Fic: Gunpoint. AU RPS. Jensen/Jared. Chapter 9
Masterpost
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Epilogue | Author's notes | Soundtrack | AO3
Chapter 9
December 2007
“Chris, it’s not that we don’t appreciate all you’ve done. But he needs his family. He’s not ready to be on his own. He might never be ready to be on his own.”
“He won’t be alone, ma’am.” Chris’s voice is patient but Jensen can hear the edge it’s walking. “I’m going to be there with him, all the time.”
“He’s too young. It’s too soon! He’s not...”Jensen’s mother hitches her breath. Jensen can feel her sad gaze on him but he doesn’t look up, eyes on the page in front of him, his fingers tightening around the pencil the only sign that he’s listening.
“Donna,” his father says, voice a little rough. “The boy’s not happy here, you know that. Maybe... maybe he needs a little space. And it’s a good school. He’s got this one thing going for him. One thing. We owe it to him to help him make something of it. Not like he has much else to fall back on.”
Jensen’s hand stills. He raises his head, eyes finding his father’s flushed face. Like he only now remembers mute doesn’t equal deaf. Chris shoots Jensen a warning glare that he knows means, ‘Don’t make a scene if you want this to work out.’ He grits his teeth and lowers his head again, nostrils flaring in anger.
“My uncle says he can get us an apartment. It’s got big windows. First floor. I already have a job lined up.” Chris doesn’t mention it’s bussing tables at some shitty diner and will barely cover rent. “We’ll make it work. And if it doesn’t... I’ll bring him back.”
His mother sniffles and Jensen bites down an indignant huff. God, he can’t wait to get away from these people!
------------
Present day
“You sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Jared asks for the fifth time.
Jensen forces out a smile and shakes his head. He gives Jared a quick kiss and slips out of Chris’s truck, eyes on the building in front of him. He waits until the truck starts moving, even if he knows Jared won’t go further than the next free parking spot. Then he takes a deep breath and goes up to the door. There’s a buzzer, and he pushes the button, tapping his fingers nervously against the brass plaque.
“Yes?”
He stares at the buzzer, feeling at loss. She’s supposed to know he’s coming. She’s supposed to fucking know he can’t talk!
“Please state your name. Hello?”
He coughs and clears his throat, but it’s no use, there’s nothing. He taps his fingernail on the brass, an angry version of ‘shave and a haircut,’ and after a moment’s silence the voice asks, “Jensen Ackles?” About time! He taps the last ‘two bits,’ and the buzzer finally lets him in.
Her practice is up on the seventh floor, and it takes him forever to walk the stairs, because hell if he’s stepping a foot into that tiny elevator. By the time he reaches her floor he’s out of breath, pissed off, and so nervous he feels like throwing up. It takes him a moment to find the right door, and when he pushes it open he walks into a small but bright waiting room with chairs and magazines, and an elderly receptionist who looks up at him expectantly. He swallows his irritation and gives her a small tight smile, pulling out his wallet to show her his ID. She smiles back and types something into the computer.
“Dr. Ferris will be ready for you in a moment,” she says, “if you’ll just have a seat.”
He nods and looks around. The room is really fucking small. There’s a window and he walks over to it, looking out. It’s a very long way down. Fuck. He sits down, tapping his fingers on his knees. Within a minute he’s on his feet again, checking the window. There’s no fire escape or anything. If the door locks there’s no way he can get out of here.
“You can open the door if you want,” the woman says all matter-of-fact, like she’s used to people behaving crazy around her. Considering whom she works for, she probably is.
Jensen bites his lip then walks over and opens the door, just a crack. He looks over at the woman, expecting her to give him a condescending smile, but she doesn’t even look up. Relaxing a little he leans against the wall beside the door, feeling the cooler air from the hallway brush against him as it slips into the room.
The minutes tick by. He’s starting to nod off despite still being nervous as hell and having imbibed about five gallons of coffee before coming here. He’s been spending most nights painting or drawing, keeping Chris up with the bright light from the LED lamp. It doesn’t seem to bother Jared as much, although Jensen will sometimes look over to catch Jared watching him when he’s supposed to be sleeping.
“Mr. Ackles?” the receptionist says, jerking him out of his doze. “You can go in now.”
He straightens up, squaring his shoulders, and walks over to where she points, leaving the other door cracked open. He thinks of knocking but she’d told him to go in so that’s what he does; just opens the door and steps inside.
Suddenly it makes sense why the other room was so small because this one is huge. It has big wide windows, a comfy looking couch, some chairs, and a desk and shelves filled with books. And that’s just on one side. The other side is an art studio. It has easels with large sheets of paper, a selection of pencils and paint, charcoal and brushes. There’s a lower table - for kids, he presumes - which has crayons and colored pencils and blocks of paper.
Jensen breathes in. He breathes out. This just might work.
“Hello.”
He jumps, turning his head so fast his neck twinges painfully. There’s a woman standing by one of the windows. She looks to be somewhere between forty and fifty, with shoulder length hair and calm eyes. When she smiles it’s a little crooked.
“I’m Dr. Ferris, but you can call me Sam.”
He nods, raising his hand in a wary greeting. He tries to say his name and ends up coughing into the crook of his elbow. She nods, eyes studying him.
“Jensen Ackles,” she says, casually crossing the room and extending her hand. He takes it, painfully aware that his own hand is clammy and unsteady.
Her handshake is brief but firm, a surprising amount of strength in a woman half his size. She tilts her head, looking at him in speculation, and he meets it head on, jaw tight. After a while she smiles and walks over to a comfy chair across from the couch. There’s a small coffee table between the chair and the couch, with a box of tissues strategically placed for easy access right in the middle. Jensen would love to say he won’t be needing any, but with the way he’s been the last few weeks, he might have to ask her for a refill. And isn’t that thought reassuring?
“Can you close the door for me?” she asks, and he looks at her sharply. She gazes calmly back, and his eyes narrow. This feels like a test. He gives her a tight smile and casually closes the door. It’s okay. He’d spotted a fire escape outside one of the windows when he came in.
There’s a rack by the door where he hangs his jacket since he’s already sweating buckets in the comfortably warm room. He throws a quick glance around, just calculating the distance to the door before walking over to the couch.
“Come on, let’s have a seat,” she says then adds just as he’s about to sink down, “Maybe grab a sketchbook over there first.”
He hesitates then walks over and picks up one of the larger blocks along with an assortment of pencils, both graphite and colored ones. When he sits down he’s relieved to find the couch not too soft since he’d hate to sit hunched over, drawing awkwardly with his back all crooked. He looks up to find her watching him, head tilted slightly in thought. She gives him a small smile. He doesn’t smile back.
“You don’t look too happy to be here,” she says, not sounding very surprised.
He shrugs again. He’s not too happy going to the dentist every two years either, but it’s necessary if he doesn’t want his teeth to fall out. It’s like that, except instead of his teeth he’s about to have his head drilled into. Without the option of first being sedated.
“Tell me what you’re thinking. This, being here, how does it make you feel?” She gestures at the sketchbook when he frowns at her.
He thinks it over for a moment then quickly sketches a picture of a small kid looking up at a strict woman staring down at him. Her hair is in a bun, and she’s holding a ruler, tapping it against the palm of her hand. Jensen rips out the page and hands it over.
Dr. Ferris looks at it and smiles. “Like being back in school, huh?” she says. “Well, I will be giving you homework, so I guess there are similarities. Although that hairdo really doesn’t suit me.”
She sits back, studying the drawing with interest. “This is really good. Nice details. You are very talented, Jensen,” she says, sounding pleased. “I’m more used to stick figures and doodles, so that’s a nice change.” She smiles although her eyes are serious. “Using art in therapy is, as I’m sure you know, usually a way of revealing emotions that the patient can’t express or might not even be completely aware of. It’s not really meant as a sole communication device. But then again most of my clients have other ways of communicating. Considering your situation, your attention to detail is going to be a big help.” She pauses then asks, “You don’t write?”
He shakes his head. It’s not that he doesn’t know how, it’s just that when he tries it’s like someone grabs his wrist, and he’s lucky if he can scribble a few crooked letters of badly spelled words. For some reason drawing is different. Like the pictures fool his brain into thinking it’s allowed, whereas writing comes too close to talking. He’s tried using a computer to type the words but his hands start shaking like crazy, and he keeps hitting the wrong keys. His texting is too badly spelled for autocorrect to even bother.
“And you don’t use signs?”
He smirks and makes a few rude hand gestures. She just looks at him and after an awkward moment he sighs and shakes his head. It’s just another way of talking. His parents got a woman to teach him ASL but as soon as he tried to arrange signs into sentences they got scrambled up and made no sense anymore.
He shifts in his seat, watching her. She gazes silently back. Jensen looks away. His old psychiatrist used to talk a lot. Just kept saying all kind of things she thought were relevant and watched his reactions. This one doesn’t. She just... watches.
“Okay then,” she says after a while. “Normally I’d engage in some chit chat, so we could get a feel for each other. Touch on some surface before we go digging, things like that. I don’t think that’s gonna work for you.”
He shakes his head. He’s not going to spend hours doodling about his every day life. He doesn’t have the patience, and he doubts she has the time. Plus he’s done all that already. Spent years sitting with crayons and pencils, trying to explain what was going on in his head and his life. School, homework, nightmares... all that shit. Not like it did any good.
“If we decide to continue this I’ll be asking your old therapist for your file, if that’s all right with you. I’m assuming you’d prefer that to having to recap a decade of therapy history for me.” She gives him a small smile but he just shrugs.
“All right. Lets talk about what led to you coming here.”
Despite that being the whole purpose of this he can’t help stiffening. She notices, of course, but she doesn’t comment on it, just tilts her head a little, studying him.
“I don’t know much about your case except for what your friend Rosenbaum told me,” she admits, “and what little I learned from reading the news reports online.”
It takes Jensen a moment to realize she means Mike. He wants to explain that Mike isn’t actually his friend, but, fuck, it’s not like it matters.
“You don’t remember anything from your time with the kidnapper, is that right?”
Jensen nods. His heart starts beating faster, and he clutches the pencil in his hand for reassurance.
“Do you remember things from before you were kidnapped?”
He hesitates. He remembers some things, like his birthday a couple of days before, and the day his sister was born some years earlier. Being at the zoo with his parents and Josh. He was afraid of the snakes, he remembers that. Being at a beach, crying as he helplessly watched his big red beach ball float away. Things like that. But he doesn’t really remember life before his kidnapping. There is no Before or After, there is just this. Being like this.
He thinks for a minute then draws pictures of photographs. The birthday cake. A lion in a cage. A sandcastle. They’re stuck to a mirror that reflects a faceless person. He shows it to her, sure she won’t understand, but she nods, looking thoughtful.
“Snapshots. Okay. But you do remember the day you were rescued.”
He starts to nod but stops, frowning. He doesn’t really remember the whole day, just the rescue itself. The door breaking down, the cops rushing in, and the shooting. That’s all. He doesn’t remember what happened before that or after. He has no recollection of being carried out, or being in the ambulance, or arriving at the hospital or even seeing his parents again. Just crash, bam, splatter. Screaming. And then suddenly waking up in a brightly colored room as a nurse was checking his blood pressure, and seeing his mother asleep in a chair by his bed. He’s not sure how long had passed but it was summer. His dad had grown a beard, and it scared the shit out of him, because he thought he was looking at a stranger. His little sister had started talking. Which was ironic because he couldn’t. He’d laid there, that first day of what would be the rest of his fucked up life, and he’d tried to call for his mama, and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
“Jensen? What are you thinking?”
He swallows. Then he takes a deep breath and draws four panels. One is blank, the next one is of a gun going off, then another blank one and last a picture of him in a hospital bed. He hands it over, breathing sharply through his nose.
“Just the shooting?” she asks. “That’s all you remember? And then the hospital?” He nods. “Do you know how long had passed?” He shrugs then points at the calendar on her desk. “Days? Weeks? Months? Months. Do you know how many?” He shows her two fingers then three then wiggles them indecisively. “Okay. That is interesting.”
Jensen frowns. Okay. He finds it more frustrating and annoying, but whatever floats your boat, lady. She notices him scowling and smiles a little.
“We’ll come back to that later. I want you to tell me a little about your PTSD. How does it affect your life?”
He blinks at her, not sure what she’s asking for, but she just gestures at his sketchbook and sits back, waiting. Okay then.
The next hour he sits with his feet up on the table, the sketchbook propped on his raised knees as he draws, one picture after another. Rain running down a dark window. Snowflakes shaped like monsters. A door, locked and bolted. A dark room with the walls caving in. Himself sitting in a corner, a puddle at his feet, surrounded by people yelling, laughing, having loud fun. His chest, cracked open to show a dried up heart with all the arteries severed. Him, screaming in rage, steam coming out of his ears and hands clenched into fists.
Him on his knees, sucking a faceless man’s dick with an endless row of men waiting for their turn. Jared hugging him, his arms like prison bars, with Jensen gasping for breath, his eyes wide and panicking. Jared looking at him with hearts in his eyes and Jensen staring blankly back, his mouth stitched shut and his heart burning.
Every one he finishes he hands over without looking up, the pencil already poised for the next one. The further he gets, the more personal they get, the more his hand shakes. He breaks a number of pencils, throwing them aside and grabbing new ones without pausing. His eyes burn, and his throat hurts, and every now and then he has to stop to wipe at his face with the back of his hand. His shirt clings to his back. When he finally stops and leans back on the couch the leather feels cold despite the flannel and t-shirt. He shivers, first pulling the sleeves over his hands, and then, when that doesn’t help, he crosses his arms, trapping his fingers in his armpits.
The drawings lie on the table, laid out like cards. The order is slightly wrong he feels but he doesn’t correct her. Sam sits with her knees crossed, fingers thoughtfully tapping the arms of her chair. Her eyes flicker from one drawing to another, at times looking up at Jensen then down again. Like she’s trying to fit the story behind the drawings to the man she’s seeing, doing a paint-by-numbers without a finished picture to base it on.
“If I had met you five years ago,” she finally asks, “which one would you have picked as the one that disturbs you the most?”
Jensen hesitates a moment then points at the one with him hunched in a corner.
“Three years ago? One?” He points at the same one, both times. “And now?”
He points at the last two, unable to choose between them.
She nods thoughtful. “That’s a big change in one year. Why do you think that happened?”
He leans forward, touching the picture of Jared with hearts in his eyes. He can’t help smiling a little before reluctantly pulling away.
“You fell in love.” She smiles a little then looks at the other drawings, frowning slightly. She picks the one of his chest cracked open, holding it up. “Despite this?”
He bites his lip, then picks up the sketchbook again and draws himself and Jared facing each other, Jared’s hand on his chest. There’s a glass wall around them and outside it there’s a crowd of people, watching, hands reaching but not touching, the glass wall keeping them away.
“Only him? You don’t love anyone else?” He shakes his head. “Your family? Friends?” He keeps shaking his head, his cheeks heating. It’s not that he’s ashamed, he just knows what it makes most people think. Sociopath. But it’s not like that. He wants to care, he just doesn’t.
“Emotional numbness or apathy is not uncommon with sufferers of PTSD,” she says gently. “It’s actually more unusual to break through it after such a long time of detachment.” She smiles. “Just something to consider.”
He looks away, uncomfortable. It makes no sense to him, praising him for something that should be normal behavior. It’s not admirable, it’s fucking pathetic.
“So after all these years of apathy you suddenly meet Jared, and he somehow makes you feel again. That can’t be easy.”
His head snaps up, and he stares at her, surprised. Yes! Finally someone who understands! Everyone’s been so damn happy for him they just don’t get how fucking hard it is! Not caring was easy. Not caring meant nothing mattered. Now he has to watch his every step, his every glance, and smile and gesture, because if he does it wrong, if he screws up, he doesn’t just hurt Jared, he hurts himself. And he’s not used to feeling hurt, not like that. Angry, yes. Depressed, a lot. But not this sadness, this fragile feeling of having let someone down, and the fear that he might lose them forever.
“How are you handling it? All that change.”
He gives her a sarcastic look and sweeps his hand across the room. Well, it landed him here. So no, not handling it very well.
“But do you feel it’s worth it?”
He blinks. Thinks of Jared, waiting out in the truck. Of his patient smile and worried eyes. Of the light kiss Jared had woken him up with this morning.
He ducks his head, his face heating when he can’t keep a smile from tugging at his lips. He nods.
She smiles back at him. “Good.”
-----------
“How was it?” Jared asks, eyes on the road even if he’s itching to read Jensen’s silent face. There’s no answer or even a shrug to let him know if Jensen heard him. He waits until they’re stop at a red light before turning his head. “You think you wanna go again? Keep at it?”
Jensen stares out the window, face blank. Jared keeps one eye on the traffic lights, hoping they keep until he gets some form of an answer. He really should have waited to start this conversation until they were back at Jensen’s place but after waiting in the truck for the last two hours, having no idea what the hell was going on up there, he’s itching with curiosity.
“Jensen?” Jared tries again when the red shifts to yellow. Yellow to green. A car honks behind them, and Jensen jumps in his seat, eyes blinking rapidly. Jared puts his arm out the window, at the last moment changing the one finger salute into a more friendly wave, motioning whoever is back there to move around. His eyes never leave Jensen’s face. Jensen is still blinking, a small frown forming between his eyes, and then he turns his head, looking at Jared in question. Wherever he just went, it was obviously out of earshot.
Jared gives him a small smile. “I asked, do you wanna keep seeing her?”
Jensen hesitates a moment then nods slowly.
“She give you another appointment?” Jensen nods again, pulling a note out of his pocket. Tomorrow, it says. 5:30 pm. “Okay.” Jared smiles in relief. “That’s good. Do you like her, is she good?”
Jensen nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip. He lifts up his hands. They’re covered in grey dust and smudges, the indent of the pencil still pressed pink into his fingers from the tight grip.
“She really made you work for your money, huh?” Jared says with a laugh. He feels elevated, almost dizzy. Truth be told he’d just as much expected Jensen to come back out within five minutes. This feels like a small victory. “She make any sense out of your weird doodles?”
Jensen slaps his arm, faking insult, but he’s smiling as he nods. He lays his hand on his forehead then draws the fingers together like he’s pulling thoughts out of his head and casts them down on imaginary paper in front of him then with the same motion pulls them from there and projects them forward, presumably at his therapist. He looks slightly awed.
“Well,” Jared says, feeling guilty at the small sting of jealousy, “it’s supposed to be her specialty, right? And you’re damn expressive, which I’m sure helps.”
Jensen nods. There’s a small smile playing upon his lips, like he’s thinking of a joke Jared isn’t privileged to. That kinda stings, too.
“Feels a bit weird,” Jared says, smiling to take the edge from his words, “knowing you’re up there, drawing pictures I can’t see. I mean,” he explains quickly when Jensen looks at him in confusion, “not bad weird, just... strange. I’m so used to watching you work.”
Jensen’s face softens. It’s a look of pity, and Jared can feel his face go red.
“I’m being stupid. Sorry,” he mumbles and turns forward, putting the truck back in gear. The lights are changing to green once again, and he keeps his eyes on the road. He can feel Jensen watching him, but he feels too embarrassed to look back. What the hell was that? Way to act like a jealous boyfriend, you moron.
There’s a weird squeaky sound, and he looks over to see Jensen drawing a profile of two men kissing on the steamed up glass window with his finger. He adds a big heart around them before looking over at Jared with a smile, obviously humoring him.
Jared blushes even deeper and gives Jensen a shy smile back. “I know,” he says. “I love you, too.”
Jensen snorts and shifts in the seat until he’s leaning into Jared’s side, one hand on his thigh. All the way home he keeps drawing on Jared’s jeans with his fingers, image after image that are all too obscure to really make sense, but the heat of Jensen’s hand, and the smug smile on his face give Jared a good enough idea of what they might be.
Guess he can take Jensen having secrets with strangers as long as this side of him is still all his.
---------
“When did you figure out you were gay?”
Jensen frowns. He’s not sure. Some time before he started high school. It wasn’t like all his friends were talking about girls, and he realized he wasn’t thinking that way. He didn’t have friends. Apart from Chris of course. Sure Chris had other friends he talked to, like the guys of Kane, the band Chris formed his first year of high school and for some bizarre reason is still alive, in some form or other. Mostly other. They meet up every now and then, even have a gig once in a blue moon, but the other guys have girlfriends and wives by now. Steve even has a kid. It’s different.
But sure, Chris tried to pull Jensen into that crowd, unsuccessfully. They were too loud, too rowdy. They didn’t get how Jensen worked, and, more importantly, they didn’t get how he didn’t work. That they had to watch their step around him, that there were just some things he couldn’t do. He couldn’t just “smoke up and chill” like they kept suggesting. They didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand even if Chris repeatedly explained it to them, and it pissed Jensen the hell off. One too many snotty remarks, and that was it, Jensen told them to go fuck themselves, in not so many or even any words, and stayed away from then on.
So no, that’s not how he found out. It was more of a feeling, like something shifted inside him. He’d glanced around in the showers after gym, discreetly because they were always waiting for him to do something weird, and he was pretty sure staring at them while naked would qualify. And it hadn’t felt scary and uncomfortable anymore. In fact it made him curious, made him feel... something he didn’t even know how to describe. He supposes the best term would be ‘not dead’.
He hadn’t realized that meant he was gay until some years later. He just figured it was another new and exciting symptom of his lovely PTSD. Wanting to look at cocks. Touch them. Even taste them. Nowhere in all his speculations did anyone touching him ever come into the equation. Until a guy in his class, Bill Davis his name was, gave him a tentative smile one day and just like that he had a flash of them kissing projected into his head. Kissing and touching and Bill’s hand sliding down to his dick.
It had been a shock. Totally unexpected. He’d staggered back, face red like fire, and Bill’s smile had frozen then dropped like a stone. His friends had noticed, asking what was wrong and through a haze Jensen heard Bill tell them Jensen had been hitting on him, the weirdo. “Wouldn’t think he’d be a fag. Guess he got a taste for it after all.”
To this day Jensen still doesn’t know where that came from. If Bill was just a homophobic asshole who’d seen the sudden lust in Jensen’s eyes or if he was really a closeted asshole, lashing out because he was afraid he’d given himself away and been blatantly rejected. Doesn’t matter, the outcome was the same. Bill’s friends turned to glare at Jensen, but as soon as they made a show of advancing, Jensen freaked out and didn’t wake up until three hours later, in clean clothes with bruised knuckles and a week’s suspension - more for his benefit than punishment, he suspects. When he got back to school someone had written FAG in permanent marker on his locker. Chris had found out who did it (Bill’s brother) and beaten the living shit out of him.
People had left Jensen alone after that, but he still heard them whispering when he passed them in the halls. The words never bothered him but the attention did. He had enough rumors attached to his name already, he really had no interest in adding to the reasons people stared at him. Thankfully that was his last year, and at the end of it he and Chris had left town, Texas, and whatever reservation he’d had about being gay, behind.
Three months after he started art school he’d blown his teacher in the supply room, and there was no going back after that.
“Was he your first?” Sam asks and Jensen jerks back to the present to find an array of drawings littering the table in front of him, his teenage come-out story told in curved lines and shadows. He does this a lot now, draws what’s going on inside his head without realizing what he’s doing until after. He doesn’t think Sam knows that he’s not really present at those times. Guess all she sees is him bent over the sketchbook, working furiously.
She’s watching him now, waiting for an answer, so he nods, smiling wryly in remembrance. It’s nothing he’s ashamed of, but he doesn’t like people thinking he slept his way to his exceptionally good grades. He worked damn hard for those grades, that’s the truth, and not any of it was done on his knees. If anything that blowjob made the rest of his year more difficult than anyone’s, because the guy had felt so ashamed of “taking advantage” that he couldn’t look Jensen in the eye anymore and just mumbled something about “nice work” every time he made the rounds. It was damn frustrating. Jensen couldn’t really understand what the big deal was. He kinda doubted it was the man’s first blowjob, not the way he’d taken to it, so why he had to act like it actually meant something was beyond him. Thankfully the guy had only been teaching that one class and was gone by the end of the year. Moved with his wife and kids to Ohio or Idaho or wherever. Jensen couldn’t really remember. He definitely didn’t care.
He’d kept to strangers after that, way less complicated. With one exception.
Mr. Morgan, or Jeff as he liked his students to call him, was just a few years past thirty, but he was already graying at the temples with more grey sprinkled into his beard. It was that more than anything that had drawn Jensen to him. He’d been going through a period of weird fascination with beards at the time, constantly catching himself staring at unshaven men with an odd feeling he couldn’t place. Maybe it had something to do with his dad having a beard when he woke up all those years ago. A beard he’d shaved off the moment he realized his son wet the bed every time he walked into the room.
If Jeff had been surprised at seeing his former student waiting outside his home the night after graduation he didn’t say it. Just opened his door and invited Jensen inside. Jensen had shaken his head and grabbed the man by the wrist, pulling him into a dark alley beside the building instead. Jeff had tried to kiss him, but at the first sting of stubble Jensen had jerked back, his breath hitching in his throat. Whatever caused his fascination it didn’t run that far. Jeff had reached out for him in alarm, the look on his face a mixture of want and guilt.
“Jesus, kiddo,” he’d said, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t be doing this. You’re so…”
Jensen had quickly shut him up by dropping to his knees and unzipping Jeff’s pants. He’d put all his best effort into it, wanting to thank the man for two years of patience, and guidance and things he had no words for, but he knew they’d done more to help him deal than all those years of therapy combined. He’d made it last, brought Jeff to the brink again and again before finally allowing him to finish, down Jensen’s throat with fingers tight in his hair, and his name stuttered into the dark.
Jensen had been on his feet and out of there in seconds, leaving Jeff leaning against the dirty wall, breath heaving and eyes wide, hand grabbing at his pants as he hoarsely stammered, “Wait, wait! Jensen, please. I just want to...” His words got lost in the night as Jensen hurried home.
He never saw the man again. By the time Jensen and Chris returned from their short trip home to Texas, Jeffrey Morgan had moved away, another casualty to Jensen’s blowjob adventures, or so he thought. In reality he’d been offered a position at an art school in Louisiana, but Jensen didn’t find out about that until six months later. He kinda liked the other theory better. That he blew guys so damn well he blew them to another state. It was funnier.
“So what makes Jared different?” Sam asks, studying the drawings he handed her. “Why is he more than a quick blow in an alley?”
Jensen blinks. He has no idea how to explain that. He’s just... Jared. There’s something there that Jensen noticed the first time Jared walked into The Black Bean at the beginning of the school year. Something strong and still so vulnerable. A mask of adulthood hiding the face of a hurting kid. Maybe it was a sense of kindred spirit, he doesn’t know. He just knows that he’d been looking around campus after that, hoping he’d see that kid again, and then by mere chance he had. Had noticed the cautious way Jared walked, the cocky tone in his voice that still didn’t hide the tension in his eyes. Had watched Jared’s rather pathetic attempts at flirting, and how he’d been shot down again and again, each time adding to his insecurities and raising his walls.
It had made the choice to jump him easier but Jensen knows that even if everything had pointed at Jared being straight as an arrow he still would have given it a shot. Gay or straight, guys hardly ever say no to blowjobs.
Sam is waiting so he draws a picture of Jared embracing him, Jensen’s head resting on his broad chest, eyes closed, face relaxed. Jared’s eyes are open, alert, his shoulders squared and his mouth set in determination. He looks like the embodiment of a guardian angel. Jensen is tempted to add wings and a sword just for kicks but it seems a bit ridiculous. Turns out it’s not needed, she gets what he means anyway.
“He makes you feel safe?” Jensen nods. “He looks very tall. Strong. Like he could easily overpower you. You’ve never felt intimidated by that?” Jensen rolls his eyes, the idea absurd. Like Jared would ever hurt him. “Not even during sex?”
He hesitates. There is that of course. Not that it’s ever been an issue, because Jensen doesn’t put himself in the kind of situation where he might feel intimidated. He’s the one in charge, all the way. Jared might initiate a kiss or two, but what happens next is always on Jensen’s terms. He’s the one that moves it from simple kissing to down and dirty make out. His hands are always first to wander, he decides whether they go further or not. He drops to his knees or pushes Jared back on the bed if that’s what he wants to do. Even when Jared blows him it’s only with Jensen’s permission, or because he simply guides Jared to it. The few times they’ve gone all the way it’s always Jensen’s choice, turning Jared over on his side or stomach, pushing inside with his face hidden behind Jared’s broad shoulders, and Jared panting his name, asking for more, yes, please harder.
“And how do you think he feels about that?”
Jensen frowns. Feels about what? Having sex? Jared is an eighteen-year-old full-blooded American male. He’s got a hard-on pretty much 24/7. He’d guess Jared feels damn fucking good about it!
“About you always being in control,” she elaborates. “Calling all the shots. That doesn’t bother him?”
Oh. Jensen bites his lip. He’s never thought of that. He’s not stupid though, he’s pretty sure Jared would like to fuck him if he could. His hands sometimes wander uncomfortably near that area but Jensen always pulls away before they get too close. He just... can’t. And it’s stupid because why not? Why the hell is that any different from everything else they’ve been doing? Even if yes, maybe he was raped all those years ago, but it’s not like he remembers it. Chances are if the guy raped him, he probably fucked his mouth as well, and Jensen has no problems swallowing Jared’s dick down. So, why this? Why can’t he do this?
“It bothers you.” She’s watching him, eyes steady. “You want more.”
Jensen swallows. He thinks of the sounds Jared makes as Jensen pushes in. Of the soft groans and needy moans, the desperate begging for more, harder, faster. “Please, Jensen, please. So good. It’s so good. God, yes! There!” The blissful look on Jared’s face after he comes, like he just took a short trip to heaven on Jensen’s dick.
He nods, face heating. Yes, he wants that. He wants to know what makes Jared feel that way, what makes him want it so much. He wants… He wants to know what it feels like to get instead of give. He wants to be on even footing, because right now it feels that even if he’s the one in charge, he’s still the one missing out.
“Does he know that? Have you told him?”
He shakes his head. How can he? “Jared, so here’s the thing. I really want you to fuck me but you can’t. Because I’m a freak with major ass issues so... Sorry. But hey, at least now you know you’re not the only one frustrated to hell.” Yes, that would make everything so much better!
“Do you trust him? One hundred percent? Do you believe he would stop at any time you needed him to?”
Jensen rolls his eyes, wondering if she’s been talking to Chris. Of course he trusts Jared. The problem isn’t Jared, it’s him. As much as he wants to know what it feels like having Jared’s dick up his ass he’s not sure he’s ready to bet his sanity on it.
But, he thinks to himself as they’re driving home, no one says they have to jump right to that. Maybe he can start with small things, allowing Jared to take over every now and then. Let him decide for once what they do.
He looks over at Jared, quiet and comforting by his side, one hand resting lightly on Jensen’s thigh. He is big. Very big. Very strong. But he’s also very gentle. If Jensen was ever to give up control to anyone he couldn’t ask for a better candidate.
----------
Jensen is watching him. It’s a little disconcerting to tell the truth. Not that Jared isn’t used to Jensen’s eyes on him, whether it’s deliberate ogling or just vacant staring, but this feels different. It’s like Jensen is studying him, searching for something maybe. Just when Jared is thinking of making a joke of it, maybe ask if he has egg salad in his teeth, Jensen comes over and sits down beside him on the couch. He lays a palm on Jared’s cheek, turning his head for a soft kiss, then pulls back, an unsure look in his eyes. Jared can’t tell if he’s unsure about what he’s doing, or if he’s unsure about Jared.
Jared really doesn’t want Jensen to feel unsure about him.
So he leans over and kisses Jensen back, keeping it light and simple as he waits for Jensen to give him a hint of where he likes it to go, since that’s how they usually do this. But this time Jensen just pulls back again. He looks... well, frankly a little disappointed. He opens his mouth then closes it again and sighs. Jared has no idea what to make of that. When he asks if there’s anything the matter, Jensen just shakes his head and sinks down on the couch, eyes fixed on the television in front of them. If Jared was to guess he’d say was sulking. But why?
Jared lays a hand on Jensen’s neck, rubbing his thumb lightly over the short hairs. Jensen shivers and pushes into the touch, his hands twitching slightly where they lie in his lap. Jared smiles. He slides his fingers into Jensen’s hair, rubbing the scalp like he would scratch a dog.
“You like that?” he asks with a grin.
Jensen closes his eyes briefly then breathes out another sigh and gives Jared a small tight smile. It looks anything but happy. Jared’s own smile falters. He feels like he’s missing something, he just has no idea what.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again, raising his eyebrows when Jensen dismisses it with a wave. “C’mon, you’re sulking. What is it?”
Jensen stays silent for a long time, gnawing at his bottom lip, a sure sign that he’s feeling out of his comfort zone. Finally he reaches over to move Jared’s hand from his neck to rest high on his thigh instead. He gives Jared a pointed look, and Jared blinks back, confused.
“I thought you liked it when I stroked your hair,” he says. “You don’t like it? I don’t...” He stops when Jensen rolls his eyes, jaw tightening. “What?”
Jensen shakes his head. He stands up and fetches his sketchbook then goes to sit by the kitchen table while he draws. Jared isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to sit and wait or what, so he just keeps still. He spends the next fifteen minutes absently watching MTV until suddenly Jensen drops back on the couch beside him, thrusting the sketchbook into his hands.
Jared jumps. “Whoa! Okay, that’s... uhm. Wow. Does my cock really look like that?”
Jensen huffs and taps the drawing impatiently then looks up at Jared, quirking his eyebrow.
“You want to blow me? Wearing... uhm... is that leather? You want me to buy leather pants? Ow! Why are you hitting me? It’s your drawing!”
Jensen glares at him in disgust and gets to his feet, shaking his head.
“What? Jensen, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. I mean... Okay, seriously, that’s how you see my dick? It’s like I had a horse implant. What? Jensen!”
He stares at the closed door to the bathroom, feeling completely lost. And a little turned on. Leather pants? Really? And... He looks down, hesitantly palming his cock. So how much of that should he attribute to artistic license?
---------
She sits there, studying him, the small frown between her eyebrows changing from deep to shallow in sync with her thoughts. Jensen stares defiantly back, wondering what the hell she’s looking at. He’s edgy, and tired and disheartened by his own failure. He’s tried everything he can think of, short of drawing a picture of Jared fucking him, because honestly, he’s not sure he is or ever will be ready for that, but Jared just... doesn’t get it. At all. He even tried typing it on Jared’s laptop and ended up with I WATN YOUOTEBNIHCRAEG which made no damn sense at all, to him or a bewildered Jared. He’s seriously starting to think he has dysgraphia on top of everything else.
And the worst thing is that the less Jared gives him the more he wants. It’s driving him insane. He used to think all he wanted was for Jared to show some initiative, but the longer he has to wait for anything to happen the more demanding and descriptive his fantasies are getting. If this goes on much longer he won’t just be drawing a picture of Jared fucking him, he’ll be devoting a whole series of paintings to it. With excruciating details. Possibly involving dildos.
“Will you tell me something?” Sam suddenly asks, jerking him out of his thoughts. “Why did you decide to go back to therapy?”
He frowns, irritated. Mockingly gestures, ‘Have you met me?’
“Yes, but why now?”
He blinks. Swallows. Looks out the window at the rapidly darkening sky.
The truth is he never expected to live long. Not because he feels the world is out to get him and will at some point catch up, finishing what it started. Nothing as melodramatic as that. He just never had a particular will to live. As far as he figured there would come a time when ‘Why?’ would outgrow ‘Just because’ and that would be it, he’d finish it.
Then he met Jared and everything changed.
Now leaving is what frightens him. Because of what it might do to Jared. And because, as hard as it’s been to admit to himself, he doesn’t really want to anymore. Leave, that is. Die. A world with Jared in it, is, despite its horrors, and nightmares and constant terror, preferable to an unknown afterworld without him.
But if he’s going to stay, if he’s going to soldier on without a suicide plan to fall back on if - or rather when - things get to be too much, he needs to figure out how. Has to find a way to cope, to survive. To be a person Jared will not only be able to live with but will actually want to live with. Forever.
“Jared,” he breathes.
“Jared asked you to?” she says, not a change in her tone, like she doesn’t even notice that he’s talking, for the first time in her presence.
He shakes his head. Then puts his hand to his chest, palm flat, briefly closing his eyes before looking back at her.
She nods slowly. “That’s what made you want to get help? Because you fell in love?”
He shakes his head again. Then takes a deep breath and whispers hoarsely, “Want to live.”
She smiles and picks up her pen, writing something in her notebook before looking up at him again. “Then let’s figure out how.”
That’s what they’re working on, for now. Grooming him, or so it feels sometimes. Turns out he is in fact a rather horrible human being. Not that he didn’t know that, he just never realized people cared. It’s not like his opinion or attitude should matter to them.
“That’s not how it works,” Sam tells him patiently. “People want to feel validated. They need to feel that they matter. When you treat someone with disrespect you would think it just reflected upon you, showed you in a bad light, as a rude jerk or just blind to your surroundings. But to that person it might feel as a reflection upon them. Like what you’re really saying is that they are not worthy of your respect.”
He frowns, thinking how illogical and stupid that is, but then he remembers Jared, how hurt and angry he’d been when Jensen had dismissed his anxiety. “I matter,” he’d said. “My feelings matter.” Like Jensen really thought Jared was worth less than him. That’s not what he meant! Every single hair on Jared’s head is worth more than Jensen’s whole being. How can he not know that?
And so he tries to be more considerate. To put himself in other people’s shoes. It’s damn hard work to tell the truth. He’s never realized how rude and thoughtless he comes across to other people when he’s just being his usual closed-off self. Staying out of people’s business in the hope that they stay out of his. It hasn’t earned him any friends, but it hasn’t earned him enemies either, just kept people at a comfortable distance once they’ve dismissed him as a rude jerk. But he never meant to make anyone feel actually bad. Never meant to take his issues out on innocent strangers. Whatever they might think, it was never like that.
“A lot of heartache can be avoided with something as simple as a smile. It puts people at ease, makes them not take things as seriously,” Sam tells him.
Like maybe he didn’t mean to jerk away from their touch, he was just startled. Maybe he bumped into them accidentally and wasn’t shoving them away, because they were so close he couldn’t breathe. Maybe he didn’t mean to ignore them, he just didn’t notice/hear/whatever fits the situation.
He’s not sure it’s working, mostly because he keeps forgetting to put the smile on, and when he does it’s too late and probably looks more forced than friendly, but at least he’s trying.
She also wants him to work on his own feelings of self worth. He’s not sure why. Maybe to invoke in him some deeper sense of survival. Make him feel he should stick around, because he has a place in society or some crap like that. He doesn’t really know. He’s supposed to stand in front of a mirror and tell himself he’s fabulous or whatever.
“Usually I try to encourage people to really shout it out but, hey, just think really loud,” she says with a small smile. He rolls his eyes, rolls them even more when she suggests he tries drawing himself as a nice, strong, worthy person. “The kind of person you want to be. That you want people to see you as.”
So far he’s drawing blank. Literally. What the hell does a worthy person look like anyway? Like Jared probably. Concerned, kind, sweet. He tries to fit those things to himself, to integrate them into his features on paper, but he just ends up looking like one of those anime girls, all doe eyed and ridiculous.
Instead he starts thinking of how Jared must see him. Quiet, of course. Crazy, yes. Bad tempered. Rude. Neurotic. Scared. Weak. Inferior.
It doesn’t feel good.
Chapter 8 | Chapter 10