And yet another flimsy excuse for plot! One of these days I'll take a writing class and perhaps learn how to write a real story with a real plot...and perhaps I'll also learn how to make an invisibility gland. You never can tell. Anyway, this story isn't about plot--it's about Darien and QSM. You might not like where it ends up...but you know, this is a possibility. Set sometime in the future--no more than a year or two, I should think, but what do I know? I'm just the writer of the bloody story. I don't think there are any spoilers...but there could be. You could read it and find out...*hopeful grin*
And this little intro is rather too cheerful, considering the content of the story—which is a bit disturbing, now that I go back and revise it. You've been warned…I'm not sure I like where the story and Darien ends up. I think I need to go write a nice bit of utter fluff now…
CONTROL
(OR A Certain State of Insanity)
He could feel it building.
Explosion.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the hard, cold wall behind him. He was crouched down next to Hobbes, just inside the warehouse's entrance. Sunlight, filtered through grimy windows above them, shone down in beams in front of the partners, keeping them in shadow. They'd chased their guy inside this place, had been chasing or following the man for days now. He knew they'd finally caught the guy. He could feel it in the base of his heart, in the pit of his stomach, knew it with a certainty that had been honed through years of practice, with a knowledge that came only with this certain state of insanity.
Hobbes was kneeling on the floor next to him, his gun in his hands, ready to run like hell or shoot at an instant's notice, quivering with tension, all his keen senses alert. He could feel Hobbes; he didn't need to see him. They'd been partners for so long, but it was more than that, more than just knowledge through long experience. All his senses were alert, too, heightened until he could almost hear Bobby's heart beat, feel Bobby's thoughts, see with his little mind's eye Bobby's arm steadily holding the gun.
Darien lifted his head and opened his eyes.
"Ready part--" Hobbes glanced over at the younger agent and froze. "Oh hell," he said. "I knew I shoulda made you go back to the Agency this morning!"
Darien knew his eyes looked bloodshot, red lines zigzagging crazily out from the center of his eye, the pupil and iris. Just a hint of madness, just the beginning. He rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Hobbes. It's under control. And we didn't have time to just drop by and say 'hi' to Claire, no matter how much you wanted to go."
"You're the one who's gonna go psycho on me," Hobbes retorted.
"I'm fine," Darien insisted.
And he was. He'd known the madness was coming; he always knew internally long before the external signs could be seen. He'd felt for hours the tingle, the maddening itch at the base of his head, creeping infinitesimally and inexorably throughout his body, traveling with the quicksilver in his bloodstream. He could hear the whisper at the back of his mind, the whisper that would eventually become a full-blown scream if he let it, the shiver down his spine of almost...delight. Anticipation.
He was free. He would never dare tell Hobbes or the Keeper, but he relished this certain state of insanity, caught between the first, quick explosion and the final, long burning of madness. He wasn't worried about hurting anyone, not like when he was sane. He wasn't going to hurt anyone, like when he was really quicksilver mad. No, he was utterly in control of everything, his entire body, the complete situation. His thoughts were crystal clear, speeding away at a ridiculously fast rate but still controlled, still orderly and rational.
He knew exactly what he had to do.
Darien placed a hand on Hobbes's forearm. "Stay here," he whispered under his breath, barely giving the words any sound at all. By now, he and Hobbes almost didn't have to speak, could read each other's lips, body language, thoughts.
"No way, partner," Hobbes hissed in reply. "You are in no fit shape to go after this guy!"
Ohhh, Hobbes had no idea how wrong he was. This was the perfect time for Darien to get the guy. Everything was at his disposal. He could already feel their perp's presence elsewhere in the large, deserted building. He could smell the man's fear, feel the heat of his body, hear the nervous tapping of a gun against the man's leg as he waited for the end of the chase. Darien idly wondered if the man knew his career was at an end, if the man knew this was where it all stopped and he would be locked away at last.
Darien thought he did.
"Yes," Darien stated simply, "I am." He smiled slightly. Hobbes drew away, staring at the younger man suspiciously. Darien knew his partner was almost ready to turn the gun on him instead of the guy they were chasing. Darien had been expecting that. "It's under control."
He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes again. He released a thought and felt the cold quicksilver slide over him, whispering to him as it enveloped, encased his body. He shivered again, happily.
He opened his eyes and glided away from his partner. He felt the soft wind from Hobbes's arm, swiping at where Darien had been an instant ago, felt more than heard Hobbes's soft curse. Darien allowed himself a grin.
There were times when he wished he could describe how he felt in this certain state of insanity, explain to others this glorious, wild freedom and paradoxically complete control. Talk about the instant before the control, the sheer rush, the consuming pull of insanity--a sudden crash of a wave, the explosive end chord of a symphony--that just as suddenly evaporated, leaving in its place this cold, calculated control. A first stage of madness, an ominous precursor to what would happen next when he lost this control. But for now, in this moment, he could do whatever the hell he wanted or needed.
It wasn't until later that his control was lost, that he was subsumed in the now-constant angry waves of red, the crashing, discordant cacophony of a symphony that wouldn't let go of its last note. Anger and rage and hate. That wasn't until later.
Now he had a job to do. He crossed the warehouse assuredly, sliding up the metal stairs soundlessly to the catwalks above. The man had no idea what was coming. Who was coming. Darien would have laughed but he knew better than to destroy his silent, catlike movements.
He'd gotten so good at this. Those years as a burglar really had been beneficial, but he was even more ghostlike now.
He had a feeling Hobbes was suspicious of him. His partner had been noticing that Darien more and more let his shots slip by, waited just a little longer before submitting to the counteragent, submitting to the loss of this seductive control of his thoughts, his body, the destiny of others. If only Hobbes could know why he was so reluctant, that he would have to give up this fantastic, perfect control.
The man was crouching down right in front of him, at the opposite end of a catwalk that interconnected with the other catwalks spread out like a spider's web above the main floor of the warehouse. He probably thought he was invisible, lost amid the shadows and darkness of the depths of the ceiling of this building. He had no idea how wrong he was. Darien could see the man's stiffness, his tension, the angularity of his short, thick body as he attempted to hold himself as still as possible. Laughable, really; Darien could stop blinking if he wanted to, in this certain state of insanity. He could see the man's gun tapping against his thigh, a nervous non-rhythm, knew the man's eyes were darting around in all directions even though the man's back was turned to him.
It was exhilarating, this control.
Darien took his time crossing to the man. He wanted to enjoy this while it lasted, before Hobbes dragged him back to the Keeper, before he went berserk and lost all semblance of control. He could feel the man's heat in front of him, warmth rolling off his body like waves of sweat and fear and impatience for an end, any end to this terrible waiting and uncertainty. Darien could feel his own coldness, the icy tingle of quicksilver all over his body, an almost startling contrast to the other man's heat. But Darien was used to it by now. He slowed his heart beat down, suppressed his adrenaline, refused to let the quicksilver madness headache that had been hovering over him ominously for a while now cause him pain. He didn't need the excitement; he didn't want to deal with the distraction. He had the control.
Darien breathed out a soft, almost silent, sigh of satisfaction as he stood over his prey. It was finished. Everything had gone exactly as he'd expected, as he'd planned, as he'd known it would. It was so simple, so lovely, this control.
He tapped the man on the shoulder. The man whirled around, fear blazing suddenly in his eyes, his gun jerking around him wildly as he looked for the invisible assailant that had crept up on him. Darien felt the spike in the man's heartbeat, adrenaline, thoughts, the gasp of a breath, the sharp rising of fear and hysteria. He savored it and punched the perp solidly in the face. The man fell back, unconscious even before his head hit the metal catwalk, his gun clattering over the side and falling all the way to the floor, landing with an emphatic crash. The sudden, startled silence left over after the abrupt noises that had disturbed the warehouse for the first time in years was positively anticlimactic.
Darien sighed again, sadly this time, and released another thought, shaking off the quicksilver flakes with regret. He still knew exactly what would happen next. "It's clear Bobby," he called down, voice echoing even though he hadn't bothered to raise it, not bothering either to rejoin his partner on the floor of the warehouse. "We're done here."
He could hear Hobbes already talking on the cell, calling for backup, requesting the Keep join them and bring along a syringe of counteragent. Darien didn't even bother listening to his partner's conversation on the phone. He already knew it all, knew what was being said and what would happen next.
A mere ten minutes later their guy was being carted back to the Agency by another pair of agents. Bobby was finishing things up elsewhere in the warehouse; Claire was just completing giving Darien his shot, carefully disposing of the remains from the shot.
"You've got to stop cutting it so close," the Keeper lectured him once again. He was sitting on a table that had been left in the warehouse, his legs swinging freely, not quite touching the floor. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back again in disappointment and dissatisfaction. His thoughts were cluttering up again, crowding his head with fear and worry and useless memories and words and emotions, spiraling beyond his control. The adrenaline he'd suppressed before was inexorably invading his system now, sluggishly spreading throughout, using the same routes the insanity had before, making him feel slightly sick. The ever-present headache that always accompanied him after a shot of counteragent, different from those headaches occurring with the quicksilver madness, pounded in time to his heartbeat, which was too loud and too fast in his ears. His hand, the one he'd used to punch the perp, was also aching in time with his heart. He felt tired and weak and out of control.
She'd stopped lecturing him and was now considering him in concern. "Darien? Are you okay?"
He shrugged one shoulder indifferently, not bothering to lower his head, open his eyes, look at her. "As well as can be expected." He'd already detailed to her many times the after-affects of almost madness, counteragent, every little thing in the numerous tests and debriefings he'd gone through since getting the gland. She knew about the creeping-up tingle and maddening itch of the madness, about that first spike of real madness that instantly disappeared and left behind that certain state of insanity that came before the real insanity. But she would never know how it felt. And he wasn't about to tell her.
She shook her head. He knew it without seeing her, simply because he knew her mannerisms as well by now as he knew Bobby's. "You bring it on yourself," she admonished him, laying a hand on his arm. The warmth of her touch flowed throughout the skin of his arm, from fingers to shoulder. He always felt cold, even when he wasn't quicksilvered. "You know you feel crappy when you let yourself go too far and too long without the counteragent."
Yeah, he knew it. But it was worth it. The threat of madness was worth the few moments of that certain state of insanity, of glorious, total control. That was freedom.
It was only afterwards--after the sting of the syringe plunged into his flesh, after his head and stomach started hurting with a vengeance, after his eyes lost their bloodshot look--that he hated himself for risking so much for just a few moments of control. But he couldn't help it. Already he was waiting, waiting for the buildup, waiting for the explosion, waiting for that certain state of insanity that would give him cold clarity, total control. He couldn't help wanting those few moments again.
He couldn't control himself.