Title: Tired

Author: liz_Z

E-mail: liz_Z@secret-agent.com

Category: Drama, Angst

Rating: PG-13

Season/sequel info: Takes place in the second season, a couple of months before 'Possessed'.

Old author's notes: I started writing this at one thirty in the morning. Take it easy on me; insomnia seems to prod my plot bunnies into action, but they usually are only half-formed when this happens. Thus, I'd suggest preparing yourself for one of my in-character rambling sessions. ;)

Warning: This story deals with depressed Darien, and depressed Darien isn't the most cheerful person to be around... It also has quite a bit of language in it. There. You've been warned.

I'm tired. I'm tired of all of this... all this crap that's been weighing me down for so long now. Has it only been a year, maybe a year and a half? Seems longer...

I'm tired of all of it. The gland, Arnaud, Chrysalis, the Agency... I just don't want to deal with any of it anymore.

Hobbes got shot a couple of days ago. It was all my fault, too. Me and this damn gland in my head.

See, Hobbes, me, and Monroe were in the middle of a mission- nothing big, just your average job- and I guess I must've used up a little too much quicksilver. For some reason the headaches didn't come, so I didn't have any warning. I mean, I couldn't exactly look at my tattoo while I was invisible.

Hobbes pulled out some counteragent- Claire had given it to him, just in case- and he pulled his gun on me, just to keep me from pulling any funny stuff. It didn't work, though; I knew he couldn't shoot me, so I just walked up and kicked the gun out of his hand. Hobbes didn't bother trying to pick it back up 'cause Monroe 'had me covered'. She had me covered, all right- for about two seconds. Then I quicksilvered and she and Hobbes were both out of luck.

First thing I did was pick up Hobbes' gun. I quicksilvered it first though, so he couldn't see it. The next thing I did was walk up to Monroe and knock her out. Then, while Hobbes was trying to convince me to reappear so he could stick the needle in my neck, I shot him. Me. I did it. With his own gun.

The funny thing is, I was actually sorry. Even when I was nuts, I was sorry to see Hobbes dying. I didn't feel bad for shooting him, of course, but I didn't want him to die either. So, I called Claire with Hobbes' cell phone and told her that Hobbesy needed a little TLC, not to mention a first aid kit.

Of course, when she and about five other Agency goons pulled up to where we were, I wouldn't let anyone near Hobbes. I'm not sure what was running through my head at that point- I think I thought they were the bad guys, maybe that they were trying to hurt him or something. Funny, I never thought my id had a noble streak.

Someone finally managed to tranq me or inject me with the counteragent or something, 'cause the next thing I remember after trying to 'protect' Hobbes is when I woke up completely sane in the Keep with Hobbes' blood on my hands. Not a very fun thing to wake up to, believe me.

Claire didn't think it would be a good idea for me to visit Hobbes at first, on account of the fact that he wasn't doing too particularly great at the time. But I managed to convince her eventually, and she took me down to lab three, where Hobbes had been put. He was hooked up to an IV and a million of those monitor things that make those annoying beeping sounds, and he looked so pale, so... helpless. Not at all like the Bobby Hobbes I'm used to seeing hanging around the Agency halls.

Claire was probably right about it not being a good idea for me to visit Hobbes. As I stood there watching him I got this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach because I'd done this to him, damnit, quicksilver madness or no. And if I could do this to him, who knew what I could do to Claire, or Alex, or some innocent person on the street? I felt more depressed than I had in months.

That night, I seriously thought about eating a bullet. Not that it was the first time; I've been having thoughts along that line on and off ever since my run-in with a little thing called stage five quicksilver madness. But it was the first time I actually went out and bought a gun to do the job.

I got home and stuck that thing in my mouth. I almost pulled the trigger, too. But then I realized that, idiot that I am, I'd forgotten to load the gun- or even buy bullets, for that matter. Typical, oh so typical. Can't even kill myself right.

I didn't feel like going out again, so I just stuck the gun on the top of my dresser and went to bed. I haven't gotten up since. I mean, what's the point? It's not like I have anywhere important to be anyway, I won't need another shot of counteragent for the next five days. Besides, I'm tired. I'd rather just stay in bed.

Oh great, I know that noise. Someone's pounding on the door of my apartment. Do they have any idea what time it is? I open one eye just long enough to glance over at my alarm clock. Oh. Of course they do. It's 2:30 in the afternoon.

I pull a pillow over my head and hope that whoever's trying to bang down my door will just go away and leave me in peace. Well, in quiet, anyway. I don't think I could feel any kind of peace right now.

Okay, the banging's stopped. Good. Now maybe I can- oh crap, it sounds like they just kicked my door in!

Maybe it's just some thief or terrorist. Someone after the gland. Well, if they want it they can come and take it, but I'm not getting out of bed.

I can hear footsteps now, two sets of 'em. And of course, they're headed right for my bedroom... The bedroom door swings open, but I don't move. Why bother? If they're gonna kill me, they're gonna kill me. If they're just gonna rob the joint, let 'em.

"Darien?" Aw crap, I know that voice. It's a hard one to forget. That is none other than my beloved Keeper. Exactly the last person I wanted to see right about now...

"Fawkes, get out of bed. You have any idea what time it is?" Great, I'm also being visited by miss five-star herself. I'm certainly not in the mood for her mile-wide attitude. "Fawkes?" Alex sounds kind of uncertain now. Good. Maybe if I play this real quiet, pretend I'm unconscious or something, they'll get sick of bugging me and leave me alone.

One set of footsteps moves closer to me. Then someone pulls the pillow off from its position on my head and places a cool hand on my forehead. "Well, he doesn't seem to have a fever, maybe-"

"Shit!" Okay, now that's surprising. Alex doesn't usually swear like that. I can only assume she's found the gun on my dresser.

Claire's hands move away from my forehead. "What?" She pauses for a moment and then says, "Oh my God..." Funny, I could almost believe she sounded worried there for a second. She rolls me over and yanks the sheets off my body. She pokes at me for a minute and then says, "No gunshot wounds, thank goodness."

"No bullets in the gun, either." There's a soft thunk, probably Alex setting the gun back down on the dresser. Then her footsteps come over near the bed. "So what's wrong with him?"

"I'm not sure..." Hey, I can tell you what's wrong with me, Keepy. I can tell you right off. I'm tired of all this crap, and I want to be left alone. And I'm not in a very talkative mood, so why don't you just go away and play doctor with Hobbes or something? He needs it more than I do, that's for sure. "We'd better get him back to the Agency." No, no, not the Agency, please, anywhere but there...

"Yeah, that's a good idea." No! Not a good idea! Why can't the two of you just leave me alone?

**********

I can't believe this. They took me back to the freakin' Agency. Put me in some hospital bed or something and stuck one of those IV needles in my arm to keep me from getting dehydrated. I was much more comfortable in my own bed, thank you very much.

I haven't moved since they brought me here. Not much point to it, after all. Besides, it bugs the hell out of Claire, since she can't figure out what's wrong with me.

She, Alex, and even Eberts have come to visit me. They didn't stay long, though. I got the feeling they didn't know what to say. And of course, the Official hasn't bothered to visit at all. Fat bastard's probably too busy planning for the gland's removal, maybe even picking out some new lab-rat to stick it in. I wouldn't put it past him if he already had someone on hold; he always thought of me as 'the receptacle' anyway.

Oh, lovely, there's that swoosh-sound that means the door's opening. Wonder who it is this time? Maybe Eberts, deciding to make another try at stammering out long-winded sentences for about five minutes before giving up and walking out again. Or the Official, maybe, come to see if I've kicked the bucket yet? Nah, it's probably Claire, come to change the IV bag or something.

"Fawkes..." Oh God. It's Hobbes.

I hear the scraping sound of a chair being pulled close to my bed, and then a hand grabs mine. Go away Hobbes, you shouldn't be here, anywhere but here!

"Hey there Fawkesy, I came as soon as I heard. They didn't want to tell me, but you can't keep Bobby Hobbes out of the know." He doesn't sound too good, his voice is a little shakier than usual. He's probably not supposed to be down here, he should be in bed, he got shot, for cryin' out loud! "I had to come and see ya, partner. Couldn't leave you sitting down here all alone with no one to talk to." Hate to break it to ya Hobbesy, but I haven't been talking to anyone.

"Fawkes, I am so sorry." What? What do you have to be sorry for? I'm the one that shot you, man. "I should've known something was wrong, I should've been there for you..." Damnit Hobbes, what are you talking about? I SHOT YOU! That's what's wrong with me! It's not like you could've done anything to prevent it, or you would have.

"I know you can hear me, Darien." Aw crap, he just called me Darien. He must be really serious. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but you can beat this. You have to beat this." Hobbes, you have no idea... Just go away, please, I just want to be left alone.

"Don't give up on me, okay? Don't leave me stuck without a partner." You don't want me for a partner, Hobbes. "Come on Fawkes, I don't want to work with anyone else." Well, that argument's been shot all to hell...

"Fawkes... you're the best partner I've ever had. I mean, sure, you can be annoying and you act like a teenage punk sometimes, but... ah hell, I don't know how to put this, I was never good at this sentimental crap.... You're... you're my friend. I haven't had a real friend in a long time. I don't wanna lose you, man."

But Hobbes, I've hurt you, I've tried to kill you, you don't want me around, I'm just gonna wind up getting you killed... I don't want to deal with it any more, buddy. You have to understand that. I'm just so tired of it all, and I don't care any more... But oh crap, I must, because I wouldn't be trying to justify all this to myself if I didn't care.

Hobbes is just sitting there now, holding my hand. I can feel him staring at me with those big, brown eyes of his, trying to will me back to life or something. But he doesn't know that I could hear him, not really, because there was something a little desperate in his voice the whole time he was talking to me. He was trying to convince himself that I could hear him. He didn't really know whether I could or not.

Everything's quiet for a couple of minutes, and then Hobbes begins muttering to himself. I can't make out exactly what he's saying, but I catch a few words here and there, and eventually I figure out what he's doing. He's praying. He's praying for me. Oh God, he cares. He really cares. Even after I shot him, could've killed him.

I can feel the tears building up under my eyelids, threatening to spill out on my cheeks. I can't do this any more. It's just not right. Yeah, I'm tired. But it's time for me to wake up.

And, for the first time in days, I open my eyes. Ow. I close them, wincing. It's awfully bright out there. I open them again, a little more carefully this time, and slowly Hobbes' face comes into focus. He isn't looking at me any more, though; I guess he likes to close his eyes while he prays. So I squeeze his hand a little, kind of surprised at how much weaker my grip is than normal. And Hobbes' eyes fly open and he looks at me, eyes wide as if he can't believe what he's seeing.

"Fawkes?"

"Hey there, partner." Man, my voice sounds really scratchy and weird. But I guess that's what I get after not talking for so long.

"Fawkes!" Wow, I hadn't expected Hobbes to be quite so excited. "Hey Keep, he's awake!" he yells, practically running to the door. And he's right. I'm awake, really awake, for the first time in months. Funny, I've never had an alarm clock with brown eyes before.

One thing's for sure; I'm not going to let myself get that tired ever again.

The End