Disclaimers:
Summary:
Warnings:
Notes:
|
"
by
I just want to feel safe in my own skinI just want to be happy againI just want to feel deep in my own worldBut I'm so lonely I don't even want to be with myself anymore
***
You know, it's funny how things change. Look at me. Small-timer, all the way. In everything I ever did. Grades in school were average, I was never good enough at one thing to have any direction in my life.
I'm not even a good thief. Actually, I'm pretty lousy. If it weren't for this thing in my head, I'd still suck. As it is, invisibility only does so much for you. I've still been caught a couple of times, made mistakes, lost things.
I suck. Really. It's not bragging, I am honestly lousy at just about everything.
Still, I'm pretty happy. I've always been happy. I was happy being a goof in school. The other kids liked me, and days there were fun. So who cared if no Ivy League schools were knocking down my doors.
And sure, I was a lousy thief. But it was a hell of a fun way to spend time. One good day at my job and I could take a couple of weeks off, enjoy the fruits of my labors. I was never a druggy, never had any big bills. Didn't have to worry about student loans since I didn't bother with college. Was never even offered credit cards, so don't have those to worry about. I was living for the day, paying for me and myself, and that was it.
No responsibilities, no big cares. It was fun. I was a fun guy. Still am, for the most part. That hasn't changed.
Everything else -- completely different. Suddenly I'm working for the government alongside driven, intense people all gung-ho about this patriotism and crime-fighting and everything else. I am partying with the enemy, ladies and gentlemen.
Suddenly the fate of the world's resting in my hands.
Okay, exaggeration. But a couple of times it's come close. I've brought down bad guys, stopped plots, captured assassins, snipers, gun-runners. Real bad folks. I've put away a known mob boss, saved lives, been shot, gone mad, gotten better.
It's kinda weird. Suddenly I've got the responsibility of being a hero, trying to help people. I have the responsibility of knowing there's this thing worth seventeen million dollars...one more time, for those who don't appreciate the amount -- *seventeen million dollars*...inside my brain. If I go invisible too often, or get hurt too badly, or bonk myself in the head wrong, suddenly I've cost someone seventeen million dollars. Do you realize how many zeroes would be on that check? Do you know how much break-and-enter I'd need to pull to raise that much?
Damn. It's an itchy feeling. I don't like it. I don't like this life.
Yeah, you know, I think I can say with all honesty that I really don't like my life. I'm still happy, more or less, but it's hard to be that way.
All of the sudden I'm different. I'm a freak. My gal leaves me because of what I am, and what else do I have? I can't make new friends without answering a bunch of questions about myself that I just can't answer. I sure can't get serious with anyone. Too much mystery in my life now.
I'm one big walking mystery. It's a pretty lonely life.
Well, I can't say that. I have Claire. Now that she's loosened up and she can show that she cares whether I live or die, she's almost a friend. We might get to be pretty close, me and her.
There's Hobbes, though I don't have much in common with that guy, and I'm pretty sure he still resents my presence.
Charlie Official. The way the guy lectures me I swear he thinks he's my father. It's almost sweet.
Eberts. Well...Eberts.
So yeah, a good crew. A little too serious for my taste, though I know at least Hobbes can lighten up now and then.
So I'm happy.
Really. Honestly, happy.
Man, I'm trying way too hard to convince myself of that.
A sign? Maybe I'm not that happy.
Of course I'm not that happy.
Whoa. Epiphany time. I thought I was alright, but...
But how could I be? I'm over thirty, playing secret agent in a life that doesn't belong to me, and the closest thing to a friend I have is a mentally unstable agent who doesn't talk to me off duty anyway. I'm in constant danger of being killed, of going nuts, of this foreign presence in my brain harming me in some new and creative way, like it did with Simon Cole trying to take over my body.
What do I have to be happy about? My life isn't my own anymore. Nothing about me, not even my own body, belongs to me. It belongs to the government, to the Official. To science and research and development and all that other crap my brother decided I should become a part of.
My life's a joke. A science fiction tale that would make people laugh if I tried telling them.
I'm lonely. I need people. I crave company. I'm a social person, and the last few nights I've been at home reading psychiatric journals and stale books full of pointless quotes by guys who're all dead and buried.
Wow. Guess I'm not that thrilled by my own life after all.
Worst thing about being alone so often is that there's nothing to do but think. And too much time thinking always leads to thoughts that you never want to find yourself thinking anyway. Stupid, self-pitying thoughts that make you depressed and miserable.
I need contact. I have to talk to someone before I go insane in a non-gland-induced way.
The phone's to my ear and ringing before I really stop to think.
"Hello?"
"Hobbes." The name isn't as much a greeting over acknowledgement of the number my fingers dialed.
"What's up, Fawkes?"
Oh. Well, I got him on the phone, I guess I can make something of it. "Nothing much. I was just sitting on my ass at home, and I don't wanna do that anymore." Alright, Darien. The truth. Interesting concept -- let's see how it plays out. "How about a burger or something? My treat."
Hobbes takes a minute. "I don't know, kid. It's late."
"Late?" My eyebrows go up and I sit back on the couch. My fingers aimlessly play with the phone cord as I glance over at the clock radio near my bed.
"Yeah. Late."
I see the time and grin. "Bobby, it's nine o'clock. Give me a break. I've spent time with you, Wild Man. I know about your bar-hopping and crazy life. Leave it for one night and hang out with your partner."
"I can't." He sounds serious.
"Why not?"
And now he sounds almost threatening. "You know what curiosity did to a certain feline, don't ya?"
I almost laugh, but I'm just annoyed enough to stop myself. "Bobby. Stop with the private secret-agent-man schtick. You got plans?"
"Nope."
"Then...what?"
He breathes into the phone heavily. "Darien...find someone else."
It hits me. He sounds pretty off. Sure, me and Bobby aren't the closest of friends, but we are partners. We've fought back to back, saved each other a few times, and grown to depend on each other. Despite the grudges both of us have, we've gotten relatively close. And I know him well enough to know that something's bothering him.
"Bobby. What's wrong?"
His answer is what I expected. "Nothing,"
"Jeez, you drive me nuts. What's wrong?" I roll my eyes back and let my head fall against the couch. I might be here for a while if he's in Stubborn Jerk mode.
It takes me a minute to realize he didn't answer. "Bobby? Talk to me, buddy. You need anything? Need me to come over?"
"No."
I sit up at that. Way too fast, almost panicked. Is something really that wrong? I didn't expect to get into some situation with my partner. I just needed to break the silence. But if he's in trouble or something, I want to know. I want to help.
"I'm good. I just need some down time."
Something occurs to me. Bobby and I have never really spent time together outside of work. We go to lunch together, but it's always been more convenient than anything else, and we mostly talk shop.
In fact, the only time I've been with Bobby after hours was the one time we had to stay together. And I know thanks to a few phone calls on past nights that Bobby doesn't leave his apartment that often, no matter what he tried to pass off that night as his normal routine. "No one ever said you can't have down time with someone else around," I say in experiment.
It makes him madder than it should. "Darien, drop it! I just don't want to hang out with anyone. If that's not good enough for you, I don't give a shit. I want to be alone."
His voice is loud now.
But his words get to me. I forget the anger and sit up straighter, thinking about it.
Bobby's alone right now. He's probably alone most nights. The only time he's mentioned a relationship was the one with his ex-wife. And that's sure over now. She's Mrs. Brock by now, no doubt. "Bobby..."
"What?" he snaps back.
It hits me. He's probably miserable. Even more than I am. Bobby Hobbes is never one to get close to people. It took us a long time to warm to each other, and we were together for ten hours a day. Bobby has a hell of a shell he doesn't like to let down.
I wonder if he's really let it down with anyone. The ex?
I don't know.
"You're the loneliest person I know," I say finally with some kind of amazement. He is. He's defensive and closed-off, and he's got to be lonely. Lonelier than I am, and that's pretty damned bad.
I stay quiet, waiting for his answer. Come on, Bobby. Talk to me. I'm your partner. We have to trust each other at work, why not here too?
No one went to the hospital.
That occurs to me as I sit in silence waiting.
He was dying. He was going to be permanently brain-damaged. The doctors surely have some kind of chart on him. I know he's been hurt in the line of duty before. They had to know some numbers to call. Bobby's family, friends, even Viv.
But no one came. No one called while I was there, and not one card was sent to the bedside of a man who could have dropped dead thanks to his injuries.
Bobby might have died there. And no one would have been with him.
There's a soft electronic click in my ear, and I hold my breath, hoping it wasn't what I think it was.
It was. A moment later, a dial tone sounds out.
I hang up a moment later.
That was strange. Five minutes ago, I was hardly thinking of him. Now I suddenly have this whole realization about my partner.
Maybe he's not the smug little guy he makes everyone thinks he is. Maybe he's got a soft little underbelly just like everyone else.
In fact, maybe he's worse off than most. Than me. Maybe I got no call to feel sorry for myself after all.
But you know the good thing about this? I'm lonely lately, and he's obviously chronically alone.
So what's the cure for our problems? It's too easy. Two birds with one stone. We don't have to be lonely if we got each other, right?
He's not the first guy I'd choose to spend my time with, but he's not the last. In fact, if I can get to him, make him realize he doesn't have to hide everything from everyone, he might just be good company.
I grab my keys and head for the door.
The Invisble Man is the property of Stu Segall Productions.
All series, movies and characters are the properties of their respective owners. No infringement of those rights is intended. All fics on this site are the copyrighted property of their respective authors.
Site and design copyright © the other g.m.
All Rights Reserved.
