FIC: That Middle Road (4/?)
Jul. 22nd, 2009 04:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (4/?)
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 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.
Misha tries, but his loyalty to Vincent doesn't stop him from coming to point like a bird dog at his master's voice when Jeremy reappears. It hasn't been long enough for his cup of tea to cool in his hands. Gina raises her eyebrows, as if this rushing around is unusual. Worrying. Misha notes that for future reference.
(But then, why? Vincent won't be asking his impression after the party.)
"Hey," Jeremy says, still breathless from thundering down the steps. The glasses are gone; costume, as Misha thought. He nods at Misha, but his question is for Gina. "Can I borrow him for a few hours? Think I might go to Zach's."
Gina blinks. "You just got him here. And dinner--"
"I'll eat it when I get back. I promise." Jeremy's attention darts to Misha, an afterthought. "You're not tired, right? Or hungry? Sorry, should've asked."
Funny that Jeremy should even bother. Misha shakes his head and starts to lever himself upright. It's a laborious process, too easy to notice, but instead of a snide comment about damaged merchandise, Jeremy comes closer and offers Misha a hand up. His fingers are long and graceful. Not Vincent's artist's hands, bent with age and use, spotted and weathered. Misha thinks he might like to see Jeremy hold a pen, or run his fingertips over skin.
"You can tell a great deal from a man's handshake," Vincent said, his own hands resting firmly on Misha's shoulders as Misha fumbled his own tie. "Whether he is nervous, or a hard worker. What he may have beneath his nails, if anything. If he tries to grip too tightly, or slip away. If he will attempt to take your hand, given your status. Whatever it is you see in him... do tell me."
Only Vincent isn't listening anymore. If Misha believed in souls, or in anything aside from the blip of human kindness that's deviant in an unkind world, he'd hope that Vincent had left his body and gone on to blend with other brilliant minds. He'd hope that Vincent wasn't stuck in a shitting, dying, useless body. Except that the thought of Vincent leaving him makes the world feel huge and empty.
Whatever he's feeling, the situation is what it is. Jeremy owns him now, to whatever end.
Carefully, Misha grasps Jeremy's hand. Jeremy hoists him upright in one smooth pull, effortless, and their bodies nearly collide. Misha's breath hiccups in his throat, alarm tangling up with something like desire, but they don't touch. Jeremy lets him go, absently brushing invisible lint off Misha's shoulders.
"Easy," Jeremy says, and looks for the first time at Misha's bad leg.
Misha wants to shy back, the attention too direct after months of Vincent's family refusing to acknowledge his new limp in the best snooty fashion. He won't call it a disability-- what right does he have to that word, when disabled slaves tended to suffer the most?--, but it makes him damaged goods, and in a new bodyslave... had Vincent's kids told Jeremy what he was getting before he signed the check?
"That's from the wreck," Jeremy notes, like he doesn't expect an answer. "I don't remember you limping before."
Odd that Jeremy would remember him at all. Misha nods, restricted to one word answers when the situation needs essays.
Like he's completely forgotten about the rush to leave, distracted by this new revelation, Jeremy directs his too keen attention to Misha's face. "Do you want to see an orthopedist? Did they have you doing PT? Does it hurt? I know, I know," he answers himself, "slow down, I know. Okay. You should see somebody. Do you want to?"
Misha blinks at him. Vincent's daughter had done her duty, she'd paid for Misha to get through the immediate and acute treatments, but it hadn't occurred to her to worry about managing the damage Misha could survive. So his leg had healed strange, something to do with the junction of hip and thigh; Misha can feel it click when he walks, and it aches in the night or in the rain. Yes, Misha wants to walk straight again, he wants to be able to run and to sleep a solid night without the pain waking him, but--
But they'd expect words, and he can't get them out. Would that be next? Doctors prying at his mouth and putting him in MRIs, shining lights in his eyes, asking him about his mother? No. He can't.
It's too complicated for a gesture; Misha is still struggling with what answer Jeremy will expect, when Jeremy takes one look at him and just nods. Nods, as if Misha's silence is completely comprehensible. Misha hasn't been understood in that particular way since the crash stole his voice and his will to explain himself to anyone. He isn't sure if he should hate Jeremy for that, for thinking he could understand or for igniting that small delicious warmth in Misha's chest.
Before he can decide, Jeremy moves away. He moves fast for a man of his height, all that lankiness as deceptive as his costume glasses. Misha wonders about the body beneath Jeremy's (messy enough to look disarming to a prejudiced eye, tailored enough to avoid insult) suit pants and buttoned shirt. Will he be quick as that in bed? What will he want? What will he expect?
Will it hurt?
Misha tucks that secret fear away with other forgotten things. It doesn't matter if it's good; it's not his job to enjoy himself. He should research how to do this new job like he would anything else. Maybe the house library will have something with diagrams.
"Okay," Jeremy says over his shoulder, retrieving his keys, his focus off Misha again, "off to see the Wizard."
Misha follows, and manages a smile when he realizes that Jeremy slows down to let him catch up.
****
It doesn't get easier to be in a car, even (especially) with Jeremy; Misha sneaks a grip on the oh-shit handle and doesn't let go, feeling the sweat slip down the small of his back. He wants to undo his tie and shrug out of his jacket, like a man coming home, but there's no home left for him.
On the other hand, Jeremy seems relieved to be driving away from his house, relaxing by degrees as they cut through the evening traffic. They don't talk, or rather Jeremy doesn't, switching Holtz for something instrumental with acoustic guitars. The music would sink into Misha's bones like lazy sunshine if he wasn't braced for an explosion of fracturing glass and the crumple of metal.
He has to get used to this. Jeremy must travel a lot, might need Misha to drive him, and so... no, he has to carve this weakness out before it gets him sold. Not every slave-owner has Vincent's loyalty.
After what feels like an eternity but couldn't be longer than twenty minutes, they take an exit off into Pasadena. Jeremy starts drumming on the steering wheel again, which Misha can't quite view charitably given his own nerves. It figures that while Misha's jittering down to his bones in the car, Jeremy's at his most comfortable in motion. Misha peeks over at him, the disarmingly sweet curl of Jeremy's dark hair against his cheek and throat, and then away again. He shouldn't stare. It isn't polite to stare.
"This isn't business," Jeremy blurts suddenly. "I mean, I'm not going to somebody's house to read over their books. I. I just didn't want to sit around at home. Too quiet, y'know?"
Misha tries to wipe the irony of that from his expression, but Jeremy huffs out a laugh at himself anyway. "Yeah. I guess you don't mind that too much. So you don't talk."
Again the blunt statement of reality; Jeremy must horrify the society he meets. Then again, no, he must keep that under wraps in order to be a successful accountant, which may explain why Jeremy is so colorful in private. To prove to himself that he has that right? That he isn't an owned creature like Misha?
And there Misha goes again, analyzing for a man who isn't even...
"I could've left you home. Sorry. I--" Jeremy takes one hand off the wheel to fumble in his jacket, coming up with a pack of cigarettes.
Misha foresees a lot of fumbling to light up, which his nerves won't survive, so he reaches out and plucks the cigarettes out of Jeremy's fingers. That could earn him a rebuke or worse, but Jeremy just blinks at him, so Misha goes through the smoker's ritual of pulling out a cigarette and lighting it from the little red hot knob. It's surprisingly soothing to have something to do with his hands, and he knows this from years of filling Vincent's nightly pipe (with tobacco and with marijuana). He passes the cigarette back to Jeremy, a stupid thrill in his stomach as their hands touch.
"Thanks," Jeremy says, some of the brashness swept from his voice.
Again Misha can't force the necessary words up his throat. He feels the blush that stains his face, and sketches out a quick namaste. It's meant to stand for gratitude, but the real meaning is something deeper: I see the god in you. Vincent's daughter with her New Age philosophy had tried to explain that theory once, and Misha had privately doubted that anyone really understood each other short of a Vulcan mind-meld, but now he thinks he sees deeper into Jeremy than either of them would like.
Jeremy studies him a second too long, until Misha wants to yelp "eyes on the road!", then smiles and looks away. "Do you want a pad of paper or something?" Jeremy asks. "Or-- I know basic ASL. Fingerspelling. I worked with Lady Matlin for a while."
Despite himself, Misha's hand clenches tight on his knee. He knows ASL, enough to communicate silently with house staff to avoid interrupting Vincent's thoughts and enough to make himself heard, but the only thing coiled behind his silence is a wounded animal scream. Rage, pain, despair-- dangerous things for a slave to show a master, darkness that will be bred out of Misha's kind if the masters ever learn how. Hope, a weak green stalk crushed beneath the belly of a rock.
But Jeremy must know that Vincent consulted with artists both disabled and whole, or he will find out. Better to admit it now.
Tentatively, Misha raises one hand and signs, yes. He thinks stupidly, suddenly, of Joyce: yes is the most beautiful word in language, and Misha is terrified of it.
But Jeremy's smile seems genuinely pleased. "That's good." Abruptly, he reaches over the gear shift and covers Misha's hand. Misha twitches, startled, but Jeremy only squeezes once and lets him go. "Okay. So you can tell me to shut up if I start rambling. Oh, there we go, almost missed the turn, dammit, these signs--"
They turn fast, tipping Misha against his car door. He trembles inside. His hand feels burned where Jeremy touched it.
He wants to be burned again.
****
Author:
nilchancePairing: 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.
Misha tries, but his loyalty to Vincent doesn't stop him from coming to point like a bird dog at his master's voice when Jeremy reappears. It hasn't been long enough for his cup of tea to cool in his hands. Gina raises her eyebrows, as if this rushing around is unusual. Worrying. Misha notes that for future reference.
(But then, why? Vincent won't be asking his impression after the party.)
"Hey," Jeremy says, still breathless from thundering down the steps. The glasses are gone; costume, as Misha thought. He nods at Misha, but his question is for Gina. "Can I borrow him for a few hours? Think I might go to Zach's."
Gina blinks. "You just got him here. And dinner--"
"I'll eat it when I get back. I promise." Jeremy's attention darts to Misha, an afterthought. "You're not tired, right? Or hungry? Sorry, should've asked."
Funny that Jeremy should even bother. Misha shakes his head and starts to lever himself upright. It's a laborious process, too easy to notice, but instead of a snide comment about damaged merchandise, Jeremy comes closer and offers Misha a hand up. His fingers are long and graceful. Not Vincent's artist's hands, bent with age and use, spotted and weathered. Misha thinks he might like to see Jeremy hold a pen, or run his fingertips over skin.
"You can tell a great deal from a man's handshake," Vincent said, his own hands resting firmly on Misha's shoulders as Misha fumbled his own tie. "Whether he is nervous, or a hard worker. What he may have beneath his nails, if anything. If he tries to grip too tightly, or slip away. If he will attempt to take your hand, given your status. Whatever it is you see in him... do tell me."
Only Vincent isn't listening anymore. If Misha believed in souls, or in anything aside from the blip of human kindness that's deviant in an unkind world, he'd hope that Vincent had left his body and gone on to blend with other brilliant minds. He'd hope that Vincent wasn't stuck in a shitting, dying, useless body. Except that the thought of Vincent leaving him makes the world feel huge and empty.
Whatever he's feeling, the situation is what it is. Jeremy owns him now, to whatever end.
Carefully, Misha grasps Jeremy's hand. Jeremy hoists him upright in one smooth pull, effortless, and their bodies nearly collide. Misha's breath hiccups in his throat, alarm tangling up with something like desire, but they don't touch. Jeremy lets him go, absently brushing invisible lint off Misha's shoulders.
"Easy," Jeremy says, and looks for the first time at Misha's bad leg.
Misha wants to shy back, the attention too direct after months of Vincent's family refusing to acknowledge his new limp in the best snooty fashion. He won't call it a disability-- what right does he have to that word, when disabled slaves tended to suffer the most?--, but it makes him damaged goods, and in a new bodyslave... had Vincent's kids told Jeremy what he was getting before he signed the check?
"That's from the wreck," Jeremy notes, like he doesn't expect an answer. "I don't remember you limping before."
Odd that Jeremy would remember him at all. Misha nods, restricted to one word answers when the situation needs essays.
Like he's completely forgotten about the rush to leave, distracted by this new revelation, Jeremy directs his too keen attention to Misha's face. "Do you want to see an orthopedist? Did they have you doing PT? Does it hurt? I know, I know," he answers himself, "slow down, I know. Okay. You should see somebody. Do you want to?"
Misha blinks at him. Vincent's daughter had done her duty, she'd paid for Misha to get through the immediate and acute treatments, but it hadn't occurred to her to worry about managing the damage Misha could survive. So his leg had healed strange, something to do with the junction of hip and thigh; Misha can feel it click when he walks, and it aches in the night or in the rain. Yes, Misha wants to walk straight again, he wants to be able to run and to sleep a solid night without the pain waking him, but--
But they'd expect words, and he can't get them out. Would that be next? Doctors prying at his mouth and putting him in MRIs, shining lights in his eyes, asking him about his mother? No. He can't.
It's too complicated for a gesture; Misha is still struggling with what answer Jeremy will expect, when Jeremy takes one look at him and just nods. Nods, as if Misha's silence is completely comprehensible. Misha hasn't been understood in that particular way since the crash stole his voice and his will to explain himself to anyone. He isn't sure if he should hate Jeremy for that, for thinking he could understand or for igniting that small delicious warmth in Misha's chest.
Before he can decide, Jeremy moves away. He moves fast for a man of his height, all that lankiness as deceptive as his costume glasses. Misha wonders about the body beneath Jeremy's (messy enough to look disarming to a prejudiced eye, tailored enough to avoid insult) suit pants and buttoned shirt. Will he be quick as that in bed? What will he want? What will he expect?
Will it hurt?
Misha tucks that secret fear away with other forgotten things. It doesn't matter if it's good; it's not his job to enjoy himself. He should research how to do this new job like he would anything else. Maybe the house library will have something with diagrams.
"Okay," Jeremy says over his shoulder, retrieving his keys, his focus off Misha again, "off to see the Wizard."
Misha follows, and manages a smile when he realizes that Jeremy slows down to let him catch up.
****
It doesn't get easier to be in a car, even (especially) with Jeremy; Misha sneaks a grip on the oh-shit handle and doesn't let go, feeling the sweat slip down the small of his back. He wants to undo his tie and shrug out of his jacket, like a man coming home, but there's no home left for him.
On the other hand, Jeremy seems relieved to be driving away from his house, relaxing by degrees as they cut through the evening traffic. They don't talk, or rather Jeremy doesn't, switching Holtz for something instrumental with acoustic guitars. The music would sink into Misha's bones like lazy sunshine if he wasn't braced for an explosion of fracturing glass and the crumple of metal.
He has to get used to this. Jeremy must travel a lot, might need Misha to drive him, and so... no, he has to carve this weakness out before it gets him sold. Not every slave-owner has Vincent's loyalty.
After what feels like an eternity but couldn't be longer than twenty minutes, they take an exit off into Pasadena. Jeremy starts drumming on the steering wheel again, which Misha can't quite view charitably given his own nerves. It figures that while Misha's jittering down to his bones in the car, Jeremy's at his most comfortable in motion. Misha peeks over at him, the disarmingly sweet curl of Jeremy's dark hair against his cheek and throat, and then away again. He shouldn't stare. It isn't polite to stare.
"This isn't business," Jeremy blurts suddenly. "I mean, I'm not going to somebody's house to read over their books. I. I just didn't want to sit around at home. Too quiet, y'know?"
Misha tries to wipe the irony of that from his expression, but Jeremy huffs out a laugh at himself anyway. "Yeah. I guess you don't mind that too much. So you don't talk."
Again the blunt statement of reality; Jeremy must horrify the society he meets. Then again, no, he must keep that under wraps in order to be a successful accountant, which may explain why Jeremy is so colorful in private. To prove to himself that he has that right? That he isn't an owned creature like Misha?
And there Misha goes again, analyzing for a man who isn't even...
"I could've left you home. Sorry. I--" Jeremy takes one hand off the wheel to fumble in his jacket, coming up with a pack of cigarettes.
Misha foresees a lot of fumbling to light up, which his nerves won't survive, so he reaches out and plucks the cigarettes out of Jeremy's fingers. That could earn him a rebuke or worse, but Jeremy just blinks at him, so Misha goes through the smoker's ritual of pulling out a cigarette and lighting it from the little red hot knob. It's surprisingly soothing to have something to do with his hands, and he knows this from years of filling Vincent's nightly pipe (with tobacco and with marijuana). He passes the cigarette back to Jeremy, a stupid thrill in his stomach as their hands touch.
"Thanks," Jeremy says, some of the brashness swept from his voice.
Again Misha can't force the necessary words up his throat. He feels the blush that stains his face, and sketches out a quick namaste. It's meant to stand for gratitude, but the real meaning is something deeper: I see the god in you. Vincent's daughter with her New Age philosophy had tried to explain that theory once, and Misha had privately doubted that anyone really understood each other short of a Vulcan mind-meld, but now he thinks he sees deeper into Jeremy than either of them would like.
Jeremy studies him a second too long, until Misha wants to yelp "eyes on the road!", then smiles and looks away. "Do you want a pad of paper or something?" Jeremy asks. "Or-- I know basic ASL. Fingerspelling. I worked with Lady Matlin for a while."
Despite himself, Misha's hand clenches tight on his knee. He knows ASL, enough to communicate silently with house staff to avoid interrupting Vincent's thoughts and enough to make himself heard, but the only thing coiled behind his silence is a wounded animal scream. Rage, pain, despair-- dangerous things for a slave to show a master, darkness that will be bred out of Misha's kind if the masters ever learn how. Hope, a weak green stalk crushed beneath the belly of a rock.
But Jeremy must know that Vincent consulted with artists both disabled and whole, or he will find out. Better to admit it now.
Tentatively, Misha raises one hand and signs, yes. He thinks stupidly, suddenly, of Joyce: yes is the most beautiful word in language, and Misha is terrified of it.
But Jeremy's smile seems genuinely pleased. "That's good." Abruptly, he reaches over the gear shift and covers Misha's hand. Misha twitches, startled, but Jeremy only squeezes once and lets him go. "Okay. So you can tell me to shut up if I start rambling. Oh, there we go, almost missed the turn, dammit, these signs--"
They turn fast, tipping Misha against his car door. He trembles inside. His hand feels burned where Jeremy touched it.
He wants to be burned again.
****
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Date: 2009-07-28 07:23 pm (UTC)