Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha, 2/4
Continued from here
~Jensen~
“We don’t have the budget for a clown,” Jensen said with a weary shake of his head. It was the tenth committee meeting about the Holiday Festival, and he was frustrated. The women on the committee-he was of course the only father involved-had ideas much bigger than their already sizeable budget could support. “We’re already over budget by a thousand dollars. A clown would add another five hundred, easy.”
“But a Holiday Festival without balloon animals and face painting isn’t worth having,” Mrs. Shuttleworth said with a sniff. “It just isn’t right.”
“That’s what you said about the horse drawn carriage and the real-beard Santa,” Jensen reminded her. “We don’t have the-”
“If you say ‘budget’ one more time,” Mrs. Dodd chimed in, her nose pinking up in her ire. “I’ll scratch your eyes out. St. Bridget’s is having a clown.”
“Good for St. Bridget’s,” Jensen said, working hard to keep his temper in check. “But we do. Not. Have. The. Budget for a damn clown.”
“Greetings, ladies,” Misha cooed as he swept into the room, twenty minutes late, as per his usual. Jensen was quick to take in his slim-fit trousers, sweater vest and red tie. “What’s clucking in the hen house?”
“Do you even know how offensive that is?” Jensen snapped even as the women tittered in flirtatious amusement. “The meeting started at eleven o’clock. Where have you been?”
“Shaping the minds of our future,” Misha shot back, wedging a chair between Jensen and Mrs. Dodd, despite the available space further down the table. “So, catch me up. What did I miss?”
“We need a clown!” Mrs. Shuttleworth cried.
“There’s no money for a clown,” Jensen responded, throwing his pen across the table and leaping to his feet. He wondered what an aneurysm felt like, because he was seriously worried about the pounding vein in his temple. “Unless you want to dress a homeless guy in floppy red shoes and give him a can of paint from Home Depot, there’s no budget for a clown!”
“Well, I never,” Mrs. Dodd said, her eyes glittering despite the shocked look she adopted.
“Perhaps I can offer a solution,” Misha said, reaching up to touch the tips of his fingers to Jensen’s wrist. “Please, Jensen, have a seat.”
“Fine, what is this fantastic idea that the brilliant Misha Collins has conjured?” Jensen flung himself into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He knew he was acting like a grumpy child, but really, the women were impossible to please.
“Aw, he thinks I’m brilliant,” Misha teased, sharing a conspiring look with the Shuttleworth and Dodd bitches. “So sweet.”
“Misha,” Jensen ground out. He was used to the other man’s ostentatious flirting, but he knew it didn’t mean anything when they were in front of an audience. Misha flirted in that way with everyone. No, it was the more intimate things he said when they were alone, or could not be overheard that made Jensen crawl to the very edge of his resolve.
“I can be the clown for the bargain-basement price of free.”
“Excuse me?”
“I went to Clown College-”
“Of course you did,” Jensen said with a sigh. He closed his eyes and took a moment to add ‘attended Clown College’ to the list of reasons he could never date Misha.
“My face paintings are works of art,” Misha continued as if Jensen hadn’t spoken at all. “And my balloon animals are considered National treasures.”
“Oh, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Dodds flapped her hands in front of teary eyes. “I should have known you would have the perfect solution. And Clown College? Aren’t you just the most clever man ever?”
Jensen snorted.
“You doubt my skills, Jensen?” Misha asked, leveling him with the full weight of his ridiculous eyes and gravelly voice. “Do you need a demonstration?”
Jensen blushed straight down to his toes. He could feel a fine sheen of sweat break out between his shoulder blades. See, that was the flirting that was dangerous to Jensen’s state of mind. The subtle, double entendres that floated over the heads of Seattlite housewives. He coughed and feigned choking on a non-existent crumb to cover the color of his face.
“Here, let me,” Misha reached into his pants pocket and slowly pulled out three long strips of rubber. Jensen watched the movement steadily, never knowing what to expect from the infuriating man. “Sit back while I blow these. Up. I’ll show you what I can do.”
Mrs. Dodd and Mrs. Shuttleworth clapped their hands and chattered happily about having such a talented and capable teacher at Seattle Waldorf. But Jensen, he was soldered to his chair, trapped watching Misha stick the rubber between his lips at close range. When Misha’s tongue flicked against the furled rim of the rubber to draw it into his mouth-oh, it was a balloon, of course he happened to have balloons in his pocket-Jensen exhaled sharply and curled his fingers around the agenda in front of him.
The balloon blew out, sticking obscenely from Misha’s mouth in an inescapable phallic shape. Jensen wanted to call foul. No fair tormenting him when he could not walk away without stirring the gossip mongering pot. All he could do was stay there and watch as Misha blew and twisted the three balloons into a long-stemmed flower with an adorable ladybug (complete with sharpie spots colored on) perched on its side. With a quirk of his eyebrows, Misha inclined his head in a mockery of a bow and presented the flower to Jensen.
“That’s fantastic!” Mrs. Shuttleworth exclaimed, reaching out to pluck the flower away from Jensen. She turned to Mrs. Dodd, who joined her in examining the balloons from several different angles. “You’ve got the job!”
Jensen forced himself to swallow and release the crumpled paper in his hands. His eyes tracked the flower being manhandled by Macbeth’s witches and wished it would pop.
“I can do it again,” Misha said softly, leaning against Jensen’s shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be a one time thing.”
“Knock it off,” he hissed, pushing the teacher away from him.
“Imogen is having a rough day,” Misha said in same soft voice. Jensen flinched at the news and found himself scooting closer to the man holding essential information about his child. “We are working on our family unit in Social Studies. The kids are creating family trees.”
“Dammit, Misha,” Jensen groaned, slapping his palm to his forehead. “You couldn’t have warned me?”
“I am sorry about that,” Misha said. “I should have called you. But honestly, I thought she would be okay. She has two parents and two sets of grandparents, right?”
“Yes,” Jensen said, casting a look at the room’s other two occupants. They were hunched over the layout of the Holiday Festival, paying the two men no attention. “But we haven’t heard from Jared in two weeks now. He’s on location in Cambodia, so the phone connection is unreliable at the best of times.”
“I see,” Misha sucked his lower lip into his mouth and slid it between his teeth absently. “You said he was coming to visit her soon, right? For the holidays?”
“Yeah,” Jensen said, rubbing his eyes and sitting upright again. “Bringing the whole family along, too. Imogen is not happy about that. I’ve had to increase her therapy to twice a week since she found out. She was looking forward to having Jared all to herself.”
“Let me help, Jen,” Misha said, laying a hand on the other man’s forearm. Jensen startled at the nickname. No one had called him Jen since he’d been potty trained.
“How?” he asked instead of denying the offer. He turned his head to look at Misha, too listless to pull away from the hand trapping his arm.
“I’ll think of something,” the teacher said with a squeeze.
“I’m so tired, Misha,” Jensen muttered. The words fell out of his mouth before he could dam them up with muddy betrayal and sharp brambles of lies. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I try and I try, but she’s getting worse. And Jared is so wrapped up in his work-in his new family-to realize she is suffering.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Misha said abruptly, jumping to his feet and pulling Jensen along. “Ladies,” he said over his shoulder as they walked out. “I simply must borrow Jensen to look at a faulty light in my classroom. Please carry on without us, but do mind the budget.”
Misha steered Jensen down the hall in the opposite direction of his classroom and directly into the teachers’ lounge. They were alone in the room, which smelled of garlic and coffee.
“Sorry, I had to get you out of there,” he said after he’d locked the door behind them. He motioned for Jensen to sit in one of the many chairs scattered around the room. “I didn’t want the hounds to descend.”
“Thanks, I’m okay,” Jensen said, trying to laugh off his temporary weakness. Imogen had a med check after school. And he needed to swing by the grocery store for milk. He needed to call a chimney sweep to clear the flue. There was too much to do for him to pander to his self-pity. “Dealing with those women make me insane. At least in LA I got to deal with the nannies instead of the god awful mothers.”
“It’s understandable,” Misha said. “For you to be tired, I mean. You are a single parent of an emotionally labile child. When was the last time you had fun?”
“Do PTA meetings count?”
“No.”
“Ah, well then,” Jensen’s forehead wrinkled in thought. A week ago, he’d taken Imogen to the Space Needle for a bird’s eye view of their new city, but she’d had a panic attack and added a fear of heights to her ever-expanding list of phobias. Before that, he’d tried a whale-watching trip to Orca Island. She’d really liked that, but then inexplicably cried all the way home. He’d tried, God help him, he’d tried everything he could to help his little girl, but he failed at every turn. “I can’t remember.”
“How long since you’ve had a night out with friends?” Misha asked, pocketing his hands and rocking back onto his heels.
“Los Angeles,” Jensen admitted, flushing under the weight of his shame. “I don’t have friends here.”
“You have me,” Misha reminded him. They had shared countless hours on the phone together, but somehow, they never managed to spend time together outside of school.
“You don’t count,” Jensen countered. “You’re Imogen’s teacher.”
“I’m her teacher and your friend. Why do you have such a hard time accepting that?”
“Because-” Jensen swallowed down desperate words, but they choked him as they clung to the walls of his throat, screaming for release. He turned his back on the infuriatingly persistent man and stared at the row of floral teacups lined up with military precision over the microwave.
“Because why?”
“Because I want you,” Jensen rasped, letting the words go, scraping his throat with their barbs. His hand came up unbidden, clamping across his lower jaw for a brief moment, but Misha’s hand was there, tugging it away again.
“Don’t do that, Jen.”
“Dammit,” Jensen growled and whirled around to face his tormentor. His legs propelled him forward without warning, landing him inside the other man’s bubble of air and space, where he was caught and cradled by two strong hands. The soft wool of Misha’s sweater vest tickled his cheek and moved rhythmically beneath his palms. “Don’t call me that. Don’t.”
“Why not?” Misha murmured, tilting his head to speak directly into Jensen’s ear. He trailed his fingers up Jensen’s back and over his shoulders, where they slid down his chest like a raft down a waterfall. “Jen.”
The touch was light, but the intention was firm. Until that day it had been months since anyone but Imogen had laid hands on him. Except, of course, Misha who asked for neither permission nor forgiveness for constantly trouncing the physical boundaries of a parent-teacher relationship. His hands moved over Jensen’s torso with confident possessiveness, and Jensen pressed into it.
When Jensen turned his head, he knew he’d given up the first and last of his defenses. Misha’s eyes had darkened into two glittering pieces of coal. He drew in a sharp breath at Misha’s dilated pupils, bizarrely recalling a documentary about love on The Discovery Channel. Something about dilated pupils being a sign of sexual attraction and love.
“Attention please,” the crackly voice of the office secretary came over the intercom. Jensen ignored it in favor of narrowing the distance between them. He licked his lips as he ducked his head the smallest degree to line his mouth up with the man who had tormented his thoughts for weeks. He was about to cross a line, but he couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t. “Mr. Ackles, please report to the Clinic immediately.”
In the space of a blink, Jensen had wrenched away from Misha and tore from the room, sprinting down the hall with his head bent for speed. Worst case scenarios reported by the dozens, saluting his imagination as they marched past and dug foxholes behind his eyes. Imogen with internal bleeding following a playground fall. Imogen developing a latent bee allergy and going into anaphylactic shock. Imogen kidnapped. Imogen dead.
“No, no, no,” he chanted as he ran toward the nurse’s office. He’d stopped by earlier that day, on his way to the committee meeting, to drop off several boxes of Camp Rock Band-Aids, just because he’d found them on sale. He rounded the corner and ran into a familiar, solid wall of sinew. Jared. He didn’t pause to consider his ex’s sudden appearance, but instead shoved Jared to the side to gain entry to the clinic. “Immy! What happened?”
“She fainted,” Mrs. Valley said from her perch on the tissue-paper covered cot where Imogen’s still form laid. The nurse held a stethoscope to Imogen’s chest and held up a finger for silence.
He felt his knees connect with the hardwood floor, but there was no pain, only panic. He picked up his daughter’s limp hand and pressed it to his lips, prayers tripping around his head and out his mouth.
“Jen,” Misha squeezed through the door and folded into a kneel at Jensen’s side, his fingers sweeping a strand of hair off Imogen’s cheek. “What happened?”
“She fainted,” Jensen managed, comforted by Misha’s presence. Guilt burned a hole into his stomach; he should have been in the committee room, directly across the hall from the clinic. He should have been there the moment Imogen was brought in instead of giving in to his selfish desires. Without turning to face Jared, he asked: “What are you doing here?”
“Daddy?” Imogen’s voice barely cut through the tense silence permeating the room. “Where’s Papa?”
“I’m here,” the voice he knew as well as his own made Jensen flinch. Across the cot, Jared slowly lowered himself and took Imogen’s free hand. His eyes briefly met Jensen’s before skittering to Misha and finally falling back to his daughter’s. “Hey there, monkey. You gave us a scare.”
“You’re really here!” she squealed and shook her hand free from Jensen’s grasp in order to throw her arms around her other father’s neck. She buried her face in his neck and shuddered with overwhelming emotion. “Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave, please don’t leave me, Papa.”
Jensen sat back on his heels, his hands falling to his thighs, the force of adrenaline rushing out of his pores left him empty and cold. His stomach twitched painfully and he considered throwing up, but in the end, he just sat there and watched his daughter beg and cling. Did he smell the same? Had he lost weight or gained muscle? Was he still cold from the air outside? Did she even remember how it felt to be held in those strong arms?
Jensen remembered. He shook his head and cringed against the unwanted memory.
He didn’t want to be hurt that Imogen had pushed him away for Jared’s brand of comfort. When they had been together as a family, he wouldn’t have thought twice about Imogen’s choice. Circumstances had changed drastically though, so he was hurt. He had sacrificed everything, but Jared was the hero in Imogen’s eyes. Yeah, it hurt pretty fucking bad.
Beside him, Misha reached out and covered Jensen’s hand with one of his own before leaning close to whisper words of support. He didn’t really understand them, but he allowed the soothing sound to keep his hysteria at bay.
“I’m going to stay for a while,” Jared was saying to Imogen. He tugged at one of the curls framing her face and watched it bounce back into place. “At least until Christmas.”
“You’re staying for Christmas?” Imogen and Jensen both said; hers was asked in breathless awe, while his was filled with suspicious accusation.
“Yeah, if that’s okay,” Jared said, once again twisting to look at Jensen. “Angelina broke her ankle, so filming is on hold for a couple of months.”
“Genevieve?” Jensen mouthed, casting an anxious look at the back of Imogen’s head. They had had ten solid years to perfect their lip-reading skills before they’d separated, and Jensen hoped they’d retained the skill.
“LA,” Jared mouthed back. “Talk later.”
“Will you stay at home?” Imogen asked hopefully. “You can tuck me in at night. And make me banana pudding!”
“I’ll be in Seattle, Immy,” Jared maneuvered until he was sitting on the cot, pulling their daughter into his lap. His back was toward Jensen, so all the kneeling pair on the floor could see of Imogen were her small feet, encased in light-up Tinker Bell tennis shoes. “But I don’t think staying with you-”
“It’s fine,” Jensen said quickly, desperate to cut Jared off and forestall Imogen’s heartbreak. He tugged his hand away from the weight of Misha’s and absently rubbed at his mouth. “There’s plenty of room.”
“Jen,” Misha said lowly. “Is that really a good idea?”
He swung his head to face Misha, to explain his reasoning, but Jared was there first.
“I’m sorry,” Jared twisted to look at Misha, his voice neutral but his eyes hostile. “Who are you?”
“Misha Collins,” he said with a polite incline of his head. “Imogen’s teacher.”
“Right, well,” Jared’s eyes tightened in the corners. “Thank you for your concern, but this is a family matter. I am taking my daughter home.”
“That is, of course, your prerogative,” Misha said without missing a beat. He stood, smoothing his dark gray sweater vest with busy hands. “Should I find someone to take your shift at the book fair tomorrow, Jen?”
“Oh, uh, no,” he said, pushing upright as well. “It’s fine, I’ll be there. Thanks Mr. Collins.”
“Yeah, my pleasure,” Misha replied after the briefest of pauses. His face and neck flushed for the first time since Jensen knew him. He reached out and ruffled Imogen’s hair. “Feel better Imogen. Don’t forget to study for the spelling test on Friday. Good day Mr. Padalecki… Mr. Ackles.”
Jensen watched Misha walk out of the room, noting the man’s stiff back and quick steps. He checked his body’s call to action, the insane compulsion to follow Misha and finish what had been disrupted in the lounge. With a deep breath, he forced his tense muscles to relax. He had been fighting the urge to give in to Misha’s relentless pursuit for over a month; he’d gotten good at convincing himself he didn’t need it.
The friendship that had blossomed from the pursuit was invaluable to Jensen, despite his earlier attempt to disavow it. Misha was right; they were friends. They had shared hundreds of texts since they’d met-some about Imogen, but most were not. They had talked on the phone-actually talked-so much that Jensen gave thanks for unlimited mobile minutes. Yeah, he had taken it all for granted.
There was little doubt that he’d hurt Misha by calling him Mr. Collins. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. Imogen had heard him call her teacher by his first name more times than not. But Jensen had never told his daughter that Misha called him almost every night after she was tucked into her monsterless bed. He never told her that Misha listened to his worries about Imogen’s future or about his plans to write children’s books. She didn’t need to know that Misha told her father about his love of carpentry or regaled him with stories from his youth as a nomad. There was an implied veil of secrecy that hung heavily between Jensen-and-Imogen and Jensen-and-Misha.
“What’s his problem?” Jared asked after Misha had disappeared. Mrs. Valley discreetly slipped into her office in the back of the clinic, clicking the door shut.
Jensen didn’t respond. He looked down at Jared and Imogen, his gut twisting viciously. Regardless of how Jared wronged him, there was no escaping the fact that he was still family-and would be for the rest of their lives, thanks to Imogen. The tether was there, as strong as steel.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jared said, scooping Imogen into his arms and leading the charge out of the room. It was just like it had been for years and years, Jared in the lead Jensen at his right hand. “I’ve got a car waiting.”
“I have to grab Immy’s coat and backpack from Mr. Collins,” Jensen said, reaching out to stop Jared by grabbing his arm. “Wait for me in the lobby. Your driver can follow me to the house.”
It didn’t take long for Jensen to make it to Room 22 and step inside. The children were so accustomed to his presence in the room that no one even looked at him. Misha’s eyes narrowed at the intrusion, but he did not pause in his lecture about Christopher Columbus. Jensen silently gathered Imogen’s thick sweater and her Spider Man backpack (Jared’s turn as Peter Parker had revived the film franchise the previous summer).
He paused at the door on his way out and turned to look at Misha as he paced in front of his oversized Rand McNally world map. He listened to the lecture, which seemed to get bloodier and favor the Native Americans more and more as the seconds ticked by, until it became apparent that Misha intended to ignore the man he’d tried a hundred times over to stalk, seduce or otherwise sway.
Fuck, Jensen thought and quickly left the classroom, just as a few interested sets of eyes swung his way. He slung the backpack over his left shoulder and drew his phone out of his pocket, jabbing at the screen as he headed to the parking lot.
I’m sorry, he typed. Please call me.
A quick look at his watch told him Misha would not retrieve the message for another hour and a half when the final bell sounded. He checked the battery on his phone and turned the volume up, for fear of missing Misha’s response.
“Everything okay?” Jared asked as Jensen approached them in the lobby. Imogen had her arms clamped around her Papa’s neck and her legs locked around his torso, looking to all the world like she never meant to release her hold. “The freckles are out.”
“It’s fine,” Jensen said with more snark than he intended, annoyed by Jared’s ability to read him, even after a year apart. No one else would have discerned the subtle darkening of his freckles, or rather, the paling of his skin. “I was just worried about Immy.”
“Do you want to grab some lunch?” Jared asked as they walked toward the dark SUV patiently waiting to whisk him away. The two men fell in step together, an unconscious move that their legs remembered well. “I’m famished.”
“I can pull out the leftovers from last night,” Jensen offered, which made his ex’s lips turn up. Jared loved Jensen’s cooking almost as much as he loved his own mama’s. “It was just meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but I could turn it into a sandwich.”
“Oh my god,” Jared groaned. “I love you.”
Jensen snapped his head around to glare at Jared, who was looking back at him with a panicked expression on his face. They both looked at Imogen, who seemed to be drifting off to sleep in Jared’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” Jared stammered.
“Why don’t you send your driver away,” Jensen said with a sigh. He headed toward his car, fingering the beaded key chain charm Imogen had made him in kindergarten. #1 Dad. Damn right he was. “You can ride with us.”
“It was just an expression,” Jared continued with his awkward apology. “I-I didn’t mean-”
“I get that, Jay,” Jensen cut him off, pulling open the back door for Jared to settle Imogen into her booster seat. “Go get your bags.”
“Papa, don’t leave,” Imogen’s hands clamped around one of Jared’s, suddenly wide-awake. Her eyes ricocheted around the car and her breath came out in labored pants. “Stay.”
Jared turned his face away from Imogen, toward Jensen. It both saddened and satisfied Jensen to see his ex face-to-face with the emotional damage he’d done Imogen. Jared had managed to avoid the worst of it; keeping his contact to telephone calls and video chats. The depth of the little girl’s anxiety could only be understood in person.
“I’ll get your bags,” Jensen said with a sigh. He stretched around Jared to lean into the car to stroke Imogen’s face. “Papa is right here, staying with you. Calm down, monkey, deep breaths.”
Imogen nodded jerkily, but tugged Jared closer to her. He stood back and watched as Jared climbed over Imogen and sat on the lumpy middle seat, draping an arm around the back of the small booster seat. Imogen twisted and wrapped her ankles around Jared’s knee, trapping him in place as best she could.
**
~Misha~
Misha moved up and down the wide aisle of the grocery store, trying to visualize the list he’d left on his kitchen counter. The list was scribbled on his ironic WWJD post-it pad (or, as he called them, Jeezits), which was next to the phone in the kitchen. He could picture Jesus’ somberly raised two fingers as well as the little check boxes along the bottom where you could choose “Yes”, “No”, “Maybe” or “Hell no” in response to the pre-printed question: “Would Jesus do it?”
He knew there were five things on the list that he was sure Jesus himself would likely buy… but he could only think of one thing: Tequila and lots of it. Jesus always struck Misha as a Tequila man.
He blamed Jared Padalecki for his stunning lack of list recall. He was strung out and tense from the kiss-tease he’d been forced to endure at the hands of Jared Padalecki. He’d been close enough to kissing Jensen that their noses had brushed together and their breaths mingled. They’d been so close to acknowledging the attraction that had sparked to life in that bar before they’d truly met. That had all come to a screeching, skid marking stop with Jared Padalecki’s unexpected arrival.
Jensen had been quick to dismiss him-called him Mr. Collins for Chrissake-when Jared decreed it was time to go home. The connection he thought he’d forged with Jensen snapped life a rotted branch beneath the weight of a well-fed bobcat.
He was willing to bet a large portion of his earnings on the fact that Jensen was hung up on Jared like a coat on a hook. It didn’t take a master of observation to see the chemistry between the two. They had practically eye fucked over the top of Imogen’s head, and Jensen had been quick to dismiss him to be alone with his ex.
Leaning on the pushcart in front of him with his forearms, he tossed his phone from one hand to the other. In his inbox was a text from Jensen that he’d yet to open. He wasn’t in the market for canned apologies or wordy excuses.
“Okay, look,” Vicki said as she approached carrying a bag of frozen peas and a package of English Muffins. “You’re starting to piss me off. Give it to me.”
She dropped her food into the cart and snatched the phone out of her friend’s hands. Two pointed clicks later, she had the message open and read it aloud: “’I’m sorry. Please call me.’ Huh. I thought there’d be more.”
Misha took the phone back and stared down at the four-hours-old message. I’m sorry. Please call me. He snorted a humorless chuckle. Figured Jensen would want to talk it out instead of relying on the comfort of the texted word.
“Are you going to call him?” Vicki asked after another few minutes of silent cart pushing. She reached out for a box of Raisin Nut Bran and crossed it off her shopping list, which Misha thought she was using just to gloat.
“Not while his ex-husband is living in his house,” Misha said definitively. When it came to ex drama, he wanted to be as far away as possible. “They were together for years. There’s no competing with that.”
“Oh, Mish,” Vicki slid her hand into the crook of her friend’s arm. “Not only could you compete with that overgrown galoot, you could wipe the floor with him. Hell, he can’t compete with you.”
“My ego just can’t get enough of you,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “But I can’t call. It’s one thing to chase a man; it’s quite another to go in guns blazing to break up a family.”
He stopped in front of the cookie display and picked up a package of Double Stuffed Oreos. They weren’t on the Jeezits list, he knew that for a fact, but the stomach wants what the stomach wants.
“You should call him,” Vicki insisted and added a package of Nutter Butters to the cart. “You guys are friends, and friends call each other. Especially when an ex shows up to crash on your couch. He needs you right now, Misha.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes at her flawed logic. He and Jensen weren’t friends-not exactly. They were more… what were they? He’d called himself Jensen’s friend in the teacher lounge. He remembered being quite adamant about that point. But it all changed (didn’t it?) with their almost kiss. The dynamic had shifted in the space between heartbeats. The mutual attraction had been laid bare and there was no way to throw a robe over it now.
“I’ll text him,” Misha finally said. He pulled his phone out and sucked his lower lip as he considered his message. Vicki smiled and hovered at his elbow, reading as he typed. “No worries. Out with Vicki now, but will be home by 7 if you want to talk.”
“That’s good,” Vicki approved before he hit the send button. “Nice and neutral.”
It was as they were carrying their purchases to Misha’s car that Jensen responded: I could use a drink. You up for it?
“Oooh,” Vicki said, shoving their last bag into the trunk. She waited until they were inside the car, with Misha staring at his phone screen, until she said her piece. “Invite him over.”
“A bar would be better,” he said, more to himself than to his friend. He wasn’t sure if he could resist chasing a kiss if he got Jensen alone, his decision not to disturb a family notwithstanding. “Safer.”
“No way,” Vicki grabbed the phone. “I’m sending him your address. Talking at a bar is ridiculous. And really, Mish, could you be more dense? He wants to have drinks with you.”
“I got that.”
“Have Drinks is code word for fuck, you dumbass.”
“I don’t think so,” he objected, keeping his eyes trained on a family of four headed toward the store. Two kids, one father, one mother, just like God and society intended. “He probably just wants to tell me the teacher’s lounge was a mistake. That he wants Jared back.”
“What gives with the punk-ass attitude?” Vicki returned the phone. She was his best friend, hands down, but sometimes she could be a tad vicious with her honesty. Of course, that was one of the reasons he loved her. “He’s finally coming after you, and you’ve, what, changed your mind?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I want him. And I think I want Imogen, too.”
“Um, eew?”
“Jesus, Vicki,” Misha cringed and then laughed when he belatedly picked up on the joke. “You are so twisted.”
“Seriously,” she folded a leg up and turned her whole body to face Misha. “You’re talking about the kid? You haven’t even kissed the guy yet.”
“I know,” he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. “I wish I could have just fucked him that first night we met. I think the missed opportunity is fueling this madness.”
“That’s possible,” Vicki said softly. Misha rolled his head to peer at her, the invitation to continue clear in his eyes. “But not probable. You like him and you haven’t kissed him. It’s like you’ve done things right this time. You got to know him.”
He closed his eyes and rolled his head away again. Damn her perception. He did know Jensen-knew that he was creeped out by dragonflies but loved Praying Mantes, that he wanted a very specific kind of cat (an Oriental, because they are like dogs, but are cats), that he hated the SUV Jared bought him, that he hated Justin Bieber but knew the lyrics to every one of his songs, that Stonehenge was his favorite place in the world, that his mother’s house always smelled like lilacs, that he practiced Tai Chi, but thought yoga was lame.
“What do I do?” He asked. It was not like him to doubt himself, and he did not like it.
“Talk to him,” Vicki said at once. Her hand slipped into his hair, curling the strands around her fingertips. He loved that Vicki was so tactile, so he tilted his head closer to her. “Try telling him how you feel. Even if he thinks he wants Jared back, you owe it to yourself-and to him-to let him know all of his options.”
“That’s just a lot of words for honesty, right?”
“Honesty?” Vicki pulled her hand away to press it to her chest like she was offended. “Who said anything about honesty?”
“My apologies,” he grinned and reached for the keys in the ignition. “Well, if honesty is off the table, I need to stop at the liquor store. Jesus needs some Tequila.”
“Of course he does, sweetie,” Vicki said, buckling her seatbelt. “The son of God is such a lush.”
**
~Jensen~
Jensen stood at the counter in the kitchen in front of three bottles of pills and a purple pill minder with glittery yellow stars stuck to each day of the week. In the middle of the stars were the first letter of the corresponding day of the week. He’d made it fun for Imogen to take her medications. He didn’t want her to feel like she was different, or at least any more different than she would always be. Imogen had two daddies. That was different enough.
Three pills for three diagnoses: A mood stabilizer, an anxiety pill, a depression pill. Just like it did every time he refilled the little purple box, Jenson found himself swept up in a storm of hatred. He hated Jared and what he had done to his precious little girl. He ground his teeth, much to his dentist’s horror, and fought to keep his emotions under tight control. It wouldn’t do any good for Imogen to see his anger. Her therapist had cautioned him that she needed to see him strong and positive.
He had forgiven Jared for cheating. He had forgiven him for breaking his heart. But he had not forgiven him for what he’d done to Immy. He wasn’t sure if he ever would. And Jared coming back to town on some misguided mission to help Imogen recover was just that. Jensen knew that when Jared left, Imogen would be more wrecked than when he’d kept his distance.
“You shouldn’t grind your teeth,” Jared said from behind Jensen. Jensen didn’t flinch; he’d heard his ex shuffling down the hall moments before he’d made his appearance in the kitchen. “I can see your jaw jumping like a show pony all the way from here.”
“Yeah, thanks mom,” Jensen grunted, not turning around. His shoulders drew together across his back, his guard duly raised. “Where’s Immy? I didn’t think she’d let you out of her sight this soon.”
“She’s on the couch, asleep,” Jared said, moving to the coffee maker, which was in the same exact location as it had been in their shared Los Angeles home, nestled between the sink and the Humpty Dumpty cookie jar. “Do you want a cup?”
“Sure,” Jensen said. He finished sorting the pills and put all of the bottles in a lock box. The box went up on the top shelf, behind the cereal.
“Is that really necessary?” Jared asked, dropping into a kitchen chair with a familiarity that disturbed Jensen to his core. He heard Misha’s words in his head, asking him if Jared’s stay in his home was a good idea. “What kid goes after more medicine?”
“One who’s severely depressed,” Jensen snapped, shutting the cabinet door with more force than he intended.
“Yeah, okay,” Jared said quietly. He sipped at his coffee and held out his hand, gesturing to the chair in front of him. “Come talk to me. Tell me how she’s been.”
“She’s been miserable,” Jensen said honestly, sitting and pulling his steaming cup in front of him. “She misses you like crazy. Asks me every damn night if you’re coming home.”
“I know,” Jared said, and for a moment, Jensen felt guilty for telling him such a horrific truth. “I asked Gen to give me a week alone here before she came up. I don’t know how to make this better. How do I make this better, Jensen?”
“No way, you dick,” Jensen said with a laugh. He didn’t understand how it was possible for him to laugh with Jared over such a heartbreaking topic, but he wasn’t about to stop to question it. “You have to sort that out yourself. I will say that you need to be here more. She doesn’t understand why we came here. She misses LA.”
“No one misses LA,” Jared contradicted. He smiled wryly at Jensen. “I wanted her to grow up without the damn paparazzi following her around. We always loved it up here, near the mountains. You said it grounded you; reconnected you to the earth. I just thought…”
“Yeah,” Jensen said and fell into silence that wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. It was like that between the two of them. After the initial awkwardness of the break up, they had fallen back into easy conversation-although they tended to fight more often than they had as a couple.
“Look,” Jared cleared his throat and pressed his elbows into the oak table. Jensen’s eyes found a dot of jelly that must’ve slipped off Imogen’s toast that morning. It sat dangerously close to Jared’s right elbow, but he said nothing. “Gen and I are not doing great.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, taking another sip of coffee. His internal pettiness gave a HA! of pleasure at the news. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Immy,” Jared said, moving his elbow so that it dragged across the strawberry jelly mess. “She thinks I should cut and run.”
The coffee cup in Jensen’s hand crashed into the table with enough force to crack the cup up the sides, right across the World’s Greatest Dad proclamation. Coffee dribbled out of the fissure, but he didn’t care.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He hissed, mindful of Imogen asleep just one room away. “How could you do that to her, Jared? She’s your daughter as much as she’s mine!”
“I would never do that,” Jared snapped, leaning over the table to glare at Jensen.
“Is that why you never visit her?”
“Yes,” Jared said after a pause, as if he did not want to answer the question at all. “I didn’t know what to do. She was pregnant, Jensen. I was trying to do the right thing.”
“That’s hilarious.”
“You know what I mean,” Jared said, lifting his hand to drag it through his hair. The jelly clung to his white shirt, distracting Jensen’s vision. “I was trying to be there for her and then for Tyson. I knew you were taking care of Immy.”
Jensen stood up, swiping the leaking cup from the table and walking it to the sink. He braced himself against the counter and stared out the window, focusing his eyes on the orange and purple sunset over the Puget Sound. He loved the view from that window; it made washing dishes infinitely more bearable.
“I want more time with Imogen,” Jared said from just over Jensen’s right shoulder. “I told Gen that losing my daughter is not an option. So here I am, asking for more time.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, for now it means that I’m here. And I’ll be here for as long as I can manage. I’m going to spend as much time with Imogen as possible.”
“You can’t disappear again, Jared,” Jensen warned.
“I don’t plan on it,” the other man said, pouring more coffee into his cup and returning to the kitchen table. He sipped in silence for a few minutes, his eyes taking inventory of the house he’d paid for. “I want to meet Imogen’s therapist. And her teacher.”
“You already met her teacher,” Jensen said with a snort. “You were a dick to him.”
“Yeah, well,” Jared laughed, not apologizing. There wasn’t much in his life that he’d ever had to apologize for. Jensen both envied and pitied him.
“She has a therapy appointment on Thursday,” Jensen said grudgingly as he opened the cupboard for a new cup. The I Love Men cup had been a Christmas gift several years back from his sister, Mackenzie. It still made him smile. “Maybe you can… come with me to work the Book Fair tomorrow? I can introduce you to Misha again.”
“Misha, is it?” Jared asked with a sly grin. “Is there something going on with you two?”
“No,” came the quick response that made him cringe internally. He wished he had honed his lying abilities like Jared had. The best he could do was deflect and redirect; he was good at that. “He’s been good to Immy, really took her under his wing. She trusts him, which is a big thing for her.”
“I get it, Jensen,” Jared said sharply, slapping the palm of his hand onto the table. He shoved his chair away and got to his feet. “Imogen doesn’t trust anyone since I left. She hates women since I left. She’s broken since I left. I fucking get it, dude.”
“I wasn’t-”
“You have to quit trying to punish me,” Jared continued, his long legs taking huge strides around the kitchen as he paced out his frustration. “I know I messed up, but I don’t need you on my ass every minute I’m here.”
“Jared,” Jensen said in a loud, clear voice full of command making Jared stop and swing his face around to glare at him. “I wasn’t taking a hit at you.”
“Well, maybe you should,” Jared mumbled, heading back to the table again. Jensen had forgotten how antsy Jared could be, never sitting or standing in one spot for longer than thirty seconds at a time. “Man, I messed up.”
Jensen could only agree with Jared if he opened his mouth, so he kept it shut and let his ex wallow in his self-deprecation. It was good that the younger man felt something akin to remorse. There was hope, Jensen thought.
“Papa?” Imogen’s small voice made both men jump and straighten.
“Hey there, monkey,” Jared opened his arms in invitation. Imogen did not hesitate to skip across the room and throw herself into his lap. “Nice nap?”
“Yes,” she said and twisted the thick silver ring Jared wore on his right middle finger. Jensen hadn’t noticed it before; it was the match to the one he had hidden in the back of his sock drawer. “Daddy doesn’t wear his ring anymore. Why not?”
Jared’s eyes came up and locked on Jensen’s bare fingers. His forehead creased and then smoothed. Jensen couldn’t stop the spasmodic twitching of his face. He was suddenly exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of the day. He didn’t understand why Jared was wearing his damn wedding ring, or why Genevieve let him. All he wanted was to run away, far away where he could not feel anything. He craved the numbness he’d known the first month after Jared had left. He had functioned like an automaton, going through the motions of life for Imogen, but when the house was quiet-in a way it never had been before, even when Jared had been working on location for weeks at a time-he let the apathy wind its way through his senses. He would sit entire nights on the edge of their bed and stare at the half-empty closet.
He shook his head and refocused on the scene before him. Jared was talking to Imogen softly, smoothing her hair behind her ears. She was crying quietly, but he managed to quell the urge to go to her. Jared would comfort her; he had to because Jensen himself was in no position to do so.
“I’m going to head out for a bit,” Jensen said, pulling his car keys from the pocket of his jeans. “Give you guys some time alone. There’s a ham in the fridge and fixins in the pantry.”
He bent and kissed the top of their daughter’s head, the exact spot Jared had just caressed so lovingly. He could smell Jared’s skin on her and he pulled back abruptly. The need to escape before Jared completely overwhelmed him was undeniable. It had taken him months to let go of the love he had for Jared, and while he was in no danger of loving Jared like he once had, it was unsettling to be so surrounded by the man.
“Take care of her,” Jensen directed.
“I will,” Jared said, and for the first time in a year, Jensen believed him.
**
Continue to Part 3