CW RPS: At This Point (Tom Welling/Michael Rosenbaum)
Oh, look!: something I doubt as if anybody will read. But the muse demands emo!Mike, so I comply...
Title: At This Point
Pairing: Tom Welling/Michael Rosenbaum, Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tom and Mike go to a party, and Mike's acting weird. Trust Tom to figure it out...eventually. 5400 words.
Notes: Emo and schmoopy--you have been warned. Somehow, I haven't written these two together before (just with Jensen and Jared), so I'm probably getting some things out of my system. Hope it works okay. Also, I know Tom Welling is still happily married; I choose to ignore that fact for the purposes of fiction.
At This Point
Jensen doesn't know how they do it, this costars-friends-lovers thing they've got going. All he knows is it seems to work.
Tom and Mike are somehow better together, even at this party, where Tom's been holed up on one side of the room, having some sort of serious technical discussion with two of the sound guys, and Mike's been flitting around the room like he always seems to, although he's finally ended up behind the bar where, let's face it, he's happiest. Not because he's a lush or that he's even drinking very much tonight. He simply enjoys the process: chattering and flattering as he puts his people-reading skills to work, deciding what drinks to pour or mix without them having to tell him.
Mike's excellent at focusing attention exactly where he wants it, and tonight, he doesn't seem to want it on him. He apparently wants to watch and react and in general not be the center of things. Probably, it's because he's spending more than half of his time keeping his eyes on Tom, despite the fact that he's not been with him since they walked through the door.
Jensen will admit to having been a little freaked out when he found out the thing he thought was just a crazy rumor was true, that the two of them actually did have some wicked kind of lust thing for each other. Apparently, though, those feelings were something they had simply learned to funnel into their performances; outside of Clark and Lex, they were just friends, close like two people who spend too much time together on set. Or maybe like two people who would've been best friends anyway, without the working together.
By the time Tom's divorce was final and Jensen was going off to his own show, he had come to terms with the chemistry always lingering between them. So when he started to notice the way they touched each other in public, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what was going on, he found that he wasn't at all weirded out, only relieved. He always thought of them as a pair, the one completing the other in some way that ought to seem sappy but didn't. He felt that even back when they weren't dating, when they were just these guys he knew on the Smallville set. Once he knew they were together, he was doubly glad.
He has to admit that it's partly because he wouldn't wish Mike on anybody but Saint Welling. Mike can be a prima donna and an attention whore, tactless and oblivious. Of course, he is also capable of listening for hours, giving honest advice when you need it (whether you ask for it or not), and doing a world of distracting you from the bad shit in your life. In short, he can be the best friend a guy ever had-and he is, most of the time. Tom knows that better than anybody, which is why he puts up with exactly as much shit as he needs to and not an ounce more. Sometimes their friends mistake him for Clark Kent, and Tom does have some of Clark's patience, but Tom's own particular brand is to simply be more stubborn than Mike is and somehow get away with it. It both amuses and amazes Jensen.
Jensen threads his way through the crowded living room to the kitchen and the makeshift bar. Mike is wiping the counter with a wet rag, almost unconsciously, like he's been doing this half his life. From what the man has told him, that isn't a big stretch of the imagination.
"We're out of rum," Mike says, then he glances up at him. "They're out of rum. Whatever. The party's out of rum. What's up? Where's your boyfriend?"
Jensen just rolls his eyes. Jared is probably on the back porch, drinking Sandy away or standing a little too close to some petite brunette thing while he tells her all about his heartbreak. Or both. Whether he's trying to get in the girl's pants or just being his sincere, over-sharing self, Jensen isn't sure.
"Don't know," Jensen replies.
"What's the matter with you? Isn't there anybody at this party you haven't screwed yet?"
"Plenty," he replies, not that that's at all what he came here for. "But I thought maybe you'd narrow the field for me."
"I can tell you which ones are well worth a trip to the liquor store for more fucking Bacardi."
"Can you tell me which ones you haven't been with?"
Mike gives him a soft chuckle, then he cocks his head to the side, looking mildly mischievous. "I've never been…intimate with Padalecki."
"Fuck you," he replies with a shake of his head.
"Never done that either, stud."
Jensen finds himself grinning wide, despite himself. "Does Tommy know you have such a filthy mind?"
"Hell, why do you think the man lets me in his bed."
"That, I really don't need to know."
Mike quirks a smile at him and turns his back to the fridge. He pulls out a bottle and wrenches the cap off before he slides it over to him. The label's in German.
"Trust me," Mike says, then his eyes drift over his shoulder and hang there. "Speaking of platonic life-partners," he says flatly, "the Gilmore Boy just lumbered back into the house."
Jensen turns back to see Jared squeeze into the corner where Tom's standing, flanked by the two sound guys and now also one of the PAs. It doesn't surprise him to hear Mike affect a bit of an attitude-if it is an affect-about Jared. They might be friends, but Mike has periods of awkwardness around Jared, where he seems to get annoyed with him and for no reason Jensen can ever see much less make sense of. He's relatively certain it's jealousy, but that doesn't make a whole lot of sense. All Jensen knows is that when Jared spends too much time one-on-one with Tom, it makes Mike…weird.
Jensen takes a long drink of his beer (the man's right, it's good) and notices that Jared has one just like it in his hand, too. He's already got the sound guys talking more animatedly, and if Tom is bothered by the change in the tone of the conversation, he doesn't show it. In fact, after a moment or two, he taps a finger against Jared's beer bottle and pulls it out of his hand and takes a swallow of it, as if tasting it.
Jensen glances at Mike, who is still cleaning up the counter, arranging the bottles in a line then rearranging them in some system maybe only he understands. Mike can be a focused motherfucker sometimes; Jensen's just shocked to find him so intent on organizing someone else's liquor stash-in the middle of a party-rather than thrusting himself into the conversation in the corner.
Jensen gives him a puzzled look. "Why aren't you…?" He nods in Tom's general direction.
"He's a big boy," he replies in a tone that ought to follow a shrug but very pointedly doesn't. "He plays well with others." He waves him off with the back of his hand and says, "Go join 'em if you want. Bring your sweetie another beer."
Jensen flips him off then holds out his hand, eyebrows raised, and waits for Mike to ferret out another bottle from the fridge.
Before he turns and ambles off, he catches a look in Mike's eyes he can't interpret. Then again, he can never read the man for shit when he's being this quiet. He wishes Tom all the luck in the world.
*****
Mike tastes like beer and cigarettes.
Mike tastes like beer and cigarettes, and Tom realizes he hadn't even seen him go outside and bum a smoke off anyone. He'd been so intent on shop talk for some reason, then Jared crashed the conversation, and about that time, he realized his head sort of hurt and he really just wanted some air. Luckily, soon after Mike had suddenly materialized and slid his hand over the back of his neck, saying,Can we get out of here…?
Once he pulled him through the crowd and out the door, guiding him rather unobtrusively because, fuck, Tom was somehow a little tipsy, Tom had stopped him and pulled him into a long, sloppy kiss, because he missed the feel of his stubble on his face and the musky, earthy cologne he wears, just enough for Tom to smell it when he gets this close.
He steps into him, feels the heat radiating off him as he kisses him again. Mike's hands come up and cradle his face, pull his mouth away gently.
"Hey, Hoss," he says with a warm grin. "Front lawn. Might want to, you know, not…"
"Grope you? Why not? Please," he says, pouting his lips. Now he can't really think of why he spent the entire night in intense geek talk rather than trapping Mike in one of the upstairs bathrooms. Or skinnydipping. He looks good wet and naked. Hell, he always looks good. His eyes are pretty amazing right now, in the orange street lights.
Tom wishes like hell they could just walk back home, because it's perfect outside-clear sky, air crisply cool. He threads his hand through Mike's, and he's surprised when Mike doesn't let go. However, he does wiggle out of his arms so he can pull him along behind him, saying, "Wait till we get home."
"Whose home?"
"Doesn't matter. But I'm closer."
"Okay," he says, watching the way Mike's backside sways as he walks. Yep. Maybe he is indeed a little drunk, but he doesn't mind. It was a good party, and it's early, and Mike's got a serious look on his face, like he might be game for giving him a long, very patient blow job. Or else he's going to be sullen and withdrawn, but Tom usually knows how to combat that. It generally involves long, very patient blowjobs, actually.
Thinking about blowjobs too much, Tom can't help but stop him before he can open the door of the SUV, pushing him back into it to kiss him. Mike draws him close, hands on his ass as the kiss deepens. Mike is a fucking fantastic kisser, slow and fluid, like he's savoring every second. When Tom finally pulls back from the kiss, breathless, smiling, Mike looks so serious-shove-him-up-against-the-nearest-flat-surface serious.
Tom says, "Thought you wanted to wait."
At that, Mike's shoulders collapse a little and he nods before he nudges him away so he can climb in the SUV. All at once, Tom's aware that something's not right. He'd swear Mike's pissed off about something, and he can't help but wonder if that something is him.
The silence of the drive doesn't do anything for that nagging feeling. He should know quiet doesn't necessarily mean anything, because Mike usually doesn't talk much in the car. That's because they're most often in it together on their way to work, at the ass crack of dawn when Mike's not fit to be spoken to; he just drinks his coffee and frowns at the sun and the road and occasionally grumbles at the people who cut him off. But this isn't that sort of quiet. Tom trusts his gut well enough to know this is a bad silence, or at least a tense one. So he stretches out in the seat, his head throbbing a little, trying not to look at Mike too much. He puts the window down a little and lets his fingers trail out into the air and just waits.
He loves Mike like family. That was always first, and it will always be there. But he's also in love with him, and the transition hasn't been all that simple. It still feels sudden and strange sometimes, like when something happens to remind him how he knows Mike so well but he's suddenly had to relearn him. He would know how to deal with his friend, his costar on a night like this. What he doesn't know how to deal with is his lover, his fucking boyfriend, because this is a whole new layer being added to their foundation, and the whole thing might collapse if they're not careful.
But he doesn't really think it would be possible for them to completely destroy this bond they have, especially since the very notion has the power to worry him this much. Then again, he thought the same thing about Jamie, and look where that ended up. It's taken him a while to get to this place, where he wants to try again, take the risk. Especially since it was Mike. He found himself just shy of sure but with enough faith to reach out and take hold anyway.
Especially since it was Mike.
They've come a long way, he thinks. He's mostly excited and happy about this relationship, but on nights like this, when he finds that the way the whole of him buzzes just to be near Mike can shift so suddenly into cold, hard tension, it's crazy-making. Of course, love usually is.
Love is also apparently stubborn, or at least loving Mike is.
"What's wrong with you?" Tom asks.
"What do you mean?"
"You tell me."
"Nothing." Mike gives him a sincerely calm look, eyes shining, but he's not fine. "Good party."
"So why'd you want to leave?"
"You didn't? You should've told me, babe. We could've-"
"No. No, it's fine. I wanna be where you are."
He hears him snort, apparently without meaning to, if his face is any indication.
"What?" Tom says.
"Nothing."
"What?"
Sighing, he says, "You were across the room from me most of the time."
"I didn't know-"
"Hey," he says firmly. "It's cool. Don't pay any attention to me. I'm just not in the mood to be around people tonight, I guess. But if you wanted to stay and shoot the shit with Sasquatch…"
Tom feels something knot up his stomach. He never doubts doubt Mike's ability to refuse to pick his battles, in this case with a dive headlong into the jealous idiot crap.
Tom says, "Don't be pissed off that I was having fun. You could've come over there, you know. No one was stopping you. Or, hell, we could have stayed home."
"I know."
"Then don't be an ass."
Mike's eyes narrow. "I wasn't," he snaps. Then he mutters in frustration, "I swear to God, just because I don't feel like hollering over a lot of loud music and rubbing up against fifty people, half of whom I don't know, the other half I see all day every day…"
They had pulled up to a stoplight, and there were no cars around, just lights reflecting off the asphalt-from the stores and the streetlights, even the red of the stoplight. Mike laid his head back against the seat, and Tom began to wonder if maybe it wasn't just a bad mood, one that had nothing whatsoever to do with Jared's ability to flirt without even meaning to.
"So you wanna tell me why you seem so weird?" Tom says. It's not really as question.
"Because I am weird," he sighs.
"Mike…"
Mike glares at him, but that face soon falls into a confused, tired scowl. The light is green, so he goes on through.
Turning his head against the headrest, Tom watches the suburbs of Vancouver fly by, He's determined to keep from descending into whatever piss-poor and difficult mood Mike seems to be in, one that, if he's honest with himself, he's known Mike's been in for days now. He can't let whatever the man's issues are fuck him up, too. The last thing they need is for both of them to be defensive and cranky. So, counting streetlights overhead, he lets himself be lulled into a dizzy, numb calm.
A few long minutes later, he's startled when the SUV veers off the main road and onto the access road for some strip mall, one that by this time of night is dead to the world. Tom's heart beats up into his throat. It's been a long, long time since they had a screaming fight-since before they got together, actually-but he can feel the adrenaline, because he's wondering what shape things will take, how long it will be before Mike lets him fix it.
In the dark, at the back of the parking lot, Mike throws the SUV into park. Tom holds his breath, waiting, but he's absolutely taken off guard when Mike and leans over and grabs his face to kiss him about as deeply as he's ever kissed him before, erotic more than rough, even if he's manhandling him so suddenly in the middle of a parking lot.
"Shit," Tom says with a gasp, pushing him back a little to get his breath. But Mike just goes in for another kiss, this time with a lot of tongue. He's stretched halfway across the console, and it's awkward as hell, but the sort of awkward you don’t mind when somebody's kissing you like they want to tell you something they don't know how to say.
Mike somehow crawls over the console and straddles his hips, and, really, there's no damn room for that, but he presses in and makes it work anyway. All Tom can do is hold on as Mike grinds himself down into him, holding his hips tight as his mouth continues to plunder, sour with beer and smoke but a little sweet, like he always tastes, as his hands cradle the back of Tom's skull and weave into the hair there, kneading at his scalp and neck.
Suddenly, Mike breaks the kiss and looks at him long and hard in the face before he rests his forehead against his, chuckling to himself, panting.
"Fuck," Tom says. "What…?"
"Nothing."
"I really thought you were mad at me or something."
"Not mad. God, no." He kisses him again. "Sorry. Sorry I'm so…"
Tom pulls at his hips, and Mike finds a way to somehow snuggle deeper.
Tom says, "As long as I know you're not pissed."
"Not. But we should probably…" He nods at the main road.
"No, no, no," Tom says with a laugh. "You started this. Gotta finish it."
"I shouldn't have. There's not enough room."
"Rosey…"
Mike seems to ponder it, but he finally says with resolve, "Home."
"Okay," Tom replies, but he doesn't let him go just yet. Mike lets Tom kiss him once more, this time with his hands all over him and Mike just giving himself up to it.
When Tom finally releases him, Mike burrows his face into his neck and says quietly, "Mine."
"Yeah, yours," Tom replies without thinking, just feeling the weight of the words by the deep sound of them, the sincere tone. Then Mike pushes open the passenger door and climbs off of him and stumbles out into the night, to go around the car to get back in.
Tom rides the last few minutes back to Mike's house with this new tension thrumming through his veins, over his skin. He feels the flush in his cheeks, and he's definitely still mostly hard when they pull up and Mike gets out of the car.
Tom leans over his back as he fumbles with his keys at the door. He realizes, then, what he should have sensed all along: Mike's still tense, almost shaky, in fact.
"Hey," Tom says, circling his arms around his waist. "You okay?"
"Mostly. I will be."
Mike swears at the keys, jangling them, and Tom decides he might as well voice what concerns him right now, what's been creeping up on him since they stopped.
He says, "It's, you know, fine if it was, but was all that back there…was that because Jared was being Jared at the party?"
Mike laughs, and Tom can't make heads or tails of it, only knows it means there won't be a fight. The key finally slides into the lock, and Mike pushes open the door.
"No," he says, pausing there in the threshold to lay his hand over Tom's for a moment. "It has nothing whatsoever to do with Jared Padalecki."
Tom follows him inside. He believes it.
*****
When Mike drops the keys on the counter, he finds that his heart is still, somehow, beating up into his chest. This shouldn't be so scary, should it? Why should it be scary? It's just Tommy.
So he turns and pulls him by the collar of the shirt: "Come here."
Tom just falls into his embrace, those full lips opening to him instantly, and it sort of makes him hurt all over. It fucking rattles him, is what it does. He knows he doesn't deserve this sort of easy trust, how he can just tell him everything's fine and have Tom believe it and forgive and forget how fucking stupid he can be sometimes. He really is stupid and a whole lot of other things that have quite frankly kept him single for so much of his life he didn't even notice until he wasn't anymore and realized he never wanted to be again. Not because being alone particularly scares him; it's being without Tom that does. He doesn't ever want to be in that place again, of wanting and not having him like he has him now.
He thinks maybe somebody should kick him in his fucking ass for being who he is, the selfish bastard he can be. He didn't think before he jumped into this relationship; he just grabbed onto Tom for dear life. He has to admit now that he knew the feelings weren't equal between them. Trust, yes. Care and want and all those things that added up to friend, then lover. Always wanting to have your hands on a person; wanting to tell them everything you did all day just because they should know. But not this.
These feelings that have been creeping up on him make him nervous as fuck. Tom, however, doesn't seem nervous. The way Tom feels in his arms, he seems comfortable and ready, like he's right where he should be, where he wants to be. And laughter nearly rumbles up out of Mike's chest at the thought, because life seems like a real absurd fucker right now. Does Tom even know he's been waiting for Mike to catch up?
Does he know that he finally has?
Mike backs himself into the kitchen, dragging Tom along with him, and he follows, just like he pretty much goes wherever Mike wants him to go. He left the party, but more than that, he dove headlong into this relationship because Mike asked him to. Actually, he didn't even ask, just assumed and got what he wanted, like always. If he'd known how fucking hard this was-how hard it must've been for Tom, especially after his marriage fell apart-he wouldn't…
No, that isn't true. As he kisses him, feels the way kissing can be something more than soft lips parting his, more than a tongue that knows how to trace out the soft contours of his mouth, he knows he couldn't have stopped it. But he sure as hell would've slowed down and thought a little bit before he risked fucking things up entirely. What scares him most right now is he feels in his gut how it's possible he might not have come to this point.
But what scares him more is that the kind of man he is-the kind that says it's spontaneity when it's really just willful ignorance of the consequences-might somehow be-no, undoubtedly is--the reason he has what he has, why he's standing in his own kitchen, feeling like maybe he's only still in one piece because he's in Tom's hands. Tom, who kisses him like he knows he's a fucking wreck and doesn't resent having to deal with him, like he maybe even wants to-since day one, when he couldn't have possibly known what a mess Mike could make of himself but he seemed to know and to accept all at the same time.
"Fuck me," he pants into Tom's mouth.
He can feel him grin. "Been waiting for you to say that for like half an hour."
Mike's face falls against Tom's shoulder. He whispers, "Baby, I missed you tonight."
He feels a shudder go through Tom's frame. He shakes his head, confused: "I don't…?"
To shut him up, Mike kisses him again. So quickly, Tom presses him back into the counter, all eager and drunk and happy and secure, and Mike pretty much loses all sense of direction, like he's drunk, too, when he's really more sober than he's ever been.
When Tom steps back and starts to pull him toward the hallway, Mike grabs onto him to stop him and says, "Now."
"Yeah, now," he laughs. "Come on."
"Here."
"What?"
"Right now," he says, undoing his belt. "There's lube…shit, I think there's some in the drawer by the sink."
"Mikey?"
"Just… Please."
He can't imagine what kind of pleading look he's giving him, because Tom's wide-eyed now, even though this is hardly the first time they've had sex outside the bedroom. "Right now? You wanna…bend me over your kitchen counter, and-"
"No, me," Mike says. "I meant me."
"God," Tom mutters as his head dips and he ruffles his hand through his hair, looking up at him through those long lashes.
So Mike lets go of his fly, half undone, and drags Tom close. He says, "I want you to fuck me as hard as you can, okay? Here. Now."
Tom just nods and leans down to bite at his neck, hard enough it will probably leave a mark. His body rolls against his.
"What's gotten into you?" Tom says.
"Need to feel you, that's all."
Tom kisses him, quick on the lips, and then scrambles for the lube as Mike pushes his pants down his hips and steps out of them and his shoes. He feels a little wild, vulnerable, but then Tom's behind him again, warm and so solid. He pushes and pulls him into position, and Mike just rests his forehead on the cool, hard counter and pretty soon feels a slick finger sliding into him.
Tom stretches him quickly, with one finger then with two. He doesn't say anything, just murmurs soothingly like he always does when he's the one topping, when Mike wants him to for a change. It's all happening so fast, thankfully, and Tom gets his fly undone with one hand, the other still working him open.
"God, Mikey. So hot. Can't wait to get inside you," he murmurs. He's already lining himself up, the warm, blunt head of his dick pressing against him, and Mike wills himself to just open up and take him in. Because, fuck, does he need to be taken right now.
Tom pushes in with a smooth thrust, not too deep, and then he pauses for what feels like an eternity. He grabs both of Mike's hips with his big hands and squirms against him, waiting to feel him adjust.
"Fuck," Mike groans. "Fuck, do it."
Maybe it's the ragged tone in his voice, or maybe Tom's feeling it just as much as he is, but he doesn't take his time and he doesn't go at it carefully, all shallow strokes like he normally does. He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in, grunting like it hurts, and it probably does, at least a little. Mike's tight as hell, given how tense he is. That's why he needs Tom to fuck him wide open, make it hurt so good he'll feel him for days.
But there's so much sensation that there's no real pain, just this exquisite pressure, the hot friction of Tom's dick slipping into him, hard hips slapping up against his ass and hands dancing over his hips, readjusting each time to get a better grip. He feels a little like he's being split in two, and his body's tingling all over, the muscles in his legs threatening to give out.
"Harder," he pants. Tom's slamming into him now, and his own arms strain against the counter, trying to keep from being pushed into it. Tom reaches around, takes hold of his dick, but he slaps his hand away. "Just-shit, ohshit, more. Ohgod, harder."
"Fuck, baby," Tom moans as he slows for a moment, makes his strokes longer, deeper. "God, yes," he groans, his voice now deep and husky. "Fuck yeah. Ohgod Mikey."
He speeds up again, now fucking him even harder, and Mike can soon feel it in the erratic movements of Tom's hips and he can hear it in the whine that escapes his lips. Tom grunts with every thrust, and when he buries himself to the hilt and holds there, body tight against his, Mike squeezes around him and hears him groan his name as he comes, warm and wet and slippery inside him.
Mike thrusts back into him because he loves the sounds he makes as he's coming through an orgasm, these high helpless moans. He's so focused on feeling Tom thrusting inside him that when Tom suddenly grips his dick hard and jerks him even harder, he yells something incoherent and spills himself all over the cabinets and the floor.
When he comes back down to earth, he's aware that every muscle in his back is screaming at him, and he finds that he's looking down into the flecks of bronze in the formica, his breath fogging the surface. He doesn't really want to move. Ever.
Tom falls over his back. "Jesus," he mumbles.
"Sorry."
"No. 'Sokay. But I think I'm getting too old for that."
Mike just laughs, for no good reason at all, and it's the sort of laughter that keeps coming up out of him, like he can't stop it.
After a moment, Tom drags him up and turns him around, rests their bodies together as he leans him back into the counter. "You okay?"
"Perfect."
"You're gonna be sore."
"I know."
"So you're not gonna tell me why you made me bend you over your kitchen counter like that, are you?"
Mike just shakes his head and kisses him, even though he feels pretty damn shaky. Tom can probably feel it, too. He lets himself be okay with that.
He kisses away from his lips, over to his neck, licking the taste of sweat off the rasp of stubble under his jaw. Not just mine, he suddenly thinks. Tom's been his for a while now.
"Yours," Mike says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm yours. And thank God you're crazy enough to want me, out of all the people in the world you could have."
Tom doesn't say anything. He just squeezes him so tight he thinks he might break him, but he wouldn't mind. Then Tom giggles as he nudges his nose along the side of Mike's face, nuzzling into that space below his ear.
"What?" Mike says.
"So, um, it was a little bit about Jared, then?"
"Fuck," he says with an exasperated groan. "Yeah. But not-" He angles Tom's face back so he can look him in the eye. "I don't care if you're friends with that dipstick. Hell, he's my friend, too. I just- I wanted you to want me around you."
"I do," Tom says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He grins.
"Okay."
Tom pauses for a long time, then he smiles and says, "I think I get it now."
Mike's not so sure he does, and he'd love to explain it to him, but he really can't, at least not in words yet. So he just prods him into moving and pushes him down the hallway and into the bedroom. He can do this. After all, it's Tommy.
~
Title: At This Point
Pairing: Tom Welling/Michael Rosenbaum, Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tom and Mike go to a party, and Mike's acting weird. Trust Tom to figure it out...eventually. 5400 words.
Notes: Emo and schmoopy--you have been warned. Somehow, I haven't written these two together before (just with Jensen and Jared), so I'm probably getting some things out of my system. Hope it works okay. Also, I know Tom Welling is still happily married; I choose to ignore that fact for the purposes of fiction.
At This Point
Jensen doesn't know how they do it, this costars-friends-lovers thing they've got going. All he knows is it seems to work.
Tom and Mike are somehow better together, even at this party, where Tom's been holed up on one side of the room, having some sort of serious technical discussion with two of the sound guys, and Mike's been flitting around the room like he always seems to, although he's finally ended up behind the bar where, let's face it, he's happiest. Not because he's a lush or that he's even drinking very much tonight. He simply enjoys the process: chattering and flattering as he puts his people-reading skills to work, deciding what drinks to pour or mix without them having to tell him.
Mike's excellent at focusing attention exactly where he wants it, and tonight, he doesn't seem to want it on him. He apparently wants to watch and react and in general not be the center of things. Probably, it's because he's spending more than half of his time keeping his eyes on Tom, despite the fact that he's not been with him since they walked through the door.
Jensen will admit to having been a little freaked out when he found out the thing he thought was just a crazy rumor was true, that the two of them actually did have some wicked kind of lust thing for each other. Apparently, though, those feelings were something they had simply learned to funnel into their performances; outside of Clark and Lex, they were just friends, close like two people who spend too much time together on set. Or maybe like two people who would've been best friends anyway, without the working together.
By the time Tom's divorce was final and Jensen was going off to his own show, he had come to terms with the chemistry always lingering between them. So when he started to notice the way they touched each other in public, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what was going on, he found that he wasn't at all weirded out, only relieved. He always thought of them as a pair, the one completing the other in some way that ought to seem sappy but didn't. He felt that even back when they weren't dating, when they were just these guys he knew on the Smallville set. Once he knew they were together, he was doubly glad.
He has to admit that it's partly because he wouldn't wish Mike on anybody but Saint Welling. Mike can be a prima donna and an attention whore, tactless and oblivious. Of course, he is also capable of listening for hours, giving honest advice when you need it (whether you ask for it or not), and doing a world of distracting you from the bad shit in your life. In short, he can be the best friend a guy ever had-and he is, most of the time. Tom knows that better than anybody, which is why he puts up with exactly as much shit as he needs to and not an ounce more. Sometimes their friends mistake him for Clark Kent, and Tom does have some of Clark's patience, but Tom's own particular brand is to simply be more stubborn than Mike is and somehow get away with it. It both amuses and amazes Jensen.
Jensen threads his way through the crowded living room to the kitchen and the makeshift bar. Mike is wiping the counter with a wet rag, almost unconsciously, like he's been doing this half his life. From what the man has told him, that isn't a big stretch of the imagination.
"We're out of rum," Mike says, then he glances up at him. "They're out of rum. Whatever. The party's out of rum. What's up? Where's your boyfriend?"
Jensen just rolls his eyes. Jared is probably on the back porch, drinking Sandy away or standing a little too close to some petite brunette thing while he tells her all about his heartbreak. Or both. Whether he's trying to get in the girl's pants or just being his sincere, over-sharing self, Jensen isn't sure.
"Don't know," Jensen replies.
"What's the matter with you? Isn't there anybody at this party you haven't screwed yet?"
"Plenty," he replies, not that that's at all what he came here for. "But I thought maybe you'd narrow the field for me."
"I can tell you which ones are well worth a trip to the liquor store for more fucking Bacardi."
"Can you tell me which ones you haven't been with?"
Mike gives him a soft chuckle, then he cocks his head to the side, looking mildly mischievous. "I've never been…intimate with Padalecki."
"Fuck you," he replies with a shake of his head.
"Never done that either, stud."
Jensen finds himself grinning wide, despite himself. "Does Tommy know you have such a filthy mind?"
"Hell, why do you think the man lets me in his bed."
"That, I really don't need to know."
Mike quirks a smile at him and turns his back to the fridge. He pulls out a bottle and wrenches the cap off before he slides it over to him. The label's in German.
"Trust me," Mike says, then his eyes drift over his shoulder and hang there. "Speaking of platonic life-partners," he says flatly, "the Gilmore Boy just lumbered back into the house."
Jensen turns back to see Jared squeeze into the corner where Tom's standing, flanked by the two sound guys and now also one of the PAs. It doesn't surprise him to hear Mike affect a bit of an attitude-if it is an affect-about Jared. They might be friends, but Mike has periods of awkwardness around Jared, where he seems to get annoyed with him and for no reason Jensen can ever see much less make sense of. He's relatively certain it's jealousy, but that doesn't make a whole lot of sense. All Jensen knows is that when Jared spends too much time one-on-one with Tom, it makes Mike…weird.
Jensen takes a long drink of his beer (the man's right, it's good) and notices that Jared has one just like it in his hand, too. He's already got the sound guys talking more animatedly, and if Tom is bothered by the change in the tone of the conversation, he doesn't show it. In fact, after a moment or two, he taps a finger against Jared's beer bottle and pulls it out of his hand and takes a swallow of it, as if tasting it.
Jensen glances at Mike, who is still cleaning up the counter, arranging the bottles in a line then rearranging them in some system maybe only he understands. Mike can be a focused motherfucker sometimes; Jensen's just shocked to find him so intent on organizing someone else's liquor stash-in the middle of a party-rather than thrusting himself into the conversation in the corner.
Jensen gives him a puzzled look. "Why aren't you…?" He nods in Tom's general direction.
"He's a big boy," he replies in a tone that ought to follow a shrug but very pointedly doesn't. "He plays well with others." He waves him off with the back of his hand and says, "Go join 'em if you want. Bring your sweetie another beer."
Jensen flips him off then holds out his hand, eyebrows raised, and waits for Mike to ferret out another bottle from the fridge.
Before he turns and ambles off, he catches a look in Mike's eyes he can't interpret. Then again, he can never read the man for shit when he's being this quiet. He wishes Tom all the luck in the world.
*****
Mike tastes like beer and cigarettes.
Mike tastes like beer and cigarettes, and Tom realizes he hadn't even seen him go outside and bum a smoke off anyone. He'd been so intent on shop talk for some reason, then Jared crashed the conversation, and about that time, he realized his head sort of hurt and he really just wanted some air. Luckily, soon after Mike had suddenly materialized and slid his hand over the back of his neck, saying,Can we get out of here…?
Once he pulled him through the crowd and out the door, guiding him rather unobtrusively because, fuck, Tom was somehow a little tipsy, Tom had stopped him and pulled him into a long, sloppy kiss, because he missed the feel of his stubble on his face and the musky, earthy cologne he wears, just enough for Tom to smell it when he gets this close.
He steps into him, feels the heat radiating off him as he kisses him again. Mike's hands come up and cradle his face, pull his mouth away gently.
"Hey, Hoss," he says with a warm grin. "Front lawn. Might want to, you know, not…"
"Grope you? Why not? Please," he says, pouting his lips. Now he can't really think of why he spent the entire night in intense geek talk rather than trapping Mike in one of the upstairs bathrooms. Or skinnydipping. He looks good wet and naked. Hell, he always looks good. His eyes are pretty amazing right now, in the orange street lights.
Tom wishes like hell they could just walk back home, because it's perfect outside-clear sky, air crisply cool. He threads his hand through Mike's, and he's surprised when Mike doesn't let go. However, he does wiggle out of his arms so he can pull him along behind him, saying, "Wait till we get home."
"Whose home?"
"Doesn't matter. But I'm closer."
"Okay," he says, watching the way Mike's backside sways as he walks. Yep. Maybe he is indeed a little drunk, but he doesn't mind. It was a good party, and it's early, and Mike's got a serious look on his face, like he might be game for giving him a long, very patient blow job. Or else he's going to be sullen and withdrawn, but Tom usually knows how to combat that. It generally involves long, very patient blowjobs, actually.
Thinking about blowjobs too much, Tom can't help but stop him before he can open the door of the SUV, pushing him back into it to kiss him. Mike draws him close, hands on his ass as the kiss deepens. Mike is a fucking fantastic kisser, slow and fluid, like he's savoring every second. When Tom finally pulls back from the kiss, breathless, smiling, Mike looks so serious-shove-him-up-against-the-nearest-flat-surface serious.
Tom says, "Thought you wanted to wait."
At that, Mike's shoulders collapse a little and he nods before he nudges him away so he can climb in the SUV. All at once, Tom's aware that something's not right. He'd swear Mike's pissed off about something, and he can't help but wonder if that something is him.
The silence of the drive doesn't do anything for that nagging feeling. He should know quiet doesn't necessarily mean anything, because Mike usually doesn't talk much in the car. That's because they're most often in it together on their way to work, at the ass crack of dawn when Mike's not fit to be spoken to; he just drinks his coffee and frowns at the sun and the road and occasionally grumbles at the people who cut him off. But this isn't that sort of quiet. Tom trusts his gut well enough to know this is a bad silence, or at least a tense one. So he stretches out in the seat, his head throbbing a little, trying not to look at Mike too much. He puts the window down a little and lets his fingers trail out into the air and just waits.
He loves Mike like family. That was always first, and it will always be there. But he's also in love with him, and the transition hasn't been all that simple. It still feels sudden and strange sometimes, like when something happens to remind him how he knows Mike so well but he's suddenly had to relearn him. He would know how to deal with his friend, his costar on a night like this. What he doesn't know how to deal with is his lover, his fucking boyfriend, because this is a whole new layer being added to their foundation, and the whole thing might collapse if they're not careful.
But he doesn't really think it would be possible for them to completely destroy this bond they have, especially since the very notion has the power to worry him this much. Then again, he thought the same thing about Jamie, and look where that ended up. It's taken him a while to get to this place, where he wants to try again, take the risk. Especially since it was Mike. He found himself just shy of sure but with enough faith to reach out and take hold anyway.
Especially since it was Mike.
They've come a long way, he thinks. He's mostly excited and happy about this relationship, but on nights like this, when he finds that the way the whole of him buzzes just to be near Mike can shift so suddenly into cold, hard tension, it's crazy-making. Of course, love usually is.
Love is also apparently stubborn, or at least loving Mike is.
"What's wrong with you?" Tom asks.
"What do you mean?"
"You tell me."
"Nothing." Mike gives him a sincerely calm look, eyes shining, but he's not fine. "Good party."
"So why'd you want to leave?"
"You didn't? You should've told me, babe. We could've-"
"No. No, it's fine. I wanna be where you are."
He hears him snort, apparently without meaning to, if his face is any indication.
"What?" Tom says.
"Nothing."
"What?"
Sighing, he says, "You were across the room from me most of the time."
"I didn't know-"
"Hey," he says firmly. "It's cool. Don't pay any attention to me. I'm just not in the mood to be around people tonight, I guess. But if you wanted to stay and shoot the shit with Sasquatch…"
Tom feels something knot up his stomach. He never doubts doubt Mike's ability to refuse to pick his battles, in this case with a dive headlong into the jealous idiot crap.
Tom says, "Don't be pissed off that I was having fun. You could've come over there, you know. No one was stopping you. Or, hell, we could have stayed home."
"I know."
"Then don't be an ass."
Mike's eyes narrow. "I wasn't," he snaps. Then he mutters in frustration, "I swear to God, just because I don't feel like hollering over a lot of loud music and rubbing up against fifty people, half of whom I don't know, the other half I see all day every day…"
They had pulled up to a stoplight, and there were no cars around, just lights reflecting off the asphalt-from the stores and the streetlights, even the red of the stoplight. Mike laid his head back against the seat, and Tom began to wonder if maybe it wasn't just a bad mood, one that had nothing whatsoever to do with Jared's ability to flirt without even meaning to.
"So you wanna tell me why you seem so weird?" Tom says. It's not really as question.
"Because I am weird," he sighs.
"Mike…"
Mike glares at him, but that face soon falls into a confused, tired scowl. The light is green, so he goes on through.
Turning his head against the headrest, Tom watches the suburbs of Vancouver fly by, He's determined to keep from descending into whatever piss-poor and difficult mood Mike seems to be in, one that, if he's honest with himself, he's known Mike's been in for days now. He can't let whatever the man's issues are fuck him up, too. The last thing they need is for both of them to be defensive and cranky. So, counting streetlights overhead, he lets himself be lulled into a dizzy, numb calm.
A few long minutes later, he's startled when the SUV veers off the main road and onto the access road for some strip mall, one that by this time of night is dead to the world. Tom's heart beats up into his throat. It's been a long, long time since they had a screaming fight-since before they got together, actually-but he can feel the adrenaline, because he's wondering what shape things will take, how long it will be before Mike lets him fix it.
In the dark, at the back of the parking lot, Mike throws the SUV into park. Tom holds his breath, waiting, but he's absolutely taken off guard when Mike and leans over and grabs his face to kiss him about as deeply as he's ever kissed him before, erotic more than rough, even if he's manhandling him so suddenly in the middle of a parking lot.
"Shit," Tom says with a gasp, pushing him back a little to get his breath. But Mike just goes in for another kiss, this time with a lot of tongue. He's stretched halfway across the console, and it's awkward as hell, but the sort of awkward you don’t mind when somebody's kissing you like they want to tell you something they don't know how to say.
Mike somehow crawls over the console and straddles his hips, and, really, there's no damn room for that, but he presses in and makes it work anyway. All Tom can do is hold on as Mike grinds himself down into him, holding his hips tight as his mouth continues to plunder, sour with beer and smoke but a little sweet, like he always tastes, as his hands cradle the back of Tom's skull and weave into the hair there, kneading at his scalp and neck.
Suddenly, Mike breaks the kiss and looks at him long and hard in the face before he rests his forehead against his, chuckling to himself, panting.
"Fuck," Tom says. "What…?"
"Nothing."
"I really thought you were mad at me or something."
"Not mad. God, no." He kisses him again. "Sorry. Sorry I'm so…"
Tom pulls at his hips, and Mike finds a way to somehow snuggle deeper.
Tom says, "As long as I know you're not pissed."
"Not. But we should probably…" He nods at the main road.
"No, no, no," Tom says with a laugh. "You started this. Gotta finish it."
"I shouldn't have. There's not enough room."
"Rosey…"
Mike seems to ponder it, but he finally says with resolve, "Home."
"Okay," Tom replies, but he doesn't let him go just yet. Mike lets Tom kiss him once more, this time with his hands all over him and Mike just giving himself up to it.
When Tom finally releases him, Mike burrows his face into his neck and says quietly, "Mine."
"Yeah, yours," Tom replies without thinking, just feeling the weight of the words by the deep sound of them, the sincere tone. Then Mike pushes open the passenger door and climbs off of him and stumbles out into the night, to go around the car to get back in.
Tom rides the last few minutes back to Mike's house with this new tension thrumming through his veins, over his skin. He feels the flush in his cheeks, and he's definitely still mostly hard when they pull up and Mike gets out of the car.
Tom leans over his back as he fumbles with his keys at the door. He realizes, then, what he should have sensed all along: Mike's still tense, almost shaky, in fact.
"Hey," Tom says, circling his arms around his waist. "You okay?"
"Mostly. I will be."
Mike swears at the keys, jangling them, and Tom decides he might as well voice what concerns him right now, what's been creeping up on him since they stopped.
He says, "It's, you know, fine if it was, but was all that back there…was that because Jared was being Jared at the party?"
Mike laughs, and Tom can't make heads or tails of it, only knows it means there won't be a fight. The key finally slides into the lock, and Mike pushes open the door.
"No," he says, pausing there in the threshold to lay his hand over Tom's for a moment. "It has nothing whatsoever to do with Jared Padalecki."
Tom follows him inside. He believes it.
*****
When Mike drops the keys on the counter, he finds that his heart is still, somehow, beating up into his chest. This shouldn't be so scary, should it? Why should it be scary? It's just Tommy.
So he turns and pulls him by the collar of the shirt: "Come here."
Tom just falls into his embrace, those full lips opening to him instantly, and it sort of makes him hurt all over. It fucking rattles him, is what it does. He knows he doesn't deserve this sort of easy trust, how he can just tell him everything's fine and have Tom believe it and forgive and forget how fucking stupid he can be sometimes. He really is stupid and a whole lot of other things that have quite frankly kept him single for so much of his life he didn't even notice until he wasn't anymore and realized he never wanted to be again. Not because being alone particularly scares him; it's being without Tom that does. He doesn't ever want to be in that place again, of wanting and not having him like he has him now.
He thinks maybe somebody should kick him in his fucking ass for being who he is, the selfish bastard he can be. He didn't think before he jumped into this relationship; he just grabbed onto Tom for dear life. He has to admit now that he knew the feelings weren't equal between them. Trust, yes. Care and want and all those things that added up to friend, then lover. Always wanting to have your hands on a person; wanting to tell them everything you did all day just because they should know. But not this.
These feelings that have been creeping up on him make him nervous as fuck. Tom, however, doesn't seem nervous. The way Tom feels in his arms, he seems comfortable and ready, like he's right where he should be, where he wants to be. And laughter nearly rumbles up out of Mike's chest at the thought, because life seems like a real absurd fucker right now. Does Tom even know he's been waiting for Mike to catch up?
Does he know that he finally has?
Mike backs himself into the kitchen, dragging Tom along with him, and he follows, just like he pretty much goes wherever Mike wants him to go. He left the party, but more than that, he dove headlong into this relationship because Mike asked him to. Actually, he didn't even ask, just assumed and got what he wanted, like always. If he'd known how fucking hard this was-how hard it must've been for Tom, especially after his marriage fell apart-he wouldn't…
No, that isn't true. As he kisses him, feels the way kissing can be something more than soft lips parting his, more than a tongue that knows how to trace out the soft contours of his mouth, he knows he couldn't have stopped it. But he sure as hell would've slowed down and thought a little bit before he risked fucking things up entirely. What scares him most right now is he feels in his gut how it's possible he might not have come to this point.
But what scares him more is that the kind of man he is-the kind that says it's spontaneity when it's really just willful ignorance of the consequences-might somehow be-no, undoubtedly is--the reason he has what he has, why he's standing in his own kitchen, feeling like maybe he's only still in one piece because he's in Tom's hands. Tom, who kisses him like he knows he's a fucking wreck and doesn't resent having to deal with him, like he maybe even wants to-since day one, when he couldn't have possibly known what a mess Mike could make of himself but he seemed to know and to accept all at the same time.
"Fuck me," he pants into Tom's mouth.
He can feel him grin. "Been waiting for you to say that for like half an hour."
Mike's face falls against Tom's shoulder. He whispers, "Baby, I missed you tonight."
He feels a shudder go through Tom's frame. He shakes his head, confused: "I don't…?"
To shut him up, Mike kisses him again. So quickly, Tom presses him back into the counter, all eager and drunk and happy and secure, and Mike pretty much loses all sense of direction, like he's drunk, too, when he's really more sober than he's ever been.
When Tom steps back and starts to pull him toward the hallway, Mike grabs onto him to stop him and says, "Now."
"Yeah, now," he laughs. "Come on."
"Here."
"What?"
"Right now," he says, undoing his belt. "There's lube…shit, I think there's some in the drawer by the sink."
"Mikey?"
"Just… Please."
He can't imagine what kind of pleading look he's giving him, because Tom's wide-eyed now, even though this is hardly the first time they've had sex outside the bedroom. "Right now? You wanna…bend me over your kitchen counter, and-"
"No, me," Mike says. "I meant me."
"God," Tom mutters as his head dips and he ruffles his hand through his hair, looking up at him through those long lashes.
So Mike lets go of his fly, half undone, and drags Tom close. He says, "I want you to fuck me as hard as you can, okay? Here. Now."
Tom just nods and leans down to bite at his neck, hard enough it will probably leave a mark. His body rolls against his.
"What's gotten into you?" Tom says.
"Need to feel you, that's all."
Tom kisses him, quick on the lips, and then scrambles for the lube as Mike pushes his pants down his hips and steps out of them and his shoes. He feels a little wild, vulnerable, but then Tom's behind him again, warm and so solid. He pushes and pulls him into position, and Mike just rests his forehead on the cool, hard counter and pretty soon feels a slick finger sliding into him.
Tom stretches him quickly, with one finger then with two. He doesn't say anything, just murmurs soothingly like he always does when he's the one topping, when Mike wants him to for a change. It's all happening so fast, thankfully, and Tom gets his fly undone with one hand, the other still working him open.
"God, Mikey. So hot. Can't wait to get inside you," he murmurs. He's already lining himself up, the warm, blunt head of his dick pressing against him, and Mike wills himself to just open up and take him in. Because, fuck, does he need to be taken right now.
Tom pushes in with a smooth thrust, not too deep, and then he pauses for what feels like an eternity. He grabs both of Mike's hips with his big hands and squirms against him, waiting to feel him adjust.
"Fuck," Mike groans. "Fuck, do it."
Maybe it's the ragged tone in his voice, or maybe Tom's feeling it just as much as he is, but he doesn't take his time and he doesn't go at it carefully, all shallow strokes like he normally does. He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in, grunting like it hurts, and it probably does, at least a little. Mike's tight as hell, given how tense he is. That's why he needs Tom to fuck him wide open, make it hurt so good he'll feel him for days.
But there's so much sensation that there's no real pain, just this exquisite pressure, the hot friction of Tom's dick slipping into him, hard hips slapping up against his ass and hands dancing over his hips, readjusting each time to get a better grip. He feels a little like he's being split in two, and his body's tingling all over, the muscles in his legs threatening to give out.
"Harder," he pants. Tom's slamming into him now, and his own arms strain against the counter, trying to keep from being pushed into it. Tom reaches around, takes hold of his dick, but he slaps his hand away. "Just-shit, ohshit, more. Ohgod, harder."
"Fuck, baby," Tom moans as he slows for a moment, makes his strokes longer, deeper. "God, yes," he groans, his voice now deep and husky. "Fuck yeah. Ohgod Mikey."
He speeds up again, now fucking him even harder, and Mike can soon feel it in the erratic movements of Tom's hips and he can hear it in the whine that escapes his lips. Tom grunts with every thrust, and when he buries himself to the hilt and holds there, body tight against his, Mike squeezes around him and hears him groan his name as he comes, warm and wet and slippery inside him.
Mike thrusts back into him because he loves the sounds he makes as he's coming through an orgasm, these high helpless moans. He's so focused on feeling Tom thrusting inside him that when Tom suddenly grips his dick hard and jerks him even harder, he yells something incoherent and spills himself all over the cabinets and the floor.
When he comes back down to earth, he's aware that every muscle in his back is screaming at him, and he finds that he's looking down into the flecks of bronze in the formica, his breath fogging the surface. He doesn't really want to move. Ever.
Tom falls over his back. "Jesus," he mumbles.
"Sorry."
"No. 'Sokay. But I think I'm getting too old for that."
Mike just laughs, for no good reason at all, and it's the sort of laughter that keeps coming up out of him, like he can't stop it.
After a moment, Tom drags him up and turns him around, rests their bodies together as he leans him back into the counter. "You okay?"
"Perfect."
"You're gonna be sore."
"I know."
"So you're not gonna tell me why you made me bend you over your kitchen counter like that, are you?"
Mike just shakes his head and kisses him, even though he feels pretty damn shaky. Tom can probably feel it, too. He lets himself be okay with that.
He kisses away from his lips, over to his neck, licking the taste of sweat off the rasp of stubble under his jaw. Not just mine, he suddenly thinks. Tom's been his for a while now.
"Yours," Mike says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm yours. And thank God you're crazy enough to want me, out of all the people in the world you could have."
Tom doesn't say anything. He just squeezes him so tight he thinks he might break him, but he wouldn't mind. Then Tom giggles as he nudges his nose along the side of Mike's face, nuzzling into that space below his ear.
"What?" Mike says.
"So, um, it was a little bit about Jared, then?"
"Fuck," he says with an exasperated groan. "Yeah. But not-" He angles Tom's face back so he can look him in the eye. "I don't care if you're friends with that dipstick. Hell, he's my friend, too. I just- I wanted you to want me around you."
"I do," Tom says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He grins.
"Okay."
Tom pauses for a long time, then he smiles and says, "I think I get it now."
Mike's not so sure he does, and he'd love to explain it to him, but he really can't, at least not in words yet. So he just prods him into moving and pushes him down the hallway and into the bedroom. He can do this. After all, it's Tommy.
~