Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky (Jensen/Jared RPS) -- 12/? (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...
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Chapter Twelve: Here one Minute, Gone the Next
Rating: R for some language, graphic illness and adult themes… and the evil, evil cliffie!
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, I swear, but it’s taking longer than expected… much longer than expected
Word Count: 2,308
Here one Minute, Gone the Next
He looks so pitiful, so small, curled there on my floor alongside my couch at my feet. I know he needs help-the last few days-last week now-have really taken a toll on him, physically and emotionally (which is probably why he can’t stop the tears… he’s not really crying… it’s just stress and strain and he can’t help it-I’ve been there before), but he can’t bring himself to ask me.
I could be a jerk, wait for him to ask, or to say ‘please’, with those puppy-dog eyes of his, and I’m tempted to.
He pushes himself from curled over, half on his knees, to his butt, stretches his legs out in front of him, and leans against my couch with a weighted sigh.
“Jared.”
He turns his head sidelong and glances up at me with a small shake of his head. “…not now, Jensen…” He breathes. And before I can be a jerk, “…please. Not now…” And he turns his eyes away from me.
There are still tears, slowly drying on his cheeks, some still sliding from blue-green eyes, but he never was crying. He coughs violently, his entire body trembles with the force of it. It’s dry and grating, a hacking cough that comes from the lungs. I don’t doubt it’s from his day spent at the trailers, and walking through the cold rain.
I crouch next to him, still holding the thermometer, tentatively touch his shoulder with one hand, and he turns his head towards me. This time, when I hold the thermometer to him, he opens his mouth without being told, and his silent acquiescence is somewhat disturbing to me. His entire body is stiff, his hands press into the carpet on either side of his hips, and he’s shaking-I’m not sure if it’s completely from cold anymore.
I rub his shoulder awkwardly, not unaware of the heat that radiates from his body. “It’s okay, Jare…” And I look away when he raises his eyes-I can’t see the questioning in them, can’t see the glazed illness and the weakness or the glimmer of unshed tears. It would kill me, because I’d know I’m at least partly responsible.
I make a conscious effort to put to the side all the shit that’s gone down this past week, knowing Jared doesn’t need me harping on him, doesn’t need the extra stress… What he needs is to rest, to eat (even if he does throw half of it back up), and to let his body heal.
The thermometer beeps, three soft beeps in rapid succession, and I take it from Jared’s mouth. He tips his chin at me as if to ask what his temperature is, glancing down the bridge of his nose at the device. I show it to him. 102.4.
Jared nods, stares straight ahead, away from me. I nudge his shoulder with my hand. “Jare… gotta get you off the floor… c’mon… can you get up?”
I drop to my knees from my crouched position, move to get my arms around him, beneath his. Jared moves like a puppet, makes no effort to help or hinder me in my quest to get him on his feet, just… accepts my manipulation of his body. “A little help, Jared.” And though I don’t mean it to be there, I too can hear the exasperated undertone in my words.
Jared presses against me-not quite a push, like he’s trying to get away from me… but not quite a gentle nudge either. “Told you. I… I can’t do this anymore, Jensen… just… I can’t… whatever you want.” His voice is soft, holds no argument. It almost sounds accepting. Of what, I don’t know. I don’t know what he means, and he offers nothing else.
“Jare?” I let my hands drop.
He shakes his head. “No, Jensen.” And he pushes himself off the floor without my help, and disappears down the hall, leaving me to wonder when he decided he didn’t need or want me around anymore.
And I think that’s when it hits me.
I don’t know what makes me realize it, but it hits me then, that I’ve been making this out like it’s all about me, like how all this is affecting me is the only thing that matters. Like my life is the only one being turned upside-down. And it’s not. Jared’s… I can’t even think of Jared-haven’t thought of Jared-and how he must feel, having this… knowing that I know about him-and not even because he told me-dumped on him without even the benefit of time to accept or move on from his failed relationship with Sandy.
I get up and go into the kitchen, butter a slice of bread and microwave one of those Campbell’s cup-a-soup Chicken Noodle soups, figuring Jared’ll probably only eat half of it if he eats any at all, so it’s not worth the effort to make the condensed Chicken & Stars. (The Chicken & Stars has to be the best soup of all time if you’re sick-because it’s so salty that even when you’re sick you can taste it.) I’ll make that for him once he can keep something down.
I tap my foot impatiently as the microwave winds down the last few seconds, thinking of Jared the whole time. I’ll admit it-I’m worried about him. He doesn’t take care of himself very well, whether it be because he’s never really had to-he never went to college, and was living with Sandra for a long time before I even met him-or because he’s just not very good at it I don’t know. Add to that the fact he is one of the more emotional men I’ve ever met in my life-and working in Hollywood, I meet a lot of emotional metrosexual men-and the recent stress of breaking up with Sandy and the strained relationship with one of his best friends (me)… Jared’s not in a good way.
I gather the soup, a spoon, and the bread on a cutting board, put a glass of orange juice with it, and head down the hall to Jared’s room. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped forward with his back to the door, facing out the window.
“Jare?” I ask, placing the makeshift tray on the bedside table nearest the door before walking around the bed to look at him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Go ‘way, Jensen.” He whispers, but it’s not very convincing. He shakes my hand off his shoulder and bows his head lower.
I sit next to him and draw one of the throw quilts from the bed around his shoulders, and though I move to take my arm away, I don’t, letting it fall around him instead. “Jare…”
He looks up at me, shivering still beneath the blanket and moreso under the weight of my arm. “Stop, Jensen…please…”
“Stop what?”
He looks at me, my arm disappearing behind him, shrugs weakly. “This…” He says. “All of this... this… pretending you care… please… just stop… I can’t do this, Jensen.” And there’s a hitch in his breath, and suddenly his hands are over his face, his eyes, and I can hear him-small shuddering breaths and whimpers muffled by his hands-crying softly. He doesn’t want me to know, and when I take his hands in mine and draw them down, away from his face, I can feel the warm wetness of tears. “Stop… just stop…” He whispers again, one last plea.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I wrap him in my arms, drawing him close, holding him still when he wriggles, pushes at my chest and tries to get away from me. I tighten my arms around him, whisper firmly in his ear, “Stop it, Jared…”
He gives a snort that could be laughter, but sounds pitiful mixed with his tears and occasional cough, but he stops struggling, and his face finds my neck, warm damp tears soaking the collar of my shirt. Tentative fingers flutter over my shoulders, his entire body still shakes beneath the blanket in my arms. “Jensen?” He breathes onto my neck.
“Yeah, Jare…” I grip his shoulders, set him slightly away from me-far enough so I can look at him, face-to-face, but not far enough away to give the impression I don’t want him near me.
His hands still move nervously around my shoulders, fingers pinching and pressing and smoothing the cotton near my neck, and he keeps his eyes turned down. “…what are you doing...”
“Caring for you.” I reply, bringing a hand to his hair to smooth it down, back, away from his face. Then, because this is getting far too ‘chick-flick’ for me, add dryly, “Because you’re doing such a great job yourself.”
He gives a halfhearted chuckle, and lets me help him get settled against pillows and the headboard of the bed. When I offer the soup, he takes it, swallows a few spoonfuls before putting it back on the bedside table, and quietly adds, “…see how it sits… give it a little while…” when I raise an eyebrow at him.
I nod, watch as he sips the orange juice. He swallows two Tylenol, but refuses the Ny-Quil.
He settles himself beneath the covers, closes his eyes. “Jare?” I ask. “You need anything else?”
“No. I’m good.” He says, and there’s something underlying his voice that I can’t make out, some hidden emotion I can’t identify.
I sit in the armchair in the corner of the room, watch as he tosses and turns in restless sleep, and I’m there when he wakes up and leans over the edge of the bed, loses the little dinner he ate in the bucket I left there for exactly that purpose. Dry heaves follow, and he shakes off my hand when I try to offer comfort.
He doesn’t say anything as I sit next to him, ignores me entirely as he continues convulsing over the bucket, but nothing more comes up. He finally flops onto his back, breathing heavily, his cheeks bright red. He throws an arm over his forehead and grimaces. “Tylenol, Jensen...”
I tap two of the tablets into my hand, offer them to him with water and watch as he props himself up on an elbow, takes the pills from me and washes them down with a healthy gulp of water. “Hope they fucking stay down.” He mutters tiredly, closing his eyes when I take the water from his outstretched hand. “You don’t have to stay, you know…”
“Yeah… I know.” And he shivers when my hand comes down on his forehead, smoothing back unruly hair and wiping away some of the sweat. He’s burning hot, his skin is soaked, so are the sheets, the pillowcase… the teeshirt he wears clings to his skin. I fumble for the thermometer on the bedside table, press it to his lips. “C’mon, Jare… open up…” I urge.
He lets me push the thermometer into his mouth with a low groan of displeasure, doesn’t open his eyes as he moves it around, presumably to rest beneath his tongue. “You’re burning up, Jare…” I whisper to his unspoken protest, to which I get another groan and unintelligible mumble around the thermometer in Jared’s mouth.
He’s at 102.7, pretty steady for the last day, not yet so high that I seriously think I should take him to the hospital. I’m sure the lack of rest hasn’t helped him, and I remember from somewhere that your temperature is naturally higher in the evening, so I don’t get too worried about the slight increase.
He murmurs something, and I push his hair back. “Sleep, Jared… Get some rest.” I whisper to him, pulling the blanket over his shoulders before heading to the door.
I think for a minute of dozing in the armchair, but it’s not the most comfortable to sleep in, especially for someone as tall as I am. I remember Jared’s words-“You don’t have to stay, you know…”-and head out to my own room, closing the door quietly behind me.
I lie awake, stare at the ceiling, let my mind wander. Jared will be okay, we’ll talk, and this will all work itself out. Things are already looking better. Jared’s still sick, but he’s on the mend, we’re no longer as uncomfortable around each other as we were. Something pokes at the back of my mind though, something I can’t put my finger on, so I ignore it, tune out the hacking coughs from Jared’s room and go to sleep. I’ll figure it out in the morning.
Morning breaks, cool and quiet. I take a hot shower, watch the morning sermon from Father Simmons on the television as I brew coffee, make tea for Jared, who’s still asleep. He needs the rest, so I don’t wake him.
Two pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of coffee later, it’s eleven in the morning, and Father Simmons is delivering his Lords Prayer to end the sermon, followed by a chorus of “Amen”s from the visiting parishioners. Jared has yet to show his face or make a sound, so I take the tea from the counter, check to make sure it’s still warm, and head off to check on him. I don’t intend to wake him, but on the chance he’s awake and resting, the tea will do him some good.
I tap lightly on the door, “Jared? You awake?”, push it open when I get no reply, expect to see him sprawled out asleep on the bed.
Nothing could prepare me for what I did see-nothing. An empty bed, shoes missing from the floor, my hoodie discarded in a heap on the armchair.
Jared was gone.
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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 Twelve: Here one Minute, Gone the Next
Rating: R for some language, graphic illness and adult themes… and the evil, evil cliffie!
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, I swear, but it’s taking longer than expected… much longer than expected
Word Count: 2,308
Here one Minute, Gone the Next
He looks so pitiful, so small, curled there on my floor alongside my couch at my feet. I know he needs help-the last few days-last week now-have really taken a toll on him, physically and emotionally (which is probably why he can’t stop the tears… he’s not really crying… it’s just stress and strain and he can’t help it-I’ve been there before), but he can’t bring himself to ask me.
I could be a jerk, wait for him to ask, or to say ‘please’, with those puppy-dog eyes of his, and I’m tempted to.
He pushes himself from curled over, half on his knees, to his butt, stretches his legs out in front of him, and leans against my couch with a weighted sigh.
“Jared.”
He turns his head sidelong and glances up at me with a small shake of his head. “…not now, Jensen…” He breathes. And before I can be a jerk, “…please. Not now…” And he turns his eyes away from me.
There are still tears, slowly drying on his cheeks, some still sliding from blue-green eyes, but he never was crying. He coughs violently, his entire body trembles with the force of it. It’s dry and grating, a hacking cough that comes from the lungs. I don’t doubt it’s from his day spent at the trailers, and walking through the cold rain.
I crouch next to him, still holding the thermometer, tentatively touch his shoulder with one hand, and he turns his head towards me. This time, when I hold the thermometer to him, he opens his mouth without being told, and his silent acquiescence is somewhat disturbing to me. His entire body is stiff, his hands press into the carpet on either side of his hips, and he’s shaking-I’m not sure if it’s completely from cold anymore.
I rub his shoulder awkwardly, not unaware of the heat that radiates from his body. “It’s okay, Jare…” And I look away when he raises his eyes-I can’t see the questioning in them, can’t see the glazed illness and the weakness or the glimmer of unshed tears. It would kill me, because I’d know I’m at least partly responsible.
I make a conscious effort to put to the side all the shit that’s gone down this past week, knowing Jared doesn’t need me harping on him, doesn’t need the extra stress… What he needs is to rest, to eat (even if he does throw half of it back up), and to let his body heal.
The thermometer beeps, three soft beeps in rapid succession, and I take it from Jared’s mouth. He tips his chin at me as if to ask what his temperature is, glancing down the bridge of his nose at the device. I show it to him. 102.4.
Jared nods, stares straight ahead, away from me. I nudge his shoulder with my hand. “Jare… gotta get you off the floor… c’mon… can you get up?”
I drop to my knees from my crouched position, move to get my arms around him, beneath his. Jared moves like a puppet, makes no effort to help or hinder me in my quest to get him on his feet, just… accepts my manipulation of his body. “A little help, Jared.” And though I don’t mean it to be there, I too can hear the exasperated undertone in my words.
Jared presses against me-not quite a push, like he’s trying to get away from me… but not quite a gentle nudge either. “Told you. I… I can’t do this anymore, Jensen… just… I can’t… whatever you want.” His voice is soft, holds no argument. It almost sounds accepting. Of what, I don’t know. I don’t know what he means, and he offers nothing else.
“Jare?” I let my hands drop.
He shakes his head. “No, Jensen.” And he pushes himself off the floor without my help, and disappears down the hall, leaving me to wonder when he decided he didn’t need or want me around anymore.
And I think that’s when it hits me.
I don’t know what makes me realize it, but it hits me then, that I’ve been making this out like it’s all about me, like how all this is affecting me is the only thing that matters. Like my life is the only one being turned upside-down. And it’s not. Jared’s… I can’t even think of Jared-haven’t thought of Jared-and how he must feel, having this… knowing that I know about him-and not even because he told me-dumped on him without even the benefit of time to accept or move on from his failed relationship with Sandy.
I get up and go into the kitchen, butter a slice of bread and microwave one of those Campbell’s cup-a-soup Chicken Noodle soups, figuring Jared’ll probably only eat half of it if he eats any at all, so it’s not worth the effort to make the condensed Chicken & Stars. (The Chicken & Stars has to be the best soup of all time if you’re sick-because it’s so salty that even when you’re sick you can taste it.) I’ll make that for him once he can keep something down.
I tap my foot impatiently as the microwave winds down the last few seconds, thinking of Jared the whole time. I’ll admit it-I’m worried about him. He doesn’t take care of himself very well, whether it be because he’s never really had to-he never went to college, and was living with Sandra for a long time before I even met him-or because he’s just not very good at it I don’t know. Add to that the fact he is one of the more emotional men I’ve ever met in my life-and working in Hollywood, I meet a lot of emotional metrosexual men-and the recent stress of breaking up with Sandy and the strained relationship with one of his best friends (me)… Jared’s not in a good way.
I gather the soup, a spoon, and the bread on a cutting board, put a glass of orange juice with it, and head down the hall to Jared’s room. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped forward with his back to the door, facing out the window.
“Jare?” I ask, placing the makeshift tray on the bedside table nearest the door before walking around the bed to look at him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Go ‘way, Jensen.” He whispers, but it’s not very convincing. He shakes my hand off his shoulder and bows his head lower.
I sit next to him and draw one of the throw quilts from the bed around his shoulders, and though I move to take my arm away, I don’t, letting it fall around him instead. “Jare…”
He looks up at me, shivering still beneath the blanket and moreso under the weight of my arm. “Stop, Jensen…please…”
“Stop what?”
He looks at me, my arm disappearing behind him, shrugs weakly. “This…” He says. “All of this... this… pretending you care… please… just stop… I can’t do this, Jensen.” And there’s a hitch in his breath, and suddenly his hands are over his face, his eyes, and I can hear him-small shuddering breaths and whimpers muffled by his hands-crying softly. He doesn’t want me to know, and when I take his hands in mine and draw them down, away from his face, I can feel the warm wetness of tears. “Stop… just stop…” He whispers again, one last plea.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I wrap him in my arms, drawing him close, holding him still when he wriggles, pushes at my chest and tries to get away from me. I tighten my arms around him, whisper firmly in his ear, “Stop it, Jared…”
He gives a snort that could be laughter, but sounds pitiful mixed with his tears and occasional cough, but he stops struggling, and his face finds my neck, warm damp tears soaking the collar of my shirt. Tentative fingers flutter over my shoulders, his entire body still shakes beneath the blanket in my arms. “Jensen?” He breathes onto my neck.
“Yeah, Jare…” I grip his shoulders, set him slightly away from me-far enough so I can look at him, face-to-face, but not far enough away to give the impression I don’t want him near me.
His hands still move nervously around my shoulders, fingers pinching and pressing and smoothing the cotton near my neck, and he keeps his eyes turned down. “…what are you doing...”
“Caring for you.” I reply, bringing a hand to his hair to smooth it down, back, away from his face. Then, because this is getting far too ‘chick-flick’ for me, add dryly, “Because you’re doing such a great job yourself.”
He gives a halfhearted chuckle, and lets me help him get settled against pillows and the headboard of the bed. When I offer the soup, he takes it, swallows a few spoonfuls before putting it back on the bedside table, and quietly adds, “…see how it sits… give it a little while…” when I raise an eyebrow at him.
I nod, watch as he sips the orange juice. He swallows two Tylenol, but refuses the Ny-Quil.
He settles himself beneath the covers, closes his eyes. “Jare?” I ask. “You need anything else?”
“No. I’m good.” He says, and there’s something underlying his voice that I can’t make out, some hidden emotion I can’t identify.
I sit in the armchair in the corner of the room, watch as he tosses and turns in restless sleep, and I’m there when he wakes up and leans over the edge of the bed, loses the little dinner he ate in the bucket I left there for exactly that purpose. Dry heaves follow, and he shakes off my hand when I try to offer comfort.
He doesn’t say anything as I sit next to him, ignores me entirely as he continues convulsing over the bucket, but nothing more comes up. He finally flops onto his back, breathing heavily, his cheeks bright red. He throws an arm over his forehead and grimaces. “Tylenol, Jensen...”
I tap two of the tablets into my hand, offer them to him with water and watch as he props himself up on an elbow, takes the pills from me and washes them down with a healthy gulp of water. “Hope they fucking stay down.” He mutters tiredly, closing his eyes when I take the water from his outstretched hand. “You don’t have to stay, you know…”
“Yeah… I know.” And he shivers when my hand comes down on his forehead, smoothing back unruly hair and wiping away some of the sweat. He’s burning hot, his skin is soaked, so are the sheets, the pillowcase… the teeshirt he wears clings to his skin. I fumble for the thermometer on the bedside table, press it to his lips. “C’mon, Jare… open up…” I urge.
He lets me push the thermometer into his mouth with a low groan of displeasure, doesn’t open his eyes as he moves it around, presumably to rest beneath his tongue. “You’re burning up, Jare…” I whisper to his unspoken protest, to which I get another groan and unintelligible mumble around the thermometer in Jared’s mouth.
He’s at 102.7, pretty steady for the last day, not yet so high that I seriously think I should take him to the hospital. I’m sure the lack of rest hasn’t helped him, and I remember from somewhere that your temperature is naturally higher in the evening, so I don’t get too worried about the slight increase.
He murmurs something, and I push his hair back. “Sleep, Jared… Get some rest.” I whisper to him, pulling the blanket over his shoulders before heading to the door.
I think for a minute of dozing in the armchair, but it’s not the most comfortable to sleep in, especially for someone as tall as I am. I remember Jared’s words-“You don’t have to stay, you know…”-and head out to my own room, closing the door quietly behind me.
I lie awake, stare at the ceiling, let my mind wander. Jared will be okay, we’ll talk, and this will all work itself out. Things are already looking better. Jared’s still sick, but he’s on the mend, we’re no longer as uncomfortable around each other as we were. Something pokes at the back of my mind though, something I can’t put my finger on, so I ignore it, tune out the hacking coughs from Jared’s room and go to sleep. I’ll figure it out in the morning.
Morning breaks, cool and quiet. I take a hot shower, watch the morning sermon from Father Simmons on the television as I brew coffee, make tea for Jared, who’s still asleep. He needs the rest, so I don’t wake him.
Two pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of coffee later, it’s eleven in the morning, and Father Simmons is delivering his Lords Prayer to end the sermon, followed by a chorus of “Amen”s from the visiting parishioners. Jared has yet to show his face or make a sound, so I take the tea from the counter, check to make sure it’s still warm, and head off to check on him. I don’t intend to wake him, but on the chance he’s awake and resting, the tea will do him some good.
I tap lightly on the door, “Jared? You awake?”, push it open when I get no reply, expect to see him sprawled out asleep on the bed.
Nothing could prepare me for what I did see-nothing. An empty bed, shoes missing from the floor, my hoodie discarded in a heap on the armchair.
Jared was gone.
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