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crack_van2012-02-03 07:38 pm
slavelabour.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2012-02-03 07:38 pm
Entry tags:
Fault Lines by BMP (Teen+)
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Pairing: None
Length: 237,831
Author on LJ:
Author Website: BMP's fic on AO3 and DNF.
Why this must be read: BMP has been recommended before but this ATF AU story is arguably her most dense, reading less like fan fiction and more like something you would pick up at a bookstore. JD shoots two minors in a convenience store and what starts as a seemingly open-and-shut case devolves into several plot threads involving family bonds: Blood family, lost family, found family. Chris is caught between doing his job and doing the right thing, Buck is caught between his job and protecting JD from everyone and everything, and JD is caught between the two of them while dealing with his conflicted emotions, a courtroom drama, and the outraged public. The rest of the team try, and fail, to keep out of the widening fault line within their ranks and things will get much worse before they get better.
"The answer is no," Chris repeated more quietly. But there was no mistaking the steely tone.
Ezra slanted his eyes toward the office as Buck's head drew back in frustration.
"You looked two days ago," Chris reminded him. The Senior Agent's voice was calm, but the resolve in it had not softened a single iota. Ezra resisted the urge to shake his head as the Team Leader's unassailable logic continued in its doomed trajectory despite the obvious signs.
"Teams have been searching for three days," Chris pointed out. "It isn't there."
"It's got to be there," Buck repeated. Just as stubbornly refusing to see the signs himself.
Bridge out ahead, Ezra thought. He could hear the planking splintering as Chris rose from his desk chair.
Ezra wondered if it would look too suspicious if he suddenly found somewhere else he needed to be right that instant. But in the end, the point was moot, as he couldn't tear himself from the spectacle playing out before him.
Ezra was pretty sure that Chris wanted every bit as badly as Buck did for someone to just find the gun that kid was carrying.
Ezra had wanted it, too. Every man on the team did. But then the talk of finding the gun had turned to hope that they might find any gun—some random gun that could be ascribed to the kid and used to make a case that the boy was carrying like the others. Or maybe just something that looked like a gun. Something that a review board or a jury could be induced to believe might look like a gun under fire, under stress, under the circumstances.
That was when Chris slammed on the brakes. Hard.
Ezra supposed he could understand that. God knew the team had been accused often enough of drifting from the straight and narrow line they were duty-bound to walk. And sometimes steamrolling right over it without looking back.
Plus, meetings upon meetings with increasingly higher and wider levels of brass, may have had something to do with Chris's decision to terminate the search. There were certainly no shortage of increasingly strident voices ordering him to stop stonewalling and shut it down.
Unfortunately, when Chris slammed down the brakes, ostensibly to save the team, Buck saw J.D.'s career go flying through the splintered windshield, and Buck's bleeding little heart went right with it.
It was beyond Ezra why Chris, who was normally rather perceptive about his team's state of mind, couldn't get down off his high horse and acknowledge that cold logic had nothing to do with Buck's reasoning here. Then again, although Chris Larabee was often very clear about other people's points of view, for reasons known only to himself, that didn't necessarily keep him from antagonizing them anyway.
Buck broke the silence. Gone was the pleading for understanding. The voice was low, hard, and deadly. "You forget who we're talking about here." The threat in his tone was clear.
Ezra typed faster. Dumb move. Chris was not likely to respond well to threats. Not even for Buck, to whom, in Ezra's opinion, the man sometimes gave a shocking amount of professional leeway.
Larabee's voice, when it responded, was colder and harder than Buck's. "And you forget who you're talking to."
Ezra's eyes jerked toward the office. For a split second, he was certain that Buck was going to deck Chris—the kind of punch that was meant to do some damage. Chris braced visibly. And sitting in his chair at a safe distance, so did Ezra.
But Buck didn't hit him.
"You son of a bitch," Buck growled out instead. And this time, unlike all the other times Ezra had heard him call Chris by that particularly overused epithet, which was apparently useful in fun, in fondness, in frustration, and even in admiration, this time it certainly sounded like Buck meant it. And not in a good way.
Fault Lines on AO3
Pairing: None
Length: 237,831
Author on LJ:
Author Website: BMP's fic on AO3 and DNF.
Why this must be read: BMP has been recommended before but this ATF AU story is arguably her most dense, reading less like fan fiction and more like something you would pick up at a bookstore. JD shoots two minors in a convenience store and what starts as a seemingly open-and-shut case devolves into several plot threads involving family bonds: Blood family, lost family, found family. Chris is caught between doing his job and doing the right thing, Buck is caught between his job and protecting JD from everyone and everything, and JD is caught between the two of them while dealing with his conflicted emotions, a courtroom drama, and the outraged public. The rest of the team try, and fail, to keep out of the widening fault line within their ranks and things will get much worse before they get better.
"The answer is no," Chris repeated more quietly. But there was no mistaking the steely tone.
Ezra slanted his eyes toward the office as Buck's head drew back in frustration.
"You looked two days ago," Chris reminded him. The Senior Agent's voice was calm, but the resolve in it had not softened a single iota. Ezra resisted the urge to shake his head as the Team Leader's unassailable logic continued in its doomed trajectory despite the obvious signs.
"Teams have been searching for three days," Chris pointed out. "It isn't there."
"It's got to be there," Buck repeated. Just as stubbornly refusing to see the signs himself.
Bridge out ahead, Ezra thought. He could hear the planking splintering as Chris rose from his desk chair.
Ezra wondered if it would look too suspicious if he suddenly found somewhere else he needed to be right that instant. But in the end, the point was moot, as he couldn't tear himself from the spectacle playing out before him.
Ezra was pretty sure that Chris wanted every bit as badly as Buck did for someone to just find the gun that kid was carrying.
Ezra had wanted it, too. Every man on the team did. But then the talk of finding the gun had turned to hope that they might find any gun—some random gun that could be ascribed to the kid and used to make a case that the boy was carrying like the others. Or maybe just something that looked like a gun. Something that a review board or a jury could be induced to believe might look like a gun under fire, under stress, under the circumstances.
That was when Chris slammed on the brakes. Hard.
Ezra supposed he could understand that. God knew the team had been accused often enough of drifting from the straight and narrow line they were duty-bound to walk. And sometimes steamrolling right over it without looking back.
Plus, meetings upon meetings with increasingly higher and wider levels of brass, may have had something to do with Chris's decision to terminate the search. There were certainly no shortage of increasingly strident voices ordering him to stop stonewalling and shut it down.
Unfortunately, when Chris slammed down the brakes, ostensibly to save the team, Buck saw J.D.'s career go flying through the splintered windshield, and Buck's bleeding little heart went right with it.
It was beyond Ezra why Chris, who was normally rather perceptive about his team's state of mind, couldn't get down off his high horse and acknowledge that cold logic had nothing to do with Buck's reasoning here. Then again, although Chris Larabee was often very clear about other people's points of view, for reasons known only to himself, that didn't necessarily keep him from antagonizing them anyway.
Buck broke the silence. Gone was the pleading for understanding. The voice was low, hard, and deadly. "You forget who we're talking about here." The threat in his tone was clear.
Ezra typed faster. Dumb move. Chris was not likely to respond well to threats. Not even for Buck, to whom, in Ezra's opinion, the man sometimes gave a shocking amount of professional leeway.
Larabee's voice, when it responded, was colder and harder than Buck's. "And you forget who you're talking to."
Ezra's eyes jerked toward the office. For a split second, he was certain that Buck was going to deck Chris—the kind of punch that was meant to do some damage. Chris braced visibly. And sitting in his chair at a safe distance, so did Ezra.
But Buck didn't hit him.
"You son of a bitch," Buck growled out instead. And this time, unlike all the other times Ezra had heard him call Chris by that particularly overused epithet, which was apparently useful in fun, in fondness, in frustration, and even in admiration, this time it certainly sounded like Buck meant it. And not in a good way.
Fault Lines on AO3
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