Ezra was nowhere in sight. Chris peered out into the bullpen; the other five members of the team were all sitting behind their desks, looking busy, even Buck and JD who'd only stepped in five minutes before — both looking as if they'd had a rough night.

Chris shook his head, scanned the bullpen area again, and then returned to his office as he checked his watch: two minutes after nine. It was two minutes after nine!

He began pacing the floor, pausing for a moment at the window to gaze out. Rain, another fucking day of rain. The droplets covered the window, forming small rivulets here and there down the glass. The sky was a uniform color of drab gray — seemingly grayer than it had been the day before. Chris was beginning to wonder if he'd ever see another blue sky.

Three minutes after nine. He resumed his pacing.

He'd told him. He'd warned him. The next time he was late, there was going to be hell to pay.

That's when he heard it, coming from the bullpen — the familiar southern drawl. "Good morning, gentlemen. So, this is what 9 AM looks like. I'm rather unimpressed."

"No, Ezra!" Chris stepped from his office before anyone else could greet the man. "This is NOT what 9 AM looks like. This is what 9:04 looks like. I warned you about being late."

"Mr. Larabee, I can assure you that I was in the building well before your appointed hour—"

"In my office. Now," he nearly growled, not in the mood for the man's excuses, his clever ways of side stepping whatever trouble happened to be facing him. No, this time, Ezra Standish was going to get what he deserved.

The southerner sighed almost silently, and then detoured to his desk where he deposited his briefcase and overcoat, before continuing on to Chris's office.

Chris remained in the bullpen, assessing his five other agents. "Buck, need you to run me off triplicate copies of the Guy Royal case. JD, why don't you go with him — make sure he doesn't dawdle too long with the ladies down in the secretarial pool." The two men nodded and Buck began to rifle through the filing cabinet for the appropriate paperwork. "Nathan, Josiah — see what you can dig up on the new assistant director coming in: Walter Bryce. Wanna know what to expect before he gets here and decides to get in my face about this team's reputation." The men both rose from their desks without a word and headed out of the bullpen — the specific information they would need would be in records, and not the computer accessible kind.

Chris then turned his attention to Vin. But before he could say a word, the lean Texan stood. "Got some target practice to put in. Iffn ya don't mind?"

Chris just nodded as he watched the man head out with Buck and JD. Only then did he turn his attention back to his office, and the man waiting there. It took only a few long strides before he was inside, shutting the door behind him and silently pressing the rarely used button on the knob, locking the door.

"I do not think four minutes constitutes being late, Mr. Larabee—" Ezra began, but was instantly interrupted.

"This isn't about you being late. Well, it is. But.... Where the hell were you?"

Ezra's eyes went wide. Obviously this wasn't how he'd expected Chris to act. It wasn't exactly what Chris himself had expected either. He moved to the desk, to put some distance between himself and the door — to keep himself from running out of it — between him and Ezra — to keep himself from doing something he might regret. He leaned against the desk, allowing the hard edge to dig into the back of his thighs.

"If you haven't noticed, sir, it's raining. And the streets are hardly safe, most especially at rush hour. Not to mention the sleep deprivation I'm running on. It was quite the late night I — we — had."

Chris lowered his head, somehow managing to tear his eyes away from Ezra's tired green ones. He didn't want to think about yesterday, about last night. There was too much that had happened. Too much that he wanted to change, and too much that he didn't want to change.

When he looked up again, Ezra was holding out his ATF badge. "I'm only here to return this to you. You dropped it last night. I presume, accidentally."

"I told you, I don't want it."

"Then I believe we are rather at an impasse, Mr. Larabee. Because I find that I don't want it either."

"Goddammit, Ezra!" Chris exploded, shoving himself away from the desk. He found himself pacing again, wearing another rut into the carpeting. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want to be treated like an equal member of this team. I know my reputation precedes me, but you said you'd give me a chance — clean slate — time to prove myself."

"And I have!" Chris insisted. He thought he had. He thought they all had. And, despite Ezra's rocky start, he'd proved invaluable to the team, backing up each and every one of them on numerous occasions. Hell, if it hadn't been for Ezra, there might have been a few more injuries to the team, and certainly a few less criminals behind bars.

"Then why didn't you tell me about Sarah ... and Adam."

"What?"

"Yesterday. Buck told me where you'd be. Said it was the anniversary of their deaths."

"That isn't any of your business," Chris said, keeping his rage suppressed, but just barely. He clenched his shaking hands, wanting to punch something. That was his personal life, his past. Buck had no right telling people about it. And it wasn't any of Ezra's concern. It didn't affect him.

"I think it should be."

"Well, you're wrong, Ezra. And don't you ever follow me to the cemetery again. Don't you ever do what you did. Not there. Goddammit! Not there of all places!" Chris was shaking from head to toe now, unable to control his fury — at Ezra's intrusion on his past and at the past itself.

"They're gone, Chris."

He glanced up, brows furrowed at the use of his first name — Ezra never used his first name. Ever. Mr. Larabee, he'd say, if he said anything.

"I know you miss them, and you should, but you must move on."

"And who the hell are you to tell me that?" Chris was pacing again, but he'd moved to the window, putting the heavy metal desk between him and the audacious southerner.

"I believe I am the man with whom you've been finding solace these past few months."

A loud crack of thunder brought Chris up short, halted his steps. He nearly fell over, but managed to brace himself with a hand on the back of his chair.

"I'm a poor substitute for her, Chris."

"Damn straight you are!" he readily agreed with the man, resuming his pacing. There had never been anyone like Sarah, and there never would be again. He knew that in his heart, in his soul. She didn't deserve to die. Not that young. Not like that. Not because of a bomb meant for him. How could he go on living, knowing he was the one who should be dead?

"But, there isn't any way to change the past. You can't go back. You can't bring her back. What you can do is start living again."

"And what if I don't want to?" Chris wanted to yell those words, shout them until they shook the windowpanes as violently as thunder. But his voice was small, the words sticking in his tight throat.

"I think you do."

Chris glared at the man again. What the hell did he know?

"You've got a bottle of whiskey in your bottom drawer. You've got a gun strapped to your shoulder. Hell, you're standing inside a fifteen-story building. You're five minutes away from a bridge and the nearest drug store. I can count on one hand all the ways you could end it. Yet, in all this time, after all these years, you're still standing here."

"I still have a murderer to catch."

"Yeah, you do. You also still have a life to live. No sense in you dying, too. Too many people would miss you, same as they do her."

Chris swallowed. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not with Buck, and certainly not with Ezra.

"Go away," he finally said, pulling out his chair and slumping into it. He was suddenly very tired.

Ezra placed his badge on the blotter in front of Chris, and then turned. "I'll just mail my formal resignation."

Chris didn't register the words until he saw Ezra reaching for the doorknob. No! His mind reeled and he was out of his chair in a shot, slamming his weight against Ezra, shoving them both hard into the door. "Goddammit, Ezra! What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting off," the southerner replied cryptically.

"Getting off?" Chris breathed in his ear.

"You never come for me, Chris. You always expect me to be there for you, but you're never there for me. And now I'm getting off this incessant roller coaster."

Chris eased up on the man, leaning back on his heels, allowing Ezra to stand straight, but giving him no room to go anywhere. He couldn't let him go. He couldn't stand to lose anyone else, not even like this. "Don't," was the only word he could manage.

"Why? Because you'll miss me? You'll pine for me? You'll drink yourself into a stupor? I doubt it; I doubt all of it. I know what I mean to you. You show me every day. You show me every time — in inappropriate places, at ill-timed moments. You show me every time you leave with that guilty look on your face, like you've just cheated on your wife."

"I have," Chris said, taking a small step back, giving Ezra the opportunity to turn around.

"You can't cheat on someone who's dead. You can, however, kill the one person who wants to care about you as much as she did. So, go ahead. Get it over with. Kill me, or kill yourself. But just get it over with!" he growled, finally turning to face Chris. Ezra shoved him back with both hands on his shoulders, causing Chris to stagger until he hit the desk behind him.

It was Ezra who was trembling now. And Chris could see the anger, boiling beneath the thinnest veneer. The southerner's fists were clenching as he took a step, closing the distance he'd only a moment ago forced between them. When Ezra raised his hand to strike, Chris grabbed his wrist, and then he jerked the man forward, causing him to over-balance. Ezra nearly fell — his entire weight suddenly on top of Chris — but Chris caught him with his other arm, wrapping it around the southerner's waist.

Then he tightened his grip, pulling the man more closely against him, pressing their mouths together. Ezra struggled at first, his feet grappling for placement on the carpeting, but Chris didn't ease up. He couldn't. He needed this. He needed Ezra, and he knew he wouldn't get another chance to prove it to him.

Chris stood them both upright, then he eased Ezra back, one small step at a time, until the man was leaning easily against the door. Only then did Chris allow his hands to slide down the man's toned body, over the rippling abs, to the trim hips. His fingers quickly found the man's belt buckle and a moment later, they were working on the zipper. Chris then slid his hands beneath the waistband and eased the fabric down Erza's well-muscled legs. God, he couldn't believe how incredible it felt to touch this gorgeous man — or that he would have even have thought such a thing after loving someone as feminine and lithe as Sarah.

His slid his body down now, until he was kneeling before the southerner, intent at worshipping Ezra, grateful for his presence, for his persistence, for everything. Slowly, Chris moved his hand between Ezra's thighs, to palm his heavy sacs. Gently, as he'd never done before, he began to move them around with his fingers, giving them a small squeeze, feeling them, and consciously making Ezra feel as much pleasure as possible.

For once — for always — Ezra would be the one to get what he needed.

"Tell me," Chris breathed, low but clear. "Tell me what you need, Ezra."

He felt fingers in his hair then, a tender caress that he'd never felt from this man before. It sent a shiver down his spine that he was surprised he enjoyed. He needed more, but this was about Ezra. Tell me, he wanted to urge again, but he remained quiet, knowing Ezra had heard him the first time.

"Take me," the southerner said, his voice husky with a heavy drawl.

Chris moved his free hand up to Ezra's penis, taking the firming flesh and gingerly stroking along the base. Then he guided the tip into the moisture of his mouth. The man tasted good, he had to admit, and his glans was so soft, like cream chiffon. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive head, as if he were licking pie filling off a spoon, savoring the delicacy.

His other hand had not forgotten its place as he continued to palm Ezra's sac, massaging it, cradling it. He slipped the tip of Ezra's penis from his mouth and trailed his hot tongue down the solid length, all the way to the base, and then he used his hand to shift the organ, pushing it upward, giving Chris access to the more sensitive underside. But, he did not run his tongue back up; instead, he kept moving downward, pressing his face between Ezra's thighs until he was able to lick the twin globes and suckle gently on the thicker skin.

He felt Ezra's hands tighten in his hair when he sucked one of the testicles completely into his mouth, and Chris reflexively grabbed at the man's hips to make certain that he stayed upright. When he allowed the ball to slip free, Ezra moved a hand to his shoulder and Chris slid his own hands down the man's thighs, once more reveling in the feel of thick muscle. He began to drag his tongue upward again, this time laving at the underside, nibbling on the defined cords, then, once he reached the top, running his tongue around the rim of the man's glans.

Then, he had Ezra's tip back in his mouth, and soon the entire length was enveloped. He moved his head, forward and back, hoping he could find the rhythm the southerner would take the most pleasure from, but he didn't have to guess. Ezra's hand, now on the sides of his head, were gently guiding him, back and forth, coaxing him, without forcing him, into the desired cadence. And, once he found it, Ezra's fingers returned to the lazy caresses along his scalp, the caresses which Chris never wanted to stop, and which made him want to make Ezra scream in desperate pleasure.

He paused briefly, to lick and suckle on the tip again, and then returned to the smooth rhythm Ezra had set. Forward, a squeeze to the balls, lip caresses near the base, a firm tongue along the other side as he withdrew the length, then down again, further this time, until he had to swallow to keep from gagging.

Ezra was beginning to tremble again. Chris could feel the shivers racing down his legs, threatening the stability of his stance. Consciously, he quickened the pace. A few moments later, Ezra was firmly gripping his shoulder with one hand and his hair with the other.

"Chris...." His voice was strained, pleading. "You're ... killing me! I'm ... I'm gonna...."

Come, Chris thought. Silently he urged, come for me.

Ezra shot his warm jizz into Chris's waiting mouth. He swallowed, and then swallowed again as Ezra pumped into him. Chris's hands were back on the man's hips, helping to support him as his knees trembled and threatened to give way.

He'd never remembered Ezra reacting like this before. And he felt guilty for it, and angry. He'd used Ezra. And he'd nearly lost him.

Just then, Ezra's knees buckled and Chris helped ease him to the floor. He leaned against the door, panting heavily. Chris sat back on his heels and just stared at the man. He couldn't believe it. This man — this goddamned con man — had done something Buck Wilmington had been trying to get Chris to do for years: be thankful he was still alive.

Chris leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly against Ezra's, not wanting to hinder the man's breathing, at least not yet. But Ezra reached up to his hair again, cupped his hand behind Chris's head and pulled him close. They kissed long, Chris's tongue willingly sharing Ezra's flavor, his essence. When Ezra's hand slipped down to his shoulder, Chris eased himself back to stare at the handsome southerner.

"Tell me what you want," Chris said, and he meant it, sincerely, for the first time in too many years.

"I want it to be like this." Ezra smiled, the emotion crinkling the corners of his soft-green eyes. "I want it to never end."