Notes: Not a long chapter. I was debating on whether or not to alternate between Darien's POV and 3rd person, but I'm going to stick to Darien for now. He's kinda fun to play with. ^_^ There will probably be more on the weekend, since I have more midterms this week to study for. (Bleh.) Anyhoo, here's chapter one.

Chapter One

"Fawkes."

*boom boom boom*

"Fawkes!"

If I had been in any mood to answer the door, or had the inclination to even drag my ass out of bed, I would have opened the door and throttled Bobby, then order that soundproof titanium door that I saw in the Official's latest issue of "Government Surplus Unlimited".

*boom boom boom*

"Fawkes, get your skinny carcass over here before I've gotta break down your door again," he said loudly, sounding almost as annoyed as I was feeling.

Break it down, I don't care, I thought as I rolled over in the single dull-brown sheet that was the only bit of bedding left on my bare mattress; the rest I didn't recall if I had left on the couch soaked in beer, or if I had just thrown it out the window to watch it fall... Obviously, I still didn't care enough to try and remember.

"Fawkes, I'm gonna count to ten...."

Oh please....

"I'm warning you, my friend..."

Like fun you're going to do anything...

"I'm gonna have to sing that song."

No. Not that. Anything but that.

Minor explosions of explicatives went off in my head as I groaned and flopped out of bed rather unceremoniously onto the floor. Ow. Grumbling while I stumbled to my feet, I realized that I was still wearing the same pants that I had on two days ago; had the weekend closed so quickly? I guess time flies when you're having a grand-old pity party.
If anyone can find something to get me moving out from a depressive stupor, it's Bobby Hobbes. Sure, it's usually a swift kick in the rear, or a really bad joke, but he's very skilled at what he does, and today was no exception.

"...Three... Four... Five..."

"Dammit, Hobbes...." I muttered, my words slurred sleepily. My mouth felt filmy, and tasted even worse than that. Nothing beats a weekend with a 12-pack of cheap beer, twinkies and an untouched toothbrush. Yuuuum.

"Nine... Ten... Here it goes," Hobbes began as I began to desperately fiddle with the lock on my door in hopes that I could stop him before I had to hear 'Robert Hobbes sings...'

"Oooooh.... don't a-break my heart -- my achy-breaky--- mfff!!!" My hand reached his mouth just in time. I had already once in my life had to endure my short, bald, Brooklyn-native partner's rendition of The Most Obnoxious Song Ever Written, which made it worthy of being considered cruel and unusual punishment.

"Shut... up."

"Glad to see you too," he said, pulling my hand off of his face. I proceeded to lean uneasily against the door jam and watch Bobby poke his head into my place to do his usual ten-point inspection before entering. It brought me a tiny bit of amusement as his eyes widened in alarm and his hand instinctively reached for his holster.

"Fawkes, you had company or somethin'? 'Cause no one roughs up Bobby Hobbes' partner and gets away with it." His genuine intensity and concern almost touched me, but I was feeling so off that day that I just chuckled drolly and shook my head. I glanced around the flat and decided to really look at the damage that I had personally seen to over the past two days; aside from the place being in general disarray, I used to have a functioning TV, my stereo was now property of the ground floor via the window, possibly along with the rest of my bed sheets... no, the bedding was still on the couch, beneath the spilled beer bottles. At least that answered my earlier question. Summary: my place was trashed.

"What are you laughing about?" he asked, sounding lightly annoyed, "I'm serious here, what's going on?" He continued to stalk about the place, his gun drawn around every corner.

"No one here but me and my demons," I said in an effort to sound more like me for a moment and to get Bobby to put his gun away. He took one more sweep with his piece around the room, then returned it to its place under his jacket.

"The Fat Man sent me over here to see what the hell was keeping you. Claire was also worried that you needed a shot or somethin', but that doesn't look like that's what's goin' on."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," I quipped. Yeah, I know I was pushin' it with Bobby, but I wasn't feeling my own well being as something worth much at the moment. I was even half hoping I could get into a nice fist-fight with the lil' scrapper; none of my appliances and furniture had the ability to fight back, and I craved a challenge.

Bobby sent me a quick glare and then took a long look at the mess before him. He picked up one of the few beer bottles that was still in one piece from the box with-a-hole that was once my TV and examined it as if he were appraising a Ming vase. He glanced back up at me, still leaning by the door, his typical 'Darien, what the hell is up with you?' look on his face.

"Something going on here, buddy?"

Nah, just my whole life shattering to shards in front of me.

I stared at him blankly for a moment, my head not quite sure what to respond. Lie? Maybe. Avoid it? Definitely. Tell him? I'm sure he's on enough pills for his own problems as it is; he doesn't need to deal with mine.

"Don't sweat it... just had a rough weekend," I told him, trying my best to look normal as I raise my arm up to scratch the back of my head. That is something I do, right? Thought so.

"Whaddj'a do, end up catching "Hollow Man" on HBO again? Fawkesy, you know that movie is sheer and utter crap," Hobbes so kindly reminded me; after I had seen that movie I was so traumatized that I didn't sleep for a week -- I cried through it like a little girl. What made it even worse was that Hobbes had been at my place at the time and witnessed my entire reaction to it; I was like a fly heading into one of those zapper things - I couldn't take my eyes away from the screen. Oh, we laughed about it a couple weeks later, but I think that's the only time Hobbes has actually seen the side of me that is piss-in-pants scared by my life.

"No... like I said... just had a rough time," then I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in the half of my mirror. You know how I say 'crap' waaaay too much? Well, I looked like crap that had been crapped out of a crap-eating crap beetle in its crap house. Heh. Not to mention that my hair had gone horribly limp.

"Um, yeah... well now that I'm up I'll go and shower..." I looked at Bobby again uneasily; he wasn't buying the whole 'I'm ok' thing, and given that my personal appearance somewhat shocked my numbed perceptions, I can only conclude that he was still suspicious. Of course, thinking that Bobby Hobbes is suspicious is like thinking that water might be wet.

"Thanks for comin' by... you can take off--"

"No, no; when Bobby Hobbes is sent to pick up his partner, Bobby Hobbes does just that."

Yeah, he definitely wasn't buying my line.

So, when the cold shower water finally shocked my brain back into the functioning world, it, my brain, and his friend, my stomach, were not made to handle continuous drinking for forty-eight hours straight. I was just able to carry out all necessary cleanings before I nearly fell out of the shower stall and dove to have a long, face to face chat with my friend John. As I sat there, still involuntarily heaving, and naked as I can get, I wondered to myself why on Earth had I gone and finished off that much booze in the first place?

Because, your life is a joke.

Oh, yeah.

Tempted as I was to wallow there in the self-pity that I had just discovered anew, I reminded myself that Bobby was waiting for me in the other room and that he was 1) impatient, and 2) has no qualms with just walking in to see what was keeping me. This was one intimate moment that I'd rather keep to myself.

I dried myself off, brushed my thankful teeth, and then took a moment to consider the options for my hair. Now, even in a deep depression, I wasn't going to let my hair suffer for my problems; it's not like it was my hair's fault that my life sucked. So, a bit of pomade here, a bit of 'Bed Head x-tra hold, touchably soft' gel there, and my hair was as peppy as ever.

If only something could make me better so quickly.

*****

The ride to the Agency was obnoxiously quiet, which made the both of us more uneasy. Bobby kept peering over at me repeatedly; so regular was he that I began to time in my head how many seconds lapsed between glances and then began to try and guess exactly when Bobby would look. Let's just say that Bobby's like clockwork.

Being depressed is really hard to describe sometimes. I mean, the legarthy and the self-destructiveness is all a given, and we've seen that already, but there's something more subtle to it ... the more sinister part. That part of depression is like... is like watching yourself in a movie, or in a video game with a busted controller. You know the things that you should be doing, should be thinking; you know what you should know about yourself that other people tell you to try and cheer you up, but that part of your mind just can't seem to get a hold of yourself all the time. What takes over is the despair and pain that walks you around like a puppet on strings, or it may choose not to move you at all.

It's almost like a split personality.

Almost like the Madness.

At this point in time, I was still trying my best to be 'Not-Depressed' Darien, which is not to be confused with 'Normal' Darien I spoke about earlier, who doesn't exist anymore, and also not to be confused with 'QS' Darien, who ... um... I suppose had taken a vacation. 'Not-Depressed' Darien is just 'Depressed' Darien doing a half-assed job at covering it up. And why was I attempting to seem normal?

That's another funny thing about depression; you have this greed for your own sorrows and baggage. You want to keep them all for yourself and not share like a good little boy. Goes kinda in line with the whole self-pity trip -- you get this attitude of 'they wouldn't understand' or 'I need to carry my own burdens even if it kills me.'

We pulled into Golda's spot outside the Agency's building, which to the untrained eye is just the Bureau of Weights and Measures. Golda gives off her characteristic shudder as Bobby puts her into 'park' and pulls out the key. He glanced at me one more time (which, amazingly, was still in time with each other glance...) and finally broke the silence.

"Claire, Alex, Ebes, and Fat Charlie are waitin' for us up in the office. Says he's got somethin' big on deck for us. He's prolly a little ticked that it took so long for you 'n me to get back," he said, with a forced casuality. Nice. Notice how he tactfully danced around saying, 'He's big-time ticked at you for being three hours late for work.' It astounds me how controlled the lil' bugger can be when he's trying to get something out of me.

"When is he not ticked off?" I added, trying to create a semblance of our usual banter. I smiled crookedly at him, and waited to see if he'd loosen up at all. He grinned, and cuffed me playfully towards the doors to the Agency.

"Heh heh... C'mon, punk, get moving."

*****