FIC: Into the Tempest
Dec. 20th, 2008 01:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Into the Tempest
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated.
It's late when they finally tip Jeremy out into the street, much drunker than when he came in. Jeff would drive him home himself, but Jeremy called Ever instead. Maybe Jeremy wanted some "friendly" company, or maybe he just noticed that Jeff was loathe to leave Misha alone long enough to use the damn bathroom. Whatever the reason, Jeff doesn't like sending anybody else out into the night.
As Jeremy leans against their building, lighting up a cigarette before Ever arrives to announce that it's a disgusting habit, Jeff can hear distant sirens.
"You can stay," Jeff offers again, "we've got a couch--"
Jeremy waves him off, his hand cutting through the first exhale of smoke. "Nah. You kids need your space. Anyway, somebody needs to take care of Ever, right?"
"Thought she was a ballbuster." Jeff slaps Jeremy's arm. "You're my brother, you can crash with us anytime. And I'm here if you need me."
"Pft. Fuck, you are drunk."
"No," Jeff says. He's never been more sober.
Jeremy rocks on his heels, hunched in like he's cold. They're quiet until Ever's headlights cut a path down the street. It seems to unleash something in Jeremy, and he raises his head to look at Jeff. "Hey," he says. "Listen. You've been... better since Misha."
Jeff stills, one hand hanging before he rests it against the small of Jeremy's back. He knows what Jeremy means without clarification: Jeff hasn't been the furious ball of hate that he was, before. He's lost that sour, acid feeling low in his belly when he thinks about... well, a lot of things. His stepfather. He's got darkness inside, coiled up and waiting. Sleeping, once he found Misha, but not gone.
With every death, it stirs inside him. Jeff understands how Jensen ended up hunting down the murderer, that half-life.
"Don't let this put you back there," Jeremy says. "It'll eat you alive, man."
Jeff bites back the urge to say he's okay. Jeremy was usually the one hauling Jeff by the jacket to keep him from punching somebody's face in, and he deserves better. "So what," he says instead, "you're not angry?"
Huffing out a bitter almost-laugh, Jeremy says, "There's a difference between being angry and that place you go."
"And where's that?"
"I don't know." Jeremy leans over against him, shoulder to shoulder. His voice is almost soft enough to lose. "Somewhere I can't follow you."
The sharp pang in Jeff's chest feels like guilt. He puts his hand on Jeremy's back and guides him to Ever's car, lowering him in the backseat. Jensen promised to protect them, but not Jeremy or Ever, not the people who fall in their shadow.
Ever cranes her head in the backseat and says fondly, "Dumbass." She's been crying, her eyes smeary and red when she looks at Jeff and tries to smile. "I've got him. Thanks."
Jeff leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth, laying his hand on Jeremy's head. Like priests do, maybe. He wants to say something: I'm trying to find the killer, my boy's an oracle, and I'm in over my fucking head. But he can't without bringing them deeper. "You two come to Christmas," he says instead, warmth choking his throat. "Tell Zach, too. And don't you bring any fucking expensive dry wines, Jere."
Jeremy flips him off, curling into a protective ball in the seat. Jeff reaches over him to put on his seatbelt and endures Ever's smirk in the rearview. He tells her, "Be careful," and she knows he doesn't mean the roads.
The night holds a chill, but Jeff stands there and watches them pull away until the taillights recede into stars. Then he glances up and thinks, with the helpless faith of a man in the foxholes, Please.
A raven sweeps past overhead, so fast and low he flinches, and careens away laughing. Perversely, it's comforting. He's becoming a superstitious man, he thinks with some disgust, and goes back inside.
He's a floor away when he hears Bisou. She's never made that noise, an eerie high keen that turns his stomach punctuated with ear-shattering barks, and he's running up the steps before he even realizes that he's moving. He runs smack into the door and it doesn't give, locked under his hands. Bisou's barking takes on a frantic, shrill note.
"Shit," he hisses, fumbling for his keys, "Misha, open the fucking door!"
No answer. Jeff feels himself freezing over inside. When the door opens beneath his key, he expects to see blood. Not Misha, he thinks helplessly, not my boy...
The loft seems empty except for the enormity of Bisou's panic as she circles Misha's sprawled body. She looks at Jeff and whines, but Jeff is already going, thumping to his knees beside Misha. Spilled tea soaks through Jeff's sweatpants, the shattered remains of Misha's dropped coffee cup. Misha is jittering in place, teeth chattering and eyes rolled back to show their whites. When Jeff touches his throat to feel the pulse, his skin is clammy and cold.
The air smells thick with brine.
The door slams shut, a staccato kerklunk like a shotgun being reloaded. Jeff jerks around to look and finds Jensen there, looking strained.
"Move," Jensen says, punctuating it with a shove at Jeff's shoulder, and takes Jeff's seat by Misha's head. With unexpected gentleness, he tips Misha onto his side and cushions his head. Brackish water sloshes through Misha's clenched teeth, and Jensen curses.
"He doesn't have seizures," Jeff says helplessly. It's a stupid thing to say, deserving Jensen's usual acerbic tongue, but he doesn't so much as look up. Jeff puts his hand on Misha's arm and finds the muscles rigid.
Jensen pulls the knife from his boot and slices his palm open, unflinching even though Jeff can see the darker red of tendon before the blood spills over. Then he slaps his palm down on the floor and drags, creating a rough circle. With a sharp look at Jeff, he closes them both in with Misha.
Grabbing Misha's shirt, Jensen bares the pale skin of his stomach. With his injured hand, he uncaps a black Sharpie from god-knows-where. The ink and blood look vulgar on Misha's skin.
An invisible hand presses new bruises into Misha's throat, digging furrows into his carotid. Misha chokes, strained into a bow, and stops breathing. Jeff freezes, his chest aching like he can take in air for them both, and grabs Jensen to pull him out of the way, to give Misha CPR.
Jerking away, Jensen closes the symbol of ink, a terse figure-eight with complex symbols inside. He casts the Sharpie away and bends down, covering Misha's mouth with his own.
The light bulbs blow one by one, throwing glass down on them, swallowing them in darkness. Jeff hears something groan like the bow of a ship under the pressure of the hungry ocean.
Jensen pulls back and Jeff hears Misha gasp in a breath. Then it's quiet, save the precious rhythm of Misha's breathing and the less pleasant sounds of Jensen retching.
Falling down to look at Misha, Jeff cups his face and presses their foreheads together. In a long minute, Misha grabs his arms hard, clinging. Shaking. Sobbing for breath. "Shh," Jeff murmurs, "shh. Slow down. I've got you."
Jensen shuffles to his feet. After a while, there's shivering light from one of Misha's candles, reflecting off them all and off the small ocean that Jensen threw up. He took it, Jeff realizes, took it straight from Misha's lungs.
"What happened?" Jeff asks both of them.
Misha is the one to answer, his voice wrecked and thin. "I was trying to center down. Calm down. It, something touched me. Something touched me. I only felt it a second, it was trying to, it--"
"Don't," Jensen says, sharply. "Let it go."
"How the fuck is he supposed to let it go?" Jeff snaps. "He was dying--"
"He shut down because there are some things too big to understand," Jensen shoots right back. "He's an oracle. He's a light for dark things. But they let him go, and they won't go after him again, so don't fucking push your luck to make him remember and end up with him in a psych ward. "
Misha flinches a little, and Jeff sits up, a wall between him and Jensen. "Did you know this was going to happen?"
"No." Jensen sounds shockingly sincere. With his hand cupped, blood running through his fingers, he looks pathetic. Harmless. "No. I had no idea they were involved. But your Oracle seems to need better protection from them and other things. I thought he was safer."
That stings like an accusation, though Jeff knows it's not meant that way. "And who are 'they'?"
Jensen shakes his head. "Not at night. Especially not while somebody's bleeding and your boy is still raw." A pause, and then Jensen sighs. "I'm sorry, Oracle. You all right?"
"I've been better," Misha says, and pushes upright. If he leans hard on Jeff to do it, Jeff won't tell. "You drew a protection sigil."
A shrug from Jensen. "It'll stay now. If the ink smears off, it's fine."
Misha squints at him. He's pale, but his color is starting to come back. There's a core of steel to Misha that Jeff's always admired, and it's showing now. "What did it cost you?"
Another shrug. "Nothing I couldn't afford to lose."
Misha sighs. "You need stitches."
Jensen glances at his hand like he'd forgotten it, frowns. "It'll be fine."
"A bandage at least." Curling his arm around Jeff's shoulders, Misha struggles to get his knees under him. "Help me up."
"Mish," Jeff begins, knowing he's already lost.
"Get me to the couch and get the first aid kit," Misha says, ignoring him. To Jensen, he asks, "Did you come around just to save my ass, or did you need something?"
Despite everything, Jensen looks bemused. "Actually. I, uh. I need your help."
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated.
It's late when they finally tip Jeremy out into the street, much drunker than when he came in. Jeff would drive him home himself, but Jeremy called Ever instead. Maybe Jeremy wanted some "friendly" company, or maybe he just noticed that Jeff was loathe to leave Misha alone long enough to use the damn bathroom. Whatever the reason, Jeff doesn't like sending anybody else out into the night.
As Jeremy leans against their building, lighting up a cigarette before Ever arrives to announce that it's a disgusting habit, Jeff can hear distant sirens.
"You can stay," Jeff offers again, "we've got a couch--"
Jeremy waves him off, his hand cutting through the first exhale of smoke. "Nah. You kids need your space. Anyway, somebody needs to take care of Ever, right?"
"Thought she was a ballbuster." Jeff slaps Jeremy's arm. "You're my brother, you can crash with us anytime. And I'm here if you need me."
"Pft. Fuck, you are drunk."
"No," Jeff says. He's never been more sober.
Jeremy rocks on his heels, hunched in like he's cold. They're quiet until Ever's headlights cut a path down the street. It seems to unleash something in Jeremy, and he raises his head to look at Jeff. "Hey," he says. "Listen. You've been... better since Misha."
Jeff stills, one hand hanging before he rests it against the small of Jeremy's back. He knows what Jeremy means without clarification: Jeff hasn't been the furious ball of hate that he was, before. He's lost that sour, acid feeling low in his belly when he thinks about... well, a lot of things. His stepfather. He's got darkness inside, coiled up and waiting. Sleeping, once he found Misha, but not gone.
With every death, it stirs inside him. Jeff understands how Jensen ended up hunting down the murderer, that half-life.
"Don't let this put you back there," Jeremy says. "It'll eat you alive, man."
Jeff bites back the urge to say he's okay. Jeremy was usually the one hauling Jeff by the jacket to keep him from punching somebody's face in, and he deserves better. "So what," he says instead, "you're not angry?"
Huffing out a bitter almost-laugh, Jeremy says, "There's a difference between being angry and that place you go."
"And where's that?"
"I don't know." Jeremy leans over against him, shoulder to shoulder. His voice is almost soft enough to lose. "Somewhere I can't follow you."
The sharp pang in Jeff's chest feels like guilt. He puts his hand on Jeremy's back and guides him to Ever's car, lowering him in the backseat. Jensen promised to protect them, but not Jeremy or Ever, not the people who fall in their shadow.
Ever cranes her head in the backseat and says fondly, "Dumbass." She's been crying, her eyes smeary and red when she looks at Jeff and tries to smile. "I've got him. Thanks."
Jeff leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth, laying his hand on Jeremy's head. Like priests do, maybe. He wants to say something: I'm trying to find the killer, my boy's an oracle, and I'm in over my fucking head. But he can't without bringing them deeper. "You two come to Christmas," he says instead, warmth choking his throat. "Tell Zach, too. And don't you bring any fucking expensive dry wines, Jere."
Jeremy flips him off, curling into a protective ball in the seat. Jeff reaches over him to put on his seatbelt and endures Ever's smirk in the rearview. He tells her, "Be careful," and she knows he doesn't mean the roads.
The night holds a chill, but Jeff stands there and watches them pull away until the taillights recede into stars. Then he glances up and thinks, with the helpless faith of a man in the foxholes, Please.
A raven sweeps past overhead, so fast and low he flinches, and careens away laughing. Perversely, it's comforting. He's becoming a superstitious man, he thinks with some disgust, and goes back inside.
He's a floor away when he hears Bisou. She's never made that noise, an eerie high keen that turns his stomach punctuated with ear-shattering barks, and he's running up the steps before he even realizes that he's moving. He runs smack into the door and it doesn't give, locked under his hands. Bisou's barking takes on a frantic, shrill note.
"Shit," he hisses, fumbling for his keys, "Misha, open the fucking door!"
No answer. Jeff feels himself freezing over inside. When the door opens beneath his key, he expects to see blood. Not Misha, he thinks helplessly, not my boy...
The loft seems empty except for the enormity of Bisou's panic as she circles Misha's sprawled body. She looks at Jeff and whines, but Jeff is already going, thumping to his knees beside Misha. Spilled tea soaks through Jeff's sweatpants, the shattered remains of Misha's dropped coffee cup. Misha is jittering in place, teeth chattering and eyes rolled back to show their whites. When Jeff touches his throat to feel the pulse, his skin is clammy and cold.
The air smells thick with brine.
The door slams shut, a staccato kerklunk like a shotgun being reloaded. Jeff jerks around to look and finds Jensen there, looking strained.
"Move," Jensen says, punctuating it with a shove at Jeff's shoulder, and takes Jeff's seat by Misha's head. With unexpected gentleness, he tips Misha onto his side and cushions his head. Brackish water sloshes through Misha's clenched teeth, and Jensen curses.
"He doesn't have seizures," Jeff says helplessly. It's a stupid thing to say, deserving Jensen's usual acerbic tongue, but he doesn't so much as look up. Jeff puts his hand on Misha's arm and finds the muscles rigid.
Jensen pulls the knife from his boot and slices his palm open, unflinching even though Jeff can see the darker red of tendon before the blood spills over. Then he slaps his palm down on the floor and drags, creating a rough circle. With a sharp look at Jeff, he closes them both in with Misha.
Grabbing Misha's shirt, Jensen bares the pale skin of his stomach. With his injured hand, he uncaps a black Sharpie from god-knows-where. The ink and blood look vulgar on Misha's skin.
An invisible hand presses new bruises into Misha's throat, digging furrows into his carotid. Misha chokes, strained into a bow, and stops breathing. Jeff freezes, his chest aching like he can take in air for them both, and grabs Jensen to pull him out of the way, to give Misha CPR.
Jerking away, Jensen closes the symbol of ink, a terse figure-eight with complex symbols inside. He casts the Sharpie away and bends down, covering Misha's mouth with his own.
The light bulbs blow one by one, throwing glass down on them, swallowing them in darkness. Jeff hears something groan like the bow of a ship under the pressure of the hungry ocean.
Jensen pulls back and Jeff hears Misha gasp in a breath. Then it's quiet, save the precious rhythm of Misha's breathing and the less pleasant sounds of Jensen retching.
Falling down to look at Misha, Jeff cups his face and presses their foreheads together. In a long minute, Misha grabs his arms hard, clinging. Shaking. Sobbing for breath. "Shh," Jeff murmurs, "shh. Slow down. I've got you."
Jensen shuffles to his feet. After a while, there's shivering light from one of Misha's candles, reflecting off them all and off the small ocean that Jensen threw up. He took it, Jeff realizes, took it straight from Misha's lungs.
"What happened?" Jeff asks both of them.
Misha is the one to answer, his voice wrecked and thin. "I was trying to center down. Calm down. It, something touched me. Something touched me. I only felt it a second, it was trying to, it--"
"Don't," Jensen says, sharply. "Let it go."
"How the fuck is he supposed to let it go?" Jeff snaps. "He was dying--"
"He shut down because there are some things too big to understand," Jensen shoots right back. "He's an oracle. He's a light for dark things. But they let him go, and they won't go after him again, so don't fucking push your luck to make him remember and end up with him in a psych ward. "
Misha flinches a little, and Jeff sits up, a wall between him and Jensen. "Did you know this was going to happen?"
"No." Jensen sounds shockingly sincere. With his hand cupped, blood running through his fingers, he looks pathetic. Harmless. "No. I had no idea they were involved. But your Oracle seems to need better protection from them and other things. I thought he was safer."
That stings like an accusation, though Jeff knows it's not meant that way. "And who are 'they'?"
Jensen shakes his head. "Not at night. Especially not while somebody's bleeding and your boy is still raw." A pause, and then Jensen sighs. "I'm sorry, Oracle. You all right?"
"I've been better," Misha says, and pushes upright. If he leans hard on Jeff to do it, Jeff won't tell. "You drew a protection sigil."
A shrug from Jensen. "It'll stay now. If the ink smears off, it's fine."
Misha squints at him. He's pale, but his color is starting to come back. There's a core of steel to Misha that Jeff's always admired, and it's showing now. "What did it cost you?"
Another shrug. "Nothing I couldn't afford to lose."
Misha sighs. "You need stitches."
Jensen glances at his hand like he'd forgotten it, frowns. "It'll be fine."
"A bandage at least." Curling his arm around Jeff's shoulders, Misha struggles to get his knees under him. "Help me up."
"Mish," Jeff begins, knowing he's already lost.
"Get me to the couch and get the first aid kit," Misha says, ignoring him. To Jensen, he asks, "Did you come around just to save my ass, or did you need something?"
Despite everything, Jensen looks bemused. "Actually. I, uh. I need your help."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 03:12 pm (UTC)(Damn LJ!)
no subject
Date: 2010-09-08 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 06:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 03:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 07:06 pm (UTC)Another beautiful addition to this 'verse.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 03:09 pm (UTC)Also, I think I have a thing for friendship in fic. It's a large part of why I adore PT's A Kept Boy, the intricate relationships between all the characters ranging from love to lust to friendship to hate.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 07:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 03:06 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 07:33 pm (UTC)First, it's creepy as hell. Second, i love Jeff taking comfort in the raven. Third, Misha, jayzus!! Fourth - JENSEN.
Just...dude! Awesome, excellent chapter and, just....
*hands*
Love!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 03:03 pm (UTC)Thank you! I love your fb.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 03:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 03:00 pm (UTC)I mentioned that I love your icon, right?
no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 04:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 09:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:58 pm (UTC)Also, icon love.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-20 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:56 pm (UTC)I (heart) your icon.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-21 01:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-21 02:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-21 02:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:48 pm (UTC)Thank you! And I hope the rl stuff is better now.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-21 09:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:47 pm (UTC)And an answering driveby to let you know I'm thinking of you during (ugh) finals.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-21 11:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:46 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 10:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 02:40 pm (UTC)(TX represent!)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 04:46 pm (UTC)I adore your Misha, he rocks!
Not to mention that the JDM/Misha pairing is unbelievably hot. ;)
Can't wait to see how this story unfolds, such an intriguing concept. Also, just what did it cost Jensen to save Misha? *waits for more*
no subject
Date: 2008-12-23 04:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-24 01:15 am (UTC)-- despite the Tea abuse :)
no subject
Date: 2009-03-30 12:55 am (UTC)I'm wondering about the "I didn't know *they* were involved" remark. "They" can't be Legion, as he's met its mounts before. Does Morrigan herself have natural enemies in the pantheon, that might chose to get involved when they see her move-that might not care, one way or another, about anything going on, but just want to screw up her game? Lemme get wild with the speculating, here. :D
I'm wondering, also, if there might be more than one murderer. Given that the police are going to be all over everywhere, and women are going to be hiding, etc, it would be difficult for one man to kill so many victims. *frowns*
no subject
Date: 2009-03-30 07:28 pm (UTC)Dude, you guessed this way ahead of the game. Rock on.
Morrigan is definitely no one's Mommy goddess. She's the forge and the hammer, and Jensen is her blade for now. She can reach through the protection sigil and nudge Jeff in the direction she wants him to ho. And yes, Morrigan definitely has her enemies. She was part of rousting out the old gods of Ireland, after all... ;)
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-13 07:17 pm (UTC)I always want to leave comments that aren't so superficial, but a) this seems to have short-circuited (is there a hyphen there) my analytical abilities, and b) I'm so eager to read the next chapter that I can't stop long enough to write something. When I read this again, I'll try to do better.