Keeping On

CHAPTER 1: GOING DOWN

J.D. wondered how Ezra did it.

The undercover agent had patiently massaged Enrico Salvatore's ego for the better part of an hour, assuring the gun runner that yes, he was most certainly the best, brightest, meanest, and most lucrative illegal arms dealer in the Western Hemisphere. Oh, no- my deepest apologies, Mr. Salvatore. The cartel you run in Pakistan momentarily slipped my mind; must be that its tracks are so well covered by said best, brightest, meanest, and most lucrative arms dealer in ALL the hemispheres.

Unfortunately, J.D. had spent that hour tucked up in the rafters of an extremely drafty warehouse with only some covert surveillance equipment for company. Vin perched a few rafters away, a gargoyle-like figure dressed in black and carrying a rifle. Below them, Ezra, Buck, and Nathan stood, with Buck acting as Ezra's second and Nathan as the bodyguard. Chris and Josiah waited with Team Five outside.

He wondered how any of them could do it, really; he felt like exploding from excitement and it took a lot of willpower to subdue the nervous trembling in his hands. Being on a rafter fifteen feet above a solid concrete surface helped, but still… Buck and Nathan had perfectly blank faces, standing passively unless Ezra spoke to them, and even then they answered quietly and calmly. J.D. knew, and felt bad admitting it to himself, that there was no way he could pull any of that off quite yet. Chris and Josiah, waiting outside and pretty much blind as bats except for what J.D.'s tranceiver could pick up, could stay in one place all day until the one vital piece of information they wanted would come along. And Vin, who'd spent most of yesterday and this morning jittering around with the same energy J.D. himself had, now crouched almost invisibly ten feet away from J.D. and hadn't moved since they'd gotten there.

Still, he was learning; he was in the rafters mostly because he'd begged and pleaded with both Vin and Chris to let him go up. He wouldn't learn anything about the intricacies of good vantage points hiding behind some crates and besides, Salvatore's men would look there, right? He might as well stay in the rafters with Vin, where no one would look because just getting up there was difficult enough in the first place. Both had taken a powerful lot of persuading, and Vin told him that if he had to break cover to cover the young agent's ass, he'd shoot J.D. himself. Still, they'd caved in though, and J.D. felt proud just thinking about it.

Aside from Ezra's flattery, everything proceeded normally. The small communicator J.D. wore in his ear kept him apprised of Team Five's external surveillance of the areas surrounding the building; there had

been no way to get wires in with either of the three men below J.D., so he'd had to truck in a few small recording devices with him. He'd taped them to the rafters with black tape, because duct tape, as Vin

pointed out that morning, was reflective. Now he just sat, quiet but not wanting to be, and clutching his Sauer automatic.

"I assure you, sir, these AK-47s are exceptional. Pristine. The paragon of the fully-automatic weapon." Ezra Standish's voice wafted up to the rafters and J.D., loaded with obsequiousness and a slight

tinge of boredom filtered through the southern accent.

"Ah, I knew you would find them so," Salvatore gloated. J.D. suppressed the urge to gag. "I trust that the money you have brought with you will be the same?"

"Of course it is, sir," Ezra assured him. "A quarter of a million dollars in unmarked, newly-printed bills." He gestured to Buck, who handed him a suitcase filled with what was, ostensibly, the money.

(Wait'll he sees what he's really getting in return… a good ten or twenty years behind bars in a maximum-security prison.)

J.D. grinned. Plan fell out perfectly, and he'd get another commendation on his record. Harassing Chris- life-threatening though it could be- had paid off. Paid off in a lot of ways J.D. reckoned he'd never expected.

Another thing he didn't expect was the crash of a far door being kicked open and the amplified "FREEZE! THIS IS THE ATF! PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN AND DON'T MOVE!"

First ATF lesson: Expect the unexpected.

J.D. realized he'd forgotten it.

Team Five jumped the gun; five more minutes and the bust would have been made without a shot fired, but any hope for a peaceful surrender disintegrated. Now, the figures below him swarmed into action, and the

deafening echo of gunshots in the cavernous space began to ring. He froze, trapped in a moment of indecision, before beginning to fire.

Ezra, Buck, and Nathan hit the deck and came up with weapons out. Salvatore had disappeared into the maelstrom- invisible to the three agents, but visible to Vin and J.D. Vin had the best shot, but wasn't using it, instead focusing that perfect aim on Salvatore's bodyguards and intent on saving the lives of his fellow agents.

"Vin! Get Salvatore!" shouted J.D., before he could stop himself. "I'll get those guys down there!" Even as he shouted, he began to kick himself.

(Dammit, Dunne! Don't freakin' shout orders at Vin… he knows what he's doing, for God's sake. And now… now. Oh, GOD.)

He couldn't see the killing look Vin directed at him, but he could see one burly guard aiming his rifle at the rafter J.D. himself sat on. J.D. reflexively pushed himself into the small wedge formed by the supporting strut and the cross-beam, right arm and hand glued to the side of his body but still blindly firing the Sauer until the clip had emptied. The barrage stopped suddenly and J.D heaved a gasp of relief, looking down to see the man's prone body lying on the floor, a single bullet hole glaring redly from his forehead.

Relief lasted about five seconds, when it- along with J.D.'s rafter- cracked.

The wooden rafter crumbled under the onslaught of high-caliber bullets, and the cross-beam snapped like a toothpick, angling sharply downward. J.D., helplessly wedged in between the cross-beam and the strut, began to slide, hands grasping desperately for purchase. The forgotten Sauer clattered to the floor beneath him.

Time stopped as he hung there, splinters gouging into his hands and his own body growing immeasurably heavy. He decided, if he lived through this, to go on a diet and never, ever challenge Vin to an eating contest again. Those five pounds would take months to work off…

As those thoughts floated through his head, he heard the bang of a gun and felt a sudden, stabbing pressure in his back and it dawned on him that he'd been shot. He felt the bullet rip through his body, but only in a dull and distant way, like he was watching someone on TV get shot and was just wincing in sympathy for the poor bastard. This time, though, he was the poor bastard. His arm muscles hurt fiercely, but even that pain paled in comparison to the agony of the bullet wound that had filtered through layers of shock. A heavy, invisible weight pulled his chest down and breathing suddenly became very difficult.

Vin's return fire sounded like it came through cotton. He barely heard it, his whole mind engrossed with the sight of the blood smear on the wall ten feet from his face. That belonged to him, by God. That was his goddamned blood splattered on that freakin' wall.

Well, hell. That couldn't possibly be good.

Along with a whole lot of blood, J.D.'s strength drained out of his body, and his hands began to lose their already-precarious grip. Slick with sweat and now almost numb, they started to slide along the length of the beam before losing contact with it altogether and he found himself falling… falling…

… going down…

He didn't register actually making contact with the concrete floor; as he came to, he heard the scattered, random sounds of cleanup crews and smelled a familiar cologne emanating from somewhere near his head.

"Bu.. Buck?" he managed to whisper.

"It's okay, kid. I'm here." He felt, rather than saw, Buck crouching by his arm. In the distance, the sharp report of an ambulance sounded and closer, he could hear the furious voice of Chris Larabee calling down wrath and hellfire on Team Five. It made him grin, despite the pain.

"What're you grinnin' for, kid? Ya got shot." Buck's tone was light and teasing like it always was, but J.D. knew his friend well enough to know the man was worried, and it hurt J.D. to be the source of that.

"Tell… tell Vin not t'shoot me," he rasped.

"Why would Vin shoot you?"

"Breakin'… co-cover like that."

"You didn't break cover, kid. You had it blown. Chris is dealin' with 'em now." Buck kept pressure on the wound; it hurt, but J.D. couldn't think about telling Buck that. He had a more important question on his

mind.

"We get Salvatore?"

"Yup."

"Good… I can die happy."

"You ain't dyin', kid," Buck told him, and the absolute certainty of his voice made J.D. believe for a moment that yeah, he wasn't going to die. He closed his eyes, smiling a little, going down into darkness.

The last thing he heard was Buck shouting for a medic.

CHAPTER TWO: WILL

He couldn't believe how God-awful young J.D. looked.

J.D. always lost five years in sleep, but now, black hair framing a face as pale as the hospital pillow his head rested on, he looked even younger. More vulnerable- his mouth hung slightly open underneath the oxygen mask he wore and dark circles underlined shuttered eyes. Childlike- sterile white monitors and snaky coils of wire surrounded him. Innocent- like some dark-haired angel tossed down from Heaven in the middle of a firefight.

Alone- even surrounded by the six silent men he called his friends. And made even younger by the fact that a good fifteen years separated him from the rest of them in age, with the exception of Vin Tanner, but Vin had seen far too much in twenty-six years and in some ways was the oldest of all of them.

Buck Wilmington sat next to the boy's bedside, staring at that young face and willing those two big hazel eyes to open. Four hours had passed since the doctors had wheeled him out of surgery, but no amount

of willing had gotten J.D. to open his eyes even once, not so much as a crack.

Willing.

"God willing, he'll be out in a couple weeks," Josiah'd said earlier, as they waited for the doctors to finish setting up the equipment in J.D.'s room.

Just a couple years ago, Buck had rewritten his will. Rewritten it, to leave J.D. as the sole beneficiary; he didn't really have any other family members or anyone else who'd be interested in a PlayStation and a bunch of old savings bonds. The Wilmington estate was not a great one, but… who else should get it? The kid was family.

"He will get better," Chris had told him before leaving for the cafeteria to get coffee. He'd said it as incontrovertible fact, an order from on high- an order from Chris "Bad Ass" Larabee that, upon pain of death, would not be ignored.

Just a couple years ago, J.D. had filled out a will of his own after finishing his paperwork for the ATF. Buck had gone with him to the estate lawyer's office, accompanied by Chris and Vin, who had acted as witnesses. The kid had listed Buck as next of kin and willed his estate to his best friend and guardian.

Will.

Buck brushed a hand across his eyes. Thinking of wills made him think of dying, and wakes, and funeral parlors, and… and…

He couldn't believe how God-awful young J.D. looked. Too damn young to die from a bullet in the gut, that's for sure. Too young, too young, too goddamned young.

"The kid's got a will of iron," Vin told him now, voice quiet as it always was, blue eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Buck looked up at the team's second-youngest member and nodded gratefully for the verbal

acknowledgment of something he knew to be true.

Just a couple years ago, J.D. had pursued Chris Larabee for the last position on the team. The kid's Academy credentials had been impressive, but Chris had initially- and flatly- refused J.D.'s request. Dunne had kept at him though, clinging like a mad badger, until Chris relented and let him in. The kid had been ecstatic at

that, but Buck had seen something in his eyes that said the kid had, in some ways, expected this.

Will.

The click of the IV as it dispensed its medicine and the steady, almost inaudible hum of the monitors combined to lull Buck to sleep. He felt exhaustion dragging at him, pulling his eyelids shut. He saw the heads of his five other friends all bowed- some in thought and some in sleep, and he knew they were as tired as he.

Sleep threatened to claim him but the sudden, swift beeping of the heart monitor sent Buck rocketing from his chair. The sound galvanized the men behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Buck saw Ezra dart

out into the hall and heard the hoarse southern voice call for a doctor. He willed the doctor to materialize right next to J.D.'s bed.

Instead, the doctor burst through the door, white lab coat billowing out behind him like the wings of some great, pale bird. Buck stepped out of the way when it became clear that the doctor would walk over

him rather than wait for him to move. Three nurses came in a split second later, and the silent room descended into chaos.

"You'll have to move back a bit, sir." The doctor's voice was calm, yet firm- Buck moved, but only to stand behind the kid's head, looking down into the pale, bruised face half-hidden by the oxygen mask.

The doctor shouted for a crash cart and turned to a nurse to demand epinephrine. The requested crash cart arrived; the doctor made some adjustments to J.D.'s IV and started pushing drugs- Buck couldn't watch more holes being poked in his best friend and closed his eyes. As he did so, the sounds in the room became louder- the noises seemed almost inappropriate against the silence of the hospital, and Buck found himself wondering if they couldn't be a little quieter. They'd wake J.D. with all their racket.

Wasn't waking him the whole point? Buck bent close to J.D.'s ear.

"C'mon kid… c'mon, c'mon…" Buck whispered fiercely to the young man. "C'mon, J.D…. don't give up on me. C'mon, kid… c'mon, c'mon…" He repeated the litany over and over, thinking that maybe if J.D got

irritated enough at the repetition, he'd wake up and tell Buck to shut his trap and then Buck could contemplate revenge over a Corona and a plate of J.D.'s gourmet microwaved enchiladas…

The terminal shrilling of the flatlining monitor answered him. The doctor seized the paddles and called for a charge to 200; if Buck had had problems with seeing the kid get a shot, he knew he couldn't watch as J.D. got shocked. He turned his head, covering his eyes with his hands but could still see in his mind's eye the awful sight of J.D.'s body convulsing on the bed. He sensed the presence of his friends behind him, and hoped they didn't think he was a coward for turning away like that. Frustration built at that thought; he figured addressing God would be a waste of time and settled for a direct demand.

"COME ON, DAMMIT!" Buck wanted to throttle the kid, but the doctors would not have taken kindly to such a thing. He tried to will something into the kid… the desire to live, to just wake up for a minute to tell Buck he'd be okay, hell, to just be okay like the whole thing hadn't happened.

For a moment more the glowing, flat line on the monitor and its attendant high-pitched drone became his world.

"Come on, kid…" Buck whispered. "You can do it. I know you can… c'mon. Don't give up… please…"

Beep…

… beep…

… beep…

CHAPTER 3: STUCK IN A RUT

God, he was bored.

Not just bored, but bored.

Bored, thought J.D. Dunne. I’m bored outta my freakin’ gourd.

He groaned, remembering how much he hated that saying. Like a bad song, it would stick in his head and repeat itself over. And over. And over. And over. Sort of like whatever he thought Buck had been mumbling right in his ear. At least, he thought it had been Buck; his best friend had told him what happened after the bust went wrong, how he’d fallen off the broken rafter, gotten shot through the back, and then dropped ten feet to a rough concrete floor. Nathan took over after Buck had to stop his narrative at the ambulance, patiently re-explaining what the doctors had already told him.

The bullet had perforated a kidney and had shredded J.D.’s left abdominal muscles, along with a small section of intestine, Nathan told him when the drugs had worn off enough for J.D. to understand even the EMT’s plain English. Even plain-spoken, though, they were hard to understand. He understood what "perforated" meant, but placing that word in the same sentence with "kidney"- specifically his kidney- frightened him.

"Perfora- what? What about my kidney?" J.D. had half-demanded in enraged confusion.

"Quit fussin’ at Nathan- he’ll explain if you give him the chance," interjected Buck. Guiltily, J.D. subsided with a mumbled apology. Nathan, who well knew how prickly his teammates could be when in somewhat altered states, hadn’t even been fazed.

"The bullet pretty much destroyed your kidney," Nathan’d told him. "They had to remove it- you’ll be okay though, so long as you don’t lose the other one. They want you on dialysis for the next week or so, though, while you recover. That was a bad hit you took, kid."

"Yeah, I know... I was there." Not a good thought, that one. He picked nervously at the bedcovers. "So.. how long am I gonna be in here?"

Nathan shrugged. "’Least a week with dialysis. Probably another waiting for those muscles to heal. You’ll have to stick around as an outpatient for physical therapy. Hate to say it, but it’s gonna be a while before you see field action again."

That hurt. Even worse than the kidney. Even worse than that awful dialysis machine they hooked him up to every few hours. Even worse than the exercises devised by the Atilla the Hun that the hospital passed off as a physical therapist.

Bored out of my mother lovin’ gourd, he thought, to distract himself.

Maybe he should have died in that hospital bed, because he was pretty sure that if something exciting didn’t happen soon- like say, a gas leak,- he’d be driven to commit, as Ezra called it, an act of desperation.

It didn’t help that the man who drew warden assignment for the day didn’t talk much. After spending a week glued to J.D.’s bedside, paperwork and a new case pulled Buck back to the office five days ago, and a rotating schedule had been worked out.

MONDAY

"And how are you this fine day, Mr. Dunne?" Ezra Standish’s southern-accented voice enquired from the doorway.

"Fine," grunted J.D., who was most certainly not fine. He had a book on Civil War history- a big, thick book- propped up on his bed tray. He had been staring blindly at the pages for a good hour, convinced that if he stared hard enough, he could see the catheter sticking out of his stomach. Not that he particularly wanted to see it, but looking at it was curiously like the time he’d accidentally stabbed himself with his Swiss Army knife in the Academy. Just looking at something sticking out of you- something you knew wasn’t supposed to be there- was vaguely hypnotic.

"Well, I am your appointed guardian for the day," Standish continued. "Is there anything I might procure for you?"

J.D. took a minute to decipher the sentence. "Nah- can’t do much while they’ve got me hooked up to this thing." He indicated the dialysis machine with a casual wave of his hand, as if to indicate his motorcycle or a small refrigerator.

"As you wish, Mr. Dunne." Ezra swept over to his seat with a soft rustling of expensive fabric, pulled some paperwork from his briefcase and sat down.

"Whatcha workin’ on, Ez?"

Ezra looked up. "A final report for that Salvatore fiasco, if you must know- merely clarifying the details of my involvement."

"Oh." J.D. fiddled with his blanket some more, wondering why he was so uncomfortable, but knowing his discomfort had little to do with that huge friggin’ catheter stuck in his belly. "Is the office okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Dunne. The office is fine." Ezra shuffled some papers around for a minute before continuing. "No, allow me to amend that. Buck has been courting a lady online for the past few days- on the sly at work, of course. Well, as it turns out..."

TUESDAY

"Hey, J.D.!"

"Hey, Nathan."

"What’s up?"

"Not much."

"How ya feelin’?"

"Fine."

"Heard you’re startin’ physical therapy soon..." Nathan wondered at the kid’s monotone and mostly monosyllabic answers. Usually ‘what’s up’ got a ten-minute discourse in the very least, accompanied by much gesturing and excitement bordering on high-spirited hysteria.

"No... doctors said there’s still somethin’ wrong with somethin’. Potassium or sodium levels or somethin’ like that. You know what that means?"

"Yup." Nathan took Ezra’s seat by the bed and folded his arms atop the bed’s railings. J.D. knew the ‘serious’ look Nathan would get whenever he had news he knew the patient would not like hearing.

"Well?"

Nathan sighed. "Your kidney’s having trouble adjusting to working solo," he began. "When an otherwise healthy person has a kidney removed, it’s usually not too big a deal. You were shot, though, and fell ten feet to boot. Sodium and potassium regulate muscle activity. And, um, that muscle activity includes your heart. If they delayed your physical therapy it’s because they don’t want you seizing up on them."

"Having a heart attack, you mean?"

Nathan hesitated but then nodded.

J.D. let his head fall back against the pillow, thinking only that heart attacks were for old people.

"So, uh... how’s the office?"

"Office is OK," replied Nathan, eyebrow raised quizically. "Buck’s apparently found the woman he wants to marry and he hasn’t even met her yet..."

WEDNESDAY

J.D. had managed to drift off into sleep when Josiah arrived. The ex-anthropologist, seeing the young man’s slack and exhausted face, entered unobtrusively and sat down silently. He’d finished a good bit of Sons and Lovers- D.H. Lawrence was a guilty pleasure of his- when J.D. began to stir. One hazel eye cracked open and studied Josiah briefly before closing again.

"Hi, Josiah."

Josiah looked over. "Hello, J.D. Can I get you anything?"

Somehow, J.D. found the energy to shake his head. "... No thanks..." he whispered.

"You sure? You look like you could use something." Josiah set the book down on the floor and hitched his chair closer to the bed. "Should I get the doctor in here?"

"No! No more doctors!" J.D. managed to half-shout. He wanted to beat something. Hard. Really, really hard. He wanted to beat the doctor or that damn dialysis machine. Unfortunately, he’d get in trouble if he beat the doctor and probably die if he beat the machine.

"Okay, then; no more doctors," acquiesced Josiah. "Want a drink?"

"No."

"Want to talk?"

"No." J.D. turned his head away, shoulders shaking with either a sigh or a muffled sob. "Well... you mind leavin’ a bit, Josiah? I... I just gotta be alone."

Josiah wanted to point out that the boy had been alone all night and most of the morning, but the hopelessness in that normally enthusiastic voice convinced him to grant J.D.’s request- even though the last thing the kid needed was to be left alone.

"Before I go, J.D., did Nathan tell you about that woman Buck met online?"

THURSDAY

Chris came next, and J.D. started thinking that this had begun to resemble some weird, modern-day Dickens story, with five ghosts instead of three.

"Hey, J.D."

"Hey, Chris."

"You got some news for me?"

"Yeah," J.D. said grudgingly. Good news and bad news at the same time. "The doctor says I can start physical therapy today. I have my first session this afternoon."

Chris allowed himself a slight smile at the kid’s less-than-excited tone. "You don’t sound too terribly excited about that."

"I don’t know..." J.D. sighed in frustration. "I talked with the guy today- he looks like a linebacker. He makes Josiah look like... I dunno. Like a lightweight. He made it sound like those potassium levels were my fault."

"If you don’t like him you can always ask for a change."

J.D. shrugged. "I guess..."

Larabee sensed that J.D. had something else on his mind besides the physical therapist but didn’t want to talk about it. Far be it from him to pry. They sat in silence for a while, Chris flipping through reports and J.D. doggedly plowing through Red River, until Dunne flung the book to the floor with a frustrated curse.

"I hate this!" shouted J.D. "I fuckin’ hate this!"

When J.D. resorted to vulgarity, something was definitely bugging him. The hazel eyes shone with manfully suppressed tears and the jaw clenched in a stubborn effort to rein them in even longer. Chris leaned forward in his chair.

"Want to talk about it?"

For a moment, J.D. looked as though he might respond in the negative, but he took a deep, trembling breath and said, "I just hate sitting here doing nothing and being sick all the damn time."

"You got shot, J.D."

"Hah! I know," J.D. snorted. "I was there." The curt, peremptory tone taken with Chris was also a novelty- J.D., in his normal state of mind, would sooner consider shooting his foot than talking to his team leader in such a way. Still, the concerned look that crossed the pale, tired face indicated he wasn’t completely bereft of his senses and J.D. quickly added, "Sorry, Chris. It’s just... It’s just that I want to be back at work. I want to do something."

Chris could understand that; hospitalization always seemed to wear hardest on his team. Give them a week-long surveillance job and they’d do it- Vin wouldn’t like it much, but he’d do it gladly. Give them a week in a hospital bed and they’d go stir-crazy inside a day.

"I know you feel useless here, but--"

"Damn straight I feel useless."

"You mind, son? You gotta realize that your body won’t take too kindly to being forced out of bed and into the world like this. None of this is your fault- it’s your body that’s got to recover. I’ll see about bringing in some paperwork for you to go over, maybe drop some data onto a laptop for you to read, but you should really think about just gettin’ well."

"That’s all I’ve been thinking about since I woke up, and- and," J.D.’s voice cracked with fear and frustration, "it ain’t happening."

"You’ve got your first appointment with your therapist today."

"In here. Can’t go to the physical medicine wing yet, the doc says. Gotta stay here so they can keep stickin’ me with stuff."

Chris sighed- there was no talking reason into the kid; he could be just as stubborn as the rest of them when he had decided to dig his heels in and refuse to see common sense. You can lead a man to reason but you can’t make him see it...

"J.D.... J.D., look at me." It was not a request. J.D swiveled his head to look at the senior agent, who fixed him with a deadly serious look.

"You will get better," Chris told him. Just as much an order as anything Larabee’d given out before- go watch this drug dealer, go follow that gun runner. And there could be only one answer.

"Yes, Chris," mumbled J.D.

Just before the silence signifying the end of the argument descended, Chris asked, "You hear that Buck’s got a new girl? Yeah... some kind of online thing..."

FRIDAY- THE NEXT DAY (OBVIOUSLY!)

"Hey, J.D."

"Hey, Vin."

The sharpshooter moved soundlessly into the room, eyeing the assorted curtains and monitors warily.

"Don’t worry, Vin. Ain’t no one been in here for a while. I should know- been stakin’ out the place for the past week and a half." J.D. grinned at Tanner’s apprehension.

"You never know when doctors are gonna jump out at ya like a cougar comin’ out of ambush." Vin’s slow Texan drawl even managed to sound uneasy, like Dr. Ambrose- the attending nephrologist- was actually hiding behind something and crouched, waiting to spring.

"So how you feelin’?" Tanner asked.

"Okay."

"You gotta work harder’n that to fool me, kid. What’s wrong?"

"Well, I got one kidney, this huge needle stuck in my stomach, half the muscles in my abdomen don’t work, and my therapist has it in for me."

"Seems like there’s a little bit more than that."

J.D. knew that his attempts to foil Vin would fail- Vin read people like kindergarten books. He reiterated his conversation with Chris from the day before. Vin merely listened patiently, quietly, and at the end of it, just nodded.

"Reckon Chris is right."

"Vin!"

"Well, he is." Vin shrugged. "I’ve spent my share a’time in hospitals. Yeah, they ain’t fun an’ I hate ‘em probably more than I hate anything else, but they’re necessary evils."

J.D. couldn’t believe this. "Vin, you’re always lookin’ for ways t’get out! Remember that time you tried to climb out the window, but Chris had it barred?"

Vin winced at that- not one of the high points in his career. He had gotten out eventually- it had taken a little misdirection involving a maintenance worker’s "misplacing" a screwdriver, but he’d gotten those bars off the window and escaped. So it landed him back in the hospital with a slightly sprained knee, but he’d gotten to go home four days early.

"Look, J.D... that was entirely different. This is your heart we’re talkin’ about here. Let’s say you did get back to work, even if’n you’re just gonna go for dialysis mornings, noon, and evenings. You’d be in a wheelchair. Yeah, the ADA got the federal building to put in ramps and even redo the elevators, but you know how hard it is to get around 12 floors of office space in one a’those things? And what if you had a heart attack? You’d be dead by the time we got you down to the lobby. Sorry, kid. You’re gonna have t’ do this the ol’fashioned way."

"Vin... I don’t know if I can."

Tanner’s blue eyes flickered with sympathy, and it hit J.D. how much it would suck to love the outdoors as much as a person like Vin Tanner did and not be able to set foot outside for weeks at a time. To make matters worse, ‘indoors’ would mean endless hours of torture at the hands of doctors, being poked, prodded, tested, and smelling that damn antiseptic smell.

"J.D., you didn’t badger your way onto th’team for nothin’. If’n you survived that shot, you can survive this. Don’t seem like you can, but you will."

Well, if Vin and Chris said it, it must be so.

He felt better just thinking about it.

He also suddenly felt very tired, but J.D. kept his eyes open and forced himself to continue talking. "Hey, you get the ballistics report on that rifle that guy used t’shoot me off that rafter?"

"Yeah, but... well, I think you’re better off not knowin’. Don’t want you to get a swelled head n’all that... or have some sorta life-changin’ revelation and go on talk shows..." He studied his hands avidly for a moment and then looked up at J.D. with the infamous Tanner grin.

"I guess everyone’s been tellin’ ya about that woman Buck’s been talkin’ to online?"

"God, Vin.. She’d better be a supermodel the way you guys’re goin’ on about her." He wondered how many more times he could hear about this woman.

Vin’s grin only widened. "Well, she ain’t so supermodel. She’s in law enforcement."

"Really?" This, at least, was new.

"Yup. ATF, no less." Vin paused to let his words- and the Tanner grin- sink in.

"You didn’t."

"Oh, but I did."

"How?"

"Well, y’know that new laptop I just got? I downloaded that ICQ program you sent me..."

CHAPTER FOUR: HOT DATE

"Hey, Buck?"

"Yeah, J.D."

"How do you ‘get pregnant’?"

"Now, Mr. Dunne," interjected Ezra, "I would have assumed that you, having spent as much time as you have with our esteemed Mr. Wilmington, would by now be intimately versed in that particular arena."

J.D. flushed and took a moment before responding. "I *know* about all of that, Ez," he said finally. "I was just wonderin’ about the expression. I mean, how do you ‘get pregnant’? It’s like saying, ‘Oh, I’m going down to the store to get pregnant, and maybe some chips while I’m at it.’ You could say, ‘Got pregnant?’ instead of ‘Got milk’. ‘Pregnant’ is an adjective, not a noun, so you really can’t get it. See?"

The blank looks he got from Ezra and Buck indicated that they did not see.

"Forget it," J.D. sighed.

"Them drugs still weighin’ you down, kid?" Buck asked after a minute, the friendly teasing fading away in the face of concern.

"A little," admitted J.D, shutting down his computer and clearing off his desk before pulling himself away from his desk and standing up, gripping the edge for support and wincing as muscles protested. "Do I have to go to physical therapy tonight?"

"Yes." While Buck joked a lot- spent most of his life doing it, by his own admission- he refused to falter even under the silent onslaught of J.D.’s meek hazel eyes begging Buck not to ship him off to physical therapy- again. "I’m going out tonight, so I’m droppin’ ya off at the hospital, an’Josiah’ll be by to pick you up. Get it?"

"Got it," sighed J.D.

"Good."

Josiah emerged from the conference room and glanced down at the dejected rookie. "You want to call when you’re done, or should I just come by at eight?"

"Come by at six-thirty, Josiah." J.D. directed a scowl at Buck, who mutely shook his head at the profiler and mouthed ‘eight.’

"Eight it is, J.D," said Sanchez before continuing on to his desk and getting ready to go home. As he did so, Nathan Jackson, Vin Tanner, and Chris Larabee filtered out of the conference room Josiah had just vacated. Chris and Nathan bent over some papers, still deep in discussion about the Salvatore case, but Vin headed to his own desk.

"Where you off to tonight, Vin?" asked Buck.

"Oh, off..." Vin distractedly waved a hand at some indeterminate point beyond the office walls.

"You goin’ out, cowboy?" inquired Chris.

"Yeah," Vin said, directing a wolfish grin at the office in general. "Hot date."

"Wooo! Go, Tanner!" crowed Buck.

"Yup, go me." Vin’s grin became impossibly wider at Buck’s exaltation, and J.D. had an inkling of what Vin’s hot date was going to be- or who Vin’s hot date was going to be, rather. Saluting his teammates, Tanner picked up his car keys and headed out the office door, leaving J.D. to manfully suppress a grin and snicker of his own.

"So what are you doing tonight, Buck?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, I’m meeting Vanessa tonight," Buck said, his voice becoming somewhat dreamy. "You know, the girl I met online?" The rest of the office exchanged looks that Buck remained oblivious to; Wilmington kept on, his hands describing the shapely curves of a woman’s body in the air. "She’s gotta be somethin’," he said musingly. "Yup... got to be the sweetest lil’ thing this side of the Mississippi."

"How do you know?" asked Chris. "She could be sixteen. She could be eighty. Hell, she could be a man for all you know."

Nathan seemed to choke on something.

"She said she’ll be sittin’ at an upstairs readin’ circle at Barnes & Noble," Buck replied defensively, "with a white rose, a cup of coffee, and a copy of Villon’s poetry on the table next to her."

"How ‘You’ve Got Mail,’" snickered J.D.

"Could still be a man," Chris responded speculatively.

"Chris, no man in his right mind would read poetry by some dead French guy," Buck pointed out, guessing and hoping that the poet in question was both French and dead.

"Guess you’re right," J.D. said after a minute, figuring that Vin was just using the copy of Villon as a prop. At least, J.D. hoped he was.

"Well, kid, let’s get you out of here," Buck said, standing and making to hustle J.D. out of the office before the inquisition could continue. "Yes, sir, got to get you to the hospital and got to get me cleaned up." He fairly shoved J.D. out the office door and down the hall, leaving their four teammates behind. Once the door swung shut and any sound in the offices could not be heard in the hall beyond, the four men began to laugh.

_____________________________

LATER

Hot stuff-

I’ve got some free time tonight. How about you and I hook up? I’ll be at the brand-new Barnes & Noble at seven, with a white rose, a cup of coffee, and a copy of Villon (do you like Villon? I love him.) Maybe I’ll see you there, sweet thing. Upper level, you cyber stud, you.

Love,

Vanessa

By God, she had to be a vision. Buck looked at the much-folded piece of paper in his hands, practically seeing the sensuality dripping from each and every printed word.

He stood outside the vast expanse of the Barnes & Noble, breathing deeply of the night air and fighting to calm his nerves, wondering why he was so anxious. The famed Wilmington animal magnetism would catch her, and only Inez had- so far- proven herself immune to its attractions. Taking one more breath to steel himself, he stepped inside the building, walking through the double sets of doors and into the store proper.

Her email said upper level. Well, he was pretty sure it said that, because she had sandwiched the specifics between some steamy, decidedly delightful compliments. Buck ascended the escalators and began to hunt around the fringes of the Business section, looking for-

There! Over in the corner!

He saw the cup of coffee, the white rose, and even though he couldn’t see the print on the book from where he stood, it had to be Villon. He could only see the back of her head, but what a goddamned sexy head it was, poking out over the high back of the chair.

Kinda short, he guessed, but then, height never mattered. Her hair- a subdued riot of color, alternating between bronze and gold, with streaks of deeper brown running through its length. Her eyes- he didn’t know (she’d never said), but he imagined them to be shining with laughter and a lust for life... among other things. The high, cushioned back of the overstuffed chair obscured her body, but he could just imagine those luscious curves- curves that, as they said, if you were a car, would make you want to hug that damn road all night long.

He found himself taking yet another deep, unsteady breath, then forced all his insecurities and trepidations to the back of his mind, assuming a posture and swagger that was one hundred percent Bucklin Wilmington.

"Hello there, Vanessa," he drawled, waiting for her to turn and the subsequent vision of heaven sure to follow, waiting for the sound of that sultry, honey-thick, chocolaty voice to murmur a heated reply.

"I believe you mean Vin-essa," replied a familiar, raspy- and decidedly male- voice, instead.

Buck’s heart and hormones dropped down to his feet, but his voice rose to some octave far above what he thought to be his normal range.

"Vanessa?" he squeaked, stumbling around the chair and looking straight into the dancing, devilishly gleaming eyes of Vin Tanner.

"No, Vin-essa," Vin corrected, grinning and looking up from a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. "How you doin’, hot stuff?"

CHAPTER FIVE: WATER TORTURE

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Each drop of water began to take on its own distinct note- one might sound more like a shrill ‘plink’, while another might have all the bass rumble of a depth charge. They began to run together as if someone played them on a piano, each separate tone emerging and then echoing, only to eventually fade from memory altogether. Yet the separate drops kept coming, individual and emphatic, and it drove Vin Tanner crazy.

It didn’t help that he was honor-bound not to leave the apartment under any circumstances. An atomic bomb, the Second Coming, Sarah Michelle Gellar prancing down the street in nothin’ but a sweet lil’ Victoria’s Secret number (Buck had to pause on that one)... none of the above consituted sufficient reason for Vin to leave the townhouse.

Vin, of course, pointed out the one major flaw in Buck’s reasoning- Buck himself would be out the door in nothing flat if Sarah Michelle Gellar pranced down the street in Arctic expedition gear worn over a polyester pants suit. Buck scowled, told Vin that was not the point, and left before the sharpshooter could pressure him any more.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It also didn’t help that Buck had neglected getting that goddamned kitchen faucet fixed, and Vin’s claustrophobia increased its demands to get Vin out of the house as the sound of the dripping water became more pervasive. Not for the first time, Vin started to wonder if maybe Buck was exacting revenge for the whole "Vin-essa" prank that had made him more or less the butt of office jokes for the past week, with no signs of the torment ever letting up.

Had to be it, but for right now, Vin was stuck- bored, driven to distraction by that damn faucet, and even more bored. The complete lack of any quality daytime programming kept the TV turned off, the complete lack of decent music-

Does Limp Bizkit (or Bisquick? Whatever.) count as music? Vin wondered.

-kept the CD player turned off, and the complete lack of energy on J.D.’s part to do anything that involved going outside combined to keep Vin hemmed in and at the mercy of that GODDAMN AWFUL FAUCET!

Well, he could turn the water off.

Except he’d have to ask the landlady, and Vin had the feeling that the landlady, vexed already by her two obstreperous tenants, would not take kindly to their friend’s interference.

Fine, then. He could ask J.D. to ask the landlady.

Except he’d just gotten J.D. back from physical therapy and the kid, sore and exhausted, was in no shape to go up against Big Al, or whatever her name was. Vin conjured the image of J.D., bent and tired, cowering under the vast, looming presence of Big Al and discarded that plan of action.

Great. He could just fix the damn thing himself.

Yeah! He could take apart and reassemble most any firearm in use today (plus a few that weren’t), and he could fix his own motorcycle and his Jeep, and loosen the bolts in Ezra’s ergonomically-correct chair at the office. How hard could tightening a spigot be? Or maybe a nut. Or a gasket. Whatever those things were. Now, he just had to find the tool kit and he’d be in business. Finding the tool case would be, in and of itself, a grave challenge.

He hunted high and low, reluctant to disturb J.D., and finally found the tool kit underneath some questionable magazines shoved beneath Buck’s bed. Vin opened the kit and stared critically at the array of tools, the incessant dripping he could hear even from Buck’s bedroom quickly driving him to desperation. At length, he selected a few wrenches, some WD-40, and a flashlight, then headed back to do battle with the faucet.

When J.D. awoke, he heard water running, a low, rushing sound underneath a much louder torrent of curses. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and staggered out of his room, hunched over the fiery knot tied in his left side. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, he stopped and gaped.

A soaking wet Vin Tanner lay sprawled underneath the sink, torso invisible behind the cabinet doors that housed the water pipe. Sodden sneakers and socks rested disconsolately amid soaked towels and Vin’s flannel shirt- a dented can of WD-40 sat atop the pile.

"Goddamn sonofabitchin’..." Vin kept up a steady stream of English and Spanish curses, a stream almost as steady as the one that poured like a waterfall out of the cabinet and saturated Vin’s jeans.

"Uh, Vin?" asked J.D.

A sharp spasm wracking Vin’s lower body and cracking of skull against PVC answered him, both followed by a violent, "Son of a bitch!" Vin hooked his heels into the kitchen tile and hitched himself forward, revealing to J.D. a pair of haggard eyes staring from beneath brown hair plastered to a freshly-bruised forehead.

"Good Christ, J.D., don’t sneak up on a guy like that..."

"Sorry, Vin... Uh, what happened?"

"Goddamn faucet’s what happened... stupid thing’s been leakin’ the entire damn day. Fuckin’ drivin’ me up the goddamned wall..." Vin winced and rubbed his head, then looked around to survey the damage. "Aw, hell," he mumbled. "Buck’s gonna kill me."

"You know, Vin," J.D. said, "There was kind of an easier way to do it... See, this faucet’s sorta screwy- you gotta twist the handle a little an’ it stops. Here, I’ll show you." J.D. hobbled over to the faucet, careful of the water and demonstrated- a quick right-left twist of the wrist, then one prolonged turn back to the right. "It kinda takes some practice. Why didn’t ya ask me?"

"Didn’t wanta wake you up, J.D.," Vin said, running a hand through his hair. "Figured Buck’d kill me either way..." He sighed in defeat before turning to head off to the bathroom in search of a dry towel. "Just don’t get it... can take apart a submachine gun in thirty seconds, but this goddamn faucet..." His mumblings trailed off and silenced altogether as the bathroom door slammed shut behind him, leaving J.D. to survey the destruction.

For an unassuming, generally softspoken man, when Vin decided to wreak havoc, he wreaked it in grand style. The flood covered the entire kitchen floor, pooling dangerously around the telephone cord and working its way toward the living room. It would take the better part of Vin’s afternoon to clean this up, J.D figured, and that only if he hurried. Vin never hurried, J.D. knew, but as Vin emerged from the bathroom, that graceful stride had quickened markedly, and he held piles of towels and sponges in his arms, with a mop shoved through the crook of his elbow. He stalked past J.D., who limped out of his way, and dropped the towels on the kitchen table before turning to survey the damage.

"Don’t look good," J.D. offered.

"You’re tellin’ me," mumbled Vin. "Well, this is probly the first time this damn floor a’yours has been mopped since y’all got the place..." he sighed as he got to work.

THE END