Orizuru: Chapter One
-ONE-
In the past six years, Jensen's been party to a thousand and one different varieties of the inappropriate advance - some sweet, some spastic, most if not all delusional. He's seen more teddy bears and fainting spells, been barraged with more pointless panties than one mere mortal should have to endure. Most of the time, he can chalk it up to the fact there's a shit ton of crazy out in that wide, blue yonder and being in the public eye earns you more than just a taste. But in all these years and in spite of the sometimes gross invasions of privacy, he's never once considered taking out a restraining order.
That was before the crazy chickens came home to roost, no less crazy for the fact that they're made of paper or that they're actually cranes.
Jensen thinks that's what they are anyway.
They remind him of a unit he did on Japan junior year and the fluffy cardigans Ms. Greene wore when autumn spun over into winter, the way her knee had nudged up against his calf when she crouched down beside his desk. All facts that guaranteed he'd read about the Bushido ten years later and would forever be a disaster at origami. There were better things to think about back then, like her grapefruit shampoo, her easy smiles, or the caramel candy that she kept in a jar on her desk. Lucky for him, she was new enough to be relatively guileless, so she'd offered to help whenever he asked. If he was an asshole, Jensen would lay the blame for the gaping holes in his knowledge of world history squarely on her shoulders. But he's not an asshole.
Okay, he's not normally an asshole. Extenuating circumstances seem to have this power to turn normal into just another word, and today is not a normal day.
So says the hot pink paper bird riding in Jensen's jacket pocket that he sure as hell didn't put there.
It had all started about a week ago, maybe a week and a half. This deep into the shooting schedule, days run together like wet paint slapped on much slicker canvas and time's just an abstract blot slapped down between sleeping today and sleeping tomorrow. They'd been shooting Buntzen again, so he'd brought Icarus along to plunder the spoils of the dog beach during breaks. The first crane - white wings smudged grey-green by dirt and algae - almost ended its short, pulpy life on the tail-end of Ick's digestive track. At the time, it hadn't struck Jensen as weird beyond the fact that Icarus dragged him halfway around the lake and out onto a weatherbeaten dock to get to it.
The second - yellow with streamers of blue ink scrawled across every flat surface - had literally fallen in his lap. At the first lighting reset, he'd escaped the long stretch of gravel in favor of his trailer only to be called back as soon as he got there. By the fourth one, he'd learned his lesson and hunkered down in the driver's seat of the Impala to close his eyes instead. When he'd lowered the sun visor to block out the glare, the crane attacked, bouncing off his chest and through the space between his knees on its journey to the floorboard.
One could be explained away. Two might be simple coincidence. Given the placement of his third unfeathered friend, that seems unlikely. The whole thing's a little fucking weird and he could kick himself for throwing the first two away since now more than anything he wants to know who, followed closely by why.
While the paper color may have been left to the whim of the PA responsible for distributing today's changes, the passage scratched across the blank side of the page when he pulls the bird apart sure as shit ain't.
When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
Why did they stop at my lips, so suddenly, why do I know them, as if once before, I have touched them, as if, before being, they travelled my forehead, my waist? [1]
Jensen can't tell if the words are borrowed, but they absolutely are the wrong side of intimate. Coming from a stranger, the passage registers in a vaguely creepy way he's not accustomed to. If he knew or was with the person that planted them, they wouldn't be weird at all. But he doesn't. So it is.
If only to himself, he's man enough to admit he's dabbled in the odd romantic gesture. Back in the day, he always took shit for bringing his girl flowers and opening car doors. That didn't change once he found himself squinting under the bright lights of Hollywood, even if his tastes and methods did.
But this - it's sand under his skin, an itch he can't quite seem to scratch. For all the times he's been propositioned or pawed at without being asked, it's either been out in the open or from far enough away he can laugh it off. Instead there's this hollow pit eating away at his gut. Suspicion, doubt, and before he can stop himself there's a list of possible perps spooling through his head that runs the gamut from the new intern to Kripke himself.
It absolutely includes Jared.
Which may be why he feels less than charitable when Jay pops up on the path between him and his trailer.
"Dude. Who died?"
Jensen sighs and skirts Jared with a broad sidestep. "Shit day, okay. That's all. You actively fucking with someone I don't know about?" he asks, leaving the 'like me' unspoken.
"If you mean replacing the cups in Misha's trailer with baby bottles, then yeah. Since when do I have to clear it with you?"
Jared falls into step behind him and Jensen tenses. He fully expects to open the door to his trailer and suffocate beneath an avalanche of paper birds. Some part of him even wants it, if only to pull that last puzzle piece into place. May not be Jay's typical style, but Misha's a bad influence - a sort of gateway drug to a brave new world of destructive pranks.
There are days Jensen feels like he's back in grade school, playing referee between Tommy Wilkins and Rob Landers. Most of the time, Jared's antics are hilarious, their prank wars epic, and since neither he nor Misha go out of their way to fuck with him when they've got each other to harass, Jensen considers keeping a straight face an acceptable burden.
Right now, he's not amused.
But beyond the door, it's business as usual. Not a bird in sight. Jared pushes in at his back then flops on the couch hard enough to bounce the shocks and pulls a hand through his hair. Somehow when he says, "What gives?" it doesn't sound like an accusation.
"Shit day, like I said."
"Jesus, Jensen. That is not your 'Shit Day' face," Jared sighs, then bats his eyelashes. "Are we going to have to talk about our feelings?"
"Fuck you," Jensen spits back, but there's no fire behind it. This is why Jared's maybe the best friend he's ever had.
"Aww. We both know you're not my type, sweetcheeks. But thanks for the offer."
Correction, Jared was his best friend.
"With. A. Spoon."
Jared wisely decides to ignore the playground antics, electing to spend his time ransacking the entertainment cabinet in the corner instead. Eventually he liberates a wireless XBox controller from the jumble and Undisputed spins up on the tiny flat panel tucked in the corner. Whether the bullshit banter is truly bullshit or not, Jensen's grateful. The bird's still burning a hole in his pocket, but he's got his equilibrium back. Jared's enough of a distraction that he's not thinking about it directly anymore. Jensen's going to count that as a win.
"Move, Gigantor," he says, easing through the narrow gap between Jared's heels and the brass kick-plate on the door.
Jared does, leans in to snag another controller that he lobs at the other end of the couch, then fits himself into his pre-made ridges in the corner with a broad smile. "Anything you say, my Lilliputian friend."
"Fuck yo...shit, we've already covered that today, haven't we?"
"Yep," Jared says, sounding too pleased with himself for anyone's good.
"I'm so gonna kick your ass. You know this right?" At this point it's just a formality, gamer-zen is not in the Padalecki stable of virtues.
"Really? Because while you were bitching and moaning and repeating yourself, I yoinked BJ Penn."
Jensen barely resists the urge to do Jared bodily harm. In the end, trying to explain the black eye to Phil and (by extension) Eric is all that stays his hand. "I'll see your Penn and raise you a Condit, bitch."
The music that spools out of the speakers sounds tinny and weak, not at all like his system at home. Which both sucks and doesn't, because he can't remember the last time Jay came over. Not since Gen's pilot tanked and she moved north for the season, anyway. And he loves Gen. Loves that Jared loves Gen. Shit, if his logical brain is engaged, Jensen can even acknowledge that since he and Jared are together all day every day when they're filming, it's only natural that Jay would want to spend the meager down time he gets with his blushing bride. It's the principle of the thing though, and it makes him twitchy to think how far inside each other's pockets they once lived.
Jared's voice yanks him out of the potential mire. "You good?" he asks, careful to keep his eyes on the screen, the chain-link octagon spinning like a drunken top amidst a sea of flashing lights.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good," Jensen says, even though he isn't. Nothing Jay can do to fix it and while Jensen believes that Jared's not the one fucking with him, he's not in the mood to share. Yet. "Better anyway. Doesn't mean there's suddenly a moratorium on me kicking your ass."
"Bring it," Jared says and grins wider, all white flashing teeth.
In spite of the foul mood, he stop himself from returning it- the things are a contagion, a weapon of mass destruction, a blight upon the face of the fucking universe, and he's thankful for every single one. Jay always manages to slide him back to center somehow, and as Jensen kicks his heels up on his makeshift coffee table he breathes deep for the first time since he found his pink paper pal lurking in his pocket.
"Okay, Bridget," he says. "Prepare to have your pom poms ruffled."
He'll handle it. They'll handle it. Shit, if need be, Clif will handle it. Even so, Jensen hopes it doesn't come to that - the mere idea of explaining the cranes to anyone makes the turkey on rye turn over in his stomach. He's not a teenager and he's not a prima donna. Talking about it officially, even filing an informal complaint with the powers that be seems like overkill. There's no reason for this to end in hard feelings or lost wages, no need to throw his manhood to the mercy of a higher power. Not if he can flush them out and make them understand.
Jensen taps out a string of commands and onscreen Condit twists, back bowed, right foot connecting with Penn's ribcage as Jared curses. Years of experience have taught him when to get his virtual hands up, and based on the hunch of Jay's shoulders the time has come. He smirks at the set of Jared's chin when Condit weaves beyond Penn's reach, snorts at the predictable clack and squeak of plastic that follows.
Today may be the day Jared finally buys him that new set of controllers.
The thought lingers, tickling against Jensen's subconscious like victory, the last of the tension seeping out of his muscles on a sigh.
Somehow, Jared levels a glare his direction without even looking at him, the "I hate you," as venomous and bitchy as anything Sam has ever said to Dean.
It's awesome.
"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful, baby," Jensen says, switching things up, going back on the offensive as Jared's thumbs slow their furious pace against the buttons.
"I've got a spoon too, Jen, and I'm not afraid to use it."
Jensen snorts. "Wouldn't want to traumatize you. Seeing as I'm not your type and all." He executes another combo, but it's his turn to curse this time, the third blow missing well wide when someone pounds on the trailer door hard enough to shake the blinds above their heads.
Clock be damned, the angle of the sun on the wall tells him the hour they were given when he stomped off set hasn't slipped past yet.
There's another, slightly less violent, knock and a high, reedy voice drifts in. "Jensen?"
"S'open," he calls, eyes flicking instinctively to the door and then back. Jared takes the opening, Penn's fist connecting with Condit's face twice in the half second of distraction. "Anyone ever tell you you're a dick, Jay?"
"Dunno what you're talking about," Jared says, dropping the controller in his lap. "I am the epitome of sweetness and light."
"You're the epitome of something, alright."
Jensen recognizes the PA hovering at the threshold, even if he can't remember her name - Shawna, Shawnee, Sharon. Something. He hates when it happens, feels like a douchebag rockstar that can't be bothered to keep the names of the chicks in his entourage straight. It's not who he is. She's not one of the regulars and she's only been around a couple weeks, but still.
In his continuing bid to make Jensen's head explode, Jared beams up at her. "Hey Cheyenne, how's Dingo doing?"
She, Cheyenne, huffs a laugh, cheeks going rosy as she replies. "He's good. A couple more days and he'll be back on solid food."
Her dark hair fans wildly behind her when the screen door slaps closed, the blonde streak near the front dipping into her eyes as she bends her head to dig through her front pocket.
Jensen can feel the question forming in the back of his head, the only polite one he can muster considering thirty seconds ago he couldn't dig the girl's name out of his brain. He feels like he should care who Dingo is, Jared obviously does, but he's too busy being pissed off at himself to make it past the expected response. Next time he won't forget. Cheyenne - Hello Kitty T-shirt, neon green laces in her Docs, silver stud in her nose.
Paper crane in her hand.
"I think you dro--"
As it turns out, reflexes are exactly what they pretend to be - completely unconscious reactions to an appropriate set of stimuli. Before he works his way back around to actual thoughts, Jensen's already on the first stair outside with Cheyenne's thin wrist caught in a death grip. She stumbles over her own feet on the second step and reflex also dictates he catch her. It's the chivalrous thing to do. The moment lasts half a beat, her standing in the circle of his arms staring up at him, breathing hard around a tentative smile.
And he knows.
"I-you. You need to stop," Jensen says, disentangling himself hastily.
Cheyenne sways on her feet before she steadies and he can't help but feel sorry for her, even though by all rights he should be furious. Is furious. Or at least trying to be.
"Stop what? You dropped this," she says, thrusting the crumpled bird at him a second time. "It looked like something you might want to keep."
"Why would I-?" Jensen starts, but changes his mind at the last minute. For whatever reason, he believes her. She doesn't look like a mastermind any more than she seems crazy and star-struck. She wouldn't have let go quite so easily if she was. It means someone else is fucking with him. Or stalking him. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. "Who put you up to this?"
"Put me up to--oh, oh, okay." Jensen watches the realization dawn on her face, wishing he knew what it was. Thankfully, she doesn't disappoint. "Prank war, huh?" she says, shaking her head slowly. "Dude, I just found it under your chair as we were striking one set to activate another. Jared's probably the better one to ask."
Which would be fine, great, fucking fantastic except that Jensen really doesn't want to talk to Jay about it. He already feels stupid for letting it get to him, stupidity that's been compounded by anger and if it's not Jared's game, Jensen's fairly certain he's going to get laughed out of his own trailer for bringing it up.
Of course, none of that is Cheyenne's fault.
"Sorry," he says, baser instincts rattling him to attention. He knows better than to manhandle people, and it says something that he'd forgotten himself. Not anything good. "That was uncalled for, even if it had been you. I got no right to put my hands on you."
"Honey, you can put your hands on me anytime you want," she says, dangerous little smirk carving her lips into a new shape, tongue peeking between her teeth to show off the fact she's apparently pierced there too. In a moment of pure, ridiculous testosterone-fueled insanity his mind wanders, trying to fill in the blanks about where else she might be pierced.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she is the girl. You can never be too wary of crazy. Then Cheyenne tips her head back and laughs like her lungs are going to burst if she doesn't, leaving her gasping for breath and Jensen trying to keep his emotions in check.
"That," she says, "is what you call payback." Cheyenne grabs his hand and presses the crane against his palm. "Got a girl anyway." She forces his fingers closed around it, crumpling it further. "Word of advice though? Chill out. This is not worth a heart attack."
With that she spins on her heel and stalks across the parking lot, presumably to get back to work. Jensen watches her go, hoping he can trust her to keep her mouth shut.
She's right of course.
Were it an option, Jensen would gladly let the entire crane fiasco slide. He realizes that if he just ignored them, after a while they'd stop coming. But he can't. Has never been able to. To this day, his momma says that if by some miracle he'd been born a cat, he'd have used up every last one of his nine lives before he turned five.
She's right too. Mothers usually are. So she'd be the least surprised of anyone that he can't resist the temptation balled up in his fist. White again this time but sloppy, like it wants to come apart or was finished in a rush. The ink's black, but the handwriting's the same - sharply sloped and messy without tripping over into illegible. Recognition sparks, but he can't hold on to it and resigns himself to using other methods to discover the identity of the mystery folding fiend.
This time, the actual text is worse than the fact that the thing exists at all.
...in the curve of you
hair plastered flat and clinging
as you bow for me dappled
shadows stringing along your limbs
caught
catching
and undone
Fuck.
The hinges creak when he heads back in, screen door snapping shut at his heels. Thin as the walls are, Jensen's not sure how much Jared heard and what kind of shit storm he's walking into.
The grin that greets him is confirmation enough.
Jared takes a breath.
"No. Just - no," Jensen says, cutting him off. "We will never speak of this."
Jared snorts. "You're shittin' me, right?"
"I'm not anything-ing you. Because we are not talking about this." Jensen feels the exhaustion settling right down into his bones. The day. The cranes. Cheyenne's smackdown. Jared's unholy glee. The fact that he can't just let it go. If only he could be at home in bed right the fuck now, life would be golden. Unfortunately, they have three pages left to film before that can happen.
In lieu of dying on the spot or, as previously suggested, having a heart attack, Jensen scrubs his free hand across his face and escapes to the dollhouse-sized bathroom to hunt down a bottle of painkillers.
Jensen considers it a small miracle that he makes it up the front steps without stumbling over himself and cracking his head open. He's dead on his feet, quite literally zombied out by the eighteen hour day and the seemingly endless string of obnoxious gestures and theatrically puckered lips he'd been subjected to during his coverage. Between Jared giving him shit and his subconscious playing twenty thousand questions, he's as tired as he's ever been.
Of course it doesn't help that he'd spent all three pages fighting himself, trying and failing to set aside his own emotional baggage in favor of Dean's until he was just as strung out as the character he's supposed to be playing. There are reasons he's not Method, not that he needs reminding.
As he slides his key home, Jensen throws a wave over his shoulder and watches Clif's headlights sweep a wide arc across the driveway. By the time the door shuts behind him, he's already mentally compiling a list of things he should do but won't. The mail's not going anywhere. The trashcan in the kitchen won't magically overflow while he's passed out. Forgoing a shower in favor of sleep isn't going to mean he's any more gritty and disgusting when he wakes up, only that he won't be any cleaner. And the two paper cranes tucked in the outside pocket of his backpack can wait until he has an actual brain to try to wrap around them. Right the hell now, his agenda includes three Down-Alternative pillows and a fucking fleece blanket.
Unfortunately, there's a spastic ball of white fluff waiting to thwart his designs on a straight shot to bed and oblivion. The tags jangling on his collar announce Icarus long before his nails click-clack triumphantly against the tile in the foyer. Jensen thanks his lucky stars every day that barking has never seemed to interest Ick all that much. Sure, he's a climber and a whiner and given the nonsense pattern he's winding around Jensen's ankles, he's a hazard to the average sleepwalker's health. He's just not noisy. Jensen suspects his neighbors are only slightly less grateful for that than he is.
Belly rubs and chin scratches are the only compensation Icarus demands of him, and Jensen hasn't got the heart to deny them when he knows full well the dogsitter left hours ago. He crouches where he stands, yawning wide as Icarus pads over and nudges up under his hand.
"Hey little man, how was your day? Did Selena run you ragged at the park again?"
Icarus tilts his head and whines softly. Jensen has always presumed that means yes, even if doing so makes him one of those people.
"Let's go to bed then."
Bed is one of the first words Icarus learned and in the ensuing scramble of miniature paws and fur, the streak of white scampering down the hall, Jensen wonders what that says about him and his skills as a puppy parent. Sit and stay are probably more useful, roll-over more impressive. Between the headache and fatigue, the crust of rail-yard dirt that flakes across the unassuming beige tile when he toes his boots off, Jensen can't be bothered to care. Bed is a very useful word. Bed is a glorious word.
Once he slings his jacket over the arm of the couch and drops his keys in the shallow bowl on the table in the hall, bed is the only word.
Except for the part where it isn't. Even after he's stripped down to his boxers and the sheets are warming slowly against his bare back, even after he's pummeled the pillows into an acceptable shape, Jensen can't really shake it. Icarus circles at the foot of the bed, collapsing with a quiet whump once he's satisfied. Five minutes later, he's already well-entrenched in a series of snuffling snores that leaves Jensen alone with his thoughts and a whole mess of ceiling-staring to get on with.
The pieces don't fit. Won't fit no matter how many times he turns them over in his head, like they're coming from completely different kinds of puzzles, not just different boxes. It's fucking frustrating.
On one hand, it has to be a prank. Not just any prank, but a premeditated one pulled by someone who has access, motive, and information. They'd have to know him well enough to understand the true depth of his irritation with 'Random Acts of Obsession' whether they're perpetrated by fans or crew or fucking Jared. That alone narrows the pool of suspects to a cool two dozen with Jay himself posting top honors. Misha only trails by virtue of a tentative truce they'd established late last year that ended with Jay's SUV parked on the roof of the studio wrapped with a pink bow. While Misha may understand his burning desire to be left the hell alone, Jensen's pretty sure he doesn't sympathize. Still, history goes a long way in letting him give Misha the benefit of the doubt.
The phrasing isn't right for a prank though, the passages too honest and heartfelt. Not unless that's the point. Then there's the handwriting to consider, so familiar it's driving him slowly insane - like a word on the tip of his tongue that he can't quite vocalize.
Damn it all to hell.
Icarus rouses, huffing sleepily into his paws when Jensen swings his legs over the edge of the bed. It takes a single reassuring pat to ease him back down, his mouth going slack again as Jensen pads quietly into the living room to retrieve his infuriating paper pals.
Moonlight bathes the couch under the window, long stripes of silver laid against black leather. The cushions are cool to the touch, colder on his ass when it hits and he sinks deep into the corner. He stares at the cranes for a long time, willing them to out their secrets so he can sleep in peace.
Inanimate objects in general are less forthcoming than he'd like, and so the only response he gets is the same sharp bend of neck to head, the same wide flare of wing.
At some point he must drift off. With no one to push him back to bed, the next thing Jensen remembers is flailing himself awake, kneecap catching the corner of the coffee table as he fends off a flock of paper birds worthy of Hitchcock. Every last one of them crowing with laughter and trying to peck his clothes off.
"Fucking fuck ."
While it's not the worst dream he's ever had, it's also not the best. His head's foggy and his knee's throbbing, the sharp shock of the strike easing off into something more bearable when he stands to stretch out the kinks.
The clock mocks him, bright white numbers proclaiming it 4:32 AM. From their perch between two couch cushions, the cranes stare silently back, joining in on the mockfest simply by virtue of existing.
Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes.
"Screw this," he mutters and grabs the misshapen scraps of paper, deposits them on the top shelf of his bookcase to keep the dust bunnies company.
Out of sight, out of mind. He's too tired to deal with it anyway. And if he's lucky, really fucking lucky, all it'll take is the healthy application of mind over matter to convince himself he doesn't care.
Because he doesn't.
( TWO)
In the past six years, Jensen's been party to a thousand and one different varieties of the inappropriate advance - some sweet, some spastic, most if not all delusional. He's seen more teddy bears and fainting spells, been barraged with more pointless panties than one mere mortal should have to endure. Most of the time, he can chalk it up to the fact there's a shit ton of crazy out in that wide, blue yonder and being in the public eye earns you more than just a taste. But in all these years and in spite of the sometimes gross invasions of privacy, he's never once considered taking out a restraining order.
That was before the crazy chickens came home to roost, no less crazy for the fact that they're made of paper or that they're actually cranes.
Jensen thinks that's what they are anyway.
They remind him of a unit he did on Japan junior year and the fluffy cardigans Ms. Greene wore when autumn spun over into winter, the way her knee had nudged up against his calf when she crouched down beside his desk. All facts that guaranteed he'd read about the Bushido ten years later and would forever be a disaster at origami. There were better things to think about back then, like her grapefruit shampoo, her easy smiles, or the caramel candy that she kept in a jar on her desk. Lucky for him, she was new enough to be relatively guileless, so she'd offered to help whenever he asked. If he was an asshole, Jensen would lay the blame for the gaping holes in his knowledge of world history squarely on her shoulders. But he's not an asshole.
Okay, he's not normally an asshole. Extenuating circumstances seem to have this power to turn normal into just another word, and today is not a normal day.
So says the hot pink paper bird riding in Jensen's jacket pocket that he sure as hell didn't put there.
It had all started about a week ago, maybe a week and a half. This deep into the shooting schedule, days run together like wet paint slapped on much slicker canvas and time's just an abstract blot slapped down between sleeping today and sleeping tomorrow. They'd been shooting Buntzen again, so he'd brought Icarus along to plunder the spoils of the dog beach during breaks. The first crane - white wings smudged grey-green by dirt and algae - almost ended its short, pulpy life on the tail-end of Ick's digestive track. At the time, it hadn't struck Jensen as weird beyond the fact that Icarus dragged him halfway around the lake and out onto a weatherbeaten dock to get to it.
The second - yellow with streamers of blue ink scrawled across every flat surface - had literally fallen in his lap. At the first lighting reset, he'd escaped the long stretch of gravel in favor of his trailer only to be called back as soon as he got there. By the fourth one, he'd learned his lesson and hunkered down in the driver's seat of the Impala to close his eyes instead. When he'd lowered the sun visor to block out the glare, the crane attacked, bouncing off his chest and through the space between his knees on its journey to the floorboard.
One could be explained away. Two might be simple coincidence. Given the placement of his third unfeathered friend, that seems unlikely. The whole thing's a little fucking weird and he could kick himself for throwing the first two away since now more than anything he wants to know who, followed closely by why.
While the paper color may have been left to the whim of the PA responsible for distributing today's changes, the passage scratched across the blank side of the page when he pulls the bird apart sure as shit ain't.
When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
Why did they stop at my lips, so suddenly, why do I know them, as if once before, I have touched them, as if, before being, they travelled my forehead, my waist? [1]
Jensen can't tell if the words are borrowed, but they absolutely are the wrong side of intimate. Coming from a stranger, the passage registers in a vaguely creepy way he's not accustomed to. If he knew or was with the person that planted them, they wouldn't be weird at all. But he doesn't. So it is.
If only to himself, he's man enough to admit he's dabbled in the odd romantic gesture. Back in the day, he always took shit for bringing his girl flowers and opening car doors. That didn't change once he found himself squinting under the bright lights of Hollywood, even if his tastes and methods did.
But this - it's sand under his skin, an itch he can't quite seem to scratch. For all the times he's been propositioned or pawed at without being asked, it's either been out in the open or from far enough away he can laugh it off. Instead there's this hollow pit eating away at his gut. Suspicion, doubt, and before he can stop himself there's a list of possible perps spooling through his head that runs the gamut from the new intern to Kripke himself.
It absolutely includes Jared.
Which may be why he feels less than charitable when Jay pops up on the path between him and his trailer.
"Dude. Who died?"
Jensen sighs and skirts Jared with a broad sidestep. "Shit day, okay. That's all. You actively fucking with someone I don't know about?" he asks, leaving the 'like me' unspoken.
"If you mean replacing the cups in Misha's trailer with baby bottles, then yeah. Since when do I have to clear it with you?"
Jared falls into step behind him and Jensen tenses. He fully expects to open the door to his trailer and suffocate beneath an avalanche of paper birds. Some part of him even wants it, if only to pull that last puzzle piece into place. May not be Jay's typical style, but Misha's a bad influence - a sort of gateway drug to a brave new world of destructive pranks.
There are days Jensen feels like he's back in grade school, playing referee between Tommy Wilkins and Rob Landers. Most of the time, Jared's antics are hilarious, their prank wars epic, and since neither he nor Misha go out of their way to fuck with him when they've got each other to harass, Jensen considers keeping a straight face an acceptable burden.
Right now, he's not amused.
But beyond the door, it's business as usual. Not a bird in sight. Jared pushes in at his back then flops on the couch hard enough to bounce the shocks and pulls a hand through his hair. Somehow when he says, "What gives?" it doesn't sound like an accusation.
"Shit day, like I said."
"Jesus, Jensen. That is not your 'Shit Day' face," Jared sighs, then bats his eyelashes. "Are we going to have to talk about our feelings?"
"Fuck you," Jensen spits back, but there's no fire behind it. This is why Jared's maybe the best friend he's ever had.
"Aww. We both know you're not my type, sweetcheeks. But thanks for the offer."
Correction, Jared was his best friend.
"With. A. Spoon."
Jared wisely decides to ignore the playground antics, electing to spend his time ransacking the entertainment cabinet in the corner instead. Eventually he liberates a wireless XBox controller from the jumble and Undisputed spins up on the tiny flat panel tucked in the corner. Whether the bullshit banter is truly bullshit or not, Jensen's grateful. The bird's still burning a hole in his pocket, but he's got his equilibrium back. Jared's enough of a distraction that he's not thinking about it directly anymore. Jensen's going to count that as a win.
"Move, Gigantor," he says, easing through the narrow gap between Jared's heels and the brass kick-plate on the door.
Jared does, leans in to snag another controller that he lobs at the other end of the couch, then fits himself into his pre-made ridges in the corner with a broad smile. "Anything you say, my Lilliputian friend."
"Fuck yo...shit, we've already covered that today, haven't we?"
"Yep," Jared says, sounding too pleased with himself for anyone's good.
"I'm so gonna kick your ass. You know this right?" At this point it's just a formality, gamer-zen is not in the Padalecki stable of virtues.
"Really? Because while you were bitching and moaning and repeating yourself, I yoinked BJ Penn."
Jensen barely resists the urge to do Jared bodily harm. In the end, trying to explain the black eye to Phil and (by extension) Eric is all that stays his hand. "I'll see your Penn and raise you a Condit, bitch."
The music that spools out of the speakers sounds tinny and weak, not at all like his system at home. Which both sucks and doesn't, because he can't remember the last time Jay came over. Not since Gen's pilot tanked and she moved north for the season, anyway. And he loves Gen. Loves that Jared loves Gen. Shit, if his logical brain is engaged, Jensen can even acknowledge that since he and Jared are together all day every day when they're filming, it's only natural that Jay would want to spend the meager down time he gets with his blushing bride. It's the principle of the thing though, and it makes him twitchy to think how far inside each other's pockets they once lived.
Jared's voice yanks him out of the potential mire. "You good?" he asks, careful to keep his eyes on the screen, the chain-link octagon spinning like a drunken top amidst a sea of flashing lights.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good," Jensen says, even though he isn't. Nothing Jay can do to fix it and while Jensen believes that Jared's not the one fucking with him, he's not in the mood to share. Yet. "Better anyway. Doesn't mean there's suddenly a moratorium on me kicking your ass."
"Bring it," Jared says and grins wider, all white flashing teeth.
In spite of the foul mood, he stop himself from returning it- the things are a contagion, a weapon of mass destruction, a blight upon the face of the fucking universe, and he's thankful for every single one. Jay always manages to slide him back to center somehow, and as Jensen kicks his heels up on his makeshift coffee table he breathes deep for the first time since he found his pink paper pal lurking in his pocket.
"Okay, Bridget," he says. "Prepare to have your pom poms ruffled."
He'll handle it. They'll handle it. Shit, if need be, Clif will handle it. Even so, Jensen hopes it doesn't come to that - the mere idea of explaining the cranes to anyone makes the turkey on rye turn over in his stomach. He's not a teenager and he's not a prima donna. Talking about it officially, even filing an informal complaint with the powers that be seems like overkill. There's no reason for this to end in hard feelings or lost wages, no need to throw his manhood to the mercy of a higher power. Not if he can flush them out and make them understand.
Jensen taps out a string of commands and onscreen Condit twists, back bowed, right foot connecting with Penn's ribcage as Jared curses. Years of experience have taught him when to get his virtual hands up, and based on the hunch of Jay's shoulders the time has come. He smirks at the set of Jared's chin when Condit weaves beyond Penn's reach, snorts at the predictable clack and squeak of plastic that follows.
Today may be the day Jared finally buys him that new set of controllers.
The thought lingers, tickling against Jensen's subconscious like victory, the last of the tension seeping out of his muscles on a sigh.
Somehow, Jared levels a glare his direction without even looking at him, the "I hate you," as venomous and bitchy as anything Sam has ever said to Dean.
It's awesome.
"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful, baby," Jensen says, switching things up, going back on the offensive as Jared's thumbs slow their furious pace against the buttons.
"I've got a spoon too, Jen, and I'm not afraid to use it."
Jensen snorts. "Wouldn't want to traumatize you. Seeing as I'm not your type and all." He executes another combo, but it's his turn to curse this time, the third blow missing well wide when someone pounds on the trailer door hard enough to shake the blinds above their heads.
Clock be damned, the angle of the sun on the wall tells him the hour they were given when he stomped off set hasn't slipped past yet.
There's another, slightly less violent, knock and a high, reedy voice drifts in. "Jensen?"
"S'open," he calls, eyes flicking instinctively to the door and then back. Jared takes the opening, Penn's fist connecting with Condit's face twice in the half second of distraction. "Anyone ever tell you you're a dick, Jay?"
"Dunno what you're talking about," Jared says, dropping the controller in his lap. "I am the epitome of sweetness and light."
"You're the epitome of something, alright."
Jensen recognizes the PA hovering at the threshold, even if he can't remember her name - Shawna, Shawnee, Sharon. Something. He hates when it happens, feels like a douchebag rockstar that can't be bothered to keep the names of the chicks in his entourage straight. It's not who he is. She's not one of the regulars and she's only been around a couple weeks, but still.
In his continuing bid to make Jensen's head explode, Jared beams up at her. "Hey Cheyenne, how's Dingo doing?"
She, Cheyenne, huffs a laugh, cheeks going rosy as she replies. "He's good. A couple more days and he'll be back on solid food."
Her dark hair fans wildly behind her when the screen door slaps closed, the blonde streak near the front dipping into her eyes as she bends her head to dig through her front pocket.
Jensen can feel the question forming in the back of his head, the only polite one he can muster considering thirty seconds ago he couldn't dig the girl's name out of his brain. He feels like he should care who Dingo is, Jared obviously does, but he's too busy being pissed off at himself to make it past the expected response. Next time he won't forget. Cheyenne - Hello Kitty T-shirt, neon green laces in her Docs, silver stud in her nose.
Paper crane in her hand.
"I think you dro--"
As it turns out, reflexes are exactly what they pretend to be - completely unconscious reactions to an appropriate set of stimuli. Before he works his way back around to actual thoughts, Jensen's already on the first stair outside with Cheyenne's thin wrist caught in a death grip. She stumbles over her own feet on the second step and reflex also dictates he catch her. It's the chivalrous thing to do. The moment lasts half a beat, her standing in the circle of his arms staring up at him, breathing hard around a tentative smile.
And he knows.
"I-you. You need to stop," Jensen says, disentangling himself hastily.
Cheyenne sways on her feet before she steadies and he can't help but feel sorry for her, even though by all rights he should be furious. Is furious. Or at least trying to be.
"Stop what? You dropped this," she says, thrusting the crumpled bird at him a second time. "It looked like something you might want to keep."
"Why would I-?" Jensen starts, but changes his mind at the last minute. For whatever reason, he believes her. She doesn't look like a mastermind any more than she seems crazy and star-struck. She wouldn't have let go quite so easily if she was. It means someone else is fucking with him. Or stalking him. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. "Who put you up to this?"
"Put me up to--oh, oh, okay." Jensen watches the realization dawn on her face, wishing he knew what it was. Thankfully, she doesn't disappoint. "Prank war, huh?" she says, shaking her head slowly. "Dude, I just found it under your chair as we were striking one set to activate another. Jared's probably the better one to ask."
Which would be fine, great, fucking fantastic except that Jensen really doesn't want to talk to Jay about it. He already feels stupid for letting it get to him, stupidity that's been compounded by anger and if it's not Jared's game, Jensen's fairly certain he's going to get laughed out of his own trailer for bringing it up.
Of course, none of that is Cheyenne's fault.
"Sorry," he says, baser instincts rattling him to attention. He knows better than to manhandle people, and it says something that he'd forgotten himself. Not anything good. "That was uncalled for, even if it had been you. I got no right to put my hands on you."
"Honey, you can put your hands on me anytime you want," she says, dangerous little smirk carving her lips into a new shape, tongue peeking between her teeth to show off the fact she's apparently pierced there too. In a moment of pure, ridiculous testosterone-fueled insanity his mind wanders, trying to fill in the blanks about where else she might be pierced.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she is the girl. You can never be too wary of crazy. Then Cheyenne tips her head back and laughs like her lungs are going to burst if she doesn't, leaving her gasping for breath and Jensen trying to keep his emotions in check.
"That," she says, "is what you call payback." Cheyenne grabs his hand and presses the crane against his palm. "Got a girl anyway." She forces his fingers closed around it, crumpling it further. "Word of advice though? Chill out. This is not worth a heart attack."
With that she spins on her heel and stalks across the parking lot, presumably to get back to work. Jensen watches her go, hoping he can trust her to keep her mouth shut.
She's right of course.
Were it an option, Jensen would gladly let the entire crane fiasco slide. He realizes that if he just ignored them, after a while they'd stop coming. But he can't. Has never been able to. To this day, his momma says that if by some miracle he'd been born a cat, he'd have used up every last one of his nine lives before he turned five.
She's right too. Mothers usually are. So she'd be the least surprised of anyone that he can't resist the temptation balled up in his fist. White again this time but sloppy, like it wants to come apart or was finished in a rush. The ink's black, but the handwriting's the same - sharply sloped and messy without tripping over into illegible. Recognition sparks, but he can't hold on to it and resigns himself to using other methods to discover the identity of the mystery folding fiend.
This time, the actual text is worse than the fact that the thing exists at all.
...in the curve of you
hair plastered flat and clinging
as you bow for me dappled
shadows stringing along your limbs
caught
catching
and undone
Fuck.
The hinges creak when he heads back in, screen door snapping shut at his heels. Thin as the walls are, Jensen's not sure how much Jared heard and what kind of shit storm he's walking into.
The grin that greets him is confirmation enough.
Jared takes a breath.
"No. Just - no," Jensen says, cutting him off. "We will never speak of this."
Jared snorts. "You're shittin' me, right?"
"I'm not anything-ing you. Because we are not talking about this." Jensen feels the exhaustion settling right down into his bones. The day. The cranes. Cheyenne's smackdown. Jared's unholy glee. The fact that he can't just let it go. If only he could be at home in bed right the fuck now, life would be golden. Unfortunately, they have three pages left to film before that can happen.
In lieu of dying on the spot or, as previously suggested, having a heart attack, Jensen scrubs his free hand across his face and escapes to the dollhouse-sized bathroom to hunt down a bottle of painkillers.
Jensen considers it a small miracle that he makes it up the front steps without stumbling over himself and cracking his head open. He's dead on his feet, quite literally zombied out by the eighteen hour day and the seemingly endless string of obnoxious gestures and theatrically puckered lips he'd been subjected to during his coverage. Between Jared giving him shit and his subconscious playing twenty thousand questions, he's as tired as he's ever been.
Of course it doesn't help that he'd spent all three pages fighting himself, trying and failing to set aside his own emotional baggage in favor of Dean's until he was just as strung out as the character he's supposed to be playing. There are reasons he's not Method, not that he needs reminding.
As he slides his key home, Jensen throws a wave over his shoulder and watches Clif's headlights sweep a wide arc across the driveway. By the time the door shuts behind him, he's already mentally compiling a list of things he should do but won't. The mail's not going anywhere. The trashcan in the kitchen won't magically overflow while he's passed out. Forgoing a shower in favor of sleep isn't going to mean he's any more gritty and disgusting when he wakes up, only that he won't be any cleaner. And the two paper cranes tucked in the outside pocket of his backpack can wait until he has an actual brain to try to wrap around them. Right the hell now, his agenda includes three Down-Alternative pillows and a fucking fleece blanket.
Unfortunately, there's a spastic ball of white fluff waiting to thwart his designs on a straight shot to bed and oblivion. The tags jangling on his collar announce Icarus long before his nails click-clack triumphantly against the tile in the foyer. Jensen thanks his lucky stars every day that barking has never seemed to interest Ick all that much. Sure, he's a climber and a whiner and given the nonsense pattern he's winding around Jensen's ankles, he's a hazard to the average sleepwalker's health. He's just not noisy. Jensen suspects his neighbors are only slightly less grateful for that than he is.
Belly rubs and chin scratches are the only compensation Icarus demands of him, and Jensen hasn't got the heart to deny them when he knows full well the dogsitter left hours ago. He crouches where he stands, yawning wide as Icarus pads over and nudges up under his hand.
"Hey little man, how was your day? Did Selena run you ragged at the park again?"
Icarus tilts his head and whines softly. Jensen has always presumed that means yes, even if doing so makes him one of those people.
"Let's go to bed then."
Bed is one of the first words Icarus learned and in the ensuing scramble of miniature paws and fur, the streak of white scampering down the hall, Jensen wonders what that says about him and his skills as a puppy parent. Sit and stay are probably more useful, roll-over more impressive. Between the headache and fatigue, the crust of rail-yard dirt that flakes across the unassuming beige tile when he toes his boots off, Jensen can't be bothered to care. Bed is a very useful word. Bed is a glorious word.
Once he slings his jacket over the arm of the couch and drops his keys in the shallow bowl on the table in the hall, bed is the only word.
Except for the part where it isn't. Even after he's stripped down to his boxers and the sheets are warming slowly against his bare back, even after he's pummeled the pillows into an acceptable shape, Jensen can't really shake it. Icarus circles at the foot of the bed, collapsing with a quiet whump once he's satisfied. Five minutes later, he's already well-entrenched in a series of snuffling snores that leaves Jensen alone with his thoughts and a whole mess of ceiling-staring to get on with.
The pieces don't fit. Won't fit no matter how many times he turns them over in his head, like they're coming from completely different kinds of puzzles, not just different boxes. It's fucking frustrating.
On one hand, it has to be a prank. Not just any prank, but a premeditated one pulled by someone who has access, motive, and information. They'd have to know him well enough to understand the true depth of his irritation with 'Random Acts of Obsession' whether they're perpetrated by fans or crew or fucking Jared. That alone narrows the pool of suspects to a cool two dozen with Jay himself posting top honors. Misha only trails by virtue of a tentative truce they'd established late last year that ended with Jay's SUV parked on the roof of the studio wrapped with a pink bow. While Misha may understand his burning desire to be left the hell alone, Jensen's pretty sure he doesn't sympathize. Still, history goes a long way in letting him give Misha the benefit of the doubt.
The phrasing isn't right for a prank though, the passages too honest and heartfelt. Not unless that's the point. Then there's the handwriting to consider, so familiar it's driving him slowly insane - like a word on the tip of his tongue that he can't quite vocalize.
Damn it all to hell.
Icarus rouses, huffing sleepily into his paws when Jensen swings his legs over the edge of the bed. It takes a single reassuring pat to ease him back down, his mouth going slack again as Jensen pads quietly into the living room to retrieve his infuriating paper pals.
Moonlight bathes the couch under the window, long stripes of silver laid against black leather. The cushions are cool to the touch, colder on his ass when it hits and he sinks deep into the corner. He stares at the cranes for a long time, willing them to out their secrets so he can sleep in peace.
Inanimate objects in general are less forthcoming than he'd like, and so the only response he gets is the same sharp bend of neck to head, the same wide flare of wing.
At some point he must drift off. With no one to push him back to bed, the next thing Jensen remembers is flailing himself awake, kneecap catching the corner of the coffee table as he fends off a flock of paper birds worthy of Hitchcock. Every last one of them crowing with laughter and trying to peck his clothes off.
"Fucking fuck ."
While it's not the worst dream he's ever had, it's also not the best. His head's foggy and his knee's throbbing, the sharp shock of the strike easing off into something more bearable when he stands to stretch out the kinks.
The clock mocks him, bright white numbers proclaiming it 4:32 AM. From their perch between two couch cushions, the cranes stare silently back, joining in on the mockfest simply by virtue of existing.
Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes.
"Screw this," he mutters and grabs the misshapen scraps of paper, deposits them on the top shelf of his bookcase to keep the dust bunnies company.
Out of sight, out of mind. He's too tired to deal with it anyway. And if he's lucky, really fucking lucky, all it'll take is the healthy application of mind over matter to convince himself he doesn't care.
Because he doesn't.
( TWO)