Disclaimer: The 'Magnificent Seven' characters are the property of MGM, Trilogy and the Mirisch Company. I just borrowed them, played with them for a while and then very regretfully gave them back! Thank you to Mog for creating the ATF AU, and her generosity in allowing us all to skip in her playground. There are established parameters that I have used in this story that seem to be the accepted norm for this particular universe, so my grateful thanks go to all those fantastic writers before me who set many of the precedents. Sadly, no money will be made from this work of fan fiction — I just wrote it purely for my own pleasure and entertainment!
Genre: ATF — General, but with a dash of humour and h/c.
Rating: PG13: Warning — contains a few words of profanity. Please be assured — no animals were harmed during the writing of this story!
Character focus: Vin, Chris
This short PWP piece was written for the July 2004 fiction challenge on the Vinficfeedback group. Brigitta's decree was to write an AU story involving Vin, a bath or a shower. It was quite an evocative scenario she gave us, but I kind of turned it on its head, and this is what I came up with. Please bear in mind when reading this work of fiction, I have no knowledge of angling whatsoever, nor do I know what the terrain, weather conditions or flora and fauna are like in Colorado.
Thank you to my husband, Mike, for continually supporting me in my creative writing, and for turning a blind eye to Vin Tanner, that 'other man' who also shares my life. A massive hug must be given to my wonderful friend Jean, for beta'ing this story for me.
As with each of my previous stories, the themes, convoluted ideas and writing are, in their entirety, all my own work. Apart from Jean's grammatical corrections, Brigitta's edict and the ATF concepts as credited above, no-one else has had any input into this work of fan fiction.
If you enjoy this short piece, please let me know at susieburton999@yahoo.co.uk — positive feedback would be wonderful!
Vin Tanner glanced up at the angry, rain-swollen clouds gathering above his head and wondered, for perhaps the fiftieth time that morning, why he'd let Chris Larabee talk him into this. It wasn't that he disliked being in the open countryside — quite the opposite — but the Texan preferred his activities to be livelier and definitely more energetic. In fact, his physical exploits either on the sports field, ice rink or in the mountains, whether snow-covered or not, had earned him a reputation as a talented and highly competitive, all-round athlete.
It had started out as a joke in Denver's ATF Bureau, but now virtually every agent and employee in their building called him by his nickname Vin 'kick ass' Tanner. The ultra fit sharpshooter was in big demand when it came to any inter-bureau competitions and, the previous week, he'd successfully led the main charge to help lift the Mayor's Charity Shield for Sporting Excellence.
The trophy had been held by Denver PD for the past six years and no other government agency had been able to break the city's uniformed division's stranglehold on the annual, multi-disciplined contest. Until this year, that is. Both Vin and JD Dunne had played in the ice hockey match, and the Texan had been hailed the hero for blasting in the winning puck in the penultimate minute of the game. After that victory on the rink, the ATF team had pulled marginally ahead of their closest rivals on the cumulative scoreboard, and the outcome of the overall competition now rested on the final event, which was fresh water angling.
Vin thought that he'd put his fair share of effort into trying to secure the coveted Shield for the bureau, as he'd competed in the baseball match, the half marathon, the cycle road race and of course, the ice hockey game. So why was he now standing in the freezing cold rain, up to the ankles of his waterproof waders in sloppy, wet mud, whilst holding an almost ridiculously long fishing pole? He hadn't fished since he'd left Texas a dozen years ago, but Chris had been adamant, and it had been easier to just agree and get it over and done with. As far as Vin was concerned, angling was a sedate hobby for old men and kids, not for an adrenaline junkie who liked to get his exercise and thrills taking part in extreme sports.
With his feet sunk well into the glutinous mud, the sharpshooter couldn't even move around to get warm. As accumulated rain from the brim of his waxed hat dribbled down the back of his neck, he shivered yet again.
"Dammit! I should never have let Chris bully me in t'this," Vin snarled angrily as the persistent drizzle suddenly changed into a heavier shower. "This is all yer doin', Buck! Bad back? Huh! An' I bet I know how ya managed to put it out!" he scowled heatedly.
Buck Wilmington had been due to join Chris, plus agent Mike Browne from Team Four, as the ATF representatives in the two-day angling contest. But the previous week, the ladies' man had managed to wrench a muscle in his back and had had to bow out of the team. Chris had somehow convinced the reluctant and plainly sceptical Vin Tanner, that he was the ideal replacement and would have no problem filling in for his incapacitated team-mate.
After borrowing the appropriate clothing and equipment from the moustached agent, the sharpshooter had driven out with his boss to the river designated by the organisers at City Hall. This first day of the competition had started out quite pleasantly, but all the anglers had been warned by the local Meteorological Office to expect inclement weather conditions by mid to late morning.
However, the area of low bringing in the rain had arrived earlier than forecast, and the wind had picked up to such an extent, that Vin had had to collapse his small fisherman's shelter. The knee-length waterproof jacket kept him reasonably dry, but the outer clothing belonged to Buck, and the voluminous coat flapped loosely around his slim body, offering him little protection from the biting breeze.
All in all, the sharpshooter felt thoroughly miserable. Although he was quite pleased with his fishing skills thus far, and his discomfort was slightly alleviated by the two brown trout currently swimming around in the keep net. They were a pair of good sized specimens and Vin was glad he'd staked his net securely into the side of the riverbank.
Taking his eyes off of the fluorescent red and yellow float bobbing in the centre of the river, he peered through the wet gloom as he sought out his partner. The sharpshooter could just make out the black-clad shape of Chris Larabee fishing about one hundred yards or so upriver, but on the opposite side of the bank. The senior agent was in constant contact with his fellow team-mates, thanks to the three-way radio transmitter set up by JD, but Vin rolled his eyes angrily as he saw his friend's head turn in his direction.
'What's wrong, Vin?'
The pair didn't really need the communicators. They usually knew what the other was thinking and feeling with a mere look, or as their hands met in the clasping arm-hold that was unique to them. So Vin could easily picture the sardonic look on his closest friend's features as Chris asked his pointless and altogether unnecessary question.
Transferring his fishing rod to his left hand, the disgruntled sharpshooter pulled his walkie-talkie out of his jacket pocket. "Nuthin'," he muttered sullenly into the mouthpiece, but kept his accusatory blue gaze fixed on the distant figure.
The Texan couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so cold; every part of his body was numb, except his hands, and they burned and tingled from being constantly pummelled with the icy, stinging rain. It wasn't often Vin took a bath, preferring the convenience and speed of a shower under normal circumstances, but right now he was longing to slip into a tub full of hot, soothing water.
Closing his eyes briefly, he began to plan out a schedule for the coming evening. After tipping in some herbal Radox, he would fill his rarely used bathtub to the brim with scalding water, and let the steam caress him as he shucked off his soggy clothes. And then he'd slide into the aromatic, welcoming heat until all that was showing was his head. Hell, he might really push the boat out and take a chilled Coors in there with him! With an inward sigh at that wonderfully decadent thought, Vin promised himself that he would have a long and luxuriating soak before this day was over.
As Chris kept his eyes on his younger friend, he could feel the storm brewing — and it had nothing to do with the heavy rain clouds hanging overhead. After the initial excitement of landing two fish, Vin was now extremely bored. And the older agent couldn't fathom that out. How did the sharpshooter sit patiently for hours, usually in an awkward or unsuitable location, with his rifle scope trained on a suspect, but get so quickly disenchanted with a relaxing leisure activity? Of course, the rain had spoiled what should have been an enjoyable day's fishing and, as the bad weather had closed in, Chris had almost heard the other's angry muttering. Vin was a bit like a lizard and only really happy when the sun was beating down with sufficient heat to turn sand into glass.
The senior agent was also starting to feel a little guilty for insisting his friend join him today and, in an attempt to lift the other's mood, he tried to draw Vin into a conversation. 'Well, they say that fish generally bite more when it's raining. And that must be true, 'cos I've landed three in the space of twenty minutes. Have you caught anything else yet?' Chris wanted to know.
"Only double pneumonia.... Oh, and I reckon m'feet must have wet-rot by now, an' m'hands've done turned blue already, but it's kinda hard t'tell wit' the frostbite creepin' along m'arms. An' this stupid coat of Buck's don't keep the wind from blowin' up m'ass! But at least m'belly button's nice an' dry, even though the rest of me...."
'Quit the bitchin' sob story, Tanner. You ain't the only one freezing his assets off, you know.'
Vin deliberately ignored his friend's rebuke, as he watched an otter swim lazily along the river. Hastily stuffing the radio back into his pocket, the sharpshooter gently played his fishing rod to the right, trying to move his line and float out of the path of the approaching animal. That was the Texan's first piece of bad luck. The movement, far from alarming the inquisitive creature, drew attention to the angler — or perhaps more accurately, the lively contents of the keep net lured the hungry otter closer into the sharpshooter's swim.
There was no mistaking the animal's intent, as it homed in on the free meal like a heat seeking torpedo heading towards a disabled battleship. Vin desperately looked around for something to throw, although he was reluctant to use a stone as ammunition. He didn't want to hurt the otter, just scare it away. Bracing his legs, he started to move backwards, not an easy thing to do in the thick, cloying mud, and his rubberised, thigh-high waders squelched and burped as he pulled each foot out of the sodden ground. Finally reaching the large box that was doubling as his fishing tackle and lunch storage container, he quickly located the bag of grapes and dried apricots that Nathan had packed for him.
"Thanks for the healthy eating option, Nate. They's the perfect weapon, an' jes' what I need. I'm bein' real eco-friendly 'n' all, 'cos fish eat fruit!" Vin commended himself, in a smug-sounding voice. "Well, I think they do," he added, with a perplexed frown.
Tucking the awkward rod under his arm, he grabbed a handful of fruit and made his way back to the river's edge. Selecting a large grape, Vin lobbed it at the otter, which by now had begun to frantically scrabble at the elongated net. His first shot went wide of its mark, and he hissed in frustration. "Jeez, Tanner! Call yerself a marksman? I reckon Billy can do better'n that!"
A second grape flew through the air and plopped into the fast-flowing river close to the would-be thief. The otter turned its head, momentarily disturbed by the projectile, but then quickly turned its attention back to the excited, wriggling trout trapped within the net.
"Git the hell away from m'fish, ya orn'ry critter! It took me three hours to hook 'em, so go find yer own lunch! Git outta here! Dammit!" Vin swore, as an apricot ricocheted off the water mammal's back but failed to frighten the singularly determined animal.
Letting out an annoyed grunt, Vin started to carefully make his way along the muddy bank. He'd placed his keep net well away from the shallows and reeds, and it lie in deeper water below a muddy knoll. This outcrop was slightly higher than the immediate vicinity, but that hadn't caused Vin a problem — until the rain had started to lash down. Now the ground was dangerously slick, and the man was beginning to regret choosing this location for holding his prized catch. Bending down, his hand stretched out toward the tethered handle of the net.
The radio in Vin's pocket suddenly crackled, and Chris' voice filtered out from the confines of the borrowed jacket. 'You caught yourself another one, pard?'
The sharpshooter huffed irritably, ignoring his friend's optimistic-sounding question, as he tried to manipulate the metal U-shaped clamp anchoring the net. The slippery, ice cold steel refused to budge and, realising he needed to get more leverage on the object, Vin shifted closer to the waters edge.
'Vin! Vin? Are you okay? Can you hear me, Tanner? Vin!'
"Course I can.... hear ya.... Larabee! Yer bellowin' loud 'nough t'scare... them fishes away fer good. But I ain't got time fer..." the sharpshooter grumbled to his pocket, as he continued to tug on the clamp. A strong gust of wind whipped across the river, and he juggled the flexible, carbon fishing pole, which had suddenly decided to act like a thing alive under his arm.
'VIN!'
Vin needed to get his competition catch away from the persistent marauder, but it was difficult on the perilous slope and he felt like he was running out of hands. Chris' demanding voice was an added distraction but, hearing the increasing concern and anxiety in his closest friend's enquiries, he opted to drop the fishing pole behind him, before pulling out the radio.
"Not now, Chris. This... otter... wants..." Vin mumbled vaguely, his main concentration fixed on trying to work the net free.
'I thought you said you were cold? Are you feeling alright?'
"Not hotter! It's a damned OTTER! An' he wants m'fish! Chris, how can I get rid....? Thank God! Argh!"
Whilst talking, Vin had finally managed to yank the metal spike from the ground, and as he rose and moved sideways to drag the net away from the animal, he stepped on the abandoned fishing pole. Instead of sinking into the mud, the rod rolled and his boot skidded on the shiny coating. He was already slightly off-balance from the momentum of extracting the clamp, and there was nothing he could do as the walkie-talkie catapulted out of his hand and landed with a splash in the river. The young agent's legs then scissored apart and, teetering on the steep, dicey bank, Vin's arms flailed around windmill fashion as he tried to stop his fall.
In a split second of prescience, the sharpshooter knew without question that he was going into that river. As he started to topple, his right leg slipped out of the over-sized and cumbersome wader, which then stayed perfectly upright in the sticky mire. Apart from Vin's tackle box and rod, the only thing that indicated his recent presence was that single boot, standing atop the small promontory like some kind of monument.
The rain was coming down harder now, and the light had deteriorated to such an extent that Chris had momentarily lost track of his friend. But his heart clenched in fear when he suddenly heard Vin's strangled cry, followed by an eerie silence as the radio cut out.
"Vin! Vin? What the hell's going on? Vin! Godammit, answer me, Tanner!"
Tapping the transmitter several times, Chris then turned the volume up to its highest setting. The only sound the senior agent received was a loud burst of static.
"Dammit, Vin, I don't need this. Fishing's supposed to be a relaxing pastime."
Chris must have broken some kind of world record, as he reeled his line in and dumped his fishing gear onto the ground. Pulling his car keys from his pocket as he ran to his truck, the fair-haired agent cursed himself for not choosing a spot closer to where Vin was fishing. The road bridge spanning the river was nearly half a mile from Chris' position but going further on from where the Texan had encamped, so he had a longer drive once on the other side. And that was across fairly rough terrain as well.
The Ram jounced and yawed as Chris drove as fast as he dared across the muddy, boulder strewn field. He'd already alerted Mike Browne to the potential problem and the twenty-year veteran from Team Four was also on his way, although he was even further upriver than Chris had been. And, no doubt due to the horrendous weather conditions, neither agent could get a signal on his cell 'phone. Whatever catastrophe had befallen the sharpshooter, the two older men were on their own.
Catching sight of Vin's bright yellow tackle box on the top of the bank, Chris brought his truck to a halt next to the equipment. This was definitely the right place. However, there was no sign of the younger man.
Chris was already doing a thorough survey of the area, paying particular attention to the choppy-looking river, and he'd already spotted the solitary green wader embedded in the mud. As he started to pick his way down to Vin's chosen fishing area, the agent caught sight of Buck's waxed hat snagged up in rushes on the opposite bank. A fresh wave of terror gripped at Chris' innards, and a whispered curse fell from his lips as he tried to push away his rising panic.
"Holy shit!"
Time was of the essence now and Chris didn't hesitate or lose precious seconds speculating on what might have happened. Hastily kicking off his boots, he tore open his heavyweight coat, while his worried gaze constantly scanned the river in both directions. It didn't take him long to strip down to his snug-fitting Levi's and, sucking in a deep breath, he dashed into the cold water.
As the agent struck out for the middle of the river, he continually checked along the banks on both sides, but failed to find his missing friend. Chris could feel the strong current swirling under him and, knowing he had limited time to act, he quickly gulped in extra air before diving underwater.
The water was a sickly grey-green hue, its rain-agitated murkiness making it difficult for Chris to see anything that wasn't six inches from his nose. He had no idea which way to search, but had instinctively swum in the same direction as the racing current. Chris was starting to feel the lack of oxygen and had just begun to push for the surface, when he suddenly collided with a large mass. His hands shot out, automatically latching onto the bulky form, and he kicked powerfully as he hauled the motionless body upwards.
As his head broke water, Chris shifted his grip on the unconscious Vin Tanner. Realising he needed to get rid of some of his friend's clothing if he was going to get the pair of them safely to shore, he started to manhandle the jacket off of Vin as he trod water.
Finally the heavy coat was free, but as he started to swim for the bank with his inert friend, Chris noticed that he wasn't making very good progress. There seemed to be something dragging at the sharpshooter's leg. He wasn't sure how he managed it, but Chris buoyed the other up with one hand as he sunk down vertically to investigate the problem. Entangled around Vin's left foot was a keep net and, as a particularly strong eddy buffeted the thing against Chris' chest, he felt something hard gouge into him. It was a wader in the bottom of the long net. Hampered by that and his over-large attire, it now explained why Vin hadn't been able to swim to safety.
Without wasting any more time, Chris fumbled for the small knife tucked into his back pocket, and then quickly sliced through the sturdy, nylon handle. The net plummeted to the bottom of the river and, now freed from the additional drag, the older agent continued to make his way to the shoreline.
The two men had been swept well away from Vin's fishing area and, as Chris stumbled out of the river with his burden, he glanced back at his distant truck. "Fuck it! C'mon, Mike. Where the hell are you? Shit, Vin.... You don't look... that heavy.... but... Jesus!" Chris panted, as he locked his arms around the Texan's chest and pulled the limp body up the grassy bank.
Sinking to his knees and resting his left hand on the sharpshooter's chest, Chris put his other to the pulse point in his friend's throat, murmuring a relieved 'thank God' when he felt the strong, throbbing beat under his fingertips. Bending over the sharpshooter's bedraggled form, he then put his ear to Vin's mouth and nose.
"Dammit!" Chris cursed, when he realised the younger man wasn't breathing.
Prising open the slack jaw, Chris quickly checked his friend's airway, and then tilted back Vin's head as he prepared to resuscitate. Pinching the sharpshooter's nose, the senior agent made an airtight seal with his mouth and started to steadily breathe into the supine man.
"C'mon, Vin, don't do this to me. What the hell were you doing, anyway? Catching fish with your bare hands?" Chris muttered grimly, as he pulled away from his unconscious friend and tapped a pallid cheek several times.
There was still no response from the sharpshooter and, letting out a worried huff, the black clad man continued with the mouth to mouth. Chris had got through another two repetitions of blowing into his friend and re-checking the other's pulse and breathing, when Vin suddenly coughed. Rolling the sharpshooter onto his side, Chris gripped the younger man's shoulder with one hand and supported his head with the other, as Vin spluttered and retched up river water.
"Vin! Hey, pard, are you with me?"
Vin blinked owlishly for several seconds and, turning onto his back, he then shivered as a cold hand clamped onto the side of his neck. "Ya tryin' t'strangle me, cowboy?"
Chris had never been so pleased to hear that raspy voice, but gave a guilty start as he realised just how tightly he'd been holding the other man. "I damned well ought to! Just give a guy some warning the next time you decide to do your 'Man from Atlantis' impression."
"A man from... where?"
Suddenly feeling about a thousand years old, Chris ran his hand over his soaked hair, squeezing out the excess water. "Never mind. Let's get back to the truck. Are you okay? Can you walk?"
The long-haired agent nodded, shooting his concerned-looking friend a wry grin as he allowed the other man to help him up.
The rain was still lashing down and, as Chris stood up, water flicked off of his hair and sprayed over Vin's face. The sharpshooter's grin quickly transformed into an angry scowl. "Hellsfire, Chris! Yer makin' me wet, drippin' that cold water all over the place," he groused petulantly.
"I'm making you wet? Huh! Is that all you've got to say after I haul your ungrateful ass out of the drink?"
"I was tryin' t'save.... m'fish!" Vin suddenly exclaimed, as he turned around and stared at the rapidly rising river.
"They're gone, pard. Sorry. It was a tough call, but it was them or you."
"'S'that meant t'be funny, Chris?" the sharpshooter growled, as he followed the older man to the top of the bank.
"Nope. But I guess we'll have to start all over again tomorrow."
"Aw, hell!" Vin groaned. "Ya mean t'say, I've bin stood freezing m'balls off fer hours, got diddly squat t'show fer m'efforts, an' I've gotta come back t'do it all again in the mornin'?"
"That'd have to be a yes. But look on the bright side, Vin. At least we can go home early and have a hot shower."
Vin tugged at his soggy shirt, which was clinging to him like a second skin, and then glanced down at the water dripping onto his mud-caked socks from the bottoms of his algae covered, drenched jeans. "Waal, I reckon ya have summat to thank me fer then, cowboy," the younger man asserted, giving his friend a playful shove with his shoulder.
"I've got to... thank... you?" Chris spluttered, wondering if he'd heard correctly. "Is this yet another priceless gem from the Tanner academy of totally useless facts?" he asked.
"Yeah, but this un's real helpful."
Chris shook his head in total bemusement as he thought about his friend's incomprehensible and often convoluted logic. The Texan put a completely new meaning on the concept of lateral thinking. The senior agent knew he was walking into a trap set by the other man, but he still had to ask the question. "Okay, Vin. Like those fish, I'll bite. Why the hell should I thank you for making me take a swim in that icy, dangerous, rat infested, smelly.... Oh, did I say freezing yet...? godforsaken river?"
"Don't ya see? If I hadn't taken a dive, 'side from anythin' else, ya wouldn't have bin able t'go home fer lunch. Simple. So what d'ya say to that, Chris?" Vin asked with a smug smile.
"You really don't want to know, Tanner. As each minute passes, I'm regretting pulling you out of that damned river! And even the fish would've been hard pushed to find some meat on that scrawny carcass you call a body."
"Damn orn'ry, mean-eyed, miserable varmint! There jes' ain't no pleasin' some folk. I do ya a favour and that's all I get — insults. Ya'll thank me later," Vin promised his friend with a wag of his finger.
"Thank you for what?"
Vin's blue eyes twinkled, and he threw Chris a wide disarming grin.
"Fer givin' us both an early bath, of course!" the sharpshooter replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
There was little Chris could say in response to Vin's skewed explanation and, accepting that he was on a hiding to nothing, the older man merely threw his hands into the air and continued to trudge towards the truck. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he didn't think he'd ever fully understand his younger friend's sometimes bizarre mentality. Vin was Vin, and when God had made the Texan, He'd thrown away the mould afterwards. But Chris thanked the Maker each and every day for that precious gift which, in the shape of Vin Tanner, had been bestowed upon him.
FINI
If you enjoyed this story, please let ma know at susieburton999@yahoo.co.uk — feedback would be greatly appreciated. July 2004.
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