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Too Close For Comfort-Part Two

by: R2

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

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'My mom made these cookies 'specially for us, you want one?'The sun had been bright that day, not a cloud in the sky and the wind had been crisp and cool against their wet bodies. The swimming hole had been his special place, where he had gone to escape thetormenting of his sister. He had never showed the swimming hole to another soul, until now.

'Yeah, sure Bobby. Thanks'

Brad had been his name. Brad Rosen, the closest thing to a friend little Bobby Hobbes had ever known. Making friends had not been an easy thing for Hobbes, and Brad had been the only boy in the 6thgrade that had been willing to see past his gruff exterior to the kid inside desperate for companionship.

Brad had taken a big bite and munched away happily while he had wandered to the edge of the small lake to try and catch minnows.

'Bobby?'

Brad's voice had sounded strange, almost strangled. When Bobby had turned around his friend's face had become flushed, as if he had just run too long in the hot sun. 'Brad? You okay?

'I don't think so, Bobby'

"So what happened?"

Hobbes was pulled suddenly from the past by the voice of the Official. They were standing in a room that hadn't been used since Gloria Howard had been cured and sent back to her family. The Keeper's lab had been insufficient to care for Darien, so she had had him transported to the abandoned Lab 2.

He lay before them; unconscious, hooked up to a ventilation machine that was humming softly to itself as it methodically breathed for the very sick agent. A heart monitor beeped along in a surreal rhythm, keeping track of Darien's blood pressure and heartrate. The Keeperhad also set up an IV that was continuously depositing the necessary medicines into Darien's ravaged body. Hobbes stood near the foot of the bed, staring silently at the figure; he couldn't believe how much his partner had changed in just a few short hours. His lean, tanned face was now swollen and a sickly pale color, and although the hives were beginning to diminish somewhat, they were still fairly prevalent along his arms.

Behind him, the Keeper sighed heavily, "It would seem that Darien's body has become overly sensitive to the counteragent, and this latest shot was enough to send him into anaphylactic shock."

The big man frowned, "How could this happen?"

The doctor shook her head, "Allergic reactions to certain drugs are not uncommon," she explained. "Sometimes, being exposed to the same chemical repeatedly can induce a reaction."

"What about diabetics and insulin?" Hobbes asked, his back still to them.

"Diabetics use insulin to replace what's missing in their bodies,"the Keeper replied. "In Darien's case, we formulated a chemical in order to counterbalance another chemical, the quicksilver hormone, already present in his system. A chemical substance that was totally alien." She paused to glance at the still figure on the bed, "His body simply retaliated."

"Which means?" the Official continued.

"Which means that if he gets another shot of the counteragent, itwill kill him".

"So, what happens now?" Hobbes asked, turning to glance first at the Keeper and then at the Official and then back to the Keeper.

"What happens is that I have to find an alternative," the woman replied, tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind an ear.

"An alternative?" Hobbes repeated, "What kind of alternative?"

Claire crossed her arms in front of her and sighed, "I don't know yet," she answered honestly.

"Well, I hope you can come up with something in the next six days, because we all know what will happen if you don't."

"Hobbes," the authoritative voice of the Official sliced through the room, ending the potential argument before it could begin. "Let the Keeper do her job, you do yours."

Hobbes turned is head just enough to glare at the Official. "Whaddaya mean?" he practically growled.

The other man smiled slightly, "You still have an assignment to finish. Fawkes' condition, though upsetting, has no bearing on what still needs to be done."

"But…"

"Your presence is not needed," he jerked a beefy thumb over his shoulder. "You still have a rat to catch, remember?"

Hobbes turned away from the Official to stare at his partner. The sight of Darien hooked up to all the machines caused him to grimace. He wanted to remain here where he could keep an eye on his partner, his friend. He closed his eyes; he had left a friend behind once, a long time ago. He had been ten, his friend had needed help and he had gone to get it. He felt a delicate hand on his shoulder and he looked over into the soft eyes of the Keeper.

"It's going to be alright," she told him gently, "there's nothingmore you can do."

Similar words, long buried, stirred and echoed in the back of Hobbes' mind, causing him to blink at the emotions they raised in him.

"I know the cause of Darien's illness," Claire continued softly,"that means I'm halfway to finding -".

"The alternative," Hobbes finished, his voice husky.

The Keeper smiled, "Yes, exactly.".

Hobbes remained a moment longer, one hand resting gently on the railing at the foot of the bed. He was staring at Darien's unmoving figure, but he was seeing an image that was shaking off the shackles of the past and coming back to haunt him.

* * *

He was running back to where his friend was choking and gasping, clawing frantically at his throat. "Brad, what's wrong?"

His friend had looked up at him, terror in his dark eyes, unable to breathe. Bobby had been frozen by the sight of Brad turning ahorrible shade of red, his face swelling to almost twice its size.

"Bobby!" Brad had managed to gasp, "Help me!"

As the seriousness of the situation sank in through the haze o fpanic, Bobby had realized that he needed to go and find an adult, someone that could help Brad and stop what was happening.

"I'm going to get some help," he told his friend. Before he could move, however, Brad had grabbed his arm, desperation mixing with the panic in his brown eyes. His hand had been clammy with fright and shock, but his grip had been like iron. He had shaken his head frantically from side to side, a plea for Bobby not to leave him.

"It's okay," the younger boy had said, "I'm going to get help, I'llbe right back. I swear!" He pried his friend's desperate fingers fromhis flesh and ran in the direction of civilization as fast as his legs would carry him. He stopped once to look back, Brad's horrified eyes were gazing after him.

Hobbes bolted up in his bed with a gasp, the last vestiges of the dream wrapping around him like a dense fog. He shook his head and rubbed his hands down his sweaty face. "Four nights now," he grumbled to himself, "I haven't thought of that day in over 20 years and for four straight nights now I'm having freakin' nightmares."

He flung the crumpled sheet away from him and flicked on the lamp sitting beside his bed, blinking in the sudden brightness. The clock blared that it was 3:15 in the morning and he realized that sleep would be avoiding him for the rest of the night. With a heavy sigh, Hobbes got out of bed and padded over to where an assortment ofpapers were stacked haphazardly on a nearby table. He flopped down into the chair and began to leaf through the files again.

For the past few days, Hobbes had been busy looking into the D.E.A. and its Director in Charge, Jacob Mitchell. He could smell the rotten egg in the bunch, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where the odor was coming from. He found Mitchell's folder and opened it, re-reading the man's history; he had been especially chosen for the position of director, showing superior investigative skills and a tenacity that impressed his superiors. The percentage of drug busts had not dropped since his assignment, a fact that went over well with his superiors, since it showed he was maintaining the expected norm. He spoke regularly at area schools, preaching the danger of drugs and drug use. Hobbes snorted, Mitchell's file was so squeaky clean the agent could have eaten off of it. "The brighter the picture," Hobbes mumbled, "the darker the negative."

He shut the folder a bit more forcefully than he intended and got up from the table. He wandered over to a wall mirror and gazed at himself, he saw scared ten-year-old eyes looking back.

There was nothing more you could do, Bobby.

The long forgotten voice came floating to the surface like a bubble. The suddenness of it caused Hobbes to jerk away from the mirror. It had been a female nurse that had spoken to him all those years ago; her hands had been cold on his bare shoulders and she had smelled like antiseptic. Her voice had been kind, even though it was laced with sympathy.

Hobbes sat heavily on the edge of his bed, trying to push the painful memory back into the farthest corners of his mind where it could not harm him, but it was too late. Fragments and slices of that day came rushing up like a tidal wave, no longer staying in the corner where Hobbes had sent them.

He had been ten years old when he had watched his friend die of an allergic reaction. It had been a terrible sight; the swelling, the hives, the sound of Brad gasping for air. He could still feel his friend's desperate fingers grabbing onto his arm, remembered what it was like to pry the terrified hand away so he could run. Hobbes raked a hand down his face, surprised when it came away wet. He had left behind the only friend he had ever had to get help, and he had died.

***

Claire sat back from the microscope, rolling her head around in aslow circle trying to get the kinks out of her neck. She hadn't slept more than eight hours in the past four nights and her body was beginningto protest. Very strongly. This had seemed so easy when she had first done it ten years ago.

With a tired sigh, Claire pushed away from the desk and made her way quietly into the room where Darien now slept. She picked up the clipboard that was lying on a nearby table and quickly scanned the notations she had made over the past few nights. Thanks to the I.V., the constant flow of medication had reduced the swelling in Darien's body to a point where Claire had felt it was safe to remove the breathing tube. The Keeper had put an oxygen mask in its place to continue assisting Darien's breathing. A light red rash now covered his body where the painful hives had once been, a sign that some counteragent still remained in his system.

Claire sighed again and put the clipboard down, she tried to tell herself she was only in here to conduct a quick exam, but the Keeper knew she was only kidding herself. She was worried about Darien and just wanted to make sure he was all right. She gently picked up his right arm; the monitor was almost completely red. Before the Keeper could implement any new measures, she had to be sure that theoriginal source of the reaction was completely gone. That meant Claire had to bring Darien to the brink of quicksilver madness before she couldgive him the new formula. The Keeper gazed down at Darien's sleeping form, even in unconsciousness his face was locked in a grimace of pain. A testament to the war that was still raging within him. Claire had spent endless hours running test after test on theory after theory before she had finally come up with what she believed was the answer. Unfortunately, the Keeper knew she could not be 100-percent sure of the results until she gave Darien the shot.

There was a small noise from the outer room and when Claire glanced over she saw Bobby Hobbes walking in with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. The agent nodded in her direction and threw an off-handed, "Hey" as he rested the papers on the edge of the desk..

"Agent Hobbes," she said in quiet surprise, "it's nearly four in the morning, what on earth are you doing here?"

Hobbes shifted his hands into the pockets of the jacket he waswearing as he strolled into the room. He gave a shrug as he replied, "Was up late working on the case and figured I'd stop by"

The Keeper smiled, she wasn't the only one who was worried about Fawkes but wouldn't come right out and say it. Even the Official had called earlier in the night to "check on her progress" he had said. Claire studied the smaller agent; his eyes were red-rimmed and surrounded by dark circles. It appeared that she wasn't the only one not getting much sleep.

"Mr. Hobbes, are you all right?" the Keeper asked.

The smaller man blinked as if startled out of a reverie and tore his gaze away from the unconscious form of his partner. "Huh? What?"

Claire walked to the foot of the bed where Hobbes was standing, her expert eyes studying him. He seemed distant, distracted, as if his mind were a million miles away. The Keeper supposed the agent was simply pre-occupied by the current case, but when her blue eyes met his brown ones she saw such profound sadness that it startled her. "You seem … distracted," she continued, folding her arms in frontof her. "Anything you care to talk about?"

Hobbes stared at the woman before him; he and the Keeper had never really had much use for each other. She mostly ignored him, and he regarded her with suspicion. Now, here she was playing the friendship card as if they'd known each other for years. Hobbes shook his head and ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Just reached a block in the case and needed to clear my head," he replied, taking a step back.

On the bed, Darien groaned and stirred.

Hobbes went over to stand by his partner's side, partly grateful for the distraction. "How's Fawkes?"

Claire gazed at the smaller agent a moment longer before taking up a position on the opposite side of the bed. "Darien's in guarded condition," she replied, resting her hands on the sheets. "I have to wait for the counteragent to be completely out of his system before I can take any further steps," she paused to shake her head. "It's going to be tricky."

Darien groaned and stirred again.

Claire adjusted the I.V. line slightly as she shook her head, "This entire situation has been very frustrating because I've been slowly increasing the amount of medication, but it seems that his body's reaction to the counteragent remains the same."

Hobbes nodded as if he comprehended what the Keeper was talking about. He was about to pose a question when her statement struck a cord in his mind. He reached out to grip the edge of the bed, his eyes wide. "What did you just say?"

The Keeper looked at him in confusion, "What?"

"Just now, about the medication," Hobbes continued, his voiceexcited, "what did you say?"

Claire frowned as she answered, "That I've been slowly increasing it, but Darien's reaction --- "

"Is the same," the agent finished, turning he ran into the outer room and began rifling through the stack of papers.

"Hobbes?" Claire called, going to stand by the doorway, "Hobbes, what --- ?"

The agent held up a piece of paper with a victorious shout, "Here it is!" he exclaimed, "I got you, you slimy rat bastard! I got you!"

"Hobbes?" Claire tried again.

The agent turned and regarded the Keeper as if he were seeing her for the first time. "What you just said made me think about something I read in these files. It didn't really click until now. The shipments of drugs coming in has increased since this Mitchell guy wasappointed to the D.E.A."

Claire gave him a "Yeah? And?" look and Hobbes held up a hand. "The only problem is, the amount of drugs being intercepted has remained the same!" At the Keeper's frown the agent gave the paper he was holding a whack. "Don't you see?" Hobbes practically shouted, "Mitchell's the rat!"