Unreasonable Addiction III
Chapter 6: Arrested
By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth
"I'm going to need backup," Hanover said by way of preamble as he walked into his superior's office. "We've triangulated his location at a house on 82nd on the Upper East Side. We'll need as many as can be spared to meet at this location."
Captain Valencia looked at Hanover over the rim of his coffee cup, lifted one eyebrow, and set it down. "Who's location?"
"Octavius," Hanover replied, pulling the list of addresses out of his pocket. "We need to strike quickly while he and Holmes are still distracted with doing whatever it is they're doing with that MRI they just stole."
"Where's Beck?" he asked, steepling his fingers in front of him and watching Hanover patiently.
"Whj..." Hanover stuttered. "Beck's ... at the same known location, probably recovering from his last fight with Spider-man," Hanover replied, little less than confidently.
"Your assignment is Quentin Beck, if I remember right," said Valencia smoothly, opening a drawer and pulling out a file. "Why are you bringing me information on Octavius, who is Morris and Miller's assignment, when you haven't even managed to bring in your own?"
"Because they wouldn't be able to bring him in if he stopped and asked them for directions to the prison!" Hanover replied heatedly.
"And how does this make Octavius your responsibility?" Valencia sat back, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "I'm dying to hear this logic."
"You know I'm the only one here who's negotiated a hostage situation with Octavius! I know how he thinks! No-one else has come as close to understanding his motives and tactics as I have!"
"Calm down, Hanover," said Valencia patiently, holding out his hand. "Let's see what you got. But I don't have the resources right now to go in and dig Octavius out of his own turf."
Hanover pushed the slip of paper with the address on it across the desk. "I've visually ID'ed the house, too," he said.
"Did you see him?" Valencia asked, checking the paper, and looking up the address on his computer. "That building's listed as derelict."
"It's theorized that he's diverting power from the house next door on the west side. Also, there was a broken lamppost outside the house with what looked like claw marks at the break site. And a basement window was smashed outward." Hanover was starting to get a little impatient with this kind of doubt.
Valencia looked up. "Did you see Otto Octavius at this location, Hanover? Simple question."
"No--" Hanover started.
The captain scowled. "You bring me a broken window, power-use, and a snapped lamp-post and want a task force? What kind of fool do you take me for, Hanover?"
"I'd only take you for a fool if you didn't listen to me on this! He's there, I know it! The curtains are all drawn to keep out the light! We need to get to him now before he puts his next plan into motion! We need to get Holmes out of there before--"
"Before what, Hanover! All witnesses say she's acting of her own free will. Hell, even your partner supports that theory. She's been with him for a year now, she's still alive. His danger to her is not a priority. Now, if you have any more concrete evidence, I'd like to hear it."
Hanover fell silent, breathing heavily through his nose. "This is all I have, sir," he finally said, sounding as though getting the words out was only slightly easier than pulling teeth.
Valencia sighed. "You're a good agent, Hanover, but this fixation on Octavius is interfering with your duties. I can give you surveillance for the address until you have more proof. How does that sound?"
Hanover sighed, deflating, and nodded. Obsessed as he was, he knew defeat when he saw it. His drive hadn't quite yet completely eroded his respect for the chain of command. "Thank you, sir," he said.
"And I'm taking you off the Beck case. You and Martin can work with Morris and Miller on the Octavius case, but they're in charge of it. Remember that." He fixed him with a stern glance. "If you have any information, make sure they get it."
"Yes, sir," Hanover said, dropping his gaze. Inwardly, he knew he would do no such thing, but appearances had to be maintained. "Thank you sir."
"Well, what are you doing standing around here? Go on, get." He shooed the agent away, returning dismissively to his paperwork. Hanover turned and left the office, making his way back to his own, where Martin sat, pouring over yet more paperwork.
"How'd it go?" she asked, looking up. "Valencia give us the National Guard and a battalion of tanks?"
"Funny," Hanover growled. He dropped into his chair. "No, he said all he could give us was surveillance on the house. But at least he's taken us off that pointless Beck case. We'll be assisting Miller and Morris on the Octavius case."
She sighed, pushing away the paperwork from in front of her, all of which had to do with that pointless Beck case. "Lovely. Surveillance. That means nights trying to stay awake in the car staring at a house until my head hurts. And working with Miller... egh. The man is unbearable. Did he ever try to tell you about his stand-off against Venom? It's no wonder his eyes are brown."
"If it gets Octavius behind bars, it's worth it," Hanover grunted.
"Thought you'd say that," she sighed, pushing herself back from her desk. "Let's go find them, hash out a schedule or something."
"Might as well, we'll get it all done quicker," Hanover agreed, standing and heading out of the office, Martin behind him.
Clair sighed in satisfaction as the cast came off her leg, leaving it straight and whole, if woefully skinny and pale. It had been nearly two months since the bug's escape, and she had spent the time frustrated by her lack of mobility. If it weren't for her actuators, she would have gone quite mad. As it was, she was itching to get out of the house.
At the other end of the room, Octavius appeared not to notice that sigh, absorbed in finishing the repairs to the Tesla scanner. The lab had been returned to more or less the same state it had been in before Spider-man had been held there, the scanners and microscopes and tools repaired, the centrifuge replaced. In a corner lay the half-finished work being done on the wetware control array, the series of tiny fringed chips now bristling with nanowire containers.
Carefully, with the help of her actuators, she stood up, then lifted them from the ground. The leg shook slightly, but held her weight. She walked over to his side, a little unevenly. "How's it coming?" she asked, waiting for him to notice.
Not looking up, he sighed. "Almost finished. The arachnid had done extensive damage to it, after all. You might need to thump it a few times, but at least it'll work," he finished, a grim satisfaction in his tone.
Rolling her eyes patiently, she peered closer. "I need to find a way to lock my equipment to the walls if I'm going to play host to people like him." She looked down, undoing the clasp of her harness so that the actuators fell away, wincing as usual at the withdrawal.
He finally looked up at the snapping sounds and the tiny gasp. Granted, he'd become used to her wandering about topless, but she didn't take her actuators off much. He looked down and spotted the reason after a moment. "Ah," he said.
She smiled. "Look, no actuators." She grabbed a shirt from its hook on the wall and pulled it on, holding it clear of the pinpricks on her back, then letting it settle.
"Mmm," he said, watching her button her shirt. "And a good thing, too. I was starting to tire of you moaning about being cooped up and having to hang from those arms all day," he said, a wry smile on his lips.
"I do not moan," she protested, giving him a shove. Her arm had come out of its cast two weeks ago, and looked more or less normal already.
"Oh, yes you do," he replied. "A lot. Oh, I'm tired of this. Oh, this is intolerable. If I knock this thing against the wall one more time, so help me that wall is gone You cannot tell me you don't moan," he replied, a wolfish grin on his features. He caught her wrist as she made to push him again and pulled her closer to him, his arm curling around her waist.
"Well, it is gone, isn't it? I like having the living room and kitchen in the same room." She grinned up at him, running her hand up his arm. "Almost as much as I like having that bloody cast off. And you know what the first thing I'm going to do is?" she said, running her fingers through his hair.
"Do tell," he said, leaning in so close that she could feel his breath against her skin. He stayed there for a moment, breathing softly against her neck.
She twisted out of his grasp, smirking. "I'm going to go take a shower." She got halfway to the door before turning back. "Join me? I haven't had a shower in ages. I'm tired of bathing with my leg in a plastic bag."
She smiled and turned slightly so she could kiss him, closing her eyes briefly before pulling back, running her hand down his arm to catch his hand, tangling her fingers with his, and drawing him towards the stairs.
He shook his head at the thought of being led by the hand, but followed her up the stairs and through the house to the bathroom, closing the door behind them when they entered.
The water heater's supply had been exhausted before either was ready to leave the shower. Otto reluctantly turned off the taps and let Clair step around him onto the tile floor. He reached out for a towel, wrapping it around her, and slowly rubbed her dry from behind her, nose against her neck and hair.
She twisted around with a towel of her own, rubbing his hair into a half-dry mess before draping it around his shoulders and using it to pull him closer for a kiss. He almost looked ... unassuming, there, his hair a nebulous black cloud around his face and neck, eyes half open, the towel draped over his shoulders.
The room was still warm, humid, and dark, the only light what filtered in through the tinted window. "You've gone all fluffy," she murmured, amused. "Hardly appropriate for a rogue such as yourself."
"Mmhmhm," he chuckled, his arms tightening around her and his lips now against her neck. "It's all about deception, you know," he murmured into her neck. "Why else do you think I wore that bowl-cut for so long?"
"I just thought you trusted your barber a little too much. But I have a question for you," she said somberly, her hands drifting down to either side of his ribs, fingers splayed, just barely touching his skin. She tried to keep a straight face, but mischief was plain in her eyes.
"Mmmm. Something to do with a pair of scissors and at least four mirrors comes to memory," he replied. He pulled his head back and looked at her, fingers in her hair. "What question is that?" he finished, amused by the mischief in her eyes.
"Are you ticklish?"
This brought him up short, and he blinked. "No, I'm not," he stated maybe a little too definitely.
She smiled maybe a little too broadly, and attacked, her fingers scrabbling gently at his ribs, down his sides, laughing madly.
He snerked and convulsed, spluttering loudly, grabbing for her hands, which managed to slip out of his grip anyway, and ducking backward.
She followed, giggling, and continued her attack, pressing him up against the sink where he couldn't escape. "Haha, you'll never escape me!" she growled playfully. "Completely at my mercy."
"Gaheh! Snrk! And you..." he managed while twitching and stuttering and laughing wheezily, "should remember--pfhh--that Doctor Octopus is at no-one's mercy!" he grinned, catching her wrists and holding them with one hand while wiggling the fingers of the other against her ribs. "I've known your tickle weakness for a long time," he replied, still grinning.
"Gah!" she spluttered, twisting and trying to get away. "No fair! Nehehe! No fair, you're -ngth- twice as big as I am!"
He merely grinned wolfishly at her and released her hands, both hands now attacking her ribs, until they landed on the floor in a giggling and snerking heap.
She wrapped her arms around her chest, still laughing slightly. "And it's not fair that I didn't get a cool super villain name. How in the world am I supposed to show my face as ..." She finished the sentence with a dismissive flick of her fingers, not even willing to voice the awful pseudonym that the Bugle had bestowed upon her after the hospital affair. Jameson had a lot to answer for.
He curled around her, nuzzling under her jaw, and chuckled. "All I need is five more of you and I'd have my own kick-line," he murmured.
She punched him for that, softly in the shoulder. "Don't even consider that." She clenched her eyes shut and groaned. "I can just picture it: Doc Ock, the Musical. By Andrew Lloyd Webber."
He snerked at that. "Appalling," he said, his lips under her ear. "Dreadful choruses of people in spandex."
"No, trench coats," she corrected, her fingers idly combing his hair. "He's already done one in spandex."
He lay next to her, lips occasionally kissing her neck or shoulder or cheek. "I don't think I want to know," he said. "The spandex I'm already surrounded by offends me enough."
"Cats isn't quite as offensive as the bug," she mused. "But only because no one from its cast has put me in a cast."
"Oh, I've heard some dreadful stories about those dancers," he murmured, kissing her ear. "Terrorists, the lot of them."
"In that case, should I audition?" she smirked, sitting up and stretching. The tile floor was slightly cold as a place to lie.
"What, for Cats?" he asked, still lying on the floor and looking up at her.
"Mmhmm," she nodded, standing up and wrapping her skirt around her waist, ignoring the damp spots where water had been dripped or splashed. "Terrorists who can dance, I'd be a shoe-in."
He stood as well, toweling himself off the rest of the way and locating his boxers and pants. "I'll have to come lurk in the back of the theatre and watch you," he said, leaning down and kissing her again.
"Are you kidding?" she said, kissing him back. "If I audition, so do you. You'd make a wonderful MacCavity."
"I don't sing," he replied, pulling on his boxers, and still holding his pants in his hand.
"That's probably the only non-singing role in the play," she pointed out, unable to stop the ridiculous line of thought. "You'd just lurk in the back for the most part, look terrifying, and steal the show. 'For he's the master criminal, who can defy the law,'" she sang briefly. "See, the perfect role for you." She picked up her shirt and looked at it, but it was too wet to put back on.
He curled an arm around her and opened the door, an amused smile on his face. "You," he said, leading her out of the bathroom, "need to lie down."
"No," she said, just realizing this. "I need to eat. I think my blood sugar level's down in the lab, while I'm all the way up here."
He had to admit, food sounded like a good idea, now that she mentioned it. "Oh very well," he sighed. "You eat and then lie down, because you're obviously suffering terrible delusions," he finished, putting his arms around her and waking her toward the kitchen.
She snagged her sweater as they passed their bedroom, pulling it on and ignoring the holes in the back. "I'm just being silly, is all. It's allowed every now and then." She pulled out of his arms as they entered the kitchen, opening cupboards and finding... nothing. There was no food in the kitchen at all, save an unopened jar of pickles in the back of the fridge. Leaning against the fridge door, Clair looked over her shoulder at Otto. "You have to be the only man alive who eats himself out of house and home."
He raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh?" he drawled. "And who devoured the entire stock of those pocket things in the space of three days?" He leaned against the doorframe, clad only in his trousers.
She blinked at that. "Did I really? How long ago was that?" She vaguely remembered repeated trips from the freezer to the microwave during a long session of calculating a possible deviation in the effects of the ZJ, but it couldn't have been enough to finish off the little pasties. They'd laid in a rather large supply.
"It wasn't long after we got them," he replied, walking up behind her and peering into the refrigerator as well. He poked her middle. "You simply never pay attention to how much you graze on while you're working."
She poked him back. "You should talk. I may have eaten the pockets, but who ate the entire case of bagles, and all the cream cheese? And an entire shipment of oreos. And the spaghetti, and my leftover pizza, and..."
"Your point?" he asked, leaning in further, eyebrows raised, one hand pushing her hand away from his middle.
She poked his bare stomach again, tickling slightly. "And the hoagies. My point is, we need food."
"Hmph," he said, frowning at the pickles, while once again removing her finger from his middle. "I suppose I ought to go and get us some more, then," he sighed.
She shook her head. "I haven't been out of this house in two months, Otto. The two of us together would draw attention, and I'm not just going to sit here while you go. No, I'm just going to walk down to that little store on the other side of the park and buy enough to make us dinner. By myself, I shouldn't be recognized. Anything you're hungry for in particular?"
He sighed, looking at the curtained window. "Hmm. I suppose no-one would notice you." A pause and then he shrugged. "You mentioned spaghetti," he said.
She nodded. "That sounds good. I won't be gone long." She picked up her coat, not the long one that she'd worn to the hospital, but a shorter black one that wouldn't make her look too much like her cover shot on the Bugle, even if that was two months past. Checking that her wallet was in its pocket, she pulled on her hat and gloves and headed for the door.
He walked after her to the door. "Be quick. There's less risk that way."
"I will," she assured him, lingering for a moment to kiss him on the cheek. "Don't worry. I'll be right back." She opened the door, braced herself a moment against the nasty, wet, late-January wind, and headed out into the thickening dusk.
Hanover leaned back in the driver's seat of the car, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He sighed. "I almost don't wanna know what they've been doing in there all this time," he muttered.
Martin rolled her shoulders, easing them. It seemed by now that she lived in this car. Stakeouts four, five nights a week, always just sitting here, watching a house that never-- She sat up suddenly as the front door opened, the first sign of activity at all in two months, and a slim figure slipped out and turned left, heading down the street in the direction of the park. She poked Hanover. "It's Holmes!" she exclaimed quietly.
"Bwuh!" he said, his eyes flying open. Sure enough, a woman easily recognizable as Holmes walked down the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of her jacket. He turned and watched her, waiting to see where she went.
Sitting forward, Martin watched her. "Still a little bit of a limp, it's definitely her. Should we follow on foot?"
Oblivious, Holmes walked on, her face tucked into the collar of her jacket, shoulders hunched against the cold.
Hanover eyed her, then his gaze traveled to the small grocery that lay a block and a half away. "No-one's been in or out for two months. She'll probably go into that store for food, I'm guessing."
Martin looked back at the house, which remained unchanged. "We could intercept her there, then. Do you think he's watching?"
Squinting at the store, Hanover thought on it for a second. He shook his head. "Can't see the store from there," he finally said. "We'd be able to wait outside it."
"Let's go, then," she said, putting her coffee in the cup holder. "We don't need back-up for just Holmes, but if he shows up, we aren't going through with this by ourselves," she said, looking levelly at Hanover.
"Then let's nab her quickly," Hanover replied, starting the car. He pulled out from their space and drove around the block, pulling into the store's small parking lot more or less in time to see Holmes disappear through its door. He put it in park but left the engine on, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and waiting.
Through the window, Martin could see Clair browsing, a little rushed, selecting what looked like pasta, sauce, and cheese. She kept her head down as she looked at the newspapers in the rack next to the door, then selected two and paid the shopkeeper for her purchases. "She's coming out, let's go," she said when Clair picked up her two paper bags, her hand on the shop's door handle.
Hanover pushed his door open and stood, walking round the car at more or less the same time as Holmes walked out of the store.
"Doctor Clair Holmes," he said as she stepped clear of the door. "You are under arrest for assaulting a law enforcement officer and aiding and abetting a known felon." He stepped toward her, clearly meaning to take hold of her.
Her head snapped up at his words, eyes wide, then angry behind the glasses. "Agent Handover," she said icily, shifting her grip on her groceries. "This is a surprise. An unpleasant one."
His professional dignity frayed at that. "It's Hanover," he corrected. "I suggest you come quietly, Doctor Holmes."
Her gaze shifted, looking behind them both, then came back to him. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."
"Unfortunately, it's not all the same to me," he replied, and strode forward, aiming to grab her arms.
She backed up a step and threw her groceries at him, aiming high, then dodged to the side away from Martin, making for the park behind them. Hanover dodged the flying food items and took off in a run after Holmes as she tried to flee across the parking lot, easily catching up behind her.
She dodged sideways as he was about to grab her, and ran straight into Martin, knocking them both over. Martin wrapped her arms around the smaller woman, pinning her arms to her sides as she kicked. "Help me with her!" she growled as Holmes snapped her head back, bruising her cheek.
Hanover reached into the fray, grabbing Holmes and rolling her onto her stomach, pinning her arms behind her back. He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a set of handcuffs, clipping onto Holmes' wrists. "You are under arrest for assaulting a law enforcement officer and aiding and abetting a known felon. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, you have the right to an attorney..." Hanover recited, pulling Holmes up from the pavement.
"You won't hold me, you know," Holmes said, looking up at him though her hair, which had fallen over her face. "As soon as Otto finds out I'm not coming back, he'll come for me." Her voice was cold enough to make Martin uneasy. "And then you'll die for this."
"He'll have to find us, first, Doctor Holmes," Hanover replied, pulling her toward the car. "And I sincerely doubt he'd survive the attempt."
"He's survived everything the law has ever thrown at him," she said defiantly. "You won't even pose an obstacle."
"We'll see, Doctor Holmes," Hanover replied, pushing her into the car. "This time, we're prepared."
"Oh, please tell me your master plan, Agent Handover," she said sarcastically, ducking her head and getting in. "I'm sure it will work wonderfully, so long as he doesn't have a sword and a hostage." She smiled darkly out at him from the back seat of the car.
"Your loyalty is touching," Hanover muttered, pulling out of the parking lot and starting down the street.
"Are you sure you have the situation right this time?" she pressed, shifting to get more comfortable. "After all, you could be missing an important detail, like you did last time. Maybe we've got Spider-Man on our side, or maybe Otto is really my hostage. Or maybe I'm the distraction, to draw you two off so he can give you the slip."
"We'll take that eventuality when it comes," came the stony reply as they drove past the house, which sat as quietly as it did before.
She watched the house go by, falling silent. As it was left behind them, she turned and stared at the back of Hanover's head. Her expression was unreadable, and Martin wasn't sure she'd want to be able to read it. "He will hunt you down, you know. You don't have a chance."
"As long as we get him where he belongs, it doesn't matter if I'm hunted or not," Hanover replied. "You'll see that eventually."
She shifted again, sighing impatiently. "So, where are you taking me?"
"We'll be holding you in the precinct jail until you can be transported to federal prison."
"Federal for assault?" she mused. "Seems a little harsh to me."
"Federal for aiding and abetting a terrorist."
"Hmm. Makes sense. That'll be Riker's, then?"
"Probably, why all the questions?"
She shrugged one shoulder. "Information is a way to keep control of the situation. Something I'm sure you've learned since we first met."
"Knowing these things won't grant you any control of this situation at all," Hanover replied a little irritably. The vague thought that she was somehow relaying this information to Octavius flitted through his mind, but he dismissed it as ridiculous. How would she be able to do that?
"That remains to be seen," she said easily, though Martin thought she heard a tension not quite hidden. "But it's better than knowing nothing and making assumptions, isn't it? Instinct can be so easily fooled..." She shrugged her shoulder up to scratch her half-ear absently, shooting Martin a glance. "Your partner's an idiot, you know. It just makes things easier."
Hanover bristled at that, but said nothing.
Holmes shifted again. It wasn't comfortable to ride in a car with your hands cuffed behind your back. "I can't help but wonder what would have happened if we'd had a competent hostage negotiator in Seattle last year. You took some pretty stupid risks, Handover. Shooting the target when he's got a sword at the hostage's head? You could have gotten me killed, which I thought was entirely against the point."
Martin turned to look forward again. Apparently, Holmes meant to provoke Hanover all the way back to the precinct.
Hanover's teeth gritted and he took a deep breath. "One does one's job, Doctor Holmes. I saw an opening, I took it. And don't think that I'm going to rise to your childish baiting."
"One does one's job, Agent Handover," she replied sweetly, but then she was quiet, merely watching out the window.
"Sir," Martin said in a low voice as the precinct came into view. "If Octavius does come for her, this place isn't secure enough."
"I know that," he replied, sighing again. "But we have to follow procedure on this. Otherwise someone will find some damned loophole and she'll go right back to him. We just have to hope that Octavius won't know where we've taken her."
Martin heard a small snerk from the back seat. She sighed and aired a concern of hers. "Well, how many precincts are there in this city?" she asked rhetorically. "He's got no way of knowing which one, as long as we can keep the press out of this."
"Hopefully there are enough," Hanover replied, glaring murderously into the rearview mirror.
Holmes merely watched the scenery flow past out the window, one corner of her mouth twisted up.
"We'll push her through the transfer as fast as we can," Martin said firmly.
"It's all we can do," Hanover grumbled. He lapsed into silence as he drove, fuming thoughts roiling in his head.
The first thing that he thought of was the sudden peace and quiet. For the first time in two months, the house held only him--no music, no sounds of someone else's machinery running, someone else's actuators, someone else's footsteps, someone else's voice. The peace and quiet he'd lived in for so long before all this had started. He'd enjoyed it before Clair. He'd enjoyed the distance from other human beings, the sanctuary from their noise and their light and the very presence of teeming humanity that threatened to choke and bury him in its own overwhelming, stifling, animal existence. He'd thought even one person in his life, in his space, would be too much. He hadn't even thought of sharing that space with anyone since Stunner. It simply hadn't occurred to him, drowned by an almost instinctive revulsion toward anything human; anything living, breathing, creating sound and presence and heat that served only to combine with his own and make it unbearable.
But the next thing he thought of was that Clair somehow didn't do that. It could have been nothing more than a psychological association with the salubrious affects of her restorative serum, but there was something about her that cleared his thoughts, that cooled them. Like her name implied, she somehow brought clearness... clarity. She reminded him of clear, cool water that one drank deeply of, feeling one's insides washed clean, calmed and freed of weariness. Her very presence caused him to slow, to consider, for his mind to experience reactions other than murderous rage or manic paranoia. He'd found himself laughing more. He'd found himself actually sleeping the night through, curled around something small and fragile and breathing softly. He found himself never wanting to lose that little bit of peace.
And the next thing he thought of was just what he'd do to keep that little bit of peace, that factor so insignificant as another human being that somehow kept him holding onto a measure of sanity. He would steal, he would kill, and those were things that were not new to him at all, but the motivation was. He couldn't concretely, with any detail, remember a motivation like that, even though he knew academically that he would have walked the world over to get a blade of grass that Angelina Brancale might have wanted, there wasn't this same desire to protect like that which burned in the back of his mind now. Stunner had been able to take care of herself, after all, capable girl like her. Not the brightest thing, Stunner, but possessed of such a loyal and beautiful soul that it hadn't mattered. He'd had faith in her. And now he had a completely different kind of faith in Clair. A faith that she would keep him sane and he would keep her safe. A symbiotic relationship that went so much more dangerously deep than his partnership with Stunner. He and Stunner had simply embraced the concept of togetherness in everything. Clair, however, had a mysterious hold on him. In her presence he had changed. And he'd thought it was a good change--a change that meant he listened to the reasonable part of his mind more often, a change that maybe meant he wasn't quite so spattered with other people's blood. A change that meant the terrible heat in his blood and the boiling in his brain was cooled, that he could breathe and think again. But a change nonetheless.
The next thing he thought of was that he had, indeed, been changed. He'd decided a long time ago that no-one would change him. No-one would have a hold on him, no-one would control him, however subtly, in however small a way. Control of one aspect of an individual was control of that entire individual. He was in control of himself--he had been in control of himself and his own destiny ever since he'd finally freed himself of his mother's overbearing emotional blackmail and soul-draining neediness. He'd decided that no-one would ever do that to him again and yet now he found himself once again with nothing more than that crawling need to ensure someone else's happiness so that it would, in turn ensure his own. It was unconscionable. It would not be allowed. He would take his life and his soul and his mind back.
But the thought he had after that was that he couldn't do that. She was too instrumental. Too important. She had worked her way so far into his life and he'd grown so accustomed to having her there that he was absolutely certain that it would fall apart again with out her there. Damnit, he'd come to rely on someone else for something so simple as sanity.
But there was more. There was a ... stirring of something else than a simple realization of a need to have someone or something there for his own benefit. Granted, he knew she wouldn't be able to take care of herself on her own in the world she'd jumped feet-first into. He had to be there to protect her from the arachnid, from the other villains, from the unknown elements that came out of no-where to upset everything. He hadn't been able to protect himself and he hadn't been able to save Stunner, but he wasn't going to allow defeat of this nature a third time. He had to keep Clair safe because of his pride, because he needed her with him... because, maybe hiding within all those other motivations was a kind of affection. The kind of affection that caused him to listen to her breathing as she slept beside him, that made him stop and watch her while she worked tirelessly at her serum, to notice the fall of her hair across her neck or the angle of her shoulders or her eyelashes as they half-covered her eyes. The kind of affection that permeated the physical need he had for her and caused him to play with her before and hold her after.
So the next thought he had was a realization. He couldn't let her control him. He couldn't let her go. So the only thing there was left for it was to take back control. She was his. There was no other option, no other alternative. Whatever hold she had on him would exist only because he allowed it and would be nothing compared to the hold he had on her. It was the only way this situation could possibly continue.
And the next thought he had was that it didn't take a person an hour to pick up five items at a grocery. This realization stopped him, stopped the pacing and he fell still, his actuators fell still, and the sudden nasty thought that she had been accosted in some fashion came to him. He covered the distance to the door in three long strides and yanked it open, expecting to see her maybe waylaid by a gregarious neighbor or playing with a dog or something equally as foolish but relieving in its mundanity.
She was nowhere to be seen.
And neither was the car that he'd occasionally glimpsed outside, across the street, always in the same place. He'd simply thought it'd belonged to the people who'd lived in that house until the sudden wave of memory that the house was abandoned hit him.
He cursed loudly, actuators flailing and taking out chunks of the doorframe. How could he have been so stupid! That car hadn't belonged to the people across the street. It had sat there every day, in the exact same place, for months and now it was gone, and Clair was gone and there was only one explanation.
Hanover.
The arachnid must have tipped him to this location. That weasel had been on a stake out ever since, and he hadn't noticed! He slammed the door shut again with enough force to knock things from the walls and stalked through the house to retrieve his goggles and long-coat. Buttoning it, twitched his actuators through the holes and a last thought came to him before he left, actuators carrying him down the street and up the nearest tall building -- Hanover would pay. And Clair would learn what came of distracting him.