FIC: Rust (1/1)
Oct. 24th, 2010 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Rust
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing/Fandom: AKB!verse, Jeremy Sisto & Denis Leary gen
A/N: This was originally going to be a 5 times, but then, no. This is set maybe a year after Three Mistakes, when Jeremy's been released.
The first impression Denis has of Jeremy is as Walken’s accountant. He sees stark bones, ragged hair in a ponytail, and a bad suit. He remembers thinking I hope this kid doesn’t keel over in here, because I’m gonna have to clean it up.
He’s not in the mood for digging a ditch.
****
Walken calls Denis up after about ten minutes. Denis doesn’t have a good feeling about it, and he’s not wrong.
“No,” the kid is saying, his hands out and placating, his voice deeper than Denis expected from that scrawny sick body, “that’s okay, Mr. Walken, I really appreciate it but that’s okay--”
“You babble like a fish tank,” Walken says, and snaps his fingers at Denis. “C’mere, you. Pain in my ass.” To the kid, he says, “There. Are we square?”
The kid blinks a few times, then shuts his mouth with a click. Probably still trying to figure out the fish tank comment. Denis wonders how many of Walken’s non-sequitors are sleight of hand and how much are pure crazy.
That comment about them being square... Denis doesn’t like that much. Not at all. He doesn’t like getting fucked, though he’s done it; there are prettier and sweeter slaves for Walken to throw out to the wolves.
(The kids are fifteen, maybe, and it ought to piss him off, but he can’t let himself feel anything more than a vague queasy discomfort. If he starts with a bleeding heart, he’s dead. He’s meat.
He’s already meat.)
“Sir,” the kid says, turning back to Walken. The shadows fall in his cheekbones, you could drink shots from those hollows. “I really appreciate it, but--”
Walken thumps both his elbows down on his desk and rests his chin on his joined fists. “You just got out of school, Sisto,” he says, bright and easy, “you can’t make any enemies, can you? Can’t grow an ethics tumor. Can’t afford it.”
Shutters go down on the kid’s expression. He looks like a bait dog.
“Can you?” Walken prods.
The glare the kid gives him is an ugly thing. Scarred up. “No.”
“You need a slave, don’t you? For business.”
“Yeah,” the kid says after what feels like an hour. Heroin standard time, Denis used to call it, but the kid looks too wary and too alert to be on junk.
“I mean.” Walken smiles. “You’re not an abolitionist, after all.”
The kid’s eyes don’t do that guilty sideways flick; poker player, Denis would bet, but then Denis plays a lot of poker himself. Walken is no good at that game.
“Nope,” the kid says. “Just us chickens.”
Walken makes a ‘well, there you go’ gesture. “You’re welcome.”
***
When they get to the car, a lousy little sedan with textbooks in the back seat, the kid turns the A/C up full blast. He rolls the tension out of his shoulders, the kicked dog hunch, and untangles his hair from its loose ponytail.
To Denis, who is inching slowly against the car door, he adds, “There’s protein bars in the glove compartment. You want to stop for tacos? That’s, um, pretty much all I can keep down lately. Sorry.”
It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
***
The kid’s house (Jeremy, the kid said a few times, not sir, not master, just Jeremy, okay?) is a wreck of unpacked boxes. The cardboard boxes smell oddly like curry. There’s a mattress on the floor by the window in the living room, like Jeremy can’t quite stand not being near an exit. Damaged.
A little girly dog goes sniffing around Denis, peers up at him, and whuffs like yeah, not impressed. The kid retrieves him and the dog hangs limply from his arms.
“Is that a dog or an ottoman?” Denis asks, and winces inside. Five minutes and he’s already pissing his new owner off. Awesome job.
Jeremy cracks a grin. “Wait until he sees you with food.”
***
Three days later, Denis sees Walken on the news. He got busted on something tax related. Anonymous tip-off.
The kid’s all right.
***
The kid pops pills. Eats like a bird. Throws up a lot.
After the third time he sees the kid worshipping the porcelain god, Denis asks, “You dying?”
The kid gulps from the glass of water that Denis brought him-- hey, he’s an asshole, not a fucking asshole. “No,” he gasps, when he comes up for air. “‘m fine.”
Denis snorts.
With obvious reluctance, Jeremy tosses Denis the bottle of pills. AZT, it says, and Denis has been around enough to know what that means.
Denis sets the pills down a little harder than necessary. “What’d you do? Shoot a little junk? You don’t seem like the type.”
The kid’s gaze slides off like oil, darting to the door that Denis is blocking. Denis knows that look; he wasn’t born a slave, but he’s been one long enough to recognize some things. He shifts out of the way, trying not to make it a big deal, and hates the flash of gratitude that crosses the kid’s face. So does the kid, apparently, because he sets his jaw and swallows like he wants to puke again.
“Just until a blood test comes back,” Jeremy says finally. “I don’t think I’m-- y’know. But I don’t take chances.”
“You take plenty,” Denis says. “Too many and you’ll end up like me.”
Jeremy shrugs, but doesn't protest that they're nothing alike. Denis has lost teeth over suggesting less, that slaves came from somewhere and didn't spring fully grown from somebody's forehead.
"Don't worry about that," Jeremy says. "I'll make sure you end up somewhere safe."
Denis wants to slap the taste out of his mouth. To tell him to fucking wise up. To say he's not fucking worried, all right, and there's no such thing as safe.
Instead, grudgingly, Denis offers him a hand up off the floor.
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing/Fandom: AKB!verse, Jeremy Sisto & Denis Leary gen
A/N: This was originally going to be a 5 times, but then, no. This is set maybe a year after Three Mistakes, when Jeremy's been released.
The first impression Denis has of Jeremy is as Walken’s accountant. He sees stark bones, ragged hair in a ponytail, and a bad suit. He remembers thinking I hope this kid doesn’t keel over in here, because I’m gonna have to clean it up.
He’s not in the mood for digging a ditch.
****
Walken calls Denis up after about ten minutes. Denis doesn’t have a good feeling about it, and he’s not wrong.
“No,” the kid is saying, his hands out and placating, his voice deeper than Denis expected from that scrawny sick body, “that’s okay, Mr. Walken, I really appreciate it but that’s okay--”
“You babble like a fish tank,” Walken says, and snaps his fingers at Denis. “C’mere, you. Pain in my ass.” To the kid, he says, “There. Are we square?”
The kid blinks a few times, then shuts his mouth with a click. Probably still trying to figure out the fish tank comment. Denis wonders how many of Walken’s non-sequitors are sleight of hand and how much are pure crazy.
That comment about them being square... Denis doesn’t like that much. Not at all. He doesn’t like getting fucked, though he’s done it; there are prettier and sweeter slaves for Walken to throw out to the wolves.
(The kids are fifteen, maybe, and it ought to piss him off, but he can’t let himself feel anything more than a vague queasy discomfort. If he starts with a bleeding heart, he’s dead. He’s meat.
He’s already meat.)
“Sir,” the kid says, turning back to Walken. The shadows fall in his cheekbones, you could drink shots from those hollows. “I really appreciate it, but--”
Walken thumps both his elbows down on his desk and rests his chin on his joined fists. “You just got out of school, Sisto,” he says, bright and easy, “you can’t make any enemies, can you? Can’t grow an ethics tumor. Can’t afford it.”
Shutters go down on the kid’s expression. He looks like a bait dog.
“Can you?” Walken prods.
The glare the kid gives him is an ugly thing. Scarred up. “No.”
“You need a slave, don’t you? For business.”
“Yeah,” the kid says after what feels like an hour. Heroin standard time, Denis used to call it, but the kid looks too wary and too alert to be on junk.
“I mean.” Walken smiles. “You’re not an abolitionist, after all.”
The kid’s eyes don’t do that guilty sideways flick; poker player, Denis would bet, but then Denis plays a lot of poker himself. Walken is no good at that game.
“Nope,” the kid says. “Just us chickens.”
Walken makes a ‘well, there you go’ gesture. “You’re welcome.”
***
When they get to the car, a lousy little sedan with textbooks in the back seat, the kid turns the A/C up full blast. He rolls the tension out of his shoulders, the kicked dog hunch, and untangles his hair from its loose ponytail.
To Denis, who is inching slowly against the car door, he adds, “There’s protein bars in the glove compartment. You want to stop for tacos? That’s, um, pretty much all I can keep down lately. Sorry.”
It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
***
The kid’s house (Jeremy, the kid said a few times, not sir, not master, just Jeremy, okay?) is a wreck of unpacked boxes. The cardboard boxes smell oddly like curry. There’s a mattress on the floor by the window in the living room, like Jeremy can’t quite stand not being near an exit. Damaged.
A little girly dog goes sniffing around Denis, peers up at him, and whuffs like yeah, not impressed. The kid retrieves him and the dog hangs limply from his arms.
“Is that a dog or an ottoman?” Denis asks, and winces inside. Five minutes and he’s already pissing his new owner off. Awesome job.
Jeremy cracks a grin. “Wait until he sees you with food.”
***
Three days later, Denis sees Walken on the news. He got busted on something tax related. Anonymous tip-off.
The kid’s all right.
***
The kid pops pills. Eats like a bird. Throws up a lot.
After the third time he sees the kid worshipping the porcelain god, Denis asks, “You dying?”
The kid gulps from the glass of water that Denis brought him-- hey, he’s an asshole, not a fucking asshole. “No,” he gasps, when he comes up for air. “‘m fine.”
Denis snorts.
With obvious reluctance, Jeremy tosses Denis the bottle of pills. AZT, it says, and Denis has been around enough to know what that means.
Denis sets the pills down a little harder than necessary. “What’d you do? Shoot a little junk? You don’t seem like the type.”
The kid’s gaze slides off like oil, darting to the door that Denis is blocking. Denis knows that look; he wasn’t born a slave, but he’s been one long enough to recognize some things. He shifts out of the way, trying not to make it a big deal, and hates the flash of gratitude that crosses the kid’s face. So does the kid, apparently, because he sets his jaw and swallows like he wants to puke again.
“Just until a blood test comes back,” Jeremy says finally. “I don’t think I’m-- y’know. But I don’t take chances.”
“You take plenty,” Denis says. “Too many and you’ll end up like me.”
Jeremy shrugs, but doesn't protest that they're nothing alike. Denis has lost teeth over suggesting less, that slaves came from somewhere and didn't spring fully grown from somebody's forehead.
"Don't worry about that," Jeremy says. "I'll make sure you end up somewhere safe."
Denis wants to slap the taste out of his mouth. To tell him to fucking wise up. To say he's not fucking worried, all right, and there's no such thing as safe.
Instead, grudgingly, Denis offers him a hand up off the floor.
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no subject
Date: 2010-10-25 11:06 am (UTC)This was brilliant.
You manage to grab my hard and not let go with your words. It's a pleasure to read what you write. Thank you for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2010-10-25 02:45 pm (UTC)