FIC: Homecoming, for lilacs_roses
Recipient: For the lovely lilacs_roses
Title: Homecoming
Pairing: Colby/Ian
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ian doesn’t have a home, and that’s exactly how he likes things.
Word count: 7,943
Homecoming
The things capable of taking down Ian Edgerton could be counted on the fingers of one hand and still leave several to spare. Unfortunately, Ian realised, he was going to have to add another item to that very short, very exclusive list. Colby Granger had just opened the apartment door Ian had knocked on, and the look of delight on his face twisted its way past every single one of Ian’s defences.
“Ian,” Colby said in surprise, “I didn’t know you were in LA.”
“What would be the fun in letting people know beforehand?” Ian asked, shouldering his duffel and gun case again and stepping into Colby’s small apartment. “I’d probably end up getting a math lecture.”
“You know you’ll get that anyway,” Colby pointed out as he closed the door again, and watched Ian drop his bags to the hall floor.
“Was hoping I might get something else first,” Ian said, because subtlety was overrated.
“Really?” There was a grin in Colby’s voice as Ian let himself be crowded back against the wall, Colby’s large body pressed against his, his hands on Ian’s waist as their lips met. Ian’s hand went to the nape of Colby’s neck, holding him as they kissed. It had been too long since he’d last had this, had Colby, and he didn’t intend to waste an instant before reacquainting himself properly. Colby was kissing him back just as enthusiastically, his tongue pushing into Ian’s mouth as his hands were busy on Ian’s belt, and then undoing his jeans. He didn’t waste a second as he worked his way into Ian’s jeans, his hand curving round Ian, slightly rough fingertips the perfect friction as he worked Ian to complete hardness.
After one last, deep kiss, Colby sank down onto his knees, and then he looked up at Ian as he rubbed his face against Ian’s cock, tongue flicking out to his lips to lick away the trail of wetness it had left on them. Colby was the strangest mix of sweetness and dirtiness Ian had ever known, even if right now he didn’t care about that, he just cared about getting Colby’s mouth pushing down onto his cock. Oh, God, like that. Ian’s head fell back against the wall of Colby’s hallway as Colby’s warm slick mouth surrounded him. His hands wrapped in Colby’s hair, or tried to - it was too damn short and he was going to have to have words with Colby about that, only it would have to wait, because Colby was so fucking good at this, at taking Ian’s cock. Ian recovered enough to look down, to watch the way Colby took him into his mouth, his lips stretched tight, cheeks hollowed, and making little noises of pleasure deep in his throat.
It was an embarrassingly short time later that Ian groaned and came. Colby got back on his feet and started kissing Ian again, and it was no time at all before Colby jolted under the touch of Ian’s hand, and came. And then they were left staring at the mess on Colby’s jeans and Ian’s hand, until Colby raised Ian’s hand to his mouth and carefully, slowly, licked off every last trace in a way that had Ian wanting nothing more than to take Colby to his bed, pin him down, and fuck him till he forgot his name.
So he did. When Ian pushed into Colby, his breath coming in harsh short pants, stirring the soft hair at the nape of Colby’s neck, he had to fight back the sudden feeling that this was like coming home.
Later, they lay in bed together, and Colby’s hand traced over Ian’s body the way he always did, as though making sure Ian was really there next to him.
“You might just have got me kicked out of the Bureau,” he said. “I’ve got my fitness test tomorrow - don’t reckon I’ve got a hope of passing after that.”
That being Ian sliding his fingers into Colby’s ass and finger-fucking him until Colby had been begging mindlessly, and then Ian pushing deep inside him and thrusting long and slow until Colby was completely out of control and out of his mind with how good it felt.
“I was limbering you up for it.”
“Well, yeah, and ensuring every other guy in the changing rooms can see just what I was up to tonight,” Colby complained, a hand to the mark on his neck Ian had left, and he was probably beginning to feel the bruises Ian had left on his hips. Then it seemed to hit Colby, and he stared at Ian. “Oh,” he said, looking startled.
Ian sighed. “Granger, how the hell did you ever get recruited as an agent, let alone a spy?”
Colby glared at him, but he was so obviously well-fucked and content that it really wasn’t intimidating. Ian pulled him in close and ruffled his hair into spikes, which had Colby glaring even harder, until he ended up looking like a grumpy baby hedgehog. “Just making sure everyone else knows to back off,” Ian said, and pretended not to notice the way Colby huffed indignantly about his statement at the same time as he moved closer into Ian’s hold. Ian had the suspicion that Colby wasn’t sure just where he stood with Ian, but that was fine; in Ian’s experience, the minute you started trying to define something, started talking about feelings and relationships or any of that, that’s when it all went to crap. And Colby didn’t push, which left things just the way Ian liked them - free and uncomplicated.
“Are you going into the office tomorrow?” Colby asked. “There’s probably a math lecture with your name on it.”
“Isn’t there always? I don’t know where the professor got the idea I liked math.”
“Probably because you’re nicer to him than you are to anyone else.”
“Oh, really? You don’t count what I just did to you as being nice?”
To Ian’s delight, Colby honest to God blushed.
“I guess I’ll go in, and see what’s going on,” Ian returned to their original topic. “I’m waiting on a call from Hawaii, so I might as well see if I can do something while I’m here.”
“Hawaii? They’ve got awesome surf out there.”
“You could always come with me. You’d look kind of hot in a grass skirt.”
While he’d meant it as a joke, it suddenly didn’t sound all that bad, having Colby with him more often, grass skirt optional. At that point Ian decided he needed to disentangle himself from Colby’s warm grasp that would be so easy to relax into, and go to the bathroom, because he didn’t do this. He didn’t do commitment.
By the time he came back, Colby was asleep. Ian slipped into bed beside him. Colby seemed somehow to sense it and rolled over to slide an arm round Ian, his legs tangling with Ian’s in a way that should leave Ian feeling trapped. Ian didn’t do this for a very good reason - it never lasted. He never wanted it to last. And he realised, as he was falling asleep, that those two things possibly had something to do with one another.
*
Next morning Ian found himself at FBI headquarters, listening to Don instructing his agents in a shorthand that showed just what a well-oiled machine his team had become. And that was an unfortunate choice of image, bringing to mind as it did Colby’s muscular body slicked up with oil. Ian took a swig from his coffee and wrenched his mind back to the topic at hand, not thinking about Colby, at this moment down in the gym undergoing strenuous physical testing. He wondered if he’d be wearing that faded FBI t-shirt, the one that had been washed so many times it was worn thin and had shrunk a bit, meaning it clung deliciously to every single one of his muscles - and that was a whole lot of muscles - when he got sweaty.
“Ian?” Don was looking at him curiously, and he shook himself. God damn it, he didn’t do this. He put it down to not enough sleep over the past three weeks while he’d trailed a child killer from New Mexico all the way to Maine. Seriously, Maine. Who did that? And then Ian had jumped on a plane and come out to LA ready to fly on to Hawaii. Dropping in on Colby and the rest of them while he was here was just a bonus.
“I can cover whatever’s left,” he said, looking at the map Don had divided into sectors. Charlie had done something predictably incomprehensible to trace back the path of gun smuggling from the streets of LA to a two-hundred square mile tract of rural California. Somewhere amidst the vineyards and the farms, there had to be someone who knew something, who’d seen something out of place.
Don glanced at his watch. “You want to hang on for Colby? The two of you can take the south-east quadrant.”
That sounded fine to Ian. It was the smallest area, so even with a later start they should get it done before dark. He sat down to read through the case file as Don led the rest of the team out.
Colby finally came back into the office, his hair still damp from showering, and looking loose-limbed and relaxed. Ian was not going to think about the fact he looked like that after sex. He absolutely was not, because the one thing they didn’t do was let whatever it was they had together affect them when they were working. No one else on the team knew they’d hooked up; none of them, apart from Don and in Colby’s case David, even knew either of them were gay. They were here to do a job. A job that could be damned dangerous if it didn’t have all of their concentration all of the time. Their relationship, or whatever the hell it was, stayed out of the office and out of the field, and that was as it should be.
He tossed the map to Colby, who seemed surprised and a little disappointed to find everyone else had gone without him. “Come on, Granger - we’re going fishing.”
*
“This reminds me of Idaho,” Colby commented as they drove through the rain to their third farmhouse of the day. So far the only success they’d had in their hunt was in being plied with coffee; it seemed the drowned rat look rendered them somewhat less than intimidating, and evidently as if they were in need of succour.
“It always rain like this in Idaho?”
Ian got a withering look for his trouble. “The way there’s room to breathe,” Colby explained as Ian drew the car to a halt. “You don’t hear everything your neighbour does. Although somehow that doesn’t stop everyone knowing everyone else’s business.”
“Do you miss it?” Ian asked. He turned up his collar ready to get out of the car and trek up the path to the house in the rain. This was California, for God’s sake - what was with the wet stuff coming down from the sky in the middle of summer?
“Yes and no. Parts of it I don’t miss at all, but the fresh air, the countryside.” He shrugged slightly. “You know what LA’s like.”
Yeah, Ian knew. He also knew an unexpected feeling of relief at hearing Colby didn’t intend to spend the rest of his life in LA. Ian didn’t do permanent, and he didn’t do happy ever after, because he’d seen too much to believe life let you have that. But all the same, he didn’t want to be dragging back to LA in another ten years to visit Colby. Somewhere out in the mountains, where there was space to be on his own, but space to be with Colby too - that sounded pretty near damn perfect. And he wasn’t getting any nearer that sitting here looking at the rain drops sliding down the windshield.
They trudged across the wet grass, which was long enough to get the hems of their jeans wet and their boots even muddier. The house, a sprawling clapboarded two storey affair, looked quiet, with no lights on despite the overcast day. And no suggestion of movement anywhere, which was entirely at odds with the previous places they’d visited, because farmers never rested. Ian was reaching for his gun at the same time as Colby, and then the deafening sound of weapons fire ripped the air.
Pain tore at Ian’s arm as he ducked, diving at Colby and shoving him to the ground, rolling them both into the drainage ditch that ran along the side of the grass. They landed with a thump that drove the breath out of Ian, but he raised his head just enough to realise the ditch was sufficiently deep to give them cover, and that the gunfire was still going on. He might have deduced from that that it hadn’t been aimed at them, if not for the blood staining the sleeve of his jacket. He looked down at Colby, who was underneath him and seemed to be having problems getting his breath. “You this welcoming in Idaho too?”
“Not so much,” Colby managed, sounding breathless, and Ian wriggled backwards off him so he could get his breath back.
“How many?” Ian asked, and as he did so the sound of weapon fire stopped, leaving his ears ringing and no longer able to hear the soft sound the rain made on the vegetation around them.
“I heard three different - fuck,” Colby said, and Ian’s glance sharpened as he looked at Colby, who was trying to curl up in the tight confines of the wet ditch. Colby’s hand was clutched to his side. Ian could see redness seeping through his fingers, and it felt like all the breath had been punched out of him.
“How bad?” he asked. “We need to move.”
“I’m okay,” Colby said, his voice tight.
Ian looked past Colby, and he could see the ditch got shallow pretty quickly before petering out completely; they’d been lucky in that respect, landing where they had. Behind them, the ditch seemed to go on at the same depth for some distance, though from here there was no way of telling how far.
“Don’t remember any cover for several hundred yards,” Colby got out between clenched teeth. “We’re going to have to crawl.”
That’s what they did, through the mud and the water at the bottom of the ditch. Ian led the way, and if he paused rather too often in his belly crawl to check Colby was still close behind him, that had nothing to do with thoughts of Colby’s injury and everything to do with keeping a sense of situational awareness. At one point there was the sound of voices from the house, two men shouting, making them both freeze, but no doors opened, at least not loud enough for them to hear, and most important of all, there were no footsteps walking toward the ditch. Which made sense; Ian felt uncomfortably like a fish in a barrel right now, but he was a fish with a gun and anyone wanting to finish them off would have to lean over and show themselves, meaning they’d end up with a faceful of lead.
Time seemed to stop as Ian kept wriggling through that damn ditch, hearing Colby moving behind him. Colby was clumsier than usual, Ian thought, not that he was one to talk because his arm hurt like hell every time he put any pressure on it to move himself forward, but they couldn’t stop yet to assess the damage. They had to get somewhere more defensible. Ideally, they had to get away completely in order to regroup and work out a plan. But that all depended on how clearly the men in the house were thinking; if it were him, he’d go out either to where the ditch got them to cover, or where to it ended, and wait there for them. He turned his attention from Colby then, concentrating on listening as he inched slowly forward.
Either the men in the house really were stupid, or they didn’t belong there and didn’t know the lie of the land, because when Ian got to the point where he could go no further, there was no one lying in wait. The ditch came to a full stop where a drainage pipe was set into the earth, most of the far end blocked up, with a trickle of water coming through as run-off.
Well, crap. Ian had a pretty good idea of where they were, and it was still several yards away from anything that would give them cover from the house. There was no way they could just climb out here without being spotted. On the other hand, if they took cover in the pipe, which would be a squeeze but possible, their backs would be safe and they couldn’t be taken from surprise by above. They’d just have to hole up here and wait for dark, and perhaps in the meantime reinforcements would be here. He reached for his phone, and found it gone. Shit. He must have lost it in the tumble down into the ditch. Colby would have his, though; it seemed like Granger couldn’t live without his twitter account, though Ian still didn’t know what Colby used it for and Colby wasn’t saying. And as he looked at Colby, about to ask, his words died in his throat because Colby looked like crap. He was pale, sweating and breathing far too heavily as he wriggled his way awkwardly through the slimy mud towards Ian. Ian helped him into the pipe; the cold water collected in the bottom was worth it for the protection it afforded. The pipe was too small for them to sit upright, so after some awkward manoeuvring, they ended up lying next to one another, facing outward, ready for any threat.
“Your arm?” Colby asked, keeping his voice low, because if the men in the house hadn’t worked out where they were, there was no point in giving it away. Despite the concern in his voice, Colby didn’t look at Ian; he was focused outward, his gun in his hand - and Ian was not going to think about the fact his other hand was once again pressed against his side - while he waited for Ian to sort himself out. They’d both done this sort of thing enough times to know the drill - the one least injured needed attention first, to give them the best cover at all times. Ian didn’t want to think what it meant that Colby had instantly assumed he was hurt worse than Ian. It was just a scratch causing that ever-growing bloodstain on Colby’s shirt.
Ian shrugged off his jacket with some difficulty, then pulled his shirt off, trusting to Colby to keep watch while he did so. Shit, that was a lot more blood than he was expecting to see. He got out his knife and set to slicing up his shirt, or at least the bits of it that weren’t too muddy, so he could wrap a makeshift bandage round his arm. He had to get Colby to pull it tight and tie it for him, and he didn’t miss the pain on Colby’s face as he moved to do so.
Once he was bandaged, and had struggled back into his jacket with difficulty, because oddly enough drainage pipes didn’t appear to be designed to allow six foot plus FBI agents to dress themselves easily, Ian turned his attention to Colby. The next few minutes were something Ian knew would stay with him, no matter how hard he tried to forget - the blood on Colby’s skin when Ian pulled up his t-shirt, the sounds of pain he made as Ian pressed part of his shirt tightly to the wound, until he doubled up, grabbing Ian’s hand, all but sobbing Ian’s name in a way that almost broke Ian’s resolve. But he had to put the pressure on, had to, no matter that the wetness on Colby’s cheeks was no longer just rain and sweat. Ian ended up taking off his belt and using it to secure the pressure pad as firmly as he could to Colby’s torso, and pulled it tight despite the sounds that escaped Colby when he did so. And then he couldn’t help himself - he pressed a kiss into Colby’s damp hair. They didn’t do this in the field, but if waiting for homicidal psychos to finish them off wasn’t a good enough reason, Ian didn’t know what was.
He lay as close to Colby as he could get, and although the water he lay in was freezing, Colby was warm plastered against his side. “You got your phone?” he asked, when Colby’s breathing finally steadied again after Ian’s first aid.
“Can you get it?” Colby asked, and that, right there, told Ian everything he didn’t want to know about how badly off Colby was. He snagged it, but it was soaking wet and did precisely nothing when Ian tried to turn it on. Fuck. Well, maybe the GPS would still be working. Or maybe Ian’s would be, wherever the hell it was in the long grass. Or maybe the car was lo-jacked - it was a Bureau car after all. It was just a question of how long it took before someone thought them not checking in was cause for concern. He looked at his watch, wiping off the mud to see the face, and found that even with this cloud and rain, there were another three hours before dusk.
“What’s our play?” Colby asked. “Wait for dark?”
“It’s all we can do. We’ll be far too exposed if we try to move in daylight.”
Colby frowned. “But the thing is, they’re going to know that too. They’re not going to want to risk sticking their head in the ditch, but come dark, all they need to do is wait with spotlights or headlights and a gun for us to try and get out. It’ll be like hunting rabbits.”
“Fuck that,” Ian snarled, because Colby was right, and he knew it. “When it gets dark, you stay here and start making a noise to draw their attention, and I’ll sneak out further down and take them out.”
“How’s your arm?” Colby asked, and he wasn’t asking as a concerned boyfriend or whatever they were; he was asking as an FBI agent who wanted to make realistic plans.
“Good enough for that,” Ian said, and he wasn’t bragging. He knew his body, and he knew what he could and couldn’t do. “Your side?”
“Not so good,” Colby said, and the fact he admitted it so readily was not a good sign.
“We just need to wait for dark.”
“Yeah,” Colby said. He sounded suddenly weary at the thought.
They settled as best they could in the cold water that trickled slowly beneath them and watched the rain come down. Ian tried not to think about snakes or rats sharing their space, because getting bitten by either would top off a truly wonderful day.
“You take me to all the best places,” Colby said after a while.
“You wanted nature, I gave you nature. Some people are never satisfied.”
“The nature part’s fine, except for the cold and the wet and the goddamn mud,” Colby said. “It’s the whole homicidal maniacs with automatic weapons bit I’m not so sure about.”
“Be kind of boring without it, though.”
“Yeah,” Colby said, and shivered.
Ian moved as close to him as he could get. “You okay?”
Colby nodded tightly. “Tired.”
“Oh no, you don’t get to sleep, leaving me to freeze my ass off in a puddle of water,” Ian said. “Talk to me, Granger.”
“What about?”
“Anything. You. Math. Your Great-aunt Matilda, because I just know you’ve got one.”
Colby laughed, but it turned into a gasp and then the only sound was the continuing rainfall and Colby’s harsh panting breaths.
“So maybe not your Great-aunt Matilda if she’s that exciting,” Ian said, and tried not to let his worry sound in his voice.
“Not much to tell you don’t already know,” Colby said, making an obvious effort, and equally obviously trying to hide that fact by sounding casual. And that, right there, was what made Colby different to the rest, because no matter how many times he got knocked down, in however many ways, he just kept getting back up again. “I always wanted a dog, though.”
“Yeah?” That was news to Ian. “What kind?”
“Dunno. Maybe a mongrel from a shelter. Something big, anyway.”
Ian shook his head. “Oh no, I know you, Colby - if you walk in through a shelter door, you’ll walk out with every dog in the place. And then complain when Don bans them from the office.”
“Dogs can fight crime too,” Colby murmured, but his eyes were closed and he sounded a long way away.
Ian poked him on the sternum, hard. “You do not get to sleep till we’re home and in the dry,” he said. “So what would you call your dog?”
“Ian,” Colby said. “At least then one of you would do what I told you.”
“Smartass.”
“You love my ass,” Colby said. His voice sounded blurred round the edges.
Ian looked at his watch again, to find not enough time had passed. Not enough time at all. Dusk was still too far off. Colby’s eyes flickered open and he caught Ian looking at his watch.
“Just a bit longer,” Ian said.
Colby nodded, and Ian tried not to think how it looked like he was humouring Ian.
They lay there quietly, and Ian tried not to think about the way Colby was shivering beside him, even though Ian had struggled out of his jacket again and laid it over him, or the fact that Ian’s hands were numb as he lay in the cold water that was trickling so sluggishly through the pipe. Not so numb he didn’t snap into action when he heard something - he raised his gun, his aim rock steady despite the burning in his arm. He was aware in his peripheral vision that Colby too had his gun ready, unwavering.
Colby suddenly relaxed again, and Ian couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped him when he saw the interloper: a pointed face topped by pricked red ears stared down at them for an instant before the fox raised its head again. It stood at the edge of the ditch a couple of seconds longer, one paw raised, before continuing on its way.
“Guess that answers the question about whether anyone’s close by,” Colby muttered.
And then there came the sound of gunfire, harsh and loud in the soft afternoon rain.
“Guess that answers the question of whether they’re still watching the ditch,” Ian said, and Colby sighed.
“You reckon the fox made it?”
“Right now I’m more concerned about us.”
As the minutes ticked slowly by, he had good reason to be. Colby would talk when Ian made him, but it was an obvious effort, and shivers were racking him as he tried to curl around the wound in his side. He was pale as Ian had ever seen him, even his lips, and he was breathing shallowly, presumably because any other way hurt. As he looked at Colby, Ian realised he didn’t have until dusk. He didn’t have all that much longer at all.
“Colby,” Ian said sharply, when he realised Colby had been quiet for too long, and his eyes were closed. “Granger, wake the fuck up. You’ve got a job to do.”
Colby opened his eyes, slowly, and looked at Ian. “I remember the first time I saw you, out in Kandahar,” he said, sounding almost like he was dreaming. “The famous Ian Edgerton. I remember the way the sun shone down on you, like you were some sort of god.” Colby was smiling slightly, his eyes far away. “Like a dusty, slightly sweaty god, but still…”
“Granger!” Ian snapped it, because Colby had stopped speaking and was lying in a muddy puddle, smiling.
“You were everything I’d ever dreamed of.” Colby’s eyes seemed suddenly to see Ian, even as his voice grew fainter. “But I know better now. You’re not just Ian Edgerton - you’re Ian.” He clumsily reached out his hand, and rested it against Ian’s cheek. It was wet with his blood and the rain, and felt so cold. “You were everything I wanted, except I didn’t know half of what that was back then,” he said softly, slowly.
Ian was not having this. “Save it for later,” he said roughly. “We’re not home yet.”
Colby’s lips tugged slightly at the corners, even though his eyes were closed - and when had that happened? Why hadn’t Ian noticed? “Sorry,” he said, and Ian didn’t know what he was apologising for.
“Eyes front, soldier,” he barked.
Colby’s eyes flew open to stare blankly for an instant before he finally saw Ian. “Sorry,” he said again, and Ian knew then. No, this was not happening. Colby Granger was not going to bleed to death in a puddle of cold water on his watch. There had to be a way out. If Ian could get down to the other end, close to the drive where there were trees, it wouldn’t take him long to get under cover; he was so caked in mud he’d be hard to spot, and he already knew their aim was fucking lousy. And once he was no longer pinned down, Ian knew he could take each and every one of them out in a heartbeat.
It was probably the worst plan Ian had ever come up with. He refused to rate its chances because he would end up laughing, but the alternative was unthinkable - lying here and watching as Colby slipped away from him. Ian had seen too much death, had shot too many people for that matter, to believe there was ever anything heroic about dying in a hail of bullets, but at least this way there was a chance. The problem was, for him to do this, he’d have to leave Colby. Ian could do denial as well as the next man, but the thought of leaving Colby, of Colby slipping away alone… But if he didn’t go, Colby would definitely die, and this way he’d have a chance. Oh, God, please give them a chance.
His throat ached suddenly as he learned forward and tapped Colby’s cheek. “Colby?”
There was no response.
“Colby.” He tapped harder, much harder.
Colby struggled to open his eyes, but didn’t quite make it.
“Listen to me,” Ian said, and poured every last bit of command into his voice that he could. “I’m going to work my way down to the other end of this ditch, then up to the house and take them out. Then I’ll be back for you and we’re going to get out of here. I need you to be ready for that, Granger.”
“Yeah.” Or at least he thought Colby said that. His lips had moved, so Ian was gong to assume he’d spoken.
“You got your gun?”
Colby made an abortive move that ended in a wince of pain, but his hand was grasped tightly round the butt of his PC 945.
“Good man,” Ian said. “I won’t be long.”
Despite his determined words, he hesitated. He couldn’t leave Colby like this. But he had no choice. He leaned his forehead against Colby’s - it was cold, so cold - and then he kissed his unresponsive lips. “Love you,” he said gruffly, and refused to believe that he might have left saying the words until it was too late.
He was wriggling out of the drain when something made him pause and turn back. Colby’s eyes were open the merest crack, and Ian read his lips rather than heard the faint sound he made. “Stay safe.”
Ian smiled, because that’s what Ian did. “Always,” he promised. “Be ready when I get back.”
And with that he was gone, wriggling as quickly and smoothly along the ditch as his arm would allow.
He got about three-quarters of the way along the ditch, then came to a stop. If it were him in the house, he’d have most of his attention trained on the two ends. If Ian came out in the middle, if he was quick enough and stealthy enough - and Ian Edgerton was stealthy like no one else alive - he could be on his way to cover before they’d noticed. Or bleeding out on the lip of the ditch alongside some unfortunate fox.
He checked his gun one last time, readied himself, and took a deep breath. As every muscle tensed to explode into action, he heard something. He waited an instant, wondering if he was simply hearing what he wanted to hear, but no - those were definitely sirens, getting louder and more insistent. And then there was the sound of engines being gunned as wheels tried to find a grip on the wet mud track, and the fucking cavalry was here. For one indulgent moment, he let his head drop back against the side of the ditch, his relief so deep it turned his bones to water, and then he set off along the ditch, back to Colby.
He could hear gunfire, and shouts of “FBI” - he was damn sure that was Don’s voice he could hear - and he no longer cared about making a noise, or his arm, or anything except getting back to Colby.
He was still worming his way along the ditch when the gunfire finally died, and the air was filled with shouts.
“Colby! Ian!”
“Granger!”
Carefully, in case Don had brought trigger-happy rookies with him, he slid his gun into his waistband and stood up, hands in the air and very clearly not a threat. “Don,” he said.
And Don it was, standing not fifty yards away, watching as one man was marched out of the house, handcuffed, and shoved into a vehicle. No sign of any others. Ian couldn’t find it in himself to care.
The relief that spread across Don’s face seemed to lighten the whole grey rainy afternoon. “You been having a mud bath, Edgerton?”
“Colby,” Ian said. “We need medics, now.”
Don heard the urgency and despair in his voice, and he keyed his radio immediately, demanding a chopper for urgent evac. “Where is he?” he snapped, and Ian levered himself out of the ditch to show him. Or at least he tried to, but his arm crumpled on him. Don was suddenly there, helping him up and holding him while the world whirled around Ian.
“Pipe,” he got out, gesturing towards it rather than taking off at the sprint he wanted to, because his legs were threatening to give out on him and he thought he might throw up.
Don shouted something over his shoulder, and two agents went haring past. And then David was running over, panic all over his face. “Colby,” he said. “Where’s Colby?”
The mention of Colby’s name was enough to get Ian moving again, shaking off Don because for Christ’s sake he didn’t need a goddamn babysitter.
By the time they got to the pipe, the agents that had run ahead were lifting Colby out of the ditch onto the wet grass, and he heard Don curse as he saw how still and limp he was. But none of that mattered, nothing mattered except the way Colby’s arm was trailing because he looked… he looked…
Ian was on his knees next to Colby, hand clenched round Colby’s jaw, shaking him back and forth, feeling the complete lack of resistance. “Fuck it, Granger,” he snarled. “You don’t do this, you understand me? You don’t get to fucking do this.”
Suddenly he was dragged away from Colby. He fought instinctively. As Don’s arms tightened round him, restraining him, he used a well-placed elbow and threw his head back, feeling it connect with Don’s face.
“Damn it, Edgerton.” But even through the pain in his voice, Don kept hold of Ian, and the strength that had kept Ian going this long seemed to desert him. He sagged in Don’s hold, watching as David and another agent began CPR.
“It was only a minute,” Ian said. “I only left him for a minute, Don, I swear.”
“I know,” Don said, and there was such an ache in his voice that Ian knew - Don had already given up on Colby. But he was wrong. He couldn’t be more wrong, because the one thing Colby would never do was to give up. Otherwise he’d have given up on Ian long ago, the way everyone else did when Ian refused to compromise, refused to be what other people wanted and lose himself in the process.
And then David shouted, and pushed the woman doing chest compressions away, and God damn it, Colby was breathing again.
Don’s arms loosened, and Ian fell to his knees in the mud beside Colby, wondering why his hand was unsteady as he raised it to Colby’s face.
“Fuck it, Granger, I am not doing that again.” Sinclair’s voice was shaking. When Ian tore his eyes away from Colby long enough to look, he saw David running his hands over his face.
“Chopper’s ten minutes out,” Don said, putting his hand on David’s shoulder for an instant before he crouched down next to Ian. “You need someone to look at that arm,” he said, and Ian followed his gaze to see the dark stain on his makeshift bandage was bigger than it had been.
“Later,” he said, because he was feeling cold and dizzy all of a sudden, and was fairly sure that if someone started poking about at his arm, he’d lose focus. He wasn’t doing that, not till he knew Colby was safe.
Someone dropped a jacket round Ian’s shoulders, and that was the first time anyone had ever snuck up on him like that. He didn’t like what that said about what kind of a state he was in, but he clutched at the jacket because fuck it, he was cold. Not as cold as Colby, though. He left his hand on Colby’s cheek, because that way Colby would know he was there. And he stayed there, kneeling in the wet, and watching the afternoon turn to dusk as the rain fell.
Agents were moving around the scene, Don ordering everyone to keep clear of them, except for David and Liz, who looked like she was crying. At some point Don had ended up kneeling next to Ian, offering subtle, unspoken support that kept Ian upright despite the way the world kept swimming around him.
He lost time somewhere, because he was suddenly being encouraged to his feet and there were medics bending over Colby. The world was spinning and Don was shouting, and everything went dark.
*
Ian struggled to open his eyes, but they were so very heavy. He slowly became aware of the cottony effect and the dryness in his mouth that only morphine caused, and he forced his eyes open as everything came flooding back to him. On his third attempt he unhooked himself from the IV in his arm, and although he stumbled when he got out of bed - it was further away from the floor than it had looked - he found clean dry clothes stuffed in the bedside cupboard, which he counted as a win. He’d just finished pulling on a pair of jeans - and wasn’t that fun, with not being able to balance and not being able to see all that well because of the black spots in front of his eyes - when the door opened.
“I might have known,” Don said, and set down the cardboard cup of coffee he’d been carrying. “I’ll give you a hand.”
“Colby,” Ian said, and didn’t care that it came out sounding desperate.
“He’s going to be okay,” Don said.
Ian’s legs suddenly threatened to give out. He sat down on the side of the bed and let Don help him into his shirt before he knew what was happening. When he looked at the shirt in question, he realised it wasn’t actually his.
“Your clothes were kind of muddy, so I brought some in from home,” Don said when he saw the direction of Ian’s gaze. “We thought your stuff was probably at Colby’s but none of us wanted to go poking round in his apartment, just in case it’s as much a mess as his desk.”
So Ian had probably been deluding himself if he thought that three trained investigators had managed to witness him kneeling next to Colby in the mud and the rain and not noticed something. He wondered briefly if he should say something about the black eye Don was sporting, which looked like someone had slammed their skull back against his face, but he decided against it. It could have been from anything, after all.
But of course Don was going to get his revenge. “So, you and Colby, huh?”
“I guess,” Ian said, because it wasn’t like he could exactly deny it now.
“How long?”
“A year,” Ian said, then paused. “Maybe two.”
Don snorted. “And they say I’m bad at relationships? Come on, Edgerton, let’s go rescue your man. The last I saw of him, David was lecturing him about how he did not learn workplace first aid just to keep resuscitating Granger.”
“He’s got a point.”
“I’m not arguing with that, but have you ever heard David when he lets rip? He cites Bureau procedures by paragraph numbers.”
“Crap,” Ian said. “I didn’t even know we had procedures.”
“Tell me about it.”
Thankfully, by the time they got to Colby’s room, David had disappeared and Liz was there, sitting quietly next to a sleeping Colby. He was hooked up to various machines and far too pale, but at least he was breathing on his own.
“Edgerton,” Liz said, and looked him up and down as she stood up. “I was going to say it’s good to see you looking better, but I’m not sure you are. Sit down before you fall down.”
Ian glared half-heartedly at her. She simply smiled, said goodbye, and left.
“I’m not sure whether it’s the mud in your hair, the fact you look as though you’re three days dead, or the fact she now knows you’ve got feelings that’s making you less than scary,” Don said. “You want coffee?” He left before Ian could put him right about the feelings nonsense.
Ian didn’t know where the hell this hospital kept their coffee machines because Don was gone so long that Ian fell asleep in the hard plastic chair next to Colby’s bed. He woke up three hours later to a crick in his neck, his back in spasms, and Colby smiling sleepily at him.
*
It was four days before Colby was discharged. Four days in which the rest of the team came and went, and gave Colby crap for the mud that was still in his hair despite the nurses’ best efforts, and gave Ian crap about not eating properly, and didn’t say a word about them. But Liz kept smiling when she looked at Ian sitting next to Colby’s bed, Nikki rolled her eyes with distressing frequency, and every now and then David shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe something. Even so, Ian thought he might have gotten away with it if Colby hadn’t kept blushing.
He sighed as he unlocked the door to Colby’s apartment, Colby yawning beside him. He guessed their… whatever it was, had been well and truly outed.
When they got inside, Colby was quiet and there were lines of strain bracketing his mouth. Ian wasn’t surprised at that, and it didn’t take much effort at all to convince Colby to lie down for a while. They helped one another get undressed, and it was like crocks anonymous, as they did so at the sort of pace that might have embarrassed a couple of geriatric tortoises. Once they were finally beneath the covers and Colby was plastered as close against Ian as he could get without injuring either of them again, Ian realised just why Colby had acquiesced so easily.
“I thought I wouldn’t see you again,” he muttered against Ian’s collar bone, and Ian felt Colby’s heart increase its pace where they were pressed so close. “Promise me you won’t do something that stupid again, not for anything.”
“Promise me you won’t go and get yourself shot again, and you got a deal,” Ian said.
“Count on it,” Colby said. And though they both knew they were lying, that getting hurt was out of their control and that Ian would never let someone die when he could do something about it, they lay in the half-light of Colby’s bedroom and held on to one another, and pretended it was true.
Ian must have drifted off to sleep, because he woke up some time later to Colby poking him in the ribs. “Want to tell me just why Don came in to see me with a stack of paperwork containing Charlie’s calculations proving how the psychological benefits of having dogs at work outweigh the risk analyses that the Bureau did of our workspace?”
Ian grinned. He’d had a number of strangely meandering conversations with Don, courtesy of blood-loss and painkillers, but hadn’t realised Don would take any of them seriously. He supposed he should have; Don was one hell of a team leader. “You want to guess?”
“So I can get myself a big dumb mutt and call it Ian,” Colby suggested.
“Or get a little Yorkie that is definitely not called Ian. Because I have to say, a Yorkie sounds more your pace, Granger. You could tie a pink ribbon in its hair and everything.”
Colby tried to look indignant, but couldn’t stop a grin from breaking through.
“You remember what we talked about, then,” Ian said, so casual that the effort almost hurt.
Colby returned his gaze steadily. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. For the record, I feel the same way.” Then he snuggled - there was no other word for it, despite the fact Granger was built like a linebacker - against Ian.
Ian had shot men for less. Well, maybe not actually shot them, but definitely reduced them to incoherent wrecks in fear for their lives. He blamed the pain meds for the fact he didn’t call Colby on being so sappy, but instead let him snuggle closer. It was even possible that Ian tightened his hold, just a little.
“You know the Yorkie has to be called Don,” Ian said, a few minutes later. “So you can yell at it when it pees on the office carpet.”
“I am not yelling at a little dog that’s about a hundredth the size of me,” Colby said firmly. After an instant he added hurriedly, “and I am not getting a Yorkie, damn it, Edgerton. It’s going to be a big, manly, hairy dog.”
“Whatever you say, Colby,” Ian said, holding Colby close. Colby pressed a kiss over Ian’s heart, and Ian suddenly knew it was true: he couldn’t see how to refuse Colby anything. He couldn’t see why he’d want to. He rubbed his cheek against Colby’s hair, and found he was smiling. “Whatever you say.”
END
Title: Homecoming
Pairing: Colby/Ian
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ian doesn’t have a home, and that’s exactly how he likes things.
Word count: 7,943
Homecoming
The things capable of taking down Ian Edgerton could be counted on the fingers of one hand and still leave several to spare. Unfortunately, Ian realised, he was going to have to add another item to that very short, very exclusive list. Colby Granger had just opened the apartment door Ian had knocked on, and the look of delight on his face twisted its way past every single one of Ian’s defences.
“Ian,” Colby said in surprise, “I didn’t know you were in LA.”
“What would be the fun in letting people know beforehand?” Ian asked, shouldering his duffel and gun case again and stepping into Colby’s small apartment. “I’d probably end up getting a math lecture.”
“You know you’ll get that anyway,” Colby pointed out as he closed the door again, and watched Ian drop his bags to the hall floor.
“Was hoping I might get something else first,” Ian said, because subtlety was overrated.
“Really?” There was a grin in Colby’s voice as Ian let himself be crowded back against the wall, Colby’s large body pressed against his, his hands on Ian’s waist as their lips met. Ian’s hand went to the nape of Colby’s neck, holding him as they kissed. It had been too long since he’d last had this, had Colby, and he didn’t intend to waste an instant before reacquainting himself properly. Colby was kissing him back just as enthusiastically, his tongue pushing into Ian’s mouth as his hands were busy on Ian’s belt, and then undoing his jeans. He didn’t waste a second as he worked his way into Ian’s jeans, his hand curving round Ian, slightly rough fingertips the perfect friction as he worked Ian to complete hardness.
After one last, deep kiss, Colby sank down onto his knees, and then he looked up at Ian as he rubbed his face against Ian’s cock, tongue flicking out to his lips to lick away the trail of wetness it had left on them. Colby was the strangest mix of sweetness and dirtiness Ian had ever known, even if right now he didn’t care about that, he just cared about getting Colby’s mouth pushing down onto his cock. Oh, God, like that. Ian’s head fell back against the wall of Colby’s hallway as Colby’s warm slick mouth surrounded him. His hands wrapped in Colby’s hair, or tried to - it was too damn short and he was going to have to have words with Colby about that, only it would have to wait, because Colby was so fucking good at this, at taking Ian’s cock. Ian recovered enough to look down, to watch the way Colby took him into his mouth, his lips stretched tight, cheeks hollowed, and making little noises of pleasure deep in his throat.
It was an embarrassingly short time later that Ian groaned and came. Colby got back on his feet and started kissing Ian again, and it was no time at all before Colby jolted under the touch of Ian’s hand, and came. And then they were left staring at the mess on Colby’s jeans and Ian’s hand, until Colby raised Ian’s hand to his mouth and carefully, slowly, licked off every last trace in a way that had Ian wanting nothing more than to take Colby to his bed, pin him down, and fuck him till he forgot his name.
So he did. When Ian pushed into Colby, his breath coming in harsh short pants, stirring the soft hair at the nape of Colby’s neck, he had to fight back the sudden feeling that this was like coming home.
Later, they lay in bed together, and Colby’s hand traced over Ian’s body the way he always did, as though making sure Ian was really there next to him.
“You might just have got me kicked out of the Bureau,” he said. “I’ve got my fitness test tomorrow - don’t reckon I’ve got a hope of passing after that.”
That being Ian sliding his fingers into Colby’s ass and finger-fucking him until Colby had been begging mindlessly, and then Ian pushing deep inside him and thrusting long and slow until Colby was completely out of control and out of his mind with how good it felt.
“I was limbering you up for it.”
“Well, yeah, and ensuring every other guy in the changing rooms can see just what I was up to tonight,” Colby complained, a hand to the mark on his neck Ian had left, and he was probably beginning to feel the bruises Ian had left on his hips. Then it seemed to hit Colby, and he stared at Ian. “Oh,” he said, looking startled.
Ian sighed. “Granger, how the hell did you ever get recruited as an agent, let alone a spy?”
Colby glared at him, but he was so obviously well-fucked and content that it really wasn’t intimidating. Ian pulled him in close and ruffled his hair into spikes, which had Colby glaring even harder, until he ended up looking like a grumpy baby hedgehog. “Just making sure everyone else knows to back off,” Ian said, and pretended not to notice the way Colby huffed indignantly about his statement at the same time as he moved closer into Ian’s hold. Ian had the suspicion that Colby wasn’t sure just where he stood with Ian, but that was fine; in Ian’s experience, the minute you started trying to define something, started talking about feelings and relationships or any of that, that’s when it all went to crap. And Colby didn’t push, which left things just the way Ian liked them - free and uncomplicated.
“Are you going into the office tomorrow?” Colby asked. “There’s probably a math lecture with your name on it.”
“Isn’t there always? I don’t know where the professor got the idea I liked math.”
“Probably because you’re nicer to him than you are to anyone else.”
“Oh, really? You don’t count what I just did to you as being nice?”
To Ian’s delight, Colby honest to God blushed.
“I guess I’ll go in, and see what’s going on,” Ian returned to their original topic. “I’m waiting on a call from Hawaii, so I might as well see if I can do something while I’m here.”
“Hawaii? They’ve got awesome surf out there.”
“You could always come with me. You’d look kind of hot in a grass skirt.”
While he’d meant it as a joke, it suddenly didn’t sound all that bad, having Colby with him more often, grass skirt optional. At that point Ian decided he needed to disentangle himself from Colby’s warm grasp that would be so easy to relax into, and go to the bathroom, because he didn’t do this. He didn’t do commitment.
By the time he came back, Colby was asleep. Ian slipped into bed beside him. Colby seemed somehow to sense it and rolled over to slide an arm round Ian, his legs tangling with Ian’s in a way that should leave Ian feeling trapped. Ian didn’t do this for a very good reason - it never lasted. He never wanted it to last. And he realised, as he was falling asleep, that those two things possibly had something to do with one another.
*
Next morning Ian found himself at FBI headquarters, listening to Don instructing his agents in a shorthand that showed just what a well-oiled machine his team had become. And that was an unfortunate choice of image, bringing to mind as it did Colby’s muscular body slicked up with oil. Ian took a swig from his coffee and wrenched his mind back to the topic at hand, not thinking about Colby, at this moment down in the gym undergoing strenuous physical testing. He wondered if he’d be wearing that faded FBI t-shirt, the one that had been washed so many times it was worn thin and had shrunk a bit, meaning it clung deliciously to every single one of his muscles - and that was a whole lot of muscles - when he got sweaty.
“Ian?” Don was looking at him curiously, and he shook himself. God damn it, he didn’t do this. He put it down to not enough sleep over the past three weeks while he’d trailed a child killer from New Mexico all the way to Maine. Seriously, Maine. Who did that? And then Ian had jumped on a plane and come out to LA ready to fly on to Hawaii. Dropping in on Colby and the rest of them while he was here was just a bonus.
“I can cover whatever’s left,” he said, looking at the map Don had divided into sectors. Charlie had done something predictably incomprehensible to trace back the path of gun smuggling from the streets of LA to a two-hundred square mile tract of rural California. Somewhere amidst the vineyards and the farms, there had to be someone who knew something, who’d seen something out of place.
Don glanced at his watch. “You want to hang on for Colby? The two of you can take the south-east quadrant.”
That sounded fine to Ian. It was the smallest area, so even with a later start they should get it done before dark. He sat down to read through the case file as Don led the rest of the team out.
Colby finally came back into the office, his hair still damp from showering, and looking loose-limbed and relaxed. Ian was not going to think about the fact he looked like that after sex. He absolutely was not, because the one thing they didn’t do was let whatever it was they had together affect them when they were working. No one else on the team knew they’d hooked up; none of them, apart from Don and in Colby’s case David, even knew either of them were gay. They were here to do a job. A job that could be damned dangerous if it didn’t have all of their concentration all of the time. Their relationship, or whatever the hell it was, stayed out of the office and out of the field, and that was as it should be.
He tossed the map to Colby, who seemed surprised and a little disappointed to find everyone else had gone without him. “Come on, Granger - we’re going fishing.”
*
“This reminds me of Idaho,” Colby commented as they drove through the rain to their third farmhouse of the day. So far the only success they’d had in their hunt was in being plied with coffee; it seemed the drowned rat look rendered them somewhat less than intimidating, and evidently as if they were in need of succour.
“It always rain like this in Idaho?”
Ian got a withering look for his trouble. “The way there’s room to breathe,” Colby explained as Ian drew the car to a halt. “You don’t hear everything your neighbour does. Although somehow that doesn’t stop everyone knowing everyone else’s business.”
“Do you miss it?” Ian asked. He turned up his collar ready to get out of the car and trek up the path to the house in the rain. This was California, for God’s sake - what was with the wet stuff coming down from the sky in the middle of summer?
“Yes and no. Parts of it I don’t miss at all, but the fresh air, the countryside.” He shrugged slightly. “You know what LA’s like.”
Yeah, Ian knew. He also knew an unexpected feeling of relief at hearing Colby didn’t intend to spend the rest of his life in LA. Ian didn’t do permanent, and he didn’t do happy ever after, because he’d seen too much to believe life let you have that. But all the same, he didn’t want to be dragging back to LA in another ten years to visit Colby. Somewhere out in the mountains, where there was space to be on his own, but space to be with Colby too - that sounded pretty near damn perfect. And he wasn’t getting any nearer that sitting here looking at the rain drops sliding down the windshield.
They trudged across the wet grass, which was long enough to get the hems of their jeans wet and their boots even muddier. The house, a sprawling clapboarded two storey affair, looked quiet, with no lights on despite the overcast day. And no suggestion of movement anywhere, which was entirely at odds with the previous places they’d visited, because farmers never rested. Ian was reaching for his gun at the same time as Colby, and then the deafening sound of weapons fire ripped the air.
Pain tore at Ian’s arm as he ducked, diving at Colby and shoving him to the ground, rolling them both into the drainage ditch that ran along the side of the grass. They landed with a thump that drove the breath out of Ian, but he raised his head just enough to realise the ditch was sufficiently deep to give them cover, and that the gunfire was still going on. He might have deduced from that that it hadn’t been aimed at them, if not for the blood staining the sleeve of his jacket. He looked down at Colby, who was underneath him and seemed to be having problems getting his breath. “You this welcoming in Idaho too?”
“Not so much,” Colby managed, sounding breathless, and Ian wriggled backwards off him so he could get his breath back.
“How many?” Ian asked, and as he did so the sound of weapon fire stopped, leaving his ears ringing and no longer able to hear the soft sound the rain made on the vegetation around them.
“I heard three different - fuck,” Colby said, and Ian’s glance sharpened as he looked at Colby, who was trying to curl up in the tight confines of the wet ditch. Colby’s hand was clutched to his side. Ian could see redness seeping through his fingers, and it felt like all the breath had been punched out of him.
“How bad?” he asked. “We need to move.”
“I’m okay,” Colby said, his voice tight.
Ian looked past Colby, and he could see the ditch got shallow pretty quickly before petering out completely; they’d been lucky in that respect, landing where they had. Behind them, the ditch seemed to go on at the same depth for some distance, though from here there was no way of telling how far.
“Don’t remember any cover for several hundred yards,” Colby got out between clenched teeth. “We’re going to have to crawl.”
That’s what they did, through the mud and the water at the bottom of the ditch. Ian led the way, and if he paused rather too often in his belly crawl to check Colby was still close behind him, that had nothing to do with thoughts of Colby’s injury and everything to do with keeping a sense of situational awareness. At one point there was the sound of voices from the house, two men shouting, making them both freeze, but no doors opened, at least not loud enough for them to hear, and most important of all, there were no footsteps walking toward the ditch. Which made sense; Ian felt uncomfortably like a fish in a barrel right now, but he was a fish with a gun and anyone wanting to finish them off would have to lean over and show themselves, meaning they’d end up with a faceful of lead.
Time seemed to stop as Ian kept wriggling through that damn ditch, hearing Colby moving behind him. Colby was clumsier than usual, Ian thought, not that he was one to talk because his arm hurt like hell every time he put any pressure on it to move himself forward, but they couldn’t stop yet to assess the damage. They had to get somewhere more defensible. Ideally, they had to get away completely in order to regroup and work out a plan. But that all depended on how clearly the men in the house were thinking; if it were him, he’d go out either to where the ditch got them to cover, or where to it ended, and wait there for them. He turned his attention from Colby then, concentrating on listening as he inched slowly forward.
Either the men in the house really were stupid, or they didn’t belong there and didn’t know the lie of the land, because when Ian got to the point where he could go no further, there was no one lying in wait. The ditch came to a full stop where a drainage pipe was set into the earth, most of the far end blocked up, with a trickle of water coming through as run-off.
Well, crap. Ian had a pretty good idea of where they were, and it was still several yards away from anything that would give them cover from the house. There was no way they could just climb out here without being spotted. On the other hand, if they took cover in the pipe, which would be a squeeze but possible, their backs would be safe and they couldn’t be taken from surprise by above. They’d just have to hole up here and wait for dark, and perhaps in the meantime reinforcements would be here. He reached for his phone, and found it gone. Shit. He must have lost it in the tumble down into the ditch. Colby would have his, though; it seemed like Granger couldn’t live without his twitter account, though Ian still didn’t know what Colby used it for and Colby wasn’t saying. And as he looked at Colby, about to ask, his words died in his throat because Colby looked like crap. He was pale, sweating and breathing far too heavily as he wriggled his way awkwardly through the slimy mud towards Ian. Ian helped him into the pipe; the cold water collected in the bottom was worth it for the protection it afforded. The pipe was too small for them to sit upright, so after some awkward manoeuvring, they ended up lying next to one another, facing outward, ready for any threat.
“Your arm?” Colby asked, keeping his voice low, because if the men in the house hadn’t worked out where they were, there was no point in giving it away. Despite the concern in his voice, Colby didn’t look at Ian; he was focused outward, his gun in his hand - and Ian was not going to think about the fact his other hand was once again pressed against his side - while he waited for Ian to sort himself out. They’d both done this sort of thing enough times to know the drill - the one least injured needed attention first, to give them the best cover at all times. Ian didn’t want to think what it meant that Colby had instantly assumed he was hurt worse than Ian. It was just a scratch causing that ever-growing bloodstain on Colby’s shirt.
Ian shrugged off his jacket with some difficulty, then pulled his shirt off, trusting to Colby to keep watch while he did so. Shit, that was a lot more blood than he was expecting to see. He got out his knife and set to slicing up his shirt, or at least the bits of it that weren’t too muddy, so he could wrap a makeshift bandage round his arm. He had to get Colby to pull it tight and tie it for him, and he didn’t miss the pain on Colby’s face as he moved to do so.
Once he was bandaged, and had struggled back into his jacket with difficulty, because oddly enough drainage pipes didn’t appear to be designed to allow six foot plus FBI agents to dress themselves easily, Ian turned his attention to Colby. The next few minutes were something Ian knew would stay with him, no matter how hard he tried to forget - the blood on Colby’s skin when Ian pulled up his t-shirt, the sounds of pain he made as Ian pressed part of his shirt tightly to the wound, until he doubled up, grabbing Ian’s hand, all but sobbing Ian’s name in a way that almost broke Ian’s resolve. But he had to put the pressure on, had to, no matter that the wetness on Colby’s cheeks was no longer just rain and sweat. Ian ended up taking off his belt and using it to secure the pressure pad as firmly as he could to Colby’s torso, and pulled it tight despite the sounds that escaped Colby when he did so. And then he couldn’t help himself - he pressed a kiss into Colby’s damp hair. They didn’t do this in the field, but if waiting for homicidal psychos to finish them off wasn’t a good enough reason, Ian didn’t know what was.
He lay as close to Colby as he could get, and although the water he lay in was freezing, Colby was warm plastered against his side. “You got your phone?” he asked, when Colby’s breathing finally steadied again after Ian’s first aid.
“Can you get it?” Colby asked, and that, right there, told Ian everything he didn’t want to know about how badly off Colby was. He snagged it, but it was soaking wet and did precisely nothing when Ian tried to turn it on. Fuck. Well, maybe the GPS would still be working. Or maybe Ian’s would be, wherever the hell it was in the long grass. Or maybe the car was lo-jacked - it was a Bureau car after all. It was just a question of how long it took before someone thought them not checking in was cause for concern. He looked at his watch, wiping off the mud to see the face, and found that even with this cloud and rain, there were another three hours before dusk.
“What’s our play?” Colby asked. “Wait for dark?”
“It’s all we can do. We’ll be far too exposed if we try to move in daylight.”
Colby frowned. “But the thing is, they’re going to know that too. They’re not going to want to risk sticking their head in the ditch, but come dark, all they need to do is wait with spotlights or headlights and a gun for us to try and get out. It’ll be like hunting rabbits.”
“Fuck that,” Ian snarled, because Colby was right, and he knew it. “When it gets dark, you stay here and start making a noise to draw their attention, and I’ll sneak out further down and take them out.”
“How’s your arm?” Colby asked, and he wasn’t asking as a concerned boyfriend or whatever they were; he was asking as an FBI agent who wanted to make realistic plans.
“Good enough for that,” Ian said, and he wasn’t bragging. He knew his body, and he knew what he could and couldn’t do. “Your side?”
“Not so good,” Colby said, and the fact he admitted it so readily was not a good sign.
“We just need to wait for dark.”
“Yeah,” Colby said. He sounded suddenly weary at the thought.
They settled as best they could in the cold water that trickled slowly beneath them and watched the rain come down. Ian tried not to think about snakes or rats sharing their space, because getting bitten by either would top off a truly wonderful day.
“You take me to all the best places,” Colby said after a while.
“You wanted nature, I gave you nature. Some people are never satisfied.”
“The nature part’s fine, except for the cold and the wet and the goddamn mud,” Colby said. “It’s the whole homicidal maniacs with automatic weapons bit I’m not so sure about.”
“Be kind of boring without it, though.”
“Yeah,” Colby said, and shivered.
Ian moved as close to him as he could get. “You okay?”
Colby nodded tightly. “Tired.”
“Oh no, you don’t get to sleep, leaving me to freeze my ass off in a puddle of water,” Ian said. “Talk to me, Granger.”
“What about?”
“Anything. You. Math. Your Great-aunt Matilda, because I just know you’ve got one.”
Colby laughed, but it turned into a gasp and then the only sound was the continuing rainfall and Colby’s harsh panting breaths.
“So maybe not your Great-aunt Matilda if she’s that exciting,” Ian said, and tried not to let his worry sound in his voice.
“Not much to tell you don’t already know,” Colby said, making an obvious effort, and equally obviously trying to hide that fact by sounding casual. And that, right there, was what made Colby different to the rest, because no matter how many times he got knocked down, in however many ways, he just kept getting back up again. “I always wanted a dog, though.”
“Yeah?” That was news to Ian. “What kind?”
“Dunno. Maybe a mongrel from a shelter. Something big, anyway.”
Ian shook his head. “Oh no, I know you, Colby - if you walk in through a shelter door, you’ll walk out with every dog in the place. And then complain when Don bans them from the office.”
“Dogs can fight crime too,” Colby murmured, but his eyes were closed and he sounded a long way away.
Ian poked him on the sternum, hard. “You do not get to sleep till we’re home and in the dry,” he said. “So what would you call your dog?”
“Ian,” Colby said. “At least then one of you would do what I told you.”
“Smartass.”
“You love my ass,” Colby said. His voice sounded blurred round the edges.
Ian looked at his watch again, to find not enough time had passed. Not enough time at all. Dusk was still too far off. Colby’s eyes flickered open and he caught Ian looking at his watch.
“Just a bit longer,” Ian said.
Colby nodded, and Ian tried not to think how it looked like he was humouring Ian.
They lay there quietly, and Ian tried not to think about the way Colby was shivering beside him, even though Ian had struggled out of his jacket again and laid it over him, or the fact that Ian’s hands were numb as he lay in the cold water that was trickling so sluggishly through the pipe. Not so numb he didn’t snap into action when he heard something - he raised his gun, his aim rock steady despite the burning in his arm. He was aware in his peripheral vision that Colby too had his gun ready, unwavering.
Colby suddenly relaxed again, and Ian couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped him when he saw the interloper: a pointed face topped by pricked red ears stared down at them for an instant before the fox raised its head again. It stood at the edge of the ditch a couple of seconds longer, one paw raised, before continuing on its way.
“Guess that answers the question about whether anyone’s close by,” Colby muttered.
And then there came the sound of gunfire, harsh and loud in the soft afternoon rain.
“Guess that answers the question of whether they’re still watching the ditch,” Ian said, and Colby sighed.
“You reckon the fox made it?”
“Right now I’m more concerned about us.”
As the minutes ticked slowly by, he had good reason to be. Colby would talk when Ian made him, but it was an obvious effort, and shivers were racking him as he tried to curl around the wound in his side. He was pale as Ian had ever seen him, even his lips, and he was breathing shallowly, presumably because any other way hurt. As he looked at Colby, Ian realised he didn’t have until dusk. He didn’t have all that much longer at all.
“Colby,” Ian said sharply, when he realised Colby had been quiet for too long, and his eyes were closed. “Granger, wake the fuck up. You’ve got a job to do.”
Colby opened his eyes, slowly, and looked at Ian. “I remember the first time I saw you, out in Kandahar,” he said, sounding almost like he was dreaming. “The famous Ian Edgerton. I remember the way the sun shone down on you, like you were some sort of god.” Colby was smiling slightly, his eyes far away. “Like a dusty, slightly sweaty god, but still…”
“Granger!” Ian snapped it, because Colby had stopped speaking and was lying in a muddy puddle, smiling.
“You were everything I’d ever dreamed of.” Colby’s eyes seemed suddenly to see Ian, even as his voice grew fainter. “But I know better now. You’re not just Ian Edgerton - you’re Ian.” He clumsily reached out his hand, and rested it against Ian’s cheek. It was wet with his blood and the rain, and felt so cold. “You were everything I wanted, except I didn’t know half of what that was back then,” he said softly, slowly.
Ian was not having this. “Save it for later,” he said roughly. “We’re not home yet.”
Colby’s lips tugged slightly at the corners, even though his eyes were closed - and when had that happened? Why hadn’t Ian noticed? “Sorry,” he said, and Ian didn’t know what he was apologising for.
“Eyes front, soldier,” he barked.
Colby’s eyes flew open to stare blankly for an instant before he finally saw Ian. “Sorry,” he said again, and Ian knew then. No, this was not happening. Colby Granger was not going to bleed to death in a puddle of cold water on his watch. There had to be a way out. If Ian could get down to the other end, close to the drive where there were trees, it wouldn’t take him long to get under cover; he was so caked in mud he’d be hard to spot, and he already knew their aim was fucking lousy. And once he was no longer pinned down, Ian knew he could take each and every one of them out in a heartbeat.
It was probably the worst plan Ian had ever come up with. He refused to rate its chances because he would end up laughing, but the alternative was unthinkable - lying here and watching as Colby slipped away from him. Ian had seen too much death, had shot too many people for that matter, to believe there was ever anything heroic about dying in a hail of bullets, but at least this way there was a chance. The problem was, for him to do this, he’d have to leave Colby. Ian could do denial as well as the next man, but the thought of leaving Colby, of Colby slipping away alone… But if he didn’t go, Colby would definitely die, and this way he’d have a chance. Oh, God, please give them a chance.
His throat ached suddenly as he learned forward and tapped Colby’s cheek. “Colby?”
There was no response.
“Colby.” He tapped harder, much harder.
Colby struggled to open his eyes, but didn’t quite make it.
“Listen to me,” Ian said, and poured every last bit of command into his voice that he could. “I’m going to work my way down to the other end of this ditch, then up to the house and take them out. Then I’ll be back for you and we’re going to get out of here. I need you to be ready for that, Granger.”
“Yeah.” Or at least he thought Colby said that. His lips had moved, so Ian was gong to assume he’d spoken.
“You got your gun?”
Colby made an abortive move that ended in a wince of pain, but his hand was grasped tightly round the butt of his PC 945.
“Good man,” Ian said. “I won’t be long.”
Despite his determined words, he hesitated. He couldn’t leave Colby like this. But he had no choice. He leaned his forehead against Colby’s - it was cold, so cold - and then he kissed his unresponsive lips. “Love you,” he said gruffly, and refused to believe that he might have left saying the words until it was too late.
He was wriggling out of the drain when something made him pause and turn back. Colby’s eyes were open the merest crack, and Ian read his lips rather than heard the faint sound he made. “Stay safe.”
Ian smiled, because that’s what Ian did. “Always,” he promised. “Be ready when I get back.”
And with that he was gone, wriggling as quickly and smoothly along the ditch as his arm would allow.
He got about three-quarters of the way along the ditch, then came to a stop. If it were him in the house, he’d have most of his attention trained on the two ends. If Ian came out in the middle, if he was quick enough and stealthy enough - and Ian Edgerton was stealthy like no one else alive - he could be on his way to cover before they’d noticed. Or bleeding out on the lip of the ditch alongside some unfortunate fox.
He checked his gun one last time, readied himself, and took a deep breath. As every muscle tensed to explode into action, he heard something. He waited an instant, wondering if he was simply hearing what he wanted to hear, but no - those were definitely sirens, getting louder and more insistent. And then there was the sound of engines being gunned as wheels tried to find a grip on the wet mud track, and the fucking cavalry was here. For one indulgent moment, he let his head drop back against the side of the ditch, his relief so deep it turned his bones to water, and then he set off along the ditch, back to Colby.
He could hear gunfire, and shouts of “FBI” - he was damn sure that was Don’s voice he could hear - and he no longer cared about making a noise, or his arm, or anything except getting back to Colby.
He was still worming his way along the ditch when the gunfire finally died, and the air was filled with shouts.
“Colby! Ian!”
“Granger!”
Carefully, in case Don had brought trigger-happy rookies with him, he slid his gun into his waistband and stood up, hands in the air and very clearly not a threat. “Don,” he said.
And Don it was, standing not fifty yards away, watching as one man was marched out of the house, handcuffed, and shoved into a vehicle. No sign of any others. Ian couldn’t find it in himself to care.
The relief that spread across Don’s face seemed to lighten the whole grey rainy afternoon. “You been having a mud bath, Edgerton?”
“Colby,” Ian said. “We need medics, now.”
Don heard the urgency and despair in his voice, and he keyed his radio immediately, demanding a chopper for urgent evac. “Where is he?” he snapped, and Ian levered himself out of the ditch to show him. Or at least he tried to, but his arm crumpled on him. Don was suddenly there, helping him up and holding him while the world whirled around Ian.
“Pipe,” he got out, gesturing towards it rather than taking off at the sprint he wanted to, because his legs were threatening to give out on him and he thought he might throw up.
Don shouted something over his shoulder, and two agents went haring past. And then David was running over, panic all over his face. “Colby,” he said. “Where’s Colby?”
The mention of Colby’s name was enough to get Ian moving again, shaking off Don because for Christ’s sake he didn’t need a goddamn babysitter.
By the time they got to the pipe, the agents that had run ahead were lifting Colby out of the ditch onto the wet grass, and he heard Don curse as he saw how still and limp he was. But none of that mattered, nothing mattered except the way Colby’s arm was trailing because he looked… he looked…
Ian was on his knees next to Colby, hand clenched round Colby’s jaw, shaking him back and forth, feeling the complete lack of resistance. “Fuck it, Granger,” he snarled. “You don’t do this, you understand me? You don’t get to fucking do this.”
Suddenly he was dragged away from Colby. He fought instinctively. As Don’s arms tightened round him, restraining him, he used a well-placed elbow and threw his head back, feeling it connect with Don’s face.
“Damn it, Edgerton.” But even through the pain in his voice, Don kept hold of Ian, and the strength that had kept Ian going this long seemed to desert him. He sagged in Don’s hold, watching as David and another agent began CPR.
“It was only a minute,” Ian said. “I only left him for a minute, Don, I swear.”
“I know,” Don said, and there was such an ache in his voice that Ian knew - Don had already given up on Colby. But he was wrong. He couldn’t be more wrong, because the one thing Colby would never do was to give up. Otherwise he’d have given up on Ian long ago, the way everyone else did when Ian refused to compromise, refused to be what other people wanted and lose himself in the process.
And then David shouted, and pushed the woman doing chest compressions away, and God damn it, Colby was breathing again.
Don’s arms loosened, and Ian fell to his knees in the mud beside Colby, wondering why his hand was unsteady as he raised it to Colby’s face.
“Fuck it, Granger, I am not doing that again.” Sinclair’s voice was shaking. When Ian tore his eyes away from Colby long enough to look, he saw David running his hands over his face.
“Chopper’s ten minutes out,” Don said, putting his hand on David’s shoulder for an instant before he crouched down next to Ian. “You need someone to look at that arm,” he said, and Ian followed his gaze to see the dark stain on his makeshift bandage was bigger than it had been.
“Later,” he said, because he was feeling cold and dizzy all of a sudden, and was fairly sure that if someone started poking about at his arm, he’d lose focus. He wasn’t doing that, not till he knew Colby was safe.
Someone dropped a jacket round Ian’s shoulders, and that was the first time anyone had ever snuck up on him like that. He didn’t like what that said about what kind of a state he was in, but he clutched at the jacket because fuck it, he was cold. Not as cold as Colby, though. He left his hand on Colby’s cheek, because that way Colby would know he was there. And he stayed there, kneeling in the wet, and watching the afternoon turn to dusk as the rain fell.
Agents were moving around the scene, Don ordering everyone to keep clear of them, except for David and Liz, who looked like she was crying. At some point Don had ended up kneeling next to Ian, offering subtle, unspoken support that kept Ian upright despite the way the world kept swimming around him.
He lost time somewhere, because he was suddenly being encouraged to his feet and there were medics bending over Colby. The world was spinning and Don was shouting, and everything went dark.
*
Ian struggled to open his eyes, but they were so very heavy. He slowly became aware of the cottony effect and the dryness in his mouth that only morphine caused, and he forced his eyes open as everything came flooding back to him. On his third attempt he unhooked himself from the IV in his arm, and although he stumbled when he got out of bed - it was further away from the floor than it had looked - he found clean dry clothes stuffed in the bedside cupboard, which he counted as a win. He’d just finished pulling on a pair of jeans - and wasn’t that fun, with not being able to balance and not being able to see all that well because of the black spots in front of his eyes - when the door opened.
“I might have known,” Don said, and set down the cardboard cup of coffee he’d been carrying. “I’ll give you a hand.”
“Colby,” Ian said, and didn’t care that it came out sounding desperate.
“He’s going to be okay,” Don said.
Ian’s legs suddenly threatened to give out. He sat down on the side of the bed and let Don help him into his shirt before he knew what was happening. When he looked at the shirt in question, he realised it wasn’t actually his.
“Your clothes were kind of muddy, so I brought some in from home,” Don said when he saw the direction of Ian’s gaze. “We thought your stuff was probably at Colby’s but none of us wanted to go poking round in his apartment, just in case it’s as much a mess as his desk.”
So Ian had probably been deluding himself if he thought that three trained investigators had managed to witness him kneeling next to Colby in the mud and the rain and not noticed something. He wondered briefly if he should say something about the black eye Don was sporting, which looked like someone had slammed their skull back against his face, but he decided against it. It could have been from anything, after all.
But of course Don was going to get his revenge. “So, you and Colby, huh?”
“I guess,” Ian said, because it wasn’t like he could exactly deny it now.
“How long?”
“A year,” Ian said, then paused. “Maybe two.”
Don snorted. “And they say I’m bad at relationships? Come on, Edgerton, let’s go rescue your man. The last I saw of him, David was lecturing him about how he did not learn workplace first aid just to keep resuscitating Granger.”
“He’s got a point.”
“I’m not arguing with that, but have you ever heard David when he lets rip? He cites Bureau procedures by paragraph numbers.”
“Crap,” Ian said. “I didn’t even know we had procedures.”
“Tell me about it.”
Thankfully, by the time they got to Colby’s room, David had disappeared and Liz was there, sitting quietly next to a sleeping Colby. He was hooked up to various machines and far too pale, but at least he was breathing on his own.
“Edgerton,” Liz said, and looked him up and down as she stood up. “I was going to say it’s good to see you looking better, but I’m not sure you are. Sit down before you fall down.”
Ian glared half-heartedly at her. She simply smiled, said goodbye, and left.
“I’m not sure whether it’s the mud in your hair, the fact you look as though you’re three days dead, or the fact she now knows you’ve got feelings that’s making you less than scary,” Don said. “You want coffee?” He left before Ian could put him right about the feelings nonsense.
Ian didn’t know where the hell this hospital kept their coffee machines because Don was gone so long that Ian fell asleep in the hard plastic chair next to Colby’s bed. He woke up three hours later to a crick in his neck, his back in spasms, and Colby smiling sleepily at him.
*
It was four days before Colby was discharged. Four days in which the rest of the team came and went, and gave Colby crap for the mud that was still in his hair despite the nurses’ best efforts, and gave Ian crap about not eating properly, and didn’t say a word about them. But Liz kept smiling when she looked at Ian sitting next to Colby’s bed, Nikki rolled her eyes with distressing frequency, and every now and then David shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe something. Even so, Ian thought he might have gotten away with it if Colby hadn’t kept blushing.
He sighed as he unlocked the door to Colby’s apartment, Colby yawning beside him. He guessed their… whatever it was, had been well and truly outed.
When they got inside, Colby was quiet and there were lines of strain bracketing his mouth. Ian wasn’t surprised at that, and it didn’t take much effort at all to convince Colby to lie down for a while. They helped one another get undressed, and it was like crocks anonymous, as they did so at the sort of pace that might have embarrassed a couple of geriatric tortoises. Once they were finally beneath the covers and Colby was plastered as close against Ian as he could get without injuring either of them again, Ian realised just why Colby had acquiesced so easily.
“I thought I wouldn’t see you again,” he muttered against Ian’s collar bone, and Ian felt Colby’s heart increase its pace where they were pressed so close. “Promise me you won’t do something that stupid again, not for anything.”
“Promise me you won’t go and get yourself shot again, and you got a deal,” Ian said.
“Count on it,” Colby said. And though they both knew they were lying, that getting hurt was out of their control and that Ian would never let someone die when he could do something about it, they lay in the half-light of Colby’s bedroom and held on to one another, and pretended it was true.
Ian must have drifted off to sleep, because he woke up some time later to Colby poking him in the ribs. “Want to tell me just why Don came in to see me with a stack of paperwork containing Charlie’s calculations proving how the psychological benefits of having dogs at work outweigh the risk analyses that the Bureau did of our workspace?”
Ian grinned. He’d had a number of strangely meandering conversations with Don, courtesy of blood-loss and painkillers, but hadn’t realised Don would take any of them seriously. He supposed he should have; Don was one hell of a team leader. “You want to guess?”
“So I can get myself a big dumb mutt and call it Ian,” Colby suggested.
“Or get a little Yorkie that is definitely not called Ian. Because I have to say, a Yorkie sounds more your pace, Granger. You could tie a pink ribbon in its hair and everything.”
Colby tried to look indignant, but couldn’t stop a grin from breaking through.
“You remember what we talked about, then,” Ian said, so casual that the effort almost hurt.
Colby returned his gaze steadily. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. For the record, I feel the same way.” Then he snuggled - there was no other word for it, despite the fact Granger was built like a linebacker - against Ian.
Ian had shot men for less. Well, maybe not actually shot them, but definitely reduced them to incoherent wrecks in fear for their lives. He blamed the pain meds for the fact he didn’t call Colby on being so sappy, but instead let him snuggle closer. It was even possible that Ian tightened his hold, just a little.
“You know the Yorkie has to be called Don,” Ian said, a few minutes later. “So you can yell at it when it pees on the office carpet.”
“I am not yelling at a little dog that’s about a hundredth the size of me,” Colby said firmly. After an instant he added hurriedly, “and I am not getting a Yorkie, damn it, Edgerton. It’s going to be a big, manly, hairy dog.”
“Whatever you say, Colby,” Ian said, holding Colby close. Colby pressed a kiss over Ian’s heart, and Ian suddenly knew it was true: he couldn’t see how to refuse Colby anything. He couldn’t see why he’d want to. He rubbed his cheek against Colby’s hair, and found he was smiling. “Whatever you say.”
END