Danger Dentist Chapter 2, a magnificent seven fanfic

Disclaimer and et cetera: Please see Chapter 1…

DANGER DENTIST

Chapter 2

"WHAT?! ARE YOU CRAZY? WE'LL BE THERE IN FIVE!"

Chris Larabee came storming out of his office, his face positively Mephistophelian with rage, to find five men standing ready to depart. They fell into step with him as he charged out of their office on the twelfth floor of Denver's Federal Building and ran down the stairs, yelling as he did – "Some lunatic in the Denver PD is claiming Vin's a junkie who's stolen his bike!"

Not breaking their racing stride down the steps to the parking garage, the other six voiced various exclamations of astonishment at such a notion and made unflattering comments on the mental state of Vin's accuser. Vin had been late for the past three mornings due to road works on the beltway and was no doubt stuck in a traffic jam somewhere.

Chris's Dodge Ram, with Buck in the passenger side, tore out of the parking garage with a black Jaguar only seconds behind it and other vehicles following, tearing through Denver with sirens at full blare. More than one person, knowing the reputation of Team Seven, looked at each other in concern. Racing downtown, Chris brought the Ram to a tyre-smoking stop and jumped out with Buck and the others behind him, stalking to where a traffic sergeant and assorted other PD officers were standing near a phone booth. There were assorted squad cars stationed along the street, engines idling. The officers drew back as the man with the blazing green eyes bore down on them. It was a cold day in Denver and the man's long black duster swirled around him like the Devil's own cloak.

Chris's eyes flashed as he heard the words "APB's out on Tanner" and the rabid wolf howled. "WHO'S THE DELUSIONAL IDIOT –"

"I am!"

All eyes turned to the young Hispanic patrolman, obviously no older than JD Dunne, who stepped forward and met Larabee's furious eyes head on.

Pete's hands were ice-cold and sweating with fear, but his voice was clear. "And more than anything right now, Agent Larabee, I really wish I was a delusional idiot rather than be instrumental in ruining the career of a fellow officer," Pete had to force the words past his tight windpipe, and his stomach was burning with fright, "but the fact is that Vin Tanner was standing right in the middle of this sidewalk so strung out his eyes were pinwheeling in their sockets!"

Larabee seemed to swell up, to enlarge, and he opened his mouth to spew forth slicing, slashing venom –

ROOOORAAAAWWWWWAHHHHHH! Heads snapped round as Pete's bike came roaring down the street, weaving effortlessly between vehicles; raising a hand, Vin waved cheerfully at his friends, then did a wheelie down the street before roaring off.

For a moment, Pete admired the absolute picture the faces before him made, then Chris dove for his Ram and everyone scrambled for their cars. Chris scrambled in the driver side, Buck jumping up beside him. Suddenly Buck yelped as he was pushed almost into Chris. Two more figures clambered into the confines of the Ram's cab, Pete a slender reed next to Buck with Sarge's imposing bulk squashed next to the passenger door he hadn't closed when Chris's took off.

Larabee didn't care who was in the truck with him as he raced after the speeding bike, peripherally aware of the black Jaguar on his right and Josiah's truck on the left, with Nathan in the passenger seat of that. Buck's truck was back in the Federal garage, which meant that JD – a Kawasaki motorcycle smoothly powered alongside, JD bent low to minimise wind resistance. Chris gave an approving nod at JD having the forethought to don his work jacket with ATF clearly stencilled on the back so the police squad cars alongside and behind them knew he was one of their own.

Ahead of them, but always tantalisingly out of reach, roared Vin on the stolen motorcycle. Chris could feel the painful thud-thud of his heart. Vin was the finest horse rider Chris knew bar himself, but also with a motorcycle Vin had the ability to transform it from a collection of shaped metal into a living beast with which he shared a psychic union. Now Vin was tearing along at 60 miles per, apparently high as a kite, wearing no helmet or protective clothing, chased by what seemed to be half the Denver PD.

Ahead of them, Vin weaved in and out of the traffic, taking his hand – both hands - off the wheel to play with the bright buttons on the bike. He hit one that crackled nicely and he began to sing.

All four men in the cab jumped a mile as a loud, happy voice yodelled forth. "BOOOORN TAAAA BEEEEEE WILD! BOOOOORRRRRN TA BEEEE WILLLLLD! GOT MA MOTA RUNNIN' –"

"Charlie 1-4, Charlie 1-4, this is Despatch, please repeat?"

Obediently, Vin warbled out, "HEAAAAAAAD OUT ONTA TH' 'IGHWAY, SEE WHA'S GOIN' MAAAAAAAAAA WAAAAEEE!"

Chris was the only one who had had a police scanner/radio fitted to his Ram, on the off chance it might come in useful during an assignment. Now he ordered Buck, "Get the others on their cell phones so they can listen in."

Buck did so while Sergeant Josephs reached over and picked up the radio, informing Despatch of the situation and ordering all the Denver PD to keep monitoring this frequency. Chris licked his lips and sent a fervent prayer that Vin didn't turn off the radio as accidentally as he'd activated it. In the Jaguar and Josiah's truck the cell phones were placed open on the dash, allowing the men to hear everything issuing from Chris's truck cab. JD raised one hand and tapped the side of his helmet, shifting his jacket up to show the wire up his back; once again Chris nodded approvingly of JD's foresight in putting on a headset/lip mike apparatus so that he could still follow any developments despite being on his bike. They began to approach the city limits and JD gradually eased his speed up a notch, trying to gain on Vin without appearing to do so.

The young Texan appeared happily oblivious as Team 7 and the entire Denver PD were treated to an actually quite melodic rendition of Born to Be Wild. Chris picked up the radio with one hand - they needed to end this, fast, before it ended in a media circus, or worse – if Vin came off that bike at this speed…

"Vin!"

"…WIIIILDDD!…"

"VIN!"

"…HIGHWAY –"

"VIIIIIINNNNN!"

Vin finally paid attention to the nice crackling thing and after a few aborted attempts that made the bike swerve dangerously and six men's hearts leap into their throats, he picked it up. "'LO?"

"Vin! It's Chris-"

"Hiya!" Vin beamed happily at hearing his friend's voice. Chris was such a nice fella, never really had anyone he could count on before Chris –

"Vin, listen, somehow you've been hurt."

"Nope, fine!" Vin tried to reassure, nodding vociferously after having a good look down at himself.

"You got yourself drugged, Vin." Chris said carefully, "Yah need to pull over, can yah do that? Vin? Cowboy-"

"No I ain't!" The indignant tone sounded clearly over the airwaves. "Cowboy, cowboy, cowboy! It were yer fault! Yer made me!" Vin increased his speed, mumbling angrily to himself.

There was a pregnant pause that seemed to echo in every police precinct in Denver and the Federal Buildings where men and women huddled around communications apparatus, listening to the unfolding drama.

"You gave him the stuff?" Pete suddenly realised that he had actually said the words aloud as Chris Larabee pierced him with a look that made him sweat; Larabee's thumb was still pressing the radio – Oh hell, I just accused him of supplying his own man with drugs and the entire PD heard it. I am dead, so dead, so totally and utterly dead…

Taking a deep breath Chris said, "Vin, I don't understand, what did I do?"

"Yer fault!" scolded Vin, "Yah yelled at me, yah mangy dog! Yah made me go, an' ah tole yah whut'd 'appen but yah wunt 'ave it no Mr Almighty Larabee knows everythin' – dunt know nuthin'. Ah tole yah what them anna-annas-anniz-thicks does ta me, but yah wunt let it drop, yah tole me yah'd shoot me, soes ah went, an' ah tole 'im, but he laughed at me an' sez ah wuz stupid! An 'ee hurt me!"

Chris desperately tried to follow the distressed flood of words, all spoken in the working-class Texas drawl of Vin's childhood, his brain striving to inject vowels, consonants and delete the accent to make the words make sense –

"H-h-e hurt me, Chris." The stuttering, plaintive whisper was somehow louder than all the previous bellowing and singing and seemed to echo in the air.

Chris Larabee's sudden low inarticulate snarling raised the hairs on the backs of the necks of people safely in police precincts ten miles back.

"The dentist!" Buck, always far more intelligent and perceptive than his constant exuberant bonhomie made him seem. "Damn it, Chris, he musta gone to the dentist this morning!"

"I want that dentist!" Chris spat, "'Siah, Nate –"

"Chris, this is Ryan Kelly, Team Leader of 8," Kelly's calm voice came over the airwaves. "I'm with a PD squad car now; we'll pick up the dentist. Any ideas which one is Vin's?"

"Fredericks on 4th and Salt." Chris ground out. "Vin kept telling me he couldn't go to the dentist 'cos he'd had reactions to the anaesthetic, why didn't I listen?"

"Chris, that tooth had to come out, it's been making him sick for weeks!" Buck cut across the self-recrimination. "He warn't eatin' a damn thing and hell he was too skinny by half before!"

Pete realised he too could help stop the self-flagellation he could see writ large on Larabee's face, speaking clearly so his words carried clearly over the radio to the listening officers, "Agent Larabee, having a reaction to dental anaesthetic is one thing, but what the hell did this Fredericks jackass think he was doing? Giving someone a little too much happy juice and making them ill is bad enough, But Agent Tanner's practically in orbit! What was Fredericks doing, spoon feeding him the stuff raw? And how in hell could anyone remotely medically competent allow their patient to leave their surgery in a state like this?"

Chris blinked rapidly and despite the situation Pete felt himself relax slightly as the self-anger dissipated from Larabee's face as the older man accepted the truth of Pete's words; more importantly, he could feel the waves of approval emanating from Sarge, crammed into the truck's cab next to him. A good cop honoured the spirit of the law, and didn't cling to the merciless lettering.

Abruptly the radio came to life again, Ryan Kelly's harsh tones coming loud and clear to the many listeners-in. "Chris, it's Ryan. We've found William Fredericks and we've arrested him."

"You can charge him?" snarled Chris like an angry cougar, Vin's "He hurt me, Chris" still echoing in his ears.

"Hell yeah we can charge him," retorted Kelly, "We got folks who can testify that Vin told Fredericks twice about his problem-"

Abruptly there came a scuffling sound and a new, strident voice suddenly cut in. "You best believe it, white boy!"

The voice was female and sounded like a middle-aged black woman. "Ah'm Maisie Simmons, Mr Chris Larabee, an' ah'm tellin' yah nah ah'll be acomin' afta yah hide if anythin' happens to that boy after you done sent 'im down 'ere on his lonesome! Poor Vin came in here lookin' like he was gonna be shot to death. Twice he told that pompous jackass Fredericks 'bout his reaction t' the anaesthetics an' Fredericks just tole 'im he was bein' stupid an' it didn't do such things to a body. Ah could hear him gaspin' in pain through the door and when that boy came outa Frederick's office he looked like he'd gone five rounds with Mohammed Ali! And Fredericks just let him walk out when it was obvious to a blind fella that boy was feelin' right poorly! That boy don't know what's the ground an' what's the sky right now. That boy's acountin' on yah t' bring him home safe!"

Chris's eyes flashed. He would die to protect Vin.

There was more scuffling and a muffled yelp, and then Ryan Kelly's breathless tones were back on air. "Like I was saying, Chris, we've got Fredericks nailed, and Vin can sue him personally to boot. We've got six eyewitnesses including the dental nurse who are all willing to testify that Vin warned Fredericks at least twice and was ignored."

"Thanks, Ryan".

"What we gonna do ta stop him, Chris?" Buck asked the question that most of those listening in were currently trying to find an answer to.

Again Pete and Sarge exchanged glances, almost psychically aware of what was going through the minds of the officers in the police vehicles that were still pursuing the motorcycle speeding along dangerously fast ahead of them. Denver city proper was now behind them, the highway beginning to rise as they entered the mountains and wild countryside of Colorado. Still wide and smooth, they would soon start hitting the highway's tight bends as it wove its way through the mountains and then south towards Grand Junction and everyone knew that inevitably Tanner would fail to make one of those curves; at his current speed and without protective headgear or clothing, death was inevitable.

The problem was how to safely bring him to a halt? Chasing after and taking down a strung-out, brain-fried crackhead who was likely to mount a sidewalk and snuff out innocent and far more valuable lives than his own parasitic one was one thing, but that mode of operation did not apply when the person in question was an innocent, law-abiding human being whose current condition had been forced upon him...Even more so when he was one of their own.

"Vin? Vin, cow-" remembering just in time that was how he got into trouble the last time, Chris amended it, "Pard, can yah hear me?"

"Yeaaah!" The happy yell, completely devoid of its previous scolding sounded loud and clear.

"Vin, we got that bad dentist. He's locked up good now." Chris tried to soothe.

"I knew yah'd get him!" Vin chirruped back and then his voice became uncertain. "Yah sure he cain't hurt me again?"

"William Fredericks will never hurt you again, Vin. I promise." Chris's tone was soft and hissing.

Ron Josephs, Pete and indeed many people listening exchanged glances and involuntary shudders as the awful promise of violence in Chris Larabee's tone made their skin prickle.

"How about yah pull –"

"WAAHOOOH!" Vin's jubilant yell made the men in the cab wince at its volume and incredibly the bike put on a spurt of speed as Vin's suddenly excited voice came again, "CHRIS! CHRIS! Come on, we're nearly there!"

"Vin? Vin?" Chris tried to get through the narcotic haze again.

"We ain't anywhere?" Buck turned his head left and right. Denver City was growing in every direction bar this one; too rugged for housing, commercial developments or crop growth and too expensive to clear for animal grazing, this part of Colorado state was still untamed wilderness, with majestic mountains towering over thick, lush forests. There was no "there" to get to unless Vin meant Grand Junction, which was a good six hundred miles away-

"Come on Chris!" Again the joyful voice sang out, "This bike is cool! It can take Widowmaker Peak!"

Gasps of alarm and outright fear were the drugged man's only response had he not been too lost in his own world to hear them.

Colorado State was hugely popular for "outdoor" holidays. "Dude" or tourist ranches catered for those who wanted a taste of life on the open range but not the saddle sores and blisters; skiing, mountain-climbing, horse-riding, camping, snowboarding, canoeing, all were popular sports that brought visitors flocking to the state – hell, even Navy SEALs and Delta Force Army Rangers trained in these mountains. Also popular was quad biking, off-road racing, and cross-country motorcycle riding and just the chance to potter around with a camping trailer and view God's scenic beauty as He intended.

All these things brought money to the state and major efforts had been made to protect the countryside. The one part of the Denver surround that everyone would have been happy to see turned into condos or office blocks, however, was Widowmaker Peak. A "hill" that was nearly sheer in it's angle and brutally uneven from the many protruding rocks and shale, Widowmaker Peak had been the nightmare of every sane person over the age of twenty for decades. Back in the 1950s, a 14-year-old kid determined to impress his older drag racing brother had stolen the elder sibling's motorbike and by some inexplicable miracle, rode it to the top of then Farview Peak, both he and the bike surviving the insanity.

To this day, nobody knew how he had managed the feat – the problem was those that kept trying to duplicate it. Every year at least one person was killed and half a dozen more seriously injured or permanently disabled trying to replicate what the kid himself had called a "pure one in a million" fluke. Like much of the surrounding area, Widowmaker Peak wasn't owned by Denver City Council, who could be made liable, or by some rancher who could be prevailed upon to dynamite the monstrosity. Vin would have had no chance sober, never mind drugged out of his mind.

"VIN!" Chris cried out in alarm, but the bike suddenly surged ahead.

Instantly the Dodge Ram leaped forward as Chris chased Vin, trying frantically to think of some means to stop the bike without injuring his best friend, but Vin was going too fast!

"Oh god." Buck's voice was a constricted whisper of terror as the road swept gently around to the right to straighten out with Widowmaker Peak dead ahead and Vin racing straight towards it at top speed. JD was trying to catch him up, but even if he did, he dare not try and knock Vin from the bike at this speed – it would kill the Texan.

Chris's heart momentarily stopped then began to hammer frantically as it blocked his windpipe, his mind screaming at him to act – some way, somehow – as Vin sped inexorably closer to certain death.

Deep, deep down in Chris Larabee's brain there existed a memory long forgotten. Many years ago LA SWAT Commander Chris Larabee walked into the den of his home just after three-year-old Adam Larabee had picked up the big, pretty, shiny gun on Daddy's desk. The thunderous bellow that had roared from Daddy had had Adam shaking in fear of his father for over half an hour. Daddy had held him and rocked him and Daddy's big hands cuddled him, but Daddy's eyes had been stern and his voice still carried traces of that terrifying noise. Once he got over the shock, Adam had relaxed – he had known that Daddy would never hurt him.

But Adam Larabee had never, ever under any circumstance again even attempted to pick up a firearm unless Daddy was present and gave him permission to do so.

From deep within the ancient memory gave the all-consuming need to again protect a loved one the means by which to accomplish its task.

"STOP RIGHT NOW!"

The awesome roar was pure, undiluted fury and it bellowed over the airwaves like the heat blast from an exploding volcano. It was a force of nature that could no more be disobeyed than gravity.

Brakes shrieked in their own inanimate pain, locked tyres smoked, gravel spewed and dust billowed in clouds. For a moment the cacophony echoed off the surrounding hillsides, then fell a thick, heavy blanket of total silence. Not even birds sang.

Chris opened his eyes and carefully relaxed his white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel.

Beside him, Buck Wilmington gave a faint, weak, relief-filled snicker.

Chris slowly blinked and forced himself to look through the windshield, his lips twitching involuntarily as he and Buck exchanged glances almost hysteric with relief. Broadcast over the police radio, the tone of absolute command had brought an instantaneous reflex response as every driver automatically hit the brakes and skidded to an abrupt halt. Like a diamond surrounded by lesser jewels, the stolen motorcycle with it's rider perched atop it sat motionless at the very base of Widowmaker Peak, the Jag, Kawasaki, Josiah's truck, the Ram and the skewed squad cars making an almost protective corral.

Chris scrabbled down from the truck, his long strides eating up the distance to the bike. Peripherally he was aware of his team mates and the Denver PD converging, but they were wise enough to hang back, and no officer was stupid enough to put his hand anywhere near his gun.

Chris attempted to swallow the big ball of fear lodged in his windpipe as he approached Vin with all the caution of a lion-tamer going near a hungry lion. Under normal circumstances, Vin would never do anything to hurt Chris, but any person who was high on drugs was capable of literally anything – up to and including Mother Theresa!

With any of the team other than Vin, Chris would have distracted him while two or three of the other members jumped him, dog-piled him and cuffed him, Chris would have been secure in the knowledge that his friend would forgive him and the others once the poison was out of his system, understanding the need to contain him.

* With Vin, that was not an option. Everyone knew that Vin Tanner did not tolerate any kind of physical restraints. He would go totally ballistic, completely, irrationally crazy – and act out accordingly.

Only once very early on in their friendship, during a bout of horseplay in the ATF parking garage, had Chris grabbed Vin's arms and pinned them behind the Texan's back as he loudly called for a pair of handcuffs. Vin had gone insane, nearly breaking Chris's arms as he fought like a lunatic. Other agents had come running with guns drawn as Tanner went totally off his head and turned into a snarling, wild-eyed, out-on-the-edge raging maniac. Barely even seeming to recognise his teammates, Vin had held them at bay as he tried to escape from the confines of parking garage.

Harshly ordering everyone to stay well back, Chris had had to move closer to Vin one careful step at a time, his arms widespread away from his body. Keeping his voice low and soft, never losing eye contact, he had talked Vin back from the Texan's massive, obvious panic attack, apologising over and over for his prank and softly whispering pleas for Vin to forgive him for his stupidity. Lucidity had slowly returned to the gasping, trembling, hyperventilating young man, rational thought seeping into his eyes…true, then his fist had slammed in Chris's jaw with enough force to snap Chris's head back, but Chris had known they were okay again.

Nevertheless, the lesson was learned. Everyone knew enough not to make light of Vin's phobia about being restrained, recognising it as a holdover from something dark and terrible in the young man's past. Nobody ever made fun of Vin about the situation, or joked about confining him.

Abruptly Chris became aware that jumping the Texan would not be necessary. Vin's eyes were huge sapphire saucers in an utterly white, drawn face. Those eyes were brimming over with tears and Vin's lips were visibly trembling - he looked like a small, frightened child. Chris felt like a complete and utter bastard, fighting the urge to drop to his knees at Vin's feet and beg forgiveness as two fat tears rolled down Vin's cheeks, barely aware of his friends around them.

"Good Lord, this is what it feels like to be pond scum." Ezra muttered beside him.

Everyone wore similar expressions of self-dislike, even the cops, as Vin stared at them with open fear.

Inching forward, Chris stretched one arm, speaking carefully, "Aw Vin, I'm sorry, did I scare yah?"

Nod.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, Vin. I was frightened that you were going to fall and hurt yourself. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

Head shake.

Easing closer Chris kept his tone gentle like he had with Adam when his son had been frightened and his words simple and clear as Vin was incapable of understanding anything too complicated right now. "I'm sorry I scared you. Hey, would you like a ride in my truck to make up for it?"

Vin looked past him at the big, black Dodge Ram, a tentative smile coming to his face. "Really?"

"Yeah. It goes real fast." Chris encouraged.

"You won't scare me no more?" The eyes were big and trusting and Chris hated himself.

"Not ever." Chris promised solemnly.

Finally, thankfully, Vin hesitantly stood up from the motorcycle seat and looked at the truck again. "Yah won't let him hurt me, willya?"

Chris looked straight into Vin's eyes, his tone taking on a note that made more than one of those listening shiver involuntarily, "He won't ever hurt you again, Vin."

Like summer sun suddenly bursting forth from behind a cloudbank, Vin's face almost disappeared into nothing but a huge, glorious smile. Before Chris could move, Vin embraced him in an enthusiastic bear hug. "CHRISSIE!"

What?!

"Chrissie." It was a slurred but happy declaration as Vin buried his face in the shielding chest.

Automatically, Chris's arms came up to return the…cuddle. There came a soft, muffled snigger and Chris Larabee's head snapped around, his eyes pinning the culprit with a glare cold enough to freeze hell. The man blanched and dropped his eyes; Chris's gaze swept around; not a smile showed on any face, and nobody's eyes met his, everyone having suddenly discovered the meaning of life written on their shoes.

"Come on, cowboy." Chris gently eased Vin towards the truck, rewarded when Vin docilely followed. The young Texan suddenly paused and gave a massive yawn that had his jaw popping and gave half the contingent an up close view of his tonsils.

"Now he gets sleepy." muttered Buck ruefully.

Chris got Vin into the passenger side of the Ram, where the young man yawned hugely again and immediately snuggled down, his eyelids drooping. Carefully closing the door, Chris went back to where people were beginning to leave now the crisis was over.

"I'm going to take the day, get Vin to the ranch and let him sleep it off." Chris announced. "Buck, you're in charge, you can ride back with Ezra. All of you get back to Ryan Kelly – I want Fredericks ass nailed to the wall six different ways till Sunday!"

They nodded, all too well aware of how close the situation had come to ending in death for Vin and possibly other, innocent people whose only mistake had been in being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Chris turned his attention to the Denver PD, determined to protect his agent from any harassment.

Ron Josephs gave Chris a respectful nod as returned from arranging a ride back to town for himself and Pete. "There won't be any further action taken, Agent Larabee. Agent Tanner wasn't in control of his actions and there are plenty of eye witnesses willing to confirm the fact that he did everything possible to avoid this situation."

Pete Garcia had been waiting quietly in the background and knew his chance to make amends had come. He had seen the raw terror on Larabee's face as Vin Tanner sped towards certain death on Widowmaker Peak. "A- A-Agent Larabee. Please pass my regards on to Agent Tanner and don't let him fret about the bike."

Chris Larabee looked at him in a considering manner, the challenge leaving his eyes, but it was Josiah who rumbled, "What makes you think he'll worry?"

Pete smiled and shrugged. "My father is a police officer in Puerto Rico. His favourite proverb is, "There's many a true word spoken in jest" followed by "Wine brings honesty." I never understood why so when I was sixteen, I asked him. He explained that just as many unpleasant home truths inadvertently slip out when we're joking, so too if you really want to know someone's true personality, watch them when they're blind drunk or stoned."

"And this has what to do with Vin?" Chris Larabee challenged.

"It has to do with how you're very lucky to have a friend who is as good as Vin Tanner is on the inside." Pete replied coolly, not backing down. "My father told me to look out for the supposedly nice guy who turns into a foul-mouthed wife-beating thug after a six pack, or the good fella who becomes a swaggering braggart or ranting bigot following a few funny cigarettes. My point is that Vin Tanner was completely out of his mind, and all it did was make him…playful. He didn't try to take out a shopping mall with an Uzi, or go after a playground full of pre-schoolers with a machete. All he wanted to do was ride my bike. People that good are very rare." Pete finished softly.

He was treated to something that he instinctively knew was very rare and a great honour – an actual smile from Chris Larabee. "I know." The blonde's tone was equally gentle and filled with affection for the man now snoring away in his Ram's cab.

Considerably mellower, Chris went back to the Ram and climbed in, closing the door as Vin stirred, his eyes completely glassy as he yawned again. Vin was entering the "crash and burn" stage. "Home?" Vin slurred.

"Yeah." Chris put the Ram in gear.

Almost immediately Vin fell into a deep slumber, for which Chris was extremely grateful when the stoned sharpshooter snuggled close and then laid his head across Chris's lap, snoring softly. Chris felt the embarrassed heat coming off his own face and was grateful that the highway to his ranch was traffic-free as usual. No man's head - and not that many women's for that matter - had ever been this close to the currently soft, extremely intimate part of Chris's anatomy that Vin was blithely using as a pillow! Taking one hand off the wheel, Chris carefully brushed Vin's hair back off his face, easing his fingers under Vin's head and carefully moving the young Texan so he didn't get a crick in his neck and also wasn't pressing so hard on Chris's – down there.

Vin was deep in Morpheus' embrace by the time they got to the ranch. Chris opened his door and slid carefully out, lowering Vin's head to the seat. He opened the ranch door ready, sharply calling a boisterous Sam to order while the old black Lab, Diablo, merely watched curiously at his master's early return. Going back to the Ram, Chris gingerly managed to ease Vin out and into his arms, not wanting to cause the bruising of a fireman's lift. Carrying the unconscious sharpshooter against his chest, Chris carried the limp form into the ranch house and slowly upstairs till he got to "Vin's room", the guest bedroom that the sharpshooter used when he stayed over at Chris's. The other members of Team 7 had one also, but Vin was the most frequent guest.

Gratefully he deposited his best friend's form on the bed, ruefully aware of why most guys rolled their eyes at overwrought Gothic romance novels and those adrenaline-drenched thriller novels where the hero casually picks up the heroine or his best friend and carries them heroically to safety in full-on Hollywood movie scene glory without breaking a sweat, or an arm bone or slipping a disc/trapping a nerve. Carrying any bulky item inanimate or otherwise was hard on the arms and the back and the legs, and carrying a limp human being was like trying to haul around a giant sack of potatoes and was the sort of thing to put a man in traction after the first 30 seconds.

Vin remained inert on the bed as Chris stripped off his buckskin jacket and boots, and then carefully rolled him to one side as he turned back the covers, knowing Vin needed to sleep off the drug's effects. He hesitated, knowing that Vin would be uncomfortable sleeping in his clothes, but equally uncomfortable being undressed, even by such a close friend as Chris.

Deciding Vin's embarrassment would be the lesser of two evils, Chris carefully tugged off Vin's sweater, shaking his head as he saw the shirt underneath and the round-necked T-shirt that peeked from beneath that. Vin tended to feel the cold, and a lifetime of living in poorly insulated accommodation he could not afford to heat had left the Texan with the habit of layering up. On any given day, it could be safely guaranteed that Vin was wearing two tops.

Ruthlessly, Chris removed shirt and T-shirt, ignoring the way Vin muttered and flinched at the feel of the cold cotton sheets against his bare torso. Hesitating again, Chris bit the bullet and undid the button and fly on Vin's jeans, easing the denim apparel down Vin's legs and removing his socks as well, so the Texan remained in nothing but a pair of Christmas tree-decorated boxer shorts that Chris recognised, having bought them as a joke present for Vin. He frowned disapprovingly – without all the layers on Vin's lankiness was always a surprise.

Chris rolled the Texan back over to the uncovered side of the bed so he could tuck Vin in, his eyes flashing angrily and lips compressing despite having seen the scars before. Vin's torso, back and inner thighs were dotted with very small, very old, very faint scars - some thin, perfectly straight and white, as if nicks made by a knife and others more pink, smooth and round, like cigarette burns.

One scar, however, was a long, twisting jagged snake of a thing that started just beside the nape of Vin's neck and wound down the left side of his back, bisecting his buttock and hipbone before ending just as it curved down the inside of his thigh, perilously close to his genitals – and the femoral artery that would cause you to bleed to death in less than a minute should it be cut. Vin had received that when his drunken foster-father had thrown him through a plate glass window. Chris was still trying to persuade Vin to name the man, and when the Texan finally capitulated to Chris's persuasion and did so, the guy was going to understand the meaning of "hell on Earth" courtesy of Christopher Larabee.

Chris tucked the covers up snugly around Vin's chin, gently stroking his hair until Vin settled down to sleep without the frown marring his forehead. That act of violence had been the trigger that made Vin flee the social care system. He had spend the next half-decade on the streets before finding a caring, substitute family on a Comanche reservation, but had had to run again after some nosy "Indian Affairs" social worker finally noticed the blond-haired blue-eyed boy amongst his uniformly black-haired and brown-eyed family.

He'd spent the next few years dodging back and forth between the Kiowa and the Comanche nations to steer clear of Child Protection Services until they caught him and dragged him, literally kicking and screaming, away from the only real father he had ever known. Again, Chris would have given his right arm for five minutes alone with whichever sanctimonious, politically correct social worker had been responsible for that trauma. Vin had promptly disappeared from his "proper, state approved" foster home – i.e., non-Indian – living on the streets again until he joined the Army as a way to get food and shelter.

Chris tiptoed out and closed the door, leaving it ajar so he could hear Vin should he become distressed. Vin had a wicked sense of humour and as a noted prankster, several good ways of getting his revenge. Chris would have to do some fast talking to avoid being "punished" for forcing Vin to go to the dentist in the first place!