thanks so much for the encouraging reviews!

Another rather important author's note that I totally forgot: the concept for this story was inspired by a 'The Sentinel' Jim/Blair story called "One is the Loneliest Number" written by Alyjude. I did run this by her before going ahead with this story because though this IS quite different, her story spurred the idea on and she was kind enough to let me borrow a little from it. (It's a great story btw, I recommend anything of hers)

The scene was one of organized chaos when Chris and Vin arrived. Larabee parked the truck haphazardly next to a fire engine and jumped out, ignoring the call from Vin or the sound of Josiah slamming his brakes to miss hitting him.

Despite the rain, people were everywhere. Firefighters still doused areas of the smoldering wreckage of the house while others coordinated with both the local police and FBI agents to hold the growing crowds of curious onlookers back a safe distance.

Ignoring the local officer trying to explain the boundaries, Chris ducked under the sagging yellow perimeter tape and scanned the scene. He spotted a small group around a cruiser and immediately recognized the agent in charge.

Rage burned deep as he realized who had pulled Ezra away from his family on Christmas Eve and put him in this position.

Don Wilson had had it in for Standish for years. Ever since Ezra had arrived in Denver, Wilson had gone out of his way to remind Standish and anyone within hearing distance of the Atlanta fiasco. That Ezra was a rumored dirty agent. And even though there'd never been any irrefutable proof of anything underhanded on Ezra's part, or the years of service in which Standish had proven himself on Team 7—Wilson was one of the agents who continued to paint Ezra with the same tainted brush, time after time.

Now, Wilson sat on the hood of the cruiser while another agent held an umbrella above him and a paramedic worked on bandaging a cut above his right eye. He looked up in time to see Chris coming at him and shot off the hood, pushing the medic away. "Larabee." He held both hands up in front of himself, half in surrender, half in defense. "I know. I know."

Chris grabbed the shaken agent by his jacket and pulled him close. "This is on you, Wilson." He hissed between clinched teeth. "You couldn't leave him alone, could you? You had to drag him into your crap. You had to punish him, yet again, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?" He shook the agent ignoring the roar around him. The paramedic pulling on one arm, the other agent, umbrella abandoned, trying to pry his grip off of Wilson.

"Yes!" Wilson yelled back, not bothering to protect himself. "I know. It was my fault!"

Stunned by the agreement, Chris shoved Wilson back onto the hood. Wilson breathed heavily and waved the other concerned agents away. He swatted the paramedic back as well. "I'm fine," he muttered.

After a moment to catch his breath, Wilson looked up at Chris. "Standish saved my team." His voice shook as he admitted the truth. "I never thought he…It wasn't right. I should have known but I didn't want to believe…"

"I've been telling you he's ok, for years." Chris sagged suddenly, his anger leaching out of him as he turned and looked again at the devastated house. Rain ran down his face and dripped from his soaked hair. "What happened?"

Wilson shook his head, "We were busting a kiddie porn ring. Had a tip that this was a hot spot for production but when we went in…" he sighed heavily and rubbed at his bandaged forehead. "Standish was on his own at the side entrance." He flinched as Chris' glare settled on him, knowing he'd been wrong to leave Ezra without backup.

"We'd no more than entered the premises when he was shouting to get out. I heard him shout that it was a lab, get out and then everything exploded. We barely got clear…two of my guys got caught in the blast but should recover. The whole explosion centered where Standish was though. I don't know…" He faded, not wanting to say what he feared.

"Sir," another agent interrupted. "We've reestablished the radio hook up."

"You've got Ezra?" Chris demanded.

"We've got his radio."

Following Wilson and the other agent towards the com van, Vin fell in step beside Larabee. "Thought you were gonna hit him," he commented calmly.

They stopped and looked at the wreckage. Josiah, Buck and JD were already with the crew of rescuers, ready and waiting to go in. Nathan was questioning one of the on scene paramedics. "I still might," Chris admitted, his fear resurfacing.

Ezra was still under that mess, and somehow they needed to find him.

Ezra came to slowly the second time. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious but he didn't think it'd been very long.

His body trembled uncontrollably now, either from the cold or shock, he wasn't sure which. His fingers ached and, when he tried to flex them, were stiff and slow to respond.

It was easier to breathe now, especially since he could, at least, remember to keep his face turned and his head resting on his arm, up and out of the mud. He tried not to think about the fact that the mud felt deeper, as if it was slowly oozing up around him and instead tried to concentrate on anything else.

A possible rescue? Had Wilson and the other agents made it out of the house safely? Someone had to be on scene by now. There'd been more agents in the communications van, after all. Someone had to be cleaning up the mess…looking for them…for him. Chris would make sure of it.

But Chris wasn't here. The thought hit him like a physical blow. Chris and the rest of the team were enjoying Christmas Eve festivities while believing that he was safely ensconced at some fancy restaurant, having dinner with Maude.

"Chris is gonna kill me," he muttered sluggishly, knowing that when Larabee discovered his lie, the team leader would be furious. Ezra knew that he should have told Larabee the truth about getting called back to work with Wilson, but he hadn't wanted to screw up everyone's Christmas. He knew his team well enough to know that they'd give up their own plans to fight for him and it wouldn't have been right for them to be miserable just because he was going to be.

"Lot of good that thinking did." Now how would they feel? When would they get the news? Tonight? Tomorrow. "Merry freaking Christmas," he slurred.

Shaking violently now, Ezra strained to hear any sounds of rescue,but it was like the world had disappeared around him. All that was left was him in a cold, dark, muddy hole.

He tried to think of some place warm. Of Atlanta at Christmas or better yet—Atlanta in August, when the sun burned so hot and the humidity crept so high that just stepping outside from an air conditioned car or building could literally take your breath away. Ezra smiled at the memory for a moment before he was picturing Larabee's living room with the giant stone fireplace. He could always find warmth there. He could imagine the warmth of the flames as he warmed his hands while in the background his teammates joked.

God, he wished he was there. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting, thinking about the ranch. He felt so weary. So so tired. If he could just sleep for a little while and then try one more time to crawl out of this mess…maybe he could still make it to the ranch.

Ezra's teeth clattered together painfully and he blinked open his eyes again. "Need to stay awake," he realized out loud. Nathan's voice seemed to ring in his ears. It made him think of the radio he had been wearing but he couldn't hear anyone—not even static. He wasn't sure he still wore the radio and he couldn't move his arms to check it. He was simply stuck with nothing but his own voice to keep him alert.

"Sad commentary for Christmas Eve," he admitted but thinking about it he smiled tiredly. "Face it, Standish. Christmas is just not the holiday for you."