Rating: NC17. Explicit m/m sex scenes. Angst. If Slash isn't your thing, you know where the back button is.

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. No one is paying me for this, but the guys are sure fun to have around.

Author's Note: This story was written for Jean's birthday. She wanted a Vinjury, h/c, angst, maybe a midnight ride, and some hot lovin' to keep her warm and toasty. I thank Mog for the ATF Universe, and Sue N., for letting me borrow Dr. Elizabeth Stone. This story wouldn't be the same without her expert beta-reading and support. Sue's, not Dr. Stone's!

Things had gone wrong, horribly wrong, and Chris Larabee held himself to blame. Buck could see it in his eyes as they waited in the ER for word on Vin's condition. Larabee was the team leader, the logistics of the raid were his responsibility; but there was no way he was responsible for the trap they had walked into -- hell, AD Travis was apologizing to Chris for the faulty intelligence that had resulted in disaster. One Treasury agent dead, another agent and Vin Tanner wounded. One suspect in custody, one in custody of the Almighty. And a gang scattered through the streets of Denver, waiting to replicate like a loathsome cancer. Yeah, it was a fucking mess all right, but none of it was Chris Larabee's fault.

Buck wished Josiah and Nathan were there; both men had a way of easing the guilt Chris laid on himself, but they had returned to the office to do damage control with the rest of the team and Orrin Travis. Larabee was hunched over, elbows braced on his knees, his fingers twined so tightly that his knuckles were white. Those intense green eyes were focused on the double doors leading to the treatment area, and Buck pitied the next person to come into that line of fire. He laid a sympathetic hand on Larabee's back. "Wasn't your fault, Chris. Vin'll know that."

"Will he?" Buck flinched when Chris aimed that gaze at him, and when he couldn't reply for a certainty, he looked away. "Goddamn it, Buck. Did you see his eyes?"

"I saw. But that don't mean anything, Chris. Ya know they gotta flush 'em out and bandage 'em up even if there ain't anything wrong -- just as a precaution."

As much as Chris appreciated Buck's attempt to assuage his guilt and worry, there was little he could say that would keep the vision of Vin's still body, blood soaking his dark shirt, his bruised face, and swollen eyes at bay. Chris opened his hands and stared at them. "Buck, what if it's my bullet in him? What if that damn flash-bang I threw took away his sight? How's he gonna understand that!"

"Chris, y'ain't Superman. Y'ain't got X-ray vision t'see through concrete walls 'n steel doors."

"I should have known!" His voice was rough with pain, coming from a throat that was so tight that it hurt to speak. "I should have known..."

Buck sighed and rubbed Chris's shoulder. Chris took it hard when any member of his team was injured. Twice as hard when that man was Vin Tanner. Buck shook his head. Didn't help that Tanner was the most injury-prone of the group. Hell, Junior was the one willing to take the most risks, the one dancing around rooftops, the one so certain of his own skills that he would take chances any sane person would consider suicide. And next to Ezra, the one who did the most undercover work; but whereas Standish's undercover assignments involved brains and slick maneuvers, Tanner's required infiltrating the lowest, most brutal circles of the criminal element. Shit, if Mercy General ran on frequent flier miles, Vin's insurance wouldn't have to pay a cent for the next hundred years!

But Chris would beat himself up about it ... Buck sighed heavily and gripped Chris's shoulder. "Old pard, I know Vin's like a brother --"

Chris's head came up, green eyes hollow. "Thanks, Buck." It was all he said, but Buck felt like there were words out there that Larabee wasn't speaking. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what they were.

Buck unfolded his long legs. "I'm gonna get some coffee. You want some?"

"Yeah, sure." He didn't, but at least Buck would walk away from all the raw emotion that Chris had to hold dammed up inside. Buck didn't know. He couldn't know the truth of the relationship between Chris and Vin Tanner. Vin was more than a colleague, more than a friend, more than a brother. He was the other half of Chris's soul. He was his lover.

His lover.

Even as he thought it, the incredulity of it made him shiver. It was a complicated dance he and Vin were doing: a tough balance of emotion, logic, passion, and hard-nosed reality. Josiah and Nathan had been the first to understand that the psychological bond between Vin and Chris had turned into something deeper and more complex. Neither would judge them for the paths their hearts had taken. Nathan sometimes seemed to struggle with the fact that his boss and his friend were sleeping together, but he knew better than any of them how fragile life was, how easily lost. He wouldn't begrudge them their feelings, even if he didn't always understand them.

Josiah said that love was love -- that he didn't believe that God would give us the capacity to feel and express love, only to tell us our hearts were wrong. Chris knew the big man was watching out for them, praying that this love they had found wouldn't hurt them more than either had already been hurt. Chris found that immensely comforting.

Ezra seemed to absorb the truth by osmosis and didn't blink an eye. Relentless pragmatist and dedicated sensualist that Standish was, Chris was certain the southerner had found physical gratification, if not love, with a variety of partners, and in ways that would leave him and Vin in the dust. The thought made him smile slightly, a softening of that hard face that made the nurse coming from the treatment area catch her breath.

"M-Mr. Larabee?" she stammered a bit, and blushed.

He uncoiled, long and lean, and she looked up at him and took a step back. "You can come back now." He brushed past her, not rudely, but not as if he actually saw her standing there. A young man in bloodied scrubs was pulling his surgical mask from his face. When he saw Chris he nodded. "Chris Larabee?"

"Yeah. How is Agent Tanner?" he asked.

"Good, actually. We were able to get the bullet out without surgery. His lung sounds good, so we don't think it was nicked by the bullet."

Chris nodded, not revealing the enormous weight that had been lifted from his shoulders. A darker shadow still remained. "What about his eyes?"

"Dr. Rheinhardt is examining him now. She's one of the best Ophthalmologists in town. Agent Tanner is in good hands."

Chris nodded. "You mind if I stay here instead of going back to the waiting room?"

"It's all right by me. Dr. Rheinhardt will let you know when she's finished." He turned and walked away, shoulders rounded and tired-looking.

Chris paced the hallway, then moved closer to the treatment room as the curtains were pulled back and the glass door slid open. A slender, gray-haired woman emerged, tucking an ophthalmoscope back into her pocket. She nearly ran into Chris, stopped and frowned up at him. "Can I help you?"

"Dr. Rheinhardt, how he's doing?"

She tilted her head. "Are you family?"

That damn question. "No, I'm his team leader. But I'm as close to family as he's got. I'm listed as next of kin on his records, if you need to check it."

She shook her head. "I wish I had more to tell you, then."

Chris's heart seemed to sink to his stomach. "Is he ... can he see?"

"He can distinguish light and dark. Right now, the flesh around his eyes is very swollen and irritated. It is hard to make a determination as to the extent of damage until the swelling goes down. I'd say another day or so." She folded her arms, looked down at her shoes, then back at him. "There are some corneal abrasions ..."

"God." Chris shook his head. "Do you know what he does for a living?"

"ATF agent?"

"He's a sharpshooter, a marksman. A goddamned sniper!" An enormous rage tore through Chris. "His vision is his life, so I'm not asking you an idle question here, doctor. I need to know."

Dr. Rheinhardt set her hand on Chris's arm. "You aren't listening, Mr. Larabee. I said there were some abrasions -- and I expect them to heal. There are no absolutes, but I believe he will recover without any visual impairment."

"Give me a percentage." Chris knew he sounded desperate; could hear the plea in his voice.

"Give me forty-eight hours." Her shoulders lifted in a tired shrug.

"Will he have to stay here?"

"You'll have to ask his doctor. There's no reason why he has to be here longer than overnight as far as his eye injury is concerned." Her pager beeped and she sighed. "I'm sorry," she repeated, and walked away from him.

Chris stood looking after her. He thrust his hands in his jeans pocket and stared at the treatment room door, wondering where he would find the courage to go in there and talk to Vin. He had to find it, or else he wasn't worthy of the man behind that door. As he set his hand on the door frame, a muffled cry from inside made his heart stutter. "Vin!" he answered and rushed inside.

******************

He'd known, even before consciousness had broken over him in a wave of pain, that he was in a bad way. Panic when he couldn't move, when he couldn't open his eyes. Then hands holding him down, restraints tied around his wrists, not tightly, but tight enough to bind him until he understood that he was safe, that he had to be still and quiet. He had lain there, panting and trembling like a frightened animal until they had shot him with some sort of tranquilizing drug that had settled his body, but not his mind. He had questions: Where was he? Were any of his teammates injured? Why couldn't he see? That was the last one he asked, as if he were afraid to hear the answer. Afraid that they were afraid to give him the answer.

They had talked to him. Explained what they were doing and why. They had cut the bullet out of him. They had said he was lucky. They had given him painkillers to dull the agony. They had flushed out his eyes and applied soothing salves to his skin, so it didn't feel like it was on fire. And then they had left him in the dark.

He could feel the panic rising in him, remembering other darkness, other pain. Why was he alone? He sat up, heedless of IV lines, of the deep ache in his shoulder, of the sudden, fierce stab of hurt behind his bandaged eyes. He couldn't breathe, couldn't stop his heart from beating in his chest like a frightened bird. He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed and banged his knee painfully on the bed rail. He cried out, half in startlement, half from the fear that surged from the loss of control. He tried to take in air, but his chest felt like a brick, his throat like a noose was tied around it and being drawn tight.

"Vin!" Warm, strong hands on his shoulders, the tender, whiskey-rough voice brushing his cheek. The scent and feel of Chris ... Vin fought to contain the small, hitching sob before it broke loose and unmanned him. He fell forward into Chris's arms and was gathered tightly against his chest. The hands he loved smoothed his hair, stroked his throat until the tightness eased and he could breathe again. "S'all right. I got ya, pard. It's all right," the beloved voice continued and Vin sank into that embrace.

"Chris?"

"None other." Chris laid his cheek against Vin's hair and closed his eyes. He could feel Tanner's heart shivering against his chest. "Jesus, Vin. Your heart's goin' a mile a minute. Ya gotta settle down, all right?" He continued speaking softly, using his hands to express his concern, to calm and reassure. Eventually that light, terrified heartbeat slowed to a more normal rhythm. "That's better," he said, relieved that Tanner was calming down. "Lay back down, now."

Vin sighed and let Chris settle him back against his pillows. His hands reached toward the bandages swathing his eyes, and Chris caught his wrists gently. "Leave 'em be." Chris lightly stroked the back of his knuckles against Tanner's throat, feeling the struggle to suppress emotion in the working of the muscles beneath his touch.

"Cain't see, Chris."

"I know. I talked to Dr. Rheinhardt."

"What if --"

Chris silenced him with a draw of his thumb across his lips. "No what ifs, Vin. We got forty-eight hours to wait and see. It'll be all right."

No doubt in Larabee's voice. Vin raised his hand touched Chris's stubbled cheek. "Cain't stand the thought 'a not seein' you again."

Tears filled Chris's eyes. He held Vin's hand against his face and let him feel the tears as the spilled over. "You will. You will."

Vin sighed contentedly, wearily, and clasped his fingers around Chris's. "Gotta b'lieve that." He couldn't bear thinking of what the rest of his life would be like without sight -- no job, no future, just darkness. Couldn't expect folks to keep him in their lives when his own would be limited. The only thing he could admit was his fear that he wouldn't be able to see Chris again, that the image of Chris would grow as faint and faded as the image of his dead mother. Not all the love in the world could bring those colors back to life.

Chris looked down at their entwined fingers. Vin's were tanned, slender, fine-boned. His own were not quite as bronzed, but long and agile, strong. The hands of a man who worked hard. Those hands had thrown that goddammed grenade that could cost Vin his sight, and perhaps his life. Chris wanted to say those words. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg Vin's absolution; but that was an indulgence he wouldn't ask, not when Vin didn't have the strength to give rein to the anger he deserved for his careless action. Vin deserved that anger, and Chris deserved to bear the brunt of it. With his free hand, he brushed the brown hair back from Vin's forehead. His skin was damp, cool, and Chris bent to set his lips there.

"Guess I gotta stay here tonight," Vin murmured drowsily.

"Reckon so. Vin, I'm gonna tell Buck to go home. He can update the guys."

"Ya leavin', too?"

"No. I'm not leaving." He gave Vin a gentle kiss. "I'll be back."

He found Buck slouched in a chair, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. He looked exhausted, and Buck never looked exhausted. Good thing mirrors weren't standard equipment in waiting rooms. Chris sat down next to Buck and touched his shoulder. Wilmington opened a bleary blue eye, then groaned and sat up. "You were gone long enough."

"Looks like chasin' all the nurses finally got to you. You're gettin' old."

Buck scrubbed his hands over his face. "Ya know it ain't the years, Larabee. It's the --"

"The miles," Chris grinned. "Yeah, Indy." He dropped a hand on Buck's shoulder. "Go home, go to bed, and get some rest."

"How's Junior?"

Chris told him the good news first, then the more sober news about Vin's eyes. "Forty-eight hours, Dr. Rheinhardt said."

"She say anything else?"

"He can distinguish light and dark. She says that's a good sign."

"Well, then. We'll jist keep on prayin'. C'mon, you c'n stay at my place tonight."

Chris shook his head. "I ain't leavin' him, Buck."

"It ain't like he's a kid. And you don't look too hot yourself."

"I'm staying." Chris's tired face took on a stubborn set, and Buck gave him a hard study.

"What's goin' on here, Chris? You're not telling me something."

God. Not tonight. He couldn't face telling Buck tonight. "Nothing's 'going on'. Listen, Buck. You know Vin. He hates hospitals. His eyes are bandaged up, and he's not sure he's ever gonna see again. Now, that would scare the bejesus out of me. I sure as hell wouldn't want to be alone. Would you?"

"N-noo ..." Buck agreed.

"I'd do the same for you," Chris said.

Buck knew he would. He'd do the same for any of his team, but maybe not for the same reasons. There were layers in Chris Larabee that Buck had never managed to plumb; the man he knew was not the same as the man who was Sarah's husband, or Adam's father, or Vin's ... Vin's what? Was there a word for that linkage of mind and heart that they shared? If there was, Buck didn't know it.

"I'll tell the others. You give Vin my best. Tell him we're all thinkin' of him."

"I will." Chris gave his oldest friend a tired smile. "Thanks, Buck."

"For a cold cup of coffee?" Buck grinned and set his cowboy hat on his head. He tipped the brim, ambled off. Chris watched him out the door then returned to the treatment area just as they were wheeling Vin out of the cubicle.

He was sitting up, his fingers clenched so tight on the rails that the bones showed white, and the rest of him likely as tense. Chris caught up to him, laid his hand over that knotted fist. "Thought you could make a quick getaway, cowboy?"

Relief flooded Vin's body, and a smile showed briefly. "They ain't as quiet as I'd like," he said. "Got a few things t'learn." It was a thin joke at best, but Chris didn't move his hand, and that was all right, too. It seemed to take forever for the aides to settle him in his room, fussing and fiddling with IV's and bandages, just about driving him wild. Chris's constant presence was the only thing that kept him level, and, when at last they were gone, he was exhausted. The bandages over his eyes only intensified the feeling of being closed in too tight. He tried to imagine a space around him, but sensed instead, how near the walls were, how small the room, and how vulnerable he was.

Then the rail next to him was lowered, and Chris's arm slid around his shoulders. His body touched all along the length of Vin's; chest, hip, thigh. leg. Vin sank down wearily. His shoulder hurt like the devil, but it was worth it to have Chris near. He reached up, his fingers tracing Larabee's face gently. "Ya don't have ta stay, Chris. I'll be all right."

Chris laughed softly. "You're sayin' you'd rather I drive an hour out to the ranch, lay down in that big empty bed, worry about you all night long, then drive back here at the crack of dawn? I don't think so, partner."

Despite his exhaustion, pain, and fear, Vin chuckled. "Cain't have that, I reckon."

That chuff of laughter, weak as it was, did Chris's heart a world of good. He shifted to cushion the length of Vin's body more comfortably. "Warm enough?" he asked.

"Mmmm. Always warm s'long as yer holdin' me," he murmured.

"I won't let go," Chris said, his breath stirring Vin's hair. He felt the slim body relax against his, the head tilt drowsily on his shoulder, Vin's respiration grew deep and slow. He closed his eyes and uttered a prayer; a man who never prayed, who had lost his faith, but still felt that there had to be some spirit watching over Vin, just as he believed Sarah was watching over him. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, beyond caring if anyone saw them. If a man couldn't hold a friend who was hurting, then the world was a cold place.

A nurse came in several hours later to take Vin's vital signs. She paused momentarily to gaze down at the two men; the lanky blond and the young man with the bandaged eyes he cradled in his arms, both sleeping. She was reminded of the War Memorial in Philadelphia's 30th Street train station, a statue of an angel holding a fallen soldier; terrible, beautiful, and compassionate. It always made her cry. She blinked away her tears, took her patient's blood pressure and temperature. He stirred and drew in a quick breath as if he might awaken. Then, seemingly reassured by the presence of the blond man, sleep reclaimed him. The nurse gently brushed her hand over his hair, touched his shoulder, and left the room as quietly as she had entered.

**********************

****************

Chris came awake with a start: the reality of his dream cramping in his stomach and making each breath painful and hard. His shoulder and arm were prickling with needles and pins from the weight of Tanner's body, and his shirt was damp with his own sweat and Vin's. The window showed a pale grey light. Not quite dark, not quite dawn.

Chris sank back against the pillow. He moved the tangled, sweaty hair from Vin's face. The Texan was soundly asleep, but he sighed and shifted his position enough so that Chris could pull away without waking him.

Lord Jesus, a nightmare, but a nightmare with the dread and weight of reality behind it. He was shaking, and if he had been at home, he would have gone straight for the whiskey bottle. Instead, he staggered over to the window, setting distance between himself and Vin, as if that would also distance him from the lingering shock of the dream. Ten thousand miles wouldn't separate him from his guilt.

Chris had a long and abiding acquaintance with guilt, acquired the day Sarah and Adam had died in a car-bombing that had been meant for him. Buck said his guilt was misplaced, and everything that was rational in Chris agreed, but it didn't stop the emotion from wearing at the edges of his soul like acid. This was different. He had nothing to do with the car bomb, but everything to do with tossing the grenade that had injured Vin. No, he hadn't known that the sharpshooter was there. No one did. But that didn't absolve him from the feeling that he should have known. He hadn't quite reached the point of asking why Vin was there to begin with, when all intelligence had cleared both him and Ezra from the scene. His guilt had blinded him to that logic.

He turned from the window. The dimmed light over the bed shone down on Vin as he slept. He looked small, curled on his side, huddled under the blankets. The bandages over his eyes heightened the illusion of fragility; the white bulk of them emphasizing his pallor and the hard, fine line of jaw and cheekbone. Chris sat in the chair at the bedside, watching. His hand was trembling as he raised it, slipped his fingers gently beneath the waves of hair on Vin's forehead. His skin was warm, not feverish. His breath came and went, catching on a slight hitch as his brow furrowed, perhaps in pain, perhaps in a dream -- Chris couldn't tell which.

Right now, he would have given his immortal soul to be able to look into Vin's eyes.

He sat, head bowed, fingers laced loosely together. He tried to piece together the fragments of the dream that remained in his mind, weaving them together with what he recalled of the raid on the warehouse. The result was a fabric riddled with flaws.

"C-Chris?"

Vin's head moved restlessly on the pillows, his hand fumbled, seeking some assurance that he was not alone. Chris caught those slender fingers in his and raised them to his lips.

"Easy, partner. I'm here."

"S'it mornin'?"

"Nearly."

"Y'all right?"

"Yeah." Vin's fingers played lightly over Chris's face, and it took all of his strength and resolve not to back away from that exploration. He didn't want that reminder of Vin's blindness.

But as his fingers traced the contours of Chris's face, a slight smile touched Vin's mouth. He felt the ridge of Chris's cheekbone, the knife-straight blade of his nose, the sweet fullness of his lower lip, and the cleft in his chin. His fingers wove through the silky weight of his hair where it just curled over his collar, the warmth of Larabee's skin, the rough stubble of his beard. There were some compensations for the loss of one sense and the heightening of another.

"You sleep at all?" Vin asked.

"Some. Why?"

A light finger touched the hollows beneath Chris's eyes. "Ya feel tired."

Chris chuckled. "Hell, Vin. You sure yer not peekin' around the edges of those bandages?"

Vin's laughter was a soft, tender, breath. "Reckon I know ya by now." Chris brushed cool lips across his mouth. The rattle of the breakfast cart outside the door broke the intimacy of the moment; then a nurse came in to take vital signs, and a tech to draw blood for labwork.

Never easy in the presence of strangers, fears magnified by the knowledge that he had to let these people near him and scarcely able to bear their touch, and all of it made far worse by the bandages over his eyes, Vin fought the rising panic, but he could feel his breath strangling in his throat and a tremor of nerves starting to quiver in the pit of his stomach.

Chris could feel the tension building in Vin. His fingers were bunching the blankets into pleated knots and a faint sheen of sweat filmed his skin. Chris touched Vin's hand, and his fingers jerked convulsively in reaction. "Vin, there's a nurse here, and someone to draw blood. I'm gonna step out for a few minutes to let them do their jobs, okay? But I'll be just outside the door."

A faint flush came into Vin's cheeks. He was ashamed of his fears, ashamed that Chris had to explain everything to him like he was a kid, and yet at the same time, grateful that Larabee was there watching out for him. "Thanks, Chris," he whispered and dug deep for courage.

It was over quickly, but not quickly enough for Vin. By the time they had left, and he had recovered from the intimate intrusions his condition necessitated, he was about as worn out as if he had been at hard labor.

He heard someone else come into the room, smelled bacon and eggs. Breakfast. The tray was slid into place, and a soft Spanish-accented voice asked if he needed help. Vin shook his head. "Gracias," he replied, and was rewarded with a gentle pat on the back of his hand. Kindness was unfamiliar, still, and a surprise to him.

He sat there, knowing the tray was in front of him. His hands clenched on the edge of the table for a moment, as if clinging to the edge of a precipice with all the days and years to come falling away from him. He drew a breath, fought back from that dark edge, then cautiously began an exploration of the tray. Utensils -- metal, but wrapped in plastic. Knife, fork, spoon. A streak of heat as his knuckles grazed the side of a mug. Coffee. A square, waxed cardboard container he figured to be juice. There was a thermal cover over his plate. He could do this ... hell, he'd have to do it, or starve. There was quicker ways of dyin' than wounded pride.

Chris stood in the doorway, watching that exploration, and aching for Vin. His throat burned fiercely, and he cleared the thick emotion from it before he stepped inside the room once again. "Breakfast?" It was more to let Vin know that he had returned than an actual question. With an ease he didn't feel, he leaned over and lifted the cover from the plate. "Let's see what ya got here ... Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, coffee ... Not too bad."

As he spoke, he opened the flatware and set it out. "Fork is on your left. Knife and spoon, right."

Vin gave a slight snort of laughter. "Trust a blind man with a knife?"

"Be pretty hard to do any damage with it," Chris said, angry that Vin would use the word blind. "There's jelly and honey for the toast."

"You know what I like."

Chris did. He spread the honey on the bread and put two packs of sugar and some cream in Vin's coffee. "Eggs are at nine o'clock, bacon's at twelve, and toast is at three."

"Thanks." He ate, tentatively at first, then with an appetite as he became more confident. Chris wondered if, like a cat, Vin had an instinctive sense of distance and proportion. Maybe when this was over, he'd ask. That was, if Vin would tolerate his presence once he knew the truth.

The eggs were relatively tasteless, but Vin's stomach was clamoring for food, and he knew he'd be better off if he ate. It was weird, not being able to see, but Chris had set everything up so he had a mental picture of what it looked like. It wasn't until he had finished his toast and settled back with a sigh, that he realized how quiet Chris had been.

"You know somethin' I don't?" he asked.

"What?"

"Ain't said but three words in the last while, Chris. Is somethin' wrong?"

Yeah, I'm the reason you've landed here, came to mind, but the words never crossed his lips. Before he had a chance to answer, Dr. Rheinhardt came through the door. She gave Chris a hard study, her sharp eyes seeing more than he liked: exhaustion, worry, maybe even his guilt. But her expression softened when she turned her attention to Vin.

"How are you today?" she asked, her voice low and gentle.

"Hopin' you'd have some good news," Vin answered. Chris saw his fingers begin their nervous pleating of the blanket. "Kinda like t'git outta here, if I could."

"Let's take a look." She crossed to the window and closed the blinds, shrouding the room in darkness. "Mr. Larabee, would you dim the lights, please?"

Chris turned the rheostat down until the light over Vin's bed was no brighter than a candle. He stayed at Vin's side, his hand resting on his shoulder. Dr. Rheinhardt took out a pair of scissors and cut the bandages away. Chris forced himself to look. It wasn't as bad as he had feared, but worse than he had hoped. The skin around Vin's eyes was reddened and swollen, his eyes puffy and watering even in that dim light.

Dr. Rheinhardt gently pried his lids open and shone her ophthalmoscope into the blue irises. Vin's breath drew in and he fought against the intrusion of the light. Chris tightened his grip on Vin's shoulder. "Easy, partner," he whispered.

Dr. Rheinhardt turned off the light. She stood for a moment, considering. "So far, it looks good. I'm going to raise the light just a bit, and I want you to tell me how your vision is."

"Okay." His eyes were burning fiercely, and his voice had no force behind it. If Chris's hand hadn't been warm and steadying on his shoulder, he would have been shivering. He waited and slowly the brightness beyond his lashes increased. Reflexively, he squinted, fighting against it, but slowly he forced himself to look. Colors. He caught his breath. The pale walls, the square frame of a painting on the wall; details still blurred, but the red and gold of what he thought were flowers was clear. He turned his head deliberately towards Dr. Rheinhardt. "Yer wearin' a blue blouse beneath that white coat a' yers," he said, smiling. "Good thing I ain't lookin' at Larabee. All I'd see is black."

Relief flooded through Chris, and he forced himself to make a jesting reply because Vin would expect it. "You've got a smart mouth, Tanner," he growled, and saw Vin's cheek twitch in a smile.

Dr. Rheinhardt looked pleased. "I'd say you're making excellent progress. You'll need to keep your eyes bandaged for another day or so, but the corneas look good. The abrasions are healing well, and the chemical burns on your skin are much better. You heal fast."

"Fast enough t'git outta here?"

"That's up to Dr. Stone. I don't have any reason to keep you here, though you will have to come back tomorrow so I can examine your eyes again."

"I can do that," Vin said. "Chris?"

"I'll be around."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow. Call my office to set up a time when you find about being discharged. Otherwise, I'll see you here."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll make sure he's here, Doctor."

She nodded, gave him a look that clearly indicated that she expected him to see to it, and left. Vin started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and banged into the table, setting china rattling, and flatware sliding across the tray. He cursed irritably, and Chris grabbed the table and rolled it out of the way.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"Gettin' dressed."

"Not until Dr. Stone gives you the go-ahead." Chris gently hooked his arm around Vin's waist and pulled him back to the bed. "Stay put. I'm gonna call Buck and tell him the good news. We've all been worried, you know that?"

Vin nodded. "I ain't gonna forget that, Chris." He reached out, seeking Chris's hand and felt those strong fingers close over his. "When're ya gonna tell me what's eatin' at ya, cowboy?" When Chris's clasp loosened suddenly, Vin reversed the grip, holding Chris fast before he could withdraw from the telling contact. "I ain't the one runnin', Chris. Not this time."

Chris closed his eyes, grateful, if only for a moment that Vin couldn't see his expression. "Let's get you out of here, first."

Vin's clasp tightened. "Y'ain't ever lied t'me, Chris."

"I wouldn't lie, Vin." Not even at the cost of mortal pain to his own heart. He bent his head and kissed Vin's temple, over the line of the bandages. "I won't lie."

A soft knock on the door parted them, and Dr. Stone came in, brow knitted over Vin's chart. She stood at the foot of his bed. "You can't do it, can you?"

"What?"

If not for the bandages on his eyes, she knew they would have opened wide and innocent, completely disarming her. She sighed, "Stay out of here for more than a month at a time."

"Maybe I jist get t'missin' you, doc."

She gave a delicate snort of laughter. "Save it, Tanner. I can see those puppy-dog eyes behind those bandages, and it isn't going to work."

"Hell, it was worth a try," Vin smiled. Dr. Stone had seen him, had seen them all, through some harrowing times and serious injuries. She knew and understood the dynamics that made them a unique team and the emotional bonds that held them together as friends. Above all, she knew that the two men before her had a relationship that was stronger than steel and more delicate than silk, a woven net of heart and soul that was rare and precious, and completely beyond comprehension.

"Mmmm," was what she said. And Chris was grateful for her humor, for the way she knew Vin needed to be handled. Another, less perceptive doctor would have driven him into taciturn withdrawal.

She listened to his heart, took his pulse. She slipped the hospital gown from his shoulder, hating that he flinched away from her touch and knowing that it had nothing to do with her, but with the hard life he had led. She was under no illusions -- she had seen his scars. She cut through the bandages on his shoulder; the wound was swollen and bruised-looking, but no longer bleeding. "It looks like the bullet was deflected and had lost most of its impact," she observed quietly. She taped a fresh gauze over the wound and stood with her arms folded. She spoke to Vin, but her eyes held Chris's.

"I have no real objection to discharging you -- as long as you promise to take care of yourself and keep all your appointments. I don't want to see you in my ER for at least another month. I'll speak to Dr. Rheinhardt. And so, Vin, I guess you're out of here."

"Thanks, doc." He turned to Chris. "Take me t'my place?"

Chris didn't answer. He looked at Dr. Stone, saw the concern in her eyes. She knew where Vin lived and obviously didn't like the idea of him going home alone, and blind. "We'll talk," he said. "Thank you, Dr. Stone."

After a moment, when Vin was sure she had gone, he spoke, his voice tight and tense. "Jist 'cause I cain't see doesn't mean I need lookin' after like a cripple."

"I never said that!" Chris objected. "It's not a matter of your being helpless -- it's a matter of doing what's best for you right now."

"And you're jist damn sure that you know what that is."

"I know that Purgatorio isn't a place for a man who can't see," Chris said evenly, though there was a burn in his stomach, worry and anger wearing at his incipient ulcer. "Don't let your damn pride get in the way of common sense, Vin."

Vin's shoulders slumped. At any other time he would have given Chris a run for his money, but he was too damn tired, and too damn sore. He ached for home, for a place that was small and familiar, where he knew every stick of furniture and every warped board in the floor. As much as he loved the ranch, he couldn't imagine himself sitting out there, unable to see, and dependent on Chris.

His silence, the bow of his shoulders, the furrow of pain on his forehead, all spoke of defeat. That was the last thing Chris wanted for Vin. Sometimes the logic of the heart outweighed the logic of the head. He set his hand on Vin's shoulder. "Where do you want to go?"

"I want t'go home, Chris. My place ain't much, but I know where I'm goin'. It's closer t'the hospital, and I don't want ya t'have to drive me an hour to and from fer the next few days."

Reluctantly, Chris admitted Vin was making sense. He thrust his fingers through his hair. "I'm staying with you."

"You don't have to."

"Yeah ... I do." He paced, the heels of his boots sounding hollow in the silence. "I'll call Buck, have him come and pick us up. The Ram's at the office. I've got jeans and a sweatshirt in my gym bag, give ya something to wear home."

Vin nodded. There was still that edge to Chris's voice that went beyond stress and worry. It imposed a distance between them, and it made Vin feel cold and lonely inside, the way he'd felt before he'd met Chris. Vin was pretty certain it wasn't something he had done, not from the way Chris had stayed with him last night, which meant the trouble was within Larabee himself.

Vin was getting an idea as to what it was, but digging through Chris's reticence was more than he could handle. Not like he had time to handle it, either. The office was only twenty minutes from the hospital, and Buck drove fast. A nurse came with his discharge papers and instructions; and Chris signed for him, using the power of attorney Vin had given him a while ago. By the time he had finished, Buck was in the room, bringing with him the tang of fresh air and the warmth of laughter.

He tossed the gym bag on the bed. "Hey there, Junior. You don't look too bad, but Chris looks like shit."

"Thanks, Buck." Chris unzipped the gym bag and took out the clothes inside. "Why don't you go chase a nurse, or something?"

"Am I supposed to be insulted by that?" Buck asked. He set an easy hand on Vin uninjured shoulder. "The man's been alone for too long."

Chris coughed, choking on the breath he'd pulled in, and Vin just gave Buck that twist of a smile like he understood the joke, when it wasn't Buck's joke at all that he was smiling at. Buck crowed with laughter. "Tell ya what, I'll just have a talk with that pretty little nurse, then get the truck. You be ready in fifteen minutes?"

"The sooner the better if y'ask me, Bucklin." He could tell when Wilmington was gone because the room seemed much emptier without that expansive presence. He managed to get dressed with minimal help from Chris. The jeans were too long and gapped a bit at the waist and hip. The sweatshirt was a size too large, but it was soft and warm, and smelled like Chris's shampoo and soap. As Chris tugged the hem of the shirt over the waisband of the jeans, Vin caught his lover's hand in his. "Buck was right about somethin', Chris."

Close enough to feel the brush of Vin's breath and the warmth eddying from his skin, Chris paused with his free hand braced lightly on Vin's thigh. "What?"

"Ya have been alone fer too damn long," Vin whispered. "How long's it been since we were t'gether? Two weeks?" He leaned forward slightly so that his cheek rested against Chris's. "Way too long." His hand crept around Chris's waist, pulling him close enough for a kiss. Larabee's lips softened, and Vin smiled at that surrender. It didn't last long. Chris returned the kiss fiercely, then pulled away.

"Not here," he said, still backing from Vin's embrace.

Vin released him with a sigh. "Then git me home where I c'n do something about it," he whispered, close enough still, to send a sensual shiver down Chris's spine.

"You need to rest." He heard voices outside the door, and an orderly came in with a wheelchair. "Ride's here, Vin. Let's go." He guided Vin into the chair, picked up the gym bag and his jacket, and followed him down the hall, to the elevators. As they stood waiting for the elevator, he caught a glimpse of Dr. Stone coming from another room on the floor. "Vin, tell Buck I'll be down in a minute. Something I need to ask Dr. Stone." He was gone before Vin or the orderly could say anything.

"Dr. Stone!"

She turned at the sound of his voice and hurried footsteps, waited for him to catch up to her. "Yes, Mr. Larabee?"

"About Vin --"

"He is well enough to go home, Chris." There had been times when they had come to words over similar issues -- differences they had split about fifty-fifty. She hoped he wasn't going to argue on this one.

He smiled, acknowledging their battles. "It's not about that. I ... I was wondering if you knew what kind of bullet they took out of Vin."

He seemed tentative, and that was entirely uncharacteristic of Chris Larabee. She frowned and flipped through the pages of the chart she held. "I'm sorry. It doesn't say. I can check with the surgeon in ER --"

"No, that's all right. I can get the information from Buck. It's probably been sent to ballistics."

He seemed very low, and Dr. Stone wondered if she had the right to say what was on her mind, but never having been a coward, not even in Chris Larabee's daunting presence, decided to forge on. "You're worried that it was your bullet, aren't you?" Chris's head came up sharply, but before he could speak again, she continued. "Even if it was, he wouldn't blame you for doing your job."

"The grenade was mine. No doubt about that."

Lord. What did you say to that? She looked at him, his features fine and hard as the blade of a knife, green eyes looking inward at his guilt. "Are you perfect?"

The question shocked those eyes back from the abyss. "What?"

"Are you perfect? Do you make mistakes? I do. Everyday. I patch up damages done to the human body, day after day. Sometimes, I save lives, sometimes I can't. I've made mistakes, wrong calls, bad judgments. It's part of being human and fallible. If you beat yourself up over every error until you're sick with worry and guilt, it must be because you believe yourself to be perfect. Otherwise, you'd admit that like every other person who walks the earth, you are only human. Anything else is pure hubris. I never took you to be that kind of man."

Those green eyes blazed fire for a moment, then a smile touched his grim mouth as the truth of her words took hold. "Sounds like you've been talking to Josiah."

It was her turn to smile. "We've had our discussions. Lord knows, he's spent more than his share of time in the ER chairs, waiting while one or another member of your team is being patched up. Give yourself a break, Chris Larabee. I doubt even Vin believes you're perfect. Go, take him home. Tell him the truth." She gave him a brisk pat on the arm as the elevator doors opened, and as he stepped inside, she continued down the hall, her heels tapping with staccato efficiency on the tiles.

*******************

It was one of those rare occasions when the elevator in Tanner's apartment was working. At least Vin wouldn't have to make it up four flights of stairs, hurting and blind. Chris took the keys from Vin, and opened the locks that normally would have him cussing a blue-streak, but which suddenly seemed all too necessary for safety. He shoved the door open, felt Vin's weight sag slightly against his shoulder.

"You all right there, pard?"

"Jist tired."

Chris laughed, "And you wanted to walk up those stairs?"

"Better'n bein' stuck in the damn elevator."

"That damn elevator saved me from having to carry you four flights up."

Vin took several steps into the room, paused and then walked slowly to the couch, his fingertips gliding across the back of his rocking chair as a smile lit his face at the dear familiarity of it. He sank into it, tipped his head against the back and sighed as he settled into an easy rock.

Chris watched him; aching, and, despite Dr. Stone's words, certain that guilt would kill him one way or another. The white gauze over Vin's eyes, the reddened skin showing beneath the bandages, the faint outline of a bruise on his cheek -- they were all an indictment of his failure once again to protect the people he loved: Sarah and Adam, and now, Vin.

He left the room and went into the kitchen. He flipped his cell phone and dialed the office. "JD?" he asked when the young agent picked up the phone.

"Hey, Chris, how's Vin doin'?"

"We're at his place. Listen, JD. Did the ballistics report come back yet?"

"Umm, I don't know." The sound of papers shuffling came through the receiver, and Chris sighed, leaning back against the counter and pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache burgeoning there. "Chris?"

"You got it?"

"Yeah, it just came in. What'dya want to know?"

"The bullet. Did it -- was it one of ours?"

"No."

"No?" Chris could scarcely believe it. "Are you sure?"

"I know how to read, Chris." JD sounded aggrieved. "And the report says it wasn't."

Chris slid down the cabinet and sat on the floor, his knees gone weak with relief. "Thanks, JD."

"You didn't think -- Geez, Chris!" And then as he realized that he was overstepping the bounds of their business relationship, he faltered and apologized. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"

"You gave me good news, JD. No need to apologize." He could feel Dunne's blush through the phone. "Thanks."

"Tell Vin we're cleaning off his desk."

Chris laughed. "No, JD. You tell him that." Vin's desktop was always a mass of paperwork that he never filed, but on which he could unerringly locate a three weeks-old report with the flick of a finger -- to Ezra's despair and JD's undying admiration. Vin hated other people, even the members of Team Seven, rifling through his system.

"He's gonna be all right, isn't he?"

"According to the doctors, yes."

"Good. If there's anything we can do --"

"I'll let you know. Get back to work, son." Then he closed the phone and pushed himself upright once more. He went to the refrigerator to take stock. A carton of orange juice, cola, milk. Varied cartons of Chinese take-out. Leftover pizza. Eggs. Half a loaf of bread. In the drawers, lunch meat, and apples. Enough to fix a meal if Vin felt like eating.

He wandered back into the living room. The rocking chair was still. Chris, his heart in his throat, crossed over to it. Vin was curled up crosswise, his head drooping on his chest. How the hell could he sleep in that position? Chris considered waking him, then figured he'd wake soon enough on his own.

He sat across from Vin, waiting for that moment, not wanting him to be disoriented when he roused. The light coming through the tall windows shifted as time passed; it crept across the floor, flowed up the warm oak rails of the rocker, drifted across Vin's shoulders. It burnished the brown strands of his hair, touched it with gold and red like mahogany. When it reached his face, it warmed him awake gently. He sighed, stirred. Chris knelt at the arm of the rocker and laid his hand on Vin's cheek.

He instinctively turned to Chris's palm. A slight, indrawn breath. "Chris?"

He couldn't resist. He set his lips on Vin's mouth, and felt him yield to the kiss. Tongues touched, teased, tasted what had been missed for so long. Vin slid his body around, so that Chris was kneeling between his thighs. Unable to see, he used his fingers as his vision, modeling every line of Larabee's face. They feathered over Chris's eyelids, feeling the trembling there, the soft brush of long lashes, the ridge of the orbital bone. He stroked his thumbs down the sides of Larabee's face, found the curve and angle of his jaw, the cleft in his chin. He tilted that face, whispered kisses across the brow, down his cheeks, beard-roughened and salty-tasting, and back to the full-lipped mouth that was waiting for him. God. So many sensations, so much sweetness and heat. The denial of one sense heightened all the others, and Vin was drowning in them.

"I've rested," he said, his voice husky and raw with need.

How could Chris refuse when the same ache was racing like fire through his body? He wrapped his arms around Vin, aware of his wounded shoulder, tighter with his left arm than his right, felt Vin hook his leg around his hips to hold him close. Sure-fingered despite the blindfold, Vin unbuttoned Chris's shirt and slipped it from his shoulders, the tails still tucked in the waist of his jeans.

Chris's heart beat wildly against Vin's palm. His skin was like hot satin, supple and smooth over bone and muscle. Vin bent his head, inhaling Larabee's scent of sweat, soap, and masculine musk. The skin over the crown of his shoulder had a coppery tang to it as Vin ran his tongue along the rounded cap of muscle and the blade of his clavicle. He made small, sharp bites along the flesh of Chris's shoulder and the curve of his neck, pausing to blow across the reddened skin and making him shiver and gasp at the sensations of heat followed by the cooling breath. Vin laced his fingers across the back of Chris's neck and Larabee leaned into those hands cradling him, exposing the length of his throat.

Chris groaned as Tanner's mouth scored a line of flame from beneath his ear to his Adam's apple. He should have stopped him. He should have backed away and forced him to listen to the truth. But beneath logic, beneath guilt, lay the knowledge that Vin needed the reassurance of lovemaking more than Chris needed expiation. So, he yielded; guilt burned away by desire, and, by love.

Vin's hands closed on his upper arms, and they stood, bodies pressed close. Vin stroked down Chris's long, muscled back, the channel of his spine. His palms curved on either side of Chris's narrow waist. He pulled the shirt free of his jeans, let it drop to the floor. He didn't need sight to thumb the brass rivet through the buttonhole, or pull down the zipper. He ran the back of a knuckle from Chris's navel to the band of his briefs, slipped this fingers past the elastic and found the velvety tip of his cock moist with semen.

Vin pushed him back, preparing to kneel, but Chris stopped him, pulled him close again. "We're taking this to the bedroom," he growled, his voice deep.

Vin nodded, and let Chris guide him through the familiar room, across the narrow hall, to the bedroom. He was dizzy with Chris's kisses, aching, wanting. Then he felt the edge of the mattress pressing into the backs of his legs, and he sat down, suddenly missing Larabee's touch. "Chris?"

"I'm here." The mattress gave way, and Chris was kneeling next to him. "Lift your right arm," he said. Vin did, and felt the sweatshirt being bunched up and slid over his arm. Chris's careful hands stretched the jersey fabric, brought it over his hair and bandages, then down the left arm and shoulder. The air in the room was cool, and he shivered slightly.

Chris laid him back on the bed; and Vin stretched out with the rough wool of his Navajo blanket beneath his shoulders. His erection rose as Chris slid the jeans down over his hips. He was cold for a moment, then Chris's warm, naked body covered his own.

Oh God. He wanted to breathe, and couldn't. He lay still and Chris's hands came in the darkness, touching, caressing. Every nerve of Vin's body was inflamed. Not knowing where Chris would touch next, startled when it wasn't what he expected. The glide of tongue, the scrape of a nail across his nipples, warm breath at his ear. His blood was pooling in his groin, and he writhed, seeking more intimate contact, and nearly cried out when Larabee's cock brushed against his. His hips arched. Chris held him still. His stubbled cheek rasped against Vin's flank. He tasted and teased the sensitive skin at the crease of his thigh, and Vin's hands clenched into the wool of the blanket. Anticipation made him tremble, the pressure of waiting for the next touch, nearly unbearable.

When Chris took him in his mouth, Vin did cry out. Chris curled warm, strong fingers around Vin's swollen balls, stroking and kneading them in the heavy sac. He probed the weeping slit in Vin's glans, suckling on the bittersweet taste of his lover, taking the shaft deep in his throat as Vin's hips moved to drive him deeper yet. It was all sensation now, blind instinct.

Blind.

Knowledge curled in Chris's mind and he withdrew from Vin, raising a sob, and bringing Tanner's hands to either side of his head, holding him, cheek to groin. Chris's heated breath drifted across Vin's rigid sex.

"Chris?" There was a plea there, and pain.

A tear slipped from Chris's eyes, slid down his cheek and fell. "I don't want to hurt you," he said, his voice muffled against Vin's warm skin.

"Yer hurtin' me now," Vin whispered. "An jist 'cause I cain't see, don't mean I cain't feel you're hurtin', too."

The soft, fractured voice drew Chris upwards to gather Vin's slight, shivering body into his arms. He pushed the damp hair from Vin's forehead, and wishing, God, wishing, that he could look into Tanner's deep blue eyes and tell him the truth. But those eyes that held Vin's soul were bandaged and blind and Chris didn't know what to do.

Vin spoke into the silence. "I don't need ya t'talk to me, Chris."

"What do you need?" The words came roughly from Chris's throat.

"This." Vin's lips claimed his, and he caught Chris's hand and guided it back to his hard, heated flesh as his own fingers wrapped around his lover's cock. The shaft engorged as he stroked it with deft fingers, and he felt fresh cum gathering on the head. Chris arched his back as Vin pressed closer. Vin enclosed both his and Chris's cocks in his hand, working the flesh, pumping it as he thrust his tongue into the warm depths of Larabee's mouth. Chris answered the kiss, his breath coming hard and fast as Vin increased the pressure and the movement of his hand. Their bodies rocked together, limbs tangled, arms entwined, as sweat slicked their skin.

Vin's tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, mimicking the motion of his fist around Chris's flesh. Trapped between their bodies, worked by Vin's hands, lubricated by sweat and cum, Chris felt the blood run boiling through his cock, catching him and carrying him on the crest of his orgasm. The wave broke as his pelvis jerked convulsively against Vin's hand and body. Darkness swirled around him and through him; semen poured over his hand, over Vin's fingers, and he felt the moment that Tanner's climax rushed over him, his seed spurting to mingle with Chris's as he cried out his name.

"Chris!"

Dimly, through the fading tide of sexual ecstasy, Chris thought: Why didn't you call out like that in the warehouse? Why didn't you call my name, then?*

And he wept.

*********************

Vin lay still, his body pressed into the warm curve of Chris's. Larabee's arm was across his waist, and he too, was quiet, but not with the lax peace that followed the storm of passion. Vin recognized the studied stillness of suppressed pain, he had used it too often himself, and it hadn't fooled anybody, much less Chris Larabee.

He had learned through bitter experience that reality was not something that could be denied without consequences. Sooner or later it came hunting, and he figured you might as well be ready for it.

He sighed, turned in Chris's arms. They were so close he could feel Larabee's breath stirring the strands of hair on his cheek. He wondered if Chris was watching him, and if he was, if he could see anything beyond the white bandages. "Chris?" Just a whisper, but Vin felt his breath draw in, and knew he was out of hiding. "We need ta talk."

Chris's heart sank. "Yeah. We need to talk, but not like this. Not here." Not naked and defenseless in body and soul, with the scent of their sex still heavy in the air. Reluctantly, Chris sat up, covering Vin with a fold of the wool blanket. He picked up his clothes and went into the bathroom, cleaned himself, and got dressed. He took another washcloth and towel back to the bedroom.

Vin was sitting up in the bed, the blanket pooled loosely around his hips, the rest of his body shadowed and beautiful in the pale light that came through the window blinds. Chris felt his flesh stir again at that sight. He handed the towel and washcloth to Vin. "I'll make some coffee," he said, and left.

Vin wiped the sweat and semen from his body, then made his way to the chair where he recalled throwing down a pair of jeans the other day. Soft fabric met his fingers and he fumbled his way to the dresser for clean boxers. He took a shirt from a hanger in his closet, figured they all went with jeans anyway, and carefully drew his arms through the sleeves, his shoulder giving him hell. When he had dressed, he returned to the living room, settling once again in his rocking chair. The chair faced west, and the late afternoon sun had warmed the wood. He leaned his head back and waited.

Chris carried out two mugs of coffee; one sweetened and pale with milk, the other, black and bitter. He wished it was whiskey. He stood in front of Vin. "Coffee's ready."

"Didn't say I wanted coffee, Chris." But he took it.

Chris went to the window and looked out, not seeing what was in front of him, but what was in his mind, always aware of Vin, like a small, constant electric current humming in the background. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained and far away.

"I was in the warehouse, Vin. I threw the flash-bang."

There were about a thousand things Vin could have said. And about a thousand things raced through his mind, quick and flashy like a movie running too fast. He took a breath. "Ya want me to get out my scourge and add a few lashes t'the ones yer layin' on yourself?"

"Don't --" Chris said, turning from the windows. "Don't act like it doesn't matter what I did."

"You cain't turn back time, Chris. Cain't go back and do things different, 'cause ya didn't like the way they went before."

Rage spilled through Chris. "Jesus Christ! You're sitting there blind and bandaged because I fucked up, and that's all you can say?"

"What 'm I supposed t'say? I had it figured from the first that there was somethin' tearin' you up! Didn't take much to guess what it was." He stood up, hesitated, wondering which way to step without tripping over something he couldn't see and wanting to be closer to Chris than he was, as if proximity could compensate for his lack of vision. "It ain't yer fault, Chris," he added quietly.

"I should have identified myself," Chris said.

"You were lucky was only me and not some coked-up gangbanger with an automatic."

"I should have done that even if it was."

"And they would've gunned ya down where you stood," Vin argued. "You've seen it happen."

That much was true. Chris sighed, "Why were you there, Vin? You and Ezra should have been clear of that place an hour before we moved in."

It was the first time Chris had mentioned Standish, and Vin's voice was anxious. "Is Ezra all right?"

"He's fine. He wasn't in the warehouse."

Vin stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Good. That's what I was hopin'." He took a few tentative, aimless steps. "It was a trap, Chris. I had it figured out. There wasn't any way or any time t'git word to ya, so I jist bolted inside, thinkin' maybe I could find somebody to warn off the teams." He sighed. "I was followed, thought I could git away, but he started shootin', and that's when I was hit. Guess I got lucky, huh?"

"*Lucky?*" Chris was appalled and incredulous. "Damn it, Vin! You nearly got killed!"

"Didn't see's I had a choice, Larabee." He thought of the darkness, the hot smell of cordite, the small, tight corridors, and the knowledge that the man who was his heart and soul, his world, was walking into a trap, along with too many other agents who were his family, now. "Seems we both did our jobs. Don't see any reason fer beatin' yerself t'death."

"It's not just about the job, Vin." Chris's voice was taut, painful.

Vin made an angry gesture with his hands. "It has to be about the job! It cain't be about us, Chris, and the day it becomes about us is the day I gotta walk, fer your sake, and mine." He turned away and headed towards the bedroom; no hesitation, no halting, despite his bandages.

Chris stood, arms braced against the window sash, head and shoulders bowed. God, he was tired. The physical ease that had followed their lovemaking had dissipated, leaving in its wake exhaustion and a headache that seemed to start in his spine and run straight like a spike to the top of his skull. Weary, he dropped his arms and headed for the bathroom, knowing Vin kept a variety of analgesics -- mostly prescriptions he hadn't used -- in his medicine cabinet. Nathan would have had a fit if he knew about Vin's stash, and not because Tanner was abusing them, but because he was not taking them when needed.

Chris turned on the light, and immediately regretted it. He looked like the walking dead; pale skin, dark-circled eyes, drawn cheeks. He opened the cabinet and stared at the array of pill bottles, but didn't take any out. The bathroom door opened behind him, and Vin stood there, leaning against the frame.

"Headache?"

"Yeah."

"Should be some souped-up Tylenol in there. Won't add to that acid burnin' up yer stomach, either."

Chris didn't even ask how he knew. He sorted through the bottles and found the Tylenol. He tossed back three then drank two glasses of water. "Thanks."

"Hell, I don't like even a stubborn bastard like you suffering." There was humor there, but it couldn't dispel what had been said earlier.

"Mind if I use your shower?" Chris asked.

"Cain't guarantee there'll be hot water, but go ahead. You know where everything is." Vin pushed himself away from the wooden door jamb. "I'm gonna lay down fer a bit."

"I need to go to the office for a while."

Vin sighed. "You don't hafta come back. I can get by on my own 'til tomorrow."

"Vin -- don't." Chris reached out, catching him gently at the nape of his neck and drawing him close. He kissed him, the Texan's lips cool and soft beneath his before he pulled away. "I want to come back, if you'll have me."

Tanner shrugged. "You've got a key." He turned, just slightly off balance, righted himself and seemed to melt into the darkness of the hall and bedroom. Chris heard the creak of the bedstead as he lay down.

Cursing beneath his breath, he turned on the water, stripped, and stepped into the shower. Blessedly, it was hot. After a long while, the pain pills and the heat of the water beating on his tense shoulders and neck reduced his headache to a bearable throb. He dressed and went to check on Vin.

Tanner was curled on his side, very still and breathing so softly that Chris had to bend close to hear his respiration. It was so fragile, so intimate a sound. He wouldn't touch Vin, fearing to wake him from his much needed sleep. He pulled the blanket up to his waist, and turned the bedside lamp on low. Even though Vin wouldn't be able to tell if it was necessary, it made Chris feel better to know that he wouldn't wake to darkness.

************************

To Chris's surprise, the rest of the team was in the office. As soon as he walked in the door, all activity stopped. Buck straightened from his lean on the edge of JD's desk. "Hey, Chief. How's Vin doing?"

"Resting."

"You sure?" Nathan asked, and Chris, recalling how deeply Vin had been sleeping when he left, nodded. "I'm sure. He was out."

"You look like you should be out," Nathan growled. "When was the last time you slept?"

Chris silenced Nathan with a glare. "I want an update. Now."

Ezra leaned back in his chair. He was still sporting the slightly over-the-edge appearance his persona favored; dark green silk shirt, tight black jeans, fitted black leather jacket, his auburn hair slicked back. "I spoke to my contact this morning. All is not well in the cadres of our enemies. I fear my stint as this slimy creature has reached the point where a trip to visit his off-shore accounts might be in order."

"Fine for him, not for you, Ezra. And you're gonna have to give up the Maserati."

"I knew that." Ezra grinned, his gold tooth glinting in his smile. "Mr. Tanner should be proud to have thrown so large a wrench into the workings of these miscreants."

"Look at this, Chris." Buck handed him a report. Chris read, and cursed. "Jesus, that's enough C-4 to have brought down the warehouse and blown us all to kingdom come."

"Yeah. Vin kept 'em from fixing the detonators. Tell Junior he's a bona fide hero."

"He's being recommended for a citation," JD added.

"I'll tell him." Vin didn't set much store in official commendations. He had a drawer full of ribbons, certificates, and medals that never saw the light of day. Yet he knew the sharpshooter took quiet pride in his work. Work that he might never be able to do again if his vision didn't return to better than perfection. He could be a good field agent, but he would not be the same. And that would break Chris's heart, and, he feared, Vin's spirit. Without another word, he took the stack of reports from Buck, went to his office, and closed the door.

The members of the team exchanged worried glances, but it was Josiah who got up and approached the lion's den. He looked through the narrow strip of glass at the side of the door. Larabee was sitting at his desk, hand clenched at his temples as if to press out the pain. Josiah shook his head and uttered a prayer for swift, sure guidance. He knocked, fairly certain that Chris would growl and tell him to go away. But Chris just said, "Come in." So he did. Once inside, he stood in front of the desk, his massive arms crossed, his face concerned.

Chris looked up after a moment. "You got something to say, Josiah?"

"You got something you want to tell me?" A heavy eyebrow lifted quizzically.

"Damn, don't you ever answer a question without asking one first?"

"Yes."

Chris gave a tired laugh, and since he knew the big man wouldn't leave without an answer, he waved a hand at the couch. "You're here, you might as well sit down."

"You were a mite terse in there. Is Vin all right? Or more to the point, are you all right?"

Chris rubbed his forehead. "Both the ophthalmologist and Dr. Stone say Vin will be fine. It won't be overnight, but he'll heal."

"And you?"

"I'm not the one hurting."

"There's more ways to bleed than red, Chris. And I'd say you've got a trench carved in your heart."

Chris wondered how it was that Josiah always came up with the words to describe his feelings. A trench in his heart, God, that was exactly how it felt. His hands moved from his forehead, to his eyes. "You got anything to fill in that trench?" he asked.

"First, ya gotta stop digging it deeper every time you look at Vin. He may not see it, but I'd bet my last dollar that he knows what's goin' on inside a' you. That won't help him, Chris. That boy loves you, and you're hurting him as much as you're hurtin' yourself."

"Jesus, Josiah! I did hurt him -- I threw the damn grenade, I damn near blinded him for life!"

"Does he know?"

"I told him. He said he'd guessed as much."

Josiah leaned forward intently. "Did he blame you?"

"No!" Chris stood restlessly and went to his window, unable to bear Josiah's perceptive study. "No. He said it was the job."

"He's right. You did your job. Vin did his. Every day you accept the risks that go with it. If you can't do that without guilt eatin' a hole in your heart, then maybe you ought ta rethink your life."

Chris's shoulders sagged. Josiah's words so clearly echoed Vin's that his stomach hurt. "You got any other useful advice?" he asked, the acid in his voice sharp enough to etch glass.

"You asked me, brother. I answered. Listenin' is up to you."

Josiah stood to leave, and Chris turned to face him. "I love him, Josiah. God help me."

Josiah's laugh rumbled out. "The Lord helps those who help themselves, Chris. You go with your heart, and He'll be right along with you."

He left, and Chris was angry at first that he had no answers to his questions, only more questions. But that was Josiah's way. He laid out all the possibilities, made you look hard at them, and, sooner or later what seemed impossible sorted itself out. It just didn't help when your head hurt fit to bust open.

For a long time, Chris stared at the papers on his desk. The official reports, some of them marked with Vin's distinctive scrawl of handwriting; his desk calendar. A stack of videotapes. And on his walls -- citations, commendations -- not for him alone, but for this team of men he had assembled. A photograph of himself, Sarah, and Adam, another of Buck holding one of his own awards. He even had one of Vin's marksman's certifications hung there because Vin tended to ignore his own achievements, and Chris wanted him to see it whenever he came into the office, as a reminder of what he had accomplished in his life.

His life.

That was what this job was, and there were lots of people who would say there was something twisted in that. They didn't understand, they never would. Not even Sarah, who had loved him, had been able to wrap her mind around what the job meant to him.

Vin understood. From the first moment their eyes had met; Vin leaning against the door of his office, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, Chris prowling angry and hot across the floor, ready to roll on a case that had turned suddenly lethal, but lacking one team member -- a sharpshooter. "I'm your sharpshooter," Vin had said, his blue eyes looking into Chris's.

Sharpshooter, team member, best friend, blood brother, lover. Take one from the equation, and all balance was lost.

*************************

Vin knew when he drifted from sleep to wakefulness. His body seemed more solid, the scent of the air sharper, the weight of the blankets heavier. Only the darkness remained the same. Briefly, poised on the edge of awareness, he had tried to open his eyes, and had been disoriented by his lack of sight before he recalled the bandages. His eyes hurt still, burning a bit, and he knew he needed to put drops in them, but he had forgotten to ask Chris where they were.

He sat up, combed his fingers through the tangle of his hair and hated the stringy feel of it. His mouth was dry and sticky from the pain meds and dehydration. He stood up, letting his senses orient him to his surroundings, and made his way to the kitchen, only stubbing his toe once on a box of papers that he had forgotten to take to the office with him the day before the raid. Pretty good, he thought. Right about the time he got the hang of this not being able to see, he'd get the bandages off.

He reached up, opened the cupboard door. His fingers closed around a glass and he pulled it forward, not realizing that there was a smaller glass in front if it. That glass tipped forward, fell with a crash to the counter, and shattered into jagged pieces. Startled, Vin grabbed the edge of the counter and felt a cold stab of pain across the pads of his fingers, then warm blood.

"Shit!" He snatched his hand away, fumbling for the towel he kept beneath the sink and wrapping it around his hand. He took a step, incautious, and felt another piece of glass pierce the ball of his foot. "Tanner, you fucking idiot!" He leaned against the counter and lifted his foot, pulled out the offending splinter, then grabbed a second towel in his good hand, bent and swept aside the shards of glass, clearing a path out of the kitchen. He limped into the living room, wondering if he was leaving a trail of blood. He couldn't tell. His fingers throbbed, and he thought he was still bleeding. He sat in his rocking chair, the towel pressed against his lacerated fingers.

He was angry at his carelessness, angry at circumstance, childishly and unfairly angry that Chris had left him alone. God, he was so damn fucked up! No wonder Larabee had fled.

He wondered if the sun had set. He no longer felt any warmth from the window, and the sounds from the street below were late-day traffic -- the squeal of poorly maintained brakes, the chug of mufflers gone bad, kids on the street corners. He could smell cooking odors drifting up the stairwell, so he figured it was dinnertime.

The dull throb in his fingers echoed the beat of his pulse. He didn't move; scarcely breathed. And waited in his dark world as the world around him dimmed to evening.