"Highway 6, this is Highway 7 requesting backup. I've got a DUI, possible 509."
With a sigh, Chris Larabee sat up in his seat, acknowledged the call through dispatch, and started the engine, heading back onto the road. It was the middle of the night, and almost the end of the shift. Almost no one was on the road. Hell, I probably shouldn't be on this road, either, he mused. He'd spent the last 30 or so years of his life bouncing from one area of law enforcement to another, this being his third jaunt in the police department, coming out of an early retirement when he couldn't take the stillness.
He stubbornly pushed the thoughts from his head, knowing they would probably be back before too long. He took advantage of the near-empty five-lane highway and revved up the engine, slowing and pulling over smoothly as he saw the flashing red-and-blue of the highway patrolman's lights. He pulled up on the inner shoulder and hopped over the low cement dividing wall before making his way to the car, another cheap and slightly battered standard-issue Crown Victoria.
The officer was standing over the driver, who was sitting sideways in the passenger's seat, feet planted on the ground, hands in his lap. He was hunched over, shadowed by the car's interior light, which illuminated the red upholstery of the grey two-door. The sneakers were beat up and greying, the cuffs of the jeans a little ragged. Chris took in all these details with a practiced eye as the officer spoke.
"His blood alcohol's over the limit, but he passed the sobriety test like it was a Sunday picnic. I mighta let him go, but his license doesn't match the registration. Car's not been reported as stolen, though."
The driver's head lifted up slowly. "Ah told you," he growled, "it's not..." he trailed off as his eye finally focused on Chris.
"Ezra?!" To say Chris was shocked would be an understatement. Last time he had seen the suave agent, he had been in a neatly pressed Armani suit, heading to the airport in his Jag. "Where's your car?" Internally, he winced. Probably not the best opener with a friend you haven't seen in years. Especially Ezra. Especially drunk.
"You know this guy?" The officer, who Larabee only vaguely recognized, looked at him with slight disbelief. Larabee was known around the station as a real hardass, and had no close -- or even distant -- friends on the force that anyone was aware of.
"Yeah." He took the proffered documents. "He was on my team in the ATF." He returned the documents to the glove box, having done no more than check to see if the initials matched. He looked distractedly back and forth between the three vehicles gathered.
He ignored the incredulous look the highway patrolman was giving him and squatted down in front of Ezra. One knee touched the hard asphalt, and the other brushed lightly against Ezra. It was surprisingly reassuring.
"Ezra." He didn't look up. "Hey, Ezra." Chris patted his cheek lightly, nudging the Southerner's head up. "C'mon." Green eyes blinked at him blearily, slightly bloodshot and confused. Chris had seen him in worse condition, but with the uncharacteristic outfit he seemed worse than he probably was. "Ezra, are you on an assignment? You undercover?"
Ezra's reply was rather unexpected. With a snort, he collapsed into Chris' shoulder, chuckling. His shoulders shook only slightly, but Chris grabbed them anyway, to prevent Ezra from sliding out of his seat. He twisted slightly to look at the highway officer behind them.
"I really don't want to take a chance and blow his cover. I'll -- look, I'll take him to my place for the night, clear all this up in the morning. Call dispatch and ask someone to come pick up my patrol car. I'll take his car, get the title thing worked out, too." It was all the other officer could do to nod. He was struck dumb by the image before him, the most hard-nosed cop the station had seen in decades, cradling a drunk guy and calling him friend. He nodded slowly, barely managing to catch the keys tossed to him.
Chris nodded his thanks, then carefully manhandled the almost passed-out Ezra into something resembling a sitting position and strapped him in before moving around to the driver's side and turning the ignition. He stared over at the passenger for a brief second, before focusing his eyes on the empty highway ahead of them. His thoughts and memories would have to wait just a little longer. Just until he got home.
---
A long, quiet, endless twenty minutes later, Chris pulled up in his driveway. Normally, the ride ought to be longer, but he took advantage of the late hour. Plus, while he had nearly kicked the heavy drinking habit -- except during times of great stress, like tonight might possibly be -- he still had a habit of taking unnecessary risks, and the open highway was always a siren call.
He poured Ezra out of the car, for he was well and truly unconscious now, and snoring gently. He had known as soon as he had seen the younger man's eyes that he was on no case, or at least not under any sort of cover. Ezra would drink a shot or two if he was under cover, but never enough to get drunk. He could fake that well enough. But this was real -- the reddened eyes gave him away. He rarely got that drunk, even with his friends. But at least he had still seemed to have enough control to drive. That was Ezra for you: always a contradiction.
He slipped the small key ring -- car, house, and a storage unit, that was it -- into his pocket, exchanging it for his own, heavier and clinking with useless keys, ready to unlock doors he no longer had. He bolted the door behind them again, used his shoulder to turn on the light switch, and deposited Ezra on the couch.
He paused. That couch had a lot of memories. He could have moved, would have been more convenient for his city job, but he didn't think he could have managed doing it again. The first move had been a relief, he couldn't have lived with all the memories of his dead wife and son, but this time he clung to what he had, in a turn that had surprised him. Although this time, his boys were at least alive.
He ached for a drink.
Instead, he soaked in the slumped form in front of him. It had been so long since he had seen any of them. After Vin's forced entry into the Witness Protection Program, their unit had been put on long-term leave, and eventually they had broken apart, drifting away one by one. It seemed that unless they were working together, they didn't have enough in common to stick together. They still communicated from time to time, but it was stilted, and didn't seem to have the ease they once did. It didn't help that all communication with Vin was through an intermediary, or coded messages on public chat boards or emails.
A twitch and a moan from Ezra brought Chris out of his reverie. One thing with a drunk Ezra was that you were never sure what you were going to get when he woke up. Sometimes he would be a chatty, amusing drunk, other times he was morose and stiff like tonight. He could wake up with a massive hangover that rivaled his worst migraines, he could wake up puking -- Buck hadn't enjoyed that particular wake-up call -- or he could wake up just fine, no sign of the previous night's binge. Chris grabbed a bucket and the aspirin, and -- hell -- a bottle of Jack Daniel's.
With a jerk, Ezra returned to consciousness. Unfortunately, this upset his precarious balance, and while his confused inner ear searched for its center of balance, he tried to sit upright -- and failed rather spectacularly. He was halfway through a magnificent headfirst tumble onto the hardwood floor before Chris managed to catch him.
"Well," said Ezra, breathing rather unsteadily, "this certainly didn't happen the last time I got pulled over." Chris had his hands on the smaller man's shoulders, and Ezra's hands were gripping his elbows, but Ezra was a good head below him at least, and he couldn't figure out the expression on his face.
"Where've you been, Ezra? We've hardly heard from you at all. Hell, a couple of us even tried digging around the FBI, but we couldn't get a thing." Even JD's hacking skills had come up against a stone wall.
Ezra snorted again, a surprising noise coming from the self-proclaimed 'gentleman,' and once again let his head fall forward to rest on Chris. His next were spoken directly into Chris' chest, and it took him a second to work them out. "It would probably be a bit easier if I was still under their employ."
"What? Damn, Ezra, did those idiots fire you?" Concerned by the lack of emotion in Ezra's voice, he leaned Ezra back against the couch and grabbed his chin, examining his face.
"Quit." It burst out among low, hysterical laughter. Chris was starting to get a little concerned about the younger man. "Burnout. Oh god, I couldn't trust them any more -- couldn't take it, either. Liars watching my back." Ezra was still laughing, breath coming in little gasps, and tears were pricking the corners of his eyes, which were focused on nothing in particular.
"Shit," Chris swore. Once again, the Bureau had proven itself to be full of idiots. They couldn't even be bothered to look out for the welfare of one of their best agents. He eased himself onto the couch next to Standish, and drew him carefully into his arms. Even if Ezra was drunk and not feeling the worst of the pain, it still hurt to look at him. Ezra had been so hard to draw into their group in the first place; the ease with which he had slipped away was equally painful.
"Of course, then Mother stepped in. In her own little way." Silently, Chris groaned. He had hoped that Ezra's quitting was recent, but if Maude was involved, that was probably not the case. "All of a sudden, no federal agency had any openings. Not even the Nevada Gaming Commission." Chris had to chuckle at the pout there. Ezra leaned against him, eyes slipping closed once more. "Took me so long to get away from her," he murmured. "Had to get home."
Chris fought hard to swallow down the lump that formed in his throat at those words. God, I should have tried harder to keep us all together, he thought. Ezra was asleep again, and carefully Chris picked him up, heading towards the guest room. Ezra could sleep there as long as he needed.
He had some phone calls to make.
---
It was barely past nine the next morning when Chris caught his first sight of Ezra. He'd been working out in the barn, moving bales of hay out of the loft and getting other daily chores out of the way before his guest woke in a couple hours. He was therefore suitably surprised when he glanced up and saw Ezra, leaning against the gate to the corral, casually taking in the dusty arena, and dressed in the same clothes as yesterday -- faded, well-worn jeans and sneakers, and an equally oft-used t-shirt. Not a trace of the polished, fashionably dressed ATF agent, or even the slightly less formal but still exaggeratedly neat and tasteful man he knew from barbecues and other off-duty activities.
Wiping his forearm across his brow, he shucked off his gloves and abandoned his task. Intensely curious, but not wanting to seem too eager, he leaned against the fence a pace or two away. Ezra was squinting as he looked out at the spread, but it was a sunny day, and Chris had been squinting himself as he came out of the shade of the barn.
"You're up early." For all his observations, questions, it was all he could think to say.
"What can I say; the more things change, the more things stay the same." Ezra drawled, a grin splitting his face. He had yet to meet Chris' eyes.
Chris shook his head. "Still surprisin' me." He smiled momentarily, then returned his attention to the matter highest -- second highest -- in his mind.
"So you wanna tell me what that surprise was on the highway last night?" Ezra's face lost its smile, his lips pressed tightly together. "C'mon Ezra. The last anyone's heard of you was almost a year ago. What's going on?"
Ezra finally looked up at him. "You've called the others?" It wasn't quite a question, but required confirmation.
He half shrugged, half nodded. "Buck 'n JD." Buck and JD were the only two who had stuck together, though JD had finally moved out a couple months before finally proposing to Casey. "Hell, even with what you told me last night, JD couldn't find any traces at all."
"What'd I say last night?" He immediately winced at the tell in his own question.
Chris smirked. "Guess you really were that drunk." Ezra shook his head briefly and opened his mouth to protest, but must have thought better of it, because he looked down instead, scuffing the dust with one sneaker in a surprising and un-Ezra-like gesture. Chris blinked, then mentally waved it off. "Just said you'd almost burned out and decided to quit the FBI. Guess you spent some time with Maude, too, before y'got away on your own."
Ezra's face was familiar in its impassiveness. He shrugged. "Sounds more or less correct."
Chris turned serious. "Ezra, are you all right? Seriously, if you need help --" He stopped. Ezra's face had taken on his 'panic' look, which was nearly the same as his normal poker face, but his eyes widened and anyone who knew him well could recognize he was looking for an escape route. He shook his head, and changed the conversation.
"Whatever it is, I'm glad you're here." He smirked and pushed away from the fence. "Could always use another hand with the horses."
Ezra glanced at him again. The squint had finally left his eyes, at least. The green shone brilliant in the sunlight. "You still have them?"
Chris nodded. "Got some new ones you haven't seen yet, either. They're down in the south paddock, if you wanna take a look." He nodded over his shoulder.
Ezra smiled swiftly. "It would be nice to see them again." Chris didn't have to read into the soft tone to know that he was talking about more than just the horses.
---
It was late in the day, approaching sundown, before Larabee decided to go looking for his enigmatic guest. Ezra had spent the majority of the day out with the horses; Chris could still see them as a slightly moving speck out of the corner of his eye. He had no intentions of taking his eyes off Ezra, and as such had called in and requested several days off. They had been easily granted; he had used well below the minimum number in past years.
Still, the whole thing seemed like a dream, especially after not having seen any of his former teammates in months -- years, in some cases. Ezra's case in particular. Maybe he had seen the signs before the rest of them, or maybe it was his lingering hang-ups with trusting others to watch his back, but after Vin had been put in the program and the team given indeterminate leave, he had holed up in his townhouse and been incommunicado for the better part of two weeks. He had only shown up in Chris' office long enough to give an emotionless and extremely brief letter of resignation, then with a false grin and his traditional two-fingered salute, he was gone.
The others had also slowly drifted away. Nathan had already moved with Rain when she got a better job offer, Josiah was teaching somewhere, he thought -- then the figure coming in through the back yard interrupted his musings. Ezra was still casually dressed, but his shoulders were now in their tenser, more formal bearing, and for all his ease and grace, Ezra looked like he had in the early days of Team 7, expecting to be pressed against a warehouse wall or thrown to the ground with a roundhouse punch. He could finally look Chris in the eye, but there was nothing there.
"Mr. Larabee, I must apologize for this unseemly intrusion into your life, especially after all this time. I have no right to impose upon you like this, especially considering my actions culminating in my departure from --"
"Ezra," Chris held up a hand to stop the flow of words from his nervous friend. "Shut up." He grinned, taking the sting out of the words. Ezra blinked, but grinned slowly as well. The smile sat falsely though. "We were all concerned when you just dropped off the face of the earth." That was a line he was sure to be repeating throughout the night. "Now sit your ass down and tell me what the hell happened." He pinned Standish with a look, then retreated briefly to retrieve the bottle of whiskey from its temporary home on the kitchen counter. He set the bottle down with a thunk on the table between them, and sat back into the couch. Ezra was still standing, but at last he seemed to cave.
"I couldn't do it." It came out a sigh, but even through the confused tone, it was obvious this was something Ezra had spent a lot of time puzzling over. He collapsed into the easy chair behind him. "I couldn't do it any more." He was frustrated, tired. "You broke me, Mr. Larabee." The glare he sent across the table tried to be accusing, but only managed confusion and surprise. "Before I took up with you, I could work undercover with absolutely no problems. I could go under deep cover for months, with no outside contact, and no problems. I could say what needed to be said, do what needed to be done, and trust myself enough to know I could get out of it." The glare following this statement was a little stronger. He reached for the bottle, and the blond tried to ignore the tension in the bare arm -- tension that meant he was fighting trembling muscles.
"But I couldn't do it any more. You made me weak -- dependent." The hand clenched tighter around the bottle, and Chris was surprised to see the first signs of actual rage. "I'd become used to the idea of backup -- a safety net." Another pull on the bottle -- a long one. Maybe the liquor had been a bad idea. Oh well. If he could get the bottle back -- "Working under cover is like walking a tightrope, Mr. Larabee." Funny, he seemed sober enough. But his eyes were unfocussed and blinking oddly. "You practice with a net, you get cocky, get sloppy. One slip-up, but there's no net to save you." He stopped, blinked. "Or the net's not enough to save you..." he murmured, eyes far away. His grip on the bottle loosened, and Chris took it as an opportunity to snatch it away and empty a little himself before his agent -- ex-agent, dammit -- got any more unbalanced. Hell, drunk or not, his actions were unnerving him.
"I can't even trust myself to keep me safe any more." The downcast eyes finally looked up at him, and Chris had to force himself to inhale as he was caught by the sorrowful gaze.
"Ezra," he whispered. He licked his lips nervously, then tried again, his voice a little stronger this time. "If there's anyone who's independence personified, it's you. I know all of us tried to bring you into the group, but I don't think any of us thought we'd ever wholly succeeded."
"You did." Ezra smiled slightly, though not wholly happily. "More than you could know."
Chris nodded. Ezra fit so well because he was so different.
"But a vacation was in order. I did need it. I --" Ezra hesitated. "I was under undue stress." A typical Ezra statement, meaning 'I'm skipping important details.' He looked up again, his face suspiciously brighter. "I spent a fair amount of time with Mother, and was unaware of any problems until I attempted to part company."
Chris took a last pull from the bottle before setting it down. "She blocked your employment attempts."
Ezra snatched the bottle up and took a swallow, then grinned sardonically. "Files suddenly went missing, references were unavailable." His grin dropped to his dark poker face -- a sign he was truly struggling with the emotion. "Psychiatric evaluations were tampered with." His fingers tapped a nervous staccato on the bottle's neck.
"Shit." Ezra's response was typical, and automatic. A reproving glare was sent Larabee's way. No matter how much Ezra himself might rant against his mother, no one else was allowed to insult the lady. If the word 'lady' could fit such a creature. "Ezra, there are some lines no one should cross."
The smaller man shrugged offhandedly, then grinned unnervingly. "I showed her, though. I sold the Jag, and donated the proceeds --" he paused as he took a swig from the bottle. "To charity." He slouched back and smirked, apparently incredibly pleased with himself. Chris himself had to chuckle.
"So where are you now?" he asked quietly. As far as he could see, Ezra had no forward plans.
"Oh, you know. Jobless." He took a swig from the bottle. "Homeless." Another short pull. "Wandering." A small flourish with the three-quarters empty bottle. "The usual."
"Shit." Chris swore again, and leaned across the empty space to pry the bottle from Ezra's grasp. This had been a bad idea. Then again, Ezra didn't normally open up this much. "Dammit, Ezra, why didn't you call someone? Any one of us would have been more than happy to help you."
Ezra blinked. "But I left." He sounded genuinely confused.
"Hell, Ezra, all of us left," Chris swore. "I wasn't even the last. I think somewhere all of us knew we couldn't be a team without all of us. Without Vin."
"That was my fault, too." Chris brought his head up sharply at the whisper.
"No! No, goddammit, it wasn't! I don't know how many times we have to go over this. In no way was what happened your fault. Vin could have gotten made in a thousand other ways. Hell, if you hadn't been there, the bust would have been a total failure, and Vin would probably be dead. At least we managed to get the buyers." Though years in the past, the final mission of Team Seven was still a raw, vivid memory in each of their minds. If he wasn't talking so fast trying to set Ezra straight yet again, he would probably be crawling into the bottle he was holding. "Hell, if I could get you in there with Vin he'd tell you himself, again, that it's not your fault." He leaned forward over Standish, impressing his point upon the younger man.
"I've seen him." The statement threw him for a second, until he finally figured out its meaning.
"What are you talking about? We aren't allowed to have any sort of contact with him. Hell, I'm not even exactly sure where he is." Chris tried not to let any hope creep into his voice -- he hadn't seen his best friend in years. He had to forcefully remind himself that surely, however Ezra had managed to make contact, it had been highly illegal.
"He's in southern Tennessee, I'll tell you that much." Normally having information like this over his leader would make the younger man insufferably cheerful, but such was not the case today. "He said pretty much the same thing." He seemed to be struggling over what to say next, and Chris waited. Ezra worried at his lower lip, before finally exhaling with a sigh, looking totally defeated.
"I'm sorry." Chris blinked. For what? Before he could voice the thought, Ezra stood stiffly, and stretched. "Oh my. I believe I have imbibed more than I intended. If you will excuse me, Mr. Larabee, I believe I will retire for the night."
Chris let him make his way to the guest room he had used the night before. Ezra had closed down again, backed away from whatever it was he was going to say. Chris would wait, try to draw it out of him again tomorrow, but he wasn't exactly a patient man. If Ezra didn't come out with it sooner or later, he didn't know what he was going to do.
The next morning, he checked in on Ezra before going out to the stables, and cursed at what he found. Ezra was gone, the room looking as immaculate as if no one had occupied it for two -- he hoped it was two -- nights. Rushing through the house, he burst out the front door, only to stop short at the empty driveway. Ezra's car was gone, the only sign it had ever been there the drops of oil that had soaked into the driveway. There was no way to tell how long ago he had left.
He rushed back to the kitchen, intent on making a couple phone calls -- JD must have found something by now, and he could put out an APB on the 'stolen' car Ezra was driving. He stopped short as he caught sight of the note on the table out of the corner of his eye. It was written on fresh printer paper, in Ezra's familiar script.
Mr. Larabee --
I hope you will forgive the abruptness of my departure, but I believe I have already tarried longer than I can probably safely afford. I didn't mean to stay more than the night, but you have caught me up as always. You have always pushed me forward in the past, but in this instance I can no longer suffer the thought of false optimism.
The truth that I came to tell you -- that, to my shame, I cannot even say to your face -- is that I am
[here there was a smudge] closing up my affairs. I spoke the truth when I said I quit the FBI due to burn out. I had to pull myself out of a drug deal or suffer total mental collapse -- something that is still imminent. I have spoken to several doctors, all well-experienced, and they all agree that there is nothing to be done for my deteriorating condition.
You see, once again I am running out on you. I just wanted you to know that this time it is against my will. I have made it my final task to visit each one of you, singly. I cannot correct my past mistakes, but I wanted to see each one of you one more time, while I am still able. I apologize for my cowardice in not being able to tell you to your face -- but each time I tried, I couldn't bring myself to do that to you. Although I suppose this is no better, really.
At least you know. At least [this part was badly erased]
I would ask that you not inform the others. That is my task, and hopefully I will perform it more admirably at my next opportunity. I am also not telling you where I am going after this -- do not try and follow me. Mother has taken care of everything to my satisfaction; I would not wish to force such an onerous task upon you.
This is not the future I would have imagined for us -- any of us. If I could go back and change it, I would. Instead, I must take my leave of all of you. Leaving you, once again, 'in the lurch.' Old habits are the hardest to break.
I wish all of you good health, and my humblest apologies.
-- Ezra P. Standish
|
Hands shaking, Chris set down the letter. The lead had smudged in several places, and he had added a couple of his own as he read it.
Dammit, Ezra, what were you thinking? He knew the answer to that. Once again, Ezra Standish was proving that if all else failed, he could rely on himself -- and himself alone -- to carry him through any situation. Until his own mind started to fail on him.
Oh god. There was nothing he could do. Even if he could find him, make him stay -- what would Ezra say? Would he rail at his decision? But what would it be like, dying slowly, in pieces, from the inside out, all alone, alienated from all your friends?
Hell, Ezra, you may think you're saving us from suffering, but we're going to worry about you all the same.
He reached forward, then stopped. His hand hovered uncertainly over the phone.
The End
