FIC: That Middle Road
Oct. 21st, 2008 09:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Pairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set inpoisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse.
ETA, 8/27/09: This story deals with mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder, and with slavery as used in the AKB 'verse. There's also mention of child abuse, suicide, institutionalization and self-harm.
The sickroom is quiet until Jeremy arrives. Misha spends most of his time in a chair by the bed, where he is undisturbed. His voice rattles around inside his head, trapped, but he holds Master Vincent's hand and moves those long, elegant fingers over lines of poetry. Vincent won't wake, doesn't stir even for beloved voices like Lord Burton's, but Misha likes to think that Vincent's ghost reads what Misha can't say.
The children leave Misha and Vincent to themselves, and the nurses seem to forget that he's there. They tend to Vincent with the absent practicality one would give a houseplant, and Misha finds himself forgetting small things like food and light. He waits, a growing stillness inside, and comes to love his silence. The thud-rasp of Vincent's machines count the seconds, and then the hours, and the days.
Which is why it's a visceral shock when someone flings the door open, like pulling the scab off.
"Jesus Christ," Jeremy declares, "it's awful in here. Somebody turn a light on, huh?"
Misha stares at him. He knows he should take the command as it's given, he knows he's the one being reprimanded for the room's state, but he can't think to turn on the light. He can't move.
"Here." Jeremy sits on the side of Vincent's bed (on his bed) and reaches over to the lamp. Light pours out across Vincent's face, the tubes and the wires. It's not forgiving; all the lines of Vincent's wry smiles are erased, leaving gauntness in their wake. Vincent looks like what he is: a corpse, an empty shell.
Jeremy sits back, considering Vincent. His eyes are fox bright, somewhat crazy. He looks like he needs to sleep and to have his clothes ironed. Misha remembers him from Vincent's salons. Quick wit, Vincent said, no sense in him at all. There had been a woman by his side, a bodyslave, his lover. She's not there now.
"Ah, old man," Jeremy murmurs. Fondness. Regret.
You're two months behind the rest of the mourners, Misha thinks, but he doesn't say it. Thankfully, none of them expect him to say much. He should get up and fetch tea; Vincent would be ashamed of him for not at least pretending to be courteous. But Vincent is dead, and so Misha sits and watches Jeremy's hand hover above Vincent's face. To touch him like a pet, maybe. Or maybe just tempted to smother him.
Jeremy finally lets his hand drop. He pulls out a notebook from his shirt pocket, flips it open and pages through it. Misha sees a shadow in the doorway, and the light catches long blond hair. Vincent's daughter.
Suddenly, Misha understands. There will be other visits now. Strangers in the house. He's 16 again and his mother is being hauled out the door, screaming--
Without looking up from his notebook, Jeremy says, "They don't think he's waking up. The estate's been turned over to the children."
I know, Misha thinks, shut up, I've done this before. Don't give me your words.
"You don't talk much," Jeremy says, and glances up. His reading glasses perch on his nose, but Misha would bet money that they're costume. Jeremy Sisto, eccentric, riding the fringe of what's tolerated but mouthing the right words. Useful. Jesus talked with accountants, but so did Pharisees. Misha knows that game well. "You talked before. Vincent taught you things. Philosophy, science, cooking. You're smart, right?"
Vincent had thought so, before his head hit the car window, before he fell against Misha and their blood ran together in the snow.
Misha lowers his eyelashes and pretends not to understand. It's the role, for now, the idiot dog pining at his master's bedside until he wastes away and dies. If he could think, he could plan, but instead his mind is full of white noise and words he can't force out. Think, Vincent whispers, observe, boy, be my memory, but Misha can't. He can't.
"You're smart," Jeremy says, answering himself. "And I have... I need discretion. Silence. Maybe yours."
Misha glances up at him, trying not to look sardonic.
Jeremy waves a hand at him, indulgent, negligent. "Which is something you can't help, they say. We'll see. But as it turns out, I need-- well. A bodyslave, a temp, a stand-in, since my girl is indisposed."
It's... well, beyond being rude, it's bizarre. Master Jeremy isn't exactly low on the societal rungs, and it's unusual to just lose a bodyslave. At Jeremy's level, there would always be another waiting in Escrow. Offers weren't just given like this, master to slave. Is the woman dead, or ill? Pregnant? Misha hasn't heard anything, but he's lost track of the river of information.
Jeremy is deep in the Empire's numbers. He has to see many households. Misha is nothing, ruined and aging, and so they wouldn't watch what they said.
Be my ears, Vincent had said their first night together, as Misha undid his overcoat with trembling fingers. My eyes, my fingertips. I would see the storms before they come.
Did Jeremy know what Vincent had taught him? Could he know?
Jeremy's back is to the door, his smile hidden. His eyes betray nothing. "A month of service, and then another position in my house, in my libraries. It's right in the contract. It's the best offer you're going to get."
Leaning forward, across Vincent's body, Jeremy lays a hand on Misha's face. Misha flinches, because how dare he, in Vincent's own bed, and then Jeremy's touching the scar at his temple. The ugliness of it, pink and still raw, and yet Jeremy explores it almost tenderly as if he sees the nightmares beneath. Misha starts to turn away, but Jeremy makes a shushing noise that stops him. Jeremy strokes the scar, following it down to Misha's jaw, and then to his throat. It's bare as the day Misha was born, without collar for so long now. The touch drags heat into Misha's skin, reviving him.
Vincent had been old in the beginning of their contract. Misha hadn't, he hadn't even been naked in their bed--
"Misha," Jeremy says. His voice is simple, stripped of pity. "There's nothing for you here. Come with me."
Author:
nilchancePairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in
poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse.ETA, 8/27/09: This story deals with mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder, and with slavery as used in the AKB 'verse. There's also mention of child abuse, suicide, institutionalization and self-harm.
The sickroom is quiet until Jeremy arrives. Misha spends most of his time in a chair by the bed, where he is undisturbed. His voice rattles around inside his head, trapped, but he holds Master Vincent's hand and moves those long, elegant fingers over lines of poetry. Vincent won't wake, doesn't stir even for beloved voices like Lord Burton's, but Misha likes to think that Vincent's ghost reads what Misha can't say.
The children leave Misha and Vincent to themselves, and the nurses seem to forget that he's there. They tend to Vincent with the absent practicality one would give a houseplant, and Misha finds himself forgetting small things like food and light. He waits, a growing stillness inside, and comes to love his silence. The thud-rasp of Vincent's machines count the seconds, and then the hours, and the days.
Which is why it's a visceral shock when someone flings the door open, like pulling the scab off.
"Jesus Christ," Jeremy declares, "it's awful in here. Somebody turn a light on, huh?"
Misha stares at him. He knows he should take the command as it's given, he knows he's the one being reprimanded for the room's state, but he can't think to turn on the light. He can't move.
"Here." Jeremy sits on the side of Vincent's bed (on his bed) and reaches over to the lamp. Light pours out across Vincent's face, the tubes and the wires. It's not forgiving; all the lines of Vincent's wry smiles are erased, leaving gauntness in their wake. Vincent looks like what he is: a corpse, an empty shell.
Jeremy sits back, considering Vincent. His eyes are fox bright, somewhat crazy. He looks like he needs to sleep and to have his clothes ironed. Misha remembers him from Vincent's salons. Quick wit, Vincent said, no sense in him at all. There had been a woman by his side, a bodyslave, his lover. She's not there now.
"Ah, old man," Jeremy murmurs. Fondness. Regret.
You're two months behind the rest of the mourners, Misha thinks, but he doesn't say it. Thankfully, none of them expect him to say much. He should get up and fetch tea; Vincent would be ashamed of him for not at least pretending to be courteous. But Vincent is dead, and so Misha sits and watches Jeremy's hand hover above Vincent's face. To touch him like a pet, maybe. Or maybe just tempted to smother him.
Jeremy finally lets his hand drop. He pulls out a notebook from his shirt pocket, flips it open and pages through it. Misha sees a shadow in the doorway, and the light catches long blond hair. Vincent's daughter.
Suddenly, Misha understands. There will be other visits now. Strangers in the house. He's 16 again and his mother is being hauled out the door, screaming--
Without looking up from his notebook, Jeremy says, "They don't think he's waking up. The estate's been turned over to the children."
I know, Misha thinks, shut up, I've done this before. Don't give me your words.
"You don't talk much," Jeremy says, and glances up. His reading glasses perch on his nose, but Misha would bet money that they're costume. Jeremy Sisto, eccentric, riding the fringe of what's tolerated but mouthing the right words. Useful. Jesus talked with accountants, but so did Pharisees. Misha knows that game well. "You talked before. Vincent taught you things. Philosophy, science, cooking. You're smart, right?"
Vincent had thought so, before his head hit the car window, before he fell against Misha and their blood ran together in the snow.
Misha lowers his eyelashes and pretends not to understand. It's the role, for now, the idiot dog pining at his master's bedside until he wastes away and dies. If he could think, he could plan, but instead his mind is full of white noise and words he can't force out. Think, Vincent whispers, observe, boy, be my memory, but Misha can't. He can't.
"You're smart," Jeremy says, answering himself. "And I have... I need discretion. Silence. Maybe yours."
Misha glances up at him, trying not to look sardonic.
Jeremy waves a hand at him, indulgent, negligent. "Which is something you can't help, they say. We'll see. But as it turns out, I need-- well. A bodyslave, a temp, a stand-in, since my girl is indisposed."
It's... well, beyond being rude, it's bizarre. Master Jeremy isn't exactly low on the societal rungs, and it's unusual to just lose a bodyslave. At Jeremy's level, there would always be another waiting in Escrow. Offers weren't just given like this, master to slave. Is the woman dead, or ill? Pregnant? Misha hasn't heard anything, but he's lost track of the river of information.
Jeremy is deep in the Empire's numbers. He has to see many households. Misha is nothing, ruined and aging, and so they wouldn't watch what they said.
Be my ears, Vincent had said their first night together, as Misha undid his overcoat with trembling fingers. My eyes, my fingertips. I would see the storms before they come.
Did Jeremy know what Vincent had taught him? Could he know?
Jeremy's back is to the door, his smile hidden. His eyes betray nothing. "A month of service, and then another position in my house, in my libraries. It's right in the contract. It's the best offer you're going to get."
Leaning forward, across Vincent's body, Jeremy lays a hand on Misha's face. Misha flinches, because how dare he, in Vincent's own bed, and then Jeremy's touching the scar at his temple. The ugliness of it, pink and still raw, and yet Jeremy explores it almost tenderly as if he sees the nightmares beneath. Misha starts to turn away, but Jeremy makes a shushing noise that stops him. Jeremy strokes the scar, following it down to Misha's jaw, and then to his throat. It's bare as the day Misha was born, without collar for so long now. The touch drags heat into Misha's skin, reviving him.
Vincent had been old in the beginning of their contract. Misha hadn't, he hadn't even been naked in their bed--
"Misha," Jeremy says. His voice is simple, stripped of pity. "There's nothing for you here. Come with me."
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no subject
Date: 2009-09-16 07:15 pm (UTC)This is a sweet start, I like the pride and the way Misha seems to care for Vincent without there being anything sexual about it. The way Jeremy quietly rocks everything for Misha, a change coming.