I do not own any of the characters from Mag7. They belong to the associated companies, including MGM and Mirisch Trilogy, I believe, and their creators. I am not making money off of them. Please do not sue me. The characters that I have created belong to me, and are copywrited as such.
The ATF version of the Magnificent Seven universe was created by MOG.
The song being used for this story is Every Word is a Piece of my Heart by Jon Bon Jovi, from his Destination Anywhere album. The lyrics do not belong to me either. I am making no money from them.
This story is rated PG-15, though the rating may go up. This story contains violence, uses some stereotypes of the characters, and thus somewhat bastardizes some them. It also contains a male/male relationship. If this is not your cup of tea, please do not read any further.
Pairings: Chris/Ezra
Author's notes: // Indicates where the song lyrics are being used. Italics indicate memories. Actual handwriting is the letter.
/I've been staring at the page
For what seems like days
I guess I put this off for awhile/
The paper lies blank before me, as it has for hours, days, maybe even weeks. I sit in the silence, ignoring what noise there is and finally uncap my pen. My only strong thought is that it was far easier to write my report than it is to write this, and I shudder at the mere idea of actually writing something as prosaic as stream of consciousness. But I must begin somewhere, and that seems to be the best way to start.
Chris,
I am at an utter loss as to how I should explain myself, my position, to you and to the team. But then it always seems to be thus. It was apparent enough to me in the very beginning when you brought me here from Atlanta, with no explanations, and I could not even find the words to tell you why I had disappeared. Of course, you never asked and I doubt I would have said anyway, so it really is a moot point.
You gave me another chance after that, a chance to prove myself to you. I never told you what that chance meant to me, and perhaps I should have. It would not have made any difference in your opinion of me though, I know that. For all that you gave me the chance you never appeared to forgive me for my faux pas. You left me with no doubt as to where I stood with you, and that always made you better than the rest of the team in my eyes. I was always last in your world-view, and so long as I did my job you were content to ignore me. If only you had realized how much I hate to be ignored. I've had far too much of that in my life, but then you've met Mother.
I never really knew entirely where I was with the rest of the team. Mr. Jackson generally seems perfectly friendly to me, if a bit holier-than-thou in attitude, but he never even gave me the second chance that you did. With the others it's an ongoing cycle. They act like they adore me, that they can't bear to have me on the outside looking in. They try to bring me inside, entirely ignoring my feelings on the matter, and then when a disaster inevitably occurs—as it always will, considering our line of work—it is myself who falls from fellow brother to scapegoat. United in their recriminations, I am once again left out in the cold. Much as it was with Mother. She would also act like she adored me only so she could entice me into assisting her with a con, and as soon as she needed a scapegoat or just didn't require me anymore, I would no longer be welcome at her side and I felt the cold once more.
And let me assure you, Mr. Larabee…Chris, the cold is bitter. It is icier than the winter wind that is currently howling outside the windows. Have I ever mentioned how much I loathe winter? How much I abhorred you for bringing me out here to this desolate icebox? There are days, most days actually, that I long for Atlanta's steady, steamy heat. I was alone there too, but at the least I was warm.
The door creaked open, breaking my shambling train of thoughts. I looked up from the rapidly filling paper, abruptly finding myself back in the stark white room, that was filled with tubes and wires, and the incessant sounds of beeping and hissing.
Buck stood, framed by the doorway, with a snarl crossing his usually genial features. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled.
“I was under the impression that I was sitting and providing Mr. Larabee with my currently less than stellar company,” I replied, keeping my words fairly simple. It would take far too much energy, which I simply didn't have to spare, to deal with him as I normally would. I needed that energy for other more important things than explaining my words to Mr. Wilmington. And even he should have understood my meaning. He certainly appeared to, and then as ever ignored them.
His expression darkened even further. “You,” he said the word like a curse, “don't get to sit with him. You're a good for nothing traitor. I don't know when you sold Chris out, but I'll find out and you'll pay for what you've done to him! Get out!”
He lunged towards me and jerked me out of the chair, sending the pen and papers flying. I bit back a cry of pain and I found myself unable to comprehend its source. The heart monitors began to shriek insanely. He dropped me to the floor with a second snarled, “Get out.”
I picked up my fallen papers and pen and nodded. I walked to the door and turned to face him. “Please, do have it your own way, Mr. Wilmington. The lot of you always do.” I exited into the corridor, sidestepping the onrushing doctors and nurses. I once more knew precisely where I stood.
I slowly meandered my way from the Intensive Care Unit to the Parking Garage. I did not want to leave, but neither had I any desire to cause such an acrimonious atmosphere there. So I left, with a painful feeling in my gut that I couldn't just attribute to my feelings. I felt like I'd been punched, but I could not recollect it happening, that day at any rate.
I retrieved my keys from my coat pocket and slid into the plush interior of the Jag, that I still do not entirely believe is mine, and started it up. I began to pull out of the garage when I realized that it wasn't just windy out. The weather was instead border lining upon blizzard conditions and I knew I would have to be very careful to find my way home through the storm. I snorted wryly at the thought—it was such an apt metaphor for my life.
I contemplated the metaphor briefly. I thought I'd finally found a home from the storm here with him. I was either grievously deluding myself, or my home had been destroyed. I wasn't entirely sure which. Although every time before I'd been deluding myself. I pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind and concentrated on getting myself home.
I drove slowly and carefully, using the trip to block out my thoughts. Still, I was lucky enough to reach my destination intact. I parked the car and stumbled through the blinding storm to my door. I let myself in and rearmed the alarm. I shed my coat and headed for the living room, my letter clutched in my hand. I had to finish it. Should he awaken he had to understand, for I do not believe he ever did. He never understood where I was coming from even though I had told him, he wouldn't understand what had happened, and I wanted him to. I only wanted him to.
/Did I see a tear fall from your eyes
Or did you laugh so hard that you cried
When I served my secrets on a silver tray to you/
I settled myself down at my desk with a bottle of whiskey, a glass, some letters, and my paper. And once more I paused, unsure how to begin again. I swallowed some of the whiskey, shrugged, and once more decided to go where my meandering thoughts took me. I reread the last line of my letter, and began again.
I've always preferred to live in a warm climate. Part of it is simply that I physically loathe the feeling of the cold weather on my skin. Another part of it simply is that cold, snow filled weather makes me think of the emotional wasteland—empty and frozen—that I have lived my entire life in. No one has really cared for me. Not Mother. Not various relatives or people that purported to be my friends. I was either forced upon them, in one way or another, or they wanted to use me for their own ends. I knew it from the start, felt it from the start. That ice surrounded me from my earliest memories.
I know I have alluded to this to you, time and again, Chris, but I have never clearly spelled it out. And no matter how hard I am trying here, I don't know that I even can. Not even now, under these circumstances. I most abjectly apologize.
At any rate, I can also remember trying to get Mother to fill that wasteland. To make me feel warm, wanted, loved. I did whatever she wanted. I didn't complain when she left, I rejoiced when she returned, and I learned everything I could so that I could be useful to her. Nothing worked. I lived most of my life in the South, with and without Mother, and I found myself worshipping the heat. I think the first time I was brought North was when I was seven, and Mother needed me in Boston. We were there during one of their coldest winters, and that was when I first realized that I used the heat of the South to try to counteract the chill of my surroundings. I hated the cold.
I still do. But I have said that already, and I fear I am making little sense. At any rate, so long as I was warm on the outside, I could pretend to be warm on the inside, no matter who ignored me or how lonely I was.
That was why, after I graduated from college, and the FBI academy, I worked very hard to be stationed in Atlanta. You already know the story of why things went sour there, and I will not waste paper rehashing how the rumors and the lies got started, and Mother's ill timed gifts all conspired to make the posting even more unbearable than it was.
I will say that you came, starting your precious team and only wanted the best, and for some unknown reason you chose me. Oh, I'm not saying I'm not the best undercover agent that there is, for we both know that to be a blatant falsehood. But we also both know that I do not work well with teams, and that after the life I have lead, I… I do not trust people. I'm not sure I ever will.
It is that very lack of trust that caused all our problems on that first assignment. I did not trust the tactical information that was given to me, and I was wise not to, I'll take the time to add, and so I was late for the altercation, and thus caused all of our own problems. I'll say no more than that at this time, for that is really all there is to say.
Things did not really improve. I have said that before. You were the only person with whom I felt sure that I knew where I stood. You gave me a second chance, but you were open with your lack of trust. You expected me to do my job, you trusted me to do that, but you did not trust me with the lives of the team, with your friends, for they shall never be my friends. Acquaintances yes, but friends no, and do not bother protesting Chris, I know precisely where I stand with them, even if they can never be as open as you.
But then even that is a fallacy. I never really knew where I stood with you, because you used that initial anger, that initial lack of trust to cover up what you really felt.
I looked up from my writing, pausing to reflect on what I had said, knowing it was nothing but the truth, tangled as it was. My life had rarely been happy or loving. And the lack of trust given to me was merely a reflection of the lack of trust I felt and gave to the people around me. I'd learned at a young age that the only person I could truly trust was myself, and that held true for dependency. For the longest time I only depended upon myself.
I sighed, and took another sip of my whiskey. It burned a path down my throat, and savored it as I looked out the window. The snow was still rapidly covering the earth, and the wind howled giving voice to my inner agony. It was slowly growing dark, and soon the window would tell me little about the conditions outside. The lights flickered, and I knew that the power would most likely go out soon.
I rose, gathering together several kerosene lamps, a flashlight, and spare batteries. I then retired once more to my desk. My letter waited upon me.
I still reel in shock at how I found out, when I realized how good an actor you really could be. Buck, who has known you the longest never had any idea, and as for Vin, with his almost telepathic connection to you, even he has no idea about how you really felt. I applaud you Chris, even if I could not then.
I still recall going out to your ranch that night to go over the details of the Moretti case. Mother had recently come to town, and you informed me that you just wanted to go over the details one last time, just to be sure that her visit hadn't put me off my game. I remember feeling so offended that you thought a visit with Cyclone Maude could put me off my game. I chalked it up to your not trusting me, and acquiesced, with some ill grace, I will admit.
I still cannot entirely believe how wrong I was.
I drove out and found that it was just you and I, and not the entire team as I had partially been expecting. You kept me there all afternoon, cooked supper, and kept me there for most of the evening. And all the while a storm was building, both outside and inside. You also kept a steady stream of alcohol coming. I think we were both slightly tipsy, but not actually drunk. I don't remember the last time I actually let myself get drunk…
At any rate, I knew I wasn't sober enough to drive home, not in that storm, and you weren't inclined to let me. I gave in to your demands and put my keys in the 'drunk' drawer, and prepared myself to spend the night. And that's when you let loose with your real reason for inviting me over.
Despite all the stress and tension that revolves around those memories Chris, and all the brief unhappiness they caused, I just want you to know that they are still some of the best in my life.
The night had been pleasant, even though we had been endlessly going over the details of the Moretti case. But I couldn't argue going over them, especially since we'd found some loose ends that none of us had realized were there. That meeting made the case extremely smooth. Almost as smooth as my best whiskey…or those satin sheets. Your true reason for inviting me over, now that was not pleasant.
You wanted, no demanded to know why Mother's visits always threw me. Why her stories about my youth made me so angry. You wanted to know my past, and I wasn't going anywhere until you knew. For quite some time I actually hated you for that Chris Larabee. But not as much as I hate not knowing whether or not you'll live or die…
I put my pen down and stood up determinedly and winced with pain. My stomach still hurt, and I could think of no reason why it should. The medical profession had pronounced me quite all right. A little bruised but fine. And then I decided it didn't matter. I had a call to make, and I could only hope the phone lines were still working.
They were, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I dialed the hospital, my only thoughts on Chris. He had to still be alive, he had to be. If he was not among the living then I knew I would soon hear the last trumpet, and I would not argue the call.
“St. Mary's General Hospital, Nurse Stevens speaking, how may I help you?” a tired voice answered the phone.
“Nurse Stevens, this is Ezra Standish,” I introduced myself, “would you be so kind as to enlighten me as to how my compatriot, Mr. Larabee, is faring?”
I heard a faint, tired giggle from the other end of the phone. “Ezra Standish, I swear you could put death off by the number of words you use, and frankly it's good to hear tonight. Let me just look Mr. Larabee up for you.” There was a pause as she did just that. “He's still listed as stable but in critical condition. Is there any message that I can pass on to the rest of your teammates for you?” she kindly inquired.
“Thank you for enlightening me as to Mr. Larabee's condition, and for your kind offer, dear Lady, but no, there is no message to be passed on. Although if his condition deteriorates, and you have the time, I would appreciate the knowledge of such change in condition.”
“If I have the time I will call you, Mr. Standish,” Nurse Stevens promised. I did not expect her to fulfill such a promise, not with the weather in the state it was, so I merely thanked her and let her go and then I collapsed onto the couch, lost in memories.
“So Ezra, why does a visit with Maude throw you so hard? For that matter, why did her childhood stories of you bug you so darn much?” Chris asked a determined look on his face.
“I beg your pardon?” I inquired, with a slightly offended tone. “My Mother's visits do not 'throw' me, nor do her stories inconvenience or irritate me in any manner.” I was lying through my teeth, and both he and I knew it. My reactions to Mother and her stories couldn't have been any more plain after I'd left the restaurant angrily, with Mother's voice echoing behind me as she came up with some plausible excuse for my behavior. She certainly had enough of them that she could use.
“You heard me,” Chris snorted. “You have excellent hearing, or so you've told us. So answer the question. Truthfully this time.”
“Are you implying that I would be untruthful over such a minor manner?” I replied, trying to drag him off the topic. I should have chosen another tack to begin my distraction with.
“Well, given that you're still refusing to answer the question honestly, and in light of your actions towards your Mother while she was here, I'd have to say I've gone beyond implying and into out right saying.”
I had to concede the point. He had gone into saying. It wasn't any of his business though, and I proceeded to inform him of that very fact. “Mr. Larabee, my relationship with my most esteemed Mother is none of your concern, nor is it in any way your business. Said relationship will not interfere with my work.”
“Ez…” My glare stopped him in his tracks and he started again. “Ezra, it already has interfered with work and your relationship with the team and you know it. That lovely little scene in the restaurant is proof of that. And if I try very hard to remember to address you as Ezra at all times and not as Ez, would you please call me Chris?”
“I will consider it,” I told him and stopped. I really did not desire to discuss my relationship with Mother.
“Fine, it's a deal,” Chris returned. “Now about your relationship with Maude? What upset you so damn much?”
“Nothing what-so-ever,” I answered, my tone indicating my dislike of the topic.
“Uh huh, that's why you stalked out, leaving your Mother alone with strange people, in a cream colored huff. That's a sure indication that nothing is going on. Spill it, Ez, because I am not dropping the topic.”
I could tell by the firm look in his eyes, and the jaw that was slowly tightening into the familiar Larabee glare, that he was telling the truth. And I was tipsy. So I gave in. I told him what he wanted to know.
“I left because I do not like listening to my Mother lie about my life. Or rather her stories about the wonderful times we shared, because there were no such times. She kept me with her only when she needed help getting her newest husband, or some other such business venture. My life with Mother was a business venture, no loving and fun times such as she loves to invent. She left me with relatives that did not desire my company or paid for me to be educated in various boarding schools. My relationship with my Mother is fairly non-existent, and as such it cannot interfere with my status on this team. Are we finished now Mr. Larabee?”
He sighed. “No, Ezra, we are not finished. I can't help but think you gave in just a bit too easily. Of course, I also can't see why you'd lie about that. But, from what I saw of your Mother she just doesn't seem the type…” He trailed off.
I snorted. “That, Mr. Larabee, is because you have not spent any large amount of time anywhere near my Mother. Her entire life is a business venture in which she only desires to look out for number one, which is herself. And I shall amend that statement slightly; Mother looks out for herself and occasionally tries to look out for me as well, especially if it is in her benefit as well. By telling you tales about my 'happy' childhood with her, not only does she improve her standing with you and with the team, but she also tries to ease my integration with you.
“And while I appreciate her sincere efforts, I do not like her methods. I have enough falsehoods in my life, enough acting jobs that I have to portray because of my job, that I choose not to acknowledge or try to live up to the ones she painted at the restaurant. I simply do not have the time or energy for them. I have more important ones to devote my energy to.
“I have explained this to Mother, but since she wants me to live a different kind of life than the one I am leading, she chooses to forget my explanations to her. In her defense, her own upbringing has dictated this behavior and her desire to look out for herself on any front she can, including me.
“Now, Mr. Larabee, are we through with this topic of conversation?” I inquired, my tone determined. Even if he wasn't finished with it, I was. I had no intentions of answering any further questions. I hoped that with the amount of information that I had deposited upon him he would have to cogitate on it for quite some time before he'd ever bring it up again, if he ever did.
Mr. Larabee looked rather shocked at the deluge of information. “I suppose,” he said, “for now anyway. Are you going to call me Chris or not?”
“I said, Mr. Larabee, that I would ruminate upon the subject, I did not give a definitive answer.” He merely sighed at the answer and let the conversation drift to lighter matters until we opted to retire for the night.
Or rather he decided to retire, I admitted to myself as I came out of my memories. My hand stroked the soft leather of my couch and my heart ached with regret as I remembered how much time we had lost. That night had been Chris' opening volley in his decision to get closer to me, and after he'd retired I had sincerely regretted how much I'd given away about myself and my Mother. And as such I acted to further push him away.
I shoved myself off the couch with a wince and moved back to my desk and its comfortable chair. I had a missive to finish and memories, as pleasant as they were, would not get it completed.
I loathe not knowing what is going to happen, the indecision of it all, even if life consists of vague chances and mass indecision. I want to know where I am going, and what I am doing at any given moment, a fact that I know I apprised you of. I have said many a time that I abhor gambling, and as such leave nothing to chance.
Yet your life now depends on nothing but chance, the whim of fate, all because of a botched mission where you opted to put your life in danger for mine. I would just like to say, loud and clear Chris Larabee; don't you ever do that again.
Of course, if you die, it will be moot, because you will not be able to put your life in danger for mine. Have I mentioned lately how much I loathe stating the obvious, and yet I seem to be doing rather frequently in this missive. However, if you live, we will be having a long talk about this penchant of yours to put yourself in danger at the slightest provocation, and to think you yell at me about doing that. A bit of the pot calling kettle, now isn't it?
Still, stop doing it, Christopher Larabee. I don't want your life held up to the vagaries of fate any more than it has to be. I do not want you to die for me. The thought is, quite simply, depressing.
I find myself once again off the point, if I even have one. I am searching for it, for the words that I have lived my life by, and I still find myself coming up short in this letter. The vagaries of fate and your suicidal tendencies aside, I was trying to explain my actions on the first night you actually tried to breach my walls.
I did not like the fact that I had gotten moderately tipsy. No, that's not true. I could deal with the mere fact that I was tipsy. I did not like the fact that I had chosen to actually answer your question and volunteer excess information on the subject of myself and Mother, with only a minimal of prompting. It went against everything I had ever learned, and against everything that Mother taught me. After you went to sleep I lay in that guest bed room and tried to rationalize it to myself.
I had been a member of your team for nearly a year, and I had not truly repaid you for the second chance. That was one of my reasons. But it all boiled down to the simple truth that I still had no reason to trust you, and this break down, be it your fault for plying me with alcohol, or my fault for actually admitting too much, was still a distinct problem. So, I vowed to push you away. I plunged myself into work, backed away from you and from the team. I immersed myself in the undercover scene, and rewarded you with information…and 'smart assed' commentary.
So much wasted time.
Needless to say, I regret the amount of time I have wasted, that I could have spent getting to know you better. That we could have spent together, just us two. I regret disliking you for something as irrational as you trying to get close to me, and my history with Mother preventing it. I am sorry, Chris.
/Hey now, I guess the night's just bringing me down
There's no love, there's no hate
I left them there for you to take
But, know that every word was a piece of my heart/
You once told me that you spent that first year fighting yourself, about what you felt towards me. Then you spent nearly a year fighting to find a way to tell me how you felt because, as you said, I am a “stubborn southern cuss who would push away anyone and everyone just to protect myself, and never realize that someone could truly want friendship or something more.” Perhaps you are right. But I did eventually stop pushing you away. And I did come back to your ranch by myself, although you had to trick me into that too.
I remember how you informed me that it was a team meeting and that I was to be prompt. I was half an hour late, just out of spite and it didn't make a difference because you had lied. It was again just myself and your august presence. I recollect being extremely annoyed that I had fallen for your cheap trick and was bound and determined to leave. You didn't let me, and for that I am grateful. That night you took the time to batter the fact that you wanted to be my friend into my head, that the status quo of me being removed endangered the team and myself. So I acquiesced. I let Mr. Tanner believe that it was his overtures that finally pulled me in, but we knew the truth. It was you, and only you.
I loved how you instigated weekly meetings at your ranch so we could go over cases, as we had done that first night. I found myself craving the time that was just us.
/You've been the blood in my veins
The only one who knows my middle name
And the smiles they came easy 'cause of you/
And even though you cared for me, no loved me, you never hinted at it. I still felt that you mostly only tolerated me as an asset for the team, and maybe liked me a little bit. However, it was nothing on the scale of say Mr. Tanner or Wilmington. I had no dreams of being anything more than an occasional friend and valued colleague.
And then you were shot. It was only a flesh wound but it made me realize just how much my feelings had changed. I had fallen in love with you.
And no, Chris, I had no intentions of ever admitting that my feelings had grown that deep. I never thought that you would accept them, and my emotional position towards you is certainly not acceptable in today's law enforcement.
At any rate, I began to withdraw. I knew, without any uncertainty in my being, that I could not admit my feelings to you, nor could I be in your presence without trying to reveal them. It was any ugly emotional period, because I found that I almost needed you as much as I need oxygen, water, or blood.
I was deeply unhappy, and seriously considered fleeing. Leaving you to try and restart my life. I do not think I would have succeeded. But it didn't happen and therefore is neither here nor there. You refused to let me withdraw again. You dragged me out to your ranch, the same as you had done for our other altercations. And you told me you loved me.
One year fighting yourself. One year fighting for my friendship, for my attention. And then you told me you loved me. I didn't believe you. Nobody loved me. Well, that isn't true, Mother loves me. She doesn't usually know how to show it, or chooses not to act on it because it's inconvenient, but she does her best, and she does love me. But no one else in my life ever had. No one had wanted me for me, loved me for me. The all wanted something from me, and I couldn't understand why you would be any different. I knew you wanted something from me, my continued efforts on behalf of your precious team. Therefore an admission of love, in my mind, could be nothing other than you trying to keep my presence here in Denver and on your team.
I felt insulted, offended. I ascribed your efforts of friendship even more firmly on that front, and even though I loved you too, I could not tell you nor accept your protestation of affection. And so began your hardest fight of all, getting me to believe your words and actions.
I believe that third year caused both of us to descend into the deepest pits of perdition, an occasion that has not been rivaled except by our present circumstances. How do you expect me to get by if you die, Chris Larabee? You're my reason for living, for going on. You're the reason I smile, the only person I trust. I think I've proved that more than once. After all, you're the only person I've ever contemplated divulging my middle name to, let alone actually told.
/You know that I love you, but I hate you
'Cause I know that I can never escape you
Let the choir sing for tonight I'm an easy mark
Hey now, am I acting just a little too proud/
I looked up from my paper choking back sobs of misery. Critical but stable, that was what Nurse Stevens had advised me of. Yes, my Chris was stable, but he was still in a dangerous condition, one capable of sliding out of control and out of this existence. And I could not help him. It made me utterly miserable.
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Copyright 2005