Buck looked around the room, wondering why everything appeared so strange. Then he realized what the problem was: all the furniture -- all the knickknacks, as well as all the bric-a-bracs -- had been nailed to the ceiling.
Everything was upside down.
"That must have been one hell of a New Year's Eve party." Then he wondered, if everything was nailed to the ceiling, upon what was he lying -- or rather, off what was his body half-dangling?
Buck twisted his head to the side, and immediately groaned as pain shot from the back of his skull right through his eyeballs. He brought his hands up to his face, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. Then he laughed.
"Yup, that had to have been one hell of a New Year's Eve party!"
"You sure there was a party?" a voice asked from somewhere in the room. "Because I don't remember parties ever hurting this much. Collisions with freight trains, yes, but parties, no."
"Chris?" Buck asked, struggling to sit up, having finally figured out that the room wasn't upside down, he was. He'd been lying on the couch, with his head and shoulders hanging over the side. He righted himself with a good deal of effort. As the blood began to rush back into his arms, Buck winced; the sensation of a million pins and needles pricking into his skin had him biting back another groan of pain.
"You okay, Buck? Freight train hit you, too?"
"I think it musta been a 747. Or maybe just a really big shovel." Buck looked around the room, but still didn't see Chris. "Where are you, pard?"
"Here," came Chris's voice again, and Buck tried to home in on it, but with no luck. Then Chris's head came up from behind the sofa. Buck had to admit that the man did look like he'd survived a train wreck, but only just barely.
"Damn. You do not look pretty."
"Right back at'cha, Buck." Chris moaned as he pulled himself to his feet.
Buck laughed when he saw that Chris was wearing a black ATF tank top, ripped halfway down the front, and nothing else. "Bet you haven't run around like that since you were five, huh?"
"Like wha--- Ah, shit!" Chris turned away, giving Buck a nice view of his bare ass. Buck whistled; Chris ignored him. "What the hell happened last night?"
Buck shook his head, very slowly. "Got no idea." Buck looked down at himself quickly, making certain he was fully clothed. He wasn't. But, he did have on a pair of boxers. They weren't his boxers, but at least he wasn't flying free like Chris.
"You, uh, you own a pair a boxers with, uh ... little Harry Potter faces on 'em, Chris?"
"No. I--- Oh, wait. Yeah, I do."
"You do?"
"Billy Travis gave them to me for Christmas."
"Ah, well, that explains that. But it sure as heck doesn't explain why I'm the one wearin' 'em."
Chris leaned over the couch and stared at the boxers. "They look a little tight on you."
Buck flashed a cocky smile. "Thanks for the compliment."
Chris pulled a face, but didn't respond. He was obviously still searching for a pair of pants.
"Here," Buck finally said, pulling some gray sweats out from under the coffee table. They appeared to be relatively clean. "Don't suppose these are yours."
They had ATF silk-screened on the front left hip. Chris looked inside the waistband. "Not sure, but they're my size."
"That only means they could be yours, JD's, Vin's, or even Ezra's."
"No, they wouldn't be Ezra's. I'm sure he hasn't worn gray sweats since the academy."
"Still."
Buck watched as Chris pulled on the sweatpants and tightened the waistband's drawstring.
"Next time you have a party, Chris, remind me to sew name tags into all my clothes before I start drinkin'."
"You don't mean when, Buck. You mean if. And, the way I'm feeling right now, I don't think the odds of another party this century are very high."
"Well, don't say that when Ezra's around, because he's likely to take you up on that bet. Seems to me, that's exactly what you said last year."
Buck finally stood up from the couch, shaking the twinge of a cramp from his leg. He stretched, and then scanned the room. "Chris, you seen my pants? Or my shirt? Or my own underwear, for that matter."
"Sorry, Buck. You're on your own there. Try checking under the quilt."
Buck followed where Chris was now pointing. On the floor, in front of the television, was the quilt that normally laid across the back of the couch. It was bunched into a big heap. Buck went over and picked it up.
"Hey, while you're there: turn on the TV. Maybe the Rose Parade's still on," Chris said from somewhere behind him.
Buck flicked on the television and began flipping channels until he came to The Home and Garden Network. In the corner of the screen was printed the word LIVE.
Buck groaned and then he checked the time on the VCR to confirm his suspicion. "It's not even nine thirty yet! Why the hell am I conscious, let alone concerned about where my pants are?"
A moment later, Chris was tapping him on the shoulder. "Here. Drink this?"
"Hair of the dog?" Buck asked hopefully.
"No, just orange juice."
"Spoil sport," Buck replied, taking the glass and the bottle of aspirin that came along with it. He sat down on the carpet in front of the TV and Chris dropped down beside him. "Hey, check out those Arabians," Buck said, referring to one of the equestrian teams in the parade.
Chris just nodded. "Just doesn't seem right that it's sunny out there in LA and I have to shovel the driveway just to get to my damn mailbox."
"Yeah, it is too bad. Bet you could run around in just a tank top three hundred and sixty-five days a year out there. You oughta put in for a transfer."
"Yeah, right after I transfer your ass to Alaska. Bet those boxers won't be so tight on you then!"
Buck laughed, and this time, so did Chris. Then Buck noticed something. He reached forward and pulled a tape out of the VCR. "Did you rent something?" he asked, though the tape wasn't labeled. "Don't tell me you got porno and I didn't get to watch it!"
Chris shrugged. "I don't know what's on that tape."
Buck shoved the tape back into the VCR and pressed play. The television flashed bright blue for a moment, and then a picture appeared. "Hey, it's us!"
The video showed six of their team standing in front of Chris's Christmas tree. A moment later, JD walked in front of the camera and joined them. JD smiled wide and wave like a maniac. Nathan made rabbit ears by raising two of his fingers up from behind Ezra's head. Buck started imitating a gorilla.
"Oh, that's flattering," Chris said, pointing at Buck's image on the screen.
"You're one to talk. Could you look any more like someone shoved a candy cane up your ass?"
"I just don't like video cameras. It's bad enough when they have to get us on tape down at the Bureau, but do I have to put up with it in my own home, too?"
"Well, it's your own fault for buying JD that video camera for Christmas, ain't it?"
"Next year, when we draw names for the gift exchange, I'm gonna make sure I get yours, Buck. That'll teach you!"
"Fine, but just remember, I take a large in Harry Potter boxers. And get me the matching t-shirt while you're at it."
They turned back to the television. The scene had changed. It seemed a lot later in the evening. They all appeared a little looser, probably having been at the drinks for a while.
"Is that Ezra playin' Twister with JD?"
"Oh, and Josiah!" Chris leaned his head to the side. "Huh. I didn't know he could bend like that."
"Don't seem quite ... natural, does it?"
The camera then panned over the room. Chris and Buck were seated at the kitchen table with Vin.
"What are we doing? Why don't I remember this?" Chris asked.
"I, uh, I think we're playin' Quarters." Buck smiled. "Haven't done that since college. Ah! You lose! Drink!" he said to the television screen. In the video, Chris picked up the shot glass and threw back the contents.
"Well, that explains the pounding headache anyway," Chris said before taking another sip from his glass of orange juice. "I thought for sure we'd be spending this afternoon reporting a stolen freight train."
"Boy, you must really suck at that game to have gotten drunk enough to drop trou." Buck had never seen Chris that drunk, and, before this morning, he would have doubted him even capable of it.
"Do you think we ended up playing strip poker? I'm sure Ezra could beat the pants off all of us, drunk or sober."
"Reckon we oughta keep watchin'."
The picture flickered and then cleared as a new scene appeared. The seven of them were all gathered around the couch now; apparently, the video camera was propped up on top of something, maybe the television set. They were singing.
"Is there sound?" Buck asked, wondering what song they were going at so enthusiastically.
Chris fished around for the remote, finally digging it out from under the quilt. He pressed the volume control and the sound slowly increased.
"Memories? We're singin' show tunes? From CATS?" Buck asked, cringing. "Ahhh ... kill me now!"
"There is no way this tape is ever leaving this house. Deal?"
"Deal." Buck nodded. If this ever got out at the Bureau, they'd never live it down.
Chris hit the fast forward button, and Buck breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, stop there," Buck said, pointing at the screen. "What the...?"
"Who is that?" Chris asked.
"That would be you, Mr. I've Got The World's Most Perfect Ass." Buck watched the screen as a Levi's-clad butt wiggled in front of the camera lens, wiggled like a low-class floozy in a high-priced strip joint.
"Me? How can you tell?" Chris asked. Buck glared at him.
"You honestly believe anyone has a finer lookin' ass than you do?" Buck asked, in all seriousness. He'd never taken the time to really stare at the man's butt, but Chris did tend to wear rather tight pants. He wouldn't do that if he didn't think he had something to show off.
"Well ... I suppose there must be someone, somewhere, who might have a nicer butt," Chris said, his tone completely serious. Then he smiled.
"Maybe Ezra," Buck conceded.
"He won't admit it, but I think he spends all his free time down at the gym." Chris said, lowering his voice, as if he were gossiping.
"Or Vin. All that horseback ridin'."
"Yeah, could be," Chris agreed. "Or ... what about JD?"
"Chris! Don't talk about the kid like that."
"He's no kid, Buck, and you know it."
"Still. I gotta live with the guy. Don't you go puttin' ideas into my head. One mornin' I'll accidentally find myself starin' at his butt when he gets outta the shower and then you'll be the one responsible for the black eye he gives me."
"Unless he secretly wants you to stare at his butt," Chris said, smirking. "Maybe he's got the hots for you, Buck. Ever think of that?"
"Chris! That's gross! Cut it out!" Buck punched him in the arm for emphasis; Chris just laughed.
"It's not gross. It's perfectly natural. Nothing to be ashamed of," Chris continued to tease.
"Yeah, says you. When's the last time you lusted after some guy's ass?" Buck asked. A moment later, his question was answered when the video revealed Chris grabbing Buck from behind.
"Huh," Chris said.
"Is there, uh, somethin' you wanna tell me, Larabee?" Buck asked. He'd known Chris a long, long time, and while they might joke around, Chris had never done anything like that before. Not to him anyway.
"No.... I don't think so..." Chris said after a long pause.
"Really? Because from what I'm seein' on this here video, you got some explainin' to do."
On the screen in front of them, Chris had pushed Buck forward over the back of the couch and was now in the process of dry humping him while waving the Harry Potter boxers over his head like a banner.
"Huh," was all Chris said again.
"That's it? 'Huh.' That's all you've got to say? You're up there, ridin' me like some wild bronco, and all you can manage is 'huh'?"
"What do you want me to say, Buck?" Chris asked. "It's not like I remember any of this? Damn, what were we drinking?"
"Don't blame this on the alcohol, pard. What's up with you?"
Chris shook his head from side to side, still staring at the television screen. Buck turned back to see what more was happening.
On the video, Buck was starting to rear up, as if he really were a bronco, finally tossing Chris off his back. Chris landed hard on the floor, and the camera swung wildly for a moment, before coming back into focus on Chris.
Then Buck landed on top of him, pinning him, as if they were wrestling, as they'd done back in high school. His body was across Chris's, trapping his left leg; Buck's arm was beneath Chris's other leg, pulling his knee up to his chest; his other hand had Chris's arm restrained against the carpeting. Ezra suddenly appeared in the frame, dropping to the floor beside them. He slapped the carpet -- once, twice, three times. Buck stood up and started dancing around the room, as if he'd just won the varsity wrestling championship.
"See? We're just goofing around," Chris said, though Buck could tell his voice wasn't as steady as it had been even just a few minutes before.
On the TV screen, Buck had returned to where Chris was still sprawled on the floor. He grabbed the Harry Potter boxers out of Chris's hand and started waving them around, as if he'd just won them as a prize. Then he was stripping out of his pants and underwear, tossing them aside. They landed between the Christmas tree and the wall.
"So, that's where my pants are," Buck said, but he made no move to go get them. He didn't dare take his eyes off what was happening on the video. The potential was too great that Chris would see something incriminating while his back was turned. Buck watched himself on the tape, tugging the Harry Potter boxers up his legs. He started dancing around the room again.
"Damn, what were we drinkin'?" Buck said, reiterating what Chris had asked earlier.
"You do look kind of cute in those," Chris said with a laugh.
"Don't start, Chris!"
"Hey, you're the one who just flung his pants halfway across the room. At least I'm still dressed."
"Yeah, for now. But we know that doesn't last!"
"Damn," Chris muttered under his breath. He was shaking his head again, as if he couldn't believe what he was watching. Buck couldn't believe it either.
The video flickered again. Then they were staring at a picture of the beige carpeting. However, the sound coming from the tape had them both leaning closer toward the TV screen.
"That's not...?"
"It ... can't be...."
"The Stripper's Rag?" Buck asked, trying to make out the chorus of male voices. Ta-da da-da. Ta-da da-da. "Damn! You hired a stripper and all we get is tape of your carpet?"
"I didn't hire a stripper. At least, I don't remember hiring one," Chris said, scrubbing at the side of his face.
"Who's makin' that cat-call?" Buck asked, straining to pick out the individual voices he was hearing.
"Take it off!" someone yelled. The voice might have belonged to Nathan.
"Woo-whoo!"
"Was that Josiah?" Chris asked. "Because that sounded like Josiah."
Suddenly, the carpeting on the television screen wiggled and then blurred. The picture became a quick scan of the room: up from the carpeting to the empty dining table, past the hallway, up to the ceiling, and finally settling into a clear view of the coffee table.
Buck saw feet. Bare feet. Bare male feet. The camera slowly panned upward. There were legs, thankfully clad in blue jeans. And then a torso, clothed in a plaid, flannel shirt, completely unbuttoned down the front. But the man's chest wasn't bare -- beneath the flannel shirt, he wore another shirt, this one black and tight. Suddenly, the plaid shirt was being shrugged off the man's arms and then tossed away. The camera followed the shirt as it flew into the small audience.
Buck caught sight of Josiah, Nathan, and JD before the camera panned back to the man's body. He was undoing his belt now, pulling it slowly out of the loops. Then he flung one end between his legs and caught it with his free hand. He tugged the length back and forth, stroking himself through the denim with the leather belt.
Buck shifted uncomfortably. He'd never seen a male stripper before. This shouldn't be turning him on, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from getting hard. He was afraid to look over at Chris. He didn't want to know if Chris was staring at him or if he was still staring at the television; more importantly, he absolutely did not want to know if this was also turning Chris on.
The camera panned downward as the belt was dropped onto the coffee table and kicked away with the man's foot. Then the video moved back up the man's lean legs, back up to his torso. His hands were tucked into his waistband and he looked like he was line dancing. Then his hands moved up his stomach, up to his chest, and the camera followed. His hands reached his neck and suddenly the man's face was revealed.
"Chris!"
"Oh my gawd! Tell me that isn't me. Please!" Chris begged.
"Sorry, pard. Man ... you musta been toasted."
"Flambéed is more like it. Oh my gawd. I am so never, ever drinking ever again," Chris vowed in a very pained voice.
Buck sympathized, but at the same time couldn't help thinking that Chris was putting on a damn fine show.
"You know, Chris, if you're ever strapped for cash..." he said. "You're a natural."
"Shut. Up. Buck," Chris warned.
Buck was still watching the television. On-screen, Chris's hands were moving back and forth over his chest, pausing over one nipple and then over the other. Then his hands came up to his neck. He grabbed the collar of the tank top he was wearing and yanked, ripping the fabric almost down to his navel.
"Well, that explains that," Buck said just as Chris pointed the remote and began fast forwarding through the tape. Buck saw a flash of Chris's pants being shucked, and then he caught a quick glimpse of what he thought were the hands of Chris's adoring teammates, waving dollar bills at him.
Suddenly, the tape went all gray and snowy.
"Well, that must be it," Buck declared. He was relieved and, yet, at the same time, felt a bit ... disappointed that there wasn't more. Chris certainly had made a spectacle of himself.
"Thank God," Chris said. "We are so burning this!"
Then a new picture suddenly flashed up on the screen. Buck stared and, since the tape kept running, he guessed that Chris was staring as well.
"You did rent a porno," Buck said as he gawked at the close up of two sets of hips, thrusting against one another. "JD must have taped over the beginnin'."
"I didn't rent one. Besides, there was no label..." Chris said, but his voice trailed off as the camera pulled back slightly.
"Wait a minute." Something was tickling at the back of Buck's brain. "I ... recognize ... that ... ass!"
"It can't be."
"Oh, but I think it is."
"Nooo," Chris breathed.
The camera shifted again, moving directly behind the ass that could only belong to Chris Larabee. And that was when Buck saw it. Any hope -- even a faint glimmer -- that some woman, beautiful or otherwise, had somehow shown up at the ranch last night was ripped from Buck's mind. He watched as Chris's ass thrust forward, and he watched as a penis dangled between the legs of his partner.
"Uh ... Chris? You, uh ... sure there isn't somethin' you wanna tell me?" Buck asked, not certain he really wanted an answer.
"N-nope," Chris replied.
"Really? Because, uh, from what I'm seein' ... you're fuckin' a guy."
"That's not me," Chris insisted, though his voice was small and he didn't sound in the least bit convinced. "That can't be me. Please, don't let that be me." Chris was muttering now, and Buck had to feel sorry for him.
A moment later, the camera panned up. Buck heard Chris groaning from the television screen. The picture was now clearly of Chris's face. His eyes were scrunched up tight and his mouth was slightly open as he panted with each thrust.
"Oh, gawd," Chris said, his voice so small.
Buck just stared. He was still hard from earlier, from before he'd realized it had been Chris doing the striptease on the coffee table. Buck had watched porno flicks before, he was a guy after all, but he'd never seen a gay one, and he'd certainly never seen one starring anyone he knew. He just couldn't wrap his mind around it. He didn't think he'd ever been so hard in all his life. What the hell?
The camera panned down again, back to Chris's hips and balls as they slapped against his partner's ass. The camera zoomed in for a few moments, giving a clear shot of Chris's dick penetrating the guy's anus.
"That's gotta hurt," Buck found himself saying. "Don't you think that's gotta hurt?"
"How would I know?" Chris snapped; still, Buck had to wonder. "I can't ... I can't watch any more of this," Chris finally said. He pointed the remote at the television, but Buck grabbed the device out of his hand.
"Oh, no. Not until we find out who you're ballin', mister."
"God! Don't say it like that, Buck!"
Then the Chris on the video tape groaned loudly as he pulled his dick free and began pumping cum onto his partner's back. The thick, creamy liquid dribbled down the man's crack and the sight gave Buck a small shiver.
"Nice money shot, pard," Buck said, though the teasing felt forced.
"I swear to God, Buck. If you don't shut up---" Chris started to warn him, but then the figures on the video shifted and the camera wobbled.
On the screen, Chris had moved to the floor, lying on his back on the outspread quilt that was presently balled up in front of the television set. He pulled his legs up, holding his knees with his hands to keep them close to his chest.
The camera zoomed in on Chris's limp dick. Buck almost made a comment about Chris being a grower and not a show-er, but he found that he suddenly had no voice. His own groin was aching madly and it was all he could do not to touch himself.
Then another cock came into view. It was large and thick. Buck could only assume it belonged to the guy who'd just been fucked. He found himself wondering if the cum was still running down his crack, or if he'd taken the time to wipe it away. Buck watched as the man's hands reached up to caress Chris's chest and stomach. His fingers feathered over Chris's soft penis, which twitched ever so slightly at the contact.
Who is this guy? Buck wanted to scream at the television. It was killing him not to know which one of his teammates -- and he just knew it had to be one of them -- had been fucked by Chris.
The man's hands were on Chris's thighs now, running up and down the outside in long, lingering strokes. Buck felt a twinge in his groin and fought to suppress the resulting moan.
The camera panned back just slightly as the man bent forward. Buck saw a bare back and then shoulders, as the man leaned down toward Chris's privates. Then he saw the side of the man's face and he gasped.
"No way!" he and Chris said at the exact same moment.
Buck watched, wide-eyed, and stunned beyond thought. He knew his mouth was hanging open; hell, he was probably drooling like an idiot, but he couldn't stop himself. He could only stare.
"B-buck?" Chris asked with a hesitant voice. "Is that ... you up there? Licking my ... asshole?"
Buck had heard Chris's words, but they didn't seem to make any sense inside his brain. Nor did what he was seeing. There was no way in hell that he was doing what he was watching himself do. There was no way in hell that he was ... fucking ... his best friend ... with his tongue.
Buck groaned aloud from the pain of watching himself. But, all the while -- and he simply could not keep a thought inside his head long enough to ponder it out -- his dick was begging for relief.
He didn't even realize he'd done it, but he suddenly found his hand in his lap, stroking his shaft through the fabric of the boxers. He couldn't tear his eyes away from watching himself and Chris on the video.
The camera panned back again, and then Buck shifted, moving forward, up Chris's body. They were face-to-face now, and Buck bent down, kissing Chris on the lips. Chris's tongue flicked out and they tasted each other.
"Gross!" one of them said at the sight, but Buck wasn't sure if it had been him or Chris.
"Dude, you just licked my ass," Chris said.
"And then you stuck your tongue in my mouth," Buck countered.
"Gross," they both said this time.
Buck continued watching. The camera panned back further and he could see that his hand was guiding his dick between Chris's cheeks. He wasn't wearing a condom, but his shaft was shiny -- from lubricant or maybe from Chris's earlier cum, Buck couldn't tell.
He watched himself on-screen as he pressed his dick against Chris's hole. When the head penetrated, he heard Chris gasp, both on the video as well as now, beside him. Then he was shoving himself forward. Chris's face was just barely visible on the far left side of the screen; his features were all screwed up, as if in pain.
"Knew that had to hurt," Buck mumbled.
But at the same moment, the Chris on the video started to moan, "Oh, God, Buck. That feels so good!"
Buck snuck a sideways glance at Chris. The man was staring hard at the screen, his mouth slightly agape. Buck looked down and saw that Chris had his hand inside his sweatpants, stroking himself.
"Buck?"
He heard Chris's voice, and cringed. He'd just broken the cardinal rule of watching porno with a friend: keep your eyes on the TV or on your own equipment, and never check out your friend. Of course, Buck didn't know if that rule still applied when the porno you were watching involved you and that same friend.
He hazarded a glance at Chris's face, but the man didn't appear angry.
"Buck, do I look like I'm in pain?"
"Yeah. Maybe, a little," Buck thought. However, before he could say anything, Chris pointed at the television. Buck returned his eyes to the screen. He tried not to look at his own face, his own body; he tried to just look at Chris's expression.
Finally, he shook his head, no. Chris looked like he'd never enjoyed anything more.
"Buck ... do you think ... you think it might feel like that ... if we were ... sober?"
They were sober. At this very moment. Hung-over to beat the band, but sober nonetheless.
"Maybe," Buck heard himself saying. "Couldn't rightly guess, though."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chris's head nod, accepting the response. They stared at the video again: Chris was on-screen, making soft gasping noises, while Buck continued thrusting into him.
"Is it, uh ... is it getting hard in here?" Chris asked after a few moments.
"H-hard?"
"Hot. I meant, hot. Aw, hell."
Buck kept his eyes on the television; he was blushing and feeling a little light-headed. "Are you, uh..." Buck began before he could stop himself. "Do you wanna...." When Buck turned, he found Chris staring at him.
Chris suddenly leaned forward into Buck, pressing their lips together.
Chris pushed him to the ground, his hands on the carpet on either side of Buck's shoulders. Then he pulled back slightly and stared into Buck's eyes.
"What?"
"You taste like orange juice," Chris said.
"Thank God!"
Then they were kissing again. Chris lowered himself down onto Buck: their chests and stomachs pressed together; Chris's legs between Buck's; and Buck's hands in Chris's hair, moving down to his neck, to his shoulders....
A sudden noise across the room had Buck pushing Chris away. He sat up and saw Vin Tanner coming in through the back door.
"Are you two at it again?"
"A-again?" Chris asked.
"Yeah, again. Didn't ya wonder who shot that video yer watchin'?"
Chris groaned, burying his face in his hands. From behind his fingers he mumbled, "I was wrong when I thought this couldn't get any worse."
Buck somehow found the courage to ask, "Does anyone else know about this?"
Vin slipped his hands into his pockets and stood there, leaning against the archway that separated the dining room from the living room, as if they were discussing something as mundane as an oil change. "We were all at the party last night," he replied.
Chris groaned again, but then suddenly lifted his head. Hope filled his voice as he asked, "But do they remember anything?"
Vin shrugged. "They're still asleep in back. Want me ta wake 'em up an' ask?"
"They're still here?"
"Sure. Ya didn't think they drove home drunk, did ya?"
Chris shook his head and looked like he wanted nothing more than to be on the receiving end of a very large shotgun.
"Vin..." Buck began. "If you were running the camera.... It's blank for a while after Chris's striptease---"
"By the way, ya got some nice moves there, Chris," Vin interrupted Buck. "I think ya could earn a livin' iffn yer ever hard-up for cash."
"Shut. Up. Tanner," Chris demanded through gritted teeth. Vin just chuckled.
"So, Vin ... what happened after the striptease?" Buck pressed. For some sick and twisted reason, he needed to know.
"Well, uh, lemme think.... Oh, okay, so, uh, we all started doin' tequila shots off yer chest, Buck. Then, uh ... oh, yeah," Vin suddenly smiled. "Then Chris got all uppity. Started demandin' we all call him A.D. Larabee an' said iffn we wanted ta keep our jobs we'd best git on our knees and blow 'im."
"Oh gawd!" Chris moaned. His head was in his hands again.
Buck gave a quick scan of the room, making sure there weren't any dangerous weapons within reach. There weren't, and he felt relieved. Vin was still talking and Buck retuned his attention to the conversation.
"After a while, ya got all whiny, Buck---"
"I don't whine."
Vin shrugged. "Ya dropped those boxers of yers, threw yerself over the back of that there couch, and wouldn't stop bitchin' 'til we all did ya up the ass."
Buck's mouth dropped open, and he felt the blood draining out of his face. It was shock. He'd been wounded enough times to know what shock felt like. It felt just like this.
"Please tell me you're joking," he managed to ask.
Vin smiled wide. "I'm jokin'."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, seriously. I'm so pullin' yer leg." Vin didn't even seem to be trying to hide the mirth brimming in his eyes.
Buck breathed a long sigh of relief. Thank God, he thought. Oh, thank God.
"Honestly," Vin went on. "Ya don't think anyone on this here team is gay, do ya? I mean, 'cept the two of you, of course."
~ The End ~
On The Ninth Day Of Christmas...
January 1, 2003
Comments would be most welcome if sent to: C.V. Puerro
Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.
Characters from "The Magnificent Seven" were used without permission and this story in no way
signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. HARRY POTTER, characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of Warner Bros. TM & © 2001. (Request Harry Potter boxers at a Warner Bros. store near you!) The M7-ATF universe was created by Mog, and extra thanks go to her for allowing other people to play within it. The story itself belongs to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.
My thanks to Charlotte for kindly beta-reading this piece. I appreciate her time and generosity!
Aye! To the Scots, who sound drunk even when they're sober! Quoted lyrics are complete from "Auld Lang Syne" written by Robert Burns.
Background graphics courtesy of Snogirl.
