SPN Fic: Insert Additional Quarters
Title: Insert Additional Quarters
Author: deirdre_c
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,500
Summary: Jensen's life is an 80s arcade game.
A/N: Written for electricalgwen's prompt "video games" in the spnspringfling challenge, originally posted here. (Did anyone guess this was me?) Massive, unexpressible thanks to laurificus for the word-by-hardfought-word beta.
****
Auditions always stress Jensen out.
Okay, to be fair, they probably stress all actors out, but Jensen gets particularly edgy. He’s not the chummiest person on his best day, but sitting in that waiting area, anticipating and dreading reading for a part, he’s likely to shoot down anyone who approaches him.
There’s a certain ritual he maintains, if possible: arrive exactly seven minutes early, sit in the seat farthest from the door, open his script to the second page, pop in his earbuds and listen to the custom playlist he designs for each character he reads for. He won’t make eye contact with anyone in the waiting room, but he’ll shift around so that he can keep everyone in sight. He tries to maintain a personal space. Three feet is good; four is preferable. And if all that means he’s giving off negative vibes? Well, he’s saving the charm for the casting director.
So it’s kind of astonishing that this gigantic guy- tousle-headed and pink-shirted and not anything like Sam Winchester should be- gets the drop on him. Jensen didn’t even catch him checking in with the admin. From out of nowhere, he plops down in the chair next to Jensen, sticking out a hand.
“Hey there. I’m Jared Padalecki,” the guy says, like he doesn’t notice the earbuds, like they’re going to be friends or something.
Then he smiles.
“Um,” Jensen replies, his careful concentration breaking into pieces.
Jensen’s sprawled out on his couch, blanket snugged around him to ward off the fucking freezing Vancouver damp. He’s tired and cranky, wishing John Winchester would text his sons coordinates to Honolulu, or at least Miami.
He gets maybe five minutes of privacy before Jared strolls into the trailer with a mammoth bag of Skittles-honestly, Jensen can’t believe they even manufacture that size-- popping them in his mouth one at a time. He proceeds to show Jensen the masticated multi-colored heap on his tongue. Jared exhausted and sugar-high: it’s a volatile combination.
“Charming,” Jensen says, looking away. It’s probably not in his best interest to know how Jared looks with his mouth stretched wide. “It’s not enough to taste the rainbow, you’ve got to swallow it whole?”
“Yep.” Jared swallows noisily. “You are what you eat.”
“Well, you need to eat healthier, man. You do realize the four food groups are not actually Chocolate-Dipped, Candy-Coated, Cream-Filled, and Fried, right?”
“Aw, are you concerned about my girlish figure?” Jared hoists his big-ass self up onto the counter separating the living space from the kitchenette. “Besides, I eat healthy.”
He grabs a handful of cherries Jensen left out for snacking, tosses them into his mouth, and immediately chokes. Jensen has to laugh as Jared jumps down and spits the mess into the sink. “You really are bad at fruit!”
Jared glares at him, then snags a nearby apple and takes a conspicuous bite. “Yuck!” he says over-dramatically. He drops it, picking up a second one and biting into that, too. “Nope. Still yuck.”
“Hey, stop wasting my food, bitch!”
Jared takes the lone banana Jensen was saving from today's craft services, slowly starts to peel it, waggling his eyebrows and rolling his shoulders like it’s a strip tease.
“Give me that,” Jensen snaps, hauling himself to his feet. Jared holds it over his head. Jensen grabs for it and Jared dashes out the door and down the steps.
Jensen grips the blanket tight around him and chases Jared out.
Jensen doesn’t let up speed, aims right for Jared, sitting there at the finish line, arms raised high. He only whips the little soapbox car around Jared’s at the last second, crash-landing in the bale of hay beyond.
He looks over, gasping and laughing. There’s Jared, his stupid hair poking out from under his helmet, wearing a brilliant, shit-eating grin and movie-star shades, pulling his long, long legs out of the tiny seat neither of them ever thought he’d fit into. Jensen closes his eyes, just for a second, focuses on capturing this moment in his mind forever. It’s the best loss he’ll ever have.
The plan was to hit the park after dinner, throw the frisbee around for the dogs. Somehow it devolved into this hand-stinging, hot-potato competition to see who’d miss first.
Jensen stutter-skips a couple of steps and whizzes the disk low to Jared’s right. The bastard catches it easily and flings it back, Jensen shooting a hand out to snag it from mid-air rather than trapping it with his body. Without pausing, he blasts it back, but it slips past Jared’s upraised palm to smack him right in the face, the hard edge laying open his cheek.
“Fuck!” Jared yells and falls to his knees like a string-cut marionette, burying his face in his hands.
Jensen sprints forward, tumbles down beside him, shoving the curious, unhelpful dogs away. “Let me see. Let me see. Jared. Shit. Sorry.”
Jensen’s fingers are ice-cold on Jared’s skin as he tilts his chin up to look at the damage. There’s a cut under Jared’s left eye, a short, neat slice along the plane of his cheekbone. He’s reminded of the “Bloody Mary” episode back in the first season, Dean cradling Sam’s face in his hands, thumb rubbing away the blood. But that was syrup and red food dye, and this is real. This is Jared.
Of course it is Jared, so even though he’s tearing up and white around the lips from pain, he cracks, “So, is Jeannie going to kill me?”
Motherfucker. He hadn’t even thought about filming on Monday. Jeannie works magic with makeup, but even it can’t cover stitches. Jensen looks closer. “No, princess. You’re beautiful as ever.”
He grabs the edge of his t-shirt and stretches it up, cups Jared’s head, and dabs gently underneath the cut. Jared draws in a sharp breath and Jensen stills, abruptly aware of Jared’s mouth, the tangy smell of his sweat, his own bare belly, his hand tangled in the damp curls at Jared’s neck.
“Hurts?” Jensen manages to grind out.
Jared pulls back from him and stands. “Nah,” he mutters, shaking the hair out of his face, away from the wound. “I’m good.” He walks off, calling for the dogs to follow.
Jensen stays kneeling in the grass. It’s as if the ground has dropped out from under him.
The greatest thing about moving into Jared’s house is that, after five hours of NFL football and almost half a case of Labatt’s, Jensen doesn’t have to go further than upstairs to find his own room.
But Jensen’s not going anywhere right now. Because the night snuck up on them somehow and the room is pitch black except for the blue wash of the television making Jared’s lips glisten every time he takes a swig of beer.
Jensen doesn’t even remember deciding to do it, but his arm's over the back of the couch, his fingers playing with the soft strands of Jared’s hair.
“Jensen, what are you doing?”
He’s kinda fuzzy around the edges, but he’s pretty sure finally making a move on you isn’t a valid response. “Watching the Seahawks?”
“I think you should watch from over there,” Jared says, shoving Jensen away and scooting sideways.
The alcohol's sliding through Jensen, filling him with an invincibility he’d never feel otherwise. There’s no way this can end well, but he leaps anyway. “What, Jay,” he growls, inching back toward Jared, pressing his chest right up against Jared’s arm. “Am I getting too close for comfort?”
“Jensen. I mean it. Quit fooling around.” Jared pushes him again, harder, and Jensen battles back against it, falling full into Jared’s lap.
Jared yelps and yanks as Jensen scrabbles his way upright, shamelessly copping a feel of solid muscle at chest and shoulder until they’re face to face again. Jensen’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears and Jared’s eyes are wide in the dim lighting, his mouth open on an unasked question.
In for a penny pops into Jensen’s head. He surges forward, throwing a leg over to straddle Jared and diving down for a kiss. Jared's lips are warm and soft and Jensen moves over them quickly, his tongue sliding forward to sneak into Jared’s mouth. He wants to thrust, to bite, to consume every bit of Jared he can before he’s thrown off. He holds back, instead, lightly teasing the tip of his tongue across Jared’s upper lip, then gently sucking the lower one, slow strokes back in, filling Jared up. He uses every technique at his disposal to make Jared feel it, want it.
The mingled scent of beer and Jared’s cologne and the taste of him, deep and wet, overpowers Jensen, and he loses himself until Jared’s fingers tighten painfully on his arm.
He sits back on Jared’s lap, panting, on guard for Jared's reaction, when he feels something firm pressing against his ass. Before he can even process its significance, he’s flipped sideways, walls and ceiling spinning; he lands on his back with 210 pounds of Jared looming over him.
Jensen’s pinned, one of Jared’s knees between his thighs, his palms pressing Jensen’s shoulders down into the couch. Jared’s gaze fixes him in place, eyes narrowed and livid. “This isn’t a game.”
“No,” Jensen responds softly, woozy and bemused, aching to drag Jared down fully down on him.
“I can’t-“ Jared starts, stops. He looks away, like he’s trying to gather himself, to resist, to deny this thing between them. And Jensen recognizes this as his only chance before Jared slips away.
“Jared,” he says, low, earnest, as close to pleading as he ever comes. “Let’s do this.”
There’s a long pause, and Jensen holds his breath, staving off a future where Jared rejects him but he has to keep on living somehow.
Then Jared leans down and kisses Jensen, so gently. And Jensen starts breathing again.
Every morning, Jensen wakes up surrounded: Jared flush up against him, an arm slung across Jensen’s chest or one of his feet tangled up between Jensen’s ankles. It’s both fantastic and annoying, because he’s never slept with someone before.
Wait, that didn’t come out right. Of course he’s had tons of sex. He’s just not used to staying, afterward. At least not night after night, sharing a bed.
Plus, Jared’s what’s called a ‘kinetic sleeper.’ (Jensen consulted the internet to make sure it wasn’t abnormal.) He twists and kicks and gloms onto Jensen all night long.
For a while it badly bothered him. He would constantly retreat to the far edge of the bed, or push Jared away, which just felt wrong. He tried creating a Maginot Line of pillows down the center of the mattress, but by morning Jared had decimated it in his sleep, fighting his way through to latch onto Jensen once more.
Then one morning Jensen wakes to Jared cautiously disengaging, slipping his arm out from under Jensen’s shoulder and pulling away.
“Sorry,” Jared whispers. Half asleep, Jensen’s hand shoots out and grabs Jared’s wrist, tugging him close, snuggling back into his warm chest, legs bending so that Jared’s slot into the back of his knees.
Really. It’s not so bad.
Fuck if it doesn’t seem like Jared’s worked himself into every corner of Jensen’s life. Jensen finds himself saying “we” more often than “I.” He never goes anywhere without Jared knowing exactly where he is. And, however he’s resisted labeling this thing of theirs, it’s clear all their friends and coworkers consider them a couple.
Then there’s Jared himself. The coffee’s always ready in the morning when Jensen wakes up; Jensen’s favorite foods simply show up in the pantry. Jared doesn’t get pissed at dishes unwashed in the sink or the empty cardboard toilet paper roll unreplaced in the bathroom, and he keeps the bedroom door shut at night, even though Jensen knows he used to let the dogs sleep next to the bed. Before Jensen, that is.
Why can’t he just be a selfish asshole now and then? Jared can’t be this perfect. It can’t be this easy.
So Jensen starts deliberately making things difficult, throwing up obstacles. He ‘forgets’ to respond to Jared’s voicemails, he bitches about seemingly bitchproof things. Jared shakes his head and grins fondly. Jared adjusts and accommodates. Jared shifts and fits.
Until one day, the stress of waiting for the other shoe to drop, for it all to come tumbling down, is too much and Jensen goes upstairs to pack.
Jared wanders in before he’s done and leans against the doorframe. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, well. I was thinking and, uh, I think I’m going to get my own place for next season.” Head down, he waits for demands for an explanation or recriminations or pleas to reconsider.
But Jared doesn’t say anything. He watches as Jensen carefully folds shirts and places them in an overnight bag. After a few minutes, he turns and walks away.
Jensen crashes at the hotel where the network used to put them up, sprawled out across the bed, unable to sleep. The next day he shows up at the house to find Jared’s working in the backyard, digging up groundcover, arms coated to the elbow with dirt, shirt soaked through with sweat.
He doesn’t look up when Jensen opens the sliding glass door and walks out onto the deck.
“I’m gonna get some more stuff, if that’s okay.” Even though Jensen doesn’t know anymore exactly what’s his and what’s not.
“Sure,” Jared says.
He doesn’t even give token resistance and Jensen is unreasonably pissed. He should be happy Jared’s not turning this into a big drama, but he just can’t help himself. “You’re taking this awfully well,” he snaps.
Jared finally glances up. Instead of looking angry or sad, there’s a wry little smile on his face. “I guess I always figured it was too good to last.” He stares at Jensen, intent, as if he could burrow down under his skin, then turns back to his work in the flowerbed.
Jensen goes inside and sits down on the couch. The couch where he first kissed Jared. The couch where they’d fucked so many times when they were too eager to make it to the bedroom. Their couch.
It’s as if Jensen can feel his heart aching, throbbing, filling up and up to bursting.
He walks back out into the yard and right up to Jared. He waits until Jared stops working and turns to him.
“I don’t want to move out,” he admits.
“Then don’t.”
“I want us to be together,” he says.
“Me too.”
Once again, it feels too easy, but Jensen tries to accept it, embrace it. “So what? Start over from the beginning?”
Jared reaches out, pulling Jensen toward him until their foreheads touch, because he’s sappy that way. “Nah. How about we keep going right from where we left off?”
Alright. Jensen’s game.
Author: deirdre_c
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,500
Summary: Jensen's life is an 80s arcade game.
A/N: Written for electricalgwen's prompt "video games" in the spnspringfling challenge, originally posted here. (Did anyone guess this was me?) Massive, unexpressible thanks to laurificus for the word-by-hardfought-word beta.
****
Auditions always stress Jensen out.
Okay, to be fair, they probably stress all actors out, but Jensen gets particularly edgy. He’s not the chummiest person on his best day, but sitting in that waiting area, anticipating and dreading reading for a part, he’s likely to shoot down anyone who approaches him.
There’s a certain ritual he maintains, if possible: arrive exactly seven minutes early, sit in the seat farthest from the door, open his script to the second page, pop in his earbuds and listen to the custom playlist he designs for each character he reads for. He won’t make eye contact with anyone in the waiting room, but he’ll shift around so that he can keep everyone in sight. He tries to maintain a personal space. Three feet is good; four is preferable. And if all that means he’s giving off negative vibes? Well, he’s saving the charm for the casting director.
So it’s kind of astonishing that this gigantic guy- tousle-headed and pink-shirted and not anything like Sam Winchester should be- gets the drop on him. Jensen didn’t even catch him checking in with the admin. From out of nowhere, he plops down in the chair next to Jensen, sticking out a hand.
“Hey there. I’m Jared Padalecki,” the guy says, like he doesn’t notice the earbuds, like they’re going to be friends or something.
Then he smiles.
“Um,” Jensen replies, his careful concentration breaking into pieces.
Jensen’s sprawled out on his couch, blanket snugged around him to ward off the fucking freezing Vancouver damp. He’s tired and cranky, wishing John Winchester would text his sons coordinates to Honolulu, or at least Miami.
He gets maybe five minutes of privacy before Jared strolls into the trailer with a mammoth bag of Skittles-honestly, Jensen can’t believe they even manufacture that size-- popping them in his mouth one at a time. He proceeds to show Jensen the masticated multi-colored heap on his tongue. Jared exhausted and sugar-high: it’s a volatile combination.
“Charming,” Jensen says, looking away. It’s probably not in his best interest to know how Jared looks with his mouth stretched wide. “It’s not enough to taste the rainbow, you’ve got to swallow it whole?”
“Yep.” Jared swallows noisily. “You are what you eat.”
“Well, you need to eat healthier, man. You do realize the four food groups are not actually Chocolate-Dipped, Candy-Coated, Cream-Filled, and Fried, right?”
“Aw, are you concerned about my girlish figure?” Jared hoists his big-ass self up onto the counter separating the living space from the kitchenette. “Besides, I eat healthy.”
He grabs a handful of cherries Jensen left out for snacking, tosses them into his mouth, and immediately chokes. Jensen has to laugh as Jared jumps down and spits the mess into the sink. “You really are bad at fruit!”
Jared glares at him, then snags a nearby apple and takes a conspicuous bite. “Yuck!” he says over-dramatically. He drops it, picking up a second one and biting into that, too. “Nope. Still yuck.”
“Hey, stop wasting my food, bitch!”
Jared takes the lone banana Jensen was saving from today's craft services, slowly starts to peel it, waggling his eyebrows and rolling his shoulders like it’s a strip tease.
“Give me that,” Jensen snaps, hauling himself to his feet. Jared holds it over his head. Jensen grabs for it and Jared dashes out the door and down the steps.
Jensen grips the blanket tight around him and chases Jared out.
Jensen doesn’t let up speed, aims right for Jared, sitting there at the finish line, arms raised high. He only whips the little soapbox car around Jared’s at the last second, crash-landing in the bale of hay beyond.
He looks over, gasping and laughing. There’s Jared, his stupid hair poking out from under his helmet, wearing a brilliant, shit-eating grin and movie-star shades, pulling his long, long legs out of the tiny seat neither of them ever thought he’d fit into. Jensen closes his eyes, just for a second, focuses on capturing this moment in his mind forever. It’s the best loss he’ll ever have.
The plan was to hit the park after dinner, throw the frisbee around for the dogs. Somehow it devolved into this hand-stinging, hot-potato competition to see who’d miss first.
Jensen stutter-skips a couple of steps and whizzes the disk low to Jared’s right. The bastard catches it easily and flings it back, Jensen shooting a hand out to snag it from mid-air rather than trapping it with his body. Without pausing, he blasts it back, but it slips past Jared’s upraised palm to smack him right in the face, the hard edge laying open his cheek.
“Fuck!” Jared yells and falls to his knees like a string-cut marionette, burying his face in his hands.
Jensen sprints forward, tumbles down beside him, shoving the curious, unhelpful dogs away. “Let me see. Let me see. Jared. Shit. Sorry.”
Jensen’s fingers are ice-cold on Jared’s skin as he tilts his chin up to look at the damage. There’s a cut under Jared’s left eye, a short, neat slice along the plane of his cheekbone. He’s reminded of the “Bloody Mary” episode back in the first season, Dean cradling Sam’s face in his hands, thumb rubbing away the blood. But that was syrup and red food dye, and this is real. This is Jared.
Of course it is Jared, so even though he’s tearing up and white around the lips from pain, he cracks, “So, is Jeannie going to kill me?”
Motherfucker. He hadn’t even thought about filming on Monday. Jeannie works magic with makeup, but even it can’t cover stitches. Jensen looks closer. “No, princess. You’re beautiful as ever.”
He grabs the edge of his t-shirt and stretches it up, cups Jared’s head, and dabs gently underneath the cut. Jared draws in a sharp breath and Jensen stills, abruptly aware of Jared’s mouth, the tangy smell of his sweat, his own bare belly, his hand tangled in the damp curls at Jared’s neck.
“Hurts?” Jensen manages to grind out.
Jared pulls back from him and stands. “Nah,” he mutters, shaking the hair out of his face, away from the wound. “I’m good.” He walks off, calling for the dogs to follow.
Jensen stays kneeling in the grass. It’s as if the ground has dropped out from under him.
The greatest thing about moving into Jared’s house is that, after five hours of NFL football and almost half a case of Labatt’s, Jensen doesn’t have to go further than upstairs to find his own room.
But Jensen’s not going anywhere right now. Because the night snuck up on them somehow and the room is pitch black except for the blue wash of the television making Jared’s lips glisten every time he takes a swig of beer.
Jensen doesn’t even remember deciding to do it, but his arm's over the back of the couch, his fingers playing with the soft strands of Jared’s hair.
“Jensen, what are you doing?”
He’s kinda fuzzy around the edges, but he’s pretty sure finally making a move on you isn’t a valid response. “Watching the Seahawks?”
“I think you should watch from over there,” Jared says, shoving Jensen away and scooting sideways.
The alcohol's sliding through Jensen, filling him with an invincibility he’d never feel otherwise. There’s no way this can end well, but he leaps anyway. “What, Jay,” he growls, inching back toward Jared, pressing his chest right up against Jared’s arm. “Am I getting too close for comfort?”
“Jensen. I mean it. Quit fooling around.” Jared pushes him again, harder, and Jensen battles back against it, falling full into Jared’s lap.
Jared yelps and yanks as Jensen scrabbles his way upright, shamelessly copping a feel of solid muscle at chest and shoulder until they’re face to face again. Jensen’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears and Jared’s eyes are wide in the dim lighting, his mouth open on an unasked question.
In for a penny pops into Jensen’s head. He surges forward, throwing a leg over to straddle Jared and diving down for a kiss. Jared's lips are warm and soft and Jensen moves over them quickly, his tongue sliding forward to sneak into Jared’s mouth. He wants to thrust, to bite, to consume every bit of Jared he can before he’s thrown off. He holds back, instead, lightly teasing the tip of his tongue across Jared’s upper lip, then gently sucking the lower one, slow strokes back in, filling Jared up. He uses every technique at his disposal to make Jared feel it, want it.
The mingled scent of beer and Jared’s cologne and the taste of him, deep and wet, overpowers Jensen, and he loses himself until Jared’s fingers tighten painfully on his arm.
He sits back on Jared’s lap, panting, on guard for Jared's reaction, when he feels something firm pressing against his ass. Before he can even process its significance, he’s flipped sideways, walls and ceiling spinning; he lands on his back with 210 pounds of Jared looming over him.
Jensen’s pinned, one of Jared’s knees between his thighs, his palms pressing Jensen’s shoulders down into the couch. Jared’s gaze fixes him in place, eyes narrowed and livid. “This isn’t a game.”
“No,” Jensen responds softly, woozy and bemused, aching to drag Jared down fully down on him.
“I can’t-“ Jared starts, stops. He looks away, like he’s trying to gather himself, to resist, to deny this thing between them. And Jensen recognizes this as his only chance before Jared slips away.
“Jared,” he says, low, earnest, as close to pleading as he ever comes. “Let’s do this.”
There’s a long pause, and Jensen holds his breath, staving off a future where Jared rejects him but he has to keep on living somehow.
Then Jared leans down and kisses Jensen, so gently. And Jensen starts breathing again.
Every morning, Jensen wakes up surrounded: Jared flush up against him, an arm slung across Jensen’s chest or one of his feet tangled up between Jensen’s ankles. It’s both fantastic and annoying, because he’s never slept with someone before.
Wait, that didn’t come out right. Of course he’s had tons of sex. He’s just not used to staying, afterward. At least not night after night, sharing a bed.
Plus, Jared’s what’s called a ‘kinetic sleeper.’ (Jensen consulted the internet to make sure it wasn’t abnormal.) He twists and kicks and gloms onto Jensen all night long.
For a while it badly bothered him. He would constantly retreat to the far edge of the bed, or push Jared away, which just felt wrong. He tried creating a Maginot Line of pillows down the center of the mattress, but by morning Jared had decimated it in his sleep, fighting his way through to latch onto Jensen once more.
Then one morning Jensen wakes to Jared cautiously disengaging, slipping his arm out from under Jensen’s shoulder and pulling away.
“Sorry,” Jared whispers. Half asleep, Jensen’s hand shoots out and grabs Jared’s wrist, tugging him close, snuggling back into his warm chest, legs bending so that Jared’s slot into the back of his knees.
Really. It’s not so bad.
Fuck if it doesn’t seem like Jared’s worked himself into every corner of Jensen’s life. Jensen finds himself saying “we” more often than “I.” He never goes anywhere without Jared knowing exactly where he is. And, however he’s resisted labeling this thing of theirs, it’s clear all their friends and coworkers consider them a couple.
Then there’s Jared himself. The coffee’s always ready in the morning when Jensen wakes up; Jensen’s favorite foods simply show up in the pantry. Jared doesn’t get pissed at dishes unwashed in the sink or the empty cardboard toilet paper roll unreplaced in the bathroom, and he keeps the bedroom door shut at night, even though Jensen knows he used to let the dogs sleep next to the bed. Before Jensen, that is.
Why can’t he just be a selfish asshole now and then? Jared can’t be this perfect. It can’t be this easy.
So Jensen starts deliberately making things difficult, throwing up obstacles. He ‘forgets’ to respond to Jared’s voicemails, he bitches about seemingly bitchproof things. Jared shakes his head and grins fondly. Jared adjusts and accommodates. Jared shifts and fits.
Until one day, the stress of waiting for the other shoe to drop, for it all to come tumbling down, is too much and Jensen goes upstairs to pack.
Jared wanders in before he’s done and leans against the doorframe. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, well. I was thinking and, uh, I think I’m going to get my own place for next season.” Head down, he waits for demands for an explanation or recriminations or pleas to reconsider.
But Jared doesn’t say anything. He watches as Jensen carefully folds shirts and places them in an overnight bag. After a few minutes, he turns and walks away.
Jensen crashes at the hotel where the network used to put them up, sprawled out across the bed, unable to sleep. The next day he shows up at the house to find Jared’s working in the backyard, digging up groundcover, arms coated to the elbow with dirt, shirt soaked through with sweat.
He doesn’t look up when Jensen opens the sliding glass door and walks out onto the deck.
“I’m gonna get some more stuff, if that’s okay.” Even though Jensen doesn’t know anymore exactly what’s his and what’s not.
“Sure,” Jared says.
He doesn’t even give token resistance and Jensen is unreasonably pissed. He should be happy Jared’s not turning this into a big drama, but he just can’t help himself. “You’re taking this awfully well,” he snaps.
Jared finally glances up. Instead of looking angry or sad, there’s a wry little smile on his face. “I guess I always figured it was too good to last.” He stares at Jensen, intent, as if he could burrow down under his skin, then turns back to his work in the flowerbed.
Jensen goes inside and sits down on the couch. The couch where he first kissed Jared. The couch where they’d fucked so many times when they were too eager to make it to the bedroom. Their couch.
It’s as if Jensen can feel his heart aching, throbbing, filling up and up to bursting.
He walks back out into the yard and right up to Jared. He waits until Jared stops working and turns to him.
“I don’t want to move out,” he admits.
“Then don’t.”
“I want us to be together,” he says.
“Me too.”
Once again, it feels too easy, but Jensen tries to accept it, embrace it. “So what? Start over from the beginning?”
Jared reaches out, pulling Jensen toward him until their foreheads touch, because he’s sappy that way. “Nah. How about we keep going right from where we left off?”
Alright. Jensen’s game.