Yet more assorted Mag7 ficlets
All ficlets from 
mag7daybook prompts. All completely unbeta'd. Um. Sorry?
Prompt: Boogieshoe's Tail-wagger challenge
Characters/Pairing: Vin (and a cross-over cameo)
Notes: So this totally doesn't answer the challenge at all but when I started thinking about the boys and dogs I was hit immediately with a vision of Vin making friends with a pariah dog in Afghanistan during his Ranger days. And then I went and wrote that (and whumped Vin a lot) because why not? (My second thought was JD building a fire-breathing robot dog in the steampunk!seven verse...which may get written anyway because, again, why not?)
Warnings for excessive swearing and casual racism; I've modeled Vin's speech patterns on the speech patterns demonstrated by the current US military force as shown in modern military literature such as Generation Kill and Team Reaper: 3rd Battalions Deadliest Sniper Team. (Also warning for a crappy -- from a writing perspective, not a character/story perspective -- ending because I still suck at finding a good way to finish fics)
Vin doesn’t notice the dog until she’s thrust her cold, wet nose into his hand. He smiles, but doesn’t open his eyes until she does it again, with greater insistence. She’s small and ghostly pale in the gloom and he half thinks she’s a spirit to guide him home. He’s a dead man, after all, even if his body is still alive; knew he was a dead man the minute the building collapsed underneath him, knew it even more when he came to and realized he couldn’t feel anything below the waist, though maybe that’s a blessing given that he seems to have half the building pinning his legs. If he’d been able to reach his knife, then, the dog would never have been able to wake him -- killing himself might not have been the Ranger way, but at that moment he hadn’t felt much like a Ranger, not with the air reeking of his own piss and shit. Besides, he knows what will happen to him if he’s captured and better a fast death at his own hand than the slow and painful one he seems destined for -- though whether it’s at the hands of the Hajis or mother nature, he’s not sure.
The dog whines and inches closer until her nose is touching his cheek. This close, Vin can see that she’s not much more than a puppy, big footed and floppy eared, although one ear is making a spirited attempt at standing; she reminds him of the dogs of his youth, all sharp muzzles and pointed ears and battle scarred. She’s young and battered, just like him, and in his calm delirium he thinks that this means something more than it probably does.
“Hiya, pup,” he whispers to her.
The dog starts and jerks away, practically jumping sideways in her surprise, and he laughs though it hurts to do so. She barks at him twice, warbling, high-pitched yelps, and he laughs again -- at himself, at his fate, at the pain, because he’s finding the fact of his death so absurd -- and closes his eyes. He listens to her shuffle around and thinks she must be leaving; it’s a surprise to feel her tongue on his face, licking him frantically from brow to chin.
“Hey,” he says as she licks him again, just as he opens his eyes. “Enough of that.” He lifts one hand and rubs her ears, trying to push her muzzle and her fetid breath away from his face. She whines again, a somehow joyful keen, and wiggles against him in spasmodic joy, before settling down beside him; her head is heavy on his chest, but it’s a comforting weight. For a moment she’s still, and then she nudges her muzzle against the pocket of his tac vest where he usually keeps his beef jerky, and looks up at him with her ancient eyes.
“Sorry, pup,” he tells her as he strokes the back of her head. “Ain’t got nothin’ for you.”
As though she understands him, she sighs and drops her eyes down. Vin sighs with her and goes back to stroking her velvet soft ears. The movement must soothe her as much as it soothes him because he can feel her relaxing against his side, can feel her breathing slowly even out. His breathing evens out, too, and he loses himself on the soft slide of her fur beneath his fingers.
When he opens his eyes again, she’s gone and Vin’s got two dead mice on his chest. He stares at the little carcasses for a long, confused moment -- he was sure the dog had been real, but maybe not; maybe he’d seen the mice and gotten confused, though how he ended up with dead mice on him might not bear thinking about.
He’s just picked the first mouse off his chest when the dog returns, carrying a third mouse in her mouth. Her tail is wagging so hard her entire butt shakes and she practically prances as she picks her way through the debris to him. She drops the third mouse on his chests and pants at him, her lips pulled back until it looks like she’s smiling.
“Couldn’t’ve fetched me some water, huh?” he asks her, and she barks, sharp and insistent, and nudges the hand holding the mouse.
“No thanks, I’m not hungry,” he tells her and he tosses the mouse away. She snatches it out of the air and eats it with all apparent relish. He laughs at her, a coughing, painful laugh that leaves him breathless and gasping, and she barks at him again, pawing at his arms until he picks up the second mouse for her. He manages to toss it farther this time, and high enough that she has to rear up to snag it as it passes. He’s got the third one in his hand by the time she prances back to him, and he tries to toss it as high and far as the second, but can barely manage to get it off his chest. The dog cocks her head at him, then picks up the mouse and drops it back in his hand.
“Can’t do it, pup,” he tells her, shaking his head. “Ain’t got the energy.”
She whines at him and paws at his arms again, but when he doesn’t move she seems to accept that his part in her little game is over and picks up the mouse from where it still lies in his hand. She tosses it in the air, catches it, tosses it again, lets it fall and then pounces and worries the little form; it’s a good game and he smiles at her boundless, gangling, puppy energy. She tires of it eventually, however, and leaves the mouse where it lands as she ambles back to him. She curls up beside him again, and he’s grateful for that, because he’s feeling cold now. He strokes her ears again and she sighs a happy puppy sigh.
“Good girl,” he murmurs to her and closes his eyes.
She’s still there when he opens his eyes some undetermined time later, but her head is up and both ears are pricked. She’s on the alert for something, and he strains to hear what she hears, but all he hears is the rattle of his breath and the slow thud of his heart. He suspects, though, that it’s the Hajis, come at last to inspect the building, and though he wants her to stay with him, he knows it’s best if she go; he can’t stand to see her shot.
He scratches her ears one last time, then gives her a push and says, “Thanks for the company, pup, but it’s time for you to go.” She flicks an ear back towards him and whines. He pushes at her harder, says, “Go on, git,” but she doesn’t leave. It’s not until he’s thumped her twice in the ribs that she finally stands and moves away from him. She looks at him with such trusting confusion that he almost relents, almost calls her back. He stays firm, though, and tells her, “Git!” again. She edges closer, whines again, wags her tail at him; he reaches out and closes his hand on a piece of concrete.
It’s not much of a throw, but it’s enough. The dog scrambles back, her tail down and tucked. She stops at the far edge of his vision and barks at him -- loud and unhappy and full of betrayal.
“Git, I said!” he shouts at her, and reaches for another stone. She growls -- a low, ugly sound -- and backs away, out of his sight. He sighs and clutches the stone tight -- not much of a weapon, but he’ll take what he can get -- and starts to the recite the Ranger’s creed.
He’s gone through it three times when he hears her start to bark, and the nearly rabid desperation of her voice makes him drop his place. He grits his teeth and starts over; he manages to get all the way to “Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight” when he hears her yelp in pain, and that’s more than his fortitude can take.
“Hey! Hey! You leave her alone!” he shouts as loud as he can, though with each word it feels like he’s ripping his lungs from his chest. “You leave my dog alone, you motherfucking assholes!”
He bangs on the ground next to him, roars out wordlessly, tries to make as much noise as he can. The sooner the Hajis find him, the sooner they’ll leave his dog alone, and he reckons that’s about the most he can hope for right now. He shouts until he’s left panting, each breath tasting of blood, and he thinks it’s worked for he can hear scrabbling noises from somewhere out of his line of sight. But it’s just the dog, scrambling backwards from the outside, snarling and growling and snapping at a man hidden behind a light. She backs all the way to him, backs up until she’s nearly standing on him, and he’s almost afraid to touch her; there’s nothing puppy-ish about her now. But she’s his, and he needs some of her snarling defiance, so he reaches up and rests a hand on her back; her fur bristles under his palm and he can feel the deep rumble of her growl echoing down his arm and into his own chest.
“Thank you,” he whispers to her, and he tries to sit up; he’s a motherfucking Ranger and he’ll be damned if he dies on his back.
“Tanner?” the man behind the light asks, and Vin starts, because he knows that voice. “Jesus Christ. Is that you, Tanner?”
“Howdy Tim,” he says, and he lets himself fall back; his brothers are here, and the relief he feels at that realization is making him tremble. “Took you fellas long enough.”
“Jesus Christ,” he hears Gutterson mutter again, and there’s a hitch to his voice. “Goddamn. Tanner, you dumb, lucky motherfucker.”
“Stop crying, you pussy,” Vin says, though he knows there are tears in his own eyes.
“Fuck you,” Gutterson says, but his voice is gentle. “Those are tears of joy at the thought of all the ass I’m going to buy with the fifty bucks Hayes owes me. We saw the explosion and the dumb motherfucker swore there was no way anybody could survive that. I told him you’re too much of an ornery asshole to let something as insignificant as being on top of a collapsing building stop you.”
Vin laughs and coughs. He turns his head and tries to spit out the blood filling his mouth. Beside him, the dog’s growl grows louder and he hears Gutterson curse as she snaps at him.
“I’m trying to help him, you stupid mutt,” Gutterson says.
“Don’t call her that,” Vin says, and he tightens his grip on her ruff. “She just knows you’re a shifty motherfucker.”
“That’s just like you, Tanner,” Gutterson says. “While the rest of us are working our asses off, you’re down here in the shade communing with nature.” He stretches his hand out again, cautious, and though the dog’s still growling she doesn’t try to bite him this time as he reaches out and grips Vin’s shoulder. He shines his light in Vin’s eyes and Vin flinches away; it feels like someone’s set fire to his eyes, the pain is that intense.
“Would’ve been up sooner but I can’t feel my legs,” Vin says through gritted teeth. He coughs again and adds, “Think I’ve busted up somethin’ in my chest too.”
“Always making excuses,” Gutterson says, but he tightens his grip on Vin’s shoulder.
When he lets go and moves back, the panic that flares in Vin’s chest is almost as painful as the light in his eyes had been. He knows Gutterson isn’t leaving him, that he’s just calling in his report, but that knowledge doesn’t stop him from letting go of the dog and reaching out; the dog darts forward before he can stop her, snarling and snapping and frantic.
“Whoa!” Gutterson says, the light rocketing upwards as he throws up his hands. “Jesus! Christ, Tanner, call her off so I can get you the fuck out of here.”
“Easy, girl,” Vin calls out. His hand catches her tail and he tugs, gently, until she turns her head to him. He whistles at her and she slinks back to his side, though she still casts suspicious looks at Gutterson.
“Good girl,” he tells her. The dog huffs at him and he strokes her back, makes nonsense noises at her until she’s no longer bristling and her mouth has gone soft and loose. He keeps stroking her as Doc crawls down to his side and does something to his chest that makes him feel like he’s been kicked by a mule but makes it easier to breathe; keeps stroking her as his brothers first dig him out, then cut him out, Gutterson shielding both him and the dog from the sparks; keeps stroking her as his legs are slowly revealed, limp, busted, and as useful as a ragdoll’s. He keeps stroking her until Dobson and Doc forcibly stop him, strapping his arm down tight to the litter before hustling him to the waiting bird. Behind him the dog starts to howl.
“Goddamn bitch just bit me!” he hears Hayes curse.
“Hey!” he shouts out as loud as he can, though he knows it’s barely more than a whisper. “You fuckers better take care of her or I’ll kick all y’alls asses!”
“Stop moving you dumb hick,” Doc growls at him. “I’m not about to let you waste all of my hard work by rupturing something and bleeding to death.”
“Gotta take care of my dog,” Vin says stubbornly.
“Ow! Fuck!” Hayes says again, and then Gutterson says, “For Christ's Sake, Hayes, just hold her still.”
Vin tries once again to push himself up and see what’s happening, but Doc’s got a hand on his chest now and he’s a big, solid man with a big, solid hand -- though, hell, Haye’s six-month-old daughter could’ve pinned Vin in place right now. Vin huffs out a curse and tries not to think about what Gutterson is doing to his dog. He trusts these men -- of course he does, they’re his brothers, his fellow Rangers -- but he knows they don’t understand why he cares so much about some dog; even he’s not so sure why the dog is so important to him other than the fact that she had been there in the dark with him.
“Here,” Gutterson says, boosting the dog into the bird and strapping her down beside him where she keens and looks about, whale-eyed, and frantically licks at his face; he’s tied a crude lead around her neck and he pushes the end into Vin’s hand. “Here’s your goddamn dog.”
“Hiya, pup,” he whispers to her, and smiles as she thumps her tail against his side.
Prompt: any, any, “You don’t walk into a man’s house and threaten his family” (extra points for crossing over with Justified, Boyd, Raylan, and/or Tim)
Characters/Pairing: Raylan, Tim, Chris and Vin.
Notes: Two things. First, this is more a Justified fic with appearances by Chris and Vin (in that it's written entirely from Raylan's perspective). Second, I so desperately wanted to use the following as the summary: "Wherein Chris Larabee and Raylan Givens have an agreeable meeting of minds on the first (shoot it) and second (shoot it again) principles of law enforcement." Unfortunately, there was not so much a meeting of minds here as general glaring and distrust. Ah well, you can't have everything I guess.
Chris Larabee -- ex-Navy SEAL, ex-homicide detective, current leader of the best ATF field team in Denver if not the entire nation, and generally agreed upon hard-as-nails motherfucker -- stood in what used to be the immaculately kept front parlor of Big Jim Larabee’s house and looked like he was trying not to cry. To Raylan Givens, who’d been in Larabee’s position (more or less) not so very long ago, it seemed that a few tears were a completely normal and psychologically well-adjusted reaction to the utter destruction of one’s childhood home and the brutal murder of one’s father. Hell, Raylan would’ve shed a few tears for Arlo had he actually died in that shoot-out -- though they’d have been tears of joy.
In truth, Raylan suspected Larabee’s tears were also joyful -- well, everyone in Harlan knew Big Jim’s reputation and there had to be a reason Larabee hadn’t returned home once since shipping out at eighteen -- but he didn’t voice that suspicion. Once you looked past the teary eyes, it was easy to see that Larabee was at the end of a very short rope and as likely to take a friend’s head off as a foe’s, and Raylan wasn’t at all sure where he stood in Larabee’s estimation. So instead Raylan hooked his thumbs into his belt and watched the man stalk through the wreckage. He seemed to be hunting for something and Raylan frowned; the call to Larabee had been a combination of professional courtesy and procedure. It had not been an invitation to come swooping in and take over the investigation (nevermind that that was exactly what Raylan had done the minute Art told him about the shooting. Of course his take over had been justified, as he’d seen Boyd Crowder leaving Big Jim’s house not two days before the murder). The last thing he needed was a bunch of outsiders stomping all over the holler, kicking up hornets nests without thought or care to who would have to deal with consequences.
Best to remind Larabee why he’s here in the first place, Raylan thought, and he nodded toward what was left of the sofa. “Found the body over there,” he said, just in case Larabee had missed the blood that still stained the floorboards.
Larabee grunted and continued to sift through the debris with the toe of his boot. He stooped to examine something and when he stood again he had a grim smile of satisfaction on his face. He returned to the middle of the room and stood, arms crossed, and looking out what had been the parlor’s west wall but what was now mostly a ragged and gaping hole. Raylan followed his gaze and felt his mouth turn down in an involuntary frown.
Looked like Tim and the man Larabee had brought with him had finally reached the shooting point in their game of silent one-upmanship -- at least he assumed the two men were engaged in some sort of ridiculous shooting contest and not sighting down the barrels of their rifles at an approaching person.
Speaking of hornets nests, Raylan thought and he stepped forward just as both men fired.
In the silence that followed the double report, Tim’s “Hoorah, motherfucker,” was surprisingly loud.
“Rangers,” Larabee said, with the fond superiority of one navy man speaking to another. He flashed Raylan a grin then raised his voice and called out, “Vin.”
Larabee’s man looked up to them with mild annoyance, but whatever he saw on Larabee’s face stopped him from speaking. Instead, he picked up his spent casing and passed his rifle off to Tim before loping over to Larabee. Raylan stepped back, prepared to give the two men the pretense of privacy for the reaming out he expected Larabee to deliver. Instead, Larabee nodded to the far corner of the room and the other man was off, exploring the debris with the same hunting care that Larabee had displayed.
“Want Vin to take a look at something,” Larabee said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Raylan shrugged, unable to come up with a decent reason to hustle the two men out of the house and back to the airport. He watched Vin stoop at the same spot that Larabee had and pick up a spent round with a pink bandana. He examined it carefully before dropping it into a plastic evidence bag and heading back to Larabee and Raylan.
“Well?” Larabee asked with the subdued eagerness of a well-trained hound on a trail.
“Could be,” Vin said. “Caliber matches, and I reckon the rifling will match too, but we’ll need a lab to confirm.” He shrugged and pointed at what was left of the wall separating the parlor from the kitchen, “I’d swear on my momma’s grave a SAW did that, and I reckon if we go hunting in the grass ‘round the road we’ll find the casings. Also, looks to me like some damn fool fired off a SMAW from behind the couch without taking the time to check what was behind him.” At Raylan’s incredulous look, he added, “Blast pattern on the wall. Reckon since there weren’t no reports of explosions you’ll find the rocket somewhere in that field over yonder.” He glanced over at Larbee and said, “Report from Carson didn’t mention a SMAW goin’ missing.”
Larabee nodded, clearly unsurprised that his father happened to own a now-missing rocket launcher. He turned to Raylan and said, “Hope you don’t mind us imposin’ on your hospitality a mite longer, Marshal.”
Raylan narrowed his eyes. “Hope you ain’t planning on causin’ trouble, Agent.”
“Some assholes walked into my house and killed my pa,” Larabee said. “What do you think?”
Prompt:Vin, OW, the reason he never took his shirt off was because of the tribal tattoo on his back
Characters/Pairing: Vin, with minor appearances by the others.
Notes: Ok, just. Don't read this one. Seriously. It's pure melodramatic Vin whumpage and the only excuse I can give is that I started writing this one on day 2 of a 10 day cleanse (which was yesterday) and was thus grumpy and headache-y and in need of inflicting pain on someone. It's really just an excuse for me to humiliate and thump Vin some and I'm only including it in this post because I have some sort of insane pathological need to do a ficlet post with at least three ficlets in said post and this is the only one that's even marginally ready to go.
Vin heard the horses just as he reached the edge of the swimming hole. His first instinct was to freeze and hope nobody would notice him -- it was an ancient instinct and one he ruthlessly quashed. His second instinct was to just go ahead and take his swim; he had every right to be here, after all, and besides there was no guarantee the riders were heading here. But he knew the same unrelenting heat that had led him to seek out the swimming hole had suggested the exact same solution to the approaching riders, and there was no way for him to take his swim without exposing his back to curious stares; and there was no way he’d let that happen. The fact that he could hear the riders clearly enough now to determine that one of them was Buck -- which surely meant the other was JD -- only added to his sense of urgency to dress and abandon his swim.
With one last, lingering look at the water, Vin grabbed his clothes from the ground and dressed as quickly as he could. It was hard, though, for even though he was wearing the lightest clothes he owned they were still too hot, too rough, and they chafed. The shirt was the worst, for he’d been sweating something awful and the fabric was stiff with salt.
He’d done up the last button on his trousers when Buck and JD burst around the last bend and cantered into the clearing by the swimming hole. The pair reined in their horses hard in surprise and Vin had to suppress a smile -- surely they didn’t think they were the only ones who knew of the swimming hole.
“Howdy boys,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“Going swimming, Vin?” JD asked, and from the way he smiled it was clear he’d enjoy the additional company.
“Just stopping for water,” Vin said, daring either of the men to ask why he’d taken off Peso’s bridle and loosened the saddle’s girth if all he wanted was water. But it was clear the two were too distracted with the thought of diving into the cool water and escaping from the sun to notice such things, so Vin did up his gear and mounted up without further comment.
“Gonna be here awhile,” Buck called out to him as he nudged Peso into a gentle walk. “In case you change your mind.”
Vin grunted and waved a hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn back.
He thought a lot about his abandoned swim, though, as he saw to his gear in the livery’s sweltering barn; thought about it as he slunk his way down main street to the comparative coolness of the jail. He thought, too, about other ways to cool off -- about galloping through endless prairie grass with nothing between him and his horse but a thin pair of buckskin pants, the rest of him bare and free to be caressed by the cooling wind. Of course those days were over and the only thing a gallop could do for him now would be to remind him of all the things he had lost. Best he could do now was lie on the cool stone of the jail and wait for the night.
He dozed through the rest of the afternoon and when he woke as the last fingers of the sun dipped below the horizon it was to air that was cold but no less stifling. He shivered as his damp shirt created a new level of discomfort and thought about grabbing his coat. He headed to the saloon, instead, and walked in just in time to take a blow to his chest from a chair wielded by a thoroughly drunk Fred Williams.
Vin stumbled back outside, suddenly breathless, and tried to process what he’d seen. It looked like a general brawl had broken out, which meant he couldn’t really be mad at old Fred. On the other hand, a general brawl meant he could hit just about anybody, and right now that was good enough for him.
He went back in swinging, and though he knew it’d been an unfortunate happenstance that led to Fred smacking him with the chair rather than his intended target, Vin still took a certain vicious pleasure in decking Fred. After that it was mostly a matter of punching things until they stopped moving and making his way to Chris and the center of the fight. He was nearly there when someone grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled.
The shirt, already old, tore at the seams, and once more Vin caught himself in the act of freezing.
Panic -- with desperate hope hard on its heels -- flooded through him pushing him to act and he was stepping back and into the man holding onto him before he’d made the conscious decision to move. The arc of his fist was fully thought out, however, and he was reaching out to grab the man’s coat even as his fist connected with the man’s jaw. The man fell like a sack of dropped flour and Vin grunted as his arms took the strain.
It was the work of a moment to strip the man of his coat and shrug it on. It was too big, but that didn’t matter; all that mattered was covering his back, hiding the marks before anybody saw, and he could feel his heart slowing, calming, as the heavy canvas settled on his shoulders. He took a breath and looked around -- it was almost a surprise to see that the brawl was over, though it was less of a surprise to see that it was the other six who were the only survivors.
“Ain’t that Hiram Banks’s coat?” Chris asked as he approached and Vin shrugged.
“Tore my shirt,” he said. He glanced down at his ruined shirt then back up. “I’ll give it back.”
“Hmm,” Chris said, but didn’t push.
“Looked like Fred walloped you good,” Nathan said. “Lemme take a look at them ribs.”
“They’re fine,” Vin said, stepping back, panic flaring again. He looked around again and shook his head, trying to find his balance. “Looks like the fun’s over for the night. Reckon I’ll turn in.”
“Vin--”
“They’re fine,” Vin said again, and he made his escape into the night. True his ribs still ached, but right now all Vin could think of was snagging his bedroll and holing up somewhere quiet and private until he felt like himself again.
When he woke just as dawn turned the sky gunmetal gray, sore and stiff and deeply aware of the bruise purpling his chest, he began to regret his decision. He regretted it even more after two hours of helping Nathan and Josiah pound fence posts into the hard packed ground of the Widow Jacobs’ south pasture. Of course it wasn’t just his ribs that he regretted, but everything about this job. Two hours of hard labor had him drenched and uncomfortable, his shirt clinging to his back and binding on his arms.
Vin straightened up and wiped his forehead. He pulled his shirt away from his chest and thought about how much better he’d feel with it off. Sure he might have to put up with Nathan fussing about the bruise on his chest, but Nathan wouldn’t say anything about his back; hell, Nathan had taken off his shirt after just a half-hour, clearly unconcerned that doing so exposed the mass of scar tissue he carried. Nathan would understand and--
“Water, Vin?” Josiah asked, holding up the pail and dipper, and Vin had to fight like a wildcat to stop himself from flinching away; wasn’t Josiah’s fault that right now he called up shadows in Vin’s mind.
“Thanks, Josiah,” he said as he took a dipperful, ignoring the look Josiah was giving him.
“Lookin’ mighty uncomfortable there, Vin,” Josiah said as he took the dipper back. “Sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said and shouldered his hammer, unable to stop himself from wincing as his shirt rubbed against the bruise on his chest.
Maybe if it’d just been Nathan he could’ve taken his shirt off, could’ve relaxed, but not with Josiah there, with the rosary on his wrist.
It took the better part of the day to finish fencing in Widow Jacobs’ pasture and when they finished all Vin felt was a bone-deep ache that went beyond the bruise on his chest. The ache was enough to make him long for heat, make him more than willing to pay Howard Johnson’s exorbitant fees to get the bathhouse to himself after closing.
The relief he felt settling into the near-scalding water was almost orgasmic.
He was near boneless with relaxation when he heard the door open -- that was the only explanation he could come up with for why he assumed it was just Howard come back to retrieve something from his office. He didn’t even consider that someone else could have made a similar arrangement with Howard Johnson until Ezra was in the room with him, carefully folding his coat and vest and putting them in one of the little cubbies against the wall.
Too late, he thought, feeling the familiar flutter of panic settling into his chest.
But perhaps not. After all, as long as he stayed in his tub there’d be no way for Ezra to see his back.
“Ahh, Mister Tanner,” Ezra said, sounding both pleased and amused. “There is nothing quite like a hot bath after a day’s hard work, is there?”
Vin snorted and slid further into the tub. “Thought you didn’t do hard work.”
“That is true, but I do still enjoy a hot bath.”
Vin nodded and watched with growing despair as Ezra lined up bottle after tiny bottle next to his tub. It was beginning to look like Ezra was here for the long haul and Vin wasn’t sure he’d be able to wait out his companion’s bath. He was already starting to lose some of the good the bath had done him; more than that, he wanted to get away and hide his secrets away under the solid protection of cloth and leather.
So he waited until Ezra stepped into the other room to fetch another pail of hot water before springing out of his tub and reaching for his shirt.
At any other time, he might have made it -- he might have grabbed the shirt and pulled it on before Ezra came back. But he was stiffer than he thought and he slipped on the water he’d spilled onto the floor, losing precious seconds as he caught his balance. And so it was that he was just touching his shirt when Ezra came back in, saying, “Well, Vin, I hope--”
Once again the ancient instinct to freeze, to hope that stillness would prevent seeing, rose up and this time there was nothing Vin could do to stop it. Bile rose in his throat and he couldn’t breathe. He’d been caught with his shirt off, with the tattoos he used to take such pride in on clear display, and he knew what would happen now: the disgust, the sermons, the lash applied again and again until he bled and Father Rusk shouted for the soldiers to hold him down while he beat the savage out of him. The only saving grace was that his last tattoo -- the one he’d seen on his Vision Quest, the one he’d demanded Old Bear tattoo right on his spine so that it rose up like the mountains from the land, the one that had barely healed when the Rangers who’d captured him abandoned him to Father Rusk’s care, the one that had seemed to so personally offend Father Rusk that the lash wasn’t enough -- was so covered with scars that there’d be no need for Ezra to reach for the iron scouring brush Howard Johnson used to clean his tubs; no need to scrub the offending flesh, as Father Rusk had so often done.
Father Rusk had been so clear that the tattoos were the symbol of all that was wrong with him; that they were the mark of the devil, and should never be seen; that all good, godfearing men would have the same reaction upon seeing them; and while Vin didn’t put much stock in the things Father Rusk had told him, he believed this one thing with all of his soul. The Rangers at Fort Worth had never hesitated to take the lash to his marks, after all.
“Vin!” he heard Ezra shout, and he hunched his shoulders against the blow he knew would come.
The heavy weight of Ezra’s coat on his shoulders surprised him and he looked up; Ezra was right in front of him and for a moment Vin was confused by the naked concern on his face. But then Ezra stepped back and assumed his usual expression of polite -- if distant -- interest, though his entire body spoke one eloquent message of discomfort.
“You seemed...distressed,” Ezra said carefully. “If you still...if you would feel, perhaps, more comfortable, I can fetch Nathan. Or Chris?”
“I’m fine,” Vin said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. He clutched Ezra’s jacket closer around his shoulders then forced himself to let go at Ezra’s involuntary wince. “I’m just.” He glanced down at his shirt and then at Ezra. “I. Could you?”
“Of course,” Ezra said, and Vin felt himself breathe a little easier as Ezra moved out of his line of sight and started to walk back to the other room. His breath hitched again as Ezra stopped at the doorway and for a moment he feared that Ezra had changed his mind -- that instead of giving him the privacy he so desperately needed Ezra would, instead, pick up the long poker used to stoke the bathhouse’s fire and come back and lay into him the way Father Rusk swore every man would.
Instead he heard Ezra sigh softly and say, with painful kindness, “Your tattoos are quite...beautiful. Quite...evocative. It seems a shame to keep them covered.”
“Ezra,” Vin began, unsure of what to say, unsure if he was grateful or ashamed; unsure if he needed to ask Ezra to forget what he’d seen; unsure if he wanted Ezra to forget. He could stand a lot of things, but he didn’t think he could stand pity.
“I expect you to return that coat to me in pristine condition, Mister Tanner,” he heard Ezra say as he closed the door separating the two rooms, speaking as though he hadn’t seen the ruin of Vin’s back, the ruin of his courage. “Pristine!”
Vin carefully folded Ezra’s coat and shrugged on his own shirt. He gazed down at the fine cloth -- silk and satin, now marred with dark spots of water -- and felt like, for the first time in a long while, he could finally breathe.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth where there are
comments
mag7daybook prompts. All completely unbeta'd. Um. Sorry?
Prompt: Boogieshoe's Tail-wagger challenge
Characters/Pairing: Vin (and a cross-over cameo)
Notes: So this totally doesn't answer the challenge at all but when I started thinking about the boys and dogs I was hit immediately with a vision of Vin making friends with a pariah dog in Afghanistan during his Ranger days. And then I went and wrote that (and whumped Vin a lot) because why not? (My second thought was JD building a fire-breathing robot dog in the steampunk!seven verse...which may get written anyway because, again, why not?)
Warnings for excessive swearing and casual racism; I've modeled Vin's speech patterns on the speech patterns demonstrated by the current US military force as shown in modern military literature such as Generation Kill and Team Reaper: 3rd Battalions Deadliest Sniper Team. (Also warning for a crappy -- from a writing perspective, not a character/story perspective -- ending because I still suck at finding a good way to finish fics)
Vin doesn’t notice the dog until she’s thrust her cold, wet nose into his hand. He smiles, but doesn’t open his eyes until she does it again, with greater insistence. She’s small and ghostly pale in the gloom and he half thinks she’s a spirit to guide him home. He’s a dead man, after all, even if his body is still alive; knew he was a dead man the minute the building collapsed underneath him, knew it even more when he came to and realized he couldn’t feel anything below the waist, though maybe that’s a blessing given that he seems to have half the building pinning his legs. If he’d been able to reach his knife, then, the dog would never have been able to wake him -- killing himself might not have been the Ranger way, but at that moment he hadn’t felt much like a Ranger, not with the air reeking of his own piss and shit. Besides, he knows what will happen to him if he’s captured and better a fast death at his own hand than the slow and painful one he seems destined for -- though whether it’s at the hands of the Hajis or mother nature, he’s not sure.
The dog whines and inches closer until her nose is touching his cheek. This close, Vin can see that she’s not much more than a puppy, big footed and floppy eared, although one ear is making a spirited attempt at standing; she reminds him of the dogs of his youth, all sharp muzzles and pointed ears and battle scarred. She’s young and battered, just like him, and in his calm delirium he thinks that this means something more than it probably does.
“Hiya, pup,” he whispers to her.
The dog starts and jerks away, practically jumping sideways in her surprise, and he laughs though it hurts to do so. She barks at him twice, warbling, high-pitched yelps, and he laughs again -- at himself, at his fate, at the pain, because he’s finding the fact of his death so absurd -- and closes his eyes. He listens to her shuffle around and thinks she must be leaving; it’s a surprise to feel her tongue on his face, licking him frantically from brow to chin.
“Hey,” he says as she licks him again, just as he opens his eyes. “Enough of that.” He lifts one hand and rubs her ears, trying to push her muzzle and her fetid breath away from his face. She whines again, a somehow joyful keen, and wiggles against him in spasmodic joy, before settling down beside him; her head is heavy on his chest, but it’s a comforting weight. For a moment she’s still, and then she nudges her muzzle against the pocket of his tac vest where he usually keeps his beef jerky, and looks up at him with her ancient eyes.
“Sorry, pup,” he tells her as he strokes the back of her head. “Ain’t got nothin’ for you.”
As though she understands him, she sighs and drops her eyes down. Vin sighs with her and goes back to stroking her velvet soft ears. The movement must soothe her as much as it soothes him because he can feel her relaxing against his side, can feel her breathing slowly even out. His breathing evens out, too, and he loses himself on the soft slide of her fur beneath his fingers.
When he opens his eyes again, she’s gone and Vin’s got two dead mice on his chest. He stares at the little carcasses for a long, confused moment -- he was sure the dog had been real, but maybe not; maybe he’d seen the mice and gotten confused, though how he ended up with dead mice on him might not bear thinking about.
He’s just picked the first mouse off his chest when the dog returns, carrying a third mouse in her mouth. Her tail is wagging so hard her entire butt shakes and she practically prances as she picks her way through the debris to him. She drops the third mouse on his chests and pants at him, her lips pulled back until it looks like she’s smiling.
“Couldn’t’ve fetched me some water, huh?” he asks her, and she barks, sharp and insistent, and nudges the hand holding the mouse.
“No thanks, I’m not hungry,” he tells her and he tosses the mouse away. She snatches it out of the air and eats it with all apparent relish. He laughs at her, a coughing, painful laugh that leaves him breathless and gasping, and she barks at him again, pawing at his arms until he picks up the second mouse for her. He manages to toss it farther this time, and high enough that she has to rear up to snag it as it passes. He’s got the third one in his hand by the time she prances back to him, and he tries to toss it as high and far as the second, but can barely manage to get it off his chest. The dog cocks her head at him, then picks up the mouse and drops it back in his hand.
“Can’t do it, pup,” he tells her, shaking his head. “Ain’t got the energy.”
She whines at him and paws at his arms again, but when he doesn’t move she seems to accept that his part in her little game is over and picks up the mouse from where it still lies in his hand. She tosses it in the air, catches it, tosses it again, lets it fall and then pounces and worries the little form; it’s a good game and he smiles at her boundless, gangling, puppy energy. She tires of it eventually, however, and leaves the mouse where it lands as she ambles back to him. She curls up beside him again, and he’s grateful for that, because he’s feeling cold now. He strokes her ears again and she sighs a happy puppy sigh.
“Good girl,” he murmurs to her and closes his eyes.
She’s still there when he opens his eyes some undetermined time later, but her head is up and both ears are pricked. She’s on the alert for something, and he strains to hear what she hears, but all he hears is the rattle of his breath and the slow thud of his heart. He suspects, though, that it’s the Hajis, come at last to inspect the building, and though he wants her to stay with him, he knows it’s best if she go; he can’t stand to see her shot.
He scratches her ears one last time, then gives her a push and says, “Thanks for the company, pup, but it’s time for you to go.” She flicks an ear back towards him and whines. He pushes at her harder, says, “Go on, git,” but she doesn’t leave. It’s not until he’s thumped her twice in the ribs that she finally stands and moves away from him. She looks at him with such trusting confusion that he almost relents, almost calls her back. He stays firm, though, and tells her, “Git!” again. She edges closer, whines again, wags her tail at him; he reaches out and closes his hand on a piece of concrete.
It’s not much of a throw, but it’s enough. The dog scrambles back, her tail down and tucked. She stops at the far edge of his vision and barks at him -- loud and unhappy and full of betrayal.
“Git, I said!” he shouts at her, and reaches for another stone. She growls -- a low, ugly sound -- and backs away, out of his sight. He sighs and clutches the stone tight -- not much of a weapon, but he’ll take what he can get -- and starts to the recite the Ranger’s creed.
He’s gone through it three times when he hears her start to bark, and the nearly rabid desperation of her voice makes him drop his place. He grits his teeth and starts over; he manages to get all the way to “Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight” when he hears her yelp in pain, and that’s more than his fortitude can take.
“Hey! Hey! You leave her alone!” he shouts as loud as he can, though with each word it feels like he’s ripping his lungs from his chest. “You leave my dog alone, you motherfucking assholes!”
He bangs on the ground next to him, roars out wordlessly, tries to make as much noise as he can. The sooner the Hajis find him, the sooner they’ll leave his dog alone, and he reckons that’s about the most he can hope for right now. He shouts until he’s left panting, each breath tasting of blood, and he thinks it’s worked for he can hear scrabbling noises from somewhere out of his line of sight. But it’s just the dog, scrambling backwards from the outside, snarling and growling and snapping at a man hidden behind a light. She backs all the way to him, backs up until she’s nearly standing on him, and he’s almost afraid to touch her; there’s nothing puppy-ish about her now. But she’s his, and he needs some of her snarling defiance, so he reaches up and rests a hand on her back; her fur bristles under his palm and he can feel the deep rumble of her growl echoing down his arm and into his own chest.
“Thank you,” he whispers to her, and he tries to sit up; he’s a motherfucking Ranger and he’ll be damned if he dies on his back.
“Tanner?” the man behind the light asks, and Vin starts, because he knows that voice. “Jesus Christ. Is that you, Tanner?”
“Howdy Tim,” he says, and he lets himself fall back; his brothers are here, and the relief he feels at that realization is making him tremble. “Took you fellas long enough.”
“Jesus Christ,” he hears Gutterson mutter again, and there’s a hitch to his voice. “Goddamn. Tanner, you dumb, lucky motherfucker.”
“Stop crying, you pussy,” Vin says, though he knows there are tears in his own eyes.
“Fuck you,” Gutterson says, but his voice is gentle. “Those are tears of joy at the thought of all the ass I’m going to buy with the fifty bucks Hayes owes me. We saw the explosion and the dumb motherfucker swore there was no way anybody could survive that. I told him you’re too much of an ornery asshole to let something as insignificant as being on top of a collapsing building stop you.”
Vin laughs and coughs. He turns his head and tries to spit out the blood filling his mouth. Beside him, the dog’s growl grows louder and he hears Gutterson curse as she snaps at him.
“I’m trying to help him, you stupid mutt,” Gutterson says.
“Don’t call her that,” Vin says, and he tightens his grip on her ruff. “She just knows you’re a shifty motherfucker.”
“That’s just like you, Tanner,” Gutterson says. “While the rest of us are working our asses off, you’re down here in the shade communing with nature.” He stretches his hand out again, cautious, and though the dog’s still growling she doesn’t try to bite him this time as he reaches out and grips Vin’s shoulder. He shines his light in Vin’s eyes and Vin flinches away; it feels like someone’s set fire to his eyes, the pain is that intense.
“Would’ve been up sooner but I can’t feel my legs,” Vin says through gritted teeth. He coughs again and adds, “Think I’ve busted up somethin’ in my chest too.”
“Always making excuses,” Gutterson says, but he tightens his grip on Vin’s shoulder.
When he lets go and moves back, the panic that flares in Vin’s chest is almost as painful as the light in his eyes had been. He knows Gutterson isn’t leaving him, that he’s just calling in his report, but that knowledge doesn’t stop him from letting go of the dog and reaching out; the dog darts forward before he can stop her, snarling and snapping and frantic.
“Whoa!” Gutterson says, the light rocketing upwards as he throws up his hands. “Jesus! Christ, Tanner, call her off so I can get you the fuck out of here.”
“Easy, girl,” Vin calls out. His hand catches her tail and he tugs, gently, until she turns her head to him. He whistles at her and she slinks back to his side, though she still casts suspicious looks at Gutterson.
“Good girl,” he tells her. The dog huffs at him and he strokes her back, makes nonsense noises at her until she’s no longer bristling and her mouth has gone soft and loose. He keeps stroking her as Doc crawls down to his side and does something to his chest that makes him feel like he’s been kicked by a mule but makes it easier to breathe; keeps stroking her as his brothers first dig him out, then cut him out, Gutterson shielding both him and the dog from the sparks; keeps stroking her as his legs are slowly revealed, limp, busted, and as useful as a ragdoll’s. He keeps stroking her until Dobson and Doc forcibly stop him, strapping his arm down tight to the litter before hustling him to the waiting bird. Behind him the dog starts to howl.
“Goddamn bitch just bit me!” he hears Hayes curse.
“Hey!” he shouts out as loud as he can, though he knows it’s barely more than a whisper. “You fuckers better take care of her or I’ll kick all y’alls asses!”
“Stop moving you dumb hick,” Doc growls at him. “I’m not about to let you waste all of my hard work by rupturing something and bleeding to death.”
“Gotta take care of my dog,” Vin says stubbornly.
“Ow! Fuck!” Hayes says again, and then Gutterson says, “For Christ's Sake, Hayes, just hold her still.”
Vin tries once again to push himself up and see what’s happening, but Doc’s got a hand on his chest now and he’s a big, solid man with a big, solid hand -- though, hell, Haye’s six-month-old daughter could’ve pinned Vin in place right now. Vin huffs out a curse and tries not to think about what Gutterson is doing to his dog. He trusts these men -- of course he does, they’re his brothers, his fellow Rangers -- but he knows they don’t understand why he cares so much about some dog; even he’s not so sure why the dog is so important to him other than the fact that she had been there in the dark with him.
“Here,” Gutterson says, boosting the dog into the bird and strapping her down beside him where she keens and looks about, whale-eyed, and frantically licks at his face; he’s tied a crude lead around her neck and he pushes the end into Vin’s hand. “Here’s your goddamn dog.”
“Hiya, pup,” he whispers to her, and smiles as she thumps her tail against his side.
Prompt: any, any, “You don’t walk into a man’s house and threaten his family” (extra points for crossing over with Justified, Boyd, Raylan, and/or Tim)
Characters/Pairing: Raylan, Tim, Chris and Vin.
Notes: Two things. First, this is more a Justified fic with appearances by Chris and Vin (in that it's written entirely from Raylan's perspective). Second, I so desperately wanted to use the following as the summary: "Wherein Chris Larabee and Raylan Givens have an agreeable meeting of minds on the first (shoot it) and second (shoot it again) principles of law enforcement." Unfortunately, there was not so much a meeting of minds here as general glaring and distrust. Ah well, you can't have everything I guess.
Chris Larabee -- ex-Navy SEAL, ex-homicide detective, current leader of the best ATF field team in Denver if not the entire nation, and generally agreed upon hard-as-nails motherfucker -- stood in what used to be the immaculately kept front parlor of Big Jim Larabee’s house and looked like he was trying not to cry. To Raylan Givens, who’d been in Larabee’s position (more or less) not so very long ago, it seemed that a few tears were a completely normal and psychologically well-adjusted reaction to the utter destruction of one’s childhood home and the brutal murder of one’s father. Hell, Raylan would’ve shed a few tears for Arlo had he actually died in that shoot-out -- though they’d have been tears of joy.
In truth, Raylan suspected Larabee’s tears were also joyful -- well, everyone in Harlan knew Big Jim’s reputation and there had to be a reason Larabee hadn’t returned home once since shipping out at eighteen -- but he didn’t voice that suspicion. Once you looked past the teary eyes, it was easy to see that Larabee was at the end of a very short rope and as likely to take a friend’s head off as a foe’s, and Raylan wasn’t at all sure where he stood in Larabee’s estimation. So instead Raylan hooked his thumbs into his belt and watched the man stalk through the wreckage. He seemed to be hunting for something and Raylan frowned; the call to Larabee had been a combination of professional courtesy and procedure. It had not been an invitation to come swooping in and take over the investigation (nevermind that that was exactly what Raylan had done the minute Art told him about the shooting. Of course his take over had been justified, as he’d seen Boyd Crowder leaving Big Jim’s house not two days before the murder). The last thing he needed was a bunch of outsiders stomping all over the holler, kicking up hornets nests without thought or care to who would have to deal with consequences.
Best to remind Larabee why he’s here in the first place, Raylan thought, and he nodded toward what was left of the sofa. “Found the body over there,” he said, just in case Larabee had missed the blood that still stained the floorboards.
Larabee grunted and continued to sift through the debris with the toe of his boot. He stooped to examine something and when he stood again he had a grim smile of satisfaction on his face. He returned to the middle of the room and stood, arms crossed, and looking out what had been the parlor’s west wall but what was now mostly a ragged and gaping hole. Raylan followed his gaze and felt his mouth turn down in an involuntary frown.
Looked like Tim and the man Larabee had brought with him had finally reached the shooting point in their game of silent one-upmanship -- at least he assumed the two men were engaged in some sort of ridiculous shooting contest and not sighting down the barrels of their rifles at an approaching person.
Speaking of hornets nests, Raylan thought and he stepped forward just as both men fired.
In the silence that followed the double report, Tim’s “Hoorah, motherfucker,” was surprisingly loud.
“Rangers,” Larabee said, with the fond superiority of one navy man speaking to another. He flashed Raylan a grin then raised his voice and called out, “Vin.”
Larabee’s man looked up to them with mild annoyance, but whatever he saw on Larabee’s face stopped him from speaking. Instead, he picked up his spent casing and passed his rifle off to Tim before loping over to Larabee. Raylan stepped back, prepared to give the two men the pretense of privacy for the reaming out he expected Larabee to deliver. Instead, Larabee nodded to the far corner of the room and the other man was off, exploring the debris with the same hunting care that Larabee had displayed.
“Want Vin to take a look at something,” Larabee said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Raylan shrugged, unable to come up with a decent reason to hustle the two men out of the house and back to the airport. He watched Vin stoop at the same spot that Larabee had and pick up a spent round with a pink bandana. He examined it carefully before dropping it into a plastic evidence bag and heading back to Larabee and Raylan.
“Well?” Larabee asked with the subdued eagerness of a well-trained hound on a trail.
“Could be,” Vin said. “Caliber matches, and I reckon the rifling will match too, but we’ll need a lab to confirm.” He shrugged and pointed at what was left of the wall separating the parlor from the kitchen, “I’d swear on my momma’s grave a SAW did that, and I reckon if we go hunting in the grass ‘round the road we’ll find the casings. Also, looks to me like some damn fool fired off a SMAW from behind the couch without taking the time to check what was behind him.” At Raylan’s incredulous look, he added, “Blast pattern on the wall. Reckon since there weren’t no reports of explosions you’ll find the rocket somewhere in that field over yonder.” He glanced over at Larbee and said, “Report from Carson didn’t mention a SMAW goin’ missing.”
Larabee nodded, clearly unsurprised that his father happened to own a now-missing rocket launcher. He turned to Raylan and said, “Hope you don’t mind us imposin’ on your hospitality a mite longer, Marshal.”
Raylan narrowed his eyes. “Hope you ain’t planning on causin’ trouble, Agent.”
“Some assholes walked into my house and killed my pa,” Larabee said. “What do you think?”
Prompt:Vin, OW, the reason he never took his shirt off was because of the tribal tattoo on his back
Characters/Pairing: Vin, with minor appearances by the others.
Notes: Ok, just. Don't read this one. Seriously. It's pure melodramatic Vin whumpage and the only excuse I can give is that I started writing this one on day 2 of a 10 day cleanse (which was yesterday) and was thus grumpy and headache-y and in need of inflicting pain on someone. It's really just an excuse for me to humiliate and thump Vin some and I'm only including it in this post because I have some sort of insane pathological need to do a ficlet post with at least three ficlets in said post and this is the only one that's even marginally ready to go.
Vin heard the horses just as he reached the edge of the swimming hole. His first instinct was to freeze and hope nobody would notice him -- it was an ancient instinct and one he ruthlessly quashed. His second instinct was to just go ahead and take his swim; he had every right to be here, after all, and besides there was no guarantee the riders were heading here. But he knew the same unrelenting heat that had led him to seek out the swimming hole had suggested the exact same solution to the approaching riders, and there was no way for him to take his swim without exposing his back to curious stares; and there was no way he’d let that happen. The fact that he could hear the riders clearly enough now to determine that one of them was Buck -- which surely meant the other was JD -- only added to his sense of urgency to dress and abandon his swim.
With one last, lingering look at the water, Vin grabbed his clothes from the ground and dressed as quickly as he could. It was hard, though, for even though he was wearing the lightest clothes he owned they were still too hot, too rough, and they chafed. The shirt was the worst, for he’d been sweating something awful and the fabric was stiff with salt.
He’d done up the last button on his trousers when Buck and JD burst around the last bend and cantered into the clearing by the swimming hole. The pair reined in their horses hard in surprise and Vin had to suppress a smile -- surely they didn’t think they were the only ones who knew of the swimming hole.
“Howdy boys,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“Going swimming, Vin?” JD asked, and from the way he smiled it was clear he’d enjoy the additional company.
“Just stopping for water,” Vin said, daring either of the men to ask why he’d taken off Peso’s bridle and loosened the saddle’s girth if all he wanted was water. But it was clear the two were too distracted with the thought of diving into the cool water and escaping from the sun to notice such things, so Vin did up his gear and mounted up without further comment.
“Gonna be here awhile,” Buck called out to him as he nudged Peso into a gentle walk. “In case you change your mind.”
Vin grunted and waved a hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn back.
He thought a lot about his abandoned swim, though, as he saw to his gear in the livery’s sweltering barn; thought about it as he slunk his way down main street to the comparative coolness of the jail. He thought, too, about other ways to cool off -- about galloping through endless prairie grass with nothing between him and his horse but a thin pair of buckskin pants, the rest of him bare and free to be caressed by the cooling wind. Of course those days were over and the only thing a gallop could do for him now would be to remind him of all the things he had lost. Best he could do now was lie on the cool stone of the jail and wait for the night.
He dozed through the rest of the afternoon and when he woke as the last fingers of the sun dipped below the horizon it was to air that was cold but no less stifling. He shivered as his damp shirt created a new level of discomfort and thought about grabbing his coat. He headed to the saloon, instead, and walked in just in time to take a blow to his chest from a chair wielded by a thoroughly drunk Fred Williams.
Vin stumbled back outside, suddenly breathless, and tried to process what he’d seen. It looked like a general brawl had broken out, which meant he couldn’t really be mad at old Fred. On the other hand, a general brawl meant he could hit just about anybody, and right now that was good enough for him.
He went back in swinging, and though he knew it’d been an unfortunate happenstance that led to Fred smacking him with the chair rather than his intended target, Vin still took a certain vicious pleasure in decking Fred. After that it was mostly a matter of punching things until they stopped moving and making his way to Chris and the center of the fight. He was nearly there when someone grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled.
The shirt, already old, tore at the seams, and once more Vin caught himself in the act of freezing.
Panic -- with desperate hope hard on its heels -- flooded through him pushing him to act and he was stepping back and into the man holding onto him before he’d made the conscious decision to move. The arc of his fist was fully thought out, however, and he was reaching out to grab the man’s coat even as his fist connected with the man’s jaw. The man fell like a sack of dropped flour and Vin grunted as his arms took the strain.
It was the work of a moment to strip the man of his coat and shrug it on. It was too big, but that didn’t matter; all that mattered was covering his back, hiding the marks before anybody saw, and he could feel his heart slowing, calming, as the heavy canvas settled on his shoulders. He took a breath and looked around -- it was almost a surprise to see that the brawl was over, though it was less of a surprise to see that it was the other six who were the only survivors.
“Ain’t that Hiram Banks’s coat?” Chris asked as he approached and Vin shrugged.
“Tore my shirt,” he said. He glanced down at his ruined shirt then back up. “I’ll give it back.”
“Hmm,” Chris said, but didn’t push.
“Looked like Fred walloped you good,” Nathan said. “Lemme take a look at them ribs.”
“They’re fine,” Vin said, stepping back, panic flaring again. He looked around again and shook his head, trying to find his balance. “Looks like the fun’s over for the night. Reckon I’ll turn in.”
“Vin--”
“They’re fine,” Vin said again, and he made his escape into the night. True his ribs still ached, but right now all Vin could think of was snagging his bedroll and holing up somewhere quiet and private until he felt like himself again.
When he woke just as dawn turned the sky gunmetal gray, sore and stiff and deeply aware of the bruise purpling his chest, he began to regret his decision. He regretted it even more after two hours of helping Nathan and Josiah pound fence posts into the hard packed ground of the Widow Jacobs’ south pasture. Of course it wasn’t just his ribs that he regretted, but everything about this job. Two hours of hard labor had him drenched and uncomfortable, his shirt clinging to his back and binding on his arms.
Vin straightened up and wiped his forehead. He pulled his shirt away from his chest and thought about how much better he’d feel with it off. Sure he might have to put up with Nathan fussing about the bruise on his chest, but Nathan wouldn’t say anything about his back; hell, Nathan had taken off his shirt after just a half-hour, clearly unconcerned that doing so exposed the mass of scar tissue he carried. Nathan would understand and--
“Water, Vin?” Josiah asked, holding up the pail and dipper, and Vin had to fight like a wildcat to stop himself from flinching away; wasn’t Josiah’s fault that right now he called up shadows in Vin’s mind.
“Thanks, Josiah,” he said as he took a dipperful, ignoring the look Josiah was giving him.
“Lookin’ mighty uncomfortable there, Vin,” Josiah said as he took the dipper back. “Sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said and shouldered his hammer, unable to stop himself from wincing as his shirt rubbed against the bruise on his chest.
Maybe if it’d just been Nathan he could’ve taken his shirt off, could’ve relaxed, but not with Josiah there, with the rosary on his wrist.
It took the better part of the day to finish fencing in Widow Jacobs’ pasture and when they finished all Vin felt was a bone-deep ache that went beyond the bruise on his chest. The ache was enough to make him long for heat, make him more than willing to pay Howard Johnson’s exorbitant fees to get the bathhouse to himself after closing.
The relief he felt settling into the near-scalding water was almost orgasmic.
He was near boneless with relaxation when he heard the door open -- that was the only explanation he could come up with for why he assumed it was just Howard come back to retrieve something from his office. He didn’t even consider that someone else could have made a similar arrangement with Howard Johnson until Ezra was in the room with him, carefully folding his coat and vest and putting them in one of the little cubbies against the wall.
Too late, he thought, feeling the familiar flutter of panic settling into his chest.
But perhaps not. After all, as long as he stayed in his tub there’d be no way for Ezra to see his back.
“Ahh, Mister Tanner,” Ezra said, sounding both pleased and amused. “There is nothing quite like a hot bath after a day’s hard work, is there?”
Vin snorted and slid further into the tub. “Thought you didn’t do hard work.”
“That is true, but I do still enjoy a hot bath.”
Vin nodded and watched with growing despair as Ezra lined up bottle after tiny bottle next to his tub. It was beginning to look like Ezra was here for the long haul and Vin wasn’t sure he’d be able to wait out his companion’s bath. He was already starting to lose some of the good the bath had done him; more than that, he wanted to get away and hide his secrets away under the solid protection of cloth and leather.
So he waited until Ezra stepped into the other room to fetch another pail of hot water before springing out of his tub and reaching for his shirt.
At any other time, he might have made it -- he might have grabbed the shirt and pulled it on before Ezra came back. But he was stiffer than he thought and he slipped on the water he’d spilled onto the floor, losing precious seconds as he caught his balance. And so it was that he was just touching his shirt when Ezra came back in, saying, “Well, Vin, I hope--”
Once again the ancient instinct to freeze, to hope that stillness would prevent seeing, rose up and this time there was nothing Vin could do to stop it. Bile rose in his throat and he couldn’t breathe. He’d been caught with his shirt off, with the tattoos he used to take such pride in on clear display, and he knew what would happen now: the disgust, the sermons, the lash applied again and again until he bled and Father Rusk shouted for the soldiers to hold him down while he beat the savage out of him. The only saving grace was that his last tattoo -- the one he’d seen on his Vision Quest, the one he’d demanded Old Bear tattoo right on his spine so that it rose up like the mountains from the land, the one that had barely healed when the Rangers who’d captured him abandoned him to Father Rusk’s care, the one that had seemed to so personally offend Father Rusk that the lash wasn’t enough -- was so covered with scars that there’d be no need for Ezra to reach for the iron scouring brush Howard Johnson used to clean his tubs; no need to scrub the offending flesh, as Father Rusk had so often done.
Father Rusk had been so clear that the tattoos were the symbol of all that was wrong with him; that they were the mark of the devil, and should never be seen; that all good, godfearing men would have the same reaction upon seeing them; and while Vin didn’t put much stock in the things Father Rusk had told him, he believed this one thing with all of his soul. The Rangers at Fort Worth had never hesitated to take the lash to his marks, after all.
“Vin!” he heard Ezra shout, and he hunched his shoulders against the blow he knew would come.
The heavy weight of Ezra’s coat on his shoulders surprised him and he looked up; Ezra was right in front of him and for a moment Vin was confused by the naked concern on his face. But then Ezra stepped back and assumed his usual expression of polite -- if distant -- interest, though his entire body spoke one eloquent message of discomfort.
“You seemed...distressed,” Ezra said carefully. “If you still...if you would feel, perhaps, more comfortable, I can fetch Nathan. Or Chris?”
“I’m fine,” Vin said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. He clutched Ezra’s jacket closer around his shoulders then forced himself to let go at Ezra’s involuntary wince. “I’m just.” He glanced down at his shirt and then at Ezra. “I. Could you?”
“Of course,” Ezra said, and Vin felt himself breathe a little easier as Ezra moved out of his line of sight and started to walk back to the other room. His breath hitched again as Ezra stopped at the doorway and for a moment he feared that Ezra had changed his mind -- that instead of giving him the privacy he so desperately needed Ezra would, instead, pick up the long poker used to stoke the bathhouse’s fire and come back and lay into him the way Father Rusk swore every man would.
Instead he heard Ezra sigh softly and say, with painful kindness, “Your tattoos are quite...beautiful. Quite...evocative. It seems a shame to keep them covered.”
“Ezra,” Vin began, unsure of what to say, unsure if he was grateful or ashamed; unsure if he needed to ask Ezra to forget what he’d seen; unsure if he wanted Ezra to forget. He could stand a lot of things, but he didn’t think he could stand pity.
“I expect you to return that coat to me in pristine condition, Mister Tanner,” he heard Ezra say as he closed the door separating the two rooms, speaking as though he hadn’t seen the ruin of Vin’s back, the ruin of his courage. “Pristine!”
Vin carefully folded Ezra’s coat and shrugged on his own shirt. He gazed down at the fine cloth -- silk and satin, now marred with dark spots of water -- and felt like, for the first time in a long while, he could finally breathe.
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