Work Text:
Monday Blues
by Pirate Turner
Ezra braced himself as he unlocked his office and walked inside. The whisper of air that opening the door stirred sent papers flying. He moved swiftly in a blur of red, catching the scattering papers as they rained down to the floor. He gave a small shake of his head as he carefully sat behind his desk and glared at the mountains of paperwork the weekenders had left him.
He slowly began to sort the papers and quickly found his suspicions to be accurate. Of the tons of papers that were piled haphazardly upon his small desk, not even so many as three coordinated. His mouth opened slightly when he found a two-page report wherein the pages were actually clipped together. He shut it quickly, knowing that that had to be a mistake.
It took Ezra the better part of the hour, but finally his papers were arranged, his pencils were sharpened, and he was ready to start on his actual work, tackling the miniature mountains that sat before him. Then a knock came on his door. Ezra lifted his head and quirked one brow curiously. "Yes?"
Vin poked his head around the corner, and Ezra stilled himself inside. "Got some more paperwork for ya, Ez," the team's best shooter remarked as he strode confidently inside.
"Do not -- " Ezra's mouth was wide open in his attempt to warn the younger man, but it was too late for even as the words began to come out of his mouth, Vin tossed the heavy files down upon his desk. Once more paperwork flew everywhere, falling across the top of the desk and sliding from there to the floor, Ezra's lap, and almost every other imaginable spot in his small office.
"Oh, gosh! Ezra, I'm sorry! I didn't mean -- "
Ezra raised his gaze to Vin's and met the young man with green fire shooting from his eyes. "Out," he seethed, barely able to control his anger.
"I really am sorry," Vin spoke sheepishly, taking a step backward. He winced as he heard something crunch underneath his foot. A look down told him it was a brand new pencil.
"Ah am quite certain you are, Mister Tanner. However, at this interval, Ah must insist that you escort yourself out of mah premises promptly." Ezra clipped each of the words off as he began the tedious task of reorganizing the mounds and mounds of paperwork.
"I could help ya," Vin started to offer but was cut short as he was burned once more by the fire shooting from Ezra's angry glare. "Fine. I'm going. I'm going," he mumbled as he walked backward out of the door and shut it behind him.
Ezra had started to make piles upon the floor as he scooped down to regather his papers. Again he tried to warn Vin about his actions, but once more he was a second too late as, after he had barely managed to utter one syllable, the door slammed shut, sending what he had gathered twice once more scattering across the floor.
Ezra sighed and hung his head. Some mornings it really didn't pay to get out of bed, and it was all their fault! He shot the closed door another baleful glare. "Heathens," he muttered. "They would not know organization if it bit them in the rear end!"
Perhaps he should bite them? Then they'd certainly find a way to better organize the messes they expected him to clean up! Then again, with the wild and assorted team they had, a few of them were bound to get off on the mere concept, and of course, there were the innumerable possible diseases to take into consideration . . .
With another shake of his head, Ezra murmured again, "Heathens," and returned to his work. Some day he'd no longer be here to organize their catastrophes. Then they would appreciate him. They would plead for him. But he would be long gone to somewhere down South, his boots raised, and a cold glass in his hand. Ah, yes, one day, he would get around to taking his vacation, and then they'd see just how much trouble they put him through.
A wry grin caught him as he considered the situation. He might well find that he liked being free of the headaches that they placed upon him so much that he'd decide not to return. He dismissed that idea swiftly for he knew, deep down, that no matter how greatly they aggravated him or how many migraines they forced him to suffer, he would never, ever truly consider abandoning them on a permanent basis. The men outside his closed door were more than his team mates, more even than his friends: they were his family.
Still a man needed a break from his family every now and again. He slipped his cell out of his pocket and dialed his leader. "Chris," he spoke into the phone, "Ah need a vacation."
"Ez," Chris responded, "it's Monday. We all need a vacation."
The End