Happy Birthday, Michael Biehn J
Fic bit, hopefully the end of my M7 soap, but I've got a few ideas for stories that can be standalones or slotted within the timeframe. The following segment is rated PG:
Buck watched the stagecoach lurch forward and begin its swaying journey out of town. He hoped for one last glimpse of Ezra through the window, but received none.
"He won't come back," he admitted sadly, heart breaking, to Chris. "He's been itching to get out of this town for so long now. I thought the house meant he'd changed, that he was willing to stay here, with me."
"I think he was going to," Chris admitted. Before things had changed, forever. Chris felt the heavy rolling waves of guilt press down on him again, almost knocking him to the ground. He'd brought this down upon his friends. Funny, how one night of carelessness in his youth could destroy his life, and all the lives of the people he loved.
"You were the first person on this earth to give that boy a lick of kindness, and never expect anything back for it," Chris tried again, feeling Buck's pain almost as raw as his own. "He won't forget that. He won't ever forget that. He'll roll around for a bit, but he'll come home to you, one of these days. I promise you, he'll come back."
Buck gave him a sharp look, wanting to believe, wanting to grab onto anything that sounded like hope.
Chris saw the grief in his friend's eyes, and he wondered what Buck had ever done to deserve him as a friend.
In the rattling carriage Ezra let the buildings of the town drop away to be replaced by dry sweeping plains and dust covered mountains. He sat back and let the coach rock him, at a mercy to its shuddering gait. He took out the silver fob watch from his pocket and felt again the engraved letters in the silver: Buck's name, and his own, twined together in a florid script.
He snapped the cover shut and slipped it away again, to rest unseen in his coat pocket. He contemplated a change of name, perhaps a return to his purported grandfather's name. At least he wouldn't need to change the monogrammed initials on his belongings. He turned the name over in his mind, imagining introducing himself…but it was hard to let go of Ezra Standish. He'd become proud of that name, proud of some of the things he'd done for the first time in his life. He had warm memories of people calling him by that name. He'd built up a reputation, a reputation he'd meant to capitalise upon.
He sank back. No matter how much he'd felt Ezra Standish was just another role he was playing, he'd become that role, and there were parts of himself that he didn't want to let go. The gold ring on his finger caught the light. There were parts of that life he would hold in his heart forever.
He sat back and let the countryside slowly roll past him. He had days yet before he needed to make a decision, before he stepped off that coach and resumed his life as Ezra Standish, or whether he cast off the last few years entirely, and reinvented himself as somebody new.
Heh, sometimes the gods reward stupidity. No, cancel that. I know they always reward stupidity. How else could one explain the obscene free rides through life certain people I've known have been unfairly blessed with. Well, now it's my turn. Thankyou mystery illness for siphoning off a good 100 points or so off my IQ. Anyways, the other week when I was suffering very much under the influence of mersyndols, lack of sleep and pain, I was given a project that needed scanning software we didn't have. So I had to order it in a hurry. So I did, only I ticked the wrong box, as there was a software and scanner offer - I never even saw it in my blurry version of reality, and neither did anyone else, it should be said. Two weeks later and guess what? I'm in trouble again, but what's new these days after stuff up after stuff up, but I also have a little scanner sitting on my desk. Awwww. Too bad I have neither the time or web space to catch up on my scanning of Brit Boys. Shucks, darn it.
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