FIC: That Middle Road (10/?)
Oct. 2nd, 2009 04:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (10/?)
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.
When they tromp back through mud to the car, the smell of baking metal and unwashed skin like unwelcome ghosts of his childhood, Jeremy can hear his cell phone ringing where he left it on the driver's seat. Even without really listening to the ringtone, he knows it's Jeff. It's been Jeff several times this morning already.
Misha waits on the other side of the car, active fingers at rest, watching two barefoot kids romp with a stringbean puppy. He doesn't miss much, Misha, a trait that's coming more into focus; Vincent had always seemed smugly pleased by Misha, like a man with a pedigree cat that just did a trick. But it's not (just) that Misha is pretty and sleek and fun to pet. He's clever. He's smart under all that silence, brilliant mind ticking away disregarded.
Vincent traveled in higher circles than Jeremy ev er can, by inclination and by his blood. His mother was as good as unmarried when she had him, knocked up by a revolutionary type who went on to live in the desert and blow all his money on leftist charity. But Vincent was clean and he had legal ties to the very beginning of Commerce. What did he see? What incriminating information does Misha remember?
How can it be used for the Trust?
Then sunlight curves over the silvered scar at Misha's temple, and Jeremy kicks himself. Hard. Misha isn't a political tool, he's a person. Of course he doesn't get the same loyalty Jeremy has for Jeff, but he's still someone Jeremy is as responsible for as he is for his own blood.
Misha is his now. Misha decided to stay with him, chose him above friends of Vincent's. Does that make Misha more of Jeremy's responsibility, or less?
The phone silences, rolling over into voicemail. Judging from the blinking red light, Jeff's left a message or two already. Jeremy knows it'll be forgiven and forgotten. Irresponsible, flaky Jeremy.
An SOS tap on the hood of his car jolts Jeremy back to the present, to Misha reaching an arm over the car to catch Jeremy's attention. Once Jeremy is looking at him, Misha signs, Where are we going?
That 'we' stabs Jeremy in the heart. Misha chose him; Jeremy wants to ask him why, wants to thank him, but he can't think of what to say. How could he thank somebody for putting their life in his hands? Does Misha even want thanks, or is Jeremy just a means of avoiding Lady Bonham-Carter? He's asking questions around himself, dodging emotion.
"I set up an appointment for you," Jeremy says, wincing at how rusty his voice sounds. "Orthopedic doctor. She's, uh, she's good people."
Slave-tested, he means, one of the few doctors he knows won't screw over a slave just because she can. Tracy was good to Zach that time he broke his wrist, tending him with gentle scolding and brisk hands, and Misha is probably less aggravating. Jeremy does Tracy's books for free every year, so she owes him a favor. Besides, her bodyslave knows the rough sign language slaves use among themselves.
"I can stay with you," Jeremy adds as an afterthought. "If you want. Or we can skip the whole shebang and go out for ice cream."
Marisa would have been terrified at the thought of being left behind with a stranger. Misha tilts his head, frowning but unconcerned. I'll be fine as long as you come back.
Jeremy grins, not really feeling it. "Yeah, I'll come back. She can only give you an hour but she knows the good physical therapists in town." And she'd write a prescription (in Jeremy's name) for painkillers to ease the taut lines around Misha's eyes that appear every time he has to limp further than a few yards. "She'll hook you up."
Misha nods, already past that and thinking about something else. He signs, Where are you going to be?
Jeremy sighs.
****
Applewood House is perched discretely, apologetically, in a suburb that has nothing to do with apples. It's nowhere near busy streets or high buildings, a world with all its sharp edges sanded away. Even its facade, an inoffensive sienna that blends into the background, makes Jeremy itch.
He parks out front and sits for a few minutes, gripping the steering wheel so hard he sees his knuckles through the skin. His heart is pounding in his ears again, war-drums of panic that he'll go in there and they won't let him out. But he can't be late to see her; she has enough reasons to be angry with him.
He goes in, pulling the hood of his jacket up to hide his face. He doubts that anyone cares enough to spy on his comings and goings from a facility that rehabs young starlets more than they deal with the bugfuck insane, but he's too paranoid not to have stripped off his accountant drag and replaced it with jeans and a hoodie.
The waiting area is a depressing melange of old magazines and stiff furniture, a check-in nurse behind glass. Jeremy hovers in the entryway for a second, his body hammering with bolt-bolt-run, and rationality might've lost if he didn't hear the bright song of Jane's silver bangles clashing around her wrist.
"Jeremy," Jane says, coming out from behind the safety glass. She looks happy to see him, but he can't trust the sincerity of shrinks. Dr. Reid (Jane, she always insists demurely) dresses like her patients, but on her it's too young: bright maxi dresses and bangles, high heeled sandals and low cut shirts. She seems to have a decent heart, though; not many doctors, money aside, would take on a slave in her inpatient ward. Fewer wouldn't try to break the slave with ECT and mindfucks. And only Dr. Reid would keep quiet from the other patients that Marisa is a slave, not a debutante with drug problems.
It's the best place Jeremy could find: nice doctors, no men on the ward, pretty paintings on the walls. Roommates. Private therapy sessions.
He feels sick with guilt.
"Jeremy," Jane repeats, softer, and seems ready to go for a hug. Jeremy cringes without thinking, shrinking back like a beaten dog, and she drops her arms. To her credit, she doesn't make a big deal about it before going on. "Come in. I can't take you through the ward, since you're male and I wouldn't inflict several borderline sex-starved teenagers on you."
"Heh." Rubbing the back of his neck, Jeremy follows on her heels. Jane will never find out how ironic that concern is, given Jeremy's age when he first pounced on Jeff. As they enter the door that reads STAFF ONLY, the tasteful decor drops away to be replaced by industrial beige. Jeremy's stomach rolls over and he's glad he didn't eat breakfast. He'd hate to vomit on Dr. Jane's tiled floor. "Um. How is she?"
"Medicated. Better." Jane stops and turns sharply to look up at him. Instinctively, Jeremy glances back at the door behind him, his hands fluttering at his sides. Jane notices, from the tired thinning of her glossy mouth. "Did you know she stopped taking her pills?"
Dammit. "No. I didn't know that."
"Well, don't take it personally. She's very crafty, Marisa. She keeps palming drugs like a streetcorner magician."
Yeah, he figured as much. Marisa learned from her years as a test subject how to skip drug doses, how to act normal and drowsy and unconscious as her keepers required. But fuck, he didn't think she'd do it to him.
Watching his face, Jane nods to herself. "Sometimes, when couples have the same diagnosis, they decide to quit together. But obviously not."
And obviously Marisa was telling tales out of school. Jeremy averts his eyes from Jane's steady gaze, counting tiles on the floor. He could calculate that number into something significant ("Jeff, I know the numbers now, I know how to count faster than gravity!") but he won't let himself go there.
"Are you on medication now, Jeremy?" Jane asks gently, so gently Jeremy flinches under his skin.
"Marisa's your patient. I'm not. I--" I didn't do anything wrong. Jeremy fusses with the sleeves of his shirt, running his fingertips over the fraying edge. "I'm taking lithium."
"This is good," Jane murmurs. Cate wouldn't offer her praise like he's a child, but then, Cate's not here. "Okay. She's right through here. She's medicated, like I said, and she-"
On the other side of the door, something crashes against the wall and skitters to the floor. It sounds like a plastic safety cup full of dulled pencils.
"She is in a mood," Jane finishes tiredly. "Are you sure you want to go in?"
No. Yes. Jeremy resists the urge to raise the cuff of his shirt and suck on it, nervously, like a child. He is the master here, so to speak; the center has to hold. One of them has to be strong. It takes a minute, but he finds calm deep inside like the center of a storm. His voice sounds stark to his own ears. "We won't need company, Dr. Reid. Thank you."
Jane murmurs something, but the world recedes to a dull roar as the door opens.
Marisa is in a room with a window, safety grates between her and the world. She has her little patch of daylight, curled up small under a quilt. She looks diminished, lank hair around her face and hiding her eyes, her shoulders sloped in to protect the center of her body. The fishbowl sheen of her eyes is all Zyprexa: the depression is there, but the drug is mummifying her too much to feel anything at all.
Jeremy's heart thuds hard against his ribs. He shuffles in so they can close the door; Marisa hehs and looks away. With a desert dry mouth, he manages to husk out, "Hey, kitten."
"Kitten," Marisa echoes. "Soft and squeaky and helpless. You think I'm helpless?"
Ah, hell. Jeremy crosses his arms around his body so he doesn't come apart. "I think you need help."
"I spent years as a test-tube rat. You think I want help from these people? No. No. I've had all the help I need."
It's the illness talking, and he needs patience. Kindness. But he doesn't feel kind; there are razors inside, jabbing at him if he moves wrong. He fixes his eyes on the tendril of hair at her cheek and suddenly, oddly, wants Misha.
"You tried to kill yourself," he says, without his intended softness. It's an accusation. "You-- I found you."
"Yes," Marisa says distantly. "That must have hurt very much."
And he's arguing with an empty room. With the medications, not with Marisa. Jeremy leans his back against the wall and just looks at her. He can't come close enough to sit beside her. He doesn't know what he'll do; if he touches her too hard, she'll shatter.
"Why?" Jeremy asks finally. "Why, baby? What didn't I do?"
Marisa picks up a crayon. The paper is unraveling. She has blue wax under her fingernails.
"It hurts," she says. "It hurts inside, and you can't fix it. You can't ever. I'm gonna drown us both."
Jesus. "Hey," Jeremy says, sharply enough that she looks at him. Through him. It's spooky as hell, raising the hair on his neck. "No. No, you hear me? You're gonna get better. You'll get on better meds, and. And it'll be okay. We'll go up the coast again, right? See the leaves? You loved that. Dog parks with Winston. New books. Christmukkah--"
"Oh, Jeremy," Marisa murmurs, as if he's the one who's bleeding. "I think we've done enough damage. Don't you?"
Chilled, Jeremy kneads the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, to keep his heart in. He has visions of losing it, watching it bounce across the tiled floor so Marisa can grind it under her bare grubby feet. "Nah, I think we have years of damage ahead of us. We haven't even started throwing dishes at each other."
Marisa chuckles, a little pained noise, and draws her legs up to her chest. "Jer."
"See?" Jeremy nudges. "It's okay. It's just a bad... you crashed out, baby, it happens."
Marisa squints at him. "You trying to be encouraging?"
Jeremy shrugs. "Is it working?"
"No. You look too awful." Her expression crumples by degrees, like a landslide. "I'm so pissed at you."
"Yeah. Ditto." There's a tabletop between them. Jeremy could reach across and take her hand, but he sees the hospital's wristband and can't bear touching it. He wants a cold beer and Winston, not this place; he wants Jeff. "No, sorry. At the disease, not you."
"'At the disease'," she echoes, jerkily turning her face to the wall. The tenuous path between them drops away. Her voice is flat with medication, affectless. "You don't get it. You never get it."
His chest hurts like a heart attack. Jeremy pushes harder, digging bruises with his knuckles so he doesn't raise his voice. "So tell me."
"It's not the disease. I made a choice. Can't I have free will?" Marisa's hands flutter, an uneasy echo of Misha. "Can't I just be sad?"
"You can't hurt yourself--"
"Because you own me?" Marisa snaps, then catches Jeremy's expression and hastily combs her hair in front of her face. "'m sorry. 'm sorry."
All the righteous anger bleeds out of Jeremy at once. He leans back, away from her, one hand out to soothe a feral cat. "Shh. Shh. You don't have to be sorry. I won't hurt you. It's okay."
"Don't take me back to the doctors."
"I wouldn't. Shh." Helplessly, Jeremy pets the air several feet away from Marisa's shoulders. She doesn't see it. "I love you. Okay? You're my girl. Shh."
Her shoulders hitch, then bunch as Marisa smacks her closed fist against her knee. "I can't even cry right," she whispers, "fuck. Fuck."
"It's the drugs. It's not you. You're okay." Jeremy shifts the chair closer, his hand stretched out, and she shies away. "Can I--"
"You get to go home," Marisa says.
"Sweetheart..."
"Don't you call me that, Jeremy," she mutters. "Don't you call me that. Just go home. Go fuck Zach because Jeff won't have you."
Jeremy's open hand jerks closed, into a fist. He draws away from her. She doesn't look up.
"I love you," he says, when he can say anything, and knocks on the door for Jane.
Marisa stares at the barred window, silent.
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.
When they tromp back through mud to the car, the smell of baking metal and unwashed skin like unwelcome ghosts of his childhood, Jeremy can hear his cell phone ringing where he left it on the driver's seat. Even without really listening to the ringtone, he knows it's Jeff. It's been Jeff several times this morning already.
Misha waits on the other side of the car, active fingers at rest, watching two barefoot kids romp with a stringbean puppy. He doesn't miss much, Misha, a trait that's coming more into focus; Vincent had always seemed smugly pleased by Misha, like a man with a pedigree cat that just did a trick. But it's not (just) that Misha is pretty and sleek and fun to pet. He's clever. He's smart under all that silence, brilliant mind ticking away disregarded.
Vincent traveled in higher circles than Jeremy ev er can, by inclination and by his blood. His mother was as good as unmarried when she had him, knocked up by a revolutionary type who went on to live in the desert and blow all his money on leftist charity. But Vincent was clean and he had legal ties to the very beginning of Commerce. What did he see? What incriminating information does Misha remember?
How can it be used for the Trust?
Then sunlight curves over the silvered scar at Misha's temple, and Jeremy kicks himself. Hard. Misha isn't a political tool, he's a person. Of course he doesn't get the same loyalty Jeremy has for Jeff, but he's still someone Jeremy is as responsible for as he is for his own blood.
Misha is his now. Misha decided to stay with him, chose him above friends of Vincent's. Does that make Misha more of Jeremy's responsibility, or less?
The phone silences, rolling over into voicemail. Judging from the blinking red light, Jeff's left a message or two already. Jeremy knows it'll be forgiven and forgotten. Irresponsible, flaky Jeremy.
An SOS tap on the hood of his car jolts Jeremy back to the present, to Misha reaching an arm over the car to catch Jeremy's attention. Once Jeremy is looking at him, Misha signs, Where are we going?
That 'we' stabs Jeremy in the heart. Misha chose him; Jeremy wants to ask him why, wants to thank him, but he can't think of what to say. How could he thank somebody for putting their life in his hands? Does Misha even want thanks, or is Jeremy just a means of avoiding Lady Bonham-Carter? He's asking questions around himself, dodging emotion.
"I set up an appointment for you," Jeremy says, wincing at how rusty his voice sounds. "Orthopedic doctor. She's, uh, she's good people."
Slave-tested, he means, one of the few doctors he knows won't screw over a slave just because she can. Tracy was good to Zach that time he broke his wrist, tending him with gentle scolding and brisk hands, and Misha is probably less aggravating. Jeremy does Tracy's books for free every year, so she owes him a favor. Besides, her bodyslave knows the rough sign language slaves use among themselves.
"I can stay with you," Jeremy adds as an afterthought. "If you want. Or we can skip the whole shebang and go out for ice cream."
Marisa would have been terrified at the thought of being left behind with a stranger. Misha tilts his head, frowning but unconcerned. I'll be fine as long as you come back.
Jeremy grins, not really feeling it. "Yeah, I'll come back. She can only give you an hour but she knows the good physical therapists in town." And she'd write a prescription (in Jeremy's name) for painkillers to ease the taut lines around Misha's eyes that appear every time he has to limp further than a few yards. "She'll hook you up."
Misha nods, already past that and thinking about something else. He signs, Where are you going to be?
Jeremy sighs.
****
Applewood House is perched discretely, apologetically, in a suburb that has nothing to do with apples. It's nowhere near busy streets or high buildings, a world with all its sharp edges sanded away. Even its facade, an inoffensive sienna that blends into the background, makes Jeremy itch.
He parks out front and sits for a few minutes, gripping the steering wheel so hard he sees his knuckles through the skin. His heart is pounding in his ears again, war-drums of panic that he'll go in there and they won't let him out. But he can't be late to see her; she has enough reasons to be angry with him.
He goes in, pulling the hood of his jacket up to hide his face. He doubts that anyone cares enough to spy on his comings and goings from a facility that rehabs young starlets more than they deal with the bugfuck insane, but he's too paranoid not to have stripped off his accountant drag and replaced it with jeans and a hoodie.
The waiting area is a depressing melange of old magazines and stiff furniture, a check-in nurse behind glass. Jeremy hovers in the entryway for a second, his body hammering with bolt-bolt-run, and rationality might've lost if he didn't hear the bright song of Jane's silver bangles clashing around her wrist.
"Jeremy," Jane says, coming out from behind the safety glass. She looks happy to see him, but he can't trust the sincerity of shrinks. Dr. Reid (Jane, she always insists demurely) dresses like her patients, but on her it's too young: bright maxi dresses and bangles, high heeled sandals and low cut shirts. She seems to have a decent heart, though; not many doctors, money aside, would take on a slave in her inpatient ward. Fewer wouldn't try to break the slave with ECT and mindfucks. And only Dr. Reid would keep quiet from the other patients that Marisa is a slave, not a debutante with drug problems.
It's the best place Jeremy could find: nice doctors, no men on the ward, pretty paintings on the walls. Roommates. Private therapy sessions.
He feels sick with guilt.
"Jeremy," Jane repeats, softer, and seems ready to go for a hug. Jeremy cringes without thinking, shrinking back like a beaten dog, and she drops her arms. To her credit, she doesn't make a big deal about it before going on. "Come in. I can't take you through the ward, since you're male and I wouldn't inflict several borderline sex-starved teenagers on you."
"Heh." Rubbing the back of his neck, Jeremy follows on her heels. Jane will never find out how ironic that concern is, given Jeremy's age when he first pounced on Jeff. As they enter the door that reads STAFF ONLY, the tasteful decor drops away to be replaced by industrial beige. Jeremy's stomach rolls over and he's glad he didn't eat breakfast. He'd hate to vomit on Dr. Jane's tiled floor. "Um. How is she?"
"Medicated. Better." Jane stops and turns sharply to look up at him. Instinctively, Jeremy glances back at the door behind him, his hands fluttering at his sides. Jane notices, from the tired thinning of her glossy mouth. "Did you know she stopped taking her pills?"
Dammit. "No. I didn't know that."
"Well, don't take it personally. She's very crafty, Marisa. She keeps palming drugs like a streetcorner magician."
Yeah, he figured as much. Marisa learned from her years as a test subject how to skip drug doses, how to act normal and drowsy and unconscious as her keepers required. But fuck, he didn't think she'd do it to him.
Watching his face, Jane nods to herself. "Sometimes, when couples have the same diagnosis, they decide to quit together. But obviously not."
And obviously Marisa was telling tales out of school. Jeremy averts his eyes from Jane's steady gaze, counting tiles on the floor. He could calculate that number into something significant ("Jeff, I know the numbers now, I know how to count faster than gravity!") but he won't let himself go there.
"Are you on medication now, Jeremy?" Jane asks gently, so gently Jeremy flinches under his skin.
"Marisa's your patient. I'm not. I--" I didn't do anything wrong. Jeremy fusses with the sleeves of his shirt, running his fingertips over the fraying edge. "I'm taking lithium."
"This is good," Jane murmurs. Cate wouldn't offer her praise like he's a child, but then, Cate's not here. "Okay. She's right through here. She's medicated, like I said, and she-"
On the other side of the door, something crashes against the wall and skitters to the floor. It sounds like a plastic safety cup full of dulled pencils.
"She is in a mood," Jane finishes tiredly. "Are you sure you want to go in?"
No. Yes. Jeremy resists the urge to raise the cuff of his shirt and suck on it, nervously, like a child. He is the master here, so to speak; the center has to hold. One of them has to be strong. It takes a minute, but he finds calm deep inside like the center of a storm. His voice sounds stark to his own ears. "We won't need company, Dr. Reid. Thank you."
Jane murmurs something, but the world recedes to a dull roar as the door opens.
Marisa is in a room with a window, safety grates between her and the world. She has her little patch of daylight, curled up small under a quilt. She looks diminished, lank hair around her face and hiding her eyes, her shoulders sloped in to protect the center of her body. The fishbowl sheen of her eyes is all Zyprexa: the depression is there, but the drug is mummifying her too much to feel anything at all.
Jeremy's heart thuds hard against his ribs. He shuffles in so they can close the door; Marisa hehs and looks away. With a desert dry mouth, he manages to husk out, "Hey, kitten."
"Kitten," Marisa echoes. "Soft and squeaky and helpless. You think I'm helpless?"
Ah, hell. Jeremy crosses his arms around his body so he doesn't come apart. "I think you need help."
"I spent years as a test-tube rat. You think I want help from these people? No. No. I've had all the help I need."
It's the illness talking, and he needs patience. Kindness. But he doesn't feel kind; there are razors inside, jabbing at him if he moves wrong. He fixes his eyes on the tendril of hair at her cheek and suddenly, oddly, wants Misha.
"You tried to kill yourself," he says, without his intended softness. It's an accusation. "You-- I found you."
"Yes," Marisa says distantly. "That must have hurt very much."
And he's arguing with an empty room. With the medications, not with Marisa. Jeremy leans his back against the wall and just looks at her. He can't come close enough to sit beside her. He doesn't know what he'll do; if he touches her too hard, she'll shatter.
"Why?" Jeremy asks finally. "Why, baby? What didn't I do?"
Marisa picks up a crayon. The paper is unraveling. She has blue wax under her fingernails.
"It hurts," she says. "It hurts inside, and you can't fix it. You can't ever. I'm gonna drown us both."
Jesus. "Hey," Jeremy says, sharply enough that she looks at him. Through him. It's spooky as hell, raising the hair on his neck. "No. No, you hear me? You're gonna get better. You'll get on better meds, and. And it'll be okay. We'll go up the coast again, right? See the leaves? You loved that. Dog parks with Winston. New books. Christmukkah--"
"Oh, Jeremy," Marisa murmurs, as if he's the one who's bleeding. "I think we've done enough damage. Don't you?"
Chilled, Jeremy kneads the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, to keep his heart in. He has visions of losing it, watching it bounce across the tiled floor so Marisa can grind it under her bare grubby feet. "Nah, I think we have years of damage ahead of us. We haven't even started throwing dishes at each other."
Marisa chuckles, a little pained noise, and draws her legs up to her chest. "Jer."
"See?" Jeremy nudges. "It's okay. It's just a bad... you crashed out, baby, it happens."
Marisa squints at him. "You trying to be encouraging?"
Jeremy shrugs. "Is it working?"
"No. You look too awful." Her expression crumples by degrees, like a landslide. "I'm so pissed at you."
"Yeah. Ditto." There's a tabletop between them. Jeremy could reach across and take her hand, but he sees the hospital's wristband and can't bear touching it. He wants a cold beer and Winston, not this place; he wants Jeff. "No, sorry. At the disease, not you."
"'At the disease'," she echoes, jerkily turning her face to the wall. The tenuous path between them drops away. Her voice is flat with medication, affectless. "You don't get it. You never get it."
His chest hurts like a heart attack. Jeremy pushes harder, digging bruises with his knuckles so he doesn't raise his voice. "So tell me."
"It's not the disease. I made a choice. Can't I have free will?" Marisa's hands flutter, an uneasy echo of Misha. "Can't I just be sad?"
"You can't hurt yourself--"
"Because you own me?" Marisa snaps, then catches Jeremy's expression and hastily combs her hair in front of her face. "'m sorry. 'm sorry."
All the righteous anger bleeds out of Jeremy at once. He leans back, away from her, one hand out to soothe a feral cat. "Shh. Shh. You don't have to be sorry. I won't hurt you. It's okay."
"Don't take me back to the doctors."
"I wouldn't. Shh." Helplessly, Jeremy pets the air several feet away from Marisa's shoulders. She doesn't see it. "I love you. Okay? You're my girl. Shh."
Her shoulders hitch, then bunch as Marisa smacks her closed fist against her knee. "I can't even cry right," she whispers, "fuck. Fuck."
"It's the drugs. It's not you. You're okay." Jeremy shifts the chair closer, his hand stretched out, and she shies away. "Can I--"
"You get to go home," Marisa says.
"Sweetheart..."
"Don't you call me that, Jeremy," she mutters. "Don't you call me that. Just go home. Go fuck Zach because Jeff won't have you."
Jeremy's open hand jerks closed, into a fist. He draws away from her. She doesn't look up.
"I love you," he says, when he can say anything, and knocks on the door for Jane.
Marisa stares at the barred window, silent.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 09:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 09:59 pm (UTC)and, um, wow, did that not make a lick of sense, but all randomness aside, this whole series has me drawn in and caring about and worrying for the characters, SO MUCH, you don't even know.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 08:10 pm (UTC)Thank you! *glee*
no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 11:06 pm (UTC)Beautifully written, as always. <3
no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 11:22 pm (UTC)Yes, she's depressed, but sometimes suicide can also be an act of protest--as per the monks who set themselves on fire in government protests, or hunger strikes. The shitty part of it is the way she did it, that she left Jeremy to pick up the pieces, and she didn't think it through enough to do it right the first time.
Is it really maladjusted to want to leave a toxic world permanently? I cannot say. I do think that if Marisa were less depressed, she would have been patient enough to ask to get out, and to wait for the group to find a way for her to leave. But instead, she saw no other way to solve her problems, which settles the issue in my mind.
Awesome job on writing the tightrope between depression and the agony that is that universe.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 01:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-03 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 01:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-03 03:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 01:28 pm (UTC)Thank you, bb!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-03 06:18 pm (UTC)The conversation between Marisa and Jeremy is so very real--the things unsaid beneath those said, the way they hurt each other even though part of them doesn't want to--it's all so very well done.
As always, I am happy to wait for installments from you if what comes at the end of the wait is this damned good.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 01:29 pm (UTC)Students, man. Students.
That middle road
Date: 2009-10-03 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-03 09:21 pm (UTC)Lovely writing, as always!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-04 03:18 am (UTC)This aches.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-04 07:49 am (UTC)It makes so much sense why he wants needs Misha right now... They're both drifting, hurting, grieving, broken but each in their own way. They need someone to help them through, but not someone who knows... not someone who understands (or thinks they do, but doesn't) what they've lost, what they're going through. They're perfect because they can help each other, give each other someone to worry about, someone to care for that they can actually help without all the baggage and misunderstandings, without the pretext of supposed understanding. And in turn, that can give them the support they need to try to heal and cope and maybe start to recover.
But I just feel so much for Jeremy right now. He's so brave for facing his own fears and memories to actually visit Marisa, but then again, he has to; I'm sure he doesn't really have a choice, at least not from his perspective.
Beautiful...
no subject
Date: 2009-10-04 03:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-04 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-06 01:53 pm (UTC)Sorry to bother you, but I've been thinking about making a master post of the pdfs I've made of various peoples' fics. Since it's kind of a touchy subject and all, I wanted to ask you if you'd mind if I linked to the pdfs I made of your fics (and the ones you've written with
If not, never mind. Thanks anyway.
- Zo.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 08:39 pm (UTC)You're very welcome. I still owe you Deathknell 'verse, and I'll get to it; my life is just a bit hectic at the moment.