This fic ran into the sand *ages* ago, then was resurrected by, of all things, a song I heard on the radio!!! It would however, have remained firmly 'sand-locked' were it not for the patience and expertise of the wonderful SueN, who has proved what a fantastic writer and an even more fantastic friend she is by beta-ing this, the longest fic I have ever written, keeping my 'American' on track, my active voice in the right place and my rampant commas under control - a true star! {{{HUGS}}} pard!

Prologue

The sliding glass door opened noiselessly and the figure stepped through it, a momentary shiver passing through him at the rapid change of air temperature between the house and the wooden deck. He took a few barefoot steps forward and leaned on the waist-high cedar railing, bending slightly to rest his weight on his elbows, cradling the mug of coffee he was holding between both hands. The coffee was hot, the steam rising wraith-like into the cool air in front of his face, tangling briefly with the chestnut almost-curls that strayed over his forehead, before carrying the fragrant aroma of Costa Rican coffee beans into the dawn.

It was early - very early, the sky tinged pink and silver, the trees stark black silhouettes, every twig and leaf sharply defined against the pale backdrop. There was no sound at all; he was standing in those few minutes of breathless quiet just as dawn breaks, everything perfectly still and silent.

An empty stage waiting for the lights to go up, the performance to begin.

A faint breath of breeze broke the moment, and he realised he had been holding his breath. He inhaled - deeply, the chill morning air filling his lungs. The air smelled damp and fresh - clean - as if the world had been washed and brushed up overnight to emerge sparkling and revitalised for the new day. How did Mother Nature do that, he wondered? How did she, every night, take weary, grubby, tainted and tired yesterday, and perform some magic ritual in the hours of darkness so that the same place, the same world, emerged bright and freshly scrubbed the following morning? Yesterday's sins and hurts forgotten, yesterday's slate cleaned, the new day bright, innocent and optimistic.

The answer came to him in a flash.

Because Mother Nature had no memory - nothing to carry over from yesterday. No thoughts, no images of what had gone before, no emotional turmoil to carry through the night like an overfull cup that slipped and slopped its contents all over this brand new morning, staining it and spoiling it before it had hardly begun.

He was tired. The day hadn't even really begun yet and he was already weary of it, wanting nothing more than to return to his dishevelled bed, curl up between the crumpled sheets and wait for the blessed oblivion of sleep. Except that Morpheus had seen fit not to bestow that particular blessing on him last night and seemed no better disposed to doing so now. His tiredness was bone-deep, aching, heavy and sore, yet his mind raced and his head throbbed with the after-buzz of adrenaline that simply would not dissipate. A body that craved sleep and a mind totally unwilling to allow it, resulting in a futile battle within him that he no longer had the strength or will to keep fighting.

He put the coffee mug down on the flat top of the handrail and, using both hands, tightened the belt of the towelling robe he wore in an attempt to ward off the slight chill in the air. He felt the tremor rippling up his arms, the instinctive prickle of goose-flesh rising, and clenched his teeth.

It was cold, that was all. Just cold.

The tremor gained force, growing in strength, spreading to his fingers, trickling down his spine. He shuddered and closed his eyes, letting his body ride out the unpleasant sensation with as little resistance as possible.

After a few seconds the shivering subsided, and he let out the breath he had been holding from between gritted teeth.

It was the cold air, that was all.

He picked up the coffee mug again, wrapping its welcome warmth between his clammy palms, and lifted the mug to his lips.

The coffee was hot, black and very strong, the fragrance and intense rush of caffeine buzzing along his nerves as he took a mouthful. Screw it. If he wasn't going to get any sleep, he was damn well going to be properly awake.

His green eyes caught sight of the knuckles on his right hand as he lowered the mug again, and he froze in mid-action. The flesh was red, slightly swollen, with a faint purplish tinge across the back of his hand. A tiny scratch, almost invisible, ran across the base of his index finger - little more than a hairsbreadth wide. Almost insignificant blemishes - certainly not substantial enough to be classed as 'injuries', yet the sight of them caused his breath to freeze in his throat and his pulse rate to increase so rapidly that his head spun.

Just as if someone had thrown a switch, a horrible succession of images began flickering through his brain, like a movie playing to audience of one in his head, overwhelming him. He closed his eyes, trying to fend off the scenes filling his mind's eye. He began to shake again, tremors juddering along his muscles, uncontrollable, unstoppable.

Dark blue eyes silently screaming at him for help.

Fear burning along his nerves, nausea rocketing up his throat as he tried to quell the suffocating panic in his chest.

Blood trickling through a dark moustache and dripping in a steady rhythm onto the front of a blue shirt.

A grimy finger curled around a metal trigger, the muscles closing, contracting...

The gun pointing slightly downwards, aiming straight ...

NO!!!!

The coffee mug shook violently, the black liquid slopping over its rim, falling unseen and unfelt onto the back of his hand, down the front of the robe and onto the wooden decking, staining the bright new morning with dark drops of yesterday.

Brilliant sunlight winked between the buildings as Ezra Standish's sleek Jaguar cruised slowly along the road that led to Buck Wilmington's home. The flashes of light strobed uncomfortably in the corner of his left eye, making him blink rapidly and forcing him to concentrate harder on driving. He turned left onto Buck's street and pulled to a smooth halt beside the curb outside the familiar house. He was about to sound the horn to inform Buck of his presence, but thought better of it for a moment and simply sat, hands resting comfortably on the steering wheel, staring out of the windshield at nothing in particular.

Get it together, Ezra, he told himself. Concentrate.

His head throbbed a little, nowhere near enough to be deemed a hangover but enough to warn him to focus carefully before he saw Buck this morning. Especially after last night. He raised his eyes to the rear-view mirror.

"You almost blew it last night, Standish, you know that, don't you?" he said to the slightly bleary-eyed reflection.

It had been close. Too damn close. A long breath escaped him and he almost groaned.

It had all started out so normally, so innocently. The team had met, as usual, for a drink at Inez's Saloon. Ezra had been slightly delayed, following a small celebration held by Team 9 for a successful bust that he had been part of. He hadn't really contributed anything much, save some small snippets of information that he had gleaned whilst undercover some months previously, but the team had invited him to their "post-bust bash" and he had gone along to be sociable. A couple of glasses of wine, three at the most, was all he had consumed before making his excuses and leaving the jubilant members of Team 9 to their well-deserved party. By the time he had arrived at Inez's, the other members of Team 7 were all there and two drinks were waiting for him on the table before the one remaining unoccupied chair at their usual table.

The one empty chair.

Next to Buck.

His instinctive "undercover" face had slammed down like a guillotine blade and Ezra had sunk into the chair, his heart thumping too loudly in his chest and a silent incantation of gratitude whispering in his mind for the fact he did not possess the gene that made one blush.

Buck had been regaling the others with yet another of his countless stories, his expressive hand gestures and mobile eyebrows making everyone laugh.

Ezra had sat down and tried to concentrate on the story.

The two, or had it been three, glasses of wine had conspired with his empty stomach however, and instead of listening to Buck's words, he had found himself watching the midnight eyes dance with laughter and listening to the voice that seemed to seep through him like warm honey, pooling in the centre of his chest, hot and soft, making his heart beat faster. He had allowed himself the guilty pleasure of just feeling for a few minutes, allowing the sensations to slip beneath his carefully constructed persona of casual indifference, fill his senses. The effect had been all the more powerful because it was, in Ezra's mind at least, so totally forbidden. He had breathed in, the familiar scent of Buck's spicy aftershave swimming around in his head. He had watched the expressions and emotions register on that dark, handsome face, watched the long limbs effortlessly and unconsciously punctuating the words spoken by that hypnotic voice, and allowed his imagination to run riot. His nerves were reverberating with tension, he fancied that even through two jacket sleeves he could feel the heat radiating off the body next to him. He luxuriated in it.

You okay, Ez? Vin Tanner's voice had shattered his guilty enjoyment, spearing into his conscious mind like a bucket of iced water tipped over him, making him jump.

Yes, of course! He had answered quickly, a little too quickly - he had seen the consternation register on Vin's face, the creasing of the forehead as Vin's shrewd blue eyes looked at him. Why on earth shouldn't I be?

Vin had shrugged. Ya looked a li'l strange...

Goddamn Vin Tanner and those sharp eyes of his! Vin had caught him! The only saving grace was that Vin was unaware of precisely what he had caught. He continued to regard Ezra with a slightly quizzical expression, as if trying to work out what it was Ezra was lying about, and why. Ezra had had to concentrate hard to prevent himself from squirming with discomfort and embarrassment.

Too close. Much too close. He was going to have to be more careful. No, he silently commanded himself in the mirror, not more careful, he was going to have to stop. It was futile anyway, he told himself, this ridiculous imagining he allowed himself to indulge in - and far, far too risky. For perhaps the first time in his life he was, almost, content - he had a job he enjoyed and was good at, colleagues who were reliable, loyal and who, wonders would never cease, actually trusted him. For the first time in his life he had... friends.

There was too much at stake here, too much to lose.

To put that at risk for the vagaries of a totally unvoiced and unrequited physical attraction was at best completely stupid, and at worst incredibly dangerous.

Buck Wilmington had never shown the slightest inclination in that direction. Indeed, his reputation as the Don Juan of Denver was notorious and an image he appeared to revel in, regaling them at every opportunity with colourful and, frankly, at times unbelievable, tales of his "encounters". Oh, but that man could tell a tale, Ezra smiled. He had a voice that could charm the birds out of the trees, a laugh that was more infectious than a common cold, and a way with words that had to be heard to be believed. Team those with a pair of devastating dark blue eyes and a smile that could render any female within sight utterly helpless, and there you had Buck.

Ezra had already lectured himself on the inappropriateness and downright stupidity of physical attraction. The dangers of obeying one's body instead of one's mind. That road was clearly marked "catastrophe" and was to be avoided at all costs. Particularly when the individual was one of the few people he had ever been able to call a friend.

But that didn't stop him wanting.

He just had to work harder at hiding it. No matter; hiding the truth of who he was, what he felt, came naturally to him. It was part of his job after all, and he was damn good at it.

The sudden banging of the front door of the townhouse bought Ezra sharply back into the present. He watched as the long, lithe form loped easily down the steps, grinning warmly, his jacket hooked by one finger over his left shoulder.

"Mornin', Slick!" Wilmington grinned, opening the passenger door of the Jag and folding his long frame easily into the seat beside Ezra.

"Good morning, Mr Wilmington, and my name is Ezra."

Buck winked at him. "No kiddin'! Well, when you stop calling me 'Mr Wilmington', I'll stop calling you 'Slick' - okay?"

"I should have let you walk to work."

Buck beamed. "But ya didn't, did ya?" He clapped a hand on Ezra's shoulder. "The generous side of your nature got the better of you!"

Ezra felt the warmth of Buck's grip through his summer weight jacket and shirt, the warmth that felt as if it were burning his skin, and tried to ignore the skip in his pulse.

"I do not have a 'generous' side to my nature and, please be assured, even if I did, I would most certainly never allow it to get the better of me," he said, raising his eyebrows at Buck's broadly smiling face.

"Can't fool me, Slick," Buck said with another wink, "I can see straight through that cool exterior of yours... I know all your secrets!"

Ezra shook his head, smiling at the lanky agent. Thank God you don't, he thought silently. "I will drop you off at the office first, then I have some business to attend to at the bank. I have informed Mr Larabee, but it shouldn't take me more than half an hour at the most, so I doubt I will be late," Ezra said as the car pulled away.

Buck frowned. "Hell, Ezra, you should have said you were busy this mornin'. I could've bummed a ride off one of the others."

"No need, you're on my way into the city anyway."

"But if you drop me off first, you'll be going out of your way," Buck said thoughtfully. "Tell you what! I'll come with you to the bank. That way you won't have to go to the office twice!"

"I don't mind. It's no trouble."

Buck shook his head. "Nope, it's stupid to fight your way through the traffic when there's no need. I'll just wait for you to do whatever you need to do at the bank, then we'll go in together. How's that sound?"

Ezra nodded. "As you wish. It really shouldn't take long. I simply have to check some dates on some of Mother's stock certificates at the bank. It only requires a few moments checking through the safety deposit box."

"That where you stash all your ill-gotten gains then? In a safety deposit box?"

"No, but it's where Mother 'stashes' hers. I simply use it to store my smuggled firearms and gold bullion," Standish replied with a flash of a gold-toothed smile.

The Denver branch of the TransContinental Bank was busy, the first rush of customers trying to transact their business and still get to their offices on time, as Buck and Ezra stepped through the wide glass doors into the banking hall.

Nearly all the tellers' positions were open, and other customers were standing at the waist high writing tables that surrounded the imposing marble pillars of the establishment, filling in credit slips or checking papers.

Ezra made a bee-line for a small office at the rear of the cavernous banking hall. "I'll try not to be too long," he said. "I suppose it will depend how swiftly they can get the box up here."

Buck waved him off. "Don't worry," he said, settling into one of the waiting chairs, "I'll just sit here and watch the world go by." He winked, indicating a pretty blonde teller who would be directly in his line of sight, and Ezra rolled his eyes.

"Try not to get into any trouble."

Buck looked affronted. "Me? What kind of trouble could I possibly get into sitting in a chair?"

"The permutations of that suggestion leave me almost breathless," Ezra said as he strode off towards the closed office door.

Neil Sleeman's grey eyes watched Ezra and Buck walk through the banking hall on the closed circuit tv monitor mounted high on the wall in the corner of his office. He rose from his chair, a tall, imposing figure swathed in a charcoal suit and pale blue shirt and tie. Timing his walk across the carpeted floor, he opened the door when Ezra was precisely two strides from it.

"Agent Standish!" Sleeman said with a broad, ingratiating grin as he extended a hand. "How nice to see you again."

Ezra returned the slightly damp, slightly hot handshake with a completely counterfeit smile. He didn't care for Neil Sleeman in the least. In Standish's eyes the man was a typical banker-type, weak, watery and faintly repugnant, covered with a veneer of slightly insolent superiority. Ezra had often mused that Sleeman should have added a 'z' to his name between the 'e's' - 'Slezeman' would have fit the man like a well made suit.

"Mr. Sleeman," Ezra returned the greeting, "I trust you received my message?"

"Of course, Agent Standish. And how is your charming mother?"

Capable of eating you whole and spitting out your bones, Ezra wanted to say, but heard his own voice replying, "Quite well, thank you."

Sleeman returned to the far side of his desk. "Please, take a seat for a moment," he said, indicating the visitor's chair in front of the desk as he picked up the phone, "I'll have the box brought up directly."

Ezra sat, watching Sleeman punch in numbers on the phone keypad.

What's wrong with this picture? The words formed in Ezra's brain.

Something.

His acute sense of his surroundings, an almost unconscious ability he seemed to have been born with that gave him his own "radar", was telling him that there was something about this that didn't feel right. It was instinctive, almost animalistic, this intuition that had saved his hide on more than one occasion. Like a sixth sense that set off silent alarm bells almost at the edge of his consciousness.

He could hear them now, though.

What was it?

What had set off his intuitive warning system?

The almost silent background hum of the air conditioning registered in his brain and reminded him, almost comically, of wheels turning in his head.

Sleeman was saying something into the phone - the words did not register. Ezra looked at him.

Expensive shirt somewhat degraded by a cheap suit.

Blond hair, receding at the front, in need of a trim over his collar. Pallid skin, blotched here and there with faint red patches, dark circles smudging his cheekbones beneath pale grey eyes. Sweat beading his forehead, glistening on the thinner skin where his hair had once been.

A long finger hooked over the knot in his tie as he talked, easing the shirt collar away from his neck as if he were choking.

The shirt did not look too tight. His whole demeanour looked uncomfortable. Ezra frowned.

Sleeman replaced the telephone. "The box is on its way up, Agent Standish." He indicated an ante-room to the left of the main office door, "I can offer you a private, secure room here for your business."

Ezra nodded in agreement. "Thank you," he said, rising from the chair and following Sleeman to the small security office, "I should not be long. A few minutes at most. I simply need some confirmation of a few details."

Sleeman shook his head. "Please feel free to take as long as you wish."

The security room was small, windowless, but comfortable. Furnished with a large polished wood table and three chairs and supplied with a tray of the bank's stationery, pens and a calculator, it was functional rather than aesthetic, the plain walls and wooden door betraying nothing of their concealed strengthened interiors of metal rods and reinforced concrete. A plush safe. Ezra pushed aside the vague sense of claustrophobia he experienced on entering - windowless rooms always made him feel faintly breathless and constricted. He would only need a few minutes to check the dates on the stock certificates, then he could get out of here and get on with the day.

A knock on the main office door heralded the arrival of a securities clerk, accompanied by a guard, carrying the slim, rectangular metal box. Sleeman placed the box on the table in front of Ezra, handed Ezra the key to the room, then retreated back into his own office, closing the door behind him.

Ezra locked the door to the security room and retrieved the safety deposit box key from the bunch in his jacket pocket before sitting down.

High on the wall behind him, another closed circuit security monitor showed the banking hall and the front entrance to the bank.

As Ezra moved his hand to unlock and open the lid of the box, his nose wrinkled in distaste at the large, sweaty handprint Sleeman had left on the metal.

Unseen by Ezra, the monitor showed a dark vehicle pulling to a halt directly outside the doors. In stark black and white, like a scene from a movie, five figures exited the car and walked briskly in through the doors.

Ezra removed several sheets of paper from the box; the windowless, soundproofed room rendering him oblivious to events in the banking hall.

The five figures fanned out in a wide arc as they entered the building. They were all wearing long coats and Halloween masks, and carrying guns.

Buck was relaxing in the visitor's chair, amusing himself by making eyes at the blond teller who was pretending she hadn't noticed, but her furiously blushing fair cheeks told him otherwise.

He was relaxed, calm and vaguely bored. Banks were not the most exciting places to observe humanity and he found himself hoping Ezra wouldn't take too long.

He didn't see the car pull up outside. He didn't even notice the figures striding in through the glass doors.

It was the shouting that got his attention.

"Good morning, everybody!"

"Lock those doors - NOW!"

"Listen up, people!"

"Everyone on the floor - NOW!"

Then all hell broke loose.

With speed and assurance that spoke of hours of rehearsal, the gang of robbers split up and positioned themselves at strategic points throughout the large room.

"No heroes now. Everyone do exactly as they're told and you'll all have a story to tell your grandchildren!"

Loud, authoritative voices without a hint of panic in them.

Adrenaline roared through Buck's system, flooding his brain with a clarity that seemed to reduce everything to a painful slow-motion. Years of training had schooled his instinctive reactions into a defined pattern and, without any conscious thought on his own part, his eyes and ears began taking everything in and processing the information with lightning speed.

He became aware of a lot of things all happening at once. Several of the women screamed. One of the robbers, wearing a long dark coat and a vampire mask, jumped onto the counter and raised the gun, swivelling around in a tight circle to demonstrate he could cover the entire room.

Buck realised instantly that these guys were no opportunistic amateurs. In what seemed like a split second, they had secured and covered everyone in the room with a skill that hinted strongly at military or government training.

In different circumstances, he could easily imagine his own team using similar tactics to control a room.

"Everyone down! Flat on the floor!! NOW!!" A white mackintosh and a ghost mask, positioned towards the front door, left the bank's customers in no doubt as to who was in charge here.

Two of the gang, ghost and a shorter man wearing a grotesque clown mask, watched the customers, most of whom were attempting to comply with the instruction.

Another gang member in a Frankenstein mask was aiming carefully at the line of tellers, his gun panning evenly from one to the next.

A tall, very slim one wearing a witch mask had vaulted the counter and was cramming a holdall with the contents of the teller's cash drawers, ramming the cash into the canvas bag with amazing speed and dexterity.

The last gang member - Vampire - was still standing on top of the counter, overseeing the whole operation.

As he lowered himself to the floor, Buck considered his options.

There were not too many to choose from.

There was no way he could draw his weapon without being seen. He and the bank security guards, most of whom were rent-a-cops with poor training at best, were the only people in the room he was sure were armed. His eyes flicked around, trying to see how many guards were in the banking hall. One by the door - they had passed him on the way in. At least one, maybe two, in the hall itself. One federal agent and two or three security guards whose abilities and training were unknown to him was not a particularly attractive option. More like suicide.

Ezra was in an office at the rear of the banking hall, probably oblivious to all of this.

Without a doubt the bank would have a discreet alarm system which, hopefully, had been triggered by now. That meant the cavalry would be screaming in shortly - a fact that Buck was certain the robbers were aware of.

As if by telepathy, Vampire shouted, "Time, Casper??"

"One-oh-nine," the ghost shouted back immediately.

Buck's mind was whirling. These guys were timing their operation down to the second. They were going to be out and gone before the cops arrived.

Realising that any attempt at foiling the robbery was futile, and would make an already potentially dangerous situation lethal, Buck opted for close observation of the gang, studying their sizes, shapes, hand movements - anything that might help put together a profile of these men. Fear makes fools out of people, and Buck knew most of the customers' recollections would be hazy and inaccurate when it came to witness statements. A body's natural instinct is self-preservation, a brain shuts down all non-essential systems when threatened and shocked. Buck's training had transformed that fear and shock into useful, focused attention. He may not be able to stop them, but he could sure as hell study them.

Five of them. Vampire, witch, clown, ghost and Frankenstein.

The full head masks and long coats made physical characteristics impossible to determine, but he could see clearly that Vampire had grimy hands, ingrained with what could be motor oil or grease - something normal washing obviously couldn't remove. He wasn't particularly tall, and wore old athletic shoes and Levi's under the long coat. Broad shouldered with a loud voice. A mechanic, maybe, or an engineer?

The witch who was emptying the cash drawers was half-hidden from Buck's field of view by the counter and the fact that Wilmington was laying on the floor, but Buck would have bet a month's wages that the guy was wearing gloves - he had vaulted over the counter and this gang were too well organised to go leaving anything as useful as a hand-print around. Much taller and slimmer than Vampire, Buck's gut feeling was that this guy was younger.

By turning his head slightly, he could see the feet of the ghost, nearest to him, one of the two gang members guarding the bank's customers. The feet told him little. Jeans and store-bought Nike trainers, looked new, no helpful stains or other clues.

Clown was behind him, out of his field of vision. That left Frankenstein, whose role appeared to be threatening the bank staff. From his semi-prone position, Buck had a reasonable view of him - albeit mostly from the back - but Wilmington could clearly see the ends of a long ponytail hanging out from under the back edge of the mask. The hair was dark - very dark, and straight as an arrow. The guy was fairly short, and even swathed in the disguise, obviously slim and slightly built. Latin, maybe? Buck made a fast mental note to try and catch the guy's accent if he spoke again.

Without drawing attention to himself, Buck tried to change his position to get a view of the one gang member he could not see. He had begun to turn to the right, twisting his long body slowly on the tiled floor so as not to attract attention, when he caught sight of something else. The bank security guard positioned by the front entrance was trying to draw his weapon.

Buck wanted to scream at him - NO!!! It was an impossible position to fire from - the guard had no cover, and was unsighted for at least two of the gang members. It was suicide. Before Buck could respond or react, the guard moved with surprising speed up onto his knees, raised his weapon and fired at Frankenstein, catching him in the right shoulder and spinning him around.

That single shot drew three in response, the first, from Vampire, hitting the guard in the centre of his chest and throwing him backwards, the next two, fired in rapid succession from gang members Buck could not identify fast enough, thudded into the guard only inches away from the first, blood blossoming on the front of his blue shirt like a macabre flower. The guard was dead before his body stopped sliding down the wall, leaving a ghastly trail of vertical red smears in its wake.

Muffled screams and sobs could be heard from the terrified customers, and Buck realised with a renewed surge of adrenaline that the whole situation had changed in a split second. A chill crept through his stomach like cold water.

An already dangerous situation had become lethal.

The bank robbers were now murderers.

The soundproofing in the security room was sufficient to subdue most of the noise from outside, but the decibel rating of four shots speared into Ezra's consciousness like a pin through a balloon.

Instantly alert, Ezra reacted in the same instinctive manner that Buck had, his head swivelling, right hand drawing his weapon, his body coiling into a low crouch as he moved to the other side of the table. His eyes caught the security monitor and he took in the stark, monochrome scene. He could not see the tellers, but he could see the front section of the banking hall and the entrance. He could also see the body of the security guard slumped against the wall and several customers huddled together as they lay on the floor. With a sharp twinge of fear, he realised he could not see Buck; the chair where he had left his friend was outside the view field of the camera. He could see a figure wearing a clown mask and aiming a gun at something off to the left of the camera; another figure, wearing what appeared to be a Frankenstein mask, was scrambling to his feet, pawing at his right shoulder awkwardly with a left arm that still held a gun. The dark stain spreading on his coat clearly indicated that he had been injured. Two of them? More? Almost certainly more, Ezra decided swiftly. There had been four shots, but the only obvious casualties were the body slumped against the wall near the entrance and the gunman with the injured shoulder.

He had to get out there. He had to know where Buck was.

Ignoring the light-headedness of the adrenaline rush, Ezra slipped easily and with no conscious effort into the behaviour of years of training. Silently praying that his cell phone would work inside this concrete tomb, he swiftly keyed in the emergency response number. He knew that no-one would answer, but the ATF would know that they had an agent in trouble - the rest they would have to work out for themselves.

Switching the gun to his left hand, he retrieved the key to the door of the security room from the table top and edged closer to the locked door. He listened carefully, but could not detect any sounds from Sleeman's office. He pushed the key into the lock, frowning when he realised it would not fit. He knew it was the right key - it was the same one he had locked the door with only a few minutes previously.

Squatting down to peer into the keyhole, Ezra realised that the reason his key would not fit was that another key had been placed in the lock from the other side - effectively blocking the keyhole.

Who? Why?

Suddenly, like the final piece of the jigsaw clicking into place, the nagging something that had been edging at the corners of his mind came into clear, vivid focus. The series of seemingly unconnected flashes of disturbed thought suddenly clicked together to make coherent, and frightening, sense.

Sleeman.

The air conditioning in his office had been working efficiently, yet the man had been sweating - his face red, his hand working at the collar of his shirt.

Fear makes you sweat, Ezra knew that to be true, and Sleeman had been sweating enough to leave a wet handprint on the security box. His whole attitude, everything about him, had screamed of being nervous, tense and anxious, and now he had locked a man he knew to be a federal agent in a security room whilst his bank was being robbed. Standish would have bet a year's salary that these things were not unconnected.

Ezra had no way of knowing whether or not Sleeman was still in his office on the other side of the door, but either way he had to get out of this room. He glanced again at the security monitor - the picture was almost unchanged, but he knew he didn't have much time.

Grabbing a paper clip and a sheet of the bank's notepaper from the table, he knelt down behind the door and began pulling at the strip of draught excluder attached to the bottom edge of the wood. The material had been glued into place and needed all of the strength in Ezra's fingers to prise it clear of the wood, but once he got some leverage behind it he had soon detached enough to slide the paper under the door, collecting a few scratches and a splinter along the way. Refashioning the paper clip into a crude lockpick, he inserted it into the keyhole and gave it a sharp twist, trying to get the key on the other side into a position where he could push it backwards, out of the lock. It took several attempts, but finally he felt the metal key move. Withdrawing the paper clip, he pushed his key into the lock, feeling a surge of satisfaction as the barrel finally slid all the way in. He bent down and pulled at the notepaper, smiling as it emerged from under the door with the other key laying neatly on it. Unlocking the door with his key, he pocketed them both before carefully opening the door just a crack, his weapon drawn.

Sleeman's office was deserted.

Keeping his back to the wall and moving swiftly and silently, Ezra made for the door to the banking hall.

Hang on, Buck, I'm coming.

The terror in the banking hall was palpable as the horrified customers watched the guard's body slide into an untidy heap on the tiled floor. Muffled sobs and whimpers emanated from the huddled customers, the tang of sweat and fear mingling with the smell of blood and gunfire.

Frankenstein was biting back harsh sobs from the pain in his shoulder but, Buck noticed with growing concern, the gang's coherence and motivation had not disintegrated. The other four gang members hadn't broken ranks or panicked.

"Frankie?" Vampire shouted, still panning his gun around the banking hall from his position on top of the counter.

"Okay," came the rasping reply, "just get a fuckin' move on!"

"Anyone else wanna be a hero?" Vampire shouted at the cowering customers. "Everybody just stay real quiet, and no-one else needs to get hurt."

"You said no shooting..."

The voice came from somewhere behind Buck. It was a strained, tight voice, not shouting, but loud enough to carry in the almost silent room.

"You said no-one would be hurt!" Louder now, hysteria rising.

"You said it wouldn't be necessary to shoot anyone!" Almost a shriek.

Buck twisted his head slowly around towards the sound. A tall blond man was standing at the rear of the banking hall, trembling from head to foot, a glazed, slightly maniacal expression on his face. He was wearing a suit and tie, no Halloween mask and definitely no gun.

It took Buck only a second to work it out. A member of the bank's staff. The inside man.

Suddenly, the banshee wail of sirens could be heard outside. Vampire's head snapped round to the ghost. "Casper?"

The ghost shook his head, checking his watch. "We got two and half more minutes!"

For the first time, Buck noticed the well-honed team of robbers begin to crack. Something was wrong.

Vampire walked the length of the counter, aiming his weapon straight at the quivering man standing at the rear of the banking hall. "Well?" he snarled. "What's goin' on?"

The man frantically waved his hands in front of him. "I don't know! I don't know! They shouldn't be here yet... I don't know, I tell you!"

"Kill him." Frankenstein ground out from between clenched teeth.

"No! No!" The man was wild with fear now, his eyes like saucers, frantically scanning the room. Then he saw Buck.

"Wait! WAIT!!" He pointed a shaking finger straight at Wilmington. "He's a fed! An agent! He'd be a good bargaining chip - take him!"

Something cold began slithering around in Buck's stomach and he felt his muscles begin to tighten.

Vampire lowered the gun a little and turned to face Buck. "Well now," he said quietly, "you may have just bought yourself the rest of your life, Sleeman."

Buck was mystified - how the hell did this guy know he was an agent? This wasn't even his bank!

More confident now the immediate threat of being shot seemed to have subsided, Sleeman couldn't stop babbling. "There's two of them - oh, don't worry, I've neutralised the other one, he won't give you any trouble." He smirked, a self-satisfied little grin that made Buck want to punch him.

Vampire cocked his head to one side. "Two? You got a bank full o' feds? And what the hell does 'neutralised' mean?"

Buck wanted to ask the identical question. His pulse pounded uncomfortably at Sleeman's words, though somehow he couldn't see this man hurting Ezra.

"He's locked in a secure room out there," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "there's no phone and it's soundproofed. Better than a jail cell," Sleeman smirked again.

Vampire shrugged slightly. "Plan B," he shouted, "move everyone over there by the wall , and keep 'em all together," he instructed, then motioned to Clown. "Get him," he said, indicating Buck's prone figure with his gun, "check him out and move him to the doors."

Clown grabbed hold of the back of Buck's jacket and hauled him to his feet. He pointed his weapon directly at Buck's head and a pair of very dark eyes, the only thing Buck could see behind the clown mask, left Wilmington in no doubt that he was facing a killer. This guy would shoot him.

"Gimme your weapon. Real slow and careful, thumb and one finger only - got me?"

Buck nodded, not breaking eye contact for second. Slowly and with exaggerated movements, he carefully withdrew his gun from its shoulder holster and handed it, suspended between his thumb and index finger, to the robber. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

"You FBI?" Clown asked, his deep voice somewhat muffled by the mask.

"Yeah , I'm Agent Fox Mulder," Buck answered with a hard stare. The next second the hand, still holding Buck's gun, landed squarely on the left side of his nose, exploding pain through his cheekbone, fireworks in his head and nearly knocking him off his feet.

"Don't get cute with me, buddy," the threat was little more than a whisper, "or I get real ugly..."

"I always did hate ugly," Buck gasped, his hand reaching up instinctively to his now bleeding nose. The sirens were outside now and flashing blue lights were reflecting off the walls of the bank.

"How'd they get here so fast?" Casper shouted as he herded the last of the terrified hostages across the room and back down to the floor.

A single shot rang out from somewhere at the rear of the room and Casper screamed, crumpling to the floor, clutching his leg, his gun skittering across the tiles away from him.

"I called them," the voice carried across the banking hall, the Southern lilt unmistakable.

Buck felt a pulse of relief.

Ezra.

Ezra knew the very slim advantage he had would not last long.

He had incapacitated the ghost and Frankenstein's shoulder injury would be debilitating him, but that still left three gang members to deal with, and Buck no longer had a weapon.

He was fairly certain that no-one had actually seen him, so he could probably risk one more shot from his current position, tucked between a marble pillar and a large display stand just outside Sleeman's office. After that, it would be a question of speed, skill and blind luck.

"Frankie - check Casper's leg!" Vampire commanded, scanning the room looking for the hidden agent.

Strangled cries of pain came from the ghost writhing on the floor, clutching his leg.

An echoing, slightly disembodied voice suddenly shattered the thick tension in the banking hall.

You inside. Throw out your weapons and come out now, and no-one will be harmed.

Too late, Ezra thought from his hidden position. Tell that to the bank guard.

"Shit! Shit! What now?" The witch was getting panicked, his voice rising.

"Shut the fuck up!" Vampire commanded as he grabbed Sleeman by the arm and raised his weapon, aiming it squarely at the terrified man's temple. His head turned from side to side, futilely searching for Ezra's location. "Come out now, throw your weapon out first and come out with your hands behind your head, or I'll kill him. You have three seconds..."

Shoot the devious bastard for all I care, Ezra thought savagely, but he realised in the same instant that this man, whoever Vampire was, knew exactly what he was doing. Sleeman might be a rat, but he was still a civilian, still part of that group Ezra had sworn to protect and defend. Vampire had also positioned Sleeman between himself and the rear of the room, knowing that Ezra had to be there somewhere.

Standish had no clean shot at Vampire, and if he shot at anyone else, Sleeman would be dead in a split second.

"One..."

Ezra scanned the room. Frankenstein was kneeling over the prone figure of the ghost, the witch was holding a gun on the hostages, the clown had a gun on Buck.

"Two..."

If Ezra didn't surrender, Sleeman would die. Standish was fairly certain he could take one of the robbers at the same time, but that didn't make it the right decision - one robber for two innocent, or in Sleeman's case not-quite-innocent, people, was a bad deal.

"Thr..."

No time. No choice. "Okay!"

Ezra's gun clattered across the floor and he emerged from behind the pillar, hands clasped behind his head.

Vampire pushed Sleeman to the ground, then yanked Ezra by his jacket and literally threw him on the floor beside Buck.

"Who's this, then?" Clown hissed in Buck's ear, "Dana Scully?"

"No idea," Buck mumbled dazedly, wiping the streaming blood away from his nose, "never saw him before. Could be J. Edgar Hoover for all I know."

"That's Agent Standish," Sleeman said clearly, pointing at Ezra, then at Buck, "they came in together."

Clown laughed. "Oh, the one you 'neutralised'." He raised his gun and levelled it at Sleeman. "You fuckin' moron!"

"Leave it!" Vampire commanded.

"He's real bad, Drac," Frankenstein said from his position beside the now-still ghost, whose blood was pooling on the floor beneath the leg wound, "he's unconscious."

You inside. There is nowhere for you to go, we have the bank completely isolated. Come out now!

Vampire ignored the loud hailer. "Get the money," he instructed Witch and Clown, then dragged Ezra to his feet. "You," he said to Standish, "are gonna do exactly what you are told, because if you don't..."

He bent down and hauled Buck closer to the huge glass doors, almost pulling the lanky agent over with the force of the movement.

"On your knees," he said. The voice was calm, almost quiet, the menace evident in those three words beyond doubt. Buck knelt, feeling his stomach chill, then begin to roil with fear.

"You married?" Vampire asked. Buck looked up, slightly perplexed at the question. His head hurt like hell.

"No."

There was a silence. No more than two or three seconds, but it was as empty and echoing as eternity.

"Good."

Through a thick mist of pain, Buck realised what had prompted the question. No wife, no widow. No kids, less guilt. It simply made him easier to kill.

"Open your mouth." The command was still quiet, still composed.

With mounting horror, Ezra watched the tip of the gun barrel disappear under Buck's dark, blood-soaked moustache and into his mouth.

"If you don't follow my instructions exactly," Vampire repeated slowly to Ezra, "I will pull this trigger without a second thought, and some poor sucker will have to spend a very long time scraping your fellow agent off the tiles. Do you understand me?"

Ezra nodded mutely, fighting the mixture of adrenaline and nausea that was threatening to overwhelm his system. His eyes caught Buck's.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said to Vampire, his eyes never leaving his friend's face.

<I love you Buck>

<*I will not let you die. *>

He doubted whether Buck had got the message.

It didn't matter.

"I'm his senior agent. I'm worth more to you as a hostage than he is."

Buck's eyes widened in disbelief at Ezra's words.

"He's injured. Let him go and relay your demands and I will take his place. I will let you take me as a shield when you leave here and I will not attempt to deceive you."

Vampire wasn't buying it. "This ain't fuckin' musical chairs! You open the door and tell them all to pull back at least a block. We want a police car and a fast sedan within two minutes, then we leave - and we'll be taking hostages with us."

If the robbers left the bank with Buck, Ezra knew his friend's life expectancy would probably only be a few minutes.

He opened the doors and walked out into the bright sunshine, holding his hands high above his head.

The noise of weapons being cocked chattered in the sunlit stillness outside. Ezra could feel countless guns being aimed at him. An untidy circle of police cars, all with their doors open and officers with raised guns at every vantage point, surrounded the building.

"Don't shoot!" he shouted, "I'm here to relay the demands!" His voice sounded a lot clearer and calmer than he would have believed.

It was only as he was repeating what Vampire had told him, clearly and in a loud voice, that the red flash of a laser sight caught his eye. It was only a split second, but he had caught it.

The tiny red dot appeared again, this time on his chest. He glanced down, watching the red dot track from the right side of his chest to the left, then diagonally at a forty five degree angle back to the right.

Still repeating the demands out loud, Ezra watched the red dot. At first he had thought someone was aiming at him, now he wasn't so sure.

His brain was racing, almost unaware of the words coming out of his mouth.

"A police car and a fast sedan..."

The dot moved again, retracing the same pattern - straight, then forty five degrees down and back.

"At least a block away..."

Again - straight, then forty five degrees down and back.

Suddenly he realised.

The red dot was tracing a distinct path, repeating it over and over again.

The number 7.

Buck's knees were numb, the hard marble of the floor spreading icy coldness and dull pain through thigh muscles that were shaking with tension and inactivity. The combination of the metallic gun barrel filling his mouth and the acrid, coppery taste of blood in the back of his throat was trying to fire his gag reflex, making his throat muscles twitch uncontrollably. The whole of his face was one solid mass of pain; he couldn't breathe through his swollen nose, his left cheek felt like it was being seared with a hot knife, and his left eye was closing.

But worse than all of that, much worse, was the cold, hard certainty that sat like a ball of lead in his stomach.

If this guy wanted to, he would kill Buck in a blink. His eyes relayed that clearly and with total composure. Whoever the hell this guy in the vampire mask was, he was no amateur. Buck's gaze slid upwards again, ignoring the wrenching pain in his head when he moved his eyes in any direction. Vampire held the gun steadily, but he was watching Ezra, standing just outside the doors, out in the sunlit street. Making sure that his orders were being obeyed. The slightest deviation and Buck knew the man would pull the trigger.

Through a hazy mist of pain and fighting a sensation that he was about to pass out, he found himself thankful that it was Ezra out there. Ezra would not make a mistake. This was not the first time Buck had found it necessary to trust his life to Ezra, he just hoped that it wouldn't be the last.

Vampire looked down at Buck, eyes still composed and utterly ruthless. "So far so good," he said simply. Without shifting his gaze from Buck's face he shouted to Ezra, "Back up slowly, get back in here."

Ezra complied, retreating from the street back inside the doors, making sure he kept himself in clear view from the building opposite. If Vin was watching through the rifle scope, Ezra wanted to make sure he knew who to shoot first. Carefully stepping to the side to try refocus Vin's attention on Vampire, he looked down at Buck, his green eyes flashing, and even in his half-conscious state Buck realised that Ezra's expression had changed. Ezra was wearing an expression that Buck knew only too well from countless card games. He was sporting his "poker face", which meant that he was hiding something; something he didn't want Vampire to spot.

"There are police cars everywhere," Ezra said coolly, "and sufficient armed officers to make any escape extremely difficult." His gaze flicked to the buildings opposite. "There are..." his eyes looked directly at Buck, "sharpshooters over there, too..." the eyes looked away. "I couldn't see them all, but I estimate at least six or..." eyes back to engage Buck's, "seven." The eyes returned to Vampire. "That was all I saw."

Buck's head was throbbing, his brain sluggish and unresponsive, but he knew that Ezra was trying to tell him something. Problem was, he couldn't work out what it was. It probably didn't matter, he was going to be dead in a few minutes, anyway. The pain wouldn't stop, wave after wave of it, washing over him. He was sure he couldn't stay even half-upright much longer.

Outside, the sound of car engines starting began to fill the quiet street, a distinct rumble of noise, the background hum of activity. A police car, its door and windows wide open, coasted to a very gentle halt outside the bank, the officer holding both his hands in clear view as he climbed out of the car and backed away. A large Volvo sedan pulled up behind it a few seconds later, the driver repeating the actions.

Ezra's mind was whirling - he didn't know if the police car had blocked Vin's line of sight. Unobserved, he moved slightly again, desperately trying to let Vin know how much danger Buck was in.

Vampire turned to the other gang members. "Time to go, gents." He nodded his head in the direction of the clown. "Grab a dance partner," he said.

Clown selected the blonde teller from the group of huddled hostages on the floor, ignoring her strangled sobs of protest as he hauled her to her feet.

"What about Casper?" the witch asked, flicking frightened eyes to the still figure surrounded by a widening pool of blood on the bank's floor.

"Leave him."

"What?"

Vampire's head turned to face the witch. "I said leave him. Get the money."

The gaze resettled on Ezra. "You, agent, are coming with me." Ezra felt a huge wave of relief at those words, realising that meant that Buck would be left behind. He nodded in agreement, feeling ridiculously light headed.

"Goodbye, agent," he said coolly to Buck, "nothing personal you understand, purely insurance, so the guys out there know who they're dealing with."

Like some ghastly slow motion, Ezra suddenly became aware of Vampire's grimy finger curling and tightening on the trigger. Sensation overload threatened to shut down his system - fear, panic, blind terror, searing along his nerves, burning, overpowering, freezing, suffocating him.

And all he could see was Buck's midnight blue eyes. They were hazy, unfocused, half-lidded.

He didn't hear the shot.

From the agonised quiet everything suddenly exploded into cacophonous pandemonium.

One of the huge glass doors splintered and Vampire was thrown sideways with incredible force, a large hole seemingly miraculously appearing in the side of the mask as he crumpled to the floor.

The clown followed suit at almost the same second, leaving the blonde teller rooted to the spot, frozen with horror, trembling but unable to move.

The speed of the assault was breathtaking, shots, noise, barked commands, shouting, a confused medley of voices.

Ezra felt as if he were slowly sinking; further and further, down some impossibly long tunnel. He fought to regain some sense of awareness, to try and hear, feel, see, but it was like swimming through fog. His brain registered only one thing.

Vampire hadn't fired.

He had no idea how long he stood there; was only vaguely aware of people coming and going, a strange blurred mass of dark uniforms, ebbing and flowing around him. The next thing that registered clearly in his head was a soft, smoky Texas accent.

"S'okay Ez, you c'n let Bucklin go now. We're here."

That was when he realised he was on the floor, holding the unconscious Buck.

"I tell you, kid, I don't ever wanna be that close again..."

Buck's voice carried clear out of the open door of the hospital room and into the corridor, and Ezra couldn't resist a smile at the warmth he felt rising in his veins. It was so good just to hear his voice, after...

<No. Don't go there Ezra, not yet. Not until you can think about it without reliving it.>

"Well, Mr Wilmington! You sound as if you are on the road to recovery," he said as he strode purposefully into the bright, sun-filled room. Ezra mock-grimaced at the sight of Buck's bruised and swollen face. "Even if your face has a little catching up to do."

Buck grinned - rather lopsidedly. "Ez! How're ya doin?"

"Fine, I am quite well, thank you."

<Always assuming I don't have to eat or sleep, and that I can find something to occupy my total concentration, twenty four hours a day, otherwise...>

JD stole another one of the grapes from the large bunch on Buck's bedside table. "You look tired, Ezra," he said, munching the grape and regarding the Southerner with thoughtful brown eyes. "You should've taken the time off, like Chris said."

Ezra shrugged. "I prefer to keep busy..."

<That way I don't have to think. And if I don't think, then I can't feel...>

"...And besides, whilst I can never hope to fill the aching void that Mr. Wilmington has temporarily left in our team, I feel honour-bound to at least attempt the task."

His voice sounded a little hollow to his own ears, but he was used to deceiving those around him with a carefully composed persona. He could fool them, of course he could.

Buck was regarding him with a slight frown, or as much of a frown as his swollen face would register.

Ezra's counterfeit smile wavered, just a little. He could fool them. Couldn't he?

Vin appeared at that moment, clutching an enormous box of candy in one hand and a bright red foil balloon with 'Get Well Soon!' printed on it in the other. His face was approximately the same shade as the balloon.

"I swear, Bucklin, if'n ya don't get that hide 'o yours outta this bed..."

JD eyed the candy. "Wow! Who sent that?"

"Girls at the office," Vin mumbled. "An' Larabee told 'em I was comin' here, so they asked me to bring it for 'em, on account of you not bein' allowed too many visitors. Josiah says we oughta start an appointment book for when you go home. I reckon you ain't gonna go short of female visitors 'til you retire!"

"Speakin' of going home," Buck said proudly, "the gorgeous Doctor Stone has told me that I get my release papers in the mornin', as long as I promise to be a good boy. Naturally, I told her that'd be a darn sight easier when she wasn't around..."

Vin's eyebrows lifted. "I think that injury must've addled your brains! Doc Stone don't take kindly ta bein' flirted with."

"You ever tried?"

Vin blushed even more. "No, and you wouldn't either if'n ya had the sense God gave a goat in that head o'yours!"

Buck just grinned. "Well then, don't knock it until you've tried it. She smiled and said she'd be sorry to see me go."

JD snorted. "Probably more like glad to see the back of you."

Ezra's looked from one to the other. JD, still young but by no means as green as he had been a few short months ago, and Buck's most loyal defender. And Vin, to whose amazing ability Buck owed his life. To whom, at one time or another, they had all owed their lives.

They hadn't mentioned it of course. No need to state what everyone already knew, and Vin just got horribly embarrassed if his amazing prowess with a rifle was made the centrepiece of conversation.

The only person who had passed any comment at all on the shooting was JD, watching through his binoculars in stunned amazement as Vampire's dead body had crashed onto the floor of the bank. His frank, open face had turned to Vin in open-mouthed awe.

"You are one hell of a shot, Vin," was all he had said.

That had been four days ago. Was it only four days? Ezra felt as if he had lived a lifetime and then some. Four days full of debriefings, statements, explanations. Endless words, repeating the same things over and over again until they became a meaningless jumble or a litany of things he would much rather not repeat. Four days, full of concentration, effort and work.

The days were infinitely preferable to the nights.

Four nights of hideous, vivid nightmares that robbed him of any rest; that filled his mind with horrific images, finally shocking him awake, breathless, sweating, nauseous, his heart pounding.

Buck was recovering well, his natural ebullience and open heartedness making the trauma easier to deal with. He seemed able to talk about it without the same gut-wrenching horror that Ezra felt. Buck had talked about it almost ceaselessly, going over and over it, without showing any trace of the haunting terror that crept into Ezra's eyes and voice whenever the discussion turned to "the bank raid".

Ezra was almost more scared now than he had been in the bank. One thought kept breaking the surface of his tormented emotions. He was afraid he had lost his nerve. How would he cope the next time one of the team was in danger? Would he crumble under the pressure? How reliable would he be? What if one of them relied on him to save them? An agent who had lost his nerve was a liability to everyone around him. What if his hesitation, his reluctance, his fear, cost the life of one of the team?

He had thought about talking to Josiah, but had no idea how to broach the subject or explain how he felt. Discussing his personal life had never been easy for Ezra, the trust and loyalty he had found with Team 7 still left him disbelieving of his good fortune at times; but more than that he was afraid. Deeply afraid. Afraid that the sharp eyes and perceptive mind of the team's profiler would see through him, see what he could never confess to anyone, and especially another member of the team.

The real reason he was almost overcome by his emotions.

Buck.

"...what do you think, Ezra?" JD's voice suddenly burst into his consciousness and Ezra started violently.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, thrusting his hands into his pockets in the hope that no-one would see them shaking, "I'm afraid I allowed my attention to wander for a moment... what were you saying JD?"

Vin and Buck exchanged a knowing look. Buck might be the one with the bruises, but Ezra's injuries were, in every way that mattered, worse.

"Say, kid, d'ya think you and Slick could go and get me one of those special coffees from the ground floor cafeteria? I'll buy the round, but I need someone to go and get 'em," Buck said with a grin.

"Sure, Buck - you want a king size?" JD was already heading for the door. "You'll give me a hand, won't you, Ez?"

Ezra nodded, trotting after JD as if he were relieved to have something to do.

Buck waited until he was sure they were out of earshot. "Well?"

Vin shrugged. "Not good. He's okay on the surface, but he ain't as good at hidin' it as he thinks he is. Oh, the poker face is on show alright, but Ez forgets that we all know that means he's hidin' somethin'. He's as jumpy as a frog on springs and looks like death warmed over..."

Buck frowned. "He talked to Chris or the big guy 'bout it?"

Vin's eyebrows shot up. "What do you think? This is Ezra we're talkin' 'bout, Bucklin! He c'n be more tight-lipped than an oyster in the Arctic! He ain't exactly gonna go ask Chris or J'siah if they got a minute to chat, now is he? Hell, he'd rather run down the street nekkid!" He sighed. "I can't figure it out. I mean, he's been in those kind of situations before, worse sometimes. I've seen him looking at the business end of a gun more'n once and be cool as ice..." Vin shook his head. "This is somethin' else. There's somethin' here we're all missing..."

Buck gave a knowing smile. "Don't worry 'bout it, Vin. As soon as I'm outta here I'll go see if I c'n get him to talk to me."

Vin beamed. "That's great Bucklin! If anyone can straighten Ez out, I reckon it's gotta be you."

The sliding glass door opened noiselessly and he stepped through it, a momentary shiver passing through him at the rapid change of air temperature between the house and the wooden deck. He took a few barefoot steps forward and leaned on the waist-high cedar railing, bending slightly to rest his weight on his elbows, cradling the mug of coffee he was holding between both hands. The coffee was hot, the steam rising wraith-like into the cool air in front of his face, tangling briefly with the chestnut almost-curls that strayed over his forehead, before carrying the fragrant aroma of Costa Rican coffee beans into the dawn.

It was early - very early, the sky tinged pink and silver, the trees stark black silhouettes, every twig and leaf sharply defined against the pale backdrop. There was no sound at all; he was standing in those few minutes of breathless quiet just as dawn breaks, everything perfectly still and silent.

An empty stage waiting for the lights to go up, the performance to begin.

A faint breath of breeze broke the moment, and he realised he had been holding his breath. He inhaled - deeply, the chill morning air filling his lungs. The air smelled damp and fresh - clean - as if the world had been washed and brushed up overnight to emerge sparkling and revitalised for the new day. How did Mother Nature do that, he wondered? How did she, every night, take weary, grubby, tainted and tired yesterday, and perform some magic ritual in the hours of darkness so that the same place, the same world, emerged bright and freshly scrubbed the following morning? Yesterday's sins and hurts forgotten, yesterday's slate cleaned, the new day bright, innocent and optimistic.

The answer came to him in a flash.

Because Mother Nature had no memory - nothing to carry over from yesterday. No thoughts, no images of what had gone before, no emotional turmoil to carry through the night like an overfull cup that slipped and slopped its contents all over this brand new morning, staining it and spoiling it before it had hardly begun.

He was tired. The day hadn't even really begun yet and he was already weary of it, wanting nothing more than to return to his dishevelled bed, curl up between the crumpled sheets and wait for the blessed oblivion of sleep. Except that Morpheus had seen fit not to bestow that particular blessing on him last night and seemed no better disposed to doing so now. His tiredness was bone-deep, aching, heavy and sore, yet his mind raced and his head throbbed with the after-buzz of adrenaline that simply would not dissipate. A body that craved sleep and a mind totally unwilling to allow it, resulting in a futile battle within him that he no longer had the strength or will to keep fighting.

He put the coffee mug down on the flat top of the handrail and, using both hands, tightened the belt of the towelling robe he wore in an attempt to ward off the slight chill in the air. He felt the tremor rippling up his arms, the instinctive prickle of goose-flesh rising, and clenched his teeth.

It was cold, that was all. Just cold.

The tremor gained force, growing in strength, spreading to his fingers, trickling down his spine. He shuddered and closed his eyes, letting his body ride out the unpleasant sensation with as little resistance as possible.

After a few seconds the shivering subsided, and he let out the breath he had been holding from between gritted teeth.

It was the cold air, that was all.

He picked up the coffee mug again, wrapping its welcome warmth between his clammy palms, and lifted the mug to his lips.

The coffee was hot, black and very strong, the fragrance and intense rush of caffeine buzzing along his nerves as he took a mouthful. Screw it. If he wasn't going to get any sleep, he was damn well going to be properly awake.

His green eyes caught sight of the knuckles on his right hand as he lowered the mug again, and he froze in mid-action. The flesh was red, slightly swollen, with a faint purplish tinge across the back of his hand. A tiny scratch, almost invisible, ran across the base of his index finger - little more than a hairsbreadth wide. Almost insignificant blemishes - certainly not substantial enough to be classed as 'injuries', yet the sight of them caused his breath to freeze in his throat and his pulse rate to increase so rapidly that his head spun.

Just as if someone had thrown a switch, a horrible succession of images began flickering through his brain, like a movie playing to audience of one in his head, overwhelming him. He closed his eyes, trying to fend off the scenes filling his mind's eye. He began to shake again, tremors juddering along his muscles, uncontrollable, unstoppable.

Dark blue eyes silently screaming at him for help.

Fear burning along his nerves, nausea rocketing up his throat as he tried to quell the suffocating panic in his chest.

Blood trickling through a dark moustache and dripping in a steady rhythm onto the front of a blue shirt.

A grimy finger curled around a metal trigger, the muscles closing, contracting...

The gun pointing slightly downwards, aiming straight ...

NO!!!!

The coffee mug shook violently, the black liquid slopping over its rim, falling unseen and unfelt onto the back of his hand, down the front of the robe and onto the wooden decking, staining the bright new morning with dark drops of yesterday.

"If you ain't gonna drink that coffee, I'll have it. Seems a waste to throw it all over the deck."

Ezra wheeled around at the sound of the voice, more coffee slopping over the rim of the mug at his sudden movement. The shock momentarily robbed him of his voice, the snatches of his nightmare somehow confusing themselves inextricably with the physical fact of Buck standing there, really standing there, just a few feet away. His face was still slightly swollen, the features not quite where they belonged, and the bruises were still there - yellowing, but still a technicolour reminder of just how close it had been.

Ezra shivered again, fighting to regain his composure. "Isn't it rather early for you to be up and around?" The voice was harsher than he intended and he clenched his teeth together.

"You're up and about," Buck countered coolly, his steady eyes trying to lock onto Ezra's only to have Standish's green gaze slide away from him.

"Barely," Ezra retorted, almost wincing at the waspish tone of his words.

Buck shrugged. "Well, you've been up long enough to make coffee an' start throwin' it around... Having trouble sleeping?"

Ezra opened his mouth to deny it, but the words died in his throat. "Some," he admitted.

"Too much wine?" Buck's voice dropped a tone, "or bad dreams?"

Ezra couldn't bring himself to look at Buck, not properly. He couldn't actually face him. He was too afraid that if he dared, those midnight eyes would see through him as if he were made of glass, would be able to see the fear hiding inside him, fighting to get out. Not just the fear, either. The reason for the fear was what Standish was most in dread of the big man finding in his eyes. He could live with Buck believing him a coward, but he couldn't live with Buck knowing he had lost something far more precious than his courage. His heart.

"Bin there a time or two myself," Buck said when Ezra didn't answer, "fightin' midnight. Tires you out, doesn't it?"

Ezra nodded at last, risking a quick glance at Buck's face. The dark blue eyes were still focused on his, not staring exactly, just looking. Waiting. "Would you care for some coffee?" he said at last, suddenly feeling that he needed to escape from that penetrating gaze before he melted under it.

"Sure."

"It's warmer inside, if you'd rather...?"

Buck shook his head. "No, it's nice out here." He took a huge breath of the cool morning air. "Fresh, clean, reminds me how good it is to be..." He bit the sentence off when he saw the look of panic flash in Ezra's eyes, and smiled broadly. "Why don't you go get me a nice big mug of that fancy brew Ezra, then we c'n sit out here on the porch and put the world to rights."

"It's not a porch, it's a deck," Ezra muttered as he retreated inside.

Ezra didn't notice the huge grin split Buck's battered face at the soft words. Buck felt relieved. Ezra was still in there somewhere.

Buck sipped his coffee while Ezra showered and dressed, using the precious minutes to try and compose himself. He wondered what Buck was doing here, only a day after his release from hospital. Various scenarios played through his overactive imagination as he brushed his teeth over the sink. Buck was angry. Wanted to take him to task over his behaviour. Buck was concerned and wanted to find out what was eating him. Buck was...

Buck was Buck, and the only way Ezra was going to find out for certain what he wanted was to go and face the music, whatever the tune might be.

He ran a comb through his towel-dried hair and mentally lectured his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Keep it together, Ezra. You can do this. You've hidden it this long without discovery, just concentrate and you will be able to keep hiding it.

The deeply shadowed green eyes that stared back at him did not look convinced.

"Better," Buck said as Ezra re-emerged, clutching a fresh mug of coffee. "Nice shirt," he added, nodding in the direction of Ezra's bottle-green long-sleeved Oxford.

"Thank you. I'm most gratified that you approve of my wardrobe," Ezra said tartly, then instantly regretted it. Why did he do that? Why did he always have to respond with an acid comment, even to an obviously genuine compliment?

Methinks thou doth protest too much. For someone who'd been dead for a few centuries, Shakespeare still had a damned good grasp of human psychology, he thought.

"How are you feeling?" he risked at last. "Did the eminent Doctor Stone not provide you with any medication to help you sleep?"

Buck shook his head. "Don't need it. Slept like a babe last night. I guess dozing for four days in the hospital pretty much recharged my batteries. Woke up with the lark this mornin' and thought I'd come over. We haven't really had a chance to talk since the raid, and I thought with this bein' the weekend, we could..." there was a slight pause, "...well, you know, have a chat about it."

Ezra's brain wanted to scream. *Chat? Chat?? You nearly died! You nearly died. You nearly died and it was all my fault.*

"I'm okay, Ezra."

For a single, horror-struck moment, Ezra thought he must have spoken the words out loud, then he realised that he hadn't. But Buck had seen it anyway.

"Thanks to Mr Tanner's enviable abilities."

"No, thanks to a lot of people, but mostly thanks to you."

Ezra stared at him. "Me? It was Vin who saved your life, Buck."

"He wouldn't have bin there if you hadn't called him."

"It would not have been necessary to call him if I had performed as I should have done."

Buck put his coffee mug down and stood up. "Is that what this is all about, Ezra? You thinking you've failed? You had no control over what happened in that bank! It wasn't your fault that five morons decided to try an' steal something that wasn't theirs, it wasn't your fault that that greedy little bastard Sleeman was in it up to his scrawny, worthless neck, and it sure as hell wasn't your fault that we got mixed up in it! We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all."

Ezra could feel the blood beginning to pound in his head, the fear beginning to course round his system. He put the coffee mug down, but couldn't trust himself to stand. "It was my fault. It was my fault you were there at all! I should have spotted the signs. I noticed something was amiss with Sleeman straight off, but I was too preoccupied to concentrate. I should have been more aware of what was happening," his voice was rising, the images beginning their never ending re-run in his imagination, " I should never have allowed myself to be locked in that room, I should never have surrendered my gun, I should have saved you!" His voice was stretched, taught, his eyes wide.

"You did!" Buck almost shouted, "I'm fine Ezra, look at me."

The green eyes would not risk it. "You nearly died," the voice was dropping, catching in his throat, strangling the breath out of him. "You nearly died, and all I did was stand there..." An expression of real pain creased Ezra's features. "You nearly died, right in front of my eyes, and I did nothing... I almost lost you..."

Buck breathed out, and successfully quelled the small smile that threatened his mouth. "Is that why you can't sleep?"

Ezra rubbed a distracted hand across his face, unsure of what was real and what was imaginary. His head was spinning, his heart pounded. He couldn't remember what he'd said, what words had actually come out of his mouth. They were all jumbled up with the images in his mind. "What?"

Buck took a step forward. "I said, is that why you can't sleep?"

"Is what why I can't sleep?"

"You can't sleep because you think I nearly died. Because you think it was your fault. You are blaming yourself because you believe your feelings prevented you from acting properly."

"My... feelings?"

The midnight eyes were still steady, calm, focused. "Yep, your feelings. Those two distinct sets you've bin tryin' to get to mesh together. The ones you've been fightin'. The ones you don't think you should have and the ones you know it's okay to have. The feelings about the team, the job, they're okay, they're safe and acceptable, but the others..."

Ezra's voice was barely audible. "The... the others?"

"The ones 'bout me." Ignoring Ezra's thunder-struck face, Buck continued, "...they're the ones you've been fighting. Oh, you were doing okay until the bank raid, then the two things got all mixed up together and you can't sort it out any more, can you? You can't separate them out into feelings you can deal with and feelings you can't..."

Unable to face Buck, unable to believe his ears, but compelled to do something, to say something, Ezra stood up and turned away. What more damage could the truth do now?

"Because I can't take that risk," he said at last, his shoulders shaking. "You don't understand, Buck, how could you? You aren't... you aren't like me," he turned around, still not looking at Buck's face. "For the first time ever in my life, I've found somewhere I belong! I found something I really thought I could do that could mean something to someone else besides myself. I found myself really believing I could make a difference! Oh, it took some time. At first I was just out to prove to Mr Larabee that I was worthy of the trust he'd placed in me, but... somewhere along the line, something changed. I had friends," at last the wide green eyes raised to meet Buck's, "all my life I had believed that you could not rely on anyone except yourself. That allowing anyone else too close to you only gave them something that one day they would use against you. To give something of yourself to someone else was to give them control of part of you... so I held out against it. It took a long time for me to recognise what I had, what I have. Friends. Real, loyal friends. Friends who trust me." The voice was choking, the eyes filling with tears.

"I have never had that before, and I would give anything not to lose it! When I found myself becoming attracted to you I was terrified that someone would find out and that I would lose the trust I had earned. I couldn't admit how I felt, how could I? You have never shown the slightest interest in that direction, quite the opposite! I convinced myself it was simply physical, simply..." he reddened slightly, "...lust, and I was not prepared to risk everything we had built together for something so...so... base."

Buck didn't speak, didn't move. He simply watched, eyes calm and steady, locked onto Ezra's guilt-wracked features.

"Then, when I realised that that maniac was going to... going to kill you, I realised that I wished I had told you, because in that moment I truly loved you more than my own life. I would happily have given my life for yours. Is that love? Or is it simply overpowering lust? I don't know, perhaps I never did know... and I loathe myself for not knowing!" The eyes were sparkling, threatening to overflow. "I hate myself because I can't tell the difference!"

The words were bitten off by a choking indrawn breath. He turned away, all his efforts at self-control shattered.

"I can." The voice was quiet but in deadly earnest.

Ezra swung around, staring into Buck's face, searching for any sign of mockery, but the dark blue eyes were totally guileless. "What?"

"I said I can. Tell the difference." The eyes locked onto Ezra's. "If your Ma had done what mine did, you'd be able to, too."

Standish couldn't hold the gaze, his eyes began to drop, only to feel - almost literally feel - Buck pulling him back, like a magnet. "I... I don't understand."

"I used to look at them - the men that came to the house," Buck said carefully. "I looked at them, looking at the girls. When you do that for a while, it's simple. Their eyes, glittering, greedy. Their thoughts, their expressions, their wants - all about them, them, them."

The focus of Buck's gaze grew sharp, and Ezra felt it, almost physically. It was as if Buck were looking inside him.

Buck's voice dropped a little, became softer. "Lust is all about the person doing the looking. Love is all about the person you're looking at."

He shrugged, a small movement for such a big man. "When you know that, it's easy. Like with you Ezra... I look into your eyes an' it's real easy."

Time hung suspended in a heartbeat.

Then, the tiniest smile began to play at the corners of Buck's mouth, almost hidden by the dark 'tache, and suddenly, Ezra understood.

"Are you telling me you knew?" Ezra's jaw dropped in complete amazement. Surely, it just wasn't possible. Was it? Had he really been so careless, so indiscreet, that Buck had guessed? How much more mortified was it possible for a human being to feel? "Oh God," Ezra said quietly.

"Look around you, Ezra. What do you see?"

Standish frowned, not understanding what Buck was getting at.

"C'mon Ez - it's a simple enough question - what do you see?"

"You," Ezra said at last, "standing on my deck, trying to confuse and inveigle me in equal measure."

"Stick with the first word of that sentence," Buck said.

Ezra frowned deeper. "You," he said again.

"Exactly." The smile formed properly now, igniting something in those eyes. "I'm here, ain't I? Can you think of anyone else I would get outta bed in the middle of the night, then come haring halfway across town for?"

Feeling slightly less rocky now, Ezra squared his shoulders. "Yes, actually, five other people without thinking about it for more than a second, and I could probably add another dozen or so with a little thought."

Relief broadened the smile. "Then don't think," Buck said. "Except about what you're gonna make me for breakfast - I'm starving!"

"Why didn't you give me some indication that you were...aware of ...that you knew I..." Ezra was having trouble forming the sentence properly.

Buck, seated at the small table in Ezra's kitchen and carefully chewing a mouthful of very good scrambled eggs, opened his eyes wider. "What's the matter, Ez? You're gettin' a little tongue-tied there!" He shook his head in mock wonderment. "Never thought I'd see the day..."

Ezra's eyes dropped back to his plate of untouched food, and Buck relented. "Okay, I'm sorry," he smiled. "What did you expect me to do? Just stroll up to you and say, 'Hey Ezra, I've noticed you've been lookin' at me in a way that even a dumb-ass like me can't really misread - what d'ya wanna do about it?'"

"No, no of course not!"

"Well, what then?"

"You could have given me some idea that you were not completely unaware of how I felt..."

Buck grinned. "Like what? Flowers? Candy?"

"Now you are mocking me."

"No, Ezra, I'm teasing you, and there is a difference," Buck said steadily. He took a deep breath. "Ezra, you had to work this out for yourself. If I'd come on to you, you would have run a mile, wouldn't you? You needed to think this through in your own time - work out how you were gonna deal with it. It was just a shame that those morons at the bank screwed up the plan a little, 'cos I know you would've worked in out in the end, and you wouldn't have appreciated me laying the Wilmington moves on ya before you were ready, now would ya?"

"I don't know," Ezra's eyes sparkled, "I have yet to judge the potency of 'the Wilmington moves'."

"Believe me," Buck said, still grinning, "I don't go where I ain't invited. There's more'n enough trouble in the world without me makin' more for myself, and the Wilmington magic is powerful stuff!" He shook his head. "Can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse, some days..."

"You really are most conceited, you know." There was no heat to the words, just a warmth that somewhere inside Ezra was beginning a slow, simmering burn.

"For all you know, Slick, I might have good reason to be."

Ezra swallowed. "Yes, you might."

"You be sure an' tell me, okay?"

"Tell you what?"

"If I got reason to be conceited."

"And when am I supposed to be able to do that, pray?"

Buck smiled. This was all going to have to be his fault. Some things never changed. Good thing Ezra was worth it, he decided.

He stared straight into Ezra's jade-green gaze. "Afterwards."

The sip of coffee that Ezra had taken suddenly lodged halfway down his throat, and he had to force himself to swallow, making a strange strangling noise in the process.

Buck waited.

"We're going to do this, then? Are we?" Ezra smiled, more than a little nervous.

"Do what? At the moment it's a beautiful Saturday mornin', an' I'm sittin' here, eatin' a mighty fine breakfast and sharing some good conversation with a friend. What more did you have in mind?"

"You are incorrigible."

"If I knew what the hell that meant, I'd probably agree with you."

Ezra sighed. "I just wish I found this as... as easy as you seem to! I nearly have a nervous breakdown wondering how on earth I am ever going to deal with this; you nearly get yourself killed which finally prompts me into taking some action, however ill thought-out. I finally bare my soul to you, and you just accept it! As if I'd just... just... offered to buy you a cup of coffee!"

"Are you happy or angry?" Buck asked with another grin.

"A little of both, I think. Or maybe a little envious. I just wish I found this as simple as you seem to."

Buck shook his head. "Hell, Ezra, it is simple! We know each other. We trust each other. We like each other. We want each other. How much more simple could it be?"

"Do we? Really know each other? There is so much about me that you don't know. There are things I have... Things I regret. Secrets. Things I wish... I have... a past."

Buck said levelly, "From where I'm sittin', it looks to me like your past has you. As for secrets, where's the fun in getting to know someone if you know everything there is to know about them before you start?" He leaned forward, only a simple movement, but it closed the distance between them to less than arm's length. "You think I don't understand about secrets? About things you wish hadn't happened or weren't so? And when it comes to having a past, I'll bet you every cent you're gonna earn this year that mine is more colourful than yours!"

An arm reached out - a big hand resting on Ezra's shoulder with the gentleness of a feather. "I know all about coming to terms with your past, getting to grips with things that can't be changed because they've happened and it just ain't possible to turn the clock back." The warmth from that hand seeped through to Ezra's skin, spreading throughout his body with a wash of wildfire.

"And I don't give a shit 'bout any of your secrets or anything that happened in your past. I've made up my own mind about you, and you can't change that by telling me about things that happened years ago. Jus' like those stupid, greedy bastards in the bank couldn't change it, either. All those things, whatever they were, are all part of you, now. And it's that person - with all his faults, secrets, quirks and everything else - I care about..." The eyes grew a little darker, the words a little softer. "Who I can't stop thinking about. Who, right now, right this minute, I want so badly I can barely breathe. You. The you sitting here with me."

Wide, disbelieving green eyes lifted to Buck's face, underlined by a smile that Buck knew he would be more than willing to take a bullet for.

Any time.

Epilogue

The faint chimes of the Westminster wall clock in Ezra's hallway echoed softly through the house, but neither Ezra nor Buck were aware of them.

A warm pool of sunlight spilled in through the voile-shaded windows, but Ezra couldn't see it - couldn't see anything, his eyes were tightly closed, his face a taught mask of concentration. Muscles rigid with fear and tension, sweat sheening his face and chest. His spine flexed, his hips aching as shallow, ragged breaths hissed out from between clenched teeth and his fingers clutched desperately at the soft skin and hard edge of hip bone of the body beneath him. He breathed in and in again, frantically, the forced exhale from overloaded lungs degenerating into a hitching sob.

"It's okay Ezra, it's okay, oh, please..." the encouragement petered out into a soft groan.

Ezra dared to open his eyes just long enough to glance down, his eyes widening disbelievingly at the sight of himself half buried in Buck's body. A sound escaped him, a low keening wail, harsh and almost agonised.

"Ez... please... just let it go!"

"I... can't..."

"Yes, yes, you can."

His head shook violently, droplets of sweat flying from his sodden hair. "I'll hurt you..."

"No! No, you won't. Please, Ezra, God... I can't hold on much longer... Please." Buck's voice held such need, such faith, Ezra felt guilt and desire and desperation and something that might have been love wash over him in an overpowering shudder that threatened to shake his heart free from his chest.

Another moan from Buck and Ezra closed his eyes again, grasped the strong jut of bone under his hands more strongly and pushed, letting his own hips move him forward and upwards, feeling the impossible tightness of Buck's muscles, hot and sweet, grasp him in contracting waves.

Buck gasped, sweating with effort and emotion, and instantly felt Ezra freeze behind him. "Oh God! No! Wait! I'll pull out..."

"NO!" Buck almost shouted, his head snapping up, his arms locking at the elbows. He twisted his head around, fixing Ezra with those midnight eyes that could demand anything of him. "No," he said again, "trust me, Ez - please." The words were grating, ground out through a haze of overwrought emotion and physical overload. "Move," he commanded.

Ezra tried to comply, tried to glide smoothly forward, but met with the resistance of internal muscles that seemed intent on repelling him.

"Harder... now!"

Clenching his jaw so tightly he felt his neck twinge, Ezra inhaled sharply, urging his body forwards, feeling a rush of euphoria as he felt Buck push back against him and heard a noise that could only be his name issuing from Buck's throat, repeated over and over. For a few moments their rhythm was fractured, uncoordinated, then, quite unexpectedly, it was as if the obstacle had been overcome and the smooth, exquisite grind suddenly ignited the fire in the base of his spine. It flared, burned, incinerating his fear and doubt in the hot, desperate flames of approaching orgasm. Spiralling out of control, he thrust again and again into the willing body beneath him, almost mindless with the need for completion, oblivious to the sounds of passion and effort that escaped him.

The heat seemed to build until it threatened to engulf him, then, suddenly, he could feel his heartbeat pounding in every nerve of his body. For a terrifying moment he froze, before a white-hot explosive sensation sent wave after wave of rippling muscle spasms through him as his orgasm overtook him, emptied him. He collapsed forwards onto the broad back beneath him and tried to breathe through the untidy sobbing that broke from his throat.

Buck waited for a few moments, then gently relaxed, easing forwards so that Ezra slipped out of him without being aware of it. Then he turned and gathered the trembling, sweat-slicked body in his arms, grateful for Ezra's hard, reassuring embrace that encircled his chest as he did so.

"Easy, easy..." he soothed, cradling the shaking body even closer. Standish pressed himself as hard as he could against Buck and seemed to freeze for a moment, holding his breath. Then he was trying to speak, but emotion and physical overload had reduced him to a few ragged, inarticulate words that Buck could barely hear.

"What?" he said softly, bending his head, then suddenly realised that Ezra was apologising. Grasping his shoulders, Buck thrust Standish away from him and tried to look into his face. "What? What's wrong, Ezra? What are you apologising for?"

Ezra's eyes answered for him, staring down at Buck's obviously unsatisfied erection resting hard against his hip. "I couldn't... Oh God, Buck, I'm sorry... I didn't... wait..."

Buck grinned and pulled him back into a warm circle of strong arms. "Takes practice. Ain't likely to be a matched pair first time out, y'know," he said gently, cupping his hands around Ezra's skull, pushing his long fingers through the damp hair.

"Plenty of time," he murmured, lowering his mouth to Ezra's, smothering the hitching breaths with a soft, hot kiss. Ezra's mouth opened in acceptance, his quick hands snaking upwards to fist in Buck's thick, dark waves of hair, stroking in cadence with the rhythm of his tongue against Buck's. The soft brush of Buck's 'tache stroked his lips, and those talented Wilmington hands disengaged from his hair and began a slow, careful journey southwards, mapping and testing each newly discovered portion of his anatomy along the way.

Far from the sated exhaustion he had been expecting, Ezra's over-revved system refused to slow down, his muscles stretching and flexing with new-found energy, his pulse still thundering in his ears. The tension and fear of the last few days had wound him up tighter than a watch-spring and now this cathartic and cataclysmic rendezvous had opened the flood-gates to a tidal wave.

He fell back against the wildly disarranged pillows, trying to regulate his breathing and failing, as he watched Buck's dark head travelling slowly down his body, feeling the maddeningly good caress of his 'tache tracking the path of his fingers, soft lips, sharp teeth, the sensations building and merging into a single, piercing point of desire that made him gasp.

With a sound somewhere between a groan and a snarl, he grabbed Wilmington's shoulders and pushed, rolling Buck over on his back. Surprise registered briefly on Buck's face, melting into curiosity mingled with desire as Ezra flung one knee over him and rolled into a sitting position, straddling Buck's hips and staring down at him with wide, dilated eyes.

A sudden, brilliant smile lit up the green eyes with fervent determination. "Time's up," Ezra said. "I want you inside me, now!"

Buck couldn't hold back his moan of desire at that, the effort of keeping himself so firmly under control beginning to fray at the edges, but he needed to hold on to it for a little longer yet.

"You sure?" he asked softly, aware of the knife edge of emotion Ezra was balancing on and unwilling to send him tumbling into something that might be a hell of a lot worse.

Ezra nodded without a second's hesitation, the eyes confirming the words. "Absolutely. Assuredly. Oh, God, yes."

Buck's large hands rested firmly on Ezra's thighs. "You done this before?" His voice was still soft, but the concern was evident in the slight edge of tone it held.

Ezra nodded. "Once..." he confessed, almost blushing under the interrogative gaze, "... although it was a considerable time ago."

The hands moved in concert, a gentle stroking movement across the hard muscles. "You don't have to, Ez. It can still be good... real good, an' I don't need..."

A hand snaked out and covered Buck's mouth, shutting off the words. Ezra bent low and kissed the end of his nose, then sat back up with a huge smile. The gaze was scorching, Buck could feel the heat of it like flames licking at his skin.

"Well I do need..." He felt Buck's smile under his fingers, and lifted his hand away, locking eyes with Buck and feeling blindly for the open tube of lubricant on the night stand. His hand closed over it and he picked it up, depositing it in Buck's open hand with a small smile.

Buck squeezed a generous amount of the clear gel onto his palms, then gently rubbed his hands together, his eyes never leaving Ezra's face. There was no fear in the widely dilated green eyes, not even apprehension, just heat and desire. Buck's lube-sticky fingers, slightly cooled from the gel, tracked a narrow path up the outside of Ezra's thighs, then followed the crease of hip and thigh inwards, drawing a shudder and making the green eyes close. "Lift up a bit," he said throatily, and Ezra obeyed, supporting his weight on his knees as Buck's hands slid between his legs, one gently cupping the hot flesh of his balls, the other carefully rimming and stroking the puckered entrance to his body. The shudder returned, more strongly, his lungs filling on a deeply indrawn breath that hitched as he felt the long finger slip easily inside him. He groaned at the feel of it, the gentle, easy probing that made him want to roll his hips. He moved, only slightly, but heard Buck's voice.

"Sshh. Try 'n keep still... just for a minute or two. We need to take this slow." The finger moved again, soft circles that seemed to ignite a pulse deep inside him. There seemed to be no urgency to the movement and he simply relaxed, letting the passion build and the emotion flood through him. It was so, so good. He felt the hand flex, then the single finger was suddenly two, moving in tandem. The sensation was so good that he shivered, feeling the soft press inside, his whole body seeming to expand and contract in gentle waves, soothing, rolling, melting the sensations together; then suddenly he shot bolt upright as the fingers curled and connected with something that sent lightning strikes of white-hot pleasure through him.

He heard Buck's soft chuckle of satisfaction and opened his eyes to see Wilmington smiling up at him. "Okay? Like that?"

Ezra nodded mutely, fighting to stop his hips moving and failing. He leaned forwards, his palms flat against the broad expanse of Buck's shoulders, and began to roll in rhythm with the skilful, teasing, stretching fingers.

"That's it... relax... just go with it, Ez..." Buck's soft encouragement was deeply arousing and Ezra gradually became aware of a mounting desire to push back against Buck's hand, suddenly needy for something to push against.

Buck stifled a deep moan of pleasure at the subtle change of movement, then canted his hips upward, shifting Ezra forward and up. "Ready?"

Ezra nodded again, a strange feeling of loss overtaking him swiftly as Buck withdrew his fingers, before placing one hand firmly on Ezra's left hip, and quickly coating and positioning his own aching cock with the other.

Dark blue eyes locked steadily with Ezra's. The voice was rasping, fighting to hold onto control that threatened to escape at any second. "Real slow, okay? Take your time... I don' wanna hurt you... you need to be slow and careful..."

Buck reached both hands around to steady and reposition Ezra's hips and gently moved up a little, feeling himself broach then, with almost no resistance, enter the warm, moist body. It seemed to grasp him, so tight he gasped, fighting the almost overpowering urge to just push, concentrating on not letting Ezra sink down too fast. Standish heeded the words and sank slowly, head thrown back and eyes closed in concentration, impaling himself willingly and with a deep-throated, drawn-out groan of satisfaction that did not stop until he could go no further.

"That's it, that's it, Ez...oh God, you're there..." Buck was trembling now, his restraint crumbling, and, unwilling to come too soon and have this exquisite pleasure over, he simply held Ezra steady, revelling in the incredible warmth and unbelievable tightness of the body above him.

For several moments, the only sound in the sunlit room was of deep, concentrated breathing. Eventually, Buck let go of one hip, his fingers tracking a shaky path up to Ezra's jaw, then down the centre of his chest, stroking the smooth, warm skin, the flat planes and smooth rise of muscle and sinew, the line of dark hair that ran from Ezra's navel, until they connected with the newly-risen, burning skin of his shaft.

"No!" Ezra shouted suddenly, eyes squeezed shut. Buck stopped instantly.

"You okay?"

A brief nod. Words fighting to get out of an emotion-constricted throat. "Not yet... not this time. Not before you." He rocked forward, taking some of his weight back on shaking thigh muscles, rising a few inches before slamming back down.

Buck groaned loudly. "Won't take long, you keep doin' that..." he ground out, feeling the pulsing heat of Ezra's balls against his groin. Ezra opened his eyes and smiled, then slowly repeated the action, overdoing the upstroke and almost losing contact completely, this time eliciting a gasp.

"More?"

Now it was Buck who nodded, finally beginning to let go of the tight rein he had held on himself, the need for movement, for friction, building beyond where he could restrain it.

"You gotta ask?" he teased, but the laugh degenerated into a soft moan of pleasure. "Oh God, yes..."

He thrust upwards, and it took only a couple of strokes before they fell into rhythm this time, long, smooth and hot, building quickly to breath-stealing intensity and speed. Ezra watched almost mesmerised as the muscles in Buck's arms and chest tightened, the flush of arousal painted between his collar bones, and simply surrendered to him, allowing Buck to take this wherever he wanted.

Ezra's thigh muscles were burning, but he couldn't stop. Thrusting down to meet Buck's every upward stroke, harder and harder as Buck's back began to arch off the bed, changing position just enough to connect again with that spot inside Ezra that flashed bone-melting pleasure into every nerve ending.

Buck was close - too close now, no hope of holding back any longer. Sliding one hand around Ezra's cock he began to pump in time with his own arcing spasms, his eyes wide with pleasure at the wild, uncontrolled beauty of Ezra above him. That look was his undoing and the volcano he had been holding on to suddenly erupted, contracting his muscles as tremor after tremor of orgasm rippled through him, only to be heightened even further when he heard Ezra utter a muted yell of release and felt the rush of hot seed on his chest.

Neither of them could breathe for a few seconds. Everything seemed to freeze into a moment of completeness that neither of them were willing to let go. Suddenly Ezra drew a breath and in the same instant, his body seemed to become boneless. He pitched forwards, only to be caught and pulled onto Buck's chest, summoning only enough movement to disengage himself in a rush of wetness.

It took a long time before pounding circulation could spare enough oxygen for words, for either of them.

With supreme effort, Ezra raised his head and smiled down at Buck. "Better that time?"

Buck laughed. "Matched pair, Slick," he said with a wink.

Ezra rolled off him with a grunt, snuggling into a shoulder. "I've come to the conclusion that you do," he said into the warm, damp skin of Buck's neck, stifling a yawn.

"I do what?"

"Have reason to be conceited."

Buck regarded him with a smile of pure, shining pleasure. Ezra was so tired, he could only manage a small smile into that gaze. That dark, deep, beautiful gaze. Like midnight. His eyes fluttered closed.

He didn't need to fight it any more.