FIC: That Middle Road (7/?)
Aug. 24th, 2009 03:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (7/?)
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.
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.
"And he just throws that out there, 'we're taking you home', like Misha's a prom date ditched at midnight. Or, or like he's an heirloom gravy boat!" Jeremy flails his hands, so outraged words can't contain it, and nearly upsets his coffee mug.
Denis clamps a hand over its rim, saving the papers on Jeremy's desk. "Easy, tiger. So you're fighting it?"
"You're goddamn right I'm fighting it." Jeremy scrubs a tired hand over his face. "We're meeting tomorrow, on their turf. Gives me time to dig up the papers Vincent's heirs signed and all the legal precedents for our case. And for Misha to get some sleep. He's in his room, sacked out."
"That's a lot of effort for a temporary slave, Jer." When Jeremy lowers his hand and glares, Denis shrugs. "I'm just saying. He's here until Marisa gets back, and then what? Organizing the library. A job that might take six months."
"So I'll get more books."
"Huh," Denis says, infusing the syllable with a language's worth of meaning.
"What?" Irritated now, Jeremy takes his coffee back. "What?"
"You're never here. You don't use the slaves you have." Denis reaches into his jeans pocket, withdraws a battered pack of cigarettes, and begins to absently pack them as he speaks. "Burton's a freak, with a band of freaks and fuckups. Misha knows him. Here, he's a mute gimp with a sob story. With Burton, he's just one of the gang."
For a long few seconds, Jeremy stares at Denis through narrowed eyes and tries to quell the feeling in his gut, that feeling like he's bleeding to death through a small cut. "Yeah, and I'm a headcase. Doesn't that count for anything?"
Unperturbed, Denis knocks free a couple cigarettes. He offers Jeremy one, holding it between his scarred knuckles. "Does he know you're a headcase?"
Jeremy doesn't answer, putting the cigarette in his mouth and sucking fiercely on the filter.
"Ah," Denis says, raising his eyebrows. "Well, shit. You told him that. You already told him that?"
"Yeah," Jeremy mutters around the cigarette. "He's got my meds."
"Huh." Studying him, Denis smirks. "You're keen on the little bastard."
"Shut up."
"You do like them pretty and fucked in the head."
"Eat my dick." Tucking the cigarette behind his ear, Jeremy gets up from his desk chair. "Where's Winston? Think I might take him out for a walk."
"I dunno. Not my turn to fucking watch him." Denis steals the chair and puts his feet up. "I think he might be in with the kid. Warm bed and all that, since you're not gonna be sleeping tonight. You planning to eat today, by the way?"
"Yeah, maybe. I don't know." Jeremy frowns. "Did he eat at all?"
"Not that I saw."
"Fuck." Dragging a hand through his hair, Jeremy dislodges the cigarette. "Fuck. I should--"
The nice thing about Denis, one of the few, is that Jeremy never has to worry about completing his sentences. Waving him off, Denis digs in to Jeremy's abandoned cup of coffee.
Jeremy treads down the hall, his legs feeling like lead. More coffee, he thinks to himself.
Misha's bedroom is one of the nicest in the house, wood floors and high ceilings, angled for natural light. That doesn't matter now, though, in the late night with all the lights turned off. The duffel bag that carries Misha's life is untouched, shoved against the bed like a small animal seeking comfort. There's a lump in the bed that doesn't stir as Jeremy steps over the threshold.
"Hey," Jeremy murmurs. "Um. You okay? You hungry?" I'm sorry I forgot to feed you, I'm sorry your master died, I'm sorry I'm a lousy owner and that you didn't end up with Jeff. "I just. I wanted to check on you."
Misha is curled up small on the bed, still in his funeral suit and his shiny shoes. Winston's curled up behind Misha's bent knees, his chin resting on Misha's thigh, presiding like a furry Buddha. As Jeremy gets closer, he can hear the hitch and drag of Misha's breath. Then: the animal whimper through clenched teeth, as loud in the quiet as any funeral keening.
Jeremy doesn't think, just climbs on the bed. There's little room on the mattress for two men, and Jeremy's elbow knocks against the wall as he spoons in against Misha's back. Misha doesn't move from his tight curl as the mattress bends, his breath snuffling out, his eyes squinching tighter closed.
Slow, slow, Jeremy presses his hands against Misha's cold skin and begins to knead. Misha feels like stone under his hands, unyielding, a statue of grief.
"When I got out of the hospital," Jeremy says, pitching his voice low for the two of them, "I was alone. I didn't want anybody to pick me up. I was angry with everyone I knew. I was ashamed. So I walked out of that place in the clothes I went in with, and I went to this hotel across the street. Real fancy place. Everybody looked at me funny, but hell, I had credit. They wanted to know where my bodyslave was. I told them she was out on a spa day. You believe that? Well. They did. I was always good at lying.
"So I'm in this place, right, and I decide I'm going to do everything I couldn't for the last month. I showered so hot and so long that I swear the wallpaper started to peel from the steam, and my hair curled so tight I almost couldn't comb it. I laid on the bed and I watched porn, even though I was too fucked up to get off-- excuse my saying so. And I ordered in food. When they needed to come in to turn down the bed, I just walked around the city. Didn't know where I was going. Just walking past all these beautiful people, these stores full of clothes, these tourists. And I thought about offing myself. Because, y'know, that's the thing with meds: when they bring you up a little, you've got just enough in you to finish it. And the world was beautiful like I'd never seen it before. I mean, the sunsets...
"Anyway. It must've been three days. I'd been taking my pills, even though I wanted to end it, because I couldn't think of anything else to do. But that morning-- it was a Thursday-- I heard this song on the radio, this song that used to be our song, me and this guy, and I thought: this is it. This is God, telling me it's okay. So I left the hotel early, and I walked to this bridge over a highway. I'd walked over it before, or driven under it, a thousand times. I knew that bridge. And I went there, and I climbed up on the rail, and just before I fall forward into traffic and kill some mother in a minivan like a selfish prick, I hear this noise. I look down. And there's this box of puppies sitting next to some homeless guy who was trying to sell them, I guess, with this puppy whining up at me. And I look at this dog, and this dog looks at me, and I... well, I can't do it. I can't think that this is the last dog I'll ever look at. So I climb down and I pay the dude for a puppy, and I take my dog home. Winston. And I never see that dude with the box of puppies again."
Misha yields under his hands as he talks, uncurling slowly from his grieving knot. His body is sleek and warm beneath his suit; Jeremy feels himself respond and hates it, angling his hips so Misha doesn't have to deal with it. When Jeremy finishes his stupid, rambling story, Misha's face is streaked wet and his mouth is slack, childishly exhausted.
"It's not a very good story," Jeremy murmurs, and rests his cheek on Misha's spiky hair. "But I think... I think you never know when something's going to save you."
Misha gives a hitching sigh and turns his head to look at Jeremy. His eyes are very blue. He doesn't say anything, his hands curled around a tarnished silver ring, but he reaches back and pets Winston's head. Winston wags.
"You're still alive, Misha. So you have to eat." Rubbing his open hand down Misha's arm, Jeremy offers hopefully, "I'll eat with you. And then you can come and crash with me. You shouldn't-- I mean, I wouldn't want to be alone right now if I were you."
Blinking his too-wide eyes, Misha palms the ring and signs shakily, You'll sleep?
Despite the fact that he had no intention of sleeping tonight, Jeremy finds himself saying, "Yes."
Okay, Misha signs, and swipes his sleeve over his wet face. Okay.
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.
"And he just throws that out there, 'we're taking you home', like Misha's a prom date ditched at midnight. Or, or like he's an heirloom gravy boat!" Jeremy flails his hands, so outraged words can't contain it, and nearly upsets his coffee mug.
Denis clamps a hand over its rim, saving the papers on Jeremy's desk. "Easy, tiger. So you're fighting it?"
"You're goddamn right I'm fighting it." Jeremy scrubs a tired hand over his face. "We're meeting tomorrow, on their turf. Gives me time to dig up the papers Vincent's heirs signed and all the legal precedents for our case. And for Misha to get some sleep. He's in his room, sacked out."
"That's a lot of effort for a temporary slave, Jer." When Jeremy lowers his hand and glares, Denis shrugs. "I'm just saying. He's here until Marisa gets back, and then what? Organizing the library. A job that might take six months."
"So I'll get more books."
"Huh," Denis says, infusing the syllable with a language's worth of meaning.
"What?" Irritated now, Jeremy takes his coffee back. "What?"
"You're never here. You don't use the slaves you have." Denis reaches into his jeans pocket, withdraws a battered pack of cigarettes, and begins to absently pack them as he speaks. "Burton's a freak, with a band of freaks and fuckups. Misha knows him. Here, he's a mute gimp with a sob story. With Burton, he's just one of the gang."
For a long few seconds, Jeremy stares at Denis through narrowed eyes and tries to quell the feeling in his gut, that feeling like he's bleeding to death through a small cut. "Yeah, and I'm a headcase. Doesn't that count for anything?"
Unperturbed, Denis knocks free a couple cigarettes. He offers Jeremy one, holding it between his scarred knuckles. "Does he know you're a headcase?"
Jeremy doesn't answer, putting the cigarette in his mouth and sucking fiercely on the filter.
"Ah," Denis says, raising his eyebrows. "Well, shit. You told him that. You already told him that?"
"Yeah," Jeremy mutters around the cigarette. "He's got my meds."
"Huh." Studying him, Denis smirks. "You're keen on the little bastard."
"Shut up."
"You do like them pretty and fucked in the head."
"Eat my dick." Tucking the cigarette behind his ear, Jeremy gets up from his desk chair. "Where's Winston? Think I might take him out for a walk."
"I dunno. Not my turn to fucking watch him." Denis steals the chair and puts his feet up. "I think he might be in with the kid. Warm bed and all that, since you're not gonna be sleeping tonight. You planning to eat today, by the way?"
"Yeah, maybe. I don't know." Jeremy frowns. "Did he eat at all?"
"Not that I saw."
"Fuck." Dragging a hand through his hair, Jeremy dislodges the cigarette. "Fuck. I should--"
The nice thing about Denis, one of the few, is that Jeremy never has to worry about completing his sentences. Waving him off, Denis digs in to Jeremy's abandoned cup of coffee.
Jeremy treads down the hall, his legs feeling like lead. More coffee, he thinks to himself.
Misha's bedroom is one of the nicest in the house, wood floors and high ceilings, angled for natural light. That doesn't matter now, though, in the late night with all the lights turned off. The duffel bag that carries Misha's life is untouched, shoved against the bed like a small animal seeking comfort. There's a lump in the bed that doesn't stir as Jeremy steps over the threshold.
"Hey," Jeremy murmurs. "Um. You okay? You hungry?" I'm sorry I forgot to feed you, I'm sorry your master died, I'm sorry I'm a lousy owner and that you didn't end up with Jeff. "I just. I wanted to check on you."
Misha is curled up small on the bed, still in his funeral suit and his shiny shoes. Winston's curled up behind Misha's bent knees, his chin resting on Misha's thigh, presiding like a furry Buddha. As Jeremy gets closer, he can hear the hitch and drag of Misha's breath. Then: the animal whimper through clenched teeth, as loud in the quiet as any funeral keening.
Jeremy doesn't think, just climbs on the bed. There's little room on the mattress for two men, and Jeremy's elbow knocks against the wall as he spoons in against Misha's back. Misha doesn't move from his tight curl as the mattress bends, his breath snuffling out, his eyes squinching tighter closed.
Slow, slow, Jeremy presses his hands against Misha's cold skin and begins to knead. Misha feels like stone under his hands, unyielding, a statue of grief.
"When I got out of the hospital," Jeremy says, pitching his voice low for the two of them, "I was alone. I didn't want anybody to pick me up. I was angry with everyone I knew. I was ashamed. So I walked out of that place in the clothes I went in with, and I went to this hotel across the street. Real fancy place. Everybody looked at me funny, but hell, I had credit. They wanted to know where my bodyslave was. I told them she was out on a spa day. You believe that? Well. They did. I was always good at lying.
"So I'm in this place, right, and I decide I'm going to do everything I couldn't for the last month. I showered so hot and so long that I swear the wallpaper started to peel from the steam, and my hair curled so tight I almost couldn't comb it. I laid on the bed and I watched porn, even though I was too fucked up to get off-- excuse my saying so. And I ordered in food. When they needed to come in to turn down the bed, I just walked around the city. Didn't know where I was going. Just walking past all these beautiful people, these stores full of clothes, these tourists. And I thought about offing myself. Because, y'know, that's the thing with meds: when they bring you up a little, you've got just enough in you to finish it. And the world was beautiful like I'd never seen it before. I mean, the sunsets...
"Anyway. It must've been three days. I'd been taking my pills, even though I wanted to end it, because I couldn't think of anything else to do. But that morning-- it was a Thursday-- I heard this song on the radio, this song that used to be our song, me and this guy, and I thought: this is it. This is God, telling me it's okay. So I left the hotel early, and I walked to this bridge over a highway. I'd walked over it before, or driven under it, a thousand times. I knew that bridge. And I went there, and I climbed up on the rail, and just before I fall forward into traffic and kill some mother in a minivan like a selfish prick, I hear this noise. I look down. And there's this box of puppies sitting next to some homeless guy who was trying to sell them, I guess, with this puppy whining up at me. And I look at this dog, and this dog looks at me, and I... well, I can't do it. I can't think that this is the last dog I'll ever look at. So I climb down and I pay the dude for a puppy, and I take my dog home. Winston. And I never see that dude with the box of puppies again."
Misha yields under his hands as he talks, uncurling slowly from his grieving knot. His body is sleek and warm beneath his suit; Jeremy feels himself respond and hates it, angling his hips so Misha doesn't have to deal with it. When Jeremy finishes his stupid, rambling story, Misha's face is streaked wet and his mouth is slack, childishly exhausted.
"It's not a very good story," Jeremy murmurs, and rests his cheek on Misha's spiky hair. "But I think... I think you never know when something's going to save you."
Misha gives a hitching sigh and turns his head to look at Jeremy. His eyes are very blue. He doesn't say anything, his hands curled around a tarnished silver ring, but he reaches back and pets Winston's head. Winston wags.
"You're still alive, Misha. So you have to eat." Rubbing his open hand down Misha's arm, Jeremy offers hopefully, "I'll eat with you. And then you can come and crash with me. You shouldn't-- I mean, I wouldn't want to be alone right now if I were you."
Blinking his too-wide eyes, Misha palms the ring and signs shakily, You'll sleep?
Despite the fact that he had no intention of sleeping tonight, Jeremy finds himself saying, "Yes."
Okay, Misha signs, and swipes his sleeve over his wet face. Okay.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 09:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 11:35 pm (UTC)I just unexpectedly started to cry when I read that line. *wipes eyes* Gorgeous chapter.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 11:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 01:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 06:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 11:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 12:07 pm (UTC)You break boys fabulously, btw.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 02:16 pm (UTC)I can't decide which one needs the other the most.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 04:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 08:15 pm (UTC)Thank you! And I love your icon, it's so summery.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 08:16 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 08:17 pm (UTC)Thank you! Misha could so benefit from some cookies.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 11:37 pm (UTC)I do love my dejected box icon. *g* There's something truly pitiful about him.
That middle road
Date: 2009-08-26 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 05:48 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 05:49 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 06:00 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 06:00 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 06:01 pm (UTC)Re: That middle road
Date: 2009-08-26 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 06:26 pm (UTC)My heart hurt so in reading this. But, in the very best way. Checking in with you has been my treat for myself the last few days. And, I always leave feeling lighter than I came. :)
*hugs you hard*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-28 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-08 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-08 05:45 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-09-16 08:39 pm (UTC)