The Moon Is New - Part One
It shouldn't feel like coming home. Home is Texas and all its windblown emptiness, the plains rolling out beyond the horizon and the red-rock dirt kicked up by the horses. Jensen’s seen neither hide nor hair of Richardson since his twenty-first birthday, but still, it's the only home he's ever known. New York is just someplace he passes through, the sort of place you wind up in when you've been drummed out of somewhere else. It's vast and crowded and colourless, and Jensen never expected to feel any attachment to it.
It isn't as if there's anything particularly prepossessing about this downtown neighbourhood with its narrow alleyways and rusting fire-escapes, cats slinking skinnily through the gutters outside gaudily lit hotels and seedy bars. Misha's speakeasy is one of the most dubious establishments in town -- not because he has girls for sale, but specifically because he never would -- and it looks it, the front door shrinking into the brickwork, the lettering faded. There's a cold wind whipping down the alley, carrying with it the smell of burning hops and smoke, and if Jensen were the rational man he's always striven to be, he'd be feeling nothing right now beyond a mild disgust.
None of this explains why his stomach should kick so pleasantly as he turns the door handle and sets his shoulder to it, the better to force the leading edge across the concrete floor where it warped in all last winter's rain. Jensen was here a lot then; remembers stumbling in and loosing torrents of water onto the floor from his sodden overcoat, the way Misha laughed at him in between complaints about the mess. These flagstones are familiar, along with the dim cast of light the bar has during the day, filtering in through the high, street-level windows. It's a long time since Jensen's frequented any place enough to feel any fondness for it, but apparently he's falling into a rut in his old age. He's here on business, ostensibly, but Jensen can't even deny to himself that there's more to it than that; that he wants to be here, and no longer sees the point in trying. The place is a shithole, but it's Misha's shithole, and somehow that makes a world of difference.
The room's quiet when he slips inside, the piano in its customary place, unattended and still. From somewhere behind the bar he hears the gentle clink-clink of glasses being polished and stacked, and takes a moment to wonder whether Misha's got Mr Music doing double duty -- or triple, maybe, if you counted his bedroom responsibilities. Jensen's mouth quirks upward in a wry little smirk as he rounds the corner, heading towards the long, dark-wood bar, surface gleaming faintly like the sheen on a horse chestnut. Maybe he'll surprise him, startle some amusing expression onto his comic-book handsome face.
"Hey," Jensen tosses out, short and smirking. He can see him now, his long figure a blur through the bubbled glass screen, rooting around in the cupboard where the glasses live. "Hey, Matt -- I think you missed a spot." His thumb works idly on the immaculate top of the bar, rubbing little circles.
The figure behind the glass does not, to Jensen's disappointment, jerk suddenly, or turn too quickly and bang its head off the screen inadvertently, or any of the things he'd half wished for. It does, however, pause in what it's doing, and then, rather hesitantly, inch out from behind the glass screen to poke its head out and examine the newcomer. Its head, which is all soft, dark hair and bemused hazel eyes, not a day over eighteen. Jensen's aware of his own eyes widening slowly, and then narrowing again in confusion.
"You're not Matt," he says, redundant and low.
Mystery boy shakes his head minutely. His hair is too long, falling into his eyes when he moves too jerkily. It's charming in an adolescent sort of way, but Jensen is absolutely not feeling the stirrings of interest in any of the places he shouldn't. Absolutely not.
The boy is wearing one of Misha's dish-washing aprons nipped in around his narrow waist, marking him out as some sort of backroom cleaner, perhaps, but Misha's never hired a cleaner before, in Jensen's experience. He crosses his arms and studies him, his long, lean figure and broad shoulders under the shirt, and wonders rather cynically what criteria Misha used in selecting his preferred candidate for the role. Most of the clientele of this bar are concealing more illegal proclivities than a fondness for alcohol, and Misha caters to them shamelessly. "So?" he prompts, when he's sure the boy isn't about to volunteer any information on his own. "Who are you, then?"
"Um." The boy colours a little, and goddamn if it isn't stupidly adorable. "I'm Jared."
Jensen raises his eyebrows, waiting for more. Jared shifts his feet and offers a half-smile. Jensen sighs, but for some reason it's not up to his usual levels of scathing.
"How nice for you." It's hot and muggy in the bar, as if from too much smoke or wash-water steam, and Jensen pulls off his fedora with a sigh of relief, setting it down on the bar and reaching up to fluff the front of his hair back into something resembling its usual shape. "What are you doing in my friend's bar, Jared?"
"Well..." Jared holds up an arm, displaying what Jensen quickly determines is a dishcloth in his hand. "I'm cleaning."
"I can see that," Jensen tells him, gently. "I meant, did he hire you?"
"Believe me, Ackles, he's here with my full approval -- which is more than can be said for you."
They both turn simultaneously, Jensen and the boy, to see Misha at the bottom of the stairs with a glass half-full in his hand, grinning lopsidedly. Jensen blinks for a second and then laughs. It's been weeks, now, but Misha looks better than ever, blue eyes warm and dark with contentment, his habitual five-o'-clock shadow absent for once. Jensen feels a momentary twinge that he hasn't been the one to put that contentment in Misha's eyes, but it's gone by the time Misha's crossed the few yards between them to pull Jensen into a one-armed hug. They're better like this, anyway, as friends. Jensen isn't boyfriend material, and he loves Misha enough to want him to have someone who is. Besides, after eight weeks and at least as many fucks since Misha was this close to him, his body has abandoned any primal sense of mate it might have begun, sentimentally, to attach to Misha's, and Jensen finds himself perfectly able to hug back without compunction.
"Guess you don't want all these illegal substances I've risked life and limb to fetch for you, then, asshole?" Jensen mutters into the soft muss of Misha's hair. Misha laughs throatily and pulls back.
"Didn't say that. The whisky definitely has my full approval." His face is soft when he catches Jensen's eyes again, smirking. "Kidding, idiot. I see you've met my protegé?"
Jensen grins and glances back over towards the bubbled-glass screen, behind which Jared is still attempting to conceal himself, whether consciously or out of some unintended impulse born of shyness, Jensen can't be sure. "Is that what they're calling 'em nowadays?" he says slowly, eyes on Jared's face. Misha snorts.
"It is when that's what they are. I'm training him to follow in my footsteps, so be nice. And he lives in the spare room now, so you better get used to it." He tosses a smile in Jared's direction. "Don't mind Jensen, baby. His bark is worse than his bite, believe me."
For some reason Jensen doesn't really want to explore, he's mildly irritated by the way Jared's face softens at the endearment, as if he doesn't get that Misha calls everyone 'baby'. "Where'd you get him?" he shoots back, still addressing Misha.
"Jensen, anyone would think he was a shiny new lamp or something, the way you go on." There's a note in Misha's voice that says he's fully aware Jensen is being an ass on purpose. Jensen hates that Misha can tell, hates it even more than he loves it. "Jared's an orphan; he was selling newspapers on some corner somewhere and I thought he looked..." he shrugs -- "promising."
"Thought your customers would like him, you mean," Jensen says snidely. He turns, elbow on the bar, and leans over towards Jared. "Hey, you watch the dirty old men he gets in here, you hear me? I'll bet they're all over you."
"I can take care of myself," Jared says. It's modulated, careful, maybe a little quiet, but it's the most Jensen's heard him say so far, and there's more than a little defiance in it. Jensen leans back, mildly impressed despite himself.
"Well," he says, feeling suddenly slightly off his game, "good. You ever need any help, you tell me."
"Jensen's our dirty old man in residence," Misha explains, very seriously, "and he carries a gun at all times. Either that, or he's just always real happy to see me."
"You wish," Jensen says, giving Misha a little shove. Jared, having now stepped out slightly from behind the safety of the screen, laughs a little, and Jensen feels his chest glow immoderately with something close to pride. God, it's obviously been way too long since he was around friends, if getting a laugh out of a kid is enough to cheer him up so much. Even if it is a really nice laugh.
"You're getting in everyone's way, you monster," Misha tells him, pointedly. "Jared's supposed to be shining my glasses and you're distracting him. Where's my stuff?"
The boy is still leaning slightly on the edge of the glass screen, hips tilted lazily, cloth dangling from his hand. He's smiling, faint but open-mouthed, and his teeth glint whitely in the pale filtered light. Jensen tears his eyes away with an effort. "If you'd let me talk," he says, "I'd have told you I need help with it. I left it with Seb up in the usual place -- can't carry it all, and we don't want to be making multiple trips. Can you spare Matt?"
"Yeah," Misha says, slowly, like he's thinking it through, "yeah. Tell you what -- give me a minute and we'll all go, huh? Come upstairs, and we'll go by the front street." He nods in the direction of the internal exit, indicating that Jensen should follow.
"Gonna leave Jared here on his own?"
He doesn't know what makes him ask it. Obviously this place has been running just fine for weeks without him, and Misha knows what he's doing. Hell, apparently Jared knows what he's doing, too, whoever the hell he is. But Jensen likes to dot the I's and cross the T's, is all. He's a perfectionist that way.
"Jared can handle it for now," Misha tells him, leaning down over the banister of the stairwell to flick at the top of Jensen's head. "Now get your hat and let's go, cowboy, huh? I want my goods sometime this week."
"Yeah," Jensen says, slowly, as he reaches a long arm for his fedora and starts up the stairs. "Yeah, sure. Lead on, Macduff."
Misha takes the stairs two at a time, as ever, but Jensen finds himself going up more slowly, pausing at the top for a last glance back at the bar before he steps through the door into the street-level apartment. Behind the bar, Jared is polishing glasses diligently, but he glances up as if sensing Jensen's gaze on him, eyes quiet and curious.
Jensen turns away quickly, catches the door before it's fully closed and steps through it. No sense in paying too much attention to the kid, after all. If the place goes up in flames because nobody actually ever checked him out -- well. That'll be Misha's funeral. It's none of Jensen's business.
The next time Jensen sees Jared is three days later, when he ducks in out of a rainy Saturday evening to find that the place has, shockingly, not burned down. On the contrary, it's positively crawling with people, the jangling sound of the piano barely audible above the din of laughter and the clatter of glasses. Jensen ducks his head protectively and shoulders his way through the crowd, seeking out some island of safety in which to pause and gather himself.
As it turns out, the first such island is the little gap left by the revellers around the piano like some sort of bizarre sign of respect. Jensen shakes himself and inhales, but given the cigarette smouldering between Matt's lips, it isn't terribly refreshing.
"Christ, busy tonight, huh?" He has to shout to make himself heard, and the scrunched-up expression on Matt's face makes it clear he's processing the words only with difficulty even still.
"Insane," Matt says. His hands are flying incessantly over the keys, feet pumping down on the pedals in a way more utilitarian than artistic, but it emphasises the sound, and that's pretty much all Matt can aim for at this stage. There's sweat licking the lines of his throat, glistening along his clavicle. Jensen has to admit he's pretty damn hot like this, but then, of course Misha's always had good taste.
"Danni been in?" he asks, on a whim. He hasn't seen Danni in a good long time, but this is an exceptionally busy night -- presumably because word somehow got abroad of Misha's new shipment -- and Danni always does somehow show up on the busiest nights, like the shiniest sort of bad penny.
Matt laughs shortly and indicates the far side of the room with a nod of his head. "By the bar, last I saw her. Green dress."
"Thanks," Jensen yells. Matt makes a face of uncomprehension and Jensen sighs, shakes his head and smiles, it doesn't matter. He turns, takes a deep breath like a swimmer readying for a big dive, and plunges back in.
When he emerges on the other side of the thickest swell of crowd, he spots her immediately. Bright green dress like a parrot's plumage, shingled hair glinting red under the lights; it could only be Danni. She's talking to someone, some tall guy Jensen can't make out the details of, but that's okay. Anyone who's visited the club more than a couple of times knows Jensen has no designs on Danni, or on anyone else's girl, if it comes to that.
"Hey, sugar." He loops an arm around her waist, tips her back against him easily and kisses the side of her face, somewhere between her cheekbone and the bolt of her jaw. She tastes like glitter and smells like tequila, that heavenly Danni combination. "How's things?"
She turns immediately in the circle of his arm, laughing up at him. "They were great till you showed up," she says, while every fibre of her gives the lie to her words. "Where the hell've you been, Jensen? I'd given you up for dead!"
"So I see," Jensen tells her, grinning despite himself. Danni's always had that effect on him. "New fella?"
To his surprise, she bursts out laughing at that, the type of laughter that certainly could never constitute an embarrassed giggle. "Well, he's pretty, but don't you think he's kinda young for me, baby?" She gestures vaguely, and Jensen follows the line of it, right over to the tall guy, who...oh.
"Hello again," Jared says, smiling a little wryly. The apron has been abandoned, but now Jensen looks close, he can see he's still in his same neat white shirt and plus-fours, although his hands are loosely in his pockets now, shoulders relaxed like someone's managed to get a few drinks in him. It's an improvement.
"Hello," Jensen says, his own smile broad and warm. Misha probably would have called it flirtatious, but Misha thinks all Jensen's interactions are flirtatious. Besides, from the look of things, this kid's probably more interested in Danni's glorious tits than anything Jensen could ever offer him, just like most other healthy young men his age. Jensen doesn't expect anything, so there's no harm, as far as he can see, in being nice. Misha said himself he'd better get used to him, and this is pretty much Jensen's tried and tested way of expanding his social circle, shifting his boundaries of comfort in accordance with any and all changes.
"Have you two met?" Danni asks, lightly. "Jared's been keeping me company, Jen. I've been teaching him to Charleston!"
"I'm awful at it," Jared puts in, still smiling a little. Jensen can't help noticing that his eyes, despite the proximity of Danni's marvellous bosom in that green dress, are firmly on Jensen's face. Not that it means anything, but theoretically, it's interesting.
"Everyone's awful at it," Jensen says, "Except Danni. But Danni'll dance with anyone who stands still long enough."
"Look who's talking!" Danni protests, nipping him hard through his sleeve with her long nails. It's a show protest, though, mostly, as both of them know, and seconds later she's smiling again, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the pulsing crowd. "Hey, I'm gonna go see if I can find Jason anywhere, okay? But it's great to have you back, Jensen, really. I'm sure I'll see the both of you later." With a parting wave she disappears into the crowd, and it swallows her up as entirely as if she had never been -- but for the awkwardness now grown to fill the shape of her that now hangs palpably in the air. Jensen clears his throat.
"Misha cut you loose for the night, huh?"
It's so loud that he has to lean in close to be heard, but Jared seems to understand, as well he should if he's been here all this time. He leans back in himself when he replies, one hand braced on the edge of the bar. "Fridays I get off at eight," he yells in Jensen's ear, and then points to Jensen's watch. "What time is it?"
Jensen turns his wrist, glances at his watch face. "Uh...ten after eleven."
Jared nods a little over-vigorously, and Jensen recognises the slightly loose movements of the mildly drunk, although Jared seems to be holding it together pretty well in other areas, apart from being a little less criminally shy than he'd seemed the other day.
"So I've been here three hours," he says, as if it needed stating; and then, unexpectedly, he flashes Jensen a grin. It's one hell of a grin, too, showing white teeth whose slight crookedness is bizarrely compelling, and Jensen finds himself momentarily arrested. Then Jared shakes his head, not, apparently, for any particular reason except to toss the hair out of his eyes, and the moment passes, although the heat it sparked at the base of Jensen's spine does not go out. It's just a little glow, for now, pleasant without being distracting, but it makes Jensen perhaps a little bolder than he ought to be.
"Did Danni actually manage to teach you any dances in that time?" he asks, lightly.
God, he's dying for a cigarette. He fumbles his case out of his inside pocket as he poses the question, but his eyes never leave Jared's face as he thumbs it open, extracts a cigarette and returns it, swapping it out for his lighter in an ingenious sleight of hand he was taught as a teenager and never forgot. Jared's face slackens a little in surprise at the sound of the lighter snicking into flame, as if he can't understand where it appeared from, and Jensen grins around the cigarette as he lights it.
"Asked you a question, Jared," he says when the lighter's tucked safely away again, his voice light and teasing, and Jared blinks and shivers a little, caught off-guard.
"Uh," he says, tearing his eyes away from Jensen's suit jacket, concealer of secrets, in order to look Jensen in the face again. "No, she -- I don't really dance." He shrugs. "I'm kinda awkward, I guess."
"Oh, I can't believe that." Jensen's tone is blatantly teasing now, self-indulgent, and he takes a long drag on his cigarette; blows out a long plume of smoke that curls up over the brim of his back-tilted hat. "Boy like you?"
Jared's all high colour across his cheekbones now, but the tone of his retort is impressively unshrinking, even though the delivery is a little shaky. "I'm all feet," he says firmly, "case you haven't noticed."
Jensen's just opening his mouth to deliver the beautifully obvious response Jared's just tossed into his lap when a hand closes on his shoulder.
"Don't you dare say what you're about to," Misha says, and the hand on Jensen's shoulder squeezes harder, just enough to suggest pain. Jensen sighs heavily and glances back at him, eyebrows raised.
"Y'know," he says, "you really do have the worst sense of timing in the goddamn charted world, Misha."
"The best, I think you mean," Misha shoots back, side-stepping Jensen neatly. When he pauses, he's standing next to Jared, and Jensen notices for the first time just how extreme is the difference in height between the two of them, Jared four or five inches taller than Misha's six feet. Jesus Christ, but that's one long kid. Jensen can tell from the way Misha's arm moves abortively that he'd been about to curl a protective arm around Jared's shoulders and has thought better of it, undoubtedly because of how ridiculous it would look. Sometimes Misha's smart that way, checks himself. The problem is that Jensen's more than half-certain he long ago took it upon himself to check Jensen, too, whenever he deemed it necessary.
As if Jensen is actually going to try anything on his probably girl-inclined little protegé, for Christ's sake, beyond a little harmless flirting. He'd complain about overprotectiveness, except for the fact that he's pretty sure Misha got a lot of that from Jensen, and he has no intention of toning down his own. A man has to look out for his buddies in a world like this one, especially in the unmapped areas of New York City.
Evidently Misha's been expanding the boundaries of this whole looking-out-for-each-other thing, if the way Jared's looking at him is any indication, all quiet fondness and a dash of teenage hero-worship. It's not that the bar hasn't needed a general dogsbody for a long while, but taking in some kid off the street seems kind of extreme. All Jensen can think is that Misha's gone a little Machiavellian in his management decisions and decided to inveigle someone as fully as possible into his debt, the better to be certain he won't bring the police to the door for the sake of thirty pieces of Prohibition silver. That, or maybe Jared was just too adorable to walk straight past.
The former would undoubtedly be the better business reason, but Jensen's gut tells him that, with Misha, the latter is the more likely motivation. Honestly, Misha. Sometimes Jensen wonders where the hell he'd have ended up without Jensen's guidance, apart from stony-broke and possibly in jail.
"Jensen's not bothering you, is he, baby?" Misha's hand has found the small of Jared's back, which, fair enough, is a placement that makes him look altogether less dumb than he would have done with his arm hooked up and around the neck of a boy who'd give a baby giraffe a run for its money. "You can dance with anyone or no-one you like in my club, you know that, right?"
Jared laughs a little; smiles up at Misha and then glances sidelong over at Jensen, and once again Jensen is momentarily silenced by the levelness of his gaze. "He's okay," Jared says, eyes still on Jensen's face. "I already told him I didn't dance."
"Well," Misha says, slowly, "Okay. You just keep tellin' him, huh?" He lets his hand drop and turns to push back into the crowd, shouldering Jensen as he passes and giving him a very significant look. Jensen's known him long enough to read the be careful, you fucker in it as plain as day, but what makes him laugh is that the look does not say 'touch him and die' the way it has done on many a previous occasion. The irony of it is that Jared, plainly, is far too much of a spunky little bird for Jensen to actually entertain such thoughts seriously, and yet Misha's looking at him like things might head that way and he wants Jensen to go careful. Ordinarily, it only takes one look and the kids are falling over themselves for whatever they can get of Jensen's attention, which, of course, is when Misha pulls his daddy face out and says, "Jensen, he's just a kid." And then the kids slide their hands up Jensen's thigh under the table, and Jensen rides 'em hard and good in the cloakroom, and Misha pretends to be above speaking to Jensen for at least six or seven hours. So far, so normal.
Jared is absolutely not one of those. It's a shame, really, because Jensen's taste doesn't really run to the solicitous prettyboys who make up the majority of his bedroom traffic, and Jared's spunk has its own appeal, but Jensen knows when it's window-shopping only. The fact that Misha can't tell is exactly the reason he needs Jensen, to point out things like that he and his adorable new pianist are in love or whatever. Jared's cute to spar with a little, but Jensen doesn't leap unless he knows he'll be landing firmly on a ledge. Falling is painful, after all. He's done it once, and once was a time too often.
He's pretty much done with his cigarette; is about to stub it out on the bar when Jared stops him, big hand brushing against Jensen's wrist. Jensen blinks out of his reverie to find Jared looking at him, gesturing vaguely at the cigarette.
"Can I have it?" he asks, guileless, like he's learned his whole life that shy kids don't get nothin'. Jensen laughs; digs into his pocket just for that and pulls out another two cigarettes and his matchbox.
"Have a sample," he says, holding out the lit cigarette with its untouched companions for Jared to take. Jared's eyes go round.
"Thanks," he says, taking the offerings immediately. Jensen inclines his head, tips his hat in acknowledgement.
"Don't tell Misha," he says. Clearly, Misha's gone on one of his health kicks about cigarettes breaking your wind, or whatever, if Jared's as pleased as this to be given a couple.
And then there's that grin again, brief white flash of teeth that have no business being as damn near perfect as they are, not on a kid who spent however many years on his own. "Secret's safe with me," Jared says.
Damn, it really is a shame he's not that type, because it's becoming increasingly clear that he's definitely Jensen's.
Jensen grins back disarmingly. "Attaboy," he says, and turns to shove his way into the crowd.
When he emerges on the other side of the room, he looks back, following an impulse he doesn't care to trace the origins of, but Jared's nowhere to be seen. The little island by the bar has filled up with people, and Jared is lost somewhere in the stream.
"Better keep an eye on that accident waiting to happen," Matt says, leaning back on his stool so Misha can relight his cigarette without Matt having to take his fingers off the keys. He's right in the middle of an elaborate Charleston number he's particularly proud of, and it'd be a real shame to interrupt it mid-flow.
Misha snorts. The lighter is heavy, embossed, pretty much exactly the opposite of what he'd have chosen for himself, but Jensen brought it back for him from some extended rum-run early in their acquaintance, so of course Misha carries it religiously. Plus, it makes a satisfyingly loud clicking sound as it flares up, and doesn't leave grimy residue on his thumb afterwards. He waits a second for Matt to inhale, then clicks the lighter closed, too hard; flicks it open again irritably. "What, Jensen and Jared?"
"He's had his eye on that kid since the moment he saw him," Matt says lightly. His words have taken on the strange, syncopated sing-song tone they always get when he's playing something complicated, like they're unconsciously fitting themselves to the tune. Misha finds it crazily endearing.
"True. But, you know, normally when someone catches Jensen's eye, he's had him and ditched him within the space of forty-eight hours, tops." He leans an elbow on the top of the piano and looks down at Matt seriously.
Matt looks back, and there's an equally serious little furrow between his brows, like he knows without further explanation that Misha isn't dismissing the whole thing with that statement. Matt often knows these things without asking. "So what are you saying?"
"Oh, I don't know," Misha says, stalling. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs expansively. "If I tell him to keep his hands offa my boy, blah, blah, masculine posturing, he'll make damn sure he fucks him good and leaves him high and dry, you know that."
Matt raises his eyebrows. "But?" he prompts.
"But," Misha goes on, "if I don't say that, I -- I just don't see that happening here." He shakes his head slightly, contemplative. "Jared held his own on the streets for damn near two years; he can handle Jensen. Jensen isn't used to that. And..." Another shrug. "It might be good for him, is all."
The expression on Matt's face is decidedly dubious. "I have my doubts about it not going where it always goes, Mish," he says, cautiously.
"Well." Misha tilts his hips out, crosses his legs and studies the polished toes of his shoes. "I'll keep an eye on it. But I don't want to crush its chance of going somewhere else, y'know?" He chews his lip pensively for a moment. "They both need all the friends they can get. This is the first time I've seen Jensen actually interested in someone for anything other than just his nice ass for years, and it just --" He breaks off. "I don't think I need to put bars on Jared's door just yet, okay?"
He expects an argument, maybe, even if it's only a little one, but Matt only shrugs, then shakes his head, again oddly in time to the music, like he's agreeing. Like he's seeing Misha's point.
Misha will never get over just how often Matt seems to manage that. It's kind of a new thing for him.
"Okay," Matt says; throws Misha a grin. "We can do hands-off, right?"
Under the smoky lights of the bar, he's irresistible, blue eyes shining and the line of his smile a perfect creation. Misha laughs a little, shakes his head and cups a hand under the firm jut of Matt's jaw.
"Speak for yourself," he says, mouth twitching. Then he leans down, and Matt's on the same page instantly, lips sliding open under Misha's, their breath bumping warm and damp between.
The next few bars of the elaborate Charleston sound rather more jarringly modern than Matt usually renders them, but Misha thinks he can probably live with that. Just now, the comfort of everyone else in the room is of entirely secondary importance.
Two or three afternoons a week, Jared retrieves the list of what they're out of from Misha and heads out to the grocery store to restock on limes and peanuts and cranberry juice, plus cream for the White Russians they of course do not make. Misha puts the cream in his tea, too, drinks it sugary-sweet and milky-pale. According to Matt, he drinks it that way because he has the world's most ridiculous sweet tooth. Jared drinks it that way because it's the way Misha made it when he first moved in. Nobody ever made tea for him before that, so, as far as Jared's concerned, saccharine and creamy is just the way tea is.
Jared's always careful to get plenty more cream, even if Misha's neglected to actually list it as a requirement. It's kind of expensive, but it never goes to waste between the speakeasy and the apartment overhead.
The grocery store has a state-of-the-art refrigerated cabinet, like the one behind the bar that Misha almost bankrupted himself for, but bigger. It's kind of nice to linger in front of it on hot days, making a big show of deliberating between the variously sized containers of cream, and it's warm enough today that Jared has been hanging out here for five minutes straight, despite the fact that his dairy items are already picked out and in his basket. With the peak of his cap tugged down a little over his eyes, it's easy enough to block out the rest of the store and imagine himself in some glorious Arctic tundra where the White Russians grow on trees. He's all set to go on like this for at least a further five indulgent minutes when a familiar profile flickers in and then out of his peripheral vision as it passes him, sharp jawline and a glint of light on green eyes making Jared's stomach flutter. Jared knows within a second of spotting it that there couldn't be any mistaking that face.
"Jensen!"
The word stumbles out of his mouth more in surprise than anything else, both hands tightening unconsciously on the handle of the basket. He takes a step back from the refrigerator cabinet and blinks uncertainly at the display of neatly-balanced apples Jensen had been inspecting before Jared's shout arrested him in motion, made him start and turn uncertainly.
"Jared?" Jensen's voice, Jared is stupidly relieved to note, is hesitant, too, as if Jared just caught him completely off-guard. As if he'd never expected to encounter Jared in a place as mundane and unsecretive as a grocery store any time this side of Ragnarok. There's no dark sensuality to his expression now, none of the careful self-possession Jared's become accustomed to seeing. There's only Jensen and his wide green eyes, the daylight picking out unexpected features like the constellations of freckles on his cheekbones that render him somehow less invulnerable. Emboldened, Jared shrugs and ventures a smile.
"That's me," he says, redundantly. "Picking up some stuff for Misha." He hefts his basket up in demonstration. Jensen's face relaxes a little as he peers at what Jared's collected so far.
"Misha still putting tea in his cream, huh?" He smiles, and his eyes, Jared notices, crinkle up a little at the corners. It's oddly compelling.
"Yeah." Jared finds himself smiling back, broad and unthinking. Jensen looks different like this, out of his suit-and-Fedora ensemble. He's dressed casually in wide flannel trousers and a Fair Isle sweater that makes his eyes look almost startlingly green. Jared feels suddenly shabby and young in comparison, though his plus-fours are new and his shirt is clean, doesn't even strain across the width of his shoulders. Jensen's beautiful. Sometimes Jared finds it difficult to deal with, even while every instinct in his body tells him not to let Jensen out of his sight.
Jensen has a basket over his arm, too, but it's decidedly less full than Jared's. He holds it up, as if to reciprocate. "Don't know how he can drink that stuff," he says, mouth quirking up a little.
Jared shrugs. "I like it," he confesses, lightly, and Jensen snorts.
"That's because he's gone and been a bad influence on you," he says. He glances into his basket, contemplative, for a second, then starts to walk in the direction of the cashiers' desks. It isn't until they're almost there that Jared realises he's following; and by that point, retreating couldn't seem anything less than rude, so he gets in line behind Jensen and resolves to tell Misha the store was all out of corned beef.
"You think you could be a better influence?"
He knows even as he says it that it's kind of flirtatious, something sweet and teasing under it Jensen can't help but hear, but for some reason, he doesn't care. Jensen's never made any advance on him in any meaningful way, never even flirted with him lately the way he did their first couple of meetings, and Jared kind of misses it. On the one hand, presumably it means Jensen simply isn't interested, which is sort of disheartening; but on the other, it has the odd effect of making Jared feel free to conduct himself however the hell he pleases, in the knowledge that he doesn't need to be on guard against attacks of raw Jensen sexuality.
Not that he wouldn't like to be attacked like that sometimes, but this...this is nice. Jensen's nice, as Jared is discovering, even if that fact is Jensen's most closely guarded secret. He has no obvious reason to sit around and listen to a seventeen-year-old kid's ramblings if he doesn't want in his pants, but he does it anyway, and that makes Jared's stomach twist in a way both contrary and delighted. Jensen likes him. And even if Jensen doesn't like him, like him the way Jared likes Jensen, the fact remains that Jensen may like a whole load of guys like that; but if he likes Jared like this, then that makes Jared four-hundred percent more special.
Jensen Ackles is a complicated man.
The grocery store is set on one side of a wide, green space, closed off within a square of neat railings. It's not a park in any real sense of the word, having no public benches or flowerbeds or evidence of regular care and attention, but it has a gate and it smells good, damp earth and grass. It's Jared's habit to slip in there sometimes after his shopping expeditions, provided he hasn't taken too long and there's nothing Misha particularly needs him to be back for, and apparently his feet are incapable of deviating from their regular habitual groove when his mind is otherwise occupied. Somehow they get onto the subject of Danni while waiting to be checked out, and Jared's still mostly taken up with grinning back at Jensen as they walk that he doesn't notice he's heading for the park until the ground underfoot gives way to the softness of unkempt lawn. He's taken another few steps before he registers that Jensen has, apparently equally unconsciously, veered into the park with him.
"-- basically climbed me," Jensen's saying, hands starting to gesticulate a little in a way Jared's rarely seen except towards the very end of an evening at the club, when Jensen's had a lot of whisky inside of him. "-- and I told her, 'Lady, look,' I told her --"
He looks happy, Jared thinks. Jensen, for all his devil-may-care smiles and easy charm, doesn't look as uncomplicatedly contented as this very often. It'd be a shame to draw attention to it and, in so doing, make it disappear. So Jared only smiles, shoves his hands into his pockets, and keeps walking.
There are trees placed at haphazard intervals around the edge of the park, patches of dirt worn in around their roots where many feet have trodden the grass away. They come to a natural pause by the vast trunk of an oak, Jensen shifting himself so his shoulders nudge back against the bark. His groceries are in a paper bag clutched tight to his chest in the crook of one arm; the other hand is loose in the pocket of his flannels, and he's still talking about Danni, how smart she is, how she still always tells him how good he smells even though she knows it won't get her anywhere. It's the most pointless conversation they've ever had, and something wild and sudden in Jared's chest wants to stay in the park all afternoon with Jensen like this, keep him talking till the hard surface of the tree starts to hurt his shoulderblades. Angelbones, Jared's mother used to call them.
Jared's not going to make any leaps from that thought. Honestly, he's not. The sun's darting gold through Jensen's hair, lending a glow to his skin, but the angelbones are irrelevant. It's not like Jared's some smitten fourteen-year-old girl, Jesus.
"She told me you sang," Jared says, lightly. He had too many groceries to fit into a single sack, and the two full bags are starting to become uncomfortable to hold. It seems only natural to fold cross-legged onto the ground, like a tripod collapsing, and set the bags down. The cream will spoil if they stay here too long, but there's time yet.
Jensen's trousers are pale grey, eminently grass-stainable, but he laughs and sits almost immediately, as if it requires no thought at all; as if it's the obvious thing to do. "Oh, she did, huh?"
Jared nods. "The other night. You weren't there. She danced with me again. That man was singing -- that English guy. Badly."
Jensen snorts a laugh. "Sebastian?"
"Yes!" That's it. Jared remembers now. "God, he was awful. Danni said you were way better, 'cept you never sang in public unless you were too blotto to stand."
"Damn, that girl doesn't know when to shut up, does she?" Jensen's still smiling, though, rubbing the back of one hand reflexively over his mouth. Jared fancies he can hear, just faintly, the rasp of skin against the softness of Jensen's lower lip; watches the flash of his teeth appear and disappear behind the shield of his hand and clenches his muscles against the shiver that slips down his spine.
With a great effort, he swallows, speaks.
"You should sing," he says. "If you're good, you'll be better when you're not full of liquor, right?"
"Goddamn," Jensen says, laughing, shaking his head in affected disbelief. "I oughta take better care to keep you out of Danni's clutches, kid, I can see." He studies Jared pensively for a moment, eyes lowered against the sun, then reaches into his pocket. "I need more tar in my lungs to argue this." He pulls out a half-crushed cigarette box, a heavy lighter. Jared's not even sure how both managed to fit in Jensen's pocket. The thing must go right down to his knees.
"Yeah," he manages, after a second, "I -- yeah."
Jensen's smile quirks a little, but he doesn't say anything, just withdraws two smokes and sticks them both into his mouth like pins for safekeeping while he puts the box away again. When he flares up his lighter, they both take at the first touch, like Jensen's the hero of some movie, but the knowing grin on his face when he hands Jared his cigarette between thumb and forefinger is far too shrewd for cinema. "Thanks," Jared murmurs, colouring despite himself, and Jensen laughs.
"I won't tell Misha if you don't," he says, and takes a deep drag, deep enough that his throat flutters all the way down as the smoke flows into his lungs. "God, that's better."
"If you smoke too much," Jared warns, trying not to feel too hypocritical as he takes his own more tentative draw, "you'll ruin your wind."
"Or my voice, huh?" Jensen says, and winks. "Too late."
Damn. Walked right into that one. "Liar," Jared says.
"Nuh-uh," Jensen protests. "Last time I sang in public, they called me Smokey Ackles and told me I sang from my boots." He nods solemnly. "True story."
"Is not," Jared says, without a second's hesitation. Jensen does get a darkness to his voice sometimes, something low and rough, but Jared's heard it swim into place enough times to know it's fully deliberate, something raw and sexual Jensen cloaks himself in when he wants to. When he's talking to people other than Jared, that is; mostly the young, nubile guys who haunt the speakeasy and watch Jensen, starry-eyed. It's not smoke damage.
"Yeah, well," Jensen says. He rubs his hands against his thighs, makes circles with his palms on the flannel. He's always like this, Jared realises slowly; sort of fidgety, nervous. Except there's nothing for Jensen to be nervous about, here in the afternoon park with Jared and their shopping and nowhere to rush to. Maybe he's just physically restless by nature.
"Well?" Jared prompts. Jensen waves a hand dismissively.
"I don't sing, Jared, okay? Jeez." He's pulling what he probably thinks of as one of his tough guy faces, unyielding as a block of cement, but it's a club face, designed to work after dark when the lights are low. The sun is full on it, now, and Jared can see, to his amazement, that there's something like a blush spreading over Jensen's cheekbones.
"You're shy," he says, mouth open on a smile that's part amazement and part delight. "Aren't you?"
"Shut up," Jensen tells him, low, and takes another pull on his cigarette. It's most unconvincing as a dismissal.
"Damn, you are!" Jared shakes his head a little. "Why?"
"Jared, shut up," Jensen hisses, but there's no anger behind it, just something disgruntled and mildly ashamed. Jared holds up his hands. He may as well surrender, he guesses, now he's won anyway. No sense in pushing Jensen into a bad mood.
"Okay," he says, hurriedly. "Okay, okay. Jeez."
The pause that follows is deep, but thankfully -- unexpectedly, maybe -- it's brief, cut short by a half-laugh from Jensen, a wave of his arm. "Hey," he says, changing the subject entirely, "you better get that cream outta the sun, you moron. If it spoils, Misha'll have your head. You know how he gets."
Jared snorts into laughter, made excessive by relief. "Misha is wonderful," he protests, defensive. "Even if --"
"-- he's kind of puritanical about weird shit --"
"-- and he cuts the crusts off bread whenever he does anything with it --"
"He's kinda bossy --"
"-- and kinda loud in bed --"
"Oh, God," Jensen cuts in, palming his face even as he laughs, "Jared, you should not know that."
Jared shrugs, grinning. His face kind of hurts from grinning, but it's weirdly hard to stop. "How could I not know? He and Matt --"
"Stop," Jensen protests weakly, shifting both hands to his ears, "Stop! No, seriously -- don't --"
Somehow, they manage to bitch about Misha for something close to half an hour, laughing and half-embarrassed and full of love. If it hadn't been for the sun on the back of Jared's neck, glancing dangerously off the containers of cream, they might never have moved, but the last thing Jared wants is to give Misha something else to be upset about. After all, Misha's been damn good to him. He deserves his cream in one piece. Jensen concurs, even if he seems to find the statement altogether funnier than it warrants.
It isn't until they're turning into the alleyway that leads to the speakeasy, discussing deli sandwiches with their grocery bags tucked under their arms, that Jared realises Jensen's sort of maybe walked him home.
It isn't until he's in bed that night, one hand fisted in the bedsheets and the other wrapped around his dick, that he dares to fantasise about what, in another world, that might mean.
In another world.
part 2