Orizuru: Chapter Two
-TWO-
"To what do I owe the diva?"
Jensen peers over his shoulder, ass sliding on the film of wax and dust coating the Impala's fender. With only a sad handful of hours spent unconscious between him and yesterday, Jensen's not really in the mood to humor anyone. Even less so when that anyone happens to be a Misha on a mission.
It's not that there's love lost between them. Or love - gained. Or even that Misha fails to recognize the subtleties that shine beacon-bright for Jared, the ones that scream, "Danger, Will Robinson," in no uncertain terms.
Misha simply chooses to ignore them with unparalleled vigor.
Jensen sighs and turns back to stare at the compelling patch of dirt caught between the toes of his boots.
"If I thought you gave a shit, I'd explain that I'm not in the mood for your crazy today," he says. "Since you cleared up that particular misconception a long time ago, all I've got is a hearty 'Fuck you'."
Beneath him, the car rolls back a quarter inch, finding her ruts again with Misha sprawled into a lazy lean across the hood. Jensen braces for the inevitable innuendo, the suggestive smirk that means nothing beyond providing proof Misha's still breathing. It never comes. Instead, Misha plants his heels against the bumper and slides himself up, trench coat and all.
"Let's try again," he says, and Jensen feels him settle in, fingers laced together, elbows meeting knees. "Something on your mind?"
Jensen fakes a smile, says, "No more so than usual," and pulls a long swallow off the bottle of water slowly warming in his fist.
It's a lie, obviously it's a lie, but he has some skill at selling the impossible or so he's been told.
Not his fault that Misha's a miser.
"Bullshit," Misha says, leaning close to pluck the bottle out of Jensen's hand.
It's a thing. One of the very few things Misha inflicts on him alone, and a pattern that they'd established as quid pro quo before they even exchanged pleasantries. Jensen remembers even if Misha doesn't, how he'd been standing outside Jared's trailer on a rare sweltering day in Vancouver, water in one hand and the other anchoring the end of Harley's rope pull. Even now, Jensen has no idea what he and Jay had been talking about, but he remembers Misha had strolled up unannounced and snatched the water out of his hand; nodded, said thanks, then resumed his unhurried meander toward the make-up trailer.
He's been at it ever since and even though Jensen's gotten used to it over the years, it's a welcome distraction from the great crane caper and the pile of shit he's making of the dailies.
Or it was. Until Misha stumbles upon the truth.
"You," Misha says, "reek of Eau de Vexation."
Jensen tries to play it off, unwilling to give Misha an inch of ground he hasn't officially conquered. "Who the hell uses the word vexation?"
"Points for intent," Misha says evenly, but the smile that greets Jensen when he glances over is telling. "Unfortunately for you, true deflection requires more ingenuity to execute. All you've managed to do so far is call my attention to the fact you're deflecting."
"Awesome. I suck. You are both benevolent and omniscient. Can we skip the Yoda shtick today? I'm not in the mood for it either."
Jensen shoves his hands in his pockets, content to pick apart the bundle of thread tucked in the corner if it keeps him from fidgeting.
"In the interests of getting me to go the fuck away," Misha says, "I propose we observe the freedom of information act.
"Meaning?'
Misha slides down the hood, his hip and thigh and knee pressed too close for Jensen's complete comfort. There's necessity, and then there's whatever this is. Jensen kind of wants to plant an elbow between his ribs to back him off.
"You tell me what manner of small, furry creature crawled up your ass."
"And?" Jensen asks, because nothing is ever simple when it comes to Misha.
"And I help you extract it. Figuratively," he adds as an afterthought. "If there's actually a small, furry creature in your ass I think we both have larger concerns."
"Naturally."
"Were that the case, I'd be inclined to send you to Doc Belcher on referral. He's very discreet."
Jensen feels his control begin to slip, feels the telltale tension in his jaw, the grit of Misha getting up under his skin with his abstractly surgical line of questioning. Or, that's the excuse Jensen would probably offer for shouting, "There are no literal or figurative furry things in my ass," if anyone cared enough to ask.
Misha smirks."Apparently there are," he says. "Enlighten me, please, so we can finish this fucking scene we've shot eighteen times and get on with our lives."
"Jesus, Misha. Give it a rest," Jensen says, finally snatching his water back. He gives the bottle an experimental shake before he shrugs and takes a drink. A second swallow gives him time to contemplate actually being honest, but then he thinks through how that conversation might go and decides against it. Misha would have a field day geared out like Carmen Sandiego or Columbo, questioning dames and dolls through clenched teeth and wearing an even more rumpled trenchcoat paired with a squashed fedora. It would be both hilarious and horrible.
Instead Jensen says, "Whatever my issues are, they aren't work related. So there's no reason for you to worry your pretty little head about them."
Hell, he doesn't even want to worry about them.
Misha squints, brow furrowed and Adam's apple bobbing oddly, says, "Yeah, no. Right. I forgot," as he pushes himself away from the front bumper and disappears into the deep shadows cast in between them and the miniature production trailer park down the road.
Jensen stares after him, turning the words over in his head and trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to figure out what the hell just happened. In the end he chalks it up to Misha being Misha, and lets the fact that Misha by and large errs on the side of really fucking weird be explanation enough. Really. Not like he's allowed much time for thoughtful consideration anyway. Thirty seconds after Misha stalks off, Jared's hand slaps against the roof of the Impala hard enough to make him jump. Jared also being Jared, laughs.
"I see you're still making friends and influencing people," Jared says, his voice way too loud and close for any sane person's comfort.
On top of being Saturday, it's midnight again, and all Jensen wants is to get through the next handful of minutes, survive until Phil inevitably calls it a night and sends them home. When he doesn't react, Jared and his Red Bull-inspired spaz attack seem to interpret the silence as an invitation to go on. Which it isn't, but Jensen's not in the mood to attempt to derail Jay when he's on a caffeine high either. Glaring doesn't take much effort though, especially since he's already worked himself up into a good scowl. Glaring it is.
The car rocks a second time, Jared suddenly occupying the space Misha so recently vacated. It's irritating, and not only because Jared's usually better at reading him than this, but also because Misha just up and fucked off in the middle of a sentence.
"Aww, what's wrong princess? Lover's spat?" Jared slings an arm over his shoulders, and Jensen at least has the presence of mind to shrug him off when Jay leans in to pinch his cheek. "No fine, feathered friends to add to your flock today? How dare she."
And that is not what this is about. He's just - tired. Tired because he spent an hour last night staring at a couple of creepy-ass paper birds that someone saw fit to saddle him with, but that has nothing to do with his mood.
He doesn't care.
"Like I'd tell you if there was," he says and shoves at Jared again to get some breathing room. "But no. Don't give a shit, either way."
Jared, of course, pushes back, nearly unseating Jensen from his spot on the fender. "Bullshit. You want to know so bad you can't breathe for thinking about it. I know you, Jen. It's driving you insane. So spill. Working theories? Suspects? Knees that need breaking?"
Arguing with Jared when he's like this makes about as much sense as skipping through Pamplona wearing red, so Jensen refrains, electing to change the subject instead of beating his head against the brick wall of Jared's will. It's only logical. And he really, truly doesn't care.
"Watch the game last night?"
He's not sure which game he's even referencing, but there was a game on last night in some market involving some team Jay follows. There always is. Then again, Jensen also already knows Jared hasn't had three hours sit in front of the fucking television with a Cowboys game in the last month, not to mention the last week. He knows because he hasn't had time either. Out of the corner of his eye, Jensen catches Jay rolling his before he taps out a sharp staccato pattern against his thigh.
"That how it's gonna be?" Jared asks, the last word drawling off into a yawn with too many syllables to count.
It means he's not nearly as keyed up as he's putting on and it leaves Jensen a window of opportunity, a broad tree-lined avenue of escape.
"Think I was pretty clear yesterday," he says. "So, if by 'it' you mean not talking about the stalker bullshit, then yes."
Jared sighs, shakes his head, and says, "Whoever they are, they've done a number on you. If you've got time to remove your head from your ass, can you tell me where to send the flowers for your dearly departed sense of humor?"
"Humor has jack and shit to do with this," Jensen says, just a little too loud, and for the first time he allows himself a sliver of doubt, lets himself wonder why he can't just ignore the whole ridiculous episode. The answer's not immediately forthcoming, so he sips at what's left of his water instead.
"Unbelievable," Jared sighs and for a few seconds just stares at him, eyes crinkling and mouth pressed down into a thin white line that borders on bitchface. Then he breathes like he's arrived at some sort of weighty internal decision and lets the subject officially drop, kicks his heels up on the bumper and says, "Fine. I'll play. How 'bout them Stars?" like it's the most natural thing in the world.
It's too easy. Suspiciously so, but Jensen's in no position to split hairs. He'll take any latitude he can get.
"They're...okay." He has no fucking clue where the Stars rank right now, but if it means putting his inconvenient obsession to rest for the night, Jensen's all for it.
The last trickle of water slips down his throat, tepid now where he's had it in his hand. He crushes the bottle in question to half its size and sends it sailing at a trash can. It rims out , but it's the shot that counts. Beside him, Jared huffs something that sounds halfway between a laugh and a snort. Whatever it is, what it isn't is attractive.
When Jensen glances over though, Jay's eyes are lazily lidded and he's only paying the most marginal attention as he grins his slow, cactus cooler grin and says, "Denied."
Phil shouts over the general set pandemonium, finally realizing that everyone lost their last legs two hours ago and maybe it's a good night to close up shop earlier than he'd planned. It conveniently saves Jared the embarrassment of getting his ass publicly handed to him, and then only because the mere idea of eight uninterrupted hours of sleep is enough to send Jensen swooning.
That's absolutely the only reason.
It has nothing to do with the fact that Jensen's legs are on autopilot or that Jay's trudging beside him making those moose noises he passes off as yawns. Nothing at all. It has even less to do with the fact that when they finally make it to their trailers, Jared stops him with a soft, "Hey, um," followed by another jaw-cracker and, "so we're having this thing tomorrow, apparently. Brunch or whatever. You should come."
Which yeah, he should, and he wants to, of course he does.
He's just not sure when he turned into a last minute invite.
Still, he says, "Why not?" and means it, because what the hell else does he have to do tomorrow but everything he can't do the rest of the week.
It sure as hell has nothing to do with the fact that when he nudges open the bathroom door in his trailer to grab the extra bottle of painkillers he keeps in the medicine cabinet, there's a fucking paper turtle crouched on the vanity waiting to snap.
( THREE)
"To what do I owe the diva?"
Jensen peers over his shoulder, ass sliding on the film of wax and dust coating the Impala's fender. With only a sad handful of hours spent unconscious between him and yesterday, Jensen's not really in the mood to humor anyone. Even less so when that anyone happens to be a Misha on a mission.
It's not that there's love lost between them. Or love - gained. Or even that Misha fails to recognize the subtleties that shine beacon-bright for Jared, the ones that scream, "Danger, Will Robinson," in no uncertain terms.
Misha simply chooses to ignore them with unparalleled vigor.
Jensen sighs and turns back to stare at the compelling patch of dirt caught between the toes of his boots.
"If I thought you gave a shit, I'd explain that I'm not in the mood for your crazy today," he says. "Since you cleared up that particular misconception a long time ago, all I've got is a hearty 'Fuck you'."
Beneath him, the car rolls back a quarter inch, finding her ruts again with Misha sprawled into a lazy lean across the hood. Jensen braces for the inevitable innuendo, the suggestive smirk that means nothing beyond providing proof Misha's still breathing. It never comes. Instead, Misha plants his heels against the bumper and slides himself up, trench coat and all.
"Let's try again," he says, and Jensen feels him settle in, fingers laced together, elbows meeting knees. "Something on your mind?"
Jensen fakes a smile, says, "No more so than usual," and pulls a long swallow off the bottle of water slowly warming in his fist.
It's a lie, obviously it's a lie, but he has some skill at selling the impossible or so he's been told.
Not his fault that Misha's a miser.
"Bullshit," Misha says, leaning close to pluck the bottle out of Jensen's hand.
It's a thing. One of the very few things Misha inflicts on him alone, and a pattern that they'd established as quid pro quo before they even exchanged pleasantries. Jensen remembers even if Misha doesn't, how he'd been standing outside Jared's trailer on a rare sweltering day in Vancouver, water in one hand and the other anchoring the end of Harley's rope pull. Even now, Jensen has no idea what he and Jay had been talking about, but he remembers Misha had strolled up unannounced and snatched the water out of his hand; nodded, said thanks, then resumed his unhurried meander toward the make-up trailer.
He's been at it ever since and even though Jensen's gotten used to it over the years, it's a welcome distraction from the great crane caper and the pile of shit he's making of the dailies.
Or it was. Until Misha stumbles upon the truth.
"You," Misha says, "reek of Eau de Vexation."
Jensen tries to play it off, unwilling to give Misha an inch of ground he hasn't officially conquered. "Who the hell uses the word vexation?"
"Points for intent," Misha says evenly, but the smile that greets Jensen when he glances over is telling. "Unfortunately for you, true deflection requires more ingenuity to execute. All you've managed to do so far is call my attention to the fact you're deflecting."
"Awesome. I suck. You are both benevolent and omniscient. Can we skip the Yoda shtick today? I'm not in the mood for it either."
Jensen shoves his hands in his pockets, content to pick apart the bundle of thread tucked in the corner if it keeps him from fidgeting.
"In the interests of getting me to go the fuck away," Misha says, "I propose we observe the freedom of information act.
"Meaning?'
Misha slides down the hood, his hip and thigh and knee pressed too close for Jensen's complete comfort. There's necessity, and then there's whatever this is. Jensen kind of wants to plant an elbow between his ribs to back him off.
"You tell me what manner of small, furry creature crawled up your ass."
"And?" Jensen asks, because nothing is ever simple when it comes to Misha.
"And I help you extract it. Figuratively," he adds as an afterthought. "If there's actually a small, furry creature in your ass I think we both have larger concerns."
"Naturally."
"Were that the case, I'd be inclined to send you to Doc Belcher on referral. He's very discreet."
Jensen feels his control begin to slip, feels the telltale tension in his jaw, the grit of Misha getting up under his skin with his abstractly surgical line of questioning. Or, that's the excuse Jensen would probably offer for shouting, "There are no literal or figurative furry things in my ass," if anyone cared enough to ask.
Misha smirks."Apparently there are," he says. "Enlighten me, please, so we can finish this fucking scene we've shot eighteen times and get on with our lives."
"Jesus, Misha. Give it a rest," Jensen says, finally snatching his water back. He gives the bottle an experimental shake before he shrugs and takes a drink. A second swallow gives him time to contemplate actually being honest, but then he thinks through how that conversation might go and decides against it. Misha would have a field day geared out like Carmen Sandiego or Columbo, questioning dames and dolls through clenched teeth and wearing an even more rumpled trenchcoat paired with a squashed fedora. It would be both hilarious and horrible.
Instead Jensen says, "Whatever my issues are, they aren't work related. So there's no reason for you to worry your pretty little head about them."
Hell, he doesn't even want to worry about them.
Misha squints, brow furrowed and Adam's apple bobbing oddly, says, "Yeah, no. Right. I forgot," as he pushes himself away from the front bumper and disappears into the deep shadows cast in between them and the miniature production trailer park down the road.
Jensen stares after him, turning the words over in his head and trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to figure out what the hell just happened. In the end he chalks it up to Misha being Misha, and lets the fact that Misha by and large errs on the side of really fucking weird be explanation enough. Really. Not like he's allowed much time for thoughtful consideration anyway. Thirty seconds after Misha stalks off, Jared's hand slaps against the roof of the Impala hard enough to make him jump. Jared also being Jared, laughs.
"I see you're still making friends and influencing people," Jared says, his voice way too loud and close for any sane person's comfort.
On top of being Saturday, it's midnight again, and all Jensen wants is to get through the next handful of minutes, survive until Phil inevitably calls it a night and sends them home. When he doesn't react, Jared and his Red Bull-inspired spaz attack seem to interpret the silence as an invitation to go on. Which it isn't, but Jensen's not in the mood to attempt to derail Jay when he's on a caffeine high either. Glaring doesn't take much effort though, especially since he's already worked himself up into a good scowl. Glaring it is.
The car rocks a second time, Jared suddenly occupying the space Misha so recently vacated. It's irritating, and not only because Jared's usually better at reading him than this, but also because Misha just up and fucked off in the middle of a sentence.
"Aww, what's wrong princess? Lover's spat?" Jared slings an arm over his shoulders, and Jensen at least has the presence of mind to shrug him off when Jay leans in to pinch his cheek. "No fine, feathered friends to add to your flock today? How dare she."
And that is not what this is about. He's just - tired. Tired because he spent an hour last night staring at a couple of creepy-ass paper birds that someone saw fit to saddle him with, but that has nothing to do with his mood.
He doesn't care.
"Like I'd tell you if there was," he says and shoves at Jared again to get some breathing room. "But no. Don't give a shit, either way."
Jared, of course, pushes back, nearly unseating Jensen from his spot on the fender. "Bullshit. You want to know so bad you can't breathe for thinking about it. I know you, Jen. It's driving you insane. So spill. Working theories? Suspects? Knees that need breaking?"
Arguing with Jared when he's like this makes about as much sense as skipping through Pamplona wearing red, so Jensen refrains, electing to change the subject instead of beating his head against the brick wall of Jared's will. It's only logical. And he really, truly doesn't care.
"Watch the game last night?"
He's not sure which game he's even referencing, but there was a game on last night in some market involving some team Jay follows. There always is. Then again, Jensen also already knows Jared hasn't had three hours sit in front of the fucking television with a Cowboys game in the last month, not to mention the last week. He knows because he hasn't had time either. Out of the corner of his eye, Jensen catches Jay rolling his before he taps out a sharp staccato pattern against his thigh.
"That how it's gonna be?" Jared asks, the last word drawling off into a yawn with too many syllables to count.
It means he's not nearly as keyed up as he's putting on and it leaves Jensen a window of opportunity, a broad tree-lined avenue of escape.
"Think I was pretty clear yesterday," he says. "So, if by 'it' you mean not talking about the stalker bullshit, then yes."
Jared sighs, shakes his head, and says, "Whoever they are, they've done a number on you. If you've got time to remove your head from your ass, can you tell me where to send the flowers for your dearly departed sense of humor?"
"Humor has jack and shit to do with this," Jensen says, just a little too loud, and for the first time he allows himself a sliver of doubt, lets himself wonder why he can't just ignore the whole ridiculous episode. The answer's not immediately forthcoming, so he sips at what's left of his water instead.
"Unbelievable," Jared sighs and for a few seconds just stares at him, eyes crinkling and mouth pressed down into a thin white line that borders on bitchface. Then he breathes like he's arrived at some sort of weighty internal decision and lets the subject officially drop, kicks his heels up on the bumper and says, "Fine. I'll play. How 'bout them Stars?" like it's the most natural thing in the world.
It's too easy. Suspiciously so, but Jensen's in no position to split hairs. He'll take any latitude he can get.
"They're...okay." He has no fucking clue where the Stars rank right now, but if it means putting his inconvenient obsession to rest for the night, Jensen's all for it.
The last trickle of water slips down his throat, tepid now where he's had it in his hand. He crushes the bottle in question to half its size and sends it sailing at a trash can. It rims out , but it's the shot that counts. Beside him, Jared huffs something that sounds halfway between a laugh and a snort. Whatever it is, what it isn't is attractive.
When Jensen glances over though, Jay's eyes are lazily lidded and he's only paying the most marginal attention as he grins his slow, cactus cooler grin and says, "Denied."
Phil shouts over the general set pandemonium, finally realizing that everyone lost their last legs two hours ago and maybe it's a good night to close up shop earlier than he'd planned. It conveniently saves Jared the embarrassment of getting his ass publicly handed to him, and then only because the mere idea of eight uninterrupted hours of sleep is enough to send Jensen swooning.
That's absolutely the only reason.
It has nothing to do with the fact that Jensen's legs are on autopilot or that Jay's trudging beside him making those moose noises he passes off as yawns. Nothing at all. It has even less to do with the fact that when they finally make it to their trailers, Jared stops him with a soft, "Hey, um," followed by another jaw-cracker and, "so we're having this thing tomorrow, apparently. Brunch or whatever. You should come."
Which yeah, he should, and he wants to, of course he does.
He's just not sure when he turned into a last minute invite.
Still, he says, "Why not?" and means it, because what the hell else does he have to do tomorrow but everything he can't do the rest of the week.
It sure as hell has nothing to do with the fact that when he nudges open the bathroom door in his trailer to grab the extra bottle of painkillers he keeps in the medicine cabinet, there's a fucking paper turtle crouched on the vanity waiting to snap.
( THREE)