By Purple Lacey
Author's Note: A big thank you goes out from me to Jenn S. for all her help and encouragement during the writing of this story. She kept me motivated and played a large part in seeing this monster got finished.. Thanks, hun!
July 4 - Friday
The sounds of laughter, and good times filled the air as Chris Larabee stood under the big shade tree in his yard looking around at the large crowd that covered the pastures near his ranch house. The day had definitely qualified as a success the leader of the ATF's Team Seven decided as he watched all the people enjoying themselves on that sunny summer afternoon. The sound of a child's excited squealing pulled a smile from him.
It was the annual ATF Fourth of July picnic. A day the Denver office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms got to play. A day when teams got together to bond over something else besides shared danger and spilled blood. It was a family event, and Chris' ranch was covered with children of all ages. Who knew his co-workers were such a prolific bunch!
Orrin Travis, Assistant Director of the Denver office and Chris' direct boss, had talked him into allowing this year's picnic to be held on his ranch. At first, the blond team leader hadn't wanted to have anything to do with it, but then Travis had hit below the belt by telling him it would be safer for the agents, especially the undercover ones, if the event was not held in a public place. Larabee would have been able to say no to any other argument but that one.
So he had caved. Now his north pasture was covered in carnival rides and his east pasture in arcade tents and refreshment stands. There was even an air-conditioned tent for those who needed a break from the heat and a place to rest. The ever-essential porta-potties were lined up in a row behind the other attractions. A line of bright yellow crime scene tape marked off the boundaries of the event. That was where Chris had put his foot down. Travis had agreed to make it clear that the house, barn, and ranch yard was off limits before Chris had given his consent to the event.
"Got a good showing," the voice of his oldest friend interrupted his thoughts as Buck Wilmington handed him a can of soda, pieces of crushed ice still clinging to the aluminum surface in places.
Larabee took the offered can and smiled his thanks. "Yep, looks like everyone's having a good time."
"You seen Ezra anywhere? I wanted to see if I could talk him into a shooting contest with Vin at the shooting gallery," Buck grinned.
"Somehow I don't see that happening. Ezra only gambles on a sure thing, remember?" Chris smirked.
"The fun's not in the shooting match, pard," Buck grinned back, "It's in the argument. Besides, I got a bet going with Vin that I can talk him into it."
Chris shook his head in amusement at his incorrigible friend. "I haven't seen him in awhile." The blond scanned the parking area before continuing, "But his car's still here so he must be around somewhere."
"Did ya find him, Bucklin?" Vin Tanner asked as he joined his friends and teammates standing in the shade provided by the tree.
"Nope. But he's gotta be here somewhere. Chris says his car's still here," Buck replied.
"You think he took cover in the house?" Vin asked as he glanced back over his shoulder at the structure.
All of Team Seven were familiar with the Larabee ranch house. It was the usual gathering place for the team when they had time off and chose to get together. It was also the place that most of them came when they were recuperating from an injury or illness. Sometimes it seemed more of a home to them than their own apartments and houses.
"One way to find out," Chris said as he took off across the yard with the two men following behind.
The group climbed the porch steps and Chris withdrew his keys form his jeans pockets. He had locked the house, not wanting to take any chances that some mischievous child of a coworker might decide to go exploring against parental orders. He knew the locked door would not have been much of a barrier to Standish if the man had decided to enter the house since the undercover agent was so adept at picking locks.
The three men entered and looked around but Ezra was not in the living room. No sounds came from the house to show that anyone was occupying it at the moment. Larabee was about to turn around and lead the men back outside when he noticed the door on his liquor cabinet was ajar. He strode across the living room and pulled it open to see inside. A bottle of the bourbon that Standish preferred was missing.
Chris faced his waiting friends and said with irritation, "He must be around here somewhere. He took a bottle of his favorite booze."
"That's not like Ezra," Vin murmured. "You know he's too dang polite to take things from his friends without askin'."
"He's right, Chris," Buck looked around worriedly. "And after all the shit he went through in Atlanta, Ez's always careful to make sure no one can accuse him of stealing anything, you know that. If he did take it then something's going on."
Realizing his friends were right, Chris nodded then ordered, "Spread out and find him."
Chris headed for the kitchen, setting his soda on the counter, and then stepping out onto the screened back porch while Vin and Buck headed for the bedrooms.
"Chris," Vin called softly and the team leader headed back into the house to the hall where the long-haired sharp shooter was waving him over. The tracker stood in front of the bedroom that Standish used the most when staying over. Larabee and Wilmington joined him at the doorway and looked inside, but didn't see anything. Vin jerked his head toward the farthest, darkest corner of the bedroom. There in the corner between a dresser and a chest of drawers sat their missing agent, legs crossed Indian style, with a severely depleted bottle of bourbon gripped tightly in one hand that rested on his knee. As they watched the bottle was raised to the man's lips and he took a large swallow. The three men looked at each other in concern before entering the room and approaching their friend.
Chris sank down to sit on his heels as he stared at the man. Ezra's eyes were red rimmed and tear tracks could be seen clearly on the man's pale cheeks. The usually well-groomed hair was disheveled and the normally immaculate clothes were wrinkled and spotted with spilled liquor. The smell of booze emanating from the man was very strong.
"Ezra?" Chris tried to keep his voice low so as not to startle the man that was so obviously in the grip of a deep, personal suffering. "What's wrong?"
The drunken agent stared blearily at the man in front of him, seeming to have difficulty bringing him to focus for a moment. Ezra raised the bottle in a toast when recognition came.
"Mr. Larabee, could I interest you in a drink?" Standish asked before taking another long swallow from the bottle.
"I think you've already had enough," Chris replied and reached for the bottle only to have Standish jerk it away.
"Not enough. Not near enough," The agent corrected him, the words slurring slightly from all the liquor he'd already consumed.
"This isn't like you, Ezra," Chris told him as he sat down in front of the man. "In all the time I've known you, I've never seen you drunk. You never want to give up that much self control. Why now? What set this off?"
"You wouldn't understand. No one understands," Ezra said in a maudlin grumble.
"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams," he quoted with drunken melodrama before taking another swig. He waved the bottle clasped in his fist around wildly for emphasis as he continued, "They all parade around, showing off. Trampling on my dreams with their jackboots. Think they've got it so good." The man stopped to down another drink. "They don't know what it's like. They don't care anyway. None of 'em. They've got theirs so why should they care if I can't have mine. Bastards!"
Chris threw a look over his shoulder and met the equally confused looks of Vin and Buck.
"Can't have what, Ezra?" Chris asked quietly.
"And you!" the drunken man pointed a wobbly finger at him ignoring the question, "You had the chance at least. I don't even get that. It's not fair! Life is… it's…," he verbally stumbled while searching for the words that would adequately describe his feelings, "it SUCKS!"
"Ez, we don't understand. Explain it to us. Maybe then we can help you," Buck came forward and joined the two men seated on the carpet.
"Yeah, Ez. We can't help if we don't know what's causing you all this grief," Vin said as he sank down beside the others.
A drunken snort was his answer then, "Help me? There is no help for me. Can you turn back time? Can you magically wipe way a lifetime worth of experiences? Can you make me something other than I am? I really don't think so!" Ezra said almost viciously.
"You said they had what you didn't," Buck injected, "What do they have?"
"Children," was the surprising answer and the agent's face got even more sad and sorrowful that it had been as he expounded, "They have children; those beautiful, amazing, loving little miracles. That's what they have. That's what I'll never have. Do you know how much it kills me to watch them laughing and playing out there, and know I'll never have that for myself."
The agent leaned his head back against the wall and tears started flowing from his sorrow-filled green eyes again. A stunned silence fell as the three sober agents looked at each other and their drunken brother. Of all the things they could have heard from the man that was the most unexpected.
Buck was the first to break the silence. "Ah, Ez, you shouldn't be so down on yourself. You still got time. You could still find the right woman for you and settle down. You can't give up hope yet."
Ezra's eyes opened and shot green fire at the other man. "When was the last time I went on a date, hmmm? Think carefully and I'm sure it will come to you.
Buck scratched his chin as he thought then answered, "Well, uh, I can't say that I can remember that, Ez."
"Exactly my point," Ezra snarled.
"That's no problem! I could set you up," Buck assured him eagerly. "I know I could find somebody you'd like. Just let me…"
"You still don't get it! I don't date. Period. Full Stop. I never have outside of the times I've had to pretend to for the job. Do you get it now, or must I draw you a picture?"
Buck looked uncomfortable for a moment, then asked "Are…uh…are you trying to tell us you're… gay, Ez?"
The agent started beating the back of his head against the wall in drunken frustration.
"No! I am not a homosexual. I am not a heterosexual. I am not anything! I can not abide sex with either gender! Just the thought of it leaves me physically ill. Is that plain enough for you?" Ezra snapped.
"Not at ALL?" the ladies man whispered in shocked disbelief.
Ezra shook his head wearily and closed his eyes again, leaning his head back against the wall.
"What happened to you, Ezra?" Vin asked quietly.
A grim smile crossed the emotion-ravaged face and he replied, "Everything."
"You asked if I could turn back time and wipe it all away. Something musta happened to you when were little," Vin stated
"Very insightful," Ezra murmured. "Something did, indeed, happen to me when I was little. Several times and with several different people…of both genders. Mother wasn't always as…particular… as she perhaps should have been in picking out temporary guardians for me when business called her away."
"You were abused?" Chris asked.
Ezra snorted disdainfully and answered, "Abused. Such a milquetoast word. Somehow it just doesn't seem to do the experiences justice. It doesn't quite convey the true nature of what occurred. Personally, I prefer lived through hell. Has much more of a descriptive ring to it, doesn't it?" Standish punctuated the sentence with another draw from the bottle.
"We need to get you some help," Chris told him seriously.
"If you mean help of the psychiatric variety, then let me assure you there is no need. I have been in therapy since my freshman year of college. A never ending process, so it seems sometimes, but I have made great strides according to my therapist." Ezra raised the bottle in a toast.
"You could always adopt if you wanted kids," Buck put forth very tentatively
"Not with my job. I pose too much of a risk to be trusted with a child's wellbeing when I could be killed any day and am gone for long periods of time while undercover. I am only too aware of this as I have already made inquiries into the subject. None of the agencies I contacted would even consider me. The last one I contacted left me a message on my answering machine just this morning."
"Your answers won't be found in the bottom of a bourbon bottle," Chris told him softly. "I can tell you that from personal experience."
Standish stared at him balefully over the top of the bottle as he raised it again defiantly and drank deeply before replying, "Perhaps not, but it's more difficult to feel the pain when you're unconscious."
"But it'll still be waiting for you when you wake up," Chris informed him knowingly.
"So be it!" Standish muttered right before his eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out.
Chris reached out to catch the nearly empty liquor bottle as the agent's hand went slack and released it. He set it on the dresser then turned and said, "Help me get him on the bed."
Together the three men maneuvered the unconscious agent from the corner and laid him on the bed. Buck removed his shoes. Vin grabbed a blanket from the closet and spread it over the supine man. Chris brought the bathroom waste basket over and set it by the bedside, knowing from experience Ezra would be needing it all too soon.
"He was right about one thing," Buck said as he stood looking down at his slumbering friend and thinking on the secrets the man had just revealed, "Sometimes life really does suck."