Disclaimer: Not ours, though 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 ...
Author's Notes: Slush more than slash, angst more than anger, and Buck and Ezra because I am obsessed and absurdly grateful when my muse gives me anything these days...
All comments, questions, feedback and suggestions welcome.
It's the fall that's so terrifying.The slow motion, puppet-with-the-strings-cut fall, all strangely angled limbs and bonelessness.
One second Buck had been running forward, a big, dark shape, only a few feet in front of Ezra, and the next there was an explosion of sound, then the world had suddenly slowed down into a painful and incomprehensible slo-mo and Buck had crumpled in front of him. It had happened so suddenly that Ezra had almost tripped over him, unable to stop the forward momentum of his stride, his feet suddenly six sizes larger than normal, and seemingly totally beyond his control. His centre of gravity had shifted way beyond anything his brain could catch up with as he half-stumbled, half-jumped over Buck's still-falling body, and only pure luck had prevented Ezra from literally trampling him. Feet hopelessly out of synch with his senses, Ezra had tumbled forwards, hearing the pinging whizz as a bullet passed way too close to his head for comfort. A very undignified pitch forwards, a failed attempt at a duck-and-roll, and Ezra had cannoned into a stone support pillar of the underground parking lot with such force that he was completely winded.
Laying there on the oil stained concrete, almost unable to breathe, his shoulder reminding him that mistreatment of this kind only ever had one result - dislocation - and hearing the barked commands echoing around the stonework and parked cars, the single picture in Ezra's mind was seeing Buck from the other side as he fell, a neat round hole between his eyes.
Fighting to force his lungs to work, wheezing and gasping, ignoring the grinding, searing pain in his shoulder, unable to muster enough spare oxygen to shout, Ezra kept seeing it - the fall - bang, crumple, flop.
Buck's dead.
Bang, crumple, flop.
Buck's dead.
Six hours on, and it's still there - re-running through his imagination with all the tenacity of an advertisement jingle - the same damned thing, over and over again.
The location has changed - he's at home now, in the dark, his shoulder still aching like a sonofabitch, in no small part due to the self treatment he's been forced to dispense; holding his breath, his face streaming with sweat, as he rammed the door jamb several times, finally building enough courage and force to move the damned thing. He had heard it - that distinct 'pop' of the joint resetting, milliseconds before the wave of nausea that always followed such abuse of his old injury.
Normally, he would have asked Nathan, whose long-practiced action made the process as quick and, in relative terms, painless as possible. Nate now had it off to a fine art - he knew exactly how to extend Ezra's arm, exactly how many degrees to twist, exactly the amount of strength needed to push the stubborn bones back into alignment. It was never an enjoyable experience, but with Nathan's help it was at least over quickly. Tonight however, Nathan had been required elsewhere, accompanying Buck to the hospital in the wailing ambulance, and Ezra, feeling like an incompetent fool, had kept silent about his shoulder - such an inconsequential thing in the light of such enormity.
Bang, crumple, flop.
He didn't really remember much after - as his over-active mind had labelled it - with almost initial capitals, The Fall. A vague, confused recollection of Vin running with his silent, effortless grace along a steel girder that formed part of the infrastructure of the building, somewhere above him - more shots, Chris's voice, sharp and authoritative, issuing orders. Two things registered very clearly - Vin's voice through his ear piece; 'we got 'em all Chris - they're all down', and Josiah's huge, bear-like hands grasping the front of his Kevlar, concern etched deep in the big man's craggy face.
He did remember Chris driving him home - relief at the news from the hospital making his tired face look years younger, despite the worry lines around his eyes. Chris hadn't said much, and Ezra had the sneaking suspicion that his Team Leader had known much more about what was going on in Ezra's head, and probably his shoulder, than he was saying.
"Get some rest, we'll deal with all the bureaucratic crap tomorrow," Chris had said as he leaned across and pushed the Ram's passenger door open, that single action indicating that he was fully aware of Ezra's limited range of movement, but neither of them had mentioned it.
Ezra heard the water shut off in the bathroom, and finally moved from the chair, flicking on the lamp as he passed the dining table on his way to the kitchen. Bending down to retrieve the pizza box from the oven, remembering to use his good arm to lift the box, he pushed the oven door closed with his knee, and carried the box to the table.
Bang, crumple, flop.
The door opened, flooding the darker end of the room with light from the hallway. Ezra couldn't see him yet, not properly, just a dark silhouette against the rectangle of yellow light, a familiar shape and form that made his heart miss a beat.
And suddenly there he is, walking into the circle of light from the lamp, smiling that ear-to-ear grin of his, eyes twinkling with their usual mischievious light, all that thick, dark hair still glossy-wet from the shower. Ezra can't even see the dressing from here - it's behind Buck's left ear, a small, not-even-deep-enough-to-leave-much-of-a-scar groove in his skull, neatly stapled and skilfully dressed in such a way that he can comb his hair over the part they had to shave to treat it.
Bang, crumple, flop.
"I'm starving! What did you order? I could eat a horse." Buck sits down opposite him, still grinning.
"Knowing the reputation of Paolo's Pizza, that's not beyond the realms of possibility."
Ezra opens the box, the waft of cheese-laden steam making his stomach churn.
Buck sniffs deeply, his smile widening as he looks at the pizza. "Chili beef, onions, green peppers - hope you remembered extra cheese here, Slick..."
"Let me see - four pizza toppings? Is it possible? How does he do it? Just call me Mister Memory." He knows he's being snarky, unnecessarily so, but he can't seem to stop himself.
Buck just grins at him, lifting a wedge of pizza to his lips and taking a huge bite.
Bang, crumple, flop.
"You oughta eat something y'know," Buck mumbles through a mouthful of pizza.
"Who are you - my mother?" Ezra snaps, the thought of eating making the bile rise in his throat.
Buck shrugs gently. "Prada was never my look," he says with a wink, "too many sharp angles and way too much rhinestone work." He grins that failsafe, boyish grin straight at Ezra.
Ezra wants to grin back, but he can't. His mouth won't work properly. That is, the smile muscles won't function as they should.
"And there was I, thinking Prada specialised in exhibitionists." The sarcastic, waspish speech part of his mouth though, that's working fine, it appears - his obstreperous, snarky muscles feel completed energised.
Bang, crumple, flop.
Buck says nothing, just takes another huge bite of pizza. He chews methodically, the pounding in his head slightly dulled by painkillers and sheer obstinacy on his part, and sneaks a look at Ezra across the table. For such a damned good poker player, Ezra was the complete opposite when it came to real emotions. More tells than a Vegas virgin and Buck knows them all. The can't-look-you-in-the-eye tell, that meant Ezra was feeling guilty as hell about something - usually something he had no right claiming the guilt for in the first place. The flexing-the-fingers tell, signifying that Ezra had been half scared out of his wits, and needed to remind himself that his body was still there, still working, still under his control. The sitting-at-an-angle tell, the strange slope of his neck showing quite clearly that he had thrown that shoulder out again and not said anything about it. And of course, the most significant of them all, the 'mentioning-my-mother' tell, that was the killer. The one that showed Ezra was spoiling for a fight - a fight that he wanted to lose because he was in pain and thought he deserved it, and, in Ezra's mind at least, deserved pain and Maude went hand in hand.
Buck knows that Ezra is wound tight as a new spring, and the inevitable expulsion of all that tension is bound to result in some fallout, which, if it runs true to form, will fall almost entirely on Ezra. His head actually hurts like hell, but he needs to concentrate, otherwise Ezra will talk his way into a full blown snit-fit, which will most definitely not have the result Buck wants. "Good bust," he says after swallowing another mouthful, resisting the urge to look across the table. The infection had been lanced, metaphorically speaking, now all he had to do was drain it.
Ezra's jaw drops, just slightly. Not enough to stop him speaking, though. "Oh yes, absolutely champion! First class operation."
Buck shrugs again. "We got the perps, and we're all still here - that's a good result."
"Apart from the fact that you got shot."
"Stop exaggerating. He missed me."
"I think the medical team at Denver Mercy General would beg to differ."
"It's a scratch. I'm fine. Can't hardly see it."
"Your skull was millimetres from being cracked open like an egg, I was on the floor mimicking a landed Louisiana catfish, and there were more bullets flying around than there are mosquitos in a swamp!"
Buck snorts derisively. "Now you're being over dramatic. Once those idiots decided to ignore the warnings and started shooting, it took us a few seconds to sort it all out, I'll admit, but we were on top of it - right from the get-go." Buck knows this isn't true - knows that he was extremely lucky the bullet only grazed his skull rather than drilling a neat hole straight into it and scrambling his brains, but everyone deserves a little luck now and then, and he's no exception.
Ezra huffs like a bull ready to charge. "Were you actually there? Or was I suspended in some alternative timeline when you got shot, I demonstrated the expertise, skill and grace of an inebriated donkey and the criminals almost got away?"
Buck puts his head on one side. "It's what we do, Ezra, and they didn't get away... any of 'em."
"No, it isn't. It isn't even remotely close to what we are supposed to be doing! We are supposed to be trained agents, capable of executing operations with maximum strategic skill and minimum risk - to ourselves and those we are sworn to protect." He shakes his head, his fingers flexing on the smooth wood of the table top as if they are trying to run away of their own volition. "Tonight's exhibition was more worthy of a troupe of baboons than agents of the government!" He is in full spate now, eyes flashing, "What on earth did you think you were doing, rushing into the line of fire like that? You knew we were unsighted for at least 2 of them, but you couldn't wait thirty seconds for Vin to take up position? Charging off like some comic book superhero! You didn't even have the decency to tell me that was your intended course of action! You took it upon yourself to leap forwards and I was simply in the wrong place to act as decoy... Had I not been in such a poor position I could have acted more rapidly and prevented you from injury...." Ezra has run out of breath, at least for the moment, his chest is rising and falling with the effort of the words, making his shoulder burn like it's on fire.
Buck is, as ever, amazed by the way Ezra's mind works. In the space of a few breathless sentences, he has gone from blaming the team to blaming their training, to blaming Buck, to blaming himself. That's Ezra for you, Buck thinks, it's always gotta be his fault somewhere down the line.
He jabs a drooping wedge of pizza in Ezra's direction. "You are a selfish bastard."
Ezra looks like someone has sucker punched him. "I beg your pardon?"
Buck lets the slice of pizza droop even further, then drops it back into the box. "What the hell gives you the right to all the blame?" He sits up straighter in the chair, eyeballing Ezra and trying his damnedest to look angry. "It's not your God-given right to feel guilty every time one of us makes a minor screw-up!"
"There is nothing 'minor' about you being shot in the head!"
"That still don't make it your fault!" He jabs a greasy finger across the table. "We ain't perfect, any of us, and that, whether you like it or not, includes you! Hell Ezra, when are you gonna get around to realisin' that it just ain't possible to live up to the standards you set for yourself? We do the best we can. We put ourselves between the bad guys and the public - that's our job. Sometimes we do it great, sometimes we do it not so great - but we always do it in the end. The only one with a superhero complex here is you, Slick - the rest of us know we're only human." Bucks shakes his head, ignoring the increase in the throbbing ache.
"Exactly! So please tell me why, in the name of all the dancing devils of Hell, do you have to behave as if you are invincible?" Ezra's words are softer now, and Buck realizes just how scared he must have been. Ezra's as brave as a lion if there's only him involved, but put any of the rest of them on the line and he gets jumpy as a rabbit in a coyote den. It's one of the things Buck loves most about him. That, and his stubborn refusal to admit to it.
"Because it makes you crazy?" Buck offers with another grin, retrieving the pizza slice and taking a huge bite.
"That's pathetic."
Buck thinks he notices a softening of tone, perhaps if he says all the right things for the next half hour or so, he might even drag a smile out of that face. That handsome, emotional, curls-his-heart-up-at-the-edges face.
"Make your mind up Slick - which is it, invincible or pathetic?"
The almost-smile, almost surfaces. "You are a royal pain in the ass sometimes, Buck."
Buck shrugs and smiles. "Had a first-rate teacher. The premier pain in the ass of all time."
Ezra shakes his head. "No, sorry to disappoint you, but that title belongs to Mother."
"Not from where I'm sitting. I don't give a rat's whisker 'bout how your mother does anything. I don't love your mother." Understatement of all time, Buck thinks with a flash of irony.
"Neither do I."
Oh yes you do, Buck's voice whispers in his imagination, you wish you didn't, but you do, and that's part of what makes this so damned hard for you.
Buck tries to ignore the less than charitable thoughts he has about Maude, and some of the things he would love to be able to say to the woman he considers the sorriest excuse for a mother, and the worst possible ambassador of her gender he has ever met. Buck loves women - generically. Tall, short, fat, thin, young, old - he has always found sweetness and generosity, fascination and warmth in all of them. Except Maude. Buck knows he probably can't be trusted to be objective about her. His resentment of the way she treated Ezra has coloured his judgement far too strongly for that, but it doesn't stop him wanting to tell her exactly how he feels about her.
Maude had raised Ezra to see all the things that Buck valued in his life as weaknesses, and weakness was not a word that existed in Maude's vocabulary. Love, trust, loyalty, were all to be ruthlessly exploited in others and thoroughly despised in oneself. You did unto others before they had the chance to do unto you. Work all the angles, find all the weaknesses and walk away with the prize. Trust no-one - trust requires giving something of yourself, and that will always leave you vulnerable. Fear is an unacceptable, useless emotion that drains your strength and results only in weakness.
It makes Buck's blood boil that any woman could consciously raise a child to believe such things.
It was a miracle almost past understanding that Ezra had grown into the man he had - Buck firmly believed that it said something amazing about Ezra's character that he was one of the good guys, rather than a sociopath with a rifle, perched on a rooftop somewhere, picking off the lesser, weaker mortals.
Buck often thought that Ezra was probably the bravest of all of them - trusting another human being with your life was a pretty big deal at the best of times. Doing it when it went against everything you had ever been taught was little short of incredible.
Maude's particular brand of maternal influence had left its mark though, and Buck was becoming something of an expert at amateur psychology when it came to Ezra. Any time the team had a close call - like tonight - Ezra's fear, (that completely unacceptable emotion) manifested itself in anger. Anger however, needs a target to be directed at, and Ezra's hard-won regard for the other six members of Team Seven disqualified them from that particular honour - which left only himself. Being angry at yourself nearly always means feeling responsible, and that equalled guilt.
It's taken Buck a long time and some advice from Josiah to work out that particular equation, but it seems to be accurate, every time. All the psycho-babble in the world however, paled into insignificance beside the real reason for Ezra's anger, and Buck's determination to defuse it.
They loved each other.
And sometimes Buck thinks that's the most amazing thing of all. He knows what its like to lose someone close to you - he still misses his Ma, even after all this time. How goddamned unfair Fate was, taking a woman like his Ma, and leaving Maude Standish still walking around, still healthy and, much as it grieves Buck to admit it, still beautiful. Ezra, at least as far as Buck is aware, has never lost anyone that important to him, and he was absolutely terrified (that unacceptable emotion again) of that happening.
"I'm sorry," Ezra says at last.
"What for?"
"For being the premier pain in the ass of all time."
Buck grins and winks at him. "Ah well, you're kinda my own personal pain in the ass, so I guess that makes it okay."
"You scared me."
Buck knows just how long it's taken Ezra to find the courage to admit to ever feeling scared, and it humbles him, every time he hears Ezra admit it. "I know I did Slick, and I'm real sorry for that. Sometimes I can be dumb as a door."
"True."
Buck can see it - the tension leaving Ezra's body. The fingers stop moving on the table top, the relaxing of the body posture, and he breathes a mental sigh of relief.
"How's the head? And I would appreciate the truth this time."
"Hurting like hell. How's the shoulder?"
"The same." Ezra doesn't look surprised that Buck knows - Buck seems to know almost everything when it comes to understanding Ezra Standish, and that was one of the most frightening, and most comforting, things of all.
The End