mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

Bareback Larabee

This was going to start off with a why me post as I apparently broke the cms yesterday but the good news is that I didn't do anything special to break it, I just found a big bad bug is all. It really doesn't like all the editing I had to do. I thought so but everyone blamed me hence me going home all wound up and doubled over in agony, over 16 hours of grinding agony in fact. Not happy.

Plus there were people having sweaty naked sex on the bus on the way home. I've seen just about everything but until now. Lucky me. They're lucky I didn't brain them with my umbrella, just an account of being all cranky and crampy and in the words of the Vogon captain: I don't see why anyone else should have a good time.

Crawled onto the couch, watched Buffy, MASH, last week's Homicide and X Files, which I loved. I absolutely adore Doggett. He's just so long suffering, it's hilarious. Then I crawled into my own bed for Roswell, Dead Zone (had it been a Brit show he would have been wrong in the end and people wouldn't trust him) and then QAF which had me in giggles inspite of myself. They were deliciously mocking overly idealised gay lifestyles and it just reminded me of so much bad, bad American fan fic I was nearly pissing myself with hysterics. So very very. I swear they must have read some, it was just too spot on, or do all Americans think that's the way gay men should behave? Too fucking funny. Then I remembered Chris' nickname used to be Bareback Larabee and I chortled even more. Do the people writing these shows know when they write stuff in like that? Is it deliberate? Am I meant to snigger like a naughty little girl? Or am I just the product of too many ooo-err Brit shows as a child and therefore I expect any inadvertant reference to be cause for a round of nudge nudge wink wink. Still funny though. Ooo-err.

After that it was the man himself, in Cherry Falls. Godawful movie, the absolute pits, but it has its...moments. : P

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  • Being judged by colour is starting to get under my skin - posting in sympathy of my openly swarthy friends who now attract more attention than my openly flamboyant friends
  • You are now entering the fic zone. Mature adults only please.

      Magnificent Seven: #09 rated Ma for adult themes and sexual refernces:

      It chaffed Buck that people still regarded his feelings for Ezra as a passing infatuation. Perhaps he'd given them reason to: he'd hardly been the most constant man in his flirtations previously, but Ezra was different, and it annoyed him that they couldn't see that, especially after all this time.

      The first time Ezra had kissed him, just leant in and kissed him that day down by the creek, Buck had been surprised. It had been the last thing he'd expected Ezra to do, the boy so obviously nursing a broken heart over Vin, yet it had felt so natural, so suddenly right, and Buck had surprised himself by not backing away and flapping about all flustered and telling Ezra he'd made a mistake in the heat of the moment. No, ol' Buck had grabbed that boy with both hands and kissed him right back, shocked at the surging intensity of his own feelings. Something had clicked right that day, and all he'd wanted to do was taste Ezra on his tongue and feel Ezra in his arms. He could never get enough of that soft mouth or that smooth skin, the sweet traces of lilac on his clothes, the light of mischief in his eyes, the way he moved underneath Buck when…

      Buck shook himself free of that particular memory, cheeks flushing in anticipation. He was wild about Ezra, and after everything they'd endured, they still cared for each other so deep - he just wished other people could see Ezra like he could. Other people being the remaining members of his gang. Other people being Chris.

      Chris never missed an opportunity to tease Buck about Ezra. Buck was beginning to think Chris was jealous of Ezra, jealous of Ezra in a lot of ways, especially the way Ezra had usurped Chris' place by Buck's side. Buck had never gotten over Chris, that was something he'd never do, but Chris hadn't expected Buck to move on. Even though Chris had no intention of rekindling youthful follies, it was another burr under his saddle to see Buck with Ezra, and Ezra of all people.

      Chris said he was afraid of Buck trusting his heart to a scoundrel, as though they were ones to talk. Chris just didn't know Ezra, he didn't know Buck had learnt to read Ezra's tell as easily as reading the sky. Buck knew when Ezra was hiding something, when he was bluffing. Hell, Ezra had come home to him. That was a tell enough for Buck.

      That Ezra had run out on them again, that had damned him in many peoples eyes, though Buck knew Ezra had his reasons, good reasons. Noble, even self sacrificing reasons, but that sense of betrayal waiting to happen, it dogged Ezra, and it hung around Buck like a cloud. He could see it every time Chris looked at him. Eyes that said he'll hurt you, he'll leave you, just like I did.

      Only Buck knew Ezra would never leave him. He might disappear for weeks, or months and yes, even a year or so, but he had his reasons, and he always came back. That was enough for Buck. He wished it was enough for everybody else. He wished they'd stop expectin' Ezra to leave again so soon, because if they kept wanting Ezra to go, then he would. Ezra was nothing if not a master of living up to, or more often down to other people's expectations. He wished they'd let Ezra be, because they'd drive him away again, and Buck couldn't bear that. Maybe next time, Buck would go with him.


      Now and Again #02 : Pygmalion

      Disclaimer: No infringement of the following characters and situations is intended.

      Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. May contain strong m/m m/f sexual scenes, violence, coarse language, drug use, horror and adult themes.

      Summary: Michael is recaptured and reprogrammed

      Notes: a sequel of sorts to the series and my last regrettable fic.

      Michael Wiseman was draped against the wall, watching the world through the slatted motel window with an air of quiet resignation. The light from the motel's flickering sign fell across his bare skin, as smooth and toned as a marble statue.

      "They're coming, aren't they," spoke a quiet voice from the darkened room. It wasn't a question, just a confirmation.

      Michael nodded slightly, still quietly watching from his post. He turned, hearing the fidgeting rustling of the sheets, not needing to see her wringing her hands, knowing already the movements she'd be making, the lines of worry on her face. He knew them perfectly from memory, without needing to see, though he could see perfectly in the dark.

      "I want you to know, what I did, all of it, was just so I could see you again, hold you in my arms, one last time."

      "I know," she murmured, understanding. They didn't need to say the words, the words had already been whispered over and over as they'd rolled together in tangled sheets.

      "Michael, I-" but she never had the chance to finish her sentence as the plywood door was suddenly split in two with enormous force and trodden down as black clad and masked men slammed into the room brandishing large guns and screaming at her to get down.

      They grabbed her and she screamed and struggled and Michael was there, tossing the soldiers aside like rag dolls. She heard that man scream: "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" but Michael was already in front of her, taking the bullet, flying back onto the bed as his skull shattered, spraying the sheets bright red.


      Seven weeks later

      "You could have told me he was dead."

      "You would never have believed me. This way, it's for the best."

      Whose best, she wondered bitterly as she followed Dr Theodore Morris from the sterile white corridor of the military hospital into the sterile white confines of the hospital room where the man who had been her husband sat propped up on pillows.

      He wasn't dead, but he wasn't exactly alive, either. He was conscious, the unbandaged blue eye had tracked her as she walked in, but there was no recognition, no reaction in the blank, impossibly smooth and chiselled face.

      Before, she'd seen Michael's soul gazing out at her from those eyes, and she wondered how she could have been so blind to it up until now, though she guessed a part of her had always known. But now he was gone, as Dr Morris had told her, and seeing really was believing. It was just an animated body that watched her now. Michael was gone.

      Tenderly, she had kissed the top of his forehead, murmured her goodbye, stroked his cheek and then turned away, steeling herself for the walk back down the long corridor. Her husband was gone, and she was a widow again.


      Dr Morris didn't even bother to watch her go, frowning over his notes and the test results stuck to the metal clipboard.

      When that shot had been fired, Morris had seen all his work, all his labours lying in a soggy mess of blood and bone on a cheap hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling with one lifeless eye. The body had been easy enough to save, but the brain...the brain had been damaged beyond his ability to repair it. He'd prepped the subject for surgery, a new heart, a new lung, they were readily replaced, but the brain, the brain he could not replace. Nor had he. Something, he still didn't know what, had stayed his hand, and instead of scooping out Mr Wiseman and replacing him with a fresh, undamaged brain, Dr Morris had repaired the damage as best he could and sent the subject to ICU to recover.

      It was a new phase of the project, he had explained. The use of a brain with its previous personality still hardwired into the neurones had failed, obviously. Here, he'd been given a chance to start with a blank slate. Wiseman's memory had been destroyed, he retained only basic motor functions. He would be retrained in everything, built from the ground up into the obedient super soldier they had always wanted. Here was a perfect opportunity to trial the methods they would use when they could build these subjects completely from scratch. Dr Morris could program his subject exactly as he wished, without having to worry about his subject sulking or disobeying a direct order or even whining about the food.

      No, this was a perfect opportunity for Dr Morris to mould his subject from the start, just as he had always dreamed. Loyal, obedient and knowing no other master. He carefully peeled away the bandage and flashed his torch across the iris, pleased to see it contract in response to the stimulus. He'd been able to replace the eye easily enough, but he hadn't quite managed to match the colour exactly. It bothered him, a little, this small imperfection, but he supposed only God was perfect, and Dr Theodore Morris' creation would carry this one slight flaw as a reminder that he was a man, built by man.


      Lisa Wiseman suddenly diverted from her long, lonely walk back down the hospital corridor to dash into a nearby toilet, falling to her knees, gripping the bowl, heaving and wrenching with retches that tore up through her in never ending rolling waves, gagging over the too strong smell of hospital disinfectant that rose up in blue swirls from the bowl. Finally the storm eased and the tottered over to the sink, washing her face and spitting cold water down the empty plug hole, coughing back another dry retch, wiping her hand across her mouth unsteadily. God, she was getting too old for this.

      She braced herself on the sturdy white porcelain sink, unable and unwilling to look at her pale reflection, still rolling with nausea, still feeling like she was all alone in a small boat tossed at sea. Her life, everything, it had all been thrown up in the air and who knew where the pieces would land. She'd lost her husband a second time, even more terrible than the first, because he'd fought so hard, so damn hard against god and man to be with her, and then he just couldn't fight any more. She knew he'd never give up, he'd never stop fighting and while there was a spark of hope, that spark would keep eating away at her from the inside. Again and again she thought of something she could have done differently, even to give them just another few minutes together. She thought of all the times she'd fobbed him off, never knowing the risks he took to see her, never understanding, never really knowing until it was too late.

      She thought of the last words that Dr Morris had spoken to her, about her and her daughter being forcibly uprooted and resettled far away from Michael, from their previous life, for their own good, to stop people asking questions, to stop remembering. Perhaps Dr Morris could forget Michael, but she never could, and never would. She knew she was being removed from the equation in case Michael should ever see her and remember. The hope burned inside her, but she pushed it away. She had no choice, it was either be hidden away, lost in the system like some clerical error, or to disappear permanently, like people in other countries were said to disappear.

      She had her child to think of, so she'd chosen to let them wipe away all traces of the life of Michael Wiseman. It wasn't much of a choice, but given the alternative - like Michael she'd made a deal with the devil just for another chance, once more chance. She met her own eyes in the mirror at last. Dr Morris had no idea how fiercely she clung to that hope. Dr Morris might be able to create life in a lab, but he knew nothing of a mother's instinct, otherwise he might not have dismissed her as easily as he did.



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