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Snowed In -Part Three

by: Talamae

Disclaimer: The Invisible Man (2000 series) and its characters are copyrighted to the Sci-Fi channel and USA Cable Entertainment. All rights reserved.

Author's Note: My first attempt at TIM fanfic.

*****

"Why didn't the counteragent work?' Claire asked herself out loud.

Darien shook his head, completely forlorn, and ran his hands through his hair.

She took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. There had to be a way to deal with this, a logical way. The counteragent didn't work, but science could still provide a solution.

"We have to determine the length of the intervals between your outbursts, or when you feel like you are losing control. If we can time them and if they occur with any regularity then maybe we can predict when the next one will hit. Then maybe we'll know when the next one comes. We'll have some control over-"

"Don't you get it?" he interrupted. "I'm not going into labor. I'm about to go insane! I have to get out of here." He stood up, promptly hit his head on the ceiling and groaned.

"Where are you going?" She demanded.

He rubbed the top of his head, then pulled on his stocking cap. "I'm going to head south toward those lights. Maybe I can get somewhere while I still have some sanity and get you some help and get someone else to lock me up before I go crazy." He took a few steps toward the rear of the van.

"You're crazy already. It's freezing out there, and pitch black. You'll never get anywhere."

"Yeah, but I won't be here."

"No, I'm not going to let you do this. There has to be some alternative. "

"I don't know what it would be," he opened the rear door. "I might not enjoy your company all the time, but I'm not going to put you in harm's way."

"And I don't want you to kill yourself."

"Well, maybe if they find my frozen body you can still get the gland out," he said morbidly. "The Agency won't lose its investment."

"Damn the gland. Darien, you are giving up on yourself too quickly!"

"What do you mean?"

"You are rushing out of here as if losing control is the only option you have left. I know that's not true."

"And how could you know that?"

"I've read all of your brother's project files. I know what happened at the compound. In your brother's notes he wrote about the time you first experienced the quciksilver madness. He says the two of you had a confrontation in the women's showers."

"What about it?"

"He wrote that you had him down, defenseless on the floor and were about to stick him full of the tranquilizer he planned to inject into you. But you pushed that needle into your arm Darien. He said you pushed the syringe you did. The madness had taken over, but you still knew the right thing to do and you did it. That's what matters."

"And what about the time I attacked Hobbes in the phone booth?"

"You were under the influence of Scarborough, a man who already had the habit of forcing people into violent situations. What about that case with the little girl? Your quicksilver saturation was almost the highest it's ever been, but you didn't attack Hobbes, or the FBI agents, or the girl. You went after the sniper-the person who was threatening you. Darien, don't you see? You can exhibit some kind of control."

He sat down on the floor, a look of desperation on his face. "You don't understand. If I have control, it is completely based on emotion. My conscience disappears."

"You might think and feel that, but your actions prove otherwise. This pattern can't be denied. You can control yourself."

He rubbed the back of his neck again. "You're willing to bet your life on that?"

She didn't answer immediately. "If it means saving your life then yes, I am willing," she said, trying to gauge his emotions.

He stared at the floor for a long moment, the wind blowing snowflakes into his hair.

He pulled the door shut. "All right. I'll stay. But I'm not sure which will drive me crazy first, the quicksilver or cabin fever."

He crawled back toward the cab, took a pair of handcuffs out of the glove compartment, then climbed back into his spot. He latched on end onto the exposed metal frame of the van's body and the other to his right wrist. "Insurance," he said. "Just in case I'm not as composed as you think I am."

10:23 p.m.

They both sat in silence and Claire was about to doze off when Darien suddenly convulsed. He grabbed the back of his neck with his free left hand and gasped.

"Darien?" She said as he bent over in pain. He looked up at her--his eyes getting redder. "Can I help you in any way?"

"You've helped me enough," he panted, waiting for the episode of pain to subside. "I'm not sure what's worse-the pain, or you staring at me."

"I'm sorry, but I don't really have anywhere else to look," she said after downing a couple more ibuprofen tablets.

He visibly relaxed as the pain went away, but his eyes stayed the same. How long? She wondered and glanced towards the window. How long would it take for someone to find them? And if they did have to wait much longer, another day or maybe more, how salvageable would his mind be after such a long time without the counteragent?

She felt a sense of regret. They were just starting to blend as a team, starting to get a grip on how to work with each other. And if he died or was shuffled off to some Agency asylum she'd probably be reassigned to another position, either within the Agency or back to the Department of Defense.

Please, not the DOD, she silently prayed.

"How long do you think it is before I completely loose my mind?" he asked with a strained smile, pulling her away from her own thoughts.

"That's not going to happen."

"I wish I was as sure as you are," he said, rattling the cuffs.

"I want you to try and sleep. I think it would help your quicksilver saturation levels. You need to relax."

"We're in a life and death struggle with Mother Nature here and you want me to relax?"

She offered him a comforting smile. "Please, consider it. The more relaxed you are, the more control you have, remember? Biofeedback is the name of the game."

"All right, I'll try," he said, reclining on the floor. "Claire?"

"What?"

"If it takes them a while to find us, and I really lose it-"

"I will do my best to make you well again," she finished his sentence.

"And if you can't, you'll come visit me in the Agency nuthouse?"

She pursed her lips. "God forbid, but yes I would."

He appeared comforted by this and closed his eyes.

Claire relaxed slightly herself. She reached down and fingered the pencil that she had placed near her leg for an emergency. He was securely handcuffed to the opposite wall now, and although there was only a couple feet between them, she doubted he could do much violence in that position.

She had convinced him that he could control himself, now she had to convince herself that he could. She had no laboratory-derived evidence to suggest how he might behave in QSM. There had been little to no research conducted on him since the destruction of his brother's lab in the desert. She had made a request to the Official to run experiments on him--stress tests and the like-but he had refused her plans. He couldn't afford to have a multi-million dollar experiment wasting away in a lab. He needed Darien in the field.

Besides, he had said, did she think Darien would agree to sitting around her lab all day, like an animal?

There was no evidence, just the proof of his past behavior. She touched the pen again and laughed internally. The pen wouldn't do her any good. She glanced towards Darien's hushed form. His chest was raising and lowering slowly, indicating that he either might be asleep or very close to it.

I'm convinced, she said to herself. He never would have locked himself up like that if he didn't have some kind of control. I'm convinced.

1:15 a.m.

Claire awoke feeling colder than normal and, after a few sleepy blinks she saw that the meager blanket of towels was no longer covering her. In fact, they weren't laying on the floor next to her either.

It took her another second to realize that Darien was not in his space by the cab, but was sitting next to her. She turned her head and saw just his silhouette only inches away, back lit by the meager candlelight.

She sucked in a quick breath of cold air in surprise. She couldn't manage to make a sound, because she wasn't sure what sound to make. Should she be frightened, alarmed, or relieved? She flicked her eyes in the direction of the opposite wall, where the handcuffs were still attached to the van.

"What, what happened to the handcuffs?" She finally asked.

He didn't answer for the longest time. In fact he didn't even move. She could feel her pulse rise because she couldn't see his face, just that dark silhouette. It was almost worse than invisibility.

"You forgot to ask for the keys," he whispered, tossing them into her lap. Claire glanced at them and then back towards him. He picked them up, put them in the right pocket of her parka and patted it with his hand. "You can keep them for later."

"What about now?" She asked. He had to make the next move, and he did.

"I'm trying to decide whether to kill you now, or have a little fun first," he said, knocking back the hood of her parka with a flick of his hand. He fingered a lock of her hair as she shivered more from fear than from the cold.

"What good would killing me do you?" She asked, but wasn't sure if it would do any good. The rational side, the intellectual part of his mind was gone and in its place was instinct, desire, or maybe even blind rage. Only he knew.

How could she be sure such parts of him could be reasoned with? She would have to. It might be the only way to leave this place alive.

"Darien, I want you to think back to the discussion we had earlier about-"

"Shhhh," he shushed her and he leaned closer into her face, his red eyes glinting in the light of the candle. As he started to unzip her jacket she grabbed his hand to stop him, but he pulled away and grabbed her good wrist. "Shhhh," he admonished again and continued to unzip her coat.

He dropped his head against her chest, right between her breasts and breathed in deeply.

"You smell good enough to eat."

Claire struggled against his grip but she had little strength and every move seemed to agitate her tender wounds.

"I'm just wondering how I should kill you. What would be the most ironic death for a doctor?" he muttered. He held up one of the syringes from her bag. "I could bleed you." He held up the bottle of ibuprofen. "Overdose is an option, but I think an old fashioned strangulation would work just fine," he ran his fingers from her chin down to the base of her neck.

She shook off his touch. "You won't profit in any way from my death."

"I'll have one less government bastard on my back though, won't I?" He smiled wickedly. "Looks like I'm not keeping the keeper."

"Then I'll never get my picket fence," she said, trying to wrestle her right hand from his grip. "Or the two point three children."

"What?" he paused.

"Like you said earlier. If we don't survive this, I won't get the chance to have a family," she said, tears of fear falling from her eyes. Her voice broke with emotion. "No big house in the suburbs, no husband."

He glared at her.

"All those possibilities for my future depend on you right now."

"All those things can go to hell, right along with you," he said and carefully unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse. He pushed aside the collar and ran a finger along the lace trim of her bra.

His touch made her shudder. This impetuous intrusion into her modesty and femininity seemed like the worst violence of all, even though his touches were gentle. If this were any other situation his actions might seem seductive and sexual, but it was against her will and she was powerless to stop it. It was at this moment that the word rape flashed through her mind.

She struggled against him. His grip was like iron, but still not harsh. He was strong, but not abusive, at least not yet. Maybe what she said earlier was true. The prevailing emotion was ruling his actions, but he was still Darien Fawkes behind those red eyes. Could she use this somehow?

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked, pausing from his intrusions.

"Your airplane, the one that Kevin took apart. I had a favorite toy too, when I was younger-a magnifying glass. I carried it with me everywhere. I was always looking at things like bugs and dirt through it. It was my key to the world around me. But one day a schoolyard bully who wasn't fond of me grabbed it away and stomped it to pieces."

He let her arm go. She felt her lip quiver, but continued. "Maybe worse than losing the glass was the feeling of regret that I had--regret that I had let something I cared about be ruined."

"Be quiet," he muttered.

"And I know that inside of you somewhere is the Darien Fawkes who would have to regret what you're about to do."

"You think I care about what happens to you?" He scoffed and laughed out loud.

"Maybe you don't, but I know Darien cares about who he is. Despite his past, he has convictions he'd never compromise like this."

"Yeah, I'm the perfect Boy Scout," he gave her the scout salute and put his fingers under her chin to lift her face. "But things have changed now, haven't they?"

"Darien told me once that he'd rather die than be forced to act against those convictions. And I don't think you've changed that much that you'd do something that he would regret for the rest of his life." She reached out to touch his shoulder, but Darien slapped it away and shoved her back against the wall of the van. She gasped from the sharp stab of pain from her collarbone and erupted into fresh tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry about your airplane," she said between her tears.

"I'm definitely going to kill you," he said.

"I'm sorry it broke," she cried.

"I told you to shut up!" he clamped his hand over her mouth and nose. It smelled of soot and candle wax. She clawed at it with what little strength she had left but her fragile grip on consciousness was disappearing.

Is this the way the ordeal was going to end? she thought, glaring into his eyes and trying to breathe. He just suffocates me in the middle of QSM and then gets stuck in a mental institution for the rest of his life? Underneath her terror she felt a twinge of pity for him, and her vision started to falter. She could feel the panicked, intense need for oxygen in her chest, but couldn't fulfill it.

A memory of the broken magnifying glass lying on the ground--the plastic casing broken and glass shards all over the sidewalk--passed before her eyes before the darkness overtook everything.

4:08 a.m.

Claire awoke with a gasp. She took as deep a breath as she could, relishing its chill against her throat. The smell of car grease and petrol raked her nostrils before her vision cleared. I'm still in the van, she thought. She blinked a few times and looked down. Her body was blanketed with towels, her parka was zipped and completely undisturbed, just as it had been when she had first fallen asleep.

She was terrified, but she forced herself to look over towards Darien. He was sitting motionless, still handcuffed to the wall. Her slight movement caught his eye and he looked at her.

"You snore," he complained. His pupils were scarlet.

She was speechless. Had it been a nightmare? Did her preconceived notions about him create that frightening fantasy? There was no physical evidence of the confrontation--only her too recent memories.

But were they memories? It looked like he had never left his position by the wall. Should she question him about it?

But if I did, and his attempt to kill me had truly been a dream, what would he think of me?

"Have you slept?" she finally managed.

He shook his head. "Insanity can do that to a person."

This was the Darien she knew--the smart-ass underneath a relaxed exterior. He scratched his nose with the handcufffed hand and sat up. "Why don't you go back to sleep?" He rattled the cuffs. "I'm not going anywhere."

Claire nodded and looked toward the flickering candle. "Is it too early to say that I want to be found?"

"I'm not in a conversational mood right now," he said, pulling a towel around his shoulders.

"I want to be found," she repeated and let herself cry tears of relief.

10:32 a.m.

A knock on the rear door of the van and the rusty squeak of its hinges woke them both.

"Knock, knock. It's the Good Humor Man," came the deadpan voice of Bobby Hobbes from outside. He leaned into the van and took at look at its two haggard and shivering occupants.

"Well, hello there. Wakey wakey," he held up his gloved hand. In it was a syringe full of blue liquid--the counteragent. Darien nearly licked his lips in

anticipation.

Hobbes pointed towards Darien's cuffed hand. "She knew just what to do with you, didn't she? That's why they call her the Keeper."

"Hurry up," Darien said, pulling up his sleeve.

"How did you find us?" Claire asked as Hobbes injected Darien.

"The Agency got a call from some guy who called himself 'Pop Gun.' He said you two had been in an accident and were stranded out this way. He also said you needed your meds," he gestured to Darien. "So we figured you were a few Fruit Loops short of a balanced breakfast. I called in a favor from a friend at the CIA. He fired up a satellite and triangulated on the Keeper's cell phone. And, voila, here I am."

He looked Claire over. "Looks like you need a stretcher," Hobbes said and poked his head outside. "Bring two stretchers guys. And hurry it up, will ya?" He leaned back in.

"Had to do my best saving the world without you for the past 24 hours. Wasn't easy, but I did it," he said, wiping his dripping nose. "Damn, it's cold out here! So what's new with you two? Our invisible friend go wacko here?"

Two EMT's climbed into the van and lifted Claire onto a stretcher. A large plow vehicle and two ambulances were parked outside. Claire blinking in the bright light of the morning. The entire countryside was bathed in a beautiful blanket of white snow.

The rough, jarring motions ended as her stretcher was rolled into the back of an ambulance. The heat inside felt so reassuring. All the tension and anguish that she had pent up in the last day melted away. The EMT closed the door and looked her over.

"I'm going to take some breath sounds. Can you sit up?" He asked and she nodded. He unzipped her jacket while breathing on his stethoscope to warm it up.

"Uh, it looks like these fell out of your pocket," he said, handing her a jingling metal object. She took it from him and gasped, nearly dropped it.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"N-nothing, nothing's wrong. Go ahead," she leaned forward a little as he placed the scope on her back. In her tightened fist were the handcuff keys.

***

The annoying banter of a daytime talk show awoke Claire from a peaceful sleep. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the TV and fumbled for the controls. The screen switched off with a bright flash and she settled in against the soft hospital pillow. The clock on the wall said it was two in the afternoon. She had been sleeping for four hours, but she still felt fatigued.

There was a cramp in her thigh but she didn't want to chance the pain that might come from shifting her bound up leg. Along with a broken leg, she had a fractured collarbone and one broken rib. The resulting day and a half-long ordeal had taken so much out of her. She could feel a burst of emotion welling inside her, dominated by relief, but she swallowed it. No need for that here.

It took her a moment to see the large bouquet of flowers sitting on the windowsill. The card was signed by multiple names, including Ebert's small efficient signature and the official's scrawl. She smiled at the gesture and breathed deeply to see if she could catch any scent of the bouquet.

The blinding sunlight streaming in from the window had obscured her vision when she first woke. But it was clearing now and she noticed the corner just beyond the window was occupied. She squinted a bit at the figure that was blurred by her sleepy eyes.

"Hi," said Darien's voice. He was leaning against the wall. His left hand was wrapped in gauze and his right foot was bandaged up with brown wraps.

"Hello," she managed to say softly. She wasn't sure if she was happy to see him or not. She had not yet been debriefed by the Official or Eberts, but she was sure that Darien had probably given his report of yesterday's events.

Did he know that she remembered everything?

"I'll leave if you want me to," he said.

"Please stay."

He sat down in a chair near the foot of her bed. "They managed to salvage the van."

"That will save the Agency a few thousand dollars," Claire commented, making an internal vow never to ride in it again. "I'm sure the Official is happy."

"I think good old Charlie was just glad to see that I hadn't taken off with it and you," Darien said, scratching his nose with his gauzed hand.

"What's that for?" she motioned to his bandages.

"A little frostbite, on my foot too," he sat down in a nearby chair and crossed his left leg on his right. "Nothing serious."

"Uh hum," she responded. An awkward silence filled the room as they both did their best not to make eye contact.

"Whatever happened last night happened and I don't blame you for anything," she said.

"I can't forgive myself that easily."

"Fine, but I can forgive you. I just don't want to talk about it, ever again. And I don't care to share it with anyone else, be it an official report or only small talk."

"Same here," he nodded and stood up. "I better get going. I'm sure if I don't get back Hobbes will start thinking I'm letting him down on the job."

He handed her a small packaged wrapped in pink paper that said in white letters, "It's a girl!"

"Got you something, but this was the only wrapping paper they had left in the gift shop," he apologized.

"Thank you," she said, holding it against her chest. "I'll see you back at the lab."

Darien stood and started limping towards the door.

"Why did you stop?" she asked before he could leave. He paused, but didn't turn around. "It wasn't a dream. You could have killed or raped me-with no conscience to hinder you. Why did you stop?

He turned to face her, a pained expression on his face. "You were my conscience," he said and shrugged his shoulders. He walked out before she could say more.

An emotional weight lifted off her shoulders and she relaxed into the comfortable bed. There were tears in her eyes, although she wasn't sure why. Claire wiped them away, embarrassed even though she was alone.

She ripped apart the garish paper and opened the small box. Inside was a pocket magnifying glass. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

"How are you feeling?" asked a nurse as she stepped into the room. She noticed Claire's wet face and handed her a tissue. Claire closed the box and placed it in the pile of wrinkled paper in her lap.

"A little shook up thank you," she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue.

"Any pain?"

"No."

"Is this garbage?" the nurse asked, pointing to the pile of paper.

"Yes, all of it," Claire handed her the paper and the box, with the glass still inside.

It was one of many regrets she preferred to leave in the past.