Title: The Tiger and the Little Boy Lost
Author: aces
Rating: PG
Warnings: Major character death, mild language.
Disclaimers: You *know* if I'd had my way, Darien and Bobby and the gang would've had at least three more seasons. This obviously proves that I don't own the characters or make any money from any of this or anything like that, right?
Notes: Something that came about because of a single scene from "FFH"…it's noncanon, A/U, future story, take it as you will. Also a bit of an experiment in style, POV, that sort of thing. Hey, it's all good.
THE TIGER AND THE LITTLE BOY LOST
"No-one ever respected me here, really. No-one ever really cared…about me here. No-one."
~Robert Hobbes, "Flowers for Hobbes"
"Hobbes?"
Damn the kid looks young. He's doing that little-boy-lost routine right now, with the eyes and the pout and the fidgeting hands. He don't know what to do. He's scared. You feel sorry for him.
"C'mon, Hobbes, man, stay with me here."
He's afraid to touch you anywhere, afraid to move you, so his hands hesitate, they flutter around you like nervous butterflies, landing momentarily on a shoulder here, a wrist there, patting a leg disconsolately. He's trying not to meet your eye now as he surveys the damage done to your body.
"Bobby, don't fall asleep."
But your eyes feel so heavy. You keep them open anyway, because he told you to, and while you can't quite remember why you're lying smashed on the ground like a squashed butterfly and he's hovering around you awkwardly ('cos a guy that tall really can't hover any other way but awkwardly), you trust him. 'Cos he's your partner, and people trust their partners. And you trust this guy with your life.
"You're gonna be fine. Okay? You're gonna be just fine."
Of course you're gonna be fine. Why wouldn't you be? But he's still got that little-boy-lost look to his eyes, the one he gets sometimes when his brother comes up somehow in conversation, or when something else happens with the damned gland, or that time when you effectively told him he was shit and his friendship was worthless. And he proved you wrong pretty damn quick, didn't he?
"Stay with me, Hobbes. Please."
It's that little-boy-lost look, and it always drives you crazy, because he is so supposed to be older than that. For Christ's sake, the kid has to be over thirty now, and he's been to jail and he's a frigging thief and his brother died in his arms. He shouldn't have that kinda vulnerable look. He shouldn't be some fifteen-year-old stuck in the body of a thirty-year-old. But he is, and it keeps you clinging. To what you're supposed to be clinging, you're not entirely aware, so you cling to him with that same old tenacious determination that made him give you the nickname "tiger."
"Listen, Bobby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry this happened to you. But you're gonna be fine, ya hear me, you're gonna be fine. Goddammit! You're gonna be fine."
You're tired now, and numb, though your back and your legs and your arms lying on the ground are cold, so cold. You want to close your eyes and sleep, sleep for a good long time, but his voice keeps you awake, and so you dutifully listen 'cos you know it'd piss him off if you fell asleep in the middle of his talking. Though what the hell he's trying to say here you're not entirely sure, and you really wish he'd get to the point so you could take a little catnap. Just a light snooze, nothing much…
"Dammit this is my fault. This is my fault. I'm an idiot. Forgive me, please? You gotta forgive me, Bobby."
Nothing to forgive, boy-o, you want to say, but forming words seems too difficult right now. You force your eyes open again (only then noticing they'd fallen closed), and you see him crouching down next to you, arms hanging tense at his sides, eyes wide and pleading and scared.
"Forgive me, Bobby."
You nod once, all you can manage at the moment you're so damned tired, and his face crumples a little before turning into something fierce and determined. You wanna grin—now he's the little tiger, yeah—and you wanna clap him on the shoulder or clasp his hand, but that seems too much like effort, and yeah maybe you should be worried about all this effort and difficulty it seems to be taking to do simple basic things, but even that worry seems too much like work so you're just gonna let it slide. 'Cos if it were really important, your partner could deal with it. Right? Right?
"I'm gonna get you out of this, Hobbes. You just stick with me, okay?"
And suddenly you know it ain't gonna happen, you're tired, too tired for it to be anything good, and you know the pain should be creeping back into your consciousness right about now but it's not and for that you're grateful. And now you're fighting with a vengeance, strength sparking and peaking and dying, but you're not gonna give up that damned easily 'cos you are a tiger and you fight to the bitter end for life and limb and country and partner. Especially this partner.
"Dammit, Hobbes, don't fall asleep on me! Not yet, hear me? Listen to me!"
You are listening, you hear him loud and clear, and you're grateful for that too. Partners don't desert their partners, and you've trained your partner well. And maybe he has taught you a thing or two himself, you can now admit to yourself graciously.
"Are you listening to me? You'd better be, or I'll kick your ass later…"
You're listening alright, and you still hear him loud and clear, but you know you've lost this battle, and your war is finally over, and you kinda wished you could have lasted long enough for another battle or three, just so you could see how this kid grew up. And if he ever lost that little-boy-lost routine or if he could still pull it off and get the ladies when he reached his sixties. You have a feeling he could. Probably one of the tricks of his trade, now that you think about it. And he even fooled you with it.
"I…you can't—don't do this, Hobbes. Stay awake. I—this is gonna sound like crap, I know, but…I don't want to lose you. I really don't."
You don't want to lose him either. He's taught you a helluva lot, frankly.
"Bobby? Can you hear me?"
You find the strength. Somehow, you open your eyes again and look up at him directly. He meets your eyes, frowning a little, partly in confusion, partly in fear, partly in grief. You recognize all of that, and somehow you manage a brief little smile that barely touches your lips. And somehow you find the strength to open your mouth.
"Thank you, my friend," you tell him, and you close your eyes one last time.