Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky (Jensen/Jared RPS) -- 8/? (WIP)
Title: Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / OFC
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.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
-------------------------
Chapter Eight: What is Gone is Over
Rating: R for language; minor violence
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but… no, still not yet, and it’s not getting any closer either…
Word Count: 2,859
What is Gone is Over
Morning finds it still raining-slower now, and the thunder and lightning have all but stopped-and finds me between sleep and awareness on the couch, legs uncomfortably bent and neck tilted to one side. My entire body is stiff. The couch is great, and it’s comfortable-for watching television, playing video games, even a quickie or (especially) a blow job-but not for sleeping. It’s not long enough, not deep enough, and the cushions are a little too soft, re-shape to fit your body a little too much.
I stretch slowly, one limb at a time, working out the kinks, wincing when I get to my neck.
Mid-roll, I see Jared walking up the hallway, and when I say walking, I mean it loosely. He’s dragging his feet, his eyes are half-closed, his face is still pale, and his long limbs appear out of proportion to his slumped figure. He seems desperately un-coordinated.
“Jared…” I whisper his name, so low he probably doesn’t hear me. Louder, I offer, “Jared… we gotta talk, man.”
“There’s nothing to say.” His voice is dead, completely devoid of emotion as he moves towards the door. He pauses. “You don’t want me here. I’ll go.”
.“Jared, you can’t go.” I say it quietly, but there’s no hiding the soft shock in my voice. He probably thinks I’m going to let him walk out the front door. He can’t be more wrong. He’s sick. He needs to rest. He needs to eat. We need to talk. He can’t just… leave.
“Why not? I mean, wouldn’t that make this easier? A clean break?” He asks, hand on the doorknob. His eyes droop, and his face is pale, in direct and shocking contrast to his ruddy cheeks. He slept through the night and he still looks drained and tired. Exhausted and weak.
“Jared…” I sigh, getting up and walking towards him. “Jared.”
I reach out to him when he falters, leans against the doorjamb. He shrinks away from my touch. “It’s obvious you don’t want me around, Jensen. Look… We work together… Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”
“As if it’s not hard enough already.” I mutter under my breath, and immediately regret it.
He stands up straighter, and for a minute, his voice is what it used to be-strong, and with presence. “See? That’s what I mean, Jensen!” And then the presence is gone. He returns to leaning on the wall, sighs heavily, as though resigned, the fight-whatever fight he had-has left him. “Just… I’ll go…” He holds up his hand to me, but doesn’t look at me when I open my mouth. “Let me go, Jensen.”
“Jared!” I raise my voice. “Jared, that’s ridiculous. No matter what happens, you’re still my friend.”
He raises tired, sad and sick eyes to mine and offers a tight-lipped smile before saying, very quietly, “That’s not good enough anymore, Jensen…” Use of my full name. I miss the way my nickname-my shortened name, Jen-sounds coming from him, and something tightens in my chest at his words and how they’re spoken.
Before I can reply, he’s turned his back to me, and is dragging his body downstairs. He even closes the door behind him. I’m shocked into stillness-I watch him leave, and make no move to stop him. I’m helpless to.
I lean against the door, my entire body sagging until I slide to the floor and rest my head in my hands, elbows on my drawn-up knees. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s best if we just have a break… we’ve been spending a lot of time together, especially since his breakup with Sandy, and now, with the recent revelations of his sexuality…
I’m admittedly uncomfortable around him. I don’t know what to say, what to do… If things weren’t any different… if it was just the breakup, and he were sick, he’d be holed up in my guest bedroom without even asking, sucking down my Ny-Quil and tea, not replacing either of them once he got better. I’d be checking on him, pestering him until he came out of the bedroom to the living room and played Halo with me, ate some chicken soup, and put honey and lemon in his tea.
He’d jokingly tell me to stop acting like his mother, but he’d say thank you later on, and I’d laugh and tell him I’m a good actor.
I’d give him a noogie when he felt better, was up and around. Tell him to replace the box of tea, but he wouldn’t, and we’d wrestle until my living room was destroyed or until Sandy called or showed up and rolled her eyes with her hands on her hips. ‘Boys will be boys’, she’d say, and we’d smile, because what else could we do?
But things are different. Between us. Jared is broken, perhaps irreparably so, and I am not blind enough, nor selfish enough, to think that I am without blame for that. But, similarly, I refuse to shoulder all the blame.
And Jared is off on his own in the chilly Vancouver rain, without a jacket, in cold, still-wet boots, a pair of sweatpants and a teeshirt,
My phone rings, shrill and sharp from the living room. I don’t want to answer it, don’t want to pick up, don’t want to even know who’s calling unless it’s Jared-who I know it’s not, because I gave him ‘Somewhere Out There’ by Our Lady Peace as a ring tone. I slowly stand up when the phone doesn’t stop ringing, just continues, high-pitched and getting more annoying by the second. My caller ID shows Jared’s home number, which means it’s definitely not someone I want to talk to-likely Megan, because I know Jared gave her my cell number for some reason that I probably thought to be reasonable at the time.
I guess Jared’s not answering his phone again.
I sigh, sit down on the sofa, lean my head back and close my eyes. This can’t go on. Something’s got to give. Jared’s sick, and we-he and I-have to-have to-talk… I push myself off the couch, step into a pair of shoes, and slide into a readily available jacket, taking my hoodie from the chair where Jared left it last night-he’s sure to be cold with just a tee shirt-and head out the front door after grabbing my keys.
“Jared!” I try calling him first, hoping that maybe he didn’t wander that far. It’s only been twenty minutes, if that. “Jared!”
No answer has me gunning the engine to the Mustang, speeding out of the parking lot. I try calling his cell, not expecting him to answer, but it helps me to feel as though I’m doing more than just driving, scanning the sidewalks and storefronts for any sign of him-he can’t be that hard to find-he’s a six foot five beanpole with a dark mop for hair.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when I find him. I just know I have to find him.
It’s lightly drizzling now, my wipers on low clear the windshield easily, and visibility isn’t hindered as I speed up, having passed the local shops and diners, reaching a straightaway through woods and fields and the very edge of town that goes towards the main highway that’ll take you into center city to the North, and the outskirts and suburbs of Vancouver headed South.
I’m coming up on the interchange that merges onto the highway when I see him, trudging through mud, his head down, through tall grass on the side of the ramp. Luckily, there aren’t that many people on the road-those with jobs who have to work today are already at work, and those who are retired or otherwise not working simply aren’t on the road thanks to the weather.
A few cars speed past me, some drivers give me the finger, shout obscenities as I weave my way across three lanes of traffic upon margining onto the freeway. Jared’s still walking, paying no attention to the cars that whiz by, or the blaring horns that follow my path across the pavement.
I swerve onto the shoulder, slow down, and throw on my hazards a few feet in front of my oblivious co-star. I get out of the car, leaving my jacket and the hoodie so they don’t get wet, and don’t wait for him to reach me-I go to him. Grabbing his shoulders, getting right up in his face, I shake him, not gently, but not roughly either. I’m so relieved to see him standing under his own power, despite the pallor of his skin and the way he breathes-short and shallow, small hitches of his shoulders under my hands-that I cant yell at him.
I duck my head so I can look into his eyes, which are still downcast, staring at the ground and mud-laden boots. “Jared…” I whisper his name, not sure what else to say or do.
He shrugs my hands from his body, steps back. “Get away from me.” There’s a tremor in his voice.
“Jared, you have to rest.”
“And we have to talk, right?” He sneers.
He’s soaked to the skin already. I’m getting close as the rain falls harder, heavier, and clouds roll in from the pipeline, the last vestiges of the storm from the North, according to the weatherman. It’s supposed to clear up starting tomorrow, with chances of scattered showers throughout the day. Saturday is supposed to be sunny, but cold, and it’s pretty unlikely that the ground will be dried up enough for Kripke to want us on set.
“You resting is more important…” I whisper quietly. He looks a breath away from collapse. “But yeah… we need to talk.”
“I think you’ve said enough.”
Confusion passes over my face. I haven’t said anything.
I shake my head-I can’t worry about that now, not with Jared swaying, and asleep on his feet. “At least rest, Jare…” I swallow. I’m not very good at… emotional things. I’m not as girly-Jared would say ‘in touch with my feminine side’-as Jared is. “Jare… rest?” I look at him hopefully. I am trying.
I don’t know what to do with my emotions. I don’t have time to break them apart, figure out what they are… I’ve never been taught to accept and act on them, and so I act a certain way-usually angry-to cover it up. The anger isn’t always a cover, though… sometimes it really is anger-but anger I feel with myself, for not knowing and not understanding the other emotions… for not being able to show them.
It’s becoming obvious now, that I’m going to have to figure them out… at least try to. For Jared’s sake, for mine, and the sake of salvaging whatever relationship we have left. I’ve been told on several occasions that I should concentrate on what I’m feeling, let it out and learn to accept it, because it would make me a better actor. I’ve never felt the need to, myself, until now though.
“Not at your apartment.” His voice is low and resolute, his eyes directed away from me-he hasn’t looked at me since leaving this morning.
”Where else are you gonna go?” I ask, my voice rising as my temper simmers-anger with myself for not being able to express my concern… And I know it’s cliché, but it fits, and it’s true, I can feel it the way my stomach clenches at the mere thought of what I’m about to do… but I can’t think of any other way to get him in the car and back to my apartment where he can rest. There’s no way I’m letting him go back to the trailers. They’re drafty and cold, and the beds, though serviceable, aren’t exactly Serta or Simmons.
“The trailers… I stayed there after Sandy broke up with me.” He murmurs quietly.
“No,” I say firmly.
“You can’t keep telling me what to do, Jensen!” Jared’s voice rises a few octaves-not quite a yell, but louder than anything he’s said to me in the last few days. “I can take care of myself!”
“Fine job you’re doing of it.”
Something passes across his eyes, a shadow… a shimmer… but it’s gone before I can recognize it or identify it, and he shakes his head slightly. “Fuck you.” He whispers, then, more strongly, “Fuck. You.”
I shake my head, whisper beneath my breath, “This is gonna hurt me a lot more than it’s gonna hurt you…” as I take his right shoulder with my left hand and forcibly turn him. As he turns, realizing what I’m going to do but unable to stop it, I grit my teeth, and send my right fist into his jaw with a sharp *crack*. The expression on his face before it goes slack pierces my heart.
Jared drops like the proverbial ton of bricks.
I gather his rain-drenched body in my arms, for once grateful for my slave-driver personal trainer, because without him, I wouldn’t be able to manage Jared’s weight on a normal day, much less today-dead weight made more by icy wet clothes. I get him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry-the easiest way to carry him-and manage to get us both back to the car without tripping or falling in the soft, muddy earth that sucks at my shoes, slurping and popping with every step.
I settle Jared’s limp form in the passenger seat, reaching over him to buckle the seatbelt before hurrying back around to the driver’s side. I peel onto the highway with an unhealthy screech of tires and the sound of horns blaring behind me, and take the fastest route I know home.
Jared’s just coming to as I haul him out of the car after parking as close to my unit as I can, groans pitifully, but doesn’t make a move to push himself away from me as I move to his side, settling an arm around his waist as I duck beneath his arm, supporting him. His body conforms to mine, slumping against me, oblivious to the fact that if I hadn’t been there, he’d have fallen on the concrete. He’s warm. Heat radiates from him despite the cold and wet clothes that cling to his body.
“C’mon, Jared… work with me here…” I groan, adjusting my hold around his toothpick-thin waist before kicking the door to my car closed, and clicking the keychain button to lock and arm the car. “A little help, Jare...” I direct him to lift his feet when we reach the steps, and he wordlessly complies. I know I just decked him, and he wasn’t in the greatest shape to begin with… but his silent obedience is unnerving.
It’s a tedious process, but we make progress, albeit slowly, and eventually make it up the two flights of stairs to my door. Jared doesn’t speak the whole way, nor does he make an attempt to pull away from me.
I don’t let go of him as I fumble with the keys, unlock the front door and kick it shut after carefully maneuvering Jared and myself inside. Jared’s head as fallen to my shoulder, his breath is warm and tickling against my ear. “Why’d you hit me, you fucker?” He slurs quietly. He doesn’t sound angry.
He sags against me, and I help him to get his feet under him again as I guide him to the guest bedroom. “I didn’t know how else to get you to listen to me.”
Jared doesn’t answer me, but he stands a little straighter, pulls away from me just a little.
I have to get him out of his clothes and get him warm somehow. He’s shivering. I deposit him in the chair, kneel in front of him and take off his boots, then his socks. When I move to peel his shirt from his body, he stops me with a look as cold as ice. “I’m fine, Jensen. I can do it myself.”
Of course he can… and I give second thought to what I was about to do as I leave the room to get him a towel, a pair of my boxers-they might hang a little, but at least they’re dry-and an undershirt. I offer them to him with an outstretched arm, say nothing when he finally takes them with a curt “…thanks.”
I don’t have tea, or Tylenol, and the remaining Ny-Quil is past its expiration date. I’ll have to leave Jared alone to make a trip to the pharmacy and supermarket.
I’m not sure why that bothers me.
I check on Jared before I go, find him curled under the blankets, fast asleep. His damp clothes lie in a heap on the floor near the bed, his watch is on the dresser. I pick up his clothes and toss them in the washer/dryer combination machine I have, then get my keys, and head out.
-------------------------
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / OFC
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.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
-------------------------
Chapter Eight: What is Gone is Over
Rating: R for language; minor violence
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but… no, still not yet, and it’s not getting any closer either…
Word Count: 2,859
What is Gone is Over
Morning finds it still raining-slower now, and the thunder and lightning have all but stopped-and finds me between sleep and awareness on the couch, legs uncomfortably bent and neck tilted to one side. My entire body is stiff. The couch is great, and it’s comfortable-for watching television, playing video games, even a quickie or (especially) a blow job-but not for sleeping. It’s not long enough, not deep enough, and the cushions are a little too soft, re-shape to fit your body a little too much.
I stretch slowly, one limb at a time, working out the kinks, wincing when I get to my neck.
Mid-roll, I see Jared walking up the hallway, and when I say walking, I mean it loosely. He’s dragging his feet, his eyes are half-closed, his face is still pale, and his long limbs appear out of proportion to his slumped figure. He seems desperately un-coordinated.
“Jared…” I whisper his name, so low he probably doesn’t hear me. Louder, I offer, “Jared… we gotta talk, man.”
“There’s nothing to say.” His voice is dead, completely devoid of emotion as he moves towards the door. He pauses. “You don’t want me here. I’ll go.”
.“Jared, you can’t go.” I say it quietly, but there’s no hiding the soft shock in my voice. He probably thinks I’m going to let him walk out the front door. He can’t be more wrong. He’s sick. He needs to rest. He needs to eat. We need to talk. He can’t just… leave.
“Why not? I mean, wouldn’t that make this easier? A clean break?” He asks, hand on the doorknob. His eyes droop, and his face is pale, in direct and shocking contrast to his ruddy cheeks. He slept through the night and he still looks drained and tired. Exhausted and weak.
“Jared…” I sigh, getting up and walking towards him. “Jared.”
I reach out to him when he falters, leans against the doorjamb. He shrinks away from my touch. “It’s obvious you don’t want me around, Jensen. Look… We work together… Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”
“As if it’s not hard enough already.” I mutter under my breath, and immediately regret it.
He stands up straighter, and for a minute, his voice is what it used to be-strong, and with presence. “See? That’s what I mean, Jensen!” And then the presence is gone. He returns to leaning on the wall, sighs heavily, as though resigned, the fight-whatever fight he had-has left him. “Just… I’ll go…” He holds up his hand to me, but doesn’t look at me when I open my mouth. “Let me go, Jensen.”
“Jared!” I raise my voice. “Jared, that’s ridiculous. No matter what happens, you’re still my friend.”
He raises tired, sad and sick eyes to mine and offers a tight-lipped smile before saying, very quietly, “That’s not good enough anymore, Jensen…” Use of my full name. I miss the way my nickname-my shortened name, Jen-sounds coming from him, and something tightens in my chest at his words and how they’re spoken.
Before I can reply, he’s turned his back to me, and is dragging his body downstairs. He even closes the door behind him. I’m shocked into stillness-I watch him leave, and make no move to stop him. I’m helpless to.
I lean against the door, my entire body sagging until I slide to the floor and rest my head in my hands, elbows on my drawn-up knees. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s best if we just have a break… we’ve been spending a lot of time together, especially since his breakup with Sandy, and now, with the recent revelations of his sexuality…
I’m admittedly uncomfortable around him. I don’t know what to say, what to do… If things weren’t any different… if it was just the breakup, and he were sick, he’d be holed up in my guest bedroom without even asking, sucking down my Ny-Quil and tea, not replacing either of them once he got better. I’d be checking on him, pestering him until he came out of the bedroom to the living room and played Halo with me, ate some chicken soup, and put honey and lemon in his tea.
He’d jokingly tell me to stop acting like his mother, but he’d say thank you later on, and I’d laugh and tell him I’m a good actor.
I’d give him a noogie when he felt better, was up and around. Tell him to replace the box of tea, but he wouldn’t, and we’d wrestle until my living room was destroyed or until Sandy called or showed up and rolled her eyes with her hands on her hips. ‘Boys will be boys’, she’d say, and we’d smile, because what else could we do?
But things are different. Between us. Jared is broken, perhaps irreparably so, and I am not blind enough, nor selfish enough, to think that I am without blame for that. But, similarly, I refuse to shoulder all the blame.
And Jared is off on his own in the chilly Vancouver rain, without a jacket, in cold, still-wet boots, a pair of sweatpants and a teeshirt,
My phone rings, shrill and sharp from the living room. I don’t want to answer it, don’t want to pick up, don’t want to even know who’s calling unless it’s Jared-who I know it’s not, because I gave him ‘Somewhere Out There’ by Our Lady Peace as a ring tone. I slowly stand up when the phone doesn’t stop ringing, just continues, high-pitched and getting more annoying by the second. My caller ID shows Jared’s home number, which means it’s definitely not someone I want to talk to-likely Megan, because I know Jared gave her my cell number for some reason that I probably thought to be reasonable at the time.
I guess Jared’s not answering his phone again.
I sigh, sit down on the sofa, lean my head back and close my eyes. This can’t go on. Something’s got to give. Jared’s sick, and we-he and I-have to-have to-talk… I push myself off the couch, step into a pair of shoes, and slide into a readily available jacket, taking my hoodie from the chair where Jared left it last night-he’s sure to be cold with just a tee shirt-and head out the front door after grabbing my keys.
“Jared!” I try calling him first, hoping that maybe he didn’t wander that far. It’s only been twenty minutes, if that. “Jared!”
No answer has me gunning the engine to the Mustang, speeding out of the parking lot. I try calling his cell, not expecting him to answer, but it helps me to feel as though I’m doing more than just driving, scanning the sidewalks and storefronts for any sign of him-he can’t be that hard to find-he’s a six foot five beanpole with a dark mop for hair.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when I find him. I just know I have to find him.
It’s lightly drizzling now, my wipers on low clear the windshield easily, and visibility isn’t hindered as I speed up, having passed the local shops and diners, reaching a straightaway through woods and fields and the very edge of town that goes towards the main highway that’ll take you into center city to the North, and the outskirts and suburbs of Vancouver headed South.
I’m coming up on the interchange that merges onto the highway when I see him, trudging through mud, his head down, through tall grass on the side of the ramp. Luckily, there aren’t that many people on the road-those with jobs who have to work today are already at work, and those who are retired or otherwise not working simply aren’t on the road thanks to the weather.
A few cars speed past me, some drivers give me the finger, shout obscenities as I weave my way across three lanes of traffic upon margining onto the freeway. Jared’s still walking, paying no attention to the cars that whiz by, or the blaring horns that follow my path across the pavement.
I swerve onto the shoulder, slow down, and throw on my hazards a few feet in front of my oblivious co-star. I get out of the car, leaving my jacket and the hoodie so they don’t get wet, and don’t wait for him to reach me-I go to him. Grabbing his shoulders, getting right up in his face, I shake him, not gently, but not roughly either. I’m so relieved to see him standing under his own power, despite the pallor of his skin and the way he breathes-short and shallow, small hitches of his shoulders under my hands-that I cant yell at him.
I duck my head so I can look into his eyes, which are still downcast, staring at the ground and mud-laden boots. “Jared…” I whisper his name, not sure what else to say or do.
He shrugs my hands from his body, steps back. “Get away from me.” There’s a tremor in his voice.
“Jared, you have to rest.”
“And we have to talk, right?” He sneers.
He’s soaked to the skin already. I’m getting close as the rain falls harder, heavier, and clouds roll in from the pipeline, the last vestiges of the storm from the North, according to the weatherman. It’s supposed to clear up starting tomorrow, with chances of scattered showers throughout the day. Saturday is supposed to be sunny, but cold, and it’s pretty unlikely that the ground will be dried up enough for Kripke to want us on set.
“You resting is more important…” I whisper quietly. He looks a breath away from collapse. “But yeah… we need to talk.”
“I think you’ve said enough.”
Confusion passes over my face. I haven’t said anything.
I shake my head-I can’t worry about that now, not with Jared swaying, and asleep on his feet. “At least rest, Jare…” I swallow. I’m not very good at… emotional things. I’m not as girly-Jared would say ‘in touch with my feminine side’-as Jared is. “Jare… rest?” I look at him hopefully. I am trying.
I don’t know what to do with my emotions. I don’t have time to break them apart, figure out what they are… I’ve never been taught to accept and act on them, and so I act a certain way-usually angry-to cover it up. The anger isn’t always a cover, though… sometimes it really is anger-but anger I feel with myself, for not knowing and not understanding the other emotions… for not being able to show them.
It’s becoming obvious now, that I’m going to have to figure them out… at least try to. For Jared’s sake, for mine, and the sake of salvaging whatever relationship we have left. I’ve been told on several occasions that I should concentrate on what I’m feeling, let it out and learn to accept it, because it would make me a better actor. I’ve never felt the need to, myself, until now though.
“Not at your apartment.” His voice is low and resolute, his eyes directed away from me-he hasn’t looked at me since leaving this morning.
”Where else are you gonna go?” I ask, my voice rising as my temper simmers-anger with myself for not being able to express my concern… And I know it’s cliché, but it fits, and it’s true, I can feel it the way my stomach clenches at the mere thought of what I’m about to do… but I can’t think of any other way to get him in the car and back to my apartment where he can rest. There’s no way I’m letting him go back to the trailers. They’re drafty and cold, and the beds, though serviceable, aren’t exactly Serta or Simmons.
“The trailers… I stayed there after Sandy broke up with me.” He murmurs quietly.
“No,” I say firmly.
“You can’t keep telling me what to do, Jensen!” Jared’s voice rises a few octaves-not quite a yell, but louder than anything he’s said to me in the last few days. “I can take care of myself!”
“Fine job you’re doing of it.”
Something passes across his eyes, a shadow… a shimmer… but it’s gone before I can recognize it or identify it, and he shakes his head slightly. “Fuck you.” He whispers, then, more strongly, “Fuck. You.”
I shake my head, whisper beneath my breath, “This is gonna hurt me a lot more than it’s gonna hurt you…” as I take his right shoulder with my left hand and forcibly turn him. As he turns, realizing what I’m going to do but unable to stop it, I grit my teeth, and send my right fist into his jaw with a sharp *crack*. The expression on his face before it goes slack pierces my heart.
Jared drops like the proverbial ton of bricks.
I gather his rain-drenched body in my arms, for once grateful for my slave-driver personal trainer, because without him, I wouldn’t be able to manage Jared’s weight on a normal day, much less today-dead weight made more by icy wet clothes. I get him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry-the easiest way to carry him-and manage to get us both back to the car without tripping or falling in the soft, muddy earth that sucks at my shoes, slurping and popping with every step.
I settle Jared’s limp form in the passenger seat, reaching over him to buckle the seatbelt before hurrying back around to the driver’s side. I peel onto the highway with an unhealthy screech of tires and the sound of horns blaring behind me, and take the fastest route I know home.
Jared’s just coming to as I haul him out of the car after parking as close to my unit as I can, groans pitifully, but doesn’t make a move to push himself away from me as I move to his side, settling an arm around his waist as I duck beneath his arm, supporting him. His body conforms to mine, slumping against me, oblivious to the fact that if I hadn’t been there, he’d have fallen on the concrete. He’s warm. Heat radiates from him despite the cold and wet clothes that cling to his body.
“C’mon, Jared… work with me here…” I groan, adjusting my hold around his toothpick-thin waist before kicking the door to my car closed, and clicking the keychain button to lock and arm the car. “A little help, Jare...” I direct him to lift his feet when we reach the steps, and he wordlessly complies. I know I just decked him, and he wasn’t in the greatest shape to begin with… but his silent obedience is unnerving.
It’s a tedious process, but we make progress, albeit slowly, and eventually make it up the two flights of stairs to my door. Jared doesn’t speak the whole way, nor does he make an attempt to pull away from me.
I don’t let go of him as I fumble with the keys, unlock the front door and kick it shut after carefully maneuvering Jared and myself inside. Jared’s head as fallen to my shoulder, his breath is warm and tickling against my ear. “Why’d you hit me, you fucker?” He slurs quietly. He doesn’t sound angry.
He sags against me, and I help him to get his feet under him again as I guide him to the guest bedroom. “I didn’t know how else to get you to listen to me.”
Jared doesn’t answer me, but he stands a little straighter, pulls away from me just a little.
I have to get him out of his clothes and get him warm somehow. He’s shivering. I deposit him in the chair, kneel in front of him and take off his boots, then his socks. When I move to peel his shirt from his body, he stops me with a look as cold as ice. “I’m fine, Jensen. I can do it myself.”
Of course he can… and I give second thought to what I was about to do as I leave the room to get him a towel, a pair of my boxers-they might hang a little, but at least they’re dry-and an undershirt. I offer them to him with an outstretched arm, say nothing when he finally takes them with a curt “…thanks.”
I don’t have tea, or Tylenol, and the remaining Ny-Quil is past its expiration date. I’ll have to leave Jared alone to make a trip to the pharmacy and supermarket.
I’m not sure why that bothers me.
I check on Jared before I go, find him curled under the blankets, fast asleep. His damp clothes lie in a heap on the floor near the bed, his watch is on the dresser. I pick up his clothes and toss them in the washer/dryer combination machine I have, then get my keys, and head out.
-------------------------