So, I'm just posting old work that I never got around to posting yet.
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Just to See You Smile
Jeremy watched Miles sleep.
Before, when Miles had still been Miles and not a puppet with his lover's face, Miles had sprawled across the bed, taking up more than his fair share of mattress. He'd cuddled, snored, and clung possessively to whoever was closest to him—be it Bass or Jeremy. (Or, on occasion, both of them.) Jeremy had felt safe, clutched tight to Miles like a child's favorite teddy bear. He could listen to Miles' heartbeat then, felt safer knowing that at least one thing in this crazy, mixed-up world was still right. Miles' heartbeat had grounded him and lulled him to sleep, more often than not.
Of course, that had been almost five—six, if he added in the months since Miles' rescue—years ago. Now, Miles just lay flat in the middle of the bed. He was about as responsive as a rock. On the days laughingly referred to as "good", Miles would respond to instructions. Jeremy hated Miles those days. He wanted to scream and rage and just beat the crap out of Miles, just to maybe get a real response out of the almost lifeless puppet his old friend had turned into. He wanted to hunt down former President Levy and kill her. He wanted the general of the rebellion, so he could torture the bastard.
Once, years ago, Jeremy had entertained the notion of shooting Miles. He would have claimed it was an accident, of course. Bass would never have stood for it, of course, still too in love with a man that had carefully plotted his murder. Jeremy was sure he could have talked his way out of it. They'd both been hurting pretty bad after Miles had left.
When he'd come across Miles in that abandoned restaurant the rebels—when they'd still been cohesive and not killing each other for suspicion of betraying "the cause"—Jeremy had hoped that it had all just been a misunderstanding. Maybe it had been some sort of plot that Miles and Bass had cooked up. Miles was going to bring home whatever could turn the power back on. He was bringing back the next generation of rulers for the Republic. Anything at all that would make the betrayal not real. Anything at all… Jeremy had clung to that hope.
Except it had gone wrong. Two months later, Miles was back in Philadelphia, and trying to kill Monroe again. Jeremy had waited two days—two long, agonizing days while Bass shattered everything he could lay his hands on, that might have reminded him of Miles in any small way—before heading out with his own search party to find Miles.
It had taken five months. Five long, agonizing months in which Jeremy steadily drank himself out of his depression more often than was healthy. Five long, agonizing months spent hunting rebels and Miles, while Bass used his power to steadily destroy the Georgia Federation. President Levy had vanished, probably to Texas or the Plains Nations. It didn't matter. Georgia was part of the Republic now. It just…
It didn't matter.
Because five months after Miles' second attempt, he'd found Miles. He'd wanted so badly to beat the crap out of the man before "accidentally" shooting him in the head. A lot. (Jeremy might have had some lingering issues. And a bet with Neville on who would get to shoot Miles first. Not that he'd actually admit to such a bet existing, if it did. Which it didn't.) His little helper in the penitentiary the rebels had been based out of had been ever so helpful, taking him down to an underground level where the solitary cells were. Jeremy had begun to suspect that something was rotten in the state of Maine (former state, anyways) by the time he got to the cell Miles had holed up in. There was no sign of digging, or an emergency escape route that had been recently used.
He'd almost thrown up when the cell door had finally been pushed open. The smell was overwhelming to the extreme. Huddled in one corner was an emaciated figure dressed in tatty clothing that had, at one point, probably been a leftover prisoner uniform from before the blackout. Jeremy's heart had broken—just a little—when the figure had raised its hands up, trembling so hard the chains rattled.
Jeremy knew it was Miles the second the prisoner whispered, in a voice too raspy to be Miles', "Semper Fidelis". Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. The Marine Corps' motto. It was Miles, huddled in a corner of the filthy cell, whimpering and whining in pain as he was pulled out of the depths of the old prison.
He'd counted heartbeats for weeks as Miles slept, exhaustion winning out over fear. Jeremy lost track of how many it took to lull him to sleep. He only remembered waking up to disappointment as he found Miles laying in the exact same position he'd been in the day before when he'd been told to sleep. Jeremy had visited the two brats to ease the pain of disappointment, and had helped Tom squeeze sponges into their mouths past the gags to keep them from dehydrating.
(It took 1862 heartbeats for him to fall asleep next to Miles.)
Miles never changed. He still had that stupid, vacant smile on his face every morning. He acted like a puppet dancing on fraying strings, with a particularly drunken puppet master controlling him. It killed Jeremy inside, just a little more each day. Visiting Charlie and Danny applied the tiniest balm he could find. It still didn't help.
His former lover was broken. There was no more cuddling in the middle of the night, or waking up in the morning to discover that Miles had imitated his ancestor, the noble octopus, in his sleep. That was what killed Jeremy. He still wanted to beat Miles, or shoot him, for breaking Bass so badly all those times, but… He couldn't.
Not when Miles wasn't even home in his own head.
It was wrong.
He crawled into bed next to Miles around midnight, having given up on delaying sleep any longer. It just wasn't going to work. That was life. Someday, he would have espresso and Red Bull again, and he wouldn't have to sleep until he passed out. Because anything was better than Miles being broken.
Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness at dawn, Jeremy felt Miles shift just a little, the arm he'd placed around his shoulder in an attempt to pretend things were okay, tightened around his shoulders.
Jeremy decided he was dreaming, but kept still anyways.
Because dreams were better than reality.
- o – o -
So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Should I stop writing angst in this 'verse and make Miles get better? Drop a line and let me know!
This is part of the Lost but Never Found 'verse.