Lotsa spoilers, from all over season one (including what we've seen so far of the back nine). Bleak. Depressing beyond belief because I was depressed beyond belief and decided to take it out on a character, any character--and ended up with good ol' Darien. Do not read this if you're easily disturbed. Or if you don't like bad language--and the language does get occasionally bad. Or if you have a problem with grammatical incorrectness (and please, don't try to learn grammar from my stories…your English teacher would have an almighty fit). Or if you're already having a crappy day. 'Cos this sure as hell won't help you feel better. It switches back and forth between Darien's 1st person POV and Hobbes's 3rd person POV, but it's easily distinguishable which is which (obviously, if one's first person and the other isn't). I don't think it's very good. I don't think it was even very good therapy. But I had to do something.
Also, details are no doubt wrong--I'm a writer, dammit, but I haven't done much living. Darien would probably not act this way, at least in certain respects—but if he didn't, I would have no story to write. Yeah, and I added some furniture to that little area at the back of Darien's apartment, just 'cos I felt like it. You'll see what I mean when you get to that part of the story.
Silver Blood
He was holding a woman, an arm wrapped around her neck like a skin-colored snake, the other hand holding a gun. He was snarling something, but for all I know, it could have been nonsense.
The other people in the indoor food court of the mall were screaming, yelling, crying, running around uselessly. How the hell did this happen? Hobbes was trying to calm down the people closest to him. He wasn't doing a very good job.
I hung back, ducked my head around quickly to make sure no one was paying attention to me (like they would be in the midst of this chaos), and disappeared. Maybe I could get close enough to the madman and grab the gun from him before he did something we'd all regret. Most especially that woman he was holding hostage.
I weaved my way through the people and sneaked up as close as I dared. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to know he was being followed. He wasn't supposed to have a gun. He shouldn't have freaked. And I really shouldn't be thinking about all that now.
"Just calm down everyone!" I could hear my partner calling out behind me, the tension in his voice ruining the effect of his words.
I got a little closer to the madman. I stood directly in front of them now, mere feet away. I could see the silent silver tears running down the woman hostage's face.
His gun went off.
And then all hell really broke loose. I don't think even he had expected his gun to fire. The madman dropped the woman he'd just killed, running away while the people around me seemed to let out a collective scream of agony and fear and anger. Hobbes was shouting, yelling my name out wildly, as he pushed his way through the crowds after the madman. I was standing there dumbly, holding a dead woman. I'd caught her when the man had tossed her aside like a sack of potatoes, stumbling, knees buckling, but still somehow managing to stand with the sudden weight of her body. And I knew she was dead.
"FAWKES!" Hobbes was running after the man with the gun. He had no idea where I was.
I slowly dropped to my knees, letting the woman down with me slowly, her head cradled in my lap. In the confusion and panic, no one was paying any attention to the floating corpse. I laid her down on the floor gently, silver blood streaks splashed across her chest, silver tears still streaking, now drying on, her face. She and I were in a void of silence, studiously avoided by all the panicking people. My hands were covered in her blood, I realized stupidly as I looked down, holding my hands up in front of me. I could see the same silver streaks on my palms and fingers. I looked down at my shirt and pants. More silver blood, all over my shirt.
Later--I don't know how much later; it could have been an instant, it could have been an hour, but I don't think it was very long because there were still lots of hysterical people about--Hobbes came back, calming the people down as he passed, heading for the corpse still on the ground. This was insanity. "Fawkes, you here?" he panted, looking around as he holstered his gun and stood over the dead woman. He knelt down beside her, taking her pulse, a distantly sad and disgusted look on his face. But it wasn't going to get in the way of his job. He never let anything get in the way of his job. In the way of what he considered right. "Hey Fawkes!" he yelled out over his shoulder.
I was still staring down at my hands. I'd lost focus on them until Bobby's voice woke me out of my reverie. They were still covered in her silver blood.
Hobbes's voice changed as he looked around the food court again, hunting for me. "Darien?" His tone was worried, confused. "You still here? I called the Official; backup's on it's way." He was still looking around, taking in all the frightened people and shaking his head. "Darien, would you get your invisible ass in gear and let me know where the hell you are?" he muttered to himself, staying by the corpse.
I suddenly dequicksilvered, heard the shattering of silvery flakes falling to the ground around me. I couldn't bear to look at that silver blood anymore. Bobby looked across the dead woman at me in utter surprise. I didn't pay him any attention. I just stared down at my bloodied hands. They were red now. It wasn't any better.
"Fawkes?" Hobbes said, frowning at me, both of us kneeling over the dead woman.
I looked up at him. But I couldn't say anything.
"Oh good, there you are," the Keeper pushed herself in her chair away from the computer. Hobbes was gently guiding me into the lab, hand on my sleeve. He deposited me on the Chair from Hell. "Are you both all right?" She gave me an odd look, probably wondering why I had changed clothes since this morning.
Hobbes immediately brightened up, stepping away from my side and toward the Keeper. "Why yes, thank you very much for asking, Claire," he smiled.
She gave him a tolerant look but kept heading toward my wrist and me. She checked under my watch and frowned. "How long were you invisible, Darien?" she tossed over her shoulder as she went to the fridge.
"Longer than he needed to be," Hobbes got serious. "He was just...sitting there. Invisible. I don't know for how long."
Claire paused by the fridge, holding a vial of counteragent. She frowned at me. "Darien?" She'd obviously just noticed I wasn't being my usual talkative self.
I looked up at her. I still didn't feel up to speaking.
She came toward me again, still holding the vial of blue liquid. "Darien, are you all right?"
"Hey, partner," Bobby nudged me in the arm uncertainly, trying not to look or sound concerned. "He only got off one shot; you weren't hurt. Where were you at that point anyway? I lost track of you."
I glanced down at my hands. I'd cleaned them off at some point, but it felt like the woman's blood had seeped into my skin. I'd thrown away the clothes I'd been wearing.
"Oh god, Darien, are you hurt?" Claire dropped the counteragent on the tray next to my chair and started taking my pulse, checking me over. I pushed her away.
"I'm all right," I scowled, also shrugging off Bobby's hand on my shoulder. I felt like they were crowding me, squeezing me in. "I'm all right, okay?! Just give me the damned shot, Claire."
She paused, staring down at me. I held her gaze, almost indifferently. I didn't feel anything at the moment. Except guilt. She broke away first, unwillingly, getting a needle and preparing the counteragent. "What happened? The Official didn't give me any details."
"The terrorist we were following panicked," Hobbes explained. "We didn't even know he knew we knew he was a terrorist." He glanced down at me out of the corner of his eye, expecting at least a groan, if not a smart remark, at that convoluted sentence. I didn't react. "Anyway," he continued with a slight frown creasing his forehead, "he got away. The Official wants us to get back onto tracking him," he added to me.
"Ohhh no," the Keeper said, taking my arm and rolling up my sleeve since I wasn't moving in any way to help her. "Not until after I've checked him over. You can get started on your own, Bobby."
Hobbes looked down at me expectantly, waiting for me to protest that I was fine, or at least that she didn't need to talk about me like I wasn't sitting right there. I just stared straight ahead, avoiding looking at my hands, at either of the other two people in the room.
They both stared down at me for a long moment. Then Claire looked up and gently touched Hobbes's arm. "Go on," she said softly. "I'll call you later with an update."
Hobbes switched his gaze from me to her and nodded. "Talk to ya later, partner," he punched my arm lightly and walked away.
The Keeper picked up the needle again and gave me my shot. I didn't feel it. "There," she said with one of her warmer smiles. "Finished."
I nodded. "Thanks." I couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Darien, what happened?" she asked me.
I took a deep breath, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. It felt like the first real breath I'd had in hours. "The terrorist took a hostage," I told her. I distantly noticed my numb, impassive voice and wondered at it. It felt like there should have been some emotion in it, but I didn't know what. "A young woman. He killed her."
"Oh." She took my hand. "I'm so sorry, Darien."
I looked down at her hand and gently eased myself away from it. "So am I."
Something in my tone must have caught her attention. "Is that all that happened?"
Oh no. I could have stopped her death but I didn't. But that doesn't mean much. There's a lot I could have stopped but didn't. No biggie. "Just about," I told her and swung my legs over the edge of the chair.
"Where are you going?" she asked me.
I headed for the door. "I don't know yet," I told her and walked out.
She ran after me. Dammit, doesn't she know a good exit line when she hears one? The thought crossed the back of my mind. It seemed like something I would normally think, but I wasn't sure. "Are you going to be all right?"
"I'm fine," I said.
"Look, why don't you take the rest of the day off?" she suggested. "I'm sure Hobbes and the other agents can handle everything without you today."
"Yeah, I'm really only good for getting asses kicked, aren't I?" I answered. "Let me know if they find the terrorist again, so I can come in and make sure someone else gets killed." I entered the elevator and watched the doors shut on the Keeper's shocked face.
I got in my car and drove off. I wasn't ready to go home, and I didn't really know where else to go. I felt like most of my brain had shut off. But not enough of it. I was still thinking. Still picturing the silver tears on her face and the silver blood on my hands.
I should have saved her. I was standing right there, right in front of them. I could have gotten the gun away from him before he got the shot off. I could have saved her. Instead she died.
Death. I'm surrounded by it. But I still haven't died.
It's so easy to die, isn't it? I could wreck this car right now and die. It would be that simple. Helluva lot easier than saving someone from death, it seemed. I could have stopped her death. It would've been easy. Really. Instead I got her silver red blood on my hands.
I've seen people die before. My brother died in my arms, for Christ's sake. But this time felt different--I'd known nothing about this woman. She was just a random normal human being at the mall, caught in the middle. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't her problem. And I should have stopped her death.
I found myself by a park. I pulled into the parking lot and walked around the open area, through the trees, past the flowerbeds. I walked for hours. I didn't see a thing around me. I just kept thinking, the same thoughts over and over. Kept remembering Hobbes falling from the fire escape. Kept remembering strangling him, pointing a gun at him. Kevin pushing me out of the way. The Official's bruised and bloodied face when he tried to talk to me. Charlie Foggerty dying. Dr Carver falling over the edge. The Chameleon falling to the ground. The men in the beach house, the explosion. Stumbling, the woman's sudden weight in my arms, blood on her chest, on my hands.
I wanted it to stop. I didn't want to think anymore.
I knew, distantly, that I should talk to someone about this, about how I felt and what had happened--and I should talk soon, before I went really crazy. But who could I talk to? Definitely not the Official or Eberts. The Keeper would just give me some crap advice or scientific twaddle about shock or something--and would she even really listen in the first place? And Hobbes...he'd chalk it up to duty for your country or something. None of them would really understand. And I had absolutely nowhere else to go--no one else to talk to. Like I could tell my Aunt Celia about my problems. About blood and death.
Anyway, what could any of them do? They couldn't take the thoughts out of my head. They couldn't solve my problems. They couldn't even get the damned gland out of my head, and that really would solve all my problems. And they certainly didn't need me adding to their own problems.
I got back in my car and started driving again. I still didn't have anywhere to go. I considered stopping at a bar and getting completely drunk, but then I'd probably start talking about what had happened--or worse, try to drive home or something. I could barely drive right now; my thoughts kept getting in the way of my concentration. But maybe not being able to drive was the least of my problems. On the other hand, I'd probably crash into a pedestrian or another car and get somebody else killed. One person in a day really is more than enough for me.
She had died right in front of me.
I pulled into another parking lot, at a mall or a grocery store or something, and just sat in the car. I just kept thinking about all the people I'd hurt, or let be hurt. All the people who'd died because of me, or because I didn't try hard enough, or because I couldn't save them. And I really wanted the thoughts to go away. Only I couldn't think of anything else.
And I kept wondering what it was like to die. If it would really be all that bad. It sure as hell didn't seem like it could be any worse than living. I'd messed up so much. Hurt so many people. And death wasn't really a big deal, was it?
There should have been something stopping me thinking that, I know there should have been. I should have been thinking of the good I'd done, the people I'd helped or saved. But I just kept remembering the kidnappings, the illegal surgical operations, the drugs, the beatings, the madness, the deaths. And I've been tricked and played around with so much lately that I couldn't even trust my own head or my thoughts. Everyone's pain was lodged in there, in my head. Including my own. I sometimes felt like I was breaking apart, splitting up into thousands of pieces, quicksilver flakes shaken off to reveal nothing left at the core. I'd screwed up and been fucked around so much in the past few months...
No. Things are better now. I'm doing good. I am good.
Somehow, I couldn't believe that at the moment.
It was dark out. When had the shooting happened? Lunch time? I couldn't even remember. I started up my car again and drove home. There was nowhere else to go.
My phone was ringing when I got inside. I let the machine pick up; it was Hobbes, asking me where I was, his voice tense, even tenser than usual. I could tell I had other messages, probably more from Hobbes and the Keeper. Hell, maybe even the Official, telling me to get my ass in his office. I didn't care. I went and sat out in the back, looking up at the sky. I couldn't see any stars.
It was actually fairly cool out. I didn't notice. I just kept seeing that woman in quicksilver, tears sliding down her face. I don't think she even screamed once. I wanted her to get out of my head. This was worse than quicksilver madness; this was completely different. Guilt had taken over every cell in my body, replacing the quicksilver with silver blood. I really was going mad.
I finally went back inside around eleven or midnight. They'd stopped calling me at last. I got ready for bed and laid down. I actually fell asleep fairly quickly. But I kept dreaming all night.
I woke up late and got to the Agency by ten the next morning. I was wandering the halls, not sure exactly why I was there anyway, when the Keeper came across me.
"There you are!" she exclaimed when she saw me. "Where've you been? Hobbes and I kept calling you yesterday only you never answered."
"I was out," I told her shortly. I didn't want to talk about it. I just wanted to get on with my life.
I was getting really sick of her concerned looks, too. "I think the Official wants to talk to you about yesterday," she said.
"Fine," I replied. I started down the hall again, purposefully this time, as if I had somewhere to go.
"Darien," she called after me. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," I said without looking back.
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Hobbes was worried about his partner. He wasn't acting his usual joking, sarcastic self. Yeah, Fawkes always took it hard when someone died, but he never acted like this. Distant. Uncommunicative. He always talked to Bobby, told him what he was feeling.
And Hobbes hadn't seen his partner since the Keeper's lab yesterday, right after the shooting. He hadn't even spoken to the younger man since then. It was starting to weird Bobby out.
He had some leads to follow the next morning, so he didn't get to the Agency building until around eleven. He immediately headed for the Keep, figuring it was as likely a place as any to find Fawkes.
"Hi," Hobbes said to Claire when he entered the basement lab. He tried not to sound shy. He didn't want to act like a total dork around her after all.
The Keeper looked up from her computer at the sound of his voice and smiled at him. "Hi," she replied. "Darien's not here."
"Oh." He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
"He should still be in the building though," she went on quickly. Hobbes gave her a look of surprise. "I saw him about an hour ago. He was wandering the halls."
Hobbes nodded slowly. "Look, Keep..." he started and trailed off. "How did he seem to you?"
"Angry," she replied without hesitation. "Withdrawn. What really happened yesterday Bobby?"
"I'm not sure," Hobbes admitted, trying to hold back his frustration. "I have no idea where Fawkes was that whole time; he was invisible. And when I finally saw him...he was just spacing out. I got him to change and clean his hands up--they were covered in the lady's blood--and we drove back to the Agency, and he didn't speak at all the whole time. It was...weird."
The Keeper shook her head. "He said something to me yesterday...I'm worried about him, Bobby."
"You ain't the only one," Hobbes answered. "I'll look for him."
He left the lab. The Keeper bit her lip in concern and watched him go.
Hobbes stopped by his office to drop off one of his guns and was shocked to find his partner sitting in his chair behind his desk.
"Fawkes!" Hobbes stopped short just inside his office. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Around," Fawkes answered without looking up. He had zoned out again, Hobbes could tell, staring at nothing.
"You had us worried, buddy," Hobbes said cautiously, feeling his way into the conversation. He didn't like the look on Darien's face. "The Official wants to talk to us, debrief us about yesterday. And he's pissed that you just cleared off without his permission."
"Keep told me not to stick around," Fawkes answered indifferently. "I didn't."
Hobbes dropped his gun on the desk. Fawkes jerked his head up from staring at his hands, staring at the gun now instead with an intensity that really freaked Bobby out.
"Let's go talk to the Official," Hobbes said, wanting to get Darien out of the room.
"Fine." Fawkes stood up and waited for Hobbes to leave first before following him to the Fatman's office.
They knocked and waited for the older man's bellow. "Fawkes," the Official snapped when they came in and sat down in front of his desk, "don't do that again. You stay in touch no matter what. What if the Chinese had gotten you again--or the CIA?"
"Nice to know you care," Darien said in his old sarcastic tone. He almost sounded like himself again. Hobbes would have taken it for a good sign but he didn't want to get his hopes up.
"Now tell me what happened out there yesterday," the Official went on. Hobbes glanced over at Fawkes but saw he wasn't going to get any help there, so he began, telling the Fatman about trailing the terrorist all morning until he stopped at the food court.
When Hobbes finished the story, the Official nodded and looked over at Darien. "Do you have anything to add to that, Agent Fawkes?"
Darien shook his head. It looked like he'd gone back to being the silent invisible man again. "Where were you the entire time?" the Official pressed.
Fawkes hesitated, surprising his partner. Hobbes was sure Darien would know exactly where he was; he wouldn't forget, seeing a shooting like that. "I was...near the terrorist. Invisible," Fawkes said at last. "I was hoping to get the gun from him. I didn't get a chance."
The Official nodded. "Good strategy. But you didn't also chase after him?"
Again the reluctance to answer. "No. I stayed with the woman's body."
"That's right, sir," Hobbes jumped in, backing up his partner. "I found him with her when I came back after calling backup." But not for five minutes while he was going around quicksilvered, he added to himself. He was gonna ask his partner about that first chance he got.
"Right. Find him. Now. Don't let this happen again. Understood?"
"Yes, sir, understood," Hobbes answered, standing up and pulling Fawkes up with him from his chair. They left the room.
"So what the hell was that all about?" Hobbes asked as soon as they were a little ways down the corridor from the Official's office, outside hearing range.
"What was what all about?" Fawkes asked blankly.
"In there. Yesterday. What's up with you, Fawkes? You are not acting like yourself, my friend."
"Someone died, Hobbes," Fawkes flared. "Or didn't you notice?"
This was better. This was something Hobbes could deal with, something he was used to--Fawkes getting angry at the consequences of their job. "I noticed," Hobbes answered. "And I'm sorry she died."
"Yeah, well, so'm I," Fawkes said, his face seemingly set in stone. He headed down the hall.
"Where you goin' Fawkes?" Hobbes called after him, frustrated.
"Somewhere," Fawkes called back.
"We got a job to do, partner!"
"You don't need me; you can handle it. I'll be back later." Fawkes disappeared around the corner. When Hobbes ran around it after him, Fawkes had literally disappeared.
"Damn," Hobbes sighed. "What's wrong with you buddy?"
Hobbes tried calling his partner's cell, his home number, but still kept getting the machine. That night he dropped by Fawkes's place but the lights were out and Hobbes didn't see Darien's car anywhere.
Hobbes didn't know where else Fawkes would go. The guy didn't have much of a social life; the Agency was basically all he had these days, it seemed to Hobbes. He'd been trying occasionally to get Fawkes to loosen up, to try something new, but had met with almost no success.
Now Bobby was finding himself wishing Fawkes would just stay at home and read one of his damned philosophy magazines.
Hobbes gave up in defeat and drove home.
Over the next few days Fawkes seemed to come back to himself--he actually went back and started working, helping Hobbes out like he was supposed to, and while he seemed more subdued than usual, not joking around with Hobbes, he at least seemed to show some interest in the world around him. Hobbes was still worried, as was the Keeper and even the Official and Eberts, but their concerns were slightly lessened.
Fawkes seemed to be his old self again. Almost.
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I couldn't get her out of my head. I kept dreaming in quicksilver, seeing the tears on her face and the blood on her chest. The blood on my hands. And I kept thinking I should have jumped forward, grabbed the gun when I had the chance. I was right there. I could have saved her.
And I couldn't tell anyone. I couldn't say a damned thing. I wanted to tell the Keeper, wanted to tell Hobbes, but I knew they'd blame me. No, I didn't know that, they wouldn't blame me, but...it was too late now. She'd died a week ago. The guy had been caught; Hobbes had done his job and found the bastard. He'd felt guilty for killing her; he hadn't meant to shoot her.
How could I tell anyone it wasn't his fault, but mine? I should have saved her. Should have saved them all.
So I tried to carry on like normal. Tried not to think about her. They were all still worried about me, Hobbes and the Keeper and them; they didn't know why I was acting so out-of-character, but as the days went by, they stopped being concerned. It's easy to adapt. We all do it. All the time. I was getting used to dreaming about the woman; I was getting used to feeling like I'd done everything wrong. And it was easy; Hobbes and I didn't have any really dangerous jobs at the moment, so I didn't have to worry about almost getting my partner killed. Again. Like I've done so many times before. The guilt was becoming second nature; I hardly noticed it anymore. It's so easy to adapt.
But I kept thinking about death. About dying. About how easy it would be. I tried to stop it, but everywhere I looked I found another easy way to die--I was driving my car. I could go over a bridge. Run a red light. I was in the Keeper's lab, surrounded by all kinds of equipment and animals. Some deadly animals. Some deadly equipment. I was making dinner, the knives all laid out neatly in the drawer of the counter I was working at. Bobby dropping his gun right in front of me, practically putting it in my hand.
It would be so easy. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about any of it. I think that was part of the problem.
"Hey, Fawkes," Hobbes said, coming up behind me. I was standing frozen in one of the Agency hallways. "You're spacing out again. Am I gonna have to start worrying you won't watch my back?"
I jerked at that. "Don't say that," I told him. The vehemence in my tone made him look up at me in surprise. "Don't even think that."
"Hey, buddy, it was just a joke," he said. "I trust you, Fawkes."
Oh Christ. "Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't," I answered and walked away from him. I had to get out of there.
"Hey Fawkes! Wait up, man, we've got a job to do."
"Maybe I shouldn't go with you," I said without looking around at him. "Maybe you'd be better off if I didn't go."
"No way man." Hobbes grabbed my arm and stopped me. "We're partners, okay?"
Yeah but I don't want to get you accidentally killed. Just like that woman. But I couldn't say anything. I didn't want to say anything; Hobbes had enough on his mind. "Let's just go," I sighed and found my heart spasming, afraid I'd mess up again.
I hoped we didn't have to do anything dangerous.
It became easier as the days kept going by. I even felt like joking around, teasing the Keeper and bantering with Hobbes. My mind eased away from thoughts of that woman. I could handle it. Like I said, we adapt--we forget.
I was gonna be okay.
And then Bobby and I were chasing another perp. We'd ended up in an abandoned warehouse--you have no idea how many cliches have come to be true in my life--and the guy was, of course, trying to shoot our heads off. It's become almost ridiculous how many times a week I get shot at. My life was easier as a thief.
We'd lost track of the guy. He'd disappeared somewhere among all the junk left over from whenever the warehouse had last been used. So, I'd done my invisible thing again, knowing that it's damned hard to shoot at a target you can't see, while Hobbes distracted the guy, shouting out at him and taking the occasional potshot. I was supposed to sneak up on the guy, take him out. We'd done it dozens of times before. It works like a charm.
And then he jumped up, right in front of Hobbes's cover. He was standing right over my partner, gun pointed at Bobby's head.
Hobbes didn't hesitate. He shot the guy--got his arm, the one holding the gun. He jumped up, covering the fallen criminal with his gun. "Hey Fawkes!" my partner yelled over his shoulder. "I got the guy! We should call an ambulance!"
I was frozen. I was just standing there, watching the scene in front of me with one part of my mind, reliving the woman and the madman with another. But this time I hadn't even been close enough...if Hobbes hadn't reacted so quickly, he'd be dead. All because I couldn't find the damned bastard first, like the plan called for me to do.
"Hey partner! Where the hell are you?"
Not again. It was my nightmare all over again. Only it was real. Again. No, this wasn't quicksilver madness; this was real insanity. All my own fault.
"Dammit Fawkes!" Hobbes yelled. He kept the guy covered with one hand on his gun; he dug out his cell phone with the other.
He could handle it. He was fine.
I turned away and left the warehouse.
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Hobbes was royally pissed. Angry in a way he hadn't been in…well, a few weeks anyway. He stormed into the Keeper's lab, scaring the Keeper herself almost as much as her animals.
"Where the hell is he?"
"He who?" Claire said in confusion.
"Fawkes! Who else?"
"I don't know; I thought he was with you, on a job," she replied, still bewildered.
"We were," Hobbes said, teeth clenched. "We caught the guy; I shot him. Fawkes completely disappeared on me. In more ways than one. I thought he might've come back here."
"Well, I haven't seen him since yesterday," the Keeper answered. "Are you sure you didn't leave him--wherever?"
"He sure as hell wasn't answering when I yelled for him," Hobbes pointed out. "He must've walked wherever he went, 'cos we went in the van together."
"Did you try his apartment?" Claire frowned. She didn't like this. Darien hadn't acted like this in a couple weeks, not since that hostage died.
"I called," Hobbes admitted grudgingly. "Didn't get any answer of course."
Claire looked up at Hobbes. "I think you'd better go over there. Where else could he go?"
Hobbes was losing his anger, also becoming concerned as he really considered his partner's bizarre actions. And he'd thought Darien was getting over--whatever it'd been--by now. "Yeah. I think I'd better too."
"Call me," the Keeper called out as Hobbes left the lab.
"Yeah," he replied without looking back.
Hobbes opened the front door to Darien's apartment. It'd been locked, but Hobbes had easily picked it. Fawkes wasn't the only one with...certain skills. But Hobbes only used them in the line of duty. Only when he really needed to and felt like it was the only option. This was definitely one of those times.
"Fawkes?" Hobbes called out quietly, looking around the apartment. The place was a bit cluttered, nothing unusual. Books were spread out on the coffee table; the bed was unmade. Knives, the really sharp ones used for slicing bread and dicing vegetables, were laid out on the kitchen counter. "Fawkes, are you here buddy?"
He looked out back. Darien was sitting on the porch-area, leaning back in a deckchair, eyes closed. He held a gun loosely in his hand.
Hobbes blinked. Fawkes must have broken into his office and stolen it, 'cos Hobbes sure as hell knew Fawkes didn't have any guns himself. He could barely load one. He never carried one.
Bobby opened the sliding door, wincing at the loud scraping noise. Darien didn't react, even when Hobbes stepped outside with him and sat down on the deck chair next to Darien's, across the little plastic table.
"Fawkes," Hobbes said.
"Bobby, hi," Fawkes replied without opening his eyes. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing with one of your guns. Sorry about that; I had to kinda break the lock you had...I'll buy you a new one. Or I could just give you the money and you do it yourself."
"What're you planning on doing with that gun, Fawkes?" Hobbes had never been much of one for beating around the bush.
"I don't know yet," Darien answered. "Let's just wait and see, shall we?"
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I knew Hobbes would find me. I'd half-hoped he would, so I could find an excuse not to do something that would probably be considered really, really stupid.
I'd walked away from the warehouse to the Agency, breaking into Bobby's gun locker and taking one of the guns. And then I'd gone home. I could just as easily have walked into the path of oncoming traffic. For Christ's sake, I've done if often enough before. I didn't know why I was thinking this way. I couldn't stop myself. I didn't really think I could do anything about it. And coming home, knowing Hobbes would look for me after pulling that crazy-assed stunt of walking out on him in the middle of a job, just proved that I didn't want to do this.
But it had a certain appeal. Dying. I don't really believe in heaven or hell; death seemed to me like the perfect opportunity to get my thoughts to shut up. To turn my head off. Maybe then I'd finally get some peace.
Hobbes was being cautious; I could feel his tension even from across the plastic table. I think I scared him in a way that nothing or no one else has managed--at least, not lately. But then, I don't think he's often had to deal with suicidal people before. But I wasn't really suicidal. I wasn't ready to die.
Not really.
"You could give me the gun Fawkes," Hobbes said after a short silence. I'd almost forgotten what we were talking about.
"I know I should," I answered honestly. "But I'm not sure I'm ready to yet." I laughed; I think I was a bit hysterical. "Maybe I'm holding myself hostage."
Hobbes was obviously confused. I knew that even without opening my eyes and looking at him. Hell, I'd be confused in his place. "You don't understand Bobby," I told him. I kept my eyes squeezed shut. The metal in my hand was slick with sweat. Or maybe silver blood. I was afraid to open my eyes and find out.
"Try me," he offered.
"No," I shook my head. "I already thought about it. I thought about talking to the Keep, too, but she wouldn't understand either. I've got no one, Bobby. That's the sad part. I can't talk to anyone."
"You can talk to me." He actually sounded hurt. "I'm your partner."
"Yeah, and I almost got you killed today," I snapped out before I could stop myself.
"It was under control, Fawkes," Hobbes really sounded confused now, as if he didn't know what I was talking about. What I was making all the fuss about. He really couldn't understand. "I was in no danger. We had it handled."
"He was right there! Right in front of you!"
"Yeah, but I heard him coming. You kidding? That guy's breathing was built for obscene phone calls."
"I should have been closer," I whispered. "I should have stopped him."
"He didn't get a chance to do anything, man," Hobbes said. He actually sounded a little desperate. "I had him nailed even before he jumped out in front of me. He just made it easier for me to get him. It's okay, Darien."
"No." I shook my head, slowly. All feeling had drained out of me; I was just tired and cold and guilty. All I had left was the guilt. And the gun.
"What's this all about Fawkes? Really."
"I thought that was obvious. Death."
"Is it something to do with that woman a couple weeks ago? Is that why you're...what happened there, Fawkes?"
"She died. You were there."
"Yeah. And neither of us could have stopped her dying," Hobbes said.
"You don't know that," I said. I could feel tears trying to squeeze out of my eyes, but they were too tightly shut for the liquid to get free. "I could have saved her."
"How? You are not a psychic, my friend. You couldn't have known that gun was gonna go off. Even the guy pulling the trigger didn't expect it."
"I was right there!" I snapped my eyes open and glared at my partner. His intent expression never changed, carefully and seriously watching my face, his gaze barely even flickering to the gun in my hand. "I was standing right in front of them, Hobbes. I could have grabbed that gun right out of his hands before he had a chance to pull the trigger. I could have saved her."
"No," he said softly. "You had no idea the gun was about to go off. You could have been shot instead of her. You can't change the past."
"No," I said bitterly. The tears were finally freed, salt water running down my face and almost blinding me. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to feel guilty anymore. "And I can't stop thinking about it either." I held up the gun. "I want to end this," I said. I felt like the words were ripped out of me, too real, holding too much meaning, for just spoken words. I had to make someone else understand, and Hobbes was all I had. "I don't want to think anymore."
Hobbes's hand closed over mine and the gun. "I know buddy," he said, still in that soft voice. "I know you don't. You gotta give it time. You gotta talk to us. Killing yourself won't solve any of your problems. It'll make the thoughts go away, but it'll make everything else go away too. And you don't want to die feeling bad do ya?"
I couldn't answer. He took the gun out of my hand gently and pocketed it. I could feel the relief radiating from him as soon as the gun was out of sight, even though nothing outwardly changed about him. I looked down at my hands. There wasn't any blood on them. The tears were still sliding down my face. I felt hollow.
"It's okay, Darien," Hobbes said. He sounded sad. "It's better to feel something when someone's died than to feel nothing at all. But you gotta know that you couldn't do anything about it. And you gotta know you can talk to us--you can talk to me."
I shook my head. I wanted to believe it wasn't my fault. I think I even did, intellectually. But my guilt wouldn't let it go.
I laughed a little. Hobbes looked over at me, probably worried I was still hysterical. I glanced up at him, away from my hands. "Got any good psychiatrist recommendations?" I asked. "You seem the person to ask."
He smiled a little in reply. Then he took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. He stood up, wandering away from me a little so he could talk privately, but he kept me in his view. I didn't care. It didn't matter. I'd lost that moment when death seemed an option I could take. But there would probably be other moments.
I rested my head in my hands. I was tired.
It'd been a long couple of weeks.
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Hobbes wanted to kick himself. And slap his own face. He couldn't believe it. All that shit going on in Darien's head for the past two weeks and he hadn't done anything about it. Yeah, he'd noticed, but he hadn't said a thing. Trying to give the kid some privacy. Dignity. Whatever. And the kid had been getting better, he really had...seemed to be. Dammit, he should have been paying more attention to his partner. It just went to show how much a person could hide behind a casual exterior.
"I want to end this," Fawkes said, the intensity in his voice making it vibrate. "I don't want to think anymore."
Hobbes could understand that. He had lots of days of like that, when the paranoia was crowding him out and he couldn't tell what was real. Days when he just wanted to stop the thoughts rushing around his head. He knew what Fawkes meant. But he didn't think Fawkes would believe him, and he sure as hell didn't want Darien to die. After all, if nothing else, it would mean breaking in a new partner, and he and Fawkes had really gotten into a good groove. Really.
"I know buddy," Bobby said as he gently put his hand on top of Darien's, on top of the gun, trying to keep his voice calm, quiet, soothing. If he gave himself time to think about that, he'd start laughing. So he didn't give himself the time. "I know you don't. You gotta give it time. You gotta talk to us." He tried to keep the hurt out of his voice at that point. "Killing yourself won't solve any of your problems. Yeah, it'll make the bad thoughts go away, but it'll make everything else go away too. And you don't want to die feeling bad do ya?"
Fawkes's grip was loose on the gun, hardly holding it at all. Hobbes slowly took it away from him, put it safely in his pocket. A shudder went through his entire body as soon as he felt the heavy weight in his jacket. Fawkes was just sitting there, a distant look on his face behind the tears. He looked awfully young at the moment. He was staring down at his hands. Hobbes could almost see the blood he thought Fawkes saw there, had been seeing there for the past two weeks.
"It's okay, Darien," Hobbes said. He felt exhausted and still a little hurt that Fawkes had thought he couldn't confide in his partner. Hobbes had thought they could talk about...just about anything by now. "It's better to feel something when someone's died than to feel nothing at all." Hobbes knew what he was talking about, and it just made him sadder. But he wasn't about to tell Fawkes his stories, not when the kid was already feeling like shit. "But you gotta know you couldn't do anything about it. And you gotta know you can talk to us--you can talk to me."
Fawkes seemed to nod, just a little, but he still looked just as miserable, just as guilty. And then he laughed a little, which tensed Hobbes up again. Darien looked up at the other agent, a little...sheepishly? "Got any good psychiatrist recommendations? You seem the person to ask."
Hobbes let out a tiny breath and smiled at his partner. Maybe the kid wasn't so bad off after all. He took his phone out of his pocket and stood up after dialing the Keeper's number. He didn't want Darien to hear this conversation; he hoped the younger man would understand and not take offence. Hobbes walked to the edge of the steps, still keeping Darien in his line of sight. Just in case.
"This is the Keeper," came the precise British accent over the line.
"Yeah, it's Hobbes," Bobby answered.
"Did you find him?" her voice subtly changed into worry.
"Yeah, he was--is--at home," Hobbes told her. "He's okay. Now. Or he will be."
"What happened?"
Hobbes looked over at his friend, a frown line creasing his forehead. Darien had dropped his head slowly into his hands, running those hands through his hair. "He tried to kill himself," Bobby said softly.
"What?!"
"It's okay now," Hobbes cut her off soothingly. "I stopped him."
"Oh god." She sounded horrified, shocked. Just about how Hobbes had felt.
"Yeah," Hobbes answered. "Look, have you got any good psychiatrist friends? I think he could use one."
"Of course, I'll...dammit," she sighed, giving up on her sentence, on her control. "How did this happen?"
"Are you really surprised?" Hobbes answered as the thought entered his head. "Think about all the crap he's been through lately. If it's not someone trying to kill him, it's someone trying to get the gland out of his head or playing games with his head, screwing around with him. Something was bound to set him off, don't you think?" And it would be an innocent victim caught in the crossfire, Hobbes added to himself. Fawkes could handle spies and thugs and evil conspiracy organizations, but as soon as something really bad happens to a single person who doesn't deserve it, Fawkes goes to pieces. Yeah. It made sense. He was a good kid. Had his priorities right.
"I'll find someone," Claire said at last. "Thank you Bobby...for finding him."
"Yeah," said Hobbes. "Let's just hope Darien's sensible enough to also thank me."
------------------------------------------one month later---------------------------------------------
I found the place I was looking for. Hobbes was standing back, hovering in that way he does, watching me like a hawk. I didn't care.
Caroline Macafee. That was her name. That was the name on this grave. Why do I spend so much time in cemeteries these days?
She hadn't been married. Her parents had died years ago, but she had a sister and brother. I'd seen them, at the madman's trial. I'd found them again, talked to them this morning. They'd thanked Hobbes for bringing their sister's murderer to justice. They'd thanked me for staying with her when she had died.
I dropped the small bouquet of flowers on her grave. I'd come to pay my respects. To tell her I was sorry I couldn't save her.
It was over now. Time to move on again. That's the only way to deal with death—to grieve, and move on.
I wondered if the guilt would ever go away.
...I really doubted it.