Ezra looked down with ill-disguised disgust at the blob of plaster encasing his right wrist. It was ugly. Even with his extensive vocabulary there was simply no other word to do it justice. Hideous, dreadful, and repulsive all applied, but really, it deserved to be called something as basic and simple as ugly.

He instinctively reached out for his glass before stopping as a spasm of pain went up his arm. Grumbling, he turned himself enough to reach across with the left to pick up the tumbler full of ginger ale, grumbling again over the fact it was far from his preferred amber coloured beverage. The pain pills, ineffective as they seemed to be, negated that option. He looked wistfully at the bar in the corner. Chris had left the bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on top, all but beckoning to him. While not his first choice it was definitely acceptable. If he listened carefully, he could swear he heard it calling his name, summoning him, seeking his attention.

"Ezra. Ezra, dammit, are you ok?"

He looked up to see Chris standing at the door to the den. "Yes Mr. Larabee. I was merely letting my mind wander."

"Just so long as it doesn't wander over to the liquor. You heard the doc."

"Yes, and more significantly based on proximity, I heard Mr. Jackson's threats as well. I am certain all of you would be most displeased if he were in fact to remove all alcohol from the house during the duration of my imposed confinement."

Chris bit back the first comment that came to mind, trying to take Ezra's pain and frustration into account.

"Nobody is trying to confine you Ezra. I doubt they could. You have to look at this realistically. The broken wrist needs to be pampered for at least the first week, or you'll end up needing surgery on it. Which means you can't use the crutches you need for that twisted knee. Cane is a help, but face it, you aren't exactly mobile at the moment. So, if you would prefer to spend the next week in the hospital instead of out here, we can take you back, but you can't go home yet."

Ezra took a long slow drink of his ginger ale, trying to convince himself it was something more satisfying. Knowing that everything Chris had said was accurate didn't make the situation any less infuriating. If anything, it made it worse.

Getting no response, Chris turned to leave, then paused when a thought occurred. "You need to cancel any arrangements? You must have had a flight booked if you were going to spend Christmas with your family."

Hoping that the pain meds had not hampered his ability to keep his reactions hidden, Ezra did his best to keep his response tone natural. "While the offer is appreciated Mr. Larabee, your services will not be needed. I had not yet finalized my plan therefore no alterations are required."

You didn't get to be a team leader in the ATF without having the knack for knowing when facts didn't add up, and the math on that sentence was way off. "Dec 22nd and you don't have anything booked? That doesn't sound like you."

"As it was impossible to ensure our last assignment would be completed, it would have been foolish to make any commitments."

"We finished that up 4 days ago."

Ezra was saved the trouble of crafting a lie when the back door opened letting in a blast of cold air that did nothing to improve Ezra's mood. "You coming cowboy? Got the horses all saddled up."

"All?"

"Yup. Even managed to get some gear onto Chaucer. Even without a rider, I figured he'd like the company and exercise."

The act was meant as a kindness, but Buck's comment served instead to slip Ezra farther into his depression, not that anyone would tell from his reaction. "I applaud the skills of whoever managed to accomplish that task. He can be a tad reticent at times."

"He's not the only one." Chris muttered. "We'll be back soon Ezra. You need anything before we leave?"

The items he would choose to list would all elicit a negative response, so he merely shook his head. Chris grinned slightly and reached into the bar fridge. He opened a fresh ginger ale and filled Ezra's glass. "it'll have to do for now."

When he heard the door latch Ezra turned in the seat as much as he could without regretting the action. He had just enough of a view to see the six riders heading out. Enough of a view to make him more than slightly resentful. If he had to be out here, away from the comforts of home and city life, at the very least he should be able to enjoy himself. That was hard enough to do at Larabee's ranch. He'd known these men barely 4 months, and as he'd been undercover on most assignments, he hadn't spent much time with them, even at work. In a social context, the total could be counted in hours, and he doubted it would add up to a day.

The six men were connected in a fashion he had never believed possible. There was a collective bonding that surpassed his understanding.

Josiah could read their moods with greater efficiency than a poker player could recognize his opponents 'tells'. It was a gift that Ezra possessed himself, so he had a feel for what that entailed. But his skill differed from that of the profiler. He studied his marks, watched their eyes, their posture. Analyzed what how they said what they said, and equally, what they didn't say. Then he came to his conclusions. It was usually a speedy process, thanks to years of honing the talent. Josiah's gift was different. With no opportunity to see him in the field, Ezra had no clue how fast the profiler was at reading a stranger. But in the office, he usually knew the minute Buck walked into the room if the previous night's liaison had been successful, or if Nathan had argued with Rain over breakfast. He knew when JD was anxious about an assignment, or when Chris was approaching one of his funks. And, he often knew all of this before the men themselves seemed aware of their states of mind. Critically, he usually seemed to either know what to say, or who to clue in to the problem, to resolve matters. Ezra couldn't help but by worried about how close the man was to chiseling through the carefully constructed wall he had built around himself over the years.

In the same way Josiah could read your mental state, Nathan had a capacity for knowing you were sick before you did. From a sniffle to pneumonia, he could feel a fever from across the room. And heaven help the agent who tried to hide an injury. Any injury. Even a simple paper-cut resulted in a bandage on your desk before you could let out the appropriate curse. But when something serious happened, he was at your side, even when it put him in the line of fire. He and Vin had both been shot a couple of months before Ezra had joined the team, and the report he read proved what he'd known to be the case. However much he might mother-hen the team, Nathan was the man you wanted near when things went wrong.

What had surprised Ezra was the care and attention he received after this stupid tumble down a short flight of stairs. A misstep on some frost covered stairs had landed him solidly on the ground without benefit of most of the steps. Embarrassment gave way to shock when he tried to right himself, and Buck's planned gibe turned into a call for help. Nathan was at his side with alarming speed, gently but unequivocally admonishing him to stay put. After cursing out the man's stupid southern pride that made him patently refuse an ambulance, Nathan seemed to have, without a word, summoned the others, who lifted him into Chris's SUV and cushioned his ride to the hospital. Throughout that, and until he was kicked out of the treatment area. Nathan never left his side. That still puzzled him. They certainly weren't friends. He didn't see any of them in that light. But he and the healer barely spoke to each other. He knew that of all the team, this man remained the most suspicious of him. That hadn't stopped him from showing a level of care that left Ezra feeling genuinely touched, as well as confused.

If Josiah and Nathan used their connectivity for good, Buck and JD covered the other end of the spectrum. Not to say they were evil, but there was a devilishly wicked humour to the duo. Ezra suspected Buck was the instigator, with JD his more than willing cohort. The two were a perfect balance and counterpoint to each other. Reading the setup, feeding the straight lines, or, on rare occasions, buffering the damage on a gag gone wrong or misconstrued. Here again though, the talent, if that was the right definer, tended to be used to shore up the team. When morale was low, or the room was tense, Buck found the valve needed to let off steam. Sometimes it was as simple as giving Chris the outlet of someone to yell at. (Although Ezra had come to the conclusion that was his own role in the team more often than not.) More often Buck would play some juvenile prank or JD would spew out some of the corniest jokes or riddles ever devised, all with the goal of easing the mood. Ezra could only imagine the comments that were about to be directed at him when he landed on the sidewalk. But he had noted Buck's shift from buffoon to protector the instant it was apparent something really was wrong. Ezra had little doubt the comments were being held in reserve for when he was out of the cast and recovered. He was less certain he would still be a part of the team by then.

Vin's role seemed to be that of peacekeeper. Not so much by any active intervention. He didn't need to. Somehow just his quiet presence, or a softly spoken word worked to diffuse, or at least mitigate a situation. And often just a word or two was all it took, which was fortunate. Ezra had rarely heard him speak more than a few sentences at a time. The team's sharpshooter's style was far less verbose than his own, but every bit as precise. In a way, Ezra envied that gift - to be able speak in a simple at straight forward manner. He had found in his own case that the more elaborate the speech, the less people seemed to actually listen. It was a wonderful way to shield oneself. Not that any of his speeches had ever had a soothing effect. Usually just the opposite. Vin could bring one of Larabee's tirades to a grinding halt with a few words, whereas Ezra had usually been the trigger for the outburst. He had watched entire conversations between the two men without a word being spoken. It was extremely frustrating to observe, although certainly a marvelous skill under any circumstance. Literally lifesaving in their line of work.

That left Chris. Larabee remained somewhat of an enigma to him. He had determined enough to be willing to play poker with him and had done so on a few occasions. But even after four months, Ezra wasn't confident of where he stood. That special link that their inscrutable leader had with the others was sorely lacking with him. He still wasn't certain if he'd been given a chance with the team because he was trusted, or if it was simply a case of his skills being valuable enough to warrant the risk. His interactions with Chris were diametrically opposed to everything he saw in the others. The easy-going camaraderie, the instinctive trust, the silent support. The brotherly bond. Ezra wasn't stupid; he knew those things took time to build. But when months had passed, and there was no suggestion of that foundation even starting, he had to conclude that Larabee would never accept him in the same way. And if Larabee didn't, there was no chance the others could.

He sighed softly, emptying his glass. Under ideal circumstances, and he couldn't begin to imagine what those would be, being fundamentally stranded here was an objectionable option. Being stranded and dependent upon others for so many activities was insufferable. But to be stranded and reliant over Christmas with a group of men who were scarcely more than strangers to him was simply intolerable.

He looked outside again. There was no sign any of them were still in sight. Knowing them, knowing how much they enjoyed their time escaping reality, he figured he had a couple of hours. A cab would be able to get here, pick him up and take him… where? Home wouldn't work. They'd be breaking down his door before he'd even settled into his favourite chair. He definitely wasn't going back to the hospital. So, a hotel. He silently thanked his mother for instilling basic survival skills in him at an early age. He still maintained a credit card under a numbered company set up solely for the purpose of giving him a way out when things got to hot. He hadn't used it in years, so even JD's skills would likely be insufficient for tracing it. At least with any speed. Once he was entrenched in the spot, they wouldn't be able to blast him clear with dynamite. He smiled for the first time since the fall, pulling his cell from his pocket and summoning his ride.

M7-M7-M7-M7-M7-M7-M7

tbc