There's this blurry line where Bobby's concerned, a blurry line that gets blurrier and blurrier every time Bobby looks like he's really gonna die this time, every time Bobby comes roaring in to save his life once again, every time Bobby brings him back from madness. It becomes less and less of a line, and Darien hates that. He needs some lines, some barriers, some control.

"Belt up, partner," Bobby tells him as they hop in the van, "we're going for a ride."

They're always going for a ride. Their lives are just one long, crazed drive, and one of these days only the smell of burnt rubber and a fiery blaze is gonna be left of either of them. Darien supposes that's how he'd like to go out—raging, raging against the dying of the light—and he's pretty sure that's how Bobby would like to go, but sometimes his own thoughts betray him and he thinks wistfully of peace, and quiet, and a bed with plumped-up pillows, instead of fiery blazes. Though what he'd do with peace and quiet he's never been able to figure out.

And they drive and Bobby says something and Darien responds, and it's witty in their juvenile delinquent way, but Darien's mind isn't on the enduring game between them, so maybe he's not holding up his end, which is bound to either piss off or worry Bobby. And even that, even those little encroachments and twists and pulls blur the line, and Darien's just gotta find some way to stop that line blurring.

It's all about the loss of control.

Darien sat sprawled in his only easy chair, beer resting on the armrest, his eyes glazed. Music blasted all around him, thanks to his handy-dandy super-speakers. He hadn't moved an inch in almost an hour.

It was late. It was dark. He was home, alone, with nothing to do. So he drank his beer and let his senses and his brain be pounded into numbness by the eardrum-shattering volume of the music.

It's just life, he thought to himself in his only easy chair. It's just death. It's just ordinary.

At least it was a way to pass the time.

It's all compressed, and he hates this feeling, and dammit those stupid meds should be good for this since they're good for precious little else. Alright, fine, yeah, sometimes they can take the edge off the paranoia, and sometimes they suppress a bit of the anger, but they don't do anything for—for—for this.

"Fawkes?" he says, quietly for once. He can't do the explosive, melodramatic, ostentatious reaction thing this time, not this time; that's saved for when he can afford to be fucking overemotional, for when the emotions are sprawling and obnoxious and loud in their own right, and if he doesn't allow their obnoxious and extravagant expressiveness out, he'll go fucking insane.

But this, this he recognizes and hates because there's nothing to be done for it but to ride it out and cope, cope, cope. When the emotion is all compressed, stretched thin and tightened down into one breath-taking, heart-stopping tiny little nanosecond. This is serious, man.

"Fawkes, you okay, partner?"

And even when Darien answers in the affirmative, the emotions stay compressed, tight, lodged painfully in his chest, caught up in that finite little moment when he thought his partner was dead.

It's all about the loss of control.

Bobby was asleep. Bobby was dreaming. Bobby was seeing his partner, his friend, cornered in a dead end alley. Bobby was watching Arnaud point a tiny deadly little gun directly at Darien's face. Bobby was realizing there was absolutely nothing he could do. Bobby was staring at the look on his partner's, his friend's, face, the look of terror and sudden, sure knowledge. Bobby was witnessing Darien's murder.

And in the confines of the dream, Bobby didn't know he was dreaming.

"Shh, Bobby, Bobby," Darien soothes his partner, rocking him back and forth. He'd normally be unnerved by this, probably, but it's too late in the night and he's too tired to care. "Shh, Bobby, it's okay…"

Bobby was dreaming.

"C'mon, Hobbes, wake up. Man, you're gonna wake the Keeper…" Official skimping on them again; at least he gave Claire her own motel room next to theirs. "You're gonna wake up the whole freaking hall…" he adds in a mutter.

Bobby wakes up suddenly, instantly, without a gasp, without pulling away or into Darien. He simply opens his eyes and is aware. Darien stops rocking.

"Damn," says Hobbes.

"Yeah, I'd agree with that," replies Fawkes. He starts to move away, release his partner and go back to his own bed, and he's thinking to himself that he's not sure which is more disruptive to a night's sleep, Bobby's snoring or Bobby's dreaming.

"I thought you were dead," Hobbes says.

Darien stops moving. "What?"

"In my dream. I thought you were dead." Hobbes's voice is remarkably matter-of-fact. "Arnaud killed you."

"Bastard," Fawkes says automatically at the name. He keeps an arm around Bobby's shoulders. "I'm still alive, Hobbes. Promise. This is me, in the flesh."

"Yeah," Bobby says thoughtfully, and glances up to meet Darien's eye. "So it is."

It's all about the loss of control.

Darien watched the Keeper cross the Keep, watched her open the clear refrigerator door, watched her take the blue liquid-filled vial out. She crossed the room again, giving him a smile when she saw he was staring at her, and connected the vial to the syringe.

He thought about putting his hand over hers, stopping her from giving him the injection. He thought about letting go, giving up the ghost, giving in at last to the insanity. He thought about Bobby having to take him out, and Bobby telling himself it was for Darien's own good.

He thought about it all while the Keeper injected the counteragent into his bloodstream.

"It's okay, partner," Bobby says, cradling Fawkes's head in his lap. "It's okay now, everything's fine okay dandy. You're good…"

Darien's eyes are squeezed shut but he's stopped jerking now. Bobby knows when his eyes open they'll be brown again. Darien isn't moving.

"C'mon, partner, you're okay now…"

"No, Hobbes, I'm not," Fawkes says and doesn't move or open his eyes. "I am about as far from okay as you can get without being dead. In fact, dead might be an improvement in the okay department."

"Don't say that," Hobbes snaps and jerks Darien's head upward. "Dead is never okay. Dead is dead. Dead is fricking bad, okay?"

Darien is sitting up on his own now and staring at him, eyes wide and brown and soft and vulnerable. Hobbes looks away. "Got that, partner?" he says again, to make sure Fawkes is damned well listening.

Darien looks like he's thinking about throwing his arms around Bobby and clinging on for dear life. Instead he clambers up slowly and holds an arm out for Hobbes to grip and pull himself up with.

"Got it," Darien says when Bobby is standing in front of him.

Head. Neck. Chest.

It's all about—

It's the most natural thing in the world, to go straight for each other and hold on tight. It's the most natural thing in the world to need that contact, that infinite touch, to cling desperately to the finite momentary life they have. Comfort, love, trust, hope, forgiveness, faith, need, want; all is wrapped up in each other, and they are wrapped up in each other.

Eye. Nose. Mouth. Chin.

All about the—

There is no transition point; there is no clean break, no clear "that was then, this is now." It's smooth, slick, natural, so gradual that it's unclear they were ever not clinging to each other this way, depending on each other this way. Once, they were strangers. Once, they disliked and distrusted each other. But that's not one of the memories they remember.

Ear. Hair. Tongue. Finger. Thigh.

The loss—

Too many close calls, too many near misses, too many dreams of death and too many realities; every touch is vital, necessary. Perhaps that's always been the way, for both of them, but there are added dimensions now, added desperations and fears, and maybe it wasn't gradual, and maybe it wasn't a smooth transition; maybe they fought and avoided and ignored or simply didn't bother to notice.

Comfort. Trust. Faith. Need. Want. Life.

It's all about the loss of control.