"Yeah. Sunday school every weekend for five years. Guess some of it stuck."
"So how come you're not kosher? You don't believe in God or something?"
"That's kind of a personal question, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I guess it is."
Darien went quiet, and Bobby nodded, because that was all right. They were here, at Ferretti's, and there was no point in saying anything more about it.
Sure, it was a personal question, and maybe he'd've answered it if he thought Fawkes really cared.
Hell, maybe Fawkes did care. He couldn't get a bead on him lately. They were off--not in sync. Even the witty repartee seemed a little forced. And it was not good as far as he was concerned. Bobby wasn't sure what Fawkes thought about it. He couldn't get a bead on that either. They didn't talk about it, like they didn't talk about the other thing they didn't talk about. The thing. His thing. For Fawkes.
Yeah, he still wanted Fawkes. *Hell*, yes, he still wanted him. But it was okay, not something that killed--to want him like that and to have him like this. More like a wound that kept oozing, that you put a dressing on and it was okay, nobody could see it, but it was there, and every night, you peeked and saw that it wasn't getting any better.
Until it started to get worse, and maybe then, they had to cut the whole thing off.
Yesterday, Darien almost got himself killed for no good reason except he was showing off. For who, Bobby wasn't sure. Maybe he was trying to prove something to himself. Or to the Keeper. Or to the new chick, the redhead, who wasn't so new anymore. Bobby didn't know, and didn't care, really, who Fawkes was doing it for.
He just knew that something was off with them, and he wasn't sure how to turn it on again, except maybe to stop caring, which he couldn't do.
^^^^^^^^^^
In the small circle of pain within the skull
You still shall tramp and tread one endless round
Of thought, to justify your action to yourselves,
Weaving a fiction which unravels as you weave,
Pacing forever in the hell of make-believe
Which never is belief: this is your fate on earth
And we must think no further of you.
Dismissed by old T.S. Ouch. Of course, Eliot didn't have a Quicksilver gland rattling around in his skull.
It was that dream again. Hobbes, staring at him, *right* at him, but he couldn't see him, and Darien knew, the way you knew things in your sleep, that he wasn't invisible.
He was jumping up and down, in the dream, making a total ass of himself, yelling, "Hobbes, I'm right here." And then, and this was the part that bugged him, he started to disappear. He could feel the cold of the Quicksilver, the glide of it, like sweat, like he was being suffocated, drowned--except the Quicksilver wasn't working. He looked down, and instead of disappearing, he watched as just his clothing faded out, leaving him naked, jumping up and down and naked. And he was still yelling, "I'm right here," when he woke up, in a cold sweat. With a hard on.
It didn't take a doctorate in psychology to figure out what that might mean. Beyond the fact that he wanted to be seen as more than just a sex object, that is.
Maybe it was just because he didn't think of guys that way, but Hobbes was...Hobbes. Not on his short list, even if he was that way inclined, which he was not. Decidedly, definitely not.
After all, Hobbes? Irritating, smug, self-important, short, balding, awful taste in clothes--awful *awful* taste in clothes--not to mention paranoid, which was definitely worth mentioning, highlighting, underlining twice.
Good with a gun, though. Loyal. Brave. And fun to hang with, when he wasn't saying something stupid (which was most of the time, but hey, sometimes the stupid stuff was funny.)
They were buddies. Pals. Partners. Friends, even.
At least they used to be. Ouch.
^^^^^^^^^^
The bullet whizzed by, and Bobby felt the heat searing the skin at the side of his neck and brought his hand up, feeling it come away sticky with blood.
Where the hell was Fawkes?
Where the *hell* was his backup?
"Fawkes! Send in the cavalry!" His voice, pitched loud for the bluff, seemed too small and hoarse and a little too desperate in the warehouse, swallowed up by the dim lights and the high ceiling.
No answer. Great. No cavalry, either. The Fat Man was too cheap for that. So it was just him and the tall guy, who was doing a pretty good job of making himself scarce.
Another bullet, this one nowhere near the mark, thank God. And yeah, he did believe. Hell, like he was always saying, *Someone* was watching you. Surveillance from the Man Upstairs, with technology the little guys could only dream of.
A little help from that department couldn't hurt right now. There were four guys playing on the other team, pinheads, all of them, but all of them a little younger than him, a little faster, and the only advantage he had right now was training and halfway decent cover behind a wall of steel storage containers.
Where the hell was Fawkes?
"Right here, buddy."
He turned, and his shoulder brushed against something cool and invisible. Thank god.
"Fawkes," he hissed, and got a bump on a shoulder in response.
"Yeah. What're we looking at here?"
"Four. One by the door, one somewhere upstairs, and one by the office."
"That's three. You said four."
"Did I?"
The sound of a bullet denting into a steel barrel made them both jump, and Hobbes nodded toward the far corner of the warehouse. "Looks like number four's somewhere over there."
"Huh. So what--we wait for reinforcements?"
"There are no reinforcements, Fawkes. Unless you know something I don't?"
"I don't know anything. I'm a mushroom. Do I look like anybody tells me anything?"
"You don't look like anything. I can't see you, remember?"
"Oh. Right. Well, that's a good thing, 'cause neither can they."
"You got enough juice to do this?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Well, no. Not really."
"Okay. I'll get the guy on the catwalk. You take the one in the office."
"And the other two? Fawkes--Fawkes?"
The stirring of air next to him was the only proof that Fawkes had already gone.
For the next few minutes, he just sat there, feeling like an idiot, squinting up at the walkway above where he knew Fawkes was. And then he heard a soft thump and a couple of grunts, and a body came crashing down onto the warehouse floor with a dull wet sound.
He didn't have time to look, because the bullets started to fly again, all of them directed up, hitting the staircase and the walkway.
He dove for the next pile of containers, bruising his shoulder as he came down behind them, and then rolling and crawling until he could just make out the shadowed shape of the guy behind the office door. He hoped to hell it wasn't Fawkes in there as he stood and raised his gun, wincing as the skin pulled at his neck, as he fired, the glass shattering around the bullet.
And then it was bang, bang, bang, three bullets flying out of his gun just before he dove for cover again, and he saw one, maybe two of them hit the target, the man in the office flinching and then falling forward. And behind him, he could hear more shots ringing out, and then a hoarse yell, and then quiet.
"Fawkes!" he yelled when he could catch his breath again.
"All clear."
"All right!"
But he didn't get up right away, because his heart was still racing, and it felt good on the floor. Cold, but good.
And then he didn't feel anything at all.
^^^^^^^^^^
"No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death: and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short." Thomas Hobbes was definitely onto something there.
No matter what they said about holistic medicine and patient-centered care, hospitals were founded on the notion that man could be subdivided into component parts, and that mortality was just a byproduct of those parts failing, one by one. And doctors, although they might like to think of themselves as gods, were nothing more or less than mechanics of the flesh.
"Hmm?"
"You awake?"
It was days like this that made you wonder if Frankenstein's monster didn't have the right idea after all.
"Hmmm. Yeah. Fawkes? I'm good. What time is it?"
"It's seven."
"Damn. Gonna be late."
"Hobbes. Hobbes. Calm down. You're at the hospital."
"Gonna be late for work. The alarm didn't--"
"Hobbes," he spoke softly, because somehow, hospitals called for that. "Hey, buddy, it's seven p.m. You're in the hospital. Calm down."
"Hospital?"
"Yeah. Hospital. You passed out. In the warehouse. After we got the guys, remember?"
"I did? We get those pinheads?"
"Yeah. We got them."
"Oh. Oh, good."
Hobbes lay back down. He was a little rumpled, but otherwise, he looked okay. They'd taken off his blood-stained shirt and put him in a hospital gown, and the only evidence of his injuries was a small bandage on his neck. Fawkes stared at it a minute, at the small spot of blood that was staining the white gauze, blooming there as he watched. Was it supposed to still be bleeding?
"Give me my chart."
"What?"
"Lemme see my chart, Fawkes."
Hobbes was sitting up again, so Darien got the chart from the foot of the bed and handed it to him, pushing him down with a hand on his chest. Hobbes's heart was beating fast, but not too fast (like he knew what was too fast) and his chest was warm through the gown, radiating heat. Fever, maybe?
Darien left his hand there for a second, just to make sure Hobbes didn't spring back up again. But he stayed put, and Darien took his hand back, even though it felt kind of good there.
He didn't have time to figure out why, because Hobbes was talking again, mumbling bits of medical terminology that Darien recognized from too many ER reruns.
"Translation, Doctor Kildare?"
Hobbes gave him that look that said, surely you jest. "Just a scratch, Fawkes. Coupla bruises. Soon as you find my clothes, we can get outta here."
"The doctor said you needed to stay for observation."
"Precautionary measures to cover their asses so I don't sue. Let me talk to them."
"Hobbes--"
"Getting out of here, Fawkes. Where're my pants?"
"Hobbes, maybe you should wait for the nurse to--"
"The nurse can kiss mine. Damned hospital gowns. Fine. I'll get my own pants. Turn around."
"Okay. Fine. Here. Don't get up. Just--stay there and I'll get you your clothes."
He turned his back as Hobbes got dressed, too late to avoid seeing more than he should've. And no, he didn't peek, and he didn't check him out. He just saw what there was to see. Some skin. No big deal.
When the nurse arrived, he let Hobbes do most of the talking. She argued, and then called the doctor, and *he* argued, but Darien could've warned him--there was no way they were going to win. Bobby threw out a string of statistics on concussion injuries, which Darien figured he was probably making up on the spot, and the doctor, some guy who looked younger than Darien, was so rattled--or maybe just disgusted-- that Bobby got his way--big surprise there. Then Bobby got the nurse back in and somehow managed to sweet-talk her into speeding up his discharge papers.
It was funny, but sometimes, Bobby could turn on the charm and and if you squinted, it was kind of...well, cute.
"Fawkes?"
He turned around, and Hobbes was looking at him funny, like this wasn't the first time he'd called his name.
"Okay. Ready to go here.
"Right. Okay. I'll drop you at home?"
"Yeah. That'd be good. Probably shouldn't drive with the--" Hobbes gestured at the neck bandage, the gauze new and white.
He was so out of it it took him a minute to register that Hobbes had actually admitted he wasn't safe to drive. He followed Hobbes as he was wheeled to the hospital door. Hobbes tossed him the keys and he started the van up and turned onto the road, driving on autopilot, trying to think.
By the time they reached Hobbes's place, he'd given up. He had only Occam's Razor to fall back on, and the answer, kind of like Hobbes himself, was pretty simple. Life, or maybe it was just Bobby Hobbes, was solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short. Sometimes, you had to be reminded of that for it to really stick.
"So, uh, thanks. Fawkes?"
"Yeah," he agreed, then realized Hobbes was waiting for him to say goodbye. "Yeah, look, you mind if I, uh, come in for a sec?"
"Sure. Sure. Come on in."
"Okay. Good."
He pulled the key out of the ignition, watching his hand going through the familiar motions. The same hand that had rested on Bobby's chest and felt...right. Good. Comfortable, like it belonged there.
Maybe this was another side effect. Quicksilver Madness, Part II. The question was, was he too far gone to seek help?
He opened the van's door and stopped to peer into the side mirror. Nope. Nothing a little Visine couldn't fix.
He looked at the snake, but he was still in the all-clear position.
All systems functioning normally, Captain.
Yeah, maybe so. But he was *so* screwed, it wasn't even funny.
^^^^^^^^^^
"You want some soda? Coffee?"
"Hobbes, I--"
"I got some beer, too. I'm having a beer. What can I--Fawkes? You okay? You're looking a little peaked there. Maybe you should sit down."
Fawkes took his advice and sat, abruptly, watching him as he downed one of the painkillers the doc prescribed last time he took a bullet. He stayed standing, leaning against the wall for support.
"You okay Fawkes?"
Fawkes nodded, but he didn't look so good.
"You sure you don't want a beer?"
"No. Thanks. I think...we should--hang on. Should you be drinking with the meds?"
"Trust me, Fawkes. These babies are kids' stuff. Children's aspirin's stronger than this."
"Oh. I.... Look, you probably need to get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."
"Yeah, sure," he agreed, even though he didn't really want Fawkes to go. The kid still looked kinda shocky. "You need to swing by The Keeper, get a refill of the stuff?"
Darien glanced at his wrist. Bobby did too, but he couldn't see the tattoo from where he was sitting.
"No. I'm.... Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking...."
When Fawkes didn't continue, he replied, "Good for you, Fawkes. Anything in particular that you'd like to share with me?"
"Us." Fawkes cleared his throat and looked down at the carpet. Bobby found his eyes drawn to the nape of Darien's neck--too high up for him to see except when Fawkes was seated.
"Us?"
"What we talked about? You. Me. You and I."
"You and me? You get hit on the head today, Fawkes? Because you look like shit, and you're not making any sense."
"You--you still want to, right?"
Darien looked up from the carpet and their eyes met. Looked normal there. A little bloodshot, maybe, but otherwise, no signs Darien was out of his skull. Bobby Hobbes was not the kind of guy to go nutso over a guy's eyes. But Fawkes' pair were nice when he wasn't doing his Mr. Hyde on you.
"Clue me in here, partner. What's really on your mind."
"I just--look, you still want me. In, uh, that way. Right?"
Time to play it cool. Once burned, fool me twice. "Uh, sure. Fawkes, you know. Whatever."
"Well okay. Good then. Good."
"Good?"
"Um. Yeah. Isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Isn't it?"
"If you say so."
Fawkes was looking at him intense-like, like he was missing something here.
"What--you saying you want to?--me and you--in, uh, that particular way that we spoke about?"
"Yes. Yeah. I do. Yeah."
"You want to have, uh, conjugal relations. That what you're saying? With me? Darien Fawkes and Bobby Hobbes?"
"Yeah."
"So you're offering me--what--a pity fuck? Because I'm telling you, it's just a flesh wound. It'll heal good as new. Give it a week or two."
"Huh?"
"I mean, I've heard of that Florence Nightingale syndrome--the whole Candy Striper romance fixation thing. Not a pretty sight, no matter how you play it. Overseas, I seen some nurses go blind and stupid falling for guys who should've had their heads bandaged and cut off they were so ugly. Stockholm syndrome, Munchausen's, lotta fucked up stuff out there. But I gotta tell you, usually the injured party in that equation's actually injured, which I am--"
A gasp from the sofa and he turned around and risked a sidelong glance at Darien, who was doubled over on the sofa. Shit.
"Hold on. I'll get you a bucket or something. Just don't move."
He got up and made it to the kitchen and back just as Fawkes was sitting back up, and as he got closer, he saw tears were running down Fawkes' face.
"Sorry. Oh, *god*. Jesus."
"Here. Hold onto this. I thought you said you were okay. Did you let those docs check you out?"
He handed Fawkes the bucket, then pulled the dustpan out of it and set it down next to the sofa.
"Thanks. Ah. But I'm not going to be sick."
"Good. Good. But hang onto that. Just in case, y'know." Fawkes was still gasping a little, and flushed.
"Hobbes."
"Yeah?" He sat down opposite Fawkes and picked up his beer, stopping and waiting before taking a drink.
"I'm not going to be sick. I promise."
"You sure you didn't get hit on the head or something while you were, y'know, invisible?"
"I'm sure. But thanks."
"'welcome and all that."
"What about you. You okay? No nausea? Blurred vision?"
"I'm good, Fawkes. Everything's ship-shape."
"Good."
"Good."
"I do care, y'know. About you."
"Yeah. Know you do, Fawkes. It's, uh, mutual." Damn, but he hated this mushy stuff. The least Fawkes could do was drink a beer while he said things like that.
"Yeah, yeah. It is. Mutual. Reciprocal." Fawkes's voice was soft, almost a whisper.
Bobby looked up from studying his own right hand--the short fingers, callused from holding a gun. "Hmm?"
"How about it? You and me. Right here. Right now."
"Fawkes."
"You and me," Fawkes repeated, and this time, he sounded like maybe he meant it.
"Mind if I ask how come?"
"I don't know." Fawkes shrugged, sitting back and crossing his legs, putting his arms on the back of the sofa. Bobby noticed that he was smiling, just enough to show off his dimples.
Not for the first time did he notice that it'd be easy to hate the guy if you didn't have a thing for him. Or even if you did.
"You don't know why?"
"Nope. I have absolutely no idea."
"But I'm not your type." Good one, Hobbes. Remind him. Argue with him. Change his mind, why don't you.
"Not even slightly."
"Not even slightly," he mumbled to himself, feeling a little light-headed. Maybe the painkillers were finally kicking in. Maybe it was the concussion. "Maybe you should talk to my ex before you commit yourself one way or the other."
"Too late. Already committed."
"Hmph. That a fact."
"Yes it is. So...."
"So. What? You serious about this?"
"Dead serious."
Bobby Hobbes looked at Darien, at his body language. He was good at reading body language, and Darien Fawkes' body was saying "fuck me" in the nicest possible way, no complications, no strings.
"You shitting me?"
"Do I look like I'm shitting you?"
Very tempting, but...hell, if he'd known Fawkes was going to say yes, he...well, he would've put clean sheets on the bed, for one thing. "You're really serious?"
Fawkes frowned, his long arms tensing up at the shoulders. "No, I'm shitting you. Jesus. Is there a code word I'm missing here?"
"You do code words?"
Fawkes blinked. "Um...yeah. Sure. I guess."
"Huh. Never would've guessed you for one of those. Kinky."
Fawkes's frown was edging into a smile. "Now you're shitting *me*."
"Yeah, Fawkes. You wanna make something of it?" He stood up and stepped around the coffee table.
"Maybe I do." Fawkes got up in one smooth motion from the sofa, and suddenly Bobby Hobbes was looking up into the face that haunted his dreams and coffee breaks.
"You want some of this?" He motioned for Fawkes to come and get it.
And Fawkes answered with some of that body language, those long arms coming around him in a pretty smooth move. And then he was pulled against Fawkes' body, their lower bodies pressed together tight enough that Bobby could tell that Fawkes was on the up and up. And up. Jesus.
He pushed his hips forward, testing out Fawkes's hold, and he was held tighter, still, and then Fawkes leaned in and down, and they were mouth to mouth, kissing like it was going out of style.
He shivered, a part of him thinking that this was when he usually woke up. This, or a few minutes later, when the come was sticking his pajamas to the sheets.
The smooth cotton under his hands was reassuring. In his dreams, there was nothing but skin under his hands--no khakis between his fingertips and Darien's perfect ass.
He thrust forward again, hard, and Fawkes stumbled a little, but then recovered, moving them both backward, walking them toward the bedroom door, their mouths still locked together.
He moaned, and Darien answered him with a soft sigh in his mouth, and a further scrape of lips against teeth, tongue against tongue.
Darien pushed him back onto the bed and rolled them over onto the side Bobby usually slept on.
"Hang on." He reached an arm out and found the nightstand, hoping like hell there were still condoms in there.
Sprawled out like that, Fawkes looked decadent. Yeah, Bobby Hobbes could read body language. Who'd've guessed Fawkes was a pushy bottom? Well, yeah, sure, he guessed that around the time Fawkes started using the pretty eyelash routine to get his way on the job. Figured he'd do it in bed, too. God, this was going to be good.
^^^^^^^^^^
Darien willed all the tension out of his body, or tried to, as Hobbes unbuttoned and pulled his shirt off. Robert Hobbes was never going to win any beauty contests. But what was beauty, really? Keats said it was Truth. *Cosmo* said it was a big pair of tits--the almost perfect symmetry of airbrushed plastic. But maybe it was simpler than that--hard-wired reactions to pheromones, primitive bonding rituals that boiled down to sizing up each stranger as friend or foe. Nature or nurture--different theories, all of them interesting, but in the end, it all came down to whatever floated your own particular tall ship.
Okay, so he was rationalizing, "weaving a fiction, which unravels as you weave," but the human mind was a tricky place, and he preferred to concentrate on the human body. After all, if his own libido had beaten down his better instincts and thirty-odd years of pretty successful heterosexuality and decided that Bobby Hobbes was on today's menu, who was he to argue?
He had to admit that, weird as it might be, he was definitely getting turned on here.
Still, there were some potential problems to work out. Like, could he live this down, work with the guy afterwards? What if it didn't work? Nobody was ever going to know, unless he or Bobby told them, and Bobby could keep secrets better than just about anybody. Unless Bobby was right, and "They" were watching every move you made.
His own philosophy came down to preferring the Police to the Secret Police. Not that you could really dance to either one, but sometimes, it didn't pay to sweat the small stuff.
Hobbes had a condom wrapper gripped in one hand and was staring down at him like he'd just shaken off the Quicksilver and appeared out of the ether and in his bed.
"So...you going to undress me, get this show on the road?"
"Damn straight I'm gonna undress you."
Not that he didn't know how to do his own buttons, but there was something awkward about stripping in front of someone for the first time. Hobbes was down to his boxer-briefs and looking perfectly at ease. Probably an act, but you had to admire it.
Darien kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks, just to get things started on his end of things.
With a little help, Hobbes managed to rid him of the rest of his clothing, staring down at him after stripping off his briefs.
"You are a thing of beauty, my friend."
"Uh, thanks."
"No, thank *you*."
"You don't have to thank me. Yet" He grinned up at Hobbes in lieu of complimenting him back. He didn't quite know how to say he thought Hobbes was, well, hot. Weird enough to be thinking it, much less acting on it.
He'd always figured, when he thought about it at all, just in the hypothetical and abstract, that if he ever had to kiss a guy, in the line of duty, or on a bet, he'd close his eyes and think of the lovely Ms. Kornikova. But now that he was doing it, actually mouth to mouth with his best buddy, he wasn't really thinking at all.
The rasp of stubble on his lips was strange, but other than that, it felt good, hot, and damned if he wasn't responding to it.
Hobbes was compact, shorter than most of the women he'd been out with recently. Okay, so maybe he tended to err on the side of models. Hobbes was definitely broader than most models. Not to mention hairier.
Jesus. Okay, maybe Ms. Kornikova wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Except.... Okay, time to readjust the self-image, Darien, because this was real, hot, naked sex, and Hobbes was *good* at it, at the kissing, the rubbing, the--Jesus, whatever the hell he was doing.
"Hmm. Bobby, hang on. Stop."
Hell, he was going to come if Hobbes didn't stop that--oooh, damn.
"What? What?"
The sensation stopped as Hobbes's hand left him, and he gasped as he realized that he'd just had Hobbes's finger inside him playing button, button, who's got the button.
And he was lying here, letting Hobbes do all the work, which didn't seem at all fair.
"No, that was...that was good. I just--wanna try something. Don't look down, okay, or you'll freak."
Wrong thing to say, since Hobbes looked just as Darien's hand, wrapped around Bobby's dick, disappeared.
"What the--oooh, shit. Damn. Fawkes, my--!"
"Yeah. Don't worry. I got you."
Hobbes shut his eyes, and Darien concentrated on his hand, on the warmth in his cold hand, on the familiar feel of palming and pulling.
"Like being swallowed by a--"
"Yeah. Yeah. I know. Pretty great, huh?"
"Ooh. Oh--"
Hobbes shuddered, grabbing hold of his shoulder and squeezing hard as he came.
And then Bobby's hand was closing around his own cock and starting to pump him, and he shifted on the bed, spreading his legs--fucking hell, he was really asking for it--and Bobby's other hand was back inside him, and he lost it, then, felt the Quicksilver start to glide over his body, felt himself disappearing entirely.
"Fuck!" he yelled as he came.
And then he was coming back down, back into himself, and he pulled back, shaking, the Quicksilver falling around him like confetti.
^^^^^^^^^^
"That was beautiful," Hobbes whispered, still in awe.
"Hmmm."
"Beautiful. Like--like--you know what I mean?"
"Was there, Hobbsey."
"No, I mean-- Fawkes, have you ever watched yourself, y'know--"
"What? Going invisible?"
"No. Yeah. I dunno. Man, that was something. Something else. Beautiful."
^^^^^^^^^^
Darien woke up to Hobbes staring down at him in the dark, his warm body pressed close. "So...Fawkes. You really straight?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I am." Strange, but true. This hadn't changed that.
"Oh. Huh." He felt Hobbes pull back, and he shivered as the sweat pooling between them started to evaporate.
"Yeah. I--" He hesitated, changed his mind.
"What?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
^^^^^^^^^^
Bobby nudged Fawkes, who had closed his eyes. No way was he ready to sleep yet. Man, he was wired, not tired. That was-- beautiful. Just beautiful. Weird. But beautiful. "No, what?"
"I-- I just don't think I can give up women. Seeing them. Touching them. Sleeping with them. I just--"
"You think I want you to give up women?"
Like watching a star falling, like staring up at the sun during an eclipse when you were supposed to keep looking at the wall, at the shadows, but you had to--you just had to turn around and see for yourself.
"You don't?"
"Nah. Forgetaboutit." Burn me twice, shame on me.
"Oh. Well, good. I was afraid you might not--"
"Understand? Sure, I gotcha."
"That's, uh--good."
"Whatever. You feel like it, or not."
"All up to me?"
"All up to you. Whatever."
"Oh. Uh--"
"G'night, Fawkes."
"Yeah. Night."
Bobby Hobbes pulled up the blanket and drew it up to his chest, suddenly feeling a little cold. The room was warm, but maybe it was still powerful, still doing its thing--that magic disappearing act he'd watched Fawkes do--the spent Quicksilver scattered on the sheets like ashes.
^^^^^^^^^^