Title: Count On It
Author: Suz
Fandom: Invisible Man
Spoilers: Big ones for the New Stuff
Paring: none, really.
Rating: R for implied violence, and language
Status: New/Complete
Archive: Just fine, WWOMB, QS Archive, others, let me know.
E-mail address: suzinsf@earthlink.net
Series/Sequel: Not really
Other websites: Fanfiction.net
Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, wish I did, cuz I'd never have canceled them! No $ made, no harm, no foul.
Notes: Many thanks to all the Betas (Pipsqueak, Dawnebeth, Doug, with post game analysis from Devyn and Chalie, I hope) who took time to really whip this into shape, and many, many thanks to Doug for letting me adopt his bunny.
Summary: Bobby's POV on the events of the New Stuff, and a missing scene at the end of that ep.
Warnings: We find out what happened between Bobby and Jones, and it ain't pretty. Some (non-graphic) discussion of rape, in several forms.
The
Invisible Man
(Missing Scene(s) from The New Stuff)
"Count On It"
by Suz
It's a good thing Claire is sitting between us the whole drive back into downtown San Diego, babbling like a brook and working off the adrenaline rush. It makes the quiet between Fawkes and me a little less obvious. Still, even the beta-C type babble has died down to an occasional comment by the time we pull into the Agency parking lot and unload the RDVs. We check in the equipment, get signed off on it, and then take Claire home, since she refused to leave her car at the Agency while we went off to try and stop Chrysalis' latest plan for world domination. I joke about it cuz if I didn't, I'd probably freak. Because that's exactly what they're doin', near as we can tell. We've been fed a line of crap from everyone we've ever questioned about that creepy gang of whackos. It still seems weird to me that maybe the best intel we've gotten came from someone I trust even less than Stark.
Arnaud de Phôn is the one responsible for the tightrope my partner has been walking for two years, and the last thing I'd ever expect was that there'd be a situation where I'd believe anything Arnaud had to say. But about Chrysalis, he'd have no reason to lie, not the way I see it. For once, someone actually put one over on that Swiss miss motherfucker. I just hope someday, Fawkes and I'll get to do an encore of Stark's little doublecross. Personally, I'd like a little satisfaction. Still, he coughed up a cure for the QSM, so I guess I owe him for that, even if it nearly cost me the best friend I ever had.
I remember standing at Fawkes' back, behind the chair he'd spent two years getting shots in, watching him writhe and moan as Claire drew up a dose of the counteragent, a medication that was fast losing its effectiveness. When he collapsed at my feet out in the dust of that cornfield, I nearly lost it. I had to make Farmer Ray help me get him into the van and strap him into his seat so I could break the land speed record getting back into the downtown area. I'd have called ahead for Claire to meet us half way, but the cell phone was out of range or on the fritz or something, so I just floored it and prayed we'd get to the Harding Building before he went totally red-eye on me. I had to carry him the last part of the way down the Agency halls to the Keep. I still don't know quite how I got all those long arms and legs high enough off the ground to get him there. I don't think I'd ever seen him in that much pain, and it scared me to death. I hustled him inside as fast as I could move, him moaning "ouchy, ouchy, ouchy," into my shoulder as I lay him in the administering chair. I was mouthing off to the Keeper while she hustled around, prepping the shot, trying to tell her how to do her job. Always a bad idea, but I wasn't caring whose toes I stepped on at that point. She rammed the needle home, shooting the blue juice straight into a bulging vein in his right arm.
It was a minute or so before the stuff kicked in, and he finally relaxed, the pain dying down to a dull roar.
"Hey buddy, you alright?" I asked him as he uncurled from the knot he'd tied himself up in.
"You know what? Screw that budget of yours," he told Claire, voice still a little shaky. "I think I'm gonna need two of these a week, huh?" His eyes were wide, and I could see the fear lurking in them. Claire turned her back to us, and the expression on her face as she did made me go cold.
"No, that won't be good enough," she said quietly.
I could feel Fawkes' panic radiating off him like heat off a furnace, and I practically jumped down her throat. "Whaddaya mean!? Get him three, then. Get him everything he wants!" I said and inched closer to his chair, about half a second from a total freak-out myself, here. "Anything you want, pal," I dropped my voice, trying to reassure him. It wasn't as if I could make it happen, I mean, shit, what do I know about science? But seeing him huddled there in that damned chair, I knew I'd damned well try. Hell, if I had to, I might just have been able to find a way to do it
Claire turned around, and I could see the wetness in her eyes.
"Aw, crap" Darien whispered.
It was my turn to panic. "Whaddya mean?!" I demanded.
"I mean none a week," Claire answered. She looked like she was trying not to cry.
"What's that?" Fawkes said, confused.
"Before Arnaud left, he gave me the cure for quicksilver madness." I could see her swallow. "The key is a designer gene that can be inserted on the same viral vector that Dr. Gaveston used on Bobby. Only this one kills the toxin producing cells. Permanently." She stood there, telling us she'd known how to stop this roller coaster, and hadn't done it, and my belly knotted, nausea churning in it. I didn't know what to think. How to feel. I mean, I'm a little in love with the woman, but this was my partner we were talking about.
"Wait a minute uh, why didn't you tell me?" Fawkes asked. I could hear the confusion, the hurt and the anger in that quiet question. I kept my eyes on him, my fingers crossed that he wouldn't lose it, and heard the heavy tread of the Official and a couple of mooks from the Agency bullpen as they stepped into the Keep behind Darien and me. The Fat Man moved past me, closing on Fawkes, and I cursed the timing that brought him into the middle of this before I had a chance to try and talk my partner down.
"Doctor, I warned you," he told Claire, and I saw her stiffen, her eyes never leaving Fawkes'. My mouth went dry, and I tensed, wondering just how ugly this was gonna get. I didn't know who I should be protecting here; my partner or Claire, because the Fat Man looked ready to kill 'em both.
"He said he'd kill you," she informed my partner, and I saw it hit home in the long muscles of his back as they tightened almost imperceptibly.
Oh, crap. Claire was doing her best not to cry. I think the only thing keeping the tears from falling was the heat of her anger. She never gets that pissed. But she sure as hell was now. And that's when it occurred to me that she'd picked her side. She was with Fawkes, even if Fawkes wouldn't recognize it for a while. I got ready to back whatever play she made.
Fawkes turned around slowly, facing the fat bastard who's made his life hell for two years. "Well here I am," he dared the Official, and the two goons he brought along drew on us, one covering me, the other drawing a bead on him.
One of them, Richards I think his name is, gave us the standard warning. "Stay where you are."
"Hey! Holster the heat there, gentlemen," I suggested, annoyed that they were so eager to draw on some of their own. What the hell did this bozo know about the situation, anyway?
"Agent Hobbes, clear and lock your weapon," he warned me. I didn't move.
"Me? You talkin' to me?" I dissembled, hoping to keep him distracted. What he didn't know about diffusing a situation woulda filled an encyclopedia. We really gotta get these greenhorns some hostage negotiation trainin' or somethin'.
The Fat Man's attention was focused on Fawkes. "What you don't understand Darien, this was never about you. I've got a job to do. And national security to safeguard." He glanced at the muscle covering me. "Richards, confiscate the contents of her refrigerator. She will not administer this drug to Agent Fawkes."
"Well that's a bit late, isn't it?" Claire spoke up, the hint of insubordination in her voice making me catch my breath. "I've just given the injection to Darien." Her eyes flicked back to Fawkes, the insubordination fading to sadness, and a strange sort of relief. "The last shot you'll ever need," she told him softly, a note of finality in her voice.
"You've made a serious error, Doctor," the Official bit off each word, spitting them at her like venom.
"No Charlie," Fawkes disagreed, his voice going all sing-song like it does when he's going QSM. "You did. You blew it. I would have stayed," he added, and the acid in my guts started a slow burn. Oh, hell. Fawkes was about to rabbit. He hadn't twitched a muscle, but he was SO outta there. And with his talent for disappearing, it was probably gonna take even me a few days to find him and convince him to drag his sorry butt back into the fold.
"You ARE going to stay," the Official snarled, ignoring the dangerous look in Fawkes' eyes. Eyes that silvered over as he disappeared in front of the Fat Man. "Fawkes?" he growled.
My partner didn't waste any time, and I didn't waste any sympathy, as he slugged Richards, knocking him out cold. "Tsk-tsk-tsk," I clucked mockingly.
"Hobbes, get after him," the Official ordered.
I don't blame Fawkes for walking out like he did. He deserved a damned sight more respect than he'd gotten. I know what that feels like, let me tell you, my friend. I ejected my clip, emptied the chamber, and told him; "Sorry, chief. Weapon's cleared and locked." Nothing on the planet woulda made me go after my partner right then.
I just hadn't figured on Darien not coming back.
Claire's expression was I dunno; bleak. I guess that's the best way to describe it. But she was angry, too. I've seen her annoyed, but I've never seen her deep-down pissed off like that as she straightened up walked past the Fat Man without a word. He'd wanted my pal on the needle, a junkie hop-head, dependant on his royal fatness for his next fix. He'd never had any intention of allowing the gland to be removed as long as he could jerk Fawkes around like a puppet on a string. He didn't know Claire'd made a promise. A promise she kept, the best she could. The gland might not be out, but at least the craziness that went with it was gone.
Claire was outta there within twenty four hours, and with Monroe off on some hush-hush assignment somewhere, I was basically the only ranking agent left at the Agency. It was sorta weird, you know? I'd spent the past two years playing nursemaid to a wet-behind-the-ears partner with more brains than sense, and now I was solo again. I didn't like it. Damn, I missed Fawkes. Missed the arguments, the sarcasm, the banter, the way we have of knowing what the other is thinking, all of it. Missed it with the kinda pain that reminds me of a toothache that won't go away.
I've never had a partner stick with me as long as Fawkes did. Not that he had much choice, but still. Maybe it's because we're both a little nuts. Sometimes more than a little. Whatever, why ever, we just clicked, in a way I don't think I've ever experienced with another human being.
I spent most of the next week thinking about the kid, wondering how he was doin', what he was doin', praying he wasn't gonna wind up in some kind of jam he couldn't get out of. I was havin' a hard time sleeping, and when the fifth night of nightmares woke me up, I knew I had to make up my mind where we stood. I spent the morning thinking about the difference between a partnership and a friendship, and making up my mind whether I could live without at least one of them. When I decided I couldn't, I tightened my belt, so to speak, and drove over to Fawkes' apartment.
I knew he'd still be angry, knew that'd be a long time fading, and I can't blame him, but the restless edginess in him set off all my alarm bells as I asked him if he was gonna let me in. This was not good.
Hell. I had no fucking idea how bad it was about to get.
I danced around it for a minute or two, then came out with it, telling him he didn't exactly have the resume or the references to go out and earn a living anywhere besides the Agency. My mistake. My next mistake was to go all cocky as I grabbed a beer out of his fridge, telling him a life of crime was out, since he'd had a taste of the righteous life, and had to see it was better than doing life in the nearest penitentiary. It was the way he answered that warned me I was wading around in a minefield.
"For completely different reasons, I agree," he said.
And a knock came on the door as he stuffed a shirt into the suitcase he was packing.
"Expecting someone? Got a date?" I snarked at him as he went to open the door.
The look he threw over his shoulder at me reminded me of a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar, defiant, embarrassed, angry. When Jonesy and his flunkies waltzed on in like they owned the place, I knew why.
"Hi, Darien, you ready?" Jones asked, not noticing me where I sat on the barstool at the kitchen counter, my blood running cold.
"You guys are early," Fawkes muttered uncomfortably.
"Jones." It came out as a low hiss. Half a decade of bad blood and worse history lay between us.
"Lithium Bob," Jones raised an eyebrow in my direction, then glanced at Fawkes. "What's he doin' here?" he demanded as I stiffened and raised my chin.
The nasty hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach turned into this massive void as I put it together. I know the hurt was there in my voice, I know he heard it. "No. Not the FBI, Fawkes. Why?" I stared at my ex-partner, knowing he was as gone as my ex-wife. Outta my life. "Fawkes" I could see he knew what this was doin' to me, apology mixing with the same grim anger that'd filled his face since I'd gotten to his place. I knew he wasn't mad at me, but he was sure taking it out on me.
"Maybe he's tired of being teamed up with a joke," Jonesy suggested sarcastically.
I lost it. "You wanna hear a joke? Why Bobby Hobbes kicked Jones's face downstairs. Because he wanted to. Hahaha!" I went for him, ready to rip out the bastard's throat, only Fawkes got in the way, pulling me off the smarmy jerk before I could tell him my joke up close and personal.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa, Hobbes!" Darien dragged me off, muscling me away from the rest of the Feds. "C'mon! You said it yourself. I'm not goin' back to burglary."
"Why the Feds, Fawkes? Why the Feds?" I asked, still trying to swallow that low blow. He knows my history, or enough of it, to know he couldn't have made a worse choice, as far as my feelings on the subject were concerned. The black hole in my guts sucked away a little more of what I'd thought was a solid friendship.
"All the movies I seen, they're usually the least corrupt. And they're paying me at GS-9" He looked at me, knowing he was tearing my heart out here, a weird mix of cocky and insecure.
This was the guy I'd worked with for two friggin' years, a guy whose life I'd saved, who'd saved mine. I knew how he works. Knew he was all caught up in the self-centered bullshit he dragged around with him most of the first year I worked with him. I forced myself to try and see it from his point of view, to really get what he was feeling, but it was damned hard. Because what I felt was worthless. "GS-9" I repeated. The stupid schmuck. His trick should be netting him a lot more than that, if money was gonna be the reason he sold me out.
"Is that good?" he asked, low in his throat, almost soundless. I could see the uncertainty in his expression. I wanted to slug him. But it's better than either of us make - made - with the Agency. Enough better that that little indignity stung, too.
Behind us, the local FBI bigwig along for pick-up duty was apparently eavesdropping, because he chimed in with; "And your own office!"
Fawkes nodded slightly. "New office and digs downtown"
I just looked at him, trying to swallow past the vice grip around my throat. "GS-9" I managed, barely above a whisper. "That's good."
Fawkes stared back at me, the beaten puppy look creeping into his eyes. He knew what this was doing to me. Knew this was ripping me open, must have seen it in my face, because he raised his voice, pitching it to carry to the little cluster of suits near the door. "Guys, I've got a problem," he said.
The head honcho wasn't much liking the sound of that. "Not with our deal, I hope."
"That depends on you," Darien answered, still not breaking eye contact with me.
"What do you want?" he asked Fawkes.
"Since I would like to avoid, uh, being teamed up with a joke, I would like you to hire Bobby Hobbes, here, as my partner," Fawkes told him, still eyeballing me, watching me for some clue how I was taking this latest little indignity. The kid just didn't get it. Just because he was the king of shortcuts, just because he had no pride, didn't mean I didn't.
"What?" Jones snorted disbelievingly.
"At the full GS-9 salary rate," Fawkes added, seeing the look on my face, hoping to sweeten the deal.
"No way!" Jones piped up again.
"Oh, and could you transfer Jones to Alaska? Please?" Fawkes added another condition.
"Done," the head suit said flatly, ignoring Jonesy's strangled outburst.
Fawkes watched me expectantly, one hand coming up for our ritual low five, so damned sure he had me figured, so damned sure I'd go along with his egocentric little scheme. I just stared back at him, wondering if he had any idea what kind of knife he'd just driven into me. "Don't leave me hangin' brother. Here we go," he coaxed, wheedling, that little kid attitude of his showing up one more time. "Give it up. C'mon"
"Sorry, partner," I said quietly and walked away from him, putting my beer bottle on the kitchen counter.
"Excuse us," he told the suit contingent, following me and catching me, leaning over to whisper into my ear, his breath warm against my face. "Dude? G9," he dragged out the only carrot he had.
I didn't look him in the eye when I answered, because I knew he wasn't getting it. So I decided to be blunt. "When Bobby Hobbes returns to the majors, it's gonna be on my own average, my friend."
"Okay, uhm, you know what, Hobbes? I don't think you really understand, here. We can rule this joint. I'm their Golden Boy-" he said, totally missing the point.
I turned to stare at him for the last time. "You sure are," I agreed, brushing past him and heading for the door. "Thanks for the beer. I'll see you around, partner" and I walked away. Let him go. Hell, he deserved whatever it was they'd do to him, I told myself, not believing it for a second. He just didn't have a clue what he was letting himself in for.
It still smarts. I guess that's the problem. I don't know if I've got either a partnership, or a friendship left with Fawkes, really. I guess it depends on him. Which is why the quiet when we drive away from Claire's suburban bungalow makes my head ache. We stopped the bad guys, but the good guys may not be ridin' into the sunset together at this rate
The afternoon Fawkes defected to the Dark Side, as I think of the FBI while it's populated by vicious and vindictive bastards like Jones, I drove away from his apartment trying to calm down, doing my relaxation breathing, using all the tricks my army of therapists have taught me over the years, trying to get a handle on what I was feeling. What it boiled down to, was it hurt. It was a little like when Viv told me she was planning on marrying Brock. Jilted. That's what it felt like. Which was stupid, since we didn't really have that kind of relationship, right? Not that I'd've necessarily minded But the feeling was the same. Someone I trusted, someone I loved, had basically as good as told me that they didn't want me. And had fucking humiliated me in front of a numb-nuts like Jones.
I still hadn't finished working it through when I ran into Fawkes again with his new cronies out at the smoking remains of the TerraGen research lab. He was standing around with his hands in his pockets, as per usual, and I'm sure Jonesy's boys figured he was just taking up space. But I trained the kid. He knows how an investigation works. He is nowhere near is stupid as the fibbies likely thought he was. He was taking it all in, thinking about what he was seeing, just like I taught him. There's this fancy German word for it, called 'gestalt'. That's what Fawkesy called it anyways, when he finally figured out what it is I do when I poke around a crime scene for the first few minutes. It's the first, best thing an investigator can do. Don't touch anything, just take it all in
So when I ducked under the yellow tape, I watched him while Jonesy tried to head me off at the pass, snapping back at the moron while he tried to bully me into leaving. When he sicced a pair of Bureau musclemen on me, Fawkes stepped in, urging them off as he assumed responsibility for my presence. It was too early to tell if that was a good sign or not, but since my ego was still stinging, it didn't really matter.
"So how ya doin'? he asked me, shuffling his feet through the ashes and debris, glancing at me through those 'official' FBI shades of his.
"Pretty good," I answered. "How you doin'?" I watched him out of the corner of my eye, reading his discomfort about the bum's rush Jonsey'd tried on me. At least he had the grace to be embarrassed by his new pals.
"I'm good," he answered, not very convincingly, in my book. "Good. You takin' care?" He looked at me over the top of his sunglasses, and I could see the little furrow in his forehead that told me he really wanted to know.
"Me? I'm great. You?" I asked, going along with it, trying not to let it piss me off that it wasn't me here with him, partners. Because I was about as welcome around here at the moment as a case of the flu, and taken about as seriously. A nuisance, not a threat. We babbled a little more before I turned to glare at him. "I can't believe you're working with these deltoids," I told him, angry, trying to keep it together.
"Hobbes, save your breath, all right?" he shot me a look, annoyed, trying not to be.
"Breath? For what?" I asked, knowing he figured I was here to bring him back.
"I'm not comin' back." He straightened, watching me.
"That why you think I'm here? To ask you to come back?" I stared at him. It wasn't like the idea hadn't occurred to me, but I knew Fawkes well enough to know anything that made him feel like he was being played would drive him off faster than just about anything else.
"So why you here?" he asked, still suspicious.
I leaned a little closer, annoyed "Guess you can't see very good through those FBI sunglasses, can you, huh?" I said sarcastically.
He frowned at me. "I see just fine through these sunglasses."
"I don't think so. It's a cover-up, my friend."
"Huh. A cover-up?" He was looking at me like I was doin' the usual whacko routine. He was writing me off as a total nutcase. It sure hadn't taken long for Jonesy and his morons to destroy his faith in me.
"It's got Chrysalis written all over it," I pointed out, as if I was explaining it to a fourth-grader.
He actually thought about it for a second, but the skepticism didn't fade outta his expression. "Ol' cover-up?" he repeated.
I was getting impatient. "The ol' cover-up," I confirmed. "The terrorists are patsies. Think about it, huh? This place makes super seeds for farmers like old man McGillicuddy and his corn." If I had to spell it out for him, I would.
"Yeah, but why?" he asked
"Why what?" I answered shortly.
"Why?" he frowned at me again. "Why would Chrysalis hit this place, then hit farmer Ray? I don't get it. What's the connection? Whadda they gonna gain?" He was trying to work it out, and I wished I had an answer for him, but I wasn't the one with the clearance to poke around the scorched debris that had once been a greenhouse.
"The answer is right over there in that evidence," I pointed out. "Over there, right?" I gestured at the coolers and plastic bags that cluttered up the forensic guys' makeshift workbench. "Why don't you go over there and do a little see-through and tell us what Stark's really up to? Why don't you do that, huh?" I suggested cynically, doubting I could convince him to help me out.
"Alright, Hobbes. I gotta put my foot down, bro," he answered, his expression going a little remote, like I hurt him somehow.
"What?" I whined, giving him a little of his own back.
"We're brothers. You know that, right?" he said seriously, taking off the glasses.
I just looked at him. "I don't know, maybe," I muttered, refusing to let him con me. How do you tell someone who's just laid you open, disappointed the hell outta you, that he doesn't have a clue how I feel about him? And if Fawkes thinks that's the way brothers treat each other, then he's got a strange idea of what brotherhood is.
Actually, I can't exactly throw stones in that department. My own brothers weren't anything to write home about. I was kinda the runt of the litter, so I was on the receiving end of a lot of the bullshit kids do to each other. Even my younger sister was bigger than I was until I was a junior in high school. I'm not close to any of them, and when my marriage to Viv crashed and burned, and I got fired from the FBI, they pretty much wrote me off. I haven't stayed in touch.
So yeah, okay, maybe he had treated me like a brother, at that. Sometimes I forget he's got his own issues with family. Like being abandoned by his father, losing his mom when he was just a kid, and being stuck with a brainiac brother whose idea of filial loyalty was to stick a gland in his little brother's head that made him go invisible - oh, and also made him go nuts on a regular basis. So neither of us has the world's most normal family. But what we had, him and me, was a whole lot more than a blood relationship. We were brothers by choice. Outta shared experience. Outta trust. Outta love. And out of respect. It's been a long time since I'd had someone who respected me the way Fawkes did. Maybe no one ever has. He teases me, bugs the shit outta me a lot of the time, but he knows I know what I'm doing. He let me teach him stuff. Let me show him the ropes in this business. He knew there was more goin' on than the whacko image I've acquired, thanks to schmoes like Jonesy. He also knows that I use it to my advantage a lot of the time, like I did when I first started working with him.
It gives me time to get a feel for someone without them being able to do the same. Most people are more than happy to jump to the conclusion I lead them towards. Yeah, I've got my problems, but sometimes they can be assets. As long as I don't lose my temper. Then I really do flip out. But Fawkes, he could talk me down. He did for me, like I did for him when he went QSM. But I played the whacko burn-out when I first got stuck with the kid, till I started figuring out there was more to him than just another pretty face.
The thing about Fawkes is, the kid is no slouch in the brains department, either. He pays attention to stuff. Notices things. He's actually got a fair amount of natural talent at the whole investigation thing. So he was a quick study. It didn't take him long to figure out that Bobby Hobbes wasn't the moron everyone else thinks I am. He started payin' attention to what I was doin', how I was doin' it, when I was doin' it, that kinda thing. Not that he didn't argue about every little thing, or cop this long-suffering attitude, but that's what it was, most of the time; attitude. He got pretty good at figuring me out.
And I got used to being able to count on that. Count on him knowing what I was gonna do, sometimes even before I'd figured it out myself. Got used to being able to count on him, period. Whenever. Whatever. That's a first for me. Even when I was in the CIA, the partners I had never meshed with me the way Fawkes did. I guess that'd be what I missed the most about havin' him gone, the last two weeks.
"Right. Well the Official knows it too. I'm not going to let him screw up our friendship by using you to get to me. I ain't going back there. I ain't gonna work for him!" And I heard something in his voice that made me really think about what he was sayin'. He was scared outta his mind that the Fat Man would do what he'd threatened, and kill him for that damned bit of goo in his head.
"You're some piece of work. You know that?" I told him, stepping away from that tack.
"You know how long you've been telling me that?" he snapped back.
Since I met him, I thought to myself. It was still true, or I wouldn't keep sayin' it. Sometimes I forget how new he is to the whole intelligence game, because he handles himself so well, most of the time. But every once in a while, he'll say something that reminds me what a greenhorn he is. Like I'd ever have let the Fat Man kill him for that stupid gland
I shrugged a little. "Why don't you put those FBI sunglasses back on?" I suggested. I might not be able to get him to give me what I needed, but maybe I could give him a nudge in the right direction. He might be out of the Agency, but Chrysalis and their agenda hadn't gone anywhere, and the Agency was the only branch of the DOJ, as far as I knew, that was working on trying to stop them. Hell, we were probably the only ones who knew they existed in the first place.
**********
I don't think I'll ever forget the feeling in the pit of my stomach when the 'Fish called me down to the Keep a few day later and I found Fawkes and Claire standing there, waiting for me.
There was no way of telling just how far ahead of us Chrysalis was, so we didn't waste a lot of time with chitchat as we hightailed it to the van and took off for the research field that TerraGen had seeded with their hybrid Eucalyptus, with its incipient cure for cancer or whatever. Like I'd expected, we had to bust our way in, when Fawkes, my geek ex-partner, realized he'd forgotten to bring his Federal shield with him. Having to work out of the Bureau of Weights and Measures isn't exactly a boost to our credibility, let me tell you, so I sent Darien and Claire off on one of the Rapid Deployment Vehicles while I headed off in another direction. I made sure the National Guard chumps in their humvee got a good look at my dust trail, distracting them from Fawkes and the Keep doin' their disappearing act, and led them off on a wild goose chase.
By the time they'd caught me and driven back to the Eucalyptus grove, I'd pretty much managed to convince them I was on the level. 'Course, a call to the Fat Man's direct line might have swung the balance my way. We got there just in time to see Fawkes riding shotgun in an old Viper two-seater that they obviously used to dust crops, while the lady pilot headed them straight at the massive swarm of locusts that was sparkling and flashing like a school of fish at the edge of the rows of scrubby trees.
With Fawkes on pesticide detail, they had it raining oversized crickets in seconds, and Claire and I dove for the cover of the inside of the humvee, along with the two grossed-out guardsmen.
By the time they'd taken care of the problem and landed, Claire and I were back to the old flirtation thing I always have going with her. I know she doesn't take me seriously, she's as much as told me so. Still, I'd've liked to have managed to convince her somehow. I really should have called her when she moved on to the CDC. As long as she was with another Agency, I wouldn't have been fishing off the company pier. Too late now, I guess. Or it will be, if I have my way, and we go back to bein' a team.
The problem is, Fawkes may have other ideas.
Which is why the long stretch of quiet is really starting to get on my nerves. See, usually after an assignment, we hang out, drink a couple of beers, do dinner, and decompress. Which for both of us means taking the mission apart, bitching, moaning, complaining about the knuckleheads we work with a lot of the time, and trying to figure out if there were things we coulda done better. It surprised me the first time Fawkes put in his two cents worth. Not cuz he was speaking up, but because what he was sayin' was right on the money. The kid doesn't miss much. It's weird for me to think about the skills we share, and realize there's not that much difference between what it takes to break the law, and what it takes to enforce it. The line is thin, and a lot of the time, pretty damned blurry.
"Bobby?" he says at last, as I pull up to the curb in front of his building.
"Yeah kid?" I answer, keepin' it casual.
"Uh, I, uhm, just wanted to say I'm sorry about the way that scene with Jones went down" he mumbles. It's quiet for a minute while I think about that some. "I blew it, didn't I?" he asks, real quiet.
I turn and cock an eyebrow at him. "I don't know, I mean you saved those puny little trees from the nasty bugs-"
"That's not what I mean," he interrupts, frustrated, looking out the passenger side window and resting his forehead on the glass. He sighs, and the window fogs. "What do you think I should do?"
I frown. "About what?" I ask, a little confused. This is pretty much a first, as far as I can remember; Darien Fawkes asking for my advice
He glances my way, the frustration still in his face, then stares out the front window of the van. I can tell he's not seeing the view in front of him. "Should I go back to the Agency?" he asks.
Okay, that catches me by surprise. "I thought you were the FBI's new Golden Boy," I say. I can't quite keep the pissy tone out of my voice, but I'm sorry I let it sneak through when he turns that beaten puppy look of his on me.
"Forget I asked," he sighs again and opens the door, dropping those long legs out of the van and getting out. He turns and ducks his head so he can look in at me, and the puppy dog eyes are still there. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I just I just didn't know."
He slams the door shut and walks across the sidewalk to the front of his building and lets himself in before I can wrap my brain around another first; a Darien Fawkes apology. A real one. I know him well enough by now to know when I'm bein' played. And what I just saw was a Fawkes I've just about never seen. The last time was when he stabbed a needle full of a lethal genius-producing retro-virus into his thigh to force me to give Claire the cure. Scared. Worried. Desperate. It's about the most genuine thing I've ever seen on his face, bar none. And it was there again, a second ago.
He didn't know? He didn't know what? "Shit," I mutter as I get out of the van and jog after him.
I catch him on the stairs, just before his floor. "Fawkes. Wait up," I hail him, and he turns around so fast he almost loses his balance. "Whoa, there, big guy," I steady him.
He just stares at me, his eyes almost black in the dim light of the stairwell.
Hookay. I take my hand off his arm, and he looks down at it, as though he's only just realized I touched him. "So, Fawksey, wanna go get a beer? Do a little post-game wrap-up?" I ask, keepin' it light.
It doesn't earn me a grin, but at least some of that scared look is fading. I'll take what I can get, I suppose. "So you gonna invite me in?"
"Ain't got no beer," he warns, and this time there's a little smile lurking on his mouth.
"I guess that means it's my place," I answer, and the grin is a little stronger.
"I guess," he agrees.
I turn and lead the way back down the stairs.
*********
He's still real quiet, and it's starting to get on my nerves. I hand him a beer and he drops into my sofa like a rag doll, staring into space. I rummage around my freezer, looking for something easy to fix for dinner, settling on some leftover shrimp curry in coconut milk. I set it out on the counter to defrost a little and start some rice, then decide I'd better add some kind of vegetable just for color, or it's all gonna be a little pale. When the rice has come to a boil, I turn it off and put the lid on it. It'll steam itself and I won't have to think about it until we're ready to eat.
I take my beer and sit down at the opposite end of the couch, hitching one knee up onto the kidskin leather of the cushion so I can turn myself to watch Fawkes. "So," I say.
The kid glances at me, then away, this haunted look in his expression. "So," he mimics.
I sigh. This is not going well. "You okay? No headaches? No red-eye?"
He looks at me briefly again, shaking his head. "Nah Nothing except what a few days without sleep'll get me," he admits, taking a swallow from the bottle and looking away again. Why the hell hasn't he been sleeping? That's my gig when I get stressed, not his. Not up till now, anyway
"So. The Feds treating you all right?" I try again.
He shrugs, and I can tell he's uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. "Yeah, I guess," he answers. "Better'n they treated you," he adds, shooting me this wary look, like he doesn't know whether to run or keep talking.
Okay. I feel my stomach knot up, and my throat tightens. Shit. Sometimes I forget just how nosy the kid is. "Do NOT tell me you went snooping in classified government records looking for my file," I say softly. Dangerously.
He kind of shrinks away from me a fraction of an inch.
"Shit. Fawkes. Tell me you didn't stick your nose in where it doesn't belong!" I demand.
He just looks at me with those big brown eyes of his.
"Fawkes." There's no doubt in his mind at all that I am seriously pissed off, right now.
"You know everything there is to know about me, Hobbes," he says, so rapidly, he's practically stuttering. "All the shit I've done, had done to me, you know about all of it. But I barely know the first thing about you," he finishes.
I glare at him. "Tell me you did not pull my file," I repeat.
I take his silence for an admission of guilt. "Fuck. Well, you satisfied, butinsky? Got all the dirt on Bobby Hobbes? You enjoy your look at the life and times of the Bureau's most notorious fuck-up?" I snarl, feeling queasy.
"Fuck-up?" he stammers. "Hobbesy, compared to my life, you're a choir boy," he contradicts.
"We're not talking about your life, are we?" I roar.
He flinches.
I take a swallow from my own beer, trying to regroup, get a grip on my temper. Okay. So I guess it's twenty questions time. Find out how much he knows, and how bad it'll screw up any chance we have at a partnership. My guess is the friendship is toast already, and I swallow another gulp of beer trying to get my throat to loosen up.
"Bobby"
I turn to scowl at him. "What?"
"You're not the only one it's ever happened to."
Fuck. Fuckity fuck-fuck. "What. What's happened to?"
"Bobby. I've been in prison. Twice. I was on my way in for a third strike. You know what that means in the state of California? It means life. A life of nothing but that. There is no such thing as consensual sex in the joint. Why the hell do you think they call it the penal system? Bobby. Talk to me."
It's the goddamned beaten puppy look that gets to me. He's hurting. I just have a hard time believing he's hurting for me. Most of the time, I forget about his rap sheet. He's a punk, sure, but I've gotten used to that. I forget there's reasons for it. "Talk about what." I answer flatly, taking another swig.
He looks away, taking a swallow of his own. "The first time it happened to me I was eighteen, maybe nineteen. I was serving a nickel term at Soledad for a burglary conviction. They cornered me in the shower. Four of them. I was in the prison infirmary for almost ten days."
Oh, Christ I swallow hard, praying this will end.
"The second time, I was in for my second term, back in Soledad. Let me tell you, I could hardly wait to go back." Sarcasm drips from his voice. "The guys who'd raped me before were lifers. I was on my way back with 'target' written all over me." He takes another long drink and puts the bottle down on my coffee table, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, fingers threaded through his wild hair. "No surprise, I took the first offer I got. It was protection, of a kind. He was all right, I guess. Hell, I'd sure been through worse. He took care of me. No one touched his bitch. That was me."
He pauses, and I gulp against the nausea rising in my throat. "Fawkes. Stop."
He shakes his head. "You know what's weird, Hobbes? He wasn't a bad guy. Had a wife and daughter on the outside. Went to the prison chapel every Sunday. Tough bastard. And he protected me. From them. And I gave him a little release. I fell a little in love, I guess. Hated it when his wife came for conjugal visits. You just never know what it is that'll get you about someone."
He turns his head and glances my way, eyes watery, expression determined. "Like with you."
"What about with me?" I demand. Defensive.
"I still don't know what it is about you" he trails off, the determination fading. "What Jones did, Bobby, it was worse than anything I ever went through. I expected what I got, at least some of it, sorta. So it wasn't any big surprise. But you," he pauses, then closes his eyes and blunders on into my secrets, wading around in that dark and awful place like a bull in a china shop. Destroying ten years of therapy; peace of mind a lost cause, now. "Why'd you ever tell a schmuck like that what that bastard Crianni did to you? Why tell someone like Jones anything?" he asks, helplessly confused.
"He was my partner. Fawkes. Who the hell do you think I should've talked to? I never liked the guy, but I trusted him. My mistake." I can barely speak, my throat is so tight.
"You trusted him enough? What about me? I've been your partner for two years, and all's I ever got was you flyin' off the handle every time Jonesy came up on our radar!"
He's playing the wounded martyr again, and goddammit, I'm so freakin' tired of it. "Drop it Fawkes," I demand coldly. "What the hell good is telling you all the gory details gonna do except make you feel included, or special, or whatever it is you plan on getting' outta the deal?" I rant. I'm not yelling, not yet, but he keeps pushing, and I will be soon.
He just stares at me, the wounded look back in his eyes. "You don't get it, do you?" He asks eventually. "It's not just what happened six years ago, when that sonovabitch Crianni snatched you, Hobbes. I barely know the first thing about you. The only reason I know about Viv is cuz she wouldn't let you near her and you finally had to send me in to plead your cause! I know you've been in half the alphabet agencies in the country, and that you grew up in Brooklyn. I don't know where, I don't know what your folks were like, I don't know how many brothers and sisters you have, I don't know what you did in the military, except that you were in the middle east, I don't even know what your favorite goddamned color is! When Jones screwed you over, he screwed me over too. He kept me from knowing who the hell my partner really is, Hobbes!"
I stand up fast and hurl my beer bottle across the room, because if I don't do something, break something, I'm gonna slug Fawkes. I spin around to glare at him and he's staring up at me, wide-eyed, all trace of self-pity gone, and before I can move, he's standing right in front of me, his long arms wrapped around me so tight I can hardly breathe, holding me like he's afraid I'm gonna make a break for it or something.
"Bobby," he sighs against the top of my head. "Let it go. Don't you know by now you can tell me anything? You're my friend, dammit. My best friend. Maybe the only real one I've ever had. Let me in, buddy. Please."
It has to be the feeling of his fingers against the back of my skull, laced through my hair. Warm. Gentle. Caring. I keep telling myself that as the dam breaks, and he gets the story he wanted. I hope he sleeps well afterward, because I sure as hell won't. My nose is pressed against the front of his chest, my voice muffled, so quiet I'd be surprised if he can hear more than one word in ten. But they keep spilling out, like floodwaters too long held back from the lowlands. I tell him the whole story, the case Jones and I had been investigating. How it spiraled out of control; how Crianni, a mobster with his claws into most of the local politicians, caught wind of where our investigation was taking us, and what he decided to do about it. He set us up, and Jonesy stayed outside in the car, waiting for back-up while I, dumb-ass cocky prick that I am, headed on into the warehouse we were scheduled to meet a contact at. Only he wasn't there. Half a dozen of Crianni's goons were. I was knocked unconscious and hustled out right under Jones's nose. They hauled me off to a real garden spot, coulda doubled for Alcatraz in the movies, and they spent most of a week trying to torture what I knew outta me. I never gave it up. I would have, if they'd had me for even another few hours, because when they introduced me to my butthole buddy, the cattle prod, I nearly bit my tongue off to keep from screaming out everything they wanted to know. When the Bureau found me, I was a basket case. When I got out of the hospital, I told Jonesy what had happened, figuring the guy was my partner, he oughta know who he was riding around with. What's really weird, is, it wasn't the foreign object gang-bang that tripped him out, it was the heavy psychotropic meds the Bureau shrinks had put me on to keep me flyin' straight and level. The problem was, they didn't really work all that well. But instead of just putting in for a transfer and moving on, he had to publicize the reasons. Which got me blackballed with every other agent in the San Diego office. Hell the whole fucking Bureau knew what had happened to me within a month. It was down hill from there.
I wind down, finally, and slowly become aware of Fawkes' hands running gently up and down my back. The death grip he had on me loosened up somewhere along the way, and now it's just a hug. I can't even remember the last time someone hugged me. I also feel the warmth of his sigh against the top of my head, and something else; the chill of wetness, and I pull back a little to stare up at my partner. His face is wet. Tears. For me. I was wrong about Jones, I realize, staring up at him staring down at me. This is what it's like to really trust your partner. Groggy, I try to pull away, only he won't let go. He holds me a little tighter, gives me another squeeze, then loosens his hold, making it clear I can go if I want. Only I don't want. I sigh against his chest. "Green," I mutter, the warmth of another body draining the tension out of me, and I yawn.
"What?" his look of total confusion would've made me laugh any other time.
"My favorite color," I answer, heading into the kitchen to finish dinner. I hear him pad after me, his soft-soled desert boots almost noiseless on the landlord beige wall-to-wall carpeting.
He props himself against the doorframe, watching without a word as I nuke the curry to finish defrosting it, then dump it into a pot, setting the heat to a slow simmer and putting a lid on it. "Bobby?" The question is hesitant, soft.
"Yeah?" I ask, not looking at him. Not really having the guts to, right now, with my vision all blurry and unfocused the way it is. Bobby Hobbes does not bawl in front of anyone. For any reason. I freeze as I feel his hand on my shoulder.
"Leave it, man. Get us another beer and come talk to me," he suggests.
I think about that for a second, feeling him let me go and disappear back into the livingroom. I rub my forearm over my eyes rapidly to clear my vision and open the fridge, retrieving a couple more long-necks, then take a deep breath and follow him out. I drop back into my place on the sofa, him at the opposite end, slouched against the armrest so he can watch me solemnly. I hand him one of the bottles and he puts it on the coffee table unopened.
"I'd figured you'd had about enough show and tell for one evening," I comment neutrally
He sighs. "Don't start clamming up on me again, Hobbesy," he says sadly, reaching out to touch me then thinking better of it. I can't meet his eyes. Huge. Bottomless.
I look away, sorry I made him feel bad. "So whaddaya want to hear about now? My pleasure-filled days in Iraq? My stint as a sniper? My days in military intelligence? What, Fawkes?" I ask, glancing his way as I sink back into the couch. I know he thinks I'm being sarcastic, but he's peeled off all the makeshift bandages and scabs that cover the gaping wounds in my life. What the hell else does he expect?
He ducks his head, throwing me a cautious look from under his eyelashes, as he plunks himself down in the middle of the sofa, not at the far end, like before.. "You never answered my question," he changes the subject.
"What question?" I ask, cracking open my second beer. I swallow half of it without stopping, hoping it'll anesthetize the shivery, nervous, scary feeling in the pit of my stomach. At this rate, I'm gonna have a hangover to add to all my other little mental bruises.
"I blew it, didn't I?" he asks forlornly. I think about it for a minute before I remember the context it originally came in.
"You mean by goin' to the Feds?" I ask back, doing 'neutral' better this time.
He nods, cautiously.
I shrug a little, noncommittal. "I'll live," I tell him dryly.
"Bobby," he starts, and I can here the frustration creeping back into his voice.
"What, Darien?" I emphasize his first name a little, not meaning to be ironic. It's just that he almost never calls me by my first name unless something's bugging him. "Look, kid," I understand why you did what you did. You didn't think you had any options. I get that. But why didn't you come to me, first?" I search his eyes, looking for a reason.
That's what gets me, I guess. I thought he trusted me. "You really think I would have let either Claire or that fat bastard yank the gland outta your head so easy?" I watch him for his reaction.
He blinks at me, startled. "I didn't want to put you in that position," he tells me. "I know how much the job means to you, Hobbesy. And I know I screwed up, trying to get you to come with me to the FBI like that, but dammit, you weren't supposed to know, not then. Not right away. Not till I had it nailed, till I could make them bring you in on your own terms. I know, it was selfish, you don't have to tell me, okay?" he says, seeing the look on my face.
"I just didn't want to go by myself, you know? I like the partner I have had" he trails off, the whole speech getting more and more disjointed. He sighs heavily again, and looks away. "Making you choose between me and the Fat Man? I dunno, it didn't seem cool. I know, well I hoped, you wouldn't let 'em cut me open, but asking you to do that? Protect me? From that fat bastard?" he shakes his head ruefully and looks my way again. "Let you risk having the Agency cut you loose on top of everything else? I couldn't do that to you." He pauses, never breaking eye contact. "If I'd known what Jones did, though I'd never've gone to them, Hobbes. I don't know if you can believe that, but I'd've killed the bastard if I'd known."
It's my turn to sigh, and I rub my eyes tiredly. "I think we both blew it, buddy," I tell him, and see his face freeze. "I'd say we're even, huh? I didn't trust you, you didn't trust me. Not all the way. Not with the hard stuff. Not when it came right down to it. I'm sorry Fawkes." I tell him, surprised when he goes a little pale.
"So you don't want me to come back," he says evenly, voice a little strangled-sounding.
"Huh? What, are you kidding me, man? In the Agency or out of it, we're friends. But I want you back, dammit, and we'll find a way to get you your pound of the Fat Man's flesh," I tell him, indignant that he could have thought anything else. "Hell, he can spare a few!"
His expression has gone from frozen to a slow relief. "So, we're partners?" he asks, hesitantly.
I grin at him and swig a little beer, cocky as I hold it up in a toast. "Count on it," I smirk.
He grins back, all the way to his eyes, and picks up his bottle to clank it against mine. "All for one and one for all," he smiles. And suddenly we're back where we belong. In synch. Partners.
[A guy named Paul Boese once said; "Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future." And all of a sudden, I had a future a whole lot larger than I ever figured on having again. No QSM, no counteragent, and a chance to make it right with my partner. Like I said. A lot more than I had a couple of weeks ago] -Darien Fawkes
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