Title: Snow Day

Author/pseudonym: Suz

Fandom: Invisible Man

Paring: Bobby/Darien

Rating: NC 17 for adult concepts, language

Status: new/complete

Archive: WWOMB okay, all others ask

Series/Sequel: sequel to Wet Dream

Other websites: None

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, but I like to pretend I do.

Notes: My take on the old cliché; stranded, wet, two boys, one bed.

Spoiler: small one for VS3 ep 7



"Snow Day"
by Suz

It's been a long time since I've slept in the same bed with someone else for a whole night. I'd forgotten how much I miss it, cuddling up with another warm body. Oh, it's not like I don't get any action, it's just that it's pretty much been a series of one-night stands since Viv left me. Up till now, it hasn't been `right', spending the night. The ladies I've been with have been willing enough, it's just that I. well, I kinda didn't want them getting the idea it was gonna be more than a one-shot deal. I'm pretty up front about stuff like that, cuz I've found it saves everyone a lot of headaches down the line when we're all on the same page. And for me, that page has been pretty blank for the most part since the divorce. It took a lot outta me, losing Viv because I was too nuts for her to stand bein' with me.

At least I don't have that problem with my current bed partner. Fawkes knows just how nuts I am, and he rolls with it. Pretty cool. Of course, he knows a few things about `nuts' too, even though Claire cleared up that little quicksilver madness problem that went with the gland. But
it's the `bed buddy' thing I'm lying here in the dark thinking about. What happened between us a few hours ago has got this little shivery feeling going in the pit of my stomach. That first day of school kind of feeling. I'm not used to that with Fawkes. We've worked together for over two years now, and we're mostly like two halves of a whole. I've never worked with anyone like him. Anyone who really gets me. Who doesn't mind that I come at most stuff from weird directions. I stopped feeling edgy around him on the job so fast, it's gotta be some sorta speed record for me. I usually take a while to warm up to people. But this kid and I just clicked.

So it's weird to suddenly after all this time be feelin' nervous. I lie there, staring up at the ceiling watching the wind whip shadows across it. It's cold as hell outside the shelter of the blankets and the warmth of Darien's body draped over me. Cold enough that our breath smokes in the air. Damned heater is next to useless. But at least the rain seems to have stopped. It's gotten really quiet except for the wind in the trees and the soft sound of Fawkes breathing.

He's got his head on my chest, one arm thrown around me, and one leg tangled with mine, as if he's holding onto me for dear life. Maybe he is, actually. I found out a lotta stuff tonight I didn't really know. Well, hadn't really let myself think about, anyway. Stuff that gives me a different handle on Fawkes. It never occurred to me that he might be bi, or that he had the feelings for me he says he does, or that the damned quicksilver makes having an unclassified love life impossible for him. He hasn't exactly been talkative about his love life since I've known him, but I know he did the horizontal mamba with one or two of the babes that have crossed his path, but I know it hasn't happened very often. I've been going around and around with it since he first woke me up, masturbating against me in his sleep. And even that wouldn't really have thrown me like this, if it'd just been some generic wet dream. But it wasn't. He was dreaming about me. I guess that's what makes all this real. Everything he told me he felt is real. I just don't know if I feel the same way.

It's not that I regret what happened between us. Hell, I'd have to be some sort of saint not to want to get off like that more often. But it's making me wonder just what sort of price tag is gonna be attached to this. Adding sex to a perfect partnership on the one hand seems like
the way to go. We already spend almost every waking moment with each other. Adding the sleeping ones doesn't seem like such a big leap at first blush. But I know better than that. In this business, getting too emotionally attached to someone is dangerous. Not only for them, but
for me. I guess what I gotta figure out is, what changes if we go through with this. If we make a regular habit of spending nights together. I look down at the top of Fawkes' head, the dark hair curling and waving around his face. He's reminding me of something, with that relaxed innocence in his face, and it takes a minute before I connect the dots. A kid sleeping. A little one. In this light, I can't see any of the tiny lines around his eyes, or on his forehead. He looks like he's maybe five. Or he would if it weren't for the muscles in his arm where it lies across me. This surge of protectiveness sweeps up from outta nowhere, and I reach over to stroke his hair gently.

He shifts a little under my hand as if he likes the contact, so I go on petting him like a cat. It's a tactile thing, something I don't let myself get into very often. Fawkes, on the other hand, is a toucher. At first it bugged me a little, his constant need to touch the people around him. All my training in covert ops has been about not letting people inside a certain boundary. I'm not sure exactly when it was it stopped being a problem and turned into something I actually liked. He
has an instinct about when I need. something. Some kind of human contact. And he's always there. It's not the only time he touches me, though. He does it when *he *needs something, too. He doesn't make a big deal out of it, just runs a hand down my arm, or slings an arm over my shoulder, or something.

What I don't get is why I never saw this coming. I suppose I could lie here second-guessing everything we've said or done together in the last 18 months, looking for the moment it changed for him. But I suspect it's one of those things that happened kinda slow.

Not like lightening strikes or earthquakes, just friendship that's gotten a little deeper than either of us expected. By this point in my whacked-out life, I've spent enough time in therapy to know better than to waste my time trying to figure out when or why he started feeling things for me that went deeper. If I asked, he probably wouldn't be able to say, exactly.

I guess all that really matters is that it's changed, now. The next big question for me is, what do I do about it? Ignoring it, going back to the way it was yesterday when I didn't have a clue would be one option, I guess. I'm just not convinced it's the best one for either of us. What we have here is two lonely guys who spend a whole lotta time in each other's company, and who've just found out that maybe the things partners do for each other include giving each other a hand, sexually. Which still feels really weird to be telling myself. But I gotta admit, Fawkes wasn't lying when he claimed to have talented fingers. Or a talented tongue, either. I've had my share of oral sex, but last night, he gave me what has to be hands down the best blowjob of my life. If I look at it like that, two guys just helping each other out, then it's a little easier to deal with. The company pier thing isn't an issue if this is just one more thing Fawkes and I do for each other as partners.

I lie there thinking as the darkness slowly lightens to a deep blue, then to a lighter one, as dawn breaks. It must still be cloudy out, because there's no hint of sunshine through the closed curtains. By the time my slug of a partner is starting to stir, I've arrived at the decision that I can do this. The fuck buddy thing. As long as we keep it under the hupa, since it's not likely the Fat Man is gonna like hearing that we've got a partnership that goes a little further than the job. Bastard'd probably split us up just to make us miserable. I stroke Fawkes' hair again without really being aware of it, the idea of not being with him, not working with him, seeing him every day spiking an anxiety attack in the pit of my stomach.

"Mmmmmm..." Darien mumbles, snuggling closer against me and brushing a kiss over my chest. "Nice," he encourages me as I run my fingers along the waves of hair that curl over his nape. "G'morning," he adds, turning his head to smile up at me.

"Morning yourself, partner," I return the greeting, ruffling his hair a little. "How you feeling?" I ask, hoping I can get an idea what he's thinking as far as what happened last night goes.

He stretches, rolling onto his back, spine arching like a cat's, hands up above his head, toes pointed south, and my mouth starts to water at the sight of him all spread out for my viewing pleasure, even if most of him is still under the blankets. He's one hell of a good-looking kid. The grin on his face says it all. "Fine," he says, turning his head to look at me, the smile fading a little as a worried crease settles on his forehead. "How `bout you?" he asks. Meaning, am I regretting what happened? Am I freaking out?

"Stop worrying, will ya?" I smirk. "It takes a little more than a lovelorn partner to freak out Bobby Hobbes."

He's not quite sure what to make of that, and I shake my head. "I'm fine, Fawkes. How could I not be when you sucked my brains out my dick last night?"

His smile creeps back up to full wattage. "So, uhm, you liked it, huh?" he concludes hopefully.

I snort. "Yeah, it's safe to say I liked it," I assure him.

"Enough to do it again?" he asks, a funny mix of shy and cocky in his expression.

"Yes, enough to do it again," I confirm, reaching up to fluff up his spiky hair fondly. I can't keep my damned hands out of it, now that I know how soft it is. It's gonna be a compulsion, I can tell. The fact that he seems to really like having his hair played with makes it even more tempting.

"Cool," he says, the happy excitement in his voice making me grin. He reaches over and kisses me light and fast on the mouth and rolls out of bed, heading for the bathroom, leaving me lying there looking after him, fingers raised to my mouth in shock as I watch him walk away, totally unselfconscious.

He kissed me. On the mouth. I don't know why that's freaking me out when having him deep throat me didn't, but it is. It's not like it was anything more than a peck. But my hands are sweating, my pulse just went through the roof, and my stomach is in knots. Because he kissed me. I've just been kissed by another man.

I still can't get my brain around that by the time he comes back out, and he must see something in my face, because the little tune he's humming fades away when he sees me sitting up in bed staring at him. "What?" he asks uncertainly. "What's wrong?"

I don't know what to say to him. Hell, I don't even *know* what's wrong. "Nothing," I say, trying to sound like it's true. I flip back the blankets and get up myself, the cold air of the room a shock on my skin. Snatching the crumpled and wrinkled towels from between the sheets where they ended up last night, I toss one at him, and take the other. "Think I'll grab a shower," I tell him as I head for the bathroom.

He reaches out to touch me lightly on the arm as I pass him, worried. "Bobby?" he asks.

I keep moving, pretending not to have heard him, shutting the bathroom door after myself and turning on the shower.I hope the hot water will thaw the icy sense of unreality I'm feeling.

(2)

When I come back out, he's pulled on his still-damp clothes. He's standing at the open door staring out at the snow that's covering the ground. Guess that explains why I couldn't hear the rain anymore. I shiver in the draft. "You mind shutting the door there, Fawkesy?" He spins around, still barefoot, this huge grin on his face, and I grin back. I can't help it.

"It's snowing!" he announces as he shuts the door. "God, is that cool or what?"

I shiver again. "Yeah, `cool' about sums it up," I agree sarcastically. "C'mon, Fawkes, you grew up in Cold Springs. It snowed there, didn't it?" The foothills town he went to live in after his mother's death musta had snow.

"Maybe twice," he says, still smiling. "I haven't seen it falling since I was twelve."

I shake my head a little at his enthusiasm, and grab my boxers, stepping into them. Ick. I hate wet clothes, and the stupid heater didn't do much to dry things out during the night. I struggle into my damp clothes, wondering if the garage mechanics can give us an ETA on the repairs to Golda.

Fawkes has pulled back the curtain so he can stare out at the gray sky and the thick haze of snowflakes that are drifting steadily out of the low clouds. "Hey, partner, wanna go see what we can scare up for breakfast? Maybe buy a couple of sweatshirts at the grocery store or something?" I suggest as I wrench wet laces through stiff wet boots.

"I could eat," he agrees, the weirdness of the kiss he gave me forgotten by both of us for the moment, eclipsed by the little kid in him as he scrambles into his wet shoes and pulls on his equally wet gas station attendant's jacket. "Just waitin' on you," he says, glancing at me expectantly, kinda like some goofy golden retriever or something.

See, this is what I like so much about him, this cock-eyed way he comes at stuff. I mean, I have my idiosyncrasies, sure, but they're nowhere near as endearing as his. He's never lost that kid part of himself, somehow. That ability to look at falling snow and think about snowmen and snow angels instead of what a pain in the ass it'll be to have to shovel the driveway, or what a mess it'll be when it melts and makes mud outta everything. He makes me smile, this kid. "C'mon then," I say as I pull on my own wet jacket and open the door.

We step outside, the squeak of compressing snow under our feet as we troop across the motel parking lot. I detour to the office to see if I can talk them into trying to fix the heater, and Fawkes follows me, head tipped back, catching snowflakes in his mouth, blinking them out of his eyes. I can't help laughing at him, snow in his eyelashes and hair, looking like someone dusted him with powdered sugar. "Wonder what snow'd do on quicksilver," I speculate as I hold the office door open for him and he steps in.

"Let's try it and see," he suggests, grinning at me as I look around for the clerk. Finally, I ring the bell on the desk and a matronly looking gal waddles out from the back room.

"May I help you?" she asks.

"Yeah, we're in cabin 17, and we're having a little trouble with the heater," I tell her. "You think you could have someone take a look?" I request. "Oh, and maybe leave some extra blankets and towels?"

She scowls. "I'll have Norm check it out," she says. "How long will you gentlemen be stayin'?"

"Till our van gets fixed. We ended up in a ditch yesterday afternoon. Bent an axle."

She nods sagely. "Stranded, huh? Well, you might want to go by the Mercantile and get yourselves some dry clothes. According to the weather report, It's gonna be snowing for the rest of the day, at least."

"Thanks. Where is it in relationship to the grocery store?"

"Opposite side of the main highway and down about a hundred yards. Right next to the Orchid Lounge," she tells me. "Can't miss it."

I snort as I thank her, hustling my partner back outside. Usually when a local tells you you can't miss something, it's pretty much a guarantee that you're gonna miss it. "C'mon, Fawkes, let's go see if we can find us some mountain duds," I catch him by an elbow and drag him after me.

He follows obediently enough till we step out to the main road, then he gets distracted by three kids having a snowball fight, and naturally, he has to join in. "Hey, Hobbesy, duck and cover!" he shouts as he bends and scoops up a double handful of snow, compacting it into a lumpy snowball. Fresh powder doesn't stick very well, so it's only cuz the warmth of his hands melts it enough that he can get it to hold together.

"Fawkes, dammit, I'm freezing, not to mention hungry," I complain, and get his snowball smack in the middle of my chest for my efforts. "You punk," I laugh, grabbing up my own handful of snow and stuffing it down the back of his neck as he turns to run.

He laughs as he scrambles down the sidewalk, snatching up another handful of snow from the pile alongside the road where the snow plow has already been through. I chase him down the sidewalk towards the lighted neon sign advertising the Orchid Lounge, which turns out to be a down-at-the-heels diner. Still, they're doin' a booming business, cuz the place is pretty packed, and I hesitate, torn between getting fed and getting dry clothes. Another snowball to the back of the head makes my decision for me and I turn around and tackle Fawkes, knocking him into the snow bank, grabbing handfuls of snow and stuffing them in his mouth and down his shirt, laughing as he sputters indignantly. "Say `Uncle'," I order, feeling him wiggle between my thighs as he struggles to topple me off him. I hold him easily, but the feeling of him between my legs is an unexpected turn on, and I see him realize it as his struggles slow and become more deliberate, his groin bumping mine with deliberate thrusts. "Fawkes," I say, voice rough. "Not here."

He doesn't answer, just moving suggestively against me, and I know I should get up, but fuck, it feels good, his dick against my balls, even through both our pants. "Fawkes," I repeat, and still he doesn't stop, as caught up in the feeling as I am. "Darien, I am not fucking you in a snow bank," I warn him, starting to breathe harder.

"We could," he says, voice throaty, and I see the flicker of quicksilver on his hands, knowing he means invisibly. And for a split second, I actually think about it, wondering what it would be like to feel his hot cock along my own, the quicksilver the only thing between us and the icy air.

"You two boys need a hand?" comes the amused inquiry from behind me and I scramble off Fawkes, standing and then reaching down a hand to him. He takes it and I help him up, turning to face our wannabe assistant.

"Thanks anyway. My friend, here, was just reverting to childhood," I tell the wizened old coot standing there in his plaid wool coat and his deerstalker. Fawkes is busy dusting the snow off his ass and I try not to think about what we were just doing. "Can you tell me what time the Mercantile opens?" I ask. "We kinda got stranded, and we weren't exactly expecting a blizzard."

The old timer glances at his watch. "Should be open right about now," he says. "This ain't no blizzard, either. But I guess a couple of flat-landers like you two wouldn't know that, huh?"

Fawkes gives him this half-sarcastic, half-sweet look. "That's us, city slickers all the way."

The old guy laughs, sharing the joke. "Middle of February, we could still get a blizzard before spring," he concedes.

"Thanks for the help," Darien says warmly.

"No problem, sonny," he's told and the geezer stumps on down the sidewalk towards the other end of town.

"Sonny?" I repeat, feeling one eyebrow crawl up my forehead. and he grimaces.

"Don't even think about calling me that," Fawkes warns. "Come on. Let's get some clothes." He leads the way up the stairs to front door of the Mercantile.

(3)

I step inside, the blast of warm air melting the snow on my shoulders instantly. The place is a funky mix of feed store and western outfitter, with saddles and tack and hunting equipment mixed in with old fashioned racks hung with jeans, plaid shirts, shit-kicker boots, sheepskin jackets and what-have-you. Fawkes is in hog heaven as he heads straight for the yoked cowboy shirts, rummaging through the rack till he comes across the loudest one in the bunch, a bright purple satin job with black piping in all sorts of curlicues and spirals all over it. It's gawdawful, and he loves it. I groan, hitting the opposite side of the rack, pulling off a nice black number with no frou-frou crap, just silver buttons. I guess they have these duds for rodeos or
line dancing or something. No other reason for the psychedelic cowboy look.

"Aw, c'mon, go for the gold, man," he tells me, lifting a gold satin shirt off the rack and handing it over the top to me. It's got black piping all over it just like the purple one, and I doubt I've ever seen anything more hideous.

"No way, my friend. No way you're getting me into that piece'a crap!" I exclaim, hanging it back on my side of the rack. "'Sides, we're looking for something that'll keep us warm, not costumes for the local circus."

"Hobbes, you got no sense of style," he complains, holding up his purple monstrosity against his chest and admiring himself in the mirror on a nearby pillar.

"Fawkes, how warm do you think that thing's gonna keep you outside?" I ask him, checking the tag on my black shirt. Wool and silk blend. Nice.

"Whaddaya thing I have you for? This puppy is stylin', like me," he boasts, swaggering around to my side and taking the yellow rag off the rack again, and holding it up to me. "And this is you. Black and yellow, for my little tiger," he teases me.

I glare at him, stepping back away from the obnoxious satin shirt. "What did you call me?" I ask dangerously.

"My little tiger," he repeats, grinning. "You know, like Calvin and Hobbes?" he clarifies and I stare at him.

"So that's where the damned hair comes from," I mutter, suddenly enlightened. My life is a comic book. And I have a little kid for a partner. That explains everything.

Fawkes tugs at his kinda limp spikes a little, smirking at me. "Hey, it's better than a superhero comic, right?" he urges.

I eye him up and down. "I dunno, seeing you in a leotard might be a thrill," I disagree. "And you've got the super power down, right?"

"Don't superheroes usually work alone?" he counters.

"Not the X-men," I contradict. "They work as a team, right? And what about Batman?"

"Well, I guess you could be Robin," he shrugs, primping with the shirt again.

"Nuh-uh," I disagree. "I'm Batman, you're Robin," I tweak him.

He glares at me. "Hey, you just said I'm the one with the super power."

"Batman doesn't have superpowers," I remind him, "just brains, bank and a cape."

"Oh for oh," he laughs. "Don't forget the latex suit, either."

"Didn't know you were into rubber, Fawkes," I comment calmly, turning to admire the black threads in the mirror. I see him sidle up behind me, catching my eye in the mirror.

He bends his head so his mouth is near my ear and whispers, "I'd love to see you in latex. and nothing else," he murmurs as he moves past me to the next rack of clothes to check out the jeans all casual-like.

I gulp, knowing exactly what he meant, the ache in my balls telling me in no uncertain terms that I'd be happy to accommodate him. We drift through the racks, tailing each other, exchanging double entendres, brushing against each other, and just generally egging each other on. When he trails his hand over my ass for the fifth time, I know we'd better cool it because otherwise I'm gonna drag him into the fitting room and make him suck me off again. Probably not the smartest thing we could do. I take my choices in clothes to the sales clerk, Fawkes wandering after me, still waffling on the purple shirt. I've picked up a red flannel one for him, cuz the purple isn't gonna do it, as far as keeping him warm. She rings us up, a full change of clothes for each of us, plus a couple of heavy sweatshirts and gloves, then waits for him to make up his mind.

"Come on Fawkes, you gonna take it or not?" I ask impatiently.

"The Fat Man's gonna take it outta my pay, isn't he?" he asks me regretfully.

"That's a slam dunk, my friend," I agree.

"I guess I'll pass," he tells the clerk sadly and watches unhappily as she takes the thing and puts it on the returns rack behind the counter.

I fork over the Agency card and pay for the duds, then put on my sweatshirt, wearing my damp coat over it. Fawkes does the same, and we take our bags and head back out into the snow. It seems colder than it did, and the snow is falling harder, but maybe it's just cuz we've been inside a warm building for half an hour.

"Want to see about getting some food?" I suggest as I hear Fawkes' belly rumble.

"Yeah, I guess," he mopes, still mourning the stupid shirt, and I shake my head as I lead the way into the Orchid Lounge, following the waitress to a booth in the front window. It's more exposed than I like, but the only other option is the counter, and I don't want my back to the room. Just one of those personal quirks of mine. I pick the side of the booth with the least window exposure out of habit, and take my menu while Fawkes sits down opposite me.

"Can I get you guys some coffee?" she asks, snapping her gum the way Fawkes does when he's being punky, and I flash her a smile that thaws her out a bit.

"That'd be great. We're freezing. Kinda got caught unprepared," I tell her, and she smiles a little, nodding sympathetically as she turns the thick white ceramic mugs right side up at each of our places.

"Happens a lot this time of year," she agrees. "Folks from down below think it's spring, but up here, it takes longer than Valentine's Day for the snow to stop." She turns, takes a coffee carafe off the heating element on the service station behind me, and pours us each a mug. "Want a sec to check the menu?" she asks as she tops Fawkes' mug off.

"Yeah, if you don't mind," I agree, and she moves off to handle another customer.

Fawkes is scowling into his coffee mug, both hands wrapped around it to thaw his hands again. He's in one of his moods all of a sudden, and I sigh. "What is it, Fawkes?" I ask, knowing he's sulking over something. "You still thinking about that shirt?"

He shrugs a little without making eye contact, which tells me something else is going on.

"So what, then?" I want to know, sipping my coffee, then adding cream. It's good, but it's strong.

"Could you turn down the wattage a little, maybe, huh?" he asks. "Unless you and Sheena want to take the cabin...."

Surprise makes me choke on my coffee and I barely avoid spilling my mug. "You're jealous all of a sudden?" I ask, staring at him. I can't quite decide whether to be annoyed or amused, but his rueful look makes me laugh. "Look, Fawkes, it's just a thing I do. Smoothes the way to be
nice, and it don't cost anything to maybe make someone's day a little better, right? It's not like I'm gonna haul them off to our little `love shack' and have them join the party, alright? Sheesh. I didn't figure you for the jealous type."

"I didn't either," he admits, finally looking at me. At least he has the sense to be embarrassed.

"Yeah, well, green ain't your color, kid. I promise, you'll be the first to know when Miss Right comes along. But for the moment, I'm settling for Mr. Right Now. Ok?" I tease him, and I see him start to get all defensive, then he shrugs and smiles a little, then lets it go. But for a second there, there's something in his expression I can't quite get a handle on.

I get distracted from asking what's eating him now as the waitress comes back. I take a quick look at the menu then ask her advice. "So, what's good?" I ask, and she sighs, then does the spiel for whatever the short-order chef is having a hard time selling this morning. "No," I interrupt her, "What are you thinking of having when you get off shift?"

She raises an eyebrow appreciatively. . "You're smarter than you look," she tells me, and I laugh at the left-handed compliment. It's something I worked out a long time ago, the sort of half-witted shtick that lets me watch people and get a feel for them before they can peg me. "Murray made his waffle batter this morning and the blueberries in it are fresh. It's either gonna be that or the huevos rancheros, cuz the chilies came yesterday," she answers.

"The huevos it is," I hand her back the menu and she turns to Fawkes, who's got a bad case of indecisiveness this morning.

"I guess I'll have the waffles, two eggs easy over, and a side of bacon and sausages," he says at last, handing her his menu with a tentative smile. It gets the response he was hoping for, that woebegone, earnest look of his, and she smiles warmly at him.

"The waffles are really good," she compliments his choice as she writes down his order and tucks the pad in her apron pocket and walks away with a shy little glance over her shoulder.

"Maybe I'm the one who should be jealous," I observe and sip my coffee, trying to ignore the weird feeling in my chest, watching him flirt with the girl in his own half-assed way. It's not the same feeling I used to get when I went out with Viv and other guys would hit on her, but it's
uncomfortable anyway, whatever it is.

Darien just shrugs and sips his coffee, obviously thinking about something.

I resist the urge to fill the silence, settling for watching my partner stare out the window at the still-falling snow. The bluish light from outside frosts one side of his face while the warm light of the diner's overheads highlights the other, revealing all the little lines he's acquired on his forehead and around his eyes. It's the only giveaway that he isn't as young as he acts sometimes, or looks, for that matter. It's his version of my dumb act, that naïve quality he has. If nothing else, though, his confession last night of just how bad things were for him in prison has pretty much convinced me that naïve is not the word to describe my partner. Tough, maybe. Or gutsy. That's what I'd pick, if I had to choose only one word. The thing is, it hasn't made him hard the way it does with a lot of ex-cons. Basically, he's a good guy. Gentle. Compassionate. Yeah, he can be a prick when the mood strikes, but when it comes down to it, he cares too much about people to ever make a good crook.

Not that he wants to hear it. He still thinks he was a great thief. Well, maybe he was good at B&E, but if you're going to be a successful bad guy, you can't compromise the mission just cuz someone has a coronary right in front of you. It's get in, get out, no hesitation, no regrets. It's a lot like being in the spook biz. And his compassion can be a liability in this business as much as it was in his old line of work. But I wouldn't change him for the world. Because the reason we do what we do is other people. People we may never know. But Fawkes looks at your average guy on the street and knows that person is exactly the one we're in place to protect. I don't think he thinks about it that way, but since the faceless masses aren't faceless to him, that's
basically what it boils down to.

It's all about individuals with him. He's one of the few people I've run into in the last five years who figured out that I may be nuts but I'm not stupid. Most of the people I've worked with either never figured it out or it takes them a whole lot longer than it took him. And I think it's maybe been since I was in the Marines that I've spent my time with someone who's willing to die for me. As easily as I'd die for him, not cuz it's my job, but because he's that important to me. Like when I was in the Marines, it's not something I spend a lot of time thinking about, you know? It's just one of those facts of life. Except that with Fawkes, we never went through all the brainwashing and team building that it takes to break down barriers between teammates and build that kind of bond. What we have is friendship. The real deal. I trust him like I don't think I've ever trusted anyone.

The waitress shows up with our breakfasts and sets them in front of us with a genuine smile. "Here you go, guys, soup's on," she flirts with both of us, and Fawkes gives her a shy smile, the averted eyes, the bashful ducking of the head making her eyes go wide. The thing is, I don't think he's really doing it on purpose, but the result is the same. She's his, if he wants her. Except that he thanks her politely, and, reluctantly, she takes off. I gotta smile.

"Fawkes, you're a frickin' tease, you know?" I inform him.

"What?" he complains. "What did I do?"

I grin. "Nothing," I tell him. "That's the problem, as far as your little friend is concerned, pal."

"Who? Sheena? I thought you were the one who was hot for her, not me," he disagrees.

"Man, no wonder you haven't been laid recently," I laugh gently, picking up my fork and taking a taste of my breakfast. "Clueless," I say with my mouth full.

He just quirks his eyebrows at me as he starts in on his own meal.

"She's ready to have your children, Fawkes," I smirk and take another bite.

"Oh give me a break, Hobbes," he scoffs and hacks off a big chunk of sausage, popping it into his mouth. "Why would she look at me with the super spook in residence?"

I snort. "You talkin' `bout me?" I laugh.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' `bout you, Robert," he retorts around his mouthful of sausage.

"I'm no super spook, kid. I'm a hack. I do what I gotta do, but it ain't much of a life, lemme tell you." I haven't really told him this in so many words, but this business has more than its share of
downsides. "All the bullshit aside? This is a crappy way to make a living, partner. You can't tell anyone you care about what you do, can't claim bragging rights, can't even use it to con the ladies into your bed. James Bond is a myth."

He's staring at me, stopped in mid-chew. "What about partners?" he asks. It's so soft I can't hardly hear him

"I don't want to con my partner into anything," I tell him fiercely, not sure where the sudden anger comes from.

"Neither do I," he agrees and goes back to his breakfast, still focused on me.

"So. The waitress. Would you do anything about her if you had the chance, and no gland?" I ask the hypothetical question.

He snorts and sips his coffee. "Like what?" he asks, forking up a bite of waffle with some of his egg on it.

"Whaddya mean, like what? Whaddya think? Take her to bed, you doofus," I laugh, sampling my eggs. Nice and spicy, just the way I like them.

"I dunno," he says. "Maybe yesterday I would have. Today, I don't have to. Already got what I want as far as that goes." He glances my way from under surprisingly long lashes, and it takes a sec before I realize he's flirting with me.

"You comin' on to me?" I ask suspiciously.

"Give the man a cigar," he says, the smug double entendre emphasized as he takes another bite of sausage, making it into a subtly sexual production by running his tongue over it before putting it in his mouth. Which is when I feel the top of his foot hook back behind my ankle, then slip up the back of my calf. Even through two pairs of wet pants, the heat of his leg along mine comes through, and it's sexy as hell. It's also way out of bounds in a public place like this.

It's weirding me out a little. I'd like to think it would even if some hot chick was doing it, but I know part of it is that it's because it's him doing it. I'm not much for public displays of affection, never have been. It was one of the things that Viv hated about me. I wouldn't kiss her in public. At least not anything other than a quick peck. But I'm a little old to change now. I tense a little and he feels it, because the foot disappears, though he's still making eyes at me from across the
table. "Save it for dessert ," I tell him, moving my leg back a little.

He licks the syrup off his lip without breaking eye contact, and my balls start the same slow ache they had goin' in that snow bank an hour ago. How the fuck is he doin' that? Turning me on without touching me? The intensity in his eyes is as scary as it is exhilarating, and I can't look away, liking my lips a little self-consciously. We finish the rest of the meal in silence, eating fast, and I'm suddenly more interested in getting back to the motel than lingering over another mug
of scalding coffee. Even if we don't fall straight back into bed, the size of my hard-on is gonna be noticeable on the streets, and I'm not in the mood for parading around this one-horse town advertising my sudden change of allegiance in the bed-mates department. I only hope that whatever they have that passes for room service has been and gone by the time we get back there.

Our little friend the waitress is back with more coffee and the bill, but Fawkes and I are so focused on each other we're hardly aware of her. It's only when she gives us this odd look that I finally realize she's asking if she can get us anything else.

"Uh, no, thanks," I tell her quickly, wondering how many times she asked before I heard her. Fawkes has this inscrutable expression on his face that I swear is him trying to stifle a laugh as we get up, leaving our money on the table along with a healthy tip.

(4)

"Where to now?" Darien asks as we step back outside into the snow with our shopping bags.

"I should go talk to the garage guys and see what the story is on Golda," I say as I flip my jacket collar up to keep the snow from sliding down my neck.

"Gotta do that now, huh?" Fawkes asks without looking at me, pretending to be enraptured by the snow-blurry view down the two-lane highway that makes up the main drag of this little burg. He's standing right next to me, his side warm against mine, and I'm pretty sure he's thinking along the same lines I am.

"Course, they did tell me that it'd take at least 36 hours." I hesitate, letting him divert me if he wants to.

"Yeah, and it's almost a mile walk to the garage. Maybe we should just call them first. If she's not ready, there's not much point in going down there in this weather," he agrees.

"Soooooo.." I start. "Back to the ranch?"

"Maybe the heater will be fixed," he says optimistically as he starts back the way we came, towards the little hovel we're currently calling home. I fall in beside him, staying close. I tell myself it's for the warmth.

"Well at least there's satellite TV, I remind him. "And I guess I oughta check in with the Agency, let them know how things stand."

"I guess," he concurs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two more blankets and extra towels are stacked on the freshly made bed when I unlock the door of our cabin and let us in. And unless I'm mistaken, the air is a little warmer than it was when we left. Wonders will never cease.

I walk over to the nightstand where the phone is and dial the garage to get the status report on the van, which is basically that they expect the part this afternoon, but the snow may slow things up. The earliest we're gonna be getting outta here is gonna be tomorrow morning, looks like. I'm not sure what Fawkes has been doing while I was on the phone; he's disappeared, so I assume he's in the bathroom. I dial the Agency's number and give Eberts, the news that we're going to be stuck here for another night. He makes some worried comment about the budget and hangs up. I turn to drop the receiver back in the cradle and whack into Fawkes, who's standing right behind me, so close I don't know how the hell I didn't feel him there.

I jump in surprise and he steadies me and takes the phone out of my hand, dropping it into place. He's naked as the day he was born and his hair is wet. Shower. I remember he didn't get one before we trooped out for breakfast.

"Sorry I scared you," he says softly as he runs the fingertips of his left hand along my arm, just standing there staring down at me with this look, like he's waiting for something.

Damned exhibitionist, I think as I glare at him, ducking around him so I can reach over to twitch the open curtains back closed. I move away from him and turn on the TV more to cover up the mingled attraction and annoyance I'm feeling right now than because I want to watch it. What I
really want is to watch Fawkes. I swear, the kid has no freakin' clue how pretty he is. Damned near androgynous. Or he would be, if it wasn't for the good-sized cock between his legs. He's half hard, and I doubt it'd take much to finish the job. It's the first time I've seen him naked in daylight. It's worth seeing. Fuck.

"Am I embarrassing you?" he asks, moving towards me tentatively, touching my arm. "You know I want you to look at me, right?" He takes another step closer.

"Yeah, you're making *that* pretty obvious," I tell him sarcastically.

"And it's freaking you out," he sighs, dropping the hand.

*Yes, it's freaking me out. What the hell does he expect*? "No, it's not freaking me out, Fawkes," I snarl, embarrassed, and angry because of it. "Did it ever occur to you I just might not want to share the view?"

He takes another step towards me, and I have to struggle to stay with his face, to not run my eyes over him the way I want to run my hands over him. This is still way too new a feeling for me to trust it. Maybe it's really no different than when I'm attracted to a woman, but if that's the case, then why does it *feel* so freaking different?

"It's alright, Bobby," he murmurs quietly, his voice soothing, like he's talking to some nervy animal he isn't quite sure of.

"What, Fawkes? *What's* alright? Me wanting to knock you on that skinny ass of yours? Me wanting to grope you?" I ask ironically. "Me wanting * you* to grope *me*?"

He smiles a little. "All of the above," he assures me, moving closer and slowly reaching for my hand.

I let him take it, and try not to flinch when he settles my palm over his dick. It's the first time I've seen him, really seen him. He's slim-hipped, narrow-waisted, he's so fucking *pretty*.

But feeling him harden under my hand, knowing it's my touch he's responding to, fuck, what a rush. I just stand there for a second, feeling him stiffening up, his cock warm and alive in my hand, then I stroke him, listening to his breathing shake in his lungs. He wants this. Wants it bad. Wants *me*. Not some fictional character I'm passing myself off as, but *me*. Bobby Hobbes. Certified nut job. Who'd'a figured? And him wanting me is making *me* want *him*. I cup his balls gently, tumbling them, and he moans, steadying himself by grabbing my shoulders. "See?" he grins. "I told you I wanted you." And he lowers his head and kisses me.

Not the light brush of lips from this morning, but a *kiss*. His tongue strokes over my mouth, asking for entrance, his lips warm and soft and so much like Viv's that for the tiniest second, I respond, helplessly. It completely throws me. I wrench my head away, scrambling back from him. "What the hell was *that*?" I demand, fighting the panic attack that surges through me with all the power that lust had, 30 seconds ago.

"It was a kiss," Fawkes stares at me like I'm totally losing it, and I gulp, trying to get a grip on myself. "Bobby -" he starts, moving towards me and I take another step back. He swallows hard, and I can tell I'm scaring him, but fuck, I'm scaring myself, here.

"Bobby, what's wrong?" he asks, voice a little shaky.

"Don't -" I back a little further away. "Just don't touch me right now, Fawkes, ok?"

He goes pale, this stricken look on his face, and I hate myself for saying it, but I need some space, and some time, to figure out what the hell is going on with me right now.

"Bobby." it's a whisper, raw, broken, and it kills me to hear it in his voice, but the terror racing through my blood is worse than anything I've felt since the day I stood and watched as a truck bomb was driven into the American Embassy in Beirut, killing a handful of Marine grunts under my command. The feeling is nauseating, and my world narrows to the panic attack pounding through me. It's like trying to swim up a waterfall, adrenaline rushing through me like Niagra Falls. My heart is pounding so hard I can't hear over it, and whatever it is Fawkes is saying to me now might as well be in Swahili for all the sense it makes. I close my eyes, concentrating on breathing, like one of my therapists once taught me, deep draws, in and out, ignoring the icy
sweat that's prickling on my skin and my clammy hands. In, out. Deep breaths. *C'mon, Hobbes, you can beat this*, I tell myself as I struggle to get it under control. *It was a freakin' kiss! You've been kissed before, right, Hobbes*? I run through the list of reality checks that long experience brings to mind by instinct, those pep talks to myself designed to break down whatever it is that's making me lose it into small increments that I can actually handle. All I can say is, thank god I have12 years of psychotherapy under my belt.

*Ok, Fawkes kissed you*, I tell myself, waiting to see what sort of reaction the old adrenal glands pump out there, and though I feel the rush of it in my blood, it's not really that much worse than it was a second ago. So that's not it. Fawkes says he's got feelings for you. *Those* kind of feelings. Still no massive surge, so I force myself to ask the next question: You've got the same feelings for *him*. The physical reaction in my body is unmistakable, huge, a spike in everything from breathing and heart rate to the clenching in my throat that I recognize as a basic hurl reflex. I stagger away across the room towards the door, groping for my jacket, unable to meet my partner's eyes. ".need. need some air, Fawkes, ok?" I beg, shrugging into the wet wool of my blazer and ducking back outside into the snow, shutting the door behind me, abandoning him.

END PART 4