Claire trod down the busy corridor toward the elevators. She was exhausted, both physically and mentally. The Keeper had assisted a team of hospital doctors in putting Darien's broken body back together. It had not been an easy task, and in those 10 hours of diligence they had lost him twice. Each time Claire had brought him back with a curse and a prayer.

She stepped into the elevator, grateful and a bit surprised that it was empty and wearily pushed the button for the lobby. She'd been informed a while ago that a man called himself 'Agent Robert Hobbes' was in the waiting room, and that he was irate. Claire smiled to herself as the elevator began its descent.

(That sounded like Bobby, all right)

She allowed herself a brief sigh as she closed her eyes, preparing herself to fill Hobbes in on his partner's condition. Darien was currently being transferred into the ICU where nurses would be able to keep an eye on him around the clock, and it also afforded Claire the opportunity to do the same thing.

The Official would be angry, to say the least, that Darien had been brought here, so Claire was taking it upon herself to make sure their little secret stayed that way. In fact, the first X-rays and MRI's the doctors had taken of Darien had mysteriously vanished. His blood culture and other lab work ups had also turned up missing.

As the elevator sighed to a stop and the doors parted she heard the faint, yet distinct sound, of two voices arguing. She shook her head, some poor bastard was really getting it, she thought. She turned a corner heading toward the waiting room when she realized that she recognized those arguing voices. With a growing feeling of dread she picked up her pace and arrived at the waiting room in time to see Hobbes and the Official standing face to face, shouting at each other.

"Because he's my partner, that's why!" Hobbes roared, taking an angry step toward Charlie.

"I don't care if it was the Pope himself!" the Official shouted back, "I gave a direct order that Fawkes be taken back to the Agency. A direct order that you blatantly ignored," he added, jabbing a beefy finger at Hobbes.

"A direct order?" he snorted, "Since when did you become Commander in Chief?"

"I am your superior and as a result I expect my orders to be carried out."

Hobbes folded his hands in front of him, "Not when they could end up getting a man killed. Fawkes risked his butt going into that building, he–"

The Official cut him off with an angry wave of his hand, his voice lowering, "Do you realize that you have jeopardized the entire I-Man project?" his face was hard as he leaned forward, getting closer Hobbes. "If the existence of the gland is uncovered, if its capabilities are unearthed, it could mean the end of our future." He paused to poke his finger into Hobbes' shoulder, "The end of your job."

The agent narrowed his eyes, ignoring the finger, his voice was deadly calm, "When are you going to get it into your head that Fawkes is a living, breathing person and deserves to be treated as such? Taking him back to the lab would've killed him, you didn't see–"

The Official interrupted him, "Darien Fawkes is a tool," he quipped, "this Agency's ace in the hole."

Hobbes let his arms fall to his sides, his hands clenched into fists. He pushed himself up into the Officials' face, fury burning in his dark eyes, "Were you born a sonofabitch or did that come with the job?" he growled.

Realizing that the argument was dangerously close to getting physical, Claire jumped in between them, a hand on each of their chests.

"Gentlemen!" she cried, "Please, we're in a hospital."

Charlie gave her a withering glare, "I noticed that," he snapped at her, "did you somehow mistranslate 'bring Fawkes to the lab' as 'take him to the hospital'?"

Hobbes made a move to speak when Claire shot him a warning glance and he remained silent, contenting himself with glaring at his superior.

"Sir," the Keeper answered, turning her attention back to the Official, "I made a judgment call based on the injuries Darien sustained in the blast. He never would've survived–"

"I had my reasons for insisting Agent Fawkes not be brought to a hospital," he snarled, "perhaps you have forgotten about a certain highly classified bio-synthetic gland?"

"Bastard," Hobbes growled again.

Claire gently patted his chest as she continued to talk to the Official. "Sir, I assure you that the gland's existence is still a secret. I am going to remain at the hospital until Darien is strong enough to be transferred back to the Agency."

The Official stared at her for a few heartbeats, letting the tension in the air build. "How can you be certain of that?" he asked at last.

Removing her hands from in front the two men, Claire folded them before her and turned to face Charlie. "I informed the doctors that Darien was born with a unique growth on his cerebral cortex and that I was his personal doctor and needed to be present at all proceedings. Including the surgery."

Behind her, Hobbes mumbled. "Not bad, Keep. Pretty slick."

Claire ignored him as she continued, "I have also taken into my possession all lab work and other tests they have run on Darien. Before any further tests can be run on him, I, as his personal doctor, must give the okay." She paused to smile slightly, "So you see sir, our little secret is safe."

The Official was silent, his eyes darting from Claire to Hobbes. He finally nodded. "Fine," he said, "Fawkes can stay here until he is able to be brought back to the Agency."

Both Hobbes and Claire sighed.

"But," he continued, pointing at the Keeper, "you must remain with him at all times and at the first sign of suspicion Agent Fawkes is to be removed, without question. Understood?"

"Absolutely."

They watched as the Official stormed angrily out of the waiting room and as he disappeared from sight, Hobbes sighed heavily and sank into a nearby chair, looking like a deflated balloon. Claire sat in a chair next to him, her eyes with tired concerned.

"How is he?" Hobbes asked at last, and the Keeper could see the apprehension in his dark eyes.

With a tired sigh, she began to tell everything she knew about Darien's condition. Hobbes listened quietly, his mind trying to comprehend what he was being told. He had arrived at the hospital about ten minutes after she had, and had been waiting in this room ever since for someone to tell him what was going on.

At first, he had gotten the run-around, then the cold shoulder, but finally he'd been told that Darien had been taken into emergency surgery and that the prognosis was not good. Hobbes had had to resign himself to doing what he hated the most, waiting.

" …and is now in a medically-induced coma so that his injuries can heal without added pressure on his body," Claire finished with a sigh. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with an exhausted shake of her head.

"To tell you the truth, Bobby, I don't know how Darien survived what he did. His body was like a jigsaw puzzle," she continued, leaning back in her chair and closing her tired eyes. "We went through about four units of blood, and that was just for the internal bleeding."

Hobbes snapped out of his quiet reverie, "You were able to find a donor?" he asked, his voice incredulous, "What about all that quicksilver crap in his system?"

Claire opened her eyes, "It was a risky gamble," she admitted honestly, "I had no idea how Darien's body would react to the transfusions, but I knew that without them he would definitely die."

She closed her eyes again, "From what I can tell without running tests, it seems that the quicksilver in Darien's system acted as a modifier of sorts, actually eliciting changes in the transfused blood." She shook her head slightly, "Simply amazing, once we get back to the lab I'll have to-"

"Will he live?" Hobbes asked finally, interrupting her train of thoughts.

Claire re-opened her eyes and sat up in her chair, studying the agent in front of her for a few moments; his face was deceptively impassive, but in his dark eyes the Keeper could see the emotional strain of the last two days.

"Yes," she said finally in response to Hobbes' question, "he'll live."

The agent nodded and closed his eyes against the surge of relief that threatened to overwhelm him. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of his chair. "I have to get back to the Agency," he said at length, rubbing his hands down his worn and tired face, "I have two days worth of paperwork to catch up on before I can even think of getting any sleep. Besides, I think the fat man may want to yell at me some more."

Claire rose to her feet as well, "What about the terrorist situation?" she asked, "I've been a bit out of touch since coming here," she spread her arms to take in the entire hospital.

Hobbes shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his wrinkled pants, "FBI are questioning the two surviving perps," he told her, "all I know now is that the group was responsible for several big time heists, cops have been looking for them for months. Managed to catch one of 'em, though." He paused to take his hands out of his pockets and rub his eyes. "The remaining idiots took hostages in an attempt to try and free their pal."

He shook his head and sighed, "Seems that one of the jokers got panicky when their demands weren't being met fast enough and detonated the bomb accidentally." Hobbes rubbed the back of his neck, an angry frown on his face, "A stupid, freakin' accident. Can you believe that?"

Claire was stunned, words escaping her. All this time she had thought they were an activist group of some kind, or at the worst a terrorist party, demanding changes that they thought would be an improvement or the release of a political prisoner. Instead, it had been a bunch of hoodlums trying to initiate a prison break. She shook her head; all this pain and suffering had been for nothing.

After a moment of silence, Hobbes glanced over at Claire, "Hey Keep, I'd like to see Fawkes before I head back to the Agency. Think you could manage that?"

She nodded at once and turned to head out of the waiting room, leading the other agent up to the ICU where Darien lay in a dimly lit room. "He's able to hear you," she told him gently and at his nod, she turned and exited the room, leaving Hobbes alone with his partner.

As the agent walked over the bed, he saw that most of Darien's head was covered in antiseptic gauze to keep the risk of infection low as the wounds beneath healed. Every possible piece of medical equipment was attached to every available surface of his partner's body; a heart monitor, a breathing tube and several IV's along with an assortment of other equipment whose ultimate purpose remained a mystery to Hobbes. The monitors beside the bed beeped and hummed consistently, systematically watching Darien's low vital signs while he remained in the induced coma to heal. Hobbes sighed quietly to himself as he rested his hands on the cold metal bedrail.

There really wasn't much he could say right now.

A light sheet was draped over Darien's unconscious body, covering the worst of his wounds. Wounds, Hobbes was painfully aware, that should've killed him. He silently wondered how many more lives his cat-like partner had hidden up his sleeves.

He shoved his hands into his pants pockets again and contented himself with standing a quiet watch over his slowly healing partner. It would be good to have Fawkes back at the Agency again soon, trading good natured vibes with his lanky partner as they griped about the current waste-of-time mission and the woeful way in which their talents were being underused. Especially his own, Hobbes mused.

§ "Will he live?" a far off voice asked.

Bobby raised his head and looked around for the echo. In the doorway, the girl he had pulled up from the hole was standing, waiting for a good answer.

"That's what the doctors tell me," he replied. Hobbes then turned back to her, "Don't you think you need to be in bed? Not many bomb victims get well by traipsin' through the halls."

She had a terrycloth robe over her hospital gown and an IV stand following her every step. "You must be Hobbes. Darien talked about you while we were waiting for the rescue crew."

In the hospital flambeaux, she looked older than the previous day. She looked young, but perhaps more with the dark rings around her eyes. "Actually, he yelled for you, although I don't think he knew it," Thera was standing beside him now. She also stared at Darien, "I never did see his face."

Bobby rummaged up his voice in its usual husk; "He was lucky to have you down there with him."

"Thank you, but it was I who was lucky to have him…" she walked around Hobbes until she was next to Darien's face. Just as before, beneath the rubble, she laid a cool hand on his cheek.

Hobbes realized that she was crying. He shifted on his feet, not knowing what to do.

"Thank you for being there to save us." Thera had gotten up from her position next to Darien and now stood next to Hobbes. Her tear-stained cheeks reflected thankfulness as she gave him a tiny kiss on his forehead. He could smell the clean scent of peroxide and hospital gauze on her hairline.

To Bobby, the affection was pure surprise, but his blush was hidden in the shadows of the room. "Ayuh…If you want, we can keep you posted on when he leaves the hospital."

(Posted? She's not another family member waiting in the lobby.)

"Alright," and with that, she left.

Hobbes blew an amazed sigh at Darien. "Looks like ya got yourself a guardian angel, partna."

It was two in the morning, and the hospital functioning like it was rush hour. A week after the bombing, Agent Fawkes was still in a drug-induced coma. Claire had finally met with Thera and agreed to move him, in the event that an overload of major casualties were brought to the hospital. They now shared the room, doors closed to the commotion outside in the halls so that is was nothing more than a muffled roar. In the turmoil of everything that she was witnessing, inside the hospital room she sensed she was the safest that she had felt in years. A hole in the wall that death would overlook, Darien would be safe.

Thera was sitting up in her bed, covered with a thick mess of blankets, staring at the gurneys that rushed past her window. Bloodshot nurses and panicked family members. Her room was dark, save for the desk lamp that shed its comforting 10 watts. She turned on the TV and immediately hit the mute, watching with flushed cheeks another account of terrorism in California. Who needed to hear shrapnel exploding and civilians screaming? It was all too common to her now and the television went black with another hit of the button.

(A button, one push of the button is all it takes.)

Thera looked down at the remote in her hand.

(It was an explosion, but it felt like a pulse-)

She was cowering in the corner, her hair shadowing her face as she peered out from behind her stepmother. The men were panicky as if on a drug high- their guns looked as though they were carved out of soap as their sweaty hands gripped them tightly. She could almost imagine them popping out of their grasp and onto the floor, like a soap cake in the shower. In the high ceiling catacombs of the museum,

Thera felt like climbing the walls with her helplessness-

(Isn't there somebody-)

The air cooled suddenly, or it was just the breeze that flitted through the room. Her eyes turned towards the white male, age 19-34 with a mortgage and a family, fitting the FBI description majority of criminals; and he was the first to really panic. Under his ski mask he was sweating more than his palms, and he let out a yelp when his ankle twisted, and went down.

Dropping the remote.

Dropping the button.

At the sound of their partner's voice, the tension in the air snapped and caused the rest of the group to radiate fire into the ceilings and furnace vents, suspecting a sniper from the PD. A roar of commotion went up around the outside of the building as Thera could hear people trying to understand what had just taken place.

There was the heavy, Clack! Clack! Crack! of the guns that sounded like clipboards snapping. All the while, the good Samaritans were screaming, clutching their faces under the trembling black and white photos, and the remote was falling to the floor. It landed straight up, then bounced into a sideways flip. There was pure silence- all eyes when the button tapped the wall and from somewhere in the room, she heard it-

"Aw, crap."

Thera closed her eyes and cringed against her stepmother's back as she felt the warm pulse, and before the gunshot of the nitroglycerin with sodium nitrate sounded in her ear, she felt something dull thud against the wall nearby. Then her body shut down from the terror, falling into the dark with the sounds of crumbling beams and shattered glass.

(A sweaty button put me in here.)

She looked over at Darien for the hundredth time that day; he hadn't changed. Laying with fresh blankets over him and a few less monitors than from the start. He was slowly getting stronger.

"I know you can hear me," the words spilled out of her suddenly. "I bet you're wondering why I'm still here."

His heart monitor jumped up and down in rhythm.

Thera dropped the remote and crawled out of her bed to sit next to his, the blankets around her trailing like capes. "I don't know why I'm here because the doctors don't know-" tiny tears crept out from her red eyes. Taking one of his hands, she held it and whispered, "But there's something about you. As if you understand me; what's wrong with me. That's why I need you to come back…come back."

Inside his body like a shell, Darien yelled up into the darkness.