Jensen/Jared RPS -- Yet Untitled
Title: (yet untitled)
ideas for title gladly accepted... taking votes and input now! Don't be shy!
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted... I am writing on this, but really, it took on a mind/life of it's own, and it's sorta festering at upset!Jared and a Jensen who's entirely unsure what to do... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
The "Paddywhack Approved" logo at the bottom is courtesy of la_folle_allure
Summary: Jared's breaking down. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: none
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Chapter Three: Maintaining the Status Quo
Rating: R, for language mostly
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but not yet
Word Count: 2,574
Maintaining the Status Quo
Jared and I drive to the set together after waking with mild curses and groans, and coffee from the local Starbucks that’s a block away from my apartment building. Jared got the coffee, I made breakfast-pop tarts.
Jared picked at his, and I swore to kill him when he threw out more than he ate. Pop tarts are the food of the Gods. Along with gummis, good Texas steak, and all things deep-fried.
He wears my hoodie after stepping into the brisk Vancouver air with a muttered “Fuck!” at six in the morning, and makes me stop at Starbucks again before we get on the highway, where I floor the pedal, watching as the needle on the speedometer climbs higher and higher. I hit cruise control when we hit eighty-five. There’s nobody else on the road at this hour, not even the cops.
Jared plays with the tuner on the radio, flipping from Kid Rock to the news (we’re going to have a clear and cold day, with a high chance of rain tonight into tomorrow) and over to the Stones on the classic rock station. He settles on that, and we both sing along, horribly out of tune, to “Laugh, I Nearly Died”.
The set is buzzing with early-morning activity when we arrive, camera crews pushing heavy equipment around, setting up different trailers, different sets. Costume crews accost me, pull me into the outfitting trailer and hand me worn Levis and a stained Hanes tee. I don’t know why they bother-it’s all I wear anyway. I guess they don’t think Dean Winchester would wear Armani.
I shake my head when Cindy tells Jared (jokingly) that his lack of sleep lately is great for her job security, because she hardly has to do any work with the makeup to give Sam a tired, worn-down and hollowed out look. Her tone is playful, but I wish she hadn’t said what she did-I know Jared hasn’t been sleeping or eating well the past few days, and it concerns me a little.
Eric sticks with the scenes he’d initially planned on filming today, doesn’t switch in what we missed on Saturday, telling us we’ll make it up another day instead. Part of me is happy about it-makes it easier for Jared and I to stay in character, makes it easier for us just because we know what’s next, and because Kripke’s filming scenes in the order they’re going to appear in the final product, it’s also easier to get into character. The scenes flow, one to the next to the next, and before we know it, Kripke’s yelling “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
It’s lunch break, and as the camera crews roll off to unload rolls of film and captured tape, Jared and I collapse on the set couch with a glance at each other. It’s been a taxing day for us emotionally.
See, we’re acting, yes, but getting into character-really getting into character-is rough on any actor worth his salt. It puts you in a different frame of mind. You become someone else, almost, like you’re a snake, shedding his skin. For the time you’re on set, you’re not you, and sometimes it’s hard to get out of character at the end of the day-for the first week or so, Jared and I were practically living as Sam and Dean until we got used to the filming schedule, and the characters-it leaves you drained when filming is over, moreso when it’s scenes like Jared and I have had today.
Scenes with dad… scenes between Sam and Dean alone, developing the brother-brother relationship. Dean with red-rimmed eyes, barely holding back tears-and believe it or not, it’s harder to do that than it is to just cry. Sam, uncomfortable and uneasy… expressionless and empty, tired.
It’s easier for Jared, because he hasn’t been sleeping, and the dark and hollow look is something he carries with him off-set as well. I sink down next to him on the worn gray couch, arms sprawled out to my sides. Jared lies in a heap of long limbs and baggy clothes, and it’s hard to tell if they were meant to be as baggy as they are or not-I know he hasn’t eaten much in the last two days, and before that, I only have the evidence of rank take-out breakfast and rice.
“How long were you in the trailer?” I ask, still thinking about the way the olive shirt hangs on bony shoulders, the way Aeropostale jeans fall around knobby knees and shaky legs, belt cinched tight around a stick-figure waist.
Jared just looks at me. “What?” He asks, finally.
“How long were you in the trailer?” I repeat, then, to clarify, add, “…days… after Sandy kicked you out.”
“Oh. Four or five?” Jared says it like it’s nothing.
I’m floored. “Four or five?”
Jared looks at me, shutters going down over the light in blue-green eyes, and I’m not sure if it’s the mention of Sandy’s name that did it, or the shock in my voice when I repeat how long he’s spent in the trailer. Regardless of which it was, I’ve put him on the defensive.
“It’s not inhospitable, Jensen.”
I shake my head. “No, I know… but…” I say nothing about what he has and hasn’t eaten. It’s not really my place, despite the bond we share, I figure. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.
“C’mon, dude. I could use a coffee.” Jared stands, stretches limb by limb, arms, then legs, carefully rolling his shoulders and cracking his back. “…that couch of yours is fucking brutal, Jen.”
I smile at the easy use of my nickname, falling into place like it belongs at the end of his sentences. “You’re the ass who slept there.”
Just like nothing happened. I shake my head. Typical Jared-he’s not a brooder. Just the opposite of his character, Sam. Also, in a fashion that is directly opposite of his character, Jared doesn’t like to talk-not about the important stuff anyway. He’ll shoot the breeze all day-small talk and the like about the weather, and the game last night, the hot girl at the bar, and isn’t that skirt just a little too short? Stuff like that. But he’s tight as a clam when it comes to the stuff that matters.
Thing is though, there are times he gets quiet-usually when something’s bugging him, and he’ll make some comment about the shoot or about the shirt he bought last night at the mall just to make it seem like he’s okay-and he won’t make a peep about what’s really on his mind, especially when he really needs to talk about it. He told me once that was something he really loved about Sandra-she could always tell when he needed to talk and when he needed to work it out on his own, and if it was the former, she’d pester him until he talked.
I haven’t learned to tell the difference yet, though, so in typical Dean fashion, I go with the flow, and accept Jared’s weak attempt to get back to the status quo. Even if I could tell the difference, I don’t know that I’d keep at him until he talked-it’s not my way. I’ll listen if you’ve got something to say, but I’m not going to make you say it. Also, I don’t need to talk about things. The less chick-flick moments, the better. Type-casting at it’s finest.
Jared punches my arm, not lightly, and we drag our tired bodies from the set, out into the bright Vancouver sun of early afternoon. There’s a stiltedness between us that wasn’t there before, but for the first time since I dragged him to my apartment, things feel like they might be settling back to normal, or at the very least on the path towards getting back to normal... And as I trail behind Jared, watching his lanky body lope along dust-ridden ground, I can almost believe things are going to work out okay.
I gulp down a chicken salad sandwich and a bottle of water, and watch as Jared nurses a cup of the sludge the cafeteria trailer (we call it the ‘grease hall’) calls coffee. He claims he’s not hungry, and I’m not in the mood to argue with him-he’s touchy at best, easily set off at worst, and the filming schedule the rest of the day is going to be more of the same-thick emotion and barely masked tears, with a few action sequences thrown in. I look forward to the action sequences, even though Kripke’s hell-bent on some close-up camera angles in them, which means no stunt-doubles and a lot of bruises for Jared and me.
There’s not much spoken between us beyond shop talk, and when I say I’m going to take him to a bar or a club-we’ll pick up women and it’ll be fun-to get him back on the horse, it’s he who gets up and heads back towards the set after re-filling his cup with the sorry excuse for coffee the grease hall offers. I follow, and it hits me as I pass the make-up trailer, hands shoved in my pants pockets, that it probably doesn’t look like Jared and I are walking back together. We look like two people who’ve never met, who just happen to be walking the same path to get somewhere.
That it occurs to me at all is surprising. That it seems important is more surprising. It makes me stop, watch as he walks towards the camera crew and milling groups of fans and screaming girls.
He has a lilt to his step-I’d almost call it a limp-that only becomes noticeable if he’s running long distances or stressed. I’d asked him about it one day and he seemed surprised I noticed. Kripke’s never seen it. Sandy never has either. It’s remnant of an old ranching injury, back when he wanted to be a cowboy, or so he tells me. He hides it well, but sometimes it’s obvious, like it is now.
I watch, think girly thoughts about why the limp is noticeable now, and about his trouble sleeping, lack of appetite. I wonder how long it’ll take for anyone show-related to pick up on it-if he’ll lose enough weight where it’ll become noticeable to others, even on his naturally bony frame, or if the dark circles won’t one day, be able to be covered by Cindy’s makeup magic. I shake off the thought of talking to him, smile and shake my head-it’s been a long time I’ve cared for anyone to think so much about them or their well being.
Back on set, Kripke shouts directions, Cindy touches up the bruise on my temple and the blood that trickles down the corner of my mouth. Jared’s already sprawled out on the dusty wooden floor of today’s set, getting direction on when and how he should roll to his right, a demonstration on shooting the prop gun from our hired firearms expert, and a reminder from Kripke that he’s supposed to be injured during all of this, so he can’t be moving that fast. Jared nods in understanding.
Meanwhile, I finish with Cindy, and take my spot by the door-as usual, Dean makes the timely, last-minute “rescue”, though this time he shows up just in time to see Sam with a smoking gun in hand, and a dead creature lying on top of him.
We film the scene eight times. The first time, I screw up. The second time, Kripke just doesn’t like the way it looks on screen. Jared fucks up the third time, doesn’t play like he’s previously injured. Then the make-up isn’t to Kripke’s liking and Cindy agrees. They run out of film and that turns into a half-hour break for all involved.
Finally we’re back on, ready to go. Cindy does final touch-ups, things look good, and Kripke tells us it’ll be the last scene of the day, so once we get it right, we can go home
“Sam!” I yell, bursting through the rickety wooden door. Sam-Jared-lies on the floor, breathing heavily, gun smoking. His eyes are wide, there’s blood on the corner of his mouth and his hand is shaking. He drops the gun as I hurry over to pull the hairy mass of dead monster from his body, and I already know something’s wrong-his “acting” was too spot-on. He’s good, but the blood wasn’t there before, and I don’t think Cindy added it as a last-minute touch up.
Jared’s hand is still shaking as Kripke yells, “Cut! Cut!”, tells us we were perfect, and “That’s a wrap!” He claps his hands, and the cameras start moving out, Cindy packs up her bag of touch-up equipment to bring it back to the makeup trailer and the place clears out, leaving just the two of us on the dusty set. It’s night-time now, time to go home. It all happens at once.
“Jare?” I don’t like the way my voice sounds-low and skittish, shaky in a way it shouldn’t be. I’m still half in-character, still riding high on the emotions of one Dean Winchester.
He smiles. “Scene’s over.” He says with a small laugh, but I know he understands. I can still see the veil Sam keeps over his emotions hiding Jared’s eyes, and Jared’s voice is still light and teasing, softer than it usually is, or at least softer than what I’ve come to know from him outside of the small world of our own that we call “Lawrence, Kansas.”
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
“No… definitely not.” He laughs lightly and knocks a fist into my arm, and then he falls back, lets out a breath that hangs heavy in the air between us. “Come on.” He finally says, reaching up a hand to me.
I pull him none too gently to his feet, and clap his shoulder, noting the blood on the floor. I don’t let go of his hand as he moves away from me.
“Jared.”
He yanks his hand from mine. “It’s nothing. Just a cut-not like the time I broke my hand, huh?”
I smile. “No, not like that…” I trail off, remembering that scene from an early episode of our show. He’d broken his hand on the set, buried the pain until we’d finished filming, and it took both Kripke and me to get him to admit that, yeah, the rest of the day off from filming would be helpful, and it took me another two hours and five beers to admit that he should probably stop by the ER of the local hospital. “So you comin’ back to my place tonight?”
“I dunno.” He nervously shuffles his weight from leg to leg, runs a hand through his long hair. “I uh…”
“Where the hell else you gonna go, Jare?” I ask, then sigh heavily. “Look, you know where the spare key is. If you need a place to crash, come by.”
Jared nods once, watches as I walk into my trailer, reach for a jacket and my keys. He says nothing though, not even when I close and lock the flimsy metal door, or walk across well-trod grass towards the parking lot beyond the trees.
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ideas for title gladly accepted... taking votes and input now! Don't be shy!
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted... I am writing on this, but really, it took on a mind/life of it's own, and it's sorta festering at upset!Jared and a Jensen who's entirely unsure what to do... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
The "Paddywhack Approved" logo at the bottom is courtesy of la_folle_allure
Summary: Jared's breaking down. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: none
-------------------------
Chapter Three: Maintaining the Status Quo
Rating: R, for language mostly
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but not yet
Word Count: 2,574
Maintaining the Status Quo
Jared and I drive to the set together after waking with mild curses and groans, and coffee from the local Starbucks that’s a block away from my apartment building. Jared got the coffee, I made breakfast-pop tarts.
Jared picked at his, and I swore to kill him when he threw out more than he ate. Pop tarts are the food of the Gods. Along with gummis, good Texas steak, and all things deep-fried.
He wears my hoodie after stepping into the brisk Vancouver air with a muttered “Fuck!” at six in the morning, and makes me stop at Starbucks again before we get on the highway, where I floor the pedal, watching as the needle on the speedometer climbs higher and higher. I hit cruise control when we hit eighty-five. There’s nobody else on the road at this hour, not even the cops.
Jared plays with the tuner on the radio, flipping from Kid Rock to the news (we’re going to have a clear and cold day, with a high chance of rain tonight into tomorrow) and over to the Stones on the classic rock station. He settles on that, and we both sing along, horribly out of tune, to “Laugh, I Nearly Died”.
The set is buzzing with early-morning activity when we arrive, camera crews pushing heavy equipment around, setting up different trailers, different sets. Costume crews accost me, pull me into the outfitting trailer and hand me worn Levis and a stained Hanes tee. I don’t know why they bother-it’s all I wear anyway. I guess they don’t think Dean Winchester would wear Armani.
I shake my head when Cindy tells Jared (jokingly) that his lack of sleep lately is great for her job security, because she hardly has to do any work with the makeup to give Sam a tired, worn-down and hollowed out look. Her tone is playful, but I wish she hadn’t said what she did-I know Jared hasn’t been sleeping or eating well the past few days, and it concerns me a little.
Eric sticks with the scenes he’d initially planned on filming today, doesn’t switch in what we missed on Saturday, telling us we’ll make it up another day instead. Part of me is happy about it-makes it easier for Jared and I to stay in character, makes it easier for us just because we know what’s next, and because Kripke’s filming scenes in the order they’re going to appear in the final product, it’s also easier to get into character. The scenes flow, one to the next to the next, and before we know it, Kripke’s yelling “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
It’s lunch break, and as the camera crews roll off to unload rolls of film and captured tape, Jared and I collapse on the set couch with a glance at each other. It’s been a taxing day for us emotionally.
See, we’re acting, yes, but getting into character-really getting into character-is rough on any actor worth his salt. It puts you in a different frame of mind. You become someone else, almost, like you’re a snake, shedding his skin. For the time you’re on set, you’re not you, and sometimes it’s hard to get out of character at the end of the day-for the first week or so, Jared and I were practically living as Sam and Dean until we got used to the filming schedule, and the characters-it leaves you drained when filming is over, moreso when it’s scenes like Jared and I have had today.
Scenes with dad… scenes between Sam and Dean alone, developing the brother-brother relationship. Dean with red-rimmed eyes, barely holding back tears-and believe it or not, it’s harder to do that than it is to just cry. Sam, uncomfortable and uneasy… expressionless and empty, tired.
It’s easier for Jared, because he hasn’t been sleeping, and the dark and hollow look is something he carries with him off-set as well. I sink down next to him on the worn gray couch, arms sprawled out to my sides. Jared lies in a heap of long limbs and baggy clothes, and it’s hard to tell if they were meant to be as baggy as they are or not-I know he hasn’t eaten much in the last two days, and before that, I only have the evidence of rank take-out breakfast and rice.
“How long were you in the trailer?” I ask, still thinking about the way the olive shirt hangs on bony shoulders, the way Aeropostale jeans fall around knobby knees and shaky legs, belt cinched tight around a stick-figure waist.
Jared just looks at me. “What?” He asks, finally.
“How long were you in the trailer?” I repeat, then, to clarify, add, “…days… after Sandy kicked you out.”
“Oh. Four or five?” Jared says it like it’s nothing.
I’m floored. “Four or five?”
Jared looks at me, shutters going down over the light in blue-green eyes, and I’m not sure if it’s the mention of Sandy’s name that did it, or the shock in my voice when I repeat how long he’s spent in the trailer. Regardless of which it was, I’ve put him on the defensive.
“It’s not inhospitable, Jensen.”
I shake my head. “No, I know… but…” I say nothing about what he has and hasn’t eaten. It’s not really my place, despite the bond we share, I figure. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.
“C’mon, dude. I could use a coffee.” Jared stands, stretches limb by limb, arms, then legs, carefully rolling his shoulders and cracking his back. “…that couch of yours is fucking brutal, Jen.”
I smile at the easy use of my nickname, falling into place like it belongs at the end of his sentences. “You’re the ass who slept there.”
Just like nothing happened. I shake my head. Typical Jared-he’s not a brooder. Just the opposite of his character, Sam. Also, in a fashion that is directly opposite of his character, Jared doesn’t like to talk-not about the important stuff anyway. He’ll shoot the breeze all day-small talk and the like about the weather, and the game last night, the hot girl at the bar, and isn’t that skirt just a little too short? Stuff like that. But he’s tight as a clam when it comes to the stuff that matters.
Thing is though, there are times he gets quiet-usually when something’s bugging him, and he’ll make some comment about the shoot or about the shirt he bought last night at the mall just to make it seem like he’s okay-and he won’t make a peep about what’s really on his mind, especially when he really needs to talk about it. He told me once that was something he really loved about Sandra-she could always tell when he needed to talk and when he needed to work it out on his own, and if it was the former, she’d pester him until he talked.
I haven’t learned to tell the difference yet, though, so in typical Dean fashion, I go with the flow, and accept Jared’s weak attempt to get back to the status quo. Even if I could tell the difference, I don’t know that I’d keep at him until he talked-it’s not my way. I’ll listen if you’ve got something to say, but I’m not going to make you say it. Also, I don’t need to talk about things. The less chick-flick moments, the better. Type-casting at it’s finest.
Jared punches my arm, not lightly, and we drag our tired bodies from the set, out into the bright Vancouver sun of early afternoon. There’s a stiltedness between us that wasn’t there before, but for the first time since I dragged him to my apartment, things feel like they might be settling back to normal, or at the very least on the path towards getting back to normal... And as I trail behind Jared, watching his lanky body lope along dust-ridden ground, I can almost believe things are going to work out okay.
I gulp down a chicken salad sandwich and a bottle of water, and watch as Jared nurses a cup of the sludge the cafeteria trailer (we call it the ‘grease hall’) calls coffee. He claims he’s not hungry, and I’m not in the mood to argue with him-he’s touchy at best, easily set off at worst, and the filming schedule the rest of the day is going to be more of the same-thick emotion and barely masked tears, with a few action sequences thrown in. I look forward to the action sequences, even though Kripke’s hell-bent on some close-up camera angles in them, which means no stunt-doubles and a lot of bruises for Jared and me.
There’s not much spoken between us beyond shop talk, and when I say I’m going to take him to a bar or a club-we’ll pick up women and it’ll be fun-to get him back on the horse, it’s he who gets up and heads back towards the set after re-filling his cup with the sorry excuse for coffee the grease hall offers. I follow, and it hits me as I pass the make-up trailer, hands shoved in my pants pockets, that it probably doesn’t look like Jared and I are walking back together. We look like two people who’ve never met, who just happen to be walking the same path to get somewhere.
That it occurs to me at all is surprising. That it seems important is more surprising. It makes me stop, watch as he walks towards the camera crew and milling groups of fans and screaming girls.
He has a lilt to his step-I’d almost call it a limp-that only becomes noticeable if he’s running long distances or stressed. I’d asked him about it one day and he seemed surprised I noticed. Kripke’s never seen it. Sandy never has either. It’s remnant of an old ranching injury, back when he wanted to be a cowboy, or so he tells me. He hides it well, but sometimes it’s obvious, like it is now.
I watch, think girly thoughts about why the limp is noticeable now, and about his trouble sleeping, lack of appetite. I wonder how long it’ll take for anyone show-related to pick up on it-if he’ll lose enough weight where it’ll become noticeable to others, even on his naturally bony frame, or if the dark circles won’t one day, be able to be covered by Cindy’s makeup magic. I shake off the thought of talking to him, smile and shake my head-it’s been a long time I’ve cared for anyone to think so much about them or their well being.
Back on set, Kripke shouts directions, Cindy touches up the bruise on my temple and the blood that trickles down the corner of my mouth. Jared’s already sprawled out on the dusty wooden floor of today’s set, getting direction on when and how he should roll to his right, a demonstration on shooting the prop gun from our hired firearms expert, and a reminder from Kripke that he’s supposed to be injured during all of this, so he can’t be moving that fast. Jared nods in understanding.
Meanwhile, I finish with Cindy, and take my spot by the door-as usual, Dean makes the timely, last-minute “rescue”, though this time he shows up just in time to see Sam with a smoking gun in hand, and a dead creature lying on top of him.
We film the scene eight times. The first time, I screw up. The second time, Kripke just doesn’t like the way it looks on screen. Jared fucks up the third time, doesn’t play like he’s previously injured. Then the make-up isn’t to Kripke’s liking and Cindy agrees. They run out of film and that turns into a half-hour break for all involved.
Finally we’re back on, ready to go. Cindy does final touch-ups, things look good, and Kripke tells us it’ll be the last scene of the day, so once we get it right, we can go home
“Sam!” I yell, bursting through the rickety wooden door. Sam-Jared-lies on the floor, breathing heavily, gun smoking. His eyes are wide, there’s blood on the corner of his mouth and his hand is shaking. He drops the gun as I hurry over to pull the hairy mass of dead monster from his body, and I already know something’s wrong-his “acting” was too spot-on. He’s good, but the blood wasn’t there before, and I don’t think Cindy added it as a last-minute touch up.
Jared’s hand is still shaking as Kripke yells, “Cut! Cut!”, tells us we were perfect, and “That’s a wrap!” He claps his hands, and the cameras start moving out, Cindy packs up her bag of touch-up equipment to bring it back to the makeup trailer and the place clears out, leaving just the two of us on the dusty set. It’s night-time now, time to go home. It all happens at once.
“Jare?” I don’t like the way my voice sounds-low and skittish, shaky in a way it shouldn’t be. I’m still half in-character, still riding high on the emotions of one Dean Winchester.
He smiles. “Scene’s over.” He says with a small laugh, but I know he understands. I can still see the veil Sam keeps over his emotions hiding Jared’s eyes, and Jared’s voice is still light and teasing, softer than it usually is, or at least softer than what I’ve come to know from him outside of the small world of our own that we call “Lawrence, Kansas.”
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
“No… definitely not.” He laughs lightly and knocks a fist into my arm, and then he falls back, lets out a breath that hangs heavy in the air between us. “Come on.” He finally says, reaching up a hand to me.
I pull him none too gently to his feet, and clap his shoulder, noting the blood on the floor. I don’t let go of his hand as he moves away from me.
“Jared.”
He yanks his hand from mine. “It’s nothing. Just a cut-not like the time I broke my hand, huh?”
I smile. “No, not like that…” I trail off, remembering that scene from an early episode of our show. He’d broken his hand on the set, buried the pain until we’d finished filming, and it took both Kripke and me to get him to admit that, yeah, the rest of the day off from filming would be helpful, and it took me another two hours and five beers to admit that he should probably stop by the ER of the local hospital. “So you comin’ back to my place tonight?”
“I dunno.” He nervously shuffles his weight from leg to leg, runs a hand through his long hair. “I uh…”
“Where the hell else you gonna go, Jare?” I ask, then sigh heavily. “Look, you know where the spare key is. If you need a place to crash, come by.”
Jared nods once, watches as I walk into my trailer, reach for a jacket and my keys. He says nothing though, not even when I close and lock the flimsy metal door, or walk across well-trod grass towards the parking lot beyond the trees.
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