FIC: Sorrow for the Lost
Dec. 25th, 2008 01:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Sorrow for the Lost
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. Moderate H/C for Christmas.
"This isn't necessary."
Morgan gives him a narrow look. The glass has been swept up and the Oracle tucked securely into blankets on the couch. Honestly, Jensen had thought he could slip away; negotiating a way to get into the clubs could wait until morning. But as soon as order was restored to the loft, Morgan seized on the annoying but harmless cut on Jensen's palm.
"You're not going out into the street covered in blood and puke, and that needs a bandage. I should know." Morgan snags the front of Jensen's shirt, hooking his finger under the collar. As the shirt peels away from his skin, the sick smell of sweat and vomit wafts up. Wrinkling his nose, Morgan tugs on him. "A fresh pair of clothes, a shower. It's the least I can do."
Morgan's gratitude is awkward, unwanted. This puts them on new ground. He'd sooner trade on this sudden goodwill for an escort into the clubs rather than a shower. Jensen shakes his head, but Morgan is already pulling him inexorably towards their open bedroom door. Deeper, to the master bathroom painted in shades of cream and wine. Maybe he's more worn than he thought, because the lights sear his eyes.
Twisting on the sink's hot taps, Morgan knocks the toilet seat down. "Park it."
"Morgan," Jensen warns, but apparently his growling is less effective than he thought, because Morgan grips his shoulder and steers him down. He sits on the back of their toilet seat. There's a seat cover, a small comfortable thing that catches him off guard. The places he uses for whore-baths, they're all cold ceramics and tile. It takes the fight out of him.
Morgan scrunches down in front of him and takes his injured hand. His touch is warm as he coaxes Jensen's fingers open, contrasting with the sharp pain of the cut. Snagging a washcloth, Morgan wets it and trickles the water down, washing the caked blood away. Jensen hisses, and Morgan murmurs absently, "I know."
"Shut up."
Ignoring him, Morgan touches the edges of the cut and holds tight when Jensen flinches. "This is deep, dude. You sure you don't want to go to the ER?"
"No."
"It's cut into the tendon--"
"I said no." The edge of Jensen's voice echoes too loudly off the tiles. He swallows, glancing away. "It's fine. I just need a needle."
"Heh. You're in the last century." Still too gentle, Morgan runs the cloth over the cut. Jensen closes his eyes and bears it until the bright sting brings him back. He jolts and finds Morgan with a tube of something, carefully covering the cut with a purple glue. "That'll hold it closed so long as you're careful."
Jensen looks at him.
Morgan cracks a smile. "I know you won't be, but I can hope." Then he bends and, Jensen's hand still cupped in his own, blows warm breath across his palm. Jensen twitches, fingers reflexively closing, but Morgan's concentration is on his handiwork. His thumb runs over the pulse of Jensen's wrist. "Jensen. Whatever you did for Misha..."
"I don't want to hear it." Jensen tugs a little, trying to reclaim his hand.
"Yeah, I know you don't." Morgan raises his head, pinning Jensen with a look. His eyes are the same green as Morrigan's. "Strip."
"I don't need--"
"Will you stop arguing with me for one minute? Whatever you have, I've seen. C'mon, put your arms up." Morgan tugs at the bottom of his shirt, and a fresh waft of that smell hits them both.
Jensen gives and puts his arms up, and Morgan whips the shirt up and over. It isn't until his chest is bared that he remembers the bruises. Morgan stops dead, staring at the purple-red blotches of them until Jensen crosses his arms over his chest.
"You're gonna get yourself killed, doing this," Morgan says finally. "What happened?"
A meeting with a demon last seen during the New Testament days. Another fatal wound. "Nothing important."
"Important enough to kick the shit out of you." Morgan reaches out and rests the back of his knuckles on Jensen's ribs. Jensen's breath skips like a hiccup, not in pain. Morgan rubs his thumb down the ridge of Jensen's side, a shivery bright feeling. "Is this the worst of it?"
"You a doctor now?" Jensen shoots back, but his heart's not in it. He feel light-headed, feverish with something he can't name. When Morgan only looks at him, Jensen sighs. "Yeah, that's all of it."
"I should drag your ass to a hospital." With a last skimming stroke, like Jensen is his damn dog, Morgan backs up. Unfortunately, it's only so far as to help him up. "I'll get you a washcloth."
"No thanks." Another luxury, another unraveling step backwards into real life. It's easier when he pretends that there was nothing before this Spartan life of sleeping in his car and scrubbing clean in public bathrooms. Jensen shuffles towards the shower, aching keenly where Morgan touched him, and starts to unbutton his pants. He pauses, fingers hooked in the waistband, when he realizes Morgan is lingering. "What?"
Morgan shakes his head like he's trying to shake something loose and turns away. "Nothing. I'll be here, listening for the thump when you pass out."
"I'm fine," Jensen says for the thousandth time, shucking off his jeans. "Fuck, Morgan, mind your own goddamn business."
"Seems like you are my business." Face still turned away, Morgan waits until Jensen is stepping gingerly into the shower before asking, "What was it you needed help with?"
"Are you really gonna stay in here?"
"Yep." Unrepentant as the devil.
Jensen yanks the curtain closed hard, rails rattling, and turns on the water. It takes a second to heat up, a shock of cold that doesn't restore his sense. Then it's liquid warmth, pouring over his face like benediction, stinging in his wounds. Closing his eyes, Jensen leans against the cool tiles and just feels it for a minute. He can be weak for a minute.
It passes. He reaches for the soap like his hand isn't trembling. Their shower is unnecessarily complicated, full of plastic bottles in different colors and sizes. There's a bar of dark soap, and he grabs it in desperation, scrubbing it hard over his skin. The smell creeps up on him, dark and spicy, Morgan's scent. Marking him.
"Jensen?" Morgan prompts, from the other side of the curtain.
"You said yourself, I can't get into the clubs without you." Jensen rubs the bar over his ribs, pressing harder than necessary to erase the ghost of that light touch. When he runs it over his chest, his nipples are peaked hard. He doesn't look further down, just lets the water rinse him clean. "That requires somebody they know, somebody to vouch for me."
"Fine." A creak, like Morgan's leaning against the sink. "You need training. You still look like you're trying to hunt somebody down."
"I am." Shampoo's too complicated with one hand; he scrubs the soap over his hair, quick and dirty.
"Yeah, but they don't need to know that. You need to look like you belong. How to kneel, how to act. I'm not trying to convert you, just show you the motions to go through."
There's an easy solution at hand: the Oracle knows what to do, he's already established, and his light would draw predators from deeper waters. But he can't let himself become that kind of hunter. Not yet, at least.
Leaning his shoulder against the tiles, Jensen tilts his face down and lets the water wash him clean. His head aches. "When can we start?"
"Friday."
"Friday?" Jensen pulls out of the water, blinking against the lights that flare in front of his eyes. He shouldn't move that fast. "What's wrong with tomorrow night?"
There's a beat of silence, keener against the patter of the water. Then Morgan says, too gently, "It's Christmas tomorrow."
Jensen's first instinct is to argue. It can't be that late; he would have noticed. But when he tries to remember, he thinks of the shopping traffic and lights display he dismissed with annoyance. It makes sense, and yet...
He was supposed to be finished by now. Bloody revenge carved out and his pain over, reunited with Renee.
"Oh," he says stupidly.
"Yeah." Morgan clears his throat. Each word is halting, picking out a path through crumbling stones. "Listen, I was going to ask you. We're having a thing tomorrow night. We need somebody to help eat the extra food people always bring."
It's pity. It's insulting and pathetic. Jensen's throat burns, choking on it like food at a wake, but he keeps quiet.
Morgan seems to take his silence as a protest, because he keeps going. "There'll be people there. It might help show that you're with me."
Duty. Morgan is offering him an excuse to call it part of the job, not desperation. Jensen feels the burn of blood in his face. He swallows once, twice, trying to get it under control.
It passes, as pain always does. He's composed when he turns off the water and opens the shower curtain. Morgan is still there, waiting. Jensen wishes that he was surprised.
"Yes," he says, and rips the clothes that Morgan offers from his hands.
Backing up a few steps, Morgan gives him room to get out. He speaks like he's trying to soothe a spooked horse. "We've got a couch. You should stay."
Jensen has the sudden fierce urge to claw at Morgan. To say something cruel. He swallows again, hard, and pulls the curtain shut between them.
When he gets out of the shower, fully dressed and bound with his mission again, Morgan isn't there. Jensen counts it as one more debt.
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. Moderate H/C for Christmas.
"This isn't necessary."
Morgan gives him a narrow look. The glass has been swept up and the Oracle tucked securely into blankets on the couch. Honestly, Jensen had thought he could slip away; negotiating a way to get into the clubs could wait until morning. But as soon as order was restored to the loft, Morgan seized on the annoying but harmless cut on Jensen's palm.
"You're not going out into the street covered in blood and puke, and that needs a bandage. I should know." Morgan snags the front of Jensen's shirt, hooking his finger under the collar. As the shirt peels away from his skin, the sick smell of sweat and vomit wafts up. Wrinkling his nose, Morgan tugs on him. "A fresh pair of clothes, a shower. It's the least I can do."
Morgan's gratitude is awkward, unwanted. This puts them on new ground. He'd sooner trade on this sudden goodwill for an escort into the clubs rather than a shower. Jensen shakes his head, but Morgan is already pulling him inexorably towards their open bedroom door. Deeper, to the master bathroom painted in shades of cream and wine. Maybe he's more worn than he thought, because the lights sear his eyes.
Twisting on the sink's hot taps, Morgan knocks the toilet seat down. "Park it."
"Morgan," Jensen warns, but apparently his growling is less effective than he thought, because Morgan grips his shoulder and steers him down. He sits on the back of their toilet seat. There's a seat cover, a small comfortable thing that catches him off guard. The places he uses for whore-baths, they're all cold ceramics and tile. It takes the fight out of him.
Morgan scrunches down in front of him and takes his injured hand. His touch is warm as he coaxes Jensen's fingers open, contrasting with the sharp pain of the cut. Snagging a washcloth, Morgan wets it and trickles the water down, washing the caked blood away. Jensen hisses, and Morgan murmurs absently, "I know."
"Shut up."
Ignoring him, Morgan touches the edges of the cut and holds tight when Jensen flinches. "This is deep, dude. You sure you don't want to go to the ER?"
"No."
"It's cut into the tendon--"
"I said no." The edge of Jensen's voice echoes too loudly off the tiles. He swallows, glancing away. "It's fine. I just need a needle."
"Heh. You're in the last century." Still too gentle, Morgan runs the cloth over the cut. Jensen closes his eyes and bears it until the bright sting brings him back. He jolts and finds Morgan with a tube of something, carefully covering the cut with a purple glue. "That'll hold it closed so long as you're careful."
Jensen looks at him.
Morgan cracks a smile. "I know you won't be, but I can hope." Then he bends and, Jensen's hand still cupped in his own, blows warm breath across his palm. Jensen twitches, fingers reflexively closing, but Morgan's concentration is on his handiwork. His thumb runs over the pulse of Jensen's wrist. "Jensen. Whatever you did for Misha..."
"I don't want to hear it." Jensen tugs a little, trying to reclaim his hand.
"Yeah, I know you don't." Morgan raises his head, pinning Jensen with a look. His eyes are the same green as Morrigan's. "Strip."
"I don't need--"
"Will you stop arguing with me for one minute? Whatever you have, I've seen. C'mon, put your arms up." Morgan tugs at the bottom of his shirt, and a fresh waft of that smell hits them both.
Jensen gives and puts his arms up, and Morgan whips the shirt up and over. It isn't until his chest is bared that he remembers the bruises. Morgan stops dead, staring at the purple-red blotches of them until Jensen crosses his arms over his chest.
"You're gonna get yourself killed, doing this," Morgan says finally. "What happened?"
A meeting with a demon last seen during the New Testament days. Another fatal wound. "Nothing important."
"Important enough to kick the shit out of you." Morgan reaches out and rests the back of his knuckles on Jensen's ribs. Jensen's breath skips like a hiccup, not in pain. Morgan rubs his thumb down the ridge of Jensen's side, a shivery bright feeling. "Is this the worst of it?"
"You a doctor now?" Jensen shoots back, but his heart's not in it. He feel light-headed, feverish with something he can't name. When Morgan only looks at him, Jensen sighs. "Yeah, that's all of it."
"I should drag your ass to a hospital." With a last skimming stroke, like Jensen is his damn dog, Morgan backs up. Unfortunately, it's only so far as to help him up. "I'll get you a washcloth."
"No thanks." Another luxury, another unraveling step backwards into real life. It's easier when he pretends that there was nothing before this Spartan life of sleeping in his car and scrubbing clean in public bathrooms. Jensen shuffles towards the shower, aching keenly where Morgan touched him, and starts to unbutton his pants. He pauses, fingers hooked in the waistband, when he realizes Morgan is lingering. "What?"
Morgan shakes his head like he's trying to shake something loose and turns away. "Nothing. I'll be here, listening for the thump when you pass out."
"I'm fine," Jensen says for the thousandth time, shucking off his jeans. "Fuck, Morgan, mind your own goddamn business."
"Seems like you are my business." Face still turned away, Morgan waits until Jensen is stepping gingerly into the shower before asking, "What was it you needed help with?"
"Are you really gonna stay in here?"
"Yep." Unrepentant as the devil.
Jensen yanks the curtain closed hard, rails rattling, and turns on the water. It takes a second to heat up, a shock of cold that doesn't restore his sense. Then it's liquid warmth, pouring over his face like benediction, stinging in his wounds. Closing his eyes, Jensen leans against the cool tiles and just feels it for a minute. He can be weak for a minute.
It passes. He reaches for the soap like his hand isn't trembling. Their shower is unnecessarily complicated, full of plastic bottles in different colors and sizes. There's a bar of dark soap, and he grabs it in desperation, scrubbing it hard over his skin. The smell creeps up on him, dark and spicy, Morgan's scent. Marking him.
"Jensen?" Morgan prompts, from the other side of the curtain.
"You said yourself, I can't get into the clubs without you." Jensen rubs the bar over his ribs, pressing harder than necessary to erase the ghost of that light touch. When he runs it over his chest, his nipples are peaked hard. He doesn't look further down, just lets the water rinse him clean. "That requires somebody they know, somebody to vouch for me."
"Fine." A creak, like Morgan's leaning against the sink. "You need training. You still look like you're trying to hunt somebody down."
"I am." Shampoo's too complicated with one hand; he scrubs the soap over his hair, quick and dirty.
"Yeah, but they don't need to know that. You need to look like you belong. How to kneel, how to act. I'm not trying to convert you, just show you the motions to go through."
There's an easy solution at hand: the Oracle knows what to do, he's already established, and his light would draw predators from deeper waters. But he can't let himself become that kind of hunter. Not yet, at least.
Leaning his shoulder against the tiles, Jensen tilts his face down and lets the water wash him clean. His head aches. "When can we start?"
"Friday."
"Friday?" Jensen pulls out of the water, blinking against the lights that flare in front of his eyes. He shouldn't move that fast. "What's wrong with tomorrow night?"
There's a beat of silence, keener against the patter of the water. Then Morgan says, too gently, "It's Christmas tomorrow."
Jensen's first instinct is to argue. It can't be that late; he would have noticed. But when he tries to remember, he thinks of the shopping traffic and lights display he dismissed with annoyance. It makes sense, and yet...
He was supposed to be finished by now. Bloody revenge carved out and his pain over, reunited with Renee.
"Oh," he says stupidly.
"Yeah." Morgan clears his throat. Each word is halting, picking out a path through crumbling stones. "Listen, I was going to ask you. We're having a thing tomorrow night. We need somebody to help eat the extra food people always bring."
It's pity. It's insulting and pathetic. Jensen's throat burns, choking on it like food at a wake, but he keeps quiet.
Morgan seems to take his silence as a protest, because he keeps going. "There'll be people there. It might help show that you're with me."
Duty. Morgan is offering him an excuse to call it part of the job, not desperation. Jensen feels the burn of blood in his face. He swallows once, twice, trying to get it under control.
It passes, as pain always does. He's composed when he turns off the water and opens the shower curtain. Morgan is still there, waiting. Jensen wishes that he was surprised.
"Yes," he says, and rips the clothes that Morgan offers from his hands.
Backing up a few steps, Morgan gives him room to get out. He speaks like he's trying to soothe a spooked horse. "We've got a couch. You should stay."
Jensen has the sudden fierce urge to claw at Morgan. To say something cruel. He swallows again, hard, and pulls the curtain shut between them.
When he gets out of the shower, fully dressed and bound with his mission again, Morgan isn't there. Jensen counts it as one more debt.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 05:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 05:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 05:57 am (UTC)Thank you for this.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 06:43 am (UTC)I have been waiting for someone to force Jensen to take a shower, take a nap, and eat a damn sandwich for AGES. Of course Jensen finds it hard to accept and watching him struggle to allow himself even a moment of humanity, oh it hurts. I adore Jeff for insisting though. Ooo, and was the purple glue NuSkin? I think that's what it's called anyway. I used to use it when I'd rip calluses and it'd burn like a bitch, but work like a charm. I love Jeff for using that glue instead of letting Jensen sew himself up, too. I love that Jeff watches out for him. He needs someone to watch out for him. I sort of wonder if that's Jeff's purpose in this. Jensen is the warrior, Misha is the Oracle, Jeff is the Witness and Protector. Anyway I love this. Have a wonderful holiday and thanks for the story!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 07:00 am (UTC)There's something deeply engaging about Jeff as you write him.
Thank you for the lovely Yule pick me up.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 07:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 07:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 09:18 am (UTC)went well with my peppermint tea!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 09:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 12:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 03:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 11:26 pm (UTC)*doesn't pet him, but wants to*
I know he has his mission, but....
*unhappy little sigh*
I'm enjoying, but hurting. Oh, boys....
no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 04:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 01:45 am (UTC)Oh Jensen ... much as I want to see you all sex'd up, mostly I want to see you not hurting any more.
Ever.
Jeff, Misha, I hope you're listening.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-30 01:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-30 07:24 pm (UTC)Also, I love that icon. Paaaaandas. *pet*
no subject
Date: 2010-09-08 07:16 pm (UTC)