FIC: That Middle Road (3/?)
Jun. 16th, 2009 04:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (3/?)
Author: nilchance
Pairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse.
ETA 8/27/09: 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 spills two capsules into his palm, careful not to look in the bathroom mirror. Marisa is everywhere, her cluttered perfumes lined up along the sink, her bathrobe on the back of the door, her scent on their sheets. If he looks, he can see the empty cold cream bottle where she hid her smuggled collection of pills. Sleeping aids, painkillers, muscle relaxants, all stolen from the cabinets of Jeremy's clients. Fuck, baby, wouldn't it have been easier to hang yourself or something?
Wouldn't it have been better to just talk to me?
He takes the pills-- only stimulants for him now, thanks, only the gasoline to keep his motor running through this desert. If he stops for a minute, if he has to think... no. No, he won't do that. Once his throat is clear, he turns away from the mirror and tells Winston, "She's gonna come back."
Winston lifts his chin from his paws, wags once. Jeremy doesn't get the chance to think it's a wag for him, because immediately the bedroom door opens.
Denis is there, arms crossed, looking belligerent. "So what's with the kid?"
Misha, right. If Jeremy was a better man, if he was anything like Jeff or like the kind of guy who co-created the Trust should be, he'd have thought of his body-slave first. Misha had to be rattled, dragged from Vincent's deathbed and all, his stuff shoved into one sad duffel bag. He could probably use some direction, or at least some company, to reassure him that he hasn't been delivered into the hands of Caligula. Or Cruise, for that matter.
But then, isn't the whole point that Jeremy isn't the better man? Gina has Misha. She can babysit until Jeremy stops jittering inside.
"I could use a drink," Jeremy says. "We still got that whiskey in the underwear drawer, you think? Or did Mar use that to wash the Xanax down?"
"The kid, fuckwit," Denis says, like anybody else might be gentle.
"He's not a kid. He's thirty-something. Which is why I grabbed him before Vincent's useless brats tried to throw him in a meat-grinder." The pills are starting to kick, or maybe it's just the restlessness of this damn room. Jeremy goes to the broad, heavy cabinet beside their (his) bed and jerks the drawer open. It sticks, so he throws his weight behind the next yank. Winston shies away from the noise, so Jeremy grudgingly sits and gathers the poor mutt against his side. "Sorry, buddy. Anyway, I'm surprised Burton didn't snatch Misha up before that. You think they're having money trouble? Or was he just being sentimental? It'd be like him to be sentimental. Expecting Vincent to rise from the dead or something. Hey--"
Because Denis has abandoned his post at the door and is now crowded between Jeremy's knees, squinting at his face. "What the hell are you on?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Caffeine, man, it's fine." When Denis doesn't move, Jeremy gives his shoulder a little shove. More rough reassurance than any expectation that Denis will back off. "Don't worry about it."
"Right." Straightening up, Denis looks at him. "You know, we kinda need you around."
"Pft. You could run this place without me. You probably run it better."
Disgusted, Denis shakes his head. "You gonna make me say something girly? Because I think we'd both regret it in the fucking morning. I don't feel like dragging your dumb ass to an ER and explaining to the nurses why you're crashed out and drooling on your shirt."
"I know, I know." Jeremy wants to drag a hand through his hair, rub his eyes, but he can't move his hand away without a plaintive noise from Winston. "I won't. I just. I'll be fine."
Denis eyes him, every inch the skeptic, then grunts. He plunks down on the bed beside Jeremy, his cigarette scent crowding out Marisa's orange blossom ghost. "Suppose you needed a replacement bodyslave. He staying on after Marisa gets back?"
It's a loaded question, not just because it assumes that Marisa is coming back at all. Is Jeremy replacing her? Is Misha staying?
"We need a librarian," Jeremy says. "If Misha could handle Vincent's books, he could handle anything. But yeah. I needed somebody-- people were starting to talk."
And Misha, Misha isn't talking at all. What the hell had Jeremy been thinking?
Maybe he'd been caught up remembering the Misha he met once, a doting shadow at Vincent's side, forgettable unless you looked him in those keen blue eyes. If you did look, though, you knew Misha didn't miss a damn thing. Jeremy could use that; he couldn't watch everywhere, and Jeff was too busy being smitten to be careful.
Or maybe Jeremy just didn't want to hear too much chatter. Misha is pretty enough, broken down and silent. He fits Jeremy's addled accountant routine; people will be as careless with their secrets as they ever were. From Marisa's sweet little brainless hippie to Misha's silent damaged discount slave. People think the stupidest fucking things about slaves; they slot somewhere in society between pets and children. No-- like barn cats, not to be fed or allowed in the house, only kept around because they're useful, with a mercy bullet coming at the end of their ratting years.
Jeremy's thoughts are drifting again. He looks down at his hands, twists them together and digs his thumbnail into the frail webbing between his opposite thumb and forefinger, until his skin is livid and his thoughts are clear again. He thinks, stupidly and impulsely, of Marisa's indulgent smile.
He doesn't know who he is without her. His first slave, his first real love. She'd guided his hand all these years, kept him together with her willowy arms. She was (is) his family.
(Oh, Jeremy, his mother whispers in his ear, don't you know that she would love anyone who held her contract? You wrap up her body like a little doll, hold her under your coat and call it love?)
It's a temporary situation, just until Marisa's 5150 order finishes out and they release her from the hospital. A matter of weeks. And he saved another slave from a fate that would probably be horrible; there's no retirement home for older used-up slaves, after all, no gentle green pastures. Doesn't that absolve Jeremy from having to think too hard about his motives?
It does. It has to.
"Anything happen while I'm gone?" Jeremy asks. He doesn't change tone or expression, and Denis has no reason to be wary of him anyway, but Denis shifts into business gear without an ounce of snark. Denis is waiting for the explosion; they all are. Nobody takes their puking, dying bodyslave into rehab without once have some kind of reaction.
Except that yeah, plenty of owners would do exactly that. Most of Jeremy's clients, for one. His stepfather Richard--
"Dick called," Denis says right on cue, sneering around the word like he wants to spit it out.
"Bet he did," Jeremy agrees, more mildly than the hard kick of resentment in his chest. "So what did His Highness Richard want this time?"
"Probably an update on this week's sperm count. I don't know, the guy doesn't talk to me. You'd think he doesn't like me."
"Imagine," Jeremy drawls. Reading Denis's expression, he adds, "What else?"
"Uh." Rubbing his scruffy chin, Denis looks down. An old habit; one of Denis's old owners broke his jaw once, and he guards it when he thinks somebody's about to swing at him. Jeremy tries not to take it personally. "Yeah. Roache called."
Of course. Jeremy feels himself twitch a little as every muscle tries to tense at once, waking the icepick throb of yesterday's headache. Winston stirs against him, sensing his mood shift, but settles when Jeremy clumsily strokes his ears.
It's bad enough to hire a private retainer to babysit one's family. It's worse when said retainer actually has to call in.
"Which one?" Jeremy asks, when he can sound like it doesn't matter. "Meadow or Dad?"
"Meadow," Denis says. "She just needs cash, this time."
Just cash. Not a way out of jail, or Jeremy's political connections, or a plane ticket home; just cash, because she's been riding the thin line between poverty (poor enough not to own slaves, she says, not meeting his eyes or Marisa's) and slavery, and she slipped again.
Good thing she has an amoral brother with the financial capital to save her ass.
"Is she the one who called?" Jeremy asks, then waves off Denis's answer. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Wire her some cash, please."
"'Please,'" Denis mimics, and snorts. He's trying to bait Jeremy out of his rapidly sinking mood. That's probably why he adds, "Anyway, so Morgan called. Wanted to know where you've been."
Jeff. It's supposed to lift Jeremy up, apparently; he has friends around, he could go smoke up with Jeff and Zach and put the weight on his shoulders down for a little while.
Yeah. Except for the fact that Jeff doesn't know Marisa's gone. Jeremy could've called him the night of the OD, should've, except the minutes stretched to hours and he didn't have any words for this. Nothing to explain why Jeremy let this happen to his girl, or how he could replace her like she's disposable. Jeremy has enough people in his life who think he's a complete asshole.
And maybe he is. He's sitting here with his slave, like they're friends. Denis is forced to be here with him, and even if Jeremy's a kinder master than most, Jeremy can barely stand being trapped in an elevator; he can't imagine being trapped in a life. God, no wonder Marisa--
Suddenly the room is too small for him to breathe. He has to go, he has to run run run until he's too tired for this clawing fear.
Jeremy bolts to his feet, jarring poor Winston, who immediately heads under the bed. He feels guilty for that, but it's just one more thing to add to his tab.
"Where are you going?" Denis demands, rising with Jeremy to follow him to the door.
Anywhere. Any place but here. A girl, a bar, a party. Noise to fill his ears and a warm body under his empty hands. There's always somebody else's party.
"To get Misha," Jeremy says, snagging his jacket with his car keys. "'M going out. Don't wait up."
"You just got here, you prick--"
Denis is still swearing at him as Jeremy closes the bedroom door.
Author: nilchance
Pairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in
poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse.ETA 8/27/09: 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 spills two capsules into his palm, careful not to look in the bathroom mirror. Marisa is everywhere, her cluttered perfumes lined up along the sink, her bathrobe on the back of the door, her scent on their sheets. If he looks, he can see the empty cold cream bottle where she hid her smuggled collection of pills. Sleeping aids, painkillers, muscle relaxants, all stolen from the cabinets of Jeremy's clients. Fuck, baby, wouldn't it have been easier to hang yourself or something?
Wouldn't it have been better to just talk to me?
He takes the pills-- only stimulants for him now, thanks, only the gasoline to keep his motor running through this desert. If he stops for a minute, if he has to think... no. No, he won't do that. Once his throat is clear, he turns away from the mirror and tells Winston, "She's gonna come back."
Winston lifts his chin from his paws, wags once. Jeremy doesn't get the chance to think it's a wag for him, because immediately the bedroom door opens.
Denis is there, arms crossed, looking belligerent. "So what's with the kid?"
Misha, right. If Jeremy was a better man, if he was anything like Jeff or like the kind of guy who co-created the Trust should be, he'd have thought of his body-slave first. Misha had to be rattled, dragged from Vincent's deathbed and all, his stuff shoved into one sad duffel bag. He could probably use some direction, or at least some company, to reassure him that he hasn't been delivered into the hands of Caligula. Or Cruise, for that matter.
But then, isn't the whole point that Jeremy isn't the better man? Gina has Misha. She can babysit until Jeremy stops jittering inside.
"I could use a drink," Jeremy says. "We still got that whiskey in the underwear drawer, you think? Or did Mar use that to wash the Xanax down?"
"The kid, fuckwit," Denis says, like anybody else might be gentle.
"He's not a kid. He's thirty-something. Which is why I grabbed him before Vincent's useless brats tried to throw him in a meat-grinder." The pills are starting to kick, or maybe it's just the restlessness of this damn room. Jeremy goes to the broad, heavy cabinet beside their (his) bed and jerks the drawer open. It sticks, so he throws his weight behind the next yank. Winston shies away from the noise, so Jeremy grudgingly sits and gathers the poor mutt against his side. "Sorry, buddy. Anyway, I'm surprised Burton didn't snatch Misha up before that. You think they're having money trouble? Or was he just being sentimental? It'd be like him to be sentimental. Expecting Vincent to rise from the dead or something. Hey--"
Because Denis has abandoned his post at the door and is now crowded between Jeremy's knees, squinting at his face. "What the hell are you on?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Caffeine, man, it's fine." When Denis doesn't move, Jeremy gives his shoulder a little shove. More rough reassurance than any expectation that Denis will back off. "Don't worry about it."
"Right." Straightening up, Denis looks at him. "You know, we kinda need you around."
"Pft. You could run this place without me. You probably run it better."
Disgusted, Denis shakes his head. "You gonna make me say something girly? Because I think we'd both regret it in the fucking morning. I don't feel like dragging your dumb ass to an ER and explaining to the nurses why you're crashed out and drooling on your shirt."
"I know, I know." Jeremy wants to drag a hand through his hair, rub his eyes, but he can't move his hand away without a plaintive noise from Winston. "I won't. I just. I'll be fine."
Denis eyes him, every inch the skeptic, then grunts. He plunks down on the bed beside Jeremy, his cigarette scent crowding out Marisa's orange blossom ghost. "Suppose you needed a replacement bodyslave. He staying on after Marisa gets back?"
It's a loaded question, not just because it assumes that Marisa is coming back at all. Is Jeremy replacing her? Is Misha staying?
"We need a librarian," Jeremy says. "If Misha could handle Vincent's books, he could handle anything. But yeah. I needed somebody-- people were starting to talk."
And Misha, Misha isn't talking at all. What the hell had Jeremy been thinking?
Maybe he'd been caught up remembering the Misha he met once, a doting shadow at Vincent's side, forgettable unless you looked him in those keen blue eyes. If you did look, though, you knew Misha didn't miss a damn thing. Jeremy could use that; he couldn't watch everywhere, and Jeff was too busy being smitten to be careful.
Or maybe Jeremy just didn't want to hear too much chatter. Misha is pretty enough, broken down and silent. He fits Jeremy's addled accountant routine; people will be as careless with their secrets as they ever were. From Marisa's sweet little brainless hippie to Misha's silent damaged discount slave. People think the stupidest fucking things about slaves; they slot somewhere in society between pets and children. No-- like barn cats, not to be fed or allowed in the house, only kept around because they're useful, with a mercy bullet coming at the end of their ratting years.
Jeremy's thoughts are drifting again. He looks down at his hands, twists them together and digs his thumbnail into the frail webbing between his opposite thumb and forefinger, until his skin is livid and his thoughts are clear again. He thinks, stupidly and impulsely, of Marisa's indulgent smile.
He doesn't know who he is without her. His first slave, his first real love. She'd guided his hand all these years, kept him together with her willowy arms. She was (is) his family.
(Oh, Jeremy, his mother whispers in his ear, don't you know that she would love anyone who held her contract? You wrap up her body like a little doll, hold her under your coat and call it love?)
It's a temporary situation, just until Marisa's 5150 order finishes out and they release her from the hospital. A matter of weeks. And he saved another slave from a fate that would probably be horrible; there's no retirement home for older used-up slaves, after all, no gentle green pastures. Doesn't that absolve Jeremy from having to think too hard about his motives?
It does. It has to.
"Anything happen while I'm gone?" Jeremy asks. He doesn't change tone or expression, and Denis has no reason to be wary of him anyway, but Denis shifts into business gear without an ounce of snark. Denis is waiting for the explosion; they all are. Nobody takes their puking, dying bodyslave into rehab without once have some kind of reaction.
Except that yeah, plenty of owners would do exactly that. Most of Jeremy's clients, for one. His stepfather Richard--
"Dick called," Denis says right on cue, sneering around the word like he wants to spit it out.
"Bet he did," Jeremy agrees, more mildly than the hard kick of resentment in his chest. "So what did His Highness Richard want this time?"
"Probably an update on this week's sperm count. I don't know, the guy doesn't talk to me. You'd think he doesn't like me."
"Imagine," Jeremy drawls. Reading Denis's expression, he adds, "What else?"
"Uh." Rubbing his scruffy chin, Denis looks down. An old habit; one of Denis's old owners broke his jaw once, and he guards it when he thinks somebody's about to swing at him. Jeremy tries not to take it personally. "Yeah. Roache called."
Of course. Jeremy feels himself twitch a little as every muscle tries to tense at once, waking the icepick throb of yesterday's headache. Winston stirs against him, sensing his mood shift, but settles when Jeremy clumsily strokes his ears.
It's bad enough to hire a private retainer to babysit one's family. It's worse when said retainer actually has to call in.
"Which one?" Jeremy asks, when he can sound like it doesn't matter. "Meadow or Dad?"
"Meadow," Denis says. "She just needs cash, this time."
Just cash. Not a way out of jail, or Jeremy's political connections, or a plane ticket home; just cash, because she's been riding the thin line between poverty (poor enough not to own slaves, she says, not meeting his eyes or Marisa's) and slavery, and she slipped again.
Good thing she has an amoral brother with the financial capital to save her ass.
"Is she the one who called?" Jeremy asks, then waves off Denis's answer. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Wire her some cash, please."
"'Please,'" Denis mimics, and snorts. He's trying to bait Jeremy out of his rapidly sinking mood. That's probably why he adds, "Anyway, so Morgan called. Wanted to know where you've been."
Jeff. It's supposed to lift Jeremy up, apparently; he has friends around, he could go smoke up with Jeff and Zach and put the weight on his shoulders down for a little while.
Yeah. Except for the fact that Jeff doesn't know Marisa's gone. Jeremy could've called him the night of the OD, should've, except the minutes stretched to hours and he didn't have any words for this. Nothing to explain why Jeremy let this happen to his girl, or how he could replace her like she's disposable. Jeremy has enough people in his life who think he's a complete asshole.
And maybe he is. He's sitting here with his slave, like they're friends. Denis is forced to be here with him, and even if Jeremy's a kinder master than most, Jeremy can barely stand being trapped in an elevator; he can't imagine being trapped in a life. God, no wonder Marisa--
Suddenly the room is too small for him to breathe. He has to go, he has to run run run until he's too tired for this clawing fear.
Jeremy bolts to his feet, jarring poor Winston, who immediately heads under the bed. He feels guilty for that, but it's just one more thing to add to his tab.
"Where are you going?" Denis demands, rising with Jeremy to follow him to the door.
Anywhere. Any place but here. A girl, a bar, a party. Noise to fill his ears and a warm body under his empty hands. There's always somebody else's party.
"To get Misha," Jeremy says, snagging his jacket with his car keys. "'M going out. Don't wait up."
"You just got here, you prick--"
Denis is still swearing at him as Jeremy closes the bedroom door.
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no subject
Date: 2009-06-16 10:40 pm (UTC)I had somehow managed to miss the previous instalments, but i'm all caught up now.
Gorgeous melancholy feel to this piece, I look forward to more.
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Date: 2009-07-23 03:03 pm (UTC)Thank you!