mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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Thor's Day

The Sopranos
Yeah, it was a good Angel, with Wes in the box with FauxPembleton & FauxLewis, but I wanted to check out what all the fuss was about, belatedly, but at a civilised hour and uncut. So I liked it. Dear Tony and his ducks, the mobster with a heart of gold. To decribe the plot would be to list cliches, but it was the execution of the cliche'd scenes that was the thing. They've hired a few good actors here, and the guy playing Tony, he's really really good, sympathetic and scary at the same time. No mean feat, for an American actor at least. Yes, I was impressed, I can see what the fuss was about. No bubblegum show, this.

Magnificent Seven, part six. This preview is rated MA for Mature Adults only.

    The blade pressed coldly against his cheek, then grazed down his throat. He gritted his teeth as it cut thinly down his chest, trickling blood in its wake.

    "Gonna make you pay," the harsh voice taunted. "Gonna make it so you can't ever get with another man's wife again." He tugged at Buck's pants.

    Buck shut his eyes tight, knowing what was coming, where the knife was going. He waited for the first cut, nerves screaming, and twitched when he heard the shot. Nicholls grabbed at him tight, stared hate into his eyes and then fell. Buck managed to raise his head to look into the bright eyes of his lover, his gun drawn and smoking.

    "Ez," Buck breathed, almost laughing with relief.

    Ezra grinned. "I wasn't about to let that butcher mutilate you, my dear. Not my most favourite part of you."

    Buck glanced down at his sorry state, deeply ashamed at what he had brought down upon himself.

    "You still love me?" he had to ask.

    Ezra crossed the few feet between them and kissed Buck hard on the mouth, pressing his body up against Buck, almost coiling around him, enough to make Vin blush and look away.

    "Boys, we don't have time,' Chris reminded gruffly. He cut down one of Buck's arms while Ezra took care of the other. Buck crumpled onto Ezra, almost collapsing Ezra with the sudden weight of over six feet of cowboy, but Ezra held him up.

    "I knew you'd come," Buck managed to murmur with relief.

    "I knew you'd get yourself in trouble," Ezra let slip his rebuke in his relief. They'd argued about it before, Ezra more concerned over whose wife Buck had seduced, rather than the adultery itself. Ezra had been right, that woman was trouble.

    Buck drew away from Ezra, holding himself up on his own two feet.

    Ezra wished he'd held his tongue but his fear of losing Buck had turned to anger at Buck for bringing this down upon both of them. There was a Nicholls dead at Ezra's feet and that meant a blood feud and they all knew it. They'd seen that clan in action before and they had only just barely survived the encounter.

    "Come on," Chris urged, grabbing Buck and holding him up, seeing he was about to fall. Ezra stepped into support Buck on his other side, almost by instinct, and Chris felt the bite when he saw how naturally the two boys just fitted together, how much they doted on each other, even when they were mad at each other. He'd never really let Buck in like that, not for a long while at least. Ezra was furious with Buck and Chris could understand it.

    So could Buck. He'd dragged Chris out of enough hellfires to know exactly how worried and angry Ezra was, and why.

    "Can you walk?" Chris demanded.

    "Do I have a choice?" Buck asked hopefully.

    "No," Chris answered shortly, only the light in his eyes betraying that he too was relieved beyond words that Buck was still alive. For the moment. They were on the run now. The clan would hunt them down and kill them until the last man was standing.


    "Shouldn't we keep riding?"

    "Yeah, but Buck can't go on any further. He's about to drop out of his saddle." Chris nodded back towards Buck and the truth of his words were all too clear. Buck was sagging in his saddle, will power alone no longer enough.

    "We'll stand watch, let him sleep a couple of hours, then move on."

    Chris spared a moment to glare at Ezra again.

    Vin touched his arm. "It wasn't his fault. You know how Buck is with the ladies."

    "Ezra should have stopped Buck. I knew he couldn't be trusted. He let Buck down, he let us all down, again."

    Vin shook his head. There was no arguing with Chris when he was in a mood like this. Nearly losing Buck had shaken Chris up badly, and it was easier for him to blame Ezra for the whole mess. Blaming Ezra for everything came naturally to Chris. Ezra just had that way of getting under his skin.


    "Jesus, Buck, what'd they do to you?" Ezra asked, concerned, getting his first good look at the extent of Buck's injuries by the light of the campfire.

    Buck answered with a bellow as Chris splashed alcohol down Buck's bleeding back. Buck reached back and snatched the bottle from Chris, taking a healthy swig.

    "Damn waste of good whisky," Buck growled between swallows. Now he'd stopped moving he was starting to feel it. Ezra could see it in Buck's eyes, a weariness and a realisation that his ordeal was still far from over.

    Ezra tossed Buck a clean shirt from his saddle bag.

    Buck turned it over in his hands, feeling the fine quality of the cloth slip between his fingers. Ezra was still keeping a change of clothes in his saddlebags, and Buck was saddened by the casual revelation of this fact. It wasn't vanity that drove Ezra to carry a spare suit of clothes, it was a defence mechanism, in case Ezra had to run out and suddenly change his appearance. Ezra was still carrying this change of clothes in his saddlebags. Either it was habit or… Buck decided it was habit not wanting to think that Ezra was still ready to bolt over the hills at a moment's notice. He kept fiddling with the shirt in his hands, unhappy with his discovery.

    "It's cold, Buck. Put it on."

    "I'll bleed all over your fancy shirt," Buck complained quietly.

    "Blood washes out," Ezra reminded him gently.

    Buck nodded slightly and slipped the flowing white silk shirt over his head. The silk was as soft as a kiss against his raw and burning skin and he was glad again for Ezra's fine taste in clothes.


    Chris dropped a blanket gently around Buck's shoulders, still somewhat outraged over Ezra's lapse in his duty of care towards his old friend. Chris had always feared Ezra would bring down something like this upon Buck. That Buck was the architect of his own downfall, well, Ezra should have nipped this in the bud in Kansas City. Ezra should have hauled Buck out of bed with that woman, the way Chris had, more than once. Ezra had proven he couldn't be trusted with Buck, and Chris' mood projected this sentiment louder than any words.

Flu ridden and entirely hormonal today, so be warned. This is how a musing on feng shui turned into a woe is me diatribe this morning. Follow: Our house has the worst feng shui you could ever manage. It's like the anti feng shui house, a veritable Amytiville Horror of death and doom, which probably why people have been overcome with misery and died in our badly situated rooms - but I'm hanging onto the land, it'll be worth something someday. However, for a house with no waterflow or good luck flow or whatever it certainly has drafts. I was made aware of this in my usual startled fashion this morning. No matter how tightly I shut the bathroom door and window, the moment somebody opens the kitchen door, cold tendrils wrap around my wet and naked flesh. Of course, I'm not surprised there are drafts, the house is falling apart, being a 60 year old fibro worker's cottage. I'm envious of those sturdy brick and stone worker's houses from the 19thC, which are bigger than most middle class homes in the UK, ironically enough. These horrible post war little shacks were never meant to last. Unbearably hot in summer and freezing in winter and paper thin asbestos walls so you can tell which channel the neighbour across the street is watching. To make matters worse, this house was built half on bedrock and half on clay soils (that my father was a geologist makes the purchase of this unhappy house unforgiveable) so half the house rises and falls a foot depending on the water table, resulting in cracked walls, doors that won't close or open and falling shelves and pens that roll off tables. It's like being at sea. Oh yeah, the house also doesn't have proper struts (they forgot to add them) so it wobbles in the wind, really giving you that tossed at sea feeling as my light swings wildly from the ceiling.

The house is also situated on a faultline. I've noticed everytime it rumbles, when it's not a semi-trailer. It usually means something impressive up the west coast of the Americas about a week later. I felt a solid rumble the day before I left for America. I was deeply worried about being caught in a quake in LA or SF but my friends told me not to be silly. They were right, it caught up with me in Seattle: 6.9. So now everytime I feel a rumble, even if it is just a semi, I get antsy, as the Americans say. That my office building straddles a train line does not help, but after a year I'm used to my desk shaking and rattling all the time. I only worry about train horns blaring now, because I know that line is an accident waiting to happen, aside from those accidents that already have. I've seen internal documents. Some parts of the line haven't seen maintenance since 1878, which is when my M7 fic is set, for all love.

The newsagent atop Westfield also shakes alarmingly at odd moments. I don't know why but a building shaking like a 6.9 for no reason, on a regular basis, can't be structurally sound, to my mind.

So, even though nobody believes me, I've observed that the minor tremors that pass under my room turn into big things once they travel on. How can anyone willing to observe phenomena be so clueless? Because I am clueless. It's classic Aspergers, which I swear I have. Because we're so clueless we're forced to observe the conditions that led to fucking up, note them and try to avoid the same conditions again. I have no clue how to behave with people. I'm like an atom that needs to be taught the laws of physics, as they currently stand. Left to my own devices I fuck up, and badly. I think, though, that people who can't forgive such clumsy trangressions, well, they're not very tolerant people and good luck to them. Crikey, but I live 24/7 with criticism, at work, at home, online, and I get a bit annoyed when I'm not allowed to offer up same, anywhere, any time. So I'm censoring myself (which I object to in principle), you know, if you can't say something nice about somebody, don't say anything at all. So now people will worry that they're in my poo books because they haven't been dipped in honied praise lately. I shouldn't worry. People wash in and out of my poo books like the tides for the most trival and transient of reasons, like standing me up or not calling when promised, that sort of light weight stuff. No muss, no fuss, a day or so later it's forgotten. I do wish I had this behaving properly with grace and dignity under pressure thing down though, instead of being all ill and cranky as I find myself today. Well, I did warn you. Just be glad you're not sitting within ear shot. Duck and cover, gale warnings, batten down the hatches, that sort of thing J.

Heh. My horoscope said I'd be rewarded this week. I was hoping for millions of dollars or MB as a sex slave, but no, it's been in the form of favours and chocolates, which is certainly more useful than...well, no, but I'm happy. The box of chocolates from the sub dept most responsible for my unpaid overtime has the most cachet though. For one, they are expensive European choccies, and secondly, it proves I'm not the prima donna you think I am if they're having serious and tangible guilt issues over the amount of strife they've put me through these last few weeks. It doesn't replace those 28 hours and counting, but it's a very nice spoonful of sugar and it's better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick, which is my usual reward.

Musing again upon Angel and how, after I'd warmed to Gunn, he turned into a non event. The other day while watching an episode Gunn was whining about something again and the peanut gallery piped up with "Is it becuz I is black", and much chortling ensued. Worse, I know exactly when Gunn became whiter than Ali G: Waiting in the Wings. Fred has sucked all the personality out of the lad. To hell with getting Gunn's soul back, they should be trying to get his groove back. Because right now the only super fly guy on the show answers to the name of Wesley.



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