Episode Seven

by pipsqueak and Suz

Inspired by an idea by SuzyH

Teaser

Darien took a long pull from his beer bottle and slumped a little deeper into the vinyl-upholstered booth he shared with his partner, Bobby Hobbes. "Is it just me, or has it been like the longest week in history?" he asked as he set his drink on the battered wooden table.

Robert A. Hobbes eyed his own bottle as he swirled the last few foamy inches around the bottom. "What did you expect, huh, Fawkes? Every nut case in the county was just waitin' for 9/11 to make some kinda statement. I dunno why you're surprised," he sighed, as tired as his partner.

"I'm not surprised, but jeeze. It's over a month since the anniversary of September 11^th. Why'd they all pick this week to come outta the woodwork?" Darien scratched at the cascade-emblazoned label with his thumb until the only thing left legible of the Sierra Falls brand name was the two capital letters. He sighed deeply, set his bottle down, and rose. "Gotta use the facilities," he informed his partner when Bobby glanced up at his towering partner curiously.

"What, you want me to come hold your hand or something?" Hobbes asked a little sarcastically. "I told you not to drink that piss water," he admonished, brandishing his Corona as a visual rebuke. Darien scowled and strode away.

Fawkes' weary complaint had struck a nerve with Hobbes, though he refused to let it show, focusing disinterestedly on the distant TV over the bar as his partner disappeared, without the help of his biosynthetically engineered gland for once. The six o'clock news was droning away in near silence from this distance, but the subtitles below the various speakers were certainly readable. Not that he cared, especially. At least not until the FBI's newest anti-terrorist unit's spokesman appeared, apparently with a similar complaint to Fawkes'. Bobby straightened in his seat, straining to hear the newscaster's spiel over the muted din of the 5:00 p.m. bar crowd.

Darien stepped out of the men's room and returned to the booth where Hobbes was sitting, elbows on the table, intent on the TV a good 30 feet away behind the bar counter. Sliding into his place, Darien looked back over his shoulder to try and see what it was that had captured his partner's attention. The set was inaudible from this distance, but it was large enough that he could read the captions under each speaker. It was more bad news about the government's seeming inability to effectively recognize and act on information that could have prevented the 9/11 tragedies. The local news stations were going to town with this particular story, though, based as it was in San Diego.

"Jeeze, Fawkes," Bobby didn't even blink an eye at Darien's return, which all in all didn't surprise his partner. It was almost as if Hobbes had an internal radar and no matter how intently he might seem focused on one thing, he was always able to anticipate the movements of those around him. "Can you believe it?" Bobby continued to grouse, waving a hand towards the TV. "Right in our own backyard, of all places. One of them damn terrorists was living right here in San Diego and his roommate was an FBI informant...."

"You mean they knew?" Darien was clearly shocked by the news. Living most of his life on the wrong side of the law, he had never thought of himself as a patriot, but like most Americans, he had been shocked and outraged by the destruction and death inflicted on the nation a little over a year ago. The fact that he and Hobbes had visited Ground Zero not more than a month previously only served to freshen the wound for a man who was still coming to terms with his own evolving role in protecting the public.

"They had the intel, but it got lost in channels," Bobby shook his head in disgust. "Nobody had the brains to fast track it. I swear, Fawkes, I don't know who they got working there any more. Bunch o'monkeys, it seems like. Nobody's willing to stand up and make the brass listen to what's really important anymore. Everybody's doing the Jonesy act: 'yes, sir,' 'no, sir'. More concerned about their career than the safety of this nation." He took a long swig of the pale amber brew, then banged his bottle on the table. "I tell you, back in the day, I woulda been all over that information. But then I've got the background from the military where we learned to identify the right info quick or get blown up. Not like them college boys they got over there these days, don't know their ass from their elbows. Scares me to think the kinda suits they're gonna be staffing that new CTD with...."

"You really want in on that, don't you?" Fawkes asked at last, reaching across the table to touch Bobby's forearm lightly, jerking his own head slightly in the direction of the TV. Once before, Hobbes had voiced his frustration at being relegated to the position of onlooker for the FBI's new Counter Terrorist Intelligence Division, formed in response to the events of a year before. At the time, he had put Hobbes' desire down to the immediacy of their visit to Ground Zero. Now he suspected there was a stronger impetus behind Hobbes' yearning than just the impact of seeing the devastation wrought by a handful of madmen.

Hobbes shrugged noncommittally as he focused on his partner once again. "About as bad as you want that gland outta your head," he answered, with a light knock of his knuckles to Darien's forehead. "And it doesn't look like either of us will be getting what we want anytime soon."

"Well, at least you can apply, Hobbes," Darien suggested dryly. "I just gotta sit around and wait, and hope Claire figures it out."

Hobbes snorted derisively. "Yeah, but at least you know Claire's working on it, not tossin' her research into the toilet, which is exactly where the Feds would put my application. Nah, looks like we're both gonna be stranded at The Agency for the foreseeable future there, Gilligan." Bobby rapped his bottle against Darien's, the resulting clink sounding strangely mournful amidst the raucous sounds of happy hour still in full swing.

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::Cue Theme Music::

There once was a tale about a man who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.

::Music Fade Out::

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Act One

The door to the Official's office opened and disgorged a steady stream of the room's former occupants. Claire was the first to emerge, happily humming a light British air, then came Alex, her lovely face as stony and enigmatic as the famous bust of Nefertiti. The two women were followed by Eberts, whose normally bland expression was lit by a cherubic smile. Darien, dragging his feet like a sulky five-year-old, and Hobbes, frowning as though he'd just caught his teenage daughter kissing on the first date, brought up the rear in stark contrast to the rest.

"Come, Robert, the file room awaits," Eberts announced, turning down the hall with a wave of his hand.

"Dream on, Eberts," Hobbes snarled back. "Bobby Hobbes has better things to do than push papers for this penny-ante outfit."

"Oh what? All of a sudden you're too good to work here like the rest of us?" Darien whinged at his diminutive partner half-heartedly. "I mean, seriously, if I've gotta go play pin cushion for Claire, the least you can do is spend some quality time with Eberts like the 'Fish ordered you to. Frankly I think you got the better end of the deal." Darien bent his rangy frame down and playfully poked Bobby in the gut. "Get over it, Hobbes; it's not like you've got a sweeter gig waiting in the wings. After all, you said it yourself yesterday -- the CTD ain't suddenly gonna come knocking on your door now, is it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hobbes snarled, his eyes going cold and his hands automatically clenching into fists as he instinctively pushed back at Darien's personal space.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on there, tiger. It was just a rhetorical question. I didn't mean anything by it." Darien held up his hands in surrender and backed up slowly. "Man, what is eating you? You gotta calm down, take some yoga or something...."

"Calm? Calm? I am calm -- cool as a cucumber as a matter of fact." Bobby shook his hands as he unclenched his fists. "And yoga's got nothin' to do with it, though I tell you Ashtanga gives you one helluva stretch. I mean, I was sweating my butt off.... "

Monroe let out a soft snort. "You? Yoga? Somehow I'm not seeing it."

Claire shot Alex a lethal glare. "Well, I can. One just has to take a good look at his physique to know that he's concentrated on building both muscle and flexibility, haven't you, Bobby?"

A red flush crept up Hobbes' neck and ears until it encircled the crown of skin visible above his hairline. "Ah, yes, actually. Nice of you to notice, Claire." He absently stuck a finger in his ear and scratched while shuffling his feet. "My shrink at the FBI thought yoga would help me with my anger management."

Now that the danger of bodily harm was past, Darien stepped close to Hobbes again and asked softly, "So uh, are you ever going to tell us why you left?"

"Oh, please, I got the shaft. It was totally bogus -- I mean, if they're gonna restrict you in your choice of spiritual centers, they really ought to tell you that in the beginning, not ban you after the fact, in my opinion..."

"Wait a minute -- you're saying the FBI let you go because you were taking yoga?" Monroe's jaw was about three inches from the floor.

"What? No, no," Hobbes shook his head. "That's why I couldn't go back to Ashtanga classes. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was good, real good. At the top of my game with getting them asanas down pat. But when it came to the meditation, apparently my teacher didn't think my choice of location was appropriate for uniting my soul with the divine."

It was Darien's turn to shake his head. "You got expelled from yoga class because they didn't like your 'happy place'?"

Bobby rubbed his head. "Yeah, well, like I said, they really should have told us in the first place...." Eberts unintentionally snickered, and Hobbes froze. When the rest of the group picked up the bemused chuckling, he turned on his heel and began stalking down the hall. "Fine. I'll see you all later."

Darien jogged after his partner. "Hey, Hobbesy, wait up, don't be like that." He grabbed Hobbes shoulder and turned the shorter man to him. "You can't just leave us hanging. You at least gotta clue us in on where this magical place is. I mean, it didn't involve unicorns, did it?" Darien gave a lopsided grin.

Hobbes shrugged off Darien's hand at the group's renewed giggling. "Fine, you wanna know? It was the shooting range, alright? Which is exactly where you can find me when you're through playing footsy with your pals over there." Hobbes frustration was apparent in the hard click of his heels against the floor as he turned away and strode purposefully down the hall. "I'll be damned if I'm gonna waste my time as a back-up file clerk, 'Fish or no 'Fish. We got a lull in cases? Then I'm using my down time like any real agent would and getting in some target practice. I may be a Fed washout, but I still got a few things to teach you about the spook biz there, Junior." The last part was shot through the Agency's swinging exit doors. "Come see me when you're finally ready to learn."

"Oh, well done, Darien," Claire commented dryly. "You know he's sensitive about why he left the FBI. Did you have to push him like that?"

"Me push him? Excuse me, missy, but from where I was standing it looked more like he was pushing me. And as far as what I know about Hobbes and the FBI goes, I don't know anything. That's the problem. Crap, I'm his partner, and Eberts and Monroe probably know more about his past than I do."

Eberts cleared his throat. "Ah, actually, Darien, I know very little more than you do. Robert was already a deep cover operative when I arrived at the Agency. Despite my repeated attempts to organize his files, his service records are in such disarray that I have yet to successfully glean any pertinent information on the subject of his dismissal. On the few occasions I thought to query the Official regarding his reasons for hiring such a ... volatile employee, his answer was always the same..."

"Shut up, Eberts," the others chorused.

Darien's eyes fell on Monroe. "That leaves you -- so spill it."

Alex looked at the floor and shuffled her feet. "Actually, I'm pretty much as clueless about Bobby's exit from the FBI as everyone else is."

"Oh please," Darien crossed his arms and planted himself in front of her. "You were pretty quick to spout off a whole bunch of crap about Hobbes the first time we all met, remember?"

"Ah yeah, and as you so love to point out every chance you get, most of my intel on the two of you was just that -- crap," Alex shot back, glaring first at Darien and then at Eberts. "It seems somebody set up bogus records for you and Hobbes, and the counterfeit files were good enough to fool even my sources."

Eberts hugged his file folders tighter and grinned impishly at Monroe. Darien chuckled and slapped his co-worker on the back. "Yeah, man, I really got a kick out of that armed robbery charge!" His good-natured guffaw ended in a loud snort.

Alex feigned laughter. "Of course, now that I've actually seen you handle a gun, I realize just how ridiculous the image of you as an armed bandit really is," she added acidly.

"While this is all very entertaining, people," Claire's droll tones interrupted the snipe fest, "it's not getting us any closer to figuring out what is upsetting Bobby."

"Frankly, I'd have thought he'd have told you before any of us," Alex retorted.

Roses stained Claire's porcelain cheeks. "Yes, he has on occasion confided in me," she said blandly, "strictly on a professional level, you understand." Her cheeks flared a fiercer shade red as her three co-workers all rolled their eyes. "But he has not indicated to me recently that anything in particular was upsetting him enough to explain his behavior this morning."

"What? You mean you don't know anything about Bobby's background either?" Darien turned to the blonde doctor. "You're the head doc for the Agency. You've got access to everyone's records, I thought ..."

"That's true, Darien," Claire explained, "I most certainly do have a complete physical and psychological history of Bobby, as I do for all of you." She looked around at her audience, each of whom failed to meet her eyes. "But just because I have access to Bobby's medical records doesn't mean I have access to his service history. He's been involved in some very high level, classified missions -- even some of his medical records are more blacked-out than elucidative." Claire ran a hand across her brow, continuing along to tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "Though most of the information I have seen suggests that he was terminated as the result of a significant psychological break."

Darien leaned back against a wall. Crossing his long legs, he pulled out a stick of gum, leisurely unwrapped it and began chewing pensively. "So you're telling me that Hobbes was such a kick-ass agent that the Feds trusted him with some of their most top-secret cases and then cashed him out on a Section 8 without a second thought?" He scratched his chin absently. "Wouldn't they have tried to rehabilitate such a valuable asset rather than just toss him?"

"Sure," Alex stated firmly. "Unless they felt he was unsalvageable. Then they'd have had no choice but to cut their losses."

"C'mon, Alex. You've seen Hobbes at work. Does he look like a washed-up agent to you?"

"No," Alex shook her head.

"But Darien, you don't know what mental state Bobby was in when he was dismissed," Claire pointed out.

"Please, it's Hobbes we're talking about here. Granted he may be a mass of annoying paranoias, but you can't tell me he was so bad he couldn't do his job. The only time he even came close was during that postal gig, and then he was helped along by Captain Chaos' magic Christmas potion."

"Yes, Darien, that's exactly what I'm telling you. As I pointed out to you then, that was not the first episode Bobby had ever had. He has a long history of mental troubles," Claire frowned but forged on, "and it is entirely possible that at one point he was unable to handle his case load."

Darien stared hard at his friend. Claire was smart, smarter than anyone he'd ever known besides Kevin. But nobody knew Bobby better than he did. And if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that to Bobby Hobbes being an agent was a sacred duty. Darien couldn't imagine that Hobbes would ever have allowed personal issues to get so out of hand, but then he hadn't known Bobby back then. Darien shook his head and blew softly out of his nose. "Fine, Claire. But if what you say is true, then there's another question that needs answering."

"What's that?" came a small voice from the back of the hall. Darien, Claire and Alex turned as one to stare at Eberts who'd been so quiet he'd been practically forgotten by his co-workers.

"What kind of case would it take to really crack Bobby Hobbes?"

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There's an old saying: "I'm from Missouri, show me." Which I guess is a reference to how hard it is to get people from Missouri to take anything at face value. Which really isn't true, 'cuz I've conned a few people from that fair state and trust me, they're pretty much rubes. Anyway, my point is, after being Officialed on more than one occasion, I've learned to take that saying to heart. Sure, Eberts, Monroe, and Claire had no reason to lie to me about not knowing anything about Bobby's past, but I still wanted to see for myself.

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Silence reigned in the halls of the Agency -- not the understaffed hush of its daylight hours, but the peaceful solitude of deep night. Into the silence a soft humming intruded, faint at first, but getting progressively louder as it approached the file room keypad.

"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen," the disembodied voice sang falsetto. Invisible fingers pressed the correct combination on the keypad and the door slid open.

Stepping inside the room, Darien let the Quicksilver slide from his form. Placing a Maglite in his mouth, he began searching for the section of shelves that held the life and times of Bobby Hobbes. Locating the first file box, he pulled off the top and dove in.

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Three hours later, Darien lay sprawled on his back on the floor, scanning yet another performance appraisal. All about him, multi-colored papers from case reports, psych evaluations, and competency hearings were strewn about, most with whole sections blocked out in thick black marker. Here and there, pictures dotted the mix: a smiling Hobbes playing golf with Yassir Arafat in what looked to be the world's biggest sand trap; Hobbes dirty dancing with a truly stunning redhead in a Soviet uniform; a 20-something Hobbes -- with significantly more hair, Darien noted -- in fatigues surrounded by a squad of even younger Marines outside the American Embassy in Beirut. But for all his time spent immersing himself in the remnants of Hobbes' past, Darien was no closer to finding out what had actually been the final straw that had broken Hobbes' back at the FBI.

Darien took the Maglite from his mouth and sighed as he put down the wad of files he'd been holding. He sat up and looked around at the mess he'd made of Hobbes' records -- it was going to take him at least another three hours to put everything back in the meticulous order in which Eberts kept it. Despite the little neat freak's assertions to the contrary, he'd actually taken the time to go through Hobbes' files and color-code them. Darien shook his head as he surveyed page after page that had been marked with highlighter in the upper left-hand corner. Getting to his knees, he began sorting the debris. "OK, time for Plan B."

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Darien hustled down the hall like a high school student worried about receiving his penultimate tardy slip. When he reached the polished wood door marked " 341," he stopped. Adjusting his frayed blue gas station attendant's jacket and bright red cowboy shirt, along with his face, to reflect the punk persona he was infamous for, he knocked once, then swung open the door.

"Hey, Alex, good morning," he sauntered into the office as if he belonged there.

"Fawkes, what the hell are you doing here?" came Alex's caustic greeting as she swung her Manolo Blanick-clad feet from the top of her sleek, Euro-style desk to the floor in one smooth arc. She put her cream-colored Limoges coffee cup down on her pristine, leather-trimmed desk blotter and frowned at him. "You're supposed to be in the lab with Claire...."

"Oh yeah, that," Darien cocked his head as if he was suddenly recalling a lost appointment. "I'll, ah, go do that a little later, when I'm finished here...."

"Oh, you are finished here," Alex told him. He opened his mouth to protest and she held up a hand. "No, no, whatever it is, I so do not want to know about it. I want absolutely no part in your latest scheme to avoid whatever tests Claire wants to run on you this week. I mean, I understand you not wanting to play lab rat, really I do, but you know what? You've got a $17 million gland in your head that makes you a lab rat. So just suck it up for once and take it like a man." She walked around her desk, the creases falling magically out of her pearl silk Marc Jacobs pantsuit, and made shooing motions at him.

"This is not about Claire or her tests," Darien answered vehemently. "It's about Hobbes. And lay off the lab rat bit, a'ight?"

Alex stopped shooing and looked up into earnest, dark eyes. "What about Hobbes?"

Darien pursed his lips and looked down at the tiny agent. She could be so fierce sometimes, it was like trying to wrestle a hurricane. But he'd also seen her fragile side -- it had taken too damn long for her to let her guard down and trust him, and it had almost driven her over the edge to her own mental breakdown. Now it was time for some payback, and the question he had to answer in his own mind was did he really trust her? But with Hobbes' future hanging in the balance the only answer he could come up with was that he really didn't have any choice but to. If he was going to get anywhere he needed Alex and her contacts. "Look, Alex," he said at last, "I need your help."

Alex favored him with a somber stare before asking quietly, "What do you need?"

"I need a copy of Bobby's complete file from the FBI ...."

Alex let out a surprised breath. "For the love of God, Fawkes, I thought you were serious."

"I am serious. I need to know what happened, why the Feds hung Bobby out to dry ...."

"No, no," Alex shook her head and flopped back down in her chair, "you don't need to know, you want to know. This isn't about Bobby at all. This about you being bored and wanting to satisfy your morbid curiosity."

"Dammit, Alex, no, it's not," Darien exploded with a fist to her desk for emphasis, almost knocking her coffee over with the force of the blow. Alex's eyes were cold slits as she glared at him. He shook his hand and counted to 10 before he continued. "I'm sorry. But this is not about me, it's about Hobbes. You, me, we're both here because we choose to be. You've got your reasons, I've got mine. But Bobby, he's got no choice. Because they didn't give him one. And I need to know why."

"Well, then stop bugging me and go chivvy Eberts," she replied coolly, transferring her coffee mug to the safety of her countertop. "I'm sure the whole sordid story is in Hobbes' Agency files."

"No, it's not. I, uh, checked." Darien sauntered over to her coffee table and began an intent study of her knickknacks.

Alex's eyes widened. "You asked Eberts to see Hobbes' files while Hobbes is stuck down there helping Eberts out in the file room?"

"Not exactly," Darien ducked his head slightly.

"What do you mean 'not exactly?'" Alex asked. "This isn't a car rental commercial."

Darien transferred his attention from the knickknacks to Alex's juicer on the counter near where she was standing. "I, uh, kinda took the scenic tour of Hobbes' personnel files myself ... last night ... after hours ..."

"Honestly, Fawkes, you are a piece of work, you know that? I cannot believe you would break into the Agency files and then come to me to help you get into more trouble. I seem to recall telling you that I specifically did not want to risk pissing off the Official and jeopardizing my chances to get James back ...."

He swung his eyes to look directly into hers. "And I seem to recall you asking for me and Hobbes to help you out of a jam at the Treasury." He narrowed his eyes slightly at her. "What goes around comes around."

"Not this time," Alex crossed her arms and set her chin. "Not for this."

"So you're refusing to help me?" He quirked one eyebrow while his lips resolved themselves into a firm line.

"No, I can't help you." Alex's ice blue eyes were impregnable.

Darien leaned on the counter, brought his face just inches from hers. "C'mon, I find it hard to believe that Alex Monroe's infamous Rolodex has finally come up dry -- particularly when you haven't even bothered to check it yet."

Alex stood firm, resolute. "What I'm telling you is that I'm not willing to call in that many favors just because you have some burning desire to go digging up the skeletons in Hobbes' past," Alex spoke slowly, precisely, as if she were explaining how clouds moved to a three-year old. "I'm sorry, but you're just gonna have to go with Plan B."

Darien closed his eyes and turned away from the counter. "You were Plan B," he mumbled, then added more loudly, "fine, I'll get his file on my own then."

"Good. Doing your own legwork for once like a real agent will be a good learning experience," she shot back as she came around the counter to escort him to the door. But as the tart comment hung in the air, her face softened and she reached a hand up to his shoulder. "Look, come back when you've got something solid. Show me that this really is about helping Hobbes and not just satisfying your own damn curiosity, and I will help you, OK?"

"Fine. But I still need you to help cover for me. You owe me that at least." He turned soft, yearning eyes in her direction.

Alex growled low in her throat. "Oh alright, alright already -- enough with the puppy dog eyes. I'll get the Official to assign you to me for a few days," she suddenly grinned like a cat who'd just eaten a canary. "Maybe I'll tell him that you need more CTS tutoring or some such."

"Oh gee, thanks, Alex," Darien griped on his way to the door, "so good to know that when the chips are down I can count on your help in my complete and total humiliation. Now do you think you can at least give me a clue where to look?" He stood, hand on the knob, waiting.

"Best guess? FBI Headquarters in Washington D.C., where all the master agent files are kept. If you're lucky, you just might be able to get your hands on a copy at the field office here, though, since that's where Hobbes served out of. But remember, Agent Phelps, if anything goes wrong, I'm going to disavow all knowledge of you and your actions."

"Mission: Impossible, huh?" Darien mused, shutting the door quickly behind him as he added, "you always struck me as more of an Avengers type ...."

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Another night, another B&E, Darien thought to himself as he approached the FBI building. He grinned as he switched shoulders on his backpack. God, it was almost like being back in the life -- except these days he had an extremely handy new tool for getting past security. Of course, now that he could Quicksilver with impunity, an awful lot of the fun had gone out of using it, a fact that had been driven home when he'd fulfilled his dream of invisibly robbing a bank and then found that he didn't really want the money. In that moment, he'd realized that for him being a thief had been about the challenge, not greed as he'd always supposed. It was the puzzle of how to get in and get out without getting caught that had fascinated him, not whatever bit of monetary gain he could recoup by fencing his ill-gotten goods. Once he'd realized that the Quicksilver had taken that challenge away, being a thief simply didn't have the same allure it once did. Just another way in which Kevin and the damn gland had screwed him over, he thought ruefully.

Not that breaking into the FBI presented a major challenge anyway. After all, he'd broken in twice before and raided their BFM files with Hobbes' assistance -- once to help Claire overcome the effects of a nocturnal brainwashing, the other time more recently when he'd been challenged by Hobbes to solve one of the little tiger's old cases. That had led him to more than a few discoveries of how hard it had been for Hobbes to maintain his professional reputation at the Bureau after being forced by his superiors to participate in a political cover-up of a crime Hobbes had actually solved. The betrayal and subsequent mud-slinging campaign by his former partner, Jones, had only made Hobbes' position even more tenuous. In a way, it had also set Darien on the path here tonight. The knowledge of how much of his own moral code Hobbes had been forced to swallow in the line of duty only served to increase Darien's resolve to give his partner the second chance Hobbes deserved.

Darien invisibly sauntered down halls he had once trod as a bona fide FBI agent. It had not been the happiest time in his life despite finally being freed of the Quicksilver madness. For all his problems with the Agency, at least he was taken seriously by the people there. In their own way, they all trusted him and appreciated his unique insights into the minds of the criminals they hunted -- even Monroe had finally come around. But first and foremost it had been Hobbes who had realized that Darien could be more than just the punk thief everyone had him pegged as. It had been Hobbes who had mentored Darien so skillfully that the proselyte hadn't even realized he'd been learning how to be an effective agent from the moment they'd first met.

But there had been no Hobbes at the FBI when Darien was there -- nor had there been any trust. For Brookes and his gang, Darien had simply been the latest in a long line of high-tech tools to be used when and how they wanted. It hadn't taken him long to figure out that he didn't belong with them and just a little longer to swallow his pride and return to Hobbes and the Agency.

And so now he got a perverse thrill out of rifling through the Feds' classified files. He'd headed straight for the Personnel department once he'd broken into the building and was now in the process of trying to locate Hobbes' files. Unfortunately, he couldn't make hide nor hair of the filing system, and he didn't have Hobbes in his ear this time guiding him through remotely. By the fifth filing cabinet, he was stymied. At this rate, it was going to take him the better part of a week to locate Hobbes' records.

Inspiration struck when he spotted a sleek black Dell sitting on the desk in the nearest cubicle. Seating himself in the desk chair, Darien de-Quicksilvered so he could see his hand when he moved the trackball. The computer booted and when the log-in screen appeared, he thought for a moment, shrugged, typed 'dgfawkes' as his ID and 'goldenboy' as his password and then hit enter. When the FBI's intranet portal screen appeared, he knew he was in. Apparently the FBI's IT department was a bit more lax about deleting unused log-ins than the Agency's resident computer whiz was. Now he just needed to put some of that hacker training he'd received from Eberts to work.

Pushing the envelope of his computer knowledge, Darien surfed the FBI's network, taking a detour or two through the candidate referral and job opening sections before finally surprising himself and uncovering a fairly obvious back-door into the HR records by pretending he wanted to adjust a 401(k) allocation. Just as he pulled up Hobbes' payroll records, the lights flipped on in the office. Darien swung his chair around and looked up to face three guards approaching from different corridors, each aiming a .45 right at his head.

"Ah crap," he sighed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darien slouched in the cushy leather conference room chair. He still wore his thief's black outfit, rumpled from the night's activities, but he'd removed his stocking cap and his hair stuck out at wild angles. That, along with his morning's dose of chin stubble, made him resemble his mug shot far more closely than his Agency ID, which lay open on the glossy rosewood table. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands as the man seated opposite him resumed the interrogation.

"Alright, Agent Fawkes," Matt Brookes said, tapping a sleek gold fountain pen against a legal-sized yellow pad, "let's go through this one more time: you were hacking into the FBI's classified personnel files because ...?"

"Because I needed to see Hobbes' personnel file," Darien monotoned.

The Director of the FBI's San Diego office tapped his pen a few more times, then shifted in his chair and let out an exasperated sigh. "And you needed to see that because ...?"

"Look, Brookes, let's cut straight to the chase," Darien sat up and leaned towards his former supervisor. "I'm not happy at the Agency, particularly with the way they're treating my partner. So I came in here to do a little snooping around to see what I could use as a bargaining chip."

The older agent raised his eyebrows. "A bargaining chip?"

"Yeah, you know, some leverage for cutting a package deal to return."

"Return?" Brookes ceased his pen tapping.

"Here, to the FBI," Darien stabbed the conference table with one long finger. "Me and Bobby."

"Seems to me I've heard you sing that tune before." Once again Brookes' pen began its staccato rhythm against his legal pad. "What makes you think we'd be interested in having you back?"

Darien reached a lanky arm over the width of the table, picked up Brookes' coffee, and took a long swig. "You don't give a damn why I wanted to see that file. If you did, I'd be chillin' in protective custody on my way to Quantico. Instead, I'm sitting here having a coffee klatch with you. Hell, you haven't even called the Official. So I'm guessing you're looking to make some kind of deal."

"That's very perceptive of you, Agent Fawkes. It would appear you've had some training since your last tenure here." Brookes nodded in approval at Darien's assessment of the situation. "The fact is we're more than willing to renegotiate your deal with the FBI at anytime, but I'm afraid that as far as Agent Hobbes is concerned, that is most definitely off the table. I've taken the time to become more familiar with his record since he turned down our last invitation to join us as your partner, and I can confidently say no more offers will be forthcoming."

Darien took another swig of coffee. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I'm afraid that information is classified." Brookes smiled like a naughty toddler who'd just uttered his first dirty word.

"Well, guess what -- so am I," Darien gulped the last of the coffee and then replaced the now empty cup by Brookes' side. "And I'm not coming back without Hobbes. I told you it was a package deal."

"You might feel differently if you spent some time talking with Agent Jones. He used to be Hobbes' partner, you know, and I'm sure he could clear up some misconceptions you might have ...."

"Jones is a twit," Darien locked gazes with Brookes. "I wouldn't trust him with my laundry. I'd trust Hobbes with my life."

"Given his history, that might not be a wise decision." Brookes slid his pen into the inside breast pocket of his standard-issue blue suit jacket.

"Why don't you give me access to his files and let me decide for myself?"

Brookes clasped his hands over his yellow pad. "If I do, you'll renegotiate for a solo deal?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Darien stood, shrugging his shoulders. "But if I can prove Hobbes isn't the screw-up everyone here thinks he is, it's a package deal. You'll take him back -- maybe even offer him a gig at the CTD?"

"I'm not sure I'm willing to guarantee that -- it's a prime assignment ...."

"Hey, what are you worried about? If Hobbes is damaged goods like everyone keeps telling me he is, you'll never have to follow through on that end of the deal, right? And you'll have your very own one-trick-pony back at your beck and call." Darien Quicksilvered himself, leaving just his outstretched hand.

For a second Brookes looked askance at the ghostly hand floating before him, then he grimaced, gingerly took the hand in his own and shook.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

I love to read, always have, ever since I was a kid. It was one of the few traits I shared with my brother. But while Kev always had his nose stuck in some science-y sorta text, I gravitated toward the adventure tales, like Treasure Island or The Legend of Robin Hood. As I got older, my tastes and my lifestyle changed, but books still played a big part. Hell, Umberto Ecco's The Name of the Rose was really all that stood between me and totally losing it my second time in the joint. Another great suspense novel, The Bone Collector, was what got me through the first time. I must have read the thing 15 times before my parole. That book ... man, that book could scare the living crap out of you. So what does all that have to with Hobbes' file? Well, let's just say ole' Hobbesy could have sued Jeff Deaver for plagiarism.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A quick shower and a shave later, Darien was feeling decidedly more dapper in a clean pair of putty-colored jeans, a tight gold-print rayon button down, and his favorite tan leather jacket. He'd even donned his FBI-issue aviator-style sunglasses to complete his '70s super cool ensemble. Not for the first time, he pictured himself taking David Soul's place in his favorite childhood cop drama, Starsky and Hutch, and grinned.

Then he remembered the details of the mental, emotional and professional breakdown he'd seen documented in Hobbes' records and grimaced. He simply couldn't believe what he'd read -- Hutch would never have believed it of Starsky and he was not prepared to believe it of Hobbes without irrefutable proof that he'd gathered himself. And for that, he was going to need help.

"OK, Mrs. Peele, we need to ta ...." Darien came bursting halfway into Alex's office when the sight before him stole his voice.

The five-star superagent sat cross-legged at one end of her Italian leather couch, shoes forgotten on the floor, a grass-green milkshake in her hands. At the other end of the couch sat Eberts hefting what looked to be egg salad on wheat, a white cloth napkin protecting the chest of his habitual gray business suit, and his red Transformers lunchbox open on the table.

"What the ...," Darien gestured abstractly at his two co-workers. "Ah, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he finally managed to squeak out.

"Only lunch, Fawkes," Alex replied setting her shake on the coffee table. "You know, midday meal, occasionally shared with co-workers. It's a concept an eating machine such as yourself should be more than familiar with."

Regaining his posture, Darien quoted, "In the immortal words of Socrates, 'I know nothing except for my ignorance.'" He punctuated his words with a suggestive leer to heighten the wise-ass effect.

Alex unfolded her legs and slid her feet into impossibly high heels. "Coming from you, it sounds more like Sergeant Schultz. So your visit to the FBI last night was less than successful, huh?"

"Ah, not exactly," Darien did his impression of a bobblehead doll, sticking his hands in his pants pockets and bouncing to and fro on his long legs. The truth was that even after viewing Hobbes' master file, he'd walked away with more questions than answers.

Alex sighed. "Again with the 'not exactly'."

Eberts put down his sandwich and rose from his seat with righteous anger. "I take it from Miss Monroe's comments, Darien, that you've once again perpetrated an illegal ingress into the local FBI offices. Now while this is the sort of ... of ... of 'devil-may-care' stunt you are accustomed to undertaking, the fact that you have somehow managed to ensnare Miss Monroe in your nefarious scheme this time is simply ... simply ... unacceptable!"

Darien turned to face his nebbishy nemesis with hands on hips. "Relax, Dad, I didn't pop her cherry or nothin' ..."

Eberts paled, eyes widening to saucers, and he dropped back down to the sofa, jerking the napkin from around his neck.

"Fawkes...," came Alex's hissed warning.

"She's completely intact -- 100 percent law-abiding, patriotic, government-issue agent," Darien finished with a hand flourish at her, making sure to stay just out of reach. Like Hobbes, she was a black-belt in numerous martial arts, most notably kick-boxing, as he'd seen her demonstrate much to the detriment of Chrysalis foes and his own Quicksilver mad ass on more than one occasion. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

Eberts took a moment to recover and then renewed his invective. "Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty at this juncture to point out that as per the Official's express instructions, you have been assigned to Miss Monroe's recognizance, ostensibly for additional," he threw a disappointed glance in Alex's direction, "CTS tutelage. As a result, she will be held responsible for any trouble you may precipitate."

Alex cleared her throat violently, and both men turned. "Thank you, Eberts," she inclined her head slightly in her would-be champion's direction, "but I am perfectly capable of protecting myself and making my own decisions. It'll be a cold day in hell before Fawkes here can con me into anything. Besides, as long as he left everything in order, the FBI will never know. No harm, no foul, right?"

Darien put a hand to the back of his neck and began rubbing, then became seemingly fascinated by the view showcased through the windows lining one wall of the office. "Ah, yeah, about that ...."

"Oh crap," was the stereo response.

"I, ah, kinda got caught." This admission elicited two extremely divergent reactions from his co-workers.

Alex smirked and shook her head, "I should have known you couldn't pull it off by yourself."

Eberts simply gulped and frowned.

"But it's OK, I fixed it," Darien hastened to add. "I made a deal with Matt Brookes so he would keep quiet and still show me the file."

"You made a deal with...," Eberts sat back down and began hyperventilating. "Oh," deep breath, "my," deep breath, "the," deep breath, "Official," deep breath, "is going ...."

While the 'Fish's assistant was gasping for air, Monroe walked over to her juice bar and pulled a bunch of carrots from a paper bag that had been sitting there. She returned to the couch and handed the bag to Eberts, who took it gratefully and began to breathe into it slowly and methodically. Then she turned to Darien, "Alright, just exactly how big of a mess have you made?"

"S'not a mess," he groused as he dropped his spartan frame into her lounge chair. "I told you, I fixed it. Brookes wanted me to renegotiate my deal with the FBI, so I said I would...."

"Eep." Eberts, who had begun breathing normally, returned the paper bag to his face.

Darien reached over and put a hand on his friend's forearm. "It's OK, Ebes, really. It's not like I'm gonna have to go through with it." He turned to Monroe, "see, I told Brookes I wanted a package deal, me and Bobby." Eberts began breathing even harder into the bag. "He said Bobby was all washed up, but I made him agree to let me see Bobby's file for myself."

"And what did the file say?" Alex asked, brows knit together and seating herself in the chair opposite Darien.

"It said a whole bunch of crazy stuff. I'm serious, man, Bobby went through a ton of crap there, most of it really top-secret and really confusing. There were case reports, performance evaluations, citations for bravery, reprimands for not following procedures, psychological evaluations ...."

"Cut to the chase, Fawkes, what did the file say about his leaving?"

Darien swallowed and considered his words. He had to phrase this just right or he would lose the other two before he even began. The accusations against Hobbes were inflammatory, to say the least, and he just prayed that his co-workers knew enough about Hobbes from personal experience to see just how bogus those charges had to be. "He was, ah, basically forced to resign, but it was a kangaroo court. There's absolutely no possible way that Hobbes was guilty."

"Guilty. Of. What?" Alex's tone was as taut as a tightrope.

Darien frowned, rolled his head about his neck and shoulders, then closed his eyes and finally uttered the words so foreign to his conception of Hobbes: "Dereliction of duty due to mental incapacity. They say he failed to protect his partner, who as a result was severely beaten and left permanently catatonic. That instead of working the case, he was off taking care of personal business." He saw the hard look in Alex's eyes and heard the soft gasp come from Eberts. "It's not true."

"Fawkes," Alex began surprisingly gently, "it's in the FBI's master personnel file ...."

"It's not true!" Darien stated, this time louder and more forcefully.

"Files don't lie," Eberts asserted.

Darien turned a withering look on his friend. "Please, you of all people should know better than that."

"Not masters," the king of the Agency's file room amended.

"Look, I don't care what kind of file it was or what the supposed facts are. I know my partner, and so do you two. Do you think he's the kind of agent who would abandon his partner when she was in mortal danger?" His coffee-colored eyes locked on two sets of blue ones, willing them to see the truth beyond the facts.

Alex grimaced, shook her head. "I so know I am going to regret this, but where do we begin?"

"Alright, that's my girl," Darien smiled at her and rubbed his hands together. "First we need to talk one Special Agent Michael Zembach -- he was the lead investigator on the Campus Killer case. Bobby and his partner, Nell Murdy, were giving him an assist."

"Wait, the Campus Killer ... I seem to recall reading something about some maniac who made headlines with that tag a few years back," Alex said, " but that was before I moved out West."

"The Campus Killer, a.k.a one Richard Sayles," Eberts began automatically, "was a serial killer who terrorized college campuses in and around the San Diego area back in the summer of '98. His attacks were infamous for their brutality. His unique signature was that after sexually abusing his victims, he bludgeoned them to death with a series of increasingly weighty textbooks."

"Thanks for the round-up, Eberts," Darien looked askance at the seemingly mild-mannered accountant. "I didn't know you were a fan."

"I followed the story in the papers," Eberts said by way of explanation.

"I'll take Zembach," Alex stated. "I somehow think I'll have a better rapport with a top FBI profiler than you," she smirked.

"Ah, yah, you might be right about that," Darien conceded. "Hey, you wanna take Jonesy too? I mean, he was Bobby's partner right before Nell, so somebody needs to talk to him, but I'm warning you, if you make me do it, I'm just gonna wind up punching his lights out."

Alex snorted. "Now it sounds like you need to take yoga."

"Jonesy has that effect on people," Darien grumbled.

"Alright, so I've got Zembach and Jones; what are you gonna be doing?"

"I'm gonna talk to Nell's husband, Greg. Apparently he was one of the major witnesses against Hobbes. I'm also going to talk to Viv, Hobbes' ex-wife," Darien explained to Alex. "It was near the end of their marriage, but she may still be able to shed some light on what was going on in Hobbes' head at the time."

"If Hobbes' mental state was such an issue, shouldn't one of us talk to his therapist?"

Darien nodded. "Well, I'd agree if I knew who that was."

"I thought you said you saw his psych evals," Alex queried.

"Yeah, but I couldn't read the signature. You know doctors' handwriting and all," Darien played with an errant chestnut-hued curl near his ear. "But I, ah, did get this," he pulled a crumpled Kleenex covered in a series of numbers written in blue ink from his jacket pocket. "I wrote his insurance ID number down. I thought maybe we could do a search for his name." He pushed the tissue at Eberts, who gingerly grabbed the corners between thumb and forefinger and reviewed the writing at arm's length.

"I knew at some point it was going to come down to this," Eberts affirmed, dropping the tissue to the table, well away from his sandwich, "to you requesting my assistance in surreptitiously obtaining confidential information. I never should have agreed that first time you asked me to let Adam Reese 'chill' at my house," he had the good sense to look embarrassed when Alex shot him a hurt look, "oh what a tangled web we weave ...."

"Yeah, yeah," Darien rose, stretching his rangy frame out like a cat who'd been napping, oblivious to the fact that Alex was staring at the patch of flesh revealed on his lean corded abdomen as his shirt rode up with his shoulders, or that Eberts, in turn, was staring at Alex. He cracked his neck and turned to the file clerk. "I ah, also need you to play keep away with Hobbes during this whole thing. Can you bury him in the file room so he doesn't have time to worry about what we're doing?"

"I believe I can provide Robert with an adequate amount of administrative assignments to keep him occupied, yes," Eberts confirmed, then quickly added, "but you know Robert. If he decides to come looking for you, I am not sure I am willing to risk bodily harm by physically restraining him."

"Not a problem, my friend." Darien grinned evilly, "We can always get Claire to patch you up."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg Murdy was a man in pain. That much was obvious to Darien as he listened to Nell's husband launch into yet another diatribe on Hobbes' failure to protect the woman they had both cared for, the red of the man's rage apparent in the flush undertones of his dark skin.

"Why can't you all just leave Nell alone? Hasn't she given enough for you people? My wife paid her dues, you can be damn sure of that. She was a woman of color intent on doing what most folks at the time thought of as white man's work. She had to be smarter and stronger than any of the other agents just to get to the playing field. And let me tell you something, Agent Fawkes, she was just that: smarter, stronger and then some. Did you know she had a degree in forensic psychology? Now how many African-American women back in the '70s do you think had achieved that?" Greg barely noticed Darien shaking his head before running on in his conversation. "She made her superiors sit up and take notice. She worked hard and built a promising future on a solid foundation of impeccable casework. And what did she do? She threw it away on a bastard who wasn't even man enough to watch her back. She threw her life away on Robert Hobbes, and she tossed mine in along with it."

"Look, ah, Mr. Murdy, I know you blame Hobbes for your wife's, ah, condition...," Darien tried to get a word in edgewise.

"Damn straight I blame him. It may have been Richard Sayles' hands that beat my wife, but it was Hobbes' responsibility to make sure she had reliable back-up. And if he was too busy having a breakdown to provide it, then he damn sure should have excused himself from the case and let someone competent step up to the plate."

Darien rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger. "See now that's where I'm having a problem. The Hobbes I know is not the kind of man who would ever knowingly put his partner in danger."

"Let me tell you something, son, Robert Hobbes was a stark raving lunatic. Period. End of discussion," Greg squared his broad shoulders and crossed his arms firmly over a powerful chest that spoke volumes about the self-discipline of the older man. "Did you know that before Nell volunteered to be his partner, nobody else in the Bureau would agree to work with him? Even his partner before Nell said the man was a psycho, saw all kinds of bogeymen behind every stray bush."

"Ah, yeah, I had heard something to that effect ...," Darien nodded his head.

"His own wife left him because he couldn't keep his head on straight. And while he was busy stalking his wife, he let mine get beaten to a bloody pulp. All her beauty, her intelligence, her vitality ripped away and nothing left but a husk," the gray-haired man's voice caught in his throat. "Do you know what it's like to have to see her that way, always the same, no emotion, no reaction, for the past four years? And to know that that is never going to change?" The man closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the bottle-green wing chair in which he sat. "I begged her to give it up, to tell her boss to find him another partner. She refused, said there was more to Hobbes than met the eye, just like there was with her. I remember her saying just like it was yesterday: 'Greg, how can you expect me of all people to be swayed by hearsay and prejudice?'"

"Nell Murdy didn't bail on her partner," Darien murmured, deeply grateful to the woman he'd never met for having faith in his troubled partner. However much they had fought when they first met, Hobbes had been fiercely loyal to Darien throughout the ups and downs of their own partnership. Now, hearing how Nell had been just as protective of Hobbes during Bobby's own personal ordeal both comforted Darien and made him ashamed that he had once betrayed their partnership by joining the FBI on his own.

"Damn straight she didn't bail. Loyal to the bitter end, that was my Nell. She even called his psychologist because she was worried about all the medication Hobbes was taking. She knew how bad his mental condition was and still she wouldn't ask for another partner. I don't think I'll forgive her for that and I know I'll never forgive him."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex sat on an ocean-front terrace, sipping black coffee from a blue spatterware mug as the sea breeze whipped her auburn hair about her shoulders. She could lose herself in a place like this, she mused, imagining a life here where there was nothing to see but sea meeting sky on the horizon. Nothing to listen for but the hypnotic sound of the waves crashing over the bluffs below and the rich baritone of the man before her. She could feel safe in a place like this, protected by a man like Agent Michael Zembach.

"I pulled lead on the Richard Sayles case by default," he explained, absently scratching beneath the front of his denim shirt as he talked. His fingernails were neatly trimmed, Alex noted, not manicured, but scrubbed, like he worked with his hands but took care to clean them well. The glimpse of chest she caught was sprinkled lightly with salt and pepper hair that echoed the color of the mane adorning his head. Certainly not the prissy styled coif of Fawkes, but again, clean and neatly trimmed. He looked for all the world like George Clooney no doubt would when he reached the big five-oh. "By rights, Nell Murdy should have headed up the investigation -- hell of a profiler that gal was -- but her ... association with Agent Hobbes meant she took second string."

"And why was that, Agent Zembach?" Alex asked politely, trying not to wonder whether the salty tang in the air was the scent of the sea or of the man himself.

"Please, call me Mike." He smiled and once again the blazing whiteness of his teeth against the deep bronze of his skin mesmerized her like a teenager mooning over a matinee idol's poster.

"Mike," she repeated, a little too breathlessly for her own liking. She needed to get control of herself and focus on the task at hand. She was a trained agent hunting for the truth about Hobbes' involvement in a vicious attack by a serial killer, not a contestant on The Bachelor.

"I like the way you say that, Alex." If anything his smile got broader and more distracting.

Alex dropped her eyes and focused on the dwindling coffee in her cup. "Please, ah, Mike, you were going to tell me why Agent Murdy's partnership with Agent Hobbes prevented her from being lead investigator."

"Well, it's like this," he said, shifting against the yellow and blue cabana-striped cushions of his seat. "Hobbes was a real up and comer when he joined the Bureau. Real tough, tenacious little mutt and a hell of a lot smarter than he let on. He'd already done a fair amount of intel work in the military and the CIA, and he had great instincts. He wasn't afraid to work hard, and while he could be a little prickly at times, he earned the respect of his fellow agents. I mean, sure, he had his demons, but let's be honest," he tilted his head in Alex's direction, "who hasn't in our line of work, eh?"

Alex put down her empty mug and forced herself to look into eyes as clear and green as sea glass. "That may be true," she conceded, "but somehow I think Hobbes' demons are a little more ... virulent than most."

Zembach nodded sagely. "So we found out. He's still having troubles, I see."

"Oh, he has his moments," Alex quirked a lopsided smile, "but he seems to have a handle on things most of the time."

"Huh. At one time I considered him a damn fine agent, you know. He went above and beyond on numerous occasions. But he let his personal problems get in the way of the job," Mike's square jaw tightened and the corners of his lush mouth turned down to Alex's disappointment, "and in my book that's just unacceptable. His old partner, Jones, complained that Hobbes was getting sloppy. I didn't want to believe it, but who knows better than a guy's partner, right? It got so bad that Jones finally ditched him. After that, Hobbes was basically an outcast. Nell was the only one who was willing to partner with him, and she got splattered with his mud. I mean by that point, it was pretty obvious that the guy was in total self-destruct mode, coming up with all kinds of ridiculous conspiracy theories and the like. But Nell, she took it all in stride. She really believed she could help him. And what did she get for her trouble? Relegated to the minors. All she had to do was step away from Hobbes, and she could have been playing in the big leagues again." He stopped to take a swig from his own coffee, then raised his mug at her, "More?"

Alex shook her head and prodded, "But she refused?"

Zembach sighed and squinted up at the gulls wheeling against the haze of the sky. "Yeah, she refused -- and paid the ultimate price for it. And I have to tell you, it still sticks in my craw. I mean, Sayles is in San Quentin, and he's not ever going to get out. Nell, well, she's in her own sort of prison -- what kind of a life can you call it when the woman doesn't have the awareness God gave an infant? But Hobbes, he's out living his life, working the job. And he's the one really responsible for what happened to Nell. There's no question he failed in his duty to protect his partner -- hell, the man even admitted it! He testified at his hearing that he left Nell alone so he could go talk to his wife. And all he got was a slap on the wrist."

Mike's denouncement of Hobbes' actions set off a surprisingly unsettled feeling in the pit of Alex's stomach. The man was clearly a veteran agent with an intelligence and charm not unlike her father's. Her head told her that she should believe his assessment of Hobbes' actions -- after all, he'd been a first-hand witness to the events as they'd unfolded. But her gut told her that there was something wrong with the scenario he'd described. Once, when she and Hobbes had been searching yet again for the ever errant Darien, she'd told him that she trusted him, that she'd trust anyone who had as much faith in his partner as Hobbes had. That was something her father had taught her, and she thought now about the real meaning behind those words. It was impossible for her to reconcile those two notions of Hobbes. No one who had ever failed their partner as severely as Bobby was accused of doing could have that much faith in their own partner now. Her gut told her it simply wasn't possible. And that was something her father had taught her too, to listen to her gut.

"I'd hardly call being placed on psychological leave and then forced to resign a slap on the wrist," she pointed out finally.

"No, but he never had any formal charges filed against him, either. That's a hell of a lot better than he deserved for negligence on such a grand scale, if you ask me," Mike shot back.

"Well, thank you for your time and your opinion." Alex rose to leave, taking a moment to peer over the railing's edge before she departed. For the first time she got a good look at the sharp teeth of the cliffs looming such a short drop away. Perhaps on closer inspection this place wasn't as peaceful as it looked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tortoiseshell cat weaved through Darien's legs, triggering a strong sense of déjà vu as he rang the bell at the front door of the cozy white house. Until this morning, he hadn't seen the cat since it had greeted him in similar fashion a little over two years ago when he had visited the home at Hobbes' request. In fact, Bobby had been waiting nervously, parked by the curb in the van, for Darien to smooth the way. And while Darien was still here in Bobby's best interest, he shuddered to think what might happen if the little tiger ever found out just how far he'd trespassed into Hobbes' inner sanctum.

An attractive blonde came to the door, her lithe grace belying her 30-odd years. "Darien? What are you doing here?" She poked her head out the door and looked up the street and down again. "Where's Bobby?"

"Ah, hi, Viv," Darien hemmed and hawed, suddenly embarrassed at his coming intrusion into her personal life, "I, ah, need to talk to you about Hobbes ...."

"Oh my God," Viv came fully through the door, both hands clutching her protruding belly. "He's not hurt, is he? Oh, God -- he's not ...."

Darien put a hand up to her elbow to steady her. "No, no," he shook his head. "Nothing like that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh, thank God," she wiped her brow with the back of one hand, brushing the short, silky strands of hair from her forehead. "Don't ever do that to a pregnant lady. Come in." She put a hand to her spine and gestured him inside.

"Well, I'd say you haven't changed, but ah," Darien stepped through the door at her invitation, "it's fairly obvious you have. You look great." He gave her a smile wide enough to crinkle the edges of his eyes.

"Thanks for the lie," she patted her belly and beamed. "Eight months, and I feel about as big as a battleship. Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea, lemonade?"

Darien followed her into the kitchen. "Tea, thanks. And you do look great. Brock's a lucky guy." He settled onto a counter stool, comfortably twining his long legs in its spokes.

She set a tall glass of ice-enhanced tea in front of him, the lemon wedge bobbing up and down like an apple in a tub. "So what's up with Bobby that you have to come out here?" She leaned one gingham smock covered hip against the counter opposite him.

Darien focused on fishing the lemon out of his tea with his long fingers. "I, uhm, recently spoke with Greg Murdy ...."

"Greg Murdy!" Viv was clearly taken aback. "I can't imagine why Bobby would want to go poking around in that old can of worms with you."

Darien pulled his prize from the tea, stuck the citrus wedge into his mouth and sucked on it, nose wrinkling at the bracing sourness. He just looked at Viv with innocent eyes.

"Don't tell me you're doing this without him! Are you crazy? He will seriously kill you if he finds out." She put both palms to her temples and twined her fingers in her hair.

He removed the spent wedge from his mouth and placed it on top of the cheerfully geese-patterned napkin next to his glass. "Yeah, well, he might, except that I'm gonna clear him."

"Clear him? You really are as crazy as he is. There's nothing to clear him of, Darien. As much as it pains me to say this, Bobby did exactly what he's accused of having done. He was in the middle of a mental meltdown, and he failed to protect Nell because he couldn't control his paranoid obsessive impulses regarding me. And the sooner you realize that that's Bobby Hobbes and that's what he's capable of, the safer you're going to be."

"Look, I know Bobby can get kinda paranoid ...," Darien stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back on the stool, using his feet hooked in the rim to keep himself steady.

"Kinda paranoid, brother, you don't know the half of it," Viv muttered.

"No, no, I don't," Darien admitted. "But I do know Hobbes; I'm his partner. And the man I know wouldn't have done what they say."

Viv speared Darien with her eyes. "Don't you tell me about Bobby. You may be his partner, but I was his wife," she said low and sharp. "It broke my heart to leave him, but I didn't have a choice." She wrapped both arms around her belly and hugged herself. "There was a time when I wanted this with him, you know -- a home, a family. But back then, Bobby was all about the job, about protecting the public, backing up his partner. After Jack Carelli died, Bobby spent even more time at work, double checking everything, following up every lead until all hours of the night. I remember in particular the last case he worked on with Jones; he was like a man possessed. I even worried that he would never be able to devote enough of his time or attention to me and a baby. I mean, don't get me wrong, he was always concerned about my safety, but it was him checking in on me by phone at regular intervals. That stuff I could handle, and he was getting regular counseling so I thought over time it would ease up.

"Then, about seven months before the end, he got really nuts. He kept insisting we were being followed, that our phones were tapped. Bobby actually attacked the grocery boy for helping to put my bags in my car; he kept insisting the kid was planting a bomb. That's when I asked him to leave the house," she shook her head slowly, sadly. "We tried seeing a marriage counselor but he began ranting that our mediator was a mole trying to pry government secrets out of him. Once the Campus Killer struck, he was completely unreasonable, absolutely convinced the murderer was after me specifically. He gave me a stun gun. He didn't want me going anywhere without him. He even snuck in here one night and stole my car keys so I couldn't go to my job because it was on the UCSD campus. I had to call the dealership and buy a replacement set so I could go to work. I filed for divorce the next day. Bobby tried to call me, but I refused to get on the phone. He tried to come to the house and talk to me; I had the locks changed. About a week later, he finally caught me after work on campus. I swear to God, he was absolutely raving, and I was just so exasperated," Viv turned away from Darien and leaned her head against a cabinet door. "I had him detained by the campus police, told them he was stalking me. I wanted them to hold him for a few hours to get my message across. How was I supposed to know?" It was more of a sob than a question.

Darien reached over the counter, took her elbow and turned her to face him. Stray tears threatened the corners of her eyes, and he was loath to cause her any more pain, but he had to ask the question. "Know what, Viv?"

"That he had left Nell to investigate alone so he could come and see me. That the whole time he was being detained by the campus police, she was being attacked. That she would wind up spending the rest of her life as a vegetable just because I wanted to teach Bobby a lesson."

The tears spilled over, silencing her narrative. Darien was tempted to go to her, wrap his long arms around her, soothe her, but the comfort wasn't his to give. Instead, he contented himself with handing her a wad of puffy pink tissues from the Kleenex box on the counter. When she had finished, he told her solemnly, "It's not your fault, you know."

"You don't think?" she asked in a watery voice.

Darien pursed his lips, shook his head. "No, no, I don't. I don't believe it's any more your fault than I believe it's Bobby's. You two just got caught in the middle of something. I don't know what it is yet, but I promise you I'm gonna find out." He rose from the stool. "Listen, I'm, ah, gonna go. You probably want to rest or something ...."

"Yeah, yeah," she nodded and led him back to the foyer. "I think I would like to lie down for a bit." She opened the door. As he went to exit, she put a hand on his arm. "I want," her face twisted as she fought back more tears, "I want to believe what you said -- about me, about Bobby. For what it's worth, I hope somehow you can find a way to make Nell's condition not his fault."

Darien stepped through to the front path, the morning sun streaming behind him, leaving him in silhouette save for the shine of his dark curls. "You can bank on it, Viv." He dropped an impulsive peck on her cheek and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alex Monroe, huh? So, what's a nice girl like you doing at The Agency?"

Alex snorted. Agent Jones certainly did not impress on first acquaintance. She tapped her toe as he overtly gave her the once over, starting at the tips of her glossy caramel kidskin boots, wandering over her suede draped hips and lingering just a touch too long on the swell of her bust. When his eyes finally came to rest on her face, she'd finished her appraisal as surely as he'd finished his, and most definitely less favorably. She felt the acid rise to her tongue automatically, but she held her temper. After all, she'd clawed her way up the professional ladder by building relationships for the sole purpose of exploiting the information they might provide. So she reminded herself that Jones' first-hand account of his partnership with Hobbes might provide vital insights into the troubled agent's mental history.

"At the moment, I'm on a fact-finding mission regarding the Richard Sayles' case -- or more specifically Bobby Hobbes' involvement in it."

Jones automatically checked the vicinity, looking both right and left as if he were about to jaywalk. He took Alex by the elbow and steered her through the bustling Bureau hallways into an empty conference room. "Listen, honey, you do not want to get mixed up in ole Lithium Bob's past. If you're smart, you'll go straight back to that Official of yours and ask him to scare up some non-existent bioterrorists for you to chase -- or maybe a werewolf or two for Halloween."

And then again, some people just asked for an ass kicking. "Oh, I don't think so, Agent Jones." Jerking her elbow from his grasp, Alex picked up a gold fountain pen that was lying on the table and poked it in Jones' chest. "I think I'm going to ask you some questions, which you're going to answer to my satisfaction. Otherwise, I'm going to have to take this pen and insert it in orifices that weren't designed for it."

Jones straightened up in an attempt to capitalize on his height advantage. "You wouldn't dare."

Alex stepped up toe to toe with him and looked him straight in the eye. "Just try me."

Jones hovered a beat, but when Alex didn't back down, he flopped into a conference chair. "Alright, Miss Monroe, ask away. I'm always pleased to do anything I can to satisfy a lady," he said, flicking his tongue around his lips.

"Good." Alex tossed the pen back to the table but remained standing. "So why don't we start at the beginning -- you were Hobbes' partner before Nell Murdy, right?"

"Yeah, he was my 'partner,' if you can call it that. Frankly, he was never anything more than an albatross around my neck from the beginning. I mean, I had high hopes when we first teamed up. The man had a solid gold professional reputation -- medals up the whazoo from his time in the Marines, citations for bravery, top of his training class. But his personal rep? He was a royal pain-in-the-ass, never willing to let anything slide. Believe me, he'd already had more than his fair share of personality clashes when he landed in my lap. I was on the fast track," he picked up the gold pen and starting playing it, "like cream I was just rising to the top ...,"

Alex grimaced. Darien had been right; this guy was a jerk.

"... and then the brass came to me and requested -- asked me, mind you -- if I would mind working with Hobbes. Now I'm a stand-up kinda guy, never one to judge someone on the basis of rumor or innuendo. I make up my own mind based on personal experience and results, right? I get along with everyone. So I say sure, I'll ride shotgun with this guy if no one else will. Worst decision I ever made."

"Oh yeah, you're a real prize, I can tell," Alex deadpanned. "I take it it wasn't a match made in heaven then."

"More like the seventh circle of hell," Jones retorted. "I mean from Day One, Hobbes was a psycho. Always wanting to call his wife and check in on her. At first I thought he was just worrying about her cheating -- she was a pretty young thing," Jones licked his lips again, "but then he started pulling that crap on me. Always wanting to know where I was, where I was going. I don't take that from my women, why would I take it from him? And as an investigator? The guy was a walking disaster ...."

The scales in Alex's head clanged down loudly against Jones' veracity with that statement. Of all the things she'd call Hobbes -- irreverent, eccentric, unorthodox -- he was clearly a top-notch investigator. He had finely honed instincts that allowed him to take mental leaps that defied logic, but invariably proved sound. He'd done so on the very first case they'd worked together, when she'd foisted herself upon the Agency in a desperate attempt to find her son. She'd been working for weeks to make sense of a pattern of seemingly random baby snatchings across the country, to find the one critical commonality that would lead her to the perpetrators who had broken not just her own family, but thousands of others as well. Within the first five minutes of being introduced to the investigation, Hobbes had asked the one simple question that Alex had never thought to ask herself: "What do all the babies' fathers have in common?" The resulting answer had led them all down an investigative path to discover not just to the location of the missing babies, but also a barbaric plot by Chrysalis to use unsuspecting women as incubators for their genetically enhanced offspring.

She crossed her arms and fixed Jones with an icy stare. "You don't say."

"... and he could never learn to just leave well enough alone. I'm all for doing the job, don't get me wrong, but there are some times when you just have to let it go. You're an agent; you know the score. The boss man says lay off, you lay off. But not Bobby. The last straw was that damn McEvy case. I mean, sure, I thought it was a shame -- young boy like that, bright political future, senator's aide and all, just winds up dead. And I wanted to work the case, just like he did, but I know how to take an order. The brass said drop it, so I dropped it. But not ole Lithium Bob. No, he's too good for that, absolutely convinced he's some sort of avenging angel for the kid and his mother. So rather than listen to reason, he starts rooting around on his own, sticking his nose where it don't belong. Goes off half-cocked and starts spouting this whole conspiracy theory -- it was classic, really. He even went to our chief and accused me of trying to screw the pooch. And who winds up with his ass in a sling over the whole fiasco? Me, that's who. Is it any wonder I refused to work with him anymore?"

"Poor Jonesy," Alex cooed in mock sympathy. "I'm sure it was just a terrible trial for you."

"Go ahead, make wisecracks, don't believe me. Nell Murdy didn't believe me either and look where it got her. Beaten and left a permanent vegetable. And don't think the same thing isn't going to happen to you the next time Hobbes decides to take a vacation from reality, you and that tall kid...the one with the hair... what's his name?" Jones stopped for a moment as if to try and remember the name.

"Fawkes," Alex ground out, fully aware that Jones knew exactly what Darien's name was.

"Oh yeah, Fawkes -- the invisible guy. Take it from me, Bobby Hobbes is nothing but a short, bald, annoying, paranoid nutcase who is just gonna get the people around him killed. Just like I had the pleasure of telling the disciplinary review board back in D.C. right before they drummed him out of the Bureau." Jones sat back with a satisfied sneer.

Alex had heard enough. Like the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, his last harangue broke any modicum of restraint she had been pained to show throughout her interview with the self-serving hypocrite. "Let me tell you something, Agent Jones. Bobby Hobbes may be a short, bald, annoying, paranoid nutcase, but he's twice the agent and 100 times the man a prick like you will ever be."

Alex stormed out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her. Hustling through the Bureau's halls, she kept her head down to hide her scarlet cheeks. Truth be told, she had thought it was impossible for anything to make her blush any more, but she was just as shocked by her sudden outburst in defense of Hobbes as Jones had been. She knew she'd formed a grudging respect for the outcast agent, but she hadn't suspected he'd gotten far enough under her skin to trigger her defensive, maternal instincts. She'd tried so long and so hard to hold herself aloof from the people around her, knowing that in her line of business friends were a luxury she couldn't afford. And now she suddenly found herself in possession of not one, but four friends. People she could talk to, workout with, share lunch with, count on. She hadn't asked for their friendship, hell, she'd done everything she could think of to prevent it. But now that she had it, she was determined to hold up her end of the bargain starting with one bi-polar James Bond of whom she'd grown entirely too fond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I can't believe you don't take notes, Fawkes. How the hell do you expect to remember case details if you don't take notes?"

"I remember details just fine. Don't need to take no notes. I used to be a cat burglar, remember? Notes ain't much good when you're hanging from the side of a building," Darien held out his arms mimicking his climbing stance, "you need both hands for suction climbers, see?"

Alex and Darien were sitting side by side on the couch in her office, her interview notes spread out before them on the coffee table. "Great, just brilliant really," Alex sighed and picked up a piece of paper. "Now look, this is the timeline I've reconstructed based on a cross-reference of all the interviews we've done so far ...."

Darien leaned over so he could view the same sheet as Alex, their heads practically touching as they both studied the paper before them. "The weird thing is that they had all this intel and more," he reflected, "so why didn't the Bureau ever file formal charges? Why take the time to go through the whole mental leave thing if they could have just proven him guilty and been done with it? What did it buy them?"

"Well, well, well, don't you two look cozy," Hobbes stood smirking before them. "Whatcha workin' on?" He reached to pick up a paper from the coffee table, but Darien and Alex quickly piled them all up and covered them with a manila file.

"It's, ah, nothing, Hobbes," Alex blurted out. "I just ah, asked Darien to take a look at some details of an old case of mine that I thought he could offer some insight on."

"Really, setting up shop in the spook consulting biz already, huh?" Bobby turned to his partner. "Don't you think that's a little premature? Maybe you ought to spend a little more time studying for the agent practical exam first. Or at least return your teacher's phone calls."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that buddy," Darien came around quickly to Bobby's side, hoping to distract him with a mock punch in the shoulder. "Hey, how goes life in the file room? Eberts driving you crazy yet?"

"Me, crazy? Noooo," Hobbes' tone was suddenly suspicious, and he darted a hand towards the pile of paper, "in fact, I gotta few spare minutes to lend a hand with your investigation...."

"No!" Darien and Alex exclaimed, both lunging to intercept the pile before Hobbes could reach it. They wound up on either side of the couch with the papers spilled to the floor beneath them. With a relieved sigh, Alex began gathering them up again.

Darien returned to Hobbes' side and threw his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "Listen, Hobbes, it's not that we wouldn't love your help, but really, it's nothing you need to concern yourself with. Just enjoy your downtime filing and don't even worry about this stuff."

Hobbes' head started nodding as he rocked back and forth from heel to toe. "Oh, I see this is the way it's gonna be once you pass the agent exam, huh, Golden Boy? You and Monroe get the glory, while I do the dirty work? Well let me tell you something my friend, Bobby Hobbes takes a back seat to no one, especially not a snot-nosed punk who suddenly thinks he's God's gift to spook-dom. I was paying my dues protecting this country while your skinny juvenile delinquent ass was rotting in prison." Bobby punctuated each word of his description with a poke to Darien's chest.

Alex moved to get in between the two men and calm Bobby down. "Hobbes, it's alright, I asked the Official to loan me Darien for a little extra curricular work ..."

"And as for you," Hobbes rounded on Monroe, refusing to listen to her explanation, "I expected better from you. Fawkes is still learning the ropes; he ain't never worked with a real partner 'sides me. But you're a trained agent. I can't say I was thrilled when you came barging into this agency waving your five-star rating around like it was a diamond from Tiffany's, but I thought we'd managed to work out a least an understanding, if not some sort of respect. Now I find out the whole time you been trying to steal my partner behind my back?"

"Hobbes, it's not what you think," Alex assured him.

"Oh yeah, well then why don't one of you tell me what it is?" Hobbes' piercing gaze swung from one supposed friend to the other. When neither answered his question, he clenched his fists and turned towards the door. "That's what I thought. Alright, Bobby Hobbes ain't no schmoe. I know when I'm not wanted. This the way you two want it? Fine by me. I've worked alone before, I can do it again easy." He stopped in the doorway and turned to them with one last parting shot, "and I will be way better off without having to be tied to the hip with gland boy all the time. Good luck with him, Monroe. You're gonna need it."

The door slammed and Darien turned to Alex, running his hands through his hair. "Wow, that went well ...."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

Bobby Hobbes has guts. The more I find out about him, the more respect I have for the guy. I don't know how many decks he's had stacked against him, but he keeps on going. He doesn't spend energy on feeling sorry for himself, or wasting time on the might- have-beens. It's not that he doesn't wish things were different; it's that most of the time he doesn't get stuck there. He soldiers on. I wish… I wish I had his guts. But sometimes, even guts aren't enough to get you where you want to go.

There's an old axiom: "friends in need are friends indeed." The problem is, I think it's been such a long time since Hobbes really felt like he had friends that he'd kind of forgotten that it's OK to need them. I knew when he found out what we were doing, he was gonna go off like a bomb. But it was time for him to finally figure out that all the concern and the loyalty he puts out there is gonna come back at him. We were just giving him back something I wonder if he's ever really known: friendship.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex checked her Palm Pilot for the number she wanted. She was calling in some heavy-duty favors on this wild goose chase, but if nothing else, the interviews she'd done had convinced her that something downright Machiavellian had wrapped itself through the career of Robert Hobbes. That he maintained as much professionalism as he did given the unsteady seesawing of his career was pretty solid evidence to her of his basic character. He was always willing to step in and do what it took, and recently, he had even been willing to help her out with a mission that by rights, she shouldn't have involved him or Fawkes in. None of the stresses she'd been under at the time should have triggered the anxiety reaction that had plagued her for almost two years now, since James' abduction. But the news that Stark had been in contact with the Cuban embassy had sent her off the deep end, and she had known she needed help, help she could trust, and that wouldn't use her need for assistance against her now or in the future. Hobbes and Fawkes had come through like champs, and while the case hadn't turned out to be what she had feared, it had driven home to her that she found herself oddly comfortable in this mismatched collection of lunatics that made up the government's most backwater intelligence agency. It was that unaccustomed feeling that told her she had found a place where her skills were more than just an asset. Where she as an individual mattered to those she worked with.

She had to laugh at herself, since it was certainly not by any virtue of her own that she had come to inspire friendship in her co-workers. She had been on her own too long in the endless quest for information that would lead her to her son to recognize it when she saw it, until she had been hit over the head with it enough times for it to sink in. It was that that had ultimately convinced her to assist Fawkes before he got himself into some mess he wouldn't have an easy time getting back out of. And basically, she liked them, the Laurel and Hardy of the spy world.

However reluctantly, she had come to respect Hobbes' training, skills and professionalism. She'd even come to respect his working class version of her Rolodex, what he called Hobbesnet. And even more than that, she had come to respect Hobbes' simple willingness to do whatever it took, no questions asked. However obsequious he might come across in Agency briefings when confronted with the Official's self-important autocracy, Bobby Hobbes knew his stuff. It had taken her a long time to start seeing it, and it bothered her that she had let herself jump to conclusions; she'd always thought she was beyond that.

She knew herself well enough to know that uncomfortable self-revelations were not her long suit. But here she was, about to call in a favor that had nearly cost her her life. All for the sake of a pint-sized super-agent. And abruptly, she couldn't think of a better reason. It had startled her to realize she actually liked Robert Hobbes. As much as she liked his lanky and whiny partner. Both of them were inherently generous in a business that rewarded only cut-throat survival of the fittest. They understood the nature of friendship without having advanced degrees in psychology. They had, if not welcomed her, then at least given her a chance. She had found a home of sorts, after a rootless life. She sat down slowly in the leather chair that centered her desk. She was at home here. It was an unusual feeling. A good one.

She smiled as she picked up her phone and dialed. "Hello, Senator Graham?" she spoke into the receiver. "Alexandra Monroe."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'll be there in the morning," Alex assured the warden and hung up. Now to convince Claire that her help was essential.

She swiped her keycard through the code box that allowed access to the Keep and walked into the main lab. Claire was intent on her computer as usual, and Alex considered that minimal expenditure of funds the best investment she'd made in her brief tenure at the Agency. Claire Keeply, pseudonym not withstanding, was one of the most brilliant people Alex had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Supplying her with the computing power to do what she did best was a no-lose situation. "Hey, Claire," she greeted her friend.

"Alex! What on earth are you doing here?" Claire inquired, surprised.

"I work here, remember?" Alex smiled. "At least once in a while."

Claire grinned back, laughing. "That's not what I meant. I thought you were tutoring Darien in CTS."

"Among other things. So, what's your day look like for tomorrow?" Alex asked casually.

Claire straightened, curiosity piqued. "That depends," she hesitated. "I suppose there's nothing urgent about any of the things on my list… Why?"

It was Alex's turn to hesitate as she worked out the best way to bring Claire in on the clandestine investigation Darien had initiated to find out what had happened to derail Hobbes' career. "You remember that little explosion Hobbes blew off in the hall the other day?" she began.

Claire nodded, reluctantly. "Yes, what about it?"

"Well, you know Fawkes got to wondering what the real story was. What Hobbes did that got him drummed out of the FBI five years ago."

Claire scowled. "Darien has no business snooping about in Bobby's past. If he'd wanted Darien to know, he'd have told him!" Claire protested.

Alex held up an appeasing hand. "That's what I told him, trust me." Alex made a face as she recalled Fawkes' hang-dog confession that he'd broken into the FBI looking for the records Alex had refused to acquire for him. "I said I'd help Fawkes after he broke into the FBI and went looking for Hobbes' employee records, just to keep him outta any more trouble-"

"He did what?" Claire interrupted, appalled.

"I know. Not the smartest move he ever made. And neither was making a deal to go back to the FBI if Brookes would get him Hobbes' records."

Claire went pale. "You mean Darien's leaving the Agency?!" she asked, shocked.

"No, no, no. Long story short, he told me that he's just using that as a lure to get Brookes to help him find out what happened. Anyway, Brookes got hold of the files, and Fawkes read them. You've seen Bobby's mental health records, you know the disciplinary hearings basically made it seem like Hobbes was negligent in letting his partner go off to a meet alone while he was busy running after his wife," Alex explained.

"Yes, I'd seen that much," Claire muttered worriedly.

"Anyway, what struck both Fawkes and me was that the hearing ended without charges being filed. I've just spent the last hour on the phone trying to find out who pulled the plug on it, and why. Even my top level contacts can't find out," she told Claire.

The Doctor's instincts were clearly twitching at this news, Claire's eyes narrowing as she tapped a forefinger on her chin. Alex's instincts had twinged the same way when she'd hit that brick wall. "Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Monroe asked ironically.

"You know Bobby is going to have an absolute fit if he discovers you two have been poking around in his past," Claire protested worriedly. "Don't you realize what a private person he is? In the time I've worked here, the number of significant details I've learned about him can be counted on one hand!"

Alex couldn't help wondering if the pretty blonde Doctor was suffering from a slight case of 'afraid to know' where Hobbes was concerned. She was only too aware of Hobbes' feelings for Claire, and suddenly began to wonder if those sentiments weren't returned to some degree. She smiled speculatively. "So you're telling me you don't want to know what really happened?" she prodded with a certain amount of calculation.

"I didn't say that," Claire disagreed weakly and flushed slightly. "I'm just trying to point out that Bobby is…"

"What? Shy?" Alex scoffed. "I don't think so, Claire. What he is, is a team player. One with a lot of baggage that he's been carrying around for years. How many of the meds he's on are the result of what happened at the FBI?" She knew playing the guilt card was underhanded, but she was going to need Claire's help. "I've made arrangements to get a copy of the file on the case Hobbes and Murdy were working on. When it comes tomorrow, I want you to take a look at it and see if there's anything that seems… out of place."

Claire's expression was reluctance personified. "Where will you be?" she asked Monroe.

"San Quentin," Alex told her. "I'm going on a little field trip to talk to Richard Sayles -"

"And who is Richard Sayles?" Claire interrupted a little sarcastically.

"He's the murderer Hobbes and Nell Murdy were after when Nell was injured. Did you live in San Diego five years ago? Do you remember the Campus Killer case?" she laughed without humor. "Stupid question. According to Darien and Eberts, everyone in the country heard about the Campus Killer."

Claire's eyes widened. "I was in Virginia, working for the DOD at the time, but I certainly heard about it. That was Sayles? Oh, yes, of course. I remember the trial. You mean Bobby was involved in that investigation?" The quirked eyebrow Alex lifted at this brought the flush of embarrassment to Claire's cheeks again.

"Yeah, well, like you said, there's a lot more to Bobby Hobbes than the spy stuff, remember?" Alex pointed out with a trace of sarcasm. "Anyway, Sayles has always denied nearly beating Agent Murdy to death, but the evidence was pretty overwhelming, so he was convicted of that as well as the four murders he did confess to."

Claire frowned. "Why are you going to talk to him?" she asked, and something in her tone told Alex that the Keeper's impressive IQ was grinding into action.

"I want to hear it for myself. Fawkes has a theory that the guy didn't actually hurt Nell, that someone else did, and that Hobbes was basically blamed for negligence because no one looked deep enough into the case. He wants to hear it in person, see if Sayles can come up with any theories," Alex told her.

"But why would someone want to hurt Agent Murdy? I can understand why Sayles might, if Nell and Bobby were getting too close, but what would the motive be for someone else to?" Claire pondered, her scowl deepening

"That's the $64,000 question," Alex agreed. "But if Fawkes' hunch is right, then Hobbes was set up. Or at the very least, railroaded. That's why I have to talk to Sayles. And why you need to go over the evidence against him, particularly in the Murdy case, to see if the evidence supports the conviction, or if they took the easy way out and drew the obvious conclusions," she finished.

Claire leaned back in her desk chair, crossing her arms under her breasts as she mulled this over. "Do you know what they based the conviction on?" she asked sharply. "How strong was the forensic evidence?"

"My understanding is, it was pretty solid, but that's why I want you to take a look. From what I know, it looked like Sayles, so they never checked out any other suspects," Alex said.

Claire was silent for a long moment, eyes narrowed as she focused on some illusory middle distance. Alex waited, recognizing her in cogitation mode.

"So what you're telling me is that unless you can find a way to prove that Sayles had nothing to do with the attack on Nell, there's no way to clear Bobby of the stigma of negligence. And until that can be cleared up, he'll continue to feel he has no options," Claire said at last as she eyed Alex expectantly.

Monroe nodded. "That pretty much sums it up," she agreed, impressed that Claire had seen past the immediate issue to its long-term impact on Hobbes.

Claire continued to brood over this and Alex waited, fairly sure that patience now would be rewarded by some flash of scientific brilliance on Claire's part. She was not disappointed.

"Ever heard of brain fingerprinting?" Claire asked her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

San Quentin was perhaps the strangest place Claire had ever visited. A prison built on the end of a spit of land on the northwest end of San Francisco bay, the place had a medieval somberness at odds with the spectacular view of the local landscape, including Mt. Tamalpias and the city of San Francisco itself. It was one of the few maximum security prisons in the state that was situated in the middle of a densely populated and obscenely wealthy community rather than out in the hinterlands, where its existence could be forgotten.

She stuck close as Monroe led the way past the checkpoints, through the gates and into the halls, following a guard to the warden's office.

"Warden Jacobsen?" Hand outstretched, Alex advanced on the careworn, heavyset man seated behind a massive desk who rose hastily. "Agent Alexandra Monroe and Dr. Claire Keeply." She shook the quickly offered hand and glanced around the room until her gaze alighted on the large-ish Federal Express box on the floor by the desk. "Good, I see it got here," she added, bending to pick up the box and putting it on the desk.

"Dr. Keeply?" the warden extended the hand to her, next, and Claire shook it.

"Call me Claire," she smiled nervously.

"Claire," the warden repeated obediently. "Forgive me if I'm just a little confused by all this sudden interest in the Richard Sayles case now, after five years," he went on, "but when Senator Graham called yesterday to warn me to expect you, he wasn't very specific on the details of what exactly your interest was."

Alex nodded, business-like and settled into one of the chairs in front of the desk, waiting as Claire hurriedly seated herself in the second. "We're looking into the possibility that one of the victims Mr. Sayles was convicted of assaulting was in fact attacked by someone else," she informed the suddenly wary warden.

"You're not with that 'Innocence Project' are you?' he demanded suspiciously.

"No," Claire put in before Alex could speak up. "No, we're doing a parallel investigation for the Department of Fish and Game on another case of assault that has some unhappy similarities to the Campus Killer's MO. We're afraid we may have a copycat to deal with," she dissembled, hearing the nervousness in her voice as she spoke. She only hoped it wouldn't be as obvious to Warden Jacobsen as it was to her.

The suspicion faded from Jacobsen's face and he leaned back grimly, mouth a straight line. "Wonderful. Like the world needed another Richard Sayles," he observed flatly. "What can I do to help you?" he asked, looking from one to the other of them seriously. "I assume you want to talk to him?" he guessed.

"Yes," Alex confirmed. "And we'll need to run a few tests on him."

"Tests?" the warden inquired with a frown.

"Yes," Claire leaned forward earnestly, prepared to do her best to explain the process she intended to use. "That package," she pointed at the Fed Ex box, "-contains a new piece of equipment currently being developed by the FBI. It's an electroencephalographic variation on the standard polygraph, only much, much more accurate."

"Excuse me?" Jacobsen looked confused. "You want to give him a lie detector test?"

"After a fashion, yes," Claire agreed. "Only, in this case, the device measures brain impulses associated with the active accessing and storage of memories rather than simple physiological reactions. It is truly impossible to fake the results, since the apparatus detects the physical presence of memory as the subject responds to very specific types of questioning and visual data. If there is no memory, there will be no response. If there is a memory, the response cannot be hidden. It's quite elegant, actually," she enthused, letting her fondness for cutting edge research carry her away.

"I'll have to take your word for it," the warden said, bemused. "So what do you need from me?" he asked.

"A quiet room, and an audio-visual setup," Alex interjected firmly.

"And Richard Sayles," Claire added.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Claire flashed the still photo of an attractive middle-aged black woman onto the TV, glancing at the EEG display as she did. There was no change in brain pattern of any kind. "Do you recognize this person?" she asked, as she had asked four times previously and received unmistakable positives for.

"No," was the monosyllabic response from her subject.

"Do you recognize her now?" she asked, flashing on to the crime scene photo of Nell Murdy's bloody and beaten face.

"No," came the reply. "Look, I told you like I told everyone else. I only made it as far as four. Not that I wasn't planning on breakin' Bundy's record, but I got sloppy, and I got caught. You happy now?" Richard Sayles asked, surly, as he shifted in his restraints, glaring at Claire over his shoulder.

"Overjoyed," Claire snapped, suppressing a shudder at the cavalier admission of the man that he'd had every intention of becoming the next Ted Bundy and removed the electrode cap from Sayles' wispy blond-haired head. Unlike Bundy, this particular predator could make no claim to charm, good looks or any of the other attributes that Bundy had used to his advantage. Sayles was a small man, of small intellect, and smaller appeal. She supposed it was fortunate that that was the case, since it had resulted in his capture before his grandiose plans to equal Bundy's reputation could be realized. "We're done here," she said to the burly guard who stood like a fireplug with his back to the door. "Take him away."

The guard fastened a bar between Sayles' ankle cuffs and another between his wrist restraints, then proceeded to unlock the manacles that had held him to the examining chair.

The two women remained silent until the room had been cleared.

"So." Alex began to pace restlessly around the small interrogation room. "What did he really tell us?" she asked Claire.

"Quite a bit, actually," Claire replied as she finished packing up the equipment and returning it to its case. "The crime scene photos you gave me didn't trigger any memory reposes in his prefrontal cortex, and there was no indication of active memory involved according to his Beta wave readings. There didn't seem to be any excessive response from his limbic system, either. He truly has no memory of the crime, or the injuries Agent Murdy sustained in the attack. I'd say that effectively eliminates him as a suspect in that case. His response to the other four killings was unmistakably positive, so I had an excellent baseline to work from. All I can say is, it's a stroke of luck that the judge in the trial closed the courtroom and refused to release photos of the victims. It makes these results absolutely iron-clad."

"So you're telling me that he didn't attack Nell?"

"Yes, that's what the evidence suggests," Claire confirmed.

"So Fawkes was right. Something fishy did happen with that whole investigation," Alex said quietly, once again surprised at the accuracy of a neophyte's hunches. The guy had great instincts, she had to admit. It must have something to do with his life as a thief. He had a feel for deception that was as much a pro as it was a con. As long as it was directed at solving a crime or assessing a situation, it was an unbelievable asset. On the other hand, when it was turned on those he worked with in an effort to deceive, Darien Fawkes' skill as a consummate liar was a supreme liability. Fortunately those occasions happened less and less frequently.

"It appears so," Claire agreed as she folded the last of the electrode leads into a compact bundle and cinched them up to prevent the whole apparatus from resembling overcooked spaghetti when it was unpacked later. "I don't know why you're so surprised, Alex. Darien has exceptional instincts about things like this."

Monroe snorted in agreement. "I was just thinking the same thing," she confirmed.

"So where does this leave your investigation?" Claire inquired as she zipped the case shut and straightened.

"With a lot of unanswered questions," Alex said dryly. "I suggest we get back so you can start going through the evidence. We still need to put together enough of a case for Fawkes to convince the Feds to clear Hobbes' record."

"Alex…." Claire hesitated, then continued on. "Do you know why Darien is doing this now? What triggered this sudden interest in Bobby's past?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. But Fawkes is enough of a buttinsky that he can't just leave it alone. No, he's got to get all of us involved in dissecting the life and times of Robert Hobbes."

Claire considered this as she tugged her sweater on over her blouse. "It seems to me that he believes in Bobby. That he believes Bobby is capable of far more than he's been given credit for by anyone else at the Agency…," she speculated quietly, a pensive look on her face.

Alex eyed the blonde, intrigued. It appeared her hunch about Claire's soft spot for Bobby wasn't so farfetched after all. She smiled, both amused and pleased, and hefted the carrying case that held the glorified EEG equipment the brain fingerprinting technique required. "Well, he's not the only one who believes in Hobbes, is he?" she asked, unable to help the trace of smugness in her voice. She turned and stepped out of the small interrogation room they'd used, feeling Claire's eyes on her back as she walked away down the hall, the guard assigned to them falling in alongside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darien hurriedly dropped the forceps he'd been playing with for half an hour as the door of the Keep swept open with a soft hiss of pneumatics. The clatter it made hitting the instrument tray startled him and he bumped into the cart holding the tray, upsetting it and knocking everything to the floor with an earsplitting crash as Alex and Claire entered.

Embarrassed to be caught playing with the Keeper's toys, he crouched, sweeping up all manner of arcane and sinister looking implements back onto the stainless steel tray and hastily returned the cart to an upright position so that he could unburden himself of the instrument tray.

"Darien!" Claire exclaimed, annoyed, hastening to take the tray away from him. "Why on earth did you open all the sterile packs? Now I'm going to have to re-autoclave all of these! How many times have I told you to leave my things alone?" she asked, resembling nothing so much as an angry school teacher as she stood facing Fawkes, putting her hands on her hips, glowering at him.

Darien managed his best hang-dog look and shuffled his feet a little. "Sorry, Keepy… I was waiting for you and Monroe to get back from San Quentin, and I was just checkin' out a few of your little torture instruments," he apologized, teasing her a little, hoping the shy smile would defuse her pique.

The Keeper sighed, shaking her head with a certain amount of fondness. "Darien, how would you like it if I came over to your apartment and went through your video tape collection?" she asked him.

Darien grinned, knowing he was off the hook. "You can come over and watch Mira Sorvino movies any time you want, Keepy," he laughed, moving aside to allow her past the demented dentist's chair. Alex lay the EEG kit she was carrying on the chair and Darien poked at it curiously, "What's that?" he asked, looking from one to the other of them.

"That is proof," Monroe answered, moving to stand behind Claire, who had seated herself at her computer and was busy downloading her data onto her server.

"Proof of what?" Fawkes inquired, joining them.

"Proof that your partner is doing a halfway decent job training you," Alex said sarcastically, letting the smile reach her eyes to let him know she was teasing. "Your hunch is right, the case was mishandled," she added. "Sayles didn't attack Nell Murdy."

"Yeah? How do you know? I mean, how does that whatchmajigger over there tell you that?" Darien asked, interested but skeptical. "and how does that help us clear Hobbes of negligence?"

"This 'whatchamajigger', as you so eloquently described it, is capable of determining the presence of memory in a subject. Richard Sayles has no memory of the scene of the attack, the specific nature of the wounds, and most importantly, Nell herself," Claire informed him as she lifted the kit out of the chair and put it on the workbench against the wall. "Since she wasn't the lead psychologist involved, her name and photograph never appeared in any of the media at the time, so unless he'd seen her in some other context, she should have been a complete mystery to him – unless he attacked her as he was charged with doing. Now, since he tested clean as far as any memory of Nell is concerned…"

"What about Nell?" came the icy, outraged question from the entrance of the Keep as Bobby Hobbes stepped through the steel door.

Monroe, Claire and Fawkes all turned to face the unknowing – and very obviously unwilling object of their concerns.

"Oh, crap," Darien muttered.

Hobbes, for all his small stature, was a formidable enemy, and every one of the well-intentioned trio was all too aware that they had wandered dangerously close to the dividing line between friend and foe.

"Bobby…" Claire began.

"Hobbes…" Alex said simultaneously.

"What are you doin' messin' around in stuff that is none of your business?" Hobbes hissed, advancing slowly towards them.

"Hobbes, this isn't what you think," Darien tried to reassure his livid partner.

"So." The tiny, furious nod was enough to tell the three would-be do-gooders that understanding from the man they'd hoped to help would be difficult to come by. "This is what my 'friends' do behind my back. While I'm stuck in the frickin' file room, my partner," the vitriol in the word made Darien flinch, " and his little pals start rooting around in stuff they don't have the first clue about!"

"Bobby, it's not what you think," Darien repeated, hands raised in appeasement as he approached Hobbes slowly.

"How the hell do you know what I think? Did you even bother to ask me?" Hobbes snarled, fairly vibrating with rage.

"No," Darien admitted cautiously, "I didn't. Because I know how you are, Bobby. You're the first one to jump in with both feet when someone else needs help, and you're the very last one who'll admit when you need help."

"That's because I don't need help. Not from you, not on this. It's over, Fawkes. Now walk away from it," Hobbes growled.

"But -" Darien protested, about to try and tell his enraged partner what Claire and Monroe had learned in their jaunt to San Quentin, but got no further than that before Hobbes launched himself at Fawkes with a roar, knocking him backward against the administering chair in a sprawl.

"Stay the hell away from this, Fawkes!" Bobby's angry warning was punctuated by windmilling blows that connected randomly and haphazardly all over Darien's abdomen and chest as he struggled first to shield himself and then to restrain his out-of-control partner. Darien had seen his partner lose it on one or two occasions but he'd rarely been the unfortunate one to trigger it, and it took a split second to grasp that Hobbes was in deadly earnest, so angry that all his close combat skills were forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Darien flashed on the months of training Hobbes had put him through to provide him enough skill to defend himself in circumstances like this, appalled that his first real test of that training would be against his teacher. But the slashing drive of Hobbes' fist towards his vulnerable belly galvanized reflexes he'd so recently acquired, and he rolled once, clearing the blow that landed with an audible smack on the caramel brown naugahyde of the chair. He scissored his long legs, catching Hobbes by surprise, giving Darien just long enough to get his feet under him and he ducked low, wrapping his arms around Hobbes' waist, bodily lifting him off the floor and dropping him into the semi-reclined chair on his back.

Trying to hold Bobby was like trying to hold the tiger Darien had nicknamed him after, and Fawkes found himself shouting for Monroe's aid, or Claire's, anyone's, so that he wouldn't have to land a blow that would incapacitate his best friend. He was deaf to everything except the harsh rasp of his and Bobby's breathing, and the snarled curses running like battery current along a naked wire; painful, annoying, but not fatal. "I could use a little help here!" he called out, only to have Monroe seize one of Hobbes' wrists, pinning it, while Claire snapped the wrist restraint into place. He hung on to the other as Hobbes writhed in the chair.

Alex lunged at one of Bobby's ankles, throwing herself across his calf to keep him from wriggling loose while Fawkes pinioned Hobbes' other wrist in the restraints. Claire rushed to wrench the restraint around the ankle Alex had immobilized, all three of them shouting pleas to stop that went unheeded by the enraged agent, until in desperation, Darien slammed a fist against Hobbes' jaw, stunning him into immobility.

Panting, Fawkes stooped, hands on his knees, head lowered, trying to catch his breath as he muttered his personal mantra; "Aww, crap…"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The darkness slowly cleared from his vision as Bobby massaged his aching jaw, working it from side to side to ensure it still functioned as intended. He ignored the trio of worried voices that murmured in the background. His ankles and wrists had been released from the chair's restraints at some point while he was recovering consciousness, but he made no effort to stand, still dazed and vaguely disoriented. The only thing he could concentrate on was the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as memories he'd done his best to bury slowly replayed in his mind's eye.

Along with the memories came the inevitable emotional baggage that he'd tried and failed to leave behind for the last five years. Baggage that had scarred him and left him fundamentally convinced his days as a serious agent were all but over if he blew his last chance, here, at the nameless agency that had approached him after his last meltdown. And now his partner and best friend had dredged the whole thing back up again, triggering all the feelings of inadequacy, failure and desperate loss that had gone hand in hand with his dismissal from the FBI.

"Hobbes?" came the tentative query from beside the chair.

Bobby ignored it, closing his eyes against the uncomfortably bright overheads, hoping Fawkes would just go away and leave him alone.

"Bobby?" the worried tone in his partner's voice made Hobbes sigh and open his eyes, turning his head to stare grimly at the rangy man standing beside him.

"Leave me alone, Fawkes," he said, and looked away again. "Leave this whole case alone. You don't know what the hell you're messin' with."

"Yeah, actually, I think I'm starting to," Darien disagreed and pulled up Claire's stool to sit down beside the administering chair. "It wasn't your fault, Bobby. Sayles didn't attack Nell Murdy."

Hobbes snorted softly. "What difference does it make now?" he asked bitterly, glaring at Fawkes.

Darien scowled back at him, forehead creased in concern. "The difference is, whoever did attack her is still out there, somewhere," he said sharply. "And it means the case isn't closed, Hobbesy. Not by a long shot, no matter what the FBI files say." Fawkes sighed and ran his hand over his spiky hair, the worry in his face deepening. "And it means that you weren't responsible for what happened."

"The hell I wasn't!" Bobby snapped coldly. "It doesn't matter who attacked her! I bailed on my partner, Fawkes. I wasn't there when she needed me."

Fawkes chewed on that for a moment, then slouched, locking his gaze intently on his partner. "Then why don't you tell me exactly what happened, Bobby. From the minute you got handed the Campus Killer case to the minute they put you on psychiatric leave?"

Bobby stared back stubbornly. "Go to hell, Fawkes," he said simply.

Darien sighed and got up from the stool unhappily, walking away. Hobbes could hear the resumed low conversation and did his best to tune it out. It was relatively easy in the face of the painful memories that circled in his head and heart. Fawkes simply had no idea what Nell's assault had taken out of him. He didn't blame the assistant director of the FBI who'd signed off on the psychiatric leave. He'd blown it. Blown it big time. The burden of that guilt had never eased in all the years he'd carried it. There had been times it had nearly been too much for him. His sojourn in Mexico just before he'd been partnered with Fawkes had pretty much been the bottom. He'd been teetering on the edge of another breakdown when a whiny wet-behind-the-ears punk with a glandular problem had landed on his lap.

It had been the challenge of keeping Fawkes alive and in one piece that had pulled him back from the brink. The absolute determination never again to leave a partner vulnerable had given him a focus. It didn't hurt that Darien Fawkes was basically a good kid with an instinct for this line of work that Hobbes would never have credited him with when they'd first met. He'd very quickly come to like the guy, though it had taken a lot longer before he really trusted him. But when Darien had risked his life to protect him, Bobby had realized that Fawkes was suddenly more than a partner; he had become a friend. Which had only made him more determined never to repeat the mistakes that had led to Nell Murdy's assault.

And now his friend and new partner was rooting around in the most painful part of his life, reopening wounds that had scabbed over but never healed. Nothing would ever take away the pain and the guilt of his failure to back up Nell no matter what justification he'd used at the time. It was inexcusable. In a situation where he'd felt he had to choose between his wife and his partner, he'd chosen his wife. And his partner had paid the price.

"Bobby," came Claire's sweetly accented voice.

He sighed. "What, Keepy?"

Claire lay a cool hand over his forehead, then gently cupped his lower jaw so she could examine the darkening bruise left by the blow Fawkes had used to end his struggles. It ached, and he knew from experience it would for a good while. "That must hurt," Claire observed softly as she replaced her hand with a towel-wrapped icepack. "Can you hold that in place for a bit? It'll keep the swelling down," she suggested. Resigned to enduring the unwanted attention, Bobby raised his hand to take over the task of icing his jaw.

"Bobby, I know this is the last thing you wanted to ever have to think about again, but Darien is right. Richard Sayles didn't attack Nell. Which means whoever did is still on the loose, and it's our job to stop him. I need you to tell me what happened that night."

The last vestiges of his earlier rage flickered, flared briefly, then died, replaced with the fatalistic knowledge that Claire and Fawkes were right. Long-honed investigative reflexes stirred unwillingly to the fore and he sighed. His responsibility as an agent, whether of the FBI or the Agency, wouldn't let him so easily stand aside and do nothing to bring a criminal to justice. "It started a long time before the night Nell was attacked," he said with resignation. He heard both Darien and Monroe edge closer, ignoring them, falling back on the illusion that he and Claire were the only ones in the room. Doctor-patient privilege was as close to absolution as he was ever likely to get, and the last six years of psychotherapy had primarily dealt with the events surrounding that ill-fated investigation. Claire, too, was his doctor, after a fashion, and he closed his eyes, leaning back into the chair, and let the fantasy of being in his therapist's office free him to speak.

"After the McEvy case, with Jones doin' his best to ruin whatever rep I had at the Bureau, no one would work with me. They all pretty much bought into his line of bull that had me playing the paranoid nut job who didn't know when to walk away from something. Nell got assigned to me… Or maybe she volunteered. She never would tell me," Bobby sighed.

"Anyway, she and I, we got to be friends. She was one hell of a forensic psychologist. She should have been the lead profiler when the Campus Killer case blew up in our faces, but 'cuz she was stuck with me as a partner, she came in on second string. Still, we worked the case like we was told, doin' the leg work and the scut work for the lead team after the second murder made it pretty clear we had a serial case on our hands. One dead co-ed is a tragedy. A dead co-ed and a dead cafeteria worker from the same campus inside a month of one another is a frickin' disaster, when they're both bludgeoned to death after bein' sexually assaulted." Bobby paused, opening his eyes to glance at Claire whose concern was clear in her face.

"I don't know what it was about the whole case, but it was makin' me nervous as hell. I had extra sessions scheduled with my therapist to try and get a handle on it, and he even put me on more meds, but it wasn't doin much to help. I still couldn't focus on anything." He went quiet as memories of the case and the circumstances replayed in his head, the doubts and feelings of inadequacy boiling up again as if they'd never eased. "Viv was working on the UCSD campus then as the office manager for the ROTC office there. I was scared to death she'd be next. I mean, I knew the first two attacks had happened on the State campus, but when the third attack went down at the local community college and another co-ed was killed the same way, it was pretty obvious that this guy wasn't picky about which school he used as his hunting grounds."

"That's when you gave Vivian the Taser as an anniversary present, isn't it?" Darien asked quietly from behind Claire's shoulder. "You wanted her to be able to protect herself if she had to."

"I…. I know I was outta line, but I can't explain it. I knew something awful was gonna happen. I knew it. Viv and I'd been having problems for a while, but me heading off the deep end over this case was pretty much the nail in the coffin as far as our marriage was concerned. We'd done the marriage counseling thing, and she'd asked me to move out by then. But it didn't stop the obsessive thing. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, I spent all my time worrying about her, and it started to get to the point where I'd be callin' her at work, checkin' on her seven, eight times a day." He sighed and closed his eyes again. "She said I was smothering her, getting in her way, and she was just so…"

"Pissed off?" Darien suggested into the long silence. Hobbes snorted with bitter irony, in absolute agreement with the choice of words.

"Yeah, pretty much. That was when she handed me the divorce papers. I flipped out. And then, the next day, a first year Lit professor was found dead in a garbage dumpster behind the cafeteria on the UC campus, on the other side of the Quad from the ROTC office."

"Oh, man," Darien said softly. Even with his eyes closed, Bobby could tell what sort of expression his partner was wearing. The shocked, wide-eyed look that reminded everyone he turned it on of a woebegone puppy; it was a look that could be both calculated and spontaneous.

"This whole time, Nell was tryin' to get a handle on the creep doin' the killin' and tryin' to keep me outta trouble. She was tryin' to tell me that maybe I should think about changing therapists, since Doc Barry wasn't doin' much to keep the lid on things -"

"Wait, wait, wait! Barry? That's it! Hobbes, was this the same guy Carelli said blew his cover?"

Thrown off by the sudden change of topic, Hobbes opened his eyes to look at Fawkes, confused. "Huh?" he managed.

Darien stepped around Claire to crouch down beside the administering chair. "This is important, Hobbesy," Fawkes told him gravely, looking him searchingly in the eyes. "Remember when ASS stuck us in The Community?"

Bobby nodded, still uncertain where this was going.

"When Carelli tried to get us killed, remember what he said about your therapist blowing his cover? He blamed you for telling the guy what your mission was, and it ended up getting Carelli sent to the Community, right?" he stared into Bobby's eyes worriedly.

Bobby felt the blood drain out of his face as the implications sank in. "Oh, crap," he whispered.

"For those of us who didn't know there was going to be a test today, would one of you mind filling the rest of us in on what the hell you're talking about?" Alex Monroe's acerbic query distracted Hobbes from the vast void that had opened up in the pit of his stomach.

Darien rose to his feet again, turning to face Claire and Alex. "In '91, when Bobby was still CIA, his partner Jack Carelli and he were on assignment in Germany, keeping an eye on things after the wall came down. They got involved in some sort of covert thing that went south, and Carelli was apparently killed in action while Hobbes was out of action having his yearly psych evaluation. And I'll just bet it was Barry's idea that you do it right then, wasn't it?" he asked Hobbes in an aside. "When Hobbes and I got to be temporary house guests of the Agency of Sequestered Seclusion, who do you think we ran into, but Hobbes' old pal, Jack?"

"So Carelli's cover got blown and he was put on ice. So what?" Alex prodded for more information.

"So," Darien came back at her with equal sarcasm. "Carelli's cover was blown because Hobbes talked to his therapist about the mission, and it turns out, Barry was a mole," he finished.

The look on both Claire's and Alex's faces was enough to tell Bobby that the connection had been made.

"Oh, dear," Claire murmured.

"Crap," Alex spat.

"Yeah. Big time," Darien agreed dryly.

Darien paced back and forth beside the dentist's chair Hobbes lay on, the same one he'd spent so many painful hours in, oblivious to the role reversal.

"You're telling me that Bobby had the same therapist while he was in the FBI that he had while he was in the CIA?" Claire was asking Alex, clearly confused by this.

"The Department of Justice uses contractors to provide mental healthcare just like they use preferred providers for every other type of healthcare," Alex informed her. "It's easier to clear one doctor who can work with all the branches than it would be to clear doctors specifically for each branch," she clarified. "And you've gotta know that most of the time, they don't recommend switching back and forth between therapists because it takes months to build trust and rapport, so it only ends up setting the patient back if they keep moving around."

Claire nodded, acknowledging this. "Yes, alright, I see that part, but what I don't understand is, if Jack Carelli was forced into ASS's community after his cover was blown by Doctor Barry, why wasn't the Doctor removed from practice and placed in Fort Leavenworth?!" Her outrage crackled in the air like heat lightning, and Darien steered clear of her as he paced, his mind whirling, analyzing what he knew, speculating on the missing pieces, wondering just how deep this mess went.

"Presumably because the CIA hadn't figured out the source of the leak," Alex pointed out. "All they must have had at that point was the knowledge that they had a mole. It took years to pinpoint Aldrich Ames, remember?" she added by way of example.

"Bobby, what meds were you on?" Darien asked his partner, grasping at straws and knowing it. He heard Claire behind him stop mid-comment as she turned to listen to the answer to that question.

The stricken look on Hobbes' face spoke volumes to Fawkes, who was only too familiar with having the rug pulled out from under his feet the way Hobbes had just experienced. "Same ones I'm on now," he mumbled, dazed. "Zoloft and Lithium, for the bipolar stuff… Oh, and there was a new one."

"Bobby. Bobby," Claire said sharply. "Do you remember what it was?"

Hobbes' brow furrowed as he struggled to focus on the question. "Ritalin, I think. Yeah, that was it. He said it would take care of the ADD, and let the Zoloft help me get a handle on my obsession over Viv's safety," Hobbes supplied after a long moment's thought.

Fawkes turned to Claire, hoping for an opinion on this. He got one. Claire's face was pale, lips drawn into a thin line of fury as she spun on her heel and rushed to her computer, dropping into the chair in front of it and punching away at the keyboard with unmistakable haste. In the pause as she waited for the information she'd requested to come up on the monitor, she swore. "That bastard," she whispered as she turned to face them, eyes wide and horrified. "Ritalin was absolutely insidious," she spoke, her voice shaking. "Everyone's heard of its use in ADD, so it would have gone unremarked by anyone but a pharmacist, or another therapist. Ritalin, in conjunction with Lithium, produces an increase in paranoia and disassociative disorders and can greatly increase depression. The list of physical symptoms includes just the sort of inability to control feelings of impending doom, anxiety, and insomnia Bobby described, and a whole host of other things. And if the dose was started off at elevated levels instead of gradually increased, the impact of the symptoms would be even worse. That bastard!"

"You're telling us this guy was messing with my head?" Hobbes spoke up, the stunned look still hovering in his eyes.

"Yes, Bobby, that's exactly what I'm telling you," Claire agreed, voice quivering.

"So all the time I was trying to get my feet under me, Barry was trying to kick them back out," Hobbes went on flatly, the slow rise of anger finally breaking through the stunned disbelief. Darien breathed a sigh of relief, knowing an angry Hobbes was one who still had some fight left in him.

"All those extra sessions where we went over and over all the worst case scenarios I was comin' up with, that was just to tip me over the edge? Get me so mixed up about what was real and what wasn't that I'd lose it, that I wouldn't be able to tell which was which any more?"

Claire nodded again, unable to answer.

Hobbes stared at his friends, rage rekindling in his dark eyes.

"There's just one big problem with this scenario, Claire," Alex pointed out grimly. "Even if Barry was messing with Bobby's mind, it doesn't tell us why. And it doesn't tell us who really assaulted Nell Murdy."

The four of them stared at each other gravely.

"It had to have been Barry who attacked Nell," Darien said with total conviction. "Why go to all the trouble to make swiss cheese out of Hobbes' brain unless it was to set Bobby up for something?"

"That doesn't track, Fawkes," Alex disagreed. "There was no reason to kill Agent Murdy, certainly not and make it look like the Campus Killer," she argued.

"Then we're still missing something," Darien retorted. "Barry wouldn't screw up Bobby's meds and push him over the edge just for the thrill of it. If that's all he wanted, then he could have done it years before." He started pacing again, head bowed, hands crossed behind his back as he circled the reclining chair.

"I think we need to have a little chat with Doctor Barry," Alex confirmed. "If we can find him. I'll start asking around. See what I can find."

"And I'll take a look at the forensics and see if I can gain any more clues on who it was who actually assaulted Nell," Claire spoke up firmly.

"I think I need to go back and have another little chat with Nell's husband," Darien added.

"I'm goin' with you," Bobby said grimly as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the chair.

"You sure you're up to it? I clocked you pretty hard," Darien said apologetically, reaching a hand out to steady his partner.

Hobbes snorted. "Takes more than you've got to cold-cock me, Fawkesy," he assured Darien as he got to his feet, standing steady. "Let's go."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Bobby?" Darien asked quietly as he followed his partner out into the Agency parking lot towards the battered tan van that resided in the far corner.

"What," Hobbes responded. It wasn't a question, and Fawkes hesitated before continuing.

"Back in the Keep. Why wouldn't you tell me what happened?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the vague hurt that small lack of faith apparently signified for him. "Why'd it have to be Claire you opened up to?"

Hobbes exhaled softly through slightly pursed lips. "She's a doctor, Fawkes," he answered without making eye contact with his partner. "She's heard stuff like that before."

"And I'm not, so I haven't? Heard things like that, I mean? Christ, Bobby, I've done time in prison. You think I haven't seen and heard things that make this look like a walk in the park? I thought you knew we were brothers, man. I mean, you're always looking to know every crappy thing that's ever happened in my life. But God forbid I should ever know anything about the mysterious Bobby Hobbes. You know, you talk a good game about being partners, but you don't really believe it. If you really respected me as your partner, you'd have told me about Nell." Darien turned away with a slight sigh of disgust.

Hobbes unlocked the van and climbed in the driver's side, reaching across the bench seat to unlock the passenger door to allow Darien inside, using the delay to force himself to respond honestly. "I was afraid. I figured you'd react like everyone else has, and label me a disgrace," he confessed flatly, the very idea hurting.

Darien, in the middle of climbing onto the bench seat, stopped, stunned, and stared at Hobbes in dismay. "What?" he asked, plainly not believing his ears.

"I figured if you knew how bad I messed up with Nell, there's no way you'd stick around as my partner," Bobby said, staring out the windshield of the van so he wouldn't have to look at Fawkes. "I chose between my wife and my partner, and Viv left me, and my partner nearly ended up dead."

Darien flopped onto the seat and tugged the door shut after himself as he thought about that statement. "Jeeze, Hobbes…." He turned to face Bobby, hitching one long leg up on the seat as he stared earnestly at Hobbes. "How long we been working together -- two years? How many times have I put my life and my sanity into your hands? What the hell does a guy have to do to prove that he trusts you? So you made a choice, Bobby. I probably would have made the same one, too, if I'd been through everything you had during the Campus Killer case, what with Viv handing you the divorce papers in the middle of everything, and then the screw-up with your meds -"

"No. Fawkes, it wasn't the meds. It was me," Bobby interrupted sadly. "I'm the screw up. I'm the one who's been running around with screws loose for years, now. Ever since Beirut. I was there when that truck bomb was driven into the embassy. I watched men I served with die. Why the hell do you think I went into the spook business? I was sick of not knowin' what the big picture was, of getting broad-sided with stuff like that! Why the hell do you think I want to be involved in the CTD program?" he went on, not able to help the increasing agitation in his voice. "It was the same damned thing all over again. We got caught with our pants down, Fawkes. Those planes on 9/11 shouldn't have been able to get anywhere near those targets. It was lousy intel and worse analysis that let them slip through." Hobbes took a deep breath, fighting for calm. The long silence from the other end of the bench seat finally made him turn to look at Fawkes.

Darien was sitting there, the stunned expression on his face slowly giving way to a sort of anger that Hobbes had seen him display very rarely, and usually only in conjunction with Arnaud. "That mother fu...," Darien cut himself off, reflexively clenching his fists, knuckles white as he smacked them into his thighs. "I almost hope he has slipped through the cracks, just so I can damage him for you." Fawkes' anger was palpable, but what made Hobbes relax for the first time since he'd walked into the Keep to overhear Claire talking about his former partner was the realization that it wasn't him that Fawkes hated. "Bobby, blaming yourself for being worried about your wife, when from the sound of it, Barry did everything he could to make you into a paranoid nutcase, is like blaming a paraplegic for not being able to chase a pickpocket!"

Hobbes met his partner's serious brown eyes at last, searching them for any sign that Fawkes was merely giving lip service to the idea that Bobby was in no way responsible for what had happened. What he saw was anger and outrage – on his behalf, instead of directed at him. "So you don't want to forget the partnership?" Hobbes asked softly, glancing at Fawkes but unable to meet his partner's eyes as he waited to hear the response.

"Hobbesy, I couldn't forget it if I tried. 'Sides, Monroe's too high maintenance," Darien responded with a wise-ass smirk, and Hobbes felt a slow smile start to twitch at his mouth. "Anyway what kind of partner would I be if I walked away from this now, huh? Left you twisting in the wind?" Darien's indignant question was more than enough to convince Bobby that old fears had clouded new relationships, and he sighed, embarrassed at having judged Fawkes by the actions of others.

"I'm sorry. Fawkesy… It's just been a while since I've had someone in my corner, no matter what the odds were lookin' like. Know what I mean?" he asked, hoping for forgiveness for having misjudged his partner.

Fawkes smiled back, the smile widening to a grin. "Oh, yeah, buddy, believe me. I know exactly what that's like," he assured, holding out his hand in the gesture that had become ritual for them: the low five.

Bobby felt his tentative smile creep wider, and slowly, deliberately, he reciprocated the gesture. "Partners," he affirmed finally. "Guess I'd better think about changing shrinks to someone outside the DoJ system, huh?" he cocked a sarcastic eyebrow and his partner.

"Bet Claire can give you some recommendations," Darien agreed, slapping Hobbes on the shoulder lightly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act 4

Matthew Brookes looked up from the mountains of paperwork that heaped his desk as the door of his office burst open to admit a slender Asian man pursued hotly by his flustered secretary.

"Sir, you can't come in here without an appointment!" Veronica chastised the interloper, trying to seize the man's wrist and halt him.

The unexpected visitor evaded her and reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat, pulling out an ID which he flipped open, flashing it at Brookes. "Thomas Yoshida, Office of Professional Responsibility," he introduced himself brusquely. "I need to speak with you regarding the request you made the other day for secure files on a former Agent, one Robert Hobbes. And I need to know who it is that's nosing around in the Richard Sayles case again," he announced, turning to glare at Veronica, who flushed and backed out of the office quickly, shutting the door after her.

"What?" Brookes managed, startled. "What business is it of OPR's whose old records I request?" he asked, setting his pen on the desk warily. "I'm the director of this office. It's my right to review any files I damn well please!"

"And as a director, you know that OPR's business is anything it wants to make its business." Yoshida answered. He settled into the chair opposite Brookes, returning his ID to its pocket.

Brookes scowled uncomfortably. "I didn't request the records for me. I pulled them for Hobbes' current partner," he admitted.

"By my understanding, Hobbes is currently employed at the 'Agency', some cold war relic that's been eeking out a modest existence for years. What I want to know is, why is the FBI sharing classified information with that operation?"

Brookes shifted uncomfortably, not for the first time regretting having agreed to Fawkes' terms. "Well, actually, I'm trying to recruit Hobbes' current partner back into the Bureau," he confessed. "He's not too keen on coming in without Hobbes, so I figured the fastest way to break the apron strings was to show him his partner is washed up," he concluded.

Yoshida frowned. "What's so special about this agent that you'd go out of the way to share classified documents with him to get him to come aboard?"

Brookes mulled over an answer that wouldn't leave him looking like the fool he was beginning to feel like. "That's a little hard to explain, Agent Yoshida. Suffice it to say I had the approval of the LA Office's Senior Agent in Charge last year to try and make the pitch. Why is classified, but I'm not exactly acting on my own initiative here. Darien Fawkes has… certain skills that would make him a valuable asset."

"I suppose I'll have to accept that, at least until I can confirm with the RD," Yoshida backed down. "But it doesn't explain why the Assistant Director and my office have suddenly been fielding calls on the Sayles case," he went on.

"I don't know anything about it," Brookes said flatly, knowing he was likely to be thought either incompetent or obstructionist in his refusal to talk, but he really had no clue what Fawkes had been getting up to. He supposed he ought to have realized that Fawkes had some unspoken agenda when the ex-con had approached him about rejoining the Bureau, but he'd underestimated the man. If the little punk was getting the attention of the home office back in D.C., then there was a great deal more to him than that fancy invisibility trick.

"Well, then, Agent Brookes, I suggest we find out," Yoshida said grimly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Albert?" Claire inquired as she stuck her head into the main computer control room, looking for the Agency's resident electronic whiz and general all-purpose lackey.

"Yes, Doctor?" Eberts responded, poking his head up from under the counter that served as the heart of the Agency's information-gathering apparatus.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" she asked contritely.

"No, Doctor, I'm only upgrading some of the USB connections…"

"Actually, Albert, I really need your help," Claire interrupted the impending litany of electronic technobabble, broaching her reason for invading Eberts' favorite sanctuary.

"Of course," Eberts agreed as he scrambled to his feet, dusting off the smudgy spots on the knees of his standard gray suit and retrieving his jacket from the back of the chair on which he'd hung it. "What can I help you with?" he asked as he shrugged into the coat and straightened his tie self-consciously.

"I need to recreate a crime scene based on the evidence in a five-year-old case file. I'm looking for any evidence that can distinguish between two murder suspects."

Eberts frowned slightly. "I'm not entirely sure I understand," he admitted. "What case are you referring to? The Agency has only rarely investigated murders," he pointed out. "Only a half-dozen times in my tenure here, as a matter of fact."

Claire grimaced ruefully. "Actually, it's not an Agency case, strictly speaking…" she confessed.

"I'm afraid I still don't understand," Eberts replied, confused.

Claire tucked her hand through his arm and led him gently out the door of the control room as she explained. "As you know, Darien obtained permission to review Bobby's old file from the FBI," she told the executive assistant, whose confusion began to give way to anxiety.

"Oh, dear," Eberts mumbled unhappily, all too certain he was about to be recruited deeper into something that would undoubtedly get him into hot water with the Official. He was also frankly amazed at Darien's apparent ability to cajole two of the most intelligent, independent females Eberts ever met into doing his bidding. Perhaps the ex-con should receive an A+ in CTS for that alone. "I don't -" he started, only to be interrupted by Claire's ongoing explanation.

"Alex and I have determined that the man accused and convicted of the assault did not in fact have anything to do with it. The only other suspect is Bobby's former psychiatrist, Doctor Cyrus Barry."

Eberts stumbled to a halt in the middle of the hallway, shocked. "Yes, that was the name I found associated with the insurance ID number Darien brought me, but Agent Hobbes' therapist is a suspect?" he stammered.

"Former therapist," Claire corrected as she urged him into motion again. Eberts let her steer him into the hall and waited for clarification. "It's rather a long story, Albert," she told him. Claire started down the stairs that led to the basement floor that housed the Keep, and as they descended, Eberts felt the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that told him the hot water he'd feared was rushing up to meet him.

"No, see?" Claire reached past Eberts' shoulder to point out the discrepancy on her computer monitor. "That. There. That's what I'm talking about." She tapped the mouse key and a similar grizzly image appeared on screen. "Now of the four victims we know for sure Sayles killed, the wound pattern is downward, and slightly to the left, see?" she coached. Brushing a fingertip over the screen, she traced the close-up of a horrific wound that ran the length of a young woman's face from chin to well above the ear. It was only one of many similar injuries that had essentially pulped once pretty features into unrecognizability. Eberts swallowed hard, doing his best to not think about the life that had been taken so brutally. Objectivity was key, and he focused on the minutia that Claire was trying to point out like a man grabbing for a life preserver.

Squinting intently, he allowed the knowledge of the death that had resulted from the injuries they examined to fall away, focusing instead on the tiny details that told the story of that death. Flesh and bone had been split and crushed in the wake of one blow from the spine of a heavy book, and he noted the small difference in the rate of fracturing and compression from one side of the wound to the other signaled by the varying degree of concave curvature. "It appears that the person who inflicted the blow was right handed," he guessed. "There is a very slight difference from one side of the strike to the other, where tissue seems to have been raised above the level of the wound," he finished tentatively.

"Very good, Albert!" Claire praised. "You have the makings of a first-class pathologist," she told him, and Eberts shuddered.

"I don't think I'm cut out for this particular line of work," he disagreed.

Claire smiled sympathetically and moved on to the next photo. This was of a middle-aged African-American woman with similar injuries. "This is Agent Eleanor Mae Murdy, Bobby's former partner. She was attacked when she went to a meeting with an unknown informant. There was never any record of who exactly she was scheduled to meet, and the assumption was made that it must have been a ploy on the part of Richard Sayles to entice his next victim into range."

"But wasn't the Campus Killer's MO to select victims associated with the universities and junior colleges in the area? Why would he choose an FBI agent?" Eberts protested.

"Nell was more than an FBI agent, Albert. She was also a clinical psychologist with a great deal of expertise in criminal psychology. She was a frequent guest lecturer in the criminal sciences department at UCSD," Claire explained. "She certainly fit the victim profile."

"Oh, dear…" Eberts sighed.

"Now. Tell me what you see in the wound pattern here," Claire urged.

Eberts concentrated on the injuries, trying to divorce himself from the woman who had sustained them. "They aren't as… deep?" he hesitated, not sure how to articulate what he meant.

"Describe the differences," Claire suggested.

Eberts eyed the photograph intently. "There's no ridge of tissue on the left side of the wound," he started. "The strike pattern is uniform from side to side," he added.

"Very good. Now, what does that tell us about the person who inflicted the blows?"

Eberts racked his brain, but this was considerably out of his area of expertise, and he finally slumped in defeat. "I'm afraid I haven't the vaguest idea, Doctor," he admitted reluctantly.

Claire shifted in her seat to reach towards the monitor again. "You're right in saying that the wounds aren't as deep, and the fact that they also lack the ridge definition on the left side of the wound tells me that whoever inflicted the blow was using their right hand – but it wasn't their dominant one. They lacked both the strength and the fine motor coordination to inflict the sort of punishment that the Campus Killer did on his victims. It was probably what saved Nell's life," she added quietly.

Eberts glanced at her sharply. "Agent Murdy is still alive?" he asked, appalled.

"If you can call it that," Claire sighed. "She's been catatonic since recovering from the coma the head injuries put her into. She's in a local government nursing facility. From what I gathered, it's likely she'll be there the rest of her life."

Eberts stared at her, shocked, finally understanding just what sort of pressure it must have taken to derail Hobbes' career. "No wonder Agent Hobbes refuses to speak about it. This is absolutely horrible, Doctor."

"Yes, it is, and it gets worse. There is evidence that Dr. Barry not only assaulted Nell Murdy, but that he was prescribing counter-indicated drugs to Bobby in the hopes of seriously exacerbating his mental illness. It also seems Dr. Barry was subsequently discovered to have been a mole for the Russians." Claire eyed him grimly. "None of that made it into the record of the case, since Richard Sayles was convicted of assaulting Nell as well as killing the other four victims. And Bobby was accused of negligence in his partner's attack, and then forced to resign on a psychiatric discharge."

"But," Eberts sputtered indignantly, "Robert was in no way responsible! Surely there must be a way to clear this up," he found himself saying, only then realizing he'd just stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire, as far as incurring the Official's wrath was concerned.

Claire smiled sweetly. "That is exactly why I want your expert help, Albert," she told him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darien made Hobbes stand behind him, shielding his smaller partner from the peephole in Greg Murdy's front door. No point in telegraphing Hobbes' presence and being refused entrance. It'd be enough of a trick just to avoid having the door slammed in their faces when it did open… "Mr. Murdy?"

The front door opened and Murdy glared out at Darien. "I thought I told you I have no intention of speaking with you again. Especially with him here," he snapped, jerking his head at Bobby contemptuously.

"What if I told you we have new evidence in your wife's assault?" Darien spoke up, shoving his foot into the rapidly narrowing opening in the doorway as Murdy started to shut the door on them.

Murdy paused, only the sudden blanching of his dark skin telling Fawkes that the statement had registered. "What new evidence?" he asked finally.

"The Campus Killer wasn't the one who attacked Nell," Bobby said quietly. "Are you sure you want this broadcast all over the neighborhood?"

Murdy hesitated indecisively, then stepped back, opening the door to allow them inside with visible reluctance. "What evidence?" he repeated as he shut the door behind them, crossing his arms over his well-muscled chest with conscious hostility.

"Sayles didn't attack Nell," Darien stated flatly. "We don't know for sure who did, yet, but we're pretty sure it was Hobbes' psychiatrist at the time," he informed Murdy. "We're working on proving it," he added.

Fawkes was unprepared for the man's reaction. Color drained away from his face, leaving it gray under the mahogany tones of his skin, and his arms dropped to his sides as shock replaced anger. "Oh, god. Oh dear god… She was right," he whispered, voice and expression stricken.

He swayed, and Darien grabbed his arm to steady him, concerned. "Hey, there. Let's just get you sat down," he suggested and carefully guided Murdy to the nearest chair, Bobby following after them. Fawkes crouched in front of the chair in which Greg Murdy slumped, eyeing the man worriedly. "What was that about Nell being right?" he asked.

Murdy looked at Fawkes, then up to meet Hobbes' concerned brown eyes where he stood at his partner's back. "Nelly…." he steeled himself and continued. "Nell and I had the mother of all fights the night she was attacked," he said sadly. "I'd just put my foot down and told her it was me or him," he nudged his head in Hobbes' direction. Glaring at the small agent. "I told her that I was sick to death of watching her throw away the career she'd sweated blood for, just to prove her theory that you were salvageable. From everything I'd seen at the time, and from what I'd heard -"

Hobbes snorted softly.

"- What I'd heard didn't make it seem like you were worth the sort of effort she was putting into you," Murdy finished sharply, then his expression went bleak again. "I'm sorry. It looks like I was out of line, now, and back then." He was silent for a moment, then continued. "Nell said you'd gotten a raw deal. She couldn't get you to talk about whatever it was that happened before she took you on, but she knew whatever it was, it was bad."

Fawkes glanced over his shoulder at his partner to see how he was reacting to this revelation. Hobbes' jaw was clenched, tension visible in every muscle. Darien looked back at Murdy, hoping for more details. "Why did she say exactly?" he asked cautiously.

"It's not what she said, you know? It's what she wouldn't say." Murdy closed his eyes and shook his head. "I hate the damned business," he sighed. "I'd been begging her to go back to the civilian sector for over a year. I could see how close she was to burning out… It just couldn't go on much longer. And then she got partnered with you," Greg said as he glanced at Hobbes again. "You were her prodigal son or something. She made you her cause. What the hell was I supposed to think?" he asked forlornly as he locked eyes with Hobbes.

The jealousy went unspoken but not misunderstood by any of them.

"It wasn't like that," Hobbes said after a long and awkward pause.

"I know. She kept trying to tell me that," Murdy answered. "But she spent so much energy on you.… She really worried about you, you know?"

Hobbes closed his eyes. "I know," he admitted. "She's a great lady. I can't even tell you how much she means to me."

"Meant," Murdy said shakily.

"Means," Hobbes countered, glaring at his former partner's husband with absolute conviction, challenging the implied loss of all hope. "I owe her, Greg. I owe her more than you'll ever know. And Bobby Hobbes pays his bill."

The two long-time adversaries reached a silent understanding in that moment, one that had eluded them for years.

"She told me, the night… the night she was attacked, that she was afraid your shrink was either totally incompetent or was deliberately trying to screw with your head." He shook his head regretfully. "Man, we fought over that. I was so sure she was getting involved with you, and she was so damned pissed at me…." Murdy looked up at Hobbes, eyes glistening with grief. "I was outta line."

Hobbes' half-amused, half-grieving smile was forgiving. "Hey, man, I been there," he said. "My own marriage was coming apart at the same time. I guess it's no surprise you got the wrong impression," he conceded.

Murdy stared at Hobbes, then shook his head ruefully. "I think I can see why she went to bat for you," he smiled slightly. He visibly squared his shoulders and locked eyes with Hobbes. "The night it happened, she'd told me that she'd gotten proof that your shrink was doing a number on you. She said she was going to do her best to try and get you away from him. Get you some real help." He shifted slightly and steeled himself. "She kept a journal," he told them, braving the disapproval that was bound to follow this revelation. "I never told the Bureau."

"Can we see it?" Darien asked gently, knowing that the emotional logjam between the two men was still in the process of breaking up.

"Yeah." Murdy got up and walked into the hallway that presumably led to the bedrooms. "I'll get it for you."

Darien rose to his feet, turning to face Hobbes, peering down at him with concern. "You OK with all this?" he asked softly, seeing the grim expression and noticing how the lines in Bobby's face had deepened.

"No, I'm not OK with all this, Fawkes," Hobbes sighed. "I'll never be OK with having a partner almost buy it because I was too whacked out to figure out what was going on."

"It wasn't your fault, Bobby," Darien said gently, knowing that for Hobbes, it would always be his fault.

"You keep telling yourself that, Fawkes. You go right ahead and tell yourself that. But both of us know better." Hobbes turned away, gazing around the neatly maintained living room, hung with ethnic art pieces, family photos, and yet somehow bleak. Darien touched him on the shoulder lightly, offering comfort, knowing it wouldn't help, but wanting to let Hobbes know he was there.

Greg Murdy returned carrying a leather-bound book and handed it to Bobby. "You'll bring it back to me, right?" he asked as Hobbes took it from him carefully. "It's all that's left of her, really," he added.

Hobbes closed his eyes in obvious pain. "Yeah. It'll get back to you. You got my word on it," he affirmed.

"Thanks for you help, Mr. Murdy," Darien added as he followed Bobby to the front door.

"Greg. My name is Greg," Murdy said to their backs as they opened the front door, and stepped back outside into the crisp October air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Claire looked up from her computer as the door of the Keep swept open to admit Hobbes and Darien. "Oh, good. I was just going to call you. Eberts and I have spent the last four hours working out a recreation of the assault on Nell and comparing it to the confirmed Campus Killer victims. I think the forensic evidence will corroborate the information we gleaned from our interview with Sayles," she informed them, getting to her feet and approaching them.

"Well, we may have another piece of the puzzle here," Darien responded, taking the journal from Hobbes and holding it out to Claire. "Nell's husband had her old journal, and he said the night that she was attacked, they had a fight. Apparently Nell was pretty sure Barry was up to no good, and was trying to get Bobby away from him."

Claire's eyebrows raised in surprise as she took the proffered book, opening it and scanning the entries at the end, looking for dates and comments. "It says here, that about a week before the attack, she called Dr. Barry. According to what she wrote, when she questioned him about prescribing Ritalin on top of his existing meds, he basically called her incompetent and told her to mind her own business. Barry told her that since there was no prescription record, there would be no way she'd be able to make a case for malpractice," she told them, looking up to meet two pairs of worried brown eyes.

"Crap," Darien muttered.

"Bobby, do you remember if that's true? Did Barry ever send you to the pharmacy for the new medication?" Claire asked Hobbes.

Bobby scowled and started to pace a line from the administering chair to the piranha tank, massaging the back of his neck as he struggled for recollection. "I wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders at the time, Keepy," he reminded her unhappily. "And I've spent a lot of the last five years trying to forget the details, you know?"

"I know, Bobby, but this is important. If Barry gave you samples, then there would be no record of counter-indicated drugs in your medical files. Do you remember how long you took the Ritalin?"

Hobbes shrugged, racking his brain for the information. "He started me on it after Nell and I got assigned to the Campus Killer case… Maybe 4 or 5 months." He paced some more, forehead furrowed, thinking hard. Abruptly, he turned to face the Keeper, an expression of enlightenment on his face. "Nell and I were on night shift, patrolling the State campus. I was taking my meds with the usual cold coffee swill you have on a stakeout, and she asked what the new one was," he told Claire, voice intense. "I handed her the package. It was one of those kind with the foil on the back that you push the pills through."

Claire nodded triumphantly. "Samples come in those blister packs. Prescriptions don't, generally. Certainly not Ritalin," she told them. "Alright. So Nell knew what you were on, and was suspicious of Barry and his motives in giving you Ritalin. Certainly as a psychologist, she had a good working knowledge of commonly used medications, so Ritalin would have been a red flag for her," she went on as she flipped through the journal skimming the entries. "There's no entry for the day of the assault," she frowned, turning to Hobbes again. "Do you remember what happened that day?" she asked gently, knowing this was likely to hurt.

Hobbes frowned and took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "I really gotta go through this?" he asked reluctantly, looking from Claire to Fawkes and back again like a child trying to avoid some dreaded chore.

"I'm afraid so, Bobby," Claire confirmed with as much reluctance as he'd shown. She grabbed the back of one of her rolling desk chairs and brought it to him. "Sit down. Relax. If we need to, we can use a little light hypnosis," she assured him.

Hobbes sat down in the offered chair and rested his elbows on his knees, hands fisted together under his chin. "I'd had daily sessions with Barry since Viv handed me the divorce papers the week before, but I still wasn't dealin' real well. Then there was the fourth vic who'd turned up the day after Viv… Nell, she was doin' her best to talk me through what was happening with Viv, the case, my paranoia, all of it, but I was halfway to Pluto. Nothing was helping. I was so sure something was gonna happen to Viv, I basically couldn't focus on anything else. Nell and me spent most of that day at the coroner's office waiting for the forensics on the last vic. I was kinda outta it, pacing the halls and stuff. Finally, she told me to go home, just take the night off and relax, maybe try and talk to Viv about stuff."

The sigh he heaved was shaky, but he went on. "So I left her to take a meet alone. The first rule of engagement, and I blew it off," he said bitterly. "Never bail on your partner."

"Did she say who she was meeting?" Fawkes asked, hitching a hip onto the edge of the administering chair.

"A contact. Someone who claimed to have seen something was all she told me."

"So it could have been Barry," Darien speculated.

"It coulda been anyone, Fawkes," Bobby pointed out, discouraged.

"So. You left and went to talk to Viv."

"Yeah, I went to talk to her. To make sure she was OK. She told me to get lost." Hobbes shook his head ruefully. "So instead of going back to my partner, I staked out Viv's office and waited till she left work, so I could follow her home, just to make sure she got there OK. The killer had only killed on campus, so I figured once she made it home, she was safe for the night…"

Hobbes paused, silent for a long minute, then continued. "If I'd known Nell was meeting whoever it was on campus, I don't think I'd have left her alone," he said softly. "At least that's what I've been telling myself the past five years," he amended.

"When did you hear about what happened to Nell?" Darien asked.

Bobby steeled himself, then answered the question. "Viv spotted me. She went totally nutso on me, called the campus cops. She wanted to press charges, so I got held up in the campus police station while they checked out my ID, made sure I was who I said I was…. That's where I was when the call came in. I was in a holding cell on the same campus where my partner had just been assaulted, being questioned as a possible suspect, cuz Viv wanted to make a point. That's where Zembach found me when the team came to cordon off the scene. He put me on disciplinary leave on the spot. Told me to go home, to consider myself officially off the Campus Killer case."

"Hobbesy, I'm sorry…" Darien reached hesitantly for his partner's shoulder, at a loss for what to say.

"Yeah, well, so am I," Hobbes sighed, staring at his friends sadly. "You really think Barry attacked her?"

Claire sighed. "I don't know, Bobby. I just don't know."

"That's what we need to find out," Darien said forcefully. "We need to talk to Nell."

"Fawkes, there's no one left to talk to," Bobby pointed out, the grief more audible.

Darien turned to Claire. "That whatchamajigger. Tell me how it works," he demanded.

"As I said, it measures brain activity in response to carefully chosen questions to test the presence of memory," Claire reiterated. "It won't work on Nell."

"Why not?" Darien asked insistently. "How do you know if you won't try?"

"Darien," Claire answered, "the sort of injuries she sustained would make it impossible for us to get any useful information from her," she said wearily.

"You don't know that, Claire," Darien insisted. "How do you know she doesn't see stuff? Hear it? You haven't even met her!"

"Neither have you, Darien," Claire retorted angrily, then saw the look on Hobbes' face as he stared at her. Hope, fear, the two were mingled in painful synergy. She threw up her hands. "Bloody hell! Alright!" She turned on her heel and picked up the phone, dialing. "I want it on record that I don't think this will accomplish anything," she insisted before turning her attention to the person on the other end of the line.

"Yes, hello. This is Dr. Claire Keeply, I believe you have a patient in residence by the name of Eleanor Mae Murdy?" she inquired forcefully, proceeding to regale the unsuspecting person on the other end of the line. "I'd like to schedule some tests..."

~~~~

Claire scrubbed a hand over her eyes, the gritty sandiness telling her she'd spent far too long awake and on the job. The results of the tests she'd ordered on Nell Murdy were beginning to trickle in, and she would never have credited it, had she not ordered them herself. Nell Murdy had proven responsive to both visual and auditory stimuli. It might just be possible to use the brain fingerprinting equipment to pinpoint any memory Nell might harbor of her attacker.

Hobbes and Fawkes walked into the Keep eight hours after they'd left it, ready to hear what her research had generated, exchanging snide comments and sarcastic digs that were almost normal in tone after the strain between them in the past few days. "Well I'm glad some of us got some sleep," Claire observed with mild irritation, tired and rumpled and in need of sleep, a shower and coffee, in that order.

They both shut up instantly, managing contrite looks. "Uh, you been here all night?" Darien asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Claire confirmed. "Someone had to monitor Nell's tests, even if only from here. Not to mention light a fire under the nursing home to get them performed in the first place."

Instantly, Hobbes went serious, intent on her next words. "So what did you find out?" he asked.

Claire heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her blonde mane. "Darien's suggestion that we use the brain fingerprinting equipment on Nell may actually be feasible," she informed them, watching Bobby's reaction carefully.

Hobbes froze, eyes widening. The first glimmer of hope in them made her speak up hastily. "There's no guarantee, Bobby, you understand that?" she said, then relented slightly. "It's just that some of her tests were more promising than I had any reason to hope, based on the initial scans done at the time of the injury," she said. "As I said, there are no guarantees that there's enough cognitive function to make the test viable, but at least it's worth attempting. If nothing else, it might be the last bit of evidence we need to prove Barry was responsible."

"That's fantastic, Keepy!" Darien grinned at her.

"What exactly is going on, here?" the stentorian demand came from the door of the Keep as it opened behind Fawkes and Hobbes to reveal the Official, Matt Brookes and Thomas Yoshida standing in the hallway outside, grim-faced and angry.

"Oh, crap," Darien muttered as he spun on his heel to find three disapproving glares aimed his way.

"Oh, bum," Claire sighed as Hobbes startled, flustered into awkward silence by the sudden appearance of authority figures.

"Would one of you care to explain just what the hell is going on?" the Official repeated, his chins quivering in outrage at having his morning routine interrupted by unwelcome visitors bearing even more unwelcome news. "Why are you snooping around in a case that was officially closed five years ago?" he went on. "And why did I have to hear about it from the Senior Agent in charge of the San Diego office of the FBI and the head of the Office of Professional Responsibility for the FBI in D.C.?"

"Uh," Darien managed, a model of witty reposts.

"Well, sir, it's like this," Hobbes started, the servile tone in his voice giving away his anxiety.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The conference table in the Official's office made the battle lines clear; Yoshida, Brookes and the Fat Man on one side of the table, Claire, Hobbes and Fawkes on the other, with Eberts hovering unhappily behind the Official's shoulder.

"So you're telling me you took it upon yourself to reopen a five-year-old case just so you could satisfy some kind of morbid curiosity about your partner's past?" Borden snapped at Darien in disbelief. "And you went to the FBI to revisit the deal you made with them so you could access Hobbes' records?" The Fat Man's fury was doubtless audible down the hall outside his office, and Darien glared back at him, refusing to be bullied.

"If I'd asked you what happened to Bobby at the FBI, would you have told me?" Fawkes asked rhetorically.

"That's need-to-know," Borden started, only to be interrupted by Darien's sarcastic response.

"And in your book, I don't need to know," he spouted off the standard response to any question that the Official didn't want to answer. "Well, that's where you're wrong, boss. Hobbes is my partner. I need to know." He leaned back in his seat with some of the cockiness he'd cultivated in an effort to annoy the Official since he'd returned to the Agency under his own steam. "Remember my deal?" he asked. "I'm doin' things my way, now. And my way means finding out what the hell happened to Bobby to get him stuck in this nickel-and-dime operation."

The Official opened his mouth to launch into some sort of angry response only to be interrupted by Yoshida. "It was a straight-forward case of negligence that got a valuable agent nearly killed," he snapped coldly. "The fact that the FBI got the Sayles case wrapped up as fast as we did is in no way due to any contribution made by former Agent Hobbes."

Darien straightened, leaning forward over the table intently. "Wrong, Yoshida. What you have here is a frame. Sayles didn't assault Nell Murdy." He leaned back into his seat again as he waited for that tidbit to register.

"That's ridiculous!" Yoshida countered indignantly. "That case was handled by the book, Agent Fawkes. Besides, who would have bothered to frame Sayles for Agent Murdy's assault? No one outside the case knew enough of the details to manage a convincing frame, and there's just no motive to support that preposterous theory!"

"Well, Hobbes knew enough," Darien pointed out calmly, locking eyes with the senior FBI agent.

"You're trying to tell me Hobbes framed Sayles for the attack on Agent Murdy?" Yoshida scoffed.

"No," Darien asserted pleasantly, "I'm telling you Bobby's psychiatrist did."

Stunned silence met this revelation, the three ranking agents exchanging shocked looks. It was a good thirty seconds before Yoshida could gather his wits to reply. "I think that may be the single most absurd theory I've ever heard in my life!" he snarled dangerously. "If that's the best you can do, Agent Fawkes, I'm afraid your days in the investigative field are numbered."

The snide tone did nothing to change the wry little smile that hovered on Darien's mouth, and he confidently crossed his arms across his chest, presenting the picture of relaxed conviction. "Oh, it's more than just a theory, Yoshida. There's plenty of proof. But the Bureau was only looking for the obvious answers. And if the obvious answers also just happened to get Hobbes railroaded into a section eight discharge from the FBI, then so much the better, right?" Beside him, he could feel Hobbes shifting nervously in his chair, and he bumped Bobby's knee with his own to try and distract him, as well as reassure his partner that he knew exactly what he was doing.

"You say you have proof," Yoshida stated flatly. "What kind of proof?"

"I interviewed Richard Sayles two days ago, using a new brain scan technique that registers the presence of memory in a subject when they are confronted with specific words and visual images. It proved conclusively that Sayles has no memory of Nell Murdy or the assault," Claire spoke up firmly.

"This just keeps getting better and better," Yoshida replied sarcastically. "And just what science fiction movie did this little gadget come from?" he asked snidely.

"From the research labs at the FBI's headquarters in D.C.," Claire retorted as Yoshida blinked in surprise at that revelation. "In addition to that, a detailed examination of the forensic evidence on the Campus Killer victims also shows that there is a distinct difference between the wound patterns of the first four victims and Agent Murdy's. It's fairly obvious, once you begin looking for discrepancies," she added with a hint of a rebuke.

"Sayles is right-handed and assaulted his victims with considerable strength. The person who attacked Nell was almost certainly left-handed. Though they used their right hand to inflict the blows, the pattern of tissue damage in Nell's case is noticeably different, signaling that whoever struck her was not as strong with their right hand as Sayles is. My bet would be that if Doctor Barry were to be examined, you'd find him to be left-handed." She glanced over the Official's shoulder to Eberts. "Actually, Albert and I worked on a computer reenactment of Nell's attack based on the FBI's forensic evidence, as well as the attacks on the first four victims. It makes it clear you were dealing with two different assailants," she went on, watching the Official's face cloud ominously at the mention of Eberts' involvement. She worried that he'd find some inventive way to punish his assistant unless she could succeed in diverting him.

"And then there's the words of Agent Murdy herself," Claire plunged ahead, refusing to be interrupted, opening the leather journal Darien had obtained from Nell's husband. "According to her journal, which was never admitted into evidence, by the way, Nell had begun to suspect Cyrus Barry of deliberate malpractice in his treatment of Agent Hobbes. Apparently, Barry had added Ritalin to Bobby's medications, only, because he'd given Bobby pharmaceutical company samples, there was no record of those meds in Bobby's medical history. Ritalin, in combination with the Lithium Agent Hobbes takes to control the mania associated with bipolar disorder is most definitely counter indicated. Though Ritalin is widely used in the treatment of Attention Deficit Disorder, something Bobby also mildly suffers from, when used with Lithium, it can produce a severe escalation of paranoia, inducing feelings of impending doom, disorientation, and inability to concentrate, or severely obsessive behavior. All of which were amply demonstrated by Agent Hobbes at the time. As a clinical psychologist, Agent Murdy was well acquainted with psychoactive medications and their appropriate use. In her journal, she writes that she confronted Barry about it on the phone less than a week before the attack and was essentially told to mind her own business. When she threatened to go to the state board with her complaint, he told her she had no proof, since there would be no evidence to support her claims. Nell's last journal entry is largely devoted to her questions as to why Barry would deliberately manipulate a patient into a psychotic episode." She closed the journal again and met the wary gazes of the powers that be across the table.

Darien put his elbows on the table and leaned over it. "The only thing we haven't figured out yet is why Barry would be messing with Bobby's head," he stated. "But the fact is, whatever his reasons -"

"I think I have someone here who can answer that, providing we can convince him to tell us," Alex announced as she strode into the Official's office and took up a stance behind Darien's chair. Hot on her heels came another suited man with an air of command. "This is Agent Gerard Peters of the CIA, executive assistant to the Director of Central Intelligence," she introduced her companion. "One of his agents came to pay me a visit when I started asking questions about the current whereabouts of Doctor Barry from some of my contacts in Washington," she said. "When I informed him that there was some concern over the fate of the good Doctor, I was told that it would be a wise decision to leave the matter alone. The fact that I insisted on pursuing it -"

"The fact that Agent Monroe refused to let it rest forced me to intervene directly to shut down her line of inquiry. Only she persuaded me to hear her out, as she felt she had some compelling evidence that Barry may have been involved in an attempted murder." Peters moved to the end of the table to take a seat, resting a briefcase on the walnut table. "I'm here to review that evidence," he stated, looking from one side of the table to the other.

An hour later, Peters, and the rest of the ranking agents as well, had seen the videotape Eberts had made of the reenactment of the assaults, read the journal entries, and seen the brain fingerprint evidence Claire had gathered from Sayles. The anticipatory silence around the table intensified as he prepared to speak. "All right, I'm willing to admit there is some circumstantial evidence to support involvement by Barry… but there is no direct evidence at this point to link him to the assault on Agent Murdy. Unless you can produce something more concrete, some piece of physical evidence, I'm going to have to insist that the case be dropped."

"Would eyewitness testimony change your mind?" Darien asked, the slight hint of attitude in his voice making Claire glare at him.

"Eyewitness testimony?" Peter's gaze sharpened as he focused on Darien. "Why wasn't it included here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because we haven't interviewed the witness yet," Fawkes explained sarcastically.

"What witness?" Yoshida demanded.

"Agent Nell Murdy," Darien informed them, satisfied at the disbelieving looks the suits exchanged among themselves. "She's the only one who really knows who attacked her. And I'll take any bet you want to make that it was Barry," he dared them.

"I was under the impression Agent Murdy had been permanently… disabled by the assault," Peters challenged.

"Well, it looks like someone's been operating on assumptions again," Fawkes taunted. "Claire had some tests run that show Agent Murdy may have recovered enough to try the brain fingerprinting thing."

"You'll need her husband's authorization for that," Yoshida put in his two cents worth, the smugness in his voice making it clear what he thought the odds of that were.

"We were just about to go ask him when you stormed the gates and started in with the red tape," he said, unfolding his lanky body from the chair and getting to his feet. "C'mon, Hobbes, let's go talk to Greg."

Hobbes scrambled to his feet, following Darien, catching him at the door. "Got your back, there, partner," he agreed firmly, and together, they headed out into the hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg Murdy paced a tight circle on the woven Bedouin rug that centered his living room. "You're sure?" he asked, looking back and forth between Darien and Hobbes with the same hope and fear warring in his face that Bobby had experienced. "This isn't some game you're playing, right?" he asked, the last lingering trace of old hostility rearing its head for the final time.

"Claire was pretty optimistic that there's enough improvement to make it worth trying this," Darien assured him.

Murdy heaved a shaky sigh, eyes filming over, and he brushed away the wetness that threatened to spill down his face. "I told that incompetent son of a bi…" he swallowed the curse and faced them. "About six months ago, I tried to get her Doctor to retest her. I swore I was seeing responsiveness from her when I'd visit her every day after work. He said it was wishful thinking. Wishful thinking! Like I'd wish for her to be in that place! But I swear, she's focusing on me a little, and she liked it when I started brushing her hair for her. She even twitches when I tickle her. God," the word was strangled as he struggled to get a grip on emotion. "She was always so ticklish… I used to tease her all the time about it."

Hobbes nodded slightly, waiting wordlessly for Murdy's decision.

"Alright. But I want to be there," Greg agreed at last, and the look in his eyes brooked no argument.

"Fair enough," Darien conceded. "We'll give you a call as soon as Claire has the time set up."

Murdy nodded fiercely, extending his hand to each of them in turn. "However this comes out, Hobbes, I just want you to know I'm sorry."

Bobby flashed a crooked smile. "Hey, man, you were just going along with what you'd been told. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I should have trusted Nell. She swore you were getting the dirty end of the stick at the Bureau, and she went to bat for you. Only I didn't believe her. I owed her better than that. Owed you better."

Bobby stepped close enough to lay a hand on Murdy's arm shoulder. "You can't change what happened. Neither can I. And I think both of us have spent way too long trying to pretend there was something we could've done to make it different. Turns out, we were wrong… All we can do now is make sure the guy who really attacked Nell is punished for that." He paused and smiled again. "And maybe help Nelly back into the world."

"Amen to that, brother," Murdy agree with heartfelt sincerity. "Amen to that."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nell Murdy's hospital room was standing room only that afternoon when Claire readied her equipment. Though the crowd kept their voices low, it was clear that Nell was conscious of their presence. Claire had drafted Greg into distracting his wife, soothing her with a familiar voice and hands while Claire settled the mesh skull cap over Nell's short hair and slipped polygraph finger caps onto her hands. She checked the heart monitors so that she could make sure all Nell's physical reactions would be recorded.

She had been keeping an eye on Hobbes when he first entered the room housing his former partner, fearing his reaction to the hideous scarring that had resulted from the attack. It was the first time Hobbes had seen his partner since that day, and Claire worried it would shake him badly.

She was pleased beyond belief when he had gone straight to Nell's bedside, bent to kiss her on the damaged cheek and spoken softly to her for several minutes before Claire had had to shoo him away so that she could set things up.

When the EEG equipment was calibrated and ready to use, she beckoned to Eberts who positioned a TV cart at the foot of Nell's bed, turning on the audiovisual equipment so it could warm up as Claire explained what she was about to do.

"The principle behind this particular test is based on research that proves that the brain exhibits certain patterns of electrical activity when retrieving memory, whether it's verbal or visual, or even auditory and olfactory. The FBI has developed a series of guidelines on using this completely autonomic reaction to gauge a subject's veracity when confronted with carefully constructed visual or verbal information. In this particular case, it also allows a non-communicative subject to be monitored for those same responses, enabling her to tell us what she remembers about the assault. Now, it is common for severe head injuries to produce an amnesia effect around the memories associated with the injury itself, but even in similar cases to this, there have been indications of a certain level of unconscious reaction on the part of subjects examined this way." She ignored Darien's impatient tapping of the foot, determined that this herd of non-scientists have at least a basic clue as to what they were seeing.

When she'd concluded the scientific explanations, she turned to Eberts, who waited patiently next to the AV cart. "With Eberts' help, I have assembled a video tape with a series of still images that are designed first to establish a baseline responsiveness, and then to determine her recollection of the attack. If one of you would kindly dim the lights, we can begin."

Obediently, Eberts flipped the light switch, shadows filling the room with an early twilight, only the last of the day's sunlight filtering through the blinds to light thins. "Now all of you have seen the tape I'm about to show Nell, so I would appreciate it if you could remain out of her line of sight during the test. Her responses are being recorded, and can be precisely synchronized to the video tape afterwards." Looking around the dim room for any sign of unanswered questions, she started the EEG and checked the time stamp shown by the laptop she had set up to capture results from all the monitors. "Are we ready?"

The first images that flashed on the screen were images of Murdy family members, friends, and a picture of Hobbes from his Bureau records with noticeably more hair than he had now. Claire checked the response pattern to these reassuring and non-controversial images, noting the distinct spike in the region of the prefrontal cortex that was involved in the storage and retrieval of memories. This was followed by a series of images of strangers, to test Nell's base negative reaction. When Claire was satisfied that she was actually getting a measurable reaction from Nell to these basic images, she began with the hard ones. The ones that would hopefully prove whether Cyrus Barry had been responsible for her injuries.

Initially, she wasn't sure if Nell was responding to these more problematic images. She had started with photos of the other four victims and pictures of the crime scenes associated with them. But when she got to the image of the administrative building in whose stairwell Nell had been attacked, any doubt was banished. Not only did the EEG registered her reaction, displaying a series of sharp peaks in the Beta wave reading, but her heart rate, blood pressure and galvanic skin responses all spiked with that image, and again with the three that followed, ending with a shot of Cyrus Barry that Claire had managed to dredge up at the State Board of Psychiatry Offices in Sacramento.

Nell was visibly agitated by the time the test had concluded, and Claire ushered the crowd back out into the hall, telling them she would join them in the conference room in a matter of minutes with the results. Returning to the room, she double-checked Nell, snatched up her laptop, and admonishing Greg to stay with his wife, she dashed down the hall to the conference room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, Doctor?" the Official barked at the Keeper as she entered the room. "What were the results?"

Claire set the computer on the long blonde wood table and turned it so that the other eight people at the table could see the screen. "As you can see, these readings here, here and here show an exact correlation to the images shown to Nell. She positively responded to Barry's picture."

"But you said yourself that she talked to Barry," Yoshida frowned.

"On the phone, yes," Claire confirmed. "But up until now there has never been any evidence to suggest that Nell ever met him in person," she pointed out.

"That still doesn't tell us why he would attack Agent Murdy and deliberately attempt to exacerbate Agent Hobbes' mental health difficulties," Yoshida protested.

Peters scowled as all eyes turned to him.

"That was your cue," Alex spoke up sarcastically, cocking an eyebrow at the CIA agent. "I'd say we've held up the burden of proof."

"Well, I can tell you some of it," Darien interjected with a certain amount of cynicism. "We ran into another one of Bobby's partners in a little 'government retirement community' and Carelli had a piece of tasty dirt on ole' Doc Barry. Turns out, he was a mole. And Jack Carelli ended up with his cover blown after Hobbes talked to Barry about a CIA mission back in '91."

"What?" Yoshida demanded, shocked.

"This can't leave the room," Peters prefaced his statement, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "The mission Agent Fawkes is referring to was the first inkling we had that there was some sort of leak." He massaged the back of his neck unhappily. "We barely managed to intervene before Agent Carelli lost his life. As it was, we lost him as an active agent, and for his own protection, we were forced to 'sequester' him," Peters paused to underscore the seriousness of his next words, "Under no circumstances are any of you to breathe a word about the government entity that takes care of compromised agents to anyone ever, not even amongst yourselves." Peters let the warning sink in for a moment, receiving knowing nods from the Agency personnel, and a frown of confusion from Brookes and Yoshida. He turned to face Hobbes unapologetically. "I don't mind telling you, Agent Hobbes, you spent a lot of years on our radar. We knew the info that blew Carelli's cover had to have come from you. We had you under a microscope for almost five years. We finally had to drop our surveillance on you when we couldn't turn up any evidence to link you to any known Soviet recruitment effort."

Bobby stared at the CIA agent grimly. "I knew I was being watched…. I just never figured it was my own team," he said bitterly. Long years of experience had honed his instincts and even though he'd been ridiculed for his conviction at the time that he was under observation, it was a belief that had never wavered. "So when'd I drop off your radar?" he asked Peters, ignoring the startled speculation in Fawkes' eyes where his partner sat in the next chair.

"When you left the CIA in '95, after that little accusation of an 'indiscretion' with the Ambassador's daughter in Santa Ruego," Peters informed him sardonically. "Barry was laying low, and then, after you left the CIA, we had another incident. Only this time, we lost the Agent whose operation was blown. Since you weren't anywhere in sight on that one, we had to rethink the source of the leak. We finally narrowed it down to Barry in the beginning of '98 or so. We were starting to close in on him, putting a sting in place to take him out. He must have found out and figured that since you were still one of his patients, and had been implicated in the first leak, he had nothing to lose by making you into a suspect again."

"So he messed with my meds," Bobby said bitterly. "Not to mention my head. And when Nell found out what he was doing and threatened to go public, he tried to kill her to shut her up," he concluded.

"Apparently," Peters admitted. "Only we didn't know about any of that until your partner stuck his nose in where it didn't belong and opened up a can of worms none of us knew the full extent of before."

"So you nabbed Barry and never made the connection with the Campus Killer case," Alex observed. "But why did you intervene in Hobbes' disciplinary hearing at the FBI?" she asked astutely. "And where's Barry now?"

"Let's just say that Doctor Barry won't be seeing the outside of the military prison at Fort Dix any time this century. The last thing we wanted was another scandal like the Ames case. If it had come out that a Department of Justice cleared psychiatrist was selling privileged patient information to the Soviet Bloc, our internal security would have been even more compromised than it already was. As we'd already had one crisis of confidence, another within two years would have seriously undermined the public's belief in our ability to do our job. We couldn't allow the Bureau to subpoena Barry to testify and have the whole thing come out. So the Director of Central Intelligence requested that the charges of negligence be dismissed. Agent Hobbes was put on psych leave, which the Bureau elected to turn into a dismissal…"

"Because we didn't have all the information!" Yoshida turned on Peters coldly. "You let an agent's career go down the tubes to protect your dirty little secret?"

"Well, I don't think the Bureau is really in the position to claim the moral high ground," Peters pointed out dryly. "You people did more than your share of character assassination on Agent Hobbes."

"We weren't in possession of the complete picture, Agent Peters," Yoshida defended the Bureau.

"This is so bogus!" Darien spoke up indignantly. "Hobbes has been railroaded through two different agencies because none of you figured out what was goin' on. You just set him up as a convenient scapegoat, and ruined his frickin' career, not to mention his life," he accused the pair of bickering senior agents. "Nothing's gonna erase that, but the least you people can do is clear up his record. Make it right."

"Fawkes." Hobbes spoke quietly, and Darien subsided, though reluctantly.

"I think we can arrange something along those lines." Peters stated firmly. "And we may be able to sweeten the deal a little, if Agent Hobbes would care to consider rejoining the CIA," he added, shooting a competitive look at Yoshida.

Hobbes snorted. "Thanks but no thanks, Peters. Maybe national security gave you the right to make my life into some bad melodrama, but I sure don't gotta walk back into the lion's den again."

"Hobbes!" Darien sputtered indignantly. "Don't blow this off, man, it's your ticket outta here."

Hobbes glared at his partner and Darien shut his mouth unhappily.

"I think the Bureau can offer an alternative, Agent Hobbes." Yoshida turned to Bobby. "I know your partner was approached by the Bureau a few months ago. This time, I think the offer should be made to you," he stated. "GS10, full benefits, full retirement…" he eyed Hobbes expectantly.

"Agent Hobbes!" the Official said sharply, the words a reminder, a rebuke, and simple disbelief that Hobbes might actually be considering a defection to greener pastures.

Bobby stood a moment, letting the offer settle into his consciousness, looking around the table at the range of expressions on their faces. Fawkes was bright-eyed, silently encouraging. Alex was poker-faced, but he knew her well enough to see the glitter of satisfaction in her eyes. Claire… eyes wide, she stared back at him. He couldn't read her. Eberts on the other hand wore the strangest expression. Mingled pleasure and something Hobbes could have sworn was regret. The Official's usual sour expression had only deepened as Yoshida's offer had been made. Bobby paused silently for a long moment and then beckoned to Fawkes. Darien moved to his side as they stepped into the far corner of the conference room.

"You rigged this, didn't you?" Bobby asked Darien, looking searchingly into first one brown eye then the other. "I told you once before, Fawkes. When Bobby Hobbes returns to the majors, it's gonna be on his own average."

Darien grinned back at him fondly. "Yeah, I seem to remember having this conversation before," he agreed.

"Dammit, Fawkes, I'm bein' serious here," Bobby scolded him.

"I know, Bobby," Darien reassured him. "So am I. I remember what you said. And when the whole CTD thing blew up in that bar last week, I started wondering just what the call was that got you benched. So Claire and Alex and Eberts and me, we just did some time with the instant replay footage so we could figure out what the umpires missed the first time," he said quietly. "It's your record, Hobbesy, it always was. We just set it straight."

Bobby considered this for a moment, recognizing the truth, but still battling with the feeling of being manipulated. Which was ironic, he supposed, given that this whole situation had been about manipulation from beginning to end five years ago. "So what about you, Golden Boy? Gonna take Brookes up on whatever offer you conned him into making?" he asked his partner.

Darien shrugged noncommittally. "Nah…. I don't think so, even though I gotta admit, yanking the Fat Man's chain has a certain appeal," he said wryly. "Here, well, I can do some good. People take me seriously, sort of, anyway. At the Bureau, I'd just be a one trick pony. Not much to do there 'cept make Brookes' boys' ballpoints disappear. They wouldn't let me near a case…. And I think I'd kinda miss that, you know?"

"Yeah, I can see that, my friend," Bobby agreed ironically, smacking his partner lightly on the arm as he stepped back towards the table, Fawkes following him.

He met Yoshida's eyes as he sat back down at his place across the table. "Full benefits, huh?" he repeated. "Including paid holidays?"

"Of course," Yoshida assured him.

"Agent Hobbes!" the Official repeated, voice razor sharp with angry disbelief. Bobby ignored him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eberts bend to say something to the Official, who was looking positively thunderous by now. The furrow on Eberts' forehead was a mingling of worry and consternation, and Hobbes could almost swear he saw a dose of shocked disappointment there as well, as the Official's assistant whispered more urgently into the Fat Man's ear.

"Three weeks paid vacation?" he asked Yoshida.

"That shouldn't be a problem given your length of government service," Yoshida agreed.

"Bobby!" the Fat Man's protest spurred Hobbes on.

Still focused on Yoshida, Hobbes considered this. "Make it GS11, and you have a deal," he said to Yoshida, then turned his head to face the Official. "As long as you throw in a total overhaul for the van," he added.

The look on the Official's face was priceless, worth the last five years of casual abuse and frustration. Darien, on the other hand was grinning like a fool, and Bobby responded to the low five he saw coming without breaking eye contact with the Official. As his knuckles met Fawkes' in a rap of celebration, the Fat Man buckled.

"Done," the Official snapped, surrendering to the inevitable. "Agent Hobbes, if you ever pull a negotiating stunt like this again…" the implied threat trailed off.

Bobby allowed himself a grin. "It'll be with a different agency," he replied, leaning back in his chair.

"You've got that right," the Fat Man muttered his displeasure. "Eberts!" he snapped. "I want a full quarterly statement on my desk as soon as we get back to the office," he demanded. Glaring across the table at Hobbes, he murmured under his breath, "it's going to take some fancy accounting to fund Agent Hobbes' raise."

"Certainly sir," was Eberts' flustered response.

Bobby succumbed to temptation and winked at the disconcerted accountant. "Well, Eeeberts, if anyone can handle the fancy accounting, it'll be you," he said, his grin countering the mocking sarcasm. "Oh, and I want that in writing, by the way," he commented in an aside to the Official, whose already mottled complexion went a deeper shade of indignant red.

"I take it this means you won't be rejoining the Bureau?" Yoshida inquired ironically, one eyebrow arched.

"Not at the moment," Bobby confirmed. "But I'll keep the offer in mind," he added, knowing it would further annoy the Official.

"By all means," Yoshida agreed, obviously well aware that his good faith offer had become a source of leverage. "It'll remain on file, and on the table, should you care to revisit it in the future."

"I'll remember that," Hobbes nodded his thanks.

"Do that," Yoshida suggested as he rose, followed by Peters and Brookes, and headed for the door.

"Eberts," the Official snapped. "I think we're finished here."

"Yessir," Eberts replied with alacrity, and eased the Fat Man's chair away from the table. Together, superior and flunky marched out of the conference room, the Official's displeasure radiating from him as he left. To Hobbes' surprise, Eberts paused for a split second in the doorway, turning to meet his eyes with a faint smile. "I'm pleased you elected to remain, Robert," he said simply, then turned and followed the Official.

Hobbes gaped a little, and he heard Fawkes chuckle.

"Don't look so surprised, Hobbesy," Darien teased. "Eberts is an alright guy."

"He was of considerable help in the forensic reenactment," Claire piped up, and Bobby glanced at her a little shyly, then at Monroe, whose grin was enormous. "And I'm as pleased as Albert is that you're staying with the Agency," Claire blurted impulsively.

Looking from one to the other of his friends, Hobbes smiled awkwardly, at a loss for words. "'Thanks' doesn't really cut it, you guys," he said. "But… thanks."

"You're welcome," Claire smiled charmingly at him, and then rose hastily and gathered her laptop, fleeing.

"What are friends for?" Alex commented as she stood, glancing at Claire's rapidly departing figure with apparent amusement, waiting for Hobbes and Fawkes to get up. When they did, she slipped an arm through each of theirs, and grinned at them. "Whaddaya say we blow this pop stand?" she asked, and Bobby grinned back.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Darien agreed, and together the three agents walked out into the hall, chatting amiably amongst themselves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

Hobbes paused at the doorway and self-consciously straightened, brushing imaginary lint from the front of his black polo shirt. Bracing himself, he entered Nell's new hospital room.

In the wake of her test results she had been moved to a different ward, and Bobby glanced around the spacious room appraisingly. It was a vast improvement over her previous one; the walls a pale yellow, the windows wide and overlooking the landscaped grounds of the hospital. He could even glimpse the ocean in the distance between the shrubs and palm trees. "Nice digs, partner," he commented to the still figure of Nell, who lay in her bed, gaze fixed on the window.

There were bright pictures on the wall, and several bouquets of flowers stood in vases on the available surfaces. He looked around briefly for an empty one he could use for his own floral offering, finding one and plunking his haphazardly chosen flowers into it, then adding water from the pitcher on the bedside table. He set the flowers on the windowsill where she could see them and returned to the bedside, pulling up a chair and sitting down. Tentatively, he reached for one fine-boned hand, taking it in his own and running his thumb over the knuckles that stood sharply under mocha skin. "I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you. You know it wasn't my idea to bail on you," he told her. "Greg and I kinda had a few things to work out. He's a good guy, your husband," he added. "But he sorta had the wrong idea about us, there, pal. We're square now, though. So you'll be stuck with another visitor."

Though Nell's gaze was still focused on the window, Hobbes could have sworn that there had been the slightest tightening of her fingers against his own. He squeezed back gently. "Yup, we got a lotta catching up to do, my friend," he told her, leaning back in his chair. "I got me a new partner, and a new Agency, and life's been pretty interesting the last coupla years. Fawkes, he's my new partner, he's a punk. You'd have a field day with him; a chip on his shoulder the size of Delaware, and he's the best thing that's happened to me in this biz since you picked me up, dusted me off and tried to get me back on my feet. I'll bring him by so you can meet him. I think you'll like him. Even with the attitude," he rambled, beginning to update her on all that had happened in the years since he'd seen her last.

Darien was waiting for Hobbes when he walked out the front doors of the nursing home into the brightness of an autumn day. He stood in the sunlight just drinking it in, thinking about everything that had changed since he'd last seen his former partner, then smiled faintly at his current one. He could see the faint worry creases in Fawkes' forehead and he walked down the stairs to meet him.

"So how's she doin'?" Darien asked quietly.

"They've got her in a new room. Brighter. Prettier," Hobbes commented as he fell into step alongside his partner, headed for the parking lot where the van awaited.

Darien nodded his approval and glanced at Hobbes, the subtle concern still there in his expression. "So how you doin'?" he asked, dropping an arm casually over Bobby's shoulder in wordless support as they walked across the parking lot.

Bobby thought about that as he unlocked the van and climbed behind the wheel. Darien clambered into the passenger seat, shutting the door and putting on his seatbelt.

"I miss her," he stated at last, putting on his own seatbelt and starting the van. "So you ready for the final exam?" he changed the subject as he pulled into traffic.

Darien let it go, laughing slightly. "Buddy, I feel like I already passed it, know what I mean?" he asked with a grin.

"My friend, I think you may be right," Bobby agreed with a grin of his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I can't believe you'd do this to me," Darien whined in disbelief as he stared at the massive copy machine that filled most of the floor space in the cubby that served as one of the hearts of Eberts' domain. It was an even toss-up whether the file archives or the computer control room won out over the copy room as Eberts' favorite refuge.

Hobbes shrugged, grinning evilly. "I warned you, Fawkes. When I had to go in after you to copy the McEvy file, I told you I was gonna put the fine art of copying on the exam."

Darien cast his best wounded look at his partner. "That's just wrong," he complained, sulky. "How often am I gonna need to freakin' collate?"

"Hey, a good agent is a master of all the tools of the trade. And that includes the Copymaster 3000," Hobbes asserted. "Look, Fawkes, you can handle a lock-pick, you even know your way around a gun now. It's a copy machine. Just ask yourself; how hard can it be?" he flashed another wicked grin at Fawkes. "Eberts can do it," he taunted.

"Oh, that was a low blow, Hobbes," Darien groused as he squeezed his way into the closet that housed the copy machine to peer at the digital touch control screen with growing panic.

"Ah, I see I'm just in time," came Eberts' voice from out in the hall as he came to a stop behind Hobbes. "I've brought a selection of documents of varying sizes, Darien. They should adequately challenge your knowledge of the basics of the Copymaster."

Darien looked over his shoulder at the smug smile on the face of the resident technogeek bitterly. "Thanks heaps," he snarked.

"I was only too pleased to help when Agent Hobbes requested that I design a suitable test of your proficiency with basic office equipment," Eberts beamed at him, and Darien turned his shocked and wounded expression on his small partner.

"You asked Eberts to design the test?" Darien wailed. "That's not fair!" he moaned. "The guy is the frickin' patron saint of copy machines!"

"So maybe you'd better start sayin' your prayers, huh, ace?" Hobbes grinned, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping back out of Eberts' way. "Let the games begin," he said as Eberts handed Darien the first item in the stack of documents, a legal-sized form that had to be an inch thick with pages.

"Three copies, please, Agent Fawkes. Color collated: buff, blue and goldenrod. Stapled." Eberts instructed firmly.

Darien stood there with the document hanging limply from his grasp, glaring at his two tormentors in the hall. "I am so going to get you for this," he muttered at them, turning to fumble helplessly with the machine's copy bed, wishing he had some clue which way to orient the original.

"Idle threats are unbecoming an agent of the US government, Fawkes," Hobbes grinned. "Hey Eberts. You remember the stopwatch?" he asked this partner in crime.

"Stopwatch?" Fawkes squeaked.

"Of course, Robert," Eberts confirmed, holding it up. "Ready, Darien?" he asked, pressing the button. "Go."

End