FIC: That Middle Road (2/?)
Dec. 30th, 2008 03:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (2/?)
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.
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.
Jeremy drives them home. It's the first time Misha's been in a car since the accident, but the rest of the day has wrung all emotion from him. He grips his knees and keeps his eyes closed. If Jeremy is kind enough not to mention Misha's limp or the silent watering of his eyes that won't stop, Misha won't think poorly on his lack of a driver.
For most of the trip, Jeremy chatters. Blithe, steady words that don't require an answer: how he took most of Misha's belongings, aside from the ones that the children claimed, which means not many at all. Stories about Vincent. Complaints about the ever-present traffic. There's a strain beneath his levity, a fatigue Misha can almost taste.
After a while, Jeremy turns on the radio. Another surprise: it's not rock or rap, but instrumental music that pours from the car's expensive speakers. Holtz, the Planets. Misha squints an eye open, but Jeremy only stares straight ahead at the sea of brake lights. The traffic is atrocious, as Vincent would say, but that means they won't get up to a killing speed.
"Do you speak ASL?" Jeremy asks suddenly, without looking at Misha. "Has anybody bothered to teach you?"
Yes, there's that edge again, surprising bitterness for a man who owns slave. An abolitionist? Hell, Misha hopes not. He doesn't have it in him anymore to try to run. He was hamstrung early, when they took Sasha and sold him to an older man with hungry eyes and hands. Poor Sasha, only 12, too lost for Vincent to find. Vincent was good to even try.
It's easier to analyze Jeremy's tone than to try to answer. The flaw isn't in his tongue or his hearing, it's in the deep fracture between the accident and everything after. No signal beneath the noise, nothing left to communicate. He's a hollow instrument to be played.
When Jeremy glances at him, sidelong, it's as if he hears. As if he knows. Mouth thinning, he nods and concentrates on the road. There are fine lines gathering at the corner of his eyes, indications of age that weren't present when Misha last saw him. Jeremy's young, still, so much younger than Vincent was. Vincent had wanted a son, more or less, a weapon or a pet. Jeremy will want other things.
Misha shivers, though his face still feels hot from the drag of Jeremy's hand. Even though Jeremy's not looking, he still reaches over and turns up the heat. Misha wants to say thank you, needs to for more reasons than just the temperature, but it locks in his throat. He tips his face down, ashamed.
They pull off the highway, tires thumping down on rougher road. Misha figured Jeremy for a city type, high rise apartment overlooking the Hollywood lights, but the exit leads out into a wilder country. Plenty of space. Nobody to hear a slave scream. Misha concentrates on holding very still, the perfect line of his spine. The back of his neck prickles with cold, and he can't decide if he wants Jeremy to put his hand there.
The turn comes out of nowhere after a sea of open country small ranchers, like something out of a horror movie. Jeremy takes it smoothly, but Misha's nails bite into the back of his own hand until the turn is complete. Then it's down the lopsided path, Jeremy's expensive car taking it better than expected as thin branches whip the windshield and hood. Jeremy's mood seems to darken as they get closer to his home, his idle drumming replaced by a white-knuckled grip.
The house is mission style, beautiful and bigger than a single man could need. There are roses and sage bushes, and Misha feels a twist of homesickness. Someone left the light on for them. Jeremy parks behind a battered pick-up and stares at the house for a moment before plastering on a smile. "Well. Home sweet home, Misha."
Misha tries to smile back and opens the car door, ready to open Jeremy's for him as is right. But Jeremy's already unfolding his tall body from the seat, grabbing Misha's single bag and tossing it over his shoulder. "Hey, Winston!" Jeremy calls out.
It would be an appropriate summons for a slave, but a small lapdog comes jingling out instead. Winston yawns and circles Jeremy's ankles like he thinks he's a cat before trotting ambiably over to Misha. Misha hesitates, unsure if he's supposed to pick the dog up and risk toppling over, but Winston only sniffs his shoes and peers around Misha like he's hiding someone.
"No, buddy, she's not here," Jeremy says cryptically, and snaps his long fingers. "C'mere."
Winston yaps and follows. Jeremy sweeps his arm open, ushering Misha along. In front of him, Misha thinks, a little dazed. He limps hard the first step, trying to remind Jeremy that he'll hold him up, but Jeremy doesn't change expressions. So they go, dog and slave and master, into the open door of the house.
They're met by two people, a blond with a sharp face and a younger brunette with doe eyes. "Hey, fucker," the blond says unceremoniously, a sardonic edge to his voice. "What, you bring home another stray?"
Misha stiffens automatically, uncertain, but Jeremy reacts as if he's cursed at every day. He tosses the blond Misha's duffel. "This is Misha. Misha, Denis and Gina. Denis is my agent in charge of drinking my beer. Gina's the cook. I'm handing you off to them, if that's all right. Headache coming on."
Is he being asked to approve Jeremy's behavior? Misha hesitates, but apparently the question was hypothetical. Jeremy's already headed through the cluttered entry and up the steps, taking them three at a time with Winston jingling after him. A few seconds later, there's a muted 'thump' of a door slamming. Jeremy is as careless with his inanimate property as he is with his slaves.
"Hell, he's going up there to brood again," Denis mutters, swinging the bag to the floor, and disappears up the stairs after him.
Gina follows him with her sad eyes, gnawing on her lower lip, then remembers Misha and shakes herself. Her smile is friendly enough. "You hungry?"
Misha nods, more because it's social than because he wants food. In the months he sat shiva beside Vincent, he lost the ability to feel a lot of things, and hunger is among them. He should be concerned for Jeremy, for his own hide, but he only observes. The house is disorganized, dusty, and Jeremy is mourning.
Gina offers him her arm and guides him into the kitchen. Misha's body aches; this is more activity than he's tried in months. He mostly falls into the kitchen chair, scraping it along the floor. Gina doesn't wince or rebuke him, turning to a neat contraption on the counter that looks like a steel tea pot. She grabs a mug from its hook under the cabinet and pours what looks like tea. "Here, it's homeopathic. I was having some myself."
Ah. So it's likely to be almost but not quite entirely unlike tea, then. Vincent's daughter had pushed homeopathic medicine on Vincent once, years ago, and--
Misha tucks his grief away and accepts the mug, inclining his head to say thank you. Gina seems to take his muteness without question, slinging her lean body into a chair across from Misha's own.
"You have to understand," she says all at once, as if the words are jerked out of her. "Jeremy isn't... like this. Not usually. I mean, he's a good man. The best owner I've ever had. He won't hurt you."
Some tension in Misha's stomach uncoils. He nods, holding Gina's eyes, waiting for the rest.
Vincent used to say that Misha had a priest's presence, the kind that made others want to confess. At least he didn't lose that in the crash. There's something else here, a missing piece that he needs to solve the puzzle.
Gina spins her teacup on the table, obviously struggling for words, then sighs. "He hasn't been the same since Marisa tried to kill herself."
Ah. There it is, then. The missing bodyslave, the quickness with which Misha was hired, the funeral quiet of the house. He understands.
Misha raises the cup to his mouth, tasting its bitterness, thinking.
Author:
nilchancePairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in
poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse.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.
Jeremy drives them home. It's the first time Misha's been in a car since the accident, but the rest of the day has wrung all emotion from him. He grips his knees and keeps his eyes closed. If Jeremy is kind enough not to mention Misha's limp or the silent watering of his eyes that won't stop, Misha won't think poorly on his lack of a driver.
For most of the trip, Jeremy chatters. Blithe, steady words that don't require an answer: how he took most of Misha's belongings, aside from the ones that the children claimed, which means not many at all. Stories about Vincent. Complaints about the ever-present traffic. There's a strain beneath his levity, a fatigue Misha can almost taste.
After a while, Jeremy turns on the radio. Another surprise: it's not rock or rap, but instrumental music that pours from the car's expensive speakers. Holtz, the Planets. Misha squints an eye open, but Jeremy only stares straight ahead at the sea of brake lights. The traffic is atrocious, as Vincent would say, but that means they won't get up to a killing speed.
"Do you speak ASL?" Jeremy asks suddenly, without looking at Misha. "Has anybody bothered to teach you?"
Yes, there's that edge again, surprising bitterness for a man who owns slave. An abolitionist? Hell, Misha hopes not. He doesn't have it in him anymore to try to run. He was hamstrung early, when they took Sasha and sold him to an older man with hungry eyes and hands. Poor Sasha, only 12, too lost for Vincent to find. Vincent was good to even try.
It's easier to analyze Jeremy's tone than to try to answer. The flaw isn't in his tongue or his hearing, it's in the deep fracture between the accident and everything after. No signal beneath the noise, nothing left to communicate. He's a hollow instrument to be played.
When Jeremy glances at him, sidelong, it's as if he hears. As if he knows. Mouth thinning, he nods and concentrates on the road. There are fine lines gathering at the corner of his eyes, indications of age that weren't present when Misha last saw him. Jeremy's young, still, so much younger than Vincent was. Vincent had wanted a son, more or less, a weapon or a pet. Jeremy will want other things.
Misha shivers, though his face still feels hot from the drag of Jeremy's hand. Even though Jeremy's not looking, he still reaches over and turns up the heat. Misha wants to say thank you, needs to for more reasons than just the temperature, but it locks in his throat. He tips his face down, ashamed.
They pull off the highway, tires thumping down on rougher road. Misha figured Jeremy for a city type, high rise apartment overlooking the Hollywood lights, but the exit leads out into a wilder country. Plenty of space. Nobody to hear a slave scream. Misha concentrates on holding very still, the perfect line of his spine. The back of his neck prickles with cold, and he can't decide if he wants Jeremy to put his hand there.
The turn comes out of nowhere after a sea of open country small ranchers, like something out of a horror movie. Jeremy takes it smoothly, but Misha's nails bite into the back of his own hand until the turn is complete. Then it's down the lopsided path, Jeremy's expensive car taking it better than expected as thin branches whip the windshield and hood. Jeremy's mood seems to darken as they get closer to his home, his idle drumming replaced by a white-knuckled grip.
The house is mission style, beautiful and bigger than a single man could need. There are roses and sage bushes, and Misha feels a twist of homesickness. Someone left the light on for them. Jeremy parks behind a battered pick-up and stares at the house for a moment before plastering on a smile. "Well. Home sweet home, Misha."
Misha tries to smile back and opens the car door, ready to open Jeremy's for him as is right. But Jeremy's already unfolding his tall body from the seat, grabbing Misha's single bag and tossing it over his shoulder. "Hey, Winston!" Jeremy calls out.
It would be an appropriate summons for a slave, but a small lapdog comes jingling out instead. Winston yawns and circles Jeremy's ankles like he thinks he's a cat before trotting ambiably over to Misha. Misha hesitates, unsure if he's supposed to pick the dog up and risk toppling over, but Winston only sniffs his shoes and peers around Misha like he's hiding someone.
"No, buddy, she's not here," Jeremy says cryptically, and snaps his long fingers. "C'mere."
Winston yaps and follows. Jeremy sweeps his arm open, ushering Misha along. In front of him, Misha thinks, a little dazed. He limps hard the first step, trying to remind Jeremy that he'll hold him up, but Jeremy doesn't change expressions. So they go, dog and slave and master, into the open door of the house.
They're met by two people, a blond with a sharp face and a younger brunette with doe eyes. "Hey, fucker," the blond says unceremoniously, a sardonic edge to his voice. "What, you bring home another stray?"
Misha stiffens automatically, uncertain, but Jeremy reacts as if he's cursed at every day. He tosses the blond Misha's duffel. "This is Misha. Misha, Denis and Gina. Denis is my agent in charge of drinking my beer. Gina's the cook. I'm handing you off to them, if that's all right. Headache coming on."
Is he being asked to approve Jeremy's behavior? Misha hesitates, but apparently the question was hypothetical. Jeremy's already headed through the cluttered entry and up the steps, taking them three at a time with Winston jingling after him. A few seconds later, there's a muted 'thump' of a door slamming. Jeremy is as careless with his inanimate property as he is with his slaves.
"Hell, he's going up there to brood again," Denis mutters, swinging the bag to the floor, and disappears up the stairs after him.
Gina follows him with her sad eyes, gnawing on her lower lip, then remembers Misha and shakes herself. Her smile is friendly enough. "You hungry?"
Misha nods, more because it's social than because he wants food. In the months he sat shiva beside Vincent, he lost the ability to feel a lot of things, and hunger is among them. He should be concerned for Jeremy, for his own hide, but he only observes. The house is disorganized, dusty, and Jeremy is mourning.
Gina offers him her arm and guides him into the kitchen. Misha's body aches; this is more activity than he's tried in months. He mostly falls into the kitchen chair, scraping it along the floor. Gina doesn't wince or rebuke him, turning to a neat contraption on the counter that looks like a steel tea pot. She grabs a mug from its hook under the cabinet and pours what looks like tea. "Here, it's homeopathic. I was having some myself."
Ah. So it's likely to be almost but not quite entirely unlike tea, then. Vincent's daughter had pushed homeopathic medicine on Vincent once, years ago, and--
Misha tucks his grief away and accepts the mug, inclining his head to say thank you. Gina seems to take his muteness without question, slinging her lean body into a chair across from Misha's own.
"You have to understand," she says all at once, as if the words are jerked out of her. "Jeremy isn't... like this. Not usually. I mean, he's a good man. The best owner I've ever had. He won't hurt you."
Some tension in Misha's stomach uncoils. He nods, holding Gina's eyes, waiting for the rest.
Vincent used to say that Misha had a priest's presence, the kind that made others want to confess. At least he didn't lose that in the crash. There's something else here, a missing piece that he needs to solve the puzzle.
Gina spins her teacup on the table, obviously struggling for words, then sighs. "He hasn't been the same since Marisa tried to kill herself."
Ah. There it is, then. The missing bodyslave, the quickness with which Misha was hired, the funeral quiet of the house. He understands.
Misha raises the cup to his mouth, tasting its bitterness, thinking.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 08:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-05 04:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 08:53 pm (UTC)Beautiful!
I like this very much.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 09:36 pm (UTC)Poor Misha. Poor Jeremy. *pets them gently*
Sweet Gina. Bellman?
no subject
Date: 2008-12-31 12:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-31 01:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-31 02:23 am (UTC)I just read both parts and I absolutely love this so far. I can't wait to see how this plays out.
Random question, are the other slaves actual people and if so, who?
no subject
Date: 2008-12-31 06:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-31 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-02 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-23 03:16 am (UTC)Poor Misha, he has no clue what to do. I thought Jensen's path was difficult in his house but Misha's not even getting a little bit of information from Jeremy. Of course poor Jeremy has his own problems.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-13 05:29 am (UTC)BTW, I love this! "Denis is my agent in charge of drinking my beer." It took me by surprise in the middle of a somber moment, and I can't stop giggling!