De rerum natura
This was not good.
JD wandered back into the kitchen and rummaged first through the fridge, and then through the chest freezer in hopes of finding something to eat. About all he discovered was that his new lover enjoyed the finer things in life, and had long since left behind his student days of pizza and chips.
"If he ever had any student days," he muttered, eying the Spartan fridge with three bottles of champagne, a box of truffles, a half eaten pot of foie gras, and some sparkling mineral water.
He tore a chunk off the french stick in the bread bin, wiped it through the butter dish, and chunked some foie gras onto the end of it.
"Nice," he mumbled in surprise, spraying crumbs as he wandered back out onto the deck. It was unseasonably sunny, so he sprawled out in the sun lounger that Ezra had occupied earlier, and yawned hugely. He took another couple of bites of the bread, but soon his hand drooped, and it fell to the deck as he fell asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was not good.
The roads were as clear as he had ever seen them on a Thursday morning. The sky was a clear, glorious blue that reminded him of why he had come to the Rockies. The car was running smoothly. He should be in the office dead on eight o'clock.
This was *definitely* not good. It was positively disastrous. He might be able to add a few minutes at Mirans, a tiny coffee bar that sold filtered, pure-bean coffee the likes of which made Starbucks taste like the mud it was.
Perhaps if he stopped off at Starbucks as well, maybe picked up pastries and coffee all round... No. That would merely serve to instantly alert his overly inquisitive colleagues that he was seeking to conceal something.
He shifted uneasily in his seat, feeling the burn of his well used ass throbbing in gentle counterpoint to his slightly elevated heartbeat. Surely they would not know.
He groaned.
He was going to run the gauntlet of Mr. Wilmington's interrogation as to his unprecedented half day. Then, should he accidentally reveal that his mother was involved, or worse, if they had already found out in some manner, he would have to endure Mr. Sanchez' mawkish platitudes -- 'a fine figure of a woman' indeed. This would be further exacerbated by the supposedly subtle inquiries about his own well-being, ranging from Mr. Larabee's silent glower to Mr. Tanner's well meant 'You okay, Ez,' to Mr. Wilmington's jovial offers to perform unspecified acts of pain and degradation on his maternal parent should she ever happen to cross his path. A meeting he devoutly hoped would never eventuate.
"Why me?" he asked plaintively, and accelerated away from the stop light just as it turned red again, to the fury of the drivers behind him caught by it. He drove on, oblivious to their horns and alarums.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JD snored on.
Mrs Flores smiled as she spotted him outside, still reading the note Mr. Standish had left. Such a thoughtful man. She carefully pulled the deck door to, lest she disturb Mr. Dunne, and pulled out the vacuum cleaner.
JD didn't even twitch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course, Ezra thought as he eased the Jag through the ridiculously tight turn into the ATF parking garage, he could just tell them the truth.
He had met a complete stranger, swapped the most astonishingly intimate information with him, and his mother had paid said stranger, via an array of off-shore trusts, half a million dollars so Ezra could take him home and have sex with him. Really good, mind blowingly good, superlative, extraordinary, stupendous, astoundingly good sex. He shivered, and frowned. Perhaps if he imagined his colleagues' faces at this collection of revelations... Aah. Yes. A much better fit to his trousers.
"Retournerons a nous moutons," he remarked sternly, and smoothly slid the car into his parking slot. The door slammed with that peculiarly satisfying dull thud that eclipsed the common or garden slams, crashes and mere door closings of other, lesser cars. He patted it gently, and absently wiped the mark with a cloth that he tucked back into his briefcase.
The coffee really was exceptionally good. Although possibly he should refrain from thinking in superlatives, as they seemed to lead with remarkable persistence to other thoughts, less appropriate for his surroundings. He took another sip and smiled blissfully at the backs of his co-workers as they stood silently in the elevator together.
Perhaps a variation on the truth? Yet somehow he could not help but feel that 'I met him through my mother', while technically accurate, might lack a certain force as a successful introduction on a number of counts. Either they would not believe him, and started investigating what was going on, or worse they *would* believe him, and investigated what was going on while making John's life a misery looking into his background.
He could of course move the young man out to the cabin at the back of the property, and tell them he was a handyman, but he could immediately foresee that would require later explanation of a) why John wasn't actually doing any handyman type work; and b) why a PhD candidate was fixing (or not fixing) his fences and roof. And of course there was the uncomfortable discovery of issue c) that it would make regular sex with him damned difficult just when he had, somewhat to his own surprise, pencilled regular sex with John into his mental calendar for the foreseeable future.
He *could* simply not tell them anything, except if they ever found out, and his confidence in his team mates' ability to obtain the most improbable bits of information was more than sufficient to encompass them discovering John in a matter of hours, they would make his life a misery. And then they would make John's life a misery.
He gave fleeting thought to the idea of completely concealing John's presence in his life, but Tanner would spot something off the moment he entered Ezra's home and the others wouldn't be far behind.
Then there was the outright fabrication option, but that required John's co-operation, and he wasn't entirely convinced from what he had seen of the open young man so far that he would be capable of carrying off such a deception convincingly. It also required him to find time to construct, instruct, drill--bad word choice-- John about his supposed normal meeting with Ezra before anyone else found out about him.
In fact, the whole situation was a mess. Damn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Damn. JD kicked irritatedly at the back door. What a mess. The wind must have blown it closed, and he was now stuck outside in jeans and t-shirt, not even a shirt or a pair of sneakers to keep him warm. And he was hungry.
He knocked on the window, but Mrs. Flores had left over an hour ago.
Still, he cheered himself, it was a glorious day, and Ez would be back in a few hours.
He wandered back to the sun lounger and spotted the fallen piece of bread. Ants were crawling over it, but just as he was about to put it down again, his stomach rumbled. He picked them off carefully, and finished it off. He looked around thoughtfully and spotted an outside faucet against one wall. He washed the bread (and a couple of stray Aphaenogaster boulderensis smithi that were on the unexamined underside) down with two or three cupped handfuls of ice cold water, and sighed contentedly. This really was the life.
He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He could break back into the house later. For now -- was that a swimming pool?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was drowning. There was no other possible explanation. He was unable to breathe. His clothing was soaking, and yet he felt a peculiar kind of peace washing over him. The sort that could only be a precursor to imminent death.
He eyed, with a kind of remote interest, Chris Larabee, who had been the recipient of the rest of Buck Wilmington's welcome back from lunch gift of a bucket of sugar water.
Imminent death indeed.
Tanner predictably seemed in peril of acute bladder incontinence. Mr. Sanchez was, as ever, gently amused. Mr. Jackson was railing about the dangers of tin buckets falling onto human skulls at a distance of no less than one foot.
"Buck!"
Mr. Larabee's unerring eye affixed the miscreant with a glare that probably could have dried their clothing, could its energy only be harnessed.
"Ah. Yes. Mr. Wilmington's attempts at humor. Please excuse me, Mr. Larabee, while I obtain some alternate attire from my car, and possibly a shower in the department gymnasium."
Larabee's glare slid around and pinned Ezra. "This is your own damn fault, Standish. If you would just *tell* the man, then I wouldn't be a walking ant farm all you can eat buffet."
"I'm sorry, sir," he lied without a tremor, "there is nothing to tell. I merely went out, and returned home. There is no more, alas. Perhaps I should fabricate something to entertain the masses," he flung a scathing look at Wilmington and Tanner, "since they will not accept my assurances that nothing happened that would be of any interest to them."
"Aha!" Buck pounced on the glimmer of an opening. "So something happened that might have been of interest to *you*. But, Ez, if it's interesting to *you*," he regarded Standish soulfully, "it's of interest to *us*." He clutched his hands to his heart with earnest emotion. Tanner fell off his chair.
"Vin, get up and stop screeching. Buck, leave the man alone. And clear up that damn mess."
Ezra began to relax.
"You," the finger of doom targeted him, once more, unerringly. "My office. Now."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JD peered upwards. The sun was definitely past its zenith and drifting slowly downwards into the lowlands of midafternoon. He twisted lazily onto his back and stroked back across the pool. He let his eyes slide shut, turning his face up to soak up more sun. He sculled gently with his fingers, and smiled as he slowly glided across the shallow steps, where he allowed himself to sprawl, feet bobbing gently in the water.
A car door slammed in the distance and he jack-knifed into a sitting position. Was that Ezra? He bounded out of the water, ignoring its drag on his feet and yanked on his boxers. Skinny dipping was all very well. And considering everything they'd done together it was foolish to be embarrassed... he paused. That burning sensation wasn't embarrassment, was it?
He peered down himself reluctantly and sighed. Sunburn. If he couldn't find some lotion fairly soon, the more sex part of his to-do list was going to be put on hold for a couple of days. He twisted to look down his back and stopped when the skin on his shoulder and neck protested sharply. He rummaged in his jeans pockets for a moment until he produced a paperclip and library card.
"Aha!"
Two minutes later he was rooting through Ezra's bathroom. Something vaguely Japanese sounding claimed to be aftersun, and he squirted a handful out and slathered it over his grateful skin. The stuff went further than he had expected, and he was left smeared and streaky, wiping helplessly at globs of the stuff, but only really moving it around.
It worked amazingly well though. It was cool and numbing going on, enough so that he felt able to pull on soft gray sweatpants and a loose cotton shirt. Neither chafed, and he smiled contentedly. His stomach rumbled, and he sighed.
"We've already established that Ez doesn't eat in, so far as I can tell." His hand left smears of lotion on the oiled mahogany banister as he walked back downstairs. "So does he have any takeout menus, or are they all preprogrammed into his phone?"
A half hour search of the house turned up nothing remotely like a takeout menu, and JD slumped onto the sofa, enjoying the coolness of the leather filtered through his shirt. "Nada. Fuckit." His eyes drifted across the sound system half concealed in the far wall. "Some tunes," he bounced to his feet, oblivious to the oily smears left on the sofa. He sorted rapidly through the man's collection, and in deference to his host's sensibilities, only put Verdi's Requiem up to three quarters of its full sound level. Dies Irae *rocked* the house on this system.
Hadn't Ez said something about a computer? He frowned and re-ran the conversation from the previous evening. Ah, yes, study, second door on right, ground floor. And since it didn't even occur to him that it wouldn't be connected to the internet, he headed in, turned it on, and started searching for places that would deliver. It took a couple of minutes before he remembered that he didn't know the phone number, much less an address for them to deliver to.
"Bummer." He sat back in the contoured desk chair, pausing to savor the comfort, wriggling a little to really get the benefit of the firm cushions and silky fabric under his sore shoulders. Ezra hadn't left any numbers. However...
An evil grin spread over JD's face. He stood, then stopped himself. "No. He paid half a million. I owe him. And he's shit scared about what his co-workers are going to think. I shouldn't."
He smiled widely. "On the other hand, I'm starving to death here in the lap of luxury, and if I don't eat I may be too weak to perform tonight. Clearly," he located the phone, and hit speed dial one, "it is my *duty* to call him."
"Magika's Massage and *Personal* Grooming," a sweet, low, female voice husked into his ear. JD pulled the phone away and peered at it in bemusement. "How may I help?"
"Er. Sorry. Wrong number."
Ooookay. So the man was bi. No problemo. None at all. He carefully deleted the number from the memory, just in case.
Speed dial two was more promising. A man's voice answered tersely, "Larabee!"
"Um. Hi. Can I speak to Mr. Standish?"
There was a frozen silence, then a thud as the phone was slammed down onto a hard surface, and JD started praying that he would never have to meet this Larabee person. A door opened and distantly he heard "Standish! Get in here. Phone." in arctic tones. The door shut again and the phone was lifted from the table where it had been dropped.
"Standish?" Ezra's voice was tentative.
"Oh, hey, Ez, it's me."
"*John*?"
"JD. But yeah. So, I was wondering, what's the address of this place, or the phone number, or um, like, both. Cos there's nothing in the cupboards, and believe me, I've looked, though I've gotta say you have *the* best after sun stuff, well, *had*, I kinda used a lot of it, and I was thinking, I could get takeout, or you know, get someone to deliver some groceries and I could cook, only I don't cook much. Three thousand variations on pasta, basically. So, let me know what time you're getting home, and I'll be you know, good little hausfrau, with dinner and after dinner drinks, and after drinks hot monkey sex. Ez?"
"Do you have an email address?" Ezra's voice sounded oddly pitched. A little higher than normal. JD grinned.
"Yup. JD underscore Dunne, don't worry about the capitals, at jddunne.com. Or anything at jddunne.com -- it'll hit me no matter what. Sexgod, hothooker, I'm sure you can think of something--"
"Yes, yes, fine," Ezra interrupted hastily, "I'm sure I will think of something. I will email the required information to you as soon as I can."
"Cool."
"I will speak to you shortly, John."
"'kay. Bye Ez."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"John! Please don't call this number again! John?" But the only reply was the silence of a truncated call.
Ezra returned Chris' cell phone with a weak smile. "A friend. Can't imagine how he got your phone number."
"I can't imagine either." Chris was staring sternly at his agent. "Perhaps you would like to save me the trouble of imagining."
"I expect he may have accidentally hit the speed dial on my phone at home," he offered meekly.
"Ah. So your 'friend' is staying at your place." Chris' expression was bland and unreadable. "Would this 'friend' be the reason you took yesterday afternoon as a personal day?"
"Ah, oh, well," he stuttered uncharacteristically, "I suppose in a manner of speaking one might, yes, indeed, definitely say, but on the other hand, it was not, as it were, intentionally so, more pre-empted from an afternoon of something quite other. Indeed."
Chris scowled.
Ezra smiled weakly, it seemed to be becoming a new habit, and kept his mouth shut. "Go on, get back to work. And for god's sake remember to email him your phone number and address."
Ezra's confident stride towards the door of Larabee's office bobbled. No. Surely not.
He chanced a look over his shoulder. Larabee was smirking, slightly, faintly, but definitely smirking. "You might wanna tell the little hausfrau to tone his phone voice down some too."
Ezra walked into the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JD hung up, and drifted back to the computer to wait for the anticipated email. Ten minutes later he had networked his laptop to Ez's desktop, and installed the documents and software he needed to compile his AI program onto Ezra's machine. Fifty minutes later he had started rebuilding Ezra's system from the ground up, first carefully ghosting the entire system onto a partition on his much larger hard drive. He didn't download any messages. He didn't hear the phone. Or the yelling from the answer machine.
By the time Ezra was about to go insane from not hearing from him, JD had reinstalled most of the software Ezra appeared to use regularly, having tweaked it to work faster, and had installed his own little security protocol that had frustrated more than one would-be plagiarist's attempt to steal his data. It was shortly after six when he surfaced long enough to actually download his email. He smiled at the first message, blinked at the second, and squinted in bemusement at the third through seventh, the subject for each of which had increasing amounts of capitals and exclamation marks.
Address as requested
Please confirm receipt of prior message
FWD: address as requested! Please let me know if you have received it!
are you there?!
John! I[m serious! CALL ME!!
ANSWER your frigging emails, goddammit!
PICK UP THE PHONE!!!
All from one e.p.standish@denver.atf.gov; all sent, demurely, to John at jddunne.com. He was somewhat disappointed that Ezra hadn't taken advantage of the sexgod@ address he'd suggested.
JD shrugged, and sent one reply back. From the sexgod.
"Hey, Ez, tx 4 addy. pizza okay w/u? JD (hey, chill! Been fixing your computer ;-)"
He hit send with a blissfully evil smile on his face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You okay, Ez?" Tanner asked, a frown on his face.
"I repeat, I am absolutely-- oh thank god." He double clicked on the new email with alacrity, leaned forward, tilted his monitor, turned *off* his monitor and waited for his colleagues to sit back at their own desks.
"Bet it's a girrrrrrl," Buck managed to imbue the word with more salacious tackiness than Austin Powers himself.
Ezra told him so.
"He's got the mojo, and I've got the magnetism," Buck smirked cheerfully, "If ya got it, ya got it. I'm right, aren't I?"
"You cannot imagine how wrong you are, Mr Wilmington."
Mr. Wilmington's eyes widened, and Ezra's suddenly snapped to his with imploring horror.
"Pretty, foxy little thing hidden away in that love shack o'yours," he went on blithely, and Ezra breathed a sigh of relief. If he had guessed at least he was gentleman enough to say nothing.
"Anyone for a drink?" Buck offered, taking pity on him.
"Coffee."
"Coffee."
"Thank you, but no."
"Herbal tea, no sugar."
"Double espresso, extra sugar."
Buck blinked and shrugged amiably. He had offered, after all.
Ezra waited until the interest in his computer had faded, and turned the screen back on. Two seconds later he was dialing his home telephone with shaking fingers stabbing at the buttons.
"John. John! Pick up! Now!"
"Ey Ez, whassup?"
"Restore my computer. Immediately."
"Well, I can't do that, but--"
"No, you misunderstood,"
"Ez, chill!"
"When I said 'restore my computer', I did not mean"
"Ez, calm down!"
"'attempt to restore it', or 'please have a go at restoring it'"
"Ez, I know what I'm doing!"
"I meant, you will restore it or spend the next six months wondering when I will castrate you!"
"Aw, you don't mean that, Ez. Look, I just--"
"I don't care what you just. And do not call me by that ridiculous appellation!"
"Ezra, shut the fuck *up* willya?"
Ezra waited.
"Your stuff is right where it always was. I've password protected it, and beefed up your non-existent security system."
"That was a state of the art federal government firewall!" Ezra wailed in protest.
"As I said," John's tone was dry. "Your computer's feeling much better now. It's the equivalent of taking the Jag in for a tune up, okay? I've done an oil change, upgraded your car alarm, and changed the fuzzy dice for something a little classier."
"I don't have any fuzzy dice," Ezra was starting to wonder at what point he'd lost control. He glanced up and five pairs of eyes whipped away to stare at the ceiling, the floor, the plants or their computers.
"Metaphorically speaking, Ezra P., trust me, you had fuzzy dice."
"Fine." Ezra realised with some discomfort that he had another hour in the office, and no way to end this conversation that was not going to result in more questions. "I will see you around seven. Whatever you choose is fine. Or I could bring something home?" He lowered his voice.
"Just bring yourself," JD's voice dropped half an octave, and Ezra shivered. "And maybe some ice cream."
"What flavor?" His voice was oddly rough and he cleared his throat.
"Chocolate's my favorite," his voice got darker and Ezra felt himself start to flush with heat. He strove valiantly to ignore the grinning men around him.
"I'll be back by, ahem, seven then. With the requested dessert."
"Drive careful."
"I will."
There was an awkward moment, and then he hung up decisively. He looked up and met the ten eyes fixed on him with cool equanimity. "I have just recalled an errand that I have not, as yet, run. I shall be back momentarily." He pushed his chair back and got to his feet.
"Ice cream'll melt, Ez," Buck advised him solemnly. "Best to get it at the Seven-Eleven up the road from your place."
"He probably wants to get it from the gelato place over on Ninth. The really good one." Vin opined and the others nodded sagely.
"Yeah. You'll need a cooler and some ice if you want to do that. Chris, you've got a cooler here somewhere, haven't you?" Nathan tried really quite hard not to burst into laughter.
Chris shrugged, his eyes creased with amusement. "At the back of the equipment cupboard, I think."
"Thank you for your kind assistance, but I--" he stopped, unable to tell his intended lie to the five men grinning at him. "Fuck you all, you bastards," he said cheerfully, "I'll be back in half an hour."
"Standish?"
"Mr. Larabee?"
"Poker night, your place, tomorrow night."
"Yes, Mr. Larabee."
"And Ezra?"
"Yes, Mr. Larabee?"
"I think we'd like to meet this 'John' of yours."
Back | Next
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the fandoms listed herein. I am certainly making no money off of these creative fan tributes to a wonderful, fun show.