A/N: In the course of this story: there are some things mentioned that are not my creations. Some of the things and events are part of the Mag7 ATF "Bible". Others, such as Chris' Labrador Diablo; and the members of ATF Team 8, are the creations of Heather F. At the original time this story was written I didn't realize that these were Heather's sole creations, but I thought they were part of the accepted fanon that created the ATF universe. I did apologize at the time to Heather and received her permission to use these creations in the Trinity Saga. I have lost contact with her through the years, but no insult to her was intended by continuing to use her creations.

Also, Embers was originally started in 2000 and completed in 2001, before Sept 11. Obviously things are different in our world today. I have made a few revisions in the story as I've been posting it here so that it doesn't seem obviously dated without massively changing the story (for example, Vin picks up JD in Baggage Claim instead of at the gate at the airport). At one time I was going to rewrite the whole thing, then I realized it would be another 15 years to do that and still finish it! One thing I've noticed as I've gone through the story is that cell phones in the story seem more unusual instead of routine. I don't even have a land line in my home anymore, but in 2000, I only had like 50 minutes a month on my cell phone for emergencies.

Thirdly, as some readers know, I was in a car accident in July 2002 while completing the second book in a planned trilogy, Flames. Along with many other injuries, I had multiple skull fractures and a brain hemorrhage. After a lengthy period of rehab, I sat down to finish the story- only to find out I had no memory of it whatever. It was like reading something for the first time, and not something I had written. After multiple attempts to finish the story, I gave up and put it away. Only recently have the memories returned. I would like to thank the archivists of the DnF website, who had every published part of Flames archived as multiple hard drives have crashed in the intervening years! I am now actively writing and look forward to posting the entire work here. Many thanks to all the readers who have asked and awaited the story over the years!

now on with the story!

Part 19

Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport
Terminal C

Noises gradually filtered through to Nathan's consciousness. Somewhere, nearby, a baby screamed unceasingly. There was a pop! and a crackle of static, then a too-calm masculine voice announced "For your safety this airport practices heightened security measures. Please maintain control of your carry-on baggage at all times and notify Airport Security if someone places items in your luggage without your knowledge."

'That's stupid,' Nathan thought fuzzily. 'If it's done without your knowledge how can you report it to Security?'

Memory came rushing back to him and he sat upright with a start.

'Ouch.' His neck was stiff from the position he'd been sleeping in. Nathan looked around the crowded waiting area wildly. 'Where's JD?'

Then he saw the boy, standing with his back to the crowd, staring out the window where the first streaks of dawn could be seen on the horizon.

As if he'd felt Nathan's gaze on his back, JD turned around and met his eyes. The younger man started back toward his friend, dodging around three giggling kids.

"Did you get any sleep?" Nathan asked. The medic was annoyed at himself for dropping off. One look at JD's tense face answered his question even before the other man shook his head. JD pushed his backpack off the seat next to Nathan and wearily dropped into it.

"Vin called," he said quietly. "Buck made it through the surgery."

Looking at him, Nathan knew there was more.

"He's on a respirator." JD sounded like the words were catching in his throat.

"That's not really as bad as it sounds," Nathan tried to reassure him. "Trauma like that...the body and brain go into shock. The respirator just helps take the strain off-"

"Yeah." JD stared ahead at nothing. The nervous energy that had fueled the kid ever since Nathan had told him the news was gone now. JD was starting to fold in on himself. Nathan had seen it before and knew it wasn't good.

"Who did it?" JD suddenly asked. Rage-more than rage-unfocused fury-burned in his eyes and strangled his words.

"I don't know." Nathan gripped JD's shoulder. "Buck wouldn't want you running off doing something stupid."

"I'm stuck in this airport; it's not like I can do anything. I'm not even with Buck and he might...die." JD's voice dropped on the last word. His face changed, grief replacing the rage. He looked at Nathan almost desperately.

Nathan would have given anything to be able to provide JD some comfort. Unfortunately the little information he had about Buck's injuries wasn't reassuring. All he could say was the truth. "Buck's a fighter, JD. He won't give up." He changed the subject. "How's Ezra?"

JD's face relaxed a little. "He must be doing okay. He discharged himself from the hospital."

"He did what?" Nathan leaned his head back. "Stubborn southern cuss," he grumbled.

JD grinned weakly. "You know Ezra."

"Yeah, I do. Wish I could say that surprised me." 'Actually I'm surprised he never tried that trick before. Course if he did it when I was around I'd pin his hide to the wall. Bet he knows it too.'

The intercom crackled again. 'Passengers awaiting departure for flight 1235 non-stop service to Denver, please check in at Gate 35."

Lakewood-Saint David's Hospital
Denver:

Craig Baker was due to get off duty at six a.m. He was more than ready. It had been a long shift in the ER, capped off when ATF Agent Ezra Standish had disconnected himself from the IV and cardiac monitor and blithely announced he was recovered and discharging himself. Baker had tried reasoning, bargaining, and even resorted to threats.

He had the distinct impression this last had his patient laughing at him.

The Federal big-wig-Montgomery or whatever the hell his name was-had tried to help. He'd even given Standish a direct order to remain in the hospital. Standish had responded with some flowery rhetoric that basically translated to "Jump on this and spin."

After Standish had departed in his borrowed clothes, Montgomery had looked at Baker and shrugged. "Team Seven makes their own rules," he'd said.

Baker's pager went off. 'Oh, shit, not an emergency. I really need to get out of here.' Reluctantly he pulled it out and checked the extension, muttering a vague "thank you" that it wasn't ER. Then he frowned. Grabbing the phone, he punched in the extension for the lab.

He recognized the voice that answered. "Patti, it's Craig." He and Patti Amons had moonlighted in the same research lab a couple of years back.

"Craig. You wanted to look at the latest labs on Standish in 4712? They're pretty interesting."

Baker sighed. "Mr. Standish discharged himself AMA a couple of hours ago."

"Oh." She sounded surprised. "You want me to send these down to Medical Records then?"

Baker fought a brief battle with himself. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to six. Ten more minutes and he could head for his apartment and a precious twelve hours off duty. He sighed, cursing his curiosity. One of his professors in medical school had said he was like a dog with a tasty bone when it came to diagnosis. "Hang on to them, Patti. I'm on my way down."

Patti had a cup of coffee waiting for him when he walked into the lab, shivering since the place was always freezing. 'The morgue has to be warmer than this place.'

Patti had the results of Standish's most recent labs-drawn approximately an hour before his unscheduled departure-displayed on the computer, side-by-side with the previous results.

Baker frowned, tired eyes flicking back and forth between the two reports. "Well, at least he was improving."

Patti nodded. "But look at this." She clicked a few keys. "I pulled this one up. Mrs. Martoli...she ate at Duchienne that same night."

Baker's eyes widened as he saw what she was talking about. "That doesn't make sense." He pondered. "Pull up the results on a Buck Wilmington from earlier today. He was in..." he paused, "Room 4716."

Patti typed a series of commands into the computer. A new screen came up. Without being asked, Patti displayed the three reports side by side. Studying them, she finally said, "Wilmington and Martoli had virtually identical profiles. Standish? Similar in some values but the key ones are completely different."

"So Agent Standish had something more wrong with him than food poisoning. Question is...what?"

Intensive Care Unit
University Medical Center:

Chris sat on the edge of the seat next to the bed, his eyes straying between the monitors above and the figure within.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Larabee. We can try to keep him as comfortable as possible. His organs are failing...it won't be much longer now."

Chris heard what the doctor said but didn't acknowledge it. His eyes drifted to the small, distorted face. He heard the soft click as the door closed, then opened and closed again. Without looking up, he knew Buck had come back into the room. The lanky ladies' man sat back down in the chair in the corner where he kept his vigil. Chris didn't look at him. He couldn't look away from the burned body of his only child.

Early that morning, when it had become obvious to the medical staff that nothing they could do was going to save the child, they had increased his painkillers. For the first time in four days, Adam rested. Even in the depths of the drugged sleep he occasionally whimpered, but the terrible throat searing screams had stopped. Chris was grateful for that, but selfishly he wished his son could know he was there with him. He wanted to look in the child's eyes one more time before they closed forever.

With nothing to do but look at the still figure and listen to the gradually slowing beep of the cardiac monitor, Chris gradually became aware of other things he had blocked out over the last four days. Life and death in the living hell of the burn unit. Screams. Sobbing. Not all from children like Adam.

The nauseating smell of burned flesh.

The peculiar look on the faces of the staff: compassionate but reserved. Sympathy buried miles under a cool professional persona. Check your emotions at the door.

Chris looked over at Buck. The man was hunched over in his chair, head hanging down, praying maybe? His hands were clasped loosely.

'Too late for prayers, Buck,' Chris thought bitterly. 'We were too late. Too late for anything...too late for everything...'

Adam's breathing faltered. Chris' eyes flew back to his son.

The alarm on the cardiac monitor sounded for the last time.

Chris' eyes snapped open, the death-knell of the alarm echoing through his memory. He was standing up, leaning over the bed anxiously, before he realized the alarm had sounded only in his dreams. Buck's monitors still traced a steady pattern.

Wearily Chris dropped back into the chair. Almost automatically he slid his hand back over Buck's.

Stable.

That was how the doctor had described Buck's condition last time he came in. Critical, but stable.

Alive, but not. Suspended halfway in between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

Something changed. The hand clasped in his moved slightly, the fingers curling just barely around his.

"Buck?" Chris breathed, leaning forward. "Can you hear me?"

Slight flicker of eyelashes on the bruised cheekbones.

"That's it. Come on, Big Dog...wake up for me," Chris coaxed gently. He tightened his grip on Buck's hand.

7777777

Tired. He was so tired. Just wanted to sleep...drift away...

But something was keeping him here. An anchor, gripping his hand. A voice he knew...but the tone was wrong...something was wrong.

Chris...

The door opened and the nurse walked in. Chris spared her a quick glance. "I think he's starting' to wake up."

The nurse stepped closer to the bed and studied the monitors. "I'll page the doctor." She left quickly.

Chris watched, hardly daring to breathe, as Buck's eyelids flickered again. Flickered and finally opened. Dazed blue eyes drifted around the room before coming to rest on Chris. The grip of the hand on his fractionally tightened.

Chris felt a wave of relief so strong he almost fell forward out of the chair. He closed his eyes briefly, coughed to clear his throat. "Hey, Pard, about time you opened those eyes," he said gently.

Buck's eyes widened. Panic leapt into them. His face contorted as his body feebly struggled.

The door slammed open again for the nurse. "He's fighting the respirator," she announced, leaning over the bed. "Mr. Wilmington, you need to relax."

Buck didn't even look at her, his frightened eyes fixed on Chris. Standing up, Chris put his free hand on Buck's forehead and leaned close. "Buck, it's all right. Don't fight it. They've got a tube in your throat to help you breathe. Just relax and breathe with it. Don't try to fight it." To the nurse, he growled, "Get back."

She didn't argue, stepping away from the bed. Chris shifted his attention back to Buck. He vaguely realized he was pitching his own breathing to match the rhythmic pumping of the machine.

Slowly the look of panic eased. Buck kept his eyes glued on Chris until they flickered closed again.

~+~+~+~

Vin sleepily opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling above.

'Where the hell...'

He shifted on the leather couch and set up a chorus of screaming protest from a million nerve endings. He groaned.

With the pain came the return of memory. Vin looked around wildly. Bright late-morning light streamed through the windows into Ezra's living room. "Shit!" he said aloud, trying to sit up. "Buck!"

Ezra appeared in the archway leading to the kitchen. " ? Are you awake?"

"Damn it, Ez, that's a stupid question." Groaning and sweating, Vin made it to a sitting position on the couch. He stared balefully at Ezra as the other man came closer. Ezra's hair was damp from a shower, he was dressed casually-for Ezra-in khaki slacks and a pale yellow shirt. With the exception of his marked pallor, he looked well rested and a lot better than Vin felt. Groaning again, the sharpshooter swung his feet to the floor. "Shit, I feel like a building fell on me," he said without thinking.

"Well...that is a fair approximation of what actually occurred," Ezra pointed out. "Mr. Larabee called. Mr. Wilmington woke up briefly."

Vin let out his breath in a great sigh and leaned his head back. "That's good, right?"

"Mr. Larabee did seem relieved. Mr. Wilmington is still critical, but his condition has stabilized. I daresay if we offer to relieve our esteemed leader of his vigil temporarily, he might actually agree to get some sleep."

Vin nodded, trying to stretch without moving any muscles...an impossible task. A shrill whistle sounded from the kitchen. Ezra hopped up nimbly and padded in that direction. "Tea, Mr. Tanner?" His voice drifted behind him.

With difficulty Vin followed him. "Not if it's that herbal crap you drink," he said suspiciously. "Got any coffee?"

Ezra looked up from pouring steaming water into a china teapot. He shook his head. "I'm embarrassed to admit I seem to be out," he admitted. He reached up into a cupboard next to the sink. "I do, however, have ibuprofen." He set the small white bottle on the table next to a glass of orange juice. "And orange juice."

Vin opened the bottle and dumped three pills in his hand, swallowing them with the chilled juice. He watched Ezra pouring the greenish-yellow tea into a dainty cup that matched the teapot, and shook his head. "Ez, why don't you just dump a bag in a mug?"

They'd had this conversation before. Ezra responded as expected. "Appearances, Mr. Tanner, are everything." He sipped the steaming beverage and sighed happily.

Vin shook his head. "I need a hot shower."

"I took the liberty of putting some items of wearin' apparel for you in the hall bathroom." Ezra took another sip. "And a razor."

Vin paused to throw a grin over his shoulder. "Thanks...that but don't make up for you not havin' any coffee."

7777777

The blue jeans Ezra had left for him were so stiff Vin had to wonder if they'd ever been worn, much less washed. They weren't the greatest fit in the world but they would do. Vin looked around but the clothes he had been wearing the night before were missing. His shoes and jacket were where he'd left them though. Ezra had left him two designer shirts to choose from and a blue sweater Casey had picked out for JD to give Ezra the Christmas before. Vin had never seen Ezra wear it and when he looked at it he could see why. It was a size too big for Vin which made it definitely too large for Ezra. Vin pulled it over his head.

Ezra had poured the rest of his tea into a travel mug and was ready to go when Vin came down the hall. The hot shower had loosened tight muscles and Tanner was starting to think he might actually survive. As Ezra locked the door behind them, Vin glanced over at the police car at the curb. He stood stock-still as the idea came to him.

"Vin?" Ezra looked at him, concerned.

"Just thought of somethin'." Vin jogged to the street, a puzzled Ezra trailing behind. The officer stepped out of his car as they approached. "Agent Tanner," he said, nodding his head. His eyes flickered to Ezra. "Agent Standish."

It was the same officer who'd been on duty outside Buck's place the day before.

Vin blinked. In a way, that was good. He rushed into his question. "Are you guys keepin' logs of who all comes around here?"

The officer didn't ask why he wanted to know. He reached into the car and pulled out his notebook. "Here, we just kept a record of who actually went into Mr. Standish's apartment or the two on either side of it. Well, until yesterday-then the order came down to keep notes on all comings and goings and to call in if anyone actually went toward Mr. Standish's door. Mr. Wilmington...since that was an internal access building we kept records on everyone that went in or out. The detectives have them now. And I think they made a copy for the Feds...for your guys."

Tbc…