FIC: Dry the Sea
Mar. 11th, 2011 10:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Dry the Sea
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM, with JA on the side
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated.
When they get back to the bedroom, Jensen’s gone. None of the windows are left open. There’s a lingering ghost of coconut oil, and Jeff’s sweatpants are missing (probably being burnt in a trashcan somewhere while Jensen retakes his vows of celibacy), but otherwise it’s like Jensen never existed at all.
“Jesus, it’s like we’re seducing Batman.” Misha picks up the bedspread and looks beneath it, like Jensen has folded himself into an origami crane. “Does that make me Vicki Vale? Does that make you Vicki Vale? No. You’re probably Catwoman. All the leather.”
Jeff chugs the orange juice in one shot. Sighs. “You’re the Oracle, you didn’t think to put vodka in this?”
Misha slugs him in the arm.
It’d probably be more funny to both of them without all the murder.
***
Dawn comes and goes without Jensen returning. Jeff stares at the ceiling, waiting up like a worried father, hating himself for it.
Misha is warm and heavy against him. The thought of losing him, like Jensen lost Renee, hurts like a fist around Jeff’s heart. He pulls Misha tighter, rests his cheek against the dark spikes of Misha’s hair, and inhales the biting scent of his herbal shampoo.
Misha stirs, one hand coming up to rest on Jeff’s arm. He pets Jeff and snuggles closer.
Jeff’s other side feels cold, emptier without Jensen. Which is fucking stupid. He shouldn’t be this attached. When this is over, all the monsters dead, Jensen is going to be gone. He probably won’t even stop by to let them know he survived.
He probably won’t survive. He probably plans to let himself get killed, his blood spilled across the pavement to complete his revenge. To satisfy some fucking goddess. There isn’t anything Jeff can do about it. Aftercare and shared dinners are wasted effort for a martyr, like trying to move the ocean one teaspoon at a time.
It sounds so clean: a pitiless universe, a cold equation with one answer. Fathers always hit and lovers always leave and mothers always open their wrists in the bath. Easier to give up and wallow in self-pity.
Fuck that.
“Fuck you,” Jeff tells the Morrigan, in case she’s listening. He thinks she’s listening. No, he knows she’s listening. “I’m not gonna just let you have him.”
“Mmrf,” Misha grumbles. From the foot of the bed, Bisou makes a similar noise. Jeff shudders, the sudden darkness of his thoughts passing like a night-fever, and soothes Misha with strokes of his hand until he settles again. He thinks about getting up and starting coffee. He thinks about checking the news for another murder.
He sleeps.
***
The sound of voices wakes Jeff. He’s just muzzy enough from sleep not to kick himself for the traitorous lurch his heart gives when he hears Jensen’s voice. So he survived the night, and he came back. Both are good signs.
Jeff gets out of bed, wincing as the stiffness cracks out of his knee, and tugs on a t-shirt. Some damn comic that ended its run years ago and that Jeremy bitched mightily about anyway. It’s a reminder that he ought to check in on his friends, on the world outside the orbit of his loft.
After coffee.
He hobbles out towards the living room, only to stop dead in the bedroom doorway.
Jensen has taken over their couch. Except that’s not sufficient to describe it; a disarray of notebook papers and very old books has grown over their couch like kudzu, with Jensen in the center. He produced glasses from somewhere, black-rimmed and serious; he has one of the BDSM 101 books and a highlighter, with a pencil tucked behind one ear and the checklist of kinks in his lap.
Jeff opens his mouth, then isn’t sure what he’s planning to say. In any case, he doesn’t speak up, because Jensen is gnashing his teeth at someone on his cell.
“I’m calling because I need your help,” Jensen’s telling whoever’s on the other line. “I didn’t just talk to your asshole roommate for twenty minutes of horrifying flirting for your personality. Sorry. I’m doing what you told me. No, that’s not-- I’m doing lessons with Morgan.”
Is that what we’re calling it now? Jeff thinks, and shakes his head. Yeah, coffee is in order. Maybe with alcohol. As he’s in the kitchen, pouring a cup, he glances out the window and sees Misha in the garden. Misha’s centered calm looks more like grimly ignoring what Jensen’s doing in the living room, or maybe counting to one hundred before he yells. He isn’t sitting with his back to the door, and the knife is at his side; Jeff finds that sad and reassuring at once.
“So I won’t be available sometimes,” Jensen continues. “I have a source so I’d know if there was another death, but I’d rather-- yes, that’s what I’m asking.” There’s a moment of stiff-necked silence before Jensen says abruptly, “Thank you,” and hangs up.
He shouldn’t ask, but curiosity gets the better of him. Jeff clears his throat, though he doubts Jensen would miss him walking past and be startled by a noise. Better safe than with a throwing knife in his eye. “Who was that?”
Jensen puts his phone down, readjusts it to a precise right angle to the book, and retrieves the pencil from behind his ear. “Jason.”
That makes Jeff want to grit his teeth. He doesn’t like that feeling much. “So he’s in this, too.”
“Obviously,” Jensen says without looking up.
Well. At least a little sex didn’t change things outside the bedroom. Jeff drums his fingers on the mug, wanting to go over and yank Jensen’s hair to tug his head back and bite that smart mouth. Not his boy. Just pretending. “What is he?”
With a great sigh, Jensen puts a post-it note in the book (also carefully aligned) and closes it. He turns around to look at Jeff, and for a second Jeff can almost see Jensen deciding not to tell him. To keep him safe and ignorant. “He’s like me,” Jensen says finally, edgily. “Different goddess.”
“Which goddess?”
“Maybe you should write down a list of questions to ask him.”
Jeff snorts. “All right, fine, you don’t want to tell me. What’d you ask him to do for you?”
“Patrol the city while I’m...” Jensen smooths imaginary creases out of the spine of the book, frowning. “Occupied.”
It’d be real easy to crack wise, but the memory of Jensen shivering beneath his hands last night stops any words in Jeff’s throat. “That’s good thinking,” Jeff says instead.
The frown deepens into a scowl. “I don’t need you to patronize me, Morgan.”
Jeff holds up both hands, surrendering. Jensen looks at him for a moment longer, narrow-eyed, then gets off the couch and paces to the window. Checking on Misha.
The silence deepens. Jeff joins Jensen at the window, and tries not to stand in striking distance as he offers a second mug of coffee. Haltingly, Jensen takes it from him and sips. They watch Misha meditate.
“I’m fine,” Jensen tells him without prompting.
“Okay.”
A raven settles on the railing of the garden, shuffling her wings. It feels like she’s giving Jeff the side-eye.
“I’m fine about last night,” Jensen adds, but he hunches closer into the center of his body. “The... mistake that happened. I know it’s as natural as bleeding.”
It makes Jeff want to stroke him until he settles, or maybe until he gets all riled. Not that wary tension that looks so exhausting. “It’s understandable if you’re not okay,” he tries to gentle Jensen.
Another raven joins the first.
“Stop it,” Jensen snaps, then puts his coffee aside and turns on Jeff. “Stop treating me like I’m like one of the people in your little textbook there. You can’t damage me. Your ideals are slowing me down.”
“Tough shit,” Jeff says. “I’m not putting them in storage for you. Some things aren’t disposable.”
“Ideals for an idealist.”
“Maybe. But if I take away those safeguards, it’s just violence. I’m not an abuser. I’ve seen enough of that shit.” Jeff meets Jensen’s flat deadlands stare, which should be softened by his hipster glasses but isn’t. “I’m sorry about your wife. I am. But I’m not some whip for you to flog yourself, so stop fucking pushing at me.”
For a second, Jeff’s pretty sure that Jensen is about to knife him in the ribs. Then Jensen drops his eyes, moves back a step, and faces the window again. There’s a third raven on the railing; Jeff doesn’t know what that means, or if that means anything at all. He ought to research. He ought to do a lot of things.
“I brought back your sweats,” Jensen says to the room in general. “I washed them. They’re drying.”
Jeff guesses that’s as good of an apology as he’s getting. He reaches over, slowly, and rests his hand on Jensen’s shoulder. The muscle is knotted beneath his hand. He kneads with his thumb but it doesn’t give. Jensen could use another few hours of being rubbed down.
If he was just Jeff’s client, Jeff would do only that for another couple sessions: stroke and cosset him until he eased up. That would be Jensen’s fracture point, not pain, because Jensen thinks he deserves all the pain in the world.
“Make a deal with you,” Jeff offers.
More tension ratchets into Jensen’s body. “I’m listening.”
“We can scene again. Tomorrow." Jeff pauses, expecting some protest, but Jensen doesn't even look at him. Maybe Jensen was as spooked last night as Jeff. It takes the wind out of Jeff's sails. "Misha can walk you through some postures tonight. All I want is to learn to protect Misha, and for you to teach Misha to protect himself. Maybe with that big damn knife.”
“Gee.” Jensen sounds dry as dust. “That sounds like it could be violent.”
“I can live with violence to protect my boy. So?”
Jensen tilts his head, eerily birdlike, then thrusts out one hand. It’s like a space alien trying to imitate something he saw on TV. For somebody who makes a lot of deals, Jeff thinks Jensen doesn’t know how to bargain.
When Jeff takes Jensen’s hand, he has to fight hard not to pet the soft inside of Jensen’s wrist.
“Tomorrow,” Jensen says, threat and agreement, and they shake. Jeff doesn’t want to let Jensen go.
The ravens throw their brash laughter in Jeff's face.
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM, with JA on the side
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated.
When they get back to the bedroom, Jensen’s gone. None of the windows are left open. There’s a lingering ghost of coconut oil, and Jeff’s sweatpants are missing (probably being burnt in a trashcan somewhere while Jensen retakes his vows of celibacy), but otherwise it’s like Jensen never existed at all.
“Jesus, it’s like we’re seducing Batman.” Misha picks up the bedspread and looks beneath it, like Jensen has folded himself into an origami crane. “Does that make me Vicki Vale? Does that make you Vicki Vale? No. You’re probably Catwoman. All the leather.”
Jeff chugs the orange juice in one shot. Sighs. “You’re the Oracle, you didn’t think to put vodka in this?”
Misha slugs him in the arm.
It’d probably be more funny to both of them without all the murder.
***
Dawn comes and goes without Jensen returning. Jeff stares at the ceiling, waiting up like a worried father, hating himself for it.
Misha is warm and heavy against him. The thought of losing him, like Jensen lost Renee, hurts like a fist around Jeff’s heart. He pulls Misha tighter, rests his cheek against the dark spikes of Misha’s hair, and inhales the biting scent of his herbal shampoo.
Misha stirs, one hand coming up to rest on Jeff’s arm. He pets Jeff and snuggles closer.
Jeff’s other side feels cold, emptier without Jensen. Which is fucking stupid. He shouldn’t be this attached. When this is over, all the monsters dead, Jensen is going to be gone. He probably won’t even stop by to let them know he survived.
He probably won’t survive. He probably plans to let himself get killed, his blood spilled across the pavement to complete his revenge. To satisfy some fucking goddess. There isn’t anything Jeff can do about it. Aftercare and shared dinners are wasted effort for a martyr, like trying to move the ocean one teaspoon at a time.
It sounds so clean: a pitiless universe, a cold equation with one answer. Fathers always hit and lovers always leave and mothers always open their wrists in the bath. Easier to give up and wallow in self-pity.
Fuck that.
“Fuck you,” Jeff tells the Morrigan, in case she’s listening. He thinks she’s listening. No, he knows she’s listening. “I’m not gonna just let you have him.”
“Mmrf,” Misha grumbles. From the foot of the bed, Bisou makes a similar noise. Jeff shudders, the sudden darkness of his thoughts passing like a night-fever, and soothes Misha with strokes of his hand until he settles again. He thinks about getting up and starting coffee. He thinks about checking the news for another murder.
He sleeps.
***
The sound of voices wakes Jeff. He’s just muzzy enough from sleep not to kick himself for the traitorous lurch his heart gives when he hears Jensen’s voice. So he survived the night, and he came back. Both are good signs.
Jeff gets out of bed, wincing as the stiffness cracks out of his knee, and tugs on a t-shirt. Some damn comic that ended its run years ago and that Jeremy bitched mightily about anyway. It’s a reminder that he ought to check in on his friends, on the world outside the orbit of his loft.
After coffee.
He hobbles out towards the living room, only to stop dead in the bedroom doorway.
Jensen has taken over their couch. Except that’s not sufficient to describe it; a disarray of notebook papers and very old books has grown over their couch like kudzu, with Jensen in the center. He produced glasses from somewhere, black-rimmed and serious; he has one of the BDSM 101 books and a highlighter, with a pencil tucked behind one ear and the checklist of kinks in his lap.
Jeff opens his mouth, then isn’t sure what he’s planning to say. In any case, he doesn’t speak up, because Jensen is gnashing his teeth at someone on his cell.
“I’m calling because I need your help,” Jensen’s telling whoever’s on the other line. “I didn’t just talk to your asshole roommate for twenty minutes of horrifying flirting for your personality. Sorry. I’m doing what you told me. No, that’s not-- I’m doing lessons with Morgan.”
Is that what we’re calling it now? Jeff thinks, and shakes his head. Yeah, coffee is in order. Maybe with alcohol. As he’s in the kitchen, pouring a cup, he glances out the window and sees Misha in the garden. Misha’s centered calm looks more like grimly ignoring what Jensen’s doing in the living room, or maybe counting to one hundred before he yells. He isn’t sitting with his back to the door, and the knife is at his side; Jeff finds that sad and reassuring at once.
“So I won’t be available sometimes,” Jensen continues. “I have a source so I’d know if there was another death, but I’d rather-- yes, that’s what I’m asking.” There’s a moment of stiff-necked silence before Jensen says abruptly, “Thank you,” and hangs up.
He shouldn’t ask, but curiosity gets the better of him. Jeff clears his throat, though he doubts Jensen would miss him walking past and be startled by a noise. Better safe than with a throwing knife in his eye. “Who was that?”
Jensen puts his phone down, readjusts it to a precise right angle to the book, and retrieves the pencil from behind his ear. “Jason.”
That makes Jeff want to grit his teeth. He doesn’t like that feeling much. “So he’s in this, too.”
“Obviously,” Jensen says without looking up.
Well. At least a little sex didn’t change things outside the bedroom. Jeff drums his fingers on the mug, wanting to go over and yank Jensen’s hair to tug his head back and bite that smart mouth. Not his boy. Just pretending. “What is he?”
With a great sigh, Jensen puts a post-it note in the book (also carefully aligned) and closes it. He turns around to look at Jeff, and for a second Jeff can almost see Jensen deciding not to tell him. To keep him safe and ignorant. “He’s like me,” Jensen says finally, edgily. “Different goddess.”
“Which goddess?”
“Maybe you should write down a list of questions to ask him.”
Jeff snorts. “All right, fine, you don’t want to tell me. What’d you ask him to do for you?”
“Patrol the city while I’m...” Jensen smooths imaginary creases out of the spine of the book, frowning. “Occupied.”
It’d be real easy to crack wise, but the memory of Jensen shivering beneath his hands last night stops any words in Jeff’s throat. “That’s good thinking,” Jeff says instead.
The frown deepens into a scowl. “I don’t need you to patronize me, Morgan.”
Jeff holds up both hands, surrendering. Jensen looks at him for a moment longer, narrow-eyed, then gets off the couch and paces to the window. Checking on Misha.
The silence deepens. Jeff joins Jensen at the window, and tries not to stand in striking distance as he offers a second mug of coffee. Haltingly, Jensen takes it from him and sips. They watch Misha meditate.
“I’m fine,” Jensen tells him without prompting.
“Okay.”
A raven settles on the railing of the garden, shuffling her wings. It feels like she’s giving Jeff the side-eye.
“I’m fine about last night,” Jensen adds, but he hunches closer into the center of his body. “The... mistake that happened. I know it’s as natural as bleeding.”
It makes Jeff want to stroke him until he settles, or maybe until he gets all riled. Not that wary tension that looks so exhausting. “It’s understandable if you’re not okay,” he tries to gentle Jensen.
Another raven joins the first.
“Stop it,” Jensen snaps, then puts his coffee aside and turns on Jeff. “Stop treating me like I’m like one of the people in your little textbook there. You can’t damage me. Your ideals are slowing me down.”
“Tough shit,” Jeff says. “I’m not putting them in storage for you. Some things aren’t disposable.”
“Ideals for an idealist.”
“Maybe. But if I take away those safeguards, it’s just violence. I’m not an abuser. I’ve seen enough of that shit.” Jeff meets Jensen’s flat deadlands stare, which should be softened by his hipster glasses but isn’t. “I’m sorry about your wife. I am. But I’m not some whip for you to flog yourself, so stop fucking pushing at me.”
For a second, Jeff’s pretty sure that Jensen is about to knife him in the ribs. Then Jensen drops his eyes, moves back a step, and faces the window again. There’s a third raven on the railing; Jeff doesn’t know what that means, or if that means anything at all. He ought to research. He ought to do a lot of things.
“I brought back your sweats,” Jensen says to the room in general. “I washed them. They’re drying.”
Jeff guesses that’s as good of an apology as he’s getting. He reaches over, slowly, and rests his hand on Jensen’s shoulder. The muscle is knotted beneath his hand. He kneads with his thumb but it doesn’t give. Jensen could use another few hours of being rubbed down.
If he was just Jeff’s client, Jeff would do only that for another couple sessions: stroke and cosset him until he eased up. That would be Jensen’s fracture point, not pain, because Jensen thinks he deserves all the pain in the world.
“Make a deal with you,” Jeff offers.
More tension ratchets into Jensen’s body. “I’m listening.”
“We can scene again. Tomorrow." Jeff pauses, expecting some protest, but Jensen doesn't even look at him. Maybe Jensen was as spooked last night as Jeff. It takes the wind out of Jeff's sails. "Misha can walk you through some postures tonight. All I want is to learn to protect Misha, and for you to teach Misha to protect himself. Maybe with that big damn knife.”
“Gee.” Jensen sounds dry as dust. “That sounds like it could be violent.”
“I can live with violence to protect my boy. So?”
Jensen tilts his head, eerily birdlike, then thrusts out one hand. It’s like a space alien trying to imitate something he saw on TV. For somebody who makes a lot of deals, Jeff thinks Jensen doesn’t know how to bargain.
When Jeff takes Jensen’s hand, he has to fight hard not to pet the soft inside of Jensen’s wrist.
“Tomorrow,” Jensen says, threat and agreement, and they shake. Jeff doesn’t want to let Jensen go.
The ravens throw their brash laughter in Jeff's face.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-16 12:10 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 04:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 12:40 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 05:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 12:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 05:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:42 am (UTC)I love your icon, and you.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 08:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:43 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 08:34 am (UTC)Oh, that's wrong--I should be hugging *you*!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 09:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 10:08 am (UTC)That would be Jensen's fracture point, not pain
Yes, this. The way Jensen is around loving touch... it's like when you're trying not to cry in public, and you can hold it together if everyone ignores the unshed tears and the wobbly chin and pretends that everything is normal, but one kind enquiry or a hand on your shoulder and you're lost. I read him as being a hair's breadth away from that edge, and terrified of letting Jeff and Misha in, because he knows it'll break him completely. And maybe conflicted because deep down, he badly wants to fall into that comfort and protection. And then guilty, because that feels like betraying Renee's memory. Poor Jensen... *sigh*
Wonderful writing, as always! :)
no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:46 am (UTC)That is a great analogy. Yes. Jensen is trembling right on the edge of this grief and this desire, neither of which he's dealing with AT ALL.
Also, your icon is dead sexy.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 11:40 am (UTC)In short - yay for new update - thanks and loved it! :-)
no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-13 05:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:49 am (UTC)I loff your icon.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-14 11:11 pm (UTC)I love this and Jensen as BDSM scholar and the cat who came back and Jeff wanting to stroke Jensen--all these points of light in the midst of all that lovely tension hanging over them. Still loving this:)
no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:50 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-16 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-18 05:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:52 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 07:38 am (UTC)I also want to address how I love the way you write BDSM. In the SPN fandom when I see the warning BDSM it usually isn't. I mean, it's non con, rape, torture, abuse upon abuse upon abuse, even when a writer says it's dubious con. I've done it too, I'll admit, I'm guilty of doing that. I don't mind those stories, just as long as the warnings are listed. But this verse is just so delicious. Jeffrey gets Misha and Jensen to this wonderful place...although Jensen is a more difficult sell....poor thing...I just want to pet Jensen. Wished Jensen could have stayed in that bed for a little while longer and the line, "It's like we're seducing Batman." was hilarious.
Thank you for such a great read. I hope there's more.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-12 09:22 pm (UTC)I want Jensen in more training...very hot.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-19 03:10 pm (UTC)And now I'm depressed because this verse is SO DAMN GOOD, just read everything with the raven-verse tag, and I WANT SO MUCH MORE because I love how the plot as well as their relationships are developing, the use of myth, the complex line of self-loathing, faith, hope, protection, comfort and danger you weave. So much more epic than a handful of sexy interludes, BUT SEXY INTERLUDES TOO.
Love, uncertainty, protection, monsters, evil in the night and evil at one's side and all that being held at bay by broken (but put back together again) people being good to each other. HELL YEAH.
*coughs distractedly* Anyway, can't wait to read more. *wibbles* Though I suppose I shall have to. IT WILL SO BE WORTH IT.