TL&ToaDiD - DAY THREE, pt. 1
The next morning, Jensen has absolutely no idea where he is.
That’s probably got something to do with the fact that his head hurts like a bitch, but it’s also because he can’t remember anything that happened last night-it’s all a blur of colours, drinks and gunshots, and while usually that would indicate to him that he probably had a good time, now, he’s not so sure. Now, he wakes up with this weird, twisting feeling in his stomach, and he smells a bit like gunpowder, and when he opens his eyes, he doesn’t have any idea where he is.
So that’s the weirdest bit.
Not being able to recognise the ceiling.
Jensen sleeps on his back, so it’s always the first thing he sees when he wakes up-and so for it to be completely different, without the cracks in the paint he’s used to and all the bumps and ridges he knows so well, is really weird, and he sort of jolts upwards without really meaning to. Then he’s sat up in a bed he doesn’t recognise, staring at walls he doesn’t recognise, looking for something he might recognise-there’s a warm patch down at the bottom of the bed, where the sheets dip slightly, as though someone was sat there, and Jensen frowns.
Slowly, he slips out of bed and stretches.
He’s sure he’ll remember what’s going on soon enough.
He can smell coffee, though, and, at the moment, that’s slightly more important than his whereabouts-except, the thing is, this place is huge, and Jensen turns one corner, and then another, and then another, until he’s pretty sure he’s lost. Memories of last night are coming back to him, too, but they’re foggy and grainy-and he remembers kissing Misha in the office and Winchester by the reception and has to place the palm of his hand against his mouth. His cheeks flush pink. He rounds another corner and bumps straight into a chest.
It’s a broad chest.
It’s a broad, wet chest.
Jesus, it’s a broad, wet, very much naked chest.
Attached to a very much naked body.
Complete with a teeny, tiny towel.
Oh God.
Jensen squeaks.
Okay, so it isn’t the manliest noise he could have made, but he’s still recovering from the dreaded Night Before and he’s not fully in control of the noises he’s making, so he figures he can probably be forgiven. Besides, this guy is all muscles and flat skin, pearls of water dribbling down that sculpted surface, meeting together just above his navel-and they trickle slowly, and tantalizingly so, into the soft, woolly towel wrapped tight around his waist, and-
And, oh Lord, Jensen is staring.
He clears his throat and drags his gaze away.
“You’re awake,” the guy says, and then he grins-and Jensen has to take another look, because that’s definitely Winchester’s voice and Winchester’s smile and those are most certainly Winchester’s dimples, but there’s no mask, so...
So-
So what?
“Winchester?”
“Yeah, but, I guess, since there’s no mask and all, you can call me Jared,” Winchester says, gesturing absently towards his face; his cheeks have gone a little red and he’s shifting from foot to foot, obviously aware that he’s naked, but Jensen’s ignoring that right now. Instead, he reaches out with one hand, narrows his eyes, and then prods Winchester’s cheek. “Ow. What was that for?”
“This isn’t real, is it?”
“Uh.”
“I’m still dreaming, right?”
“I think you might still be in shock,” Winchester-no, Jared-says, and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “You were shot at last night, after all, and I guess this is probably just the kicker and-Jensen? Dude, if you’re going to faint, just tell me; I’ll shut up and catch you. I’m good at that. You’re not-you’re not going to be sick, are you? Misha! Misha!”
Jensen doesn’t faint and he isn’t sick-two things he’s immensely proud of, by the way, considering how his body had been trying to do both at once. Instead, he just flushes bright red when Jared scoops him up and does this weird, zipping thing; one second, they’re stood in a corridor in the middle of a maze of corridors and rooms, and then the next, they’re in the middle of a kitchen, and Jared’s dripping onto the floor and Jensen’s getting steadily more and more damp. He’s also being cradled rather embarrassingly, with an arm thrown hastily around Jared’s neck and his legs sticking out an awkward angle.
Misha takes one look at them, rolls his eyes and then gestures towards the table. “Coffee’s ready,” he says.
“You are a god,” Jensen says, and twists out of Jared’s grasp.
He looks mildly surprised at that.
“You’re very slippery,” Jared comments.
“And you’re very wet.”
Misha snorts.
Jensen’s ears turn bright pink, and Jared looks like he’d very much like the ground to swallow him whole, and Misha just grins-it’s that insane grin, the one that makes Jensen’s stomach do backflips and twist in knots-before holding his hands up in surrender. “What? Was it something I did?”
“You’re an ass,” Jared frowns.
“Hey, you’ve put up with me for this long,” Misha shrugs.
That’s an intriguing idea.
Jensen wants to ask a little about that-about how they even know each other, and whether it’s a Winchester thing or whether they’re just friends-but he’s a little distracted; he wraps his hands around his mug of coffee, presses it to his lips, and then takes a long, happy sip. It feels a little like he’s melting inside. His hangover doesn’t disappear like magic-although that would be fucking awesome-but the metaphorical bees buzzing in his head quieten down a little bit. He thinks back over the last couple of days; thinks of how a couple of kisses appear to have actually changed his life, and how people shot at him with real bullets, and how no amount of alcohol in the world could ever make this better.
Then, absently, he glances across at the time.
It’s just past ten o’ clock; he should be at work right now-hell, he should have been at work an hour ago-but he can’t quite bring himself to go. Besides, he doesn’t have any clean clothes; he’s still wearing the dirty, grimy stuff from last night, and the knees are covered in dirt from where he was crawling about, and his shirt is crumpled and wrinkly. He doesn’t want to go into work anyway-he should be able to get the day off and blame it on shock or whatever-but Jensen’s never just skipped a day of work in his life; sure, he’s had days off, but those were either booked or he was genuinely ill.
He sighs and stands up.
Misha raises an eyebrow.
“I should get to work,” he says, as means of an explanation.
Both of Misha’s eyebrows shoot upwards now. “Looking like that?”
He shrugs.
“I can drop you off at your place,” Jared offers around a piece of toast-it’s half-buttered and dangling out of his mouth, and there’s a line of crumbs smudged along his cheek, and it’s possibly one of the most adorable things Jensen has ever seen. “If you want me to.”
“You’re not even dressed.”
“I’m superhuman, Jen. I can be dressed whenever you want me to be.”
Jensen flushes red at that, because the implications are that, right now, Jensen doesn’t want Jared to be dressed-and while there’s a certain amount of truth to that, it doesn’t need to be said. Jared seems to realise that too, because the tips of his ears have gone pink and he suddenly disappears, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs on the table behind him.
“You two are ridiculous,” Misha says, and flaps a hand in front of him, gesturing at the room around them. “The UST in here is quite overwhelming.”
“Shut up.”
“Personally, I think you should be grateful.”
“Why?”
“Normally, he just walks around naked. He’s kept the towel on for you.”
Jensen almost snorts coffee out of his nose. Instead, he just ends up choking a little, coughing and spluttering until Misha rounds the table to thump him on the back-he’s laughing the entire time. Misha’s got a nice laugh; it’s one of those laughs where a person just lets go, eyes crinkling, mouth stretching, and then they just laugh and laugh and laugh. It’d probably be nicer, in all fairness, if it wasn’t currently directed at Jensen, and so Jensen just scowls. Misha’s hand lingers on Jensen’s back for just a fraction of a second too long, and then he leans forwards, over Jensen’s shoulder, and practically purrs against his ear:
“You have to be naked in this house.”
Sure, it’s not the best of all lines-but it’s the way he says it that makes Jensen’s heartbeat quicken. It’s the way his voice drops down, gets low and throaty, a soft little growl against Jensen’s ear-and it’s because he’s so close, he can actually feel Misha’s lips brushing against the side of his face, tantalizingly gentle, and that he can feel Misha’s body pressed flat against his back. It’s the fact that he knows Misha is grinning afterwards-he can feel it in the air-and that grin does wonders to Jensen already; it sends his heartbeat sky-high and his skin tingle.
For a moment, they stay where they are.
Then Jensen twists and raises an eyebrow sceptically.
“You’re not naked.”
“I can be if you want me to be,” Misha practically winks.
This guy has no shame.
And, yet, the idea makes Jensen feel hot.
His skin is electric again.
Jensen opens his mouth-although, he’s not entirely sure of what he’s going to say-but, apparently, he doesn’t need to say anything at all; there’s a gust of wind, and then Misha is flat on his back on the floor and Jared is sat at the table next to Jensen, toast in hand, trying to look as innocent as possible. He’s grinning, though, and he looks triumphant and highly satisfied; Misha just lies on his back, staring at the ceiling for a while, before pulling himself to his feet, frowning at Jared.
“That’s cheating.”
“I don’t see a rulebook anywhere.”
“You used your powers.”
“Hey, I’m a superhero, Misha-using my powers is what I do,” Jared grins, before glancing across at Jensen. “Do you want to go yet? I mean, I’m all dressed and ready, so I figured we may as well, right?”
“Uh,” Jensen says, feeling pretty confused as to what just happened, “Sure, I guess.”
“Excellent!”
When they get to the apartment, Jensen’s not sure whether he’s supposed to invite Jared inside or not. He’s not planning on staying for too long, as he only plans on having a quick shower and getting dressed, but he watches Jared shift nervously from foot to foot for a minute before heaving a sigh, shrugging his shoulders as he says, “Make yourself a drink or something-I was under the impression that you had lives to save, but no.”
“New York survived just fine before me,” Jared beams, following Jensen inside. “They can wait fifteen minutes longer.”
“That’s a very reassuring attitude to have.”
“You know you love me really.”
“Of course,” Jensen rolls his eyes, gesturing in the general direction of the living room and kitchen, which are pretty much one and the same-Jared sits down, nodding in acknowledgement as Jensen points out each and every room. “You can sit and watch TV in there, while you wait-I’m going to have a shower, so I’ll be just through here; you can see the kitchen from where you’re sat, but just in case you are mentally deficient, it’s just through that arch. Please don’t burn yourself-or my kitchen-or my flat.”
“I’ll try my hardest not to,” Jared says, but he’s grinning.
“And don’t break anything.”
“I make no promises.”
“Asshole,” Jensen says, and Jared’s chuckles follow him even as he walks away. It’s kind of unnerving, really, to think of the fact that he’s got Winchester sat in his living room-and by the sounds of his kettle boiling, he’s got Winchester making himself tea in his flat, and jeez, it’s just so surreal. He can’t quite get over the fact that only a few days ago, he wouldn’t have even dreamt that any of this could be happening; and, yet, here he is, and there Winchester is, just a room away, and now Jensen knows who Winchester is and he’s kissed him and people shot at him and-
Jensen flops down onto his bed.
This is all so hard.
He needs to think.
That’s what he needs to do.
He needs an hour to just sit and think and breathe-and maybe let the events of the past few days catch up with him, but he doesn’t think he has an hour. He can hear cars in the street-no doubt one of the neighbours spotted Winchester landing on the pavement outside, when they first got there, and decided to make a quick buck-and Jensen really needs to get washed. He feels dirty and gross, and his tongue still tastes like the night before, and ew, he really needs a shower. He showers quickly, pausing only momentarily to relish the feel of hot water trickling down his back, into his eyes, soaking his hair-and then, all too quickly, he’s out and dressed and stood in front of Jared, who’s discarded tea completely and is holding a beer.
Jensen raises an eyebrow.
“Isn’t it a bit early?”
“I have a high alcohol tolerance,” Jared shrugs. “Like, really high. This tastes like lemonade to me.”
“What does lemonade taste like?”
“Lemonade.”
He snorts at that and shakes his head.
Jared just grins, downing the rest of his beer before crumpling it up in his hand; there’s a whoosh of air, and then the beer has vanished entirely, obviously thrown into the bin, and Jared’s suddenly stood very close to Jensen, holding a hand out. The grin on his face is crooked and sweet, and he says, “Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”
Jensen doesn’t even have time to offer a snarky comeback-just like that, Jared’s arm is around his waist, holding him tightly, and then they’re out the front door; and then, all of a sudden, they’re flying, and once again, it’s utterly breath-taking.
“Dude.”
Jensen is usually very good at ignoring Chad-it’s a skill you tend to master once you’ve hung around with him for long enough, and Jensen is very good at it. The trick is to look away-if you don’t make eye contact, he gets bored after a while and moves onto a different, usually unsuspecting victim-but for some reason it isn’t working right now. Jensen’s trying his very hardest to keep his gaze on his computer screen, but there’s this vaguely accusatory, half-awed tone to Chad’s voice, and he can’t help but look up.
“What?”
“Dude,” Chad just says again. “Dude.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Are you using Winchester as a taxi service?”
“What? No!”
“And where were you last night?”
“I was at home-”
“Lies! I called your flat, and no one picked up!”
“Well, maybe I just didn’t want to talk to you, Murray.”
“I called fifteen times, Ackles.”
“I-”
“You weren’t at home last night, so where were you? I deduce from your expression-and the fact that you look like a naughty schoolboy who was just caned by a very sexy headmistress, probably wearing a garter belt and minimal lace-that you were somewhere you shouldn’t have been last night,” Chad says, ignoring Jensen’s protests and attempts to cut across him, “Which, in turn, leads me to believe that you were with your boyfriend, Winchester-or is it boyfriends? What are these, Ackles?”
Chad slams a photograph down onto the table in front of Jensen. Gingerly, tentatively, he picks it up-and lets out a low groan at the sight of him, looking extremely drunk, slumped over a bar counter; Misha’s got his hand pressed against the small of his back, and they’re sat very, very close together. He groans again, glances up at Chad-who is looking both triumphant and reprimanding-and then lets his forehead hit his desk.
“I hate my life.”
“Dude, don’t angst out on me now! I want to know details.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
That isn’t enough for Jensen.
Chad relents, and explains, “Because if my best mate-don’t make that snorting noise, you asshole-is sleeping with a superhero and a super-billionaire, then I want to know every single detail so I can be a proper bro. Also, paparazzi keep phoning me up offering cash to air your dirty laundry to the world, and if you don’t tell me about this, I’m telling everyone about that time when you got drunk, painted yourself blue and assaulted a poor elderly woman while entirely naked.”
Jensen narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Chad crows, “I still have the pictures.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Start talking, princess.”
“I really hate you.”
“Not really what I want to hear, but go on-I’m sure this somehow relates to why you were cuddling up at Winchester’s place last night.”
“I wasn’t at Winchester’s,” Jensen says, and then he tells Chad everything-or, at least, pretty much everything. He tells him about being surprised in the office by Misha, but he misses out the kiss-after all, Chad doesn’t really need to know about that. He tells him about the bar and being shot at, and how he’d gotten drunk and they’d taken him back to Misha’s place-and how he most certainly, most definitely, didn’t have sex with either of them, despite the fact that Chad keeps throwing suggestive winks at him. He tells him about waking up the morning after-and he misses out the part about Winchester being Jared, and about how small Jared’s towel was and how wet he was; he misses out Misha’s flirting and the comment about being naked, and when he finishes, he claps his hands and says, “There! Now you know it all.”
Chad looks suspicious. “I don’t know...”
“If you don’t let me work, I’m probably going to hurt you.”
“But-”
“Very violently.”
Chad holds up his hands in surrender and, for the briefest of moments, Jensen is given a bit of peace and quiet. Until:
“Dude, I am starving. Can we go and get lunch?”
“It’s only just gone ten o’ clock.”
“We can go and see Welling,” he offers. “You can get some of that coffee you like, and I’ll get a muffin-or three, or four-and we’ll both live happily ever after.”
Jensen has his jacket on before Chad can say anything else.
Jensen goes to visit Tom Welling. He likes Tom. He’s pretty cool, actually-he used to work with Jensen as a reporter, but then shit went down and there was an accident, and Tom decided it wasn’t really what he wanted to do with his life. Now he’s got his bakery, with this little cafe on the side-Welling’s Make ‘N’ Bake, where all the cakes are homemade and the coffee is practically orgasmic-and he looks happy as he sidles into their booth, Mike glued to his side. He’s got his own bakery and his own boyfriend, and the massive grin on his face proves that he’s got what he didn’t have when he was working with Jensen. He sits down opposite Chad, who’s working through a basket of muffins meant for five people, and grins at Jensen; he pushes across this coffee, and Jensen’s entire face lights up, and he says, “Dude, when did you become so freaking perfect?”
Tom looks pleased. “I even remembered how much sugar you take.”
“You are a god among men.”
“I know.”
“I’d just like to take the opportunity to remind you that there is a reason why he’s my boyfriend,” Mike interjects quickly, and then jabs a finger at Jensen, smirking slightly, amused, “So you can stop fluttering those pretty green eyes of yours, princess.”
“What can I say? Coffee is the easiest way to my heart.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“And don’t call me princess.”
“I think it suits you.”
“It’s bad enough that that asshole does it, thanks,” he rolls his eyes and jerks his thumb at Chad.
“These muffins are fucking awesome,” Chad says, spewing crumbs everywhere, teeth chocolaty as he grins. “Fucking. Awesome.”
Jensen rolls his eyes.
“Thanks,” Tom says, trying not to sound too elated-his entire face lights up, though, so it doesn’t really work.
“Seriously, what the hell do you put in these things? They taste like-like rainbow, or something.”
“That one’s chocolate, Chad.”
“And it tastes like a little chocolate heaven, Tom.”
Tom manages to look even more pleased. He’s a little worried that smile is going to split the guy’s face in half-and Mike’s staring at him then, grinning, happy and proud, and it’s sort of weird how happily ever after the two of them are. He finds it vaguely worrying. He remembers when Mike used to try and pick up every pretty guy and girl in the room, and he remembers when Tom was just this little lovesick puppy, and he wonders why everyone else grows up, but Jensen doesn’t. He wants to tell them that he’s very happy for them, and maybe a part of him wants to ask them exactly how they did it.
He doesn’t, of course.
“Dude, I was eating that!”
“You disgust me.”
“D’you think it’s still edible?”
“That’s sick.”
“Somewhere, there are probably children starving, and I owe it to them not to let this go to waste,” Chad announces, and he reaches for the bit of muffin.
“Just have another one out of the basket, Chad,” Tom interrupts, swatting his hand away; then he turns to Jensen, and there’s a gleam in his eyes Jensen doesn’t quite like. “So, Jen-when did you plan on telling us about your superhero boyfriend?”
“Or the millionaire-”
“Billionaire,” Chad corrects.
“Or the billionaire boyfriend,” Mike finishes.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Jensen insists.
“He stayed at Misha’s house last night,” Chad informs them. “That’s the billionaire. I think Winchester was there, too, because he dropped him off at work this morning; I think that they’re in one big lovely relationship, and they have sex and everything, because Jensen’s already kissed them both five times.”
“I kissed Winchester once,” he scowls. “When did you become such a gossip, anyway?”
“Around about the time your life became really interesting.”
“I hate you so much, Murray.”
“You’ve said.”
“Can we please return to the matter on hand?” Tom cuts across, grinning-he’s got a misleading grin. It’s disarming and charming, and, for a moment, Jensen is blinded; and then, all of a sudden, he remembers exactly what they’re talking about, just as Tom says, “So, which one was better then, Jen?”
“I haven’t slept with them!”
“If you say so,” Chad murmurs.
Jensen hits him.
Tom chuckles. “I meant at kissing, moron, since you’ve kissed them both.”
“My money’s on Misha,” Mike says, shrugging his shoulders. “What? The guy’s like a snake-it only makes sense that he’s got a tongue to match.”
Jensen actually pauses to think about it. He thinks about how fast and swift and messy everything is with Misha-he thinks of the knee pressed against his crotch, the hand tugging at his hair; he thinks of how his own hands clawed at the other’s back, desperate and needing. And then he thinks of Winchester and how soft and gentle that kiss had been; sweet and perfect, like something out of a fairytale or a storybook-and he realises his cheeks are tinged pink, and Tom and Mike are both looking at him with something akin to approval in their eyes; Chad’s too busy stuffing his face with muffins to notice.
He flings his hands into the air.
“Oh, shut up!”
“I think it’s adorable,” Tom says.
“In a vaguely sickening way,” Mike adds.
“They’re not my-I’m not-I mean-”
“Just give up, Jen,” Tom says fondly, and places his hand on top of Jensen’s. “You can deny it as much as you want, but those two have obviously taken a liking to you-and if they’ve taken a liking to you, well, then, it’s no wonder New York is interested.”
“Not just New York,” Mike grins. “It’s more like the whole world wants to know who you are.”
“Congratulations,” Chad says around a bit of muffin. “You’re the world’s most famous damsel in distress!”
Chad leaves with a stack of muffins heaped in his arms-blueberry and chocolate, because those are his favourites-and he says something to Mike over his shoulder, who laughs and smacks the back of his head in response. Jensen’s walking behind them, carrying a coffee, and Tom’s next to him, watching the other two and chuckling beneath his breath; it’s time for that awkward goodbye, made more awkward still by the fact that everyone is staring at them. At Jensen. It’s weird how recognisable he’s become. Ahead of them, Chad wraps up his conversation, fist-bumping with Mike.
“I forget how awesome you were,” he says.
“You’re such a charmer, Murray.”
“Call me, princess.”
“Oh, shut up,” Mike laughs, and then nudges the other with his shoulder.
Behind them, Tom is looking at Jensen. It’s a weird look-half proud and half concerned-and then he steps forwards and scoops Jensen up in a hug; Tom’s only slightly taller than Jensen, but somehow he manages to be much bigger, and, all of a sudden, Jensen’s having the life squeezed out of him. It’s quick and brief through, and Tom steps back, holding him at arm’s length. He’s grinning. “It’s weird seeing you all grown up like this, Jen,” he says, and then he shoves him out the door, into the street, and back into the arms of the waiting press.
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