Fic: Home Is Wherever I'm With You
Title: Home Is Wherever I'm With You
Author: discreetmath
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural RPS AU
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1575
Summary: When Misha fell out of Jensen's window, he really wasn't expecting anything good to come of it.
A/N: Unbetaed. Title and inspiration from "Home" by Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros.
Disclaimer: These people do not belong to me, and this is all fiction.
In retrospect, Misha thinks hazily, he may have gotten a bit carried away. Wild gesturing to help make a point is all well and good, but when one is perched on a windowsill it's best to exercise caution. He feels a pang of guilt when he thinks of the way Jensen's face had looked before Misha had dropped out of sight.
Misha firmly believes that Jensen is overreacting about the whole thing. He'd just banged up his ankle a little bit, but Jensen had looked ready to have a panic attack when he'd burst out of the front door of the apartment building to find Misha sprawled in the garden. He rolls his head slightly to the right and watches Jensen drive, intent on getting them to the emergency room as quickly as possible while avoiding every pothole he can. Misha glances back down at his own foot, where it's propped up on what looks like a gym bag, cushioned with one of Jensen's hoodies. It looks like he'd just dragged out whatever he could find in the trunk before he'd set Misha up in the backseat of his old Toyota.
Misha appreciates the thought, but now that he can see his foot he's starting to wish it weren't in such a prominent spot in his line of sight. It's really swollen, and it's sort of a grotesque purple color. It might be broken. Shit, it's definitely broken. Oh God, Misha thinks, I think I'm going to be sick.
"Yeah, dumbass, that'll be the shock," Jensen snaps from the front seat. Apparently Misha had said that out loud. Jensen takes advantage of the traffic light to glance back over his shoulder worriedly. "Stop looking at it. You'll just make it worse." A long pause, and then "Misha. Look at me."
Misha does. He feels a little bit better right away. Jensen has really pretty eyes, all green and calming.
Jensen huffs a laugh and turns back around. Misha flushes and wishes he could tape his own mouth shut.
"Hey," he mumbles after a minute, "do you have any cigarettes?"
"No, Misha, I don't have any cigarettes. And you don't need to smoke, you need to focus on not dying in my backseat. Your bodily fluids would probably stain the upholstery."
"Yeah, well, it would serve you right," Misha huffs. "You need a new car anyway, I'd be doing you a favor." He gropes at his pockets, almost sure that he has some somewhere… "Oh, thank God," he mutters when he pulls the pack out of the breast pocket of his button-down. One left. Perfect.
He pauses when he lifts the cigarette to his mouth. His hands are stained with tacky drying blood, and he has to fight down the roiling in his stomach as he lights the cigarette and inhales deeply.
"Head wounds always bleed a lot; they look way worse than they are," Misha says, almost to himself. He's not sure who he's trying to convince. "It's not so bad." Jensen looks back at him again.
"Nah, Mish, it's not so bad. You'll be okay, just stay awake, all right? Just don't think about it. You never did finish telling me about why Joss Whedon is overrated as a feminist."
Misha knows what Jensen is doing, but he takes the bait. His gestures are just a lot more muted this time around.
---
Misha wakes up feeling foggy. He's distantly aware of the ache in his ankle, but it's not really reaching him. He feels a pressure on his hand and his head lolls to the side to see what it is.
"Jensen," he slurs happily. "Jensen, I think I'm on drugs."
"Yeah, Misha, they've got you on painkillers." He's smiling, but it's tight and forced. "You definitely broke your ankle, but they're going to take some X-rays to see how bad it is before they set it." He drops the smile then, scowling at the floor, and Misha feels his heart clench. "They bandaged up the cut on your head, but you've got a concussion."
"I'm sorry, Jen," Misha whispers, turning his head to stare mournfully at the ceiling. "I didn't mean to fall out of your window, don't be mad at me, okay?"
"Don't be… Are you kidding me? Misha, I'm not mad at you. I was just worried." He scrubs a hand over his face. "You're my best friend, and I saw you fall out of an open window a few hours ago. You'll have to forgive me for being a little freaked out."
Misha squeezes his hand and shuts his eyes. A sudden flash of memory makes him grin.
"You were so dashing and chivalrous, Jen. I'll never forget the way you carried me to the car like a princess."
"Oh, okay, you can shut the fuck up now," Jensen grumbles. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that. It wouldn't have been necessary if you'd have let me call a damn ambulance."
"And miss all of your gallantry? I doubt I'll ever forget it, my love," Misha's grin is turning dopey, and he knows he won't be awake much longer. "You're my hero," he says breathily, pulling Jensen's hand up to place a kiss on his knuckles. If Jensen has a response to that, Misha doesn't hear it.
---
"Jesus Christ, Jensen, what's your deal? You've been acting weird for days, and if you mother-hen me one more time I swear I'll jump out the window again." Misha's standing in the kitchen slicing potatoes, pointedly ignoring the way Jensen is hovering in the doorway with his arms crossed.
"Okay, first? That shit isn't funny, and you know it," Jensen walks across the room and lays a hand on Misha's shoulder, reaching down to gently pull the knife out of his hand. He sets it on the cutting board. "You broke your leg not even a week ago, and the doctor hasn't cleared you yet as far as the concussion goes. So could you please just go sit down and stop handling sharp objects?"
Misha lets out a frustrated noise, but allows Jensen to guide him to the sofa, supporting his weight all the way.
"I was just hungry. It's not your job to take care of me, and you've been acting like you don't want to be around me since the accident." Misha knows he sounds like a spurned boyfriend, but the past few days have sucked with Jensen being so distant and Misha being mostly confined to the couch. He takes a deep breath as Jensen lifts his casted foot onto the ottoman. "I know I said some embarrassing stuff when I was on those painkillers, but there's no reason to be weird about it. It was just the drugs, okay? I would've said those things to anyone."
Jensen's face is unreadable, and he sinks down next to Misha on the couch with a sigh.
"Would you have? Really?" He's not looking at Misha, instead focusing carefully on a point somewhere on the far wall. "Because, I don't know, Mish. There's something about watching your best friend plummet to their death that really makes a guy think about how he feels, you know?"
"No, Jensen, I can't say as I do." Misha's tone is lightly teasing, but his voice falters a little bit. He's never really bothered to hold out any hope for Jensen's affections; they've been friends for years without so much as a drunken kiss between them, but that doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it.
"Can you not be an ass for just one second?" Jensen rolls his eyes in annoyance. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you," he blurts out. He pauses for a minute before shifting around to face Misha, whose eyes have gone wide with surprise. "I don't actually know if I have been for a long time, or if I fell in love when you were trying not to puke in my backseat, but there it is." He's not quite making eye contact, and his cheeks are burning red.
Misha just gapes for a minute, disbelieving, before he reaches out to touch Jensen's face. He leans in to catch his eye and gives him a hesitant smile, and when Jensen returns it he breaks into a grin. They sit there for several long moments, before Jensen licks his lips nervously. The sight draws Misha's eyes downward and he feels his own face flush. Okay, Misha, try not to fuck this up. Jensen laughs quietly, and Misha vows never to use his internal monologue ever again, because it's clearly defective.
"Well, if we're going to do this, you're going to have to come over here," Misha says. "I'm under strict orders not to exert myself." Jensen laughs and slides toward him, slipping his hand up to the side of Misha's neck.
"Oh, you're gonna exert something," he mutters before leaning in and kissing Misha lightly. Misha's responds immediately, sliding his fingers up into Jensen's hair and darting his tongue out to brush the other man's bottom lip. Jensen moans into his mouth, and Misha pulls away with a chuckle, dragging his lips over Jensen's jaw to hover by his ear.
"I'm in love with you too, you know," he murmurs softly.
"Yeah, princess, I know." Misha pulls back to look at him, and Jensen's eyes are sparkling with mirth. "I'm your hero."
He's never going to live that down, but as Jensen moves in to kiss him again, he can't really bring himself to care all that much.
Author: discreetmath
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural RPS AU
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1575
Summary: When Misha fell out of Jensen's window, he really wasn't expecting anything good to come of it.
A/N: Unbetaed. Title and inspiration from "Home" by Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros.
Disclaimer: These people do not belong to me, and this is all fiction.
In retrospect, Misha thinks hazily, he may have gotten a bit carried away. Wild gesturing to help make a point is all well and good, but when one is perched on a windowsill it's best to exercise caution. He feels a pang of guilt when he thinks of the way Jensen's face had looked before Misha had dropped out of sight.
Misha firmly believes that Jensen is overreacting about the whole thing. He'd just banged up his ankle a little bit, but Jensen had looked ready to have a panic attack when he'd burst out of the front door of the apartment building to find Misha sprawled in the garden. He rolls his head slightly to the right and watches Jensen drive, intent on getting them to the emergency room as quickly as possible while avoiding every pothole he can. Misha glances back down at his own foot, where it's propped up on what looks like a gym bag, cushioned with one of Jensen's hoodies. It looks like he'd just dragged out whatever he could find in the trunk before he'd set Misha up in the backseat of his old Toyota.
Misha appreciates the thought, but now that he can see his foot he's starting to wish it weren't in such a prominent spot in his line of sight. It's really swollen, and it's sort of a grotesque purple color. It might be broken. Shit, it's definitely broken. Oh God, Misha thinks, I think I'm going to be sick.
"Yeah, dumbass, that'll be the shock," Jensen snaps from the front seat. Apparently Misha had said that out loud. Jensen takes advantage of the traffic light to glance back over his shoulder worriedly. "Stop looking at it. You'll just make it worse." A long pause, and then "Misha. Look at me."
Misha does. He feels a little bit better right away. Jensen has really pretty eyes, all green and calming.
Jensen huffs a laugh and turns back around. Misha flushes and wishes he could tape his own mouth shut.
"Hey," he mumbles after a minute, "do you have any cigarettes?"
"No, Misha, I don't have any cigarettes. And you don't need to smoke, you need to focus on not dying in my backseat. Your bodily fluids would probably stain the upholstery."
"Yeah, well, it would serve you right," Misha huffs. "You need a new car anyway, I'd be doing you a favor." He gropes at his pockets, almost sure that he has some somewhere… "Oh, thank God," he mutters when he pulls the pack out of the breast pocket of his button-down. One left. Perfect.
He pauses when he lifts the cigarette to his mouth. His hands are stained with tacky drying blood, and he has to fight down the roiling in his stomach as he lights the cigarette and inhales deeply.
"Head wounds always bleed a lot; they look way worse than they are," Misha says, almost to himself. He's not sure who he's trying to convince. "It's not so bad." Jensen looks back at him again.
"Nah, Mish, it's not so bad. You'll be okay, just stay awake, all right? Just don't think about it. You never did finish telling me about why Joss Whedon is overrated as a feminist."
Misha knows what Jensen is doing, but he takes the bait. His gestures are just a lot more muted this time around.
---
Misha wakes up feeling foggy. He's distantly aware of the ache in his ankle, but it's not really reaching him. He feels a pressure on his hand and his head lolls to the side to see what it is.
"Jensen," he slurs happily. "Jensen, I think I'm on drugs."
"Yeah, Misha, they've got you on painkillers." He's smiling, but it's tight and forced. "You definitely broke your ankle, but they're going to take some X-rays to see how bad it is before they set it." He drops the smile then, scowling at the floor, and Misha feels his heart clench. "They bandaged up the cut on your head, but you've got a concussion."
"I'm sorry, Jen," Misha whispers, turning his head to stare mournfully at the ceiling. "I didn't mean to fall out of your window, don't be mad at me, okay?"
"Don't be… Are you kidding me? Misha, I'm not mad at you. I was just worried." He scrubs a hand over his face. "You're my best friend, and I saw you fall out of an open window a few hours ago. You'll have to forgive me for being a little freaked out."
Misha squeezes his hand and shuts his eyes. A sudden flash of memory makes him grin.
"You were so dashing and chivalrous, Jen. I'll never forget the way you carried me to the car like a princess."
"Oh, okay, you can shut the fuck up now," Jensen grumbles. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that. It wouldn't have been necessary if you'd have let me call a damn ambulance."
"And miss all of your gallantry? I doubt I'll ever forget it, my love," Misha's grin is turning dopey, and he knows he won't be awake much longer. "You're my hero," he says breathily, pulling Jensen's hand up to place a kiss on his knuckles. If Jensen has a response to that, Misha doesn't hear it.
---
"Jesus Christ, Jensen, what's your deal? You've been acting weird for days, and if you mother-hen me one more time I swear I'll jump out the window again." Misha's standing in the kitchen slicing potatoes, pointedly ignoring the way Jensen is hovering in the doorway with his arms crossed.
"Okay, first? That shit isn't funny, and you know it," Jensen walks across the room and lays a hand on Misha's shoulder, reaching down to gently pull the knife out of his hand. He sets it on the cutting board. "You broke your leg not even a week ago, and the doctor hasn't cleared you yet as far as the concussion goes. So could you please just go sit down and stop handling sharp objects?"
Misha lets out a frustrated noise, but allows Jensen to guide him to the sofa, supporting his weight all the way.
"I was just hungry. It's not your job to take care of me, and you've been acting like you don't want to be around me since the accident." Misha knows he sounds like a spurned boyfriend, but the past few days have sucked with Jensen being so distant and Misha being mostly confined to the couch. He takes a deep breath as Jensen lifts his casted foot onto the ottoman. "I know I said some embarrassing stuff when I was on those painkillers, but there's no reason to be weird about it. It was just the drugs, okay? I would've said those things to anyone."
Jensen's face is unreadable, and he sinks down next to Misha on the couch with a sigh.
"Would you have? Really?" He's not looking at Misha, instead focusing carefully on a point somewhere on the far wall. "Because, I don't know, Mish. There's something about watching your best friend plummet to their death that really makes a guy think about how he feels, you know?"
"No, Jensen, I can't say as I do." Misha's tone is lightly teasing, but his voice falters a little bit. He's never really bothered to hold out any hope for Jensen's affections; they've been friends for years without so much as a drunken kiss between them, but that doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it.
"Can you not be an ass for just one second?" Jensen rolls his eyes in annoyance. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you," he blurts out. He pauses for a minute before shifting around to face Misha, whose eyes have gone wide with surprise. "I don't actually know if I have been for a long time, or if I fell in love when you were trying not to puke in my backseat, but there it is." He's not quite making eye contact, and his cheeks are burning red.
Misha just gapes for a minute, disbelieving, before he reaches out to touch Jensen's face. He leans in to catch his eye and gives him a hesitant smile, and when Jensen returns it he breaks into a grin. They sit there for several long moments, before Jensen licks his lips nervously. The sight draws Misha's eyes downward and he feels his own face flush. Okay, Misha, try not to fuck this up. Jensen laughs quietly, and Misha vows never to use his internal monologue ever again, because it's clearly defective.
"Well, if we're going to do this, you're going to have to come over here," Misha says. "I'm under strict orders not to exert myself." Jensen laughs and slides toward him, slipping his hand up to the side of Misha's neck.
"Oh, you're gonna exert something," he mutters before leaning in and kissing Misha lightly. Misha's responds immediately, sliding his fingers up into Jensen's hair and darting his tongue out to brush the other man's bottom lip. Jensen moans into his mouth, and Misha pulls away with a chuckle, dragging his lips over Jensen's jaw to hover by his ear.
"I'm in love with you too, you know," he murmurs softly.
"Yeah, princess, I know." Misha pulls back to look at him, and Jensen's eyes are sparkling with mirth. "I'm your hero."
He's never going to live that down, but as Jensen moves in to kiss him again, he can't really bring himself to care all that much.