A/N: I am embarrassed and really, really confused. I could have sworn I posted this part two weeks ago, at least. It wasn't until I went to post the next chapter I realized that according to the site, this chapter never posted. My apologies!

Part 30

JD stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, leaning his head into the chill, moisture-laden breeze. Spring in Denver this year was as wet and cold as the winter that had preceded it.

The streets were dark and quiet in the early morning hush. Behind him the hospital stretched across four blocks, lit and bustling regardless of hour. After his phone call with Alicia, JD had felt driven to escape the overheated corridors, his desperate search for balance leading him out into the cold night.

He walked quickly, an almost-jog, up the gentle rise another block, stopping when he came to a pocket park - an empty lot between two buildings turned into a small playground. For a minute he just looked around, then walked slowly over to three swings descended from metal bars over a sawdust-filled area. Selecting the middle swing, he pushed off with his feet and felt the sway of the swing.

He'd always loved to swing. Even before he was old enough to go to school, his mom would take him to the nearby playground in the evenings. Back then she'd been the live-in housekeeper for one of Boston's blueblood families, and they'd lived in their own tiny apartment on the fourth floor of a Beacon Hill brownstone. After the evening meal was served and cleaned up, her time was her own - or rather, JD's. They'd walk, hand in hand, the two blocks through the darkening streets. Little JD would hop onto a swing and his mom would push him higher and higher.

In many ways those were the best days of his childhood. The Harrimans probably didn't pay his mother as much as they could have, but the little apartment was free and their own. JD and his mom ate in the main house kitchen but they ate the same food the family did, and JD was always invited to play with the grandchildren when they came to visit. They had a twice-weekly cleaning service that came in to help his mom. Julia Dunne had always had time to spend with her little boy, and she always managed to save plenty from her weekly check.

JD had been nine when Mrs. Harriman died. He and his mom had suddenly moved away from the Beacon Hill house to a tiny apartment on the Back Bay. His mom started doing daily work, sometimes two or three houses a day. JD didn't understand at first. He knew Mrs. Harriman's daughter-in-law had asked his mom to stay on, he'd heard her. He had still thought of the Beacon Hill brownstone as "home" and was secretly resentful of his mother for making them move.

It was years later - on her deathbed - when Julia Dunne told him why they'd left. Robert Harriman, old Mrs. Harriman's son and heir, had told Julia if she wanted to keep her job, she'd make a place for him in her bed. JD's mom had said, "He had a different idea than I did of what a housekeeper did. But I'm sorry we had to move, honey. I know that was home for you."

She'd died before JD could tell her the truth - that his home was where she was.

Now, on a cold night 2500 miles from the city he'd grown up in, he was homeless again. The loft apartment he'd shared with Buck for over two years was gone. He'd been luckier than Buck - there hadn't been as much destruction in his room and he'd reclaimed some clothes and valuables, including his mementoes of his mother. And he'd had his laptop with him. But still, so much was gone. His books and CDs and the big PC they'd shared...the mismatched kitchen stuff and the "good" stuff in one cupboard - beautiful bone china and real crystal that Buck used when he was cooking a meal for a lady. The big screen TV and the shabby comfortable sofa and the two new deep armchairs they'd bought after tax returns last year.

He grinned, remembering the shorts that had hung on a hook on the living room wall. For months he'd had no idea what they were covering up - neither did the other guys. During beer parties and football games there'd been much speculation but Buck just grinned. No one ever offered to see what was there. Then one night, when Buck was in the hospital after a bust gone bad, JD had ripped the shorts off the wall - and found just more wall. It didn't make any sense to him. He'd never asked Buck about it...when Buck was out of danger and coming home, he'd carefully put the shorts back on the wall. It was just part of home...

Home...

Nobody in Boston could understand why he'd wanted to leave. Bostonians tended to think Boston was the only livable place on earth. His CO with the Boston PD had just shaken his head. "Why the hell you want to go to Denver, Dunne? You can join the ATF and stay right here."

That had been the day after the open meeting with two ATF agents about the new teams being formed. Regional teams. Remtef, one of the agents had said. A bastardized acronym for Regional Mobile Enforcement Team. Four teams to start off: New York City, Miami, Seattle and Denver. If the teams worked out, and the idea took hold, there would be more teams: Boston - a major port city - was already high on the list for its own team.

Why didn't JD just stay where he was and wait for the Boston team?

To JD, his mind was made up when he'd heard one name. Chris Larabee. Former Navy SEAL, former Denver cop, Carte blanch to form his own team in Denver. The minute JD heard that, he'd decided he would be on that team. He would work with Chris Larabee - the closest thing to a real-life hero JD could think of.

He'd begun a campaign of emails, letters, long distance phone calls. He'd scored a mild victory when he'd received a call to go to the local Federal Building to fill out forms, go through a fitness test and a psychological battery. He was proud of his marksman scores but he knew, for his size, his hand-to-hand skills could be better. He'd practiced at the BPD academy.

Still, when Chris Larabee had flown into Boston for a face-to-face interview, JD's hopes were dashed. Larabee leafed through the thick file, then said, "Tell me the truth, kid. Why do you want on my team so bad?"

JD blundered through some explanation, trying not to stammer, afraid to admit even to himself that his "hero" scared the crap out of him. It was something about the cool voice, or maybe the "take no bullshit" glare. The more he tried to talk, the more stupid he felt, and the colder that green-eyed glare got.

Finally Larabee had slammed the file shut. "I'm looking for agents, son. Not a green kid with stars in his eyes."

That hurt because it was so true. But still, anger had given fluency to JD's tongue. "OK, I'm young. And yeah, I think you've done some amazing things, I want to learn from you, be like you. If that makes me a green kid with stars in his eyes, so be it. I think you'd be flattered."

"I don't need flattery, kid."

JD rushed on. "The only cure for being young is getting older. And no matter what, you won't find a better computer guy than me." He wasn't boasting there, well not really - he knew he was damn good. "I'm a good shot, I made high marks at the Academy, and looking as young as I do, I'd be great undercover."

Larabee's eyes widened. "You don't look young, Dunne. You are young, and if you think I'm sending you undercover for at least a year, you're crazy."

JD opened his mouth to argue, then played back what he'd just heard. "Wait a minute. You said...you said...are you saying I've got the job?"

Larabee shrugged, then opened the file one more time and paged through it. "I need a computer guy. You are damn good at that." He hesitated, then mumbled "Damn, Buck is going to never let me live this one down."

"Who's Buck?"

"Buck," Chris answered, putting the folder in his briefcase, "is going to be your own personal mother-hen, kid. And trust me, no one can do it better. I still think your reasons for wanting it are suspect, but you've got the job. How fast can you move to Denver?"

JD remembered now, that plane trip, pushing his feet against the floor of the plane as if he could make it fly faster, his mind a confused welter of thoughts and emotions.

So his dream had come true. He was an ATF agent, the computer expert assigned to the very first Remtef team. He was working with his idol...

His idol...

JD snorted.

Oh, there were plenty of times when Chris Larabee was everything he'd dreamed he'd be. Especially those first few months, when he couldn't see the man beyond the hero he'd placed on a pedestal.

Chris Larabee could be a brilliant strategist, a crack shot, a hand-to-hand expert and a loyal and supportive leader.

He could also be closed-mouthed, closed-minded, hostile, short-tempered and downright mean.

And all those negative qualities seemed to usually be directed, in spades, toward the man Larabee had once called JD's mother hen.

Buck Wilmington.

Friend, brother, roommate, partner, and yes, mother hen, all rolled up into one.

He gave JD a place to live, no, more than that, a home, for the first time since his mother had died. Maybe since the day a nine-year-old kid had had to pack his battered suitcase and leave that brownstone on Beacon Hill.

And more than that, JD had a family again. All the guys, but especially Buck. There were times - especially when Buck was giving him unwarranted advice on how to handle his love life - when JD longed to find his own place. But somehow those times never lasted very long, and there were a lot more times that JD came home, whipped by the world, to the security and just plain fun of having his best friend, his brother in all but name, at his side.

But as loyal and as supportive as Buck was to JD, he was that and more, to Chris. And Chris, JD felt, didn't deserve it.

JD wasn't blind. He knew full well that Buck ran interference for the rest of them with Chris. They all knew it. JD remembered once, quiet Nathan exploding to Josiah, "If Larabee ever talks to me like that, I am out of here!" and Josiah's calm response, "And he never will. He won't have to. Buck will always get in the way."

JD didn't understand it. Hell, half the time - more than half the time - it didn't even seem to bother Buck to be on the receiving end of Chris' moods, Chris' bad temper or sarcastic comments. Sometimes though, it did. JD wondered if he was the only one that saw it, saw Buck at pounding his punching bag for hours, or pacing around the living room in the wee hours of the morning. Those times were worse around certain days of the year...days that the other five team members had finally deduced had to do with birthdays, anniversaries, special days in Chris' life and in his family's.

You couldn't talk to Buck about Chris. Buck might get pissed off at Chris sometimes, maybe, but no one else could say anything bad about him without Buck leaping to his defense. Buck insisted Chris was as loyal to him as he was to Chris. Sometimes JD thought he saw that, but most of the time...take the time Vin had been shot and Chris had jumped all over Buck...hell, he'd tried to beat the crap out of him, without ever giving Buck a chance to tell his side. Then it had turned out not to be Buck's fault, and Chris had just gone on like nothing had happened. He'd never even apologized. Well, not where JD could hear, at least.

JD slowed, running shoes scuffing the sawdust below the swing. The cold night air wasn't doing much to clear his head. He stared unseeingly at the lights of Denver, his mind spinning.

Why hadn't Buck ever told him about his past? About his long history with Chris? Damn it, about being a Navy SEAL? JD had always thought Buck told him everything; now he realized how little he knew about his best friend.

Chris would know. Chris did know. He was privy to all that past Buck never discussed with JD.

Chris was the one Buck turned to when he needed help. Not JD. Buck had designated Chris his legal next of kin. Not JD. Not the one who lived with him, who cherished him, who thought of Buck as his brother.

JD shivered, cold from the inside out.

Their apartment was gone. Home was gone. When he got out of the hospital, Buck would go to the ranch with Chris. The ranch was Buck's real home, maybe it always had been.

Where was JD's home now?

Half unaware of what he was doing, he slid from the swing and started retracing his steps to the hospital. Desperately trying to convince himself the fear, the sudden loss that had welled up from deeply hidden scars was untrue. Buck was his friend. His best friend. No matter what was between Chris and Buck...what had been between them, Buck had JD now...

JD had Buck.

Always.

Best friends.

He rode the elevator up to ICU, nodded at the guards on the doors. Walking past the waiting areas, he vaguely noted Vin in a corner, embracing a woman. Monica Hastings. He averted his eyes, still not believing Vin could be interested in that woman.

In ICU he started toward Buck's cubicle. A young cop, his uniform crackling with newness, made as if to intercept him, but the older cop - JD recognized him but couldn't remember his name - stopped the other one and motioned for JD to go on.

As he neared the cubicle he could hear voices. His heart quickened when he saw that Buck's eyes were opened.

Buck was awake!

His step quickened, then he froze as he heard the words-

"There seems to be some scar tissue under and around this mark on his neck. I'm assuming it was a fairly severe injury, but there's no mention of anything in his medical record. Do you know what happened? It had to be a very fine, very sharp instrument that caused this -"

"Chris!" That was Buck. His voice choked, barely more than a whisper. Was he afraid?

Then Chris, the voice cold and emotionless.

"It was a knife, a sharp edged French boning knife." An angry pause, then the voice again, flat, emotionless. "I did it."

Fury rushed through JD, rage so hot and bright and real he could taste it, see it. He started forward. Chris had done that to Buck. Chris had held a knife to his throat and pressed hard enough to see Buck's blood spill over the blade. Chris had injured Buck, an injury so bad it still affected him had caused all that trouble with the airway and the respirator

And Buck had never told JD. Even when JD asked about that scar...Buck lied. Lied to protect the one who had hurt him.

His hand curled into a fist, he didn't even feel the pain when he punched Chris. All he could see was that smirk on Larabee's face and feel the desire to wipe it away. To protect Buck. To avenge Buck.

"You son of a bitch!" He could barely hear his voice over the roaring in his ears, but the words sprang from his heart, from the anger and the fear. Tears of rage blinded his eyes. "I'll fucking kill you!"

tbc