OW slash C/V humor
Disclaimer: I don’t own them and the people who do should be ashamed of themselves.
Author’s Note: I love reading all the M7 stories, although the only slash pairing I can truly believe is Chris/Vin. This is my first try at M7 fiction, and I’ve tried to follow cannon and tradition in the M7 slash world, but mine came out a little different. No disrespect meant to the wonderful writers on this site. Please be gentle with me.
The deadly gunfighter lay at peace, not dead, just at peace, snuggling his face into the impossibly silky, quite abundant, sun-streaked, a little-dried-out-at-the-ends, curls on his shoulder.He pulled the lean, hard-muscled, fine-boned, slightly freckled—he had never liked freckles before, Chris marveled, but now he was quite enamoured of them—the smoothed-skinned except for sandstone-like calluses on hands, feet and saddle-worn butt-- the occasionally, well frequently, odoriferous body closer to him.
Chris rested, holding his sharp-shooter, tracker, partner, his best friend, his lover and soulmate, his occasional cook and sometimes nurse—but never barber, even in the depths of love beyond imagining, Chris was never that foolish—next to him; happy, sated, satisfied, just plain worn out from fucking.
“Chris?” the slow, rough, honeyed, gravelly raspy, Texas drawl tickled his ears like fine whiskey tickled his mouth, tingled his toes like fire ants were feeding on them, and shivered his spine like the cold blast of the first blizzard of winter stampeding off the mountains, caused little flutters in his belly like he’d kept his mouth open at a gallop and swallowed more grasshoppers than were good for him—that voice almost got him going again, but like was said before, he was just worn out.
“Pard?” Chris studied the moon-lit, star-strewn sky, black as night, because it was night, except for the moon and the stars, of course.
Chris waited patiently. His sweet Texas wildcat half-savage man/child tracker was a person of few words, laconic almost to muteness, quiet as a shadow, a silent wisp of air ghosting around a campfire.
“I’se been thinkin’.”
“Hhhmm?” Chris answered. He smiled into the curls, absently brushing a flea from his nose. Vin had been thinking. It was so damn cute—the deadly tracker, the vicious Indian-raised sharpshooter, the fearsome bounty-hunter had been thinking. Chris snuggled closer. He knew better than to voice his thoughts. Once, in an aroused frenzy of heated love-making, his senses shattered, his mind as well as other things, blown, he had shouted “God, Vin Tanner, you are so damn cute!”
In time Vin forgave him, but promised to shoot his sorry black-clad, impossibly-tight ass if he ever voiced that deadly insult again.
“I’se been thinkin’ about us......you an’ me.......Chris and Vin......tracker and gunslinger...how we met up...it’s like the Spirits meant for us to be together, you with your tragic past, with yer wife and little boy kilt for no good reason and me with mine, when my momma died when I’se five and I’se been wanderin‘ around all lonely like ever since except for when I’se living with the Injuns and learned about trackin’ and the Spirits and how to keep a man alive for days whilst torturin’ him, it’s like we’re two halves of the same stray dog, and then we met up and now we’re one stray dog and we’ll be peein’ on the same sagebrush forever more. Two loners, and now we’re one loner, I knew it that day when them liquored-up cowpokes was draggin’ Nate off to be lynched, you an’ me strangers in town and when our eyes locked across that dusty street and our souls met each other, recognized each other, claimed each other, shook hands and then mated for life---you know, that minute I damn near come in my pants, in a spiritual sort of way, I mean,....
“Come to think of it, it was a miracle Nate didn’t get hung after all, I mean the way you and me kept a-starin’ and a-lookin’ and a-recognizing’...it’s a wonderment we ever got around to savin’ him... I knew then we was supposed to be together, body, heart and soul....you had a little trouble with the body part, if I remember right...didn’t want to think of yourself as a 'funny cowboy,' but I got you over that right quick....guess it wasn’t a week 'til we was humpin’ like the goats in Yosemite’s stables...figure the only way Yosemite didn’t peek in and get hisself an eyefull is he thought it was the goats...I never knew how bad I was hurtin’, how much I was a-needin’, jest how bored shitless I was wanderin’ around the desert, 'til you come along, with that mean glare and them tight black jeans and healed me, heart and soul and hole...”
The laconic tracker paused a moment, hurt, he thought he’d heard Chris snicker, but no, it was just Peso’s nicker and Vin went back to pouring out his love, glad he wasn’t going to have to shoot the gunslinger after all—although if he ever did it’d be in the back ‘cause Chris was damn fast--
“Yer so purdy, Chris”
The near-mute tracker ran a tender, calloused, fine-boned, lightly freckled but deadly hand across the vicious gunfighter’s well-defined, solid, yet lean, chest and kept on talking—which was fine with Chris--more exercise that boy’s tongue got the better--.
“Jest like a big o’ prowlin’ cougar, all sleek and muscled up; except you ain’t prowlin’ yer just layin’ there like somebody cracked you over the head with one of them whiskey bottles yer so fond of...'cept cougars got gold eyes not green—yer eyes are as green as cactus Chris, I noticed that right away, and I done wrote a poem—I mean in my head, ‘cause I know you found out I can’t read nor write and I’m so happy it didn’t make you not want to fuck me no more—anyway this poem was about yer cactus green eyes and the way they get all prickly jist before you kill somebody and how it makes me go all achy with a-wantin’ and a-needin’ them cactus eyes and whatever else ya got on me—and ‘sides that cougars are all fur covered and yer not, except yer legs are a mite hairy and couple of other places, like this—
“well looks like the little feller ain’t goin’ to be a-wakin’ up for awhile, we musta wore him out—and a little fuzz here on yer chest and maybe when you get old yer back will be hairy but it won’t bother me none. 'Specially if you let me shave it once in a while...jist think, we’ll get old together Chris...if someone don’t shoot us first or you don’t get drunk and fall off yer horse or we don’t get strung up for bein’ a sin against nature, and come to think of it I don’t know how we’ll make a livin’ if your gun hand gets arthritis and my eye-sight goes, but it won’t matter none, we’ll be gimpin’ along together like an old near-blind wolf and a crippled-up cougar,...watching each others’ backs and occasionally shavin’ ‘em, together a-blowin’ across these plains and these mountains and this here desert and that there mud-hole like one soul in two winds forever and forever...or would that be two souls in one wind...I’ll ponder that afore I make my poem....”
Chris purred softly. Actually he was snoring but Vin liked to think of it as purring. He started to reach up and trace the strong, impossibly beautiful, fine planes of that beloved face, then got a good jolt of whiskey-breath and changed his mind. ‘Sides that, he knew where that mouth had been. The lean, long-haired, blue-eyed, deadly tracker with the heart of a poet, the soul of a lover, the rifle of a bounty he had killed awhile back, rolled over.
He pulled Chris up behind and they lay arms and legs intertwined, tab A snuggled against slot B, hearts beating in tandem, their breath apace, two souls snared, skinned and stewed in the same juices, occasionally passing gas at the exact same moment.
Which didn’t bother them none. They might be eternal soulmates but they were still savvy enough not to fart against the wind.
End