The Twelve Pack
by Annie

Disclaimer: None of these guys belong to me. Wish they did.

Vin Tanner kicked open the door and entered his dark apartment. He threw the duffel bag slung over one shoulder into a corner as he headed inside, slamming the door behind him. He tossed the paper bag he held onto the worn coffee table that sat low in front of an equally worn sofa. Next to this he set two six-packs of semi-cold beer. With a groan, he shucked off his jacket and dropped heavily down onto the plaid cushions of the near-threadbare couch. He tossed his cell phone onto the table, staring for a moment at the green light that indicated a full battery charge, then grabbed a beer and twisted off the top, snapping the cap between his thumb and middle finger and watching as it flew across the room to hit the far window with a sharp plink. He let go a long sigh and drained a third of the beer as his eyes roved his apartment.

Even without turning on a light, which he had no intention of doing, the interior of the small space was softly illuminated by streetlights that shined into the two windows. The furnishings were sparse, an old couch and table, a single ratty chair in a burnt orange, and a small dining table with four scratched, unmatched chairs. The whole place screamed Salvation Army. He didn't care. Up until the month before, he'd had no rug, but now a fairly new sisal covered the majority of the parquet flooring. Which was okay with him, as it seemed to help minimize the floor's annoying cracking and popping sounds that echoed off the walls every time it was walked upon.

He drank deeply from the amber bottle in his hands, letting his eyes travel over the near-empty walls. No artwork, no prints, just a few fairly recent coats of white paint, and one small framed photograph placed on the wall of the hallway leading to his bath and bedroom. From where he sat the image in the photo was impossible to make out, which at the moment, he decided, was not such a bad thing. He drained the last swallow from the beer bottle and looked at the other eleven on the table. Hell, he'd never been one to drink much. He wondered how many of the twelve he'd get through. Shouldn't take many, 'specially on an empty stomach.

The first beer made him want a second.

He grabbed another from the cardboard holder and, after twisting it open, shot its cap against the wall to join the other. It hit about the same spot as the first, clattering loudly against the silence. "Hell, don't call me sharpshooter fer nothin'," he whispered aloud.

He sat for a while, his hands busy peeling the label from the bottle, and let his gaze drift back to the photo on the wall. He squinted toward it to see if he could make out any of the images, then shook his head, forcing himself to look away.

Didn't really want to think about it now, anyway.

Leaning over, he emptied the small brown bag onto the table, watching with detached interest as the items tumbled out. A bag of barbecue potato chips slid free, along with several convenience store microwave burritos, and a few packages of chocolate cupcakes. He stared at the pile of junk food, as if trying to decide which to begin eating, then with a pained groan, cleared the table with a fast sweep of his arm. For a moment he sat perfectly still, looking somewhat surprised at the food that now littered the floor, as if he had no idea how or why it was there. And he realized he didn't really much care, either. His attention then shifted to the object in his hand and he studied the contents of the glass container, swirling around the small amount of liquid that sat in the bottom. With one long swallow, he drank it dry, rolling the newly emptied bottle between his palms. Gotta love that Bud.

The second beer pressed for a third.

This one he opened and guzzled half of quickly, letting up with a loud belch. "Just call me Buck," he chuckled. He hummed for a moment with no recognizable tune, just letting his mind wander to where it might possibly stay distracted. And that was okay, as long as it didn't wander 'there'. He sighed and leaned his head against the sofa's back. With any luck, the beer would assure he'd be able to keep away unwanted thoughts. His eyes closed, yet he knew sleep would remain hours away, not coming easily. If at all. He hummed again then tipped the bottle up, letting the beer slide down his throat. With a weary sigh he realized just how very tired he was and tried to relax his mind and body. Good thing was, he had all weekend to rest.

Weekend. God. That's right, he thought, sitting up abruptly. It was Friday, today was Friday. TGIF, isn't that what was said? Thank God it's Friday? Isn't that what he'd said only that morning? Isn't that what was said before kicking off an enjoyable weekend? Enjoyable. He was supposed to be well on his way to an enjoyable weekend. He was supposed to be out at the ranch right now, helping JD not burn the place down as they fired up the grill. He could just hear the others chastising them for adding way to much lighter fluid. Overkill, they'd say.

Overkill. Shit. He laughed bitterly and threw the empty bottle at the wall. It struck hard but didn't break. "Shit, Tanner, can't do nothin' right," he moaned as the bottle rolled on the floor.

The third beer screamed for a fourth.

The twist-off tore at his hand and he swore as the serrated edge cut into his skin. It drew some blood and he stared as the small red beads appeared on the surface. Seeing the bright line form set his nerves tingling. He downed several gulps of beer, then wiped his hand off on his jeans, wincing at the small smear left on the faded denim. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, remaining that way for a while before looking up, again staring somewhat vacantly at the blank walls.

Well, almost blank walls.

The fourth beer made him have to pee.

He gulped it deeply, barely remembering finishing the one and having opened another, then rose slowly toward the bathroom. He took the beer with him.

After going...and going and going, he left his jeans undone and stumbled tiredly back to the couch, with every intention of lying his weary body on it and hopefully succumbing to some sort of alcohol induced sleep. As he moved to throw his jacket to the floor, a small handtowel fell from the pocket. The jacket forgotten, he bent to pick the towel up and slowly sank onto his knees, his back to the sofa. God. It was his. His towel. He used it to wipe his face when he worked. Can't be a sharpshooter if sweat screwed your vision.

He fingered the small cloth, almost forgetting he'd picked it back up in the warehouse...after... He must've carried it with him, he thought, and did have a vague memory of stuffing it into his jacket. He shook himself hard and drained more from the bottle, wanting to run away from thoughts and images he wasn't quite ready to face. Again, he looked at the towel in his hand. At one time it had been white, from some hotel now long forgotten. But now it was stained.

Stained red with blood.

He stared at it then, his eyes glued to the darkened terry loops until the small stains blurred into one large one. One large grotesque red puddle.

With a cry, he flung it fron him and it sailed softly through the air to land somewhere in a shadowed corner. His eyes turned down to look at the near-empty beer bottle he held and he threw this as well, watching with some satisfaction as it struck the wall, this time shattering into pieces. It's impact knocked loose the framed picture, and he rose with a choked cry as he saw it drop to the floor.

He crawled on hands and knees to the fallen photo, and winced at the sight of its cracked glass. Carrying it almost gingerly, he slid back to the sofa, leaning against it as he sat on the floor. He studied the picture and the faces of those in it. It was taken not long ago, only two months before. Four months after he'd begun a new life as sharpshooter for Team 7 of the Denver Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearm division. He had been the fifth member to join, the team now newly completed with the hire of its seventh member. And it was the celebration of this last member's acceptance that was cause for the photo. They were now whole. They were now seven.

After leaving a lifetime of solitary existance, he now found himself part of a team. No, he thought, they were more like a family. A family made up of misfits, each with their own distinctive background and personality. All very different and yet, perhaps so much alike. The past six months had been the best of life that he'd known so far. He hadn't just found a new job, he'd found people to care about, who cared about him. God. Who cared about him. The very thought created a deep ache in his chest and he shifted to lie down on the rug, shoving a cushion from the sofa beneath his head. He stared at the photo in his hand.

He lingered slowly over each face, longingly gazing at the six men surrounding him in the photo. It had been taken after their first successful operation together as a cohesive unit, and they were off to celebrate. Buck had laughingly joked that they were lucky they hadn't killed one another by the time it was finished. The memory made him smile and he cracked open another beer. His finger traced over the reflective image, until it stopped on the man standing at his side, one arm partially slung around his shoulders.

Chris Larabee.

He shuddered involuntarily as the day's events suddenly slammed home, and knew there was no way to stop himself from reliving them all over again. Goddammit. God fuckin' dammit.

The fifth beer left him aching.

He winced as a pounding began behind his eyes and drank deeply from the bottle in his hand. At this rate, he figured the beer would compound his headache to such a degree that either his head would just explode into a million pieces, or, he'd finally be able to pass out from the pain of it all. Neither option sounded all that great, yet either would be welcome.

His eyes studied the face in the photo. Chris. The man's blond hair shined gold from bright sunshine, and Vin pressed his finger onto the picture as if to feel the sun's warm rays, then quickly recoiled as another image shook his concentration. He groaned as his mind pictured that spun-gold hair now sickeningly drenched in blood. Dripping with the stuff. It was an image that would forever be etched in his mind. He gulped down half more of the beer, not even tasting it as he swallowed. Please, he prayed, please let me just pass out for the rest of the night.

Don't wanna think about any of this.

He shifted on the rug, feeling its rough fibers scratching at his back through his shirt, and tried not to listen to the thoughts screaming inside his head. He closed his eyes, and the day's long hours played on.

They had been loaned out as an assist team, to the Drug Enforcement Agency. The operation was to result in an extremely large narcotics seizure, with several well known felons to be included in the massive sweep. It had been meticulously planned and worked for well over a year, with numerous undercover agents involved from both the DEA and ATF. After the initial set-up of the final sting, the agency had called for back-up reinforcements. Considering the amount of narcotics and firearms about to confiscated, extreme precautionary measures were to be taken. There were to be no foul-ups. Period.

The senior agent, and man-in-charge was John Layton, an old acquaintance of Chris'. Neither man liked the other, which was clearly apparent at that morning's preliminary meeting. Layton wanted nothing to do with Chris or his team, insisting on having an entirely different back-up team present, totally disregarding the fact that Team 7 had already been given intense preparatory instructions and were more than prepared for the operation to take place.

Layton had fumed when his demands had been ignored by the higher ups, and stalked away as the meeting closed, muttering not so quietly as he elbowed his way past the rest of the team. Chris exited the room with a wry grin as he looked at the faces of his men. He just laughed, saying Layton had tried to persuade the big cheeses that an additional back up team was unecessary. 'Overkill', he'd called them.

Vin was placed, as usual, in the rafters of the large warehouse, his microphone inserted into his ear providing direct communication with Chris, his team's leader. He was one of several snipers tucked away in the highest corners of those areas offering totally unobstructed views of the warehouse floor. Any objectional action by the suspects would be noted quickly, then relayed back and forth between the teams, hopefully ensuring the immediate take-down of any potential threat to the operation. Layton issued orders directly to team leaders, who would then pass them via earlink to their subordinates.

Vin listened intently as his eyes scanned the area below. The undercover agents were in action, and Vin watched as they greeted more and more suspects who arrived in expensive cars, heavily armed bodyguards by their sides. He recognized one or two of the dealers and, knowing their past reputations for extreme violent acts, followed them through his rifle's scope as they exited their vehicles. He watched as suspects and undercover agents shook hands and joined others already in place. Several briefcases stood on two tables in the middle of the seemingly empty warehouse. Vin knew what these held--cash and drugs. There was a lot at stake on that floor and he was not sure the take-down would play as smoothly as Layton had predicted.

'Asshole,' he thought as he spied the van that hid the man. Overkill, hunh?

Although it had been hours of waiting, when the final call happened, the bust and aftermath became a veritable old west shootout. Both good guys and bad guys vied for the upper hand and bullets flew between the two sides. Vin took out several 'threats', and after the gunfire finally seemed to die down, quickly searched the area below for signs of his six teammates. A few weapons sporadically discharged, then things got real quiet.

He waited high in his perch, eyes still glued to the scene below as he searched for his partners. He found JD, that was one, Ezra-two, Nathan-three...okay...there's Josiah-four...Buck, ooh, lookin' like he mighta got a graze in the shoulder, but still grinning-five...Chris, where's Chris..ahhh, there his is, that's six. Vin finally heard Layton's command of 'all clear', releasing the scene, and he stood slowly, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension from his tightened muscles. He wiped the sweat from his face with the small towel he always had tucked away, and issued a grunt of relief at it being over.

He flinched then, when a voice screamed in his earpiece 'GUN' and all-hell seemed to break loose down on the warehouse floor. Shots fired, but then, as quickly as it had erupted, the commotion stilled and he peered anxiously over the side to see what had happened. A crowd of agents stood around two downed men. One, a felon Vin thought he recognized, lay face-up with a hole where his chest used to be, his arm outstretched. He watched as an agent bent and retreived the small gun that lay a few feet away from the dead man's fingers. The other downed man was obscured from his view. He hurried to get down, using his attached safety line to 'fly' to the ground. As he parted through the men, he saw Buck Wilmington leaning over a prone figure. It took only one look at that hair for him to know immediately it was Chris.

With a strangled cry, he rushed forward, eyeing the blood that seemed to be pooling from under the still figure. Buck was murmuring something, but Vin could tell Chris was unhearing.

He looked...God, he looked dead.

He knelt by Chris' shoulder, wanting to touch but afraid to do so, and looked up at Nathan, who was gently rolling the unconscious man onto his back. Blood ran in torrents down Chris' face, most of his hair was soaking with it and another dark patch was saturating his shoulder. Vin thrust forward the towel he held in shaking hands, and Nathan placed it firmly against the bullet wound that oozed from Chris' scalp. Nathan told Buck to hold it firmly in place and Vin watched as he did so, thankful the man hadn't asked him to do it--he doubted he could even move a muscle. His eyes caught Nathan's and with them he asked the question that seemed to be lodged deeply in his throat. He was sure there was no way he could voice the words without choking on them.

"It's bad," Nathan said, addressing those who surrounded the downed agent. "But he's alive."

Vin exhaled, the soft words spoken allowing him to breathe again. He watched as Buck placed a strong hand onto a bloody shoulder. The blood seemed to be everywhere, Vin even had some on his hands and he had yet to even touch Chris. He watched, silently, as the ambulance came and the paramedics came and the helicopter came, and then left, whisking the wounded man off to the hospital in a flurry of activity. Nathan accompanied them, figuring to be of the most help, given his EMT status. The others rose, hurrying to cars and vans, as the teams regrouped; some to deal with the suspects, some to handle the evidence and some, to head to the hospital.

Vin remained unmoving, just staring at the bloodied cement floor. Red and white. Dark and light. He couldn't turn away. It both mesmerized and sickened him and yet his eyes wouldn't stop staring. Finally, a firm hand grasped his arm, pulling him to his feet and he turned to find Josiah's concerned blue eyes seeking his own.

"C'mon, son."

Vin nodded, and turned to leave, then reached down and grabbed the blood-soaked towel. He shoved it in his jacket and followed the others to the team's vehicle.

As he lay on his rug, the memories of the afternoon's events flooded back to him in one huge tidal wave, making his head pound with more fury. He sat up and replaced his now empty beer bottle with a full one. He drank deeply from it, the taste sitting terribly bitter in his mouth, almost nauseating. He drank again.

Holding the photo in his hands, he stared at the slightly smiling face. If it hadn't been for Chris putting his faith and trust into him, he'd never have been able to become one of this team. This...family. And if it hadn't been for Chris, he'd still be alone. And he didn't want to be alone anymore.

God, he didn't want to be alone, anymore.

When he'd seen him lying so still, with all that blood...he had been so afraid Chris was going to leave him right then and there in that cold warehouse, he hadn't wanted to move. For a moment he had been so afraid, chanting over and over to himself, 'please don't leave me, please don't leave me'... but then Nathan had said Chris was alive and his heart had starting beating again.

And now that man was in a hospital, and he was here. Alone.

Alone again.

He raised the beer to his mouth, once more swallowing the now warm liquid. His eyes traced over the figure in the photo, traveling around the outline of the lean body, then back up to rest on the handsome face. The incredibly handsome face. He gulped down the remainder of his beer, swiping a sleeve across the wetness on his mouth as he reached to open another, hoping to obliterate the fact he still felt all alone.

The sixth beer made him horny.

He stared hard at the picture, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to clear its fuzzy image. He wanted to make out the detail of that fine face, and for a second his vision cleared and his eyes soaked up every line and curve. He fixed onto the green eyes, made ever more so by the deep hunter-almost black shirt the man wore. Vin licked his lips, remembering the way that shirt seemed to skim over the sleek frame. He closed his eyes, his brain forming the rest of the image, as his hand drifted down to his opened fly. He felt his pants become snug as his mind wandered freely over the imagined body of the man he called his friend. Best friend. His brow furrowed as a thought flashed, 'How could he have a best friend and still feel so damned lonely?'

He pulled on his beer as he reached to ease his cock free from its denim prison, his mind shifting again. He wrapped fingers around the warm flesh, pulling with a slow, measured hand as he conjured up the face he had committed to memory. Behind closed lids he envisioned every line, every expression, and mostly every bit of gold fire that gleamed brightly from those flaming emerald eyes, all of which infused his body with such a surge of passion, its vibration rocked him to his toes.

Using his free hand, he drank again, tongue licking away the trickle that escaped from the corner of his mouth. He thought on Chris' hands, so seemingly firm and strong, and as he pumped himself with a deliberate stroke, he imagined it was them fondling his own flesh. A delicious heat began warming his groin, and he moaned softly as he let his own hand stoke the fire. He wondered what it would feel like to have Chris's hands trailing over his entire body.

He pictured the blond man, could see him clearly, standing there with that wild look in his eyes. The one where it was unclear whether he was getting ready to lunge or laugh. He thought on those lips, firm and deliciously puckered, and the image brought forth another low moan as he wondered how they might feel pressed against his own.

God, just once. If it could only happen for real, just one time. Then he knew he'd never feel this alone ever again.

That very idea, of it all becoming real, sent a spiral of desire throughout his body. He felt it winding its way deep within his flesh, and he shivered as his groin was siezed in ecstasy. He tipped back the bottle again, spillling some, and drained the remainder of beer inside. Too tired to place it back on the table, he let it drop to his side and it landed on the rug with a dull thud.

He lightly traced over his mouth, thinking of Chris' lips, and tasted the beer on his own fingers. With all thoughts focused on this man, his desire, he sucked at his fingers, slowly letting them drift in and out of his own warm mouth. At the same time, with his other hand tugging at his hard shaft, he pursued a synchronized rhythm, his thoughts again filling with images from the day.

He had rushed with the others to the hospital, arriving not too long after Chris's admittance. The wounded man had been isolated from them as doctors worked, and the waiting area had filled with many concerned friends and coworkers. All had anxiously awaited the news from the doctor, and when it finally came, a collective sigh of relief rose from the small crowd.

Yes, he was going to be okay, the doctor had announced. It looked much worse than it actually was and with a little rest, he'd be back on his feet in no time. He would be fine, just fine. Considering. He was lucky, the doctor stressed. A lucky man. Another inch and... But no, everything was okay. A concussion complete with an enormous headache, no doubt, and a shoulder that would remain immobilized for at least 6 weeks. But still, alive and kicking, just the same.

A lucky man.

By evening, most of the well-wishers had trickled away, leaving the remainder of Team 7 and a few others to wait it out. Vin stood as the doctor re-entered the lounge, once again. He informed them Chris had been removed from recovery and was headed to a private room. In groups of two, they could visit with him for a few minutes only, then everyone would have to leave for the night.

While his hands worked himself closer toward a desperately needed release, his alcohol-infused brain began to fade to gray. He tried to focus on the feeling of his own palm working his stiff flesh, and shook himself aware as he directed his mind to the image of Chris's face, smiling and shining under that bright sun in the photo. It was as pleasant a picture as he could conjure and he again felt the hot stirring of his groin as his erection responded to his own warm grip.

He increased the pressure and the sound of his own heavy panting filled his ears. He arched into his hand, thinking of another's, and felt his balls tighten just before he began a wickedly slow climax. An image of that hair, that beautiful golden head, filled his mind and he heard himself growl with pleasure, a sound that almost seemed to have come from somewhere else. As his orgasm intensified, he called out, not able to hold back the name that escaped his lips in a burst of intense want. And then he finished with a sob, hot tears rising behind tightly closed eyes. He turned his head to the side as the rush of orgasm subsided to leave behind an empty ache of longing. A single tear escaped from beneath his lashes, and he felt it slowly meander down one cheek.

Chris. That spun gold hair and emerald eyes. He had been floored when, several weeks ago, thoughts of the other man had started to fill his dreams. Never before had anyone, man or woman, created such a need in him. And the degree of its intensity scared the hell out of him, because he knew, just knew, it would never be reciprocated. Chris had once had a family. A wife and child.

And now there was the other.

Her.

He curled his body on the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around his body. He suddenly felt cold. Another tear trailed slowly down his face as he remembered.

He'd stared down at the resting figure in the hospital bed, wanting so much to be able to touch and caress the man, knowing he could never. Two by two they had been allowed to enter, to satisfy themselves that Chris was going to be all right. Buck had gone first, with JD in tow, and Vin had waited anxiously in the hall. Josiah and Nathan had entered at the same time as the nurse, wanting answers to many medical questions, so they'd asked Vin to wait until they had finished. When he finally got his turn, he'd slipped inside and stood silently at the end of the bed, just staring at the impossibly still figure. The door opened behind him, but, expecting Ezra, he didn't turn around. So it was with some surprise as he watched, eyes wide, the woman who entered take a seat in the chair right next to the sleeping man. He couldn't look away from her as she gently took one of Chris' hands into her own. She turned to him then.

"It's wonderful news, isn't it, Vin?"

He was silent for a moment, then collected himself enough to answer. "Yeah, Mary. It is." Mary Travis. The big cheese's daughter. And Chris's...Chris's what? He wasn't sure.

Did it really matter?

He watched as the blond woman placed her other hand on top of Chris's brow, smoothing back the hair that wisped out from beneath the white bandage wrapping the wound. He swayed slightly where he stood. She glanced up at him again.

"You look tired, Vin. Why don't you go get some rest? It'll be okay, I'll sit with him for a moment." He could do nothing but nod, no words available, and quietly left the room. With a brief glance over his shoulder, he caught the sight of Mary's head bowing low over Chris's, and he knew it was an image left imbedded forever in his brain.

He stood in the hall, then turned to leave, wanting desperately to be as far away as possible from everything. From everyone. A hand pressed him to stop and he turned quickly, facing another pair of blue eyes.

"Get some rest, Vin," Josiah said, his stare penetrating the younger man's. "Leave your phone handy, they'll let us know when he wakes up."

Vin nodded and turned, stopping again as fingers tightened around his arm. He looked up at Josiah.

"He will need you, son."

Vin stared at that and turned away again. He left then, with the others, not remembering Ezra driving him to his Jeep, nor the ride home, nor the stop at the convenience store. And now he lay on the floor of his dark apartment, fingers fumbling over the blurred image in a cracked picture frame and drunkenly weeping for what he knew he'd never have.

The seventh beer did him in.

He rolled onto his back with his eyes closed, hand propped on his chest, fingers softly curled around a half-finished beer. His expression relaxed as his mind finally escaped the onslaught of unwanted images and unattainable dreams. He murmured lightly as his brain faded away, the alcohol-induced sleep spinning him deeply into silent oblivion.

And the phone rang and rang.

End

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