Mistaken Identity
an M7 ATF story by Setcheti

Disclaimer: Don't own them, didn't make money, don't sue me! The ATF universe was created (and most graciously shared) by Mog.
Acknowledgments: Thanks to my wonderful betas ML and MR--you guys are the best!--and to Diana, who read the story in all its incompleteness and bugged me until I finished it. And most importantly, thanks to Anthony Starke for doing such a wonderful job playing a teacher in Inferno.

Hall monitor duty, Ezra thought. I wonder if any of the other teachers realize how much they could be learning at this particular post. The Southern ATF agent loved being undercover as a teacher even though he detested the reason behind it; children selling guns to other children. He had even considered becoming a real teacher if his job in law enforcement ever fell through--something that he privately felt could happen at any time, in spite of what his teammates said. Ezra had learned early in life not to put too much stock in what other people told him, no matter how well-intentioned they seemed to be.

He was about to go back to his office for another round of paper grading when he heard the footsteps coming. He checked his watch and frowned before stepping out into the hall to stop the late student. "I believe you're running just a little late, my dear," he told the surprised young woman with a smile. "Do you have a pass?"

"No," she said, plainly confused. "I'm on my way to class--and I'm late! Please excuse me…"

"Well, that's certainly an original approach, I must say," he chuckled, pulling out his pad of detention slips. "Pity it didn't work. Your name please?"

"Juliet Moore." She shook her head. "Um, Mr…."

"Sanders," he supplied. "Now, Miss Moore, which instructor is currently missing your presence this period?"

Her eyes widened; then, to his complete surprise, a delighted smile blossomed on her face. "My students are going to find this hilarious," she said, eyes twinkling with genuine amusement. "May I have my detention slip, Mr. Sanders? I really must get to class now."

He realized his mouth had dropped open and closed it abruptly. "You're…"

"Yes, I am." She took the yellow slip out of his hand and winked at him mischievously. "See you after school, Mr. Sanders."

Ezra just stood there and watched her hurry off down the hall. "Good lord," he whispered.

He was still smarting a little from embarrassment that afternoon when he locked his office and went upstairs to mind the young miscreants he had sentenced to detention; seeing the fair-sized crowd of excited students crowded around the door, however, gave him something else to think about. "All right, what's goin' on here?" he asked, expecting either a fight or an escaped animal. "Unless all of you want to be in detention, I suggest you disperse."

The students dropped away from the door, grins adorning every face. "We just came to see, you know, if she'd really go through with it," a young man wearing a football jersey told him. "She said that teachers have to play by the rules, too, but no one really expected that she would…"

Ezra got a good look inside the classroom and bit back a groan; the diminutive teacher he had stopped in the hall earlier was sitting calmly at one of the desks with a stack of books and papers in front of her, the yellow detention slip crowning the pile. Just what did she think she was doing? "Miss Moore…"

"Hello, Mr. Sanders," she said, smiling. "I told them that everyone has to follow the rules, but they just wouldn't believe me; they insisted that teachers are above the law." Her eyes--deep indigo blue and very serious--locked with his. "That isn't right, of course, is it?"

He let a slight smile touch his lips, suddenly understanding. "Absolutely correct, Miss Moore," he replied. "And now that all of you have seen what you came for, I suggest that you vacate the premises before I start adding you to the ranks."

The gaggle of teenagers broke apart like a cluster of soap bubbles and drifted off in multiple directions; Ezra shut the door and faced his expectant 'class' with a frown that didn't quite reach his green eyes. "All right, I think you all have had enough time to enjoy yourselves; time to get to work makin' up for your earlier misdeeds. Now if you'd all get out paper and pencil…"

Thirty minutes later he stood at the door collecting papers as the students filed out; out of the corner of his eye, he could see his fellow teacher taking her time gathering her books together. Approaching her with a smile, he held out his hand. "Your paper please, Miss Moore; I must admit, I am eager to see what you wrote."

She laughed and handed it over. "You picked an interesting topic, Mr. Sanders; I believe the idea of deterring crime by making the punishment shamefully public was a shock to some of them--but you made them think, and that can only be a good thing." She cocked her head at him and bit her lip. "I do hope you didn't think that I was making fun of you over all this--about the detention slip, I mean."

"Perhaps at first," he admitted honestly, glancing up from the paper. "But once I realized what you were tryin' to do, I was more than happy to be your co-conspirator." He cleared his throat, feeling himself start to blush. "And I believe I owe you an apology for the…mistake that started all this. I am truly sorry."

"Don't be," she reassured him, her smile growing dimples although a hint of a shadow clouded her eyes. "It's not the first time I've been mistaken for a student, and I'm certain it won't be the last."

Ezra took a good look at her and had to agree; she stood only about five feet tall and was delicately built, with a slender, heart-shaped face and large expressive eyes liberally fringed with black lashes. He shook his head. "Unfortunately, I believe you are correct--and I can sympathize, being of less than average height myself."

She looked up at him in unfeigned surprise. "You are?"

Ezra Standish--currently Ezra Sanders--suddenly felt a strange feeling wash over him, a not-so-subtle shift in perception; it was the feeling of being the stereotypical 'big strong man', alpha male of the pack. It was a surprising sensation, to say the least…but he liked it. "Perhaps not in all situations," he smiled down at her. "But normally, yes." He gestured to the door, breaking the moment before enjoyment of his newly-discovered stature overcame his common sense. "Shall we go? I don't know about you, but I now have papers to grade."

She laughed and scooped up her books, unoffended but slightly…wistful? "I'm an English teacher, Mr. Sanders; I always have papers to grade."

Ezra found himself thinking about her later that evening while he was relaxing at home, summoning up her image and studying it thoughtfully. Her long black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail whose end brushed the waistband of her skirt and was secured with a beautifully ornate clasp; her clothes were plain in contrast, a long brown skirt, rust colored sweater and low-heeled brown boots. The top of her head just barely came level with his shoulder. The alpha-male sensation swept over him again and he sighed, sinking further into the couch, allowing himself to bask in the feeling as he hadn't been able to earlier. I wonder if this is how Buck feels all the time? he pondered idly. Might explain why he's so full of himself, so irrepressible when it comes to women--not a problem I personally have ever had to deal with, of course…

When it came right down to it Ezra really had no positive impression of himself at all, although he went to great pains to project one for others. He knew he was too short and too thin and of only average appearance, and these facts (regularly restated by his mother and nearly everyone else he knew) had given him a bit of a Cyrano complex; since what God had given him was so far short of perfection, then to assuage his own self-respect he must be as near to perfect in every other aspect as he could manage. His so-called 'gambler's mask', a facade of cool self-possession, kept most people from intruding into the realm of his insecurities and prevented those that did from knowing they'd found a weak spot that might otherwise be exploited.

Ezra fell asleep on the couch wondering if he would ever be able to end the masquerade.

That Thursday, Ezra came out of the school later than usual and to his surprise encountered the woman who had been occupying his thoughts all week; she was standing in front of her car, a small yellow hatchback with it's hood propped open, and frowning at the exposed engine as though expecting it to argue with her. "Miss Moore? Some sort of trouble with your vehicle?"

"Today of all days!" was her disgruntled answer. "I have to be in class in less than thirty minutes and the cantankerous wretch picks now to break down." With a sigh, she took out the bright pink broomstick that was holding the hood up and slid it along one side of the frame before carefully lowering the hood closed. Then she actually looked at him, blinking. "Why, Mr. Sanders, whatever are you still doing here?" Her dimpled smile appeared, and he realized with a warm flush that it was just for him. "Did I miss detention?"

"Why, Miss Moore," he responded, smiling back. "Have you been idlin' in the halls again?"

Indigo eyes twinkled mischievously. "I refuse to answer that on the grounds that I may incriminate myself, Mr. Sanders."

"It's Ezra, please." He moved closer, resting his hand on the dented yellow hood. "Might I be of some assistance, Miss Moore?"

"Juliet," she corrected. "And thank you for the offer, but I'm afraid the old girl probably needs more help than we can give her in a parking lot; I'll just pop in to the office and call a cab…"

"You'll do no such thing," he interrupted smoothly. "I have a perfectly serviceable vehicle right here, and it would be no trouble for me to deliver you to your destination."

She blushed. "Oh no, I couldn't ask you to…"

"Ah insist." Taking a chance, Ezra adopted a toned-down variation of the puppy-dog expression he'd seen work wonders for Buck. "Please?"

Five minutes later Juliet was sitting in the Jag running appreciative hands over the smooth leather upholstery as Ezra steered through the heavy evening traffic to reach Denver Community College. "So, are you picking up some continuing education credits or just taking a class for enjoyment?"

"What? Oh, I'm sorry, neither; I teach a class at the college once a week." Her hand of its own volition strayed back to the seat. "This car is incredible, Ezra, it's like something from a movie!"

For almost the first time since his mother had given it to him, Ezra was truly happy to have the Jag. "Perhaps," he agreed with a grin. "That would depend on the movie, though; this particular vehicle doesn't talk, can't travel through time or fly, does not engage in high-speed chases and--to the best of my knowledge--does not 'corner like it's on rails'."

The mischievous twinkle came back, sparkling through a veil of black lashes. "It would be easy enough to find out."

"In Denver traffic? I just met you, I don't want to kill you!" Her delighted laugh emboldened him. "Um, Juliet…what time is your class over with tonight? I was thinking that I could come back to pick you up and perhaps we might…have a late dinner?"

She blushed. "I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"You wouldn't be." He pulled up in front of DCC's main entrance and turned sideways in his seat to face her. "I'd…I'd like to get to know you better, Juliet."

Juliet's eyes widened and her blush deepened, but her smile was like a beam of sunlight shining right on him. "The feeling is mutual, Ezra," she said. "We're usually done by seven, Room 28B." And then she was gone, leaving one ecstatic ATF agent in her wake.

Two hours and a lot of frantic planning later, Ezra followed the directions a student met in the hall had given him, ending up down a utilitarian orange and gray hallway and following the sound of voices to Room 28B. The class inside was composed of about eighteen students, some of whom he recognized with surprise as being from West High; everyone's attention was fixed on their instructor, who spotted him in the doorway and called out a greeting in thickly accented Cajun French. Ezra smiled broadly and responded in the same language.

Eighteen heads snapped around, and Juliet beamed. "Welcome to our class, Mr. Sanders!" she exclaimed, waving him toward an empty seat in the front of the classroom. "Je suis sur le point d'emballer des choses en haut, nous sommes presque faits pour ce soir."

"Prendre votre temps," he replied, settling into the hard plastic chair. "Je suis dans aucune hâte." It was true, Ezra wasn't in any hurry to do anything that might shorten his evening, and he was pleased that she took him at his word and continued with the lesson as though there had been no interruption--in fact, she included him once or twice just like he belonged there.

Juliet dismissed her students with a reminder to practice with each other at least twice before the next class and then checked transportation arrangements to be sure everyone had a ride; Ezra found himself the subject of some very serious scrutiny when the small teacher announced that she would be riding with him. Several of the students from West and one of the older adults actually followed the two of them out of the building and, he was fairly certain, made note of his car's tag number. I'd be doin' the same, I guess, he thought to himself as he held open the Jag's passenger door for her and saw her safely settled inside. Climbing in behind the wheel, he stuck the key in the ignition and smiled at her. "I didn't know the college offered a course in Kreyol Lwiziyen."

"Normally they don't," she told him, smiling back but looking a little embarrassed. "I made a deal with them; I teach an adult continuing education class for free, and they let up to eight kids per semester from the school's at-risk program take it for free--and give them a credit for it. We have to provide our own supplies, but I think it all works out to be more than fair."

For everyone but you, I'd say, Ezra thought, feeling a little flash of anger that she was being taken advantage of, but knowing it wasn't his place to say anything…yet. "I take it you are a native speaker?"

"My grandparents were pure Cajun," she replied. "What I'd like to know is where you learned it, Ezra; not many non-natives can speak it so well."

Ezra shook his head. "Don't be impressed; I have a knack for languages, and I went to school in New Orleans for a time. I just sort of…picked it up."

Juliet frowned at him. "You sound like that embarrasses you, Ezra, and it shouldn't; that's the best way to learn Cajun. What other languages do you speak?"

He had to think about it. "Um, let's see, Spanish, French, Italian, German, some Russian and Japanese, a little less of Hebrew and Mandarin…" A small gasp interrupted his recitation, and a glance showed Juliet to be staring at him with wide, astonished eyes. "Juliet?"

It took her a moment to find her voice. "You mean to tell me that you speak," she verified the total again on her fingers, "eight languages, and you're working in the public school system as a substitute teacher? Ezra, why aren't you at the UN or an embassy…or even working for the government?!" The undercover agent's mouth dropped open, and Juliet--not understanding his shock--hastened to apologize. "Oh Ezra, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to butt in…"

"You…you didn't." He gathered himself back together with an effort. "You just surprised me, is all; most of my…of the people ah know consider mah facility with languages to be rather pedestrian." It was the truth; his colleagues and superiors took his natural fluency for granted--and his mother was mortified by it. He saw that they had reached their destination and pulled into the parking area, flashing an embarrassed smile at her. "Ah'm not used to anyone bein' impressed by me."

Indigo eyes locked onto his emerald ones, very serious, very honest. "I'm impressed by you," she said quietly.

Ezra's mouth fell open again, and he felt himself blush. "I…take it you're not easy to impress."

She shook her head. "No, not at all."

He leaned forward until they were only inches apart. "Neither am I," he whispered, and then he kissed her.

The moment their lips touched, Ezra found himself almost overwhelmed by a rush of sensation. Her scent filled his nostrils, a light sweet mix of honey and lavender that made him think of lace fans and parasols and old trunks full of delicately romantic memories. The hair that his hand tangled in was fine and soft as silk, and the skin that brushed against his was delicate as a flower petal.

Eventually they had to break apart to breathe, albeit unwillingly. Juliet licked her lips and rested her cheek against the back of the soft leather seat with a sigh. "Is it possible to be more than impressed?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes still closed.

Ezra flopped back in his seat and tried to will all the blood back into his brain instead of the much lower location it had decided to occupy. "Ah…should say so," he replied in kind. A few synapses fired in sequence and he groaned, realizing what had just happened. "Oh, Juliet, it was not mah intention to…"

"Ah know it wasn't, Ezra--it wasn't mine, either." Her eyes blinked open and she smiled at him, blushing just a little. "You must think ah'm quite the wanton…"

"Nevah!" He sat bolt upright…and then blushed himself, realizing that the outburst had put him in the position of having to be honest with her. "Ah…ah knew you were special the first time ah encountered you," he said quietly. "And ah really do want to know you bettah…and ah don't want to rush anything."

"We won't," she assured him. "But ah'm not much more than what you've already seen, Ezra; ah have the feelin' that you're like a Chinese puzzle, all intricate complexities that deepen the more you try to unlock them."

Ezra smiled, reaching out a hand to brush a curling tendril of hair off her cheek. "Perhaps ah shall have to provide the key."

To his surprise, she shook her head. "Oh no, you must give me a chance to solve the puzzle mahself first." Then she grinned. "But you can tell me what we're doin' at City Park."

He stared at her for a minute and then laughed. "Darlin' I'd almost forgotten we were at City Park!" That made her laugh too, and any discomfort that might have been left between them dissipated. "Actually, seein' as how the weather has been so mild, ah had thought a picnic might be nice." He put his hand on the door. "Shall we?"

"We most certainly shall," was the reply. Between the two of them they unloaded the heavy basket from the trunk and picked a comfortable spot to spread out the soft woolen Pendelton blanket that Ezra kept in his car for emergencies. Juliet was delighted with the carefully packed Japanese feast the basket held and insisted that Ezra tell her the name of every dish--each of which she repeated after him, careful to pronounce them correctly. "How will I find recipes for the ones I want to have again if I don't know what they're called?"

Ezra just nodded, finding himself fascinated by the ease with which she handled the lacquered chopsticks. Curiosity got the better of him. "For someone who's never eaten Japanese food before, you certainly are adept at it."

She shrugged. "I learned it for school, it's a trick for improving handwriting." His raised eyebrow made her smile. "I know it sounds silly, but it's all about self-esteem and eye-hand-thought coordination--if I can get them proficient enough with the chopsticks their coordination and their confidence improve, and their handwriting improves as a result without them even noticing it."

"I don't think it sounds silly at all." Ezra was impressed. "That's a technique I've never heard of; so far as I knew, most educators' solution to illegible handwriting is a word processor."

A scowl flashed across Juliet's face. "If you call that a solution," she said with some disgust. "Ah call it a cop-out--making a child dependent on a computer for one of the most basic literacy skills is not teaching." Then she blushed, looking back down at her bowl. "And it's not a 'technique', it's just something ah thought up."

"Ah'd guessed that," Ezra chuckled. "But ah beg to differ, it is a 'technique'." He lifted her chin and smiled into her indigo eyes. "And a brilliant one, ah'd say--ah share your sentiments regardin' our fosterin' of computer dependency in our students."

She looked astounded. "You do? Most of the other teachers think ah'm a fool…"

"Only because you're makin' them look bad, I'll wager." He picked up a shrimp with his own chopsticks and offered it to her, delighted when she took it and then proceeded to return the gesture with a piece of tempura-fried squid. "What does Principal Ellis think?"

"He thinks we can't stop progress--no matter how bad for us some of it is." She cocked her head at him questioningly. "Ezra, if you don't mind my askin'…what's your other job?"

Ezra froze. "Why do you think…" His face fell. "It was the Jag, wasn't it?"

"Partly…but the rest of it was just a feeling." It was her turn to lift his chin and smile. "Ezra, lots of teachers have second jobs, wanting more money is nothing to be embarrassed about--and as long as doesn't affect our work with the kids, the school board turns a blind eye." The smile became a mischievous grin. "Or are you just embarrassed to tell me?"

He covered her hand with his own and smiled tiredly. "Ah wish it were that simple, Juliet. And ah will tell you," Ezra realized as he said the words that he meant them, that he wanted her to know the truth, "but this isn't the place." He leaned in close to whisper in her ear, "Too many people, darlin'--ah can't risk anyone overhearin' me. Do you understand?"

Juliet turned her head to the side, initiating another kiss that left them both breathless. "No," she whispered against his lips. "But ah'm sure ah will after you explain it…later."

"Ah think you must be…a woman in a million," he breathed into the next kiss. "Ah…don't believe ah've evah…met anyone else quite like you."

Ezra's pager going off interrupted…well, just interrupted, and the undercover agent groaned when he pulled the device off his belt and checked the number. "Damn, there goes the rest of my evenin'."

"Duty calls?" Juliet ran a gentle hand through his disordered hair.

Ezra captured the hand and kissed her palm. "Unfortunately," he said. "Ah'm afraid ah have to respond within the hour or risk the wrath of…" he grinned, "a very temperamental boss who is none too fond of me to begin with. Perhaps tomorrow we might arrange another…encounter?"

She shook her head, and Ezra's heart stopped--but only for a moment. "Ah won't be there tomorrow, ah'm one of the teachers who's addressin' the district administrators tomorrow on behalf of the at-risk program. And ah'm certain that a page at eight-thirty at night means your weekend is spoken for; how does Monday sound?"

"Like far too long--but ah'll manage." He kissed her once more, hard, and then they both pulled away and started packing up the remains of their picnic. Truly a woman in a million; I shall most definitely be countin' the minutes 'till Monday…

The expression that briefly flickered across Ezra's face when Chris told him he was being pulled out of the school for another assignment rather shocked the ATF team leader; he'd known the undercover agent enjoyed working as a teacher, but… "Something wrong, Standish?"

Ezra swallowed his sigh. "I'll tell Principal Ellis tomorrow. When does the new assignment start?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

Damn. "Alright, ah'll be at the office at ten…"

"Make it eight."

To Larabee's surprise, Ezra shook his head. "In spite of the fact that you seem to think mah current assignment is unimportant, ah do not." He turned and walked away, toward the elevator. "See you at ten."

Vin came up behind the steaming Chris and watched the Southern agent leave. "Hate to say it, pard, but he's right; he's worked a long time to build his cover in the Denver school system, and you're always askin' him to blow it off like it weren't worth nothin'. I'm kind of glad to see him stick up for himself an' not just knuckle under to you--proves he's settlin' in, ain't afraid to be right when you're wrong."

Chris looked at his sharpshooter like he'd grown a second head. "Since when do you say more than two words at a time?"

Vin shrugged and grinned, slapping his friend on the back before walking away himself. "Guess I'm settlin' in too."

Bill Ellis looked up when he heard someone enter his office and sighed when he saw who it was. Dammit, why couldn't you have gotten involved with a real teacher, he swore to himself, not an undercover federal agent. And dammit, why did he let you? I thought better of Agent Standish… "Miss Moore?"

The small woman carefully closed the office door and walked right up to his desk. "Principal Ellis, could you tell me what is going on, please? Mr. Sanders has vanished into thin air and no one knows where he went--and his cell phone is 'temporarily out of service'. Something is wrong, I just know it!"

"Nothing is wrong," the older man said slowly, unable to meet the eyes of his old platoon buddy's only daughter. Dammit, Marty, you had her move up here so I could keep an eye on her…and after all she's already been through I just had to blink at the wrong time… "Mr. Sanders just…had to leave. For another assignment."

"He's not at any school in Denver; I checked." Her eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me, Bill?"

"What I can't tell you." He got up, feeling his age, and walked around the desk to put his hands on her slender shoulders, looking down into her face, seeing the hurt and confusion in her eyes. "Juliet, I'm so angry about this situation that I'm ready to kill him and his boss--and I can tell you that he won't be teaching here ever again if I have anything to say about it, not after this."

"His boss…" Juliet gasped, understanding. "Oh no, that must be what he wanted to tell me! He was afraid I'd be angry because he…" She lowered her voice. "Because he's a narc?"

"He was going to tell you? You're certain?" Bill relaxed when she nodded emphatically; maybe it was only Standish's boss who was a thoughtless asshole. "Well then, I'm glad that my initial impression of Ezra was correct--and he's not a narc." Giving Juliet a little push in the general direction of the more comfortable of his office's chairs, he went back to his own seat and settled into it, smiling. "I'll tell you what I know, Juliet; after that you're on your own…"

Fifteen days later, a very tired, very depressed federal agent dragged himself out of the elevator on the seventh floor of the Denver ATF building and walked heavily toward the desk he was certain was piled with paperwork from his long absence--he had planned his arrival time very carefully to avoid meeting any of his co-workers, not feeling up to dealing with them just yet. His left arm was in a sling that was strapped tightly to his chest, supporting both his injured shoulder and the three cracked ribs on his left side; his right hand held a steaming cup of coffee from Starbuck's and his briefcase hung from a leather strap worn across his right shoulder--an addition he'd been forced to make in order to manage the case at all. But Ezra wasn't thinking about the unfashionable strap, or the mounds of paperwork, or the pain of his injuries; he wasn't even thinking about the assignment he'd just brought to a reasonably successful conclusion or the report he was going to have to write about it, or about the friends he was currently avoiding.

All Ezra could think of was the fact that he was alone. And probably always would be, right up until the day he died--which, in his line of work, would more than likely be sooner rather than later. Not that he had a problem with that idea, at the moment. I didn't even get to tell her goodbye, he thought morosely. Never got to explain…she probably hates me now, thinks I just ran off--there's irony for you, the return of the label I thought I'd gotten out from under…

Ezra stepped around the corner into his cubicle and froze. There, sitting on his desk, was a small antique-looking silver vase containing a single perfect magnolia blossom. Someone's idea of a joke? His instincts said no. Putting down his briefcase and carefully setting his coffee on the desk, he brushed his fingers across the soft white petals before untying the small parchment envelope from its satin ribbon. Inside was a folded piece of fine writing paper. The message was brief and to the point. Ezra, it said, What's in a name? Ezra Sanders, by any other name, would still be the same wonderful, fascinating man who stopped me in the hall that day and sent me to detention! I would like to know that man better, if there is any chance that a dashing federal agent like himself might be interested in a very ordinary high-school English teacher. Yours, Juliet.

"My Juliet," he murmured, smiling for the first time in almost three weeks. He lifted the note closer to his face and breathed in the delicate scent of honey and lavender that clung to it, feeling a large part of his burden of loneliness melt away. "My Juliet; ah like the sound of that."

-30-

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