He couldn't move or breathe or even make a half effort at defending himself when he was slammed into the wall a third time. Holding onto consciousness seemed like an effort he shouldn't be making, but he couldn't quite seem to let it go entirely. He'd have cried out save that was pretty pointless too.
It was purely stupid when every part of him hurt, ached, felt broken or wet from bleeding and some small part of his mind reminded him that it couldn't be too bad or he wouldn't still be breathing. It was a stupid man who didn't know when to quit. But then again, he'd been amazingly stupid tonight.
He was feeling pretty foolish for having been caught at all, the detached part of his mind recognizing that there were a lot of people out here in danger because of him. He'd lost his touch and his edge, maybe...too long behind a desk, riding surveillance instead of riding shotgun.
There wasn't even anything his captors needed to know at this point -- this was all rage, anger, lashing out because there were too many men and too many guns beyond these walls, waiting for them. Every now and then he'd open his eyes just enough to see the repeated patterns of lights -- red and blue and white -- washing over the walls, flickering off the concrete and steel, glaring and bright on what was left of dirty and broken glass.
The hand at his neck slid up and twisted, grabbing his hair so tightly no few strands pulled free. He tried to get his bound hands with their cramped and bleeding fingers to grip the wall if only to give him some kind of additional support, something to hold him up other than the hand in his hair. His legs seemed to have forgotten that was their job.
"They must not like you very much," a voice hissed in his ear.
"Not as much...as they want to see you brought down..." he managed, defiance a prickly pleasure of its own.
"Leave him, Kress." Another voice and he struggled to put names to faces. Ackerman, then, because the other one, Manson, had a voice like a high wind, tight and whiny and he hadn't said anything. "Whatever else they have, they don't have murder," Ackerman stated and he was closer now.
"Maybe not on you..." Kress muttered, and jerked him backward again, the hand in his hair slipping to encircle his neck and the cold press of steel to his temple was less surprising than it could have been.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Ackerman spat and then he could hear Manson now.
"They'll kill you...us..."
"Just me and pretty boy, here," Kress said. "I'm not going back to prison. Make your own decisions, boys."
Kress didn't wait for them, and Chris grunted when Kress' arm jerked painfully against his throat to keep him from falling when he stumbled, using his body to propel Chris forward, determined to get outside. It was a move that made no sense -- he'd be dead. They both would be.
It occurred to him that this was the extent of Kress' plan.
Not very good for his continued existence but there wasn't much he could do except stumble along, wince when Kress used his body for the ram that forced the front door open.
"Federal Agents! Release the hostage, put your hands in the air."
Buck. Well that was comforting and familiar. He wished he could signal him though...let him know that this was a last ditch play by a desperate man. He supposed Buck knew that though. The arm around his throat was making it really hard to breathe and the lights flashing all around them made it difficult to make out individual shapes, much less Buck's face.
"I'm going to keep walking," Kress yelled. "I'm going to keep this gun under Mr. Lawson's jaw and I'm likely to pull the trigger if someone shoots me in the back. I want a car door opened and the motor running."
Kress followed through with his threat, moving slowly but steadily toward the banked cars.
Passing out would be the best thing but as much as he wanted it, it didn't happen.
There was a roaring in his ears, breathing still a struggle, Kress adjusting just enough to let him breathe in one deep, rasping sweet gulp of air.
Kress stumbled and Chris kept moving, even when the man's arm fell from his neck. Walking was all he could manage even though he could breathe easier now. Things were a bit blurry.
He was stopped by hands gripping his arms, and he didn't fight, just stopped.
"It's okay--" Buck again, and he was much closer, voice much clearer, face tight and pale and it was Buck's hands on his arms. "It's over, Chris. We got you."
"Over?" Chris asked, not really understanding except he wasn't moving. Everything else was. The lights, men running past them, and Nathan was suddenly at his side; a strong, gentle arm wrapped around his waist, holding him up carefully and Chris thought; Okay, now I can stop. His brain took it literally and his legs gave. Buck swore but he and Nathan caught him before he fell.
"Easy, Chris," Nathan said, hands running over his arms and ribs, lifting his face as Buck cut his hands loose. He hissed a little at the restored circulation. Buck rubbed his hands gently, pins and needles adding to the sudden rush of feeling.
"Kress?" Chris said suddenly, as if the last few moments had caught up with him finally. Maybe they had.
"Dead," Buck said, with nothing but the finality of it all in his tone, then tried to keep him from twisting around to look back at the loose-limbed sprawl of a body on the sidewalk behind him. The flashing lights picked up the wetness in the still open eyes, the dark glisten of blood pooling under the head that was probably a whole lot messier on the side Chris couldn't see.
"Oh," Chris said and wondered why he didn't pass out now. Surely he was allowed to be weak as well as stupid. "Nice shot."
Buck's mouth twitched. "Yeah. Vin usually hits what he aims at."
"Yeah."
"Chris, you think you can get up again? Get to the ambulance, let them look you over?" Nathan asked, resecuring his arm around his waist, ready to lift.
"Sure." He wasn't at all sure he could but he gave it a game try. Buck and Nathan did most of the work, getting him up, Nathan giving him a minute before they actually tried to get him to move. It didn't really hurt, just felt odd.
"Vin shot Kress?" Chris asked as they made their way among the lights and cars.
"Yeah. He did."
"He mad?"
Buck's mouth twitched again. "A little. He should be here as soon as they get those other two scum suckers out."
"Where is he?"
"Climbed a tree."
"He'll be mad."
"He'll get over it...," Buck promised and then they were at the ambulance and Nathan had Chris sit on the broad metal bumper rail, steadying him while the paramedics took over.
It didn't take long and though everything was still fuzzy and he felt really tired, he heard most of it. Concussion maybe, bruised ribs but probably not broken -- they'd need an x-ray. Shocky and they gave him a blanket and some water. He wanted to wait, make sure they got Manson and Ackerman out.
It took time but he was clear-headed enough to refuse or at least delay, and little by little things were becoming less fuzzy. Clear enough for him to hear Ackerman and Manson surrender. Clear enough to catch a glimpse of a dozen agents rushing the house to make sure the guns were secure.
Nathan stayed while Buck went to check things out and then got up when he saw someone approaching.
Maybe he should have gone to the hospital. Vin looked really angry.
He was pulling off his vest as he walked, long-sleeved blue shirt sweat-soaked underneath and hair just as wet under the dark blue baseball cap pulled on backwards. He looked tired and out of sorts and pretty much as wrung out as Chris felt, only without the bruises.
"You're lucky I didn't manage to take out what few brains you've got left when I got Kress," Vin said, eyes flashing and jaw set so hard he could cut glass with it. He dropped his vest on the ground and pulled his cap off to rake a hand through his hair.
His hand was shaking.
"Might have been an improvement," Chris offered.
"Fuck you," Vin said and sat down next to him suddenly, like his own legs had gone weak. Chris passed him the bottle of water and Vin took it, taking a deep swallow before bracing his elbows on his knees and dropping his head. "You were just supposed to make arrangements for a meet...not try to make the buy..." Vin said, telling Chris what he already knew. "'member Ezra? You know, the guy who was supposed to make the actual buy on this shit? The guy you left sitting in a restaurant with his contact? The one we were watching? Any of this ringing a bell, Larabee?"
"All of it. It was stupid, Vin." It had been. So tempting though, to shut it down. So simple. Check out the guns...get back to Ezra and his contact. Get them all...the dealers, the muscle, the guns.
"No shit." Vin wiped a hand over his face and it came away wet, Chris frowning to see the usually steady hands still shaking like Vin had palsy. "I just killed a man 'cause of you."
"I know."
"I could have killed you."
"You didn't."
"Fuck you," Vin said softly, not looking up but Chris did, watching the whole wrap up with interest but no involvement. He'd gotten what he wanted.
Maybe a few things he didn't. "How's Ezra?"
Vin was silent for a long moment before raising his head. The lights picked up wetness on his face. Sweat maybe but Chris didn't think so. There was blood on his hands too. Just a little. Scrapes across his knuckles.
"He and 'ziah and JD are booking Paulsen. We got them all. And the guns."
"Good."
Vin looked at him then and scowled. "Fuck you."
He was really mad.
"You should be in the hospital."
"Not bad. Bruises. Head hurts," Chris said even though Vin hadn't asked. "You get those cuts on the tree?"
Vin followed Chris gaze to his hands. "No. Side of the van. I punched it. You pissed me off."
"Break anything?"
"I made the shot didn't I?" he said sourly.
"I meant on the van."
Vin glared and Chris felt his mouth twitch. God, if he laughed now, Vin would probably bruise his hands further -- most likely on Chris' face.
"I should have shot you when I had the chance. Not a jury in the land would convict me." Vin got up, turned around to face him. "It was stupid, Chris. It was out and out, brain-dead stupid."
"It was. I was." I'm sorry, he thought but the words never made it to his lips.
They didn't have to, something in Vin's face broke and he dropped his head again, hands twitching now as well as shaking. "Nathan?" Vin called and their teammate was suddenly there. "He needs to go to the hospital."
"He is," Nathan assured him. "Buck and McCall are looking for you."
Vin nodded and put his cap back on and picked up his vest. "I'll see you there," he told Chris and handed the bottle of water back to him. Their fingers touched for just a moment and Vin looked away. "Kick his ass if you need to, Nate," he said and headed back to the line of cars.
"You are in so much trouble," Nathan said, then called the paramedics back.
Chris sighed and nodded. "I know." He let Nathan pull him up into the back, one of the paramedics crawling in with them. He lay back on the gurney.
"It was stupid, Chris," Nathan said as the doors shut.
"I know," Chris said softly and closed his eyes.
They taped his ribs, warned him off coffee and booze, cleaned up the cuts on his face and hands and gave him an ice pack for the swelling on his eye and nose. He'd been incredibly lucky.
Nathan cut him some slack and borrowed one of the doctor's tape recorders so he could make his statement while he waited for them to finish their tests and sign him out. He was still lying there when Vin showed up, hovering in the doorway. He'd traded the sweaty overshirt for an ATF windbreaker and his own T-shirt and jeans. He looked no less pissed off than he had earlier, but now he looked worried, tired and pissed off.
"I was stupid," Chris said, just to make sure Vin knew he understood.
"You're a fucking genius, Larabee." It was enough, though, to draw him into the room, close to the bed. "I hope you get a reprimand."
"Probably will."
Vin nodded and leaned on the side of the bed. "Right next to another fucking commendation."
"I didn't do it to scare you," Chris said quietly, lifting the ice pack from his face. He was tired and ready to go home.
"I'd hate to see what you'd do if you were trying," Vin said and pressed the pack down again, carefully. He let his fingers brush across Chris' forehead, pushing damp hair back. "Buck's bringing your truck over. Soon as we get your papers, I'll take you home."
"Have to wake me up every couple of hours."
"I can do that. I may do it with a baseball bat." Vin glared again but there was no heat behind it. Anger, yes, but not rage, not fear really. Not any longer.
It took another thirty minutes and Vin stayed, leaning on the bed except when the nurses came in or the doctor. Buck showed up with the truck and Nathan hung around to take Buck back.
"You look pretty rough, stud," Buck said when they finally let him sit up.
"I feel worse."
"Ouch."
"Yeah. Everything okay?"
"Wrapped up and tight. Mason and Ackerman said it was Kress that worked you over."
"It was." Chris glanced at Vin but there was nothing in Vin's face that indicated it made him feel any better. Not that it should but...nope. He wasn't getting off that easy. No unjustifiable rage from Vin Tanner. It was a petty thought anyway, he just wished Vin wasn't quite so mad at him.
Only, if it had been the reverse...
Yeah, well. He'd been stupid. No denying it.
Buck gave him his jacket and he walked out to the truck, flanked by Vin on one side and Buck and Nathan on the other.
"We'll check on you tomorrow," Nathan said as he closed the door and Vin got into the driver's seat.
"Tell them...all of them, thanks," Chris said and leaned back to let Nathan buckle his seat belt.
"We will," Buck promised. "Call us if you need anything, Vin."
Vin nodded but said nothing, pulling out when Buck tapped the roof. Chris winced at the sound, wishing the pain meds they'd given him were a little stronger.
He fell asleep somewhere along the way, not waking until they were pulling over the rough gravel of his driveway. Vin parked as close to the steps as he could manage and got out, coming around to open the door. Chris fumbled with the seat belt.
Vin steadied him and then got a better grip on him, fingers brushing lightly and then tensing when he felt the bandages under the shirt.
The steps hurt, set his bones aching but he said nothing and Vin got the door opened and the lights on. "Bedroom or bathroom?"
"Bathroom," Chris decided, if only so he could wash his face and piss and get done what had to be done before he passed out...or fell asleep again.
Vin didn't leave him, hovering again with that stony look on his face that didn't ease when he helped Chris undress and get into sweats and into the bed. He left him then, returning with a glass of water which he set on the bedside table.
"Go to sleep. I'm gonna shower," Vin said and left without another word.
Chris only rolled over, watching the bathroom door until his eyes closed. When he opened them again, Vin was leaning over him, shaking him gently. He was wearing a clean T-shirt and sweats, his hair had that soft tangled look to it from being freshly washed. He smelled good. He looked better, even though the bedside lamp left him looking a little pale and tired.
"I'm awake."
"Been two hours."
"You slept?" Chris asked.
"No. Fingers...?" Vin said holding up one.
The middle one. Chris sighed. "Yeah. I get it. Fuck me. You ever gonna stop being mad?"
Vin studied him. "Someday."
"In my lifetime?" Chris asked.
Vin gave it some thought. "Not likely. Go back to sleep."
Chris closed his eyes. When he opened them to Vin's touch the second time the light was still on. "Fuck me," he said on seeing Vin's finger again.
"Wrong question. What's your name?"
Chris sighed. "Christopher Larabee."
"Close, but no cigar. Asshole. Go back to sleep."
"You could just kill me."
"Too easy. Go to sleep."
The third time was closer to dawn and the light was off but the bathroom light was on. Vin was sitting up next to him.
"Fuck me. Asshole," Chris mumbled and smiled a little when he heard Vin snicker.
"Your memory's okay, anyway."
He actually felt a little better and sat up, reaching for the water and the pills, two of them already laid out for him. "You should sleep."
"You should be smarter."
"Vin."
"Fuck you," Vin said softly and slid off the bed. Chris watched him and then leaned back, turning on the light.
Maybe he should be angrier but he couldn't find it in him. He had scared Vin. He had been stupid. His lover had killed a man to save his life. Then he'd woken him up every two hours to make sure he wasn't hemorrhaging into his brain -- what little of it he had left.
When Vin came back he had coffee for himself and a cup of tea for Chris. It smelled like mint. Vin sat cross-legged on the bed, facing toward Chris but not really looking at him.
"I'm sorry."
"I know," Vin said, sipping his coffee then turning the mug around, tracing the handle. The scrapes on his hands had bled again, dark red dried flakes on his knuckles and the skin looked red and slightly swollen.
"You should put something on those."
"Yeah," Vin said and had to clutch the mug more tightly when the liquid started to slosh. Chris set his cup aside and covered Vin's hands with his own until they stopped shaking, then pulled the cup away to set it beside his own. Vin took a breath, deep and slow and then slid his fingers through Chris' and lifted his head. "Fuck you, Larabee."
Chris tugged, just a little, and Vin unfolded himself enough to stretch out beside him, wrapping his arms around Chris and both of them settling back against the pillows. "That's: fuck you, asshole," Chris said softly and Vin nodded. He lifted his head and sought Chris' mouth gently with his own, a light kiss that only made Chris ache slightly and maybe not entirely from the bruises before Vin settled enough to pull Chris back against him, flicking the blankets over both of them.
"I'm still gonna stay mad 'til the day you die," Vin said. "Maybe after."
Chris smiled and tightened his arms around Vin's waist. "Fuck you too, Vin."
Vin pressed his lips to Chris' hair, stroked his thumb along the unbruised side of his face, and held him close. "Until the day I die."
The End
Next story: Offsides
