FIC: That Middle Road (17/?)
Dec. 15th, 2009 05:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (17/?)
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. And polyamory. And kink. And a partridge in a pear tree.
It's a cold night, and a bitter one, and the wind slices fast across the roof. His senses are thick with the scent of curry from the restaurant he lives above, feeding his mind. He can live like this, scent and numbers-- why would he eat? No, food lays heavy in his gut, food weighs him down and makes him slow. Makes his blood like oil sludge instead of music. He's running cleaner, needing less. Which is more food for the sick, more food for the world, and that right there, he's solved world hunger.
He laughs, and it's harsh as the cawing of a crow, and it echoes over the edge of the roof. The edge, it's not high, but it feels like he can see the whole wide flat city through the buildings in his way. He can see through the offices and the freeways and the concrete to the sick, beating heart of his city, crooning to him in a lullaby of traffic noises, curving out in spirals like Fibonacci's sequence, coaxing him. Telling him baby, please, baby you can fly.
The roof is high enough. He has to seem committed. He's light and high, no longer weighed down by food or sleep or clothes or hair, that was the hardest, his electric razor humming reassurances against his prickling scalp, but he's ready now he's ready--
"Jer." And Jeff is just there, silent as a cat, close behind Jeremy. He has a nightrobe (Jeremy's hair still clings to it like a dark wounded thing) and a wary look, he must've heard the asphalt lying, he must've called. His voice sounds funny, choked and tight. "Hey, sweetheart. Why don't you come on down from there?"
"Jeff," the words blurt out funny over his dry tongue, "I know the numbers now, I know how to count faster than gravity!"
"I know you do." Jeff inches forward and holds out his hand. "So why don't you come down and teach me?"
"I. I don't."
"It's okay, baby. I know. Just stay with me."
When Jeff finally touches him, Jeremy realizes that he's cold.
It's Misha who wakes him, again, and Misha who he woke. Jeremy doesn't remember shying away from Misha's hand, putting his back against the wall, but he must have because that's where he is now. The wall is solid, comforting, and he's sick with sweat. Trembling everywhere.
Trauma. It never gets old, and it never heals over.
Jeremy, Misha fingerspells solemnly, his expression anxious. Are you here?
It'd be easy to play that off, ask where else he could possibly be, but his mouth is too dry to speak. He swallows, swallows, fixing his eyes on the collar of Misha's pajamas. A different set, this time, burgundy instead of blue but just as ridiculously staid. There's a pocket on the chest, like somebody might need to keep some pens in there for bed. Jeremy's sure there are good reasons for night-time pockets, but he can't think of any himself. If he's out of his suit, he's naked.
Until Misha.
His breaths are hiccuping loud in his lungs, like he's been sobbing in his sleep. (He doesn't do that. He doesn't tear up, he doesn't wail or sniffle or do any of that. Never has. His baby sister Meadow cried loud and forlorn over Bambi's dead mom, and Jeremy stole her popcorn.) Misha frowns, and squirms a little closer, and lays his hand on Jeremy's chest. He mirrors that, his other hand on his own chest, and breathes deep-slow-calm. If he's freaked out at his owner's damage, it doesn't show on his face. After a moment of deep breathing, waiting for Jeremy to catch on, he presses his palm harder against Jeremy's chest and wrinkles his nose like what, are you slow?
Jeremy chokes out a laugh and that's it, he has to let the panic slip away. He has to breathe, snagged on Misha's blue blue eyes.
After a few minutes pass like that, Misha nods and lets the hand on his own chest fall away. He doesn't move to let go of Jeremy, though he brushes imaginary dust off Jeremy like he's a little embarrassed. He doesn't ask what that was, which is one up on Marisa, but he doesn't turn the light off and go back to sleep either.
"So, uh," Jeremy says. "Hey. How about that local sports team?"
Misha makes that dry, scoffing sound that might be his laugh. It's kind of endearing, whatever it means. Finally taking his hand back, he signs, I was up anyway.
"Oh. Your knee?" From the mangled wreck shown on the X-ray, Jeremy's not surprised.
Looking sheepish, Misha shrugs. His eyes look bruised, though, and there's white around his mouth. Jeff had looked like that after he wrecked his knee, when he needed to take something but was too stubborn to do it.
"You know you don't have to stay in here with me, if you don't want." Casual, Jeremy grabs the painkillers and shook two out in his hand so he can hold them out. "I always feel more-- I dunno, restless?-- laying around, trying to go back to sleep."
From Misha's dour expression, the casual bullshit doesn't work. But he takes them, and the water Jeremy offers after, and signs, You're awake now.
"Yeah, guilty. You want me to entertain you?"
Misha shrugs again, but there's a devil-shine in his eyes. Until drugs and reason kick in.
Jeremy laughs, despite himself. "You'll be waiting a while. Didn't you notice?"
Canting his head to one side, Misha hesitates, then signs,I notice more than you think.
Well, yes. Jeremy had kind of learned that. "You're clever," he says, mimicking Bonham-Carter's accent: dry and clipped as a dead herb garden. "Too clever for me. But I didn't take you on to be my, I dunno, weapon. My spy."
Misha's eyes crease at the corner, like the first scouts of crow's feet. Vincent's dying has aged him, but it's only made him more striking. You have to wait until after midnight to be honest?
Jeremy lets Misha see him wince. "I figured we understood each other. Sorry. I say things that don't need to be said, but I leave too much out, too. I'm working on it."
Another huffing almost-laugh. Then why did you take me on? Why am I here?
"Christ, it's too late to get existential, Misha." Dragging a hand through his tangled-up hair, Jeremy looks away. Thinks. Why did he get involved in this? Why did he invite trouble? Because he needed a bodyslave. Because Misha needed saving, and Jeremy saves people like it's going out of style. Because he needed to feel useful. It's all too pathetic to say out loud. Finally, he settles on, "I guess I wanted to give you some space to figure that out yourself."
Misha taps his ankle, almost politely. When Jeremy looks at him again, Misha signs with great deliberation, That's bullshit.
It's enough to yank Jeremy out of his self-pity. He shrugs at Misha, gives him a crooked smile. "Yeah. But that's what I've got right now."
For a moment, Misha digests that. Then he signs, Do you have cards? I play baccarat.
"Like James Bond does?" From Misha's flashbulb quick grin, that's on target. Jeremy laughs, for real this time, and goes for the rubberband-wrapped deck he keeps for insomniac solitaire. "What, Vincent thought poker was too vulgar?"
Yes. Misha leans towards him, an eager light in his eyes. I can learn. Will you teach me?
"Dude, please, I'm not allowed to play with my-- with our crew, after I won too much imaginary money." Fanning the deck out between them, Jeremy beams. "I'll teach you everything I know."
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. And polyamory. And kink. And a partridge in a pear tree.It's a cold night, and a bitter one, and the wind slices fast across the roof. His senses are thick with the scent of curry from the restaurant he lives above, feeding his mind. He can live like this, scent and numbers-- why would he eat? No, food lays heavy in his gut, food weighs him down and makes him slow. Makes his blood like oil sludge instead of music. He's running cleaner, needing less. Which is more food for the sick, more food for the world, and that right there, he's solved world hunger.
He laughs, and it's harsh as the cawing of a crow, and it echoes over the edge of the roof. The edge, it's not high, but it feels like he can see the whole wide flat city through the buildings in his way. He can see through the offices and the freeways and the concrete to the sick, beating heart of his city, crooning to him in a lullaby of traffic noises, curving out in spirals like Fibonacci's sequence, coaxing him. Telling him baby, please, baby you can fly.
The roof is high enough. He has to seem committed. He's light and high, no longer weighed down by food or sleep or clothes or hair, that was the hardest, his electric razor humming reassurances against his prickling scalp, but he's ready now he's ready--
"Jer." And Jeff is just there, silent as a cat, close behind Jeremy. He has a nightrobe (Jeremy's hair still clings to it like a dark wounded thing) and a wary look, he must've heard the asphalt lying, he must've called. His voice sounds funny, choked and tight. "Hey, sweetheart. Why don't you come on down from there?"
"Jeff," the words blurt out funny over his dry tongue, "I know the numbers now, I know how to count faster than gravity!"
"I know you do." Jeff inches forward and holds out his hand. "So why don't you come down and teach me?"
"I. I don't."
"It's okay, baby. I know. Just stay with me."
When Jeff finally touches him, Jeremy realizes that he's cold.
It's Misha who wakes him, again, and Misha who he woke. Jeremy doesn't remember shying away from Misha's hand, putting his back against the wall, but he must have because that's where he is now. The wall is solid, comforting, and he's sick with sweat. Trembling everywhere.
Trauma. It never gets old, and it never heals over.
Jeremy, Misha fingerspells solemnly, his expression anxious. Are you here?
It'd be easy to play that off, ask where else he could possibly be, but his mouth is too dry to speak. He swallows, swallows, fixing his eyes on the collar of Misha's pajamas. A different set, this time, burgundy instead of blue but just as ridiculously staid. There's a pocket on the chest, like somebody might need to keep some pens in there for bed. Jeremy's sure there are good reasons for night-time pockets, but he can't think of any himself. If he's out of his suit, he's naked.
Until Misha.
His breaths are hiccuping loud in his lungs, like he's been sobbing in his sleep. (He doesn't do that. He doesn't tear up, he doesn't wail or sniffle or do any of that. Never has. His baby sister Meadow cried loud and forlorn over Bambi's dead mom, and Jeremy stole her popcorn.) Misha frowns, and squirms a little closer, and lays his hand on Jeremy's chest. He mirrors that, his other hand on his own chest, and breathes deep-slow-calm. If he's freaked out at his owner's damage, it doesn't show on his face. After a moment of deep breathing, waiting for Jeremy to catch on, he presses his palm harder against Jeremy's chest and wrinkles his nose like what, are you slow?
Jeremy chokes out a laugh and that's it, he has to let the panic slip away. He has to breathe, snagged on Misha's blue blue eyes.
After a few minutes pass like that, Misha nods and lets the hand on his own chest fall away. He doesn't move to let go of Jeremy, though he brushes imaginary dust off Jeremy like he's a little embarrassed. He doesn't ask what that was, which is one up on Marisa, but he doesn't turn the light off and go back to sleep either.
"So, uh," Jeremy says. "Hey. How about that local sports team?"
Misha makes that dry, scoffing sound that might be his laugh. It's kind of endearing, whatever it means. Finally taking his hand back, he signs, I was up anyway.
"Oh. Your knee?" From the mangled wreck shown on the X-ray, Jeremy's not surprised.
Looking sheepish, Misha shrugs. His eyes look bruised, though, and there's white around his mouth. Jeff had looked like that after he wrecked his knee, when he needed to take something but was too stubborn to do it.
"You know you don't have to stay in here with me, if you don't want." Casual, Jeremy grabs the painkillers and shook two out in his hand so he can hold them out. "I always feel more-- I dunno, restless?-- laying around, trying to go back to sleep."
From Misha's dour expression, the casual bullshit doesn't work. But he takes them, and the water Jeremy offers after, and signs, You're awake now.
"Yeah, guilty. You want me to entertain you?"
Misha shrugs again, but there's a devil-shine in his eyes. Until drugs and reason kick in.
Jeremy laughs, despite himself. "You'll be waiting a while. Didn't you notice?"
Canting his head to one side, Misha hesitates, then signs,I notice more than you think.
Well, yes. Jeremy had kind of learned that. "You're clever," he says, mimicking Bonham-Carter's accent: dry and clipped as a dead herb garden. "Too clever for me. But I didn't take you on to be my, I dunno, weapon. My spy."
Misha's eyes crease at the corner, like the first scouts of crow's feet. Vincent's dying has aged him, but it's only made him more striking. You have to wait until after midnight to be honest?
Jeremy lets Misha see him wince. "I figured we understood each other. Sorry. I say things that don't need to be said, but I leave too much out, too. I'm working on it."
Another huffing almost-laugh. Then why did you take me on? Why am I here?
"Christ, it's too late to get existential, Misha." Dragging a hand through his tangled-up hair, Jeremy looks away. Thinks. Why did he get involved in this? Why did he invite trouble? Because he needed a bodyslave. Because Misha needed saving, and Jeremy saves people like it's going out of style. Because he needed to feel useful. It's all too pathetic to say out loud. Finally, he settles on, "I guess I wanted to give you some space to figure that out yourself."
Misha taps his ankle, almost politely. When Jeremy looks at him again, Misha signs with great deliberation, That's bullshit.
It's enough to yank Jeremy out of his self-pity. He shrugs at Misha, gives him a crooked smile. "Yeah. But that's what I've got right now."
For a moment, Misha digests that. Then he signs, Do you have cards? I play baccarat.
"Like James Bond does?" From Misha's flashbulb quick grin, that's on target. Jeremy laughs, for real this time, and goes for the rubberband-wrapped deck he keeps for insomniac solitaire. "What, Vincent thought poker was too vulgar?"
Yes. Misha leans towards him, an eager light in his eyes. I can learn. Will you teach me?
"Dude, please, I'm not allowed to play with my-- with our crew, after I won too much imaginary money." Fanning the deck out between them, Jeremy beams. "I'll teach you everything I know."