"NOOO!"

The grisly memory of the tiny cherubic girl in a green velvet dress violently seizing in his arms was suddenly replaced with the sensation of falling onto something lumpy.

'Um, hey?'

Darien blinked... or at least tried to anyway. But for some reason, his eyelids wouldn't move. Hmmm, the rest of his body wouldn't either.

But he could hear voices. They sounded like they were coming through a barrier, as if Darien were under water for some reason.

'Hobbes? Claire? Where am I?'

Weird. He could hear his own voice, but his lips weren't moving.

"Fawkesy," Hobbes enjoined as he began to untangle the man from the mass of covers and robe.

'Yeah, Hobbesy?' he answered with a trace of asperity. Hey, his eyes were open. Really odd that he hadn't noticed that before.

When there was no answer, Hobbes stopped and gently took his friend's face in between his hands to look in his eyes.

'Hiya, partner! Maybe you could tell me what the fuck's going on here?'

"Darien," Hobbes enjoined. When there was no answer, Hobbes called to the doctor, unable to tear his eyes from the tortured gaze in front of him. "Claire," his voiced hitched a little.

She scrambled off of the bed and came around to Hobbes' side. Her breath caught in her throat in a little sob as her face swam into Darien's field of vision. Automatically, her hand crept to his uninjured wrist to check his pulse. She snapped her fingers in front of Darien's half-open eyes, but he didn't even blink.

'Claire, what's going on? Why can't I move?' He could feel his body, but every time he tried to move his limbs, they refused to obey him.

"No. Darien, no," she whispered.

'What? What?!'

Hobbes tore his eyes away from his friend's to look at Claire in rising panic. "What?"

She closed her eyes as she fought to hold back the sobs. "He's... he's... catatonic."

'No, I'm not. I'm right here, god dammit!'

"Oh, God, no," Hobbes breathed. He shook Darien's head a little bit, but there was still no reaction.

'Hobbes, listen to me, man! I'm awake! Right here!'

The older man's eyes squeezed shut as he also fought the onslaught of grief rising within him. His right thumb lightly caressed Darien's cheek before he pulled his friend in a rough embrace.

Darien couldn't move... couldn't react at all.

It took a few agonizing moments before Hobbes could muster the will to speak. "What do we do now?"

"Bobby. I... I just don't know," she replied, sounding like a little lost girl.

'You could give me something to make me move again!' But nothing came out; it all stayed inside his head.

"We... can't just let him go like this," Hobbes implored. The thought obviously sparked an idea in his mind, and he whispered into his friend's ear. "Hey, buddy, if you don't snap outta this, then you'll be letting Arnaud win. You want that Frenchie rat-bastard to get away with this?" He tried his best to sound taunting.

'Hell no! I wanna rip his fuckin' head off an' use it for my bowling ball!' Darien screamed at the top of his lungs.

But all Darien did outwardly was heave a great hitching sigh. He still hadn't blinked his barely focused eyes even once.

"We gotta do something," Hobbes pleaded.

A lightbulb switched on in the back of Darien's mind. 'Hobbes, go find Arnaud; bring him back here. I might've breathed in some'a that gas after all. Hobbes? Hooooobbes!'

Claire stared at Darien for long moments as she tried to pull her thoughts into some sort of order. "We can't stay here," she finally uttered with great sadness in her voice. "There's no guarantee that Arnaud won't come after Darien while he's like this."

'Maybe that's what he wanted!' Darien bellowed. 'Now he can slice-n-dice me for this stupid fucking gland!'

Hobbes closed his eyes and nodded. "I'll call for some backup, let the boss know what's going on." Reluctantly, he leaned Darien back against the bed and made sure that the gangly man wouldn't fall over before rising and grabbing his phone from the bedside table. He dialed a string of numbers and waited until the receiver was answered at the other end. "It's Hobbes. We're bringing Fawkes in. No, everything's not all right..."


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The door to the Keep slid open, and The Official's heavy tread announced his entrance. He paused for a moment before joining those obviously conscious by the exam chair. Hobbes was standing with his hand resting on Darien's right shoulder, and Claire was once again checking her patient's vitals.

"Report," The Official spoke in a low voice.

'Boss?' Damn, even his mental voice was getting weak. 'You gotta tell Claire to run some tests on me. I dunno how much longer I can hold out.'

"No change," the doctor replied softly.

'No change my ass. I'm dying here!'

"Sir, I'd like your permission to put together a tactical assault team," Hobbes murmured in a steely tone of voice.

'Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' 'bout, Hobbesy!' Darien verbally applauded.

After a pregnant pause, The Official replied, "You have it. But first you need to find out where he is."

'Somewhere gloating, probably.' Memories swirled back to the forefront of his mind, and Darien suddenly felt the overpowering urge to vomit again. But since he was paralyzed, nothing thankfully happened. His stomach and esophagus still ached and burned from the second bout he had at Hobbes' apartment. The first time was when the Haz-Mat and police crews arrived on the scene at the mall; it took two of them to pull Darien back from the kill-zone and check him over for injuries. He'd started vomiting beside the ambulance once the adrenaline rush began to fade and the reality of the situation struck, and that's how The Official and Eberts had found him. The EMTs had insisted that Darien needed to be taken to the hospital for testing for possible exposure to the poison gas, but were overridden by The Official, stating that The Agency's medical staff was more than capable of handling that aspect. Darien had slipped away while the EMT and her partner were arguing heatedly with the Boss and his assistant, intent on finding Hobbes and going on a manhunt for the Swiss mercenary. This time no one was going to stand in Darien's way; he was going to tear Arnaud limb from limb, and he had been pretty sure Hobbes would gladly assist.

"What do ya think Eberts is doin'?" Hobbes retorted flatly.

As if on cue, the assistant keyed open the door and stepped inside the lab. "I have his last known location," he stated grimly as he moved around the chair to Hobbes' side. "I have Harris, Evans, Thompson and Zimmer standing by upstairs for you, Robert. The others are on notice and will report immediately if needed."

Hobbes squeezed Darien's shoulder once as he leaned over and murmured in his friends' ear, "I'm coming back with that cock-sucker's head on a pike, partner. You'd better wake up or you'll miss all the fun."

'Good. Go get 'im, Hobbesy. With any luck, Claire'll run those tests an' have me fixed up in time for you an' I t'get in some batting practice' Darien replied with a feral grin.

"Robert?" Eberts called out as the door slid open. "Do whatever is necessary."

'Whoa, even Ebes's pretty pissed off. Wish I could low-five 'im right now.'

As the Keep's door clicked shut behind Hobbes, Darien heard Eberts pull over an office chair for the Boss to sit down on.

"So, what do we do now?" Claire asked. Eberts swung around another rolling office chair for the exhausted doctor to rest on, and she dropped heavily into it with a resounding creak.

The assistant answered. "We wait."

"For how long?"

"Until we are sure that there's absolutely no hope of recovery," The Official rumbled.

"'Kay, I don' like the sound'a that, Boss.' That sounded a little too close a reference to the feared gland-harvesting party for his liking.

"And who' going to make that call?" she inquired pointedly.

"I trust your judgement, Doctor," was the abnormally mild reply.

'Okay, that makes no sense. He could just order her to do it, an' if she said no, he'd jus' get someone else t'do it,' Darien pondered in puzzlement. 'So why' he suddenly actin' like he cared?'

"Right now all we can do is monitor him and hope that he can come out of this on his own," she finally managed to speak. "But if he goes on like this for too long, I will have to supply his nutrition intravenously. I can't force him to keep his will to live. He'll have to find a reason on his own."

'Waitaminute Claire. I ain't goin' nowhere 'til I get that motherfucker. If I'm gonna die from this, then it'd damn well better be with my hands around that sick bastards' throat.'

"Is there anything we can do to help, Doctor?" Eberts asked quietly.

'Run the friggin' tests, Eberts!'

"Yes. We need to keep a constant eye on him, and I suggest we do it in shifts," she replied. "It also wouldn't hurt if we talked to him; remind him of what there is for him to live for... maybe point out all the good things he.s done to help him find a reason to go on."

'Like what? All the people that managed to get murdered 'cause of me?' He could still feel the burden of responsibility that he'd been carrying on his shoulders for the past few years, and the black, roiling cloud descended on his consciousness once more. It felt like a massive weight upon his heart, and he clung to his fading consciousness with desperate tenacity.

"Yes," the assistant agreed. "I will take the first shift. Doctor, I strongly suggest that you get some rest. You have been tending to Darien non-stop since the incident, and you are quite obviously exhausted."

The Official added, "I took the liberty of calling in your backup nurse. He should be here in less than thirty minutes. I had Eberts set up Lab Four with a cot and some supplies for you so that you may freshen up after you've had some rest."

"Oh, no Sir," she demurred. "I... thank you, but... I really should stay until Jacob arrives, so I can brief him on what..."

"That's an order, Doctor." The boss' tone turned frigid.

Eberts' shoes clicked as he stepped back a few paces. "Don't worry, Doctor, I will make sure that he is properly informed of the situation."

Claire rose and briefly stepped over to Darien's side. She tenderly kissed him on the cheek, pulled a blanket up to his chest and murmured in his ear, "Darien, I'm going to take a short nap. Albert and Charles will stay with you until I get back, okay?" She straightened up and gently stroked his chilled cheek with the backs of her fingers before turning and following Eberts out of the lab.

''Kay. Night, Keepie,' Darien replied weakly. The looming black cloud finally smothered him, and just before he was completely swallowed by the darkness, he wondered how much longer he'd have to bear his ever-growing millstone of guilt.


A few minutes later, the assistant re-entered the Keep. The Official sat in his chair with his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands in a poignant gesture of grief.

"Sir," Eberts murmured from where he stopped inside the door, just as it whispered shut behind him.

The Official sighed deeply, and sat up straight. His face was gray with exhaustion; he wasn't sure how much more of this his ailing heart could take.

"We should have the Doctor run those tests as soon as possible," Eberts reminded. "If Darien was exposed in any way to that toxin..."

The Official nodded. "We'll have Miller run them as soon as he arrives. Let Claire have her rest."

"Yes sir. Is there anything I may do for you, sir?"

"What?"

Eberts stepped closer and rested a gentle hand on his mentor's slumped shoulder. "You haven't taken your medication today. And to be quite frank, you look terrible."

"Nice to know someone's keeping track of things here," The Official murmured. He absently checked his pockets for his pill bottles, but came up empty-handed. Without a word, Eberts brought him a glass of water and held out four differently colored and shaped pills in the palm of his hand.

"Please go and rest, Charles. I will hold down the fort," the assistant quietly urged as the older man swallowed the pills and drank the water.

The Official blinked in weary gratefulness before carefully heaving himself up off of the chair. Eberts steadied the much larger man as he staggered a little bit, and steered his boss towards the door to the Keep.

Eberts activated the opening mechanism, and The Official commented as he stepped through, "Eberts, I'm thankful you work for our side."

The assistant merely nodded and turned back into the room as the door slid shut.

The door clicked into place, and Eberts stopped, spun around, and set the electronic lock. He changed the password, so that now no one could bypass the security protocol and enter the Keep before he was ready.

Eberts grinned ruthlessly, and quickly strode over to the exam chair and the unconscious man on it.

"And now, it is finally time for me to recover my property," the assistant spoke in a light French accent as he began to prepare for the extraction surgery.

Part Four - Misdirection

Autumn Leaves - Eva Cassidy

The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold

Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall

I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold

Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall


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He trudged out from the freight elevator and slowly made his way to his office. Once inside, he fully intended to take care of some paperwork before heading home for the afternoon and getting the rest that his assistant so observantly pointed out that he needed. Christmas was always a difficult time of the year for him anyway, as it reminded him of his beloved wife gone these past...

My god, it's been fifteen years now.

The burden of sorrow weighed even more heavily on his soul at that thought, and he rubbed at his eyes and the unshed tears threatening there. It wasn't just his beautiful Caroline that he missed during the Yuletide season, but his good friend Peter and his brilliant nephew Kevin as well. Not to mention all of his friends that had died over the years due to the various hazards of their government employ.

"Ahhh, Peter, I'm so sorry," he murmured. Yet another Fawkes/Donovan man's life stolen by the very government they were fighting so hard to protect, and this time it looked like Darien wasn't going to be spared by some miraculous intervention.

He remembered something he'd heard Darien mutter in one of his more depressive moods: 'Everyone who gets too close to me and this gland tend to have short lifespans.' It was a sentiment he more than understood... it was one that he'd been living for the past thirty-five years. When he'd married Caroline, her family suddenly seemed to acquire what superstitious men would call a curse. Starting with her brother Peter Donovan, she and then her blood kin had been slowly devoured by the shadow of Charlie's work; the burden of sorrow that that caused becoming more and more difficult for him to bear over the years. And now his nephew was succumbing to the shadows, leaving him with his hands covered in symbolic blood as well as the now-empty promise to take care of the lad.

In other words: he failed. He failed Caroline, he failed Peter and Celia, he failed Kevin, and now his defeat was completed with the last of his wife's kin's slow demise.

He buried his face in his hands as he wilted in desolation. Silently, the tears flowed freely as he rested his head on the desk, his heart unable to bear any more of the strain.

It was there that his body would be found hours later.


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Bobby Hobbes was angry. Okay, scratch that - Bobby Hobbes was murderously pissed. The four agents accompanying him did their best to remain part of the background as much as possible for the next two hours as they searched in vain for Arnaud. The information they got from Eberts had provided them with a few concrete leads, as evidenced by the broken and bloodied bodies of some of the mercenary's hired goons that were littered all across the city, but as of yet there was no sign of the main man himself.

"That's it," Hobbes growled. He dropped the barely conscious henchman in disgust and stared emptily at his shoes while he thought aloud. "Why do I feel like I've been sent on a wild goose chase?"

The other agents remained silent, so as not to incur any of the man's tightly focused wrath onto themselves. They all knew what Hobbes was like when he wasn't on his meds, and they were all certain he hadn't taken them since at least the morning before. Not to mention that Hobbes most likely hadn't slept either. And in light of recent events, even the stoic Agent Zimmer was debating the merits of shooting a couple of tranqs in Hobbes' behind.

After a few minutes of electric silence, Agent Thompson spoke up. "Maybe we should check in with the Boss, Hobbes." He eyed the shorter man uncertainly as Hobbes swung around to face him.

The thunderous glare eased when the words sank in. "Yeah, good idea," Hobbes murmured as he whipped out his cell. He dialed The Official's direct line, and was surprised that no one answered. "Hmph, must be down in the Keep," he grumbled as he disconnected and redialed. After about ten seconds, his frown deepened. He hung up and slowly flipped the phone shut as the dread began to build in the back of his mind.

He glanced up into the varying expressions of worry on the faces of his fellow agents. "No one's answering. Let's go," he ordered as he strode past them towards the vehicles. "Zimmer, better call in the others. I gotta real bad feeling 'bout this."

The agent pulled out his own phone while he and the others followed, as Hobbes tried one more number. "C'mon Eberts, you'd better friggin' pick up."


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Claire was beyond exhausted, but she just couldn't get to sleep. The events of the past two days kept swirling through her head, and she couldn't get the images of all of those dead children out of her mind.

Sighing heavily, she dragged herself to a sitting position and attempted a lotus stance on her cot. Maybe some meditation will let me become relaxed enough, she thought wearily. She tried to clear her mind, but found that worried thoughts of Darien kept sneaking back in.

"Damn it!" she spat out in frustration, and practically threw herself off of the cot towards the door. She swerved and scooped up a change of clothes and her shower kit from the neat pile Eberts had stacked them on the counter by the bathroom. She peeled off her blouse and slacks and suddenly realized that they were soiled with blood and sweat. With a grimace she dropped them in the trashcan under the sink and turned on the shower. She glanced at herself in the mirror over the basin as she left the water to heat up. Man, was she a mess! Her hair was matted like some epileptic bird had tried to make a nest in it, and both of her eyes looked like they had been punched. Her normally pale complexion was now almost gray with stress and exhaustion, and her brilliant blue eyes had dimmed to a similar shade.

She blinked and shook herself. She'd be of no use to Darien, let alone herself, if she didn't get cleaned up and have had at least a little bit of sleep. She stepped into the shower, and allowed the steaming water to massage her back for a few minutes before she wet down and poured shampoo on her hair. She methodically went through the motions of cleansing while she mentally ran over the events of the past two days.

She had just finished her light breakfast of a grapefruit and yogurt, and had pulled up the results of her latest string of tests when Eberts had called her. He was uncharacteristically choked up as he relayed in brief the events that had transpired a mere fifteen minutes before his call. Her shock and dismay was a typical reaction to such horrible news, but the gut-wrenching fury that had suddenly gripped her at the thought of Darien being in the middle of the slaughter with no way of preventing or stopping it had caught her completely by surprise. Through the roaring in her ears, she had heard Eberts' quavering voice request that she come and attend to Darien, as he had been displaying alarmingly similar symptoms of the gas as had the children he had tried so valiantly to save. She had arrived on the scene within a record fifteen minutes, to find that Darien had slipped out from under The Official's and Eberts' noses when they were arguing with some rescue workers over whether or not the lanky agent should have been taken to the hospital for treatment and observation. Claire had stood frozen in horror at the sight of all of the mostly tiny body bags being carried out and stacked in neat rows from the mall. Every single person that had breathed in the deadly gas had died within thirty minutes of exposure. HazMat crews had taken no chances, and had sealed off every entrance and exit to the mall, as well as isolated everyone that had been evacuated for observation and decontamination. Claire had stayed only long enough to speak with The Official, and had rushed back to her lab to gather additional supplies in case Darien had been injured in any way. She had just finished getting an update from Eberts when her phone in the lab had rung again, but that time it was Hobbes calling; urgently barking at her to hurry over to his place after she had overheard Darien's agonized description of the mornings' tragedy.

Wait just a blinking minute...

Her eyes snapped open as she remembered. Everyone who had been around that cloud of gas had died. Darien had even said that he wasn't sure if he'd breathed in any of it, and now that she was looking back she realized with increasing horror that he had been showing all of the same symptoms as the other victims! But she and Hobbes had blindly assumed that the shock and acute distress he'd been under were the reasons why he'd been reacting that way.

"Oh, hell!" Claire blurted, and she dashed out of the shower. She didn't bother using a towel before she began to pull on her clothes. She fought with her bra for a moment before tossing it away from her, and hastily pulled up first her underwear and then her clean slacks. A white cotton button-up blouse was yanked on, and she fumbled with the buttons as she opened the door to the room and ran full tilt down the hallway towards the main lab.


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Hobbes stood frozen in the doorway as Agent Zimmer called the paramedics.

It can't be.

He couldn't wrap his brain around what his eyes were telling him.

No way. Not... the boss...

This wasn't happening. It can't be happening. It had to be some sort of trick. Sick, twisted, and not even close to funny, but a trick nevertheless. There was just no way that The Official was... was...

They'd come rushing into the Harding Building, immediately heading straight for the boss's office. As they'd come out of the stairwell, Hobbes made a split-second decision, and had sent Thompson and Harris to apprise The Official of the current situation. He'd headed back downstairs for the Keep to make sure that Darien and Claire were all right, with Evans and Zimmer following. Just in case there was any trouble.

They never made it to the Keep. All threes' walkie-talkies had sputtered with static, and Harris' almost panicked voice boomed that there was something seriously wrong back upstairs. Hobbes reversed course and pelted up the stairs to The Official's office.

Thompson was waiting for them outside the office door. He looked about ready to vomit.

Hobbes had tried to get the stricken man to talk, but all Thompson was able to do was shake his head and point to The Official's desk. The shorter agent had brushed by, and was struck dumb with what he'd seen inside.

Charlie Borden was dead.


"Hobbes? Hobbes!"

Agent Zimmer's voice snapped him out of immobility, and on instinct, Hobbes automatically checked the rounds in his firearm.

"I called the paramedics, just in case," the normally impassive Agent's voice cracked slightly on the last word. "But it looks like he's been gone for a while."

Hobbes thought he was pissed before, but now...

His normally warm chestnut eyes darkened to black as he drove his gun into the holster hard enough to snap the leather. "Where're the others?" he grunted.

"Went downstairs to check on Fawkes and the doc."

"Stay here. I'm checkin' t'make sure that they... they're..." he couldn't finish his thought. He didn't want to risk that his worst fears had come true. What if... what if The Official wasn't the only casualty?

And where the hell was Eberts?!


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Hobbes left the stairwell and was just turning the corner when...

WHAM!

The force of the other person's momentum knocked Hobbes flat, and the back of his head smacked the floor hard enough to make him gray out momentarily.

A few seconds later his vision swam back into a fuzzy kind of focus, to see Claire's worried face hovering over him. Her hair was sopping wet, and some of the extra water was dripping on his face.

"Bobby? Oh, god, Bobby, are you all right?" She hurriedly pulled her hair over her shoulder to minimize the spatter on him. Her nimble fingers deftly checked him for injuries before lightly feeling the back of his head.

"OW! Dammit!" he flinched away from her touch. Shit, he was gonna have one helluva goose egg there in the morning.

She sighed and withdrew her hands to rest them on his shoulders. "I couldn't feel any fractures, but I want you to get up very slowly, all right?"

"Yeah," he grunted, and took her proffered hand. He managed to sit up before his vision swam nauseatingly, and he closed his eyes against it for a few moments. "Jesus, Claire, why're ya running around like the building's on fire?" he grumbled, and then his eyes flew wide open. "Oh, crap. Fawkes! Is he..."

"I was just on my way to the Keep. Bobby, I need to run some tests on Darien's blood. I think he might actually have inhaled some of that neurotoxin. So much time has passed, and with the rapidity of fatality on those people at the mall, I need to..." the tumble of words halted as she was torn between rushing to Darien's side and tending to Hobbes.

"Go, Keepie. I'm fine. No knock on the noggin's gonna keep Bobby Hobbes down for long."

She hesitated, and he barked, "Go! I'll be fine! Be there in a couple'a minutes."

The doctor flashed him a worried, yet thankful smile before rising...

A muffled shout from the door to the Keep was suddenly cut off as two gunshots rang out.

"Oh my..." Claire bolted for the safety of the wall right at the turn in the hall, and she peeked around the corner to assess the situation.

Hobbes ignored the pounding in his head and clambered to her side as he freed his gun. He poked his head out just in time to see...

Eberts?


Hobbes gaped at the scene unfolding at the end of the hall. Eberts was standing over the crumpled bodies of Thompson and Harris. Twin pools of blood slowly spread from underneath them.

"Eberts!" Hobbes shouted as he took aim between the man's eyes. "What the fuck are ya doin'?!"

The only response was a sly grin as the assistant raised his own gun and squeezed off a score of shots. Hobbes managed to fire his gun once before he was forced to duck behind the cover of the walls, and was rewarded with a cry of pain.

"Merde!"

"Hunh?" Hobbes grunted as his eyes flew wide in sudden understanding. "ARNAUD!" he bellowed as he launched himself around the corner, his every intention to fill that motherfucker with so many bullets...

But the mercenary was gone, the stairwell door swinging shut behind him.

Hobbes began to charge down the hall with Claire at his heels. She skidded to a stop at the still open door to The Keep, and Hobbes continued to the staircase.

"Bobby!" she shrieked after him, which caused him to dig in his heels and skid to a stop.

He could hear Arnaud's uneven footfalls pounding the steps not even a floor above him. But the desperate plea in her voice tore at his determination to finally get that bastard so he could torture him to death nice and slow like. His face worked as he fought the dual impulses raging within him, and he finally came to a decision.

He turned on his heel and darted back to The Keep as he yanked out his walkie-talkie and ordered Zimmer to keep an eye out for a wounded Eberts that wasn't Eberts. Shoot to kill if necessary, but a disarmed and badly wounded not-Eberts was better.

Hobbes came up behind Claire, who was standing stock-still in the open doorway to The Keep with her fist pressed hard against her mouth.

Just inside the door was an unconscious Evans, obviously felled with a vicious blow to the temple. But what caused Hobbes' heart to stop was the sight of Darien on the exam chair.

He was lying flat and face down, his back sprayed liberally with blood.

There was a golf ball-sized hole in the back of his skull.

Hobbes felt something inside snap as the blood drained from his head. "No. Nonononononononononono..."

His legs gave way, and he slumped to his knees on the floor between his fallen comrades. Unconsciously, he started to rock back and forth as he tried to wrap his mind around the grisly scene before him. The butt of his gun tapped his temple in sync with his rocking.

Claire rushed in seemingly slow motion to the exam chair, and she began assessing Darien's vitals. She didn't bother with putting on her lab coat or even surgical scrubs, but did manage to yank on gloves as she snapped into emergency doctor mode and worked feverishly to staunch the bleeding from the back of Darien's head and assess his condition.

Still in slow motion, Hobbes felt the breeze of Claire's assistants' arrival, and watched as Jacob pushed through the molasses-laden air to the doctors' side to aid her.

The only tangible thought that ran through his mind was - Arnaud finally got his wish. He got the fuckin' gland.

Part Five - The Calm Before The Storm

Hours had passed, but to Hobbes it felt more like decades. The paramedics had shown up soon after Claire and her nurse started working on Darien. The Official and Thompson were declared DOA, and Harris and Evans were rushed to the ER. Last Hobbes had heard, Harris had barely made it through surgery and was in critical condition, and Evans had a severe concussion and would have to stay for observation.

But none of that really registered. Nothing else mattered to him except what was transpiring inside the main lab, where Claire and Jacob were frenetically attempting to stabilize Darien.

Zimmer, recognizing that Hobbes was also in no condition for duty, took over the search for Arnaud. He made sure the shorter agent was situated in a comfortable chair outside of the Keep, since Hobbes had flat out refused to be relocated. No way was anyone gonna enter the Keep unless it was to help save Fawkes, he'd snarled.

All agents were on full emergency alert, and Zimmer pulled a few strings with his buddies in the CIA for extra manpower. The local police were also brought into the hunt: there was no way that Arnaud was going anywhere without Zimmer immediately finding out.

Eberts, the real Eberts, had been nowhere to be found, so Zimmer spared two agents to search for the MIA assistant. It wasn't until the next morning that they'd reported back to him - an unconscious Eberts was found bound and gagged in a supply closet on the top floor of the Harding Building. He'd been severely beaten, and was immediately rushed to the hospital for treatment. It was obvious who had done this to the unfortunate man.


Hobbes remained in his chair with his gun at the ready until the Keep door swooshed open at 2:30 am. Claire staggered through the entrance in complete exhaustion, and Hobbes immediately leapt to his feet to assist her. He guided her into the chair and knelt by her side as Jacob Miller and an Agency guard wheeled Darien and a slew of monitors, IV stands and life support equipment towards Lab 3. Hobbes' bloodshot eyes entreated her for some good news.

"He's stable, for now," she murmured. "But..."

"What? Claire, tell me," Hobbes grabbed her hand in his distress.

"I don't think he'll last another day," she replied as she closed her eyes, too drained to cry any more.

Suddenly his vision became tinged with black around the edges. "The gland?"

She nodded minutely, confirming the worst. "Harvested, and that fucking bastard didn't even use anesthesia." Her voice deepened with aimless fury. "The shock was too much for Darien's system: he's barely holding on even with full life support."

"Wh-what about the... the poison from the mall?" Hobbes had thought he was beyond shock at this point, but he was finding it impossible to breathe.

Claire reopened her eyes and looked at him. "He had to have been invisible through the worst of it, because I only found trace amounts of the neurotoxins in his system. The Quicksilver must have filtered out most of the gas. He had breathed in enough to cause the symptoms, but the levels weren't lethal."

"Shit." He closed his eyes and bowed his head in silent thanks to a god he hadn't spoken to since he'd enlisted.

He felt Claire run her fingers gently over the top of his head, and he looked up into her eyes. Her hand continued slowly caressing his pate as he asked, "What now? What can I do?"

She smiled wearily. "Get some rest. You look like hell."

"Pot, meet kettle," he weakly grinned back.

"Can't. Need to keep an eye on Darien," she said with a cavernous yawn. Her eyes fluttered as her body vociferously reasserted its demands for rest.

"That's what Nurse Miller's for, right?" he argued as he rose and helped the doctor to stand. She swayed a little, and without a word he swept her into his arms and strode down the hall to Lab 2, the lab Eberts... Arnaud had had the cot placed in.

"I can walk, Bobby," she chided, but didn't fight him. She was just so bloody tired...

She was fast asleep before Hobbes could even open the door to the lab. He went in, placed her tenderly on the cot, and covered her with a warm blanket. He watched her slumbering face for a moment, and found he couldn't resist placing a feather kiss on her forehead before leaving and returning to his new post at Lab 3.

Even deeply asleep, Claire smiled at the kiss, and then nestled deeper under the warmth of the woolen blanket as the lab door softly clicked shut behind him.


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"Damned little bastard. How dare he shoot me!" Arnaud finished bandaging his injured hand with a wince before turning to look at his prize. The Quicksilver gland floated in a stabilizing solution on a lab table, the ends still coated with a thin layer of Darien's blood. "Don't worry, my pet. Soon enough you will be in your rightful place," he cooed.

Off in a corner of the basement lab, a man in a white lab coat shuddered at the mercenary's words. The assistant continued to mix and assemble the various chemicals arrayed in front of him so that he wouldn't be reprimanded again for working too slowly.


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The lab door slid open, and Hobbes came instantly alert. His gun fixed on the chest of the person entering, and he growled, "Freeze."

"Robert..." Eberts did exactly as ordered, even though he looked as if he were so not in the mood for it. He had bandages on his forehead, jaw, and neck, as well as stitches above his left eye and cheekbone. His left wrist was wrapped securely in an Ace bandage and rested in a sling.

Hobbes didn't flinch. "Identify yourself."

Eberts sighed ever so slightly, and straightened as much as his aching back allowed. "I'm Eberts, Robert."

"I don't know that."

Eberts looked searchingly at Hobbes' face. "Did you remember to take your medication?"

"That's not the issue here. Your identity is."

A light dawned in Eberts' mind, and he nodded a little. "I think I understand." He frowned. "So he still has that... mask," he winced a little at the thought. "Of my face." His expression firmed. "Agent Zimmer gave me a status report at the hospital..." he began, but Hobbes interrupted him.

"Speaking of that, I seriously doubt the ER docs'd let you go so early. You were in pretty bad shape when they took you to the hospital." The barrel of his gun never wavered from Eberts' heart.

Eberts nodded. "Once I was apprised of the current situation, I felt it was necessary to return to coordinate the efforts. So I checked myself out against the doctor's wishes and had Agent Zimmer bring me back."

"Nice try, pal. Zimmer's out with the SDPD coordinating the search," Hobbes snarled.

Eberts sighed again, looking exhausted. "Robert, why would he come back here?" he inquired quietly with a sorrowful glance at Darien's too-still figure. "He has what he came for."

Hobbes shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe he's come back to finish the job," he alluded.

"I was looking for the Doctor," Eberts replied. "I was hoping she could update me on Darien's full condition." He glanced around the room, but remained perfectly still. He remembered all too well what Hobbes was like in full unmedicated den-mother mode, and wasn't about to get himself shot on top of everything else.

"He's dying. That good enough for ya?"

Eberts' eyes closed involuntarily as his grief rose to grip him. He slowly raised his uninjured hand and pinched the bridge of his nose as he murmured, "When will this end? When will it be enough?"

Hobbes tilted his head to the side inquiringly. His knee-jerk reaction to Eberts' appearance was giving way to the gut feeling that this man really was the mild-mannered assistant. "What did you do when the SWRB invaded the Agency?" he barked.

Eberts dropped his hand back down to his side and drearily met Hobbes' gaze. "I managed to hide in air duct #4 until after they left," he replied softly. "You found me in Lab 101 when you returned."

Hobbes blinked, and after a moments' hesitation, lowered his weapon. "Claire's resting," he replied to the earlier inquiry. "Her assistant's supposed to check in any minute now."

"So Agent Miller was called in. Good," Eberts nodded his approval as he carefully finished entering the room. He stood as straight as his wrenched and bruised back would allow, and rubbed his hand along his bandaged arm as he thought. "Agent Zimmer has informed me that they are close to locating Monsieur de Fehrn's location. He requested that you lead the recovery team, if you are willing."

Hobbes shook his head as he gazed mournfully at Darien. "No. The last time I left him, that motherfucker ripped the gland outta his skull."

Eberts looked as if he wished to go to the older man to comfort him, but he remained where he was. "Robert, the doctor and Nurse Miller will be with Darien non-stop from now on. As you should know, there is one agent positioned outside this room, as well as two in the hallway. They have orders to stop everyone who approaches and ensure their identity before allowing entry," he spoke soothingly.

Hobbes' jaw set, and he shook his head more fiercely. "I won't leave him again," he growled through clenched teeth.

The door to the room opened, and Hobbes again raised his gun at the new arrival. He lowered it immediately when he recognized Claire's assisting nurse. "Miller, it's about time."

Eberts stepped aside to allow Jacob room to go to the bed and check Darien's statistics. "Agent Miller, what is Darien's current status?"

Jacob replied without removing his gaze from the various monitors. "He is stable for now, but in critical condition. No anesthetic was used during the harvesting; so, combined with the effects of the neurotoxins, he sustained an extremely dangerous shock to his system." His tone was carefully kept neutral in deference to the others' feelings. "The gland had grown since implantation, and de Fehrn was unable to extract all of the tendrils. There was some leakage of Quicksilver directly into the surrounding brain tissues, and there's no telling right now if there was any significant or permanent damage as a result."

"What're we lookin' at here?" Hobbes queried softly, as if he were afraid of hearing the answer, but knowing it was a need-to-know issue.

Jacob turned to look directly at the worn down older man once he was finished checking the machines. "Best case scenario: we get the gland back and successfully reattach it to Agent Fawkes' cerebral cortex. Unfortunately, there's no information that can ready us for what kind of permanent damage has been done. Depending on what areas of surrounding tissue were irreparably damaged, he could suffer anywhere from dysdiadokokinesia, ataxia, dysarthria, tremors, vertigo, muscle weakness, to loss of postural tone..."

Hobbes' eyes glazed over as medical terminology was thrown at him willy-nilly. "English, please?" he pleaded in a gruff tone.

"Those are symptoms most commonly known to people who suffer from multiple sclerosis. Mainly have to do with muscle coordination and speech impediments," the nurse explained apologetically. "And that's only if the damage is contained to the cerebellum. Worse case scenario: he dies within the next twenty-four hours."

Eberts' already pale complexion had grayed. "I seem to remember from the research files something about a 'permanent vegetative state'," he murmured.

Jacob nodded. "A definite possibility with successful re-implantation, but we have no way of predetermining that. I'm afraid there are just too many variables right now, and no room for leeway. Until we get the gland back, Agent Fawkes' chances of survival are zero."

Tense silence fell in the room as the men contemplated the ramifications of the information.

Suddenly, the speaker beside the door crackled to life. "Agent Eberts?"

Eberts turned with a wince and depressed the 'speak' button. "Yes, Agent Zimmer."

"We've found him. Have you gotten an answer from Hobbes yet?" The normally stolid agent sounded hopeful.

Eberts looked over his shoulder at Hobbes, who for all appearances was napping with his chin propped on his chest. But Eberts knew better - the slightly older man was deep in thought. He turned back to the speaker and prepared to answer, but was interrupted by a low voice from behind him.

"I'm going."

Eberts allowed himself a small sad smile of relief as he pushed the button once more. "He shall be joining you in a few minutes."

"Good, we'll meet him outside at his van," Zimmer's voice sounded relieved as well. "I'll get him up to speed on the way."

Hobbes rose slowly and holstered his gun as he strode past Jacob over to the hospital bed. He leaned over and murmured in his best friend's ear as he took and held Darien's chilled hand gingerly in his own. "Buddy, I'm gonna go out for a bit and get that motherfucker. Hang on for a while longer, okay? I promise I'll be back, and we'll find a way to make you all better." He patted Darien's hand and laid it back on the barely moving chest before spinning around on his heel and stalking out of the room.

His head popped around the doorjamb, and he blithely commented, "And by the way, yes, I've been taking my meds, Eee-berts," he snarked before disappearing once again.

Eberts heaved a huge sigh filled with desolation, and sank down onto the chair that the older man had just vacated.

Part Six - Descent

"So, this's the place?"

Agent Zimmer lowered his binoculars to shoot a quelling glance at Hobbes. "For the fifth time, yes," he murmured from the passenger's seat.

"Let's go over the plan one more time. I wanna be absolutely sure we all know what's going down."

Zimmer's glare softened when he noted the shorter man's steely expression. "We're waiting for Anderson to finish his recon, and then we move in in two man teams. Everyone's equipped with headsets and mics, and Servez will coordinate." He indicated the man sitting at the communications console in the rear of Golda with a brief wave of his hand.

"And when's Anderson due to give his sit-rep?" Hobbes looked over his shoulder at Servez.

The swarthy agent replied with a slight Hispanic accent. "Another two minutes, Agent Hobbes."

Hobbes returned his attention to the restored movie theatre a half a block down. "Damn, we were supposed to catch that flick tomorrow night," he murmured to himself as he caught sight of the name of one of the movies being featured.

The despondent tone in his voice indicated to Zimmer that Hobbes was referring to Darien, and the younger man remained silent for a moment.

Servez spoke up then. "Hobbes, Anderson's out. He'll be here in a minute to give his sit-rep."

"Hobbes," Zimmer spoke quietly so that the other Agent couldn't hear him. "This'll work out. No one's going to fuck this up. Fawkes is family, just like you."

Hobbes' eyes fluttered shut as he fought back the swell of gratitude that sprang up at those heartfelt words. His heart pounded in his throat for a few seconds before he found the strength to speak. "Thanks man," he murmured. "That means a lot." He pressed the palms of his hands against his aching eyes before checking to make sure he had plenty of ammo in his pockets.

Zimmer noticed a glimmer of movement in the side mirror, right before Anderson quietly knocked on the sliding door.

Servez spun around and slid the van door open after receiving an approving nod from Zimmer. Anderson stepped in and sat cross-legged on the floor while the two men in the front of the van turned to hear his report.

"Looks like we're dealing with six guards: four around the front and two in the back," he began. "I believe it's a set-up to lure intruders through the rear entrance, 'cause there're six more of the mooks just hanging around in the backstage area."

"How would ya know that?" Hobbes queried with an upward tilt of his eyebrow.

"'Cause the guys up front weren't even watching the door very well," Anderson replied evenly. "I was able to gas one of 'em and slip inside while the others were playin' dice. I did a quick recon and snuck back out before he woke up."

Hobbes shook his head. "Risky, man. How d'ya know they weren't expecting you to pull something like that? For all we know, you just alerted 'em to our presence here!"

"So we wait for a while, and see if they change their M.O. at all," Servez suggested. "If nothing changes, then we go in and nail the bastards."

Hobbes shook his head, but Zimmer answered. "That's a good idea, but we don't have the time to wait. Fawkes is on borrowed time here, and the longer we wait, the less chance he has of coming out of this alive." He shot a sympathetic glance over at Hobbes, whose knuckles had turned white on the door's armrest.

"I'm sick'a waiting," the senior agent muttered. "We go in two minutes."

Zimmer nodded and motioned to Servez. "Notify the others. We're going in in two minutes."

The others acknowledged the orders with a silent check of their equipment, and Hobbes smiled grimly. He was finally gonna kick that son of a bitch's ass.


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Two Agency men stealthily approached the rear of the movie theatre, while Hobbes strode down the front sidewalk as if he were just on an afternoon stroll.

The agents quietly disabled the two guards on the outside of the back service doors, and oh-so-carefully made their way inside.

Hobbes kept up his brisk pace as he passed the front of the theater, noting the sign at the ticket office that stated it was temporarily closed to repair damages. Just wait an' see what kinda damage I'm really gonna do in there. Hobbes had to stifle a grin at that feral thought, and continued as he was until he'd passed the building on the other side.

His earpiece crackled to life with the muffled shouts of his two men in the back along with the chattering of gunfire.

He ducked into the side walkway between two buildings and freed his gun. "Showtime," he murmured into the mic on his collar.

Twelve agents and plainclothes police officers appeared as if from out of nowhere, and converged on the front of the theatre. The four mercenaries guarding it had snapped to attention when they overheard the firefight ensuing at the back of the building, so they weren't paying attention to the street behind them when Hobbes, Zimmer and three others clubbed them on the backs of their heads.

Hobbes cautiously led the way into the front of the theater, leaving two of his men behind to secure and guard over their prisoners. He wasn't about to let some punk-ass schmucks fuck this one up for him. Not this time. Not today. Too much was at stake.

He raised a hand, and his men froze in place. Hobbes scanned the lobby for traps and snipers, and noticed two men positioned on the upstairs balcony. He raised two fingers behind his back, and then jerked his pointer finger from side to side, indicating the positions of the perps.

Zimmer nodded at two of the men, and they melted into the shadows.

Moments later, two muffled thuds echoed in stereo, and Zimmer's guys silently gave Hobbes the all clear from the balcony. He nodded and dashed across the lobby to the snack bar. He crept through the doorway into the kitchen-like cubby area as Zimmer positioned the rest of the agents.

Zimmer watched as four more of his men disappeared to assist the two agents in the rear of the theatre, and turned to see what was keeping Hobbes. But the older agent popped his head through the doorway with a steely glint in his eye.

Zimmer knew that look. It was the determined air of a man on The Hunt. Yeah, The Official had given orders for him yesterday to make sure de Fehrn was returned alive, but Zimmer knew better than to get in Bobby Hobbes' way when he had that look on his face. The only other time Zimmer saw it, he'd been lucky to get away with just a few broken ribs for his interference. Hobbes on the warpath was one of the most deadly men the younger agent had ever met in his years of service.

And having worked with some of the best-trained killers the CIA could produce, that was saying something.

"Found it?" Zimmer murmured.

Hobbes merely grinned. "I can hear his breathing," he returned just as quietly. "Back way out's covered?"

The younger man nodded. "Flush him out?"

Hobbes shook his head. "I'm goin' down."

Zimmer debated arguing for a mere fraction of a second, and instead replied, "Got your back." He motioned to the agents stationed in the lobby, and four of them peeled away to line up behind him. He nodded again at Hobbes, who winked.

"Let's get that muthafucker."


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" Wake me up
Wake me up inside
I can't wake up
Wake me up inside
Save me!
Call my name and save me from the dark
Wake me up
Bid my blood to run
I can't wake up
Before I come undone
Save me!
Save me from the nothing I've become!
Bring me to life...
I've been livin' a lie; I am nothing inside...
Bring me to life!"

Evanessence ~ "Bring Me To Life"


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She was standing on top of a hill, gazing down at the beautiful countryside blooming in front of her. She sighed contentedly, and knelt down to pluck some flowering heather to add to her bouquet of wildflowers. A light spring breeze ruffled her blond hair, teasing strands of it from the ponytail at the nape of her neck. She idly tucked the stray locks behind her ears as she lifted the tiny purple blossoms to her nose. The flowers had no actual scent, but she still delighted in sniffing them anyway. Other people may not think that heather flowers had any odor, but she was always able to detect the barest essence of...

Blood?

She looked down at the flowers in her hand, and her stomach sank when she saw that they were gone... replaced with this... this... thing pulsing in her hands.

Covered in crimson blood. Blood everywhere.


Claire gasped and jerked awake. A dream. It was only a dream. Her sleep-fogged mind tried to make sense between the shadow world and the real one, and she shook her head in confusion.

Darien.

The last remnants of her dream were ripped away as she returned to full consciousness, and she looked down at her watch.

"Four bloody hours?!" That's it? Nowhere near as much rest as she needed in order to properly take care of her Kept, but with the way her heart was pounding in her chest, she was certain she wouldn't be able to fall asleep again for quite a while.

Might as well go check on Darien.

She flipped the warm blanket from where it had tangled in her long legs, and rose from the cot with a stifled hiss. Too much stress and too little rest was showing in how cramped her muscles were, and Claire took a few moments to try to stretch out a little.

She was just bending down to touch her toes, when from behind her the door to the room banged against the wall. Claire gawked at one of the older agents as the, to her, upside down man skidded to a halt just inside the door and gaped right back at her. His head tilted to the side as he was presented with the very unladylike view of Claire's posterior and her face peeking out from between her legs at him.

He shook off the moment and practically shouted as he remembered why he was there in the first place. "Doctor, Agent Miller needs you... NOW!"

"Why? What?" She never got to finish her thought before the agent grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the room.

"Agent Fawkes..." he barked breathlessly as he pulled her down the hall to Lab 3. "Seizures!"

Claire got her feet under her and began to run, pulling her arm out of the agents' hand in her haste. She skidded past the two other agents, through the open door to the lab, and yanked a clean lab coat from the hook by the inner door. "Status, Jacob!" she barked.

The nurse didn't even glance up as he vainly tried to keep Darien still enough to not rip out the IV and monitoring lines. ""Grand mal seizures began two minutes ago, and don't seem like they're gonna stop!"

"Damn it!" she spat, and slipped her hands to the back of Darien's neck to support his head so he didn't bang the lesion on the back of his skull. "Did you give him Phenobarbital?"

"Two doses, but it doesn't seem to be helping!" Miller held Darien's arms to the bed as he desperately tried to keep all of the IV lines secure.

Blood rapidly seeped between her fingers as the lanky man's violent jerking reopened the wound. "Don't worry about the lines, Jacob, get another bag of blood, one of lactated ringers and Dilantin! He can't afford to lose any more fluids!"

"Got it!" he shouted over the shrieking of the monitors, and he bolted to the storage room beside the main lab.

Time slowed as Claire was forced to helplessly watch Darien convulse. Blood oozed from the back of his head. Too slowly for her liking, Darien's tortured body began to relax as the seizures lessened. Finally, with one giant arch of his back, his entire form gave an immense shudder before collapsing onto the bed.

Jacob rushed back into the room, dragging one of the agents in with him to assist in setting up the transfusion. Claire first had him aid her in rolling their patient over on his side so she could assess the additional damage. She carefully peeled away the bandage from the back of his head, and saw that the stitches had ripped away from over halfway around the opening, but closer examination proved inconclusive as to whether or not there was any further damage to the exposed brain tissues underneath.

"We need to increase his O2 levels, and give him some more epinephrine and dopamine. As soon as we have him stabilized, I want to run multiple scans on his brain," she ordered as she pulled the flesh and bit of loose bone aside to carefully cauterize the few blood vessels endlessly seeping blood into the open wound to Darien's brain. She checked the one major vessel that Arnaud had carelessly nicked during the extraction. It didn't seem to have split the tiny stitches holding it shut, and she heaved a great sigh of relief. Had those torn open as well, Darien would have bled out in a matter of minutes.


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"Ee-dee-ote!" Arnaud hissed in frustration. He backhanded his lab assistant across the cheek, and the man fell to the ground with a whimper. Shattered test tube glass and a tiny pool of amber liquid were all that was left of the injection Arnaud had prepared for the gland. "That took days to manufacture!"

The sounds of shouting and gunfire that had begun moments before increased in volume as the battle came closer to the rear entrance to the basement.

The clumsy assistant grunted as Arnaud kicked him viciously. "Now," kick, "I have to," kick, "Start from," kick, "Scratch!" Kick, kick, kick.

Arnaud whirled around, apparently satisfied with the other man's chastisement. He paced to the main table where the gland and its storage receptacle rested and contemplated his next move.

"Well, it seems that we shall have to finish our revisions at the lab overseas," he murmured. He pursed his lips thoughtfully before smoothly pulling his gun from the holster under his jacket with his uninjured hand, spinning on his heel, and shooting his assistant in the heart.

"Pack up the lab," he ordered the impassive guards at the back door of the basement room as he re-holstered his weapon. "We're leaving immediately."

The men nodded and moved towards a stack of partially packed boxes.

"Don't think so, de Freak," a low voice murmured from behind Arnaud.

The mercenary whirled around to see his other guards thump to the bottom of the front stairs. Hobbes was crouched at the bottom step and already had Arnaud squarely in his guns' sight.

"Ah, ah, ahhhh..." the stocky agent grinned savagely. "Keep yer hands where I can see em, you cocksucker."

Arnaud smiled condescendingly as he kept his hands in sight. "But of course, Agent Hobbes. I was wondering when you were going to arrive."

"Just in time to fuck up your plans again," Hobbes spat back, and pulled the trigger just as Zimmer appeared on the steps behind him.

Arnaud's eyes widened in surprise as Hobbes' bullet tore through his left knee. Zimmer fired his gun four times, and the two other guards fell on the other side of the room before they even had a chance to pull out their weapons.

Arnaud plunged to the ground with a shriek, clutching at his wounded leg. Zimmer bounded across the room and glanced up the rear stairwell to see if there were any more of Arnaud's hired goons waiting there. As Hobbes stalked towards his prey, Zimmer calmly commented, "Rear stairwell's secure, Hobbes."

"Good. Less chance of interruption," the senior agent grinned. But there was no trace of humor in his voice: only his eyes gave away the fact that Arnaud's death was imminent.

Before Hobbes was able to take another step, Arnaud twisted around to his right and tightly grabbed the leg of the wheeled table that the gland and its holding receptacle were sitting on with his injured hand.

"I would tread very carefully if I were you, Agent Hobbes," he murmured huskily through the pain blazing through his knee and hand. "Wouldn't want anything bad to happen to the gland now, would we?"

Hobbes' eyes narrowed slightly, and his arm suddenly blurred as he raised his gun and fired.

Arnaud screamed as the bullet ripped through bone, muscle and ligament to ricochet off of the table leg, taking parts of two of his fingers with it.

Hobbes replied over the harsh breathing of his enemy. "You're right. And nothing bad will happen, will it?" He nodded at Zimmer, who quickly strode across the room and carefully picked up the container with its precious cargo.

"Secure the package and make sure no one comes down here for a few minutes."

Zimmer glanced up from the padded case he had gingerly placed the gland container in. "Hobbes..." he began.

The shorter agent pinned him with eyes burning like banked coals. "That's an order, Agent," he growled icily.

But Zimmer didn't back down this time. "I'm not saying you can't do this, but..."

"Good. So, vamoose."

The younger man shook his head. "We need to get it back to the doc ASAP," he persisted as he indicated the case holding the gland.

"So take it to her. Leave the men with me to clean up, and we'll meet you back at base."

Under Arnaud's disbelieving pain-blurred gaze, Zimmer merely nodded, snapped shut and locked the case, and crossed the room to the front staircase. He paused and whispered in Hobbes' ear, but then continued his way up the stairs.

Hobbes' words drifted up to him as he reached the top step.

"This is for Eberts, you piece of shit."

Arnaud's tortured screams echoed in Zimmer's ears as he left the theater.

Part Seven - The Thin Line Between Life and Death

Claire looked up from the notes she was entering in the medical chart as the lab door swung open. Agent Zimmer stood in the doorway with a small suitcase in his hand.

Her weary eyes lit up with hope. "Did you find it?" She shakily stood and set the chart on the chair behind her.

Zimmer nodded as he glanced over at Darien's too-still form lying on the hospital bed. He stepped further into the room. "How is he, doctor?"

"His condition is deteriorating rapidly. Please tell me that the gland is all right?" She rushed over to the agent and motioned for him to hand over the case. He turned a little and set it on the counter running along the wall inside the door.

"No damage from what I can tell, but who knows what de Fehrn did to it before we got there."

Claire paused from opening the case and looked at Zimmer with concern. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged slightly. "He had some sort of lab set up, and it looked like he was getting ready to inject the gland with something. There was a needle right beside the container, and some stuff that was dropped on the floor when we got there."

Claire finished opening the case, gingerly pulled the glass jar out and crouched down to visually inspect it at eye level. "Hmmm. I'll have to run some tests to make sure Arnaud didn't do anything adverse to the gland. But there's so little time," she murmured to herself. "I'd better get Jacob back in here." Suddenly she straightened, moved over to the intercom and pressed down the call button. "I'm sorry Jacob, but please come back to the lab. They got it back safely."

As soon as she released the button, her assistant's weary voice crackled over the speaker. "Be right there."

She turned back to the questioning glance of Zimmer. "I had sent him to the other lab to rest for a couple of hours. He's been going non-stop since he arrived," she explained as she began to gather various testing instruments from drawers around the room.

She bustled about the room for a few moments, and then suddenly paused as she was struck with a thought. Claire turned slightly to look at Agent Zimmer. "Where's Bobby?"

The agent stared steadfastly back at her. "He's taking care of the prisoner."

Her eyes widened at the tone in his voice. "What do you mean?"

"Doctor, no offense intended, but worry about your patient. Let us worry about de Fehrn," Zimmer replied a bit brusquely.

Jacob entered then, and with one last worried look shot over her shoulder at Zimmer, she joined her assistant in examining the gland.


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Claire scrubbed her face with shaking hands as she leaned against the wall. In the middle of the room laid the unnaturally still figure of her Kept... her friend. The only movement indicating that he was alive was the regular rise and fall of his chest as the ventilator forced air in and out of his lungs.

The door opened, and Hobbes limped into the room.

Her mouth dropped open as she noticed his bruised and scraped hands, and then her expression changed to confusion as she took in his smug appearance.

"Bobby?"

He sobered as he took in the sight of his partner lying so still on the bed before he turned his attention to the doctor.

"How is he?"

In answer, she shook her head sadly.

His face crumpled. "The gland?"

She crossed the room and rested her hand on his forearm. "Jacob is finishing some tests to make sure that it's okay. Then we'll be attempting re-implantation within the hour."

"Is he strong enough for you to do that?"

She met his eyes bleakly. "Do we have a choice?"

"Yeah, you're right." He rested his other hand over hers, and her gaze dropped to survey his injuries.

She lightly ran her fingers over the deep scrapes on his knuckles, noting the bruising already apparent. "Is he..."

He grinned for a moment. "Naw. But I'm sure he's wishing he were right now. Got him stashed in Gaither's old room."

"I should check him for..." she began as she turned away towards the door. But Hobbes' hand came down on her shoulder, holding her in place. She glanced in confusion at him. "What?"

"You take care'a Fawkesy. One of the guys on my team is a trained medic. He's patching de Freak up right now."

She warily eyed Hobbes. "What did you do to him, Bobby?"

His look turned steely. "Made sure he wouldn't be able to escape this time." He shook his head sharply. "Anyway, he's only had a taste of what's coming to him."

The door swung open, and Jacob entered carrying the jar with the gland. "It looks like he was modifying the gland for re-implantation, but I'll be damned if I knew..." he trailed off as he realized there was someone else in the room. "Agent Hobbes," he nodded to the senior agent soberly. "Good to see you again." He crossed over to the counters across the room and carefully set the jar down in a space beside some equipment obviously used in surgery.

Hobbes and Claire stepped away from each other, and the doctor came over to her assistant's side. "What were you saying, Jacob?"

"That he was beginning to genetically modify the gland for implantation into another host, but I'd say that he didn't get very far. Looks like he'd definitely tried to flush Agent Fawkes' memory RNA from it with an anti-peptide shot, according to the residue."

"Yes, I'm sure he wouldn't want a repeat performance of what Darien went through," Claire murmured thoughtfully before refocusing her attention on her assistant. "So, what do you think?"

He nodded. "I'd say you were right. Let's get this show on the road."

Claire turned, and noticed that Hobbes had quietly moved to stand beside the bed. He stood there and stared at his partner with hooded eyes. His expression was almost haunted, and he looked so despondent that her heart ached with sympathy. If she had the energy and the time to cry, she would have, but she roughly shoved her emotions aside as she snapped back into doctor mode.

"Bobby, this is going to take some time, and I'm expecting an associate of mine to arrive any minute now," she informed the ruggedly handsome man as she came to his side.

Hobbes continued to watch Darien's face as he answered. "Associate? You sure this guy's cleared for this?"

She nodded, even though he didn't see her. "Dr. Randle is one of the best neurologists in the country, and has the necessary clearances. I've worked with him in the past, and I trust his skills." She paused for a moment, and then continued in a lower tone of voice. "I could never forgive myself if I made a mistake, and at this point I'm just so bloody tired, Bobby."

He turned and wrapped his arms around her. "Everything'll be fine, Claire," he murmured into her hair. "I know you'll do everything you can for Fawkes. If you trust this guy, then I'll trust him too."

Those simple words brought the tears back to Claire's eyes. She hugged him back fiercely, taking comfort in his confidence in her. Because at the moment it was a faith she didn't share. Darien's chances of surviving the night were lessening with every minute that passed, and that was without figuring in the surgery.

"Thank you, Bobby," she whispered before she stepped back to scrub away the tears from her face.

Throughout the exchange, Jacob studiously kept his attention elsewhere as he silently continued preparations for the operation.

"What can I do to help?" Hobbes asked.

Claire checked the various monitors as she answered. "If Arnaud is in any condition to talk, it would be very helpful to know what, if anything else, he's done to the gland." She spoke in a completely neutral tone, knowing that Hobbes was still too volatile when it came to the mercenary. "I don't want to have any nasty surprises if..." she paused as she caught the slip. "When Darien wakes up."

Hobbes didn't comment on her verbal blunder. Claire had only voiced the doubt foremost in everyone's mind. "I'll have a little 'talk' with him in a while. He's probably gonna need some rest after our previous 'conversation'."

Claire shot him one of her mother-hen looks. "Please refrain from damaging him too much, okay? If we could somehow gain his cooperation, it would make things so much easier for me."

Hobbes' face hardened. "No offense, Claire, but I won't let that son of a bitch get any ideas in his twisted head that he can bargain with us. No more deals. No more negotiations. You got everything you need to help Fawkes. And there's no way I'll ever trust anything that cocksucker says."

Claire blinked at the vehemence in his voice. "A-all right."

The door to the room opened, and an agent popped his head around it. "Doctor, the other doc is here."

"Thank you." She strode across the room and picked up Darien's medical chart. "Jacob, you'd better scrub in. I'll need your assistance as well."

Her assistant merely nodded and moved to the bathroom.

The agent reappeared in the doorway, escorting a rather diminutive man with thinning silver hair. Hobbes blinked; there was no way in hell that this guy cleared five feet.

Dr. Randle briskly strode to Claire and took her free hand in his. "My dear, you look dreadful," he commented with a heavily accented Italian accent. "Why didn't you call me sooner? I would have made myself available to assist so you could at least get some rest before the surgery." His bright blue eyes assessed his friend and colleague's worn and weary face before he swiveled his head to regard Hobbes. "And who might you be, sir?" he rumbled in a deep bass.

Hobbes blinked again. Such a little man, and yet he had the commanding presence of the Official... He winced at the thought of the boss, and came over to offer his hand. "Agent Robert Hobbes, sir."

"He's Darien's partner, Vincent," Claire elaborated. "He's also the senior agent here."

Randle firmly clasped Hobbes' hand with a courteous nod. "Not to seem rude, but I assume we are working under a tight window?"

Claire nodded as she dropped back into doctor mode. "The patient's condition is rapidly deteriorating. His only hope is to have the biosynthetic partition re-attached to his cerebral cortex." She walked over to the one wall as she spoke, which housed a large light screen holding a variety of x-rays. Dr. Randle ambled after, his much-shorter legs moving twice as fast as Claire's. The two discussed their options rapidly, and Hobbes quickly found himself completely lost from all of the medical-ese they were spouting.

He perched himself on the stool that had been sitting next to the hospital bed, with his hand resting lightly on his friend's shoulder. "Well, looks like it's about show time, partner," he murmured. "You'd better come out of this, or I'll have to come after you, you hear me? Don' you make me kick your scrawny ass in the afterlife." His mouth quirked at the thought of what kind of smart-ass remark Darien would make in retaliation. He looked over at the two doctors, who were still jabbering away at light speed while walking into the bathroom cum prep area to scrub in.

Hobbes leaned over to whisper in Darien's ear. "Just wanted you to know that I got him. Wish you could'a seen it, partner. I kicked his ass. Sonofabitch'll be lucky if he ever walks again." He grinned ruthlessly. "If nothing else, I'll make sure he's around for you to get in a few good shots, okay? Although it might be awhile, huh?"

Almost in response, the monitors shrieked as Darien began to convulse.

"CLAIRE!" Hobbes shouted needlessly, since she and the other two men had immediately bolted into the room.

He held on to Darien's shoulders as the others injected the contents of various needles into the IV's. Time seemed to crawl by as they were all forced to watch the lanky man's body twitch and jerk like an angry puppet.

Finally, Darien's body stilled, and the monitors ceased their shrill cries.

Claire and Dr. Randle both checked Darien's pulse, and then as one exchanged weighted glances.

"How often?" Dr. Randle queried.

"Almost every hour now," Claire replied heavily.

Her colleague merely nodded. "I think then that we had best get started."

She nodded, and raised sad gray eyes to Hobbes. "Bobby, I'm afraid I must ask you to wait outside. This will take quite some time, and I'm sure there are things you need to do."

"Like what?" he asked tonelessly.

"Like get some rest. Please," she implored with her voice and eyes. "It took Kevin over 10 hours to properly implant the gland the first time, and now we're working under a much tighter deadline. I really have no idea how long this will take."

A moment passed before Hobbes nodded gravely. "I'll be keeping watch outside if you need me."

A wan smile passed across her face. "Thank you."

Without another word, Hobbes gently squeezed his partner's shoulder before rising and heavily treading out of the room.

Claire watched the door close, and then turned to the nurse. "Jacob, are all the necessary items ready?"

He nodded, and wheeled a tray over as the two doctors adjusted the bed before carefully rolling their patient over.

Jacob placed a lighted magnifying headset on Dr. Randle's head, and the older man took a deep breath. "This is one lucky man to have such friends as the two of you," he gently remarked to Claire before raising his gloved hand. "Scissors, please."

Part Eight - Awaken

"I can't remember anything
Can't tell if this is true or dream..."

He was floating in a world of utter darkness.

"Deep down inside I feel to scream
This terrible silence stops me..."

Somehow he realized he should be terrified, but he just couldn't muster the will or the energy. He just knew that he was so damned tired.

"Now that the war is through with me
I'm waking up, I cannot see..."

Touch was the next thing to impinge on his consciousness. He felt the warm blanket covering his mostly naked body; keeping him warm in the chilled room. He wondered where the hell he was, and what the hell was happening.

"That there's not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now..."

He ached. Everywhere. His eyes refused to open at his command, and he suddenly realized that there was... noise.

"Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please god, wake me..."

Beep... ... ... ... beep... ... ... ... beep... ... ... ...

What the hell was that?! It was deafening!

Beep... ... beep... ... beep...

"Back in the womb it's much too real
In pumps life that I must feel..."

Beep... beep... whoosh... ... beep... beep... whoosh...

The sounds were beginning to be familiar to him, but he just couldn't place them.

"But can't look forward to reveal
Look to the time when I'll live..."

Suddenly the image of a beautiful little girl in an emerald green velvet dress violently seizing in a man's arms struck him like a hammer, and his brain reeled from the onslaught.

Beep.. beep.. beep.. whoosh.. beep.. beep.. beep.. whoosh..

"Fed through the tube that sticks in me
Just like a wartime novelty..."

He began to panic. His eyes wouldn't open, he couldn't move, all he could hear was this damned beeping and whooshing sound, and his voice...

He tried to talk, but there was something in his mouth... his throat... and it gagged him. He tried to swallow, but his stomach suddenly rebelled, and his body tried to vomit.

"Tied to machines that make me be
Cut this life off from me..."

Beep beep beep beep beepbeepbeepbeep.. DEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEEDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE...

"Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please god, wake me!"



Claire's head snapped up from her microscope at the shrill screaming of the life support alarms over the intercom. Her eyes widened in a strange mixture of shock, hope and despair as she quickly strode to the door of Lab 101 and activated it. On the other side, an agent snapped to attention as the doctor rapidly moved past him and down the hall to her friend Gloria's old room in Lab 3. The agent shadowed her, as he did all the time these days, and even followed her through the anteroom into the small main room filled with all kinds of monitors and machines.

All surrounding an oversized hospital bed containing the now weakly thrashing body of a tall, lanky man.

Alarms screamed as he obviously panicked and fought the ventilator forcing his body to breathe. Thin, pale arms flopped feebly; causing IV and monitor lines to twist and snap taut every time he managed to raise them higher than an inch.

Claire's expression was full of pained hope as she came to her friend's side. "Darien," she called to him softly, as she silenced some of the more shrill alarms that were more than likely freaking him out even more. "Sweetheart, it's Claire. You're safe. You're at the Agency." She smoothed long wisps of hair away from Darien's sweat-dappled forehead; even though she'd been trimming it every few weeks, it still grew astoundingly fast.

Her voice, combined with the gentle touch of her hand, seemed to break through the man's panic, and he stilled. The doctor felt his carotid pulse, and was pleased to note that it was strong and steadying. She looked up at the agent who had followed her in, and nodded at him.

A grin split his face, and she spoke quietly. "Don't get your hopes up yet, David, I still don't have any idea just how cognizant he is."

Agent Zimmer's smile faltered slightly. "But this has to be encouraging, at least, doctor," he replied. "Right?"

She shook her head. "I can't make any promises. He's had so many episodes of near-consciousness." Her voice held great sadness in it, which was more than enough to quell any rising excitement in the agent.

"You want me to page Hobbes?"

"No, not yet. Let me watch Darien for a while; run some tests on him. If I get some positive results, then and only then will I inform Bobby."

The broad-shouldered agent ducked his head slightly to the side. "I'll be waiting outside if you need anything, doctor."

A weary smile crossed her face as she aimlessly ran her fingers through Darien's hair again. "Thank you."

As the agent pulled the door almost completely shut behind him, Claire moved around the room to gather the necessary equipment. "Darien, if you can hear me, I'm going to examine you to see just how aware you are. Try to stay calm, sweetheart; you've been very, very ill, and are still quite weak."


Darien lay there, confused as hell. He thought he could hear Claire, but it was like he was underwater and her voice was coming from down a long tunnel. He finally recognized what it was in his mouth: a ventilator tube that was connected to a machine making him breathe.

Shit, how long was he freakin' out? And why?

He desperately tried to trigger a memory... any memory, but it made his head hurt really bad.

Waitaminute...

His stomach lurched sickeningly as one particular memory figuratively slapped him in the face.

Arnaud.

The gland.

The gland?!

He could feel the panic rising like a red wave again, and he fought to remain calm as his heart rate skyrocketed.

Hey, what was that? It was like...


Claire turned around as the pulse-ox monitor chirruped its unhappiness. "Darien?" she began, only to drop the instruments from suddenly nerveless fingers. She gasped in shock, and grabbed on to the counter behind her to keep from sliding to the floor.

Darien was going invisible.

Hobbes madly dashed down the hall with Monroe only a few steps behind him. Anyone who was in the charging duo's path moved immediately to avoid being run over, as they knew the expressions on the agent's faces all too well.

There was an emergency.

The two agents barreled down the stairs to the basement floors, and came out at the fifth level with no less speed than when they had entered.

They came even with the Keep's door, and Hobbes skidded to a stop. He looked around the empty hallway in almost panic. "Where's Zimmer?" he panted. "He's supposed ta be..."

Monroe, however, had continued down the hall and came to the bend before she'd noticed that her friend wasn't beside her. She called back over her shoulder, "Hobbes! They're in Lab 3!"

His eyes widened, and he sprinted down the hall.

Agent Zimmer, along with Heyes and Silverman, was standing guard at the door to the anteroom. His face was uncharacteristically bright and cheerful, as evidenced by the huge grin almost splitting his head in two. "Hobbes, get in there! He's awake!"

At those words, the senior agent stopped dead in his tracks, all the color leeching from his face. "A-awake?" he stammered.

Monroe caught his elbow as she noticed Bobby's legs wobble slightly. "C'mon Hobbes, you'd better sit down." She led the dazed man into the first area, and keyed the code in for the main room. She snagged the chair at the desk in the anteroom and whirled it through the door, looking like she practically took Hobbes' legs out from under him as he thumped into it.

Claire had looked up from taking Darien's pulse as the door had opened, and turned around with a brilliant smile the other two hadn't seen for months.

Which faded when she saw the expression on Hobbes' face. She quickly strode over to him, seated in the chair, numbly looking at his friend lying in the hospital bed.

Darien's eyes were open, and they were blearily staring right back at him.

"Bobby? Bobby, are you all right?" Claire asked gently. She leaned down and took his pulse, and then looked up at Monroe. "He's in shock," she stated with more than a trace of concern in her voice.

"Gee, ya think?" the brunette replied huskily. Her eyes were bright, shining with unshed tears. She shook her head, banishing the emotion, and put a comforting hand on Hobbes' shoulder. "I know I sure as hell am."

Zimmer peeked over Monroe's head. "Hobbes, you all right?"

Claire smiled up at the usually stolid agent. "He will be, once the shock of it all wears off, David. Thank you."

The man nodded and left the room, closing the door to let them have some privacy.

The doctor knelt down in front of her friend. "Bobby? Listen to me. Darien woke up last night. I didn't want to get our hopes up before I'd done some tests."

Hobbes blinked, his attention finally focusing on something other than the pale man across the room. "Last night?" he murmured.

"Yes, but I just couldn't see you go through another period of false consciousness with him, so I waited until I was sure he would stay with us," she replied softly. She'd taken one of his chilled hands into both of hers, and was gently rubbing some warmth back into it.

"So, he can... hear us?" Alex asked.

Claire nodded. "I'll be taking him off the respirator soon, since he looks like he's having no problems breathing on his own now."

"And that's when the fun starts," Hobbes murmured.

Long blonde hair skittered across the lovely doctor's back as she tilted her head to the side questioningly. "What do you mean?"

He blinked, and pulled his hand away from hers so that he could scrub at his face. "We'll all find out how much damage that bastard did to Fawkes," he explained in a growl.

Alex squeezed his shoulder lightly. "He's a fighter, Bobby. He'll surprise us all."

Hobbes moved as if to stand, and the other two backed away. He rose and walked over to the hospital bed, and touched his best friend's arm. "Hey, kid."

Darien blinked. A ghost of a smile wafted across his face, only to be replaced with a grimace of pain.

Hobbes snatched his hand back, thinking he'd somehow hurt his partner, just as the pulse-oxymeter began to trill. Claire came around the bed and reached for a filled syringe. "Pain's coming back, isn't it?" she asked Darien quietly. He slowly forced his eyes to blink once, and she nodded. She took the IV and injected the medicine into the line. "We do have one complication so far," she began to the others.

Monroe had silently joined Bobby beside the bed. "What?" she asked.

"When Darien woke up, he was understandably confused," the doctor replied, setting the empty syringe back on the counter. "He panicked, and went invisible after I'd come into the room."

Both agents' eyes widened like saucers at that. "That's good, right?" Monroe queried, just as Hobbes grinned with an "Atta boy, Fawkesy!"

"It is good that he can Quicksilver, since that means Vincent and I were successful in properly reattaching the gland."

Bobby looked up with a troubled expression. "I sense a 'but' in there, Keepie."

She ducked her head a little, and once again smoothed Darien's shaggy hair from his brow. His eyes drooped sleepily, and he dozed off with Claire's comforting hand to guide him. She continued to watch him as he fell asleep. "Going invisible triggered a grand mal seizure," she quietly informed the others. "He was in considerable pain, and it was bloody difficult trying to get him to un-Quicksilver in all that."

Monroe pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Negative feedback loop."

"Exactly. The more pain he was in, the more he panicked. The more he panicked, the more Quicksilver he secreted. Luckily, the muscle relaxant I gave him did the trick," she spoke quietly so as not to disturb her patient, whose hair she was still stroking.

"Well, shit," Alex muttered, as Hobbes briefly closed his eyes.

"Once Darien's off the respirator, I'll be able to get a better picture of what we're dealing with." Claire slowly took her hand away from the sleeping Darien, and waved her friends over to the other side of the room. "He'll be sleeping a lot, but I'm pretty certain that he won't slip back into a coma."

"Damned well better not," Bobby murmured thickly. "Told him if he died, I'd kick his scrawny ass into the afterlife."

The ladies smiled at his gruff statement.

"Bobby, if you'd like to come by later, you can help me take Darien off of the ventilator," the doctor suggested. At the man's curt nod, she continued. "You both are welcome to be here," she glanced with a warm smile at Monroe, who almost blushed. "Say, after lunch?"

"We'll be here," Alex replied softly. "Want me to let the Official know?"

"Yes. I'm sure Albert would appreciate it," Claire nodded. She automatically glanced at Hobbes to see if he'd protest with some sort of snide remark, but he didn't even grimace. Ever since the Arnaud incident, Bobby and Eberts had reached some sort of unspoken truce. It led to a much different environment at The Agency, as then the senior agent had no one to bounce his hyperkinetic negativity off of; it was a kind of stress-reliever for him to exchange snarky and cutting commentary with either Eberts or Fawkes. The other agents there were a little too "stuffy", as Claire thought of them in comparison to the eclectic team of Fawkes and Hobbes.

But then, no one was like Fawkes and Hobbes. That might be a good thing.

Claire smiled a little at the thought as she walked her friends out of the room.


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The next time Darien awoke, it was with great relief that he didn't hear all sorts of beeps and pings. Just that damned ventilator with its tube shoved down his throat. He pried open his eyes with difficulty to focus on the blurred outline of Claire with her hand on his shoulder.

The arm closest to the doctor twitched, and she turned a smiling face to him. "Hello there, sleepyhead," she greeted him softly. "How would you like to have that tube out of your throat now?"

Darien blinked once, and a smile lit up his chestnut eyes.

She chuckled. "Please, Darien, restrain yourself," she teased him. Claire glanced over her shoulder and nodded, then turned back. "Bobby and Alex would like to help. Is that okay?"

The lanky man's brows furrowed in confusion. He just stared at her.

Her smile faltered as she hesitated. "Do you know who I'm talking about?"

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Claire's face fell before she caught herself with a little headshake. "Don't worry about that now. There are some friends here who would like to help. Are you all right with that?"

Blink.

"Good." Her grin was back in full force again. "Now, what I'm going to do is turn off the machine and wait for a few minutes. I want to be sure that you're strong enough to breathe on your own, okay?"

Blink.

"Then what I'll need you to do is take as deep a breath as you can, and I will pull out the tube while you blow out as hard as you can. Think you can do that?"

Blink.

"Okay. I'm turning off the machine now..." Claire reached over Darien's head and flipped the power switch on the ventilator.

He felt the pressure in his chest ease up, and for a moment he forgot how he was supposed to breathe. Darien's eyes widened in surprise and rising fear as he felt the burning in his lungs grow stronger, and Claire gently touched his cheek. That seemed to bring back the memory, and he slowly, laboriously, drew air into his body.

'C'mon, man, you can do this,' he nagged himself.

Again, he slowly sucked air through the tube in his mouth, and then relaxed, letting his chest expel as it lowered. Damn, this hurt. But he wasn't going to give up; no way was he gonna keep that frickin' tube in him any more than absolutely necessary.

Five tortuous minutes crawled by, until Claire rested a gentle hand on his arm. "All right, Darien. I think it's time to take the tube out."

He smiled faintly. Goody!

"Bobby, I'll need your help with this," she called over her shoulder.

Hobbes stepped into Darien's field of vision, his face looking pinched with worry. "What can I do?" he asked.

"First we need to get Darien sitting up."

Darien's eyes followed Hobbes as he walked around to the other side of the bed, and helped to raise the head of the bed so that Darien was almost sitting up.

"I'll need your help pulling this out," the doctor indicated the ventilation tube. She then bent over and brought her face closer to Darien's. "When I count to three, you take as deep a breath as you can and hold it, okay?" she murmured.

Darien blinked.

"On three. Ready?" Claire nodded to first Darien and then Bobby. Both men indicated their readiness, and she counted. "One... two... three!"

Darien gulped in air and held it. Claire ordered, "Now Bobby!" and Hobbes firmly grasped and pulled the tube straight out as Claire directed her patient to blow out the air in his lungs as hard as possible.

The lanky man coughed, gagged and choked as the plastic was yanked from his body. He collapsed over his knees, his solar plexus spasming as he tried to suck in precious air. Dry heaves wracked him as well, and it seemed like ages before everything eased up enough to allow him to breathe.

Claire and Hobbes straightened Darien up, and Alex arranged fresh pillows for him to lean against. He was still breathing quite heavily, but thankfully it wasn't as labored.

He opened his mouth and tried to say something, but all he did was painfully wheeze.

"Darien," Claire admonished gently. "Don't try to speak for a while. Here, have some ice to suck on for a bit; it will help your throat."

She spooned ice chips into his mouth, and the soothing coolness as they melted slipped down his raw throat.

His eyes closed in relief, and he sagged back into the pillows. Weird that he was exhausted from such a little thing as being taken off of a ventilator.

Without even being aware of it, Darien slipped off into a light doze, and Claire motioned the others to follow her away from the bed.

"He won't be able to speak much for at least a day," she informed Hobbes and Monroe. "And he'll still be sleeping an awful lot. But I must say that so far I'm encouraged by his recovery."

Bobby's face darkened, and the doctor rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Now that he's awake, and once he's strong enough, I'll be able to test Darien for any lingering damage," she soothed.

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Alex asked.

"Yes. Come and visit him as much as you can," Claire replied. "We need to engage him and see how much he can remember."

"What, of the de-glanding?" Hobbes growled.

"No, of his life. Of us," Claire responded softly.

Bobby and Alex's eyes widened a little as the impact sank in.

"You really think he's that badly off?" the tough as nails female agent almost whispered.

Long, silky blonde hair was swept behind one ear absently as the doctor considered her answer. "We won't know until we can properly communicate with him, but the possibility exists that he could have suffered permanent memory loss."

"I need some air," Hobbes mumbled, and roughly pushed his way past the ladies on his way out of the room.

Claire and Alex exchanged weighted looks. "I'l make sure de Foehn's left alone," Monroe declared, and she also left the room.

Claire returned to her patient's side, and carefully lowered the bed enough so that Darien could sleep more comfortably. "For your sake, and Arnaud's, Darien, I hope you make a full recovery," she murmured.

DISCLAIMER: Most of the images from this site are originally manufactured and owned by Stu Segal Productions, Studios USA, and NBC/Universal. I just played with them in Photoshop for my own amusement, and derive no profits from them, other than the satisfying eye candy. Nope, not selling, not making any money, and I break out in hives at the mere mention of laywers.