Great Flaming Pumpkins! by Cattraine

Disclaimer: Don’t own them, no profit, etc.

Warnings: M/M implied, cussing, violence, bad humor. Pretty much standard for me…LOL. Oh, Lord I seem to be doing holiday stories…

Pairing: C/V -ATF Halloween PWP

Notes: Chris has a concussion…snicker. This one is for Annie’s birthday. She is my Number One Beta! Also, I kinda shortened and rounded Bob out here.

Feedback: Pretty please.

Chris Larabee lay flat on his back too stunned to cuss, half cushioned and half smothered under the bales of straw that both surrounded him and shielded him from the swirling nexus of chaos that had once been a serene, peaceful, moonlit pumpkin patch.

From this angle, all he could see were the brilliant pyrotechnic displays of white and yellow light from the shock grenades and dynamite, smoke from the various fires and the occasional large squash or pumpkin launched like a missile through the air. He could still hear plenty through his headset, though.

He made a mental note to himself to never, ever, set up a meet with a paranoid schizophrenic explosives expert like Top Hat Bob Spikes again. The fat little bastard had shown up for the meet already suspicious as hell of the debonair ‘Eric Stanford,’ and sporting a neon orange hunter’s vest with its multitude of pockets stuffed full of various grenades, semtex, dynamite, fireworks and God knew what else.

All it had taken to set him off was the wind rattling noisily through the skinny, pumpkin-headed scarecrow propped jauntily up in the middle of the pumpkin patch.

One minute the transfer of money-for-explosives was going as smooth as silk, the next, the whole damned deal had gone literally up in a puff of acrid smoke.

Mr. Yamashita, the owner of the pumpkin patch, was not going to be pleased, Chris thought idly, watching with mild interest as an enormous orange pumpkin sailed over his head to splat messily against the side of a parked tractor.

He could hear Sikes whooping and cackling like the demented nut job he was as he bobbed and weaved through the pumpkin patch, one hand clutching his battered top hat to his greasy head, the other deftly tossing grenades and dynamite right and left, like a man scattering birdseed, as he avoided Team Seven’s best efforts to bring him to ground. Larabee scowled up at the starry night sky with its cheerful harvest moon. Why the hell didn’t Vin just shoot the little bastard?

He sighed. Ezra would no doubt be claiming his new silk Versace suit on expenses again. He listened to the babble of excited chatter from his team on his still functioning headset absentmindedly.

“That perfidious, misbegotten son of a simpleton…”

“Grab him Nathan!”

“Grab him hell, he’s got a handful of dynamite!”

Nate sounded a mite peeved.

“Watch out, Buck!”

“BOOM!”

“Goddamned sonufabitching small-assed motherfucker…”

Yep. That was Buck. Sounded like he still had his foot caught in that fat, half-rotten pumpkin.

“Hee, hee, hee…” Definitely Bob.

“Watch out Josiah!”

“KABOOM!”

“Shit!”

“Ah am covered with vegetable viscera! My suit…”

Ezra sounded like he was about to weep.

Larabee snorted meanly. Maybe this would teach him to wear something off the goddamned rack. What sane man showed up for a meet in a pumpkin patch at midnight wearing a $1200 dollar suit?

“Chris?”

“Chris!?”

Vin sounded worried.

Ah, his faithful team had finally noticed they were minus a leader.

Larabee grinned evilly at the beaming yellow moon. They were gonna pay and pay and pay… for this little episode he would exile them all to the dank, lower basement depths of the dusty, dead file room until Hell froze over, under the watchful, eagle eyes of the capable Ms. West while he would bask in the quiet of his office, perhaps with a nice box of doughnuts all to himself…

“C-CHRIS!”

He perked up, jolted out of his pleasant fantasy. Tanner sounded scared. Maybe he should answer and reassure his best friend. Maybe he would let Vin stay in the office and share his doughnuts…Vin was good company, nice and quiet. He tried to raise his head, saw technicolor stars and gave up the effort. Naw. Hell, let them find him for a change.

A whirling pinwheel of light exploded overhead to descend in a cascade of dazzling, multi-colored sparks. Nice. Pretty colors. He especially liked the ruby red, purple and green sparkles.

Bob whooped and cackled as he ran by, vaulting over a bale of hay with surprising agility for one so rotund, with Josiah and JD pounding after him in grim pursuit. Nathan had fallen behind into a ditch, cursing, with both ankles entangled in a web of thick, hairy squash vines. Josiah was still wearing the cape of tangled squash and pumpkin vines he had hidden under, and a helmet complete with the now useless night vision goggles. He looked like a demented superhero, complete with boy sidekick, as he bounded in pursuit of the wily Sikes. It was amazing how fast a fat, crazy man could run when properly motivated.

An outraged Standish was standing beside his Jag, both liberally spattered with pumpkin innards. He was still sputtering and cursing in outrage at the wanton destruction of his sartorial splendor. Vin had slid down the ladder from the dilapidated barn and was briskly jogging across the field towards Larabee’s last known position, he had no clear shot at Sikes anyway, with all the light, smoke, multiple explosions and cursing melee of agents.

Larabee lay unnoticed in the shadows, pinned by several fat bales. He wondered if Sikes did Fourth of July parties? He had quite a gift with homemade fireworks. Maybe the ATF could haul him temporarily out of jail at the next July 4^th picnic since the last one had been such a dud…

“Chris! Goddammit, Larabee! Answer me!”

Larabee snorted and pushed gingerly at the bale on his chest. Damn. He was getting too damned old for this shit. Maybe he needed a vacation…someplace FAR away from Denver…someplace warm and tropical with sandy beaches and lots of whisky…and hula girls, definitely hula girls.

This op had started out so simply---nab a single, lone, illegal explosives dealer. Go home. How hard could it be? The setting of the pumpkin farm at Halloween had been a cause for some hilarity. JD had joked that they should all wear costumes. Then Vin had started in with the damned code names… calling him the “Great Punkin’.”

Larabee snorted again, the snort quickly turning into a sneeze as he got a nose full of hay dust. He snickered to himself. He had retaliated immediately by calling Vin, “Pigpen” . Buck was “Lucy”, Josiah was “Peppermint Patty”, Nate, “Charlie Brown”, and Ezra had been “Schroeder” and the hyperactive JD, “Snoopy”.

“BOOM!”

“SPLAT!”

“Aw, hell.”

“Grab that little fucker! Oomph!”

“Let go of me, Bucklin! “

“Sorry, Vin I can’t see a damned thing through all these danged pumpkin guts.”

There was a familiar raspy chuckle.

“How did ya get that big ol’ punkin’ stuck on yer foot Buck?”

“How the hell ya think? I stepped right into the rotten spot…”

“KABOOM!”

“BOOM!”

“Bang!”

They ducked, fruitlessly trying to avoid the sudden shower of pumpkin pulp and seeds.

“I think Bob is running out of ammo…he’s about down to firecrackers and stink bombs now.”

“It’s about goddamed time…”

“Ah will insert a spherical cucurbita maxima right up your fundament…”

“What the hell is Ez hollering about?”

“Reckon he’s gonna stick a punkin’ up Bob’s ass….”

“Oh.”

"BA-BOOM!!!”

“KER-SPLAT!”

“Ah, hell! JD tripped and ‘Siah’s down! He’s getting away! Get him Buck!”

“I’m okay, grab that sonufabitch!”

It sounded like a snarling, irate Sanchez was spitting out a mouthful of seeds and about ready to get medieval on Bob’s ass.

“Hee, hee, hee!”

“Bang!” The large Chinese firecracker set the hay filled wagon ablaze with a cheerful pop and crackle as Bob sprinted past, sowing destruction right and left.

There was the sound of running feet and a giggling rotund form again shot right past Larabee’s haystack. Buck’s shadow lurched drunkenly by in determined pursuit. It was difficult to run with one foot encased firmly in a fat, semi-rotten, ten pound squash.

Chris sighed. He wished someone would stick a rocket up Bob’s ass. Again, he tried to free himself from his scratchy, itchy, heavy imprisonment. He sneezed again. Dammit, if he had to get an allergy shot for this, his team would spend the next six months in the file room under the formidable Ms. West’s tender care …

“Chris!”

A tousled, curly, pumpkin splattered head popped over the nearest hay bale and beamed down at him. He wheezed and gave Vin a little wave. The sharpshooter scrambled to heave bales off his team leader. Tanner shoved the last bale aside and knelt over his boss, carefully feeling for broken bones and other injuries.

“Ya alright Cowboy?” he asked worriedly.

“Ugh,” Larabee answered firmly, as he struggled to sit up.

There was a final distant bang, followed by a demented cackle. Chris’ headset crackled.

“Oomph!”

“Gotcha you little bastard!” Buck Wilmington hadn’t played college football for nothing.

“Reach for sky pilgrim! You feel lucky?!”

“Holy shit!”

Chris closed his eyes and sighed in resignation, allowing himself to sink limply back down on the pile of loose straw with a groan.

Shit.

Apparently Mr. Yamashita had been awakened by the nocturnal pyrotechnics in his pumpkin fields.

The stout little farmer stood all of five feet tall, spoke minimal English and, Larabee suspected, had a secret burning desire to be a cowboy. He had proudly shown the team leader his vast collection of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies when Larabee had gone to inform him the ATF was taking over his pumpkin patch for the night, and then had happily volunteered himself, his pitchfork and his bedraggled little mop of a dog, Moshi, to lend a hand with the operation. It had been with great difficulty that Chris had finally persuaded him to stay home.

“Chris!”

A strong arm slid under his shoulders and cradled him close, while a calloused hand gently patted his cheek and cupped his face. He realized that his odd behavior was alarming Vin. He sighed, breathing in the scent of his friend. Tanner smelled like cedar, sweat, leather and…pumpkins. Very pleasant, and very masculine. He turned his head and buried it into the warm curve of Vin’s shoulder. Maybe he would just take a short nap…

“Chris!”

He cracked open an eye.

“What?”

Worried blue eyes in a seed splattered face peered carefully into his. Vin was very close. He could smell the cinnamon from the gum he had been chewing. Funny, he had never noticed before how blue Tanner’s eyes were. The light from the nearby burning wagon set them off nicely.

“You alright, pard? Did ya get hit on the head by a flyin’ punkin’?”

Larabee felt a surge of warmth infuse his body at the concern in his friend’s face. Vin was afraid for him. Vin loved him. Wonderingly, he raised his own hand to trace the strong curve of Tanner’s jaw, as he brushed his thumb over the lush mouth, he saw Vin’s eyes widen in realization. A grin spread across his face and Tanner responded with one of his own crooked, megawatt smiles.

“Do you wanna go to Kauai with me?” he blurted.

The laugh lines around the blue eyes deepened, crinkled, and he got a slow, sweet smile in answer.

“I’ll go anywhere you want, cowboy,” he replied simply in that lazy, Texas drawl.

Larabee slid his hand around Vin’s nape and pulled his head down. Their mouths met and clung, the kiss lengthening and deepening, as their arms slid around each other and they sank back down in the shadows.

The burning wagon crackled merrily in the background, it and several small fires were scattered over the field illuminating the area. A string of firecrackers popped busily in a tangle of vines. A small grass fire was threatening the dry stalks of a nearby cornfield. The dilapidated scarecrow leered drunkenly from its now crooked post, its straw hat ablaze.

A mud encrusted Nate limped over and helped a dazed JD and Josiah to their feet. At the end of the field, a beaming Mr. Yamashita, pitchfork aimed firmly at Bob’s fundament, was being soundly congratulated by a wheezing, pumpkin-footed Buck Wilmington for helping capture the sullen, and now securely handcuffed Sikes. Moshi had teeth firmly attached to Bob’s trouser leg and was growling fiercely, while Bob kicked half-heartedly, sulked and cursed. Ezra had suddenly noticed the pulp splattered state of his car and had changed his tune in both volume and verbosity to lament and bemoan that as well as the state of his suit.

Hidden in the shadows of the stacked and tumbled mound of hay bales, engrossed in each other, neither the team leader nor the sharpshooter noticed. They were on their way to paradise.

FINI

10/25/04

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