Contrition

Ezra stumbled out of the hangar, slipping to the ground at the edge of the runway. Pulling at the long grass, he sat, huddled into himself. He knew what was happening, had happened. It was the risk he took every time he went under. 'Going native' the smart boys called it. Identifying too much with the mark, his mother would say. Leading with his heart, Vin had called it. Whatever it was, it left him with pain. Pain of knowing that two people were dead and seven in custody, and it was because of him. These were the moments he hated his job, hated that he was so damned good at it.

He didn't move as the team walked by, each offering support in his own way; a touch, a word. Thankfully, they understood what he was feeling and understood his need for time to get through it. The last to walk by was Vin, who put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, taking a moment to drop his car keys on the ground by Ezra's foot. Not looking up, he nodded, watching Vin's booted feet as he walked on after the others. Five sets of feet had gone by. One more and he would be alone, could be alone long enough to pull himself together, to deal with the aches and demands of his body.

The last of the team stopped behind him, laying a strong hand on his shoulder. But this one didn't move along after the rest, this one stayed and sat down behind him.

"How long this time?" Josiah asked quietly.

"Six weeks." Six weeks to get to know them, to learn what they ate for lunch, to find out if they had pets. To like them.

"That's right." Josiah's thumbs started a deep pressure on the back of his skull, at the point his head ached the most, moving in small circles. It helped. Josiah's hands shifted to massage his temples, slow and gentle. That helped more, but not enough. The ache he wouldn't talk about hurt the most, and after a few moments, Josiah pulled him back against his chest, one arm holding tight around him, the other hand reaching down to cup his groin. He grunted at the pressure on his dick, hated himself for being hard when people were dead.

Josiah opened Ezra's pants, baring his cock. Screwing his eyes shut, Ezra let his head drop back against Josiah's shoulder while the firm hand stroked him. Nothing gentle about it, Josiah set a hard rhythm, stroking his hand up over the head and down to the base, over and over.

His chest ached and his gut clenched as Josiah worked him harder and harder, finally arching back and groaning as his body gave in to the touch and exploded, leaving him breathless.

"Ezra," Josiah's soft baritone ghosted by his ear, "don't ever feel guilty that you survive. You didn't make the choices for them." He knew that, knew everything Josiah was going to say to him, but needed to hear it just the same. "They got themselves into trouble and chose to fight their way out."

"I know," he croaked, his voice breaking as he tried not to cry. It was too much, and he couldn't stop it. Turning, he grabbed the front of Josiah's jacket in his fists, buried his face in the fabric and wept.

Holding him in a tight embrace, Josiah rocked him gently. "Son, the day you stop feeling for them is the day I'll start to worry about you." He nodded against Josiah's chest. "Take all the time you need." He nodded again and nestled closer to Josiah, taking comfort in the warmth of his friend.