What is Essential

by Grace and Sweeneybird


Category: Angst, H/C, Pre-slash
Rating: R
Content Warning: Pre-slash
Summary: In the midst of a typical Fawkes/Hobbes day, Darien and Bobby finally figure out what is essential.
Disclaimer: We don't own them, we make no money off of them. We're not pimps.

~~~~~~~

George Bernard Shaw said, "The truth is the one thing that nobody will believe." No, I'm not talking about this thing in my head that lets me dodge the prying eyes of strangers, although that's a truth that's pretty damn unbelievable. I'm talking about me, right now, butt-naked in Bobby Hobbes' bed.

You're saying to yourself, well, Fawkes, it's about time. The clue bus has been passing your stop for a while now. But that's the unbelievable part. See, I've been flagging the damn thing down - hell, I'm DRIVING it. And trust me, the last stop on my route would have been right here, just like this, a sleepy little agent curled up beside me. Except he's not sleepy, he's wired like a kid after his first day working at Starbucks, and the bruise I'm getting on my hip is from being poked by his fucking gun, which is not really what I had in mind.

At least there's a blanket over me, I guess that counts for something. I mean, I'm not typically what you'd call shy, but sporting a boner while lying next to your fully clothed partner in his bed must be some kind of etiquette breach. So, grateful for the thin layer of cotton between us, I decide to take stock of the present situation while Hobbes is scanning the streets below with his night vision goggles.

I must have been processing subconsciously for a while because the answers come pretty quickly. I know that he cares about me, hell, I know that he'd sacrifice himself for me. But tonight, he showed a real gentleness as he took care of me and tucked me into his bed. I'm pretty certain that the obvious nature of my attraction didn't go unnoticed by him, so that leaves me with three options. Either he doesn't reciprocate my feelings, he does reciprocate but something is making him hold back, or he really is an idiot and has no idea that I want to nail him to the mattress. Options two and three I could work with; I was really hoping it wasn't option one.

"Fawkesy, you feelin' any better?" Without turning from the window, Bobby manages to fit a truckload of worry and irritation into those five words. Somehow, my partner's concern manages to warm and embarrass me at the same time - it's not like I'd been injured in the line of duty. Well, not exactly.

"Fine and dandy," I answer. He snorts as I draw in a sharp breath - okay, so maybe I'm a little tender from the acid burns. Still facing the window, he reaches back and awkwardly tousles my hair. That's when I realize that he can see my reflection in the window. Shit - my poker face sucks when I'm trying, and right now I'm the proverbial open book. Looks like Bobby's a quick reader, too.

"Any sign of the bad guys?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"Nothing yet, but I'm not taking any more chances today." Hobbes turns his head and gives me a glance. "There's some more of that ointment in the bathroom if you need some."

"Nah, I can't reach the parts that need it anyway," I blurt without thinking. The idea of walking across that room looking for ointment in my current state of undress - well, let's just say there's a circus somewhere standing in the rain, 'cuz I think I found their tent pole. "It's not too bad - probably heal on its own."

Hobbes sighs and says patiently, "See, that's what I'm talkin' about. You don't take care of yourself and you don't let anyone else help." Training those melted chocolate eyes on me, he shakes his head. Damn. I feel like Augustus Gloop - I just want to fall in.

"No, really, I'm good," I say, gesturing somewhat erratically towards the window. "You might miss something. I mean wouldn't it be just our luck to spend half the night sitting here watching out for the bad guys and then you look away for one minute and *Boom* that's when they show up and you end up looking like a schmuck. Then these burns and the crick you're going to have in your back will be all for nothing and the Official will bitch us out again and, you know, if you don't get up and stretch you're going to be a chiropractor's dream. I mean, some guy is going to put his kids through college on your back."

Ah, crap. I'm babbling and I can't seem to shut up, that is, until Bobby puts his hand on my arm and then I nearly bite my tongue in half. He's looking at me with those damn eyes, full of concern, and he's leaning forward. God help me, I think I'm going to kiss him. My eyes close almost against my will at the sensation of his breath against my cheek, then my neck. I draw a ragged breath when his lips press against my ear - yeah, partner, right there - jesus, mary and joseph, Bobby, lay it on me.

"Fawkes," he rumbles softly, "two on the roof, one with a scope, and one across the street in the third floor apartment. Now might be a good time to work your magic, my friend."

Magic. That's what this feeling is, the feeling I've been missing my whole life. I've been missing Bobby, with his body pressed against mine, his words more urgent now; a tad too urgent, if you want to know the truth. I'm getting the feeling I missed something important.

"Fawkes. Fawkes. You okay?"

I focus again on those eyes, now almost black with some unfamiliar emotion the turmoil in my head won't let me name. Not passion, not exactly, well, not exclusively, but something strong. That's good, right? I wriggle a little to get more of me up against more of him, but the searing pain that flashes across my back puts the kibosh on any ideas I have about fraternization. The bullets that suddenly come ripping through the window don't really help the mood either.

"Kid!" Hobbes grabs me and rolls off into the narrow space between the bed and the wall, dragging me over with him. Only our harsh breathing breaks the silence in the room - I'm struggling not to pass out while Hobbes tries to simultaneously shield me with his body, avoid putting any more pressure on my raw back and sneak a peek over the window edge. Did I mention that my partner sucks at multi-tasking?

I close my eyes, trying to get the burning pain in my back under control, when the sound of more gunfire breaks my concentration. A half a second later, Hobbes is laying full length on top of me and I'm terrified that he's been hit. My mouth doesn't want to work and all I can do is run my hands over his body, trying to see where he's been hurt. The next thing I know, he's pushing himself off of me, muttering apologies and reaching under his bed to pull out a rifle.

A burst of gunfire makes us both flinch as more glass from his window explodes into the room and bullets impact on the far wall. Hobbes checks the ammo in his rifle and calmly angles his body out the shattered window. Drawing a bead on one of our assailants, he snaps off a quick shot and ducks back inside. He stays next to the window, his shoulder pressed against the wall, his knees still straddling my thighs. Scanning the roof across the street, he says, "Hang in there, kid."

"Who ARE those guys?" I can barely squeeze out the words. A minute ago I thought that hell was lying naked next to a clueless partner - now I know the reality. Hell is lying between said clueless partner's very muscular legs while he tries to comfort you for putting his life in danger. And drilling a hole through the inside of his thigh at the same time with no chance of relief in sight.

"Looks like the Chinese again, Sundance," he says as he scans the roof. "One less now, though." I feel him tense as he aims and fires again - two for the good guys. He reaches down and taps my shoulder with his knuckles. "Think you can sit up?"

I manage to grunt out something that sounds like agreement and Hobbes reaches down, placing his hand behind my neck and letting me grip his arm with my hands. Instinctively, I move to sit up, I mean, my short-tempered partner did ask me if I thought I could sit up. Of course, somehow I had managed to forget that I was lying in front of the window.

"Jesus, Fawkes, keep your head down." Trying to keep his eyes on our friends outside, he manages to help me swing around so I'm propped against the wall on the other side of him. "I've got enough to worry about here without you getting your head blown off." Bobby takes a deep breath and continues in a slightly calmer tone. "There should be some sweatpants in the bottom drawer of the dresser to your right. Put them on."

Oh yeah. Much better. Now at least we can both pretend that nothing unusual is going on - at least, nothing more unusual than our usual unusual stuff. "Bobby, these are..."

"A little small, yes, I am aware of the height difference, my friend. Suck it up." Amusement flickers across his face followed by something else. He deliberately looks me up and down, saying, "You know, Fawkes, too small looks okay on you." Any retort I might have considered dies on my lips as he blushes and turns to peer out the window.

"Son of a bitch!" Bobby jumps back from the window frame as it splinters in a barrage of gunfire. His eyes flicker over to me and whatever he sees seems to satisfy him because he turns back to the window again, muttering. "You want to play with Bobby Hobbes? You don't have the balls, my friends. This is the major leagues, here, and you're nothing but a bunch of Pee-Wee league, T-Ball playing, pansies."

I can't help it - I snicker. There's probably nothing that tickles me more than Bobby Hobbes in super-agent mode. The corner of his mouth twitches as he scans the building for the remaining sniper. "C'mon, c'mon, you know you want a piece..." My snicker turns into an outright laugh at that one, a laugh slightly twisted toward hysteria. If only he knew how right he was - not just a piece but the whole package. So to speak.

"Very funny, Fawkes, I'm glad I can amuse you. I'm not the one who showed up naked and nutty with a pack of hitmen on his tail. I'm saving your semi-transparent hide here." He dodges back as another bullet whizzes through the window and glares down at me. "And what kind of dumbass takes a shower in hydrochloric acid?" Even while he's chewing me a new one, he's pushing me gently along the wall, further from the window.

"It's a long story, Hobbes, and you already know half of it anyway." The look Hobbes gives me is unidentifiable.

"Humor me." He starts to say something else, then frowns and edges towards the window. I'm about to ask him what's going on when I hear it, too. Great, here comes the cavalry. What in the hell were we going to tell them?

"Explain it to me again, Fawkes. Explain why you were naked at the auto body shop." Hobbes darts forward to get a look at the street then pulls back out of sight with a soft curse. "Shit. The fat man AND Keepie. And Eberts. This sucks." His shoulders slump. It still surprises me how quickly Bobby shifts from a competent agent to a guilty, chastened schoolboy where the Agency in general and The Official in particular are concerned. Too bad he doesn't see what I see.

Without thought, I reach out him, gently gripping his wrist. "I didn't start out naked," I say conversationally. I tilt my head back and let a small smile pull at the corners of my mouth. "I didn't intend to get between your damn van and that spray gun - if you drove something other than a shit box, maybe the rust remover wouldn't have been at, like, triple strength." The reminder makes me flinch.

Bobby winces in sympathy, "Well, I guess it's a good thing that the Keep is here, because not only did you get yourself one hell of an impromptu skin peel, you're also running a fever and that means it's time for a booster. Shit. The Keep is gonna have my ass for this one." I don't know what to say to that, so I keep quiet. I'm already beginning to dread the upcoming lab rat routine with my Keeper and her inescapable prodding and reprimands, but it's still better than the alternative.

"You doing okay there, Fawkes?" Bobby nudges me with his elbow and I realize that he's been talking and I've been off in my own little world. I give him a little grin and nudge him back. The answering grin I get from him spreads over his face slow and lazy. It's the most fantastic smile I've even seen and I think I would do almost anything to see him smile like that more often.

"I've been better." A yawn takes us both by surprise and Hobbes elbows me again.

"Am I boring you here, pal?" At least, I think that's what he says - all of a sudden it's kind of stuffy in here and someone's stuck cotton in my ears. Everything's getting kind of grayish, and although I can tell Bobby's talking to me, it's not registering at all compared with my overwhelming need to lie down and take a nap. The last thing that runs through my muddled brain before I give in to the darkness is that I never did tell Bobby why the Chinese were after me. It had started out like your typical Darien Fawkes kind of day...

******

Usually I'm pretty quick with a meaningful and impressive quote - it's kind of a hobby of mine. Right now, though, I can't seem to get one quote out of my head. In the words of the incomparable Daffy Duck, "I'm being held prisoner in a Chinese laundry!" Okay, it's more of a sweatshop than a laundry, but they are Chinese.

The two sumo wrestlers in Sears suits that dragged me into the back room seem to have ordered the entire left side of the menu at the local scarf n' barf. I twist my hands behind my back in an effort to loosen the ropes, but Ping isn't having any. Without glancing up from the feeding frenzy he kicks sideways with his giant foot and shoves my chair back, smashing my head against the wall. The tong symbol on Pong's arm comes into focus as I shake my head. It's the same one that the dead courier had - the same one that the security guard at the Chinese embassy tried to hide when they held us there.

The sound of sewing machines doesn't help my throbbing head at all. There have to be at least 500 people crammed in out there, some of them only 7 or 8 years old, all piecing together knock off Nike and Adidas sweats. Land of the free, baby.

I can't believe they got me so easily. I thought Hobbes' paranoia was rubbing off on me - I thought I was being so careful. Surreptitiously, I test my bonds again and they're as tight as they were twenty minutes ago when I got trussed up like the Christmas goose and stuffed into a van. Apparently, I wasn't paranoid enough.

In my own defense, I think the odds of a Chinese laundry being a front for a sweatshop that's actually a front for government spies have to be astronomically high. And if The Official would spring for a wardrobe allowance I wouldn't have to keep dry cleaning the little quicksilver spots out of my suede jacket. Which reminds me, now that the boys are otherwise occupied, I have one more option than the panda twins think.

I quicksilver the ropes on my hands, letting them freeze and then breaking them with ease. "Hey fellas, see you later," I call out. Concentrating, I make that weird mental shift and suddenly the room's the set for a film noir. As the big boys advance, their eyes dart over, around and through me. It's funny how I still get such a kick out of the confusion on a thug's face when the laws of physics get broken right before his eyes - I never did have the proper respect for the law.

I'd like to be able to say my escape was effortless. It wasn't, but I do think I set a new standard for broken field running. Too bad no one saw it. I finally slip out the side door and, after a quick look to make sure I was alone, let myself turn visible again. Pulling the canister out of my pocket, I give it a look. I wonder what the hell is in this that makes it worth killing for?

"How do you even get to the office in the morning, huh, Fawkes?"

"Jesus!" I jump about two feet in the air. "Hobbes, don't do that!"

"I'm serious. Answer me. A five year old could have predicted that grab. No, a two year old." My partner's face gets this faint reddish cast to it when he's mad - I used to pray it meant a stroke was coming on. Now that I've made a study of the many moods of Robert Hobbes, I know most of it's bluster to cover up the fear and aggravation when I put myself at risk. I'd like to think it's me, that he has a special interest in my well-being, but the fact is that Bobby can no more not care about people than he can go without his meds. My theory (this week) is that's why he's so paranoid. Somewhere along the line my cynical partner decided that he's personally responsible for the safety of all of us, the whole bizarre cast of characters that he's collected throughout his life. Hell, I bet he'd take a bullet for Eberts. It's part of what makes him so irritatingly loveable.

I slip the canister back into my pocket as he hauls me back to the van, bitching the whole way. I swear, he's going to make a great mother someday. "Screw you, Hobbes." Hey, just because I dream about the man doesn't mean I can let him get away with rampant abuse. "For your information, asshole, they cold-cocked me. From behind. I'm the Invisible Man, not The Sentinel - I can't hear bad guys creeping up behind me." This earns me another glare, but I can see the tiny crack in his bluster - he's almost ready to let me off the hook. "Jesus, Bobby," I exclaim as he jerks the wheel to the left and careens into an old garage. "Come on, man - who's trying to kill me here, you or the Chinese?"

"You know what your problem is Fawkes?"

"Oh, great, here we go with the mother hen routine again. Come on, Hobbes, give me a break. What? I'm not paranoid enough? I'm too trusting? I don't believe that everyone is in on some conspiracy to - OW!" I rub the top of my head and give Bobby a glare as he swerves maniacally through the garage. "Hobbes." My head bounces off the window. "Hobbes! Will you stop the van for a freaking minute?"

"Your problem, my friend, is that you don't listen to the voice of experience." He shoots me a know-it-all look as he slips the van into a narrow spot between the electrical room and a monster Ford 350. The guy is talented, I'll give him that - no way anyone's going to see us, and we can use the Ford's massive side-view mirror to watch our backs. "I don't just mean me - how many times have you been grabbed and thrown in a van? Ten, twelve? And every time it's like a revelation to you. You're a goldfish, partner. A fucking goldfish." The entire time that he's lecturing, he's checking me for injuries and scanning the area for unwelcome guests. I take back what I said about multi-tasking.

"Hobbes, I know that in your twisted little corner of the universe dead couriers fall through your bathroom window regularly, but it's still a novelty to me, okay? I got rattled." The dead guy's face swims in front of me - I've seen death before, but it's always been from a distance or in a casket covered with flowers. Except for Kevin. This guy was up close and personal, and it reminded me of a time I'd rather forget about. The thing is - I don't like how I reacted after that. Panic I could understand - what bothered me was that I hadn't. Panicked, I mean. I'd searched the body without a second thought, shoved the metallic green cylinder into my inside jacket pocket and then dragged the corpse into the living room.

A gentle hand on my shoulder brings me back from the memory. "Look, kid, I know you were acting on instinct, going with your gut and all that, but you've gotta stop thinking like you're a one man operation. You've got a partner now and your first instinct has got to be to call me." He looks into my face and I know he's seeing some of the doubt I can't seem to hide. I've never been too good at trusting people - in my experience, they usually cut and run when the chips are down. Something in my gut tells me Bobby isn't that type of guy, but all that conditioning is a tough thing to overcome.

Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose for a second, like he's getting a headache. "You're gonna have to trust me." He pauses for a moment then continues talking, his voice soft. "Why do you think I'm partnered with you? I'm a good agent, I mean, hell, I'm a great agent - one of the best. But that's not why I'm your partner. I'm your partner because I'm the best protection man this Agency has ever seen. Maybe I'm the best because I'm so paranoid or maybe I'm so paranoid because I'm the best. Either way, hotshot, I'm your only bet on staying alive until the Keep figures out a way to get that gland outta your head. I'd appreciate it if you started working with me instead of against me."

I know he's right. That's part of the problem. "Ho- Bobby. I'm trying, I swear to God I'm trying." I exhale loudly, keeping my eyes trained on the dashboard. "Look," I fumble with my jacket, reach into my pocket and grab the tube, "I just, you're the only, here." I hold it out to him without meeting his eyes. When he reaches for it, our hands meet and it's like this wave of heat flows up my arm and straight to my groin. I can't help it - I look at him. "I trust you, Bobby. I do."

He smiles that lopsided smile of his and squeezes my hand. "Now, that's what I'm talkin' about. Was that so hard? All righty, let's see what we've got here." As he starts trying to open the container I watch him, closing my hand to keep the feel of him with me as long as I can.

A Scot by the name of Robert Louis Stevenson once said, "The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us." I think what he was trying to say was that we're all lonely, feeling trapped in our own private hell, but none of us bothers to look across the street and see that our neighbor, or in this case, our partner, is lonely, too. I'd been so wrapped up in my own misery that I'd forgotten that there was someone who cared whether I lived or died, and not because of some fancy gland in my head.

While I'm having epiphanies, my partner is cursing the cylinder I gave him. He finally gives up trying to open it and tosses it back to me. Putting the van in reverse, he backs out of the parking space and heads for the exit. "We gotta get this to the Boss, my friend. Where did you get it anyway? From the dead guy?"

I open my mouth to answer him, but what comes out is a gasp, as pain slices across the back of my skull. You know that cat Stevenson? He once wrote about a fellow named Dr. Jekyll who, as a result of an experiment gone awry, occasionally turned into a rampaging id, called Mr. Hyde - sound familiar?

******

My head is pounding like a sonofabitch and my arm seems to have fallen asleep, but I'm oddly comfortable. I grab the pillow under my head a little tighter and press my face into the wrinkled case. "Hey, easy there, kid." I freeze - I've daydreamed about waking up wrapped around my partner, but the last thing I remember is the quicksilver express running me down and that doesn't usually mean hearts and flowers time. On the other hand, I've got my arms locked around a very muscular thigh and my face seems to be buried in Bobby Hobbes' groin - maybe I shouldn't look a gift gland in the mouth. "You okay, Fawkes?" Capable hands rub my back and I can't help it - a small satisfied grunt escapes. "Smooth talker, huh?" I can hear the smile in his voice.

Cautiously, I raise my head and check out Bobby's face. He's got a hell of a shiner starting and his chin is bruised. "Ah, crap." Pulling myself to my knees, I lean forward and tilt his face toward me, grabbing his hands with one of mine when he tries to slap me away. "Bobby, what happened? I didn't - please tell me I didn't hurt you?" His eyes, warm and dark, reassure me that whatever happened he doesn't hold me responsible. Which, in the bizzaro world of Darien Fawkes does not necessarily mean I didn't clobber the guy.

"Don't worry about it, kid, I'm fine." Bobby manages to pull my hands away and he gestures with his head. "Worry about how we're gonna get out of this mess."

Giving up on answers for the time being, I turn my head and take a look around. The walls surrounding us are smooth metal and there is one door, which, unfortunately, doesn't seem to have a handle on this side. I can't be sure, but it looks like we're in some sort of vault or freezer. I can be sure of one thing, though - we're screwed.

"What happened?" I turn and sit next to him, leaning back against the cool metal with my shoulder and hip touching his companionably. I feel Bobby sag toward me and I shift slightly behind him to cushion him from the unyielding wall. "Easy, Ace. Fill me in. Last thing I remember, we were in the van..."

"You get a little testy without your shot, Fawkes." He puts up a hand to stop my apologies and continues, "I said don't worry about it - part of the territory. It's not like any of it's personal." When I look down I can only see his darkened profile. Even though they've got the fluorescent lights set to 'surgery' in here, the combination of the crumpled collar of his grey sports coat and the shadow I'm casting give Bobby a sort of dark alley ambiance where he hides. Something's off, though - I've hit him before, God help me, but he's never been so weird about it. I frown, and then it hits me. Sad. That's what he is - he's sad.

Hobbes isn't known for being open to discussing his emotions, so I decide to go about this in a slightly more subtle way. "What the hell happened, Bobby? And where are we, anyway?"

He sighs and shifts away from me before answering. "We were already on our way to the Agency when you started to go all, you know..." Bobby makes a face and gestures with his hands, like it pains him to say crazy. And now that I think about it, it probably does. "So, by the time we got here, you were pretty far gone and I couldn't find the Keep. You were quite a handful; you trashed a lot of Claire's stuff, which I don't think she's gonna be too happy about. Anyway, I kinda led you into the clean room here, to keep you from trashing anything else in the lab, and gave you your shot."

He's leaving something out - surprise, surprise. For a minute I consider using his own 'we're in this together, partner' speech against him, and then I realize that he's probably trying to protect me in his own twisted way. As I open my mouth, he raises a hand to silence me and reaches for his gun. "Where do you pull those from, your ass?" I whisper as he gets between me and the door - the door that's slowly opening.

"Darien? Bobby?" Claire's voice sounds confused, irritated and worried - in other words, perfectly normal. "Are you all right, Darien?" She pushes the door open and steps in, ignoring Bobby and walking straight to me for snake check. No red - yippee. "Well, that's a relief. Now, what happened to my lab?" Claire is glaring at Hobbes, like it's his fault that I trashed her lab.

"Well, it's a long story, Keep, but Hobbes and I have some evidence we need to get to the boss, pronto. Right, Tonto?" I give my partner a grin and sling my arm around him, pulling back quickly as Bobby flinches and hisses in pain as my arm makes contact with his right shoulder.

"What? What evidence, Darien?" Claire moves forward as Bobby tries to duck away from me and he ends up trapped between us, my hand on his left shoulder, Claire's hand on his chest. I choose to ignore her questions for the moment, instead, my eyes are drawn to Hobbes' jacket, which is stiff with crusted blood.

"Jesus Bobby, what -?" I try to pull the jacket from his shoulder to see what hurt him, but he shoves me away and pulls it back on, his face shuttered. "Bobby?" He glares a warning at me before he turns to Claire, the lightness in his tone at odds with his stiff posture.

"Fawkes, why don't you bring the thing there to the Boss while Keep gives me the once-over?" He wiggles his eyebrows as he rocks forward on his toes. "C'mon, Keepie, wanna play doctor?" With an exasperated sigh Claire pushes her hair out of her face and reaches under the countertop for her first aid kit. I hesitate, but my partner shoos me toward the door so I start walking. I'm in the hallway before I remember that I shoved the cylinder between the seats in Bobby's van.

******

I really, really hope that Claire can forgive me for hotwiring her car but whatever was in that cylinder was important enough to kill for and I wasn't about to let these smug Chinese bastards take it without a fight. Which brings me back to my latest problem - how am I going to get the cylinder out of Bobby's van if the Chinese are apparently content to drive it around in circles all afternoon?

When inspiration strikes there's usually a price to pay and today is no different. I manage to make the phone call to the police while Ping and Pong are taking a chow break at Wonderburger. The only question that remains is whether or not Bobby will kill me for reporting his van as stolen. On the other hand, maybe I can get the Agency to buy him something that actually goes above 50 miles an hour. Who am I kidding - they'll probably make us ride bicycles.

As I struggle to get the image of my partner in purple bicycle shorts out of my dirty little mind, the panda twins appear to realize that they're pretty damned easy to spot in the All-American Piece-of-Shit-Mobile. The sound of a siren seems to spook them and they push the van to an impressive 53 MPH as they careen onto El Cajon Boulevard. I follow them into what appears to be the car painting capital of North America. At this rate the cops will never find them - they'll have the naked chick silhouette and mag wheels on the little rust bucket before you can say 'scratched off VIN number'. The van disappears into a chop shop and I pull around the corner to check things out.

Claire's shiny SUV stands out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood, so I leave it unlocked - there's no sense in inviting someone to bust the window for her crappy radio. I move a little closer to the garage for a little surveillance - no need to waste my newly topped off tank of counter-agent if I can put my old-fashioned sneaking skills to use. Ping's trying to bully an ancient candy machine into submission while Pong is arguing with the guy who's running the joint - all I can hear is 'too much rust'. They've sure as hell got that right. Creeping along the chain link fence that arbitrarily separates piles of beat up car parts, I manage to maneuver over to the far side of the van and open the passenger side door. Time to disappear.

I ease into the van, not quite pulling the door shut behind me and reach down between the seats, hunting for that damn cylinder. Big surprise - it's not there. After checking under the seats, I figure it must've rolled into the back and I try to be quiet as I root around under the dropcloths and bags of equipment Bobby keeps stored back there. I know this is taking too long, but I know it's gotta be in here somewhere. My Chinese friends wouldn't be cruising the city in this reject from the junkyard if they had already found the goods.

I'm so wrapped up in what I'm doing that I almost don't hear the door open. I freeze as a guy in coveralls gets in and starts up the van, driving it into a more enclosed area of the garage. He gets out, grabs a hose off the wall and starts spraying down the outside of the van. I'm about to reconsider the brilliance of my plan when my foot sends something metallic rolling towards my hand. Well, what do you know? Maybe my luck was starting to turn around after all.

I'm not a stupid guy. Okay, scratch that - I've done my share of stupid things, but fundamentally I have more than a couple of brain cells to rub together. On a good day I can do a fair imitation of deductive reasoning, but I'm the first to admit that lucky beats smart every time, and pure dumb luck let me find the catch on the top of the tube. Now here's where the brains part kicks in, or maybe it's my inherent nosiness combined with a pretty good instinct for self preservation.

See, the little piece of graph paper rolled up inside the tube is covered in formulas. I didn't pay much attention in chemistry class but I did pay attention to the Keep's notes, and this looks a hell of a lot like some kind of formula for counter-agent. All of a sudden I've got neurons firing like a Chinese food container in the microwave - the dead guy in my living room, the panda twins - it's all coming together. The Chinese want me all right, and it looks like they've got something I want in exchange.

Here's the neat part, though. Now, I've got their bargaining chip and they've got nothing. I'm feeling pretty cocky as I put the formula in my pocket and slide the cylinder under the corner of a tarp. I figure I'll just slip out of here, make a copy of this little baby for safekeeping, or possibly, the way my life seems to be going, ten copies, get them all stashed in safe locations, give a copy to my Keeper and then I'm home free. Having the recipe for the counteragent is the next best thing to getting this gland out of my head and since that's not going to happen any time soon, I figure I'll take what I can get.

I wriggle out through the passenger door and head for the corner of the garage. I can't wait to get back to the Agency and tell Hobbes - he's going to be so happy for me. Or is he? I can't help but remember the look on his face when I left him with Claire - the way he pulled away from me. I'm busy wondering what in the hell happened between me and Hobbes before he managed to give me my shot when I realize that Ping and Pong are blocking my exit and they're looking my way. I glance down to reassure myself that I'm still invisible and that's when I notice the piece of paper stuck to my shoe. Paper that has been moving towards the panda boys with an odd sort of walking gait. The boys are dumb, but they ain't *that* dumb. Crap.

The problem with luck is that sometimes, when it starts to turn, it keeps going until it's made a 360 back to bad. If they weren't five times my size, the sight of the boys herding a piece of paper back into a corner would probably amuse the hell out of me, but the fact that said paper was apparently a permanent part of my shoe - wait a minute. A little concentration and I'm back to totally see-through. Unfortunately that doesn't seem to have registered with my stalkers so I keep shifting as quietly as I can to keep something - anything - between me and them.

They start waving their arms in front of them as they move forward and I'm really starting to panic a little here - I've already been under for seven or eight minutes and I don't need a repeat of whatever happened this morning. Especially if it has anything to do with that bloodstain on Bobby's jacket. Behind me there's an annoying whining sound, like the world's biggest mosquito, but I'm afraid if I look back I'll knock something over and give myself away. Suddenly I remember the guy spraying the van, but by then it's too late - I'm covered in some kind of brownish crap and Ping and Pong are grinning at me. Too bad they can't see what I see - the side door's open for ventilation.

As you might expect, the boys aren't too graceful, so when I dive over the barrels and hit the door at a dead run, they're pretty far behind me. After a couple of blocks, I shake off the quicksilver and stop to get my bearings and that's when I realize two things. My clothes are pretty much gone and my skin is starting to burn. Ignoring the agonizing burning of my skin, I reach into what's left of my pocket and pull out what used to be a very vital link to my freedom. Now, it's just an unreadable, and rapidly disintegrating, damp lump of paper.

So much for my salvation. I want to hit something, to make someone pay for the cosmic joke that has become my life, but right now I've got more pressing matters that need my attention. Like, for instance, the fact that my skin feels like it's peeling off.

Ever the quick thinker, I duck through the nearest car wash. Silently taking back the ugly things I said earlier about El Cajon Boulevard, I rinse down behind a tricked out 1974 Ford Torino. Starsky would be appalled at what they did to that car, I think, as I take off running again. Thank God Hobbes lives a few blocks from here - I couldn't stay quicksilvered much longer and I think that a visible man running down the street half-naked might stick out in someone's mind. Jesus, I hope Hobbes is home.

******

Now, this is different. I thought I'd finally gotten used to waking up every weird way you can imagine, but on my stomach in the Keeper's chair with Bobby Hobbes holding my hand - that's a new one. A new one I wouldn't mind getting used to, except for the part about the Keeper's chair. It's pretty dim in here and my eyes don't seem to want to open all the way, so I latch on to the only reference point I can.

"Fawkes, it's okay buddy, I've got you. Things are gonna be fine, kid, you just need to wake up for me." His voice is raspy, like he's been talking for a really long time, and he sounds exhausted. I squeeze his fingers lightly and in a heartbeat he's practically on top of me, his breath warming my face as he tries to pry my eyes open. "Fawkes? You in there?"

About ten smart-ass replies come to mind but, when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a garbled mutter. I swallow and give it another try, "Where else would I be, genius?" My hand gets squeezed painfully tight, but Bobby doesn't say anything else. Concerned, I manage to pry my eyes open a little and there's my partner, his free hand rubbing his face roughly. When he pulls his hand away, I notice the bloodshot eyes, bruises and cuts adorning his face and the events of the day come rushing back to me. No wonder I feel like crap.

"Glad you're awake, there, sleeping beauty. Nice of you to join us." Hobbes makes a move to leave, avoiding my eyes the whole time. "I'm gonna go find the Keep and let her know you're awake."

"Stay." I don't know how I know this, but if I let him walk away from me I'll lose him. "Please."

"Fawkes..." He pauses and wipes his free hand over his face. The movement exposes his neck and chest and I hiss at the discoloration there. Before he can pull it back in place I grab his collar and gently push the fabric aside. "Fawkes, you didn't know..." I ignore him as I stare at the finger-shaped bruises on his shoulder and the blood that still seeps through the cotton bandage taped over his collarbone. Images of Bobby in my arms tangle with him struggling, a kiss that blurs into... "FAWKES!"

I look up into Bobby's pained face and I realize that I've ripped off his bandage and I'm gripping him so tightly that I'm probably adding more bruises. I'm also shaking like a leaf as I remember bits of what happened this afternoon.

I release him, but he doesn't let go of me, which is a good thing, because I think I'd probably end up on my face. Now it's me who can't look my partner in the eye - my eyes are drawn to his shoulder and the deep, angry bite mark there. The bite mark I put there. "Ah, Bobby... I..." I shake my head helplessly. There's nothing I can say.

"Fawkes. DARIEN." His hands are cupping my face, forcing my eyes away from his shoulder. I can't look at him. I can't breathe. "Jesus." He shakes me, raising his voice angrily. "You asshole, look at me. This wasn't you - none of it, it was that goddamned gland! You didn't know - couldn't have known. Look at me, damn you." Finally I'm looking at him - he's shaking as badly as I am. His face is ashen, his eyes bright with pain, but even though it's got to be killing him he returns my stare.

I note the marks on his neck, his swollen lips, and more memories flood me - the familiar pain, Bobby throwing his arms around me to calm me down. Giving in to my need, my hands on his shoulders, his body. Except something was wrong - Bobby kissed me back, breathing hard but it wasn't fear, at least not at first. It was incredible and frightening and everything I've ever wanted and any tiny shred of rational thought flew the coop as his lips parted under mine. And then he pulled away from me and the familiar self-mocking mask slipped back into place as he said, "Any port in a storm, huh, partner?" Self-disgust twists my gut as I remember looking down and cruelly twisting his arm behind his back.

I don't want to remember any more but, as much as I want to turn away and pretend this never happened, I can't let him think he was just convenient. He deserves to know that he's wanted, that he's loved. "Bobby, it wasn't the gland." He starts to protest, but I cut him off with an impatient shake of my head. "The part of me that could do this to you," I say, tracing lightly over his bruised flesh, "that was the gland. I would never want to hurt you." I take a deep breath and force myself to meet his eyes again. "But the other part. Me wanting you, wanting to kiss you, Bobby, that was me. You're not just any port to me, you're my partner and you... I... I'm just so sorry I fucked everything up."

Bobby is staring at me, his face is weary and he looks like he's in shock. Involuntarily, my hand moves to his cheek and to my surprise, he doesn't flinch. In fact, after a moment, he closes his eyes and leans into my touch, and it seems that the lines of worry etched deep around his eyes ease slightly. "Fawkes," he murmurs and I wait for his next words. His mouth works for several moments but he doesn't say anything else, instead he turns his head and lightly kisses my palm.

"Bobby," I try to speak but no sound comes out. I clear my throat and try again, slowly stroking his temple with my thumb as I breathe, "Bobby..." His eyes open slowly and it's all there, his need, his pain, everything I've ever done or said to hurt him. I can't help it, I flinch, but then I straighten up and look again because there's something else there. No matter how much he wants this, he won't take less than everything. Every part of me, body, heart and soul. He's scared to death, but he won't give in.

"Don't play with me, partner. I'm not exactly the poster boy for stability here, and messing with me - I'm not at the top of my game today, okay?" At my silence, he nods without surprise or even regret. "Let's just call it no harm, no foul and get back to work." He catches my hand in his and looks at the inside of my wrist, lightly tracing the green snake before he releases me. With a swift tap to my cheek he turns to go.

I catch his hand, giving it a gentle tug, and he stops, his face still angled away. "Bobby, it won't work. We can't go back to the way things were before. There's too much between us now, I think we both know that. Besides, I don't want a do-over and I don't think it's what you want either."

He turns his face towards me, his eyes opening wide in surprise, and I continue before I lose my nerve. "I want you." Once I say the words out loud, I feel vulnerable. "It's up to you now, Bobby, what do you want?"

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly and he looks back over his shoulder. Turning, he cocks his head to one side and rocks forward on his toes as he repeats, "What do I want?" I can feel the electricity snapping between us as he looks me up and down. "Fawkes..." Seductive Bobby Hobbes isn't a stranger, but I've never had all of that energy focused on me - he's an electromagnet and I'm a paperclip. No contest.

In a heartbeat I had an armful of agent, not to mention a mouthful. My single remaining brain cell wonders how that much heat could make me shiver, but mostly I just soak it up. Soak him up, hands on my back, in my hair, grabbing my ass while I explore him with fingers, eyes and tongue. We're devouring each other until without warning he shoves me back against the chair and throws up a hand to hold me away, wiping his mouth as his chest heaves. "Not enough, Fawkes. Want isn't enough. Want I got in spades." He swallows hard and looks directly at me.

"Everybody wants something from Bobby Hobbes. You know what I'm talkin' about, hell, *everybody* seems to want a piece of you - which is what led us to where we are right here, if I gotta remind you. No, my friend, want doesn't cut it. I'm pretty sure I know what you want." He pauses and then, like a gift, the words he has to hear pop into my brain.

"I want you Bobby, I do. I'm not denying that." Not like I could after practically humping his leg three seconds ago. "But I need you. I'm not saying I'd die without you, although, actually, I probably would be dead now if it weren't for you, what I'm saying is--" I pause abruptly. What the hell am I trying to say? "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. Some French guy said that." I sit up and move back into his personal space. "You're essential to me, Bobby. Trust your instincts."

He turns that over in his mind, looking for the loophole, the teeth that'll bare themselves and rip his heart out. I can see him going over and over it, hell, I can practically HEAR him thinking and I hold my breath, waiting for him to figure it out. When he does, it's amazing. Like somebody dropped Times Square right in front of me. Judging by his eyes, I'm throwing out a couple of thousand kilowatts myself.

Old habits die hard. Maybe that's why I raise my hand for a high five but, fortunately, my partner is very adaptable to new situations. Shaking his head, he mutters, "You dope," and pulls my head down. Whoever said, "A kiss is just a kiss," never had Bobby Hobbes put him in a liplock. And if I have anything to say about it, no one else ever will.


~~~~~~~

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