Disclaimer: Not mine, or indeed, ours - though I firmly believe they should be. No infringement intended, no money made and litigation will only get you possession of a woman already possessed by these guys anyway...
Slashy/slushy/schmoop ahead - so if Buck 'n Ezra ain't your thing - find the key with 'delete' on it. It's also a load of lighthearted, silly nonsense - what can I say - Buck 'n Ez made me do it.....
Pairing: "Hello, my name is Firefox and I am a Buck/Ezra addict..."
Author's Notes: All KT's fault, for whose birthday (last year!!) I began writing this, and who is still constantly telling me that I 'have a thing about rain' (the weather that is, not Nate's woman). I'm still just as sure I don't, do I?
All comments, questions, feedback and suggestions welcome.
Buck's cell phone was ringing.It wasn't actually making any sound, so 'ringing' was probably not the correct term, but he smiled as he felt it vibrating inside the left hand pocket of his jeans, just south of his hip-bone.
He didn't need to answer it, which was fortuitous, as he was supposed to be paying attention to Assistant Director Travis' briefing at that moment, but he found himself thinking about the appropriateness of the caller generating that particularly pleasant sensation in that particular area of his anatomy.
He knew who was calling him.
Ezra.
Buck's gaze and his attention slid, at approximately the same rate, from Travis' face, over the AD's right shoulder and through the rain-distorted window, to the grey Denver afternoon outside and another, broader smile crept over his features.
The phone stopped vibrating, but Buck did not stop smiling.
The weather had been awful for almost a week now. Grey, leaden skies, hanging over the city like a pendulous omen, soaking everything and everyone with cold, heavy rain. It had been relentless, a steady, unending deluge, without even a thunderstorm to break the monotony.
Team Seven's office had acquired its own particular aroma during the week, underpinning the normal miasma of coffee, pastries, JD's never-ending experiments with aftershave and Chris' illegally-smoked cheroots with a vague scent of dampness. Damp leather as Chris swept through to his office in his long black leather duster; damp wool from Josiah's favourite technicolour scarf and Nathan's expensive woollen trenchcoat; and something that bore a strange resemblance to damp dog, that no-one had yet had the courage to suggest might be emanating from Vin's ancient flying jacket.
The word 'damp' could have equally been applied to the team's spirits as well as their clothing. With the kind of luck that seemed solely reserved for them, they had all been assigned duties that seemed to require them spending at least some hours of every day outside. Surveillance that could not be conducted from a car or a building, stake-outs that seemed to be in the most rainswept and open places in the city and at least two foot-chases of suspects who seemed to have the athletic prowess and stamina of Olympic marathon runners. They never seemed to pull those duties in July or August, when the building felt like a casserole and the sun shone outside like a siren's call. Oh no, those duties for this team always came between October and February, when everyone else stayed in their centrally-heated homes and offices, gazing pityingly out of their double-glazed windows at the those foolish or unfortunate enough to be outside in this weather.
Josiah coughed noisily, interrupting Travis' flow of speech and Buck's wool gathering. Travis shot a worried glance at the big psychologist, who gave an apologetic smile, which crumbled quickly into another bout of coughing.
"Sorry," Josiah gasped between coughs.
Travis looked sympathetic. "It's this damn awful weather," he said, "it's nothing short of miraculous we haven't all gone down with pneumonia."
Five heads nodded in mute agreement. The sixth, belonging to Buck, was still grinning.
"Let's take a break," Travis said, glancing at his watch, "I could use a cup of coffee, and we still have a ways to go with this yet."
Josiah and Buck headed for the restrooms - Sanchez to take some of the foul-tasting cough medicine that Nathan had been trying to foist on him for two days and that he could now find no excuse for refusing, and Buck to check his cell phone message.
Ezra had been out of town giving evidence for eight interminable days, and was due back tonight. The thought sent a fresh rush of pleasure through Buck and widened the grin even further.
Eight days. Who would have dreamed the defence team would have kept this case rolling in court for eight days? Today, however, was the judge's summation, when the witnesses would finally be released from duty and the jury would retire to consider their verdict. The very second the judge sequestered the jury for deliberation, Buck knew that Ezra would be hightailing it out of there and heading back. And Buck intended to make it a homecoming to remember.
Never one to opt for a trowel when a shovel could be made use of, he had spent the entire last evening preparing Ezra's townhouse for a gala performance of the patented Wilmington seduction technique; table laid for two with best china and linen, fresh Maine lobster sitting in the fridge alongside a bottle of Ezra's favourite Bollinger champagne and two bottles of ruinously expensive Chablis. Candles lined up on every spare space in the bathroom, together with a bottle of essential oils he had sweet-talked Rain into giving him after she assured him, innocent of his intent, of their effects. He had changed the bed, laundered the bathrobes and secreted caches of chocolate and what Ezra referred to as 'erotic essentials' - though why the hell he just couldn't call it lube like everyone else did, Buck didn't know - in the most appropriate places he could think of.
Buck couldn't have cared less if it had been a hundred degrees or minus forty outside. Nothing short of the plagues of Egypt was going to spoil the reunion he had been looking forward to for eight days. Eight long, very long, days. One hundred and ninety two hours. He did a quick mental calculation. That was over eleven and a half thousand minutes of abstinence - shoot, that had to be some kind of record! Couldn't possibly be good for a man, denying himself for that length of time.
Buck locked the door of the cubicle and eagerly pressed the 'Message' button.
"Buck?" Ezra's voice purred in his ear, and Buck's capacity for mental arithmetic vanished, as his imagination took over from his logic. "Please call me as soon as you receive this message... I need to talk to you."
The happy little cloud of expectant euphoria Buck had been floating on evaporated and deposited him, metaphorically, with the same accuracy as the rain clouds had been doing all week. He punched the speed dial for Ezra's cell.
"Buck?"
Buck wished Ezra wouldn't say his name like that. That southern-accented, half-purr, half-whisper that pulled the cork out of his libido with such unerring precision. Especially when he was almost sure he wasn't going to like what was coming next. Especially when the only thing he knew for certain was that it wasn't going to be him.
"Yeah - what's up?"
"I'm really sorry Buck..."
Buck almost howled, only restraining himself when he remembered where he was, and the fact that only an inch of chipboard separated him from Josiah.
"No!" It was the only word he could summon.
"I'm really sorry, but I am going to have to stay at least one more night."
"Why? Ain't that wind-bag of a defence lawyer run out of breath yet?"
"It's not that. It's the weather."
"The what?"
"The weather," Ezra said, enunciating the words as if he were addressing a very small child, or a foreigner whose grasp of the language was suspect, "the weather up here has been most inclement."
"Ezra," Buck said through clenched teeth, "You ain't on Mars, and you ain't a thousand miles away - it's only rain!"
"Only rain? Only rain? This festering sore of a town has had more water deposited on it in the last two days than it normally has in six months. The cumulative effect of this has washed away some of the cart tracks that pass for roads to this backwater, flooded that part of the town containing the railway station and bus depot, brought down pylons thereby withdrawing our electricity supply, and, more relevant to our predicament, prevented the defence lawyer from attending court today as his house was flooded and his car washed away..."
"Shame it didn't drown the bastard," Buck whispered savagely, "you'd have been outta there days ago..."
"Nevertheless," Ezra continued soothingly, "without his presence the judge could not present his summation, and I am required to remain until such time as he has... Believe me, no one is more disappointed than I am."
"Wanna bet?"
Ezra sighed. "Believe it or not Buck, I do not relish the prospect of spending yet another night in this damp, depressing, God-forsaken collection of shacks that passes for a motel, where hot water is something you add to your Christmas wish list, food consists of fat cooked in cholesterol and the beds appear to have been designed by a sadistic chiropractor. To add to my sense of utter joy, tonight we are also deprived of electricity, so I am to have neither heat nor light. Why on earth would I want to leave all this to return to my home and you?"
Buck felt a pang of guilt. "Aw hell, Ezra... I'm sorry, it was just that I was plannin'..."
"I can guess," Buck could almost hear the smile in Ezra's voice, "planning a homecoming?"
Despite his disappointment, Buck smiled too. "Nothin' like coming at home," he whispered into the phone.
"Buck..."
"I know, I know."
"You are a hopeless romantic Mr Wilmington, do you realise that?"
"Hopeful Slick, hopeful."
"I am sorry - I will get away from here as soon as I possibly can - you have my word."
"Ain't your word I want Ezra, it's your..."
"Buck!"
"I'd better go, or Travis will be sending out a search party."
"I am sorry. I'd give anything to be coming... home tonight."
"I'm sorry too. Guess we'll just have to restrain ourselves, huh?"
"Now, that kind of talk will give me notions," Ezra teased.
Buck almost groaned. "Ezra....please..."
A soft chuckle sounded in Buck's ear. "Hold that thought. I'll see you tomorrow."
"You'd better!"
"Or else what? I'll have to pay for my misdeeds... with restraint?"
"Ezra..."
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Ezra sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to clear his blurred vision and aching eyes. Trying to read the Wall Street Journal by flashlight was a lost cause he decided, and threw the paper down onto the table in disgust.
He sighed again. He was cold, hungry, miserable, bored and frustrated. The power had been out for almost two hours, and he had run out of things to do in the dark after fifteen minutes. If Buck had been here, he thought dejectedly, that list would have lengthened enough to keep him warm and entertained right through until morning. If Buck had been here. But Buck wasn't here. That thought just served to make him feel more cold and miserable.
He peered around the dismal motel room, or as much of it as he could make out in the gloom. Darkness did not, he thought, detract much from his surroundings. It was a miserable little room, without even a decent view to heighten its reputation. The window where Ezra sat looked out over the parking lot and the row of cabins opposite, not that he could see much of either through the darkness and the rain. A couple of dim pinpoints of light were just visible from the cabins across the lot, their occupants resorting to flashlights or candles to give them at least some light to sit and be bored in. He drummed his fingers on the table and tried not to think about Buck, and what might be awaiting him at home. Buck had a vivid and delightfully creative imagination when it came to things to do in the dark. Or the light. Or anything in between. Ezra looked at his wristwatch. It was still early, and the prospect of the interminable hours he would be forced to spend sitting here in the dark loomed desolately before him.
He would much rather be at home. Come to think of it, he would much rather be just about anywhere other than here. He looked at his watch again, noting with dismay that the beam from his flashlight was weakening.
That did it. He would not sit here, wallowing in self-pity and frustration. He did a rough calculation of how long it would take to drive back to Denver, spend a couple of hours with Buck, then drive back here. He could do it, just. It might mean sneaking into the back of the courtroom if he miscalculated, and would certainly mean rising at some ludicrous hour, but it would be worth it.
A grin spread across his face. Oh yes, it would most definitely be worth it. He picked up his cell phone to call Buck and inform him of his decision, but changed his mind. Surprise would sweeten the effect, he decided.
Showering in the miniscule bathroom of the cabin, in the dark, was not quite as difficult as Ezra had anticipated, except that the hot water had run out in less than 4 minutes, and he had stubbed his toe on the base of the bath panel whilst drying himself, meaning that his right foot now throbbed painfully in perfect concert with his heartbeat. No matter - a broken foot was a small price to pay to escape from this hell for a night.
Using his flashlight to decide if he needed to shave, he peered into the bathroom mirror. The reflection that greeted him was reminiscent of one of Wes Craven's more lurid horror film characters, he decided, and moving the flashlight into a position whereby he could shave without cutting his face to ribbons appeared to be impossible, so he gave up. "Sorry Buck," he said jovially to his reflection, "your delicate skin will just have to grin and bear it."
Donning his jacket and grabbing his keys, wallet, cellphone and the Wall Street Journal to use as a temporary umbrella, he pulled the door of the cabin closed firmly behind him. Negotiating the obstacle course of puddles across the asphalt to where the Jaguar was parked was more difficult than he had anticipated, requiring a peculiar combination of sideways leaps and small trotting steps to navigate successfully - neither of which gave any relief to his still-throbbing foot. The Wall Street Journal proved to be not much better at protecting him from the pelting rain than it had been as reading material, and, once he had opened the car door, he threw it onto the floor. His jacket and shoes were wet, but it felt immeasurably better to be actually doing something, rather than just sitting in the dark cabin, bored and lonely. The Jag started with the first turn of the key, and as he reversed out of the parking space and turned the car to leave the lot, a wide smile lit up his face.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Buck squinted at the cooking instructions for the 'microwaveable' TV dinner, and tried not to think about the two dressed lobsters sitting in the fridge.
He loved meatballs. He did. Meatballs had been a staple from his childhood, when they had been cheap and filling, through his early adult life when they had been cheap and fast, right through to now when they were cheap and easy to cook after a long day, but somehow the prospect of sitting in front of the TV, eating them out of their plastic container, did not compare favourably with what he had been anticipating for his evening meal.
He sighed. Story of his life - see, touch, smell and anticipate lobster, and end up eating meatballs. He wasn't normally given to self-pity, but tonight he felt justified. He decided he wasn't really hungry, and returned the TV dinner to the fridge, scowling at the two beautifully dressed, beautifully pink, beautifully pretty Maine lobsters in their beautifully packaged, salad-fringed boxes. He could almost feel them smirking at him. Great - now he was attributing attitude to shellfish, and dead shellfish at that. This was not a good sign. He needed to snap out of it. He needed to get some perspective on this situation. He needed....
He needed Ezra, goddamn it.
And Ezra was, at that moment, sitting alone in some freezing, decrepit motel room, in the dark.
The thought of Ezra in the dark ignited a grin on Buck's face. Ezra in the dark was always an enjoyable prospect. Except that Ezra was in the dark miles away from him and the two smirking lobsters. Buck felt a pang of sympathy. Ezra loved his home comforts, warmth, his own bed, his king-sized bath-tub. He would be miserable, probably more miserable than Buck felt right now. With no power, Ezra wouldn't even be eating meatballs, never mind dressed lobster and Chablis. Which was ironic, now Buck thought about it, because the lobsters were already cooked and ready to eat. Shame Buck couldn't arrange to have some delivered to him...
Buck's grin suddenly returned, his self-pity evaporating, as an idea hit him. He would deliver the lobsters to Ezra! He grinned as he headed for the bedroom to change, imagining Ezra's face when he opened the cabin door to be faced with Buck and a tray of lobster, salad and fine wine. Buck checked his watch. It would be tight, time-wise, but he could probably make it up there in a couple of hours, an hour to eat, a couple of hours making Slick feel better, a couple of hours sleep - hell, he could be back here in time for the 10 o'clock meeting tomorrow!
Whistling, Buck donned his one-and-only pleat-front dress shirt and his black bow tie - heck, if he was going to pretend to be a delivery boy, he might as well dress like a waiter. He debated going all out with his tuxedo as well, but in the end settled for his black pants and black leather jacket. His tux was getting to be on the snug side, and tights pants when he would be anticipating seeing Ezra for two hours on the drive was not a good idea.
Rummaging in the closet until he found the cooler took an annoying 5 minutes, but less than 20 minutes after he first had the idea, Buck was sitting in the driving seat of the old Chevy, the cooler containing lobster, salad, wine, glasses, plates, cutlery and a tub of cherry ice cream on the passenger seat beside him.
Feeling very pleased with himself, Buck started the engine, turned on the windshield wipers and pulled out onto the street.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Ezra had not been driving for very long when he realised that he had probably miscalculated on the amount of time the drive to Denver would take. He had not taken into account the chaos that the unrelenting rain had caused - roads closed or flooded, traffic crawling through diversions set up to circumnavigate washed-away sidewalks or brought-down trees and collapsed telegraph poles. It had taken almost twice as long to clear the city limits as he had anticipated, and his right foot itched to get out on a stretch of open, clear road and let the Jag do her thing. And it was still raining. Pelting, cold, very wet, rain. He didn't care if he never saw rain again as long as he lived. He was utterly sick of the sight of it. Or rather he was sick of not being able to see anything because of it.
The last week had been like living in some weird underwater world - the permanently dark skies forcing the the shops, motel, courthouse, cafes - everywhere - to leave their lights on all day; the view through the windows always the same - distorted and rain-blurred, leaving him with what felt like a permanent squint from peering through a curtain of water that never seemed to part. It was the same now, even in the car. The Jag's windshield wipers were efficient, quiet and fast, but even they could not maintain a clear view through the deluge, and Ezra found himself still squinting.
He eased off the throttle as a pair of tail-lights became visible in front of him - a huge truck, painted a particularly vile shade of blue and emblazoned with 'Stone Trucking' across the back doors loomed out of the rain, spray flying from its rear wheels and blowing from its flat roof. Great. The first stretch of potentially fast road he had encountered, and it was commandeered by an 18 wheeler. Fantastic.
Gritting his teeth, Ezra pulled out a little to check for headlights coming towards him. The fates were obviously out to spite him, he could see twin beams approaching through the dark. He pulled back in. Another huge truck passed him, travelling in the opposite direction, leading a long line of cars behind it. A road sign warning of bends flashed past, and Ezra found himself beginning to believe that the Fates truly were conspiring against him. The road began to climb, and the 18 wheeler slowed down in response to the incline. "Wonderful! At this rate it will soon be quicker to get out and walk," Ezra said to the empty air. The gradient steepened, and Ezra found himself having to slow to almost a crawl. He wanted to scream. This was taking time he did not have to waste.
At last, after what felt like hours of progress that a snail would have found lethargic, the road flattened, straightened, and widened. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Ezra pulled out again - clear, dark road greeted him. Resisting the temptation to let out a rebel yell, he changed gear and, as JD was so fond of saying, 'put the pedal to the metal' and overtook the lumbering truck.
"Hang in there Buck... " he said aloud as he turned off the main road in an attempt to make up some of the lost time by taking a short cut he had found on the map.
It was less than five minutes later that Ezra was forced to brake violently and yank the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid the ghostly white apparition that had seemingly materialised out of thin, if wet, air, directly in front of his car.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Buck was singing along to the radio, tunelessly but in great spirits, trying to keep his mind off Ezra getting closer and closer. He was making good time, the pouring rain keeping all but the most hardy of travellers indoors, and the roads were quiet.
Once out into the country, he became aware of the increase in the rainfall and began to see what Ezra had been complaining about. The better roads, more efficient drainage and good lighting in the city areas had lessened the effect of the week-long rain, but out here the consequences of such bizarre weather were much more obvious. Anywhere the road surface dipped was flooded, pools of water had collected at the side of the roads, and the darkness and pouring rain made it difficult to see and equally difficult to drive.
"Raindrops keep falling on my head..." Buck sang along to the radio, wondering if the DJ was a sadist, or just fancied himself as a comedian.
A small town, the name of which Buck didn't fully catch, only that it was something 'Corners', was passed quickly, the roads completely deserted, the streetlights of the main drag retreating in his rear view mirror. Buck smirked quietly. Ezra was getting nearer.
It was the first sign of habitation he had passed for some time, and he checked his watch. He was still making good time, but had lost a little of his initial estimate. "Come on sweetheart," he patted the steering wheel of the old Chevy, "time to show me how much ya love me..." He applied more pressure to the accelerator, hearing the old engine thrum happily in response.
"'Cause it's rainin', rainin' in my heart..." Buck crooned in rather flat accompaniment to Buddy Holly. This DJ was just asking for it, he thought, shaking his head, but he was still smiling.
He stopped smiling a while later however, when the happy purring of the Chevy's engine took on a new tone. It began as a single misfire, which quickly degenerated into a spluttering series of noises that sounded ominously as if the engine were choking.
A few more yards and another sound - a weird succession of stuttering pops - caused Buck's expression to change from consternation to concern, which degenerated quickly into outright horror when the engine uttered a weird, grinding 'clank', then sputtered into silence.
For a long time, the only sound was the tick of cooling metal and the soft pattering of rain on the roof.
"Oh shit," Buck breathed.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Ezra had no time to think, only react. His response was instinctive, he wrenched the steering wheel with all his might, jammed on the brakes and prayed.
His heart felt as though it were about to pop straight out of his mouth as the apparition loomed huge in the headlights for a millisecond. He heard a blood-chilling, high-pitched scream emanating from it then, incredibly, wonderfully, somehow, it avoided collision with the swerving Jaguar, which ended up at a very peculiar angle across the road.
Adrenaline and shock reduced Ezra to total immobility. He simply sat, clutching the steering wheel, his heart hammering, his breath coming in huge swallowing gulps, as he tried to stop his hands shaking.
You missed it.
You missed it!
There had been no sickening thump, no sound of breaking glass or buckling metal.
Shaking his head in an effort to focus, he twisted around in the driver's seat, only to be greeted by a weird, raindrop-contorted, white-shrouded head peering in at him through the passenger window.
A very un-Agent like shriek found its way out of Ezra's mouth.
To his complete horror, the white apparition shrieked at precisely the same moment.
For a few heart-stopping seconds, Ezra felt as if he were going to faint, which was even more un-Agent like than screaming, when suddenly his driver's door was wrenched open and a distinctly un-apparition like voice said, in a clear Georgia accent, "What the hell d'ya think you're doin', you gaddamned lunatic?"
Ezra turned towards the sound and found himself face-to-midriff with what he thought was a giant, pink penguin. Somewhere, over the beating tattoo of rain, he could also detect what sounded like a woman sobbing.
This, he thought with suprising clarity, was rapidly turning into an episode of Twin Peaks.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
"Shit, shit, shit," Buck said again.
He banged the steering wheel a couple of times with his fists in an effort to vent his frustration, but it didn't make him feel any better, and he was as sure as he could be that it would have diddley-squat effect on the engine.
"Why now? Why tonight?" he wailed as he reached across into the glove box for his flashlight. "If I didn't know better," he scowled at the dashboard, "I'd say you were jealous."
Wonderful.
Now he was attributing attitude to a Chevrolet.
First dead shellfish, now an inanimate heap of malfunctioning metal. Perhaps it was true what they said about denying a body's natural instincts.
Buck sighed. He needed Ezra. Otherwise he was going to be needing a shrink, and whilst both of them were a tad on the expensive side and had the potential to melt his brains, he was almost sure he would prefer Ez's method of doing so.
Turning up his jacket collar, he popped the hood, switched on the flashlight and stepped out onto the road.
It was much, much worse being out there in the wet than he had expected. Water found its way inside his upturned collar in record time, and freezing rivulets began making their way down his neck. It soaked his hair, dripped into his eyes, made his hands cold, and reduced his grip on the flashlight.
The engine yielded little in the way of clues as to its predicament. Buck checked for the obvious causes of the breakdown, or at least the ones he could identify and reach, and by then he was soaked and freezing, and no nearer solving the problem.
A particularly icy stream of cold water trickled down his back. "Shit," he said again, giving the nearest tire a swift, malicious kick, but that didn't solve the problem either.
He retreated to the inside of the vehicle. It was dark and cold, but at least he wasn't as likely to drown.
Grabbing his cellphone from his jacket pocket, he offered up a silent prayer that he wasn't too far from civilisation to see the dreaded 'no service' message.
He was.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
"I said," the pink penguin's voice seemed to have taken on an altogether more threatening tone, "what the hell d'ya think you're doin?"
As Ezra's scrambled senses began to resettle, he realised that the pink penguin was not a penguin at all, it was actually a pink tuxedo which, now Ezra thought about it, seemed almost as ridiculous and unlikely as a pink penguin.
"What?" Ezra said at last, the relief buzz of the adrenaline now evaporating into fast-mounting anger. "WHAT?"
"You crazy son of a bitch - y'damned nearly ran over my wife!"
"Shut up Marlon, please!" A woman's voice, slightly hysterical, intruded into the surreal conversation.
The pink tuxedo crouched down slightly, in order to eyeball this Jaguar-driving miscreant, and Ezra found himself face-to-face with a young man whose fantastic shock of bright red hair clashed so horribly with the suit he was wearing, Ezra wasn't sure whether to feel nauseous or sympathetic.
"Ain't ya got nothin' t'say fer yerself?" Marlon's snub-nosed, pugnacious face settled approximately six inches from Ezra's nose, his words exuding a cloud of noxious garlic-come-whisky-fumes in Ezra's general direction.
Debating whether to reach for his ID and embarrass this idiot, or reach for his gun and simply shoot him, the sound of the woman's voice rising in a fresh bout of sobbing persuaded Ezra to opt for the former.
"I'm a Federal Agent, please step back," Ezra said in his clearest, most superior tones.
"I couldn't give a rat's ass if you're a five star general, y'damned nearly killed her!"
"She was standing in the middle of the road!" Ezra said, quelling the temptation to punch Marlon - hard, "now step back from the vehicle!"
"Marlon! Pleeeeease!" The rising wail had the desired effect where Ezra's words had failed, and Marlon the pink tuxedo retreated a few steps, allowing Ezra to climb out of the car into the pouring rain. He realised several things very rapidly. He was getting soaked and his foot was still painful, but that was small beer compared to the sight that greeted him and caused his eyes to widen involuntarily.
The 'apparition' was standing at the side of the road, and proved to be a sobbing young woman in a soaked, mud-splashed wedding dress, its sodden folds drooping wearily around her legs, her long veil hanging in dripping swathes over her left arm. Her right hand clutched a saturated, wilting bouquet of very wet flowers. She was shaking from head to foot and looked utterly, completely miserable.
Despite himself, Ezra felt a wave of pure sympathy. Not only had this unfortunate woman somehow gotten herself married to a garlic-emanating pink penguin, she was also half-drowned and had nearly been flattened by half a ton of very solid English engineering. Up until that moment Ezra thought he was the one having the night from hell.
Marlon scowled ferociously. The apparition continued to sob. Ezra sighed. Forget Twin Peaks, this was far more reminiscent of the Twilight Zone.
Where the hell was Buck Wilmington when you needed him?
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
"Shit," Buck said again, staring at his cellphone. "Shit, shit, shit."
Cursing did not seem to be influencing his situation for the better, so an alternative solution was needed. He was cold, wet and marooned miles from anywhere.
There were not too many choices.
He could try and sleep in the Chevy until morning, and probably develop pneumonia and hypothermia for his efforts, or he could get out and start walking.
In which direction?
He had no idea of where the next town was, and the little town he had breezed through so cheerily a while ago suddenly seemed a very long way behind him.
At least he knew there was a town in that direction - and, hopefully, where there was a town there was a functioning telephone and somewhere to wait for assistance that was warm and dry, so he opted for heading back to whatever-the-heck-it-was Corners.
The only slightly lesser of two evils.
He climbed out of the car, grabbing the cooler as he did so.
He might be cold, wet, frustrated and pissed-off, but he damned well was not going to be hungry.
Turning up his coat collar yet again, he hunkered down into his jacket and began to walk back in the direction he had come from, trying to ignore the fact that he could not see any welcoming lights, even in the distance, through the rain.
Why hadn't he thought to bring an umbrella?
Why had the Chevy chosen tonight, of all nights, to break down?
Why had Ezra been stupid enough to witness a crime that necessitated him being holed up in some fly-speck town out in the boonies?
Why didn't the damned cellphone companies make sure you could actually use their overpriced pieces of technological wizardry in the very areas where you were most likely to need them?
What the hell had he done to deserve this?
Why was he always expecting lobster and ending up with meatballs?
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
For a few moments, no-one spoke. Marlon continued to glower, the apparition continued to sob and Ezra tried to gather his wits.
"Are you alright?" he said at last, taking a few steps towards the distressed young woman.
She nodded, her headdress of fake flowers and soaked feathers shaking as she did so, and Ezra suddenly thought what a stupid question that had been in the first place - she was, obviously, about as far from 'alright' as could be imagined. Ignoring the pink penguin, he held out his hand to her. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said politely, "but you were standing in the road."
She lifted a ridiculously young, make-up streaked face towards him, her huge blue eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. "I'm sorry," she gulped, "I didn't see your car. I was..." Her bottom lip trembled again, and more tears followed the mascara-lined tracks down her cheeks.
Ezra wished Buck were here. Buck would know exactly what to say to her and exactly how to say it. Buck would be able to console her and have her smiling in 10 seconds flat. "I'm Agent Standish.... Ezra," he said softly, extending his hand for her to shake. You have to start somewhere, he thought.
"Marilou... Marilou..."she gulped.
"McMarley," a deeper voice interjected, "and that's Mrs."
"Really?" Ezra was teetering on the edge of sarcasm, and sorely tempted to respond to the pink penguin with something akin to 'I'd never have guessed', but another swift look at the poor young woman's distraught features persuaded him to soften it to humour. "From your attire, Madam, may I assume that this is a recently acquired status?"
She blinked at him.
Oh Lord, Ezra thought. Buck, where the hell are you?
He tried one of his winning smiles. "Your dress rather gave me a hint..." he said softly. "I take it you only became Mrs McMarley today?"
Marlon and Marilou McMarley. How insufferably cruel fate could be.
To his considerable relief, she smiled and blushed, and Ezra was suddenly aware that she was probably very pretty under all the streaked make-up and sodden lace.
"What of it?" Marlon the pink penguin sidled up to his bride and circled her with a very possessive, pink arm. She beamed up at him.
Dear God, Ezra almost groaned. The poor child. "My heartiest congratulations to you both," he said, fervently hoping the fake smile was holding its own, "how wonderful!"
"We're supposed to be goin' on honeymoon, only our truck got a flat," Marilou said quietly, "and our jack's busted..."
"And then some flash secret agent damned nearly ran us over," Marlon growled. "Oughta be a law 'gainst drivin' like that. Coulda killed us." His gaze swept over the Jag, "Sheee-it! It ain't even an American car! Some fancy foreign crap," he nodded sagely, turning to his new wife and instructing her as if she were deaf or stupid, "foreign car. Prob'ly got dodgy brakes..."
Ezra was pleased at the incredible restraint he was demonstrating. The desire to walk over and beat this pink-clad moron senseless was almost overpowering. He ought to think himself incredibly fortunate he had managed to persuade such a sweet woman to marry him, Ezra thought, otherwise he would have found himself eating his truck, busted jack and all.
His thoughts manifested themselves in a totally fake laugh. "Federal agent, not secret," he emphasised, trying not to clench his fists, "as in Federal Government agent."
As in I could kill you where you stand and they would never find your decomposing, pink tuxedo wearing, halitosis-ridden carcass, you inbred hick.
Somehow, the fake smile kept its shape. Hell, no wonder he was such a good undercover agent. "Now then," he said, trying not to sound too condescending, "it looks like you could use some assistance?"
Or shall I take your lovely young wife on to the safety of somewhere as far away from you as I can get, say Alaska, and leave you here to drown?
"Can I offer you a lift somewhere?"
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
"Could ya use a lift?" The truck driver's smiling face grinned down at Buck from his cab.
Buck almost cheered. "Thank you! Thank you very much, friend, you are a life saver!" he said, clambering up into the passenger side of the truck.
"That your Chevy on the road a ways back?"
Buck nodded.
"She letcha down, then, eh?" He chuckled to himself, "they sure do pick their moments, don't they?"
"Couldn't have picked a worse one."
The truck driver pointed out of the windshield. "Four Corners is comin' up, up the road a ways. They got a motel and a diner.... That do ya?"
"Absolutely! Right now anywhere dry and with a working phone sounds like paradise!" He held out his hand. "Buck Wilmington - pleased to meet you - very pleased."
"Arthur Stone, likewise. What you doin' all the way out here in this weather?"
"I started out trying to make it to fly-speck - sorry, I mean Bittercreek Ridge, but my old girl had other ideas."
"Well, if that don't beat all! I started out from there tonight myself!" Arthur grinned.
"I hear it's pretty bad down there," Buck said, thinking longing of Ezra.
Arthur nodded. "Sure is. More rain than I seen in over twenty years hauling these roads. Makes you wonder whether ol' Noah left the plans to that Ark anywhere's around, don't it?"
Buck nodded, trying not to think about the water trickling down his back, his soaked, freezing and now aching feet, and most of all not about Ezra, alone in the dark in fly-speck. He didn't dare think about having the prospect of sharing a few hours in bed with him snatched away yet again.
Sometimes, life was simply not fair.
We were back to the lobster and meatballs.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Ezra fastened his seatbelt, trying to ignore the strange aroma the now very cramped interior of the Jag seemed to have taken on. A strange concoction of wet clothing and something vaguely floral that, unfortunately, was not strong enough to overpower the garlic and cheap aftershave it found itself competing with.
"Ooo! This is a beautiful car Agent Standish," Marilou chirped from the back seat, the enormous volume of her very wet dress making weird sucky-rustling noises as she wriggled around, "s'real nice, ain't it Marlon?"
"S'okay, I guess." Marlon grunted ungratefully, glowering at Ezra's reflection in the rear view mirror.
Ezra grinned beatifically in response, but it was somewhat lost on his subject.
"We had a nice car for our weddin'," Marilou added chattily, obviously feeling much better now she was sitting down in the comfortable, dry warmth of the Jag, "but t'weren't as nice as this, was it Marlon?"
"What?" Marlon looked horrified. "You're talkin' 'bout a vintage Studebaker, Marilou! Best damned car ever made! Beats the hell outta this German crap!"
Ezra winced.
Marilou shrugged, fidgeting to get closer to her beloved, ignoring the squelching-slurp of several yards of wet polyester against leather, and nestled herself comfortably against Marlon's pink chest. "S'real nice of you Agent Standish - we'll never forget this, will we Marlon?" She gazed up adoringly at her new husband and Ezra averted his eyes from the view in the mirror to avoid certain nausea.
"It's the least I could do after such an unfortunate start to your honeymoon."
"Least you could do after ya nearly killed us, y'mean."
Ezra found himself wondering how long it would take to get the water marks out of the Jag's leather upholstery, or the crushed flowers, the remnants of which Marilou was still clutching, out of the carpet. And how many air fresheners he would have to buy before Marlon's ghost was exorcised from the back seat.
"Now then," he said brightly, "where is this establishment you have booked for your wedding night?"
"The Bide-A-While motel, Four Corners," Marilou said quickly, then giggled lightly. "Marlon booked the honeymoon suite for us."
Ezra supressed a shudder at the thought of the honeymoon suite of anywhere called Bide-A-While, and the prospect of yet another dingy little motel room did little to raise his spirits, but at least it would be dry, hopefully, and warm. He could have a hot shower and sleep for a few hours before returning to Bittercreek Ridge and doing his best to forget this night from hell, and these characters from a bad B movie.
He was also trying to avoid thinking about Buck - warm and dry in Denver - probably curled up in their huge bed, watching TV. Buck. In bed. He bit back a groan.
In an effort to distract his mind, he risked another glance in the mirror, and instantly wished he hadn't bothered. Marlon appeared to be trying to extract Marilou's tonsils by using only his tongue.
This time Ezra did shudder.
How long could one night possibly take to end, he wondered?
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
"I can't stand the raaaaain, against my window." Buck liked singing in the shower, and when the shower was hot and powerful, as this one was, it made the experience all the more enjoyable.
Shutting off the water, he hastily towelled himself dry and wrapped the surprisingly large bath towel around his waist. He felt better. Much, much better.
The motel was small, but clean, comfortable and warm. It had heat, power, a working telephone, TV and a nice big bed. He had arranged his soaked clothing around the warmest spots in the cabin to dry, drank a king size mocha coffee with extra chocolate, and warmed his thoroughly chilled skin with a hot shower.
He was almost in good spirits. Almost.
Flinging himself on the bed, he decided to call Ezra and confess to the aborted trip - hell, Slick would get a good laugh out of it, if nothing else.
He punched the speed dial for Ezra's cell.
"Standish."
"Hi there Slick! Missing me?"
"You have no idea..."
"Cuddled up comfy in your cabin?"
"Actually, no."
"No?"
"No."
Buck frowned. "So where are you?"
"Somewhere between hell and high water, trying to decide which destination would be preferable. It's a more difficult choice than you might imagine."
"Ezra, what are you talkin' about?"
There was a sigh. "Buck, the next time I have a really bad idea, would you do me the favour of telling me before I act on it?"
Buck frowned. "Ezra, right now I'd do just about anything to you that you could dream of, but I still ain't got a clue what you're talkin' about."
"I have a confession to make."
Buck grinned. "Oh, I love this game! Go on then... fess up. Tell me your darkest desires - or shall I call Montel Williams first?"
"That's not quite what I was getting at..." Despite himself, Ezra had to smile. Buck could always make him feel better. Even when he was quite certain that nothing on earth could lighten his mood, Buck always seemed to manage it, seemingly without much effort. "I have had the night from hell."
"Me too Slick, me too, but you start. If you aren't snuggled up in your little cabin, where are you?"
"Decidedly unsnuggled up in somewhere I am too embarrassed to mention the name of."
Buck laughed. "Hell, Ezra - after some of the things you and I have gotten up to, there ain't much I can think of that would qualify as embarrassing."
There was another sigh. "In my solitary delusory state, I had the ridiculous notion that I would surprise you by driving up to Denver."
Buck's eyes widened. "Well if that don't beat all! I had the self-same idea!"
"What, of me driving up to Denver?"
"No, no. I had the idea of driving down to see you, but that didn't quite go down how I'd planned it, either."
"What happened?"
"No, no - you first. You wanted to confess, so you gotta go first," Buck teased. "If you ain't where I thought you were and you ain't...." Suddenly, Buck had a horrible thought. "Aw shit Ezra, you ain't in Denver, are ya?" Buck thought he might just scream if that proved to be the case. "Please tell me you ain't sittin' at home, waiting for me?"
A wry laugh could be heard. "Chance would be a fine thing! No, I am not at home. Or in Denver. Or anywhere remotely close to it. I am marooned."
"Me too!"
"This is bizarre."
"Where the hell's that?"
"It's not a place Buck," Ezra sighed again, "I meant that the situation is bizarre - unusual, weird."
"You can say that again! The damned Chevy broke down miles from nowhere, out of range for the damned cellphone, and I got to enjoy a hike in the rain."
"Are you alright?" Ezra said quickly.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine! A friendly trucker gave me a lift to some place with a motel," he looked around the little room and nodded. "It's okay actually - hell, it's dry and they got power, so I'm not complaining."
"I too, find myself in yet another American backwater. But, joy of joys, this one also has power and heat, so I suppose I should be grateful."
"Why'd you get sidetracked? Jag let you down?" Buck grinned wickedly.
Ezra harrumphed as if the very suggestion was offensive. "Of course not! I encountered..." he paused. It was rare for Ezra to be lost for words, but this had been a rare evening. He took a deep breath. "I encountered Frankenstein and his bride, and became embroiled in a situation that required some effort in order to extricate myself."
"Frankenstein?"
"Yes. Complete with pink tuxedo and requisite garlic fumes."
"What?"
"Never mind. I had to give a young couple a lift to their honeymoon hotel, and as it's too late to go any further tonight, I booked myself a room."
Buck sighed. "That's kind of a shame... You're stuck in a motel on your own, I'm stuck in motel in my own."
"Seems you have a grasp of the situation," Ezra said sadly, "and I agree, it is a shame." He thought for a moment. "Why were you driving down to see me?"
"Why do you think?" Buck said seductively.
Ezra laughed. "How many guesses do I get?"
"Very cute! Actually, I was bringing you dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Yes Ezra, that meal you have between lunch and breakfast?"
"Very droll. What made you decide to bring me dinner?"
"'Cause I was planning on us eating it together at home, you couldn't make it to the dinner, so I thought I'd bring the dinner to you."
"That's very touching Buck," Ezra said, meaning it, "I've no doubt I shall regret this, but what was on the menu?"
Buck smiled. "Lobster, salad, champagne and cherry ice cream."
Ezra groaned, loudly. "I knew I shouldn't have asked. So, you are now alone, in a motel cabin, replete with lobster and champagne? There is no God," Ezra said bitterly.
"Not quite. I haven't actually eaten it yet, but I guess there's not much point in lettin' it just sit here, so....."
"Quite."
"What did you have for dinner?"
"Nothing yet. There is however, a diner nearby, so I might take my life in my hands and see what delights await me beyond the four walls of the Bide-A-While."
"Sounds like a pla.... what? What did you just say?"
"That I would try the diner."
"No, no! You said the Bide-A-While?"
"Oh, I know. The very notion makes me cringe... and I've done more than enough cringing for one night, I promise you."
"Ezra! Listen!" Buck shouted, "we're in the same motel!"
"What?"
"We're in the same motel! I'm in the Bide-A-While!"
"If this is joke, Buck, I shall..."
"It's not a joke! Hell, knock on the door of Cabin 12 and I'll prove it!" There was the sound of movement, then Buck clearly heard a door slamming and the steady patter of rain. "Ezra? Ezra!" He shouted into the phone.
Then there was a knock on Buck's door.
Buck flung the door open, briefly catching sight of Ezra standing there, rain dripping off his hair, phone still clutched in his hand, before he found himself thrown back against the wall with an armful of dripping wet Federal Agent, who was kissing him so hard that Buck felt his head swim.
"You have absolutely no idea how wonderful it is to see you," Ezra gasped when they finally surfaced for breath.
Buck winked. "Well, I might not be the sharpest chisel in the tool set Slick, but even I can take that kind of a hint." He pushed Ezra away from him slightly, "and you are absolutely soaked! Been out in the rain?"
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
"Now this," Ezra mumbled around a mouthful of lobster, "was one of your better plans, Agent Wilmington."
Buck grinned, spearing another chunk of shellfish and feeding Ezra with the succulent forkful. Don't look so damned smug now, do ya? he thought, regarding the pile of discarded lobster shells that littered the plates and the tray on the bed between them.
Ezra replenished their glasses with fresh champagne and snuggled up closer to Buck. He sighed deeply, smiling with contentment.
The remnants of their rather strange picnic were scattered on and around the thoroughly disordered bed, only the champagne had been carefully placed on the nightstand to, as Ezra pointed out, 'prevent spillage of such a valuable commodity in the event of any over excitement.' And the excitement had been 'over'. Way over.
"Mmmmm," Ezra said contentedly, "it's only when one has been denied the basics of everyday life that one truly appreciates them."
"Never did care much for denial. I ain't never been a sadist."
Ezra chuckled. "You mean masochist."
"Now that," Buck said, rolling on top of Ezra, crushing the detritus of lobster shells and crockery underneath him as he did so, "sounds decidedly kinky to me, Agent Standish."
Ezra looked up at him and winced. "Something is attempting to puncture my ribcage."
Buck just waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Ezra shook his head. "I very much doubt that it's part of your anatomy Buck... unless you've developed a carapace without me noticing."
"Hell, we ain't been together for so long, I coulda grown wings fer all you know!"
"Highly unlikely," Ezra said, wincing again and trying to extract whatever it was that was digging into him from between their bodies. "Angelic is not a word that sits comfortably on you."
Buck feigned injury. "How can you say such a thing? I'm always good..." he winked, "at least, according to you I am."
Ezra grinned wickedly. "Oh, you are good. Very good, in fact. Better than good. You leave 'good' back at the start line, but that has nothing whatsoever to do with you being angelic - although it might have something to do with your being conceited."
"With good reason."
Ezra shook his head. "Your arrogance leaves me breathless at times," he laughed
"Ah! So it's my 'arrogance' that leaves you breathless, is it? That's not what you were calling it a while ago."
"Oh really Buck.... Got it!" Ezra cried triumphantly, extricating a large piece of lobster shell and holding it in front of Buck's nose. "This room is a complete shambles," he sighed, looking around at the discarded clothing and the remnants of their picnic and wondering how one of his socks had ended up on top of the TV.
"Ezra," Buck said, staring straight into his eyes, grabbing the piece of lobter shell and tossing it dramatically over his shoulder, where it landed, amazingly, on Ezra's sock, "I don't give a damn what the room looks like! It's eight days since we had any... quality time together. Eight days! I bin bored, frustrated, cold, tired, pissed off and wet more times than I wanna remember. Martha Stewart ain't likely to come barging in here, and even if she did I don't think I'd give a damn! The whole US Army could come marching through for all I care. I just want you!"
"Again?" Ezra grinned.
"Too damned right!"
"Oh very well - you've talked me into it." Ezra laughed, encircling Buck in a strong hug, his lips finding the sensitive place under Buck's jaw that always produced a shiver of excitement.
Buck gasped in delight as Ezra's talented fingers found just the right spot on his lower back, and he closed his eyes in pleasure.
They were both far too involved in a bone-melting kiss to see the piece of lobster shell give up its unequal fight with gravity and fall, unnoticed, down the back of the TV.
The End