FIC: Not Our Fate (1/1)

[nilchance]

Title: Not Our Fate
Author: nilchance
Pairing: CWRPS, JDM/JA
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not real. Not character defamation. Just fiction.
A/N: Hooker fic. Betaed by eponin10, who is awesome beyond all description.



They let him see Adam on a Sunday. It was the worst timing possible as far as business went; Jensen had three clients lined up for that day, out of some perverse need to fuck a hooker after church. He doubted Yuri chose it by accident. True, any profit went into Yuri's pocket, but Jensen knew damn well he was more valuable on a leash.

Still. Jensen owed Adam more than a day's lost wages.

According to the nurse, Adam was having a good day. There was no screaming, no gouged wounds on Adam's arms and no wild-eyed panic. They'd given Adam blocks to play with, scratched leftovers from someone's childhood. Adam stacked them in careful patterns, his tongue sticking over from the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. A thin trail of drool slipped down to his chin, unnoticed.

I'll do whatever you want, Yuri. Just let him live.

After a childhood full of watching his father negotiate deals, Jensen had failed to detail what condition he wanted Adam in once he'd survived. Yuri had paid his medical bills, given Adam the best private treatment in the country. Adam lived, but after five minutes of oxygen deprivation when he’d overdosed, the poet Jensen had followed across the country was dead. The man who'd dodged bottles in that Texas bar the night they’d met so he could lower his guitar and tell Jensen they'd be making love before midnight; who shotgunned Jensen's first hit of pot into his mouth; who snuck into cargo trains and hitch rides in the Nevada desert so they could busk that summer in Jackson Square; who taught Jensen how to take a cock down his throat, who taught him how to smoke junk to keep from leaving track marks, who taught him how to crawl depraved in the filth of an alley for change to buy them a hit; who Jensen had traded everything for, his family and his life...

His punishment.

Adam knocked the blocks over and let out a short, startled wail. He raised blue eyes, pleading, and pushed the blocks towards Jensen. "Nuh. Nuh."

The pain had eased into dull poison. Jensen looked at his first love without flinching, picked up the block and said, "Here, Adam. Let's start again."
***
Yuri met him in the hallway with a steaming cup of coffee, his expression limpid with sympathy. The coffee was expensive, a reminder of the many mugs Yuri had brought to Jensen at Adam's bedside. The cost was added to Jensen's debt, his sentence growing cup by cup. "Here," Yuri said warmly, "here. Come sit. You look exhausted."

Jensen tried to take the cup without brushing Yuri's cold fingers, murmuring his thanks. It turned out to be a moot point, since Yuri slid an arm around his shoulders and guided him to a bench. The position let them watch Adam through a one-way mirror, a deliberate display: look, look how kindly we care for him. Look how much of you we own.

Jensen stared past Adam's blank face, studying a poster on the wall. That godawful mockery of kitten dangling from a tree branch. 'Hang in there!', like Adam hadn't been ripped off his perch a long time ago. He sipped his coffee and let Yuri stroke his shoulder, making soothing noises.

"He's doing better today," Yuri said proudly.

"Yes."

"The therapist says in a year, he may be able to read. He claps to music now. Very exciting times for our boy."

Jensen imagined Yuri's blood spattering all over the white, white walls. He took another sip of coffee.

Shifting, Yuri turned to face Jensen, stroking his cheekbone. Too much.

Jensen wrenched away from Yuri's hand, coffee spilling over onto his fingers. There should've been anger in Yuri's voice, he could've handled anger, but Yuri spoke only sickly sweet pity. "Upset now? My poor lamb."

Jensen's jaw hurt. "I have to go to work."

"You don't have to do anything. We've had this talk." Following through on his touch, Yuri laid his hand on Jensen like he was checking for fever. "You could stay in my house. It would please me very much."

Yuri's house was littered with his toys, dead-eyed girls and boys, scattered syringes, the sweet smoke of opium. Yuri dressed them to match his furniture and rewarded their placidness with more drugs, more money, more praise. Though most of Yuri's pretty things looked alike, Jensen had watched too many of them wilt and disappear to make that mistake.

No. Better to be a whore for twenty men than Yuri's lamb.

Reading Jensen's silence, Yuri sighed. His displeasure was a mild thing, eroding away large pieces of Jensen too gently for anyone to notice.

Anyone but Jeff, who had seen it in a heartbeat.

Yuri's touch stuttered, then drew away. Sitting back until only their knees touched, Yuri sniffed. "If you insist on being a whore, shower before you come to me. You reek of filth."

I can smell him on you. The echo of Jeff's voice raised the hair on the back of Jensen's neck. He hadn't seen clients since last night, and there'd been a long hot shower before coming to see Adam. Jensen couldn't have been more thorough without resorting to bleach. Yuri might've been lying, lashing out to make Jensen ashamed. That had to be it. There was no way he knew--

Remembering the hot spatter of Jeff's come on the back of his thighs, Jensen burned. He clenched his fingers around the cup and raised it to his mouth, hiding behind its steam. Once his throat unlocked, Jensen said, "I'll remember that for next time. I'm sorry."

"Apologies won't do it," Yuri said, his regret almost sounding sincere. "You'll owe me, of course."

Like Jensen hadn't owed him before. Debt was one thing, but the games drove Jensen insane. He exhaled carefully to keep from snarling, inhaled false calm, and said, "What do I owe you?"

"I'm holding a party for some dear friends. Next Tuesday. We need... entertaining."

No parties, no frats, no sororities. It'd been a hard line in Jensen's contract, put there by Christian's insistence. It was bad news to be outnumbered by his clients, too easy for the mob mentality to slide out of control. The one time Christian was hurt badly on the job, it'd been a party; black eyes and broken ribs and torn mouth, sharp cries of pain spilling out from the bathroom every time Christian showered or pissed. And that had been clients, not Yuri, who held Jensen's life in his hands.

Through the glass, Adam knocked his tower to the floor and laughed. The sound was so familiar Jensen's heart tore.

"Next Tuesday. I'll be there." Setting the cup aside, Jensen stood. Once he was on his feet, he felt it: the watery outline of the world, the slosh of his brain in his skull. The coffee. Fuck, Yuri had... "I have to go."

Yuri smiled and leaned back. "Go. We have all the time in the world."
*****
The train station bathroom reeked of piss and stale coffee. The seat was stained and cold against Jensen's arm as he leaned into every spastic heave of his stomach. His fingers were wet, his throat hurt where a stray fingernail had snagged, and his head hurt from puking. The last of the drugs made the walls run like watercolors. He'd stained his shirt. The trains rolled on, oblivious, shaking his bones.

It would be so easy to let the drugs swallow him.

Jeff was waiting. Jensen got back up.
*****
Same hotel, same elevator, same room opening wide. Jensen took a moment to swallow his gum, hoping like hell it masked the acid on his breath. As he stepped inside, he heard quiet music. Another layer of distraction he didn't need, but hell, it wasn't his dime.

Jeff was in the room with the chair, staring out the window with his customary scotch in hand. From the look of it, he'd put a dent in the bottle. Sundays in Chicago were surprisingly quiet; there wasn't much to watch from above, but Jeff looked anyway. Christ, there was a moody set to his shoulders; Jensen wasn't good for hand-holding and sympathy now.

"Hey," Jensen said. It sounded loud in his own ears. "I forgot your wallet again."

Jeff put the glass down on the windowsill and turned. He was dressed for work, suit and loose tie, a gold watch on his wrist. It looked like a disguise. Holding his hand out, Jeff drawled, "C'mere, boy."

Jensen went and let Jeff take his hand. He ought to bite and push and resist, but Jeff's suit looked cool to the touch and Jensen wanted to rest his head against it. He shouldn't have come here. He didn't know where else to go.

Pulling Jensen's hand to his hip, Jeff wrapped Jensen up. Surrounded him in Jeff and suit and the faint smell of cigar smoke. Resting his hands low on Jensen's waist, Jeff murmured, "Made a deal today."

"What do you want, a medal?"

Jeff's huff of laughter ruffled Jensen's hair. "No. I want a dance."

"What?" Raising his head, Jensen found their faces too close for comfort. Their mouths could touch now, easy as anything. Up close, Jeff's eyes had flecks of green and gold. "This isn't a goddamn Pat Benatar video."

"One slow dance." Jeff's thumb stroked the small of his back, sliding in the sick sweat and raising chills. His eyes were too intense. "Just let me."

It wasn't Jensen's job to analyze his john. It was only his to act, to go away inside his head. That didn't explain why Jensen wanted to warn Jeff now, I can't give you what you want. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Jensen rested his forehead on Jeff's shoulder and nodded.

No dancing; Jensen was molded to Jeff's body, held too close and too tight. Jensen smelled Jeff's soap and felt his breath, Jeff rocking them back and forth like he wanted to lull Jensen to sleep. The song was simple and wistful, piano and the crackle of an old recording, so far from Adam's noise and rage.

After a minute, Jeff began to hum quietly. The burr of his voice made Jensen dizzier than he already was; if Jeff wasn't holding him in place, he might've stumbled. He leaned harder into Jeff than he needed to. This wasn't screwing, more dangerous than stolen appointments and sushi dinners, more dangerous than kissing. Jeff held him like the world was going to fall down, and Jensen let him. How lonely did a man have to be to want to hold a hooker?

How desperate did the hooker have to be, to let it happen?

The song ended. Neither of them moved. Jeff's humming wandered and dimmed to quiet. He moved with Jensen like the Mississippi lapping at the shores, slow and dark and deep enough to drown. Jensen shifted, tried to reach for Jeff's belt, but Jeff caught his wrists and squeezed once.

Jeff was watching him. Jensen burned, flexing his wrists in Jeff's grip just to make them hurt. He could fold, pull Jeff's fly loose with teeth and tongue, take--

"Jen," Jeff said roughly. "How long have you been on heroin?"

Halfway to his knees. Halfway to falling for it again.

Wrenching his wrists away with an ache that would bruise, Jensen jerked out of Jeff's arms. Jeff left them up for a moment, wary now.

"What? Don't like where your money goes? Afraid I'm not clean? Didn't stop you from sticking your cock in, did it?" Laughing hurt, jagged on his throat. Jeff put a hand out, but Jensen backed away from it. "Fuck you. Fuck you, it's none of your goddamn business."

"Jensen," Jeff said, like he was afraid he'd say something else. "I'm-"

"No." Cold and clear. It made sense. It was good. Jensen kept walking back towards the door. "Stay the hell away from me."

From there, it was easy to keep going until he couldn't see Jeff anymore, until his back hit the mirrored cage of the elevator. Jensen pressed the lobby button again and again, like that would bring it faster, but Jeff didn't come out to stop him.

The elevator doors closed. In the mirror, Jensen saw his pupils blown wide as coal mines.

Stupid, stupid whore.

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