Authors Notes: This story diverges from canon during 4x01 Welcome to the Jungle. I got inspired to write this at a Colombian rally in Rome over the summer and it's just taken me this long to write it.

Pairing: Eric/Vince

Betas and helpers: fourteencandles, guestage, Ashley, and Anne

Summary: Kidnapping is an industry in Colombia

- - - - -

Eric tells Vince he's going into Bogotá to get to a reliable land line and to try and work out the budgeting issues that have come with losing their DP. Then he climbs into one of the Jeeps with a guy named Diego and leaves the little jungle village they've been living in for the past four months.

Vince doesn't completely buy that. Not that E's the type to lie, but it's obvious he needs time to get his shit together away from the set. With Sven quitting and Billy being all moonstruck and the movie still not having an ending, who could blame the guy for trying to get away for a few hours?

Only... a few hours stretch into a day, and E isn't answering his cell. Vince starts to worry. Not openly. But for twenty-four hours there's this feeling in the pit of his stomach that says something is wrong. He does his best not to listen to it.

Late the next night, the situation changes. It's after midnight, and Billy's wrapped production for the day, but the sound of a new car gets everyone out of the bar or their trailers to see Diego – who has arrived in a completely different vehicle than one he left in with a face full of bruises, a broken hand, a t-shirt that's got splotches of blood on it and no Eric.

"Where's E?" Vince asks, first thing, even before the man half-steps, half-falls out of the Jeep.

Diego babbles in rapid Spanish that Vince can't really understand, so he grabs the guy by the shoulders and gives him a rough shake. Then Diego sort of sags and makes choking noises that could be sobs, and that feeling in Vince's stomach worsens.

It's another hour before Diego is calm enough to talk to them in English. And then Vince actually does throw up.

Not at first, because first he has to sit there with Turtle and Johnny and Billy and the rest of the cast and listen to Diego talk about the fact that even though they have a pretty decent chunk of the Colombian Army available for filming, the guys can't do dick about the fact that the jungles are run by factions of rebel guerillas who work for the cartels.

All of this would have been good information to have had before something like this happened.

Except, Vince realizes, as he listens shell-shocked to Diego talk in halting English, E probably did know about it. He probably knew from the beginning, and that was why he and Ari made such a big deal about Vince getting that extra insurance before they left the States.

The gist, as far as Vince can tell, is that the wreck happened ten miles outside of Bogotá. Diego swerved to avoid hitting a guy with an AK-47 and ran into a ditch. Suddenly instead of one guy with a Kalashnikov, there were half a dozen of them. They were guys who probably had ties to the revolutionaries and who saw an easy target in the American with the dress shirt and the expensive watch and his wallet full of plastic and pesos. Diego says that Eric tried to fight the first guy who grabbed for him because, Vince thinks, that's who he is. He's the type to fight back. Though, according to Diego, it got him nothing but a smash to the face with the butt of one of the guns that left him unconscious. And then the men took what little money Diego had on his person, and took E, and left.

Diego had to walk the ten miles into the capital, where he spent all day talking with the policía and trying to get in touch with his brother-in-law to borrow his truck to come back.

"Did the pigs say anything?" Billy asks, because by the time it occurs to anyone to ask questions, Vince is pretty much useless. "Any instructions or shit like that?"

The only instruction they gave Diego was to wait, as the involvement of a foreign national – particularly an American citizen – complicated things for the local law enforcement. The kidnappers had Eric's cell phone, so Vince could expect a ransom call. The Bogotá police were getting in touch with the Colombian liaison to the FBI and wanted him to call if the suspects called with demands before U.S. agents were able to get out there.

Vince manages to wait until that point to push away from the group that has gathered in the town cantina. He makes it all of ten feet outside the bar before he sinks to his knees and heaves onto the dirt. His arms are shaking and his mouth tastes like acid that isn't all from the vomit: some of it's from the fear. And he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand on his back.

"You all right, Vin?" Turtle sounds more serious than Vince has ever heard him.

He doesn't answer, just lets his head hang back down, because he's having really hard time dealing with the fact that, right now, E could be dead. Not movie dead where the squids explode and you have to wash off a nasty mixture of corn syrup and red food coloring, but very real, rigor mortis, never-get-to-talk-to-you-ever-again dead. He heaves again and there's a new set of hands on his other side.

He's pretty sure that's Johnny. It's gotta be. No one else would wear that much cologne in the middle of the rainforest.

"He's gonna be fine, bro," Johnny says, low and trying desperately for convincing.

Vince sags sideways against his brother's shoulder and is grateful for the support. So grateful, in fact, he doesn't point out that this is some of the shittiest acting that Johnny has ever done.

The thing is, if something like this had happened any other way, Vince would have deferred to E and gone on with the job. Then E would have called the right people and they would have come in and just like that the problem would have been gone.

But that's the fucking problem. There is no E, there's just Vince. So he calls the only person he can think of, trying to get something – anything – accomplished. He's been on the phone with Ari for over an hour now, trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do.

"What do you do? You don't fucking do anything. You go back to work and wait for the FBI to get there, and then you smile and do whatever the fuck they tell you to."

"E could be dead, Ari," Vince spits, and it's scary as fuck how easy that's become to say in the last, excruciatingly long 24 hours -- which every cop show he has ever seen, from "Law and Order" to that cheesy one with the math nerd, has told him is the most important time in a kidnapping.

"I'm well aware of that fact. And as irritating as the little leprechaun is, I can honestly say I hope he isn't. If only because it'll get Lloyd to stop fucking crying." There's a loud bang as if Ari has thrown something at one of the windows in his office.

"Ari," Vince says, trying very hard to keep it from coming out as a plea. "That doesn't help me. It's your fucking job to fucking help me."

"I'm a talent agent, for Christ's sake, Vince, not Jack Bauer. What do you want me to, hijack a plane, fly to Colombia and dig your little munchkin friend of out of the jungle? I would, but my wife would saw my dick off with an old piano wire, and I don't like E that much."

Vince deflates, sinking down to sit on his ass in the yellow dust. He leans back against one of the oh-so-authentic adobe buildings. "Why isn't anyone official here yet? It's been two days since they took him."

Ari sighs. It's the first time he's sounded suitably serious. "I don't know. I called the L.A. division the second after I got off the phone with Walsh, but I don't control the inner workings of the fucking federal government. If I did, I'd pay a lot less on my taxes."

A muscle twitches in Vince's jaw. He really doesn't want to break. He never has before. Ever. Not even when his dad had still lived at home and made a habit of beating on him and his siblings. But he'd had Eric to help him hold shit together back then.

"I need him to be okay," he says, so softly he's almost not sure he spoke.

There's a long silence that makes him question even more, then Ari speaks. "I'm so many types of uncomfortable with this," he replies dryly. "If you want to do the weepy shit, I'm going to put you on the line with Lloyd."

Vince laughs for the first time since before Diego stumbled out of his brother-in-law's truck. It tears from his chest, choked and ragged for a moment before he buries his face in his tucked up knees as the laughter shifts into tears because there's something inherently wrong and painful about laughing when E's…when he could be…. He flips his cell shut as quickly as he can because he really, really doesn't need to have Ari hear him crying.

When he can finally breathe without hiccupping, he looks up to find Billy standing over him. He looks sheepish and really uncomfortable but determined.

Vince takes a deep breath and doesn't rub his face because goddamn it, if he doesn't acknowledge the tears on his face then they're not really there. That's basic, Survival 101. Fake being okay until you are okay. So he gives Billy his million-dollar smile.

"What's up, Billy?" he asks with false cheer.

"The pigs are finally here," he says, with a hint of distain in his tone. "They want to talk to you."

Vince nods and climbs to his feet, then follows Billy back to the trailers. Johnny and Turtle are tripping over themselves around two real, live FBI agents, and Vince just wants them to fix it.

Agent Fuentes and Agent Mason are everything the movies have led Vince to believe FBI agents would be, only worse dressers. Fuentes is a beautiful Latina woman with a thick accent and a guarded expression. Mason is a built, middle-aged black guy. They tell him shit he already knows from movies about timetables and then they give him new information. They give him survival statistics, most of which are bad. They tell him how very much the U.S. is not kidding about negotiating with terrorists, under any circumstances. They tell him that paying a ransom doesn't always mean getting your loved one back.

That's what Fuentes calls E, his loved one. No one corrects her.

They spend a long time talking about the FARC rebels, a group of supposed freedom fighters, and their drug ties. They give him a goddamn history lesson, and Vince honestly could care less. The things he needs to know are bullet points: kidnapping is a form of income that keeps their faction in business; it's about profit not people; they have lots of guns and enough power to keep the Colombian military from wanting to stir shit up. They're the guys who like to kill DEA agents.

Vince feels shaky and he sits down on one of the smallish couches between Turtle and Johnny, who are currently sitting on their stashes, and he just wants a drink. Or to throw up again. Or, even better, to wake up from the fucking nightmare he's stuck in where E isn't there to translate the chaos into something he can understand.

"If he is still alive, chances are you're going to get a phone call in the next twenty-four hours," Mason says. "Until then, the best thing you can do is try to get back to normal as much as you can."

Vince doesn't laugh at how ridiculous the concept of normalcy feels right now. He wants to, but the last time he laughed he lost it and he's not going to lose it again in front of the guys. He won't. He can't.

So they wait. For about six excruciatingly long hours, the entirety of the cast and crew seems to hold their breath. Vince keeps his phone charged and says more prayers than he ever has in his entire life.

And then his phone starts vibrating and the letter E pops up on the caller ID.

Fuentes makes him wait two rings, fiddling with some kind of electronic equipment, before she lets him pick up the phone.

"E?"

"Señor Chase?" It's a man with a thick accent, not Eric.

"Yes?" His voice shakes.

"You have something we want."

He takes a deep breath. This is just scene. It's just a part. He's playing the role of cool guy talking to the kidnapper. There's even a camera, in the hands of one of the British documentarians, and that helps. This isn't real. He has to believe, for this moment, that it isn't real.

"What's that?" he asks, in character.

It's a scene. He's acting. He's in this other world, playing the part. He's a guy who isn't terrified. He has to make that reality.

"Five million dollars American, in unmarked pesos. In exchange, you get to find out if your friend is alive or not."

"How long?"

"Take as long as you need," the voice replies in a friendly tone. "If he's dead, he'll still be dead when you get us the money. And if not…" the son of a bitch on the other end of the line lets the statement hang, and Vince has never wanted to kill someone so much before. "Perhaps you should hurry."

Fuentes looks at him. She nods. He's supposed to keep the asshole talking. He can barely think and he's supposed to keep talking? He flounders.

"How do I get in contact with you when I have the money?"

"We will contact you again, Señor Chase. Adios." There's a click, and Vince feels like he's been hit with a sledgehammer when he comes out of character into a real world where he has to pay to find out of his best friend is alive or dead.

He passes the phone off to someone, he doesn't know who, and cuts out of the trailer. He is so fucking sick of this godforsaken country and this goddamn jungle. But most of all, he's sick of not being able to talk to Eric about all this.

So a few hours later, when the guy who's leading the documentary team politely asks him if he wants to talk, he says sure. It's not something he'd normally do, but he left normal behind days ago. Honestly, Vince doesn't know if he'll ever have normal again.

"Can you tell us what's happened?"

Chase runs a hand through his hair and rubs at his eyes.

"They're asking for five million."

"For the return of Eric Murphy?"

Chase's eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks tiredly into the camera. He shakes his head and gives a desperately sad smile.

"For proof of life."

His hand is rubbing at his chest now, over his sternum through the fabric of his worn t-shirt. He looks lost, overwhelmed.

"Look, I know you guys are making your big movie, but I need this to not go out to anyone until-" He stops, squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. "Until we get E back. Okay? I don't give a shit what you do with this afterwards."

"Of course." There's silence as he stares blankly at something behind or beyond the camera. "Are you going to pay the kidnappers?"

"Yeah," he says softly. There're tears welling in his eyes but they don't fall. "Just…fuck, I don't know how. Every fucking dollar we have, me and E, is sunk into this fucking film. I mean, Jesus, I don't have ten bucks to give them, let alone five million."

He stops again, presses his palms against his eyes. His breathing is loud and when he speaks, it's at a higher than usual volume. "The Feds don't have shit and I've called Ari. I keep calling Ari about finding the money but-" He stops and pulls his hands away from his eyes. There's a little moisture on his lashes and it almost glitters in the afternoon light.

He swallows. He licks his lips. He takes another deep breath. "I just have no fucking idea how we're going to do this. There's no E without money. There's no money without the movie. There's no movie without E." He gives a strained laugh and stares into the camera with dark eyes. "That's the worst thing, you know? E would know how to fix this. He'd know."

It's Turtle's idea, and it's goddamn brilliant, if he does say so himself. It's been a week since the day Eric left for Bogotá and production has ground to a halt it can ill afford because they've lost a producer and the star is in no shape to work. The three of them are in Vince's trailer, beers firmly in hand, trying to keep Vince from going into a full-on tailspin.

Turtle's not stupid, and it doesn't take a genius to see what the whole thing is doing to Vince. He's a freakin' zombie, wandering around all silent and dead-eyed, the walking wounded trying to pass for okay.

Not that Turtle's okay. He isn't. Far from it. He's scared shitless that they're going to shell out five million dollars only to get E's head in a box like in Se7en.

But he's been friends with Vince and E from almost the beginning, and he's got eyes. Since junior high it was the three of them, Vince and Eric and him. But before that, and at the center, it's always been Vince and Eric, like together they're one whole person or something.

Not that Vince is gay or nothing but there's something there. And it's big. Big enough that he actually takes the chance and makes his pretty damn brilliant suggestion.

"I think we should call Sloan," he says finally, after the third beer, because he honestly has no idea how that idea's going to go over. "She's got money, and it's E. I think she'd help."

There's a really long silence during which time Drama watches Vince and Vince stares down Turtle until he finally can't take it and looks away. He really can't handle Vince's eyes when they're all sad like that.

"Vin?"

"I'll call her," he says softly. He's kind of empty since E got taken. It's like a ghost of the Vince he's used to. "I don't have her number on me. I didn't need it. I…I'm going to call Ari. He can probably get Lloyd to find it."

"I can do it for you, bro, if you want." Johnny offers. Which is a fucking decent thing for Drama to do, Turtle thinks. Drama's kicked into mother hen overdrive since the shit's hit the fan, and a lot of the time Turtle just wants to smack him and tell him to leave Vince the fuck alone. A lot of the time he does. Not this time.

Vince shakes his head and spins his beer bottle around so that the label is facing him. He starts to pick at it, staring blankly.

Turtle thinks that a part of Vince doesn't really want to know. He thinks it's got nothing the fuck to do with the money and everything to do with the fact that as long as they don't have a definitive answer, there's a chance that E's still alive. And once they pay, there's a real chance that they're going to find out once and for all that he's dead. The same basic concept kept Turtle from taking the SATs back in high school.

"It's late," Vince says. "I'll call tomorrow."

"Good," Turtle replies. "I'm sure he's fine, Vince. It can wait a few hours."

Vince nods. "Yeah. I'm going to bed."

"I'll walk with you," Drama offers, but Turtle grabs him by the arm and yanks, glaring. He doesn't need to, though. Vince just shakes his head.

"I'm fine. I'm just tired. See you tomorrow, guys."

He leaves, the trailer door flapping shut behind him, and Turtle lets go of Drama's arm.

"What the hell was that?" Drama demands. "I was just trying to help."

"You gotta to ease up, man. Jesus, you're worse than your mother."

Which brings the conversation to a screeching fucking halt. Because Mrs. Murphy has no idea. No. Fucking. Idea. If she did, she'd be on the first flight to Bogotá, no questions asked. And then she'd be here. And fuck, she would probably cry. Even if they found out that Eric was still in one piece.

He's already tired of that line of thinking jangling around all by itself in his head. So he puts it out there, in the wide fucking open.

"Drama?"

"What?"

"What are we gonna do if he's dead?"

He's never broached the question before. It's like there's some unspoken commandment among the group – thou shall not allow thyself to think that E is fucking dead.

Drama shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and takes a sip of his beer. "He's not dead."

"But what if he is?"

"He's not."

"Drama…" Turtle sighs. "What if he is?"

Drama's face falls like a freaking mudslide. It's not a comforting expression. "If he is, which he's not, then we watch Vince," he says finally. "I don't know what else we do, but we do that."

"Yeah," Turtle says numbly.

He knows Drama is right; he's Vince's big brother, and he's fucked up a lot but the one thing he's never fucked up on is in his sincere attempts to protect Vince when he needs it. And he just wanted to be sure that Drama sees what he does.

"But he's not dead," Drama says again with every confidence. "So it's a moot point anyway."

Turtle chuckles and nods. Drama can't act. He's god-awful at it. But he's really good at making himself believe his own press.

The phone rings at nine in the morning, waking Vince from a fitful and hard won sleep. He gropes desperately for the phone, in the constant hope that this time it's that nameless Colombian man with information on the other end.

But it's not. It's Sloan McQuewick. She's in tears on the other line.

"Have you heard anything?" she asks on a hiccupping sob. "Vince, have you heard anything about Eric?"

"Sloan?"

"Vince, is he okay? Do you know anything they're not showing in the news?"

Before he's even awake enough to process this question, his phone beeps with another incoming call. "Hang on." He hits a button and there's another weeping woman on his phone.

"Vincent Chase, how could you not tell me!"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Diane Murphy's voice is right there in his ear, heartbroken.

"God, Diane," he breathes, and Jesus Christ, he really hadn't thought he could feel worse.

"Vincent, please." Her voice breaks, and she starts to cry, and Vince suddenly can't breathe.

"Diane, I'm so sorry," he says, and he means it with everything in him. "I didn't want you to worry."

"Worry? I'm on the verge of a heart attack, Vincent! Just…please, is there anything you can tell me?"

"No," he whispers, because if he tries to speak any louder he may just cry too.

"Oh God, my Eric." She's crying even harder.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and he is. He's so fucking sorry he ever even looked at the Medellín script.

"I…I have to go. I'm going to come down there and – "

"Diane, don't. You're better off waiting there." And she is. If not for her then for Vince. If she comes to Colombia he won't be able to function.

"You have to call me. You have to call me if anything happens. Anything."

"I will," he promises. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"I know," she says softly. "I love you, Vincent. You're like a second son to me and I-" Her voice breaks off in a sob, and Vince's chest aches.

"I have to go," he says softly. "I can call you back."

"Please," she implores.

"I will. I'll call you later."

"Take care," she says softly, and then she hangs up and suddenly he's on the line with Sloan.

"Vince?"

She's far more composed than she was when he put her on hold. For that he's extremely grateful.

"Hey, Sloan. Sorry about that."

"Vince, it's all over the news. What happened?"

He tells the shortest version of it he can. Then he hits her up for money. He feels like a complete sleaze, but he needs to find out about E more than he needs to like himself.

"Five million?" she repeats.

"If I weren't desperate," he says, swallowing down pride, "I would never, ever ask you. But Sloan, they're not even going to tell us if he's alive or not without it."

He can hear her take a deep breath over the line. She speaks on the exhale. "You know I will, Vince."

He could kiss her in that moment, a big wet one right on the lips, forgetting the fact that she doesn't date actors and he's not quite sure if she and E are still together or not. None of that matters, because he loves her then, purely and deeply.

"God, thank you," he laughs, from nothing more than unadulterated relief. "Thank you."

"Vince," she says in a voice that shoots him down from his momentary high, "this isn't to get them to let him go though, is it?"

"No."

"I…Vince, if you talk to him, if they let you, if he's not-" She stops herself from saying it. "You'll tell him I'm sorry, wont you? I just…I really need him to know that I'm sorry. For the way we left it."

Vince realizes with a sort of crystal clarity that Sloan thinks Eric is going to die, if he isn't dead already. It's in her voice. It's in her words. She's given up. She still cares, a lot, but she doesn't think Eric is going to come back from this.

"I will," he promises anyway.

He's making a lot of women promises today. He's never really done that before.

"I'd be careful going out today. I know there's some AP people where you are, I think, I don't know if they have video or not," she advises, turning back into something resembling the sensible woman she is normally, like Cinderella's pumpkin at midnight.

"Thank you, Sloan," he says. "For everything."

"The check should get to you by tomorrow. I'll get it there by courier."

"You're amazing," he tells her, and means it despite her doubt.

"Take care of yourself, Vince," she says softly. "Remember to eat, that sort of thing. You owe it to yourself."

He can't help but smile. She likes him as a person. She always has always. It's what's made her his favorite of E's girlfriends. "I will."

"Call if it's not there by tomorrow night."

"I will."

It all feels very final. Like something just ended, but he's not quite sure what.

"Ari Gold's office."

"Put him on, Lloyd."

"Oh my god, Vince. How are you?"

"Put. Him. On. The. Phone. Now," Vince growls, and Lloyd knows it's completely inappropriate to find that sexy, all things considered. But it is sexy, and mitigating circumstances or no, that's a fact.

Lloyd glances over at Ari, who is pacing his empty office like a caged tiger. "He's in a meeting."

"Goddamn it, Lloyd, tell him he can pick up the phone right fucking now or I'm going to get myself a new agent. Josh Weinstein's always looking for talent. "

Lloyd sighs. "Hold please."

"Yeah," Vince snaps. He's angry, and Lloyd can't blame him one tiny bit. If it were Tom in some Colombian hellhole? He'd be testy too.

No, that's not true. He wouldn't be testy. He'd be an out and out disaster. It's a bit of a miracle to Lloyd that Vince is together enough to be this angry.

He puts Vince on hold and buzzes Ari.

"Ari?"

"I told you not unless the building was on fire!" he bellows, unnecessarily, because Lloyd can hear him just fine through the intercom, thank you.

Lloyd rolls his eyes. At least his job isn't boring. "Ari, I have Vincent Chase on line one for you."

"Tell him I'm not here." He watches Ari pinch his nose. He's in so much trouble, and he knows it.

"I did. He didn't believe me."

"Well, tell him something else. It's your job to lie for me, Lloyd."

"You don't pay me well enough for me to do that to him right now," Lloyd drawls, which isn't entirely true. Ari pays him very well – for an assistant. But Eric is his favorite, and Vince is his second favorite, and the two of them together are cute as kittens and hot as Brad Pitt in Troy. And half of that combination, his favorite half in fact, is in very serious trouble, and, well, that trumps Ari's bluster.

"Lloyd!"

Lloyd crosses his arms. He knows Ari can see him do it. "Don't you shout at me, Ari Gold. You made your bed, now you have to sleep in it."

"Fucking cocksucker," Ari snaps.

Lloyd smiles because yes, yes he is. And damn good at it, too. Why just this morning, in fact. A "I'm so glad you're not the one being held hostage and possibly dead in the jungle" blowjob between boyfriends before work did a lot for his attitude.

"And?" he asks cheerfully, because today is not the day to play defense.

Ari grumbles under his breath. Today, Lloyd is unflappable. He steadfastly refuses to be flapped.

"Should I put him through?"

"No."

"I'm putting him through."

"You're fired."

"No, I'm not."

"Motherfu-"

"What the fuck, Ari?"

It's Vince's voice and, okay, he probably should turn off the feed at his end, but he's curious. If Ari has taught him anything it's that the way to get ahead in this town is to play for keeps. So he spins the microphone of his earpiece away from his mouth and settles in, his eyes locked on Ari.

"Vinny, my boy, how's it going?"

"It's day ten of 'where the fuck is my best friend?' How do you think it's going? It's going really fucking bad, same as always, only now there's fucking reporters here. How did reporters find out about this, Ari?"

He's angry. No, beyond angry. He's enraged, furious. And Ari has started pacing again.

"How the fuck should I know? Maybe they're listening on the police scanner. Those guys always have someone they're blowing in the LAPD office."

"Yeah. That would make sense. If this weren't a fucking international case. Jesus Christ, Ari, you do realize that this could get him killed, don't you?"

"Vince-"

"Fine. Try and tell me you didn't do this. And if you lie to me, so help me God, I'm gone. I'll go work with Terrance McQuewick, and I won't look back."

And Lloyd blinks in shock, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. For the first time, Vincent Chase sounds like an adult instead of a little boy playing the part of a man.

Ari heaves a heavy sigh. "All right, I may have called Shauna."

"Fuck! Ari!" Lloyd winces at his shouts. "Do you have any idea-"

Ari cuts him off. "Do you? You can't buy publicity like this, Vinny. Don't you get this? You have no fucking money. You're broke as the Clampets before they hit oil. This little project of yours? It has to work. Because you can't even afford to get his remains out of there if Medellín tanks."

"He's not dead, Ari," Vince says softly.

Ari scratches his jaw. Lloyd can practically see the gears in his brain working; he's trying to figure out how to twist this, how to get what he wants and not get fired all at the same time.

"You know, I really hope he isn't. But it's been 10 days. You have to consider that maybe he is, and if he were what would he want." His tone is one Lloyd's has only heard him take with his children.

Vince's, on the other hand, is shaky and desperate. "I can't think about that. It doesn't matter. What does is getting him back, and I shouldn't have to do that with two dozen fucking cameras in my face, Ari."

Lloyd notices Ari scratch at that spot above his eyebrow. He always does that when he's about to lie and lie big.

"I'm sorry if it upset you, Vince, but I did it for you. I thought that drawing attention to the situation would help. Get those letter writing campaigns started, all that." He makes a face that he would never make if Vince were in front of him. Like he just stepped in shit. Which of course he has.

"I'm this close to shutting down production all together." Vince sighs, the weight of worlds in his voice.

In the blink of an eye, Lloyd watches Ari slip from calm, cool, and collected into full blown panic. He's biting down on his mouse pad and throwing stuff off his desk and generally doing all the things Ari does when he's in the middle of a freak-out.

"Vince, Vince, let's not get hasty. You, me, and E poured blood, sweat, and tears into that movie."

"And look where it got us," Vince replies, in a tone that is just so heartbroken that if Lloyd ever doubted for a moment that he was in love with Eric, he doesn't anymore.

The tiny part of his brain that isn't following Ari's movements and the conversation raptly wonders if Vince has any idea how far gone he is. That small, hopelessly romantic spot ponders if, God willing this all ends well, he should try and invite Vince and Eric to go out with him and Tom. They could double.

"It got you on location, Vince. It got you to the fucking proverbial Mount Everest. Now you have to climb it. I know you're down one Sherpa guide right now but you gotta make the summit of that fucker anyway. You have to do it. It's right there."

Vince heaves a heavy sigh. Lloyd knows that right about there Eric would have pointed out that people died climbing Everest, if he were here. But he isn't. And no one is going to mention death again while Vince is on the line.

"I need you to call Shauna, and figure out a way to get these reporters out of here. The news is upsetting E's mom."

"I'll get on that."

"I mean it."

"If you get back to work, I'll make sure they're all on a plane back to the States by tomorrow night."

"All of them?"

"As many as I can," Ari amends, making it a promise he can probably keep. Lloyd has no doubt that he can feed the story perfectly well from L.A. "Vince, you can't afford to throw away your career right now. Neither can E."

There's a long moment were Ari visibly holds his breath and Lloyd holds it right along with him. It's the longest five seconds in the history of the universe.

"I want them gone, Ari."

Ari punches the air viciously, then runs a hand over his scalp. Not a hint of his relief is in his voice though. "Beautiful. I can do that. Just get that pretty face back to work."

"For the record, you and me? We're not okay."

"Fine. Go and pretend to be an infamous drug lord."

"Go to hell, Ari," Vince says before he hangs up.

But he doesn't fire Ari. And he doesn't argue. All of which Lloyd counts as a win. Ari does, too; it's obvious in the way he collapses into his chair.

"That went well," Lloyd says, spinning his headpiece so the mic is closer to his mouth.

"Lloyd?"

"Yes."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing eavesdropping on me?"

"Learning." Then Lloyd rises from his seat, hangs up the phone, and walks into Ari's office. He makes sure the door is closed behind him. "Calling reporters was a really mean thing to do, Ari."

Ari isn't usually the kind of guy to explain himself. But Lloyd's talked to his wife. He loves Ari's wife. She's fantastic, but that's beside the point. The point is that thanks to one of his recent talks with her, he knows that Ari hasn't been sleeping well. He knows that despite everything, he cares, that he's just as worried about Eric as everyone else.

He knows that's probably why Ari actually gives him an answer to his not-question.

"They're almost two weeks behind schedule, Lloyd. I need people to know why. Besides, it looks good. The producer of a movie about a drug lord held captive and possibly killed by rebels with ties to drug lords? It's so wild that it gets the attention of everyone from the studio heads to the SUV driving soccer-moms."

Lloyd nods then says, "So you capitalized on the fact that Eric is still missing." It's stating the obvious, but he's been dying to know since he turned on the news this morning.

Ari rubs his face. "Yeah. I did. Terrance fucking called me about the check his little girl cut and sent first class to South America. If Vince gets his best friend back in a body bag, they're going to need all the publicity they can get. "

Lloyd studies Ari. He knows him better than anyone except maybe Ari's wife, and he knows that right now Ari is feeling uncharacteristically honest.

"Do you really think Eric's dead?"

Ari inhales loudly through his nose and scrubs his face. Then he looks Lloyd square in the eye. "I think it's been almost two weeks. By this point, Lacy Peterson had already started to float."

"Ari-"

Ari cuts him off. "I need you to get Shauna on the phone." He waves a hand. "Now." Lloyd nods and trots out of the office.

He pulls up Shauna's number and is five digits in when he hangs up. He shakes his head sadly and starts over. Same area code, but he dials Tom's cell phone instead. Lloyd needs to tell him that he loves him. Besides, he knows that Ari could use the extra five minutes to get himself together, even if Ari doesn't.

The phone call comes exactly two hours after the payment is delivered to the drop point as per the kidnapper's demands. Fuentes and Mason had people watching the site, a crowded corner on the main street in Bogotá, but they didn't see anyone pick it up. The ransom was just suddenly gone.

And then Vince's phone rang with a restricted caller ID.

Please, he prays, don't let this be instructions on where to pick up Eric's body. Please don't be that cruel. Please, please, please. "Hello?"

"Vince? Is that you?"

He would know that voice anywhere.

"E," he breathes. One syllable has never meant so much. Vince wants to cry. He wants to jump up and punch the sky. He wants do a hundred different things, but mostly he just wants Eric to keep talking. "E, are you okay?"

"I…yeah. Okay enough, I guess. The food is shit and the room service sucks."

Vince laughs, and there are suddenly tears streaming down his face. He doesn't fucking care that his boys and his fellow cast and crew members and the agents and the British guys, who he's let in mostly to spite the Associated Press reporters crawling around the set, are all looking at him. Eric is alive and he's being a smart ass and Vince's heart is going to explode right out of his chest he's so relieved.

"It's really good to hear your voice, man."

"Yours, too. Vince, I don't think they're going to let me have much time."

"Eric." He never uses his full name. "I am so fucking glad you're alive."

"That was fucked up of them," E says softly. "I'm sorry, Vince. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"It's all right, E. It'll be all right."

"I hope so," E says, ever the fucking pragmatist.

"It will be," Vince promises. "It'll be all right. We're going to get you home. We've got to. I mean, people know you're gone."

They know he's gone, but Fuentes hisses to him that they can't get a track on Eric. He's on one of those disposable cell phones, and they're lucky the line hasn't cut out yet. She gives him a look that says that she doesn't think he should make promises that cant be necessarily be kept.

"I…yeah. Okay. How's the movie going?"

"You're a fucking asshole," Vince laughs.

"You can't afford to stop, Vince," Eric says, and Vince realizes that Jesus Christ, he's really serious about this. "I want you to keep working on it."

"Fuck you, E. I thought you were dead."

"I know but-"

"No, goddamn it. No, you don't know. Fuck, E, I thought you were dead and it almost killed me."

There's silence. It's wasteful and Vince hates it. They don't have enough time for this. Who knows what the kidnappers are going to ask for next and they might never get another chance.

"Vince…"

He hangs his head, he doesn't want to be seen, even though he knows the Brits' boom mic can pick up his words. "I don't think I can make it without you, E."

"Yes, you can, Vince. You always could."

The way E says that makes Vince very, very scared. He thinks this must be what it felt like to get a phone call from someone on a plane that was going to crash.

"I don't want to. Don't be stupid and make me."

"I'm tryin'."

"Try harder."

E laughs a little. "I will."

Then Vince remembers. "Sloan says she's sorry. And your mom, she's worried about you."

"Jesus, tell them-"

He doesn't need to hear it. He knows what he's going to say. He just knows that E needs to know. "I will."

"Vince, I…" He sighs. "You know?"

And that's the thing. He does. He's known since he was six years old.

"Yeah. I know."

He's not even remotely ready for it when the line goes dead. It's like having a limb cut off to lose that connection. But E's voice is still ringing in his ears, and he can finally breathe again.