RUSH
2. Beholden
"In all affairs, it's a healthy thing now and then
to hang a question mark over the things you
have long taken for granted."
Bertrand Russell
Sunday night phone conversation.
"Yeah?"
"Darien, it's me. I've got it."
"You-you got it? Well that's great! What is it?"
"It's the counteragent. Something so simple – I knew it had to be. One of the chemicals I use in the production was contaminated, probably in storage. A trace element of a digitalis compound, the spiking in your blood pressure was the only clue. So then I just titrated…oh, it doesn't matter. What's important is that I know what's causing the reaction and now I can remedy it."
"Fantastic. I was – I was worried. That it was me."
"It's not you, Darien. So you can relax."
"Great. Now what? It's easy, right? We just get some new counteragent and –"
"There's a hitch."
Sigh. "Never easy… So, what's the hitch?"
"It'll take me eight days to prepare a new batch of counteragent. If I order the chemicals on Monday, and get them by Tuesday, it still means that we won't be able to give you a clean shot –"
" – until the middle of next week. Right."
"So. I guess we'll just…"
"…have to manage. Right."
"Right." A pause. "Darien, I'm sorry."
"Nah, don't be sorry, it's not your fault. You did great. Really."
"Well I'd hoped that we might be able to work this out sooner…"
"Me too."
"Hm."
"Hm. Oh well."
"Darien –"
"It's okay. You did great."
"Thanks. I just wish I was able to – sorry, but what is that noise?"
"Huh? Oh. Popcorn. I'm makin' popcorn."
"Popcorn?"
"Yeah."
"You mean real popcorn, with a saucepan, and the stove…"
"Yeah. Something wrong with that?"
"No, no. It's just that Americans seem so fond of those little microwaveable bags, so I thought…"
"Nah. I prefer the real stuff. You know. Oil. Salt. Calories."
"Hm."
"Yeah. S'good. I was just getting ready to watch a movie."
"Oh."
A pause.
"Claire. Please tell me you're not at the lab."
"I'm…not at the lab?"
"Ah, geez…"
"Well, I had to finish my notes, and then there was a computer problem, so…"
"It's late, you know."
A sigh. "I know. And I'm – I'm going home now. Soon."
"'Soon'?"
"Soon."
"What about Pavlov?"
"Oh, my neighbour feeds him for me if I don't get home in time."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"So…wanna come over and watch 'The Seven Samurai'?"
A snort. "Hm. Well…" A pause. "No, I should – I should go."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Well, okay then. But you're missing out."
"Right, my loss. But I should go."
"So you said."
"Yes. So. I'll, er, see you Monday."
"Maybe. Goin' to Guatemala on Monday."
"Oh. Well. Then I guess…I'll see you when I see you."
"Okay."
"Okay. Well – bye."
"Claire?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks. You did great."
"So you said. Good night Darien."
"'Night."
Click.
oOo
The door hisses open on Tuesday morning. His shirt is correctly buttoned this time.
"Hey."
"Oh. Hi."
The dynamic has changed. New game.
"Guatemala didn't come off then."
"Nah. False alarm."
"Hm." Thinking that it's probably for the best. She doesn't know how the counteragent will affect him if he's deep in need. The combination of QSM and the dirty shot could have…dramatic results. Best not to think about it really. She pushes her notes to one side and pats the Chair. "Come on then – jump up."
Prepping the shot, she notices him grinning at her. Disconcerting. Got his sense of humour back, obviously. She can't help but wonder what's going on in that medically-altered brain of his. What the gland has done under the hard cranial bones – pushing the soft lobes rudely to one side, sinking sinuous tendrils into the most hidden parts.
Or maybe it has nothing to do with the gland. Maybe it's just him. Darien – being a smart arse as usual.
His arm is already in position, and she taps a vein, places the cold syringe against his skin.
Then the door sounds again, and Eberts walks in. Darien folds his arm up quickly, smoothly, holds it to his chest with his thumb on the vein, post-shot pretence. She puts the syringe on the tray, and then after a beat, slips a piece of notepaper over it, covering the tell-tale hint of blue. Feeling odd. Wondering what's going on in her own brain.
He has his face turned away from her, smiling at Eberts amiably.
"Hey."
"Hello." The accountant's doughy face smiles back, blinking in the dimness of the lab. His eyes find Claire's. "Hello doctor – these are for you."
He steps closer and passes a sheaf of notes in a manilla folder across Darien, into Claire's automatically extended hand.
"Oh. Thank you, Eberts."
Eberts smiles politely in acknowledgement, then looks down.
"Mr Fawkes, if you're finished here you're required upstairs."
"Sure." Darien nods obligingly. "Almost done. Just need to, uh, talk to the Keep about something."
"Certainly. Well, I'll see you upstairs."
"Upstairs. Right."
For want of anything else to do, Eberts smiles again, then nods at Claire.
"Doctor."
She smiles tightly. Eberts, sensing that this is his exit, turns and leaves. The door is sibilant in his wake.
Darien watches the door for a second or two before turning back around slowly. He meets his Keeper's eyes, and there's a short contest to see who'll look away first. The mutual awareness that some unwritten protocol has just been breached hangs thickly, like smog in the air.
Claire has had some measure of practise at staring down the barrel of a microscope, so she has an advantage. This is one contest she's not about to lose.
Then Darien cheats. Folds his arm back down casually.
"So. Can I have my shot now?"
Claire squints at him, then sighs and turns for the syringe. Jaw twitching grimly. She holds it up in the air in front of his face. Keeping hostages – that's cheating too. So now they're even. Almost.
She glares at him, face serious, pronouncing each syllable in clipped warning.
"Don't do that again."
"What?" Darien baulks a little. "You want me to let Eberts see me –"
"I meant the position you put me in. Covering for you. Just…don't."
She preps the syringe again in silence, casting frustrated glances back at him. Mentally, she's thinking that this is getting out of hand. The whole damn situation. Hard to admit to herself, considering how she likes to maintain things all scientifically smooth and under control. But the chaotic, catalytic, medically-altered-brain-owner sitting in front of her could be out of her league. She clicks her tongue against her teeth in irritation.
Now he's doing his best to distract her. Staring is enough.
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"You're watching me."
"Well, you're watching me."
"That's not funny." She frowns at him, annoyed. Narrows her eyes at his droll expression. "You're getting off on this."
"Thought that was kinda obvious," he deadpans.
"Oh ha ha." She slaps the vein in his arm. "You could at least try to be professional about it."
He grins in reply, happy to share his new philosophy.
"I am – maybe not professional, but hey, logical. I mean, way I figure it, this isn't hurting me, and I'm not hurting anyone else, so I guess the only option left is to just lay back and enjoy the ride."
"You're impossible." Rolling her eyes crossly, contemplating male venality.
His grin broadens at her discomfiture. She gets a flash in the syringe. There's a pause before she injects, and he sees her gaze flick up towards his face. Compulsive viewing. It's such a give-away that he can't help but smirk, then because it's a great opportunity, he gives her the old puppy-dog look.
"So does this mean you won't hold my hand?"
"No." Claire directs her flaming face at his arm. Her thumb is sweaty. Damn.
"What, no you will, or no –"
"No, Darien, I will not hold your hand. Be quiet."
"You sure? 'Cos you said, no, so I thought –"
His voice is cut off by a gasp as she delivers the shot in one long push. His head is thrown back against the cushion as his back curves up gracefully. No breath, no thought, just intensity of sensation. It's not subtle, but it's certainly pretty to watch. His head rolls towards her gently, then he's blinking and trembling in the aftermath.
And she's trying to concentrate, really trying damnit, but it's difficult when she can feel the fingers of his right hand squeezing the tender skin behind her elbow.
oOo
Two days later and Claire is riding the elevator in a not-quite-third-class hotel, wearing, of all things, a baseball cap. She's (sigh) in disguise. It all seems so ridiculous – let the boys play their silly games, she prefers to stay well out of it. But duty calls.
In fact, it was Bobby who'd called.
"Yeah, you heard me right. The Pandora. Room 611. And don't come in your usual threads."
"What – will I 'blow your cover'?"
"Very good, Keep – you're really gettin' the lingo down pat. Let me take you out to lunch one day and I'll trade you a few pointers."
Hah. Sorry, Bobby, but not in this lifetime.
"And what, exactly, would I be trading?"
"Ah, you know. Useful stuff. Like maybe how to keep my sidekick here from blowing my or his own head off, for next time he goes postal."
She sighs. Never easy…
"I'll be right over."
Her jeans and t-shirt actually make an agreeable change, but she doesn't feel completely at ease going into a potentially uncontrolled situation without her doctor's persona. The labcoat is always such a nice, comforting buffer. The best alternative she could hunt up on short notice was a beige men's suit-jacket – borrowed from Eberts, as point of fact. He'd been so polite when he requested that she try not to get it blood-stained that she almost gave it back.
Her medical gear is hidden discretely in a backpack, slung over one shoulder. She pulls it around to the front when the lights on the elevator ping disconsolately, and she's expelled into the corridor.
Finding the room is easy, but she has to gather herself for the knock, and the expectation of what she'll discover inside is curdling her stomach. No one answers, at first, so she tries a soft call.
"Ah – hello?"
The door is pulled open suddenly, and Hobbes is giving her a glare, his voice a stage whisper.
"I thought I told you how to knock."
Oh, that. The secret knock, which goes with the secret handshake and the special decoder ring. She shrugs diffidently, impatient.
"I forgot."
"Sheesh." Bobby rolls his eyes, but hauls her into the room without ceremony.
It's brighter inside than she expected. There's a large window directly in front, garish curtains pulled half-way, but the room is still basic, and budget-small. She and Hobbes are in the miniscule entrance hall, the bathroom off a door at left, and the rest of the room opens out into enormous bed, bureau with television, single chair, end of story.
Darien's not hard to spot. He's the curled-up lump under the window, with one trailing hand chained to the radiator.
Her first thought is that he looks pale - his face is side-on, buried in his arm, so there's not much else to see. He and Bobby both look like they've been sleeping in their clothes, but then Bobby's clothes always look slept-in, so that's little to go on.
"So. What's the situation?"
"Ah, you know, the usual." Bobby shrugs, reholsters his gun. "Big guy here goin' poco loco – been overdoing it, I guess."
"I heard that, you know." Darien's hand gives a curt wave near the side of the bed. His voice is raspy. "I might be going mental, but I'm not going deaf." He's turned his head to face them, and gives her a wolfish grin. "What's up, doc? Hey – nice hat."
Claire notes his bloodshot eyes, and the nasty contusion under his right eye in particular, the bruise seeping up the edge of his cheekbone almost to the temple.
"Nice shiner," she returns evenly, before glancing back at Hobbes. "What happened?"
Bobby looks sheepish for a moment. "That was me. Sorry. No choice – things got a little out of hand, so I clocked him one."
Claire nods, understanding how things could get 'a little out of hand', then cautiously rounds the nearest corner of the bed. She sets her backpack down and begins gathering equipment automatically with one hand, keeping her gaze fixed on the unknown quantity in front.
"How are you feeling Darien?"
"Peachy."
"You're ready for a shot then?"
"Mmm. Yummy."
Which brings a more immediate problem to the fore. Actually, she's been thinking about how to get Hobbes out of the room since she got in the elevator. It's a dodgy proposition – dangerously dodgy, from her perspective – but more easily facilitated with Darien in restraints.
And necessary. Because now, unfortunately, it's not Darien's reaction that she's trying to conceal. The mechanics of the situation have become inexplicably messy. Her own natural reserve is somehow at stake, and frankly, she'd rather not have an audience.
At least she managed to find a plausible excuse. She draws Hobbes' attention with a casual glance.
"Look, I need you to do something for me."
"Sure. What?" Bobby's eyes regard her obligingly, and she thanks god for a brief second that he's always so eager to please.
"Back in my car – you know my Jeep, here's the keys - there's a black bag on the front seat, with a brown bottle of chloroxylenol, and a packet of cotton gauze. I'll need it to patch up his eye. Would you mind going to get it for me?"
Bobby's eyes narrow automatically - years of practise make his instincts wave a little red flag, and it just doesn't gel with his sense of what's good and right in the world that the Keeper should be prey to something so human as forgetfulness. But it all seems kosher, so he shrugs and nods, turning for the door. Then turns back, frowning.
"You're gonna wait for me, right? I mean, I don't think you wanna try giving him his jolly juice without assistance –"
"Absolutely." Claire nods reassuringly. "No question. Thank you."
Hobbes hitches a shoulder, then heads out. The door closes behind him with a click.
There's a throaty chuckle behind her, and Claire turns around slowly to see Darien, pupils mere pinpricks, wagging a finger at her.
"Tsk, tsk. That was very naughty of you, Claire. You really gotta stop manipulating Bobby like that – he's hard up, you know."
Her guilty conscience was just telling her the same thing, so to hear it repeated makes her face darken.
She examines him grimly. He's lying on the floor, right leg pulled up, squashed in beside the bed, and the other stretched out lazily where there's open space at the foot of the mattress. His right arm is hanging in mid-air, the chafing of the handcuff around his wrist looking a little raw – she's really going to need that chloroxylenol after all.
He looks up at her contemplatively. "Hm. Now we've gotten rid of one problem, but still the question remains…how you gonna give me my shot?"
Mind-reading again. She ignores the flutter in her gut, the one telling her that this is a bad, bad idea, resolutely ignores him as well, and goes for the backpack, pulling out gauze squares, and the all-important syringe.
The plastic cap is still on, and she resists tugging it off immediately. Instead, she chews her lip as she thinks the logistics of the problem over. The variables – Darien's position, the number of feet of manouverable space, how far his arm's reach extends… It's not really adding up in her favour.
He's shaking his head at her – he's been watching her eyes move.
"Not lookin' too good, is it Keep?"
It's easy to bluff a blind man, but a crazy one? She fixes a bold stare, and demurs.
"No, no – it's quite doable, I think."
He grins and lays his left arm down on the carpet temptingly, the blue vein blushing under the surface of the skin. He waggles his eyebrows in scheming amusement.
"Come on, then. I dare ya."
She doesn't move. He's no spider, and she's certainly no fly. His face falls theatrically, and it's all a great joke – even in the first pallid glow of insanity, he still credits her with some intelligence. But he prods anyway, for good measure.
"Ah, come on, Claire." Full wheedle mode. "Let's tango – you know you want to… It'll be fun." Eyes dancing, full of promise.
"Somehow I very much doubt that."
She sighs, because she's running out of time. This has to happen soon. The syringe in her hand feels as heavy as lead, but she moves a step closer anyway.
Darien's lips smirk up in a gratified grin, and he lounges back in a deceptively relaxed posture against the radiator. "There now. See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Not yet.
His eyes are burning into her as he tilts his chin up, his voice lilting sinuously.
"Claire, Claire, Claire… Why do you always have to make the easy things so difficult?"
Her thoughts exactly, as she watches his face soften.
"It doesn't have to be this way, you know. You could ease up, enjoy the ride a little…"
It would sound so natural, so simple, if his eyes weren't practically glowing crimson. She's seen this transformation a dozen times, the devolution of adorable Darien, sweet-natured Darien, into this…this caricature, but it still never fails to astonish and disturb. And it doesn't make his siren-call any less provocative.
"You're words, Darien, not mine." She swallows around a dry throat and pops the cap off the syringe, then takes another calculating step.
His expression becomes impatient.
"Don't be coy, Claire. I've seen you blushing, remember? So what's the point?" Then his voice coaxes again, as he leans forward. "You could give in, you know – you just have to come…a little…closer…"
She takes another brave step, to a point near his sneakered foot, and the temptation overcomes him. He explodes forward, a striking snake, grabs for her ankle with his left hand, the jarring rattle of the handcuff an exclamation mark. She jumps back out of range rapidly, pulling in a startled breath. He's stretched out as far as it's possible for him to go, hand snatching at empty air convulsively, his eyes fiery and fixed.
Then the sudden movement seems to trigger a reaction in his metamorphasising brain, and he's wincing, gasping with hurt as he curls up quickly, clutching the back of his skull with his free hand.
And Claire's eyes narrow, because that's her potential 'in'. But the headache only lasts a second or two – she tries to time it, around her own harsh breathing – then he's rolling back, expression slack and pained. He mutters quietly into the crevice of his elbow.
"What a bitch…"
Is he referring to her or the headache?
"You're no fun."
Definitely her.
"I'm not here for your entertainment, Darien." Although her heart is jittering like a wild thing in her chest, Claire forces herself to reply coolly. Think, damnit – how is she going to work this?
"Really." Recovering now. Deadpan and blackly serious, and still, despite everything, horribly, frighteningly perceptive. "But you're a liar if you say you haven't thought about it."
Her cheeks flare in response, and he takes it in with a sly grin.
"Yeah – you've thought about it alright." His eyes meander over her as his voice thickens sensuously. "All soft skin and sweat…those little moans…silky sheets, and you on top, 'cause that's what feels so good…"
She's getting desperate now.
"Darien, don't –"
"Don't what? Don't stop?" He leans toward her, breath husky, lips full and open. "Well what are you waiting for, Claire? I'm right here – even got the trusty little handcuffs on already, and don't tell me that doesn't turn you on… Come on, Claire…a little closer…"
Suddenly he winces again, sucking in agony, hand going up, chin tucking down, and this is her last chance, and she doesn't wait even a beat, just springs forward to kneel behind him, syringe up and at the ready.
So she misses his grin, only catches the cunning tone as he mutters "Gotcha" – then his head slams back into her face, knocking her backwards.
The baseball cap tumbles free, the pain in her nose and cheek is an explosion as she scrambles for purchase, for the syringe, on the carpet.
Darien whips around, his left knee scissoring up quickly to pin down her legs, and he lunges for her with his free hand, gathers her hair roughly, pulling her towards him, face flushed and close, eyes dark in a leering parody of an embrace.
"I knew you'd come round."
Then her hand closes around the syringe barrel, and her thumb is automatically, mercifully, ready, and she stabs the needle into his neck – somewhere, anywhere, to hell with the fucking vein – as she lets out a strangled wail.
And Darien cries out, and his head falls heavily, burrows into the crook of her neck, hot breath there, as his body jerks and tightens, and his hand squeezes around her shoulders. For one lightening second she's frozen, terrified, and then memory returns and she softens, props herself with one trembling arm as she lets the other one curl around his body gently, because there's no one to see, and he's unconscious now anyway, his head sliding down her chest to her stomach, then finally onto her thighs, the syringe sticking out of his neck like an obscene arrow, Saint Sebastien at the end.
So that's how Bobby finds them. Claire, sitting on the floor, legs skewed sideways uncomfortably, Darien's body stretched from the cuff, limp head in her lap. She's curled over him, brushing her fingers through his hair softly, mixing brown hair and blood together, because her nose is streaming, although she hasn't quite realised it yet – so much for Eberts' jacket.
"What the freakin' hell happened?" Hobbes' obliging eyes almost starting out of his head.
Claire looks up, glassy, blood dripping off her chin, with a weary sigh. What else is she supposed to say?
"Things…got a little out of hand."
oOo
