No More Than Three Words In A Day
Old West Slash (Chris/Vin)
Summary: This is a little story that starts off with a brooding Chris who comes to some realizations just as a dusty boot clunks itself down beside his thigh. The title and inspiration come from Vin, in the episode "The Trial" saying, "Hell, Nathan, you know Chris don't say more than three words in a day".
It was unspoken.It didn't need to be unspoken, but it was.
Even Buck's sharp eyes had spotted that he had changed on that first day. The moment he'd locked eyes, green to blue, across the common dirt street of that common dirt town, "it" became so. "It" was something that always had been but hadn't been known. "It" was just there. Just right. Just was.
Two hadn't become one, not like it had with Sarah and the son who had brought them even closer than either of them had ever thought possible. Two had, instead, become more than the sum of the parts. Buck was right to be jealous, but not in the way he thought. Buck wasn't being replaced as best friend. It was Sarah who'd been replaced.
It was a simple truth, but one he'd hidden even from himself until now. Now it was unavoidable.
Sarah had belonged to that other Chris Larabee, the one who saw the world as a good place, a bright place, a place where a man could swing his son into the air and actually FEEL the giggles wash down over him, healing the old hurts and losses. That Chris Larabee had died the moment Buck patted the last shovel-full of dark earth over two lonely graves under a leaden sky which didn't even have the decency to have a real, cleansing rain, instead just fitfully and disrespectfully pissing down on their bowed heads, making them too heavy to lift.
This Chris Larabee, presently carving the beginnings of a future wooden box custom-made to protect a precious leather book of blank pages, had been newly born across the street from a dusty, broom- carrying man who was really an avenging angel incognito, hiding in plain sight with a price on his fallen-from-grace brow.
Sinners both. Killers both. Both reborn in the eyes of one another.
This wasn't the sweet and easy, homey, welcome haze of happiness he'd shared with his wife, his Sarah. Sometimes from the distance of more than three years, that was now a softly muted dream he'd once had. Vague, barely remembered but good and warm and something to take out now and then when he felt strong enough or oddly, weak enough.
This new thing was harsh and, at times, bitter. Sometimes violent, sometimes passionate, others quiet and content, but at all times unavoidably right. It made him feel the kind of alive that burned your nerves and stung your eyes and made a man want to curse or sing or hurl bottles or put his fist through a shining window just to hear the glass break so his own brittle soul wouldn't shatter. It was just a little tincture of hate, possibly self-directed, mixed with what must be love.
Sometimes the two hearts beat as one but other times they were wildly out of sync, jealousy and fear of loss driving them to lash out at one another, licking their wounds separately, or more often together, apologies as unspoken as the deeper slights. Stroking hands and thrusting hips were there in lieu of mouths uttering sorries or promises. Soft gasps of pleasure drowned out the need for sobs of sorrow. Quiet, living dark rather than needy murmurs of assurance, soothed raw nerves chafed by caring for others with no regard for one's own good.
Others must get the justice denied them both. Others were worth fighting and dying for but not themselves. Death meant rest and both of them were sometimes weary to their very souls, one running away from guilt, the other running toward proving innocence.
After Sarah and Adam had been buried, in that night, he'd lain there in his bedroll, Buck sleeping not an arm's length away, and he had listened to his own heart beating. Desperately, he'd tried to force it to stop. It didn't. Wouldn't. Outright refused. He'd cursed it to hell.
Now he knew why it had so stubbornly disobeyed him. It still beat because the other one it was connected to still beat. Somewhere out there in that long night, the steady throb inside Vin's chest had been faithfully keeping time until the two hearts would meet and know one another, even across the chasm of a dusty street full of senseless rowdies. In that moment, nothing had moved and none had spoken except for those two hearts, nodding in recognition, a place they'd both been before even if the men they were beating within hadn't.
It had come all at once but neither of them had ever uttered the word "love" which was fraught with danger and a deliberate temptation of fate, which everyone knew was a jealous bitch. Love was something soft, gentle, and fragile. Colorless really, compared to the all of what they now shared, having risked their lives many times over and mapped out one another's bodies and minds with hands and tongues. Love didn't have enough letters or enough shades to touch the heights and depths what lived between them so neither of them thought the word important.
"Hey, Chris."
It hadn't been necessary to look up. He'd known it was Vin before the man had gotten within ten steps, atuned as they were to one another. "Hey."
A dusty boot clunked up onto the sidewalk beside his thigh. "Whatcha makin'?"
"Box."
"What's it for?"
Tilting his head to squint up at the gently smiling face above him, he shrugged, then went back to concentrating on carving.
"Well, I just wanted to tell ya I'm going on a little errand for Mary. I'll be back 'round supper time. Get a bite to eat together?"
"Sure."
The boot was still there. Looking up curiously, he met Vin's laughing eyes, watching the formation of that grin that always focused down and away from the person it was aimed at, having the ability to squeeze a heart and not let it go. Mischief and acceptance colored the next words. "Them my three words for the day?"
The slow grin he knew had the same effect of heart squeezing as Vin's earlier expression had on him, spread across his own face. They had both known he'd teasingly get back at Vin for that comment about him barely saying three words in a day. The time had come.
"Guess so." There was gentle laughter in those words. "See you tonight, Larabee."
As Vin walked away, Chris changed his mind and decided to tempt fate after all. After midnight, when it was inky-black, maybe it would be time for some words to be written in that blank book. Those were the pure white, tooled leather-covered pages Vin had bought to fill once he'd learned the right words at Mary's teaching hands, which Chris would cradle in the future-box with the lid carved with a horse to match the tooling on the leather tome.
The hell with fate. After midnight, he'd be able to have three more words. Maybe those words should be "I love you." Then again, maybe a little more teasing was in order...