Wow, I got the second part done pretty fast! (for me, anyway...) Guess something about these guys inspires me. Perhaps it's how Darien looks when insane/in pain - I've always been a sucker for angst...
Glad folks liked the beginning - thank you for the reviews! ^_^ I always do work faster with encouragement. Got a lot more planned; here's to making it there!
Without further ado, it continues...
For the Good...
Part 2
"So the man you're meeting with Wednesday was his partner?"
For the first fifteen minutes of the drive their conversation had stayed to more personal details, the final good-byes for who knows how many more months. But she knew his curiosity couldn't be suppressed forever. Claire glanced over at his tall form folded into the passenger seat, and nodded. "Hobbes is still an agent."
"Why did he stay with this Agency, if he feels about it as you do?"
"For the same reason I did. To have an in, when the time came."
"Waiting for you to perfect the new counteragent formula."
"It's far from perfect," she sighed.
"It's as well as you could make it," he told her, as he had been reassuring her all this week. Late at night, when she had awoken from nightmares more vivid than the usual specters, he had been beside her, a solid, warm presence to wrap her arms around, lulling her back to sleep. He had murmured to her the same solace he repeated now, it being all he had to offer. "You've done what tests you could. The only real proof will be to use it on the actual subject, and you can't do that until you have him."
"But what if I'm wrong," she whispered. "Or what if I've been wrong--what if I'm too late. Maybe I shouldn't have waited..." She had no way of knowing what might have happened. Perhaps they had already found a replacement counteragent. Perhaps all their patience, all her efforts, had been pointless.
As useless as their objections had been then.
"You can't do this to him!"
She had argued against it, logically, passionately, it hadn't mattered. Darien Fawkes had been given into their hands without protest, at least from anyone who counted. He had fought it, and she had, and Hobbes had, but nothing had come of their efforts. How were they to suppose now would be any different, despite all their plans?
"You're sure there's nothing more I can do?"
The gentle bass of the man beside her cut through her troubled thoughts, momentarily dispersed them. She summoned a smile for him. "You've done enough. More than enough. The counteragent wouldn't be ready now without your help. It's a pity you never became a biochemist--"
He smiled wryly. "I've heard that from scientists of as many different disciplines as have appealed to you. I believe we both found what we were most suited for, however. Though if you ever developed an interest in psychokinetic--"
She almost laughed. "No, thank you. What I do is already far enough out there for me."
"Yes. You'll have to tell me more about it, if you ever have permission." He looked out the window. They were turning into the airport's driveway. The muted longing in his tone echoed her own feelings. "I hope you can come to New York soon, when this is all over."
"We'll have to go somewhere," she murmured.
"If you ever need a place to stay--or to hide--our doors are open," he promised. "We're high-profile enough to offer a good degree of protection, even from the forces you may be facing." He hesitated. "You are sure--"
"I'll be fine. We'll be fine." If she said it enough times, perhaps she could make it true. She pulled up to the curb. "You better get going. You'll miss your plane, and I have an appointment to make."
"This man you're visiting now. He is..?"
"Was. He was my boss. The Official." The designation came naturally to her lips, for all she hadn't spoken it for over a year. Someone else filled that position at the Agency now, but the title had been retired with the man. "He promised to help, when we were ready. I only hope--" She cut herself off before she lost the last threads of her composure. This farewell was hard enough, on top of everything else.
"I hope he helps you as much as you need," he said, and leaned across the seat. Their lips met, and she closed her eyes, wound her fingers through his thick blond hair, not wanting to let go. At last they parted, reluctant, but driven by a sense of duty. He cradled her cheek in his hand for a moment, softly intoned, "Good luck."
Then he climbed out of the car, took his bag out of the back seat and headed for the terminal. At the double doors he turned, waved. She waved back, then drove away, avoiding a glimpse of his tall figure in the rearview mirror. As she maneuvered through the complex maze of airport ramps and lots, she felt the emotion constricting her chest ease, harden into pure resolve. She had no time for pains of the heart. And she needed to fortify herself for what was next.
By the time she exited the airport, her eyes no longer burned. The road was clear before her under the bright sun. So too were the memories, which she allowed to come. Better to deal with them now than when she met with the man himself, to think back two years to how it had all begun...
***
He had called them all in at once. That should have been their first clue. The Official wouldn't suffer the three of them together in his office if he could avoid it, on the grounds that he was a government employee, not a kindergarten teacher. Nevertheless, she was summoned along with Fawkes and Hobbes, sat beside them at the conference table and tried to look prim and mature, quite a feat with the two of them next to her jostling and joking like eight-year-olds.
"So what you think, Keep?" Hobbes wanted to know. "Think he could've done it?"
"Ah, give it up, man," Darien protested, "not six parakeets, not in three different bars--"
"They were in different states. I'm telling you, this guy--"
"I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here," the Official said, with his impeccable timing.
"'Asked'?" Darien echoed skeptically, under his breath.
The Official, as usual, ignored the sarcasm. "In the next couple weeks, this Agency is about to go through some changes--big changes."
Hobbes sat up. "Am I getting laid off, sir? Because I think--"
"Hey," Darien also straightened in his chair, "you're not seriously firing Hobbes, are you?"
"--after ten years of working my--"
"--really don't want to deal with a new partner--"
"--honor your decision, but after every--"
"--don't you owe him something--"
"--I mean, the guy goes insane, even if usually he's a pretty good--"
"I'm not firing Hobbes," the Official pronounced, loudly enough to override the pair of them. "No one is being fired." He said it with his usual force, but he wouldn't look any of them in the eye. That should have been their second clue; the Official never had trouble facing anyone. But he barely glanced at Fawkes at all then. And Eberts, standing by his shoulder as always, stared fixedly at a point over their heads and offered nary a comment.
"Well, good," Darien said finally. "Uh, why are we here, then?"
"Let the Official get to it," the Keeper suggested.
"Yeah, Fawkes, let the boss get a word in edgewise--"
"The Agency," the Official spoke over them again, "is being assigned a new screen office."
"A new screen?" Darien frowned. "What, like a new slide projector? What's that supposed to mean?"
Hobbes grinned. "It means, my friend, no more chasing monkey smugglers or avenging nation symbols of flight. It means we're leaving the Department of Fish & Game and becoming part of--what are we becoming part of, sir?"
"The Food & Drug Administration," Eberts offered, when the Official forbear to reply.
"The FDA? Sweet!" Hobbes whistled.
"Does that mean my research funds allowance will be raised?" Claire inquired eagerly. "Since the lab will be entirely justifiable."
"So we're going to be FDA agents?"
Hobbes nodded. "In name, anyway. We'll see some real action now, partner!"
"No. He won't."
The Official was imitating Eberts' concentration on a point on the wall above their heads. He wouldn't meet any of their suddenly riveted gazes.
"What are you saying?" the Keeper said slowly.
"Whatcha talking about, Fawkes won't?" Hobbes demanded simultaneously.
Darien stood, his height enough that his head intersected the Official's line of sight. "What's going on?" he asked, calmer than the other two. They fell silent, and Fawkes didn't ask again, only stared steadily at his boss and waited.
"Another outfit has requested your transfer," the Official broke the silence at last. "They say we haven't been 'preserving the advantage of secrecy' in regards to your ability, and we've taken 'inadequate measures for protecting a critical government asset.'"
"Whoa, I'm an asset?"
"Shh!" The Keeper batted his arm.
"I argued against this, of course," the Official continued, "tried to tell them that preserving and protecting you was harder than it sounds--but in the course of the Agency's reorganization, the transfer was approved. You've been reassigned."
"So, who gets him?" Hobbes asked.
The Official's hesitation was so brief it was almost unnoticeable. "The CIA."
Claire nodded. It wasn't hard to deduce; very few government organizations that knew of the existence of the I-man project, and given the successful resolutions of the missions the CIA had brought to them, they must have been eager to take out the Agency middleman in order to use Fawkes directly.
"Well, that's a step up the ladder," Hobbes remarked in the pause following. "Congrats, partner."
"Wait a minute," said Darien. "That's it? After everything, you're just--trading me away? Like a baseball card?"
"Think of it more like an all-star player moving up in the league," the Official told him.
"But who says I want to go up?" Darien objected. "What if I want to stay where I am?"
The Official shrugged. "Then I'm sorry, Fawkes. This is the way it goes."
They all protested, of course. But not too much; Hobbes had his job to consider, and the Keeper had her research--which they were assured would be allowed to continue. "It's not like Fawkes is going to be on another planet," the Official reasoned. "He'll be based at the CIA office in LA. You can see him whenever you have to. And they need your research."
Need it they did; they took the formula for the counteragent, and replicated the synthesis equipment. She personally trained two doctors in its use, and Darien got along reasonably well with his new caretakers. If he hadn't volunteered for the transfer, neither was he dragged into it entirely unwillingly. "It's no worse than getting shanghaied into this outfit," he told his Keeper the day before he left, but it was said jokingly, and with a hint of regret.
Hobbes was uncharacteristically quiet, both before and after Darien left. The Official wisely did not assign him a new partner, instead gave him solo assignments, or put him with other agents for single missions. He did his job as competently as ever, but there was a certain spirit lacking. Claire too found herself looking forward to work with less enthusiasm than she had at one time, despite the move to the new facilities and the wonderfully extensive laboratory. She continued study on Quicksilver along with her other projects, though it seemed less urgent, with a well-funded CIA team paralleling her research.
Darien kept in touch, though they couldn't share many details of their various assignments, and Claire couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself any more or less from what he did say. During one conversation she had the impression he was missing the Agency, the team and the work, but she couldn't tell from where she drew that idea, or whether she was simply projecting her own feelings.
Despite her misgivings, she thought that overall it was going well for him, was even comforted thinking he might have truly found his niche at last, and the Agency had just been a step along the way. Hobbes was less content, but she believed he would get over it, when he realized it was true for Darien.
Perhaps Hobbes had noticed something she hadn't. Perhaps his trained instincts had warned him something was wrong--or maybe his paranoia.
No. He hadn't known, any more than she had. Even with all of her knowledge, even with all Hobbes's paranoia, how could they have guessed?
***
The Official--no, simply Charles Borden now, Claire reminded herself--lived at the same house he had resided in for ten years that she knew of, and likely much longer than that. It was a modest, nondescript, suburban dwelling, its only feature of note the small but carefully tended flower garden in front. An odd hobby for a former director of a top-secret agency, but there was little about the Official that had been usual. And probably even more she didn't have any idea of, she mused, walking up the pebbled terrace to the front door.
No sooner had she rung the bell than he answered it, looking doddering and amiable in a rumpled suit. "Claire. Come in. Come in. Would you like some tea?"
She allowed him to usher her through the door. Once it closed behind her, he dropped the grandfatherly routine so quickly it could make one's head spin, mild blue eyes going sharp and hard. "So you have a substitute counteragent," he demanded without preamble.
She nodded. Over the phone she had not been able to say anything; now she shortly confirmed the success of her recent experiments. "It's as good as it's going to be. I need the information you promised."
"I made the arrangements as soon as you contacted me. I have what you said you required. You're sure you're ready? And Agent Hobbes?"
"We're ready."
"Good," he said, bluntly. "Very good. I wasn't sure you were going to be in time."
That caught her off guard in spite of herself. "What do you mean, in time?"
Was there sympathy in his sober countenance? Maybe even concern? "I've been keeping tabs on the situation, waiting for you to get it done. You don't know the whole story yet. I didn't know if you could pull it off at all, and I was beginning to have my doubts. As it is, if you'd taken much longer, you might not have had a target to retrieve."
She leaned against the back of the sofa for a moment to brace herself, closed her eyes. When she opened them again Charlie Borden was still watching her steadily. "I'm sorry," he said.
The shock of the apology tipped her delicate balance, impelled her to speak when she would have stayed silent. "After what you did? How can you say that now?" She glared at him, all her suspicions rushing to the forefront of her mind. "Why are you bothering to help us at all? You're the one who told us there was nothing we could do."
"I remember." His eyes stayed on hers, boring into the shadows deep inside. "I made a mistake. I'm counting on you to rectify it. Even if what you're planning barely has a chance, it's the only one I have. Don't disappoint me."
"Fine." She drew herself up. "Give me the information we need, and we won't."
***
Bernulli's was a classy place. Wednesday evenings, as on most others days, it was full, though not crowded, humming with activity but never unpleasantly loud. Hobbes checked his watch, adjusted his tie, and glanced around surreptitiously at the dining patrons and eager-to-please waiters. No one stuck out obtrusively. If there were spies, they were good. Hopefully not good enough to overhear a conversation amid the rest of the chatter, however.
"Bobby?"
He looked up. His contact had arrived. She wore a long black dress and petite gold earrings, utterly appropriate to the setting, not in the least suspicious.
God, she was gorgeous. Somehow he always managed to forget that. Slender without being skinny, brilliant but not conceited. Elegant all around. He stood, smiled at her, the first real smile he had made in weeks. "Hi, Claire. How you doing?"
He moved hastily to pull her chair out for her before she could do it herself. "You cut your hair," he noted while she sat down. "It, uh, looks nice." He preferred it long, but her face was lovely either way.
She brushed her fingers through her cropped locks self-consciously, gave him a wan smile. "Thank you. It used to get in my eyes when I was working." She studied him for a moment. "You look good. Haven't changed at all."
"And that's a good thing?" He wondered if it were true. She was different. More than the hair. Her makeup couldn't completely hide the shadows under her eyes. She didn't look like she had been sleeping any better than he had for the past week.
But it wouldn't be gentlemanly to point that out. "So how's work?" he asked. Keep it casual at first. Lull any observers into less close attention. And he didn't know how she was doing, beyond the certain crucial specifics. They still worked for the same Agency, but in different departments, different buildings. Their paths never crossed.
She played along willingly. "Fine. My latest research projects are coming along well. I have a couple papers almost completed. And you?"
"Oh, same old grind. Boss is a bastard, partner's a prick. Good thing these government jobs got nice benefits or we'd all have split years ago."
They continued with the small talk. The waiter appeared, took their orders and left again. Hobbes fooled with a breadstick, nibbling as they spoke. Claire kept her hands folded in her lap, except for sipping occasionally from her water glass.
When the appetizer came she leaned forward to take one of the stuffed mushrooms, and said softly, "I met with Charlie two days ago."
His fist clenched involuntarily. The breadstick snapped in two. "Yeah?" he said, as quietly. "How'd you manage it?"
"He had agreed to give us help."
"I'd rather give him a sock in the jaw."
Claire sighed. "That's why I went alone." She put the mushroom on her plate, gazed down at it with no hunger. "It doesn't matter what you think of him. If we're going to save Dar--" Hobbes motioned to cut her off, but she had already swallowed the words. "It we're going to do this," she restated, "we need the information he's supplying. Even retired, he still has connections we don't."
"What was the point of us sticking where we are, except to have connections?" He waved his hand. "Forget it. So? What'd you get out of him? When is this going down?"
Claire glanced around the restaurant, lowered her voice further, until she was barely more than subvocalizing. "They may be an opportunity soon. On Fridays--"
"Day after tomorrow?" He could barely get a handle on his excitement enough to keep his own voice down.
"It may be safer to wait, at least a week--"
"Screw that," Hobbes whispered fiercely. "Friday? We gotta get moving. It's been too long already. We aren't waiting any longer." His eyes narrowed. "Two more days, buddy. Just two more days."
Claire looked as if she might dispute it, then didn't. He saw understanding, agreement, in her face. She was more rational, the analytical scientist, but she was feeling this urgency as much as he was. It had been too long, far too long already. Logician or not, she must remember as well as he did a year and a half ago, the last time they had seen Darien Fawkes. And looking into her shadowed eyes, he could see he wasn't the only one haunted by the too-clear memory of what they had had no choice but to abandon him to...
to be continued...
So, have I lost anyone yet? Or do some of you possibly want more..?