FIC: Under His Skin (CWRPS AU, Jensen/Misha, NC-17, 1/2)
More fic! This was written for spn_j2_xmas, as a pinch hit for pez_gurl.
Under His Skin
Jensen wasn't really looking to change his life. He liked his life fine, liked his home and his friends and his hobbies and didn't really feel like he was missing anything. But one look at Professor Misha Collins from across the quad and he decided that didn't mean there wasn't room for something new.
CWRPS. 12,800 words. NC-17. Jensen/Misha. AU.
ETA 18april11: Now available as a podfic thanks to the wonderful exmanhater, and subsequently in an audiobook version by cybel!
This is also now available on my AO3.
"He's not your type," said Jared, taking one look at the picture then sniffing and turning back to his calculus textbook.
"How do you even know what my type is?" said Jensen. "You've been living here less than six months. You've only seen me with, what, one guy? Ever?"
"Yeah, and he was nothing like that," said Jared, reaching for a fresh chocolate chip cookie from the plate on the table. "Ergo, he's not your type. And no offense but even if he were, I'm pretty sure you're not his."
"How can you even tell that from just a picture?" said Jensen, taking one last look at it before closing the tab in his browser. "You didn't even read the bio."
"Blah blah blah, did graduate studies at Stanford, blah blah blah, likes waterfalls and kittens and dressing like a woman. I didn't need to read it, Jensen, I know who he is. Everyone knows who he is."
He did have a point there. About most people on campus knowing who he was, not about the kittens and the rest. Probably.
"One skirt, once," Jensen protested. "And I'm pretty sure he was using it to make a point."
"I'm pretty sure he skipped laundry day and just borrowed it from his hot roommate's closet," said Jared. "And I don't mean roommate in the wink wink nudge nudge sense because I swear that guy's gayer than you are. Now are we helping me study for mid-terms or are we mooning over your poetry professor?"
"We can't do both?" said Jensen. "Consider it my fee for helping you out with my old notes. You ace your mid-term; I get to try to figure out Professor Collins."
"Better men than you have tried and failed," said Jared gravely. "There might even be published studies on the subject. Come on, though, seriously. The test is tomorrow and you're going to have to explain what you see in him before I can help you anyway."
"This is how I know you're straight," said Jensen, shaking his head but returning to his notes anyway, all still neatly divided and color-coded. He'd been a freshman once, too; he remembered that mild and irrational feeling of panic that maybe you weren't cut out for this whole college thing anyway, no matter how well, objectively, you were doing. "Hell, even Chris probably wouldn't have to ask that."
"Then maybe you should have asked one of your other roommates," said Jared. "Or have you gone through all of them already and now you're stuck with the new guy who doesn't know enough yet to head for the hills when you have a crush?"
Okay, he might have had a point there. Jared was Sandy's stray, brought home a few weeks into the year with the proclamation, "Here, this is Jared. His roommate set their dorm on fire, so he's going to be taking over Tom's old room. You're both in the sciences and you're both from Texas. Be friends." He hadn't had time yet to get used to Jensen's issues.
"Yeah, whatever," said Jensen, "it's not a crush. Go work through the problems in chapter three, already."
Jared just smirked at him and grabbed another cookie before doing just that.
:::
As he finished reading the excerpt aloud, nearly ever member of the class hanging on his every word, Professor Collins perched himself on the edge of his desk and looked up to survey them.
"I'm not going to ask you what I think that means because the subject matter is fairly overt--" There was nervous laughter at that, the kind you got when your professor has just said 'cock' at least half a dozen times in the last five minutes. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he said, smiling. "But I will ask, in those few minutes we have left us today, that you journal your responses to this particular piece. Don't be embarrassed if they're sexual, but don't be embarrassed if they're not. Cohan gets into some heavy power issues here, and those don't necessarily bring out an erotic response if you aren't wired that way."
The vaguely uncomfortable squirming of the class could have - and probably had - signaled both responses. Jensen himself hadn't even entirely figured out his yet. Cohan's use of animal metaphors to describe sado-masochistic activity-- No, too analytical. This was his journal, not a paper. The rhythm of the middle section reminded me of the kind of porn where the top thinks making like a piston is somehow enough. Probably a little too telling of Jensen's personal activities, and at the same time, still not personal enough.
"And when you're finished," said Professor Collins, getting down off the desk and moving around the other side of it again to open his messenger bag, "you can pick up last week's assignment from me."
Jensen chewed on his pen and wrote It was hot. and tried to go from there. This whole exercise was so not his thing; he was having trouble telling if the poem really had that kind of effect on him, or if imagining Professor Collins as the narrator was the real culprit.
He managed about a paragraph before giving in and packing up. More than half the class had already gone before him, which was either a sign he'd done enough or a sign he really was as bad at is as he thought. He shuffled down the steps and slung his bag across his chest as he waited for Professor Collins to pick out his assignment from the dwindling pile.
"You have a good imagination, Jensen," he said as he handed it over. Damned with faint praise, Jensen figured. "I've recommended some authors you might want to read to help you with your ear for language."
It was the creative assignments that Jensen dreaded the most. He could analyze a poem passably, but write one? The green C at the corner of his paper mocked him with its obvious charity.
"Thanks, I appreciate that," he said, and moved closer to the whiteboard to look over the list so the next student could pass by. He was still there after the last of the class had filed out.
"Was there something else, Jensen?"
He looked up, only then realizing he was the last one there. "Sorry, Professor Collins--"
"Misha, please," he said, waving off the title with a faint wrinkling of his nose. "And no need to apologize."
"I was just looking at your reading list. Do you know if all of these are available in the library?"
"If they're not, they should be," said Misha. "If there's anything on there you're interested in that you can't get your hands on, though, I'd be glad to help."
"Well, I was planning to read them all," said Jensen with a nervous laugh, "but with mid-terms to get through that might be a little ambitious. After all, just a couple months to go before I finish all this." Well, until grad school, anyway.
"It's nice to see someone with actual time management skills," said Misha. "I think you're the only senior in my class."
"Just looking to broaden my horizons before I graduate," said Jensen. "I like poetry."
"Yeah, me too," said Misha, smiling at him.
I like poetry. Jensen couldn't believe he actually said that. "So I've got to--" He gestured at the door.
"Of course," said Misha. "You know where my office is if you need anything."
He sure did.
Jensen didn't go straight to lunch with Chris and Danneel, instead making a pit stop in the men's room in the basement of the Laurence Building, locking himself in one of the stalls. No way was he going to try to sit through lunch with a hard-on visible from space. He unzipped and stuffed his hand inside his pants and bit his lip so that nobody would know what he was doing in there.
And if when he closed his eyes he imagined a certain someone following him down there, trapping him against the wall and roughly jerking him off, only he had to know that.
:::
"You know this is a terrible idea, right?" said Sandy. "He's your professor."
"He's only a few years older than me," said Jensen defensively. "This is his first faculty position."
"Yes, and he's your professor," said Sandy again. "I don't care if he's younger than you, he's still your professor. Professors should definitely stay in the look but don't touch category. Violating that is just asking for trouble."
"He asked me to call him Misha."
"Jensen, look at him. He probably asks everyone to call him Misha," said Sandy, her look part sympathetic and part indulgent. "Haven't we been here before?"
"Hey, no," said Jensen. "This isn't like with Jeff. That was just a fleeting... I admire him. He's my mentor. The whole crush part of it passed pretty fast."
"And you're both lucky you got past the whole awkwardness of that," said Sandy, "considering you'll be working with him for the foreseeable future."
"It wasn't awkward for more than a day," said Jensen, "and I'm glad it all got out in the open so we could move past it. Besides, Jeff is straight, and involved. I swear, this isn't the same thing at all."
"Just promise me you won't do anything stupid?"
"I won't do anything more stupid than I usually do," Jensen promised her, which when compared to Chris and Jared and even Danneel was actually a pretty fair promise. "I've done a lot of looking and definitely no touching."
"I shouldn't be encouraging your crush," said Sandy, "but you're irresistibly adorable like this. You even blush."
It wasn't just a crush, that much Jensen knew. Or if it was just a crush, it wasn't the kind where he was content to watch him from afar and enjoy the pleasant, squishy, warm feeling that came from being near the object of one's affection. He was interested. He was paying attention. He was googling him.
But not in a stalkery way.
"He uses that tiny lounge off the third floor of the library to meditate in the early afternoon," Sandy told him finally. "That's all I can help you with."
"I knew one day your job would come in handy for more than just waiving late fees," said Jensen. "I wonder why he doesn't use his office."
"I don't know, probably because his office is in the basement and the lounge has those crazy floor-to-ceiling windows," said Sandy. "It's like a sauna in there. Actually, one of these days I should take our sad little rubber tree up there and see if we can't rescue it from almost-certain doom."
"No, let me," said Jensen. "It's probably my fault for never watering it anyway. I don't know what we were thinking, getting a plant."
"Let me guess," said Sandy. "You'll take it in tomorrow, early afternoon?"
Jensen didn't even try to deny it. "It's for a good cause," he insisted.
"What, for you, or for the rubber tree?"
"Does it really have to be one or the other?" said Jensen. "Come on, Sandy, the guy's fascinating."
"Is he hot enough for you, Jensen? I know you like the well-muscled type. Or is it the well-muscled type that likes you?"
"I have no complaints about that body," said Jensen. And that voice. He was pretty sure Misha could be reading poetry about cheese making aloud and Jensen would still find it sexually charged. "It's my last semester as an undergrad. I think I get to indulge my ridiculous crushes at least a little."
"One of these days you're going to have to stop using that as an excuse to do every little thing that crosses your mind."
"Probably," said Jensen, "and that time will come after I graduate. Thanks for the tip, Sandy. I owe you one."
:::
Jensen wasn't really looking to change his life. He liked his life fine, liked his home and his friends and his hobbies and didn't really feel like he was missing anything. But that didn't mean it was full, it didn't mean that there wasn't room for something more.
The first time he watched Professor Misha Collins, it was from across the quad on a November morning, months ago now. And right in that moment he started wondering what he might have to do to make room for him.
Contemporary American Poetry was just a start.
He pushed open the door to the lounge quietly, even though it was a public space. Sandy was working down on the main floor and as Jensen had passed, rubber tree in hand, she gave him a discreet signal that yes, Misha was up there. And sure enough there he was with his back to the windows, sitting in a sunbeam with his eyes closed.
Okay, maybe Jensen hadn't thought this through entirely. Running into someone while they were meditating wasn't exactly conducive to conversation. But he had a struggling rubber tree in one arm and his hand on the doorknob and it was too late to back out now. He crossed the small room as quietly as he'd entered and was just about to place the plant in a sunny corner when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, saw Misha unfold himself and stretch out, cat-like.
"Jensen Ackles," he said, and Jensen hoped he wasn't imagining the faint note of pleasure in his voice.
"Hey," said Jensen, suddenly awkward now that he'd actually been acknowledged. "I didn't meant to interrupt you, I was just--" He held up the rubber tree as though it could explain better than he could. Given Jensen's people skills, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption. "My roommate Sandy works the information desk part-time? She said there was a lounge up here that got a lot of light, and I just thought... well, uh. Obviously the plant needs a little more TLC than it's been getting."
"Yeah, it's pretty limp," said Misha.
"What?"
"The plant," he clarified, holding one leaf between his thumb and forefinger and frowning at it. "Have you been watering it?"
"Probably not nearly enough," admitted Jensen, holding the pot in both his hands and glad to have something to do with them. "It was sort of... communally owned. I think everyone thought someone else was taking care of it. We're terrible people."
"Poor thing," said Misha. "You know, I'm up here nearly every day if you want me to keep an eye on it."
"Uh, sure," said Jensen. "That'd be great, actually. I mean, between me and Sandy we should be able to take better care of it now, but... no, yeah, that'd be great. Because obviously we've taken such good care of it so far."
Misha laughed and let go of the leaf. "I'm pretty good with plants," he said. "My mother had an amazing garden when I was growing up, back to the earth and all. It was sort of her thing."
"Yeah?" said Jensen carefully, trying not to ruin the easy, normal conversation they had going on.
"It wasn't a commune exactly," said Misha, "but it probably wasn't what a person would call ordinary."
"That kind of explains a lot," said Jensen, thinking only after it was out of his mouth that it probably wasn't the most diplomatic thing to say. Misha just laughed again, though. "I mean--"
"No, I know what you mean," said Misha, waving off his need to explain. "I'm well aware of my reputation. And yet somehow I managed to fill my classes this year anyway."
"You're a good teacher," said Jensen, then winced - probably visibly - when he realized he'd just reminded Misha of just what their relationship to one another actually was.
"I was a little worried I'd get complaints about the subject matter," Misha went on though, the conversation not really shifting tone at all. "But I don't think you can talk about contemporary poetry without dealing with its sometimes explicit nature head on. I don't think you should. It's different from what came before because we're different from what came before."
"Like music," said Jensen. "It's a product of the culture it came from."
"Yes," said Misha, "yes, exactly. Are you a music major?"
Jensen almost said yes, but he'd have been caught out on that particular lie so fast he probably wouldn't have even had time to finish telling it. "Biomechanics," he admitted. "But one of my other roommates is studying music. And I listen to it."
And I listen to it. Like there were people in the world who didn't. Seriously, Jensen didn't know why he even opened his mouth sometimes.
"Biomechanics," said Misha, sounding both curious and impressed. Or at least it made Jensen feel better to think so. "That explains a lot."
He just hoped it was the same kind of compliment he'd been attempting to pay Misha. "Like my inability to craft a rhyming couplet?"
"That's not what I was going to say," said Misha, though that didn't mean Jensen was wrong. "I should--" He gestured towards the door, though his eyes were still on Jensen. "I have a class at two and if I don't show up on time the students start wandering away."
"Right," said Jensen. He'd seen it happen.
"And then a committee meeting, and then my yoga class."
"Busy afternoon," said Jensen. "Thanks for, you know." He nodded at the plant, which he was still holding, like an idiot.
"We'll see if we can't get it to perk up again," said Misha. "I'll see you in class tomorrow, Jensen."
Jensen would have waved if he could, but instead he was stuck saying a faint, "Bye," as Misha slipped out of the lounge, and out of Jensen's sight.
That could've gone better. But it could've gone a lot worse, too.
:::
Jensen's t-shirt read "whine less, breathe more" and yeah, he'd picked it up when he was checking out local yoga classes, but it sort of applied to his discipline too. His next volunteer shift at the physical therapy clinic he was going to wear it just to see what kind of reaction it got.
"In contrasting the work of Cohan with the work of Whitfield, you'll see a shift in focus from the physical to the emotional, not just in the subject matter and the imagery but in the very language. Without the very precise use of language, after all, there would be no poetry."
As Misha paused to move some papers out of his way, a question came from the back of the room. "Does that mean bad poetry isn't poetry at all?"
He laughed as he leaned back against the desk, his eyes pausing on Jensen for just a moment before traveling the rest of the way to the back of the room. "That argument can and has been made," he agreed, "but even language used badly is language used deliberately."
Thank God for that, and thank God for the fact that the syllabus indicated only two creative assignments for the entire semester.
Misha was silent for moment then began to speak again, his mouth forming each word distinctly and carefully.
"Silky," he said. "Hot. Throb. Tongue. Nip. Flutter. Thrust. Melt. Shiver. Skin. Slick. Burn. Glide. Twist. Tease. Pulse. Shatter. Come."
He fell silent again and Jensen could hear only breathing, his own and everyone else's.
"Every one of those words can be used in a multitude of contexts," Misha went on finally. "It's how you use them that matters." Then he glanced at the clock and sighed. "And that is, apparently, the thought I'm going to leave you with today. Don't forget your papers on war and revolution are due on Monday, barring fire, flood or famine. Sadly, not everything in this course can be about throbbing, teasing or coming."
The hell it couldn't.
Jensen remained in his seat until he wasn't quite so obviously hard anymore, making like he was jotting down notes, then took his time repacking his things until he was nearly the last one out.
"Nice shirt," said Misha - now that he'd been invited to be familiar, Jensen had trouble thinking of him as anything else - as Jensen passed his desk. "I think my roommate has one just like it."
The same roommate, Jensen presumed, that he had borrowed the infamous skirt from. He wasn't quite sure how to take that.
"Well, you know," said Jensen, giving him a shrug and a smile. He thought up about a half dozen excuses for it and didn't end up using any of them. "It's unisex."
It's unisex.
"So many things are, if you look at them the right way," said Misha. "How were your mid-terms?"
"Rough enough to make me glad I'm almost finished," said Jensen, "and easy enough to make me realize I really do know my stuff."
"I remember that point entirely too well," said Misha as he gathered his things. "Do you practice?" He nodded at the t-shirt, making his meaning clear.
"Yes," said Jensen immediately. Technically speaking, having tried it out once made that not a lie. "I mean, I'm a novice, but... yeah."
"Interesting," said Misha, smiling at him.
Having managed to make it through that much of a conversation without being outed as an idiot or a fraud, Jensen got out while the getting was good. He smiled back and slung his bag over his body and left with his head held high.
The men's room wasn't empty but Jensen didn't let that stop him, slamming the stall door shut and dragging his nails across his bare stomach, hissing softly at the spark of pleasure it sent down to his cock. As if the thing needed any more encouragement right now. The voices outside his stall faded into the background as Jensen rubbed himself through his jeans, remembered watching Misha's mouth forming those words.
Throb. Thrust. Glide.
He got carried away with the push, rub, gasp, and fumbled his pants open just in time to not come in them, panting as he cleaned himself up with a bit of toilet paper and flushed it down.
The voices became more distinct again, then the sound of running water, laughter as the door closed behind them. Jensen knew his face was red but he stepped out into the now-empty room anyway, and even the thought that he'd been overheard didn't affect the pleasure that overtook him.
:::
"Yoga? Seriously?"
Jensen looked down at the mat, then up at Danneel.
"Is it really that weird?" He tried to sound innocent but knew it came out defensive instead. "It's good for the body. Someone in my course did a research project on it last year."
"Yeah, and I'm sure that's exactly why you've decided to take it up now. Uh huh. Sure."
"You weren't supposed to be home for another couple of hours," he said, wishing she'd come in even five minutes later. "Did I look as ridiculous as I felt?"
"Yes," she said. "Yoga, Jensen? Put some clothes on and then meet me in the den so I can sew your balls back on."
He sighed and muttered, "Shut up," and couldn't even really argue with her. Which didn't even mean he was going to give it up, which was the saddest part. He was just going to do it somewhere that he was less likely to be walked in on.
When he met her in the den afterwards, she did have a sewing needle and spool of thread out on the coffee table, but then she grinned and handed him a cup of coffee. "You want to explain your sudden enthusiasm for contorting your - by the way, inflexible - body to me?"
"I just wanted to try it out," said Jensen. "Someplace I thought would be private."
"The only private place in this house is your bedroom," said Danneel, "and that's because you're a freak who put a lock on it. We're taking that off as soon as you move out, you know."
"I'm never moving out," said Jensen. "I'm going to be single and live here forever. I'm going to be living in that bedroom when your grandchildren are going to this school."
"What the hell are you... wait, are you doing this for a guy?" said Danneel. "Believe me, no guy is worth pulling your groin muscles for. Well, unless you pull them during--"
"No," said Jensen quickly. "I'm not... it's just something that came up in conversation with Mi-- Professor Collins and I thought, given my professional ambitions, I'd give it a try."
"Oh my god," said Danneel. "You aren't taking this course because you wanted a broader range of subjects on your transcript. You're taking it because of him."
"I'm taking it because I wanted a couple more humanities on my transcript and between Contemporary American Poetry with Professor Collins and Social and Cultural Aspects of Reproduction with Professor Gamble, it was an easy choice," said Jensen. "I'm not completely academically suspect."
"It's true, reproduction is probably not your forte," said Danny, "much as you should be passing those pretty, gay genes on by any means necessary. You're studying poetry and doing yoga for a guy?"
"Do you have to make it sound so ridiculous?"
"Hey, I'm just calling it like it is, Jensen. Must be a pretty special guy."
"The more I get to know him, the more I think so," he had to admit. "And don't say he's not my type. I've already got Jared on my case about that."
"Jared knew before I did? Oh, how is that fair?" said Danneel. "How would he even know your type anyway?"
"That's exactly what I said."
"Your type is gorgeous and, if you're lucky, smart," she finished like he hadn't even interrupted. "But honestly, Jensen, a crush on your professor? That's so cliché."
"Never claimed I wasn't," he said, glad to have a cup of coffee in his hands to keep him from fidgeting. He sat down on the old sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table next to the spool of thread. "When have I ever been smooth?"
"Not since I've known you," said Danneel. "Just don't get too weird, all right? I like you the way you are."
:::
The clinic was, as always, a good place for Jensen to get his head on straight. Not that his head wasn't these days, but actually working in the field he wanted to be working in - however peripherally - gave him a kind of focus that sometimes he lost.
"Here, let me give you a hand with that," said Jeff Morgan when Jensen found himself up to his ankles in towels.
"No, it's all right," said Jensen, even though laundry duty was just about his least favorite aspect of volunteering at the physical therapy clinic. He wasn't going to complain, though; Jensen was more than willing to pay his dues. Especially since his volunteer work and Jeff's recommendation had gone a long way to getting Jensen a space in the graduate program. "I'm pretty sure you've got better things to do."
"Nah," said Jeff, rolling up his sleeves. "We're done for the day. Sam's just locking up now."
"Already?" said Jensen, glancing up at the clock. Or where a clock should have been, but instead was only a circle of slightly less faded paint from the rest of the wall.
"Time flies when you're handling dirty towels?" said Jeff. "Sorry about this. I wanted you up front today so you could observe but there's a flu going around and we were a little desperate."
"You don't need to apologize to me," said Jensen quickly. "Hell, you can make me do whatever you want me to do."
"I seem to recall you saying that to me once before."
Jensen didn't blush, but it was a struggle. "I was young and naive."
"It was last year," Jeff teased him, catching him with his elbow as he met him at the washer and twisted a couple of dials.
"Exactly," said Jensen. "I've moved on now. You missed that boat, Jeff."
'I'm sure twenty years from now when I'm an old man and Mary Louise has left me I'll be kicking myself over that," he said as Jensen glanced at the not-clock again. "Somewhere you need to be?"
"Just a paper I need to finish," said Jensen, shaking his head. "I don't suppose you know anything about poetry, do you?"
"Poetry?" said Jeff. "Just what is it you're studying, Jensen? You haven't changed your mind about the physical therapy program, have you?"
"What, are you kidding me?" said Jensen. "No, it's just an elective. Jesus, Jeff. You really think I could give up the aching muscles, the terrible hours, the--"
"Laundry?" said Jeff, holding up a towel and making a face at it. Jensen didn't want to try to identify that stain. "No, I guess you wouldn't. What kind of poetry?"
"Contemporary," said Jensen. "It's a bunch of free form stuff, not a sonnet in sight."
"I think I'd be more suspicious if you were studying sonnets," said Jeff. "Here, hand me the detergent there. No, the other one, with the bleach."
"No, you should be worried if I'm writing sonnets," said Jensen. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, though. I'm pretty terrible."
"Pretty words never really were your thing," agreed Jeff. "You're a lot better with your brain and your hands. Speaking of, we've got a massage clinic coming up next month, you want in?"
"Oh, hell yeah," said Jensen. "You've got room for me?"
"I'll make room," said Jeff. "After all, I'm trying to entice you to stay and work for us when you finish your education. I've got to offer you some perks."
"Who needs perks when you've got all this?" said Jensen, gesturing at the room. "So you're sure you're not secretly a poetry genius?"
"Having that much trouble?" said Jeff. "Can you still drop the course without a penalty?"
"Oh, no, I'm not failing," said Jensen, "I'm just...."
"You can't stand not to be perfect?"
"I can live with not being perfect," said Jensen, "but I'd prefer not to look like an idiot."
"Ah," said Jeff, like he'd just grasped the answer to the mystery of life, the universe and everything. "You're trying to impress someone."
"Like I said," said Jensen. "I've moved on. Did you think I was going to pine after you forever?"
"Good for the ego, bad for your social life," said Jeff. "So who is this new guy? Anyone I know?"
Jensen just shook his head, even though it was entirely possible Jeff knew exactly who he was. "It's nothing to talk about yet," he said. "But I'll let you know if it ever is."
:::
"Sandy baked," said Jared, like Jensen couldn't see the already-ravaged cake for himself, "and Chris picked up some steaks. He's grilling out back."
"Thank God," said Jensen, and left his boots on when he put his feet up on the coffee table. "I thought the lab was going to eat me alive today."
"If it ever does, I'll make sure your mother never gets your computer," Jared promised him, because that was what good friends did. "I thought you were almost done with that project?"
"Closer we get to the end of the semester, they more they keep piling it on," said Jensen, taking the PBR Jared offered him with a sigh of relief. "You finish that take-home all right?"
"Yeah, I think I got it," said Jared. "I'm going to be begging for your notes again in a week or two, though. I hear the final's harsh."
"It is," said Jensen honestly, "but you'll do fine. It just weeds out the people who are serious about their stuff from the ones who think they can skate by like they did in high school. Far as I'm concerned, the world doesn't need any engineers who think they can skate by. I like my bridges to remain intact, thanks."
"Yeah," said Jared, sipping his own beer. "But I'm still going to borrow your notes and freak out."
"Course you are," said Jensen, swigging his own beer. "Hey, you're coming out to the lake with us after, right? Me and Chris and Steve and Dave. Sunshine, weed and Chris's guitar. It'll be a good time."
"I'm gonna need it after finals," said Jared, his own booted feet up next to Jensen's. "I'm scheduled right through to the very last exam slot. How's that for bad luck, huh?"
"Consider it extra studying time," said Jensen. "You think Chris needs help out back?
"Fuck if I know," said Jared. "Does he usually need help grilling a few steaks?"
"He'd probably kick our asses for questioning his manhood," admitted Jensen. Not that he'd actually made any move to get up and go out back in the first place.
"So what does it feel like to be almost done?" said Jared. "Does it feel as good as it looks from here?"
"It feels like I've still got at least two more years ahead of me," said Jensen, "which is actually what you're going to feel when you get to where I am and realize you're doing the exact same thing."
"Come on, give a guy some hope that there'll be some satisfaction to come with my undergrad degree," said Jared. "No, screw it. I'm going to drop out to be a barista at the Starbucks on Grand Street."
"Yeah, right," said Jensen. "And I'm going to give it all up to read tarot cards at the county fair."
Jared raised his beer bottle up just to point it at Jensen. "The problem with that," he said, "is that these days I could almost believe it."
"Fuck you," said Jensen, draining his beer. "Fortune telling? Really? What do you take me for?"
"Do you really want me to answer that?" said Jared. "It involves the words 'blinded' and 'lust'."
"I'm not blinded by anything," said Jensen, "and contrary to the rumors flying around this house, there are limits to what I'm willing to do to get someone's attention."
"Really?" said Jared. "You think nobody noticed the organic chicken in the fridge?"
"Food's food," said Jensen. "There's nothing weird about me giving that a try and you know it." Okay, it was a little weird, but it wasn't fortune telling. "We're still watching the game tomorrow, right?"
"Better be," said Jared. "Unless you have yoga class."
"Fuck you," said Jensen again, then laughed and got up to get them some more beer.
:::
"Light me on fire," said Misha, not even looking at the dog-eared book in his hands. "Bleed yourself under my skin." He closed the book over one finger and looked up the class. "Bleed yourself. Bleeding's a very powerful idea, whether you take it literally or metaphorically."
"I don't think that's supposed to be literal."
"No?" said Misha, looking up at where one of the many people Jensen didn't know in the class had spoken. "Are you positive?"
She had the book open in front of her, ran her finger down the page as she read, lips moving swiftly. "I think trying to force a literal interpretation on it weakens the image," she said finally. "The bleeding is emotional."
"Okay," he said, looking around again. "But in what sense?"
"It's submission," said Mike, drawing Misha's attention. "Jesus, it's ten kinds of submission. He's opening himself up to the pain and the experiences and the ideas and hell, maybe even the bodily fluids, of someone else."
Misha smiled, but Jensen couldn't tell if that was because Mike was right, or because he was interesting.
"I think that's definitely a valid interpretation," he said. "The poem works because it's on such a visceral level, because each of us absorbs those feelings he's describing and attaches our own memories and experiences to them, which adheres a whole new layer of meaning on top of what's actually written."
"I think he's getting a tattoo," said Annie, from right at the back. "I think when he says 'under my skin' he means under his skin. He's letting someone in."
"Tattooing is an intimate experience," he agreed. "Not only are you making what is presumed to be a permanent modification to your body, imprinting yourself, you're letting someone else do it to you. It's not just the burning of the needles that evokes a response. It's an intensely physical and emotional act."
"You sound like you know something about that."
"I might," he said, neither confirming nor denying. "That might be what I'm bringing to my own interpretation of the poem, the intensity of that moment, the anticipation, the vulnerability."
"Like sex."
"Read one poem about orgies and people think everything that comes out of your mouth is about sex," he said, shaking his head but smiling nonetheless. "But you're not wrong. The parallels are striking. Maybe, in fact, that's his point. He's speaking to his audience at a base level, from the very core of the experience. Do you think he could have written this without direct experience to draw upon?"
Whether or not the question was rhetorical, there was no answer given.
"I'm not telling you all to run out and get inked or fucked just to know what he's talking about here, but you need to experience life in order to write about it. You can research all you want, but there isn't a substitute for sense memory, however you acquire it. Otherwise you're just repeating someone else's memory of an experience."
Thought the discussion went on for a while longer, it was that thought that stayed with Jensen throughout the rest of the class, and in fact through the days that followed it.
Part Two
Under His Skin
Jensen wasn't really looking to change his life. He liked his life fine, liked his home and his friends and his hobbies and didn't really feel like he was missing anything. But one look at Professor Misha Collins from across the quad and he decided that didn't mean there wasn't room for something new.
CWRPS. 12,800 words. NC-17. Jensen/Misha. AU.
ETA 18april11: Now available as a podfic thanks to the wonderful exmanhater, and subsequently in an audiobook version by cybel!
This is also now available on my AO3.
"He's not your type," said Jared, taking one look at the picture then sniffing and turning back to his calculus textbook.
"How do you even know what my type is?" said Jensen. "You've been living here less than six months. You've only seen me with, what, one guy? Ever?"
"Yeah, and he was nothing like that," said Jared, reaching for a fresh chocolate chip cookie from the plate on the table. "Ergo, he's not your type. And no offense but even if he were, I'm pretty sure you're not his."
"How can you even tell that from just a picture?" said Jensen, taking one last look at it before closing the tab in his browser. "You didn't even read the bio."
"Blah blah blah, did graduate studies at Stanford, blah blah blah, likes waterfalls and kittens and dressing like a woman. I didn't need to read it, Jensen, I know who he is. Everyone knows who he is."
He did have a point there. About most people on campus knowing who he was, not about the kittens and the rest. Probably.
"One skirt, once," Jensen protested. "And I'm pretty sure he was using it to make a point."
"I'm pretty sure he skipped laundry day and just borrowed it from his hot roommate's closet," said Jared. "And I don't mean roommate in the wink wink nudge nudge sense because I swear that guy's gayer than you are. Now are we helping me study for mid-terms or are we mooning over your poetry professor?"
"We can't do both?" said Jensen. "Consider it my fee for helping you out with my old notes. You ace your mid-term; I get to try to figure out Professor Collins."
"Better men than you have tried and failed," said Jared gravely. "There might even be published studies on the subject. Come on, though, seriously. The test is tomorrow and you're going to have to explain what you see in him before I can help you anyway."
"This is how I know you're straight," said Jensen, shaking his head but returning to his notes anyway, all still neatly divided and color-coded. He'd been a freshman once, too; he remembered that mild and irrational feeling of panic that maybe you weren't cut out for this whole college thing anyway, no matter how well, objectively, you were doing. "Hell, even Chris probably wouldn't have to ask that."
"Then maybe you should have asked one of your other roommates," said Jared. "Or have you gone through all of them already and now you're stuck with the new guy who doesn't know enough yet to head for the hills when you have a crush?"
Okay, he might have had a point there. Jared was Sandy's stray, brought home a few weeks into the year with the proclamation, "Here, this is Jared. His roommate set their dorm on fire, so he's going to be taking over Tom's old room. You're both in the sciences and you're both from Texas. Be friends." He hadn't had time yet to get used to Jensen's issues.
"Yeah, whatever," said Jensen, "it's not a crush. Go work through the problems in chapter three, already."
Jared just smirked at him and grabbed another cookie before doing just that.
:::
As he finished reading the excerpt aloud, nearly ever member of the class hanging on his every word, Professor Collins perched himself on the edge of his desk and looked up to survey them.
"I'm not going to ask you what I think that means because the subject matter is fairly overt--" There was nervous laughter at that, the kind you got when your professor has just said 'cock' at least half a dozen times in the last five minutes. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he said, smiling. "But I will ask, in those few minutes we have left us today, that you journal your responses to this particular piece. Don't be embarrassed if they're sexual, but don't be embarrassed if they're not. Cohan gets into some heavy power issues here, and those don't necessarily bring out an erotic response if you aren't wired that way."
The vaguely uncomfortable squirming of the class could have - and probably had - signaled both responses. Jensen himself hadn't even entirely figured out his yet. Cohan's use of animal metaphors to describe sado-masochistic activity-- No, too analytical. This was his journal, not a paper. The rhythm of the middle section reminded me of the kind of porn where the top thinks making like a piston is somehow enough. Probably a little too telling of Jensen's personal activities, and at the same time, still not personal enough.
"And when you're finished," said Professor Collins, getting down off the desk and moving around the other side of it again to open his messenger bag, "you can pick up last week's assignment from me."
Jensen chewed on his pen and wrote It was hot. and tried to go from there. This whole exercise was so not his thing; he was having trouble telling if the poem really had that kind of effect on him, or if imagining Professor Collins as the narrator was the real culprit.
He managed about a paragraph before giving in and packing up. More than half the class had already gone before him, which was either a sign he'd done enough or a sign he really was as bad at is as he thought. He shuffled down the steps and slung his bag across his chest as he waited for Professor Collins to pick out his assignment from the dwindling pile.
"You have a good imagination, Jensen," he said as he handed it over. Damned with faint praise, Jensen figured. "I've recommended some authors you might want to read to help you with your ear for language."
It was the creative assignments that Jensen dreaded the most. He could analyze a poem passably, but write one? The green C at the corner of his paper mocked him with its obvious charity.
"Thanks, I appreciate that," he said, and moved closer to the whiteboard to look over the list so the next student could pass by. He was still there after the last of the class had filed out.
"Was there something else, Jensen?"
He looked up, only then realizing he was the last one there. "Sorry, Professor Collins--"
"Misha, please," he said, waving off the title with a faint wrinkling of his nose. "And no need to apologize."
"I was just looking at your reading list. Do you know if all of these are available in the library?"
"If they're not, they should be," said Misha. "If there's anything on there you're interested in that you can't get your hands on, though, I'd be glad to help."
"Well, I was planning to read them all," said Jensen with a nervous laugh, "but with mid-terms to get through that might be a little ambitious. After all, just a couple months to go before I finish all this." Well, until grad school, anyway.
"It's nice to see someone with actual time management skills," said Misha. "I think you're the only senior in my class."
"Just looking to broaden my horizons before I graduate," said Jensen. "I like poetry."
"Yeah, me too," said Misha, smiling at him.
I like poetry. Jensen couldn't believe he actually said that. "So I've got to--" He gestured at the door.
"Of course," said Misha. "You know where my office is if you need anything."
He sure did.
Jensen didn't go straight to lunch with Chris and Danneel, instead making a pit stop in the men's room in the basement of the Laurence Building, locking himself in one of the stalls. No way was he going to try to sit through lunch with a hard-on visible from space. He unzipped and stuffed his hand inside his pants and bit his lip so that nobody would know what he was doing in there.
And if when he closed his eyes he imagined a certain someone following him down there, trapping him against the wall and roughly jerking him off, only he had to know that.
:::
"You know this is a terrible idea, right?" said Sandy. "He's your professor."
"He's only a few years older than me," said Jensen defensively. "This is his first faculty position."
"Yes, and he's your professor," said Sandy again. "I don't care if he's younger than you, he's still your professor. Professors should definitely stay in the look but don't touch category. Violating that is just asking for trouble."
"He asked me to call him Misha."
"Jensen, look at him. He probably asks everyone to call him Misha," said Sandy, her look part sympathetic and part indulgent. "Haven't we been here before?"
"Hey, no," said Jensen. "This isn't like with Jeff. That was just a fleeting... I admire him. He's my mentor. The whole crush part of it passed pretty fast."
"And you're both lucky you got past the whole awkwardness of that," said Sandy, "considering you'll be working with him for the foreseeable future."
"It wasn't awkward for more than a day," said Jensen, "and I'm glad it all got out in the open so we could move past it. Besides, Jeff is straight, and involved. I swear, this isn't the same thing at all."
"Just promise me you won't do anything stupid?"
"I won't do anything more stupid than I usually do," Jensen promised her, which when compared to Chris and Jared and even Danneel was actually a pretty fair promise. "I've done a lot of looking and definitely no touching."
"I shouldn't be encouraging your crush," said Sandy, "but you're irresistibly adorable like this. You even blush."
It wasn't just a crush, that much Jensen knew. Or if it was just a crush, it wasn't the kind where he was content to watch him from afar and enjoy the pleasant, squishy, warm feeling that came from being near the object of one's affection. He was interested. He was paying attention. He was googling him.
But not in a stalkery way.
"He uses that tiny lounge off the third floor of the library to meditate in the early afternoon," Sandy told him finally. "That's all I can help you with."
"I knew one day your job would come in handy for more than just waiving late fees," said Jensen. "I wonder why he doesn't use his office."
"I don't know, probably because his office is in the basement and the lounge has those crazy floor-to-ceiling windows," said Sandy. "It's like a sauna in there. Actually, one of these days I should take our sad little rubber tree up there and see if we can't rescue it from almost-certain doom."
"No, let me," said Jensen. "It's probably my fault for never watering it anyway. I don't know what we were thinking, getting a plant."
"Let me guess," said Sandy. "You'll take it in tomorrow, early afternoon?"
Jensen didn't even try to deny it. "It's for a good cause," he insisted.
"What, for you, or for the rubber tree?"
"Does it really have to be one or the other?" said Jensen. "Come on, Sandy, the guy's fascinating."
"Is he hot enough for you, Jensen? I know you like the well-muscled type. Or is it the well-muscled type that likes you?"
"I have no complaints about that body," said Jensen. And that voice. He was pretty sure Misha could be reading poetry about cheese making aloud and Jensen would still find it sexually charged. "It's my last semester as an undergrad. I think I get to indulge my ridiculous crushes at least a little."
"One of these days you're going to have to stop using that as an excuse to do every little thing that crosses your mind."
"Probably," said Jensen, "and that time will come after I graduate. Thanks for the tip, Sandy. I owe you one."
:::
Jensen wasn't really looking to change his life. He liked his life fine, liked his home and his friends and his hobbies and didn't really feel like he was missing anything. But that didn't mean it was full, it didn't mean that there wasn't room for something more.
The first time he watched Professor Misha Collins, it was from across the quad on a November morning, months ago now. And right in that moment he started wondering what he might have to do to make room for him.
Contemporary American Poetry was just a start.
He pushed open the door to the lounge quietly, even though it was a public space. Sandy was working down on the main floor and as Jensen had passed, rubber tree in hand, she gave him a discreet signal that yes, Misha was up there. And sure enough there he was with his back to the windows, sitting in a sunbeam with his eyes closed.
Okay, maybe Jensen hadn't thought this through entirely. Running into someone while they were meditating wasn't exactly conducive to conversation. But he had a struggling rubber tree in one arm and his hand on the doorknob and it was too late to back out now. He crossed the small room as quietly as he'd entered and was just about to place the plant in a sunny corner when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, saw Misha unfold himself and stretch out, cat-like.
"Jensen Ackles," he said, and Jensen hoped he wasn't imagining the faint note of pleasure in his voice.
"Hey," said Jensen, suddenly awkward now that he'd actually been acknowledged. "I didn't meant to interrupt you, I was just--" He held up the rubber tree as though it could explain better than he could. Given Jensen's people skills, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption. "My roommate Sandy works the information desk part-time? She said there was a lounge up here that got a lot of light, and I just thought... well, uh. Obviously the plant needs a little more TLC than it's been getting."
"Yeah, it's pretty limp," said Misha.
"What?"
"The plant," he clarified, holding one leaf between his thumb and forefinger and frowning at it. "Have you been watering it?"
"Probably not nearly enough," admitted Jensen, holding the pot in both his hands and glad to have something to do with them. "It was sort of... communally owned. I think everyone thought someone else was taking care of it. We're terrible people."
"Poor thing," said Misha. "You know, I'm up here nearly every day if you want me to keep an eye on it."
"Uh, sure," said Jensen. "That'd be great, actually. I mean, between me and Sandy we should be able to take better care of it now, but... no, yeah, that'd be great. Because obviously we've taken such good care of it so far."
Misha laughed and let go of the leaf. "I'm pretty good with plants," he said. "My mother had an amazing garden when I was growing up, back to the earth and all. It was sort of her thing."
"Yeah?" said Jensen carefully, trying not to ruin the easy, normal conversation they had going on.
"It wasn't a commune exactly," said Misha, "but it probably wasn't what a person would call ordinary."
"That kind of explains a lot," said Jensen, thinking only after it was out of his mouth that it probably wasn't the most diplomatic thing to say. Misha just laughed again, though. "I mean--"
"No, I know what you mean," said Misha, waving off his need to explain. "I'm well aware of my reputation. And yet somehow I managed to fill my classes this year anyway."
"You're a good teacher," said Jensen, then winced - probably visibly - when he realized he'd just reminded Misha of just what their relationship to one another actually was.
"I was a little worried I'd get complaints about the subject matter," Misha went on though, the conversation not really shifting tone at all. "But I don't think you can talk about contemporary poetry without dealing with its sometimes explicit nature head on. I don't think you should. It's different from what came before because we're different from what came before."
"Like music," said Jensen. "It's a product of the culture it came from."
"Yes," said Misha, "yes, exactly. Are you a music major?"
Jensen almost said yes, but he'd have been caught out on that particular lie so fast he probably wouldn't have even had time to finish telling it. "Biomechanics," he admitted. "But one of my other roommates is studying music. And I listen to it."
And I listen to it. Like there were people in the world who didn't. Seriously, Jensen didn't know why he even opened his mouth sometimes.
"Biomechanics," said Misha, sounding both curious and impressed. Or at least it made Jensen feel better to think so. "That explains a lot."
He just hoped it was the same kind of compliment he'd been attempting to pay Misha. "Like my inability to craft a rhyming couplet?"
"That's not what I was going to say," said Misha, though that didn't mean Jensen was wrong. "I should--" He gestured towards the door, though his eyes were still on Jensen. "I have a class at two and if I don't show up on time the students start wandering away."
"Right," said Jensen. He'd seen it happen.
"And then a committee meeting, and then my yoga class."
"Busy afternoon," said Jensen. "Thanks for, you know." He nodded at the plant, which he was still holding, like an idiot.
"We'll see if we can't get it to perk up again," said Misha. "I'll see you in class tomorrow, Jensen."
Jensen would have waved if he could, but instead he was stuck saying a faint, "Bye," as Misha slipped out of the lounge, and out of Jensen's sight.
That could've gone better. But it could've gone a lot worse, too.
:::
Jensen's t-shirt read "whine less, breathe more" and yeah, he'd picked it up when he was checking out local yoga classes, but it sort of applied to his discipline too. His next volunteer shift at the physical therapy clinic he was going to wear it just to see what kind of reaction it got.
"In contrasting the work of Cohan with the work of Whitfield, you'll see a shift in focus from the physical to the emotional, not just in the subject matter and the imagery but in the very language. Without the very precise use of language, after all, there would be no poetry."
As Misha paused to move some papers out of his way, a question came from the back of the room. "Does that mean bad poetry isn't poetry at all?"
He laughed as he leaned back against the desk, his eyes pausing on Jensen for just a moment before traveling the rest of the way to the back of the room. "That argument can and has been made," he agreed, "but even language used badly is language used deliberately."
Thank God for that, and thank God for the fact that the syllabus indicated only two creative assignments for the entire semester.
Misha was silent for moment then began to speak again, his mouth forming each word distinctly and carefully.
"Silky," he said. "Hot. Throb. Tongue. Nip. Flutter. Thrust. Melt. Shiver. Skin. Slick. Burn. Glide. Twist. Tease. Pulse. Shatter. Come."
He fell silent again and Jensen could hear only breathing, his own and everyone else's.
"Every one of those words can be used in a multitude of contexts," Misha went on finally. "It's how you use them that matters." Then he glanced at the clock and sighed. "And that is, apparently, the thought I'm going to leave you with today. Don't forget your papers on war and revolution are due on Monday, barring fire, flood or famine. Sadly, not everything in this course can be about throbbing, teasing or coming."
The hell it couldn't.
Jensen remained in his seat until he wasn't quite so obviously hard anymore, making like he was jotting down notes, then took his time repacking his things until he was nearly the last one out.
"Nice shirt," said Misha - now that he'd been invited to be familiar, Jensen had trouble thinking of him as anything else - as Jensen passed his desk. "I think my roommate has one just like it."
The same roommate, Jensen presumed, that he had borrowed the infamous skirt from. He wasn't quite sure how to take that.
"Well, you know," said Jensen, giving him a shrug and a smile. He thought up about a half dozen excuses for it and didn't end up using any of them. "It's unisex."
It's unisex.
"So many things are, if you look at them the right way," said Misha. "How were your mid-terms?"
"Rough enough to make me glad I'm almost finished," said Jensen, "and easy enough to make me realize I really do know my stuff."
"I remember that point entirely too well," said Misha as he gathered his things. "Do you practice?" He nodded at the t-shirt, making his meaning clear.
"Yes," said Jensen immediately. Technically speaking, having tried it out once made that not a lie. "I mean, I'm a novice, but... yeah."
"Interesting," said Misha, smiling at him.
Having managed to make it through that much of a conversation without being outed as an idiot or a fraud, Jensen got out while the getting was good. He smiled back and slung his bag over his body and left with his head held high.
The men's room wasn't empty but Jensen didn't let that stop him, slamming the stall door shut and dragging his nails across his bare stomach, hissing softly at the spark of pleasure it sent down to his cock. As if the thing needed any more encouragement right now. The voices outside his stall faded into the background as Jensen rubbed himself through his jeans, remembered watching Misha's mouth forming those words.
Throb. Thrust. Glide.
He got carried away with the push, rub, gasp, and fumbled his pants open just in time to not come in them, panting as he cleaned himself up with a bit of toilet paper and flushed it down.
The voices became more distinct again, then the sound of running water, laughter as the door closed behind them. Jensen knew his face was red but he stepped out into the now-empty room anyway, and even the thought that he'd been overheard didn't affect the pleasure that overtook him.
:::
"Yoga? Seriously?"
Jensen looked down at the mat, then up at Danneel.
"Is it really that weird?" He tried to sound innocent but knew it came out defensive instead. "It's good for the body. Someone in my course did a research project on it last year."
"Yeah, and I'm sure that's exactly why you've decided to take it up now. Uh huh. Sure."
"You weren't supposed to be home for another couple of hours," he said, wishing she'd come in even five minutes later. "Did I look as ridiculous as I felt?"
"Yes," she said. "Yoga, Jensen? Put some clothes on and then meet me in the den so I can sew your balls back on."
He sighed and muttered, "Shut up," and couldn't even really argue with her. Which didn't even mean he was going to give it up, which was the saddest part. He was just going to do it somewhere that he was less likely to be walked in on.
When he met her in the den afterwards, she did have a sewing needle and spool of thread out on the coffee table, but then she grinned and handed him a cup of coffee. "You want to explain your sudden enthusiasm for contorting your - by the way, inflexible - body to me?"
"I just wanted to try it out," said Jensen. "Someplace I thought would be private."
"The only private place in this house is your bedroom," said Danneel, "and that's because you're a freak who put a lock on it. We're taking that off as soon as you move out, you know."
"I'm never moving out," said Jensen. "I'm going to be single and live here forever. I'm going to be living in that bedroom when your grandchildren are going to this school."
"What the hell are you... wait, are you doing this for a guy?" said Danneel. "Believe me, no guy is worth pulling your groin muscles for. Well, unless you pull them during--"
"No," said Jensen quickly. "I'm not... it's just something that came up in conversation with Mi-- Professor Collins and I thought, given my professional ambitions, I'd give it a try."
"Oh my god," said Danneel. "You aren't taking this course because you wanted a broader range of subjects on your transcript. You're taking it because of him."
"I'm taking it because I wanted a couple more humanities on my transcript and between Contemporary American Poetry with Professor Collins and Social and Cultural Aspects of Reproduction with Professor Gamble, it was an easy choice," said Jensen. "I'm not completely academically suspect."
"It's true, reproduction is probably not your forte," said Danny, "much as you should be passing those pretty, gay genes on by any means necessary. You're studying poetry and doing yoga for a guy?"
"Do you have to make it sound so ridiculous?"
"Hey, I'm just calling it like it is, Jensen. Must be a pretty special guy."
"The more I get to know him, the more I think so," he had to admit. "And don't say he's not my type. I've already got Jared on my case about that."
"Jared knew before I did? Oh, how is that fair?" said Danneel. "How would he even know your type anyway?"
"That's exactly what I said."
"Your type is gorgeous and, if you're lucky, smart," she finished like he hadn't even interrupted. "But honestly, Jensen, a crush on your professor? That's so cliché."
"Never claimed I wasn't," he said, glad to have a cup of coffee in his hands to keep him from fidgeting. He sat down on the old sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table next to the spool of thread. "When have I ever been smooth?"
"Not since I've known you," said Danneel. "Just don't get too weird, all right? I like you the way you are."
:::
The clinic was, as always, a good place for Jensen to get his head on straight. Not that his head wasn't these days, but actually working in the field he wanted to be working in - however peripherally - gave him a kind of focus that sometimes he lost.
"Here, let me give you a hand with that," said Jeff Morgan when Jensen found himself up to his ankles in towels.
"No, it's all right," said Jensen, even though laundry duty was just about his least favorite aspect of volunteering at the physical therapy clinic. He wasn't going to complain, though; Jensen was more than willing to pay his dues. Especially since his volunteer work and Jeff's recommendation had gone a long way to getting Jensen a space in the graduate program. "I'm pretty sure you've got better things to do."
"Nah," said Jeff, rolling up his sleeves. "We're done for the day. Sam's just locking up now."
"Already?" said Jensen, glancing up at the clock. Or where a clock should have been, but instead was only a circle of slightly less faded paint from the rest of the wall.
"Time flies when you're handling dirty towels?" said Jeff. "Sorry about this. I wanted you up front today so you could observe but there's a flu going around and we were a little desperate."
"You don't need to apologize to me," said Jensen quickly. "Hell, you can make me do whatever you want me to do."
"I seem to recall you saying that to me once before."
Jensen didn't blush, but it was a struggle. "I was young and naive."
"It was last year," Jeff teased him, catching him with his elbow as he met him at the washer and twisted a couple of dials.
"Exactly," said Jensen. "I've moved on now. You missed that boat, Jeff."
'I'm sure twenty years from now when I'm an old man and Mary Louise has left me I'll be kicking myself over that," he said as Jensen glanced at the not-clock again. "Somewhere you need to be?"
"Just a paper I need to finish," said Jensen, shaking his head. "I don't suppose you know anything about poetry, do you?"
"Poetry?" said Jeff. "Just what is it you're studying, Jensen? You haven't changed your mind about the physical therapy program, have you?"
"What, are you kidding me?" said Jensen. "No, it's just an elective. Jesus, Jeff. You really think I could give up the aching muscles, the terrible hours, the--"
"Laundry?" said Jeff, holding up a towel and making a face at it. Jensen didn't want to try to identify that stain. "No, I guess you wouldn't. What kind of poetry?"
"Contemporary," said Jensen. "It's a bunch of free form stuff, not a sonnet in sight."
"I think I'd be more suspicious if you were studying sonnets," said Jeff. "Here, hand me the detergent there. No, the other one, with the bleach."
"No, you should be worried if I'm writing sonnets," said Jensen. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, though. I'm pretty terrible."
"Pretty words never really were your thing," agreed Jeff. "You're a lot better with your brain and your hands. Speaking of, we've got a massage clinic coming up next month, you want in?"
"Oh, hell yeah," said Jensen. "You've got room for me?"
"I'll make room," said Jeff. "After all, I'm trying to entice you to stay and work for us when you finish your education. I've got to offer you some perks."
"Who needs perks when you've got all this?" said Jensen, gesturing at the room. "So you're sure you're not secretly a poetry genius?"
"Having that much trouble?" said Jeff. "Can you still drop the course without a penalty?"
"Oh, no, I'm not failing," said Jensen, "I'm just...."
"You can't stand not to be perfect?"
"I can live with not being perfect," said Jensen, "but I'd prefer not to look like an idiot."
"Ah," said Jeff, like he'd just grasped the answer to the mystery of life, the universe and everything. "You're trying to impress someone."
"Like I said," said Jensen. "I've moved on. Did you think I was going to pine after you forever?"
"Good for the ego, bad for your social life," said Jeff. "So who is this new guy? Anyone I know?"
Jensen just shook his head, even though it was entirely possible Jeff knew exactly who he was. "It's nothing to talk about yet," he said. "But I'll let you know if it ever is."
:::
"Sandy baked," said Jared, like Jensen couldn't see the already-ravaged cake for himself, "and Chris picked up some steaks. He's grilling out back."
"Thank God," said Jensen, and left his boots on when he put his feet up on the coffee table. "I thought the lab was going to eat me alive today."
"If it ever does, I'll make sure your mother never gets your computer," Jared promised him, because that was what good friends did. "I thought you were almost done with that project?"
"Closer we get to the end of the semester, they more they keep piling it on," said Jensen, taking the PBR Jared offered him with a sigh of relief. "You finish that take-home all right?"
"Yeah, I think I got it," said Jared. "I'm going to be begging for your notes again in a week or two, though. I hear the final's harsh."
"It is," said Jensen honestly, "but you'll do fine. It just weeds out the people who are serious about their stuff from the ones who think they can skate by like they did in high school. Far as I'm concerned, the world doesn't need any engineers who think they can skate by. I like my bridges to remain intact, thanks."
"Yeah," said Jared, sipping his own beer. "But I'm still going to borrow your notes and freak out."
"Course you are," said Jensen, swigging his own beer. "Hey, you're coming out to the lake with us after, right? Me and Chris and Steve and Dave. Sunshine, weed and Chris's guitar. It'll be a good time."
"I'm gonna need it after finals," said Jared, his own booted feet up next to Jensen's. "I'm scheduled right through to the very last exam slot. How's that for bad luck, huh?"
"Consider it extra studying time," said Jensen. "You think Chris needs help out back?
"Fuck if I know," said Jared. "Does he usually need help grilling a few steaks?"
"He'd probably kick our asses for questioning his manhood," admitted Jensen. Not that he'd actually made any move to get up and go out back in the first place.
"So what does it feel like to be almost done?" said Jared. "Does it feel as good as it looks from here?"
"It feels like I've still got at least two more years ahead of me," said Jensen, "which is actually what you're going to feel when you get to where I am and realize you're doing the exact same thing."
"Come on, give a guy some hope that there'll be some satisfaction to come with my undergrad degree," said Jared. "No, screw it. I'm going to drop out to be a barista at the Starbucks on Grand Street."
"Yeah, right," said Jensen. "And I'm going to give it all up to read tarot cards at the county fair."
Jared raised his beer bottle up just to point it at Jensen. "The problem with that," he said, "is that these days I could almost believe it."
"Fuck you," said Jensen, draining his beer. "Fortune telling? Really? What do you take me for?"
"Do you really want me to answer that?" said Jared. "It involves the words 'blinded' and 'lust'."
"I'm not blinded by anything," said Jensen, "and contrary to the rumors flying around this house, there are limits to what I'm willing to do to get someone's attention."
"Really?" said Jared. "You think nobody noticed the organic chicken in the fridge?"
"Food's food," said Jensen. "There's nothing weird about me giving that a try and you know it." Okay, it was a little weird, but it wasn't fortune telling. "We're still watching the game tomorrow, right?"
"Better be," said Jared. "Unless you have yoga class."
"Fuck you," said Jensen again, then laughed and got up to get them some more beer.
:::
"Light me on fire," said Misha, not even looking at the dog-eared book in his hands. "Bleed yourself under my skin." He closed the book over one finger and looked up the class. "Bleed yourself. Bleeding's a very powerful idea, whether you take it literally or metaphorically."
"I don't think that's supposed to be literal."
"No?" said Misha, looking up at where one of the many people Jensen didn't know in the class had spoken. "Are you positive?"
She had the book open in front of her, ran her finger down the page as she read, lips moving swiftly. "I think trying to force a literal interpretation on it weakens the image," she said finally. "The bleeding is emotional."
"Okay," he said, looking around again. "But in what sense?"
"It's submission," said Mike, drawing Misha's attention. "Jesus, it's ten kinds of submission. He's opening himself up to the pain and the experiences and the ideas and hell, maybe even the bodily fluids, of someone else."
Misha smiled, but Jensen couldn't tell if that was because Mike was right, or because he was interesting.
"I think that's definitely a valid interpretation," he said. "The poem works because it's on such a visceral level, because each of us absorbs those feelings he's describing and attaches our own memories and experiences to them, which adheres a whole new layer of meaning on top of what's actually written."
"I think he's getting a tattoo," said Annie, from right at the back. "I think when he says 'under my skin' he means under his skin. He's letting someone in."
"Tattooing is an intimate experience," he agreed. "Not only are you making what is presumed to be a permanent modification to your body, imprinting yourself, you're letting someone else do it to you. It's not just the burning of the needles that evokes a response. It's an intensely physical and emotional act."
"You sound like you know something about that."
"I might," he said, neither confirming nor denying. "That might be what I'm bringing to my own interpretation of the poem, the intensity of that moment, the anticipation, the vulnerability."
"Like sex."
"Read one poem about orgies and people think everything that comes out of your mouth is about sex," he said, shaking his head but smiling nonetheless. "But you're not wrong. The parallels are striking. Maybe, in fact, that's his point. He's speaking to his audience at a base level, from the very core of the experience. Do you think he could have written this without direct experience to draw upon?"
Whether or not the question was rhetorical, there was no answer given.
"I'm not telling you all to run out and get inked or fucked just to know what he's talking about here, but you need to experience life in order to write about it. You can research all you want, but there isn't a substitute for sense memory, however you acquire it. Otherwise you're just repeating someone else's memory of an experience."
Thought the discussion went on for a while longer, it was that thought that stayed with Jensen throughout the rest of the class, and in fact through the days that followed it.
Part Two