Sharing the Madness

Sharing the Madness

Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex

Pairing: Darien Fawkes/Bobby Hobbes

Disclaimer: "The Invisible Man," with its related characters and themes, belongs to H. G. Wells, Stu Segall Productions, Sci Fi, etc., not to me. I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This piece of slashfic is for Ewan McGregor. For Vincent Ventresca and Callum Keith Rennie. For Paul Ben-Victor and Paul McCrane. For Fox and Krycek. For Bill Watterson. For the Iceman. Anyone else?

Wherein one man serves as Calvin for Hobbes, a new federal agent with fuck-me lashes for Fawkes, and, oh no, an OMC!

Darien had hoped that his new situation would be temporary. They'd find a way to remove the gland; he'd find a way to get the counteragent on his own; they'd change his position. He was supposed to be a crimefighting duo with Agent Bobby Hobbes? Please! He was not government agent material. He didn't have any experience or training; he certainly didn't have a calling.

And Bobby? Come on, the guy was nuts. He couldn't seriously be expected to work with this guy. He couldn't be Bobby's partner. The guy needed a psychiatrist, not a partner. They had nothing in common, anyway. He was an ex-thief with a glandular problem. Bobby was a whacko nutcase freak government agent, ex-FBI. Okay, he had to admit, the guy had some impressive points. Spotting those Canadian nationalists? Counting seconds between bullets to determine where the shooter was? The guy had great aim with a gun, better than anyone he'd seen. Bobby had some serious talent for stuff like that, important G-man stuff. But Bobby was all blind loyalty, work for The Official, do as the government says. Darien, well, he was more interested in doing what he thought was right and maybe just letting the government fuck itself. It was hard to work with someone who didn't ask questions, didn't want to know why they were acting. And it was sort of irritating to know that, if he weren't invisible sometimes, no one would want him there. At least Bobby had those weird talents and an honest wish to work for the government.

The Department of Fish and Game. Who were they kidding?

They'd saved some people and done work for The Official. He'd been dosed just an hour before, so he wouldn't need Clear Eyes for a while again. He decided that, as painful as it might be to spend more time with Bobby, time that he could otherwise spend trying to woo Casey back or just being away from this ridiculous new life he led, he really should get to know Bobby. They were partners, at least for the time being, and it was in everyone's best interest if he learned to communicate with his partner. So he found himself saying, after The Official dismissed them, "You want to come to my place?" Wait, did he really want Bobby in his place? "Or I could go to yours."

"What is this, your place or mine?" Bobby asked.

"No, I mean, we could order pizza or something."

"Why?"

"So we can learn to get along better. We have to work well together."

"We get our man and do our job."

"Wouldn't you like to do a better job?"

"You saying I'm not giving 100%, Fawkes?"

"No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying that if we work together, if we learn - - can we just go to wherever it is that you live and order some pizza?"

"You don't know where I live?"

"What, you know where I live?"

"621-"

"Okay, okay. No, I don't know. Where do you live?"

"Over on Kendig Street."

"Why does that sound familiar? Wait, you live there? Hobbes, that place is a shithole."

"I know. Let's go."

"Let me get my bullet-proof vest first," he said.

"I'll drive. You'll want to leave your car here."

Yeah, no way was he driving onto Kendig St. He'd never see his car again.

Bobby drove them and parked in front of a graffiti-covered building on the narrow street. They stepped around garbage bags, a homeless man, and broken glass to reach the building's door. Bobby pressed a button and unlocked the door, unlocked a second door, and let them inside the building. Darien followed him up three flights of stairs, where they stopped before C1. Bobby unlocked five different locks, then slipped inside and turned off two security alarms. Darien entered, and Bobby locked everything up again.

Darien looked around, surprised. Everything was relentlessly neat, clean, tidy. Couch, two armchairs, coffee table, television. Bookcase against one wall. He couldn't tell with the blinds down, but he suspected that the windows were clean to the point of sparkling. From where he stood, he saw an open doorway and two closed doors. "Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom," Bobby said. "What kind of pizza do you eat?"

"I'll eat anything they have," Darien said. "You order it. You got anything to drink?"

"Give me your jacket and have a seat," Bobby said. Darien shrugged out of his jacket and sat on the sofa; Bobby hung up his jacket on the coatrack by the door and went into the kitchen.

"Hey, Hobbes?" Darien called.

"What?" A beer can sailed through the doorway; Darien almost didn't catch it. He popped it open and drank off the foam quickly.

"Where's your stuff?"

"My stuff?" Bobby asked, coming in with a phone in one hand.

"You know, your arsenal. I can't believe a guy like you wouldn't have a gun in every room."

"And you think that I leave those guns out for everyone to see?" Bobby asked.

"You're not going to show me?"

"No, I'm not."

They ate pizza and tried to talk. It was hard to talk with Bobby because they ended up arguing over everything. Darien couldn't let any of what Bobby said go unchallenged. They couldn't talk about work without clashing; Darien didn't like to talk about his past; Bobby's stories on Bobby's past were too ridiculous to be listened to; obviously they couldn't talk about politics. He tried to ask Bobby questions, to figure out what Bobby's job really was, where Bobby had come from, what the deal with Bobby's past was, but he wasn't getting anywhere.

It was too bad. He didn't have any friends. He wanted a friend. He could use someone to talk to about Kevin, about quicksilver, about his lovely Red Eye Syndrome, about the work that The Official kept asking him to do, about why The Keeper thought that she could get into his pants.

Women. Right, they could talk about women. Guys talked about women, right? "You have a girlfriend or are you too busy saving the world from Canadian nationalists?"

"Girlfriend? No, I don't have a girlfriend. You did."

"I did," Darien agreed. "Now there aren't any women around, except The Keeper."

"You noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"She wants you."

"Why? I'm her lab experiment."

"Why does she want you? What are you, oblivious or just playing stupid?"

"I'll go with oblivious. You know something I don't?" Apparently it wasn't all in his head after all; she did want him. Hmm...

"So this bad boy, slinky body, look at me don't you want to fuck me don't you wish that you were ever so lucky enough to get me to fuck you image isn't an act?"

"What?!"

"The whole thing you do, the hair, the body, the walk and the talk and the way you sit, it sends off this whole image of 'aren't I too sexy for shit.' Everybody falls for it. It makes the theory of the 'bad boy trying to redeem himself but still dangerous at heart' work for you."

"I am not - - where do you get this stuff?!"

"Look in a mirror, Fawkes."

"I do not do any of that. You think people want me? Like who?"

"Besides The Official?"

"Oh god, I'm going to throw up all of that pizza right now. You are disgusting."

"It's my job to analyze people, look over a crowd, see who's doing what, who doesn't belong. You always stick out."

"Because I never belong?" God, that was depressing and far too true.

"Because everything about you is sex, and everyone notices."

"Are you trying to make me lose my mind? Now I'm going to be paranoid. None of what you're saying makes any sense."

"Why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous."

"All right. I'll drive you back to your car."

"I'll take a cab."

"Cabs don't come here."

"Right." He'd forgotten that he was on Kendig St. Bobby's apartment was way too nice for this building. The guy must have done extensive work. "Why do you live here?"

"People around here leave me alone. No one notices me. No one asks where I've been if I leave on assignment. No one breaks in because they figure that living here I have nothing to steal."

"You don't like people getting close, do you?"

"Close?"

"Never mind. Let's go."

For the next week, he was utterly self-conscious. He caught himself examining his every move, second-guessing his own smiles, looking over his wardrobe. Was The Keeper looking at him too closely? Was The Official's smug chuckle just smug or somehow lascivious and knowing? Was the grocery checkout clerk checking him out, was the bagger staring at his ass, were his jeans too tight anyway? Did he have a good body? He'd needed to be lean and strong for thiefwork, quick and graceful, tight and muscular. And it helped with this job, too.

Bobby had been the one to point out this situation to him. Was Bobby lying? Mistaken? Just plain weird? Or honest and direct? There was no way to find out for sure, besides walking up to a stranger on the sidewalk and saying, "Do I ooze sex appeal?"

There was no way that he could live his life according to something that Bobby said. But Bobby, for all of the insanity, had a very clear handle on some matters. Bobby was a damned good government agent. The best one he'd come across, which wasn't necessarily saying much, since they'd come across some really bad federal agents. And Bobby was insane. But Bobby was good, and maybe Bobby was right about this, maybe.

Who was he kidding? Okay, sure, it was an ego boost to think that people wanted him, that he could have anyone he wanted. He knew that it couldn't be true. If it were true, he wouldn't be sleeping alone. He hadn't gotten laid since he'd been with Casey. He hadn't gotten laid since he'd been arrested and incarcerated and quicksilvered. He wondered if sex would be different with the gland. He wondered if anyone knowing about the gland would want him. It wasn't a good idea to get involved with him, since his new life was pretty dangerous; when he went Red Eye anyone close could get, well, raped and killed.

If he could have anyone he wanted, who would it be?

Hmm, let's see.

He settled comfortably on his back, adjusting the pillow behind his head, slipping a hand into his loose sweats. His left hand picked at his nipple. He had sensitive nipples; a cold breeze had him all ready to go. It was pretty embarrassing; he felt like a woman with nips like that. Amazing thing, though; Casey had barely noticed them, didn't pay them any attention. And he didn't want to ask.

Okay, if he could have anyone he wanted, it would be Casey. Or Julia Roberts. Of course, he couldn't have either of them. Maybe he could try to jerk off to someone more likely. The sweatpants wouldn't come off until he'd thought of someone he wanted and might get.

Checkout clerk? Too young. Bagger? No thanks. Pretty young woman in the soup aisle? Yeah, but he'd never see her again. The only people he did see regularly were The Official and The Keeper and Eberts, which were enough to make his dick shrivel, and Agent Bobby Hobbes-

-oh holy shit. Well, now he really did need to take off his pants, since he had cum all over the inside of them. What was he, sixteen, coming in his pants? Loser. He stared up at the ceiling with a tired sigh. Life sucked.

And, if he wasn't mistaken, he'd just come over Bobby.

A short, middle-aged, bald man with a freakish personality.

If he wanted a man, he could have picked any number of hot guys. Granted, they were all from the entertainment media and no more likely to come to him than Julia Roberts was or, let's face it, Casey. Still, Bobby Hobbes? That was ridiculous. And he needed to clean up before his sweatpants were glued to his groin.

The next day when he was called in to see The Official, he was lounging in his chair and The Official was stalling for time when Bobby came in and sat in the other chair. He glanced over, and Bobby glanced at him in return.

Spark. Not a mutual spark, not one of those cliched zaps of electricity igniting a passion between them or anything. But a spark, on his part, because that bored dismissive look from Bobby made him horny. Disturbing, to say the least.

Bobby was gaining respect for the usefulness of his quicksilvering abilities. Having a partner who could disappear made Bobby's work interesting. But Bobby resented him, and he knew it. Bobby had spent a lifetime of dedication and service, and he strolled in out of nowhere - - out of prison, really - - to get the same job Bobby had at a better salary. Bobby hated it.

Was that it? He was perversely interested because Bobby wasn't? Bobby didn't like him, and he couldn't stand it, so he had to get Bobby to like him?

Boy was that lame.

"Now that we're all here, could you tell me why you called me in here?" he asked. "Do you have a job for us or did you just miss our company?"

"There's someone I want you to meet," The Official said with a smile. He hated that smile. "He's a new agent with the Department of Fish and Game." The Official checked his watch. The door opened. Darien turned in the chair to look.

Male. His age. White. Tall. Pinstriped dark suit.

Hair almost black, and thick, cut short.

Blue eyes.

Fuck-me lashes.

"Calvin Betacourt," The Official said. "Bobby Hobbes, Darien Fawkes."

"Agent Hobbes," Betacourt said. "I've heard a great deal about you."

"Calvin and Hobbes," Darien said. "That's great."

"Could we have a moment?" The Official asked Betacourt, who excused himself and left again. The Official turned to Darien with an "I love this because you're going to hate it" smile. "Agent Betacourt will be partnered with the two of you."

"Two partners?" Darien asked. "One's more than enough, thanks."

"It's a test," The Official said. "On your ability to keep a secret. You will work with Agent Betacourt. And you will keep quicksilver from him. He cannot know about your newly acquired talent. You have been very lax about informing people of your ability to turn invisible. You need to learn discipline."

"What kind of partners can we be if we keep something this big from him?" Darien asked.

"Another lesson you should have learned already," The Official said. "Always look out for yourself first. Screw your partner."

Hell, he'd love to screw Bobby.

No no no! Bad libido! Gross, gross dirty thoughts. He needed a therapist, fast.

Maybe this would be good. Betacourt would be a distraction, and he wouldn't be able to focus on lusting after Bobby. And if the three of them worked together, he wouldn't have time alone with Bobby.

Two weeks passed.

Well, he'd been wrong about one thing and far too right about another.

Betacourt wasn't a distraction. Betacourt was an annoyance, an irritation, the bane of his entire fucking existence. He was going to kill Betacourt at any second. Any second now.

And he didn't have time alone with Bobby. Every time he saw Bobby, Betacourt was there. Betacourt was always there, wherever Bobby was. Bobby couldn't exhale without Betacourt inhaling that breath. Betacourt worked with Bobby, ate with Bobby, and went home with Bobby. Not that Darien thought that the two of them were fucking, since Bobby didn't seem to have sex. But Betacourt was very interested in Bobby. Betacourt seemed to know all of Bobby's stories, wanted to hear them all again, and made reference to one every two seconds to a.) stroke Bobby's ego and b.) piss off and exclude Darien. The two of them were attached at the hip.

Was Betacourt trying to make a friend? Trying to attract the attention of a well-known senior agent to further his own career? Trying to get Bobby into bed? Darien kept hoping for the second but coming up with the third. And Bobby, well, Bobby seemed perfectly content to spend every waking moment with Betacourt. Which left Darien either utterly alone or an obvious third wheel, even on the job.

Especially on the job. Because Betacourt was a federal agent, and always sided with Bobby, and made Darien look like an inexperienced civilian - - which he was, damn it, but he was intelligent too, and he had the whole street smarts thing working for him. With Bobby, Bobby obviously knew stuff that he didn't, but he figured out stuff that Bobby didn't, so they complemented each other. Betacourt was just a dressed-up bureaucratic fed, looking to suck up to Bobby and make Darien look...stupid. He hated looking stupid. He hated feeling stupid. He hated knowing that if Bobby were gay, and if Bobby were interested in getting laid, Betacourt was right there and obviously eager, while he was off looking like an idiot.

Was Bobby gay? Asexual? A federal agent couldn't be gay, not gay and out, anyway. Betacourt wasn't out; anyone who (like Darien) wanted to interpret Betacourt's behavior as that of a gay guy trying to pick up someone might accuse Betacourt of being gay, but Betacourt could explain and evade out of it fast. Which left Darien wondering what Betacourt wanted, what Bobby wanted, and what he could do about it.

The cases that they got tended to involve him becoming invisible. On purpose, obviously, because otherwise why would they get the cases? At least on that front he had Bobby in his corner. Bobby knew when he needed to quicksilver, and kept his cover. Of course, Bobby had to distract Betacourt so that Darien could disappear, and that meant that Bobby and Betacourt would go off somewhere together to leave him alone.

He wanted Betacourt to be the one doing the disappearing act.

Maybe he could go invisible and spend an hour terrorizing the guy. Make Betacourt run off screaming like a loon never to be heard from again. Man, that was tempting.

He wanted Bobby. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because Bobby was different. Maybe it was because Bobby, for all of the insanity, was really smart and good at the job. Maybe it was because bald men were supposed to be virile. Maybe it was just that Bobby was growing on him. Maybe it was because he had some emotional hang-ups about wanting what he couldn't have. Maybe the gland had screwed up his brain forever and now his psyche was limping along after someone who was nothing like Casey at all whatsoever.

Whatever the reason, he got off twice a day now, and whenever he came into his hand it wasn't Casey's name on his lips.

He fixed his hair up, pulled on his tightest button-fly jeans, put a white tank T-shirt under his leather jacket with his shit-kicker boots, and decided that he looked like a hustler. He changed into sneakers, casual jeans, and a green long-sleeved pullover. He changed into a dark blue button-down shirt, pulled on his leather jacket, and called a cab. No way was he parking his car on Kendig St. He tucked two condoms into his wallet and stashed lube in his jacket pocket. He was clean, but he didn't know about Bobby. Not that he'd need any of this stuff to begin with, since there was zero chance he'd ever get into Bobby's bed. He could talk his way into and out of many places, but Bobby's bed wasn't one of them. Still, sometimes he and Bobby could talk; sometimes he could get Bobby to listen to him. Not to mention, was the guy even gay? Probably not. One in ten, right? He and Betacourt were making it a statistical problem for Bobby to be gay.

The cab dropped him off two blocks away, and that was only because he paid extra. He walked to Bobby's building and waited. When someone left, he held the door and went in. Then when someone else left, he made it through the second door. He jogged up the stairs to C1 and knocked.

"Who is it?" Bobby asked tensely.

"Who does it look like?"

"It's Fawkes," Bobby said to somebody inside, probably Betacourt. Ah, he'd suspected that he'd find his other new partner here. Oh, well, he could take care of that problem. Bobby opened the door for him, then relocked it.

"Hi," Darien told Betacourt, who was standing by the sofa looking like a sexy rumpled federal agent after hours.

"How'd you get in here?" Betacourt asked him.

"Security's not too tight," Darien said. "A little patience will get you a long way."

"You don't seem like the patient type."

"Haven't you learned not to trust appearances?" Darien asked.

"You came here to spout proverbs?"

"I came here to talk to Hobbes," Darien said.

"We were in the middle of-"

"I was here first."

"I-"

"I," Darien said firmly, "was here first."

Betacourt looked at him hard. Yeah, that's right, buddy, size up the competition.

"I know that we all work together," Darien said, "and if this were about business I'd include you," complete lie, "but it's not business, it's...personal. And I'd really like to talk with Hobbes alone." He turned to Bobby, finally. "That's okay?"

"Hey, if you need something," Bobby shrugged.

"Of course," Betacourt said. "I'll just go. I'll see you both tomorrow. Bobby, thanks for dinner."

"No problem," Bobby said. Betacourt left. Bobby locked up again. "What're you doing here?"

"What's up with that guy?"

"Betacourt?"

"Yes, Betacourt. Come on, what's with him?"

"What?"

"God, Hobbes, he's your new best friend out of nowhere. Either he's into something on his own, or The Official partnered him with us for reasons we don't know about."

"Betacourt's on the level," Bobby said.

"And he just happens to be doing his very best to weasel his way into your pants?"

"Is that so hard to imagine?"

Okay, scratch the theory that Bobby was clueless. "So you've let him?"

"Let him... Hell no."

"So, what, you're keeping him close until you figure out what he's doing?"

"He likes me," Bobby said. "Get out."

"Get - - get out?"

"Now, Fawkes."

"What did I say?"

Bobby looked at him. Bobby hated him. He left and heard the locks snapping into place. Locked out. And turning invisible wasn't going to get him back inside there.

He thought about what Bobby had said, and what he had said, and again about what Bobby had said. It hit him with its simplicity. Betacourt liked Bobby. No one else liked Bobby. Bobby liked being liked. And his responses had made it seem like Betacourt couldn't possibly want Bobby just for Bobby, there had to be some ulterior motive. God he was an asshole.

He met Bobby the next day after getting his shot from The Keeper. "Hobbes, hey, listen. I'm sorry about last night. What I said. I wasn't - - this job, all of these people with their manipulations, it has me thinking that nobody's just an honest guy anymore. Betacourt wants you, you want to be his friend, I have no business thinking anything else. I just don't like the guy, and that's my problem."

"I know you don't like him, but why?"

"He's... He's... He has this thing going on, that straitlaced agent, wouldn't you just like to get him out of that suit and see how those fuck-me eyelashes keep up the promise."

"Look who's talking."

"What?"

"Your eyelashes do some talking of their own, Fawkes."

He was going to wait to think about that one. Right now, "Look, if you want to be Betacourt's new best friend, that's between the two of you. I just thought that someone should tell you that he's into more than friendship. You know that already, okay, then I'll keep my mouth shut. I just wanted to apologize for making it sound like he had to be up to something. He likes you. That's...you know...good."

"So if I take our new partner to bed, you won't care?"

"None of my business."

"Good." Bobby left.

Darien pounded the wall with his forehead.

The next day, Betacourt was walking a little funny. Just slightly stiffly. Like he was hurt. Which let Darien know who'd fucked whom. Bobby did not look happy, either. Why not? Most people, post-sex, did that whole glowing thing. When Betacourt went to the bathroom, Darien did something completely unethical: went invisible and followed.

Betacourt went into a stall. Darien went unseen into the stall beside it and stood on the toilet, looking over into Betacourt's stall. Betacourt started to undress; weird. Then Darien figured out why. Betacourt was checking bruise progress. There was a mark on the back of the guy's right shoulder, and Darien pictured the scenario: fucking, Betacourt bottoming, Bobby behind, Bob bites the guy? Okay, that worked. There were bruises on the guy's hips, like Bobby had grabbed him hard during the fucking. He ducked back to give privacy while the guy took a painful shit. So Bobby was a rough top. Not good. But Bobby didn't look happy about it, either. Like the whole thing had been wrong.

Bobby's mood wasn't improving. Betacourt was starting to resent Darien openly, glaring at him and being downright rude. Darien didn't know what was going on there. One night of bad sex, and suddenly he was the bad guy? At least Betacourt had had a chance in Bobby's bed, which he couldn't say about himself.

Finally he called Betacourt on it, in the parking lot after work. "Look, Cal, I don't know why you hate me, but it has to stop. We're working together here."

"We aren't working anywhere," Betacourt said. "Bobby and I do the work, we have the experience, you're just a tight-assed pretty boy."

"I am not a - - I'm right out there with you, working on these cases. You've been here for a month now, and you know how it goes. I contribute just as much as anyone."

"How did you get this job? Sleep your way to the top?"

"I'm not the one fucking Hobbes."

"Not for lack of trying."

"You go to hell! I never ever-"

"How did you know? Did he tell you? I know it wasn't a lucky guess; you aren't that smart."

He tried to rein in his temper. "I'm not here to fight with you."

"Why are you here?"

"To do my job. As your partner."

"You don't like me. You don't like me or Bobby or The Official or-"

"That's bullshit."

"You think you're so much better than we are," Betacourt said. "I don't see what makes you so fucking special."

"I do not think that I'm better than you are. And I don't hate all of you."

"Oh, are you doing Eberts?"

"That's disgusting."

"You're an asshole, Fawkes. Do us all a favor and leave, one way or another."

Well, that had not gone well. He didn't hate Bobby. He liked Bobby. A lot. Way too much for his own good.

He went to Bobby's apartment again. Knocked.

"Who's there?"

"Who does it look like?"

The door opened. "What do you want?"

"Let me in. Wait, is he here?"

Bobby eyed him suspiciously.

"What?"

"Come in and hug the wall."

"You're going to frisk me?"

"You come unannounced and want to know if I'm alone."

"We're partners! Bobby, look. You know that at any second I could, you know, attack you and you'd never see it coming." Best to be vague; no telling who in the hallway was listening. "You have to trust me."

"Get in," Bobby said. He did, and Bobby locked the door. "What do you want?"

"What's with you and Betacourt?"

"Why do you care?"

"He hates me and he wants me out. I can't go, and I don't want him getting me killed in the line of duty."

"He liked me."

"And?"

"He's new. He's young. He'd heard of me, my famous exploits. He didn't realize that I'm a federal laughingstock. He thought that I was somebody. Nobody thinks that I'm somebody, Fawkes. You're the golden boy; I've been laughed out of every government agency. But Betacourt respected me. He liked me. He wanted me."

"So you had sex with him."

"I used him."

"Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. Because what you said isn't true. What you're thinking isn't true. I like you. I think you're somebody."

"No you don't."

"I respect you. I like you. I want you."

"You don't."

"Why would I say it?"

"You're jealous that he likes me and not you."

"What?!"

"He's young and attractive and he went for me instead of you. Now you're jealous. You know you can't have him, so you're trying to upset him and fuck me."

"I do not want Betacourt. I never wanted him. I won't want him."

"Because short old bald men excite you."

"Yes." He suppressed a smile, barely.

"Get out."

"Hobbes, wait. Come on. Betacourt respected you and liked you and wanted you. He admired you and wanted to get in your bed, and you fucked him. I respect you and like you and want you; I admire you and want to get in your bed. We're partners. It's not fair of you to give Betacourt special treatment and kick me out of your apartment. If you fucked him, you should fuck me, too. Only not too hard, okay?" He tossed Bobby the tube of lubricant and shed his jacket, toeing out of his sneakers. He pulled off his socks and his shirt and went to find Bobby's bedroom.

He was pushed and rolled; his shoulderblades hit the mattress and Bobby's mouth latched onto his right nipple. Okay, oh god, way to go Bobby. Way to go Darien. Jackpot. God. Licking, kissing, licking, sucking, teeth god teeth! No teeth! Oh, okay, yes, god, good, teeth were good. Good teeth. Good Bobby. Other nipple now. Shit, he was sensitive. Self-control would help a lot here, if he could just find a shred of it. Bobby's mouth went up to his collarbone, across his shoulder, up his neck, along his jaw. Ear. Ears were good. Except that he was going to come and he wanted to come at a different point in this procedure. He reached down to unbutton his jeans. Bobby shoved away his hands and slid down there.

Okay. The man could open button-fly jeans with teeth. That had to be some sort of Guinness Book of World Records thing. Where did he learn to do that? Plus, there was the whole entirely erotic and exciting horny arousing aspect of it.

Jeans down and off, boxers down and off, Darien ass naked on Bobby's bed. His legs were moved, feet flat on the mattress, knees high and wide, giving Bobby access. Wasn't he supposed to roll over now? Bobby's, okay, god, Bobby's mouth was on his balls. "Fuck me." Wait, if that was his voice, he really needed to learn to sound less like someone doing that romance novel breathy lust-drenched thing. He let his eyes roll back in his head and decided to let Bobby do whatever Bobby wanted to do. Bobby left his balls and started, how to put this delicately, licking his ass. Tongue-fucking his ass. He'd never had anyone even try to do this to him before, and he'd had no idea what he was missing. Then Bobby's mouth was gone and there was a slippery finger pushing inside there.

He began to reconsider his quick rejection of Betacourt's accusation that he was tight-assed. Right now it felt pretty much like Betacourt had been right on the money with that one. He didn't know how Bobby was hung, but he was sure that nothing was going to get inside him.

What, was the guy nuts? Two fingers?

Oh, yes, two fingers were good, he liked two fingers. Mmm, yeah... He knew that he was grinning like a shit-faced fool, and his body was doing some slow writhe; if he'd been lucid, he'd smack himself and stop. But it felt so...good...

He sat straight up, eyes open wide. "What the fuck was that?" Bobby's fingers twisted and it happened again and he fell back; it happened again and his hips cleared the bed. Okay, that was it, he wanted this every day without fail.

Three fingers? Any more and he'd - - oh, oh, oh, there it was again, and his back kept arching in this totally sluttish way. "Hobbes?"

"Fawkes?" Cruel twist of fingers right there, oh god, this man was completely exploiting his body.

"Are you taping this?"

"I wish."

He opened his eyes. Bobby was watching him, pressing against his hot spot and making him do that writhing thing on purpose. Apparently the guy got off on watching him act with sluttish abandon. Was that flattering or disturbing? Bobby caught him watching and turned red.

"You're still dressed." So he could manage to string together another sentence. Wow. Impressive, considering his brain was leaking out through his cock.

"You clean?"

"Yeah. Totally. You?"

"Yeah."

He nodded and then gave a little moan when Bobby's fingers slid deeper. "Come on, man, fuck me already."

"Don't move." Bobby's fingers left him. He sighed in disappointment, feeling empty and lonely, and relaxed, waiting. He watched Bobby stand at the foot of the bed to undress. He'd never seen Bobby naked. It was nice. And, okay, no way was that going inside his body. His thighs pressed together instinctively, all sluttish tendencies gone. This had been such a bad idea.

Bobby's fingers, two of them, pressed inside him again, in the slick passage, teasing him open again. He moaned and spread, hips lifting in invitation. Then the fingers were gone and something else was there, and Bobby's hands were on his hips and his thighs, and he was opened and lifted, and then he was in pain.

"Hold still. Breathe, Fawkes. Damn you, hold still." One hand rubbed his chest. He tried to relax. Bobby moved, and he moved in response, he couldn't help it, he adjusted to the penetration. Once they were reseated, he felt the pain ebbing. There was a sense of fullness, and Bobby moved, and then there was more movement, a back and forth thrusting, and he knew that motion because he'd done it himself. So this was what it was like to be fucked. Full and heavy, pleasure and fireworks, heat and stars, slick and erotic. He wrapped his long legs around Bobby, thrusting up, panting open-mouthed, hands seeking purchase on Bobby's headboard. Finally, unable to take it any longer, that tight hard pistoning fullness churning up his insides and making it impossible for him to breathe through the ecstasy, he grabbed Bobby and twisted, rolling them over, until Bobby was back flat and he could rise over his partner. He seated himself fully, screwing down on Bobby's cock. He paused for a moment, sitting up, feeling the ache of impending orgasm from his balls to the roots of his hair. Shakily he inhaled, finally able to draw breath again.

Shit-

-and his back hit the mattress again, his head at the foot of the bed, Bobby on top of him. "Still my ride, Fawkes," Bobby said, and slammed into him hard. He twisted to get away, get closer, wanting more of that intense ecstasy but unable to stand it any longer. Bobby slammed again and went very still. He watched Bobby's head turn to the right fast, lower teeth biting into the upper lip. Bobby was coming. Inside his body.

There was a long pause, and then Bobby was moving away. Carefully Bobby's cock left him. He moved up onto his elbows. "Hey."

"What do you want?" Bobby asked. "My hand, my mouth, my ass, or are you taking care of it yourself?"

"What'd you do to Betacourt?"

"Nothing."

"He didn't want-"

"I didn't offer. I didn't want to touch his."

"Why not?" Maybe Bobby wasn't gay or bisexual, really only liked fucking women, didn't want to deal with another guy's cock? Maybe Bobby was a huge jerk?

"I wasn't with him to be with him. I was with him because he wanted me and I was desperate."

"Desperate for what?"

"You want me to take care of that or not?"

"Yeah. No. Yeah - - do what you want."

Strong arms wrapped around his slender waist; he fell back against the mattress, head falling off the bottom, back arched, pelvis thrusting up into that hot wet cavern, cock sucked down down down oh god yes oh. God. Yes. He came, howling.

He opened his eyes.

"Hobbes?" He sat up with an effort. Bobby was dressed again, sitting up at the head of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, curling up his legs. "Hey."

"Fawkes."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah."

"Could you drop the pissy resentful routine and answer me?"

Bobby looked at him directly, mouth tight. "Sure."

He shook his head, rolled his eyes, sighed. "Fine. So you fuck Betacourt from behind, it's pretty rough. Right?"

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "So?"

"So you just fucked me like... You took your time getting me ready, and it was good and hard but it wasn't rough, it wasn't violent. Well, in a good way, okay? You know what I mean - - you didn't hurt me. You hurt Betacourt. And you didn't even offer to help him out, and then you just... I've never had that happen in my life. You deep throated me, didn't you? God, you hear the stories, but when it happens to you..."

"You got a point, Fawkes?"

"You used him. You didn't use me. Not in the same way."

"So?"

"I want to know why."

"It's none of your business. Now, if you want me to do what I did with Betacourt, I'll tell you to get out and lock myself in the bathroom until you're gone."

"You didn't want him. Did you? You used him to get off."

"Sick of using my hand, what can I say?"

"You can say why you... You want me? Is that the difference? You didn't want him, you want me? Then why didn't you come to me and forget about him in the first place?"

"I knew I couldn't have you."

"You just did have me. How much is this going to hurt, by the way?"

"What?"

"My ass, Hobbes."

"Don't you..." Bobby stared at him. "You've never been fucked? You've never been fucked. You've - - you're a virgin?"

"You don't have to shout about it," Darien said defensively. "Yes, I'm a virgin. Or I was, until just now."

"You should have told me."

"You would have done it differently?"

"I wouldn't have done it at all."

"Too late."

"Motherfucker."

"Betacourt wasn't a virgin?"

"No. Which doesn't excuse my behavior," Bobby said sharply. "What I did was wrong."

"Why does he hate me?"

"He knows I want you."

"You told him?"

"I didn't want him. I took him from behind, I barely touched him, I just got in his ass and closed my eyes. And when I came, I didn't say his name. That tipped him off pretty well."

"What'd you say? When you didn't say his name, whose name did you say?"

"Yours! I said your name, you slinky slutty tight-assed tight-bodied piece of shit with your hair and your eyes and your mouth, sitting there like you're so fucking irresistible with your slouch and your legs spread and your innocent bad boy routine that you can just fuck, because I don't need it!"

He just sat there and stared.

Bobby finally looked away, angry and closed up and breathing funny. Bobby moved as though to leave the bed; Darien reached out fast, grabbed Bobby's wrist. "No. No, you stay right there."

"Let go of me, Fawkes."

"You want me. You want me like I want you. You don't want a one-time thing, you don't want me to walk out of here like nothing happened. You want me in your bed under your hands day in and day-"

"Back off, Fawkes."

"What are you going to do if I don't? What are you going to do, Hobbes?"

A knife pressed right under his sternum. The blade was cold against his bared flesh.

"You don't want to do that."

"Let go of me," Bobby said evenly, looking right into his eyes.

Right. Don't fuck with psychotic well-trained feds. He opened his hand, releasing Bobby's wrist. He moved, crawling back to the foot of the bed, hands back for support, watching the hand with the blade as Bobby pursued him slowly. Finally he couldn't go any further and fell off of the bed onto his butt with a thump that jarred his tailbone. On his elbows, he looked up as Bobby stood with the knife. "Get out," Bobby said, went to the bathroom, locked the door.

He collapsed flat on his back on the floor, feet in the bedclothes, staring up at Bobby's ceiling. "Jamaica Kincaid once wrote, 'The feeling of bliss, the feeling of happiness, the feeling of longing fulfilled that I had thought would come with this situation was nowhere to be found inside me.' Now, she wasn't writing about having sex with Robert Hobbes, but it's certainly applicable. I finally get in his bed, I finally feel his hands and his mouth and his body and his cock, and now I've fallen off of the bed at knifepoint and been told to leave. What did I expect, proclamations of undying love? From Hobbes? Obviously the direct approach hasn't worked. I got fucked, but I also got told to get lost. Maybe I should turn invisible and stalk him for a week. Maybe I should have fucked him. Maybe I should have made him cut me. Maybe I shouldn't have asked for sex at all. He fucked Betacourt because he wanted me. It's wrong to gloat." He chuckled, full-throated, happy. "He fucked Betacourt because he wanted me, and I'm going to gloat as much as I want. And I am not tight-assed. At least, not anymore." He found his feet, stood, made sure his legs would hold him. Dressed slowly, testing his muscles. He ran his hands through his hair and pounded a fist on the bathroom door. "Hey, Hobbes, come out and walk me to the door. Hey, you alive in there? You answer me or I'm coming in."

"Come through that door and die."

"Good enough. See you tomorrow."

He sauntered into The Official's office the next day as though it were the most cheerful day of his life. And it was. He'd had his balls licked last night, and he was feeling no pain. Well, there was a little bit of pain, from falling on his ass. But it was a good, happy pain. A reminder of the ride of his life.

"What's going on now?" he asked, sitting in his usual chair, slouch at full tilt, knees wide. Take that. Bobby glanced at him.

"Good news," The Official said.

"We're fired?" Darien asked.

"Agent Calvin Betacourt has been reassigned."

"What? He's gone? What happened?"

"He's fulfilled his duties."

"Fucking up my life?" Darien asked. "Give that man a citation."

"You kept your secret well," The Official said.

"Yeah, one of them, anyway," Darien said. "But you're right. Good news. Let's go celebrate. Drinks on me."

"I'll let you two take care of that yourselves," The Official said. "You're dismissed."

"Good," Darien said. Bobby rose and left. He tossed The Official a smile and jogged after Bobby. He caught up to Bobby at the end of the hallway. "What do you say, Hobbes? Want to go out and celebrate the disappearance of Fuck-Me Betacourt?"

Bobby turned, fast, glared at him. Grabbed him and slammed him back against the wall, jerked open the closest door, shoved him into the janitor's closet, pulled the door shut hard, slammed him up against the door now. Breathing hard, hands on his chest, thumbs unerringly planted on his nipples through his thin cotton shirt. Darien gasped, breathing hard himself, feeling Bobby's body against his, Bobby's thumbs rubbing over his sensitive nipples with alternating too-gentle and hard passes. "Why?" he asked, finding his voice in the dark. Oh god that felt too good to be real, so good it hurt.

"Why what?" Bobby asked.

"Why'd you go straight there, both times?"

"You flash them all the time, no matter what you're wearing I can see them, like you're a girl in a bikini in winter. They taunt me. Everything you do taunts me."

"Taunts you with what?"

"How much I can't possibly have you."

"You can have me. Have me, Hobbes. Just take me. Oh my god." Bobby's hand was opening his pants, pulling out his cock. Bobby left his nipples and knelt in front of him. Bobby tugged down his pants a little, licked over the head of his cock, licked along the underside and snaked a hand between his thighs. A finger slowly pushed inside him while his cock went into Bobby's mouth. Okay, he could do this without screaming, couldn't he? His left hand went to the doorknob, gripping it hard for self-control; his right hand went down to Bobby's head, sliding down until his fingers found the short dark brown hairs at the back of Bobby's head, gently pressing Bobby closer. Not that Bobby needed any instruction from him; this was the best blowjob of his life.

Well, it would be if Bobby would just let him come. What was it with this guy and making him wait? Okay, he believed in foreplay, and he believed in drawing it out to enjoy the pleasure, but he wanted to come already, damn it.

Oh, here it came, too fast, too soon, he couldn't stop it - - anyone coming down the hallway had to have heard that.

Bobby gently tucked away his sensitive penis, closed his jeans, patted him fondly. He sagged against the door, too exhausted to moan with the reverberating pleasure. Bobby stood and eased hands down his torso. "Don't pass out, Fawkes."

"I'm not. I won't." He shook himself awake. "Are you gay?"

"I haven't always had the luxury of choosing my partner. Sometimes you take what you can get. Depending on where I am and in what circumstances, I take what's available. Usually I leave it to my right hand. I'm probably bisexual, but I prefer men. I prefer you."

"Good."

"You're bisexual?"

"Thought I was straight, mostly. I've been attracted to some men, TV and movie men. I've never actually done anything with a man. No sex, no touching, no kissing - - I still haven't kissed a man." His breath started to speed up again. What was going on here? He was as horny as a sixteen-year-old these days. It crossed his mind that he really hadn't done anything with Bobby, either. Bobby had done all of the work; he'd just laid back and let Bobby have at him. Well, that would change.

Except that Bobby was stepping back, away from him.

"Hobbes-"

"I'm not spending my day in this closet."

"Let's go to your place. My place."

"You're inviting me to your apartment?"

"Yes."

"No thanks."

"Hobbes, come on. I want you and you want me. It's more than sex. Why are you running hot and cold on me?"

"You got what you wanted. Let me go."

"Got what I wanted? What, a blow job? I don't do relationships on an orgasm-to-orgasm basis. It might be nice to spend some time together. And it might be nice to return the favor."

"You want to get me off?"

"Yes. Can we go to my place? I'll give you an orgasm and some lunch."

They went to Darien's in separate cars. Bobby did follow him there, not driving off away from him as he'd expected. They went into his spare white apartment; he draped his jacket over the end of the sofa. He walked to the bedroom, toeing out of his shoes and peeling off his shirt as he went. He tried to picture the image he was sending Bobby: long lean back, muscles flexing, arms stretching, long naked angles flowing. He had his socks off by the time Bobby wandered into the bedroom after him. Now it was his turn; he pressed Bobby back up against the wall right beside the door, already half-naked, in only his jeans now. "Lose the jacket and the gun," he said, and those were dropped to the floor by their feet, one after the other. He curled his hands around the back of Bobby's neck, lacing his fingers across Bobby's nape, thumbs stroking pulse points. He had good hands, long fingers, nimble, graceful; thief's hands. He rested his rangy body against Bobby, smiled down at Bobby. "You want my hands, mouth, or ass?"

"I want that smart mouth wrapped around my cock," Bobby said. "And no teeth, Fawkes."

He grinned and leaned in, pressing his lips to Bobby's. Kissing was good, he knew kissing. He liked kissing. He bit just slightly on Bobby's lower lip, opened Bobby's mouth with his tongue, slid inside to explore. Hot and wet in here, tasted sweet and dark and smoky in some way that he couldn't define. He passed a hand down Bobby's side, across Bobby's hip, over to the hard ridge of Bobby's cock through Bobby's pants. Brought down his other hand, opened those pants, pushed them down, got a hand inside there. As long as his, goddamnit, and just thicker enough that he noticed the difference. God, what had he been thinking, letting this thing up his ass? Okay, sure, he put his inside people, but only women, and women were built to accept cock.

Jesus Christ this kiss was going well. Bobby's tongue fit better in his mouth than his own did. The cock in his hand responded to his touch, thrust against him a little. Okay, good, he'd get to it in a second as soon as he finished getting Bobby to swallow his tongue.

Bobby pushed on his hip.

Right, sorry. He broke the kiss and dropped to his knees. Shit. Okay, other people did it, Bobby did it, he could do it too, right? No problem. He sorted his fingers through Bobby's black pubic curls, fondled Bobby's balls a little. Stroked Bobby's cock, kissed right underneath it, licked just a little. Mm. Nice. Salty. Licked again, licked all around the base, licked his way up along the underside to the head, stroked and licked some more, licked over the head, wrapped his lips around it. He moved on it as far as he could, pulled back, tried again, his hand stroking what didn't dare fit. No way was he deep throating his first time. He'd just mess it up and probably make Bobby lose this beautiful erection to boot.

Bobby's foot, still in its shoe, pressed against his stomach, pushed him back some. He let go and looked up; "What?"

"You don't want to swallow your first time."

"Yes I do." He went back again, sucking, stroking, licking around on it. He could totally do this, it felt great, sucking and licking Bobby's cock. Yeah, he was a total cocksucker. Way to fuck up his mental image of himself. Ex-thief with a glandular problem, okay, that was weird enough, but cocksucking ex-thief with a glandular problem just complicated things. He was a good guy, he was fairly intelligent, he tried to do the right thing (now that he wasn't robbing people anymore), and he was totally in love with his insane male partner, a fed.

Bobby came, hard and fast. He managed to let it flow, to swallow, not to gag. Not bad for his first time. Okay, not professional or anything, but at least Bobby had come, right?

While he was down there, and he had to let go of Bobby's cock at least for the time being, he finished undressing Bobby. He got to his feet and took off Bobby's shirts, leaving Bobby naked. He was still in his jeans, himself, and it was crowded in there. "Bobby, I was wondering. You get fucked?"

"You any good?"

"Well, I've never been with a guy, but - - what, you want references?"

"When was the last time you did this?"

"Casey."

Bobby nodded. "You have lubricant?"

"Yeah."

"You want me on my stomach?"

"On your back."

"It's harder that way."

"That's how you did it to me."

"I wanted to watch the show."

"Then don't you want to watch me this time, too?"

Bobby laid down on his back, head on the pillows, waiting.

Darien grinned to himself. This was going to be so fucking good. He found the lube on the nightstand, spread Bobby's thighs and knelt between them. He leaned up and in, capturing Bobby's mouth with his own, taking over and claiming Bobby's mouth as he planned to claim Bobby's body. Bobby was his. In his bed under his hands, his to fuck. "Hobbes."

"Fawkes."

"Any tricks to this? One two three fingers, hit that spot a lot, shove it in and that's it?"

"That's it," Bobby agreed.

Hell, he could do that. No problem. He sat back on his heels, getting lube on his finger, reaching back behind Bobby's balls. Bobby's knees went up and wide to help him; Bobby's hips rolled and there it was in plain view. He pressed his finger in a little, wiggled and wormed, pushed it in further, there it went. "Tell me if I need to stop," he said. "I'm not into pain."

"You're doing fine, Fawkes."

"You done this recently?"

"Not for...fourteen years."

"Shit." Now was not the time to lose his cool. He kept going, pushing his finger in and out, getting lost in the rhythm of thrusting into the hot tight passage slick with lube. He was really getting to like this. He could do this all day. What he really wanted was to get his cock in there, feel it gripped close by that wet velvet heat. He wriggled in his second finger, watched Bobby watching him. He sank his fingers in deep, feeling around; that spot had to be in here somewhere. Suddenly Bobby gasped and said, "Took you long enough."

"Give me a break, it's my first time." He felt around and found it, a little nub. He pushed against it, poked it a bunch of times, and watched Bobby's cock twitch in response. Pretty nifty. He kept stroking and pushing, trying to stretch the muscle and hit that spot. He worked in his third finger, a tight fit, crowding Bobby's ass and wanting more every second to get his cock in there. Finally he wriggled his fingers back out and rubbed lube over his cock. "You ready?"

"Get on with it already."

"Okay, okay. Give me a second." He got his cock in one hand, pressing the head to Bobby's entrance. He shoved. He and Bobby were slick with lube, so he got inside, but it was so hot and tight that he wanted to come right then and there. Oh god it felt good, too good, perfect, too perfect. The tight-wet-hot-tight-hot-tight sensation just clenched all around his cock and made him drown in pre-cum. Yeah, this was where he was staying for life. Life imprisonment in Bobby's ass.

He thrust in as far as he could go, pulled out and did it again. The urge to thrust was an instinct, a primal force driving him. He lifted Bobby's hips with his hands, trying to steady himself, and Bobby's legs went over his shoulders, and he balanced himself on the bed and thrust himself right into Bobby's ass. He hoped that he was pounding that spot, because Bobby sure had for him.

Steadying himself with one hand, he brought the other up to Bobby, wrapping his fist around Bobby's cock. He wanted Bobby to get off on this as much as he was. Bobby was lying there watching him, hands in the bedclothes, eyes raking over his body and looking over his face. He did a quick grip-slide-squeeze-flick over the head of Bobby's cock, then back down and up again with a minute twist. He was way too close to coming, and he didn't want to come without Bobby. He thrust and rubbed and thrust and pulled and thrust and watched, felt, Bobby come. Bobby came quietly, had for the third time now, and it disturbed him. Emptying his seed into Bobby's body, he was not quiet. He waited, catching his breath, coming down from the high. Then he pulled out his cock and dropped down beside Bobby.

"Hobbes?"

"Fawkes."

He rolled onto his side. "I'm going to fall asleep. Don't leave."

Bobby rolled over, facing him. He couldn't resist; he kissed Bobby, slow, deep, hot, tongue, slow. He had a hand full of lube and cum, not to mention Bobby's load splattered over their bodies, but he couldn't be bothered to get up and clean. He just rested there, kissing Bobby slowly and carefully, then subsiding and slipping into sleep with his left hand on one naked hip and his body pressing forward to meet Bobby's.

He woke up alone in the bed. Shit. He rolled to his back and thought for a moment. Okay. First he'd gotten the biggest nutcase ever for a partner. Then he'd fallen for that partner. Then he'd gone pretty nuts himself, flipping out over Betacourt, getting so jealous that he didn't know himself. Now, Betacourt was gone and he was having sex with Bobby. He didn't have to be jealous anymore, which was good, because hating someone that much had taken a lot out of him.

Okay, down to practical matters. He wanted Bobby. Bobby wanted him. He liked Bobby. Did Bobby like him? Well, probably not.

Was he hearing things? Something was beeping. What was beeping?

Bobby was here? Still? Not gone? He rose from the bed, pulled on his jeans, and walked out of the bedroom to see Bobby, dressed, standing by the sofa.

"Hey. Was that you beeping?"

"Yeah. You got anything to eat here?"

"Yeah. Let me get cleaned up first."

"You look good asleep."

He turned back, looked at Bobby. "Yeah? Thanks. I'd like to see you sleep. See if you ever lose that pissed-off confused frustrated look."

"Not with you around."

He grinned and went to the bathroom.

So that was it. They worked together the same as ever, disagreeing at every turn but each letting the other do what he did best; they started to trust each other, telling each other what they thought was happening. When they weren't working they hung out, ate together, argued a lot, and had hot sweaty passionate sex. Darien got pushed into closets a lot. He made a habit of falling asleep all wrapped around Bobby, so that Bobby couldn't leave without waking him.

He knew, now, that Bobby did like him. Liked him for being stubborn, for being the biggest annoyance of Bobby's life, for disagreeing and pushing and screwing with Bobby's thought processes. Bobby thought that he was a good person, thought that he was smart and generous and, despite it all, a good partner. He wasn't used to being a good person. Casey had thought so, but she hadn't known that he was a thief. Kevin, Kevin must have thought so. But now, now Bobby thought that he was a good person, too.

It wasn't just buddy sex. It couldn't be. Not the way Bobby wanted him. Not the way Bobby looked at him, all frustrated and irritated and wanting to smack him, but trusting him all the same. Not the way Bobby made love to him.

It was making love. The way Bobby touched him, caressed him, kissed him, licked him, made love to every inch of him, stroked through his hair and kissed his neck and rubbed thumbs over his pelvic bone and, god, Bobby gave the best foot massages. Bobby made love to him. Fucked him, sure, slammed him up against walls and devoured him, groped him like a horny teenager. They could make out forever, kissing, licking all over each other's mouths, hands rubbing all over without really getting anywhere, just making out like they had time. Which maybe they did. Maybe he wanted them to have time.

He'd walked into this deal hoping that it would be temporary. Planning to make it temporary. But now, well, now he wanted permanence. He wanted to keep Bobby, keep his partner. He liked his job, liked being able to help, liked contributing something. As long as he could do his job and keep Bobby, well, maybe he'd found the good life.

He wasn't one for international coffee moments. He didn't really like big emotional scenes. He kept those on the inside, the place where he kept Kevin. But he was in love with Bobby, and he thought that Bobby should know about it.

So, one night, while they were on the sofa and he was lying there underneath Bobby, and his shirt was on the floor, and Bobby was licking his navel, he said, "Hobbes."

"Fawkes." Kissing slowly along his lowest rib.

"I'm in love with you."

The kisses slowed further, and Bobby paused, licking and sucking at a spot on Darien's side. He waited, but Bobby had no response. The rest of the evening was slow; Bobby took him to bed and made love to him carefully, drawing out each kiss, making him feel each touch through clear to his bones. Did that mean that Bobby loved him, too? Or that Bobby wanted to treasure the moment because it was their last night together?

He rolled on top of Bobby, pinned Bobby down - - not that he thought for a second that Bobby couldn't break the hold, but just to make a point. "I'm in love with you."

"I heard you the first time."

"I thought that I was in love with Casey, too," he said. "But that was different. I kept things from her, I lied to her. Our whole relationship was based on that lie. I cared about her, but I didn't trust her with the truth."

"Obviously."

"With the two of us, it's different. You're my partner. You know everything about me. I trust you. Do you trust me, Hobbes?"

"I don't trust anyone."

"You know that any time that you think that you're alone, I could be there. Every time you let me out of your sight, you're risking it. You have to trust me. You do trust me."

"Then why did you ask if you already have all of the answers?"

"I want you to tell me that you trust me."

"When most people talk in bed, it's a lot racier than this."

"We've already made love so many times neither of us can get it up again tonight. Tell me that you trust me."

"If you'd stop casting aspersions on my manhood-"

"Fine, you big virile well-hung stud, tell me that you trust me." He kissed Bobby, deep, sucking on Bobby's tongue, wanting Bobby's cock again. His cocksucking technique had improved; even Bobby thought so. And his cock, well, his cock was more in love with Bobby than he was.

Bobby wrapped around him, rolled them over, stayed on top of him and kissed him. He opened up, let Bobby into his embrace and into his mouth, relaxed and content. His post-orgasm languor always made him pliant and lazy, and he knew that Bobby liked him that way. Bobby thought that he was sexy. He rubbed his naked hips against Bobby, just to feel good. Feeling good.

"You're such a slut," Bobby said, no malice, all wonder.

"Your fault," he said into Bobby's mouth, rubbing a hand down Bobby's back. "Tell me that you trust me."

"If I don't?" Bobby tested.

"Then I'll know that you only want me for my body."

"You've known that from the start."

"I know. Where has my self-respect gone?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

He'd tried to kill Bobby. Bobby had arrested him. But that was before, before this, before now, when they trusted each other, when they communicated, when they actually bothered to tell each other what was happening. No more of that "need-to-know" basis crap; they were partners, they needed to know everything so that they could help each other.

Did he know what love was? Was love partners? Was love sex? Was love friendship?

Or was love that special combination of frustration and admiration and suspicion and protectiveness and trust that Bobby showed him?

He still drove Bobby crazy. He still asked too many questions and saw too many sides and stuck his nose in where it didn't belong. But that was why they made a good team. Opposites attracted and they had a lot in common, which made for a perfect combination on the job and in bed and everywhere else.

With that ugly tattoo monitoring his levels, he knew when he needed to be dosed. The Keeper kept an eye on it for him, too. But sometimes they'd be out in the field and he'd have to use the quicksilver one too many times and he could feel the madness coming. It wasn't just the pain, although the pain was pretty damned painful. It was the madness, the bloodlust, the darkness. It scared him, sometimes, knowing that he had that inside of him, knowing that he could become completely psychotic, remorseless, violent. He had a senseless, brutal killer, rapist, murderer in his own body.

It got bad, one day. Really bad.

Sitting there, on the gravel road, he clung to Bobby, who was kneeling beside him and holding him, rocking him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, eyes open but not seeing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Fawkes. It's okay." Bobby just held him, didn't let go.

He closed his eyes. He knew that he was crying. "I'm sorry."

Bobby kissed his hair. "It'll be okay, Fawkes."

It wouldn't be okay. But Bobby's words made him say something in reply. And he didn't have the right to say it, not to anyone, especially not to Bobby. But everything that he and Bobby had together negated what the psycho in his body was. So he said it. Because thanks in part to the same quicksilver that had put this evil into his body, he was Bobby's partner and friend and lover, he was good and smart and generous. "I love you, Bobby."

Bobby's arms tightened just a little. Bobby knew, especially now, that he had no right to love anybody. But then, "Love you, Darien," Bobby said. "It'll be okay."

Bobby made comments, later, about how Darien'd done everything just to wrangle out that confession. But those comments only served as a reminder of what this partnership did to Bobby. It had to be hard, living a life like this one, trusting someone to be a friend and partner and lover when that person could become evil and murderous at any moment. But Bobby did trust him, and did love him.

Maybe he shouldn't trust himself. But he had to be there, to back up Bobby, to be a partner and friend and lover. Which meant that he had to trust himself to keep in control and he had to trust Bobby to look after him. And he did.

Because they were partners.

Bobby walked out to the kitchen. "What're you doing out here? Stop sitting on the table - - why do you always have to abuse the furniture?"

"It's part of my charm," he said, standing.

"If you're out here having deep thoughts while I'm waiting for you to come to bed-"

"Hey, no way. I was out here having wild sexual fantasies."

"They'd better have been about me."

"Always, Bobby."

"When did I give you permission to call me that?"

"You didn't, technically."

"It makes me sound like a twelve-year-old."

"You refer to yourself as Bobby Hobbes."

"I can call myself whatever I want."

"Bobby?"

"What?" Bobby asked, getting behind him and pushing him toward the bedroom.

He allowed himself to be propelled. "I was just wondering."

"What?"

"Do you think we have sex often enough?"

"No."

"How could we work in more?"

"If we stop eating. If we stop going to work. If we stop taking time off to breathe." Bobby stopped by the bed, spun him around, and tugged off his shirt. "Finished talking now, Gland Boy?"

"That's Gland Man to you. You can be my sidekick Agent Boy."

"I'm nobody's sidekick. We're partners in this, you got it?"

"I got it, Bobby. I got it all."

"Hey. I told you, no deep thoughts. No simple sentences with layers of hidden meaning."

"Sorry." He grinned. "You just inspire me."

"Then let me inspire you out of those pants and into bed. Fawkes - - Fawkes! Damn it, Fawkes! You know I hate it when you - - shit! That's cold! What are you - - you're not supposed to be using the quicksilver for non-Agency related purposes! This is in direct - - woah - - violation of the - - Fawkes!"

He shoved his now-naked lover onto the bed and shook off the quicksilver, on all fours over Bobby and giving his most charming smile. "But it's so much fun."

"You're so much insane."

"You love me anyway." He kissed Bobby.

"I'll keep you around," Bobby said. "As long as you don't ever make me invisible."

"It's fun," he said. "You should try it."

"No thank you no way."

"Just a little. Just an arm, maybe, or a..." His hand hovered over Bobby's cock.

"No!" Bobby snatched away his hand. "Don't you even try it."

"Oh, relax," he said, pulling his hand free from Bobby's grasp. "I won't break it, I promise."

"Are you going to behave yourself or do I have to call The Official?"

"I'll be good. Let me make it up to you."

"How?" Bobby asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"I'll suck you."

"No teeth and no invisibility."

"Wuss."

And so it went. They argued, they prodded each other, they strategized, they brought down the bad guys, they saved the good guys, they fussed at each other, they saved each other, and they had mind-bending sex. All in all, Darien considered it to be the best gig of his life.

John Dryden once wrote, "My love's a noble madness." And while 17th century English writers could hardly be expected to know about quicksilver madness, that other kind of madness was a long-standing illness. Darien was glad that this insanity he could share with Bobby, his partner. Lover. Friend.

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