Too Close For Comfort
Stacey Skinner
Disclaimer: The Invisible Man is the sole property of the Sci-Fi Channel. Any inconsistencies, errors or total blunders contained herein are completely my fault!
"You know, Fawkes, don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look good."
Darien Fawkes glanced over at his partner as the duo made their way down an indescript corridor on their way to the Official's office. From what Darien had heard circulating in the rumor mill, the Justice Department was calling in a favor from the Agency. Something to do with the D.E.A.
Darien rubbed absently at a spot on his forearm; "You're not exactly at the height of fashion yourself, Hobbes."
Bobby Hobbes threw a glare at Fawkes as they arrived at the glass-front door, "I told you not to take it the wrong way, funny man," he replied as he practically threw open the door. The Official was seated behind his desk, a folder open in front of him, waiting.
"I'm just saying that it looks like you're not feeling so well," Hobbes continued, "and seeing as how the only time I see you out of sorts is when you're goin' wacko ..." he trailed off as they came to stand in front of the desk.
"Is there a problem?" The Official asked nonchalantly as the two men proceeded to make themselves comfortable in the seats available.
Darien shook his head and rubbed at the sore spot on his forearm again, "No, think I have a bit of a cold or something."
"Have the Keeper take a look at you before you and Hobbes head out today."
Fawkes nodded as his partner leaned forward in his chair, hungry for action, "So what have you got for us, boss man?"
The Official picked up the manila folder and began flipping through it. "We've gotten a tip that a major drug shipment is coming ashore at the end of this week," he glanced over the folder at the two men, "it would be a very bright star next to our name if we were able to intercept it."
Hobbes leaned back in his chair, "Why not send in the D.E.A. or the local boys? Why us?"
The Official closed the folder, "Let's just say that my sources tell me that someone in the D.E.A. may be helping to make sure that shipment arrives safely."
Hobbes and Darien exchanged knowing glances. "So why not take it to the boys over at the FBI?" the smaller agent asked, steepling his hands in front of him.
The Official smiled, "Because of the way you two performed with that whole Price situation, there are those that are finally beginning to take us seriously."
"It's about freakin' time," Hobbes stated with an affirmative nod of his head, "when do we start?"
Darien looked over at him with a small smirk, "Wait a minute, what do you mean 'we'? I have to do all the dirty work."
"Hey," Hobbes retorted, leaning over and pointing a finger at Fawkes, "who's out there covering your butt? Making sure you don't get in over your head or get yourself in trouble?" He paused to turn the finger at himself, "Bobby Hobbes, that's who my friend. Don't you forget it."
"You start immediately," the Official interrupted, tossing the file to the edge of his desk, "your job is to uncover the rat, or rats, in the D.E.A. and stop the shipment. Make me proud."
Hobbes jumped out of the chair and scooped up the file, Darien was a bit slower making it to his feet, wincing a bit as he put pressure on his sore right arm. "Alright chief," Hobbes said as he turned and headed for the door, "we'll nab us a bad guy and be home in time for dinner."
* * *
The Keeper looked up from the clipboard she was scribbling on as the lab door slid aside to admit Hobbes and then Darien. She smiled warmly, something she had only recently begun to do, and placed the clipboard on the desk behind her.
"Hi guys," she greeted them, as they walked over to stand in front of her. Hobbes went over to annoy her caged animals, and she noticed that Darien seemed tired, his dark eyes dull and red-rimmed. "Darien," she said with a hint of concern, "are you alright?"
"I asked him the same thing," Hobbes threw over his shoulder.
Fawkes nodded at her and ignored his partner. "Yeah, yeah I'm fine," he said, "just fighting off a cold or something. Didn't get much sleep last night."
"It shows," she said with a scowl, crossing her arms in front of her.
"Yeah and good morning to you too," Darien replied, his head cocked half-jokingly to the side.
The Keeper sighed and rolled her eyes, "What brings you here?" she asked.
"Well it sure isn't your charming personality," Darien quipped as he held out his right arm, "I'm here for a quick fix, Hobbes and I have a job from the fat man."
Instead of pulling back the metallic strap on Darien's watch to check the tattoo, the Keeper instead gently touched at a small rash that was forming between his elbow and wrist.
"What's this?" she asked.
Darien hissed slightly at her touch and involuntarily jerked his arm away; the woman looked up at him in surprise. He rubbed the back of his head in muted embarrassment at the looks both Hobbes and the Keeper were giving him. "Sorry about that," he said, "it's a bit sore to the touch."
"How did you get that?" The Keeper asked, reaching up to pull on the offended arm. Hobbes walked away from the animals and came to stand beside her.
Darien allowed her to gently inspect the area, provided she didn't try to touch it again, "I really don't know," he replied honestly, "I think I may have cut myself or something during one of our previous assignments."
"Yeah?" Hobbes pried, "Which one Mighty Mouse?"
They both ignored the comment and the Keeper looked up at him, a doubtful expression on her face, "I don't think so," she said, "I would have noticed something like that."
"Can't keep your eyes off me, eh?" Darien teased with a small smile.
She gave him a glare in return and quickly checked the monitor, nodding at what she saw. "Alright," she replied, "I'll give you a shot and then put a little something on that rash that should help clear it up."
Darien seated himself in the chair and rested his head back as his doctor began rubbing some alcohol on his skin. Hobbes had once again busied himself with annoying the lab animals. He turned his head away as the Keeper brought the large hypodermic up to his skin; he wondered if the Agency would ever put out some money to buy smaller needles. He grimaced as it broke his skin. Almost done, he told himself, then you don't have to do this for another week.
As the Keeper pushed the plunger down on the hypodermic, Darien felt as if liquid fire had been released into his arm. He yelped in pain and jumped out of the chair, causing the doctor to jump back in shock. Hobbes once again came scurrying from across the room.
"Dammit," he hissed, gripping his throbbing arm and glaring accusingly at the Keeper, "What did you dilute that stuff with? Battery acid?"
The woman looked at him in stunned silence; the hypodermic still extended in one hand.
"What are you talking about, Darien?" she finally managed, "What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" he repeated. "What's the matter is that I think my damn arm is gonna fall off!"
The Keeper put the needle down on a metallic tray and walked over to him, leaving Hobbes to watch them in confused silence.
"Here," she said, holding out her hand, "let me see."
Darien turned away, still holding his now numb arm, "No thanks. You've done enough damage, don't you think?"
He paused to look down at the affected area and he could see a dark red bruise beginning to form. He realized that it really was only a matter of time before his right arm began to protest at the constant injections. He pushed angrily past the still shocked Keeper, "Next time we use the left arm," he said, tossing the remark over his shoulder as he stormed out the lab, making it necessary for Hobbes to scurry after him.
* * *
The duo rode in the van in silence; Hobbes was at the wheel actively not looking over at Darien, and Darien was hunching as close as humanly possible to the passenger side door. He continued to open and close his tingling right hand, watching the red bruise grow with each passing moment. A dull headache had even begun behind his eyes. He would never admit it to anyone, but he had secretly checked the tattoo to make sure it was completely green; he was still having a difficult time getting over Lawson's deception.
"You okay over there or did the counteragent get your tongue?"
Darien glanced over at Hobbes before looking back out his window, "No, I'm fine," he answered at last, "just got one too many shots in the same arm, ya know?"
Hobbes nodded as he turned the decrepit van down a street, it groaned at the effort. "You up for this assignment?"
Darien sighed and rubbed his left hand through his hair, "Yeah, I can do it." He made the effort to throw his partner a small grin, "Wouldn't want you taking all the credit."
Hobbes snorted, "Not that it would do me any good, I'm gonna have to get myself killed before I get validated parking."
Darien laughed a bit at the comment, but they both knew that it was the truth; the Agency, and more importantly the Official, seemed to be having fun toying with the temperamental agent.
"Listen, play it cool in there, okay?" Hobbes began as they came to a grinding halt outside the building where the Drug Enforcement Agency was housed. "Let's just introduce ourselves, make friendly and take a look around. If we see something we don't like, then you can do your disappearing act and --- are you listening to me?" he broke off, realizing that his partner was not paying any attention to him.
Darien shook off his momentary stupor to glance over at Hobbes; the bright glare of the sun caused him to squint. "Disappearing act," he repeated with a slight nod, "I got it, Hobbes."
The other agent studied Fawkes over his shades for a brief moment before shrugging aside any questions. "If you say so, now, let's go meet the rest of the kiddies in the sandbox."
* * *
The young brunette behind the desk looked up as the two men entered the reception area; she folded her hands on top of some paperwork and gave them a toothy grin. "Good morning, gentlemen," she greeted them merrily, "how can I help you?"
Still wearing his shades, Hobbes approached the desk first, reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a black wallet. He flipped it open with an easy gesture and held it so the woman could see, "I'm agent Hobbes, that's agent Fawkes, we need to speak with the director." He paused to lean forward conspiratorially, "We're here on important business."
Darien came to stand beside his partner, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
The woman examined the badge in front of her, her grin fading only to be replaced by a frown. "You're from the Department of Fish and Game?" she inquired, glancing up at Hobbes, a small smirk on her youthful face. "Are you serious?"
Hobbes flipped the wallet closed and stuck it back in his pocket, "I'm always serious," he replied.
Darien cocked his head at his partner and nodded at the woman, "He really is," he added.
The brunette sat back in her chair, an eyebrow quirked in amusement, "And what are two ... agents," she put an emphasis on the word, "doing at the Drug Enforcement Agency? Did someone report a salmon with an overdose?" She smiled sardonically at her own joke.
Hobbes placed his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned over, "I wouldn't know about that," he replied cooly. "As I said, we're here on very important business, and it is urgent we speak to the director immediately."
The young woman sat up in her chair and began to shuffle her paperwork, "I'm sure that it is," she replied huffily, "however I cannot let you in, the director is in a meeting."
Hobbes turned to look at Darien through his shades; his lips puckered, "A meeting," he repeated, "Can you believe that?"
Fawkes shook his head, "Looks like he started without us."
An unspoken understanding passed between the two men as the woman cleared her throat, "If there is nothing else?" she asked.
"Actually," Darien began, turning to give her his best smile, "could you tell me where the bathroom is?"
She frowned up at him for a moment before pointing behind him, "It's around that corner to your right."
He tapped the desk lightly with his left hand, "Around the corner, thanks." As he turned to walk away, he flashed a look at Hobbes who nodded imperceptibly.
As Darien walked around the indicated bend in the wall, he took a deep breath and began to increase his heart rate. Within seconds, he felt the familiar tickle of the quicksilver coating his body. As his world turned a monotone silver, Darien was suddenly struck by an intense wave of vertigo that nearly knocked his feet out from under him. He quickly placed a hand against the wall in order to steady himself. "Oh crap," he muttered, "what now?"
As the dizzy spell began to pass, Darien began to feel as if a million insects had suddenly crawled into his brain and were taking up residence. He shook the sensation off, making a mental note to mention the episode to the Keeper, and pushed away from the wall. As he walked back around, he saw Hobbes successfully distracting the brunette, who looked as if she wanted to toss the agent out the door herself.
Darien eased past the desk and quietly opened the wooden door to the interior room; several cubicles were joined together almost maze-like within the small confine, and at the far end of the room was a large wooden door that was standing slightly ajar.
Within each of the cubicles men and women were working diligently; some were on phones, others were sorting through files or typing rapidly on computers. The gentle murmur of voices carried across the room and Darien could sense a feeling of muted excitement in the air, as if a storm were brewing and the people within knew it.
He made his way cautiously toward the wooden door, stopping every so often to poke his head into a cubicle just to see what the person inside was up to. So far he had seen nothing out of the ordinary, everyone was hard at work on a case only they knew the particulars of. As Darien approached the door, the gold letters on the outside exclaimed that Jacob Mitchell was Agent in Charge. He paused and gently pushed on the door, just enough so that he could slip his head inside.
Behind a desk that seemed too big for the room it was in sat a rather insignificant little man. Darien almost laughed at the sight; he had expected the man in charge of the local Drug Enforcement Agency to be someone of stature, of a dominating persona, but this guy seemed to be almost swallowed up by the desk he sat behind. He wondered if it were another agent using the boss's office illicitly, but the little man did not seem uncomfortable about being there.
He was sitting hunched over in a faux-leather chair, back turned to the door. His voice was hushed as he spoke and his free arm was gesturing wildly in the air. Even though he was straining, Darien couldn't pick up what was being said. Risking suspicion, he pushed gently on the door again. As he readied himself to cautiously slip into the room, a searing burst of pain exploded behind his eyes, causing him to stumble backward and nearly lose his footing. Darien bit down on his lower lip to keep from screaming as he doubled over and grabbed his head in his hands. He could feel his heartbeat turning irregular and knew that if he couldn't regain some kind of control, he would soon be visible.
With a gasp, he turned and began making his way back toward the front door; it seemed to stretch for miles in front of him, getting farther away with each painful step. Another burst of white-hot agony seared through his skull and Darien collapsed inside a nearby cubicle, causing some paperwork to go flittering to the ground. The agent sitting at the desk looked up angrily and pointed across the room, "Will someone close that damn window!"
Groaning at the effort, Darien pushed himself up and stumbled toward his goal. He felt as though he was slogging through molasses, his heart attempting to claw its way out of his chest. He threw open the door, causing the receptionist to jump up and hurry to investigate. Through the haze of pain, he saw Hobbes. With his last ounce of strength, Darien stumbled over to his partner and collapsed into him. With a startled shout, the agent reached out and grabbed at the still invisible Fawkes.
"Something's wrong," Darien wheezed painfully, "get me outta here. Hurry."
A thousand questions sprung to mind, but Hobbes could hear the urgency in his partner's voice. He tightened his grip on the unseen figure and quickly turned to leave, "Consider it done."
* * *
Hobbes was attempting to push the gas pedal through the floor of the van, but the vehicle still struggled to top 50 miles an hour. "C'mon, c'mon you rusted out piece of crap!" He demanded.
Over in the passenger seat, Darien, who had once again become visible, began to take a turn for the worst. His face had become swollen and flushed and was covered in some areas in what looked like a rash. His red, swollen hands were gripping the armrests so tight that his knuckles had actually turned white. Darien made a strange, wet sound and when Hobbes glanced over at him he saw that his partner was struggling to breathe, his throat beginning to swell like the rest of his body.
"Fawkes!" Hobbes shouted, "Fawkes, dammit!"
Darien painfully turned his head to look at his partner as he continued to fight for breath, "Hobbes," he gasped, "what the Hell's happening to me?"
The agent glanced over at his partner, unaccustomed to the fear he saw in those dark eyes. Hobbes shook his head, "I dunno, man, but I'll get you to the Keeper ---" he broke off as Darien's eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and he slumped, unconscious, to the side.
He reached out and grabbed his partner by a shirtsleeve and began to shake him as he whipped the van into a tight turn, tires screaming in protest. Several car horns blared at him, but he paid them no attention.
"Fawkes! C'mon, man, answer me!"
He was no doctor, but Hobbes knew that something was desperately wrong with Darien. He had only seen this kind of thing happen once before when he was very young, when he had taken a friend swimming.
Pushing the unwelcome memory aside, Hobbes continued to shake Fawkes, knowing that the gesture was futile, but feeling as if he had to do something. Anything.
He spared the road before him a glance and saw the Agency's building a few blocks away. He pushed harder on the pedal; the van groaned and shook. Beside him, even though unconscious, Darien began to choke and gasp, his throat no longer able to accept oxygen.
"Oh jeez, oh man," Hobbes muttered to himself. With one hand, he guided the nearly out of control van to a screeching halt in front of the Agency's building and bolted out the door almost before he had put the vehicle in 'park'.
He hurried to the passenger side and threw open the door, catching Darien as he came tumbling out. He grabbed the unconscious man tightly about the waist and began to half-carry half-drag his partner inside.
"Medical emergency!" he shouted as he lunged down the corridor, "Get the Hell outta my way! Medical emergency, move!" In his arms, Darien began convulse a little, testing the limits of his strength.
Several startled agents in black suits jumped aside as Hobbes came barreling through; some attempted to help, but the agent never slowed down enough to give them a chance.
He bolted down the corridor toward the steel lab door, barely giving it enough time to slide apart before he pushed his way through, nearly running the Keeper over. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed, "What happened?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," Hobbes replied as Claire helped him carry the convulsing, choking Darien over to the lab chair. "We were over at the D.E.A., he did his quicksilver thing and the next thing I know ... " he gestured at the helpless figure before them.
"He's not getting any air," the Keeper said, her fingers examining his swollen throat, "I have to try and help him breath."
"How are you gonna do that?" Hobbes asked as he lowered the back of the chair, allowing Darien to lie flat.
"By inserting a tube down his throat," she replied, hurrying into the adjoining room.
"What?" Hobbes shouted after her, "You're gonna do what?"
She returned with a metallic tray, there was some kind of medical instrument along with a clear tube and some kind of pump apparatus situated on it. "It's the only way," she replied, quickly picking up the metallic instrument, "If I don't do this, Darien will die."
Hobbes looked over at Darien who was struggling helplessly at something that should have come effortlessly. His face was flushed a deep crimson and veins were standing out on his forehead and neck with his effort to simply breathe.
"Hobbes," the Keeper called, shattering his reverie, "I'm going to need your help here." She was bending over Darien's face, one hand under his chin and the other holding the medical instrument was poised over his mouth.
The agent went to stand next to her, absently wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. "Whaddaya need me to do?"
The Keeper pointed at the tray, "When I tell you too, pass me the tube there."
Hobbes nodded as Claire opened Darien's mouth and inserted the medical instrument, pushing his swollen tongue back and exposing his equally swollen throat. She hissed under her breath and held out a hand, the agent quickly slapped the tube into her waiting palm and grimaced as she slid it expertly down Darien's throat.
After a moment, she pulled the metallic instrument out and hurriedly exchanged it for the breathing pump. She attached it to the end of the tube and began to methodically squeeze and release, sending the air Darien so desperately needed into his starving lungs.
She looked over at Hobbes, "He's suffering from anaphylaxis," she explained breathlessly, "come here and do this, I have to give him a shot."
Hobbes took the pump from her, "But you gave him one this morning," he replied with a frown.
The Keeper shook her head as she hurried over to a set of metal cabinets, "No, no not a counteragent shot, he needs epinephrine." She quickly found what she was looking for, loaded it into a hypodermic and raced back to where Darien was still suffering; his lean face had swelled considerably and the tops of his arms had broken out into painful looking hives.
She quickly dabbed one of his arms with alcohol before stabbing him with the needle and sending the contents into his system. "There," she said with a toss of her head, "that should begin to help. Continue breathing for him," she instructed Hobbes, who was staring at his partner with a mixture of horror and sympathy.
On the lab chair, Darien shuddered and groaned, his body straining, his muscles like cords along his neck. He collapsed back onto the chair, his dark and unruly hair plastered to his forehead.
The Keeper conducted a quick exam, her expert hands moving over every inch of Darien's body, trying to uncover the mystery that had begun this strange attack. As she picked up his right hand, her breath left her in a horrified gasp.
Hobbes glanced up at her, a questioning look in his dark and worried eyes. "What?" he asked, "What is it?"
The Keeper showed Hobbes the ugly purple bruise that was covering most of Darien's arm, near the area of his last injection, her face scrunched in disbelief. "He's having an allergic reaction to the counteragent!"
* * *
'My mom made these cookies 'specially for us, you want one?'
The sun had been bright that day, not a cloud in the sky and the wind had been crisp and cool against their wet bodies. The swimming hole had been his special place, where he had gone to escape the tormenting of his sister. He had never showed the swimming hole to another soul, until now.
'Yeah, sure Bobby. Thanks'
Brad had been his name. Brad Rosen, the closest thing to a friend little Bobby Hobbes had ever known. Making friends had not been an easy thing for Hobbes, and Brad had been the only boy in the 6th grade that had been willing to see past his gruff exterior to the kid inside desperate for companionship.
Brad had taken a big bite and munched away happily while he had wandered to the edge of the small lake to try and catch minnows.
'Bobby?'
Brad's voice had sounded strange, almost strangled. When Bobby had turned around his friend's face had become flushed, as if he had just run too long in the hot sun. 'Brad? You okay?
'I don't think so, Bobby'
"So what happened?"
Hobbes was pulled suddenly from the past by the voice of the Official. They were standing in a room that hadn't been used since Gloria Howard had been cured and sent back to her family. The Keeper's lab had been insufficient to care for Darien, so she had had him transported to the abandoned Lab 2.
He lay before them; unconscious, hooked up to a ventilation machine that was humming softly to itself as it methodically breathed for the very sick agent. A heart monitor beeped along in a surreal rhythm, keeping track of Darien's blood pressure and heartrate. The Keeper had also set up an IV that was continuously depositing the necessary medicines into Darien's ravaged body. Hobbes stood near the foot of the bed, staring silently at the figure; he couldn't believe how much his partner had changed in just a few short hours. His lean, tanned face was now swollen and a sickly pale color, and although the hives were beginning to diminish somewhat, they were still fairly prevalent along his arms.
Behind him, the Keeper sighed heavily, "It would seem that Darien's body has become overly sensitive to the counteragent, and this latest shot was enough to send him into anaphylactic shock."
The big man frowned, "How could this happen?"
The doctor shook her head, "Allergic reactions to certain drugs are not uncommon," she explained. "Sometimes, being exposed to the same chemical repeatedly can induce a reaction."
"What about diabetics and insulin?" Hobbes asked, his back still to them.
"Diabetics use insulin to replace what's missing in their bodies," the Keeper replied. "In Darien's case, we formulated a chemical in order to counterbalance another chemical, the quicksilver hormone, already present in his system. A chemical substance that was totally alien." She paused to glance at the still figure on the bed, "His body simply retaliated."
"Which means?" the Official continued.
"Which means that if he gets another shot of the counteragent, it will kill him"
"So, what happens now?" Hobbes asked, turning to glance first at the Keeper and then at the Official and then back to the Keeper.
"What happens is that I have to find an alternative," the woman replied, tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind an ear.
"An alternative?" Hobbes repeated, "What kind of alternative?"
Claire crossed her arms in front of her and sighed, "I don't know yet," she answered honestly.
"Well, I hope you can come up with something in the next six days, because we all know what will happen if you don't."
"Hobbes," the authoritative voice of the Official sliced through the room, ending the potential argument before it could begin. "Let the Keeper do her job, you do yours."
Hobbes turned is head just enough to glare at the Official. "Whaddaya mean?" he practically growled.
The other man smiled slightly, "You still have an assignment to finish. Fawkes' condition, though upsetting, has no bearing on what still needs to be done."
"But…"
"Your presence is not needed," he jerked a beefy thumb over his shoulder. "You still have a rat to catch, remember?"
Hobbes turned away from the Official to stare at his partner. The sight of Darien hooked up to all the machines caused him to grimace. He wanted to remain here where he could keep an eye on his partner, his friend. He closed his eyes; he had left a friend behind once, a long time ago. He had been ten, his friend had needed help, he had gone to get it, and his friend had died. He felt a delicate hand on his shoulder and he looked over into the soft eyes of the Keeper.
"It's going to be alright," she told him gently, "there's nothing more you can do."
Similar words, long buried, stirred and echoed in the back of Hobbes' mind, causing him to blink at the emotions they raised in him.
"I know the cause of Darien's illness," Claire continued softly, "that mean's I'm halfway to finding –"
"The alternative," Hobbes finished, his voice husky.
The Keeper smiled, "Yes, exactly."
Hobbes remained a moment longer, one hand resting gently on the railing at the foot of the bed. He was staring at Darien's unmoving figure, but he was seeing an image that was shaking off the shackles of the past and coming back to haunt him.
* * *
He was running back to where his friend was choking and gasping, clawing frantically at his throat. "Brad, what's wrong?"
His friend had looked up at him, terror in his dark eyes, unable to breathe. Bobby had been frozen by the sight of Brad turning a horrible shade of red, his face swelling to almost twice its size.
"Bobby!" Brad had managed to gasp, "Help me!"
As the seriousness of the situation sank in through the haze of panic, Bobby had realized that he need to go and find an adult, someone that could help Brad and stop what was happening.
"I'm going to get some help," he told his friend. Before he could move, however, Brad had grabbed his arm, desperation mixing with the panic in his brown eyes. His hand had been clammy with fright and shock, but his grip had been like iron. He had shaken his head frantically from side to side, a plea for Bobby not to leave him. "It's okay," the younger boy had said, "I'm going to get help, I'll be right back. I swear!" He pried his friend's desperate fingers from his flesh and ran in the direction of civilization as fast as his legs would carry him. He stopped once to look back, Brad's horrified eyes were gazing after him.
Hobbes bolted up in his bed with a gasp, the last vestiges of the dream wrapping around him like a dense fog. He shook his head and rubbed his hands down his sweaty face. "Four nights now," he grumbled to himself, "I haven't thought of that day in over 20 years and for four straight nights now I'm having freakin' nightmares."
He flung the crumpled sheet away from him and flicked on the lamp sitting beside his bed, blinking in the sudden brightness. The clock blared that it was 3:15 in the morning and he realized that sleep would be avoiding him for the rest of the night. With a heavy sigh, Hobbes got out of bed and padded over to where an assortment of papers were stacked haphazardly on a nearby table. He flopped down into the chair and began to leaf through the files again.
For the past few days, Hobbes had been busy looking into the D.E.A. and its Agent in Charge, Jacob Mitchell. He could smell the rotten egg in the bunch, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where the odor was coming from. He found Mitchell's folder and opened it, re-reading the man's history; he had been especially chosen for the position of director, showing superior investigative skills and a tenacity that impressed his superiors. The percentage of drug busts had not dropped since his assignment, a fact that went over well with his superiors, since it showed he was maintaining the expected norm. He spoke regularly at area schools, preaching the danger of drugs and drug use. Hobbes snorted, Mitchell's file was so squeaky clean the agent could have eaten off of it. "The brighter the picture," Hobbes mumbled, "the darker the negative."
He shut the folder a bit more forcefully than he intended and got up from the table. He wandered over to a wall mirror and gazed at himself, he saw scared ten-year-old eyes looking back.
There was nothing more you could do, Bobby.
The long forgotten voice came floating to the surface like a bubble. The suddenness of it caused Hobbes to jerk away from the mirror. It had been a female nurse that had spoken to him all those years ago; her hands had been cold on his bare shoulders and she had smelled like antiseptic. Her voice had been kind, even though it was laced with sympathy.
Hobbes sat heavily on the edge of his bed, trying to push the painful memory back into the farthest corners of his mind where it could not harm him, but it was too late. Fragments and slices of that day came rushing up like a tidal wave, no longer staying in the corner where Hobbes had sent them.
He had been ten years old when he had watched his friend die of an allergic reaction. It had been a terrible sight; the swelling, the hives, the sound of Brad gasping for air. He could still feel his friend's desperate fingers grabbing onto his arm, remembered what it was like to pry the terrified hand away so he could run. Hobbes raked a hand down his face, surprised when it came away wet. He had left behind the only friend he had ever had to get help, and he had died.
* * *
Claire sat back from the microscope, rolling her head around in a slow circle trying to get the kinks out of her neck. She hadn't slept more than eight hours in the past four nights and her body was beginning to protest. Very strongly. This had seemed so easy when she had first done it ten years ago.
With a tired sigh, Claire pushed away from the desk and made her way quietly into the room where Darien no slept. She picked up the clipboard that was lying on a nearby table and quickly scanned the notations she had made over the past few nights. Thanks to the I.V., the constant flow of medication had reduced the swelling in Darien's body to a point where Claire had felt it was safe to remove the breathing tube. The Keeper had put an oxygen mask in its place to continue assisting Darien's breathing. A light red rash now covered his body where the painful hives had once been, a sign that some counteragent still remained in his system.
Claire sighed again and put the clipboard down, she tried to tell herself she was only in here to conduct a quick exam, but the Keeper knew she was only kidding herself. She was worried about Darien and just wanted to make sure he was all right. She gently picked up his right arm; the monitor was almost completely red. Before the Keeper could implement any new measures, she had to be sure that the original source of the reaction was completely gone. That meant Claire had to bring Darien to the brink of quicksilver madness before she could give him the new formula. The Keeper gazed down at Darien's sleeping form, even in unconsciousness his face was locked in a grimace of pain. A testament to the war that was still raging within him. Claire had spent endless hours running test after test on theory after theory before she had finally come up with what she believed was the answer. Unfortunately, the Keeper knew she could not be 100-percent sure of the results until she gave Darien the shot.
There was a small noise from the outer room and when Claire glanced over she saw Bobby Hobbes walking in with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. The agent nodded in her direction and threw an off-handed, "Hey" as he rested the papers on the edge of the desk.
"Agent Hobbes," she said in quiet surprise, "it's nearly four in the morning, what on earth are you doing here?"
Hobbes shifted his hands into the pockets of the jacket he was wearing as he strolled into the room. He gave a shrug as he replied, "Was up late working on the case and figured I'd stop by"
The Keeper smiled, she wasn't the only one who was worried about Fawkes but wouldn't come right out and say it. Even the Official had called earlier in the night to "check on her progress" he had said. Claire studied the smaller agent; his eyes were red-rimmed and surrounded by dark circles. It appeared that she wasn't the only one not getting much sleep.
"Mr. Hobbes, are you all right?" the Keeper asked.
The smaller man blinked as if startled out of a reverie and tore his gaze away from the unconscious form of his partner. "Huh? What?"
Claire walked to the foot of the bed where Hobbes was standing, her expert eyes studying him. He seemed distant, distracted, as if his mind were a million miles away. The Keeper supposed the agent was simply pre-occupied by the current case, but when her blue eyes met his brown ones she saw such profound sadness that it startled her. "You seem … distracted," she continued, folding her arms in front of her. "Anything you care to talk about?"
Hobbes stared at the woman before him; he and the Keeper had never really had much use for each other. She mostly ignored him, and he regarded her with suspicion. Now, here she was playing the friendship card as if they'd known each other for years. Hobbes shook his head and ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Just reached a block in the case and needed to clear my head," he replied, taking a step back.
On the bed, Darien groaned and stirred.
Hobbes went over to stand by his partner's side, partly grateful for the distraction. "How's Fawkes?"
Claire gazed at the smaller agent a moment longer before taking up a position on the opposite side of the bed. "Darien's in guarded condition," she replied, resting her hands on the sheets. "I have to wait for the counteragent to be completely out of his system before I can take any further steps," she paused to shake her head. "It's going to be tricky."
Darien groaned and stirred again.
Claire adjusted the I.V. line slightly as she shook her head, "This entire situation has been very frustrating because I've been slowly increasing the amount of medication, but it seems that his body's reaction to the counteragent remains the same."
Hobbes nodded as if he comprehended what the Keeper was talking about. He was about to pose a question when her statement struck a cord in his mind. He reached out to grip the edge of the bed, his eyes wide. "What did you just say?"
The Keeper looked at him in confusion, "What?"
"Just now, about the medication," Hobbes continued, his voice excited, "what did you say?"
Claire frowned as she answered, "That I've been slowly increasing it, but Darien's reaction --- "
"Is the same," the agent finished, turning he ran into the outer room and began rifling through the stack of papers.
"Hobbes?" Claire called, going to stand by the doorway, "Hobbes, what --- ?"
The agent held up a piece of paper with a victorious shout, "Here it is!" he exclaimed, "I got you, you slimy bastard! I got you!"
"Hobbes?" Claire tried again.
The agent turned and regarded the Keeper as if he were seeing her for the first time. "What you just said made me think about something I read in these files. It didn't really click until now. The shipments of drugs coming in has increased since this Mitchell guy was appointed to the D.E.A."
Claire gave him a "Yeah? And?" look and Hobbes held up a hand. "The only problem is, the amount of drugs being intercepted has remained the same!" At the Keeper's frown the agent gave the paper he was holding a whack. "Don't you see?" Hobbes practically shouted, "Mitchell's the rat!"
* * *
It was nearly ten in the morning when the front door to Jacob Mitchell's house swung open. After leaving the Keeper, Hobbes had put in a few phone calls, alerted the Official and parked the company van a discrete distance away. The agent watched as the agent in charge of the D.E.A. toted two rather large suitcases toward his car; he was glancing furtively around him watching for any prying eyes.
"Okay fellas," Hobbes muttered into the small mic located under the flap of his jacket, "look sharp."
As Mitchell popped the trunk of his car and threw the suitcases inside, Hobbes dashed out of the van and hustled across the street. He caught up with the smaller man as he was opening his car door. Hobbes grabbed him by an elbow and spun him around, "Now I always thought that the agent in charge of the D.E.A. was supposed to be there when a sting went down."
The small man was caught completely off guard, starting openly at Hobbes like a deer caught in headlights. The agent jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "Somehow I don't think your equipment is in those suitcases."
Mitchell shook off his momentary paralysis as he realized that the man before him knew the truth. Self-preservation kicked in and the D.E.A. agent ripped his elbow out of Hobbes' grip and swung at him with his other hand. The agent saw the move coming and quickly ducked out of the way, sliding under the punch and landing one of his own in Mitchell's gut as he came up behind the smaller man. The agent's breath left him in a gasp and he stumbled against his car.
"Why'd you do it, Mitchell?" Hobbes demanded, "Why'd you make a deal with the devil?"
Mitchell bellowed in fury as he turned and lunged at Hobbes, catching the agent in his midsection. The other man's reaction caught Hobbes slightly by surprise, so he had a distinct advantage over him. Hobbes found himself propelled harshly to the gravel driveway, his head impacting the unforgiving ground with a loud thud. For a moment, stars danced before his eyes and gray encircled his vision. There was a heavy weight on his chest and Hobbes realized that his adversary had landed on top of him. Mitchell shouted incoherently again as he reared back and punched the agent viciously across his face. Hobbes felt the warm flow of blood ooze into his mouth as his lower lip split, and as Mitchell punched him again he realized that if he stayed in this position too long, he would most likely be severely beaten.
With a grunt, he gathered his feet beneath him as well as he could and shoved with all his might. The agent uttered a shout of surprise as he was suddenly sent airborne and Hobbes rolled quickly out from under the weight, coming easily to his knees, spitting blood out of his mouth. He ran forward and jumped on top of Mitchell, who had landed face down in the driveway. He ground a knee into the back of the man's neck and quickly grabbed an arm, bending it back until Mitchell's fingers almost touched the base of his neck. Mitchell bellowed in pain and tried to free himself, but Hobbes only pulled on his arm harder. "Keep struggling and I'll break it," he growled.
With a grunt, Mitchell went limp, defeated. Hobbes remained tense, however, not daring to move in case the act was a ploy. "Why'd you turn traitor, Mitchell? What kind of deal could they offer you that would make you turn your back on your men?"
Beneath him, the smaller man sighed heavily, "You already know the answer," he replied, "At first it was only small shipments, enough to keep them happy, but then they started demanding more. They threatened my family, my friends, said that I was in too deep." He shifted his weight and Hobbes yanked his hand up farther. "I knew that it was true, but what could I do? If I told my superiors, I would be disgraced, kicked out of the agency." He sighed again, it was the sound of a great weight being released.
"Okay guys, you got that?" Hobbes asked into the small mic.
From around a corner, there was the sound of squealing tires and two vans pulled up in front of the house, D.E.A. agents spilling from inside, guns drawn. "It's about freakin' time," Hobbes muttered, "I almost got killed out here."
They surrounded the two men and Hobbes gratefully turned Mitchell over to them.
An older man dressed in a black suit came over to the agent, "Good work," he said with a nod, "you may have just saved several agents' lives. We'll take it from here."
Hobbes dabbed at his lower lip as he glanced at the man before him, "Just doin' my job"
* * *
Claire grimaced at the scream that emerged from the interior room. Darien had awakened nearly two hours ago; not even the blackness of sleep could protect him from the agony of oncoming quicksilver madness.
"Claire?" he shouted, his voice filled with pain "Claire, get in here! I need a shot!"
She did her best to ignore the statement as she continued to run what must have been the thousandth test on the new formula. She had honestly lost count of how many times she had made the computer hypothesize and correlate the formula with Darien's blood. The answer always came back the same: 98-percent probability of success.
From inside the room Darien screamed again and uttered a curse, and Claire closed her eyes, grateful that she had retrieved the leather restraints and tied him down while he had still been unconscious. The computer beeped at her and the Keeper opened her eyes to glance at the monitor; 98-percent probability of success, it blared.
She sighed heavily and picked up the small vial that contained the new formula, she held it up to her eyes and studied the azure liquid. Would it work? The computer said it would, give or take two percent, but would Darien's system accept it? That was her main cause for concern, even though the previous dose of counteragent was almost gone from Darien's system, he was weak. Still recovering from the attack. Would his weakened system be able to handle the introduction of a new chemical?
There was the sound of a stifled cry from behind her and Claire let the vial drop into her hand where she enclosed it in a fist. She desperately hoped so. With a small frown, she loaded the new formula into a hypodermic, taking extra care to ensure that she loaded the exact amount, grabbed a cotton ball soaked in alcohol and turned toward the inner room.
As she entered, she made eye contact with Darien and the sight of his deep scarlet eyes unnerved her and she shivered involuntarily.
"Well, well, well," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "look who finally decided to show up."
The Keeper made her way silently over to the nearby counter top and rested the needle down, she could feel his eyes like daggers on her back and she glanced over her shoulder at him. "I'm doing this for your own good," she responded gently, "you have to trust me."
Pure fury etched across Darien's face as he glared at her, "Trust you?" he whispered, a hard smile forming on his lips as he strained against the leather restraints, "Trust you?" he then shouted again, "You're the one doing this to me! Withholding the shot, allowing me to go mad, and you want me to trust you?!" He lunged at her and she yelped in surprise, backing into the counter. The restraints held him to the bed, but his muscles were knotted like rope and Claire was afraid he would be able to burst through them in his current state. He grimaced in obvious pain and sagged back onto the bed, panting hard. "You're supposed to help me," he said at last, his voice quiet. He turned his head to look at her, his face the picture of pain and grief.
Claire took an involuntary step forward, it truly did break her heart to see him this way. "I am helping you," she assured him, looking into those terrible eyes.
Darien grimaced again and his body stiffened as another burst of pain exploded through his skull. He turned away from her with a whimper and she took a step back, turning to place both hands on the counter top.
It was time to give him the new formula, she could wait no longer. To do so would only put Darien at greater risk and increase the potential of permanent madness. Then why was she so reluctant, why wasn't she over there right now administering the life saving shot?
As if in reply, a single name floated to the top of her consciousness … Gloria
Claire brought a hand up to her mouth, stifling a sob as the memory came bubbling to the surface.
We had tested the vaccine extensively, I was positive it was safe.
So what'd you find out?
I had selected the wrong sequence with which to attach the new gene. The vaccine mutated a gene on chromosome eight, which causes Werner's Syndrome
So in other words, it was your fault
Yes, it was my fault
Claire closed her eyes and felt the hot tears run down her cheeks. She had run extensive tests back then, just as she had done now, and she had still be wrong. It had taken her ten years to fix her mistake. Could she be as wrong today? If she was, Darien didn't even have ten minutes to spare. She opened her eyes and turned her head to gaze over her shoulder, she saw him staring silently at her; his scarlet eyes pleading with her. Begging with her to help him.
With hands that were trembling slightly, the Keeper picked the needle up from the counter along with the cotton ball. On the bed, Darien watched quietly as she walked slowly over to him. Her mind was a jumble of emotions, her heart was hammering madly in her chest and her knees were threatening to give out.
She reached his side and gently swabbed an area around his elbow, bringing the hypodermic up and pushing the plunger until all the excess air in the syringe was gone. Darien's breathing quickened in anticipation and she glanced at him, meeting his eyes. He seemed to struggle momentarily, fighting his way past the madness that was taking hold of his mind. "I trust you," he whispered to her at last.
Claire felt tears spring suddenly into her eyes, blurring Darien's image. She blinked quickly before the tears had a chance to fall and brought the needle to his arm, pushing down on the plunger and releasing the contents into his system. Darien cried out slightly as she withdrew the needle and his body convulsed as the new formula worked its way along his quicksilver-saturated system. His breathing became harsh as sweat broke out on his forehead, his body at war with itself. Darien uttered a strangled cry before he finally sighed and lay still, unconsciousness once again taking hold.
Claire watched him for a few moments, her expert eyes studying every facet of his form. Looking for any sign of rejection, any clue that things may be amiss, but Darien's chest rose and fell quietly, normally. She reached out gently and turned over Darien's right arm so she could look at the tattoo.
A small cry escaped her lips as she glanced at the monitor
... it was completely green.
Epilogue
The funeral had been attended by what seemed like over a hundred people, and all of them had been crying. Except for little Bobby Hobbes. He had been too stunned, too shocked, to cry. He had watched the casket of his best friend get lowered into the ground and shed not a tear.
He had pushed the memory of that day so far down into his subconscious that he had never truly dealt with it. He had simply refused to think about it, forgotten that it had ever occurred. Darien's experience had re-opened the wound and forced Bobby Hobbes to take a long hard look into the past. To confront his demons and come to terms with a situation that had scarred him for so long.
It had not been an easy process, but Hobbes had emerged victorious. Brad's death had been a tragic mistake, he realized that now. There was nothing he could have done; if he had stayed, Brad would have died. He had left and Brad had died. It had been the perfect catch-22. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, but try explaining that to a ten-year-old. Back then, he hadn't been able to accept the fact that he wasn't to blame. Now that he was older, and a bit wiser, he could see the truth in that.
He had bid his childhood friend good-bye and put the memory to rest at last.
The Official and Hobbes were in Lab Two along with Claire and the still bed-ridden Darien. The Keeper had decided to play it safe and keep him in the lab for observation until she was sure the new formula had had the desired effect, and that Darien would not reacted badly to it. So far, things were going well.
"Seems like everything is back under control," the Official noted with a nod. "Good work on finding the new formula," he said to Claire. She nodded and smiled, crossing her arms in front of her.
The big man turned to Hobbes next; he was still sporting a nasty bruise where Mitchell had punched him and his bottom lip still protruded from where it had been split. Otherwise, the agent was his normal, cynical self. "Good work, Hobbes," the Official said with the barest hint of a grin, "The Justice Department is very pleased."
Hobbes shrugged, "All in a day's work for Bobby Hobbes."
Behind them, Eberts stuck his head into the room and cleared his throat, "Excuse me, sir, but your meeting …"
"Ah yes," the Official said, "thank you Eberts." He nodded at the small entourage and to Fawkes he said, "Glad you're okay, kid. You gave us a helluva scare."
He exited the room and Claire cleared her throat, "If you'll excuse me, I've got some paperwork I need to finish up."
When she had gone, Hobbes and Darien exchanged silent looks. "I'm glad you're doing better," Hobbes finally said, " 'cause the last time I saw you, you were in pretty bad shape."
Fawkes ran a hand through his tousled hair and grinned, "Yeah, for awhile there I wasn't sure I was gonna make it but …" he shrugged and then gestured at the small room, "Now I can't wait to get outta here"
Hobbes took a step forward and rested a hand on the foot of the bed, "Listen, Fawkes, the Official's right, you gave us all a big scare. Do me a favor huh?"
At Darien's frown, he continued, "Don't you ever do that to me again, you got that?" He paused to point a finger at his friend, "You pull a stunt like that again, and I'll kill you myself."
Darien smiled at the comment, "Consider it done."
the end