Disclaimer: I do not own the Magnificent Seven.
Warnings: Some Crack, Schmoop, Slash, Dark Themes, Outside POV, DEATH, Extreme AU warning! Do NOT even bother bitching at me if you do not heed the warnings.
Notes: Weird dreams people, weird dreams.
Mary Travis stood on the courthouse steps, mic in hand as she waited for the trial to end for the day. Chris Larabee had just finished his first day of testimony against the most notorious drug and gunrunner in Colorado. The ATF captain had spent months undercover, patiently working his way into the kingpin's organization and good graces. It looked liked Raphael de Martinez was finally going down.
The courthouse doors opened and the crowd of journalists and reporters surged forward, all shouting questions and trying to get close enough to shove a mic in Larabee's face. Mary hid a smile stood her ground. She knew Larabee would stop and answer her questions. She had a prime spot on the stairs and a pre- arrangement. Sometimes it paid to have the director of the ATF as a father-in-law. She quickly pushed a strand of fair hair out of her face and waited to catch Chris' eye. They had plans for dinner later, but for now she was all business.
The tall blond slid a pair of shades over his eyes and kept his mouth shut and his head down as he headed down the stairs, buffered front and back by members of his team. Mary edged forward, mic held at ready, her cameraman at her elbow. On the third step down, Larabee appeared to stumble, lurch forward and miss a step. He fell forward between the two tall ATF agents shielding him. He went down hard and graceless, face first and did not move again. It was only when she saw the ruby red puddle spreading beneath his head and dripping down the steps that it began to dawn on her what had happened.
Chaos erupted around her, screams of terror and shouts as the crowd surged around the scene. Some edged morbidly forward to gawk at the scene, others hurriedly exited the area, glancing fearfully around in search of the sniper. Buck Wilmington was on his knees beside his fallen friend, tears streaming unchecked down his face, big hands bloody as he sought in vain to hold Larabee's shattered skull together. Nathan knelt beside him cell in hand, calling an ambulance.
Mary swallowed back her tears and seized her moment, turning to face the camera and narrate her version of the unfolding events to her viewers. The prestigious journalism award and promotion she would receive later that year would prove bitter compensation for the lost dinner date she had been anticipating and the fact that the men of the former Team Seven shunned her, Wilmington even going so far as to call her a cold-blooded bitch to her face.
Almost a mile away, the man on the roof of the metal and glass skyscraper shrugged off the dusty, concrete colored gillie suit he wore and quickly and efficiently broke down his custom rife and scope, neatly stowing them and the suit into a duffle bag. He paused only long enough to scoop up the lone brass shell and tuck it in the breast pocket of his navy coveralls. With his curly brown hair tucked into a neat ponytail and a battered ball cap pulled low over his eyes he was invisible as he made his way down the stairs, tuneless whistle echoing in the hollow space of the stairwell. No one ever paid any attention to a man in a navy blue custodian's coverall.
He met no one on the stairs and the few people he passed in the parking garage never even glanced his way as he made his way to a battered, nondescript jeep parked in a corner. He threw his duffle in the back floorboard and climbed in. His pocket chimed and he withdrew a slim cell phone and glanced at the display and grinned. He lifted it to his ear and spoke. "It's done." And flipped the phone shut.
Within a few hours he would be across the state line headed south into Mexico, the money already in his offshore account. The Hawk had struck again, and as usual he would ghost away from a successful kill leaving no evidence behind. In less than two weeks Raphael de Martinez would walk away a free man having once again bribed and intimidated a jury responsible for bringing him to justice.
The Comet
The huge multicolored ball of gases and minerals sailed silently across the night sky, an astronomer's delight. It shone especially bright over a particular portion of the southwest sky, and it left chaos in its wake when everyone awoke the next day---different, and providing scientists, fundamentalists and geeks debate material for years to come. The Loki Syndrome as it was dubbed, after the mythological trickster, would become the bane of Team Seven's existence.
Larebee's Team Seven met in the conference room two weeks later, having pulled themselves together and grimly intent on sorting themselves and their 'problems' out so they could continue to function as a crack ATF team and work efficiently together.
Chris sat at the head of the long table looking much the same, grim, blond and black-clad as per usual. The only noticeable difference was the pair of wrap around shades he wore shielding his eyes. The shades were a necessity now that his irate gaze had the tendency to set objects and people ablaze. That shielded gaze kept veering to his right, where Vin Tanner sat quietly.
In fact everyone's gaze inevitably kept returning to Vin's face. They couldn't resist his new Elvish glamour. Handsome before, now, after the comet's passing, he was breathtakingly gorgeous. He made the Queen of Elfland look like the south end of a northbound horse. Sapphire eyes set in that exquisite square jawed face, flawless golden skin, full, lush lips, perfect features all topped by long, silky golden brown hair and delicately pointed ears.
Everyone in the room at one time or the other found themselves fantasizing about nibbling those delicate ears. Only Buck had had the balls to actually try (only Buck didn't really have balls anymore) and Tanner's temper had exploded and he had threatened to shoot the lot of them to put them out of his misery.
Now they all tried valiantly not to stare too long at that beautiful, blushing face, fully aware that not only were they in danger of being shot by Vin himself but that Larabee was jealous of anyone who lingered too close to the younger man, a fact made clear by the evidence. Chris had set fire to no less than three leering FBI agents and an annoying love struck secretary in the past week alone.
Tanner himself was heartily sick of the whole mess. Not only did he have to sneak in the building muffled in a ball cap and hoodie every morning, he had to run a gauntlet of love struck office workers and agents. Granted, the offerings of pastries, flowers, and home cooked meals left in the Team Seven break room were nice, but he was getting sick of the marriage proposals and crude propositions for sex that were clogging his mailbox and email. It proved especially embarrassing to the shy young man when a large portion of them were discovered to be from Judge Travis.
Larabee blinked hard and tore his eyes away from that radiant, now scowling face and turned to Buck at his left.
Bucklin had taken his unexpected gender change in stride. In fact Chris suspected it never even slowed him down, and he had to admit that Buck made a strikingly attractive woman despite his impressive height and broad shoulders. Tall, with an amazingly voluptuous Mae West figure, topped with curly black hair with dark blue eyes in a smiling, pretty face, he, err, she was popular with everyone in the building---most of whom he had dated or was in the process of dating. Buck was in the process of adjusting his push-up Wonder bra, displaying what Larabee privately felt was a tad too much cleavage than should be on view in the workplace. However, Chris was willing to cut him some slack since he was still adjusting to dressing as a woman. Though he made a mental note to talk to him about sensible footwear. How the hell was he supposed to chase down a perp in four-inch stiletto heels? And where the hell did he find shoes to fit those enormous feet?
His gaze shifted down the table to Buck's left and he bit down on his lip hard to suppress a snicker at the sight of the oversized squirrel wearing a black beanie that sat on the table at Buck's elbow, chattering away, while Buck nodded absently. The fact that JD Dunne turned into a squirrel every time he got excited about something never stopped being funny. As he watched, JD held up a compact in his furry little paws for Buck to check his bright fuchsia lipstick. Chris slid a glance to his right again at Vin's muffled snort of amusement and they shared a private grin.
Farther down the table Ezra Standish was slumped in his seat, dark smudges under his eyes, absently rolling a coin over his knuckles, as he scowled out the window at a coterie of cooing pigeons on the ledge. Ezra was currently banned from every gambling establishment within a thousand mile radius, simply because he was the luckiest man on earth now when it came to bets. He could not lose and it was taking all the joy out of his life. Posters of his face were plastered up in every casino, racetrack, bar and seedy pool hall in the state. He was reduced to trying to talk the office into a friendly sports betting pool in a vain effort to keep himself entertained.
Larabee privately thought Standish would work himself out of his depression once he realized that he could always disguise himself for a clandestine visit or two to Las Vegas. However until that particular idea dawned on the gambler, he kept his thoughts to himself. Standish probably had more money stashed away in his Swiss bank account now than Chris could earn in a lifetime.
His attention shifted to Nathan, who was surreptitiously trying to peel a tenaciously clinging strand of ivy off his sleeve. The plant had ambushed him as he walked through the lobby. Plants loved Nate. His small house now looked like a jungle had exploded around it. He had to hack his way out to the driveway every morning with a machete and last week he had discovered a rare species of orchid growing in his garage---no mean feat for a plant in Colorado in February. Chris had been obliged to incinerate a large monster tumbleweed that was blocking his Volvo that morning before he could leave for work. The one good thing was that Nathan could now gift his girlfriend Raine with an endless supply of fresh flowers. Hell, rosebushes burst into spontaneous bloom when he walked past. Nate was actually contemplating retiring early and opening a plant nursery. There was a fortune to be made with his new gift.
Larabee frowned and looked around the room, suddenly realizing he was missing a team member.
"Where the hell is Josiah?"
He narrowed his eyes at a suspiciously innocent looking elf.
"He isn't outside walking on the water in the courtyard fountain again, is he?"
Wide blue eyes met his and Larabee abruptly forgot what he had been talking about, unable to tear his gaze away as those full lips parted and Vin spoke.
"Naw. He stopped at the shelter again this morning. Somethin' about banishing a plague of head lice." Vin scratched his own silky head thoughtfully.
Larabee nodded, satisfied. As long as the big man wasn't down at the city morgue resurrecting Tito Valdez just so he could have the fun of killing him again, he didn't care. They had more important cases to concentrate on---like arresting the newly dubbed Ice Queen, Mary Travis, who had apparently taken to gunrunning to fund her newfound passion for diamonds. She had frozen open the safes of two high-end jewelry stores and turned the guards into human popsicles in her latest caper. Word was, her next target was the armory.
"Okay. Let's bring this meeting to order. Buck, stop primping and pay attention! And no Ezra, I do not want to bet on which damned pigeon is gonna fly away first. Let's get cracking people, we have work to do."
Boot Hill
Vin Tanner finished sweeping old man Conklin's porch and stepped inside the store, peeling off his crisp white apron and folding it neatly as he did and placing it on the counter. He waited patiently as the old man counted out a few coins and placed bags of coffee, sugar and flour and a few tins in a sack as payment. After a week of hard work and little to show for it, he was glad to finally put this dusty burg behind him. It was as wild and wooly as any he had ever encountered. He nodded his thanks to Conklin, eyed the new rifle displayed on the wall behind him regretfully and headed out. As he tucked his goods into his saddlebags he noticed a commotion in front of the shabby saloon across the street.
Curious, he strolled across for a look-see, leading his horse behind him. A group of dusty cowboys were posing for an itinerant photographer around a simple pine coffin that was propped against the wall. It contained the corpse of a lean, blond man clad in dusty black. His hands were crossed over his belly, and as Vin watched, the saloonkeeper draped a fancy silver studded rig with a bone handled Colt across his chest for display. Even in death, his handsome face seemed pinched in pain. The saloon owner motioned impatiently for the fussing photographer to proceed and stepped away.
The old geezer at Tanner's elbow piped up suddenly, volunteering information that he had not asked for.
"That there was Chris Larabee. Right famous gunslinger. Got kilt yesterday when that mess of trail hands came through shootin' up the town and lynched that nigger and run down widow Travis in the street. Damned no good sheriff stole a horse and hightailed it out of town. Funny way for a gunslinger to go, ain't it? Kilt by a stray bullet while minding his own business in the saloon?"
Vin said nothing in reply, eyes on that pale, still face. A superstitious shiver ran up his spine and he couldn't shake the notion that he knew the dead man. He gave himself a mental shake, stepped back and mounted his horse. As he settled his hat on his head, he looked back over his shoulder, giving that handsome face one last long look. He hoped the man was at peace now. He touched his heels to his horse's flanks and rode out of town.
Mènage Au. . . Not
Vin Tanner stood in the bedroom doorway, hands clenched into fists, jealousy and something akin to grief twisting his chest. Chris smirked at him from the big king sized bed; Buck sprawled naked beside him, and brought his bottle up for a long swig.
"You coming or going, pard?" he asked, a wicked grin on his handsome face, as he leaned back against the headboard.
Buck winked at him as well, one big hand running lazily along Larabee's bare thigh. The room stank of male musk and sex.
Vin took a deep breath as he felt something like hope die inside and give way to grief and a simmering anger. He had thought that Chris cared for him, had thought they were simpatico. He had thought Chris had invited him over for something more than a quick fuck. He was wrong, as usual. He swallowed down his anger and squared his shoulders.
He should have known better than to have fallen in love with the man. He lifted his chin proudly, face hot, and met Larabee's gaze squarely. Vin was not, and had never been, a whore, to be passed around like a party favor. He watched Chris' smirk die into a curious frown as Larabee tilted his head, puzzled by Vin's silence.
"I'm gone," Vin answered simply and he turned and walked away, head high.
He pretended he didn't see the consternation that crossed Larabee's face as he left. He let the screen door slam behind him and as he walked to his jeep he took deep calming breaths of the cool night air. He looked up at the sea of bright stars over his head, blinked and swallowed hard, forcing the pain down. It was stupid to hurt for a man who did not give a damn. Larabee had his bottle, Buck and Mary Travis anytime he wanted them; he sure as hell wasn't going to add Vin to his harem.
But still, he had hoped, had had dreams fueled by long hours of seamlessly working together, of fitting into a team for the first time in his life, of weekends spent riding and camping together, of quiet talks. Despite himself he had fallen hard for the laconic blond. Well, that was done now. Time to shake the dust off his boots. Six months at one job was six months too long anyway. Time to move on. He couldn't stand to stay now anyway now that his pride was hurt and he felt like a damned fool. He wouldn't be able to work with either Chris or Buck again without wanting to punch their grinning, fool faces in anyway, couldn't look at either of them without remembering the way he felt seeing them laying there together.
He would leave his resignation on Travis' desk on his way out of town. He climbed into his battered jeep and burned rubber and spewed gravel pulling out of the drive. He kept his eyes on the road and pretended he hadn't seen the blond man, clad only in black jeans, who stepped out barefoot on the porch and called after him. He had a long way to go before morning.
Three Words a Day
He rode into Tascosa out of the haze of heat and dust devils, a lean, black-clad man on a big, black horse. He wore a black duster and a silver studded gun belt and his handsome face was as cold and indifferent as the moon. He reined up in front of the jail, dismounted and slapped the dust off his hat against his thigh. When the sheriff stepped out on the sagging porch, he pulled a folded poster out of his pocket and silently handed it over.
The sheriff unfolded the creased poster and studied it for a minute before stepping up to the big blazed-face gelding the bounty hunter had on a lead line with the blanketed body tied over its back. He flipped a corner of the dusty blanket back, wrapped a hand in the corpse's curly brown hair and tilted the head up so he could compare the square-jawed face to that on the poster. He studied both for a long moment, then nodded and motioned for the hovering undertaker to ferry the body over to his place of business.
He turned back to the silent blond and motioned him inside the jail.
"Come in and I'll do the paperwork. Bank will be open tomorrow. You can collect then."
The blond gunslinger followed him inside and waited silently and patiently as a carrion bird as he dug a pencil and bounty form out of his battered desk. Finally the sheriff sat back and shoved the paper across the desk at him. The blond took it, read it quickly, nodded and folded it up and put it in his shirt pocket. He turned to leave, still without a word, and irked at the silent indifference the man displayed, the sheriff spoke up.
"Five hundred dollars is pretty good pay for a day's work."
The gunman said nothing, merely quirked a blond brow over his shoulder.
Persistent, the sheriff kept talking.
"You know, a lot of folks around here still think Tanner was innocent. They won't take kindly to you bringing him in like this."
The tall gunman turned from the doorway, and for a moment the golden sunlight streaming in caught a flicker of grief across the stony face. He set his hat on his head and finally spoke.
"Too late now."
He turned and walked silently away, heading towards the nearest saloon. His crooked gait hitched briefly at the sight of the skinny undertaker ghoulishly riffling the dead man's pockets on the boardwalk, setting aside a small buckskin pouch, a red bandanna faded to dusty rose, and a battered old harmonica---- before he continued on to his destination.
The sheriff shook his head as he watched the bounty hunter walk away. The son of a bitch was as cold blooded as a damned rattlesnake. Shivering at a chill up his spine, he decided to head down the street to the cafè for a cup of coffee. As he passed the still corpse sprawled on the boardwalk, he spared one pitying glance at the peaceful young face staring sightlessly into the sun. Poor boy had never had a chance at life. It was a damned shame.
Montana
There was a bush full of goddamned birds twittering their fool heads off right under the bedroom window. The morning light had sliced triumphantly through a narrow gap in the battered flour sack curtains and was beaming directly into his eyes. Chris Larabee growled under his breath and tried to roll over to catch a few more winks of sleep, only to be thwarted because of the heavy body pinning him to the mattress.
He peeled the heavy buffalo robe covering back to peer down at his companion, who was snoring comfortably, face half buried in Larabee's armpit. His long tawny hair completely veiled his face and was tickling Chris' chin and bare shoulder. Vin had one arm flung over Larabee's chest and a heavy, muscled thigh hooked over his legs while he slept peacefully on.
Chris grinned to himself, pleased. It wasn't often that he awoke before Tanner and he intended to take advantage of it. It wasn't often that he got the chance to just look. He stealthily peeled the covers further down, exposing a bare golden brown shoulder and torso. Carefully he swept the long brown hair away, exposing the sleeping face. Vin wrinkled his nose and snorted, but did not wake.
Ten years they had been together in these mountains, and in the pale golden light of dawn that sleeping face still looked all of sixteen years old. Sometimes it made Larabee just feel old. Others, it just made him as randy as a young buck (Or a young Bucklin.) He studied the beloved face fondly.
He and Tanner had made a life for themselves in these mountains, had worked hard to carve their small horse ranch out of this secluded valley. Yet sometimes, it just seemed like yesterday when they departed Four Corners, packing up their gear and heading into the unknown--together.
Sometimes he still woke in the dark night, expecting to find himself alone on a narrow rack of a hard cot.
On those nights he gathered his lover to him, spooning around him and tucking him close, breathing him in. Vin always smelled like leather, sunshine and something green--like new grass. It comforted Chris almost as much as his steady breathing and the warmth of his lithe body. On those bad nights he buried his face in that silky mane and just breathed his man in until sleep overtook him again.
Larabee ran his fingertips lightly over the curve of the broad shoulder, down his bare side to his narrow hip, down to the well-muscled thigh. He stroked the silky golden brown hair there, then, unable to resist, he slid a hand around to palm a firm ass cheek, enjoying the feel of Vin's surprisingly soft skin. Tanner was one of the toughest men he knew, but he also had a tender, gentle aspect that Larabee cherished.
Abruptly he realized he was being studied himself. A pair of wide-awake blue eyes regarded him thoughtfully. He watched as the corners of those wide eyes crinkled up into a grin.
"Morning Cowboy. You molesting me in my sleep again?"
"Every chance I get."
Larabee replied huskily, as he bent his head to claim that lush mouth. He nuzzled and kissed his partner, rubbing their noses gently together, their sparse morning whiskers rasping together.
Tanner hummed happily as he fit himself even closer against his man. With a lithe twist of his body he rolled over on top of a grunting Larabee, and lazily began to rub his morning erection against Chris' lean belly, The hum morphed into a purr when Larabee slid both big, calloused hands down to grab his ass cheeks, pulled Vin hard against him and rolled to place him beneath him, blanketing him and pressing him deep into the warm feather tick. He was exactly where he wanted to be.
Larabee pressed his own hard length against Vin's and kissed him deeply, as they began to rub together. It was lazy morning loving, slow and simple with sweet kisses and the tantalizing sensation of warm skin against warm skin. Nothing complicated or rushed as they rubbed and loved against each other until wet heat pulsed between their bellies and they sighed together. Chris went limp and laid his damp head down on his lover's shoulder, yawned and slid back into sleep.
Vin pressed his mouth tenderly against his cheek, his hands smoothing over the long lean back. All was right in his world He held more in his hands than he had ever dreamed of possessing and he cherished him. He grinned at the ceiling and stealthily slid a hand up to comb gently through the hank of blond hair that hid Chris' eyes. It was his turn to look.
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February 13, 2009