Down In It

Ignoring the blood trickling steadily down his arm, Ezra Standish jerked his cell phone from his coat pocket and hit a speed dial. Fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel as he waited for the other end to pick up. He was too wound up, too angry, to display any of his usual calm demeanor.

Between the first ring and the second, a bass voice announced, "Coffin."

"Max, it's me. I need use of your facilities tonight. Will that be a problem?"

A pause, then the voice growled, "What the hell did they do this time?"

Ezra shook his head, though he knew the other man couldn't see the gesture. "That is unimportant. Yes or no."

"You know you're always welcome here, little brother, any time of day or night. Do I need to haul out the first aid kit?"

Glancing down at the spreading red stain on the once pristine shirt, the Southerner muttered, "It wouldn't hurt."

Another growl greeted this confession. Ezra allowed a faint, brittle smile to cross his features at the sound. Max was almost worse than Chris when it came to growling and snarling. The smile vanished from his face at the thought of his team leader. Chris was usually the reason Max became ill tempered, and tonight was no exception.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes," Ezra said abruptly. Without waiting for a reply, he snapped the phone closed and tossed it onto the seat beside him.

+ + + + + + +

True to his word, the undercover agent slid the Jaguar to a halt behind a dilapidated looking structure a half hour later. The building sat in a neighborhood that would make even Vin think twice, and the huge, hulking presence in the back doorway only added to the air of menace that surrounded the place. Ezra never hesitated once as he climbed out of the car and approached the big, black man.

Max Coffin stood close to seven feet tall and every inch of him was lithely muscled. With the close-cropped hair and stiff, upright posture, he looked the ex-Marine he was, and the jagged scar that ran from the corner of his right eye down to the point of his chin only added to his overall fearsome appearance. However, his fierce exterior belied the compassionate heart within, and he'd done his level best to make his neighborhood as safe as possible for those less capable than himself. Max had opened the gym a year ago as a way to keep kids off the street, and despite its shoddy exterior and the constant outside threats, it had thrived.

Ezra had stumbled upon both the gym and its owner after a particularly abusive assignment. The case had taken a heavy physical and psychological toll on all members of Team 7, but the undercover agent had taken the brunt of it emotionally. Needing to get away from all reminders of civility-cloaked brutality, Ezra had aimlessly driven for hours throughout the city, never once pausing to consider the sanity of some of the sections of it he'd gone through.

He'd finally rolled to a stop two blocks away from Max's place, not because he liked the locale, but because he'd run out of gas. Stumbling blindly out of the Jaguar, for once not caring what happened to his beloved vehicle, Ezra had almost immediately run into trouble. Five members of one of the local gangs had judged the well-dressed man to be an easy target and decided to have a little "fun" with him. He had been in no shape to properly defend himself against so many attackers, and in all honesty, he hadn't really wanted to defend himself. Looking back on it, he knew without a doubt that he would have died that night if Max hadn't intervened.

There were days when he wondered if the older man had done him a service or not . . .

But intervene Max had, bearing down on the five teenagers like a hungry hawk and scattering his attackers like field mice. With a gentleness at odds with his size, the ex-Marine had picked him up from where he laid crumpled against the concrete and taken him home. He had carefully, almost tenderly, cleaned and bandaged his wounds then put him to bed.

Ezra had slept fitfully for nearly a full twenty-four hours. Although his body desperately craved the rest, his mind was still roiling with the events of the past few days. Max had sat with him through most of that time, soothing him when he could with words and gestures or simply providing the undercover agent with a steady, anchoring presence when he could do nothing else to ease the pain. The giant had never pushed for an explanation, but Ezra had found himself telling him the story, one slow, painful word after another, the sordid details too much for him to bury under his uncaring façade this time.

Ezra didn't know why he'd trusted this complete stranger. Maybe because Max didn't have any connection to the hell he'd just lived. Maybe because Max couldn't have any ulterior motives for helping him. Whatever the reason, Ezra had talked to the man, and Max had listened to everything the agent had to say in a nonjudgmental attitude quite foreign to the younger man. Ezra had kept coming back for that very reason . . . and to make use of Max's gym equipment.

The huge man reached out to Ezra when he was close enough and pulled him into a brief, careful embrace, mindful of the injuries the younger man had admitted to. Ezra endured the hug, knowing that it was the price he had to pay for seeking out Max's assistance, but he didn't return it. Max didn't mind. Ezra had never yet returned any sign of affection on Max's part, except for dropping the formal "Mr. Coffin" in favor of just plain "Max." The ex-Marine considered that accomplishment enough of a victory for now.

A forbidding frown creased the dark man's face when he pulled back and saw the blood soaking Ezra's shirtsleeve. Keeping one hand on Ezra's shoulder, he steered the younger man into the gym and straight back to the locker room where he'd set out the medical kit. Without any prompting, Ezra sat down on the wooden bench next to the kit and unbuttoned his shirt. He hissed a little when Max helped him take the shirt off, the fabric clinging stubbornly to the wound. Max glanced at his face to make sure he wasn't in serious pain then knelt down to examine the arm wound more carefully.

"Looks like the bullet when straight through," he declared a few moments later as he dug through the med kit for antiseptic solution. "Didn't hit anything vital, as far as I can tell, but it's going to be sore for a while. And this," Max sloshed the contents of the bottle for emphasis, "is going to sting like hell."

Ezra gestured impatiently with his good hand. "Just do it, Max. The sooner it's done, the sooner I can do what I came here for."

Max nodded his acquiescence then efficiently dressed the wound. Jaw clenched against the pain, Ezra maintained a stoic silence throughout the entire proceedings. Once the bandaging was completed, Ezra rose from the bench and went to his locker at the very end of the row. Max watched him surreptitiously as he put the kit back together, then, shaking his head in defeat, vanished into his office. Ezra ignored the other man, knowing that Max wanted him to talk about what happened, but just not ready to do that yet. Maybe later. The Southerner shrugged to himself, wincing as the imprudent motion jarred the hole in his arm, and changed out of his designer slacks into a pair of grey sweatpants. He didn't bother with shoes or a shirt.

Padding silently into the workout area, Ezra nodded with approval as he took in the room. Max had set everything up just the way he needed it. He hit the "on" switch to the large boom box sitting just inside the doorway and let the loud, angry music wash over him for a moment. Then he moved into the center of the room and began his warm-up routine.

+ + + + + + +

Chris Larabee parked his black Ram next to the Jaguar and stared at the empty car. God, how had he fucked this up so badly? His agent - his friend - had been wounded, both in body and in soul tonight. And what had he done? He had bawled him out in front of the entire team instead of praising him for a job well done. He had driven Ezra away from those who should have been soothing his pain. He'd driven him away from Chris.

It was all Chris' fault the man had taken off like a wounded animal to lick his wounds, and the team leader hadn't need the wide, disbelieving looks from the rest of his men to know that it was now his responsibility to find his lone wolf and convince him he didn't have to endure the hurts by himself. That people did care - that Chris cared - what happened to him and wanted to help. Wincing as he recalled the harsh words he'd aimed at the Southerner earlier that night, the team leader wondered again how he was going to accomplish his self- assigned task.

It was going to take a Goddamn miracle.

He had been so scared, or, more honestly, terrified. Ezra had come so close to getting his damned head blown off, and there hadn't been a single, bloody thing he could have done to prevent it. He'd been too far away to help, but far too close to see the entire scenario going down. He'd begun running and shouting, knowing he was going to be too late, but unable to just stand by and not act.

Lady Luck had decided to favor Ezra Standish tonight - and Chris Larabee. Chris was still not sure how Ezra had come out of the altercation relatively intact, but one moment there had been a gun pointed at him and the next, the gunman was on the ground at the undercover agent's feet. The Southern agent had just risen from his crouching position over the gunman when Chris reached him. His lips had curved into that cocky smile of his before he'd opened his mouth to say something. The blond had never given him the chance.

Relief that his friend was okay quickly lost the battle to the fear still pulsing through him in waves at the close call, and with typical Larabee stupidity, Chris had channeled his terror into anger and turned it loose on the undeserving agent. Ezra had merely stared at him with blank eyes and a white face throughout his tirade then turned and walked away when Chris was finished. The silence that filled the warehouse had been deafening, and Chris had found himself on the receiving end of five accusing glares. Nathan had extended his hand, palm upward, to his leader, and Chris had been sickened to see a bloody slug that the medic had dug out of the wall behind where Ezra had been standing.

He'd run towards the exit then, hoping to catch the Southerner, but the wounded man had long since vanished. Chris had had to call in a few favors from his old cop buddies to track down his agent's car, but Luck had been with him once again, and it had only taken an hour to find the man. And now here he sat.

With a low growl, the senior agent got out of the truck and stalked towards the run-down building the Jag had been hiding behind. Twisting the knob on the surprisingly solid door, Chris found it unlocked. Good, he wouldn't have to shoot the lock or kick the damn thing in. Because nothing, and certainly not a door, was going to keep him from getting to Ezra, and he had a strong hunch that his younger friend was here somewhere. Pushing against the weather-beaten wood, he let himself into the building.

Chris frowned as his eyes adjusted to the bright light bathing the hallway he found himself in. He'd been expecting darkness. One hand slipping down to the holster at his hip, he cautiously made his way down the corridor. He had gotten as far as the second door on his right when a huge form blocking his way abruptly halted his progress. Staring up into the scarred visage, the senior agent knew instantly that this was not a man to take lightly. His grip tightened fractionally on his gun.

"Gym closed a couple hours ago, buddy. What are you doing here?" the black man demanded sternly, crossing his arms over his chest.

His tone was not hostile, but neither was it friendly. Chris decided that the direct approach would probably work best. "I'm looking for Ezra Standish. I found his car parked out back, and the door was unlocked, so I came on in. Is he here?"

At the mention of the agent's name, the brown eyes narrowed. "And who might you be?"

Impatient to see Ezra and make sure he was okay, Chris missed the underlying anger in the other man's tone. "His boss, Chris Larabee. Is he here?"

Instead of answering his question, the giant's huge fist snaked out with a speed he shouldn't be capable of and twisted into Chris' shirtfront. Before Chris could even think to pull his gun, the other ham-sized hand of his adversary snatched it from the holster and tossed it somewhere behind him. The slender blond then found himself tossed up against a wall and held there a good foot above the floor. A snarling face thrust into his, and a deep voice boomed menacingly. Each sentence was punctuated by the sharp crack of Chris' suspended body against the unyielding surface behind him.

"Listen up, you son of a bitch. I don't know what went down between you and Ezra tonight, and I don't give a rat's ass, either. All I know is that I'm sick to pukin' every time one of you assholes do something to drive him here. That boy can only take so much abuse, just like anybody else. Whatever it is you're doin' - stop. 'Cause I know what you look like now, and I won't think twice about beatin' your pretty face to a pulp if you ever hurt him again. Do. You. Understand. Me?"

Chris shook his head dazedly, trying to clear away some of the stars circling his vision, trying to suck air into lungs harshly emptied from the surprise attack. His captor didn't give him a chance to collect himself before jerking him from his position against the wall and dragging him into one of the offices that pockmarked the hallway. He shoved the dazed blond up to a large window that took up most of one wall. Rendering him immobile with one meaty hand clamped to his shoulder, the big man leaned down and hissed into his ear, "Look, Agent Larabee. Look what your careless actions do to him."

Unwillingly, Chris looked, instinctively knowing that he wasn't going to like what he saw. And gasped at the sight.

Outside the window was a large, open space set up as a gym. In the middle of the room, four punching bags and two practice dummies had been set up in a circle. Ezra was inside that circle, spinning and kicking and punching at the hapless equipment with a ferocity and speed Chris never would have guessed him capable of. Sweat streamed down the man's face and chest, but Ezra didn't seem to notice, caught up in the zone of driven exercise. Nor did he notice the fresh blood staining the white bandage around his arms and covering his bare knuckles. He just kept pummeling the targets in front of him with graceful precision.

He seemed to be moving in a set rhythm, and once Chris got over the first shock of seeing his friend there, he heard the loud, pulsing music Ezra was 'dancing' to. Concentrating a moment on the lyrics, the blond agent cringed as the angry yet self-recriminating words penetrated through the glass. He never realized how much blame Ezra took upon himself, even when none of the blame belonged to him, and felt more ashamed than ever for his previous actions.

Then, right before Chris' eyes, Ezra's smooth pace suddenly faltered as exhaustion and exertion caught up to him with a vengeance. One second he was launching a powerful kick at one dummy, the next he was crumpled like a used candy wrapper on the matted concrete floor. The collapse was so total that only the rapid up and down movement of his accelerated breathing indicated that the Southern agent lived.

Watching his friend fall gave Chris the strength to break free of the black man's unyielding hold. He completely missed Max's abortive movement in the same direction in his haste, not that it would have made a difference to him, anyway. Wrenching the office door open, he dodged between two still- swinging punching bags and skidded to a halt beside Ezra. He dropped to his knees and carefully gathered the younger man's sweat-and-blood slicked body into his arms, arranging him so his back rested against Chris' chest, his head against Chris' shoulder. The arm Chris wrapped around Ezra's stomach rose and fell with the Southerner's rapid, heaving gasps as the younger man desperately tried to suck in enough oxygen to satisfy his starving lungs. With his free hand, the senior agent stroked the length of Ezra's good arm, trying to help calm the exhausted trembling of the man he held. Tilting his head down, he spoke soft reassurances into his agent's ear.

Ezra was too tired, too dizzy, and in too much pain to realize at first that the body he lay against was not big enough and the voice murmuring in his ear not deep enough to be Max. Eyes closed, his body wrung out, he could do little more than let the sure strength of the man behind him hold him up. But as his breathing slowly regained a more normal rate, not only did the sound of the voice but also the words themselves began to sink in.

Eyes widening in shocked dismay, Ezra lurched forward, trying to escape the arms holding him upright; but they contracted around him in an impossible grip that his exhausted resources just could not break through. Defeated, he fell back against Chris Larabee's chest, his body stiff and unyielding, his head hanging forward rather than resting easily against the offered comfort.

Behind him, Chris recognized the signs of defiance and perhaps a little fear and sighed. He'd known this wasn't going to be easy, and it was fast becoming more difficult as the words he needed to convince Ezra refused to materialize. With an inward groan of frustration, the blond agent said the only thing that really mattered now.

"I'm sorry, Ezra."

Ezra's head whipped around at the softly spoken words, and Chris found himself pinned by a wide-eyed gaze of disbelief. "Didn't expect to hear me say that, did you?" When Ezra didn't respond, Chris shook his head ruefully. "Okay, I guess deserved that. But I mean it, Ez. I was wrong. I was just so scared that I wasn't thinking straight, and I took it out on you."

"Scared?" Ezra rasped in confusion.

Chris nodded, and his arms involuntarily tightened around the living weight of his friend. "Scared that I wasn't going to get to you in time. Scared that I was going to watch you die and not be able to do anything to save you." Chris rested his forehead against Ezra's temple and closed his eyes. "I told myself that I'd never care about anyone again after Sarah and Adam died," he whispered hoarsely, "but somehow all of you got under my skin, anyway. You're part of my family now, Ez, and it'd kill me if something happened to you. Please forgive me for acting like such an asshole. You didn't deserve it, and I promise that I'll try not to treat you so badly anymore."

Ezra searched Chris' face as the older man opened pained eyes and leaned back a bit, waiting for his response. There was no trace of deception in the unguarded hazel depths, only genuine affection and a need for absolution. The Southerner sat, stunned. With the exception of Max, no one had ever looked at him with such honesty before. Not his mother. Not past so-called friends or lovers.

Ezra wasn't too sure how to react, but he did know that Chris didn't beg for forgiveness often, if at all. His answer had to be very important for the team leader to ask it of him now. And looking at the blond man, Ezra knew what that answer had to be. For both of them.

"I accept, Mr. Lar - . . . Chris."

"Oh thank God!" Chris exclaimed softly, and once again pulled the younger man to him in a brief hug. The embrace inadvertently jarred the bullet wound, and Ezra couldn't contain a startled moan of pain. Chris immediately loosened his arms and looked down at the spreading stain on the white bandage encircling his friend's upper arm. "We need to get you to the hospital and get that taken care of properly."

Out of habit, Ezra protested. "I assure you, Chris, that Max has done an excellent job of bandaging my arm. There is no need for the services of the emergency room doctors."

Chris smiled at Ezra's continued use of his first name. It looked like things really were going to be all right between them. "Max, huh? Wondered who the big guy was. And you've done an 'excellent job' of undoing all his fine work. Face it, Ez, you're going to the hospital. Might as well not fight me on it."

Still pretending to be disgusted, the Southern agent gave in with amazing alacrity. "Oh very well, if you insist. Let's get going, shall we? The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can crawl into my nice, comfortable bed."

Ezra struggled to get himself upright on his own but found that he had worked himself too hard to allow it. Then he found that he didn't have to do it by himself. Strong hands stilled his fruitless movements and gently forced him back against a solid, breathing support.

"Take it easy, Ezra, let's do this together, okay?"

At Ezra's hesitant nod, Chris shifted a bit and pulled Ezra's good arm over his shoulders, cinching his free arm around the Southerner's waist. The pair got to their feet in one smooth motion, and Ezra directed Chris to the locker room. Though he stayed close in case Ezra needed him, the blond man allowed his younger companion the dignity of getting dressed on his own. All except for the shoes.

Without the anger or the adrenaline from the exercising to dull the pain, Ezra's arm had begun to throb mercilessly, and he couldn't help the way his face paled with every new demand he placed on the injured limb. Without a word, Chris took the shoes from him and knelt before him. He carefully slipped first one then the other onto each foot and laced them up. The Southern agent was again staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and shock when Chris rose to his feet once done and offered him a hand up. Chris just shook his head, knowing that what he was doing tonight was only the first of many battles he'd have to fight against Ezra's preconceived notions of friendship if he was to win the war.

Chris Larabee vowed right then that he was going to win.

Slipping his arm around Ezra's waist once again, Chris secretly thrilled to the fact that the Southerner reached his uninjured arm over his shoulders without any prompting. The two slowly exited the locker room and crossed the gym to the back door. On their way out, they ran into the nearly forgotten Max.

Max silently studied the pair, taking in the way Ezra actually seemed to be accepting Larabee's support because he wanted to, not because he had to. He also noted the care Larabee took with the weary young man. It looked as if at least one of the Southern agent's team had finally seen the light where Ezra was concerned. Max snorted. It was about damn time. The big man nodded once to himself in satisfaction then let his dark brown gaze lock with the blond's blue eyes.

"Take good care of him, Larabee," Max rumbled in a soft, steely tone. He held out the senior agent's gun. "Or you'll have me to deal with again."

Taking the gun, Chris met the warning look head on and replied in much the same tone, "There won't ever be another 'again,' if I have anything to say about it. For me or Ezra."

Ezra looked from one man to the other then to the gun Chris was in the process of reholstering. "Might I inquire as to what has transpired between the two of you?"

At the question, the stern look vanished from Max's face to be replaced with a fond, faintly paternal expression that Chris had seen on Josiah's face a time or two. "You can 'inquire' all you want, Ezra, but it's between me and your boss here, who had better be taking your sorry ass to the hospital if he knows what's good for him." Chris nodded an affirmative. "Good. That wound could probably use a few stitches. Oh, and don't worry about your car, little brother. No one'll mess with it while you're gone."

Knowing how paranoid Ezra usually was about that damned car and recalling the dubious location it was currently in, Chris shot the Southern agent a startled look when he began to chuckle. "Of that I have no doubt, Max." Extending his good hand, Ezra added quietly, "Thank you, my friend."

Max shook the proffered hand and said, "My pleasure. Now get on out of here. You and me can talk when you come back for the car."

With the admonishment ringing in their ears, the two ATF agents slowly made their way to the Ram. Chris kept one, steadying arm around Ezra's waist, grateful that the contrary man continued to accept his help. He opened the passenger door and helped Ezra into the seat then closed the door and hurried to his own side. Settling in behind the wheel, the blond reached over and buckled his charge in, careful to avoid any pressure on the injured arm. Grinning slightly at Ezra's rolled eyes, Chris patted his stomach gently then straightened back up. He pulled out his cell phone and handed it to the Southerner.

"Here, call the others and let them know we're going to the Mercy General. They're all pretty worried about you, pard."

Smiling sadly at the startled expression on the younger man's face, Chris put the truck into drive and with one last salute to the still- watching Max, pulled out of the parking lot. Things were going to be different from now on. Chris'd be damned if he let them turn out any other way.

The End
Follow-up story: Kinda I Want To