Orizuru: Chapter Three
-THREE-
Miraculously, Jensen manages to tear through three loads of laundry, half a dozen phone calls, and a much needed full-fridge evacuation before he's due to appear at Chateau de Padalecki. Insomnia does that. Jared's definition of 'brunch' sure as hell helps though. Last time he checked, Jensen could have sworn the word brunch loosely translated to a meal served between breakfast and lunch. The whole portmanteau thing implies it. But given the business they're in, breakfast and lunch are just words without a timeline to tack them to and Jared has a tendency to stuff his face no less than six times a day, so it's not like it really matters.
Still, 3PM Pacific Daylight only qualifies as brunchtime somewhere in the middle of the fucking ocean.
Semantics.
The place looks different when he pulls into the drive. Nothing overt, of course. No lace valances swooping in window frames or whimsical butterfly lawn ornaments to declare Gen's presence. Each change is tasteful, purposeful, and makes the house homey in a way it never was when he and Jared were kicking around in each other's space.
It puts a secret ache in the back of his throat, one he has a name for but doesn't want to acknowledge. And even though he plans to have a blast giving Jared shit about the sculpted holly bushes out front and the eco-friendly LED lights flanking both sides of the walkway, Jensen's not altogether sure that this shindig will supply the kind of distraction he's after.
Namely, the drunk kind.
For one, there's a near-constant stream of youthful laughter drifting over the fence. For two, Harley's answering woofs are riding way too close to that line between 'save me' and 'fucking pissed'. That doesn't even take into consideration the six car-seats he counted on his journey up the front walk. Not that he doesn't love kids, he does. He just didn't plan on playing jungle gym today.
But fortunately for everyone else, his upbringing demands he abstain from getting shitfaced in mixed company.
The porch still creaks when he hits the top step, the chunk Jared gouged out of it with a pair of pruning shears two years ago covered in a fresh coat of white paint. There's a wreath on the door, willow woven with ivy, and a note scrawled in a loopy script that says, "Come on in."
He wavers, wondering just how much of a dick it'd make him if he took his Petit Syrah and got the fuck out of Dodge. Tempting though it might be, he can't justify flight. It's Jared. Jared would jump in front of a speeding semi for him or worse. If he can face an auditorium full of screaming strangers asking him ridiculous questions, surely he can make small talk with a bunch of people he knows and their significant others.
Doesn't mean he's in the mood to.
In the end, the choice gets taken away, the doorknob turning in his hand and door opening to reveal a familiar face.
"Jensen?"
"Hey squirt," he replies, wrapping her up in a bear hug without even stopping to think about the bottle in his hand or the leash in hers. It's only when Sadie paws at his pants leg that he lets go. Megan smiles then, and in that moment no one in their right mind would mistake her for anyone other than Jared Padalecki's baby sister.
"Hey now. The statute of limitations ran out on that nickname the day I turned twenty-one. Get with the program, Jenny."
"One death-wish fulfillment coming right up."
The sound Megan makes when Jensen hefts her over his shoulder could pierce the ozone layer. Sadie joins in, howling high and mournful as Jensen turns around and carefully navigates the two stairs between him and level ground. Even with the high-volume chatter inside the house, apparently the racket they're making outside is worthy of some attention, and when Jensen looks up from trying to unwind his ankles from Sadie's lead, Jared's leaning against the doorjamb, watching.
"I feel I should warn you she's high maintenance. Since you're running off with her and all."
"Dude. Gross. She's your sister."
"I'm not the one that's got her slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes."
Megan breaks in, the "JT!" squealed just the wrong side of shrill right in his fucking ear and followed by a long suffering sigh that speaks to a life lived with two pain-in-the-ass older brothers.
"She called me Jenny, Jay. She knows the rules as well as anyone. Now where's the hose?"
Jared snorts. "'Round back, last I saw. She never did learn."
"She can hear you. And she would like to remind you both that she is wearing boots with very pointy toes."
Jensen smirks and decides against drawing it out any longer. They both know that under the circumstances, he's not going to take a hose to her and he really doesn't want to give her a chance to make good on her threat.
"In that case," he says, pitching abruptly forward to dump her on her ass in the grass. He almost loses the wine to the bend of her knee but manages to shift his grip at the last moment. She claws at his back, trying to pull him off balance and send him sprawling too, but if the years of stage combat are good for anything, they're good for this.
"I. Hate. You," she says, cheeks rosy and hair mussed, looking so much like the kid he met all those years ago, it makes Jensen's gut churn. Her eyes narrow, but she picks herself up and dusts herself off without another word to either of them, the heels of her boots clacking sharply against the sidewalk and Sadie ambling in her wake.
With the coast reasonably clear, Jared joins him out on the lawn. He's togged out in weekend wear - a nearly threadbare Spurs T-shirt, an equally ragged pair of jeans, and a pair of those stupid sandals Jensen hates. He looks relaxed, happy, and Jensen can't help but be happy for him in spite of the sandals.
"I'm sure you're aware that you just declared war."
Jensen shrugs and rolls his shoulders, tugs his shirt back into place. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
"Except for the part where I am duty-bound to participate in any hare-brained scheme she comes up with to retaliate."
"Especially for that," Jensen says, breathing easy on the tail-end of a laugh. It feels good. Right. Feels like home in a way he didn't realize he was missing until it smacked him in the face.
"Just remember you said that when you're sitting in the ER," Jared replies, his tone light rather than ominous. "C'mon, man. Let's get you a steak. Look like you're starved half to death."
He's not, not really, but that doesn't matter.
"Yeah, sure. Steak sounds awesome."
That blissful sense of belonging can only carry him so far. After an hour, Jensen's full up on steak and three-bean salad, the taste of Gen's botched experiment in honest-to-God authentic sweet tea clinging to his tongue no matter how many bottles of water he slams. After three hours and a winding series of conversation turns, he gets an itch in the soles of his feet. It's ridiculous. He knows it's ridiculous. Shit, he wants a family too, someday. There's just something about watching Annie and Lisa badger Jared about his procreation plans that makes Jensen yearn for escape.
Jared and Gen have only been married a few months, for chrissakes. Has nothing to do with the fact that he's currently single and not so much looking as dreading everything about the idea of looking. Really. It doesn't.
"Gotta take a piss," he says, a little too loud, and everyone looks at him like he sprouted antlers.
Jared frowns at him, a silent question that Jensen can't answer, so he shrugs instead and turns to wind his way through the clusters of people scattered like land mines between him and the French doors that lead into the living room. Inside, the population dwindles, the door snicking silently shut behind him. Jensen vaguely recognizes the couple huddled together on the loveseat as he passes, but not enough to place them. Much as he enjoys looking like an ass, he's grateful they seem content with a wave and nod before they turn back to their conversation.
Manners be damned, he needs beer. Most of the munchkins are out in the yard chasing each other with the squirt gun party favors Jared dispensed earlier anyway.
Even across the length of two rooms, Jensen can tell there's someone in the kitchen. Comes from knowing the acoustics of the place, he guesses. And as much as he doesn't want company right now, alternative pickings are slim since Jared locks the garage (and consequently all the back-up booze) down tight when there are underage, potentially sticky fingers afoot. When he turned his keys back over to Jay, Jensen had known the day would come he'd regret doing it.
It appears today is that day.
Kitchen it is.
The closer he gets, the more familiar the cadence. But it's not until his boots hit tile and he can see the two bodies perched elbow-to-elbow at the island that Jensen puts it all together.
"...and then she and Boots went through the Monkey Cave and they found treasure!"
Misha has his heels hooked on the lowest rung of the stool, the toes of his shoes tapping together, fingers crumpling their way through an abandoned stack of cocktail napkins. Even with his chin cradled patiently in the palm of his other hand and wearing one of the indefatigably indulgent looks he usually reserves for wayward fangirls, Jensen only sees boredom. Thankfully, the little one balanced on the stool beside him remains none the wiser. Jensen can't tell right off who she belongs to, but she looks to be six or seven and all limbs, her blonde hair cut in a short, simple style that swings wildly just below her chin.
This, he can handle.
"What kind of treasure?" he asks and skirts the island entirely to lean against the counter beside the fridge. He hasn't given up on his beer quite yet, and if the worst happens he knows the Syrah is still here somewhere. "We talkin' just gold, or were there diamonds too?"
That sharp little chin juts his direction, a pair of brown eyes turned on him with the laser focus only the young are truly capable of.
"Momma says it's not nice to stick your butt in when people are talking," she says firmly. "I was talking to Misha. He's teaching me Russian."
Clearly this is a very serious endeavor he's interrupted, so Jensen hides the smile that threatens behind his hand and a cough. Misha simply shrugs, head tilted and eyes half-lidded in a way that requires no translation. At least Jensen doesn't think so. Granted, he hasn't worked with Misha as long as he has Jay, but that doesn't mean he hasn't learned things. Like the fact that when Misha's uncertain, he only gets louder, wilder, more likely to do something unexpected. Or that when he's tired his tone hones down to surgical grade.
That's not what this is, so Jensen's more inclined to rescue Misha than the girl. Kids can be relentless and there's no telling how long they've been sitting there without outright asking.
"Lily has been regaling me with the globe-trotting exploits of Dora and her monkey," he says, brow quirking. "And teaching me Spanish."
If Jensen was a betting man, he'd put money on Misha being borderline fluent. It feels right.
"Really?" he asks, makes a show of taking this new bit of information under careful consideration. "I could use a tutor. Think I've forgotten most of mine from school."
Lily glares at him, sighs, then swings her legs until she can scoot off the stool.
"I'm gonna go play now," she announces abruptly, then stomps off in the direction Jensen just came from.
Jensen snorts. "Dude, I think I just got owned by a second grader."
Misha's answering smirk is warm around the edges as he watches her go. It doesn't track with Jensen's earlier assessment so it puts him slightly off-balance, makes him wonder if he stuck his nose where it wasn't wanted.
"Actually, no," Misha says. "You just got owned by an exceptionally precocious kindergartener."
"Way to make me feel better."
"I live to serve."
"Liar."
The face Misha makes in response comes from nowhere - lips tight and brow heavy - and instead of firing off an appropriately scathing comeback he lapses into fidgety silence, staring at the pile of creased cocktail napkins he's scattered across the countertop like they're supposed to answer some unspoken Misha-question. It's weird, yeah, but no more so than usual. Jensen leaves him to it.
With Lily gone there's no compelling reason to keep his hands off the beer.
It takes him a minute to forage through the half-empty containers of various macaroni and potato salads to liberate the six-pack he'd known would be lurking in the back. As a consequence, he loses Misha's decision to rejoin the land of the verbal in a clank of bottles.
Courtesy demands he ask, a half-swallowed, "What?" tripping off the end of his tongue as Misha pulls another face.
"Trust me," Misha says. "It doesn't bear repeating."
Jensen doubts that, because throwaway is not Misha's style, but lets it slide anyway, too grateful for the invention of twist caps and the fact that he's not going to have to hunt for a bottle opener to care.
A quick flick of the wrist and he's got the first one open. "Beer?"
"Oh, fuck me, yes." Misha says, reaching out to grab like a greedy toddler. "Please and thank you."
"Not here," Jensen murmurs. The sounds from outside are starting to die down, the squeals and tiny pounding feet giving way to the hushed voices of adults and the jangle of keys. A car starts in the front yard and that makes Jensen's mind up for him. In the end, he does rummage through the drawer for a bottle opener and snags his Syrah off the top of the fridge, just in case. "Try to keep up," he says, quirking a brow at Misha as he rounds the corner and sneaks off down the hall.
The door to his old room, third on the left, is shut tight - a silent warning to prying partygoers that Jensen happily ignores. Jared will forgive him, he's sure of that, and as much as he feels a sense of misplaced ownership for these four walls, he's not dumb enough to turn on the light. Lights attract attention and that's exactly what he's looking to avoid.
Misha presses in behind him, breath hot at the nape of his neck and whispers, "Lock it or leave it open?"
"Lock it," Jensen answers quickly, quietly. "Definitely locked."
"Jensen Ackles, are you trying to seduce me?" Coy on Misha is ten kinds of ridiculous at the best of times and Jensen's forced to stifle a laugh at the over-exaggerated flutter of lashes he catches out of the corner of his eye.
"You wish," he says and paces his way into the room to flop on the bed. He can still feel Misha's words on his skin like an echo. For the moment, he's content to ignore it.
The sun's slipped well past the horizon, the mini-blind blades painting stripes of orange and pink across the floor. It's subdued, but once his eyes adjust, it's light enough he can catalog the changes here too.
Boxes line the wall where his dresser stood and 20 gallon Rubbermaid bins cover the floor of the closet completely. Each of them boasts a simple label that reads "Kitchen" or "Books" in the same girly hand as the note on the front door, and Jensen realizes he's looking at the detritus of Gen's life in Los Angeles. The life she abandoned to move north and be with Jay. It's a moment, one that's probably too late in coming. Nonetheless, everything shifts slightly to the right and he understands -
"It's never going to be the same."
The bed dips beside him and he shakes with it, too wrapped up in his own shit to take note that his hand is empty again until he tries to take a pull off the non-existent bottle.
"Dude."
Misha's throat works around a swallow, then another, eyes flashing and completely unrepentant. Jensen wants to kick his ass. Or possibly kill him. Maybe one after the other since he's feeling ambitious.
"Dude."
He's still staring when Misha decides to come up for air, too baffled by the fact that Misha bogarted his beer in the first place to do anything about it. Water's one thing, but there are rules about booze. Rules. In a perfect world, Misha would apologize, maybe grab him a replacement.
Instead Misha says, "Not wise to offer things you aren't prepared to lose," and tips the bottle again in an apparent attempt to drain it dry.
In all fairness, he did offer, and it's not like the five beers currently weeping their condensation into the cardboard container wedged between their ankles are inferior. It's just the principle of the thing. A principle Misha doesn't seem to subscribe to.
"Remind me never to give you my keys," Jensen says and leans down to hook the neck of a bottle.
As soon as the final syllable leaves his mouth, Misha dissolves into a coughing fit. Coughing turns to laughing, laughing turns to awkward flailing and chest thumping that leaves two of the boxes closest the bed overturned. Even in the half light, Misha looks flushed - chest to cheeks - and he snorts around the mouthful of beer he's managed to hold onto in the midst of his apparent mental breakdown.
It's not that fucking funny.
Every last bone in Jensen's body screams at that he doesn't want to know what is, that Misha won't offer straight answers anyway, but Jensen can't not. Has to. Will always. Just like the fucking birds. The fucking birds he hasn't thought about for four fucking hours and could have lived happily without thinking about for the rest of his natural life.
But now he is, the absence of an answer burning silently at the back of his brain and stealing the thread of the conversation.
Misha's voice tugs him free, a raspy chuckle dripping with disbelief and a quiet, "Sometimes I wonder if you think things all the way through before you say them, Jen."
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Jensen twists his bottle open, ignoring the sharp slice of metal against his palm, and flicks the cap at the opposite wall. It clatters in behind one of the stupid Rubbermaid bins and he barely resists tossing up victory arms. He's not even sure why, but he shrugs and takes a celebratory sip anyway.
When he glances over to make sure Misha caught his championship-worthy aim, Misha's holding a tiny stuffed puppy. Correction: a tiny, purple puppy with sparkles.
By the time his brain catches up with the sight of it, a measure of the hilarity has died down and he manages to swallow his sip instead of spewing it. The fact that Misha's still staring at it like it has some improbable insight to impart doesn't help matters.
"Do you two need a minute? I can avert my eyes," Jensen says.
At which point Misha does that chuckle thing that gets lodged in the base of his throat and grins, but doesn't look up to meet Jensen's gaze. "Because I look the type to molest stuffed puppies?"
"Because I know you're the type to molest stuffed puppies and that's something you can't fucking unsee."
Misha smiles. "Point taken," he says, squeezing the stuffed puppy between his palms as if to prove Jensen right. "I keep trying to understand them, but I'm starting to believe it's not my place to."
The puppy gets one last absent squish before Misha tosses it in the open box at his feet, sparkly purple mingling with pink and white and roan, a litter the likes of which the world has never seen. Jensen knows what it is, he gets his fair share of puppies now too. Ever since he flashed pictures of Ick to the world.
Jensen nurses his beer, compiling a mental inventory of the contents and pegs its origins as either Chicago or New Jersey.
"You mean the fans? Grateful as I am, I don't think I want to know," he says, and leans down to slide the lid back in place. It's not patently true, of course. But it is a question he stopped trying to answer a long time ago thanks to the invasive nature of its subjects.
"Careful. That makes you sound like the boy who was born without a sense of adventure. We both know how that will end."
"I'm gonna go ahead and guess fire."
"Or feathers with a side of nudity. I'm not picky," Misha says, matter-of-factly and bends to trade his empty bottle for a full one. His cap goes flying the same direction as Jensen's and gets lodged on the top shelf of the open closet.
As distracting as Misha can be at the best of times, the word feather has become a trigger. Just like paper and bird and crane and a dozen other innocuous words that shouldn't matter but do. Jensen downs the rest of his bottle and slots it in beside Misha's empty, capping another without a second thought.
"It can get creepy though," he says and nudges the box of Jared's con spoils further away with a toe.
At his elbow, Misha fidgets restlessly, metal clanking against glass louder than it probably should thanks to his own heightened awareness.
"Ah yes," Misha says. "That only happens if you let it."
"Be creepy?"
"Sure. I happen to have a My Little Pony collection that would rival that of any five-year-old in the continental US and enough miscellaneous underwear to stock not three but four department stores with all their intimate apparel."
"And how does that not bother you?" Jensen asks, because he wonders. The indecent proposals have always bothered him. Always. And he's pretty sure it's not because he has clearer boundaries than a lot of people. Even when he hero-worshiped Troy Aikman back in the day, he would never have asked for a lock of fucking hair. But then he also has his agent donate every last crazy thing he receives at the conventions to appropriate charitable organizations.
It baffles him how easily Misha rolls with it, uses it and preens like a king peacock.
"Would they care if it did?"
"Doubtful."
"I rest my case."
So simple. Jensen takes another swig of his beer, considering, can't help but ask, "That's really it?"
Misha shrugs and wets his lips, then makes another one of those indecipherable faces.
"Pretty much. I never have seen the point in getting worked up over other people's idiosyncrasies. Got plenty of my own to keep me busy.
Which, yes, is true, but also not what he asked. For the time being, Jensen leaves it alone because he's not up for logical warfare with a completely illogical opponent right now. There are more relevant but related subjects to explore.
"So you've never been freaked out by a fan?"
"Probably not in the way you think," Misha mutters, lower lip never leaving the rim of his bottle."But if I say no it makes me the crazy one, right?"
"Or a liar, but that's known territory so at least you'd feel at home," Jensen says and shoots Misha a smirk that doesn't get returned. Misha's no more of a liar than he is, so it's odd that he doesn't banter back, doesn't quip a blue streak. Jensen's curious, of course he is, but there's no telling with Misha so he chews on his lip instead, silently working out how concise he wants to be about his current predicament. After a momentary mangling, he decides that Misha would probably still err on the side of mockery. Veiled references only then. "Dude, seriously. Clif told me there's this chick who's so fucking gone she thinks she's my wife. There's nothing about that that isn't creepy."
"According to some of the more enthusiastic, militantly non-minion contingents I have upwards of three thousand wives," Misha says, polishing off the final two swallows of his second beer and letting the bottle clank into place beside the others. And whatever else it is or could be, it feels like permission.
Jensen loses the next hour and the rest of the six pack trading war stories with Misha, the flicker of citronella candles on the deck outside the only thing that stands between them and total darkness. Somewhere along the way, the house goes quiet - no more slamming car doors or shrieking children, just the wet whir of the dishwasher clanking plates together. And even though he and Jared made more use of the drawer full of take-out menus and a stack of paper plates than they ever did the kitchen, the sound of it is almost like a lullaby.
The familiarity opens Jensen up in ways he'd rather not be when he's lubricated by booze and loose-limbed with exhaustion, and by the time he bothers to take notice, the silence inside the room has stretched on longer than it should have. When he glances at Misha, it's painfully obvious why.
Misha's asleep.
Of course Misha's asleep.
Jensen swallows a chuckle, relief winning out over his surprise that Misha managed to stick so long, be so still. Muffled or not the laughter shakes the bed and Misha's hand twitches, knuckles rasping against the blanket as his fingers flutter. Jensen's stomach goes weird then, and he's working his way up to an internal debate about the wisdom of mixing hops with all those mayo-based salads that sat in the sun most of the day when Jared slips silently through the door.
"Well that's disappointing," he mutters under his breath, fumbling for and flicking the light switch. "I was hoping for blackmail material."
Jensen squints against the sudden brightness, and whispers, "Like what? Naked thumb wrestling? You missed the puppy molestation hour." He keeps his voice pitched low even though he realizes there's no reason to. Maybe it's for his own sake, so he can go on pretending he didn't notice that Misha's breathing changed as soon as the tumblers in the door knob turned over. It was just really fucking quiet.
"What's the point in thumb wrestling if you're already naked?" Jared says.
And that - there are too many things wrong with that sentence for Jensen to even know where to start. So he hums and pushes out an easy breath, gives thanks to the lucky stars life granted him because Misha picks that moment to rejoin the land of the living.
"I wasn't aware of there being any other method to determine who tops," he says, voice rough with disuse, and smiles a smile that's probably supposed to be serene but twists over into mischievous at the last second. His lashes twitch against his cheeks and Jensen gets blindsided by a flood of images he can't quite put away in time. So he does the only sensible thing he can do. He freaks the fuck out.
The thing about freaking the fuck out is that it makes you look like a spaz. The head board thuds against the wall hard enough to leave a mark and Jensen winces.
"So, um. It's late," he says. It's not. "My call's at four," he adds, like that makes it any better. Jay has to be on set just as early.
Jared turns those stupid eyes on him, brows pulled together and mouth turned down, and Jensen's not any more in the mood to elaborate than he was before. He risks a glance at Misha, holds it long enough to absorb the fact his lids are still lowered before he finds a fascinating spot on the ceiling to get better acquainted with.
Whatever psychic shorthand they've developed must finally catch up, because Jared's face smoothes out abruptly and he shoulders in closer to the bed, nudging at one of Misha's ankles with a toe.
"Arise fair maiden and taketh thy slackass home," he says, and bends to snap his fingers in Misha's face.
Misha snaps back, his teeth clacking sharply together millimeters from Jared's fingertips and that's not even - good at all because the images are back, bursting firework-bright and now they involve Misha's lips and his fingers.
Jensen breathes.
"So yeah, I'm out-" he starts, but then Misha's looking at him and Jared's looking at him and it's like his entire vocabulary fucked off to Pluto.
Wisely, Jensen decides to follow, making it to his pickup in record time, the dew-kissed grass not registering until he almost takes a header and knocks himself out against the fender. Once safely there, he throws the truck's door open and coaxes her to life.
The gearshift is already fit into the curve of his palm when he sees it.
The sloppily creased wad of brown paper stuck under the windshield wiper should probably piss him off. And it does, abstractly. There are much less theoretical things to be concerned about right now though, namely whateverthefuck that thing with Misha just was.
So while he subconsciously catalogs a shape that might be a bear or a dog or some kind of mutant were-dog that Jensen doubts any origami artist worth a shit would bother committing to paper, the rest of his brain is breaking against a different reef. There's only so long he can tell himself not to think about something and expect it to work. The knowledge is already there - a flash of unwanted insight that turns Misha into something new and different, someone Jensen might want in new and different ways.
Of the choices presented, having an origami stalker seems much less terrifying. A small part of him wishes for indifference, an opportunity to pitch the scrap of paper into long grass at the end of Jared's driveway as he roars off into the night. Unfortunately, that's not the part that wins out.
Jensen allows himself a muttered, "Fuck" as he leans out the window to pluck the mutant were-dog free then settles in to the sweet sound of gravel kicking into the wheel wells.
( FOUR)
Miraculously, Jensen manages to tear through three loads of laundry, half a dozen phone calls, and a much needed full-fridge evacuation before he's due to appear at Chateau de Padalecki. Insomnia does that. Jared's definition of 'brunch' sure as hell helps though. Last time he checked, Jensen could have sworn the word brunch loosely translated to a meal served between breakfast and lunch. The whole portmanteau thing implies it. But given the business they're in, breakfast and lunch are just words without a timeline to tack them to and Jared has a tendency to stuff his face no less than six times a day, so it's not like it really matters.
Still, 3PM Pacific Daylight only qualifies as brunchtime somewhere in the middle of the fucking ocean.
Semantics.
The place looks different when he pulls into the drive. Nothing overt, of course. No lace valances swooping in window frames or whimsical butterfly lawn ornaments to declare Gen's presence. Each change is tasteful, purposeful, and makes the house homey in a way it never was when he and Jared were kicking around in each other's space.
It puts a secret ache in the back of his throat, one he has a name for but doesn't want to acknowledge. And even though he plans to have a blast giving Jared shit about the sculpted holly bushes out front and the eco-friendly LED lights flanking both sides of the walkway, Jensen's not altogether sure that this shindig will supply the kind of distraction he's after.
Namely, the drunk kind.
For one, there's a near-constant stream of youthful laughter drifting over the fence. For two, Harley's answering woofs are riding way too close to that line between 'save me' and 'fucking pissed'. That doesn't even take into consideration the six car-seats he counted on his journey up the front walk. Not that he doesn't love kids, he does. He just didn't plan on playing jungle gym today.
But fortunately for everyone else, his upbringing demands he abstain from getting shitfaced in mixed company.
The porch still creaks when he hits the top step, the chunk Jared gouged out of it with a pair of pruning shears two years ago covered in a fresh coat of white paint. There's a wreath on the door, willow woven with ivy, and a note scrawled in a loopy script that says, "Come on in."
He wavers, wondering just how much of a dick it'd make him if he took his Petit Syrah and got the fuck out of Dodge. Tempting though it might be, he can't justify flight. It's Jared. Jared would jump in front of a speeding semi for him or worse. If he can face an auditorium full of screaming strangers asking him ridiculous questions, surely he can make small talk with a bunch of people he knows and their significant others.
Doesn't mean he's in the mood to.
In the end, the choice gets taken away, the doorknob turning in his hand and door opening to reveal a familiar face.
"Jensen?"
"Hey squirt," he replies, wrapping her up in a bear hug without even stopping to think about the bottle in his hand or the leash in hers. It's only when Sadie paws at his pants leg that he lets go. Megan smiles then, and in that moment no one in their right mind would mistake her for anyone other than Jared Padalecki's baby sister.
"Hey now. The statute of limitations ran out on that nickname the day I turned twenty-one. Get with the program, Jenny."
"One death-wish fulfillment coming right up."
The sound Megan makes when Jensen hefts her over his shoulder could pierce the ozone layer. Sadie joins in, howling high and mournful as Jensen turns around and carefully navigates the two stairs between him and level ground. Even with the high-volume chatter inside the house, apparently the racket they're making outside is worthy of some attention, and when Jensen looks up from trying to unwind his ankles from Sadie's lead, Jared's leaning against the doorjamb, watching.
"I feel I should warn you she's high maintenance. Since you're running off with her and all."
"Dude. Gross. She's your sister."
"I'm not the one that's got her slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes."
Megan breaks in, the "JT!" squealed just the wrong side of shrill right in his fucking ear and followed by a long suffering sigh that speaks to a life lived with two pain-in-the-ass older brothers.
"She called me Jenny, Jay. She knows the rules as well as anyone. Now where's the hose?"
Jared snorts. "'Round back, last I saw. She never did learn."
"She can hear you. And she would like to remind you both that she is wearing boots with very pointy toes."
Jensen smirks and decides against drawing it out any longer. They both know that under the circumstances, he's not going to take a hose to her and he really doesn't want to give her a chance to make good on her threat.
"In that case," he says, pitching abruptly forward to dump her on her ass in the grass. He almost loses the wine to the bend of her knee but manages to shift his grip at the last moment. She claws at his back, trying to pull him off balance and send him sprawling too, but if the years of stage combat are good for anything, they're good for this.
"I. Hate. You," she says, cheeks rosy and hair mussed, looking so much like the kid he met all those years ago, it makes Jensen's gut churn. Her eyes narrow, but she picks herself up and dusts herself off without another word to either of them, the heels of her boots clacking sharply against the sidewalk and Sadie ambling in her wake.
With the coast reasonably clear, Jared joins him out on the lawn. He's togged out in weekend wear - a nearly threadbare Spurs T-shirt, an equally ragged pair of jeans, and a pair of those stupid sandals Jensen hates. He looks relaxed, happy, and Jensen can't help but be happy for him in spite of the sandals.
"I'm sure you're aware that you just declared war."
Jensen shrugs and rolls his shoulders, tugs his shirt back into place. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
"Except for the part where I am duty-bound to participate in any hare-brained scheme she comes up with to retaliate."
"Especially for that," Jensen says, breathing easy on the tail-end of a laugh. It feels good. Right. Feels like home in a way he didn't realize he was missing until it smacked him in the face.
"Just remember you said that when you're sitting in the ER," Jared replies, his tone light rather than ominous. "C'mon, man. Let's get you a steak. Look like you're starved half to death."
He's not, not really, but that doesn't matter.
"Yeah, sure. Steak sounds awesome."
That blissful sense of belonging can only carry him so far. After an hour, Jensen's full up on steak and three-bean salad, the taste of Gen's botched experiment in honest-to-God authentic sweet tea clinging to his tongue no matter how many bottles of water he slams. After three hours and a winding series of conversation turns, he gets an itch in the soles of his feet. It's ridiculous. He knows it's ridiculous. Shit, he wants a family too, someday. There's just something about watching Annie and Lisa badger Jared about his procreation plans that makes Jensen yearn for escape.
Jared and Gen have only been married a few months, for chrissakes. Has nothing to do with the fact that he's currently single and not so much looking as dreading everything about the idea of looking. Really. It doesn't.
"Gotta take a piss," he says, a little too loud, and everyone looks at him like he sprouted antlers.
Jared frowns at him, a silent question that Jensen can't answer, so he shrugs instead and turns to wind his way through the clusters of people scattered like land mines between him and the French doors that lead into the living room. Inside, the population dwindles, the door snicking silently shut behind him. Jensen vaguely recognizes the couple huddled together on the loveseat as he passes, but not enough to place them. Much as he enjoys looking like an ass, he's grateful they seem content with a wave and nod before they turn back to their conversation.
Manners be damned, he needs beer. Most of the munchkins are out in the yard chasing each other with the squirt gun party favors Jared dispensed earlier anyway.
Even across the length of two rooms, Jensen can tell there's someone in the kitchen. Comes from knowing the acoustics of the place, he guesses. And as much as he doesn't want company right now, alternative pickings are slim since Jared locks the garage (and consequently all the back-up booze) down tight when there are underage, potentially sticky fingers afoot. When he turned his keys back over to Jay, Jensen had known the day would come he'd regret doing it.
It appears today is that day.
Kitchen it is.
The closer he gets, the more familiar the cadence. But it's not until his boots hit tile and he can see the two bodies perched elbow-to-elbow at the island that Jensen puts it all together.
"...and then she and Boots went through the Monkey Cave and they found treasure!"
Misha has his heels hooked on the lowest rung of the stool, the toes of his shoes tapping together, fingers crumpling their way through an abandoned stack of cocktail napkins. Even with his chin cradled patiently in the palm of his other hand and wearing one of the indefatigably indulgent looks he usually reserves for wayward fangirls, Jensen only sees boredom. Thankfully, the little one balanced on the stool beside him remains none the wiser. Jensen can't tell right off who she belongs to, but she looks to be six or seven and all limbs, her blonde hair cut in a short, simple style that swings wildly just below her chin.
This, he can handle.
"What kind of treasure?" he asks and skirts the island entirely to lean against the counter beside the fridge. He hasn't given up on his beer quite yet, and if the worst happens he knows the Syrah is still here somewhere. "We talkin' just gold, or were there diamonds too?"
That sharp little chin juts his direction, a pair of brown eyes turned on him with the laser focus only the young are truly capable of.
"Momma says it's not nice to stick your butt in when people are talking," she says firmly. "I was talking to Misha. He's teaching me Russian."
Clearly this is a very serious endeavor he's interrupted, so Jensen hides the smile that threatens behind his hand and a cough. Misha simply shrugs, head tilted and eyes half-lidded in a way that requires no translation. At least Jensen doesn't think so. Granted, he hasn't worked with Misha as long as he has Jay, but that doesn't mean he hasn't learned things. Like the fact that when Misha's uncertain, he only gets louder, wilder, more likely to do something unexpected. Or that when he's tired his tone hones down to surgical grade.
That's not what this is, so Jensen's more inclined to rescue Misha than the girl. Kids can be relentless and there's no telling how long they've been sitting there without outright asking.
"Lily has been regaling me with the globe-trotting exploits of Dora and her monkey," he says, brow quirking. "And teaching me Spanish."
If Jensen was a betting man, he'd put money on Misha being borderline fluent. It feels right.
"Really?" he asks, makes a show of taking this new bit of information under careful consideration. "I could use a tutor. Think I've forgotten most of mine from school."
Lily glares at him, sighs, then swings her legs until she can scoot off the stool.
"I'm gonna go play now," she announces abruptly, then stomps off in the direction Jensen just came from.
Jensen snorts. "Dude, I think I just got owned by a second grader."
Misha's answering smirk is warm around the edges as he watches her go. It doesn't track with Jensen's earlier assessment so it puts him slightly off-balance, makes him wonder if he stuck his nose where it wasn't wanted.
"Actually, no," Misha says. "You just got owned by an exceptionally precocious kindergartener."
"Way to make me feel better."
"I live to serve."
"Liar."
The face Misha makes in response comes from nowhere - lips tight and brow heavy - and instead of firing off an appropriately scathing comeback he lapses into fidgety silence, staring at the pile of creased cocktail napkins he's scattered across the countertop like they're supposed to answer some unspoken Misha-question. It's weird, yeah, but no more so than usual. Jensen leaves him to it.
With Lily gone there's no compelling reason to keep his hands off the beer.
It takes him a minute to forage through the half-empty containers of various macaroni and potato salads to liberate the six-pack he'd known would be lurking in the back. As a consequence, he loses Misha's decision to rejoin the land of the verbal in a clank of bottles.
Courtesy demands he ask, a half-swallowed, "What?" tripping off the end of his tongue as Misha pulls another face.
"Trust me," Misha says. "It doesn't bear repeating."
Jensen doubts that, because throwaway is not Misha's style, but lets it slide anyway, too grateful for the invention of twist caps and the fact that he's not going to have to hunt for a bottle opener to care.
A quick flick of the wrist and he's got the first one open. "Beer?"
"Oh, fuck me, yes." Misha says, reaching out to grab like a greedy toddler. "Please and thank you."
"Not here," Jensen murmurs. The sounds from outside are starting to die down, the squeals and tiny pounding feet giving way to the hushed voices of adults and the jangle of keys. A car starts in the front yard and that makes Jensen's mind up for him. In the end, he does rummage through the drawer for a bottle opener and snags his Syrah off the top of the fridge, just in case. "Try to keep up," he says, quirking a brow at Misha as he rounds the corner and sneaks off down the hall.
The door to his old room, third on the left, is shut tight - a silent warning to prying partygoers that Jensen happily ignores. Jared will forgive him, he's sure of that, and as much as he feels a sense of misplaced ownership for these four walls, he's not dumb enough to turn on the light. Lights attract attention and that's exactly what he's looking to avoid.
Misha presses in behind him, breath hot at the nape of his neck and whispers, "Lock it or leave it open?"
"Lock it," Jensen answers quickly, quietly. "Definitely locked."
"Jensen Ackles, are you trying to seduce me?" Coy on Misha is ten kinds of ridiculous at the best of times and Jensen's forced to stifle a laugh at the over-exaggerated flutter of lashes he catches out of the corner of his eye.
"You wish," he says and paces his way into the room to flop on the bed. He can still feel Misha's words on his skin like an echo. For the moment, he's content to ignore it.
The sun's slipped well past the horizon, the mini-blind blades painting stripes of orange and pink across the floor. It's subdued, but once his eyes adjust, it's light enough he can catalog the changes here too.
Boxes line the wall where his dresser stood and 20 gallon Rubbermaid bins cover the floor of the closet completely. Each of them boasts a simple label that reads "Kitchen" or "Books" in the same girly hand as the note on the front door, and Jensen realizes he's looking at the detritus of Gen's life in Los Angeles. The life she abandoned to move north and be with Jay. It's a moment, one that's probably too late in coming. Nonetheless, everything shifts slightly to the right and he understands -
"It's never going to be the same."
The bed dips beside him and he shakes with it, too wrapped up in his own shit to take note that his hand is empty again until he tries to take a pull off the non-existent bottle.
"Dude."
Misha's throat works around a swallow, then another, eyes flashing and completely unrepentant. Jensen wants to kick his ass. Or possibly kill him. Maybe one after the other since he's feeling ambitious.
"Dude."
He's still staring when Misha decides to come up for air, too baffled by the fact that Misha bogarted his beer in the first place to do anything about it. Water's one thing, but there are rules about booze. Rules. In a perfect world, Misha would apologize, maybe grab him a replacement.
Instead Misha says, "Not wise to offer things you aren't prepared to lose," and tips the bottle again in an apparent attempt to drain it dry.
In all fairness, he did offer, and it's not like the five beers currently weeping their condensation into the cardboard container wedged between their ankles are inferior. It's just the principle of the thing. A principle Misha doesn't seem to subscribe to.
"Remind me never to give you my keys," Jensen says and leans down to hook the neck of a bottle.
As soon as the final syllable leaves his mouth, Misha dissolves into a coughing fit. Coughing turns to laughing, laughing turns to awkward flailing and chest thumping that leaves two of the boxes closest the bed overturned. Even in the half light, Misha looks flushed - chest to cheeks - and he snorts around the mouthful of beer he's managed to hold onto in the midst of his apparent mental breakdown.
It's not that fucking funny.
Every last bone in Jensen's body screams at that he doesn't want to know what is, that Misha won't offer straight answers anyway, but Jensen can't not. Has to. Will always. Just like the fucking birds. The fucking birds he hasn't thought about for four fucking hours and could have lived happily without thinking about for the rest of his natural life.
But now he is, the absence of an answer burning silently at the back of his brain and stealing the thread of the conversation.
Misha's voice tugs him free, a raspy chuckle dripping with disbelief and a quiet, "Sometimes I wonder if you think things all the way through before you say them, Jen."
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Jensen twists his bottle open, ignoring the sharp slice of metal against his palm, and flicks the cap at the opposite wall. It clatters in behind one of the stupid Rubbermaid bins and he barely resists tossing up victory arms. He's not even sure why, but he shrugs and takes a celebratory sip anyway.
When he glances over to make sure Misha caught his championship-worthy aim, Misha's holding a tiny stuffed puppy. Correction: a tiny, purple puppy with sparkles.
By the time his brain catches up with the sight of it, a measure of the hilarity has died down and he manages to swallow his sip instead of spewing it. The fact that Misha's still staring at it like it has some improbable insight to impart doesn't help matters.
"Do you two need a minute? I can avert my eyes," Jensen says.
At which point Misha does that chuckle thing that gets lodged in the base of his throat and grins, but doesn't look up to meet Jensen's gaze. "Because I look the type to molest stuffed puppies?"
"Because I know you're the type to molest stuffed puppies and that's something you can't fucking unsee."
Misha smiles. "Point taken," he says, squeezing the stuffed puppy between his palms as if to prove Jensen right. "I keep trying to understand them, but I'm starting to believe it's not my place to."
The puppy gets one last absent squish before Misha tosses it in the open box at his feet, sparkly purple mingling with pink and white and roan, a litter the likes of which the world has never seen. Jensen knows what it is, he gets his fair share of puppies now too. Ever since he flashed pictures of Ick to the world.
Jensen nurses his beer, compiling a mental inventory of the contents and pegs its origins as either Chicago or New Jersey.
"You mean the fans? Grateful as I am, I don't think I want to know," he says, and leans down to slide the lid back in place. It's not patently true, of course. But it is a question he stopped trying to answer a long time ago thanks to the invasive nature of its subjects.
"Careful. That makes you sound like the boy who was born without a sense of adventure. We both know how that will end."
"I'm gonna go ahead and guess fire."
"Or feathers with a side of nudity. I'm not picky," Misha says, matter-of-factly and bends to trade his empty bottle for a full one. His cap goes flying the same direction as Jensen's and gets lodged on the top shelf of the open closet.
As distracting as Misha can be at the best of times, the word feather has become a trigger. Just like paper and bird and crane and a dozen other innocuous words that shouldn't matter but do. Jensen downs the rest of his bottle and slots it in beside Misha's empty, capping another without a second thought.
"It can get creepy though," he says and nudges the box of Jared's con spoils further away with a toe.
At his elbow, Misha fidgets restlessly, metal clanking against glass louder than it probably should thanks to his own heightened awareness.
"Ah yes," Misha says. "That only happens if you let it."
"Be creepy?"
"Sure. I happen to have a My Little Pony collection that would rival that of any five-year-old in the continental US and enough miscellaneous underwear to stock not three but four department stores with all their intimate apparel."
"And how does that not bother you?" Jensen asks, because he wonders. The indecent proposals have always bothered him. Always. And he's pretty sure it's not because he has clearer boundaries than a lot of people. Even when he hero-worshiped Troy Aikman back in the day, he would never have asked for a lock of fucking hair. But then he also has his agent donate every last crazy thing he receives at the conventions to appropriate charitable organizations.
It baffles him how easily Misha rolls with it, uses it and preens like a king peacock.
"Would they care if it did?"
"Doubtful."
"I rest my case."
So simple. Jensen takes another swig of his beer, considering, can't help but ask, "That's really it?"
Misha shrugs and wets his lips, then makes another one of those indecipherable faces.
"Pretty much. I never have seen the point in getting worked up over other people's idiosyncrasies. Got plenty of my own to keep me busy.
Which, yes, is true, but also not what he asked. For the time being, Jensen leaves it alone because he's not up for logical warfare with a completely illogical opponent right now. There are more relevant but related subjects to explore.
"So you've never been freaked out by a fan?"
"Probably not in the way you think," Misha mutters, lower lip never leaving the rim of his bottle."But if I say no it makes me the crazy one, right?"
"Or a liar, but that's known territory so at least you'd feel at home," Jensen says and shoots Misha a smirk that doesn't get returned. Misha's no more of a liar than he is, so it's odd that he doesn't banter back, doesn't quip a blue streak. Jensen's curious, of course he is, but there's no telling with Misha so he chews on his lip instead, silently working out how concise he wants to be about his current predicament. After a momentary mangling, he decides that Misha would probably still err on the side of mockery. Veiled references only then. "Dude, seriously. Clif told me there's this chick who's so fucking gone she thinks she's my wife. There's nothing about that that isn't creepy."
"According to some of the more enthusiastic, militantly non-minion contingents I have upwards of three thousand wives," Misha says, polishing off the final two swallows of his second beer and letting the bottle clank into place beside the others. And whatever else it is or could be, it feels like permission.
Jensen loses the next hour and the rest of the six pack trading war stories with Misha, the flicker of citronella candles on the deck outside the only thing that stands between them and total darkness. Somewhere along the way, the house goes quiet - no more slamming car doors or shrieking children, just the wet whir of the dishwasher clanking plates together. And even though he and Jared made more use of the drawer full of take-out menus and a stack of paper plates than they ever did the kitchen, the sound of it is almost like a lullaby.
The familiarity opens Jensen up in ways he'd rather not be when he's lubricated by booze and loose-limbed with exhaustion, and by the time he bothers to take notice, the silence inside the room has stretched on longer than it should have. When he glances at Misha, it's painfully obvious why.
Misha's asleep.
Of course Misha's asleep.
Jensen swallows a chuckle, relief winning out over his surprise that Misha managed to stick so long, be so still. Muffled or not the laughter shakes the bed and Misha's hand twitches, knuckles rasping against the blanket as his fingers flutter. Jensen's stomach goes weird then, and he's working his way up to an internal debate about the wisdom of mixing hops with all those mayo-based salads that sat in the sun most of the day when Jared slips silently through the door.
"Well that's disappointing," he mutters under his breath, fumbling for and flicking the light switch. "I was hoping for blackmail material."
Jensen squints against the sudden brightness, and whispers, "Like what? Naked thumb wrestling? You missed the puppy molestation hour." He keeps his voice pitched low even though he realizes there's no reason to. Maybe it's for his own sake, so he can go on pretending he didn't notice that Misha's breathing changed as soon as the tumblers in the door knob turned over. It was just really fucking quiet.
"What's the point in thumb wrestling if you're already naked?" Jared says.
And that - there are too many things wrong with that sentence for Jensen to even know where to start. So he hums and pushes out an easy breath, gives thanks to the lucky stars life granted him because Misha picks that moment to rejoin the land of the living.
"I wasn't aware of there being any other method to determine who tops," he says, voice rough with disuse, and smiles a smile that's probably supposed to be serene but twists over into mischievous at the last second. His lashes twitch against his cheeks and Jensen gets blindsided by a flood of images he can't quite put away in time. So he does the only sensible thing he can do. He freaks the fuck out.
The thing about freaking the fuck out is that it makes you look like a spaz. The head board thuds against the wall hard enough to leave a mark and Jensen winces.
"So, um. It's late," he says. It's not. "My call's at four," he adds, like that makes it any better. Jay has to be on set just as early.
Jared turns those stupid eyes on him, brows pulled together and mouth turned down, and Jensen's not any more in the mood to elaborate than he was before. He risks a glance at Misha, holds it long enough to absorb the fact his lids are still lowered before he finds a fascinating spot on the ceiling to get better acquainted with.
Whatever psychic shorthand they've developed must finally catch up, because Jared's face smoothes out abruptly and he shoulders in closer to the bed, nudging at one of Misha's ankles with a toe.
"Arise fair maiden and taketh thy slackass home," he says, and bends to snap his fingers in Misha's face.
Misha snaps back, his teeth clacking sharply together millimeters from Jared's fingertips and that's not even - good at all because the images are back, bursting firework-bright and now they involve Misha's lips and his fingers.
Jensen breathes.
"So yeah, I'm out-" he starts, but then Misha's looking at him and Jared's looking at him and it's like his entire vocabulary fucked off to Pluto.
Wisely, Jensen decides to follow, making it to his pickup in record time, the dew-kissed grass not registering until he almost takes a header and knocks himself out against the fender. Once safely there, he throws the truck's door open and coaxes her to life.
The gearshift is already fit into the curve of his palm when he sees it.
The sloppily creased wad of brown paper stuck under the windshield wiper should probably piss him off. And it does, abstractly. There are much less theoretical things to be concerned about right now though, namely whateverthefuck that thing with Misha just was.
So while he subconsciously catalogs a shape that might be a bear or a dog or some kind of mutant were-dog that Jensen doubts any origami artist worth a shit would bother committing to paper, the rest of his brain is breaking against a different reef. There's only so long he can tell himself not to think about something and expect it to work. The knowledge is already there - a flash of unwanted insight that turns Misha into something new and different, someone Jensen might want in new and different ways.
Of the choices presented, having an origami stalker seems much less terrifying. A small part of him wishes for indifference, an opportunity to pitch the scrap of paper into long grass at the end of Jared's driveway as he roars off into the night. Unfortunately, that's not the part that wins out.
Jensen allows himself a muttered, "Fuck" as he leans out the window to pluck the mutant were-dog free then settles in to the sweet sound of gravel kicking into the wheel wells.
( FOUR)