 Author's Note: This is a WIP, an ATF Alternate Reality that presupposes Ezra was never a member of the Team, and was spawned from a discussion with a friend wherein the notion that one of the Seven was "involved" in the deaths of Sarah and Adam was considered. This is my exploration of that notion. As this story is long, and I am a slow writer, I decided to go ahead and put it up on my site so readers could read old parts, as needed as new parts are added. Once done, the story is likely to be re-edited and re-posted in a final, tweaked version. I hope you enjoy the ride! Thanks: To Mog, for creating the ATF AU and for allowing others to inhabit it. ~ For Karen, who unwittingly provided me with the inspiration to continue this story over a year before it was even a gleam in my eye. Burning Leaves by Lumina~
ooOOOoo Prologue Spring, 1998 The evening breeze whispered through the open window behind Buck, skimming across his naked back in a tantalizing caress that moved over his skin in a smooth, cool glide. It was outmatched by warm hands, at once gentle and enflaming, passing over his chest in an enticing exploration. Green eyes, hot with mischief and desire, tilted up to his, as his companion's breath seared a trail over Buck's throat to find a resting place behind his ear. Soft lips nuzzled the tender flesh there, and sharp teeth nipped at the lobe, before that teasing mouth continued its roundabout path to Buck's. Buck met it with his own urgency, eager to taste again, as he pulled Ezra's pliant body atop his own and laid back in the rickety recliner they shared. The old chair listed precariously with the sudden movement, eliciting a startled, laughing gurgle from both men as they broke their kiss, even as the bare skin of their chests was now pressed flush against each other's. The heat kindled by Ezra's hands was now replaced with that of the length of his body, and heightened, as the squirming form shifted against Buck. Ezra's head came to rest on Buck's shoulder, his ragged pants gusting across Buck's chin in sultry languor while his arms closely encircled the man beneath him. Yet, as Buck slid his hands under the waistband of Ezra's jeans, as he held them steady for just one moment against the sleek and supple curves under his callused palms, he heard the small hitch of air at his neck. Then, felt the slight stiffening of the other man as his hands found Buck's chest again, but this time, instead of seeking to draw Buck nearer with a questing touch, they held him back with wary entreaty. Buck's fingers slipped free of Ezra's jeans and traced along his spine with instant reassurance. He cupped Ezra's face, letting one thumb brush over a cheekbone, back-and-forth, as the other outlined the lower lip. Quietly, his voice a husky murmur, he said, "I can wait, Ezra. Won't do anything you're not ready for." Ezra's lips quirked upward at his words and a kiss was placed on his thumb as it was lightly drawn over that burgeoning smile. Ezra settled in his arms again, and Buck sighed contentedly, the short exhalation stirring the fine silk of hair whisking against his neck. Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully through the soft strands as he tightened his hold. He meant what he'd said. A little less than two months was all the time they'd had together so far, but for Buck, it was his coming home. This was the rest of his life. He knew it without knowing, without caring, how he knew it. Buck only had to connect with those green eyes, to see and feel the mind and soul behind them, and he knew, with the kind of deep-seated surety he'd always called others crazy for avowing. But now, he was the one who knew. For Ezra, though... Heart-shuddering, pulse-pounding, breath-stealing make-out sessions shared night after night had yet to evolve into deeper acts of intimacy. Buck sensed - he would not call it "hoped" - that it was not so much a withdrawal on the part of the other man, so much as a withholding, a keeping of part of himself for just himself, for now. Ezra needed time. And Buck had time, as much as it would take. I can wait. The clock on the nightstand across the small room caught his eye, as the numbered tiles of the old radio flipped over with an audible click for each passing minute. He heaved a sigh as it told him Ezra's dinner hour was fading away. With his own unpredictable schedule as a detective in Denver PD's Robbery-Homicide division and Ezra's variable hours as a Graduate Assistant, each man's dinner break, usually at sunset, had become the only time they could meet with any regularity. They'd spend that hour here in Ezra's tiny, off campus apartment on this decrepit recliner, a slow, lazy hour in that chair struggling to hold onto their balance in it as they held onto each other. Ezra had asked him once if he wanted to move to the bed on the other side of the room. There had been no hesitation in the offering, either in the man's voice or in his eyes, and Buck had been moved by the trust it implied. But he'd merely shook his head and drew Ezra down with him, mesmerized as always by the golden wash of the slanting sun as it streamed through the window and warmed that skin he touched with a panoply of rippling muscles, lit with fire and chased by shadow. He ran his hands over that sun-hot flesh now and let its burn seep into his body and into his soul. Yeah. This ol' chair is just fine. Ezra broke the silence then as he raised his head and asked, "You have to work tonight?" Buck lifted his hand to Ezra's face, chasing the gilding of sunlight with his fingers, as he answered. "Nope. Got the night off. Me and Chris have to fly down to Mexico City tomorrow. Have a lead on a cold case. It'll probably turn out to be a wild goose chase, but we gotta check it out." Buck's mouth canted in a lopsided grin as his gaze followed his tenderly tracing fingers and as he felt the other man shiver against him. Ezra's eyes were closed now as his face turned more fully into Buck's hand, his skin flowing evenly under those fingertips as he guided their course with the tilt of his head. Buck's voice was a smug drawl as he asked, "Gonna miss me?" Ezra's lips twitched slightly, his answer playful vexation, as he replied, "Perhaps." Buck used his other hand to lightly swat Ezra's behind, then left that hand there, drawing slow circles on its denim-covered surface. Ezra quivered under the wickedly stroking hands, just as Buck's eyes were bewitched by the soft smile curving Ezra's mouth now with rapt pleasure. Buck cleared his throat and continued in mock-annoyance. "Sounds like you're gonna miss me about as much as Sarah and Adam are gonna miss Chris. All they're talking about is spending the time out at the new house, getting ready to move in." Ezra stilled under Buck's ministering hands and opened his eyes, their expression blank as he asked, "Sarah and Adam are going to be by themselves out there?" Buck chuckled in wry amusement. "Yeah. I think Sarah's looking forward to a few days without ol' Chris hovering." He glanced at the clock again and asked, "You have a class tonight?" When Ezra didn't answer, Buck frowned and gently shook him by the chin, regaining the attention of green eyes, distracted and seemingly turned inward. He watched their focus slowly return to him, and at Ezra's questioning eyebrow, he repeated, "You have a class tonight?" Ezra sighed, then leaned down and kissed the corner of Buck's mouth. "Mm hmm." "Cut it." Buck turned his head a bit as Ezra kissed the other corner of his mouth and brushed his nose along the bottom edge of Buck's mustache with a languid sweep. "I'm teaching it." "Cut it," Buck said again, his words now a hopeful plea. Ezra pulled back enough to look Buck in the eyes, studying him for a moment as he combed his fingers through Buck's hair. He lowered his lips to Buck's, his single-word answer, "Okay," carried on a wafting breath that Buck swallowed as they kissed. Ezra smiled as he slowly climbed off the chair, his hands trailing down Buck's arms, leaving fiery arousal in their wake. Buck followed Ezra's graceful movements as he crossed to the phone on the nightstand, and listened to the silky, Southern richness of his voice, rather than its words, with singular attention as Ezra called in sick. Then, he was coming back to Buck, his smile smoldering allure as he took Buck's outstretched hand and paused. "You sure you don't want to use the bed?" Buck's eyes drifted over Ezra's jeans-clad hips, the fly half unbuttoned, and along the sun-limned torso of his body. He shook his head, his voice raspy denial as he answered, "Unh uh. I like you in gold." Puzzlement tinged Ezra's eyes at those words, but was soon erased as Buck tugged the man back down with him. The chair lurched under the sudden additional weight and surged backwards, causing Ezra's body to slide along Buck's till they were nose-to-nose. Laughter spilled from both men as they held tightly to each other and as the chair steadied. And, as Buck looked up into the mirth-filled face so close to his own, he watched the sunset's glow compete with Ezra's light. Oh, yeah. I can wait a lifetime of sunsets. ooOOOoo With a quick peck to the cheek for Sarah and a vigorous hair-mussing for the small boy held in Chris Larabee's arms, Buck grabbed his friend's overnight bag and trotted down the sidewalk to his truck. Tossing the bag behind the seat with his own, he climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, waiting while Chris said his private good-byes to his wife and son. Buck folded his arms over the steering wheel and leaned forward, his gaze drawn to the cloud wisps rimming the eastern horizon, tinted a tender pink with the rising of the sun. Soon, its spreading arms of warmth would chase off the early morning chill, burnishing everything they touched in shifting hues as the hours passed. His mouth curving in a wistful smile, Buck wondered what Ezra would be doing this sunset. His musings were abruptly interrupted as the passenger door opened and Chris got in. With a last wave towards Sarah and Adam, Chris turned towards Buck and tapped impatiently on the dashboard. "Let's get this rust-bucket moving. Wanna get home." Buck gave a low chuckle, throwing his own wave over his shoulder at the two figures shadowed by the porch overhang, before pulling out into the street. Traffic was light still at this hour, and he drove leisurely down the quiet, tree-lined avenue of old houses converted into apartment buildings. He flicked a quick glance at Chris and said, "This case is stone cold. Bet there'll be a message at the airport when we land, tellin' us to just turn around and come on home 'cause it was a false lead." Chris grunted noncommittally. "Maybe. Timing coulda been better." "Yeah, coulda," Buck replied, his mind's eye turned towards laughing green eyes and beckoning, golden-sheened skin, as he gave a half-nod in understanding. "Yeah," he repeated softly. Then, with an indrawn breath, his voice strengthened as he asked, "Sarah and Adam still going out to the new house?" He heard the fond smile in his friend's voice as Chris replied, "Yep. They're gonna get started on the garden. Camp out in front of the fireplace." The shifting of cloth over seat cover sounded then as Chris angled his attention away from the view outside the windshield and towards Buck. His tone was faintly stern as he asked, "You say good-bye to Jailbait?" Buck grinned in good-natured exasperation at Chris's nickname for Ezra. "He's only ten years younger than me, pard." Chris snorted. "Yeah, and you're ten years older, old man." "Still not old enough to know better." Buck threw a sly smile at his best friend as he continued, "You're just jealous 'cause I can still attract a twenty-five year old." Chris snorted again. "More likely he's taken ya on outta pity, old man." Buck reached one long arm out, his eyes never straying from the road in front of him, and smacked Chris on the back of the head. He heard the answering laugh as Chris moved, again facing the windshield. Buck knew Chris had been concerned when he'd heard Ezra's age, but, being the friend he was, he'd held his own counsel till he'd met the younger man. While Buck had introduced a number of his conquests, both men and women, to Chris over the years, he'd never brought one to his best friend's home to meet both Chris and Sarah. Buck had had no doubts in doing so with Ezra. Every instinct in his body and in his heart, base, high and at every level in between, told him from his first moment with Ezra that this man belonged with him. The rightness of it was there in the touches they shared, with their bodies and with their minds. It was in what was said between them, with words or without. And it was there in the insistent yearning that had taken up residence in his center with the first meeting of Ezra's eyes with his own. The age difference between them had never caused Buck any worries. He had seen the man that Ezra was in that first shared gaze. Those green eyes had been imbued with a potent and compelling mix of self-assuredness, intelligence, humor and challenge, all speaking of a man seasoned with experience if not with years. He'd had no doubts, no misgivings, about bringing Ezra to Chris and Sarah. He knew they'd too see the rightness between he and Ezra, so self-evident to him, and they had. While he hadn't needed their approval, he'd wanted it. He knew he had it the moment the teasing light entered Chris's eyes the first time he referred to Ezra as "Jailbait." "So, did ya?" Buck pulled his thoughts back to the present and ran his mind over their conversation, placing the question. He smiled with tingling remembrance as he recalled the good-bye he'd given Ezra. "Yeah," he replied quietly. "Yeah, I did." His smile widened into a satisfied grin as he smoothly merged into heavier traffic. It was good to have someone he didn't have to hide his relationship with Ezra from. And it was very good to have sunsets to look forward to. ooOOOoo Part One Three Years Later The noise of the Friday night crowd at The Saloon surrounded Team Seven's table, a tracery of eddies that ebbed and flowed around them in a raucous mix of voices and laughter, music, and glass against wood. Chris Larabee heard it all, but as he sat back in his seat, his focus stayed on the five men circling his table. Almost two years after leaving the Denver PD to join the ATF, Chris had been given the opportunity to put together and lead his own team, a disparate group of individuals of his own choosing. Buck Wilmington, his oldest and closest friend, had followed him from the police force and was his right hand. Nathan Jackson had been their first recruit, his combined training in Incendiary Forensics and as a Tactical Medic a double threat that made him an asset to any team. Josiah Sanchez had joined next as their profiler, his education and experience, the unique workings of his own mind all lending invaluable insights into plumbing the psyches of their human targets. Vin Tanner, Weapons Specialist and Sniper of extraordinary skill, had been recruited next, along with JD Dunne, stolen from the Boston division of the ATF for his astonishing ability to wield a computer. Now, six months later, they were celebrating their first assignment, successfully completed. Chris smiled as his gaze passed from man to man, the fluid ease he saw gliding between them mirrored within himself for the first time in three years. His eyes landed on Buck last, sitting on the other side of the table, half-facing away from the team, his blue gaze distracted, detached. Distant. Chris's smile faltered, and his nascent content cracked. That he was even alive today to feel that burgeoning hopefulness he had no doubt he owed to Buck. But, just like the worn and scarred table separating them, the friendship between them was slowly splintering, fracturing, and he didn't know why. He tried to capture Buck's eyes with his own, but they evaded his grasp as Buck rose and threw some bills down on the table to cover his drink. "Buck, can't you stay tonight?" Chris's voice was even, casual, but he heard the wistfulness underlying his words as they pierced through the conversations of the others and reached Buck's ears. He thought Buck heard it too as his eyes finally met Chris's and as a grin formed. But its curve was brittle and didn't warm Buck's eyes before they fell away after a too-short moment as he turned at JD's words. "So, who is she tonight, Buck?" "A gentleman doesn't tell, kid. Just, sure as hell not gonna sit around with you lot when there's a lovely lady waiting out there for ol' Buck to brighten her weekend. I'll see you ladies Monday morning." Buck tossed another smile around the table then was gone, his tall form weaving amongst the other patrons on his way to the door. JD shook his head and, with the cheek of youth, asked, "Shouldn't a man his age be settled down and married by now?" Soft laughter filtered through his teammates as Chris watched Buck's retreating back. For an instant he saw instead the Buck of three years ago and felt an inexplicable need to defend. Almost as if to himself, he said, "He was in love once." Buck's head bobbed out the door, silhouetted against the dusk-blue sky for an instant before the heavy wood swung shut again. Chris blinked as he pulled his attention back to his friends, their eyes now all on him after his softly worded statement. Vin asked quietly, "What happened to her? Did she leave him?" "Yeah. Something like that." His answer was simple deflection, but as Chris's eyes returned to the door, a twinge of something that felt like regret flickered in his belly. ooOOOoo Buck braced himself against the slippery, tiled wall of the shower with one stiffened arm as he arched his neck and felt the fine, misting spray skitter across his face. Its touch was light, a subtle dance across his flesh. And it was a memory, an echo of long, slender fingers and gentle lips whispering across his cheek to his mouth in a ghosting kiss. He stayed still, absorbing that ephemeral heat from the past, till it slipped away, like a dream upon waking, in the growing cold of the water. A shiver swept through him as he turned off the faucets and stepped out of the shower, quickly rubbing his body with a towel that dried his skin, yet left it frigid and longing for the warmth. If wishes were horses... Buck released his breath in a short, barking laugh, ironic and derisive, as he used a corner of the towel to wipe a circle clear of condensation from the mirror then dropped the dampened cloth carelessly to the floor. His gaze flickered over his features, noting the deepening lines in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth, the crease between his eyes. His failure to meet those eyes. This was the man he had become. The man I chose to become. He ran the back of his hand along his stubbled jaw line, the prickle of whiskers against his fingers an indifferent sting, and his mouth curled with wry amusement. Good enough for what you have planned for the night. Buck wondered what his teammates, what Chris, would think if they knew he hadn't been out with anyone for months, that he hadn't wanted to go out with anyone for years. Not since the chill encroachment of a bitter winter that froze from the inside out. ...beggars would ride. After Sarah and Adam died... After Ezra... For a time, Chris had needed Buck to see him through the deluge of his loss and his grief, and Buck had been there for him. But, just like a thunderstorm's rain that comes hard and fast and runs off the drought stricken land into gutters and ditches but falls short of quenching the earth, Chris's need hadn't filled the corners of Buck's soul left empty and barren from his own aching want left from that day. He was restless and tired of going through the motions of life. Tired of his life. Tired of fooling his friends. Tired of fooling himself. Just... tired. Buck sighed as he dropped his eyes from his reflection and stared at the white porcelain of the sink, idly following the slickly slow path of a light-gilded drop of water as it made its way to the blackness ringing the underside of the drain stopper. His limbs felt leaden and were loath to move, made heavy with the lethargy of apathy and fatigue. But the cold, that always-there chill forced him to move into his bedroom and slip into a pair of sweatpants and shirt. The fleece of their lining was soft and smooth against his skin, but not soft nor smooth enough. Not warm enough.. Continuing what was fast becoming his nightly routine, Buck went downstairs to the kitchen and pulled a whiskey bottle from its cabinet. He opened it and took a long drink from its mouth, watching the kitchen light refract through the liquid with amber sparks as it swirled in the bottle. Soon, that heat would spread through his body, a brief respite from the cold. A reckless laugh escaped his lips as he imagined what Chris would say should he see the whiskey bottle Buck had pulled out of his hands so often now in Buck's own, what he would say in reply. He touched the bottle to his forehead in a mock salute. Here's to ya, Chris. Buck was making his way into the living room just as the doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet of the house, scraping against the raw noise of his mind with insistent cheerfulness. He sagged against the doorjamb, his cheek resting against the wood as his eyes found the frosted glass beside the front door. A black shape, amorphous and indefinite, was on the other side, part of it disconnecting and lifting as he watched, just as the doorbell rang again. Frowning, he set the whiskey down on the hall table and moved to the peephole. It framed the face of a stranger. Closing his eyes briefly, thankful that it was not one of his teammates, Buck opened the door to the tall man bathed in the sallow glare of the porch light. He was as tall as Buck, though more powerfully built, with short black hair and piercing gray eyes. As he extended his right hand to Buck, a deep voice, a low-throated thrum, asked, "Buck Wilmington?" Buck eyed that hand for a moment before raising his gaze to the other man's. The smile curving his lips with affable approach was not found in those gray eyes, unblinking with stony stillness. Buck's own eyes narrowed as he cocked his head and ignored the hand being offered to him. "Yeah," he replied, that one word cautious questioning. The man lifted his rejected hand and shrugged with sheepish good humor, even as his eyes held Buck's with unbreakable resolve. "Name's Ben Secrest." Buck squinted against that unwavering stare as he stood up straighter and asked, his tone instinctive challenge, "Yeah? Am I supposed to know you?" "Me? No." The veneer of friendliness on those full lips was stripped away with the twist of a sneer and by eyes now tinged with the flint-hard glint of contempt. And in a voice of almost-pity as Secrest continued. "But you should've known Ezra Standish." ooOOOoo "Lights out!" Ezra's eyes met their own reflection in the mirror above the sink, stark green lost in the planes of a face cast in harsh artificial lighting. Its flat yellow illumination lit the cell, but just skimmed off the surface of Ezra's skin, never seeping within to warm or to enliven. The image held for an instant, a bleak snapshot, before darkness descended, lessening the ever-present drone of the prison by just one electronic hum. Security lights washed his face now with a softer blue, cut by the darker shadows of the bars to his left. He smiled slightly, a sardonic lifting of his lips, as his fingers traced one line bisecting his cheek across the bone and to his temple. They even try to imprison what's in here. He sighed, then, as he heard the slap of bare feet on concrete as his cellmate dropped to the floor from his bunk. Sometimes they succeed. "Get over here." The words were not abrupt, nor the tone commanding. They didn't have to be. The speaker knew he'd be obeyed. Ezra's fingertips rubbed an absent, random pattern over his temple, as he found his eyes again in the glass. But not always. He waited a beat, his own imperceptible moment of time in this night, before pushing away from the sink and replying. "I'm coming, Zeke." A rough snort of laughter sounded behind him as he turned, and a strong hand gripped the back of his neck, flexing in a parody of a caress as Zeke said, "Don't know if you will or you won't, but I better, baby." The pressure of that hand at his nape increased, and Ezra stole another moment before following its dictate and sinking to his knees in front of the other man. Maybe he'll be too tired to fuck tonight, too. Ezra held Zeke's hips still. He neither moved forward nor away, waiting for the impatient thrust of movement beneath his hands that he knew would come. Acrid musk of another man assailed his nostrils as that skin under his palms shifted. Ezra bent towards Zeke. Then I can brush my teeth. Afterwards. ooOOOoo Part Two Discordant rhythm - from the bass beat of music leaching through his neighbor's side of the thin duplex wall, from his own heart - pulsed within and around Buck, one pressing inward, one out. A few words from a stranger, and the hole he knew he'd been slowly bleeding from for the last three years widened. One word from a stranger, and that hole's flow gushed freely. One word. Ezra. Buck closed his eyes and, for an instant, held sun-gold skin, felt the touch of green whispering to his body and of elegant hands smoothing warmth along his soul. He opened his eyes now and saw only the cold, empty grate of the brick fireplace he was facing. Dropping his arm from the mantelpiece, Buck turned to face his visitor seated on the couch across his living room. A sharp gray stare followed his movements as he leaned back against the mantelpiece and regarded Ben Secrest in kind. Secrest had voiced his request with steady impassivity, but Buck could see now the keen edge of watchfulness, of hope in those eyes. He denied it an answer for the time being and asked his own question of Secrest. Of himself. "Why should I help you get Ezra's conviction for killing Sarah and Adam Larabee overturned?" Secrest tilted his head to the side and smiled, crooked and cocksure, as he replied, "Because he didn't do it." The other man's certainty was easy and unquestioning, and it was a slap in the face, a defiant challenge to the doubt Buck himself had held three years ago. But at this moment, Buck sidestepped his own old uncertainty and fixed on this man's confidence, needing to understand it. Wishing it had been his own? "How do you know?" he asked softly. "How do you know he didn't do it?" Secrest's eyes held Buck's, their gray flecked with fleeting pity, before he answered. "Because he told me. Because I know him." Buck pressed back into the mantelpiece, its ledge digging into his shoulder blades, a painful bite that still didn't override the cut of Secrest's words. He felt them vibrate through him like the music from the other side of the wall, a persistent, unsettling murmur, an echoing backlash of Secrest's earlier statement. But you should've known Ezra Standish. But you... You... Buck returned Secrest's stare, read the ironic accusation there as if he could read Buck's thoughts, and felt its reverberation as a sounding wave through him. And he saw again that three-years-old need in a pair of green eyes. Still, as a knee-jerk defense against his own doubts, he dared the other's surety and asked, "That's all? Because you 'know' him?" Secrest sank back into the sofa, his head tilting up at Buck with a small inward-looking smile before his gaze met Buck's again. He gave a short nod and paused as he searched Buck's eyes, then in a slow, sure drawl, said, "Yeah. That's all." Another question, insistent and yearning, one that had been rumbling for voice since Ben Secrest showed up on his doorstep and said that one word, sprang to Buck's lips. "Did Ezra send you to me?" Secrest's tilted head cocked in the other direction as he exhaled with a staccato huff and said, "Naw, Ezra doesn't want anything to do with you. Just, an ex-con like me, fresh out on parole, can use some help from a law enforcement type like you." Secrest leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, his gray eyes unwavering steel as he continued. "You were his lover. I know Ezra. That has to have meant something to you." Secrest stood then, and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "And hell, man, I don't care why you do it. Guilt, love, lust, conscience, wanting the truth of who really killed your best friend's wife and son..." Secrest took a step towards Buck, his next words ringing clarity in the stillness as the stereo next door fell silent. "Just do it." Buck straightened away from the fireplace, that one beat of quiet dispelled as the music started up again and as experienced suspicion and a jealousy he had no right to feel took hold. "Why is getting Ezra out of prison so important to you?" That cocky grin that Buck was coming to dislike with unreasoning irritation was back, Secrest's tone mock innocence in his reply. "For truth, justice, and the American way?" Buck folded his arms across his chest, his own lips curling with snide disbelief. "Just doing it out of the goodness of your heart." Secrest's grin erupted into a low chuckle. "Fuck. Ain't no goodness in my heart." Then, the grin disappeared, replaced with a gaze turned faraway as Secrest went on. "I got to know him in there. Ezra's been there three years, but it hasn't touched all of him yet. He still wears here, the outside, on him. Hell, he can't even swear like he means it. 'Fuck' sounds classy coming out of his mouth." Secrest paused, his eyes focused on Buck again, his voice earnest in its hesitation when he resumed. "He's... clean. I want him to stay that way. He doesn't belong there." Buck heard the wistfulness in Secrest's words, and the trace of fear, and he asked one more question of Secrest's motivations, yet not sure he wanted the answer. "Where do you think Ezra belongs?" Secrest's mouth curved in slow, lazy pleasure and with undeniable certainty, as he said, "With me." ooOOOoo Coarse cotton sheeting, worn thin and frayed, chafed at Ezra's skin as he shifted in his bunk. Still, it was infinitely more soothing to his flesh than the body, slick and sweaty, that slumped along the length of his back with a grunt, pressing him into the mattress with its weight. Oppressive heat engulfed him in the hard-muscled arm anchoring his waist and in the bone-firm knee still insinuated between his legs, with the stale puff of air gusting across his cheek as suppressive to his own breath as a humid summer day. Ezra turned away from Zeke's face, its lines lax satiation, as it settled into the pillow beside him. Zeke's breathing came in labored pants, his chest expanding with each gasp, its touch like the persistent buzzing of a fly, a testing irritant against Ezra's back. Ezra moved away from that too, sliding from underneath Zeke with the practiced ease of nightly repetition. He didn't even recall anymore the long gone shudder that used to shake his frame as a hand traced over his butt and hip with familiar possession as he slipped out of the bunk. Drying semen charted a path down his leg, a sticky itch, as he paced the few steps to the sink. He scrubbed it off his skin with a wet washcloth, cleansing it away with a single-minded thoroughness that yet could not seep below the surface. Ezra didn't think he could ever be clean there again. Bitter self-derision curved his lips as he rubbed his chin and found the dim reflection of his eyes in the mirror. Does it even matter in here? Picking up his toothbrush from where it lay in mocking alignment with Zeke's, Ezra measured out a generous amount of paste, even knowing its minty-burn's attempt to erase the sharp taste of Zeke's sex would be futile. It had been there too long. It won't ever go away. Yet he brushed his teeth with the same intent purpose he had his skin. A burst of light, harsh abruptness, passed over him as the CO made his rounds, tracking over to Zeke's face capped with close-cropped dark hair, his long body sprawled in Ezra's bunk. Then, it came back to him again, running over his naked form as the hack's lips twisted in a smirk of knowing smugness. Fuck you.. Ezra turned back to the sink, to his brushing, with indifferent dismissal. The guard held his flashlight on Ezra for a moment longer before continuing on his way. Like to see what kind of a smile you'd have on your face on this side of the bars. The low rumble of a snore sounded behind him, and Ezra sighed as he glanced over his shoulder at Zeke, now fast asleep in Ezra's own bunk. Again. Fuck me. Zeke not making it back up to his own bunk after the sex was happening with increasing and disturbing frequency. But Ezra would not sleep with him. It was not part of their deal. "It's me or it's everyone, baby. Anyone. I'll watch your back, and you pay with a lay." Or down on my knees, sucking cock. Or both. Ezra spit out the toothpaste and rinsed his mouth with water. But no kissing. And no sleeping together. Ezra dried his mouth with a towel as his gaze flicked to Zeke's empty upper bunk. He'd sleep there tonight, away from the rough glide of limbs against his, apart from the touch of skin on skin. He'd never slept with anyone before. Now I never will. ooOOOoo A midnight breeze rattled the window as Buck stood before it, sending autumn leaves skittering across its surface and on the ground in a swirl of agitation. It was a direct counterpoint to the whirl of words replaying in Buck's mind in an endless loop. "I know him." "But you should've known Ezra Standish." You. Should've. He'd wanted Ezra Standish. Loved him. Now another man was claiming to know him in a way Buck never had. "Naw, Ezra doesn't want anything to do with you." A long-refused pang he let loose now, testing its endurance in the face of those words. It surged and expanded, gained strength as the refrain repeated in his head. "Ezra doesn't want anything to do with you." Restless energy pushed him away from the windowpane. He took two steps towards his bed, its sheets turned dull white, cold and barren in the faint moonlight, and stopped. That sharp pain pierced further outward, and Buck sighed, turning back to the window and settling against its sash. More words returned to him. His own: "How is Ezra? Is he all right?" And Secrest's reply, accompanied by long-known resignation: "No, he's not all right. It's prison. Shit happens. It's happened to Ezra." And a newfound charge: "But then, you already know about shit happening to Ezra." "Shit happens." "It's happened to Ezra." Shit. Buck's eyes made a circuit of his bedroom, noting the sparse furnishings, the absence of decoration, of personality. Of himself. This house, his half of a duplex, his vain attempt at permanence, at what was expected of a man his age. His home. His life. Empty. Lifeless. He'd asked: "Where do you think Ezra belongs?" Ben Secrest had answered: "With me." Now, as Buck watched the grass gradually turn silver with the luster of frost, the turmoil of words within him coalesced into just those two. "With me." And he wondered if the right man had spoken them. ooOOOoo Part Three Monday Morning Weak sunlight filtered through slowly moving clouds, glinting off the frost covered ground in scattered sparks, as Buck stood at his kitchen window. He saw the birch tree marking the corner of his garage, its fluttering leaves a brittle autumn gold against the bleak white of its trunk, and he felt the early morning chill creeping through the glass to touch his skin. He heard warmth, though, in Chris's voice, carried over the telephone line with questioning concern. "No, Chris, I'll be okay on my own. Just a bug. Probably be back on my feet tomorrow. I'll have Nathan take a look at me if I'm not." Then, as darting guilt twinged, he sought to reassure. "I'll see you tomorrow, most like. Thanks, Chris." Buck released his breath in a slow exhalation as he replaced the receiver on its hook and again lifted his eyes to the window, to the dried, curling leaves torn from their moorings and now skidding across his driveway in an erratic tumult. No, Chris, please. Don't show care for me. Not now. Leaning against the counter with a sigh, he brought his mug up to his mouth and took a deep swallow of coffee. Its flavor danced over his tongue with lingering richness, and its heat spread within his chest, as a fleeting remembrance of sun-gilt skin and green-lit eyes flitted through his mind. He'd asked a question that last sunset. "Gonna miss me?" The answer then was a teasing whisper. "Perhaps." That answer now was mocking bitterness as Secrest's rebuke echoed again. "Naw, Ezra doesn't want anything to do with you." Buck smiled briefly in self-directed irony, as he tossed the remainder of his cooling coffee in the sink and watched it swirl out of sight. Buck had said he loved Ezra Standish... ...then he stood there waiting, uncertain expectancy skittering along his nerve endings, like the silent rush of snowflakes falling with the late winter storm outside Ezra's bedroom window. Ezra had stiffened in Buck's arms as he said those words, but now he shifted and leaned back. Green eyes held his, seeking and finding, as Ezra raised his hand to Buck's cheek, his caressing fingers spreading warmth and soothing gentleness. His mouth lifted in a tender curve, and his voice was sultry huskiness as he murmured, "Buck." Ezra said no more, though, as his eyes touched with steady truth and as his hand spoke with sure calm. But Buck needed more, he needed words, and so he beseeched with his own searching gaze and implored with the tightening of his hands on Ezra's arms. Ezra's dimples winked in and out, a soft brilliance, as his smile widened for an instant. Then, Buck's hand was in Ezra's, and he was being led to the window and urged to kneel on the floor before it. Ezra lifted the pane of glass and the storm window, letting in a burst of frigid air and a thin veil of snowflakes as Buck uttered a confused, "Ezra?" Ezra knelt beside Buck, his face bathed with the gray-white twilight of the snow, and he took Buck's hand again, interlacing their fingers as he held them outside the window. Quietly, his voice barely breaking the hush of the snowy evening stillness, Ezra asked, "What do you feel, Buck?" Buck lifted his eyebrows in puzzled query, his one word reply, "Cold?" a question rather than an answer, even as his gaze was transfixed by the serenity suffusing Ezra's face, a perfect reflection of the snow-filled grace outside the window. Ezra gave their hands a small shake, as a light laugh escaped his lips in a throaty whisper. "Yes, well, there is that." His face tilted to the side then, his eyes to their hands, as he continued. "But it's a good kind of cold. It's sharp and it tingles. It makes you feel alive." Ezra's fingers moved then, stroking over the snow-wet flesh of Buck's hand with slow and infinite care. "And when the snow touches you, it warms and changes. It seeps into your skin, and so, changes you." He stopped then as he returned his gaze to Buck's and brought their joined hands back into the room and to his chest. "That's how you make me feel, Buck. Words..." Ezra shook his head slightly then said, "People have said those words to me before. Maybe some meant them. I don't know. But you're the first person I've believed them from." He lifted Buck's hand to his face in a silky sweep of Buck's skin against Ezra's, before bringing it to his mouth, his next words a kiss of breath across its surface. "You're the only one I've wanted to have this with." Buck's chest squeezed with an almost painful clench. With life. And love. And, as he drew Ezra towards him by their clasped hands, he said the one thing he knew to be true. "We'll have this; you'll have me, Ezra. Always..." A promise had been offered between them that night, and a promise accepted, one of love and home and trust. It had been a vow broken almost as soon as it had been made. For three years he'd tried to understand why, even as he'd thought he knew who had shattered that fragile oath with unforeseen ease. But now his own words haunted him, a jeering taunt. Have me. Always. "You should've known Ezra Standish." Now, as Secrest's first words had accused, Buck realized that all he'd really known for three years was the knife-sharp cut of doubt and regret whittling away at his thin veneer of righteousness protecting his heart. So, with a hard-won need now for the truth, whatever it would tell, his hand reached for the phone again and dialed a number memorized the night before. Two rings before the line was picked up gave him the chance to hang up, to change his mind, to turn back. But decision held, and he waited. A brisk voice answered with a clipped salutation, and Buck, his own reply deceptively controlled professionalism, said, "Hello, my name is Buck Wilmington. I'm with the Denver ATF. I'd like to speak with Warden Jeffries, please." Then, as he listened to the buzzing static of silence while on hold, his gaze returned to the birch tree, its branches now lifting on a strengthening breeze. Its remaining leaves clung with stubborn tenacity, its limbs and core bending with easy pliancy, refusing to break against the buffeting wind. And he thought of Chris and their friendship, and he hoped it was just as resilient. ooOOOoo Ezra stood at the security gate, waiting for the raucous buzzer that alerted its opening and the metal-on-metal clang as it drew back. Three years ago both had been a harsh scratching noise along his spine, a startling and abrupt finality. Now they barely registered as he trundled his library cart across the threshold at the duty guard's silent signal and into the empty hallway beyond. The long corridor provided passage from the wing housing the hospital ward from which he'd just come to the older building ahead where the cellblocks of the General Population could be found. One wall was smooth concrete, unmarked by any doors, the other a solid bank of windows looking out onto the prison's grounds and the surrounding hills burning with the russet and umber of fall. It was an island of peace and quiet, the hubbub of voices, the hiss of the forced circulation of air, and the always there murmur of electronics and machines fading into a subdued background for a few feet of space that were warmed from barren gray to a sunlit yellow. It was a few moments for himself, both coming and going, that Ezra relished for their scarcity in this place, even as he was thankful his job in the prison library afforded him this opportunity to deliver books to the patients in the infirmary two or three times a week. Ezra's eyes went now to the diamond shaped prisms of light formed by glass overlaid with the steel mesh of security wire. The sky held within their boundaries was clear and sharp, with the sun high above the earth. But unbidden, another day's sky came to his mind, one warming towards summer as the sun rode closer to the ground... "Hey, there. Could you point me in the direction of the Student Union?" Innocuous words, uttered in a lazy drawl, that had Ezra looking up from his seat on the steps of the university's library to a man with sleek dark hair blued with shadows and into eyes deepened with the touch of midnight. They were eyes that danced with promise and hinted at a future... They were eyes that had lied with cunning facility. Irritation flared, and anger, at himself, then, for believing, at himself, now, for dreaming. With long-practiced deliberation, he narrowed his gaze and turned his focus back to the sky cooling now towards winter and to its confining steel. This is my life. That, never was. And, like an insistent reminder of the present, the gate he was approaching opened and there was Zeke coming towards him, his eyes fixed on the CO at the gate Ezra had left behind. As they drew abreast, he tossed a quick look over his shoulder and leaned in to Ezra, his words a furtive whisper as he said, "Hey, baby. There was a Fed in the warden's office this morning. Asking about you." Ezra quirked an eyebrow, but kept his expression neutral curiosity as Zeke's brown eyes scanned his face, gauging his reaction. Puzzlement flickered within, but his voice was calm evenness as he returned, "Asking what about me? What agency?" Zeke shook his head and said, "Don't know. Haven't been able to find out but I'm working on it." A smile lifted his lips then, insinuating and sly, as he asked, "What'd you do to get the attention of the Feds when you were out there being a bad boy, baby?" Ezra smiled in wry self-derision. "The same thing I did to get in here. Nothing." Zeke's grin widened as he replied, "Yeah, we're all innocent in here." Then, as Ezra canted his eyes with still coldness, Zeke lifted his hands with placation and continued. "That's good. Yeah, it's good that you're innocent. 'Cause neither one of us would like it if you got transferred to a federal pen." He paused, his tone mild but his stare hardening, as he asked, "Ain't that right?" Ezra's eyes held Zeke's unflinchingly, but he was saved from replying as the guard at the gate to the hospital wing barked out, "Murdoch, you got a reason for being here?" Zeke looked up at the guard with ingratiating guilelessness and replied, "On my way to sick call, Officer Hunt." "Well, then, get it moving. Sick call's almost over for the morning." The CO's glance flicked to Ezra before returning to Zeke. "Your boyfriend can comfort you later." Zeke touched one finger to his head in a mock salute and pushed away from the library cart. Ezra was shoving it forward again, his mind already turning over the information he'd been given as he muttered a distracted "Thanks, Zeke." Zeke's low-voiced reply, "Watchin' your back, babe," floated to Ezra's ears as they moved away from each other. Ezra frowned as he mulled the intent of the unnamed agent and Zeke's words: "...transferred to a federal pen." Would that be an improvement in his life? Life without parole... Life. But not. Or would that just be the next stop on the road to perdition he'd started down three years ago? He knew he'd done nothing to warrant such a move, but then what had he done to deserve being here? Besides trusting where I shouldn't? Ezra thought of one man he'd given his trust to who'd deceived him with aching completeness, and another who was brutally honest with him yet who he'd never trust. His past and his present. And his future? His mouth twisted in bitter amusement as his gaze returned to the wire enmeshed sky, to the clarity and crispness of the sun's autumn slant, as the phrase "Better the devil you know" snaked through his head with insidious resignation. ooOOOoo Three years ago Ezra Standish had been a mystery to him, all he'd thought he knew about the man burned away like so much dry kindling in the fire that destroyed the lives of Sarah and Adam Larabee. And, for a time, the life of Chris Larabee. Now the words of Ben Secrest, his firm belief in Ezra's innocence a mocking reminder of Buck's lack three years ago, had ignited into full flame the doubt and uncertainty that had been smoldering within himself all this time. Doubt in himself and in his actions, in his faith and in his loyalty. He'd given up Ezra to be true to the memories of Sarah and Adam, to his friendship with Chris. Now the dull pain he'd been living with for three years sharpened and pervaded his senses, pricking his skin from the inside out as he realized he'd really thrown Ezra away. Not standing by the man you claim to love, no matter what, or not knowing him well enough to just believe in him... Buck didn't know which was worse, but as he bypassed his pickup and continued on to the nondescript blue Chevy at the end of the row, he thought he knew what Ben Secrest's answer would be. And Ezra's. Fucked up. Either way. And I gotta do it both. Secrest leaned against the hood of his car as he watched Buck approach, his head to one side and a small smile playing about his lips. Buck frowned, his eyes narrowing as nascent resentment quickened towards this man, towards his knowledge and belief, and towards the strength of his interest in Ezra that had him following Buck from the moment he left his house this morning. Buck's tone was short as he asked, "You planning on following me all day?" Secrest shrugged, and his smile became a grin, as he answered, "Hell, man, I plan on following you till you get Ez out." And it flickered again, that jealousy Buck had felt the night of their first conversation, nudging unreasonably but insistently at the smooth familiarity, at the tendrils of intimacy curling around the nickname "Ez" as it left Secrest's mouth. Buck turned away from it, from Secrest, starting back towards his truck as he dismissively tossed over his shoulder, "I don't need your help. Haven't said I was going to do anything yet anyway." "No?" Secrest was at his side, matching his stride easily, as he flicked his eyes pointedly at the file in Buck's hand. "And who else you gonna get to help you? Chris Larabee? The other members of Chris Larabee's team?" Buck winced inwardly at Secrest's questions, acknowledging the truth of their unspoken answers. And twin guilts - for Ezra then, for Chris now - further unfurled and twined together in a supple and sinuous tangle. Secrest stopped Buck with a short tug on his arm before releasing him at Buck's glare. "Look. Maybe you don't need my help. We'll see on that. But I can at least fill in the holes in that file for you. C'mon. There's a diner down the road a few miles. Let's go get lunch, and I can tell you what you won't be reading in those papers." Buck's hand flexed on the file, his fingers spreading over the crisp manila folder containing the equally pristine sheets of neatly typed and professional reports. He knew from his own law enforcement experience with such forms and from the examination he'd already given these in the warden's office that they didn't hold the character, the essence of the life of Ezra Standish. He needed that if he was going to understand the last three years and why he was standing in the prison parking lot today. He needed that if he was going to work to free Ezra Standish. The echo of a promise spoken long ago drifted through his mind like a snowflake carried to earth on a breeze. "We'll have this." I just... need. He hated with increasing fervor that he could learn about Ezra Standish from Ben Secrest, but with a grudging admission he accepted it and would use it. So, he met the gray eyes watching him intently with his own, and said, "All right. Bit early for lunch though, isn't it?" "Ain't it great?" Secrest lifted his chin towards the stone walls of the prison, its hard lines a stark cutout against the sky's light. "24/7, 365 days a year they tell you when to sleep, when to work, when to shower, when to take a leak or a shit. When to eat. My cellblock, lunchtime was 12:45 PM, whether I was hungry or not." Secrest checked his watch and, with a smile in his voice, said, "Well, it's 10:56 AM, and I'm hungry. I can eat lunch now, if I want to. And I want to." Secrest's smile softened then as his gaze returned to the prison walls, as he asked, "Did you see him?" A wistful sheen glittered across the surface of Secrest's eyes as he asked that simple question. Buck could hear his own yearning in his harsh-voiced reply. "No." Secrest regarded Buck silently for a moment, his stare estimating appraisal. "You're a hard man, Wilmington." He gave a brief shake of his head then continued. "C'mon, let's go get lunch. Then I can fill in those holes, and you can tell me how you fucked up so bad three years ago." ooOOOoo Part Four "I can't tell you what happened three years ago. That's for Ezra, for him to tell." Ben Secrest pushed his empty lunch plate away and settled back against the vinyl seat of the booth with a groan of satisfied repletion and a shrug of helpless acknowledgement. "He don't tell; I don't ask." His eyes lifted to Buck's, challenging surety in their gray, as he continued. "Ezra just said he didn't kill that lady and her kid. He said it; I believe him." Buck held that rock-hard stare for a moment, heard the easy certainty that accompanied the words, words that stabbed with accusing facility. …You should've known Ezra Standish…. Buck turned away, his gaze drifting out the window of the Sunset Diner and across the crumbled gravel of the parking lot to the empty, grassy fields verging the hills beyond. All were burnished by autumn in endless shadings of gold, shadings of gold that pierced with the cold of a distancing sun and that matched the chill lancing now through Buck. I believe him. Secrest's eyes were still on him, boring holes in him through the tendrils of smoke rising from the cigarette Secrest had just lit. They studied Buck, and they waited, as they mocked him with the knowledge that Secrest had done better for Ezra than Buck ever had. And Buck snapped, the brittle veneer cast over his heart, over his conscience, so long ago cracking, as he said, "Fine. Then tell me about the last three years." Tell me about Ezra. Secrest smiled, his cocksure reply to Buck's request, and said, "Sure. What do you want to know?" Buck shoved aside his long neglected cup of coffee, all he had ordered, and rested his hand on the folder laying on the table, its spare words read and now needing to be understood. "His first months there-" Buck stopped, years' control of carefully built dispassion splintering in his voice as he recalled that text. "This list of injuries over his first months - cracked ribs, a broken wrist, a dislocated shoulder, multiple bruises and lacerations… Start there. Tell me what happened there." Ben's eyes narrowed with impatience, a dare to deny, as he bit out, "Whaddaya think happened?" "Tell me," Buck said softly. Tell me about Ezra. Please. Secrest lifted his chin and tilted his head, his eyes surveying Buck's face from under hooded lids, before a brief glint of respect flickered there then winked out. He lowered his cigarette from his mouth and left it to smolder in the plastic ashtray, as he breathed out one last acrid trail of smoke on a susurrating sigh. His fingers tapping lightly, discordantly, on the pack of cigarettes in front of him, Secrest spoke. "He was like a whiff of honeysuckle on a country road. You know? In that place… Out of nowhere, fresh, and so sweet. Half the population wanted to eat him up. And they tried." …I can wait, Ezra. Won't do anything you're not ready for…. Buck listened to the words, his own promised on a spring evening three years ago, and Secrest's, uttered in a regret tinged rasp of voice now, and when it quieted, he pulled his gaze from the agitated fingers of the other man and met his eyes. …Shit happens. It's happened to Ezra…. Buck saw that truth in those eyes, felt the deep guilt of it like a bruise on bone, and asked, "Was he raped?" Tell me no. Please. Secrest returned his look, an ember of that respect sparking again, for a moment, at his question before Secrest angled his chin towards the file folder by Buck. "Does it say in there he was?" Buck frowned at the equivocation, as he glanced at the file. "No." Secrest lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug and, with casual dismissal, said, "Then I guess he wasn't." "That's not an answer," Buck ground out, as the desperate need - to know, to not know - that had been a constant ache he'd ignored for three years sharpened and cut. Tell me. "It's the only one I have for you." Secrest's face fell into lines of false sincerity as he drawled, "Those are official documents. They wouldn't lie, or be wrong, or leave things out, or pervert the truth, now would they, Wilmington?" Secrest paused as he leaned forward, his eyes on the file, then on Buck, as he questioned, "Would they?" There was ambiguous dispute in those words and in Secrest's expression, the clear-cut answers Buck wanted lost in a maze of deflection. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Secrest's lips curled in a smile, mirthless and fleeting. "Ezra knows how to take care of himself." Then Secrest's eyes were again drilling into Buck's with persuasive intensity. "Talk to Ezra if you want a better answer." Buck tapped his own fingertips against Ezra's file, an irregular countermeasure to Secrest's on his cigarette pack, as impatience whittled away at the already worn tolerance he felt for this man. He tried another tack, a way to the answers he wanted, rather than the ones Secrest was willing to give him. "After six months, there's nothing, not so much as a cold, to bring Ezra to the infirmary. Why is that?" Secrest picked up his cigarette and flicked off the ash, stubbing the charred end till it was dead, its dimming glow now turned to black. His full lips thinned, a bitter tightening around matter-of-fact words, as he continued. "Ezra had a choice. Fight, every day, or give it up, any day to anybody." His mouth quirked then, a wry lifting of one end, as he looked again at Buck. "Leave it to Ez to come up with a third choice." Buck's fingers itched with restless prescience, there as they lay against that file, when he remembered the name attached to Ezra's as his cellmate two and a half years ago. "Zeke Murdoch." Two words, a resigned and hopeless answer to his own question. "Yeah, Zeke Murdoch." Secrest shifted back against his seat, his face twisted in a scowl as his breath escaped in a derisive snort. "Ezra can take care of himself, sure, but everybody needs help sometimes protectin' themselves. Ezra wasn't gonna be able to do his time, winnin' that fight. Not every day. He knew that. But Murdoch, see, he's got connections, friends. And in there, we don't get to hold on to much that's worth anything." Secrest held his cigarette pack up, displaying it, his eyes softening as if seeing something else as they slanted over it, before tucking it away in his jacket pocket. "What little we got, we hold onto. We don't throw it away. We keep it safe." …He'd held Ezra's hand and promised his love, promised forever. "You'll have me, Ezra. Always…. Buck bled from his own failure, from the knowledge that yet another man, a third man - a third choice - had done something else for Ezra that he'd been unable to do, that he hadn't tried hard enough to do. Yet he needed to know more of the truth, needed to know how Zeke Murdoch felt about Ezra, needed to know about Ezra… Tell me about Ezra. Please. Tell me. His voice hitched slightly on his words, stumbling over another question that was its own answer. "And Zeke Murdoch values Ezra." "Wouldn't you if you got to fuck him every night?" Secrest laughed, a short bark of sound, of a pain he turned on Buck. "Oh, wait. That's right. You're the one who threw him away. You're the one who didn't get to fuck him." …I can wait, Ezra. Won't do anything you're not ready for…. A murmured vow, met with trusting green eyes and the warmth of Ezra's flesh against Buck's own. A vow taken away, rendered moot, leaving nothing behind but emptiness and cold. His voice thick with memory and hurt, laced with anger and distrust, he rasped, "And you did." Secrest smiled, his mouth a line of sly cruelty. "So sweet. I was his first." Buck slapped his hand on Ezra's file folder and slid to the end of the booth, as his voice lowered to a growl. "This is bullshit. I'm not gonna let you play me. You can't tell me anything to prove Ezra's innocent-" Secrest stopped him with a hand to his arm, strong and relentless, as he cut in. "You knew that when you sat down. If Ezra couldn't make you believe three years ago, fuck, I sure as hell can't now." His grip tightened and gave Buck's arm a little shake before he thrust it away. "But you, you're so hungry for Ezra, for any little piece of him you can get after three years, you sat and you listened. You wanted to hear, so don't complain about bein' played." Secrest shook his head and gave a sharp huff of amusement. "I don't know, maybe these three years were what it took to make you even try to believe. I don't care. Whatever it takes. Guilt, love, lust, conscience… Talk to Ezra." Buck stood and tossed some money on the table for his coffee as Secrest continued, his words a pitiless rebuke. "My grandmother used to say we're all born with the right to die old and in our sleep, but everyday, we lose a little bit of that right. How much of that right you figure Ezra thinks you have left? Wanna earn some of that time back? I can't tell you what happened three years ago, but I can help you find out now. I can get you to find out now. Whatever it takes. Talk to Ezra. I want him out." Buck stepped away from the table, from Secrest, his hold tight on the file folder as he said, with deceptive calm, "So he can be with you." Secrest grinned, his even white teeth glinting briefly, before he cocked his head and said, "Yeah." "My mother had a saying, too." Buck nodded, then, with one arm braced on the table, leaned over Secrest, invading his space, as he spoke mildly. "Being someone's first isn't what's important. The first time… Well, it usually sucks anyway. It's being a person's last that counts." Lowering his voice to a whisper, he continued. "And if Ezra wanted you, why is he with Murdoch now?" Buck straightened and pulled away, turning his back on Secrest as he stalked to the door, but the other man's words, sure and insinuating, followed him as the glass swung shut. "Ohhhh, yeah. That's what you wanna think, go ahead. You want to keep him away from me, get him away from Murdoch… Whatever it takes, Wilmington. Whatever it takes to get you to do it, get him out." The brisk fall breeze prickled Buck's skin as he strode to his truck, his footsteps an agitated crunch on the gravel that played counterpoint to words repeating in his head - from today, from three days ago, from three years ago… Naw, Ezra doesn't want anything to do with you. You should've known Ezra Standish. You're the one who threw him away. Ezra had a choice. Fight, every day, or give it up, any day to anybody. I can wait, Ezra. Won't do anything you're not ready for. Buck slammed the door behind him as he climbed into his truck, the prickle behind his eyes now as he watched the clouds chase the golden wash of sun across the hills. You'll have me, Ezra. Always. Out of nowhere, fresh... so sweet… ...His thumb traced Ezra's mouth with gentle intent, a kiss of its own kind, as it caught a raindrop stroking that smooth skin and melded it between them, Ezra's mouth to Buck's hand. Then, just like the shower that had driven them inside, pattering now on the roof in a wild and insistent dance, their first kiss burst over them with an urgent and liquid heat that seared away Buck's past and imprinted his future. With the taste of rain and Ezra, years of searching loneliness were washed away with the same ease as winter's detritus in the gutters overhead. Wood creaked beneath his hands, old but pliant, as the inside of Ezra's front door supported the lines of their bodies pressed against it and each other. Buck pulled Ezra from its strength and into his own, his fingers sculpting the sinew and bone of a back hugged by damp cotton, the warmth of his palms joining that of Ezra's flesh, filtered again through the veil of purifying water. Their lips drew apart as their foreheads met in the caressing slide of slick skin against slick skin. Moist breath drifted across Buck's mouth as Ezra shifted and spoke, his voice a sultry tease. "Our seventh date. Are you always this slow to burn, Buck?" His own breath escaped and mixed with Ezra's in a heady huff of laughter that answered the smile he heard in those words, and Buck replied, "Darlin', I've been burning since the first second I saw you. Now I aim to show you just how steady that flame is…." Buck's gaze dropped to the file resting on the seat beside him, the austere manila folder and the coldly worded reports within a brazen mockery of the true life of the man they sought to quantify and illuminate. Buck closed his eyes briefly and reached between its pages. His fingers found the harder edge of the prison ID photograph he'd shoved to the back when he'd received the file, before he could really look at it, and pulled it out now to see. To see Ezra. He hadn't looked on these features for three years, except in whispered dreams and memories, and his breath shallowed out and his stomach tightened as he looked now. As he saw Ezra. Stark black and white had stripped all the color from Ezra's skin and hair and eyes, muting them all to bare shades of gray. The planes of his face - the high forehead and strong chin, the supple mouth and sweep of cheek, the elegant nose and grace of his eyes - were all stilled in a lifeless instant that had lasted three years. But the eyes… As Buck stared into those eyes, bleak remembrance shone on the real moment when the life in those eyes had flickered and died… …Buck, if you don't believe me when I say I didn't do it, that I didn't kill Sarah and Adam… If my saying it to you isn't enough, just to make you believe… Buck's finger hovered over the outline of Ezra's mouth, not touching the flat paper, but recalling instead the living thing - soft and gentle, dewy and clean, molten and alive. The taste of rain and Ezra… Now I aim to show you just how steady that flame is…. He'd said those words to Ezra three years ago and meant them. They'd reverberated through his soul as strongly as his heart beat and as the rain drummed against the roof when he'd said them. They'd echoed dimly for the last three years, though he'd forgotten how to live them, but now, as he started his truck and drove towards the country lane that led out of the parking lot, this time, he chose to believe. And he burned. Steady… Right would take him to the highway that led to Denver; left, back to the prison. Back to Ezra. Back to himself. He went back. To Be Continued...
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