ATF Universe
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Disclaimer: You think they're WHOSE? And they belong WHERE? <snicker>
Comments: This is a WFWP for Judy. (WarmFuzzy What Plot?) Nothin' happens. No blood. No drama. No peril. Pretty boring really. Okay, a few sparks.
ONE
It was almost 0200 when the American Airlines flight from Chicago finally put down at Denver International Airport. Chris Larabee was not happy -- he had expected to arrive at noon on Friday, and not at two Saturday morning. The reasons were the most frustrating kind possible.The weather was fine, the next holiday was weeks away, and there had been nothing disastrous to delay the flights. Instead, the pilots' union had simply put the brakes on, refusing to fly overtime without a contract. Without enough pilots to cover all the flights, United had been forced to cancel flights all around the country because of lack of personnel.
The domino effect had left every airport in the country a mess, and Chicago had been no different. Hell, it had been Ground Zero, if the mood of the passengers around the airport on this miserably congested August day was any indication.
Ironically, the man that was considered half-loco by most of the ATF, with a temper that made a pound of C-4 look like pablum, had been one of the more patient and philosophical passengers on the flight. It had earned him extra service and smiles from the flight attendants, especially after the delay that had begun before takeoff.
Just another typical day in a world ruled by Murphy's Law...
No use letting it get to you, he had told himself early on, while he was still waiting in the American Airlines Ambassador's Club in O'Hare. Secretly, he attributed this new-found ability to chill over this kind of thing to the sometimes zen-like thinking patterns of his clandestine lover, Vin Tanner.
The long-haired Texan who was the sharpshooter and weapons specialist for their Denver-based ATF team had taught him a lot of things since they had discovered each other. Patience --though still not one of his strong suits -- was one. Another was that when you fly, you defy the laws of physics and nature, taunting the gods of reason and luck. To expect to get anyplace on time was foolish; to be angered by it a waste of energy. However, Chris admitted he was not so philosophically enlightened that he couldn't be a little irritated by it all.
After four hours of frustration, Chris had finally surrendered to the inevitable, bought himself Louis L'Amour's "On the Mangrove Coast" and settled himself in with a cup of coffee and a bar of Hershey's Dark Chocolate. Coffee, because anything stronger was stupid when flying. Coffee, because drinking alone just didn't have the appeal it did before Vin had come along to change a few of his long-standing bad habits. Coffee and dark chocolate because it was the most self-indulgent thing he could think of that would not mean extra hours in the gym -- and it made him think of his partner and his sweet tooth.
So, he intended to relax over multiple cups of french roast and bars of Hershey's with a good book and lots of time in the private airline lounge. He also intended to ignore the work in his briefcase and damned well enjoy his down time.
At least he tried to relax. It was just a tad difficult with his mind going like a runaway mustang.
He had spoken to Buck Wilmington in their office around 9 AM, Chicago time, to tell him his flight had been canceled - - the first of three times in the course of the day. Buck had told him that they were finishing up the paperwork on the Vallardo Case, while the Judge had sent Vin to San Francisco to give a deposition on the Ryder bust that was set to hit trial sometime next month due to a change of venue.
Vin was in San Francisco through Wednesday, apparently. Between the deposition and a last-minute seminar specializing in the new permutations of the silicon and ceramic weapons coming onto the market, it meant Tanner was not waiting in Denver. The weekend Chris had been anticipating had just turned into a couple of days of mucking out the barn alone, and going in to the office and getting a jump on the backup of paperwork he knew awaited him.
He reckoned it made being stuck in Chicago easier. Now it didn't matter when he got home, since Vin would not be there to meet him.
Hell, Vin was probably having himself a good ol' time in SanFran.
Great town for Vin to be alone in ...
Yeah. Right. Great town for Vin to be alone in...
Over the pages of his book, beyond his reflection in the smoked glass window in front of him, the world went on out on the busy runways in spite of his own wants and desires.
The man staring back at him from the ghostly reflection in the glass was a lanky, lean drink of water, more sinew and skin than smooth, cut muscle like he used to be. His body was hard and scarred, his face beginning to show the age and stress of his years spent with the ATF as a man of action. It had only been in the last couple of years, since he had become a team leader and had been stuck more and more behind a desk, that the years and miles begun to show. The buck might stop with him for Team Seven, but so did all the administrative bullshit that kept him either out of the field completely, or supervising from a van or a command post. Things that sent him to endless meetings and briefings. Things that sent him to Chicago. And not San Fransico to learn about weapons alongside his partner.
He ran a hand through his longer-than-it ought-to-be blond hair, and scowled at the weary man looking back at him. What Tanner saw in him, he had no idea. Hell, Vin himself had once laughed about getting involved with a law-enforcement version of a Tasmanian devil.
A movement near the doorway of the lounge and the desk gave him a momentary shock. He focussed on the reflection -- a tall, well-built yet slender man in jeans and cowboy boots, his longish hair pulled into a ponytail under a beatup and sweat-stained Stetson hat. He had to swivel his easy chair around to double check. How could Vin be here when he was supposed to be...?
A quick heart-beat later, a pang of disappointment ran through him as he saw that the man was older than himself, with gray streaks in his longish hair. He was hard muscled and lanky, all right, from hard work and a hard life. A rodeo championship buckle gleamed from his flat belly against worn bluejeans, and his leather bag was scuffed from a lot of travel miles. The handsome man's brown eyes caught Chris's blue ones and he smiled in his direction, speculative and a little too easily for Chris's taste.
He wasn't Vin Tanner, and that meant Chris Larabee wasn't interested.
Disappointment was keen in him as he turned his chair back to the window, to stare out onto the apron where another flight was taxiing away. Out of Chicago. Maybe to San Francisco.
There had been a time when he might have been interested ...a few drinks, some friendly conversation a long way from home with someone he would never see again. One thing might lead to another, maybe in one of those private conference rooms the Admiral's Club offered to business travelers.
Chris smiled at an errant and very pleasant memory of a conference in one of those private cubicles...in Boston, if he remembered correctly. To hell with what airport it had been, the rest of the details were permanently branded in his memory and that was all that was important. And better, it had not been with some stranger on a whim.
A glance told him that the cowboy had already fixed his sights on someone else, a soft-looking man in a finely tailored suit that said Corporate Money all over it. At the coffee bar, the two men bonded over the cream pitcher, and Chris had to smile. They couldn't have been more obvious, as witnessed by the titter of the two customer service attendants watching furtively from their desk, only half hidden behind their computer monitors.
He wondered if he and Vin had been that obvious that time...
Yeah, Boston... Chris remembered, deliberately letting himself luxuriate in the memory.
Larabee, you're getting to be a soft and sentimental bastard in your old age...
It had been their trip to Boston for what they had laughingly called the religious zealots training conference -- handling cults. It had been a busy and frustrating week with no time for themselves. Finally, Vin and he found themselves alone, alright...at the airport.
"Your flight leaves in fifty-five minutes, Mr. Larabee," the sweet young customer service hostess had told him as he had signed in for the cubicle and presented his own Platinum AmEx, instead of the government credit card he would normally use. "Would you like a reminder call for your flight?"
"If we're not finished in fifteen minutes," Chris said.
Beside him, Vin had restrained a smile. "You think this conference is gonna be over that fast?"
Chris shrugged. "The way I'm feelin' this morning, I think I can wrap it up that quick. You don't?"
"Anything you say, boss," Vin said. "Just tell me what you want me to do to help you out."
"Oh, I will," Chris said and nodded his thanks to the woman behind the desk who seemed convinced they had some official business to take care of privately. They were, after all, government law enforcement officers -- it was noted on their reservations that they had already been cleared to carry firearms.
Yeah, their conference had something to do with weapons, all right.
The sharpshooter had maintained a serious expression as he had gathered up his briefcase and his overnight bag to follow Chris across to the small office. Chris's back was military-straight, his demeanor brisk and serious, and he had deliberately kept his distance from Vin as they had moved their gear into the room.
Once inside, Chris had dialed the phone -- his own number at his place up on Lookout Mountain and listened to his own phone machine, then punched in to retrieve his messages. He deliberately left the phone connected and laid it on the desk beside his open briefcase.
"That's gonna be one helluva long distance bill, you leave it like that," Vin said with a curious smile on his handsome face. He had not had time to shave before he had caught up to Chris at the airport that morning, having overslept after their debriefing the night before. His hair was shaggy and loose, and he wore a snug black department issue tee shirt. Once again, Vin had travelled a little too light and run out of clean clothes. He had drawn the shirt from the Boston unit before they had left this morning, talking one of the locals out of it before they had left. It seemed like he was always coming up short when they travelled for some reason.
Vin Tanner had cultivated one of the world's largest collections of government issue tee shirts.
The idea had made Chris smile as he locked the door and turned the miniblinds to close off the window panels from the outside room.
"Calls go out through a switchboard, so I figured I better make it at least look like we were doing something in here - -" Chris's words trailed off as he had turned around.
Apparently Vin had run out of underwear, too, because he wasn't wearing any at all-- Vin had opened his jeans and was stroking himself.
"Oh, we'll be getting something done, all right," Vin said and pushed Chris down into one of the leather desk chairs beside the small conference table. His deft fingers were already at work on Chris's beltbuckle and buttons as his mouth had covered his in a deep, hot kiss. As he pulled back, licking his lips hungrily, "You gonna give me them instructions like you promised, boss-man?"
"Just shut up and do me," Chris growled and pulled him into another kiss as his hands yanked Vin's 501's down around his hips.
It had been hard, fast and as silent as they could keep it, with Vin first sucking him within an inch of his life while using his fingers to reach deep inside Chris to that spot, to touch just right. Almost instantly, it brought Chris off in a white-hot burst of glory. Then Chris shoved Vin onto the table and went down on him, lapping and sucking, fondling his balls and probing at him with his fingers, massaging him deeply like he had done to Chris. Within minutes, Vin had bucked against him, his head thrashing on the table as Chris's loving took him like a storm. Chris worked him over until he could taste the salty-sweet reward and Vin was completely spent, lying in a loose-limbed heap on the walnut conference table.
Counting the four minutes of recovery time -- when Chris's handy supply of wet-wipes from his briefcase had been expended and their blood pressures returned to normal -- they had set a new world record. They had only been in there for fourteen minutes.
As they both checked their watches at the same moment -- just like they always seemed to do on a case -- they both laughed.
Chris reached into his pocket for a roll of mints and offered Vin one. Vin's eyes sparkled with mischief as he said, "No thanks. I like the flavor I got..." and he licked his lips with relish.
Chris felt himself respond at the sight of the pink tip of Vin's tongue flicking across his lips and had to re-adjust himself inside his pantsfront. Then he grinned and put the mints back in his pocket.
They emerged from the cubicle, with no one the wiser about what the two top ATF agents had been up to. They had been greeted by the young woman who had come to tell them that it was time for them to check in their paperwork with security for their carryon weapons for the flight.
Chris nodded and smiled, his eyes still a little glassy and his voice a little hoarse as he thanked her.
It had been the best conference he had ever had in an airport, even if it was one of the fastest.
+ + + + + + +
Now, Chris stared into the changing afternoon sky. Boston had been over a month ago; this was Chicago, and Vin was in San Franciso. At the idea of the boyish-faced, hard-bodied team sharpshooter alone in San Franciso, Chris's gut clenched. It was a mighty fine city to find companionship in if one was looking. It was a mighty tempting place for companionship to find you...
He shook off that thought. One thing Vin wasn't was disloyal. Not fickle, not a back-shooting two-timer like Johnny Reinholt had been. Chris dismissed his older partner from the same thought as Vin. They weren't even the same species.
Vin wasn't somebody to go out on a fella; he wouldn't do that, no matter how fine the goods being offered looked.
Still, it had been a couple weeks since they had any time together, and Vin had been under a lot of stress lately, with all the cases and the paperwork, which he hated. He needed a good time and San Francisco was just the place to have it. He couldn't blame him if he did....
"Mister Larabee," came the voice of Judy, the cheerful blonde customer service hostess. She had been tenaciously monitoring the outbound seat availability for him all afternoon. "We have you on Flight 7177, leaving here at 9:14 PM, arriving Denver at --" she smiled apologetically "-- approximately 10:27 PM."
"Approximately?" He looked up at her, eyes narrowed, then relented. There was no use being upset with her, this whole thing with the United pilots was not her fault. He forced a smile.
"If you would step over to the desk, I can write you a voucher for a companion ticket for all the trouble you've had," she said, and he followed the voluptuous blonde back toward the main desk. He admitted that had he not discovered that Vin Tanner was it for him, he might have looked twice at her and maybe delayed even this flight for a good time in Chicago.
"A companion ticket?" Chris commented with a touch of cynicism. "Now, if I only knew when I would get to see my 'companion' again, it wouldn't be so bad!"
+ + + + + + +
Of course the flight was delayed. Overbooked. Understaffed. And then the incident that had made the day.
One of the first class passengers managed to delay things even longer by getting in touch with his inner "Air Rage", and blowing up at one of the flight attendants. Not only was the guy obnoxious and loud, he was stupid; Chris would never have chosen to vent on the tall, Native-American-looking woman with a gleam in her eye that belied all her politeness and attempts to calm the man down. She looked like she wanted to plant her coffee pot between his eyes like a tomahawk.
Chris had used this opportunity to take out his frustrations by stepping in, actually looking forward to something more than words with this stupid, self-important sonofabitch who had boiled over and was screwing everyone up. He had brushed past the ineffectual first officer and a young male flight attendant, to lean into the asshole's face and say, "Don't make me do somethin' we'll both regret, Mister." At Chris's glare and crazy smile, the blustering, foul-mouthed man folded, and then actually collapsed into his seat at the sight of Chris's ATF badge.
The plane was still on the taxiway and not cued for takeoff, so they taxiied back to the terminal to disgorge the passenger into the waiting arms of the Chicago Airport Police. Chris gave them a brief report, his credentials, and told them he would be happy to FAX them anything else, but "No," they were not delaying this plane and 240 passengers any more, and if they had a question, the Director of the FAA in Washington, D.C. was just a phone call away. The Chicago cops had backed off. Chris had returned to the plane to the appreciative thanks of most of the passengers. And the departed troublemaker's First Class seat.
All Chris wanted to do was feel the plane in the air, and at last, about 2230, the universe had cooperated. They lifted off exactly when they were supposed to be landing, three hours late.
The airline offered profuse apologies, and the flight crew all thanked him personally when all Chris wanted was to be left alone. To him, it was nothing special -- the tempermental businessman was not an international terrorist waving a Mac-10 and taking hostages. He was just a stupid asshole who had pissed himself when he had realized he was going to jail for violating FAA laws by throwing his temper tantrum. Chris knew that the attendants could have handled him, but it had just speeded things up to help. Hell, it had been something to do.
Finally, it settled in to a decent and uneventful flight, albeit with excellent service.
One of the attendants included his phone number with an extra serving of cheesecake with dinner, which amused Chris no end. If Chris had been making the choice of opportunity, and had it not been for Vin, it would have been the sharp- eyed Lakota woman whose phone number he would have used, not the pasty-faced little steward.
The one thing he wanted most was what the airline could not do: make the damned plane fly any faster. Finally, just before 0200, they touched down in Denver.
TWO
The concourse was nearly empty as Chris walked slowly past closed shops, ignoring the moving-sidewalk that would carry him efficiently on the long trip from the furthest gates. He was back and now he was in no hurry; he had no one waiting for him, and it felt kind of good to be the one in control of his time once more after being at the mercy of schedules and airlines for so long.He paused at the window of a western-themed store, admiring a black panel-front shirt with silver buttons, then wandered on. He contemplated another cup of coffee, but at that hour, the vendors were closed.
Denver International seemed even more lonesome and cavernous than usual at this hour, Chris thought, as he rode the escalator down to the tram that would take him from the arrival gates to the main terminal where he could get ground transportation into the city. He would have to go to the Federal building and pick up his truck and then drive home. He figured he wouldn't see his own pillow until around 0400 at this rate. He was on his own -- there was no way he would expect any other of his team to come out here at his hour on a Saturday morning to pick him up.
He deliberately waited until most of the other passengers had proceeded him down the escalator, taking his time. On the level below, the tram hummed up to the platform and stopped abruptly with the sound effects of a real train over the loudspeaker. Most of the time it was amusing, right now, it was superfluous noise and just irritating.
It was when the doors opened and Chris stepped forward that he felt someone behind him and whirled, tensing.
"Been lookin' for you, Cowboy," Vin Tanner said.
His smile was kind of crooked and hopeful, his blue eyes sparkling at the what had to be the surprise on Chris's face.
After a shocked half-step toward him, Chris caught himself and nodded with a grin. "Thought you were in 'Frisco."
"Was." Vin shrugged. "It was a lousy place to spend a weekend alone. Had a devil of a time getting back here, though. Airlines are all fucked up. Got in this morning, came back out a couple hours ago. Missed you on the concourse."
Chris smiled, his eyes meeting Vin's with an unspoken warmth. "Thanks. Wasn't lookin' forward to that long haul into the city crammed on a shuttlebus."
"Found an old truck I could use just sittin' around the Federal Building." Vin grinned.
They watched the rest of the passengers file onto one of the cars, then they stepped to another door, where there was no one on the car. They could see and be seen from the other tram cars, but at least they could not be heard.
Gripping a stainless steel pole for support, they both leaned into the movement of the train as it started up with a surging whine and an announcement about the main terminal and baggage. Neither man was paying attention.
"You been waiting here all this time for me?"
"Thought maybe I'd missed you, but they said your plane was late because of some passenger trouble." Vin's expression told Chris that he knew exactly what the trouble was and what had happened. "Somebody got a little bothersome?"
Chris nodded. Vin reached for Chris's carryon bag and Chris let him take it and sling it onto his shoulder. Their hands brushed lightly, and Vin let his body swing a little closer as the tram train hurtled into a curve on the underground line. Thigh brushed thigh, arm pressed arm until a shift in the momentum pulled them apart slightly.
Chris smiled as he saw the front of Vin's faded jeans peaking, and realized Vin was staring down with a smirk at his own dark twill slacks because the effect was the same. Both had to stand with their legs a little further spread for relief.
Beside them, the walls of the tunnel between the massive terminals whizzed past. A whimsical series of small propellers mounted in the wall close to the passing trains sparkled in the twilight darkness, set spinning by the wash from the speeding electric tram. It was one of the only things Chris liked about this airport.
Chris turned his attention from the spinning whimsies on the wall, to the man swaying beside him. Vin's body was so close he could feel his body heat. His jeans were snug and worn over his old comfortable cowboy boots, and under the lightweight leather bomber jacket he wore, Chris could see a tight tee shirt stretched across his solid chest. Vin's hair was loose, around his shoulders in a soft brown curls. Chris knew it would smell clean, like the herbs in the shampoo he used.
"Damn, it's good to be home," Chris said.
"Yeah," Vin said.
Chris licked his lips, his eyes flickering around the car. They were alone, but curiously in a fish bowl with the windows into the next car behind them where other passengers could see all. They could do nothing but stand swaying mere inches apart. Suddenly, Chris's weary body was all nerve endings.
Too bad the American Airlines Admiral's Club was closed. It was time for another conference.
Within moments, the tram halted with a whine, and a disembodied voice told them where luggage claim was. Chris was travelling light and everything he had was in the bag Vin held and his briefcase. They exited, following the crowd up the escalator to the main floor of the main terminal. It was eerily quiet and almost empty in the great, canopied structure.
"I'm parked in the short term garage," Vin said. "Jeep's kinda drafty tonight, so I stole the Ram. Didn't figure you'd mind."
"Long as you drive, I don't mind nothin'," Chris said. Another elevator took them down to parking and into the parking structure. They trudged down half the length of an aisle until Chris saw his familiar black pickup.
Their silence was comfortable as they climbed in, with Vin setting Chris's overnighter in the back cargo bed. As he put the key in the ignition, he paused.
"Somethin' wrong?" Chris asked. His heavy-lidded eyes flicked over the instrument panel with fatalistic expectation. After all the delays, tired as he was, one more was almost inevitable. The day was catching up to him, and the only thing he was thinking about now was sleep. Almost the only thing.
That other 'thing' Chris was thinking about said, "Nothin' wrong. Just...I reckon I missed you."
"Yeah. Me, too."
"Sometimes it worries me how much."
"Yeah," Chris said, then smiled. "But that ain't gonna stop us, is it?"
"Nope." After Vin backed the truck out, and started slowly down the row, he said, "Didn't want to stay in 'Frisco alone for the weekend. Lots to do there, but it's no fun alone." After a moment he added, "Still got that seminar. I gotta fly out Monday morning again."
"You can try," Chris said with a dry smile. "We'll have to double check all the flights. The airlines are gonna be fucked up for a while -- Hate to have you stuck here all day trying to get out."
"Yeah, that would be a real shame. 'Course, I could always get some work done in one of the private conference rooms, couldn't I?"
They shared a wicked grin.
"But that ain't until Monday," Vin said. "Got more important things to worry about...like all day Saturday and Sunday in bed..."
"Do tell." Chris smiled. "Damn, Vin, I'm glad you came back."
"Yeah, me, too, " Vin said.
Vin pulled Chris's hand over and up to his mouth where he bit at the fleshy pad at the base of Chris's thumb, then licked and kissed the spot. His hot, moist lips nibbled at his hand, until he sucked the long middle finger deep into his mouth. Chris groaned and squirmed in the seat as everything else in his body responded to the intense suction. Finally, he had to pull his hand away before Vin made him do something out of desperation that could wreck the truck.
"Stop that," Chris ordered. "Or I won't be responsible for what happens."
"That a threat or a promise?" Vin snickered with satisfaction.
So, Chris just sat with his head back against the headrest, watching Vin's handsome profile as he wheeled the Ram around the turns that took them out of the parking garage complex. These quiet times in their lives were rare, and even though he was weary from the trip and impatient to be home, he revelled in this silent, peaceful moment.
At the stop sign at the exit, Vin glanced across at Chris and said, "What?" when he saw Chris just staring at him.
Chris smiled. "Nothin'," he said. "Just mighty happy to be home is all."
"Yup," Vin said.
They cruised out of the parking garage and toward the four- lane exit road, and the glow of the city of Denver, still miles away. Beyond, shimmering in the night air, they could see the lights of the radio towers on Lookout Mountain; somewhere beyond in the foothills was the ranch -- home and bed, and his partner.
The End
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