FIC: Quatchi's Very Bad Day (J2, PG-13)
Title: Quatchi's Very Bad Day
Fandom: Supernatural RPS
Disclaimer: Never happened. Entirely fictional. Or so I hope for Jared's sake.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,200
AN: Written fortinkabell007 's "J2 Olympics" commenfic meme based on her prompt: "Jared is a student who finances his education through every job he can get. And that's why he's standing in front of the Olympic village, dressed in a full on Quatchi costume, handing out flyers." Written quick and dirty, no beta, no time to think. AU. Cracky fluff. Also, I never post fic. Be gentle.
Of course he was Quatchi.
The burly guy at the temp place had taken one look at him and yelled - much to Jared’s embarrassment - “Collins! I found us our sasquatch!”
Jared wasn’t even sure Quatchi was supposed to be an actual sasquatch, but it didn’t much matter to him. Mortifying as this gig was, it paid surprisingly well, and what with the student debt piling up, he couldn’t afford to be choosy.
So he stood in front of the Richmond Oval and passed out flyers for upcoming events, mostly the shitty ones no one wanted to go watch. All the good events had sold out months - even years - ago, and Jared was, of course, seeing none of them. He couldn’t even get in free to the Opening Ceremonies because he wasn’t a volunteer.
Most of the other jobs at the Games were filled by volunteers - thousands of them. They got to choose what they wanted to do, though, and it turns out no one would voluntarily dress up as a furry turd wearing earmuffs, so they paid Jared to do it.
I mean, maybe it wasn`t so bad? Mr. Collins - he’d said Jared could call him by his first name, but he was the boss and Jared had been raised with manners - had been sympathetic. He’d warned Jared about the blind spots on the costume, so that he didn’t step on small children or fall into dumpsters, and he’d said Jared could have an extra fifteen minute break on account of his costume being the most massive and generally hideous. And Jared got to promote the spirit of the Games, right?
Except that actually, it sucked. No one cared about the reject ticket of the day - bobsledding - he couldn’t breathe through all the polyester, his hair kept clinging to the roof of the mascot head, he really had to piss, and every time children saw him lumbering towards them they burst into tears.
But he wanted to keep this job; he needed to keep this job. Jared took a deep, stinky breath - the costume wasn’t dry-cleaned daily - and started towards a family gathered around a nearby notice-board. Maybe they were looking for something to attend...maybe they were even into bobsledding.
Jared would never find out because as he approached, the family’s young girl caught sight of him. Jared saw the fear in her eyes and her lower lip tremble, tried to turn around, but the momentum of the suit kept him going. As his enormous fuzzy self staggered toward her, the girl screamed in terror, raised her ice cream cone in the air, and hurled it directly into Quatchi’s smiling face.
Jared froze. The girl’s parents froze. The little girl smiled in victory and stuck her tongue out at Jared as her dad picked her up and carried her away from “the big scary monster.” Jared had to give the kid credit - she was tough for a four year old - but he wasn’t thrilled about his cookies-and-cream covered costume.
It was a bitch trying to fit Quatchi in a port-a-potty. Jared wasn’t actually sure how he’d done it. It seemed to break all the laws of physics, but then maybe that was the power of Jared’s desperation. He needed to keep this job, and he reasoned that taking his head off in front of the children might lead to getting fired, even if Mr. Collins was pretty cool. And so - somehow - he got into the port-a-potty, and tried to wipe as much of the ice cream as he could off the mascot head.
But that shit was sticky, the toilet paper was cheap and thin, there was no sink and Jared’s spit wasn’t cutting it. Quatchi looked as if he had some strange skin disease, even after a good five minutes of scrubbing. Moreover, Jared was beginning to feel faint from holding his breath. The smell inside the port-a-potty was even worse than the smell inside Quatchi and Jared figured the guys who had to clean out the toilets probably had the only job at the Olympics worse than his.
This had been the worst day of his life, and it wasn’t even lunch break yet. Jared punched the wall in frustration - and regretted losing his cool immediately, as he felt the plastic cubicle begin to tilt. Time seemed to slow. Jared saw his life flash before his eyes and then his future - his future covered in crap, piss, dirty diapers and a beer bottle or two.
In sheer panic, Jared threw himself against the still-locked door of the washroom. It gave under his weight and Jared tumbled out of the dank dark and into the sunlight, his fall softened by the costume beneath him. He watched the port-a-potty teeter precariously, threatening to spill its contents over him. Somehow, it stayed upright, settling innocently back to the ground as if it had never tried to ruin his life.
“Man, that was a close call.” Jared nearly jumped out of his skin - or at least Quatchi’s - at the voice from directly beneath him. Apparently it hadn’t been Quatchi who’d softened his landing.
Jared scrambled to Quatchi’s feet with some difficulty, and by the time he was standing, so was the man he’d fallen on top of. Jared turned to apologize, took one look at him, and nearly fell over again. The guy had to be the most beautiful person he’d even seen - all soulful eyes and perfect kissable lips and broad shoulders under his Team USA windbreaker...
“Oh crap! You’re an athlete!”
“Do you think crap is really the best word to use right now?” The man laughed, gesturing towards the port-a-potty of doom. Even his hands were beautiful.
Jared was suddenly hyper-aware of how he must look. He had the body of Quatchi the giganto-turd and his own, comparatively miniscule, head. His face was flushed and sweaty from the heat and the embarrassment and his hair was sticking up in all directions from the static of the costume. Also, he probably smelled - literally - like shit. Despite the fact that his size had gotten him this gig, Jared suddenly felt very small.
“Did I hurt you?” He asked, panicked. “I mean, are they going to arrest me for sabotaging the team or something...”
The man laughed out loud and Jared thought his smile was even brighter than the sun reflecting on the icy pavement. But looking at the pavement was good too, because then he didn’t have to make eye contact.
“No, I think I’m okay. It’s only luge, so I spend all my time lying down anyway.” The man winked, and Jared thought it was supposed to be comforting, but it made his stomach feel funny. Though maybe that was his near-feces experience. “I’m Jensen.” He moved as if to shake Jared’s hand, but saw Quatchi’s enormous paw and stopped.
The man - Jensen - approached the evil port-a-potty with exaggerated caution, peering carefully around the door. He returned carrying Quatchi’s head between two fingers, by the scruff of its hair. The rest of it was covered in grey-brown muck of origins Jared preferred not to carefully consider. Jensen placed the head carefully in a nearby garbage bin, looking the slightest bit mournful.
“Well,” he said, turning back to Jared with that smile again, “it looks like you’re off duty for the day. How about some lunch? And I’ve got tickets to tonight’s hockey game, if you’re interested?”
Jared thought maybe this was the best day of his life.