[mijmeraar] GODOT, J2, R.
Title: Godot.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen UNREQUITED. Jared/Genevieve.
Rating: R.
Summary: Jared’s stuck in-between, coming from and going to but never getting there.
AN: THIS IS SO RANDOM. Misha made me do it.
*
Jared’s forehead grooves against the steering wheel of his golf buggy. He listens to Jensen and Tom, in the buggy up front - stationary, waiting - and he plays with a hole in the leg of his jeans.
“I hate my life,” Jensen’s saying. “Why me, you know?”
“I just want to get away from it all,” Tom agrees. “The success, the security, the girls.”
Jensen makes a few sniffily, scoffing noises in agreement. “The mazuma, Tommy. It’s just not worth it.”
Tom’s defeated, snorting through his laughter, and Mike’s returned, banging on the roof of Jared’s buggy. “Mazuma mah ass, let’s go baby!”
“Asshole co-workers,” Tom calls over his shoulder, turning the key. “How do we do it?”
Jensen looks around at Jared and grins with everything.
Jared’s hands clench tighter on the wheel.
*
They bunker down in LAX and wait. Jensen grumbles under his breath [could be home, could have slept longer, could, could, could] and then fluffs his pillow against Jared’s shoulder to rest his head. Jared fiddles with the lining of the arm rest, come loose, listens for Jensen’s breathing, buried under the noise of angry flyers.
“I wonder how much time we spend in an airport?” he asks quietly, and Jensen doesn’t even open his eyes. He says,
“Why?” and it’s disbelieving, as if there’s no good answer anyway.
“I don’t know. If we sleep for half our lives and then half of the other half is spent squeezed into these shitty little chairs I wanna know, you know?”
“I’m meant to sleep half my life? I have some serious back pay owing to me.”
Jared smiles, throwing an arm over the other chair, trying not to move. “One day,” he says, eyes cast out the far window, watching somebody else’s plane take off. “One day Jesus is going to knock on my door and be all, we’re terribly sorry Mr. Padalecki. It seems we misplaced a very substantial amount of your twenties. Please accept this Gift Voucher for 10,322 hours of Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll.”
Jared doesn’t see, but he can feel, Jensen is holding back his laughter. Jensen does that. “Jesus speak to you often, Jay?”
“Fuck you,” Jared coos, [see if I let you sleep on me now] and stands up, and claps his hands. “I’m going to get coffee.”
“Good idea. Start with drugs.”
*
Jared’s back is pressed against the headboard, his hands digging gently into Genevieve’s arse, her back. There’s sound. There’s the rustle of the sheets, beneath Gen’s knees. Their small, hitching breaths and the slick and slap and pop of skin. There’s sound, there’s movement, it works how it’s supposed to.
They’re getting better [at getting off].
“I’m free, Thursday night,” Jared says, after. He watches her tug on her panties, her jeans, a tee shirt he had told her he hated.
“Uh huh.”
“What? You’re not?”
She laughs hollow, throws her bag over her shoulder and sits her glasses on her head. “How about we wait and see if anybody calls between now and then,” she says. “Okay?”
Jared doesn’t try to argue.
*
It’s late, and they’re late; a beat up yellow taxi in the back, back, back of too many cars. It doesn’t help that it’s raining, and when Jared says, “We should get out and run,” Jensen only snorts at him, peering out the window.
“What is this thing, anyway?”
“I thought you knew.”
Jared groans; moves his stiff, too long legs and their knees knock. “Two grown ass men going wherever we’re told to.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah, right. We could be walking into a seminar for Erectile Dysfunction and we didn’t know it because we were too busy working.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jensen’s still watching out the window. The taxi moves an inch, two maybe. “We’ve already been to that seminar.”
“Right. Your girlfriend says hi, by the way.”
Jensen laughs from the belly, surprise. He only says, “You’re …” smiling and shaking his head. Jared looks, watches, sees Jensen. It’s the first time that night.
“I what? Want to get out and run? Yes. Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Jensen has a big, dramatic sigh and throws a hand behind his head. The bottom of his tee rides up, skin poking out, stark, like sunlight behind cloud. “I’m comfortable.”
Jared’s hand hovers on the door handle. It’s still pissing rain.
He stays.
*
Misha’s drunk. This, in itself, is funny enough. Except, he keeps talking.
“Have you ever been to a flea market?” he asks Jared, stepping forward and stumbling back. They’re on the second floor; they’re on the elevator, going up.
Jared says, “You’re so cheap,” but Misha’s ignoring him.
“Life,” he continues, in a voice caught between Angel Thursday and Man Friday. “Is like a flea market.”
“It itches?”
“You’re sitting on the edge with your fuckin’ suitcases and your old tattered boxes and this is it, right? This is you. And you’re waiting. You’re just waiting for someone to come along and say, hey, I like that. I want that.”
Jared blinks. He even shakes his head a little. [Oh. This is real.] “Where did that come from?”
“Jensen.”
“Jensen spends three digits on tea towels.”
“What?”
“What?”
“I’m talking about Jensen.” Misha presses buttons, eighth floor, ninth, tenth, Jared’s never getting out of here. “And you. And how there’s no Jensen and you. And how you’ve been sitting at your stall for five years and you keep flashing your silver at Jensen and he keeps going next door for the bronze. And you can sit at your stall forever - and you probably will - or you can pack up and go home.”
Jared breathes in and holds onto everything. Misha knows, and he’s talking and it’s happening and - fuck it. “What’s at home?” he asks, quiet, afraid, hopeful.
Misha makes a buzzing sound. “Wrong,” he says, and the doors open. “The answer is, What’s not at home?”
*
The tips of Jared’s toes are flirting with the threshold, but he doesn’t step in. He says, “I was - ” and forgets everything. Jensen answered the door, but forgot to put a shirt on.
“What?” Jensen’s saying around a mouthful of toothbrush. There’s a speckle of paste on his chin.
“I was just checking on you. You know, checking you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay? Are you okay?”
“I’m.” Waiting. [I’m arching my neck and I’m touching my lips to your lips and I’m]. “Fine. I’m fine.”
End.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen UNREQUITED. Jared/Genevieve.
Rating: R.
Summary: Jared’s stuck in-between, coming from and going to but never getting there.
AN: THIS IS SO RANDOM. Misha made me do it.
*
Jared’s forehead grooves against the steering wheel of his golf buggy. He listens to Jensen and Tom, in the buggy up front - stationary, waiting - and he plays with a hole in the leg of his jeans.
“I hate my life,” Jensen’s saying. “Why me, you know?”
“I just want to get away from it all,” Tom agrees. “The success, the security, the girls.”
Jensen makes a few sniffily, scoffing noises in agreement. “The mazuma, Tommy. It’s just not worth it.”
Tom’s defeated, snorting through his laughter, and Mike’s returned, banging on the roof of Jared’s buggy. “Mazuma mah ass, let’s go baby!”
“Asshole co-workers,” Tom calls over his shoulder, turning the key. “How do we do it?”
Jensen looks around at Jared and grins with everything.
Jared’s hands clench tighter on the wheel.
*
They bunker down in LAX and wait. Jensen grumbles under his breath [could be home, could have slept longer, could, could, could] and then fluffs his pillow against Jared’s shoulder to rest his head. Jared fiddles with the lining of the arm rest, come loose, listens for Jensen’s breathing, buried under the noise of angry flyers.
“I wonder how much time we spend in an airport?” he asks quietly, and Jensen doesn’t even open his eyes. He says,
“Why?” and it’s disbelieving, as if there’s no good answer anyway.
“I don’t know. If we sleep for half our lives and then half of the other half is spent squeezed into these shitty little chairs I wanna know, you know?”
“I’m meant to sleep half my life? I have some serious back pay owing to me.”
Jared smiles, throwing an arm over the other chair, trying not to move. “One day,” he says, eyes cast out the far window, watching somebody else’s plane take off. “One day Jesus is going to knock on my door and be all, we’re terribly sorry Mr. Padalecki. It seems we misplaced a very substantial amount of your twenties. Please accept this Gift Voucher for 10,322 hours of Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll.”
Jared doesn’t see, but he can feel, Jensen is holding back his laughter. Jensen does that. “Jesus speak to you often, Jay?”
“Fuck you,” Jared coos, [see if I let you sleep on me now] and stands up, and claps his hands. “I’m going to get coffee.”
“Good idea. Start with drugs.”
*
Jared’s back is pressed against the headboard, his hands digging gently into Genevieve’s arse, her back. There’s sound. There’s the rustle of the sheets, beneath Gen’s knees. Their small, hitching breaths and the slick and slap and pop of skin. There’s sound, there’s movement, it works how it’s supposed to.
They’re getting better [at getting off].
“I’m free, Thursday night,” Jared says, after. He watches her tug on her panties, her jeans, a tee shirt he had told her he hated.
“Uh huh.”
“What? You’re not?”
She laughs hollow, throws her bag over her shoulder and sits her glasses on her head. “How about we wait and see if anybody calls between now and then,” she says. “Okay?”
Jared doesn’t try to argue.
*
It’s late, and they’re late; a beat up yellow taxi in the back, back, back of too many cars. It doesn’t help that it’s raining, and when Jared says, “We should get out and run,” Jensen only snorts at him, peering out the window.
“What is this thing, anyway?”
“I thought you knew.”
Jared groans; moves his stiff, too long legs and their knees knock. “Two grown ass men going wherever we’re told to.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah, right. We could be walking into a seminar for Erectile Dysfunction and we didn’t know it because we were too busy working.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jensen’s still watching out the window. The taxi moves an inch, two maybe. “We’ve already been to that seminar.”
“Right. Your girlfriend says hi, by the way.”
Jensen laughs from the belly, surprise. He only says, “You’re …” smiling and shaking his head. Jared looks, watches, sees Jensen. It’s the first time that night.
“I what? Want to get out and run? Yes. Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Jensen has a big, dramatic sigh and throws a hand behind his head. The bottom of his tee rides up, skin poking out, stark, like sunlight behind cloud. “I’m comfortable.”
Jared’s hand hovers on the door handle. It’s still pissing rain.
He stays.
*
Misha’s drunk. This, in itself, is funny enough. Except, he keeps talking.
“Have you ever been to a flea market?” he asks Jared, stepping forward and stumbling back. They’re on the second floor; they’re on the elevator, going up.
Jared says, “You’re so cheap,” but Misha’s ignoring him.
“Life,” he continues, in a voice caught between Angel Thursday and Man Friday. “Is like a flea market.”
“It itches?”
“You’re sitting on the edge with your fuckin’ suitcases and your old tattered boxes and this is it, right? This is you. And you’re waiting. You’re just waiting for someone to come along and say, hey, I like that. I want that.”
Jared blinks. He even shakes his head a little. [Oh. This is real.] “Where did that come from?”
“Jensen.”
“Jensen spends three digits on tea towels.”
“What?”
“What?”
“I’m talking about Jensen.” Misha presses buttons, eighth floor, ninth, tenth, Jared’s never getting out of here. “And you. And how there’s no Jensen and you. And how you’ve been sitting at your stall for five years and you keep flashing your silver at Jensen and he keeps going next door for the bronze. And you can sit at your stall forever - and you probably will - or you can pack up and go home.”
Jared breathes in and holds onto everything. Misha knows, and he’s talking and it’s happening and - fuck it. “What’s at home?” he asks, quiet, afraid, hopeful.
Misha makes a buzzing sound. “Wrong,” he says, and the doors open. “The answer is, What’s not at home?”
*
The tips of Jared’s toes are flirting with the threshold, but he doesn’t step in. He says, “I was - ” and forgets everything. Jensen answered the door, but forgot to put a shirt on.
“What?” Jensen’s saying around a mouthful of toothbrush. There’s a speckle of paste on his chin.
“I was just checking on you. You know, checking you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay? Are you okay?”
“I’m.” Waiting. [I’m arching my neck and I’m touching my lips to your lips and I’m]. “Fine. I’m fine.”
End.