Take 512: Act Three
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Act Three
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't."
William Shakespeare Hamlet
Here's how the so-called winning tradition of the Supernatural theatre group works:
The tryouts are long and elaborate, and only a handful of outsiders know when there's an opening. Kids with potential are approached, and the stage manager drops a casual line that they're on the lookout.
Then the kid apprentices under the current crewmember of the spot they're going for: that lasts for around one season of Shakes and a couple of other shows. Jared himself was understudy for their last costumes guy, Jeremy, for roughly around six months, carrying his shit around and generally being a glorified slave. He's aware most people had it even worse: Jensen had to trail around both Jeff and Mark to get in on both stage management and set design, even when it was obvious he had a flair for both with no outside help. Mike actually got into a fistfight with his mentor, Jim, before he was officially drafted. The whole process is characteristically fucked-up on all levels.
Auditions, on the other hand, theoretically give everyone a fighting chance. That doesn't change the fact that the same seniors end up playing the lead every single time for at least three shows or so. Tom's been Romeo to Kristen's Juliet, and after Kris left, Orsino to Genevieve's Viola _ ("exciting shit, falling for a drag king with my boyfriend giving me knowing looks from the rafters," Tom once told Jared) Macbeth to Gen's Lady Macbeth ("So Cortese is a dick and Welling's a pussy here, am I right?" Chad had asked, right before Mike had shoved at his shoulder tiredly.) and Antonio to Milo's Bassanio ("Best love story we've ever done, and it's not even supposed to be a love story. Motherfucking faggots," Misha kept saying)
So the installation's a bitch to get through, but once you've made it you're set for life. Shakes is open to alumni of up to twenty-five in addition to the high school students, and everyone from Supernatural sticks around until their early twenties.
Until Jensen left at the relatively tender age of twenty, that is.
Jared sees the appeal pretty clearly. Supernatural offers a place to work out the angst and manic energy of those years, to just paint and saw and solder it into something that, in the right context, has the ability to take someone's breath away. It's a gathering place of kids who are strangely alike; substance abuse and sarcastic mouths and a certain angle of tilting their heads when they survey a new script. Most of all, it's somewhere they're taken seriously, measured by the worth of their creations, the twisted genius that someone in the group is bound to perceive. No fucking way does the real world sound half as appealing.
So yeah. Everyone sticks around until they absolutely can't anymore. Which was why it was so earth-shattering when Jensen Ackles, set design extraordinaire, announced he was taking off for college last year, with five years to spare, no less.
"Remains a motherfucking mystery, Padalecki." Katie passes him the joint as they sit on the bleachers watching soccer practice, on the other side of school from the theatre. Jared's been explaining his argument in vague terms since they left the green room."It's not like Jensen's the kind of guy to offer any explanations."
Jared takes a hit and stares at the field. "Yeah?"
Katie's expression is bemused. "Yeah, Jared." she shrugs. "But if you ask me, he did it to kick the addictions, plural. You know, speed and Supernatural, basically the same thing, right?"
Jared raises his eyebrows, his mouth tasting slightly sour. He takes another hit and passes the jay to Katie. "In case you didn't notice, he's back here. Doesn't look like he did a bang-up job of getting over Supernatural."
Katie turns her head fully to aim him an are you shitting me, son? look. "Dude. If you don't get that you're the reason Jensen's even in town, you really are as stupid as those bangs make you look."
Jared's still trying to recover (mostly by taking a longer drag than his lungs are happy with and coughing to death) from Katie's statement when Genevieve stalks up to them and stands over them, her hands on her hips.
"Don’t you guys ever work?" She demands.
Jared holds up his hands, where the skin is still red and raw from his lame glue gun burn. Genevieve rolls her eyes and turns to Katie. "What's your excuse?"
Katie takes one last leisurely drag. "Me? I'm just trying to make him feel better."
Gen rolls her eyes, and flops down beside Jared. Jared can't help being a little apprehensive about that; Katie and Genevieve just barely get along at the best of times. "Sweetheart, only way to his heart is through candy. Thought Jensen taught you better than that."
Jared groans dramatically. "Not you too."
"Not me too, what?" Genevieve asks, eyeing the cigarette Katie's lighting up with interest.
"Oh, I was just telling Jared about the fabulous experience he's unknowingly going through." Katie blows smoke in a perfect 'o' and Jared catches Gen watching the rounded pout of her lips. "Namely, being pined for by one Jensen Ackles."
Gen snorts. "Please. Jared's totally the one doing the stalker crap. It's kinda sad."
Jared tried to look outraged, but then thinks better of it and stays out of the crossfire.
Katie passes the cigarette with a hostile glare over to Genevieve. "No, Jared's definitely the pinee. Jensen's the piner."
Gen waves the hand holding Katie cigarette, and some ash falls on Jared's hands. He makes a face and grabs it. "No, no, I've totally got it figured. Jared's pining like crazy. He makes that shit look good, you know? Like, Juliet had nothing on this."
Jared sighs. "Can we just go back? We can discuss the logistics of pining some other time."
He gets up and they obediently follow him back, bickering the whole way. And when Jensen appears at the doorway and asks where their punk asses were, Jared gives him a million watt grin just to see Jensen's lips curve in reply.
The next day, Jared comes into the theatre in time to overhear Mike saying something about how it's impossible to even think about specials if they're having eight areas. He's flinging his limbs around, making his point, and Jensen's listening with the flat of his hand against his left temple and his fingers sliding in and out of his short hair. Jared recognizes the tell, even if Mike doesn't seem to: Jensen's this close to giving up on being considerate and crashing asleep on the judges desk. Mike's talking too fast, his fingers drumming on the edge of the desk, this look in his eyes that makes Jared think, as he always does, of people standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down.
He clears his throat loudly. When they turn to look at him, he produces the bags. "Hungry?"
Jensen looks cautious, his default setting these days when Jared's around, but Mike brightens right up.
"Fuck, if this doesn't make you the food fairy," Mike says, dragging out the chair next to him and not bothering to complete the sentence.
Jared shoots one involuntary, assessing glance at Jensen, who's chewing the inside of his cheek and looking a bit stressed, before plopping down on Mike's side.
"You and me, we need to talk color scheme." Mike says, rummaging through the bags. "Shit, you got me pie? That's it, on a plane to Canada right now."
"Aah, I can do so much better than your punk ass, darlin'" Jared drawls lazily.
Mike makes a face. "Such a charmer, Padalecki." he draws out a cheeseburger and sets to work. "Starving."
"When's the last time you ate, anyway?" Jensen asks, his curiosity apparently overcoming his nervousness.
Mike shrugs. "This morning, last week, nine months ago. You can't expect me to keep track of this stuff, man."
Jared can't help it then; he looks up and meets Jensen's eyes, and they exchange a glance automatically. Mike, like any addict, goes for days without food or sleep without even noticing, until he does, and when that happens it's generally accepted that you're supposed to stay the hell away.
Jensen smiles tentatively at Jared. "So, um. Light design's almost done." he drums his fingers on the table, nervous tap-tap-tap on the wood and Jared feels a little like he's on an acid trip. This whole thing is more surreal than he cares to think about, making small talk with the love of his life while fucking Mike Rosenbaum gorged himself on McDonald's takeout in the background.
Jared looks at the light design on the desk instead, staring intently at the clean lines and like bars of a cage. Jensen used to be the best and easiest mistake, more familiar than any other bad habit Jared could name. It would be so, so easy to fall back into him again.
Jared bites his tongue until he tastes blood. There's a dull scraping at the back of his throat.
When he looks back up, Mike and Jensen are discussing backlights and having a warm and a cool in each area, and Jensen is chewing thoughtfully on a fry.
Jared relaxes.
A couple of hours later, Mike storms into the green room just as Jared's patting around in his pockets for pins. He shoves a piece of flat metal in Jared's face. "What does that look like?"
Jared blinks, going slightly cross-eyed as he tries to look over his sewing machine. "Um." he squints. "A pumpkin?"
Mike snatches it away, expression triumphant. "Ex-fucking-actly, man." He jerks his head towards the door from which he'd just entered. "You go try telling Jensen that, though. The guy has issues, Jesus Christ."
"Superstar," Jared adds automatically. Mike's lips twitch fractionally. "What's Jensen saying?"
"That we need to carve out your freaky crow symbol as a fucking gobo." Mike wrings his hands and collapses on a chair. "I told him, not gonna happen, not while I'm master elec, but the bastard got Tom in on the conspiracy and made me promise to try. I feel like I'm in fucking art class."
Jared takes another look at the metal hanging loosely in Mike's fist. It's true, Mike's never been into complicated gobos. His are simplistic, elementary, and they more often than not carry the point across; witness the riots back in dystopian Macbeth. And usually, Jensen knows better than to push. He has this sense for the perfect combinations, a preternatural talent for guessing what'll work when everything comes together and what won't.
Mike's obviously thinking the same thing. "It's this true love crap," he makes a face. "It's fucking with the both of you dickheads."
"Says the guy fucking the star of the show." Jared comments, eyebrows raised up as far as they would go. Times like these, he’s just about had it with Mike’s bullshit.
Mike sneers. "At least I'm getting some action. You and Jensen are obviously having severe repression issues, and it's fucking with the show. Get back to the sex, yeah?"
"Why is the whole crew so obsessed about mine and Jensen's sex life? It doesn't even fucking exist." Jared's voice rises higher, like the whole crew is actually there for him to rant at. He doesn't really care. "Are you all that co-dependent? Get a life, guys, because me and Jensen are. Not. Fucking!"
He breathes a little faster than usual, narrowing his eyes defiantly at Mike...
...who's actually smirking.
His eyes aren't even on Jared's, instead focused on a spot over his shoulder. Jared turns around slowly.
"Um." Stammers Jensen, his cheeks bright red. Jared has a surreal, out-of-body moment of staring at him in dismay, and simultaneously appreciating the way Jensen's freckles stand out. "I, uh,"
Jared gestures weakly with his hands. "Hey. Didn't see you there," he says lamely.
Mike snorts.
Jared takes the opportunity to turn to him, scowling. "Fuck off, Rosenbaum."
"Sure thing, Padalecki." Mike says breezily. His eyes are dancing with a kind of evil glee that's his trademark, but behind that, Jared sees that he's genuinely worried. It makes sense; Mike spent the entirety of the past year having Jared's back. It's weird having Mike fucking Rosenbaum be concerned for your wellbeing, but that's Supernatural for you.
Mike walks past Jensen on his way out, shoulders slamming in a way that's far from unintentional. Jensen winces but doesn't falter.
"Uh. So, that happened." He says awkwardly, once the door clicks shut behind Mike.
Jared smiles at him nervously.
“Jared, I-“ Jensen begins, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets.
Jared says, quickly, “Yeah, I know,” and they both stare at each other, parts astonished and awed.
Jensen tries next: “How are the designs coming along?”
Jared shrugs. "Um, it’s coming along at its own pace, I guess. Got a color scheme going, but that's not really helpful until I have a clear idea about patterns and structure.” He bites his lip and looks up cautiously at Jensen through his bangs.
Jensen’s got this little smile, private and soft and precious. “Structure is key, after all.”
Jared’s eyes widen, but he plays it off like a champ. “Exactly so.” He looks down at his hands quickly, before he lets his surprise spill from his eyes. “You, uh. You remember that?”
Jensen makes a noise, and when Jared looks up, startled, there's a look of sheer longing in his eyes. When he realizes Jared caught it, he relaxes with obvious effort, but his hands remain clenched at his sides. “Of course I did,” he says, a little strangled, and the tension in the air intensifies.
Jared stares. For a second, Jensen simply stares back, the tension in the room thickening and growing.
Then Jensen looks away, his throat working as he swallows. "Get back to work," he says hoarsely.
Jared watches in bewilderment as Jensen makes a break for the door, letting it slam shut behind him.
"The fuck was that?" he asks the empty room.
There are times when his vision has glitter at the edges, sleep deprivation and the perpetual smell of dust and cobwebs and the smoke from Misha's cigarettes. He swipes at his eyes at times like that and goes right the fuck on until he can feel the imminent collapse coming on.
He's trying to drown out the taste of foundation on his tongue with OJ when Justin finds him.
He says nothing, no explanation as he passes Jared the plastic cup in his hand. Jared doesn't even think before he swallows, whiskey sliding down his throat like a trail of fire.
e passes the cup back to Justin, who takes a measuring sort of look at the alcohol and downs the rest in one go. His hands catch the light as he does it, big capable-looking hands with the toughening scars of a carpenter. Jared stares a little, thinking disjointedly of head-on collisions with boulders.
"You should call it a night." Justin's tone of voice suggests that he doesn't really give a shit whether Jared listens or not.
Jared says nothing, blinking against the Technicolor brightness of the room, his costumes strewn across all the available surfaces like exotic birds. He feels a sharp, sudden pain at his fingertip and looks down to find that he's pricked himself with his needle. A single droplet of blood blossoms on the paleness of his skin, and he says, "Huh."
Justin smiles crookedly. "Sign from the universe, man."
Jared nods vaguely. "I s'pose." he looks down regretfully at the V-neck blouse he's working on, the luminous pink feathers he's planning on lining it with. The contrast makes his head ache.
Justin twirls the empty cup around in his clever fingers. "I heard Jensen was leaving, too."
Jared's nodding before he fully processes what he said. "And is that a problem?" he tries to make it sound like he isn't spoiling for a fight.
Justin takes a long look at him that sets warning bells in Jared's head. "Absolutely not."
Jared snorts quietly, if not quite disbelievingly. He doesn't decline when Tom offers a ride home, though.
Jared shares English with Steve, so the next day, he isn’t really surprised to see him standing in front of his class, looking worn out and worried.
“Miss Gamble wanted to talk to you,” he tells Jared, handing him a Twix.
Jared makes a face even as he thanks Steve. “For real? She mention why?”
Steve shrugs. “I dunno, man, but if you’re in trouble, Manners will kick your ass so fast.”
Jared tries not to dwell on that. It’s hard enough focusing on school when his fingers are itching for a pencil and a needle.
He stays back after first period’s over. “You wanted to see me?” He asks Miss Gamble casually. She looks up from arranging her books and smiles, gestures at him to sit down. Jared’s heart sinks a little.
"Jared, your scores on your quizzes aren't what they used to be," she says once they’re both seated on opposite sides of her desk, tapping her pen on the edge. She’s indicating a paper, and Jared has to lean closer to look. He hadn't even known he'd answered a quiz, let alone got a C minus for it; when'd that happen? "I can't say the same for your papers, but that's just because you're not turning any in."
Jared swallows. He has it on good authority that Ms. Gamble likes him, and knows that she comes to every single showing. Despite that, she's not really one for bullshitting around, and Jared's still got enough of a survival instinct to recognize when he's in over his head. "I, uh, got distracted with..." he trails off lamely.
She makes an impatient gesture with her hands. "Yes, I know. Supernatural." her expression softens fractionally. "I admire the work you're doing, I do, but school doesn't seem to hold any priority in your life, and I find that downright tragic." she looks him square in the eye. "You've got a lot of potential, Jared. And it's not centered solely around your theatre group, so it would be a shame if you used Supernatural as an excuse to let all that go to waste."
Jared opens his mouth, words rushing like acid to his tongue. It's not that fucking easy, he wants to tell her. He wants so badly to sit down and tell her about magic, about the creation of something that can't be explained by logic alone. They hand out a bill with the cast list on it at shows; it reads Costumes and Makeup: Jared Padalecki, and that's how he knows who he is.
He looks at her, and she raises an eyebrow, waiting.
Finally, he nods. "I'll, uh. I'll try," he offers.
Her face lights up, and Jared's mouth tastes distinctly of gasoline.
As he heads for the door, she calls, “Just remember, you would flourish in college. You have the opportunity, you know.”
Jared feels ill.
Jensen looks beyond exhausted when Jared next sees him nearly ten hours later, fine dark charcoal rings around his eyes and face the color of unmarked paper. Even so, he darts a nervous glance at Jared before he slumps on the armchair next to his.
"Hey," says Jared, eyeing the room. Nearly all the seats are empty, and he's in a far corner of the room; Jensen doesn’t have that excuse to fall back on if Jared challenged him on crowding his personal space. He doesn't think he will, though. He's not used to drawing alone. And Jensen is perfectly aware of the fact.
"Hey," Jensen says, looking at him through the corner of his eyes. It reminds Jared of riding shotgun with him in the driver's seat, and he boxes the memory away in the compartment where it belongs.
They watch Justin and Manners storm in, arguing over the budget for lumber, mildly fascinated. It’s a well-rehearsed little battle, one that plays out every year. Manners is being patronizing and downright bitchy in turn, but Justin's surprising them all by holding his own. They pass through the green room like a whirlwind, and then it’s just Jensen and Jared again.
Jared clears his throat before asking, “Rough going last night?”
Jensen snorts and closes his eyes. “And then some. Mike found out his green gels was fucked all to hell, and spent the whole time experimenting with yellow and blue and talking about how Tom looked best in primary colors.”
Jared bites back a smirk. “Did you mention that Mike was probably looking through the rose-tinted glasses?”
“You know I did.” Jensen winks, then closes his eyes again. “He told me to shut the fuck up before he cut my balls out with his glasses. It got ugly.”
Jared laughs without thinking, and Jensen opens his eyes. Lightning strikes somewhere as their eyes meet, and Jared doesn’t will his smile away. "Did you talk to Justin?" He asks, finally.
Jensen slumps further into the cushions. "Yeah, I did."
Jared waits. Jensen sighs, and glances at him briefly before he says, "Kid's cool now. He, uh, was kinda overwhelmed, is all." Jensen gestured around the room, an ironical lilt to his mouth. “It’s only fair, I guess.”
Jared’s shaking his head before he completes the sentence. “And it suddenly hit him when Tom and Mike were making out?”
Jensen looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, that just happened ‘cause he has a full-on crush on Tom Welling.” Then, seeing the look on Jared’s face, he added, “What? It’s not exactly unheard of. You yourself used to be his number one fan, as I recall.”
Jared flips him off, distracted. “But he’s straight!” he cries, kinda dismayed, which, what the fuck?
Jensen’s smile grows evil, mischievous. Jared’s stupid, stupid heart stutters at the sight. “Apparently not,” he hums, looking satisfied. “Ain’t no straight boy making it into this here drama troupe, it’s queers only.”
“Oh God,” Jared presses his fist against his temple, sucking in the insides of his cheeks to hide the smile. “I can’t believe you’re actually worried about our gay-only rep.”
“Ah, it’s more than just a rep, Padalecki,” Jensen smiles and leans further back in his seat. “It’s our identity.”
Jared rolls his eyes and lets the grin break free. “Yeah yeah yeah.” He bends down once more over his work, and doesn’t allow himself to wonder why, cornily enough, he’s so comfortable with the presence next to him.
Alona joins him on a supply run.
It goes like this:
“Sequins,” mumbles Jared under his breath. “Rhinestones. Glitter, so much fucking glitter.”
“I expect a full tank when you give it back, bitch!” shouts Mike from somewhere far off.
“Motherfucker!” Jared retaliates, mostly out of habit. “Company?” he asks the room in general.
Steve shakes his head, when Jared looks at him hopefully, and points at his headphones.
“I’ll come,” Alona offers from Katie’s corner. She’d been peering over Katie’s shoulder at the detailed diagram of the stage, tacks with differently-colored heads indicating sections where the actors were to speak their lines. The diagram’s related to blocking, and would normally be part of Jensen’s job, but Jared’s not going to point any fingers.
Jared smiles at her and passes her an armful of clothes that still smell slightly of mothballs. “Awesome. Now, let’s get this stuff in Mike’s piece of shit.”
“Don’t diss the Mikemobile!” Mike yells, godlike, from the overheads and the whole thing’s so ridiculous Jared and Alona catch each other’s eyes and crack up. They laugh even as Katie orders them off her property and they giggle as they carry the bundles to the car.
They get into the beat down Toyota and Jared gets it to spring to life on the second try. Alona makes a comment about giant prehistoric iguanas and that sets them off again.
Turns out, Alona’s an excellent conversationalist. When it comes to Jared, that basically means that she listens intently and giggles into her palm when Jared goes on about his dogs and the costumes and school, talking like he hasn’t in a long time.
They stop outside the tiny little shop that’s nearly unnoticeable near the 7 Eleven. Jared has to duck his head to get in through the door, and Alona looks around like she’s fascinated.
Jared admits it’s really something. There are chains of beads and lava lamps and other shiny stuff on every horizontal surface, big rolls of gauzy netting of every color and jars of sequins. It’s like walking into the slightly gay -or possibly a twelve-year-old girl’s version of Aladdin’s cave.
Jared clears his throat and waits, keeping an eye on Alona as she tentatively reaches out to touch a glass lamp that looks like a very expensive bong.
“Who ventures into the lair of the cursed princess?” Kristen does her mad cackle thing as she enters, then lights up when she sees Jared. “Jay!”
She hugs him tightly and her rings cut into his spine. He grins, though; Kristen is worth the vague impression of a very loud hummingbird she creates.
Alona, not knowing this, has backed to a corner and is watching them warily. Jared waves her over and grins at them both. “’Lona, this is Kristen, teenage hippie and self-proclaimed witch. Kristen, Alona, our new lead.”
“Ooh, the spirits told me you were doing Hamlet!” Kristen says happily.
“She means she’s stalking Tom, and Tom’s Facebook wall said we’re doing Hamlet this year,” Jared translates for Alona, and she grins as Kristen punches Jared’s side.
“So, what do you need, good sir?” Kristen clears the counter of textbooks for her biology degree. Jared rolls his eyes.
“We need to match shiny things.” He gestures at the pile of material they’d dumped unceremoniously on the floor.
Kristen claps her hands and falls upon the pile, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the patterns. She gathers them in a bundle and goes towards the back. “C’mon, hotshot. Alona, wanna see the inside of the murder machine?”
Alona shakes her head, twisting a chain of glass beads around her fist. “I’ll just hang here, if no one minds.”
Kristen nods. “The spirits don’t, and no one really cares what Jared thinks so you’re good.”
Jared’s shaking his head as he follows Kristen into the back room. It’s even messier here; stacks and stacks of cloth and ribbons. Kristen immediately heads to the leftmost corner to rummage through the lines of jars and Jared gets a flash of an old suspicion; that despite the chaos, Kristen knows exactly where everything is.
“So, honey,” she says conversationally, sidestepping an avalanche of rolls of silk in reds and purples and greens. “Tom tells me Jensen’s back.”
Jared manages to hold on to his smile, and curses inwardly at the sheer inconvenience of having dated a guy who knew everyone you did. No matter what romantic comedies tell him, he’s got the basics now: never go out with someone who you have an inside language with.
This bone-deep sadness that doesn't feel like it'll ever go away, that robs his voice and stills his laughter. All he wants is to believe that he'll be okay again, that this isn't actually the end of the world. People get left behind all the time. It shouldn't feel so utterly new, the most terrible of consequences.
He wonders when, if ever, he'll get over Jensen Ackles.
“Yeah.” He says tonelessly.
She looks at him, level and far from accusatory. “And how are you holding up?”
“Fine,” he says on an exhale. “I’d honestly be much better off if everyone would just back off and stop asking me how I am.”
“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound angry. She glances around the storage room, and smiles brightly. Jared appreciates the effort though it falls flat, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Now, I’m betting you’re dying to excavate. What do you have in mind?”
Hours later, they’ve got sequins in their hair and glitter under their fingernails, and Alona has a fluffy pink tiara perched precariously on her golden locks. They slump together in a pile, Alona and Kris pressing up on his sides as they silently contemplate the stacks of material they’d just disrupted.
"Contrary to popular belief, you don't actually have to be an addict to be in Supernatural." Kristen points out, out of the blue. She passes Jared her cigarette and looks mildly surprised when he refuses. "I mean, Jeff was as clean as they came."
Jared raises his eyebrows. "Kris, Jeff once threw up blood in class and OD'd twice in his senior year."
"Ah." Kristen nods. "Then it's probably Jim I'm talking about. It's rough; all the guys in Supernatural come in pairs." She looks at him sideways, her cigarette perched between two fingers. "But then, I hardly need to tell you that."
Jared shrugs, and leans back against a stack of rolled up cloth. They're in the backroom of her shop, and Kristen's looking obscenely proud of smoking underneath the very sign that reads NO SMOKING in big upper case letters.
He thinks, his mind sticking painfully, of Jensen in those long-ago days, Jensen who used to stay awake for three, four days at a stretch and then pass out under streetlights, his face pale, dark rings around his eyes as fine as charcoal. Jensen used to dream up fantasies where he and Jared lived the apple pie life together, happy and clean, even while he was licking speed off Jared's palm. He'd been so perfectly damaged, beyond repair, almost.
"And now look at us," Kristen says, seeming to read his mind. "All grown up."
He smiles at her lazily. "You're old crone material now, alright."
Kristen grins. "Cougar, you mean," and then she pounces, begins tickling him mercilessly.
Onwards