Disclaimer: I don’t own the Magnificent Seven, and I’m
not making any money off of this story.
Universe:
ATF
Major
Characters: Chris and Vin,
with a meaningful appearance by Buck
Rating: PG
Spoilers:
None
Note #1: This story is written in response to the
September 2004 challenge offered by Helen W: “What I'd like to see are stories
which explore events which are pivotal in establishing the standard canon/fanon
relationships amongst the guys. This can be initial meetings or critical
early encounters. I've never seen a really good explanation of HOW Chris
and Vin became close, for
example. I prefer the ATF universe, but any would be fine.”
Note
#2: This story is not betaed, you see. So,
all the mistakes are mine and mine alone.
I apologize for the ones that I’m sure are here.
Summary:
The first meeting between Vin
and Chris…and that’s all I’ll tell you, you’ll have to read to find out more.
Archive:
yes, https://www.angelfire.com/ct2/jesmag7fanfiction/serendipity.htm
Review:
Please!! jesfrealo@yahoo.com
Date
finished: September 16, 2004
Serendipity
By Jesfrealo
Vin
Tanner was an out of work sniper. Over the years, he had learned to trust his
instincts; the nature of his life had forced that to be the case. And so, he’d known instinctively that despite
all the time and effort he put in…it was time to leave the Marine Corps. The trouble was that the only profitable
skill Vin had was as a
sharpshooter. Well, that was not
entirely true; the problem was that he had no accompanying talents, skills,
anything. He was a killer and that was
all. He’d tried to get work with the
government but most government agencies, he’d learned, weren’t really crazy
about hiring people who had crappy reading skills. Hell, the Marines had barely taken him. He’d just taken to the style of military
living quickly. He was smart, naturally
athletic, and able to follow orders…that life had come as naturally to him as
it possibly can.
It got
harder as the years had gone by though.
Something about the nature of being a sniper in the corps didn’t sit
right with him. He couldn’t place it
exactly but it was there, nonetheless. Vin had gone through basic
training as a newly turned eighteen year old, and his DS and CO had both taken
a shine to him as much as people in those positions ever do. His aptitude as a marksman and ability to
move stealthily had been apparent almost immediately. He remembered the day he talked to the
lieutenant…when the man suggested that he might go into the Marine Corps Sniper
School.
It hadn’t
taken Vin very long to make
that decision. It was a Hell of a lot
better than being in the infantry, as far as he was concerned. Harder in some ways, perhaps, but after the
lieutenant explained to him about being a sniper, he knew it was what he wanted
to do. There was such a refreshing
quality about it because he knew that he would be good at it. And for once in his life he knew it would
offer him an opportunity to be the very best as something. Outwardly, Vin was not a man who seemed concerned with others
perceptions of him, and perhaps he was not in the common ways, but he was only
human. It bothered him that all his life
he’d been viewed as useless, as not good at anything or for anything--because
reading had never really come to him, because his writing was worse than
illegible, because he’d been a complete failure in high school, because he’d
never been able to keep a family…those things gnawed at his gut. They always had and deep inside he knew that
they always would. But then, in that
moment, he knew he’d been given the opportunity to prove all of those people
who thought that he was worthless wrong.
Then, he knew what he could do, what he would do.
It had been
a good feeling. A good feeling that had
gotten steadily better (he hadn’t even thought that was possible) as he proved
over and over that he was more than a capable sniper. He was
the best. And everyone knew it. They knew it so well that it didn’t matter so
much that his reading skills sucked, that he’d practically flunked out of high
school. It didn’t matter because he had
been that good. He thought that it was a
career that would last him forever…or at least until he was old (at eighteen
the age thirty had popped into mind).
But now, he
was twenty-five years old. And no
government agency wanted him. He
couldn’t apply straight-in as a sharpshooter.
No, he had to go through all the punk ass government forms and
procedures. They told him he needed to
start in SWAT even if he’d already been trained as a sniper. He couldn’t start in any agency until he
passed a written exam. He couldn’t pass
the written exam. Then he’d started
getting into trouble a bit…job offers of a more dubious kind got around to him,
where he was, on the streets of
So…he chose
homelessness. He’d saved when he was
with the marines, sure. But, it had been
a year since he’d had any real sort of job.
Now, even at convenience stores, he got caught up on questions like Home Address. Briefly, he’d had a job as a cashier but
his change making abilities were such that he’d lost the job. Now, he was looking pretty damn scruffy and
nobody had any interest. He was going to apply to stock groceries at
one of the big chains but he wasn’t getting his hopes up. He knew the
score.
He kicked
himself over and over again. He’d spent
too much time trying to capitalize on his skills as a sniper. He’d thought so much of them…it seemed as if
they’d taken him so far. But now? Now, they’d
landed him on the streets of
~*~
Chris Larabee was a man jaded.
He’d lost his family when he worked for the Denver PD. Some son of a bitch he’d pissed off put a car
bomb in his car but Sarah and he had switched cars that day so she and Adam got
blown up instead of him. It would always
be hard for him to face it; he’d finally accepted that much. It should have been him. That was the guilt he’d lived with every day
for three interminable years. And he
hated himself. He hated himself because
they were dead and so was any hope of happiness for him. He hated himself because he wasn’t even brave
enough to blow his own brains out. On
the job he started doing stupid things, just looking for a bullet. And he drank.
A lot.
Eventually, he resigned rather than wait for the corrections department
to just plain fire him.
He still
had the ranch, although he nearly lost it.
One night, in a drunken rampage, Buck had only barely managed to stop
him from torching the place. He ignored
his bills. He didn’t really eat, not
that he remembered anyway. But he
drank. It was, in fact, the one constant
in his life. His house looked like a
tornado hit it. His favorite pastime as
a drunk had become trashing those things he’d already trashed over and over. He would have been surprised that he still
had electricity, water, etc. if he’d ever been sober enough to actually
consider it. Later he’d realize, or
assume anyway, for the two never actually discussed it, that Buck had taken to
paying his bills. That Buck came over
night after night and prevented him from killing himself, one way or another. That Buck watched over him when he passed
out.
Then it
happened. The
inevitable. He crashed,
hard. He’d finally drunk enough whiskey
to kill a horse (or a man) but only after going completely ballistic on Buck,
bodily attacking him and kicking him out.
Locking him out. Then he’d swallowed a bottle of Motrin and
half a bottle of Tylenol, chased it down with some vodka, and rounded out
another lovely evening by passing out in a stupor. Buck had, apparently, seen it coming because
he’d broken into the ranch and called the paramedics. Hours later Chris woke up in a hospital bet
with tubes down his throat and the remnants of his stomach having been pumped
all over his crappy little hospital gown.
When he
woke up Buck was there. He was Chris’s
very own safety net, his very own dog to kick around. The big man had a deep gash across his head
and looked like Hell. Not just from the
beating he’d apparently taken from Chris.
For the fist time in over a year actually he looked at the man who was
his best friend. He looked old and
miserable and tired. Ready
to collapse. Chris knew he should
probably say something. Thank him…or
something. But he didn’t want to. At that point he wasn’t very thankful. He was half glad for the tubes making it impossible
for him to speak.
“Pard,” Buck spoke quietly, somberly, “I’m sorry but I’m
done with this shit. It’s killin’ both of us.
You really want to die? Fine,
I’ll leave you to it then.” He got up
and started to walk out the door but then turned around again. “No, I’m not done. You gotta listen to
me right now so I’m gonna take advantage. You’re a selfish son of a bitch, Larabee. You think
you’re the only one who’s ever lost your family? Hell, no, you’re not. I looked around…there’s lots of ‘em Chris. And some
of them don’t go around riskin’ peoples lives, pushin’ away everybody who cares about them. Do you even remember when your folks were
here? Or your sister? Or Sarah’s sister? You don’t do you? Well, I do.
You were cruel to every one of ‘em. I don’t care what you do to me…it was my
choice to stay but I shouldn’t have.
Your family…they’re smart people, bud.
They knew when to leave. I
didn’t, and that’s my fault. I just
wanted to help you so bad. What a stupid
bastard I am, huh? Here,” Buck reached
out his hand. “It’s some information…AA
and stuff like that. I know you won’t go
to it but the doctor’s and folks wanted you to get it and I sure as hell don’t
blame ‘em for not wanting to hand it to you
themselves. See ya,
pard.” With
that Buck was gone. His diatribe had
bothered Chris more than Buck realized.
It hurt,
actually. Part of his mind offered that
as more reason to hate himself. Buck was right in every way imaginable. He was right that he didn’t remember any of
those people visiting. He remembered
them at the funeral; he remembered having some very harsh words with his
father. But past that he remembered
little. Sarah’s sister? He didn’t remember talking to Rebecca at all,
but he was sure Buck wasn’t lying. He could
only imagine what he’d said. Dear God.
Days later
he’d managed to get out form under the thumb of psychiatrists in the hospital
and grief counselors and all that shit by promising to go to AA and either be
counseled or attend a support group. Great. Now he had been classified as a complete
fruit loop. He could tell…the way the
doctors and nurses and people in the psych ward had treated him. He went to those AA meetings and went to a
psychologist for grief counseling…it all just blew in his opinion. Especially since he didn’t
seem to fit the mold in AA. He
realized quickly that it was a godsend for some people but to him it seemed
more like a cult. The grief counseling
was okay, but he wasn’t into it. The
only reason he tolerated it was because he really liked the psychologist. She was an older woman, maybe ten years older
than himself, very down to earth, a bit of a hard ass, told it like it
was. She didn’t let him make excuses but
wasn’t unreasonable. And
damned if it didn’t seem like she could
actually understand. He’d hated
it when people had tried to empathize with him because in his mind none of them
knew what it was like. Even if they had
lost loved ones they didn’t know how he felt, what he was going through. Please.
He found that
very slowly he was pulling his life
back together. After a year of sobriety
and grief counseling he got a shit job as a truck driver. His psychologist had given him the okay to
leave AA but he continued going to see her regularly despite the time consuming
work schedule. Time consuming was
precisely what he needed just then in his life.
Based out of
Then it
happened. One of those moments that he
just knew would change his life.
Everyone has those moments…sometimes you’re aware of them and sometimes
you’re not, but either way they come.
Chris just had a feeling about this one.
He had just
returned to
Nothing
seemed out of ordinary when he walked into the warm building, so he headed to
the bathroom. As he headed out and
toward the counter he heard someone talking.
Not out of the ordinary in a truck stop, but the one voice seemed to
stick out above the rest. That was
unusual. He continued to walk toward the
cashier not seeing anything that concerned him.
“I’ll do
it, man, I’ll do it,” A man was speaking to the cashier. Chris finally saw him as he turned the
corner.
“I believe
you,” He heard cashier speak.
“I’m gonna do it…I am.”
“That ain’t a good idea,” Chris spoke quietly from where he
stood. Immediately the man turned the
gun on Chris.
“Don’t get
into this, buddy…it’s not your business.
You don’t know my troubles.”
“You’re
right, I don’t. But, I know that
threatening other people’s lives isn’t gonna make
your troubles go away.”
“Shut up,
you don’t know anything.”
“Mister,
you oughta listen to this fella…he’s
talkin’ sense,” The soft Texan drawl spoke.
Chris
looked to the man who spoke. He was a
young man with older looking eyes that were a striking, light blue color. He was wearing ripped jeans and a white
T-shirt with an old, tattered leather jacket over the top of it.
The man
started to shake his head. “No, no…” He
mumbled. By now everyone in the truck
stop was watching the gunman. A few
decided to get out of there then, when the man looked like he really wasn’t
paying attention anymore. As the truckers
tried to get out the gunman seemed to spring back to life, “Nobody leaves!” he
shouted. “Anybody move, and I shoot.”
One of the
men had already reached the door and as the man continued to watch him, he
shot. He wounded the trucker in the
abdomen. “Whoa, buddy,” Chris tried to
sooth the angered gunman.
“Nobody
leaves,” The gunman reiterated.
“Okay,
okay,” Chris spoke again. “Nobody’s gonna move.”
Meanwhile,
the Texan had moved to the man who had been shot. He spoke, “Listen, Mister, you oughta let the paramedics come and take care of this
guy. You don’t want a murder charge
hanging over your head.”
“I don’t
have to worry about that,” The man said, putting the gun to his own temple.
“Why you wanna do it?”
“What?” The
man asked.
“Why do you
wanna kill yourself?”
Chris asked again.
“Why do you
care?”
“Because
your shootin’ people…threatening to shoot me. I think I have a right to know.”
“I can’t
live anymore. My life…it’s over.”
“Why hurt
other people?”
“I don’t
know.”
“You…don’t…know? How can you not know? You just shot a
man. Why should he have to die because
you’re depressed? He ever
done anything to you?”
“People
have always been bastards to me! Nobody
ever gave me a chance…nobody.”
“So? People are bastards…don’t mean we can kill
them; it doesn’t mean we should kill them.”
“I don’t
care what you say!” The man yelled. He pointed the gun toward Chris. Chris instinctively backed away from the
man. Chris would later recall seeing the
gun fire. He would remember seeing the
incident happen in still images…clear but incomplete. He thought for sure he was dead. He’d never been a great negotiator…didn’t
have the right kind of personality.
Everything
seemed to be moving so quickly. At the
same time, despite knowing everything that had happened, his mind seemed to be
moving so slowly that it wasn’t until after moments later that he realized what
had happened. He’d been so sure that he
would be shot and killed. So sure, at
least, that he would be shot that it took his brain time to process the fact
that that hadn’t happened. It was a shock.
His eyes
searched the store. Someone had been
shot. That was for sure. Apparently one of the other truckers had seen
Chris’s talking to the gunman as an opportunity for escape. An incredibly stupid presumption considering
what had already happen, but people really weren’t that bright. The gunman had obviously caught sight of the
man, turned and shot him, probably saving Chris’s life. Before he realized he was doing it, Chris ran
toward the downed men.
“I don’t
know if they’re gonna make it,” The Texan spoke
quietly. “I don’t think they got much
time.”
“I think
you’re right,” Chris spoke in response.
“Hey, you two! What the Hell do you think
you’re doing?” The gunman yelled.
“We’re seein’ what we can do to keep you from getting’ yourself in
even more trouble.” The man next to him spoke quietly but very intensely.
“Well, I
don’t care!”
“You oughta,” Chris spoke, becoming increasingly angry. Whispering he addressed his ally, “What’s yer name?”
“Tanner, Vin Tanner,” The man spoke quietly, having taken off his
t-shirt he was trying to stem the flow of blood on the first man while Chris
attempted to do the same for the second man.
“You?”
“Chris Larabee.” Vin nodded in response.
The gunman
was pacing now…restlessly and without ceasing.
His eyes were strangely glassy.
Chris had seen the look before.
It was not a good one. It was the
kind men often got when they were out of the reach of negotiators, of logic and
sense, and about to do something horrible…when the human component of who they
are get completely lost in the madness of their criminal selves. Not many men got like that, but he’d seen
it. It was always terrifying because
people like that were loose cannons.
Chris
subtly motioned for a trucker he knew to come over and take his place with the
man he was trying to help. The man went
over and Chris stood to look the gunman in the eyes. Might just was well try again, he figured. He thought, still, that he may not be past
the point of no return. Sometimes you
just had to get them to talk to you…he’d seen negotiators do it a million
times. “What’s your name?”
“What does
it matter?” The gunman spoke bitterly.
“It matters
‘cause I don’t know what the Hell to call you.”
“James.”
“Okay,
James, you’ve shot two people, feel better now?”
“If you
don’t watch it, I’ll make it three,” James responded.
“Don’t much
care, buddy.”
“I am not
your ‘buddy.’”
“Point
taken,” Chris conceded. “Is there any
way I can convince you that this course of action is not the right one to
take?”
“No,” James
said sternly, as if commanding a belligerent child.
Chris only
nodded at first, “Why’d you decide to do this?”
“They
wouldn’t hire me,” James said.
“Who?”
“The truck stop. I only wanted a job and they
wouldn’t even hire me to work in this lousy place.”
“The straw
that broke that camel’s back, huh?”
“Yeah,”
James said, “I guess you could say that.”
Chris could see James softening, if only slightly. The eyes had become, not less gazed, but
James was making eye contact now at least.
Eye contact was always a good thing.
Then to Chris’s great surprise, Vin
stood next to him.
“Mister,” Vin began, “Look I got somethin’
to tell ya.
First, I realize that your doin’ this because
you’ve had a tough life…you couldn’t get a job, folks ain’t
been real nice to you…I understand about that.
Nobody’d hire me either. And lots of people have tough lives. But these folks,” He motioned to the men on
the floor, “They ain’t done nothin’
to you. Look, if these fellas die, even if you get away, people, the law, somebody
is gonna hunt your ass down. Don’t do that to yourself. I’m a bounty hunter…some folks don’t think
they still exist but they do. And let me
tell ya, if the police don’t find ya,
somebody will.”
“You’re tryin’ to scare me…” James’ comment was somewhere between a
statement and a question.
“No,” Vin spoke with complete honesty,
“It’s just the truth.”
Now, Chris
saw it…now he knew they had some kind of chance. He saw the tendrils of fear creeping into his
eyes. They had him. The silence was broken by the sound of a
telephone ringing. “Can I answer it?”
The man behind the counter asked James.
James
looked like a deer in headlights. “Uh….okay.”
The cashier
answered the phone, “Hello.…um, yes---“
“Who is
it?” James demanded.
“The cops.”
“Who called
the cops?!” James fumed.
Damnit! He cracked, they’d lost him.
His eyes
were wild, and he waved the gun around the room, looking for whomever it was
that had contacted the police. “I’m gonna kill the son of a bitch who called the cops,” The
calmness with which he said it was what really disturbed Chris. This was the attitude of a man who would
really carry that statement out.
“Who called
the cops?” James said in a deadly low voice.
No one
answered. Everyone in the truck stop
stood, frozen, staring wide-eyed at the man in front of them.
“No one
knows, huh?” James spoke maniacally. “Fine. I’ll just
start shooting people until the dumb bastard who did it steps up and admits
it. I’ll start with…you!” He pointed to
a random man on the other side of the room.
He cocked the gun in his hand.
Chris immediately started running toward James. He tackled the man to the ground feeling the
pain of a bullet smash into his shoulder.
James had seen him running and turned to Chris, firing at him just as
Chris tackled him to the ground. James
moved quickly, pushing him off his own body and the pain in Chris’ shoulder was
so intense that he could do nothing to stop it.
James turned and pointed the gun toward his head, “You made a mis—“
Before he
was able to finish that sentence Vin
seemed to materialize out of nowhere behind him. Putting his arm around James’ neck and
cutting off most of the flow of oxygen he quietly spoke, “Put the gun down,
James.”
James shook
his head as best he could and wheezed out, “Like Hell I will.”
Vin
turned them both toward the wall just in time for James to shoot it, instead of
Chris. James tried to elbow Vin in the ribs but Vin seemed to completely ignore the pain…as if it didn’t
even touch him. Reaching forward with
his free hand, Vin took hold
of James’ arm and twisted it…slowly applying more and more pressure. Everyone in the room heard, through the
complete silence, the bones in his arm give with a blood curdling snap. Seconds later they heard the gun that had
terrorized them drop harmlessly to the floor.
Vin shoved James away
from him quickly and as the man stumbled in an attempt to regain his balance, Vin downed him with a high kick to the mouth. James then lay unconscious on the floor. It was over.
Most
everyone in the building left as quickly as they could. They heard the sirens blaring. Before long the paramedics were there. Everything happened in a whirl around
them. Initially there were only enough
paramedics to care for the two critically injured truckers, so Chris
waited. By then he had managed to raise
himself to a sitting position against the wall.
He cradled the arm of his injured shoulder and tried to take deep
breaths as a way of combating the pain.
Though he believed he was in a losing battle.
He closed
his eyes and clenched his teeth. After
he did so, he felt someone sit down next to him. Curious, he forced his eyes open and looked
to his side. The man he had met that
night, the man who had risked it all to save his life, was sitting next to
him. “That was damn stupid,” Vin Tanner spoke.
“It
worked,” Chris said sourly.
“Oh, you
were intendin’ to get a hole the size of a golf ball
blown into yer shoulder, were ya? Hot damn!
You’re right, damn successful!
Sorry.”
“You coulda got your fool self blown away just as easy. Tryin’ to sneak up behind him like that.”
“I ain’t the one bleedin’.” Vin pointed out.
Chris
turned an icy glare on the young man sitting next to him... Vin
had to bite back his laugh…he ended up displaying a big goofy smile just the
same. “This is funny to you?” Chris
spoke.
“Kinda.”
Chris gave
him an exasperated look. For a few
minutes the two sat silently before Vin
spoke again. “You always ride that big
ass white horse?” Vin spoke. If
looks could kill Vin Tanner would have dropped dead
on the spot.
“Ain’t got no white horse,” Chris
growled through gritted teeth.
“Like
Hell,” Vin said.
“Yeah, what
are you ridin’…by your way of thinkin’
I’d say your just as big a fool as me. I reckon I can’t help myself…used to be a
Navy Seal and then a cop.”
Vin nodded, “I was a Marine
sniper.”
“Shoulda figured you’d be a damn jarhead,” Chris nodded
matter-of-factly, though a smile tugged at the corners of his lips despite his
pain. Moments later paramedics stormed
them. Chris was surrounded. Vin
stood up and as he moved to walk away Chris looked up at him and the two men
nodded to each other.
After
providing his statement, Vin
walked through the parking lot. He
wasn’t sure what to make of that night but intuitively he knew that something
big had happened. On the surface it
didn’t seem like anything substantial had changed, but he trusted his gut. His life would be changed by what happened
that night. He just didn’t know how,
yet.
~*~
Assistant
District Attorney Orrin Travis had been awarded a high honor. For his work with senate committees dealing
with foreign gunrunners, he’d been allowed the latitude to create an elite ATF
unit that specialized in bringing down such gunrunners. He would be their supervisor, reporting to
ATF leaders himself. It was a huge honor
and he’d been allowed to approach it anyway he wanted.
He wanted
the team to be special…not just experts thrown together but specially picked to
be the absolute best and to have a special chemistry. He’d asked around…he needed a team
leader. A man who he could trust to help
him put a team together and one name kept creeping up. Chris Larabee. He’d gotten to know Larabee,
and despite the trouble he’d been into Travis believed in the man. Larabee was past
the trouble he’d had, Travis believed, and aside from that his record was
impeccable. Travis implicitly trusted Larabee when they met, although he didn’t quite know
why. Larabee
told him to leave the other team members to him. Travis agreed the team would be the
brainchild of both men.
~*~
Chris Larabee walked into a grocery store near a nasty
THE END