it comes, is the most unexpected of things; an aphrodisiac, a lubricant, a lens through which sensations, already nearly unbearable, become unsustainable. I feel them move within me, together, rhythms a counterpoint to each other, and then the gates to a paradise I never suspected part before us, and our cries ring against the brick and concrete of the walls. It’s like being made immortal for the few seconds it lasts, leaving me with the conviction that this is what I waited for without knowing it. As the quicksilver flakes away, leaving us tangled in a sweaty heap, Darien curls around us, and we drift into an exhausted sleep.

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

When I wake again, it’s to the warmth of male bodies that ward off the coolness of the night air, and I lie there thinking about the transformation my life has undergone in the last few hours.

The fact that my medical oath forbids me to become involved with a patient has been the shield I’ve used to protect myself from the feelings I’ve struggled with from nearly the beginning of my involvement with the QS9300 project. What really brought it home to me was when Darien insisted on trying to use Kevin’s memory RNA to solve the riddle of how to safely remove the gland, or at least to eliminate the engineered insanity Arnaud de Thiel, a.k.a. de Phön, built into the gland. Arnaud did this with the idea of selling both the gland and the counteragent to international terrorists, knowing that the real money would be made by selling the counteragent, not the gland itself.

While Kevin inhabited Darien’s body, I had the opportunity to truly see the philosophical differences between the two brothers. Having been involved with Kevin romantically while we were both in school at CalTech completing our graduate work and post doctoral studies was one of the things that enabled me to resist the unconscious impulses that attracted me to Darien. Having Kevin back, for that brief period, forced me to the unsettling conclusion that I had unknowingly adopted some of his preconceived notions regarding his brother’s propensity for the path of least resistance, his essential laziness, if you will. Yet none of that gels with my experience with Darien, not in the most fundamental ways. When Kevin chose a form of suicide rather than to help his brother remove the gland, despite knowing what that would cost Darien, I realized that I had adopted the same egocentric judgementalism Kevin had always displayed towards his younger brother. And I began to be truly angry with Kevin for the selfishness of his behavior. It was a shock to conclude that for all his many faults, Darien is a far more caring and sensitive man than Kevin ever was. It was an even bigger shock to realize I loved Darien in a way at odds with my medical oath.

And all of this is complicated by my awareness of Bobby’s feelings for me, unspoken, but not unvoiced in the countless small ways a man tells a woman of his interest. Even more confusing is the gradual realization in the last year that what I feel for him goes well beyond friendship. While it lacks some of the desperate hormonal quality of my feelings for Darien, I none the less love Bobby, for his patience, his unswerving loyalty, his friendship, all the things that have drawn Darien to him. Yet, unlike myself, Darien has never been on the receiving end of the sort of trust Bobby has come to feel for him. Certainly Kevin never trusted Darien, never credited him with the inherent nobility of spirit Bobby does now, and that I have witnessed. As I watch the relaxed, sleeping faces of the two men with whom I have just shared more than a bed, I wonder if Bobby Hobbes was among the first of us to stop judging Darien. To stop assuming he was exactly what Kevin had portrayed him to be. And I am ashamed. And humbled at the faith of a man in his own perceptions, when those perceptions have been ridiculed, been the source of countless humiliations, large and small. He suspended judgement, lest he do unto another what had been done to him. He let the evidence outweigh expectation. And I call myself a scientist.

I feel the tears that swim in my eyes slide warmly down my face to drip off my chin, my jaw, and the bitterness of self-loathing chokes me. The wrongs I have done, the damage I have caused, the barriers I have helped maintain between Darien and everyone else around him save Bobby. That is Kevin’s legacy. The long battle Darien has fought, alone save for his partner, given no cause to trust us, no reason, except that we demanded that he do so, demanded that he surrender his own well-being into our hands, to use or abuse at will. The day the Official told me to withhold the counteragent from him as punishment for Darien’s disobedience, I violated my Hippocratic oath far more violently than I did when I accepted Darien into my heart and body. The first principle is ‘do no harm’. And from the outset, I have caused as much harm as help. I swear, in this moment, that will change.

"Claire, Keepie, honey? You okay?" Bobby’s soft query breaks my reverie, and I feel Darien stir against me, opening eyes sleep-drowsed, unguarded, stunningly innocent, to stare up at me. He raises a hand to wipe away the wetness on my face, and I feel Bobby’s arms close around me protectively.

I sniffle, and smile at the pair of them, reminded of a litter of mismatched puppies, warm, trusting, untarnished yet by experience, and I consider myself blessed to be among them. "I am now," I say and smile at them. "And my name is Claire Eloise Locksely. The next time either of you calls me ‘Keepie’, I will damage you," I warn them, unexpectedly moved at the astonishment in their expressions as I give them the gift of the same trust they’ve given me. The gift of my name. Of myself. And I’m rewarded by the beatific grin that lights Darien’s whole face.

"Claire Eloise?" he laughs in disbelief, and I feel Bobby grin against the side of my neck as he kisses me, a thanks for that gesture.

"It was my grandmother’s name," I defend my heritage with a smile I couldn’t help if I tried, "so no smart-mouthed comments, if you please!" I warn them.

"Claire Eloise, huh?" Bobby mumbles against my throat. "Well, Claire Eloise, Robert A. Hobbes loves you. Even with the name."

Darien sputters with laughter, and the sheer joy in his eyes takes my breath away. "So does Darien Guy Fawkes. Especially with the name," he says as he lays his cheek on my breast over my heart, grinning up at me like a lunatic.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Feedback Loop