Comments and disclaimers: As usual, I own nothing and claim nothing r/t M7. This is for the anniversary of the adult Black and Buckskin list. I thought it was their fourth, but it's actually their sixth, but we'll go with this anyway. A quick, little, down and dirty, smarmy, slashy, h/c ... well, you get the idea. Hopelessly sappy, but Chris was in a mood.
Four is my number.It's the number of years my team has been together, although there are times when it seems so much longer. I can't really remember what my days were like before this rag-tag group of men entered my life. Hell, who am I kidding? That's not true. I can remember all too well how angry and bitter and lonely I was. Life didn't count for much then; it was all about what I'd lost. Now, somehow, it's become all about what I've gained. And what I've gained is a smart mouthed undercover agent who infuriates me one minute, and touches my heart with his genuine compassion the next; a cocky, way-too-smart-for-his-own-good kid who makes every day seem like it's new and exciting; a wiser, older, calm eye in a storm of passionate, occasionally immature hotheads; a gentle, caring soul who shares every tear, every heartache, and every drop of blood his teammates shed; and an old friendship reborn - stronger, more solid than ever after weathering the storm of my former life. And I gained a brother, a soul-mate, a life partner - take your pick. They all describe my relationship with Vin, yet fail miserably to do it justice.
It's been four months since Vin and I admitted how we felt about each other. I tried - and failed - to tell him for four weekends in a row before it finally came out. There was always an excuse to have him out to the ranch . . . the barn needed cleaning, the fence repaired, the roof patched. And Vin always came, with no expectation and no agenda. I thought so anyway, until that fourth Sunday when he flat out asked me if there was something we needed to talk about. "I think I love you," I blurted, cringing at the realization that I'd just quoted the Partridge Family. Vin blushed and rearranged the dust at his feet before stammering that he loved me, too.
How many times did we make love the first night we were together? Yeah, that's right. Vin initiated the first time, much to my surprise. He slammed me up against the wall in my den so hard that I wasn't sure at first if he planned to love me or kill me. He damn near did both; latching onto me with his mouth and his hands until I thought I just might die from how good it felt. I came so hard and fast that I almost ruined my jeans, which would have been totally humiliating, had Vin not done exactly the same. I dragged him off to my bed after that, and it was tentative and awkward - and amazing. We laughed afterwards that it was like being sixteen again. Later that night, we spent hours exploring and tasting each other's bodies, and I told him that it was all so much more than I'd ever dreamed of. But it wasn't true. Because what I found in Vin that night was exactly what I'd known all along that I would. It was everything I'd seen in his eyes four years ago, and every good and precious thing I'd come to know about him since. And so by the fourth time . . . by the fourth time I knew I could never live another day without him.
Vin moved in with me four weeks ago. I'd convinced myself that I didn't need anyone; not in my house, anyway, and certainly not in my bed. But I was wrong. Vin was a like a bad line I'd heard in some chick flick once: he was everything I never knew I always wanted. Sharp wit when I needed to laugh, silent strength when I needed quiet, but always passionate and giving and loving. Lord God, how he loved me. I'll never understand how or why, but he did - he does - and as corny as it sounds, it was like heaven.
Until four days ago when it all went to hell.
Four shots fired in four seconds . . . four bullets that, in varying degrees of accuracy, found Vin's arm, his shoulder, his side . . . his head. Fourteen hours of surgery, four doctors of every size, shape, and specialty . . . four fucking days of endless cups of coffee, empty platitudes, unwelcome hugs, complications and confusion and excuses and medical jargon and not one, not one assurance, guarantee, or goddamn promise that Vin will survive.
Four days of keeping vigil, standing watch, doing nothing while Vin fights for his life. And I can't take the helplessness another minute. I can't stand at his bedside and watch or listen for each breath, each heartbeat, each squiggly line and annoying beep that says he is still living, so I am still living. I can't wait and wait and wait for him to open his eyes and tell me that he's alright and that I'm gonna get four more years to love him.
Four is my number.
It's the number of beers I've downed in the last four hours and the number of bottles I've sent crashing into the wall. I'll owe Buck big time when this is over - again. I came to his house because it was closer and because I couldn't go back to the ranch. I won't go back without Vin. And if that means that I never go back, then I never go back. I've made a mess of Buck's living room, but he hasn't said anything about that and he probably won't. He has come through the door four times and tried to talk to me, though, and every time I've turned him away. I can't talk about it. Not now, not yet, not ever. I give Buck credit for trying, but it's not his face I need to see, not his voice I need to hear.
Four . . . the number of bargains I've made with God:
If you let him live, I'll never take your name in vain again.
If you let him live, I'll sit in your house every Sunday.
If you let him live, I'll give you all that I have and all that I am.
If you let him live, I'll be a better man . . .
Is it enough? What more can I offer? Because I'll do it all, give it all, promise it all. Desperation doesn't suit me, it's not my style. But at this moment, I'll do anything to keep Vin in my life.
I don't expect an answer, but I get one in the form of Buck's voice, calling urgently from the kitchen.
"Chris? Chris! He's awake, Stud. The hospital just called."
Four miles to the hospital, four floors to the ICU, four corners to turn, four long strides from the door of his room to his bed.
Four . . . the number of times I brush his lips with mine . . . the number of times I say his name and whisper that I love him.
I can see by Vin's eyes that he's confused, in pain, scared. He moans softly and says, "Chris? Will you . . . stay with me . . . for awhile?"
"I'll stay with you forever," I say. Because I know now that four's not enough - could never be enough. Not four years - not forty, not four hundred. Four may be my number, but forever is the only measure of time that counts.
"Forever," I whisper again, and though his eyes have closed, I feel Vin squeeze my hand.
I sit back and breathe a prayer of thanks. And for the first time in days, I allow myself to imagine what the next four years might bring.
The End