The long drive to the ranch was blessedly quiet. Buck and Nathan were riding with Josiah in his Suburban, leaving Chris and Vin alone in the truck. Larabee had turned on the radio, but kept the volume low. As ever, conversation between the two was almost non-existent.

Vin was deeply grateful for that silence. Only now, with the hospital and all its torments falling ever further behind him, could he truly begin to relax, did he feel some of the strain lifting from his ravaged nerves. For the first time in what seemed forever, he didn’t have to keep himself braced for the next onslaught of invasive, impersonal hands.

And didn’t have to worry about those goddamn restraints.

Chris watched his friend from the corner of his eye, studying him without seeming to, and could see the change gradually coming over him. The constant trembling he’d seen in him – whether from cold, fear or nerves stretched too tight – was easing, and, despite his extensive array of injuries, Tanner had managed somehow to curve his thin, battered body into a semblance of its familiar slouch. His head was against the padded neck rest, his eyes were closed, and, at long, long last, an expression of something approaching peace was settling upon his gaunt features.

Maybe the health-care bureaucracy had done Vin a favor in releasing him, after all.

"You do know the horses are off limits for a good while yet, right?" he asked as he made the turn-off from the highway to the county road that would take them home.

Vin turned his head, opened his eyes slightly and gave a small, wry grin. "Don’t worry," he drawled. "I ain’t gonna be bustin’ no broncs."

"That include Peso?" Larabee asked of the notoriously troublesome gelding that Vin had claimed as his own. And that had claimed Tanner in return. The headstrong, unpredictable and thoroughly irascible pair were a perfect match for each other, but Larabee spent his days trying to decide which one would kill the other first.

"I ain’t no fool," Vin murmured, letting his heavy eyes close. "Reckon I oughtta get over one stompin’ ’fore I start on another."

Chris nodded, reassured. Tanner was stubborn, but not stupid. As long as he was given the space to do what he could do, he wouldn’t attempt what he couldn’t. What he shouldn’t.

The comfortable silence fell between them again, and Vin dropped into a light doze. But when he felt the truck turn onto the long, rugged dirt road that led to Larabee’s house, he awoke and turned his attention back to his friend.

"’Preciate ya doin’ this," he said softly.

Chris turned and glanced at him, smiling slightly. He knew how difficult it was for Vin to admit to needing help, and to accept that help when it was offered, and wouldn’t brush him off with a frivolous reply. Not when he knew the man didn’t have a single defense left to him.

"You’re welcome," he said quietly. "I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want you here, you know that."

"Yeah," Vin breathed, "reckon I do. Sorry I made such a fuss about it. Didn’t mean ta sound ungrateful."

Chris maneuvered the big truck easily around deep ruts and deeper holes, knowing the road by heart. "I understand, pard. You been pushed and pulled in so many different directions, had your body – hell, your whole life – damn near torn apart… It’s only natural that you’d wanta get back to what you know, what’s familiar, where you’re comfortable, as soon as possible. That you’d wanta get back to normal as soon as possible. There’s nothin’ wrong with that."

Vin sighed and turned his head, staring through the window at the passing trees. "’Cept I ain’t really normal, am I?"

Chris heard the pain, and the soul-deep weariness, in the soft, raspy voice, and understood it. Vin prided himself on his mastery of himself, on knowing exactly who he was, on having fought long and hard to be the man he wanted to be. But all that had been stripped from him, and he had no more control over himself now than a child. He knew what was happening to him, could see and feel himself falling apart, and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

And, for Vin, that was the most painful part of all.

"Not yet," he allowed at last. "And maybe not for a good while. But," he reached out and tapped Tanner’s chest until the younger man looked at him, then gazed compellingly into those wide, naked eyes, "we’ll get you there, pard. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, however many demons we have ta wrestle, we’ll get you there. You got my word."

Vin saw the determination in those green eyes, felt it radiating from the man beside him, and allowed himself a small smile.

"Yeah," he breathed, relaxing once more, "reckon ya will, at that."

7~7~7~7

He pulled around to the back of the house, knowing it would be easier to get Vin into the den through this way, and threw the truck into park, killing the engine. Josiah pulled up beside him and cut off the Suburban, then smiled sheepishly through his window and shrugged as the engine continued to knock loudly for long moments.

Vin chuckled and shook his head. "Don’t see why he don’t jist shoot that thing and put it outta its mis’ry."

Chris turned and stared at him in disbelief. "I don’t think a man who drives a Jeep that’s held together by spit, duct tape and a prayer has room ta be talkin’ about anybody’s car, pard." He opened the door and stepped out of the truck, then walked around its front to the passenger door and opened it. "Hell, I don’t see how that death trap of yours passes inspections!"

Vin glared at him and struggled to unfasten his seatbelt. "Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my Jeep," he growled. "Runs jist fine–"

"When it runs, sure," Larabee retorted. "You want me ta get that for ya?" he asked as Vin continued to fight with the belt’s release mechanism.

"I c’n do it!" he spat, pushing harder on the stubborn button and pulling at the belt, but still failing to free himself. The feeling of being trapped suddenly hit him, and, with a snarled curse, he began fighting more desperately still against the unwanted restraint.

"Wait." Calmly Chris reached over and laid a firm, stilling hand on Vin’s. Feeling the tension in his friend’s body, hearing the rapidity of his breathing and seeing the frantic wildness in his eyes, he removed Vin’s hand from the latch and held it in his own. "Relax," he directed gently. "Just sit back, relax, and breathe. You’re all right. It sticks sometimes, you know that. You’re all right. Just sit back and breathe."

Vin gave a shuddering sigh and shoved himself stiffly back into the seat, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his jaw. Tremors of fear ran through him as he felt the belt pulling tight about him, restraining him, imprisoning him. He tried to slow his breathing, but couldn’t; he just wanted out. Now. Unable to help himself, he curled his free hand tightly in upon itself, digging his nails into his palm.

"No, ya don’t," Chris murmured, seeing the movement and reaching down, carefully prying Tanner’s fingers open. "No more of this, remember?"

"Jist git me out!" he pleaded hoarsely.

"I will." Chris kept his voice low, even and soothing. He and Vin had joked about the recalcitrant seatbelt a hundred times before; he knew it was no joke now. "Just sit back and let me take a look." He leaned over Vin, took the belt and catch in his hands, and pressed the release button firmly. Then, pushing the steel buckle further into the housing and jiggling it slowly, he felt the catch inside give way, and pulled the belt free. "There ya go," he said as the belt retracted. "You’re free." He started to pull away his hand.

But Vin reached out abruptly and grabbed his wrist, holding tightly to it. He forced his eyes open, but couldn’t make himself look at his friend. A flush of humiliation crept into his face. "Thanks," he whispered. "And… I’m sorry."

Chris frowned in confusion, trying to catch Vin’s eyes and failing. "For what? Hell, it’s my seatbelt. I should–"

"Fer makin’ a fool of myself over somethin’ so stupid," Vin rasped bitterly, ashamed of his panic. "I mean, wasn’t like I’s really trapped or nothin’–"

"Listen to me," Chris interrupted quietly, firmly. "And look at me." Tanner’s startled gaze lifted, and he caught and held it with his own. "First of all, you didn’t make a fool of yourself. Nobody here is laughin’ at you. Second, I thought you were gonna quit usin’ that word to talk about yourself. Your fears are not stupid. What you feel is not stupid. It’s what you feel, and you’re entitled to it. And third," he smiled slightly, "I’m sorry."

Vin frowned. "Fer what?"

"I shoulda remembered about that belt and gotten it fixed." His smile widened. "Ain’t like you’ve never complained about it before. And I seem to recall you damn near shootin’ it open last time it stuck."

Vin willed himself to relax and gave a weak grin. With the belt off, his panic was subsiding and, under Larabee’s gentle teasing, so was his embarrassment. "Yeah, well, might still do it. ’N I don’t wanta hear no more cracks about my Jeep. Least my seatbelts don’t stick."

Larabee snorted sharply. "Yeah, but I’m not sure a seatbelt that releases every time you turn a corner is a comforting alternative."

"I fixed that," Vin said with a scowl.

"Yeah, and I really don’t wanta know how, okay? Some of your ‘repairs’ are scarier than the break-downs."

"You gettin’ yella in yer old age, cowboy?" Vin taunted, a faint gleam kindling in his eyes.

Chris arched a brow and drew himself up to his full height, setting his hands on his hips and glaring down at the younger man. "I prefer to think of it as ‘cautious,’" he growled. "Because I plan on gettin’ a whole helluva lot older."

"Oh, now there’s a thought ta warm the heart," Buck quipped from behind him, stepping in easily to aid in reviving Vin’s spirits. "An older, even crotchetier Larabee." He swept a glance over his old friend’s dark jeans and T-shirt. "Reckon we’ll have ta find a nursin’ home that has black sheets on the beds."

Chris turned to glare at Buck, but, when he heard Vin’s snicker, the glare lost considerable force, and a smile tugged at his lips. "You can be replaced," he warned in a low voice.

Buck loosed a hoot of laughter. "Not at government prices, pard! Now," he clapped his hands together and wagged his dark eyebrows, "what’s say we get Junior’s skinny ass outta the truck and inta the den. There’s a women’s volleyball game comin’ on ESPN, and I sure as hell don’t wanta miss it."

Nathan frowned at the grinning man. "Since when do you care about volleyball, Buck?"

"Ain’t the volleyball part, Nate," Vin drawled, winking at Buck. "It’s the women part. From the idiot smile he’s wearin’, I’d say it’s beach volleyball, too."

"Hey!" Wilmington yelped, managing to look offended. "I’ve always been a very big fan of women’s sports!"

"Yeah, that’s Buck," Josiah intoned gravely. "Our own athletic supporter."

7~7~7~7

Allowing his friend to do as much on his own as he could, Chris helped Vin into the den, never crowding him, but always close enough to lend a steadying hand when needed, sometimes simply holding a hand briefly to Tanner’s back in silent encouragement. Again, Vin was more deeply grateful for the silent, unobtrusive but firm support than he could have said.

By the time he reached the sofa, he was paler than ever and shaking, grown light-headed from the exertion. Near dropping to his knees, he gave a soft and wholly involuntary groan of relief as strong arms caught him, lifted him and then laid him down gently upon the cushions that had already been arranged for him.

"Thanks, Bucklin," he breathed, knowing without even opening his eyes whose strength had saved him.

"Hell, son, it was nothin’," the big man demurred, carefully tucking an afghan about Tanner’s slight, shivering frame, then brushing a stray lock of hair off Vin’s sweat-beaded forehead. "If I’da letcha fall, Larabee woulda had my balls." He winked roguishly. "And I got plans for ’em tonight."

Vin gave a soft chuckle and forced open his eyes. "You got plans for ’em ever’ night, stud. Don’t see how you ain’t dropped dead from exhaustion yet."

Buck drew himself up to his full, towering height and threw out his chest, then curled his arms to show off impressive biceps. "Because, Junior, I am the finest specimen of sheer, true manhood you’re ever likely ta see in this life," he boasted, blue eyes alight with warmth and humor. "Look upon me, you lesser mortals, and weep."

"Ain’t weepin’ I’m gonna be doin’ if you don’t shut up," Chris warned with a slight, fond grin. "More like tossin’ my lunch. Now," he joined Wilmington at Vin’s side and gazed down at the sharpshooter, "if Sleepin’ Beauty here’s settled, and if Mr. Universe will quit admirin’ his own assets, maybe we can catch whatever’s left of the Rockies game."

"Rockies?" Buck protested sharply, deflating visibly. "Baseball? Hell, Chris, didn’t ya hear what I said outside? There’s women’s volleyball, beach volleyball–"

Chris turned and fixed a level stare upon his old friend. "Rockies," he said firmly. "My TV, remember? Besides," his eyes gleamed, and a knowing smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, "tell me you’re not tapin’ the volleyball match so you can watch it later in slow motion."

"Hmph," Buck snorted, turning away and going to the bar to help Josiah set up the first round of beers. "You got no imagination, pard," he grumbled. "Choosin’ baseball over a beach plumb full of suntanned women… You do know the Rockies are last in their division, right?"

Chris chuckled. "Yeah, I know. But Vin Quixote here’s got me hooked on lost causes. Next I’ll be singin’ ‘The Impossible Dream.’"

Buck straightened and stared in horror at the blond. "You do that, pard," he said softly, sadly, "and I’ll have ta shoot ya."

Shaking his head and grinning to himself as Chris and Buck launched into an argument over the aesthetic merits of baseball vs. women’s beach volleyball, Josiah went back outside and began bringing in the small commissary of groceries he and the others had bought in preparation for Vin’s homecoming. With the debate still raging when he brought in the last bag, he disappeared into the kitchen to put everything away, his grin widening.

After all these years, Buck could still suck Chris into these meaningless arguments just to take his mind off his troubles.

Nathan, from long practice, simply ignored the two bickering men and turned his attention to Vin. Studying the prone sharpshooter carefully, noting the deep lines of pain etched into the man’s pale and haggard face, he checked his watch and silently left the room. He returned shortly with a glass of water and went to the sofa, kneeling at Tanner’s side.

"C’mon, Vin," he called softly, "open your eyes. Got somethin’ you need ta take."

Vin wrenched his heavy eyes open and turned his head, frowning when he saw the pills in Jackson’s hand. "Don’t want ’em," he murmured. "Tired’a takin’ all that shit."

Nathan shook his head slowly. "Sorry, Vin, you have to. You need the antibiotic."

"What’s that other’n?" he asked, eyeing suspiciously the large caplet.

"Pain pill. And don’t tell me you don’t need it," Nathan warned. "I can see in your face that ya do."

Vin wanted to argue, but couldn’t. He was in pain, his whole body a mass of deep, wickedly throbbing aches from which there was no escape. No matter how he moved, the pain was there. Having no choice, he nodded once, blue eyes dark with defeat, and set about slowly sitting upright.

Again, Nathan was reduced to chewing his lower lip as he watched the younger man’s struggles. He wanted desperately to help, hated with everything that was in him the pain and strain he saw in every line of Tanner’s body, but knew also he had to let his friend do this for himself. He understood how badly Vin wanted – needed – to begin reclaiming whatever portion of his life, and his control over that life, he could, and realized he had to let the hurting man try.

Even if it meant chewing a hole in his lip.

"Shit!" Vin hissed, tensing and trying not breathe as he finally levered himself upright. His head ached mercilessly, and, for long moments, he feared he would be sick. Then Nathan was there, sitting at his side and circling a strong, comforting arm about him, and he let himself lean into the bigger man, unable to stop his pounding head from seeking a resting place on the medic’s broad, waiting shoulder. "I hate this!" he whispered brokenly as tears of pain more than physical stung his eyes.

"I know ya do," Nathan soothed, hurting for his friend. "And I wish I could do somethin’ for ya."

"Doin’ it now," Vin breathed wearily. "Thanks."

Nathan frowned sadly and shook his head. "Don’t seem like enough."

"’S more’n you know. Had a whole troop of doctors ’n nurses lookin’ after me, ’n more machines than a Star Wars movie hooked up to me." He lifted his head with an effort from Nathan’s shoulder and smiled weakly into the medic’s dark and anxious eyes. "But there ain’t nothin’ that c’n match the hand of a friend when ya need it most. ’N I reckon I surely got that."

Nathan relaxed and smiled, his eyes warm. "Yeah, ya do," he agreed. "And don’t you ever forget it."

Vin laughed softly. "Hell, how could I?" he drawled. "Likely gonna have ta beat y’all off with a stick ’fore it’s all said and done. Ain’t ever seen such a bunch fer worryin’ in my life."

"Huh!" Nathan snorted sharply. "And I suppose you don’t ever give us cause ta worry? Between your eatin’ habits, that motorcycle, the way you drive that damn Jeep and prowlin’ around high places like you think you can fly, it’s a wonder ever’ hair I got ain’t gray or just gone! And don’t even get me started on that fool JD–"

"Nathan," Vin interrupted softly, smiling slightly though his face was drained of color, "you mind givin’ me them pills now ’n the lecture later? Reckon I’m hurtin’ a mite, after all."

Nathan stopped in mid-tirade, handing the pills over at once. For Tanner to admit to pain, it had to be bad. He leaned forward and retrieved the water from the coffee table, then held out the glass.

Vin took it and popped the pills into his mouth with a shaking hand, then chased them down with a long drink.

"Buck," Nathan called quietly.

At that summons, Chris and Buck ceased their "discussion" and went immediately to the sofa, Buck gazing worriedly down at Vin and Chris dropping to his knees before him. "Your room’s ready, pard," he said softly, taking the glass from Vin’s white and shaking hand. "What say we get you settled in it? You look like you could use some sleep."

Vin fixed wide, pain-darkened eyes to his friend. "Ain’t sure… I c’n walk that far," he breathed, hating to admit to such a shameful truth. "I’m sorry–"

"You hush up," Nathan scolded gently. "Remember those hands you were talkin’ about? Well, you got ’em all around ya now. Just reach out and grab onto ’em. We’ll do for ya what ya can’t do for yourself."

Vin looked at Nathan, then at Chris, and finally up at Buck. He swallowed hard, then asked softly, "You mind, Bucklin?"

Buck’s whole heart rose up within him at the entreaty in that voice, in those eyes, and, as Chris straightened and stepped aside, he bent and carefully gathered Vin into his arms, lifting him as if he were a child.

"Hell, no, I don’t mind, son," he said gently, carrying his friend toward the guest room. "What’s the good of havin’ arms if ya can’t use ’em ta help a friend?"

7~7~7~7

Between the medication and his own exhaustion, he sank into a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep. For once, the treacherous door in his mind stayed closed, keeping his demons locked safely away. No dark figures rose from hell to torment him, no harsh voices shouted threats or spat abuse. And, mercifully, no vicious fists battered at him.

For the first time in weeks, Vin truly slept.

One or another of the men drifted in from the den every so often to check on him, creeping silently into the dimly-lit room and seating himself as close to the bed as he dared, continuing the vigil that had begun at the hospital. And each man in his own way gave thanks for the sight before him, for the wondrous miracle of a friend restored to them, for the deeply appreciated blessing of that friend’s untroubled sleep.

And each man felt the hard knot inside himself soften.

They stayed through the end of the Rockies game, which stretched into extra innings, and had to endure Chris’s arrogant smirk when the team pulled off a two-run win. Then, grumbling about unbearably smug supervising agents, they began cleaning up, knowing it was time they left and gave Larabee some peace of his own.

Buck and Nathan cleared away the beer bottles, soda glasses, paper plates and empty chip bags and salsa jars, bagged up and took out the trash, then went into the kitchen to wash what few real dishes they’d dirtied. While they worked, and at a silent gesture from Buck, Josiah took Chris out onto the deck to talk.

As ever, though, the profiler’s "talk" began with a period of silence as he observed Larabee and gauged his state of mind. He hitched a hip onto the porch railing and watched Chris lean against a support post and puff idly at the cheroot he’d just lit while his gaze slipped into the distance. In those few unguarded moments, Josiah saw a mixture of weariness, relief, uncertainty and determination flickering over Larabee’s face, and knew the man was grappling with the burden he’d taken upon himself.

"Brother Buck tells me you’re havin’ a few doubts," he said at last in an easy, conversational tone. He saw a subtle tensing of the lean frame, and knew he’d struck a nerve. "Can’t see you questioning the rightness of what you’re doin’, so it must be your own suitability for the task." The blond head lowered a fraction, Larabee blew out a slow stream of smoke, and Josiah nodded, crossing his arms against his broad chest and pursing his lips thoughtfully. "You’re worried you’re gonna cause him more harm."

"He’s so fragile right now," Chris breathed softly, resting his head against the post and closing his eyes. "I never thought I’d be sayin’ that about him, but there’s just no other word for it."

Josiah shrugged slightly and cocked his grizzled head to one side. "We’re all fragile, Chris. It’s part of the human condition. Put the right pressure on the right place, and every one of us will shatter like glass. Vin’s no exception. He’s tougher than most, maybe, but he’s not indestructible. Fortunately for him, though, he’s got friends willing and eager to pick up the pieces and put them back together." His shrewd blue gaze rested firmly on Larabee. "One friend, in particular."

"And that’s the hell of it," Chris sighed. "He trusts me. The man who’s made a science out of trustin’ nobody trusts me." He frowned deeply. "You have any idea what kinda responsibility that is?"

Josiah nodded. "Got a fair idea. But," he arched two heavy brows, "knowin’ Vin like I do, I’d bet he wouldn’t place that trust in a man he didn’t know down to his soul was worthy of it."

"I just don’t wanta hurt him! And, right now, it doesn’t take much to do that. Hell, right now, it doesn’t take anything at all." Anxiety flooded his soul and shone in his green eyes. "You saw how he reacted when that seatbelt stuck. It’s happened to him a hundred times before, and he’s always laughed about it. But this time it scared him to death. Hell, everything scares him now, and any little thing can set him off." He exhaled sharply and dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. "I’m no shrink, Josiah. I’m no counselor, no therapist… I don’t know the first thing about fixin’ what’s wrong with him–"

"The first thing you need to understand," Sanchez interrupted firmly, "is that you don’t have to fix anything. You can’t. No one can ‘fix’ this for Vin, because this isn’t something anybody can take from him. As much as we all want to, there’s no way we can undo what’s been done to him. What we can do is help him get to a place where he can understand what’s been done and figure out how to live with it." His blue eyes bored into Larabee. "Right now, he wants nothin’ more than for this to go away, for someone, anyone, to make it go away. He wants permission to stuff this back down inside himself and forget it ever happened. Or at least pretend it didn’t. But he’s done that for years now, and look where it’s gotten him. Whatever ‘this’ is, it’s here to stay, and if we don’t get him to admit that, it’s gonna destroy him."

"Then what do I do?" Chris asked helplessly. "How do I treat him? Do I protect him, or push him? If I need to push, then how hard? I know he needs to get it out, but, God, you’ve seen what happens when he does! How far do I let him go before it gets to be too much? He hurts himself, Josiah!" he said hoarsely, his fear for Vin pouring from him. "He’s so weak he can barely walk, yet somehow he finds the strength to hurt himself! I know I have to stop him, but how far am I supposed to go to do that? Do you know what it would do to him if I had to restrain him? Jesus, d’you know what that would do to me?"

"Yeah, I think I do," Josiah answered softly, sadly, setting a big hand on Chris’s shoulder and gripping firmly. "Hopefully, it’ll never come to that."

"What do I do?" Chris asked again. "How do I help him with this, when I don’t even know what the hell ‘this’ is?"

"Trust your instincts," Josiah advised. "You know him better than anyone else, you know what he needs and when he needs it. We all saw that at the hospital. You knew enough to let him do what he could for himself when the rest of us would’ve rushed in and done everything for him. And you knew enough to bring him here." He swept his gaze over the yard and nodded. "He’s comfortable here. He feels safe here. And for a man in his state, that’s more important than you could possibly imagine. Every one of his defenses has been shattered, and he needs to be someplace where he feels safe while he tries to build them up again. Most of all, he needs a place where it’s all right to fall apart. Because that’s gonna happen, Chris," he warned, "and more often than you’d like. Than he’d like. But you have to let it happen. The only way he’ll ever come to accept that he needs help, real help, is by realizing he can’t cope with this on his own. And you," he added pointedly, "can’t cope with it for him." He leaned forward, still gripping Chris’ shoulder, and stared compellingly into his startled eyes. "Let… him… fall… apart," he said, giving each word heavy emphasis. "Be there with him, be there for him, but, whatever you do, don’t try to take this from him. He’ll let you if you try, because he’s done everything else he knows to get rid of it. And, like I said before, look where it’s gotten him."

"But he’s so weak!" Chris protested. "He doesn’t have the strength–"

"Yes, he does," Sanchez contradicted. "He’s got more strength than you know, than anyone knows. He’s got reserves the rest of us couldn’t begin to understand, or he never would’ve made it to where he is now. But if his strength does fail, then he’ll have yours to draw on. And he’ll have ours. Remember, Chris," he counseled gently, "Vin’s not in this alone, and neither are you. There are five more of us fighting right here beside you. And Vin is every bit as important to us as he is to you. When he falls, he’s gonna grab for you. When you fall, grab for us. I promise, we’ll be here to catch you."

Chris sighed and bowed his head, feeling almost too tired for the battle he knew lay ahead. "May start grabbin’ sooner than you expect," he breathed. "Hell, I’m half tempted to ask all of you to stay here. I’m not sure I’m up to this just yet."

"Believe me, brother," Josiah assured him, again squeezing his shoulder, "if I had any doubt about that, I’d be fixin’ my bed right now. And I’m sure there will come a time when you’ll need us all here. Right now, though, what you need most is peace and quiet so you can rest. And the last thing Vin needs is to think he’s a burden on you."

Chris’s head came up at that, and his eyes flashed angrily. "He’s not a burden!" he snarled. "Hell, he’s carried me more times than I can count! I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t at least try–"

"Peace, brother!" Josiah pleaded, raising his hands defensively. "I said I didn’t want Vin thinkin’ that, not that you thought it. I know you’d walk through hell for him, and never give it a second thought. And, when he’s thinkin’ rationally, so does Vin. But we all have to remember that he’s not always rational these days, and consider what we say and do accordingly. You said it yourself – any little thing can set him off, and there’s just no predictin’ what’ll do it. We have to keep that in mind."

"Yeah," Chris sighed, reining in his anger with an effort and seeing in its unwarranted explosion another sign of just how tired he was. "I know what you’re sayin’, and you’re right. We do have to be careful around him. We’ve all seen what happens when we’re not." He raised a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed at muscles that seemed permanently knotted. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Josiah said softly, voice and eyes deadly serious. "Remember, this is Vin Tanner." His gaze drilled into Larabee. "Before you do anything else tonight, and no matter how much you hate it, you lock up all your guns."

7~7~7~7

He woke slowly, almost reluctantly, feeling again the leaden lethargy that always followed a drug-induced sleep. The same heaviness that weighed down his body thickened his mind, reducing it to a quagmire of sluggish, muddy thoughts.

God, he hated this!

With an effort, needing to relieve the familiar and near-constant ache in his lower back, he dug a hand into his bedding and pulled himself onto his side, groaning as pain tore through his shoulder. And chest.

Jesus, where didn’t he hurt?

He bit back another groan and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then slid his hand over the bed in search of the morphine pump that would deliver sweet relief into his system. He hated the drugs, but needed them, and cursed that need even as he gave in to it.

He was just so damned tired of hurtin’!

But the pump wasn’t there, and he sent his hand farther across the bed for it. And only gradually realized that his arm was fully extended, and he hadn’t hit the cold railing yet or reached the edge of the bed. He lay like that for long moments, confused, and tried to figure it out, his eyes still closed, his face pressed into the pillow, his breathing the only sound in that silent room.

He stiffened and gasped sharply as a cold spasm of fear shot through him. Silence. Oh, shit. Hospitals were never silent, not really. No matter the hour, there was always some activity, some sound; he knew them all by heart, and heard none of them now. Heard nothing, except his own increasingly frantic breathing.

The fear pricked his skin and knotted his gut, closed like a hard fist about his throat. He was alone, he knew it, could feel it, and only barely bit back a cry as panic erupted through him.

He sat up abruptly, heedless of the pain, and pulled his knees up to his chest, shaking uncontrollably and huddling in terror as he looked wildly around the room. Not fully dark – thank God for that, or he surely would’ve screamed – but not nearly light enough. And still silent. No familiar voice called his name, no strong hand reached out to ease him through the confusion of waking. He chewed his lip and searched the shadows desperately, trying to remember where the hell he was.

God, where was Chris?

His heart hammered so hard in his chest and head that both ached from the force of it, and, with a small, smothered cry he pressed tightly clenched fists to either side of his skull, breathing much too fast. He squeezed his eyes shut again, held them for long moments, then slowly opened them, willing himself to think.

Bed. He was on a bed, not the floor, and no reek of filthy carpet assailed him. Not the closet. But not the hospital.

Where, God, where?

He licked his dry lips, still breathing much too hard, much too fast, and looked around again, forcing himself to see. It wasn’t dark, not fully dark, all he had to do, goddamn it, was look around and fucking see!

God, he hated this!

He knew the others – the boys, the doctors, the nurses – didn’t understand it, however much they tried, just couldn’t grasp why something as simple as waking up should be so hard. So frightening. But they weren’t the ones being jerked around in their heads, weren’t the ones being dragged through so many hell-holes in their sleep that they couldn’t keep ’em straight and had no idea where they were when they woke.

There was a horse on the dresser.

Recognition hit him with such a wondrous and welcome clarity that he actually gave an unsteady, nearly hysterical giggle, and clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the sound. Didn’t need anybody thinkin’ he was crazier than they already did. But he stared at the horse that had finally come into focus, and let it lead him from the darkness.

It was Peso.

Maybe the artist who’d sculpted the piece hadn’t intended it to be Peso, but the moment he’d seen it in that Western art shop two blocks from the office, he’d recognized the horse. It was a typical pose for the ornery black – head down, ears laid flat back, eyes all but shooting fire, and those damn hind hooves lashing out in one of his famous furious kicks – and he’d stared at the sculpture for a good twenty minutes, memorizing every line and seeing his horse in each one.

And when he’d finally shown it to Chris, his friend had clapped him on the shoulder and said with a laugh, "Damn, pard, you didn’t tell me Peso’s taken up modelin’!"

Larabee had asked if he were going to buy it, but he’d taken one look at the price and swallowed his desire. Just seemed like so much money to spend on somethin’ he didn’t really need. And, hell, it wasn’t like he didn’t get to see the real Peso do this on a fairly regular basis. So he’d talked himself out of it, a man used to placing needs over wants, and hadn’t given it a second thought.

Until he’d opened the heavy box from Chris on his birthday and stared without words, without even the hope of words, down at the bronze sculpture of a well and truly pissed-off horse. And realized at that moment that the gift, precious as it was, couldn’t begin to match the friendship behind it.

But what was it doing here? It belonged in his apartment, not on that dresser in this room at… the ranch? He looked around again, and suddenly knew exactly where he was. Didn’t really remember getting here, but that was okay. It was the where that mattered, not the how. The guest room at Larabee’s ranch. With his horse on the dresser.

He’d have to thank Chris for that.

Which meant he was gonna have to get outta this bed. Shit. That was gonna hurt. He set his elbows on his knees and rested his aching head against the heels of his hands, trying to gather the strength and the will to move. Could just wait for Larabee to come to him…

But, no, that’d mean he was worried, and he figured he’d probably caused Chris enough worry today, and would likely cause him even more tomorrow. Might as well spare the man what little he could.

Which meant he was gonna have to get up. And that was gonna hurt.

Hell.

Inch by painful inch – and it was every bit as painful as he’d expected – he dragged himself to the edge of the bed, slid his feet to the floor, and, feeling it in every bone, every muscle, every nerve, levered himself slowly, slowly upright. His left knee caught with an agonizing hitch and almost refused to take his weight, and a memory flashed through him of a hard blow connecting savagely with the joint.

Damn.

He settled the majority of his weight onto his right side, and hissed as a hard twinge of pain bit deeply into his back.

Goddamn.

Sure would be nice if Larabee came to check on him…

Reminding his body how it was supposed to work, reminding himself how much more it would hurt if he fell, he made his slow and halting way toward the door, suddenly hoping Chris wouldn’t choose this moment to come through it. Lord God, if he got hit one more time…

But he made it safely to the door, made it safely through the door, and was well on his way toward the den when he realized he had to go to the bathroom. Which was all the way back down the hall. In the opposite direction from the one he was going now.

Well, hell. Couldn’t Larabee have picked a better spot for a bathroom? Seemed like a man oughtta think about things like friends who’d gotten the shit beat out of ’em and couldn’t walk a mile for a piss when he was plannin’ where to put his goddamn bathrooms…

It was a good half-hour later before he finally made it to the den, leaning heavily against the doorframe and closing his eyes, waiting for the throbbing in his head to ease and the pitching and rolling of the floor beneath his feet to settle. At one point – he had no idea how it had happened or how long he’d been there – he’d found himself on the floor of the bathroom, had known from the odd tightness in his head and the bloodless sensation in his limbs that he’d passed out, and had been seized by a momentary terror until he’d realized he’d been fortunate enough to get his business done before losing consciousness and been spared that particular humiliation.

Didn’t take much to make him grateful these days…

So now here he was, trying to decide if he had it in him to make it into the den and sit down before he passed out again. Larabee definitely hadn’t put the right kind of thought into the layout of his house. A bathroom way the hell back yonder, and a den the size of the Grand Canyon. They were gonna have words about this.

Soon as he could do it without passin’ out.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head with an effort, knowing he had to get somewhere, and soon. Goddamn Grand Canyon was gettin’ wider all the time, and he didn’t wanta be doin’ his imitation of a throw rug when Larabee found him. With a muffled curse, he pushed himself out of the doorway, and started slowly, slowly across the den, concentrating on taking one step at a time.

Handrails. Why hadn’t Larabee put in handrails? What the hell had the man been thinkin’?

His left knee threatened to buckle again and he had to stop, breathing deeply and just trying not to fall. He was shaking all over, his strength – or what passed for it – deserting him rapidly, and kept forgetting where he wanted to go. He closed his eyes and raised a hand to one temple, swallowing hard as rising nausea made his need to sit down more pressing than ever.

Sofa, goddamn it. How hard could sofa be to remember? Fuckin’ brain had more holes in it than one of his targets at the range…

He opened his eyes and raised his head, looking around and trying to get his bearings. Recliner over yonder… Lord, he’d never get outta that thing! Nope, sofa was his best… bet…

His thoughts tumbled to a halt as his searching gaze suddenly lit on a new addition to Larabee’s furnishings, as he forgot every bit of his pain and exhaustion and stared in wonder and longing at the chair before the fireplace. A big, heavy rocker, its gleaming finish showing the long, hard hours he’d put into restoring the beauty of the dark wood, beckoned to him now like some long-lost haven. Draped over the wide arms and across the broad seat was the heavy quilt Nettie had made for him last winter when the heat in his apartment heat had gone out, and, on that, the pillow Casey had cross-stitched for him with the words, "Don’t Mess with Texas."

With the homing instinct of a bird seeking its nest, he went to the rocker, forcing his uncooperative left knee to work, ignoring the protests of his tired and hurting body. When he reached it, he took up the quilt with badly shaking hands and folded himself sideways into the big chair, placing Casey’s pillow between his aching back and the wooden arm, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping Nettie’s quilt around himself, feeling the girl and the old woman as surely as if they were with him now. Resting his head against the wide back, he closed his eyes and rocked slowly, forgetting his pain, his fear, amid the sensations of being safe, of being home. Of being loved.

Chris came in from the kitchen and stopped short at the sight that greeted him. Vin was curled up in that rocker and cocooned in Nettie’s quilt, looking more at peace than he had since this whole thing had started. The only sound in the room was the soft, unmistakable creak of the chair as Tanner rocked, and, as he watched a tear slide slowly down Vin’s face, he wondered why he’d never realized before just how much magic there was in that sound.

He stood in silence and watched for long moments, hesitant to break the spell. Vin’s past was upon him again, but, this time, he was clearly communing with angels, not demons, and Chris didn’t want to intrude. He nodded once, then turned away and started back to the kitchen, when a soft, raspy voice stopped him in mid-stride.

"Y’ain’t gotta leave, cowboy." Vin opened his eyes and smiled tiredly. "I ain’t asleep, so you c’n stop tippy-toin’ around."

Chris returned Tanner’s smile in full and went into the den, settling himself into the leather recliner. "Guess I won’t be havin’ ta shove your ornery ass outta my chair anymore."

Despite the gentle teasing, Vin’s smile turned shy; he knew that wasn’t why Larabee had brought the rocker here. "Ain’t got the words ta say how grateful I am," he said softly. "Wish I could tell ya what this means."

"Sounds like you just did," Chris said quietly, his smile fading as Tanner ducked his head. "Look at me, Vin," he ordered quietly, smiling reassuringly when uncertain blue eyes lifted. "I want you to feel safe here. I want you to feel like you belong here. I know you feel like your whole life’s been turned inside out, and I know you got things goin’ on inside your head that you don’t understand, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide out in your room to keep from bein’ in the way. You’re not in the way, you understand? You got a place here for as long as you need it, as long as you want it. Hell," his smile and eyes warmed, "you’re the only one who still calls that room you’re in ‘the guest room.’ Everybody else just calls it ‘Vin’s room.’" He shrugged. "That oughtta tell you somethin’."

Those words returned the slight smile to Tanner’s face, and he relaxed visibly. Then another memory came to him. "Reckon I owe ya fer the horse on my dresser, too," he said softly. "Woke up kinda scared, not knowin’ where I was, but when I saw that, I knew I’s all right."

"That was Buck’s doin’," Chris told him. "He figured havin’ it here would make you feel better. And I guess he was right."

"Yeah," Vin whispered, his eyes filling at the thought of the big man’s kindness. He ducked his head again, wishing his every emotion weren’t right there on the surface. "Reckon I should call him, thank him."

"Well, you might wanta wait until tomorrow." As Vin raised his head and looked quizzically at him, he winked. "Buck’s got a date."

"Lord, don’t that man ever rest?" Tanner asked in awe. "Which one is it t’night? That stewardess again?"

"Nope, she got called in to work." The green eyes took on a gleam as a smile tugged at his mouth. "This is a new one. A redhead. She’s a librarian."

"What the hell’s Bucklin doin’ in a library?" Vin asked in disbelief. "I didn’t think they carried his kinda readin’ material!"

Chris laughed aloud, relieved to see the Texan’s prickly humor resurfacing. "He met her when we were workin’ the Hawkins case a couple of months ago. He needed to do some research on explosives, and the office network was down, so JD dragged him to the library." He winked again. "I think JD actually did most of the work on the explosives, while Buck went to work on Joan."

"Lord, a librarian," Vin breathed, shaking his head. "Never thought Buck would go fer one’a them!"

Larabee arched a brow. "She’s a woman, Tanner. Is there one of them he doesn’t go for? Besides," he grinned, "I’ve met her. She got him to volunteer to read for one of those children’s story hours they do over there, and, when his truck broke down, I drove him. Believe me, he hasn’t lost his eye. And," again, his eyes flashed wickedly, "she’s a research librarian. Buck says it’s amazing what she knows."

Stupefaction flooded Vin’s eyes at that and a strangled gasp escaped him. He couldn’t begin to imagine what would amaze Wilmington, didn’t even want to try. The man was pretty much a walking encyclopedia of human sexuality as it was.

"Still," he murmured at last, "jist don’t seem right, him takin’ advantage of a librarian–"

"Oh, don’t worry, pard," Chris chuckled. "From the way she was lookin’ at him, he won’t be the one takin’ advantage. I get the feelin’ ol’ Buck’s gonna be the subject of some very intensive research. She struck me as a highly educated woman."

"Well, hell," Vin drawled, a crooked grin curving about his mouth, "at least I reckon he’ll die happy. Doin’ his bit fer research ’n all. Ain’t ever seen such a man fer givin’ in all my life."

"I’ll be sure and pass on your admiration," Chris quipped. "Provided we ever see him again, that is. She may just drain him dry and stash his body in the stacks. For now, though, how about we take care of you? I found some venison stew in the freezer, I’ve got it heatin’ now. Oughtta be easy enough for you ta eat." He studied what he could see of his friend’s thin frame through the quilt and shook his head in dismay. "Gotta start gettin’ some meat on them scrawny bones. If Nettie sees you like this, she’ll kill me and take you ta live with her."

Vin’s eyes widened, and an expression of deepest longing crossed his face. "Nettie?" he whispered, his whole heart in that single word.

Chris smiled gently, knowing what the tough old woman meant to Tanner. She’d been in Tucson throughout Vin’s ordeal, helping her sister recover from heart surgery, and her absence had been hard on them both. Chris had called her regularly to keep her informed about Vin’s progress, or lack of it, and Vin had spoken to her a few times, but Larabee knew it hadn’t been nearly enough for either of them.

"Yeah, pard, Nettie’s comin’ back," he said softly, not missing the light that leapt into Vin’s eyes. "She called while you were sleepin’, said she’ll be home in a couple of days and wants ta see you right off. She’s gonna call again tomorrow so she can talk to you. But she said she won’t rest until she can see you, so, for my sake, let’s see if we can’t get you lookin’ a little less sickly. Last thing I need is Nettie Wells liftin’ my scalp because I didn’t take proper care of ‘her boy.’"

"Well, if this don’t beat all," Vin said with a smirk. "The baddest bad-ass of ’em all scared of a li’l ol’ woman." He shook his head as he pushed away the quilt, still grinning. "Saddest thing I ever seen."

Larabee shot a glare at the younger man. "Nettie Wells is not just any ‘li’l ol’ woman,’ and you know it," he growled. He rose from the recliner and swept a scathing gaze over his friend. "And I wouldn’t be talkin’ about sorry sights, if I were you. Hell, I’ve seen better lookin’ scarecrows!"

"’At’s right," Vin groused, steeling himself for what was to come, "pick on the hurt ’n helpless." He gripped the rocker’s arms tightly and pushed himself carefully to his feet. "I’ll remember that the next time– Shit!" he gasped in pain, closing his eyes and hovering somewhere between sitting and standing.

"Easy, pard," Chris soothed, going to him at once. He slipped a strong arm about Tanner’s waist, then drew the man’s arm across his shoulders. "I gotcha. Just lean on me, and straighten up slowly."

"Ain’t any other way fer me ta move these days," Vin hissed through clenched teeth as pain wrung hard at his every muscle. "Reckon mebbe I oughtta pass on supper, jist go back ta bed."

"No way," Chris countered firmly. "You’ve gotta eat, built up your strength." He arched a brow at Tanner. "I’m gettin’ tired of keepin’ you from pitchin’ face-first into the floor."

"You’re all heart, Larabee." He straightened with an effort, pain showing in every line of his pale face, then scowled weakly up at his friend. "Face it, you’re jist scared that if I fall, Nettie’ll find out and use you fer garden mulch."

When he was certain Vin was ready, Chris started them forward to the kitchen, careful to keep his steps short and slow. "Hell, no," he said easily. "I just don’t want anybody seein’ you on my floor and thinkin’ I got bad taste in rugs."

Vin held tightly to him and leaned heavily upon him, trusting him completely not to let him fall. "Bastard."

"Ingrate."

"Cowboy."

Chris sighed heavily and shook his head slowly, a deep scowl twisting at his features. "Damn it, Tanner–"

"Yeah, I know," Vin interrupted as they entered the kitchen. "One’a these days you’re gonna shoot me." They reached the table, and, as Chris eased him into the nearest chair, a breathless groan escaped him and he slumped forward, folding his arms on the tabletop and dropping his aching head onto them. "Gotta say," he breathed, "that don’t sound half bad right now."

Chris winced, then set a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Maybe tomorrow," he said. "It’s gettin’ too dark outside for me to find a decent place to hide your body."

"Like I said b’fore," he rasped, deeply comforted by that touch, and by the friendship behind it, "you’re all heart." He turned his head just enough to look up at Chris and gave him a weak grin. "But I still think you’re jist scared of Nettie."

7~7~7~7

He sat once again in the rocker, cocooned in Nettie’s quilt, needing the warmth and security it offered. The house was quiet, too quiet, and the heavy silence had begun to prey upon what these days passed for his nerves. He knew it was stupid, knew there was nothing here to fear, knew he wasn’t alone. Chris was outside, working in the barn, and couldn’t go half an hour without finding some excuse to come inside and check up on him.

To let him know he wasn’t alone.

But even if he had been, so what? Wasn’t like he’d never been alone before. He’d spent countless nights and weekends out here by himself, house-sitting – horse-sitting – when Chris had to be out of town. And many was the time he’d come out expressly to be alone, to lose himself in the quiet and isolation here, to escape the noise and crush of a life grown too loud and too close. He’d come to think of the ranch as his refuge, felt as much at home here as he did in his own apartment. Hell, by his reckoning, he’d spent enough time here to owe Larabee some serious rent. And, God knew, he was probably a helluva lot safer here than back in Purgatorio.

Except that, just now, "safe" was about the last thing he felt, anywhere.

He pulled the quilt closer still about himself, wrapping up in it until only his head was exposed, then nestled his face against its soft folds, feeling a row of neat, even stitches against his cheek. Nettie had said she’d used extra stout thread to keep it from unraveling, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she had any left over for him. He was coming undone, pulling apart at every seam, could feel everything he’d worked so long and so hard to keep deep inside himself spilling out through the holes in his tattered soul, and had no idea how to stop it.

And now his friends knew how fucked up he was.

He shivered and closed his eyes tightly, burying his face in the quilt as pain and shame washed through him. He’d failed. He’d tried so hard to keep the worst parts of his past from them, had never wanted them to know the kind of shit he’d had to claw through just to get to where he was now. Oh, he knew they’d guessed some of it. He bore too many scars, and they’d seen them too many times, and they were not stupid men. He’d watched them on those occasions when he’d worn cut-offs or taken off his shirt, had seen their eyes zero in on one mark or another and narrow thoughtfully as their experienced minds recognized the age of the scar and quickly did the math. But they’d never asked for an explanation, and he’d never offered one. They all had their own horror stories; they sure as hell didn’t need to be burdened with his.

But now they knew. He sighed and raised his face from the quilt, letting his head rest against the back of the rocker. He could see it in their eyes when they looked at him, could hear it in their voices when they talked to him. Mostly, though, he could feel it in the way they held themselves when they were around him. In all the ways they held themselves back.

He wasn’t sure when it had happened, hadn’t even realized until now that it had, but, somewhere along the way, he’d gotten used to them touching him. No, it was more than that. He, who used to shy away from any form of physical contact, had come to cherish such contact with them. From the forearm clasp he shared with Chris and Ezra’s firm pat against his upper arm to Buck’s famous crushing bear hugs, at some point in his time among these men he’d learned to like, to need, such physical expressions of their friendship. Only now they no longer offered them.

Because they couldn’t stand to see him flinching from them.

He knew he was doing it, but couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it. He knew, he knew, these men would never intentionally hurt him, knew it with everything that was in him, but still he couldn’t help himself. Because it wasn’t their hands he was dodging.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, then dug his fingers into his hair and unconsciously began to pull. Those hands. A memory stirred, dark and threatening, and he instinctively flinched from it, slamming the door in his mind against it. No. No. He had too many shadows crowding his mind as it was; sure as hell didn’t need any more. Made it too hard to think, too hard to separate what was real from what wasn’t.

He’d pulled a gun on Buck.

He flinched again and pulled harder at his hair. He still had no clear, true memory of that, knew only what little the others had grudgingly told him. They’d assured him that he hadn’t hurt anyone, that he’d never even fired, but he kept hearing gunshots and knew he’d seen someone falling. Buck had even gone so far as to take off his shirt, to strip down to his waist and let him touch his chest and back to prove there were no new holes in him.

So whose body did he keep seeing falling to the floor before him?

No. No, no, goddamn it, no. He pulled harder at his hair and shut the door in his mind more tightly still. Whatever it was, whoever it was, it was best left buried, best left forgotten. Remembering only brought trouble; his time in the hospital had proven that. Remembering made him crazy, and he was tired of being crazy, tired of the shadows that filled his mind and kept him confused and frightened, tired of trying to swim in quicksand.

Tired of watching his friends watching him lose his mind.

He tore his hands out of his hair and clenched them into fists, digging his nails into his palms. They knew. He’d tried so hard to keep it from them, tried so hard to keep it all buried, but now they knew. And now they were looking at him differently, in the way so many others before them had. In the way he hated and had sworn no one would ever look at him again.

"Poor Vin." That was it. He’d gone from being "Vin" to "poor Vin," wounded, broken, crazy. It was in their eyes, in their voices, in the way they treated him. "Poor Vin" and all his "special needs." God, he hated it.

He clenched his fists more tightly still and closed his eyes. No more. He couldn’t take it anymore. He’d find a way to push all the shadows back through the door in his head, then he’d find a way to keep that damn door closed. And once it was all safely locked away, he could just forget about it and get back to living as he always had. Wouldn’t be crazy anymore. Wouldn’t be "poor Vin" anymore. Just bury it all, and make sure it stayed buried. Then everything would be all right again.

He swallowed hard and opened his eyes. With an effort, he forced his hands to unclench, but didn’t look down at them.

Didn’t want to see the blood staining his palms.

7~7~7~7

Chris slid to the floor and leaned back against the door to Pony’s stall, wincing as he felt the itch of countless bits of hay sticking to his sweating body. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never figure out how straw could get through jeans and boots.

He ran his hands through his sweat-damp hair, then swept one over the back of his neck and grimaced. God, he needed a shower! He’d been working out here for hours, and had gotten more done than he’d thought he would. He was exhausted, but he knew he’d needed the physical exertion. Had needed to work out his frustrations over Vin.

Jesus, Vin…

He let his head fall back against the stall and closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping. Tanner hadn’t moved from that rocker all day. Every time he’d gone inside, the sharpshooter had been there, wrapped in that quilt, looking as lost as he’d ever seen him.

He heard again the broken words Vin had whispered yesterday, just after he’d tried to choke Dr. Stone, and felt a wave of helplessness surge through him. God, what had he been thinking? What had ever given him the idea he could help Vin, when he didn’t have any idea what was wrong with him?

No, that wasn’t right. He let his head drop forward and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He did have an idea, had a very good idea, and was nearly sickened by it. But he was no shrink, no therapist. How could he possibly help Vin where professionals had failed?

Or… had they?

The thought struck him hard and he jerked up his head, his hands falling away from his eyes. Jesus… Someone had tried to help Vin… hadn’t they? Surely he hadn’t been left to deal with that… whatever… alone…

No. He knew the way children’s services worked. There would have been someone who would’ve tried…

But he also knew Vin. God, did he know Vin! Most likely he’d been as closed off as a child as he was as an adult, and probably even more so. Tanner had opened up considerably in his time with the team, had come a long way, but would never be an extrovert. Sharing painful parts of his life – hell, sharing any part of his life – was not something he felt comfortable doing, simply because of the element of trust involved. Vin didn’t trust easily now, when he was sure of himself, his life and the people around him. How difficult would it have been for him back then, as a child being shunted from one foster home to the next?

When someone in at least one of those homes had beaten the shit out of him on a regular basis?

Jesus. He bowed his head and winced deeply. God, he didn’t want to think about that! Didn’t want to think about what the man who was more than a brother to him must have suffered – had suffered – as a child, didn’t want to think about a young boy having to rely on the mercy of strangers and finding none whatsoever at the hands of at least one.

Goddamn it, what kind of monster beat up on kids?

His blood went into a slow boil at the very thought. He’d seen brutality in his life; hell, who in his occupation hadn’t? But nothing, nothing, sickened him like cruelty to a child. He’d loved Adam more than his own life, would have cut off his hands before hurting him. Yes, he’d spanked him when needed, but it had almost killed him to do it. The first time, he’d cried almost as much as Adam. And his own father, while stern and strict, had never come near abusing him. Would have been horrified at the very thought. The man had wielded a mean belt, but he’d never come close to leaving the kind of scars on his son Chris saw on Vin’s body. On Vin’s soul.

Who could do that to a child?

No, he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to ask a single damned question, because he didn’t want to hear the answers. But he didn’t have a choice. Whatever had happened back then was destroying Vin now, and the only way to stop it was to get it out into the open. For Vin’s sake, for Vin’s sanity, he had to ask. And he’d have to make himself sit there and listen to every damned detail.

And pray he didn’t do more harm than good by opening every single scar the sharpshooter carried on his soul.

7~7~7~7

"Hey, pard," he greeted as he opened the door and stepped into the den. "How ya f–" He stopped short, surprised to see the rocker empty. "Vin?" he called more loudly, looking around and seeing no sign of the man. "Vin!"

He went to Tanner’s bedroom, and felt a sharp twinge of worry when he didn’t find him there. Goddamn fool sharpshooter didn’t have the strength to be wandering around! What if he fell? Even Tanner’s head could only take so many knocks before busting wide open! And those stitches… Didn’t he know what Dr. Stone would do to him if she had to re-do her handiwork? Didn’t he know what Larabee would do?

Goddamned, sonuvabitching, mule-headed, sorry-assed, mind-bending…

"Tanner!" he growled, stepping into the kitchen just as Vin lifted a cup of coffee off the counter.

The snarl, familiar as it was, nonetheless startled Vin badly, coming as it had out of nowhere. He whirled around with a harsh, wordless cry, lost both his footing and his grip on the cup, and crashed back against the counter as the cup hit the floor and shattered. He hung there for long moments, his blue eyes wide and unblinking, his face drained of all color, and stared at the man before him in abject terror.

"Vin!" Frightened for his friend, Chris started quickly toward him, only to stop short when Vin cried out again and flinched violently away, throwing up an arm to ward off a blow. "Jesus–"

"No!" Vin whispered hoarsely, pushing himself away from the counter and stumbling into the far corner of the kitchen, pressing his body as tightly into it as he could and wrapping his arms protectively about himself. "I’m sorry," he rasped in a low, broken voice. "I didn’t mean… Y’ scared me, ’n I… I couldn’t hold it… I’m sorry!"

"Ssh, easy, pard, easy," Chris soothed quietly, gently, raising his hands slowly but making no more moves toward Vin. "It’s all right, really. It’s just a cup. Hell, I break at least one a week myself. It’s nothin’, Vin, really."

Slowly, slowly, the familiar voice penetrated Vin’s terrified mind, and, as he continued to stare at the man who’d come up on him, recognition dawned in the wide, stricken eyes. "Chris?" he whispered hopefully.

Larabee released a long, slow breath and nodded. "Yeah, pard, it’s me. You all right?"

Vin swallowed hard and licked his lips; tremors ran through his body. "I– I’m sorry," he said again, dropping his gaze to the mess on the floor. "I’ll clean it up–"

"You stay where you are!" Chris said sharply, too sharply. Tanner flinched again and tightened his arms about himself, giving a soft, almost soundless cry, and Chris silently cursed himself. But Vin was barefooted, and broken bits of cup and hot coffee covered the floor. "I’m sorry, pard," he said gently. "I just don’t want you to cut yourself. And you’ve already tracked through this mess once… Vin," he called softly, taking a small step forward and staring pleadingly at his friend, "you do know I’m not gonna hurt you, right?"

Tanner licked his lips again, not certain of anything at this point. He knew Chris stood before him, but he could hear another voice shouting, and knew that breaking something, anything, was one sure way of attracting punishment. Knew it from painful experience.

"I… I didn’t mean… Chris?" He raised a shaking hand to his head and closed his eyes, confused by the faces and voices warring in his mind. Unable to help himself, he slid slowly to the floor and sat hunched there, one hand to his bowed head, the other arm still wrapped around himself.

"Sweet Jesus!" Chris groaned, crossing the kitchen in long, quick strides and kneeling at Tanner’s side. Without thinking, he slipped his arms about Vin and gathered his shaking body close against him, sheltering his friend against his chest. "It’s all right," he said yet again, only now realizing how much he hated those words and how little he believed them. "It’s just a cup. I’ve got two hundred more just like it in the cabinet. Believe me, pard, I’m more worried about you cuttin’ your feet than I am about losin’ a coffee cup."

Vin huddled into Larabee’s embrace, comforted by the strong arms about him, knowing instinctively that no one could hurt him while this man watched over him. "Heard shoutin’," he murmured, ashamed that his craziness had broken through again. "Didn’t know if it was you or hi… somebody else… Got so many damn voices in my head…" He worked his hand into his hair and began pulling. "Jist cain’t keep ’em all straight. Thought I’s gonna be hit again… Always got hit fer breakin’ things… Bastard’s always sayin’ I’m clumsy. Clumsy and stupid. Jist cain’t get it all straight in my head."

Chris listened in tightly-leashed anger to Vin’s words, picking his way through them and trying to find clues among them. He didn’t know who this "bastard" Vin talked about was, but he was certain he hated him. He was clearly the monster responsible for Vin’s suffering, and Larabee hoped he was rotting in hell.

And, if not, then he’d be glad to make that happen.

"I’m okay now," Vin sighed, still leaning into Chris’s embrace, still tugging at his hair. The harsh, hateful voice in his mind was receding, the threatening fists no longer coming toward him. "Jist needed him ta stop yellin’ at me so’s I could think. He always does that. Hollers ’n hits me ’til I cain’t think, then hollers ’n hits some more ’cause I’m stupid." He exhaled slowly, his whole body sagging tiredly. "’S hard ta think straight when ya got somebody beatin’ on ya. You’d think fellers who do that fer a livin’ would know that. But they jist kep’ askin’ questions the whole time they was beatin’ on me, then got pissed when I couldn’t tell ’em nothin’. Hell, how’m I s’posed ta answer their fuckin’ questions when they keep hittin’ me in the head?"

Chris sighed and closed his eyes. They were back to Castro now. God, how many voices did Vin have in his head, anyway? And what did it say about the life he’d had when he couldn’t keep all the beatings he’d received straight in his mind?

"You sit here and rest while I clean this up," he said at last, amazed that he was able to keep his voice so steady, amazed that he wasn’t screaming and running away. He did not want to hear any of this. And he was going to have to hear all of it. "If that’s your coffee on the floor, I’d best get it up before it eats through the tiles."

"Yer a wuss, Larabee," Vin said, startling Chris. "Gettin’ soft in yer old age."

"Yeah, well, at least I’ll be buried with my stomach lining intact," he answered. "Between that battery acid you call coffee and all those jalapeños you put on your food, I don’t see how you still have a stomach. And," he reached out and gently pried Vin’s fingers out of his hair, "if you don’t stop that, you’ll be bald, too. You got any idea what Nettie, Inez and Mary would do to me if I let you pull out your hair?"

Vin lifted his head from Larabee’s chest and shot him a pale imitation of his familiar insolent stare. "Scared of a buncha women, too," he accused. "Y’ oughtta be ashamed."

Weak as that look was, it nevertheless lifted Chris’s heart to see it. Smothering the smile that threatened to break forth, he pulled together a tight scowl and a full glare. "Take you in off the street, give you the run of my house, and this is how you repay me. Next time, I’ll just call you a cab and send you back to your place."

Vin snorted softly. "You think you c’n find a cab that goes ta my place, yer more’n welcome ta try. Hell, even Domino’s won’t deliver there no more."

"Don’t know why the hell you have to live in the middle of a goddamn war zone," Chris grumbled, desperately glad to see his friend’s humor, and spirit, returning. "Doesn’t it tell you somethin’ when the old lady down the hall’s got more guns than you do?"

"Yeah." Vin winked and grinned weakly. "Tells me not ta piss off the old lady down the hall."

7~7~7~7

"Shit! That hurts!" Vin hissed as Chris applied the antiseptic to yet another cut on the bottom of his left foot. "What the hell ya usin’, alcohol?"

"Now who’s the wuss?" Chris retorted, "Be still and shut up, or I’ll go dig out the iodine."

"Iodine?" Vin yelped in alarm, remembering only too well the sting, stench and color of the stuff. "Who the hell uses iodine anymore?"

Chris glared at the squirming sharpshooter. "It was good enough for my mother, it’s good enough for me," he growled. "Besides, Nathan gave it to me."

"Sounds like somethin’ he’d do," Vin muttered. "Prob’ly wrote my name on it, too. That man’s got a nasty streak in him."

"Can’t imagine why." He set the antiseptic aside and sat back on his heels, gazing thoughtfully at the cuts on Tanner’s feet. "Guess it’s time to dig out the gauze and medical tape."

Vin frowned suspiciously. "What’s wrong with band-aids?"

Chris heaved a patient sigh. "Band-aids won’t stick long on the bottoms of your feet. Besides," he arched a brow, "I don’t have enough. Hell, Johnson and Johnson doesn’t make enough for you."

"Smart ass."

"You know, Vin, if you’d listened to me in the first place–"

"I was jist tryin’ ta help. It was my mess–"

"So instead of cleanin’ up a broken cup and coffee, I end up cleanin’ a broken cup, coffee and blood, and then doctorin’ a man who needs one more wound like I need a hole in my head!" He heard his voice rising and immediately brought it back down. "Next time, stay put when I tell ya, y’hear?"

But that flash of anger, even as quickly doused as it had been, chased away Vin’s humor and brought up what few defenses he had. He pulled his feet off the coffee table and tucked them under his legs, sitting Indian-style on the couch, and crossed his arms tightly against his chest.

"I was jist tryin’ ta help," he muttered, bowing his head. "Jist tryin’ ta clean up my own mess."

Chris immediately recognized and regretted his misstep. Josiah had warned him only yesterday that they’d all have to be careful, and he was already blowing it. He’d allowed himself to be misled by Vin’s flash of humor…

He stiffened and looked sharply at Tanner. Goddamn. The man might be messed up as hell, but his instincts were still kickin’. He’d purposely used his humor for misdirection, hiding what was really going on inside him behind his quips. It was a tactic Larabee had seen him use countless times, particularly in situations where he felt cornered or helpless, or when he simply wanted to deflect attention that he thought had grown too invasive. Firing off those barbs like he did didn’t necessarily mean he was all right. In fact, it frequently meant the exact opposite.

The last resort of a man who had nothing else left.

Larabee sighed heavily and rose slowly to his feet, then walked around the coffee table and sank down onto the couch at Vin’s side. He was silent for long moments, studying the bowed figure beside him and just trying to decide where and how to start.

God, he did not want to hear this.

"Talk to me, pard," he said at last, softly. He wanted desperately to reach out to Vin, to touch him, but didn’t dare. He wasn’t sure either of them could take it if Tanner snapped again. "I need ta know what’s goin’ inside that head of yours."

Vin never raised his head, never looked at Chris. His gaze was fixed firmly on the spot of couch between his crossed legs. "Told ya," he murmured hoarsely. "Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on up there. ’S jist… muddled."

"Then tell me what’s muddlin’ it." Chris had never considered himself a particularly patient man, had always wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. But he’d discovered a deep and completely unexpected patience with Adam, had found he could sit endlessly with the boy and try to sort out what was going on with him. And, for some reason, Vin brought out that same patience in him.

"Cain’t. Don’t know." One of his hands began its journey back up to his hair.

Chris did reach out then. "Yes, you do." He gently grasped Tanner’s wrist and pushed his hand back down. "No more of that, remember?" He released his hold on Vin’s wrist, but kept his hand on it, not imprisoning, merely… comforting. "Tell me."

Vin shifted his gaze to the hand on his wrist. Part of him wanted to cast it off, but another part of him welcomed it. Needed it. Needed its strength and solidness. He felt as if he were drifting, lost in a vast, shifting fog that had no beginning and no end and watching all he’d ever believed in and thought was real evaporating into mist. Whatever he reached for, tried to hold on to, simply disappeared. But the hand holding him was real, more real than he felt himself. At the moment, it was all that held him here. It grounded him, moored him, and, given time, he knew, would pull him out of the fog.

Given time, that hand would lead him home.

"I don’t remember much about when Castro had me," he began softly, slowly, still staring at Larabee’s hand. "I remember pain, and bein’ more scared than I have been in a long damn time. Mostly, though, I… I jist remember… not wantin’ ta die b’fore ya found me…" His voice broke, and he lifted tear-washed eyes to Larabee’s face. "I knew ya’d come, y’see, knew ya’d find me… I jist didn’t wanta die b’fore ya did."

Chris stared in stunned silence at his friend. He had no words to offer in the face of such complete, unwavering trust, knew words would only demean what had been given to him.

"I never had that before," Vin went on, wanting – needing – Chris to understand this. "Never had anybody I knew cared enough… He used ta tell me, back when… well, back then… used ta tell me wouldn’t nobody come, didn’t nobody care whether I lived or died. And I always b’lieved him, ’cause all those times…" He swallowed and dropped his gaze, shrugging disconsolately. "Nobody ever came. No matter what happened, no matter what he did ta me, no matter how bad it got, nobody ever came. And I figgered nobody ever would. Then Castro got me…"

Chris flinched at that and bowed his head, pressing his free hand to his eyes. Then Castro got me. So simple, so straightforward, without any hint of accusation at the massive fuck-ups by three agencies that had so nearly gotten him killed. Then Castro got me.

Shit, they’d damn near delivered him gift-wrapped to the bastard!

Still Vin went on, his voice broken and hoarse, but the feeling behind it never faltering. "Him ’n his goons jist kep’ beatin’ on me, kep’ sayin’ I might as well give ’em what they wanted ’cause wasn’t nobody comin’. Jist like before. Only… only it wasn’t like before, because I knew… I knew you were comin’. Didn’t know when, didn’t know how, jist knew you were. ’Cause I knew they’d have ta kill ya ta stop ya, ’n I figgered ya couldn’t be dead if they was so worried about what you was doin’. So I held on as long as I could, ’cause I knew, I knew it, Chris, this time, somebody was comin’."

Larabee closed his fingers once more about Tanner’s frail wrist, holding almost fiercely to it, and raised his head sharply. Staring into the Texan’s startled eyes, he said in a low, ferocious voice, "We will always come for you, you hear me, Vin? And we’re still comin’ for you now." His burning gaze bored ruthlessly into Tanner’s, etching like a laser the truth into the sharpshooter’s mind. "You’re still stuck somewhere, some bastard’s still got you locked inside some goddamn closet, but we are comin’ for you with everything we’ve got, and we are not gonna stop until we’ve got you back. All the way back. Do you hear me?"

Vin’s eyes were wide and his face was white. Tremors ran through his body and he tried to free his hand from Chris’s grasp, but couldn’t. The long, strong fingers only held him tighter, and still those green eyes seared into him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, but neither could he look away.

He’d forgotten that when Chris came for him, he’d be bringing this force with him.

"We’re gonna figure this out, Vin," Chris assured him, his hold, eyes and voice as ruthless as before. "We’re gonna sort through every goddamn voice in your head, we’re gonna pull every goddamn shadow into the light, and we are gonna get you outta that fuckin’ closet once and for all. You got that?" He reached up with his other hand and clasped it around the back of Tanner’s neck, holding him firmly and staring into his frantic eyes. "I told ya, Vin," he said fiercely, "I’m comin’ for ya, and I’m bringin’ the five other Hounds of Hell with me. And we’re not stoppin’ until we’ve pulled you completely free of whatever it is that’s got you. It’s not gonna be easy, and it’s not gonna be pretty, but, by God, it’s gonna get done."

Terror ripped through Vin in cold, hard waves, and he began fighting against Chris’s hold, struggling wildly to free himself. But Larabee only held on all the tighter, frightening him further.

"No… No!" he cried, lashing out at the man. But that fist was caught in an iron grip, and he erupted into full, violent panic. "NO!"

"Stop it, Vin! Stop it!" As Tanner struck out again and tried to twist free, Chris knew he had no choice. Hating himself even as he did it, he launched himself at Vin and grabbed him around the waist, then flung him back onto the couch. At full strength, Tanner could easily have resisted, but he was nowhere near that now, and Chris took advantage of it.

"Goddamn it, I said STOP IT!" he bellowed, throwing himself atop the desperately struggling man and pinning him in place. He straddled Vin’s hips and held down Tanner’s legs with his own, then captured his arms in a crushing grip and imprisoned them against the couch. "Stop it before you hurt yourself!" he hissed.

"No, don’t, don’t, please!" Vin begged brokenly, still struggling though his strength was waning. Hard hands gripped him, hurt him, and a harsh voice shouted at him. Pain screamed through his body, and terror rioted through his soul. He was tired, weak and hurting, wanted to give up but knew he didn’t dare. If he did… "No! NO!" he screamed, renewing his fight as the door in his mind burst open, as the familiar voice again spewed its venom and the familiar fists battered at him. "Git away from me! Git away! I swear ta God, I’ll kill ya!"

"Who, Vin?" Chris demanded, trying to control Tanner without hurting him. Without letting Vin hurt him. "Who are you gonna kill?"

"You–"

"No! Not me. Somebody else. But who?"

"Please–" Vin sobbed and went limp, all the fight gone from him. "Please…"

The broken whisper tore at Larabee’s soul, and he released his hold. "Jesus, Vin–"

"SONOFABITCH!" Tanner shrieked, lunging up and lashing out with all his strength. His fist connected solidly with the bastard’s chin, snapping his head back, and, with a harsh, wordless cry, he furiously shoved the stunned man off him. Dizzy and all but blind from pain, he rolled off the couch and landed hard on the floor, but managed to pull his battered body upright just as long arms snaked out for him again.

"Goddamn it, Tanner!" Chris spat, tasting blood from where he’d bitten his tongue. "Stop this before– SHIT!" he yelled as a vicious kick knocked his legs out from under him and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Oh, God! God! Vin’s heart hammered frantically, painfully, against his ribs and in his head, and terror churned through him in black waves. The bastard was still moving, was getting up… Oh, Jesus, Jesus, he was gonna kill him!

He tried to back away as the fallen man rose to his feet, but couldn’t get his legs to work. His knee throbbed hideously, and he knew if he moved, he’d fall. And if he fell, he’d die. Because this time the bastard was gonna kill him.

"NO!" he screamed as the man lunged for him. Never knowing how he did it, where he got the strength or the agility, he struck out again with a fist, connecting with the bastard’s nose, then lifted a leg and delivered a brutal kick to his midsection. The man uttered a croaking cry and went down, and Vin grabbed his chance to escape.

He hobbled frantically around the room, searching desperately for his only true means of salvation, pulling out drawers and ransacking them and howling in fury and frustration when he didn’t find it. What had the bastard done with it? It had to be here, it was always here–

Chris gripped the edge of the coffee table with one hand and slowly, agonizingly, pulled himself up, holding his other arm over his hideously hurting chest. Blood streamed down his face from his nose, and black spots danced before his eyes. He stood there for long moments, hunched over, swaying, trying to breathe without throwing up, and stared strickenly at Vin, a single thought burning through his mind.

Jesus God, he was looking for a gun!

"NO!" Tanner wailed, kicking over a lamp table when its single drawer didn’t yield what he sought. The lamp shattered on impact with the floor, and, seizing upon what might be his only hope, he dropped to his knees and snatched up a large fragment, then forced himself upright once more and lurched around, wielding the sharp-edged shard of glass like a knife.

"Vin," Chris rasped, stretching out a hand. "Please–"

"Stay away–"

"Jesus Christ!"

"Shit!"

"VIN!"

Chaos erupted as the door crashed open, as bodies streamed into the room. Overwhelmed, panicked, Vin turned first in one direction, then another, unable to comprehend this latest threat. Voices shouted at him, blurred figures raced toward him, and terror pounded through him. Not knowing what else to do, certain there was nothing else to do, he loosed a wordless, anguished cry and launched himself at the one figure he could identify, raising the glass fragment above his head and gripping it tightly, determined to drive it into the bastard’s heart and put an end to this hell.

"Vin–"

"NO!"

In desperation, Buck hurled himself at Vin, catching the smaller man in a flying tackle and bringing him crashing to the floor. He had no choice, couldn’t afford to take any chances; Vin had been going straight for Chris. Even so, when he felt Vin hit, felt all the air go out of him in a rush and then felt his body go limp, Buck cursed himself, hated himself, and was very nearly sick. The moment he could, he slid off Vin and gathered him into his arms, cradling the unconscious man close against him and rocking him gently.

JD and Josiah went at once to Chris, the big man wrapping his arms about him and easing him back onto the couch. JD, seeing the blood covering Chris’s face, dug in his pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to Josiah, who held it to Larabee’s nose.

"Call Nathan, son," Josiah instructed gently, seeing JD’s utter confusion.

"Yeah, sure," he answered shakily, absently running a hand through his thick hair. "Just… uh… What am I gonna tell him?"

His head laying against the back of the couch, his eyes closed and his whole body aching, Chris somehow managed a tight, pained smile. "Tell him," he rasped, "that we’ve had a break-through."

7~7~7~7

Nathan sighed and eased himself into the chair at Chris’s bedside, then sat back and ran a big hand slowly over his face. "Nothin’s broken as far as I can tell," he said quietly. "But I’d feel better if you had some X-rays."

"Told ya," Chris breathed exhaustedly, pain in his voice and lining his battered face, "I’m not goin’ to the hospital. I won’t do that ta Vin."

"Chris–"

"No."

Nathan swore under his breath, but knew there was no arguing with Larabee when he took that tone. Damn stupid fool…

"You looked at Vin yet?" Chris asked softly.

Nathan studiously avoided looking at Buck, not wanting to see the big man’s guilt. "Got a good-sized knot on the back of his head, a nasty bruise takin’ shape just under his left shoulder, another one on his right hip, and his right hand’s cut up pretty bad. It’s gonna need stitches, and he’s definitely goin’ in for X-rays, if I have ta hog-tie him–"

"Don’t," Chris cut in sharply, shooting the medic a hard glare, "even joke about that, you hear me?"

Nathan sat up straight, startled by Larabee’s reaction. "Chris–"

"I mean it," he insisted, letting his gaze travel slowly over all his men. "Not one of you, not even a joke, not anywhere near him. Right now, his mind’s so bent that he can’t tell the difference between a joke and a threat, and I won’t have any of us addin’ to his pain anymore than we have to. Are we all clear?"

"We’re clear," Josiah said quietly, accompanied by a chorus of agreements from the others.

Chris nodded, then turned back to Jackson. "You take him, Nate," he ordered. "He’s not in any shape to hear, much less understand, everything the doctors are gonna tell him, so we’ll need you to repeat it all to us. And you know what meds he’s on right now. Might wanta take one of the others," he added when Nathan nodded. "Might need some help keepin’ him calm. Buck–"

"Sorry, Chris," Buck interrupted softly, his eyes filled with sorrow, "that’s not gonna work. I’m the one who took him down, and he’s still scared of me."

Chris winced, knowing how that must hurt the big-hearted man. "He’ll get over it," he assured him gently. "He’s just in a bad place right now."

"I’ll go," JD offered, winning a wan smile from Buck and a grateful look from Chris. "I’m not big enough to threaten him, and he always responded real well to me in the hospital." He shrugged. "I guess he knows I can’t hurt him."

"No, JD," Chris corrected, "he knows you won’t hurt him. There’s a world of difference between the two, and Vin knows it better than anybody." His eyes sought and held the younger man’s. "He’s gonna need you, son," he said softly. "You take care of him, all right?"

JD nodded absently, his anxious hazel gaze traveling slowly over his boss’s battered face and chest. Even as he took in the damage Tanner had done, the young man instinctively knew Larabee’s pain had nothing to do with his injuries.

"Try not to worry," he urged quietly, though he knew no words of his could prevent that. "I’ll take good care of him. You can count on me."

"Hell, son," Chris breathed, finally allowing his hurting body to relax, "I’ve never doubted that."

7~7~7~7

Ezra arrived just as they were getting Vin out of the house and into Nathan’s car, and was alarmed by what he saw. Vin appeared to be in shock, showing no reaction to the men about him, making no response to their questions or comments, giving absolutely no sign whatsoever that he was at all aware of his surroundings. His blue eyes were vacant, his ashen face devoid of expression. Looking at him, Ezra was put in mind of an empty shell, with all that made up the true Vin Tanner fled far, far away.

"Good Lord," he murmured in fear, "what happened here?"

"Long story," Buck breathed, watching through pain-filled eyes as Nathan and JD finally got Vin settled in the front seat of the Explorer. He swallowed hard, then shifted his anguished gaze to Standish. "And there’s another casualty inside."

Without another word, Ezra turned and went hurriedly toward the house, terrified of what he would find. He could imagine a thousand explanations for Vin’s shattered state, and not one of them was pleasant.

Though surely if he’d killed Chris, someone would have mentioned it…

Once inside, he stopped short and stared about him in open-mouthed disbelief. The room was a wreck, looked as if it had been tossed by a manic thief. Drawers had been yanked out and emptied, tables had been overturned, and at least one lamp lay in pieces on the floor. His gaze then traveled to the couch, and he knew at once what the dark stain discoloring its cushions was.

"Chris said Vin was lookin’ for a gun," Buck explained quietly as he came up behind Ezra. "They were talkin’, somethin’ in him snapped, and he went into another one of them damn ‘episodes.’ Weak as he is, he still managed to beat the crap outta Chris, then started ransackin’ the room, lookin’ for a gun." He nodded toward the shattered lamp. "He knocked that off, broke it, then grabbed one of the pieces. We came in about then, and he went for Chris, lookin’ for all the world like he was gonna carve his heart from his chest. Jesus Ez," he sighed, going with heavy steps to the couch and sinking exhaustedly onto it, "it was terrible!"

"What… what happened?" Ezra asked softly, not at all certain he wanted to know.

Buck leaned forward with a groan, resting his elbows on his thighs and dropping his head into his hands. "I stopped him," he said hoarsely, still remembering much too vividly the sickening force with which he’d knocked Tanner to the floor. "Hell, I didn’t have any time to think! He was goin’ for Chris, was holding that piece of glass like a goddamn knife… I didn’t have a choice! I t… tackled him… Jesus," he whispered, his face draining of color, "I can still hear his head hittin’ the floor… But I didn’t have a choice! Hell, you’ve seen him when he’s like that! You know… God help me," he groaned, "I didn’t have a choice!"

Ezra moved to the couch and sat at Buck’s side, setting a brotherly hand on one bowed shoulder. "No," he said quietly, soothingly, "you didn’t have a choice. You’re right, we’ve all seen Vin when he’s in the grip of these waking nightmares, and, given the lethal level of his fighting skills, I believe we all know exactly what he’s capable of doing. I know you would never wish to harm him, but better that than allowing him to kill Chris. Had that happened," he winced and shook his head, "there would be no hope of ever getting him back."

"I know that," Buck breathed, "I do. But," he raised his head slowly and looked at Standish in torment, "he ain’t said a word since he came to. And he w… he won’t let me near him… He’s scared ta death of me, Ez," he whispered brokenly, his face showing plainly the pain that scoured his soul. "He looks at me now like he did that night when he… when he held my gun on me…" He dropped his head back into his hands with a wrenching gasp. "Jesus, I’m as bad as Castro and all the other monsters who haunt that boy’s mind!"

"You are no such thing!" Ezra said sharply, infuriated that Wilmington could ever equate himself with such men. "Those ‘monsters,’ as you so rightly call them, brutalized Vin for no other reason than their own sick, sadistic pleasure, inflicting unspeakable damage upon him simply because they could. Yet you did only what you had to do to protect Chris, and now you are nearly sick with grief. Raise your head and look at me!" he demanded fiercely, jade eyes burning with fury. When Wilmington did so, he leaned forward and jabbed an elegantly manicured forefinger into the big man’s chest. "At your very worst, you are a better man than those animals could ever hope to be, do you hear me? You stopped Vin from making a horrible mistake, one that surely would have killed him, or, at the very least, destroyed what little sanity remains to him. And you did it out of concern – oh, hell, love – for two men who, just now, need all the concern and love your heart can muster." He narrowed his eyes and jabbed Buck again. "Do not ever talk about yourself in such a manner again in my hearing!" he ordered in a low, throbbing voice. "I simply will not tolerate it!"

Buck stared at the outraged Southerner in stunned disbelief, shocked by the man’s wholly uncharacteristic display of emotion. He’d long known that Ezra cared as deeply for them as they did for him, but had also known it ran against the man’s very nature to admit it. He’d more than half suspected that Ezra didn’t quite know how to admit it; he was as much a stranger to friendship, trust and belonging as Vin. But he seemed to be catching on now.

"Look, Ez," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, "all I meant–"

"I know what you meant, and you were wrong," Standish interrupted, his anger beginning to cool. "Believe me, Buck, there are quite enough villains in this sorry drama without you adding yourself to the roster. You did what you had to, just as you always do. If Vin were able, he’d tell you that himself." His eyes softened, and he squeezed Buck’s shoulder gently. "None of this is right, and none of us should have to be doing any of it. But we have to. We’ve been forced to make unthinkable decisions by circumstances we can’t even begin to understand. But we have to make them, because we’re the only ones who can. We’re the only ones Vin has. And, however painful those decisions may become for all of us, including Vin, believe me, just having someone who cares enough to make them goes a long way toward easing that pain."

Buck nodded slowly, knowing Ezra spoke from experience. True, Vin and Chris had a friendship, a bond, that was like none he’d ever seen before, but he realized that Ezra’s past allowed him to understand Tanner in ways Larabee never would. And it hurt him more than he could say that anyone, much less two men he cared so deeply about, should have that kind of understanding.

"Just so you know," he said quietly, holding Standish’s gaze with his own, "Vin ain’t the only one who’s got that. It’s right here for all of us, and that includes Maude Standish’s darlin’ baby boy."

Ezra stiffened and stared at him in obvious surprise, caught completely off guard by the big man’s words. He wasn’t at all sure how Buck had turned this discussion around to him, and was more than a little concerned that he hadn’t seen it coming. He was slipping. These men, with their ridiculous loyalties and their damnable honesty, were slowly wearing away the walls he’d spent a lifetime so meticulously building around himself. They were getting to him and, worse, seeing through him.

And it confused the hell out of him that he didn’t want them to stop.