Deep Blue

by Devyn Lyonesse

Darien is upset after a bout of quicksilver madness, and turns to Bobby Hobbes for comfort

1. Deep Blue

Title: "Deep Blue"

Author: Devyn Lyonesse

Email address: dlyonesse@hotmail.com

Fandom: Invisible Man

Disclaimers: The usual. Don't own 'em, wish I did. Yadda, yadda.

Category: Slash, romance, drama, episode coda, angst

Pairing: Darien/Bobby

Rating: R

Spoilers: For "Tiresias"

Archiving: Anyone who wants to, please ask me first.

Series note: This is story #1 in my slash series, "Thief of Hearts".

Summary: Darien is upset after a bout of Quicksilver madness, and turns to Bobby Hobbes for comfort.

Author's notes: This is set after the events in "Tiresias", in a slightly alternate universe in which Bobby Hobbes doesn't like the ocean, and Darien reacts differently to his attack on Hobbes. Otherwise, the boys and their environment are pretty much the same as they are on TV. There's romance, angst, some humor and lots of introspection. Like every other author out there, I love feedback. So if you like this, please let me know.

December 2001

Deep Blue

© Devyn Lyonesse

Me, I never did drugs before. I was way too smart for that. Besides, I never needed to. Theft was my drug. The excitement of high-class burglary, of getting in and out with the goods without getting caught -- what a rush! It's almost as good as sex. I was addicted to that, not to a chemical; and I was kinda proud of it. I always felt superior to addicts of the more traditional kind, 'cause I didn't have to pay for my thrills. Paying's for those who are mentally challenged, you know what I'm saying? I didn't want a monkey on my back, or track marks on my arms, or the sweating and shaking and pain between fixes, or the constant scramble to pay for them, or any of the other, gross trappings of an addict's life.

Compared to that, being a thief was easy. I had to work nights, but not every night; and I didn't have to wear a suit and tie or work long hours. I made good money, too, and had lots of free time to spend it, and lovers to spend it on. It was great. The proverbial win-win situation. Talk about having your cake and eating it, too. The way I looked at it, I was being paid to have fun. It doesn't get much better than that.

Oh, yeah. I was one smug, self-satisfied thief.

Which just goes to show you, like the Bible says: "Pride goeth before a fall." A bad fall, in my case. 'Cause when I fell, I fell hard. In fact, I'd say that in the last year or so, I've been paid back for just about every bit of arrogance I ever felt. I went to prison, lost my brother, then got stuck working for the government. That's right -- the same people who brought you Waco and the IRS How low can you go?

And if all that wasn't enough, now I've also got the mother of all monkeys on my back. I do a drug now, all right. In fact, I've become addicted. Not to what you'd expect, though. It's not crack, crank, heroin, or even Exstacy. No, my monkey's name is "counteragent".

Doesn't sound fun, does it? Trust me, it isn't. And I didn't start taking it for kicks, or even by choice. No, I need it because this whacked Swiss terrorist named Arnaud infiltrated my brother Kevin's invisibility project. In order to try to control whoever had it, he messed up the Quicksilver gland that lets me turn invisible, so it actually generates a kind of poison after awhile. When that happens, first I get these nasty headaches. Then the pain starts. It's blinding. Agonizing. It feels like someone's ramming a hot poker into the back of my head, and it makes me convulse. If I don't get the antidote, things get even worse. My eyes turn red, and I get violent. Psychotic. Murderous. So I don't just need a drug to take away the pain, I need it to keep from going crazy. That antidote is counteragent.

Sometimes I don't think of it as a monkey, though. When I'm feeling particularly resentful, sometimes it seems more like a snake. Partly because I hate being dependent on it, and partly because every time I get that needle in my arm, and they pump that drug into me, it stings like the bite of a rattler. In more ways than one. I've even got a striking little tattoo to match: this snake coiled up on my wrist, that lets my Keeper know when I need a fix by changing color from green to red.

Very catchy. Very graphic. A corporate logo, for the company addict.

Needless to say, I hate it. But it does have its uses. By this morning, it'd gotten pretty red, a signal that I need another fix. So I swallowed my pride for the hundredth time and got another shot, like a good little government-sponsored junkie. Your tax dollars at work. Heart warming, isn't it? My arm still stings a bit from the needle, and from the cold bite of the counteragent sliding into my veins.

God, I hate that stuff!

Even now, hours later, when I'm sprawled out on my bed in my apartment, there's still a tiny little red needle mark on the inside of my elbow. I raise my arm and stare at it gloomily. No more being paid to have fun. Now I've got track marks. Now I'm an addict, a fucking junkie! What a joke.

I rub my arm and sigh. I try to tell myself it's only that: just a bad joke. Something I can slough off, something I don't have to think about. But I can't help it. I can't laugh it off, and I can't forget it. I hate needles. Always did. So every time -- I mean, every single goddamn time my Keeper sticks that needle into my arm -- I feel this burn. A nasty mixture of physical and emotional pain that blasts through my veins right along with the drug. It's part revulsion, part frustration, but most of all, it's rage. Anger at the people behind my addiction. The ones who caused my need, and the ones who feed it. Fury like you wouldn't believe.

They did this to me! Arnaud and the Agency. He made me crave a drug, made me need one to keep from going insane; and they make sure I get it, so I can never leave them. But I never wanted this. It fucking disgusts me! The needle, the drug, the craving, the dependency -- all of it! I became a thief partly because breaking the rules was a kind of freedom. I hated the thought of being tied to routine, and a nine-to-five job. Guess you could even say it was my love of freedom that eventually landed me in prison. Several times. Ironic, huh? But when my brother Kevin told me he could get me out if I'd participate in his latest science project, I thought things were looking up. Being a human guinea pig seemed better than having large, overly friendly tattooed guys making free with me, if you catch my drift.

Or so I thought.

But Kevin's baby, his precious Quicksilver gland project that got me out of prison and enabled me to turn invisible, ended up being a disaster. After he implanted it in my brain, Kevin got murdered by Arnaud, and I wound up being forced to work for a secret government agency --and a total slave to a chemical, too.

Fuck it! Fuck them all, for doing it to me!

I take a deep breath. Tell myself to calm down. Remind myself that it wasn't my brother's fault. Kevin didn't know what Arnaud did to fuck up the gland, and if he had, he would've fixed it. And my new employer, the Agency, isn't all bad.

But the truth is, they ain't exactly my knight in shining armor, either.

Because the Agency won't undo the damage Arnaud did, or free me from my addiction to counteragent. They say they can't. Not yet, anyway. Not until my Keeper, the doctor/scientist assigned to monitor my health, figures out how to remove the gland without killing me. Kevin was the only one who knew how to do that, but he's dead, so now I'm stuck with this. The life of a junkie, the life of a slave. I have to keep working for the Agency as an invisible spy, until they figure out how to get the gland out again. My Keeper says she's working on it, but I'm not sure if I can trust her. After all, I'm a big asset to them just the way I am, so it's not exactly in their best interests to help me. So for all I know, my sexy blonde doctor could be playing Solitaire on that computer of hers when I'm not around, rather than researching ways to remove the Quicksilver gland. I'm afraid I'll be in a fucking wheelchair in a fucking nursing home, before they get the damn thing out of my head!

My chest tightens again, and my hands clench into fists. I feel myself filling with hate, with a helpless rage that makes me shake. Deep breaths, dammit. Take deep breaths, and chill! There's nothing you can do about it!

I unclench my fists and try to calm down, but it doesn't help much. Enough time's gone by, I should be adjusting to all this by now. I know that. Instead, it's getting harder and harder. I hate my life lately. Except for my partner Bobby Hobbes, I hate just about every fucking thing about it.

Especially the isolation. It's murder. I can't see any of my old friends anymore. Can't go to the places I used to go, 'cause my friends might be there and ask all sorts of awkward questions I can't answer. Or worse, ask me to do the kind of fun, larcenous things I'm not allowed to do anymore. So I don't get out much, and I don't pick up women anymore. I tend to just go to work, then come back here and read books, or listen to music. The only action I get is right-handed, if you know what I mean. Except for Hobbes, the Fat Man, his soldiers at the Agency and my Keeper, I hardly even talk to anyone else anymore. I might as well be living in a frigging monastery.

In other words, I don't really have a life. Outside of being a junkie and risking my neck for the government, that is. Which, of course, is no life at all.

If it weren't for Hobbes, I'd go out of my mind. I may anyway. The scary thing is, I'm not sure anyone would notice if I did. I mean, everyone at the Agency's seen what happens to me now, when I miss my regular dose of counteragent and go Quicksilver mad. So if I started foaming at the mouth and throwing furniture around, they'd probably just figure I'd gotten a bit testy 'cause I missed my latest shot, and bundle me off to my Keeper for another one.

Fuck. Did I mention that I hate my life?

Okay, so I'm feeling sorry for myself. I know. But I have damn good reasons to. Still, it's pretty pathetic, when your only accomplishment is piling up a really long list of reasons why your life sucks.

So I consider the obvious remedies for all the suckiness. Sex first. Why bother with the rest, when you can have the best, right? Yeah. I should call someone. I haven't gotten laid since --

Oh god. Has it really been that long?

You know you're feeling crappy when even thinking about sex is depressing. This gland is turning me into a monk. Screw that! I'm too young.

So for a minute, I lie there thinking of phone numbers. Women I dated after Casey left me. Guys I knew before her…. The Agency doesn't exactly make celibacy a requirement, after all. I've got a phone and a car, and my free time is more or less my own. I've had plenty of chances to contact old lovers, or find new ones, if I wanted to. I do -- but the thing is, just having the means to get around and communicate with people doesn't necessarily make it safe. I haven't even tried calling anyone I used to know, because I feel uneasy about it.

For one thing, it would only lead to lies. I can't tell anyone what I do, or about the damn gland in my head, or this definitely hard-to-miss tattoo on my wrist, either. I can't really say a word about my whole wonderful, glamorous, exciting new life as the Invisible Man. So even if I just had someone over for the night, I'd have to lie about something. And I don't want to. It's not like I didn't lie to lovers sometimes when I was a thief, but this is different. For one thing, I'm not as fond of lies anymore as I used to be. Maybe it's because this new job requires enough secrets and lies; to have to tell more to get laid would just -- depress me, more than I already am.

But it's not just that. I'm also afraid that anyone who gets involved with me might get hurt. My life is dangerous now. Really dangerous. I can't be sure that even a one-night-stand or a hooker would be safe with me. How do I know that someone won't kick down my door while I'm having sex, to try to kidnap me or something, and shoot whoever I'm with in the process?

Answer: I don't know. I can't be sure about that, and I don't wanna risk someone else's life just for a fuck, either. Even I'm not that selfish. Though there are times, like tonight, when the loneliness gets so bad that I'm sure as hell tempted. If anyone had ever told me celibacy was gonna be part of this deal, I never would've taken it. Even prison was better than this. At least there, I got lots of sex….

Then I get this dark flash of memory. A prison memory that reminds me that even my new life of reluctant, self-imposed celibacy is, in fact, better than some of the shit that happened in there.

I push that ugly memory away. Force my thoughts back to my current problem: how to safely get laid in my dangerous new career as a government spy. Funny. Never thought I'd be worrying about "safe sex", I think sourly. But the gland gives that a whole new meaning for me. I just haven't been able to figure out a way to do it yet. I've racked my brain, but haven't come up with a plan yet. And I'm not exactly getting any divine inspiration about it at the moment, either.

I heave another sigh. So I guess sex isn't such a good idea right now, after all. Doesn't matter. I'll get there. I'll get laid eventually.

I'd better. 'Cause I'm getting so desperate, even those beds in crummy motels with "Magic Fingers" are starting to seem good to me now.

In the meantime, moving right along … on to remedy number two. Food. That's safe. At least I won't have to lie to it.

I get up, go to my refrigerator and stare through its clear glass door, like I don't already know what I'm gonna see. Beer. More beer. A couple of mummified pieces of pizza, left over from the last time Bobby came by. I scratch my head, trying to remember. That had to be about a week ago. Or was it two? I look closer. Must've been two. There's something growing on the pizza. Yecch!

All right. So maybe food wasn't such a hot idea, either. I'm not really very hungry, anyway.

But I'm not out of options yet. There's still remedy number three for the blues: Friendship. When all else fails, call a friend, right? If you can't bitch to them, who can you bitch to? Only for me, it's not friends plural anymore. I only have one friend now, and that's Hobbes. Nutty as he is, he is my friend. Hell, he's my best friend.

Okay. So I'll call Bobby.

It's amazing, what that little decision does for me. Just like that, my gray skies lighten up. Just like that, I feel better. Safer. Less alone. Just from thinking about him. Maybe he's a little paranoid, but being around him is a kick. It's the only thing that gets my mind off the cesspool my life's turned into, lately.

Wonder what Hobbes would say, if he knew he's become my own personal cure for Things in My Life that Suck?

I don't know, but just thinking about him makes me smile. So even though I know I shouldn't, I go over and pick up the phone. I've been calling him a lot lately, on nights like this. Way too much, really. But I can't help it. I can't take being alone like this all the time, and Hobbes is the only one I can talk to about it. The only one who knows what it's like for me. The only one who shares all my secrets. Well, most of 'em anyway. He's the only one I don't have to lie to.

The only one I --

Wait. Don't. Don't go there, okay?

I tell myself that, but it's too late. I've known for a while now that my feelings for Hobbes are way too strong. They've gone way past friendship, and turned into something else entirely. Okay, I admit it: I have the hots for him. Every time he comes near me, I just wanna grab him. Kiss him. Make him purr, make him scream. Fuck him senseless.

It's crazy. I know that. Hobbes is a bit paranoid. Plus, he's macho. A real tough guy, an ex-Marine. Of course, for me, that's a turn-on. You spend enough time in prison, and tough guys start to look good. Trust me.

Bobby Hobbes looks very, very good to me. But, like everything else in my life lately, that presents a problem: 'cause he's straight. He was married, and it's obvious that he still loves women, 'cause he flirts with my Keeper all the time. Actually, he pretty much flirts with anything in a skirt that crosses his path. He's also a trained Agent, which means that he knows lots of ingenious ways to kill people. Oh, and did I mention that, aside from being straight, paranoid and deadly, Bobby's also got a bit of a temper? So if I come on to him, he's liable to punch me, or worse. He might hang me up by my heels for several days, and do nasty, inventive, unspeakable things to my helpless carcass with a hunting knife.

If you think I'm exaggerating, you don't know Bobby Hobbes.

But I do. So you'd think I'd know better. Actually, I do. I know lusting after Hobbes is crazy, in more ways than one. I'll probably just wind up in trouble for it. Or maybe in the hospital. Still, I can't stop thinking about him.

Maybe it's because Hobbes isn't like anyone I've ever known. When we first met, I didn't even like him. I thought he was this overly patriotic, pill-popping, close-minded little fruitcake. And he had equally affectionate nicknames for me, like: "you good-for-nothing, snot-nosed punk". Saying our dislike was mutual would be putting it mildly.

But Hobbes had a way of getting under my skin that made me curious. I studied him like a puzzle, trying to figure out why he made me so angry. The funny thing was, once I really started paying attention to him instead of just getting pissed off and trying to piss him off in return, I saw that there were things about him I liked.

His sense of humor, for one. Once I stopped trying to drive him up the wall, I discovered that Hobbes is as whacked as I am. Every bit as sarcastic, once you get him going. I started to want to get him going, started joking around with him; and we started having fun together. Teasing each other, instead of ragging on each other all the time.

Don't get me wrong, we still piss each other off. All the time. Even yell at each other once in awhile. It's not like we started to see eye-to-eye overnight. I just found that Hobbes could do more than just make me angry. He could also make me laugh, make me feel good. He understands me -- more, I think, in some ways, than my own brother did. He even offered a rough kind of camaraderie, which no one else around me seemed to even want to try to do.

Hobbes was the first one to put a name to it. He just casually started calling me "my friend."

That was a revelation. Hobbes wanted to be my friend. In fact, he assumed he already was. That made me think twice about him. Made me realize that he was right. I was starting to connect with him, in a way I never had with anyone before. I started to see that he was more than just this little Agency robot. Sure, he's good with a gun, deadly at hand-to-hand combat, and damn good at figuring out all the weird angles in our cases, too. Just call him Super-spy. But there's more to him than that. Once I started studying him, I saw lots of good qualities in him. Bravery and loyalty, for starters. Hobbes is always there for me, even when no one else at the Agency is. He's utterly fearless under fire, and he's thrown himself in harm's way to protect me more times than I can count. He always looks out for me, even when I really piss him off. He doesn't just say I'm his friend, he backs it up in a way no one else ever did. That really impressed me. I never had a friend like that when I was a thief. Hell, I've never had a friend like that before at all, in my whole life.

But if you'd told me six months ago that Hobbes was gonna become my best friend, I'd've laughed. And if you'd even suggested that I'd fall for him, I'd've said you were crazy. This whole weird thing with him, it kinda snuck up on me. One thing led to another, I guess. The more I studied him, the more I liked him. The more I liked him, the more I started to trust him.

Then somehow, liking turned to lust.

One day, I found I wasn't just laughing at his jokes, I was checking out his body, too. Looking at his eyes. He's got terrific eyes: intense, alert, restless. They're always moving, scoping out his surroundings, watching for danger. The eyes of a soldier. At first, I just thought they were this average medium brown, but one day when we were standing out in the sun, I noticed that Bobby's eyes have all these flecks of amber in them. In a strong light, they warm up and turn almost golden. It's so cool. Sometimes when we're out on a mission, I'll stop him outside the van and give him a hard time, just to watch the sun work its magic on his eyes.

Then there's his face. It's tough: broad cheekbones, square jaw. A mouth that's usually set in this stern line that says, "Don't mess with me." He thinks his nose is too big, but I think it suits him. He's self-conscious about his thinning hair, too, but I like it. On him, balding works. It's even sexy, because the hair he's got left is great. It's dark, shiny and sexy. And every once in awhile, when he forgets to get it trimmed, it curls a little at the back of his neck. I love that. That little hint of something wild, something untamed, in Hobbes the ex-Marine. Every time I see it, I wanna touch that little wayward curl. So far, the thought of that big knife he carries has stopped me, but one of these days….

His hair's not the only thing I wanna touch, either. Hobbes has got a great body, too. He's muscular. Compact. Even though he's shorter than me, he's not a skinny beanpole like I am. He's got broad shoulders. Good biceps, too. He's solid, powerful, and he always stands really straight. He looks like what he is: a soldier, a warrior. It shows, and secretly, I think it's hot.

I smile to myself, at my own helpless crush. Jeez, I sound like a lovestruck teenager! Dear Diary: Today, Bobby blinked his golden eyes at me by the van, and my heart fluttered.

It's true, but it sure sounds stupid. So, enough with the breathless descriptions of my partner's physical attributes. Let's just say that Bobby Hobbes turns me on, big time. That once I started watching his eyes, his hands, and the tight muscles of his ass, I felt that old stirring in the pit of my stomach again. That hunger for a man, a tough, powerful man. It's more than just lust, though. If all I wanted was some muscle-bound tough guy, I could just cruise the nearest leather bar. But I want more than that. Impossible as it seems, dangerous as it is, I want Bobby Hobbes. Not just his body, but what he is inside, too.

Which means that either I'm going nuts, or I've changed. I don't know if it's because of Hobbes, or the gland, or my dangerous new job, but my perspective's definitely different. I want different things, admire different things than I used to. Things like loyalty, courage, and protectiveness, for instance. I used to call 'em Boy Scout virtues. I used to sneer at them. But Bobby's showed me that they're good qualities. He's taught me to respect them. Somehow, he's even made me want them. Want him. I don't just wanna take his body, don't just want a quick fuck like I used to. That's not enough for me anymore. Now I wanna storm the Citadel. Plant my flag on Hobbes, so no one else can touch him. I want a piece of his heart. A place in it.

But with a guy like that, you have to earn it. Work for it. He won't just fall into your lap. Even though that is one of my favorite fantasies. Bobby curled up in my lap, with his hand --

Oh. Sorry. What was I saying? Oh yeah -- the perils of pursuing Bobby. Right. The thing is, Hobbes isn't an easy guy to get to know; and trying to seduce him is something else again. But even though Work is against my nature, I'm working on it. As best I can anyway, in between dodging bullets and watching Bobby pop Zoloft like candy. It's not easy, trying to seduce your own partner when you're both supposed to be straight, one of you is a bit mental, and you've both got a ruthless, manipulative boss like the Official watching your every move. Probably with hidden video cameras. It's a bit of a challenge, even for me.

But when I want things, I really, really want 'em. In fact, I obsess about 'em. It's one of the reasons I became a thief. It seemed like an easy way to get those things I really, really wanted, with a minimum of effort. Unfortunately, people aren't as easy to acquire as things. But I'm doing my best to get Bobby Hobbes. I wear really tight pants and T-shirts, flash him my best sexy grin, and just generally try to get under his skin as much as possible, without making him mad enough to knife or shoot me. I figure the annoyance factor made me notice him, right? So maybe it'll work both ways. Well, that and my oh-so-charming smile. And the T-shirts.

But I'm starting to wonder if I'm losing my touch, or if Hobbes really is hopelessly straight. Because even though we've gotten close now, close enough that Bobby trusts me enough to come by my place after work sometimes, and even lets me into his apartment now and then, we're not nearly close enough for me. In other words, Hobbes hasn't dragged my willing body to the nearest bed and ravished me yet. No, we're just close enough that his seeming obliviousness is starting to gnaw at me. Lately I feel hungry whenever I'm around him, and not for food.

In the old days, when I was a thief, I'd've worked that hunger off with someone else. But the new me isn't interested. Even if I could figure out a way to arrange something hot and sweaty with some guy who resembled Bobby without getting the poor schmuck killed, it wouldn't really satisfy me. Somehow, the longer I'm around Hobbes, the less I want a substitute. Now that I know him, it's like no one else will do.

I know. I'm obsessing. But that's me: Mr. Obsessive Ex-Thief Who's in Love With His Partner. If I could just tell him, just somehow find out if he could ever --

Then my conscience kicks in again. Don't even think about it. Your life is already screwed up enough, without turning the one friend you have left against you. Forget it!

And there's another voice in the back of my mind. One that's even worse than my conscience. A dark, scornful voice that sneers: You ought to count your blessings. You're lucky Hobbes is even willing to talk to you, outside of work. It's even more amazing that he still wants to be your partner, after you tried to kill him!

I'd love to tell that voice to shut the hell up, but I can't. Because I know it's the voice of truth. I put down the phone as the pain wells up in me. The pain of what I did to Bobby, to my own partner.

Except for my aunt Celia, who I hardly ever see, Hobbes is the only person in the world that I really care about anymore. Maybe I've started to care too much about him, because that pain's always there now. Like a worm crawling around inside, eating away at me. Destroying my sense of who I am. I mean, even when I was a thief, I had standards. Things I wouldn't do. Lines I wouldn't cross. I didn't carry a gun, and I didn't hurt people. I prided myself on that. The distinction between a thief and a murderer may not seem like much to you, but to me, it counted.

Even though I was a thief, it was a way I could convince myself that I was still a good guy. The only way.

But that was me before Quicksilver, and the Agency, and this goddamn Invisibility gland. Outside of a few unavoidable, defensive scrapes in prison, that Darien had never hurt anyone. But Arnaud took even that away from me. Thanks to him, I've gone so far over that line that I hardly even recognize myself anymore. Thanks to him, that non-violent Darien disappeared. Darien Fawkes the Invisible Man -- he's a different story. Because of the Quicksilver madness Arnaud engineered, that Darien put his hands around his own partner's neck one day, and tried to choke him to death.

That's right -- I almost killed Bobby.

I shudder, remembering that. I close my eyes, but it doesn't do any good. I can't make the memory go away. It's always there, the center of my own personal private hell. I can't even tell myself that it couldn't happen again. Because I know it could. And next time, Hobbes might not be so lucky. Next time, I might kill him.

That idea turns me colder than when I go invisible.

I told him I was sorry, and he said he understood, that it wasn't my fault. But my apology wasn't enough. How can you ever make up for trying to kill your best friend?

I guess one way would be to avoid him for his own good. As long as I've got this gland in my head, I'm like this six-foot-something ticking time bomb, so I shouldn't even go near Hobbes when we're not working. 'Cause I don't want to hurt him. I'd never want to do that.

See, I have this theory about Bobby Hobbes: I think he's been hurt a lot already. He wants everyone to think he's tough and strong; and in some ways, he is. But I've known him long enough now, and studied him hard enough, to see that his toughness is partly a defense. I think Hobbes has had kind of a rough life. He's the product of hard, even brutal schools: the military, then Intelligence. If he wasn't paranoid to begin with, they must've made him that way. Plus, he's got an ex-wife who he adored, but who won't even talk to him; and he got bounced from one intelligence agency to another until he wound up working for the Official, who treats him like dirt. Who's constantly making it clear that I'm the important half of our partnership, even though Bobby's the one with all the experience, guts and training. All that must've taken its toll on Hobbes. I wonder if that's partly why he takes all those pills. The guy's gotta have scars. He's too proud to talk about them, or even admit to them. But I think they're there, all the same.

So I don't wanna make things worse for him. Don't wanna complicate his life any more than it already is.

But I can't stay away from him. I've tried, but I can't. Because I need help. I feel black inside. Hopeless. Trapped. I'm scared -- no, make that terrified -- of who I've become. I'm starting to wonder how much longer I can take it; and I have nowhere else in the fucking world to turn. There's no one else I can go to. I'm not even sure if my Keeper is really trying to help me, like she claims she is. And who else would understand what I'm going through? I can't very well go to my aunt about this. What the hell would I say? "Hey, Aunt Celia. Guess what? I've got a gland in my head that lets me turn invisible now, only the side effects make me convulse, then turn psychotic and try to kill my best friends. And what's up with you?"

Even if I could tell her the truth about any of it, which I can't, she wouldn't understand. Hell, I'm not even sure I'd want her to. She's this sweet, gentle little lady who always believed I was a better person than I really am. She raised me, and she's probably the only person left on the planet who really loves me. But if she knew what I've become, I don't think she would. Better to leave Aunt Celia, and her illusions about me, alone.

But tonight, I don't wanna be alone. I need someone to talk to, someone to be with, someone to understand me. I need it bad.

I need Hobbes. I want him. IwanthimIwanthimIwanthim….

I'm weak. I must be. No, I'm worse than that. I'm pathetic. Because instead of dialing Hobbes' number, I grab my car keys. Part of me's afraid that if I call, he'll say no. That he won't want to see me. And I want, no I need, to talk to him. I can't take the chance that he'll turn me down, or turn me away. Not tonight.

It's bad tonight. Real bad.

I head for my car, and the only safety and comfort I have left. My partner. The guy I tried to kill….

********************

When I knock on Hobbes' door, I'm already nervous. Keyed up from the drive over. I worried the whole way. About what to say to him. How to explain this. How to ask for help. Maybe I'm nuts to even try. Hobbes will probably say, "Hey, thanks for sharing, Fawkes. But I've got my own problems, so get lost."

The thing is, I'm afraid I already am. Lost, I mean. The darkness inside me, my anger, hopelessness and despair, is growing. I can feel it. I have this uneasy feeling that I need to ask for help, or it'll take me over. And there's no one else I can ask. No one else I want to ask.

So here I am. Hoping to God I'm doing the right thing. Hoping that Hobbes will let me in, despite what I did to him.

There's a long pause before Hobbes opens his door. I know he's there, though. Being paranoid. Looking through the peephole, scoping me out. So I put my eye up close to it and wink at him. Open, closed. Open, closed. I smile. "Come on, Hobbesy, it's me!"

I keep doing that until I finally hear a muffled murmur from behind the door. It sounds something like, "Very funny, Fawkes. You're such a riot…."

I hear what sounds like at least five hundred locks being unlocked. A couple hundred bolts being undone. Finally, after what seems like forever, Hobbes' door finally swings open. Bobby's standing there in jeans and a blue T-shirt. Obviously, he was kicking back before I got here. Relaxing. Damn, he looks good. Good enough to eat!

Whoa, Darien. Down, boy!

I feel strange. A little excited, but scared, too.

Hobbes looks puzzled, as well as suspicious. Maybe it's because I didn't call first. Or maybe he still doesn't trust me. That thought brings a fresh stab of pain. I do my best not to let it show. "Hey, Hobbesy. It's okay, I'm unarmed," I say wryly.

"Very funny, Fawkes." For some reason, Hobbes doesn't look entirely reassured by that. He scratches his head and shoots a look over my shoulder into the hall, like he's making sure I didn't bring a small army with me, to storm his apartment. I just stand there doing my best to look innocent, while he satisfies himself that I'm alone.

After a few seconds, he does. But when he looks back at me, he still looks puzzled. "What're you doin' here? Is there some kinda problem? Something up with the gland or somethin'?"

I smile, and try to look casual. Like I always stop by his place at night, for no reason, and without calling first. "No. No, nothing's wrong. I just felt like talking."

Hobbes frowns at me with a familiar, suspicious look that's somehow endearing. "Yeah?" Then he looks down at his watch, and frowns again. "Well…. It's kinda late," he mutters.

I know. But I had to see you. I had to. I can feel my heart beating painfully fast. I can see his reluctance, and I'm afraid he's gonna send me away. So I try to brazen it out. Cover my nervousness with a joke. "Late? What, are you ninety or something? The night's still young, in my book. Hey, are you gonna ask me in, or what?"

Hobbes hesitates again. It crosses my mind that maybe, just maybe, he's not really worried about the time. Maybe he's got a friend in there. A woman. The bottom drops out of my stomach at the thought. But just then, he finally steps back and opens the door wide. "Sure. Come on in."

I step past him with a huge sense of relief. If he wasn't alone, he wouldn't have let me in. So at least there's no competitors in skirts in here. That's good. Score one for the Invisible Horny Man.

Hobbes follows me in. I plop down on his couch, trying to look innocent. Like I don't have a care in the world. Or one teeny, tiny ulterior motive for this visit, either. Like I just came over to talk. Hang out with my buddy, my partner.

But Hobbes knows me too well. He doesn't buy it. He frowns a little, studying me. "You sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, Hobbes. Relax!" I look away, embarrassed by his perceptiveness, and my own hidden agenda. I feel like I did when I was a kid. Self conscious. Like I'm too tall, like I'm all huge hands and feet. Like if I move too fast, I'll knock something over. I feel skinny and ugly and shy, and I hate it. It's stupid to feel like this now, before I've even said anything to him. He doesn't even know yet. Probably hasn't even guessed how I feel about him. But how am I ever gonna tell him, if his slightest glance makes me this nervous? Shit, this is gonna be hard!

Then again, when in doubt, act normal, right? Maybe if I do, Hobbes will ease up. Stop giving me those probing looks, and stop wondering about my motives for showing up like this, late at night and with only the thinnest of excuses. But there's only one way for me to seem perfectly normal; and that's to get sarcastic. "Look, I just came over to hang out, okay? Nobody followed me here, my eyes aren't red, and I haven't done anything to piss off the Official today. At least, I don't think I did. Hmm. Ya think that means I'm sick? Maybe you better feel my forehead, Hobbesy," I add slyly, carried away with my own performance. "I could have a fever, you know. Maybe I'm comin' down with something."

Never underestimate the power of snarkiness. Once he hears that, Bobby's sharp gaze finally softens. He doesn't feel my forehead, more's the pity, but he does smile a little. "Smartass-itis, maybe," he shoots back. "If that's a disease, you definitely got it. In fact, I think you were born with it, Fawkes."

I pretend to consider that. "You could be right."

"Could be? I bet the first thing you did after you took your first breath was sass your mother."

"Or the doctor," I put in helpfully, playing along. "It could've been him. I've never liked doctors…"

Hobbes grins. "Could've been worse. He could've been a lawyer. Then he'd've sued you for defamation of character."

I grin, and waggle a finger at him. "Good one, Hobbesy! I like that."

He laughs. "Want a beer?"

I get that feeling, that little "ahh" feeling of relief. The one I always used to get when I heard the tumblers click open on a lock I'd just picked. This time, it's more an awareness of Hobbes' emotional state, but it's just as accurate. Hobbes just let me in. Really let me in. Relaxed, and started to trust me. Decided to let me stay. I know it, and I smile at him, trying not to let my relief show.

"Yeah. Thanks. A beer would be good."

He goes to his refrigerator to get one, and while his back's turned, I admire the view. Wonder if Hobbes has any idea how good-looking he is. He's so hot! Not skinny, like me. He's got muscular shoulders and this beautiful, tight --

"So. Whaddaya wanna do?" Hobbes calls back over his shoulder.

I swallow hard. Talk about a leading question! For a second, erotic images fill my mind. Me and Bobby, on his bed. Bobby on top of me. Kissing me, tearing off my clothes. His hands moving over me while I moan--

"Fawkes!"

I come back to the real world with a jolt. Hobbes is standing in front of me looking a little impatient, holding out a bottle of beer. "Ya wanna take this, please? Man, what is up with you? You're off in La la land tonight."

More like Sexville, if he only knew. I realize that while I was off having sex with him in my head, he's been standing there holding the bottle out for awhile. It's embarrassing. I take the beer hastily, glad I'm not one of those guys who blushes easily. "I'm just -- a little distracted. That's all."

"Oh yeah? What about?" A hint of tension tightens Hobbes' face again as he sits down on the couch beside me. He sets his beer bottle on his thigh and gives me another searching look.

I know what he's looking for. What he's worried about, and why. I look away. Take a sip of beer, and try to hide what that look does to me. But it's hard, because I feel worse than embarrassed now, I feel almost sick. I know he's got every right to check me out, but it still hurts. He's poking into that dark, black place inside of me that I can't control, that I can hardly face. That place where the monster lives. My demon. Mr. Red Eyes, who scares the shit out of me --and who tried to kill Bobby.

I look down, and see that I'm holding the beer bottle way too tight. I try to loosen my fingers. Don't want him to know how his searching look humiliates me. "Hobbes, I told you -- my eyes aren't red, okay? And they're not gonna turn red, either. I just got a shot this morning. I'm fine." I try hard to sound casual, but I can't. I've never been great at lying to people I really care about, and telling Bobby I'm fine is an out-and-out lie. So the words come out hoarse. Strained. Almost harsh. Even though I told him the truth about his safety, I'm not even sure that he'll believe me. So I lift my wrist and show him my tattoo, so he can see it's all green, and that I'm telling the truth about that much, at least.

What I don't tell him is, it's one of the reasons I came over here tonight. 'Cause I checked out the tattoo and knew he'd be safe. Helluva thing, when ya can't even visit the one friend you have in the world, without worrying that you might go nuts and kill him. But that's my life now.

I lower my arm and look away, not wanting Hobbes to see all that on my face. But I think he saw enough, because he backs off instantly. He looks away, and shrugs like it was nothing. "Okay, Fawkesy," he says softly. Just like that, I can see he knows that he hurt me without meaning to, and that he's sorry. He changes the subject, fast. "Let's watch some TV, all right?"

I'm not interested, but he picks up the remote before I can stop him.

"Hobbes, I thought --"

But before I can finish my sentence, before I can even begin to tell him what's on my mind, he clicks the TV on. The screen fills up with a picture of a golden spaceship, and Hobbes perks up. "Hey, this is that sci-fi show, Farscape!"

Whatever. I never heard of it, and I'm not interested. Still, I can tell from the tone of his voice that Hobbes likes it. So I shut up for a second and take a look. Onscreen, the picture shifts and I see this chick who's all blue. All over, tip to toe. Including her bald blue head. Weird. She puts her hands together and murmurs something about, "We must pray to the Goddess for an answer."

"Who is that?" Not that I really care. I just wanna get Hobbes talking to me.

"That's Zhaan. She's the vegetable chick. The plant person. The Delvian Priestess," Hobbes says, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Oh. Well. That clears it all up," I say wryly.

Hobbes ignores that. "She's kinda hot."

Judging by Hobbes' intent stare, he thinks she's more than 'kinda hot'. I try to hide the flicker of jealousy I feel at the sight of him slavering over her. But I can't suppress it completely. "What do you mean, she's a 'vegetable chick'? That mean she likes to eat lettuce, or that she's made out of it?" I sneer.

"Shhh!" Hobbes hisses.

"Okay." I back off temporarily. So much for ragging on the competition. Obviously, Hobbes isn't gonna tolerate me dissing his Vegetable Goddess. Trying to be patient for his sake, I listen to the Priestess talk for a few minutes. But Bobby's so focused on her that he doesn't say anything else to me, and jealousy rears its ugly head again. I just can't keep quiet. "Hmm," I say. "Do they speak Australian on the planet Delvia, Hobbes? 'Cause I could swear she sounds --"

Bobby shoots me a glare. "Just give it a chance, Gland Boy!" he growls. "It's a good show."

I shrug. Curses, foiled again. "If you say so." I shut up again too, but I'm frustrated. My real life is so weird now, I don't feel much need for science fiction. I wish Hobbes didn't either. This thing he has for the blue bald chick -- it's unhealthy.

I can say that with certainty, seeing as how I've secretly been obsessed with my own partner for months now. So I should know. But what's a lonely bi guy to do?

A few more minutes go by, while the blue vegetable chick does some strange things with crystals. Hobbes watches intently. I shift around on the couch, getting increasingly bored and frustrated. I try to figure out how to tell Hobbes I need his help, because things are getting too much for me. But all I want to do is yell, Stop watching the frigging bald blue Eggplant Priestess and talk to me!

I set my teeth and grate, "Hobbes, could I -- please! -- talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure," he murmurs. "What's on your mind?" He takes another swig of his beer. But his eyes, and his attention, are still focused on the TV.

I sigh to myself. Great! I'm competing with a blue plant person for Bobby's attention. And losing. I'm coming in a distant second to a vegetable chick on TV. That's just great. "Well, I've just been thinking that we … well, we don't really spend much time off-duty together. And maybe we should."

"Why? I think we're doing just fine. Hey, look at that! There's Sparky. You'll love this guy. He cracks me up."

I glance back at the TV, and see this weird little creature with oversized eyebrows levitating down a corridor with curving golden walls. Definitely weird. And definitely not what I want to talk about. My frustration rises. "Hobbes, d'ya think you could pay attention for a second here? I'm trying --"

"I heard ya, I heard. Ya wanna spend more time with me. Well, you're here, aren't ya?" He shrugs, like "what more do you want?"

I have to bite my tongue. I can see how, on the surface, it might seem to him like I already have what I'm asking for. But I don't. Not quite. 'Cause while he did let me in, he seems to find TV sci fi far more fascinating than his own oh-so-handsome partner. I kinda resent that. It's defeating my devious, yet oh-so-delicious erotic plans for him. "Yeah, I'm here, but you're

not--"

"Oh, now ya see that?" Hobbes points at the screen, oblivious. "That chick with the dark hair, that's Aeryn Sun. She's a warrior. She is TOTALLY hot! You should see her --"

"Hobbes!" I roll my eyes. I'm not sure which of her body parts he admires most. What's more, I don't want to know. Everyone's got a breaking point, and I just reached mine. If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that the warrior chick and the Vegetable woman could start a threesome onscreen with Xena right now, and they still wouldn't interest me!

"Okay. That's it!" I reach over, grab the remote, and shut the damn TV off.

Hobbes blinks at me. "Hey! What're you doing, Fawkes?"

I throw the remote down on his coffee table. "I just wanna talk to you for five minutes! With no vegetable chicks, or warrior chicks, or other sci-fi distractions. Okay?"

Hobbes rolls his eyes and takes another sip of beer. "Touchy!" he grouses. "Okay, so talk! What's so frigging important, that you had to come all the way over here and interrupt my Friday night to tell me?"

That stings. That's all I am to him, an unwanted interruption of his Friday night TV drool-fest with these sci-fi babes? I shoot him a sour look. "I had no idea that vegetable chick meant so much to you."

"Fawkes!"

"Okay, okay." But now it's my turn to feel disappointed, because Hobbes looks edgy. Maybe even a bit pissed off. That's not good. He usually gets that way after I start talking about my problems, not before. So I decide not to tease him any more. Time to get serious. I take a deep breath. I can feel my heart beating fast. "I wanna talk about us," I say awkwardly.

It sounds dumb, like I'm some suburban housewife whose hubby isn't paying enough attention to her, but it's true. We're the issue here, and I don't know how else to put it. I need to know how deep our partnership really goes. If I can open up to him, if I can trust him to help me with my problems.

Hobbes frowns. Then he gives me this sideways look. "What, did the Official say something? Something about, like, he's gonna reassign me or something?"

Oh, geez. Now I'm pushing his alarm buttons. He thinks I came over here 'cause the Fat Man threatened to split us up! "No!" I shake my head quickly, before Bobby's ever-ready paranoia can go into full swing. "No. It's nothing like that! I swear."

"Okay then, what is it?"

"Well, it's … umm…"

Oh, that's great. Now I sound like a semi-literate three-year-old!

Even though I came over here to talk to him about my depression, now that the moment's here, I can't seem to find the words to explain it. It's partly because of Hobbes' attitude. He's irritated. Seems a bit on edge. It doesn't seem like the right time to spill my guts. I'm afraid if I try to tell him what's eating me, he won't want to hear it. It's weird, though. Even though he's in a mood, I still want him. It kinda turns me on. An edgy Bobby is a sexy Bobby. Wonder what he'd do if I just said, "I wanna have sex with you. I want it so bad, I can taste it!"

But somehow, I can't tell him that either, and I don't know why. You're such a loser, I tell myself, disgusted. Can't ask for help with your depression, or tell him that you wanna jump his bones either. Come on! Don't be such a wuss! Ante up, man! Put your damn cards on the table!

The pressure's really on, because Bobby's watching me curiously, waiting for an answer. I feel more and more confused. Maybe I should just make a pass at him. But I don't feel too confident about doing that, either; and my own nervousness annoys me.

Shit! You'd think I'd never come on to anyone before! I know how to do this, usually know just what to say. Maybe it seems different this time just because it's Hobbes, I dunno. But it's hard to know how to approach him. He's not a woman, so I can't sweet talk him; and he's not a con, so I can't talk dirty to him, either. It kinda limits my options.

How the hell do you seduce an ex-Marine? The mind boggles. Guess I could try honesty. Tell him how much I want him. But if he's straight to the point of homophobia, and I make a pass at him and he's armed --

Hobbes usually always is. I shoot a nervous sideways glance at him, wondering if he's got a gun tucked under that T-shirt somewhere. If I tell him the truth, will he aim for a vital organ, or settle for just winging me?

"Well, Fawkes?" Hobbes demands, visibly getting impatient. "What is it?"

This is so ironic. I've finally got his attention right where I want it -- focused 100% on me. He's sitting there looking at me intently. It's the perfect moment to make a move. The only problem is, I don't know what the hell to say! I should know. I've thought about it enough lately. Hell, I haven't thought about much of anything but Hobbes for weeks! But I can't remember any of the slick things I thought up in advance now. Not one single, frigging line. Dammit!

The pressure's really on now, and I'm sweating. Totally flustered. I choke up, and my mind goes blank. Finally, I stammer, "Like I said, I just thought… that we should get to know each other better." That makes me wince. Oh, that was brilliant. Just fucking brilliant! You've only said that about six times already. Repeat it again, why don'tcha?

Hobbes grimaces. "That's it? That's your big news flash? What're you talkin' about, kid? I know you: Darien Fawkes. Ex-thief, turned Gland Boy. You know me: Bobby Hobbes. Ex-Marine, turned agent. Hell, we even read each other's files. What more d'ya need to know?"

All kinds of things that those files didn't cover, I think as my heart beats even faster. Like, do you like kissing? What turns you on? Would you let me suck you? I have to look away, because just thinking about that starts to get me excited. I shift uneasily on the sofa, hoping it doesn't show. Now would not be a good time for parts of me to start turning invisible. Bobby would know why, and that'd be totally embarrassing. "Well, you know. Personal things," I say helplessly, as his brown eyes bore into me. "Things that friends should know about each other."

Hobbes' brow furrows in a look of confusion. "Huh? Like what?"

That must've sounded corny. Or stupid. Maybe both. Jeez, I'm so horny, I can't think straight. I try to force my mind away from sex for a second. "Like, what's your favorite color? Who was your first girl friend? What kind of books do you read? What do you dream about?" Me, I hope. Cause I've sure as hell been dreaming about you….

"What?" To my surprise, Hobbes' eyes go wide. For a second, he looks flustered. Shocked. I wonder why. What I said was pretty innocent. A helluva lot more innocent than what I was thinking. But I'll give him this, he recovers fast. Quick as a flash, before I can even begin to guess how I suddenly got to him, his eyes turn skeptical, and his lips twist in a cynical smile. "Oh, I get it! This is a joke, isn't it? This is one of your weird jokes. You're pullin' my leg --"

"No, no! I'm serious!" Actually, I'm more than serious. I'm starting to feel a tad desperate. Because things are definitely going south here. Going from bad to worse. Now he thinks I'm joking!

Bobby shakes his head, still smiling sarcastically. "Come on, Fawkes. This is too weird!"

He has no idea! I thought he might get mad at me, or that he'd turn me down flat; but I never imagined he'd think my interest in him was a joke. That makes me defensive. "Whaddaya mean? We're supposed to be partners, aren't we?"

"We are partners!"

Yeah, but not like I'd like us to be. I look at Hobbes' tough, handsome face. His light brown eyes are lit with impatience and frustration. His lips are slightly parted, like he's waiting for a kiss. Oh, no, right -- that's me. I'm the one with sex on the brain here. If I was one of Pavlov's puppies, I'd be drooling. But I try to rein myself in. Try to sound reasonable, instead of horny. "That's my point! As partners, don't you think we oughtta -- you know -- spend more time together? Learn more about each other? So we could --"

"What? So we could what?" he cuts in, frustrated. "What the hell are you tryin' to say?"

By now, I'm so flustered and turned on, I've forgotten about asking Bobby to help me out with my gland problems. As usual, my better instincts have gotten derailed by the much more powerful ones originating below my belt. Instead, I think, Here's my chance! The perfect opening. I can think of at least ten ways to answer his question, all of them erotic. Like, "I'm trying to say, I want you, Bobby. That I wanna have sex with you. Right here, right now. Me in you, you in me -- I don't care. You could top, bottom, whatever. However you want it. Just please, please take me!"

Those same, rapidly fading better instincts insist that I should tell Hobbes at least that much of the truth. But I can't do it. I can't force the words out of my mouth. This risk -- it feels too big. I'm afraid if I screw it up now, I'll never get another chance with him. Hell, it might ruin everything, even our friendship. And I can't stand the thought of that. It builds up in my throat and chokes me. All my feelings. All the wanting, all the fear.

"The point is, to get to know each other better so we can … work better together," I say weakly, at last. But as soon as that lie comes out, I hate myself. Oh, that is lame, that is so lame!

Hobbes seems to think so, too. He grimaces in obvious annoyance. Gets to his feet and scratches his head, like he's still wondering if I'm playing games. "As far as I can tell, we work together just fine. I watch your back, you watch mine. We're a good team. So I don't get this. I dunno what you're talkin' about. Hell, I don't think you even know what you're talkin' about!"

Clearly, my efforts at seduction have been a rousing success. Hobbes sounds as frustrated as I feel, and my heart sinks. "Yeah I do --"

Bobby shakes his head. "Whatever," he sighs. "I think maybe you should go, Fawkes. I'm tired. This isn't the right time for this."

I can see that. I watch Hobbes run his hand over what's left of his dark hair, and I see the strain on his face. He's trying to hide it, but after months with him, watching that face in all kinds of situations, I can see through all of his masks now. And right now, I can tell that for some reason, he's freaked by this conversation.

That depresses me.

Maybe this is a big mistake. Or the wrong moment. But is there ever gonna be a good time for this? 'Cause I've been trying to keep this light, trying to set him at ease, but it obviously isn't working. The second I turned the TV off, he started to get uncomfortable. Now he looks frustrated, on top of being nervous. Great! But how do you tell a macho, paranoid ex-Marine you want him, without getting your ass kicked? I'd've tried to get him a bit drunk first, but Hobbes doesn't drink. Not that much, anyway. At least, I've never seen him do it.

"Wait! Just hear me out," I blurt, trying to slow things down. Trying to convince him to let me stay. I know I should take some time to work out the right words, the magic words to lure him in. But I feel so desperate that words start to tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, tone them down, or make them safe. "I know you, Bobby. I know you, and I trust you. But it's not enough."

Coming from me, that's practically an "I love you". But that's not what Hobbes hears. "What's that supposed to mean?" he barks, frowning, a sudden edge in his voice.

Oh, shit. That came out wrong! I just meant that we're not as close as I want us to be. But from the look on his face, he thinks I'm saying I don't trust him. And to Hobbes, that's the worst kind of insult. Way to go, Fawkes!

"Wait!" I say hastily. "That didn't -- what I mean is, I trust you with my life, Bobby. Every day. No matter what. You're always there for me, I know that."

Wonder why I never said that before? It's a guy thing, I guess. We don't talk about stuff like that. We cover it up. Hide what we feel behind jokes and sarcasm, so we don't have to look at it. But tonight, I want to make Hobbes look. Wanna make him see how serious I am about him. So I'm not sorry I said that. Actually, it felt kinda good to put it into words.

To my relief, it seems to work for Bobby, too. "Glad you noticed, Fawkes," he says, and the angry edge is gone from his voice. He may not've guessed how I really feel about him, but at least he knows I trust him. But if I thought telling him that would get him to relax a little too, I was wrong. It only seems to make his tension even worse. He turns away from me, so suddenly that I think he must be trying to hide his face.

Shit! It wasn't supposed to go like this. I don't know what to do! I'm not turning him on, I'm turning him off. Making him nervous. I'm supposed to be coming on to him here. Seducing him, not freaking him out! But if compliments don't work, what will?

I swallow hard, my frustration rising. I'm trying so hard to reach him, to find the right words. I haven't tried this hard with anyone in years. Getting people interested isn't usually this tough. It's not like I'm Mel Gibson or anything, it's just that when it is hard to get someone's attention, I usually just walk away. Move onto someone else. I'm not into challenges -- never was. And after being in prison, I've had more practice fending people off than enticing them. Right now, it's showing. I'm making a mess of this. I can't give up on it though, 'cause this is Bobby.

I suddenly realize why I'm trying so hard. Why I haven't walked away from this paranoid, all-too-perceptive ex-Marine, who's the biggest challenge I've ever faced. I think it's because I've never wanted anyone this much before.

It's terrifying.

"Oh yeah. I noticed, all right," I tell him. You'd be surprised, how much I've noticed about you. How often I look at you, when I know you're not watching. But then I catch myself. Shake myself a little. Get your mind off sex for a second, goddammit! We're talking about trust here. Loyalty. I need to let him know that it goes both ways. "And I wanna be there for you, too."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wince. Oh, shit! That's true, but it came out sounding smarmy. Like a sappy Hallmark card. I'm starting to feel as uncomfortable as Hobbes looks. My hands are sweating, and my heart's knocking nervously against my ribs. Come on, Bobby, I plead in my head. Help me out here! Stop turning away. Try to meet me halfway. Make this a little easier.

But he doesn't. In fact, he laughs out loud. "Whaddaya wanna do, Fawkes? Send me a Valentine?"

My heart sinks. Hallmark cards again! Terrific. And now he's sneering! Hobbes at his macho worst. But I know it's not going to help if I blow up at him. So I ignore the jibe. I try to stay calm, keep the anger out of my voice. "No. Like I said, I just think we should hang out together more. You know, spend more time together --"

"Yeah, you keep sayin' that," Hobbes cuts in impatiently. "But why should we? We spend most of our lives at the Agency anyway. Breathe down each others' neck all day. Think you'd be sick of seeing me by now, kid."

This time, he's not sneering. He's smiling. He's just teasing and I know it, but I've had enough. The more he laughs, the more desperate I get. I can't take this anymore! Can't take the way he's missing the point, the way he's trying to laugh it all off. Laugh *me* off. I'm sweating bullets trying to connect with him, and he's not even taking me seriously. I'm up off his couch before I know it. I get in front of him, where I can see his face. Now it's my turn to get angry. "Okay. First, I am not a kid, Hobbes!" I snarl. "I'm sick of you calling me that! I'm 33 fucking years old, dammit! And I don't --"

Bobby cuts into my tirade before I can work up a good head of steam. "Hey! Calm down, okay? I know you're not a kid, Fawkes," he says awkwardly. "I know." To my utter amazement, he suddenly blushes. I've never seen him do that before. I didn't even know he could. But as I stare down at him, this slow, deep red creeps up his neck and into his face. For the second time tonight, I get the feeling that he knows he got to me again, and he feels bad about it. My anger disappears like smoke as I watch him, riveted.

On the surface, Bobby's all toughness and bravado. But underneath, he's got all these surprising layers. There's a kinder, gentler Bobby in there. A guy who's really sensitive. I know, 'cause I've seen him before. He doesn't come out very often, but I know he's in there, and I'd like to see more of him. I don't want Hobbes to hide that part of himself. Not from me.

So when he raises his hand like he's going to touch me, my heart skips a beat. I think maybe I'm getting through to him at last. Maybe the inner Hobbes is gonna come out to play. God, I want that. I hold my breath, waiting for it. But at the last second, he draws his hand back and scratches his head instead. I try to swallow my disappointment as he shrugs and looks away. "The 'kid' thing, it doesn't mean nothin', Fawkes," he says awkwardly. "It's just --"

For a second, I feel another flicker of hope. I think he's going to say that calling me "kid" is his version of a pet name. A term of endearment. And even though that'd be kinda dumb, it'd also be kinda sweet. That's how far gone I am -- the mere thought of Hobbes giving me a stupid pet name turns me on. You're pathetic, I tell myself, but I want to hear him say it anyway.

So of course, he doesn't.

"You're just -- younger than me," Hobbes mutters, his eyes fixed on mine. "You are so … younger." For a second, a strange emotion flits across his face. One I've never seen before. Something like sadness, something that almost looks like yearning. Now I'm really stunned. But before I can study that amazing look, he turns away again.

Goddammit! Come back here! I go after him. This time, I feel like I just hurt him without meaning to -- and right when we were on the verge of … well, something. Something new and important between us, maybe. My frustration builds until I snap at his back. "What the hell does that mean? Huh, Hobbes? I'm only six years younger than you! So was that some kinda crack about my inexperience? 'Cause hey, I know I didn't go to Quantico or Langley or anything. I didn't spend years learning all about guns and knives and exotic ways to kill people, but --"

Hobbes shakes his head. He's half turned away from me, so all I can see is his profile, but he looks tired suddenly, or maybe depressed. His shoulders slump a little. "No. You didn't. But I did," he says in a low voice.

Oh, shit. I realize what I said, and now I'm the one who's flushing. Hobbes usually brags about all his training; but that wasn't bragging. He sounded almost -- ashamed of it. Of himself. Does he think I'm accusing him of being a stone cold killer? Is that it? 'Cause that's not what he is! Not at all --

"Bobby," I say hastily, "I didn't mean --"

But it's too late. When Hobbes turns to face me again, the hint of sadness I thought I saw on his face before now fills his eyes. He doesn't even try to hide it, and it's so raw and deep that it's scary. Before he even says anything, I want to know where the hell it's coming from. Which of his scars I somehow, unwittingly tore open. But most of all, I want to make that sadness go away.

But Bobby isn't going to let me. "What it means is, I'm thirty nine," he says heavily. "I'm way older than you. I'm too old for this shit, and you're too young."

"What?" It comes out in a near whisper, because suddenly, I think I get it. I think I see where he's going with this, and my gut clenches. No, no…..

"Listen to me, Fawkes." Hobbes gives me his tough look all of a sudden. His brown eyes bore into me like lasers, his stare so sternly intent that it's almost painful. He's dead serious. "We can't do this, all right? It ain't gonna happen. So go home."

I know what he means. We've got this thing, this kind of intuition, this partnership thing where we can communicate with very few words. Though it hasn't been working as well as usual tonight, suddenly it kicks in, and I know what he's saying. The very fact that he didn't put "it" into words tells me, beyond doubt, that "it" means sex. I stare at him, stunned speechless.

He knows. HE KNOWS! He's known all along! All this time -- while I've been making conversation, hinting around, getting more and more desperate at his cluelessness, he's known exactly what I want, what I've been trying to say! That's why he's been so freaked out! He knows that I want him -- and he doesn't want me.

Aw, crap.

I can't move. But Hobbes does. He heads for his door, opens it and says quietly, "Go home, Darien."

Dazed, I think, He called me Darien. Not Fawkes. Somewhere, on some level, I even know what that means. He doesn't hate me. At least, not enough to hurt me for my clumsy come-on. So he's not gonna pull a gun on me, or punch me. But that's all it means. He's not gonna beat me up, but he's not saying yes, either. It's just like I feared. He's saying, Hey, thanks for sharing, but I'm not interested. I've got my own problems. So get out.

He's throwing me out. End of story. No discussion. No second chances.

At first, I'm so stunned, I can't take it in. My shell-shocked brain reels through a list of reasons why this shouldn't be happening. I thought Hobbes' protectiveness meant something. That he was doing more than just guarding the Agency's 17 mil investment, all those times he saved my life. I thought he did it 'cause he cares about me. Sometimes, from the way he looks at me … I thought maybe he even cared more than he could admit. I thought maybe, just maybe, he even wanted me.

But the bleak sight of Hobbes standing grimly beside his opened door is evidence of just how stupid that assumption was. I was wrong. I read something into it that isn't there.

"Go on," Hobbes says again.

He wants me out. Gone. That much, at least, is crystal clear. But I just stare at him. I don't move, because I can't. I'm afraid if I try to take a step I'll stagger like a sick animal. I feel like one. Because the surprise is wearing off, being replaced by pain. Searing, scalding pain that goes deep, that rips away my self deceptions. Shows me with merciless clarity what a fool I've been, and why.

I know why I did it. Why I lied to myself. Why I imagined that he had feelings for me that don't really exist. Why I told myself it was possible Bobby could want me, too. It's because I need it so much. Because Bobby was my only hope. He's the only light in my otherwise dark, fucked-up existence. The only life preserver fate's thrown me since they put this damn gland in my head. He's the only person I feel safe with. Sometimes I think he's the only thing that's kept me sane. He's come to mean a lot to me. Way more than he knows. More than I ever thought anyone could.

The pain goes even deeper. This little voice deep inside whispers, I need him.

How pathetic is that?

I don't like it. Don't want to feel it. Hate to admit it, even to myself. But in the bitter clarity that follows Hobbes' rejection, I see that it's true. I haven't let myself need anyone since the last time I got out of prison. But I need Hobbes. 'Cause this life, this fucked-up life of being a secret government spy, isn't enough for me. I'm a human being, not a damn lab rat! I need someone to be with, someone to care about. It's not enough, just having Hobbes as my partner. I need more than that, more than just a friend/bodyguard. I need someone to touch me. To end this fucking loneliness that's killing me, bit by bit, day by day. I wanted Hobbes to do that, to be that. To partner me in every way, including the physical. I wanted him to be Bobby to me, not Hobbes. I don't just wanna fuck him, I wanted him to be my lover. I wanted him to --

But I look at his face, the way he's flanking his door so sternly, waiting for me to leave, and I know that's never gonna happen. He doesn't need me. Hell, he doesn't even want me. I was so wrong….

Oh God. Oh, fuck!

It's not the first time I've ever been wrong, or turned down, either. But it's the first time it ever counted so much. The first time I've ever been so completely alone. The prospect of more of that -- more loneliness, more celibacy, more nothingness -- is more than I can take.

Especially since I think I can guess why Hobbes doesn't want me. Why he never will. It's not necessarily because he's straight. I think it's because of what I did. Because Quicksilver madness made me attack him…. I lost his trust. Maybe he's even secretly revolted by me. And who could blame him? It can't exactly be a turn-on, knowing that your partner's a psychotic freak who could lose it at any moment, and try to kill you. Gland Boy, with the red eyes from hell. Who in their right mind would want that? Even if Hobbes isn't as straight as he seems, he's probably afraid if he ever went to bed with me, he'd get raped. Or never wake up again.

Even though Hobbes didn't say any of that, I feel crushed. Obliterated. Sick. Like he just beat me to the ground, then kicked me after I was down. Because whether he says so or not, he'd have to be crazy to get involved with me, dangerous as I am.

I should've seen that. But I didn't. Because I didn't want to.

I tried to con myself in so many ways, it's scary. I came over here on an impulse because I couldn't face up to this at all. I couldn't think about it beforehand, because that would've meant admitting how important this is to me. Now I'm paying the price for all that denial, all those lies. The disappointment's so huge, so shattering, that my mind doesn't want to accept it. Even my body rebels. I can't hear for the roaring in my ears. I just stare at Hobbes like a brainless idiot. Can't think, can't speak, can't move. It's an effort even to breathe. I stand there trying to ride it out, waiting until the worst of the shock wears off. Trying to get hold of myself, to regain some control over a body that's just gone haywire.

It's stupid, right? I should be pleading with him. Arguing. Trying to change his mind. Or maybe I should blast him, for leading me on like that.

But I don't let him have it, because deep down, I know Hobbes didn't do that. Whatever else he may be, he's not a tease. I mean, we've gotten to be good friends in the past few months, but that's it. He's never said or done anything to make me think he might want me. Well -- except for those looks, anyway. But now I think I must've just imagined them. He never came on to me, so I don't know why I thought this would work. I must've been crazy. But part of me was sure that if I just opened up, took the first step, made the first move, then Hobbes would somehow be there waiting for me.

But he isn't. I lied to myself about that -- in the worst possible way. Like a kid, I told myself I could have what I wanted, just because I wanted it so bad. I made a total, complete ass of myself, panting after him. Wanting something I can't have.

No, Bobby didn't lead me on -- but he didn't stop me, either. I don't understand why. I think he knew what was going on almost as soon as I shut his TV off. I think that's why he seemed so nervous, so edgy. But he let me play the fool. Why? For a second, it reminds me of prison, of all the nasty games they played on me in there. All the cruel, pointless mind-fucks, just because they could….

I feel a deep, cold surge of anger. That was the worst time of my life, and to this day, if anything dredges up that part of my past, or scrapes those old wounds, I overreact. For a second, I feel like I could hit something.

But not Bobby.

Nothing could hurt me enough to make me do that again. Not now, not ever. I promised myself that, the day I woke up and realized I'd tried to choke him to death when I went Quicksilver crazy. Next day, he had these huge bruises on his neck, bruises from my hands…. He never complained, but I couldn't stand to look at them. I promised myself that I'd never lay a finger on him again, no matter what. He's saved my ass more times than I care to think about, and he deserves better than that. A better partner -- hell, maybe a better lover, too.

So even though I feel like he just drove a stake through my heart, I don't say anything. Don't let him have it, don't even argue. This isn't his fault, it's mine. I deluded myself, and now I'm paying the price. Besides, even though he just hurt me, I don't wanna hurt Hobbes, ever again. That's how deep it goes; at least for me.

"Fawkes…." Hobbes must've finally seen that I'm hurting. He moves away from his door, puts a hand on my shoulder, and gives me a worried look. It's classic Hobbes. He's tough, but he's never cruel. At least not to me. He probably didn't mean to hurt me. But you can wound without meaning to; you can stab with a word. And he just did.

"Don't." I shake him off, pull away. I don't want to hurt him, but I can't stand him touching me, either. Not now. It hurts, it's like torture. Now, he touches me. Now that he knows it's safe, now that he's rejected me. Now, he puts his hands on me. Out of pity. Fuck that!

"Come on. Don't take it so serious," Hobbes says, from somewhere a long way away. "It's not the end of the world, ya know. I'm probably doing you a favor--"

Some favor. It feels more like the end of everything. Hobbes is still talking, but I can't hear him. My shock should be wearing off, but it isn't. It's getting worse. I feel like I'm falling. Slowly. Down, down, down into a blackness that seems endless. I don't know when, or if, I'm ever gonna hit bottom.

Christ. I gotta get outta here!

But somehow, Hobbes gets in front of me. Blocking the doorway, blocking my exit. "Hey, it's okay, Fawkes. You don't have to go," he says, and I realize belatedly that I must've spoken out loud. "I mean, I know I just said that, but -- I didn't mean it."

"Yeah you did," I cut in. My voice is hoarse, my throat is dry, but somehow, I choke the words out. I even try to smile, though I suspect the attempt looks pretty awful. "But hey, it's okay. I get the message, Hobbes. I won't bring it up again. I'm outta here."

I try to move past him, but somehow, he gets in my way again. "Wait. Maybe we should talk, Darien --"

He just used my first name again. Shit, I can't stand that! That's gentle Bobby talking, kind Bobby -- but he only came out 'cause he's trying to let me down easy. 'Cause he feels sorry for me. Fuck that! His pity's the last thing I want. "No. I think you were right. I should just go."

I can't stay here one more second. If I don't get out, get out now, I'm gonna break down. Hit something, or worse, start crying. Then Hobbes'll really think I'm a loser. But Bobby hasn't moved. He's still blocking the door, and he looks worried enough to stand there till tomorrow morning. And I don't have the strength to even try to push him away. So I concentrate. I've done this so many times now, it's become second nature. All I have to do is forget my pain and agitation long enough to take a deep breath. Then within seconds, I feel my body start to turn cold all over, as Quicksilver starts to form.

Hobbes realizes what I'm doing, and growls, "Fawkes! Dammit, don't you do that! Don't you duck out on me!" He reaches out to grab my arm, to hold me.

But it's too late. I've already gone invisible. I turn sideways and slip past him, out his open door and into the hallway.

"Darien!" Hobbes steps out the door and calls after me. His voice sounds oddly rough, like he's really concerned about me.

It's way too late for that, as well. I glance back at him over my shoulder. He looks even more worried now. But I just keep going. I feel worse than unwanted, I feel despised. Like trash, like scum, like a spill of sewage that poured out of Hobbes' door the second he opened it. Aside from the pain and the cold of my invisibility, all I feel is a need to escape. Go somewhere where Hobbes can't find me. Where nobody can. The gland makes that easy.

Hobbes takes a few steps down his hallway, then slows down, looking around helplessly. "DARIEN!" he yells.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think it's weird, how desperate he sounds. What is that? He made it clear he doesn't want me, that he doesn't care. Hell, he TOLD me to leave! I'm just doing what he wanted. So I don't answer him, I just go on down the hallway. Toward the stairs. Running like water, running down….

"Shit," Hobbes mutters.

The sound of footsteps stops behind me, so I know Hobbes has finally given up the chase. I dribble down his stairs, feeling cold inside and out. Funny, but this is the first time I've really felt like an Invisible Man. Isn't that what you are, when there's no one in the world who gives a damn about you, no one who really wants you? Isn't that being invisible?

If it is, then I'm as see-through as it gets. And after what I did to him…. I guess I deserve to be.

I keep going. I'm too upset to drive, so I don't get in my car. I just start walking. I flow away, down the street, just dirty water running in the gutter now. Got no idea where I'm headed, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing does, when you're invisible.

**************************

I gotta go find Fawkes. Can't leave it like that, with things all messed up between us.

So I drive over to his place. I figure it's not very likely he went back there, especially since he left his car parked near my apartment. But you never know. Maybe he wasn't really as freaked as I thought he was. Maybe he just went for a little walk to clear his head, got visible again, maybe called a cab, went home and had a beer.

Only thing wrong with that cheery little scenario is, when I get to Fawkes's apartment, he isn't there. Deep down, I'm not too surprised. Didn't really think he would be. It just means I gotta keep looking. So: time for Plan B. Oh. That's right. I don't have a Plan B.

So I improvise. I drum my fingers on the van's steering wheel, and rack my brain. Where would he go? I think it over. Well, there's food. I know some restaurants he likes. There's that little Thai place, over on --

No. I shake my head, knowing I'm on the wrong track. Back up. When Fawkes left my place, he looked dazed. Like he'd just gone ten rounds with a heavyweight, and got pounded. He was hurting. Freaked. When he gets upset, he doesn't even think about food; so it's no use checking restaurants. He could've gone to a movie or something, or to a club, but I doubt it. Fawkes likes to sulk all by himself. That's probably why he didn't come back here, 'cause he wants to be alone and he thought I'd come looking for him here.

It's not like it's the first time I've had to search high and low for Fawkes. I mean, I like him a lot. He's my partner, but more than that, he's my friend. Still, he ain't exactly always Mr. Mature. I swear, I think he goes AWOL whenever he gets a hangnail! He's got brooding and sulking down to a fine art. Pouts like a kid when he can't get his way. Gets depressed real easy. One minute he's up, laughing and joking. The next, he's so far down, he won't even talk to me. Mr. Mood Swings. Oh, yeah -- if there's one thing Fawkes is great at, it's feeling sorry for himself. He's a master. And it seems like it's gotten worse lately. Like he's been down more often.

I mean, I know he's got some real problems. Know it ain't easy for him, having that thing in his head and working for the Official and all, when he'd rather be out with his thiefy little pals, lifting CD players and jewelry and whatnot. And those shots he has to get, and the Quicksilver madness -- that all sucks, big time. But hey! Whose life is easy? Still, most of us don't have the luxury of running away when things get bad. We gotta stay and face the music. But not Fawkes. Every time things get too much for the wild child, he just takes off. And guess who gets to go find him? Bobby Hobbes, that's who! Like I'm some kinda freakin' nursemaid.

I shrug, feeling an odd little flicker of uneasiness. I should be pissed at Fawkes for running off like he did. For making me waste my time, running around trying to find him again. But what I really feel, what I always feel when he goes AWOL, is worried.

Maybe that's why tracking him down feels so good. And I always do. The kid thinks he's so smart, but he can't get away from Bobby Hobbes! I can read his devious little criminal mind like a book now. So. Where the hell would Gland Boy go to brood this time?

Kevin's grave, maybe?

I consider it, but not for long. Fawkes usually goes out there when the gland thing gets to be too much for him, and that's not what happened tonight. At least, I don't think it is…. I think hard for awhile, considering the alternatives. I already ruled out food, and his apartment, and all the usual places … don't think I'll find him there tonight.

Fawkes was so freaked, I got this feeling, this funny feeling that he's gonna go somewhere different tonight. Somewhere I haven't looked for him before. So I start going over every conversation we've ever had in my head, looking for clues to where he might be. Finally, it comes to me. The beach. That's right! He told me once that when his life got seriously screwed up, he used to go to the beach. He said the waves make him zone out, or Zen out, or something. Make him forget about his problems. Maybe that's where he is.

But I'm not sure. He wouldn't go there late at night, would he? Who'd go to the beach in the middle of the night? That'd be crazy. I feel a twinge of aversion at the very thought of that. But then, I'm not Fawkes. He's not me. Just because it's the last place I'd pick, doesn't mean he'd feel that way about it. And as for being crazy, well, he gets that way sometimes. He sure got that way tonight.

I argue with myself for awhile, but in the end, I decide to go. At least it's something to do. Some place to try. I don't have any better ideas, and I'll go nuts myself if I don't look for him. The problem is, which beach to start with. If there's one thing we've got here, it's beaches. San Diego's lousy with 'em. There's Swami's, Windandsea, Black's, Pacific, Mission, Ocean, Carson…. There's tons of 'em. And I got no idea which one Fawkes likes best, or which one he'd pick to go sulk on.

I get back in the van, head for the freeway, and sigh. This wasn't the way I planned to spend the night: combing every beach within fifty miles for the Invisible One.

Still I don't, for one second, even consider not looking for Fawkes. I've got a bad feeling about this. That look on his face when he left…. It wasn't what I expected. Wasn't just the usual punky type look he gets, when he doesn't get his way. It was serious. Like he was devastated.

I feel a deep, dark stab of guilt. I try to tell myself it wasn't my fault. Fawkes just totally overreacted. I mean, I coulda let him have it, or punched him or something, for coming onto me. Some guys would've. But all I did was say no. I tried to be polite about it, tried to let him down easy. I didn't even swear! And hey, I know he's good looking and all, but ya can't tell me that's the first time he's ever struck out, either. But despite all the kid glove treatment, somehow, he went right off the deep end. Didn't just look like he'd been rejected, he looked like he was about to puke or something. Like he was at the end of his rope. It was weird. Scary weird.

And somehow, I still feel responsible.

I mean, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now, I wonder. Maybe I shouldn't've jumped the gun and thrown him out like that. But hey, who knew he was gonna react like that? Not me! Not in a million years! I thought he'd just shrug, make a joke out of it, and forget about it. Hell, I thought it WAS a joke! Darien Fawkes, coming on to me? Get real! I mean, Darien Fawkes! Mr. Confident. Mr. I'm So Sexy, Everybody Wants Me and if They Don't They're Stupid. Fawkes, who flirts with women all the time! How the hell was I supposed to know a guy like that would ever look twice at me? Or at any other guy, for that matter? I didn't even know he was gay! Or bi, or whatever. Or that he'd lose it when I turned him down. If I'd known that --

Well, I'm not sure what I would've done. The thought that Fawkes wants me is like an electric shock. It's stunning, it's exciting, but it's painful, too. I don't understand it, so I don't have a clue how to deal with it. I haven't done very well so far, anyway. Once I realized he'd freaked out about getting turned down, I tried to stop him from leaving, but by then, it was too late. He went see-through and took off. Typical. If there's one thing I've learned about Fawkes, it's that he's impulsive. He goes off half-cocked all the time, does things without thinking.

I don't like to think what he might do now.

I feel uneasy, and it's getting worse by the minute. Dunno if I'm gonna be able to find him, this time. I gotta hope that at least he won't actually be invisible anymore, like he was when he left my place. I can't be sure of that, though. He seemed totally down when he left, and if he decides he doesn't care if he goes Quicksilver mad, he could wander around invisible for hours. Brooding where no one can see him. And I'll be up shit creek without a paddle.

Still, I don't let that stop me. Bobby Hobbes ain't a quitter. I just gotta hope he's become visible again, and try to make up for my mistake by finding him.

I hit the gas, and gun the van onto the onramp while I plan my search pattern. Where to start? With Black's beach, maybe? I wonder…. Fawkes is really down, so maybe he'd go there. Black mood, Black's beach, right? Then again, I can't count on that. That word association thing, it's pretty slim. I turn it over in my head. Swami's is pretty popular -- he might go there instead.

Finally, I decide to compromise, and check both of them. I'll start with Swami's, then go to Black's, and work my way south from there. Hell, I'll hit every beach in California if I have to, until I find him.

***************************

After I leave Bobby's, I can't face the thought of going back to my little apartment. My empty place. My new prison cell. So I wander around on the streets for awhile. Just drifting. Invisible. I haven't felt this low since I did time.

I never knew rejection could hurt so much. It never did before. Guess I never cared this much before. Does that mean --

No! Don't even think that word. It's useless now. Meaningless.

So I don't think about it. I force my mind away from it, away from any consideration of what to call what I feel for Hobbes. It's the only bit of self defense I have left: avoidance. Denial. So even though hopeless longing for him fills my chest like a stone, I refuse to put a name to it. I just walk for awhile. Trying to evade it, avoid it, deny it. Trying to distract myself. I drift along, and watch the night people start to come out. The pushers, pimps, thieves and hookers. I used to call them the night shift. I used to be one of them. Now I wander by, invisible even to them. I look at them and wonder what their stories are. How they wound up like this. What hurts, betrayals and secret sins lie hidden behind their hard faces. Bobby would probably say they're just scum, but I know better. Everybody's got their story. Their reasons. Being a thief taught me that.

But finally, I realize that watching the night shift is only making me feel worse. Most of them are locked into jobs they don't like, either. They look as lost, as hopeless as I feel. So I decide to go visible again. I shake off the Quicksilver in a little alley off a well-lit street, then step out and hail a cab. I still don't know where I'm going, I just wanna get away. Off the streets. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere dark. Somewhere where I can be completely, totally alone.

When a cab finally pulls over, I slide into the back, wondering what to tell the driver. "The beach," I hear myself say, without conscious thought. "Black's Beach."

If the cabby thinks the beach is a strange place to want to go in the middle of the night, he's too smart to say so. He just nods and noses the cab back out into traffic. I slouch back against the seat and close my eyes.

Why there? I don't even know. Guess it doesn't really matter much, anyway. Blacks will do. It's a nude beach, so it'll be crowded later on, when summer comes. But now, in spring while the water's still cold, probably no one else will be there. Well, maybe a few die-hard surfers at the south end. So I'll stay at the north end, just to be safe. I can walk along, dabble my toes in the water, and try to forget about what just happened.

But how do you forget that you're worthless? That even your own partner doesn't trust you? Doesn't want you? I feel like I can't breathe again, like someone's squeezing my heart with a big, brutal fist. Christ, it hurts! He's the only one who I thought cared about me, the only one….

Get a grip, Fawkes! I tell myself. Try to relax. Like Hobbes said, it's not the end of the world. But it sure as hell feels like it. Because if even Bobby doesn't care about me, then no one does. I have to close my eyes, to try to blot Hobbes' face out of my mind.

It doesn't work. The pain's still there, this giant ache in my chest. Worse, I can still see Bobby, still hear him. "I'm too old for this shit. And you're too young." What the hell did that mean? He's only six years older than me. Does he really think that matters? That he's too old for me? Or was that just an excuse? And why did he look so sad?

Why is it, that the first time I tried to ask him for help, I ended up hurting him somehow instead? What does that say about me?

"What?" the cabby asks.

"Huh?"

"Did you say something?"

I look away, embarrassed 'cause I realize I must've mumbled something out loud. But then, for a second, this weird urge comes over me. I wanna confess. Tell him the whole story. Spill my guts. Tell him all about the gland, and my deal with a certain devil we call the Official, and about Bobby. Most of all, I wanna tell him about Bobby Hobbes.

But the urge only lasts for a second. Then I think, Get real. He could be a homophobe. Probably is. And even if he isn't, why would he wanna hear all about my problems? He's a total stranger.

Besides -- if I breathe a word to him about the gland, the Fat Man might find out, and have him killed.

I look out the window into the darkness, trying to decide if that was a joke or not. The truth is, I'm not sure. I remember the days when I could say anything I wanted, to anyone. I think of the freedom I had. Remember Liz and Casey and Kevin, and how it felt, knowing someone cared.

But that only makes me feel worse.

'Cause as they say, that was then. This is now. Those days are gone, and so are all those people. Kevin's dead now, and Liz and Casey both left me. I'm so lonely that I tried to seduce my own partner, then almost confessed dangerous secrets to a total stranger. This is not good. And now I'm heading -- well, who the hell really knows where? For the Pacific right now, anyway.

It occurs to me that I may be losing my mind. All I feel about that revelation is a small, dull, distant sense of sadness.

"Nothing," I tell the cabby. "It was nothing."

He just shrugs, and lapses back into silence.

So do I. I need to get there, I think desperately. Get to the ocean. Let the waves do their magic. Watching the waves always helps me think. Makes things better.

Some time later, the cabby pulls up at the Glider Port, off of Scenic Torrey Pines Road. I pay him and walk towards the stairway that leads down to the beach. It's a good thing there's a full moon, because the steps are really steep. The sign at the top says, "Stairway and cliffs unsafe and unstable due to 1993 rains."

Unsafe. Unstable. Well, that's appropriate. So am I.

I head down, wondering what would happen if I missed a step, and fell all the way to the bottom. Would they be able to find me in time? Get the gland out of my head quick enough after, if the fall killed me? Or would the Fat Man lose his precious, seventeen-million-dollar investment?

I shrug. I don't really give a shit, one way or the other.

Still, I make it down to the beach okay. Take off my shoes, tie the laces together, and loop 'em around my neck. Then I turn and head north, away from the surfing section of the beach.

I walk for a long time. The air's cool. The sand's cold and grainy under my toes. There's no one here but me, and I'm glad. I don't feel like even looking at anyone else right now. It's nice and quiet here tonight. Peaceful. Beautiful, with the full moon shining off the waves.

But somehow, none of that helps. The waves don't soothe me, and the moonlight doesn't make my heartache go away. I don't understand it. The ocean always used to work for me before. I could come here and just sit for awhile, or stroll along the sand, or go swimming, and the sound of the waves and the cool slide of the water over my skin would make all my problems disappear. It was better than therapy.

Not tonight. I walk and walk, but I still hurt.

**********************

Lady Luck's gotta be watching over me; or maybe over Fawkes. 'Cause although I strike out at Swami's -- spend a half hour jogging up and down that beach, and don't see a single, solitary soul -- when I race over to Black's Beach next, I finally find him. The moonlight's so bright that I spot him from the lookout point above the stairs. I see this tall figure walking away down the beach. His back's turned, and he's far enough away that I'm not sure it's Fawkes at first, so I hurry down the stairs and run after him, to check it out. Once I get closer, I can make out his spiky hair and the distinctive set of his shoulders.

It's Fawkes, all right. So, he's okay. He's okay, he's not --

The relief is huge. So enormous that I realize, I was afraid I wouldn't find him at all. That tomorrow, or maybe the next day, some faceless Agency soldier would come into the Fat Man's office and tell me that Fawkes was dead. I shake my head. Don't be silly. He's been kinda down lately, but … Don't get all paranoid. 'Cause he's okay. You can see, he's okay. Finally, my heart slows down to a normal rate again, and the tightness in my chest eases. I let out a deep breath, and set out after him again.

Don't think I've been that worked up for a long time. Not since the last time Fawkes disappeared. He's the only one who can get me that worked up. I shouldn't let him do it, though. Shouldn't let him get to me like this. I don't like it. Don't wanna care so much, don't wanna worry so much about him.

But I do. Like it or not, I do.

I scowl, but I still follow him. I stay far enough behind that he can't hear me. Don't worry too much about him spotting me though, because he's got his head down. He's looking at his feet. He never looks behind him, not once. I shake my head. He's pathetically easy to tail. Always has been.

He's such an innocent, I think, with an odd pang. Even though he's a criminal, even though he did time, and despite all the shit he's seen working for the Agency, at heart, he's still so innocent. So careless. Hell, half the time, he forgets to lock his own door! It's unreal. He acts like being sarcastic is all the defense he needs. Sometimes I think he still doesn't have a clue how dangerous the world really is. What a risky thing life really is. And love, whoa! That whole love/sex thing, that's the biggest minefield of all. I've been a soldier of one kind or another long enough to know that the worst wounds you get, the deepest, are usually the ones that don't bleed. But I don't think Fawkes gets that.

He can't possibly get that, or he wouldn't've done what he did, back at my apartment.

I shake my head. He must be crazy! That must've been just some crazy whim he had, coming on to me like that. But deep down, I know he wasn't the only one who screwed up. I did, too. Even if all he wanted was a quick fuck, I didn't have to treat him like that. Did I really think I was going easy on him, by making him feel bad? By throwing him out? What was I thinking?

I know I was mixed up. It threw me off balance, the way he showed up with no warning like that. And that look in his eyes, the way he came onto me -- that just made it worse. Was I trying to teach him a lesson? Show him how dangerous it can be, to mess with Bobby Hobbes? Is that it? Was I pissed off 'cause I thought he was just playing with me? Or was I trying to make him a little less innocent, a little less trusting? Is that really what I want?

I try to imagine it. A hardened, suspicious, distrusting Darien. A guy with brown eyes that look far too old, that view the world with coldness and suspicion, instead of warmth and humor. A guy who always expects the worst from people, so he won't get disappointed. A guy more like me.

To my surprise, the thought doesn't appeal. In fact, it almost hurts to even imagine Darien being like that. Weird. It's like the very things that worry me about him, are part of his charm. Part of what makes me like him so much. Don't think I'd really want him to wise up that way. If he did, he'd be just another tough, distrustful agent. Just another one of the Fat Man's foot soldiers.

He wouldn't be Darien anymore.

Okay, so maybe I don't really want Darien to be more like me. Maybe that's one lesson he's better off not learning. So why did I throw him out?

I've been trying not to think about it, but out here where it's dark and quiet, and I'm staring at Fawkes's back while I tail him down the beach, I can't avoid it. Was I scared? Is that it? Did I overreact out of fear?

Naw. Bobby Hobbes ain't scared o' nothin', I tell myself. But the words are hollow. I've been telling myself that for years, and I know it's not true. I wouldn't need all those damn pills, if it was. Wouldn't be out here in the middle of the night tailing my own partner, if it was.

The truth is, Darien Fawkes scares me. He scares the hell outta me. He's a free spirit, all right. What that translates to in our business is, a loose cannon. He's got no training. No polish. No discipline. Full of wisecracks. Never even shaves right. Always got a bit of stubble somewhere, around his mouth or on his chin. He's got Attitude, with a capital A. He's defiant. Disrespectful. Unpredictable. I never know what he's gonna do next. What he's gonna do to me….

Like those damn dreams, I think. They're all his fault. But somehow, like always, I feel this little flicker of shame, of guilt, when I think of them. Maybe I am afraid. Not just of what Fawkes might do, but of what he's already done. What those big, warm, innocent-looking brown eyes of his have done to me.

Look at me: first I throw him out for coming on to me, then I stalk him. How nutty is that?

I don't even wanna think about trying to explain this to my shrink.

Still, I couldn't just leave Darien alone tonight. Not after that scene back at my place. Even from here, I can tell how hurt he is. He's not walking right, not like he usually does. His shoulders are slumped, and he's not swaggering. His hip action, his bounce, his energy are all gone. He's walking like he's flat-footed. Like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Even from a distance, I can see it. And it doesn't make me feel good.

**************************

Finally, I stop walking. Drop my shoes onto the sand and stare out at the waves. Usually, the ocean makes me feel serene. Like I'm part of it, or it's part of me or something. But not tonight. Tonight all that beauty, that vast expanse of black, shifting, moon-silvered water, just makes me feel lonelier than ever.

I've felt that way for awhile now, actually. I've joked around with Hobbes as usual, and sparred with the Keeper and the Official. Tried to act like everything was okay. But it hasn't been. Ever since that bout of Quicksilver madness when I tried to kill Bobby, I've felt completely alone. Like it cut me off, even from him. I've had this big black nothingness at the core of me. Like a goddamn black hole, that sucks up any light that might happen to make its way into my life. And tonight, the blackness is taking over.

I wait for that to change. Wait for the beauty all around me to work its magic, to take the edge off my pain. I watch the waves hit the beach and roll out, over and over again. But peace doesn't come. I don't feel serene. Instead, the blackness inside fills me up. I feel bitter. Resentful.

What's the fucking gland ever done for me? So I can turn invisible. So fucking what? It took away my job, my friends, my whole life. Okay, maybe in a way, it got me out of prison, and gave me Hobbes as a friend. It put him in my life. That's the one good thing that's ever come out of it. Big deal -- 'cause it nearly took Hobbes away again, too. It made me try to kill him. The real me didn't want to, of course. But I had no control over it. I went Quicksilver mad, which means I was locked away inside my own head, screaming when it happened. While the goddamn gland turned me into a red-eyed psycho who tried to choke Hobbes. While that fucker used my body, my strength, to almost kill my best friend.

I watched my own hands killing Bobby, and I couldn't stop it.

I look away from the ocean for a minute. Close my eyes, trying to blot out that memory, the helplessness, the horror of it, but I can't. Nothing in my whole life ever felt as bad as that. My first stretch in prison came close, but that was different. What happened to me there wasn't my fault. I didn't start it, and it was beyond my control. That was done to me by other people. In the end, I learned to handle that. I can take being hurt, getting messed up myself. I just figured, those bastards were the enemy. That's what enemies do.

But that day, it was me doing the damage. Me with my hands around Bobby's neck, me choking him senseless. Me. Darien Fawkes, the guy who prided himself on never hurting anyone. That day, I wasn't just my own worst enemy, I was Bobby's, too. I'm supposed to be his friend, his partner, but I hurt him. I hurt him bad. Shit, I almost killed him! That tore me apart.

I think that's why I ended up here. It isn't just because Hobbes rejected me, it's because his rejection left me with nothing but this. This bitter truth, that I've been trying so hard not to face. The truth of who I am now. Who I've become. I'm not a pacifist anymore, or even someone who can be trusted. I'm a freak. A monster. I've got a demon inside of me now, that I can't control. I can't even stand me anymore. No wonder Hobbes doesn't want me around.

He said he forgave me, but how could anyone really forgive that? Or forget it? I think it ruined things. Ruined whatever hope I might've had that Bobby would ever really trust me -- not to mention want me. How could he want someone like that, someone who can go psycho on him at any minute, and try to kill him?

Or maybe he's straight, and finding out that I want him disgusted him. Or maybe my record did that. He knows I did time, and he must know what that means. Maybe he thinks I'm used up, damaged goods. A slut. So even if he does switch hit, he wouldn't want to with me.

I scuff the sand with my bare toes. Remembering how I rushed over to Hobbes' place earlier, full of plans to seduce him, I feel a surge of disgust. What a jerk. Why did I ever think that would work, when I can think of a hundred reasons why Bobby wouldn't want me, and not one reason why he would?

Staring out at the ocean, I feel something I've never felt before. A sense that I wasted my life. A massive, unexpected surge of regret. I've never really loved anyone. Not in the romantic sense, anyway. I mean, I loved my family, Kevin and Mom and our aunt and uncle, but I never fell in love. I had my whole life to do it, to make that kind of connection, the kind you're supposed to make, and I didn't. Oh sure, I had lots of sex. Enjoyed the hell out of it, too. But anyone can do that. Cats and dogs do that, dammit. But the deep thing, the human thing, the thing that makes us more than animals -- I never wanted that. Hell, I avoided it.

I think about Bobby Hobbes, and for the first time, I feel ashamed of that. He's a bit whacked, but he's a good person. Better than I am. He deserves to be loved. But maybe not by me. Maybe I'm not even capable of it. Maybe the Official's right about me. Maybe I really am this hollow, shallow bastard who never thinks about anyone but himself. Myself and my dick, that is. Because when I had the chance to fall in love, I never took it.

I loved them all a little: Liz and Casey and the others. But I never cared for anyone more than I did for myself. My big love affair was always with Darien Fawkes. The only reason I really stayed with anyone for very long was for the sex. I took all the sex I could get, and if I thought someone wanted me to, sometimes I even pretended to be in love. But I never was. I ran from love like the plague. Pretty sad, when you think about it. And all that running finally brought me here, to the very edge of the continent.

It might as well be the edge of the world. There's nowhere left to go.

I feel scared. Desperate. I feel this wave of longing for Bobby, that's so strong it hurts. But it's got nowhere to go, either. It just pounds uselessly inside my chest, like a wave caught in a bottle. Because Bobby Hobbes doesn't want me, and I can't blame him. I don't even really have a right to love him, or anyone else, now. Not now, when I can so easily go Red-eyed and become that thing, that demon who would kill anyone on a whim.

It hits me, that maybe this is my punishment. Maybe this is what I get, for being such a selfish dickhead all my life. Now I wanna love someone, and I can't. I've got no right to ask Hobbes or anyone else to love me, when I could kill them if I go crazy.

My vision blurs a little. What've I got left? I look deep down inside, and all I see is darkness. A freak, a fucking junkie addict psychotic monster. I hate myself, and I can't love anyone else. I'm screwed. I've got nothing left at all, not even myself.

I feel this sound building inside me. Like a howl, a sick, desperate howl that would split the sky if I let it out.

But I don't, because there's no one around to hear. Or to care if they did.

It's dark out here…. Dawn feels like it's a thousand miles, or maybe a thousand years away. I feel tears on my cheeks. Damn. Didn't even know I was crying. Well, what the hell. What does it matter? There's no one here to see me, and the ocean will wash them all away soon anyway.

In that instant, I realize why I came here. Why I ended up here, at the edge, where the land meets the sea. What's been at the back of my mind, ever since I left Bobby's place.

I know what I'm going to do.

****************************

Fawkes finally stops walking. I angle up behind him, work my way behind some rocks not far away from him, at the edge of the sand. He stands on the beach for awhile, looking out at the water. His face looks bleak, and something on his cheeks is shining in the moonlight. I'm too far away to tell for sure, but I think he's crying.

It shocks me. Never seen him cry before. It makes me feel like shit. Like the lowest of the low, because I think I had something to do with it.

He looks so alone, I think. Hell, he is alone. I know that, better than anyone. So what do I do? I make that worse. He makes one little pass at me, one little suggestion, and I throw him out. It's not like he tried to rape me, for God sakes! He was so nervous, it was actually kinda cute; and he never even touched me. All he did was hint that he wanted to be more than friends. So why'd I do that?

I keep coming back to that. I just can't let it go. Maybe I was trying to teach him something, I dunno. The thing is, he caught me by surprise. But even if he hadn't, even if I'd known he was gonna ask me that -- how could I have said yes? Darien may be an ex-con, but he's a good guy. He's smart, great looking, and he's got a good heart…. He shouldn't have to be alone. But that doesn't mean he should be with me. I wouldn't be good for him. Still can't even believe that he wants me. Me, Bobby Hobbes. I'm nothing to write home about, and I know it. I'm not exactly the class president type. Never was. I'm short. Paranoid. Losing my hair, and I pop pills like candy. What the fuck does Darien see in me? And why didn't I see this coming?

I mean, nobody sneaks up on Bobby Hobbes. Nobody! But Darien sure as hell did. When I finally figured out what he was hinting at back in my apartment, I couldn't believe it. The paranoid part of me almost panicked. See, I've been having these weird dreams about him lately. Sex dreams where I'm lying on top of him, kissing him, stroking him…. We've never actually done it, but I keep waking up hard as a rock. So I know part of me wants to.

And that's not all. That part of me's getting stronger, because I've been having strange urges about him during the daytime, too. At the Agency. Sometimes I lose track of what the Official's saying, 'cause I'm looking at Fawkes's mouth, his body -- even his crazy hair. Damn, but I envy him that hair. He's got probably the thickest hair I've ever seen. Amazing hair. It's all wavy and spiky. Wild, like he is. Untamed. Curls around his neck, his ears…. Darien's hair makes my mouth water. Sometimes I just wanna put my hands in it. Sometimes, in my dreams, I do.

It's freaky. I know. It's even kinda scary.

I mean, I've thought about sex with guys before. I've wondered how it would feel to do it with a man. My shrinks have had a field day with that. Latent urges, they call it. I think that's bullshit. Bobby Hobbes doesn't have latent urges, my friend. Bobby Hobbes wants something, he goes for it! End of story. But the thing is, those thoughts I had about guys before, they were never anything like these dreams I've been having about Fawkes. I've never felt anything that intense for a man before. Never stared at a guy's hair and wanted to run my fingers through it before.

But I do now. I do it a lot. It's confusing. I don't understand it. I mean -- I know I want him, but I don't know why I want him so much. Why the feeling's so damn strong. Why it hasn't gone away. Why it feels like it's getting stronger, the more we're together. It scares me. But up until tonight, I thought I could handle it, 'cause it was just my freaky little secret. This time, I didn't even share it with my shrink. Didn't want anyone else to know.

Until Fawkes turned those big brown eyes on me and started talking about "wanting to get to know me better," that is. Until he asked me what I dream about. Then, I was so shocked, I almost told him. I almost blurted out the truth. I almost said, "You." I figured that he'd caught me drooling over his hair or something, that he must've guessed my secret somehow, and for a second, I thought he was interested.

Talk about a jolt! I was so excited, I didn't know what to think. What to say. All I knew was, I wanted him to be interested. I wanted it more than anything.

But just as I opened my mouth to tell him that, to let him know that I want him too, something happened. He started yelling at me for calling him "kid" all the time. Guess he doesn't know I only do that 'cause I care about him. Anyway, it just reminded me how young he is. How inexperienced, how innocent, compared to me. It rammed it home, what a huge gulf we've got between us. I spent years being a Marine, and then in Intelligence. Learning to take orders and to carry them out, no matter how awful they were.

Sometimes, they were terrible. I learned how to hurt, how to maim, how to kill without blinking, without feeling anything. I know Fawkes can't even imagine that. Funny, he's supposed to be the big, bad, hardened criminal; but he hasn't been through anything like the things I've done. He's never even killed anyone. Compared to me, he's a babe in the woods.

Even though I did it all for my country, sometimes, when I'm with Darien, I feel old and evil. Like this crazed old man whose hands are stained with blood. I wonder if he sees me like that, too.

I wondered that tonight, at my apartment. Maybe he does, 'cause when he said he hadn't "spent years learning exotic ways to kill people," I knew what he meant -- that I did. It caught me by surprise. Made me feel weird. Ashamed. I'd been telling myself that Darien looked up to me. That I was like his mentor.

But maybe he doesn't see me like that. Maybe to him, I'm just a paranoid old killer.

That kind of mentor, Darien doesn't need. But it's what I am. Who I am.

Remembering that made me change my mind about telling him how I feel. We're so different, how could it ever work out? How could I even want it to?

Besides, Fawkes always seemed straight before that. So for all I knew, he could've just been playing with me. Teasing me. Trying to get me to come out and admit that I want him, just so he could laugh his head off and call me a perv. Tell the Fat Man I need therapy or something. It wouldn't be the first time someone's played me like that; wouldn't be the first time Fawkes has done it, either. He's like that. He's got a weird sense of humor. As nutty as mine, and that's saying something. It's one of the reasons we get along so well. But it made me think that all that stuff he was saying about wanting to spend more time with me couldn't be real. I thought maybe it was just a joke, to get me to confess so Fawkes could crack up.

Boy, was I wrong. 'Cause when I said no, he cracked up all right -- but not the way I expected. He wasn't laughing. He looked worse than disappointed. He looked like he was hurt bad. He turned white, like I'd hit him. He just froze up, like he was having this total internal meltdown.

When I saw that awful look, I knew he wasn't kidding when he made that pass. He meant it. He wants me, I thought. Jesus! It blew my mind. Didn't matter that I've had similar thoughts lately, that I've been dreaming about him, too. Those were just dreams. Total fantasies. But Darien and me together, in real life -- that's never gonna happen. It's nuts, that's what it is. He's a guy! And thoughts and dreams are one thing, but real life is another. In real life, I've never … I mean, maybe Darien has. Hell, he probably had to, since he did some serious prison time; but not me. I've never done it with a guy. Thought about it more than once, but I never did anything about it. I think it's because there were no feelings behind it. It was more like curiosity. And I couldn't see going that far, couldn't see crossing that line just for curiosity's sake, for a casual fuck.

But this thing with Fawkes, it's not like that. He's my partner, so there's loads of feelings involved. It doesn't matter what freaky dreams and urges I've been having about him, though, or what he said about wanting to get to know me better. The thing is, even if I was gonna do something about it with him, I wouldn't actually know how to. I mean, I know the mechanics, but it's not the same thing as having done it. No way.

Hell, I wouldn't even know where to start. Would I kiss him, or what? I mean, I love to kiss, and I've kissed him in my dreams, but I've got no clue if Darien would like it in real life. Don't know if gay or bi guys do that much. The thing is, if he didn't like it -- if I kissed him and he laughed at me….

I couldn't take that.

Darien was right about one thing: he doesn't know me all that well. Not really. I mean, we're partners, and we've become friends -- but there's a lot I haven't told him. He knows about my nickname, Lithium Bobby, and the reason for it, but he doesn't know how bad the problem really is. He doesn't know that I don't sleep well, despite all the pills I take. Doesn't know I sometimes get up in the middle of the night and prowl around with my gun, afraid that someone's gotten past all my locks and the bars on my windows…. He doesn't know how insecure I am, under all the jokes and the banter and the attitude. Doesn't have any idea how obsessive I get, when I care about someone. He doesn't know that I got my pride, that what I hate more than anything is to be laughed at. There's a lot he doesn't know, 'cause I don't want him to.

But watching Darien, I wish it didn't have to be that way. Wish I hadn't sent him away like I did. Then I wonder why I care so much, when he's such a headache sometimes. Well, he's your partner. They pay you to care about him, a cynical little voice in my head says.

That's bullshit, though. What I feel for Darien's got nothing to do with the job, which by the way, they don't pay me enough for anyway. No, it's miles beyond that. It's way beyond money, or duty, or any of that shit. I never felt like this about any of my other partners, never let them get so close to me.

Then I get it. My first real glimmer of understanding about what happened at my place. That's got something to do with why I threw him out. Not so much 'cause he's a guy, but because I do care about him. Way more than I should. He's more than just my partner, he's more like a brother, or a son or something. Maybe both. The thing is, Darien's important to me. He's -- like family.

And you don't mess around with family.

Jesus. There's a scary thought. Fawkes the wild child, family. Darien the ex-thief, a kind of brother. Or son. Or -- what?

I don't know. Don't know exactly what to call it, but it's there. When I look down inside, way down deep inside, there's this huge mass of feelings for Darien. He's a lot of things to me. All these different people. Sometimes he's like a little brother. This naïve, crazy teenager who I gotta look out for. Then at other times, like when he learns something new and uses it to crack a case and can't wait to tell me all about it, I feel more like his dad. I feel proud, like he's following in his old man's footsteps or something.

That's scary enough, but Fawkes means even more to me than that. I don't know how to say it, but I feel it down deep. In my bones, in my blood. He's there inside me. Little thief that he is, it's like he snuck in one night while I was asleep, and carved his name on my heart; and I didn't even know it. Didn't see it at first. Dunno why. Maybe I didn't want to. Maybe I was doing the denial thing. All my shrinks say I'm good at that. I usually just ignore stuff that makes me uncomfortable, stuff that goes too deep for words. That's probably why I hardly ever even use Fawkes' first name, because I've been trying to keep him at bay. Keep him at arm's length. I've been ignoring how I feel about him.

But tonight … tonight, I'm looking right at it. All the stuff I've got going on inside about Darien. And the truth is -- hoo, boy. Now that I'm finally facing it, the truth is not good. I shift on the sand, thinking about it. The truth is, Fawkes and me, we're already in deep. We're out in the danger zone, out in that love/sex minefield somewhere. At least I am. And judging by that little stunt he pulled at my apartment, maybe Fawkes thinks he is, too. But it'll only get worse, get even more dangerous, if we take it to the next level. If we have sex. He may not get that, but I do.

Even if I did fish off the company pier -- which I don't -- I couldn't handle an affair with Fawkes. I know it. 'Cause I couldn't be … what's that word my shrink loves? Oh yeah: detached. I couldn't be detached with him. I couldn't just fuck him, then let it go. It's already too late for that. I already care too much. Even if I tried to pretend that it was just sex and that I could quit whenever I wanted to, Fawkes is too smart. He'd see through it. He could probably do that: fuck me blind, then just walk away and forget about it. He's casual like that. But I'm not. I never could do that, and with him, it'd be impossible. I'm already halfway obsessed with him. I'm day-dreaming about his goddamn hair! And if he picked up on that, if he saw how I feel, which he would, it could get ugly. If he knew how much I care, and he didn't feel the same way, it'd just be one more reason for him to laugh at me; and no one laughs at Bobby Hobbes. Not if I can help it, anyway. That's part of why I told him to go, too. 'Cause Darien loves to laugh, but if he ever laughed at me -- about that -- it'd kill me.

A familiar, black feeling comes over me. The kind that almost overwhelmed me when Viv left me. It's part insecurity, part fatalism, part sheer pain. It'd never work, him and me, so there's no use even trying. No matter how much I want to. No matter how often I've kissed him in my dreams. No matter how bad seeing that hurt look in his eyes made me feel….

It felt bad. Real bad. It still does. I wanna go to him. Tell him a joke, do something, anything, to make him stop crying. But I already came too close to breaking back in my apartment. Don't think it'd be a good idea to get within ten feet of Darien right now. So I stay well behind him, hunkered down behind the rocks where he won't see me.

Maybe I should leave.

I promised myself that I was gonna find him, and make sure he's okay. Well, I've done that. He's not in any danger. There's no one else here at this time of night, no one around to see if he decides to go invisible again. So he's safe.

But I also promised myself I was gonna make up for hurting him earlier. Tell him I'm sorry I threw him out. Try to make him feel better. I haven't done that yet. So how can I leave?

Don't think it'd be a good idea to try talking to him right now, though. The two of us, we're dangerous tonight. Darien's raw -- more vulnerable than I've ever seen him; and it does things to me. I want him so much … too much. And I feel guilty for throwing him out. Who knows what the hell might happen if I try to talk to him?

We're not a good combination tonight. We're worse than oil and water. We're more like a lit match and gasoline. We're flammable, baby. One touch, and poof! You got fire. That wouldn't be good. Not good at all, not good for Fawkes. Look what happened back at my apartment. He made one little pass, and I freaked; and now he's freakin' out, 'cause I hurt him. What a mess! Can't trust myself around him, so I better just stay here for now. I'll stick with him, but stay out of sight awhile longer.

Darien's not moving, so I finally look away from him for a minute. Take a look around. Now that we're down on the beach, I can see why he wanted to come here. It's kinda peaceful. And it's a gorgeous night. Full moon shining on the water, waves sighing on the sand. For him, this probably feels like a good place to be alone. A good place to think.

Then I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye, so I look back at him. Wait. Fawkes isn't just standing there thinking anymore. What the hell is he doing? Is he -- is he taking off his clothes? Aw jeez, he is! What the -- is he nuts? For a second, I just stare at him in total disbelief. It's something I'd never do, never even think of doing out in public. I mean, I know Black's is a nudie beach and it was a warm day, almost 80 degrees, but it's cooled off now. It's more like 65. A bit chilly for stripping. So what the fuck is he doing?

Then it hits me. Something about the way he keeps staring out at the water tells me that there's a point to his little strip tease. Oh, no. Oh, shit! Please, tell me he's not thinking of going skinny-dipping! I shake my head in disbelief. It's only April! That water's cold. He'll freeze his dick off. Besides, that's--

The ocean. The fucking Pacific ocean! Can't imagine why the hell he'd want to go in there all alone, in the dark.

I shiver, just thinking about it. I hate the ocean. Not looking at it, I mean. I know it's pretty and all. I just can't stand the thought of being in it. Of wading or swimming in it, like some people do. Once upon a time, it almost killed me. When I first enlisted in the Marines, I didn't know how to swim very well. Couple of jarheads in my unit found out, and when we were out on maneuvers practicing beachhead landings, they thought it'd be fun to dunk me in the ocean, and see how long I could hold my breath.

Not nearly long enough, as it turned out. I fought like crazy, but there were two of them and only one of me. One of 'em had me in a chokehold, and I couldn't get my head back up above water, couldn't breathe. Talk about scared -- I was fucking terrified. I thought I was gonna die, that they were gonna keep me under until I passed out, maybe even drown me.

They didn't. When I started to pass out, I went limp and they finally hauled me up, just in time. Then they laughed while I puked up all the salt water I'd choked on, while I was struggling with 'em. I never forgot it. The terror of being under those churning blue waves. Salt water burning my throat, my lungs heaving, straining for air that I couldn't get --

To this day, I never go in the ocean unless I absolutely have to. I don't mind swimming pools or hot tubs, but I stay clear of the deep blue sea. And tonight, it's even worse than that. Tonight, it's the deep black sea. Well, okay, deep black ocean. Whatever. It's cold. Endless. Like death. I hear myself whispering, "Don't do it, Fawkes. Don't go in there!"

But Darien doesn't hear me. He keeps on taking off his clothes. Quietly, slowly. He's not hurrying, he's just staring out at the water the whole time, like it's got him hypnotized. He takes off his T-shirt and belt. Not neatly, of course. He just drops 'em in a heap on the sand beside his shoes. Careless, as usual.

But it's not really his messiness that's got me pissed. It's the fact that he's got an audience, and he doesn't even know it.

Then he takes off his jeans, and it gets even worse. Aw, crap -- he's not wearing any underwear! Goddamn exhibitionist! I look away for a second, my face flaming. Then again, it ain't like he knows anyone's watching him. It's me who's up to something here, not him. Jesus. I'm turning into a goddamn voyeur!

Still … even though I feel guilty spying on him, even though I didn't want this to happen, now that it is, I can't turn away. I try to keep my eyes off him, but I can't. I look back at him again. I've seen Darien shirtless, but never without any clothes on before; and I suck in a breath, because seeing him naked is better than any of my dreams about him. He's tall. Bit skinny, but he ain't a stick. Not by a long shot. He's got some upper body strength, and great biceps. You can tell he works out. He's built like a thoroughbred, like a swimmer. Tall and graceful. Broad shoulders, long legs. Smooth, hairless chest. Flat stomach, nice abs. A dark line of hair there, pointing down to…

Okay. I know it's wrong, but I gotta look. I have to.

I look, and swallow hard as something hot stirs deep in my belly. Whaddaya know? His cock's long, but not too thick. It's as good looking as the rest of him. It figures.

I shake my head in surprise and admiration. Those crummy, thrift-shop clothes he wears just make him look skinny. But Fawkesy's hot! His hair shines in the moonlight. His skin glimmers. Silver touches every angle, curve and hollow of his long, slim body. The breeze lifts his thick, spiky hair, ruffling it with gentle fingers. But Darien doesn't look cold. He looks totally at ease. He's comfortable in his own skin, in a way I never will be.

Fuck. He's beautiful.

Suddenly, I want to touch him so much, I ache with it. I wish I could leave, but it's like he cast a spell on me or something. I can't go, I can't even take my eyes off him. Fawkes obliges me by standing there for awhile. He doesn't move, he hardly even blinks. He just looks out at the waves. Part of me loves the free show, but the rest of me knows this is perverted. That I'm acting like a creepy little peeping Tom here.

After a few minutes, I tell myself enough is enough. That I oughtta go. That I gotta go, and stop peeping on my own partner. But something stronger than lust holds me still. My instincts tell me something's up, that something bad's about to happen. The longer Fawkes looks out at all that black, heaving water, the more worried I get. My heart starts to beat faster. Hope he isn't gonna do what I think he's gonna do….

Then he moves. Without a sound, without warning, Fawkes walks forward. Heading across the sand. Heading for the water.

Aw, crap!

*****************

I stare out at the water for awhile. Think it over. Ask myself, What do I really want?

The answer wells up from deep inside. I don't wanna be alone anymore. Don't wanna be afraid anymore. Don't wanna be this freak who can't love anyone. I don't want the secrets, the lies, the pain, the constant threat of madness hovering over me. Don't want the craving for their goddamn drug. Don't want the cold prick of the needle that keeps the craziness at bay, either. I always hated that.

No more needles, I tell myself. No more pain. No more fear. No more loneliness. But most of all, no more getting up every morning wondering if this is the day when I'll finally snap, and kill Bobby. No more….

It wouldn't be that hard to do. And I'm so low, so damn down, that it seems like a good thing. An idea whose time has definitely come. So I go with my gut. Act on impulse. Decide to do it, to put my plan into action now. Why wait? Every day that I live is just one more day that I might lose it, and murder my best friend. So every day that I live is just one more day that I have to live alone….

I take a deep breath, then I start taking off my clothes. It feels a little cold at first, but not as cold as when I first go invisible. Not as cold as being invisible, even to Bobby. Before I know it, all my clothes are off, and I'm standing there buck naked, with the sand between my toes. I shiver once, then it starts to feel good.

Time for a swim, I tell myself. A very long swim.

The water's a bit cold at first, too. It's still too early in the year for the sun to have worked its magic, and warmed the waves up. Besides, it must be close to midnight, so whatever heat the ocean might've soaked up during the day is long gone now. But I don't let that stop me. I wade out slowly, letting my skin adjust to the chill of the water, feeling it caress my feet, my ankles, my legs. It feels oddly sensual. Almost like cold kisses.

Just for a second, I think about kisses. The kisses I never got from Bobby. Wonder how they would've tasted…. I realize with a pang, that I don't even know if he likes to kiss. There's so much I don't know about him. So much I'll never know…. Pain twists inside me, but I keep on going, deeper into those cold, salty kisses. It feels odd, like I'm wading deeper and deeper into a dream, though I know it isn't.

Guess this is what it feels like, to let go.

I walk out further. The only things that tug at me are thoughts of Bobby and my aunt. But she'll get over it. I don't think this will hurt her as much as it did when I went to prison. And Bobby --

I don't know what Bobby will do. I don't even wanna think about that. What his reaction will be. But in his own way, he's strong. He'll find a way to deal with it. Anyway, it can't be helped. I tried, but it was no use. He doesn't want me, and he can't trust me; and he's right not to.

Still, I realize that, in a weird way, maybe I'm finally going to be able to love someone after all. I finally put a name to my deepest feelings, finally look at what I've been trying so hard to avoid: I'm in love with Bobby. I love him.

Ain't that a kick in the head?

Darien Fawkes finally fell in love. With someone good. Someone brave and loyal and -- and paranoid.

I smile a little. Guess you can't have everything.

But as I stand there with that revelation flashing in my brain, it hits me that even though Hobbes made it clear he's never going to feel the same way, I can still show it. I can still do something for him, something important. I can love him this way. Because this way, if I lose myself in the ocean, they won't be able to salvage the gland. It'll be lost, lost forever; and Bobby will be safe. It's all I can give him, but I can do at least that much. I can keep him safe. I can protect him, like he's always protecting me.

I think about Bobby for a minute. Imagine him safe. Going on with his life without being saddled with a crazed, psychotic partner. It feels good. It feels really, really good. So this must be a good thing. I smile a little. Never thought I'd go out doing a good thing. Must be because of Bobby's influence on me. I just wish he could know that.

At that second, at the edge of the water, I finally get it. The emotional lift I came here for, that I've been waiting for. The ocean couldn't give it to me tonight, but the thought of Hobbes does. It steals over me while I stare out at the water and I smile, thinking of him. I remember a thousand things: his courage, the sound of his laugh, the way he always looked out for me. His tough, handsome face. His mouth, that I wish I'd kissed.

Remembering Bobby makes me feel better. Lighter, and more peaceful. For the first time in months, I feel like a regular guy. Not a freak or a demon, but just a guy who finally fell in love. For the first time in my life, I know how it feels to care more for someone else than I do for myself. Enough to give up everything I have for him, and feel good about it.

Once, I would've thought that was corny, or even stupid. Or maybe even impossible. Now I'm grateful. It's good to know, here at the last, that I've become fully human. It's an amazing feeling, love -- warm, deep and powerful. So I just stand there for a minute more, letting it wash through me, letting myself feel it. My love for Bobby. Despite the darkness and the cold water all around me, it's like someone lit a candle inside me. I don't hate myself, and I don't feel lost anymore.

It's like loving Bobby's given me back a part of myself. I feel like Darien again. The Darien I used to be, before the gland. The guy who had some self respect. The non-violent guy, who had at least one reason to feel good about himself.

Now I've got a better one. I get it now. I finally get it! Wish I'd known love felt this good. Maybe I'd've tried it sooner. But better late than never.

It is late, though. It's very, very late; and the waves are getting stronger now. They're knee-deep, then thigh-deep, then they're hitting my chest. Pulling at me. Tugging at me like a wet embrace. But just before I dive into it, before I answer their call, I think of Bobby Hobbes one more time: The gold glints in his eyes. His smile.

This won't make him smile, I realize. This will hurt him. I stop for a second, feeling that painful squeeze inside my chest again. I don't wanna hurt him. Don't wanna let go of him, either. But even I can see how selfish that is. He'll get over losing me. But if I go mad again, if that red-eyed freak gets his hands on Bobby again -- he could get killed.

And if I have to make a choice between hurting Bobby and getting him killed, there's no choice.

No choice at all.

I eye the waves. They look beautiful again. Silvery, even welcoming. It must be a sign that it's time to go. I take a few deep breaths, readying myself.

So: this is for Bobby Hobbes. The best friend I ever had. Just wish you'd been my lover, too. Maybe I could've taken that sadness out of your eyes.

I would've liked to try. I love you, Bobby.

Then I lean forward. I let the ocean have me, let it take me, swimming just enough to keep my head above water.

Have a good life. See ya, my friend.

I decide to follow the path of the moon. See where it takes me.

**************************

"ShitshitSHIT!" I pull off my watch, jacket, belt, socks and shoes hastily, as Darien swims out to sea. I bury my watch, wallet and keys under the sand, and throw the clothes on top. I'm not as careless or trusting as Fawkes, or maybe not as crazy. I want my stuff here when I get back. Then I head for the water, fast.

I can see now that I should've hit the water when he did. Should've dived in after him right away. He's a good swimmer, so he's moving along out there. Worse, he's headed straight out for the breakwater. But I hesitated 'cause I just wasn't sure, at first, what he was really up to. And if Darien the original wild child was just acting on a whim here, if he was just going out for a little moonlight swim, then I didn't want to jump in to rescue him, and end up looking like a damn fool.

But this is more than a little moonlight dip. I can feel it. Fawkes left everything he had behind him on the sand: his clothes, his watch, even his wallet. Everything. Just dropped 'em right out in plain sight. Granted, he couldn't exactly take his valuables along on a swim, and the beach is pretty deserted right now, but still…. Why'd take off his clothes? He shouldn't've stripped to go swimming, 'cause it's cold out. So why did he?

That bothered me. It changed things. Made this seem less like a swim, and more like some dark kinda plan. More like --.

No. It can't be that. I won't let him do that!

I hope to God I'm wrong, but I can't wait around to find out what Darien's up to, 'cause I can see him out there. He's this sleek, dark shape cutting gracefully through the trail of the moonlight on the ocean -- heading for God knows what. He's already a long way out, and I'm not the greatest swimmer. It's gonna be hard to catch up.

For a second, I consider trying to call him back; but I don't. Because if he's doing what I think he's doing, he won't turn around anyway; and if he isn't, he still won't, just to be annoying. Either way, I know from experience that I could yell my damn head off at him, and it won't do any good. Fawkes won't bend that stubborn neck of his for anyone but the Official. But if I keep quiet, maybe I can sneak up on him in the water. Grab him, and drag his skinny ass back to shore.

It's not much of a plan, but it's all I've got time for. If I wait around to think up something better, he'll be halfway to fucking Hawaii.

"You're gonna be sorry you made me drag you outta here, Fawkes, you dickhead," I say. But he's way too far out to hear me. I'm really talking to myself. Trying to gather my courage. I try hard not to think about sharks, or sea snakes, or any of the creepy, potentially lethal things that could be all around me, unseen beneath the waves. But I know if something brushes up against me while I'm swimming, I'll probably freak. I take one last deep breath.

I get eaten by something out there, Fawkes, and I'll come back and fucking haunt you! Swear to God I will.

Then I wade in, cursing the water's coldness, remembering its awful, salty taste. And hating Fawkes every step of the way, for making me do this. After I quit the Marines, I thought nobody could get me back in the goddamn ocean. But I never figured on Gland Boy. Trust Fawkes to come up with a way to lure me back in!

But even as I curse him, I move faster, shivering as the black, restless water surges up past my knees, then over my hips. It's cold, damn cold. My pants and shirt feel cold and clingy already, and I know that's only gonna get worse. But there's no way I'm going out there with the sharks and snakes and God knows what, without my clothes on. No fucking way!

The deeper the water gets, the deeper my fear gets, too. My heart's racing and my breath's coming faster, but I ignore that. It's only a little water, I tell myself. So it's cold. Big deal! You've faced a lot worse things. Can't let it get to you. There's no time for that. There's no one else around to help, and Fawkes is acting crazy.

When the next wave comes, it's big. I've got three choices: turn around and go back, stay where I am and let it smash into me, or duck under it and start swimming. I hate the taste of salt water…. But that's Darien out there.

Fuck the Pacific.

I hold my breath and dive.

******************

I swim on, feeling curiously peaceful. Other than the rush and hiss of the waves, it's quiet out here. My muscles roll smoothly, my arms cut the dark water with ease. Feel like I could do this all night. Forever. Maybe I will. Because every stroke takes me further and further away from the Agency, from the Fat Man, from a life that's too screwed up to live anymore.

The down side is, it's also taking me further away from Bobby.

That hurts. But if I'm crying, there's no way to tell anymore, out here in the water. Besides, if there's one thing I've learned in the last year, it's that you can't have everything. I used to think I could, but that was an illusion. I know that now. I lived high for awhile, had a good run, but now it's over, and I'm paying for it. That's okay, though. I broke all the rules, and then some. Guess I deserve to pay. But Bobby doesn't. He shouldn't have to pay the price for my mistakes. He shouldn't have to suffer, and maybe even die, because I let them put this gland in my head. This way, I can make sure he won't have to.

That's such a relief, part of me wonders why I didn't think of this a long time ago. But part of me, a small part deep down inside, is scared. The waves are getting bigger, and I'm further out in the ocean than I've ever gone before. I can hear it screaming at me to stop. Go back. GO BACK! But I don't listen to it. I'm just out for a swim, a moonlight swim, I tell it smoothly. Chill out.

I keep on kicking and stroking, blazing a foamy trail through the liquid moonlight.

********************

Dammit! Fawkes is out so far, I've been swimming as hard as I can, and I'm still way behind.

My clothes feel heavy. Too heavy. They pull on me every time I take a stroke. They're starting to weigh me down. Maybe I shoulda left 'em behind after all. Gone skinny-dipping, like Fawkes. Too late now. I'm starting to pant. The waves are bigger out here. It's getting harder to keep going forward, to keep them from pushing me back.

I'm not gonna make it, I think. I have this dark little vision of going under. Just sinking down, down into the cold blackness beneath me. Food for the fishes. I feel myself shudder. I tell myself it's with cold. Cold, not fear.

But I can't go much further. I know it. I'm just not that good a swimmer. Already, my arms feel like lead. Even if I turned around now, I'm not sure I could make it all the way back to shore. Enough, already, I tell myself. This has gone far enough. Forget about sneaking up on him. Just make him stop, before it's too late.

I fight my way up over the dark crest of another wave, and lift my head, panting, to look ahead for Fawkes. But all of a sudden, the silvery trail of the moon on the waves ahead of me, where he was swimming, is empty.

I don't see him.

Oh shit! Panic roars through me. I stop swimming, try to shake the stinging salt water out of my eyes, and tread water while I look all around. Oh God, no. Oh, please -- I remember how I threw him out of my apartment. Just told him to go, like a shithead, because I was scared. Scared that he didn't really want me, and even more scared that he might, and that I'd screw him up if we got involved. I shouldn't've done that. I know how easy he gets depressed. But all I could think of was getting rid of him fast, before he found out the truth. Before he figured out how much I wanted to say yes. I even told him I was doing him a favor. Dammit! What a prick. What a stupid, cowardly little prick I was! I remember the awful look on Darien's face when I said that, and I'm petrified.

If I lose him out here, if he drowns -- it'll be on me.

I turn in crazed, desperate circles, scanning the black water in all directions for a trace of his pale body, his sleek, dark head. "Darien!" I yell, at the top of my lungs. "Fawkes! Where are you, dammit? Where are you? DARIENNNNN!"

*************************

Finally, I get a bit bored with just slogging on through the water. So I decide to go under for a bit. Just for the hell of it. See how long I can hold my breath. Haven't done that in a while….

Turns out, I can do it for longer than I thought. I count to a slow fifty before I have to come up again. I think about Kevin while I do it, 'cause that's a game we used to play when we were kids. Submarine, we called it. We'd dive underwater, then see how long we could stay under….

I miss him. Funny -- here I am out in the middle of nowhere, way out in the Pacific, and for a second, all I want is my brother beside me again. Young and laughing. Only I know that's another one of those things I can't have. 'Cause Kevin's in a coffin now. He's not here with me. He never will be again.

Until….

No. It's not time yet.

So I surface again. Suck in air in deep breaths, because I was down there for awhile. Then I shiver, lift my head and listen hard. Because out there somewhere in the darkness, I think I hear someone calling me.

"Darien!"

Aw crap. It can't be!

It's a male voice. Some distance away, but familiar. It calls again, and sends shivers down my spine. It sounds like it's coming from behind me, back in the direction of the shore. But when I look back, all I see are big waves, cresting and hissing. I don't see anyone. And I know there shouldn't be anyone there. Not this far out, not this late at night, and not this early in the year. I'm not superstitious, but somehow, in the darkness, memory breathes a name to me anyway. Out of guilt, out of love.

"Kevin?"

I know it's impossible. But out here in the vastness of the moonlit ocean, it feels like I'm in a different world; and some irrational part of me hopes it could be true. That my brother could somehow be calling to me. Trying to warn me, trying to save me. After all, Kevin's the only one who'd care enough about me to try to stop me. Even if it was from beyond the grave….

For a minute, I just hang there, treading water and listening hard. That call seemed so real! But when it doesn't come again, I waver. Maybe it was just my mind, playing tricks on me. If it was, then I'll turn back and go on with my decision -- my swim. But if it wasn't….

"DARIENNNN!"

There it is again! The call is fainter now, but this time, I know it's real. There's a desperation to it, an edge, that's not something I would've imagined. And this time, I see something break the surface of the water, way back where that call came from. Something pale. A face and hands. I see splashing, like someone's floundering around in the water.

"Fawkes! Where are you?"

Fuck! Someone's really out there! Someone who knows my name. It's so eerie, I shiver again. But it's not Kevin. It can't be. Whoever that is, it can't be my brother, or even his ghost --'cause Kevin never called me Fawkes.

You'd think I'd be relieved by that. But for a second, I feel a crazy kind of disappointment instead. Maybe somehow, some way, part of me actually believed that Kevin could've come back from the dead. It wanted him to. But the disappointment only lasts a second, until I realize who it is. Then my sadness is washed away, and my heart lurches wildly in my chest.

It's still too far away to see him clearly, but I know who it is, who's out there in the water yelling at me. It doesn't make any sense, it's crazy, but I know. Hell, I should've known all along.

****************************

I'm so busy looking for Fawkes, yelling to him, that I forget to look around me. I don't even see the wave coming. I just feel myself being lifted suddenly, then there's this roar and I'm flung forward and what feels like a ton of water crashes down on my head. Boom! Then I'm rolling, tumbling like a stone, head over heels in the black water. Over and over, till I've got no idea which way is up.

It's my old nightmare, come to life again.

I'm in the ocean, way under, and I can't breathe. Oh fuck, oh shit! When I finally stop rolling, my heart's pounding like a hammer, and I'm terrified. I've got just enough of my wits left to hold my breath and I turn and twist, looking for the surface. Which way's up? I've got no idea. But the blackness seems slightly lighter over to my left, and time's running out. My air's running out. So I head that way, kicking hard, giving it all I've got. Praying that I'm right, and that I'm heading for air, for the surface, and not deeper down.

When my head finally breaks the surface, I'm shaking and gasping. I'm alive, I made it, but fighting my way back up from so far down took almost everything I had left. I'm cold and tired and scared. It's all I can do to try to keep myself afloat. I spit out salt water and cough.

"Fawkes!" I sputter, shivering.

*************************

It's Hobbes! How'd he find me? And why the hell did he follow me all the way out here?

For a second, I freeze. I don't answer him, I just tread water, pierced by indecision so paralyzing that I can't go forward or back. Part of me is yelling, Go get him, you asshole! He sounds like he needs help! But the other half of me knows I shouldn't go. That as long as I live, so does my demon. That part of me insists that the best way I can help Hobbes is to just keep going. He'll find his way back without me; and without me, he'll be safe.

But will he go back? Can I be sure? If he can't… if he's hurt, or worn out, or cramping up from the cold or something, and I don't go back for him, he won't make it.

But maybe he won't make it if I do….

Aw, crap! I hang there, literally caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Hobbes yells again. "Dar -i - ennnn!" It's a watery kind of yell, that sounds even more desperate than the last one.

That tips the scales. I took this swim because I know I'm a possible future threat to him. But that yell tells me that he's in far more danger from the ocean right now. That threat's real, and immediate. The other one's only a maybe. So I can't go on, can't gamble with his life like that. That's why I was out here in the first place: to save him.

I can't let him drown. I gotta save Bobby.

The second the decision's made, I'm swimming toward him. Fast. Still, I feel an undercurrent of regret. Part of me wanted the nightmare to be over. Wanted it badly. For Bobby's sake, and mine. Heading back means plunging headfirst into hell again.

But I go back anyway. Bobby comes first.

Feeling guilty that I hesitated, I pour it on to get to him. Swim as fast as I can until I'm beside him. Hobbes is pale and wild-eyed, and barely keeping his head above water. Wonder how well he can swim? And if he's not a good swimmer, how the hell did he ever make it all the way out here? Jeez, he's got guts.

But I already knew that.

I close the last bit of distance between us in seconds, and reach out for him. "Hey, Bobby! I'm here. It's okay. You all right?" I ask gently. I take hold of his hands, and guide them to my shoulders. Hobbes grabs on, gasping for breath. Wow. I've never seen him look scared before. I steady him, then I brace myself. Wait for him get furious. I figure he's gonna let me have it. Take my head off. Call me every name in the book. Maybe even hit me, for being such an asshole. Or threaten to report me to the Fat Man, for endangering his precious gland.

But Hobbes doesn't do that. "Okay? Course I am," he gasps. He puts a shaky hand on my head, and ruffles my wet hair. "Hey, kid! You all right?" He gives me this wet, goofy grin. It's crazy, because we're half a mile out in the ocean, it's dark and we're both cold and shivering, but it hits me that I've never seen him look so happy.

"Yeah. I am now." Before I can stop myself, I'm grinning too. Seems like he's not mad at me for doing this. I can't believe it! "But I thought I toldja not to call me 'kid'," I shoot back, even though I secretly hope that he'll never stop.

He just grips my shoulders, sucks in a few more deep breaths and says, "You d-did. I just … didn't l-listen."

Good.

Bobby's so cold, he's shaking. I was cold too, but somehow, seeing that he's okay and knowing that he's not furious with me drives my shivers away. This deep, warm feeling spreads through me again, like the a shaft of sunlight. I know I did the right thing, coming back. 'Cause whatever the dangers may be, no matter how fucked up my life is, I can't leave him when he's in trouble.

I love him.

But then Bobby's grin fades and his eyes turn serious. "B-but this -- this is --f-far enough, Darien. T-time … to go back now. Okay?"

"Okay," I answer. Just like that. He could probably get me to do anything, I think, and the thought doesn't even faze me. I look at Bobby's pale, wet face, and feel affection tinged with wonder.

He's not even telling me to go back -- he's asking me to! He's not treating me like a kid now, not when it counts. He's leaving it up to me to make the decision. Treating me like an equal, like his partner. It's the right thing to say, the absolutely perfect thing to do; and no one else in my life would've known that but him. Anyone else would be asking questions. Trying to find out what I was doing out here. Ordering me to go back, or maybe even yelling at me. But not Hobbes. He always knows just what to say. Even now, when he's white-faced and shaking, when he's so cold that his teeth are actually chattering, he still knows.

Bobby Hobbes is magic. Holding onto him in the dark water, it hits home to me for the second time that I've never loved anyone like this in my life.

It makes me see how stupid I was, back at his apartment. I was wrong about Bobby. Just because he doesn't wanna fuck me, that doesn't mean he doesn't give a damn. Maybe he doesn't want me the way I wish he did. So what? I just realized -- there's only one reason why he'd do such a crazy thing as to follow me half a mile out into the ocean, in the dark. He nearly got himself drowned trying to save me, and that means something. There's ways and ways to love; and in his own way, Bobby loves me, too. As a friend. He must. 'Cause he's not out here protecting the gland for the Fat Man. Hell, the Fat Man doesn't even know I'm here. He doesn't know I left Bobby's place in a huff, so he couldn't've sent him to find me. No, Bobby's here for me. Because he was worried about me.

Kevin's not the only one who cared about me.

It's such a big thing, it means so much to me, I don't know what to say. So I just tread water for a bit. Steady Hobbes until the worried look fades from his eyes. I even let myself enjoy the way he's holding onto me. Even if he is cold and shivering, and even if it is only for his protection, I still managed to get Bobby's hands on my naked body. Yeah, baby! Score one for Invisible Boy.

I wish I could tell him I love him. But I know now that he doesn't wanna hear that, so I settle for smiling at him instead. "Yeah. I guess you're right. It's time to go back."

I try not to notice his obvious relief. Guess he thought I was gonna give him a hard time about it. Try to get away or something. But I can't. Can't go on with this, not after seeing him. Knowing he loves me, that changes everything.

For the first time, I think, Maybe I did the wrong thing coming on to Bobby back at his place. I let my dick distract me, like I always do. I probably should've stuck to my original plan. Tried to work my problems out with him instead. He doesn't wanna have sex with me, but that doesn't mean he won't help me. Maybe he can help me figure out how to live with my demon, and not let it destroy me. Or him.

Maybe somehow, as long as Bobby's with me, there'll be a light at the end of this long tunnel.

I want to believe there will be; and that alone is more hope than I've felt for a long time. I know it won't be easy, but I make up my mind to try to talk this out with him as soon as possible. To tell him the truth about how much the Quicksilver madness is freaking me out. I won't come on to him again, but I wanna tell him how scary things are for me now, and how much I need his friendship, his help. I owe him that much, since he came all this way to save me.

In the meantime, I try to think of a way to return the favor.

I look over at Hobbes. He let go of me for a minute, and he's treading water okay, but he looks tired. Too tired to make it all the way back to shore by himself, though I know he'd die before he'd ever admit it. "Hey, Hobbesy," I say, trying to sound casual so I won't hurt his pride. "I got an idea. How 'bout you grab onto my shoulders, and we'll head in? I'll tow ya for awhile." Then I turn around fast, ostensibly so he can take hold of my shoulders, but really so he won't be able to argue with me.

But to my surprise, he doesn't say a word, doesn't even try to fight me on it. He just splashes over and grips my shoulders tightly, so I know he must be as worn out as he looks. Anyway, having a wet Hobbesy hanging onto my shoulders is fine by me. I grin, knowing he can't see it. So it's not a grope. At least he's touching me again. I'll take what I can get.

"Okay. Here we go," I say, and I start swimming again. But I'm not headed out to sea anymore. This time, I'm heading back to shore. No -- we are, I think, and I'm smiling. Because maybe now, I'll get a chance to find out what's bugging him, too. What that sadness in his eyes is all about. Maybe I'll even get to chase it away. Even though I know I can't be his lover, I still want to try to do that. It's the least I can do, when he's done so much for me.

True to form, now that the worst danger's over, Bobby starts to grumble. "Swimming in the -- o-ocean, in the -- mi-middle of the fuh-friggin' night," he mutters. "Ya see-through lu-lunatic!"

My smile gets bigger. He's so cold, his teeth are starting to chatter; but he's never too cold for that. That's my Bobby. "Ya know, Hobbes, it's not considered polite to insult your friendly neighborhood lifeguard. Especially not when he's giving you a tow, " I tease.

But inside, I feel better already. It's not like all's suddenly right with my world, but this comes close. Damn close. We're not gonna have sex, but in spite of what I did, Hobbes cares about me. Enough to even brave swimming in the ocean at night, which I sense was not a happy experience for him. And knowing that there's at least one person in my new life I can count on, someone who gives a shit if I decide to take a long, moonlight swim out to nowhere…. Well, let's just say it makes that big black hole inside me seem a helluva lot smaller.

Hobbes came for me. For me, not the damn gland. Got a feeling he always will, no matter what. So I guess I'll have to find a way to put up with the gland, the needle, the Fat Man, the Agency, my demon, and all the rest of it.

For him.

*************************

I hold onto Darien's shoulders and let him tow me for awhile, while I take deep breaths to get my strength back. Figure he owes me anyway, for this crazy stunt. What the hell were you thinking, Fawkes? I want to ask him, but I don't. I want to yell at him for scaring the shit out of me like this, but I don't do that either. Something tells me not to. Maybe it's just common sense, 'cause if he wanted to tell me what this was all about, I guess he would. Or maybe it's experience. I've been with Fawkes long enough to know how stubborn he can get, if you come down on him hard. Then again -- maybe I'm not asking 'cause I'm afraid I already know. It'd be even worse to hear it from him, to hear him say I drove him out into this black water all alone, in the middle of the night.

I swallow hard. It's gotta be at least partly my fault. Whatever's bugging him, I added to it. Made it worse, when I threw him out.

And now he's saving my ass. That makes me feel even worse.

"I'm too old for this shit, and you're too young. It ain't gonna happen. So go home." The words ring in my head, and I curse myself. I was an idiot. I shouldn't've said that! I should've helped him, instead of throwing him out. Plus, I should've seen this whole thing coming. Fawkes has been different lately. He hasn't exactly been Mr. Happy since they put the gland in his head, but ever since he talked to that damn phony psychic, went Quicksilver crazy and choked me, he's gotten worse. More uptight. Moodier than usual. He's been down. Not smiling much. I've seen this dark look in his eyes sometimes, when we're at the Agency. He's started calling me a lot late at night, too. Never about anything much, just wanting to talk.

It wasn't anything major, just some little differences in him, but I should've taken them more seriously. Should've seen what all those little things add up to. Doesn't take a genius to guess that Fawkes is probably feeling lonely. Isolated. More depressed than usual. If anyone should've picked up on that, it's me. I'm his partner, I'm supposed to take care of him. I should've tried to talk to him. To explain things. Tell him it'd be all right. That he didn't have to do something like this. That we don't have to do that, either. Don't have to have sex to get him through this. I should've --

"You okay, Hobbes?"

Fawkes stops swimming for a second and looks back over his shoulder at me. The moonlight's so bright I can see his eyes, see the concern in them. Damn. Even now, even after what he just did, he's worried about me. It's fucking incredible! For a second, that warmth in his eyes even gets past my fear about doing it with a guy. I'd do it, I think impulsively. For you, I'd do it. Hell, I'd do just about anything, to keep you from ever trying something like this again.

But the strength of my own response scares me. I get this surge, this uncontrollable surge of feeling, every time he's close to me. I can't stop it. Even now, even though I know he's just rescuing me, it turns me on, holding onto him.

I still can't admit it, though. Can't tell him. If I did, that'd make it real. If I did, then I'd have to do something about it. "Pony up," as the Keep would say. And part of me, the coward part, is still hoping that I won't have to. That Darien won't figure out how much I want to. 'Cause I don't think I'd be good for him. He's messed up enough as it is, between that damn gland and the Keeper and counteragent and the Fat Man, without getting involved with Lithium Bobby, to boot.

"I'm fine," I say gruffly instead. "Just keep goin'. It's cold out here."

"Wimp," Fawkes snickers.

"Nutcase!" I shoot back, shivering. And it feels good, so damn good to be insulting him again, doing the partner thing again, that I find myself smiling back.

Fawkes grins, and keeps on swimming.

**************************

I head for shore. I swim slowly, carefully, so Hobbes won't lose hold, and I can conserve my energy. Because it's hard, pulling both of us in. Harder than I thought it would be. But Hobbes is kicking his feet to help push us along, and it seems to have warmed him up a bit, because his teeth have stopped chattering. After awhile, to distract myself from how tired I'm getting, I ask, "Ya wanna hear something funny, Hobbes?" But that's really Fawkespeak for, Damn, I'm glad you're here.

"What, like the size of your I.Q.?" Hobbes replies. Which translates to, Ditto. I got your back, partner.

I smile. It's like this little code we have. The partnership code. No one else could decipher it, but we know exactly what it means. I love it. "I thought you were my brother," I tell him.

"What, Kevin?" Hobbes sputters, like he just choked on salt water.

Ha! Knew that'd get him. "Don'tcha mean who?" I correct him, needling him some more.

"Don't try to distract me, Fawkes. I mean Kevin Fawkes. Your only brother, in case you forgot. The smart Fawkes, the scientist guy."

I grin. "You wound me, Hobbes, you really do --"

Bobby snorts. "I think you already got a wound, my friend. A serious head wound. How could you think I was him, when he's dead?"

"Well, ya gotta admit, it's a little spooky. Hearing someone call your name when you're swimming way out in the ocean at night, thinking you're all alone --"

I feel a tug on my shoulders, and suddenly Hobbes' head is right beside mine. "Hey. You're not alone, Darien." He breathes the words in my ear, and he called me by my first name, so I know he's not joking anymore.

I shiver, knowing what's behind those words. Love. Trust. Everything I thought I'd lost, when I attacked him. But Bobby came through for me again, like he always does. In spite of that, in spite of everything. I feel a huge surge of gratitude, relief and affection. I don't deserve him. I've never done anything in my life, to deserve having a friend like this. I get a lump in my throat, and for a minute, I can't answer. When I can finally talk again, I just nod and say, "Gotcha, Hobbesy."

It's not much, and I know it, but it's enough for Hobbes. The two of us, we don't need Hallmark cards. He squeezes my shoulder. Message received. "Good. Now I'm gonna let go, okay?" he says. "'Cause I got my breath back. I can take it from here, Fawkesy. We'll both swim back together."

"Okay." Together. That's a good word. I like the sound of that. I turn to look at him as he paddles around next to me, and I smile. I can't resist teasing him again. Teasing Hobbes is almost as much fun as theft used to be. Sometimes I think it's even better. "Race ya to the beach?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Just swim, kid," he says. But he's smiling too.

*****************************

Finally, after what seems like forever, we get back to water that's shallow enough to walk in. Thank God. I stand up, but I'm shivering with cold, and so tired that I'm stumbling. I can only imagine how wiped out Darien must be after swimming even further, then towing me partway back. But he's moving along beside me, wading now too, and I feel a wave of pure relief. It could've been worse. Much worse. At least we didn't meet up with any sharks or snakes or anything else with teeth and an appetite, out there. Most of all, I'm grateful that Darien's safe, that he agreed to come back in without a fight. I was gonna drag him back if I had to, but by the time I found him, I wasn't up for that. So if he'd tried to fight me, we might've both gone under.

I try to push that thought out of my head. It didn't happen, so just let it go.

We're both breathing hard, so we don't say anything, we just push on towards shore. I think longingly of my dry jacket, of getting back to the van and turning the heat on. I know Darien must be as cold as I am. And I know I probably shouldn't do this, but I remember how beautiful he looked on the beach before he went into the water, and I can't resist taking another look. So once the water's only up to his thighs, I steal a glance at him.

Oh jeez. That was dumb. Really stupid. 'Cause that one little peek sends a flash of desire through me. I must look like a wet rat. But Darien doesn't. He's shivering a little, and I know he's gotta be cold and tired, but he still looks good. Being wet suits him. For once, his wild hair looks sleek. It's slicked back on his head, and his muscles are outlined with all these silvery drops of water. He looks sexy, like a fucking mermaid or something. Big and wet and sleek and beautiful. Best of all, he's naked. Oh yeah. Man, is he naked!

I feel a wave of heat now, stronger than before. Naked looks good on Darien. Really, really good.

Then I feel guilty. I shouldn't be looking at him like this, or thinking about him like this either. Not now, not after what he just went through. I know that. But I can't make myself stop. We're all alone here, it's probably past midnight and damn, I don't think I've ever wanted anyone this bad in my whole life.

My little look turns into an outright stare. I can't help it.

Worst of all, Fawkes sees it. He catches me looking. He meets my gaze, and holds it. He's shivering, but he smiles. This funny, crooked, almost shy little smile.

Oh shit.

******************************

I'm tired. I am so, so tired, it's hard to keep on moving. But it feels good to have sand under my feet again. Not to have to swim anymore. It was kinda rough, towing Bobby back. A lot harder than I let him see. Guess I was more freaked than I realized, 'cause I'd gone a helluva long way out. So it took a lot out of me, getting us both back through those big waves. Couple of times, I was afraid we might not make it. I just told myself I had to. I got Hobbes into this, so I had to get him out.

Now he is. We're both okay; and fuck, I'm glad that's over.

Now that Hobbes found me and stopped me, my future doesn't seem nearly as bleak. Even though I'm cold and tired, it's good to be alive. To have hope, and someone beside me. No, not just someone -- Bobby Hobbes. I smile to myself.

We're too breathless from the long swim and the cold to say anything yet. We just keep going, trying not to let the waves sweep us off our feet again. At some point, I realize that the water's only up to my thighs now. At first, all I feel is relief. Then I realize that Bobby's looking at me really intently. I can feel it, feel his dark gaze on my skin. I glance over at him while we stumble on towards shore, thinking something must be wrong.

Hobbes is still shivering. But he doesn't seem to mind, or even notice. He's too busy staring at me. I can't figure out why, and I get embarrassed. I realize that this is the first time he's ever seen me naked, and the same awkwardness I felt in his apartment comes back again. I feel like I'm about twelve years old. Like I'm this overgrown, gawky kid whose body hasn't caught up with his huge hands and feet yet. I feel awkward and insecure. Hobbes probably thinks I'm too skinny. Or else I've got seaweed stuck to my ass, and he's about to burst out laughing.

I almost look down to check. Then I notice the strange intensity of his stare, and I forget all about it. My mouth goes dry. Because Hobbes isn't just looking at me, he's practically devouring me with his eyes. They're wide and dark and even in the moonlight, I can see something that looks like hunger in them.

I blink at him, stunned. I'd totally given up on the idea that he'd ever want me before I took my swim. Hell, I'd given up on everything. But now that I'm safe, and I know that he cares about me, and I actually caught him looking -- well, let's just say that I don't feel awkward anymore. Thrilled would be more like it. Turned on, too. That's me. One step away from death, and I'm already thinking about sex again. I shrug. So sue me. I'm a horny bastard.

But I'm also a bit confused. I thought he didn't want me! I thought…. I'm not sure what I thought, but that look in his eyes tells me that maybe, just maybe, I was wrong. This may be a whole new ball game. Maybe Bobby's a switch hitter after all. Oh wow! Oh, baby -- please let it be true.

When he sees me watching, though, Hobbes looks away again. It doesn't take a genius to read that sign. He wants me, but he's embarrassed about it. So if he is bi or gay, I don't think he's ready to admit it. Still, despite my weariness, I feel this rush. This time, I'm not sure if it's excitement or fear, or both. He has so much power over me, and he doesn't even know it.

Yet.

I smile at him. This goofy little smile, 'cause I feel a bit dizzy. Cold and tired and chilled on the outside, but hot on the inside. I tease him. I can't help it. I take a deep breath to steady my voice, and ask sweetly, "Whatcha lookin' at, Hobbesy?"

Bobby blinks, like I just woke him up from a deep sleep. Then he gets even more embarrassed. I can tell, because he does this little evasive maneuver, and angles away from me. Tries to put some distance between us as we wade towards shore. "Nothin'," he mutters.

But it's no use. I've known him long enough that I can tell when he's lying. And there's no way I can let that go. It's one of my favorite games, prying the truth out of Hobbes when he's trying to hide it from me. So I go after him. "Oh, no. You're not …getting off that easy," I say breathlessly. "That look … meant something, I can tell."

Hobbes ignores me. I can tell he's almost exhausted, but he's like this wet little Energizer bunny. He just keeps slogging on toward the beach, unstoppable.

My little tiger, I think, smiling. But I can be just as relentless when I really want something, and Bobby definitely falls into that category. "Hobbesy!" I call, following him. "Come on, you can … tell me. Why the … look?"

"That look meant …you better … get your ass … outta that water, Fawkes! Or you're gonna … catch pneumonia!" he pants. "Quicksilver … doesn't make you … immune to … cold, ya know."

Funny, but I don't think that look had anything to do with the cold, or Quicksilver, or my imminent threat of death from pneumonia, either. I don't think Hobbes was giving me that hot stare because he was worried that I might catch cold. Oh, no. I think he just lied to me again.

Of course, that just intensifies my interest. He looks really hot out here in the moonlight, with his wet clothes all plastered to him like that. You can really see how muscular he is. Jeez, look at those shoulders. And that ass, oh, mama! Mmm…. I shiver, but now it's not just with the cold.

I force my tired body to move faster, and plow through the shallow waves until I catch up with him. "What about y-you? You were… in there a long t-time, too --" I break off, because now that I'm not swimming anymore, now that my naked body is exposed to the night air, my teeth are starting to chatter. It's distracting. I'm just trying to get a rise out of Hobbes anyway, to get his attention back. I'd say anything, to get him to look at me like that again. But he doesn't. He ignores me, just keeps on walking like he's fine. "H-Hobbes?"

He just shrugs. He won't even look at me. He's almost out of the water now, it's only swirling around his ankles. He should look relieved, even happy, but he doesn't. He looks kinda grim. It's hard to believe he's the same guy who was clinging to my shoulders a little while ago. That he's the same guy who told me I'm not alone. Bet he wouldn't say that right now, if I asked him. It's like -- now that we're out of the water, out of danger, he's switching from being my friend Bobby, back to Agent Hobbes again. He's got his tough face on now, the one that says he won't talk even if you torture him, and it's like that hot look he just gave me never happened.

My heart sinks. I shouldn't've teased him about it. That was a mistake. I must've embarrassed him. Now he's closing himself off again. Shutting me out. Me and my big mouth. Dammit!

But it turns out, Bobby's thoughts are far grimmer than that. Finally, he says flatly, "Don't worry about me. I'm the expendable one, remember?"

Ouch. That stings so much it stops me in my tracks. That was worse than getting shut out -- it was like a slap in the face. I know that's how the Fat Man sees him, but I can't stand it when Bobby talks about himself like that! He's worth ten of me, any day. He's honest, brave, loyal and funny…. Maybe he's a bit paranoid, but he takes his pills, he does the best he can with that; and he's the best friend I've ever had.

So I start moving again. I get around in front of him as he heads up onto the sand. "Don't s-say that," I tell him sharply. "Don't!"

**********************************************************

Oh, shit. I was trying to push Fawkes away, for his own good. Instead, I think I pissed him off. Still, he needs to hear this. After that swim, it's obvious that he needs to get his head straight about a few things. Like which of us is the valuable one, for starters. "It's the truth," I say flatly, "and you know it. We both know it."

He shakes his head so hard that water flies. "No! Maybe that's the Official's truth, b-but it's not ours, Bobby. It's s-sure as hell not mine."

Darien's standing there stark naked, wet and shivering, and I swear, I don't think he even knows he's cold. He's more worried about me, about what I just said. Now I'm sorry I opened my big mouth. I can see he's not gonna let this go. He won't let me look away, and what I see in his eyes is so intense that it scares me. "Fawkes --"

He comes even closer. " I mean it! I'd t-take a bullet for you, Bobby," he says in a rush. Then he stops. Catches himself, and falls silent again. But his eyes never leave me, and I know he means it. Hell, I think he means even more than that, more than he's saying. This crazy suspicion crosses my mind. Is he trying to say he'd do more than just get wounded to save me? Is he trying to tell me he'd actually die for me?

Aw, no. No! That idea never even occurred to me before, and it jolts me. Then I get an even worse one, one that sends a chill down my spine. Was that what his goddamn swim was all about? I thought he was just trying to escape his problems. But what if he did it for my sake? Was he trying to kill his demon, because it tried to kill me?

Did Darien just try to kill himself to save me?

Oh, Jesus. FuckfuckFUCK!

Now we're both shivering. That possibility's so shocking that for a minute, I can't even speak. Darien's standing there naked and cold, with his heart in his eyes, waiting for me to respond to what he said. Say something. But I can't, because I don't know what to think.

That's crazy. I can't make a nutty assumption like that, when I really don't know why he did this. I won't know, until he tells me.

But there's so much in Darien's eyes, so much unspoken feeling, that it scares me. Shit! It can't be that. It can't! He wouldn't've done that for me. That's nuts! I must be projecting my own emotions, my own crazy feeling that he's family, onto him. My shrinks say I tend to do that. Yeah. It must be that. I gotta be nuts to even think Darien'd do something like that, to protect me! That'd mean he doesn't just care for me, it'd mean that he -- But that's impossible! I mean, if you're willing to die for somebody when it's not part of the job, when it's not even your duty and that person's totally expendable, that's -- that would mean that you -- that he, that Darien --

I feel like an abyss just opened up in front of me. I reel back mentally.

No. That's fucking ridiculous! Like Fawkes, the government's prize, their Seventeen Million Dollar Man, would care that much for a used-up old agent like me! Like Fawkes the beautiful would want somebody who's short and balding. Right. In your dreams, pal! Besides, Fawkesy's just this big kid. He hasn't even really grown up yet. Like he'd wanna die for me! Give up his whole life, just to protect me. No way! Sure, he's good-hearted and all, but that -- that's different. He hasn't got it in him to go that far, to make that kinda sacrifice for anyone, let alone me. I'd have to be delusional, to think he took that swim for me. Time for another session on the couch or something.

That scary scenario, that bit of paranoia, fizzles out and dies, and I'm glad. It's a relief to let go of it. Don't know what I was thinking. Fawkes would never do that! I bet this was all about him, not me. If I'm right, if he's been depressed, he probably just got fed up. Figured he'd had it up to here with having to take orders from the Fat Man. Got fed up with the Agency, and his Keeper, and counteragent and the whole shebang, and acted on impulse, like he always does. Decided to take the easy way out.

I can see Fawkes doing that.

I want it to be that. Wanna believe this is all about him, not about me. But it still pisses me off, big time. If that's why he did it, I should hit him up side his dumb, childish head. Knock some sense into him. Then again, it's hard to tell just what was going on in the wild child's brain this time. Maybe he wasn't just acting out of spite, or self pity, or on the spur of the moment, as usual. Maybe he had some other reason, some better reason, for that swim. Until I find out for sure, I should cut him some slack.

There's also one other possibility: the gland. Maybe the gland somehow made him do this. Now that Fawkes's got that thing in his head, he can be nutty. Dark. Even deadly. I don't want to think about that right now, but I know I have to. 'Cause it's possible that might be part of what drove him out here. That goddamn gland. It's part of him, but he doesn't wanna accept that. Oh, he loves the going invisible bit. The sneaking around. That suits him right down to his larcenous little toes. But the dark side of it, the part where he goes Red-Eyed and gets crazy, that scares the crap outta him.

That's one thing that surprised everybody; how much ole Red Eyes gets to Fawkes. Guess they thought that because he was a thief and an ex-con, he wouldn't care much about people, or about who he hurts when he goes nuts. But they really underestimated him there. He does care. And it ain't his own pain he worries about, either. I know that's agonizing, but he never talks about how much it hurts him when his eyes turn red. He just worries about everyone else, after. "Hobbes, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you, man. I'm sorry.…"

Deep down, Darien's a pacifist. He hates what going Quicksilver crazy does to him. How it makes him violent. Hell, I don't like it much myself. Hate it that he got the drop on me, last time that happened. But that wasn't such a big deal, to me. It wasn't the first time someone tried to kill me, and it won't be the last. It wasn't even Darien's fault, 'cause it wasn't even him. I know that, and I don't blame him.

Wonder if he's still blaming himself, though. He was pretty upset, after it happened. In fact, he's been different ever since. I'll have to talk to him about it. Find out if that's part of what's bugging him, that loss of control. The things his demon does, that he can't stop. But if it is, tough shit! If I can deal with it, then Fawkes can, too. He's damn well gonna have to. Like it or not, that's his reality now. He's gotta face up to it.

But how do you tell a pacifist that he's a killer now, and he'd better learn to like it? It's not easy. Especially since my reactions to Fawkes probably aren't exactly rational, either. I look into his eyes and think, Maybe he's not the only one who's got a death wish. 'Cause I know all that. Know all about Darien's demon, what the gland can turn him into, and how scary he can get. But I still want him.

Maybe the real question is, which one of us is crazier? What really scares me is, I don't know.

All I know for sure is, we're both cold, and shivering, and scared -- and Darien still needs help.

His big eyes are still searching mine. Half of me wants to smack him, for putting me through this. But the other half is so fucking relieved that he's okay, so happy that he's still with me, that it wants to kiss him. That half wins out. I don't kiss him, but I don't yell at him, either.

Somehow, I just can't be hard on him. Not now. Even though he probably deserves it. I mean, how can you yell at your partner when he just said he'd take a bullet for you? What I'd really like to do is take him in my arms and hold him, instead. Tell him everything will be all right, and never to try anything like this again. Tell him not to even think of crazy shit like this, ever again.

It's all so complicated -- such a mess, but such an important one -- that I don't know what to do next. Don't even know what the hell to say to him. It's all too much, and I could be wrong about his motives, too. Maybe it isn't his demon, or even working for the Agency, that's bothering him. Maybe he's got something else going on in his life. Something that freaked him out, that I don't even know about.

Yet.

But I will, I promise myself. I'll find out what's bugging Fawkes, and soon.

But right now, I'm so worn out, I can't think straight. And I don't want to make a mistake. Not about this. Not about Darien. He's too important. And not 'cause of that gland in his head. 'Cause he's more than just my partner, he's family. And I take care of my own.

So I don't quiz him about his crazy swim yet, or about how far he'd go to protect me, either. I fall back on my training instead. On practicality. We gotta get warm first, I tell myself. Survival first. Then we'll deal with the rest of it.

"Come on, Fawkes. Let's find your clothes, before you freeze to death."

***************************

I follow Bobby down the beach because he seems to know where he's going, and I don't. In more ways than one. I'm confused. Don't know how I expected him to react to what I said, but it wasn't like that, anyway. I thought he'd be glad to know that I feel the same kind of loyalty for him that he does for me. I was trying to tell him how much I respect him. How much I care. Maybe I was even trying to tell him why I took that swim. But Bobby doesn't look glad. He looks scared. Like I scared him to death.

Aw, crap.

**************************

Fawkes and I don't talk anymore as we head down the beach. By the time we find the spot where we left our clothes, we're both about chilled to the bone. Not to mention tired. But there's so much still unresolved between us, I can feel it hanging in the air like the threat of thunder. So much happened, so fast -- and it's not over yet. No way.

I still don't know what to say to him, so I busy myself with digging up the stuff I buried in the sand before I went after him. I dig through the cold sand for my watch, my wallet and my keys. But it's awkward, because my hands are so cold they're almost numb. They're clumsy and they shake; and I can feel Darien's eyes on my back the whole time. Those big, innocent, bewildered eyes. That doesn't help anything.

I shoot a quick sideways glance at him. He's not moving, he's just standing there shivering while he watches me. He looks hurt. Even a little lost. I know it's because of me, 'cause I didn't react the way he wanted. Again. Dammit! I don't want him to freeze to death, just 'cause I can't think of anything comforting to say right now. "Get dressed, Fawkes, and let's get outta here," I tell him, my voice gruff with guilt.

For once, Fawkes doesn't say anything. No jokes, no smart remarks, no nothing. He just turns away, picks up his clothes and starts putting them on again, without a word. It's not like him to be so obedient, but still, I'm kind of grateful. He's already gotten us both in way over our heads tonight -- literally and figuratively. Enough, already. It's safer not to say anything else right now. Safer for me not to watch him getting dressed, either, so I don't.

But when he gets his jeans and shirt on, and I turn to face him again, I see that he's still shivering. Guess he still isn't dry. So when he put his clothes on, they just got wet and clammy. Besides, all he's got on is a T-shirt and jeans. He was so upset when he left my apartment that he forgot to take his jacket. I'm cold too, but I start towards him automatically, my jacket in my hand. It's way too small to fit him. But at least it's dry, so it'll warm him up a little.

"Here. Put this over your shoulders," I tell him.

"Thanks." Darien bends down a little, so I can pull my jacket around him. But that brings his face close to mine, and in a second, our eyes lock. He doesn't say anything, but he looks sad. So fucking sad, it scares me all over again.

He closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against mine. "Bobby," he whispers.

One word from him, and I'm back on the edge of that abyss again.

It's because there's so much behind that word. A whole ocean of feeling, all the intensity I saw in his eyes, back at my apartment. It's still there inside him. I can feel it, waiting to pour over me if I let it. I can feel him shaking, and I know what he wants. Comfort. Contact. A touch. Something, anything to make the fucking loneliness go away. That's not so much to ask, especially after what he just did. And I know just how shitty it is, being alone. No one knows that better than me. But he's looking in the wrong place. Looking to the wrong guy. I can't even save myself. How am I gonna save him?

But I want to. Christ, I want to. I want it more than I've wanted anything since Vivian left. So this time, I don't push him away. I stand there and let him lean on me. Feel his warm breath on the cold skin of my face. It feels good, being so close to him. It feels right. Like maybe he could thaw something out inside of me. Something that's been frozen for a long time.

All of a sudden, I'm not sure who's saving who here. I think about his mouth, only inches from mine. I think how young he is, how beautiful. I think about the cold, uncaring ocean. How it almost got me once. How it almost got him tonight. I think about Darien out there alone in that goddamn black water, think about how close I came to losing him, and how empty my life would be without him, and I feel like I can't breathe.

Suddenly, the warmth of his forehead against mine isn't enough. I want to touch him. I need to. My shaky hands end up on his shoulders. Darien's still shivering under my jacket, and he doesn't try to pull away. I don't let go, either. For a minute, we just hold on.

Then somehow, our mouths touch. Just for a second. I'm so surprised, I don't even think to pull away. Darien's lips are cold at first, but the kiss warms them. It's just a gentle, shaky little kiss, but somehow, it warms me, too. Darien's lips are full and soft. God, they're soft. It stuns me, how good that kiss is.

Then something wet touches my lips. Something salty. I open my eyes and see that though Darien's eyes are shut tight, tears are sliding down his cheeks. It's terrible, seeing him like that. Seeing him break. Stunned, afraid I'll embarrass him if I say anything, I freeze.

Darien shakes his bowed head and whispers, "Sorry. This is -- stupid. I know." He draws a ragged breath. "But Bobby, I'm … so damn scared --"

The words are wrenched out of him. Even now, after all we've been through, he didn't wanna admit that. Didn't wanna tell me.

But he did. He finally did, and he keeps saying my first name, and I know what that means. Whatever his problem is, he wants to live. He's asking for help. It touches me so deep, I don't have words for it. So I do what we always do. The guy thing. I tell a little joke. Try to cover it up.

"Ya shoulda told me sooner. Saved me the swim," I say. But my voice is hoarse, and my eyes are stinging. Because I think maybe he did ask. That all his recent late-night phone calls, and all his pleas back at my apartment that we "get to know each other better", was him trying to say that, trying to reach out. But I wasn't listening.

Darien tries to smile. But he can't quite do it. His face crumples instead, and more tears fall. "Bobby…."

That's it. I can't take any more.

"C'mere." I know it's wrong. It's crazy. It's dangerous. But I do it anyway. I take Darien in my arms and hold him. Hold him tight. He pushes his face into my shoulder, digs his fingers into my back as he makes these terrible choking, gasping sounds. He's trying to hold it in, to still his sobs, but he can't. It's like it's all pouring out of him. All the pain, all the loneliness and fear, every stroke he took on that long, cold swim out to nowhere.

He probably doesn't think that's a good thing, but I know it is. You can't keep stuff that deep and dark trapped inside, or it'll kill you. It almost did. So I hold his wet head in one hand and stroke his back with the other, while he chokes and shudders in my arms, while his chest heaves and his tears rain down on my shoulder. He feels cold, and I'm still wet and cold too, but I try to warm him with my body anyway.

It's been so long since I've held someone like this. Too long. I wish it had happened some other way -- Hell, any other way -- but it feels good, holding him. I know I'm probably damning us both, but I can't let go. Can't turn him away again. Whatever happens now, it's on me, I think. All of it.

"I'm sorry," Darien whispers blindly. "Sorry --"

I'm not sure what he means. Sorry he broke down, sorry he hurt me that time, sorry he decided to take that swim -- or sorry he came back? Maybe all of that. Anyhow, it doesn't matter.

"It's okay," I say gently. "I'm sorry, too." For turning you away before. For not realizing how bad you've been feeling, until it was almost too late. For not being able to tell you the truth…

I hear another broken sob. It cuts through me, 'cause I know I hurt him. If it wasn't for me, I don't think he'd've gotten so desperate. Done something this stupid. Still, Darien doesn't let go. If anything, he holds on even tighter.

Maybe that means he forgives me. I know I need him to.

I hold onto him just as tight. "It'll be all right, Darien," I tell him. Don't know if that's the truth, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is, he came back. And I'm not letting go, either.

I'll take the bullet. Take whatever comes. Do whatever I have to, to help him. 'Cause he'd do it for me.

THE END