So you are still out there! Glad to hear it. ^_^ Apologies for the delay, I warned I was a slow writer. For me this is fast! Looking forward to the new ep tonight, hmmm, will I have time to squeeze a bit of writing in?
At any rate, as promised, it continues...most of this is flashback, so put on your past-viewing goggles and away we go...
For the Good...
Part 3
More than two months after Darien was reassigned to the CIA, Hobbes got a call from his ex-partner. Excepting a few e-mails they hadn't really been in contact, and Hobbes was surprised by how naturally they fell back into their old patterns of teasing and retaliation. Like they'd been separated for a long weekend, not weeks. "How's it hanging, Hobbes? Anything wild on the pharmacy front?"
"Nothing I can talk about on an open line. How are you doing, Fawkes? Pissed off your new boss yet?"
"Only a couple times."
"Couple dozen, you mean."
"Enough about me--bet you and the Official and Eberts are getting along great."
"Just dandy. You know you always were the trouble."
"Yeah, but I'm worth it. Did I mention I got a raise?"
"You got promoted from GS 6? You son of a--"
"Hey, none of this was my choice anyway. But Hobbes. Seriously. How's it going?"
"It's going fine. You know I've been in this gig a hell of a lot longer than you have, kid. You sure you're managing without me, though?"
"Without your sane and sensible guidance? Yeah, I'm getting by somehow. Actually it hasn't been difficult. They haven't given me anything serious."
"Really?" That did surprise Hobbes. He had assumed the CIA would be working their new toy for all he was worth. They certainly hadn't had any qualms about using Fawkes while he was with the Agency.
"I guess they're saving me for something special." Fawkes hesitated. "Actually, I've been thinking...at least I felt like I was doing something when I was with the Agency. Helping people, laying at being a hero. It was, I dunno, kinda fun."
"Yeah, Fawkes," Hobbes agreed. "It was. Have to admit it, it's not the same without you."
Darien took a moment to reply. "Yeah," he said at last. There was something indefinably altered in his tone. "It's not the same here, either."
Hobbes wondered if Fawkes had ever been told that before. That he made a difference, anywhere, to anyone. He opened his mouth to confirm it.
Darien started talking first. "That's sort of why I called. It's okay here, but I think...I was more useful in the Agency. So I'm going to apply for a transfer back."
"From the CIA? Ask them to put you back here?"
"Yeah. If they'll let me go. I'll tell them I'm more of an asset there than here. And you've got the new FDA funds; there shouldn't be problems 'protecting' me anymore. I thought you'd know the rigmarole for that better than me. Who I should apply to, that stuff."
"Uh--sure! I know who you can ask. They might not approve it, but--" Hobbes was already thinking through the best plan of attack. "The Official can pull some strings, and I got a couple of favors I can call in. If that's what you want--yeah, we can make this happen. I'll e-mail you the details, what forms you'll need, who you'll need to kiss up to--know you hate that, Fawkes, but if you want to get anything through a bureaucracy that's the only way you're gonna do it--"
"Yeah, I'm ready for all that crap." Darien sounded satisfied. Happy, even. "Great. Thanks, Bobby. I'll be in touch."
"See you, buddy." Hobbes hung up. He was surprised by how he felt himself. Not just pleased, but relieved. Like things were back on track. He could practically see the pieces of his life, always a fragmented pile, sliding back into more comfortably positions. Returning to work the next day he was almost startled not to find Fawkes there.
He sent the e-mail he had promised. But Fawkes never replied, and didn't contact him again. When Hobbes tried calling him he got an answering machine. The message he left brought no response.
The Keeper shrugged when Hobbes mentioned he hadn't heard from Darien in a week. "Neither have I. He's busy, I imagine."
So maybe they had finally put him on a real mission. And that must have changed his mind about requesting the transfer, because Fawkes never followed through on it.
Hobbes called a couple more times, at last got hold of Darien. Their conversation was brief, and Fawkes sounded tired, distracted. "Been rough. I can't talk about it. You know how it is, Hobbes."
"I know." They might work for the same government, but their agencies were not privy to the other's secrets. "Don't let it get to you. You can handle it."
"Of course. I'm their super-agent, right?"
"Just keep telling yourself that. You'll do great."
The matter of his transfer never came up. Hobbes didn't bother calling again, and neither did Fawkes. Hobbes put it out of his mind, focused on his job. Wasn't worth getting annoyed about. Just the way things went. It wasn't like Fawkes had been anything more than his partner for a couple years. In the Bureau he'd been partners with that guy, what was his name--Hawkins. They had been partners for three years, and they never exchanged so much as a holiday card.
Still, he couldn't help but worry a bit--his screwed-up paranoia wouldn't allow it otherwise. The Keeper told him nothing was wrong, and he believed it. Mostly. No reason for it to be otherwise. Nothing suspicious in the silence. Fawkes had just moved on.
So it went. Until the Keeper called him, late one dreary, rainy, Saturday night. "Bobby? Are you free to come to my place? Darien's here."
"Fawkes?" Hobbes rolled his eyes. "So he is okay. That--"
"No." She paused for a heartbeat, and what he heard in that silence was enough to jerk him out his chair. He was standing before she said, "He's not okay. Can you please come quickly?"
***
They stayed at Bernulli's only long enough to finish their dinners. Not bothering to linger over a desert they had no stomach for, Hobbes and Claire drove directly from the restaurant to Claire's apartment.
Hobbes parked his car in the street and reached the door right behind the Keeper. The first thing he did upon entering was to scan for listening devices, using the detector he had given her last year. It was a state-of-the-art gadget, he had assured her, not available outside of the government and highly restricted within. She never asked how he had managed to obtain it, and used it faithfully once a week. So far she had never found a thing, but one never could be sure.
Hobbes too came up empty. His grunt was not satisfied, however. Prowling around her living room, he closed her blinds, then stalked to the stereo. "Mind if I play something?"
She shook her head. He flipped through her CDs, selected a classical collection and slid it into the machine. The gentle strings of a Vivaldi concerto filled the air.
Only then did Hobbes relax. "Gotta love Baroque tunes," he remarked. "Counterpoint violins are better than shouting for screwing up bugs. Hard to filter." Turning from the stereo to face her, he crossed his arms. "So, what's the plan?"
"First you should hear what the Offi--what Charlie told me." Claire also folded her arms over her chest, unconsciously protective, a guard against what she had to discuss. "Darien is no longer with the CIA. He hasn't been for several months."
"Yeah. We guessed he might not be. So where is he?"
Claire focused her gaze on the biochemistry journal on her coffee table. "A hospital adjunct. In a ward for the criminally insane." She heard Hobbes take a step back, then forward again; she couldn't raise her eyes to his. "He has yet to be charged with a specific crime. They're holding him in some kind of protective custody."
"Those sons of--"
"There's more." Claire kept her eyes on the fine print of the journal's major articles. "He's been placed under a particular program. Some of the details are in the paperwork Charlie gave me. The gist is, it's a study. Medical research."
Hobbes swore again, softly. "They've made him a lab rat again."
"Yes...no. Maybe. Bobby, whatever this program is, it's supposedly government funded, but I haven't found a single listing of it on any official register. And Darien is the only patient in that ward under the program--as far as I can find, he's the only one anywhere. This isn't a coincidence. They aren't just using him for some drug study."
"They know about the gland?"
"I think they have to. But I don't think they're trying to help him.
"Are we ever that lucky? So what else do you have?"
"Charlie's looking for more information. But..." The Keeper bit her bottom lip. "What we suspected then, what they were trying to do. They might've gone through with it. They very well might have. In which case..."
"In which case our problems are that much bigger," Hobbes said resignedly. But he knew as well as she did that either way, it was his former partner who would suffer the most.
***
Hobbes broke speed limits and most other traffic laws making it to the Keeper's apartment within ten minutes of her call, the night Darien appeared at her door. It was still more than enough time for his imagination to come up with a dozen dire fates which could have befallen Fawkes.
"He's not okay," she had told him. The truth was both better and worse than he expected. Better because physically he was unharmed, except a few scratches where he had run into a bush.
Worse because mentally he was not doing well. Not at all. His eyes were streaked with that terrible red, on the cusp of the full scarlet of quicksilver madness.
Upon reaching Claire's place, Hobbes barged through the door to find Fawkes seated on her sofa, leaning over with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed. At his entrance Darien's head jerked up, his bloodshot gaze taking a moment to focus. "Hobbes..." he murmured after an instant, and it wasn't clear if it was a greeting or a question.
The Keeper appeared, clutching car keys as she shrugged into her coat. "Bobby," she said hurriedly, touching his arm. "Thank you for coming. I have to go to the lab. Fortunately I've been working with the counteragent factors this past week, but it'll take me an hour or so to prepare a dose. It'll be too difficult to argue with the night watch to let him in--you'll need to stay here with him."
"No problem." Hobbes's attention was fixed on Fawkes. "You just hurry."
She nodded and was out the door. Hobbes approached the couch. Darien watched him, eyes narrowed in discomfort. "Stuck babysitting, huh," he said, but the strain it took him to sound casual was obvious.
"Yeah," Hobbes replied, almost as tense. "How you feeling?"
"Peachy. Never bet--" A gasp of pain interrupted the smart retort. Fawkes hunched over, one hand shooting up to the back of his neck.
When the spell passed, he swallowed, lifted his head with effort. "I'm sorry, Bobby."
Hobbes stared at him. "About what?"
"This. Everything. I wanted to call you before, but they--crap!" He winced again, twisting his head as if to turn away from the agony.
Hobbes dropped onto the couch beside him and took hold of his shoulders. "Tell me about it later," he instructed. "For now just hang in there. The Keeper'll be back soon. You're gonna be all right." He waited until he felt Darien relax minutely, let go and sat back. "How close are you, anyway?"
In answer Fawkes raised his arm, wrist toward him to reveal the snake tattoo. All but the head glowed vivid red.
"Oh, great," Hobbes groaned. "You aren't gonna go psycho on me, are you, Fawkes? I mean, it's been a few months, that's a lousy way to catch up on lost time." Never mind how Darien had got here, or why he had come back to them for help. That could be discussed later. Right now the important thing was getting him to stay sane until the Keeper returned. "Hang in there. You can do it, buddy."
"I'm trying." Fawkes exhaled, air hissing through clenched teeth. "Got it covered..." He closed his eyes, slowly inhaled and released the breath, mouthing a measured count. On his knees his fists were clenched tight enough to bleach the knuckles.
After a few breaths he opened his reddened eyes again. "Hobbes, you shouldn't be...if I lose it..."
"You won't. I ain't letting that happen," Hobbes averred. "You want anything? A glass of water? Or maybe watch some TV? The Cascade Jags are playing the Lakers, that should be a game worth--what?"
Darien had straightened up and was looking at him with a sort of wide-eyed bewilderment, comical but for the bloodshot whites. He shook his head at Hobbes's query, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing. You do know I'm on the verge of quicksilver madness here, right? You remember that? Me trying to kill you, that kind of thing?"
"Kinda hard thing to forget, Fawkes. I'm advising against it, speaking as your friend. Insanity ain't all it's cracked up to be. So, you want to watch the game?"
Fawkes gaped at him for another second, then flopped back against the couch, closing his eyes. "Not really. Unless you want to. Actually--" His breath caught and his entire body went taut, but he bore the pain, continued, "How about you tell me how it's going at the office. What's not classified. Been...missing the place."
So Hobbes talked. He complained about Eberts, complimented the Official's handling of a matter he wasn't allowed to divulge the details of, and tossed around the names of the various agents he had worked with over the past couple months. Darien listened, to some of it anyway; he drifted in and out, peripherally engaged by Hobbes's gossip, then all his focus shifting inward to wrestle the demon which clawed at his brain, tore at him from the inside with honed talons. It showed itself only in spurts, flashes of agony.
It hadn't been this bad before, Hobbes was positive. Or maybe Darien never had fought it so hard. There almost seemed a shimmer around his eyes, not tears, but as if the crimson cast of madness was pulsing with its own life, and he restraining it with pure force of will. This was an entirely internal battle, one with which Hobbes could do nothing to assist him, nothing except continue to talk calmly and show his support, not turn aside for all that the increasing red of his eyes was damn unnerving.
It was likely the longest hour and a half of his life. Near the end Darien almost lost it. A stab of reaction shot through him painful enough that he cried out. Then, too soon recovered, he stood up, twisted around to face his former partner. Every motion was slow but smoothly controlled. When Hobbes met his eyes they looked filmed in blood, and burned. "I think you should go," Fawkes said, and it wasn't Darien's bass but even deeper, with the utter poise of a stalking predator.
Hobbes shook his head, also getting to his feet. "Not a chance, big guy." He grabbed Fawkes by the arms, felt the tension holding him rigid. "I'm not going anywhere." He steeled himself. "You're gonna get a grip, or you're gonna kill me, because I'm not gonna fight you, and I'm not leaving."
Fawkes jerked, fingers hooked into claws to reach for his throat, and for an instant Hobbes thought it was all over. He stood his ground, stared scarlet-eyed murder in the face without cringing. And Darien made a strangled whimper, like a kicked dog, and tore away, crumpled on the floor with his arms wrapped around himself. Hobbes knelt beside him, gripped his shoulder reassuringly and murmured a steady stream of encouragements, and silently wondered how any man could survive an assault on his soul.
The Keeper returned five minutes later. Hobbes helped Fawkes onto the couch while she prepped the hypodermic, then pushed up his sleeve to inject his arm with swift precision. As the needle pierced his skin, Darien released a long, shuddering breath, sinking into the cushions.
"There, feeling better?" Hobbes asked.
"You're lucky, mate," Claire remarked, taking hold of Darien's wrist to check the monitor as the segments faded from red to green, one by one. "If I hadn't been planning to synthesize a batch of counteragent for tomorrow's tests--" She frowned. The segments had stopped changing color, leaving half the snake still red. "Darien--"
Fawkes craned his neck to get a look at the tattoo. "Yeah. That's about as good as it gets now." He sounded calmer, in control, though there were still lines of pain etched around his eyes.
"What do you mean?" the Keeper demanded.
Darien stretched, arching his back, then rubbed his neck reflexively. "They've been giving me a lot of counteragent. Even gave me access to own supply. They'd shoot me up when the snake was half full, sometimes less. I asked them about it, but they said they had it covered."
Claire's eyes were wide and intense. "But I warned them about that! Darien, if they aren't careful, that could build your resistance to the counteragent--"
"I know." Darien grimaced. "I told them that. They told me they had it covered. That's what they always said. I don't know why I believed them--hell, I know why. I wanted it to be true. It was so easy, almost like being normal... Geeze, I thought you guys were bad, but at least the Agency was honest about the dangers. Them, they just reassured me, didn't ever actually tell me a damn--" At their expressions he reigned in his mounting panic. "Yeah, I warned them. They didn't care. And then, last month..."
He trailed off, his gaze turning inward again. Hobbes was chary to disturb his focus, especially so soon past his battle with the madness; he was clearly exhausted, pushed to his very limits. But they had to know, now that he was in a position to explain. "What happened, Fawkes?"
Darien drew a deep breath, shoulders lifting, then dropping. "I went in and they told me they were out of counteragent. They said I had to wait."
"Why didn't they come to me?" Claire demanded.
"They told me they had contacted you," Darien said. "They told me you couldn't help, that you weren't working on the I-man project anymore, and you didn't have any suggestions." He looked at Claire. "They didn't contact you, did they?"
She shook her head wordlessly.
Darien shrugged again. "Thought so. But I didn't realize it at the time. So I did without." He rocked forward, his hands clasped tightly before him. "The madness came faster. I swear it did. Only took a day when by my count I had three, and I didn't quicksilver at all. I remember sitting there, just watching the snake go red... They wouldn't lock me up. I suggested it, in case, but they didn't. They had people watching me, one of the doctors and a guard.
"I don't remember everything, after I snapped. I smashed up the room, attacked the guard, the doc too, I think. Finally they must have tranqed me. I woke up in a padded cell." He smiled with black humor. "Just like home. I though I was back at the Agency for a second. Then the doctors came in.
"It had been six days. Nearly a week. They told me they'd had 'complications' making the counteragent. I hadn't been sedated for all of it, but I don't remember anything past the first day. Guess quicksilver can make memories vanish, too. They told me I didn't hurt anyone..." His brow furrowed. "That's wrong, though. I remember breaking the guard's arm. I heard it crack. Maybe they meant nothing permanent, I don't know.
"But the counteragent hasn't been working like it should since then. When I suggested they call you about it, that I should come see you myself, they 'advised' against it. Told me--" he chuckled, a wet sound like choking, "--told me they had it covered. I had to get out of there. Made it to you. You can help me. Please..."
He reached out one hand, groping as if he were blind. Claire took it immediately, squeezed. Hobbes patted his shoulder for lack of anything better. "We'll help you, Fawkes," he promised. "Whatever you need, we'll do it."
Darien nodded, his eyes shutting even as he tried to blink them open. Then he exhaled, sagging as if everything had been drained from him, leaving only an empty husk. His slack fingers slipped out of the Keeper's. By his measured breathing he was asleep.
Claire stroked back his sweat-soaked hair in a vain effort to smooth it, left her hand resting against his temple in a brief caress. Darien twitched, then soothed into a deeper repose.
"Whatever you need, buddy," Hobbes quietly repeated. "We'll help you."
***
The Vivaldi CD ended and restarted again from the opening movement. Hobbes paced the relatively secure confines of Claire's apartment, thinking out loud. "Why'd the CIA let anyone else have him? They were the ones who wanted him so bad to begin with, and we know why. So how come they gave him away?"
"We might be able to answer that better after the fact," Claire replied. "Perhaps we'll find some clue of who we're actually dealing with. Charlie didn't know. Bobby, if he didn't know, then the organization behind this program is of even higher secrecy than the Agency--much higher. I've never heard--"
"I have." Hobbes covered another lap, nine steps right and nine left, the anxious motion of a man who must move or else jump out of his skin. "Only rumors. Nothing but that, I thought. But something so beyond top secret it's barely part of the government. The President probably doesn't know it exists; maybe one member of his cabinet does. The ultimate guardians of national security."
"What are we talking about here? The men in black?" Claire joked weakly.
"For all I know." Hobbes stopped, stuck his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. "In the FBI academy, I knew a guy, a Mulder-style wacko, who insisted that every government building had a secret sub-subbasement. The Omega level. Even I thought he was nuts. When I found out about the Agency, I thought maybe that's where he got it from. But I've heard a few things here and there, over the years. Enough to think that maybe he wasn't crazy after all."
He shook his head. "This is stupid. It doesn't matter. CIA, the Omega Division, same difference. They're bigger than us, more powerful than us, and they're using Fawkes. They don't care what they do to him, as long as they get whatever the hell it is they want. They'll do whatever they want to us, too, if they catch us, but we're the only chance he's got. So, why is Friday the best day for the rescue op?"
Claire collected herself with a sharp shake of her head. "I have here the files Charlie gave me. Apparently this program works with Darien primarily on weekends. Friday evenings they sedate him for a weekly physical examination. Then he is either taken elsewhere, or special doctors come to him. I don't have any details, only the regular schedule. But there is a period of time he'll be accessible, and if he's already sedated we should have less difficulty bringing him with us."
"Can we be ready by this Friday?"
She glanced at the file folder on her table, then back to Hobbes. "I need to talk again with Charlie, and it'll be a push--but yes. We should be able to manage it.
"All right." Hobbes checked his watch. "It's past midnight. So we're doing this tomorrow. We get Fawkes out. Or else we go down trying."
to be continued...
What do you mean, you're still here? Haven't I scared you away yet?