Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Vin could feel the weather front coming in, and it was moving fast.

For about two hours now he’d had the mother of all headaches. It was partly tension, he knew that well enough, and partly stress, but it was also some rogue blast of arctic air approaching the area at speed through the Continental Divide. His grandmother, God rest her cantankerous old soul, had believed him gifted. She’d probably have said he was divining some kind of disaster. Frankly, he could have done without a colleague jumping on that particular bandwagon.

“Maybe you could forget the agency, become a weather medium?”

Nathan offered up the comment after observing Vin rubbing a point above his left eye for a while.

“This isn’t some psychic crap.” Vin fiddled with the Explorer’s radio, looking for a local forecast, then prodded his forehead once again.

“I know.” There wasn’t much contrition, but Vin could hardly blame Nathan for that seeing as he’d grumpily refused the offer of Advil only five minutes ago. “It was just a thought.”

“Say, how long we got?” Buck wasn’t as good-humored as he might normally have been about Vin’s supposed meteorological clairvoyance. None of them had been very good-humored of late, but Buck in particular. He was sitting in the seat directly behind Vin, who was at the wheel. And from his jiggling it was clear what was on his mind – turning right around and heading to the ranch, weather warnings or not.

“You’re not going there, Buck.” Vin didn’t take his eyes off the interstate heading north of the city, just kept looking ahead. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nathan in the passenger seat shift and look into the back, probably to gauge how heavily they might have to squash Buck’s reckless streak.

“I’m just saying.”

“What you just sayin’?”

“I’m just saying I’m not happy leaving Chris out there, not like he is.”

“Yeah, but what can we do?” J.D. sounded jittery.

“Nothing,” Buck growled, and Vin grimaced at the boot that kicked the back of his seat.

“We all feel the same.” Josiah, in the far back seat, projected his voice so it filled the dark. He was faintly scolding. “But we have work we can’t ignore. People we can’t ignore. Got to get to Broomfield, Chris or no Chris.”

“What do you think he’s going to do?” Nathan twisted even further, so he could eyeball Buck directly. “He’s on administrative leave, they aren’t saying he’s crazy. He’s not being treated for depression, all right? Not.”

“Hell I don’t know!” Buck shifted and shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable and frustrated. “Something stupid, nothing stupid. Just he’s carrying the knee injury, never mind he’s not himself – and you know Chris has never been taken off a case before.”

“I don’t like it either, none of us do. But Josiah’s right, we’ve got to wrap this up tonight. No point letting everybody’s good work go down the drain. What can we do, you know? If Travis thinks he needs medical leave for more than the knee – OK, OK, administrative leave – then it’s serious.”

“That’s my point,” Buck huffed.

Nathan was blunt. “Listen, if psych services are even involved – and I don’t think they are – they’re probably just jumpy because of that agent suicide in Atlanta. This decision sure isn’t a surprise given Chris’s load right now. Guy’s still grieving, and the pressure sure never lets up. On top of that he took one helluva kick to the knee the other week. He’s on painkillers, that’s all. And maybe something for anxiety, but we don’t need to get hysterical running around after him every minute. Sure we need to keep a close eye on him – don’t we always? – but right here, now, in the middle of an op? Like the kid says, what can we do?”

“Er... call Ezra?” J.D.’s answering suggestion sounded a little resigned, and a lot uncertain. “I mean, he’s the only one who can go over. Least make sure Chris is all right.”

There was a collective, stodgy silence.

“Yeah, do it, Buck,” Vin said, and turned the radio volume up.

*

When his cell phone vibrated, Ezra was mid-game. It was getting close to ten o’clock in the Wildcard Saloon in Black Hawk. He was a fat two hundred dollars ahead and coasting to a lot more. The money was already banked in his inside jacket pocket and he fully intended to double if not triple his winnings some time over the next hour. The last thing he needed at this delicate point was an interruption, but he knew he couldn’t ignore the call. Team 7 were in enough bad books right now without him breaking protocol – again. Especially not for the sake of gambling. Such things and such people as were now grouped around the casino table with him were part of the reason for Atlanta having turned so ‘complicated’, as Mother would have it. It was all part of the web of character and circumstance that even now made others reserve judgment on him.

“Gentlemen.” He was polite but wary. These particular individuals were not friendly local gamesters having some out-of-town fun in the mountains. They were small-time professionals who’d come in from the west coast, dangerously alert to the possibility of swindle. The type of people he really oughtn’t to keep getting himself tangled up with. Especially when his Federal issue weapon was locked in the Jag’s glove box and they were probably packing hardware. They were somehow fascinating though – swaggering chancers he instinctively disliked, and yet couldn’t seem to resist. “You will have to excuse me for a moment.”

There was a general unwilling dismissal.

As he rose and cleared the table Ezra held his cell closer. He could see Buck’s name on the little screen. Turning away he tapped the receive symbol and put the phone close to his ear, saying nothing.

“Yello? Ezra?”

“Of course.” Ezra kept his pitch low and smooth. “I’m not in the habit of lending out my cellphone to all and sundry.”

“Yeah yeah.” Buck swept aside the languid chippiness. “Listen. Boys and I are going to Broomfield early – Travis has been in touch.”

Ezra felt a flare of optimism of the kind he tried hard not to run with too often. A sudden redemption for a gloomy Thursday evening perhaps? An early end to his suspension?

“You need me?”

“No.”

The flare was soused with an almost audible hiss. “No,” he repeated, flat.

“Not for the op. Nothing’s changed there, hoss. We need you to go check on Chris.”

“Oh, please.”

“Ezra...” Buck’s tone had turned harsher. “Travis has grounded him. Taken him off the case, off all the cases. And it’s not because of the knee. Sent him home on medical leave until further notice. Gave us the impression Chris isn’t doing too well with it.”

Ezra made a minuscule turn, just so he could get the table back in vision, gauge what kind of mood the other players were in, if they were surveying him. At the same time he tried to get his head around what Buck had just said.

Chris, grounded – the great and terrible Larabee with his wings clipped.

“Tell me then, what did he do?” Ezra kept his tone sardonic.

“Nothin’ for Pete’s sake! Haven’t we all seen how he’s been? Although... ah hell, well maybe not.”

There probably wasn’t time for a ‘what’s that supposed to mean?’ session, so Ezra didn’t start one. He translated the words for himself easily enough anyhow – Buck and the others considered he had no empathy for other people’s troubles, and so wouldn’t see a team-mate in distress. Not even if he tripped and fell over them.

“Well if that’s the case then he’s out at the ranch, laying low.” Ezra was cool. “I’m sure he’s fine.” He raised a placatory hand in the direction of the table, received a bank of aggressive stares in response. “Mad as a wet cat, of course. But basically fine. And I’m sure he wouldn’t want me of all people going over to disturb him.”

“I don’t care what he’d want. Fact is, one of us needs to check he’s OK, and that one of us has to be you. There’s weather coming in and we just need to know th-”

“All right, all right,” Ezra cut in, impatient. “Stop, I get it. I understand. You’ve all agreed. You want me to drive out to the ranch. Check Chris is OK, whatever that means. Right now.”

“Yes. It’s called teamwork.”

Ezra’s eyes narrowed. “I know what it’s called, Buck. I even know what it is.”

There was a pause and a sigh on the other end of the line. “Yeah, yeah I know you do.”

“Well fine, I’m on it.” Buck would have no idea how far out of Denver he was right now, probably imagining him sitting around in his warm condo, but at least he was on the right side of the city for the ranch. He could probably make it in forty minutes. “And you all set for the shakedown?”

Another sigh, but a softer one this time. “You know I can’t tell you anything, Ezra.”

Yeah, Ezra knew. Suspension, even temporary, was a bitch. Which is why, contrary to what Buck thought, he probably knew exactly how pissed Larabee was feeling.

“Well take it easy.”

“We will.”

No ‘you too, man’. No ‘thanks, catch you later.’

Stung, he touched red before Buck finished the call. Pocketing the cell he swung briskly back towards the table, looking with regret at the hand still face down in front of his place.

“You in or out?” It was the best player who spoke, a solidly well-fed guy with an expensive but tasteless suit. Ezra didn’t know anything about him except that he was from California. They hadn’t introduced themselves to him, or he to them.

“Out.” Ezra slid his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Just like that, huh?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Well, you forfeit. And we need to know you’ll give us a chance to get even.”

The faint menace didn’t pass Ezra by, although it wasn’t his main thought right now. It stuck like a metal plate in his craw to forfeit what was turning out to be one of those golden, unexpectedly profitable evenings. These three were passably good, enough to be a challenge, and he’d desperately, almost compulsively, wanted to outwit them for the second time in one session. He flexed his hands. A return match probably shouldn’t be pursued, either. It might be an everlasting fight, and one that wore him down sometimes, but his responsibilities were clear and he wouldn’t shirk them tonight. Long as they weren’t going to shoot him on the spot he’d surrender the golden, forbidden evening of profit for the sake of duty.

“Fine.” Ezra made a gesture, graceful and conciliatory. He met their eyes, briefly. “Another time, then, sirs. I know where to find you. But for now business calls.”

“I’ll bet.” A slight pause, and then the man in the suit put his elbows on the baize and leaned forward with an unpleasant smirk. “Seen your fancy car, Ace – you’ll be back.”

Ezra shrugged at the leering tone, slung the jacket over one shoulder. If he really put his mind to it, he could clean out every last one of these wannabe high-rollers, that was the kicker. He sensed their eyes were on him as he walked across the casino floor towards the Men’s Room. He’d already paid two visits since he arrived an hour and a half ago, more unsettled than usual, but he by-passed it now, headed for the cashier and the exit. This was the last kind of club he should be in, and he knew it. One more piece of gambling-related trouble, Travis had said – just one more – and he’d be out. No matter what kind of citations for bravery he had on his records for balancing the counter-weight.

But Hell. Walking that line was just what Ezra did.

A blast of freezing cold air hit him as he went out into the night.

*

“So?”

Nathan clearly hadn’t been able to tell how the conversation had gone just from Buck’s side of it. They’d settled in traffic piling out of the city as the weather deteriorated, the line of vehicles moving slowly north on Route 36. It had been silent in the car while Buck was on the line to Ezra.

Buck stuffed his cell back in his jacket, settled into his seat. “He’s going over, but he’s not too pleased.”

“Ezra being pleased isn’t exactly number one priority here.”

“Yeah well.” Buck shrugged.

Nathan shuffled in discontent. “Why’d Travis decide to change the schedule anyhow – surely not just because he’s going on vacation? Man, you’d think he might’ve decided we should stick to Friday so Chris had someone around right now. Must know he’s not in a good place.”

“Chris will understand more than you think.” Vin spoke up from the front, dogged with loyalty. “Just because he’s committed to the job, don’t mean he won’t see what’s going on. He’ll understand why Travis had to ground him.” He paused. “Even if he don’t like it.”

“Just take it all in his stride, huh?”

Vin hedged his bets slightly. “Maybe.”

“He’s been very low,” Josiah said, meaningful.

“Yeah.” Vin took one hand off the wheel and rubbed his head again.

“What’s our ETA?” J.D. asked, unexpected, jolting everyone back to the matter in hand.

“Fifteen minutes,” Vin said, and made a face at the snake of tail lights in front. “Give or take.”

There was some quiet, a readjustment back to mental preparation for the shakedown operation they were headed towards. Nathan couldn’t quite leave it though. When it came to other team members’ well-being, he never could.

“Have you thought what Ezra might do if Chris isn’t all right?”

“Oh he’ll think of something.” Buck flapped his hand to illustrate the wide and wonderful world of Ezra’s ingenuity. “Besides, we’re all agreed. Chris is just low, just needs a friendly face, nothing weird is going to happen.”

Quiet reigned again for a while. Then Josiah cleared his throat. “Um, do you think Chris will see Ezra as a friendly face?”

There really wasn’t an answer to that.

*

It took Ezra longer than he thought from Black Hawk to the ranch. He was glad he’d kept himself in check, hadn’t accepted the booze he’d been offered. Gusts of wind buffeted the car, tugging it off course, and he’d noticed how low the night sky hung as he’d crossed the lot on his way out.

“Good lord,” he said out loud, soon as he’d jabbed on the radio. The facts wove in and out of his consciousness, crackling through the airwaves.

“Winter Storm Warning alert... Thursday through Saturday... fast-moving arctic conditions scheduled... accumulating... metro area... mountain locations... snow totals in feet.”

Delightful. Heatwaves he could handle, but snowstorms were something of a mystery and the Jaguar wasn’t a snow car by any stretch of the imagination. He’d need to move fast to stay ahead of this. His new plan instantly became to show his face to Larabee, pacify the rest of them, and then get back to cosy civilization asap.

There was an oppressive type of dark pressing in all around as he turned off the highway on to the road leading out to the ranch. His headlights picked up how the wind was whipping at the winter trees. The temperature gauge had dropped and he guessed the storm was coming in fast all right. As usual he cursed going over the un-treated sections of the private track leading directly to Chris’s. Every time he came here he said to himself he wouldn’t put the Jag through it again. Great car, lousy suspension. At every rut he expected the tail pipe to scrape gravel.

There were few lights on in the ranch house when he rounded the final corner and drove through the open gate. Chris wasn’t on top of the weather conditions, he could see that straight away. Larabee’s Dodge Ram was out, not under cover in the first of the double bays of the garage. The doors of the second, where he tinkered with machinery and vehicles, were wide open, shuddering in the stiff breeze. Across the wide courtyard it looked as if the currently unused stable block at least was secure.

He swung the Jag in a tight circle in front of the Ram and reversed into the empty garage bay, leaving plenty of room for a second vehicle. As he got out and locked his doors, a gust of chilly air made his jacket flap open, cold air punching against his ribs. Hunched against the wind Ezra ran for the back door of the ranch house. The movement-sensitive security lights were unresponsive. Another bad sign. The door was often unlocked but he wasn’t in the habit of just walking into Chris Larabee’s home as if he belonged – not like the others did. Instead he banged on the panels with the flat of his hand to announce himself.

“Hello, the house!”

There was no immediate answer so he banged again then turned the handle a little, wincing slightly. The security lights might not be working, but it would be just his luck if Larabee had fallen down in a stupor somewhere – while making damned sure the burglar alarm was primed first of course.

“Hey!” he bawled. “Chris! You in there? It’s–”

Then he nearly fell through the door as it was abruptly wrenched open from inside.

“Me,” he finished off.

Larabee stood there, in the half-dark entry hall that led into the kitchen. His hair was violently on end and he was still in his work pants and socked feet, although had lost his tie and jacket. Not surprisingly, his expression was forbidding.

“Ezra,” he growled, glancing balefully past him into the dark as if expecting more visitors.

“Yes,” Ezra said, in impatience. He paused for another second, saw he wasn’t going to be welcomed in with open arms, and so pushed past Chris, back heeling the door closed as he did. “Lord’s sake, it’s freezing out there. You all right?”

“Course I’m damned well all right.”

Ezra turned, because Chris was still standing by the door. He looked him up and down in exaggerated fashion, taking in the crumpled shirt half pulled out of his waistband, the wildly disarranged hair, and general pallor. “You sure?”

“Yes I’m sure. That why you’re here?”

“Well, since you ask so nicely, it isn’t exactly a social call. Heard about the enforced medical leave. Came to make sure you weren’t drowning in it.”

“What the fuck? Who told you?”

It’s called teamwork, Ezra wanted to say in the kind of pissy tone that would make Chris crazy, but he refrained. “Travis told the others of course, because Friday’s op was being brought forward. Buck called. I presume it wasn’t supposed to be kept from me?”

Chris rubbed his face. “They think I’m going to do something stupid,” he said in disgusted wonderment. “And sent you over to make sure I didn’t. What the...”

A slight smile quirked at Ezra’s mouth. Larabee was pale and rumpled, but he was still on good form. “Well, I’m the only one not on assignment, as you’ll recall,” he said. He thought he did well to keep the residual resentment out of his voice. And Chris would recall all right, seeing as he was the one who’d lobbied for the two-week suspension.

Yeah, Larabee hadn’t stopped bitching since it happened, although it was hardly surprising. Even though he could feel irritated if he put his mind to it, Ezra realized that jeopardizing an operation in pursuit of something not in the brief hadn’t exactly covered him in glory. Outwardly he’d maintained his view that a gambling-related telephone call during a quiet phase of an operation was hardly the pinnacle of bad behavior. Deep down he knew he was in the wrong, and Chris deciding to slap a ‘Do Not Trust’ notice on him had hurt, badly. It had even made him think about leaving altogether. That was probably why he’d been in Black Hawk in the first damned place.

“Ugh,” Chris said, suddenly seeming to remembering how he was feeling. “I was just about to have a drink. You want a drink?”

Ezra glanced out of the window, mind on his own drinks cabinet, his own kitchen. “Well, I was thinking...”

“Yeah, I can see what you were thinking.” Larabee was sharp. “Telling the boys you’ve done your duty – and leaving.” When Ezra winced, he made a sardonic, open-palmed gesture. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Ezra kept quiet. It didn’t ever seem like a good idea to contradict Chris when he was in poor temper.

Larabee pulled at one trailing shirt tail, as if uncomfortable. “Well normally I wouldn’t stop you, but have you heard the goddamned weather forecast?”

“Yes, but–”

“‘Yes but’ my ass, Ezra! You’re not going anywhere. In fact, according to the Weather Channel, now you’re here you may not be going anywhere for twenty four hours.”

That brought Ezra up short. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at Chris staring at him. The kitchen was in semi-darkness and they were facing off across the cool slate-tiled floor.

Twenty four hours, he thought in sudden despair. Twenty four hours stuck here with Chris Larabee in an unholy snit! He cast a desperate look out of the kitchen windows, then swung his gaze reluctantly back to the man across the room.

“You really think it’ll be that bad?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, smirking slightly at his dejection. “Reckon you’re done for.”

Ezra let his chest fill with air. He felt the pull of solitude, of home. “Well damn it,” he said.

Chris indicated the hallway with a jerk of his head. “So are you coming in properly or are you going to stand in my kitchen grinding your teeth all night?”

“You need to get your car under cover, and batten down the hatches out there.”

“Ha,” Chris said. “Might be a problem with that. Just took the meds they prescribed.”

“And?”

“Feeling a little high to tell the truth.”

Ezra cocked his head. Now he came to think of it, perhaps Larabee did look a mite spaced. The man was lucid enough, but there was an air of recklessness about him that made the hair prickle on the back of Ezra’s neck. There were not many people he’d care to see strung out less than his team leader.

“And you were going to have a drink on top of that?”

“What are you, my keeper all of a sudden? Listen, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I need to... shut right down for a while. Figure a nice whiskey to ward off the cold wouldn’t go amiss either. Know what I mean?”

Distracted, Ezra looked around the kitchen again. “Where are your keys?”

Chris patted the back of his neck with the fingers of one hand, as if he meant to scratch it, made a face. “Jacket pocket?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Ezra walked past him, up the woodblock hallway past the curve of the open tread stairs and along into the main living area. Not surprisingly it was something of a mess. Chris had been wayward in all departments in the run-up to being taken off the case. There were piles of paper in the room and on the carpet – a mix of newsprint, letters and what looked like copies of official documents – as well as empty coffee cups and glasses, a few crusty TV dinner trays, an array of photographs, CD cases, and the contents of a box spread liberally on the rug in front of the largest of the couches. With a frisson of unease Ezra realized they were mostly personal, women’s items. Sarah Larabee’s, almost certainly.

There was no fire laid in the grate of the big fireplace, and few logs in the basket on the hearth. Chris’s suit jacket from today had been thrown on a chair and his gun and holster – totally against security protocols – were dumped amongst the cushions. Ezra picked through the detritus on the floor and retrieved the jacket, silently rummaging through the pockets until he found the car keys. Chris had limped into the room behind him and just stood, not very steadily, watching.

Ezra thought about calling Buck, or Vin. Just to tell them he’d found Chris upright and conscious at least, and that they had nothing to worry about – just as he’d said. But then he figured they’d be right in the middle of things in Broomfield about now, setting up for the shakedown – in which neither he nor Larabee was permitted to take a part. He passed Chris in the doorway without looking directly at him, went back out through the kitchen.

Not liking the sour feeling of the atmosphere outside, Ezra crossed to the Ram, climbed behind the wheel. It growled into life, just like its owner. He reversed the freezing vehicle and parked it alongside the Jag. Force of habit made him check out the glove box before he left, in case there was anything needing to be taken out. There were some car documents in there, a driver’s map of Colorado, and a small brown bottle. Hissing through his teeth, Ezra snagged the bottle. He couldn’t see what was on the label, although it seemed about three quarters full of whatever it was. He stuffed it into his inside pocket next to the comforting roll of notes from the Wildcard Saloon, then climbed out of the Ram.

Since the remote on the car keychain didn’t seem to work, he wasn’t able to completely close the doors by hand, had to leave them open a few inches. The second bay was full of stuff – hunks of machinery, a gutted vehicle on a ramp, tools all over the place. From deep inside the interior came the slow-ticking, wet sound of water dripping on concrete. Shuddering from the cold he struggled with those doors, too, reluctantly leaving a two foot gap at the bottom. Hoping it was good enough, he jogged speedily back towards the house. The air was already full of angry, swirling flakes.

All was quiet in the kitchen.

Ezra locked the back door, figuring Chris wasn’t in the frame of mind to think about it right now. He took the little bottle out of his pocket to examine the label in the light and was relieved to find it was only regular Advil. Deciding he might need some himself later on, he put it back in his pocket. When he walked back along to the lounge area he found Chris slumped on the large couch. There was an open bottle of J&B Whiskey in front of him on the table, and two glasses.

“You eaten?” Ezra asked as he came in, loosening his tie.

“Yes, mother.”

“Really?”

A tut of irritation. “I made a sandwich before I took the meds. All right?”

“And did you eat it?”

It felt as if he was skating on thin ice, but evidently somebody had to.

“Yes, I fuckin’ ate it.”

“Fine.” A pause. “You feeling OK?”

“Ezra.” Chris picked up the bottle and poured a shot into each glass. Ezra didn’t miss the tremor in his hands. Then he set the bottle back on the table with a rap. “I feel like shit. That’s why I’m here. Are you going to spend all night asking me dumbass questions?”

Ezra sighed. “Tell you the truth I don’t know what I’m going to spend all night doing. I hadn’t been planning to spend all night here doing anything.” He perched on the opposite couch. Chris gestured rather vaguely at the second glass. Ezra wanted it all right, but he wondered if he shouldn’t aim to keep his wits about him. And not even because of the weather. He took his cell out of his jacket pocket, set it down on the small table beside him.

“You know,” he said, “you have a hole in the roof of your car-port. The junkyard one. And the remote for the doors is on the fritz.”

Chris sipped his whiskey, put down the glass. “Huh.”

Something about that, about the fact of it and Chris’s reaction, made Ezra’s stomach plunge. He’d not been too long in Denver, in this team, but long enough to have made a mark and to have formed decided opinions of his team-mates (and vice versa of course). Larabee, for example, was perennially on the ball, didn’t let things slide. Not in any part of his life. Ezra had thought of him as a classic law enforcement hard-ass, which he both loathed and admired.

He knew about the Larabee family history, of course, the shocking story of the murdered wife and young son. It was a tragedy that he could hardly bear to contemplate, truth to tell. Somehow, though, when he’d first met the man, he’d expected never to be touched by it. He hadn’t bargained on catching any glimpses of grief under what seemed like a well-hardened surface. But the way the other guys seemed to feel, the little signs of Sarah and Adam dotted around the ranch house – he was alarmed to admit these things had actually... gotten to him. Then there was the way Chris had been the last few weeks, with the anniversary of the terrible event and all, sinking into a frame of mind that seemed nearer breakdown than perpetual bad mood.

Not mending a hole in the roof of the garage seemed much more indicative of Chris’s mental state than anything else all of a sudden.

“These meds,” Ezra said, tentative.

Larabee got that look then, a knowing half-smirk of amusement and disgust. “These meds,” he mimicked. “Well, which ones are you talking about?”

“There’s more than one?”

A snort. “Yeah, blue ones to make me calm, and white ones to make me happy. And then I may have taken some Advil for the road home.”

Ezra thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure if Chris was stringing him a line. “Sounds good,” he said, and Chris gave him that off-kilter smirk again. “Of course, I’m not convinced liquor is the ideal carrier.”

“I’m not either, but sure tastes good.” Chris looked at his glass although he didn’t reach for it again. Not straight away, anyhow. He leaned back against the squashy cushions of the couch, shut his eyes. Ezra flexed his hands, wished he could get comfortable. Over the months since the Atlanta furore and then his crash-landing in Denver there had been a number of invitations over to the ranch. Generally at the same time as one or two of the others rather than whole team jamborees, for they spent enough time crowded in a bunch at headquarters or on ops to want to spend all their downtime together too. Ezra had soon realized that Chris didn’t give a shit about social niceties – if Ezra was being invited at all, it meant that they regarded him as one of them. Which was a bizarre concept that he hadn’t gotten his head around. At any rate, despite the handful of times he’d been here (and had a good time, if he was honest) he still found it hard to feel as at home here as, say, Buck or Vin seemed to.

And damn him, Chris Larabee knew that perfectly well.

“Lighten up, Ezra,” he suddenly said, without opening his eyes. “What’s on your mind?”

“Several hundred dollars is on my mind.” He couldn’t help a sigh of regret. “Maybe several thousand.”

“Yeah?” Chris cracked a lazy eye. It lit on the whiskey and he pushed himself up so he could reach it. When he’d had another sip he seemed to register that Ezra was staring at him drinking and he raised a brow. “Listen, I’m too bushed to get up... come get this for crying out loud. You sitting over there looking like you need a large shot is getting on my nerves.”

There was an extra loud howl of wind at that point, cannoning down the chimney and making the windows rattle.

“All right,” Ezra said. “All right.”

“I knew I could appeal to your better nature.” Chris’s voice was faintly slurred, and his eyes, watching Ezra approach the table and help himself to a generous slug, were beginning to look hooded. “So. You been out tonight doing something you oughtn’t?” The question was disappointingly lucid.

“We all have our preferred method of R&R.” Ezra flinched under the direct stare he was receiving. “And gambling is not against the law.”

“Regarded as a weakness by the bureau, Ezra.” Chris’s voice was matter of fact.

“And we all have our weaknesses.” Ezra let his eyes rest on the bottle of whiskey, rather wished he’d refused a shot, which would have strengthened his case.

Chris seemed to hesitate, as if working to get his words together for a moment. Then he said, “You need to stop.”

Ezra swallowed. “I know.”

“Don’t want you to get yourself kicked out. There’d be no coming back from that, and it would piss me off. You need help, I’ll find you help.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Really.”

Ezra swallowed again. “Really,” he repeated firmly.

Chris eyeballed him for a second more and then shrugged. He was giving the impression that there was a fight here that he fully intended to have, but just not right now. Ezra was rather disconcerted that Larabee had turned the tables on him.

Despite the direction of the conversation, the fumes from the liquor went some way to making Ezra relax. He had a feeling the central heating in the house had been on but wasn’t anymore. It was just about warm enough in the room, but wouldn’t be for too much longer. As he settled and took a small sip he glanced over at the fireplace, wondered if he could find it in himself to build up a fire, invest time in getting it going. Perhaps it wouldn’t be worth it, even for the hospitable warmth. With any luck, Chris was going to start winding down soon. Hopefully, before long, he’d be asleep. Either right over there on his couch, or else in his room if Ezra could persuade him to go there in time. Heat would help in the process, of course. It would help him, too. Ezra disliked the cold with vehemence, had already found a Colorado winter crept under his skin and made his bones hurt.

“You want I crank up the heating?” he asked.

“What’s with you being so obliging?” Chris leaned back, cradling the glass against his chest. He waved his other hand. “Whatever. It’s been playing up, but you want to fiddle with the damned dials, be my guest.”

It wasn’t a ringing endorsement of an invitation, but Ezra didn’t mind. He left his glass, went out of the room and up the corridor to a large hall closet, at the side of which was the main thermostat. The system, as Chris had said, involved several dials needing to be synchronized with small red marks. Not entirely self-explanatory without an instruction manual, but Ezra quirked his brow at the idea of the challenge. Dials, marks, and numbers were the component parts of safe-opening, which was something he could do with his eyes closed thanks to his mother – not that he ever needed to these days of course. It was not a skill he’d added to his résumé either, and none of the others knew just what a gifted bank-robber he’d have made. He hoped the undercover aspect of this crazy new job wasn’t likely to involve him or any of his team-mates in that kind of fake heist, for he feared they wouldn’t be too impressed at how little training he would need.

Still, no point thinking about hypotheticals. Back in the main room he could hear Chris asking with a heavy dollop of skepticism if he could work out what the hell he was doing.

“I got it,” he called back, gratified when, after a few subtle turns, the system locked into place. The thermostat mechanism had responded in a very similar way to a lock tumbler, and he’d worked it just by touch. Squinting at the tiny numbers he could see the heating would carry on for another couple hours before switching itself off again. Which seemed just fine. Ezra hoped he’d be tucked up in one of the spare rooms by then, sleeping away this foul night, to wake in the morning for as quick a getaway as the snowfall allowed.

“’kay,” Chris said when he came back in, watching from his sprawled position as Ezra pulled the cord to close the drapes over the two large picture windows. “Well aren’t you the domesticated one.”

“Don’t need to have been married to know how to run a house,” Ezra said, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. Sitting carefully back on the couch, he could see the tightness around Chris’s mouth. Not a huge change of expression, but enough to suggest a sudden tension.

“Being married’s all right.” There was a long silence Ezra didn’t fill. Chris’s gaze swung to the box of items spread on the carpet, then jerked away again. “Didn’t think it would be, not even the day of the wedding. But turns out it was.”

“I’m sure.”

“Sarah didn’t like it here much,” Chris carried on and Ezra’s heart sank. A certain range of practicalities, and some entertainment, he could manage. Beyond that, he was all at sea. “She always said this was my dream home and not hers. Guess I did railroad her into coming. What she wanted was to sell up, move in nearer the city, so’s we could have a place with a flower garden and neighbors, friends nearby for Adam.” He looked into his glass, took another good gulp. “Reckon she would have grown to love it in the end – only she didn’t get given the fuckin’ chance.”

Since Ezra had absolutely no idea what to say, he didn’t say anything. He’d actually never heard Chris mention his late wife before, and hearing him speak his son’s name out loud, in a voice thick with grief and longing, made Ezra’s fingers clench slightly against the couch. Instead of replying he found himself draining his glass and when he set it down, empty, on the occasional table at one side of the couch, Chris’s sharp ears caught the sound. He invited him to get up for a refill with a wave of his own glass.

“Shouldn’t you think about going to bed?” Ezra said, swinging the conversation to what he’d been thinking about before.

“What?”

Ezra licked his lips, nervous. “Shouldn’t you just... I don’t know, give in to the meds and go get some sleep? I thought that was what you wanted.”

“Yeah, well you’re here now. Can’t leave a guest sitting up all alone.”

“Bullshit,” Ezra said.

“Pretty much.”

“So you’re going to drink yourself into a stupor right there?”

“Yep, reckon I am.”

Ezra chewed the inside of his cheek. “Well you know there’s not much I can do if the meds and booze don’t agree with one another, if you have a seizure or something because they don’t mix. Not with a damned snowstorm going on.”

“Ezra,” Chris said, voice that slightly warning timbre that made Ezra nervous. “There won’t be any seizures and there won’t be any need for any damned ambulances, so don’t worry about it. You’re not on suicide watch, OK? I vote you have another drink.” He gave a humorless smile. “In fact, I vote we finish the bottle and worry about all the other crap in the morning.”

“What other crap?” Ezra couldn’t help asking.

Chris flapped a hand to tell him it wasn’t important, although a cloud of new gloom seemed to have descended over him and his movements reaching for the bottle were sluggish.

“You spoke to Buck, huh?”

“He called. You know. Concerned.”

Chris didn’t react to that. He had a grim set to his lips, the one he always got when he was about to worry at something, like a cat with a carcass. “And the op’s going down as planned, right?”

Ezra felt a leap of amusement. “You’re grounded, Mr. Larabee, off the case. As am I.”

“You mean I should just butt out.”

“If you have to put it like that.”

Chris made a rude noise. “Ezra, will you come on over and get yourself another damned drink! I know you want one. You don’t need to keep a clear head on my account. Better get enough liquor inside you to see out the night.”

Still Ezra hesitated. “Before I do,” he said in the end. “Is there anything else you need me to do – in terms of battening down the hatches and all?”

Chris rubbed his forehead, apparently at least making the pretense of thinking about it. “We’re good,” he said, and picked up the bottle, again gesturing for him to come over. “Long as you don’t expect a roaring log fire and a three course dinner.”

Ezra got up with his glass, walked across to the other couch and extended it towards the bottle. Then he took it across to the windows, snagged the corner of one of the drapes and peered out at the odd shadows dancing about in the gloom. They could hear the wind against the panes.

“Just as well you have good insulation,” he remarked with a slight shiver.

“Don’t tell me, you worked in real estate once.”

Ezra turned. “That? Actually, never.”

“Would have thought it was right up your alley. Talking folks into buying, making some shit pile of bricks sound like a fairytale castle, taking a nice big cut at the end of the day.”

“My, what a low opinion you have of me.”

“Maybe.” Chris looked, as he so often did, faintly feral. “But it’s still higher than Atlanta’s.”

Trust Larabee. Never one to knowingly miss a chance to push on the painful spots. Ezra didn’t dignify it with an answer. Their relationship had begun on this foot and hadn’t progressed much. There was even something quite familiar and comforting in it already. Strangely enough, he had the feeling Chris felt the same way.

There was quiet for a while. Chris seemed lost in thought, in his own head, while Ezra couldn’t not listen to the weather outside.

“So you reckon they’ll call us, when everything’s gone down?” Chris sounded coherent but his words came out thick and slow.

Ezra pushed back into the couch cushions. “Chris,” he said. “Leave it.”

Chris looked over at him, sullen. “My team. My op.”

“But you’re here, aren’t you – not there.”

“Travis didn’t give me much choice. Wasn’t just the weight of medical opinion on his desk, you know. Someone had been ratting me out.”

Ezra was surprised at the sharp burst of defensiveness he felt. “Not this team. Are you kidding? Somebody else in the building, maybe, suggesting you needed some time off, and yes, OK, with an ulterior motive the size of a Mack truck. But not us.”

“But you’re all so damned concerned. All the damned time. They haven’t said I’m crazy, you know, even though you all seem to think so. It’s stress. Anxiety. All that crap.”

Ezra thought again that he just wasn’t the right one of them to be listening to this. It should be Buck who’d evidently been to the wire with Chris before, or Vin, who spent so much time camping out here. Really, it should be one of them searching for the right answers, or any answers at all.

“Well of course,” he said eventually, liking the look of surprise that came to Chris’s face at not being mollified. “Because you’re you. Larabee goes down, the whole team goes down.”

“Well maybe good riddance.”

“You know,” Ezra said, pained and not even knowing why, “you have a number of character traits I find hard to get along with, but up to now self pity hasn’t been one of them.”

He could feel the heat of the look Chris gave him. “Always pays to have something new up your sleeve.”

Ezra didn’t quite understand why it was, when he and Chris Larabee were together, tension would begin to ratchet up. It didn’t matter what the situation was, or what they were talking about, but at some stage there’d be tension. Ezra always found it deeply unsettling, but couldn’t deny there was something invigorating in it, too. Almost as if aware of the temperamental atmosphere the windows rattled and the lights flickered. Ezra rotated his shoulders, consciously trying to loosen up, like he did at the table sometimes, keeping nerves at bay.

He looked over at Larabee, who was staring right back at him.