Disclaimers: Sadly enough, TM7 don't belong to me, although I've done more with them than Mirsich, Trilogy, and MGM. Hmph. There's just no winning. And the ATF AU is property of the right honorable MOG. Many thanks to her for a lovely AU.
Author's Note: Well, this will probably end up being my last fic for both the foreseeable and unforeseeable futures ::sobs:: I have no time to either read or write anything that is not school, and my mailbox can't take much more of never being checked. So, on that depressing note, I'd like to smooch and glomp everyone on the list ::does so... big wet sloppy kisses for everyone:: Your friendship and support has been truly, truly wonderful, and I know I've learned a lot from reading everyone's fics- like the many creative uses of cookie batter and the many ways in which you can employ saddle oil ::grins:: Best wishes... and keep writing!
Senior Agent Chris Larabee leaned back into the embrace of his leather chair and closed his eyes. The light of his office still remained bright and uncomfortable against his eyelids, so he brought his hands up as an extra barrier against it and heaved a sigh of relief as his existence blessedly slid into darkness.Why the hell do I take this kind of crap? he wondered for the millionth time in his existence. The thought immediately dragged his mind to the towering pile of folders resting in his 'To Do' box, and the corresspondingly miniscule one in his 'Done' box. At times like this, the unconquerable, indefatiguable, and tough-as-old-leather Chris Larabee felt depressingly...
... human.
It was an uncommon and unwelcome feeling, to say the least. Chris sighed once more and extricated himself from the embrace of his chair, resolving to get at least some work done before he escaped back to the ranch for the night. His resolution flagged a little as the pile in the 'To Do' box seemed to grow before his eyes, but he firmed himself against the coming struggle and pulled the first file off the top.
Hey, Chris- could you sign off on this report for me? Thanks! -JD
Not too bad Chris thought to himself. He flipped through the report and found everything in order- and signed it in less than thirty seconds. Done!
Next file:
Chris: I need these budget plans reviewed before Friday's committee meeting. We need to make our recommendations and requests then. Thanks- Orin.
Oh, GOD. He couldn't blow this off. He just couldn't A lot of things rode on next week's budget meeting- new weapons, new equipment, new everything. The spreadsheets and graphs leered at him, a silent taunting: We're forty-five minutes' worth of work, Chris Larabee... the mighty takes-shit-from-no-one Chris Larabee gets to stare at us until his eyes bleed or his head explodes, one of the two.
When the spreadsheets began laughing maniacally, Chris decided he'd been working far too long. Far, far too long. Where was his sanity going? He glanced out the window and the darkened, starlit Denver skyline beyond it. Right out there he thought ruefully. God, why the hell do I do this?
Part of him new the answer and was both depressed and lightened by it.
It's all you know.
Lightened because he knew so many other people who struggled to find their callings and their places in life. He knew of a man who'd spent a fortune and borrowed two so he could go to MIT and later decided he made the world's worst engineer. What was he doing now? Something about a bartender and Key West, that was all Larabee knew. He'd met a couple other people in the force who'd gone into police work because it had been expected of them, but had confessed in spontaneous moments that they would have much rather been a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, a porn star... anything other than be a cop.
Yes, Chris Larabee was a lucky man, having known almost all his life what he wanted and being fortunate enough to get it, and to have it still. So many people couldn't say the same. He had a place, a meaning, a definition; look up 'Chris Larabee' in the dictionary and it would say "law enforcement officer" right next to him.
But it depressed him, too, this knowing.
He hated the paper chains and miles of red tape, the hell he had to play with rules and the hell they played with him. Hated the narrowness of his existence, a life limited so closely to the tiled halls and identical cubicles like honeycombs in a wasps' nest. Hated the doublespeak and competition that swarmed around him, and fought to not let water-cooler gossip pull him down into it. He hated the interference of all of these things, the nasty connotations that came with the definition of Chris Larabee, law enforcement officer, but they were everyday occurrences- tacit, yes. Implicit, yes. Hated all the same.
Is it worth it? he thought to himself, staring blindly at spreadsheets and graphs and words like 'debenture', 'allocation', and 'term life insurance.' After everything's tallied up, is it worth it?
A soft knock on his door was his answer, and its click forestalled his reply.
"Hey," came Vin Tanner's soft voice. "You up for leavin' now? It's almost ten and the horses are probably madder n' hell."
"What?" Chris tried to pull himself away from his abstraction. "The horses?"
"Yes, the horses," his lover replied patiently, his blue eyes probing into Chris's green ones at sensing the older man's discomfiture. "You feelin' okay?"
"Fine," Chris replied hollowly, his answer failing to convince even himself. Vin didn't buy it; the young man slipped soundlessly into the room and shut the door behind him, then stood against it- a silent, immovable barrier. He didn't say anything, but his blue eyes were a silent demand, love softening them into wordless pleading.
Chris looked away, his gaze skittering over his desktop, the 'To Do' pile, the pictures on his wall, the bookcase with procedure manuals.
"Do you think it's worth it?" he asked finally, staring out at the Denver skyline, at at Vin's reflection in the window. He saw the finely-drawn face tense a little in concentration, the brows draw down upon themselves. Tanner's hair fell over his face a little, obscuring both his features and his thoughts.
A long silence fell over them, but it was not tense or expectant - merely the familiar, slow silence of one man framing a reply for the other's consolation.
"You can't reckon it in numbers," Vin said finally.
That was all the answer Chris needed. He stood up and pulled his coat off the rack next to his desk.
"Let's go home."
The End
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