Fanfiction: J2 - So Much More (Or How Jensen Learned not to be Such a Judgmental Prick) 2/?
Title: So Much More (Or How Jensen Learned Not to be Such a Judgmental Prick)
Author: conclusivelead.
Fandom: J2 RPS (AU).
Rating: Right now, PG-13.
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama.
Warnings: Just Ridiculousness, Incorrect Geography, & Blatant Misuse of a Celebrity. So far, anyway.
Word Count: ~4770.
Challenge/Inspiration: The idea was taken from a prompt issued by willow_fae_20. The original prompt can be found right hurr.
Obviously I added my own personal touch by making it a bit more drastically AU and putting the boys into a school setting as well as creating a situation in which Jensen and Jared are already acquainted and do not get along.
Sorry it took me so long to update, but I had to find a beta. wait for said beta to beta, then lost the chapter. Yeah, I know. Fortunately, the lovely burningwhisper rebata-d. She's amazing. PS - any mistakes in this chapter are totally and completely my fault. I had issues this time with getting the formatting right and when editing in 'HTML,' I may have accidentally deleted some punctuation accidentally. My bad, guys. I thought it was more important to get it to you.
Summary: “I’d rather keep my inexplicably flaming homosexuality under wraps for the unforeseeable (read as: next five months or so) future.” It makes sense that the best, most qualified party to identify a case of puppy love is, well, a puppy. Or, in the case of Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, two puppies. Harley and Sadie brought their owners together; the rest is up to them, which may prove difficult seeing as Jensen would like to stay in the closet, thank you very much. Jared, however, is convinced that he can be very persuasive. J2; AU: high school.
II. In Which Harley is a Nuisance, Jensen Fights Mother Nature, and More Crashing Occurs
JENSEN
Saturday, April 25th, 2009
6:53 AM
Ackles Household - Richardson, Texas
I’m not exactly sure when it rained last night.
If I wasn’t face-to-face with the evidence myself (sparkling lawns, flooded gutters, a strange overabundance of toads a-hop-hop-hopping about), I would deny that it had ever happened. I never sleep through a thunderstorm - which is what my entire family is insisting it was.
In any other household, this really probably wouldn’t have been a big deal, but in the Ackles home it is a big deal because this means that our dog, Harley, apparently kept my parents and sister awake by barking quite enthusiastically all night long.
In any other situation, I’d be throwing Harley a congratulatory party, but no - not today.
It’s a complete coincidence, I’ve insisted (several times, actually) that my friend Tom crashed at our house last night, thus forcing me to don earplugs in order to drown out his ‘completely nonexistent’ (according to Tom, anyway) snoring along with Harley’s highly debatable (according to me, anyway) all-night-long-barking extravaganza.
Anyway, it doesn’t really matter whose conspiracy theory is correct (though I’m pretty much positive I should get points for this one) because either way I’m still the kid and therefore Mom and Dad take very great pleasure in waking me and Tom at the crack of dawn and forcing both of us out into the cold, damp morning air.
Behind us they throw light jackets, a leash, Harley, and several promises not to let me back inside the house until Harley’d been so thoroughly walked that he’d be too tired to ever open his ‘lousy muzzle’ again.
Well.
Tom, who on a good day isn’t fond of being awake at seven in the morning on a school day, is fairly disgruntled at being tossed outside before noon during the weekend.
Not that I can blame him much, I’m not exactly a morning person either. But I’ve never really hated mornings. If only because when I’m tired and still in the process of getting used to no longer being cozily tucked into bed, I tend to lose every bit of the usually overwhelming shyness and self-consciousness that plague my waking hours with obnoxious ferocity.
“Jesus, man, your folks are freakin’ insane,” he growls, grabbing my favorite jacket off the ground before Harley’s brief nuzzling turns into something else.
“Yeah, yeah, what else is new?” I retort, pulling on the other jacket while Harley, looking impressively patient, waits for me to leash him up.
“Yeah, maybe, but this is a whole new level of crazy. Like, since when did I ever do anything to deserve getting tossed out on my ass at freakin’ four in the morning?”
“Tom, it’s almost seven.” My automatic correction, I can see, is not much appreciated. I give a half-hearted shrug of my shoulders and grin angelically.
Tom tries to glare at me, but his dirty look is interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn. Soon enough I’m yawning too, so wide that it’s difficult to clip the end of the red leather leash around Harley’s collar.
“Alright, man, I’m outta here. I’ll come by later to get my stuff, but I am not awake enough to chill with you and Harley right now. Have fun.”
“Sure,” I manage to get out, failing at biting back another yawn. “See ya.”
He claps me on the shoulder and then takes off across our backyard, likely heading straight to his house (and his bed) two streets away. I hear a satisfying click as the clip of the leash closes around Harley’s collar.
Harley hears it too and howls from his spot at my feet, tail wagging excitedly.
‘If he really did party all night long, he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s ready for it to be over’, I think. I yawn for a third time, green eyes screwing up and nose crinkling. Harley howls again, as though disapproving of my continued lethargy. I sigh and lean down to rub the fur between the mutt’s eyes, causing the dog to give an eager yip.
“Yeah, yeah, Harls,” I mutter, suppressing another killer yawn. “We’re going. Dog park, here we come.”
The walk to the park is relatively uneventful, all things considered. There aren’t enough people up and about for Harley to be interested in investigating and no other dogs come within sniffing distance.
The concrete is wet and hard beneath my flip flops, and my feet are soon freezing cold.
As I curse my parents’ refusal to allow me to even get properly dressed for this little excursion, Harley whines and tugs at the leash as though he wants nothing more than to venture off into the dewy grass. I keep a firm grip on the leash and Harley remains on the sidewalk.
We amble along at a moderate pace for about ten minutes, out of my neighborhood and into the center of town, down Main Street, and toward the dog park. Harley trots eagerly ahead of me, every once and a while speeding up in an attempt to get there faster, but I’m still trying to wake up properly and I’m pretty content with my current speed - slow.
I’m not really trying to think about anything, but as Harley and I make our way past my high school I start thinking about life after graduation.
School…well, school is school, and I’m not happy there.
I mean, I’m a good kid - I’ve ditched class maybe twice my entire educational career and always for legitimate (enough) reasons - but I’m kind of shy. Okay, seriously, I’m really shy. I have a hard time opening up to people that I don’t know and ever since I was a kid I’ve felt like any unnecessary or unwelcome speech was basically an open invitation for judgment and prejudice.
I don’t even talk to my parents much anymore these days, and they used to be the only human beings I didn’t have a problem articulating my thoughts for without stuttering or blushing.
I’m lucky I even have Tom anymore, all things considered.
Tom and I have been friends forever, since practically the first grade. Mrs. Welling and my mom knew each other in high school, and they thought they were doing their offspring a favor by forcing social interaction in the form of play dates from the time we were two. At first it worked out really well, you know - it was nice to have someone familiar, someone constant when I was starting elementary school.
We stayed pretty tight all throughout second, third, fourth, fifth…eh, it wasn’t really until freshman year that Tom and I started realizing just how different we are. Tom’s a jock-type: good at baseball, basketball. Heck, he’s even captain of the boys’ golf team. Give that kid any kind of ball and he’ll either A) have already mastered the coinciding sport or B) invent an entirely new game worthy of Olympic consideration.
He’s pretty much perfect.
Girls want him, guys want to be him, and me - well, I’m kind of stuck somewhere in between the two.
Or I used to be, anyway.
I think it was around halfway through freshman year when I realized that I was in love with Tom.
Well, even if it wasn’t love, it was a big enough crush that I literally refused to even talk to him until the summer before sophomore year. It just…I’m not sure which weirded me out more: the fact that I was potentially attracted to my best friend or the fact that after much visual experimentation I had decided that I was not at all potentially attracted to anyone with breasts and a vag.
Surprisingly enough, by the end of my first year in high school I’d decided it was the former that made the hair on the back of my neck stand to salute and I made my peace with him, offering up some excuse of extended moodiness or something. Tom agreed that I had been a douche but shrugged it off and things went back to normal - well, relatively back to normal, anyway.
As normal as we could get considering that I still couldn’t resist checking out Tom’s ass every time he bent over to tie his shoe.
Over the next three years my attraction to him dwindled into nothing more than lingering moments of awkwardness and a standing inability to talk to him when other people are around and I’m glad that I never tried to spill the beans about wanting to jump his bones for that short period during ninth grade.
Despite being as back-to-normal-as-we-could-get-considering-that-I-still-couldn’t-resist-etc.-etc., things changed between us. We’re still friends, but not best friends. I mean, even last night had been entirely orchestrated by my mother (Tom’s parents were out of town and he’d ended up sleeping over after my mom forced him to eat dinner with us).
We hang out occasionally, mostly when our moms get to buggin’ us about “Why isn’t Tom ever over anymore?” or “Where did Jensen disappear to, sweetie?” but we’ve kind of receded into the wood works of our individual social circles. When I say social circles, I mean that I talk to/hang out with whoever doesn’t blow me off outside of advanced science classes and Tom spends a majority of his free time with his jock buddies.
As of late, his best friend seems to be this guy named Jared, a hella-tall new student who has taken the basketball, baseball, and football teams by storm. I’m happy that Tom was able to find such a good friend, especially after the way I treated him, but I really wish it could have been some other athletic douche bag.
Anyone but Jared.
Of course, that could be my inexplicable and pretty much downright humiliating attraction for the prick talking…
Almost involuntarily, I think back to the first time I’d run into him.
The guy (during the two brief, brief confrontations we’d had, anyway) came off a complete shmuck, complete with charming grins and accusing…accusing-ness. If he and Tom weren’t so tight and there wasn’t a possibility that I’d be running into him again…maybe if I had some balls (or I didn’t think that he was quite possibly one of the most attractive guys I’d ever met), I’d tell him what a complete bitch…
But there’s so much more to it than that, I know secretly.
I know that the only reason I want to tell him off is because he’s threatening my last few months of normal before I swoop off to college (community college, but who’s keeping track?)
Never mind the fact that if this tiny, infinitesimal, hardly-there-really attraction was leaked to the ears of the Richardson masses, I’d have to abandon everything I know about life as it is before it’s even time for classes to start.
And - seeing as a majority of my current classmates are likely to be my future classmates as well - I’d be a lot more comfortable with keeping my sexuality a secret, at least until college where I can begin what will probably be the extremely tedious process of reinventing myself.
All of a sudden, Harley is yanking more insistently at the leash and, deep as I am in my thoughts, I’m caught completely by surprise this time. My loose grip on the leather becomes nonexistent as the mutt races off ahead of me, straight through the black, wrought-iron gates of the dog park.
“Harley! Harls! Get your ugly hide back here right now!” I shout after him, adjusting my wire-rimmed glasses as I reluctantly take up the chase.
JARED
Saturday, April 25th, 2009
7:12 AM
Bob E. Crosley Memorial Dog Park - Richardson, Texas
Snuffle-snuffle. Sadie’s nose against the wet concrete makes loud shuffling noises. I watch her disinterestedly, more than a little disappointed by her lack of energy this morning.
The air smells strongly of pine needles and drying rainwater. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the park. This is my favorite time of day, for sure. Crisp, cool air and quiet all around - it gives me a place to think, a place where I can let all of the pressures and worries kind of disappear for a while.
One hand in my jeans pocket and the other limply holding the end of Sadie’s leash as she demurely sniffs at a nearby bush, I try force the tension from my shoulders and just enjoy the peace and quiet.
A cool breeze drifts past me and I’m glad that I’d decided to wake up a bit earlier so I could get fully dressed before venturing outside. It looks like it’s going to be a nice afternoon, once the sun comes up completely, and if it warms up even a little I can trade in loose-fitting jeans for some shorts.
As another breeze ruffles my hair I’m relieved I had the sense to wear jeans. I don’t like the cold. I like heat, probably because it reminds me of summer and sports and no school.
No school…. The thought seems to occur on its own.
It’s almost unbelievable that graduation is almost here. I love high school, mostly because it’s a familiar, easy pattern that I can completely rely on without expecting much change from year to year. Of course, the pattern had changed a little when I moved here at the beginning of senior year.
Sure, it’d sucked to leave behind all my friends - lifelong friends, I think grimly - behind, but I have a pretty friendly, open personality that has made it easy for me to make friends here. I’d quickly taken up pretty much the same place here that I’d occupied in my last school. In fact, if there hadn’t been new faces to match with new names and a few less classrooms than I was used to, this high school could pretty much have been the old high school with a new coat of paint.
Same personalities, same general level of expectation - new people.
It is nice to have a few good friends. Chad, Tom - people I find myself able to relate to, mostly on a superficial, fun level. I actually get along pretty well with just about everyone in the school. I’m good at making friends - I know what to say to get people to laugh, what to say to put people at ease. It’s something I’ve been capable of since before I can remember, and it’s a skill I was grateful for when our family moved here.
The only person that continues to seriously confuse me is that one kid - Tom’s friend.
Jensen-something .
He’s a friend of Tom’s, and I’ve only met him (if you could really call the first time an actual meeting since there was zero exchange of identifying information and more than one bruise) a few times.
From what I can tell, though, he doesn’t seem like the type that Tom is usually friends with. Jensen is kind of short (well, compared to me, anyway) and nerdy, but seems like he has potential to be pretty hot. He is an attractive dude, but the unflattering clothes and the terrible hair have to go if he’s gonna impress anyone.
Well, anyone but me, anyway.
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m pretty much as impressed as possible.
Even if Jensen has floppy bangs straight out of a 90s tween drama.
Look, I…I know I can be kind of a dick…I don’t act that way on purpose. It’s just that sometimes my self-confidence - not be mistaken for douchebaggery - can get out of hand and it’s something I realized a long time ago that I need to work at.
If I were in better control of that one thing, Jensen probably wouldn’t think I was an idiot.
And I really wish Jensen didn’t think I was an idiot; especially since I just so happen to think Jensen is amazing.
…which really confuses me, seeing as the only two confrontations that we’ve had have involved both head-spinning pain and a rather obnoxiously loud shouting session.
And as far as I can remember (which is not much concerning the former meeting…the one with the head-spinning pain), there hasn’t really been much conversation between us two.
In fact, all I can really remember him saying is “Sorry!” and “It wasn’t my fault, blah blah blah.”
‘Jesus. It’s been two months. I should be over this. Why am I not over this?’
I sigh, scuffing the toe of my shoe against the brick lining of the path. Sadie glances up at me from where she is still sniffing about suspiciously.
I sniff too and grin down at her, white teeth flashing. “Sorry, Sade, just thinkin’.”
Sadie snorts dismissively and returns to her investigation of the park’s foliage…
…well, for about a second, anyway.
The one second, I’m pretty chilled out, staring dreamily into space as my subdued dog investigates her surroundings; the next, Sadie’s ears are pricking forward and she’s barking happily and racing away, leaving a much less chilled out owner in her wake.
For a moment, I kinda just stare, wide-eyed, but then I come to my senses and start running after her. “Sadie! Saaaadie!” I yell, long legs carrying me quickly across the expanse of green grass at the center of the dog park…but not quickly enough to catch up with my suddenly invigorated dog, who disappears around a corner, tail wagging and tongue hanging.
“Sadie!&rdquo
JENSEN
Saturday, April 25th, 2009
7:17 AM
Bob E. Crosley Memorial Dog Park - Richardson, Texas
“Haaaarley!”
I stomp angrily through knee-length grass, trying not to notice the annoyingly obvious absence of Harley’s leash gripped tightly in my hand.
Jesus, since when do the park attendees let the grass get this long? It’s usually so well-kept; this is just ridiculous. The early morning air has left the grass cool to the touch, and every time a long strand of it brushes against my thigh, I shiver at the contact.
I fight my way through stiff, dry weeds, using my hands to clear the way for my legs and coughing as dust and pollen drift into my face with every step. My journey is made slower by the fact that I am, after all, wearing flip-flops, which don’t really seem to want to cooperate with or stay on my feet.
Damn you, grass!
Daaaaamn yooooou.
Twice now my left sandal has mysteriously gone missing, forcing me to trudge back through the path I’ve semi-cleared in the field and find it. I viciously swipe at the grass (is it getting higher and thicker, or is that just me?), pushing it aside with dirty fingers. I’m getting close to the other side of the field, and my enthusiasm to be out of this practical forest and onto the safe, flat concrete almost brings a smile to my face. I lift my left foot and begin to move forward through the space I’ve cleared when -
- my left flip flop has come off once again and I’m tripping over a well hidden log (what the hell is a log doing in the middle of all this grass, anyway?!)
I go down fast, arms crushed beneath me and face-first in a dirty pile of rough, dying grass.
I sputter some, struggling to push myself up and off the ground. I manage to struggle to my feet, barely catching myself as I almost fall again. Muttering various curses and expletives under my breath, I stumble into an upright position and glance around for my flip flop.
Five minutes later I still can’t find it, and I’m pretty much done with this shit.
“Stupid freakin’ flip flop,” I grumble, giving my shoe up as gone forever and continuing, this time a bit more gingerly, through the grass. “Stupid freakin’ Harley!”
Once I’ve made it through the jungle, my left foot is almost entirely covered in muddy dirt. It’s between my toes and under my toenails and I’m seriously annoyed. For a moment I contemplate reaching down to try and get some of it off, but I’m so peeved that I just ignore it and continue to stomp on, calling out Harley’s name every couple of seconds.
The path that I’ve emerged onto goes straight for a bit and then takes a sharp turn left after about ten, no probably more like fifteen feet. “Harley!”
It’s not long before I’m ripping my right flip flop off and stuffing it half-in the back pocket of my shorts. This is fucking unreasonable - first I get kicked out of the house before the sun’s even up; then Harley decides to take off on his own exciting little adventure without me. Next, I practically get attacked by a field of fucking grass, something I hadn’t realized was even truly possible, and now I’m shoeless and freezing my ass off
Today is going to be amazing, I can just tell.
As I near the turn, I open my mouth to shout out again for Harls. Before the letter ‘H’ has even finished forming on my tongue, though, I’m colliding violently (and, disturbingly enough, familiarly) with what feels like a brick freaking wall but is actually the body of who is probably the only other person in the entire park.
This is just not my day.
Saturday, April 25th, 2009
7:23 AM
Bob E. Crosley Memorial Dog Park - Richardson, Texas
Jared winces and rubs his chin, which has just made forceful contact with the top of someone else’s head.
“Oooow,” comes a moan from somewhere below eye level.
Wait! Just…wait.
This is way too familiar for Jared’s comfort
He glances down to see just who his assailant is and physically recoils.
It’s that Ickles - Cackles? - kid, the one that…well, a lot of things, really, now that Jared gives it a second (third, fourth, fifth?) thought.
The shorter guy’s glasses are crooked, one arm correctly hooked around his ear, the other somehow stuck to the side of his face. It’s held in place by the curve of Jensen’s jaw and the bottom of his right earlobe.
He also notices that the opposite foot is mysteriously missing a shoe.
All in all, he looks absolutely ridiculous, but Jared’s breath hitches just the same
There is something disconcerting in the other boy’s freckled face, something that makes Jared feel nervous and flushed and completely self-conscious…and at the same time very much intrigued.
“Um…hi,” he greets lamely. He begins to lift his hand for an awkward little wave, but changes his mind half-way and lowers it again. He mentally tries to pull himself together and stop being such a moron. This is exactly why Jensen thinks he’s a douche bag.
That, and the fact that the last time they’d been within a three foot radius of each other, Jared had been an accusing, hostile asshole.
And then, as if to emphasize ‘asshole’ in his previous thought a split second before, it comes sweeping out from between his lips, before he can think twice or slap a hand over his mouth or do anything to stop its vicious assault…
“I’d just like to point out that this time I was looking where I was going.”
“….” Jensen answers(?), noticeably avoiding his eyes.
“…yeah,” Jared says, shoving his hands into his pockets. Nonchalance doesn’t seem to impress him any and Jared tries to be friendly. “Nice to, er, run into you again?” He chuckles nervously.
Oh, because that’s totally not lame.
“Nah, s’not a problem,” he mumbles, still avoiding looking directly into Jared’s face.
There is an awkward silence.
Jared watches while Jensen twiddles his thumbs, one over the other in an endless cycle. Jared stares, caught up in something of a daze. When Jensen speaks again, he jumps. “Hey, um….” He pauses, and then finishes in something of a hurry: “You haven’t happened to have seen my dog, have you?”
Jared is taken aback. This is not at all what he was expecting him to say. He was expecting a goodbye, an annoyed stare, a (probably justifiable) look of dislike.
“Um….” Great, more ‘um’s. And to think that he was the one who’d accused Jensen of having a limited vocabulary. “I, uh, I don’t think so.”
It’s another stupid answer, another reason for Jensen to think he’s an idiot. Jared can’t help it - he’s not sure what to say to make the other guy look at him with any semblance of respect or affability.
“Oh.” It’s a short answer, out quickly. “Oh, okay.” He blinks behind his wire-rimmed glasses and then coughs a little under his breath. “Well, then, maybe I should - er - keep looking.”
Jared nods stupidly and Jensen is about to walk away when Jared bursts forth with, “You haven’t happened to have seen my dog, have you?”
The shorter young man stops mid-step and arches an eyebrow, green eyes questioning no doubt whether Jared’s trying to make him out for a fool. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Jared answers, glad that they’ve moved beyond ums and ers. “Her name’s Sadie, she’s a mutt; wearing a…red collar.” He puts fingers to his neck as if the collar were on him, not his dog.
“Sorry, I haven’t seen her,” Jensen replies, sticking his hands in his pockets for a moment and then pulling them back out and rubbing them together almost nervously. “I thought I was the only person insane enough to be up so early.”
This startles Jared into a laugh.
The taller teenager traces the curve of Jensen’s jaw line, the glint of his olive green eyes, and the smattering of freckles on the Grecian nose with an interested gaze. Jensen doesn’t seem to notice the way Jared’s eyeing him - otherwise he definitely would say something: Faggot! Or possibly something a little nicer: Jesus, what’s wrong with you?
Actually, Jared’s not really sure what’s wrong with him. There are plenty of hot guys at their school - why is it that he’s so completely and utterly attracted to this one?
Especially, Jared remembers suddenly as he notices the confused, irritated look in Jensen’s eyes (who probably suspects that he’s being ignored), to a person who thinks he’s a Grade-A Asshole?
Ugh.
Another awkward silence ensues, just long enough that Jensen starts doing this shuffling thing with his feet, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. Jared wonders briefly if it’s a nervous habit and then realizes that he’s doing it, too.
“So, uh, yeah,” he eloquently begins, clearing his throat and looking somewhere off down the stone path, hazel eyes squinting in the light of the rising sun. “I gotta find my dog…you gotta find your dog…might as well…look together?”
Shit, he didn’t mean for it to come out like a question, but there - it’s been said.
Jensen looks shocked, so Jared immediately tries to salvage what he can: “I mean, the park’s not that big, and maybe if we both look around we can do a more…thorough…”
Jesus Christ. Way to go, Jared. Just…just beautiful job there. Really.
Let the embarrassing excuse-making commence.
Ready and….go!
Before Jared can open his (big, loud, stupid) mouth again, though, he is interrupted.
“Um…um…I guess…that is to say…you’re not still all caught up on the whole concussion thing?” Jensen queries.
Jared’s not really sure what to say. “Concussion?”
Jensen really looks like he doesn’t want to say anything else (like he thinks that the last thing the taller guy would forget about would be a concussion caused by the person standing right in front of him), and luckily enough it only takes Jared a few seconds to catch up. “Oh, right. Well, I may have - uh - over exaggerated.”
Jensen almost snorts. Jared can tell, because the left side of Jensen’s mouth rises just slightly enough that it’s visible… and he makes a strange choking noise in the back of his throat and starts coughing desperately.
It’s a mark of Jared’s restraint that he doesn’t dissolve into laughter then and there.
Trying to be helpful (but mostly wanting an excuse to touch him), the lanky brunet reaches over and claps Jensen on the back several times, trying to assist in his recovery. Jensen looks shaken, glasses slipping off his face and eyes watery from the exertion.
To his credit, Jensen recovers pretty quickly, pushing wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose and reminding Jared of the last time they’d seen each other.
He seems to be contemplating the suggestion for a moment. Then he looks up at Jared through those ridiculous spectacles and says possibly the most beautiful word ever.
“Okay.”
TO BE CONTINUED.