Orizuru: Chapter Six
-SIX-
Morning should be outlawed. No, scratch that, Jensen thinks, morning should never have been allowed to exist in the first place. The tiny dwarves mining precious gems inside his skull agree. Or, they would if they were real. He's sure of it.
Eventually, Jensen wakes himself up enough to work his head around the fact that there are no tiny dwarves and the ringing of their tiny hammers against tiny rocks is actually the constant, endless beeping of the alarm he set on his phone last night before he got drunk and decided to grow a cat on his tongue and shove a spike through his lower back.
In a perfect world, when Jensen opens his eyes Vancouver will have graced him with one of her perpetually soggy, overcast days.
No such luck.
Jensen fumbles blindly at the nightstand, squinting against the light. There's a bunch of other shit that's not supposed to be there, but no phone and only one other place it could be.
Naturally, his pants are in a heap across the room, the corner of his phone peeking out of the front pocket. Considering the state of things, they might as well be in fucking Zimbabwe, but that doesn't really matter in the grand scheme. If he wants to silence the tiny dwarves, he'll have to get up.
His head protests that idea violently, a stabbing pain shooting between his temples when he swings his legs over the edge of the bed to try vertical on for size again. After carefully weighing the pros and cons of further motion, stopping the shrill series of beeps takes precedence and he's finally on his feet, phone in hand, tapping it into silence.
Target neutralized, he falls back into bed, instantly regretting the short-sighted decision to choose speed over finesse.
For a long stretch of seconds, Jensen can't figure out why the he set the damn thing in the first place. It's Sunday for fuck's sake - the day of sleep and script review and sleep. The events of last night bleed back in slowly, shapes turned abstract by the liberal application of liquor and colors bled together by the same. He looks at the bottles on the nightstand, both water and pain reliever, and remembers.
Misha was here.
Misha was here but isn't now.
Jensen doesn't know how to feel about that, or if he should feel anything. There's no time to decide one way or the other anyway, because as he claws his way back through yesterday, Jensen remembers something else. He has exactly an hour to pick Ick up from Selena's and get to Buntzen if he has any hope of beating the stalker at his or her own game. The beetle requested his presence at 9. As long as he gets there by 8:30, he should be able to get the jump on whoever's responsible for the origami.
Misha can wait.
By the time he swings his truck into the lot that butts up against the trailhead, Jensen feels like twice-baked ass. Icarus, of course, seems to neither notice or care, too excited by the smells and sounds wafting in through the passenger-side window to pay much attention.
Twice, Jensen asks himself what the fuck he's doing here.
Each time the answer is the same. He has to know. Even if all he gets out of the deal is a chance to confront the person responsible and flesh out the parts of the story he doesn't have a handle on, it's reason enough. Truth be told, he doesn't have a handle on much of anything. His brain has been working at cross purposes and he realizes that of the eight likely cast and crewmembers in attendance last night, he hasn't even begun to work through them for motive.
To be fair, both to himself and his mediocre reasoning skills, trying to work anything through last night would have been asking for a disaster.
Icarus yips, high and happy, his tail a blur of white behind him, and while the sound makes Jensen's head pound all the more fiercely, he can't begrudge the pup his playtime. Buntzen's dog beach is possibly his favorite places on the planet and Jensen needs a bird's eye view anyway.
"Okay, dude. I get it," he says, clicking the lead in place. "I'm a very bad daddy."
Jensen checks to make sure his sunglasses are fully seated and shoves the bill of his hat down to his eyebrows. Sun. Sun should also not be allowed to exist.
Icarus bounds down before he gets the door open all the way, leaving him to wrangle the windows, his phone and keys with a very determined twelve pound cotton ball intent on dragging him the entire length of the parking lot. If he was in a less shitty mood, Jensen might even admire the little guy for having goals. But he is in a shitty mood and this is the last place he wants to be - loud and bright and crowded.
Hangovers are not a spectator sport.
And yet, here he is voluntarily putting himself in the general vicinity of other people at 8:30 the Sunday morning after going on a pretty spectacular bender.
Hopefully, they'll all make it home unscathed. Hopefully, he will.
Considering the time and day, traffic's actually light - a young couple on the other side of the lot with two toddlers strapped to their backs, a pack of fresh-faced teenagers huddled around a rust-riddled van with the back doors propped open. There are others, but not a lot of them and everyone seems happy to respect the hush that the trees soaring overhead inspire.
Jensen finds an isolated corner of the beach to commandeer, one with plenty of shade and cover where he can watch people come and go without worrying about being seen. It's as perfect as it gets for a stakeout. Not that he'd say no to a greasy stack of home fries and a couple eggs over easy if this particular stakeout came with them, but you work with what you got. He's certain as he can be that this time he's finally beaten the odds and swung the game in his favor. That'll have to be enough.
Once unleashed, Icarus splashes out into the water to pursue his lifelong pipe dream of bringing down a long-tailed drake. Jensen's never had the heart to keep him from it or explain to him that some of the bigger ones might actually outweigh him. It keeps him busy and happy, and gives Jensen a chance to scan for familiar faces.
Logic tells him that whoever it is will probably come and go just before nine. Hell, maybe they get off on watching. Maybe, they'll stick around until he takes the bait.
Doesn't matter this time. Doesn't matter whether the words belong to them or not or whether it's a fucking penguin or a llama or a cat they're folded into. He's done chasing a ghost.
Forty minutes later he's got a crick in his neck, a cramp in his ass, and his head's a throbbing mess of Jello. Sunglasses are no match for the aftermath of a whiskey drunk, not even close, but his momma also always said he's as stubborn as a mule. She would know. Icarus gave up on the ducks a while ago and found a spot of sun at his feet to curl up in, an algae-covered stick to gnaw on.
Problem is, it's long past time for someone to have shown if they're going to, and he's five minutes from packing it in when Icarus' ears twitch forward, his tail wagging slow and cautious as he sniffs the air. Jensen follows his line of sight carefully, not that he has to.
Jared's not what you'd call easy to miss.
It's exactly the kind of mindfuck he can't handle right now - Harley and Sadie tearing down the shoreline, Icarus scurrying out to meet them in a slobbering pile of paws and tails, Genevieve hanging tight to Jared's hand and beaming up at him like he hung the moon.
"Hey asshole," Jared says, nudging at Jensen's calf with the toe of his sneaker.
"I'm the asshole?" Jensen asks, and he's trying to be pissed, but he's fresh out of fuel for that particular fire. "You're the one running interference for the mental case folding me love poems."
There's no doubt in Jensen's mind that Jay's involved, not anymore. Regardless of whatever line of bullshit Jared feeds him now, he knows. The appearance of the Padalecki clan is too perfect to be coincidental.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," is all he says in his own defense and Gen rolls her eyes at him.
Jensen sighs. "Sure you don't," he says and digs his heels into the sand to push himself up.
"Would I do that to you?"
"Yes," Jensen answers, brushing the damp leaves off his ass. "And then some. Now get the hell out of my way. If you're here that means they are."
Jensen moves to push his way past, lake water lapping at the soles of his shoes and Icarus pawing at his legs. Jared, of course, tosses a quick glance over his shoulder and sidesteps with him, effectively pinning him in between lake and a wall of muscle. It's the last fucking straw.
The, "Move," that comes out of his mouth is only marginally human, and in an uncharacteristic moment of wisdom, Jared does.
But it's too late.
Forty yards out, on a picnic table set into the curve of the trail, sits a red paper dragon.
For once he doesn't stop to think, doesn't try to reason out the why, he just runs. Gravel crunches under his feet as he flies down the trail toward the parking lot, twigs snapping against his face as branches bow at his passing. Twice he almost flattens someone. Twice he dodges at the last minute, scraping an elbow against tree bark and nearly turning an ankle on a mossy rock. The pounding of his heart catches up with the pounding in his head and by the time he hits asphalt again, he's panting and nauseous.
Jensen scans every face, every car moving through the lot, and not a one of them strikes a spark of recognition. In the end, all he has to show for the effort is a weirded out pack of strangers and the beginnings of a fierce migraine.
Jared will die bloody. Soon.
He takes his time on the way back to the beach, lost in thought and trying to figure out how things came to this, why he cares so much, and why the hell Jared would willingly, gleefully participate in this madness.
Clearly, the world hates him.
This in and of itself is bad enough, but when coupled with the Misha situation it turns into some shitty romantic comedy that's heavy on comedy and light on romance. Especially since all signs point to him ending up with his right hand for company instead of the girl - or boy.
"Jensen?" Gen's voice shakes him from his stupor. He can hear her but can't lay eyes on her yet.
"Here," he says, automatically adjusting his path toward the sound. It's embarrassing to tear off into the woods like a madman after a person that may or may not exist, that may just be Jared on a power trip. But he's going to have to face ridicule for his insanity sooner or later and at least Gen will ease him in.
When she rounds the bend, she's got both Icarus and the dragon in tow.
"Thought you might want these," she says, slipping the loop of the leash from her wrist and handing it over. The dragon she holds out like a peace offering, probably on behalf of her much less intelligent husband. "There was a note underneath it. I didn't open it."
"Thanks, Gen," he says. "Really."
"Don't mention it."
Jensen tucks the scrap of paper in his pocket for later, turning his attention to the dragon instead. It's a mess - a crumpled, misshapen mess of folds that only resembles an actual dragon thanks to the tail and wings. The fold pattern is also more complex and the paper way more stiff, like whoever made it meant it to keep. He doesn't know how long he looks, but they spend enough time mired in silence that Genevieve starts to turn back down the trail.
"So, do you know?" he asks, and she stops.
"Even if I did, I couldn't tell you," she says, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "But no, I have no idea who it is."
Jensen sighs then nods. He'd expect nothing less. "Is it for real? Or is Jay just fucking with me?"
Genevieve smiles at the ground, toes at a stray cigarette butt caught between the leaves and says, "Little of both, if I had to guess. Love's weird that way. It just sort of happens."
"Who said anything about love?"
Predictably, she doesn't answer. Instead, she finally makes that turn to head back down to the beach and tosses over her shoulder, "Take care, Jensen. Be careful."
In every ending there is opportunity.
On Monday morning, Jensen slips the curling scrap of paper in his front pocket. There's nothing damning about the shape of it, so it's less conspicuous to carry around than a mangled paper dragon.
He still can't put a finger on why he feels the need to carry it with him. But when Misha slides into his personal space to give him shit about still being hungover, when he can feel the warm imprint of hands on his face, thumbs on his eyebrows even after Misha walks away, that scrap is what stands between him and some pretty embarrassing cowering in his trailer.
In every ending there is opportunity.
While the magic scrap hasn't been rendered completely useless by Tuesday afternoon, its efficacy appears to be waning. Jensen spends as much time as he can stretched out on the couch in his trailer, and it's not that he's hiding from anyone. He's just ridiculously tired for some reason and wants a little bit of elbow room.
Jay comes and goes as he pleases like he always has and Jensen doesn't mind the bright, spastic, hand-waving visits because they keep him from thinking about the paper in his pocket. And other things. Trailer walls being what they are, he overhears snatches of a conversation but only enough to tell that Jared's amused and Misha's perplexed before Misha himself appears in the doorway under the pretense of running lines.
Misha manhandles him so he has someplace to sit and Jensen lets it happen, the curve of Misha's thigh fitted to the bend of his knees and Misha's forearm draped across his shins once his heels hit upholstery again. Jensen's not sure when Misha decided it was okay to take such liberties, but then he's not sure when he did either.
He traces every letter of the sentence scrawled on the paper four times after Misha leaves.
In every ending there is opportunity.
Thursday comes close to driving him around the bend for good. Six hours spent kicking the shit out of yourself against a chain link fence could probably do that to anyone, but that's not what gets the job done. Jensen's plans are to never again think about what it is that does.
When the director calls the scene for what feels like the hundredth time, Jensen starts across the lot to his trailer. He just needs five minutes to unwind. Five minutes to clear his head and shake loose the shit that's lodged there.
He's never hated the sound of his name quite so much as when Jack barks it.
"Jensen, hang loose," he says. "We want to put another angle on it, but there's a lighting reset. Shouldn't take more than ten."
Jensen sinks obediently into the chair with his name on it and pulls out his phone. He's well aware how easily ten stretches to twenty or thirty when it comes to lighting, especially in darker episodes where the frame is more about what you can't see than what you can. This would be one of those.
If karma has any sort of say in things, maybe everyone will just leave him -
"Hey handsome," Misha says, folding himself into the next chair over, Jared's chair by rights but Jay's on the other side of the street, tossing a mangled yellow Frisbee at Harley.
Jensen drums up a tight smile, but doesn't look over. Anything more would risk the integrity of certain measures he's put in place to deal with this - thing. He answers with Misha's name only because he still has manners.
"They don't go away as quickly as they used to," Misha says and Jensen realizes that trying to make his phone fascinating is an exercise in futility. He focuses on the scrap of paper in his pocket instead to keep from thinking about the pressure of Misha's hands on him when Castiel hauls Dean clear of the creatures at the end of the scene. Or the way Misha lingers after they break apart, brushing grit off the back of Dean's jacket.
He loses the thread of the conversation in the violent absence of thought. Not that he had a hold on it to begin with.
Jensen sighs. "I'm sorry?" he says, glances over at Misha, definitely Misha lounging inside Castiel's costume, and feels something slip inside him.
"Sour mash. Giggle juice. Shine. The thousand euphemisms they have for alcohol to make it sound like a good time."
"Oh, that. I'm not still hungover from Saturday if that's what you're not quite asking." Jensen swallows a hefty dose of pride before continuing. "Thanks, by the way, for y'know, stuff. It was above and beyond the call of duty."
"In my experience the call of duty does not include appreciation by way of tongue, so above and beyond it is," Misha says.
It strikes a chord of hazy recognition, a tug in the back of his mind that tries to make him sit up and take notice, but Jensen ignores it. He's already tried to remember what fits in the holes whiskey left in his Saturday night, but every time he comes up empty. There's Noah's tongue and then the tiny dwarves and never the twain. Besides, they're just talking and Misha frequently says shit to try to get a rise. It's in his nature.
"Um, yeah. Anyway. I'm in one piece is what matters."
"And yet you're not your normal happy-go-lucky, deliciously sarcastic self."
"Got things on my mind," Jensen says, because it's true but not too true.
"Like fetching blonde bartenders?"
The subject strikes close to home, sure, but Misha's aim misses wide. He hasn't thought about Noah again until just now. Other things have been percolating unacknowledged since then, things underlined by the way Genevieve watches Jared when he's not looking. The way she moves through his life tying up loose ends before Jared knows anything needs to be knotted.
Synergy so ingrained and effortless, Jensen wonders how one ever managed without the other.
And he wants that. Someone who knows how he takes his coffee, that he likes his eggs over-easy instead of scrambled and that toast should damn well be buttered on both sides. Someone who respects his quirks, maybe even enjoys them even if they don't make sense.
Someone.
"Not exactly," he says. "What about you? Molested anything tall, dark, and artsy lately?"
It's the only defense he can devise spur of the moment. One that deflects attention back on Misha and away from his own wants. His own needs. Jensen expects a response honed sharp by Misha's wit - something about free love and taking what's offered or some reference to self-love of the masturbatory kind.
No matter how it shakes out, he's pretty sure he doesn't actually want to know.
What he gets instead is, "In the last couple of days? No. Pretty but forgettable doesn't interest me long term."
"Was he?"
"He who?"
Jensen attempts nonchalant, tries to strike that perfect balance between actual interest and polite detachment. That he actually cares makes the charade more difficult to pass off. "The coffeehouse punk the other night. Was he forgettable?"
"You notice, of course, that I had to ask who you were talking about."
Jensen noticed. Even if he doesn't particularly want to admit to it, he noticed.
"Mind if I ask why?"
Misha shrugs and folds his hands into his lap, watches his fingers thread together. Jensen's too busy cataloging the way Misha's eyelashes settle against his cheeks to pay attention to his hands.
"Lack of substance, I guess," Misha says. "He was exactly what you'd expect him to be, right down to the line of overly self-conscious pretentious bullshit. Good for a fuck, but beyond that I'd have probably chewed my own legs off to get away. Candy-coated and kinky doesn't do it for me the way it used to."
"Seem to remember him fairly well for someone so forgettable."
"Well, I tend to at least have a conversation with someone before I shove my tongue down their throat," Misha says, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. "Unlike some people."
Noah again. Apparently his drunken misdeeds are going to chase him until the end of time.
"There was conversation," Jensen says. He'd really rather not elaborate unless he has to, because in this instance the only elaboration he has to offer are lies. He's sure as hell not going to tell Misha all he and Noah talked about was him.
"About?"
"Stuff."
"And?"
"Things."
"Titillating."
"Not really."
"Forgettable?"
"Pretty much," Jensen says and sighs, feeling like a jackass for having used someone so readily and admitted to it. "He was in the right place at the right time."
Misha smiles an unreadable smile, brow quirked and teeth showing, says, "Lucky boy," like he might mean it.
"Yeah, lucky."
"So what about the great and mysterious Jensen Ackles?" Misha asks. "If not Noah, then what do you want?"
Jensen scrubs a hand across his face to buy himself some time. Not time to answer, because there's no way he's sharing his stupid dreams of synergistic living with anyone, let alone Misha, but time to come up with something that at least sounds logical.
Jack saves him the trouble, and Jensen has never, ever loved the sound of his name more than when Jack barks it a second time and waves them over.
In every ending there is opportunity.
Jensen reads the words for what feels like the hundredth time, smeared by sweat and smudged with dirt, paper dyed pink in streaks with fake blood thanks to an overzealous effects supervisor. Of the thousand and one things that spun through his mind on the drive home from the lake, he'd never expected this.
No end game, no grand prize, and certainly no fucking answers.
The bitch of it is that four full days later, he still can't figure out why.
If it had been just an elaborate prank facilitated by Jared and he'd known the brush-off was coming, there'd have been no reason to protect his accomplice. The only thing funnier than watching Jensen twist in the wind would've been watching both of them noosed and dangling. Jared takes credit for his pranks for that very reason.
Had they been truly heartfelt, he can't think of a single strategic reason to break off pursuit now. Unless of course he got too close and they weren't interested in getting caught. If that were true, what was the point of all this?
There's a shoebox on the top shelf of his bookcase now and as much as Jensen likes to pretend he doesn't know where it came from, he does. If he's feeling particularly self-delusional, he can also pretend the contents are nothing more than evidence, pieces of a puzzle he'll never get to solve.
Which is bullshit.
Like it or not, he's invested, has been invested for awhile now. The why is less elusive, but no less pathetic because of it.
Jensen spills the contents of the box across the coffee table and takes a deep breath. Somewhere in the scatter of brightly colored paper and messy handwriting, he'll find his answer, he's sure of it. He sorts them, one from the other, divvying them out first by shape then by content, but the pattern refuses to emerge.
The dragon sits at the edge of the table, neck mangled and tail bent, mocking his efforts. The one creature he can clearly set apart from the others and it's a dead end. Part of him, albeit a small one, wants nothing more than to scoop everything into the stupid box and introduce every last scrap to his Smokey Joe out on the back deck.
Other parts have very different things to say.
It's fucking frustrating, because he shouldn't care. All he should be feeling right now is relief.
Instead, he gets hunger and frustration with a side-dish of disappointment, and there's no way he can chalk all that up to some unsolved mystery. There's more to it.
But there shouldn't be.
The animals go back in the box along with the note. He slides the lid on, smoothing the top shut with his palm before he returns it to its rightful place. The dragon keeps its perch.
An hour from now, he'll be riding shotgun and on his way back to set for yet another adventure in the world of weird. The last couple of days Jared's made himself so scarce that the only time Jensen sees him is on camera. And Misha. Despite his best efforts Misha's always right there, doing and saying shit he's not supposed to, being earnest and conscientious, his tongue dulled down to a softer edge that only makes all this worse.
He needs to talk to someone, anyone he trusts to give him a straight answer. Because whatever this is, this tightrope he's walking started to fray the second Misha touched him Monday morning and hasn't stopped unwinding since.
The thought hasn't fully formed yet but he's dialing his parents' number, the smooth trill of the phone ringing working it's ineffable magic, like SoCo and coke and having his fishing pole dangled out over a glassy lake.
His mother sounds tired when she answers, her "Hello," stretched a little too long.
"Hey, Momma," he says and shuts his eyes to try to visualize. Maybe she's out on the back porch with a lemonade, or curled up at the desk in the basement with her genealogy files, there's no way of knowing.
Doesn't really matter anyway, because when she says, "Jensen," he can hear her smile. "Been awhile," she continues. "I hope you're not avoiding me."
"I was raised better than that."
The sound of rustling papers drifts down the line, and Jensen smiles. Genealogy it is. Already he feels more centered.
"I know you were, hon," she says and the warmth in her voice very nearly breaks his heart. "Now, were you planning on telling me what's wrong or would you rather talk about the weather?"
Jensen leans back against the arm of the couch, propping his feet on the opposite arm as if posturing will make the lie sound more authentic. Sense memory betrays him and he remembers Tuesday, the way Misha shoved his feet aside, arranged himself carefully in the space, then hauled Jensen's legs back up into his lap like he did it all the time.
These days, his signals are the kind of crossed that doesn't work itself out.
"I can't just call?" he asks, and the shallow, sarcastic little laugh he gets in response clears up once and for all where that gene came from.
"Of course you can. You do. But you're not just calling today, are you?"
"I could-"
"But you're not."
Jensen scrubs a hand across his face with a sigh. "No," he says. "No, I'm not."
"And?"
"There's this -" Guy. Stalker. Poet. "person."
"Does this person have a name? In my experience, people do," she says, and Jensen hears the clink of ice against glass, the click of plastic frames against hardwood where she's set her eyeglasses aside.
The only reason he even notices is because the question catches him off-guard, the intervening silence heavy with expectation. He doesn't have any answers to offer though because he's not actually sure who he's talking about anymore - Misha or the stalker. More than anything, Jensen's sick and fucking tired of not having the answers.
"I'm sure they do," he says quietly. "But that's part of the problem."
"Tell me about the problem, then. We'll get you dug out."
The story's there, right on the tip of his tongue and down to the very last detail, from the first crane to the last cryptic line of text. And while he realizes there's nothing his mom can do to knock the knots loose, talking about it is probably the best he's going to get. When he opens his mouth to tell the tale, something else spills out instead.
"I wish I could let it go."
Not the mystery. Not the faceless, nameless entity still more or less hiding behind Jared. But the dream, his dream, and his desire. The sinking feeling in his gut has a name, just not one he's willing to share.
"Is it something you really want to let go?"
Jensen swallows hard around the lump in this throat and thinks, really thinks for the first time, about everything. The fact that he and Jared really aren't any different than they used to be. That he's probably just jealous and lonely, longing for what Jared has. That he can't remember the last time he willingly invited someone into his life. That he wants to be wanted for more than what he can do. That in spite of the countless selections of poetry, the time and effort and care the stalker had put into selecting passages and keeping the secret, it's Misha he wants, not a pile of paper that's brought nothing but frustration.
When he says, "No," it rings true. "Feeling's not exactly mutual though, and it ain't just up to me."
"Well, no. It isn't. But Jensen, you have a tendency to assume," she says. "Have you asked?"
Jensen lets that scenario play out in his head, flipping quickly through the different ways it might go. In all of them, Misha looks equal parts edible and confused. Sometimes, he's doubled over and laughing.
"Since when do I do things that make sense? Besides, it's complicated."
"I see," she says, humming softly into the receiver. "We didn't raise you scared either. If you never know for sure it'll eat at you, we both know that much. Quit counting chickens and focus on the egg for awhile."
"It's not-"
"That easy? No baby, putting your faith in another person never is. That doesn't mean it's not worth it."
Jensen laughs and props the phone between shoulder and ear to reach for the dragon. It's easier to talk about this shit if he's got something in his hands. The paper's stiff and slightly slick and Jensen tries to hate the person who folded it for stirring all this shit up, but he can't.
"You might reconsider if you knew who it was."
A sigh drifts down the line, and Jensen knows he's being purposefully contrary and painfully obtuse, but he just can't seem to say it aloud. Hell, he's only just begun to get comfortable with thinking it, feeling it.
"Honey, your decisions are yours. There's nothing I would do, nothing Daddy would do to keep you from being happy. I hope you know that."
"Yeah, I know, but-"
"Whatever you decide, I love you," she says."But for your own sake make up your mind."
She's right. She almost always is. Jensen concluded long ago that knowing just what to say is a mother thing because it's easier to think that than that he'd been raised by some nutjob with a sixth sense. What she fails to recognize in this particular situation is the ripple effect such a choice would have in his life. Still, sticking to his assumptions are the coward's way out and it's not like he'll play fast and loose even if he does go for it. He can be patient. Patience is actually kind of a specialty.
"I will," he says and means it. "Thanks." Icarus whimpers from the kitchen and when Jensen glances at the clock, the time takes him by surprise. "Hey, I gotta go let Ick out before Clif shows. Call you later?"
"You better."
"Yeah, yeah. Say hey to Dad for me."
"Take care, sweetheart."
"Bye Momma."
As he swipes his thumb across the screen to end the call it occurs to him that he might be reading Misha wrong. Even if he's not, he's still him, still Jensen, still awesome.
Misha could only hope to be so lucky.
By the time Friday morning rolls around, the shine has worn off his impending leap of faith.
Misha's been more Misha than ever, like his weirdness and brutal honesty got together and had really rude babies overnight. As a result, their scenes together quickly escalate into a battle of wills, Misha wearing Castiel more fiercely than ever, the tension thick on the back of Jensen's tongue. Even between takes, he can't catch a break because Misha's always there, working his way slowly under Jensen's skin.
Not for the first time since he made his decision, Jensen wonders if it was the right one.
But then the director calls the scene and Misha beams at him, all teeth and smile lines, squeezing his shoulder through three layers of wardrobe and Jensen feels it in his toes. Definitely the right decision.
"If at any time my services are required, please don't hesitate to call," Misha says. "Wouldn't want to be the one tasked with picking splinters out of that pretty face."
Jensen blinks because it's all he can do. Misha's officially stretched the bounds of logical conversation beyond the tipping point.
Misha slips his phone in the pocket of Castiel's trench coat, his hands following after. "Not that you spend every weekend knee deep in Jack."
"Oh. Yeah, no. Not doing that again anytime soon. But thanks again." he says. And yeah, for some reason he feels like he's back in high school, leaning against the locker of some chick he likes. It's awkward, they're awkward and have been all week. "I can't remember half the shit that happened that night, but I think I was kind of a ass."
Noah he remembers. Misha getting a thorough tongue-fucking from some lanky pseudo-punk, he remembers. Getting cock-blocked and then hauled off by Misha, he vaguely remembers. After that there's nothing but light and sound and the queasy feeling in his stomach until he'd woken up Sunday morning to painkillers and a bottle of water because Misha happens to also be awesome.
Of course he is.
But then Misha squints at him like he's decided something profound and turns to leave without so much as acknowledging Jensen's gratitude. Dick.
"See you Monday, Jen," he says, and before Jensen can stop him to carpe this diem, he's out of earshot, the door to wardrobe swinging shut on the tail of Castiel's trench coat.
With Misha already done and gone, the rest of the day passes in a mostly productive blur. He and Jay made their peace silently Monday morning with a coffee cup and shrug exchanged, so their work together isn't suffering at the hands of Jensen's stupidity. Jared's still Jared though, so he gets smoked out of the Impala no less than three times during the series of pick-ups they're doing for two episodes ago. While the work's not physical, it's still a grueling schedule and the only time he gets back to his trailer is to pick up his backpack before he heads home for the night.
It's not until his boots hit the bottom step that he notices the screen door standing ajar.
Considering the fact that he's spent most of the last three weeks trying to track down a stalker, Jensen decides that in this case, caution is definitely the better part of valor. The door creaks as he nudges it open with a toe, the light switch slipping between his fingers when he flips it up. At first glance, nothing looks out of place - curtains, couch, doors, television, bag.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
Jensen winds his way to the rear of the trailer, checks the bathroom, and eases into the tiny bedroom space just to be sure.
That's when he finds it.
There, stuck between the pillows at the head of the bed, is a crane. Not just any crane, but one painstakingly crafted of pristine white paper with a message inscribed on its wing.
Sorry - M
Jensen yanks the script out of his back pocket and flips unerringly to page thirty, paper curling around his fingers as he smoothes it down. Lost amongst the vaguely obscene doodles left in the margins by someone else's hand, there's enough text to satisfy him, to confirm his suspicions and the identity of the folder. The last piece finally slots into place and the stalker, the familiar handwriting, Jared's willing participation all makes perfect sense.
Unfortunately for him, having the one answer only raises a battery of new and even more confusing questions. Because of the eight names left on his list after Danny's gig Saturday night, only one of them begins with an 'M'.
Misha.
( SEVEN)
Morning should be outlawed. No, scratch that, Jensen thinks, morning should never have been allowed to exist in the first place. The tiny dwarves mining precious gems inside his skull agree. Or, they would if they were real. He's sure of it.
Eventually, Jensen wakes himself up enough to work his head around the fact that there are no tiny dwarves and the ringing of their tiny hammers against tiny rocks is actually the constant, endless beeping of the alarm he set on his phone last night before he got drunk and decided to grow a cat on his tongue and shove a spike through his lower back.
In a perfect world, when Jensen opens his eyes Vancouver will have graced him with one of her perpetually soggy, overcast days.
No such luck.
Jensen fumbles blindly at the nightstand, squinting against the light. There's a bunch of other shit that's not supposed to be there, but no phone and only one other place it could be.
Naturally, his pants are in a heap across the room, the corner of his phone peeking out of the front pocket. Considering the state of things, they might as well be in fucking Zimbabwe, but that doesn't really matter in the grand scheme. If he wants to silence the tiny dwarves, he'll have to get up.
His head protests that idea violently, a stabbing pain shooting between his temples when he swings his legs over the edge of the bed to try vertical on for size again. After carefully weighing the pros and cons of further motion, stopping the shrill series of beeps takes precedence and he's finally on his feet, phone in hand, tapping it into silence.
Target neutralized, he falls back into bed, instantly regretting the short-sighted decision to choose speed over finesse.
For a long stretch of seconds, Jensen can't figure out why the he set the damn thing in the first place. It's Sunday for fuck's sake - the day of sleep and script review and sleep. The events of last night bleed back in slowly, shapes turned abstract by the liberal application of liquor and colors bled together by the same. He looks at the bottles on the nightstand, both water and pain reliever, and remembers.
Misha was here.
Misha was here but isn't now.
Jensen doesn't know how to feel about that, or if he should feel anything. There's no time to decide one way or the other anyway, because as he claws his way back through yesterday, Jensen remembers something else. He has exactly an hour to pick Ick up from Selena's and get to Buntzen if he has any hope of beating the stalker at his or her own game. The beetle requested his presence at 9. As long as he gets there by 8:30, he should be able to get the jump on whoever's responsible for the origami.
Misha can wait.
By the time he swings his truck into the lot that butts up against the trailhead, Jensen feels like twice-baked ass. Icarus, of course, seems to neither notice or care, too excited by the smells and sounds wafting in through the passenger-side window to pay much attention.
Twice, Jensen asks himself what the fuck he's doing here.
Each time the answer is the same. He has to know. Even if all he gets out of the deal is a chance to confront the person responsible and flesh out the parts of the story he doesn't have a handle on, it's reason enough. Truth be told, he doesn't have a handle on much of anything. His brain has been working at cross purposes and he realizes that of the eight likely cast and crewmembers in attendance last night, he hasn't even begun to work through them for motive.
To be fair, both to himself and his mediocre reasoning skills, trying to work anything through last night would have been asking for a disaster.
Icarus yips, high and happy, his tail a blur of white behind him, and while the sound makes Jensen's head pound all the more fiercely, he can't begrudge the pup his playtime. Buntzen's dog beach is possibly his favorite places on the planet and Jensen needs a bird's eye view anyway.
"Okay, dude. I get it," he says, clicking the lead in place. "I'm a very bad daddy."
Jensen checks to make sure his sunglasses are fully seated and shoves the bill of his hat down to his eyebrows. Sun. Sun should also not be allowed to exist.
Icarus bounds down before he gets the door open all the way, leaving him to wrangle the windows, his phone and keys with a very determined twelve pound cotton ball intent on dragging him the entire length of the parking lot. If he was in a less shitty mood, Jensen might even admire the little guy for having goals. But he is in a shitty mood and this is the last place he wants to be - loud and bright and crowded.
Hangovers are not a spectator sport.
And yet, here he is voluntarily putting himself in the general vicinity of other people at 8:30 the Sunday morning after going on a pretty spectacular bender.
Hopefully, they'll all make it home unscathed. Hopefully, he will.
Considering the time and day, traffic's actually light - a young couple on the other side of the lot with two toddlers strapped to their backs, a pack of fresh-faced teenagers huddled around a rust-riddled van with the back doors propped open. There are others, but not a lot of them and everyone seems happy to respect the hush that the trees soaring overhead inspire.
Jensen finds an isolated corner of the beach to commandeer, one with plenty of shade and cover where he can watch people come and go without worrying about being seen. It's as perfect as it gets for a stakeout. Not that he'd say no to a greasy stack of home fries and a couple eggs over easy if this particular stakeout came with them, but you work with what you got. He's certain as he can be that this time he's finally beaten the odds and swung the game in his favor. That'll have to be enough.
Once unleashed, Icarus splashes out into the water to pursue his lifelong pipe dream of bringing down a long-tailed drake. Jensen's never had the heart to keep him from it or explain to him that some of the bigger ones might actually outweigh him. It keeps him busy and happy, and gives Jensen a chance to scan for familiar faces.
Logic tells him that whoever it is will probably come and go just before nine. Hell, maybe they get off on watching. Maybe, they'll stick around until he takes the bait.
Doesn't matter this time. Doesn't matter whether the words belong to them or not or whether it's a fucking penguin or a llama or a cat they're folded into. He's done chasing a ghost.
Forty minutes later he's got a crick in his neck, a cramp in his ass, and his head's a throbbing mess of Jello. Sunglasses are no match for the aftermath of a whiskey drunk, not even close, but his momma also always said he's as stubborn as a mule. She would know. Icarus gave up on the ducks a while ago and found a spot of sun at his feet to curl up in, an algae-covered stick to gnaw on.
Problem is, it's long past time for someone to have shown if they're going to, and he's five minutes from packing it in when Icarus' ears twitch forward, his tail wagging slow and cautious as he sniffs the air. Jensen follows his line of sight carefully, not that he has to.
Jared's not what you'd call easy to miss.
It's exactly the kind of mindfuck he can't handle right now - Harley and Sadie tearing down the shoreline, Icarus scurrying out to meet them in a slobbering pile of paws and tails, Genevieve hanging tight to Jared's hand and beaming up at him like he hung the moon.
"Hey asshole," Jared says, nudging at Jensen's calf with the toe of his sneaker.
"I'm the asshole?" Jensen asks, and he's trying to be pissed, but he's fresh out of fuel for that particular fire. "You're the one running interference for the mental case folding me love poems."
There's no doubt in Jensen's mind that Jay's involved, not anymore. Regardless of whatever line of bullshit Jared feeds him now, he knows. The appearance of the Padalecki clan is too perfect to be coincidental.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," is all he says in his own defense and Gen rolls her eyes at him.
Jensen sighs. "Sure you don't," he says and digs his heels into the sand to push himself up.
"Would I do that to you?"
"Yes," Jensen answers, brushing the damp leaves off his ass. "And then some. Now get the hell out of my way. If you're here that means they are."
Jensen moves to push his way past, lake water lapping at the soles of his shoes and Icarus pawing at his legs. Jared, of course, tosses a quick glance over his shoulder and sidesteps with him, effectively pinning him in between lake and a wall of muscle. It's the last fucking straw.
The, "Move," that comes out of his mouth is only marginally human, and in an uncharacteristic moment of wisdom, Jared does.
But it's too late.
Forty yards out, on a picnic table set into the curve of the trail, sits a red paper dragon.
For once he doesn't stop to think, doesn't try to reason out the why, he just runs. Gravel crunches under his feet as he flies down the trail toward the parking lot, twigs snapping against his face as branches bow at his passing. Twice he almost flattens someone. Twice he dodges at the last minute, scraping an elbow against tree bark and nearly turning an ankle on a mossy rock. The pounding of his heart catches up with the pounding in his head and by the time he hits asphalt again, he's panting and nauseous.
Jensen scans every face, every car moving through the lot, and not a one of them strikes a spark of recognition. In the end, all he has to show for the effort is a weirded out pack of strangers and the beginnings of a fierce migraine.
Jared will die bloody. Soon.
He takes his time on the way back to the beach, lost in thought and trying to figure out how things came to this, why he cares so much, and why the hell Jared would willingly, gleefully participate in this madness.
Clearly, the world hates him.
This in and of itself is bad enough, but when coupled with the Misha situation it turns into some shitty romantic comedy that's heavy on comedy and light on romance. Especially since all signs point to him ending up with his right hand for company instead of the girl - or boy.
"Jensen?" Gen's voice shakes him from his stupor. He can hear her but can't lay eyes on her yet.
"Here," he says, automatically adjusting his path toward the sound. It's embarrassing to tear off into the woods like a madman after a person that may or may not exist, that may just be Jared on a power trip. But he's going to have to face ridicule for his insanity sooner or later and at least Gen will ease him in.
When she rounds the bend, she's got both Icarus and the dragon in tow.
"Thought you might want these," she says, slipping the loop of the leash from her wrist and handing it over. The dragon she holds out like a peace offering, probably on behalf of her much less intelligent husband. "There was a note underneath it. I didn't open it."
"Thanks, Gen," he says. "Really."
"Don't mention it."
Jensen tucks the scrap of paper in his pocket for later, turning his attention to the dragon instead. It's a mess - a crumpled, misshapen mess of folds that only resembles an actual dragon thanks to the tail and wings. The fold pattern is also more complex and the paper way more stiff, like whoever made it meant it to keep. He doesn't know how long he looks, but they spend enough time mired in silence that Genevieve starts to turn back down the trail.
"So, do you know?" he asks, and she stops.
"Even if I did, I couldn't tell you," she says, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "But no, I have no idea who it is."
Jensen sighs then nods. He'd expect nothing less. "Is it for real? Or is Jay just fucking with me?"
Genevieve smiles at the ground, toes at a stray cigarette butt caught between the leaves and says, "Little of both, if I had to guess. Love's weird that way. It just sort of happens."
"Who said anything about love?"
Predictably, she doesn't answer. Instead, she finally makes that turn to head back down to the beach and tosses over her shoulder, "Take care, Jensen. Be careful."
In every ending there is opportunity.
On Monday morning, Jensen slips the curling scrap of paper in his front pocket. There's nothing damning about the shape of it, so it's less conspicuous to carry around than a mangled paper dragon.
He still can't put a finger on why he feels the need to carry it with him. But when Misha slides into his personal space to give him shit about still being hungover, when he can feel the warm imprint of hands on his face, thumbs on his eyebrows even after Misha walks away, that scrap is what stands between him and some pretty embarrassing cowering in his trailer.
In every ending there is opportunity.
While the magic scrap hasn't been rendered completely useless by Tuesday afternoon, its efficacy appears to be waning. Jensen spends as much time as he can stretched out on the couch in his trailer, and it's not that he's hiding from anyone. He's just ridiculously tired for some reason and wants a little bit of elbow room.
Jay comes and goes as he pleases like he always has and Jensen doesn't mind the bright, spastic, hand-waving visits because they keep him from thinking about the paper in his pocket. And other things. Trailer walls being what they are, he overhears snatches of a conversation but only enough to tell that Jared's amused and Misha's perplexed before Misha himself appears in the doorway under the pretense of running lines.
Misha manhandles him so he has someplace to sit and Jensen lets it happen, the curve of Misha's thigh fitted to the bend of his knees and Misha's forearm draped across his shins once his heels hit upholstery again. Jensen's not sure when Misha decided it was okay to take such liberties, but then he's not sure when he did either.
He traces every letter of the sentence scrawled on the paper four times after Misha leaves.
In every ending there is opportunity.
Thursday comes close to driving him around the bend for good. Six hours spent kicking the shit out of yourself against a chain link fence could probably do that to anyone, but that's not what gets the job done. Jensen's plans are to never again think about what it is that does.
When the director calls the scene for what feels like the hundredth time, Jensen starts across the lot to his trailer. He just needs five minutes to unwind. Five minutes to clear his head and shake loose the shit that's lodged there.
He's never hated the sound of his name quite so much as when Jack barks it.
"Jensen, hang loose," he says. "We want to put another angle on it, but there's a lighting reset. Shouldn't take more than ten."
Jensen sinks obediently into the chair with his name on it and pulls out his phone. He's well aware how easily ten stretches to twenty or thirty when it comes to lighting, especially in darker episodes where the frame is more about what you can't see than what you can. This would be one of those.
If karma has any sort of say in things, maybe everyone will just leave him -
"Hey handsome," Misha says, folding himself into the next chair over, Jared's chair by rights but Jay's on the other side of the street, tossing a mangled yellow Frisbee at Harley.
Jensen drums up a tight smile, but doesn't look over. Anything more would risk the integrity of certain measures he's put in place to deal with this - thing. He answers with Misha's name only because he still has manners.
"They don't go away as quickly as they used to," Misha says and Jensen realizes that trying to make his phone fascinating is an exercise in futility. He focuses on the scrap of paper in his pocket instead to keep from thinking about the pressure of Misha's hands on him when Castiel hauls Dean clear of the creatures at the end of the scene. Or the way Misha lingers after they break apart, brushing grit off the back of Dean's jacket.
He loses the thread of the conversation in the violent absence of thought. Not that he had a hold on it to begin with.
Jensen sighs. "I'm sorry?" he says, glances over at Misha, definitely Misha lounging inside Castiel's costume, and feels something slip inside him.
"Sour mash. Giggle juice. Shine. The thousand euphemisms they have for alcohol to make it sound like a good time."
"Oh, that. I'm not still hungover from Saturday if that's what you're not quite asking." Jensen swallows a hefty dose of pride before continuing. "Thanks, by the way, for y'know, stuff. It was above and beyond the call of duty."
"In my experience the call of duty does not include appreciation by way of tongue, so above and beyond it is," Misha says.
It strikes a chord of hazy recognition, a tug in the back of his mind that tries to make him sit up and take notice, but Jensen ignores it. He's already tried to remember what fits in the holes whiskey left in his Saturday night, but every time he comes up empty. There's Noah's tongue and then the tiny dwarves and never the twain. Besides, they're just talking and Misha frequently says shit to try to get a rise. It's in his nature.
"Um, yeah. Anyway. I'm in one piece is what matters."
"And yet you're not your normal happy-go-lucky, deliciously sarcastic self."
"Got things on my mind," Jensen says, because it's true but not too true.
"Like fetching blonde bartenders?"
The subject strikes close to home, sure, but Misha's aim misses wide. He hasn't thought about Noah again until just now. Other things have been percolating unacknowledged since then, things underlined by the way Genevieve watches Jared when he's not looking. The way she moves through his life tying up loose ends before Jared knows anything needs to be knotted.
Synergy so ingrained and effortless, Jensen wonders how one ever managed without the other.
And he wants that. Someone who knows how he takes his coffee, that he likes his eggs over-easy instead of scrambled and that toast should damn well be buttered on both sides. Someone who respects his quirks, maybe even enjoys them even if they don't make sense.
Someone.
"Not exactly," he says. "What about you? Molested anything tall, dark, and artsy lately?"
It's the only defense he can devise spur of the moment. One that deflects attention back on Misha and away from his own wants. His own needs. Jensen expects a response honed sharp by Misha's wit - something about free love and taking what's offered or some reference to self-love of the masturbatory kind.
No matter how it shakes out, he's pretty sure he doesn't actually want to know.
What he gets instead is, "In the last couple of days? No. Pretty but forgettable doesn't interest me long term."
"Was he?"
"He who?"
Jensen attempts nonchalant, tries to strike that perfect balance between actual interest and polite detachment. That he actually cares makes the charade more difficult to pass off. "The coffeehouse punk the other night. Was he forgettable?"
"You notice, of course, that I had to ask who you were talking about."
Jensen noticed. Even if he doesn't particularly want to admit to it, he noticed.
"Mind if I ask why?"
Misha shrugs and folds his hands into his lap, watches his fingers thread together. Jensen's too busy cataloging the way Misha's eyelashes settle against his cheeks to pay attention to his hands.
"Lack of substance, I guess," Misha says. "He was exactly what you'd expect him to be, right down to the line of overly self-conscious pretentious bullshit. Good for a fuck, but beyond that I'd have probably chewed my own legs off to get away. Candy-coated and kinky doesn't do it for me the way it used to."
"Seem to remember him fairly well for someone so forgettable."
"Well, I tend to at least have a conversation with someone before I shove my tongue down their throat," Misha says, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. "Unlike some people."
Noah again. Apparently his drunken misdeeds are going to chase him until the end of time.
"There was conversation," Jensen says. He'd really rather not elaborate unless he has to, because in this instance the only elaboration he has to offer are lies. He's sure as hell not going to tell Misha all he and Noah talked about was him.
"About?"
"Stuff."
"And?"
"Things."
"Titillating."
"Not really."
"Forgettable?"
"Pretty much," Jensen says and sighs, feeling like a jackass for having used someone so readily and admitted to it. "He was in the right place at the right time."
Misha smiles an unreadable smile, brow quirked and teeth showing, says, "Lucky boy," like he might mean it.
"Yeah, lucky."
"So what about the great and mysterious Jensen Ackles?" Misha asks. "If not Noah, then what do you want?"
Jensen scrubs a hand across his face to buy himself some time. Not time to answer, because there's no way he's sharing his stupid dreams of synergistic living with anyone, let alone Misha, but time to come up with something that at least sounds logical.
Jack saves him the trouble, and Jensen has never, ever loved the sound of his name more than when Jack barks it a second time and waves them over.
In every ending there is opportunity.
Jensen reads the words for what feels like the hundredth time, smeared by sweat and smudged with dirt, paper dyed pink in streaks with fake blood thanks to an overzealous effects supervisor. Of the thousand and one things that spun through his mind on the drive home from the lake, he'd never expected this.
No end game, no grand prize, and certainly no fucking answers.
The bitch of it is that four full days later, he still can't figure out why.
If it had been just an elaborate prank facilitated by Jared and he'd known the brush-off was coming, there'd have been no reason to protect his accomplice. The only thing funnier than watching Jensen twist in the wind would've been watching both of them noosed and dangling. Jared takes credit for his pranks for that very reason.
Had they been truly heartfelt, he can't think of a single strategic reason to break off pursuit now. Unless of course he got too close and they weren't interested in getting caught. If that were true, what was the point of all this?
There's a shoebox on the top shelf of his bookcase now and as much as Jensen likes to pretend he doesn't know where it came from, he does. If he's feeling particularly self-delusional, he can also pretend the contents are nothing more than evidence, pieces of a puzzle he'll never get to solve.
Which is bullshit.
Like it or not, he's invested, has been invested for awhile now. The why is less elusive, but no less pathetic because of it.
Jensen spills the contents of the box across the coffee table and takes a deep breath. Somewhere in the scatter of brightly colored paper and messy handwriting, he'll find his answer, he's sure of it. He sorts them, one from the other, divvying them out first by shape then by content, but the pattern refuses to emerge.
The dragon sits at the edge of the table, neck mangled and tail bent, mocking his efforts. The one creature he can clearly set apart from the others and it's a dead end. Part of him, albeit a small one, wants nothing more than to scoop everything into the stupid box and introduce every last scrap to his Smokey Joe out on the back deck.
Other parts have very different things to say.
It's fucking frustrating, because he shouldn't care. All he should be feeling right now is relief.
Instead, he gets hunger and frustration with a side-dish of disappointment, and there's no way he can chalk all that up to some unsolved mystery. There's more to it.
But there shouldn't be.
The animals go back in the box along with the note. He slides the lid on, smoothing the top shut with his palm before he returns it to its rightful place. The dragon keeps its perch.
An hour from now, he'll be riding shotgun and on his way back to set for yet another adventure in the world of weird. The last couple of days Jared's made himself so scarce that the only time Jensen sees him is on camera. And Misha. Despite his best efforts Misha's always right there, doing and saying shit he's not supposed to, being earnest and conscientious, his tongue dulled down to a softer edge that only makes all this worse.
He needs to talk to someone, anyone he trusts to give him a straight answer. Because whatever this is, this tightrope he's walking started to fray the second Misha touched him Monday morning and hasn't stopped unwinding since.
The thought hasn't fully formed yet but he's dialing his parents' number, the smooth trill of the phone ringing working it's ineffable magic, like SoCo and coke and having his fishing pole dangled out over a glassy lake.
His mother sounds tired when she answers, her "Hello," stretched a little too long.
"Hey, Momma," he says and shuts his eyes to try to visualize. Maybe she's out on the back porch with a lemonade, or curled up at the desk in the basement with her genealogy files, there's no way of knowing.
Doesn't really matter anyway, because when she says, "Jensen," he can hear her smile. "Been awhile," she continues. "I hope you're not avoiding me."
"I was raised better than that."
The sound of rustling papers drifts down the line, and Jensen smiles. Genealogy it is. Already he feels more centered.
"I know you were, hon," she says and the warmth in her voice very nearly breaks his heart. "Now, were you planning on telling me what's wrong or would you rather talk about the weather?"
Jensen leans back against the arm of the couch, propping his feet on the opposite arm as if posturing will make the lie sound more authentic. Sense memory betrays him and he remembers Tuesday, the way Misha shoved his feet aside, arranged himself carefully in the space, then hauled Jensen's legs back up into his lap like he did it all the time.
These days, his signals are the kind of crossed that doesn't work itself out.
"I can't just call?" he asks, and the shallow, sarcastic little laugh he gets in response clears up once and for all where that gene came from.
"Of course you can. You do. But you're not just calling today, are you?"
"I could-"
"But you're not."
Jensen scrubs a hand across his face with a sigh. "No," he says. "No, I'm not."
"And?"
"There's this -" Guy. Stalker. Poet. "person."
"Does this person have a name? In my experience, people do," she says, and Jensen hears the clink of ice against glass, the click of plastic frames against hardwood where she's set her eyeglasses aside.
The only reason he even notices is because the question catches him off-guard, the intervening silence heavy with expectation. He doesn't have any answers to offer though because he's not actually sure who he's talking about anymore - Misha or the stalker. More than anything, Jensen's sick and fucking tired of not having the answers.
"I'm sure they do," he says quietly. "But that's part of the problem."
"Tell me about the problem, then. We'll get you dug out."
The story's there, right on the tip of his tongue and down to the very last detail, from the first crane to the last cryptic line of text. And while he realizes there's nothing his mom can do to knock the knots loose, talking about it is probably the best he's going to get. When he opens his mouth to tell the tale, something else spills out instead.
"I wish I could let it go."
Not the mystery. Not the faceless, nameless entity still more or less hiding behind Jared. But the dream, his dream, and his desire. The sinking feeling in his gut has a name, just not one he's willing to share.
"Is it something you really want to let go?"
Jensen swallows hard around the lump in this throat and thinks, really thinks for the first time, about everything. The fact that he and Jared really aren't any different than they used to be. That he's probably just jealous and lonely, longing for what Jared has. That he can't remember the last time he willingly invited someone into his life. That he wants to be wanted for more than what he can do. That in spite of the countless selections of poetry, the time and effort and care the stalker had put into selecting passages and keeping the secret, it's Misha he wants, not a pile of paper that's brought nothing but frustration.
When he says, "No," it rings true. "Feeling's not exactly mutual though, and it ain't just up to me."
"Well, no. It isn't. But Jensen, you have a tendency to assume," she says. "Have you asked?"
Jensen lets that scenario play out in his head, flipping quickly through the different ways it might go. In all of them, Misha looks equal parts edible and confused. Sometimes, he's doubled over and laughing.
"Since when do I do things that make sense? Besides, it's complicated."
"I see," she says, humming softly into the receiver. "We didn't raise you scared either. If you never know for sure it'll eat at you, we both know that much. Quit counting chickens and focus on the egg for awhile."
"It's not-"
"That easy? No baby, putting your faith in another person never is. That doesn't mean it's not worth it."
Jensen laughs and props the phone between shoulder and ear to reach for the dragon. It's easier to talk about this shit if he's got something in his hands. The paper's stiff and slightly slick and Jensen tries to hate the person who folded it for stirring all this shit up, but he can't.
"You might reconsider if you knew who it was."
A sigh drifts down the line, and Jensen knows he's being purposefully contrary and painfully obtuse, but he just can't seem to say it aloud. Hell, he's only just begun to get comfortable with thinking it, feeling it.
"Honey, your decisions are yours. There's nothing I would do, nothing Daddy would do to keep you from being happy. I hope you know that."
"Yeah, I know, but-"
"Whatever you decide, I love you," she says."But for your own sake make up your mind."
She's right. She almost always is. Jensen concluded long ago that knowing just what to say is a mother thing because it's easier to think that than that he'd been raised by some nutjob with a sixth sense. What she fails to recognize in this particular situation is the ripple effect such a choice would have in his life. Still, sticking to his assumptions are the coward's way out and it's not like he'll play fast and loose even if he does go for it. He can be patient. Patience is actually kind of a specialty.
"I will," he says and means it. "Thanks." Icarus whimpers from the kitchen and when Jensen glances at the clock, the time takes him by surprise. "Hey, I gotta go let Ick out before Clif shows. Call you later?"
"You better."
"Yeah, yeah. Say hey to Dad for me."
"Take care, sweetheart."
"Bye Momma."
As he swipes his thumb across the screen to end the call it occurs to him that he might be reading Misha wrong. Even if he's not, he's still him, still Jensen, still awesome.
Misha could only hope to be so lucky.
By the time Friday morning rolls around, the shine has worn off his impending leap of faith.
Misha's been more Misha than ever, like his weirdness and brutal honesty got together and had really rude babies overnight. As a result, their scenes together quickly escalate into a battle of wills, Misha wearing Castiel more fiercely than ever, the tension thick on the back of Jensen's tongue. Even between takes, he can't catch a break because Misha's always there, working his way slowly under Jensen's skin.
Not for the first time since he made his decision, Jensen wonders if it was the right one.
But then the director calls the scene and Misha beams at him, all teeth and smile lines, squeezing his shoulder through three layers of wardrobe and Jensen feels it in his toes. Definitely the right decision.
"If at any time my services are required, please don't hesitate to call," Misha says. "Wouldn't want to be the one tasked with picking splinters out of that pretty face."
Jensen blinks because it's all he can do. Misha's officially stretched the bounds of logical conversation beyond the tipping point.
Misha slips his phone in the pocket of Castiel's trench coat, his hands following after. "Not that you spend every weekend knee deep in Jack."
"Oh. Yeah, no. Not doing that again anytime soon. But thanks again." he says. And yeah, for some reason he feels like he's back in high school, leaning against the locker of some chick he likes. It's awkward, they're awkward and have been all week. "I can't remember half the shit that happened that night, but I think I was kind of a ass."
Noah he remembers. Misha getting a thorough tongue-fucking from some lanky pseudo-punk, he remembers. Getting cock-blocked and then hauled off by Misha, he vaguely remembers. After that there's nothing but light and sound and the queasy feeling in his stomach until he'd woken up Sunday morning to painkillers and a bottle of water because Misha happens to also be awesome.
Of course he is.
But then Misha squints at him like he's decided something profound and turns to leave without so much as acknowledging Jensen's gratitude. Dick.
"See you Monday, Jen," he says, and before Jensen can stop him to carpe this diem, he's out of earshot, the door to wardrobe swinging shut on the tail of Castiel's trench coat.
With Misha already done and gone, the rest of the day passes in a mostly productive blur. He and Jay made their peace silently Monday morning with a coffee cup and shrug exchanged, so their work together isn't suffering at the hands of Jensen's stupidity. Jared's still Jared though, so he gets smoked out of the Impala no less than three times during the series of pick-ups they're doing for two episodes ago. While the work's not physical, it's still a grueling schedule and the only time he gets back to his trailer is to pick up his backpack before he heads home for the night.
It's not until his boots hit the bottom step that he notices the screen door standing ajar.
Considering the fact that he's spent most of the last three weeks trying to track down a stalker, Jensen decides that in this case, caution is definitely the better part of valor. The door creaks as he nudges it open with a toe, the light switch slipping between his fingers when he flips it up. At first glance, nothing looks out of place - curtains, couch, doors, television, bag.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
Jensen winds his way to the rear of the trailer, checks the bathroom, and eases into the tiny bedroom space just to be sure.
That's when he finds it.
There, stuck between the pillows at the head of the bed, is a crane. Not just any crane, but one painstakingly crafted of pristine white paper with a message inscribed on its wing.
Sorry - M
Jensen yanks the script out of his back pocket and flips unerringly to page thirty, paper curling around his fingers as he smoothes it down. Lost amongst the vaguely obscene doodles left in the margins by someone else's hand, there's enough text to satisfy him, to confirm his suspicions and the identity of the folder. The last piece finally slots into place and the stalker, the familiar handwriting, Jared's willing participation all makes perfect sense.
Unfortunately for him, having the one answer only raises a battery of new and even more confusing questions. Because of the eight names left on his list after Danny's gig Saturday night, only one of them begins with an 'M'.
Misha.
( SEVEN)