September 28
The phone rang, shrill and loud.
Vin didn't open his eyes, just reached blindly for the phone, face still buried in his single, battered pillow.
"Yeah," he said across a yawn.
A soft female voice said, "Hola, senor, the man he is come home again."
"Shit." His eyes snapped open and he was about to ask for more information but the girl had hung up already. He cleared the line and rolled over onto his back, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then reluctantly sat up and padded through his apartment to the bathroom. The clock on the DVD player told him it was ten past two in the morning, and he slumped, feeling vaguely betrayed by the cheery green numbers blinking at him. On autopilot he set the kettle to boiling, and wandered back into the bathroom, where he pulled on the jeans he'd taken off all of an hour ago, and a loose green shirt. It was too close and humid for anything more.
On an afterthought he slid his gun into the back of his waistband, almost hearing his sergeant's apoplexy at it, and his ATF ID into his back pocket. He grabbed wallet, phone and keys, made up a huge mug of black coffee and drank it down, then poured another and headed out the door, locking it behind him.
"What the hell are you doing up there, Bucklin?" he groused, slouched low in his jeep. He stared up at the lit windows of Buck's apartment. Ezra had somehow arranged for him to be contacted whenever Buck came in, but he'd assumed it wasn't going to be twenty-four seven. Hell, for that matter, he'd assumed that Larabee would keep Buck out on the ranch for the weekend, sober him up some. Maybe knock a little sense into the man. "Why couldn't ya stay where you were put?"
Still, even in the middle of the night on a weekend, it was his turn to watch over Buck, so here he was. He tilted up the mug of coffee, and muttered when only the last few dregs trickled out. Why couldn't the man have stayed out at Larabee's? He wouldn't be outside wondering if Buck was okay, and wishing he had more caffeine.
The sky lit up from horizon to horizon and he huddled down deeper. "Ah, shit." There was a massive crash of thunder and the heavens opened. His mug slowly started to fill up again, drops pattering gently inside it, beating down on his bare arms and uncovered head.
"Ah, hell." He hesitated, and then shrugged and stepped out of the jeep. Looking up he saw that the light in the apartment had gone out, and he slammed the jeep's door a little harder than necessary. "Well, he can just get up again."
He pulled out the keys Buck and JD had given him long ago and headed up the stairs.
He yawned as he put the key in the lock of their apartment, and twisted it firmly, knocking a couple of times as he did so. No point startling Buck and getting shot. He started turning the handle and the slightest, faintest edge of resistance dragged his eyes down before he moved it more than half way.
"Oh shit."
He could see it, now he was looking. Scratches on the lock. Fine black lines -- wires -- running from the external handle into where the latch sat. He dropped his head forwards and lightly rested it on the door. He knew he couldn't smell it, but he smelled it just the same. C4, semtex, nitro -- whatever it was, it was rigged on the other side of the door -- and if he let go of the handle or completed the turn, he was going to lose his hand, and by the time anyone got to him, probably his life.
"Least I'm out of the rain," he muttered. And then remembered he'd left the jeep's windows open. He sighed. Hell, he might as well just call Buck and -- oh, shit, the cell phone! His eyes widened and his other hand plunged into his pocket, turning it off, fumbling in his haste.
"Hell. Buck? Buck? You in there?" he called softly, not wanting to wake the neighbors, and then stopped. What the hell was he thinking?
"Buck! Buck dammit! Are you in there?!" he bellowed, as loud as he could.
It had probably been the bomber he'd seen moving around and who had turned off the light. Which meant the girl who'd been watching either needed a better picture of Buck, or better glasses -- and probably was worth tracking down as a witness. Or she was an accomplice, and it wasn't intended for Buck at all. And wasn't that a comforting thought.
"Hey! Anybody there? There's a bomb! Somebody call the police! There's a bomb in the building! Call the police!" he shouted over and over, until he was hoarse. And still he called.
For the longest time he thought nobody was going to come, and he leaned his head against the door frame thinking of all the things he would do and say if he got out of this alive, and whether he would be able to stay with the ATF with only one hand. He closed his eyes at the thought of his best case scenario -- it just took his hand off. But if it was shaped, or set on the floor, and not tied directly to the handle, it could take his legs. Or if it was high enough, simply shred him. He couldn't stop thinking of mines, and nail bombs, of being left to die a lingering, painful death, or left alive, with half a body, trapped in -- he stopped himself. Carefully he wrapped his left hand around his right as it began to cramp and ache in the unnatural half-twisted position he had to keep it to hold the handle steady. He shivered. It was getting cold. The storm had broken the humid, hot weather, and he was starting to feel it.
It wasn't anything to do with being trapped with a bomb, he told himself, and tried to ignore the goosebumps that rushed across him. Someone would come. Someone would come. They had to.
He wasn't going to die here.
He lifted his head at a faint sound, and then suddenly there was a rush of light and feet and voices.
"Denver PD! Hands in the air!"
"Bomb! There's a bomb! If I move it will go off!" he said urgently, before they shot him and killed them all. The sounds abated behind him and the creeping tension in his shoulders loosened a little. Perhaps he'd get out of this alive after all. "I'm Agent Vin Tanner, ATF, my ID's in my right back pocket, I have a gun in the back of my pants, and the door handle I am holding is rigged to go off when I complete the turn or let go."
He leaned his head against the frame and waited for them to decide.
"Don't move," a male voice said nervously, and a hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out the ID. He turned his head as far as he could to let them confirm that it was his face on the picture. The flashlight in his eyes blinded him, and he blinked against it.
"Believe me," he said fervently, "I'm not moving anywhere."
"Sorry, sir," the same voice seemed happier now. "One of your neighbors said there was a crazy guy shouting bomb threats."
"That was me," Vin said wearily. "I couldn't use my phone and--"
"Why not?"
"Because, officer," another voice said with clipped annoyance, "a cellular phone signal might act as a remote trigger and set the bomb off. Now, get out of the way, and let me see."
"Hey, Red, they letting you out on live cases again?" Vin smirked as he recognized the burly, red haired man from Denver's police bomb squad.
"Only ones where they don't care who gets hurt, pretty-boy," the officer said smartly. "Let's see what you've got yourself into then."
"Can you get someone to call Larabee, Andy?" he asked first. "He's gonna be pissed, and I'd rather he was pissed at one of you. No offense," he added, and Andy O'Dea grinned at him.
"I'll do it myself, if you like."
"Sooner would be better," Vin said seriously. "Been sitting here a while."
"Hand tired?" O'Dea was all business, and Vin nodded. "We'll see if we can do something about that. You know when you armed it?"
"'Bout two thirty. It ain't blown, so I guess I didn't arm it. Yet."
O'Dea nodded. "It's four in the morning now. Your neighbors must have the patience of saints with you caterwauling to wake the damned here."
"Fuck you very much." Vin lifted his head. "Hell, they're Buck's neighbors. Probably used to the caterwauling." They both laughed, and Vin was caught by a yawn. "Hey, sorry, did someone call Chris?"
"Luke Mitchen went downstairs to call Agent Larabee," a stranger's voice said.
"Linda Sarns, my newest victim. Er, rookie." O'Dea introduced the woman. "Vin Tanner, ATF agent and currently, door stop."
"Had it right first time, Sarge." Sarns said cheerfully. Vin didn't turn to look.
"I get no respect at all, these days."
"You get exactly what you deserve." Vin said, and tried to smile.
"Well, let's make sure you don't get what you deserve, eh, lad?" He leaned in and peered at the door handle. "Hmm. Yes. You've got good reflexes."
"It stuck. This door ain't stuck in its life. Buck an' JD too busy slammin' in and out of it." He stopped abruptly.
"I heard about your trouble," O'Dea said quietly, still examining what little he could see of the trigger mechanism. "Was a good lad."
Vin shrugged one shoulder. "Guess with Buck an' all, pretty near everyone's heard."
"Guess so." He traced the line of the wires with his fingers, not touching them, and tutted. "Who's Wilmington pissed off this time?"
Vin grinned, "Ex-girlfriend?"
"New girlfriend's ex-boyfriend? Or not so ex-husband?" O'Dea smirked.
Vin forced a laugh over the fleeting thought of Tzivokis. "Don't know where he gets the energy."
"Some guys have all the luck," the officer agreed, and settled back on his haunches. "Okay. My best guess right now is it's a simple trigger, and you were right, any move back or forth will set the charge off. But, I'm not risking anyone's life on that, so I'm going to see if I can get someone inside."
"Through the wall?"
O'Dea shook his head. "He couldn't have set this up without help, and at least one person had to be inside. Now, either they're still inside, which is stupider than most of our explosives boys are, or he went out the window."
"And if he came out, you can get back in." Vin nodded. "Cool."
"Course, it's going to be a wee while. Don't want to take off anyone's face finding out they put a charge on the window."
"Sure."
"I'll see if we can rig something to relieve the strain on your hands."
"Thanks, Andy."
"Sarge?" A woman's voice.
"You're welcome, son," he ruffled Vin's hair. "We're going to get you out, okay?"
"You say that to all the boys, don't you?"
"Just the pretty ones," O'Dea grinned cheerfully at him and straightened to his feet. "And I'll get someone to bring you some water. Yeah, Sarns?"
"Mitchen said to tell you that Larabee's on his way, and pissed."
"Hell, no change there then," Vin grinned, and O'Dea laughed.
"True enough. I'll see you in a while, unless you let go, in which case, I'll see ya in hell."
"Not if Larabee sees me first," Vin said morosely, and O'Dea chuckled again and left.
Someone draped a blanket over his shoulders. From the heavy, scratchy feel he suspected it was supposedly bombproof. It was no comfort at all to think that it was draped over him, rather than between him and the door.
It was some time before someone spoke to him again. This time a woman asked him if he would like some water, and when he nodded, held a straw against his lips. He swallowed gratefully. There was an explosion of sound and he smiled as a familiar harsh voice demanded information over the protests of the DPD.
"Hey, Larabee. Sorry we broke into yer beauty sleep."
"What were you doing here?" Chris asked, ducking down to get a good look at what little could be seen of the trigger mechanism.
"Making sure Buck didn't get caught in it first."
Chris's hand gripped at his shoulder as he stood, and Vin was absurdly grateful that he didn't lift it away immediately. They both knew that Buck might have spotted the wires. But the state he'd been in lately, he might just as easily have slammed the door open and been killed instantly.
"Hey, kid," Buck said quietly, and gripped his other shoulder. "You want to let me have a look-see?"
"Knock yourself out," Vin said tiredly. "I ain't going anywhere."
Buck crouched and shone a flashlight over the handle and over the dark lines of the wires running back into the door. He whistled softly. "Damn. I reckon I owe you one."
"Yeah. I'll send ya the bill when I get out of here."
"It's a deal." Buck stood and rested his hand on Vin's back for a moment. "Chris, you know who's in charge up here?"
"The prodigal returns, eh?" O'Dea's voice boomed out. "Nice mess you've left for your old friends to clean up."
Buck laughed behind Vin. "You know me, Red."
"Too well, laddie."
"What've we got?" Larabee interrupted them, he sounded angry, and Vin waited for the explosion.
O'Dea was calmly unfazed. "We've got a plain old fashioned nitrate charge, with a kinetic trigger hooked directly to the door handle. It's perhaps ten degrees turn away from being set off." His voice had lowered, but Vin heard him, and a rush of cold air seemed to pour over his back. That close to dying. He gripped tighter, watching his hands.
"I'm going to get a box into your apartment, Buck," O'Dea went on, "and we're going to try moving the charge into it, and do a safe detonation. Talking to the team inside, our boy's embedded the trigger charge in a bucket of nails, and by the looks of it, packed the whole thing with quick set plastic. Tanner?" A hand rested on his other shoulder momentarily and he lifted his head to meet Andy's eyes, "It's not going to be much longer, we're going to put sheeting over the inside of the door before we move anything, and we're going to get as much protection on you as we can."
"Thanks," he muttered. A hand wrapped around his on the handle, and he looked at it, and then at the man standing next to him. "Chris, don't be stupider than y'can help."
"How much longer can you hold that exactly there?"
"Long as I need ta," he said tersely.
"Vin. I've got enough trouble. Just shut up, okay?" Chris said firmly, and Vin shook his head.
"You'd think he didn't give a shit. Soft as butter in July," he taunted his friend, who just shrugged.
"Don't wanna try training a new sniper."
"God, no, if his last effort at hiring is anything to go by, you gotta survive this, Vin. I don't think anyone can take another Nicholson," Buck said. It was meant to be cheerful but there was too much of an edge to his voice.
"Shut up, Buck," Chris and Vin said jointly, and then slanted a look at each other.
"Ah, who cares what you think anyway. What the hell were you doing here?" Buck asked.
"Uh--"
"Happened to be driving past and saw a light, huh, Vin?" Chris said firmly.
"Yeah. How'd you guess?" Vin said lamely.
"Been following me?"
"Nah. Why'd I want to do a thing like that?"
Buck's arm wrapped over his blanket covered shoulders and he said, very softly, "So something like this didn't happen to me, right?"
"Was driving past, and saw a light, and it started raining and I figured I'd come on up, keep dry." The story didn't sound real convincing to him, either.
"You could try putting your windows up." Buck said.
"Put my windows up?" Vin said blankly. "What for?"
Chris chuckled softly. "You an' Ez, ain't half as smart as you think."
"Gonna ask you boys to move back." O'Dea reappeared by them. "Vin, we're going to pad you and tape down as much bomb proof sheeting as we can between you and it, before we start fucking around with the other side of the door, okay?"
Vin nodded. Slowly and infinitely carefully a couple of police officers slid heavy padding between him and the door and strapped it onto him.
"Can you pull your left hand back, sir," the woman asked, and Vin tried to remember her name. Samms? Something like that.
He shook his head. "Cramped on, I reckon."
"Okay. Hold still and we'll do that for you." It was the last part of him to be covered. He stared down through a smoked visor as one of them stabilized his right hand, and the other peeled his left off of the handle, Chris still holding his right in place.
"You going to be okay if I let go there," Sarns asked easily, and Vin met her eyes and nodded.
She let go of him and he tucked his aching left hand behind the padding and sheeting, and then watched as they carefully wrapped more between his right hand and the door. Maybe this was the last time he was going to -- he stopped himself right there.
"Looks like the Stay-Puft man, gone horribly wrong," Wilmington quipped from behind him. He grinned over his shoulder.
"Who ya gonna call?"
"Everybody back into the stairwell. Not you, Tanner," O'Dea called.
"Very funny, O'Dea."
Chris let go of where he was gripping Vin's hand and the door handle, and he felt cold.
"I'll be right back, Tanner," he muttered. "Don't go and do anything stupid."
Vin ducked his head in agreement.
"All clear on this side," O'Dea announced, presumably into a radio. He heard distant squawks and tried to stay as still as possible. The cramps were spreading up around his elbow, and straining across his back.
"You're clear to go," O'Dea told the bomb squad on the other side of the door, and Vin closed his eyes.
There was a long silence. It stretched out, painfully. Vin concentrated on breathing, slow and steady. Feeling his diaphragm move, his ribcage expanding and contracting. He heard a faint thump on the other side of the door, and stopped breathing.
God, he wished he could see what was happening.
---------------------------------
date unknown
"No!" He backed away from the gurney shaking his head as they pulled the sheet away from her face, his hand across his mouth, "No... Mom..." he whispered hopelessly. Her makeup was smeared, her long, dark hair pulled severely back, pooling under her bare shoulders. There was no sign of the lavender suit she had worn this morning, brushing a kiss over his head as he ate breakfast, telling him she was just going out to look at books. He'd laughed, they'd need a new house with all the books she'd been buying lately... "No..."
The morgue technicians retreated, leaving just him and the police officer -- Sergeant Mendez he said, a million years ago -- looking down at the body.
"I'm very sorry, son," Mendez said gently, "-- can you confirm her identity?"
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Yes, it's my Mom. Um, Valency Heather Dunne." He wiped tears roughly from his face. "I-- I'm sorry, I--"
"Thank you, Mr. Dunne." The old guy wasn't so bad, JD thought. His middle-aged face was creased in sympathetic lines, he felt oddly safe, like a cop was supposed to. "I'm so sorry, son. I know how hard this is."
JD turned away. He couldn't bear to look any more at the creamy oval face with that tiny bullet hole, barely an inch across, black and ugly at her temple. Her eyes were closed, blue veined and tranquil, and he felt sharply that if he just reached out he could wake her --
He snatched his hand back and asked, "What happened? How--how could this happen? She was going shopping for books!"
"From the witness reports it appears to have been mugging. One of the attackers had a gun, and when Ms. Dunne resisted, he shot her." The police officer hesitated, and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. "The doctor tells me that death was instantaneous. She didn't suffer at all."
JD sobbed once, a sharp, ugly sound, and closed his eyes briefly. "Thank you. I --" He looked helplessly at the officer. "What do I do?" God, there'll have to be a funeral, and I'll have to figure out how to get her cremated, and, oh God, ...
"We have a victim advocacy unit, Mr. Dunne -- someone is waiting outside right now if you want to speak to them? They will be able to guide you through some of the things that are going to happen in the next little while."
"Thank you." He tried to smile at him, and wished the police officer wouldn't look so sympathetic. He sniffed, then swallowed hard, and pushed back the tears. "Thank you." His voice sounded more normal, and he sniffed. "That would be great." It wouldn't of course. Nothing would be great ever again. It felt like he was drifting above the scene, listening to the meaningless platitudes, but not involved.
God... Mom....
---------------------------------
September 28
Chris held his breath, watching as Vin crouched against the wall by Buck's front door, his arm at full extension holding the wired door handle in place. He was almost completely obscured by padding and bombproof sheeting as he huddled against the wall. About all he could really see of the man was a few tails of hair poking out from under the helmet they'd put on him. He was supposed to be further back, lower down, behind the safety of the screens that had been put in place along the corridor in front of the stairwell where they were waiting. Instead he was watching, as close as O'Dea and Buck would let him be. Praying.
He heard a distant thump, and his eyes closed before he could see it. Oh God. In his mind's eye flame spurted out around his friend. He let his breath go, opening them again when there was no explosion of hot wind and debris on his face. Vin was huddled there still, there was no halo of fire, no tumbling masonry or splintered door, or shattered bodies. A hand gripped his shoulder and he jerked and then settled. He didn't need to look to know it was Buck.
"I couldn't bear it either," was all Buck said, and Chris nodded once. The conversations of the previous day were still too close and too raw for either to refer any more closely to it. "I called the rest of the boys," Buck said softly.
"Thanks." He could see Vin's hand shaking on the handle, and wondered how long he had been holding it like that. He wondered how much longer he could hold it for. Wished he could steady it just by willing it. Don't let go, he thought desperately. Don't let go.
He saw Vin take a breath, the first one in forever, and sighed in unconscious synchrony. Vin tensed. His hands curled into fists, staring at his friend, wondering what was going on. O'Dea had talked to Buck before they began, while he was talking to Vin.
"Buck, what--" He couldn't bear the waiting.
"They're going to try to put sheeting between the door on the other side and the charge, they're going to try to disconnect it, and if they can't disconnect, they're going to attempt a controlled detonation in a bomb box." Buck said softly. Chris looked up into the shadowed blue eyes. "They've a pretty good chance. Andy says it looks like it was done as a quick and dirty take down, nothing clever. No motion detectors or remote triggers."
Chris looked into Buck's eyes a little longer, wondering how he could be so calm, when yesterday he had been in agony. The unworthy thought flickered across his mind that Buck didn't care, because it was Vin, that if Chris lost Vin he would be even with Buck, who had lost his protégé and best friend.
"Trust me, Chris," Buck seemed to read his mind, but take no offense. "He's gonna be fine. They're keeping radio silence just in case there's a radio sensitive trigger, but he's fine. It's gonna be okay. That noise was just them putting the bomb box into the room."
Chris gritted his jaw, and said nothing. Buck didn't seem to notice, but his hand tightened on Chris's shoulder.
There would be a time for recriminations later.
Distantly there was a dull thud, and suddenly a burst of noise from the radios. Buck was gone, running for Vin, and Chris followed him, pulling him away from the door handle. His hand clung for a moment and Chris had to physically uncurl his fingers, then Buck was half carrying Vin, half dragging him, the man protesting at every step.
"Dammit, Buck, put me down!" Vin complained, shoving at him, and Chris grinned, huge relief sweeping over him. Behind them there were immense amounts of activity. He didn't give a damn. Buck hauled Vin into the stairwell and stopped, easing him down to sit on the top step, crouching in front of him on a lower step. They stripped him of padding, visor and bomb proof sheets, fingers stumbling on knots and Velcro strips, and took a warm blanket from the paramedic who was hovering, anxious to check the 'victim'. Chris waved him off and settled next to Vin, and shivered.
Much too close.
"You okay, Tanner?" Buck asked gently.
Vin was taking deep steadying breaths. He nodded rather than speak, and Chris swallowed, uncertain of himself. They were all off balance from losing JD, and this -- this caught him on the raw. He couldn't hide his fear from himself. Couldn't even use anger to pretend he didn't care. He'd spent the last two days trying to comfort Buck, and found he didn't know how to comfort himself.
Vin lifted his head finally, and looked first at him, and then, for a long, long moment, at Buck. "Well, wasn't that fun," he said softly.
"You okay?" Chris asked.
Vin lifted his hands and looked at them, turning them over as if amazed that they were still attached. "Just as soon's I get used to the idea of being in one piece," he said. His hands started shaking. "Damn."
"Cold?" Buck grabbed his shaking hands and folded them together, rubbing his own hands over them, ostensibly warming them. Chris smiled faintly. It was Buck's way of comforting without making anyone admit comfort might be needed. He leaned in a little, until his hip was just touching Vin.
"Cramped up some," Vin said softly, and winced as Buck straightened out his fingers, rubbing over the palm of first one hand and then the other. "Thanks."
He pulled his hands away, and flexed them. "Thanks," he said again, and without any warning, clenched his right into a fist and took a swing at Buck, clipping him high on the left cheek.
"Hey!" Buck protested, clutching at the stair-rail to hold himself from tumbling backwards down the stairs. "What was that for?"
"Next time leave fucking Tzivokis alone!" he snapped.
"I don't know--"
Vin shook his head, "No. Don't even." He looked at Chris. "You know what he did?"
Chris raised an eyebrow. "If you tell me am I going to have to know officially?"
Vin stopped. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. "You and me, Buck. We're going to have us a little talk some day, about you and keeping it in your pants."
Chris looked up at the ceiling, praying that Vin didn't mean what he strongly suspected he meant. "You know how you said you'd been doing some stupid things, Buck?" he said slowly.
Buck met his eyes. "I didn't know Vin was going to come breaking into my place in the middle of the night."
"That doesn't make it better! He could have been killed because you won't stop pissing off the wrong people." Chris snarled. "It's gotta stop, Buck. I'm not having this again."
Buck glared at him. "I'm supposed to just abandon him?"
"Yes." Chris snapped. "Buck--"
Buck got to his feet. "You want my badge?" he said, no emotion left in his words or eyes.
"You didn't -- Chris, he didn't set the damn bomb!"
"You could have been killed! Don't you get that?"
"I get it just fine. And you know what, rather me than him, okay? Rather me than any of you."
"You're in shock," Chris said after a stunned silence. "We need to get you somewhere, to a hospital or--"
"I'm fine, dammit." Vin shook Chris's hands off him.
Buck rummaged in his pockets, and held out the black wallet holding his federal ID.
"Oh, put it away," Chris said shortly.
Vin chuckled. "Now, that's some good advice," he said looking at Buck pointedly.
Chris frowned at them. "You got any idea who--"
Buck wouldn't meet his eyes. "Tzivokis," he muttered.
"What the fuck -- no, don't tell me. I'm just going to get angry."
"Angrier," Vin corrected with a smirk.
"Fine, angrier." Chris stopped and shook his head. "I could give a rat's ass what you do in your spare time, Buck. But I warned you, the day you crossed the line, was the day I got involved."
The blank look was fading from Buck's eyes, "God, Vin," he said quietly. He stared at Vin's hands, then gripped his wrists, apparently fascinated. "Thank God you weren't hurt. Christ. If you hadn't been so fast..."
"But I was."
"But if--"
Chris reached down and shook Buck's shoulder. "Buck. He's right. You didn't set the damn thing."
"My door. Meant to take me out."
"Don't know that."
"Well, who the hell else lives there any more, huh?" Buck asked bitterly, and Vin finally looked up, met his eyes. Chris watched the two of them silently, unwilling to interfere.
Vin's hands twisted in Buck's hold, and the comforted became comforter. "I know," he told their linked hands, very quietly. He looked up again, "I was his backup. I should have known something was wrong."
Buck shook his head. "You couldn't have known." He blinked, and looking down at him from higher up the staircase, Chris could see the tears that he refused to shed.
"You couldn't have known about this," Vin told him, absolving him more generously than Chris thought he could have managed.
"I --" he stopped, and then tried again. "I didn't care," he said, nearly too softly to hear.
"I know," Chris answered. Both men looked at him. "Buck, I can't make you care about yourself, I don't even have the right to try," Buck was shaking his head, but Chris carried on regardless, "but it's not just you." He stopped, trying to find the words. "How do I make you see? You're not in this alone. Vin nearly got killed because you didn't care about the consequences of chasing information." He couldn't think what to say next, and the silence went on and on. In the background they could hear the bomb squad securing the building, removing the charge. "Who has to die to make you stop?"
Buck dropped his forehead against Vin's hands, and they sat like that for what felt like hours, until feet pounding up the stairs broke them all apart.
"I take it that no one was injured?" Ezra said urgently as he took the last few steps two at a time. "Buck? Vin?" Nathan and Josiah were right behind him, and Buck was elbowed out of the way as they each checked Vin over. Chris didn't move from Vin's side; no one tried to make him.
Too close. Much too close. This time they had won, but for the first time in a long, long while, he had gone into a situation expecting to lose a friend. Feeling that losing a friend was as likely as beating the odds. Until the kid had died, and even in the silence of his own thoughts he shied away from saying his name, they had been untouchable. However bad it got, they came through, scarred, battered, but fundamentally unchanged. He'd believed in their own legend. And now? He looked around at them, at Buck's haunted face, and Ezra's uncomfortably steady gaze, at Nathan fussing over Vin's hands, at Josiah, eyes closed, murmuring what he could only assume was a prayer of thankfulness; now, they were all afraid in a way they had never been afraid before.
"He's fine," Nathan said happily, and clapped a hand on Ezra's shoulder. "He's just fine."
Ezra nodded; Chris saw him swallow before he spoke. "Good. I am delighted. Is Mr. Wilmington's abode undamaged?"
"I have no idea," Buck said with a faint chuckle. It wasn't funny, but somehow they were all laughing, the sound echoing in the stairwell.
Chris left one hand on Vin's shoulder and looked at Buck, no compromise in his voice. "You're moving out to my place. You won't be able to go back there."
The laughter died, and all of them were looking at Buck.
"No," he said softly, and Chris was going to interrupt, insist that he must, that he could not stay where they couldn't protect him from bombs, from himself, and caught Josiah shaking his head at him, and he let Buck fill the silence. "No, I can't go back," he agreed. Something in the way he said it held them frozen for a moment.
"We'll help," Nathan said gently. "A cousin of Raine's has a big truck I can borrow this weekend."
"We'll come over evenings, box stuff up," Ezra offered. "For that matter, we have most of Sunday left. We should be able to make a good start."
"We'll take care of everything, Buck," Josiah said finally, and Buck nodded.
"Thanks, guys. Vin--"
Vin smiled at him shakily. "We'll talk about it later, cowboy."
"Okay. It's a deal."
Chris looked at his watch, and then around them. "It's nearly five, boys. What ya say we go get us some breakfast?"
"Sounds like a plan," Josiah rumbled.
"What about the cops?"
"You can give your statement later," Ezra said quickly. "It's not as though they don't know where to find you."
"Cool," Vin said easily. "Let's go kill us some arteries."
Nathan groaned, but they rose to their feet, Chris helping Vin, and headed out en masse.
---------------------------------
October 1
Buck tapped on Chris's office door then walked straight in. Chris half smiled, wondering, as always, why any of them bothered knocking.
"You wanted to see me?" Buck said curiously.
"Yeah." Chris pushed the file he had been working on to one side and waved Buck to take a chair, pushing an large official looking envelope across the desk towards him. "Got these from my attorney for you."
"That's where you were this morning?" Buck asked.
"Yeah." Chris waited as Buck slowly reached for them and pulled the sheaf of documents out. His head reared up as he read the first one looking at Chris. "Go on. All of 'em."
Buck looked back down and read through them slowly and carefully. Chris watched him at first, then went back to reading through Vin's report on the merits of further investigation of one Ivan Haines, alleged gunrunner.
He was startled when Buck flung the papers higgledy-piggledy onto his desk and stood, so abruptly that his chair slid away several feet. Buck turned and walked away, towards the window and leaned his head on the glass. "No."
Chris consciously relaxed his shoulders, dropping them and rolling them a little, trying to ease the tightness out of them. "Buck?"
"Chris, I can't do this." He didn't look at him, and Chris closed his eyes briefly, struggling for patience. Surely they'd already been through this?
It was no good, the tension was back again.
"Do what?"
Buck waved at the legal papers scattered on Chris's desk and shook his head.
"Buck, all you have to do is sign them. Ezra and I will take care of all the rest of it. Ezra's lined up a couple of tenants for Monday -- if all that gets signed off today." Buck didn't reply, and Chris added, "Buck, you said--"
"I know, I, I just." Buck stopped, and Chris wondered if Buck really knew what he objected to, or if it was just moving too fast for the shell-shocked man. There'd been no question about Buck going back to the condo. For one thing, as a crime scene it had been pretty much uninhabitable until the middle of the week. And though he was sure Buck didn't want to go back there, it was starting to look like some of the implications of that had just sunk in. Chris sighed, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. He'd invited Buck into his home, had thrown him a lifeline, and now he was honor bound to carry through. He shook his head. What the hell had he been thinking?
A small smile tugged at his mouth. He'd been thinking that Sarah would have ignored him for weeks if he hadn't brought Buck home. He'd been thinking that -- hell. Why analyze? He hadn't been thinking at all.
Buck walked back and sat heavily. He turned the papers over and over in his hands. "Am I doing the right thing?"
Chris grimaced. "Yes."
"But what if he comes back, and there's no one there?"
"The tenants'll be there," he pointed out pragmatically. A hundred other things sprang to his lips, he gritted his teeth and didn't say one of them.
Buck shook his head. "That almost makes it worse. Chris, how would you feel if you came home and found strangers living there? If you found that your home had been abandoned and your friends -- your family, had left without you?"
"For god's sake Buck, you're not abandoning it. It's not like you're selling up. The tenants will know where to find you -- hell, we can give them a picture of the kid if you want, just in case. Make sure they have this address and mine -- the whole team's if you want. Make sure he can find us."
"I guess." It didn't seem to improve Buck's state of mind any. "I feel like I'm -- I don't know. Like I'm betraying him. That place is the only home he had, after his Ma died. And I'm just planning on packing it up and moving him out, like it doesn't matter. Like he don't matter." His eyes turned distant, and Chris frowned.
"You can't stay there," he said quietly, and Buck shivered.
"I know. I'm not -- I'm not arguing that. But -- how can I just leave him?"
Chris shook his head, not saying, he left first. "You gonna sign those papers or not?"
Buck looked at them, and Chris thought for a moment that he was going to change his mind after all, then he reached for a pen from Chris's desk. He rested them on Chris's blotter. Power of attorney. Lease agreement. Bank authorization letter. He signed them one by one, looking up at the end.
"Tell me I'm doing the right thing, Chris," he said softly.
Chris took the signed forms and squared them neatly before slotting them back into the envelope. "You're doing the right thing."
But somehow, he didn't sound any more convinced than Buck.
---------------------------------
October 2
"What about these?" Nathan asked Chris quietly, and gestured to a pile of photograph albums, topped with a teetering pile of envelopes filled with pictures that hadn't been filed before the kid -- left -- and now weren't ever likely to be. Chris crouched by it and opened an envelope, flipping through the photos in it. He smiled faintly at the array of action pictures from some motorcycle race or other, a couple of candid shots of Vin leaning forward urging someone on; one or two weirdly angled ones that looked like JD and Vin had been fighting over the camera, and then. His heart stopped. The kid was laughing out at him, a hand reached out to grab the camera back.
"God." Nathan whispered from behind him and Chris looked up. The black man looked as stunned as Chris felt, his eyes on the picture of the kid.
"Put 'em away," he said roughly. He shoved the photographs back into the envelope. His eyes flickered to the door, and the unseen Buck, bickering in the kitchen with Josiah over whether his pans were superior to Larabee's or not. "Quickly."
Nathan nodded grimly. "Have we got anything weatherproof?"
Chris shook his head. "Put them in one of the bags, and mark it with my name. I'll take 'em tonight and put them somewhere safe inside the house."
"And the papers?"
Chris looked around the kid's room. "Anything that won't survive the damp better stay inside. Box 'em up and mark them. Put 'em in plastic. We just keep them out of Buck's way until he's ready to deal."
"Got ya," Nathan agreed. Chris sighed and went back to clearing the kid's closet of clothes. It ought to all go to the Salvation Army or someone, but that was Buck's decision -- and Buck wasn't up to it yet. He carefully pulled and folded shirts, pants, jeans, sweaters and laid them one by one into the suitcase on the bed. It was hideously reminiscent of packing Sarah and Adam's stuff, and the only way he could do it was not to think about it. There was even the sweetish smell of burning that he had associated for years with detonated explosives. His stomach churned and he gritted his teeth.
"You okay?"
He hadn't even noticed Nathan leave, much less Vin come in.
He nodded shortly.
"I can finish up in here." Vin said quietly, looking around the small room.
"I'm good." He shook his head. "It's pretty much all done anyway."
"Let me help." Vin said simply, and Chris nodded wordlessly.
Vin took over the clothes, upending the drawers casually into the suitcase, and making a nonsense of Chris's efforts to be neat, and Chris dragged a box into the room and started putting away the books that were stacked in piles all over the floor. It was easier, much easier. He shook his head with bemusement at one pile that contained a technical manual for some programming language, a couple of Louis L'Amour's, and 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus', with post-it notes protruding from between the pages. He lifted that one and chuckled softly.
"You reckon it helped him figure out Casey?" he said, flipping to the first of the bookmarked pages and starting to read. Vin glanced over and grinned.
"Maybe. Heck, he managed to persuade her to agree to marry him." He frowned. "Hey, pass it over here when you're done." Chris chuckled and read on for a few more paragraphs before putting the book away. Maybe he'd have another look at it one of these days.
They only stayed at it for another couple of hours, and Chris was amazed at how little it all seemed to pack down to. There was a stack of boxes in JD's room, no more than seven or eight of them, and the room was already pretty much bare but for the furniture and the toys.
"I called out for pizza." Josiah walked into the room and saw the small pile of boxes. His face fell into worn, sad lines. "So little."
Chris nodded and swallowed. "Haven't packed up the games yet."
"The computer?" Josiah looked at the empty space on the desk, clearly delineated by a band of dust, crumbs and grime.
"Casey came over this morning." He looked around helplessly. "I think she took some mementoes and stuff as well."
Josiah nodded, and walked over to the life size cut-outs leaning face down against the wall. "He didn't get rid of them?" He shook his head and laughed. "You think Buck would mind if I--"
"You want them?" Chris knew he sounded incredulous, but Josiah simply smiled.
"They make me think of him."
Tears burned for a moment and he turned away. "I'll let Buck know you took 'em."
"Also," Josiah grinned, "they are very attractive young ladies."
Chris smiled back, and nodded. "I'll give you hand moving them."
Josiah shook his head reproachfully. "Dinner first."
"Sure." Chris looked around, and for the first time he wondered if he too should take something to remember the kid by. He shook his head abruptly. He couldn't do it and have it anywhere Buck could see. And things weren't going to make it easier.
They left the room and closed the door behind them.
---------------------------------
October 4
Buck straightened and groaned as his back popped.
"That all of it?" Vin asked, heading for the lone box on the living room floor.
"Yeah." Buck looked around. The place was empty. Casey had taken the stuff she wanted earlier in the week -- some pictures, JD's main computer, his stereo and a bunch of cds and dvds. The box of letters, notes and mementoes that he'd kept under his bed. A few other things: a shirt, a couple of books -- he hadn't asked, and she hadn't explained. Everything else was going with him to Chris's place. A professional cleaning service was going to finish up before the tenants Chris had arranged arrived next week.
"You wanna meet us down there?" Vin said quietly, and Buck nodded, offering a half smile for the understanding.
He walked through, telling himself he was checking for any last items. The apartment echoed as his booted heels clicked on the bare wooden floors. His toothbrush and razor lingered on the basin, and he picked them up and stuffed them into his jacket pocket absently. The closet was empty even of hangers. He looked around his empty bedroom, and smiled wryly. Good times. His smile widened, then drifted away as he tested the windows, all locked, the one the bomb squad had broken replaced.
Two floors below he could see Nathan and Vin fastening down the big green tarp over the half full flatbed truck for the third and final time. Ez and Josiah were probably at Chris's place by now with their last load. It was just this one, and he would be out of here completely. The furniture and other boxes gone up earlier in the day. He leaned against the wall looking out, wondering if this was the right thing to do.
If the kid came home, it would be empty. He shrugged the thought away. He would find him. He hadn't changed jobs. He was only at Chris's. If he came back, a little problem like a change of address wouldn't faze a kid as smart as JD. And he was honest enough with himself to know that Chris had thrown him a lifeline that he had never expected to get. Not from Chris. He wasn't going to throw the man's offer back in his face. He couldn't live here any more. Maybe a new place would help, even if it just ended up being temporary.
He didn't really mean to go in, but his feet led him into the boy's room. He leaned on the door frame, silent, not thinking, just being. This was a familiar place, a familiar position, and he grimaced. He could almost see him. Watching the kid, talking to him, missing him. Eventually, he patted the wooden jamb and left.
The apartment door clicked shut behind him, the keys sitting on the kitchen counter.
---------------------------------
October 4
Ezra grimaced at the quantity of boxes confronting him. "Is it absolutely necessary that we move this all ourselves, by hand? A mere pittance would bring more muscle than any of us possess to organize this," he gestured vaguely at the boxes.
"Ez?"
"Yes?" He turned hopefully to Larabee who squinted at him before saying tersely,
"Pick up a damn box."
"Sir, yes, sir." He grasped the nearest to hand and stopped, half bent over. "Oh." The box was labeled: JD, computer games. He swallowed and lifted it easily.
"Where should I put--" he nodded at the box in his arms, and Chris leaned in to see what he had.
Their eyes met and both tried smiling. Larabee's half smile worked no better than Ezra's bright insincerity.
"Barn. On the tarp down the back."
"Very well." He carried the box in and stacked it neatly with the others, then headed back for another. He cast a swift eye over the array and JD's name leapt out at him. He grabbed the box, and moved that. And another, and another.
He passed Chris and Josiah, all moving the remnants of a young life until there were only boxes marked 'Buck' left, working in silent agreement that the others should go first, be out of the way before Buck, Nathan and Vin arrived with the last load. It took depressingly little time.
The last box added to the pile, and Josiah and Chris spread out a second tarpaulin over the stack, roping the two sheets together until the boxes were completely wrapped up.
"They should be here soon," Josiah observed, but none of them moved.
"Anyone for a drink?" Ezra asked brightly. The atmosphere in here was rapidly becoming more than he could stand, somewhere between a morgue and a thunderstorm. "I know I could."
"Agreed," Josiah said, clapping a hand on his back. They were both startled by Chris's words.
"No alcohol."
Ezra's jaw dropped, and he stared at his boss. "Mr. Larabee?"
"There isn't any alcohol here," he said casually, and headed back to the house.
"No alcohol? But--"
"Ah," Josiah said in comprehension, and shook his head. "Buck."
"But is that a reason we should all--" he stopped at Josiah's glare. "No, well, perhaps you're right. My mistake." They turned at the sound of a car approaching. The truck that Raine's cousin had lent them pulled into Chris's drive and parked close to the remaining boxes.
"Chris, guys," Vin nodded as he swung out of the driver's seat and headed for its rear. He unknotted the ropes fastening another big tarp down, and hopped lightly up into the bed of the truck, pulling the rope free.
"Got much?"
"Not much," Nathan replied, "Vin, you want to pass me that rope?"
Vin handed it down and Nathan wound it swiftly into a long coil.
"Someone wanna give me a hand here?" Vin hefted a box and held it over the side. Josiah grabbed it.
"Where--"
"On the porch. If we move your stuff up there we can sort it out as we go, okay, Buck?"
The men all looked at Wilmington where he was standing by the hood of the truck, staring at the mountain of boxes.
"Those my things?" he asked.
"Yeah." Chris nodded.
"Where's--"
"In the barn. Got them wrapped up good and safe."
"Right. Right." He headed for his boxes and pulled one off the pile, his eyes on the barn. "The porch?"
"Yeah, Buck," Chris said patiently. Vin carried on handing boxes down from the flatbed to Chris, while Ezra, Nathan and Josiah shifted them one by one up to the house.
"Okay," he said quietly, and walked away to lay the box down next to the ones the others were stacking up there.
"The first stack is the ones marked 'bedroom', Mr. Wilmington," Ezra offered when Buck seemed unable to decide where to put the crate down. "Those things that we will wish to remove into the house imminently," he explained further at Buck's blank look. "The kitchen things are at the back; the rest of it in the middle."
"Okay," Buck agreed, but still didn't put the box down.
"Buck?" Ezra held out his hands. "Give me the box."
Buck looked down, looking puzzled at the cardboard container. "Sure, Ez." He handed it over quietly, and wandered away.
Ezra glanced at the box and added it to the 'everything else' stack, staring after him.
"Problem, brother Standish?" Josiah asked and Ezra stilled in surprise.
He shook his head. "Buck -- I don't -- " he stopped and sighed, meeting Josiah's eyes. "He isn't going to be okay, is he?"
"Are any of us?"
Ezra nodded slowly. "I take your point." he agreed quietly.
"Standish! Quit lazing around up there!" Chris bellowed from the truck, "Get your ass down here!"
---------------------------------
date unknown
"Done?"
"Yup," JD grinned at Major Antonov and pulled his night vision goggles back down over his face.
"Good work." Antonov nodded at him and JD felt a real charge of pride and pleasure. Antonov might dislike him, but he was a serious soldier. His praise was worth having, however grudging. "Let's go."
"Yes sir," he said, and jogged after the man as he started back up the stairs to the main area of the fort.
Antonov raised his gun without stopping, and let off four silenced shots. JD followed, pulling his own weapon and carefully not looking at the three dead men sprawled across the stairs. Antonov held up his hand, and JD stopped before they came up to the line of sight of the corridor. He watched for instructions, and nodded when Antonov indicated that he should go right, and stay low. He flicked the safety off his gun and checked the magazine. He signaled his readiness and Antonov counted down from three with his hand.
They erupted from the doorway ready to fire, and took full advantage of a split second of adjustment as the soldiers in the corridor realized that they were not their own men.
In less than ten seconds fifteen men were down, killed in the spray of weapons fire. JD glanced at Antonov, discovering an unnerving death's head grin on his face.
"Move it!" Antonov yelled, and ran for the end of the corridor, and the exit.
JD ran after him, caught up, and pulled ahead, Antonov covering his back. A figure appeared at the door and he shot it without a second thought, a head shot obliterating the enemy soldier's face before he could even make out the man's features. His eyes flickered trying to watch for targets emerging from side doors, and ice shocked him as a man appeared, gun in hand and then fell a split second later. Antonov's kill. He made it to the door and held his position, waiting for Antonov, laying down cover fire for him. He snapped off a shot at an opening door, and had barely a moment to realize that it was one of the base civilians, unarmored, weaponless, before his headshot blew her back the way she had come. The Major arrived by his side a few seconds later.
"On three." He watched for Antonov's signal, and they peeled out of the doorway, guns blazing. A figure high up on the walls was clearing the grounds, and he grinned wildly. A flicker out of the corner of his eye was the only warning he had and Antonov rammed him to the ground. He rolled and came up firing.
"Major?" But the man's neck was half torn away, blood bubbling out in dark gouts. He grabbed the man's tags and swore. "Shit. Now what?"
He looked around and ran for the wall. He reached it as the gunfire stopped from above, and he wondered if Evans was dead or alive. He swore softly. He didn't have time to think. Two more dead bodies, and he was through the outer perimeter, heading into the trees.
His side hurt -- no stitch. He could feel blood running in warm lines down his hip and leg. He clamped his hand to his flank.
Antonov was dead, and he would be too if he didn't run.
He ran.
---------------------------------
4.5 October 13
Ezra clamped down hard on his surprise. "I don't think I understand, Mr. Nicholson."
Nicholson slanted a look at him over the bottle of beer he was holding. "Didn't think it was that complicated."
"Complicated? No. I merely meant I failed to understand your interest at this stage."
Nicholson shrugged and looked down, as though embarrassed. "It's just, well, Dunne was only a kid; I mean, basically he was your research flunky, right?"
"JD did a little more than that," Ezra said stiffly.
"Yeah, running around getting himself shot seemed to be a bit of a hobby by all I heard," Nicholson's tone invited him to laugh at an in-joke. It was an in-joke. Just not one that Ezra was willing to acknowledge, especially to this man.
"He was a highly valued member of this team," he said, and stopped, not so much because he had nothing more to say as he couldn't get any words to come out.
"Yeah, I heard that too." Nicholson sighed. "He was real young. A real shame he disappeared like that."
"Yes." Stop picking over our bones.
"You guys are taking it pretty well. Did they ever find out what happened to him?"
Only because everyone else had the brains to understand that we grieve in our own way, and the manners to let us do that.
"No." Ezra shrugged.
"Look, I guess I kind of blundered in here at the start, and I'm sorry." Nicholson was trying hard, he'd give him that.
Ezra looked up to respond to the man and caught something unexpected. A calculating glint in the man's eyes that made him reconsider what he was about to say, and left him thinking furiously. "Well, I suppose it's hard to fit into a group such as ours," he replied, automatically, his voice making polite conversation while he rapidly reviewed the man's interaction with the team.
"I really want to make a difference here. I guess I wanted to know what went wrong, try not to repeat Dunne's mistakes."
He'd thought before that the man seemed to have an unlucky knack for hitting each of their sore points hardest. Now he looked closer he thought that he saw the marks of careful coaching. His body language was good, very good, but a little slow, as though it was under rigid control, every move deliberate.
"We don't know what happened to JD. Therefore it does us little good to speculate on his supposed errors and flaws." he replied.
"But we can't just leave it like that. What if it was something that Tanner did, he was meant to be the kid's backup, right? Or what if Mr. Sanchez miscalculated when he put the profile together."
"I put the profile and the cover ID together," Ezra corrected him icily.
"Well, okay, I didn't realize, but surely there's got to be an investigation?"
"There was one. It's a matter of public record. Now, if you'll excuse me?"
"But it doesn't answer any of the important questions!" Nicholson called after him as he walked away. "What are they trying to hide?" He hurried to catch up with him, and went on, more quietly. "I've seen your work, it's good, it's solid. But that report, yeah, I've read it -- someone's trying to pin Dunne's disappearance on you. Don't you care about that?"
Ezra relaxed. Ah, of course. Ezra was the one on the outside; the one that the team leader had very publicly announced that he didn't trust three years ago. How very clumsy. Divide and conquer.
Which begged the question: who wanted them divided?
He turned to Nicholson, and shrugged. "What does it matter? They've tried and convicted me on hearsay evidence, again." And he, at least, was good enough at controlling his expression to allow no hint of his real thoughts out.
---------------------------------
October 15
"Josiah?" Ezra's voice was tentative, and when he looked up he found the man looking uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Come in, Ezra," he said. "Shut the door behind you."
"Can we talk?"
Josiah spread his hands. They were already talking.
Ezra sighed. "Perhaps not here," he said so softly that Josiah wondered if he'd heard the words right.
"Do we have to right now?" Josiah said impulsively. "I was just thinking of getting some lunch."
Ezra looked briefly startled, and then he shrugged. "You mind some company?"
Josiah nodded at him, pleased. "Certainly, little brother." He rose to his full height and smiled down at Ezra who looked annoyed.
"Inches aren't everything, Agent Sanchez. I imagine the rarified air that you behemoths breath leads to some impairment of the intellect."
"Possibly so, possibly so." Josiah snagged his jacket and patted Ezra firmly on the back, staggering him.
They wandered in near silence to the nearest deli, acquired food, and then Josiah guided their steps towards a tiny green area hidden between the tall buildings. The place was so small, and so inconveniently placed that those few who knew of it couldn't be bothered to get to it.
"I had no idea this was here," Ezra said, looking around. "How did you figure out how to get here?" The route -- seemingly doubling back twice, going through two buildings' sky walks, and then emerging through a tiny, apparently private exit into this -- more than justified the question.
Josiah smiled enigmatically. "A friend showed me," he said simply. "Take a seat."
Ezra settled on the indicated bench and unwrapped his Caesar salad, and started by picking out all the croutons.
"You wished to talk?" Josiah asked finally, his fascination with Ezra's method of eating each food group separately exhausted.
"Yes." Ezra glanced at him. "This is safe?"
Josiah shrugged. "Today." His instinct had been right then -- Ezra wanted somewhere to talk that could not possibly be overheard. Now, who exactly was he afraid would hear him? And why?
Ezra's eyebrows shot up. "And tomorrow?"
He smiled slowly. "Tomorrow is a different problem." Merely coming here could have alerted people -- if they were looking, which he doubted -- that there was a potential location worth staking out.
Ezra sighed, and let it go, but not without shooting an irritated look at Josiah, who merely smiled, and took another mouthful of cheese and avocado on rye.
Ezra picked out a piece of chicken and examined it seriously. "If someone had acquired a certain item of information, and was certain neither of the provenance, nor the content, nor the implications of the content, and a life -- several lives, depended on the information being accurate -- but the information was not, could not be described as accurate, merely, a, a fantasy, a belief with no substance -- what would you do?"
Josiah frowned. "Did you know Nicholson came to us from the Department for Computer Defense?"
Ezra blinked. "There's a department for Computer Defense?" And he shook his head, as though dislodging the thought. "How is this relevant to my question?"
Josiah shrugged. "Lots of little threads leading nowhere, and lots of knots, tying us in place."
"Even for you, Agent Sanchez, that was obscure."
Josiah grinned, "Why, thank you, Agent Standish." He watched a bird flutter to the ground, and crumbled part of his rye bread onto the ground, tossing it towards her. "There you go," he murmured. "You're second guessing your own instincts."
"I -- well, I suppose you could say so."
"Do you know where DCD originates?"
Ezra shook his head.
"Treasury." He looked at Ezra. "Just like us."
"Just like--" Ezra stopped. There was another Treasury department that had nothing to do with money, and everything to do with -- His eyes widened. "You're sure?"
"Guys in suits, but not those guys in suits," Josiah clarified, without really helping matters at all. It helped that he had a bad sense of humor, but really, there were things he could not say. He had no proof.
"Nicholson joined us from --" Josiah was quite certain that it Ezra had not already been sitting down he would have been at that point. His jaw dropped slightly, a monumental reaction from someone who so prided himself on control of his every tell. "Then I'm right?"
"If you mean, you have your doubts about Agent Nicholson's role with us, and his purpose for being here," Josiah shrugged. "I couldn't possibly comment."
"What do you know?" Ezra's voice was hushed.
Josiah shook his head. He knew nothing. He'd made some educated guesses, asked the right people what he strongly suspected were the right questions, but beyond that... Where JD was remained a mystery that not even his own, very special brand of questioning had been able to obtain. If Ezra was getting in close to Nicholson then he needed more information than Josiah could supply.
"Dammit, Josiah!"
Josiah looked sadly at Ezra. "I don't know. There's information out there," he swept a wide arm to indicate the world around them, "but I can't reach it. I don't have the contacts, or the influence." He stopped.
"Nicholson might?" he breathed. Josiah nodded curtly. "This grows more fantastic by the hour."
"Fantastic? Better say, 'nightmarish'," Josiah said, and looked at the ground. The bird was still pecking at the crumbs on the ground, and he absently broke off another piece and threw it to her, then ate the last bite of his sandwich, licking his fingers clean contentedly, untroubled by the intense silence as Ezra's thoughts churned almost audibly.
"He is dead, isn't he?"
He looked up again, surprised. He'd thought Ezra was certain -- to the point that he had wondered what Ezra knew that he did not. But the plaintive simplicity of the question implied something else entirely, and his heart clenched with pity. There was no question as to who Ezra meant.
"I don't know." He drew in a deep breath. "If he is, then I believe it was an accident, unintentional. There are simply too many factors against it being deliberate. Whether at Madison's hands or -- elsewhere."
"Where else, Josiah?" Ezra whispered, but Josiah shook his head and didn't reply. Anything else would be pure speculation on his part, and as such, without foundation, little more than lies to comfort himself in the dark.
"Josiah!"
He shook his head. "I don't know, Ezra," he said, looking directly into the angry green eyes. "I truly do not know. I've been out of the game too long; all the people who might have owed me enough to find out are long gone."
"But you suspect..."
Josiah shook his head again. "Nothing more than you yourself. With no more proof than you have -- and if you second guess your contacts, how much more am I going to doubt what I hear?"
"Should we tell Buck?"
"No." He'd wrestled with this, long and hard. Buck was coming to terms with reality. They had found, as a team, a kind of equilibrium. "Can we prove anything? Can we point to a time, or a place and say, here, this is when, where JD passed? Do we even know for certain that he died?"
"You think he's alive?" Ezra gasped.
Josiah shrugged again. This was the hardest thing of all. He didn't know what to answer, and Ezra sighed, and stood.
"How do I get out of here?"
Josiah pointed to a second gate at the far end of the little park. "Through there, left, left and right, and you'll be out two blocks down from the federal building."
Ezra nodded. "Thank you. You coming?"
Josiah shook his head, and stared at his hands. "I will stay here for a while, if you don't mind?"
"I'll see you later then."
Josiah watched as he left, walking like an old man to the gate. As he passed from the park to the street, his shoulders straightened, his pace quickened, the mask falling back into place.
Ezra had taken his silence to mean that Josiah believed JD was dead; that he just couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.
He closed his eyes, and breathed deep. Nothing in this world told him JD was alive. Nothing except an instinct that he trusted. Buck knew too. He strongly suspected that deep down, they all did. Was that denial? Or something greater?
---------------------------------
October 25
"How come Ez is so friendly with that idiot these days?" Nathan asked. He had invited Josiah over for the evening, waiting until after the rest had gone from the office to make the invitation. He wanted to talk about Standish's strange change in attitude to the man.
"Hmm?" Josiah said absently, watching the curling on the television.
"Josiah!"
"Another beer, then, if you insist," he answered, and Nathan reached over, snatched the remote and turned the tv off.
"Hey!"
"Josiah, I'm trying to have a conversation with you."
Josiah blinked and looked at him. "Oh. Sorry, Nate. How can I help?"
"Not help, exactly." Nathan hesitated. Now he had his undivided attention, he wasn't sure what to say without sounding kind of like a kindergartener missing his best fwiend.
"Just spit it out, brother, and then we can get back to the curling," Josiah told him, and turned his whole body to face him. "Come on, what's wrong? Is it Raine?"
"Huh? No, no, everything's just fine. It's--" he drew a deep breath and let it go explosively. "Look, it's Nicholson and Ezra. What the hell is up with them?"
Josiah raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything for a moment, not even to deny that Nathan's question had any validity. "Can you clarify that, Nathan?" he asked finally.
"They were barely speaking to each other after that first bust, the one where Nicholson messed up the kid's stuff and kept bad mouthing him. And then suddenly, the last week or so, they're the best of friends. What gives?"
"Perhaps you should ask Ezra that," Josiah said calmly, and tugged the remote out of Nathan's hands.
"Come on, what, is he getting to know him better to take him down?"
Josiah didn't reply, just turned the tv on with a small smile.
"Josiah!"
"Brother," Josiah looked back and met his eyes steadily. "Ezra is doing what he sees as necessary."
"Necessary?"
Josiah returned his gaze to the television. "Watch."
Nathan watched, and wondered.
---------------------------------
October 27
"Mr. Jackson, can I have a moment?"
Nathan blinked and nodded. "Sure, Ez, let me just--" he locked down his computer and looked at Ezra, who carefully closed the door behind him and locked it.
"No, no need to get up." Ezra said, and settled himself in the spare chair to the side of Nathan's desk.
"Is there a problem, Ez?"
"Funny, that's the question I was going to ask you," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You want to tell me why I turned around three times last night, in three different locales, and discovered you staring at me?"
"I er..." he stumbled to a halt. Josiah had told him to talk to Ezra, and to watch Ezra. Right now he was wishing he'd done it in that order. "I was kind of worried about you."
"How," he paused until Nathan felt his neck start to heat with embarrassment, "gratifying. I had no idea you felt such a burning interest in my welfare."
"I don't! I mean, I wasn't watching you."
"No?"
"Ez, it's Nicholson. There's something wrong there," he said in a low urgent voice. "I don't know what's going on, but I figured you could do with some back up."
Unexpectedly Ezra smiled warmly at him. "I appreciate that, Nathan, I really do, but it isn't necessary."
"But you're getting into something there -- something's not right about him."
"What makes you say that?"
Nathan shook his head, frowning as he tried to put his thoughts in order. "He's always making these digs at one of us. If Chris ain't around he's talking about him having 'anger management issues'," he drew quotes around the phrase. "If it's Vin who's off somewhere, he goes on about lone wolves, and the dangers of letting people shoot to kill. And you--" he hesitated.
"Go on, I can imagine what he's saying," Ezra said softly.
"Don't seem right -- it isn't true, either."
"Thank you, Nathan." Ezra was still smiling. "You're right. There's something very wrong with Nicholson."
"It's like he's trying to play us off against each other. We're better than that."
"I admit, his approach is crude. And maybe a year ago it would have even worked."
"Ez!" Nathan shook his head. "I wouldn't--"
"Not deliberately, perhaps. But if nothing else, JD's disappearance has made us more certain of each other." He smiled at Nathan, "I admit, I thought it might drag us apart."
"I thought it might too," he agreed. "Buck--"
"Buck's getting there." Ezra looked tired. "We're all getting there. Which is why I find Mr. Nicholson's attempts to cut me off from the herd so offensive I suppose."
"What?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"I -- damn." Nathan shook his head slowly. "I was just seeing half the game, wasn't I?"
"You just saw him cutting me off from you all."
"Yeah." Nathan nodded. "It's another undercover op?"
"If you want to put it like that."
Nathan sighed. "Do you think we'll ever find out what really happened to him?" he asked out of the blue.
Ezra stilled. "The truth is, I honestly don't know. There's something very peculiar about the whole business, and the more time passes, the stranger it becomes."
"I almost hope he's dead," Nathan said quietly. Ezra simply looked at him. "You know what I mean, right? God knows I don't want him dead, but -- what could keep him away from us, from Buck and Casey, for so long if he were alive and able to come back?"
"I know." Ezra looked steadily at Nathan. "I keep asking myself that."
"Let me know if you find an answer?"
"I'll do that."
"Do you think he knows? Nicholson?"
"That's what we're going to find out, my friend," Ezra said very softly. "That is what we are going to find out."
"How can I help?"
Ezra smiled. "Trust me."
---------------------------------
November 19
Ezra stared into the tumbler of brandy, and tilted it gently. Just far enough for the liquid to lap at the edge of the thin glass, and then back the other way. The smell of it welled up and he inhaled deeply, savoring the dark, warming flavor of it. He was sitting in his apartment, on his pristine sofa, leaning forwards, elbows on knees, glass in hands.
He didn't know what to do.
He rocked the glass and the brandy swirled before steadying slowly, sloshing silently at the sides of the glass.
He always knew his next move. He always knew the next moves of everyone around him and his own answering moves for a hundred different scenarios. He'd played them through, thought of the consequences, explored the ramifications. Had considered, carefully, every part of the world around him.
This... this was like stepping off an unexpected curb to find no road. He had thought he knew better than to hope. And so, he was surprised when he found that it had lingered long enough to be hurt by this.
The more time passed with no news, the easier it became to let go. There was no body to bury, for all that Jackson wanted to hold a memorial and bury an empty casket. At least Buck's intransigent belief in his young friend's enduring survival had spared them that grotesquerie. But by the same token, Buck's faith in JD, stubborn and strained though it was, was almost as hard to bear as the fear that he was wrong.
He'd spoken the truth when he said that he had thought the team might break under the strain. Especially the strain imposed by a man carefully pushing wedges in where he hoped it would do the most harm. Instead, Vin had offered an alliance; Nathan had seen it and offered help. Josiah was supporting them in ways he suspected would only become obvious when absolutely necessary. A brief smile lit his face. The team was pulling together, not apart, but it had been so very close. And it could still fall apart.
Larabee was pretending that he didn't care. "Write it on his tombstone", still echoed in the back of Ezra's mind, the cold words of a man afraid to feel. But he had opened his house to Buck with no hesitation when he decided it was necessary. Had virtually forced Buck into accepting his help, and Buck had responded, finally, to something outside his own pain when Vin was so nearly killed.
Vin... Vin was silently angry. He still wondered if he would one day turn on the news to hear of Madison's death. He knew that there would be no question in his mind who had done it.
When it came down to it, JD hadn't called. Hadn't called Vin, his failsafe contact. Whether because he didn't think to, or because he couldn't, only JD and Madison knew, and neither was going to reveal the truth now. Vin even paid lip service to it: he could not have known that anything was wrong. He couldn't have known. It didn't stop him feeling he should have known. Didn't stop him feeling he had failed. Didn't stop him being as enraged as Wilmington, though at least he had an outlet. Vin planned murders, and guarded Buck. And an unwitting, ungrateful Buck had chosen to hawk his body to criminals for favors he couldn't redeem; to trade for information that wasn't there. The whispers had become a roar and the inevitable had so very nearly happened. Vin had been so close to dying because of a bomb set by Ian Tzivokis for Buck Wilmington. Neither man seemed to care.
Perhaps Larabee was going to be able to save Buck. He wouldn't have given odds on it a year ago, but there were a lot of things he wouldn't have given odds on a year ago.
He'd never expected to be grateful to his past, for one thing.
Ezra couldn't allow them to fail. More than that, he had to know. What had happened to JD? Where had he gone wrong? What part of the cover had failed so badly that JD --
He stopped, driving the guilt back. It served nothing, served no one, dwelling on this. There were no recriminations that could change the past, no maudlin, self-indulgent repining that would bring --
He gritted his teeth, tilting his head back, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing until his eyes burned dry, and his thoughts came under his control again.
Buck was so desperate for news, he'd done the unthinkable -- and then the same time, he refused to follow the leads that his reckless actions garnered him. It had only taken an application of money to a minor player in Roberts entourage to find someone who had been there for that conversation. A little more outlay to elicit the information Buck already had. A bagatelle. And to find black ops lurking in the fringes of the rumor-mill. Not merely covert, but outright illegal.
Something darker and dirtier than the Company.
You didn't really leave the CIA.
Sometimes they let you out on a long, long leash.
He closed his eyes. He did not use words lightly. Brother, to him, meant something like a force of nature; seven against the world. No matter what happened, he had thought, nothing could break them. A childish fantasy that he had pretended he did not have, so that he would never have to face the possibility that it might end. Nothing else could have persuaded him to ask his former masters for anything.
And now, when it had ended, it hurt just as much as if he had never pretended.
He knocked back the brandy in one gulp and threw the glass against the wall viciously. It shattered into a thousand pieces, chiming and crackling as they scattered over the white carpet.
JD was gone. And Buck could never know. He couldn't bear to do it.
He had followed the whispers that Buck had chosen to ignore. As Buck slowly returned to life, he took on the task of going where Wilmington could, or would, not. Delicately he had found his way through a labyrinth of hearsay and rumors, until he came to an end. As it happened, a dead end.
Very dead.
A report, so secret that even he, who had pulled every favor he could find, who had tugged on strings too fragile to endure such attention, was unable to read it in full. It was almost recent; by its date, written a mere six weeks previously. Censored, hidden, ambiguous.
Nonetheless, the parts that were not scored out by thick black pen were devastatingly clear.
Someone had been 'recruited' for an illegal mission. The name had been excised. A short name, not much ink to obliterate this identity. Someone with a specific expertise in a specific sort of something. The words blacked out might have been the right length for 'computers' and 'programming'. Or it could have been something else entirely. Could. And this recruit had gone somewhere. He had done his job. Had been injured. A clinical report, with casual cruelty was left in its entirety, all save the name, the places.
Land mines.
Serious multiple trauma.
Persistent vegetative state.
Brain activity dwindling steadily. Brain stem failure expected daily.
Death would be the only, inevitable, outcome.
He didn't want to think of the kid like that. He wanted to remember the bright, mischievous smile, the never ending energy and quick-fire intelligence, but his imagination ran out of his ability to control it. A slow, creeping death in a solitary hospital bed, surrounded by machines. In all likelihood, JD Dunne had slipped silently into the long night months ago, without a single person to stand watch over him, not a single person to mourn at his unknown grave.
He'd wanted to know. Now he knew. Be careful what you ask for, Mr. Standish.
He dropped his head in his empty hands and did not move for a long, long time.
TBC
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Disclaimer: I don't own any of the fandoms listed herein. I am certainly making no money off of these creative fan tributes to a wonderful, fun show.