FIC: Throws His Shadow

[nilchance]

Title: Throws His Shadow
Authors: nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: JDM/Misha Collins
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff's a dom, and Misha is his boy.



On the morning Misha's due back in town, Jeff wakes early to his cell phone is vibrating nearly off the nightstand. Without opening his eyes, he reaches for the phone and flips it open, grumbling out a "h'lo?"

He expects Misha, but the voice in his ear is Jensen's. Funny how quickly it's become familiar. "Is your boytoy back in town yet?"

"Why hello, Jensen. No, it's no trouble that you're calling me at--" Jeff glances at the alarm clock, "-- 7 in the frigging morning. I'm certainly not sleeping."

"Well, you're up now." Jensen sounds hoarse. Jeff can hear traffic in the background of his call. Apparently those in the revenge trade keep a 9 to 5 schedule. "Is he back?"

"Misha," Jeff says, emphasizing the name, "isn't in until later, and you can wait until I call you. How'd you even get this number?"

"You need to tell your desk girl not to hand out your information so easy."

It's on the tip of Jeff's tongue to ask when he started owning people, but given Jensen's attitude, he doesn't want to know the answer. Besides which, Jensen has a point and he's trying to keep Jeff safe. With a sigh, Jeff sits up and turns the light on. From Misha's side of the bed, Bisou lifts her head and grumbles. Jeff pats her and stands up, searching for his slippers.

"I'll tell her," Jeff says. "She wasn't around for Renee's death. She doesn't know better."

"She should. You all should know better." There's a bristling silence, like Jensen wants to tear into Jeff, but he says only, "Fine. Call me. But I don't want to lose too much time."

"Hey." Jeff pads into the kitchen, listening to the steady huff of Jensen's breathing. Turns on the coffee machine. It's usually ready by now, Misha settled on the couch sitting meditation. "It's been months. Is there some rush on this I don't know about? The killer headed out of town, or--" Another death, another girl. "Or whatever. But if it's like that, I need to know."

"You don't need to," Jensen mutters.

"Goddamn it, Jensen, I'm trying to help you but I can't if you're going to dig your heels in on every detail like--"

"I'm trying to keep you out of it, Morgan. It's for your own good." When Jeff snorts, Jensen talks over him. "You could go to jail. You could get yourself or your boy killed. Or, hell, anybody at the club he decides to use to hurt you."

"Yeah, and what about you? Who's looking out for you?"

Jensen doesn't answer, which is answer enough: it's not a priority.

Jeff sighs, leaning his hip against the counter. In the voice he uses for scared subs and kicked dogs, he says, "You know she wouldn't want this from you."

"What the fuck do you know? She didn't even tell you she was married." There's a terrible weight to the words. Jensen carries it, Jeff thinks, carries the knowledge that he didn't know Renee until she was gone. And there's nothing Jeff can say to change that. With that same leaden voice, Jensen says, "Call me when your boyfriend gets in."

"I will," Jeff says, but the line's already dead.
****
Though Jeff's world has changed, LAX remains the same: crowded, commercial, chaotic. It only seems louder than the last time, every sharp clatter of suitcase wheels fraying his nerves. He paces, drumming his fingers on the tea he brought for Misha. He took Bisou on a mile run before he came and even that hasn't taken the edge off. He hasn't felt like this before--

Liar. You know when you felt this last. Before the cops turned up at your door with a goddamn warrant for your arrest.

-- and he doesn't like the feeling, like dogs on edge before a quake.

Something's coming.

"Looking for some company, honey?" asks a voice in his ear.

Jeff turns and Misha's there, looking like miles of bad road. Abrupt enough that Misha's suitcase hits the floor, Jeff hauls Misha into a fierce hug and is rewarded by Misha's warmth, his scent, his arms closing around Jeff and squeezing him back. Eyes closed, Jeff kisses his way down Misha's face until he finds his mouth and lingers there. Misha tastes like cheap airline coffee and kisses like he was gone much longer than a few days.

If they weren't in public, if Jeff couldn't still hear the airport loudspeaker, Jeff doesn't know if he'd stop. But he breaks away, breathing ragged, and feels Misha sway on his feet.

"Heh." Steadying Misha, Jeff hands him the tea. "Hi. Here, it's probably cold."

There's color in Misha's face. Touching his mouth, Misha smiles wryly. "Is it caffeinated?"

"Sorry," Jeff says, not meaning it. Misha looks like he could stand to sleep for a year. He grabs the suitcase by its handle and lifts, grunting. "God, did your mom send back a suit of iron or something?"

"Worse. Aunt Sage's cake." At Jeff's groan, Misha tells him, "Told you not to say you liked it. I can get that, y'know."

"What am I good for if not heavy lifting?"

Misha smirks and reaches for Jeff's free hand, twining their fingers together. "I can think of a few things."

There's a man by the exit, staring at them through narrowed eyes. Jeff stares back, unblinking, until the man turns his face away and bares his throat...

"Thanks." Misha's voice breaks his reverie. It's hesitant, a note in it that raises Jeff's hackles. "The tea's good."

Jeff hums and slides his fingers up, rubbing a thumb over the worn leather of Misha's cuff. Misha stumbles, his breath hitching loud in his throat, and Jeff pins him down with a smile.

"Oh," Misha says faintly.

There's a slinking, predator's satisfaction at hearing Misha submit with a touch. Stroking the buckle with the pad of his thumb, Jeff murmurs, "Boy, what I'm gonna do when I get you home."

In the reflection of the high gloss walls around them, Jeff sees Misha sink, relaxing under the words.

Jensen can wait a few hours. This... it's Jeff's center, his place to ground out the weirdness and the violence of the past few days. He already feels better for having Misha in his hands, and if it's sweeter for shackling Misha's wrist in his grip, Jeff can admit it in silence.

"How's your mom doing?" Jeff says, casual. Normal.

"Same old. As much trouble as ever." Misha's smiling, Jeff can hear it, but did he hesitate a moment before answering? No. Of course not. It's paranoia, the same that had Jeff thinking Misha warned him off a green eyed boy. "She cuffed herself to a tree, y'know, and Aunt Pepper was no help..."

So they kill the minutes until they can get out of the recycled air, mild conversation with no edges. Later, out of the public eye, Jeff can tell him about Jensen. After.

They take the elevator to their car. Once they're out, Jeff drags in a deep breath of air. He turns back to tease, "Miss those exhaust fumes?"

Misha stares past him, eyes wide.

"Mish? What--" Jeff looks towards whatever Misha's staring at, and stops dead.

There's a living cloud of dark birds, wheeling above the garage, darkening the sky. All Jeff sees are wings, casting a shadow above the cars. Above their car.

Not just birds. Ravens, like the one that fractured Jeff's windshield.

"Jeff," Misha says behind him, weary. "I think we need to talk."