Fic: Leaving (Mag7, Old West, Chris/Vin, PG-13)
This is a bit of the big story I'm working on that wound out on the cutting room floor. I cleaned it up, dusted off the bits that irretrievably tied it to it's origin, and am posting it as a little ficlet.
Title: Leaving
Author: Sara
Rating: PG, FRT, totally pants forevermore
Fandoms: Magnificent Seven
Pairing: Chris/Vin
Word Count: about 630
Feedback: here or at sara_merry99 @ livejournal.com, any and all feedback welcome
Author's Note: Unbetaed, so if you see anything wrong please let me know so I can fix it.
Summary: The risk Chris won't take. Not a happy story, but at least it's short.
Chris put one hand behind Vin's neck and another on his uninjured shoulder. His face was serious and pale, grey even in the warm lamplight. "I thought you were going to die, Vin. Thought I was going to find your body bled white and cold," his voice was angry and sad at once.
Vin's awareness of his wounds at thigh and shoulder, which had been throbbing unmercifully just a minute before, faded away as he looked into Chris's colorless eyes. He wrapped his good hand around Chris's arm, trying to offer an apology. It wasn't exactly his fault he'd got shot, but he'd broken cover to try to get a better angle and had gotten shot twice in the space between the buckboard he'd been hiding behind and the house he was running for. Chris didn't seem like he'd be swayed by the he fact that neither wound was worse than a graze. "I'm sorry," he said, knowing it wasn't enough.
Leaning forward, Chris put his forehead on Vin's for just a second, the gesture a sad tender echo of the passion they'd shared the night before, then said, "I can't go through it again, Vin. I won't."
Stopped in place by the coldness in Chris's voice, Vin didn't breathe or speak. The only part of him that moved was his heart, fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird.
Chris stepped back away and said, "I can't."
Vin released Chris's arm, unwilling to hold Chris where he didn't want to be. "Can't do what?" he asked, his voice a whisper, even though he knew the answer.
Chris shook his head and turned away for a long moment. When he turned back, his face was colder than Vin had ever seen it, every bit of tenderness and warmth gone, his eyes shuttered and distant. For the first time since his eyes met Chris's across the street and locked like two halves becoming whole, there was nothing there. No connection. No wholeness. Nothing at all. Something treasured and precious inside Vin died at that, and he turned away.
Pride kept him silent, though he wanted to argue, to say something. But he'd learned to accept all manner of pain patiently and without making a noise, so he nodded then turned his eyes to the fire, as far away as the sunrise.
When Chris stepped to him again and reached toward his wounded shoulder, Vin recoiled. "I'll take care of it," he said, voice low.
"You need..." Chris said, reaching for him again.
Suddenly, Vin couldn't stand the nearness he'd craved for months, the touch that had him moaning in pleasure just the night before. Hurt and anger mingled in his voice as he snapped, "Said I'd take care of it," and knocked Chris's hand away from him. Chris stepped back, but didn't leave.
Vin took a breath and rubbed his face, then said, voice as even as he could make it, "You'd best get on back to town. I'll meet you and the boys at the turning near the old Stokely place at sunrise." He turned his back to Chris and washed dirt and gunsmoke off his hands in the basin while he waited for Chris to go.
It was a couple of minutes before Chris did so, his spurs ringing as he walked away.
When he'd gone, Vin picked up the needle and thread Chris'd set out, grateful that his wound was in a place he could reach. He'd stitched himself up before when he'd been shot or stabbed, would no doubt be doing it again. He tried to rub away the ache that thought started in his heart. It wasn't like they'd had any promises between them, not ones they'd spoken anyway. Just a silent communion that he'd thought was enough to last the rest of his life. He cursed himself for a fool. The ache still heavy in his chest, he set to work on his shoulder.
He was pulling the last stitch snug when he heard hooves in the courtyard. He thought about drawing his gun, standing to face whoever it was, then shrugged and tucked the free end of the thread between his teeth so he could tie off the stitch. Didn't much matter who it was, he reckoned. Wasn't going to make no difference anyway.
*** The End ***
All of my Magnificent Seven stories are linked here.
Title: Leaving
Author: Sara
Rating: PG, FRT, totally pants forevermore
Fandoms: Magnificent Seven
Pairing: Chris/Vin
Word Count: about 630
Feedback: here or at sara_merry99 @ livejournal.com, any and all feedback welcome
Author's Note: Unbetaed, so if you see anything wrong please let me know so I can fix it.
Summary: The risk Chris won't take. Not a happy story, but at least it's short.
Chris put one hand behind Vin's neck and another on his uninjured shoulder. His face was serious and pale, grey even in the warm lamplight. "I thought you were going to die, Vin. Thought I was going to find your body bled white and cold," his voice was angry and sad at once.
Vin's awareness of his wounds at thigh and shoulder, which had been throbbing unmercifully just a minute before, faded away as he looked into Chris's colorless eyes. He wrapped his good hand around Chris's arm, trying to offer an apology. It wasn't exactly his fault he'd got shot, but he'd broken cover to try to get a better angle and had gotten shot twice in the space between the buckboard he'd been hiding behind and the house he was running for. Chris didn't seem like he'd be swayed by the he fact that neither wound was worse than a graze. "I'm sorry," he said, knowing it wasn't enough.
Leaning forward, Chris put his forehead on Vin's for just a second, the gesture a sad tender echo of the passion they'd shared the night before, then said, "I can't go through it again, Vin. I won't."
Stopped in place by the coldness in Chris's voice, Vin didn't breathe or speak. The only part of him that moved was his heart, fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird.
Chris stepped back away and said, "I can't."
Vin released Chris's arm, unwilling to hold Chris where he didn't want to be. "Can't do what?" he asked, his voice a whisper, even though he knew the answer.
Chris shook his head and turned away for a long moment. When he turned back, his face was colder than Vin had ever seen it, every bit of tenderness and warmth gone, his eyes shuttered and distant. For the first time since his eyes met Chris's across the street and locked like two halves becoming whole, there was nothing there. No connection. No wholeness. Nothing at all. Something treasured and precious inside Vin died at that, and he turned away.
Pride kept him silent, though he wanted to argue, to say something. But he'd learned to accept all manner of pain patiently and without making a noise, so he nodded then turned his eyes to the fire, as far away as the sunrise.
When Chris stepped to him again and reached toward his wounded shoulder, Vin recoiled. "I'll take care of it," he said, voice low.
"You need..." Chris said, reaching for him again.
Suddenly, Vin couldn't stand the nearness he'd craved for months, the touch that had him moaning in pleasure just the night before. Hurt and anger mingled in his voice as he snapped, "Said I'd take care of it," and knocked Chris's hand away from him. Chris stepped back, but didn't leave.
Vin took a breath and rubbed his face, then said, voice as even as he could make it, "You'd best get on back to town. I'll meet you and the boys at the turning near the old Stokely place at sunrise." He turned his back to Chris and washed dirt and gunsmoke off his hands in the basin while he waited for Chris to go.
It was a couple of minutes before Chris did so, his spurs ringing as he walked away.
When he'd gone, Vin picked up the needle and thread Chris'd set out, grateful that his wound was in a place he could reach. He'd stitched himself up before when he'd been shot or stabbed, would no doubt be doing it again. He tried to rub away the ache that thought started in his heart. It wasn't like they'd had any promises between them, not ones they'd spoken anyway. Just a silent communion that he'd thought was enough to last the rest of his life. He cursed himself for a fool. The ache still heavy in his chest, he set to work on his shoulder.
He was pulling the last stitch snug when he heard hooves in the courtyard. He thought about drawing his gun, standing to face whoever it was, then shrugged and tucked the free end of the thread between his teeth so he could tie off the stitch. Didn't much matter who it was, he reckoned. Wasn't going to make no difference anyway.
*** The End ***
All of my Magnificent Seven stories are linked here.