Disclaimers
This is the beginning of something. What it is, where it will go, only time will tell...
I love the humor in The Invisible Man. That tongue-in-cheek attitude is one of the most winning features of the show. But I can't write humor, really. So this isn't quite in the spirit of the show. Sorry, guys.
Finally, most of these folk belong to the SciFi Channel. The rest are mine, except one, who belongs to, umm, I'm not sure. But not me. I borrowed him briefly 'cuz I thought they would be so well matched. Apologies to certain 'shippers. I jest writes 'em as I sees 'em.
On your mark...get set...go.
For the Good...
You know what they say about the good of the many, how it's more important than the good of the one. Well, maybe sometimes that's true. But sometimes, some people...
As a friend of mine would say, it's crap.
***
There was a room, four walls, a ceiling, a floor, a single door always locked.
There was a man in the room. They rarely allowed him outside for any length of time. When they did, he often forgot those moments. Often, too, he didn't realize he was still in the room. After all, he was insane, most of the time.
When he wasn't, he tried to escape. And he would make himself remember where he was, why he was here, as much as he could recall, as much as he knew.
They had betrayed him. That was what he remembered.
Only somehow he couldn't make himself believe it.
The door opened. A doctor in a white labcoat entered.
Maybe a stranger. He couldn't recall if he had ever seen this one before. It took conscious control not to leap at the man's throat, control he only barely managed, and that an effort so great his hands shook.
"Feeling better today?" the doctor said, blandly, though he knew the danger. "Is it getting any easier?"
"Go to hell."
The doctor didn't respond. They never did. "You've shown admirable discipline. But it would be easier on you if you simply capitulated."
"Go to hell," he repeated.
And this time the doctor looked him straight in the eye, unflinching. "You're already there, you know."
Of course. They had sold him out, handed him over to these soft-spoken devils in their sterile white coats. This was the abyss, fifteen feet square, with padded walls and no windows. There was no escape from here. There was no hope.
But somehow, as painful as it was, he couldn't make himself believe that, either.
***
She was so engrossed in her work that she nearly didn't hear the doorbell, almost decided not to answer it when she did. But that would be suspicious, when they would know it was too early for her to have gone to bed.
She drew the cover over the table, removed her labcoat, and shut the door to her study. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she crossed her apartment and opened the door just as knocking began. "Yes, who's--"
And stopped, blinked at the tall man on her stoop. "Eggy? What are you doing here?"
He blinked in turn at her abrupt surprise. "I'm sorry, if this isn't a convenient--"
"No--no! Come in." She took his arm and drew him inside, stood on her toes to brush her lips against his in a more welcoming greeting. "What does bring you here? I don't mean I mind in the least, but you're practically the last person I expected to see--"
"My colleagues and I came to LA on business," he explained, "and since we haven't even conversed on the telephone in over a month, I hoped to see you in person. Perhaps provide a pleasant distraction." He held up a folder of papers. "An associate obtained these. They are a pair of preliminary studies to be published in _Science_ later this year; I thought you might appreciate an advance service."
She smiled and accepted the folder with as much eagerness as many women would have for chocolate or flowers, and gave him a longer kiss to show her gratitude. A week ago she would have been thrilled to see him. It had been too long, and she had been lonely of late. But now, when she was so close...
He sensed it. "Claire, if you're busy, I can come again tomorrow, or whenever would be best."
He would probably fly out from New York if she asked it. She had known him for almost a decade, but in ten years they had never done anything to formalize their intimacy. Both scientists, both separated from normal people, normal relationships, by their obsession as much as by their genius, they found in one another a kindred need. Their science and their work came first, and neither took offense at the other's priorities. All the same, what they shared was precious to both.
And she knew she could trust him, as she could trust only a very few others. "No, stay, please," she said. "You might, if you're willing, be able to help me with something."
"Of course," he agreed instantly. "What is it?"
"I'm working on a project. On...my own time." She saw him cock his head and nodded in answer to the unspoken question. "Yes. Without the sanction of my superiors."
"Ah." He passed no judgment, simply waited for her explanation.
She didn't know where to begin. "Here, it'd be simpler to show you." Taking his hand, she lead him to her study.
At one time the room had contained a small television, a desk she rarely used, and shelves of books she had no room for elsewhere. All of this had been relegated to a far corner in order to make space for the lab table, refrigeration unit, and various esoteric equipment, including an electron microscope and several cages of rats.
He examined the displays with interest, adjusted his glasses and poked his long nose into the racks of test-tubes and piles of computer printouts. "So what are you trying to synthesize?"
She sighed. Clasped over her chest, her hands tightened. "A counteragent."
"A counteragent? What is it intended to counter?"
"A mistake." Her eyes fell on the rows of tubes, most of them empty. She wasn't seeing the glass at all, nor the colored liquids within. Before her mind's eye memories flowed by, of needles and pain and stark desperation. She shook her head. "No, not a mistake. A crime."
She could hear his anxious questions, could hear her own pleas later, asking, begging to be allowed to continue her work. To be able to put right what her colleagues had wronged. "A sin."
The touch of his hand against her cheek restored her balance. She leaned her head into his shoulder, grateful for the release, to be able for a moment to drop the barriers she had necessarily erected around herself. His arms wrapped around her, demanding nothing, only giving the comfort of warmth, shelter. It was an illusion, that anything could be put right by a simple hug. But it strengthened her.
"We made a gland, a synthetic organ," she said. "We implanted it in a man. It worked as it was supposed to, but...there was a problem. One of our scientists was a traitor. He sabotaged the project."
"This gland--what does it do?"
"I can't tell you, not what it was designed to do. That's classified. What it's not supposed to do...that's what the original counteragent was for. But it...lost its efficacy. I've been trying to make a variation of that formula, though just lately it occurred to me, what if instead of making another counter, a neutralizing agent, why not design instead an epinephrine inhibitor. Dangerous, but at this point his system has probably been saturated for so long--" She stopped. "I'm sorry, I know you don't understand--"
He smiled. "It's all right. I'm accustomed enough to no one understanding my own discoveries; it makes for a pleasant change not to understand someone else's. Besides, I did follow most of that." Blue eyes went piercing behind the round-framed lenses. "This concerns your project of the last few years, does it not? The one you haven't been able to tell me of?"
"Yes," she said. "And no. Officially, it's no longer my project. He--" She swallowed, continued. "It's no longer under my agency's administration. Officially, it's no longer my responsibility. But it's not a matter of duty. It hasn't been for a long time. Now it's matter of...of..."
"Friendship," he said, and raised an eyebrow at her expression. "Yes? I haven't seen you this worked up about anything since Gloria's recovery." She had told him all the details of that case, once its classified status had been lowered. "You've mentioned him to me before. Daniel Falkner, isn't it?"
"That's an alias," she said quietly.
"I wouldn't have expected otherwise. I do not need his real name to understand."
"You shouldn't be jealous."
He looked honestly affronted. "Of course I'm not. To begin with, we agreed early in our association that we would not be. I've gone on several dates in the past year; I assume you've done the same. Our work does leave us occasional moments of free time. If you ever were to find someone well suited to you, I would be happy for you. I believe you'd feel the same for me if the situation were reversed. I enjoy all the time we have together, little as it is, and will never regret it. I couldn't. But I understand we lead separate lives."
He embraced her again. "But beside this, nothing you've said has given me any reason for jealousy. You aren't in love with him, any more than you are with me. Less, I think. But he's your friend. Believe me, I know how much friendship is worth." He tilted his head to look down into her face, and his eyes glowed warmly. "I couldn't love you like this if you didn't understand. So, what can I do to help?"
***
It was a Friday. It was past five o'clock. Enough was enough. After ten minutes of standing in place, useless as a fur coat on a cat, Hobbes cleared his throat. The director looked up from his perusal of the report. He studied the two agents standing silently before his desk, and finally nodded curtly. "Good job."
"Thank you, sir," Lewis got in quickly. "It was nothing we couldn't handle." Though I could have handled it better alone, his sideways glance at his partner seemed to suggest.
The director's dark eyes flicked between the two men. "You're dismissed," he said.
"Thank you, sir," Lewis repeated. Hobbes was already heading toward the door.
The elevator took long enough to arrive that the other agent caught up with him. They didn't exchange a word on the ride to the ground floor. When the doors finally slid open, Lewis turned to him. "We'll need to prepare a cover report for the screen office. I'll have it done by Monday. Make sure you're here early to sign it."
Hobbes shrugged. "Yeah, whatever."
Lewis's eyes narrowed. "I'd leave all the paperwork to you, if I thought you'd bother to do it at all. That kind of half-ass bullshit you might be able to manage."
Give it a rest, kid, Hobbes was tempted to say. He'd been writing reports most of his life. This jerk didn't know how easy he had it. Making up false reports for the records of the FDA required less brains than a retarded frog. Hobbes would love to have seen Lewis trying to justify an Agency mission under the auspices of the Department of Fish and Game. Now that had taken some real creativity. All they needed now to write a convincing record was a list of illegal substances.
There were other advantages to the Agency's changed cover. He had a better office in the new building, with a great view of the skyline. And the Agency had profited. Better equipment thanks to the bigger budget. They'd even expanded their operations in several areas.
It didn't make up for what they'd lost. Not by a long shot.
"See you Monday, partner," Lewis said as they exited the building. The acidity in the final word was enough to wither the plants on the main desk.
"Have a good weekend," Hobbes replied serenely. "Go shoot yourself on the firing range," he added under his breath.
Lewis might or might not have heard. He didn't respond, only marched to his black BMW and slammed the door shut behind him.
Hobbes climbed into his own car, a silver Taurus like the ones he used to drive way back when still with the Bureau. A few years old, but dependable and fast. The upgrade was courtesy of the Agency's budget increase.
Lewis was navigating a turn, cautiously to keep from scraping his finish in the narrow lot. For an instant Hobbes considered pulling out immediately, ram the man's precious Beamer and hopefully demolish both cars. The Agency could afford to get them new ones. With a bit of luck they'd both sustain minor injuries, score a couple weeks' sick leave.
Nah, wouldn't be worth the paperwork. He watched the sleek vehicle roll past, gave his partner a sarcastic wave.
Partner. Now there was a joke. He'd had a partner before, a real partner. He knew what it was like, to have backup he wasn't afraid to put his back to, to know that they could handle any job together, and when there wasn't a job could still handle each other. Trust wasn't something that came easy to him by a long shot, but when it was there it was solid, unshakable. There were damn few who deserved it.
Lewis didn't compare. Partner in name only, and not even that within a month, Hobbes guessed. He probably had already filed for the transfer behind his back. That would make five in two years, six if they gave him a new guy. Must be some kind of Agency record.
Why did he stay with them? Two years...he should have given up by now. It was a lost cause, that was becoming obvious. Bobby Hobbes was no quitter. But when the situation was hopeless...even if Claire was holding on...
He clamped down on that train of thought fast. Those tracks led straight to depression. Focus on the bills on his desk. Focus on the rush hour traffic. Focus on his job--on the work he didn't believe in.
He had. For a long time that had been all he had believed in. Faith in his duty. Faith in his country.
Good thing he had found more, or he would have had the mother of all breakdowns when the truth came out.
He nearly had, when he was told they had gone through with it, despite all their protests. It had torn him up on so many levels that he had nearly convinced himself he couldn't handle it--locked himself in his house, stopped going to work, stopped going to his shrink, stopped taking his meds. It could've killed him, and he still wasn't sure that hadn't been his intent.
Then Claire had come over and explained things. Not quite that cut and dried. It didn't cover how she'd broken in. How he had nearly physically attacked her, did rip her apart with his words. How she had cried, and then she had pleaded with him, not sounding at all like herself, demeaned herself by shattering her objectivity to shake down his walls, get through to him.
But finally she did. He had gone back to the Agency, even if nothing was the same, there or in him. He had accepted the new partner the Official's replacement assigned him. He closed his mind and focused on his duty.
And waited, until he nearly forgot what he waited for, and began wondering if anything really mattered as it were.
Entering his apartment, he double checked the door locks and security system, hung his jacket on the hook, locked his gun in the drawer--couldn't keep it accessible for someone breaking in to find, and he couldn't hold it while cooking--and ambled to the refrigerator. Empty. Not that he was hungry tonight anyway.
After poking around the cabinets, he located a can of soup and emptied it into a Pyrex dish. He had just stuck the bowl in the microwave when the phone rang. He picked it up. "Yeah?"
"Hobbes?"
He hadn't heard her voice in several months. He still recognized it instantly. "Kee--uh, Claire?"
"Yes." Clipped, impersonal. A knot of cold dread lodged in the pit of his stomach.
"Has something happened?" He didn't dare ask anything specific. She would know what he meant.
"Only personally," the cool voice on the phone said. "My great aunt Hannah died. It wasn't unexpected, but...I've been thinking about taking a vacation. I don't know where. I've been recalling old acquaintances--would you like to have dinner sometime, Hobbes?"
"Sure..." he managed, though truthfully he hadn't registered anything she had said after "great aunt Hannah died." It was their code phrase, the most important of the few they had worked out together. The signal that all was ready, at last.
Two years. It had been that long? It felt like forever...it felt like no time at all. As if he had gone to sleep and dreamed everything, and now he had woken up. It was time. The words echoed in his ears, an alarm clock ringing in his mind. It was time.
He wanted to shout, to wave his arms, hell, he wanted to dance. More than anything he wanted to ask her if she really meant it. But he didn't dare, on this open line. So all he said was, "Sorry to hear about your aunt. Dinner'd be great. This Wednesday at 6 be good for you? At Bernulli's? They got a great scallops pasta dish, with those little bay scallops that fit in your mouth without taking a really big bite."
"That sounds delicious," she said. "Thank you, Hobbes. I'll see you then."
She hung up.
Hobbes stared at the phone, exhaled a deep breath. He couldn't shout, when there was probably someone outside the window watching, listening in.
It was time.
Dinner? The microwave beeped and shut off. He took out the bowl of soup and began to wolf it down, mumbled a curse when his tongue was burned but kept eating. He was starving.
Suddenly everything was making sense again.
to be continued...
Okay, I'm not always the fastest writer in the world. But I'll try to get the next part out ASAP. That is, if anyone would be interested in it...
...and yes, that is a blatant attempt to elicit reviews. Does anyone read this stuff?