Wings by Cattraine

Disclaimer: No money being made, just the ramblings of an overactive imagination.

Warnings: M/M sex. Violence. Eerie only in that it deals with dark emotions. Ezralites might want to steer clear, and I have no plans for a sequel. It's meant to be a sad story.

Pairing: C/V

Notes: This was originally meant to be a little 'costume' PWP for Halloween, but as always...it evolved. Thanks to Annie for the beta.

It was dark in the ATF offices . Lights were off, or dimmed, with few people on this floor at this late hour. Soundlessly, he approached the door to Larabee's office and pushed it open. The blinds over the glass outer wall were up, and moonlight illuminated the wide, gleaming desk, as immaculate as the man who manned it.

He placed a single sheet of paper on it, and turned to leave. His steps faltered at the black leather sofa against the wall, and he stopped, and then bent to carefully pick something up.

+ + + + + + +

Michael's slender hands flew over the soundboard in front of him as he expertly manipulated the club lights and music, his slim body swaying with the heavy beat. Gold, crimson and indigo light washed and flickered over the stark steel walls of the dance club and pulsed in time with the loud, pounding bass of the Techno beat. Below him on the main dance floor, scantily costumed men and women writhed to the sound as they threw themselves madly into the Halloween celebration.

Usually, he had no trouble losing himself in the beat of the music, the wash of rich colors that he controlled so easily. Tonight, he was horribly distracted, (not to mention hot and bothered) by the sheer presence of the man who shared the tall platform with him. It was all he could do to focus on his job, instead of standing slack-jawed and drooling like a village idiot. His companion ignored him, a dark sentinel keeping a keen, brooding watch over the floor below.

The theme for the costume party tonight, and keeping in the spirit of the name of the club, was Flight, so virtually everyone wore a set of wings, or a cape. They ranged from the dainty gold-dusted, green gauze fairy wings on the petite redheaded girl who danced directly below, clad in little more than a few silk leaves, glitter and body paint; to a heavy silk cape on a burly, muscled 'vampire' beside her. They were both brazenly attempting to attract the attention of the tall, lean blond standing beside Michael.

Michael smirked to himself. Give it up honey. I've been trying all week. He blew a curl out of his sweaty, glitter-streaked face, and stole another peek at his companion. The man was what his mama had always described as 'a long, tall, cool drink of water’. Too damned bad he was also coolly impervious to Michael's charms and kept his eye on the job.

Chris Larabee and his team had descended on the dance club Wings almost two weeks ago and set up a stakeout for a particularly elusive arms dealer. The man was wanted for both gunrunning and murder. They had reliable word that he would be flying in briefly for a deal, and be stopping at this nightclub. It was his favorite recreation spot in the Denver area.

Zaki Abd al Bari felt relatively safe in the Arab owned club where he had his choice of male or female companions and had legitimate business connections with the owner, Fayd Altair. Team 7's orders were to pick him up and detain him immediately. It was thought that he had connections to a prominent terrorist network, and key knowledge to several sleeper cells in the United States. Altair enjoyed a comfortable, hedonistic lifestyle in Denver that would have been impossible in his fundamentalist Muslim country, so he cooperated in the investigation to avoid deportation.

Larabee's team was strategically placed throughout the club. Nathan and Josiah were on the front door as bouncers. Buck tended bar along the back wall. JD and Ezra alternately manned the communication center in Fayd's upstairs office, making excellent use of the superb system of video cameras used by the club. Chris and Vin walked the floors.

They all sported the sleek, compact black ear clip headsets that resembled portable cell phone mikes. The loud music and noisy crowd made verbal communication difficult, so they used hand signals as backup, so that the man upstairs watching the cameras could relay any necessary information to an agent if the audio failed.

JD Dunne leaned back in his chair and stretched until his spine gave a satisfying pop. Ez was due to relieve him at any moment so he could go downstairs and stretch his legs. He kept his eyes on the bank of cameras, and concentrated on keeping alert--ignoring Fayd Altair. The darkly handsome Arab had made his interest in JD known immediately, as he had with Vin.

The club owner was currently lounging on a huge black leather couch, apparently brooding.

JD shivered, feeling the man's dark eyes lazily sweeping his body. The guy gave him the creeps. Fayd reminded him of a more saturnine, sleazy version of that guy who played Ares on Xena. JD smirked to himself. No wonder the man looked so sulky, he had made the mistake of making a pass at Vin within Larabee's hearing. While the sharpshooter had blushed and politely deflected the offer, Chris had pulled the handsome Arab aside and verbally ripped him a new one.

JD glanced into the monitor of the camera covering the long, black marble bar and grinned at Buck's antics. The big man was expertly flirting, mixing drinks and keeping an eye out for their quarry at the same time. Talk about multi-tasking! He chuckled and wondered if the tall agent would get to keep all the tips tucked into the 'utility' belt of his tight, lycra Superman suit. He was sure glad Chris hadn't forced him and Ez into a costume like he had the others.

The team had nearly come to blows over the box of costumes that Fayd had sent over, insisting they were necessary for all his floor employees for the upcoming party. There had been a mad scramble for the more modest items of apparel. Josiah and Nathan had quickly nabbed the anonymous black muscle shirts, tight, lycra jeans, simple matte black masks and short capes. Buck had smugly grabbed the Superman suit, claiming it was the only one that fit his tall frame.

Arriving five minutes late at the office, Vin had been horrified at his meager remaining 'costume' choice. Tanner had flatly refused to wear the black leather chaps over nothing but a cobalt blue G-string with a set of black and dove gray 'angel' wings fastened to a black leather shoulder harness. It had taken a lot of swearing, glaring, a migraine for Chris, and the promise that he could wear jeans under the chaps, before he would even touch it.

JD reached out and adjusted the focus on the cam aimed at the sound platform. Chris had taken up his favorite vantage point on the DJ's platform, where he could see every corner and door. He stood there now, arms folded, surveying his domain like a lethal bird of prey, the collar points of his cape framing his handsome face. Larabee wore heavy engineer boots, sleek leather jeans with a wide belt fastened with a heavy silver skull buckle and a silver-studded black leather body harness over his bare chest supporting a high collared, knee length silk cape. In all, an imposing figure clad almost entirely in midnight black.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra Standish paused and took a deep, calming breath and composed his face to an indifferent mask before he entered Fayd's luxurious office. So far the Arab had made no mention of their previous acquaintance and Standish fervently hoped the man had forgotten him. His previous stint with the FBI in Atlanta still left a bad taste in his mouth. He had made several poor choices in his tenure there, of which Fayd had been one.

He pushed open the door, returned JD's cheerful greeting, nodded politely at Fayd, and efficiently switched places with the young agent. Dunne practically bounced out the door, eager to hit the floor and grab a cold ginger ale at the bar. Quickly, Ezra ran a check on the equipment, briefly speaking with each member of the team. He then swiveled in the padded chair, and began a systematic sweep with the cameras to ensure that he could view each door and team member clearly.

Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Jackson made a formidable pair at the entrance. All Mr. Sanchez had had to do to evict one young hooligan was merely point at the exit. He panned a cam to follow JD's half-walk, half-bounce across the crowded floor to the bar, and smiled as the energetic Dunne interrupted Mr. Wilmington's philandering of a statuesque young blonde clad only in stiletto heels, glued on rhinestones, a few artfully arranged clusters of swan’s-down and a miniscule set of fluffy wings. He frowned for a moment, unable to locate Mr. Tanner.

After a fruitless sweep of the dance floor and upper tiers, he got an idea and adjusted the camera aimed at the sound platform to pan in on their leader. Once he was focused in on the handsome profile, he merely panned to follow the direction of the man's gaze down to the floor. Viola! There was their elusive sharpshooter. Vin had his back to the camera, and appeared to be gently discouraging a rather insistent young woman who was trying to drag him out onto the dance floor.

Swallowing hard, Standish slowly panned down the lean body. Whoever had crafted Mr. Tanner's wings had done an excellent job. They were a superb example of the costumer's art.

Fashioned from real gray and black flight feathers, they were handcrafted to adhere to thin wires combined with polymer spines and, at least from the back, appeared to be a real pair of gently folded raptor’s wings. The tops curved gracefully above Vin's tanned shoulders, then swept down to a neat point that barely reached the small of his back. When he moved, they moved gently with him, seeming to shift and settle naturally against his spine. They, along with the black leather chaps, also neatly set off his exquisite backside.

Ezra sighed soundlessly, wishing that Mr. Larabee had been able to force Vin to wear the G-string alone with the chaps. Still, the tight, worn blue denim molding his derriere served to accent the sweet curves beneath quite well. He smiled humorlessly at his own lascivious thoughts. That way lay madness. There was a time when he would casually have attempted to seduce the man, but his recurring lust for Vin Tanner's body was nothing to what he felt for their team leader.

Reluctantly, he refocused on Chris Larabee's handsome, aloof features. He swallowed hard, struck anew by the sheer power of presence the man projected. He made a mental note to acquire digital images of Larabee in his leathers. Even if he could never touch, he could at least look. And dream. He had been intrigued by the man from their first meeting. That fascination had quickly developed into something bordering on obsession.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra Standish had always prided himself on his independence. His grifter upbringing had insured that he always be able to look objectively at any situation. He had taken a child's loneliness and molded it into life as a loner. He took pride in providing for himself and in not needing the help of others. What he wanted he found a way to get. People were tools to be used, a means to an end. He never thought of himself as lonely.

His interaction with Team 7 had been something of a revelation. It was the first time he had benefited from working with a top-notch team. The integrity, intelligence and courage of his teammates had surprised him. That he was included wholeheartedly in this tightly knit brotherhood was a source of continued amazement. For the first time in his life, he was no longer considered an outsider. He had 'family.'

Ezra had difficulty dealing with that.

He prided himself on his emotional detachment, his finely honed acting skills. He had been truly appalled to realize that his respect and admiration for his team leader had shifted into something he had trouble controlling. For the first time in his life, Ezra Standish was in love. Always honest with himself, he had fought the unfamiliar emotion with every intellectual fiber of his being, and had...lost.

Once he recognized his situation, he set about analyzing and dissecting it with the icy logic and keen intelligence that made him an excellent undercover agent. He knew that a sexual relationship with a superior was a sure way to sabotage his career. He knew that Chris Larabee had been a devoted husband and father. He also knew Larabee was as straight as they came. The man showed no sexual interest whatsoever in men, although he was not prejudiced against gays.

Over a series of months, he had set himself the task of covertly observing his superior, of studying his habits, and had wryly acknowledged to himself that it was enjoyable work. Later he had come to realize that he was looking for any sign at all that he had a chance with the man. When he learned after casually questioning Mr. Wilmington (easy really, the man could talk the ears off a jackass) that Chris had been something of a wild man in their college and Navy days, he found himself daring to hope.

He had even tentatively begun a subtle campaign to gain Larabee's respect and trust and, Heaven help him, the man's attention. He had thrown himself into his work with a vigor that had earned his team more than one commendation, and had Josiah observing him thoughtfully. He had cherished every friendly backslap and "Good work, Ezra" that Chris gave him. Hell, he had craved it. He had basked in the praise. Then he had made his greatest mistake. He began to believe he had a chance with the man.

During a difficult and lengthy job that required he and Chris to go undercover together as amoral 'partners' involved in gunrunning with a side of underage porn, he had gotten a glimpse of "Bareback Larabee" that had left him hungry for more. He had discovered just how irresistible Christopher Larabee could be when he unleashed that wild side, as he watched the man's lazy, purring seduction of a woman who was a key player in the ring they were attempting to bust. It made his mouth water. It kept him awake nights.

They had worked superbly together to bring down the miscreants, and Standish had been elated. He had begun to relax his guard a bit himself, to open up to the team and to Chris. He had relished the weekend group invitations to Larabee's ranch. He had even purchased an equine to be stabled there, and participated in the various trail rides and camping trips the others enjoyed. He congratulated himself on his patience in his efforts to win over Christopher Larabee.

Then his dream was shot down as ruthlessly and swiftly as a sniper's bullet through the ace of hearts.

It was supposed to have been an easy take down of a minor drug dealer in Purgatorio, coordinated with the U.S. Marshal's office. A mixed team of agents due to the flu, and Team 7's own lack of a sharpshooter. It turned into an ambush that resulted in a gunshot wound for Ezra, and nearly killed Christopher Larabee. The dealer had decided to keep his heroin as well as 'Eric Stanton's' money.

One moment they were pinned down beside their disabled vehicle under a hail of automatic gunfire. The next, Larabee had shoved the wounded Standish under the vehicle, knelt by him and covered him as best he could. Ezra had bit his lip and clamped a hand over the spurt of blood from his shoulder. Helpless, with his own firearm lying several feet away, he looked over Chris' shoulder and saw one of the dealer's men take deadly aim at the blond head as Larabee struggled to reload his gun.

Before he could even cry out a warning, the man had toppled gracelessly backwards, a red hole blossoming between his eyes as a bullet cratered his skull. Three more flawless shots and the unknown sniper had effectively eliminated any danger from Ruiz's men. Vin Tanner had disobeyed his superior's confused orders and saved both their lives.

The next half-hour was a pained blur as backup finally arrived, and Nathan swore and fussed over his wound as they waited for the ambulance. He had said nothing, eyes drinking in the sight of Larabee standing alive and unhurt, big hands on lean hips as he snarled into the face of the coordinating Marshal whose incompetence had nearly killed them. As he watched, the blond head suddenly tilted up, keen gaze riveted to the rafters.

As graceful as a spider on a silk thread, a lithe, black clad figure slid easily down to the concrete floor of the old warehouse, rifle slung over his shoulder, his booted feet landing as lightly and silently as a cat on the oily concrete. The man paused to peel off his balaclava, revealing a youthful, chiseled face, his long, curly hair pulled tightly back in a sleek ponytail.

Larabee's gaze locked with his. As Standish watched, Larabee stepped around the sputtering Marshal as though he no longer existed and strode to meet the sharpshooter. They met in the middle of the floor, green eyes locked with blue, and clasped wrists as easily as if they had known each other for years.

Christopher Larabee had smiled down into the unknown man's face and Ezra had closed his eyes in reflexive pain. Only later would he realize the reason for that. He had never seen that particular smile directed at him in the three years he had been on the team. In a heartbeat, Vin Tanner had acquired a level of friendship and trust that Ezra had never had. It had hurt.

Standish had had a chance to think while on sick leave and had reluctantly concluded that he had been deluding himself as far as his status in Larabee's life. After Vin had joined the team, he had become certain of it. The young sharpshooter had slipped seamlessly into his job, and even more effortlessly into the role of Larabee's best friend and confidant, displacing even Buck. Ezra had tried to dislike the quiet young man, but found that he could not.

The miscalculation on his part had shaken him, and he had withdrawn a bit to brood on it. Finally he decided to carry on with his plan, after all, it wasn't as though anyone knew of his intentions regarding his team leader. He had made no declaration. Chris saw him as a team member and a friend. That could still change. The worst the man could do would be a polite refusal. Or a bullet. Still, Tanner's easy integration into Larabee's life grated.

Suddenly it was Vin who went to ballgames and horse sales with the blond, who needled Larabee fearlessly, went drinking with him Friday nights and often spent odd nights and weekends at the ranch. Standish had expected Wilmington to be jealous, but the big man had just beamed approval. Hell, everyone liked Vin. Besides, who would begrudge the evil tempered Larabee a best friend?

Ezra had just mustered up his courage to risk discussing his attraction to Larabee, perhaps over drinks and a nice dinner, when everything went to hell. It was almost quitting time at the office, and Larabee had been in a black mood all day, mainly because Travis had forced them to lend Vin out to SWAT due to the blue flu. Then the phone rang and Chris came storming through the office like a thundercloud. Vin had been hurt in an op.

Everyone convened at the hospital and waited--Nathan seeking out the physician in charge for detailed information, Josiah an oasis of calm in the waiting room, JD fidgeting by the soda machine, and Buck alternated between restless pacing and flirting with the nurses. Larabee had just calmly coerced someone into taking him to Vin. Ezra watched them for a few minutes, then went in search of Chris, hoping to offer whatever comfort he could.

What he found came as something of a shock. Rounding a corner near Emergency, he heard a familiar voice inside a curtained cubicle. Slipping up on soundless feet, he saw his team leader standing over a gurney where the concussed sharpshooter lay. He never meant to spy, but what he saw through the narrow gap between the curtains froze him in his tracks. He watched as Larabee bent and gently cupped Tanner's bruised face with one hand and kissed his mouth.

Frozen in place, blood pounding in his ears, he could only numbly watch as the man he secretly adored kissed another with such tenderness and passion it was painful to witness. Even hurt and half-conscious, Vin responded with a soft, throaty moan of pleasure and fumbled for the front of Chris' shirt.

Larabee had slowly lifted his head, their lips parting with a soft, wet smack and in a voice that was more purr than growl, gently scolded Tanner for his foolhardiness even as he carefully caught that blindly groping hand and held it tight in his own.

Silently, and thankfully unseen, Ezra had backed up and retreated around the corner to stand back against the wall, blinking hard as he sought to regain his composure.

Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner were lovers. Had been lovers for some time now, of that he had no doubt. That he had been so blind to that fact was mortifying. He felt like an idiot. How could he have not seen something so obvious right beneath his nose? He had turned and left the hospital, wandering past the others in a daze, not even aware of Buck calling his name.

The next day at work when Josiah had gently pulled him aside and asked if he was all right, had been the last straw. Was he truly the last to know, barring Mr. Dunne? And were his feelings for their team leader that apparent?

A short vacation, taken with his mother in Europe, had done wonders for his perspective.

+ + + + + + +

Standish kept his eyes on the cameras and tried hard not to let his attention stray to the one focused on Larabee. It was important that he stay alert. Word was that tonight there was a good chance their prey would appear for the party, and with the dimly lit, noisy, club packed full of costumed people, it would be easy to miss him and Abd al Bari was an extremely dangerous man.

Unwillingly, his gaze kept returning to his team leader’s brooding profile. The lean blond leaned casually against the rail, arms folded, raptor gaze continuously sweeping the club. He ignored the melee of beckoning dancers below him, as aloof and untouchable as a pagan god.

“He is magnificent, no? I see your hunger for him…Erik? Or is it truly Ezra now?”

Big hands pivoted his chair around and, startled, he found himself at eye level with the darkly handsome Fayd, who was bent over him, liquid eyes intent on his face. Ezra kept his own face expressionless with effort. He had hoped that the Arab would not remember the humid, rainy night they had spent together in Atlanta. Despite his best effort, he felt his face heat and he swallowed involuntarily.

Fayd flashed perfect white teeth in a lazy, predator’s smile. The Arab raised one perfectly manicured hand and stroked Ezra’s cheek. Standish could smell the rich scent of Aramis and the man’s own heady musk. It brought back unwanted memories of Atlanta, a bottle of fine wine and black silk sheets.

Altair cupped Ezra’s face, thumb gently brushing Standish’s lips. Eyes locked with the darker man, Ezra didn’t see his free hand casually brush a switch at the edge of the communications console. Fayd’s voice was curiously gentle.

“But he does not see you, my friend. Not in the way you wish to be seen. His eyes…his smiles…his touch is only for his blue-eyed hawk.”

Ezra flinched involuntarily, closing his eyes, horrified that Fayd saw so much. That simple truth still hurt. He did long for Chris’ smile and his touch. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him. He thought he had hidden those feelings well—--even from himself. That a relative stranger could see through him so easily made him feel horribly vulnerable.

Stricken, he opened his mouth to protest...to order Altair to keep his distance…to…what? Before he could speak, the larger man caught his face between his hands and kissed him hard, tongue diving deeply and with passion into Ezra’s mouth. Standish brought his own hands up to push Fayd away, but to his horror found himself pulling the man closer, his traitorous, touch-deprived body responding immediately. His hands dug into Altair’s biceps and instead of pushing him away, he pulled him near.

Fayd took immediate advantage, hands tugging Ezra’s shirt open, mouth sliding hotly down his throat to suck and bite, while hard fingers pinched and twisted his nipples. Ezra groaned, fought for his iron control, and lost. It had been too damned long. He needed a hard masculine body against his own, he needed…just once…to be wanted.

Altair’s hands tugged Ezra’s belt open, slid his zipper down as the man slid to his knees, pushing Ezra’s thighs apart. His wet, furnace hot mouth closed expertly over Standish’s swollen, hungry flesh, strong hands clinching hard over his bucking hips, keeping him in place. Ezra threw his head back at the exquisite sensation, one hand tangling in Fayd’s thick, black hair, the other crammed in his own mouth to muffle his cry of pleasure.

His orgasm flashed white behind his eyelids and he never saw the tragedy that was flashing by on the monitors behind him, never heard Larabee’s howl of rage, or noticed when Chris vaulted over the platform rail to drop like the hand of a dark and vengeful God onto the back of the man who had just plunged a knife in Vin Tanner’s belly.

Altair had switched the audio relays off on Ezra’s headset.

What he did eventually see and hear was the crash as Josiah came bursting through the door, gun at ready, alarmed because Ezra had not responded to his worried transmissions. The pure, murderous rage in the big profiler’s pale eyes at the sight of the southerner caught literally with his pants down, while unnoticed on the monitor behind him his teammate bled out on the confetti-littered concrete floor.

+ + + + + + +

Afterward, it was hard.

Hard to face his friends and teammates, almost impossible to withstand the anger, contempt and sheer hurt in their eyes. He had, for a few minutes, turned his back from duty to pleasure, and it had nearly cost Vin Tanner his life. With his back to the cameras, Ezra had not seen Zaki enter via the concealed VIP entrance in the far back corner of the club. He had failed to warn his teammates.

Heavily costumed and masked and almost unrecognizable, it had taken Vin a few minutes to identify the terrorist and start to move in. He had transmitted immediately to the others for backup, but the majority of his audio was lost in the pounding music and noise of the club, and the only one close enough to see his hand signals was Chris. Even then, Larabee had been almost too late, because Abd al Bari has somehow sensed he was in a trap and slipped behind a wide steel and concrete pillar, only to lunge out and stab Tanner as he followed.

The terrorist had stepped smoothly around the pillar, shoved a slender, gauzy-winged blonde dancer into Tanner’s arms and slid the razor sharp blade into Vin’s belly, just to the left and above his belt buckle. A horrified Buck had come barreling over the bar too late, shoving through the panicking crowd, followed by Nathan and JD. It was Larabee who had shown no mercy and had dropped like a hawk and broken Abd al Bari’s neck in one swift, efficient movement. The blonde had shoved the dead man aside and dropped to his knees beside the fallen sharpshooter, trying desperately to stop the flow of arterial blood.

The thing that had shattered Standish though, was the glacial look Larabee had given him later, after the team leader had learned of Standish’s negligence. Worst of all was Chris’ silence. Larabee has simply been too enraged to speak---his cold look of contempt had lazered through Ezra’s heart and reduced him to nothing.

Later, Ezra had stopped by the hospital. Face burning when Buck turned away in the waiting room, while the others said nothing, he had ventured down the hall to the ICU where Chris sat vigil over Vin. Shock and coma had followed the rapid loss of blood, and he had nearly died on the operating table. He had yet to wake up.

Standish had halted outside of the sterile glass cubical, once again unnoticed by the men within. Larabee sat unshaven and rumpled on a stool beside Vin’s bed, broad shoulders hunched, eyes riveted on Vin’s pale face, one hand entangled with his---as though with the sheer force of his gaze he could anchor Tanner to this earth. There was no noise except for the whir and beep of the machines that monitored Tanner’s vital signs.

Ezra had never felt so alone in his life.

Silently, he walked on down the hall to the exit and slipped down the stairwell, dropping the bouquet of sunny yellow roses into the nearest trash can as he went.

+ + + + + + +

Hands shaking, he lifted the heavy black silk to his face, breathing in the faint scent of Lagerfield combined with the stronger odors of fear, sweat and blood. He stared blindly down at the sofa for a moment, blinked at the sight of the crumpled and torn, darkly stained wings that lay there, then gently dropped the silk cape and walked away.

End

10/30/04

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