Title: UNSAID

by Tawny

Fandom: The Invisible Man

Pairing: Darien/Bobby

Rating: PG

Series: Part III in the Sex, Lies and Star Wars series created by Chalie Ruocco. I wasn't able to get her permission to post it because she is currently out of contact, with everyone as far as I can tell. Suz, who wrote Part II "I Know" beta'd this for me and gave me permission to post it, and she had Chalie's permission.

This story is dedicated to Chalie Ruocco, whose work inspired me to
actually begin to write slash instead of just reading it as I had for
many months. Please come back, Chalie; you're scaring your friends,
here.


UNSAID
by Tawny

I've been told more than a few times that my selfishness would get me
in trouble. Like if I didn't think about the consequences of my actions, I'd come to regret it. Yeah, well I always thought they meant I'd regret it because I'd hurt somebody. I figured that just meant I had to watch out for payback from some mook that lost out so I could have what I wanted. Hell, I used to be a thief, you know.

There's a chance I was wrong. I may have had something good and let it go.

O.K., I was so selfish that I tore it into bleeding pieces and threw
it back in the face of the person who gave it to me. It's just I've been screwed so many times by people who supposedly care about me. How was I supposed to even recognize what I was being offered? Especially since I'm not quite sure about it still.

It was all great at first, you know.

I wasn't the one that changed the rules. When somebody screws with a
perfect set up I gotta think they're after something, don't I? Why did feelings have to get dragged into it? Feelings have never meant anything but pain for me, so I always try to keep them out of things. It's just safer that way. At least, if somebody has to have them they oughta be left buried as long as everything is cool anyway, right?

Things just got worse after feelings were dragged in, no matter what I did. It even finally got to where I was forced to think about examining my own feelings, find out what they were. But I guess I got that alert a bit late. From where I stand now, it looks like I may have had this weird little epiphany only after I finished completely destroying a real chance at happiness. But I gotta explain how I got here.

You see, my move to defend myself had an immediate result. But it wasn't getting back at me. It was a little hidden drama I wasn't let in on. The giver of this gift I've never imagined I would want kept trying to show me something, like maybe I didn't know what was really going on. All I could see was a lot of pestering and prying and forcing me into a trap I had to avoid.

Suddenly I have this scary suspicion that it might prove to be the one thing that could set me truly free. That's kind of mind-blowing, when up to now I've thought it was a trap, a jail, a leash, a way to tie me down.

How was I supposed to know?

I was working so hard to stay uncaged that I didn't notice when things changed. Anyway, it all happened kinda slowly, kinda subtly. I missed that there was some sort of real pain jelling over there. It was all kept from me.

Then suddenly these desperate measures were taken, and I was too busy at first to catch on. After all, I was trying to protect my independence, prove how I didn't need or want anything from anyone except to be left my freedom.

Then it took me way too long to accept something major was wrong. And longer still to figure I ought to check into it. That's when I got rudely handed a few details about what had been going on that pulled me up shorter than any leash. Enough to make me realize I had better sit down and have a very long talk with myself, and find out what the hell was going on.

But the one who was supposed to care so much changed suddenly. Stopped paying all that excessive attention to me. Stopped being what he'd always been. Changed so much, and I couldn't figure out how or why. But the person who pushed me and pestered me and fucking followed me all the time isn't there anymore. What if all that's left is an after-image that will now slowly fade away?

It seemed like one minute I was being pushed into this awful trap. Like Harrison Ford in that second Star Wars movie. Carrie Fisher tells him she loves him, and he says 'I know'. Right before he gets frozen in carbonite.

Then all of the sudden it all goes away. My world freaks out around me. I guess maybe I just can't admit what I've somehow done and who I've done it to.

My partner, my best friend, and finally my lover. Except I felt a hell of a lot safer thinking of that particular relationship as us just being fuck-buddies. No commitment, just a couple of good buds finding a way to relieve the tension. Even though I knew all along what he was like the moment he let someone touch his emotions. Hell, he warned me at the very start. Practically begged me to protect myself from him by backing off. But as usual I just grabbed for what I wanted at the moment. I wanted him to always be there whenever I was scared, upset, or horny.

That was great, and it seemed like it was great for him too. We had some of the hottest times in bed I've ever known. We were trying anything and everything that came to mind, and getting off like hell.

Then Bobby had to start in on feelings. All of the sudden it felt like he was trying to take possession of me but pretending he was trying to give something to me. I couldn't have that. I couldn't become a piece of property with him too. So I let him know I wasn't having any of it.

Anyway, I got to keep taking the part I wanted. Kind of like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Toss the love back in his face, but keep on helping myself to the comfort, the protection, and the pleasure. It felt like they were rightfully mine, so why should I suddenly have to pay for them? But just to prove that he wasn't getting any strings attached to me, I went out and looked for it elsewhere, too. And I made sure he knew I was messing around.

Bobby kept right on bedding me whenever I wanted him to, but he also kept right on not letting me forget that he loved me. Fucking telling me again and again, although he stopped trying to get me to return the feeling.

It was somewhere along in there that he started to disintegrate, I guess. But he kept it quiet. He was playing the role of some medieval
prisoner, under the lash in a dungeon, just taking it without a sound. Until finally he'd bled away so much of his spirit that he began to collapse. Okay, maybe he stood by me until he was hurting so badly he had to get help.

It's so typical of Bobby that the help he went for has got to be hurting him. I guess it was the only thing he could think of to avoid
things getting screwed up even worse. Since he would; could never just walk away from me and leave me to blow in the wind the way I guess maybe I deserved.

You see, what Bobby did was go to Claire to get his meds changed. I found that out from Claire herself. After a while I noticed that he wasn't just staying quiet around me because he was pissed at me, like I figured. He had turned into some sort of weird ... zombie. Suddenly he was sleeping all the time when we weren't working, and it wasn't just the fake sleeping he'd been doing so much of since I'd been trying to get him to back off. Weirder still, he stopped following me around - and somehow I always knew when he did that. I probably wouldn't have actually fooled around as much as I did if I hadn't known he was there, watching every move I made.

Even at work, where our lives normally depended on his fine-honed instincts, he was kind of bleary and slowed down. But they were sending Monroe out with us, so that wasn't really a problem.

Yeah, it was no problem because everyone but me knew about the new meds and that they weren't just taking the edge off of his depression and obsessive behavior. They were knocking him for a loop. And he was gulping them down like they were water and he'd been lost in the desert for a week.

Things got weird enough that I figured I better go ask Claire if she knew what was up with Bobby. That's when I got an earful.

"Yes, I know what's wrong with Bobby recently. You. Remember, I was there that day at the abandoned apartment building when you let yourself use too much quicksilver and went mad again. I heard everything you said to him."

"You mean you know... ." Even then my first thought was for what an embarrassment it was for me, that my Keeper knew I'd been fucking my
partner.

"Oh, I know all right. And I know how he feels about you, and I know how you've been throwing it back in his face. I've been watching him tear himself apart, loving a self-centered, pleasure-loving, heartless bastard who never deserved a moment's thought, much less blind devotion and self-sacrificing loyalty."

"So you're telling me Bobby's been acting like a zombie because he's pissed at me?" It was easy to see who all the blame was getting dumped on. Me.

"Bobby's been acting like a zombie, as you so sweetly put it, because he thought he had to do something to keep from pushing you too far with his obsessive behavior. Or maybe he finally realized he had to do something for himself before you drove him to lose his last fingerhold on sanity." She slapped the clipboard in her hand down on a table hard enough to crack the board and make everything else rattle. I thought she was gonna spit at me until she turned away. "He came to me to get his medication increased. I had to put him on something much stronger because it controls the obsessive-compulsive behavior better. But to keep him from falling apart, I had to put the dosage at a level that it's going to take him a while to get adjusted to."

"Bobby is drugging himself just because I don't want to be tied down?"

When she turned back, walked right up to me and got in my face, that was when I got a good look at Claire's expression. Her lips were a single thin white line in her face, and her face was flush with anger. Her eyes were sparkling with more than anger, though. Those were tears, and I knew instantly that they weren't for me.

Claire was hurting like hell because of the way I'd been treating Bobby. Maybe because he'd broken his `no fishing' rule with me instead of her. But if she was so upset to see things going wrong for us... what did that mean was happening inside Bobby's head?

At that moment I vowed to myself that I was going to sit down as soon as I got home and think about everything, rather than just reacting without analyzing what it was I was feeling. I was going to take some responsibility for this whole thing, and try to think about Bobby's
feelings, too.

The problem was, when he dropped me off at my place that night,
before I could say goodnight Bobby started climbing out himself.
There was no way I could deal with him being around when I had to
work through what was going on inside me and him and between the two
of us.

"Uh, Hobbes? I didn't know you... uh, I sorta had plans for tonight,"
I told him, panicking. Why is it Bobby always makes everything into a
panic situation for me?

"Don't worry," he answered me. "I'm not planning on staying, kid. I'm
just gonna give you a hand with a few things." Next thing I know,
he's pulling boxes out of the back of the van that I hadn't even
noticed were there. They're full of all of my stuff that's ended up
at his place, one way and another. Including the books of mine that
he deliberately cleared a shelf for. That little gesture of sharing
was the first thing that panicked me; even before he came out and
told me he loved me.

I followed him up to my place, and I know I was whining when I asked
him what was going on.

"Nothing," was his answer, followed by the big bomb. "That's kinda the way I thought you wanted it." While I was still trying to shake off that one, he disappeared into my bathroom, and by the time I got there he was dropping the last of his toiletries into the trashcan.

Instead of answering my questions about what he was up to, he just told me "Have a great night, Fawkes, and I'll see you in the morning," and reminded me the Fat Man had a quicksilver demo scheduled for us. Then he was gone.

I looked around and realized that in less than a minute he had erased all signs of his existence in my life. It had been easy, hadn't it, since I'd been so careful not to let him put his brand on me.

I'd been so careful that now I was left standing all alone in the middle of a big, empty life.

This time, thank God, I had the grace to start crying not because of that but because I knew Bobby had just walked off into the middle of an even colder, emptier one.

* * * *

So that's my situation, and I have no fucking idea what to do now. Bobby's maybe slowly killing himself over me, and now I feel like he's killing me. Except he acts like he still wants to be there for me, even though he's taken back his heart that he kept laying at my feet for so long. I can't believe he just - gave up on me all of the sudden.

Anyway I've got this shivery feeling that when he took his heart back, or at least the broken pieces I'd made of it, he didn't put it away somewhere safe. Cause just when I realized I might better start trying to find some sort of superglue, Bobby went and swept up the pieces and tossed everything down the garbage chute. Now I've also got to figure out if that chute goes to a dumpster I can dig through and retrieve them, or to an incinerator. And I think I know why my brain chose to spit out that particular metaphor. Because I feel like a piece of trash.

No surprise, that. I guess I am a piece of trash. Worst of all, the person who had the right to tell me so refused to do it. Instead Bobby kept trying to give me what I insisted I wanted. But the way he did it was so screwy - it just made it more irritating. And all the time he was falling apart behind my back. It only came out in little hints until suddenly everything cratered.

I'm scared all the wacko things he's doing now are to protect himself by getting rid of his feelings once and for all. Probably thinks he protecting me, too. He's numbing himself out and pulling out of the part of our relationship that forces him to admit he has emotions. Just because he came on a little strong with those emotions and kinda scared me.

And if I try to stop him now there's no way he could ever see that as anything but an attempt to keep my fucking pleasure privileges. That's the sort of punk he thinks I am. Maybe the sort I've been showing him I am.

I finally stop the spiral of despair by asking myself what Bobby would do if this was a case that had gone bad on us. I can practically hear him telling me to make sure I'm looking at all the facts, not missing some important detail that might just give me an edge, a chance to pull this one out of the crapper still.

So I realize I'd better get on with that little chat with myself. Time to figure out how I really feel about Bobby, and what a romantic relationship between us would actually mean to me and to him. And I guess also figure out what not having that relationship would mean.

If it weren't so terrible, I could almost laugh at myself. All I'd been seeing was that every move and word from Bobby that proved how much he loved me terrified me. So I did everything I could to stop him scaring me. Stop him loving me.

Guess what? Now I discover that what was making me so afraid wasn't being tied down by his love, but that I might not be able to hold on to it. Talk about your self-defeating pre-emptive strike. Kind of like your mom bakes cookies for you, but you throw the cookie jar on the floor and smash it because you don't think she'll let you have any.

Well, since I'm trying to be totally honest, I guess I was also afraid that something so big, so real, so perfect couldn't last no matter what I did. That he would fall out of love with me as easily as he fell into it. You'd think I didn't know Bobby Hobbes very well. With him this sort of thing is forever.

At least, it always was until I stepped up to the plate and did even worse to him than his ex-wife ever did. She didn't reject his love, she just let him know she couldn't deal with the obsession that came with it. So what about now, with him going to extreme measures to rid himself of his heart that maybe was finally mending after the divorce, and that I broke all over again?

I have to admit that there aren't many things Bobby Hobbes can't accomplish if he truly decides to do it. Except get me to let him give me happiness to go with my freedom that he so carefully guards. But can he really just eradicate that part of him that loves and needs to be loved?

I hope to God he can't. And I know I have to talk with him and stop him hurting himself even more by trying.

But that is one hell of a scary proposition. The very thought of going to his place and seeing that empty shelf where my books used to be, of facing him and telling him what I've discovered about myself, all terrifies me. It scares me shitless. So I'd better loosen up a little before I go talk to him.

It doesn't take me long to polish off the few beers in my fridge, and that's all the alcohol I happen to have in the apartment. I decide I'd better head his way, but stop off for a booster shot of courage before I go in to see him. There's a nice quiet little neighborhood bar not far from his building.

Naturally, sitting there being miserable about this whole mess, I keep asking for one more round. And one more. And one more. Finally around 2 a.m. they throw me out on my ear, and I decide it's time to face the music.

Even when I know I'm making big scary mistakes, I just keep making them. I don't know how I expect to hold a deep, emotional conversation plastered like a cheap wall.

But I go straight for my old safe haven, Bobby's place. I even manage to find my copy of his apartment keys, but they don't work. Finally I realize that I'm trying to put old keys into very new, very shiny locks.

He's changed all his locks.

Suddenly I start to get mad. He can't do this to me when I'm finally ready to accept that I need him, need his love, and want him so much I can hardly fucking think.

I start pounding on the door. He'll come fast enough to stop the racket, I know. In a minute I hear him mumble in a strangely thick voice, "Go home, Fawkes, we gotta work in the morning."

If I thought I was scared before, it was nothing compared to the stark terror that's building inside me now. What if it really is too late? What if I've already lost everything forever?

"Open the fucking door, Hobbes," I scream at him, pounding out my fear with my fist. It swings open so suddenly I lose my balance. If he weren't standing so close, I would have hit the floor, but there my rock of Gibraltar is, ready to stop my fall as always. I feel a sob of relief boil out of me, even though his eyes are terribly, horrifyingly distant.

"You're drunk," he tells me. No shit Sherlock.

"Why'd you change the locks? I thought we were partners?" Please don't let him deny that relationship still exists.

"We are." How can he say that so quietly, and steady me with such a gentle touch, and then grab his car keys and drag me right back outside? I try desperately to get out something, anything that will make him understand that I'm ready to talk. All he responds with is that I'm too drunk to get home on my own, so he's gonna take me.

"I don't want to go home. We need to talk, Bobby." Even saying his name, that word that could mean such joy, brings another sob to my throat.

"Feel free."

Oh, God, is that what he's been trying to tell me one way or another for months? That what he wants for me is that I feel free? Those words bounce around in my empty head like a handball in a court where the players have all gone home.

Before I can think of how to start, he's got me back in my own place. It's when he starts undressing me with all the ardor of an old nurse pulling double shifts that I finally manage to choke out his name again. This is the man who just a few weeks ago - well a couple of months - was fucking my brains out with so much passion he couldn't help gasping a declaration of his love for me. I can't stand that now
he's touching me without a modicum of that passion.

On top of all that booze, the wrenching agony of his indifferent hands on me slams my stomach into reverse. Hard.

He gets me to the toilet in time not to make a mess everywhere. And when I finally stop heaving - I guess my body has figured out that this won't get rid of the ice that's forming in my gut - he quietly cleans me up.

"Feel better?" he asks.

I stare at him in the dimly lit bathroom. His face is an emotionless mask, except it doesn't look like any of the masks I've seen him wear. It looks more like he's been striped down to the bone, and it doesn't show anything because he can't feel anything any more. My Bobby isn't there any more, and I think it's because I killed him.

"Bobby..." I want to scream out for him to come back, but my grief fills my mouth and throat so tight I can barely even speak those two
precious syllables. He just looks at me for a minute, then gently takes me to my bed.

The whole time he's stripping me and getting me comfortably settled, I'm trying with every ounce of my being to spot some sign that any of this means he still cares the way he did. That he still loves me. And not seeing any. And I just get more and more afraid.

"Get some sleep, kid." He's turning away, as if I'm meaningless now that he's done his duty by me.

"Bobby," I struggle desperately to say something, anything that will make him care again. "I love you." The truth is my last hope.

He turns around and I pray that he will see how scared I am of losing him, and find it in himself to consider giving me one more chance.

"I know," he answers gently.

And leaves me alone with myself. Alone in the cold darkness that not even the blankets he tucked around my body can stave off. It's all gone, my Bobby is gone, and I need him back so badly.

* * * *

William Shakespeare talked about sleep as a great healer of wounds, that it 'knits up the raveled sleeve of care'. I don't think of sleep as much good for solving problems, but it does help you hide from them for a little while. It's like getting drunk, except it does help heal your body from the consequences of drink.

At least until you wake up with a hangover. And the first thing you see is the object of all your emotional pain shaking you with unemotional tenderness, and a strong cup of coffee and three aspirin in his other hand.

"Come on, Fawkes, you're gonna have to get up now. We've got about half an hour to get you pulled together and get to the fat man's office."

"Why are you here?" The question is about the best I can do. At least I'm not shoving both feet full-on into my mouth.

"Because if I show up without my partner I'm not doing my job. I figured after the way you got drunk last night you'd need some help
figuring which end was up."

He even smiles a little as he says it. Like he doesn't want me to think he's yelling at me about the whole getting drunk thing. But the smile isn't in his eyes. His eyes are empty. Well, they've been kind of that way for a while. Probably since he started on the new meds. But this isn't just a drugged-up emptiness. It's like if they're the windows to his soul, he's packed up and left the house.

Okay, charging right in is what got me into this incredible mess. That and not paying attention to Bobby. Since I know damn well I'm in no shape to be dealing with a sensitive issue, for once I decide to take the smart route. I do as I'm told.

Which is all too painful, considering getting ready for work this morning is just about more than I can manage. And even though being touched the way Bobby touches me is even more frightening this morning than it was last night, I'm not about to fight him. I'm going to put the punk attitude in storage and act like my life depends on me behaving myself. Because I feel like maybe both of ours do.

Not even when he grabs my hair stuff and helps me get the do in shape do I try to argue. Why he cares if I have what Claire calls 'depressed hair' I don't even want to guess.

On any subject other than the task at hand we exchange a grand total of four words, two apiece, in the van on the way to the office.

"I'm sorry," I allow myself to say, finally.

"No problem."

Aw crap.

* * * *

"Boys, I've got a very special assignment for the pair of you." I never like it when 'Fish starts chuckling like that.

Okay, maybe he's just pleased because I followed orders and his little demonstration of his pet project - me and the gland - came off so well. I know I was bitching about it enough the last few days since he told us about it. But I was real good. I've never pulled that one on him, so I don't know how he'd normally react.

Not that Bobby seemed to notice my self-discipline. He didn't crack a grin once while I was showing off. I swear he didn't even seem to notice one minute of the demonstration.

"Seems like something is slipping in the teamwork department, so you two," now he points a finger at each one of us. I know that's not a good sign, when he starts putting out more energy than he has to, like lifting both hands. "You two are going to take part in a little team building exercise."

Any other time, there are so many smart remarks either or both of us could be making here. I know there are. They just don't seem to matter much at the moment. I don't even get a little laugh out of the disappointment in his face when we don't crack wise.

"Hmm, well," he grumbles. "What I want you two to do is go through the dead case files, as well as the open requests files, and give me a short, concise summary of each case, along with your considered opinions. Both" he stresses the word, "of your opinions, with explanations of why they differ, for each case."

"We'll get right on that, chief," Bobby answers him. "Eberts, do you want us to work in the file room and archives, or would you rather..."

"I have all the pertinent files set out in lab 3 ready for you to begin work." Poor Eberts, I'm behaving myself and Bobby is being polite. He really does look confused.

Once we're alone in lab 3, I sit down opposite where Bobby has already opened the first file in one of the stacks.

"Bobby?" I ask for his attention. No more demanding for me.

"Yes?" He looks up quietly. No brushing me off, no distraction with his task. He just seems so resigned.

"Things can't go on like this. The Official isn't going to accept our not working together right any more. No way he's gonna let the well-oiled machine break down. Don't you think we need to resolve what we're going to do about... us?" I'm not sure how to refer to the relationship that's gotten so badly fucked up.

"There are really only two choices here." Bobby treats my question with sober consideration as if I were asking about a life or death situation. Which I suddenly realize I am.

"We can try to go back to the way we were before - see if we can work together and operate our relationship like that again. Or we can put every bit of this behind us completely, and start our lives from scratch again."

"Go back?" He still believes I want him for sexual gratification only. And despite everything that's happened, how much he acted hurt by all of that, he seems willing to try to find a way to give me that.

"No way. It's not right, Bobby. Not acceptable." I put every bit of earnestness I can dredge out of my soul into saying that.

He nods acceptance.

I can hardly believe after all that's happened, he's willing to start all over and try to build a new relationship between us. Maybe I don't deserve any of this, but I can tell he's never going to make a point of that. How could I have thought he wanted to trap me emotionally?

But it doesn't make sense that he still looks so sad. There's still pain in his eyes. I have to deal with that right away. I'm not going to screw this up again.

"Before we… put this all behind us, Bobby, there's one thing I have to know. One thing I have to ask of you. Can you forgive me for… for everything?" Sure I'm begging, but some things are a lot more important than pride.

He gives me a dead solemn look, like he's really thinking about it. Then he closes his eyes for a moment, and nods with a slow serious smile.

"Yes. I can forgive you. And I do."

I'm still nervous and unhappy. I don't know how we're going to actually go about starting from scratch with so much already between us, but I swear I will put everything I've got into making up all the pain to Bobby. But I won't press him for anything until he tells me he's ready.

We even almost get a little bit of the old bantering going when Bobby tries to explain deep cover agents to me. He's telling me that The Agency could profit from supplying one for the Afghanistan trouble. The file we're working on is an outstanding request to all intelligence agencies for agents to help out with that mess.

"But we've got so few agents around here now, Bobby. Can we afford to send one off for a couple of months?"

"These guys are foot soldiers. Then there are the active duty agents, like you and I. But there's a whole 'nother bottom-scrapping level called deep cover. And an assignment like this wouldn't be just for a couple of months. We're talking semi-permanent. Deep cover agents don't spend time here at headquarters. We've got a fair number out there all over the world, running long-term assignments or covering a region.

"So why have I never heard of these guys?" I gotta kid him a little, but I do want him to see that I'm willing to listen and learn.

"You have. Couple of years ago in Mexico." He watches me for a reaction, then supplies the answer I'm missing.

"I was on deep cover down there for three years before Arnaud led you into my back yard."

I sit and consider this information.

"Do we have anyone qualified and, I guess, available for this assignment? How'd they pick you for that mission? Wouldn't an agent need special qualifications?"

"You're thinking like an agent now, Fawkes." Bobby nods in approval. "Anyone they put in this shit-hole would have to have the right look, first off. You for instance, wouldn't be able to pass as an Arab to save your life. Besides that you don't speak any Arabic or any of the dialects. Now, me..."

"You're kidding me, here." I can't suppress my astonishment. "You speak Arabic?"

"There was a Saudi family next block over when I was a kid. My grandfather was always trying to teach us about tolerance, and I ended up hanging with one of their sons about my age. I learned gutter Arabic from him and he learned Brooklyn Yiddish from me. Helped me a lot when I served in Desert Storm. Besides, the CIA had me assigned out there for quite a while during some of the Israeli spats."

"Wow. That's really cool." Months I was sleeping with the guy and I think I just learned more about his past than he's ever given me in one chunk before. I'm starting to feel a little more upbeat. Probably because for once I'm putting something besides my cock or ass into the relationship.

"Tell me about it. How'd you do it? I mean, do you pass as a native or what?"

He spends probably the next hour giving me the low-down on just how he would handle the assignment. I have to admit, it's impressive. He certainly convinces me that we need to send someone with the same sort of knowledge and experience he has on the assignment.

Just to show him how proud I am of having him for a partner, I tell him I bet no-one could do it nearly as well as he could. Anyway, it's true. Except of course he'd never go. I need him here.

* * * *

One whole week we've been working on these files, and that one story, that one really cool hour is the only bit of closeness we've had. Oh, we're working together pretty well, but there's none of the old zip about it. I guess that's all part of starting from scratch, though.

That and the emptiness that's still in his eyes whenever he looks at me. It almost feels like he's moving away from me rather than trying to start getting back together. But he did tell me that I had grown a lot as an agent in the last two years.

Then he spoiled it by saying he was glad I'd learned to look out for myself so well, but he was gonna miss having to do it for me. Like I've done something wrong by not needing that. Isn't it enough I've admitted I need him?

This morning, though, Bobby still hasn't come in. That shouldn't be bugging me the way it does. But somehow I feel all empty - like he's never coming. Just to stop myself thinking that way, I start looking at a couple of closed cases he was showing me yesterday where they'd gone wrong on them. Then Eberts comes in.

"Oh." He doesn't exactly look delighted to see me. "Agent Fawkes. Um, it won't be necessary for you to work on these alone."

Well, that's an odd thing to say. I'm sure Bobby will show up any minute now.

"I'm sure we'll have an assignment for you and Agent Monroe by this afternoon. Of course, no decision is implied as to whether the two of you will be permanently assigned as partners..."

"Partners? Eberts, what the hell are you talking about? Bobby and I are partners. Look, just because we kind of got off track..."

Eberts amazement stops me short.

"I understood that the two of you had come to this agreement together. That's why the Official approved the reassignment at all. I must say it was difficult for him to make the decision to once again allow our finest active duty agent to retreat into a deep cover assignment that wastes his talents." He gives me one of those cold, distasteful looks like he's got green tomatoes in his salad. "Agent Hobbes also indicated that you expressed your strong approval of his choice of new assignment to volunteer for."

"New assignment? Hobbes volunteered?" None of this is making anything like sense to me. "Eberts, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're saying that you and Agent Hobbes did not discuss that the two of you had lost your ability to work as an integral unit, and agree that it would be most suitable for each of you to start anew; 'from scratch' I believe was his term?"

"We talked about wiping the slate clean and starting our partnership over from scratch." I can't believe what I'm hearing. Bobby's twisted up everything I said.

"But your combined report on the Afghanistan deep cover request was fairly explicit that you both felt Hobbes was the perfect agent to fulfill that particular request. Surely you realize that once an agent has begun a new deep cover assignment of this sort, he is likely to have to remain out of contact for several months while he establishes his cover? That once established they rarely return to home office again?"

Well, yeah, Bobby explained all of that to me. Why did Eberts seem to think that either of us expected Bobby to be the agent sent out? Did Bobby tell him that behind my back? How could he do this to me?

"You can hardly imagine you would be allowed to join him? Your partnership was permanently dissolved the moment he left San Diego for the Middle East this morning."

* * * *

I don't remember what happened after that until now. I'm sitting in the middle of what used to be Bobby's apartment. All of his stuff is gone. He left me two things - his Philosophy for Dummies book all alone on that damn shelf, and a sealed envelope with my name on it sitting on the kitchen counter. I guess I might as well open the envelope and find out what he has to say.

`Fawkes', I read.

(God, he doesn't even call me by my first name anymore! Even in a farewell letter!)

I won't say I understand what your feelings toward me are, but I am willing to accept them. I do understand how uncomfortable I make you. I'm sure you made the best decision that we not even try to reestablish the partnership we had before we screwed up and screwed each other. I'm sorry that I have driven you to despise me so much that even that thought revolts you.

It slowly starts to seep in what he is saying. I was trying so hard to let him know how much I regretted abusing his love that I never realized he could be misreading my intention. He thought I was rejecting him. He thought I didn't want any kind of relationship with him. Like the moron that I am, I never made it clear that I wanted to
reject my own former behavior. I never came out and said what was on my mind.

I never said, "Bobby, I've been such a jerk, and I'm so sorry I hurt you. I think maybe I love you."

Okay, maybe I never said that because it sounds incredibly corny.

Corny is better than what he wrote.

I truly do forgive you for whatever part of this you feel responsible for. We both made a lot of mistakes.

Starting over is probably the only real solution there ever was. I just wish you could start over in better circumstances, but at least I won't be part of your problems this time.

I should never have tried to claw my way back to the big leagues, but especially not through partnering with you. There was good reason why they put me out to pasture on long-term, low-priority deep cover work before. If you'd had any experience in the world of intelligence, you'd have realized from the start that you deserved a real partner instead of me. I sincerely hope and believe that with Monroe, this time they're giving you one.

I'll always love you and I'm sorry that freaks you out so bad.

R. Hobbes

I guess Bobby would and could just walk away and leave me, if he was convinced that was what I wanted. And he left thinking I don't love him. He left despising himself because of me.

Suddenly I'm seeing an image from the past. An image from a time when I was hurting almost this much over losing someone I loved. When I was hurting over Kevin's death. When Bobby Hobbes first walked into my life looking like a refugee from a Hemmingway novel - unshaven, his light colored suit creased and dirty, the pina colada in his hand obviously not his first.

"Oh, THAT was real smooth."

The Hobbes of more than two years ago might have been making his sarcastic comment about my life ever since. Does the man who has now reclaimed decrepit obscurity and isolation have even the modicum of self-respect that sneering relic had? Or have I taken away even that?

END