*collapses* Here. Have chapter one.
Title: Playing With Your Mind
Author: earth_heart
Rating: R
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Warnings: AU, halfbreed!Misha, violence
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I don’t own these guys.
Summary: Everything changes when we turn into adults. Sometimes it changes in ways we could never expect or believe. When that happens, people become afraid. They become fearful and they run, they hide. When your entire life changes, sometimes things rise from the dark and try to drag you into the depths with them.
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The clock struck midnight and the silence cracked, fractured-exploded in the vortex of a sonic boom that blew out the windows of every house on Locust Drive and sent dogs howling within a half-mile radius. Lights snapped on, spilling past the crumbling glass frames of the windows as people were woken by the sound of screaming and rushed outside to see what on earth was going on. Whoever was making the awful noise, they sounded like they were in agony. Police were notified, ambulances called, and the quiet, terrified residents all began to mill closer to the source of the disturbance.
Inside of a plain white house with blue shutters, up on the second floor and behind the shattered window to the right of the structure, Misha arched in his bed, his mouth stretched wide and a horrible wail spilling past his lips. His eyes were wide and glazed over, his skin spasming and his muscles clenching, fluttering, twitching. Sweat made his pale skin seem almost like it was shimmering when the moonlight touched it, lighting the teenager up with an ethereal glow that some might say was reminiscent of angels.
Misha’s fingers clenched in his comforter, bones feeling as though they were cracking and breaking one by one. He screamed and screamed; in agony and confused and afraid while his parents pounded on his door and shouted his name. Something was keeping them out of the room, though, a force unknown and unseen. It filled the small room, a breeze kicking up that made the posters on the walls flap wildly when it shot past them and zeroed in on the body of the young man. He jerked, almost like something had slammed into his chest, and the scream died away into horrible gargling.
Beneath his skin, Misha could feel his spine flexing and twisting, vertebrae popping as though someone was gripping them one by one and forcing them into shapes they never should have made. It hurt, god it hurt, and he whimpered in agony before rolling over and shoving his face into the soft, familiar fabric of his pillow. He couldn’t get his hands to uncurl from the blanket so it was dragged with him, covering his feverish body in some pathetic form of protection against whatever was happening to him. Pain centered in his gums, made his teeth ache, and then suddenly he could feel the roots reforming and growing, his teeth elongating.
Dimly, the teenager could hear his parents shouting, the sirens in the distance growing closer. Gradually, the sounds began to get louder, as though they were actually ricocheting around inside of his mind. He groaned and finally managed to free his hands from the tangle of his blankets, bringing them up and grinding his palms against his ears to muffle the sounds. Claws scraped against his thin, sensitive skin, cutting a small wound above his eyebrow that beaded blood. He could smell it instantly, his nose twitching. He snuffled at the air unconsciously, bringing in every scent that he could and subconsciously categorizing them all. It helped to distract him from the pain, which was slowly beginning to fade. By the time he’d picked out the fact that Mrs. Lunar from half-way down the block had re-heated her spinach casserole for dinner the night before, the pain was gone and all that was left behind was a mild ache in his muscles, as though he had stressed them slightly past the limits of what they were used to.
Slowly, cautiously, Misha climbed out of his bed and looked around. Nothing looked different, but at the same time none of it was the same. His room was still his room, but now he was looking at small currents in the air that glowed, as though someone had thrown glittering dust over certain areas and not others. The currents were different colors. It was making him panic, his breath speeding up and his chest heaving. He stumbled to his mirror and stared at his reflection, and then immediately turned his back with a quick, strangled yell and ran to his door.
“Misha!” His father was shouting, heavy blows jarring the door and making his doorknob rattle. “Misha, what’s going on? Answer us!” His mother’s voice was a soft whisper compared to his father’s, though still ringing so loudly in Misha’s ears that it made him flinch. She was trying to coax him to answer the door, so gentle and caring, as though he was having a nightmare. Misha hadn’t had nightmares since he was eight. Back then they had driven him to his parents’ room every night, tears on his cheeks and wild fear in his eyes as he screamed about monsters and beasts that were trying to eat him. His mother had always soothed him and made room between her and his father for Misha to burrow into and hide away from the terrors.
The doorknob bent under his fingers as though Misha was grabbing rubber, the sudden and unexplained give startling him so much that he jerked his arm back and ripped the door right off the hinges. He stared into the wide, worried eyes of his parents and felt his terror escalate when they took in his appearance.
“Oh, Misha,” his mother whispered, stepping forward. The worry on her face turned to fear and crushing sorrow, something he didn’t even know how to being to understand or face. “Oh, my baby.”
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice cracking high on his fear. The door fell with a clatter when he let go of the knob and he backed away from them further, his eyes darting around as he looked for an escape, any escape. He didn’t know what was going on, and that scared him; it scared the ever-loving shit out of him until he wanted to run away or curl up somewhere dark and small so that he could hide away from the rest of the world. At the same time, there was something else in him, something deep down in his chest that was slowly uncurling and stretching itself. It rumbled, curious, and rose up to spread warmth throughout Misha’s cold body, his skin tingling in response to the feeling.
“Oh, Misha, I’m so sorry.” His mother stepped closer, the doorway filling with his father’s large frame. Misha looked between the both of them, eyes flicking from his father’s pinched and protective features to his mother’s open, consoling eyes and down to her arms, spreading wide as though she wanted to wrap him up in a hug.
Misha backed away from both of them, his eyes flicking towards his mirror and then away again even faster, a flash of blue and black the only thing he saw before he suddenly turned and bolted, arms crossing in front of his face as some kind of protection as he leapt right out of the window. His mother screamed, the people gathering on the front lawn screamed, and Misha cut his arm open on a shard of broken glass, eyes slanting shut as his legs curled, body tucking, and he spun in a way that made him hit the grass and roll. The impact jarred him and made him bite his tongue, teeth slicing easily through the wet muscle and making his mouth fill with blood. He spat it out and came up to a crouched position, people surrounding him and reaching for him. They stopped when the saw him, saw the blood on his lips and the fangs hiding behind them; his eyes, wide and wild-whites completely black and pupils and irises overtaken by marbled, glowing blue.
Instinctively, Misha opened his mouth and hissed at them, driving the crowd back, and then he was up and running, ducking grabbing hands and dodging under outstretched arms; bodily shoving people out of the way if they wouldn’t move until he broke past the barrier of bodies, his nose filled with their mingled stenches and their voices screeching shrilly in his ears. He clapped his hands over his ears and ducked down low, back curling and his leg muscles burning as he ran. Wind whipped past him, tugging at his too-big sleeping shirt and blowing his thin pajama pants against the front of his legs because he was running so fast, his bare feet slapping painfully across the pitted road. Gravel dug into his heels and sliced the tender skin of his arches, but still Misha kept running; the scent of his own blood driving away all others and making his eyes spark and glow brightly in the moonlight.
His lungs were burning by the time he stopped running, his legs cramping and seizing up in knots of pain that made him whimper and crumble to the ground. He was hidden between a dumpster and other meaningless piles of garbage, breathing in the scent of rotting things and urine with every desperate gasp as he tried to catch his breath. It was vile, disgusting, and bile burned its way up his throat violently. Misha doubled over and threw up all over a soggy bundle of old newspapers, gagging and choking as tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, his hands coming out to brace him so he didn’t fall face-first into the mess. His spine arched from the force of his retching, stomach muscles clenching and heaving with each contraction that sent him spinning through another wave of dizziness and nausea.
Eventually it stopped and Misha whined low in his throat, wincing at the pain even such a small action caused him. He looked down at the vomit and saw the dark tinge of blood; he’d probably aggravated his throat while he was screaming, and the bile had burned him enough to cause bleeding. The scent made him feel even sicker and he scrambled away quickly, his clawed toes catching on every little dip and hold in the broken ground to help him shove himself away. Misha crept out of the alley and looked around, his eyes darting in every direction to make sure no one was around. Something told him he would smell them before he ever saw them, or maybe he’d even see them before he smelled them. The terror was back, making his spine stiffen and his shoulders tighten as he slowly inched his way out of the dark and oppressive alley and down the sidewalks.
“Misha.”
His mother’s voice startled him so much that he yelped and spun around, immediately staring upwards because that’s where every sense he had was screaming that’s where she was. Her blue eyes stared down at him, glowing in the night in a way that cut through all of the darkness and silence surrounding them. She looked pained. When she saw him looking at her she crouched down, her toes curling against the edge of the building and her fingers gripping the concrete easily as she balanced herself. Even despite the night, Misha could see moonlight glint off of the teeth in her mouth; the claws at the ends of her fingers that dug into mortar and concrete slightly to help her maintain her balance.
“Misha, my beautiful baby boy,” she whispered, shaking her head. Long, soft locks of dark brown hair swung loose from behind her, spilling down across her face and into the inky night where the wind tugged the strands and made them swirl. Misha found himself entranced by the way her hair swung back and forth, so dark against her pale cheeks.
“Mom, what is this?” Obviously his mother had an idea of what was going on. He watched her stand, her silk nightgown shimmering from the way moonlight played off of it, and then he barked out a noise of surprise when she leapt from the building and plummeted thirty feet to land beside him. The sidewalk cracked beneath her bare feet, her knees bending to help absorb the impact of the landing. She stood and cupped his face with one hand, using the other to brush his bangs away from his face so she could see the tiny cut above his eyebrow, already crusted over from dried blood. One fingertip pressed just below the scrape and Misha flinched.
“It’s who you are, Misha.” Her voice, so soft and caring, made him feel like he was just a child again, running to her after a nightmare and sobbing against her shoulder while she stroked his back and sang him lullabies. She had that same aura of care and concern surrounding her now, the air around her glittering with a soft swirl of lilac and amber that entranced Misha. He lifted his hand to touch it the currents skittered away from him before coming back to nudge at his palm and twine around his fingers.
“What am I, mom? What the hell is happening to me?” He should have been panicking about this more, but Misha was already so exhausted from his fear and the aches in his body. His stomach rolled unpleasantly and his throat clenched, as though someone had tied a knot in his esophagus and he couldn’t breath properly. Air stuttered from him, a short huff of frightened breath, and then his mother was carefully running her fingers through his hair and the knot dissipated.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I was afraid this might happen, but I had hoped...”
“What are you talking about?” Misha’s voice rose on another wave of panic, anger creeping slowly across his mind like a dark veil that was spreading throughout him. Everything around him seemed to get even clearer, his eyes glowing brighter; his mother’s face coming into crystal-clear focus. She had the same eyes as him, he realized suddenly; black only broken by pupils and irises that were completely overtaken by blue. He stiffened and stared at her, watching the way she blinked slowly and tried to smile.
“Misha, baby, it’s okay.”
“No it’s not!” he shouted, shoving away from her and taking several steps back. “It’s not okay! What the fuck is going on?”
His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly and her lips thinned into a frown. “You watch your language around me,” she scolded, but as soon as the flash of anger came it was gone again and she was gentle, understanding; reaching for him and pulling his unresisting body into her arms so that his nose pressed against her neck. Misha sniffed without thinking and brought in her scent, smelling the familiar fragrance of cherry blossom perfume as well as something he couldn’t place. It was relaxing, familiar, and he sagged against her at last with a strangled half-sob.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“You have to leave, Misha. What you are... something like you hasn’t been in the world for more than a hundred years. You’re in danger, baby, and I never wanted to do that to you.” They pulled apart and her soft hands cupped his cheeks, her claws scraping gently over his jaw in a way that was more relaxing than anything. There was strength in her fingers, strength he had never felt from her before, and Misha tilted his head against her hold, pressing curiously to test the limits of it. She was like iron and steel hidden beneath a layer of softness and petals.
“What am I, mom?”
Her blue eyes were normal again, welling with tears. “I can’t tell you that, baby. If I tell you, then they’ll find you faster. You need to get away from here, Misha. Run as far as you can, and as fast as you can. Protect yourself at all costs.” Tears trickled down her smooth cheeks, a prick of salt swirling into the scents of the air and making the currents around her shift, a dark gray bleeding into the softer colors. “I love you, Misha. Know that whatever mistakes I have made, I still love you.”
“Mom...” He gripped her wrists, clinging, and tried to pull her closer. She was already slipping away from him, though, pulling out of his hold as if she was water trickling through his fingers and stepping back. Misha tried to follow her but found he couldn’t, his body held in place while she backed away. “Wait, mom, no; please don’t leave me!”
“I have to, Misha. Baby, it’s for your own good.” She was crying harder now, her words shaking and her chest hitching erratically. “We love you, baby. We love you so much. Go Misha, please, there isn’t time. They felt the disturbance and they’re already coming. You have to get away before they find you.”
“I don’t understand!” Misha’s shout rang through the air, his muscles straining as he tried to fight free of the oppressive air that held him in place while his mother slipped through the darkness and into the shadows. “Mom, no!” She couldn’t leave him. Misha couldn’t let her leave, but she was. He almost couldn’t see her anymore, his eyes tracking the shifting of her hair as she ran. The wind blew the scent of cherry blossoms to him and he inhaled it desperately, taking it into his lungs as though that was all he needed to bring her back to stand in front of him. She stopped suddenly and turned, blue eyes a small glowing point of light as they stared across the distance at one another. Her lips moved and Misha tilted his head, his eyelids fluttering and his eyes rolling with fear as he tried to make his body work.
“I love you, Misha,” she said, and he could hear every word perfectly. “I will always love you. Please, for your own safety, leave this place and never come back. We’ll break the trail so they can’t find you. Do this for me, Misha, or we will die.”
It sent ice spilling down his spine, his mother’s voice so broken and solemn at the same time as she told Misha that if he stayed, his parents would die. His mother, his father-the only two people he had in this world. By staying, he would kill them, and when the pressure holding him back suddenly vanished he turned and stumbled away from his mother, his limbs jerking as he tried to re-gain control of his momentum. As soon as he knew he could move without falling over he began to run as fast as he could, the burn starting in his muscles again and spreading through his body. Everything hurt; his arms, his leg, his chest, his heart. He felt like he was snapping apart, unraveling at the seams, and there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was run, leaving bloody smears behind him that sometimes resembled toes from his cut feet. He knew he was still bleeding, he could smell the metallic, copper-rich stench that surrounded him like a cloud. Behind him he heard nothing, his mother already gone. In front of him, the currents warped and shifted, a hundred different colors splitting in a million different directions. Some of them were faded trails, others a bit fresher, and all of them burst and swirled as he ran through them, disrupted and broken from their set paths by his body. Misha couldn’t see the current trail he was leaving, a dark mixture of blue and bronze with red spikes of fear cutting through the glittering colors.
Misha ran to the edge of the town and past it, leaving Newspring behind him and racing down the dark, deserted highway that split the town in half. No one was out this late at night, and the world around him was quiet in a way that it shouldn’t have been. Misha’s ears didn’t catch the sound of any animals, not even crickets, and that made him feel a whole new kind of fear that lent him new bursts of speed. He was running so fast that he couldn’t keep up and his feet suddenly went out from under him. Shouting in surprise, he tucked his body instinctively and hit the pavement hard, rolling and shutting his eyes tightly in response to the pain before he was up again, elbows bleeding and his forearm scraped. There was a gash across the top of his foot from a stray lump of broken asphalt but Misha didn’t care. His mother had told him to run, and so he ran.
Newspring was far behind him by the time he stopped, chest heaving and his eyes wide and wild. His elbows burned fiercely, blood sluggishly trickling down his forearms to stain his palms and the top of his left foot covered in splatters of red. He was still bleeding, his thighs and calves burning and his legs trembling. When he stopped he literally collapsed, unable to even hold himself upright anymore. Misha looked around, peering through the darkness to try and gauge where he was. In the end he had no idea, he just knew that he was in a dip just off of the edge of the highway. The way the hill sloped down from the road hid him from view and he dragged himself into a shallow, open space surrounded by thick, half-dead bushes.
Misha heaved for breath, his mouth coated with the taste of rust and iron and the air around him tainted with the same scent, as well as tar from the road and the stench of oil and exhaust. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, but he had no energy to move any further from where he was. Even if he wanted to, he no longer had the strength or energy for it, his body wrung out and as weak as a kitten’s. He couldn’t even support himself on his forearms, not only because it hurt to do so but because they shook too hard and ended up giving out on him anyway. There was no way Misha was going to be moving for a long while, and so he curled himself into a tight ball. His wounds stung and his heart beat painfully in his chest. No matter how much he wanted to, he was too exhausted and drained to even cry, his eyes just burning because they were unable to fill up with tears. He managed one strained, choked sob before pressing his face against the prickly grass and dusty earth beneath him and plunging into the darkness of dreamless sleep.
Jensen packed away his guitar with care, checking every inch of the acoustic instrument before he slowly closed the case lid and stroked his fingers over the black leather. It was a well-cared for case, the slight wear at the edges the only thing betraying its age. It had belonged to his father, just like the guitar nestled against the crushed blue velvet inside. His father had given it to him on his sixteenth birthday and Jensen had been grateful ever since, taking care of the gift meticulously to keep both the case and the guitar in almost-pristine condition.
“Heading home for the night?” The voice of the bartender floated to him through the calm, whiskey-scented silence of the bar. Jensen looked up, his eyes fixing with Jason’s own dark brown gaze, and he nodded; smiled and curled his fingers around the handle of the guitar case before standing smoothly.
“Yeah, man. Thanks for letting me play here all the time. Tonight was a good night for tips, I guess.” It wasn’t the best night he’d had, not by far, but it’s enough that Jensen was pleased. Jason was too apparently, his eyes warm when they flicked down to the slight bulge of crumpled bills in Jensen’s left pocket. The Cajun man nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention back to wiping down the bar.
“No need to thank me, Jensen,” he replied easily, his voice honey-thick with the slightest accent. He was a handsome man, tall and well-built though not to the point where it was unnerving. His dark skin was somewhere between caramel and dark mocha, making him look exotic in the dim light of the bar; like some kind of jungle god who had stepped into modern society to learn the ways of the people. It was an odd thought to have and Jensen shook his head to clear it from his mind, his shoulders lifting and then slumping back down as he sighed. He was more tired than he thought, if he was straying into odd thought-territory that easily.
“Thanks anyway. Guess I’ll see you in a few nights then. Have a good one, man.” He waved and accepted Jason’s returned nod before making his way out of the bar through the back hallway. As soon as he stepped outside he was surrounded by nearly-oppressive heat, a droplet of sweat already rolling down the curve his spine. It hadn’t been this hot for as long as he could remember, and it was only mid-May. It was hot, though, a heavy kind of heat one would expect to feel before a thunderstorm. Jensen was glad he’d gotten his hair cut again, rather than letting it grow out like he’d planned to. The man drew in a deep breath, moist heat sinking into his lungs and making him choke for a minute, feeling as though he couldn’t breathe, before his chest relaxed and he exhaled.
It was barely four in the morning. Jensen groaned and turned out of the dark, cramped alley, his feet carrying him in the direction of his apartment as he moved on autopilot. Glancing at his watch, Jensen squinted and just managed to make out that it was 4:02 am, his eyes crossing and his vision blurring when he tried to focus on the tiny hour and minute hands. Digital clocks were pointless in his opinion. Half the kids he saw in the hardware store, slumping along after their parents, barely even knew how to read a normal clock anymore because they were too busy with their iPods and their computers, everything digitalized these days so they didn’t have to bother learning.
Speaking-or, well, thinking-of the hardware story, Jensen had exactly five hours to sleep before he had to get up and head to his real job, the one that brought in the money he really needed in order to survive. Playing at the bar was just a way for him to keep himself in practice, both his guitar and his voice, thought sometimes the tips were helpful to him when he needed a bit of cash in a pinch. That wasn’t the case right now, he was actually sitting well money-wise, but a few extra dollars never hurt anything, just in case of an emergency. Luckily for Jensen, few emergencies ever happened in his day-to-day life, so he was just going to deposit the tip money in the bank in the morning. Though, come to think of it, he might keep a few of the bills so he could buy himself a bagel at The Shop on the way to work. Marie would be happy to see him, at least, since he hadn’t had a chance to stop in and say hello for a while. If he left it much longer, he might start getting threatening phone-calls centered around the endangerment of his manhood if he didn’t haul his rear into her establishment.
A wet, hacking cough suddenly broke Jensen out of his musings and he looked around, his green eyes straining to see through the darkness. The coughing was coming from a nearby alleyway and he peered into the darkness, trying to see what was going on. It wasn’t unusual to come across a homeless person in this city, even if it broke Jensen’s heart every time. Whoever this was, they sounded sick, seriously sick, and the medic training he’d learned in college kicked in almost immediately, instinctively. Whoever it was in the alley, they sounded like they had fluid in their lungs; possibly mucus, or maybe even blood.
Above his head, the clouds dispersed from where they’d been covering the moon and a bit of dim light, aided by the twinkling stars, made it a little easier to see. The synthetic lighting from the street didn’t fully penetrate the overwhelming blackness of the enclosed area, but once Jensen’s eyes adjusted he was able to see well enough to spot the form slumped against the wall just a few feet past the lip of the alley. He moved closer, his fingers clenching around the plastic handle of his guitar case, and stopped when he was what he believed to be a safe enough distance away from the other person. They coughed again, their entire body jerking with the action, and a tiny groan slipped from the small body. Jesus, this person couldn’t have been very much older than a teenager.
Crouching down, Jensen set his guitar down carefully and leaned forward to grip the slightly-pointed chin of the person. He tipped the head up and back and was met with a young, masculine face, soot-black lashes brushing against the skin of his cheekbones because his eyes were closed. Worried, Jensen let go of his chin and pressed the inside of his wrist against the boy’s cheeks and forehead, checking for fever. He hadn’t needed to, the kid was burning up badly. The smell of sickness permeated the air around him, making Jensen’s stomach clench unpleasantly at the sour smell of it, but he didn’t let it bother him. Instead, he lifted a slender, sweat-sticky arm and looped it around his neck.
“C’mon,” he mumbled. “Up with you, buddy. You can’t stay here when you’re like this.” The boy groaned in reply and made a weak sound of protest before going limp against Jensen. He felt so light, underweight almost, and his nails were chipped and dirty where they pressed, overgrown, against Jensen’s collarbone. He shifted the teenager’s weight and carefully bent down to pick up his guitar case before helping the younger male out of the alleyway. He could tell the boy wasn’t unconscious because he was still breathing in short, erratic puffs, his chest rising and falling with each shallow inhale. That, and every time Jensen moved the teenager stumbled along with him, his eyes still closed and his other arm hanging limply by his side.
Whatever the teenager had been wearing, it was ruined now; dirty and stained and torn. Jensen glanced down at the large shirt and frowned slightly-the clothing looked like sleepwear, and the kid’s feet were bare. There was a nasty-looking gash on top of his foot, and even in the darkness Jensen could see the way the body leaning into him was favoring that leg. He’d need proper light to assess the wound, but in his experienced but not professional opinion, the man could place a pretty hefty bet that the wound was infected. Living on the streets with no proper housing and no shoes? It was almost inevitable. Knowing that made his heart twist and throb in sympathy and sorrow, thinking that someone so young was already living out on the streets on his own.
“You’re okay, kid,” Jensen whispered, hitching the boy closer to his body and feeling how hot he was, even through the layers of their clothing; a high fever, but possibly not life-threatening. In order to know for sure, they’d have to get back to his apartment and he’d have to take the teenager’s temperature properly. If it was bad enough, he’d take the kid to the hospital, but if it was manageable then there was no point. The hospital in the city was always busy, overflowing, and a homeless kid that either no one would know, or no one would see, would be pushed to the side in favor of those deemed more important. Honestly, the kid would get better care at Jensen’s house, even though he wasn’t a registered doctor or nurse.
By the time he made it to his apartment, the teenager was unconscious, only held up by the fact that Jensen was practically carrying him with one arm. Ever grateful that he lived on the first floor of the large, brick-and-concrete building, Jensen fumbled open the door with a skill he hadn’t known he possessed and pulled the teenager into the front section where the mailboxes were kept beneath the wrought-iron stairs leading up to the second floor and beyond. Jensen bypassed the stairs and the mailboxes and squirmed his way through the inner door. There were four apartments per floor, and Jensen’s was 37; the first door on the right. He had to lean the teenager up against the wall and hold him in place with his own body weight so he could unlock the door. As soon as he did he pushed it open and let the younger male’s dead weight fall back into his supporting arm so he could half-carry, half-drag him inside.
Setting his guitar one the otherwise-unused table, Jensen managed to get the teenager to his couch and lay him down without any major mishaps. His apartment wasn’t the cleanest, empty Styrofoam containers smelling of Chinese and Thai littering the coffee table and a few articles of dirty clothing on the floor here and there. He’d clean up later and make the place look more presentable. Right now he had more important things to worry about, so Jensen headed to the hallway leading back to the bedrooms and flicked on the lights. He had to squint at the sudden brightness and the body on his couch gave a feeble groan. Not completely unconscious, then. That was good.
Jensen’s bathroom was the first door on the left side of the hallway and he stepped into it, immediately heading for the cabinets beneath the marble vanity and pulling out his rather large, over-full first aid bag. After checking to make sure he had everything he needed, the man nodded and went back out into the family room. He wasn’t surprised to see that the teenager hadn’t moved at all, his eyes shifting restlessly beneath his eyelids being the biggest range of movement he had. In the light the kid was an absolute wreck, dried blood smeared on his arms seeming to come from injuries on his elbows. Either he’d fallen somewhere, or someone had roughed him up, though Jensen couldn’t see any obvious bruises to support his second theory.
There was no way he could clean his charge up, not when he was this filthy. Jensen would have to wash him first, or at least wash his injuries, but the longer he looked at the teenager the more he decided that a bath was really the best thing for him. If those wounds didn’t get cleaned soon then the kid could turn septic, if he wasn’t already. His wounds didn’t look too old, but it was hard to tell under the layers of clotted blood, dirt, and other filth he was coated in. A bath would be the best thing for him, and Jensen could flush out the wounds with warm, soapy water. That settled his mind and he went to fill the tub.
Rather than waking the teenager up to get him out of his clothes, Jensen simply cut them away before lifting the young man up into his arms. He really was incredibly light, lighter than he probably should have been. It was worrying, but Jensen couldn’t count his ribs so he figured his new charge wasn’t too underweight. That was a relief, and he carried the unmoving form into the bathroom and lowered him carefully into the tub. Jensen wasn’t uncomfortable at all about being so close to a naked, male body. He’d been taking care of others since he was a child, and had long ago desensitized himself towards such thing. It was a relief and a blessing as he began to wash the boy’s body, scrubbing away the accumulated dirt until pale, pinkish skin began to show through.
Jensen had to drain the tub and refill it three times before his patient was completely clean, his wounds bleeding sluggishly now that the clotting and dirty scabs had been carefully but stubbornly cleared away. Carefully, Jensen lifted the teenager’s right arm to inspect the injury on his elbow, and then the one on his forearm. Both elbows were bleeding, the skin torn away in what looked like a good-sized chunk, but his forearm was only scraped deep enough to bleed. There would be scars, probably, but the man figured it was better to have scars than be dead. He was right about infection, too, he could feel it in the heat rising from the wounds and the way there was an angry red coloration spreading away from the gashes. The teenager’s foot was the same way.
Drying the boy off carefully, Jensen carried him back into the family room and set him on the couch again so he could really begin to treat the injuries. He had a stash of oral antibiotics in his first aid bag; hopefully he had enough to fight off the infection until the teenager’s body could take over from there, his immune system doing its job like it was intended to. For now, though, it was up to Jensen. He smeared antibiotic ointment over the scrapes and gashes, his fingers coming away greasy and tinged pink. He wiped them on a towel and then carefully wrapped each injury up in gauze and taped it in place.
Now all that was left was the matter of clothing. He couldn’t leave the boy lying naked on his couch, so Jensen stood up again and packed away his med bag, returning it to the bathroom before heading further down the hallway, past the door that led into his office and turning into his bedroom instead. There had to be some old clothes in one of his drawers that would be small enough to fit his charge. After rummaging for a while, Jensen unearthed a long-sleeved thermal that looked small enough as well as a pair of old sleeping pants. Pleased, he took them with him back to the family room and dressed the boy with gentle but efficient hands. His skin was still clammy and feverish, so Jensen fetched his thermometer to take the teenager’s temperature.
It was high, but not dangerously so, just as he’d thought. Jensen cleaned it absently and returned it to the bathroom before finding some Tylenol in his medicine cabinet. Unfortunately he’d have to try and wake up the teenager in order to give him the pills, but it couldn’t be helped. Jensen kept plastic cups in the medicine cabinet so he pulled one out and filled it with lukewarm water before carrying that, and the pills, back out to what passed for his family room.
“Hey, you’re gonna have to wake up now.” Jensen set the cup down and shook the teenager’s shoulder firmly, though he was careful not to jar him too much. The action was met with a soft whine and he shook the young man’s shoulder again, a little harder this time. “Come on, I know you don’t want to, but I need you to wake up so I can give you something to help for your fever.”
It took a bit more coaxing, but Jensen finally got the teenager to sit up. Rather than opening his eyes, though, the man stared in surprise when his charge’s pale, chapped lips parted and he opened his mouth. Jensen slid the pills into his mouth and helped him drink, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Jensen mimicked the action, swallowing as well, and then set the empty cup down and helped the boy into a reclining position again. He needed blankets, which he dragged out of the linen closet, and the teenager curled into a ball beneath the heavy quilt comforter Jensen tucked around his small body.
Gathering up the cup as well as the few take-out containers he could carry, Jensen threw it all into the recycling container and then came back for the rest of the Styrofoam boxes, clearing them away as well. The teenager was already asleep, twitching and shifting restlessly beneath his blankets. His head was pillowed on the arm of the sofa and Jensen, knowing for a fact that that was not a comfortable position, went and grabbed one of the pillows from his own bed so at least the kid had something comfortable to rest his head on.
The sky was already starting to turn light by the time Jensen flipped the switch down and plunged the family room into darkness; creeping through the blinds pulled across the glass porch doors and making the room lighter, shadows seeming longer and the few pieces of furniture turned into dark lumps that were slowly taking shape. Looking at the room at large, Jensen sighed quietly and rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes. His fingers still smelled like the antibiotic salve, something greasy and sweet. Making a face, he went to wash his hands again before finally stumbling into his room. Rather than closing the door like he usually did, he left it open and stripped out of his slightly-damp flannel shirt and jeans. He balled them up and lobbed them towards the hamper, listening to the dull thump of the clothes hitting the wall and then the floor and ignoring them a he dug out a threadbare t-shirt and shrugged into it.
His bed was cool, covers cold and making his skin pebble with goosebumps. Shivering, the man rolled himself up into a ball of sheets and thicker blankets, trying to heat himself up as quickly as possible. Jensen closed his eyes and then cracked one open again to look at the clock sitting on his dark mahogany nightstand. Blearily, he could just make out that it was 6:37, and he turned his back to the device with a groan. He was exhausted, the muscles in his shoulders giving an occasional twinge as he moved around-reminding him that he had used them a little bit more than he normally did. Thankfully he wouldn’t be sore in the next few hours of the morning after he had to wake up for real; the teenager really hadn’t weighed that much, but he would be feeling something at some point during the day.
Jensen already knew it was going to be a long day. He didn’t care about leaving the teenager alone in his apartment. He didn’t have anything of real value laying in plain sight, or even hidden away, and he highly doubted the kid was going to be walking away with his television any time soon-or even moving much at all, so long as his body was fighting the infection and the fever it had caused. His apartment, for the most part, was safe and secure for now. Snorting, Jensen punched at his pillow before letting his head sink into it, the soft give of down making his eyelids flutter as he groaned in appreciation. Usually Jensen was a pretty simplistic guy, but there were a few places in his life where he spared no expense in relation to his pleasure, and down-stuffed pillows was one of those places.
His bed was finally warm and the man grunted, his body uncurling from the ball he’d made himself into and his weight re-shifting and settling; sinking into the firm give of his memory-foam mattress. The people who made Temper-pedic beds really knew what they were doing. Jensen hadn’t woken with a knot or a tight muscles in nearly six years, and for that he would never stop being grateful. It made things easier for him, especially with his old spinal injury from when he’d been hit by a car in college. Sometimes his lower back still pained him, but the Temper-pedic bed did wonders to align his spine and make things easier for him.
Jensen could feel a slight pang low in his spine from having carried the dead weight of the teenager currently slumbering in his living room, but the man was hoping that a few hours of sleep on his wonderful mattress would help that. If not, then he had plenty of Tylenol and ibuprofen just in case, though he would probably have to stop at the local drug store on his way home from work in order to buy more, as well as some cough medicine and other general cold and flu supplies. He hadn’t heard the teenager really cough since he’d been warmed up in the bath, but Jensen wasn’t taking any chances.
Prescription drug labels running through his mind, Jensen relaxed with a full-body sigh and let his tired green eyes flutter closed. He was asleep in minutes, his breathing slowing out a deep, steady inhale and exhale as his room began to brighten, the higher the sun rose. There was a brief, dark shadow that passed in front of his window, a flash of darkness cutting through the rays of golden and pink light. The shadow moved on and stopped on the porch of his apartment; pressed up against the sliding-glass doors and tried to peer through the slats of the blinds to spot the bundle of blankets laying on Jensen’s couch.
Finally, she saw the familiar mop of black hair, her blue eyes flicking briefly between normal and glowing, pupil-less marbled blue. Black rimmed the whites of her eyes for a brief moment before bleeding away, leaving her eyes looking normal and perfectly human. The woman pressed one hand against the sun-warmed glass and tilted her forehead forward so it was resting against it as well.
“Be safe here, Misha,” she breathed, a single tear tracking down her cheek and dripping onto the glass door. “Keep yourself hidden, baby.” After a moment of silence, the woman took a deep breath and turned away, her eyes searching the air for the currents of glittering light left behind by her son; his aura trail, easily followed if one had the ability for it. She began to erase it slowly, blasting it out of existence with small bursts of energy until the trail was impossible to follow. They were already looking for her son, and she was going to do whatever it took to keep him safe for as long as she could. She owed Misha that much at least, after all.
Author: earth_heart
Rating: R
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Warnings: AU, halfbreed!Misha, violence
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I don’t own these guys.
Summary: Everything changes when we turn into adults. Sometimes it changes in ways we could never expect or believe. When that happens, people become afraid. They become fearful and they run, they hide. When your entire life changes, sometimes things rise from the dark and try to drag you into the depths with them.
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The clock struck midnight and the silence cracked, fractured-exploded in the vortex of a sonic boom that blew out the windows of every house on Locust Drive and sent dogs howling within a half-mile radius. Lights snapped on, spilling past the crumbling glass frames of the windows as people were woken by the sound of screaming and rushed outside to see what on earth was going on. Whoever was making the awful noise, they sounded like they were in agony. Police were notified, ambulances called, and the quiet, terrified residents all began to mill closer to the source of the disturbance.
Inside of a plain white house with blue shutters, up on the second floor and behind the shattered window to the right of the structure, Misha arched in his bed, his mouth stretched wide and a horrible wail spilling past his lips. His eyes were wide and glazed over, his skin spasming and his muscles clenching, fluttering, twitching. Sweat made his pale skin seem almost like it was shimmering when the moonlight touched it, lighting the teenager up with an ethereal glow that some might say was reminiscent of angels.
Misha’s fingers clenched in his comforter, bones feeling as though they were cracking and breaking one by one. He screamed and screamed; in agony and confused and afraid while his parents pounded on his door and shouted his name. Something was keeping them out of the room, though, a force unknown and unseen. It filled the small room, a breeze kicking up that made the posters on the walls flap wildly when it shot past them and zeroed in on the body of the young man. He jerked, almost like something had slammed into his chest, and the scream died away into horrible gargling.
Beneath his skin, Misha could feel his spine flexing and twisting, vertebrae popping as though someone was gripping them one by one and forcing them into shapes they never should have made. It hurt, god it hurt, and he whimpered in agony before rolling over and shoving his face into the soft, familiar fabric of his pillow. He couldn’t get his hands to uncurl from the blanket so it was dragged with him, covering his feverish body in some pathetic form of protection against whatever was happening to him. Pain centered in his gums, made his teeth ache, and then suddenly he could feel the roots reforming and growing, his teeth elongating.
Dimly, the teenager could hear his parents shouting, the sirens in the distance growing closer. Gradually, the sounds began to get louder, as though they were actually ricocheting around inside of his mind. He groaned and finally managed to free his hands from the tangle of his blankets, bringing them up and grinding his palms against his ears to muffle the sounds. Claws scraped against his thin, sensitive skin, cutting a small wound above his eyebrow that beaded blood. He could smell it instantly, his nose twitching. He snuffled at the air unconsciously, bringing in every scent that he could and subconsciously categorizing them all. It helped to distract him from the pain, which was slowly beginning to fade. By the time he’d picked out the fact that Mrs. Lunar from half-way down the block had re-heated her spinach casserole for dinner the night before, the pain was gone and all that was left behind was a mild ache in his muscles, as though he had stressed them slightly past the limits of what they were used to.
Slowly, cautiously, Misha climbed out of his bed and looked around. Nothing looked different, but at the same time none of it was the same. His room was still his room, but now he was looking at small currents in the air that glowed, as though someone had thrown glittering dust over certain areas and not others. The currents were different colors. It was making him panic, his breath speeding up and his chest heaving. He stumbled to his mirror and stared at his reflection, and then immediately turned his back with a quick, strangled yell and ran to his door.
“Misha!” His father was shouting, heavy blows jarring the door and making his doorknob rattle. “Misha, what’s going on? Answer us!” His mother’s voice was a soft whisper compared to his father’s, though still ringing so loudly in Misha’s ears that it made him flinch. She was trying to coax him to answer the door, so gentle and caring, as though he was having a nightmare. Misha hadn’t had nightmares since he was eight. Back then they had driven him to his parents’ room every night, tears on his cheeks and wild fear in his eyes as he screamed about monsters and beasts that were trying to eat him. His mother had always soothed him and made room between her and his father for Misha to burrow into and hide away from the terrors.
The doorknob bent under his fingers as though Misha was grabbing rubber, the sudden and unexplained give startling him so much that he jerked his arm back and ripped the door right off the hinges. He stared into the wide, worried eyes of his parents and felt his terror escalate when they took in his appearance.
“Oh, Misha,” his mother whispered, stepping forward. The worry on her face turned to fear and crushing sorrow, something he didn’t even know how to being to understand or face. “Oh, my baby.”
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice cracking high on his fear. The door fell with a clatter when he let go of the knob and he backed away from them further, his eyes darting around as he looked for an escape, any escape. He didn’t know what was going on, and that scared him; it scared the ever-loving shit out of him until he wanted to run away or curl up somewhere dark and small so that he could hide away from the rest of the world. At the same time, there was something else in him, something deep down in his chest that was slowly uncurling and stretching itself. It rumbled, curious, and rose up to spread warmth throughout Misha’s cold body, his skin tingling in response to the feeling.
“Oh, Misha, I’m so sorry.” His mother stepped closer, the doorway filling with his father’s large frame. Misha looked between the both of them, eyes flicking from his father’s pinched and protective features to his mother’s open, consoling eyes and down to her arms, spreading wide as though she wanted to wrap him up in a hug.
Misha backed away from both of them, his eyes flicking towards his mirror and then away again even faster, a flash of blue and black the only thing he saw before he suddenly turned and bolted, arms crossing in front of his face as some kind of protection as he leapt right out of the window. His mother screamed, the people gathering on the front lawn screamed, and Misha cut his arm open on a shard of broken glass, eyes slanting shut as his legs curled, body tucking, and he spun in a way that made him hit the grass and roll. The impact jarred him and made him bite his tongue, teeth slicing easily through the wet muscle and making his mouth fill with blood. He spat it out and came up to a crouched position, people surrounding him and reaching for him. They stopped when the saw him, saw the blood on his lips and the fangs hiding behind them; his eyes, wide and wild-whites completely black and pupils and irises overtaken by marbled, glowing blue.
Instinctively, Misha opened his mouth and hissed at them, driving the crowd back, and then he was up and running, ducking grabbing hands and dodging under outstretched arms; bodily shoving people out of the way if they wouldn’t move until he broke past the barrier of bodies, his nose filled with their mingled stenches and their voices screeching shrilly in his ears. He clapped his hands over his ears and ducked down low, back curling and his leg muscles burning as he ran. Wind whipped past him, tugging at his too-big sleeping shirt and blowing his thin pajama pants against the front of his legs because he was running so fast, his bare feet slapping painfully across the pitted road. Gravel dug into his heels and sliced the tender skin of his arches, but still Misha kept running; the scent of his own blood driving away all others and making his eyes spark and glow brightly in the moonlight.
His lungs were burning by the time he stopped running, his legs cramping and seizing up in knots of pain that made him whimper and crumble to the ground. He was hidden between a dumpster and other meaningless piles of garbage, breathing in the scent of rotting things and urine with every desperate gasp as he tried to catch his breath. It was vile, disgusting, and bile burned its way up his throat violently. Misha doubled over and threw up all over a soggy bundle of old newspapers, gagging and choking as tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, his hands coming out to brace him so he didn’t fall face-first into the mess. His spine arched from the force of his retching, stomach muscles clenching and heaving with each contraction that sent him spinning through another wave of dizziness and nausea.
Eventually it stopped and Misha whined low in his throat, wincing at the pain even such a small action caused him. He looked down at the vomit and saw the dark tinge of blood; he’d probably aggravated his throat while he was screaming, and the bile had burned him enough to cause bleeding. The scent made him feel even sicker and he scrambled away quickly, his clawed toes catching on every little dip and hold in the broken ground to help him shove himself away. Misha crept out of the alley and looked around, his eyes darting in every direction to make sure no one was around. Something told him he would smell them before he ever saw them, or maybe he’d even see them before he smelled them. The terror was back, making his spine stiffen and his shoulders tighten as he slowly inched his way out of the dark and oppressive alley and down the sidewalks.
“Misha.”
His mother’s voice startled him so much that he yelped and spun around, immediately staring upwards because that’s where every sense he had was screaming that’s where she was. Her blue eyes stared down at him, glowing in the night in a way that cut through all of the darkness and silence surrounding them. She looked pained. When she saw him looking at her she crouched down, her toes curling against the edge of the building and her fingers gripping the concrete easily as she balanced herself. Even despite the night, Misha could see moonlight glint off of the teeth in her mouth; the claws at the ends of her fingers that dug into mortar and concrete slightly to help her maintain her balance.
“Misha, my beautiful baby boy,” she whispered, shaking her head. Long, soft locks of dark brown hair swung loose from behind her, spilling down across her face and into the inky night where the wind tugged the strands and made them swirl. Misha found himself entranced by the way her hair swung back and forth, so dark against her pale cheeks.
“Mom, what is this?” Obviously his mother had an idea of what was going on. He watched her stand, her silk nightgown shimmering from the way moonlight played off of it, and then he barked out a noise of surprise when she leapt from the building and plummeted thirty feet to land beside him. The sidewalk cracked beneath her bare feet, her knees bending to help absorb the impact of the landing. She stood and cupped his face with one hand, using the other to brush his bangs away from his face so she could see the tiny cut above his eyebrow, already crusted over from dried blood. One fingertip pressed just below the scrape and Misha flinched.
“It’s who you are, Misha.” Her voice, so soft and caring, made him feel like he was just a child again, running to her after a nightmare and sobbing against her shoulder while she stroked his back and sang him lullabies. She had that same aura of care and concern surrounding her now, the air around her glittering with a soft swirl of lilac and amber that entranced Misha. He lifted his hand to touch it the currents skittered away from him before coming back to nudge at his palm and twine around his fingers.
“What am I, mom? What the hell is happening to me?” He should have been panicking about this more, but Misha was already so exhausted from his fear and the aches in his body. His stomach rolled unpleasantly and his throat clenched, as though someone had tied a knot in his esophagus and he couldn’t breath properly. Air stuttered from him, a short huff of frightened breath, and then his mother was carefully running her fingers through his hair and the knot dissipated.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I was afraid this might happen, but I had hoped...”
“What are you talking about?” Misha’s voice rose on another wave of panic, anger creeping slowly across his mind like a dark veil that was spreading throughout him. Everything around him seemed to get even clearer, his eyes glowing brighter; his mother’s face coming into crystal-clear focus. She had the same eyes as him, he realized suddenly; black only broken by pupils and irises that were completely overtaken by blue. He stiffened and stared at her, watching the way she blinked slowly and tried to smile.
“Misha, baby, it’s okay.”
“No it’s not!” he shouted, shoving away from her and taking several steps back. “It’s not okay! What the fuck is going on?”
His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly and her lips thinned into a frown. “You watch your language around me,” she scolded, but as soon as the flash of anger came it was gone again and she was gentle, understanding; reaching for him and pulling his unresisting body into her arms so that his nose pressed against her neck. Misha sniffed without thinking and brought in her scent, smelling the familiar fragrance of cherry blossom perfume as well as something he couldn’t place. It was relaxing, familiar, and he sagged against her at last with a strangled half-sob.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“You have to leave, Misha. What you are... something like you hasn’t been in the world for more than a hundred years. You’re in danger, baby, and I never wanted to do that to you.” They pulled apart and her soft hands cupped his cheeks, her claws scraping gently over his jaw in a way that was more relaxing than anything. There was strength in her fingers, strength he had never felt from her before, and Misha tilted his head against her hold, pressing curiously to test the limits of it. She was like iron and steel hidden beneath a layer of softness and petals.
“What am I, mom?”
Her blue eyes were normal again, welling with tears. “I can’t tell you that, baby. If I tell you, then they’ll find you faster. You need to get away from here, Misha. Run as far as you can, and as fast as you can. Protect yourself at all costs.” Tears trickled down her smooth cheeks, a prick of salt swirling into the scents of the air and making the currents around her shift, a dark gray bleeding into the softer colors. “I love you, Misha. Know that whatever mistakes I have made, I still love you.”
“Mom...” He gripped her wrists, clinging, and tried to pull her closer. She was already slipping away from him, though, pulling out of his hold as if she was water trickling through his fingers and stepping back. Misha tried to follow her but found he couldn’t, his body held in place while she backed away. “Wait, mom, no; please don’t leave me!”
“I have to, Misha. Baby, it’s for your own good.” She was crying harder now, her words shaking and her chest hitching erratically. “We love you, baby. We love you so much. Go Misha, please, there isn’t time. They felt the disturbance and they’re already coming. You have to get away before they find you.”
“I don’t understand!” Misha’s shout rang through the air, his muscles straining as he tried to fight free of the oppressive air that held him in place while his mother slipped through the darkness and into the shadows. “Mom, no!” She couldn’t leave him. Misha couldn’t let her leave, but she was. He almost couldn’t see her anymore, his eyes tracking the shifting of her hair as she ran. The wind blew the scent of cherry blossoms to him and he inhaled it desperately, taking it into his lungs as though that was all he needed to bring her back to stand in front of him. She stopped suddenly and turned, blue eyes a small glowing point of light as they stared across the distance at one another. Her lips moved and Misha tilted his head, his eyelids fluttering and his eyes rolling with fear as he tried to make his body work.
“I love you, Misha,” she said, and he could hear every word perfectly. “I will always love you. Please, for your own safety, leave this place and never come back. We’ll break the trail so they can’t find you. Do this for me, Misha, or we will die.”
It sent ice spilling down his spine, his mother’s voice so broken and solemn at the same time as she told Misha that if he stayed, his parents would die. His mother, his father-the only two people he had in this world. By staying, he would kill them, and when the pressure holding him back suddenly vanished he turned and stumbled away from his mother, his limbs jerking as he tried to re-gain control of his momentum. As soon as he knew he could move without falling over he began to run as fast as he could, the burn starting in his muscles again and spreading through his body. Everything hurt; his arms, his leg, his chest, his heart. He felt like he was snapping apart, unraveling at the seams, and there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was run, leaving bloody smears behind him that sometimes resembled toes from his cut feet. He knew he was still bleeding, he could smell the metallic, copper-rich stench that surrounded him like a cloud. Behind him he heard nothing, his mother already gone. In front of him, the currents warped and shifted, a hundred different colors splitting in a million different directions. Some of them were faded trails, others a bit fresher, and all of them burst and swirled as he ran through them, disrupted and broken from their set paths by his body. Misha couldn’t see the current trail he was leaving, a dark mixture of blue and bronze with red spikes of fear cutting through the glittering colors.
Misha ran to the edge of the town and past it, leaving Newspring behind him and racing down the dark, deserted highway that split the town in half. No one was out this late at night, and the world around him was quiet in a way that it shouldn’t have been. Misha’s ears didn’t catch the sound of any animals, not even crickets, and that made him feel a whole new kind of fear that lent him new bursts of speed. He was running so fast that he couldn’t keep up and his feet suddenly went out from under him. Shouting in surprise, he tucked his body instinctively and hit the pavement hard, rolling and shutting his eyes tightly in response to the pain before he was up again, elbows bleeding and his forearm scraped. There was a gash across the top of his foot from a stray lump of broken asphalt but Misha didn’t care. His mother had told him to run, and so he ran.
Newspring was far behind him by the time he stopped, chest heaving and his eyes wide and wild. His elbows burned fiercely, blood sluggishly trickling down his forearms to stain his palms and the top of his left foot covered in splatters of red. He was still bleeding, his thighs and calves burning and his legs trembling. When he stopped he literally collapsed, unable to even hold himself upright anymore. Misha looked around, peering through the darkness to try and gauge where he was. In the end he had no idea, he just knew that he was in a dip just off of the edge of the highway. The way the hill sloped down from the road hid him from view and he dragged himself into a shallow, open space surrounded by thick, half-dead bushes.
Misha heaved for breath, his mouth coated with the taste of rust and iron and the air around him tainted with the same scent, as well as tar from the road and the stench of oil and exhaust. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, but he had no energy to move any further from where he was. Even if he wanted to, he no longer had the strength or energy for it, his body wrung out and as weak as a kitten’s. He couldn’t even support himself on his forearms, not only because it hurt to do so but because they shook too hard and ended up giving out on him anyway. There was no way Misha was going to be moving for a long while, and so he curled himself into a tight ball. His wounds stung and his heart beat painfully in his chest. No matter how much he wanted to, he was too exhausted and drained to even cry, his eyes just burning because they were unable to fill up with tears. He managed one strained, choked sob before pressing his face against the prickly grass and dusty earth beneath him and plunging into the darkness of dreamless sleep.
Jensen packed away his guitar with care, checking every inch of the acoustic instrument before he slowly closed the case lid and stroked his fingers over the black leather. It was a well-cared for case, the slight wear at the edges the only thing betraying its age. It had belonged to his father, just like the guitar nestled against the crushed blue velvet inside. His father had given it to him on his sixteenth birthday and Jensen had been grateful ever since, taking care of the gift meticulously to keep both the case and the guitar in almost-pristine condition.
“Heading home for the night?” The voice of the bartender floated to him through the calm, whiskey-scented silence of the bar. Jensen looked up, his eyes fixing with Jason’s own dark brown gaze, and he nodded; smiled and curled his fingers around the handle of the guitar case before standing smoothly.
“Yeah, man. Thanks for letting me play here all the time. Tonight was a good night for tips, I guess.” It wasn’t the best night he’d had, not by far, but it’s enough that Jensen was pleased. Jason was too apparently, his eyes warm when they flicked down to the slight bulge of crumpled bills in Jensen’s left pocket. The Cajun man nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention back to wiping down the bar.
“No need to thank me, Jensen,” he replied easily, his voice honey-thick with the slightest accent. He was a handsome man, tall and well-built though not to the point where it was unnerving. His dark skin was somewhere between caramel and dark mocha, making him look exotic in the dim light of the bar; like some kind of jungle god who had stepped into modern society to learn the ways of the people. It was an odd thought to have and Jensen shook his head to clear it from his mind, his shoulders lifting and then slumping back down as he sighed. He was more tired than he thought, if he was straying into odd thought-territory that easily.
“Thanks anyway. Guess I’ll see you in a few nights then. Have a good one, man.” He waved and accepted Jason’s returned nod before making his way out of the bar through the back hallway. As soon as he stepped outside he was surrounded by nearly-oppressive heat, a droplet of sweat already rolling down the curve his spine. It hadn’t been this hot for as long as he could remember, and it was only mid-May. It was hot, though, a heavy kind of heat one would expect to feel before a thunderstorm. Jensen was glad he’d gotten his hair cut again, rather than letting it grow out like he’d planned to. The man drew in a deep breath, moist heat sinking into his lungs and making him choke for a minute, feeling as though he couldn’t breathe, before his chest relaxed and he exhaled.
It was barely four in the morning. Jensen groaned and turned out of the dark, cramped alley, his feet carrying him in the direction of his apartment as he moved on autopilot. Glancing at his watch, Jensen squinted and just managed to make out that it was 4:02 am, his eyes crossing and his vision blurring when he tried to focus on the tiny hour and minute hands. Digital clocks were pointless in his opinion. Half the kids he saw in the hardware store, slumping along after their parents, barely even knew how to read a normal clock anymore because they were too busy with their iPods and their computers, everything digitalized these days so they didn’t have to bother learning.
Speaking-or, well, thinking-of the hardware story, Jensen had exactly five hours to sleep before he had to get up and head to his real job, the one that brought in the money he really needed in order to survive. Playing at the bar was just a way for him to keep himself in practice, both his guitar and his voice, thought sometimes the tips were helpful to him when he needed a bit of cash in a pinch. That wasn’t the case right now, he was actually sitting well money-wise, but a few extra dollars never hurt anything, just in case of an emergency. Luckily for Jensen, few emergencies ever happened in his day-to-day life, so he was just going to deposit the tip money in the bank in the morning. Though, come to think of it, he might keep a few of the bills so he could buy himself a bagel at The Shop on the way to work. Marie would be happy to see him, at least, since he hadn’t had a chance to stop in and say hello for a while. If he left it much longer, he might start getting threatening phone-calls centered around the endangerment of his manhood if he didn’t haul his rear into her establishment.
A wet, hacking cough suddenly broke Jensen out of his musings and he looked around, his green eyes straining to see through the darkness. The coughing was coming from a nearby alleyway and he peered into the darkness, trying to see what was going on. It wasn’t unusual to come across a homeless person in this city, even if it broke Jensen’s heart every time. Whoever this was, they sounded sick, seriously sick, and the medic training he’d learned in college kicked in almost immediately, instinctively. Whoever it was in the alley, they sounded like they had fluid in their lungs; possibly mucus, or maybe even blood.
Above his head, the clouds dispersed from where they’d been covering the moon and a bit of dim light, aided by the twinkling stars, made it a little easier to see. The synthetic lighting from the street didn’t fully penetrate the overwhelming blackness of the enclosed area, but once Jensen’s eyes adjusted he was able to see well enough to spot the form slumped against the wall just a few feet past the lip of the alley. He moved closer, his fingers clenching around the plastic handle of his guitar case, and stopped when he was what he believed to be a safe enough distance away from the other person. They coughed again, their entire body jerking with the action, and a tiny groan slipped from the small body. Jesus, this person couldn’t have been very much older than a teenager.
Crouching down, Jensen set his guitar down carefully and leaned forward to grip the slightly-pointed chin of the person. He tipped the head up and back and was met with a young, masculine face, soot-black lashes brushing against the skin of his cheekbones because his eyes were closed. Worried, Jensen let go of his chin and pressed the inside of his wrist against the boy’s cheeks and forehead, checking for fever. He hadn’t needed to, the kid was burning up badly. The smell of sickness permeated the air around him, making Jensen’s stomach clench unpleasantly at the sour smell of it, but he didn’t let it bother him. Instead, he lifted a slender, sweat-sticky arm and looped it around his neck.
“C’mon,” he mumbled. “Up with you, buddy. You can’t stay here when you’re like this.” The boy groaned in reply and made a weak sound of protest before going limp against Jensen. He felt so light, underweight almost, and his nails were chipped and dirty where they pressed, overgrown, against Jensen’s collarbone. He shifted the teenager’s weight and carefully bent down to pick up his guitar case before helping the younger male out of the alleyway. He could tell the boy wasn’t unconscious because he was still breathing in short, erratic puffs, his chest rising and falling with each shallow inhale. That, and every time Jensen moved the teenager stumbled along with him, his eyes still closed and his other arm hanging limply by his side.
Whatever the teenager had been wearing, it was ruined now; dirty and stained and torn. Jensen glanced down at the large shirt and frowned slightly-the clothing looked like sleepwear, and the kid’s feet were bare. There was a nasty-looking gash on top of his foot, and even in the darkness Jensen could see the way the body leaning into him was favoring that leg. He’d need proper light to assess the wound, but in his experienced but not professional opinion, the man could place a pretty hefty bet that the wound was infected. Living on the streets with no proper housing and no shoes? It was almost inevitable. Knowing that made his heart twist and throb in sympathy and sorrow, thinking that someone so young was already living out on the streets on his own.
“You’re okay, kid,” Jensen whispered, hitching the boy closer to his body and feeling how hot he was, even through the layers of their clothing; a high fever, but possibly not life-threatening. In order to know for sure, they’d have to get back to his apartment and he’d have to take the teenager’s temperature properly. If it was bad enough, he’d take the kid to the hospital, but if it was manageable then there was no point. The hospital in the city was always busy, overflowing, and a homeless kid that either no one would know, or no one would see, would be pushed to the side in favor of those deemed more important. Honestly, the kid would get better care at Jensen’s house, even though he wasn’t a registered doctor or nurse.
By the time he made it to his apartment, the teenager was unconscious, only held up by the fact that Jensen was practically carrying him with one arm. Ever grateful that he lived on the first floor of the large, brick-and-concrete building, Jensen fumbled open the door with a skill he hadn’t known he possessed and pulled the teenager into the front section where the mailboxes were kept beneath the wrought-iron stairs leading up to the second floor and beyond. Jensen bypassed the stairs and the mailboxes and squirmed his way through the inner door. There were four apartments per floor, and Jensen’s was 37; the first door on the right. He had to lean the teenager up against the wall and hold him in place with his own body weight so he could unlock the door. As soon as he did he pushed it open and let the younger male’s dead weight fall back into his supporting arm so he could half-carry, half-drag him inside.
Setting his guitar one the otherwise-unused table, Jensen managed to get the teenager to his couch and lay him down without any major mishaps. His apartment wasn’t the cleanest, empty Styrofoam containers smelling of Chinese and Thai littering the coffee table and a few articles of dirty clothing on the floor here and there. He’d clean up later and make the place look more presentable. Right now he had more important things to worry about, so Jensen headed to the hallway leading back to the bedrooms and flicked on the lights. He had to squint at the sudden brightness and the body on his couch gave a feeble groan. Not completely unconscious, then. That was good.
Jensen’s bathroom was the first door on the left side of the hallway and he stepped into it, immediately heading for the cabinets beneath the marble vanity and pulling out his rather large, over-full first aid bag. After checking to make sure he had everything he needed, the man nodded and went back out into the family room. He wasn’t surprised to see that the teenager hadn’t moved at all, his eyes shifting restlessly beneath his eyelids being the biggest range of movement he had. In the light the kid was an absolute wreck, dried blood smeared on his arms seeming to come from injuries on his elbows. Either he’d fallen somewhere, or someone had roughed him up, though Jensen couldn’t see any obvious bruises to support his second theory.
There was no way he could clean his charge up, not when he was this filthy. Jensen would have to wash him first, or at least wash his injuries, but the longer he looked at the teenager the more he decided that a bath was really the best thing for him. If those wounds didn’t get cleaned soon then the kid could turn septic, if he wasn’t already. His wounds didn’t look too old, but it was hard to tell under the layers of clotted blood, dirt, and other filth he was coated in. A bath would be the best thing for him, and Jensen could flush out the wounds with warm, soapy water. That settled his mind and he went to fill the tub.
Rather than waking the teenager up to get him out of his clothes, Jensen simply cut them away before lifting the young man up into his arms. He really was incredibly light, lighter than he probably should have been. It was worrying, but Jensen couldn’t count his ribs so he figured his new charge wasn’t too underweight. That was a relief, and he carried the unmoving form into the bathroom and lowered him carefully into the tub. Jensen wasn’t uncomfortable at all about being so close to a naked, male body. He’d been taking care of others since he was a child, and had long ago desensitized himself towards such thing. It was a relief and a blessing as he began to wash the boy’s body, scrubbing away the accumulated dirt until pale, pinkish skin began to show through.
Jensen had to drain the tub and refill it three times before his patient was completely clean, his wounds bleeding sluggishly now that the clotting and dirty scabs had been carefully but stubbornly cleared away. Carefully, Jensen lifted the teenager’s right arm to inspect the injury on his elbow, and then the one on his forearm. Both elbows were bleeding, the skin torn away in what looked like a good-sized chunk, but his forearm was only scraped deep enough to bleed. There would be scars, probably, but the man figured it was better to have scars than be dead. He was right about infection, too, he could feel it in the heat rising from the wounds and the way there was an angry red coloration spreading away from the gashes. The teenager’s foot was the same way.
Drying the boy off carefully, Jensen carried him back into the family room and set him on the couch again so he could really begin to treat the injuries. He had a stash of oral antibiotics in his first aid bag; hopefully he had enough to fight off the infection until the teenager’s body could take over from there, his immune system doing its job like it was intended to. For now, though, it was up to Jensen. He smeared antibiotic ointment over the scrapes and gashes, his fingers coming away greasy and tinged pink. He wiped them on a towel and then carefully wrapped each injury up in gauze and taped it in place.
Now all that was left was the matter of clothing. He couldn’t leave the boy lying naked on his couch, so Jensen stood up again and packed away his med bag, returning it to the bathroom before heading further down the hallway, past the door that led into his office and turning into his bedroom instead. There had to be some old clothes in one of his drawers that would be small enough to fit his charge. After rummaging for a while, Jensen unearthed a long-sleeved thermal that looked small enough as well as a pair of old sleeping pants. Pleased, he took them with him back to the family room and dressed the boy with gentle but efficient hands. His skin was still clammy and feverish, so Jensen fetched his thermometer to take the teenager’s temperature.
It was high, but not dangerously so, just as he’d thought. Jensen cleaned it absently and returned it to the bathroom before finding some Tylenol in his medicine cabinet. Unfortunately he’d have to try and wake up the teenager in order to give him the pills, but it couldn’t be helped. Jensen kept plastic cups in the medicine cabinet so he pulled one out and filled it with lukewarm water before carrying that, and the pills, back out to what passed for his family room.
“Hey, you’re gonna have to wake up now.” Jensen set the cup down and shook the teenager’s shoulder firmly, though he was careful not to jar him too much. The action was met with a soft whine and he shook the young man’s shoulder again, a little harder this time. “Come on, I know you don’t want to, but I need you to wake up so I can give you something to help for your fever.”
It took a bit more coaxing, but Jensen finally got the teenager to sit up. Rather than opening his eyes, though, the man stared in surprise when his charge’s pale, chapped lips parted and he opened his mouth. Jensen slid the pills into his mouth and helped him drink, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Jensen mimicked the action, swallowing as well, and then set the empty cup down and helped the boy into a reclining position again. He needed blankets, which he dragged out of the linen closet, and the teenager curled into a ball beneath the heavy quilt comforter Jensen tucked around his small body.
Gathering up the cup as well as the few take-out containers he could carry, Jensen threw it all into the recycling container and then came back for the rest of the Styrofoam boxes, clearing them away as well. The teenager was already asleep, twitching and shifting restlessly beneath his blankets. His head was pillowed on the arm of the sofa and Jensen, knowing for a fact that that was not a comfortable position, went and grabbed one of the pillows from his own bed so at least the kid had something comfortable to rest his head on.
The sky was already starting to turn light by the time Jensen flipped the switch down and plunged the family room into darkness; creeping through the blinds pulled across the glass porch doors and making the room lighter, shadows seeming longer and the few pieces of furniture turned into dark lumps that were slowly taking shape. Looking at the room at large, Jensen sighed quietly and rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes. His fingers still smelled like the antibiotic salve, something greasy and sweet. Making a face, he went to wash his hands again before finally stumbling into his room. Rather than closing the door like he usually did, he left it open and stripped out of his slightly-damp flannel shirt and jeans. He balled them up and lobbed them towards the hamper, listening to the dull thump of the clothes hitting the wall and then the floor and ignoring them a he dug out a threadbare t-shirt and shrugged into it.
His bed was cool, covers cold and making his skin pebble with goosebumps. Shivering, the man rolled himself up into a ball of sheets and thicker blankets, trying to heat himself up as quickly as possible. Jensen closed his eyes and then cracked one open again to look at the clock sitting on his dark mahogany nightstand. Blearily, he could just make out that it was 6:37, and he turned his back to the device with a groan. He was exhausted, the muscles in his shoulders giving an occasional twinge as he moved around-reminding him that he had used them a little bit more than he normally did. Thankfully he wouldn’t be sore in the next few hours of the morning after he had to wake up for real; the teenager really hadn’t weighed that much, but he would be feeling something at some point during the day.
Jensen already knew it was going to be a long day. He didn’t care about leaving the teenager alone in his apartment. He didn’t have anything of real value laying in plain sight, or even hidden away, and he highly doubted the kid was going to be walking away with his television any time soon-or even moving much at all, so long as his body was fighting the infection and the fever it had caused. His apartment, for the most part, was safe and secure for now. Snorting, Jensen punched at his pillow before letting his head sink into it, the soft give of down making his eyelids flutter as he groaned in appreciation. Usually Jensen was a pretty simplistic guy, but there were a few places in his life where he spared no expense in relation to his pleasure, and down-stuffed pillows was one of those places.
His bed was finally warm and the man grunted, his body uncurling from the ball he’d made himself into and his weight re-shifting and settling; sinking into the firm give of his memory-foam mattress. The people who made Temper-pedic beds really knew what they were doing. Jensen hadn’t woken with a knot or a tight muscles in nearly six years, and for that he would never stop being grateful. It made things easier for him, especially with his old spinal injury from when he’d been hit by a car in college. Sometimes his lower back still pained him, but the Temper-pedic bed did wonders to align his spine and make things easier for him.
Jensen could feel a slight pang low in his spine from having carried the dead weight of the teenager currently slumbering in his living room, but the man was hoping that a few hours of sleep on his wonderful mattress would help that. If not, then he had plenty of Tylenol and ibuprofen just in case, though he would probably have to stop at the local drug store on his way home from work in order to buy more, as well as some cough medicine and other general cold and flu supplies. He hadn’t heard the teenager really cough since he’d been warmed up in the bath, but Jensen wasn’t taking any chances.
Prescription drug labels running through his mind, Jensen relaxed with a full-body sigh and let his tired green eyes flutter closed. He was asleep in minutes, his breathing slowing out a deep, steady inhale and exhale as his room began to brighten, the higher the sun rose. There was a brief, dark shadow that passed in front of his window, a flash of darkness cutting through the rays of golden and pink light. The shadow moved on and stopped on the porch of his apartment; pressed up against the sliding-glass doors and tried to peer through the slats of the blinds to spot the bundle of blankets laying on Jensen’s couch.
Finally, she saw the familiar mop of black hair, her blue eyes flicking briefly between normal and glowing, pupil-less marbled blue. Black rimmed the whites of her eyes for a brief moment before bleeding away, leaving her eyes looking normal and perfectly human. The woman pressed one hand against the sun-warmed glass and tilted her forehead forward so it was resting against it as well.
“Be safe here, Misha,” she breathed, a single tear tracking down her cheek and dripping onto the glass door. “Keep yourself hidden, baby.” After a moment of silence, the woman took a deep breath and turned away, her eyes searching the air for the currents of glittering light left behind by her son; his aura trail, easily followed if one had the ability for it. She began to erase it slowly, blasting it out of existence with small bursts of energy until the trail was impossible to follow. They were already looking for her son, and she was going to do whatever it took to keep him safe for as long as she could. She owed Misha that much at least, after all.