FIC: That Middle Road (8/?)
Aug. 26th, 2009 02:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (8/?)
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.
"Oh, man," Jeremy mutters, "you have got to be kidding."
Misha tilts his head, a silent question, and continues filling out a pair of pajamas like nobody's business. They're linen or something, pale blue with darker piping, pressed and tasteful. If formal pajamas existed, these would be it. And here Jeremy is, in his stained undershirt that he'd planned to take off and his crumpled boxers. No pajamas. Hell, no pajamas in his house, period. Nobody Jeremy knows even wears pajamas, unless he maybe counts Ryzer.
This is obviously some undescribed level of hell.
"Nothing," Jeremy tells Misha, waving a hand. "Um. Are you okay to climb in, with your knee and all?"
That earns him a sour look and a quirked eyebrow, as Misha tugs the (newly changed) sheets down. Misha sits on the edge of the bed, swings his good leg up, and uses his hands to lift the bad leg and straighten it out. Only a wince and the awkward crook of Misha's knee says he's not perfect.
Hell. He looks perfect.
Squashing that thought, Jeremy says, "You proved me wrong."
Yes, Misha says smugly. Then he hesitates, and tucks his fingers under Jeremy's side of the comforter. With his free hand he signs, Should I turn this down?
"No, hell no, I can do that." Now it's Jeremy's turn to falter; there's a stranger on Marisa's side of the bed, a damaged grieving slave in pajamas of all fucking things. This isn't a good idea. But good ideas aren't his style. The expectant press of Winston's paw on the top of his foot saves the moment from stretching into awkwardness. Jeremy bends down and scoops Winston up, dropping him onto the bed and following him down before he can overthink. "Here, buddy. No licking faces or feet before dawn, okay?"
Wagging once, Winston circles a few times before curling up tight as a cat and plunking his chin down on Misha. With the reverent look of a new Winston convert, Misha rubs Winston's ear between his fingers.
"He likes you," Jeremy says, to fill up the quiet.
Misha gives a tired smile, probably worn out from the funeral and from the late meal. Jeremy's fingers itch to push the shaggy dark hair out of Misha's face; instead, he flips out the light. In the dark, he firmly tucks his hands under the pillow, flopping down with a grunt and closing his eyes. The meds (which Misha gravely handed over during the meal) are digging their fingers into Jeremy's brain, weighing him down to the bottom of a silty river.
Jeremy's drifting, half-gone, when he feels the warm press of Misha's body against him. It yanks him straight out of sleep, adrenaline jolting clear through him, and he pulls back so hard he hits the edge of the bed; his mouth is running already, "whoa, whoa, what?"
Craning his head to look back at Jeremy, Misha frowns and signs, What?
"What?" With a good handful of his sheets, Jeremy slithers back into bed, careful to keep a good distance between their bodies. "Um. You know you don't have to have sex with me, right? I'm a big fan of consent, see, and it's hard with you just being bought and Vincent, and. And. I don't really think it's a good idea. No offense to you, because you're gorgeous and we could work around the knee but-- I should shut up."
Misha just looks at him, tired and rumpled and mild, then signs, I slept with Vincent. I didn't fuck him.
The signs for 'sleep together' and 'sex' are different, refreshingly clear against the spoken English that's failing Jeremy utterly. He always preferred numbers to language.
So that, that saves Jeremy from trying to create a Powerpoint presentation on consent and why it's good, which is one up on what Zach says Jeff is dealing with (and why does this always come back to Jeff?), but... Jeremy almost asks "then why the spooning?" before realization glues his mouth shut.
Misha is lonely. Misha is grieving for the man who slept with him every night for the last twenty-some years, and for his whole broken life. He's asking, in his own strange way, for comfort.
And it's okay. It's okay to curl against him and think of Marisa in the dark, because Misha will be thinking of Vincent. It's still being strong for someone.
"Okay," Jeremy stretches his body out, pretending that he's not still jittering inside from adrenaline. Holding his arm out, he says, "C'mere."
Misha doesn't hesitate or rationalize; he smooshes back in the curve of Jeremy's body and loops his arm around Jeremy's, urging Jeremy to hold him. He is denser than Marisa, lean muscle over bone without the grace of softer breast or belly. He is warm, and close, and he smells gently of Jeremy's mint shampoo with whatever cedar chest Vincent packed Misha's pajamas.
Jeremy rests his forehead against Misha's shoulder and inhales. He holds his breath like he can keep this warm feeling inside.
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.
"Oh, man," Jeremy mutters, "you have got to be kidding."
Misha tilts his head, a silent question, and continues filling out a pair of pajamas like nobody's business. They're linen or something, pale blue with darker piping, pressed and tasteful. If formal pajamas existed, these would be it. And here Jeremy is, in his stained undershirt that he'd planned to take off and his crumpled boxers. No pajamas. Hell, no pajamas in his house, period. Nobody Jeremy knows even wears pajamas, unless he maybe counts Ryzer.
This is obviously some undescribed level of hell.
"Nothing," Jeremy tells Misha, waving a hand. "Um. Are you okay to climb in, with your knee and all?"
That earns him a sour look and a quirked eyebrow, as Misha tugs the (newly changed) sheets down. Misha sits on the edge of the bed, swings his good leg up, and uses his hands to lift the bad leg and straighten it out. Only a wince and the awkward crook of Misha's knee says he's not perfect.
Hell. He looks perfect.
Squashing that thought, Jeremy says, "You proved me wrong."
Yes, Misha says smugly. Then he hesitates, and tucks his fingers under Jeremy's side of the comforter. With his free hand he signs, Should I turn this down?
"No, hell no, I can do that." Now it's Jeremy's turn to falter; there's a stranger on Marisa's side of the bed, a damaged grieving slave in pajamas of all fucking things. This isn't a good idea. But good ideas aren't his style. The expectant press of Winston's paw on the top of his foot saves the moment from stretching into awkwardness. Jeremy bends down and scoops Winston up, dropping him onto the bed and following him down before he can overthink. "Here, buddy. No licking faces or feet before dawn, okay?"
Wagging once, Winston circles a few times before curling up tight as a cat and plunking his chin down on Misha. With the reverent look of a new Winston convert, Misha rubs Winston's ear between his fingers.
"He likes you," Jeremy says, to fill up the quiet.
Misha gives a tired smile, probably worn out from the funeral and from the late meal. Jeremy's fingers itch to push the shaggy dark hair out of Misha's face; instead, he flips out the light. In the dark, he firmly tucks his hands under the pillow, flopping down with a grunt and closing his eyes. The meds (which Misha gravely handed over during the meal) are digging their fingers into Jeremy's brain, weighing him down to the bottom of a silty river.
Jeremy's drifting, half-gone, when he feels the warm press of Misha's body against him. It yanks him straight out of sleep, adrenaline jolting clear through him, and he pulls back so hard he hits the edge of the bed; his mouth is running already, "whoa, whoa, what?"
Craning his head to look back at Jeremy, Misha frowns and signs, What?
"What?" With a good handful of his sheets, Jeremy slithers back into bed, careful to keep a good distance between their bodies. "Um. You know you don't have to have sex with me, right? I'm a big fan of consent, see, and it's hard with you just being bought and Vincent, and. And. I don't really think it's a good idea. No offense to you, because you're gorgeous and we could work around the knee but-- I should shut up."
Misha just looks at him, tired and rumpled and mild, then signs, I slept with Vincent. I didn't fuck him.
The signs for 'sleep together' and 'sex' are different, refreshingly clear against the spoken English that's failing Jeremy utterly. He always preferred numbers to language.
So that, that saves Jeremy from trying to create a Powerpoint presentation on consent and why it's good, which is one up on what Zach says Jeff is dealing with (and why does this always come back to Jeff?), but... Jeremy almost asks "then why the spooning?" before realization glues his mouth shut.
Misha is lonely. Misha is grieving for the man who slept with him every night for the last twenty-some years, and for his whole broken life. He's asking, in his own strange way, for comfort.
And it's okay. It's okay to curl against him and think of Marisa in the dark, because Misha will be thinking of Vincent. It's still being strong for someone.
"Okay," Jeremy stretches his body out, pretending that he's not still jittering inside from adrenaline. Holding his arm out, he says, "C'mere."
Misha doesn't hesitate or rationalize; he smooshes back in the curve of Jeremy's body and loops his arm around Jeremy's, urging Jeremy to hold him. He is denser than Marisa, lean muscle over bone without the grace of softer breast or belly. He is warm, and close, and he smells gently of Jeremy's mint shampoo with whatever cedar chest Vincent packed Misha's pajamas.
Jeremy rests his forehead against Misha's shoulder and inhales. He holds his breath like he can keep this warm feeling inside.
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no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 08:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-09 06:42 pm (UTC)