So one day out of boredom I started going through old files on old floppy
disks...and lookie what I found...
An Eberts fic! I wrote an Eberts fic! *gasp* ;-) Seriously, it's in first person and everything...I'm not sure I got his voice right (he's a helluva lot harder to write than Darien or even Bobby, you know), so bear with the story even if you find yourself yelling at your compy screen "He'd never say that!" or something. Anyway, the standards (wanna recite with me?): Don't own 'em, make no profit from them, only borrowing and intend no copyright infringement. Takes place soon after "Importance of Being Eberts." Oh yeah, and apparently in my universe when Darien went into QSM, he swore a lot. *sheepish smile*
Reports Can't Tell You Everything
I was working late--alone in the Official's office, in the entire building, I believe--when Mr Hobbes and Mr Fawkes came staggering into the room, both soaking wet.
I stood up from the table by the window, quickly closing the files I was checking over. "Could you please explain what you are doi--" I started and then got a good look at Agent Fawkes.
His eyes were red.
"Oh dear," escaped me before I could stop myself. In response, a cruel little smile played around Mr Fawkes's mouth.
"That's right," he said, leaning heavily against Robert, "run while you can, Albert. Ain't no one safe now." The heavy rain pounding against the windows only added to the ominous tone of his words.
I took another look at the younger agent. He appeared to be bleeding from a wound in his shoulder. I looked over at Agent Hobbes for an explanation.
"Perps wounded him," he spat out quickly, throwing Fawkes into a chair at the table, the opposite side of where I stood. "And then the gland decided it was time to go nutso while we were driving back here. Call the Keeper-- "
At that point a particularly loud crash of thunder and crack of lightning flooded the room, and the lights went out. Agent Fawkes was laughing at the chaos; Robert was cursing, systematically using every swear word he knew, or so it sounded. I was attempting to remain calm; I reached for the phone. Of course it was dead. I'd almost expected that.
"The phone isn't working, Robert," I informed the older agent, my voice more stressed than I would have wished.
Another vicious curse escaped his lips. "Shut up, Fawkes," he added for good measure as Darien kept laughing.
"Why the hell should I?" Darien replied, his laughter dying away. His tone made me shiver.
I stumbled around the Official's desk in the dark and opened one of the drawers. I turned on the flashlight I found there. Hobbes looked up at me; I could just barely make out his dark gaze holding my own.
"You're gonna have to stay with him," he said. "I've gotta get the Keeper, and if the phones aren't working--Christ, this damned storm!--you've gotta-- "
"Can't we put him in the padded room?" I gabbled out. "Or can't I go and you stay here with him--"
"Do you even have a car?" Hobbes cut me off. I bit my words off and stared at the younger agent, still seated at the table. He met my gaze, the red of his eyes almost glowing in the flashlight. He wasn't laughing anymore; he looked serious this time, if a little panicked.
But he looked like himself again. He must have regained a little control.
Robert shoved a gun into my hand. I looked down at it, startled. "Watch him," the older agent ordered. "I'll be back with Claire as soon as I can. And if anything happens while I'm gone..." For once, words failed him and he just glared at me before sweeping out of the room.
So I was left alone with a madman.
I stayed behind the Official's desk, staring at my charge warily. He appeared harmless at the moment, staring at the table top with a fierce concentration that seemed entirely unwarranted. Perhaps he was trying to keep control of himself.
This scenario had become one of my nightmares. I don't have that many, but this was at the top of the short list. It was a fairly recent fear, as well.
I'd never considered it before. Not before the time I was left alone in a room with him, hacking into a computer system, and he was calmly and matter- of-factly telling me to hurry up because we didn't have that much time before he would go insane. He treated the idea so cavalierly, he was so used to the possibility, had been through it so many times already.
I couldn't imagine taking insanity so casually. I should clarify; it wasn't 'casual', he was obviously worried about the quicksilver madness and being caught, but...it didn't hold the same fear for him that it used to. He'd become accustomed to that particular fear--which was frightening in and of itself. It wasn't the same fear that still held me, utterly new to the idea.
I'd never seen him quicksilver mad before. Not even when he was in the padded cell for forty-nine hours when he first joined us--I had felt no need to visit him then. I know to the last penny how much the Agency spends on counteragent each month; I have read the reports detailed by the Keeper and Agent Hobbes regarding Mr Fawkes's madness episodes, I went through the specifications the Keeper had made for the tattoo that would indicate when he needed another shot. But I had never seen him this way before. I'd never even had a close-up look at the tattoo before that day in the internet cafe. A snake eating its own tail. The red sections glowed sickly red, the color of his eyes right now. Seeing him under the control of Simon Cole's memory RNA hadn't prepared me for this.
I used to secretly think he was lucky. I know I am almost considered invisible without any gland for help, but Agent Fawkes is the one who can truly go anywhere unseen. Such a powerful feeling...I've only been truly invisible that one time. It was utterly exciting, not at all what I had expected. I did envy him that ability, that indispensability he gained because of that ability. Until I considered the side effects.
What a horrible price it must be for the invisibility.
Mr Fawkes slowly raised his head and looked up at me. I was glad the lights were no longer working; he wouldn't be able to clearly see the expression on my face. Another slow smile curved his lips and I shuddered. Perhaps he didn't need to see my expression; he could sense how uncomfortable I felt being alone with him.
"What's the matter, Albert Eberts?" he said softly, standing up. "Don't like being alone in a room with a raving psychotic? It's not so bad, really. I've had to do it lots of times."
I frowned in confusion. "Please sit down, Agent Fawkes." I held up the gun as calmly as I could, wanting him to understand I wouldn't be afraid to use it.
"You don't really wanna shoot me, Eberts," he said, stepping closer. "That'd fuck everything up, you know. The Official would never forgive you for ruining the gland like that. And what the hell would you do with the Official pissed off at you? No way you could kiss up and make better after that."
"I said *sit down* Mr Fawkes." I stepped around the desk and held the gun directly at his chest.
He sneered at me. "I've already been shot once tonight, Eberts. Why not do it again?" He deliberately took a step closer, ignoring the gun pointed at him in favor of grinning directly into my eyes. "Go on, *Albert*, shoot me."
"I would rather not have to resort to doing that," I answered steadily. "And I believe you don't want me to either, Mr Fawkes. Nor would the Official, the Keeper, or Agent Hobbes."
"Why would you care about Hobbes? I thought you hate his guts. He sure as hell hates yours."
"Whatever issues exist between Robert and me don't concern you. However, he is your friend, just as much as you are his, and I'd like to consider you my friend as well. None of us want to see you hurt when it could be very easily stopped."
"That's a lie," Fawkes told me, casually sprawling back into his chair, completely ignoring the fact that he had a bullet wound in his shoulder that must be hurting like the dickens. My body relaxed only slightly. I kept the gun fixed on him. "You don't consider me a friend at all--and I sure as hell don't consider you one. I don't know anything about you. You probably think you know everything about me from your damned files, but that doesn't amount to shit."
"Perhaps," I agreed calmly, trying to ignore the hurt his words caused. "But I know this is just an effect of quicksilver madness. If you were sane, you wouldn't really believe what you're saying right now." I tentatively took a step toward him. "You know you don't like acting this way, Mr Fawkes."
Darien laughed. It didn't sound at all natural, at all like him. "Like I said, how the fuck would you know? Is there something about that in your files? Or maybe a report from Bobby or Claire, yeah?"
"No, Mr Fawkes," I answered. "I *do* know you well enough to know that you don't like violence. And you don't like how you act when in this state. So I suggest you try to fight it."
He leant forward, toward me, that evil smile curling his lips. "Maybe I do like feeling this way," he whispered to me mock-confidingly, "and I just pretend otherwise when I'm sane." He sat back and laughed again at my discomfort. "Anyway, I don't need to fight it. I'm perfectly in control."
"No," I replied, "you're not, Darien. You know you're not."
He frowned, puzzled, and seemed to be working through something difficult in his head, judging by the struggle going on in his red eyes. Lightning streaked the room around me; thunder shuddered against the building. I tried to ignore it all and concentrate solely on Agent Fawkes. I wished Robert would arrive soon with the Keeper.
"Fight it, Darien," I said, keeping my voice low, calm.
He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. "You can do it, Mr Fawkes," I repeated soothingly, my heart leaping and juddering about in my chest with the entirely unexpected hope that I might be getting through to him. I tried to force the hope down, just in case, and kept my grip firm on the gun. Just in case. "You've done this before, haven't you? Yes, I only know that from reports, but I know you're better than this. I know you care; I know you don't want to go insane. Fight it."
He opened his eyes and looked at me again. The whites were still red, but at least he didn't look so evil, so angry. He took a deep breath. "Hey, thanks, Eberts," he said, his voice soft and slightly hoarse with some held- back emotion. But it was *his* voice, the one I knew from countless debriefings and meetings in this office. "You wanna keep doing that? Talking to me, I mean? It might...help."
I carefully sat down across from him, keeping my grip solid on the gun, keeping the gun solidly fixed on the man across from me. "What would you like me to talk about?" I asked.
He laughed. He had a very nice laugh, when he was sane. "Read any good books lately?"
A small smile escaped me before I could hold it back. "Actually, I just finished 'Unnatural History' by Kate Orman and Jon Blum," I told him. "It was quite interesting."
He nodded, not really paying attention to the content of the words, just the sound of my voice. He needed to concentrate on something, I would guess, to hold the madness at bay. So I continued speaking of random subjects, ranging from my interest in science-fiction books to computer terminology to stories I'd heard about various people working at the Agency- -including Agent Hobbes and the Official. A benefit to being considered invisible...no one pays any attention to you and speaks without thinking.
I had just started a rather amusing tale about Agent Hobbes once again trying (and failing miserably) to get a date with Sally in Accounting when Robert burst into the room, the Keeper--with a syringe of counteragent in one hand and a small medical bag in the other--following in his wake.
"Fawkes!" Agent Hobbes shouted. "Oh thank God."
"Darien, here, give me your arm." The Keeper efficiently rolled up his sleeve--not the arm with the wound, of course--and injected the counteragent. She then moved around to the other side of him and began dealing with the bullet wound.
"You were lucky again," she told the seated agent. He was looking woozy, disoriented. I wondered if that always happened after receiving a shot while in the throws of quicksilver madness. If so, I hadn't read it in any report. "The bullet only nicked you; I'll just clean this and give you a couple stitches. You'll be fine." She rested her hand on his back for a moment, looking into his eyes with concern. "Are you all right now?"
He looked up at her and tried to smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Really." He glanced over at me, holding my gaze. "Thanks to Eberts."
I shrugged modestly, slipping the gun nonchalantly back to Mr Hobbes without the Keeper or Darien noticing. "Yeah," Robert said gruffly. "Uh...good job."
I smirked at that. The Keeper rolled her eyes and took Darien down to her lab to clean him up. Hobbes followed them down.
I blew out a deep breath and almost simultaneously the lights came back on. I closed my eyes and collapsed into my chair at the table. I never wanted to have to do that again. My respect for both Agents Hobbes and Fawkes had grown infinitely since that day in the internet cafe, since the hour I'd just spent with Mr Fawkes--I didn't see how they dealt with it. Living in almost daily peril of Mr Fawkes's sanity, or lack thereof.
I opened my eyes again, despite a rather urgent wish to stay in that position and take a cat nap, and began closing folders and putting files away. No matter what kind of excitement I might have had tonight, I knew the Official would not be pleased to find his office a mess the next morning.
I was about to head home, when I instead diverted from my usual routine and went down to the Keeper's lab to check on Mr Fawkes. I wanted to make sure he really was all right. Seeing a man turned into a walking id right in front of one--especially when one is used to his sane, sometimes childlike self--does give one a vested interest in him, it appears. And somehow...I felt guilty for not knowing him better, beyond the reports I've read. For being frightened of him. He deserved better from me.
I found all three of them down there, the Keeper and Hobbes hovering around Fawkes, who appeared to find all the attention extremely annoying, judging by the way he batted his hands around him and the words he used. I felt awkward, out of place, when they were all together, and so I hung back in the doorway, watching--I wasn't part of their group and I knew it well.
"Eberts," the Keeper smiled at me, hitting back at Darien's flailing hand without looking at him. Rather like swatting a fly, I thought. "What brings you down here?"
"I just wanted to make sure Agent Fawkes was all right," I replied, trying not to stammer.
"He's fine *Eberts*, as you can see," Hobbes interrupted, strutting up to stand in front of me and block my coming any further into the room. "Was there anything else?"
Darien rolled his eyes and slid out of the chair despite Claire's protests. "I'm fine, thanks for checking, Eberts," he said, taking my arm and neatly leading me out of the room and away from the other two. "Why don't I give you a ride home?"
"Darien!" Claire called. "You can't drive with that wound in your shoulder! Come back-"
"We'll take a cab," he called back, almost running me out of the lab. We reached the elevator; he closed the doors and pushed the up button before slumping against the back wall in relief, wincing and raising a hand to his bandaged shoulder. "Whew," he said, opening his eyes again and smiling at me almost shyly. "Thanks for getting me out of that one, Eberts. I thought I'd never get 'em away from me."
"I didn't do anything," I replied honestly.
"You showed up," he answered wryly, "that was enough." He sobered and seemed a bit awkward himself now. "And you...well, you talked me through the madness. I really appreciate it. Thanks a lot."
"You're--welcome," I answered, unsure how to answer that. The elevator opened and we stepped out, heading for the main doors out of the building. "Listen," Darien went on as we stood on the curb, "do you want to share a cab, since we're both out of here?"
"No, really," I said hurriedly, "we live in different parts of town. You should get home as soon as possible and rest. Thanks anyway, Mr Fawkes."
"You can call me Darien, you know," the agent said, studying my face. "You did back in the Official's office."
I opened my mouth but didn't speak. I had no way to answer that. A smile crossed his face again; he clapped me on the shoulder understandingly with his good arm and said, "'Night, Eberts," before running up to the street and calling for a cab.
I turned and watched him get into the car that pulled up for him, blinking and putting a hand to my arm where he'd touched it. I half-smiled and set off on my own. At least he hadn't called me Albert again.
An Eberts fic! I wrote an Eberts fic! *gasp* ;-) Seriously, it's in first person and everything...I'm not sure I got his voice right (he's a helluva lot harder to write than Darien or even Bobby, you know), so bear with the story even if you find yourself yelling at your compy screen "He'd never say that!" or something. Anyway, the standards (wanna recite with me?): Don't own 'em, make no profit from them, only borrowing and intend no copyright infringement. Takes place soon after "Importance of Being Eberts." Oh yeah, and apparently in my universe when Darien went into QSM, he swore a lot. *sheepish smile*
Reports Can't Tell You Everything
I was working late--alone in the Official's office, in the entire building, I believe--when Mr Hobbes and Mr Fawkes came staggering into the room, both soaking wet.
I stood up from the table by the window, quickly closing the files I was checking over. "Could you please explain what you are doi--" I started and then got a good look at Agent Fawkes.
His eyes were red.
"Oh dear," escaped me before I could stop myself. In response, a cruel little smile played around Mr Fawkes's mouth.
"That's right," he said, leaning heavily against Robert, "run while you can, Albert. Ain't no one safe now." The heavy rain pounding against the windows only added to the ominous tone of his words.
I took another look at the younger agent. He appeared to be bleeding from a wound in his shoulder. I looked over at Agent Hobbes for an explanation.
"Perps wounded him," he spat out quickly, throwing Fawkes into a chair at the table, the opposite side of where I stood. "And then the gland decided it was time to go nutso while we were driving back here. Call the Keeper-- "
At that point a particularly loud crash of thunder and crack of lightning flooded the room, and the lights went out. Agent Fawkes was laughing at the chaos; Robert was cursing, systematically using every swear word he knew, or so it sounded. I was attempting to remain calm; I reached for the phone. Of course it was dead. I'd almost expected that.
"The phone isn't working, Robert," I informed the older agent, my voice more stressed than I would have wished.
Another vicious curse escaped his lips. "Shut up, Fawkes," he added for good measure as Darien kept laughing.
"Why the hell should I?" Darien replied, his laughter dying away. His tone made me shiver.
I stumbled around the Official's desk in the dark and opened one of the drawers. I turned on the flashlight I found there. Hobbes looked up at me; I could just barely make out his dark gaze holding my own.
"You're gonna have to stay with him," he said. "I've gotta get the Keeper, and if the phones aren't working--Christ, this damned storm!--you've gotta-- "
"Can't we put him in the padded room?" I gabbled out. "Or can't I go and you stay here with him--"
"Do you even have a car?" Hobbes cut me off. I bit my words off and stared at the younger agent, still seated at the table. He met my gaze, the red of his eyes almost glowing in the flashlight. He wasn't laughing anymore; he looked serious this time, if a little panicked.
But he looked like himself again. He must have regained a little control.
Robert shoved a gun into my hand. I looked down at it, startled. "Watch him," the older agent ordered. "I'll be back with Claire as soon as I can. And if anything happens while I'm gone..." For once, words failed him and he just glared at me before sweeping out of the room.
So I was left alone with a madman.
I stayed behind the Official's desk, staring at my charge warily. He appeared harmless at the moment, staring at the table top with a fierce concentration that seemed entirely unwarranted. Perhaps he was trying to keep control of himself.
This scenario had become one of my nightmares. I don't have that many, but this was at the top of the short list. It was a fairly recent fear, as well.
I'd never considered it before. Not before the time I was left alone in a room with him, hacking into a computer system, and he was calmly and matter- of-factly telling me to hurry up because we didn't have that much time before he would go insane. He treated the idea so cavalierly, he was so used to the possibility, had been through it so many times already.
I couldn't imagine taking insanity so casually. I should clarify; it wasn't 'casual', he was obviously worried about the quicksilver madness and being caught, but...it didn't hold the same fear for him that it used to. He'd become accustomed to that particular fear--which was frightening in and of itself. It wasn't the same fear that still held me, utterly new to the idea.
I'd never seen him quicksilver mad before. Not even when he was in the padded cell for forty-nine hours when he first joined us--I had felt no need to visit him then. I know to the last penny how much the Agency spends on counteragent each month; I have read the reports detailed by the Keeper and Agent Hobbes regarding Mr Fawkes's madness episodes, I went through the specifications the Keeper had made for the tattoo that would indicate when he needed another shot. But I had never seen him this way before. I'd never even had a close-up look at the tattoo before that day in the internet cafe. A snake eating its own tail. The red sections glowed sickly red, the color of his eyes right now. Seeing him under the control of Simon Cole's memory RNA hadn't prepared me for this.
I used to secretly think he was lucky. I know I am almost considered invisible without any gland for help, but Agent Fawkes is the one who can truly go anywhere unseen. Such a powerful feeling...I've only been truly invisible that one time. It was utterly exciting, not at all what I had expected. I did envy him that ability, that indispensability he gained because of that ability. Until I considered the side effects.
What a horrible price it must be for the invisibility.
Mr Fawkes slowly raised his head and looked up at me. I was glad the lights were no longer working; he wouldn't be able to clearly see the expression on my face. Another slow smile curved his lips and I shuddered. Perhaps he didn't need to see my expression; he could sense how uncomfortable I felt being alone with him.
"What's the matter, Albert Eberts?" he said softly, standing up. "Don't like being alone in a room with a raving psychotic? It's not so bad, really. I've had to do it lots of times."
I frowned in confusion. "Please sit down, Agent Fawkes." I held up the gun as calmly as I could, wanting him to understand I wouldn't be afraid to use it.
"You don't really wanna shoot me, Eberts," he said, stepping closer. "That'd fuck everything up, you know. The Official would never forgive you for ruining the gland like that. And what the hell would you do with the Official pissed off at you? No way you could kiss up and make better after that."
"I said *sit down* Mr Fawkes." I stepped around the desk and held the gun directly at his chest.
He sneered at me. "I've already been shot once tonight, Eberts. Why not do it again?" He deliberately took a step closer, ignoring the gun pointed at him in favor of grinning directly into my eyes. "Go on, *Albert*, shoot me."
"I would rather not have to resort to doing that," I answered steadily. "And I believe you don't want me to either, Mr Fawkes. Nor would the Official, the Keeper, or Agent Hobbes."
"Why would you care about Hobbes? I thought you hate his guts. He sure as hell hates yours."
"Whatever issues exist between Robert and me don't concern you. However, he is your friend, just as much as you are his, and I'd like to consider you my friend as well. None of us want to see you hurt when it could be very easily stopped."
"That's a lie," Fawkes told me, casually sprawling back into his chair, completely ignoring the fact that he had a bullet wound in his shoulder that must be hurting like the dickens. My body relaxed only slightly. I kept the gun fixed on him. "You don't consider me a friend at all--and I sure as hell don't consider you one. I don't know anything about you. You probably think you know everything about me from your damned files, but that doesn't amount to shit."
"Perhaps," I agreed calmly, trying to ignore the hurt his words caused. "But I know this is just an effect of quicksilver madness. If you were sane, you wouldn't really believe what you're saying right now." I tentatively took a step toward him. "You know you don't like acting this way, Mr Fawkes."
Darien laughed. It didn't sound at all natural, at all like him. "Like I said, how the fuck would you know? Is there something about that in your files? Or maybe a report from Bobby or Claire, yeah?"
"No, Mr Fawkes," I answered. "I *do* know you well enough to know that you don't like violence. And you don't like how you act when in this state. So I suggest you try to fight it."
He leant forward, toward me, that evil smile curling his lips. "Maybe I do like feeling this way," he whispered to me mock-confidingly, "and I just pretend otherwise when I'm sane." He sat back and laughed again at my discomfort. "Anyway, I don't need to fight it. I'm perfectly in control."
"No," I replied, "you're not, Darien. You know you're not."
He frowned, puzzled, and seemed to be working through something difficult in his head, judging by the struggle going on in his red eyes. Lightning streaked the room around me; thunder shuddered against the building. I tried to ignore it all and concentrate solely on Agent Fawkes. I wished Robert would arrive soon with the Keeper.
"Fight it, Darien," I said, keeping my voice low, calm.
He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. "You can do it, Mr Fawkes," I repeated soothingly, my heart leaping and juddering about in my chest with the entirely unexpected hope that I might be getting through to him. I tried to force the hope down, just in case, and kept my grip firm on the gun. Just in case. "You've done this before, haven't you? Yes, I only know that from reports, but I know you're better than this. I know you care; I know you don't want to go insane. Fight it."
He opened his eyes and looked at me again. The whites were still red, but at least he didn't look so evil, so angry. He took a deep breath. "Hey, thanks, Eberts," he said, his voice soft and slightly hoarse with some held- back emotion. But it was *his* voice, the one I knew from countless debriefings and meetings in this office. "You wanna keep doing that? Talking to me, I mean? It might...help."
I carefully sat down across from him, keeping my grip solid on the gun, keeping the gun solidly fixed on the man across from me. "What would you like me to talk about?" I asked.
He laughed. He had a very nice laugh, when he was sane. "Read any good books lately?"
A small smile escaped me before I could hold it back. "Actually, I just finished 'Unnatural History' by Kate Orman and Jon Blum," I told him. "It was quite interesting."
He nodded, not really paying attention to the content of the words, just the sound of my voice. He needed to concentrate on something, I would guess, to hold the madness at bay. So I continued speaking of random subjects, ranging from my interest in science-fiction books to computer terminology to stories I'd heard about various people working at the Agency- -including Agent Hobbes and the Official. A benefit to being considered invisible...no one pays any attention to you and speaks without thinking.
I had just started a rather amusing tale about Agent Hobbes once again trying (and failing miserably) to get a date with Sally in Accounting when Robert burst into the room, the Keeper--with a syringe of counteragent in one hand and a small medical bag in the other--following in his wake.
"Fawkes!" Agent Hobbes shouted. "Oh thank God."
"Darien, here, give me your arm." The Keeper efficiently rolled up his sleeve--not the arm with the wound, of course--and injected the counteragent. She then moved around to the other side of him and began dealing with the bullet wound.
"You were lucky again," she told the seated agent. He was looking woozy, disoriented. I wondered if that always happened after receiving a shot while in the throws of quicksilver madness. If so, I hadn't read it in any report. "The bullet only nicked you; I'll just clean this and give you a couple stitches. You'll be fine." She rested her hand on his back for a moment, looking into his eyes with concern. "Are you all right now?"
He looked up at her and tried to smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Really." He glanced over at me, holding my gaze. "Thanks to Eberts."
I shrugged modestly, slipping the gun nonchalantly back to Mr Hobbes without the Keeper or Darien noticing. "Yeah," Robert said gruffly. "Uh...good job."
I smirked at that. The Keeper rolled her eyes and took Darien down to her lab to clean him up. Hobbes followed them down.
I blew out a deep breath and almost simultaneously the lights came back on. I closed my eyes and collapsed into my chair at the table. I never wanted to have to do that again. My respect for both Agents Hobbes and Fawkes had grown infinitely since that day in the internet cafe, since the hour I'd just spent with Mr Fawkes--I didn't see how they dealt with it. Living in almost daily peril of Mr Fawkes's sanity, or lack thereof.
I opened my eyes again, despite a rather urgent wish to stay in that position and take a cat nap, and began closing folders and putting files away. No matter what kind of excitement I might have had tonight, I knew the Official would not be pleased to find his office a mess the next morning.
I was about to head home, when I instead diverted from my usual routine and went down to the Keeper's lab to check on Mr Fawkes. I wanted to make sure he really was all right. Seeing a man turned into a walking id right in front of one--especially when one is used to his sane, sometimes childlike self--does give one a vested interest in him, it appears. And somehow...I felt guilty for not knowing him better, beyond the reports I've read. For being frightened of him. He deserved better from me.
I found all three of them down there, the Keeper and Hobbes hovering around Fawkes, who appeared to find all the attention extremely annoying, judging by the way he batted his hands around him and the words he used. I felt awkward, out of place, when they were all together, and so I hung back in the doorway, watching--I wasn't part of their group and I knew it well.
"Eberts," the Keeper smiled at me, hitting back at Darien's flailing hand without looking at him. Rather like swatting a fly, I thought. "What brings you down here?"
"I just wanted to make sure Agent Fawkes was all right," I replied, trying not to stammer.
"He's fine *Eberts*, as you can see," Hobbes interrupted, strutting up to stand in front of me and block my coming any further into the room. "Was there anything else?"
Darien rolled his eyes and slid out of the chair despite Claire's protests. "I'm fine, thanks for checking, Eberts," he said, taking my arm and neatly leading me out of the room and away from the other two. "Why don't I give you a ride home?"
"Darien!" Claire called. "You can't drive with that wound in your shoulder! Come back-"
"We'll take a cab," he called back, almost running me out of the lab. We reached the elevator; he closed the doors and pushed the up button before slumping against the back wall in relief, wincing and raising a hand to his bandaged shoulder. "Whew," he said, opening his eyes again and smiling at me almost shyly. "Thanks for getting me out of that one, Eberts. I thought I'd never get 'em away from me."
"I didn't do anything," I replied honestly.
"You showed up," he answered wryly, "that was enough." He sobered and seemed a bit awkward himself now. "And you...well, you talked me through the madness. I really appreciate it. Thanks a lot."
"You're--welcome," I answered, unsure how to answer that. The elevator opened and we stepped out, heading for the main doors out of the building. "Listen," Darien went on as we stood on the curb, "do you want to share a cab, since we're both out of here?"
"No, really," I said hurriedly, "we live in different parts of town. You should get home as soon as possible and rest. Thanks anyway, Mr Fawkes."
"You can call me Darien, you know," the agent said, studying my face. "You did back in the Official's office."
I opened my mouth but didn't speak. I had no way to answer that. A smile crossed his face again; he clapped me on the shoulder understandingly with his good arm and said, "'Night, Eberts," before running up to the street and calling for a cab.
I turned and watched him get into the car that pulled up for him, blinking and putting a hand to my arm where he'd touched it. I half-smiled and set off on my own. At least he hadn't called me Albert again.