Title: Whatever

Author: Foxmonkey

Rating: Pre-slash

Pairing: Bobby/Darien

Fandom: The Invisible Man

Disclaimer: Don't own them. If I did, the Keeper would be a gorgeous man, and Bobby would be jealous.

Whatever
by Foxmonkey

"That'll be four dollars." The smell of hotdogs had drawn the agents to the cart on the corner; a huge red and white striped umbrella simultaneously shielded the vendor from the sun and proclaimed his dogs 'The Best Weenie You've Ever Bitten.'

After loading up two fat footlongs with every enhancement the cart offered, Darien held their lunch while Hobbes reached for his wallet.

"It's on me today," Hobbes said, hand slipping into his back pocket and coming up empty. He tried the other side of his pants, then the front pockets, and with a puzzled look on his face, patted the front of his jacket. "Hey!" Hobbes slapped his pockets again, patting each in turn, dipping his fingers in and wriggling them. His movements grew more frantic as he gave all of his pockets another pass, obviously disbelieving the first fruitless go-round.

What's the matter, man?" Darien asked, trying to sound concerned - and innocent.

"My friggin' wallet!" Hobbes growled. "I *know* I had it!"

"The Fat Man finally gave you a phone card and you lost it? Man, he's gonna be pissed."

"Four dollars, please," the vendor interrupted.

"Damn, I *hate* that!" Hobbes continued. He patted his back pockets again. "IDs, cash, driver's
license..."

"Look Bobby, I'll get it." Darien made a show of balancing the hotdogs in an effort to retrieve his own wallet. "I mean, I paid yesterday, but four bucks is no big deal."

"It's a big deal to me," the vendor said, clearly irritated.

"Fuck!" Hobbes opened his mouth - probably to utter another curse - and stopped. He looked up into Darien's face, and his eyes narrowed.

Busted.

"Hand it over, asshole." Hobbes wriggled his fingers in an impatient gesture.

"Jesus, you're slow." Darien tried not to grin, as Hobbes obviously didn't think it was funny. He
motioned with his shoulder. "Front pocket." Hobbes glared at him, and shoved his hand into the pocket of Darien's baggy khaki pants. Darien yelped, shifting his hips to avoid Hobbes' fingers. "Jacket pocket, *jacket* pocket!"

It was Hobbes' turn to smirk. He pulled his wallet out of Darien's jacket and snorted. "Rest easy, pal, there's nothing in your pants that *I* want."

"Don't be so sure." Darien raised his eyebrows.

Hobbes lifted an eyebrow in reply. "Something you need to share with me, buddy?" He handed the vendor a five dollar bill, and waved away his change - probably an apology for making the man watch their performance. Now that the hotdogs were legally theirs, they moved away from the cart.

Darien handed a footlong to Hobbes, and cocked his head slightly to lick dribbles of mustard from his fingers. "I wear baggy pants for a reason, man. Don't want to frighten people unnecessarily."

"Quicksilver madness hitting you a few days early, Fawkes? Perhaps you need to move out of the sun." Hobbes poked at a crisp ring of onion. "And you wear baggy pants so you don't frighten people with those legs."

"Bobby. I'm 6'3", wear a size 12 shoe, and when I do this," Darien fanned his fingers, "my handspan from pinky to thumb is 10 inches. Everything's in proportion, buddy. Everything. In pro-por-tion." He graced Hobbes with an evil 'I feel sorry for lesser men' look, and tilted his head to better attack his condiment-laden lunch. A sprinkling of relish danced off of his chin, and he chewed, smiling, as Hobbes glared at him.

"You're a pain in the ass," Hobbes replied, biting into his own hotdog. "You and your baggy pants give me a headache." He motioned with his food. "Now get in the van; some of us actually believe in service and duty to our country."

The battered, faded banana-yellow van sported a peeling 'Thorkelson and Son, Exterminators' sign this week. The boys in the prop shop had a good time thinking of new occupations for the agents, and the rubbery magnetized signs usually made Hobbes give at least a single dry chuckle.

"Are you Thorkelson, or am I?" Darien asked, opening the passenger side door.

* * *

If he never saw another crotch, it would be too soon.

He found himself glancing at Fawkes' hands and feet, making mental measurements. Checking out the front of Fawkes' pants, relieved to find that loose trousers didn't show much. He sneaked looks at other men during the day, comparing himself to everyone he saw. He glanced down every now and then to check his own package, to reassure himself that he sported a respectable bundle in his lap and had nothing to be ashamed of. During one of these self-examinations, he
looked up to find Fawkes giving him glances that could best be described as gleefully amused.

When they finally wrapped things up and headed back to the Agency, Bobby was eager to be on his way; it had been one weird-ass day, a string of which he'd endured since partnering with Gland Boy. He was ready to sit out on the tiny balcony at his apartment and tip back a cold one. But before he could make good his escape, he had to listen to the Official drone for a few minutes about the case, and - damn Fawkes to hell - check out Eberts' pants. If he didn't slash his own
wrists first, he vowed to kill his partner.

His mind was on automatic while the Official led the afternoon de-briefing. He jumped slightly and came back to earth when his name was mentioned, but Fawkes - the wild-haired demon - stepped in smoothly to save his ass. The Official wasn't buying it, though. He opened a file on his desk and with a dismissive wave, and said that since he was boring the two of them they were welcome to get the hell out of his office, thank you very much.

They didn't hesitate; Fawkes had an appointment in the Quicksilver lab and Bobby had an overdue appointment with a cold beer. They commiserated in the hall, going over the next day's plans. Would they go for a sit-down breakfast, or grab bagels and donuts and meet in the parking garage? Real food cooked by someone else won out, and they nodded their agreement.

Throughout the exchange, Bobby watched Fawkes' face, feeling warm. This tall, gangly man had been dragged, screaming, into Agency life, and damn if he wasn't turning out to be a halfway decent agent. As much as Bobby had tried to hate him for having higher clearance, probably a higher salary, and just generally being irritating, the truth was that Fawkes was a hard man to dislike. He was a good guy. He could be a sneaky, self-serving son-of-a-bitch at times, but so could Bobby. He'd asked some good questions today, and he had good instincts; Bobby wasn't above giving a little praise where praise was due. He cleared his throat.

"Good work out there, hotshot," Bobby said, "but don't go thinking you're *too* valuable."

"Only seventeen million dollars worth, baby," Fawkes grinned. He gently rapped his own skull. "Those Agency shmucks have good taste."

"*You're* an Agency shmuck, in case you'd forgotten," Bobby reminded him, adding a touch of gruff irritation to his voice.

Fawkes just laughed and headed off toward the lab, throwing one hand up in a goodbye gesture. Bobby watched him for a moment, then shook his head and started in the opposite direction. He was going to go home, spread the pages of the latest Playboy and get all thoughts of cock - except his own - out of his head. Behind him, he heard the elevator ding, then, "Hey!" He turned; Fawkes was leaning out of the open elevator doors.

"What?"

Fawkes pointed at Bobby's crotch. "Not bad," he said, and winked. Bobby flushed deep red, but before he could draw his gun, the elevator doors closed and his partner was gone.

* * *

Sitting out on his balcony and watching the sunset definitely took the edge off the day. Bobby rolled his shoulders, easing his tight muscles. He sighed with pleasure, glad to be home. He closed his eyes for a moment, soaking up the last light of day. He'd gotten himself into such a tightly wound, paranoid rut that sitting on his balcony *with his eyes closed, for God's sake* would never have happened a month ago, or as he measured time now, B.F. Before Fawkes.

For a rookie fed and an ex-thief, his partner was smart, funny, and generally good company. After a few years of solitary assignments, it was good to have a partner again. It was a good feeling to have someone at your back, someone to bounce ideas off of, and Fawkes could definitely hold his own in any situation. Bobby took a sip of beer and closed his eyes; the alcohol warmed him inside as the dying light from the sun warmed his skin.

Ignoring the protests from his body, he rose slowly and wandered into the kitchen. He tossed his empty into the garbage. He was a generally tidy person, and wondered what Fawkes' place was like. They hadn't gotten to the "Hey, wanna come over and watch the game?" stage in their relationship, but he was sure it would happen. Even considering Quicksilver madness, and the fact that Fawkes had tried to choke him, he felt safe around his partner. For some reason he couldn't name, he trusted him. They were grudgingly moving toward friendship, and he was glad.

He put on his favorite jazz album, one by Thelonious Monk, and being considerate of his neighbors, turned the sound down low. He was the youngest tenant in the building by about 20 years; he was too high strung to live with neighbors his own age or younger. The complex was nice and quiet, just the way he liked it, and the older folks appreciated having a lawman in the
building. He was assumed to be a detective of some sort, and he'd let them believe it. Bringing an added illusion of safety to the building had its perks; every Christmas he was buried in cookies, fudge, and homemade sweaters. The downside was that any female friend, relative or acquaintance under 50 was considered fair matchmaking material, and he'd turned down countless fix-ups over the years.

Walking down the hall to his bathroom, Bobby scratched his balls, idly, enjoying their heft in his hands. Nope, not a thing wrong in that department. He gave himself a light squeeze, and his cock stirred. Promising more in a few minutes, he quickly stripped and stepped into the shower. He pooled a bit of shower gel in his hand and soaped his chest and arms, moving down his body until he was completely covered in lather. He stepped under the jet of water and rinsed off, closing his eyes to the stream, letting the last of the tension leave his muscles. He adjusted the showerhead to a hard, hot spray, and turned so the water needled his back and shoulders. Then it was time for that little promise he'd made himself.

He placed his left hand on the shower wall for support, and serious self-worship began. He ran
through his usual list of fantasy guest stars; models, actresses, the cute brunette at the corner deli, the Keeper. He wondered what the Keeper looked like when she was flat on her back, or even better, leaning over a bed waving her hairy ass in the air.... *Hairy* ass?

In some bizarre psychological leap, the Keeper had morphed into Fawkes. Bobby's eyes flew open but his hand kept moving over his cock. Fantasy Fawkes was naked, his tan skin gold against the crisp white sheets that covered the lower half of his body and puddled low around his hips. He gave Bobby a cocky grin, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, low, and intimate. "Come for me, man." The next thing Bobby knew, he was coming hard, closing his eyes and groaning as the fantasy figure smiled.

* * *

The first few hours of the day were blissfully free of embarrassment, though Bobby hadn't been able to meet his partner's eyes all morning and blushed constantly. Fawkes had asked about five times if he was OK, and to his horror, had even felt his forehead. Fawkes' skin against his had given him flashbacks of the fantasy appearance the day before, and Bobby had flushed even deeper red. Fawkes had looked concerned for a moment, then said that if Bobby made him sick,
he'd kick his ass.

It was one of those uneventful days where, despite Fawkes' long, loud sighs, all they could do was sit in the van, monitor their target and wait.

"This guy doesn't know anything, I'd bet my paycheck on it."

"Yeah? All ten dollars?" Bobby peered through a pair of binoculars and adjusted the eyepieces.

"*Twelve* dollars. I got a raise."

Their target worked from a fancy home office, and sooner or later the bad guys would contact him. Fawkes could get close enough for video; they'd snap a few pictures, tape a few minutes of conversation and no one would get hurt.

"We'll be out of here by lunch time my friend. Sit tight." He didn't mind humoring the Junior G-Man if it kept him from whining. The Junior G-Man, however, had other ideas.

"I'm hungry." Fawkes' stomach rumbled. There was an odd moment when neither of them said anything, but Bobby knew something was about to happen.

"Fawkes...."

"I'm hungry, and I'm leaving. I'll buy." Fawkes Quicksilvered and slipped out of the van before Bobby could protest.

Every good thought that he'd had about his partner went right out the window. He hated Fawkes.
"Asshole!" In a fit of pique, he tore the headset off and threw it on the control panel. He needed a leash. Or chains. Actually, a torture rack would be nice. He waited impatiently, fantasizing bodily mayhem. He kept one eye on the monitor, and one ear trained for Fawkes' arrival. He smelled the food before his partner reappeared.

"Slightly chilled from the Quicksilver, but still tasty." Fawkes opened a plastic delivery bag and
pulled out two foam plates filled with bratwurst, sauerkraut and french fries.

"A good agent ignores his hunger, shithead," Bobby said, but accepted the plate. Fawkes murmured a smart-ass reply around a mouthful of food.

They ate, each to his own thoughts, which suited Bobby fine. Until Fawkes suddenly said,

"It's thick, too."

"Your skull? You just proved that." Hobbes raised an eyebrow. He adjusted the sound on the parabolic mic, and glanced at the video monitor. Nothing was happening so he returned to his lunch. "What's thick?" He poked in his plate, corralling a few errant strands of sauerkraut. He rearranged them to his satisfaction as he waited for Fawkes to continue.

"Not only is it a little longer than average, it's thick too. Women like that." Fawkes contemplated his brat for a moment before he bit into it.

"If you're talking about what I think you're talking about, I swear to God I'm going to rip it off and shove it down your throat." Bobby's face was burning, so he kept his head down.

Holding his hands in a placating, 'We're cool' gesture, Fawkes nodded. "Sorry, man. You know, I
just thought I'd give you all the facts. Bonding and all that, since we were talking about it yesterday. Didn't mean to freak you out." Fawkes said nothing further, but glanced at the video monitor, then resumed eating his lunch.

Images flickered through Bobby's mind, the last one being Fantasy Fawkes, naked and smiling, in his bed. He heard the warm, honey-thick voice once more. *Come for me, man.* Scowling, he lifted his bratwurst to his mouth, and for an extremely confusing moment, imagined a thick, glistening cock on the bun. "I hate you. I just want you to know that."

A small smile flitted across Fawkes' lips. "I don't know when to quit sometimes. I'm sorry, partner." He crumpled his napkin, and shoved his empty plate into the plastic delivery sack. He sighed, stretching his long legs as far as he could in the cramped confines of the van. "Somebody's got to call or visit or send a postcard sooner or later, don't they?" he asked. "This is *beyond* boring."

Sliding his own plate into the plastic bag, Bobby shot Fawkes a look. "You're worse than a little kid. Can't you sit still for five minutes?"

Fawkes considered. "No. Look, let me do the invisibility thing and see what I can scare up." He
gripped the back door handle.

"Open it and I'll break your arm. We need to wait for the contact, remember? You go out there now and blow the deal, and innocent people might get hurt. Just sit tight." He grunted when Fawkes rolled his eyes. "And you can cut the attitude." He settled the headphones and readjusted the mic. He waited, and just as he knew he would, Fawkes started talking again.

"Anyway, you seemed cool with yourself. Some guys are sensitive about owning up; I was flattered that you trusted me." Fawkes crossed his ankles and shifted around in an apparent bid to get comfortable. He closed his eyes and sighed.

What could he *possibly* be talking about? Sometimes it was best to just ignore him; Bobby had learned that much in the few weeks they'd been partners. He chose that tactic now, speaking briefly into his headset to check in with the second surveillance team a few blocks away. Something about Fawkes' comments rankled him though, and he suddenly whipped his head around so quickly that his neck hurt. "You think I'm gay?" he squawked. "Is that it? You think I'm *gay*?"

One eye opened. "Look, I'm not a judgmental guy; who am *I* to throw stones? Ex-thief, all-around loser - *charming* loser, but a loser nonetheless - I keep an open mind." Fawkes closed his eye and sighed.

"What makes you think I'm gay?" Bobby knew that he should let it drop, that it was just Fawkes trying to get under his skin. But there were things that freaked a guy out and being perceived as gay was right at the top of the list. "Answer me," he insisted.

At that moment, however, their headphones crackled to life. The bad guys were on the way, and it was all systems go. Bobby spoke into his mic and acknowledged that they were ready on their end. He turned to Fawkes. "Get ready to do your thing, kid. And this isn't over - we're going to talk later."

"Look." Fawkes' expression was serious. "I don't want this to become some...some big *thing* between us. Hobbes, man, I'm sorry I teased you. I made an incorrect assumption, and on the basis of that assumption offered a show of support for what I'd assumed was your chosen lifestyle. That if you were, indeed gay, it wouldn't bother me. When I made that incorrect assumption I just wanted you to know that I could handle it. Like I said, I'm the last one who'd
judge. I'm sorry that my assumption bothered you, which it shouldn't if you're comfortable with yourself as a man. You're not gay, but it wouldn't bother me if you were, which you're not. Alright? We're cool?"

"We're cool; don't worry about it." Suddenly, Bobby felt silly for blowing things out of proportion. Fawkes probably hadn't had a lot of straight-up friends in his life, and seemed genuinely sorry that he'd offended his partner. "But," and it was Bobby's turn to look serious, "I *am* comfortable with who I am. I'm not gay."

His partner shrugged, and looked sly. "Gay, bi. Whatever."

A black sedan cruised around the corner, so Bobby only had time to growl in answer. They watched through the windshield as the black car pulled to a stop, and several dark-suited figures emerged. "Show time," Bobby said. "Get your invisible ass outta the van." He felt warm when Fawkes grinned. "Be careful," he added, and the words eased the tension between them.

Fawkes opened the van door just wide for his thin frame to slip through. "Now you see me," he said. He winked, and vanished.


Fox