DISCLAIMER: The following is an original work of fan fiction based on the television series "The Magnificent Seven". No infringement upon the copyrights held by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp. or any others involved with that production is intended. No profit is being made - enjoy!!

Just Between You And Me

by
Jean Graham

"I sought my soul, But my soul I could not see
I sought my God, But my god eluded me.
I sought my brother, And I found all three."
(Anonymous)

______________________________

Chris Larabee again swiped his keycard through the scanner and punched in his code. Dammit! It was harder accessing his bank account than getting through security at the Bureau! He impatiently completed the transaction and pocketed the bills ejected from the chute before jogging back to where he had double-parked the Dodge. As he turned the key in the ignition he remembered that he owed Vin fifty and would have to withdraw more cash from the ATM. Swearing, he cut the engine and crossed back to the cash point to repeat the entire process which had so irritated him on the first occasion. By the time he finally gunned the Ram away from the bank he suspected his day was rapidly going down the tubes. Already his intended early start had become just a fantasy.

He swung the vehicle into a vacant bay in the underground parking garage, more than a little surprised to see that Ezra's XJS Jaguar was already in its customary spot. In passing Chris put his hand to the hood -- still warm -- the Southerner had not beaten him by much. That he had beaten him at all was something of an achievement for the habitually tardy undercover agent. Summoning the elevator, he wondered what had drawn Ezra to the office at, what was for him, an indecent hour of the day. The elevator doors remained firmly closed, the indicator light static, in spite of Larabee's repeated jabbing of the plastic push-button on the wall. At this point the senior ATF agent came to the conclusion that he was the victim of an electronic conspiracy to screw his day entirely. He glanced at the door concealing the stairs. Eight floors. Sixteen flights. Hell, he could use the exercise.

Ezra Standish once again logged on to his computer terminal and sat down, carefully placing a styrofoam container of double espresso at his elbow. He yawned expansively and asked himself what he was still doing sitting at his desk at seven in the morning. Still being the operative word; rather than an early morning this was essentially the mother of all late nights. Not that he was a stranger to late nights but generally he reserved the all night sessions for social occasions, preferably involving a gaming table, a deck of cards, good whiskey and if he was lucky, a female companion. Finally, he had been driven to abandon the computer just long enough to leave the building and fetch a take-out coffee and croissant in the scant hope that the caffeine and carbohydrate would fuel him for just a few hours more. Now he focused his bloodshot eyes on the information before him and sent the file to the printer.

Chris pushed open the door from the stairwell and stepped out into the empty foyer on level seven making a mental note to call maintenance as soon as he reached his office. Once up those stairs was enough for anyone in a day. He chuckled wryly to himself. You're getting soft, Larabee. The bull pen was in semi darkness with just a few lights still burning, one of which he knew would be Standish although he was curious to find out why.

The agent was indeed already working, his attention fixed on his computer terminal as his fingers flew across the keys. Ezra was one of the few agents who could touch-type -- a talent, Chris guessed, that was a side benefit of his incredible dexterity with a pack of cards -- and he imagined that at that moment he was churning out eighty words a minute. He did not appear to have noticed Chris approach but if he was taken by surprise when Larabee spoke he certainly showed no sign of it.

"Early start, Ezra? That's not like you."

"On the contrary, Mr. Larabee. I am presently at the wrong end of an extremely late night."

He paused in his data entry for a moment to remove the lid on his coffee and drink down a full third of the strong Java. Chris shook his head; he was permanently at a loss to understand what made Ezra tick. He started to walk away to his own office content to leave Standish to whatever case he was engrossed in, then turned back.

"Were the elevators working when you came in?"

Ezra didn't look up.

"I went out for coffee around six-thirty. They were working fine then."

Chris shrugged eloquently and crossed the bull pen to his own office. It was going to be one of those days.

Inside the disabled centre elevator car stalled on the sixth floor two thirty pound liquid petroleum gas cylinders lay against each other head to toe. Beside the cylinders sat a gallon container of gasoline with a detonator attached to a fuse wire dangling inside. The timing device -- two batteries -- were crimped to the detonator. The steady hiss of gas filled the empty car as one cylinder vented into the other. As the timer ticked over to 0715 the batteries sent a charge to the detonator igniting the gasoline which in turn sparked off the escaping LPG creating an expanding gas explosion which ripped the elevator from its moorings and tore the heart out of the sixth and seventh floors of the building.

**********

Chris slowly lifted his head. Jesus! He blinked grit and smoke out of his eyes, tasted blood, smelled the rich odour of gas and felt the pressure of fallen masonry across his body. Deafened, his head filled with an incessant ringing, and his stomach churning with the resultant nausea he instinctively struggled to free himself from the debris. Pain flared in his shoulder, his knee, his wrist but he recognised them only as minor distractions as his mind operated on the most basic level responding to immediate danger. Kicking and crawling belly-down over chunks of cement, broken fittings and furniture he finally freed himself from the rubble and sat, his chest heaving, in the midst of the destruction of his office. Fucking hell! Blood dripped steadily onto his shirt from a gash on his forehead but was ignored as Larabee concentrated on finding his bearings, his only thought one of escaping before the rest of the ceiling collapsed and buried him. Scrambling to his feet he spat concrete dust from his mouth and carefully negotiated his way through the devastated office to what remained of the bull pen. There was nothing recognisable. No particular object that Chris could focus on; the room had collapsed in on itself like a house of cards. A slow, cold sensation of dread crawled slowly upwards from the pit of his belly to take hold of his heart. Ezra! Moving slowly, hearing -- feeling -- the building settle around him, he began to search feeling the claustrophobia of knowing that at any moment the entire unstable structure was likely to fall in on him. Impatiently he dashed the blood out of his eyes and suppressed the shock and horror that was starting to build in him only to have it replaced by a simmering rage.

The silence was absolute. The darkness complete. There was only pain. And fear. He tried to move but a crushing weight had settled across his lower body pinning him to the floor. Pain. Sweet Jesus! He controlled the urge to scream, instead panting open-mouthed like a woman in labour while his hands pushed ineffectually at the fourteen inch thick cement slab which rested over him. In the rational part of his brain he understood that should the precariously balanced slab fall the pain would no longer be an issue -- he would be dead. He closed his eyes then, blocking out the potential harbinger of his ultimate destruction. Does it hurt less if you don't see it coming? All around him the building sighed and groaned, mirroring his own pain, as it slowly died. He could hear water musically gurgling from ruptured plumbing and faint unidentifiable rustlings interspersed with sudden crashes as overtaxed masonry gave way under pressure. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye and he blinked it away, embarrassed even in his solitude by this display of weakness. Coward! He tried again to free himself but the searing agony that consumed him from the waist down drove him to the brink of consciousness and forced an involuntary cry from his throat.

"Ezra?"

He blinked, surprised. Chris! With an effort he brought his rapid breathing under control as a flood of relief and renewed optimism washed over him.

"Why, Mr. Larabee!" He sounded like he just had run a 100 metre sprint. "I do believe we have had the dubious pleasure of being bombed."

"Are you okay?"

The voice was reassuringly close and Ezra felt movement of the wreckage near his head.

"Unfortunately," he drew a ragged breath, "I seem to be encumbered by the best part of the eighth floor."

A weak grey light displaced the darkness and Ezra realised that he had been cocooned within a tent of fallen masonry. Chris' bloodied face finally appeared as he carefully cleared away the detritus that had concealed the injured Southerner. Dropping to his knees his eyes travelled immediately to the concrete slab suspended bare centimetres above the trapped agent.

"Fuck!"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Larabee."

Chris slid closer, his expression intense, his voice struggling to achieve neutrality.

"How bad are you hurt?"

Ezra drew another shuddering breath.

"It does not look promising. I think my legs are broken." He paused, hoping to gain some control of his voice. "And… my pelvis."

Larabee squirmed into the confined space and made a visual inspection of the slab and its supports. Taking off his watch he rolled up his sleeve, casting a glance at the tense and still hyperventilating Southerner as he slid his arm into the space between the concrete and Ezra's abdomen.

"Don't take this personally, pard, but I'm just going to feel around a little down here."

He was reassured that Ezra was still able to muster a sardonic smile. He probed with difficulty in the confined space, his fingers finally locating a beam wedged firmly across the younger man's hips. Adjusting his position he moved his hand along the outside of Ezra's thigh under the beam, feeling a pang of remorse on hearing the agent's guarded hiss in response to his touch. A few more minutes of tactile exploration convinced the senior agent that Standish had indeed been lucky to survive. The beam was wedged on a broken piece of cement, and was the only thing between Ezra and several hundred pounds of concrete. The crossbeam had probably, as Ezra already guessed, smashed the Southerner's pelvis; the concrete would without doubt have killed him.

Ezra stirred restlessly, a barely suppressed moan escaping his lips as he pushed futilely against the concrete pinning him to the floor. Chris reached out and squeezed the bulging upper arm, feeling the muscles trembling beneath his fingers as the man fought against the gut-wrenching pain of his injuries. Then, drained of energy, Standish finally relaxed panting with the exertion, spent but having found no release.

"Hang in there," Larabee whispered hoarsely, frustrated by his own powerlessness to alleviate his friend's suffering.

He rubbed his eyes. Christ! He had spent long years beating himself up over the death of his wife and son, so sure that if he had been there he could have done something to save them. Now he wondered. Had he been fooling himself all along? He was right here with Ezra but for all it was worth he might as well have been standing outside on the street -- an observer. And he would end up letting this man down, the same way he had let down Sarah and Adam. When it came to the crunch he just couldn't deliver.

Ezra blinked slowly and licked dry lips.

"It's so cold," he murmured, "Can't feel my leg any more."

Chris edged closer. He touched a hand to Ezra's now decidedly cold, clammy skin and recognised that the Southerner was sliding steadily into shock. Carefully sliding his thigh under the undercover agent's shoulders he gently positioned the tousled head on his lap. The very real possibility that if help did not arrive soon Ezra might not make it closed like a tightening fist around his insides and he protectively wrapped his arms around the smaller man. If he had to, he'd hold onto life for both of them. He could feel the resistance in him, every muscle rigid, his whole body straining.

"Let it go, Ez." The blond man tightened his hold. "You don't have to fight all the time."

**********

"You're telling me that you think Chris is in there as well?"

Buck's rage threatened to overflow into physical violence as he strained against Josiah's restraining hand, his anger directed at the Fire Services co-ordinator.

"Buck, " Sanchez remonstrated gently, "Don't shoot the messenger."

Wilmington shrugged out of the older man's grip and straightened his jacket, walking in a tight circle, venting his frustration.

"This is wrong!" he stormed, "All fucking wrong!"

The co-ordinator continued as if Buck had not spoken addressing Sanchez.

"A Miss…" he looked at his clipboard, "…Elliott has already informed us that Mr. Standish was working late. All attempts to contact him by phone have failed. We have now determined that Mr. Larabee's vehicle was also in the underground parking area and we are assuming at this stage that both men were on the premises at the time of the blast."

Buck looked up at the blasted façade of the Bureau, his voice tightly controlled.

"How soon before you know for sure?"

"I've got crews working from above and below but the whole thing's pretty unstable. The stairwells have collapsed. We go in like the seventh cavalry and I risk burying your men under a ton of rubble, if they're not already. You just let me do my job and I might have half a chance of bringing out these guys."

Josiah nodded and dismissed the officer, freeing him to continue the search and rescue efforts. Offering a silent prayer that Chris and Ezra were indeed still alive he threw a massive arm around Buck's shoulders.

"Have faith, brother."

Buck dug his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Gotta tell the others," he mumbled, wheeling away then: "Shit! This isn't happening."

Vin and Zoé held onto each other, moving in aimless patterns outside the cordon, talking in low, intimate voices and taking some small comfort in the nearness of the other reluctant to share their misery with anyone else. Josiah, silently observing their interaction, guessed what impact the news Buck was about to deliver would have on the couple and with a sigh moved in their direction. This was going to be a difficult time for all of them.

Nathan and J.D. circulated through the rescue workers, hovering between the fire trucks and the EMT vehicles. If there was any chance of being in on the rescue, and he had to believe that there would be a rescue, Jackson wanted to be ready; Dunne was merely working off his inherent restlessness now intensified by the surging adrenaline that the crisis had produced. The word that Chris Larabee was now thought to have been in the building escalated the tension already rippling through the group. All of them wanted to believe that there had been some terrible mistake; that Ezra and Chris had been elsewhere when the bomb exploded. None of them did.

Chris moved his fingers over the pulse in Ezra's neck. Fast but still strong. The Southerner's long sandy lashes fluttered.

"Yes, Mr. Larabee. I'm still here."

"How ya doin'?" Chris asked softly, "Thought you'd run out on me there for a minute."

Ezra smiled, sadly amused.

"Never, Mr. Larabee. We have an agreement, remember?"

Chris tightened his hold on the man resting in his lap.

"Just as long as you remember. You renege on that and I'll follow you all the way to hell to drag you back."

The smile widened, showing a flash of gold but the green eyes were glazed with pain.

"What makes you think I'm heading that way?"

"What odds you offerin' to say otherwise?"

A cascade of cement dust and pebbles suddenly sprayed from the ceiling, followed by a low rumble and a subtle tremor that Chris felt through his very bones. The building was shifting, caving under the immense pressure from the floors above and for the first time the uncertainty of his own survival hit home. The soft soughing of shifting debris sent a chill of fear up his spine and he instinctively leaned over the injured man offering him the protection of his body wondering if they were destined to die together here today.

The upheaval was brief and intense as the entire floor seemed to undulate around them and debris rained down on the two men. Ezra's hoarse scream as the floor shifted beneath him died away to breathless sobs and Chris straightened, afraid that he would find the Southerner crushed beneath the heavy slab. Shaking dust and plaster out of his hair he brushed the fallen debris off the undercover agent's heaving chest. Chris saw that he had both hands pressed to his belly, his back arched, and his face a rictus of agony.

"Ezra!"

"Jesus, Mary and all the Saints!"

He forced the words through clenched teeth. Keep the pain inside! Fear that if he opened his mouth again he would be unable to stop screaming filled his mind -- and shame that Chris would witness his cowardice. This was not the way he wanted it to end. No chance to ever redeem himself. No apologies. No farewells. His courage a thing without substance as he wept, hurt and afraid, in the arms of another man. He blinked, unable to stop the tears that ran down his cheeks.

Maude. His mother. She would be disappointed. Appearances are everything, son. He drew in a deep breath and allowed it to escape slowly, willing his jaw to relax as the pain, having reached its zenith slowly ebbed to persistent but tolerable level. Panting, unable to control his rapid breathing as his body demanded oxygen, he could no longer -- keep the pain inside! -- hold on to… to… what? Life? How hard would it be to let go? Hold on....

"Don't leave me." Chris let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and tightened his arms around the Southerner in response to the barely heard whispered plea. He was no longer sure that Ezra even knew he was there. Slowly this man, his friend, was slipping away and there was not a thing he could do about it.

"I'm here, Ez. You just hang in there, pard." He breathed. "Don't you run out on me now."

Larabee felt Ezra stir and relaxed his hold but found himself gripped around the forearm with surprising strength.

"Chris. I can't…" His voice was raw with emotion. "I'm… I'm scared."

Chris closed his eyes and leaned into the smaller man, embracing him with as much strength as he dared, willing him to hold on to the life that was slowly bleeding out of him.

"Shit, Ezra. Just between you and me, so am I."

Ezra stirred restlessly, muttering indistinctly and once again began pushing fretfully at the unyielding wedge of concrete before him. Although he remained conscious he had become increasingly confused as his brain demanded oxygen that his body could no longer provide in sufficient quantity. During his lucid moments they talked, but those periods were becoming less frequent and with each passing minute Chris knew that the Southerner was losing the fight.

"You still with me, Ez?" he asked softly, and the younger man once again relaxed.

"Would rather be....somewhere else."

"Got somewhere in mind?"

"Anywhere but here. Too cold."

It was cold. Chris was feeling it too. Hell, on top of everything else they were now at risk of hypothermia.

"Tell you what. When we get out of here we'll take a week's vacation in the Bahamas."

Ezra smiled.

"You're a very bad liar Chris Larabee. "

Chris felt tears pricking at his eyes and he closed his fingers around his friend's upper arm in a forceful grip.

"You stay with me, you hear? No running out, you bastard!"

Ezra reached up and Chris felt a slim hand, cold as marble, close over his.

"No promises this time." A shower of fine plaster floated down from the ceiling. Chris looked up, alert, sensing movement overhead. An avalanche of rubble cascaded to his left and he moved quickly out from behind the injured man to slide into the space beside him, pressing as close against him as a lover and using his upper body as a shield. As the debris rained down in a steady stream he pushed aside the too vivid image of seeing himself and Ezra buried forever under tons of masonry but the sudden fear of being trapped, crushed and broken, was a living thing uncoiling in the pit of his stomach. Beneath him, Ezra bit back a moan, his already abused body protesting at the added pressure of Chris' weight. As the deluge died to a trickle Chris shrugged his shoulders free of the rubble and rolled away from the injured agent, conscious that he had been the inadvertent cause of additional pain. Blinking the dust out of his eyes he stared up at the gap in the ceiling above his head and as his pupils adjusted to the flood of light he began to laugh softly. Torches. He fell back, his laughter fuelled by the raw sense of relief coursing through him gaining momentum. He leaned on his elbow and grabbed the Southerner in a fierce embrace unmindful of the tears that were trickling down his face.

"We'll go to the Bahamas, Ezra. I promise."

"We have visual. Confirm two males located. Seventh floor."

Nathan, wearing the distinctive coloured vest of the rescue team, scrambled through the debris medical kit in hand and dropped to one knee beside Ezra, half-turning to address Chris as he immediately began his assessment of the injured Southerner. Larabee didn't even want to ask how he had managed to finagle his way into the operation.

"You okay?"

A quick nod.

Nathan allowed his gaze to linger for a moment on the senior ATF agent then satisfied that Chris did not require urgent attention, switched his focus back to Ezra. An EMT, Nathan's support, positioned himself on the opposite side of the injured man and went to work in conjunction with the black doctor.

"Ezra! Can you hear me?"

The undercover agent's eyes fluttered but he was unable to keep his eyes open.

"Why, Doctor Jackson. Imagine you being here."

Nathan smiled in spite of the seriousness of the situation. The man was incorrigible.

"Listen, Ezra. We're gonna get you out of here believe me, but first I need to get you stabilised. Understand?"

The answer was a barely perceptible nod as surrendering, he put his trust in Nathan.

He felt exposed.

Vulnerable.

Cold.

Frigid air caressed his naked chest, its icy tendrils drawing the bosses of his nipples almost painfully into hardened nubs; bronzed islands in a pale sea of gooseflesh.

So cold.

His shirt had been cut from his back and he mourned for a moment the loss of such fine linen until the touch of intrusive hands on his body reminded him that the loss of his clothing was a minor consideration. Still, it had been a particularly fine piece of haberdashery. He could hear Nathan talking, the familiar voice steady and unhurried, a marked counterpoint to the speed at which he could feel his strong hands moving over his torso. Someone out of sight had fitted an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and he gratefully drew the hissing gas hungrily into his lungs, chest heaving.

"Start a litre of Ringer's and a litre of saline -- wide open."

"Can't get a vein."

"I'll do cut-downs. You just give me the vitals."

A sudden savage flare of pain in his arm became lost in the intensity of the greater pain which already sought to consume him and became nothing. Less than nothing.

"Pressure ninety over fifty. Resps 40. Pulse 130."

"Let's get that pressure up!"

He wanted to draw back, find a warm, dark place to escape the intimately questing hands and unrelenting pressure on already abused flesh but there was no way out except….

HOLY CHRIST! He bucked, every muscle in his neck and chest straining as he resisted the sudden manual pressure on his belly that sent agonising shockwaves through his system and drove him to the very brink of unconsciousness. The voices around him ebbed and flowed, disjointed phrases and fragments of speech forming a verbal kaleidoscope that added to the sense of distance and unreality he was already feeling.

Am I still here?

He was crying, unable to stop himself although he held onto the screams inside -- locking them away so no-one would be able to see or hear his weakness. Appearances are everything, son. He would not disgrace himself in front of strangers. Bad enough that Chris had witnessed his earlier loss of control.

"Jesus, Nathan. Can't you give him something?"

"If I do, Chris, he might arrest. He's already in respiratory distress."

Yes. Hard to breathe now.

"He's going flat, doc. We're losing him."

Chris resisted the urge to lunge forward, a violent protest of denial dying on his lips as he watched the two men swing into action, their response urgent yet controlled, their movements as co-ordinated as a pair of dancers in a carefully orchestrated ballet. All that had gone before, all that was yet to come, was reduced to this one moment in time as Chris looked down into the glassy green eyes, now fixed and staring into infinity. Impotent rage surged through every fibre of his being as, reduced to an observer, he watched Nathan methodically go through the motions of resuscitation. Not now, Ezra. You made it this far. Don't give up now.

In a procedure that took the medic no longer than two minutes Jackson hyperextended the Southerner's neck slipping an endotracheal tube over the laryngoscope blade and into the trachea with practiced ease. His assistant promptly connected the oxygen and Ambu-bag, beginning manual ventilation while Nathan anchored the tube in place. The EMT continued the compression of the bag every few seconds, his rhythmic pumping the only thing keeping the injured man alive. Closing his eyes and hanging his head in despair Chris shut out the image of Ezra lying broken and dying among the rubble, more real now than it had been through all the hours they had clung together -- emotionally and physically -- waiting for rescue. Now, of the urbane Standish, the most enigmatic of his team, only a shell remained; even the most basic autonomic function of breathing lost to him.

"Chris?"

The blond man raised his head suddenly aware of Nathan's presence; his sympathetic voice and the touch of his hand on his arm. He met Jackson's warm, brown eyes and read understanding there.

"I told him I wouldn't leave him." He managed to force the words past the constriction in his throat. "He didn't want to be alone."

Nathan gripped his arm.

"Then talk to him, Chris. He needs you."

"But…"

The doctor interrupted him.

"No buts, Chris. Ezra's not going to die. Not if I have anything to do with it. But we still have to get him out and I want you to start talking and keep talking to him until he's free. Give him something to focus on. A voice he knows."

Chris nodded just once, his expression reflecting the determination in his eyes.

"Hey, Ezra. It's Chris. You hang in there, you hear? Won't be long now."

He was conscious of the fact that his voice was not as steady as he would have liked but he doubted that Ezra was very much interested in either what he was saying or how he was saying it. Could he even hear in whatever state of consciousness he was currently in? Almost mesmerised by the steady rise and fall of the undercover agent's chest Chris began to speak:

"Remember when we first met, Ez? Didn't think we'd ever get beyond first base. Now look at us! How long has it been? Three…no, almost four years now. Reckon we've come a long way since then." He chuckled softly. "Still play your cards close to your chest though, don't you?."

Larabee watched as the heavy segment of what used to be the next floor was raised with painstaking slowness, the gap between the concrete wedge and Ezra's body widening second by second. He kept his voice low and conversational, completely at odds with the emotions that were pulling at him.

"Did I ever tell you…?"

With uncharacteristic candour, Chris launched into an intimate personal history that few people had ever been privileged to share. He spoke of growing up, his life in the navy, his wife and son…elements of his life which had been locked away in the compartment marked "Private" for so long. He paused in his soliloquy, catching his breath as Ezra's body spasmed, muscles contracting as the beam, the final obstruction to the rescue, was carefully lifted. The EMT's voice was steadily reading off vital signs, cueing Jackson in to the injured man's current status.

Pressure up. Ninety five on sixty.

Pulse one hundred.

He's fighting the tube, doc.

Nathan glanced up from where he was removing the remainder of Ezra's clothing.

"Diazepam 10mg IV."

The EMT nudged Chris.

"Here, take over. One full compression every five seconds."

The blond man moved into place without argument and began the same rhythmic action that his predecessor had been maintaining for the past fifteen minutes. Ezra, now showing a definite change in level of consciousness, seemed to be gagging on the tube in his throat.

"He's trying to get rid of the tube," explained the EMT as he injected the muscle relaxant into the IV port, "Wants to breathe on his own."

Chris slowly nodded and for the first time in long hours his lips twitched in the hint of a smile. That sounded about right. Ezra always did want to do things his own way. Even dying didn't come easy.

******

Vin Tanner wordlessly accepted the styrofoam cup of coffee from Zoé, his intense blue-eyed gaze still fixed on the ATF building across the street. The news that Chris had suffered relatively minor injuries had not been enough to shake his black mood as on the other end of the scale Ezra's life still hung in the balance. Zoé slid down the wall to sit beside him and silently slipped an undemanding arm around his shoulders.

"Still no news?"

Vin shook his head and finally tore his eyes away from the seventh floor.

"I'll get the bastards that did this, Zoé."

She rested her head against his arm.

"You shouldn't take this personally, Vin."

He looked at her then.

"How the fuck am I supposed to take it? Someone planted a bomb that blew away two floors of a federal agency where I work! That's pretty damn personal as far as I'm concerned." He raked a hand through his hair as if surprised by his own outburst and dropped his voice a level. "It could have been any of us, Zoé. It might have been you."

The English agent squeezed his arm.

"Or it could have been you, Vin. But it wasn't."

"Am I supposed to feel glad about that?"

She drew him towards her until their heads touched.

"Being thankful that you weren't in a particular place at a particular time doesn't mean that you feel any less for the people that were. Guilt over something you can't change is a wasted emotion."

He pulled back a little from her.

"You know, Zoé, you can be a hard bitch sometimes."

"It's called pragmatism, Vin. And if I didn't have that to fall back on I'd be a bloody wreck." She planted a light kiss on his cheek and leaned across to remove the lid from his coffee. "But I'll tell you this for nothing, if anything happens to Ezra I'll not only find the bastards who did this, I will take great pleasure in personally eviscerating them."

"I thought you weren't taking this personally."

"I lied."

**********

He was in hell.

He had descended into the pit of darkness, his lungs on fire no longer able to draw breath, plunged into the void in which death waited like an insatiable predator.

And he was afraid. Consumed by the terror that he would not be able to hold onto the tiny spark of life still burning, that against his will the flame would wink out and he would no longer be.

Falling… deeper and deeper into the nameless abyss that existed outside time and space. Falling… alone and frightened of what awaited him. Falling…

"Hey, Ezra. It's Chris. You hang in there, you hear?"

A distant voice. Calling him back. Chris. Of course. It would be. Never get away from Chris. A promise.

I'll follow you all the way to hell to drag you back.

And he had.

Chris tensed involuntarily as Nathan, an implement that looked like an oversize awl in hand, made a clinical stab wound in Ezra's lower abdomen and fed through a silastic catheter which promptly disgorged a flood of bloodstained fluid. The brutality of the action touched a nerve in the blond man; this was emergency medicine up close and personal and the fact that the subject was one of his own men made it even more disturbing. A case of the cure being worse than the disease. He was thankful when Nathan completed the procedure and covered the Southerner with a light blanket; not that he had any particular problem with Ezra being naked but he had seen enough of the damage wrought in the explosion. Nathan had already confirmed an unstable fracture of the pelvis -- something he had called an open book -- as well as left shaft of femur and right neck of femur; he also suspected internal injuries with a ruptured bladder almost a certainty. Chris shifted his gaze to look sympathetically at the smoothly relaxed features, now partially obscured by the endotracheal tube and attachments. It somehow bothered him that the EMT had taped the undercover agent's eyelids shut; he understood the rationale but that didn't make it any easier - too much like last offices, he thought. Ezra was unconscious and still not breathing on his own but his colour was better and Nathan had assured him that his vital signs were improving with the rapid infusion of IV fluids.

Chris continued to pump the manual ventilator at the required five second intervals, watching as Nathan and the EMT manipulated anti-shock trousers around Ezra, then inflated them; the last step in preparing the injured agent for transfer.

"Okay, you guys, let's do this. Everyone on three."

Chris controlled the head and shoulders as Ezra's body slid sideways and onto the waiting stretcher. Then as the team moved in he leaned close to the Southerner's ear.

"You're almost home, Ez," he whispered, "Don't let me down now."

God he was tired. He remembered protesting in ER that he was fine; in fact he remembered abusing the doctor and telling him to get his fucking hands off him but somewhere along the line he had finally had to give in. Actually if he was honest it had been more like caving in and if Vin hadn't already been hanging onto him to stop him from taking a swing at the doctor he would have hit the deck. Then someone, quite unfairly he had thought at the time, had stuck a needle in him and he had woken up in this hospital bed. Chris moved stiffly and was surprised to find that he wasn't in five-point restraints. Why did he have to get so damned crazy? And they had been right. He wasn't okay.

"Take it easy, pard."

Chris managed to co-ordinate his actions enough to turn his head but his reactions were still sluggish, courtesy of the medical equivalent of a mickey finn.

"Ezra? He's okay?" He croaked out the words.

"Still in OR. Here, have a drink." Vin offered a glass of iced water and waited for Chris to finish it before continuing. "Pelvis is busted to shit, needs metal plates to put it back together. Both legs're broke too and he's torn up pretty bad inside."

Chris eased himself up in the bed and leaned wearily against his pillows.

"Christ, what did they give me? I can hardly move."

Vin's lips twitched the barest hint of a smile.

"That's because at last count you had a torn ligament in your knee, a sprained wrist, two cracked ribs, a perforated eardrum and fifteen stitches in your head. Ain't nothin' to do with anything they gave you."

"That could explain it." Chris' own brief smile disappeared in a moment, his eyes clouding with remembered grief. "You know, Ezra died up there, Vin. Stopped breathing."

Tanner nodded slowly.

"Nathan told us. Respiratory arrest. Close call, huh?"

"Too fucking close, Vin. I want whoever did this."

Tanner did not change either his relaxed posture in the chair or his expression but his voice hardened.

"You'll have 'em, Chris. On my word, you'll have 'em."

**********

He felt detached. Almost as if his mind and his body had become separate entities operating independently of each other. The pain had gone. No longer the savage predatory beast tearing at his vitals yet still lurking on the periphery of his awareness, occasionally closing in but strangely no longer of any consequence to him. Suspended as he was in a twilight world in which time and space ceased to have any real meaning he could safely ignore the realities of existence. Air moved in and out of his lungs under pressure beyond any ability of his to control and if he thought about it, the fact that he could not move produced a vague sensation of unease but again, not enough to create any sense of distress. That he was unable to move was something of a mystery. He had no memory of anything that had gone before the here and now; leaving him with no past on which to anchor. He was faintly troubled by the notion that there was something important that he should remember, knowing that somewhere in a far and inaccessible recess of his mind lay the answer but he had neither the will nor the strength to pursue the thought and once again he surrendered to become a being without substance. A mind floating free.

Zoé looked at the finely sculpted hand lying inert in her palm. Ezra had such beautiful hands. With her thumb she gently massaged the surprisingly soft skin, following the contours of the well-defined knuckles, then individually tracing each finger and well manicured nail but her gaze kept wandering to the regular rise and fall of the Southerner's chest and the ventilator that was doing his breathing for him. Here was a man whom she loved dearly, someone who was hurting and all the comfort she had to offer was to hold his hand. She raised his hand to her face and fought the tears that threatened to spill onto her cheeks. Dammit, she'd promised herself that she wouldn't cry!

In musical counterpoint to the wheezing of the machine, the cardiac monitor beeped reassuringly, graphically tracing the steady beat of the injured man's heart. Zoé's eye wandered to the numerous tubes and wires either connected to or invading skin, veins, organs and tissue; Beside her an electronic infusion pump monitored the transfusion of blood into a vein in his shoulder, while a solution of electrolytes dripped slowly into a vein in his left arm. Mercifully out of sight under the sheet, catheters and tubes evacuated blood and wastes from a ruptured bladder and from surgical incisions in each thigh. To all intents and purposes Ezra's body had become merely a living conduit for the exchange of fluids and electrical impulses and as she looked on the still form, made insignificant by the high tech equipment surrounding him, she wanted nothing more than to see those incredible green eyes open and to have him smile; but she knew he would not - could not - rouse. The medications that allowed the ventilator to operate without Ezra fighting it, effectively paralysed every muscle in his body and the narcotics that kept him pain free also kept him in a state of induced narcolepsy. Not knowing whether he was even aware of her presence she remained, touching, talking; a reminder to him that he wasn't alone. That he had not been abandoned. That he was loved.

Vin hesitated, slowing his stride as he approached the ICU bay, reluctant to encroach on what was obviously a very private moment. He understood the special bond between Zoé and Ezra, so different from his own relationship with the English agent, but he was unable to stop the fleeting pang of jealousy as he watched her lift the unconscious man's hand to her lips in an intimate gesture that spoke volumes of her love for the Southerner. Finally summoning the courage to interrupt he moved up behind Zoé and rested his hands on her shoulders.

"You gonna stay all night?"

Without turning she brought up her free hand and captured his fingers in her own.

"I can't leave him alone, Vin. Not here with no one but strangers around."

"You think he even knows you're here?"

She looked up at him then.

"I don't care if he doesn't. It's enough that he might."

Vin broke contact and moved to stand beside the bed. God, he hated hospitals. Hated to see Ezra was lying there with a tube the size of a garden hose down his throat and a machine doing his breathing for him; hated the fact that this man, his friend, had been reduced to an insensible shell and most of all hated the reminder of his own mortality. He tentatively reached out and rested his hand on a well-muscled shoulder momentarily shocked by the coolness of the skin beneath his fingers. Not knowing what to say he hoped if nothing else Ezra would be aware of the physical contact and take some comfort from it.

**********

Buck looked around the temporary office they had been assigned and sighed. Back to work. Chris had no intention of sitting back or giving his team time to regroup; he was out for blood and that meant putting men on the streets, if it also meant kicking a few asses then so be it. While he knew Larabee had been right in saying that the best way they could all help Ezra was to find both the reason for the bombing and the perpetrator, it didn't make it any easier to walk away from a friend to concentrate on an investigation. Chris would be on the case as soon as he was released from hospital. Hell, the phone at his bedside was already working overtime! But for now he had put Buck in as team leader and for once Wilmington felt he should respond to that faith in his abilities by getting some results. Already Nathan and Josiah were following up a lead on the gas tanks that had been used in the explosion for while the containers themselves had exploded in spectacular fashion, the collar of one had been retrieved from the blast site and on that collar had been imprinted a serial number. Now all they had to do was track the gas tank from the manufacturer to wherever it ended up. Right! Buck presumed that sometimes needles could be found in haystacks.

In a cramped corner JD was hunched over his computer, a man with a mission. Buck had suggested he find out just what Ezra had been working on when the bomb went off. The Southerner had pulled an all night stint for some reason and that in itself was sufficiently unusual that it might just have some bearing on the case. Again it might be nothing more than coincidence. Wilmington felt he was clutching at straws but an investigation had to start somewhere. It might help if they knew who the target had been. Was this a terror bombing aimed at the federal agency or was it more personal? Distractedly combing his hair with his fingers he felt a cold chill of dread along his spine suddenly hoping that this was someone with a grievance against the ATF, the government, public buildings -- anything but a personal attack. Wearily Buck reached for the phone and dialled waiting impatiently for a response.

"Vin? Can you get down here right away? Gotta talk." He waited for the response that he already knew would be in the affirmative. "Okay. See you in ten."

He slowly replaced the handset and leaned back in the chair. What a fucking day!

*********

Chris dressed slowly in the fresh clothes Buck had brought him, wincing as his still tender ribs protested at the activity and hindered by his sprained wrist. His knee, now strapped, was uncomfortable but not too painful, certainly nothing that would stop him getting back to work. If he cast his mind back far enough it was no worse than some of the football injuries he had carried in his younger days. Of course he was no longer young and today he felt as if he bore the accumulated weight of all his injuries over his lifetime. The ringing in his ears had faded to a minor annoyance that he had been told would subside in a few days and the rupture in his eardrum had already been patched although he would probably require further treatment. Fastening the last of the buttons and tucking his shirt into his jeans he paused to look at his reflection in the mirror. He needed a shave and in spite of the enforced rest his eyes were still bloodshot; to complete the picture an uneven line of stitches snaked along the right side of his forehead, disappearing into the hairline and terminating just above his ear. Fucking hell! He looked and felt every one of his forty-two years. Turning away he picked up the elbow crutch and limped slowly out of the hospital room.

He would see Ezra before he left.

The knowledge that he was on a life support system did nothing to prepare him for the gut-wrenching reality of actually seeing the Southerner hooked up to the ventilator, any more than the knowledge that his state of consciousness was deliberately induced made it any easier to accept. Chris hoped he was feeling no pain. He deserved that much.

Although he had not intended on doing anything more than looking in on the undercover agent, he found himself sitting down in the vacant chair and reaching out to grasp the motionless hand. He needed to make that small gesture, to make physical contact because in truth he felt as if he had broken his promise not to leave, but even he could not follow where Ezra had gone.

"Hey, Ez. Told you we'd make it. Guess I owe you a trip to the Caribbean; you deserve a little R & R after this one. Sun, sand and surf -- just what you need. Hear they've got some mighty fine casinos over there. How 'bout you show me how to beat the odds at roulette?" He bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting the sudden flood of conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

His relationship with the Southerner over the past few years had followed an erratic course to say the least. While he respected the undercover agent for his work, he was a difficult man to get to know. Always hiding behind a carefully engineered facade and preferring to keep even his colleagues at a respectable distance, the first years of their association had been tough on everyone. Ezra had trusted nobody; his unorthodox upbringing and later experiences as an adult giving him no cause to believe in, or rely on, anyone but himself. That defensive shield had been hard to break through and even now after more than three years together, on the occasions when the Southerner was assailed by doubts, that barrier could be thrown up in an instant.

Now he had seen Ezra at his most vulnerable; helpless, in pain and afraid. Well, they had shared at least that in common. Yet even enduring what must have been the most horrific agony the Southerner had maintained a degree of control that Larabee suspected he would have been hard pushed to maintain under similar circumstances. He knew that Ezra believed himself to be lacking in courage and that indeed given the choice he would avoid physical confrontation but Chris had always recognised in the undercover agent a different kind of courage; a quiet strength that their shared experience had done nothing to dispel.

The ventilator hiccupped, paused, then resumed its rhythmic cycle before stuttering again, the regular pattern interrupted again and again. Chris raised his head in alarm uncertain of what was happening.

"Jesus, Ez. Don't do this to me," he whispered fiercely, "Don't you give up."

"It's all right, Chris. He's just trying to breathe on his own."

He turned sharply at the voice, caught a little off balance, knowing his own emotions were fully exposed. Zoé, her approach having gone unnoticed, slipped an arm around his shoulders, an unexpectedly comforting gesture.

"They reduced the medications a few hours ago," she explained, "The machine is set to respond to Ezra's own respirations so when he takes a breath the ventilator cuts out."

Chris struggled to regain control of his feelings, the fear that Ezra was about to arrest again only partially alleviated by Zoé's explanation; the reality of having held Ezra's life in his own hands too recent a memory to readily dismiss. Until he saw the Southerner fully conscious and breathing without a machine those doubts would remain.

**********

The return was as traumatic as the leaving. He had given up consciousness, panic-stricken at not being able to breathe as he was pulled down into darkness and was now resurfacing, gagging and coughing, still fighting to draw air into his lungs.

A voice he did not recognise spoke calmly in his ear, encouraging him to breathe slowly and deeply. Then he felt the contact of a mask against his face and the sudden inrush of welcome oxygen augmenting his own insubstantial efforts at maintaining independent respiration. Who would have thought the act of breathing could be so hard? He used to do it all the time without thinking about it, now it was taking an inordinate amount of energy just to move air in and out of his lungs. He coughed again, and felt the unpleasant movement of fluid in his lungs.

The voices around him were beginning to take form, the words coalescing into an understandable whole and he finally made the connection that he was in hospital. The crushing weight that had held him down was gone but he was still unable to move; his limbs heavy and uncooperative.

"Okay, suck him out."

Ezra fought to open his eyes. Whatever they were talking about did not sound like something he wanted to be a part of, in fact it suggested something faintly disgusting of which he would rather not be a participant -- time to make an effort and regain some control. Easier said than done, Standish. With a huge effort he clawed through the fog shrouding his brain and for a moment the activity going on around him completely overwhelmed his senses and he took a mental step back. Jesus! What were all these people doing?

Too exhausted to do anything but allow these strangers access to his body he reluctantly submitted and concentrated instead on the simple action of pulling air into his lungs and pushing it out again. For now that was all that mattered.

**********

"Okay, so what have we got?"

Larabee pushed himself away from the desk, leaned back in the executive chair trying relieve some of the strain on his injured leg, and looked expectantly at his assembled team. The five men crowded the small room, sitting and standing in various relaxed attitudes in the limited space available around Chris.

"No one has claimed responsibility so far," offered Vin, "and we have no real clue as to why the ATF was targeted."

"Great." That was not what he wanted to hear.

"Josiah and me managed to trace the gas cylinder to a rail-yard workshop," reported Nathan, "One of six stolen about two months ago,"

Chris' eyes narrowed.

"Six? How many were used for our bomb?"

"Looks like two thirty pound LPG."

No-one needed Chris to elaborate further to understand the direction his thoughts were taking. How many more devices were out there?

"Nate, keep checking for any other reported thefts of LPG cylinders in the last three months. We might have a bigger problem on our hands than we thought."

Jackson nodded as Chris turned his attention to the youngest member of the team.

"JD. Anything?"

"I've traced Ezra's calls and his computer log for the past week. The night he was working late he'd been in contact with affiliate agencies in both Australia and France. He's logged as having net-conferenced with the guy in Australia five times in the last week. Buck's been following that up."

"And?"

The tired but still intense blue eyes focused on Wilmington.

"Nothing. Haven't been able to track down either one as yet. Talked to ASIO and the federal police in Australia but there's more red tape to get through there than we got stripes on the flag. I've got that Canadian guy, Matthieux, working the French angle, stands a better chance knowing the lingo."

"Keep at it, Buck if only to eliminate any connection but somehow I don't think this was aimed at Ezra. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Vin parked his lean frame on the corner of the desk Chris had appropriated.

"Got a point there, Chris. Hell, how many times would you find Ezra in the office at seven in the morning?"

The others nodded seeing the sense of it.

"Unless," mused Josiah slowly, "it was deliberately planned that way."

Chris shook his head.

"I just don't see it, Josiah. Ezra's not that predictable. Do we have anything on the timer or detonator yet?"

"The lab's working on everything that was recovered from the blast site," reported Nathan, "All we know is that it was Boiling Liquid Expanding Volume explosion; a fairly simple device using LPG and auto gas."

"Simple or not," retorted Chris sharply, "It fucking well blew the ass out of the building."

And almost killed Ezra.

He might as well have spoken the words aloud as every man picked up immediately on his thoughts but no-one wanted to venture into that territory. It was too close to home.

Jackson stood up breaking the suddenly fragile atmosphere.

"Mind if I go now, Chris. Lotta work to get through."

Chris waved his dismissal.

"Sure, there's nothing else doing here right now. Unless anybody else has something they want to add?"

No-one did. This kind of work never had quick answers. They could spend months tracking down minutiae that ultimately might lead nowhere but it had to be done because somewhere may be the missing piece of the puzzle that would shed some light on the case. And Larabee wanted this case solved. It had become personal -- for all of them.

One by one the team filed out until only Vin and Chris were left.

"Have you thought it could have been aimed at you?" ventured Vin finally.

"Sure I've thought about it," admitted the blond agent, "but I went in early on impulse. No one could have known I would be at the office at that time because I didn't know myself until I got out of bed."

"A random act of terrorism then?"

"I wish I knew, Vin. It worries me that no-one has claimed responsibility. Usually publicity is all part of the big plan if it's a terrorist thing. What scares me is that this might be one person with a personal grievance and I have a gut feeling that this might only be the beginning."

Vin stood up.

"I hope you're wrong Chris."

"So do I."

The younger man, a decade Larabee's junior, recognised the burden of responsibility weighing heavily on Chris. Although beyond his control he knew his friend was feeling guilt at Ezra's brush with death. He had not yet spoken of those hours spent trapped in the rubble with the injured Southerner and Vin was not sure than he ever would. Some things were never meant for sharing. Still, no man should have to shoulder the burden alone.

"You wanta come back to my place tonight, 'stead of driving out to the ranch? Got some beer in the fridge and I can maybe find somethin' to eat that isn't more than a week old."

Chris was forced to smile. He really didn't feel like going home. His knee hurt like a bitch and he knew he'd only wind up hitting the bottle if left to his own devices so it didn't take much consideration for him to accept.

"Why not? Only we'll call for take out on the way. I don't think I'm ready to add salmonella to my experiences for this week."

"It's a deal then. Be back to pick you up 'round five."

Tanner flashed him a rare smile and disappeared through the door.

Sighing Chris pulled himself back towards the desk and picked up the phone barely hesitating before dialling the number.

"Intensive Care Unit, please."

**********

As promised, Vin was back at five and it was an indication of Chris' present state of mind that he was already waiting outside the agency's temporary home when the Jeep drew up in the parking lot. Vin hurriedly cleared the passenger seat, tossing the detritus into the back of the vehicle there to join the rest of the accumulated junk that Tanner ferried continually around in the battered Wrangler. Chris swung in beside Vin for once glad that there were no doors to get in the way as he lifted his injured leg into the vehicle.

"Okay, cowboy," grinned Tanner once he was settled, "What'll it be, Chinese or Mexican?"

Chris didn't even pause to consider.

"Mexican."

Vin nodded his approval.

"Sure thing. Found a new place just last week. Makes the best chili this side of the border." He accelerated out into the street and turned into the flow of traffic. "Gotta swing by the hospital and pick up Zoé first. Haven't seen her for more than ten minutes at a time in the last three days."

Chris shook his head then glanced at the lean Texan, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"You sure you want me to stay over, Vin?" he asked, cautiously, "Three days is a lot of making up to do."

Tanner flushed as Chris knew he would, a scowl settling across his tanned features.

"Aw, hell, Chris. Don't you start."

Vin and Zoé had been together for three months and during that time the intensely private Texan had done his best to avoid drawing too much attention to the relationship, managing admirably -- so Chris thought -- to maintain a level of professional discretion which had worked extremely well; except with his closest friends. And they had gone out of their collective way to embarrass him at every opportunity. Buck was particularly adept at making Vin blush, armed as he was with a full battery of sexual innuendo with which to attack the normally quiet Texan.

Larabee laughed softly at his closest friend's reaction.

"No, Vin. I mean it. Wouldn't want to cramp your style."

Tanner's scowl deepened.

"Don't matter none. Won't make a blind bit of difference to Zoé whether you're there or not!"

Chris had difficulty keeping the grin off his face. He had to admit that after a shaky start he had come to both like and admire the feisty English agent and if Vin hadn't staked a claim (or rather if Zoé hadn't staked her own claim on the marksman) then he might have been inclined to… hell, who was he kidding? He would have had to stand in line behind Ezra and Buck first! Still, Vin could have done a lot worse for himself than Zoé Elliott.

"No, shit? Guess I'll just have to keep myself occupied then."

Vin sent a last penetrating glare in Larabee's direction and wordlessly focused on the road ahead deliberately ending that particular avenue of conversation.

Zoé was tired. She had spent seventy two hours at the hospital, sleeping little and eating less in her determination to stay with Ezra until he either woke up or… well, there was no need to go down that road now as he had finally rallied and was off the ventilator. She still hated to leave but common sense dictated that she should at least try to get back to a degree of normality. Nathan had offered to spend the evening with the undercover agent and she could find no valid reason to stay on. The thought of a long, hot bath, some food, bed and Vin -- not necessarily in that order -- suddenly became very tempting.

A piercing whistle snapped her out of her reverie and she wondered how she could have failed to hear the distinctive rumble of the Wrangler's engine as it approached. I really must be tired. Gathering her things together she crossed the parkway and added her own contribution to the growing pile behind Vin and Chris before unceremoniously climbing over the rear fender and settling in the back. Immediately she leaned over the front seats, draped one arm over each man's shoulder and quickly kissed them both.

"Hi, Chris. How are you? God, you look as knackered as I feel! Are you staying over? Of course you are. What's on the menu for tonight, Vin? 'Cos unless you've been to the store, and I bet you haven't, there's nothing in the place that's remotely edible. So it's take-away, yes?" She looked from one man to the other, neither of which had managed to utter a word and smiled. "Let's get going then. And Vin, don't forget we need to get some wine."

By six-thirty the three were back at Vin's utilitarian apartment in the barrio. Zoé's occasional tenancy had done nothing to alter its spartan identity as far as Chris could see and for that he was somewhat relieved; the idea of Tanner becoming domesticated didn't sit at all well with Larabee. Instead it appeared that Zoé was perfectly content with the arrangement as it stood and he wondered if Vin had found a true soul-mate or if the woman just tolerated the Texan's idiosyncrasies.

He sat down, gritting his teeth as he raised his now throbbing leg onto the sofa and stretched out the kinks in his back as he popped open a can of Bud.

"I'm getting way too old for all this shit."

"You say that every time you get beat up," replied Vin, reasonably as he dished up the food.

"That's 'cos there's nothing left that hasn't been busted," countered the older man, "I'm running out of options here."

Zoé leaned down as she passed the sofa sipping a glass of wine and gave him a quick hug.

"Never mind, Chris. As long as the important bits still work."

Chris coughed, choking mid-swallow on his beer, the sudden spasm causing havoc with his cracked ribs. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot Zoé an accusatory glare that was offset by the briefest flicker of a smile that crossed his face.

"I plead the fifth."

Vin shook his head slowly at the interaction between the two people closest to him, satisfied that he had made the right decision in bringing Chris back to the apartment. The blond man was looking more relaxed already and he guessed that Zoé was deliberately working towards that very outcome. The Texan felt a stab of guilt that he was using the young Englishwoman to do what he could not; for while he recognised in Chris the need for solace he didn't feel that he was the one to offer it, knowing that if he tried Chris would immediately close down and retreat into his fearless leader mode. At least Zoé stood half a chance of getting him to offload some of the emotional baggage he was carrying around.

"Ezra asked about you today."

Vin almost dropped the carton in his hand. Shit, Zoé, just go for the jugular why don't you? There was no censure in her voice but the unspoken question hung in the air like a challenge: where were you?

"Nathan says he's still pretty out of it."

She nodded in agreement.

"The morphine makes him a bit crazy and he talks a lot."

Chris snorted.

"Wouldn't be Ezra if he didn't."

"But, Chris, it's you he needs to talk to." She raised her eyes to look at Chris over the rim of her wineglass. "Something about following him into hell."

Seeing Chris pale visibly and promptly set about disposing of the remainder of his beer, Vin intervened.

"Okay, folks. Let's eat. Food's gettin' cold."

He exchanged a quick glance with Zoé and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Let it go.

Zoé stood up and crossed behind the lean Texan, enjoying his discomfiture when she slid a slim hand first across his backside and then between his thighs as she leaned to whisper in his ear.

"You'll pay for this later, cowboy."

He handed her a plate of food, deftly evading her wandering hands.

"Oh, I'm sure I will."

Chris was not totally drunk in spite of craving the oblivion that total inebriation would inevitably bring but he had sunk enough beer and bourbon to induce a serious alteration in mood. While he had learned from past experience that getting smashed did nothing to solve a problem he could at least take comfort in the knowledge that it had the power to chase it far enough into the shadows to make it go away for at least a brief time. Only this time it was not going away. Every waking moment -- and most of his sleeping ones -- he relived the horror of the aftermath of the explosion, haunted by Ezra's stoic endurance, his own inadequacies and the reality of their own private hell on earth. In his worst nightmares it was him, not Ezra, who was trapped and on those occasions he woke in a lather of sweat, certain that his own screaming had awakened him.

He reached again for the bottle of whiskey only to have it nimbly removed from his grasp.

"I think that's enough, Chris. It's getting late."

Chris aimed his still-impressive glare at the woman giving her the benefit of both barrels loaded, cocked and ready to fire.

"Fuck it, Zoé," he snarled irritably, "Can't you let a man alone to drink in peace."

"You know you're a mean drunk, Larabee?" Vin's quiet voice cut through the alcoholic haze. "And I reckon it's time for you to sleep it off. Now get your sorry ass moving."

Chris found himself hauled to his feet, the wiry strength of the Texan never failing to surprise him and, chastised by the tone of sad disappointment in Vin's voice, he dutifully stumbled beside the younger man. Zoé's voice followed them into the bathroom.

"Put him in our bed, Vin. I'll make up the fold-out."

Larabee hung over the sink and doused his head under the tap.

"Shit, Vin. I'm sorry."

Tanner closed the door and leaned against the wall watching his friend, wanting to understand but not completely sure what was going down with the older man or indeed what he could do to help.

"Somethin' you want to talk about, pard?"

Chris ran a hand through his dripping hair and over his face.

"Don't know that I can put it into words, Vin."

"Try."

Vin was not sure if open confrontation was the way to go, in fact he might wind up on the wrong end of Larabee's fist especially in his current mood but something told him he had to take action now before Chris lost control altogether.

Larabee's shoulders slumped and he leaned heavily on the rim of the hand basin.

"You ever see that movie "Groundhog Day"? The one where the guy keeps gettin' up in the morning and living the same day over and over again?"

"I know the one," confirmed Vin.

"Well, that's what it's like for me, you know. It's gonna be May sixteenth every day for the rest of my life! It's like a bad movie and every time I see it Ezra dies again."

Tanner was lost for words. He couldn't begin to imagine what Chris was going through. He still hadn't spoken to anyone about the experience and Vin wondered if a visit to the agency psychiatrist might not be in order, although he was not about to risk his life by suggesting it. That was something he'd hand over to Nathan.

He moved a step forward, hesitated, then continued on and grasped Larabee's shoulder in a firm grip.

"Whatever happened, it's over. Ezra's okay."

Chris swung his head up and Vin was struck by the utter desolation written on his face.

"No, Vin. It's not over. Not for Ezra, and not for me."

Zoé and Vin lay entwined, still breathing deeply from their exertions, each comforted by the tactile sensation of skin against skin; reluctant to break contact, each wanting -- needing -- the other. They had gone through the motions of making love but both had been distracted and the act had been purely physical. Now Zoé lifted her head and looked down into Vin's troubled blue eyes.

"You're worried about Chris."

"Was it that obvious?"

She smiled gently and nestled back into the Texan's shoulder.

"It wasn't a criticism."

Vin rhythmically stroked along the curve of her back.

"Has Ezra said much to you? You know, about what it was like."

"Being trapped you mean? Not really. I think he has a hard time remembering anything right now."

"He might be the lucky one then."

"It's a defence mechanism. Certainly a recognised phenomenon," she explained, "Like childbirth. Women forget the experience to enable them to go through it again."

Zoé stirred again, and rolled on top of the Texan's lean but muscular frame to look directly into Vin's eyes. Vin laughed.

"What do you know about childbirth?"

"Nothing," she whispered, nibbling his earlobe, "but I'm hoping to find out. That's why I need to practice so much."

For several minutes Vin's attention was diverted until he managed to focus his thoughts again.

"Zoé, what's that syndrome that soldiers get?"

"Post-traumatic stress syndrome?" She paused, making the connection. "Chris?"

"Just a thought." Vin sounded guilty at having suggested it.

"We'll talk to Nathan tomorrow, okay." She looked up at the bedroom door. "He'll be okay for tonight at least. I hope."

*********

There was no night here. Ezra had come to that conclusion when every time he opened his eyes it was light. Constant, artificial light. Time had ceased to have any real meaning for him and he never really knew, or cared to know, the precise hour. He did know that every two hours, or to be exact twelve times in every twenty-four hours he was repositioned -- a medical euphemism he had decided for maximum infliction of pain in the shortest possible time. No matter that this exercise in relieving pressure on certain parts of his anatomy was designed to prevent the development of bed sores, it was torture while it lasted. Every four hours he was given morphine, which compensated somewhat for the periods of torture but he didn't care for the odds of one shot of painkiller for every two repositioning sessions. To be truthful he didn't care for any aspect of his confinement. He abhorred the indignity of hospitalisation at the best of times and this was most definitely not the best of times.

"You with me, Ez? It's Nate."

Ezra opened his eyes a fraction at the familiar voice.

"Why, Dr. Jackson. I do believe I owe you my thanks."

Nathan gestured dismissively.

"How're you doing?"

"I thought you were going to tell me being a man of the medical persuasion and all but if you are merely attempting to ascertain my own opinion, in layman's terms I feel as if a building fell on me."

Nathan laughed and pulled up a chair.

"Ezra! If you can manage to string together a sentence like that without choking you must be feeling a whole lot better."

The Southerner moved his shoulders slightly, getting comfortable.

"Ah, Dr. Jackson, behold the wonders of narcotics."

Jackson smiled and flipped through the chart of medical orders.

"Geez, Ezra, they've got you so juiced up it's a wonder you're not flying."

"Believe me, Nathan, if I were able to perform such a feat of aviation I can guarantee that I would be flying right out of here and into my own delightfully civilised feather bed."

Nathan put away the chart and looked instead at the undercover agent, understanding in his eyes.

"You're a lucky man, Ezra."

The green-eyed man grinned.

"I don't know about that, Nathan. If I was truly lucky I would have been outside the building when the bomb went off."

"You've got a point there, Ezra. But better some luck than no luck at all right?"

"I'll take what I can get and that's the truth but not to put too fine a point on it, it's a fucking miracle that we weren't both squashed like bugs. How's Chris?"

"Working too hard," replied Nathan, "I guess he's still a little strung out himself."

"Tell him I'd like to talk to him, Nathan." Ezra's voice became serious and he reached out to emphasise his words by grasping Jackson's arm. "There are a few things I need to… to clear up."

"You got it."

"Now," continued the Southerner, his tone changing again, "as my medical advisor and close friend, would you mind telling me exactly what's wrong with me?"

"You busted up your pelvis and both legs but with a few plates, screws, nails and wires you're all back together again and I don't think we lost any pieces along the way."

"And?" prompted the injured man, although he was starting to visibly tire from his lengthy conversation.

"When that beam hit you across the pelvis it caused what we call an open book," he demonstrated with his hands, imitating the opening of a closed book, "the pelvis fractured in several places and caused some internal damage. A piece of bone lacerated the bladder and you also had a urethral tear. Lost a lot of blood too."

Ezra nodded understanding why the area between his waist and his knees felt as if everything had been rearranged -- badly.

"Thanks, Nathan."

Jackson gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, feeling slightly guilty that he hadn't had the courage to tell him that 70% of men who sustained urethral damage from a pelvic fracture were left impotent. He had enough to worry about without dumping that on him just yet.

"You might not think it, Ezra but by the end of the week they'll have you on your feet and weight-bearing."

The Southerner had closed his eyes again.

"Of course, Nathan," he murmured patronisingly, "About the same time that I fly out of here I suppose."

Shaking his head and smiling, Jackson withdrew a paperback novel from his pocket and sat back to read. This was going to be a long night.

**********

Chris knew it was late as soon as he opened his eyes. A glance at the clock confirmed it: nine-thirty. Goddamn Vin! Throwing aside the bedcovers he hurriedly scrambled to find his clothes and promptly found himself on the floor as his injured leg gave way beneath him. For a moment the intensity of the pain took his breath away and he rolled helplessly clutching his knee, managing only to utter a string of profanity through clenched teeth.

"Chris?"

He looked up, blinking to clear his vision. Zoé. Great! Where the hell was Vin? He struggled to get up conscious of the fact that he was clad only in his shorts and feeling incredibly foolish that he was rolling around on the floor in front of her.

"Where's Vin?" he snapped, still holding his knee, but succeeding finally in achieving an upright position with his back against the bed.

Elliott, dressed more formally that he had seen in a while -- plum business suit and black heels -- moved forward and leaned down to assist him but he impatiently shrugged her hand off his arm.

"I said, where's Vin?" The snarl was almost animal in its ferocity.

Zoé's first instinct was to back off in response to the violent outburst but she steeled herself and tried again.

"He's not here. Come on, let me help you up."

"Damn you, woman!" This time it was a roar and he easily pushed her aside with a sweep of his arm. "I don't need any help!"

In regaining her balance she took a step back, her own anger suddenly flaring and over-riding any sympathy she felt for his predicament.

"Well, fuck you too, Chris. If that's how you feel then find your own damned way to work. Maybe I'll see you later if you ever manage to get up off the floor!"

The bedroom door slammed behind her as she stormed out, her high heels rapping out a tattoo on the wooden boards, almost immediately followed by the equally forceful and very final bang of the front door as she left the apartment.

Larabee swore in frustration, and hauled himself onto the edge of the bed, annoyed with himself as much as Zoé. Dammit, why couldn't everyone just leave him alone? He ran his hands through his hair, anger and remorse flooding through him in equal measure. Good move, Larabee. Take it out on your best friends why don't you? Still, you always were good at that. Snatching up the soft splint lying with his clothes, he secured it savagely around the offending joint and almost welcomed the stab of pain the abrupt action elicited.

He limped to the bathroom and turned on the shower, deliberately avoiding looking at his reflection in the mirror; he was already familiar with the man who was going to be looking back at him and it was someone he didn't care much to meet right now. Geez, Larabee, if you can't even stand yourself, how'd you expect anyone else to put up with you?

Zoé found herself standing on the sidewalk outside the apartment block, still seething and quietly wishing all the torments of hell on her illustrious leader as she struggled to regain some composure. Several passers-by had already paused to give her a second glance and in this neighbourhood that in itself was a rarity. God, men could be pathetic! Not only did he have the audacity to get drunk, appropriate the bed (be fair Zoé, the bed was your idea -- okay strike the bed) and wake up mean but he also had the cheek to yell at her when she offered to help. Bastard! She dug into her purse for the keys to the Jeep. Serve him right if he had to spend the day on the floor. Vin had taken the Harley so that she and Chris would have transport; well, Mr. Larabee could walk every inch of the way as far as she was concerned. Better still crawl. Asshole! She searched again through the small leather bag and realised that she had left the apartment in such furious haste that the keys still sat on the table. Great! Now she'd have to spoil the whole effect by going back. She sighed, some of her initial anger already starting to dissipate and slowly retraced her steps. Okay Mr. Larabee, here I come, ready or not.

The Englishwoman quietly let herself back into the apartment, thankful that the car keys were on a separate chain to her house keys. The indignity of having to summon an already irritated Chris to answer the door would have been too awful to contemplate, in fact with any luck she could grab the keys and leave. She paused, her hand poised over Vin's keys then abruptly stopped and instead dumped her purse on the table. For God's sake Zoé stop being such a bitch.

In any case she could make some coffee and maintain a veneer of civilised behaviour even if she did feel that any exhibition of good manners would be like casting pearls before swine then she reminded herself that just because Chris was pissed didn't mean she had to be. The fact that she could hear the sound of water running in the shower suggested that at least Chris had managed to finally get himself off the floor although she did wonder if his mood had improved at all in the last fifteen minutes or so. Taking off her jacket she began measuring out the coffee.

"Chris?"

Zoé was starting to worry. By her estimation the shower had been running for a good twenty five minutes and by now she knew all the hot water would have gone. Half the time she stayed at Vin's they showered together for that very reason. She knocked on the door again.

"Chris? Are you okay?" She gnawed on her lip trying to decide on her best course of action. What if he just happened to like long, cold showers.

"Chris, you're scaring me. If you don't answer I'm coming in." After a moment's hesitation she pushed the door open and prayed she wasn't making a mistake. Hell, how bad could it be if she was wrong? Had anyone actually ever died of embarrassment?

The room was cold, the shower blasting full force sending sparkling droplets against the frosted glass. Her eye travelled quickly around the small space; the enclosed shower stall was the only place he could possibly be but…she dropped her gaze and, suddenly afraid of what she would find, slowly pulled aside the glass door. Chris huddled defensively in the corner of the shower, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, head hanging forward as the water cascaded from his hair, and shivering. Violent, jerking muscle spasms as his body tried unsuccessfully to warm itself. For a split second she was too shocked to move then:

"Jesus, Chris!"

Turning the water off she grabbed a bath towel and kicking off her shoes stepped into the small cubicle. Slowly, he raised his head and she saw nothing but haunted confusion in his eyes. Under her fingers his skin felt like marble, frigid and unyielding, as she grasped his arm, urging him to get up.

"Chris, it's me. Zoé. I need you to stand up."

She hoped to God that he could. There was no way she had any hope of getting his six foot frame out of the shower unless he could do it under his own steam. Very slowly, stiffly, but without protest he started to unfold at her bidding. Trying to ignore the startlingly obvious fact of his nakedness she quickly secured the thick towel around his waist and slid under his arm to support his sagging weight.

"I hope you know this is really pushing the friendship, Larabee," she muttered as the two of them stumbled out into the bedroom.

Breathing heavily she guided him to the divan and sat him down, hurriedly stripping the blanket from the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders before snatching up the bedside phone and rapidly dialling, impatiently waiting for the pick up on the other end.

"Vin? You need to come home. Now. And bring Nathan."

Tanner didn't wait for the elevator. Instead he took the stairs two at a time confidant that Nathan would be close behind him. He knew he had made better time than Jackson, ignoring speed restrictions and using the Harley's superior manoeuverability to plough through the still heavy mid-morning traffic. He had responded to Zoé's phone call without hesitation trusting that her reasons for the abrupt summons were sound but almost fearful of what had gone unsaid. It could only be something going down with Chris, nothing else made any sense. His heart hammered in his chest as much from the adrenaline still surging through his system as the physical exertion of charging up five flights of stairs and he paused a moment to catch his breath before unlocking the apartment door.

He wasn't sure what he had expected to find but the living room looked exactly as he had left it several hours earlier. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the small apartment and two pristine cups sat on the counter, a picture of tranquil domesticity. Vin was suddenly doubtful about the urgency of the situation yet was unable to put out of his mind the intensity of those few words uttered over the phone.

"Zoé? Chris?"

He crossed the polished wooden floor and paused at the bedroom door, his breath catching in his throat. Whatever he had anticipated he was not prepared for this particular sight and a hard knot of resentment forming in his gut succeeded in driving out all other emotions. The bedroom was a disaster area. Clothing, bedding, towels - all discarded on the floor but while his mind registered the minute details his eye was unable to see beyond the two figures conjoined on the bed. Zoé, shoeless and dishevelled, her rumpled blouse sticking damply to her skin relaxed against the headboard while Chris, sleeping (spent?), lay with his head in her lap, one arm thrown around her waist and his body curved intimately into hers while she held him tightly in her arms, rocking gently.

"What the f…?"

Zoé held up a hand and shook her head in a warning gesture. Not now. Vin, silenced, took a step forward, struggling to make sense of the scene, trying to make two and two add up to anything but four and failing miserably. Why Chris?

"Is Nathan coming?" The voice was soft but sufficient to halt the tumultuous flow of his thoughts.

Nathan? Of course. Vin guiltily cursed himself as understanding dawned and he saw the tableau in a subtly different light. Jesus Vin, get your brains out of your dick and start thinking like a federal agent! Moving quickly, ashamed now of his initial hasty conclusion, he crouched beside the bed wondering if Zoé had read that split second of doubt in his eyes.

"What the hell happened here?" he whispered, "Are you okay?"

She nodded and looked up, relief evident on her face as Jackson finally strode into the room.

"You know, Vin, I reckon you broke at least four different city ordnances and who knows how many moving violations you clocked up, in that wild ride. Wonder you're still alive, boy." He quickly surveyed the room as he talked then joined Tanner at the bedside, concern etched on his dark features as he laid hands on the too cold skin of the unresponsive blond man.

He looked up at Zoé, the unspoken question in his warm brown eyes and she smiled softly already knowing what both their first thoughts had been.

"No, he didn't hurt me." She stroked the damp blond hair sadly. "He's the one who's hurting."

The three of them sat around the table and drank Vin's coffee - so strong that neither Nathan nor Zoé believed they would be able to sleep for a week but grateful anyway for the caffeine boost. A few feet away a sedated Chris slept cocooned in multiple layers of wool and feathers on the pull-out sofa, his body temperature finally registering close to normal.

"So what happened, Nathan?"

"I'm no psychologist, Vin, but I think you were pretty close to the mark with your idea of post-traumatic stress. There's nothing I can find physically wrong other than the fact that he nearly froze his ass off. My guess is that maybe he hasn't been sleeping too well and from what he said to you that he's got a few demons lurking around. He's been pushing hard on this investigation too so I guess something had to give."

"Hell, Nathan," exploded Tanner, "Chris is a veteran; ex-navy, seen combat; been shot, beaten up, stabbed and Christ knows what else, are you gonna tell me now that he's got the jitters from a bomb blast that barely ruffled his hair?"

Nathan looked into his coffee cup as if the answer would miraculously appear to him from its liquid depths.

"I don't think this is just about Chris, I think this has a lot to do with what happened to Ezra," he ventured finally, "although it beats me why. Did he say anything to you at all, Zoé?"

The woman shook her head.

"He kept saying he was sorry and looked as if he was going to cry, then finally he stopped talking altogether and I just held onto him." She raised her eyes to look at Vin, daring him to break eye contact. "And," she added, "I can assure you that having a cold, wet, naked man lying next to you is not to be recommended, especially when he's your boss."

Vin winced, knowing he was going to pay for thinking the worst not only of his best friend but also by inference, Zoé. Hell, what else was he supposed to think finding Chris all over her like that? He turned back to Nathan.

"So what now?"

"First up he needs sleep and lots of it. Y'all don't mind if he stays here do you? I really don't think hospital is an option, it would just add to whatever stress he's already under."

"Zoé?"

She looked across at the peacefully sleeping agent.

"I don't think he's in any shape to go anywhere right now but it's your apartment, Vin."

Nathan quickly looked from Zoé to Vin and back, aware of the tension building between the couple.

"Vin?"

The Texan nodded.

"No problem, Nate, but what about when he wakes up again."

"He'll be out of it the rest of the day. Just make sure he stays warm. I'll come back around six and check up on him then. You need me before that, call."

"Sure. Thanks, Nathan."

The tall doctor let himself out and a strained silence filled the small apartment. Vin searched for answers in his coffee cup much as Nathan had done but finding no help finally looked up.

"What was all that about?"

Zoé pushed herself away from the table and stood up, pulling her ruined blouse out of her skirt.

"All what?"

"The 'it's your apartment Vin' crap."

"Well, it is." She peeled off the wet garment. "I didn't want to speak for you."

He snorted and muttered quietly.

"Right! That'd be a first."

Ignoring the barb she disappeared into the bedroom and came back several minutes later dressed in an oversize t-shirt having given up on any idea of getting to work. She paused and sat down on the arm of the sofa leaning across to pull the covers back over Chris' shoulder. After a few moments she spoke.

"Why don't you just ask me, instead of wondering?"

Tanner guiltily met her eyes.

"Ask you what?"

She laughed then. Not a pleasant sound.

"You're wondering whether I'd sleep with Chris."

Vin rose abruptly and walked into the small kitchenette.

"You're crazy."

"No, I'm not." Zoé got up and moved behind him. "In your mind I already have."

The Texan sighed and turned to face her.

"Zoé…"

"Tell me I'm wrong," she interrupted her voice brittle, "I saw it in your eyes the minute you walked through that door."

"What do you want me to say? Sorry?"

"He's your best friend, Vin." The quiet censure in her voice struck him like a slap in the face.

As she turned to walk away, he captured her arm.

"I thought...." His voice faltered, "I thought he'd hurt you."

She pulled out of his grip.

"No, Vin. You did that."

He tried again.

"Zoé, I'm sorry."

"So am I."

**********

Few people ever saw Buck Wilmington lose his cool. The easygoing ladies' man generally managing to overcome most hurdles through his innate good humour but even Buck's affable nature could be taxed beyond endurance.

The mustached agent rounded on Jackson the minute he stepped through the door and into the team's temporary home.

"Where the hell have you been? And where's Vin? In fact where's my entire fucking team?" He slammed a file down on his desk. "Chris doesn't show, Zoé doesn't show but what the hell she hasn't been around all week anyway, Ezra's out of the picture, then you and Vin just take off without a word for a coupla hours in the middle of the day… tell me just how I'm supposed to run this frigging operation WITH THREE MEN!"

Nathan allowed the man's anger to wash over him, knowing that Buck was not targeting him personally but understandably venting his frustration on the nearest available live body. JD had obviously picked up on the impending explosion and removed himself from the scene as the office was empty although Dunne's computer terminal was still active. The boy was learning.

"Life's sure a bitch ain't it, Buck."

Buck bristled, fuming, then caught the smile on Jackson's face and his temper faded as rapidly as it had flared.

"Sorry, Nate. Just mouthing off again but right now I reckon I'm having about as much success as a one legged man in a butt kicking contest." He paced restlessly, his temper having cooled but his agitation unabated. "What the hell is going on here Nathan?"

Jackson unbuttoned his jacket and leaned back in the chair.

"Chris is out of the equation for a while, Buck."

Wilmington's pacing stopped abruptly and his head came up like a hound on the scent but before he could even speak Nathan pre-empted his next question.

"Chris had an… episode this morning; a stress related collapse for want of a better definition. That's why Vin and me took off like bats out of hell."

Buck's expression was a mixture of concern and confusion.

"What do you mean, stress related collapse? Is he okay?"

Nathan leaned forward again keeping his voice low.

"Let's just keep it in the team for now, huh? I'm putting him down for a week's sick time; he's earned it."

Buck allowed the words and the implications to sink in.

"You telling me Chris has gone loco?"

He was familiar enough with Chris and his past to know how badly the man could come unstuck if the right buttons were pushed and he recalled with a sense of dread the aftermath of Chris' attempt to deal with the loss of his wife and son.

"Just listen up, Buck! Chris needs a rest, okay? Don't go reading anything more into this than there is. The guy's been through a tough time but as usual doesn't know when to call it quits. Well, his body has just given him a very clear message that it's time to take a break."

Wilmington nodded slowly.

"Know what you mean, Nate, he's been strung out to the max for the last coupla days. So what happened?"

"Chris was staying over at Vin's, they had dinner, Chris hit the bottle a little too hard. Nothing too unusual. This morning Vin came to work leaving Chris to sleep it off with the idea that Zoé would come in with him later. Seems he woke up angry, took it out on Zoé and they had an argument. She was pissed with him and left him to cool off intending to come in to the office but forgot the keys to the Jeep. When she got back, Chris was in the shower."

Buck shook his head, not understanding.

"So? What's new about Chris being pissed? That man's got the disposition of a grizzly even when he's sober."

"Zoé finally guessed something was wrong when he didn't come out and found him sitting under a freezing shower almost catatonic not to mention hypothermic."

"Jesus!"

"And that's where Vin and I came into the picture."

Buck ran his hands through his hair then drew a hand down over his face.

"Nathan, did one of us kill a Chinaman or something?"

The ringing of the phone interrupted any further potential discussion of karmic law as Buck snatched up the receiver.

"Wilmington."

The big man listened for a long moment, then grimly replaced the receiver.

"There's been another explosion."

The expression on his face prompted the question that Nathan wasn't sure he wanted answered.

"Where?"

"The barrio. Purgatorio."

**********

Vin did not follow. The bedroom door closed behind Zoé with a quiet finality that he found he didn't have the nerve to challenge. His first instinct was to leave, indignant anger vying with hurt outrage for dominance, but even as his fingers closed around the door handle he knew it would be a mistake. Bad move, Vin. He hesitated, finding among the maelstrom of his emotions just as many reasons to leave as to stay but realising in a moment of absolute clarity that if he walked away now, he could never hope to find his way back. The question was did he want to?

The sleeping figure stirred, shifting restlessly beneath the covers and the agitated movements drew Vin to the man's side, his concern immediately erasing any thought of imminent departure. The Texan watched over the blond agent for several minutes as he fretted and muttered, relieved when he finally settled and became still again. Looking down at the familiar face, for once lacking the usual intensity of expression, he wondered how Chris would feel about his blundering misinterpretation of the bedroom incident. Disappointed? Angry? Amused? Flattered? Hey, cowboy. Wanna help me out here seeing it's partly your fault I'm in deep shit? Vin sighed and chewed thoughtfully on his lip. Hell! Why did Zoé have to make it so hard? What did she want from him - blood? He looked up towards the bedroom. Your move Tanner.

The door yielded, swinging open smoothly under the pressure of his hand and he released the breath he didn't realise he had been holding. The room looked the same; floor dotted with puddles of water; wet towels and clothing strewn across the bare boards; bed linen dragging on the floor and the still damp imprint of Chris' body on the bed. Zoé had changed into jeans and was just tying the laces on her running shoes. Leaving? Her expression as she met his eyes showed no emotion but the rigid set of her shoulders hinted at her state of mind. Anger he was prepared for but this study in composed determination unnerved him.

"Can we talk?"

She flicked her hair back with a toss of her head then after a brief hesitation nodded and sat down on the foot of the bed. He took the gesture as a tacit invitation and moved to sit alongside her, not touching, the six-inch gap between them feeling a mile wide.

"This is so dumb, Zoé," he sighed, eventually finding the words. "You know how I feel about you."

"I thought I did."

"Nothing's changed," he persisted, "How could it?"

"I want to believe that, Vin and I know you do believe it. It's just a part of me that's wondering whether I mean any more to you than a convenient lay."

Her words sliced through his already abused emotions like a razor and his temper flared, propelling him to his feet in an uncharacteristic display of anger.

"For God's sake, Zoé! Give me a break." His voice cracked like a whip. "You want to crucify me because I made a mistake? Yes, I admit I made a bad call. Yes, I was wrong. So I'm an insensitive bastard. What is it you want from me? What will it take for you to forgive? Do you need to see me bleed before you can find one shred of compassion?"

He stopped then, shoulders slumped, his hands dropping to his sides almost in a gesture of defeat and his face an open book of the combined hurt and indecision raging through him.

"I thought I knew you, Zoé, but now I'm not sure I ever knew you at all." His voice was quiet; the anger gone. "And if you can't accept me as I am, with all my faults and insecurities then I don't think I want to. I just can't live up to your expectations of me."

The Texan turned sharply and strode out of the room; the brief silence that followed punctuated by the forceful slamming of the front door for the second time that morning.

Vin couldn't decide if he was more angry at Zoé for being so totally unreasonable - what did you expect, Cowboy? -- or himself for losing his cool -- jerk! He stood outside the apartment block suddenly at a loss as to what his next move should be. Talk about burning your bridges. Smart move, Tanner, it's your apartment; you gotta go back sometime.

"Hola, Senor Vin. You not at work today?"

The Texan looked down at the young Latino who had approached and smiled in spite of his inner turmoil, crouching to stroke the kid's shaggy dog, a mutt of indeterminate geneology. Manolito Mendez. One of the kids he had taken under his wing.

"Hey, Mano. Shouldn't you be in school?"

He shrugged and dismissed the question with typical twelve year old logic.

"Been twice this week already. You got that baseball mitt for me yet?"

Vin shook his head and stood up remembering how much simpler life was as a kid; cutting school to play ball had been one of his own junior vices. He knew a lecture would be pointless so gave the kid a high five instead.

"Come on. It's in the Jeep."

The kid jogged on ahead of the ATF agent fully aware of where the Jeep was parked. It was a point of honour among the barrio kids that Tanner's vehicle was kept safe through their combined vigilance. Not once had Vin's Jeep or indeed any of his belongings been stolen or vandalised for which the Texan was eternally grateful. This was neighbourhood policing with a vengeance. Mano's dog, fully conversant with the drill ran on point, flag waving like a banner as he anticipated a gustatory treat. Vin always had something edible secreted among the junk in the back of his car and the mutt was never afraid to search out the loot for himself.

Tanner looked at his watch and hesitated in front of the convenience store debating whether to stop for a carbohydrate fix. His stomach was growling and he felt slightly nauseous although he had no doubts that could just as easily be from his emotional state as from hunger. Seeing boy and dog almost at the Jeep he changed his mind and started to walk forward again.

Penareathirite terninitrate. The simplest and crudest of military raw grade explosives. But with the addition of a detonation device and a pressure switch, a very efficient bomb. Nothing too sophisticated, just enough to blow a man and a car into oblivion. Maybe a few bystanders if anyone was unlucky to be too close to the unfortunate victim but generally a very personal -- and effective, if indiscriminate -- device.

The Texan saw the shaggy animal leap into the front seat of the Jeep and the blinding flash that immediately followed, then he was hurled twenty feet into the air before connecting with the wall behind him and slamming against the footpath in a bone jarring fall which drove the breath from his lungs and sent a kaleidoscope of colours spinning before his eyes. Someone was screaming and as his vision faded first to grey then black he felt unseen hands touching him, helping. Then came the pain.

**********

Zoé started to pick up the bedding from the floor and stuff it in the laundry hamper. Well, you did it. You finally found the limits of his patience. She gathered the wet towels and threw them in the hamper after the sheets. He could at least have put up more of a fight. Chris' clothes still lay strewn untidily between chair and bed and she stooped to pick them up and fold them. So why'd you have to be such a bitch? Looking at the shirt, she reconsidered and tossed that into the laundry hamper too. Because he was being a bastard, thats why! Retrieving a semi-dry towel from the bed she knelt to mop up some of the water still lying in puddles on the floor. Come on, be fair, he's a man. Zoé moved systematically around the room clearing away all evidence of the morning's debacle until the room had been restored to a pristine neatness that it had rarely seen before. She smiled briefly; neither she nor Vin were particularly fussed about keeping the place tidy when there were more important things to be done in the bedroom. Her smile faded again. Is there a me and Vin anymore? With a sigh she glanced around the room. The bed would have to wait to be made up. It was still wet. Better check on Chris.

He had pushed the layers of blankets aside that covered his chest as his temperature rose and she could see the fine sheen of perspiration on his upper body. Although Nathan had left no instructions except to keep Chris warm she assumed that overheating the guy wasn't on the agenda either. Folding down two of the blankets she pulled the feather quilt back up and tucked it around the sleeping man's shoulders. With a sigh she sat down on the edge of the fold out frame, reaching out a hand to move a lock of hair from across his face. Oh, Chris. What have you done? What have I done?

The apartment rocked, a brief shock wave that rattled the windows and sent Zoé's heart into her mouth, and her brain racing as she identified the muffled report of an explosion from the street. Close. How close? Chris jerked, a spasm that shook his entire body and when Zoé looked his eyes were open; wide and staring but unseeing. His hands gripped the covers and he lay rigid, his gaze locked in the far distance far beyond even the walls of the apartment. She launched herself from the low bed and hurried to the window, automatically scanning the street below for any sign of Vin. She could see the Harley still parked on the footpath immediately in front of the block. Where are you Tanner? The blast alarmed her more than she wanted to admit for while violence was a part of life in Purgatorio she did not believe explosions were any part of the norm even here. She looked back at Chris who had made no further movement and threw open the window. The noise assaulted her eardrums as she worked at separating the sounds of women screaming and men shouting; a babel of several different languages from which she could gain no coherent meaning except that there were some casualties then above everything she heard the word "muerto" and someone was calling for an ambulance. Leaning out she tried to see where the blast had been centred. Shit! Too many people. Through the noise -- she was certain the entire barrio had descended on the scene -- she could already hear the wail of sirens and once again she scanned the street hoping for a glimpse of Vin. Of course he would be there. Her eye travelled along the row of parked cars and with a dawning sense of dread she finally understood the awful reality. The blast had been a car bomb. Only her years of training kept a lid on the rampant speculation that threatened to overwhelm her. The deep-seated fear that she knew exactly which vehicle had been targeted was only fuelled by the knowledge that the reason Ezra still lay in intensive care and Chris was currently sedated right in the very room in which she stood was because of a similar bomb. Not the Jeep. Please not the Jeep. Not Vin. But she knew that the activity in the street below was focused on the spot where Vin had parked the Wrangler the night before. Was it only last night that they had all come home together for a few beers and a meal? Just where had it all gone wrong?

She snatched up the cell phone from the table and once again sat by Chris as she dialled. Anxiously waiting for a response she unconsciously covered Chris' hand with her own. He started as she touched him and she could feel the fine tremor vibrating through his body as she held onto his hand, and wondered if the contact was for truly his benefit or hers. The phone rang out and she tried again telling herself that it meant nothing; once he saw it was her calling he probably wouldn't answer it anyway. She couldn't blame him for that. Damn caller ID! The phone rang out a second time and she barely paused before keying in a new number.

Nathan answered on the second ring.

"Jackson."

"Nathan, it's Zoé. All hell's broken loose here right on the street. Looks like a car bomb." In spite of her attempt at impartial professionalism she found that her voice was shaking.

"We're on our way. Buck was just trying to call you. Where's Vin? We haven't been able to raise him."

Her throat constricted and she found she couldn't answer immediately, terrified by the implication.

"Zoé? You still there? I said where's Vin?"

"I don't know." She paused not sure if she could get out the next part. "He left and Nathan, I think the bomb was in the Jeep."

For the space of a dozen heartbeats Nathan was silent then she heard.

"We'll be there in five."

In the speeding SUV, Nathan glanced at Buck. The mustached agent didn' t turn in the doctor's direction, his eye never leaving the road as he threaded his way deftly through the traffic.

"I don't want to hear this do I?"

"Zoé thinks it was Vin's Jeep that was targeted."

"Shit! Is she sure or does she just have the jitters."

"I don't know."

"Vin?"

"She doesn't know where he is."

Buck contained himself with difficulty, a multitude of equally disturbing alternatives coming to mind.

"I though you said they were both with Chris."

Nathan shrugged.

"They were. But Vin left."

Wilmington finally took his eyes off the road picking up the uncertainty in Jackson's voice.

"Anything you want to share with me, Nate?"

"A feelin' that's all. Somethin's going down with those two."

"Great! Just great! Vin had better have a damn good excuse as to why he's not answering his phone that doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he's pissed at his little lady!"

Buck drove the SUV as close to the milling crowd as he could, parking behind two fire trucks, an ambulance and three black and whites. He got out of the vehicle and shrugged into the jacket that identified him as ATF trying to ignore the nagging doubt that the reason Tanner was not responding to calls was that he really had no choice in the matter.

**********

Fuck that hurts! He came to a rapid decision that his best option was not to move any part of him, which would have worked admirably except he couldn't stop himself breathing and at that moment it was this most basic of involuntary actions that was causing him the most pain. He coughed wetly, unable to suppress the urge any longer, and almost passed out from the searing pain that tore through his chest. His mouth filled with blood and he spat, needing no medical opinion to tell him that he had punctured a lung. Not good, Tanner. He moaned aloud as someone eased him into a sitting position and he peered through unfocused eyes at what he hoped was an EMT, not relishing the idea of drowning in his own blood because some good samaritan decided to get in on the act. It registered in his still reeling brain that someone was instructing him not to cough. Yeah, right. Easy for you to say, bud.

Slowly he returned to full consciousness, not entirely happy to do so. His head felt as if he had been crushed in a vice and the thundering headache pounding behind his eyes made him nauseous. To make matters worse his vision was blurred and he was seeing two of everything, a phenomenon which made him recall the aftermath of a competition he had once had with Ezra to see who could put away the most shots of schnapps in sixty seconds.

"........name?"

It finally computed that the EMT had asked his name. Geez, what was it again?

"Tanner," he managed breathlessly, after a moment's consideration, "ATF."

He coughed again, bracing himself against the pain and feeling the bubbling of fluid in his chest. This was definitely bad news. Vin looked down to make sure he was still all there, surprised to find that he was pretty much intact. At least he could still make out a body, two arms and two legs. He could see there was a lot of blood on him but he couldn't focus with enough clarity to locate its source. His head fell back again; maybe it was just as well. Pity Zoé wasn't here, she'd wanted his blood -- now she could have as much as she wanted. A half-formed thought tugged at his sluggish brain. What had he been doing to wind up like this? Going to his Jeep… Mano… Mano?

"Agent Tanner?"

Vin blinked and tried to focus but the man before him, both versions, remained in a haze. Was he supposed to answer because he wasn't sure he could manage to breathe and talk any more?

"Just take it easy, now. You'll feel like coughing but I want you to try not to, you've got some broken ribs here and one of them has punctured a lung."

"Tell me something I don't know," he gasped, feeling pleased that he had actually succeeded in completing a sentence.

Without any effort on his part he found his jacket being carefully manipulated over his arms. He hoped it wasn't damaged -- he'd paid $300 for it only last year. His shoulder protested at the movement and the pressure on his ribs was agony but he bit down on the moan that threatened to erupt and stopped trying to help. A few minutes later he winced as the EMT stuck a cannula in the back of his hand and attached an intravenous line. Damn, but he hated IVs but he knew the drill well enough not to protest. Just let the man do his job, Tanner.

Finally transferred to a stretcher he leaned gratefully against the raised backrest, breathing shallowly and trying not to either throw up or cough and wanting nothing more than to do both. He held one arm across his chest and closed his eyes, his last thought as the stretcher was loaded into the waiting ambulance being: Zoé's going to kill me.

Buck shouldered his way through the milling crowd, surveying with a professional eye the devastation wrought by the car bomb. The remains of the chassis suggested that this had indeed been Vin's Wrangler, the twisted license plate recovered from the other side of the street confirmed it. Blood seemed to be everywhere, sprayed in a wide arc across the road, sidewalk and even onto the shopfronts. Buck closed his mind rejecting the most obvious possibility and joined two police officers interviewing witnesses.

"Wilmington, ATF," he introduced himself and flashed his ID, "What can you tell me?"

"We think it was a car bomb."

Buck looked at the young officer with a bland expression that did little to reflect his feelings.

"No shit! Now, can you tell me anything useful, son?"

The rookie blushed.

"One fatality, two if you count the dog, and one injured."

Dog?

Buck shook his head not quite sure he had heard correctly.

"Any ID on the victims?"

His gut clenched as he waited for the officer to check his notebook.

"Uh, we have a deceased male Latino aged approximately twelve years no ID yet and a male, caucasion name of…" He paused, having difficulty deciphering his own writing, oblivious to the fact that at any moment he was in danger of having his youthful features rearranged by the frustrated ATF agent, "...Tanner. Hey, that's right. He's one of yours."

Buck took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then put a large hand on the rookie's shoulder and aimed a feral smile in his direction.

"You'll go far in this business, kid."

Buck's relief that Vin was alive faded rapidly as soon as he climbed into the back of the emergency vehicle. He had wheedled a couple of minutes out of the EMT, needing to see Vin was still in one piece before he could let the ambulance leave but the sight of the young Texan did nothing to reassure him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and he could hear the laboured breathing, wet and gurgling with each inspiration. He was surprised when Vin opened unfocused eyes and managed a crooked grin.

"Hey, Buck. Heard you coming two blocks away."

"Looks like you're not havin' a good day, pard."

"Better believe it."

Tanner coughed explosively and a fine spray of blood added to the gore already decorating the front of his shirt. Grimacing he closed his eyes and the EMT signalled that Buck's time was up. He nodded.

"Gotta go, Vin. Hang in there."

He moved to leave but Vin reached out to stop him.

"Buck. Tell Zoé…" He paused. "Aw hell, forget it. She wouldn't listen anyway."

Chris had finally relaxed. Zoé, her nerves as tight as a drawn bowstring, could not. Every moment that passed increased her anxiety until she wanted to scream. Twice she had considered leaving Chris and joining the throng in the street just to be doing something other than watch and wait, but the stricken look on the blond man's face and the incredible confusion in his eyes stopped her. Even after the tension had gradually seeped out of his muscles and he had slipped once more into a deep sleep she had been unable to bring herself to go. One betrayal was enough in one day even for her.

Senses alert, she was up and opening the door almost before Buck had finished knocking. The two ATF agents stood awkwardly for a moment but Zoé was unable to read anything in either their expressions or their body language, then Buck strode forward and wrapped her in a comforting bear hug.

"Vin wasn't in the Jeep…"

Zoé clung tightly to the big man, her face pressed into his broad chest as she absorbed the news, grateful that Buck had the sensitivity to answer the question uppermost in her mind then, as the realisation that the gentle agent was waiting to say more filtered through to her, she drew back and searched his face for a clue.

"But..?" she urged, all too aware that there was indeed a but.

Nathan stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Vin was in the blast zone and took some damage."

"Some damage?" she repeated dully, thinking it sounded like something that could be repaired in an auto shop. "How bad?"

Nathan deferred to Wilmington with a gesture.

"Just saw him for a minute or two Zoé but he was awake and talkin'."

She snorted and turned away from both men.

"And that's supposed to be reassuring?"

"Look, Zoé," continued Buck, patiently, "I can't tell you what I don't know. EMT said only that he's got a few busted ribs and a collapsed lung. If you get your things we can go to the hospital right now."

Zoé laughed, the sound brittle and humourless.

"Buck, I'm the last person he'd want to see."

Wilmington looked curious then as he made the right connections Vin's few words in the ambulance made all the sense in the world.

"You two had a fight, right?"

"Stupid really," she mused, "Things said that can't ever be unsaid. I'll be lucky if he ever wants to see me again."

"If you believe that then you're not as smart as I thought you were, princess," He reached out and slid one arm around her shoulders. "And Vin might be as stubborn and ornery as a country mule when he sets his mind to somethin' but he sure as hell ain't dumb."

Zoé looked levelly at the mustached agent and knew that she couldn't walk away from the wiry Texan quite as easily as she had thought. Abruptly turning she addressed Nathan who had already moved to look over Larabee.

"Will you stay with Chris, if I go with Buck?"

The doctor was in the process of peeling back one of Chris' eyelids to check his pupils and nodded briefly.

"You go."

The woman leaned down and kissed Nathan gently on the cheek.

"Thanks. You take good care of him now."

Jackson smiled, showing a row of even, white teeth.

"And you take care of Vin, you hear? Don't come back till you've sorted somethin' out."

She nodded and picked up her purse from the table, then took a deep breath as if bracing herself for an ordeal.

"You'd better be right about this, Buck."

The tone of her voice left him in doubt that he better had.

That's another pair of jeans ruined. As a nurse cut the bloodied denim from his legs he idly considered whether it would be worth making a claim to the Bureau for reimbursement. Hell, maybe he should just start getting clothes with rip-stick seams. Resigned to the all too-familiar routines he forced himself to relax and tried once again not to cough although the urge to clear his congested lungs was become increasingly harder to ignore. He did everything he was bidden with a quiet acceptance, pushing aside the apprehension he felt as each procedure was carefully explained to him: the needle-sticks for the blood work, the naso-gastric tube, the catheter (again!), the best-forgotten gross indignity of a rectal exam and finally the chest tube. It was over reasonably quickly but he had almost passed out as the metal rod was forced through the chest muscles between the lower ribs in his left side in spite of the local anaesthetic that had been injected into the chest wall. Once in place, secured and connected to a drain, the flexible tube had filled with dark blood and the pressure in his chest almost immediately lessened. Physically and emotionally exhausted he was barely aware of the numerous lacerations across his arms, chest and thighs being stitched and he was asleep before he was finally transferred to ICU, missing the irony of being relegated within the space of twenty four hours from visitor to patient.

**********

Memory drifted back; shattered fragments like the crystal shards of a broken mirror, fragile yet razor-sharp. Sarah. No. Not Sarah -- someone else. There was no Sarah any more. It had been someone else. A woman; touching. Searing heat against cold flesh that ignited a slow-burning flame in his soul. Heat that dragged him weak and mewling from the frozen wastes of despair and into arms that promised…

He blinked sluggishly, unable to focus properly and barely able to hold his eyes open. Shit! Where was he? Slowly, his vision cleared and he allowed himself to relax a little. Think Larabee! Scraps of memory taunted him but slipped out of his reach when he tried to make sense of them. Too much to drink. Lifting an an arm, a feat he found surprisingly difficult, he covered his eyes against the bright daylight. So tired he could sleep for a week.

"Chris? You with me now, Chris?"

Only just. With a supreme effort of will, he raised his arm and peered at the source of the familiar voice. Nathan. He swallowed and tried to work some moisture into his mouth.

"What hit me?" he whispered, hoarsely, amazed at how difficult it was to articulate those three words.

He felt strong fingers close around his wrist, checking his pulse.

"You don't remember?"

Chris struggled to make sense of the disconnected images that still flittered tantalisingly through his confusion.

"No," he confessed after several moments, his voice thick.

Jackson thumbed his eyelids open and shone a pencil-light torch into each pupil.

"What's the last thing you can recall?"

The blond man thought hard, a frown creasing his forehead as he struggled with an imprecise memory.

"Got drunk."

"How d'you feel now?"

The answer was several seconds in coming as Chris considered the question.

"Like shit!"

"Do you want to sleep?"

Larabee nodded slowly. Yes. Sleep.

He didn't even feel the hypodermic needle that Nathan slid into the muscle of his upper arm as he drifted once again into sleep and the just-out-of-reach memories that hid in the darker recesses of his mind.

**********

Ezra considered the dilemma of his current situation. If nothing else confinement to a hospital bed permitted indulgence in contemplative thought that the Southerner might otherwise not have had the opportunity to engage in. Coming to terms with his own mortality was not something particularly new for the undercover agent; after all he made a living from a dangerous occupation, he took risks and he accepted the hazards. Still, having spent but a single intimate moment with death, he was now more than satisfied to keep that particular relationship at arms' length and hoped to continue doing so for many years into the future. No, his concern was how he had measured up when faced with circumstances over which he had no control; how he would be judged by others. Say what you mean Standish - by Chris. His recollection of the whole nightmarish episode was startling clear. He had not once lost consciousness, although at times he had wished otherwise, not until his lungs had finally betrayed him and given up the fight and each moment of fear, each exquisite instant of pain, each word spoken, was indelibly etched into his brain. He had cried for Christ's sake!

In the last thirty-six hours, every member of the team had passed through his room except Larabee. That in itself sliced open a wound within him that caused more pain than all his other injuries combined; a pain that all the medication in the world could not alleviate. What did you expect, Standish? See what happens when you trust people; when you let them get close? Do you think given a choice that he'd have chosen to be stuck in some rat hole with you? He remembered with a sense of shame his willingness to be held by the other man; his complete and unconditional surrender to that physical contact which had in part eased his pain. You were scared! Scared? Admit it, you were fucking petrified!

Retreating from his almost masochistic self-analytical introspection he reached for the overhead trapeze, using the strength in his arms to relieve the pressure on his buttocks and shoulders for a few minutes; a trick the physical therapist had shown him just that morning.

"I'm impressed!"

Biceps taut, Ezra lowered himself back onto the bed and smiled at the sound of the voice.

"Well, Mr. Wilmington. What brings you to the hallowed halls of this establishment of healing in the middle of a working day? Shouldn't you be in dogged pursuit of the perpetrators of this outrageous abuse of my person?"

Buck failed to meet his eyes and the Southerner tensed, Wilmington's open countenance, never schooled in artifice, immediately sending a cold chill down his spine.

"Buck? What is it?" Straight to the point. No verbal embellishments.

"Vin's been hurt," he admitted quickly, pushing out the words as if he wanted to be rid of them, "A car bomb."

"Badly?"

Ezra's stomach squirmed as he waited for the answer.

"They're bringing him up from ER now," explained the ladies' man, "Probably the luckiest son of a bitch in the world. Broke a few ribs and punched a hole in one of his lungs, concussion, lots of cuts and bruises."

"Dear God! What next? Far be it from me to be the harbinger of bad tidings but I detect a certain disturbing pattern here, my friend."

"You and the rest of the Bureau," confessed Wilmington, "Travis is about to bust a blood vessel. He's talkin' about puttin' you, Vin and Chris under 24 hour protection so don't be surprised if you find you can't take a piss without someone watching over your shoulder."

The undercover agent managed a self-mocking half-smile.

"Oh, rest assured, Mr. Wilmington, I'm quite used to that already."

Vin had a headache. Not just a morning-after-the-night-before type headache but the worst headache he had ever experienced. It helped to keep his eyes closed because seeing double just aggravated the pounding behind his eyeballs but he couldn't sleep for longer than an hour at a time; not because he didn't want to but because no-one would let him. Now he felt sick. Whether that was from the headache or all the blood he had swallowed he wasn't sure but the last thing he wanted to do was throw up. The very idea of movement was something he didn't wish to contemplate, the idea of heaving his guts up was enough to bring him out in a cold sweat. Everything hurt. Some parts more than others but as yet he had been unable to find a single inch of his body that he could safely say was pain free. Of course, being hurled twenty feet into the air against a brick wall tended to produce that effect.

"Mr. Tanner."

Geez, here we go again. Lights, camera, action! Vin Tanner. 572… no, 527 East Street. May 18th? 19th? Tuesday…? Fuck it, I don't know! Just go away and leave me alone.

He decided that persistence was a prerequisite for becoming a nurse, not to mention being impervious to abuse from irritable patients.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Not again.

Defeated, he squinted in front of him for a moment then closed his eyes again.

"Does polydactyly mean anything to you?"

Evidently it did because the nurse actually laughed.

"Mr. Tanner, I know this is driving you crazy but I just need to look in your