Despicable Misha - Chapter 4
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When Misha wakes up on Friday morning, everything is perfect. He can feel Jensen's chest rising and falling, because his head is resting right on top of it. They lie on the sofa, legs entangled under the blanket, still fully clothed. But Misha is far from caring about that.
Instead, he smiles to himself and blinks lazily into the warm morning light falling through the window.
That's when a piercing headache hits him and threatens to split his head in two pieces. It feels like leprechauns playing the bongos with his brain. And that thought just makes no sense. The pain makes him groan loudly in agony, effectively waking Jensen.
“Mish?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. Wisely, he doesn't open his eyes, just moans. “Ugh, my head hurts.”
Hiding his face in the crook of Jensen's neck, Misha grumbles. “Yes, exactly that. And good morning to you, too.”
“Mornin',” Jensen drawls out, and that is a sound that would go straight to Misha's cock if he wasn't so fucking hungover.
His stomach grumbles and clenches painfully. Misha doesn't know if he's hungry or if this are organs protesting the overdose of alcohol yesterday night. Probably both.
“Fuck,” Jensen says after raising his hand and looking at his wrist watch. “I should have been at work fifteen minutes ago. Let me just-” he reaches beneath the blanket to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket. Misha still doesn't open his eyes, just lays there, still half on top of Jensen, and tries to keep the nausea at bay.
“Good morning, Nancy. Jensen here. Ackles. Listen, I have to call in sick today, I don't feel very well. Think I caught something. I'll be fine by Monday,” he says, his voice raspy and broken. He surely doesn't even need to pretend.
Jensen quickly says goodbye and hangs up after that. Absent-mindedly, Misha strokes Jensen's shoulder with his free hand. The other one is jammed between his head and Jensen's chest. “You evil, evil man,” Misha chuckles despite how awful he feels.
Jensen laughs, and damn, that shaking is too damn much for Misha's current state. He apparently looks quite sick, because Jensen stops, holding back his laughter and running his hand up and down Misha's back. “Sorry, man.”
“Aren't you a bit hungover yourself? I thought you could relate,” he pokes Jensen's chest, while he tries to get his breathing back under control.
“A bit?” Jensen snorts. “I feel like some fairies are playing the bongos with my brain, but... I'm fine.”
“Fairies? Really?”
“What would you call them?”
“I'm all for leprechauns.”
Jensen throws his head back and laughs, again. Misha avoids getting shaken by resting his weight on one elbow beside Jensen, watching him. A few missing pieces from last night fall into place right then. Including the kiss.
Misha swallows around the lump in his throat and fights the urge to kiss Jensen again. His hair is sticking up in weird angles, one side plastered flat to his head, and light stubble covers his cheeks. Jensen also still has his arms wrapped around Misha's waist and consciously or not, that feels damn right. Misha can't keep his hands to himself like this, so he reaches up with his right hand and runs his fingers through Jensen's unruly, messy hair, smoothing it down where it sticks up. Jensen just looks more and more adorable as he closes his eyes and enjoys the simple touch.
God, Misha wants to kiss him.
But not with his morning breath of death. The aftertaste of the scotch is still lingering, and not in a good way. He is also thirsty as hell. When Misha takes a look over his shoulder, he immediately finds who he was looking for. “Dave, water,” he orders.
The minion hurries off towards the kitchen and returns with two bottles of water. Misha and Jensen both sit up and gulp down half a bottle each.
“Better,” Jensen states after putting the bottle down. When he turns his head to look at Misha, he has to blink rapidly a few times before he shakes his head. “Damn, the world is still spinning. Let's go back to sleep,” he adds and falls straight back onto the pillows.
Misha can't suppress the laughter rising up in his chest, despite the headache and feeling sick and all. “I'll go up to my bedroom, then,” he chuckles when the laughter ebbs out.
“No, uhm,” Jensen quickly reaches out and pulls Misha back on top of him. “Stay. Please.”
They stare at each other for a few moments. Misha hasn't got the slightest idea what he's waiting and searching for in Jensen's eyes, or maybe he's just captured by those deep green eyes, but he can't look away. Then Jensen gives him a bright, encouraging smile, and that's what makes Misha give up the last remains of restraint. He lets his head drop down onto Jensen's shoulder, snuggles - yes, snuggles, so what? - into Jensen's neck. Teases him with a short flick of his tongue against Jensen's collarbone and notices how that makes Jensen shudder pleasantly.
“You are a fucking tease, Collins,” Jensen mumbles without opening his eyes. “And you're damn lucky that I'm too hungover, plus a very patient man. Or else.”
Misha finds himself chuckling again. “Or else what?”
Wordlessly, Jensen rolls onto his side and slips just that last remaining inch closer, fits their bodies together like two pieces of a puzzle. He watches Misha intently as he splays his hand on Misha's lower back, pushes him toward himself and rolls his hips into Misha's. Eyes rolling to the back of his skull, a light groan escapes Misha's lips at the unexpected friction that is yet so desperately needed at this point. The tension is flaring up between them, hot and all-consuming, making Misha's blood rush down to his groin. Oh god, he wants, wants desperately - rolls his hips back into Jensen's, feels him gasp for air and a sudden wave of pride rushing through him at the confirmation that yes, he did this. It's a damn good feeling. Images that have circled through Misha's mind during the past week return with impressive impact, of Jensen jerking himself off. Just thinking about the perfect curve of his cock makes Misha's mouth water and his mind spin with what he'd do if he'd get his mouth on that particular part of Jensen's anatomy.
Jensen's forehead falls against Misha's then, and fuck - that effectively triggers his headache.
“God, my head is killing me,” he complains as pain floods his head in waves, repeatedly.
Jensen screws up his face. “Yeah, mine too,” he mumbles quietly, and Misha surely doesn't imagine that he looks rueful. “But, I mean... just so you know,” he adds with a weary smile, reminding Misha once again of yesterday night.
Misha still manages a smile, through the dizziness of the remaining alcohol thrumming through his veins and the adrenaline adding to it and the fact that he is still so fucking tired. “Yeah, I know,” he answers, watching as Jensen's eyes light up in understanding. He feels his stomach burning and fluttering pleasantly because of the other man's gaze, beautiful green eyes staring into his from such a close proximity, his freckles so clear that Misha could count them if he wanted.
“Let's sleep.”
All Misha can do at this point is nod. His mouth is dry, not only as an after effect of the alcohol, but mostly from feeling suddenly very, incredibly frightened. He pointedly ignores the elephant in the room, the one that has “HEY! YOU'RE A SUPERVILLAIN!” written on his side and metaphorically nibbles at the palmetto in the corner of the living room.
The next time Misha wakes up, Jensen is already wide awake, lying in front of him with his head rested on his propped-up hand, watching Misha. His index finger is playing with a lock that's curling into Misha's forehead. Sleepily, Misha yawns and rubs his eyes.
It's pleasant, waking up beside Jensen.
And, okay, understatement of the year.
Misha could really get used to this, Jensen waking him up with those gentle touches and lazy smile, so close to him that he can feel the warmth radiating off his body. He had always believed that this would never be possible for him, that he would live his life as a loner and that it was okay.
And then came Jensen.
Misha chuckles, feeling lightheaded, and shifts a bit closer to Jensen. The hand that was playing with his hair is falling onto his waist now, holding him firmly in place.
“Mornin',” Jensen mumbles, with that Texan drawl in his voice that makes Misha's toes curl every single time. Green eyes are sparkling down at him, doing nothing to lessen that feeling. Not that Misha would complain about that.
“Morning, Jen,” he says instead. “How are you?”
Jensen grins. “My head is better, thanks, but I could really, really grab a bite now. Or else you'll have a starved neighbor to bury.”
“I think we can take care of that,” Misha smiles lopsidedly.
“What about you? How are you doing?”
“Better as well.”
Their eyes stay locked the whole time and Jensen's gaze makes Misha's belly tingle and twist and if that wasn't bad enough already, Jensen leans into him now. “Shame, really. Would have loved to kiss it better,” he says quietly, his voice raspy and deep, the low rumble yet again going straight to Misha's cock. It takes all the self-restraint he can muster to not groan from the sheer need he feels rushing through his body at that.
Misha's eyes fall down to half-mast as he eyes Jensen longingly. They're laying so close to each other that they're practically breathing the same air. It wouldn't take much more than tipping his head slightly forward to capture Jensen's lips and kiss him, and damn if those lips don't look inviting.
“Who says a bit of kissing wouldn't help our recovery nevertheless?” Misha teases cheekily.
“Huh. What makes you think that?” Jensen grins, white teeth flashing between those full lips.
“Well, I, for one, might feel better, but you know how it is after drinking, that sinking feeling in your stomach, and-”
“Oh, just because you can't handle a bit of liquor,” Jensen teases right back, a playful smile on his lips. Misha finds his gaze drawn to them, again and again, like a magnet.
“I'm sorry - dickhead - but I was one half bottle ahead of you,” Misha shoots back, pokes him in the chest.
Jensen's eyes are glittering with withhold laughter. “And I didn't catch up?”
“You caught up just fine,” Misha says, his voice dark and seductive on purpose, and they both know he's not talking about the wine any more.
What started as a light banter ended up in a staring contest, Jensen's green eyes swirling dark and hungry, but also with an affectionate spark in them. The tension between them is so thick you could cut it with a knife, but it's that good kind of tension, the one that leaves you breathless and anticipating more.
Their breath is ragged by the time Misha eventually can't stand it any more, leans in and catches Jensen's lips between his. The kiss is slow and passionate from the very start, makes Misha sigh and his breath hitch when Jensen captures his lower lip between his, suckles lightly and lets go, just to let Misha do the same thing to his soft, full bottom lip. Jensen's body feels warm against his, hands firmly placed on Misha's hip and neck, not pushing or pulling in any way, just holding him tight and kissing him with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants. Misha grins into the languid, lingering kiss and feels Jensen's lips shift and spread into a smile of his own. They break the contact for a moment. Misha doesn't dare open his eyes, just nudges his nose against Jensen's and wallows in the fuzzy feeling the other man's blissful laughter gives him.
It's perfect, right until the minions storm into the room, babbling and calling for Misha. He groans frustrated and shoots Jensen an apologetic smile before he rolls to the other side and sits up, facing the minions. “What?”
“Wait, there's more of them?” Jensen asks from behind Misha. “Obviously,” he adds, mumbling to himself and effectively answering his own question.
The minions jump around, pointing at his 60-inch flatscreen TV on the wall. A waiting light is blinking rapidly on the satellite receiver.
“Shit,” Misha curses and looks at the watch on his wrist. “Shit!” he repeats louder. Then he sorts out his hair as quickly as possible, straightens his rumpled clothes and rubs his eyes. A few quick steps take him to the TV to start up the video conference system. However, he can almost feel Jensen's look at his back. “I'm sorry, but could you leave me alone for a second?” he says firmly over his shoulder, but Jensen never gets a chance to answer.
“Mr. Collins!”
Misha's head snaps up at his TV, where Sheppard is staring down at him with a mixed expression of surprise and suspicion, his eyebrows raised and the mandatory glass of whiskey in hand. Misha averts his eyes and clears his throat awkwardly.
“In company, I see. Quite one for surprises, aren't you?”
A short look over his shoulder confirms to Misha that Jensen is shuffling on the couch, sitting up and flattening his clothes and hair. Despite the fact that he should really, really get his priorities straight, Misha is really, really tempted to shut down the video conference set and just climb into Jensen's lap and do some really, really dirty things to him. Covering his eyes with his hand and rubbing his temple, Misha focuses back on the TV and Sheppard's disapproving face.
“Well, that's-”
“Jensen,” the man behind him pipes up. Misha turns around and shoots him a worried look, shaking his head slightly and hoping that Jensen gets the message. Just stay out of this.
“Huh. Just for the record, I'm not that surprised to find you in male company, Collins, but wasn't there something you should have prepared for me? You know, to get your third loan this year?” Sheppard snarls.
“Yes,” Misha nods as seriously as he can manage. He is so screwed and he knows it. So fucking screwed.
“Well,” the man on the screen replies and leans back in his chair, swirling the glass in his hands. “Shoot. What's the genius plan?”
Misha closes his eyes briefly, fights down the headache that rises up again. This time, he knows it's not only from the alcohol. “I, uhm-” he mumbles, then stops. He hears steps behind him, and his breath hitches for a second when Jensen wraps his arm around his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Misha hisses angrily. “You have no idea what you're getting yourself into.”
“Relax,” and Jensen's smug smile makes Misha wanna punch him right now.
Misha rolls his eyes and fights down his temper.
“So, hey,” Jensen says and waves at Sheppard on the screen. “As Misha's new assistant-”
Misha turns his head slowly from the TV to Jensen, tilts it sideways, eyes blown wide. What!?
“-let me explain. I presume you've seen the protests against gay marriage on TV? So, we did a little thinking on how we could get back at those bastards, you know, push the LGBT rights stuff a bit.” Jensen makes a dramatic pause, watches Sheppard closely before he resumes. “The plan is to travel to the moon and paint it in rainbow colors.”
Sheppard's raised eyebrow has constantly risen higher during Jensen's little speech. His tense expression breaks into a lopsided smirk, then, and Misha relaxes under Jensen's touch.
“And how are you planning to get a satellite painted? Millions of acres?” Sheppard tries to play it cool, but Misha sees it clearly in his eyes that he's intrigued. If they don't mess up, they've got him right where they want him.
“Shrink ray,” Jensen and Misha answer simultaneously, as if it was the most natural thing to think of in this moment, and only share a short, both confused and amused look.
“Huh,” says Sheppard. “What will it take you, money-wise? And in how much time will you be able to follow through with this plan?”
And now, Misha is back in his element. “The rocket could be built within a week, and the start - depending on the weather and the moon phases, but if I remember correctly, it stands quite handy - could be done during the next two weeks. As for the cost, and I have to do a little hacking on the NASA servers for this, but I think we can do it quite efficient. Two million, maybe? I still have a space suit around, and my minions don't require any.”
Sheppard nods. “Well, let me know the exact numbers. And don't mess it up this time, will you?”
With that, the screen flashes to black and Misha takes a deep breath. Instinctively, he wraps his arm around Jensen's waist, pulls him close to hug him gratefully. Jensen smiles, Misha can feel his lips against his neck, and they stand there just enjoying each other's presence until Misha realizes something very disturbing and leans back in Jensen's arms.
Misha gapes for a moment, not finding the right way to ask, while Jensen studies him, raises his eyebrow questioningly. “What is it?”
“Uhm, how did you know there exists something like a shrink ray? How did you know how to... I mean, how did you know this plan wasn't just some drunk rambling? What the hell just happened?” Misha takes a step back, hands raised protectively in front of him, a horrible premonition twisting his guts. He feels sick to his stomach, and not from his hangover.
“I... kinda know my way around that kind of business?” Jensen offers and tries to shrug it off, looking just as uncomfortable as Misha feels.
“How?”
Jensen shuffles on his feet, toes the carpet on the floor with his shoe.
“Jensen, please. I need you to be honest with me.”
His head drops heavily onto his chest as Jensen sighs. Quietly, he begins to speak. “Okay, I'll tell you. Just, please, don't hate me for this. Don't jump to the wrong conclusions either. Please. Give me a chance.”
Misha's eyes widen in shock. Could it be...? His heart jumps heavily in his chest and he is halfway to throwing up. Again, not because of the hangover.
“I'm kinda in this business myself,” Jensen says. “And I wanna help you.”
“Who are you?” Misha manages to press out through his teeth.
“My initials, or at least the initial of my first name, is in my villain name. Go figure,” Jensen says, and it almost breaks Misha's heart when he sees the desperate look in Jensen's beautiful green eyes.
It doesn't take much pondering.
“Mystic J,” Misha mumbles. Reality is a bitch, and it slaps him right across the face in that moment. Holy shit.
Jensen nods.
“Oh god,” Misha sighs and turns away. “You're... you're...-” and he's speechless. His hands run over his head as the news sinks in, entangle and curl in his hair as the punch to his gut comes. He fell in love, after so much time, and it had to be Mystic J. Life wasn't fair.
“I know, but it's not like you might think. I didn't want to manipulate you or anything, I just... I mean, what happened here, last night and this morning, that was all-”
“Please leave before I do anything I'll regret later,” Misha says quietly, but firmly.
“Mish, please-”
“Oh, don't 'Mish' me,” he spins around and glares at Jensen. “I trusted you, you son of a bitch. And now you're my arch nemesis? And I should just deal with it, because you apparently had only good reasons? Sorry, call it female intuition, but I'm not buying it.”
“I get it, I really do, and I would probably react exactly like that if I were you. But the point is, Misha, I never wanted to get so close to you, you know? I'll be honest here, and yes, I wanted to manipulate you, that's why I moved here and all that, but-”
“Yeah, well, thanks,” Misha snarls. Every word out of Jensen's mouth hurts a bit more. “And I'm supposed to really believe that you made up your mind? That your career as a villain and a seat in the Evil League of Evil isn't that important to you any more? I know you're not far from getting there. We don't need to pretend here, Jensen, we are competitors, and I can't trust you. So leave. My house. Now.”
Jensen's face is torn to a pained expression, his full lips, the ones Misha just kissed so enthusiastically mere minutes ago, pressed to a tight line. The crinkles around his eyes seem deeper, the shadows beneath his eyes darker. Honestly, Misha doesn't know if it's real or just faked pretty good. Doesn't know if Jensen is really hurt or just a convincing actor. His eyes seem a bit watery, and damn. That shouldn't leave Misha's gut in a twist like it does. He feels horrible.
“Get out,” Misha repeats quietly. “I need to think.”
Jensen scuffles towards the door to the patio, eyes focused on the floor. “You can still use the plan, you know.”
Misha's eyes snap up to him then. He hadn't even thought about that. “Okay,” he says, nodding once.
Jensen smiles at him when he twists the door handle open. “Villain or not, and for what it's worth - I really thought we had something there, Misha.”
Misha squeezes his eyes shut, too afraid to think about that option any more. It's scary, scary as hell, that he almost fell for that idiot, let him into his life. He could have ruined everything. Only one more point why Misha needs to get his priorities straight, and why Jensen shouldn't be in the top three of them.
It still hurts, because Jensen has one point right. Misha thought they had something there, too.
When he opens his eyes, Jensen is gone and the door to the patio is wide open.
Misha flops down on the couch and calls Jared. It's the only logical thing he can think of.
“Wow,” is Jared's simple answer to Misha's story, an hour later. Then, “Shit.”
Misha cradles his chin in his hand and sighs. Jared's hand comes down on his shoulder, massages it lightly in a simple way to offer comfort. “What do you think I should do?”
“I can't tell you what to do,” Jared says silently. “And I won't. All I can tell is that you seemed completely different to me during the last few days. I haven't seen you like that since... you know. Her,” he shrugs. “It was nice to see you that happy for a change.”
Misha falls forward to rest his head on his knees. “Fuck,” he cusses.
“But for now, I'd say, we get you a bit distracted, bury your head in work. If there's one good thing that came out of this, it's that you got the loan from the Bank. So we'll use it, make this plan come true, and show Mystic J and the Bank and the world that we're still capable of pulling off a plan like this.”
“You're right,” Misha answers and sits back. His eyes hurt, but he isn't crying. He won't cry.
Jared claps him on the back and stands up. “Let's get ready for the briefing.”
The hall is buzzing with excitement, the minions are happily chatting among each other, poking and teasing, or just watching the entrance silently.
“You ready?” Jared asks, his arm around Misha's shoulders again, squeezing him once encouragingly.
After taking a deep breath, Misha sighs. “As ready as I could possibly be.”
Jared lets go of him and opens the door with a push of the red button. “Good Luck.”
Misha nods and steps through the door. His ears get almost blown with a thunder of cheering and yelling from the minions, but Misha tries not to let anything show. He's their fearless leader, he has to be strong, especially now. Despite Jensen and all that. And fuck, he really shouldn't think about Jensen right now.
In the second row, Misha can see a minion with - oh no. “Joe, put the rocket launcher down!” Misha orders firmly, index finger pointed at the one-eyed minion with his favorite toy. “You know what happened last time.”
Joe hangs his head and sighs dramatically then leaves to store the weapon away, dragging his feet.
For a moment, there's the piercing pain in his stomach again. Misha states that he definitely has enough of seeing that picture for today.
With a deep inhale of air, Misha steps towards the center stage, where his microphone is waiting for him. The room goes quiet immediately, tiny yellow faces watching him excitedly.
“My dear minions!”
The minions hop and bounce where they stand, clapping their hands and jubilating. Misha shuts them up with a firm look.
“We have made it through a lot this year already! I dare say, it was a quite successful one so far. You did a great job back at our heist to steal the statue of liberty-” Misha is interrupted by a wave of clapping, pauses for a moment, “- the small one, from Las Vegas.”
Right then, when Misha masks out the noise and lets his eyes sweep over his assembled army of minions, he finds a particular one, sitting at the wall to the side. His arms hang down weakly at his side, and he is far away from smiling. In fact, he looks so miserable that Misha is tempted to go over and just cuddle him.
It's Dave, Misha realizes, and he's sulking. The searing pain in his chest in that moment is also not something Misha wants to get used to. As if on cue, Dave looks up then, and his eye meets with Misha's two ones from across the room. Misha smiles, and it's a sad smile, because damn, this is not a plan he made up on his own. It's stupid, but he feels incomplete like this. He may like to make up evil plans and all that, but he is not someone who sells other people's plans for his own.
What would it be like to have Jensen stand here beside him with all the confidence he showed Sheppard?
Misha could use that, right here, right now. He never felt like that, especially not in front of his minions.
He focuses back on the task at hand. Watches his minions as they eye him curiously, a bit confused by the sudden silence.
Jensen isn't here right now, and he will probably never be. Misha manages a smile, and if it looks fake, well then that's that.
“My dear minions,” he begins again, in his most serious voice, “we have a new plan. And we have the money from the Bank to realize it.”
The thunder of excited cheering almost gets too much right then. Misha holds up his hand. “Aren't you interested in hearing the plan first?” he winks and starts up the presentation he and Jared prepared during the afternoon.
Dave is still watching without enthusiasm. Misha can relate.
“Let's talk about the moon for a second-”
The picture of the moon which they took from Wikipedia is projected onto the screen behind him. The room full of minions goes quiet.
“Don't you think its color is kind of... dull?”
Some of the minions seem to get it already and begin to giggle.
“With the help of my trusty little shrink ray-” cue the picture of the gun Misha invented years ago - “we can shrink it to the size of a soccer ball. We could steal the moon in this form, which would also be quite an interesting plan, but I happen to know that objects shrunken by the shrink ray sooner or later return to their original size. Therefore-”
Dramatic pause, Misha thinks to himself when the platform in the middle of the stage starts rising, bringing him closer to the ceiling which slowly opens up as he ascends. It's night, and the pale moon dips the minions in a silvery light, makes their eyes shine and glitter behind their glasses.
Right then, when he reaches the highest point with the platform, Jared activates the filter film across the opening. They programmed it so it would show off the rainbow flag, and effectively let it look like a rainbow-colored moon to the minions.
“- we are going to paint the moon in rainbow colors!” Misha announces, his voice deep and booming in the silent hall.
The room practically blows up from all the noise and yells erupting from the minions. Misha smiles to himself. Yes, that is exactly the reaction he had hoped for. They approve.
Jared awaits him when the platform is back to base level. He punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Good job.”
Misha punches him right back and heads off, smile on his face. Suddenly, there's Dave, standing beside him, also smiling, but not nearly as jittery as the rest of the minions. He hugs Misha's leg wordlessly before he strolls off.
“Huh,” Jared frowns. “What was that about?”
“I have no idea,” Misha answers, shaking his head.
Then he steps forward and sorts out the teams for building the rocket, the fuel tanks, and the team for the supplies.
So far, everything is going according to plan.
Jared has a close eye on the workers who build the rocket, while Misha is supervising the guys who get the color paint and the energy supply for the shrink ray.
Still, everything leaves kind of a bitter aftertaste.
Sometimes Misha finds himself standing in the kitchen like he used to, staring through the window at Jensen's house. He knows when the other man leaves for work, returns, goes for a run. One thing he noticed, and Misha isn't sure if it's part of what happened between them, but- when he got his paper in the morning, Jensen used to smile or whistle to himself while he walked out of the door. Seemed cheerful and with his Zen in the right place.
Misha hasn't seen him smiling for a whole week. It's odd.
He doesn't know how to feel about it all, because it's kind of the same with him. Smiling doesn't come that easy to him these days. Jared also noticed, of course he had.
Yet again, Misha is standing in the kitchen, staring into space. Jensen just left for work, all dressed up in a black suit and white shirt, red striped tie, and his hair slicked back. It had taken quite some restraint to not do something stupid. Like run out of the door and jump his bones. Or just, you know, go out and say good morning, ask if Jensen would talk to him.
Misha hears the phone ringing and hopes it's not his mom. She'd be the last person he'd want to talk to now, but she's still pretty much the only one who ever calls his land line. When he heads for the phone beside the kitchen counter, the caller ID only confirms his apprehension.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, Misha-”
He interrupts her, not in the mood to beat around the bush. “Before you ask, yes, I have a plan, and I won't lay it out in detail here, but you should watch out for any news of the astronomical kind in the next few days.”
“Well, I hope you won't disappoint.”
Misha huffs. “I hope so, too. But I've got a good feeling about this. It's not like much more can go wrong at this point.”
Misha's mom is Misha's mom, though, so despite her usual antics she picks up on the bitter tone in his voice. And yes, even she can be nice every once in a while. “Sweetie, what's wrong?”
Ignoring the 'sweetie', Misha sighs. “I met Mystic J.”
“But that's wonderful! You could-”
“No, Mom, you don't understand. He's my neighbor.”
“So?” she asks unfazed, rather enthusiastically. “That's perfect! Study him, get to know his plans, sabotage them, get him out of the way.”
“Yeah, well, that was exactly what he wanted to do to me,” Misha answers quietly and swallows around the lump in his throat.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. And he also somehow wormed his way into my life and I don't know what to do about it, to be honest.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, a bit confused.
Misha rubs his free hand over his eyes. “I think I developed... feelings for him. And I'm not fine at the moment, to say the least.”
“Oh honey. Come on, you know the drill. We stay on our own and we only trust people that deserve it. Didn't I teach you that?”
Misha drops his head, although she obviously can't see it. “Of course you did. Still, it happened and there's not much I can do about that.”
“But you know you have to get over it to make your plan work. Your plan is always priority number one. So either work it out or drop it,” she says firmly.
“I know,” Misha's voice comes out a bit shy. “I'll see what I'll do. I don't know yet.”
“Anyway, good luck for your plan.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You're welcome. Bye, Misha. Call me soon.”
“Will do,” Misha replies and hangs the phone back onto its station on the wall. He stays there, just standing at the counter, staring into space, until a familiar voice cuts through the silence.
“You miss him, don't you?”
Misha turns around slowly. He hadn't even noticed that Jared had arrived for work and wonders how much of the conversation he has overheard. A deep sigh makes his way past Misha's lips. Then he nods, wearily. “Like you wouldn't believe. Hell, I can't fully believe it, most of the time.”
“Then why don't you just grow a pair, walk over there, and tell him? Talk to him?” Jared asks, firmly, walking towards Misha as he speaks and coming to a halt right in front of him.
“Because he just left for work?” Misha deadpans, tilting his head to the side.
Jared blinks. “Okay, point for you. Then why don't you just do it when he's home?”
Covering his face with both hands, Misha sighs again. “I don't know. I can't,” he shakes his head and drops his hands to his thighs in desperation.
“Can't or won't?”
Misha doesn't answer, just averts his eyes to avoid Jared's gaze. The guy seems to be able to look right though Misha, especially in these matters and especially lately.
After a moment of silence, Misha frowns and shakes his head in confusion. “Why are you even rooting for him here? I think it goes without saying that I should - you know, now that I know my biggest and most capable competitor lives next door - panic, crank the alarm system up to eleven, freak out about being spied on, and oh - not trust him, to put it mildly.”
“Because,” Jared answers, barely impressed, “I saw you, and him. Before this happened and now. You didn't even give him the chance to explain himself. I just have the feeling that he might be worth giving a second chance.”
Misha releases a breath that he wasn't even aware of holding.
Before he can even answer, Jared adds with a rueful smile, “You'd make one hell of a team.”
“Don't think I didn't think of that,” Misha says, quietly. The thought crossed his mind quite a few times. “But he screwed up. So I'd say it's his move now.”
“How should he even know you'd talk to him? You threw him out of your house the last time. Are you that proud that you can't just walk over there and make him talk?”
“Not too proud,” Misha shakes his head again and subsequently nods towards his living room. “Remember my palmetto of self-respect? The one I bought after she left? It still lives. So does my self-respect, end of discussion.”
With a few firm steps, Misha walks towards the door to the lab. “We've got work to do,” he says.
He can still see Jared shaking his head in disapproval from the corners of his eyes.
It's two days later that Jensen can't stand it any more. He's stewing in his own juices here, and he's had about enough of it.
He can't sleep properly any more, he can't think straight, he can't eat properly - he can't even smile for Christ's sake.
He misses Misha so damn much, and he's not too visionary that he couldn't admit that to himself.
They've been so close to... no, Jensen shakes his head, trying to get his mind clear. Don't even think about it, he tells himself. You know it just hurts more.
The picture in his head still manifests itself - big blue eyes, blinking into the warm light of the rising sun, pink, kiss-swollen lips, so soft under his, a mop of dark, unruly hair with adorable little curls. A tiny whimper when their lips meet, again and again, to perfectly graze along his own.
The file in front of him seems to be written in Enochian or some shit, because the words make as much sense. Jensen can't concentrate, which probably is a side effect of the sleep deprivation. And the Misha thing in general.
It's worse than when he was reminded of wet dreams of the man in question. At least, Jensen was pleasantly aroused and on edge, found his release at night, dreamed a little more of Misha, and so on.
That circle was enjoyable, but the current one is spiraling downward and dragging him mercilessly with it.
All he wants is to go home now - and fuck, it's only 10 a.m. - and collapse on Misha's doorstep, fall onto his knees and beg for forgiveness. For anything.
If friendship is all they could manage, Jensen would happily take it, but the situation like it is now is unbearable for him.
He doesn't know how he makes it through the day, but he eventually does. When he collapses onto his sofa that evening, spent without even having had his run for today, Jensen states that he needs to do something. Anything, really. He's a wreck, physically and mentally, and every time he looks over and sees Misha working in the garden, he wants to shout over and ask how building of the rocket comes along, if he needs help with the pruners.
He wants to have a place in Misha's life, and he's reached a point of desperation that he never thought he would end in.
As if on cue, he hears a tentative knock at the door that leads to his backyard.
A tiny, yellow minion with one eye is standing there, looking expectantly up at him. Jensen immediately recognizes him as Dave. He waves a folded piece of paper in his hand.
It falls like scales from Jensen's eyes right then. He has a plan.
“Coming!” Misha shouts, walking down the hallway as the doorbell rings a second time. Quickly, he checks the tiny screen beside the door.
It's Jensen. Misha's eyes fall shut for a second and he takes a deep breath. He's not sure he's ready for this. He opens the door anyway.
“Jensen.”
The man that's standing in front of him looks worse than Misha remembers him from this morning. His hair is a mess, as if he repeatedly ran his hand through it, and his eyes are bloodshot and reddened, deep circles underlining them. The beautiful mouth is pressed tight and Jensen looks pale, his freckles standing out stark against the tone of his skin.
He also sounds weary. “Look, Misha, please don't slam the door in my face. I just want to explain. Can we talk?”
It takes another deep breath and a moment's hesitation before Misha nods. “Yes,” he answers firmly and tries not to let on that his voice is shaking right now.
“Can I come in?” Jensen asks, and he seems so unsure and shaken that it takes all the self-control Misha can muster to not hug and forgive him on the spot.
Misha wants to see him smile again, because Jensen's smile is beautiful and so catching that it lights up the whole room. He wants to see how Jensen's eyes crinkle at the edges, wants to hear him laugh, because his laugh, deep and warm, is one of the single most wonderful sounds he can think of.
Misha wants to be the reason for both the smile and the laughter. He wants to hear it in the morning when he wakes up and wants to see it last thing before he goes to sleep.
The thought is no longer scary, but rather depressing. Having reached the point of no longer denying himself any of those feelings and urges, Misha is faced with the brutal, hard reality.
Jensen is his competitor, a fellow villain. Villains aren't friends, and villains aren't lovers.
It all sounds so stupid the longer Misha thinks about it. In the meantime, he had stepped aside and waved Jensen in.
He still wears his suit that he went to work in that morning, minus the jacket, and he lost the tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons of the shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, muscled arms. And if that sight didn't make Misha drool enough, he now has the perfect view from behind Jensen as he closes the door. He should need a license for his ass in dress pants, because damn -
Focus, Misha.
Misha wills the uprising arousal down. When they reach the kitchen, he offers a chair to Jensen and wordlessly begins to brew coffee for both of them. No milk, one cube of sugar for each. He hands Jensen his mug and sits down carefully with his own, across the table from Jensen.
The other man is staring into the dark, steaming fluid. His head is hanging onto his chest and he looks exhausted.
Misha takes a sip from his coffee, enjoys the feeling of the hot, strong beverage warming him up from the inside. God knows he needs it. He feels ten kinds of strange. And vulnerable.
It sucks.
Jensen heaves a sigh and takes a good mouthful of coffee himself before he finally meets Misha's eyes.
“I really want to come clean here,” he starts, and Misha notices very well how much it costs Jensen to control his voice. “Please just hear me out.”
“Will do,” Misha says simply and watches Jensen closely as he rubs his hands over his face.
Jensen takes another deep breath. “You're right, you know. I want that seat in the Evil League of Evil. But as you are currently more likely to get in there before me, I needed to work out a plan so I could...” he awkwardly scratches his neck. “Well, make you retire. I was never out to kill you, please don't think that. That's not my style. And not part of the image I built myself.”
Misha nods. Truth is, the thought didn't even occur to him.
“So, as my flat in the city really got cramped with all kinds of stuff - that part was completely true - I looked for houses. And I found this one, was pretty impressed, and then researched the neighborhood. Of course I found you immediately, your name is... catchy. Anyway, that was the moment I had my plan ready. Move here, build up my new head quarter and lab here, make you trust me, then sabotage your plan, wipe you off the map and get into the League. However-”
Misha's breath catches in his throat when he takes in the look of desperation in Jensen's eyes, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips trembling with a small, sad smile.
“However,” he starts anew, “I didn't think that I'd fall in love with you somewhere along the line.”
Misha almost spills his coffee over the table right then. Not even the best actor in the world could deliver something like this, with so much pent-up sadness and that broken look on his face. He just knows Jensen isn't lying.
With a thoughtful look into his coffee, Jensen takes a few gulps. “That's what I wanted to tell you. I mean, in our line of business, when do you have a shot at something that big? Personal necessities are a luxury. I always could shove that aside, could stay on target, focus on my career. And then... there was you.”
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Misha finds himself completely and utterly out of English. Which hasn't happened in... ever?
“Look, I understand if you don't answer me right away. Completely. But, please, think about it,” Jensen rests his hand flat on the table, leaning towards Misha to emphasize his point, “The things we could do, the heists we could pull off. You and me - together.”
Misha nods solemnly. Not that he didn't think about it already, but knowing Jensen would be cool with it? Changes everything.
Still. He needs time to think. There are so many variables here, Misha doesn't even want to list them. Jensen's honesty is appreciated, very much so, but he still needs a reason to trust Jensen again.
“When's the big day, if I may ask?” Jensen asks, his voice softer now. He leans back in his chair, sips from his coffee.
And, luckily, Misha's voice decides to work again. “Tomorrow.”
Jensen nods, his eyes focused on a point somewhere on the floor beside Misha. Then he gets to his feet and places his empty cup in the sink. “Listen, I don't want to disturb you any longer. You probably have a shitload of stuff to get ready. Thanks for listening.”
Misha finds a small smile spreading on his lips at that. He feels weird when he stands up and walks Jensen to the door. It's like being on edge, wired up, waiting for something that might destroy the mood. They're more at ease now with each other, and it's graspable between them, and god, it feels good.
“Let me just ask you one question,” Misha says, stopping in his tracks when they reach the door. “Did you come here on your own, uhm, intention? Or did... Jared say something?”
Jensen smiles and Misha notices with delight that he is, in fact, blushing like a little boy busted with his hand in the cookie jar. “Jared may or may not have sent me a memo that he kind of gave you a piece of his mind so you would talk to me?” he replies, grinning lopsidedly.
Misha slaps his hand over his eyes, groans. After rubbing his eyes for a short moment, he drops it and finds Jensen still smiling amused in front of him. “Well, I can't really say I hate him for that, now can I.”
“You could.”
After a short moment of hesitation, Misha shakes his head. “I won't.”
Jensen turns towards the door, lays his hand on the handle before he spins on his heels again. “Good luck for tomorrow, Mish.”
The nickname, no matter if it was used on purpose there or not, stirs up all those repressed feelings Misha tried to shove down as best as he could for this conversation.
“Thanks, Jen,” he responds.
Apparently, the nickname has just the same effect on Jensen as well, because he visibly flinches. Then Misha is met with dark green eyes that are sparkling with all kinds of emotions, conflicted inwardly just like he feels.
It feels unfair to let Jensen go like that, after he had the balls to tell Misha everything.
It doesn't take much convincing himself to step forward, right into Jensen's personal space, and the same green eyes widen suddenly. Misha's eyes fall down to Jensen's lips, which look like Jensen did a lot of biting on them during the past week. Misha leans towards Jensen, tilts his head up slightly and pulls Jensen down with a hand wrapped around his neck.
They kiss, just a peck on the mouth, lips meeting in a simple, sweet encounter.
Jensen gasps for air when Misha steps back.
“I just thought you should know,” Misha says with a secretive smile.
Jensen huffs out a short laugh, lets his head drop. But he's smiling as well. “Promise me to think about what I said?”
“Promise. Scout's honor.”
Jensen laughs before he opens the door, and it makes something inside Misha warm up at the thought that he eventually made Jensen happy again.
When Misha closes his helmet the next day, looking up at his newly built and tested rocket, an incredible mix of feelings is swashing over him. There's pride, because his minions made this - a giant, albeit blue rocket with a yellow capsule at the top - but there's also something strange that Misha is too afraid to name just yet. However, he's able to narrow it down to 'something that has to do with Jensen'.
And whoa, just thinking his name makes Misha's stomach tingle like a bunch of butterflies are going batshit insane in there.
Misha takes a deep breath and steps into the elevator to the top of the rocket.
Right beside the hatchway to the rocket chamber there's Jared waiting for him, clipboard in hand and ticking off the last things on his list. A minion runs in and out at his command.
“You ready?” Jared asks with a worried glance at Misha when the latter appears and stops in front of his friend.
Misha nods solemnly, but doesn't say a word.
“Good. The rocket is ready, too. Take-off in T minus ten minutes,” Jared says, shooing the minion out of the rocket with a wave. “Only a regular crew of five minions on board. Supplies are loaded. There's oxygen for at least five days and food for ten.”
Misha's eyes meet Jared's, and damn the guy for being so tall and making Misha tilt his head up at him. Jared seems sure of himself, convinced that everything is alright, and Misha may know that he is a great actor, but Jared would never lie to him. Especially not about something as big as this.
Jared raises his hands to hug Misha one final time. “Good luck,” he whispers into Misha's ear.
“Thanks, I'll need it.”
“Not with me at base control. Now get in there,” Jared laughs, and shoos him into the rocket just like he had shooed the minion out just a minute ago.
They left the earth orbit a few minutes ago and surpassed the sphere that would block radio connection. It had been a dream start, so far, and despite the physically demanding exhilaration, Misha feels good. He's in space, for crying out loud, and how could that not be awesome?
The radio crackles. "Misha? You there? Over."
"Roger that, Jare. Over."
"Are you fine? Over."
"Just peachy, everything works, minions are also save. Over."
"Good. Call me when you need something. I'll get back to you as soon as you approach the moon. Have a good flight. Jared over and out."
"Okay. Over and out."
It's silent for almost half an hour. In that half hour, the second fuel tanks fall off the rocket as planned, reducing it to the capsule with Misha and his minions in it. The silence is relaxing, and Misha wallows in the quietness around him. Even the minions are silent, it's almost eerie, but then again - the beauty of nature around them, the earth clearly visible beside them, even the minions are awestruck at the sight.
Until the radio's white noise flickers up again.
"Houston to Rocket Man," a voice says. "Please come. Over."
And Misha knows that voice instantly, smiles to himself as he realizes who's calling.
"Rocket Man to Houston," he answers amused. "How did you get my frequency? Over."
"Someone might have given it to me. Very tall, floppy brown hair. Said you would need some company up there."
Suddenly, there is a faint chord, the beginning of a song coming from the radio.
"Don't you dare blast some cheesy piano music up here. I don't have a wife to miss," Misha teases.
The other end of the line goes quiet, but through the white noise, Misha swears he hears something that sounds like a sharp intake of breath. Like Jensen wanted to say something, but decided not to.
"No Elton John for you then, Rocket Man," he chuckles instead, about two seconds too late. It seems a bit off.
"And now I've got that song stuck in my head. Thank you very much, you fuckball."
Jensen laughs warmly through the line, and Misha shudders physically at what that sound does to him. "But there's some truth in it. You're not the man they think you are at home."
“Huh.”
“I hope you're not as high as a kite, though.”
"Please. I'm still a trained professional."
"Hate to break it to you, but no, you're not, moron."
"Are you trying to win my heart by playing sappy music and insulting me?" Misha laughs.
"Maybe?" Jensen replies cheekily, but there's a hint of bitterness in his tone. A hint of what's really standing between them. "Is it working?" he adds and the smile is clearly audible in his voice.
Misha huffs and thinks of an answer. Is it working? Jensen's charm is doing some magic to him, no denying that, but... brain says No, because Jensen is still dangerous. For all Misha knows, he could wreck havoc on his lab in an hour while Misha is gone. Not that he believes Jensen will.
Deep down, Misha wants to believe that Jensen is honest with him. Every fiber of him wants to.
He still hasn't got an answer, when Jensen's voice, worried and concerned and genuinely caring, sounds through the speaker of Misha's radio.
"Just... come home in one piece, okay?"
Misha swallows, knows by Jensen's tone that this is nothing to joke about for him. After inhaling deeply to calm down, he eventually says, "Okay."
There are a few seconds of silence between them, again. Eyes zoning out and staring into space - literally - Misha almost flinches when there is a line added, quietly.
"I'll be waiting for you."
<< Chapter 3 | Masterpost | Chapter 5 >>
When Misha wakes up on Friday morning, everything is perfect. He can feel Jensen's chest rising and falling, because his head is resting right on top of it. They lie on the sofa, legs entangled under the blanket, still fully clothed. But Misha is far from caring about that.
Instead, he smiles to himself and blinks lazily into the warm morning light falling through the window.
That's when a piercing headache hits him and threatens to split his head in two pieces. It feels like leprechauns playing the bongos with his brain. And that thought just makes no sense. The pain makes him groan loudly in agony, effectively waking Jensen.
“Mish?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. Wisely, he doesn't open his eyes, just moans. “Ugh, my head hurts.”
Hiding his face in the crook of Jensen's neck, Misha grumbles. “Yes, exactly that. And good morning to you, too.”
“Mornin',” Jensen drawls out, and that is a sound that would go straight to Misha's cock if he wasn't so fucking hungover.
His stomach grumbles and clenches painfully. Misha doesn't know if he's hungry or if this are organs protesting the overdose of alcohol yesterday night. Probably both.
“Fuck,” Jensen says after raising his hand and looking at his wrist watch. “I should have been at work fifteen minutes ago. Let me just-” he reaches beneath the blanket to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket. Misha still doesn't open his eyes, just lays there, still half on top of Jensen, and tries to keep the nausea at bay.
“Good morning, Nancy. Jensen here. Ackles. Listen, I have to call in sick today, I don't feel very well. Think I caught something. I'll be fine by Monday,” he says, his voice raspy and broken. He surely doesn't even need to pretend.
Jensen quickly says goodbye and hangs up after that. Absent-mindedly, Misha strokes Jensen's shoulder with his free hand. The other one is jammed between his head and Jensen's chest. “You evil, evil man,” Misha chuckles despite how awful he feels.
Jensen laughs, and damn, that shaking is too damn much for Misha's current state. He apparently looks quite sick, because Jensen stops, holding back his laughter and running his hand up and down Misha's back. “Sorry, man.”
“Aren't you a bit hungover yourself? I thought you could relate,” he pokes Jensen's chest, while he tries to get his breathing back under control.
“A bit?” Jensen snorts. “I feel like some fairies are playing the bongos with my brain, but... I'm fine.”
“Fairies? Really?”
“What would you call them?”
“I'm all for leprechauns.”
Jensen throws his head back and laughs, again. Misha avoids getting shaken by resting his weight on one elbow beside Jensen, watching him. A few missing pieces from last night fall into place right then. Including the kiss.
Misha swallows around the lump in his throat and fights the urge to kiss Jensen again. His hair is sticking up in weird angles, one side plastered flat to his head, and light stubble covers his cheeks. Jensen also still has his arms wrapped around Misha's waist and consciously or not, that feels damn right. Misha can't keep his hands to himself like this, so he reaches up with his right hand and runs his fingers through Jensen's unruly, messy hair, smoothing it down where it sticks up. Jensen just looks more and more adorable as he closes his eyes and enjoys the simple touch.
God, Misha wants to kiss him.
But not with his morning breath of death. The aftertaste of the scotch is still lingering, and not in a good way. He is also thirsty as hell. When Misha takes a look over his shoulder, he immediately finds who he was looking for. “Dave, water,” he orders.
The minion hurries off towards the kitchen and returns with two bottles of water. Misha and Jensen both sit up and gulp down half a bottle each.
“Better,” Jensen states after putting the bottle down. When he turns his head to look at Misha, he has to blink rapidly a few times before he shakes his head. “Damn, the world is still spinning. Let's go back to sleep,” he adds and falls straight back onto the pillows.
Misha can't suppress the laughter rising up in his chest, despite the headache and feeling sick and all. “I'll go up to my bedroom, then,” he chuckles when the laughter ebbs out.
“No, uhm,” Jensen quickly reaches out and pulls Misha back on top of him. “Stay. Please.”
They stare at each other for a few moments. Misha hasn't got the slightest idea what he's waiting and searching for in Jensen's eyes, or maybe he's just captured by those deep green eyes, but he can't look away. Then Jensen gives him a bright, encouraging smile, and that's what makes Misha give up the last remains of restraint. He lets his head drop down onto Jensen's shoulder, snuggles - yes, snuggles, so what? - into Jensen's neck. Teases him with a short flick of his tongue against Jensen's collarbone and notices how that makes Jensen shudder pleasantly.
“You are a fucking tease, Collins,” Jensen mumbles without opening his eyes. “And you're damn lucky that I'm too hungover, plus a very patient man. Or else.”
Misha finds himself chuckling again. “Or else what?”
Wordlessly, Jensen rolls onto his side and slips just that last remaining inch closer, fits their bodies together like two pieces of a puzzle. He watches Misha intently as he splays his hand on Misha's lower back, pushes him toward himself and rolls his hips into Misha's. Eyes rolling to the back of his skull, a light groan escapes Misha's lips at the unexpected friction that is yet so desperately needed at this point. The tension is flaring up between them, hot and all-consuming, making Misha's blood rush down to his groin. Oh god, he wants, wants desperately - rolls his hips back into Jensen's, feels him gasp for air and a sudden wave of pride rushing through him at the confirmation that yes, he did this. It's a damn good feeling. Images that have circled through Misha's mind during the past week return with impressive impact, of Jensen jerking himself off. Just thinking about the perfect curve of his cock makes Misha's mouth water and his mind spin with what he'd do if he'd get his mouth on that particular part of Jensen's anatomy.
Jensen's forehead falls against Misha's then, and fuck - that effectively triggers his headache.
“God, my head is killing me,” he complains as pain floods his head in waves, repeatedly.
Jensen screws up his face. “Yeah, mine too,” he mumbles quietly, and Misha surely doesn't imagine that he looks rueful. “But, I mean... just so you know,” he adds with a weary smile, reminding Misha once again of yesterday night.
Misha still manages a smile, through the dizziness of the remaining alcohol thrumming through his veins and the adrenaline adding to it and the fact that he is still so fucking tired. “Yeah, I know,” he answers, watching as Jensen's eyes light up in understanding. He feels his stomach burning and fluttering pleasantly because of the other man's gaze, beautiful green eyes staring into his from such a close proximity, his freckles so clear that Misha could count them if he wanted.
“Let's sleep.”
All Misha can do at this point is nod. His mouth is dry, not only as an after effect of the alcohol, but mostly from feeling suddenly very, incredibly frightened. He pointedly ignores the elephant in the room, the one that has “HEY! YOU'RE A SUPERVILLAIN!” written on his side and metaphorically nibbles at the palmetto in the corner of the living room.
The next time Misha wakes up, Jensen is already wide awake, lying in front of him with his head rested on his propped-up hand, watching Misha. His index finger is playing with a lock that's curling into Misha's forehead. Sleepily, Misha yawns and rubs his eyes.
It's pleasant, waking up beside Jensen.
And, okay, understatement of the year.
Misha could really get used to this, Jensen waking him up with those gentle touches and lazy smile, so close to him that he can feel the warmth radiating off his body. He had always believed that this would never be possible for him, that he would live his life as a loner and that it was okay.
And then came Jensen.
Misha chuckles, feeling lightheaded, and shifts a bit closer to Jensen. The hand that was playing with his hair is falling onto his waist now, holding him firmly in place.
“Mornin',” Jensen mumbles, with that Texan drawl in his voice that makes Misha's toes curl every single time. Green eyes are sparkling down at him, doing nothing to lessen that feeling. Not that Misha would complain about that.
“Morning, Jen,” he says instead. “How are you?”
Jensen grins. “My head is better, thanks, but I could really, really grab a bite now. Or else you'll have a starved neighbor to bury.”
“I think we can take care of that,” Misha smiles lopsidedly.
“What about you? How are you doing?”
“Better as well.”
Their eyes stay locked the whole time and Jensen's gaze makes Misha's belly tingle and twist and if that wasn't bad enough already, Jensen leans into him now. “Shame, really. Would have loved to kiss it better,” he says quietly, his voice raspy and deep, the low rumble yet again going straight to Misha's cock. It takes all the self-restraint he can muster to not groan from the sheer need he feels rushing through his body at that.
Misha's eyes fall down to half-mast as he eyes Jensen longingly. They're laying so close to each other that they're practically breathing the same air. It wouldn't take much more than tipping his head slightly forward to capture Jensen's lips and kiss him, and damn if those lips don't look inviting.
“Who says a bit of kissing wouldn't help our recovery nevertheless?” Misha teases cheekily.
“Huh. What makes you think that?” Jensen grins, white teeth flashing between those full lips.
“Well, I, for one, might feel better, but you know how it is after drinking, that sinking feeling in your stomach, and-”
“Oh, just because you can't handle a bit of liquor,” Jensen teases right back, a playful smile on his lips. Misha finds his gaze drawn to them, again and again, like a magnet.
“I'm sorry - dickhead - but I was one half bottle ahead of you,” Misha shoots back, pokes him in the chest.
Jensen's eyes are glittering with withhold laughter. “And I didn't catch up?”
“You caught up just fine,” Misha says, his voice dark and seductive on purpose, and they both know he's not talking about the wine any more.
What started as a light banter ended up in a staring contest, Jensen's green eyes swirling dark and hungry, but also with an affectionate spark in them. The tension between them is so thick you could cut it with a knife, but it's that good kind of tension, the one that leaves you breathless and anticipating more.
Their breath is ragged by the time Misha eventually can't stand it any more, leans in and catches Jensen's lips between his. The kiss is slow and passionate from the very start, makes Misha sigh and his breath hitch when Jensen captures his lower lip between his, suckles lightly and lets go, just to let Misha do the same thing to his soft, full bottom lip. Jensen's body feels warm against his, hands firmly placed on Misha's hip and neck, not pushing or pulling in any way, just holding him tight and kissing him with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants. Misha grins into the languid, lingering kiss and feels Jensen's lips shift and spread into a smile of his own. They break the contact for a moment. Misha doesn't dare open his eyes, just nudges his nose against Jensen's and wallows in the fuzzy feeling the other man's blissful laughter gives him.
It's perfect, right until the minions storm into the room, babbling and calling for Misha. He groans frustrated and shoots Jensen an apologetic smile before he rolls to the other side and sits up, facing the minions. “What?”
“Wait, there's more of them?” Jensen asks from behind Misha. “Obviously,” he adds, mumbling to himself and effectively answering his own question.
The minions jump around, pointing at his 60-inch flatscreen TV on the wall. A waiting light is blinking rapidly on the satellite receiver.
“Shit,” Misha curses and looks at the watch on his wrist. “Shit!” he repeats louder. Then he sorts out his hair as quickly as possible, straightens his rumpled clothes and rubs his eyes. A few quick steps take him to the TV to start up the video conference system. However, he can almost feel Jensen's look at his back. “I'm sorry, but could you leave me alone for a second?” he says firmly over his shoulder, but Jensen never gets a chance to answer.
“Mr. Collins!”
Misha's head snaps up at his TV, where Sheppard is staring down at him with a mixed expression of surprise and suspicion, his eyebrows raised and the mandatory glass of whiskey in hand. Misha averts his eyes and clears his throat awkwardly.
“In company, I see. Quite one for surprises, aren't you?”
A short look over his shoulder confirms to Misha that Jensen is shuffling on the couch, sitting up and flattening his clothes and hair. Despite the fact that he should really, really get his priorities straight, Misha is really, really tempted to shut down the video conference set and just climb into Jensen's lap and do some really, really dirty things to him. Covering his eyes with his hand and rubbing his temple, Misha focuses back on the TV and Sheppard's disapproving face.
“Well, that's-”
“Jensen,” the man behind him pipes up. Misha turns around and shoots him a worried look, shaking his head slightly and hoping that Jensen gets the message. Just stay out of this.
“Huh. Just for the record, I'm not that surprised to find you in male company, Collins, but wasn't there something you should have prepared for me? You know, to get your third loan this year?” Sheppard snarls.
“Yes,” Misha nods as seriously as he can manage. He is so screwed and he knows it. So fucking screwed.
“Well,” the man on the screen replies and leans back in his chair, swirling the glass in his hands. “Shoot. What's the genius plan?”
Misha closes his eyes briefly, fights down the headache that rises up again. This time, he knows it's not only from the alcohol. “I, uhm-” he mumbles, then stops. He hears steps behind him, and his breath hitches for a second when Jensen wraps his arm around his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Misha hisses angrily. “You have no idea what you're getting yourself into.”
“Relax,” and Jensen's smug smile makes Misha wanna punch him right now.
Misha rolls his eyes and fights down his temper.
“So, hey,” Jensen says and waves at Sheppard on the screen. “As Misha's new assistant-”
Misha turns his head slowly from the TV to Jensen, tilts it sideways, eyes blown wide. What!?
“-let me explain. I presume you've seen the protests against gay marriage on TV? So, we did a little thinking on how we could get back at those bastards, you know, push the LGBT rights stuff a bit.” Jensen makes a dramatic pause, watches Sheppard closely before he resumes. “The plan is to travel to the moon and paint it in rainbow colors.”
Sheppard's raised eyebrow has constantly risen higher during Jensen's little speech. His tense expression breaks into a lopsided smirk, then, and Misha relaxes under Jensen's touch.
“And how are you planning to get a satellite painted? Millions of acres?” Sheppard tries to play it cool, but Misha sees it clearly in his eyes that he's intrigued. If they don't mess up, they've got him right where they want him.
“Shrink ray,” Jensen and Misha answer simultaneously, as if it was the most natural thing to think of in this moment, and only share a short, both confused and amused look.
“Huh,” says Sheppard. “What will it take you, money-wise? And in how much time will you be able to follow through with this plan?”
And now, Misha is back in his element. “The rocket could be built within a week, and the start - depending on the weather and the moon phases, but if I remember correctly, it stands quite handy - could be done during the next two weeks. As for the cost, and I have to do a little hacking on the NASA servers for this, but I think we can do it quite efficient. Two million, maybe? I still have a space suit around, and my minions don't require any.”
Sheppard nods. “Well, let me know the exact numbers. And don't mess it up this time, will you?”
With that, the screen flashes to black and Misha takes a deep breath. Instinctively, he wraps his arm around Jensen's waist, pulls him close to hug him gratefully. Jensen smiles, Misha can feel his lips against his neck, and they stand there just enjoying each other's presence until Misha realizes something very disturbing and leans back in Jensen's arms.
Misha gapes for a moment, not finding the right way to ask, while Jensen studies him, raises his eyebrow questioningly. “What is it?”
“Uhm, how did you know there exists something like a shrink ray? How did you know how to... I mean, how did you know this plan wasn't just some drunk rambling? What the hell just happened?” Misha takes a step back, hands raised protectively in front of him, a horrible premonition twisting his guts. He feels sick to his stomach, and not from his hangover.
“I... kinda know my way around that kind of business?” Jensen offers and tries to shrug it off, looking just as uncomfortable as Misha feels.
“How?”
Jensen shuffles on his feet, toes the carpet on the floor with his shoe.
“Jensen, please. I need you to be honest with me.”
His head drops heavily onto his chest as Jensen sighs. Quietly, he begins to speak. “Okay, I'll tell you. Just, please, don't hate me for this. Don't jump to the wrong conclusions either. Please. Give me a chance.”
Misha's eyes widen in shock. Could it be...? His heart jumps heavily in his chest and he is halfway to throwing up. Again, not because of the hangover.
“I'm kinda in this business myself,” Jensen says. “And I wanna help you.”
“Who are you?” Misha manages to press out through his teeth.
“My initials, or at least the initial of my first name, is in my villain name. Go figure,” Jensen says, and it almost breaks Misha's heart when he sees the desperate look in Jensen's beautiful green eyes.
It doesn't take much pondering.
“Mystic J,” Misha mumbles. Reality is a bitch, and it slaps him right across the face in that moment. Holy shit.
Jensen nods.
“Oh god,” Misha sighs and turns away. “You're... you're...-” and he's speechless. His hands run over his head as the news sinks in, entangle and curl in his hair as the punch to his gut comes. He fell in love, after so much time, and it had to be Mystic J. Life wasn't fair.
“I know, but it's not like you might think. I didn't want to manipulate you or anything, I just... I mean, what happened here, last night and this morning, that was all-”
“Please leave before I do anything I'll regret later,” Misha says quietly, but firmly.
“Mish, please-”
“Oh, don't 'Mish' me,” he spins around and glares at Jensen. “I trusted you, you son of a bitch. And now you're my arch nemesis? And I should just deal with it, because you apparently had only good reasons? Sorry, call it female intuition, but I'm not buying it.”
“I get it, I really do, and I would probably react exactly like that if I were you. But the point is, Misha, I never wanted to get so close to you, you know? I'll be honest here, and yes, I wanted to manipulate you, that's why I moved here and all that, but-”
“Yeah, well, thanks,” Misha snarls. Every word out of Jensen's mouth hurts a bit more. “And I'm supposed to really believe that you made up your mind? That your career as a villain and a seat in the Evil League of Evil isn't that important to you any more? I know you're not far from getting there. We don't need to pretend here, Jensen, we are competitors, and I can't trust you. So leave. My house. Now.”
Jensen's face is torn to a pained expression, his full lips, the ones Misha just kissed so enthusiastically mere minutes ago, pressed to a tight line. The crinkles around his eyes seem deeper, the shadows beneath his eyes darker. Honestly, Misha doesn't know if it's real or just faked pretty good. Doesn't know if Jensen is really hurt or just a convincing actor. His eyes seem a bit watery, and damn. That shouldn't leave Misha's gut in a twist like it does. He feels horrible.
“Get out,” Misha repeats quietly. “I need to think.”
Jensen scuffles towards the door to the patio, eyes focused on the floor. “You can still use the plan, you know.”
Misha's eyes snap up to him then. He hadn't even thought about that. “Okay,” he says, nodding once.
Jensen smiles at him when he twists the door handle open. “Villain or not, and for what it's worth - I really thought we had something there, Misha.”
Misha squeezes his eyes shut, too afraid to think about that option any more. It's scary, scary as hell, that he almost fell for that idiot, let him into his life. He could have ruined everything. Only one more point why Misha needs to get his priorities straight, and why Jensen shouldn't be in the top three of them.
It still hurts, because Jensen has one point right. Misha thought they had something there, too.
When he opens his eyes, Jensen is gone and the door to the patio is wide open.
Misha flops down on the couch and calls Jared. It's the only logical thing he can think of.
“Wow,” is Jared's simple answer to Misha's story, an hour later. Then, “Shit.”
Misha cradles his chin in his hand and sighs. Jared's hand comes down on his shoulder, massages it lightly in a simple way to offer comfort. “What do you think I should do?”
“I can't tell you what to do,” Jared says silently. “And I won't. All I can tell is that you seemed completely different to me during the last few days. I haven't seen you like that since... you know. Her,” he shrugs. “It was nice to see you that happy for a change.”
Misha falls forward to rest his head on his knees. “Fuck,” he cusses.
“But for now, I'd say, we get you a bit distracted, bury your head in work. If there's one good thing that came out of this, it's that you got the loan from the Bank. So we'll use it, make this plan come true, and show Mystic J and the Bank and the world that we're still capable of pulling off a plan like this.”
“You're right,” Misha answers and sits back. His eyes hurt, but he isn't crying. He won't cry.
Jared claps him on the back and stands up. “Let's get ready for the briefing.”
The hall is buzzing with excitement, the minions are happily chatting among each other, poking and teasing, or just watching the entrance silently.
“You ready?” Jared asks, his arm around Misha's shoulders again, squeezing him once encouragingly.
After taking a deep breath, Misha sighs. “As ready as I could possibly be.”
Jared lets go of him and opens the door with a push of the red button. “Good Luck.”
Misha nods and steps through the door. His ears get almost blown with a thunder of cheering and yelling from the minions, but Misha tries not to let anything show. He's their fearless leader, he has to be strong, especially now. Despite Jensen and all that. And fuck, he really shouldn't think about Jensen right now.
In the second row, Misha can see a minion with - oh no. “Joe, put the rocket launcher down!” Misha orders firmly, index finger pointed at the one-eyed minion with his favorite toy. “You know what happened last time.”
Joe hangs his head and sighs dramatically then leaves to store the weapon away, dragging his feet.
For a moment, there's the piercing pain in his stomach again. Misha states that he definitely has enough of seeing that picture for today.
With a deep inhale of air, Misha steps towards the center stage, where his microphone is waiting for him. The room goes quiet immediately, tiny yellow faces watching him excitedly.
“My dear minions!”
The minions hop and bounce where they stand, clapping their hands and jubilating. Misha shuts them up with a firm look.
“We have made it through a lot this year already! I dare say, it was a quite successful one so far. You did a great job back at our heist to steal the statue of liberty-” Misha is interrupted by a wave of clapping, pauses for a moment, “- the small one, from Las Vegas.”
Right then, when Misha masks out the noise and lets his eyes sweep over his assembled army of minions, he finds a particular one, sitting at the wall to the side. His arms hang down weakly at his side, and he is far away from smiling. In fact, he looks so miserable that Misha is tempted to go over and just cuddle him.
It's Dave, Misha realizes, and he's sulking. The searing pain in his chest in that moment is also not something Misha wants to get used to. As if on cue, Dave looks up then, and his eye meets with Misha's two ones from across the room. Misha smiles, and it's a sad smile, because damn, this is not a plan he made up on his own. It's stupid, but he feels incomplete like this. He may like to make up evil plans and all that, but he is not someone who sells other people's plans for his own.
What would it be like to have Jensen stand here beside him with all the confidence he showed Sheppard?
Misha could use that, right here, right now. He never felt like that, especially not in front of his minions.
He focuses back on the task at hand. Watches his minions as they eye him curiously, a bit confused by the sudden silence.
Jensen isn't here right now, and he will probably never be. Misha manages a smile, and if it looks fake, well then that's that.
“My dear minions,” he begins again, in his most serious voice, “we have a new plan. And we have the money from the Bank to realize it.”
The thunder of excited cheering almost gets too much right then. Misha holds up his hand. “Aren't you interested in hearing the plan first?” he winks and starts up the presentation he and Jared prepared during the afternoon.
Dave is still watching without enthusiasm. Misha can relate.
“Let's talk about the moon for a second-”
The picture of the moon which they took from Wikipedia is projected onto the screen behind him. The room full of minions goes quiet.
“Don't you think its color is kind of... dull?”
Some of the minions seem to get it already and begin to giggle.
“With the help of my trusty little shrink ray-” cue the picture of the gun Misha invented years ago - “we can shrink it to the size of a soccer ball. We could steal the moon in this form, which would also be quite an interesting plan, but I happen to know that objects shrunken by the shrink ray sooner or later return to their original size. Therefore-”
Dramatic pause, Misha thinks to himself when the platform in the middle of the stage starts rising, bringing him closer to the ceiling which slowly opens up as he ascends. It's night, and the pale moon dips the minions in a silvery light, makes their eyes shine and glitter behind their glasses.
Right then, when he reaches the highest point with the platform, Jared activates the filter film across the opening. They programmed it so it would show off the rainbow flag, and effectively let it look like a rainbow-colored moon to the minions.
“- we are going to paint the moon in rainbow colors!” Misha announces, his voice deep and booming in the silent hall.
The room practically blows up from all the noise and yells erupting from the minions. Misha smiles to himself. Yes, that is exactly the reaction he had hoped for. They approve.
Jared awaits him when the platform is back to base level. He punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Good job.”
Misha punches him right back and heads off, smile on his face. Suddenly, there's Dave, standing beside him, also smiling, but not nearly as jittery as the rest of the minions. He hugs Misha's leg wordlessly before he strolls off.
“Huh,” Jared frowns. “What was that about?”
“I have no idea,” Misha answers, shaking his head.
Then he steps forward and sorts out the teams for building the rocket, the fuel tanks, and the team for the supplies.
So far, everything is going according to plan.
Jared has a close eye on the workers who build the rocket, while Misha is supervising the guys who get the color paint and the energy supply for the shrink ray.
Still, everything leaves kind of a bitter aftertaste.
Sometimes Misha finds himself standing in the kitchen like he used to, staring through the window at Jensen's house. He knows when the other man leaves for work, returns, goes for a run. One thing he noticed, and Misha isn't sure if it's part of what happened between them, but- when he got his paper in the morning, Jensen used to smile or whistle to himself while he walked out of the door. Seemed cheerful and with his Zen in the right place.
Misha hasn't seen him smiling for a whole week. It's odd.
He doesn't know how to feel about it all, because it's kind of the same with him. Smiling doesn't come that easy to him these days. Jared also noticed, of course he had.
Yet again, Misha is standing in the kitchen, staring into space. Jensen just left for work, all dressed up in a black suit and white shirt, red striped tie, and his hair slicked back. It had taken quite some restraint to not do something stupid. Like run out of the door and jump his bones. Or just, you know, go out and say good morning, ask if Jensen would talk to him.
Misha hears the phone ringing and hopes it's not his mom. She'd be the last person he'd want to talk to now, but she's still pretty much the only one who ever calls his land line. When he heads for the phone beside the kitchen counter, the caller ID only confirms his apprehension.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, Misha-”
He interrupts her, not in the mood to beat around the bush. “Before you ask, yes, I have a plan, and I won't lay it out in detail here, but you should watch out for any news of the astronomical kind in the next few days.”
“Well, I hope you won't disappoint.”
Misha huffs. “I hope so, too. But I've got a good feeling about this. It's not like much more can go wrong at this point.”
Misha's mom is Misha's mom, though, so despite her usual antics she picks up on the bitter tone in his voice. And yes, even she can be nice every once in a while. “Sweetie, what's wrong?”
Ignoring the 'sweetie', Misha sighs. “I met Mystic J.”
“But that's wonderful! You could-”
“No, Mom, you don't understand. He's my neighbor.”
“So?” she asks unfazed, rather enthusiastically. “That's perfect! Study him, get to know his plans, sabotage them, get him out of the way.”
“Yeah, well, that was exactly what he wanted to do to me,” Misha answers quietly and swallows around the lump in his throat.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. And he also somehow wormed his way into my life and I don't know what to do about it, to be honest.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, a bit confused.
Misha rubs his free hand over his eyes. “I think I developed... feelings for him. And I'm not fine at the moment, to say the least.”
“Oh honey. Come on, you know the drill. We stay on our own and we only trust people that deserve it. Didn't I teach you that?”
Misha drops his head, although she obviously can't see it. “Of course you did. Still, it happened and there's not much I can do about that.”
“But you know you have to get over it to make your plan work. Your plan is always priority number one. So either work it out or drop it,” she says firmly.
“I know,” Misha's voice comes out a bit shy. “I'll see what I'll do. I don't know yet.”
“Anyway, good luck for your plan.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You're welcome. Bye, Misha. Call me soon.”
“Will do,” Misha replies and hangs the phone back onto its station on the wall. He stays there, just standing at the counter, staring into space, until a familiar voice cuts through the silence.
“You miss him, don't you?”
Misha turns around slowly. He hadn't even noticed that Jared had arrived for work and wonders how much of the conversation he has overheard. A deep sigh makes his way past Misha's lips. Then he nods, wearily. “Like you wouldn't believe. Hell, I can't fully believe it, most of the time.”
“Then why don't you just grow a pair, walk over there, and tell him? Talk to him?” Jared asks, firmly, walking towards Misha as he speaks and coming to a halt right in front of him.
“Because he just left for work?” Misha deadpans, tilting his head to the side.
Jared blinks. “Okay, point for you. Then why don't you just do it when he's home?”
Covering his face with both hands, Misha sighs again. “I don't know. I can't,” he shakes his head and drops his hands to his thighs in desperation.
“Can't or won't?”
Misha doesn't answer, just averts his eyes to avoid Jared's gaze. The guy seems to be able to look right though Misha, especially in these matters and especially lately.
After a moment of silence, Misha frowns and shakes his head in confusion. “Why are you even rooting for him here? I think it goes without saying that I should - you know, now that I know my biggest and most capable competitor lives next door - panic, crank the alarm system up to eleven, freak out about being spied on, and oh - not trust him, to put it mildly.”
“Because,” Jared answers, barely impressed, “I saw you, and him. Before this happened and now. You didn't even give him the chance to explain himself. I just have the feeling that he might be worth giving a second chance.”
Misha releases a breath that he wasn't even aware of holding.
Before he can even answer, Jared adds with a rueful smile, “You'd make one hell of a team.”
“Don't think I didn't think of that,” Misha says, quietly. The thought crossed his mind quite a few times. “But he screwed up. So I'd say it's his move now.”
“How should he even know you'd talk to him? You threw him out of your house the last time. Are you that proud that you can't just walk over there and make him talk?”
“Not too proud,” Misha shakes his head again and subsequently nods towards his living room. “Remember my palmetto of self-respect? The one I bought after she left? It still lives. So does my self-respect, end of discussion.”
With a few firm steps, Misha walks towards the door to the lab. “We've got work to do,” he says.
He can still see Jared shaking his head in disapproval from the corners of his eyes.
It's two days later that Jensen can't stand it any more. He's stewing in his own juices here, and he's had about enough of it.
He can't sleep properly any more, he can't think straight, he can't eat properly - he can't even smile for Christ's sake.
He misses Misha so damn much, and he's not too visionary that he couldn't admit that to himself.
They've been so close to... no, Jensen shakes his head, trying to get his mind clear. Don't even think about it, he tells himself. You know it just hurts more.
The picture in his head still manifests itself - big blue eyes, blinking into the warm light of the rising sun, pink, kiss-swollen lips, so soft under his, a mop of dark, unruly hair with adorable little curls. A tiny whimper when their lips meet, again and again, to perfectly graze along his own.
The file in front of him seems to be written in Enochian or some shit, because the words make as much sense. Jensen can't concentrate, which probably is a side effect of the sleep deprivation. And the Misha thing in general.
It's worse than when he was reminded of wet dreams of the man in question. At least, Jensen was pleasantly aroused and on edge, found his release at night, dreamed a little more of Misha, and so on.
That circle was enjoyable, but the current one is spiraling downward and dragging him mercilessly with it.
All he wants is to go home now - and fuck, it's only 10 a.m. - and collapse on Misha's doorstep, fall onto his knees and beg for forgiveness. For anything.
If friendship is all they could manage, Jensen would happily take it, but the situation like it is now is unbearable for him.
He doesn't know how he makes it through the day, but he eventually does. When he collapses onto his sofa that evening, spent without even having had his run for today, Jensen states that he needs to do something. Anything, really. He's a wreck, physically and mentally, and every time he looks over and sees Misha working in the garden, he wants to shout over and ask how building of the rocket comes along, if he needs help with the pruners.
He wants to have a place in Misha's life, and he's reached a point of desperation that he never thought he would end in.
As if on cue, he hears a tentative knock at the door that leads to his backyard.
A tiny, yellow minion with one eye is standing there, looking expectantly up at him. Jensen immediately recognizes him as Dave. He waves a folded piece of paper in his hand.
It falls like scales from Jensen's eyes right then. He has a plan.
“Coming!” Misha shouts, walking down the hallway as the doorbell rings a second time. Quickly, he checks the tiny screen beside the door.
It's Jensen. Misha's eyes fall shut for a second and he takes a deep breath. He's not sure he's ready for this. He opens the door anyway.
“Jensen.”
The man that's standing in front of him looks worse than Misha remembers him from this morning. His hair is a mess, as if he repeatedly ran his hand through it, and his eyes are bloodshot and reddened, deep circles underlining them. The beautiful mouth is pressed tight and Jensen looks pale, his freckles standing out stark against the tone of his skin.
He also sounds weary. “Look, Misha, please don't slam the door in my face. I just want to explain. Can we talk?”
It takes another deep breath and a moment's hesitation before Misha nods. “Yes,” he answers firmly and tries not to let on that his voice is shaking right now.
“Can I come in?” Jensen asks, and he seems so unsure and shaken that it takes all the self-control Misha can muster to not hug and forgive him on the spot.
Misha wants to see him smile again, because Jensen's smile is beautiful and so catching that it lights up the whole room. He wants to see how Jensen's eyes crinkle at the edges, wants to hear him laugh, because his laugh, deep and warm, is one of the single most wonderful sounds he can think of.
Misha wants to be the reason for both the smile and the laughter. He wants to hear it in the morning when he wakes up and wants to see it last thing before he goes to sleep.
The thought is no longer scary, but rather depressing. Having reached the point of no longer denying himself any of those feelings and urges, Misha is faced with the brutal, hard reality.
Jensen is his competitor, a fellow villain. Villains aren't friends, and villains aren't lovers.
It all sounds so stupid the longer Misha thinks about it. In the meantime, he had stepped aside and waved Jensen in.
He still wears his suit that he went to work in that morning, minus the jacket, and he lost the tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons of the shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, muscled arms. And if that sight didn't make Misha drool enough, he now has the perfect view from behind Jensen as he closes the door. He should need a license for his ass in dress pants, because damn -
Focus, Misha.
Misha wills the uprising arousal down. When they reach the kitchen, he offers a chair to Jensen and wordlessly begins to brew coffee for both of them. No milk, one cube of sugar for each. He hands Jensen his mug and sits down carefully with his own, across the table from Jensen.
The other man is staring into the dark, steaming fluid. His head is hanging onto his chest and he looks exhausted.
Misha takes a sip from his coffee, enjoys the feeling of the hot, strong beverage warming him up from the inside. God knows he needs it. He feels ten kinds of strange. And vulnerable.
It sucks.
Jensen heaves a sigh and takes a good mouthful of coffee himself before he finally meets Misha's eyes.
“I really want to come clean here,” he starts, and Misha notices very well how much it costs Jensen to control his voice. “Please just hear me out.”
“Will do,” Misha says simply and watches Jensen closely as he rubs his hands over his face.
Jensen takes another deep breath. “You're right, you know. I want that seat in the Evil League of Evil. But as you are currently more likely to get in there before me, I needed to work out a plan so I could...” he awkwardly scratches his neck. “Well, make you retire. I was never out to kill you, please don't think that. That's not my style. And not part of the image I built myself.”
Misha nods. Truth is, the thought didn't even occur to him.
“So, as my flat in the city really got cramped with all kinds of stuff - that part was completely true - I looked for houses. And I found this one, was pretty impressed, and then researched the neighborhood. Of course I found you immediately, your name is... catchy. Anyway, that was the moment I had my plan ready. Move here, build up my new head quarter and lab here, make you trust me, then sabotage your plan, wipe you off the map and get into the League. However-”
Misha's breath catches in his throat when he takes in the look of desperation in Jensen's eyes, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips trembling with a small, sad smile.
“However,” he starts anew, “I didn't think that I'd fall in love with you somewhere along the line.”
Misha almost spills his coffee over the table right then. Not even the best actor in the world could deliver something like this, with so much pent-up sadness and that broken look on his face. He just knows Jensen isn't lying.
With a thoughtful look into his coffee, Jensen takes a few gulps. “That's what I wanted to tell you. I mean, in our line of business, when do you have a shot at something that big? Personal necessities are a luxury. I always could shove that aside, could stay on target, focus on my career. And then... there was you.”
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Misha finds himself completely and utterly out of English. Which hasn't happened in... ever?
“Look, I understand if you don't answer me right away. Completely. But, please, think about it,” Jensen rests his hand flat on the table, leaning towards Misha to emphasize his point, “The things we could do, the heists we could pull off. You and me - together.”
Misha nods solemnly. Not that he didn't think about it already, but knowing Jensen would be cool with it? Changes everything.
Still. He needs time to think. There are so many variables here, Misha doesn't even want to list them. Jensen's honesty is appreciated, very much so, but he still needs a reason to trust Jensen again.
“When's the big day, if I may ask?” Jensen asks, his voice softer now. He leans back in his chair, sips from his coffee.
And, luckily, Misha's voice decides to work again. “Tomorrow.”
Jensen nods, his eyes focused on a point somewhere on the floor beside Misha. Then he gets to his feet and places his empty cup in the sink. “Listen, I don't want to disturb you any longer. You probably have a shitload of stuff to get ready. Thanks for listening.”
Misha finds a small smile spreading on his lips at that. He feels weird when he stands up and walks Jensen to the door. It's like being on edge, wired up, waiting for something that might destroy the mood. They're more at ease now with each other, and it's graspable between them, and god, it feels good.
“Let me just ask you one question,” Misha says, stopping in his tracks when they reach the door. “Did you come here on your own, uhm, intention? Or did... Jared say something?”
Jensen smiles and Misha notices with delight that he is, in fact, blushing like a little boy busted with his hand in the cookie jar. “Jared may or may not have sent me a memo that he kind of gave you a piece of his mind so you would talk to me?” he replies, grinning lopsidedly.
Misha slaps his hand over his eyes, groans. After rubbing his eyes for a short moment, he drops it and finds Jensen still smiling amused in front of him. “Well, I can't really say I hate him for that, now can I.”
“You could.”
After a short moment of hesitation, Misha shakes his head. “I won't.”
Jensen turns towards the door, lays his hand on the handle before he spins on his heels again. “Good luck for tomorrow, Mish.”
The nickname, no matter if it was used on purpose there or not, stirs up all those repressed feelings Misha tried to shove down as best as he could for this conversation.
“Thanks, Jen,” he responds.
Apparently, the nickname has just the same effect on Jensen as well, because he visibly flinches. Then Misha is met with dark green eyes that are sparkling with all kinds of emotions, conflicted inwardly just like he feels.
It feels unfair to let Jensen go like that, after he had the balls to tell Misha everything.
It doesn't take much convincing himself to step forward, right into Jensen's personal space, and the same green eyes widen suddenly. Misha's eyes fall down to Jensen's lips, which look like Jensen did a lot of biting on them during the past week. Misha leans towards Jensen, tilts his head up slightly and pulls Jensen down with a hand wrapped around his neck.
They kiss, just a peck on the mouth, lips meeting in a simple, sweet encounter.
Jensen gasps for air when Misha steps back.
“I just thought you should know,” Misha says with a secretive smile.
Jensen huffs out a short laugh, lets his head drop. But he's smiling as well. “Promise me to think about what I said?”
“Promise. Scout's honor.”
Jensen laughs before he opens the door, and it makes something inside Misha warm up at the thought that he eventually made Jensen happy again.
When Misha closes his helmet the next day, looking up at his newly built and tested rocket, an incredible mix of feelings is swashing over him. There's pride, because his minions made this - a giant, albeit blue rocket with a yellow capsule at the top - but there's also something strange that Misha is too afraid to name just yet. However, he's able to narrow it down to 'something that has to do with Jensen'.
And whoa, just thinking his name makes Misha's stomach tingle like a bunch of butterflies are going batshit insane in there.
Misha takes a deep breath and steps into the elevator to the top of the rocket.
Right beside the hatchway to the rocket chamber there's Jared waiting for him, clipboard in hand and ticking off the last things on his list. A minion runs in and out at his command.
“You ready?” Jared asks with a worried glance at Misha when the latter appears and stops in front of his friend.
Misha nods solemnly, but doesn't say a word.
“Good. The rocket is ready, too. Take-off in T minus ten minutes,” Jared says, shooing the minion out of the rocket with a wave. “Only a regular crew of five minions on board. Supplies are loaded. There's oxygen for at least five days and food for ten.”
Misha's eyes meet Jared's, and damn the guy for being so tall and making Misha tilt his head up at him. Jared seems sure of himself, convinced that everything is alright, and Misha may know that he is a great actor, but Jared would never lie to him. Especially not about something as big as this.
Jared raises his hands to hug Misha one final time. “Good luck,” he whispers into Misha's ear.
“Thanks, I'll need it.”
“Not with me at base control. Now get in there,” Jared laughs, and shoos him into the rocket just like he had shooed the minion out just a minute ago.
They left the earth orbit a few minutes ago and surpassed the sphere that would block radio connection. It had been a dream start, so far, and despite the physically demanding exhilaration, Misha feels good. He's in space, for crying out loud, and how could that not be awesome?
The radio crackles. "Misha? You there? Over."
"Roger that, Jare. Over."
"Are you fine? Over."
"Just peachy, everything works, minions are also save. Over."
"Good. Call me when you need something. I'll get back to you as soon as you approach the moon. Have a good flight. Jared over and out."
"Okay. Over and out."
It's silent for almost half an hour. In that half hour, the second fuel tanks fall off the rocket as planned, reducing it to the capsule with Misha and his minions in it. The silence is relaxing, and Misha wallows in the quietness around him. Even the minions are silent, it's almost eerie, but then again - the beauty of nature around them, the earth clearly visible beside them, even the minions are awestruck at the sight.
Until the radio's white noise flickers up again.
"Houston to Rocket Man," a voice says. "Please come. Over."
And Misha knows that voice instantly, smiles to himself as he realizes who's calling.
"Rocket Man to Houston," he answers amused. "How did you get my frequency? Over."
"Someone might have given it to me. Very tall, floppy brown hair. Said you would need some company up there."
Suddenly, there is a faint chord, the beginning of a song coming from the radio.
"Don't you dare blast some cheesy piano music up here. I don't have a wife to miss," Misha teases.
The other end of the line goes quiet, but through the white noise, Misha swears he hears something that sounds like a sharp intake of breath. Like Jensen wanted to say something, but decided not to.
"No Elton John for you then, Rocket Man," he chuckles instead, about two seconds too late. It seems a bit off.
"And now I've got that song stuck in my head. Thank you very much, you fuckball."
Jensen laughs warmly through the line, and Misha shudders physically at what that sound does to him. "But there's some truth in it. You're not the man they think you are at home."
“Huh.”
“I hope you're not as high as a kite, though.”
"Please. I'm still a trained professional."
"Hate to break it to you, but no, you're not, moron."
"Are you trying to win my heart by playing sappy music and insulting me?" Misha laughs.
"Maybe?" Jensen replies cheekily, but there's a hint of bitterness in his tone. A hint of what's really standing between them. "Is it working?" he adds and the smile is clearly audible in his voice.
Misha huffs and thinks of an answer. Is it working? Jensen's charm is doing some magic to him, no denying that, but... brain says No, because Jensen is still dangerous. For all Misha knows, he could wreck havoc on his lab in an hour while Misha is gone. Not that he believes Jensen will.
Deep down, Misha wants to believe that Jensen is honest with him. Every fiber of him wants to.
He still hasn't got an answer, when Jensen's voice, worried and concerned and genuinely caring, sounds through the speaker of Misha's radio.
"Just... come home in one piece, okay?"
Misha swallows, knows by Jensen's tone that this is nothing to joke about for him. After inhaling deeply to calm down, he eventually says, "Okay."
There are a few seconds of silence between them, again. Eyes zoning out and staring into space - literally - Misha almost flinches when there is a line added, quietly.
"I'll be waiting for you."
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