HOUSE OF BROKEN SOULS Part 22
Warnings: This Chapter: None. Overall: Slash, sexually explicit content, graphic violence
The fiction includes a mental illness storyline. I am not qualified in mental health, everything I know about it is googled. It's fantasy folks, please don't shoot me though helpful criticism is always welcomed.
*Not real. The folks aren't mine. No damage intended. Many thanks to Cheebles for her patient help. I'd like to reassure her that I am very, very sorry for breaking the boys this badly, but I am now several chapters ahead of this in writing and I can confirm that there will be *SPOILER ALERT* J2 snuggling in the future.
***
Jensen lowered his head and mumbled replies at the greetings he received at the Station on Monday. He headed into his office, clicked on his displays and lost himself in the data. Missing persons, credit card trails, bus timetables, S and M communities and, most sickeningly, kiddie porn sites scrolled beneath his gaze, but it was hard to focus. He squinted at the blurred screen and he didn’t hear Misha come in.
Misha reached back to the door, opened it again and closed it harshly so it bounced ajar, the slam echoed and Jensen jumped. “I think,” said Jensen, carefully, “I may have found something else our two Baltimore victims had in common.”
“Right now I don’t give a crap if Karl Laing is in the foyer in handcuffs. Where the fuck have you been? Chad has been out of his mind and Jared has been frantic.”
“I was at the Hilton. You were told that, and I know you sent somebody to check.”
“So, your boyfriend did tell you he answered the phone to Chad then? He wasn’t very polite. Did he tell you to ring me?”
“FYI, he’s not my boyfriend. He told me you wanted to hear from me. He also told me that you knew I was fine. I didn‘t feel like talking,” Jensen snapped at his colleague.
“What in hell happened?”
“I beat the shit out of Jared, got drunk, got laid, and bought an apartment. Not that it’s any of your business, unless Jared’s looking to charge me with assault. He should. I‘m a cop and I hit him.”
Misha scrutinized Jensen’s features, “Jared’s face is less colorful than yours. He’s pretty cut up about it. He won’t say what happened.”
“Let’s just say it won’t be happening again. I stay away from him. He can stay away from me. I can move out in a month.” Jensen could feel sweat pooling at the base of his spine, yet he felt cold.
“Misha’s face dropped, “Jen. You could just apologize to each other.”
“Misha, just tell your friend that it won’t happen again. Tell him not to worry about anything, that I’m organized to leave. I’ll meet any legal expenses. My lawyer will be in touch.”
“Your lawyer!” Misha exploded, “I thought you were friends.”
“Yeah well,” sighed Jensen, “that implies a certain level of trust.”
“Are you going to talk to anyone about this? What about Caitlin?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” a pencil flew through the air as Jensen launched it at the wall. His hands trembled now, devoid of anything to grip. “I am not giving up on Caitlin. I’ll give you and Dr. Carver everything I find.”
“Jared said you stopped visiting her.”
“I hardly know her. I threatened Jared in front of her, then broke down her door and pointed a gun at her. The Doc told me to stop visiting. Apparently, I frighten her. She has nightmares after I visit. It’s hardly surprising is it?”
“Oh. You didn’t tell him that.”
“I didn’t get the chance.”
The phone rang, interrupting them. The display registered a Baltimore area code, “I have to get this Misha. Just go.” He shooed the blue-eyed man out.
Detective Collins shut the door behind him and looked up at Jared who was leaning against the wall, just out of sight of Jensen’s office. He shook his head at him and Jared blinked his cat-like eyes.
“I heard enough, it’s probably for the best,” he muttered.
“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Misha.
“Nah,” The tall man replied.
“You know, you two are the most stubborn, pig-headed idiots I have ever known.” With that Misha stalked away.
Jensen took the call, thanked the caller for the information and, struggling to comprehend the details, he redirected it to Chad. His hands shook uncontrollably as he tugged at the handle of his drawer and drew out a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and held it to his nose, closed his eyes briefly and let himself breathe in the peaty aroma. He tipped the flask, shaking a lone drop, gleaming, round and golden, onto the shiny surface of his desk. He reached and squashed it with one finger, bursting it into a miniature puddle. He raised his finger to his lip and pressed the faint taste of pungent malt to his tongue.
His stomach cramped now, nausea rising as sweat bloomed on his face. He reached unsteadily for his phone and started to dial. He knew the number of the liquor store, of course he did. His finger shook uncertainly over the numbers and he cursed. He wasn’t an alcoholic, he couldn’t be, but here he was. Two days ago a man he barely knew, someone he had no memory of picking up, a hooker no less, stood over him while he retched into a hotel toilet in a room he had no memory of renting. The man had raged at him, ‘You could have died and the people looking for you would have blamed themselves.’ ‘You could have died and where would that have left me, a whore with a dead man in his bed.’ ‘I usually have higher standards than this.’ and the one that really stung, ‘You could have died and someone would have had to tell your mama.’
He had asked Mark why he’d bothered to help and had been treated to the bitter truth, “You were an easy target. I thought I’d rip you off and leave you, but in the end you were too pathetic even for that.”
He hadn’t had a drink since. He assured himself he wasn’t dependent, didn’t need it, but here he was, his own body begging to differ. He pressed cancel and shakily dialed a different number. “I need to speak to Dr. Carver. Yes, it is urgent.”
Detective Ackles called a cab and left the Precinct. He didn’t return to work for four days.
Continued in Part 23 here: anniespinkhouse.livejournal.com/7269.html