Chris hunched over the high desk of the nurses’ station, his head hanging between his bowed shoulders, his eyes closed, his fourth cup of coffee only inches away. Fourth cup. And it wasn’t even eight-thirty yet.

Shit.

"Rough night, I take it?" rumbled a deep, soothing voice at his side.

Wrenching open his eyes, Chris raised his head slowly and turned slightly to see Josiah at his side. "Rough?" he rasped. "Christ, ‘rough’ woulda been a vast improvement." He straightened with a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his face, wondering who had taken the sandpaper to his eyes. "Vin had another nightmare."

Josiah exhaled deeply at that and bowed his head. "Damn," he breathed. Then, looking up, he stared into Larabee’s eyes and read in them what the man would not say. "Chris, they had to," he said softly, knowing instinctively what had happened, and how the man before him would feel about it. "They can’t let him hurt himself."

"He’s not crazy, Josiah!"

"Never said he was," the big man said gently. "Wouldn’t even think it. But he’s been through a lot, and his mind has suffered as much as his body. And sometimes the hurts done to the mind can be worse than those done to the body. Vin’s strong, but even he’s not invulnerable."

"You think I don’t know that?" Chris asked in a thick, rough voice, staring at the older agent in torment. "I’m the one who heard his screams last night, Josiah. I’m the one who had to hold him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself, I’m the one who held him while he cried– Shit!" he whispered. "Vin cried, Josiah! Clung to me and cried like a kid! Wanted me to stop somebody I couldn’t even see from hurtin’ him! What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Josiah smiled sadly and reached out, laying a strong, fatherly hand on his friend’s slumped shoulder. "Do just what you’ve been doin’," he advised softly. "Hold him down when he fights, and hold him to you when he cries. All we can do is be here for him, Chris. It may not sound like much, but, right now, it’s exactly what Vin needs. And I suspect it’s probably more than he’s ever had before."

"But how can we help him if he won’t let us?" Chris asked softly, pain etched in every line of his face. "How can I reach him if he just keeps pullin’ away? These aren’t just nightmares, Josiah, they’re memories. They’re real. Somethin’ happened to him, and he thinks it’s still happenin’–"

"I know." Josiah shook his head slowly, his eyes filled with sorrow. "We’ve all seen the scars on him. And all this has ripped those scars open again." He closed a big hand about Chris’s arm and stared intently into the younger man’s eyes. "He survived it once, Chris. He’ll survive it again. Because this time he has a family to help him."

Larabee opened his mouth and would have answered, but for the scream of raw terror that abruptly assaulted his ears.

"CHRIIIIISSSS!"

"Oh, shit, he’s awake!" Chris shouted, bolting at once for Vin’s room.

Josiah hurried after him, but Larabee was faster by far and was already at Vin’s bedside when the big man ran into the room. And the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks and turned his heart cold.

Vin had, indeed, been tied down, and had awakened before the restraints could be removed. He was fighting them now as wildly as he could, his body jerking, his back arched, his head tossing frantically as his arms and legs refused to move. Harsh cries, pleas and curses tore from him as panic overcame him, as the heart monitor’s shrill scream joined with his.

"Vin, stop it!" Chris shouted, grabbing his friend’s head between his hands and trying to get the wild blue eyes to meet his. "Vin, relax!" he ordered harshly. "You’ll hurt yourself– Goddamn it, Tanner!" He climbed onto the bed and grabbed Vin’s shoulders, pushing against them with all his strength. "Vin! For Christ’s sake, settle down!"

At that voice, and at the irresistible force of those hands and that body against his own, Vin cried out weakly and collapsed against the bed, his struggles ceasing. Nurses streamed into the room and raced to the bed as he began crying exhaustedly.

"You can get off him now, Mr. Larabee," the head nurse – Deborah – said gently. "We’ll take care of him now."

But he only glared at her. "You were supposed to get these fuckin’ things off him before he woke up!" he snarled. "Goddamn it, don’t you people understand anything about what he’s been through? About what being tied down does to him?"

"Chris." Josiah came up, then, his voice and manner soothing as only he could be. "They’re doin’ their best–"

"It’s not good enough!" he spat venomously, infuriated by what their "best" had done to Vin. "Look at him, Josiah!" he hissed. "Listen to him! He’s crying, for God’s sake! Vin Tanner is crying!" His own voice broke at that, and he had to bow his head and clamp a hand tightly to his mouth to keep his anguish from breaking through.

"Come on, brother," Josiah urged gently, easing Chris off the bed and leading him away, holding an arm about him all the while. "Time to let someone do for you what you’ve been doin’ for Vin." Vin cried out weakly and Chris flinched violently, and Josiah drew the younger man into his strong embrace.

And Chris Larabee, exhausted and in a hell of his own, let Josiah hold him while he wept.

7~7~7~7

The remaining four were summoned after that and immediately gathered to join their comrades. Chris, sitting in the chair close by Vin’s bedside, held tightly to the sedated sharpshooter’s pale hand and was immensely comforted by the feel of Josiah’s large hand resting solidly on his shoulder. Lifting his head to gaze at the others about him, about Vin – Nathan holding Vin’s other hand, Buck resting one hand on Vin’s leg and the other on JD’s shoulder, and Ezra standing close by Vin’s head, a manicured hand resting lightly on his injured friend’s shoulder – he actually felt the solid wall of warmth, of strength, emanating from them, and knew he could relax. Knew Vin was safe. Knew nothing could pull him from the arms holding him here.

He smiled slightly, tiredly, and leaned back into the chair, still holding his friend’s hand. Josiah had once said something about there being magic in a circle, about it being sacred because there was no beginning, no end, no break. He hadn’t really understood – or believed – then, but he did now.

This circle was complete, unbroken, strong. This circle of seven was sacred, and there was great power – and magic – in it.

Still holding Vin’s hand, still feeling Josiah’s hand on him, Chris fell asleep in the chair. Smiling.

7~7~7~7

The bedside vigils continued, though with some adjustments. With Nathan at the forefront, the other members of the team bullied Chris into letting them take more of a role in watching over their injured friend. Larabee was worn through; a blind man could see it. He was exhausted, his nerves shot, had long since given up eating right and was in danger of becoming a patient himself. And, though Travis had yet to make an issue of it, his duties at the office had been badly neglected. Knowing well what an uphill battle they faced, the other five drew up a carefully crafted schedule ensuring that the office was never left unmanned during working hours and that Vin was never left alone.

Chris fought at first, afraid that Vin would need him and panic if he weren't there, afraid the others wouldn't know how to quiet him when the nightmares struck. Afraid they wouldn't be able to deal with him if he had to be restrained again. But, backed solidly by the others, Nathan remained adamant, enlisting the willing aid of Dr. Stone, who swore she’d ban him from the hospital if he refused to see reason, and threatening to bring Travis into it. Chris knew he was beaten, even admitted to himself they were right, and finally acquiesced. Vin needed him, he knew that, but he also knew that Vin needed him strong, clear-headed and well.

And he needed to be certain that the case against Edmond Monroe, the man ultimately responsible for what had happened to Vin, was air-tight and rock-solid. He owed that much to his team, and to his injured friend.

So Larabee relented, allowed his men, his friends, to shoulder more of the burden than he ever had before, and divided his time between the office, the hospital, and his own bed. And though Vin never rested as easily through a night without Chris as he did with him, still he did manage to rest. Josiah, naturally, proved quite capable of getting him through the night, easing the terrors that assailed him with unfailing gentleness and his infinitely soothing voice. And on those occasions when Tanner’s agitation turned into panicked fight, Josiah’s strength was more than a match for his. He would simply enfold the smaller man into his bear-like embrace, thick arms clamped immovably about him, and hold him until his struggles ended, speaking to him all the while in that rich, resonant voice.

Nathan’s presence, not surprisingly, proved as soothing and healing as Josiah’s. His big hands easily held the smaller, weakened man when he fought, yet those same hands tenderly bathed Vin’s fevered face and throat, or gave him something to hold when pain or fear raged through him. And between his towering size and his nearly militant concern for the well-being of his friends, he also proved almost as adept as Chris at glaring down orderlies whose very presence put Vin in terror of being restrained again.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Ezra, too, proved capable of quieting Vin’s distress, and seldom had to resort to a show of force. He used his voice, with its honeyed drawl and lyrical inflections, and his endless reserve of calm, used his eyes to catch and hold Vin’s, actually seeming to force him into rationality, and used his quick, deft gambler’s hands to keep his confused and frightened friend from doing himself harm. He frequently read him to sleep, whether with the poetry that Vin loved or the Shakespeare that he favored himself. And now and again, though the others were sure this would get him shot, he brought his portable CD stereo and some of his most beloved operas. He saw no reason why he should not take this opportunity to impart some culture to his lamentably uncivilized friend, whose entire knowledge of classical musical came from old Warner Bros. cartoons.

Buck and JD’s visits almost always overlapped, and the two brought much-needed levity and brightness into the stark hospital room. They toned down their usual boisterousness, each deeply aware that Vin simply wasn’t capable of dealing with their high spirits in his present state, yet, even relatively subdued, they managed to fill the small room with such camaraderie that no dark spirit stood a chance. Between Buck’s outrageously exaggerated stories and JD’s incredibly bad jokes, they managed to tease forth more than a few smiles, and even an occasional soft laugh, from the injured sharpshooter.

Yet not a night went by that Chris did not stop in at least for an hour or two, as if he himself would not be able to sleep without seeing how Vin was doing. Rarely would they talk, even if Vin were awake, but would spend the time in the deep and comfortable silence that seemed theirs alone, Vin merely content that Chris was there, Chris simply needing to know that Vin was still here.

And gradually, as if drawn through it by the indomitable will of his six friends, Vin passed the crisis stage and turned the corner toward recovery. Dr. Stone finally found an antibiotic that routed the infection threatening his kidney, and his fever broke at last. Now, efforts that had been focused simply on keeping him alive could be turned toward helping him heal.

Still, though, the nightmares continued to plague him as his mind grappled not only with the ordeal of his beating at Castro’s hands, but also the horrible memories that beating had awakened. It was as if the door to an over-stuffed closet had finally burst open, and everything he had tried so long and so hard to keep locked within came tumbling out. And though he wanted nothing more than to force it all back into hiding, and struggled desperately to do just that, it refused to go, and continued to demand his attention.

But, no more able – and no more willing – to deal with those memories now than he had ever been before, he simply chose to ignore them, to avoid any discussion of them, refused even to admit they were anything more than bad dreams. When anyone raised the subject of them, he merely tuned out or shut down, sinking into a silence so deep and withdrawing to a distance so great that not even Chris could reach him. At such times, he would just lie in bed, silent and still, his blue eyes locked on something only he could see, his mind somewhere only he could go.

"Damn it, Vin, where are you?" Chris asked softly, worriedly, during one such episode.

The chest tube was gone, but the despised catheter remained. Dr. Stone was less than satisfied with his physical progress, was deeply concerned about his psychological state, and had yet to raise the possibility of his release. And Vin was uncharacteristically passive in the face of her silence. With his strength returning, he was growing restless, but was nowhere near as difficult as he could be – as he should be – and wasn’t howling to be set free. It was as if he had no interest in going home.

Hell, no interest in anything, Chris thought as he sat in the too-familiar chair by the bed and frowned worriedly at his friend, who was gazing fixedly out the window. They had walked the hallways for several minutes as part of Vin’s physical therapy until he, pale and shaking, had asked to go back to his room. Chris had noticed they were at the elevators, his friend staring into an emptying car, when the whispered request – no, the plea – had been made. When they had returned to the room, Vin had taken to his bed like a wounded animal seeking its lair and hadn’t uttered a word since.

"C’mon, pard, talk to me," Chris pleaded quietly. "Tell me where you are and what’s goin’ on inside you."

Vin never moved, never spoke. His blue eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed upon the horizon.

Chris exhaled slowly and shook his head, then tried another tack. "Just what the hell are you so afraid of, Tanner?"

That got a response. Vin’s entire body stiffened, and the fingers of his left hand dug into his bedding. And though he did not turn his head, Chris could see his eyes closing tightly.

"Goddamn it, you’re a stubborn bastard!" he breathed. "Talk to me, Vin! I know you can talk, I’ve heard you do it! I want to hear you do it now!"

"Go ta hell," Vin murmured softly, tiredly.

Chris grinned slightly. "Well, that’s a start, I guess." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "You oughtta be climbin’ the walls by now. Hell, you should’ve tried to escape at least three times already! But you’re holed up in this room like Travis at the Alamo. You wanta tell me what’s so scary out there that you’d rather stay in here until Dr. Stone says it’s safe to go outside and play?"

A hard shudder shook Vin’s body and he turned onto his right side, his back to Chris.

"Oh, no you don’t!" Larabee said angrily, rising abruptly from his chair and stepping to Vin’s bed. Reaching out, he clamped a strong hand hard onto Vin’s shoulder and forcibly turned him onto his back, but gasped sharply and jerked his hand away, stunned to see tears streaking Vin’s face. "Damn!" he breathed strickenly, sinking slowly onto the bed.

Vin turned his face away and laid an arm over his eyes. Yet when Chris took his other hand, he did not pull it away, but instinctively closed his fingers about his friend’s. "I’m losin’ my mind," he whispered shakily. "I c’n feel it slippin’ away–"

"You’re not losin’ your mind," Chris said firmly, holding Vin’s hand tightly between his two as if to anchor the man with his grip. "You’ve been through a lot, you know. Nobody expects you to just bounce right back like nothin’ happened. It’s gonna take a while to get past all this."

"I’s taught in the Army," Vin sighed, exhausted in body and soul, "that when ya fall inta quicksand, ya gotta quit thrashin’ about, jist be still and float, else it’ll pull ya under and drown ya. But I’ve floated all I can. I’m tired, Chris, real tired, an' I cain’t float no more. It’s pullin’ me down an' I cain’t stop it. Quicksand’s got me good."

Chris swallowed hard, hurt by the desolation in Vin’s soft voice. "Y’know, pard, there’s another way to get outta quicksand," he said quietly. "Holler like hell for your friends, and grab onto the line when they throw it. And we will throw it, Vin, you know that. All you gotta do is hang on and let us pull you out."

"I’m tryin’," he whispered. "But it’s so hard–" He removed his arm from his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "Out there, in the hall, by the elevator … Ta get outta here, I’m gonna have t' get in there. And I don’t think I can. Jist lookin’ at it, knowin’ them doors was gonna close, brought it all back–" A shudder racked him and he closed his eyes tightly, barely able to breathe through his terror. "What … what if … I get in there … an' somethin’ happens?" he gasped frantically. "What if the doors don’t open, what if I get trapped in there, what if–"

"Ssh, hush, Vin, hush!" Chris soothed, squeezing Tanner’s hand to silence him before panic could set in. "That won’t happen! But you’re right, to get outta here, you’re gonna have ta take the elevator. That’s just the way it is. But you won’t be alone, you know. I’ll be there–"

"Ain’t jist the elevator," Vin breathed, pushing Chris’s hand away. "I’m afraid t' sleep, Chris. I’m afraid t' be alone in the dark …" He laughed softly, bitterly. "Hell, old as I am, I’m afraid of the goddamned dark!"

"Why?" Chris asked softly, his eyes intent upon his friend. "What lives in the dark, Vin?"

He stiffened at that and turned his head away, closing his eyes. "No," he whispered faintly.

Chris reached out and began stroking his friend’s hair, reminded of all the times he had talked Adam through nightmares. "You have to tell somebody," he said in a quiet, even voice. "They won’t go away if you don’t talk about ’em. They’ll just keep comin’ back, keep tearin’ you up. You’ve gotta let us help–"

"Ain’t no help," he murmured, clenching his hands into tight fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. "Not fer what I done. I’m goin’ ta hell, like he said. Ain’t nobody c’n help me now."

Chris watched the tears slip from between Vin’s tightly closed eyelids and felt his helplessness and frustration nearly bring tears to his own eyes. "Vin–"

"I done a wrong thing, Chris."

Chris winced and bowed his head. I done a wrong thing. Words Vin had said that night, as he had collapsed, barely conscious, and laid his head like a child on Chris’s shoulder.

"Tell me, Vin," he urged gently.

The sharpshooter shook his head frantically, his nails digging more deeply still into his own flesh. "Cain’t," he rasped. "It’s too bad. You’ll hate me. Like he done."

"Vin–"

"No. Cain’t. Don’t want you hatin’ me, too. I couldn’t take it!"

"Vin– Jesus, Vin!" Chris gasped, suddenly seeing a bright drop of blood on the sheet where Tanner’s clenched hand lay. Reaching forward, he grabbed the hand and pried the fingers open, stunned by the cuts his friend had inflicted with his own fingernails. "Goddamn it, Tanner, what the hell are you doin’ to yourself?" he shouted furiously.

Vin flinched at that shout and tore his hand out of Chris’s grasp, balling it once more into a fist and turning onto his side. "I’m sorry, Chris," he whispered tightly. "I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry."

Chris sighed heavily and bowed his head, ashamed of his outburst. Not knowing what to say, he simply laid a hand on Vin’s shoulder and winced when the younger man flinched again. "It’s all right, Vin," he breathed tiredly. "I’m not mad, just worried as hell. I’m sorry for shoutin’." He rubbed a hand against his forehead in a gesture of frustration. "We gotta get somebody to look at that hand."

"They gonna come tie me down again?" Vin asked in a faint, shaking voice. That, too, had become part of his nightmares.

Chris opened his mouth to say "no," but shut it immediately when he realized he had no idea whether they would or not. He knew the order remained to restrain Vin if he seemed in danger of harming himself, and, at this point, he just wasn’t sure what constituted "harm."

Especially to a man who already had more wounds than they could see …

"I don’t know," he said at last, refusing to lie. "I hope not. And I’ll do my best to stop ’em if they try. But you gotta get that looked at."

"Why?"

The question startled Chris, and he gaped at Vin for long moments before asking, "What?"

"Why’ve I gotta get it looked at?" He slowly opened his hand and stared at the blood staining his palm. "What’s it matter?"

"Well … doesn’t it hurt?"

"No. Not really." His voice was soft, even. Detached. "Reckon I’ve had worse."

Chris almost laughed at that, at the sheer ridiculousness of the words. Hell, of course he’d had worse! That’s why he was here in the first place!

"Aren’t you tired of hurtin’?" he finally asked, wondering exactly who the lunatic in this conversation was – the man trying to convince one who’d been beaten damn near to death that a few cuts in his palm needed medical attention, or the man who’d gouged those cuts into his own flesh in the first place.

"Don’t matter none," Vin sighed, again closing his hand. "Some things’re jist meant t' be." He let his hand fall to the bed. "Jist gotta learn t' live with it."

The weary resignation in that soft voice infuriated Chris, brought his head snapping up and lit a fire in his eyes. With a sharp hiss of fury, he reached out and grabbed Vin’s shoulder, forcibly turning the younger man onto his back, then clamped a hard hand onto Tanner’s chin and jerked his head around until panicked blue eyes met burning green ones.

"You listen to me," he seethed through clenched teeth. "It does matter, you got that? This," he grabbed Vin’s wrist in an iron grip and again pried the long fingers open to expose the cuts, "was never ‘meant to be.’ None of this," he released Tanner’s wrist and waved his hand over the sharpshooter’s body, taking in his various injuries, "was ‘meant to be,’ and you do not have to learn to live with it, you got that? No one should ever have to learn to live with gettin’ the shit beat out of ’em on a regular basis, Vin!" he shouted, his rage at all his friend had suffered erupting from him in a blistering wave. "You were not meant to live like this, and, yes, goddamn it, it fuckin’ well does matter! It matters more than you could possibly imagine!"

A hard tremor ran through Vin as he stared up at the man leaning over him, as he felt the anger radiating off that taut, powerful frame and saw the fury written in Larabee’s tight face. Instinctively he pulled away, forcing himself as far from Chris as he could, until his back was pressed tightly against the cold metal bedrail. Part of him knew that Chris would never hurt him, but another part, the part that still huddled in terror in the dark, simply waited for the blows to start falling.

And the look on Vin’s face, an expression of mingled fear, faith and pleading, extinguished Chris’s anger and drained him of strength. With a deep, unsteady gasp, he released Vin and sat back, gazing strickenly at his friend. Vin was shaking visibly, his face gone chalk-white and wet with tears, and his blue eyes glittered with raw, stark terror. Chris frowned slightly, lifted a hand, and felt as if he’d been gut-punched when Vin flinched violently and curled onto his side, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms tightly about himself.

"Oh, Jesus," he exhaled, letting his hand fall. "Jesus, Vin, don’t you know I’d never hurt you?" Tanner gave no answer, merely bit his lower lip and averted his face, and Chris reached out slowly, slowly, and laid his hand with infinite gentleness against the younger man’s head. "Easy, Vin," he soothed as Tanner flinched again and uttered a short, strangled groan. "Relax, partner, just relax." He slid his hand from Vin’s head to one tight shoulder and rubbed slow circles into it, appalled at how little there was between his hand and Tanner’s bones. "Feels like you’re disappearin’ on me, pard," he breathed past a sudden knot in his throat. "Like you’re just slippin’ away."

"Told ya," Vin whispered shakily, opening his eyes and staring hopelessly up at his friend, "quicksand’s got me good. I’m goin’ under an' I don’t know how t' stop."

"Here’s how," Chris said firmly. He leaned forward, reached for and took Vin’s forearm in his hand, and closed his long, strong fingers about it in a fierce, unbreakable grip. At the same time, he caught Tanner’s gaze with his and stared compellingly into the desolate blue eyes, pouring every ounce of his formidable will into that look. "You hold onta me for all you’re worth, you got that?" he ordered. "Come on, Vin, hold on. Take hold of me, damn it!" Vin’s hand closed slowly about his arm, weakly at first, his grip unsteady and uncertain, then with gradually increasing strength. "That’s it, cowboy," Chris encouraged. "You hold on, and no matter how hard that quicksand pulls, you won’t go under. You can even let go, but I never will. And there are five other men holdin’ onta you just as tightly, and they ain’t lettin’ go, either. Remember, Vin," he said in a low, hard voice, his green eyes boring into Tanner’s, "ain’t any of us goin’ ta hell alone. When we go, we’ll all go together, as a team. And I don’t think hell wants any of us bad enough ta take all of us."

Vin closed his eyes and shuddered as exhaustion clawed at him, body and soul. Yet, though it required every ounce of his waning strength, he maintained his grip on Chris’s arm, determined to hang on for as long as he could. This was, he knew, all that was holding him here, all that was keeping him from sinking into the darkness that had opened up within him.

"That’s it, Vin," Chris soothed as the sharpshooter relaxed. "It’s all right. You’re safe, pard, I swear it. I gotcha, and I ain’t ever lettin’ go."

Vin drifted into sleep, his body unable to resist its need for rest. Yet even in his dreams, he felt the strong hand at his arm and knew that, for now, he was safe.

For now, anyway, Chris Larabee would keep him from sinking into the quicksand.

7~7~7~7

Chris sat at his desk and went through the reams of reports, notes and supporting documentation that made up the Monroe case one last time before his meeting with Travis. He had no worries about his team’s paperwork, knew his men had been exceedingly careful to make certain they didn’t leave a single loophole for even the slickest lawyer to find. Team Seven prided itself on such attention to detail; rarely, if ever, had one of its cases been derailed by a technicality. This time, though, it was personal, and that only heightened the team's formidable attention to detail.

No, this time Larabee’s worries had centered entirely around the paperwork submitted from other agents and other agencies involved. And he’d shown no quarter in returning questionable documents with a tersely worded note to "fix this." When the offending agents had protested, Chris had sent Ezra to "persuade" them. He’d discovered early on that the wily Southerner, known for circumventing any rule or regulation he could get around, had an astonishingly legalistic mind. When he’d asked about this, Standish had only given that damned gold-toothed grin and explained, "One must have a thorough knowledge of the rules before one can break them with any true effectiveness and without any unforeseen repercussions."

Ezra Standish, God help them all, had become Team Seven’s legal expert.

So the two of them had spent most of yesterday and much of last night going over every single piece of paper with a fine-toothed comb. And now, satisfied at last, Chris gathered and organized the material, put it in his briefcase, then rose to his feet and left his office for his meeting with Travis and his counterparts in the FBI and DEA.

Four heads swiveled on their necks as the team leader stepped out of his office into the bullpen, and four pairs of eyes noted the grim determination written in every line of Larabee’s face. Buck leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach, and a slow smile spread over his handsome face. Nathan gave a satisfied nod, and JD stared at Chris with something akin to awe, wondering if he’d ever in his life manage to look so imposing. Ezra clicked the cap onto his fountain pen and slipped the instrument into his coat pocket, then let his appraising green gaze slide to the briefcase in Larabee’s hand.

"I presume you are goin’ to present our esteemed superiors with the nails for Mr. Monroe’s coffin?" he drawled, asking the question on every mind.

"Bastard’s goin’ down," Chris said in a low, hard voice. "With our footprints all over his ass." He swept his gaze over the office. "Josiah at the hospital?"

"Yeah," Nathan answered, his dark eyes turning somber. "Vin was still pretty shook up from the investigators’ visit when I left him this mornin’. Josiah said not to expect him back."

Chris’s jaw clenched tightly and a flash of anger passed through his eyes. FBI investigators had spent most of yesterday afternoon questioning Tanner about his ordeal and forcing him to relive every brutal moment of it. They’d read to him in detached, clinical tones the lengthy list of his injuries and showed him gruesome photographs of his battered body in the hope of jogging into cooperation a memory still riddled with holes.

Chris had endured every minute of the grueling session with him, forcing breaks when Vin grew too distraught or simply too exhausted to continue, and snapping the investigators back into line when he thought their tactics were too hurtful. From a coldly professional standpoint, he could understand what they were doing; they were after the animals who’d damn near killed a brother agent. But cold professionalism went out the window when he saw Vin Tanner crumbling before his eyes. And three seasoned, hardened FBI agents felt their blood run cold when they found themselves facing the alpha-wolf that was Chris Larabee fiercely guarding the fallen member of his pack.

Despite his protective efforts, though, Vin had needed to be restrained again last night.

Now Chris bowed his head and ran a hand slowly over his face, deeply torn. He knew he had no choice, knew he had to meet with Travis and the brass from the other agencies, but he wanted, needed, to be with Vin. He’d promised to keep Tanner from sinking into the quicksand, and he couldn’t help feeling that he was going back on his word.

"Josiah’s got him, Chris," Buck said softly, seeing and easily reading the thoughts and emotions flickering across his friend’s face. "And you know he’ll do whatever it takes ta keep Vin from shuttin’ down. I know you wanta be there with him, but right now your place is here. Right now, the best way you can help Vin is by nailin’ Monroe’s coffin shut. Because if he slips away, everything that boy suffered will have been for nothin’. That’d just about kill Vin, and," he fixed a knowing gaze on Larabee, "I figure it’d do about the same ta you."

"He’s right, Chris," JD put in, wanting to reassure the man who was still his idol in so many ways. "You’ve always said we take care of our own. Well, Vin’s ours, and Monroe needs ta pay for what he did to him. We let him down once before. We can’t do it again. Not and still call ourselves his friends."

Chris’s head snapped up at that and his green eyes blazed to life. He stared hard at JD, swept that fierce gaze over all his men and took their determination into himself, adding it to his own. Once again, the pack had encircled its chosen prey.

He gave a cold, grim smile, little more than a baring of his teeth, and nodded at his men. "You boys’ve done a helluva job. Monroe should be pleased ta know he was taken down by the best."

"I’m certain I speak for all of us," Ezra said, "when I say we owe nothing less than our best to Mr. Tanner. Monroe’s head upon a silver platter can serve as our ‘get well gift’ to him." He suddenly grinned. "And please give my regards to my former confreres from the Federal Bureau of Ineptitude." He winked. "Ask them if they require any assistance in locating those computers and weapons they seem to have misplaced."

Snickers broke out around the room and Larabee shook his head, his mouth twitching in a smile. He walked out of the office still smiling, deeply grateful Standish was on their side.

7~7~7~7

"You wanta talk about it, Vin?" Josiah asked quietly, gazing sadly at the pale young man who lay so listlessly on the bed. Tanner hadn’t spoken a word in at least an hour, and his movements consisted almost solely of the intermittent digging of his pale, thin fingers into the bedcovers. "You’ve got a lotta things churnin’ inside you, a lotta hurt, a lotta anger. It might make ’em easier to handle if you let someone else help you sort through ’em."

Vin said nothing, merely wished the big man would leave him alone. He’d cooperated with the physical therapist who’d come to torture his injured knee, and he’d eaten just enough of his lunch to satisfy the dietician. He’d allowed the technician to draw blood and the nurse to check the output from his catheter without fighting either of him. He’d allowed everyone who’d come into his room to push or pull him as they wished, hadn’t offered the least resistance.

And he’d done it all just so they’d leave him alone. He knew from long and bitter experience that if he were quiet long enough, still long enough, if he didn’t make any trouble or draw any attention to himself, everyone would just go away and leave him alone. Would eventually forget about him.

It had been that way all his life, and he wanted it to be that way now. More than anything else, he wanted everyone to forget about him. Then he could forget. Just push everything back in the dark where it belonged and go on with his life as he always had. It was the best way, the only way. He didn’t understand why no one else could see that.

Josiah sighed quietly and shook his head at the sharpshooter’s stubborn silence. "Vin–"

"Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me," Tanner said at last, his voice soft, flat, emotionless.

Josiah almost laughed at that. Nothin’ wrong? Hell, the boy was thin as a rail, had bruises on top of bruises and more stitches in him than an old rag doll. Yet, as painful as Tanner’s physical injuries still were, Sanchez knew they were nothing compared to the younger man’s psychological hurts, and that knowledge killed any urge to laugh.

"Ignorin’ or denyin’ what you’re feelin’ won’t make it go away, Vin," he said gently. "Look at what’s happenin’ to you now. Whatever it is, you’ve clearly kept it locked away for a long time, but it’s still there. And now it’s comin’ out with a vengeance. Whatever it is, you have to deal with it, before it kills you."

Vin turned his head away and stared out the window, fixing his dull, tired gaze on something in the far distance. "Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about," he murmured. "Ain’t nothin’ killin’ me. Doc says I’m gettin’ better."

Josiah stared down at his big hands and frowned thoughtfully, trying to decide how much of what he was saying Vin actually believed and how much of it he was simply trying to believe. How much of it he desperately needed to believe.

"Your body’s healin’, son," he answered at last, lifting his grizzled head and settling a sad blue gaze upon the battered young man before him. "Slowly, but it’s healin’. But it’s your soul I’m worried about, Vin, your spirit, your mind. You’ve got hurts in them even worse than the ones done to your body, and they’re not healin’. And they won’t, until you admit you need help."

"Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind," Vin said flatly. "I ain’t crazy; Chris said so. It’s the drugs an' the fever made me do all them crazy things." His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace as a painful memory fragment stirred within him. "Ain’t pulled a gun on nobody since that night, so y’all ain’t gotta worry no more."

Josiah frowned at that and looked more closely at Vin. "You think we’re worried about ourselves, son?" he asked softly. The faintest shrug of one thin shoulder gave him his answer, and a deep, mournful sigh escaped him. "Lord, don’t you know us better than that by now?" he breathed, reaching out to lay a big hand on Tanner’s arm.

But Vin saw the hand coming from the corner of his eye and flinched away from it, pulling himself to the far edge of the bed and crossing his arms tightly against his chest. He couldn’t stand to be touched, couldn’t distinguish anymore between hands that meant him harm and those that only wished to soothe him, and so simply avoided them all.

Josiah let his hand fall to the bed, knowing better than to force the issue. Vin was strung as tightly as the profiler had ever seen him, his nerves so raw they were near bleeding and every one of them right on the surface. Even as weak as he was, Sanchez knew the slightest unwanted touch would send him flying right out of the bed.

"I want you to listen to me, Vin," he said quietly, pitching his voice to its lowest, most soothing tone. "We’re worried about you, about what’s goin’ on inside you, about what’s causin’ you pain. You’re our friend, our brother, and it hurts us more than you could ever know to see you sufferin’. And Chris is right; you’re not crazy. But you’ve got somethin’ preyin’ on you all the same, and you’re not gonna get any better if you don’t let somebody help you."

"Ain’t nothin’ preyin’–"

"Then tell me about the closet," Josiah said abruptly.

Vin gasped sharply and went white, his startled gaze snapping around to Sanchez, the blue eyes impossibly wide and filling with dread, his body first tensing, then beginning to tremble. His mouth opened, but no sound came from him. He could only stare at the profiler in stark, stunned horror.

Josiah’s whole heart ached at the young man’s reaction, but he let none of it show. This was, he knew, one of the linchpins to whatever trauma held Vin fast, and the key to understanding that trauma was understanding exactly what "the closet" meant.

But Vin couldn’t tell him. In some corner of his mind he knew; the memory lay just under the surface, waiting to break free. But he refused to let it, refused to face it, refused even to acknowledge it. Because the moment he did, he knew, it would be upon him in all its black terror, and, once lost in it, he’d never be free again.

"When Castro had you," Josiah went on, ignoring the pleading shake of Tanner’s head and the hideous ache in those blue eyes, "he held you in a small room. Or, at least, that’s where we found you. A room maybe half the size of this one, with no windows and only one door. You were laying on the floor, still tied, bathed in your own blood. The room smelled of blood, because of the carpet–"

"Don’t," Vin begged in a very small, very fragile whisper, his unblinking, glittering gaze fixed on Josiah’s face. The big man’s voice was bringing it all back – the suffocating closeness of the walls, the hot, heavy air, and the smell, the thick, musty, foul odor of carpet, and what was in the carpet, that forced his throat to close and choked off his air–

"But it was by no means a closet," Josiah continued, watching carefully every raw emotion that rippled over that normally stoic face. "Tell me, Vin," he urged in his deep, soft voice, reaching out to grasp the younger man’s arm. "Tell me where you are right now."

"No!" Vin shrieked, throwing off that hand and nearly vaulting out of bed. But Sanchez’s big hands grabbed him again, held his shoulders in an iron grip and refused to let him go. He struggled against them for long, frantic moments, hitting, kicking, cursing and clawing like a cornered animal. But even in his panicked state, Josiah’s strength was simply too much for him, and he finally collapsed against the bed, exhausted and sobbing helplessly.

"Ssh, hush, Vin, hush," Josiah soothed, gathering the younger man into his arms and holding the slight, frail body close to his chest in a tender, protective embrace. He rocked Vin and spoke softly to him, stroked his hair, his back, as he would a terrified child. And ignored the tears rolling down his own face.

"Please," Vin sobbed brokenly against the broad chest, clutching desperately at Josiah and huddling further into the big man’s hold. "Please, stop! Don’t … don’t make me go back … Y’ don’t know … what it’s like …" A huge, hard fist suddenly swung toward him and he flinched violently, trying to avoid it but knowing it would find him soon enough. It always found him. "I cain’t go back there!" he wept, his whole body shaking as he cried. "Please … please! Don’t make me go back!"

"My God, my God," Josiah groaned in anguish, resting his cheek against Vin’s head, his tears flowing, his heart breaking, "what has been done to you?" He tightened his arms about Vin, wanting nothing more than to shield and shelter his friend from every hurt that had ever been done him. "I won’t let him have you, son, I promise," he vowed, never knowing who "he" was. "I’ll do all I can to keep him away. But you have to help."

"Cain’t," Vin whispered, his sobs losing force as exhaustion overcame him. "Cain’t fight him … ain’t no use. Only gets me hurt more."

"But now you have help," Josiah assured him, listening closely and trying to make sense of the sharpshooter’s confused words. "We’re here for you, Vin, and we’ll always be here–"

"Ain’t no help," Vin moaned, his hands beginning to slip from the powerful arms that encircled him. "Nobody’ll come. Nobody ever comes."

"Maybe not before," Josiah murmured, never releasing his hold on Vin even as he felt the him succumbing to sleep. "And I’m so sorry for that. But we’re here for you now, and we’ll come whenever you need us. I want you to know that, Vin, I want you to believe that if you believe nothing else in this life. Wherever you are, whatever happens, whoever’s got you, we will always come for you."

He felt it when sleep finally claimed Vin, but still he did not release him. He merely got as comfortable on the bed as he could, repositioned Vin in his arms and settled in for the duration, content to hold his friend for as long as he’d let him, determined to stay there for as long as he needed him.

7~7~7~7

Orin Travis closed the door behind the departing FBI and DEA assistant directors and the federal prosecutor who’d been assigned to the Monroe case, then rubbed his tired eyes and the bridge of his nose. They’d spent the past five hours going over every aspect of the case, including the incredibly detailed paperwork, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever be able to focus his eyes again. Then he turned around, saw the blond man slouched in the chair in front of his desk, and gave a soft, sympathetic sigh.

As tired as he felt, he knew it was nothing compared to what the team leader must feel.

He went back to his desk, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and settled himself into his overstuffed leather chair, studying the man before him. Larabee had one elbow on the arm of his chair and his forehead cradled in his fingers, his eyes closed. The broad shoulders were slumped, the tie at his neck loose, the first two buttons of his shirt undone. Travis could see the lines weariness and worry had etched in that chiseled face, could almost feel the burden weighing the man down, and prayed this case was truly as solid as the prosecutor had said.

God knew the cost of making it had been high enough …

"Chris," he called quietly, watching the blond head lift and the green eyes snap into focus, "you boys did a helluva job on this case. You’re all to be congratulated."

"Thanks. But none of it will mean a thing unless Monroe goes down." He grimaced, and his eyes hardened. "We can’t afford any more mistakes."

Travis sat back and nodded slightly, understanding how the man felt; mistakes had nearly cost the life of his closest friend. "I don’t think we have to worry about that with Dobson on the case," he said of the prosecutor. "He’s damn good, maybe the best Justice has right now. He doesn’t make mistakes and he doesn’t take prisoners." He gave a thin, grim smile. "He’s known as ‘the Doberman’ for his habit of going for his adversary’s jugular. And he’s got a crack team around him." He winked slyly. "Sort of the legal equivalent of Team Seven."

"God help him, then," Chris snorted. "Maybe when this is over, we can share a bottle of Mylanta and swap baby-sitting stories."

Travis frowned at those words. "You do know this is over for you and your boys, right?" he asked softly, worriedly. He knew what this case meant to the team, but he also knew they had to let go of it. "Your part is done."

Chris lifted his head further and fixed an unwavering green stare upon his boss. "Our part may be done," he said in a low, hard voice, "but it’s not over for us, not by a long shot. Not while Vin’s still broken into a million pieces because of what those bastards did to him."

Travis winced and bowed his head, staring down at his paper-covered desk. "He’s not getting better, then?" he asked sadly, remembering the sharpshooter’s state the last time he had visited him.

Chris exhaled sharply and lurched to his feet, pacing about the office in long, tight strides. He shoved one hand into his pocket and raked the other through his hair as anger and frustration churned within him.

"Better," he spat bitterly. "Depends on what you consider ‘better’. If you mean can he get out of bed and move around, then, yeah, he’s gettin’ better. But if you mean can he do it without it hurtin’ him so much he almost screams from it, or if you mean is he sleepin’ through the night yet without some goddamn nightmare wakin’ him up in a blind, fighting panic, then, no, he’s not any better at all." He turned and fixed a dark, haunted gaze upon Travis, then said in a ragged voice, "They had to restrain him again last night, after those FBI investigators got finished with him."

Travis bowed his head lower and closed his eyes, uttering a brief but heartfelt prayer for his injured agent. "They had to do it, Chris," he said at last in a sorrowful voice. "They needed his statement, may need more still–"

"Damn it, Orin, I know that," Chris sighed tiredly. "I know they were only doin’ their jobs, I know they had no idea what it would do to Vin, I know they weren’t tryin’ to torture him …" He sighed again, then returned to his chair and sank heavily into it, letting his head fall against its back and staring up at the ceiling. "But knowin’ that didn’t make it one bit easier to hear him screamin’ when the orderlies tied him down," he breathed, wondering if he’d ever forget that sound.

The pain in that soft, tired voice struck Travis through the heart. He knew that Team Seven was such a fearsome force in large part because it was so much more than just a team, was even more than a band of brothers. The bonds holding the seven vastly dissimilar men together went much deeper than kinship. Yet he also knew that, close though all seven were, the team leader and sharpshooter shared a unique and profound connection all their own, were joined in ways that mystified even the other five. It wasn’t just Vin Tanner who’d been so brutally damaged at the hands of Castro and his thugs; it had been part of Chris Larabee’s soul.

He had no doubt that Larabee had been screaming right along with Tanner.

"We’re going to do all we can to make the case against Edmond Monroe stick, you know that," he reassured the younger man quietly, fixing a compassionate dark gaze upon him. "We’ve got three agencies working on it–"

"Shit," Chris scoffed softly, his mouth twisting into a bitter grimace. "The same three agencies that fucked up and left Vin twistin’ in the wind. We screwed him over then–"

"And we’ll make up for it now," Travis said firmly, a measure of heat stirring in his voice. "The mistakes of the past have been corrected." He lifted two graying brows questioningly. "Or don’t you trust me?"

Chris raised his head at that and sat up straight, inhaling sharply as if he’d taken a blow. And he knew that was exactly how Travis had meant his words. The man had shown time and again his unwavering faith in Larabee and his team; now he was asking for that same consideration.

And Chris knew he owed him that, and more.

Travis saw the answer in the deep green eyes and smiled slightly. "Thank you. Believe me, Chris, you and your team are not the only ones concerned about Vin. And you boys are not the only ones who want to see Monroe punished for what he did. If there’s any way, any way, to bring him down, we’ll do it." His dark eyes took on a calculating gleam, much as Ezra’s did when he was up to something. "That’s why I asked for ‘the Doberman.’"

Chris blinked, then leaned forward and stared at Travis in surprise. "You asked for Dobson? But–"

"I know, I know," Travis interrupted, waving a hand dismissingly. "I’m only an assistant director in the ATF, completely outside the Justice Department. But," he smiled grimly, "over the years I’ve gathered more strings than I care to count, and I’ve been known to pull them, and pull them hard, when I need a favor. Don’t forget, I was a federal judge, my son was a newspaper publisher, my daughter-in-law is an investigative reporter, and Evie, my beloved bride, could give the CIA lessons in intelligence gathering." He winked. "Just remember, there’s much more than cocktails to her cocktail parties."

Chris had to chuckle at the thought of the petite, kind, sweet-natured Evie Travis plying her guests with her famous charm and hospitality and gently stealing their secrets. But he had to admit he could see it. Ezra had once described the woman as "lace, silk and velvet wrapped around a core of pure steel," and the Southerner was seldom wrong about people.

"I’ll remember that next time I’m over," he said with a smile.

"You do that. And I want you to do something else, too."

Chris immediately grew wary, not liking the subtle shift in Travis’s tone from teasing to serious. His long-fingered hands tightened upon the arms of his chair and his green eyes hardened.

Travis saw that reaction and sighed. "It’s not so bad," he assured the younger man. Again, he saw the extreme weariness, the terrible strain, written so plainly in Larabee’s face and knew this was the right course. "You boys put everything you’ve got into this case, made it work when, by all rights, it should’ve gone to hell, and it’s taken its toll. And now, with all that’s going on with Vin …" He got up from his chair and walked around his desk, leaned against its edge and crossed his arms against his chest, his appraising gaze never leaving Chris. His stern face softened at what he saw and sadness kindled in his eyes. "You boys are exhausted, and I’d be a fool to let you go on like this. Today’s Friday. Starting Monday, I want all of you to take some time off; at least a week. I’ve given Dobson all your contact information. If he needs you, he knows how to find you. And if he doesn’t, I do. You’ve all got the time coming, I checked. Now, I want you to use it."

"Orin–"

"Do it, Chris," he said firmly but not at all unkindly. "You boys have done your bit for king and country. Now, do something for yourselves. Take the time. You can’t tell me you don’t all need this."

Chris couldn’t. For months, they’d worked beyond the limits of their endurance, putting in long, grueling hours to make something of a seemingly cursed case. And the past few weeks had been especially hard. He could not in good conscience deny his men the break they so desperately needed.

He rose slowly to his feet, his exhaustion clear in his every movement, and extended his hand, meeting and holding the determined gaze of the man before him. "Thank you," he said in a low, warm voice.

Travis took the hand and gripped it firmly, regarding Larabee with an almost paternal fondness. "You boys take care of yourselves," he said softly. "And take care of Vin. We’ll take care of everything else."

Chris nodded and released Travis’s hand. He leaned down and retrieved his briefcase, then straightened and arched one blond brow. "You do realize," he said, regarding his boss with a slight smile, "that your reputation as a cold and heartless SOB has just gone down the tubes, don’t you?"

Travis inclined his head and schooled his features into a fierce frown. "Don’t worry, I’m sure I can get it back."

Chris laughed softly and nodded. "Yeah, I’m sure you can." His green eyes filled with gratitude and respect. "Thanks, Orin. I appreciate this, and I know the boys will, too."

"Then get out of here and go tell them. And for heaven’s sake," the director studied the man before him worriedly, "try and get some sleep!"

7~7~7~7

Josiah stood at the window and stared out into the distance, his back to Vin. The sharpshooter was sleeping more peacefully than he had in days, for which Sanchez was deeply grateful. Vin was healing far more slowly than Dr. Stone liked, and they all knew it was in large part because his body wasn’t getting nearly the rest it needed. The doctor’s solution, the approved medical solution, was simply to drug him into a stupor and force him to rest.

Except that, as anyone who sat with him knew, he never really rested even then.

Josiah sighed and bowed his head, pursing his lips and crossing his arms against his broad chest, deep in thought. He had a profound respect for medical professionals, for those men and women who dedicated themselves to tending the sick and injured. Any number of times he’d seen them work miracles for one of his friends, saving a life that he would have sworn was lost, and he’d given heartfelt thanks for those skills.

Even so, he knew there was far more to healing than simply patching up broken bodies. As the son of missionaries whose zeal for God had been the driving force of their lives, he’d been taught from his earliest days that the well-being of the soul was far more important than the well-being of the body. And while he’d witnessed the dark side of such intensity of belief – intolerance, bigotry, fanaticism – he’d also seen wonders produced by faith that could only be described as miracles. More than once he’d seen doctors, people of science and skill, absolutely stymied when a patient they’d considered hopeless had been healed on the strength of faith alone. When bodies had been willed into wellness by souls.

And then there was the vast mystery of the mind. He’d spent years studying psychology, yet everything he’d learned about the subject only served to teach him how little anyone really knew about it. He’d started out thinking of the mind as the brain, that wondrous organ that controlled every facet of human life. But years of study and life experiences had taught him otherwise. Every brain was basically the same; every mind was incredibly different. He’d become deeply intrigued by those differences and consumed by the quest to understand why they existed. What was it that made artists or poets of some men, soldiers of others, and stone-cold killers of still others? What drove some to keep fighting against all odds and others to collapse before the least little obstacle? Where in the mind did one look to unlock the secret of a child’s laugh or a grown man’s tears?

He still didn’t know all the answers, didn’t even know all the questions. But he did know that medical science did the body a grave injustice if it looked for causes of illness and pain only in the physical realm. The ancients had attributed sickness to evil spirits, and sometimes he thought such reckoning had some merit. Evil spirits, afflictions of the mind and soul, could torture a person in grievous ways that not all the medicine in the world could cure.

Dr. Stone could sedate Vin for a solid month if she wished, but he’d never rest until his mind let him.

And his mind wasn’t letting him. Josiah’s chin dropped to his chest and pain creased his blunt features. He’d begun listening to Vin’s cries, his whimpers, his screams; not just hearing them, but truly listening to them, in the hope of finding some answer in them. He thought he had at least part of one, and he didn’t like it at all. Because if he was right, there would be no quick cure, no simple solution, and Vin would be in for a lot more pain before he began to heal. Every wound in his mind, in his soul, would have to be torn open, and he’d have to remember everything he’d fought so long and hard to forget.

God, God, Josiah prayed he was wrong, but he knew in his heart he was right.

He heard the door open and turned to face the visitor, expecting to see Larabee or some other member of the team. Instead, he saw two nurses, and went to them with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Lynda, Kathy," he greeted in his rich, warm voice. "Always nice to see such lovely angels of mercy."

Kathy arched a brow and smirked. "And here I thought Buck was the dangerous one."

Josiah laid a big hand over his heart. "Brother Buck is not the only man among us blessed with eyes to see true beauty. It is a poor soul, indeed, which cannot appreciate the riches laid before it."

Lynda laughed quietly and shook her head, her eyes gleaming. "My, my, you men do lay it on thick, don’t you?" She winked. "Now, if only you could teach Chris to communicate in something more than grunts and growls."

Josiah winced ruefully. "I’d have more luck getting blood from a stone. Our fearless leader is a man of few words, and most of those are unsuitable for polite company." He fixed his gaze on the tray the two had wheeled in, and sighed. "More discomfort for Vin, I see."

Kathy gave a slight smile. "Afraid so. But only temporarily, and in a good cause. Dr. Stone has authorized the removal of his catheter."

"Halleluia!" Josiah breathed fervently. "One more small step toward healing."

"Sometimes the small steps are the most important ones," Lynda said. Her eyes went to Vin, and she grimaced and shook her head slowly. "He looks so peaceful, I hate to wake him. But …"

"But," Josiah put in quietly, understanding, "there’s no way you’re gonna lay hands on that boy without letting him know about it first."

Kathy looked steadily at Sanchez. "We’re really not trying to hurt or frighten him, you know," she said softly.

He nodded. "I know. I do. And I understand that there are things you simply have to do. But he’s a friend, a good friend, and seeing him this way …"

Kathy reached out and laid a comforting hand on the big man’s arm. "It’s never easy watching someone you love suffer, especially when it seems there’s nothing you can do about that suffering. And sometimes we bear the brunt of that." She laughed wryly. "It’s why they pay us the big bucks."

He took her hand and squeezed it, smiling gently down at her. "Dear lady, the bucks they pay you could not possibly be big enough for the tender care you give our friend. We know you’ve been fighting as hard for Vin as we have, and we’re all indebted to you for it."

She smiled. "You’re welcome. Now," she gently disengaged her hand, "maybe you could help us by waking Vin. He always responds best to one of your voices."

He nodded, then turned and went back to the bed. Leaning over Vin, he took one of the younger man’s hands in his and squeezed gently. "Vin?" he called quietly. "C’mon, Vin, I need you ta wake up for a minute. Got somethin’ here that needs ta be done."

Vin moaned softly and shifted slightly, but did not awaken. Josiah lightly tapped his cheek with his free hand. "C’mon, son," he urged. "Nurses are here, and they need to talk to you."

"No," he murmured faintly, his eyelids flickering. "Wanta sleep. Leave me be."

Josiah sighed, then ran gentle fingers through Tanner’s long hair. "Can’t do that, Vin." He smiled slightly. "Got some good news for you, but you have to wake up to hear it."

Vin’s eyes slowly fluttered open, revealing two confusion-clouded slits of blue. "J’siah?" he slurred softly. "What’s goin’ on?"

Sanchez’s smile widened. "Lynda and Kathy are here. They’re gonna take out that catheter. That’s gotta be worth wakin’ up for."

"Cath–" Two brows drew down and his face screwed itself into a frown as he tried to focus on the big man’s words. "Y’mean … I c’n git back … ta pissin’ on my own?"

Josiah chuckled, a rich, deep laugh that bubbled up from the depths of his broad chest. "Well, I guess that’s one way of lookin’ at it, brother." He searched the eyes trying to fix on his. "You gonna cooperate with these lovely ladies?"

Vin stared up into the pale blue eyes and slowly licked his lips. "Co … cooperate?" he whispered as a fine tremor ran through him. His gaze flickered from Josiah to the two nurses and back to Sanchez, and he licked his lips again. "Ain’t got a choice, do I?"

Josiah winced at the fear in that soft voice, in those uncertain eyes. "It’s all right, son," he soothed, again slipping gentle fingers through Tanner’s unruly hair. "They’re just gonna take out the catheter. It means you’re gettin’ better." He smiled reassuringly. "I’ll be right here the whole time, if you want."

Vin stared up at him for long moments, then swallowed hard and nodded. "Stay," he whispered, closing his fingers tightly about Josiah’s.

Sanchez glanced at the two waiting nurses and nodded for them to begin, then turned his whole attention back to Vin. "All right, son," he said, his voice low, his words slow, "you’ve been through all this before, you know what it’s like, what’s gonna happen. But, just to help you along, they’re gonna explain everything they do before they do it, okay? There won’t be any surprises, Vin, and nobody’s gonna touch you without lettin’ you know first, all right?"

Vin stared intently up at Josiah, hung on his every word and held tightly to the big hand holding his. He also heard the two nurses speaking quietly to him, yet could not help tensing and gasping sharply as their hands, gentle though they were, descended upon him. He closed his eyes tightly, clenched his teeth and clung to Josiah with all the strength he had.

"It’s all right, son, it’s all right," Sanchez soothed, gently rubbing the white knuckles of the hand gripping his with a thumb. "Think about something else, Vin. Let yourself go outside these walls to a place where you feel safe. Think about that place; concentrate on it. If you could be anywhere else in the world right now, where would you be?"

Vin thought a moment, then knew. "Outside," he whispered shakily. "Outside, in the sun, with nothin’ but the dirt under my feet ’n trees all around."

Josiah nodded slowly, still holding Vin’s hand, still stroking his hair. "Up in the mountains, maybe? That spot you like so much for campin’?" When Tanner nodded, he smiled, picturing the site in his own mind. "It’s a beautiful place, son. Don’t believe I’ve ever thanked you for showing it to me, for sharing it with me. Remember the trees, Vin? Those pines sighing in the wind, the aspens with their gold leaves dancing … And the stream. Lord, that stream!" he murmured. "Water so cold it makes your head hurt, and so clear you can see every rock in the bed. And all those nice, fat trout, just waitin’ to be your supper!" He could feel the tension slowly draining from the tight body as he spoke, could feel the trembling subsiding. "Never told me how you found such a place, though. How’d you happen on such a little piece of heaven?"

Vin licked his lips and swallowed. He was intensely aware of the nurses’ hands moving over him, of just where they were touching him, and wanted nothing more to escape the discomfort and embarrassment. Instead, he licked his lips again and pictured the mountain spot in his mind, losing himself in its sights, its sounds, its smells.

"Jist … found it," he rasped. "I’s hikin’, not goin’ anywhere in partic’lar … It’d been a real shitty week. I jist needed ta git away."

Josiah nodded sagely. "We’ve all had times like that, son. Times the world grows too close, too loud, too mean. Times we just need to get away and lose ourselves for a while."

"Yeah," Vin breathed. "I wanted ta git lost. Only," he gave a shadow of his crooked grin, "that ain’t so easy fer me ta do."

Josiah laughed quietly, well familiar with the young man’s uncanny sense of direction. "No, I guess it’s not. Buck says you were born with a compass and a map of the world in your brain. Says we could blindfold you and air-drop you into the middle of the desert, and you’d beat us home for supper."

"Bucklin’s fulla crap," Vin said softly, a smile warming his voice.

"He is that," Josiah agreed. "But it’s just part of his charm. So you just happened on this place while you were hiking?"

Vin nodded, relaxing in spite of himself. "Yeah. Didn’t plan on goin’ so far up or back, but I jist kep’ walkin’. It was too purty ta turn back, an' I kep’ wantin’ ta see more. Forgot all about my shitty week, forget about ever’thing but how purty it all was … Nex’ thing I know, I’s standin’ by that stream, starin’ down inta the water an' knowin’ I’s right where I’s s’posed ta be. Like I’d been sent there. Like mebbe that spot was meant fer me all along."

Josiah frowned thoughtfully and nodded. "Maybe it was, son. The hand of God moves us in ways we never see until it’s too late, and sometimes He answers prayers we never realize we’ve sent Him. Lots of folks spend their whole lives listenin’ for His voice, expectin’ Him to speak to ’em in tones of thunder and majesty. But it’s been my experience that God speaks to us in whispers, in signs, in ways that He knows we’ll understand. Like a beautiful mountain clearing at the end of a real shitty week."

"But … why would He do that?"

Josiah shrugged. "I reckon God knows all about shitty weeks. Had more than a few Himself." He winked. "That whole Adam and Eve in the garden thing. Perfect plan blown to hell. You can’t tell me He didn’t smack Himself in the forehead over that one."

Vin laughed. "Ain’t ever heard the Bible taught like that!"

"Ah, then you’ve missed out, son," Josiah said. "When you’re better, I’ll give you a few lessons from the Josiah Sanchez Catechism."

"Ya gonna ask me any’a them riddles?" Vin asked warily.

Sanchez smiled wryly. "Son, the whole Bible is a riddle. Faith is a riddle. And anybody who tells you otherwise is lookin’ to sell you somethin’."

"We’re done," Lynda announced quietly, stripping off her gloves. She smiled at Josiah. "Thanks."

Josiah nodded at her, then looked down at Vin, into his eyes. "Anything for a friend," he said softly, sincerely.

Vin smiled slightly, and let his eyes close. He could hear the nurses talking to him, advising him of what temporary side-effects he could expect, what warning signs he should look out for, but he paid no attention. He’d heard it before, knew it all by heart. Hell, he could give this talk.

Instead, he let Josiah’s strong presence surround him, let himself drift on the feelings of warmth and safety it offered. He was so tired and still hurt in more places than he could name, and wanted only to go where he could rest. Wanted just to get away from yet another shitty week.

Be nice to get back to his little spot in the mountains …

Josiah walked the two nurses out of the room, thanking them for their gentleness with Vin, then turned back to his friend and saw that he’d fallen asleep. Knowing how desperately the young man needed this, he made his way silently back to the chair and eased himself carefully into it, deeply grateful to see sleep smoothing the lines of pain from Tanner’s face.

Maybe this time he’d truly rest…

"Josiah?"

He looked up sharply at the soft summons, startled to see JD coming into the room. But the young agent was moving with a studied care, so clearly the nurses had warned him that Vin was sleeping.

"What can I do for you, son?"

JD sat beside the chair, but his gaze remained fixed on Vin. "How is he?" he whispered, sliding his backpack to the floor.

Josiah lifted a big hand toward the bed. "He is as he looks."

JD rolled his eyes at that. Then, on second thought, he realized that probably wasn’t the easiest question to answer these days and so let Sanchez’s cryptic words pass without retort. "The nurses said they took out his catheter." He raised hopeful eyes to the older man. "That’s gotta mean he’s gettin’ better, right?"

Josiah sighed and wished JD would point those eyes anywhere but at him. Everything the boy felt or thought shone in them; every part of his heart and soul were visible through them. And sometimes, sometimes, the youthful spirit there, the unflagging certainty that everything would turn out exactly as it should, was just too painful to behold.

Just how much innocence was there left in this world to shatter?

From JD, his gaze went to Vin, and that sight, too, hurt him almost more than he could bear. In years, Tanner and Dunne weren’t so very far apart. In life, though, centuries separated them. He doubted Vin had ever been as young as JD, and he knew for a fact that, if he lived to be a hundred, JD would never get as old as Vin was right now.

"Josiah?" JD prompted softly.

Sanchez sighed softly and shook his head. "Son, I think ‘better’ is a relative term with Vin right now. He’s still got more problems than one man should ever have to face, and not near the strength he needs to face ’em."

"Yeah," JD agreed, shifting his gaze back to Vin. "But he’s got us."

The simple – and profound – faith in that statement took the air from Sanchez’s lungs and the speech from his tongue, jerked his wide, startled gaze to JD and brought his mind to a standstill.

"I know that doesn’t sound like much," JD went on, oblivious to the older man’s shock, "but, really, it is." He frowned in thought and absently reached up to brush the long black bangs out of his eyes. "I remember when Mama died, how horrible I felt because I was all alone. I mean, we’d never had anybody but each other, y’know? And then she was gone. I felt like I was sinkin’ and didn’t have anybody to hold on to. Until I came out here and hooked up with you guys."

Again, he lifted those wide hazel eyes to Josiah, and again the man was stunned by the incredible youth in them. And the incredible wisdom.

"Sometimes I still feel like I’m sinkin’," he admitted. "I mean, the things we see on the job, the things we do … But now I know all I have to do is shout and somebody’s gonna pull me out." He smiled crookedly. "Six somebodies, actually. And I’m not sure you can really understand how that feels unless you haven’t had it before." He nodded toward Tanner. "He hasn’t had it, Josiah," he said sadly, "hasn’t had it for most of his life. But he’s got it now, and, if he’s anything like me, he’s gonna hold on to it for all he’s worth. He may not have any strength of his own, but he’s got ours. And I figure that, between the six of us," he shrugged, "we’re strong enough to pull somebody as light as Vin out of even the deepest, darkest hole. Right?"

Tears glistened in Josiah’s eyes and he reached out to lay a big hand gently upon the boy’s shoulder. "John Dunne, you’re a miracle," he rasped in a tremulous voice. "I’ve read a mountain of books, traveled the world and studied under holy men and scholars, searching for truth but finding only confusion. Yet here I sit in a hospital room, with a sick friend before me and a young friend beside me, and suddenly all the truth I’ve ever sought and failed to find is right here with me. We are gonna get Vin out of this hole, because we love him too much not to."

"Well … yeah," JD answered slowly, wondering exactly what was so miraculous about an idea that, to him, seemed clear as day. As far as he could tell, it was pretty much the basic principle of the seven. "We always take care of our own."

Josiah smiled broadly and nodded firmly, patting the boy’s shoulder. "That we do, son. Now, would you mind sitting with Vin a while? I’ve got a few things I need to look into. Hopefully, I can shine some kind of light into that hole so we can see what we’re dealing with."

"Heck, I don’t mind," JD said with a shrug. "I figured you’d need some relief. I’ve got my laptop, my Gameboy and two new cartridges, so I’m set."

Sanchez sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Whatever happened to books, son? The fine art of turning pages and letting yourself be carried away by the printed word?"

"Aw, jeez, now you sound like Buck," he groaned. "I read. I do! But, y’know, this is the twenty-first century." He reached up and laid a comforting hand on the big man’s knee, grinning smugly up at him. "Computers are our friends, Josiah. It’s time you made your peace with that."

Sanchez narrowed his eyes and scowled down at the boy. "There are few things in this world more detestable than an obnoxious brat," he warned, "and few sensations more satisfying than breaking one into a thousand pieces. Just you remember, son, it’s almost impossible to cozy up to a lovely woman in front of the fireplace and read to her from your laptop."

JD frowned in utter confusion. "Why would I wanta do that?"

Josiah sighed and rose to his feet, shaking his graying head sadly. "Buck Wilmington is failing in his duty as your mentor. I’m gonna have to have a few words with him about this." He eyed the boy mournfully. "Clearly, romance is not something that can be downloaded from the ’net."

"Great, that’s just what I need," JD grumbled as Sanchez walked away, still shaking his head. "Another ‘lesson’ from Buck." He slipped into the chair the big man had vacated and settled his laptop across his knees, then opened it and grinned as he turned it on. "Downloading romance, huh?" he mused, his fingers flying over the keys as he tied into Josiah’s computer at the office. "Let’s just see what we can find out there for ya."

7~7~7~7

Chris drove slowly around the hospital parking lot, trying to find an empty space closer than a mile from the entrance. But every one was taken, and his temper began to seethe. And finding one car straddling the line between two spaces did nothing to ease his growing irritation. Rapping out a curse, he stopped his truck, found a scrap of paper and a pen and took down the license number to give to security.

If there was any justice in the world, the selfish bastard would get towed!

With that vindictive thought bringing some satisfaction, he resumed his search for a space. Just as he turned down another aisle, he spotted Josiah Sanchez walking toward his Suburban and tapped his horn once.

Josiah heard the horn, turned, and smiled at the sight of the big black truck rolling slowly toward him. He raised a hand in greeting and waited for his friend.

Chris pulled up beside the big man and stopped, then rolled down the window. "You leavin’ for the day?"

Josiah shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Might be back up later. I’ve got an idea I wanta look into. JD’s up there now," he added, knowing Chris would wonder.

Larabee nodded, then frowned. "An idea? Somethin’ about Vin?"

Sorrow clouded Josiah’s eyes. "There anything else on any of our minds these days?"

"No," Chris breathed. "Guess not. Wanta share? Your idea, I mean."

Josiah thought a moment, then shook his head. "Not right now. Not before I’ve looked into it further."

Chris heard something in the older man’s tone that sent a ripple of anxiety through him, and he knew at once that, whatever Sanchez’s idea was, he would not like it one bit.

"Got a bit of good news," Josiah said, breaking into the team leader’s thoughts. "They took out his catheter. And he was restin’ when I left."

Chris stared hard at him, searching his eyes intently. But he saw no unspoken warning there; they hadn’t had to restrain Vin. "Good," he breathed in deep relief. "Maybe this will all be over soon."

Josiah shook his head slowly, his blue eyes somber. "Chris, this isn’t gonna be over soon and you know it. Even if all Vin’s physical injuries healed tomorrow, he’d still have a long, hard struggle ahead of him. The problem isn’t in his body, it’s in his mind–"

"He’s not crazy!" Chris insisted in a low, harsh voice, again voicing the words that had become his mantra. "He’s just … confused …"

"It’s more than that and you know it!" Josiah said sharply, angered by Larabee’s stubborn refusal to see the truth. "No, he’s not crazy, but he is disturbed, and we have to find out just what’s disturbing him. And we won’t do that if you keep denying it or ignoring it and pretending not to see what I know you do! This isn’t gonna go away overnight, Chris, and it’s not gonna go away without help. Our admitting Vin needs help doesn’t mean he’s crazy, it just means he’s got a problem and needs help to work through it!"

Chris impatiently popped the brake and threw the truck into reverse. "I gotta find a spot–"

"No," Josiah growled, reaching in through the window and gripping the wheel with a big hand, refusing to let Chris go. "Not until you hear me out. Vin’s in denial and it’s torturing him. If you join him in that denial, we may never get him back!"

"What the hell d’you want me to do?" Chris spat, angry at Josiah, angry at himself, angry at everyone. Including Vin. "I can’t read his mind, despite what you boys think–"

"I know that," Josiah said calmly, fixing a compelling gaze upon Larabee. "And I know this has probably been harder on you than all the rest of us put together. You want Vin back; we all do. But that’s not gonna happen overnight, and it’s not gonna happen at all if we don’t face a few unpleasant truths first."

Chris stared at the man in a deep unease, his chest tight, his stomach churning, his soul in knots. "What … what truths?" he whispered, certain he didn’t want to know.

Josiah glanced around, saw a car pulling out of its space down the aisle, and pointed it out to Chris. "Go park there. I’ll wait for you, then we can go back inside where we can talk." His pale blue eyes stabbed into Chris. "And you’re gonna listen, son, if I have to tie you down like we’ve been doing to Vin."

Chris’s eyes narrowed and his face set hard, but Josiah never relented. Faced with a will every bit as determined as his own, he swore harshly, scowled deeply, and glared at the profiler. "Lemme go park then," he said tersely. He arched a brow. "You’re gonna have ta let go of the wheel."

Josiah nodded, let go, and stepped away from the truck. But he continued to stand in the middle of the aisle, monolithic in his immovability, and set his hands on his hips, his prominent jaw jutting even further forward.

Chris shoved the gear shift into drive, but resisted flooring the gas pedal. Instead, he drove away at a reasonable speed, and easily turned the Ram into the space. Still, as he got out of the truck and went back to Josiah, anger rolled off his tight body in waves and burned in his green eyes.

"All right," he seethed as he rejoined Sanchez, "let’s talk."

Josiah sighed sadly and shook his head, wishing he’d had more time to get ready for this. He’d seen men go up against Chris Larabee unprepared, and it was never a pretty sight.

Still, with Vin Tanner’s sanity at stake, it was a chance he was more than willing to take.

7~7~7~7

He moaned softly, flinched violently and twisted on the bed, then sat up abruptly with a hoarse, wordless cry.

"Easy, Vin," JD soothed, going immediately to his friend and sitting beside him on the bed. He laid one hand on Tanner’s tight, shaking shoulder, took a pale hand in his other one and lightly squeezed the thin fingers. "It’s all right," he said quietly. "You’re all right. You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you."

That quiet voice, so familiar, slowly wound its way through his confused mind, easing the nameless, faceless terror that gripped him. He felt the hand at his shoulder and leaned into it, comforted by that touch.

"That’s it," JD murmured as he felt Tanner relaxing against him. "I’m here, Vin. I’m right here. I’m not goin’ anywhere."

Vin raised his head with an effort, opened his heavy eyes, and tried to focus on the figure before him. He saw a shock of thick black hair framing a round, ruddy-cheeked face, and felt the last of his fear recede. "JD," he breathed, slumping forward.

"Here, lie back," JD urged, gently easing his friend back against pillow. "It’s all right. It was just a bad dream."

Vin winced at that, knowing only too well what happened when he "dreamed," and wrenched his eyes open. "Didn’t hurt ya none, did I?" he asked worriedly, searching the face above him for any marks.

But JD laughed lightly. "No way! Just didn’t want you hurtin’ yourself." His hazel eyes roamed over his friend’s face and body, and sorrow filled him. It hurt him deeply to see the older man so frail, to know that he was holding on by little more than a thread. He’d always admired Tanner’s quiet strength, the resilience and fortitude that made him one of the toughest, most enduring men he’d ever known. He would’ve sworn Vin was unbreakable. Until now.

Vin grew embarrassed beneath that sad scrutiny and swallowed hard, turning his face away. The fingers of his free hand picked nervously at the sheet. "Reckon I still look like somethin’ outta some bad movie, huh?" he rasped, acutely conscious of the cuts, abrasions and horrible greenish-purple bruises that still marred his appearance.

"It’s not that bad," JD assured him. "You look better than you did. Besides," he smiled, "at least you’re alive. That’s more important than how you look."

The sincere words touched oddly on Vin’s shattered nerves and sharp tears pricked his eyes. He pressed the fingers of his free hand to his mouth, fighting back a sob, and clung to JD with his other.

JD said nothing. He knew Vin didn’t need words, probably couldn’t take them right now, needed just to hold on to someone, and feel someone holding on to him. They stayed like that for some time, two friends clinging to each other, one desperately needing strength, the other freely giving it. And if now and then a tear slid down one cheek or another, neither said anything about it.

Finally, Vin broke the silence. "Thanks," he murmured, squeezing the hand gripping his.

JD smiled slightly and nodded. "That’s what friends are for. You’ve helped me more times than I care ta think. Now it’s just my turn to help you. You need anything? Water, maybe?"

Vin started to refuse, then thought better of it. His mouth and throat were dry, and he was finding it hard to swallow. "Reckon a drink’d be nice."

JD nodded, released Tanner’s hand, and leaned over to the bedside table, pouring a cup of water, then dropped a straw into it. "Here ya go," he said, sitting back and placing the straw at Tanner’s mouth.

Vin took it and sipped slowly, savoring the cool wetness sliding down his throat. Before he knew it, he’d drunk it all.

"Want more?" When Vin shook his head, JD set the cup back on the table. "Anything else?" Again, Vin shook his head. "Okay. But just let me know if there’s anything I can get you."

He let his eyes close, but did not go to sleep. "Surprised you’re here by yerself," he said softly.

"Why wouldn’t I be?" JD asked with a frown.

Vin shrugged one shoulder. "Dunno. Jist thought … maybe th’ others … wouldn’t want you here without somebody else." He winced. "’Case I hurt ya or somethin’."

JD sighed and shook his head. "Nobody thinks you’re gonna hurt me, Vin," he said firmly.

He shrugged again. "I figgered … since Buck’s usually with ya … I dunno," he sighed tiredly. "My mind ain’t workin’ real good here lately."

"I know," JD said softly, sadly. "And it’s okay. Hell, Vin, you’ve got every right not ta be thinkin’ straight. If it was me, I’d be a basket-case!"

Vin gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Seems ta me I am one."

"No, you’re not!" JD said sharply. "And don’t ever say that again!" When Vin opened his eyes and stared at him in surprise, JD scowled and said firmly, "I won’t listen to you talkin’ that way about yourself, you hear? It’s not true, and I won’t have it! Yeah, you’re havin’ a real hard time right now. Hell, who wouldn’t after goin’ through what you did? I’m not gonna say I understand what you’re feelin’, because I don’t, and I’m not gonna lie to you. But I will tell you this – I know you can beat this. I know you won’t quit, I know you won’t give up, because you just don’t have that in you. So you quit talkin’ down about yourself, you hear?" he demanded. "You’ve made it this far, and I know you’ll make it the rest of the way. You’ve just gotta give yourself more time!"

Vin stared up at the boy in astonishment, eyes widening at his tirade. Finally, when the storm of words died, he blinked, swallowed hard, and breathed, "Damn, kid, who pulled yer string?"

JD scowled fiercely down at him, hazel eyes ablaze. "You did, when you called one of my best friends a basket-case. Nobody talks that way about Vin Tanner, you hear me? Not even Vin Tanner himself."

Vin smiled slightly, shyly, and nodded. "I’ll remember that," he said softly, gratitude shining in his tired blue eyes. "Reckon I forgot fer a minute what good friends I got."

"Don’t ever forget that, Vin," JD said in a low, firm voice, his eyes boring into Tanner’s. "You can forget everything else in this world, but don’t you ever forget about us. We’re here, and we’re not goin’ anywhere. And we’re not lettin’ you go, either!"

7~7~7~7

Josiah watched Larabee from the corner of his eye as they entered the hospital and uttered a silent, fervent prayer for patience and strength. The man was radiating more heat than an asphalt parking lot on a summer day, was almost throwing off sparks with every step. His green eyes burned, his chiseled face was set hard as flint, and Sanchez could almost hear his teeth grinding.

If Chris Larabee stepped into a dry forest right now, he’d burn down half the state.

They went to the bank of elevators and stepped into an empty car. Out of habit, Chris punched the button for Vin’s floor, using more force than was necessary. When the door didn’t close immediately, he jabbed the button again, and again. At his side, Josiah exhaled slowly and hung his head, deeply grateful Chris had left his gun locked in the Ram’s glove compartment. Never had he watched elevator doors close with more relief.

They rode up in a heavy, uneasy silence, the tension between them almost visible. Yet where Josiah was still, Chris was in constant, restless motion, dragging a hand through his hair, clenching and unclenching his fists, glaring from the button panel to the floor indicator and back again as if he could somehow speed the car on its way, scrubbing at his face with long fingers. Had the car been bigger and Josiah not so close, he would have found a way to pace. Instead, he vented his agitation in constant fidgeting, and wondered just when the hell his nerve endings had risen so close to the surface of his skin.

The car stopped at the tenth floor and, after yet another interminable pause, the doors slid open. Chris stepped out and took his customary left turn, starting toward Vin’s room. Before he got more than a few paces down the hallway, though, a big hand snaked out, gripped his arm in an iron grasp, and pulled him to a stop.

"I said we’re gonna talk," Josiah said firmly as Larabee spun to face him, "and I meant it." Outrage filled Chris’s eyes and he opened his mouth to argue, but Josiah stopped him with an upraised hand. "You can walk, or I can drag you." Blue eyes glinted with steel in his resolute face. "And those are your only options."

"You son of a bitch!" Chris hissed furiously.

Josiah arched a brow. "Figure I’ve learned from the best. Now, which is it gonna be? Dignified, or dragged?"

Chris hesitated just long enough to see that Sanchez truly meant it, that he would be dragged down the hallway like a child in the middle of a tantrum if he didn’t cooperate. And, suddenly, he realized that was exactly how he had been acting.

"Hell." He rubbed his eyes, then let his hand drop before he rubbed off his whole damn face, and lifted a tired, remorseful gaze to Sanchez. "I’m sorry," he breathed. "I know I’m bein’ an ass …" He winced and shook his head, and had to look away as everything he felt threatened to erupt from him. "I just … I don’t … Shit," he whispered, closing his eyes and bowing his head.

Josiah felt his own anger fading in the face of Chris’s torment. "I understand, brother," he said softly. "It’s hard enough to bear when any of us are hurt. But when it’s Vin, the pain cuts just a bit deeper." He gazed steadily at Chris. "That’s the down side of lettin’ someone get as close as you’ve let him–"

"Didn’t ‘let’ him," Chris scoffed with a soft, bitter laugh. "Goddamn Texan didn’t give me any choice in the matter. Just moseyed in one day, and the next thing I know he’s right in the middle of my life like he’d always been there. Him and that goddamn cocky smirk–" His voice broke on those words, and he turned away sharply, clenching his jaw and covering his mouth with a hand as he fought to bring himself back under control.

God, what he wouldn’t give to see that smirk again!

"C’mon, brother," Josiah urged softly, circling a strong arm about the bowed shoulders and turning Chris back to him. Holding the younger man protectively to him, he started them toward a small consultation room he knew doctors often used to talk with families about their loved ones. "What I have to say isn’t gonna be easy for you to hear, but you need to listen, anyway. For Vin’s sake, if not your own."

Chris cringed inwardly at those words, but continued to lean on Josiah and let him lead him, more grateful for the big man’s solid strength than he had the words to say. Lately, he’d begun to feel that he’d fallen into the same quicksand that held Vin, and, like Tanner, feared he was losing his ability to keep from sinking.

God, he just wanted this to be over!

Josiah led Chris into the room and closed the door, then held out a hand to one of the chairs. "Sit," he directed. "You look dead on your feet."

Chris dropped almost bonelessly into the nearest chair, and immediately wished it weren’t so soft. The urge to lean back and go to sleep was almost more than he could resist.

"All right," he sighed, "I’m listening."

Josiah Sanchez could be every bit as convoluted in his speech as Ezra Standish, loved expressing himself in riddles and parables that went on forever without ever really expressing an identifiable point. This once, though, he was as straightforward as Larabee himself.

"Ever heard of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?" he asked, fixing his keen blue gaze on Larabee’s face.

Chris frowned in equal parts confusion and surprise, feeling somehow as if he’d been ambushed by that uncharacteristic directness. "Post … Why?"

"Because I think Vin’s suffering from it," Josiah said softly. He pulled a chair around in front of Chris and sat down in it, leaning forward and clasping his big hands together in his lap. His light blue eyes were intense, his heavy-featured face a mask of deep thought. "PTSD is an extreme, even crippling anxiety disorder suffered by victims of traumatic incidents. It’s also been called shell shock or battle fatigue. Sound familiar?"

Chris straightened in his chair, instantly on the defensive. He knew those terms, knew also the images they conjured – wild-eyed combat veterans going berserk and laying waste to everything and everyone around them because they still thought they were in battle. They were horrific images, and ones he refused to associate with his friend.

"Vin’s not crazy," he said in a low, harsh voice.

Josiah sighed and shook his head. Larabee was clinging to that phrase, to that notion, as if it were a lifeline. And Sanchez suspected he was trying to convince himself as much as everyone else.

"No, he’s not crazy," he said softly. "He’s having what have been called normal reactions to abnormal circumstances. He was held captive for three days, beaten repeatedly and brutally, subjected to a terror beyond our imagining, was given every reason to believe he was going to die in circumstances no one should ever have to face. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He was trapped in an unending horror, an unending hell, and was completely helpless." He stared sadly but compellingly at Chris. "He’d be crazy if that didn’t affect him somehow!"

Chris folded his arms tightly against his chest and looked away, still not wanting to hear this, still not wanting to believe this. He was only now coming to realize just how much he depended on Vin’s stability, his serenity, his sanity, how much of a calming influence in his own life the younger man had become. While he didn’t know all the details of his friend’s early life – and, truthfully, had no real desire to, suspecting they were much uglier than he cared to know – he knew enough to respect and admire Vin deeply for not only surviving, but emerging as a man of courage, decency and integrity. Tanner’s strength had become a constant in his world, and he wasn’t at all ready to see that constant altered in any way.

Josiah saw and understood Larabee’s reluctance, his stubborn refusal to accept a painful truth. But this was a wall he had to breach. He knew enough about the bond between the two men to know that, if there were any hope of getting Vin through this, Chris would have to lead the way. And if that had to happen at the point of Josiah Sanchez’s gun, then so be it.

"No man is unbreakable, Chris," he said quietly. "You know that better than anyone else alive. And Vin Tanner is just a man. He suffered horribly at Charlie Castro’s hands. But," again his pale blue gaze impaled Larabee, "we both know that’s not what broke him."

Chris wanted to put his hands over his ears, to block out that relentless voice, to run screaming from this room. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Josiah was talking about Vin, the man closer to him than any brother could be, and, despite his best, most desperate efforts, he was finding it harder and harder to deny what he knew to be true. He was caught in the battle between his mind and his heart, but he knew that if he lost the battle, Vin would be the one to suffer most.

Josiah saw Larabee’s defenses weakening and, like an artillery piece trying to reduce a fortification, he continued to fire. "We all know that what’s really preying on Vin is not what Castro did to him, but something that happened long before that, something so terrible that he’s never gotten over it. And what Castro did to him plunged him back into that earlier trauma, forced him to relive it. Is forcing him to relive it still. That’s the trauma he’s reacting to, and if we don’t get him help, we’re gonna lose him."

"Help?" Chris repeated sharply, green eyes darkening warily. "What kind of help?" Defensive anger flooded him as understanding dawned. "Goddamn it, you’re talkin’ about a psychiatrist! He’s not crazy!"

"No, but he is sick!" Josiah thundered, his own pain for Vin surfacing in a tidal wave of emotion. "He’s sick and he’s scared and he’s hurting, and if we are truly his friends then we cannot let that continue! How much more pain would you condemn him to, Chris? How deep a hell would you consign him to? His own mind is tearing him apart, yet you refuse to admit it because you can’t stand the thought of admitting that Vin Tanner is as frail and as mortal as you! Just how much of that boy’s soul are you willing to sacrifice on the altar of your own goddamn pride?" he shouted, slamming huge fists against the arms of his chair.

Chris fell back before that shout, that rage, and felt his blood drain to his feet as sick realization sank through him. Jesus bloody Christ, was that it? Was that really what he was doing? Blinding himself to the truth out of some twisted pride? God help him, was he capable of doing that to Vin?

"We all know what his strength means to you," Josiah went on, his voice as steely as his eyes. "Hell, we all depend on it, maybe more than we should. There’s something in each of us that knows that, whatever happens, Vin will be the last man standing. Why not? He’s stood through so much already; more than any one man should, really. And we can’t bear to think of him falling, because then we have to think of what that means for us. If Vin Tanner, strong as an oak and enduring as the mountains, can fall, can break, then what chance do we have?"

Chris stared bleakly at Josiah, white-faced, drained of all strength and feeling. The wall inside him had broken, and had all but crushed him beneath its rubble.

Josiah shook his head slowly, no longer staring at Chris but past him, his own anger given way to a wrenching sorrow. And a wrenching guilt. "My God," he murmured sadly, his deep voice trembling, "when I think of the burden we’ve placed on that boy’s shoulders … How many times have we taken our emotional cues from him, sought our emotional balance in him, looked for the stability in him we simply couldn’t find in ourselves? Then we wonder why he’s so stoic, why he lets so little of his own feelings show, why he keeps so much inside. How could he not?" He turned stricken eyes to Chris. "How can he let himself fall apart when he knows we’re looking to him to hold us together? How can he dare let the dam inside him break, when he has to worry about what the resulting flood will do to us? We’ve bound Vin as tightly as Castro ever did, and we’ve locked him in a closet of our own devising. And now, now, when he’s finally reached his breaking point, we have the audacity, the sheer fucking selfish audacity, to deny him his weakness, to deny him his simple, natural, human weakness, because we can’t bear to think of what it will do to us. Shit," he spat contemptuously, "what on God’s green earth gives us the right to call ourselves his friends?"

Tears slid down Chris’s ashen cheeks and a hideous pain filled his eyes. He was trembling, felt sick, had never come closer to hating himself. Josiah was right; he knew it with an aching, humiliating certainty. He who had been so cruelly broken in his own life, who had been driven to his knees and had painfully clawed his way back up, had wanted, had been determined, to deny that to Vin out of his own blind and selfish need to believe that, no matter how far he fell, someone would always be there to pull him back to his feet.

Because he wasn’t prepared to face a world where Vin wasn’t the last man standing.

"What do we do?" he finally asked in a soft, hoarse voice.

Josiah looked at Chris, his own face streaked with tears, and swallowed hard. He could see the familiar determination seeping back into Larabee’s wan face, could see the man steeling himself for a fight, and exhaled unsteadily in fervent relief. This time, he knew, the fight would be waged to drive out Vin’s demons, and not merely to drive them back into hiding.

"First of all, and most importantly," he answered roughly, "we have to give him permission to fall apart, to hurt, to be scared. We have to stop telling him everything’s all right, because it’s not, and he knows it better than anybody." He drew a deep, steadying breath and tried to marshall his thoughts. "I also want us all to learn about PTSD, because it’s gonna affect us all. No one ever suffers this alone. If the victim has a family, the family suffers, too. And, whatever else anybody wants to say about us, we are Vin’s family."

"But we can’t get him through this alone, can we?"

Josiah could have wept aloud in thanksgiving at that question, and the breakthrough it represented. "No, Chris, we can’t. He’s gonna need help. Professional help. And that’s gonna be a battle we’ll have to wage with him." He fixed sad, knowing eyes on Larabee. "Vin’s as self-contained a man as I’ve ever seen. He’ll crawl off and lick his wounds in private before letting anybody see he’s hurt." Pain creased his face. "The circumstances of his life have forced him to be that way. He’s been alone so long, had no one but himself to depend on, been hurt so many times … But that’s changed now, and we have to make him see that. We can’t make him go into therapy. But maybe we can help him get there on his own."

Chris nodded, feeling as his soul had been pulled out of him, beaten to a pulp, and shoved back into place, still raw and bleeding. But then, he figured, that was probably about how Vin felt, too, and so, for his friend’s sake, he’d just have to bear it.

"All right," he said quietly, a measure of resolve creeping into his voice, "I want you to get together whatever you think the others need to know. Teach us about this, what it is, what we can expect, what we should do." He met Josiah’s gaze, and determination flared in his green eyes. "Travis has given us all a week off. I’m gonna ask for two. I know it’s not a lot of time, but maybe we can at least make a start. Let him fall apart as much as he needs, and be there to pick up the pieces."

"I’ll do it," Josiah agreed. "I’ve got a friend I can call on for help. She’s very knowledgeable about this. She’s a therapist who specializes in counseling survivors of abuse."

"That’s what we’re dealing with, isn’t it?" Chris asked softly. "Not Vin Tanner, ATF agent, but Vin Tanner, abused child. That’s what his dreams are – flashbacks, memories. Not nightmares, but real pieces of his life." He fixed anguished eyes on Sanchez. "And we have to get him to talk about that, don’t we?" he rasped. "I’ve always told myself I don’t want to know what his life was like, that I don’t want to hear the details because I don’t want to know that my worst suspicions weren’t bad enough. How selfish is that? I mean, I only have to hear it. He had to live it."

"He’s living it still, Chris," Josiah said. "It will be with him for the rest of his life. This isn’t something you cure, this isn’t something that goes away. This is something you learn to live with. We just have to find a way to help him do that. But, yeah, that means we’re gonna have to hear it. We’re gonna have to open his wounds, and sit with him as the poison drains out. He’s gonna fight us every step of the way, but if we care for him the way we say we do, then it’s a fight we have to wage, and it’s a fight we have to win. And none of us will come out unbloodied."

"I’ve fought and bled for less than Vin’s soul," Chris said in a low, even voice. New light shone in his tired eyes, and new strength infused his tired body. He stood up, squared his shoulders and set his jaw, nodding firmly as he stared down at Josiah. "Let’s do this."