FIC: That Middle Road (12/?)
Nov. 10th, 2009 03:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (12/?)
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. 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.
They catch him unaware, freshly drugged and just out of Group. He struggles like he's underwater, but not for long, the shackle of an attendant's fist around his arm; once and only once he makes them drag him, but that just makes things worse. The room is cold by association, and he's shivering before the restraints come down. His back hits the gurney where they do this ritual, chilly metal on his skin where his shirt gaps up away from his pants.
Once he's down, the orderlies slip away.
"No," he says, words blurring in his mouth, "no no fuck no don't I'll do better--"
Water sprays his chin and mouth as the nurse snaps the sheet to a military-sharp edge, tucking him in, pinning him down. The sheets they fold around him are brutally cold, like ice against his skin-- it's medicine, they think they can make his skittish manic thoughts quiet down and go sluggish like his own fading struggles. He tastes bleach. He shudders, his head snapping back, and the nurse rests her hand on his forehead. He's seventeen, seventeen and scared that maybe they'll tell his mother. He wants out. He wants to be somewhere else than this, on the beach, in Jeff's bed. He wants to be somewhere safe.
They think they're saving him, but he's forgetting that there are other places than these gray hallways, medicine in small white cups, bars on the windows and no sharp edges. He is being erased, and it is kind.
"Shh, honey," the nurse whispers, and smiles down at him. "You'll feel so much better if you cry."
A short, hard shake jolts Jeremy awake and upright. His heart is pounding like he ran a marathon, and he can feel the sweat in a hot line down his back. It's an uneasy reminder of the nightmare. That isn't where the dream ends, but... even through a fuckton of muscle relaxants and painkillers, Misha woke up and saved him.
Peering at Jeremy like he wants to sign something but doesn't want to let go to do it, Misha tilts his head. Asks the silent, obvious question: what the hell was that?
Misha is so close; Jeremy wants to part dark tousled hair and press his lips to Misha's forehead, breathe in the clean sleep scent of him. Instead, Jeremy rasps out, "I'm gonna go for a run."
Immediately, Misha glances at the bedroom windows. It's 5:30 in the morning, still dark outside, but the day will be warming up. He's too cold, the nightmare clinging to him. There will be open air to breathe, space to run-- and no way for Misha to come along. It confirms Jeremy's suspicion that he's a bad person in addition to a bad owner, but hell, he needs to shake this off and he can't trust himself not to lash out.
"Just like your mother," his father whispers derisively in his memory. Jeremy scrubs a hand over his face and swings his legs out of bed. His sneakers are shoved under the bed; he grabs them by the laces and goes to get some sweatpants. Misha watches him, expression creased with worry. There's no question that Misha knows Jeremy's shaking him off, but Misha doesn't protest or even seem angry. That only makes things worse.
"Go back to sleep," Jeremy tells him, shoving his way into sweatpants. Even with the elastic band, the pants slink down to rest on his hips. "It's fine, Mish, just... just a bad dream."
When he turns around, Misha signs, About Jeff?
A shiver creeps up Jeremy's back. He asks too sharply, "Why would you say that?"
Misha sighs. Because you were calling his name.
Still. Always. Shaking off that chill, Jeremy pulls on a thick shirt that still smells faintly of Marisa. "Was I? Sorry. I can't remember what I was dreaming about. You want another painkiller before I go?"
Misha shakes his head, solemn and sad-eyed in his ridiculous pajamas. It's too easy to wonder how long he'll stay there in Jeremy's bed, more solid and comforting than Marisa could ever be. He wants to say something, Jeremy can see that much, but he makes sure to leave before Misha calls him a liar.
***
The mantra of the monastery: feel each breath, live each step, be here now. Jeremy tries.
He runs, the sleeping houses coming awake around him. Each stride eats up the sidewalk, impact jarring up his calves and into his knees. He should've stretched or started slower, but he needs to get his house far behind him.
He's still shivering. Can't get warm, fuck, why does this still haunt him? Why can't he let it go?
Shoving the insistent panic from the front of his thoughts, he forces his cramping body to go faster. He's a free man, he's outside and the gray sky is above him. He has a job and a car and a mortgage. He takes care of people. He is in control. He's better; he has to be better.
Then why are you swallowing lithium every night?
There's a red light ahead, a place to stop and quiet his heaving breaths, but he takes a sharp right and nearly skids to his knees on wet pavement. Keeps going, even though he hears someone curse him from a car window. This isn't jogging, the LA past-time of aspiring young kids with something to prove. This is running for his life. Or running from it.
Footsteps ring out behind him, and for a terrified moment, he is being chased through the ward and there's a needle at his back. There's the bed, the straps, the long rasp of the night guard's zipper. Then he's caught, touched on the shoulder, tag he's it; his breath hiccups hurtfully in his throat and he swings around, fist clenched even through he knows he won't fight at all.
"Jer!" Zach is doubled over and wheezing, one arm looped protectively over his stomach. "Jesus Christ, dude, where's the fire?"
Jeremy can taste his heartbeat. He's glad he didn't eat before he took off, or he'd be puking in somebody's landscaped bushes. Scrubbing his arm over his mouth, he shrugs and huffs out, "Just running."
"Yeah, I can see that, dipshit."
"Sorry." Jeremy wants water, suddenly, his mouth as dry as a stone. Side effects. He swallows a few times, shakes the sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Sorry. You okay?"
Zach waves him off and straightens gingerly. "Damn. I haven't run like that since I started with Jeff. You cool?"
"Sure, sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
Quirking an eyebrow, Zach drawls, "Right. C'mon, walk some and cool down, or you're gonna regret it."
"Mmph." With a last longing look down the sidewalk away from his house, Jeremy caves to the inevitable. Zach won't buy Jeremy's bullshit and if he keeps running, there'll be questions. He turns and falls in step with Zach, headed back home. "What're you doing in this part of town?"
"Looking for you." At Jeremy's blank look, Zach throws his hands up in exasperation. "Dude. Football watching at Jeff's. Ryzer comes over here for a few hours to give us a break. Any of this ringing a bell?"
"It's Sunday?"
"Yeah, man." Zach narrows his eyes. "You sure you're--"
"Yes," Jeremy snaps, "I'm fine. Ryzer usually stays with Gina or Marissa, and she's... I'll stay here today, I think. Give Gina a hand with the squirt."
Zach grunts, and they walk in silence for a minute. Long enough for Jeremy to think that maybe he's in the clear. Then Zach sidesteps into Jeremy's space, swinging a lazy arm around his shoulders so their bodies collide at the hip. Jeremy nearly ends up in somebody's bushes, but Zach doesn't let him fall.
"Naw," Zach says, while Jeremy flails for balance. "You're coming with. You need to get out of the house."
"I'm out of the house all the freaking time--"
"Not like working, jackass. You need to come hang out with people who aren't paying you to do their taxes. Or, y'know, us." Catching Jeremy before he can even open his mouth, Zach says, "I'll run interference with Jeff, if you want. Just come with, all right? Wendy's worried."
It's no small offer for Zach to make. Jeff's still Zach's master, liberal or not, and under uneasy friendship Jeremy knows Zach doesn't trust Jeff's morals to hold much weight. Wendy's obviously not the only one who's freaked out.
In other words, Zach is the best friend ever, and he's offering Jeremy a hand up.
"I'm fine," Jeremy repeats, but he knows he's lost.
Zach doesn't dignify that with a response, squeezing Jeremy once and letting him go. "Besides, you need to introduce the new guy. He hasn't been traumatized enough yet."
It's a good point. Misha came from rattling around Vincent's deserted house to rattling around here. Denis and Gina are good people, but it's a quiet and insular existence. The silence nurtures grief. The warm chaos of Jeremy's friends might be good for Misha, considering. "Poor, poor Misha."
"One of us, one of us," Zach chants, and grins when Jeremy laughs.
Author:
nilchancePairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in
poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse. 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.They catch him unaware, freshly drugged and just out of Group. He struggles like he's underwater, but not for long, the shackle of an attendant's fist around his arm; once and only once he makes them drag him, but that just makes things worse. The room is cold by association, and he's shivering before the restraints come down. His back hits the gurney where they do this ritual, chilly metal on his skin where his shirt gaps up away from his pants.
Once he's down, the orderlies slip away.
"No," he says, words blurring in his mouth, "no no fuck no don't I'll do better--"
Water sprays his chin and mouth as the nurse snaps the sheet to a military-sharp edge, tucking him in, pinning him down. The sheets they fold around him are brutally cold, like ice against his skin-- it's medicine, they think they can make his skittish manic thoughts quiet down and go sluggish like his own fading struggles. He tastes bleach. He shudders, his head snapping back, and the nurse rests her hand on his forehead. He's seventeen, seventeen and scared that maybe they'll tell his mother. He wants out. He wants to be somewhere else than this, on the beach, in Jeff's bed. He wants to be somewhere safe.
They think they're saving him, but he's forgetting that there are other places than these gray hallways, medicine in small white cups, bars on the windows and no sharp edges. He is being erased, and it is kind.
"Shh, honey," the nurse whispers, and smiles down at him. "You'll feel so much better if you cry."
A short, hard shake jolts Jeremy awake and upright. His heart is pounding like he ran a marathon, and he can feel the sweat in a hot line down his back. It's an uneasy reminder of the nightmare. That isn't where the dream ends, but... even through a fuckton of muscle relaxants and painkillers, Misha woke up and saved him.
Peering at Jeremy like he wants to sign something but doesn't want to let go to do it, Misha tilts his head. Asks the silent, obvious question: what the hell was that?
Misha is so close; Jeremy wants to part dark tousled hair and press his lips to Misha's forehead, breathe in the clean sleep scent of him. Instead, Jeremy rasps out, "I'm gonna go for a run."
Immediately, Misha glances at the bedroom windows. It's 5:30 in the morning, still dark outside, but the day will be warming up. He's too cold, the nightmare clinging to him. There will be open air to breathe, space to run-- and no way for Misha to come along. It confirms Jeremy's suspicion that he's a bad person in addition to a bad owner, but hell, he needs to shake this off and he can't trust himself not to lash out.
"Just like your mother," his father whispers derisively in his memory. Jeremy scrubs a hand over his face and swings his legs out of bed. His sneakers are shoved under the bed; he grabs them by the laces and goes to get some sweatpants. Misha watches him, expression creased with worry. There's no question that Misha knows Jeremy's shaking him off, but Misha doesn't protest or even seem angry. That only makes things worse.
"Go back to sleep," Jeremy tells him, shoving his way into sweatpants. Even with the elastic band, the pants slink down to rest on his hips. "It's fine, Mish, just... just a bad dream."
When he turns around, Misha signs, About Jeff?
A shiver creeps up Jeremy's back. He asks too sharply, "Why would you say that?"
Misha sighs. Because you were calling his name.
Still. Always. Shaking off that chill, Jeremy pulls on a thick shirt that still smells faintly of Marisa. "Was I? Sorry. I can't remember what I was dreaming about. You want another painkiller before I go?"
Misha shakes his head, solemn and sad-eyed in his ridiculous pajamas. It's too easy to wonder how long he'll stay there in Jeremy's bed, more solid and comforting than Marisa could ever be. He wants to say something, Jeremy can see that much, but he makes sure to leave before Misha calls him a liar.
***
The mantra of the monastery: feel each breath, live each step, be here now. Jeremy tries.
He runs, the sleeping houses coming awake around him. Each stride eats up the sidewalk, impact jarring up his calves and into his knees. He should've stretched or started slower, but he needs to get his house far behind him.
He's still shivering. Can't get warm, fuck, why does this still haunt him? Why can't he let it go?
Shoving the insistent panic from the front of his thoughts, he forces his cramping body to go faster. He's a free man, he's outside and the gray sky is above him. He has a job and a car and a mortgage. He takes care of people. He is in control. He's better; he has to be better.
Then why are you swallowing lithium every night?
There's a red light ahead, a place to stop and quiet his heaving breaths, but he takes a sharp right and nearly skids to his knees on wet pavement. Keeps going, even though he hears someone curse him from a car window. This isn't jogging, the LA past-time of aspiring young kids with something to prove. This is running for his life. Or running from it.
Footsteps ring out behind him, and for a terrified moment, he is being chased through the ward and there's a needle at his back. There's the bed, the straps, the long rasp of the night guard's zipper. Then he's caught, touched on the shoulder, tag he's it; his breath hiccups hurtfully in his throat and he swings around, fist clenched even through he knows he won't fight at all.
"Jer!" Zach is doubled over and wheezing, one arm looped protectively over his stomach. "Jesus Christ, dude, where's the fire?"
Jeremy can taste his heartbeat. He's glad he didn't eat before he took off, or he'd be puking in somebody's landscaped bushes. Scrubbing his arm over his mouth, he shrugs and huffs out, "Just running."
"Yeah, I can see that, dipshit."
"Sorry." Jeremy wants water, suddenly, his mouth as dry as a stone. Side effects. He swallows a few times, shakes the sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Sorry. You okay?"
Zach waves him off and straightens gingerly. "Damn. I haven't run like that since I started with Jeff. You cool?"
"Sure, sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
Quirking an eyebrow, Zach drawls, "Right. C'mon, walk some and cool down, or you're gonna regret it."
"Mmph." With a last longing look down the sidewalk away from his house, Jeremy caves to the inevitable. Zach won't buy Jeremy's bullshit and if he keeps running, there'll be questions. He turns and falls in step with Zach, headed back home. "What're you doing in this part of town?"
"Looking for you." At Jeremy's blank look, Zach throws his hands up in exasperation. "Dude. Football watching at Jeff's. Ryzer comes over here for a few hours to give us a break. Any of this ringing a bell?"
"It's Sunday?"
"Yeah, man." Zach narrows his eyes. "You sure you're--"
"Yes," Jeremy snaps, "I'm fine. Ryzer usually stays with Gina or Marissa, and she's... I'll stay here today, I think. Give Gina a hand with the squirt."
Zach grunts, and they walk in silence for a minute. Long enough for Jeremy to think that maybe he's in the clear. Then Zach sidesteps into Jeremy's space, swinging a lazy arm around his shoulders so their bodies collide at the hip. Jeremy nearly ends up in somebody's bushes, but Zach doesn't let him fall.
"Naw," Zach says, while Jeremy flails for balance. "You're coming with. You need to get out of the house."
"I'm out of the house all the freaking time--"
"Not like working, jackass. You need to come hang out with people who aren't paying you to do their taxes. Or, y'know, us." Catching Jeremy before he can even open his mouth, Zach says, "I'll run interference with Jeff, if you want. Just come with, all right? Wendy's worried."
It's no small offer for Zach to make. Jeff's still Zach's master, liberal or not, and under uneasy friendship Jeremy knows Zach doesn't trust Jeff's morals to hold much weight. Wendy's obviously not the only one who's freaked out.
In other words, Zach is the best friend ever, and he's offering Jeremy a hand up.
"I'm fine," Jeremy repeats, but he knows he's lost.
Zach doesn't dignify that with a response, squeezing Jeremy once and letting him go. "Besides, you need to introduce the new guy. He hasn't been traumatized enough yet."
It's a good point. Misha came from rattling around Vincent's deserted house to rattling around here. Denis and Gina are good people, but it's a quiet and insular existence. The silence nurtures grief. The warm chaos of Jeremy's friends might be good for Misha, considering. "Poor, poor Misha."
"One of us, one of us," Zach chants, and grins when Jeremy laughs.
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Date: 2009-11-12 05:45 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2009-11-12 09:15 pm (UTC)