Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha, 1/4
Title: Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha
Pairing: Jensen/Misha, past implied Jared/Jensen
Rating: R briefly, mainly PG-13
Summary: Jensen is a single father. Misha is the slightly unhinged teacher of his seven year old daughter, who is battling with the emotional fallout of her fathers’ divorce. Way less depressing than that sounds, lol.
Word Count: 29,000
Warning: Sorta a kidfic. A bit of H/C, I guess. Asshole!Jared and NotNice!Genevieve.
Disclaimer: I think Genevieve Cortese is generally awesome. She would have to be for Jared to love her. I am SO sorry I made her the way I did, but dang it, it fit the story.
AN: Written for CloudyJenn for the spn_j2_xmas fic exchange. You gave me a prompt that just would NOT let me go. I wish I had a few more weeks to really get this right. There are a few parts that really need to be developed, so I will probably throw you a few additions over time. Hope you don’t mind!
~Misha~
“Do you come here often?” Misha asked and then mentally kicked himself. “Don’t answer that. What a hideous line. I apologize.”
The man beside him laughed, making his light eyes dance in amusement. “It’s all right,” he said, the smallest drawl decorating his words. “I don’t come here often. I just moved to town.”
“Oh,” Misha sipped his gin and tonic, trying to choose his next words with care.
“Before you ask,” the man before him said with a grin. “Yes, it hurt like hell when I fell from Heaven.”
He couldn’t help it; really, he couldn’t, so he laughed. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand toward the stranger. “I’m Misha.”
“Jensen,” the still grinning man shook the proffered hand.
“So what brings you to not-so-sunny Seattle?”
“Family,” Jensen said vaguely. He grimaced slightly at the word, but Misha let it slide. Talking about his many family issues in a bar was not high on his Do It list either. “What about you? Are you a native?”
“Born and raised,” Misha confirmed. “What part of the city do you live in? I’m in Capitol Hill.”
“Queen Anne,” Jensen said, raising his beer to his lips. Misha stared at the fullness of those lips as they touched to the bottle.
“I work near Queen Anne, in Meadowbrook,” Misha said at last, trying and failing to look away from Jensen’s mouth. He wanted to get off the small talk train. He’d always found it tedious. He had ventured out to blow off some steam before the school year began on Monday. “Look,” he said, clearing his throat. “I don’t do this often but do you want to get out of here?”
Jensen blinked his surprise, as if he hadn’t realized the possibility that someone would hit on him in a gay bar. It was endearing, Misha decided.
“I,” Jensen started, but was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. Misha raised an eyebrow at the Party in the U.S.A. ringtone. That was way gayer than he’d expected, given the new Seattlite’s rugged exterior. Jensen snatched the phone up and started moving toward the door. “Hey monkey, what’s up?”
Monkey? So the guy had someone at home. Misha sighed and took a long draw of his drink. He hadn’t invested too much time or energy, but he’d been looking forward to seeing what magic those lips could work. He let his eyes roam the darkened room. He seriously needed to get laid before dealing with the little bastards on Monday-or, he corrected himself-before dealing with the little bastards’ parents. God, he hated teaching in a private school, but the money was good. He sighed and tried to not think about school, because thinking about his kids was not helping his libido.
“Hey,” Jensen’s voice came from Misha’s left, making him jump. He let a smile creep across his face, all thoughts of school vanishing. “I’ve got to bail. Family stuff, you know?”
“It’s cool,” Misha said, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I get it.”
“But…” Jensen pulled that distracting lower lip between his teeth and trailed his eyes over Misha like he was cataloging every inch of his skin for future at-home reference. “I definitely would have.”
And just like that, he was gone. Misha blinked as the man’s words filtered through. He would have. He curled his fingers at the flash of images that information brought-slick skin, stretched mouths, sweat-and found he was crushing a small slip of paper. He unfolded it and saw ten numbers-ten little numbers that were instant gold-and a name. Jensen.
Well, hot damn. Misha pocketed the number and put his empty glass on the bar. Good enough.
~Jensen~
Jensen navigated the downtown Seattle streets with trepidation. Coming from Los Angeles, he had been looking forward to a relatively light flow of cars at nine o’clock on a Thursday, but from the red taillights blinking at him from every direction, it seemed that expectation was dashed. The journey to the bar had been his first foray out of the house alone, and his first attempt to meet new people. He glanced at the empty backseat out of habit, looking for his constant companion: his seven-year-old daughter, Imogen. He craved adult interaction-and activity. He hadn’t gotten laid since his Big Gay Divorce… god, he missed sex.
He’d been so close to landing the gorgeous man with the dark eyes. He hadn’t even had a chance to make a move-or accept the very welcome invitation to dot dot dot. He loved his daughter with his entire being, but damn, monsters under the bed? Monsters were cockblocking him. He’d tried to reason with her, but there was no reasoning with a frightened seven year old.
As he pulled up to the Victorian monstrosity he now called home, he took a minute to wallow in the self-pity he generally kept hidden away. Eleven years ago, he’d been young and in love with life and his boyfriend, Jared. Six years ago, still fantastically in love, the pair had taken the next logical step and adopted one-year-old Imogen. Two years ago, during California’s small window of legalized gay marriage, they’d tied the knot. A year ago, still very much in love, Jensen had the rug pulled out from beneath him. Over a decade of his life was washed away with the tsunami of a single phone call.
It wasn’t as if Jensen had never known that Jared found warm bodies to fill his bed when he was out of town on location. It had always suited him to follow President Clinton’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it came to Jared’s extracurricular activities. As long as Jared came home to Jensen-as long as Jared was discreet-Jensen could turn a blind eye.
He never felt threatened by whatever on-set dalliance Jared dabbled in. In fact, Jensen had never once questioned his standing as Jared’s partner. He wasn’t an insecure Hollywood ‘wife’, worried every moment that Jared would trade him in for a younger model. He loved Jared unconditionally and had always bragged reciprocity from Jared.
Until the moment-the very second-that everything came crashing down. The phone call had come just minutes after Jensen had walked Imogen into her classroom in Los Angeles. He’d answered the phone with a cheery hello and launched directly into the news that their little girl had won the starring role in the school’s production of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
“Jensen,” Jared had said in a voice that made his knees lock. It was the voice Jared had used several years prior to tell him his beloved dog Icarus had been hit by a car.
“Oh god,” he gripped his phone until the hard plastic groaned from the pressure. “Jay, what’s wrong?”
“Jensen, god,” Jared said again, with a sigh that broke across the inevitable international two-second delay. “I don’t know how to… Jensen, there’s someone else. We’re in love.”
Jensen blinked, waiting for the words to make sense. He understood the definition of each word individually - there’s, someone, else, I’m, in, and love-but he struggled to derive the hidden message they contained. He turned to stare at the front of Imogen’s school where the bell signaling the start of the day had just rung. He could go back inside and ask Ms. Maurer to explain the words, use them in sentences and give him the etymology of each. She could conjugate each verb for him. I met, you me, he/she/it met, we met, they met. I am, you are, he/she/it is, we are, they are. In love.
“Jensen,” Jared said his name again, as if personalizing the trauma would make it easier. As if anything could. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” Jensen said, the steadiness of his voice surprised him. Inside of his head, words were slamming against the back of his eyes threatening to seep out. “I’m right here where you left me, Jared, taking care of our daughter and waiting for you to come home.”
“Don’t be like that,” Jared said, but Jensen didn’t know what other way to be.
“How do you want me to be?” Jensen asked. He needed Jared to tell him because in all of their years together, he’d never considered the possibility that Jared would ever actually fall in love with one of his toys. “When are you coming home so we can talk about this?”
“I’m not coming home,” Jared said quickly. There was a voice in the background that was familiar… that should have been less audible.
“After twelve years, this is how you want to do this? Over the damn phone?”
“I,” Jared huffed out breath. Jensen could hear the shuffling of bodies clearer than normal. “Come on, Jensen.”
“Am I on speakerphone?”
“No, of course not,” Jared said, but his voice was suddenly easier to discern. Jensen closed his eyes again, briefly praying for the strength to survive both the heartache and the humiliation. “Look, I’m not coming home. I’ll send my assistant to pick up some of my things.”
“No fucking way,” Jensen snapped. He was dying, he was sure of it, from the pain, but dying had to wait. “You have to come home, to help me explain to Imogen-”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Jared prevaricated. “You won’t be able to change my mind about this. There are things that-”
“I’m talking about Immy, Jared,” Jensen ground out. He was an Ackles, dammit, and that meant never begging for scraps. If Jared wanted to leave him, well, he had to let him go, but he would not stand by and allow him leave the little girl who believed Jared hung the damn moon. “She’s your daughter and she misses you. She at least deserves an explanation in person.”
“Jensen-”
“Who is it?” Jensen cut off his ex-he gulped at the word-before he lost his nerve. Jared breathed heavily into the silence. The sound of his guilt was deafening. “It’s not like I won’t see it in the news soon enough. Tell me the fucker’s name.”
“Genevieve,” Jared blurted. The voice in the background-even more familiar now that Jensen had a name to match it-fluttered nervously. “It’s Gen.”
Jensen nodded to himself. The nanny. How cliché, he thought. Genevieve Cortese had been Imogen’s nanny since the day Jensen and Jared had brought her home. Imogen loved Genevieve like a sister, a best friend, a home-wrecking whore.
“How long?” Jensen managed to force out. How long had he been the nanny and Genevieve been the lady of the house? How long had Jared called home hoping for Genevieve to be the one who answered? How long had they laughed at Jensen’s naïve loyalty and blinding ignorance?
“Not long,” Jared said, which Jensen instantly took as a lie. He waited for the silence to crush his ex into honesty. “Fine, it’s been two years. Dude, she’s pregnant.”
The air inflating Jensen’s lungs disappeared as if he’d been tossed into the vacuum of space without an insular suit. His throat worked spasmodically to draw in a new breath, but there was no oxygen left in his world.
“Say something,” Jared ordered, his words gruff and choppy. That tone-that tone-was Jared trying to hide his tears. That tone pissed Jensen off; how dare Jared get to be the one to cry. “Jensen, please.”
“Get your ass home now,” Jensen growled, the phone shaking against the side of his face. “You have twenty-four hours to get back or-”
Jensen swallowed the rest of his threat, which would have consisted of taking Imogen away forever. He would never do that to his daughter. Regardless of the gutting pain and searing betrayal, he would not subject Imogen to the loss of her father.
“Just get here,” Jensen said. He hit the end button on his phone and tossed it onto the dashboard. He covered his mouth with his palm, desperate to keep the horrified sob building in his chest contained. He had to maintain his composure. If he lost it, he would not be able to regain it before Imogen got out of school in six short hours. After eleven years of being flush with love and happiness, six hours was not long enough to wring all of the grief from his body.
Jensen blinked, pulling himself out of the memory. Looking up, he saw Imogen leaning against her window, staring down at him. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, unsure when he’d clapped it there, and hurried up the walk.
The house was too big, but Jared’s guilt had always been eased by forcing money on Jensen. Not that he didn’t appreciate being able to stay home with Imogen. The little girl needed his undivided attention as she tried to sort through her feelings about the divorce.
“What are you doing back so soon?” the babysitter, Danneel, jumped off the couch in surprise. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s apparently a monster under the bed,” Jensen said with a smile, digging money out of his wallet and handing it off to Danneel. “Thanks for coming over.”
“This is too much,” Danneel said, looking at the bills in her hand. “I was only here for an hour.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jensen angled toward the stairs, but paused. “How was she? Did she give you a hard time?”
“Nah,” the young red-head forced a bright smile. “She was… fine.”
“Look,” Jensen sighed and approached the girl with apologetic hands out. “She’s having a tough time. Her other father,” he stopped short, not wanting to tell a stranger that Imogen distrusted women since Genevieve had stolen her family away. He coughed and tried again. “She misses her other father. We’re, uh, separated.”
“It’s okay,” Danneel offered a more genuine smile. She picked up her purse and shrugged into her denim jacket. “I’d be happy to sit for Imogen again. Maybe I can take her to the park or to a movie or something.”
“That’d be awesome,” Jensen said louder than he intended. He laughed and ran his hand through his short hair. No sitter had offered to return since Jared had left. Imogen was hell bent on punishing any and all women; especially those in child care services. “She could use a friend.”
“I’d like that,” Danneel said and Jensen thought she might not be a liar. Go figure. “You’ve got my number. Give me a call anytime.”
Jensen stood sentry on the front porch as Danneel got in her car and pulled out of the driveway. As soon as her taillights were out of sight, he turned back and headed up the stairs to deal with monsters.
“Hey, monkey,” he said, sitting on the edge of the canopied bed. The blankets were askew in a way that was unique to Imogen. “How’s the monster situation?”
“Contained,” Imogen said with an impish grin. “I’ve got it trapped in the closet.”
“Good girl,” Jensen leaned down and kissed her delicate brow. Imogen was as pale as a porcelain doll with a mop of curly strawberry blonde hair. The only resemblance she bore Jensen was the splash of freckles across both of their noses. “I’ll take it out back and release it back into the wild.”
“You should just kill it,” Imogen suggested. She only looked like Jared when she creased her brow… like she did when she discussed monsters. “You always let it go, and it always just comes right back.”
Jensen let his daughter tug his hand until he was stretched out on the bed beside her. She dug her cold toes under his hip and rubbed them together. He wrapped her in his arms and dropped another kiss on her forehead while he considered how to respond to his darling daughter ordering a hit on an imaginary monster. He figured her therapist would want to hear about this conversation.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Is Papa coming home soon?” She asked in a tiny voice that made Jensen’s skin burn. It was the same question she’d asked him every single night for a year.
“Sorry, Immy,” he said, working hard to control his heartbeat beneath his little girl’s cheek. “Your Papa still lives in Los Angeles with Genevieve and your little brother. Remember?”
“He’s not my brother,” Imogen denied with heat.
“Tyson is your brother,” Jensen insisted. God, he was tired of defending Jared and his new family. His temper gave a tug on his gut. Damn Jared for leaving him to deal with these doubts. Damn Jared for sending Jensen and Imogen to Seattle like they were his dirty little secrets. “Papa, Gen and Tyson are coming to visit you in a couple of months. They’ll want to see your new room and hear all about your new school. Won’t that be nice?”
“I hate Papa,” Imogen whispered, as if the words were dirty and could do harm. Jensen’s heart lurched. “And Gen. And Tyson. Tell them not to come. I don’t want to see them ever again.”
“It’s okay to miss him,” Jensen said, squeezing her closer and swallowing past the sudden bile in the back of his throat. “He loves you so much, Immy. He wishes he could be with you every day.”
“Then why isn’t he?” She asked with the brutal bluntness of childhood. Imogen knew no fear when it came to questioning the father who caught all the stray monsters in her room; the father who had never left her, not one day in her whole life. She knew he would never tell her lies, and for the most part, she was right.
There was no answer he could offer to absolve Jared that did not include a lie. He could tell her that he missed her Papa, too. Or say that it had been both of their decision to separate. He could tell her that her fathers still loved each other very much, but that sometimes love wasn’t enough. He could lie to Imogen, but he refused. He refused to grant Jared absolution for breaking his daughter’s heart. Instead, he pulled the blankets over both of them and hummed Imogen’s favorite Justin Bieber song until she fell asleep.
After several indulgent minutes of listening to his daughter’s deep, even sleep-breathing, Jensen eased out of the bed. He tucked the blankets around her little body and smoothed her bangs away from her eyes. Back in his own room, he plugged his phone into its charger and noticed a new text message.
Thanks for the digits. Can I call you tomorrow? Misha
Jensen smirked down at the message. He’d almost-but not quite-forgotten the man with the startling features and graceless pick up lines. Were his eyes blue, maybe brown? It had been impossible to tell in the darkened bar.
Sure. Family thing at 10, but anytime after. Jensen
He changed quickly into his pajamas and huddled beneath the covers. The early fall air was crisper in Seattle than in LA. Jas as the warmth of the blankets seeped into his bones, his phone chirped. He stared at it without moving for a full minute before deciding he had to know what-if-Misha had responded.
:)
The next morning, Jensen pulled up to Seattle Waldorf School with fifteen minutes to spare. Imogen sat in the backseat with a fierce frown pulling her heart-shaped mouth into a pout. It had been a struggle to get her dressed and out the door to attend the school’s Open House. She wanted her old school with her old friends and was angry with her father’s patient but firm insistence that she give Seattle Waldorf a chance.
He consulted the heavy card that had been mailed to their house with Imogen’s class assignment. It was the only second grade class at Seattle Waldorf since the school only allowed three hundred students, ranging from preschool to twelfth grade, at a time to walk their sacred hallways. Mr. Collins, Room 22.
Batting down the urge to drive away and keep Imogen home, Jensen rolled out of their overstated Range Rover. He and Jared had argued extensively over their daughter’s education. In the end, since Jared held the purse strings, he’d gotten his way. Imogen was promptly accepted into Seattle Waldorf after one pointed call from megastar Jared. The principal wasn’t a fool; adding the daughter of Jared Padalecki to the school’s roster would only inflate their status as THE school in Seattle.
“Come on, Immy,” he bit back a sigh and unbuckled his daughter’s seatbelt. “I bet Mr. Collins is awesome. Papa called ahead and asked him to give you a desk next to the window. Wasn’t that nice?”
And douchey. But he kept that thought on a tight leash.
Imogen took her father’s hand, but let her feet drag as much as she dare. Jensen didn’t call her on the attitude because he was as nervous as she was. It was the first teacher meet and greet he’d tackled without Jared’s charming confidence. It was easy with Jared by his side; they hadn’t needed to say ‘Imogen has two daddies’ because they’d obviously been a family. But now? How did he tell a stranger that his kid had two daddies who were divorced-with one daddy shacking up with the nanny and their heterosexually-induced spawn while the other was banished to the wilds of Washington with nothing but a shiny new car, a fat bank account and a swollen house? Fuck, Jensen thought not for the first time since waking up.
His phone chirped and he instantly touched the screen, curious. Misha, the display told him. He opened the message as he tugged Imogen across the parking lot.
I have a work thing at 10. Can’t wait to call. You are in my head, causing trauma.
We talked for 30 seconds, Jensen typed one-handed. What trauma?
In less time than Jensen thought possible, he had Misha’s reply: Lips. You have lips. I’ll admit to being shallow.
Jensen laughed in surprise and self-consciously sucked his lower lip between his teeth. Funny, he replied. Don’t you have lips too? I’m suffering no trauma. We should remedy that at once.
“What are you laughing at?” Imogen asked as they climbed the last stair to the school. She paused and nervously twisted a strand of hair around a finger.
“Nothing, monkey,” Jensen turned the phone off and slid it into his pocket, completely focused on his daughter once again. He tried and failed to beat down the flash of guilt he felt for engaging in flirty texts while his daughter clearly needed him. He picked up a brightly colored map in the lobby. “Room 22 is this way. Let’s go.”
He oohed and aahed over the artwork hanging on the walls, pointing out a Jonas Brothers library poster that made Imogen blush and slap at her father’s hand. Children both younger and older than Imogen wandered the halls, but the little girl kept her eyes downcast. Room 22 stood like a beacon at the end of the main hall. Whimsical music poured out of the open door, mingled with gales of laughter. Finally interested in her surroundings, Imogen pulled Jensen toward the sound while simultaneously burrowing further into his side.
“Welcome to Room 22!” A happy voice boomed before Imogen and Jensen had wrestled their way through the rainbow-inspired beads that hung in the open doorway. “I’m Mr. Collins and you are-oh my god!”
Jensen froze, eyes locked on the man standing beside a large cherry wood desk in a jester’s cap and a gingham apron. Misha.
“Daddy look!” Imogen released Jensen’s hand to rush to the terrarium on the desk at Misha’s side. “Turtles. Come here!”
Jensen wanted to look at the turtles. More than anything in the world, he wanted to look at those damn turtles. He wanted to tear his eyes away from Misha’s horrified expression, but his eyes refused to cooperate. It was only after Misha turned his head to properly greet Imogen that he snapped out of his statue-like posture. He shook himself, thankful that at least one of them was pretending to be an adult and consider their surroundings.
“Ah yes,” Misha said as he crouched down to Imogen’s level. “These are my turtles. That one is Drydraluxlaloud, but you can call him Lux. The other one is Bonnie Brae the Second. As for me, I’m Mr. Collins.”
Imogen barely managed a how-do-you-do before she turned her eyes to the turtles once again. Jensen couldn’t help but inch closer, smiling at his daughter’s joy. It’d been too long since he’d seen that look.
“Do you want to touch Bonnie’s shell?” Misha asked, standing up to reach inside the terrarium.
“Yes, please,” she said breathlessly. She turned her face up to Jensen, eyes twinkling with exuberant curiosity. “May I?”
Jensen nodded as Misha carefully lifted the turtle, who stroked its little forelegs through imaginary water. Several other children gathered around their teacher, eager to be included.
“Does anyone know what kind of animal turtles are?” Misha asked the assemblage. The kids stared in rapt attention as Misha cradled the turtle in his palms. School had not officially begun, so the kids did not bother to respond. “Turtles are reptiles, just like snakes and lizards.”
“Eeew,” the girls complained, while the boys made appreciative sounds.
“We’re going to learn all about reptiles this year,” Misha grinned at his students as if he was just as excited at the prospect as the other boys in the room. Jensen felt himself falling under the same spell the teacher had cast on the kids. He glanced at Imogen, but her eyes were trained on Misha. He’d never seen anyone earn the immediate worship of his daughter. “And,” Misha continued. “We’re going to learn about one other kind of reptiles: Dinosaurs!”
“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, because really, dinosaurs are cool.
“Daddy,” Imogen whispered urgently. “Come touch Bonnie’s shell. It’s so cool.”
“Nah,” Jensen said with a shake of his head, absently taking a step back. “I’ll just watch.”
“Come on, Daddy,” Misha said, sliding his gaze to Jensen’s face. His eyes were the purest shade of blue Jensen had ever seen. “Don’t you want to touch? No reason to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of the turtle,” Jensen muttered as he drew close and held out his hand. Misha grabbed the extended hand and guided Jensen’s index finger to the back of Bonnie’s scaly shell. Jensen’s collar felt two sizes too small where it clung to the base of his flushed neck.
“Gently,” Misha cautioned, his deep voice pitching lower, cutting through the din of childish chatter with ease. “One finger is a good way to start.”
The flush crawled up Jensen’s face, scalding his skin and leaving him marked. He eased his hand away and chanced a look at the other man’s face. He hadn’t noticed the little lines around his wide-set eyes the night before. He openly stared at the man he’d almost gone home with and knew a moment of regret-and relief. The meeting could have been ten more kinds of awkward if they’d painted each other white the night before.
“Are you okay?” Imogen asked, jarring Jensen to his core. He was definitely not winning any Father of the Year awards with his inattentiveness.
“No worries, Immy,” he said, ruffling her hair. She was the one person for whom he would sacrifice anything for-mind-blowing sex (for he was sure it would be) included. He slid his hand down to Imogen’s shoulder to ground him and offered Misha a polite and detached smile. “I’m Jensen Ackles and this is my daughter Imogen Ackles-Padalecki.”
“Misha Collins,” the teacher responded automatically, rearranging his expression from flirtatious to professional. “Nice to meet you both. Imogen, your desk is by the window. Why don’t you see if you can find it?”
Imogen darted off, pausing long enough to cast her father one last look as if she was afraid he would disappear. Jensen’s heart clenched at the sight. He’d taken his little girl to a therapist immediately after Jared left, but their move to Seattle had disrupted her recovery. She hated losing sight of her father, which promised to be difficult with school starting in a handful of days.
“As you can see,” Misha said in a voice colored with derision. “I assigned Imogen a window seat as your husband requested. I generally do not accept seating requests, but the principal was adamant I do anything necessary to make Imogen’s time with us comfortable.”
“Okay, look,” Jensen said, dismissing the seating arrangement for a moment. “Obviously, you can’t call me later.”
“Obviously,” Misha agreed at once. “I don’t enable cheaters. I talked to your husband last week-”
“I’m not a cheater,” Jensen said with a grimace. “And he’s not my husband. Not anymore. Things have been… difficult… for Immy. I wanted to talk to you, uh,” his cheeks stained and his tongue tripped. “I mean, I wanted to talk to Imogen’s teacher about the situation…”
He trailed off, distracted by a dark curl lying against the other man’s forehead.
“Jensen?”
“Right, sorry,” Jensen pulled at the fabric of his shirt, wondering when the shirt had become too small. Maybe he shrank it in the last wash. “Imogen is taking the split poorly. She’s got some anxiety issues now and is in therapy. The window thing, that’s because she is claustrophobic now. She never was before, but. Anyway, thank you for letting her have a window seat. I’m sorry if Jared bullied you into it instead of explaining. Things have been… well. It doesn’t matter.”
He exhaled sharply and rubbed his palm against his mouth. He hadn’t said that many adult-sounding words at once in months.
“I’m sorry,” Misha said softly, pressing his own palm to Jensen’s arm. “I didn’t realize. Of course Imogen should have what she needs. I will pay close attention to her; make sure she is involved and included in class. No need to worry while she’s here, Jensen. I’ve got her.”
“I didn’t want private school,” Jensen said for no reason. “I wanted to keep her home. She needs so much attention.”
“She’ll be fine,” Misha said firmly, giving his arm a squeeze. “We will work together to make sure of it. Okay?”
Jensen nodded and tilted his head down to blink at the fingers wrapped around his forearm. He could feel the five-striped heat straight through his blazer. It was the first touch he’d experienced-outside of Imogen’s-since Jared had kissed him farewell that last time, before Jensen had known his world was scheduled to implode. And he didn’t even remember that kiss; he hadn’t known he should have committed it to memory.
“Go on,” Misha said, gesturing with his head to Imogen where she chatted with a classmate. He tugged Jensen’s arm in the same direction to snap him out of his silence.
Before he could react, Misha had gone, moved on to the next parent waiting to demand special treatment for their kid. Jensen made it to Imogen’s desk, where she’d taken to enthusiastically coloring on a sheet of paper before her. He leaned down to see her work, but his eyes could do nothing but track Misha’s movements around the room. The man moved with a sure-footed grace that would make dancers want to study him and any sexual being alive want to fuck him.
“Daddy,” Imogen interrupted his insane stalking and inappropriate thoughts with a hand on his reddened cheek. “You have a fever.”
“I’m fine, monkey,” he said, turning his head to kiss Imogen’s palm. He silently cursed his carelessness for the ninth time since he’d entered Room 22. He was in his daughter’s classroom; Misha was her teacher. With a new resolve, he pushed his attraction to the depths of his stomach, letting the acids there eat it away. He would focus everything on Imogen; she needed him a hell of a lot more than he needed to get off. “What are you drawing?”
“Turtles,” she said, holding the paper up to show two shaky oval shapes with giant eyes and smiles. “Can I send it to Papa? He likes turtles.”
“He sure does,” Jensen agreed, although he knew Jared was scared of snakes and other reptiles by extension. “We can stop by the post office on the way home. How about that?”
Misha’s raucous laughter filled the room and Jensen’s eyes immediately found the source of the sound. The teacher and hapless pick-up artist juggled three apples for a new contingent of students and parents. His mouth was open in a carefree smile, his eyes tracking the apples intently.
Damn, Jensen thought. This is going to be a long year.
**
~Misha~
After the last kid had gone, Misha crumpled into his desk chair, tossing his silly hat to the side. He could barely remember any of the children’s names-save one. He castigated himself for his failure. It had always been a mark of pride that he knew his kids’ names before the first day of school. This would be the first year in his long career that he could not boast to that accomplishment in the teachers’ lounge.
He scrounged through the Student Information Sheets the parents had filled out after his brief presentation on the syllabus and learning objectives for the year. He didn’t give a rat’s ass which spoiled brat had a peanut allergy or wore diapers at night; he was after one sheet in particular. Imogen Sofia Ackles-Padalecki. Age: 7. The word mother had been crossed out and replaced with “Father #1”: Jensen Ross Ackles. Age: 34. Occupation: None. Address: 1516 7th Avenue West. Phone: Misha recognized it at once.
Further down the page was the actual father blank, beside which Jensen had added a #2. Jared Tristan Padalecki. Age: 30. Occupation: Actor. Misha paused; he’d known that before he’d met Imogen or Jensen. Jared Padalecki’s name had been tossed around at every meeting the principal had called since the start of summer. Of course Misha had seen the blockbuster movies that seemed to pop up every July 4th weekend. He’d had no real opinion of the man until now. Now he considered Jared Padalecki a pompous tool, but Misha allowed that his judgment might be impaired by a pair of freckled faces.
The information kept coming. Imogen had no mother and no allergies, but was on medication to help control her frequent panic attacks and soothe her post-traumatic depression. Jensen was willing to volunteer at every school function, regardless of how mundane or demeaning his role. Had he really volunteered to be dunked in the Homecoming Festival’s popular Dunk-a-Dork booth (or whatever it was called)? He was also available to act as Teacher-Parent Liaison (Room Mom), citing his experience in four previous classrooms. His handwriting exuded confidence with boldly crossed Ts and large swirling Ys in the hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the page.
“Imogen is my life,” Jensen had written, and Misha noted that the pen had dug into the paper fiercely at that. “I will do nothing to jeopardize her happiness or education. I hope I can count on your continued assistance in that regard.”
Misha read the words three times in quick succession. The message was clear: back off. With a sigh, he retrieved his phone from his top desk drawer and dialed his closest friend-and fellow teacher-Vicki.
“’Sup, Teach?” Vicki said instead of hello.
“Remind me,” Misha said, hoping for casual curiosity. “What’s the Seattle Waldorf policy on dating the parent of a student?”
“Why, Mr. Collins,” Vicki laughed. “Are you after a little P? Or T and A?”
“Ha, like PTA,” Misha huffed instead of laughing, which was abnormal, considering how much he’d actually enjoyed the joke. “So… the policy is…?”
“There is no official policy,” Vicki said into her phone even as she crossed the threshold into Room 22, grinning at her friend. “You can’t date students, which is gross anyway, but the policy is mum on dating parents.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it though?” Vicki sat on the edge of Misha’s desk and looked at him with presumptuous expectation. “This is where you divulge details, Mish.”
“There are no details,” he shrugged. “Just a hot single dad. He volunteered to be Room Mom.”
“You’ll be working closely with him, then,” Vicki said with a wicked nod that reminded Misha of his friend’s area of expertise: human sexuality. How she ever landed a job teaching third grade, he’d never know. He hypothesized it was either an epic lie on her resume, or one hell of a blowjob. Either way, Vicki had turned out to be a fantastic teacher. “Does he seem interested?”
“He’s hyper focused on his daughter,” he said without a bit of the disgust he normally used to mock parents who swore Little Timmy was the sun in their planetary solar system, but never actually did anything with the kid. “He had a bad break up and the kid’s got some emotional problems. She looks at him like he was Buddha come to Earth.”
“All little girls worship their fathers and hate their mothers.”
“Thanks, Freud,” Misha rolled his eyes. “But Imogen has two fathers and zero mothers. But that’s not the point. The point is can I ask him out?”
“Yes,” Vicki nodded without hesitation. “Definitely. Just don’t screw him in the cafeteria. They fired the last teacher that did that.”
“So, we can screw in the gym?” Misha asked, training his features into a mask of solemnity. “Just so I’m clear on the rules.”
“I’m off,” Vicki laughed and jumped off the desk. “I’ve got to finish decorating my Welcome Board. I have ten little flowers to cut out. Want to help?”
“I’ll be down later,” he said although he could make a list of ninety-nine things he’d rather be doing. He had no intention of helping her, and he was sure she knew it. “I have to finish up a few things here first.”
After Vicki left, Misha picked up his phone once again. He’d promised he wouldn’t call Jensen, but he hadn’t said anything about not texting him.
So that was awkward. Still want to talk.
He tapped his fingers as he waited for a reply. With a blip, it appeared in under a minute.
No, Jensen said. You’re Im’s teacher.
Did you know it’s not, in fact, against the rules for us to date?
Are you asking me out? Was Jensen’s response.
I am if you’re saying yes, Misha tapped out with a smirk tugging on his lips.
No, Jensen sent back and nothing else, no matter how long Misha waited.
He dropped the phone and flicked it across the desk in irritation. He sure as hell wasn’t going to beg. Even if there had been a spark of attraction-lust, whichever-they hadn’t even had a conversation that didn’t revolve around Seattle neighborhoods or Jensen’s seven-year-old. He could forget easily enough.
Except.
He picked up his phone again. Fair enough. Friends? You ARE the new Room Mom after all.
It took five full minutes for Jensen’s reply to come: Just friends. Don’t call me Room Mom.
Misha smirked even though no one was around to appreciate it. Feeling a sudden burst of goodwill, he got to his feet and headed toward Vicki’s classroom around the corner. Maybe he would convince her to make tissue paper flowers instead of boring cutouts.
Continue to Part 2