nilchance | FIC: That Middle Road (11/?)

Title: That Middle Road (11/?)
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.

Misha knows doctors; he's seen plenty of them since the car accident, from neurologists to podiatrists and every specialty between. But he's never seen a doctor quite like Traci Dinwiddie.

She floats into the (strangely comfortable) exam room, missing her white coat and cold stare. She's wearing sandals on her feet. Pink toenail polish. Her mess of dark hair is piled on top of her head, reminding Misha a little of Jeremy. That shouldn't put him at ease, but it does.

"Misha," she says, without first squinting at a clipboard and mispronouncing his name, and thrusts out her callused hand. Misha almost fails to take her hand, he's so unused to one being offered. "Hello, it's wonderful to meet you. I'm Traci. You mind if I look at your knee?"

Obviously not, since he's here and on her examining table, but she means well. Misha spreads his hands and smiles, hoping that she read his intake form and knows he can't make chit-chat.

"Good, good. Because if you'd rather, I can have my body-slave-- some people aren't comfortable around doctors. Or women. Or women doctors. Or women doctor masters. Mistresses. Whatever." Traci smiles at him. "I speak sign, so please let me know if anything triggers you at all. I'm used to working around, y'know. Things. Now just bear with me while I check you over, and grab my hand if it hurts or is uncomfortable."

Misha blinks at her, hoping it looks thoughtful instead of brain damaged, and nods. When she continues to watch him, eyes crinkling up at the corners with the size of her smile, he haltingly stretches his bad leg out so she can see.

"Okay." Grasping his knee with her hands, Traci carefully tilts the joint, stopping short when he jolts under her touch. "Sorry, honey, did just that--? All right, here. Lie down."

There's a flutter of true anxiety: can he trust this woman? Can he get past her and run if she tries to hurt him? This is something he hasn't had to worry about, not until Vincent-- until he died, damn it, Misha can use the word. He has to use the word.

Jeremy trusts this woman. Besides which, Misha can roll to the floor and crawl out if he has to.

Traci has waited while he deliberates, to her great credit. When he meets her eyes, she raises her brows and asks, "Okay?"

Yes, this is a change from every other doctor he's known. Misha nods and slits his eyes almost closed, watching her through the lashes, the splintering prisms of light dancing across the featureless ceiling.

The exam is unpleasant, pressure and passive movement and pain, sometimes so great that it makes his breath catch in his throat. He stays still under her hands, though, and that's some kind of victory. He is a good patient. At least he's a good something.

"X-ray," Traci mutters finally, and then louder, "I'll be right back. Need some scans of your knee. You want a buzzer in case you need anything in the next few minutes?"

Christ, how degrading would that be?

Apparently his expression is an answer, because Traci snorts out an unpolitic laugh. It makes Misha like her better. "You told me," she says, and pushes aside a discreet curtain to reveal a machine that slots over the examination table. She pushes it over without visible strain, the lean muscles of her arms cording briefly. Misha looks; he's a virgin, but he's not blind. By the time he can avert his eyes from the curve of her breast, Traci has his knee in her hands and is pushing a plate under it. It all happens so quick he barely has time to wince, a sharp bite of pain in his knee, before Traci has him settled again. She winces with him, for him, and asks anxiously, "That all right? You're not hurting?"

Misha gives her a thumbs up, and she goes out. The buzzing of the X-ray is like a swarm of bees. From outside the room, he hears her curse.

When Traci comes back, the twinkle is swept away from her face. Replacing it is a bleak sort of rage, and beneath that, a pity. Misha's stomach turns over.

"Oh honey," she says. "You must be in so much pain."
****
The gray-scale X-ray of Misha's knee is pinned up against the light like a scarlet letter, and nobody seems to know what to say.

Yes, there's pain; of course there's pain, Misha had his knee slammed into the side of a car at a ridiculous speed. He still remembers hearing the bones' wet crack before his head hit the glass, ugly as the realization that Vincent wasn't wearing a seatbelt. But he didn't fuss about it. Things happen, and besides, he's a slave...

Somehow he doubts that Jeremy will accept that as reason.

The first image is admittedly impressive, his bones twisted where they healed. It's a miracle that the leg will bear any weight at all.

Jeremy came to the appointment looking drawn, but the news punched any remaining light out of him. His hand is resting absently on Misha's good knee, gripping and relaxing like a kneading cat, as he stares at the X-ray like he can force it to submit to the right configuration. But Traci took a series of shots, moving Misha like a ragdoll, muttering about asshole doctors who ought to have their licenses taken. There's no denying the situation.

"You were treated after the wreck?" Jeremy asks, finally tearing away from the X-rays. "I mean, at all?"

Misha shrugs uncomfortably. He can't make himself voice any complaints about Vincent's flesh and blood, even if he privately thinks they're idiots. I was examined. They stabilized things.

"They left your leg to heal crooked." Traci touches the X-ray at a few points. "It should've been set here and here, but they didn't, and so... fuck! What a mess."

But can you fix it? Misha asks, glad that the plaintive tone of the question gets lost in translation. Can she take away the pain that keeps him up nights, or the limp that slows him down? Can she make him normal again, or as much as he ever was?

But Traci is shaking her head slowly, regretfully. Misha's world turns quietly over; he didn't know he was hoping until she told him no.

Jeremy rubs a soothing circle on Misha, like he did at the funeral, and asks her, "What can you do?"

"Christ." Traci turns and scowls at the X-rays, thinking. "Okay, if it was up to me? I'd go in surgically and re-break the bones here, do a total knee replacement and heavy duty PT. Two to four days in the hospital--"

Not that, Misha signs, immediately revolted. Four days at the outside? Who would take care of Jeremy? Bad enough that he's repaying Jeremy's investment with costly surgery and a defective slave. I don't want that.

Jeremy gives him this look, all mournful dark eyes. "Misha," he begins, too gently for this tiny medical office with a stranger in it. "If you're hurting--"

I'm fine. I'm fine. At Jeremy's skeptical expression, Misha huffs out a breath that would be a curse and flails his hands. It's not that bad.

"A few more years, you might not have any choice if you want to walk." Traci shakes her head, tendrils of her hair slipping down around her face. "I really advise the full replacement, Misha. I know it's a hard road but your knee is going to get arthritic. But I can buy you maybe five years if we just go in with an arthroscope and clean up the debris. That'll help the pain. I can prescribe some muscle relaxants and pain meds for the rest. And you're gonna need to use a cane to ease the strain."

A cane. Dismayed, Misha moves his attention to the floor. He can't meet her sympathy while he's howling inside, furious with 'no'. Burton's people use canes; the very old use canes. He can't do this. He's not a good enough person to bear up under this weight.

But he doesn't get a choice. The accident is done. His world's been shrinking ever since.

Can we have a minute? Misha signs, not looking up.

"Sure, honey. You two need to talk it out." Traci stops in front of him, her pink toes pointed in his direction. "You want some tea? Coffee? Yeah, Jer, I know you want coffee, I'm asking your friend."

Misha shakes his head, subdued. It feels hard to think or act. He's tired, suddenly, he wants to go home to Jeremy's bed and sleep. His leg hurts, not the dull everyday throb but the sharper spike.

Jeremy is too quiet, his body turned to the X-rays even as his hand rests on Misha. Thinking. Regretting?

I'm sorry, Misha signs, still averting his eyes from Jeremy's face.

"Mm?" Jeremy attends, turning a little so his knee bumps Misha's good knee. "For what?"

The question sounds genuinely puzzled. Torn between relief and wanting to kick Jeremy in the shin, Misha clarifies, For all this. You didn't sign on for this.

Oddly, Jeremy huffs out an almost-laugh. "For what? Mish, I signed on for you." While Misha's still reeling, Jeremy adds, "I'm sorry. I should've gotten you to the doctor earlier-- hey, stop shaking your head at me, I mean it. I'm sorry you're hurting. I'm-- I'm sorry."

Misha feels his hands flutter, but there's no signal beneath that noise. He exhales and takes Jeremy's hands, squeezing once. Jeremy's fingers are cold, his nails bitten, but it's still nice to hold his hands.

Watching Misha's face, Jeremy says, "You can do the big surgery. I know... I know. But I'm here. I'll be here."

There's been plenty of useless comfort offered to Misha lately, but Jeremy's reaches deep in him and quiets his thumping heart into calm. Misha manages a lopsided smile, reluctantly frees his hands and signs, After Marisa is back.

Despite what Misha pretends, he sees Jeremy flinch a little at Marisa's name. Misha notes that, files it for later. He has enough to think about.

"So can we get you a cool sword cane?" Jeremy asks.

For now, it's all right.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

poisontaster

I wish I could say more about it, but it's like I've got a fist clenched around my heart, holding all my words in. It's perfect.

From:

Especially when you make plans...

FIC: That Middle Road (11/?)

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