FIC: That Middle Road (20/?)
Nov. 3rd, 2010 02:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (20/?)
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 in [Unknown site tag]'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 rape, suicide, institutionalization and self-harm. And polyamory. And kink. And a partridge in a pear tree.
It takes Jeremy time to think past his own broken heart. Of all the unforgivable things that rattle around his skull at any given time, he hates that one the most.
He’s crunching numbers for a secondhand friend of Cate’s, Erik, because the meeting was at his house and he’d work even if he was coughing up blood on his deathbed, when the monotony lets the depression clear enough for him to think: did Marisa use a condom?
He doesn’t know.
Is Scott clean? Is he the only guy Marisa fucked?
He doesn’t know.
Didn’t Scott used to have syringes in his desk drawer?
Yes. Syringes tucked in among the stolen pens and paperclips. Scott’s quick glance at Jeremy’s face, his crooked ‘just us chickens’ grin. Fucker. Unlikely he kicked the habit in the last few months. Unlikely that he used clean needles.
It’s a short trip from that brutal kick in the nuts to realize that if Steve infected Marisa with anything, then Jeremy would’ve passed it along to anybody he--
Zach. Wendy.
Jeremy fumbles his pencil, plastic clattering loudly against the top of his kitchen table. At the noise, Misha swivels in the chair where he’s been reading. Since Jeremy wrecked his office, Misha hasn’t let Jeremy out of his line of sight-- and yeah, Jeremy feels guilty for that, too.
Glancing up from his rubber-banded stack of receipts, Erik-who-Cate-knows asks, “You okay, dude?”
“Yes,” Jeremy says automatically, because it’s what he always says. Then, with the sinking realization that he’s going to have to tell Zach about this whole clusterfuck, “No. Uh, sorry. Headache’s creeping up on me.”
Misha tilts his head, his eyes searching on Jeremy’s face. Jeremy tries not to look at him. Glaring at his slaves: another bit of bad karma.
“I get that. If you don’t mind me saying, man, you kind of look like shit.” Erik waggles the receipts like a scolding mother’s finger. “Listen, this tax stuff isn’t due until March. How about I just leave it and we can set up another meeting?”
“Sure,” Jeremy says, but there’s no relief. He’d rather be working out twenty years of back-taxes on an abacus than doing the right thing. “Thanks, Mr. Palladino.”
When Erik swings a hand out, Jeremy nearly flinches out of his skin, but it’s only a friendly swat on the shoulder. Erik has a network of scars on his knuckles, from his apparently checkered past in MMA; Jeremy hopes Erik thinks he’s a pussy, not that he’s a victim. “Erik. And don’t worry about it. My ma gets headaches. You come around my house and play some poker, we’ll call it even.”
“Cate’s telling tales out of school?”
Smile dimming, Erik shakes his head. “Uh. Vincent, actually.” To Misha, he adds, “Sorry for your loss. He was a good man.”
Misha shrugs inelegantly, as if he can’t speak to Vincent being good or otherwise, and signs, Thank you. He’s missed.
Another kick in Jeremy’s guilt complex, which he tries to absorb without changing expression.
Jeremy manages a thin smile. “We can set up a time for a game. Misha’s learned some dirty tricks already.”
Not dirty, Misha signs. I can read you, that’s all.
From the coolly level look in his eyes, they’re not just talking about poker.
****
The mirror in Jeremy’s master bathroom was a back-alley find, pockmarked and slightly warped from some vast heat. He likes it that way, because if he stands in the right place, he doesn’t have to meet his own eyes. This time, for all his superstitious posing to keep his eyes in the holes in the mirror, he can still see the raccoon circles of his insomnia.
He remembers being given the AZT in that shitty free clinic in Arizona, that he tasted the guard’s dick again every time he choked down a pill. Just until the blood-tests came back. He remembers feeling contaminated, and being so sure that he was dying that the HIV negative was like taking his first deep breath.
And he’s doing this to them. He can picture Z and Wendy in that shitty clinic, the vials of blood, the brochures with their vague wording. He’s the guard now.
Jeremy uncaps his bottle of No-Doze, the heavy kind that they sell truckers, and takes two with a swig of cold coffee. His stomach churns, though he can’t tell if it’s nerves or hunger.
He doesn’t know how to stop.
Zach picks up on the second ring, for all Jeremy’s furtive hopes that he’d get the machine. He can hear Ryzer in the background, the clatter of blocks over the washing of dishes. Domestic noises.
“Ghostbusters,” Zach drawls, “is it a mist or does it have arms and legs?”
Jeremy feels like he’s a loaded handgun in a crib. He opens his mouth to launch into his spiel of apologies, but the words lock in his throat.
“Hello?” Zach asks, then a rustle as he checks caller ID. “Jer, you’re pocket dialing again. I swear to God, we got to get you a phone that flips shut. I’m hanging up--”
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy says finally, and hates the dead sound of his stupid voice. “You and Wendy need to get tested.”
It’s not the gentlest Jeremy’s ever been.
On Zach’s end of the line, the water creaks off. Zach asks, “What did Marisa do?”
Part of Jeremy is comforted by Zach’s faith in him. Part of him is sickeningly guilty. He thumps the No-Doze down on his counter, and pills scatter everywhere. “A blood test,” Jeremy says, because he’s rolling downhill and there are no brakes. “I can make your appointment if you want.”
“I didn’t think you meant a driver’s test.”
Jeremy closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” No. Like you mean it. “I’m so sorry, Z, I don’t know if she used a condom and I don’t think I’d believe her if she said she did--”
Zach exhales. Jeremy recognizes the cadence from anger management, and wonders dully if he’s going to hear Zach punch a wall. “She fu-- screwed around on you?”
The urge to make apologies for Marisa is on Jeremy’s tongue. He swallows it. “Yeah. She did.” As an afterthought, he adds, “It’s over.”
“Good,” Zach says with uncharacteristic viciousness, then softens to tell Ryzer, “C’mon, Ryzie, we’re gonna go see Uncle Jeremy.”
Ryzer wails like his kidneys were stolen, not his blocks.
“No,” Jeremy says, without meaning it to be out loud, and then realizes that he’s right. That he needs to say it again. “No, it’s-- don’t come over.”
“Dude.” That bright edge of anger in Zach’s voice gets sharper; Jeremy feels himself hunch around the expectation of a blow. “I’m not pissed at you, Jer, I’m not coming over there to take it out of your hide. We need to talk. And you sound--”
Manic. He sounds manic. “Don’t come over,” Jeremy says, and his voice sounds like he shelved his heart away. “I won’t be here.”
“--don’t hang up!”
Jeremy hangs up. Turns the phone back on, right away, before Zach can call back. He stands there for a minute listening to the drone of the dial tone, then puts the phone down on his counter. Tries to think of the word for it. Right: off the hook.
Zach lives in Pasadena. 5 minutes to get Ryzer to the car with a snack. (5 minutes. The call of the numbers is sweet to him.) That plus traffic means Jeremy has a headstart.
He doesn’t stop to grab any of his shit. It occurs to him that he should’ve at least bring his pills. Fuck it. Fuck everything.
He gets downstairs without interruption. Grabs his keys. Opens the door.
The door slams shut again. Because his brain is already out in the car, three steps ahead and running, the sound jars Jeremy into flinching again.
Misha is standing behind him, leaning against the cane that he used to shut the door. He’s not crowding Jeremy, but the look on his face electrifies the air between them. They’re close enough that Jeremy can smell the ghost of his soap on Misha’s skin.
It scares the fuck out of Jeremy. He’s also impossibly hard.
“Misha,” Jeremy says. There’s not enough breath in his lungs. “Get off the door.”
Not tearing his eyes from Jeremy’s, Misha shakes his head. No.
Panic flutters its sharp wings in Jeremy’s chest. Run, it whispers, shove him out of the way and get out. Can’t you hear them coming for you?
Jeremy doesn’t move, even though it feels like it carves three years off his life. He says, harsher with desperation, “I need to leave.”
Misha blinks at him, and signs, Then I go with you.
Misha isn’t bending. Misha isn’t bending, and Jeremy isn’t going to push him away, and Zach is coming sooner than later.
“Fuck,” Jeremy says fervently. “Fine. Get your bag, then.”
With a funny quirk of his mouth, Misha lifts his eyebrows. Signs, I fuck off, you bolt. Not stupid.
No. He’s really not. And he’s not afraid. Jeremy didn’t know how much he benefited from Denis (and Gina, and Marisa) being too well-trained. Another mark in red ink on his conscience.
Misha’s stare unravels Jeremy’s nerves, finally. He pushes himself off the door and goes to retrieve Misha’s bag. His hands are trembling.
When he gets back downstairs, Misha is signing something to Denis and Gina; the specifics are blocked by Gina’s body, and Misha stops when he sees Jeremy.
There’s no apology, and judging from the set of Misha’s jaw, there isn’t one on its way.
When Jeremy glances at Denis, Denis says, “I could call Cate--”
“Don’t,” Jeremy blurts, “don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”
Denis exhales through his teeth. “All right, kid, easy. I won’t do that.”
“Thanks,” Jeremy tells him, and then Gina. “Thanks.”
Gina’s eyes skid away from his. Winston is in her arms; she doesn’t shy back when Jeremy reaches out to give Winston a quick pat. It’s not like Jeremy is home enough for the dog to notice he’s missing.
Misha reaches to take his bag. Jeremy slings it over his own shoulder instead, and hauls it to the car. It seems too light to hold anybody’s entire life, but then Jeremy didn’t give Misha much time to pack.
They get in the car. Jeremy turns the key, hears the first notes of Take Another Piece of My Heart and jams his finger into the eject button on his car radio. He pitches the CD out the window, with mean satisfaction, and flips Misha’s sun-visor down to show him the gleaming folder of CDs.
“Here,” he says. “You pick something. Just not Janis Joplin, okay?”
As far as peace offerings go, it’s a shitty one. But Misha takes his time like Jeremy asked him to choose the holy grail. It keeps him from casting gun-shy looks at the speedometer.
Misha lets him drive for a few minutes, until they’re on the highway. Then he signs, as if this was a scenic drive on the Pacific Coast Highway, where are we going?
Jeremy tells him, “Anywhere but here.”
Author:
nilchancePairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in [Unknown site tag]'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 rape, suicide, institutionalization and self-harm. And polyamory. And kink. And a partridge in a pear tree.
It takes Jeremy time to think past his own broken heart. Of all the unforgivable things that rattle around his skull at any given time, he hates that one the most.
He’s crunching numbers for a secondhand friend of Cate’s, Erik, because the meeting was at his house and he’d work even if he was coughing up blood on his deathbed, when the monotony lets the depression clear enough for him to think: did Marisa use a condom?
He doesn’t know.
Is Scott clean? Is he the only guy Marisa fucked?
He doesn’t know.
Didn’t Scott used to have syringes in his desk drawer?
Yes. Syringes tucked in among the stolen pens and paperclips. Scott’s quick glance at Jeremy’s face, his crooked ‘just us chickens’ grin. Fucker. Unlikely he kicked the habit in the last few months. Unlikely that he used clean needles.
It’s a short trip from that brutal kick in the nuts to realize that if Steve infected Marisa with anything, then Jeremy would’ve passed it along to anybody he--
Zach. Wendy.
Jeremy fumbles his pencil, plastic clattering loudly against the top of his kitchen table. At the noise, Misha swivels in the chair where he’s been reading. Since Jeremy wrecked his office, Misha hasn’t let Jeremy out of his line of sight-- and yeah, Jeremy feels guilty for that, too.
Glancing up from his rubber-banded stack of receipts, Erik-who-Cate-knows asks, “You okay, dude?”
“Yes,” Jeremy says automatically, because it’s what he always says. Then, with the sinking realization that he’s going to have to tell Zach about this whole clusterfuck, “No. Uh, sorry. Headache’s creeping up on me.”
Misha tilts his head, his eyes searching on Jeremy’s face. Jeremy tries not to look at him. Glaring at his slaves: another bit of bad karma.
“I get that. If you don’t mind me saying, man, you kind of look like shit.” Erik waggles the receipts like a scolding mother’s finger. “Listen, this tax stuff isn’t due until March. How about I just leave it and we can set up another meeting?”
“Sure,” Jeremy says, but there’s no relief. He’d rather be working out twenty years of back-taxes on an abacus than doing the right thing. “Thanks, Mr. Palladino.”
When Erik swings a hand out, Jeremy nearly flinches out of his skin, but it’s only a friendly swat on the shoulder. Erik has a network of scars on his knuckles, from his apparently checkered past in MMA; Jeremy hopes Erik thinks he’s a pussy, not that he’s a victim. “Erik. And don’t worry about it. My ma gets headaches. You come around my house and play some poker, we’ll call it even.”
“Cate’s telling tales out of school?”
Smile dimming, Erik shakes his head. “Uh. Vincent, actually.” To Misha, he adds, “Sorry for your loss. He was a good man.”
Misha shrugs inelegantly, as if he can’t speak to Vincent being good or otherwise, and signs, Thank you. He’s missed.
Another kick in Jeremy’s guilt complex, which he tries to absorb without changing expression.
Jeremy manages a thin smile. “We can set up a time for a game. Misha’s learned some dirty tricks already.”
Not dirty, Misha signs. I can read you, that’s all.
From the coolly level look in his eyes, they’re not just talking about poker.
****
The mirror in Jeremy’s master bathroom was a back-alley find, pockmarked and slightly warped from some vast heat. He likes it that way, because if he stands in the right place, he doesn’t have to meet his own eyes. This time, for all his superstitious posing to keep his eyes in the holes in the mirror, he can still see the raccoon circles of his insomnia.
He remembers being given the AZT in that shitty free clinic in Arizona, that he tasted the guard’s dick again every time he choked down a pill. Just until the blood-tests came back. He remembers feeling contaminated, and being so sure that he was dying that the HIV negative was like taking his first deep breath.
And he’s doing this to them. He can picture Z and Wendy in that shitty clinic, the vials of blood, the brochures with their vague wording. He’s the guard now.
Jeremy uncaps his bottle of No-Doze, the heavy kind that they sell truckers, and takes two with a swig of cold coffee. His stomach churns, though he can’t tell if it’s nerves or hunger.
He doesn’t know how to stop.
Zach picks up on the second ring, for all Jeremy’s furtive hopes that he’d get the machine. He can hear Ryzer in the background, the clatter of blocks over the washing of dishes. Domestic noises.
“Ghostbusters,” Zach drawls, “is it a mist or does it have arms and legs?”
Jeremy feels like he’s a loaded handgun in a crib. He opens his mouth to launch into his spiel of apologies, but the words lock in his throat.
“Hello?” Zach asks, then a rustle as he checks caller ID. “Jer, you’re pocket dialing again. I swear to God, we got to get you a phone that flips shut. I’m hanging up--”
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy says finally, and hates the dead sound of his stupid voice. “You and Wendy need to get tested.”
It’s not the gentlest Jeremy’s ever been.
On Zach’s end of the line, the water creaks off. Zach asks, “What did Marisa do?”
Part of Jeremy is comforted by Zach’s faith in him. Part of him is sickeningly guilty. He thumps the No-Doze down on his counter, and pills scatter everywhere. “A blood test,” Jeremy says, because he’s rolling downhill and there are no brakes. “I can make your appointment if you want.”
“I didn’t think you meant a driver’s test.”
Jeremy closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” No. Like you mean it. “I’m so sorry, Z, I don’t know if she used a condom and I don’t think I’d believe her if she said she did--”
Zach exhales. Jeremy recognizes the cadence from anger management, and wonders dully if he’s going to hear Zach punch a wall. “She fu-- screwed around on you?”
The urge to make apologies for Marisa is on Jeremy’s tongue. He swallows it. “Yeah. She did.” As an afterthought, he adds, “It’s over.”
“Good,” Zach says with uncharacteristic viciousness, then softens to tell Ryzer, “C’mon, Ryzie, we’re gonna go see Uncle Jeremy.”
Ryzer wails like his kidneys were stolen, not his blocks.
“No,” Jeremy says, without meaning it to be out loud, and then realizes that he’s right. That he needs to say it again. “No, it’s-- don’t come over.”
“Dude.” That bright edge of anger in Zach’s voice gets sharper; Jeremy feels himself hunch around the expectation of a blow. “I’m not pissed at you, Jer, I’m not coming over there to take it out of your hide. We need to talk. And you sound--”
Manic. He sounds manic. “Don’t come over,” Jeremy says, and his voice sounds like he shelved his heart away. “I won’t be here.”
“--don’t hang up!”
Jeremy hangs up. Turns the phone back on, right away, before Zach can call back. He stands there for a minute listening to the drone of the dial tone, then puts the phone down on his counter. Tries to think of the word for it. Right: off the hook.
Zach lives in Pasadena. 5 minutes to get Ryzer to the car with a snack. (5 minutes. The call of the numbers is sweet to him.) That plus traffic means Jeremy has a headstart.
He doesn’t stop to grab any of his shit. It occurs to him that he should’ve at least bring his pills. Fuck it. Fuck everything.
He gets downstairs without interruption. Grabs his keys. Opens the door.
The door slams shut again. Because his brain is already out in the car, three steps ahead and running, the sound jars Jeremy into flinching again.
Misha is standing behind him, leaning against the cane that he used to shut the door. He’s not crowding Jeremy, but the look on his face electrifies the air between them. They’re close enough that Jeremy can smell the ghost of his soap on Misha’s skin.
It scares the fuck out of Jeremy. He’s also impossibly hard.
“Misha,” Jeremy says. There’s not enough breath in his lungs. “Get off the door.”
Not tearing his eyes from Jeremy’s, Misha shakes his head. No.
Panic flutters its sharp wings in Jeremy’s chest. Run, it whispers, shove him out of the way and get out. Can’t you hear them coming for you?
Jeremy doesn’t move, even though it feels like it carves three years off his life. He says, harsher with desperation, “I need to leave.”
Misha blinks at him, and signs, Then I go with you.
Misha isn’t bending. Misha isn’t bending, and Jeremy isn’t going to push him away, and Zach is coming sooner than later.
“Fuck,” Jeremy says fervently. “Fine. Get your bag, then.”
With a funny quirk of his mouth, Misha lifts his eyebrows. Signs, I fuck off, you bolt. Not stupid.
No. He’s really not. And he’s not afraid. Jeremy didn’t know how much he benefited from Denis (and Gina, and Marisa) being too well-trained. Another mark in red ink on his conscience.
Misha’s stare unravels Jeremy’s nerves, finally. He pushes himself off the door and goes to retrieve Misha’s bag. His hands are trembling.
When he gets back downstairs, Misha is signing something to Denis and Gina; the specifics are blocked by Gina’s body, and Misha stops when he sees Jeremy.
There’s no apology, and judging from the set of Misha’s jaw, there isn’t one on its way.
When Jeremy glances at Denis, Denis says, “I could call Cate--”
“Don’t,” Jeremy blurts, “don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”
Denis exhales through his teeth. “All right, kid, easy. I won’t do that.”
“Thanks,” Jeremy tells him, and then Gina. “Thanks.”
Gina’s eyes skid away from his. Winston is in her arms; she doesn’t shy back when Jeremy reaches out to give Winston a quick pat. It’s not like Jeremy is home enough for the dog to notice he’s missing.
Misha reaches to take his bag. Jeremy slings it over his own shoulder instead, and hauls it to the car. It seems too light to hold anybody’s entire life, but then Jeremy didn’t give Misha much time to pack.
They get in the car. Jeremy turns the key, hears the first notes of Take Another Piece of My Heart and jams his finger into the eject button on his car radio. He pitches the CD out the window, with mean satisfaction, and flips Misha’s sun-visor down to show him the gleaming folder of CDs.
“Here,” he says. “You pick something. Just not Janis Joplin, okay?”
As far as peace offerings go, it’s a shitty one. But Misha takes his time like Jeremy asked him to choose the holy grail. It keeps him from casting gun-shy looks at the speedometer.
Misha lets him drive for a few minutes, until they’re on the highway. Then he signs, as if this was a scenic drive on the Pacific Coast Highway, where are we going?
Jeremy tells him, “Anywhere but here.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-11-03 06:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-03 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 01:28 am (UTC)I haven't read all of this yet, because I wanted to point out - it was "Scott" in chapter 19 and "Steve" here. Only know because I just re-read Chapter 19 since the link was there and I didn't know I'd already read it.
I've read it now - WOW. I love how you write Jeremy and how you write Misha - it's especially fascinating to see the "other side" of the Jeremy story, after Jeff's POV in Kept Boy. Really well done -
no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 02:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 02:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 02:27 am (UTC)Jeremy really needs a person who won't take his bullshit.
That middle road
Date: 2010-11-04 09:58 pm (UTC)Re: That middle road
Date: 2010-11-05 02:04 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 07:38 am (UTC)I love the broken pieces of Jeremy so much. I love that Denis and Gina and Misha are holding him together, so that he can hold them together. (and because they love him, even if some of them /coughDeniscough/ don't want to.) I love Jer with Zach. And Wendy. (and Ryzer!) I love that Jeremy never got over Jeff, not really. I love that when you look at them on the outside, it seems like Misha is the broken one, even if he isn't. (or, well, not in the way people think.)
Also, you wrote "Erik" and I thought, "Huh. With a k, like Palladino." And then it WAS Palladino and I ran around my room for a little bit like a spaz! (I'm a fan of his, if you couldn't tell.)
So. Um. It took me awhile to even begin to say how much I love the dynamic of Jeremy/Misha and this whole story, but there you have it. Thanks.