Darien looked up as Smyth stepped into the room and promptly leapt to his feet, backing up against the nearest wall. "No. No!" he yelled, unwilling to believe his eyes. "You're dead."

Smyth grinned nastily. "Are you so sure?"

"I saw Hobbes kill you."

Smyth tilted his head to the side. "Oh you did, did you?" He stepped aside, revealing a dead body lying on the ground behind him. A body that looked very much like....

"Hobbes." Darien felt a lump welling up in his throat. He rushed over to the side of his fallen partner, grief etched across his features. It was just like all the other times. Hobbes was dead. Smyth had survived. Darien had been a fool to think it could happen otherwise.

"You are a failure," Smyth sneered. "You failed to complete your mission. You failed to protect your friend." He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Darien's chest as he calmly stated, "You don't deserve to live."

Then he pulled the trigger.

Darien gave out an involuntary jerk as he woke, losing his balance and falling off the bed. He glanced around wildly, unsure of where he was, and pulled away violently when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Fawkes!"

The voice cut through his panic, jutting into the forefront of his brain. Hobbes. The voice belonged to Hobbes.

"Fawkes, it's OK." The hand was placed on Darien's shoulder again and this time he didn't jerk away, even though he was trembling from the sheer intensity of the -- nightmare. It had to be. It was too gruesome to have been real.

Or maybe you just can't face the truth.

Darien ignored the voices and turned to look at the face of his very alive and very worried partner. He quickly wrapped Hobbes up in a tight hug, sobbing, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry...."

Hobbes seemed understandably perplexed, but after a moment he wrapped his arms around Darien consolingly. "It's OK. Everything's gonna be OK."

**********

It took a good hour for Hobbes to calm Darien down enough that he was even remotely willing to allow Claire to perform even a perfunctory physical examination. And once Hobbes had gotten Darien's initial agreement, there was still the matter of getting him to sit still so that Claire could actually complete it.

"Fawkes," Hobbes growled after Darien's third attempt to brush away Claire's hand when it came anywhere near the collar around his neck, "she's just trying to make sure that thing isn't giving you an infection or anything. She won't take it off unless you want her to."

"You think I don't want the damn thing off?" Darien snapped, massaging the bridge of his nose with a thumb and index finger.

"If you want it off, then take it off!" Claire griped irritably.

Darien faltered, his anger giving way to trepidation. "I can't," he said, placing his hands in his lap and staring at them.

Hobbes bent down to look at him. "Why not?" he asked earnestly, looking into Darien's eyes.

Darien squirmed under Hobbes' intense gaze, and eventually looked away. "It's hard to explain."

"Try me."

Darien shook his head. "I can't, Hobbes, I just can't."

Hobbes tried to stifle the intense hurt he felt at the thought that Darien no longer felt comfortable confiding in him. "Alright then, partner. Just remember, I'm available to talk whenever you're ready."

Darien nodded in a noncommittal fashion. "Yeah...."

Claire, who had kept herself busy through the majority of Darien and Hobbes' exchange, turned to Darien brandishing an empty needle. "Alright Darien, this won't take long, I just need a blood sample."

Darien's eyes widened and he shook his head fervently. "No. No needles."

Claire gave Darien a reassuring smile and a quick pat on the shoulder. "It's for your own good, Darien. Don't worry, I'll be careful." Before Darien could protest, she pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. He jerked away, but not in time to keep Claire and Hobbes from catching a glimpse of his exposed arm.

"Crap!" Hobbes muttered, his eyes wide. From what he had been able to see, Darien's arm had more track marks on it than most junkies.

Claire's choice of words on the subject was a little more colorful. "Bloody hell!" She grabbed Darien's wrist and gently pulled his arm back toward her so she could get a better look. "What were they thinking? This sort of thing is medically unsound, downright unprofessional." She shook her head. "I'm surprised your veins haven't collapsed."

Hobbes pulled up Darien's other sleeve, and winced. "Same thing over here. Looks like he got attacked by a giant swarm of mosquitoes...." he trailed off as he noticed a very different kind of wound nestled in among the healing needle-pricks.

Darien jerked his arms out of Hobbes and Claire's grasp. "Leave me alone," he snarled savagely, his gaze cold. He rolled over on his side, pulling his shirtsleeves down forcefully, and stared sullenly at the floor.

"Claire, I need to talk to you," Hobbes said softly but firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her into a corner of the room before she could protest.

"Bobby, leaving Darien alone is the last thing he needs right now--" Claire began, but Hobbes placed a finger on her lips to quiet her.

"You're more right than you know. I saw something," he said, his eyes pleading with her to understand, begging her not to interrupt. "On his left wrist. Something besides the track marks. A scar I know wasn't there before."

"Well, of course he would have fresh scars, who knows what those scumbags did to him in there--"

"No," Hobbes said, interrupting her in mid-sentence. "This was the sort of scar he'd probably give himself."

Claire looked at him in puzzlement for a brief instant; the color drained from her face as she realized what he was insinuating. "Oh no, he wouldn't."

Hobbes gave Claire a pained look. "Well, like you said, we don't know what those scumbags did to him in there. Maybe... maybe he decided he couldn't take it anymore."

Claire pushed a few stray strands of hair behind her ear in a nervous motion. "If you're right, then this is worse than I thought. Much worse. We're going to have to watch him carefully, keep him away from any sharp objects... or any guns," she continued as her gaze drifted down to Hobbes' waist holster.

Hobbes quickly undid the straps and pulled it off, looking down at it critically. Then he handed it to Claire, who placed it in the same drawer in which she kept her own gun and her hairbrush, then locked it firmly. Hobbes shot a quick glance over at Darien, who hadn't moved from his previous position. "He's not gonna be OK, is he?" It was a painful and torturous thought, but it needed to be taken into consideration nonetheless.

Claire sighed. "It's hard to say. It will certainly be a while before he recovers enough to lead his normal life--"

"If you could call anything in his life normal," Hobbes interjected.

Claire continued as if Hobbes hadn't spoken. "But I think that in time, he will pull through. He just needs proper medical attention, good nutrition, and most importantly, friendship."

Hobbes nodded solemnly, the sparkle beginning to return to his eyes. "Alright. You take care of the first two, I'll take care of number three."

"Are you saying I can't give Darien the friendship he needs?" Claire asked, her expression stern but her voice teasing.

"No, I'm just worried you might end up giving him more than that," Hobbes returned, giving Claire a flirtatious wink.

"Bobby!" Claire exclaimed, giving him a playful slap on the arm.

Hobbes rubbed his arm, feigning injury, and stuck out his tongue. Then he adopted a more serious demeanor. "We can't let the Official anywhere near him... fat bastard would probably try and put him to work again, and we both know he can't take something like that right now."

Claire nodded her agreement. "I'll do my best to keep him distracted, although I can guarantee he won't appreciate it much."

Hobbes rolled his eyes. "When does he ever?"

**********

Darien huddled on the demented dentist's chair, in a state of severe mental conflict. The voices were getting louder, more insistent. And he was growing more willing to believe them. After all, Claire and Hobbes had been acting strange ever since Hobbes had rescued him... if he had really rescued him at all. Darien was having a hard time playing the rescue through scene by scene in his mind, although the fact that he had been on the floor half the time with his eyes squeezed shut in pain probably had something to do with that fact. Still, it was hard to remember, and Darien was seriously beginning to believe that this was all one of Smyth's tricks, just some new attempt to disillusion him. Any minute now, the dream would end and he would wake up in his padded cell with nothing to talk to but the white walls.

Don't forget about us, the voices whispered hauntingly in his ear.

"Of course," Darien replied, laughing bitterly. "I can't forget about you."

We can help you, if you'll let us. We can tell you how to end the illusion.

He sneered derisively. "Lemme guess. Another knife to the wrist. Or maybe a bullet in the brain."

They didn't let you do it last time. If you try to kill yourself, they'll have to end the game.

"And then I'll be back in Hell," Darien murmured.

But at least you'll know the truth.

Darien considered for a long moment. He hated to admit it, but the voices were starting to make sense. They always did, after he listened to them long enough. "Alright," he said, hesitating a moment before he was able to muster up the courage to continue, "what do I do?"