Lest I Should Forget by Limlaith

The sun was almost gone, for which Ethan was extremely thankful. There was only so much that pain medication could do, and even now, when daylight had all but given up and night had all but taken over, he was wearing the sunglasses that had dropped into his lap when he lowered his sun visor. After trampling his neighbors bushes and scraping the bottom of the sportscar on the curb, both of which somehow irritated him more than the myriad bullet holes peppering the driver's side, he had driven his car just long enough and far enough to ditch it.

And JD wouldn't shut up. He talked like to never draw breath. Where had he heard someone say that? Well, whoever the someone was, he was right. JD wouldn't quit talking until Ethan was forced to backhand him into silence.

Hot-wiring their current vehicle had come all to easily for his young companion, and Ethan had been certain that the kid had known how. Kid. That wasn't exactly an accurate or fair description; he simply looked 16, with a wide-eyed, candid innocence about him, and terrible habit of biting his fingernails. He seemed calmer now, less fidgety and agitated, and he kept staring at Ethan as though he expected him to speak.

For his part, Ethan was running through a million contingencies, trying to calculate the odds of retrieving his briefcase, returning the evidence to his employer, and handing over his hostage without getting himself, or both of them, killed. If he was being honest with himself, and considering he wasn't really sure who he was, it seemed like the best option, he did not want circumstances to deteriorate to the point that he would be forced to return John to Mr. Larabee in a body bag. John.

"Your name is John Dunne, is it not?"

"Yeah, Ez. We've worked together for ..." A flash of chilling green eyes warned him not to finish that sentence, and JD licked his lips, returning his attention to memorizing the route they were taking and gauging their possible destination.

They had been driving north for ten minutes, after a long period of circling with no apparent reason or aim. Attempting to convince Ezra that he couldn't hotwire a car had failed. Ezra, Ethan, Ezra had been absolutely certain he could do it, whereas JD was not absolutely certain he wouldn't get himself shot. He had never truly appreciated what Ezra did for a living, nor how damn well he did it, until he was faced with the realization that his teammate wasn't just acting. He was totally fucking lost in the part.

So this was how Ezra always got in and got out and got the bad guys. By being someone else so flawlessly that even he started to believe it.

And how long had Ezra been an undercover agent? He was with the FBI for six years before he joined the team, which meant that he had spent the better part of the past 8 years pretending to be other people. Being other people for very long stretches of time. He was indisputably the best deep cover agent in the field, had been when he was with the FBI, and now it made sense, all the crap Larabee went through, all the time it had taken him to pry Ezra away from the feds. Deep undercover was his thing, and JD had always assumed that meant something thrilling and very Mission Impossible. He always wanted to be a spy. Well, before now.

Now he was just wanting to get out alive and get back to his job of being the kid computer genius who gets to set up the surveillance and never gets to be on the floor when the bust goes down. Yeah - never again would he complain to Chris about being left out. Out sounded wonderful.

They were slowing down, pulling over behind an abandoned building on a bad side of downtown. When they stopped, Ethan put the car in park but didn't kill the engine. If JD had honestly wanted to escape, this would have been the time, but something in him made him stay. This was Ezra Standish next to him, no matter what else the delusional man seemed to believe, and JD knew he couldn't abandon him.

"Give me your cell phone, please, Mr. Dunne"

"I don't have it on me." He tried to sound as convincing as possible.

That lie brought forth a small snort of laughter from Ethan and a very frightening glare. Why hadn't he ever used that look on Chris? Chris would be impressed; JD definitely was, and reached into his back pocket to pull out the incredibly slim and lightweight cellular phone he had been so excited to buy.

"Thank you. And if your hand so much as moves in the direction of the door handle, I will shoot it off."

Christ, could Ezra actually hear him thinking? "I'm not gonna try and escape, Ez. You need our help."

"Try to escape, Mr. Dunne, and it is an amusing statement given that you are the one in most dire need of assistance."

JD wanted to smile when Ezra corrected his grammar. That was the man he knew. He was just sitting there fingering the cell phone and working something over in his mind, and JD didn't know if he should venture to speak or if he should just sit and watch. Watch and listen. That's what he normally did; that was his job. Only now he was in the thick of things, without his gun, and maybe a few questions wouldn't hurt.

"Who're you gonna call?" Oh, if Buck had been there, JD could have counted on him to shout Ghostbusters at the top of his lungs. As it was, he had to restrain himself from saying it, and waited in grim silence for Ezra to respond.

"Your boss."

"Chris is speed dial two. He's your boss too, Ez."

"I really don't know why any of you persist in perpetuating that falsehood. I should hardly think I would be in the employ of the man who sent me to prison. Incidentally," and Ethan's lips twitched a miniscule grin, "I am also going to telephone my boss."

JD had once tried to explain the thrill of roller-coasters to Ezra, who would never set foot in one, thank you very much. That sensation when you're at the top of a very steep drop, at the front of the carriage, looking down and over and knowing that you're stomach is about to end up somewhere around your esophagus. The thrill of falling. And that's what JD was feeling now, the moment before the precipitous drop - only without the roller coaster. Ezra was going to get them all killed.

The little phone beeped rapidly, Ethan holding it with his right hand against his ear while his left continued to rest his service revolver across his stomach, aiming the barrel at JD. "Greetings, Mr. Larabee, and whoever else is listening. You have something that belongs to me, and I have someone who belongs to you. What I desire at this juncture should be manifestly clear." He nodded, and glanced over at JD. "Yes, he is right beside me. Would you like to speak with him?"

God, Ezra sounded so congenial, so kind, that honeyed Southern accent so genteel. He handed the phone across to JD with a little bow of his head.

"Hi Chris. Yeah, I'm fine." He didn't mention the split lip or the bruise he was going to have. "You remember the Vasquez case when we - "

The phone was ripped from his hand and he flinched, his heart doing small flip-flops.

"Now that you have ascertained his well-being, might I suggest we meet somewhere to make the exchange? Oh please spare me your impotent threats, Mr. Larabee. I am immune."

Wasn't that the truth. Ezra always had been immune, to Chris' threats, his glares, his tirades, and his Caesar-esque demeanor. Without exception, everyone was in bend-over-backwards awe of Chris Larabee - except Ezra.

"And spare yourself the trouble of trying to trace this call. We are currently at the locale where I wish to meet you. So feel free to drop by in, say, half an hour? Green and Burlington, the defunct packing company on the corner." A pause and a small chuckle. "It has been such a pleasure speaking to you again." Ethan closed the call and immediately dialed another number. "Tell Mr. Trainer that if he wishes to gain possession of that information which his associates failed to take from me this afternoon, then he should meet me in the building on the corner of Green and Burlington in one hour. One hour. And let him know that I will also have a gift for him."

Green and Burlington. That was two blocks away, and JD wondered if he was the gift, or if Chris was, and why did it have to be another warehouse? And why did Ezra pick this one? And why did he think he worked for Trainer?

JD prayed that the tiny hint he had dropped about the Vasquez case would make sense to one of them, would let them know that this was going to be a set up. Would let them know to bring backup. That was too much to hope for, though, to be honest. Chris had the tendency to ignore that piece of protocol - okay, lots of pieces of protocol - when one of his teammates was in danger.

Ethan shut off the engine and pocketed the cell phone, then turned to JD and said, politely, "Shall we?"

At this point, JD would have gone with him, gun or not, because he knew he was the only one of his team who had any idea what was about to happen. Well, besides Ezra of course - but that didn't really count, did it.

"You realize you're gonna get yourself killed." JD kept his hands out at his sides as he walked, the gun jammed into his ribs reminding him to do so, and tried to keep the hysteria out of his voice. "Trainer is not going to let you live. You know too much about him. And Chris will shoot you if he has to."

"I have no doubt that Mr. Larabee would seize upon that occasion should it present itself. However, he will have too much else to think about when the time comes. You, for one. I do apologize, Mr. Dunne, but between the two of us, I fear you are the one who will not emerge from this unscathed."

"Ezra, you're not thinking straight."

"Stop calling me Ezra." He punctuated the order with a shove as they arrived at the back doors of the building on Green. JD ducked as Ezra shot the chains on the door and pulled them free of the handles, letting them clank to the cement. "After you."

Another shove, and JD was through the doors. It was only then he noted that Ezra took off his sunglasses. It was pitch black inside, and JD stumbled as he was pushed across the floor and up a flight of stairs, and another, soon to find himself seated in a chair in a corner office on the top floor. It had windows overlooking both Green and Burlington, and suddenly he knew why this building had been chosen.

The buildings in this part of the city pre-dated the modern ones, and were built extremely close together. The team had almost lost a suspect once because he had been able to hop from one rooftop to the next, and had ended up several blocks away before he jumped off a fire escape and broke his ankle. From here, JD realized Ezra could leave his team to shoot it out with Trainer - and just vanish.

Ethan was rifling through the desk in the room and soon produced a roll of duct tape, with which he began to bind JD to his chair.

"Ezra, you have to know that this isn't right. You have to know that you'd never do this to Chris. You would never make him choose between my life and yours."

"For the last time, stop calling me Ezra."

"Then what should I call you? You've been Edward and Eric and Emeril and Enrique and ... oh my God. Oh my God, you think you're Ethan. You think you're Ethan Saunders."

"Funny I should think that." He was finished with the tape and threw it carelessly to the floor. Then he checked the ammunition in both his guns, and placed the smaller one in the back of his pants. His knife he slid past his right shirt cuff and tested it, to make sure it would slip out if he jerked his arm just right.

"God, Ez, you ... shit ... you aren't Ethan Saunders, that's just your cover. You got hurt in that explosion in the warehouse and you aren't thinking right. You have to remember. Your name is Ezra Standish. Your middle initial is P, but you won't ever tell anyone what that stands for. You were born in Atlanta, Georgia, September 29, 1971 and you started working for the ATF a year and a half ago. Your mother's name is Maude and you hardly ever talk to her. You and Chris fight like a married couple, and you always correct everyone's grammar, and you ..."

His words were falling on deaf ears. Ethan was making himself busy about the room, checking the door that led to the roof, pulling the blinds on the windows, wishing for the love of God that his head didn't hurt so damn much. It was making him dizzy again, and nausea seemed to be making a permanent home in his gut, and that stupid kid wouldn't stop chattering. He was going on and on and on, and Ethan finally had enough. He walked across the length of the room, pulled out his gun, and silenced the young man rather effectively, he thought.

Peace at last. Now all he had to do was wait.

+ + + + + + +

"Wait, wait, wait, what are you telling us?" Chris was pacing the floor in an apparent effort to wear a permanent groove in the wood. One hand on his hip, one raking through his long-past-disheveled and hair, he was trying to keep his patience with Josiah and his slow-to arrive, circuitous way of making a point.

Buck and Nathan had dealt with the police all they could, ultimately telling one of the Lieutenants that anything further would be coming to him by way of his Captain, by way of the Assistant Director of the ATF. Unsatisfied and irritated, the Lieutenant had left them alone, and they had hustled inside.

"He said his name wasn't Ezra and we all knew it. It isn't that he doesn't know us, Chris, it's that he thinks we're on the wrong side. Who was he last?"

"Speak English, damnit!" Chris was in no mood for Josiah's interminable mind games.

"You know as well as I do that when Ezra is under he won't even let us call him by his real name, that is, if we ever speak to him, which is rare. He never leaves character. You remember the last time he went under - when he got back he had to take three weeks off just to get right in his head. That case was hell."

Yeah, Chris remembered. And it was hell. Ezra had been under way too deep for way too long, had gotten too close to one of his marks, and was personally devastated when the young man got killed. Ezra had almost been unfit to testify at the trial, and afterwards, he had sequestered himself in his house and started taking a prescription for migraines. But Josiah was still talking, so Chris had to tune back in.

"Ezra uses the Regency when he goes undercover and needs a room. I'm saying that when he woke up, that morning, he didn't go back to his hotel room. He went to Ethan Saunder's." This was third time he had repeated that, and he didn't know how to make it any more clear for any of them.

"So you're saying that he thinks he's his own cover? Is that even possible?" What Nathan knew of mental illness only extended as far as the general, daily insanity that ran rampant among his teammates.

"Yes, and if there's one person who's taught us that anything's possible, it's Ezra. Besides, no one knows how bad he's really hurt."

"So you're saying he's schizophrenic or something?"

"No. I'm saying that he's in horrible shock, has amnesia, whatever, and that his mind reverted to the last thing it knew. I'm saying he believes his name is Ethan Saunders. Even his driver's license, all his credit cards, all his papers say so. Come to think of it, where is his briefcase? Look around for the briefcase."

Josiah rose from the sofa, and Chris held his hands up in an exaggerated shrug. Josiah was making sense, a twisted, bizarre sense, but this entire fucking thing was both twisted and bizarre, so why not play along for a while.

"So, how did Trainer's men know he was here? Do you think he called them?" Buck stopped as he said it, and did an about-face, walking to the phone in the living room. "Do any of you recognize this number? It's the last one he called."

Chris joined him and read the little LED display. "Yeah, it's Trainer's business number, his front. The metalworks place north of town. Shit."

"Yeah. Shit is right."

"Why would he call Trainer?"

"Guys, in here," Josiah called from the kitchen. He had found the briefcase, right where Ezra had left it. "Brothers, the last communiqué we had from Ez indicated that he had found what he was looking for." He opened the case and dumped its contents on the kitchen counter, spreading them about with his large hands. "And he had said he was looking for a key. Do you see a key in here?" He began feeling about in the inner pockets.

"Why, what difference does this make? We need to be out there looking for them ..."

"Chris." The patient, serious tone of that syllable clearly said Listen to me while I'm talking to you. "Chris, if this key means as much to Trainer as Ezra thought it did, and if I were Ethan Saunders, then I would be wanting to return the key to my boss. Remember Ethan's story, Chris. Think about it." Josiah stopped searching through the contents of the case and placed both his hands on the counter, staring down at them but not really seeing them. "He is a smuggler, a money launderer, who just got out of prison, a prison where you sent him. And he has been working with Trainer for the past, what, nearly two months, working on rerouting his financials, working on streamlining his business. The buy in the warehouse was supposed to be huge, the last one, because Ezra had found the last piece of evidence he needed to close the case." His clear blue eyes turned on Chris then, a look of dread descending on his pale features. "He called Trainer to meet with him, to give him back the evidence."

"My head is starting to hurt." Buck sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So ... he thinks he's Ethan and he called his boss to give him back the evidence that he, Ezra, stole from him? That's just fucked up. I need a drink."

Chris jumped when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out and stared at it a moment, wrinkling his forehead. "It's JD. Everybody shut up." He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, before answering, "Larabee."

Everyone in the room listened to the heavy silence that hung, hardly daring to breathe.

"Is JD with you? Yes, let me talk to him. How're you doin' JD?" Chris' shoulders dropped in obvious relief, then straightened again, bristling with tension. "Listen to me. If you hurt him, they will never be able to identify your body. Do you understand me?" His free hand clenched the side of the kitchen counter until his knuckles went white. "Yeah I know it. Half an hour. Fuck!" He lifted the phone from his ear and stared at it, then let go of the counter to drag the hand across his mouth. "JD's fine, sounds scared, and tried to tell me something about the Vasquez case before Ezra, Ethan, whoever, took the phone back. He wants his briefcase. He wants to meet us at a place on the corner of Green and Burlington to exchange the case for JD."

"Can we trust him?"

"Shit, Buck. On any other day I'd say yes. With my life I trust him. But this ..." Chris shook his head and dug into one eye with the heel of his hand. "Nathan, I need you to call Travis for me. I know he's not at the office, but try his cell and his home number. Fill him in. Buck, I need you to drive like a bat out of hell back to the office and get as much hardware as you can, and then meet us at the site - with your vest on. We'll put ours on when you bring them. Josiah put everything back in the briefcase and hang onto it."

Buck and Nathan left the room, Buck at a jog, and Nathan at a nervous shuffle into the other room to make his phone call. Chris collapsed into the chair Buck had just vacated, still holding his phone, still squinting against the headache that appeared to be plaguing all of them. Josiah fished in a cabinet for some aspirin and poured a glass of water, placing both on the table and taking a seat beside his boss. No, his friend.

It was strange, as much of a hard-ass as Larabee was and tried to be, Josiah knew he thought of all of them as family. They were the only family he had, the only family any of them had, really. That was, perhaps, what made them work so well together, so closely, so smoothly, and what made Chris lose his mind when any of them were in danger.

"Chris, I need you to tell me something. If we have a chance of getting both of them back, alive, I need you to be honest with me." Pain-filled hazel eyes met his, and he smiled gently, pushing the little white aspirins closer with a nod that Chris should take them. "Why did Ezra kiss you?"

Chris swallowed the pills, and half the glass of water, before responding. His voice was weary, defeated, even more so than the words he spoke. "I don't know Josiah. Cause he wanted to distract me? Cause he wanted to throw me off balance?"

Josiah hummed a moment and pursed his thick lips. "Why would he think that would throw you off balance?" Chris balked at that, looking like the answer should be pretty self-explanatory. It would throw anyone off balance. "What I meant," Josiah continued quietly, "What I mean is - why do you think Ezra would kiss you? Why would he try to, why would he assume you would accept such a gesture, and why would he know it would distract you long enough for him to escape?"

"But you said yourself that he doesn't know he is Ezra."

"Nice try, Christopher, but I need you to be honest with me." Josiah knew a misdirection when he heard one.

Chris slumped back in his chair and let out a long hiss of air. "Because, hell I don't even know where to start. And don't tell me to start at the beginning cause I don't even know where that is." He rubbed his eyes again with the heels of his hands and huffed out another sigh. "I've been here once before, to this house. We, Ez and I, we ... needed to clear the air between us. I had been royally pissed at him that week, for what I can't remember, but ... Christ, Josiah do you really need to know this?"

"Yes, Chris I do. Because I believe that if anyone can reach him, you can. And I think you know why. And I'm just wanting to be certain that you're willing to try to talk him down before you feel you are out of options."

"I don't want to kill him, damnit. I don't want that to have to be an option."

"Then you need to put yourself in a position where that isn't an option. You need to make him remember you."

"And just how in the hell do you propose I do that!"

"By not getting off track by arguing with me, and by finishing what you were about to explain a moment ago." Josiah was wearing that horrible, patient, knowing expression, with his hands folded in his lap, like a father ringing a confession out of a small child. And Chris wanted to hit him. "You were angry with him that week. And?"

"And it was late. Everyone else had gone home and I had him come into my office so I could yell at him about whatever it was, and he just sat there all neat with his legs crossed and that look on his face like he knows something I don't and he's not going to tell me. And I lit into him, and I was pacing behind my desk, and he had the nerve to yawn at me. I was so pissed I yanked him up out of his chair and shoved him against my office door." Chris paused and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His words came slow and difficult, churned out like thick cement. "And he didn't fight or even look shocked, like he just knew I wasn't actually going to hit him. He just stood there with my hands on his lapels, and his eyes smiled. You know how when he smiles and half the time it don't reach his eyes? Well, this time his eyes were all smiling, not laughing, just grinning to beat all. And all I wanted was to wipe that conceited grin off his face, and I think he was the only person in the room who wasn't surprised when I kissed him. I shoved him up against my door and kissed him hard enough our teeth knocked. Only then it turned into ... more than that. We didn't have sex in the office, if that's what you're thinking. I mean ... it turned into two people who really wanted to kiss."

"And you think this is what made him return the gesture in the hotel?" Josiah probed gently. "Even though he doesn't remember who you are - even though he probably doesn't remember that evening in your office?" Chris's head came up wearily, turning to look Josiah in the face. "Chris, I think the way he knows you runs deeper than his mind. Yeah, he probably kissed you to distract you, but I think he knew you'd let him. I think he knew you wanted him to." Chris looked like he wanted to deny it, and Josiah just shook his head. "Christopher, I've watched you two for a long time now, and I can't decide which of you stubborn fools tries the hardest to deny the fact that you're seriously in love with each other. I've never said anything because it isn't my place. Neither is it my place to pass judgment."

"Yeah," Chris interrupted brusquely, "you're one of those 'judge not let ye be judged' people."

"No, I'm more of a 'God loves the sinner but hates the sin' man, myself. And of all the truly atrocious sins mankind commits on a daily basis, I know with certainty that falling in love isn't the worst of them."

"It's not like I planned on it. I was married for chrissakes, it just ... I can't believe I'm discussing this with you." He started to get up to leave, but Josiah's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Chris, it always just happens. There's no way to control it, direct it, or plan it, and as much as those three factors must drive you absolutely insane, you need to find some other way of dealing with it than taking it out on him, or us. You can't talk yourself out of it, or talk him into it. But of all of us, you are the one person who can possibly reach Ezra, and you're going to have to do it on some other level than in here." Josiah tapped an index finger against his temple. "You're going to have to reach him here." He stood, then, and laid the palm of his hand against Chris' chest, holding Chris' gaze with steady compassion.

"How?" The question was pitiful, as was the look in the eyes that accompanied it.

Josiah squeezed Chris' shoulder and smiled. "You'll have to figure that out when you get there."

Nathan interrupted them, telling them that they really should leave, that Travis had been informed and he wanted them to wait for backup. There was no time for backup, Chris informed them; they only had eighteen minutes to get downtown.

+ + + + + + +

Seventeen minutes later, Chris' truck screeched to a halt right behind Buck's, and Josiah and Chris jumped out, not bothering to close the doors. Nathan was right behind them, and there were few words spoken as they strapped on Kevlar, put in their ear pieces, and checked their ammunition with a reflexive, mechanical speed and precision.

Buck covered them as they jogged across the street to the warehouse, and they covered him as he joined them. At the back door, Chris and Buck paused on either side of it and shared a look that conveyed the regrettable decision that they would shoot to kill, if they had to, and the mutual understanding that they would both hate themselves for it. If they had to.

And they went in.

As soon as they stepped inside, Chris' phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered it without speaking, just waited for Ezra to talk. Then he put it back in his pants and gestured for the others to follow him upstairs. And still in the back of his mind was the almost forgotten hint JD had been trying to drop him about a case they had closed almost a year ago. He had to wipe nervous sweat out of his eyes more than once by the time they reached the top floor, and by that time, he had turned off his inner dialogue, not paying attention to anything except his surroundings.

"That's far enough, Mr. Larabee."

Chris held up his hand and brought them all to a halt, then pointed to the back office, in the corner. The one with the door slightly ajar.

"Simply leave the briefcase there on the desk to your right, return to your vehicles, and I will send the boy down to you."

"I need to speak to him. You know how this works. I need proof of life and then we can talk." Chris gestured for Buck and Nathan to flank the office door, close enough to shoot if they had to, but keeping down behind the desks until absolutely necessary. "Let me talk to JD."

In the office, Ezra was watching Team 7 distribute themselves around the outer office floor. He had taken the time to remove a mirror from the bathroom across the hall, and had positioned it in such a way that he could out without letting anyone else see in very clearly. If they really wanted JD dead, the could just continue doing what they were doing. Sighing, Ezra reached over to JD and tapped the side of his face several times, telling him to wake up.

It took some time for JD to come around. When he did, the blood in his left eye made him blink and try to move his arms to wipe away the stinging. Then he remembered where he was, and was roused into stiff and sober consciousness. At least he couldn't feel blood freely flowing, so that gave him an idea how long he had been out since Ezra had clocked him with his gun. And since when was that Ezra's favorite method of prisoner interrogation? He shook his head a few times and said, "What?"

"Your friends need proof of life, Mr. Dunne."

"Buck?" He blinked a few more times and then craned his neck to shout out the office door. "Chris!?"

"Yeah, JD, we're here. How are you holding up, son?

"I'm fine, Chris. You really need to give him the briefcase and get out of here."

"We're not leaving without you, JD. You should know that."

"You have to, Chris. Give him the briefcase and leave." A gun to the back of his head prompted him to shut his mouth.

"Your young friend has more sense than you do, Mr. Larabee, and it does him credit. I will even allow you this: Put the briefcase on the desk and I will send him out to get it. When he hands it to me, I will let him go."

"Listen to him, Chris. Do what he's saying." Please, for once in your life, do what someone else tells you to.

There was an awful lot of silence then, and JD prayed that Chris would just do it, just give up the briefcase and get the hell out of there before Trainer showed up. He was sure to show early, and this situation was sure to end in to a bloodbath.

Chris was standing with Josiah, whispering to him that he was planning to let JD snatch the briefcase and duck behind the desk with Nathan; Josiah was shaking his head and telling him to talk to Ezra, to try to get him to come out.

"Talk to him, Chris. You have to try."

"I don't know what to fucking say. I'm no negotiator!"

"Ethan, this is Josiah Sanchez. The rest of us are going to go downstairs. Chris is gonna stay here, and he's gonna be unarmed. He has something he needs to say to you."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Damnit, Josiah ..."

"He has nothing which I wish to hear, Mr. Sanchez. He merely need leave the briefcase and this can all be over."

"Give us sixty seconds, Ethan, and we'll be gone," Josiah kept speaking as though Chris wasn't there. Then he motioned to Buck and Nathan to retreat, which they did, wearing quizzical expressions, and looking to Chris to tell them something different. But Chris didn't. He just shut his eyes and pressed the top of the gun against his forehead, resting it against the barrel, while he tried to think of anything he could do or say to bring both his agents out of that office alive. "We'll be right outside that door," Josiah assured him softly with a squeeze to the shoulder.

Then Chris was left by himself, crouching next to the accursed briefcase in the dark.

"Ezra, this isn't how it needs to end. We only want to help you."

"Chris! He says if you call him Ezra one more time he's gonna splatter my brains all over the wall! Just leave the fucking briefcase and get the hell out of here. Please!"

"I can't do that JD. I won't leave either of you. I'm gonna walk towards your door. I'm leaving my guns on the desk here." Which he did. It was total lunacy, but he did - leave all three of his guns right on top of the desk and walk unarmed towards the office door.

"Shit, Chris, stop, stop! He's cocked his gun and is counting down from ten. For God's sake! You have to get out of here!"

"What does it matter to him how long this takes, JD? If he likes, he can just shoot me and then he won't have to listen to me. But then he'll be charged with murder. As it is, all he's got against him is some fraud charges." I think. Well, and kidnapping and assault and - Fuck! Chris had never been one to ad-lib, had never been one to negotiate. He was more a Lone Ranger hero type with an itchy trigger finger. "If he turns State's evidence, then he doesn't even need to worry about that." <i>Please, Jesus, don't let him shoot JD. Please, God, please.</i>

A harsh whisper behind him made Chris turn his head. "<i>Talk</i> to him," Josiah was saying. "Don't negotiate. Talk. To. Him."

So Chris shut his eyes and took three deep breaths, trying not to think about what he was saying, trying just to let the words come. "Listen to what I have to say, Ezra, and if when I'm done, you still don't believe me, then you can have the briefcase. No arguments. No firefight. You can have what you want and I'll just walk away. Alright?"

"You are only wasting time. Time that you do not have," came the cold reply.

"You know, that's pretty funny coming from a man who talks more than anyone I've ever known. You pride yourself on it, your Princeton education, and your way with words. How you can cut a man to pieces and make it sound like a compliment. But you're not proud of your money. You're almost embarrassed by your own wealth, and you're so private with it. You treat it like a burden or a curse. Maybe that's why you don't ever invite us over, I don't know."

God, he was rambling. What did he know? What did he know of the man, what could he possibly say?

"You know, Ezra, most people wouldn't believe how generous you are. You're only generous when no one will notice; you're only kind when no one will try to pat you on the back for it. I know for a fact that you gave ten thousand dollars to the homeless shelter Josiah was helping build for St. Jude's. Ten grand. And to you that's pocket change. I bet Maude would be horrified if she knew. Just like she's horrified at the work you do, the fact that you aren't putting all those skills she worked so hard to teach you into some scam, some con that she's running, some effort to cheat other people out of their money. I figure that's why you're so embarrassed by your inherited wealth, knowing where it came from. But you know what else I know? That you're far more than Maude ever tried to create you to be. That you're worth more money than you'll ever have, and more money than she could ever swindle."

"Is there a point to this incredibly touching outpouring of sentimentality, Mr. Larabee?"

"Chris, just leave the damn case and go!"

"JD, shut the hell up. Ezra, there is a point. You're the point. Getting you back is the point. You've lived all over the world, in places I've never been, and you speak five languages, not counting English, and you can do accents so that it sounds like you're from anywhere. You were born in Georgia, in a suburb of Atlanta. You have no brothers or sisters that you know of, and you never met your father."

Chris was summoning all his memory, all his knowledge of his agent. He just let it flow, speaking as fast as he could.

"Your mother was on her fourth husband at last count, and that's when you came back to the States for college. You have a degree in psychology, but what nobody else knows is that your minor was in music. You sing when you think no one can hear you, and you play the piano by ear. I've heard you at the saloon when you think you're alone. I've stood there and listened to you play the most amazing things that you just make up. And you always have a snifter of brandy beside you, and half the time you close your eyes when you play, and you play with such, I don't know, such pathos. It's heart-breaking. And you remember everything you read. You know poetry, especially French, and you know everything Shakespeare ever wrote, and you don't quote it to be a snob. You quote it because it moves you and you know that those people said it better than even you could, as hard as that is to believe."

"Chris, he says he's gonna shoot each of my arms and legs one at a time until he gets what he wants! Just leave!"

But Chris didn't listen, he kept talking, as though his force of will could make this happen.

"Ezra, your reports read like prose, and you always turn them in on time. You help Vin with his because his grammar is like a sixth grader's, only I'm not supposed to know you help him, because he's ashamed of his poor education. And I heard you tell him that it was okay because you had more than enough education to go around. But that's not even the real reason, Ezra. Goddamnit, you have more than enough heart to go around. And you let people break it, like your mother and Johnny Parillo and me, and you never show it. You care so Goddamn much about everything and never ever pretend that you do."

Chris forced himself to keep going, forced his own quavering voice to hold steady.

"Even little things, like, like the way you keep the break room stocked with ant-acids and aspirin because you know I eat both by the handful, and with real cream because you know Josiah likes it in his coffee, and you, you ... You always step in and cut Buck down with some terribly witty counter-remark when he's said something that actually upsets JD, only JD won't ever let on. I think he got that from you. You love opera, but you don't like Wagner. You love jazz, but not Miles Davis. You learned how to tango in Argentina for God's sake, and you learned how to ski in the Alps, and you only buy olive oil from Sicily, and you only drink imported beer at room fucking temperature, but you have a secret weakness for greasy hamburgers at this tacky diner on 6^th Avenue and the Dulce de Leche cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory. God, Ezra, you have to remember. You have to see that I know you. I know you. Only not half as well as I want to."

Chris broke his monologue because his voice was cracking, and he felt more exhausted in this long-winded, one-sided conversation than he ever did running down criminals on foot, or engaging them in man-to-man combat.

"Go on, Chris." Josiah saw him lean over and brace his hands on a desk like he needed the support. "You're doing good, Chris, keep talking."

The startling, explosive report of a gun shot rang out, echoing in the silence, and JD could be heard fighting back a cry of pain. "How many limbs are you willing to sacrifice, Mr. Larabee, before I get what I want?"

"Ezra, Jesus fucking Christ, Ezra, you don't want to do this!" Chris had almost bolted for the office door, had stopped half way, and was standing with his fists clenched tight, arms petrified at his sides.

"Yes, actually, I think that I do."

"No. No, you don't. It's not you. You would never hurt him and you know it. You would die first. I've seen you, I've seen you when you think that one of us is hurt. You try to hide it and you can't. The others think that you don't care, or think that you don't want to stick around at the hospital or at the scene. But I know it's because you're practically sick you're so worried, and you can't stand to see other people in pain. It's your weakness, and I don't know how you do your job with what you have to see, but you can't stand to see other people hurt. It eats you up. And you just let it eat you up. You never let it out, and you never let anyone in. You'll never forgive yourself when you realize that you've just shot the kid we all look on as a little brother. He loves you. He's not your enemy, and Goddamnit neither am I. You can't do this, you can't do this ..."

Chris' lost his voice as tears finally broke free. He didn't know if he could go on; this wasn't working; he hadn't cried in years. He hadn't cried since ...

"Ezra, do you remember a year ago last August, the anniversary of Sarah and Adam's deaths. I didn't come to work and Buck couldn't find me. He was on 'Larabee watch,' although he doesn't know that I know he calls it that. But he couldn't find me, and you did. I don't know how you knew where I was, and at the time I was too drunk to ask, but not drunk enough to forget what you said. I still remember you."

God, Chris remembered him.

"You sat down next to me, right on the ground, and you didn't even say a thing about getting dirt your million dollar slacks, and you sat down and didn't say anything for the longest time. And I told you to leave, that I didn't want you there, that you were the very last person I wanted to fucking see. And you know what you said? You told me that you thought Sarah and Adam were the last people I would want to see, the way I was trashing their memories by trashing my own life, and that it was such a shame that I hated them enough not to let them go. That they'd feel a lot better if I could let them enjoy Heaven in stead of bringing them into my own Hell."

Chris laughed, then, stopped talking and let out a genuine laugh even as tears were streaming down his face.

"And then you got up and dusted yourself off, like you were dusting me off too. You gave me this look, this disgusted, revolted look like you couldn't stand the sight of me, and you left. You just left me sitting there with my misery and I bawled my eyes out. I cried like I didn't even let myself cry when I buried them."

Like he was crying now, trying, trying desperately - God, he didn't want to lose him again.

"And I never thanked you, Ezra Percival Standish, I never thanked you for that day. I went home that night and I aired out Adam's room, and I made his little bed, and put away all his little toys, still out, still sitting there on the floor where he left them collecting dust. And I washed Sarah's grocery list off the chalkboard in the kitchen, and put away her running shoes that were still sitting in the washroom by the back door, and I boxed up her letters and her earrings she had taken off that day, and the stupid book she was reading that had been sitting in the den for four fucking years."

Four years. All that time. All that pain.

"She said that she was just gonna run some errands with Adam and be right back. And you know what - you brought her back to me, you stupid, motherless, arrogant, effete, beautiful son of a bitch. You brought them back so I could finally let them go. And I never told you and I never thanked you, and I never got drunk like that again, not until the day I thought you died."

Chris' hectic words were speeding out of his mouth in one huge, run-on sentence. He didn't even stop as he hiccupped, as he cried, didn't even stop to wipe his eyes.

"You died and I never got to tell you goodbye. You died and I never got to tell you anything I wanted to say. And I don't mean all the shit we said in your town house that night, trying like hell to convince each other that we could never work. You and me. Us. We had a conversation there in your living room, and we talked about your antique clock, the clock Maude gave you. We talked about your childhood. We talked about us. You and I ... We listed all the things that annoy the crap out of us, about each other. We talked and laughed about how we'd end up shooting each other before a week was out. We agreed it would never work. I can't give you what you need, and you won't let me have what I want. Only ..."

"Chris, he says he's gonna shoot me again! Please, you have to leave. You have to get out of here before it's too late and none of you will be able to!"

"No, Ezra, please, listen to me, please."

Chris walked until he was nearly standing in the doorway, but was still shouting, looking at the ceiling and desperately calling to the other side of the door.

"If this is the only chance I'm gonna have, then you have to let me have it. Let me have this one fucking chance to talk to you! That's all I wanted was a chance, all this time, that's all I've wanted and you told me that it wasn't worth it. You told me that you're not worth it. And that's bullshit, Ezra, that's a lie you tell yourself to keep everyone else at bay. You only care and won't let yourself be cared for, and you even try to hide that! You told me that you would be willing to love me despite all my obvious and monumental flaws, but that you wouldn't risk letting me love you because you'd only let me down. But you never have. Goddamnit, Ezra, you never have. It isn't even possible!"

He stopped on another breathless laugh. His tears were drying, and he kept spitting out his words so fast they were almost hard to understand.

"You're so fucking perfect in every single fucking thing you do, and you only see the imperfections. You work harder than anyone I know, and you never give yourself a break. You feel responsible for everything and everyone in every situation and you take risks that drive me out of my mind! You told me you'd always be there for me, just not in the way that I want. And you always are there, for everyone, all the time, only in ways we don't ever notice. You watch our backs, but you never let us watch yours. That's the last thing I said to you, on the phone, I told you to watch your back. And then I hung up the phone before I could tell you I'm sorry, that I'm sorry for being such a die-hard, world-class asshole, before I could tell you that I was worried sick because you had to go undercover again so soon, before I could tell you that until the day you came home safe, I would lie awake at night wondering where you were and what you were doing, and if you were safe, and dying to hear your voice. I never once told you what you really mean to me. And I ..."

"Chris, Chris, get Nathan!" Loud crashing sounds were coming from the office, along with JD's hyper-active little voice, shrill and frightened. "Get Nathan in here. Ezra just collapsed!"

Without thinking, Chris burst through the door to find JD hurling himself against a wall in an effort to break his chair apart. Ezra looked awake but not really conscious, slumped in a corner beneath the windows. His gun was still in his hand, but he wasn't holding it; it just lay against his lap.

"Chris, Chris, get Nathan." JD stopped pummeling himself and dropped awkwardly to the ground, pieces of chair still attached to him with duct tape. But Chris didn't need to leave the room. The rest of the team came bolting in, guns drawn, Buck running to JD, Nathan kneeling next to Ezra.

Chris was shivering, standing in the middle of the room shivering as though cold, his tear-streaked face drawn and tight, eyes heavy and shrouded. Josiah laid a hand at the small of his back, and stood next to him, reassuring him with words that Chris didn't really hear. He was trying to calm down, trying to fight back the urge to beat on someone in the room, just because he needed to.

He was trying not to start crying again. Too relieved and too frightened and too exhausted, he just stood there and let other people handle things for a minute. Just a minute until he could feel sane again.

He felt drained. He wasn't even angry anymore, at anything. Just tired.

Buck cut all the duct tape off of JD and stood him up, grabbing him in a bear-hug that lifted him off the floor. "God, damn, I thought we'd lose you. I ... God ..."

JD held on to Buck just as tight, until he was finally let down, and then he tried to tell everyone everything at once. "He held his head and staggered back against the wall when you said the thing about watching his back, and he fell down, and I'm just shot in the arm, except that my head's busted too, but I'll be fine, and we have to get out of here right now, he called Trainer to come here too."

"I think he's gonna be okay, Chris. He's just in shock." Nathan was taking his pulse and lifting his eyelids, trying to determine level of consciousness.

Ezra was conscious, though he sorely wished to be otherwise. It was sickening, the full horror of what he had done and what he might have done that came crashing down on him. Watch your back. He heard the words and staggered back as though stuck - stricken dumb and blind - memories pouring over him like water breaching a dam.

All the walls fell, and Ezra was inundated. He collapsed beneath the windows in the corner, pain both physical and emotional sucking the air out of his lungs.

Chris was right. He would never forgive himself.

"Chris, we have to leave. We have to get the briefcase and get out of here." JD had crossed the room to him and was trying to get his attention. Chris seemed as spaced out as Ezra, just staring off in that direction and not doing much except shaking a whole lot. "That's what I was trying to tell you about the Vasquez case. Remember that last bust was a set up, and so is this."

"Shit, pard." Buck was at the office windows, peering through the blinds. "We've got company."

"Damnit, guys, why couldn't you just leave when I told you to!"

"Give it a rest, JD. I count nine, Josiah. Nate, is he in any condition to be moved?"

"Who died and put you in charge?" Chris was back among the living now, or at least among the lucid, and he was wiping his face dry, feeling past his Kevlar for - "My guns. My guns are out there. So is the briefcase." He moved faster than he thought he could just then, dashing out into the main room and grabbing both his guns and the case, right as footsteps started to sound on the stairs below. He ran back to the corner office and shut the door, locking it as though that would keep out men with automatic weapons. "We're gonna have to make our stand here, boys, unless any of you have a better idea."

"Mr. Larabee." Everybody in the room whipped around at that. "That door there leads to the roof. You, we, someone can jump to the next rooftop with relative ease. I don't know if I can manage it, but frankly I don't care. The rest of you need to leave while you can."

Before Chris could formulate a response, JD was in Ezra's face, grabbing him by his shirt collar. "If you think for one fucking minute that I'm gonna let you shoot me and get away with it, you've got another think coming. You're gonna live through this just so I get to enjoy watching Chris punish you, that is if Buck doesn't beat you to death first. Do you understand me?!"

Weakly, Ezra managed a smile and reached out to cup JD's cheek with a clammy hand. "I understand you perfectly, JD, and I will gladly let you shoot me in return if we make it out of here alive."

"JD, go with Buck. How's your arm?"

"I'll live."

"Then go with Buck. And Nathan, you go with them. Go up and onto the roof and come around from behind. We'll hem these bastards in. Shit!"

Gun fire exploded all around them, and they dropped to the floor, crawling into a mass huddle behind the desk in the middle of the room. All except Ezra that is, who stayed slouched in the corner, paying no heed to the hailstorm of bullets breaking through the thin outer wall of the office. Glass shattered above them and rained down on their backs as the windows were shot out above their heads. Chris waited about three seconds before breaking cover and dragging Ezra back behind the desk.

"Wait for them to reload, then we'll cover you," he said to Buck. Then he glared down at the man he was still crushing in his arms. "And you, you and I are gonna have to have another little chat about your worth on this team, and how after all I've been through, if I wanted you dead, I'd shoot you myself."

"Your concern is overwhelming, Mr. Larabee." Ezra was still dazed, and his vision was horribly out of focus again. His head was pounding so hard he thought he would be ill; his stomach bubbled and objected loudly.

Chris snorted a laugh and motioned for the others to go, he and Josiah laying down a healthy round of cover fire through the swiss-cheesed outer wall of the office. "Ezra, have I ever told you exactly how much I hate you?" Sarcastic and jovial at worst, his words were punctuated, perhaps even highlighted, by his emptying his clips and loading fresh ones.

"Yes I believe you've mentioned it upon occasion. And I hate you too. More than I have words to say."

"Good. Just so we understand one another." Chris was grinning from ear to ear, rather maniacally. "And don't forget it cause I hate to repeat myself."

"Apparently I am unable to forget it, even when I have forgotten all else."

Chris didn't want to think about how warm that statement made him, how deliriously glad he was to have this infuriating, frustrating, gorgeous man back at his side. "You wanna get off your ass, princess, and help us kill these bastards?"

"My pleasure, sir." Princess was a new one. And Ezra, naturally, would have to make him pay for it later.

Josiah was wearing a smile of his own, listening to the two of them, figuring that that was about as close either of them would ever get to a declaration of love. Whatever works. "Chris, Ez, if we scoot this desk up to the door, we can fire over it and through the leg space here, and maybe we'll have a chance of actually hitting something."

"Sounds like a plan." Better than any Chris could come up with right then. "How will we break a hole in the door?"

"Leave that to me." At that, Josiah drew out what could only be described as a hand canon, and smiled a terrifyingly cheery smile.

"On three," Ezra offered with a little shrug.

"Sounds like a plan. One ... two ... three."

They shoved the desk as close to the door as they could, swearing at all the gunfire being lobbed their direction. Josiah lay down on his belly underneath the crawl space of the desk, and fired his enormous gun at the base of the door, which burst outward in a number of pieces. There were shouts of anger and cries of pain, and he crawled backwards to relative safety still wearing his grin. A grin that only widened as he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out two hand grenades. T

he look on Chris' face was one of 'where the hell did you get those, ' but Ezra sighed and said, "God Bless Buck Wilmington."

With a mischievous wiggle of eyebrows, Josiah pulled the pins and propelled the hand grenades under the desk and out the hole in the door. Dismayed cries of terror preceded the detonation, the force of which broke the rest of the windows in their office and rattled what was left of the wall.

Without warning, Ezra chose that moment to slide over the top of the desk and kick open the office door, of all inexplicable things, and empty his gun into whatever men had outlived the grenade blast and were sprawled around on the floor. He somersaulted back off the desk with his gun was empty and landed uncomfortably on his rear end as his feet slid out from under him.

"I know, I know," he tossed out at Chris upon landing, seeing the threat of dire retribution on his face, "You can shoot me later."

Other shots were fired outside the office, but none further were aimed at them. After a minute or two - at that point, who could keep track of time - Buck's voice could be clearly heard. "We got 'em Chris. We got 'em. We've even got Trainer outside in his car. JD and Nathan have him. The kid's got grit, I'll give you that. He actually knocked him out with his gun. And I don't know how many times I've told him that it'll cause a misfire, but I think he's picking up bad habits from Ezra. What do you think?"

Buck's rascally face appeared then above them in the doorway. He was leaning over the desk, smiling wide, acting like he always acted when a plan comes together and everybody comes out alive. Everybody they care about anyway.

"You boys can come out now. Nice ta have ya back, Ez. I'm gonna call the DPD and call Travis and get an ambulance down here. Two ambulances. Looks like Vin's gonna have some company for a day or two at least." And with a wink he strode off towards the stairs, stepping over the bodies and leaving his three friends sitting with their backs to the desk, leaning against one another and breathing hard.

If Josiah noticed that Chris and Ezra had their eyes closed, he didn't say anything. And if he noticed that they were holding hands, he pretended not to, slowly getting up, turning his back on them and clamoring over the desk with a casual, "I'm gonna go see if I can help Buck."

+ + + + + + +

Chris and Ezra sat in silence for quite some time, just breathing. When Chris did speak, it wasn't more than a whisper, as though he either didn't have the energy for anything louder, or maybe just wanted it to be between them.

"I meant what I said."

"Which part? Or just all of it in general?"

"All of it. But specifically you and I are gonna have to have that little talk again."

"Oh excellent, for I always look forward to our conversations with relish."

"You are an insufferable little bastard, you know that?" Chris squeezed his hand and moved it to his lap. Just for safe keeping.

"I've learned from the best, Mr. Larabee."

"I guess you have, at that. I'm known for being a role model to so many."

"Terrifying as that is." Ezra leaned a little closer, turning his head into Chris' shoulder and letting himself form a memory of what that felt like. Lest he should forget.

"Would you have really killed him, in here?"

"I don't know. I hope not." He shuddered at that, and swallowed convulsively. "I suppose I've earned myself a very long vacation and a thousand or so hours of therapy."

"You could bet your ass on that." Not that Ezra would ever gamble something so valuable. "You know he already forgives you. He doesn't have it in him to hate you for this."

"I know. I do enough of that for ... everyone." Ezra gulped back his tears, not really having the strength to contain them, but giving it an effort nonetheless.

"We need to work on that, you know."

"This will never work, you know."

"Yeah, I know." And Chris did know. But maybe, right then, they could pretend for just a little while.

They could hold hands and sit on the edge of ruin, and try to remember the last time anything felt this good. It could be just him and Ezra, and nine dead bodies. And about three hundred rounds of spent ammo.

"At least I got the chance to thank you, finally. Got the chance to, well, you heard it."

Ezra chuckled softly, his shoulders hitching with either that or tears. Chris couldn't tell; his eyes were still closed. "You never did say the words, you realize," Ezra told him. "You never actually thanked me."

"Yeah." Chris turned his face far enough to press a kiss to the top of Ezra's head. "Well, don't hold your breath."

"I do that every time you walk in a room, Mr. Larabee."

"Ouch. That's a low blow, Ez."

"Anything worth fighting for is worth fighting dirty for, Chris."

"You just make that up?"

"Yes."

Ezra was smiling now, Chris was sure of it. He could actually hear it when Ezra smiled. "All's fair in ... how's it go?"

"War, Chris." He raised his face until his lips met with skin, somewhere along the neckline.

"Just war."

Another long pause stretched between them as they listened to the activity below, the sirens, the voices, and they just sat there, out of sight, out of both their minds, not caring if anyone ever found them.

Chris stared at their hands, still clasped in his lap, and looked up at the moon coming in through the broken windows, and then looked down to the floor beside them at the glass-covered briefcase. They never had found what they thought was a key; maybe Ezra would recognize it. "I still have something that belongs to you, you know. Do you still want it?"

Ezra just smiled. No, whatever it was, Chris could keep it. His hand, his gun, the briefcase. His heart. So he just shook his head. And smiled.

This was nice.

+ + + + + + +

It was funny later, thinking back on it.

Josiah joined the rest of the team outside the Packing Company, reading Trainer his rights, dealing with the police, getting Trainer and his bodyguard into a squad car, getting JD into an ambulance, filling out reports. And no one saw either Chris or Ezra for nearly twenty minutes. No one even asked. And if anybody noticed they were still holding hands when they came down, they didn't mentioned it.

As far as Josiah was concerned, it was about damn time Chris finally allowed himself to be happy. Whatever works. He sent a little prayer of thanks into the evening sky, took off his vest, and then went back upstairs to get the briefcase.

They didn't want to forget that.

The End

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