Fic: Reconciling Hollywood - Jensen/Misha, NC-17 - chapter ten
Ten
When Misha wakes, eyes blinking at the white morning light filtering in through the blinds, he's alone in his bed. Turning over onto his back he feels the dried mess on his stomach crack and pull at his skin.
Well that's disgusting.
He wonders if Jensen left and how he should feel about that.
But then he realises that the house isn't empty. He hears the creak of the floorboards in the kitchen as someone moves around quietly. Hopefully it's Jensen and not some random vagrant. As his other senses come online he realises the scent of coffee is wafting into the room and Misha blesses every god in existence and a couple he makes up before sliding out from under the sheet and making his way into the bathroom.
A quick scrub with a washcloth to remove most of the gunk and he slips into a pair of almost clean sweatpants that are hanging over the towel rack in his bathroom. For some reason. He pulls on a ratty t-shirt from a pile of laundry he hasn't gotten around to putting away on the dresser and makes his way down the corridor to the kitchen.
Jensen is sitting at his kitchen table, back in his jeans and t-shirt from the night before, bare feet hooked on the rungs of the chair. Steam rises from a chipped 'Welcome to Pittsburgh!' mug in front of him. He looks up as Misha enters and smiles; something settles in Misha's stomach that he didn't know needed reassurance.
"Morning," Misha says blearily, nods and makes his way behind Jensen to the coffee pot, pours his own, black, into the mug with the bright red chicken on its side. He sits opposite Jensen at the cluttered table, watches Jensen watching him over the rim of his coffee cup.
"Sleep well?" Jensen asks, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Misha lets the coffee slide scalding hot down the back of his throat; he instantly feels more human. "Apparently."
"Nice cock," Jensen deadpans with a nod to Misha's coffee cup and Misha laughs, despite the stupidity of the joke.
"So I've been told," he answers with what he knows is a wicked grin.
Jensen smiles and takes another sip of coffee nonchalantly, but the look in his eyes is heated nonetheless.
They drink in comfortable silence, enjoying the warmth of the sun coming through the kitchen windows. It's perfectly domestic and not at all as disturbing as that ought to be.
Jensen picks up a cook book from the pile of crap on the table and idly flips through. "Didn't figure you for a cook."
Misha shrugs, wraps his hands around his mug to warm them. "My talents are endless and varied."
"So I'm finding out," Jensen murmurs, sets the book down, but something catches his eye and he slides papers out from under a pile. Misha recognises them instantly as his unsigned contract.
Jensen glances at it, looks up at Misha curiously. "You are coming back, aren't you?"
Misha doesn't know the answer to that. Doesn't have one to give him.
Jensen frowns at the silence. "Seriously?"
Misha sighs, sets his mug down in front of him. "I don't know."
"Oh," Jensen says, sets the contract back down again. "Can I ask why?"
"You can ask, but I don't know that I can answer," he says, truthfully. "I'm working through some...stuff."
Jensen sits back in his chair, observes Misha frankly. The seriousness is somewhat ruined by the tufts of bedhair sticking up out of place. "Okay," he says finally.
"That's it?" Misha asks, somewhat incredulously. He figured he'd have to defend himself, or launch into some ridiculous 'it's not you, it's me' speech to justify even contemplating not signing, not coming back. If it were Jared across from him, he'd have to come up with a list of reasons on the spot and begin defending against the barrage of needling. And that'd be before the physical torture kicked in.
Jensen just shrugs, finishes his coffee with one last swallow and pushes away from the table. "It's not my decision to make," he says, placing his mug in the sink and filling it with water from the tap.
Misha stays at the table, frowning into his coffee cup. He's not sure he isn't a little bit miffed that Jensen isn't trying to argue with him. Which is ridiculous.
"I'm gonna head home," Jensen says.
He doesn't sound mad or resigned or anything in particular, and Misha isn't sure how to read it. So he nods, unable to find words that don't sound fifteen years too young for him to say.
But before Jensen turns and leaves the kitchen he stops, bends down and presses his mouth to Misha's. His lips are soft and coffee-warmed and Misha can't help but open his own, allow Jensen in. The kiss is soft and exploratory, tasting of Misha's fair trade Peruvian coffee.
Jensen pulls away after a few moments, his breath hot against Misha's cheek. "Come by later?" he murmurs softly.
Misha smiles involuntarily. "I think I can make room in my schedule." He pulls Jensen by the back of his neck, deepens a new kiss until they're both slightly breathless.
Jensen groans and pulls back. "Later," he says firmly and with a last wanting look he heads out into the entryway. Misha listens as Jensen pulls on shoes. Can hear him dialling numbers on the keypad of his phone, talking to someone, maybe his driver, maybe a cab company. And then the door closes behind him with a sharp snick and the house is silent.
Misha stares at the contract on the table in front of him.
He pulls it closer, fishes a pen out from under last week's newspapers and a half-done crossword book.
He's still not sure. Even as he holds the pen, scribbles back and forth on the corner of some unopened mail to get the ink running, he doesn't know if he can sign it. Doesn't know if he's meant to, if this is where his life should be heading. Maybe he missed a sign, an exit he should have gotten off at.
In the back of his mind he still wants to cling to the starving artist cliché. The creative stranger who lives in a house he built, carves wood into furniture and sets balloons on fire in the park. It's truer to who he is, who he has always felt like he should be. It's why he left the White House, bowed out of radio and despite a lot of bit parts, never really aimed for anything other than guest roles. None of those things had turned out the way he expected, mostly for the worst.
He doesn't want to lose the romance though. To lose himself even as he searches for the reality of the real him.
The series of conventions he went to over the last summer, the fanmail and recognition is so very fucking strange, no matter how many times he does it. Having tens of thousands of people watch the rubbish he types onto the internet, people asking for autographs at the airport when he flies into Vancouver. It's not normal, and he's keenly aware of it.
He doesn't want to get to a stage where it is.
And then there's Jensen.
Not in a stupid way. As much as he wants to explore this new thing he may have with Jensen, this potential, he knows it isn't going to make his decision for him. He's had too many hearts broken, aged too many years for 'like' to equal 'follow'.
But in a different way Jensen is part of the equation. The person Misha works closest with, watches at cons paraded around with security. Who sits down to take fan photos instead of standing and hugging in them because he's worried about being mobbed.
As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he had thought that Jensen was somewhat celebrity 'precious'. Maybe not at the stage of requesting Evian and blue M&Ms, but special nonetheless.
The best part of having fans, having people who adore you, is that they adore you. A whole sea of people who willingly stand still and let you study them, let you fuck with them. Who are down to earth and sometimes crazy but never ever boring. Humanity on display for you. How amazing is that?
And so yeah, he'd thought Jensen's aloofness was kinda douchey. A little too untouchable. Certainly the line-hopping and thing at the bar had seemed to confirm it.
But as he sits, staring at the neon yellow "sign here" sticker that's curling at its edge, he recognises that he's been wrong. Jensen isn't as aloof as he is careful. Keeps parts to himself; not all, but a definite core. In a way, if Misha's honest with himself, he already does it too. He fucks with the fans for fun, absolutely, because what's the point if it isn't fun? But he also does it to hide. To deflect a question that hits too close to the bone or leads into murky territory. To keep some of him to him. Exactly the same as Jensen.
And when the past two years are put in that context, when Jensen's pride at being professional explains away the distance... When the smarting aside about standing in for Jared explains away bad behaviour. When Misha thinks of Jensen in the park, at the Kane gig, at home in his ridiculously white kitchen, where the money he'd spent on a sound system reflects only who Jensen really is, not what he pretends to be. When he thinks about it like that...
Jensen really isn't Hollywood at all. Chris had been right, and Misha knew it the second he said it. Jensen just has different mechanisms than Misha does for hanging onto who he is.
And if Jensen can do it - Jensen who is much more famous than Misha, and as far from 'Hollywood' with his Texan roots as Misha is with his Hippie ones, then clearly the pull of money is not so great that it can ensnare anyone it wants.
But his pen hovers over the dotted line, hesitant.
* * *
epilogue
When Misha wakes, eyes blinking at the white morning light filtering in through the blinds, he's alone in his bed. Turning over onto his back he feels the dried mess on his stomach crack and pull at his skin.
Well that's disgusting.
He wonders if Jensen left and how he should feel about that.
But then he realises that the house isn't empty. He hears the creak of the floorboards in the kitchen as someone moves around quietly. Hopefully it's Jensen and not some random vagrant. As his other senses come online he realises the scent of coffee is wafting into the room and Misha blesses every god in existence and a couple he makes up before sliding out from under the sheet and making his way into the bathroom.
A quick scrub with a washcloth to remove most of the gunk and he slips into a pair of almost clean sweatpants that are hanging over the towel rack in his bathroom. For some reason. He pulls on a ratty t-shirt from a pile of laundry he hasn't gotten around to putting away on the dresser and makes his way down the corridor to the kitchen.
Jensen is sitting at his kitchen table, back in his jeans and t-shirt from the night before, bare feet hooked on the rungs of the chair. Steam rises from a chipped 'Welcome to Pittsburgh!' mug in front of him. He looks up as Misha enters and smiles; something settles in Misha's stomach that he didn't know needed reassurance.
"Morning," Misha says blearily, nods and makes his way behind Jensen to the coffee pot, pours his own, black, into the mug with the bright red chicken on its side. He sits opposite Jensen at the cluttered table, watches Jensen watching him over the rim of his coffee cup.
"Sleep well?" Jensen asks, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Misha lets the coffee slide scalding hot down the back of his throat; he instantly feels more human. "Apparently."
"Nice cock," Jensen deadpans with a nod to Misha's coffee cup and Misha laughs, despite the stupidity of the joke.
"So I've been told," he answers with what he knows is a wicked grin.
Jensen smiles and takes another sip of coffee nonchalantly, but the look in his eyes is heated nonetheless.
They drink in comfortable silence, enjoying the warmth of the sun coming through the kitchen windows. It's perfectly domestic and not at all as disturbing as that ought to be.
Jensen picks up a cook book from the pile of crap on the table and idly flips through. "Didn't figure you for a cook."
Misha shrugs, wraps his hands around his mug to warm them. "My talents are endless and varied."
"So I'm finding out," Jensen murmurs, sets the book down, but something catches his eye and he slides papers out from under a pile. Misha recognises them instantly as his unsigned contract.
Jensen glances at it, looks up at Misha curiously. "You are coming back, aren't you?"
Misha doesn't know the answer to that. Doesn't have one to give him.
Jensen frowns at the silence. "Seriously?"
Misha sighs, sets his mug down in front of him. "I don't know."
"Oh," Jensen says, sets the contract back down again. "Can I ask why?"
"You can ask, but I don't know that I can answer," he says, truthfully. "I'm working through some...stuff."
Jensen sits back in his chair, observes Misha frankly. The seriousness is somewhat ruined by the tufts of bedhair sticking up out of place. "Okay," he says finally.
"That's it?" Misha asks, somewhat incredulously. He figured he'd have to defend himself, or launch into some ridiculous 'it's not you, it's me' speech to justify even contemplating not signing, not coming back. If it were Jared across from him, he'd have to come up with a list of reasons on the spot and begin defending against the barrage of needling. And that'd be before the physical torture kicked in.
Jensen just shrugs, finishes his coffee with one last swallow and pushes away from the table. "It's not my decision to make," he says, placing his mug in the sink and filling it with water from the tap.
Misha stays at the table, frowning into his coffee cup. He's not sure he isn't a little bit miffed that Jensen isn't trying to argue with him. Which is ridiculous.
"I'm gonna head home," Jensen says.
He doesn't sound mad or resigned or anything in particular, and Misha isn't sure how to read it. So he nods, unable to find words that don't sound fifteen years too young for him to say.
But before Jensen turns and leaves the kitchen he stops, bends down and presses his mouth to Misha's. His lips are soft and coffee-warmed and Misha can't help but open his own, allow Jensen in. The kiss is soft and exploratory, tasting of Misha's fair trade Peruvian coffee.
Jensen pulls away after a few moments, his breath hot against Misha's cheek. "Come by later?" he murmurs softly.
Misha smiles involuntarily. "I think I can make room in my schedule." He pulls Jensen by the back of his neck, deepens a new kiss until they're both slightly breathless.
Jensen groans and pulls back. "Later," he says firmly and with a last wanting look he heads out into the entryway. Misha listens as Jensen pulls on shoes. Can hear him dialling numbers on the keypad of his phone, talking to someone, maybe his driver, maybe a cab company. And then the door closes behind him with a sharp snick and the house is silent.
Misha stares at the contract on the table in front of him.
He pulls it closer, fishes a pen out from under last week's newspapers and a half-done crossword book.
He's still not sure. Even as he holds the pen, scribbles back and forth on the corner of some unopened mail to get the ink running, he doesn't know if he can sign it. Doesn't know if he's meant to, if this is where his life should be heading. Maybe he missed a sign, an exit he should have gotten off at.
In the back of his mind he still wants to cling to the starving artist cliché. The creative stranger who lives in a house he built, carves wood into furniture and sets balloons on fire in the park. It's truer to who he is, who he has always felt like he should be. It's why he left the White House, bowed out of radio and despite a lot of bit parts, never really aimed for anything other than guest roles. None of those things had turned out the way he expected, mostly for the worst.
He doesn't want to lose the romance though. To lose himself even as he searches for the reality of the real him.
The series of conventions he went to over the last summer, the fanmail and recognition is so very fucking strange, no matter how many times he does it. Having tens of thousands of people watch the rubbish he types onto the internet, people asking for autographs at the airport when he flies into Vancouver. It's not normal, and he's keenly aware of it.
He doesn't want to get to a stage where it is.
And then there's Jensen.
Not in a stupid way. As much as he wants to explore this new thing he may have with Jensen, this potential, he knows it isn't going to make his decision for him. He's had too many hearts broken, aged too many years for 'like' to equal 'follow'.
But in a different way Jensen is part of the equation. The person Misha works closest with, watches at cons paraded around with security. Who sits down to take fan photos instead of standing and hugging in them because he's worried about being mobbed.
As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he had thought that Jensen was somewhat celebrity 'precious'. Maybe not at the stage of requesting Evian and blue M&Ms, but special nonetheless.
The best part of having fans, having people who adore you, is that they adore you. A whole sea of people who willingly stand still and let you study them, let you fuck with them. Who are down to earth and sometimes crazy but never ever boring. Humanity on display for you. How amazing is that?
And so yeah, he'd thought Jensen's aloofness was kinda douchey. A little too untouchable. Certainly the line-hopping and thing at the bar had seemed to confirm it.
But as he sits, staring at the neon yellow "sign here" sticker that's curling at its edge, he recognises that he's been wrong. Jensen isn't as aloof as he is careful. Keeps parts to himself; not all, but a definite core. In a way, if Misha's honest with himself, he already does it too. He fucks with the fans for fun, absolutely, because what's the point if it isn't fun? But he also does it to hide. To deflect a question that hits too close to the bone or leads into murky territory. To keep some of him to him. Exactly the same as Jensen.
And when the past two years are put in that context, when Jensen's pride at being professional explains away the distance... When the smarting aside about standing in for Jared explains away bad behaviour. When Misha thinks of Jensen in the park, at the Kane gig, at home in his ridiculously white kitchen, where the money he'd spent on a sound system reflects only who Jensen really is, not what he pretends to be. When he thinks about it like that...
Jensen really isn't Hollywood at all. Chris had been right, and Misha knew it the second he said it. Jensen just has different mechanisms than Misha does for hanging onto who he is.
And if Jensen can do it - Jensen who is much more famous than Misha, and as far from 'Hollywood' with his Texan roots as Misha is with his Hippie ones, then clearly the pull of money is not so great that it can ensnare anyone it wants.
But his pen hovers over the dotted line, hesitant.
* * *
epilogue