Title: Nothing
Author: Paranoyd_Insomniac
E-mail: bobbyhobbes@hotmail.com
Category: Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Reference to 'Flowers for Hobbes'
Timeline: Takes place about three-quarters through the second season,
probably after 'Bad Chi'
Disclaimer: The characters and basic premise of 'The Invisible Man' are not
owned by me. They belong to USA and Stu Segall Productions. I am making
no money off of this story. I am doing this purely for my own amusement.
Author's notes: Just a random, weird little QSM story I threw down on
paper. Oh, and on a somewhat unrelated note, I decided not to continue the
'Mutual' series.... It's certainly not from lack of reviews, just a
personal lack of interest. Just thought I'd let everyone know.
--------------------------------------------------
What do you think I am, crazy? Of *course* I'm not crazy. I'm Quicksilver mad. Hooray for political correctness.
No, you know what? Screw political correctness. Hooray for insanity.
Insane, cuckoo, mental, off my rocker, a few fries short of a happy meal -- that's me. I love being crazy. I mean, being sane is so monotonous, you know? You run around, doing a nothing-job all day, then go crash at your apartment and do nothing all night until it's time to go to sleep and dream nothing-dreams. Bo-ring!
When you're crazy, it throws a little spice into your life. You're not doing nothing any more. Doing nothing is when everyone knows what you're going to do and you do it, so you cancel yourself out and become a nothing- person. When you're crazy, they can never tell exactly what you're going to do.
Of course, when they can't cancel you out one way, they try to find another. Knock you out, tie you up, throw you in a padded cell. Oh, forgive me, a padded *room*. There's that damned political correctness again.
I'm not gonna let them cancel me out this time, though. Not the Jailer with her blue-filled needle, or the Tiger with his fists and his gun and his damned over-protectiveness.
I'm too smart for them, you see. I know exactly how they're going to react to anything I say or do. And I'm going to play it for all it's worth.
I walk into the Agency, or as I prefer to think of it, Hell's asshole, with the smooth gait of a hunter on the prowl. I've got a pair of sunglasses on to hide my eyes; that oughtta throw them off track for a few seconds, at least. Long enough for me to slip in past their defenses so they're right where I want them. And let's not forget the use of the casual grin, shall we? It has so much potential to put people off their guard. This is gonna be so much fun.... I've played this game before, and I get better at it every time.
"Hey, Fawkesy." That's the Tiger speaking, falling in step with me as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I speed up a tad, not enough that he'll really notice, but just enough that he has to trot along faster than is comfortable to keep up.
"Hey, Hobbesy. Ready for some fun?"
The Tiger laughs. "Never thought I'd live to see the day you called a stakeout fun." That's not what I was talking about at all, but I'll let him play out his little delusions in his head for now. It's always so much more entertaining when they realize how I duped them, how I ran right over their stupid sane selves.
Keep him on my left, easy as pie, just so he has a harder time glancing at my tattoo. It's the tattletale, the thing that can reveal me for what I really am. My watchband is covering it, but I'd still rather keep the Tiger over there. Don't want to spoil the surprise.
I'd agree with them, in fact. I'm not wise. I'm cunning. Cunning as a fox, because that's exactly what I am, a Fawkes.
We trudge down to the dungeon, or the lab, whichever you prefer to call it. Tiger and Fawkes, walking side by side in a semblance of camaraderie.
The dungeon door swings open, ominous darkness and fluorescent lights drawing me into its poison trap. Have to be careful; if I'm not, this is the one place they could cancel me out because this is where they keep the blue, the nasty, delicious blue that I crave so badly and I know is here and am trying so desperately to ignore. That's the one thing that could cancel me out for sure, so I have to resist, I have to pretend it doesn't exist.
If I play this just right, I'll win the game... and then I'll never have to resist again. Of course, to win the game, I have to cheat. But like I said before, I don't exactly feel like playing fair.
"Hey," I say, grinning over at the Jailer. She looks mighty fine this morning, dressed to kill, hair pulled up in a ponytail that's just loose enough for a few strands to come loose and frame her face. She's staring into a microscope at who-knows-what. That look of concentration is very alluring. The Tiger thinks so, too, I can tell.
"Hello, Darien," the Jailer replies, dragging out the 'ar' so it sounds like 'ahhhr' instead. Dahhhrien. I like it. She looks up and continues, "Are you here for your shot?"
I take the necessary moment to glance around the room, checking to make sure the playing field is ready. The door just slid shut and, regardless of the Jailer's question, the vial of the blue nothing, empty needle beside it, is clear across the room. The Tiger has his gun, but that's nothing to worry about; he's not going to go Fawkes hunting today.
"Ahhh.... Not exactly." My face stretches out in a harlequin grin. "I'm just here to play." And, before the Tiger or the Jailer have time to realize what I mean, I lunge toward the Tiger with the full intention of ripping his gun out of its holster and blowing somebody straight to Hell.
Of course, it doesn't work out quite like that. The Tiger and I end up in a wrestling match on the floor, animal pitted against animal, each trying to get control of the death-weapon that is partially ensnared in the other's grasp. I'm going to win, though, I can tell; even a Tiger is no match for a Fawkes, not today.
I can feel the Jailer coming up behind me, holding the blue nothing and just waiting for the opportunity to cancel me out. I'm too smart for her, though; I let the Tiger get the upper hand, just for a moment, just long enough for me to end up on bottom so it's that much harder for them to get the blue nothing in. They're not going to cancel me out, not today.
With a sudden burst of energy I rip the gun out of the Tiger's hands, then kick him off of me and send him staggering back. He bumps into the Jailer, she screams, and they both go toppling backward. The needle filled with the blue nothing rolls under a table; the vial shatters against the ground and spills its contents out on the lab floor. Part of me is pleased beyond measure, part of me wants to lap it up like a dog... but all of me wants to have more fun.
The Tiger and Jailer sit up, the Jailer mourning over the loss of the nothing, the Tiger wanting to make sure she's OK. He doesn't know that she keeps him in as much of a prison as she does me. 'You're very sweet, Bobby', 'you're very brave, Bobby', just enough flirtation to keep him from completely losing hope that she loves him even though she's never thrown more than a platonic kiss on the cheek his way. Maybe someday he'll figure out her game and move on, but I doubt it. He's too stupid and loyal for that.
I look down at the two of them, laughing with glee, and aim the gun at the Jailer's head. "Heya, Keepy. Having fun yet?"
The Jailer looks properly affronted, her cheeks flushed with anger and fright. People always fear what they can't understand. "Put down the gun, Darien."
Oh, she should know better than that by now. "I've told you before.... Don't tell me what to do." I move forward. The Jailer flinches, and the Tiger pulls closer to her protectively, the self-proclaimed alpha male protecting a potential mate from his challenger. That won't do, not at all. I shift my aim and shoot him in the leg.
The Tiger roars with pain, the shock of the wound clearly visible on his features. He wasn't expecting that, but then, that's what this whole game is about; me being one step ahead of everyone else, dodging their expectations and coming from a completely different direction than they anticipated.
The Jailer looks like she's about to go into doctor-mode and start fussing around with the Tiger's leg, so I grab hold of her arm and yank her off of the ground, my hand snaking around her waist after she's on her feet. She's even more beautiful now, her hair in just the perfect state of disarray, her eyes sparkling with terror, rage, and held-back tears.
I trace the gun-barrel down her cheek and laugh at the way she tenses the instant the cold metal makes contact with her skin. I've won the game and she's the prize.
"So, Claire... what shall we do today?" I lean in close. So tantalizingly close. "I think I wanna play doctor." My lips are only an inch away from her neck. I could brush them against it... lips against skin... or maybe teeth, so I could taste her blood. Must be sweeter than honey, rich and warm.
"Darien, don't." Again with the Dahhhrien. She must know what that does to me, the little shiver she just sent running down my spine.
"Oh, Darien, *do*," I whisper as a throaty chuckle escapes my lips. "I can... *do*... anything I want right now."
I know the Tiger's jealous. He's staring at me with a look of betrayed anger on his face as if he can't believe what I'm doing, that I'd even think doing any of this. That's his problem, though, not mine. He has no claim on the Jailer whatsoever.
But I do. She's mine, everyone says so. My Jailer. My Keeper. Mine, mine, mine. I have to finish the thought out loud, taste the words on my tongue. "All... mine."
I look over at the Tiger, gloating, but my eyes narrow as I realize that I made a mistake. I wasn't paying enough attention, and he's moved way too close to one of the lab tables... the one that the nothing-needle rolled underneath.
"Not smart, Hobbesy...." I put just enough of a twist in my usual tone to make the usually playful moniker sound condescending. "Hands in the air." The Tiger hesitates, indecision slowing his reaction more than I'd like. I shove the Jailer away and aim the gun right at the Tiger's heart. "Now."
The Tiger nods slowly, acknowledging both my demand and my superiority. He starts to raise his hands... then I see a glint of blue roll out of his hand and across the floor. I lost the game again... and it was turning out so well, too.
I whirl around, my eyes tracking the blue flash as it skitters across the floor and into pristinely manicured fingertips. I try to move back, to get out of the way in time, but the Jailer strikes like the treacherous snake she is and injects the nothing into my leg. A frustrated growl escapes my lips, but it quickly changes into a whimper as the blue liquid blazes like fire into my bloodstream. My body, my brain, everything crashes, a massive system failure as the Id flies back into its bottle and leaves me winded from the impact....
I'm on the floor. How did I get on the floor? Oh, right, the counteragent knocks me unconscious if I'm too far into the madness. Oh crap, the madness.... I sit up with a moan, a hand instinctively moving to the place where my head hit the floor. Nobody caught me... but then, that makes sense, considering that Hobbes is lying halfway across the room with a bullet wound in his leg and Claire wasn't exactly in a position to catch me either.
Oh, *damnit*. Claire. I turn toward her with horror in my eyes. "Claire, I...."
"...you were Quicksilver mad," she interjects calmly. "Nothing happened, I'm fine." But she can't quite mask the residual hurt in her eyes.
I swallow hard as a familiar feeling of guilt begins to well up in the pit of my stomach. I look down at the ground, but a trail of blood catches my eye and before I have the chance to think my eyes follow the spatters over to my partner, still lying beside the table that the syringe was under. "Hobbes...." I can't say any more, practically choking on unspoken words.
"It's not that bad, Fawkesy, I'll be fine in a week." Using the table as a makeshift crutch, Hobbes pulls himself to his feet. Still unable to speak, I help him over to the counteragent chair in silence. Claire takes over from there, getting out the proper materials to clean and bandage it and lamenting over his wound while Hobbes goes into his usual spiel of war stories and lewd comments.
Without even meaning to, I start to tune them out. It's nothing personal; I've just seen this particular drama play out countless times before, and right now I'm too busy dealing with the ritual post-Madness guilt trip- slash-pity party to pay much attention anyway.
After a few minutes, Claire and Hobbes don't even seem to notice my presence any more. They're just laughing and talking, business as usual. I stuff my hands in my pockets and exit the room, not bothering to announce my departure.
I'm so wrapped up in self-condemnation that I don't notice Eberts until I nearly slam into him in the hall. He gives me a worried look and asks, "Are you alright, Agent Fawkes? Is something wrong?"
Is something wrong? Hell, yeah. I shot my partner and sexually assaulted my doctor, both of whom just happen to be my best friends. The Quicksilver madness seems to get worse every day. I have recurring nightmares that someday I'm going to kill my friends, what little remaining family I have left, everyone I know, and then I'll get killed too... or worse yet, I'll live. But I can't dump all that emotional baggage on Eberts, concerned for my wellbeing or no.
I shrug, force a curt smile on my face. "Nothing. It's nothing."
--------------------------------------------------
What do you think I am, crazy? Of *course* I'm not crazy. I'm Quicksilver mad. Hooray for political correctness.
No, you know what? Screw political correctness. Hooray for insanity.
Insane, cuckoo, mental, off my rocker, a few fries short of a happy meal -- that's me. I love being crazy. I mean, being sane is so monotonous, you know? You run around, doing a nothing-job all day, then go crash at your apartment and do nothing all night until it's time to go to sleep and dream nothing-dreams. Bo-ring!
When you're crazy, it throws a little spice into your life. You're not doing nothing any more. Doing nothing is when everyone knows what you're going to do and you do it, so you cancel yourself out and become a nothing- person. When you're crazy, they can never tell exactly what you're going to do.
Of course, when they can't cancel you out one way, they try to find another. Knock you out, tie you up, throw you in a padded cell. Oh, forgive me, a padded *room*. There's that damned political correctness again.
I'm not gonna let them cancel me out this time, though. Not the Jailer with her blue-filled needle, or the Tiger with his fists and his gun and his damned over-protectiveness.
I'm too smart for them, you see. I know exactly how they're going to react to anything I say or do. And I'm going to play it for all it's worth.
I walk into the Agency, or as I prefer to think of it, Hell's asshole, with the smooth gait of a hunter on the prowl. I've got a pair of sunglasses on to hide my eyes; that oughtta throw them off track for a few seconds, at least. Long enough for me to slip in past their defenses so they're right where I want them. And let's not forget the use of the casual grin, shall we? It has so much potential to put people off their guard. This is gonna be so much fun.... I've played this game before, and I get better at it every time.
"Hey, Fawkesy." That's the Tiger speaking, falling in step with me as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I speed up a tad, not enough that he'll really notice, but just enough that he has to trot along faster than is comfortable to keep up.
"Hey, Hobbesy. Ready for some fun?"
The Tiger laughs. "Never thought I'd live to see the day you called a stakeout fun." That's not what I was talking about at all, but I'll let him play out his little delusions in his head for now. It's always so much more entertaining when they realize how I duped them, how I ran right over their stupid sane selves.
Keep him on my left, easy as pie, just so he has a harder time glancing at my tattoo. It's the tattletale, the thing that can reveal me for what I really am. My watchband is covering it, but I'd still rather keep the Tiger over there. Don't want to spoil the surprise.
I'd agree with them, in fact. I'm not wise. I'm cunning. Cunning as a fox, because that's exactly what I am, a Fawkes.
We trudge down to the dungeon, or the lab, whichever you prefer to call it. Tiger and Fawkes, walking side by side in a semblance of camaraderie.
The dungeon door swings open, ominous darkness and fluorescent lights drawing me into its poison trap. Have to be careful; if I'm not, this is the one place they could cancel me out because this is where they keep the blue, the nasty, delicious blue that I crave so badly and I know is here and am trying so desperately to ignore. That's the one thing that could cancel me out for sure, so I have to resist, I have to pretend it doesn't exist.
If I play this just right, I'll win the game... and then I'll never have to resist again. Of course, to win the game, I have to cheat. But like I said before, I don't exactly feel like playing fair.
"Hey," I say, grinning over at the Jailer. She looks mighty fine this morning, dressed to kill, hair pulled up in a ponytail that's just loose enough for a few strands to come loose and frame her face. She's staring into a microscope at who-knows-what. That look of concentration is very alluring. The Tiger thinks so, too, I can tell.
"Hello, Darien," the Jailer replies, dragging out the 'ar' so it sounds like 'ahhhr' instead. Dahhhrien. I like it. She looks up and continues, "Are you here for your shot?"
I take the necessary moment to glance around the room, checking to make sure the playing field is ready. The door just slid shut and, regardless of the Jailer's question, the vial of the blue nothing, empty needle beside it, is clear across the room. The Tiger has his gun, but that's nothing to worry about; he's not going to go Fawkes hunting today.
"Ahhh.... Not exactly." My face stretches out in a harlequin grin. "I'm just here to play." And, before the Tiger or the Jailer have time to realize what I mean, I lunge toward the Tiger with the full intention of ripping his gun out of its holster and blowing somebody straight to Hell.
Of course, it doesn't work out quite like that. The Tiger and I end up in a wrestling match on the floor, animal pitted against animal, each trying to get control of the death-weapon that is partially ensnared in the other's grasp. I'm going to win, though, I can tell; even a Tiger is no match for a Fawkes, not today.
I can feel the Jailer coming up behind me, holding the blue nothing and just waiting for the opportunity to cancel me out. I'm too smart for her, though; I let the Tiger get the upper hand, just for a moment, just long enough for me to end up on bottom so it's that much harder for them to get the blue nothing in. They're not going to cancel me out, not today.
With a sudden burst of energy I rip the gun out of the Tiger's hands, then kick him off of me and send him staggering back. He bumps into the Jailer, she screams, and they both go toppling backward. The needle filled with the blue nothing rolls under a table; the vial shatters against the ground and spills its contents out on the lab floor. Part of me is pleased beyond measure, part of me wants to lap it up like a dog... but all of me wants to have more fun.
The Tiger and Jailer sit up, the Jailer mourning over the loss of the nothing, the Tiger wanting to make sure she's OK. He doesn't know that she keeps him in as much of a prison as she does me. 'You're very sweet, Bobby', 'you're very brave, Bobby', just enough flirtation to keep him from completely losing hope that she loves him even though she's never thrown more than a platonic kiss on the cheek his way. Maybe someday he'll figure out her game and move on, but I doubt it. He's too stupid and loyal for that.
I look down at the two of them, laughing with glee, and aim the gun at the Jailer's head. "Heya, Keepy. Having fun yet?"
The Jailer looks properly affronted, her cheeks flushed with anger and fright. People always fear what they can't understand. "Put down the gun, Darien."
Oh, she should know better than that by now. "I've told you before.... Don't tell me what to do." I move forward. The Jailer flinches, and the Tiger pulls closer to her protectively, the self-proclaimed alpha male protecting a potential mate from his challenger. That won't do, not at all. I shift my aim and shoot him in the leg.
The Tiger roars with pain, the shock of the wound clearly visible on his features. He wasn't expecting that, but then, that's what this whole game is about; me being one step ahead of everyone else, dodging their expectations and coming from a completely different direction than they anticipated.
The Jailer looks like she's about to go into doctor-mode and start fussing around with the Tiger's leg, so I grab hold of her arm and yank her off of the ground, my hand snaking around her waist after she's on her feet. She's even more beautiful now, her hair in just the perfect state of disarray, her eyes sparkling with terror, rage, and held-back tears.
I trace the gun-barrel down her cheek and laugh at the way she tenses the instant the cold metal makes contact with her skin. I've won the game and she's the prize.
"So, Claire... what shall we do today?" I lean in close. So tantalizingly close. "I think I wanna play doctor." My lips are only an inch away from her neck. I could brush them against it... lips against skin... or maybe teeth, so I could taste her blood. Must be sweeter than honey, rich and warm.
"Darien, don't." Again with the Dahhhrien. She must know what that does to me, the little shiver she just sent running down my spine.
"Oh, Darien, *do*," I whisper as a throaty chuckle escapes my lips. "I can... *do*... anything I want right now."
I know the Tiger's jealous. He's staring at me with a look of betrayed anger on his face as if he can't believe what I'm doing, that I'd even think doing any of this. That's his problem, though, not mine. He has no claim on the Jailer whatsoever.
But I do. She's mine, everyone says so. My Jailer. My Keeper. Mine, mine, mine. I have to finish the thought out loud, taste the words on my tongue. "All... mine."
I look over at the Tiger, gloating, but my eyes narrow as I realize that I made a mistake. I wasn't paying enough attention, and he's moved way too close to one of the lab tables... the one that the nothing-needle rolled underneath.
"Not smart, Hobbesy...." I put just enough of a twist in my usual tone to make the usually playful moniker sound condescending. "Hands in the air." The Tiger hesitates, indecision slowing his reaction more than I'd like. I shove the Jailer away and aim the gun right at the Tiger's heart. "Now."
The Tiger nods slowly, acknowledging both my demand and my superiority. He starts to raise his hands... then I see a glint of blue roll out of his hand and across the floor. I lost the game again... and it was turning out so well, too.
I whirl around, my eyes tracking the blue flash as it skitters across the floor and into pristinely manicured fingertips. I try to move back, to get out of the way in time, but the Jailer strikes like the treacherous snake she is and injects the nothing into my leg. A frustrated growl escapes my lips, but it quickly changes into a whimper as the blue liquid blazes like fire into my bloodstream. My body, my brain, everything crashes, a massive system failure as the Id flies back into its bottle and leaves me winded from the impact....
I'm on the floor. How did I get on the floor? Oh, right, the counteragent knocks me unconscious if I'm too far into the madness. Oh crap, the madness.... I sit up with a moan, a hand instinctively moving to the place where my head hit the floor. Nobody caught me... but then, that makes sense, considering that Hobbes is lying halfway across the room with a bullet wound in his leg and Claire wasn't exactly in a position to catch me either.
Oh, *damnit*. Claire. I turn toward her with horror in my eyes. "Claire, I...."
"...you were Quicksilver mad," she interjects calmly. "Nothing happened, I'm fine." But she can't quite mask the residual hurt in her eyes.
I swallow hard as a familiar feeling of guilt begins to well up in the pit of my stomach. I look down at the ground, but a trail of blood catches my eye and before I have the chance to think my eyes follow the spatters over to my partner, still lying beside the table that the syringe was under. "Hobbes...." I can't say any more, practically choking on unspoken words.
"It's not that bad, Fawkesy, I'll be fine in a week." Using the table as a makeshift crutch, Hobbes pulls himself to his feet. Still unable to speak, I help him over to the counteragent chair in silence. Claire takes over from there, getting out the proper materials to clean and bandage it and lamenting over his wound while Hobbes goes into his usual spiel of war stories and lewd comments.
Without even meaning to, I start to tune them out. It's nothing personal; I've just seen this particular drama play out countless times before, and right now I'm too busy dealing with the ritual post-Madness guilt trip- slash-pity party to pay much attention anyway.
After a few minutes, Claire and Hobbes don't even seem to notice my presence any more. They're just laughing and talking, business as usual. I stuff my hands in my pockets and exit the room, not bothering to announce my departure.
I'm so wrapped up in self-condemnation that I don't notice Eberts until I nearly slam into him in the hall. He gives me a worried look and asks, "Are you alright, Agent Fawkes? Is something wrong?"
Is something wrong? Hell, yeah. I shot my partner and sexually assaulted my doctor, both of whom just happen to be my best friends. The Quicksilver madness seems to get worse every day. I have recurring nightmares that someday I'm going to kill my friends, what little remaining family I have left, everyone I know, and then I'll get killed too... or worse yet, I'll live. But I can't dump all that emotional baggage on Eberts, concerned for my wellbeing or no.
I shrug, force a curt smile on my face. "Nothing. It's nothing."