A/N: This is it! The last in the "Unarmed Series!" Kinda makes me sad to finish it, but I suppose I have to give our poor boy his arms back eventually... This one is, once again, told from Chris's pov (mostly). No angst, just all fun to round up the series. I hope ya'll enjoyed the ride! (For those that don't know, you must read "In His Head", "Go Home!", and "A Phone Call Away" if you have any hope of understanding what is going on here.)

Thanks everyone for the awesome reviews, btw! I love you all!

boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, boink

"Stop it, Ezra."

46 seconds later

boink, boink, boink, boink, boink

"I can still hear you."

32 seconds later

boink, boink, boink

"Dammit, Ezra, I said knock it off!"

58 seconds later

boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, boink

"That's it."

Pushing himself off the couch, Larabee stormed into the kitchen to find his undercover agent repeatedly bouncing a soccer ball off his forehead, keeping his feet carefully underneath him as he maneuvered to keep in sync with the ball. In one fluid movement, Chris ducked around him, snagged a knife from the block on his counter, and stabbed a hole in the ball in mid-air. It landed with a hissing thud on the floor.

"Now that was uncalled for," Standish griped.

"I told you knock it off. You could've broken something."

"Nonsense. I had it perfectly under control."

"Well find something else to do."

"There's nothing to do, Mr. Larabee. It's pouring rain out and the indoor activities I can partake in are limited."

God, he's whiny.

"Then watch TV."

"Won't that disturb your reading?"

"I can go in the bedroom, and the TV'll be a helluva lot less annoying than listening to that damn ball."

"…Fine."

34 minutes later

pop…pop…pop…pop…pop

Now what's he have?

"Whatever you're doing, stop."

5 seconds later

pop…pop…pop

"Ezra, if I have to come in there…."

19 seconds later

pop…pop…pop…pop

"Goddammit."

Chris threw his book down on the bed and stormed into the living room. Standish was sitting on the couch with his head tilted back, popping a ping-pong ball out of his mouth and easily catching it on its way back down.

Where the hell did he get that?

He snatched it and shoved it in his pocket, glaring at the Southerner.

"You're supposed to be watching TV."

"There's nothing on."

"I have a hundred and seventy-five channels."

"And it's one hundred, seventy-five channels worth of crap."

'Crap?' He's been hangin' around Buck too long.

Larabee sighed. "Go ahead and pay-per-view a movie."

"Thank you."

1 hour, 47 minutes later

tink, tink, clunk, clang, clang, ting, tong

I'm gonna kill 'im.

ting, ting, clunk, clang, clang

Again, he stormed into the living room, but stopped short at the sight before him. Over at the mini-bar, Standish had several different-sized shot glasses lined up and was proceeding to drum on them with a spoon held in his mouth, occasionally spinning around to whack the spoon against the bottles on the shelves.

This isn't happening.

"Stop!"

Ezra froze, huffed out a sigh, and slowly lowered the spoon down to the counter top.

"The movie was over," he said as if his impromptu concert would be the most natural activity in the world to follow up a film.

"Then watch another one," Larabee growled between clenched teeth.

"I'm not in the mood."

Don't shoot him, don't shoot him, don't shoot him…

"Try calling someone."

"I did. No one appears to be free to talk at the moment."

Figures. Gotta try a new tactic.

"…You hungry?"

"I suppose I could eat."

"Good. Just sit tight and I'll make us something."

He began walking towards the kitchen, then looked again at the careful arrangement of glasses on the bar.

"You put your mouth on all these?"

Ezra's answer was to raise his eyebrows, then glance down at his bound arms and back up to Chris's gaze.

Shit. Don't. Shoot him.

Gritting his teeth, he gathered up the array of glasses and took them with him into the kitchen to be washed.

10 minutes later

screeeeeeeeeeech! – thud!

Sonofa-

He pulled the frying pan off the burner momentarily as he rushed out of the kitchen. Stopping in the doorway, his face began to turn beet red. Ezra was sitting on the floor, apparently where he had fallen on his rear after using his back to shove the couch half way across the room.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chris snarled.

"Since there is obviously nothing of value on your one hundred, seventy-five channels, I thought it might be better to just sit and watch the rain from your window."

"Why didn't you just move one of the bar stools?"

"They're not as comfortable," he shrugged, "and I thought you might also enjoy sitting with me for our meal."

Don't give me that sad look…. Dammit.

With a sigh (again), he hauled Ezra to his feet and finished pushing the couch the rest of the way over to the large picture window. As a second thought, he went ahead and decided to also drag the coffee table over before the bored agent could further attempt to rearrange his living room.

"Now sit. And stay," he ordered as he headed back to finish his cooking.

1 hour, 13 minutes later

creak…creak…creak…creak…creak

He dreamt of the old rope swing he had as a kid…

crea-creak…creak…cr-cre-creak, creak

That's not a swing… What is that?

He slowly sat up on the couch, listening intently as he tried to identify the sound. Looking around, he realized Standish was nowhere to be seen. Cursing a stream of foul language under his breath, he followed the noise back into the kitchen, sucking in his breath and holding it at the sight before him.

Balancing precariously on a kitchen chair was the man in question, one foot on the front edge of the seat and the other resting on top of the chair's back as he kept it standing on only the two rear legs. The wood creaked each time he shifted his weight slightly one way or the other in order to keep it upright, looking for all the world like he was surfing on dry land.

"Ezra," Chris said slowly and quietly so as not to startle the man. "Get. Down."

Smiling, the Southerner shifted all his weight onto his leg resting on the back of the chair.

"No!" Chris snapped out, lunging forward in hopes of catching the falling man, knowing he would never be fast enough. His worries were for naught, however, as Standish easily jumped clear of the chair just before it clattered to the ground, landing a bit clumsily without the use of his arms to help maintain his balance, but landing on his feet just the same. Chris stomped forward, grabbing Ezra by the front of his shirt.

"You trying to break your damn neck?"

"Why would I purposely try to break my neck?"

"You damn near did!"

And I'm tempted to finish the job!

"Nonsense. I've witnessed Mr. Wilmington perform the very same stunt on any number of occasions. I don't recall you ever asking him if he wished to break his neck."

"He has his arms!" Chris ground out between clenched teeth.

"Obviously unnecessary. In fact, I believe I may be able to make a wager with Mr-"

"Ezra, shut up and go sit back down on the couch."

"No."

Is this really happening?

"I said-"

"Mr. Larabee, do you really expect me to simply remain quiet on the couch, doing nothing, while you catch up on your beauty sleep?"

"Yes!"

"Well, that is simply not going to happen. I'm not a child to be sent into a corner as punishment."

Nevermind. I'll just shoot myself and get it over with.

"Ezra, please, I have a headache. Can you find something quiet – and safe – to do for just a little while?"

"…You have a headache?"

"Yes."

It's name is Ezra Standish.

"You should have just informed me of your infirmity to begin with, I understand all to well the discomforts of a headache. Go lay down, I will entertain myself as per your requests."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

2 hours, 9 minutes later

It's quiet…

Chris stared intently at his bedroom ceiling for a few minutes, straining to hear any noise coming from his house guest. All he could make out was the continual thrumming of rain as it coated the ranch house roof.

He probably passed out.

He rolled over and shut his eyes again. A couple minutes later found him swearing as he slid down the hall to the guest room. Ezra wasn't there. He continued his search out into the living room. Empty. Cautiously, he peered into the kitchen, ready with his lecture if he needed to give one. No sign of the man.

"Ezra?" he called out, confused.

When no answer came, he couldn't decide whether to be angry, worried, or both. He settled on both as he threw open the front door, heading to the only other place he hoped the Southerner would be – the barn. As he made his way into the wooden building, he called Ezra's name softly and still received no answer. Walking straight to Chaucer's stall, he was ready to throw it open and have a little talk with his missing friend, but panic hit him as he found the stall devoid of both man and horse.

Ahh, Ezra, you didn't.

He was about to whip out his cell when suddenly he heard the snorting of a horse coming from the indoor arena that connected to the other side of the barn. Moving quietly, he walked forward to where he could just see horse and rider moving around the ring, the horse with not even so much as a halter keeping it in check, and the rider speaking softly and confidently to his beloved companion. Chris watched for a few minutes before stepping out of the shadows.

"You really shouldn't be doing that," he stated, the annoyance evident in his voice.

"Oh?" Ezra asked with a mischievous grin and with that damn lifted eyebrow.

Whatever you're thinking, don't you dare do it.

"Would you rather I did this, instead?"

With barely a squeeze of his legs, he sent Chaucer from his slow gait to a controlled gallop around the ring.

"Standish!" Chris hollered out.

"Not suitable? Then perhaps I should do this!" Ezra laughed, guiding the horse's movements into quick, tiny circles. They went around one direction a few rotations before he switched it up and turned Chaucer in the other.

I hope his damn horse gets dizzy and falls down.

As if on cue, Chaucer miss-stepped on one of the turns, and was forced to rear up onto his hind legs to correct the movement. Unprepared for the action and with nothing to hang on with, Standish was easily thrown off the horse's back. He hit the ground hard, the air forcing itself from his lungs in one painful whoosh.

Chris bolted across the ring.

Damn, cocky ass better be okay.

As he neared the Southerner, he slowed his movements as he watched the man awkwardly sit himself upright, laughing.

Yep, I'm gonna kill 'im.

"You okay?"

"Quite. Now that was entertaining. I think I'll have another go at it."

"What?"

Ezra flashed his gold tooth up at Larabee. "I'm getting back on."

"The hell you are!"

"Fine. Then I shall have to continue finding ways to amuse myself in your home… Is your stove fueled by wood or gas?"

He's lost it… What are the symptoms of cabin fever?

"You're not going anywhere near fire."

He grabbed the Southerner by the collar, pulling him up to his feet. Chaucer stood near by, flicking his tail around in a playful manner.

"Tell your ornery horse to go back to his stall, Ezra."

I'm gonna slap that grin right off his face.

"You tell him."

"I'm getting real sick of your games, Ezra. Now get your damn horse back in his stall."

"He won't go."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because, Mr. Larabee, it's customary to finish a ride with a treat, and I'm afraid I ran out of candy. He will not go without it. However, if we make a run to the store, I assure you he will remain in the ring until our return."

"…You planned this didn't you?"

Gonna slap that innocent look off his face, too.

"I don't appreciate the accusation."

"I don't appreciate you driving me nuts all day!"

"Mr. Larabee, I am a guest in your home. As the host, it is your official duty to provide ample entertainment for your guests. If you would simply see to it that I-"

"That's it!"

Grabbing Standish by the back collar of his shirt, Larabee shoved the smaller man in front of him, forcing him out of the arena.

"Where are we going?" Standish asked, a touch of fear in his voice.

"We're gonna see your damn doctor."

"I'm not injured, Mr. Larabee."

"Which is why I'm gonna tell him to take your damn slings off so you can go back home, go back to work, and quit driving me nuts."

"But, Mr. Larabee, I still have three more days left before my official release, as per the doctor's and Mr. Jackson's recommendations."

"If I have to take three more days with you, you're gonna wind up in the hospital for three months!"

Ezra laughed, mockingly. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

With a sneer, Chris manhandled Standish through the barn door and guided him towards the car.

He never saw the smug, satisfied grin cross Ezra's face.

The End!