demons

. . .

The entire building shuddered, damn near knocking him off the sad excuse for a bed and forcing him to actually crack open his eyes to gaze about blearily. The headache pounding away in the back of his skull boded ill for his current state of mind. The days had blurred together, mostly thanks to the drugs and aided by the lack of outside contact. Not even a heavily barred window to give him a hint as to night or day, just the bed and the light that remained on constantly. Not torture as such, but annoying when one had to wake up long enough to be drugged again. Usually by some gas fed into the ventilation of the room. He eyed the camera high in the corner, noting the red LED still glowed meaning the feed remained live. He fully expected to be unconscious again within moments.

His eyelids, feeling as if huge weights had been attached, drifted shut, the call of sleep pulling at him even without more drugs being forced into his system. He was standing on that edge, that high fall into sleep a single step before him when the silence shattered with the sound of gunfire. Not the soft pop or two of a handgun, no this was automatic weapons fire, and close by, possibly in the building itself.

He groaned in misery and forced his eyes open to see nothing but all enveloping darkness, the light that had never gone out now mysteriously dark.

A notably interesting development.

Pushing his body upright he swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed, the floor cold on his bare feet. He glanced up in the direction of the camera again, the evil red eye no longer glaring menacingly at him. With the power out, his watchers were just as blind as him. He rubbed his face in his hands, finding several days worth of stubble on his cheeks, clearly shaving had been further down on the list than even bathing for his captors. Not surprising, but given they'd been most careful to keep him alive and in reasonable health - they'd made certain he'd eaten his three a day - an odd dichotomy.

Hell, maybe it was perfectly normal behavior for kidnappers.

He'd love the opportunity to ask them personally, perhaps with his fingers wrapped just a touch too tight about their throats.

He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out to a slow count of ten.

He would need to find them first. And that meant getting out of this room.

The sound of gunfire had shifted, as if having circled about the building. Though not knowing the actual size of his home away from home, they could be within the walls and simply searching and shooting at anything that moved.

He wanted to make the both bold and asinine assumption that those who set off the initial explosion had come for him, but dared not. For all he knew the neighboring meth lab had gone up in a spectacular pyre and the local dealers were fighting over the clean up. No, if he were going to get out of this mess he would need to take advantage of the situation and distraction and escape on his own.

The obvious choice for an exit was the door, the only way in or out of the room. Not that he could see it right now, so with little effort he let the Quicksilver coat his eyes, giving him very limited vision thanks to the room having no natural light source. He glanced about to familiarize himself with his surroundings under the new conditions, got to his feet and walked carefully over to the door. His side was blank, no knob, no hinges, no visible way to open it, so he tested the waters and gently pushed it and, much to his amazement, it opened.

He had tried the door before; on the very few occasions he'd managed to stay conscious long enough to walk over to it and it had always remained stubbornly shut. At a wild guess the lock had been electronic and died with the power. He didn't really trust his sudden ability to escape, but wasn't about to sneer at the opportunity.

Deciding caution was warranted on this occasion he let the Quicksilver flow, pushed open the door and waited for the hail of bullets, when none were forthcoming he stepped out into the hallway.

He glanced in both directions, neither seeming to be a better choice than the other. The gunshots seemed to be coming from more to his left so he went right, away from the sound, not interested in getting shot, though pounding in the heads of a select few of the bastards who had grabbed him sounded quite fine right about now. Still, he'd have to find them first. Without getting shot, that is. Getting injured would most certainly spoil all the fun.

The light filtering in was minimal at best so even Quicksilver vision was limited, but better than pitch dark. The sound of gunfire continued with pauses in between the staccato beats as pockets of resistance were found and eliminated. After two right turns and a left the hall ended at a set of double doors. With care he pushed one open a couple inches, thankful of the well-oiled hinges to see open space than seemed to go on for hundreds of feet. The warehouse option turning out to be correct. The gunfire had moved closer but he saw no one in the vicinity so took the chance to slip out into the main area.

There wasn't much cover, so he stuck to the wall for now, able to see thanks to the windows off in the distance. He froze when he heard voices.

"...him. Our part is done."

"We need to make certain he'll do his."

The pair came around the corner of the office area he'd just managed to escape from and he could only surmise they had been talking about him, though he had no idea what they expected him to do from within a locked cell. For an instant as they neared he debated the merits of having a little fun and getting some of that payback he felt he deserved, but didn't really want to be caught and all it would take is one bullet and the fun would be over. So he let them pass unmolested and headed towards where they had come from just to see what was going on before deciding the best way to get out of the building.

What he saw made him growl in frustration. A half dozen black clad foes, faces covered to hide everything but their eyes, approached in formation, clearly looking for something. A something he suspected was one Darien Fawkes.

If they caught him he would be a dead man.

He could sneak away, maybe, or he could take some of them out with him.

A shout of, "There," ruined any hopes of getting away clean. One of the group wearing what could only be thermals, on which he would show up clear as day.

The group shifted, guns at the ready, heading straight towards him. Not about to go down quietly he dropped the Quicksilver and charged straight at them. He wasn't subtle and didn't bother hiding his intentions as he barreled into the first one, driving his shoulder forcefully into the man's stomach causing a vocal grunt of pain and sending him to the floor hard enough for his head to connect with a nap inducing thunk. Darien wrenched the gun out of the unconscious man's hands and swung it at the one he sensed coming up behind him, connecting with a cheekbone and sending him to the concrete with little more than a surprised gasp.

"Fawkes," another shouted, confirming that they were indeed after him. So his options were now run and risk a bullet in the back or fight and put them down so he could make his escape without followers.

Darien waited for them to come to him this time and was surprised when they put the guns down as they approached. Idiots.

The first one to close the distance said, "Thank god, you're-"

A quick jab to the nose stopped the chattering and he followed it up with a knee to the groin that dropped him like a stone.

Hands on his arm made him spin about; putting all the momentum he could into that arm he shoved the goon into the wall, hard enough to earn a grunt of pain. "Who's next?" he snarled.

"I am," the one he just shoved away said as he straightened. As she straightened he realized as he caught her in profile.

"Fine," he growled and leapt at her, driving her back into the wall hard enough to hear the wet snap of bone as he broke at least one rib.

She didn't make a sound as she drove back with a fist to his solar plexus, which made all the air in his chest leave with a surprised whoosh. He staggered back, trying to draw in another breath, irritation and anger burning to life inside him. Not about to let something so petty as lack of air slow him down, he let fly with a vicious backhand, blood flying from her lips and nose at the violent contact.

"Kid," someone shouted, the voice making Darien pause for a second.

"Tranq," she grunted, as she spat blood on the ground.

"Thanks for the warning," Darien sneered as he snagged her sleeve, pulled her up in front of him and watched in glee as the dart made a direct hit in her chest. "This is fun, want to keep playing?"

"Fawkes, damn it, you're gonna kill her."

"That's the plan," Darien snarled, arms angling about her neck to cut off her air. Her body hadn't gone limp as expected, though he could feel what might be a vest under the tight fitting clothes, which meant the dart had never made contact with flesh.

Yet she wasn't fighting his hold at all. "You playing possum, sweet thing?"

"No."

He felt a sharp pain in his thigh as she jabbed him with something. With a snarl he shifted his grip, one hand firmly about her throat as he glanced down to see what she had stuck him with. It wasn't a tranq, but a syringe, one that she had emptied into him. "Bitch," he snarled, flinging her violently into the wall where she connected head first, her body now going limp and lifeless.

He had little time to revel in the pleasure as whatever she had stuck him with went to work, his entire body convulsing; the rush familiar as his legs decided to no longer hold him. He was caught as he went down, arms wrapping firmly about him and lowering him to the cold floor.

"Easy there," a soft voice said in his ear, "let the Counteragent work."

He looked up to see Alyx's bloody face above his own.

.

Darien jerked awake in his bed, sheets fisted tightly in his hands, sweat coating his body, and his heart pounding a mile a minute. Again with the damn dream, the damn reminder that he'd tried to kill her, kill Alyx when she had put together a strike team to rescue him.

Granted he hadn't learned all that until later, much later for they'd knocked him out once the Counteragent had taken enough hold to keep him from fighting.

He had beaten the crap out of Alyx and two others thinking they were the ones who had kidnapped and held him. No, let's be real here, he'd tried to kill his allies and he'd been damn surprised to not find himself in a cell when he'd awoken and learned the truth.

He released the sheets, his hands having cramped he'd been holding on so tightly and shifted into a seated position, the wood of the headboard biting into his back, a pain he felt he deserved, plus a hundred times more.

Everyone had been sympathetic and forgiving and thankful he had been found relatively unharmed. While thrilled to still be among the living, the circumstances had left him feeling decidedly depressed. Once again the madness had taken hold and he'd done major damage to friend and foe alike. Though in this case it had been far more friend than foe as it turned out; the only damage done to the bad guys had been by the five-some that had come to save his sorry ass and that had ended with three of them in the hospital… including Alyx.

He'd been assured by Mike that she was alright and would be back on the job within days, but that had eased his conscience not one whit. He'd damn near snapped her neck, simply because he'd felt like it.

He closed his eyes, the memory sliding into place with no effort. The feel of her body pressed back against his, his arm wrapped tightly about her neck; a swift shift and her neck would snap with ease, leaving nothing but an empty husk behind. He shuddered hating that part of him enjoyed the sensation. And no matter how many times he told himself that he hadn't known it had been her, had been Alyx, he still felt such guilt.

He could have killed the most important thing in his life.

He heaved a huge sigh that bordered on a sob, wishing he could banish the memories and attendant feelings. Wished he hadn't beaten the shit out of his friends, wished they had just pulled the damn gland out of his head. He really didn't care if it killed him. So very long ago he'd told Claire he'd rather take a bullet than risk killing Bobby. This… this had been far, far worse.

He wondered how Alyx was doing. He didn't even know where she was, or if she'd had surgery or how bad her injuries had been. He simply knew he had to make the hardest decision of his life and that she was going to hate him for it, but there was no choice. After everything they had been through and in the end it was the damn gland that forced his hand.

He looked out into the darkened apartment, her apartment, where they had spent time together, falling in love and falling apart and then, by some miracle back together again. He debated the merits of getting up and pouring a stiff drink or two… or three if he had any hope of getting back to sleep when a voice intruded.

*Dare?*

Shit. *Uh, yeah?* Maybe if he sounded uninterested she'd leave him be and delay the discussion they had to have.

*Sorry, but you were so focused on me I couldn't help but feel it and thought I'd say 'hi'. You doing okay?*

*Yeah. Claire says me and the gland are fine. Lost some weight, some bumps and bruises, but that's it. No long term effects from the drugs they were stuffing me with.* All true and all information she had surely learned on her own, so he had to wonder why ask him? *How… how are you?*

*I'm fine, D. Hoping to stop by and see you tomorrow if I can…* She left that sentence screamingly open-ended. Perhaps she sensed his reluctance to even be having this conversation.

*I don't think that would be a good idea,* he finally told her, hoping she'd get the hint without him having to say anything directly. Not a chance in hell, in truth, but he needed to make this break as gentle as possible. He did not want to hurt her, though he knew there would be no possibility of getting through this unscathed for either of them. He might, if he were very lucky, be able to keep it from shattering her to pieces.

He could practically hear her gathering her mental thoughts, trying to find the best approach that would allow her to do whatever it was she thought she needed to do. *Darien, I'm fine and we need to talk. It's important.*

*We're talking now,* he pointed out, not about to allow a face to face meeting happen. His resolve would crumble and he would not be able to find the strength to let her go, as he knew he must.

She sighed. *In person. I… I want to make certain you are all right,* she explained, allowing some of her worry to be felt by him.

*No.* The only possible answer he could give even though he knew she would hate it. There was the mental equivalent of stunned silence then confusion, worry, and a touch of anger that threatened to overwhelm him. *I can't, Alyx.*

*Darien… Fine, we'll do it this way.*

He had no idea what she meant until his room disappeared and he found himself standing barefoot in the sand at Kensington Beach in the moonlight. He had no idea how he'd gotten there, or how his clothes had changed, or what the hell was happening. He closed his eyes for a long moment, figuring that when he opened them his room, his bed would have magically returned, but it didn't. He still stood on the beach, the light breeze ruffling his hair, the sound of crashing waves close enough to feel the spray on his skin.

"What the hell?"

"Hey, D," Alyx said from behind him, causing him to spin about, his heart pounding against his rib cage damn near hard enough to cause him to Quicksilver. Much to his utter amazement though his heart rate was more than high enough nothing happened, no unplanned invisibility. She stood before him in beat up jeans and a tank top, bare toes in the damp sand, hands tucked into the front pockets, her hair a wild tumble of curls in the dim light. She looked wonderful and it made his heart lurch painfully hard in his chest. He loved her so damn much and now he would have to hurt her beyond measure… again.

It seemed there would never be a chance for them to not be broken.

"How?" He waved his hand vaguely about, not quite ready to believe she'd gained the Star Trekian power of teleportation in the last few months. Possible, yes, but highly unlikely.

"It's not real," she assured him. "You are still home in bed, I just… I needed to see you. Wanted to be certain you are all right."

"So this is all in my head?" he asked, sounding relieved even to his ears.

She chuckled warmly. "Our heads, but yes. My connection to you allows this to be possible."

"You couldn't do this before," he pointed out. At least she never had. Then again there hadn't been a real need for it till now. Normally, when she was in town he'd be the first to suggest they get together.

She shrugged. "Learned a few new tricks is all." She moved to stand right before him, less than arms length away, her gaze roving over him with a power he could feel in his bones. Her fingers came up to rest against his cheek, her touch warm and alive, as if she were really in front of him and not just some cobbled together scene created from memories in their minds.

She looked perfect, skin flawless, eyes bright and while she looked lovely he knew it to be a lie. "Show me," he all but ordered.

She shook her head. "Darien, there's nothing to see."

He cupped her hand, holding it against his cheek, wishing there were another way to do this, but he needed the truth, needed to see exactly what he had done to her when she'd been trying to rescue his sorry ass. "Show me."

Her eyes closed for a long moment, then she sighed heavily. She opened them as she let her hand drop and took a step back from him. Then she… shimmered from head to toe. Her clothes didn't change, but everything else seemed to. Her right cheek swelling and turning dark purple, half of the eye filling with blood. Split lip, still looking in need of ice. Left arm strapped tightly across her chest just under her breasts, the injuries not as easily seen, but their litany playing out in his mind thanks to the connection she had forged between them. Three cracked ribs, broken collarbone, the bruising visible on her shoulder now that he knew to look for it. A concussion causing her head to still throb in time to her heartbeat to go along with the broken cheekbone, thus explaining the severity of the swelling to her face.

He turned away, unable to continue looking at the damage he had wrought upon her. He rubbed his face with his hands, wanting nothing more than to wake up and to have all this be no more than a bad dream. That he hadn't stupidly forced himself to face what he had done. Though in truth it only firmed his decision.

He felt her hand on his back, the touch timid, as if afraid he would bolt from her, which he supposed he probably should, but until she released him from this shared dream he was stuck. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, knowing the words could never be enough to repair the damage he had done… or that he intended to do.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Dare," she assured him, truly meaning the words from what he could tell, no matter how insane that seemed to him. And he would be the resident expert on that particular mental condition.

"I beat the crap out of you, bad enough to put you in the hospital, and you forgive me that easily?" He turned slightly to look over his shoulder at her. "You should hate me."

"Hate you? For something you had little control over? You were damn near Stage 5 and-"

"You're making excuses because I was Quicksilvermad? Are you nuts?" He spun about and stepped away, her hand dropping to her side in her astonishment.

"Darien, it wasn't your fault," she stated, putting as much force behind the words as she could without shouting. Hell, he doubted she could take in enough air to shout at him, least out in the real world.

"Same song, different verse," he muttered bitterly. And it was true enough. He would go Quicksilvermad, break something, hurt someone, do something he would always regret later and they would act like it was nothing. Just another incident caused by the side-effect, put yet another band-aid on the open and gushing wound and never look to treat the real problem. That deep down he was nothing but a thug, a lowlife, a son of a bitch who enjoyed hurting people.

And she had had a lifetime of that already; he would not subject her to more.

Not at his hands.

"Alyx, I can't do this anymore," he whispered, not able to find his voice now that the time had come to cut the cord.

"Can't do what?" she asked, probably being intentionally obtuse, wanting to make him say the words instead of trying to ease the sting. Hell, Liz had been right, faster is better.

"Can't be with you," he said, voice not faltering on the words, which only proved to him that this decision had indeed been the correct one.

She blinked, clearly not willing to understand what he had just said aloud. Had roles been reversed he probably would have done the same. But he knew she would never do something like this, not with him. She had committed herself to this relationship wholeheartedly and that was part of the problem, she couldn't see that she had simply followed the same pattern and that the excuse, that it was the fault of the gland and not him was nothing more than that, an excuse, a justification to continue taking abuse she never deserved. His twisted and disturbed mind taking out the drug-enhanced aggression on the one person who warranted it the least, but whom was most likely to stand there, take it, and come back for more.

"Why not?" she finally asked. "What did I do this time?"

He rubbed the back of his head and sighed heavily. "Nothing other than care about me so damn much you put me before yourself far too often." He met her eyes, still appearing confused as to what he meant. "My turn to save you, I guess."

"Darien, I thought we'd settled the whole not good enough for me thing," she said in exasperation.

Yeah, he could understand where she might interpret his obviously poor attempt to do the right thing as that given their past problems, but she was so very wrong this time, blinded by her need of him she could not see his real intent. "I nearly killed you, Alyx, and you act as if it were nothing. Anyone else would run away screaming and be thankful they escaped in time, but you… you just keep coming back for more."

In an instant she was at his side, her hand warm against the chilled skin of his arm. "No, it's not nothing, but I also don't blame you." The earnest look on her face almost broke his resolve. "There were extenuating circumstances, ones you are unaware of."

He reached up to gently cup her broken face, wishing he could take the pain away, and more, wishing he could do this without adding yet more. Her heart remained far less resilient than her body, her psyche a fragile thing that relied on others to keep her whole in mind. This… what he must do, might very well shatter the hold she had on her sanity. At least he knew her brother would be there to help put the pieces back together.

"Doesn't matter. Not like it's the first time I've flown the red-eye and taken it out on you." He could feel she wanted to argue the point, but she held her tongue on what would have been a lie pure and simple. "I won't risk it. Don't want to be responsible for destroying the most important thing in my life."

"Darien, you won't. I told you there's no turning back for me. For better or worse," she stated, the words causing his gut to twist painfully given the start of this whole mess had been her saying 'no' to his marriage proposal. He understood why now, but that made the reference no less upsetting in this moment.

He kissed her gently, terrified of hurting her any more than he already had. "I know, but I don't want to become another Jess in your life and that's just what will happen if we keep going like this."

"Dare-"

He shook his head, cutting her words off cold. "No, I don't want to deal with the day you look at me and see him."

She snorted, the sound anything but amused. "Too late on that score, bub." She turned her head to kiss the palm of his hand while he stood there in shock. "I got over it in case you were wondering."

Truthfully, he was wondering when exactly she had looked at him and seen her ex-husband, the bastard who had regularly abused her both mentally and physically until she had assumed the facade of a frail, submissive woman. "When?" he asked, not certain he wanted to hear the answer, but absolutely certain he needed to.

"The Novadyne mission, and the merc convention. And, yes, both times you were Quicksilvermad and targeting me." She reached up and cupped the hand still curved about her face. "And never since. You are not Jess and it's not in you to be."

He laughed harshly, pressing their hands against her cheekbone making her draw in a hissed breath at the pain it created, the virtual contact apparently feeling real enough for her to react, and hopefully proving his point. "You came within inches of having your neck snapped, and I damn well enjoyed every second of it. And it doesn't matter that I was mad, those feelings are in me, always have been, and I get an immeasurable amount of pleasure when I get the opportunity to let them run free. So don't tell me I'm nothing like him when deep down I know I am."

She stepped away from him, eyeing him warily. "You think I don't know that? That I didn't feel everything you did when you… when you…"

"When I was trying to kill you," he stated bluntly. "Let's not pretty it up, not now."

"Then let's fix this," she countered. "Unless you'd prefer the madman? Wouldn't take much, just let the Quicksilver flow and don't stop until Stage 5 is permanent. Less than a day and you'd be free of giving a flying fuck about anything you value." Her tone wavered between harsh and challenging, afraid if she pushed too hard he'd do it out of spite. Thing is he doubted she'd walk away even if he had turned himself into a sociopath, and therein lay the problem.

"And this is why I'm walking away. Not to hurt you, not because I hate you, but because I love you. And I'm smart enough to realize that until the gland situation is resolved we can't be together."

"And this will make you happy?" She sounded disbelieving of that ever being possible, after everything they'd been through.

He shook his head. "Hell no, but it will keep me from hurting you again."

She froze, her face a surprise mask of pain. "You think this won't hurt me?"

He went to her then. Placing his hands cautiously, one on a shoulder and the other on a hip, in an effort to avoid her obvious injuries, he rested his forehead against hers, her body quaking with barely restrained emotion. "No, I know it will, but I don't see another choice that won't hurt more."

"Darien, you swear this is about the gland and nothing else?"

"Yes. I swear it." He kissed her then, a real kiss, even if they both knew it was no more than a goodbye. "I want to be with you. Hell, I still want to marry you, but I won't put you through what your dick of a husband did, even if you are convinced it's not my fault."

Her good hand settled on his chest, directly over his heart, which pounded hard enough to be easily felt by her. She looked down at the faux sand that covered their feet, her body shaking in his gentle hold, both anger and resignation coming off her in waves that matched the timing of those crashing into the beach. "If the gland were removed or… or the toxin gone-"

"I would be knocking on your door first chance I got. Probably with a ring in my pocket," he told her, hoping to god she wouldn't freak at his threat of proposing to her again.

Her head snapped up, bright eyes meeting his in the moonlight. "You promise?"

A dangerous question for he knew she took promises very seriously, but this one he would live up to should a miracle solution to the gland ever come about. So he took her question just as seriously, took it as a promise from her that should he show up with a ring her answer would be different from the last time. "Yes, I promise."

"Good." She smiled up at him and then vanished.

The reality about him faded and he blinked owlishly about in his darkened apartment, still sitting in his bed, mere minutes having passed in the real world while he'd broken up with Alyx again. Tossing off the covers he rolled out of bed to get that drink, something at least eighty proof since there would be little chance of him sleeping anytime in the near future without it.