(no subject)
Uh. without_me did it. Jensen, makeup, handcuffs. My apologies to Chris Kane. PS. There will probably be more, if tomorrow is less crowded with divorcing coworkers who have nowhere else to discuss their sex lives and child custody issues at top volume.
Because he wasn't a woman, he never put on makeup in front of a mirror in his bedroom under some nice frosted softglow bulbs with three different illuminations. That led to situations like this one, head in a dude's lap with a liner pencil death-gripped in his hand as they spun their way down the cloverleaf toward the center of the city on Saturday night.
"I swear to God, you're doing this on purpose." Chris added an obnoxious sharpness to the turn, driving Jensen's shoulder into Steve's lap as he tried not to fly under the dashboard. "Son of a bitch."
"Buck up, Nancy, it's called the windblown look."
"It's called the Helen Keller look. Hello! Pointy thing by eye?"
Steve clasped his hand as he scrambled backward over the seat, graceful as a dog after a scrap of hamburger between the sink and the stove. "If you'd just carry a damn compact this wouldn't happen."
"If you'd just carry a damn compact," Jensen lisped under his breath, trying to gauge the damage to his liner in the pinwheeling streetlights. Chris's taste was uncountry tonight, Hendrix souping up Dylan, and when he caught his own eyes swallowed in darkness the pit of his stomach clenched. All along the watchtower...
Chris slowed as they hit the straightaway, the better to miss errant drunks. "So where to, boys and girls?"
"I object on behalf of all women," Jensen said. "I vote--"
"Hide n' Seek," Steve cut across him, his first address since a slid-sideways hallway kiss two weeks ago. Jensen found himself unable to meet his eyes.
Chris's fingers tightened around the wheel, but he kept the truck steady between the erratic lines of traffic. "Um...guys, I'm not really gonna be the belle of that kinda ball."
"It's called the asskicked look," Jensen said, and kissed the side of Chris's head before he put on his lipgloss.
***
"You knew about this," Chris bitched as they walked toward the matte-black bunker, stripping off his jean jacket for the third time and pulling it back on when his nipples peaked. "You knew we were going to end up at this godforsaken fr--" and suddenly they were swallowed up by the waiting crowd, tall men and plump women and guys built like bodybuilders and frail children who never grew up, pounds of metal and strong shaded shapes in ink, pants with hooks on them, sharp points in liner, gloss on lips, hair in metallic colors. The moon edited them into one species.
"Freakshow," he finished, softer, eyes on Jensen's as long as he could hold the look. "Goddammit."
Steve turned from chatting with a fey, mohawked boy Jensen'd bought coffee when his name was Darlene. He'd worked as a temp in the salon under Jensen's studio, waiting for the bus every morning with a flat taupe bag on his arm and his hands crossed under his breasts like he'd been born disfigured. When Jensen'd first asked him to MoJo, he'd marched there silently, then spent an hour wiping tears from the side of his nose.
Jensen tackled him now, shouting, "Dave!", and felt breathless laughter lurching against his shoulder. "How you been, man?"
"Awesome, excellent, very good," Dave said, "put me down, I'm gonna puke."
"Aww! Start partying without me?"
"No, seriously, Jen, if you love your leather--" and Jensen unshipped Dave and righted him in the flattened grass outside the entrance. He did look white. "Sorry. Had a migraine all day. Fucking fluorescents. My boss won't even let me use a lamp."
"Yeah, I hear that strobes and loud music are therapeutic."
Dave rolled his eyes. "I'm looking for someone."
"Aren't we all, honey," Steve said, laughing just in time for Jensen to catch it. He wondered if that was the point. "Look! Look at Chris! He's gonna ask somebody for an autograph, I just know it."
Jensen followed his finger. Chris was withering beneath the regard of three men who resembled Avenged Sevenfold, mincing back like a startled chicken as the tallest turned around. Jensen was painfully conscious of Chris's stonewashed Levis with the wallet shape worn in the back. "Okay, I'm going to keep him from getting it signed by knuckles. Dave, I'm buying you a drink. Don't be a hater."
"He's so forceful," Dave was cooing to Steve as Jensen left; Jensen would recognize Steve's cackle in a bigger crowd than this. "Mount me, Jenny, mount me--"
"In your fucking dreams!" Jensen called over his shoulder. He shot out a hand, snagging Chris by the wrist. "Come on, man, not cool to stare."
"I'm not staring," Chris said, staring.
"Do you have to be an ass? Let's go." Chris lived in a big city and worked among actors and artists, but he periodically failed to resist punishing the outre with his redneck regard. "Go, go, line's moving, go now."
They all shuffled forward, Steve crushing toward Jensen as they neared the door. Their hands brushed, knuckle tight to knuckle, and suddenly Steve's was wrapped in his against the tide of crowd movement. Jensen tried to glance at him and got someone's skull in the chin. At least no one would look at them askance.
"I'm not the one--" Chris blurted in his ear as they squeezed past the doorframe. The doorman jerked Jensen's ID under a lightpen, and he waited for an indrawn breath, a shocked upward look that didn't come. Goddamn, Dean Winchester in my bar. "I'm not the one," Chris finished when the artificial silence gave way to club beat, "holding hands with my friends in a leather bar!"
So cocky, Jensen thought, looking at Chris. Fucking bantam rooster. Steve's fingers were sweaty in his, and he could sense his smile through them, like a spider sensing fly's wings. "No," and his hand glided up beneath the waist of his jacket, finding the silver clasp and releasing it, "you're the one--" and soundlessly up, squeezing pressure and the answering slide of metal, Jensen's grip on Chris inescapable, a final cold click "handcuffed to them."
Because he wasn't a woman, he never put on makeup in front of a mirror in his bedroom under some nice frosted softglow bulbs with three different illuminations. That led to situations like this one, head in a dude's lap with a liner pencil death-gripped in his hand as they spun their way down the cloverleaf toward the center of the city on Saturday night.
"I swear to God, you're doing this on purpose." Chris added an obnoxious sharpness to the turn, driving Jensen's shoulder into Steve's lap as he tried not to fly under the dashboard. "Son of a bitch."
"Buck up, Nancy, it's called the windblown look."
"It's called the Helen Keller look. Hello! Pointy thing by eye?"
Steve clasped his hand as he scrambled backward over the seat, graceful as a dog after a scrap of hamburger between the sink and the stove. "If you'd just carry a damn compact this wouldn't happen."
"If you'd just carry a damn compact," Jensen lisped under his breath, trying to gauge the damage to his liner in the pinwheeling streetlights. Chris's taste was uncountry tonight, Hendrix souping up Dylan, and when he caught his own eyes swallowed in darkness the pit of his stomach clenched. All along the watchtower...
Chris slowed as they hit the straightaway, the better to miss errant drunks. "So where to, boys and girls?"
"I object on behalf of all women," Jensen said. "I vote--"
"Hide n' Seek," Steve cut across him, his first address since a slid-sideways hallway kiss two weeks ago. Jensen found himself unable to meet his eyes.
Chris's fingers tightened around the wheel, but he kept the truck steady between the erratic lines of traffic. "Um...guys, I'm not really gonna be the belle of that kinda ball."
"It's called the asskicked look," Jensen said, and kissed the side of Chris's head before he put on his lipgloss.
***
"You knew about this," Chris bitched as they walked toward the matte-black bunker, stripping off his jean jacket for the third time and pulling it back on when his nipples peaked. "You knew we were going to end up at this godforsaken fr--" and suddenly they were swallowed up by the waiting crowd, tall men and plump women and guys built like bodybuilders and frail children who never grew up, pounds of metal and strong shaded shapes in ink, pants with hooks on them, sharp points in liner, gloss on lips, hair in metallic colors. The moon edited them into one species.
"Freakshow," he finished, softer, eyes on Jensen's as long as he could hold the look. "Goddammit."
Steve turned from chatting with a fey, mohawked boy Jensen'd bought coffee when his name was Darlene. He'd worked as a temp in the salon under Jensen's studio, waiting for the bus every morning with a flat taupe bag on his arm and his hands crossed under his breasts like he'd been born disfigured. When Jensen'd first asked him to MoJo, he'd marched there silently, then spent an hour wiping tears from the side of his nose.
Jensen tackled him now, shouting, "Dave!", and felt breathless laughter lurching against his shoulder. "How you been, man?"
"Awesome, excellent, very good," Dave said, "put me down, I'm gonna puke."
"Aww! Start partying without me?"
"No, seriously, Jen, if you love your leather--" and Jensen unshipped Dave and righted him in the flattened grass outside the entrance. He did look white. "Sorry. Had a migraine all day. Fucking fluorescents. My boss won't even let me use a lamp."
"Yeah, I hear that strobes and loud music are therapeutic."
Dave rolled his eyes. "I'm looking for someone."
"Aren't we all, honey," Steve said, laughing just in time for Jensen to catch it. He wondered if that was the point. "Look! Look at Chris! He's gonna ask somebody for an autograph, I just know it."
Jensen followed his finger. Chris was withering beneath the regard of three men who resembled Avenged Sevenfold, mincing back like a startled chicken as the tallest turned around. Jensen was painfully conscious of Chris's stonewashed Levis with the wallet shape worn in the back. "Okay, I'm going to keep him from getting it signed by knuckles. Dave, I'm buying you a drink. Don't be a hater."
"He's so forceful," Dave was cooing to Steve as Jensen left; Jensen would recognize Steve's cackle in a bigger crowd than this. "Mount me, Jenny, mount me--"
"In your fucking dreams!" Jensen called over his shoulder. He shot out a hand, snagging Chris by the wrist. "Come on, man, not cool to stare."
"I'm not staring," Chris said, staring.
"Do you have to be an ass? Let's go." Chris lived in a big city and worked among actors and artists, but he periodically failed to resist punishing the outre with his redneck regard. "Go, go, line's moving, go now."
They all shuffled forward, Steve crushing toward Jensen as they neared the door. Their hands brushed, knuckle tight to knuckle, and suddenly Steve's was wrapped in his against the tide of crowd movement. Jensen tried to glance at him and got someone's skull in the chin. At least no one would look at them askance.
"I'm not the one--" Chris blurted in his ear as they squeezed past the doorframe. The doorman jerked Jensen's ID under a lightpen, and he waited for an indrawn breath, a shocked upward look that didn't come. Goddamn, Dean Winchester in my bar. "I'm not the one," Chris finished when the artificial silence gave way to club beat, "holding hands with my friends in a leather bar!"
So cocky, Jensen thought, looking at Chris. Fucking bantam rooster. Steve's fingers were sweaty in his, and he could sense his smile through them, like a spider sensing fly's wings. "No," and his hand glided up beneath the waist of his jacket, finding the silver clasp and releasing it, "you're the one--" and soundlessly up, squeezing pressure and the answering slide of metal, Jensen's grip on Chris inescapable, a final cold click "handcuffed to them."