FIC: Stranger Engines for the Brunt of War

[nilchance]

Title: Stranger Engines for the Brunt of War
Author: 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.



"The fuck happened to your hand?"

Bell looks strained in the unforgiving afternoon light. Jensen can't blame her. It's been harder to reach the scene this time, a widening corona of bystanders pressing against the police barriers. The tape's too frail to hold them, and without the tense junior officers who hold the line, the scene would be trampled. Bell holds up the tape eyeing the young couple behind Jensen with an intensity that keeps them from trying to follow.

"Attacked by wild boars," Jensen deadpans. "How bad is it?"

Ignoring him, Bell storms towards the boarded-up old building. It reminds Jensen too much of the streets around the Oracle's place. Some part of him paces and frets at being this far from the Oracle. He wants to blame it on the blood circle he drew around Misha, some obscure magic messing with his brain, and yet...

A charnel stench drags him back, growing thicker as they near the warehouse. Zoe blocks him with her arm and rummages inside her pockets, coming up with a small vial of Vicks. She smears it across her upper lip, coughs, and offers it to him. Jensen almost refuses, then sees the glassy expression of a passing senior officer and changes his mind. The menthol is a slap in the face, better than the coffee he didn't have a chance to drink.

"So who picked up your phone?" Bell asks, not quite looking at him.

It's not an idle question. Trying not to tense and betray himself, Jensen concentrates on recapping the Vicks.

"Because it sounded like one of our original suspects," Bell says after a minute. "Guy had a voice that was hard to forget. You might remember him. Morgan somebody."

Damn. Jensen sets his jaw and meets Bell's stare, holding out the Vicks. "Yeah, I know him."

"Figured. Fuck, man, what are you doing? You think that won't look funny? You think you aren't being watched?" Shoving the Vicks back into her pocket, Bell glares at him. "They always look at the spouse first."

"I was in Dallas."

"Yeah, and Morgan was in fucking Boston. They still turned him upside down, and he had less to explain than you do."

"And what do you have to explain, Detective?" Jensen gestures around the scene. "Why are you helping me?"

It comes out less a taunt than a plea. They both look away that time. Jensen searches for something to say, some way to recover, when Bell suddenly comes to attention like a pointer dog on a hunt.

A tall lean woman cuts a warpath across the lawn. Three inverted chevrons above her name, Torres: a sergeant. "Bell," she calls out, voice like a whip, "who's the pretty boy?"

It takes Jensen a second to register that she means him.

Bell has every reason to toss him out, and now she's got an excuse. She could have him barred from every crime scene; she could cut off his stream of photos and reports. Sergeant Torres would probably help her throw Jensen over the tape. Jensen holds his breath, trying not to draw the sergeant's attention, and so only twitches when Bell grabs his arm in a bruising grip.

"New CSI, sarge," Bell says. "Straight outta college. Just wanted to warn him that it's not all flashy William Peterson crap, get some mess on his shoes."

"Jesus." Rubbing her forehead, Sergeant Torres sighs. "This is a goddamn heater, Bell. Get your shit together."

"You did the same to me, as I recall," Bell drawls, then nudges Jensen. "Shotgun suicide under a ceiling fan. Brains everywhere. Looked like a Romero flick."

Jensen does his best to look squeamish.

Torres doesn't crack a smile, pinning Jensen with her steady regard. "Messy in there," she says finally. "Fair warning. You sure you want to see this your first time out?"

Jensen tries a bravado smile. "Can't be worse than a decomp."

Torres grunts. "Depends on your stomach, I suppose. Stay out of the way and don't fuck up my evidence, or I'll string your balls up in my office like Chinese lanterns. Clear?"

"Yes, sir," Jensen says automatically, then winces inside.

But apparently that's the right thing to say. Torres nods at Bell. "He's your problem. I'll be keeping my eye on you, Fabio."

Thus released, Bell nearly pulls Jensen's arm out of its socket in her rush to get away. She frogmarches him through the open mouth of the warehouse and into a claustrophobic little hallway, out of Torres's sight, then puts the brake on. There are no officers lounging around in the hall, none of the usual shit-talking and unofficial politicking. At the end of the hall there's a heavy door, propped open to air out the slaughterhouse stench. Jensen hears the pop of CSI cameras, the occasional murmured word instead of broad gallows humor. It's bad in there.

"Jesus," Bell says, and shoves his shoulder hard. "Should've tossed you out."

"But you didn't."

Something passes between them. It's not 'thank you', but it's enough. Bell looks towards the crime scene, a muscle working in her jaw, then sighs. "No. So are we going in or not?"

They go in.

At first Jensen doesn't see the body; there's too much, the reek of blood so thick it clots his senses, the flash of CSI cameras, and something that stops his thoughts, his breath, his heart.

The bastard was here. The murderer, the animal thing that took Renee apart. He feels it under his skin, inside his head, that subtle wrongness. The feral joy. The calculation. This is what was gone from Cynthia's crime scene.

Slowly, Jensen's eyes are drawn to a small limp form propped against the wall, where he left her for them to find. His ears are humming, echoing Legion's insect song.

The girl sits up schoolgirl straight, veiled by the blue wrap that hides her hair and shoulders. Her arms are broken and forced into a cradle, a stiffness that has nothing to do with rigor; the murderer shoved dowels beneath her skin to keep the shape. One breast is bare, a rose tattoo like a secret she can't keep anymore. In her arms, there's a naked baby doll, its plastic limbs akimbo. A mother, the Holy Mother, breastfeeding her child.

The girl's face has been peeled away with loving attention, the blade hugging every curve. There is very little damage to the underlying muscles. The murderer took her eyelids, so she stares ahead and will continue until dehydration sets in.

Jensen stands close enough to see her skin bulging around the dowels that hold her arms stiff. He stares at her, unblinking as she is, burning her into his head.

This is the price of failure.

Bell is speaking to him, her voice like a rope out of this darkness. But then, deeper in it, deeper than Jensen could go and still come back, there's a whisper: do you see it, boy?

Jensen looks at her, past the gore and the horror. He looks, and something unlocks.

Turning to Bell, Jensen says, "Gloves."

She stares at him, obviously thinking of the few thousand reasons not to give him anything, then reaches into her pocket. Sheathing his hands in the gloves, Jensen squats down to the girl's level. Here, the smell is dizzying. He swallows against it, nearly choking, and reaches for the doll. When he presses his fingers against the doll's mouth, there's brief resistance, and then the wad of paper tumbles out. Jensen catches it just short of the gummy floor.

"Hey," Bell says sharply, and reaches for the paper. Jensen unfolds it fast, before it's taken away and bagged up as evidence.

We are many, the paper reads. Scrawled again and again on the mutilated paper. We are many we are many we are many

Bell pulls the paper from his hands and nudges him hard. "Out of here," she mutters, "before we've both got a lot of explaining to do. Gag on the way out." When Jensen hesitates, Bell shoves him again and hisses. "Go!"

Jensen goes. If he stumbles, it only helps his act. He's out the door, doubled over and gagging, when he hears Bell's triumphant shout. "I found something!"

There's no triumph. He's no closer to his quarry. Just another girl, dead. Dueling murderers, maybe. Or something else.

We are many.

As the cops start to crowd around the warehouse door, wanting to be in on it, Jensen drifts towards the yellow tape. He's ducking under, still covering his mouth like he's retching, when he sees Sergeant Torres watching him through narrowed eyes. Only a bloodchilling moment, and then she turns away, but she saw him.

What a clusterfuck.

Shouldering his way through the crowd, Jensen reaches the street and gulps down clean air. He walks fast enough to make his lungs and legs burn, trying to leave that girl's ghost behind him. Can't go fast enough for that.

Blocks go by. A few cop cars pass him, their lights searing his eyes. He needs to slow down before he draws attention. He needs to stop, god, he wants to stop. He wants to go home.

He feels soiled inside. Dizzy. He wants... he wants to go back to the loft.

Aching, dizzy, Jensen forces his body to slow down to a walk. He scrubs a hand over his face, smearing the sick sweat. Nearly misses the motion in the corner of his vision, the swing and click of beaded dreds. Nearly.

Jensen lashes out before he thinks and it's good, it's so good to filter out his rage so he can breathe. Grabbing fistfuls of jacket, he shoves their body against the nearest wall, jerking the man's breath out of his lungs. He expects a struggle, wants one, but the man rests indolently against the wall. Jensen raises his fist to smash away that calm and only then recognizes the other man's face.

In the daylight, Jason looks like a different person. Smaller. Wearier. He doesn't lean away from Jensen's fist, only studies him with half-lidded eyes.

"Why are you following me?" Jensen doesn't recognize his own voice, grinding out the words like they hurt.

"Because the world's falling apart," Jason says. "Because you belong to Morrigan. And because we have to talk."

Comments

[iyalode.livejournal.com]

Eee. Another plot twist. So good.

[nilchance.livejournal.com]

Thank you!