Ezra scrubbed a hand over his face as he stood inside the elevator traveling steadily upward. It had been a late night, even for him, and he could easily use a few more hours of sleep. Ezra hated to admit that he was getting older, but he couldn't deny the fog in his mind or the lethargy of his muscles. He doubted even a pot of Mr. Tanner's potent brew would be enough to fully revive him.

He stepped into the open office area he shared with his other ATF teammates, intent on slouching down in his chair and doing nothing more taxing than check his e-mail for at least the next ten minutes. The trip from the parking garage had really been a tiresome one....

"Goddamn it, Ezra! You come waltzing in here late one more time and I swear I'm gonna have you doing paperwork until you're gray!"

Ezra stared at the irate man for a good minute before the words truly penetrated. "Mr. Larabee," he began, still dumbfounded at his team leader's tirade. "I can assure you—-"

"Don't give me any of that crap, Ezra. I'm sick of hearing it. Either you work here or you don't. And if you work here, then be here, on time, when everyone else is!"

Ezra closed his mouth, but continued to stare as Chris rammed his arms into the sleeves of his black trench coat while he stalked toward the door. Even after he'd gone, Ezra continued to stare, the verbal assault having sapped what little energy he'd had and leaving him only enough to simply blink in confusion.

Finally, he found himself shaking his head, and then he turned and made his way to his desk. Vin Tanner shared the desk opposite and he met the sharpshooter's blue eyes as soon as his ass hit the chair. "What just happened?"

Vin shrugged, but then said, "A.D. Travis was down here. Had a meeting with all of us. Chris was pretty pissed you weren't here."

"Meeting? No one told me there was a meeting scheduled." Ezra pushed his mouse to disengage his screensaver, and then he double clicked on his appointment calendar to check; he couldn't believe he'd forgotten a meeting.

But before the information appeared, Vin continued. "Wasn't scheduled. Travis just showed up. Sort of put Chris on the spot not bein' able to explain where ya were."

Ezra sighed heavily. How could the man not remember? He'd authorized the over-time. Hell, he'd even been the one to encourage Ezra to take the time, to make the connections they were going to need in this up-coming case Travis kept threatening to saddle them with. How could his team leader not remember?

"... Ez? Ya want some coffee?" Vin, now standing beside him, asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I'd, ah, I'd be most appreciative," he finally responded, handing Vin his empty mug.

As soon as Vin was out of earshot, Buck came quietly over to the desk. Ezra was immediately on alert; Buck Wilmington never did anything quietly, unless he was about to pull a prank on someone. The funny thing was, he didn't even realize his behavior was a dead giveaway. Who would be the victim this time, he wondered?

The man casually leaned his lanky form against the desk, then said, "Don't mind Chris."

Ezra raised his brows in surprise. That was the last thing he'd expected Buck to say.

"He's upset, sure. And maybe rightly so. But, not for the reasons you think."

Ezra waited for the man to elaborate, but instead Buck just seemed to stare off into the distance, until Ezra prompted him by politely clearing his throat.

"Today is ... well, you weren't here last year, so you wouldn't know. It's the anniversary of their deaths — Sarah and Adam." Buck's voice hitched when he said their names, as if speaking them out loud suddenly made their loss true in a way it never had been before.

"I didn't know," was all Ezra could manage to mutter. His mind was running on empty as it was, but this news ... it left him with nothing but cobwebs to cling to. He couldn't even begin to know what Chris was feeling, how deeply their loss still affected him.

"Doubt he wanted you to know, and, truth be told, he'll probably slit my throat for telling you. But, I think it's something that needs to be said — we all gotta work with each other, we need to know what demons lurk in each other's closets if we have any hope of protecting each other's backs when the time comes."

One part of Ezra's mind thought Buck sounded fairly reasonable, but the other, larger, part of his mind was focused solely on Chris and his loss. Even after all this time, all these years.... The killer was still on the loose, out there somewhere, living and breathing. As was Chris — the bomb was meant for him — but what a life, knowing you ought to be dead when the ones you love the most are gone instead, because of you.

But that was still no excuse. No reason to take it out on anyone else. Especially for no good reason. Without even realizing it, the hands that sat still in his lap began to clench ever so slightly with anger.

"Where has he gone?" Ezra heard his own voice, only afterwards realizing that he'd spoken aloud.

Buck just shrugged. "Could be any number of places: the saloon, getting drunk; the ranch, getting drunk; the cemetery, wanting to get dru—-"

Without waiting for Buck to finish, Ezra stood up and headed toward the door. He passed Vin who held out his full, steaming coffee cup, but Ezra just ignored it and his teammate as he kept walking.

---

He'd sat in his car for a long time, just watching. He was sure Chris didn't even realize he was there — prayed he didn't, anyway. The afternoon sun had quickly given way to gathering clouds and, as a roll of thunder sounded faintly outside, Ezra decided the weather suited his mood. He pulled his coat up closer, even though he was both warm and dry inside his Porsche. Just watching Chris standing there — still as one of the marble statues that dotted the grounds, as the rain drops grew larger, heavier — made Ezra shiver.

Why did he have to be such a goddamned arrogant bastard?

But Ezra just shook his head. He didn't have an answer to his question, just knew it was the way it was — genetics, upbringing, life experiences.... It didn't matter what you chalked it up to; there was still more anger, more aching than any one man ought to have to deal with.

That's when Ezra opened the car door and stepped out into the now-pelting rain. It was a cold, autumn storm, but Ezra didn't feel it as the droplets assaulted the few, small areas of exposed skin. His coat was wool and if this weather kept up, it would soon grow too sodden to keep him any drier than if he shed it. But, he would wait ... hell, he had been waiting. What were a few more minutes, waiting for things to soak in?

He walked right up to Chris, but then just stood there, silent, waiting for the man to acknowledge him. If he'd looked at his watch, he would have swore they stood in the downpour for a solid ten minutes, but, in reality, it was only moments before Chris's voice broke through the sheeting of the rain.

"Go away, Ezra."

But Ezra didn't. He couldn't. This had to be done, and he'd come this far. He didn't think he'd be able to summon the courage for a second attempt, at another time, another location — one drier, warmer, more inviting, and therefore more intimidating, to him and his so-called sensibilities.

When Ezra didn't answer, Chris turned toward him. "What the hell are you doing here?" he shouted; though the rain washed away most of the volume, Ezra didn't miss the threatening tone.

"I need ta talk ta you." The rain — or maybe it was emotion — oddly accentuated his drawl.

Chris shook his head, fixing his eyes on Ezra's, trying — and nearly succeeding — to intimidate him simply with the glare and the fire that stained the rims of his eyes an angry red. But Ezra stood his ground. It was easier with his coat growing heavier and heavier, practically rooting him in place.

"I don't want you here!" Chris finally spat at him. "This isn't the time or the place."

But Ezra knew different. This was precisely the time, and exactly the place. What had to be done couldn't be done anywhere else. He knew. He'd been trying for months now.

Ezra stepped closer to Chris, fighting to keep the twisted smile welling up inside of him from reaching his lips. He was insane. To be here. Now. Doing this. His fist came up swiftly, connecting with the underside of Chris's jaw before the man's eyes had even registered the movement. Chris staggered back, arms coming up to protect his face from a further assault, but none followed.

He glared back at Ezra again, lowering his arms a bit, but Ezra could tell his vision was blurred, most likely from the water accumulating on his pale lashes as from the blow itself.

"I'll have your badge for that," Chris mumbled, as blood collected in the corners of his mouth.

Ezra reached into his pocket and pulled out something dark. He then threw it to the ground at his team leader's feet, the impact jarring the folded leather open to reveal a shiny gold badge and an identification card with Ezra's name and photo ID. "Take it, you son of a bitch!"

Chris stared at the ground for a moment before looking up at Ezra, and Ezra had to wonder if the man had heard his resignation over the din of the pouring rain.

"You think you can treat me like shit, day in and day out? You think I'll take it from you because I take it from everyone else?" Ezra finally said, though he wasn't sure himself this time if he was actually speaking out loud, or if the words were still stuck in his head, as usual. "I don't care what those other people think. But you ... I thought you were different."

Ezra turned then. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't face this man, knowing that he really was no different, that nothing Ezra did would ever change the man's mind. They were standing in a goddamned cemetery for fuck's sake — what the hell had he expected?

But as Ezra turned and took his first step under the weight of his sodden wool coat, a solid weight slammed into him, catching him around the thighs and propelling him to the ground. He rolled as soon as the weight shifted, just missing a blow to the side of his head. He shoved Chris's weight away from him with his legs, and then scrambled to his feet. They were going to have this out after all — right here, right now. With no witnesses except the dead who surrounded them.

How appropriate, Ezra's twisted mind thought.

He shrugged out of his coat, and as soon as it hit the ground, Chris was on his feet again, charging. The force shoved Ezra back, tangling his feet in the discarded coat, nearly felling him again. But, a few more awkward steps back and he slammed up against the trunk of a tree. The air rushed from his lungs as if they'd each been popped like a balloon. Chris shoved a fist into Ezra's stomach, but there was no more wind to be knocked from his body. He took the punch easily, then twisted, grabbing at Chris's wrists in the process. They struggled on the slick grass, and Ezra fought as hard to refill his lungs as he did to keep Chris from landing another blow.

Another slip. Another twist. Then, suddenly, their positions were reversed: Chris was backed up against the tree, and Ezra had all the leverage.

He used the advantage to force Chris's left hand down, even as he fought to keep hold of the man's other wrist while maintaining his footing in the now-loose, wet soil. He brought their hands lower, forcing them between their bodies, and then Ezra muscled Chris's hand forward until it was pressed firmly against the man's crotch.

Chris glared at him, his mouth set in a bloodless line, still trying to resist. But Ezra was committed to this now — he had nothing to lose. Slowly, he began to move Chris's hand up and down his pants. He wished his own fingers were encircling the flesh, but it hadn't worked out that way, so he'd take what he could get.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chris whispered the question, but it sounded in Ezra's ears like a threat. "Get off of me!"

But Ezra didn't. He couldn't. This had gone too far already. He pressed his weight forward, forcing more contact between Chris's hand and crotch, and he used his grip on the man's wrist to move his hand up and down the flesh he could only hope was beginning to harden.

When Chris's breath seemed to catch in his throat, Ezra was sure he was succeeding. He moved Chris's hand faster, in longer strokes, wanting to do more, but not willing to release either of Chris's hands — they were both bound, restricted, but Ezra was going to do what he could.

"Get off," he whispered back to Chris, but it was no threat, and Chris appeared to sense that. He stared at Ezra, the anger seeming to fade, though his eyes were no less strained and red-rimmed than they had been before. Ezra loosened his grip on the man's left wrist, then slid his hand down to press his palm against the back of Chris's hand, directing the strokes in a new fashion.

Chris's lids drooped suddenly as his eyes rolled slightly back and a ragged sigh escaped his lips. Ezra continued to move his hand and Chris's up and down the man's flesh. Then, he moved Chris's right hand behind him, placing the man's hand on his ass, hoping Chris would leave it there, maybe make a few movements of his own, though Ezra knew that was too much to hope for.

This was all about Chris. It always had been. What Ezra wanted ... well, it had gotten him here, and after today, after this, it wouldn't make any difference what he wanted, because Chris would get his way. He'd get off, then he'd walk away, with Ezra's badge, his job, his career, his friends. Everything.

He shoved Chris's hand away then, finally encircling the man's stiff rod with his own fingers. Fabric still separated his palm from the man's flesh, and he wished desperately that it didn't, but some things just had to be accepted. There wasn't enough time; there wasn't enough consent. If Ezra eased up long enough to try to undo the man's pants, he felt certain he'd be sprawled in the mud, lucky if he was still conscious after Chris got through with him. He couldn't risk it ... he didn't want to. Not when he was this close, when Chris was this close.

The man sucked in a sharp breath as Ezra moved his hand lower, cupping his sac, and he was surprised when Chris's fingers tightened on his butt-cheek. He then slid his other hand between them, resuming his stroking of Chris's penis with one hand as he continued to squeeze his balls with the other. The noise of the rain falling all around them, in great torrents now, seemed as still and quiet as a fog to Ezra. All he could think about was how right this man felt in his hands, how much he longed to kiss the red-tinged mouth that was now trembling with growing pleasure. And those eyes — a green unlike his own, a green like the deep Aegean Sea — if only they would open again and look at him the way he yearned to be looked at.

But Chris continued to squint his eyes shut as Ezra moved his hand faster and faster along the hard length. Chris's feet slipped a little in the mud, but Ezra steadied him with the hand between his legs, holding him even as he pressed the man's balls upwards. Ezra thought it must be painful, but Chris gave no indication of discomfort other than the slightest movement of his hips — a rocking motion, forcing his flesh into Ezra's palm, even as it caused the sac Ezra still cupped to move forward and back between Chris's legs.

The man's head lulled back, as his mouth grew slack. Ezra squeezed his fingers around Chris's flesh, stroking him hard.

"Ezra..." he mumbled breathlessly. "I'm ... I'm gonna...."

"Come," Ezra finished for him. "Come for me." He felt a tremor race over Chris's body then, as the man convulsed into his hand, shoving his flesh hard against Ezra's palm again and again. Chris's head jerked forward before coming to rest gently on Ezra's shoulder, as his whole body seemed to go limp in Ezra's arms.

Ezra pressed himself against Chris, holding them both up against the tree, despite the slickness of the grass and mud beneath his traction-less loafers. He let out the breath he'd been holding then, finally happy to have Chris in his arms, happy the man had found some release and hopefully some relief from all the suffering that haunted him. Maybe this didn't have to be over after all. Maybe this didn't have to be the end of his life here in Denver, with the ATF, with Chris. Maybe....

He felt Chris's head turn slightly on his shoulder, could feel the man's rapid, warm breath on his neck and it excited him, even more than what they'd just done — what Chris had, ultimately, just allowed him to do. He felt the man's jaw move, and his heart raced at the thought of the words he might now speak.

"Ezra..." he said in a voice so small and labored that another inch of distance between them would have made it too low to understand. "I'm gonna ... kill you for what you just did."

Ezra pushed himself away from Chris then, staggering back as if the words had been a solid blow to his body. He stared in shock, their green eyes meeting; he saw anger again, as before, but it was now mixed with disgust and loathing. He didn't understand. He couldn't. He ... wouldn't! What they'd just done ... what they'd just shared ... how could Chris not be feeling what he was feeling? That this, finally, was the right path — for both of them.

Chris readjusted his feet when he began to slip again in the mud, as he tried to lean back against the tree for support. Then, he reached up to his shoulder holster and pulled his gun.

Ezra watched in horror as the man leveled the weapon at him. His hands were shaking slightly, but they were close enough that poor aim wouldn't make a damn bit of difference in the outcome should Chris actually pull the trigger.

"I don't want you here," Chris spat through gritted teeth as he slipped the safety lever free. But Ezra just stared. Was Chris really going to kill him for what he'd just done? His breath caught in his throat, and he could no longer feel his heart beating in his chest, though it sounded like thunder in his ears. He was going to die. But there was so much more that he wanted....

"Go away, Ezra," Chris finally ordered and that's all it took for Ezra's feet to react. Their movements were awkward at first, but he quickly found his footing and was then running back toward his car.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to end this way.

Continued...