Fic - "How (Not) To Live Alone" | J2 | PG-13
Title: How (Not) To Live Alone
Summary: Jared makes a journey.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7900
Notes: I don't even know, you guys. These two, they do crazy things to me, make my OTP pretty much bleed all over every schmoopy thing I write about them. And this is no different. (Though, I need to learn to come up with less saptastic summaries.) Beta'd by the uber-gorgeous nomelon and taltos_, for which I am crazy grateful. Obviously, no one in this fic actually belongs to me. Damn it.
*
It's an entirely un-dramatic homecoming. When Jared finally inhales his first breath of smoggy LA air, he's got his backpack hitched over one shoulder and a huge duffle clutched in his hand. There's a painful zit on his forehead. He blinks against the hazy light like he's just clawed his way out of some dark, underground cave - if he could remember where he left his sunglasses this whole thing would go a lot smoother. He heaves a huge sigh of relief. No more recycled cabin air; no more crowded airport terminals.
Jensen's not exactly a surprise, leaning up against some sleek, black truck, except for how he is, with his sky blue T-shirt, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of artfully distressed blue jeans and black sunglasses shading most of his face. It's been over seven months since Jared's seen him. In an airport, no less. Funny, how it doesn't feel like he's come full circle.
"Hey," Jared says, coming to a stop in front of Jensen. "You here to pick me up?" The freckles marching across the bridge of Jensen's nose attest to hours - maybe weeks - spent in the California sun. He looks good. He looks…different, more rested, face a little fuller.
Jensen nods, taking in Jared's faded tee and his uni-bomber beard. "You sound surprised," he says.
Jared shakes his head. "What happened to the beamer?"
Jensen shrugs and yanks at the truck door. Inside it's all creamy leather and polished wood. There's a killer sound system and a pricey GPS. "Got rid of it," he says.
There's a slow, quiet rumble when Jensen turns the key in the ignition. The radio starts up, something jazz, all soothing saxophones and low bass, and the leather seat's sun-baked beneath Jared's thighs.
Jensen eases the truck into traffic, aims a look at Jared, and says, "You wanna talk about it?" gaze hidden behind his sunglasses.
Jared watches the airport grow smaller in the side mirror, watches it fade away entirely. Above the radio and the beating of his heart he can hear jet engines roar, even when he can't see them. "My trip?" he says after a minute, casually glancing towards Jensen's face. "Yeah, it was very zen."
Jensen nods once and turns away to stare at the street. Jared watches his mouth thin out. "I know," he says. "Got the postcard."
"Dude, sorry about that. I meant to send more, but - "
"No worries," Jensen interrupts. "I figured you were having an Eat, Pray, Love moment, complete with the Italian food and the quick fix philosophy lesson."
Jared smirks. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."
That earns a real laugh from Jensen, who puts on his blinker to merge onto the 405.
"Keep going straight," Jared instructs with a little shake of his head.
"What? Why?"
"Sold it."
"You - when?"
Jared shrugs. "Dunno, four, maybe five months ago."
Jensen slants him a glance, and Jared can almost feel the questions coming off him in waves, but Jensen only says, "Where to, then?"
"I've got a reservation at the Westin."
He hears Jensen snort. "No fuckin' way, dude. You're coming with me."
Jared shakes his head. "Uh uh, I'm not some stray dog for you to take in."
"Oh, fuck off, Jared. I'm not letting you go to a hotel."
"Dude, I don't want to be an imposition."
"Jared," Jensen warns, using his Dean-voice, grumbly and low.
"Okay, but just for a few days, 'til I find a place."
"You can stay as long as you like," Jensen says, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.
Jared blinks the sunlight out of his eyes. "Thanks for this," he says eventually. "For, you know."
Jensen nods. "It's gonna be about forty-five minutes 'til we get home. Sleep if you want."
Jared murmurs quietly. Leaning back against the headrest, he pulls down the visor and shuts his eyes. He's lulled to sleep by Jensen humming quietly under his breath and the feel of warm sunlight nuzzled against his cheek.
*
Everything got streamlined while he was traveling. He started off with two suitcases, stuffed full of needless things: books, a laptop, ten button down shirts and twice as many tees; hiking boots, pairs of flip flops in assorted colors; shaving cream, and hair gel, two snow caps, and three baseball hats.
Everywhere he went, he left something behind, gave it away or threw it out, sometimes just leaving it in the hotel room for the maids to take, if they wanted.
By the last week of his trip, he had only a small, black backpack and his favorite duffle. He'd gotten rid of all but two of the books, of his laptop, his camcorder, most of his beauty products and every hat but one. Even the journal he'd brought along was only half full of half-thought out ideas, pathetic revelations he'd had on his trip that most people who didn't live the rarified life of a Hollywood star came to when they were in their early twenties.
Seven months Kerouac-ing it out in the world, and he stopped sending postcards, charging his phone, checking his email. He thought by getting rid of his stuff, he'd find himself, but in the end, he was still left confused and alone, mostly sad.
*
He doesn't know what wakes him, but the sound of someone talking quietly beyond the closed door of his bedroom is the first thing to register. White afternoon light slants through the generic blinds in Jensen's guest room, shining on the layer of dust covering the mismatched furniture pushed against the walls. He blinks against it. The cheap plastic alarm clock next to the bed - the kind of clock Jared had in sixth grade - claims it's after five. He's sticky with sweat, the thin comforter pushed down around his ankles, even though he can hear the loud hum of the air-conditioner, and his muscles ache with sleep and travel.
He feels groggy and raw. Jared thinks about closing his eyes again, maybe sleeping straight through 'til morning, but his stomach gives a long, slow gurgle, and his bladder really doesn't agree with the staying in bed thing.
Jensen's house isn't too big, just one floor laid out like a horseshoe, but Jared still gets turned around trying to locate the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror. He looks like he could use a week of sleep, right cheek cut through with pillow creases and long hair flattened against his head. He flips the bathroom light off.
Scratching his belly as he pads his way toward the front of the house, Jared can recognize Danneel's touch all around Jensen's place: matching leather furniture, a framed picture centered above the couch, and even a long table pushed against the side wall with a large, fussy vase of silk orchids. The kind of things Jensen never bothered with, years ago. There's also a layer of dust on the fake fichus in the corner, and a teetering stack of video games piled up against the television, and it's pretty clear Danneel's no longer in the picture. It must have happened while he was gone.
He hears Jensen's voice, a low, cautious murmur. " - yeah, yeah. He's here." There's a long pause, and then, "Well, I think maybe you should."
He rounds the corner, stopping in the kitchen doorway. Jensen's standing barefoot in the sunlight, gaze fixed on something outside the window above the sink. He's mostly facing the other way and doesn’t notice Jared standing there with his arms crossed over his chest. "No, that's fine," Jensen says into his phone. "I only - " He coughs, pauses again. "Yep, okay. He's fine here. You too. Bye."
He flips his phone shut and chews on his bottom lip for a minute. His whole posture looks defeated. Jared can tell the second Jensen detects his presence, the way his shoulders straighten and the flash of guilt that passes across his face before a big smile plants itself there. "What's up, Sleeping Beauty," Jensen greets, voice just this side of hearty. "Thought maybe you were gonna be passed out 'til tomorrow morning."
"Shut up, dude, my body's got no freaking idea what time it is. Who was on the phone?"
Jensen shrugs, slips his cell into his front pocket, and says, "No one. Just a friend," and Jared lets the obvious lie go.
Jared glances around. "So, Danny…" he says, stepping fully into the room.
Jensen chomps loud on a piece of gum. He shrugs. "Yeah, well."
"I'm sorry, man. How long ago?"
"Not long after you left, actually."
Something like guilt settles in his stomach. "I'm sorry, man," he says again, the words horribly inadequate. "I shoulda been here."
Jensen shakes his head, puts on a bright smile. "Dude, it’s fine. Sometimes these things don't work out, ya know? She and I, we did okay."
Jared rubs a knuckle across his eye as his stomach gives a loud growl. "You got any food here, man?"
"Chinese is on the way, probably be another ten minutes. Beer, though, in the fridge."
"Cool." Jared helps himself to a Heineken, and grabs one for Jensen. The fridge is empty save two six-packs and a damp-looking carton of baking soda. He settles onto a high stool at the island in the center of the kitchen.
There's a script on it, well read, the pages curled back. "This your new gig?" he says, gesturing to it with his beer bottle.
Jensen settles in next to him. His whole kitchen is white - white coffee maker and white microwave, white cookie jar. It's too clean, like it hasn't been used in a long while, which is likely very true. "Yep."
"Fuckin' DeNiro, man, I still don't know how you scored that."
Jensen grins. "They know quality when they see it."
"Or they were really desperate."
"That too."
"No, seriously, Jen, that's awesome." He raises his beer. "I'm proud o' you."
Jensen shrugs, but he looks pleased, small smile playing around his lips. "It's not a big part."
"It's still gonna make you huge, man. Movie star shit."
"You sayin' I'm not a movie star?"
"Well, yeah, I mean, Devour got you there, but this'll make sure they don't forget you."
"Damn straight." He pulls a long, slow sip from his beer, large hand nearly obscuring the label, and licks his lips. Jensen angles a meaningful glance at Jared. "What about you, J?"
Jared shrugs, noncommittal. "You know…yeah, yeah I got some stuff brewing."
"Good. You're too good not to."
Jared runs his tongue along his teeth; they're fuzzy. He shoulda brushed 'em when he was in the bathroom. "What did she say?" he asks quietly, after a moment.
He watches Jensen swallow. "She just wanted to make sure you were okay, man."
Jared nods.
Jensen says, "Are you?" and Jared shrugs. He blinks rapidly. The doorbell buzzes. He thinks, saved by the bell.
Jensen gives a heavy sigh. "Let's go eat this outside," he suggests. "Grab the rest of the beer and some napkins."
On his way to answer the door, he pats Jared on the shoulder. His hand is big and warm, and Jared drains his beer in two swallows before moving to throw the bottle in the recycling bin.
*
It was at the wrap party that Jared had decided he needed to see the world. The show hadn't exactly gone out with a bang - rather, their ratings had slipped quietly, until one day there was a phone call, and then that was it. Truth be told, it had been kind of a relief.
It was their final night in Vancouver. Jared was twenty-nine and had spent the last twelve years of his life more or less with one network; the last six with one TV show; and the last four living almost exclusively in Canada. His home had gone on the market thirteen days prior - most of his belongings packed and ready to be shipped elsewhere. Going back to LA seemed out of the question, and back to Texas meant fielding questions he wasn't ready to answer.
The city was still an endless parade of damp, gray days, and the rooftop he and Jensen had snuck away to smelled like rain and the cigarettes Jensen only let himself smoke when they weren't shooting. It smelled like Jensen's expensive sandalwood aftershave, and the whiskey on his breath.
Jared said, "I think I'm gonna take some time off, maybe go on vacation. Wanna come?"
"Where to?"
Jared shrugged, naming the first place that popped into his head. "Maybe New Zealand."
"Hmmm. I hear it's very green there."
"That's the appeal."
"Peter Jackson seems to like it. You gonna go on the Lord of the Rings tour?"
"'Course."
Jensen said, "You know I start my makeup screenings for that new movie next week." Jared watched him crush the cigarette on the roof, stamping it all the way out before sliding the butt into his half-smoked pack. "But you'll send me a postcard?"
"If I remember." Jared turned his head to stare up at the familiar sky. They couldn't hear the sounds of the party from up here, and it was so quiet, the sort of quiet that used to make him nervous, used to make him talk just to fill it up. It was cool and calm and the sky felt really, really close, like he could touch it if he stretched his arm above his head.
"Want one?" Jensen taped a cigarette from his pack, handed it over to Jared.
There was a bright flare of a lighter, and Jared sucked in. The first tug of smoke always hurt, and he got a little dizzy.
"How long do you think you're gonna walk Frodo's footsteps?" Jensen asked.
Jared exhaled. "Few weeks, maybe."
"Sandy gonna go with?"
Jared shrugged in the dark.
Jensen gave a long sigh. "You got a stack of scripts to read through, you know."
"I'll get to 'em." And belatedly, "Mom."
Moonlight limned Jensen's lips when he smiled. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't fuck up your career."
"Thank God I have you, then," Jared said, and when Jensen replied, "Damn straight," he didn't hide his smile.
*
"I smell food," he says, walking into the kitchen in his PJs and scratching at his beard to see Jensen standing near the sink, plastic bags littering the countertops.
Jensen's already dressed, and judging by the fact that he's clearly been to the store, he's been up awhile now. "I haven't even taken it out of the bags yet, you freak of nature."
Jared grins, automatically moving to help Jensen unload the groceries. He sticks a gallon of 2% milk and a big carton of pulp free OJ into the fridge. "I have a keen sense of smell," he informs Jensen, turning to load the freezer up with Hungry Man frozen dinners, examining them first. Four Salisbury Steak dinners - Jared's favorite. There's already coffee brewing, and the smell makes his mouth salivate. He can't remember the last time he had a decent cup of coffee. "What are your plans for the day?"
Jensen shrugs as he sticks two boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios into the long cabinet by the door. "Nothing really. Thought maybe I'd work out. That's about it. You?"
"Dunno. You makin' breakfast?"
"No way, dude. I bought it. You're doing the cookin'."
"Omelets and toast?"
"The Padalecki special, yeah."
Jared unearths a pan from a lower cabinet, his knees creaking when he stands back up. "I guess I should start looking for a place to live." He scrunches his eyebrows together, searching through the drawers for a knife.
Jensen hands one to him without being asked. "Yeah," he agrees, slowly. "Or you could play Project 8 with me, maybe make me dinner for being so good to you."
Jared licks his lips. "Or I could do that."
*
It took him three weeks to get the first postcards in the mail. He wasn't making a conscious effort not to send them out, but between sightseeing, a few last minute promotional things, and figuring out how to work the Nikon 360 Jensen had bought him for an early birthday present, it had taken that long to get around to it.
The postcards to his family were easy, glossy, picturesque fronts with the clichéd I'm having a blast, the place is beautiful, you'd love it here, give everyone a hug for me sprawled across the back in his slanted handwriting. He skipped the postcard to Sandy, sending instead a sloppy letter, pages ripped right out of his journal that he'd written on the train after downing three shots of whiskey.
He sent one postcard to Jensen, some snowy volcano top. He couldn't think of anything to write, so in the end he just left it blank.
*
They fall into a familiar rhythm, one that's maybe easier than it should be, but not so surprising considering how much time they'd spent in one another's back pockets, not so long ago. They wake up at nearly the same time every morning, go for a long jog or work out in the make-shift gym Jensen converted from one of his empty bedrooms.
They take turns making breakfast and bringing in the paper. Jared reads the editorials and offers not-so-helpful alternative dirty words for Jensen's crossword puzzle. Jensen spends more days than not on the set of his big Hollywood movie, and because a car picks him up and drops him off, he leaves his keys next to the real estate section that's folded up on the kitchen table, where Jensen's only circled the really ridiculous places for sale, like houseboats and the place in the hills that has a six car garage and an ice skating rink on premise.
Jared finds things to do. He organizes Jensen's garage and alphabetizes his books, searches out Jensen's phone to snap pictures of his nose hair and changes the ringer to Prince's "Kiss". There's mail to be picked up every day from the post office, dusting to be done, a lot of TV to get caught up on. He Tivos every nature show he thinks Jensen'll like, and marathons all of Jensen's The Office and Arrested Development DVDs.
The neighborhood grocery store doesn't honor double coupons or have the organic coffee Jensen's freakishly obsessed with, so Jared drives the Benze to the store five miles away at least twice a week. He's got a growing stack of scripts that he keeps meaning to get to. Sandy calls three times. Once he answers, but doesn't say anything, just listens to her confused hellos before she heaves a quiet sigh and hangs up on him. She never says, I know you're there, but he can hear it just the same. After that he ignores the calls.
*
It was his last stop before LA. The mini-bar was stocked, the cityscape of London glistening and grimy beneath a swollen setting sun.
Over the phone Jared heard, "When the fuck are you coming home, dude?" and a bubble of laughter burst forth from Jared's chest unbidden. It felt good.
"I'm doing awesome, thanks for asking."
Chad's voice over the line was exactly what he'd needed. "Oh, shut up, you little bitch, we both finally end up in LA for more than a weekend, and you take off on some gay gotta find yourself meditation shit. It's annoying."
"You can just say you miss me. I already know you're a big girl." Jared flopped back onto the paisley bedspread, fiddling with the television remote.
"I just miss kicking your ass at Halo, you fucker," Chad insisted.
"In your dreams."
"Hey, hold on just a sec." Chad paused for a minute, saying something to someone in the room. When he came back, he said, "'Kenzie says hi."
"Tell her I said hey back."
"Will do." He went quiet for a moment. "So, I, uh, saw Jensen last week."
Jared watched the sun make its way down past the horizon, a slow wash of orange and red. He flipped his television on - to an Absolutely Fabulous rerun (he secretly loved this show) - and laid back on the bed, scrubbing a hand over his beard.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yep. He seemed surprised that I'd heard from you. Said something about you not even responding to his emails."
Jared remained quiet, watching Patsy light up four cigarettes. "It's been crazy," he offered.
"You can't avoid him forever," Chad said, and Jared really didn't need advice from a guy who once spent a month taking pictures of his dick with his camera phone and spamming the inbox of everyone he knew.
"I'll talk to him eventually."
"So, this 'eventually'. When's that gonna happen?"
"Actually that's why I'm calling, to give you my flight info."
"So you found yourself?"
"Yep. I was in Thailand."
"You were hiding in some kinky massage parlor, weren't you?"
Jared forced a smile, though Chad couldn't see it. "Where the hell else would I be?"
By the time he hung up, the room was mostly night-dark. He didn't bother turning on the light, just let the television flicker into the darkness until he fell asleep.
*
It's not like he doesn't know his way around a kitchen. Having been on his own since after high school pretty much guaranteed he was going to need to know how to feed himself beyond Chinese take out and pizza, because if there's one thing Jared loves, it's a home cooked meal, even if he has to do the cooking. But he managed the last ten years of life without ever really learning how to bake. Now he's got days of free time that stretch hazy and indeterminate before him, so.
He finally understands why people wear aprons, because there's flour covering the front of his favorite green button-down, and his flip flops are probably ruined. Catching a glimpse of himself in the shiny microwave door tells him his hair wasn't totally saved either, but he finally perfected a batch of chocolate chip cookies that aren't burnt to a crisp at the edges, setting off the smoke alarm, and raw on the inside, so he counts the afternoon as a win.
When Jensen gets home, it's to a kitchen full of properly baked cookies, oatmeal and peanut butter, some with M&Ms in them. They're covering every available surface. The sink's piled high with dirty dishes, and Jared's so proud of himself he could burst.
"What are you, Molly homemaker now?" Jensen asks when he surveys the kitchen. Jared shoves a cookie in his mouth.
"Whadya think?" he asks, practically vibrating.
Jensen chews, eyes wide as he stares at Jared, who watches expectantly. "You make that?" he says after a loud swallow.
Jared licks his lips. "Yep."
"I think Julia Childe should watch out."
A smile as wide as the Pacific breaks free on Jared's face. "So you like?"
"Uh, yeah, but what the hell are we gonna do with all this?" Jensen takes another bit of his cookie, chomping loudly.
Jared shrugs, unconcerned. "We'll eat 'em."
Patting his stomach, Jensen sucks in breath between his teeth. "Dude, my metabolism is already on shaky ground."
"Okay, old man," Jared says, "I'll eat 'em."
"That's good," Jensen says. "You look too thin."
Jared knits his eyebrows, looks down at himself. "I look the same as always," he protests, which earns him Jensen's gaze, dropping from head to toe. Jared squirms a little, feels heat sweep across his shoulders.
"Speaking of eating," Jensen says after a minute, eyes still on Jared. "What're we gonna do about dinner?"
"My cookies aren’t good enough for your dinner? Harsh, dude."
"I was thinking something possibly green."
"Those have green M&MS in them - "
Jensen grins. "Oh, okay then. Lots of nutritional value in those."
"Damn straight." Jared beams as his phone starts up, Right Said Fred singing, "I'm Too Sexy." Jared glares at Jensen. "Lame, dude," he says, and Jensen smirks as Jared digs his phone out of his back pocket. Jared feels the smile fall off his face. He presses ignore.
The kitchen smells like sugar; it's warm from the oven.
"You ever gonna call her back?" Jensen asks.
Jared shrugs, shoves the phone into his front pocket. "She's fine without me."
Jensen's eyebrows creep up to his hairline. "Yeah, she's not really who I'm concerned about."
Jared looks at him. There's late evening sunlight flooding the whole room with yellow, catching like pinpricks on the tips of Jensen's eyelashes, and making his freckles stand out bright. He breathes carefully around the deepening ache in his chest.
Jensen notices him staring. "Dude."
Jared gives his head a shake. "Don't worry about me, man - I'm golden."
Jensen presses his lips together, bright green eyes meeting Jared's. The ache in Jared's belly gets bigger, sparks low and dangerous. He turns to study the window behind Jensen's shoulder. "I gotta go," he says, voice low.
Jensen breathes a long, heavy sigh. "J, are we ever gonna talk about this?"
Jared's already taking a step back away from Jensen. "I'll be back later," he pushes out, trying to force a smile onto his face. His chest feels packed with cotton. "I got some, um, errands I need to take care of. Don’t worry about cleaning this up - I'll get it when I get back."
The directions aren't hard to follow; he'd memorized them the very first email Sandy had sent, so many months ago, before he'd even left Vancouver, detailing how to find her new house.
He told Jensen he was golden, but it's pretty damn obvious he's not - it's pretty damn obvious that seven months out in the world, trying to fill up whatever left him empty, was useless, not at all what he needed, and Sandy must notice that too, because she lets him in her house without a word, doesn't even look that surprised to see him.
She's the same, cinnamon-colored eyes and skin that tastes like vanilla and sweat. He sinks into her and her nails dig into his back, and it's familiar. It should be more comforting than it is.
Afterwards, Sandy comes back from the bathroom swallowed by one of his old T-shirts that hangs to her knees. There's a faint tan line on the ring finger of her left hand. Her eyes are dry.
"That won't happen again," she tells him.
He sits up, pulls on his flour-covered green shirt, nods, and gives a painful swallow. "I know." He pauses. "I'm sorry."
Sandy's lips quirk in a bitter smile, and Jared mostly feels inadequate; it's a feeling he's used to. He wonders what he's apologizing for. Falling in love with someone else, not having the courage to do anything about it. For leaving, ignoring her, needing her?
She's still so beautiful. He wants to erase the sadness stamped across her face. He wants to get away from her. "I've been calling you about the divorce papers," she says after a moment, voice gone a little wobbly. "You still need to sign them."
Jared nods, his eyesight a little fuzzy. "Tomorrow," he promises, "I'll take 'em to my lawyer."
When he's fully dressed and standing at her front door, he takes time to notice things he hadn't before. She's thinner, hair cut severely to her chin in a way that makes her eyes look bigger. There's a black and white photograph of a sunrise hanging on her wall.
"Jensen said you were staying with him," Sandy says, small hand on the door when Jared steps outside. He nods. He's got the keys to Jensen's truck in his hand.
She asks, "Have you told him?" and he remains quiet, bending to kiss her cheek. It's soft beneath his mouth. "It's not like you to lie about your feelings," Sandy says, when he straightens back up.
"Take care, Sandy," he says, as he walks down the driveway. It's dark now, and he puts the headlights on to drive home.
The kitchen's clean when he gets there, though the house is night-quiet. A note from Jensen sits on the counter. Left over pizza in the fridge, Jackass. Anchovies like I know you hate.
Jared piles three cold slices onto a plate, takes them unheated toward the bedrooms, and stands outside Jensen's closed door. He can’t hear anything but the hum of the air-conditioning.
*
Supernatural was still airing in many parts of the world. It was odd to flip on the TV alone in a big hotel room in Australia and see his and Jensen's faces pouting out of it, Technicolor.
It was like some crazy sense memory, watching old episodes, how scents came back, how he remembered what he'd eaten that day (mini roast beef sandwiches from Craft services and a bag of Redvines that Jensen had thrown at him in the makeup trailer). Kim'd directed this episode, and the young female victim of the week hadn't been remotely phased by Jared and Jensen's celebrity. She'd fallen right into place with them, bantering back and forth, and when she walked away, both Jared and Jensen had watched the swish of her blond hair and the sway of her narrow hips.
After the final shoot, scene number four where Dean and Sam spent the whole time arguing in the Impala, he remembered the way Jensen had looked at him, terrible, happy pride in his eyes, the way Jensen had said, "Damn, man, when did you fucking get good on me?" and had punched him in the shoulder.
He remembered it was right there, tired in the passenger seat of stationary Impala number three, a place he'd sat over one hundred times, that he'd felt it blossom in his chest, quick and entirely unbidden, the happiness, sick and wrong and fantastic.
*
His shoes squeak on the polished hardwood floor. Chad aims, and Jared jumps up, easy block, though Chad's a scrappy little dude, and he gets the rebound.
"What're you doin' after this?" Chad pants, going first right and then left, aiming again.
"I gotta swing by the grocery store; we're out of toilet paper," Jared says, again blocking Chad's shot, and this time palming the ball before Chad can get it back.
Chad looks at him. "You ever think of finding a place of your own?'
Jared squints his eyes against the sweat stinging them, dribbling slowly, bent down low. "Of course. I mean, I am."
"You've been living with Jensen for over a month now," Chad reminds him, moving in and checking him with his shoulder.
"It takes a while to - oof - find a house."
Chad steals the ball, this time making an easy lay up. "Eat it, bitch," he crows, passing the ball to Jared. "I just don't want to see you get your heart broken."
Jared says, "It's not like that. Me n' Jen aren't like that," as he wipes his hand along his forehead.
"So you two worked your shit out, then?"
"Dude, there's nothing to work out." Jared squints one eye and lines up the ball. It falls easily through the swishing net.
"No? It seemed like there was," Chad says, bouncing the basketball loudly.
"Like how?"
Chad clutches the basketball in his hands. "It's kinda weird, is all. You leaving Sandy -"
"Technically, Sandy left me - "
"Whatever." He throws, makes the shot. "You and Sandy split up, and you take off, and apparently can't even bother to answer Jensen's emails, and when he picks you up from the airport - "
"Thanks for that, by the way - "
Chad ignores him. "When he picks you up, he takes you in like some stray animal, and now you two are acting like Bert and Ernie."
Jared huffs out an indignant laugh, shrugs with one shoulder as he dribbles the ball. He's breathing hard. "He's my buddy. Just 'cause we're not touchy feely all the time doesn't mean he's not gonna be there for me. I'd do it for you."
"Yeah, but I'd never pull this kind of shit."
Jared snorts, fakes left, then right, and shoots a lay up. It bounces off the rim.
Chad smirks and reaches out a hand to get the rebound. "I wouldn't." He meets Jared's eyes. "At least I'm honest about shit - even if I screw it up royally, people know where I stand."
Chad stops bouncing the ball, clutches it in his hands, and looks at Jared. "I know you, JT. I have for over ten years. You've been different now for awhile - "
"How so?"
"You've been quieter, less happy - "
"That's called growing up."
"No," Chad argues. "It's called being sad."
Jared says nothing, just looks at Chad, breathing hard.
"You know," says Chad, throwing the ball at Jared. He catches it against his chest. "Even if you go all Richard Simmons, I'll still hang out with you and kick your ass at Halo."
Jared throws the ball back, watches Chad shoot and score, nothing but net.
*
Sandy left one week ahead of schedule. There was no screaming match, no vases broken, no long, drawn out goodbye. It was quiet and calm - maybe dignified was the right word - a lot like Sandy herself. She'd just said, "You're not giving me what I want anymore, and we both know I can't give you what you need." They'd always agreed they would never drag things out if they were both unhappy. Jared felt guilty for not trying harder, but he couldn't do much more than put up a perfunctory argument and tell her honestly that he'd miss her. It was only then that he saw real tears in her eyes.
He'd spent the weekend holed up in his house, taking the dogs for long walks, and spending the evenings alone beneath a lifeless sky. He chugged year-old Blueberry schnapps, feeling like a girl and unable to stop searching for meaning in the constellations.
In the truck on Monday morning, Jensen had taken one look at him and frowned.
"Damn, you doin' okay, dude?"
Jared looked at Jensen. He had crazy long eyelashes, the kind most girls would kill for - how was it that Jared had never noticed that before? He glanced away, watched the sun start its slow crawl up. Too much rain had left the air saturated and hazy. Heat blossomed in his chest, clawed up his throat. There were three weeks left, and then Supernatural was finished. Forever.
Jared said, "Golden - just tired."
It was obvious he was lying, but Jared was grateful when Jensen let it go and instead handed him a coffee made sweet with sugar and cream.
*
He finds a real estate agent. Jensen insists he wait to go look at houses until his day off, and then he mostly makes a nuisance out of himself, clucking his tongue and commenting on the bad foundations of every house they check out. The agent - Karen - watches them first with a curious light in her eyes, that's all but dead by house number eight. She doesn’t even bother arguing with Jensen this time, just says, "I'll leave you two to look around," and heads outside to talk on her cell, presumably to complain about her prima-donna clients.
Jared looks at Jensen. "So what's wrong with this one?" he demands.
Jensen glances around. "The rooms are kinda small, aren’t they?" He wrinkles his nose. "And what's that smell?"
"I don't smell anything."
Jensen sniffs again. "No? It's like a cross between cat piss and, I dunno, vinegar."
Jared rolls his eyes. "You're completely insane, you know that? Also, you're pissing Karen off."
"She'll get over it. God, you seriously don't smell that?"
Jared ignores him, peering into a roomy cabinet off the kitchen. He glances out the bay window. There's a huge back deck, a hot tub. "It looks really nice. How much did she say this place cost again?" He leaves Jensen standing in the bright yellow kitchen, with its shiny new appliances and its high ceilings, going in search of Karen.
"Wait," Jensen calls, just when Jared's reached the front door. Jensen rounds the corner, coming to a stop in front of Jared. "Just - you don't want to rush this, right?"
He looks at Jensen again. Really looks at him. His eyes are wide, green like grass after a hard rain, and there's color in his cheeks, like he's got a fever.
Jared feels something uncurl in his belly, something warm and liquid. He nods. "Okay, yeah," he says quietly. "I'll sit on it for a few days."
He schedules another appointment with Karen for the next week, but calls to cancel before the day is over, citing the fact that he needs more time.
She doesn't even sound disappointed.
*
He checked his gmail account at least four times a day. The inbox number grew. He'd had four Tasman Bitters, strong and dark, and he was feeling just this side of not tipsy, kinda brave. Into the search box he typed Jensen, pulling up hundreds of emails from the past few years, many of them ridiculous forwards, some of them exhaustive details on Jensen's days that he sent with the intent of simultaneously annoying Jared and keeping him informed of Jensen's life while on hiatus.
The last twelve emails, sent over the past three weeks, were all unopened.
Jared clicked on the latest. It just read, dude, you ever gonna talk to me again?!?, and through his buzzy haze, Jared's first thought was that Jensen must be getting a little desperate. He was usually somewhat (okay, a lot) anal about proper punctuation in technology, to the point where Jared didn't even send text messages anymore without first proof reading them.
Jared clicked that email shut. He opened the first unanswered message, sent just two days after he'd boarded a plane taking him away from Vancouver. It began, Jared, I can't even begin to understand what's going through your mind right now, dude, but I wish you would at least be honest with me. Was this a last minute freak out thing, or was it something else? Would you please call me? I'm fucking worried about you -
Jared shut the message. He closed his laptop, went to watch a cloudless sky from his balcony.
*
Things change after that. Jared switches his mailing address to Jensen's place, because he's sick of going to the post office. His agent starts sending scripts there, rather than having Jared make the trek all the way to his office.
Jared reads them, sitting on Jensen's black leather couch, with the stereo on low and Jensen's leg pressed against him. It's another routine they fall into, easy, comfortable, dinner in front of the TV, sitting next to each other not mentioning the elephant that is their growing attraction. Tonight, Jensen actually makes meatloaf, his mom's recipe, complete with ketchup slopped over the top of it, and they eat on round white plates, their feet kicked up on the glass coffee table. The Patriots are playing the Lions on ESPN, and neither of them are terrifically invested in the game.
Jared scrapes his fork along his plate, smirking when Jensen winces at the scratch of metal against porcelain, and says, "Dude," all disgruntled and annoyed.
"Sorry," Jared chirps.
"Sure you are," Jensen says, though his eyes are dancing. He shoves his plate at Jared. "Clean this up, bitch."
"Since when did I become the maid in all of this?"
"Well," Jensen reasons, a smile stretching his cheeks, "I'm the bread winner in this relationship, so that makes you the kept woman."
"You better hope no feminists catch wind of your gender stereo-types, man," Jared says sagely, unfolding himself from the couch.
"Hey, I made dinner," Jensen protests.
"Good too," Jared says.
"I would never have guessed you liked it," Jensen deadpans, "what with all those sounds you were making."
Jared feels his grin go liquid. "They turn you on?" he teases. His back pops when he stretches, and he looks down to see Jensen watching the strip of skin revealed by his shirt shifting up.
Jensen glances up, meets his eyes. He smiles, and there's heat in his eyes.
Something warm unfurls in Jared's belly. He looks away, whistling as he makes his way to the kitchen.
*
It happened at the airport, which was incredibly cliché, true, but hey, for all intents and purposes, he and Jensen were Hollywood, whether they liked it or not, and maybe that meant doing the cliché thing every now and again.
"You're sure you're gonna be okay with this?" Jensen asked, eyebrows scrunched together with worry.
"Dude, I'm 29," Jared reminded him. "I think I can handle a vacation on my own."
Jensen didn't look convinced. It was early morning, and very few people flew at this hour, so the place was mostly deserted, only the Starbucks and McDonalds even open at four AM.
Jensen said, "You'll call once you arrive?" and Jared nodded, trying to restrain from rolling his eyes. "And you really don't know when you're coming back?"
Jared shook his head. "I just need to get out for awhile. To see…things."
"Be careful," Jensen commanded.
"Dude," Jared said, "stop acting like my mom."
"It's just - " Jensen scratched at the back of his neck. "You've seemed weird lately, and with Sandy not going with you, this is just… Maybe I can get some time off."
"You have work," Jared reminded him.
"I know, but - "
"Jensen," Jared said.
Under the buzzing neon lights of the airport, Jensen had looked up at him. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and stubble on his chin. He clutched a huge cup of coffee. His lips were molten red. Jared leaned forward.
Later, strapped into the seat on the plane, he would tell himself it had happened because it was early, he'd been tired, his defenses down. The truth was that he'd been resisting the urge for weeks now, maybe months, even though it felt like years, and he was just sick of shoving it aside.
Beneath his mouth, Jensen's lips stayed shut. He didn’t pull away, but he didn't press in closer, and Jared thought maybe he was frozen in shock. Jared smelled Jensen's after-shave, the coffee on his breath.
Jared pulled away. Jensen looked at him with wide, confused eyes, and Jared felt his cheeks go red, felt heat sweep across his neck, his shoulders.
He said, "I gotta go. Good luck with your movie," and he turned to walk toward his gate. He didn't look back to see if Jensen was staring after him.
*
The night was spent at one of Steve's gigs, and Jared had looked over at least four times during the last two hours to notice Jensen's attention on him, his gaze warm and green. He'd licked his lips once, an experiment, and Jensen eyes had tracked the movement. It made heat and anticipation pool in his belly.
He sits at the bar, nursing a Blue Moon. Two girls - one with blond pigtails and one with purple nail polish - ask to have their picture taken with him, and he smiles big and bright, wraps his arms around them both. After, Jensen comes up behind him and places a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Coward," Jared says.
Jensen smirks. "Do you think they're gone?"
"I doubt they'll come back and ask for your autograph," Jared tells him. "But I can chase 'em down if you're feeling neglected."
Jensen smiles. His hand is still on Jared's shoulder, burning into him. Jared takes a shallow sip of his beer, and it candies the hot little ache in his stomach.
"I think I'll live," Jensen says. Their eyes meet. Jensen says, "You wanna get outa here?"
Jared swallows, nods, and watches Jensen's cheeks flush.
The taxi ride home is fifteen minutes of strained conversation. Jared's hyper-aware of Jensen's warm thigh pressed against his, of his Jensen-smell, sandalwood and beer, filling the backseat. He thrusts a twenty at the driver before Jensen can protest.
He uses his key to open the front door. Jensen flips on the light switch. The house is quiet. Jared can count three pairs of his shoes all sitting in the entryway. The closet holds all of his winter jackets, and the bedroom down the hall has his Scarface poster on the wall.
He throws his keys in the basket next to the vase of fake orchids. His Visa bill sits unopened next to the electricity bill.
Jensen's just standing there, watching him with bright eyes. Jared feels like he's got plastic wrap stretched around his chest, like he just ate a big bar of dark chocolate and downed three espressos.
Outside, the night is calm, dark. Inside, warm light shines on everything. He meets Jensen's eyes, and a smile blossoms, unbidden. "Hey."
Jensen's eyes crinkle. His teeth are white and straight. "Hi."
Jared says, "So," and Jensen says, "Oh, fuck it, dude," and just as Jared bends his head, Jensen tilts up, and their lips meet. There's nothing chaste about it, nothing awkward. Mouths open immediately. Jared licks into Jensen's mouth, steps fully into him so that their chests are flush, and he scraps half-bitten nails against Jensen's scalp, just to feel him shiver against him. Heat spirals in Jared's gut, but there's something comfortable there, as well.
He coaxes Jensen's head to the side, getting a deeper angle, sliding his tongue along the top row of Jensen's teeth, feeling Jensen rumble in approval, the sound sparking against him. Jared gets his hand between Jensen and the wall. He runs it down hard muscle, finally settling in small of Jensen's back. Jensen tastes like beer and need; he smells like cigarettes and aftershave. Jared breathes in deep, slotting their hips together. He bites at Jensen's lower lip before running his tongue along it, and Jensen keens in the back of his throat, the sound needy and desperate and vulnerable. Jared's eyesight goes a little fuzzy. He pulls away, just for a minute.
And just looks at Jensen, black irises so large they're just rimmed with green, cheeks full of color. Their eyes hold. Jared knows his grin goes a little loopy, a lot ridiculous, but he can’t help the happy bubble that fills up his chest.
He leans in again. "When?" he breathes, mouth so close to Jensen's that he can feel their lips ghost together, can feel the huff of breath when Jensen laughs.
"I don't know, dude," Jensen rumbles, nipping lightly at Jared's mouth and keeping his hands on Jared's hips. "When you kissed me, before that…when I picked you up from the airport."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Jensen pulls away and levels his gaze at him. "This isn’t exactly a decision to treat lightly, and the last time you kissed me, you ignored me for seven months."
Jared glances down, watches his thumb sweep across the tan skin just above Jensen's waistband.
"Yeah, well…"
"You were gone for a long time," Jensen says.
"I was looking for something." Jared blinks, looks up to meet Jensen's eyes.
"Did you find it?"
Jared feels a smile stretch his face. He says, "Turns out it was right in front of me the whole time."
*
End.
Summary: Jared makes a journey.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7900
Notes: I don't even know, you guys. These two, they do crazy things to me, make my OTP pretty much bleed all over every schmoopy thing I write about them. And this is no different. (Though, I need to learn to come up with less saptastic summaries.) Beta'd by the uber-gorgeous nomelon and taltos_, for which I am crazy grateful. Obviously, no one in this fic actually belongs to me. Damn it.
*
It's an entirely un-dramatic homecoming. When Jared finally inhales his first breath of smoggy LA air, he's got his backpack hitched over one shoulder and a huge duffle clutched in his hand. There's a painful zit on his forehead. He blinks against the hazy light like he's just clawed his way out of some dark, underground cave - if he could remember where he left his sunglasses this whole thing would go a lot smoother. He heaves a huge sigh of relief. No more recycled cabin air; no more crowded airport terminals.
Jensen's not exactly a surprise, leaning up against some sleek, black truck, except for how he is, with his sky blue T-shirt, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of artfully distressed blue jeans and black sunglasses shading most of his face. It's been over seven months since Jared's seen him. In an airport, no less. Funny, how it doesn't feel like he's come full circle.
"Hey," Jared says, coming to a stop in front of Jensen. "You here to pick me up?" The freckles marching across the bridge of Jensen's nose attest to hours - maybe weeks - spent in the California sun. He looks good. He looks…different, more rested, face a little fuller.
Jensen nods, taking in Jared's faded tee and his uni-bomber beard. "You sound surprised," he says.
Jared shakes his head. "What happened to the beamer?"
Jensen shrugs and yanks at the truck door. Inside it's all creamy leather and polished wood. There's a killer sound system and a pricey GPS. "Got rid of it," he says.
There's a slow, quiet rumble when Jensen turns the key in the ignition. The radio starts up, something jazz, all soothing saxophones and low bass, and the leather seat's sun-baked beneath Jared's thighs.
Jensen eases the truck into traffic, aims a look at Jared, and says, "You wanna talk about it?" gaze hidden behind his sunglasses.
Jared watches the airport grow smaller in the side mirror, watches it fade away entirely. Above the radio and the beating of his heart he can hear jet engines roar, even when he can't see them. "My trip?" he says after a minute, casually glancing towards Jensen's face. "Yeah, it was very zen."
Jensen nods once and turns away to stare at the street. Jared watches his mouth thin out. "I know," he says. "Got the postcard."
"Dude, sorry about that. I meant to send more, but - "
"No worries," Jensen interrupts. "I figured you were having an Eat, Pray, Love moment, complete with the Italian food and the quick fix philosophy lesson."
Jared smirks. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."
That earns a real laugh from Jensen, who puts on his blinker to merge onto the 405.
"Keep going straight," Jared instructs with a little shake of his head.
"What? Why?"
"Sold it."
"You - when?"
Jared shrugs. "Dunno, four, maybe five months ago."
Jensen slants him a glance, and Jared can almost feel the questions coming off him in waves, but Jensen only says, "Where to, then?"
"I've got a reservation at the Westin."
He hears Jensen snort. "No fuckin' way, dude. You're coming with me."
Jared shakes his head. "Uh uh, I'm not some stray dog for you to take in."
"Oh, fuck off, Jared. I'm not letting you go to a hotel."
"Dude, I don't want to be an imposition."
"Jared," Jensen warns, using his Dean-voice, grumbly and low.
"Okay, but just for a few days, 'til I find a place."
"You can stay as long as you like," Jensen says, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.
Jared blinks the sunlight out of his eyes. "Thanks for this," he says eventually. "For, you know."
Jensen nods. "It's gonna be about forty-five minutes 'til we get home. Sleep if you want."
Jared murmurs quietly. Leaning back against the headrest, he pulls down the visor and shuts his eyes. He's lulled to sleep by Jensen humming quietly under his breath and the feel of warm sunlight nuzzled against his cheek.
*
Everything got streamlined while he was traveling. He started off with two suitcases, stuffed full of needless things: books, a laptop, ten button down shirts and twice as many tees; hiking boots, pairs of flip flops in assorted colors; shaving cream, and hair gel, two snow caps, and three baseball hats.
Everywhere he went, he left something behind, gave it away or threw it out, sometimes just leaving it in the hotel room for the maids to take, if they wanted.
By the last week of his trip, he had only a small, black backpack and his favorite duffle. He'd gotten rid of all but two of the books, of his laptop, his camcorder, most of his beauty products and every hat but one. Even the journal he'd brought along was only half full of half-thought out ideas, pathetic revelations he'd had on his trip that most people who didn't live the rarified life of a Hollywood star came to when they were in their early twenties.
Seven months Kerouac-ing it out in the world, and he stopped sending postcards, charging his phone, checking his email. He thought by getting rid of his stuff, he'd find himself, but in the end, he was still left confused and alone, mostly sad.
*
He doesn't know what wakes him, but the sound of someone talking quietly beyond the closed door of his bedroom is the first thing to register. White afternoon light slants through the generic blinds in Jensen's guest room, shining on the layer of dust covering the mismatched furniture pushed against the walls. He blinks against it. The cheap plastic alarm clock next to the bed - the kind of clock Jared had in sixth grade - claims it's after five. He's sticky with sweat, the thin comforter pushed down around his ankles, even though he can hear the loud hum of the air-conditioner, and his muscles ache with sleep and travel.
He feels groggy and raw. Jared thinks about closing his eyes again, maybe sleeping straight through 'til morning, but his stomach gives a long, slow gurgle, and his bladder really doesn't agree with the staying in bed thing.
Jensen's house isn't too big, just one floor laid out like a horseshoe, but Jared still gets turned around trying to locate the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror. He looks like he could use a week of sleep, right cheek cut through with pillow creases and long hair flattened against his head. He flips the bathroom light off.
Scratching his belly as he pads his way toward the front of the house, Jared can recognize Danneel's touch all around Jensen's place: matching leather furniture, a framed picture centered above the couch, and even a long table pushed against the side wall with a large, fussy vase of silk orchids. The kind of things Jensen never bothered with, years ago. There's also a layer of dust on the fake fichus in the corner, and a teetering stack of video games piled up against the television, and it's pretty clear Danneel's no longer in the picture. It must have happened while he was gone.
He hears Jensen's voice, a low, cautious murmur. " - yeah, yeah. He's here." There's a long pause, and then, "Well, I think maybe you should."
He rounds the corner, stopping in the kitchen doorway. Jensen's standing barefoot in the sunlight, gaze fixed on something outside the window above the sink. He's mostly facing the other way and doesn’t notice Jared standing there with his arms crossed over his chest. "No, that's fine," Jensen says into his phone. "I only - " He coughs, pauses again. "Yep, okay. He's fine here. You too. Bye."
He flips his phone shut and chews on his bottom lip for a minute. His whole posture looks defeated. Jared can tell the second Jensen detects his presence, the way his shoulders straighten and the flash of guilt that passes across his face before a big smile plants itself there. "What's up, Sleeping Beauty," Jensen greets, voice just this side of hearty. "Thought maybe you were gonna be passed out 'til tomorrow morning."
"Shut up, dude, my body's got no freaking idea what time it is. Who was on the phone?"
Jensen shrugs, slips his cell into his front pocket, and says, "No one. Just a friend," and Jared lets the obvious lie go.
Jared glances around. "So, Danny…" he says, stepping fully into the room.
Jensen chomps loud on a piece of gum. He shrugs. "Yeah, well."
"I'm sorry, man. How long ago?"
"Not long after you left, actually."
Something like guilt settles in his stomach. "I'm sorry, man," he says again, the words horribly inadequate. "I shoulda been here."
Jensen shakes his head, puts on a bright smile. "Dude, it’s fine. Sometimes these things don't work out, ya know? She and I, we did okay."
Jared rubs a knuckle across his eye as his stomach gives a loud growl. "You got any food here, man?"
"Chinese is on the way, probably be another ten minutes. Beer, though, in the fridge."
"Cool." Jared helps himself to a Heineken, and grabs one for Jensen. The fridge is empty save two six-packs and a damp-looking carton of baking soda. He settles onto a high stool at the island in the center of the kitchen.
There's a script on it, well read, the pages curled back. "This your new gig?" he says, gesturing to it with his beer bottle.
Jensen settles in next to him. His whole kitchen is white - white coffee maker and white microwave, white cookie jar. It's too clean, like it hasn't been used in a long while, which is likely very true. "Yep."
"Fuckin' DeNiro, man, I still don't know how you scored that."
Jensen grins. "They know quality when they see it."
"Or they were really desperate."
"That too."
"No, seriously, Jen, that's awesome." He raises his beer. "I'm proud o' you."
Jensen shrugs, but he looks pleased, small smile playing around his lips. "It's not a big part."
"It's still gonna make you huge, man. Movie star shit."
"You sayin' I'm not a movie star?"
"Well, yeah, I mean, Devour got you there, but this'll make sure they don't forget you."
"Damn straight." He pulls a long, slow sip from his beer, large hand nearly obscuring the label, and licks his lips. Jensen angles a meaningful glance at Jared. "What about you, J?"
Jared shrugs, noncommittal. "You know…yeah, yeah I got some stuff brewing."
"Good. You're too good not to."
Jared runs his tongue along his teeth; they're fuzzy. He shoulda brushed 'em when he was in the bathroom. "What did she say?" he asks quietly, after a moment.
He watches Jensen swallow. "She just wanted to make sure you were okay, man."
Jared nods.
Jensen says, "Are you?" and Jared shrugs. He blinks rapidly. The doorbell buzzes. He thinks, saved by the bell.
Jensen gives a heavy sigh. "Let's go eat this outside," he suggests. "Grab the rest of the beer and some napkins."
On his way to answer the door, he pats Jared on the shoulder. His hand is big and warm, and Jared drains his beer in two swallows before moving to throw the bottle in the recycling bin.
*
It was at the wrap party that Jared had decided he needed to see the world. The show hadn't exactly gone out with a bang - rather, their ratings had slipped quietly, until one day there was a phone call, and then that was it. Truth be told, it had been kind of a relief.
It was their final night in Vancouver. Jared was twenty-nine and had spent the last twelve years of his life more or less with one network; the last six with one TV show; and the last four living almost exclusively in Canada. His home had gone on the market thirteen days prior - most of his belongings packed and ready to be shipped elsewhere. Going back to LA seemed out of the question, and back to Texas meant fielding questions he wasn't ready to answer.
The city was still an endless parade of damp, gray days, and the rooftop he and Jensen had snuck away to smelled like rain and the cigarettes Jensen only let himself smoke when they weren't shooting. It smelled like Jensen's expensive sandalwood aftershave, and the whiskey on his breath.
Jared said, "I think I'm gonna take some time off, maybe go on vacation. Wanna come?"
"Where to?"
Jared shrugged, naming the first place that popped into his head. "Maybe New Zealand."
"Hmmm. I hear it's very green there."
"That's the appeal."
"Peter Jackson seems to like it. You gonna go on the Lord of the Rings tour?"
"'Course."
Jensen said, "You know I start my makeup screenings for that new movie next week." Jared watched him crush the cigarette on the roof, stamping it all the way out before sliding the butt into his half-smoked pack. "But you'll send me a postcard?"
"If I remember." Jared turned his head to stare up at the familiar sky. They couldn't hear the sounds of the party from up here, and it was so quiet, the sort of quiet that used to make him nervous, used to make him talk just to fill it up. It was cool and calm and the sky felt really, really close, like he could touch it if he stretched his arm above his head.
"Want one?" Jensen taped a cigarette from his pack, handed it over to Jared.
There was a bright flare of a lighter, and Jared sucked in. The first tug of smoke always hurt, and he got a little dizzy.
"How long do you think you're gonna walk Frodo's footsteps?" Jensen asked.
Jared exhaled. "Few weeks, maybe."
"Sandy gonna go with?"
Jared shrugged in the dark.
Jensen gave a long sigh. "You got a stack of scripts to read through, you know."
"I'll get to 'em." And belatedly, "Mom."
Moonlight limned Jensen's lips when he smiled. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't fuck up your career."
"Thank God I have you, then," Jared said, and when Jensen replied, "Damn straight," he didn't hide his smile.
*
"I smell food," he says, walking into the kitchen in his PJs and scratching at his beard to see Jensen standing near the sink, plastic bags littering the countertops.
Jensen's already dressed, and judging by the fact that he's clearly been to the store, he's been up awhile now. "I haven't even taken it out of the bags yet, you freak of nature."
Jared grins, automatically moving to help Jensen unload the groceries. He sticks a gallon of 2% milk and a big carton of pulp free OJ into the fridge. "I have a keen sense of smell," he informs Jensen, turning to load the freezer up with Hungry Man frozen dinners, examining them first. Four Salisbury Steak dinners - Jared's favorite. There's already coffee brewing, and the smell makes his mouth salivate. He can't remember the last time he had a decent cup of coffee. "What are your plans for the day?"
Jensen shrugs as he sticks two boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios into the long cabinet by the door. "Nothing really. Thought maybe I'd work out. That's about it. You?"
"Dunno. You makin' breakfast?"
"No way, dude. I bought it. You're doing the cookin'."
"Omelets and toast?"
"The Padalecki special, yeah."
Jared unearths a pan from a lower cabinet, his knees creaking when he stands back up. "I guess I should start looking for a place to live." He scrunches his eyebrows together, searching through the drawers for a knife.
Jensen hands one to him without being asked. "Yeah," he agrees, slowly. "Or you could play Project 8 with me, maybe make me dinner for being so good to you."
Jared licks his lips. "Or I could do that."
*
It took him three weeks to get the first postcards in the mail. He wasn't making a conscious effort not to send them out, but between sightseeing, a few last minute promotional things, and figuring out how to work the Nikon 360 Jensen had bought him for an early birthday present, it had taken that long to get around to it.
The postcards to his family were easy, glossy, picturesque fronts with the clichéd I'm having a blast, the place is beautiful, you'd love it here, give everyone a hug for me sprawled across the back in his slanted handwriting. He skipped the postcard to Sandy, sending instead a sloppy letter, pages ripped right out of his journal that he'd written on the train after downing three shots of whiskey.
He sent one postcard to Jensen, some snowy volcano top. He couldn't think of anything to write, so in the end he just left it blank.
*
They fall into a familiar rhythm, one that's maybe easier than it should be, but not so surprising considering how much time they'd spent in one another's back pockets, not so long ago. They wake up at nearly the same time every morning, go for a long jog or work out in the make-shift gym Jensen converted from one of his empty bedrooms.
They take turns making breakfast and bringing in the paper. Jared reads the editorials and offers not-so-helpful alternative dirty words for Jensen's crossword puzzle. Jensen spends more days than not on the set of his big Hollywood movie, and because a car picks him up and drops him off, he leaves his keys next to the real estate section that's folded up on the kitchen table, where Jensen's only circled the really ridiculous places for sale, like houseboats and the place in the hills that has a six car garage and an ice skating rink on premise.
Jared finds things to do. He organizes Jensen's garage and alphabetizes his books, searches out Jensen's phone to snap pictures of his nose hair and changes the ringer to Prince's "Kiss". There's mail to be picked up every day from the post office, dusting to be done, a lot of TV to get caught up on. He Tivos every nature show he thinks Jensen'll like, and marathons all of Jensen's The Office and Arrested Development DVDs.
The neighborhood grocery store doesn't honor double coupons or have the organic coffee Jensen's freakishly obsessed with, so Jared drives the Benze to the store five miles away at least twice a week. He's got a growing stack of scripts that he keeps meaning to get to. Sandy calls three times. Once he answers, but doesn't say anything, just listens to her confused hellos before she heaves a quiet sigh and hangs up on him. She never says, I know you're there, but he can hear it just the same. After that he ignores the calls.
*
It was his last stop before LA. The mini-bar was stocked, the cityscape of London glistening and grimy beneath a swollen setting sun.
Over the phone Jared heard, "When the fuck are you coming home, dude?" and a bubble of laughter burst forth from Jared's chest unbidden. It felt good.
"I'm doing awesome, thanks for asking."
Chad's voice over the line was exactly what he'd needed. "Oh, shut up, you little bitch, we both finally end up in LA for more than a weekend, and you take off on some gay gotta find yourself meditation shit. It's annoying."
"You can just say you miss me. I already know you're a big girl." Jared flopped back onto the paisley bedspread, fiddling with the television remote.
"I just miss kicking your ass at Halo, you fucker," Chad insisted.
"In your dreams."
"Hey, hold on just a sec." Chad paused for a minute, saying something to someone in the room. When he came back, he said, "'Kenzie says hi."
"Tell her I said hey back."
"Will do." He went quiet for a moment. "So, I, uh, saw Jensen last week."
Jared watched the sun make its way down past the horizon, a slow wash of orange and red. He flipped his television on - to an Absolutely Fabulous rerun (he secretly loved this show) - and laid back on the bed, scrubbing a hand over his beard.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yep. He seemed surprised that I'd heard from you. Said something about you not even responding to his emails."
Jared remained quiet, watching Patsy light up four cigarettes. "It's been crazy," he offered.
"You can't avoid him forever," Chad said, and Jared really didn't need advice from a guy who once spent a month taking pictures of his dick with his camera phone and spamming the inbox of everyone he knew.
"I'll talk to him eventually."
"So, this 'eventually'. When's that gonna happen?"
"Actually that's why I'm calling, to give you my flight info."
"So you found yourself?"
"Yep. I was in Thailand."
"You were hiding in some kinky massage parlor, weren't you?"
Jared forced a smile, though Chad couldn't see it. "Where the hell else would I be?"
By the time he hung up, the room was mostly night-dark. He didn't bother turning on the light, just let the television flicker into the darkness until he fell asleep.
*
It's not like he doesn't know his way around a kitchen. Having been on his own since after high school pretty much guaranteed he was going to need to know how to feed himself beyond Chinese take out and pizza, because if there's one thing Jared loves, it's a home cooked meal, even if he has to do the cooking. But he managed the last ten years of life without ever really learning how to bake. Now he's got days of free time that stretch hazy and indeterminate before him, so.
He finally understands why people wear aprons, because there's flour covering the front of his favorite green button-down, and his flip flops are probably ruined. Catching a glimpse of himself in the shiny microwave door tells him his hair wasn't totally saved either, but he finally perfected a batch of chocolate chip cookies that aren't burnt to a crisp at the edges, setting off the smoke alarm, and raw on the inside, so he counts the afternoon as a win.
When Jensen gets home, it's to a kitchen full of properly baked cookies, oatmeal and peanut butter, some with M&Ms in them. They're covering every available surface. The sink's piled high with dirty dishes, and Jared's so proud of himself he could burst.
"What are you, Molly homemaker now?" Jensen asks when he surveys the kitchen. Jared shoves a cookie in his mouth.
"Whadya think?" he asks, practically vibrating.
Jensen chews, eyes wide as he stares at Jared, who watches expectantly. "You make that?" he says after a loud swallow.
Jared licks his lips. "Yep."
"I think Julia Childe should watch out."
A smile as wide as the Pacific breaks free on Jared's face. "So you like?"
"Uh, yeah, but what the hell are we gonna do with all this?" Jensen takes another bit of his cookie, chomping loudly.
Jared shrugs, unconcerned. "We'll eat 'em."
Patting his stomach, Jensen sucks in breath between his teeth. "Dude, my metabolism is already on shaky ground."
"Okay, old man," Jared says, "I'll eat 'em."
"That's good," Jensen says. "You look too thin."
Jared knits his eyebrows, looks down at himself. "I look the same as always," he protests, which earns him Jensen's gaze, dropping from head to toe. Jared squirms a little, feels heat sweep across his shoulders.
"Speaking of eating," Jensen says after a minute, eyes still on Jared. "What're we gonna do about dinner?"
"My cookies aren’t good enough for your dinner? Harsh, dude."
"I was thinking something possibly green."
"Those have green M&MS in them - "
Jensen grins. "Oh, okay then. Lots of nutritional value in those."
"Damn straight." Jared beams as his phone starts up, Right Said Fred singing, "I'm Too Sexy." Jared glares at Jensen. "Lame, dude," he says, and Jensen smirks as Jared digs his phone out of his back pocket. Jared feels the smile fall off his face. He presses ignore.
The kitchen smells like sugar; it's warm from the oven.
"You ever gonna call her back?" Jensen asks.
Jared shrugs, shoves the phone into his front pocket. "She's fine without me."
Jensen's eyebrows creep up to his hairline. "Yeah, she's not really who I'm concerned about."
Jared looks at him. There's late evening sunlight flooding the whole room with yellow, catching like pinpricks on the tips of Jensen's eyelashes, and making his freckles stand out bright. He breathes carefully around the deepening ache in his chest.
Jensen notices him staring. "Dude."
Jared gives his head a shake. "Don't worry about me, man - I'm golden."
Jensen presses his lips together, bright green eyes meeting Jared's. The ache in Jared's belly gets bigger, sparks low and dangerous. He turns to study the window behind Jensen's shoulder. "I gotta go," he says, voice low.
Jensen breathes a long, heavy sigh. "J, are we ever gonna talk about this?"
Jared's already taking a step back away from Jensen. "I'll be back later," he pushes out, trying to force a smile onto his face. His chest feels packed with cotton. "I got some, um, errands I need to take care of. Don’t worry about cleaning this up - I'll get it when I get back."
The directions aren't hard to follow; he'd memorized them the very first email Sandy had sent, so many months ago, before he'd even left Vancouver, detailing how to find her new house.
He told Jensen he was golden, but it's pretty damn obvious he's not - it's pretty damn obvious that seven months out in the world, trying to fill up whatever left him empty, was useless, not at all what he needed, and Sandy must notice that too, because she lets him in her house without a word, doesn't even look that surprised to see him.
She's the same, cinnamon-colored eyes and skin that tastes like vanilla and sweat. He sinks into her and her nails dig into his back, and it's familiar. It should be more comforting than it is.
Afterwards, Sandy comes back from the bathroom swallowed by one of his old T-shirts that hangs to her knees. There's a faint tan line on the ring finger of her left hand. Her eyes are dry.
"That won't happen again," she tells him.
He sits up, pulls on his flour-covered green shirt, nods, and gives a painful swallow. "I know." He pauses. "I'm sorry."
Sandy's lips quirk in a bitter smile, and Jared mostly feels inadequate; it's a feeling he's used to. He wonders what he's apologizing for. Falling in love with someone else, not having the courage to do anything about it. For leaving, ignoring her, needing her?
She's still so beautiful. He wants to erase the sadness stamped across her face. He wants to get away from her. "I've been calling you about the divorce papers," she says after a moment, voice gone a little wobbly. "You still need to sign them."
Jared nods, his eyesight a little fuzzy. "Tomorrow," he promises, "I'll take 'em to my lawyer."
When he's fully dressed and standing at her front door, he takes time to notice things he hadn't before. She's thinner, hair cut severely to her chin in a way that makes her eyes look bigger. There's a black and white photograph of a sunrise hanging on her wall.
"Jensen said you were staying with him," Sandy says, small hand on the door when Jared steps outside. He nods. He's got the keys to Jensen's truck in his hand.
She asks, "Have you told him?" and he remains quiet, bending to kiss her cheek. It's soft beneath his mouth. "It's not like you to lie about your feelings," Sandy says, when he straightens back up.
"Take care, Sandy," he says, as he walks down the driveway. It's dark now, and he puts the headlights on to drive home.
The kitchen's clean when he gets there, though the house is night-quiet. A note from Jensen sits on the counter. Left over pizza in the fridge, Jackass. Anchovies like I know you hate.
Jared piles three cold slices onto a plate, takes them unheated toward the bedrooms, and stands outside Jensen's closed door. He can’t hear anything but the hum of the air-conditioning.
*
Supernatural was still airing in many parts of the world. It was odd to flip on the TV alone in a big hotel room in Australia and see his and Jensen's faces pouting out of it, Technicolor.
It was like some crazy sense memory, watching old episodes, how scents came back, how he remembered what he'd eaten that day (mini roast beef sandwiches from Craft services and a bag of Redvines that Jensen had thrown at him in the makeup trailer). Kim'd directed this episode, and the young female victim of the week hadn't been remotely phased by Jared and Jensen's celebrity. She'd fallen right into place with them, bantering back and forth, and when she walked away, both Jared and Jensen had watched the swish of her blond hair and the sway of her narrow hips.
After the final shoot, scene number four where Dean and Sam spent the whole time arguing in the Impala, he remembered the way Jensen had looked at him, terrible, happy pride in his eyes, the way Jensen had said, "Damn, man, when did you fucking get good on me?" and had punched him in the shoulder.
He remembered it was right there, tired in the passenger seat of stationary Impala number three, a place he'd sat over one hundred times, that he'd felt it blossom in his chest, quick and entirely unbidden, the happiness, sick and wrong and fantastic.
*
His shoes squeak on the polished hardwood floor. Chad aims, and Jared jumps up, easy block, though Chad's a scrappy little dude, and he gets the rebound.
"What're you doin' after this?" Chad pants, going first right and then left, aiming again.
"I gotta swing by the grocery store; we're out of toilet paper," Jared says, again blocking Chad's shot, and this time palming the ball before Chad can get it back.
Chad looks at him. "You ever think of finding a place of your own?'
Jared squints his eyes against the sweat stinging them, dribbling slowly, bent down low. "Of course. I mean, I am."
"You've been living with Jensen for over a month now," Chad reminds him, moving in and checking him with his shoulder.
"It takes a while to - oof - find a house."
Chad steals the ball, this time making an easy lay up. "Eat it, bitch," he crows, passing the ball to Jared. "I just don't want to see you get your heart broken."
Jared says, "It's not like that. Me n' Jen aren't like that," as he wipes his hand along his forehead.
"So you two worked your shit out, then?"
"Dude, there's nothing to work out." Jared squints one eye and lines up the ball. It falls easily through the swishing net.
"No? It seemed like there was," Chad says, bouncing the basketball loudly.
"Like how?"
Chad clutches the basketball in his hands. "It's kinda weird, is all. You leaving Sandy -"
"Technically, Sandy left me - "
"Whatever." He throws, makes the shot. "You and Sandy split up, and you take off, and apparently can't even bother to answer Jensen's emails, and when he picks you up from the airport - "
"Thanks for that, by the way - "
Chad ignores him. "When he picks you up, he takes you in like some stray animal, and now you two are acting like Bert and Ernie."
Jared huffs out an indignant laugh, shrugs with one shoulder as he dribbles the ball. He's breathing hard. "He's my buddy. Just 'cause we're not touchy feely all the time doesn't mean he's not gonna be there for me. I'd do it for you."
"Yeah, but I'd never pull this kind of shit."
Jared snorts, fakes left, then right, and shoots a lay up. It bounces off the rim.
Chad smirks and reaches out a hand to get the rebound. "I wouldn't." He meets Jared's eyes. "At least I'm honest about shit - even if I screw it up royally, people know where I stand."
Chad stops bouncing the ball, clutches it in his hands, and looks at Jared. "I know you, JT. I have for over ten years. You've been different now for awhile - "
"How so?"
"You've been quieter, less happy - "
"That's called growing up."
"No," Chad argues. "It's called being sad."
Jared says nothing, just looks at Chad, breathing hard.
"You know," says Chad, throwing the ball at Jared. He catches it against his chest. "Even if you go all Richard Simmons, I'll still hang out with you and kick your ass at Halo."
Jared throws the ball back, watches Chad shoot and score, nothing but net.
*
Sandy left one week ahead of schedule. There was no screaming match, no vases broken, no long, drawn out goodbye. It was quiet and calm - maybe dignified was the right word - a lot like Sandy herself. She'd just said, "You're not giving me what I want anymore, and we both know I can't give you what you need." They'd always agreed they would never drag things out if they were both unhappy. Jared felt guilty for not trying harder, but he couldn't do much more than put up a perfunctory argument and tell her honestly that he'd miss her. It was only then that he saw real tears in her eyes.
He'd spent the weekend holed up in his house, taking the dogs for long walks, and spending the evenings alone beneath a lifeless sky. He chugged year-old Blueberry schnapps, feeling like a girl and unable to stop searching for meaning in the constellations.
In the truck on Monday morning, Jensen had taken one look at him and frowned.
"Damn, you doin' okay, dude?"
Jared looked at Jensen. He had crazy long eyelashes, the kind most girls would kill for - how was it that Jared had never noticed that before? He glanced away, watched the sun start its slow crawl up. Too much rain had left the air saturated and hazy. Heat blossomed in his chest, clawed up his throat. There were three weeks left, and then Supernatural was finished. Forever.
Jared said, "Golden - just tired."
It was obvious he was lying, but Jared was grateful when Jensen let it go and instead handed him a coffee made sweet with sugar and cream.
*
He finds a real estate agent. Jensen insists he wait to go look at houses until his day off, and then he mostly makes a nuisance out of himself, clucking his tongue and commenting on the bad foundations of every house they check out. The agent - Karen - watches them first with a curious light in her eyes, that's all but dead by house number eight. She doesn’t even bother arguing with Jensen this time, just says, "I'll leave you two to look around," and heads outside to talk on her cell, presumably to complain about her prima-donna clients.
Jared looks at Jensen. "So what's wrong with this one?" he demands.
Jensen glances around. "The rooms are kinda small, aren’t they?" He wrinkles his nose. "And what's that smell?"
"I don't smell anything."
Jensen sniffs again. "No? It's like a cross between cat piss and, I dunno, vinegar."
Jared rolls his eyes. "You're completely insane, you know that? Also, you're pissing Karen off."
"She'll get over it. God, you seriously don't smell that?"
Jared ignores him, peering into a roomy cabinet off the kitchen. He glances out the bay window. There's a huge back deck, a hot tub. "It looks really nice. How much did she say this place cost again?" He leaves Jensen standing in the bright yellow kitchen, with its shiny new appliances and its high ceilings, going in search of Karen.
"Wait," Jensen calls, just when Jared's reached the front door. Jensen rounds the corner, coming to a stop in front of Jared. "Just - you don't want to rush this, right?"
He looks at Jensen again. Really looks at him. His eyes are wide, green like grass after a hard rain, and there's color in his cheeks, like he's got a fever.
Jared feels something uncurl in his belly, something warm and liquid. He nods. "Okay, yeah," he says quietly. "I'll sit on it for a few days."
He schedules another appointment with Karen for the next week, but calls to cancel before the day is over, citing the fact that he needs more time.
She doesn't even sound disappointed.
*
He checked his gmail account at least four times a day. The inbox number grew. He'd had four Tasman Bitters, strong and dark, and he was feeling just this side of not tipsy, kinda brave. Into the search box he typed Jensen, pulling up hundreds of emails from the past few years, many of them ridiculous forwards, some of them exhaustive details on Jensen's days that he sent with the intent of simultaneously annoying Jared and keeping him informed of Jensen's life while on hiatus.
The last twelve emails, sent over the past three weeks, were all unopened.
Jared clicked on the latest. It just read, dude, you ever gonna talk to me again?!?, and through his buzzy haze, Jared's first thought was that Jensen must be getting a little desperate. He was usually somewhat (okay, a lot) anal about proper punctuation in technology, to the point where Jared didn't even send text messages anymore without first proof reading them.
Jared clicked that email shut. He opened the first unanswered message, sent just two days after he'd boarded a plane taking him away from Vancouver. It began, Jared, I can't even begin to understand what's going through your mind right now, dude, but I wish you would at least be honest with me. Was this a last minute freak out thing, or was it something else? Would you please call me? I'm fucking worried about you -
Jared shut the message. He closed his laptop, went to watch a cloudless sky from his balcony.
*
Things change after that. Jared switches his mailing address to Jensen's place, because he's sick of going to the post office. His agent starts sending scripts there, rather than having Jared make the trek all the way to his office.
Jared reads them, sitting on Jensen's black leather couch, with the stereo on low and Jensen's leg pressed against him. It's another routine they fall into, easy, comfortable, dinner in front of the TV, sitting next to each other not mentioning the elephant that is their growing attraction. Tonight, Jensen actually makes meatloaf, his mom's recipe, complete with ketchup slopped over the top of it, and they eat on round white plates, their feet kicked up on the glass coffee table. The Patriots are playing the Lions on ESPN, and neither of them are terrifically invested in the game.
Jared scrapes his fork along his plate, smirking when Jensen winces at the scratch of metal against porcelain, and says, "Dude," all disgruntled and annoyed.
"Sorry," Jared chirps.
"Sure you are," Jensen says, though his eyes are dancing. He shoves his plate at Jared. "Clean this up, bitch."
"Since when did I become the maid in all of this?"
"Well," Jensen reasons, a smile stretching his cheeks, "I'm the bread winner in this relationship, so that makes you the kept woman."
"You better hope no feminists catch wind of your gender stereo-types, man," Jared says sagely, unfolding himself from the couch.
"Hey, I made dinner," Jensen protests.
"Good too," Jared says.
"I would never have guessed you liked it," Jensen deadpans, "what with all those sounds you were making."
Jared feels his grin go liquid. "They turn you on?" he teases. His back pops when he stretches, and he looks down to see Jensen watching the strip of skin revealed by his shirt shifting up.
Jensen glances up, meets his eyes. He smiles, and there's heat in his eyes.
Something warm unfurls in Jared's belly. He looks away, whistling as he makes his way to the kitchen.
*
It happened at the airport, which was incredibly cliché, true, but hey, for all intents and purposes, he and Jensen were Hollywood, whether they liked it or not, and maybe that meant doing the cliché thing every now and again.
"You're sure you're gonna be okay with this?" Jensen asked, eyebrows scrunched together with worry.
"Dude, I'm 29," Jared reminded him. "I think I can handle a vacation on my own."
Jensen didn't look convinced. It was early morning, and very few people flew at this hour, so the place was mostly deserted, only the Starbucks and McDonalds even open at four AM.
Jensen said, "You'll call once you arrive?" and Jared nodded, trying to restrain from rolling his eyes. "And you really don't know when you're coming back?"
Jared shook his head. "I just need to get out for awhile. To see…things."
"Be careful," Jensen commanded.
"Dude," Jared said, "stop acting like my mom."
"It's just - " Jensen scratched at the back of his neck. "You've seemed weird lately, and with Sandy not going with you, this is just… Maybe I can get some time off."
"You have work," Jared reminded him.
"I know, but - "
"Jensen," Jared said.
Under the buzzing neon lights of the airport, Jensen had looked up at him. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and stubble on his chin. He clutched a huge cup of coffee. His lips were molten red. Jared leaned forward.
Later, strapped into the seat on the plane, he would tell himself it had happened because it was early, he'd been tired, his defenses down. The truth was that he'd been resisting the urge for weeks now, maybe months, even though it felt like years, and he was just sick of shoving it aside.
Beneath his mouth, Jensen's lips stayed shut. He didn’t pull away, but he didn't press in closer, and Jared thought maybe he was frozen in shock. Jared smelled Jensen's after-shave, the coffee on his breath.
Jared pulled away. Jensen looked at him with wide, confused eyes, and Jared felt his cheeks go red, felt heat sweep across his neck, his shoulders.
He said, "I gotta go. Good luck with your movie," and he turned to walk toward his gate. He didn't look back to see if Jensen was staring after him.
*
The night was spent at one of Steve's gigs, and Jared had looked over at least four times during the last two hours to notice Jensen's attention on him, his gaze warm and green. He'd licked his lips once, an experiment, and Jensen eyes had tracked the movement. It made heat and anticipation pool in his belly.
He sits at the bar, nursing a Blue Moon. Two girls - one with blond pigtails and one with purple nail polish - ask to have their picture taken with him, and he smiles big and bright, wraps his arms around them both. After, Jensen comes up behind him and places a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Coward," Jared says.
Jensen smirks. "Do you think they're gone?"
"I doubt they'll come back and ask for your autograph," Jared tells him. "But I can chase 'em down if you're feeling neglected."
Jensen smiles. His hand is still on Jared's shoulder, burning into him. Jared takes a shallow sip of his beer, and it candies the hot little ache in his stomach.
"I think I'll live," Jensen says. Their eyes meet. Jensen says, "You wanna get outa here?"
Jared swallows, nods, and watches Jensen's cheeks flush.
The taxi ride home is fifteen minutes of strained conversation. Jared's hyper-aware of Jensen's warm thigh pressed against his, of his Jensen-smell, sandalwood and beer, filling the backseat. He thrusts a twenty at the driver before Jensen can protest.
He uses his key to open the front door. Jensen flips on the light switch. The house is quiet. Jared can count three pairs of his shoes all sitting in the entryway. The closet holds all of his winter jackets, and the bedroom down the hall has his Scarface poster on the wall.
He throws his keys in the basket next to the vase of fake orchids. His Visa bill sits unopened next to the electricity bill.
Jensen's just standing there, watching him with bright eyes. Jared feels like he's got plastic wrap stretched around his chest, like he just ate a big bar of dark chocolate and downed three espressos.
Outside, the night is calm, dark. Inside, warm light shines on everything. He meets Jensen's eyes, and a smile blossoms, unbidden. "Hey."
Jensen's eyes crinkle. His teeth are white and straight. "Hi."
Jared says, "So," and Jensen says, "Oh, fuck it, dude," and just as Jared bends his head, Jensen tilts up, and their lips meet. There's nothing chaste about it, nothing awkward. Mouths open immediately. Jared licks into Jensen's mouth, steps fully into him so that their chests are flush, and he scraps half-bitten nails against Jensen's scalp, just to feel him shiver against him. Heat spirals in Jared's gut, but there's something comfortable there, as well.
He coaxes Jensen's head to the side, getting a deeper angle, sliding his tongue along the top row of Jensen's teeth, feeling Jensen rumble in approval, the sound sparking against him. Jared gets his hand between Jensen and the wall. He runs it down hard muscle, finally settling in small of Jensen's back. Jensen tastes like beer and need; he smells like cigarettes and aftershave. Jared breathes in deep, slotting their hips together. He bites at Jensen's lower lip before running his tongue along it, and Jensen keens in the back of his throat, the sound needy and desperate and vulnerable. Jared's eyesight goes a little fuzzy. He pulls away, just for a minute.
And just looks at Jensen, black irises so large they're just rimmed with green, cheeks full of color. Their eyes hold. Jared knows his grin goes a little loopy, a lot ridiculous, but he can’t help the happy bubble that fills up his chest.
He leans in again. "When?" he breathes, mouth so close to Jensen's that he can feel their lips ghost together, can feel the huff of breath when Jensen laughs.
"I don't know, dude," Jensen rumbles, nipping lightly at Jared's mouth and keeping his hands on Jared's hips. "When you kissed me, before that…when I picked you up from the airport."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Jensen pulls away and levels his gaze at him. "This isn’t exactly a decision to treat lightly, and the last time you kissed me, you ignored me for seven months."
Jared glances down, watches his thumb sweep across the tan skin just above Jensen's waistband.
"Yeah, well…"
"You were gone for a long time," Jensen says.
"I was looking for something." Jared blinks, looks up to meet Jensen's eyes.
"Did you find it?"
Jared feels a smile stretch his face. He says, "Turns out it was right in front of me the whole time."
*
End.