Summary: Chris and Vin - the first kiss
Warnings: Slash, violence, Angry-Chris, passive-Vin. This is a dark story - not black black, but definitely more intense than I intended this early on. Many of you won't like Chris. I don't in this story.
Author's Note 1: Okay - this is not at all what I thought it was going to be. It was supposed to be them making up after "Inmate 78", and after my interpretations of the missing scenes from that episode. (See the other two stories so far in this arc, "Weaving: Prophecy or Chance", and "Weaving: Cause or Cure".) But somewhere along the way, things got complicated, and it didn't go the way it was supposed to. I think it's because sex is easy, but love isn't.
Author's Note 2: Half-Hitch knot: "A basic segment of many knots is the half hitch. This is a simple loop around a pole or other stationary object, with the end and the standing part in tension against each other. Two half hitches—providing considerably more security than a single half hitch—are commonly used for such purposes as tying up a boat to a dock post." (From www.britannica.com) "The half hitch is the start of a number of other hitches and is useful all by istelf as a temporary attaching knot. It will hold against a steady pull on the standing part, especially if a stopper knot like the stevedore's knot or other figure eight knot is put in the end." (From www.troop7.org/Knots) One of the advantages of this knot is that it's easy to release, or get out of.
He leaned on a tree, watching. Behind him, he could hear the chatter of the other five, the crackle of the fire, the bacon Buck was frying, the too-loud comments Buck was making for his ears. The horses were to his right, Pony nickering in acknowledgement of his nearness, Peso rumbling for probably the same reason. The other horses milled about in their manner, a soft background noise blending with the others.
Vin was also leaning on a tree, one hand resting on the grip of his holstered rifle, the other holding his harmonica, the silver metal flashing as it moved through the moonlight. He was looking toward the horses but not really seeing them. He rested so that most of his weight was on his left leg, his right hip jutting out so far that he was tilting. His back was hurting, pretty bad from the look of things.
But not so bad that he wouldn't know Chris was there. He knew, and Chris knew that he knew. The tightening of the fingers on the grip of his gun had told when Vin sensed another presence. Then, the movement of the harmonica away from his mouth, the twirl of it through long fingers had said that he knew it was Chris and not one of the others.
Part of Chris, the part that warmed when Vin was near, was amused and a little flattered by the continued silence. Vin was nervous, something Chris knew to be rare. That same part was also frightened of the power he knew he held. The power to hurt.
It was with that realization that he forced himself forward. Best to get this over with. Quick and as painless as possible. Better for Vin. He owed him that much, more really.
Vin straightened as Chris stepped away from the tree and into the moonlight. He didn't look as Chris moved forward, but he did step away from his tree as well, giving himself room.
It wasn't something Chris consciously realized, but his instincts knew it for what it was, and he slowed his pace.
"Vin," he said quietly.
"Chris," Vin acknowledged, his voice as even and quiet as Chris'.
Something flittered in Chris' belly, a sense of wrongness. A strange hurt. He ignored it.
"Came to thank you," he said flatly as he halted. He was several feet from the other man, not close enough to touch.
But apparently too close; Vin backed up several steps, sliding his harmonica into one of the pockets of his coat as he did.
"No need." The tracker shrugged. The moon was behind him, his hat casting his face in shadow, but Chris could feel that the other man wasn't looking at him.
He felt a stir of anger. "You told 'em who you were, let 'em know there was a bounty on your head. If things had gone wrong - "
"But they didn't." His voice had gone cold and Chris still couldn't see his eyes. "You don't owe me."
The four words, the weight of them, slammed into Chris with the force of a punch. And as he had always done when threatened, he came out swinging.
"Damn straight I don't owe you," he hissed. "We're even now - you pulled me outta that hell and I let you have your way with me. Twice."
He felt Vin tense, coiling. "So that's it then," the younger man said evenly. "I had my way with you."
"Twice," Chris snarled. "Guess I should be proud I was so good you wanted more, huh."
He took another step closer, his fists tight, just waiting for the first sign that Vin was coming at him.
But instead of coming to meet him, Vin stepped back. In an even more surprising move, he let his hands fall to his sides, opening himself.
Chris drew up, staring. Part of him, the gunfighter, wondered at the ploy. A ruse to draw him in?
But a small part of him, the part that knew Vin, blunted the edge of his anger with a swell of confusion and concern.
His hesitation lasted too long, and Vin spoke. "Do it," he breathed, "hit me. You won't be the first."
The permission was like a pine knot in the flame, spurring him past his confliction, and he found himself pushing against Vin, knocking him back with his fists against the rigid shoulders. He watched, waiting for the sign that his opponent was going to strike back, waiting for an actual fight.
The waiting continued as he shoved harder and Vin stumbled back against a tree. He waited as he raised a hand, slapping Vin hard across the jaw. He waited as he brought a fist hard into the rigid muscles of Vin's belly, waited as he caught the other man's shoulders as he tried to curl protectively, waited as he slammed him back against the tree trunk.
Waited as Vin's arms rose, trying to cover his belly, then, with visible effort, dropped back to his sides, his fingers catching in the fabric of his tan denim pants. Waited as those same fingers latched onto the cloth, clinging to it with a desperation born of a strength of will few would ever see.
Waited as Vin gasped, holding himself still and vulnerable, unresisting.
"Goddamn you," Chris snarled, shoving at Vin's shoulders, raising a hand to strike -
Then knocking the slouch hat away and knotting into the long strands of hair beneath. He pulled Vin up enough to trap him against the tree even as he brought his mouth down hard.
The blood was already there, slippery and bitter on his lips, then his tongue. It slid between them, leverage as he forced the mouth beneath his open.
Vin tasted of coffee, and tobacco, and exhaustion, and pain, and Chris savored every flavor, wanting to absorb them and become them - but knowing there was more beyond -
Then he was falling, his hands empty, his feet scrambling to find purchase on the ground beneath him. He felt the strange numbness where something had hit him in the chest and he dully realized that Vin had finally found some fight.
He caught himself, managing to find balance in a crouch. Vin was standing over him, breathing hard, blood smeared and dripping along his chin, his hands in shaking fists, his eyes wide and glittering.
"No," he rasped, loose ends of his hair drifting as he shook his head, "you can't do this. You can't blame it on me then - then - "
"Ain't this what you want?" Chris shot back. In the back of his mind, he felt a shock at the intensity of his rage, at its unflagging aim at Vin. Even to himself, he sounded unreasonable, irrational even, but the fury seemed to grow and focus unabated. "Ain't this why you came after me, to get some more of me?"
Vin stared at him, his breathing slowly steadying, his fingers flexing open and closed. "No, Chris," he said slowly. "That ain't why I came after you."
Once more, he stepped back, only this time, he turned his back completely on the other man. He swiped at his face with one arm, and even in the moonlight, Chris could see the darker spot where the blood stained the buckskin.
He jerked to his feet, ignoring the pain as sensation began to return to his chest. "Then why did you come after me?" he snarled. "You saying now that I'm not good enough for you? You didn't seem to think that when you were begging me for it, begging for it harder and - "
"It's ain't about that, Chris." Vin turned back to face him, his voice tight but clear. Moonlight still reflected off moisture on his chin and along the sharp lines of his cheeks. "I'm sorry it ever happened, sorrier still that you hate me fer it." He lifted an arm again, wiping at his face, but this time, it wasn't his chin. "I'll go now, tell the others - hell, tell 'em whatever you want. They'll believe ya."
He was walking away then, his shoulders slumped. He paused to lean down and pick up his hat, and Chris was vaguely aware of the stiffness in the movement, the unnaturalness of the bend itself, the strain of the long back as it pulled itself up.
Vaguely. The anger was building again, fed by a fear that clawed away what was left of his reason.
"God damn you," he spat again. Then he was moving, driving himself into the other man.
Vin was turning when Chris caught him, and he went down hard under the onslaught. Chris landed on top of him, pleased to hear the grunt of pain even as he felt a spiking reminder of the bruises on his own legs, leftover from the last encounter in the camp.
"Nobody walks out on me, Tanner," he grabbed the front of Vin's coat, pulling him up before slamming him back down into the ground. "Nobody! You don't leave until I tell you to!"
Again, Vin offered no resistance - but Chris wasn't giving him a chance. As he dropped him a second time, he trapped him with a knee at the groin and one hand at his throat.
This time, he used his teeth to force his way into Vin's mouth. The taste of blood was stronger now, and he could feel vibrations as Vin made small noises. He felt Vin's hands pushing at him, but there was little force behind them; they stilled when Chris thrust up with his knee, applying pressure.
His free hand wound back into Vin's hair, twisting and turning, guiding Vin's head as if bridled. His tongue plundered, tasting and touching, taking and choking at will, until the need for air forced him back. He gasped, drawing in breath, ready to dive back -
When he realized that the wetness sliding between them wasn't all red.
There was some; it ran in slim trickles from swollen, chapped lips, staining the corners of his mouth and the hollow of his chin.
But most of the wetness shimmering in the stark light of the moon slipped from beneath closed eyes, rolling in sluggish drops to catch every now and then on the blunt end of a hair stubble before gravity renewed its grasp, drawing it along.
The notion of it refused to solidify in his mind. But the shadow of it skirted the boundaries of his anger, wearing at it. And in that wearing, the firebreaks ground through the fire, weaving patterns in the form of questions.
"What the hell do you want from me?" he ground out, even as the hand wringing Vin's hair opened to cradle his head. "Why are you doing this to me?" His other hand slipped beneath Vin's shoulders, lifting him. "God damn you, why don't you fight me?"
He sat back on his ankles, pulling Vin against him. The long body was limp, but Chris could feel the tremors, the war of emotion bursting out where it could. "Christ, Vin," he whispered against a tangle of curl, "Why do you love me?"
No answer came, and after a while, he wondered if he'd actually had the balls to say it out loud - hoped even, that he hadn't. The fury came and went, rocking him, driving him to curse at the body he held, and at times to squeeze bruisingly at the taut muscles beneath his fingers, to bite at the thin flesh of a nearby ear or the defined cord of the long neck.
In one rising swell of anger, the tide turned in the subtle tilt of Vin's head. No demand was needed as entry was given before the seeking was conscious, and Chris lost himself in a wash of pleasure. The kiss was long and warm and familiar, sensual in a way that Chris wanted - and feared. It felt good - and it felt wrong.
"God damn it," he breathed, pulling away. His hands knotted in Vin's hair and coat, and his arms extended, pulling Vin away from him, wanting to thrust him away.
A slight movement, and he felt a drift of air along his back as arms he had hardly been aware of slid away, giving him silent sanction to do - anything.
Anything. The awareness was shattering, for in it was the summation of everything between them, or the one thing. Trust.
Vin would let him do this, let him choose the path or paths they took.
The weight of it was too much. His instinct for self-preservation, the instinct that had controlled him since the day he had returned from Mexico to the charred remains of his life, urged him to walk away now. The easy path, alone, unbound, empty. Clean.
It was hard enough to get himself out of bed every morning, hard enough to decide the simple things - which clothes to wear, which foods to eat, which book to read.
It had taken him three years to get to the point that choosing between his black coat and his colored serape didn't drain him of the energy it took to open the door and leave the room. Maybe this was why black was the color of mourning. It was just too damned hard to choose anything.
It had taken him two years to accept the company of his closest friend, then another year to tolerate the constant proximity of five others.
The effort it would take to care for this trust, especially with the complications it entailed . . . . .
His fingers tightened reflexively as his body responded to the flow of his thoughts.
Easy, he thought, let it go, just walk away.
Another movement, a change of balance, and the body he held moved away. So easy, the decision made, black over the serape, walk out the door. Empty. Clean.
"No," he breathed, as another, more primal instinct took control. His arms locked, resisting the pull, then he himself was pulling, drawing Vin back to him. "No one walks out on me," he heard himself whisper. "Not you, Vin, not now." 'Not ever' drifted through the back of his mind, but he was distracted by the unexpected grip on his upper arms.
"Let me go," Vin murmured, trying to get up. "Let go, Chris, you don't want - "
All he had to do was lean forward, and that was all he did.
The kiss still felt wrong, but less wrong. And even less wrong than that when Vin acquiesced. It didn't last long, or so it seemed to Chris, especially with the uncertainty that came afterwards.
But it lasted long enough.
"You need to get back," Vin said, his forehead resting against Chris' shoulder. "I'm surprised they let you free this long."
"Yeah, probably," he agreed. But he closed his eyes, letting his nose rub against Vin's ear. It wasn't supposed to feel this good. "I want you to come with me."
Vin shook his head. "I'm on watch. And I think they . . . " Chris could feel him swallow. "I think they know. Buck, at least, prob'ly Ezra." His body was rigid now, and Chris knew his own was as well. A flare of anger, a flush of shame.
Vin drew back, then, with effort, rolled himself to a kneeling position before rising slowly to his feet. There was no doubt now of the pain. "I'll leave after my watch," he said softly, not looking at Chris. "We're even."
Chris rose as well, but he reached out, catching Vin's wrist. "I don't want you to leave." He waited, then, when Vin didn't meet his eyes, he tugged on the wrist he held, forcing Vin to come closer. "Look at me - Vin, look at me."
Reluctantly, blue eyes rose to meet his.
"Please, don't go." It was close as he could come, as close as he would come. And it scared him like nothing had since he'd known he was in love with Sarah.
Vin shook his head once, looking away. "I won't do this again, Chris," he said softly. "I won't . . . " He looked up again, retaking Chris' gaze. "I'll never let you hit me again. I promised myself a long time ago that I'd never let anyone do that to me, not without a fight. Until tonight, I never had. But it won't happen again."
Chris nodded, understanding. The guilt was starting, and he knew it would be a constant companion for a while. But then, it had been already, before Vin and certainly since. Now, it just had a new layer. "I hope not. I wish you hadn't tonight." He reached out, lightly touching the side of Vin's face. "But then, I suspect that if you hadn't, I'd be very alone right now."
Vin grinned a little. "'Spect you would," he agreed.
Chris watched him, then said softly, "I'm sorry. For - well, putting you through all this to start with, then, for what I said tonight." He hesitated, wanting to enumerate, but then again, not. He knew how he'd hurt the other man, but he wasn't ready to figure out exactly what he was ready to talk about.
Vin shook his head, though, intercepting the point. "Don't say you're sorry 'less you mean it." He lifted his chin slightly, staring directly into Chris's eyes. "I know you don't like hurting people, even when yer angry. And I know . . . " He took a deep breath, "I know what's been going on with us has made you angry - ain't saying it's all my fault, 'cause it ain't. Jist sayin' I know it makes you angry. But that's why I'm telling ya that tonight was it, your one time to come at me. From now on, you gotta find 'nother way to work it out."
Chris nodded, understanding. "Do that," he murmured. He shifted the grip he still had on Vin's wrist, catching it more "Don't wantcha to leave, unless I'm riding with you."
Vin held his eyes, studying him hard for a few seconds. Then he nodded. Reaching for his bandana, he scrubbed it along his face. "Reckon I look a sight," he murmured. "Maybe I'd best stay away from the fire - "
Chris chuckled. "Too late for that, my friend. Seems like we just walk in it every chance we get."
Vin chuckled as well. "Yeah, 'spect yer right." He tugged himself free of Chris, then once more reached down to pick up his hat. The movement was even slower than the last time and Chris knew it was his fault. "Nathan should take a look at - "
Vin held up a hand. "I ain't promised yet I'll stay," he warned, putting the hat on his head. "I won't let you hit me again, but I won't let you coddle me neither."
At that, Chris laughed out loud.
"What?" Vin demanded, tilting his head in sincere confusion.
"Nothing," Chris snorted, getting control. "Nothing. Come on, let's see if there's any bacon left." He started off, making sure to catch Vin's wrist again as he moved past. "You ain't getting out of it this easy," he said, pulling Vin into motion.
"Done figgered that," Vin sighed behind him. But there was a different note in his voice, and Chris smiled to himself, hoping his serape was in his saddle bag.---fin---