"Hobbes, I... I just can't take it anymore. Stop this. Please."
Hobbes gave Darien a pained look. "Stop what?"
"The dream. This dream." Darien shook his head. "It's too good to be real."
"It's real, Fawkes. And trust me, it ain't that good." Hobbes shook his head, laughing bitterly.
"But you're here, and Claire's here, and.... Hobbes, I was in Hell. I didn't think I was ever gonna get out. I'm still not sure I have." Darien nodded around the room. "They... this place, it...." He exhaled slowly. "You weren't there. You don't know."
"So tell me," Hobbes challenged.
"No!" Darien yelped, jerking away.
"What, you think I can't handle it? Fawkes, I've probably seen worse every day of my life." Hobbes stood to his feet, pouring as much anger and authority as he could into his physical bearing. If Darien wasn't willing to talk, maybe he would be willing to shout.
Darien lunged to his feet, the muscles in his shoulder bulging through the straightjacket. "You think so?" he yelled, his face contorted with anger. "You think you've seen worse? They kept me locked up in a place just like this all the time, Hobbes! And when I wasn't in there, I was out there being pumped full of drugs or taught to kill. They taught me how to KILL, Hobbes! They taught me in ten days what you probably learned in ten years!" His voice cracked, his eyes filling with anguish. "I can think of a dozen ways I could kill you right now without even breaking a sweat."
Hobbes raised an eyebrow. "Right now?" He asked, motioning toward the straightjacket wrapped around Darien's arms and torso. Darien just tightened his jaw and nodded. "Well tough luck, partner, 'cause I can think of thirteen." Hobbes was lying -- he really couldn't think of more than eight ways that Darien could possibly kill him right now, even with the greatest amount of luck and skill. But he wasn't about to let Darien win an argument about who was more knowledgeable about killing people.
"Hobbes... I think I'm crazy." Darien shook his head. "After all that, I don't see how I couldn't be."
"Ah ha!" Hobbes said, pointing a finger at Darien. "Now that right there is proof you're not crazy, my friend!"
Darien started to say something, paused, opened his mouth to speak again, and finally cocked his head to the left. "OK, you lost me there."
"Well, crazy people think they're sane, so there's no way you can be crazy."
Darien thought for a moment. Then he laughed. It was barely audible, but it was a real laugh and it brought a surge of hope into Hobbes' heart. "Nora Ephron."
Hobbes blinked twice and then shook his head. "OK, now I'm lost too."
"Insane people are always sure that they are fine. It is only the sane people who are willing to admit that they are crazy." Darien gave a brief shrug. "Nora Ephron said that."
Hobbes smiled. "Now, that's the Darien Fawkes I know!"
Darien almost smiled. But then he looked down at the ground, his gaze becoming pensive. "How long are they going to keep me in here?"
"Until they're sure you aren't gonna try to kill yourself again," Hobbes replied. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked over to lean against the one-way mirror.
"Can you at least take this thing off?" Darien flexed his arms as best he could under the rough canvas.
"That's not my call," Hobbes said, his eyes full of remorse. There was nothing he would have liked better than to remove the straightjacket, but Claire had made him promise that he would not do so without her permission.
Darien closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. "Will you stay?"
"If you want me to."
Darien sat down on the padded floor and leaned back against one of the walls. He fixed Hobbes with a pleading gaze. "Stay."
Hobbes sat down beside Darien, resting his wrists on his knees. "I'm not goin' anywhere, partner. I'm not goin' anywhere."
**********
Claire looked up as the Official walked into her lab. She brushed a few strands of hair out of her face in an attempt to make herself a little more presentable. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" she asked, even though she knew beyond a doubt that it would have something to do with Darien.
"What is Fawkes' current mental condition?"
Claire tensed. "Why do you ask?" She didn't think it particularly wise to tell the Official that Darien was suicidal.
"Just answer the question." The Official was employing a classic poker face. There was no way Claire could fully anticipate the answer he expected to hear.
"Well," Claire turned a few knobs on her microscope and peered into the lens, more to stall than anything, "considering what Darien has been through, I think he's doing exceptionally well."
"I see...." The Official's tone was one of disapproval.
"Do you have any particular reason for asking, sir?" Claire rephrased her earlier question, hoping to get a different response this time.
"How long before Fawkes will be able to return to active duty?" The Official completely ignored her question this time.
"Hard to say," Claire returned, alarm bells going off inside her head. "Maybe a few weeks. Maybe longer."
"How much longer?" The Official snapped irritably. Claire made no answer. The Official waited for a long moment and then said, "You have three weeks. If he isn't able to return to active duty in that time, the gland will be placed in a new host."
"Sir, that is completely uncalled for!" Claire yelled, slamming one hand down on her lab table. "Darien has worked for you faithfully for the last two years and in return you have mistreated and abused him more times than I can count. He had just finished going through a nightmare. The least you could do would be to support him now."
"This isn't about Darien. This is about the fact that if we don't have an active invisible agent within the next two months, Fish and Game is going to drop our sponsorship. Again. Do you have any idea how hard it will be to get a new sponsor if we get dropped by the same agency twice?" The Official's expression was livid. "You have three weeks. After that the gland will be harvested." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.
Claire just stared at the lab door for a long moment. Then she picked up an empty beaker and hurled it at the closed door, yelling in frustration, "Bloody hell!" She choked down a sob. Unless a miracle occurred, there was no way Darien would be able to return to active duty in the time-span the Official had allotted her. With the levels of post-traumatic stress he had shown, not to mention the suicidal tendencies, Claire wasn't sure if he would be ready for active duty again in three years, let alone three weeks. And, while she could help him along, he was the one who would have to do the real healing.
When she was finally able to breathe calmly without risking bursting into tears she walked out of the lab, slowly making her way to the observation room for the padded cell. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Eberts already in the room, seated in a small uncomfortable chair that had been pulled up in front of the one-way mirror.
Eberts glanced over at Claire and gave her a wan smile. It quickly vanished as he saw the expression on her face. "Did the Official... talk with you?"
"That's one way of putting it," Claire replied, trying as hard as possible to keep her tone from becoming hostile. Eberts was not the person she was angry at; she didn't want to lash out at him.
Eberts shook his head and heaved a troubled sigh. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he's made up his mind."
"I won't let him do it. It's as simple as that. And I know Bobby won't let him do it, either."
Eberts squirmed and gave a nervous cough, obviously going through some sort of inner struggle. Finally he looked up at Claire and said in a quiet tone, "How can I help?"
Realizing how hard it must have been for Eberts to decide to defy the Official's orders, Claire gave him a gentle smile. "You could keep us informed of any unforeseen developments." She paused a moment, and then put a hand on Eberts' shoulder. "Thank you."
Eberts nodded absently, then turned back to the one-way mirror. Claire pulled up another uncomfortably rigid chair and sat down beside him, peering through the glass. Darien lay curled up in a boneless heap on the floor, his face not completely peaceful even in slumber. Hobbes sat beside him, watching over his sleeping partner in a protective manner. Claire had no doubts that, if the situation were reversed, Darien would be only too willing to do the same.
Claire reached up a hand and brushed it softly against the glass. "Don't worry, Darien," she whispered quietly, "we aren't going to let you down."