FIC: By That Heaven

[nilchance]

Title: By That Heaven
Author: nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: JDM/Misha Collins
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff's a dom, and Misha is his boy.



It's ridiculously easy to break into Morgan's home. The halls of the renovated warehouse are mostly empty, wrapped in dropcloths and plastic. A paper clip and five minutes, and the door opens beneath Jensen's hand.

He's been too long tracking Renee's hunter, because he hesitates on the threshold, waiting for a backlash that doesn't come. Their home is unguarded by more than a simple door lock and a dog that sidles into the room, peering at Jensen with more curiosity than menace.

Morgan is out retrieving his boy, and all is silence. Jensen holds a finger to his lips and steps inside, closing the door behind him.

The loft is not what he expected. There's no bodies strewn around, for one thing. Maybe he thought he'd find an orgy, complete with harem pillows on the floor, or a torture chamber. The hell he'd imagined is apparently furnished by Better Homes and Gardens, quirky chic. Books everywhere. A comfortable couch. Large windows overlooking the construction of a pool. High ceilings. A yoga mat rolled neatly up in the corner. Smooth wood floors.

No screaming victims, no bloody evidence. Even after the raven crashed into Morgan's windshield and absolved him, even with the alibi and Morgan's claims of innocence, Jensen had thought...

His best suspect is innocent. He failed. It stings. Now there's no face to go with his hunt, and he feels--

Nothing. Of course he feels nothing, because there is nothing left in him to feel. His heart is buried.

The dog follows him as he cases the living room, then the kitchen. Morgan's job must pay very well to afford this apartment in the city. A bedroom, with its huge king bed and all the signs of a couple's easy life: shoes on the floor, nightstands with books on them, glasses and pill cases. A dog bed on the floor, with scattered hair on the master bed's quilt to show how often said dog actually stayed in its place. Jensen paces around it, picks up the pill bottle: Ambien. Jeff's boy has trouble sleeping.

There's nothing here. Jensen stretches over the bed and traces a protection sigil above the headboard. It's nothing complicated, and it wouldn't stop the bastard that killed Renee, but it might quiet their nightmares. If they sleep deeply, it'll be easier for Jensen to break in again.

Looking for what? There's nothing here.

Shaking off the thought, Jensen moves on. The dog clicks along behind him, occasionally nudging her head beneath his hand. When he rubs the ridge of her skull, she wags and peers up at him with complete mute acceptance. You belong here, that look says, as much as the furniture and the rug.

Morgan's studio is cluttered, sketchbooks and paint bottles smeared with their own contents, a potting wheel. A cot by the heating vent. Jensen hovers over it for a minute, wondering: did Renee stay there? Did it hold her while she slept, or did they take her to their bed?

Bitter jealousy is a slow fire in his belly. Jensen sits on the edge of the cot, making it groan under his weight, and picks up the blanket neatly folded by the foot of the cot. Any ghost of Renee's warmth is gone.

When he glances up, he sees the box of files stuffed beneath a milk crate. Hidden in plain sight. Tricky, Morgan.

Jensen snags the box and begins to read. It's not hard to find the names of Morgan's clients; receipts, contracts, emergency contacts. Health risks. Allergies. Jensen pulls a notebook from his pocket and copies the names as he finds them, focusing on the men. If he looks at the women's names twice, hunting for Renee, there's no witness.

Among the files, there's a reference list: other Doms and dungeons. Jensen smiles, but it's more like a baring of teeth. "There you are," he whispers. Morgan had said Jensen wouldn't get in. They'd see about that.

Renee's file isn't in the box. Morgan hid it somewhere, or surrendered it to the police. He should be, has to be, satisfied with the names for now.

The dog shuffles over, leaning her body against Jensen's knees in a silent demand for attention. Jensen huffs a laugh, cupping her head between his hands to scratch her ears. She sighs and leans harder, trusting.

It's strange to feel the pressure of another warm body against his own. He's fucked on this hunt, he's been hurt, but he hasn't felt it like he feels the weight of Morgan's lazy dog. It reminds him that he's wearing bruises under his clothes like a corset, each breath aching dully in his throat. That he's so goddamn tired from nights of wandering and days scrunched up in the backseat of his car, trying to get some sleep before a trunk blares its horn or a cop comes to tell him to move.

He just... he wants it to end. Morrigan is an unnecessary complication, collateral--

Not Morrigan. Morgan. And what odds were those, that in looking for Renee he found a Morgan...

Jensen tenses, his spine drawing tight. Through the loft's glass windows, he hears the harsh cry of a raven, as if in answer. "He's yours," Jensen whispers, and the bird calls again. "Morrigan's. It's bloodline. For what? Why did you lead me to him? He can't help me, he can't even protect himself!"

No answer that time, but a chill spilling up his back like her cool fingers. Morrigan's hand rests on his nape, and he remembers.

Grief like a live thing, gnawing him to the bones, a constant driving pain that refused to let him get away from it. He drank too much. He paced. There were no tears, no 'letting it out' despite the countless shrinks and well-meaning family who tried to pry off the scab. It festered, a pressure inside him, a low keening wail that rolled beneath his every thought. It was his ground, the grief, the rage. It was everything Renee had been to him, lost in crime scene photos and her fading scent on the pillow.

He read too much, dusty books in the archives of his college library. He failed classes that had been everything to him a few months before. There was no such thing as sleep. He searched and dug and ran over the details of her death again and again, looking for the pattern. Looking for his kill.

And she'd heard him.

A moment of despair. Closing time of the college library, his forehead resting on books that were no help. He could feel his chances leaving him, like Renee's voice fading from his memory. He'd fallen to prayers, but not to God. God had no place in this.

"I'll do anything," he'd whispered. "Just let me find her killer. Just let me give her this, please, you can have anything..."

And then there had been the woman. He couldn't remember what she looked like; an old woman one moment, a fierce young woman the next. Her voice, lilting and rolling like Ireland's green hills, smooth as the killing blade. "Anything?"

It was a warning, that question. She was pitiless, and she warned him not to give her all that she wanted.

"You can have it," he said. Inside he was cracked and dried anyway, crumbling parchment and yellowing grass above her grave.

The woman said, "Let me hold your death."

He'd stared at her, her long pale fingers resting on the desk. As she changed, her fingers became too long for human hands, the nails dark and clotted with blood. His voice shook. "Are you the devil?"

She'd laughed. "Some might say, but no. Not today. You asked for vengeance, boy. And so I came."

"I bargained for my life," Jensen tells her, careful not to turn enough to see her behind him. "Let the poor bastard keep his."

The dog stirs, her ears perking up. Jensen hears the rasp of a key in the loft door, and that easily the Morrigan's grip slides away. He bolts off the bed, searching the loft for another exit, an open window, a place to hide. The setting sun casts a long shadow on the far wall, enough cover to protect him from a quick glance, so he runs for it. Pinning himself flat against the wall, he drags in a breath to hold.

The door opens, and the dog immediately bounces through it. Morgan laughs and drops to rumple her ears. There's nothing of her in him, not one shadow...

As the door opens wider to let them through, Morgan's boy slides around him. And the shine on him, sharp as light reflected off a mirror, sears Jensen's eyes. Dread sinks low in Jensen's stomach. This has Morrigan's fingerprints, some grand design the architect knows and the man on the ground can't see.

Jeff's boy (Misha, memory whispers) touches the dog's head and looks up, skewering Jensen with a glance.

"You must be Jensen," Misha says. His tone says he's not sure whether to be pleased or furious.

Morgan jerks, looking up from his dog to find Jensen. His eyes narrow. "Is breaking and entering a hobby with you?"

Exhaling, Jensen relaxes from his position against the wall. "Morgan," he says by way of greeting. To Misha, he adds, "Seer."

Morgan looks sharply at Misha and repeats, "Seer?"

Misha sighs. "Hell. You might as well both sit down."