Yes Sir (I Don't Mean Maybe) 2/4
Master Post | Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Epilogue | Art & Soundtrack Post
They still had stupid fights, and video game marathons, and moments where the whole thing seemed like a mistake, and moments where the whole thing seemed like a dream. Getting married wasn't the beginning and it wasn't the end. That was a bit of a shock to discover, and then a comfort, when they got more used to the idea.
Jensen booked a Robert Rodriguez movie alongside Carla Gugino, and spent nine weeks shooting in front of a green screen on a sound stage twenty minutes from the house. Jared bought a frilly apron and amused himself for a solid week by greeting Jensen at the door with a martini, which, according to Jensen, never got less creepy.
Jared got hired for a pilot that, due to studio staffing changes, never shot.
“Easiest gig ever,” he said, with a sad little smile. Then he spent a week reorganizing their Blu-Ray collection, weeding out undesirables and generating a wish list with some computer program that let him keep track of as many variables as he wanted. Jensen stayed mostly out of his way.
Between his three-episode arc on CSI: South Central and his week as a guest judge on Childstar, Jared started spending a lot of time at the computer. At first, he wouldn't show Jensen what he was doing, and Jensen learned quickly to stop asking when, after the first couple of times, Jared's refusal to share also started to mean a projectile aimed at Jensen's head.
Then, one night, it was a screenplay that Jared tossed Jensen's way. Having Jensen read his work got Jared so wired he actually marched out of the house and spent two nervous hours chatting up their new neighbours from across the street. The bewildered young family didn't quite know what to make of Jared's jittery presence, but they were nice enough to smile and nod until Jensen finished reading and came over to retrieve him.
Jensen then spent two weeks doing everything he could to convince Jared not to delete, burn or otherwise attempt to destroy the screenplay, which he suddenly hated with a fiery passion. Jensen used sex as a diversion, picked distracting fights about which Ninja Turtle was the lamest, even bribed the ice cream truck guy to double the frequency of his visits to their street, and that was the most effective, because not only did Jared have a terrible weakness for soft serve, but he'd also get sidelined by the neighbourhood kids, sometimes for hours. He'd end up playing cops and robbers or judging bubble gum blowing contests.
Jensen was pretty sure that marriage was turning him into an evil, manipulative genius.
He was also pretty sure that Jared playing teddy bear hospital with their neighbour's Kool-Aid stained four year-old was one of the best things he'd ever seen, so it sort of evened out.
Anyway, the script finally found its way into Jared's agent's hands, and for a while they almost managed to forget about it. Jared took a recurring role on Transit as a paramedic, which got Jensen a little more hot and bothered than even he'd expected. The Robert Rodriguez movie, now called Oasis, picked up a bit of speed on the marketing front and led to a lot of boring phone interviews and a couple of minor TV appearances for Jensen. For weeks, he was almost able to ignore the single, huge, life-altering idea lurking in the back of his mind.
He did Kimmel, came home exhausted afterwards, feeling extremely old, because he knew from experience that this wasn't a hectic promotion schedule by any means. Kimmel was always especially exhausting, though, and Jensen could never quite shake the feeling that the guy was having a laugh at his expense. Not to mention that he was unnaturally obsessed with the gay thing. Jensen's entire interview had consisted of unfocused quizzing about his and Jared's relationship, and even though he'd tried to steer the conversation into less invasive territory, he'd barely even managed to mention the name of the movie. The clip they'd shown had made very little sense in that context.
Jared hadn't come to the studio. Used his early call time tomorrow as an excuse, but Jensen knew he'd find him awake when he got home, and he was right.
“Lazy,” he said, flopping down onto their bed, where Jared was drinking a beer and watching an infomercial for Mighty Putty. “You could have come with me.”
“Someone had to keep tabs on this,” Jared said. “Did you know this shit can bond steel to concrete?”
“I did,” Jensen said, smiling. He got up on all fours, crawled closer and kissed his husband. “Dude, they've been running this infomercial for twenty years. That's why the whole audience has their eyebrows shaved like Vanilla Ice.”
“They do?” Jared said, gaze flitting back to the TV. Then he laughed and gave Jensen's shoulder a shove. “Liar.”
“Made you look.”
“You looked good tonight,” Jared said. “They made you look almost presentable.”
“Kimmel hates me,” Jensen said. He lay back down on top of the covers and butted his head against Jared's arm a couple of times, until Jared got the message and turned the TV off.
“He does seem to get a lot of pleasure out of torturing you.”
“I can still hear that sadistic giggle of his,” Jensen said, and shuddered. “Ugh.”
Jared put his beer down on the bedside table and slid down to a horizontal position, giving Jensen's arm a soothing rub.
“So. Ugly head, huh?”
“What?” Jensen said, and yawned.
“'You can't control when love will rear its ugly head', that's what you said.”
“What? When?”
“On TV. Just now. In front of millions of people. Who now think my head is ugly. And possibly my rear.”
Jared stuck his lips out in a ridiculous pout, and Jensen smiled.
“A lot of them have already seen your head, you know. And your rear. They can make up their own minds whether or not they're ugly.”
“What if they thought you meant my other head?”
“Well,” Jensen said. He felt around under the blankets for Jared's cock, stroked him through his shorts, warm and a little moist already, felt him hardening under the thin cotton. “I'm the only one allowed to have an opinion on that subject.”
“Uh-huh,” Jared said, breathless. “My cock is its own fascist regime.”
“You know it,” Jensen said, trying to slip his hand into the slit in Jared's boxers. Jared kicked the blankets off to give him better access, and moaned when Jensen pulled his shorts down and wrapped eager fingers around his cock.
“Mmm,” he said, eyes falling closed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jensen said. “The dictator of dick.”
“The king of cock,” Jared added, smirking, breath shallow and quick. “Hey, that's how they should have intro'ed you.”
Jensen paused to spit into his palm, worked Jared hard and fast, straight to the point. After a few minutes, Jared started trembling, and Jensen cupped Jared's balls, gave a light squeeze and felt them tense and tighten in his palm. Jared grunted and gasped, and when Jensen went back to jerking him off, it only took a couple of long strokes and a flick of his thumb across the slit to carry Jared over the edge.
He came with a full-body shiver, gripping Jensen's shoulder. Jensen coaxed him through it, catching most of the mess in a handful of tissues that he then crumpled and tossed vaguely towards the wastebasket in the corner. They'd recently learned that protecting their bedding from come stains meant less time spent doing laundry, which meant more time for sex. It was an awesome system. They both thought so.
“Hey, so...” Jensen said not long afterwards, having run out of diversionary tactics for himself. The idea at the back of his head swelled and bulged like a tumour, no longer quite so easy to ignore.
“Hm?” Jared said, eyes still closed, making a weak attempt to reach for Jensen, expecting him to want reciprocation.
“There's something I wanted to... run past you.”
Jensen sat up, busied himself sliding his belt out of its loops, toeing his socks off, untucking his shirt. Jared got up on his elbows, his face still flushed and relaxed, though his eyes narrowed suspiciously when he caught the uneasy look on Jensen's face.
“This isn't one of those things where running it past me means it's already happened and you just want to make sure I approve, is it?” he said. “Like, 'Oh, I bought a tugboat and a captain's hat, gonna be a lobster fisherman, hope that's okay'?”
Jensen scrunched his eyebrows together. “I don't think tugboats are used for...”
“Whatever,” Jared said. “Jensen, speak. What is it?”
Jensen shrugged, then continued the movement, pulling his still-buttoned shirt off over his head.
“It's nothing,” he said, voice mostly still muffled under cloth. “Just been thinking. About kids. Babies.” He tossed his shirt across the room, but didn't turn to look at Jared. “What do you think about that?”
“Really?” Jared said. There was a pause, then Jared touched his arm, lightly. “I'm surprised your mom never told you this, Jen, but there's this magical cabbage patch, and...”
“Do you want to have kids?” Jensen said, and this time he turned, looked Jared in the eye. Jared, whose facial expression didn't quite match his joking words. “Because I... I think I do.”
“Um,” Jared said, and pressed his lips together. It made him look a little like a frog.
“Like, soon,” Jensen stammered. “You know. Preferably.”
Jared's mouth twitched a little, then a little more, and then he was barely able to talk, he was grinning so wide.
“You're a fucking moron,” he said, but he said it with such fondness, it didn't matter that he'd just called Jensen an idiot. “Of course I want to have kids with you. Dude, I say it all the time.”
He kind of did, Jensen realized. Off-hand, casual remarks, the typical 'we are never letting our kids act like that in public', but along with that, actual plans - things he'd like to teach a kid, places he'd like to go.
“Oh,” Jensen said.
“Yeah,” Jared said. “Oh.”
“So...”
“So take off your pants, bitch,” Jared said, swatting him on the ass. “We got a baby to make.”
Jensen obliged, then climbed on top of him, muttering something about poking holes in Jared's diaphragm.
In spite of Jimmy Kimmel, it turned out to be a really good night.
...
This is about the point in the story where the prologue comes into play. Remember that prologue? The one Jensen thought was so important?
Yeah, turned out the lawyer they hired, Dana, thought it was pretty important, too.
“You have an arrest record,” she said to Jensen, folding her hands into a tight ball on her crossed knees and swinging her foot back and forth. “Doesn't matter what it's for, it's going to make things difficult.”
“But the charges were dropped,” Jared said. He waved the waiter away with a quick hand, then absently ran his finger along the rim of his empty water glass. “Doesn't that change anything?”
“Somewhat,” she said. “There was no conviction, and I guess you could say that's a good thing. But I'm not dealing with what might have happened, guys. The arrest record's more than enough, especially since it's fully accessible to any Joe Schmoe with a computer and the half a brain it would take to think of googling the two of you before handing over a kid.”
“So what can we do?” Jared said. Jensen just sat there trying to keep the half-sandwich he'd eaten before Dana's arrival from coming back up.
“Public drunkenness. Disorderly conduct. Someone sees that and links it to your name, Jensen, and suddenly you've got morality issues. Character issues. These are all things they're allowed to judge you on, by the way. Adoption is an extremely intimate, subjective process.”
“Yeah, but what do we do?” Jared said again. He looked antsy, frustrated, disappointed beyond belief. Jensen thought about how he'd been the one to put that look there and felt his stomach churn all over again.
“I do actually have one suggestion,” Dana said. “But it's only that - a suggestion that might make some of the agencies take notice. If you're lucky. You're probably going to hate it.”
Jensen swallowed hard, a couple of times until he was sure he'd be able to speak.
“What?” he said. “We're not going to hate it. Anything that can help...”
“Yeah, come on,” Jared said. “Give us some credit.”
She sighed. Looked between the two of them like she was trying to decide whether they were trustworthy enough to share a family recipe with. Then she leaned down and pulled two identical red folders out of her briefcase. Handing one to each of them, she cleared her throat uncomfortably.
“'Little Miracles'?” Jared read aloud. He opened his folder, and Jensen just leaned closer and read along. “'Baby-proof yourself! Join this eight week intensive parenting seminar, hosted by Dr. Dale Weber, proud father of six (and a half)'... Half?”
Dana shrugged. “Maybe one's a step-kid.”
Jensen coughed. “Or a midget.”
Jared snorted.
“I know,” Dana said. “I know it's ridiculous, all right? But I called Richard Press at Partners For Adoption and he said they actually look for credentials like these. If nothing else, it shows commitment.”
“Yeah,” Jared said. “Eight whole weeks of commitment. Imagine that.”
He and Jensen exchanged amused glances. This was the rest of their lives they were talking about, wasn't it?
“I think we can do eight weeks,” Jensen said, and Jared nodded.
“Good!” Dana said. “Now, sign up as soon as you can, apparently classes fill up fast, and he only does two a year. And make sure you get something in writing that states you're taking the class, and your projected graduation date. If you get that to me, I might actually be able to get things started on the legal end of things.”
“They keep using the phrase 'hands-on',” Jared said, munching on some fries while he flipped through the folder, grease spotting the pages. “It's kinda creepy after the fifth time.”
Dana just sat there quietly, smiling.
...
Later that afternoon, at home, they went through the information again at their own pace. It was all very vague - no descriptions of any actual activities involved in the class, just a whole lot of parental buzzwords and yes, a beyond-healthy dose of the expression 'hands-on', which gave Jared the idea to pinch Jensen whenever he felt like it and then claim the “hands-on defense”. Which, oddly, seemed to work, since Jensen found the phrase too amusing to stay angry.
The seminar turned out to be pricier than they'd anticipated - so pricey they actually got online, together at the desk, rolling around on office chairs, and sifted through articles and forums until they were convinced it wasn't, as Jared put it, “one of those scams where you show up and it's a big empty room with phones on the floor and everyone's taken your money and run away to South America.”
“I thought I threw out your copy of Boiler Room,” Jensen said.
“Dude,” Jared said. “Vin Diesel movies exist under a different set of scientific principles. Whenever you throw one out, a new one grows in its place.”
“Like mushrooms?”
“Or lizard tails.”
“I don't know what's more disturbing,” Jensen said. “That image or your apparently boundless love of Vin Diesel.”
He turned back to the screen with an exaggerated scowl, and Jared grinned and patted his shoulder.
“Yep, you're just a place holder,” he said. “Sorry.”
“S'alright,” Jensen said. “I'm only using you for your Olsen twins connection.”
After the better part of an hour, they managed to convince themselves that the company was real. Cutesy and wholesome to a sickening degree, maybe, but real.
Jensen felt dizzy from the website's design, and his eyes hurt from the pastel text. He had no objection to light pink or baby blue, individually speaking, but together, the colours did something to his retinas that made his vision swim and his stomach clench. Or maybe that was the complete lack of knowledge as to what they'd just gotten themselves into. Either way, he had a feeling he'd be experiencing a lot of this in the next little while.
...
The last two and a half weeks of April went by in a flash. It was a little eerie, actually - Jared was on summer hiatus, with nothing much on his plate, and a couple of horribly stupid comments from test audiences (hello, it's called a dream sequence for a reason) caused Oasis' release to be delayed while its director tried to work some sort of balance between integrity and sell-out. That's how he put it when he called Jensen in for one day of reshoots, anyway.
So they were free, they had actual downtime for this thing. It was like the universe had put some effort into getting the timing just right for exactly this purpose.
The morning of their appointment at the Little Miracles offices, Jensen woke up an hour before the alarm and just stared at the ceiling. He felt Jared's breath, soft and slow against his shoulder. Listened to the silence in the house, heavy and dull in every room, everything stilled and paused around them.
“I can hear your brain,” Jared muttered without moving.
“Hmn,” Jensen said.
“It sounds like one of those things where you turn the crank and the clown pops out.”
“Don't say clown,” Jensen said. He rolled onto his side to face Jared, curled close, until his nose bumped Jared's chin. “It's too early for clowns.”
Roused by any small sign that her masters were awake and that food might be forthcoming, Sadie launched herself onto the bed, wiggling and worming her way between the two of them and responding to all commands by enthusiastically licking any bit of exposed flesh she could find.
“No, girl. No. It's not playtime yet,” Jared said, trying to get her settled back down while she went about trampling Jensen and sticking her wagging butt in his face.
“Ugh,” he said, spitting out imaginary fur. “Sadie, down!”
It got her halfway off the bed, at least: she hopped down, then immediately planted her front paws on the mattress, staring expectantly at them both. When that didn't work, she started making impatient, whiny sounds and danced on her hind legs, claws clicking on the hardwood.
In his dog bed beside the door, Harley slept through all of this, legs twitching softly in dreams.
Jared sat up, hair in a dense, crooked tangle on one side of his head, and looked from Jensen to Sadie, then to Jensen again.
“What?” Jensen said, and Sadie barked like she was wondering the same thing.
“You realize a kid's gonna be, like, nine hundred times harder than this? What the hell are we thinking?”
“Life's too easy?” Jensen said. “Gotta throw up some roadblocks or we'll lose our already-fragile grasp on reality and eventually end up snorting coke off each other's asses?”
“Uh, right,” Jared said, rubbing his eyes. “Or?”
“Or we're thinking, hey, we're crazy about each other. How can we screw that up as quickly and efficiently as possible?”
Jared flopped back down on the pillow and said, “You suck.”
“Third option?” Jensen said.
“Yes. Please.”
Jensen shifted closer, kissed Jared's earlobe, earning a jealous whine from Sadie.
“Maybe it just feels right,” he said.
“Think that's enough?” Jared said.
“It's working so far.”
“And that's our final answer?”
“Mhm,” Jensen said, and buried his smile in Jared's neck.
...
It wasn't an empty room with phones on the floor, but it wasn't far off. When they walked in, there were already four other people there, two straight and obviously pregnant couples paired off and standing around awkwardly, muttering quietly to each other. Jensen looked around the large square room, took in the lack of furniture, the dusty horizontal blinds. There was a stack of sagging gym mats against one wall and four large cardboard boxes piled near the door, as well as an AV cart on wheels, which held the world's smallest TV.
“Abandoned yoga studio?” Jared said, and Jensen laughed.
“That's so much nicer than any of the things that went through my mind.”
“Admit it, you were thinking about Vin Diesel,” Jared said, slinging an arm around Jensen's neck.
Jensen scoffed. “Yeah, like I'd ever admit that.”
They stayed near the door, exchanged commiserating glances with the other couples, but no one volunteered a name or even said hello. The general atmosphere fell somewhere between detachment and dread. A woman walked in and they repeated the process for her benefit, all the awkward glances and impatient foot-shuffling. It was another half hour of nervous near-silence before a guy holding a clipboard came in and closed the door behind him.
“Okay, I think we're all here,” he said, without looking up. “Grab a seat.”
The two other couples grabbed mats off the top of the pile and dragged them to the centre of the room, so Jensen and Jared followed, hunkering down on the ancient, cracked vinyl. The group inadvertently formed a sort of semi-circle.
“Oh God, kindergarten flashback,” Jensen muttered.
“Maybe there'll be a sing-along,” Jared said, and yawned.
“Maybe there'll be nap time,” Jensen said, rubbing at his face and stifling his own yawn. Damn contagious yawning.
They started off with introductions, which is when they found out that the guy at the front of the room wasn't Dale Weber, wholesome father of many, but merely Dale's assistant, Phillip. As for the other students, they were (in semi-circular order): John and Andrea, five months pregnant with their first child, extremely colour-coordinated, very perky; George and Misty, also five months pregnant, and apparently terrified and disgusted by the entire process; and Sarah, older, gay, single, suspiciously relaxed.
It was pretty obvious, during Jared and Jensen's intro, that some of those present already knew who they were. Especially Misty, who kept staring at Jensen like she wanted to find out first-hand if he was edible. No one said anything, though, and it turned out not to matter much.
Phillip rolled the AV cart over, dimmed the lights, and the TV came to life with a surge of shaky, atonal music. Fade in on a medium shot of a bald guy sitting on a porch swing.
“Hi,” the guy said with a ridiculously white grin. “I'm Dale Weber, and if you're watching this, that means I'm dead. Haha, just kidding. Welcome to the first eight weeks of the rest of your life.”
Jared poked Jensen and gave him a freaked out look, eyes huge and bright in the blue light from the TV. On the screen, Dale continued his introduction.
“Now, I know for a fact there's nothing you can learn from books that'll prepare you for parenthood. Believe me, I've read them all, and they're useless wastes of paper compared to how much you learn on your first day of being a parent. It's all about the hands-on experience. Which is what these next eight weeks will be about for all of you.”
Dale stood and walked along the porch, camera following tentatively along.
“That's why I commissioned the Ugobe corporation to help me come up with a hands-on solution, something that could help prepare you for the next stage of your life. I know parenthood.” He stopped next to a tired-looking blond woman with a huge, round belly, which he patted affectionately. “After all, I'm a proud father of six, with another on the way.”
“Oh! Six and a half,” Jensen whispered, pointing triumphantly at the tiny TV.
“Aw, I would have put money on Siamese twins,” Jared said, his shoulder bumping Jensen's in the quiet half-dark.
“No Siamese twins, no monkeys dressed as children,” Jensen said. “So disappointing.”
“Totally. Least exciting use of fractions ever.”
“Quiet, please!” Phillip called from the back of the room.
“I'm not going to bore you with a bunch of mumbo jumbo,” Weber was saying, still stroking his wife's belly while she just stood there smiling. “In my experience, whatever you learn, you're going to teach yourself. So, without further ado, I want you to turn off this tape, open the packages we've provided for you, and get to work. And remember - you're the ones who are going to make this a success. It's up to you now!”
Then the lights came back on.
“Huh?” Jensen said.
“I have some issues with his views on education,” said Sarah, on the mat closest to them. They exchanged pained, patient glances, and Jensen wondered how exactly she'd come to be here.
“Quiet, quiet,” said Phillip, holding one of the large cardboard boxes near the door. “When I call your names, please come and pick up your course package. John and Andrea Coates?”
When they were called up, it was Jensen who grabbed the box. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't especially heavy. He rattled it a little, causing a weight inside to shift slightly and make a low rustling sound. This got him a disapproving frown from most of the people in the room.
“All right,” Phillip said to his clipboard, after he'd delivered the last box to George and Misty, who gazed upon it with dread. “Good luck, and I'll see you next week for our first progress report.”
Then he waved, and left the room.
“You know that nightmare where you're taking an organic chemistry final and all the questions are in Finnish?” Jared said.
Jensen shifted the box under one arm and patted Jared on the back. He knew how much Jared hated that particular nightmare.
...
When they got the box home, they put it down just inside the door and took the dogs out for a long walk where they didn't talk about anything related to that morning's events. But when they got back, the box was still sitting there, just as blank and square as before, and it was with a mix of curiosity and dread that Jensen finally brought it into the kitchen and set it on the table, cutting into the tape with the edge of his house key while Jared watched, lips pressed together like he was bracing himself for something he knew he wouldn't like.
Inside, they found an alarmingly slim owner's manual, some styrofoam, some bubble wrap, a power cord, and an infant.
“What the hell?” Jared said, as Jensen unwedged it from the styrofoam and freed it from the box.
“It's... a fake kid.”
He held it by one leg, hesitated before setting it down face-up on the table. Its eyes were closed, its peach-coloured body covered in soft, pliable rubber.
“Dude. Did you piss off Ashton Kutcher?”
Jensen made a face.
“It smells like those vinyl placemats your mom gave us.”
“No, seriously, did you cut him off in traffic or something?” Jared said, spinning around like he was expecting to spot a hidden camera above the sink.
Jensen sniffed his fingers. “Oh, God, it clings to everything.” He held his hand up for Jared to smell, and Jared made a similar face.
“So, what. This is for real?” Jared said.
“I guess so.”
Jensen shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped away, until they were both leaning back against the counter, eyeing the doll suspiciously, like they thought it might move if they waited long enough. It didn't, and eventually, Jensen ventured forward and grabbed the owner's manual.
“What's it say?” Jared said, unable to tear his eyes away from the table.
“Charging time is four hours,” Jensen read. “Eyes will close when battery is low. Store in a cool, dry place. Do not use at temperatures below freezing or above 105 degrees. Spot clean with a moist cloth.”
“And?”
“That's it, that's all it says.”
“There's like fourteen pages there.”
“Yeah,” Jensen said, flipping through the manual. “English, Spanish, French, German, Japanese, Portuguese, Dutch, Italian, Mandarin, Arabic, Korean, Swedish, Russian and...” He squinted, tilting the last page a little. “Hebrew?”
Jared planted his pointy chin on Jensen's shoulder. “What's moist in French?” he asked, randomly turning back the pages.
“Why?”
“I bet it sounds dirty.”
“Here.” Jensen found the page, let his finger drift over the lines. “Humide.”
“Huh. Not all that dirty,” Jared said, his arms tightening around Jensen's waist. “And disappointingly understandable.”
“You want me to see if I can make out the Russian translation?” Jensen said.
Jared nuzzled Jensen's neck, breathing deep, then immediately backed off.
“You smell like a tire.”
It was going to be a long eight weeks.
...
They stayed away from the kitchen and its contents for the rest of the afternoon. Jensen took a shower to get rid of the smell, then located Jared in the bedroom and attempted to start a serious conversation about the situation - how they'd come to be in it in the first place, and whether Jared should have to deal with it at all, considering it was pretty much entirely Jensen's fault.
Jared apparently didn't feel much like talking, though, which is why half an hour into the discussion, Jensen was much more focused on keeping his balance while he rode Jared's dick, hands planted firmly on the headboard.
“Fuck. Yes. Oh. God,” Jared said, eyes closed, breath hitching every time Jensen's hips rocked him forward.
When they came, it was almost simultaneous, and Jared gripped Jensen's ass so hard, he'd probably have eight individual finger-shaped bruises there tomorrow. When Jensen had recovered and disengaged, he said as much, and Jared smirked, his apology entirely insincere, earning him a hearty shove, which he answered by sprawling loose-limbed on top of Jensen and pretending to go to sleep, fake snores and everything. Jensen lay there for a while, resigned and too tired to actually start a wrestling match with such an annoyingly energetic partner.
Then he cleared his throat. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“What?” Jared said, not moving from where his face was buried somewhere near Jensen's armpit.
“You know what,” Jensen said, and prodded Jared's leg with his knee.
“So what, we play house with Chucky for a while,” Jared muttered. “As long as he doesn't come to life and stab us in our sleep, I'm all right with it.”
And now Jensen had another exciting mental image to dwell on.
“Thanks for that happy thought.”
“Anytime,” Jared said, lifting his head up just enough to show off his evil grin.
“But seriously, we don't have to do this,” Jensen said, smoothing down a stray tendril of Jared's hair. “I could call Dana and tell her these guys are insane. Which is true, right? I mean, no sane person would ever... we're not overreacting, are we? I feel like we're on some cracked out reality show.”
“Jen...”
“Or we could send it to her. Freak the hell out of her. Then, I guess, tell her we'll figure something out on our own.”
“Jen.”
“Maybe it's just not meant to be. I mean, tons of people go their whole lives without having kids. It's no big deal. They do other things. They travel, go on cruises and stuff. They go bowling. They have dogs. We have dogs already. We could get another one. A puppy, maybe.”
Jared propped himself up on one elbow, looming over Jensen.
“I draw the line at bowling,” he said, with this sad, fond look on his face. Then he covered Jensen's mouth with his palm before Jensen had a chance to respond. “You don't get to do this.”
“Mht?” Jensen said anyway.
“You don't get to back out of this. Not when I know it's what you want, you neurotic freak of nature.”
He fixed Jensen with a long, steady look, and Jensen saw everything he needed to see in that look, all the certainties and insecurities to match his own, everything they felt but hadn't talked about. Sure, they'd feel a little dumb buying into the doll thing, but that wasn't the issue. What if it didn't work? What if they went through all this for nothing, came out at the end and still had the agencies brushing them off like before?
Jensen liked to say he could talk to Jared about anything, but the longer they were together, the more he discovered there were some things inside him that he couldn't bring himself to share with anyone. What made Jared special, what made Jared Jared, was that he didn't have to. Jared already knew. Jensen could only hope he did the same for Jared.
Harley wandered into the room, ended the moment with a well-timed squeak from his purple cow. As soon as he saw he'd gotten their attention, he dropped the toy carefully onto the bed, making an instant puddle of drool. Jensen picked it up by its driest extremity and squeezed it a few times before sending it bouncing into the hallway.
As the dog bounded away, Jared rolled off the bed and picked up his jeans, sliding them on without bothering to look for underwear.
“I'm gonna go plug in the baby,” he said.
Jensen laughed. “Already so realistic,” he said.
“Maybe we can get it a little AC/DC t-shirt or something,” Jared said, then disappeared down the stairs.
Jensen tossed the purple cow for Harley a few more times before the old guy got tired and stopped chasing after it, lay down on the floor beside the bed instead.
“Good boy,” Jensen said, leaning down to scratch behind Harley's ears and using his thin, coarse fur to wipe the drool off his hand. “Five times round trip, today! That's my hard working boy!”
Harley barked, a sharp, joyful sound, and leaned into Jensen's touch.
Master Post | Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Epilogue | Art & Soundtrack Post