Under The Gun

Round Robin by Chris and Fox

Not suitable for anyone under 18.

Spoiler: Tiresias

WARNING: AU STORY/HEAVY RAPE/SLASH

Rating: R or stronger for language, sexual situations, brutal rape, and physical/mental abuse. Not suitable for anyone under eighteen. Not suitable for adults. Mention of depraved behavior, including the licking of a wound.

****Contained under pressure. To expose fanfiction to environment, depressurize the canister. Turn lid .25 degrees counterclockwise, light fuse at bottom, and stay way back. Adviseable to leave neighborhood and call S.W.A.T bomb squad. Inform closest relatives of impending event.****

Disclaimer: We do not own the rights to TIM; they belong to the SciFi channel and whoever created the characters and story. There is no profit being made from this story. It is for entertainment purposes only. We mean no disrespect with this piece of slash-fan fiction.

Under The Gun
by Chris and Fox

"Connect me to the Keeper, please." He tried hard to keep his voice calm and at a near-whisper. He couldn't risk waking his partner up; what might happen if Hobbes knew what was going on?

The answering machine clicked on at the other end of the line. Darien groaned softly and said something unpleasant about the Keeper and the reason she was so cold-blooded.

"Um. Yeh. You need to get out here. We're in Christiansburg, VA, following that lead on the assignment. Something's wrong...um. I'm going quicksilver mad real fast. I don't know how long I can hold it off. Uhh, I'm having the headaches and my eyes are already starting to turn. The monitor you gave me is showing red. I can feel it, now."

He hadn't planned on having to use the quicksilver gland like this, but he'd gone invisible earlier, for too long, and now, he was feeling the edge of madness creeping up on him. His head hurt so bad; he could feel the feedback and the rush of hot anger that signaled the next phase.

He growled then, into the phone that he held in his hand.

"You know what? Forget it. Just forget it. You can fuck the rats in the lab for all I care. Right now, I don't care what I do. We're in a hole in the wall named The King's Rest. I think I'll go see what I can do for myself. Tell the big guy it was a bust and that I hope he sleeps at night, cause I DON'T!"

Darien Fawkes slammed the receiver down and buried his head in his hands. It was closer, gnawing at his mind like a sharp-toothed monster. He'd been trying to call his Keeper for two hours now. Her answering machine was full of messages from him, surely chronicling his fast, panicked descent into the darkest corner of his mind.

The nightmares had gone on---they'd never left. Since he'd come so close to killing his partner, though, and had been stopped by a quick needle from the Keeper, they'd taken a stranger turn for the worse.

Before, he'd been seeing Hobbes under him, the life being choked from his smaller body; his dark eyes bugging out and his face going red from the lack of oxygen.

Now, he saw other things. Forbidden things. The dreams had continued, growing worse, showing more…and now, they were there, in his waking moments, as he slipped farther over that edge between himself and the monster inside that was eating his soul.

He couldn't imagine treating anyone that way; to take such liberties, to force them to do those things. To torture and savagely enjoy another body in that way…Darien couldn't believe that he was getting better, as the Keeper had claimed. The monitor was helping, yes, but only if he was close enough to get a fix.

Now, the segments of the snake were lighting up and he was being shown that he'd not found a way to control the madness----it had found a way to make his nights even more tormented.

He wasn't getting better. He was getting worse. He wanted to toy with, abuse, and torture his partner, who'd done nothing to deserve such treatment. It was hard, hiding the truth of what was going on from Hobbes, but he'd lied and told the older man that he was fine and that he seemed to be getting a grip on the quicksilver gland now.

It was a lie. Oh, it was worse than a lie. He clutched his screaming head and felt the sweat popping out on his skin as the levels of the chemical climbed another notch and settled in for the ride. He'd lied through his teeth and smiled at Hobbes, who'd believed.

They'd not had enough money between the two of them to get separate rooms. Hell, they'd been lucky to afford this dump. There were cigarette burns on the orange and purple bedspread that would've been tacky even back in the sixties. The pictures were nailed to the walls and they were probably the worst imitations of bad paintings he'd ever seen.

The room was dark and dismal with its one lamp by the bed. It had one lumpy, broken down bed. He couldn't believe his misfortune. No matter how bad things had been before he'd gotten busted the last time and sent to prison, he'd never been forced to live like this.

Darien fought the cramps and shudders that ran through his body. He'd stripped down to his shorts and showered in the cold water of the filthy stall, but it hadn't helped. Now, he sat, knees drawn up, still wet, and wished he could die before it got so bad that he snapped.

The phone by his side was silent. There was no call that would come to save him. He was losing it fast and there'd be no one to stop him this time.

The water from the shower and the sweat he was pouring dripped down his bare skin, teasing him. It was like a lover's touch, trickling from his scalp and heading down his back.

It was a dump. The assignment was finished; it had been a bust. The lead they'd thought they'd had turned out to be a bust and now, they were spending the night in the same room; a room with nasty carpet that might have been orange, but could have been bleached brown. The tv didn't work and the air conditioner had only belched foul, tepid air.

The phone was silent. Oh, he'd give anything to hear her icy voice right now, telling him to hold on. Telling him that she was right around the corner and that she'd be there to administer the shot of counteragent that would arrest the progress of insanity that was breaking his every inhibition and shredding his mind.

There'd be no one to stop him from going through with it. The old man had told the truth, he knew, when he'd told Darien that he'd kill Hobbes..he just hadn't finished telling him how it was going to happen. Bare hands meant a lot. He could kill in a hundred ways with his hands.

Right now, what he wanted to do was run screaming from the motel, into the dark of the night, before he lived out the worst and most exciting dreams he'd ever had.

No one could stop him. No one, not even Hobbes himself, would stop him. He could do as he pleased and there'd be no witnesses except the little piece of his sane mind that would be retained when he couldn't hold back the madness anymore. When his Id broke free, the part of him that was still Darien Fawkes would have to watch, unable to stop the monster from using the opportunity that had been given to him by Fate.

He was under the gun now and unless he missed his mark, it was not going to stop until he'd killed his partner; something that would be the end of something else, something more.

Darien smiled, as the last vestiges of his control broke under the constant pounding of the darkest part of his desires. It was time to keep that appointment with Fate.

Rising, he opened the bathroom door.

On the bed lay Hobbes, who'd finally gone to sleep, hours ago, stripped down to his own shorts and a white tee-shirt.

He couldn't believe how hard he grew in that one moment. Without a thought, he removed his shorts. Letting his cock spring free, Darien took a deep breath and let it out slowly and closed his eyes, savoring this moment.

Before the night was over, he'd have finished it. He'd have done what he came here to do. It was going to be delicious.

Cat-like, he stalked, naked and wet with the moisture on his skin, to the side of the sagging bed. There, in the combined light of the lamp and the bathroom's ceiling fixture, he saw Hobbes' shoulder holster where the agent had placed it, on top of the neat, folded pile of his clothes that lay on the extra straight-backed chair.

The paranoid Agency man had locked the door and had even drawn a chair up under the knob. No one was getting in easily. They'd have to kick the door down.

Darien listened to the feral pounding in his head and smiled slow. He drew the gun from its holster and looked at it closely. Oh, he could take his own head off now. He could do what Hobbes had stopped him from doing before. He could put a bullet in his brain and make the whispering and the humming and the ravenous mad thing dead. He'd fulfill his end of the prophecy by killing himself instead of killing Hobbes.

But, the Id spun, burning its path, and he knew that he could survive this; he didn't have to kill himself. He could kill Hobbes and it would be over with in that way, too.

Darien looked down the barrel of the gun and smiled broader. The dreams. Oh, those dreams that had been both wildly sweet and horrifyingly terrible. The things he'd done in those dreams!

He had to taste of it before finishing the prophecy. It would be so good to not face the night, the darkness, alone.

Putting the gun to Bobby Hobbes' head, he pulled the hammer back, enjoying the solid click of the cylinder dropping into place, bearing it's little piece of lead death. In the following quiet, his voice was husky, harsh, and nearly sing-song.

"Wakey, wakey, Bobby. I can't sleep and you're gonna play a game with me."

Hobbes' eyes had come open fast, wide, and the agent had frozen in his place, feeling the cold steel against his temple.

"Fawkes, what the hell is the matter with you?" He didn't say anything more, as his staring gaze found Darien's face and saw the redness that had completely engulfed the man's dark chocolate-brown eyes.

"We're gonna play a game, Bobby. It's a fun game. I think you're gonna like it. I know I will." The madness was stony and as rigid as the hard-on he'd been nursing. The inner one, Darien who still believed he didn't have to do this, cringed and fought without success, to stop what had been set in motion.

Hobbes, to his credit, remained calm. "Oh, and what fuckin' game is that, Fawkes?"

"We're gonna play and see which one goes off first, your gun or my cock. Either way, you're history, partner." The smile was steady, predatory, and Darien Fawkes felt a surge of power as he saw the anger and shock in Hobbes' face.

"Are you out of your damned mind?" The agent began to roll away from the service revolver, only to be grabbed by the arm.

Lifting him easily, Darien drug him from the bed and held him tightly as he struggled, grunting, trying to break the crushing grip the younger man had on his body.

Calculatingly, the monster that was Darien, jerked the cord free of the back of the tv. Now, he would make the cord work for him. He tied his partner's hands together, tightly and quickly.

He tossed Hobbes to the filthy carpet. In the yellow light from the lamp, his face was scared and mad, as he fell, mostly naked, and landed hard.

"On your knees, Bobby. I know you want to do this. You're gonna get your chance right now, before we both die. Do you want this chance, Little Bobby Hobbes?"

Hobbes opened his mouth and started to shout, to say something. His face was livid with rage and terror. Darien used the opportunity. He stuck the barrel of the gun into his partner's mouth and smiled down at the man who sat on his knees.

"Take that...you know how to do this, don't you? You know how to suck cock and you're gonna prove it to me now. First, you're gonna show me how you do it with the gun."

The older agent's eyes showed his anger as he drew away from the revolver. "Are you out of your fuckin' mind, Fawkes? Get a grip on it and remember who we are!"

"Oh, no. I'm not out of my mind." Darien's voice, like silky sandpaper, raked the words, bringing every possible meaning to them. "I know who you are. At least..."

Again, the tone of his voice was like a lion's rough tongue, taking a bite out with each syllable. Using his large, muscular hand, he jerked Hobbes' head close, bringing his mouth down over the barrel of the newly cleaned .9 millimeter Beretta that was aimed directly at his partner. It was only inches in front of his throbbing cock.

"I know what you're gonna be. You're gonna be my bitch tonight and when it's over, you're gonna be dead."

Part Two:

Jesus, how the fuck did things go so wrong? Where was it written that everything in his life had to take a friggin' wrong turn?

Once they'd decided that the case sucked major donkey dicks, Hobbes and Fawkes had both been drag-ass tired and not up to the four-hour drive back to the Agency. It was early evening, and neither of them felt like being cooped up in the van any sooner - or longer - than necessary. Fish and Game had given them a laughably small budget for the trip, so they'd splurged on take-out and the cheapest motel they'd been able to find. The Dew Drop Inn had a quaint, cutesy name that belied the hideous nightmare of the interior, but with styrofoam containers of cooling
food in their hands and about fifteen non-Agency dollars between them, the Dew Drop would be their home for the next few hours.

The kid had been a little quiet, but that was ok with Hobbes. Finding the room had only one bed had started a certain train of thought, and he glanced at Fawkes once or twice while they ate. Well, *he* ate, at any rate. Fawkes stirred his coleslaw half-heartedly, and kind of poked at the ribs, but he really didn't eat. Red flags went up immediately.

"You ok, Hotshot?" Hobbes asked, careful not to seem too concerned. "How's that monitor working?"

"'S working." Fawkes made a last jab at the food in the container, then sighed. "It must have been a 112 degrees today; I need a shower." He rubbed his eyes. When he lowered his hand, Hobbes gave him a quick once over. Fawkes' eyes were clear, though the long sleeves of his shirt hid whatever reading might be on the monitor.

"Don't go postal on me, Fawkes. If you're not aces…."

"I said I was cool, ok? I just need a shower. Where's the bag?" They each kept a few things in the van because Hobbes believed in being prepared. The small bag held basic toiletries and a change of clothes each, and Fawkes had laughed at him until he'd had the bad luck to stumble while chasing a suspect. He'd found out the hard way that not everyone cleans up after their dog, and the next day he'd slipped a change of clothes and shoes in the bag with Hobbes' things.

"Corner." Hobbes pointed with his fork, then scooped some of Fawkes' neglected fries into his own container. "Let's hope the plumbing works. And don't hog the water."

Fawkes nodded, and when he stood, Hobbes concentrated on keeping his eyes on his meal, and not at his partner's crotch, now at eye level. Once Fawkes turned to retrieve the bag, however, Hobbes took a long, uninterrupted look at his body.

Christ, he was tall! 6'4" or 5" easily, and not an ounce of fat on him. Hobbes' cock was stirring again; he'd been half-hard since they'd entered the motel room. He was all bluster and bluff, but at night, alone in his bed, Hobbes wondered what Fawkes' skin felt like. Wondered whether his nipples responded faster to roughened fingertips, or the warm, wet velvet of a tongue. Would he moan if you nibbled the tender flesh at the base of his throat, or was he the quiet type? Hobbes wondered if he'd played sports in school, and decided that with his build, he was sure
to have been on a basketball team at some point in his life. When Fawkes bent to sort through the bag, Hobbes' breath caught in his throat, and he looked away. He pushed the thoughts to their usual place in the back of his mind, and closed his food container.

"Hurry up, or I'm going in before you." He hoped the huskiness in his voice wasn't as obvious as it sounded, but to his relief, Fawkes laughed.

"Yeah? Try it, and I'll have to kick your ass." He straightened, clutching a small bundle of clean
clothes in his hand. "Hey, what are we doing about the bed situation?"

"Unlike you, I'm comfortable with my masculinity. My ass is getting in that bed, with or without you." There, he'd said it and his voice hadn't given him away. Fawkes had looked at the bed, looked at him, then nodded. Hobbes watched him walk across the room, and gazed at the bathroom door a second or two after it closed. He palmed his crotch, his eyes drifting closed to slits as he continued to massage his cock. He wanted to jerk off, but the last thing he needed
was to have Fawkes popping out of the bathroom to find him with his cock in his hand. No, he'd wait 'til he got in the shower, then the sound of the water would muffle his moans as well. He gave himself a last hard squeeze, and started to undress.

* * * * *

The lights in the room blinded him when he awoke, and Hobbes lay for a moment, disoriented. Motel, one bed…Ah, yes. Christiansburg. The narrow space next to him was empty and cold, and he was disappointed. He'd fallen asleep waiting for his turn in the shower, and was surprised to find he was alone. Damn, where was Fawkes? Then he heard it, a slight muffled sound from the bathroom. Fawkes was talking to someone, and he sounded slightly desperate. What the fuck was going on? If he was wigging out…. A hot, sour taste filled Hobbes' mouth when he thought of the last time his partner had lost it. Four hours from the Agency was a bad place to be. Four hours from the counteragent. He thought rapidly. No, Fawkes panicked even when he wasn't due for another day or so, so if he'd been hours from madness, wouldn't he have freaked and demanded to go back immediately?

Nodding to himself, Hobbes considered. Nah, Fawkes was ok. Probably just sick or something; those ribs had been pretty spicy, and judging from that slender frame, Fawkes didn't do a lot of heavy eating. Hobbes' warmed when he thought of Fawkes' body, and giving in to temptation, slipped his hand inside his boxers to fondle his cock. He bit his lip, keeping quiet as he stroked himself slowly, imaging Fawkes curled close behind him, one arm draped over Hobbes' waist. His hands were big, and his fist would be fucking *hot*…. The bathroom door opened slowly, and Hobbes cursed his luck. Stuck in a bed with Fawkes, with a hard-on. Yep, somebody upstairs was laughing at him. Very slowly and carefully, he withdrew his hand from his shorts. He was pretty good at feigning sleep; if Fawkes wanted to smirk at his hard-on, he could claim he'd had a sexy dream, which wouldn't be far from the truth. He prepared for the weight shift on the opposite side of the bed, and was taken by surprise when footfalls sounded on *his* side of the bed.

Then he felt the cold metal, heard the click, and his world turned upside down.

* * *

Those red eyes were creepy. Those eyes creeped him out more than the gun barrel he'd had shoved into his mouth. He'd faced death before, and didn't really think his partner would kill him, but Quicksilver madness was nothing to play around with. Hobbes knew deep down that the kid liked him, and hoped to God that it was enough to save his ass tonight.

"I said, suck the gun, bitch."

Those fucked-up red eyes wouldn't let him go. "Fawkes, you don't want to do this, man. Let's get dressed and go home, ok? The Keeper will…."

"Fuck that bitch!" He truly looked fit to kill. "Some fucking keeper *she* is! When I want the stuff she won't give it to me. When I need it, she's nowhere to be found. I don't need her anyway, when I've got you. You're my keeper tonight, Hobbes. Whaddya think about that?"

"I think it's fucked up, Fawkes." He closed his eyes as Fawkes slowly dragged the gun barrel over his lips. He could taste the sweetish gun oil coating the metal, and the deep tang of blued steel. "You don't want to do this."

"Oh, but I do. Now suck the fucking barrel before I blow your head off."

Jesus, how did things go so wrong? Where was it written that everything in his life had to take a
friggin' wrong turn? It was every fantasy he'd ever had - they were in a motel, Fawkes was naked, and he was on his knees…but that's where his fantasy parted from the sick reality. When he opened his mouth and Fawkes slipped the gun barrel inside, Hobbes began to shake.

"Make it good, bitch, 'cause my cock is next. Show me you can give me a good time."

He gagged a little, but he moved forward slowly, trying not to retch at the taste of metal and oil.
*Just give him what he wants. Suck the gun, make him happy. This is toomuchtoomuchtoomuch….* He tried not to think as he fellated the gun.

"Open your eyes. Look at me while you're doing it. Don't you love having someone between your legs, going at your cock while you watch?"

He'd flicked out his tongue to lick the underside of the gun, and he heard Fawkes' breath catch. "You like that?" he whispered, glancing at his partner's cock, full and heavy right in front of his face. Fawkes' damp, clean musk mingled with the smell of shampoo and soap, and it was making him hard again, and there was nothing he could do to hide it. *I'm a sick twist. On my knees, with a gun in my mouth, getting a hard-on. Oh, God.* "You like this game, bastard? Enjoy it, because I'm going to kick your ass when this is all over."

"*Kiss* my ass, more likely," came the reply. "Why don't you ever say my name?" Fawkes' voice had that soft, madness-tinged rasp that Hobbes had come to know. "It's always 'Kid', or 'Hotshot', or something like that. Why don't you say my name?" He pulled the gun out of Hobbes' mouth, slowly, so Hobbes' lips trailed down the barrel as it moved.

"That's what this is about? You're made 'cause I don't call you Darien?" He snorted, trying to get back in control. "An overly dramatic way of getting my attention, don't you think?" Fawkes smiled at him, and a shiver went down his spine. Another followed close after when Fawkes shifted, and his partner's erection was in his face.

"It's dramatic, but it's working, isn't it? I want to hear you scream my name when I fuck you. Not Hotshot, Kid, or anything else." Mimicking his earlier action with the gun, Fawkes moved his hips so that his cock trailed over Hobbes' lips. "I know you like that, Bobby. See? I can say *your* name." He thrust his hips a little so that his cock pushed against Hobbes' mouth. "I know you look at me, I know what you're thinking. Look at you - you're gonna get raped and killed tonight, but you're still hard as a post. I might suck your cock for you before I blow your head off…then again, I might not." He placed the gun barrel squarely between Hobbes' eyes, and cocked the trigger. "If I were you, Bobby, I'd think about giving me a blowjob pretty damn quick."

The pressure against his head was an unnecessary reminder of the dangerous game they were playing. Yeah, they were partners, but would that really save him from Fawkes' madness? Did he want to press his luck, or did he want to open his mouth and do what he'd dreamed of so many times? He opened his mouth, and let Fawkes - Darien - ease his cock inside. Yes, he wanted this. Gun to his head, bound, and on his knees, he'd risk death to have this man's cock in his mouth. That sweet-salty taste of fluid on his tongue, and the skin of his cock so surprisingly soft over the hardness…he was moaning low in his throat, and didn't realize it until Darien laughed.

"Didn't know you were that hot for me, man, or we could have done this weeks ago. You've got a nice mouth, Bobby. I see it's good for more than trash talk." Darien was panting, moving hips, thrusting into Hobbes' mouth. "Are you my bitch, Bobby? You're going to get me nice and hard, and then you're going to be my cunt. I know you want it, slut. Look at you, eating my cock like it's candy, and you're *so* good at it. Suck it good for me; I'm gonna give you the best fuck of your life."

Hobbes' eyelashes felt wet, but he was sure he wasn't crying - men don'tt cry, not even in situations like this. He looked up when Darien pulled back so that his cock slipped out of Hobbes' mouth.

"Ok, cunt. Time for the main event." The red-eyed monster smiled.

Chapter Three:

"Listen, Fawkes, why didn't tell me you were in trouble here?"

He heard the words, as if coming from far away, and chuckled softly, his voice biting at each syllable. "You're trying to call me back. Ain't that right, Bobby? Good little boy. Try to save yourself."

He bent at the knees, leaning down close, and focused on his partner's face, only inches away. There was a moment of silence during which only his harsh breath rasped outloud. He could see that Hobbes was holding his breath or trying to.

"Good little Agency boy." It was a caress coming from his gut, hoarse and darkened.

"We could've driven on, asshole. We didn't have to stop anywhere...."

He listened in glee as his partner's voice trailed away into nothingness.

The monster now wore his face and his body and he'd become the darkness so easily, with only the flick of an internal switch. He could see the other agent's face, going white with the tension of keeping still. The gun between his eyes, in that tiny flat spot, pinned him like a butterfly.

"Awww...are you scared, Bobby? Little Bobby Hobbes." He smiled at the frightened man he'd come to call partner and mean it. "Look at that---tears."

He found Hobbes' chin easily and forced him to look up, completely meet those intense, horrifying red eyes, staring through him.

"Are we crying, Hobbes? Are those tears for me or are they for what I'm going to do to you here?" A tease, angry and burning.

The man's face held quiet desperation and it was obvious that he was working hard to stay calm in the face of what was being done to him. "I'm not crying, you son of a bitch, but I swear---we can go on and pretend this didn't happen. Fawkes, we all have that breaking point. We all come back from it, dammit."

So close. Oh, so close. He saw Hobbes skin, in the overly warm air, shiver with a tense movement that was sensual. He was that same shade of tan gold all over his body with only a few patches of dark, curling hair covering the most delicate places on his skin.

Without removing the gun from his partner's forehead, Darien's monsterous self used his other hand to lift Hobbes off the dirty carpet, to eye level, carried upwards by his tied hands.

Face to face, the gun between them, he grinned. "I'm gonna love doing this. You think I never noticed? Aww, now, give me credit for not being blind, Bobby. You were obvious."

The last came out in a growl. He slowly took the gun away from the indention between Hobbes' brows and let it slide down his frightened, still face, along the lines of his cheekbone and over his strong jaw.

"I could end it now." He put the gun under his partner's jaw where the soft skin lay, pulsing with hot blood. "Would you like that? Hmmm?" He pressed the barrel of the steel into that softness and felt the sharp inhale that followed. "If you're really good with that ass of yours, I just might let you die quickly."

"How 'bout this, you put that gun up your ass and pull the trigger?" Hobbes' mouth moved dryly. It was obvious he was so scared that he had lost all the moisture in his mouth.

Yet, there was there a need---an unfulfilled desire, there. He saw it and smiled, wanting to devour it. It was delicious to see. Now---

Darien pulled Hobbes close, skin-close, until they were touching. He could feel now that hot, throbbing hard-on that his partner had been carrying around for weeks. Chuckling, he let it touch him and he shifted the weight of the smaller man's body in his hand, until he heard the gasp.

Hobbes' cock rubbed against him, involuntarily, with the movement of that shift. He stared hard into his prisoner's face and let the feel of that spikey-hard silk rub him again. It was nice. Too nice.

"Are you gonna kill me now or what? If not, I got things to do, Fawkes." It was bold and said with every bit of strength the loud-mouthed Hobbes was capable of.

"Oh, no...remember what I said. I'm gonna make you beg me to stop. Then," He leaned his head forward, until his mouth was only hairs away from the rougher skin of Hobbes' cheek. His breath rolled against the stubbled flesh and back onto his own face. "You'll just beg me."

"Whatever, kid. Let's call it a night." Hobbes closed his eyes against the malignant glare of the madness-reddened stare. Darien used his tongue to taste the sweat that was pouring out in sweet, musky perfumed heat.

"You're not listening, Bobby." The name slid over his lips and he pulled the body roughly against him, still holding the arms by their tied wrists, keeping Hobbes up on his toes. "I'm gonna make you sob, bitch, the way your sister did. I'm gonna fill that hot little ass of yours and you're gonna
love it. You're such a whore and I'm gonna show you how to treat a whore."

He laughed as Hobbes cringed then.

"Too bad you're not gonna live past the night. You'd make a good slave." Then, he slammed Hobbes' body backwards. His partner hit the bed and made it's headboard bang on the wall. It was a sound that rang in his brain, echoing, like a drum. Head down, he looked at Hobbes, who fought against the cord that held his wrists and tried to roll away, nakedly, off the bed.

His mouth was bloody. The crimson stain slicked Hobbes' lips and teeth and began to seep, running, down his chin. Landing hard, he'd bitten his lip. The pain and terror rose in the agent's face again as he finally rolled to a sitting position and started to get up.

Using a fist, he pushed the shorter man back down, making him bounce against the bed again, hearing himself laugh darkly. His lust was insatiable now, surging like electricity. He had to touch that soft dusky golden skin, bury himself to the core and feel the tightness of the uptight agent's asscheeks around him.

The blood on his partner's face was leaking downwards, across his chin, working its way down his throat. It was mesmerizing. He stared, feeling the rage and lust scream towards the surface, becoming nearly vocal. He lowered his head and looked at Hobbes, who remained silent, from under his brow and smiled, feeling nothing but the fiery need, desire, to make his mouthy partner take it all.

"The blood suits you." It came as an angry whisper in the hush. "I like them bloodied."

He came down on top of Hobbes then, pinning the struggling agent under his much-larger frame. The skin yielded, hot and solidly muscular, as he forcibly pushed the captured arms over the head, using a hand to push the still-fighting hands into the sagging mattress.

The bedclothes beneath them were a tangled mess, piled so high that their bodies were stretched across a lump made of the blanket that had been flung to the side. The lump forced Hobbes' body upward, pushing it's sweaty skin and shivering flesh against his own chest and tight stomach. Darien brought his face down and roughly licked the blood on his partner's throat.

It was so salty and hot, like liquid copper. He ground his teeth together, feeling the slide of the sticky red between his molars as he looked up.

"You never saw what the rat did. I think I knew even then that I was going to do this." He used his free hand to run down across the ribs and hip that was captured beneath his weight. "I see the truth behind it now."

"What truth, Fawkes? That you're a sick bastard and I'm gonna shoot you in the fuckin' balls for this shit?" Hobbes was defiant, staring him hard in the face, head on. The look of defiance was gorgeous and he felt his cock grow harder, thicker.

"You can shut up now, Bobby." It was loud, in the space between them. Darien felt his cock against his partner's inner thigh as it moved with the blood pounding through it. "All I want you to do now is say my name."

Silence. Darien watched as the prisoner closed his dark eyes and tightened the blood-soaked mouth. He bent his head again, using his tongue to work between the sealed lips. He kissed the blood away, using his tongue to bathe Hobbes' mouth and chin. Soon, he could taste the fluid as he swallowed. The bitter-sweet flavor burst on his throat, making him arch against his prisoner, rubbing himself fast a few times against that smooth, muscular thigh. He laid the gun flat against his own cheek, loving the sensation of the cold steel as it pressed into his skin.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Bobby..." It was a whisper, cold-blooded and rough. "You're gonna cry for it then. Why don't you just make it easier on yourself and admit that you wanted this to happen? You wanted me to do it this way---it is so much easier to just take what you want. Easier to admit the truth."

Hobbes shuddered at the tone of his voice and Darien forced his head around. "Look at me, Bobby. Come on, little man."

There was moisture on the dark lashes; they gleamed in the yellow lamp light. Darien moved up a little, thrilling in the feel of the slide of their sweaty skin. He put his lips to Hobbes' mouth and kissed him hard, forcing him to keep him head still. The gun touched the bed and he let it fall, to rest against the piled up blanket.

"Say my name. Now." He kept his mouth against the reddened lips. Slowly, he slid his free hand downward again, in between them, until he found what he was seeking with his large fingers. Cupping the warm, hairy sack in his hand, he curled the fingers until the nails were digging into the wrinkled velvet skin there. Hobbes' eyes flew open and his breath came fast and hard. His eyes were scared-looking, pleading.

Hobbes woke screaming, scrabbling in the narrow bed to escape the vision. Aides and technicians flowed into the room, and featureless, expressionless faces soothed him as cotton balls were dampened with alcohol, and the coolly efficient business of Making Hobbes Better continued. His eyelids heavy with exhaustion and pharmaceuticals, Hobbes passed into a deep, Darien-free slumber.

* * *

"You’re going to talk to me today, Hobbes. I don’t care about the topic, I just want to hear your voice."

Hobbes had never realized what a calming, soothing, irritating voice the Keeper had.

He’d done a number of things while in the service of his country, some more pleasant than others. He skitttered backward from that thought, coming too close to ugly truths he didn’t want to face just then. He tried to occupy himself with procedure. Duty. Service. Order. Nothing to think about. No need to think. No need to talk.

"You’ve got the wrong guy, lady. Just…" he took a swallow; he’d screamed himself hoarse the night before, "…just leave me alone. Just a couple of days and I’ll be out of your way."

Efficient and cool in her lab coat, the Keeper pressed a dry hand against his forehead, quickly, before he could protest. "You’re hardly in the way." Her tone was gentle, and the words conversational. He could almost believe that she was truly interested, and not just doing her job.

"Just leave me alone. Bobby Hobbes will be off the taxpayers’ dole in a few days, and you’ll have one less lab rat to pinch and poke." He shifted on the bed, pulling the sheet tighter around his body. Just a couple more days and maybe he’d be able to walk or take a crap without wincing. He’d stopped bleeding, so that was a good sign, he supposed. Still, everything below and above the waist hurt like hell, and there was a dull, solid ache where his heart used to be.

"I hardly think of you as a lab rat. I see you nearly every day; I do care about you, you know." The Keeper sighed and set her clipboard on the nightstand. "Bobby," she paused. "Do you want some licorice? I don’t know about you, but I could use a little something right about now."

Licorice? Hobbes was surprised when she dipped her hand in her lab coat and withdrew a plastic eyeglass case. She opened it, and held it out to him. Red licorice, at least twenty or thirty whips of it. "Coated with truth serum or something? No thanks."

"You’re far too paranoid," the Brit murmured, giving him a tiny smile. She unraveled one of the licorice twists and popped it in her mouth. "It’s my one weakness," she admitted.

"Licorice." His saliva glands started to work overtime when the sweet, slightly nostaligic aroma of the candy reached him. "My sister liked the black kind." He released the sheet, and reached forward to take a piece of candy. One piece couldn’t hurt. "I ate these things by the handful when I was a kid." He chewed the end a little, savoring the taste. Damn Twizzlers, and all the fake licorice today’s kids consumed. This was the real thing, an elusive, old-fashioned flavor you could hardly find these days. He looked into the Keeper’s eyes for just a moment, then down at the bed. "Thanks." They ate in silence, and he was grateful she didn’t prod. "He’s here," he found himself saying.

She nodded. "He is."

When he finished the whip, she offered another. He chewed slowly. "Is he…What’s going to…?" He stared at the Keeper’s hands, afraid to look at her face. Odd, because he wasn’t normally the fearful type. He liked to look at things head-on. She laid a hand on his arm, briefly, as if aware that he wasn’t quite ready to be touched.

"Bobby…You don’t have to talk about this if you’re not ready." She slipped her hands into her pockets; Hobbes watched her hands so he wouldn’t have to look at her face.

Beneath the steel lab fixtures and cool British exterior, he was finding that the Keeper was a likable person. "I’m not ready," he said softly, "but I’m losing it. I don’t want to talk, I *really* don’t want to talk, but I think I’ve got to."

Her hands emerged from her pockets, and she laid her candy case on the nightstand. "Eat some licorice and think about it. I’ll be back in a bit."

He nodded, and stared at the case, blinking hard as his vision turned watery and wavered. He suddenly had a lump the size of a loaf of bread in his throat, and it hurt. He waited for the ‘swisk’ of the closing door before he let himself cry.

(5)

Keeper Records
<audio-taped>

Case Subject: Darien G. Fawkes
Case History: see file on Invisible Man
Case Continuance: Sexual Assault on Agent Robert Hobbes, partner

Day 1
It is my personal note here, at this moment, that this partnership is over. I am making a recommendation that Robert Hobbes and Darien Fawkes be reassigned, if possible, to other partners. In my personal opinion, there is no chance that these two agents should or could work together after the events of the last night.

Yet, what occurred last night, while unforeseen by myself and unmentioned in the recorded files on the subject, is explainable. I only need to run a few psyche evaluations on Fawkes to gather more information on his mental state.

I fear that neither Fawkes or Hobbes will be very forthcoming on their own.

Case status:

(personal notes)
Agent Hobbes has been sedated and is being cared for in the best fashion we have available. He had nightmares during the drugged sleep, but is uncommunicative during waking. His remark of the early morning hours about his sister having beaten him has me puzzled. I really must try to reach his psychiatrist and see if my suspicions are correct. I think Robert Hobbes may have idolized his sister who was abusive to him. In this relationship with his partner, he may have already started to look to Darien Fawkes as a substitute for the demon/godhood status he gave his sister. I don't know. I'm probably grasping at straws here. Note: The Doctor said he would call
back at nine in the morning.

Darien Fawkes was sedated and given a shot of counteragent. He was put in the containment/observation room. He was not put in a straight jacket as I wish to see what he will do on his own with the time alone. Since waking, he has said nothing and done nothing but stare at the walls. He has asked for nothing and has shown no emotional response. The question that arises is: Does subject remember his actions?


Day 2
From what I have gathered, it would seem that on some level, the psychological battle that the subject was experiencing took a deviating turn. It is accepted, from the known data, that Darien Fawkes' Id is behind a thin wall. He is a primally charged personality, rooted deep in the physical here and now. This is average for males of his age and social background. His previous behavior, before being brought into this experiment, shows a history of job insecurity despite skill and a high intelligence, a near-pathological need to commit theft, and a primitive attitude towards authority.

It has been noted, previously, that the subject didn't get along with his assigned partner, Robert Hobbes. There was a battle for control of their relationship. These are two strong-willed, average males who are both under mental and emotional stress that they were unaware of on a conscious level.

The resulting struggle was a foregone conclusion, as each would strive to become the dominant in their working relationship. This attack may have been spurred on by the recent developments of them becoming accustomed with each other; trust is difficult and works on different levels.

Robert Hobbes has a previous history of psychiatric therapy that goes back many years. He is on medication and while this seems to be helping him, there is a deep-seated need to be in charge. I have spoken for some moments with The Doctor and have begun to gather information on how to best help Agent Hobbes.

I cannot make a proper study on this agent until I have gathered more facts about what Robert Hobbes can and will do in any given situation where Darien Fawkes is concerned.

Case Status:

(personal notes)
Agent Robert Hobbes still doesn't speak. He has had to be sedated several times, having come out of his sleep screaming. I can only imagine the pain he feels. I can only guess what he is thinking since he says nothing and spends his time mostly in a fetal position.

Darien Fawkes has paced in the observation room all day. Still not restrained; he shows no violence or anger. Strangely enough, this bothers me. He has shown considerable emotional outlet every time he's been confined to the observation room before now. He still has asked for nothing. I consider speaking to him but am choosing to observe instead. I've not observed any true sleep.

Day 3
Darien Fawkes, in the past, like his partner, has a history of being a lone wolf. While Agent Hobbes' solitary behavior seems to stem from his previously recorded emotional problems, the case is different with Darien Fawkes.

The subject is a clear example of a recessive alpha type male personality. This type of alpha male nature is different from the classical example of said leadership. Alpha males are dominant, powerful, and natural leaders. In the case of a recessive alpha male, they are dominant in a more reserved behavior pattern. They are leaders, but they strive to not follow the flow of that path.

In effect, they fight against being leaders, but need to be such at the same time. Darien Fawkes is a neo-classic case study in this type of personality. He is not openly seeking dominancy, but his inner self, his Id, would call for a leadership position.

This leads to a inner struggle that he most likely is totally unaware of. He would see himself as simply trying to get along, but on the inside, he would rankle at the idea of anyone standing in his way or telling him what to do; i.e., his difficulities with authority and employers. Darien Fawkes
would have a deep need to prove that he is better or more than they give him credit for, while at the same time demonstrating a careless attitude about what his superiors think or feel about him.

While not showing on the surface consciousness, there were several instances of unconscious actions on his part during quicksilver build-up that show a seriously suppressed part of his nature is trying to express itself. It is directly linked to his cerebral breakdowns, bringing the Id to the foreground.

The Id is a tricky thing; it is different for each person. Every hidden thought or emotion that we have is found there, locked away behind the more rational, balanced consciousness. It is created from experience as well as the genetic pattern. It would also seem to be what could be called our true, darkest self.

Case Status:

(personal notes)
Robert Hobbes responded favorably today. Perhaps he is ready to give me some knowledge of how he is dealing with this violation of his private self and body. I guess I'm bothered mostly because having him lay there, looking so miserable and so silent---I admit that it's an emotionally charged situation. I had a chance to talk to The Doctor at length and I was informed that I was correct in my assessment of the situation where his sister is concerned. In his mind, he might now even place Darien Fawkes and his sister in the same catagory and this could be both helpful and harmful for him.

Darien Fawkes doesn't sleep. We've been dimming the lights off for intervals of eight hours a day since he was brought in, in an effort to establish a pattern of normalacy. He paces back and forth and even looks at the mirror, even when there is no direct light in the room. He has asked for nothing, not even water. It will only be three more days and he will require a shot of counteragent. I am sure he remembers what he did during his last bout of quicksilver madness. When I took my place at the observation bay window, it was only three in the morning and dim within the room. He wasn't pacing. I observed him sitting down for a little over three hours this time; it's the longest amount of time recorded since he was brought in here. He continues to talk to himself, but says nothing to the window, where he must know he is being watched. He showed an emotion today as well. He cried almost the entire time I observed him; out of twelve hours, he showed this emotional response for nine and a half hours. I do not think he knows he was crying.

Darien Fawkes became reactive last night and they called me in from home. The first indication of his mental state was that he was actually speaking loud enough to be heard over the speakers. He still doesn't address the outside. What he had to say to himself took me back abit, but after
consideration, I think I know where this is coming from within him. He has mentioned this desire to me before---that he would rather die than go on like this, particularly in the instance of the first attempt on Agent Hobbes' life. This showed a greater consideration than I think he was aware of at the time. It should have pointed me in the direction to question his feelings about Robert Hobbes. I recorded his conversation with himself in the early morning hours. I have listened to it and keep hearing one phrase coming up; it is another pattern in his behavior. In a six hour recorded session, he repeated the phrase "Break the cage" fifty seven times, in several different contexts. This is only surpassed by his apologies. His only physical reaction was to move several times towards the walls, running, which caused him to land on the floor hard. He became no more violent than that, but I have observed this in him before. It's only the beginning. Since then, he has stopped moving altogether. He now lays flat on his back in the floor and does nothing. I will stay here tonight, after hours, and observe him further. This new silence could be just a small break before he enters quicksilver madness. A note here is that Darien Fawkes has not once used his quicksilver gland since he was brought here and confined.

Day 4
Darien Fawkes' Id has been more firmly suppressed by the unconscious tendency to take a secondary role in leadership. There is a part of his unconscious mind that, since the quicksilver gland was introduced to his body, has woken up.

In some male prototypes, sexuality is directly linked to violence. They are inseparable in the Id for some, more primitive minds. It is believed, in the references I have found, that the aforementioned behavior is the precursor to the more rational mind. This would suggest that a primitive Id like this, in search of dominating a situation, would equate sexual violence with leadership.

As seen in some primate tribes, the dominant male will mount both female and male of his family group, proving that he can do as he pleases, as leader. In the human psyche, this behavior is no longer practiced as a means of controlling the group.

But, as mentioned, the Id is the most primitive part of the human psyche. This would point towards the idea that an inner struggle with a need to dominate a relationship could and might lead to a violent outburst of sexual frustration. The subject unconsciously desired control of the partnership
relationship and his subconscious translated this need as a call to arms.

Instead of simply killing the object of dominance-frustration, the Id sought to subjugate the victim first, in an effort to prove leadership.

On some level, Darien Fawkes wanted to simply kill his partner to end the unspoken dispute as well as the growing friendship, but an impulse to prove his dominance seems to have brought a separate emotion into play.

Somewhere, in his primitive, hostile unconsciousness, the subject has experienced some pleasure at the company of his partner. It may have been simply a conversation or a thought about their similiarities.

This hidden thought or experience of pleasure in the company of Robert Hobbes as a partner was brought into the turmoil of the quicksilver build-up. It translated the hostility and became the more primal emotion of needing to prove himself, seemingly mixing the emotion of lonliness with the desire for dominance.

His attack on his partner doesn't come from any previously known indications of open homosexuality, but instead could be simply a result of an overriding fear of partnership with someone he wants to like but doesn't quite trust yet.

He sexually assaulted his partner with the intent of murder. This other self, his Id, fought against the idea of enjoying Robert Hobbes' presence and sought to end the relationship, by proving himself to be the stronger of the two men.

Case Status:

(personal notes)
I must find some way to convince Robert Hobbes to speak to me. I've talked to his psychiatrist again and I'm increasingly convinced that the situation may only have one or two courses of action. The longer he refuses to speak, the harder it's going to be on him when he has to start talking again. After discussing it with The Doctor, I'm positive that Robert Hobbes will survive this attack on his psyche if he feels he can trust the person he's talking to; he needs to talk this out with someone. Knowing this about his emotional need for trust and his total lack of trust is a reminder of a further deplorable situation: he trusted Darien Fawkes and that trust was broken. What will come of this will only be known when I've convinced him to talk to me. I'm going to attempt to open a dialogue with him today.

Darien Fawkes had to be restrained today. I had to shut the speakers off to the observation room and let the tape record what he was shouting. If he continues to make attempts at injuring himself, I will have to take the restraints a step further and actually have the orderly and technichians strap him to the wall. Since being put into a straightjacket, he has been silent again, laying on his side, with his face to the wall. I can not tell if he sleeps. I hope he does, for the next step is to sedate him again. The only thing he asked for, when the technichians went in with the straps to restrain him, was a way out. I don't have any doubts that it's not escape from that room he's wanting; he was referring to death again. I see the signs of dehydration setting in as well as the tell-tale signs of the build-up of quicksilver in his bloodstream. If when I go back in two hours, he's not asked for something, I'm going to open a dialogue with him and insist that he let us give him fluids.

Since being brought here, to the laboratory four days ago, Agent Robert Hobbes has been isolated by his own choice. He sees nor speaks to any one but myself as of yet and this was only for a few moments---I hope when I go back in awhile, he will be ready to talk to me. I feel that he is prepared to deal with this and make an attempt to go on.

In the case of Darien Fawkes, I'm putting in a request for therapy. He is a strong, healthy male whose recorded outer nature abhors what he has done, as was heard on the tape from the observation room. It is my opinion, from time spent listening to him, that Darien Fawkes will commit suicide if given the opportunity and means to do so.

<end of tape-recorded notes for this entry>

Chapter Six:

He couldn't be sure, but if the light going on and off meant anything anymore, three days had gone by.

He couldn't be sure about the time. It could be three days or it could be them just fucking with him.

If he were them, he'd fuck with him.

He could feel the blood in his veins getting thick with quicksilver. No water. No food. Already, the tattoo showed him to be way past the 3/4 mark. He shouldn't be that far along considering that he'd not gone invisible since---since the day before he'd been brought here.

Darien knew his levels were too high. He'd not been able to sleep and all there was to do in the screamingly bright, white rubber-walled room was sit, pace, stare at the walls, think and sleep.

He'd not been sleeping. He'd been doing plenty of the other stuff.

He was starting to shut down. His heart hurt from not sleeping and from thinking. Darien's head pounded and felt swollen.

No one had said anything. The last thing he could remember coherantly was the Keeper talking to him as he'd been brought in here, already sedated, but not strapped into his least favorite accessory, the straightjacket.

He'd been unable to respond to her; his whole body had been numb and limp. He couldn't be sure what she'd said, but it had Hobbes' name in it some where.

Hobbes. NO.

Something told him Bobby Hobbes was dead, though he didn't know why he thought so. Darien Fawkes' had killed him.

No...not Darien. Something wearing Darien's face. It was evil, desperate, and had to be destroyed. They would destroy it for him. Put him out of his misery.

Why hadn't they come already, to either help him or kill him?

If he had been here for three days, wouldn't someone have said something to him already? Darien considered it as he sat, facing the wall. Maybe they'd forgotten he'd even existed; chosen to leave him here to rot.

He was so thirsty but he didn't care. He didn't want anyone to see him; to come in and give him so much as a glass of water or a shot of counteragent. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look the Keeper in the eye again; he didn't want to see the revulsion and hatred there for what he'd done. He'd been thinking it for an eternity now, it seemed.

If they did ask him if he wanted anything, he was going to ask for a sharp object.

Darien could feel the gland, pulsing under his fingers, as he pushed his hands over the back of his head again, testing the scars and the way it didn't feel like it belonged to him.

He'd been thinking alot. Thinking about walls and cages and what they'd come to mean to him. He wasn't claustophobic, but he hated walls and cages. He had always felt so sorry for the rats and other animals in the Keeper's menangerie. His worst nightmares had come true in places where he couldn't get free, for some reason or another.

Like the motel in Virginia.

He felt like a train rushing along a track at a breakneck speed, unable to slow down, unable to stop. He felt like he'd been tied to the rusty tracks and left to watch the same train barrelling down on him.

Why hadn't she just put a bullet in the back of his head when she'd broke the door? Why had she saved the monster? Did she enjoy getting to clean up after it? Was he just another animal in the menangerie?

Darien closed his eyes and tried to find that peaceful, green field where he'd learned he could do anything he set him mind to. It was harder to find lately and had been for sometime. Even before---before Virginia, he'd been slowly losing the ability to find that quiet place within where he was able to go silent and focused.

The quiet, empty field of grass was gone. He had lost his meditation place.

Now, against his will, a picture came to mind.

Hobbes. Screaming his name. Not Fawkes. He screamed for Darien. His mouth was bleeding.

Darien choked, pushed his eyes open, and gagged on the sour sweet taste of his stomach's sudden dry heave.

He bit down on his tongue, hard. The taste of blood sickened him, but the pain made him blink and the picture faded again. It was all he'd found yet, in this place, to make the sudden, unwelcome memories leave.

He'd been biting his tongue and lower lip alot.

Darien wished then, like he had a million times, that he'd bitten his tongue in half when Kevin had come to see him in jail.

He wished again that he'd said no to the Official, no matter what it was going to cost him. He should have blown his own head off. He'd been a coward.

Swallowing the gall in his throat, he got up and began to pace again.

It was dim. The lights had been taken down to a level that should induce sleep. Sleep wouldn't come; he couldn't let it. The lights had been off for awhile, but he had lost track of how much time had passed. Time didn't matter anymore.

He'd done nothing but pace and sit at the wall and stare at the little rubber prison. He had more than enough to think about and didn't want to live.

Darien decided that he'd have to have that drink of water soon. Even if they didn't kill him.

He'd cried yesterday...last night, whenever. It had taken him awhile to figure out why his face was wet while he moved in circles on the floor. He'd not tried to figure out how long he'd been sobbing to himself unconsciously.

The crying didn't matter. It had been the revelation behind the tears that had made him want to rip his own head off. He didn't want to feel better about what he'd done. He didn't want to remember what he'd done and he sure as hell didn't want some other explanation---quicksilver madness was evil and it had taken his partner's trust in him and shredded it.

Hobbes had trusted him. Hobbes had liked him. Not many people did, but Hobbes had, in some strange way and for some strange reason.

He'd cried for it and when he realized how he felt about Hobbes, he'd finally noticed the tears.

He cared for Hobbes. He liked Hobbes, maybe more. His partner had come to mean alot to him; in the scheme of his life, there'd never been anyone who'd accepted him at face value so completely while knowing what he was and what he was capable of.

Before, Darien had lied to get people to trust and like him. He didn't have to lie to Hobbes.

At least, he hadn't needed to. Hobbes was gone and he was alone. The only person he'd felt this kind of love for had been crushed under the foot of his out of control Id.

First Kevin, dying for him, and now---Hobbes, who'd never counted on having to be partnered up with a psychopath. Sure, Hobbes had problems, but he had come to accept Darien without much complaint.

It was two too many to die.

He'd cried, yeh, and the pacing hadn't helped. He was doing it again, in the dim, padded room. The sound of his own voice was getting to him. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able stand being alone with himself.

Darien had talked to Hobbes and hoped the man could hear him, somehow. He'd apologized until his throat had gone hoarse and felt like sand was being poured down it with every breath. He'd bitten his fingers to make the moisture rise in his mouth again. He'd gone back to talking to Hobbes, apologizing.

He'd drank his own tears and wished to whatever dark gods were watching over him that they'd just kill him and get it over with.

The walls began to resemble the walls of every jail cell he'd been in. When the lights went down, it was more like prison...without the horrible sounds of men abusing other men. He wasn't free from that, either, because the sounds were in his mind.

He wanted to break the walls, smash the cage. Find himself a place nice and quiet---maybe like the mental field of grass he'd used to control the invisibility. He knew what he'd do there. He'd kill the monster. He'd do what George had done to Lenny in 'Of Mice and Men'.

But, then Lenny hadn't raped and maybe killed his partner. The monster in his head deserved far more than any mercy killing.

Again, he circled the room, stalking the darkness. Kevin had believed in him. He'd been the black sheep, a three time loser, but his brother had saved him...kind of. Maybe Kevin had pulled off the ultimate mind-fuck by saving his life and then killing him by condemning his brother to a life of hell.

The Official, fat bastard, had given him a job in exchange for the miracle drug that would keep him from melting down inside. The Keeper---Claire---had trusted him enough to walk into a room with him when she knew he was insane and capable of committing murder, even in the straightjacket.

Why did they trust him? Didn't they know that he was dangerous to everyone, even himself? What was it about him that made others believe in him, when he didn't know what he might do from hour to hour?

Well, he thought, they know now. They know now. And he'd do anything to get out of this prison.

His stomach twisted again, sour and tight, needing water. Why hadn't anyone come to give him something to drink? By now, if they were going to, they'd have been in there---if they intended to save him.

Had they come in and he hadn't noticed? He was pretty sure no one had been in the room. But, then, he wasn't sure if he was even awake anymore.

Break the cage...he had to get out of here, away from himself. He could smell his own sweat, through the thin, white clothing he was wearing. They'd dressed him in clinical whites and left him here to die. He could smell himself and it was becoming unbearable.

The vacuum toilet was smooth, round, and incapable of being dangerous. He'd found that out before. It had no chemicals and was in no way able to be used against himself.

He could smell sweat, dried semen, blood, and Hobbes.

Darien turned and walked the other way, trying to escape it. He was going to lose it if he had to stay with himself much longer.

He quickened his pace. He turned again and ran at the wall. Darien hit the wall and bounced backwards, falling on his back. There was pain, but it meant nothing. He had to get out. He had to leave this place where he was unable to get away from the things that lurked in his mind...had to get away from himself.

Silent desperation made him repeat it. Soon, he had a rhythm going, of running at the walls and slamming into them. He didn't care. It couldn't hurt as much as what he'd already felt. Compared to the smell on his skin, the momentary pain of hitting the floor was nothing.

At some point, the lights had come on. All it showed him was that he'd managed to stir the air in the cell.

Darien gritted his teeth and barrelled towards another wall, thick with the white padding. He'd either break the cage or he'd break his body and both sounded good right now.

He could hear his voice, coming from far away, talking to someone who wasn't there. He couldn't get his breath in this prison. Losing count, Darien hit the walls until he couldn't get up off the floor anymore. He didn't know if it was because of the exhaustion or because his mind didn't care to make his body move.

He'd laid still, spread-eagle. Darien stared at the whiteness above and tried to decide whether it was the ceiling or the floor or maybe one of the walls.

The roar in his head had gotten louder. It was hurting like someone was beating on him with a sledgehammer, but he wasn't getting the death from it he should have. His throat ached and throbbed from talking and he'd gotten no where near breaking the walls down.

Now, all that was left was Darien and the smell of Hobbes on him. Even that was starting to fade; he'd sweated so much that he had become a barely wrung-out dirty dish-rag of sweat.

Something in his head whispered and he knew he didn't want to hear that. He didn't want to hear Hobbes telling him things any more. He didn't want to hear his partner whispering to him. It made him feel too much.

He'd turned himself into one of the bullqueers who tapped you on the shoulder in the slop halls of prison. He'd become his worst nightmare from those years in the joint; the ones he never had to actually live through, but had been forced to listen to. Instead of being a good guy who protected his loved ones, he'd enjoyed hurting a person who'd trusted him; he'd liked Hobbes and then abused the guy.

No...abused wasn't right. He'd shredded Hobbes. Something in him wearing Darien like a second skin had fucked his partner raw and that dark, evil place in him had loved it.

God...he needed to get away from himself. He needed to escape, find himself a nice silent place, and proceed to kill the monster.

But, on second thought, this cell wasn't so bad. At least in here, there was no one else to hurt.

Why hadn't he run? Why hadn't he left when he realized that the help he needed was gonna be too late? Why had he continued to try to call the Keeper? Why had he stayed once he realized that his mind was craving that prison slave mentality?

Sure---tired and lonely. That didn't cut it.

He laid still and dozed in and out, staring with his eyes open, not trusting the space behind his lids to stay dark and blank.

Darien had been tired, lonely, and sad before. He'd dealt with it.

But Hobbes---with the way he looked at him. Half the time, Hobbes seemed to hate him for breathing. The rest of the time, he either ignored Darien or had a funny look on his face, like he was trying to catch his breath or make up his mind about something.

He had felt confused most of the time because he'd not known where he stood with Bobby Hobbes.

At least...he'd not known before now. Now, he knew how he felt for sure. He loved the guy. And look what happened to his loved ones.

He knew they were watching him. The mirror was there, wasn't it? Darien could picture their faces as they observed him; the beast who prowled against the bars of the cage. The Keeper. The Official. Maybe Eberts.

Would Hobbes be there? He tried to remember what the Keeper---Claire---had said to him. She'd said something to him when they'd locked him in, too drugged to care or fight. She'd said something about Hobbes. Something about Hobbes...but had she said he was dead?

Darien couldn't remember; his brain was so numb now, full of thoughts of either getting away from his own body or dying in the attempt.

Bobby Hobbes. If he'd not killed Bobby, then he'd be on the other side of that glass. He'd be silently standing there, his hands in his trouser pockets, watching with cold eyes. Those amazing brown eyes that could go so hard in only a moment.

He wished he could forget what he'd done. Wished he could remember what Claire had said about Hobbes. It was eating him up fast.

If Bobby Hobbes was alive and standing on the other side of the mirror, watching, then the man would want him dead. He was probably plotting it now. He could see the decision being made that Darien Fawkes was no longer viable. The experiment had to end.

His partner would offer to put the bullet in his brain. He'd probably run to get the chance, if he was still alive.

Darien climbed to his feet and moved slowly, aching all over, to the mirror. He didn't stop until his nose was only an inch away from the glass. He could see his breath silvering on the reflective surface. Face to face with his stubbled features, he felt a wave of rage. That face had brought nothing but misery to his loved ones. Kevin had believed in him, Bobby Hobbes had trusted him...and he'd managed to betray them both with this face.

He worked his throat convulsively and tried to find some wetness left in his body. It was time to break the silence, make them decide what they would do. He couldn't go on and he had no way to kill himself. Someone had to do something. Now.

Closing his eyes on that pale, darkly stubbled face, he laid his forehead on the ice-cold glass. It was thick and felt so very good on his hot skin. It was like water against his face.

"Kill me." It was a whisper, but he actually had managed to speak. To them.

"Kill me." It came a little louder, a little hoarser, but it came. Darien took a deep breath and let it out. The space behind his eyes was staying blank. He needed to die now, while his head was quietly hurting, not torturing him.

"Kill me." It was as loud as he could get without his voice breaking. "Please." Now it was a whisper again, a whimper of noise coming from the animal he'd become.

Opening his eyes, he looked at the reflection and imagined he could see them staring back at him, disgust and hatred on their faces. He took an unsteady step back and swayed a moment on his bare heels. He lowered his heavy head and stared at the floor.

That was it. He had to try. He had to kill the thing in his head before the pictures starting rolling through his mind again.

He looked up, his sight bleary, and smiled at what he could see in the mirror. He was only a step from the glass. Only a step. It wasn't so very far.

Darien threw himself into the mirror as hard as he could. He kept his feet. He managed to stand up straight and stumble back the same step again.

He repeated it, feeling his skull give just the tiniest bit, creaking. The pain blossomed in his brain like a giant red poppy.

The quicksilver was rising again. He could feel it. He'd pushed himself too far. How many times had he known it was coming and had gotten his counteragent before it was too late? This time, he'd finish what should have been done in the first place.

He was dizzy now and the pictures weren't coming back; they were safely somewhere else for the moment. For now. Darien stepped fast again and slammed into the mirror. He saw the blood this time, splattering in a random spray. He laid against the glass, letting the blood soak his forehead and cheek.

"I'm sorry, Bobby." It was a whisper and he cursed himself for having nothing else to offer. It was a sobbing whimper from a man who couldn't go on with the darkness in his head.

"I'm so sorry." Blood ran into his slack mouth and eyes. He fought against the taste. It brought memory. It brought a picture.

"God, please, let me, god, please, let me...I wanna die. Why---I wanna die, can't I die?" It came, finishing now as a scream. He'd managed to get enough blood in his throat to coat his insides. Now, Darien's memories flooded him. He was filthy with blood. He was a malignant cancer. He was hell on two feet. He was not worth the lead of a bullet.

His hands slid down the glass, leaving streaks of sweat and blood. Darien's heart hurt, throbbing with the pressure of not sleeping and from the quicksilver overload and from not having fluids. As they slipped, he tried for purchase with his fingertips on the smooth, cold surface.

Roaring, he stepped back again and flung himself, insanely, at the image of Darien Fawkes with blood on his face, on his mouth. He sobbed and went at himself again. He had to get out of this body soon. It was like wearing the clothing of a mass murderer; the ones the killer wore to commit his crimes.

"God---now---please!" He choked, coughed on the blood, and lost himself for a moment. The little pictures in his brain swelled, growing to godzilla sizes, and he was confronted by Hobbes, screaming his name, begging him to stop.

He tried to get at the Darien Fawkes who grinned obscenely at him in the mirror with blood on his teeth and didn't make it. He hit the wall just below the glass and slid. On the floor, he began to shake and sob harder, tearing at his head. He pulled with his fingernails at the back of his head,
where big brother Kevin had stitched it up so nicely---the scar was barely raised at all, but now it felt huge and he worked on it, trying to get at the gland.

Darien went on screaming for Bobby Hobbes and hating himself for it; why would anyone help him now?

From overhead, a crisp buzz broke in on him.

"Darien?"

He didn't hear it for a moment; Darien could only hear Hobbes crying his name.

"Darien?"

The voice of the Keeper grew louder.

"Darien."

And louder, until when he sucked a breath in with the intent of killing himself with a single shouted word, he was rattled by the nearness of the woman's voice. That voice---a lifeline---broke in on him and made his heart stop.

"Darien!"

His soul shattered into a million pieces in the sudden silence. He began to shake harder, to sob again, trying to get the words out, to make his voice work the promise and the apology and the need.

"I'm coming in, Darien."

She'd come then, before he could get the words out. With two orderlies, she'd come. He couldn't quite see her face, but it didn't matter. All he could see behind his lids was Bobby Hobbes.

His clothing had been taken away. It was cold in the room and he'd shivered harder. At her touch, he'd jumped and tried to move away, horrified that she could dare to even do such a thing. Now, he'd been dressed in clean clothing---they smelled clean. He felt boneless, unable to do anything
anymore.

Darien was silent; his mouth worked, but he couldn't find any words. He could smell the sharp scent of ammonia. He could smell alcohol, feel the quick, slicing sting of it on his face. He could smell Claire as she bent close and administered a needle that felt huge, like a piece of steel pipe
going into his arm, but it wasn't counteragent---he could feel the difference. A lot of something went into his arm.

"You're going to be alright, Darien. Stay still." He'd been slipped into the familiar embrace of a straightjacket; funny, he thought disjointedly, how he could get used to that thing. It was his first complete thought and the knowledge of it made him try to smile. It was horrible; they weren't going to kill him...not yet, anyway. He was going to have to live.

His face was cleaned up. The Keeper's clipped British voice came again, warmer than blood.

"You gave us quite a scare, mate. I was wondering if you were going to come out of it at all."

Darien looked up at her. He was laying on the floor. How had he gotten here? Had he gotten decked? Another needle went in, but he let it happen without a thought. He didn't have the energy to fight or even to flinch at the large-gauged steel as it slid into his vein. The counteragent melted
into him, warming as it went, in his fiery, contracting blood vessels.

She had helped him then, to sit up, in the jacket. She'd held a cup and let him drink as much as he could handle. Two cups, and then part of a third. Eyes wide, he stopped gulping and breathed deep and hard, as if he'd been running.

Now, she was preparing another needle. Darien found his voice, his fear, his panic.

"Bobby---?"

"Agent Hobbes is going to be fine, Darien. Worry about yourself for a little bit, won't you?" Her eyes had not changed from the last time he'd seen her. They were still calm and deep. Didn't she fear him?

He moved away from her as she brought the needle close.

"Go away, Claire." It was the best his voice would give; the words cracked in his mouth. "Don't be near me."

"I don't think you're much of a threat now, mate. Don't be thinking about that." The Keeper tried for a smile and managed to get a small one to come to her mouth.

"I hurt Bobby Hobbes..." It was a sob. He tried to put his hands over his head and found them tied behind his back. He remembered the jacket going on, but he couldn't recall it being tied up so neatly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched as the two orderlies left, taking bloody clothes and towels with them; bright red on startling white. "I hurt Bobby, didn't I?"

"We will talk about that later, Darien. Right now, you need to let me give you a sedative and you can rest." Her voice was cool, professional, but as he looked at her, he saw the light of concern still there. He sighed; he was still viable, whether he wanted to be or not.

"Tell him I'm sorry and I'm gonna make it up----tell him, Claire, please?" He pushed at her arm with his jacketed torso as she slipped the needle into his skin. It brought no pain and an overwhelming need to go blank took him.

"And how do you propose to do that, mate?" It was softer and he could see, as he began to drowse, her sympathy.

"I'm...I'm gonna die...for him." And then he found the darkness and ran to it, to hide.


(7)