(no subject)
So I was poking around earlier this week in my stuff to finish folder, where I found a document entitled, "KEY WEST AIRPORT I HATE YOU." I can only assume I started this while stuck there for six hours last fall, and hey! If everyone else can do ludicrous, cutesy AUs, I should totally be allowed. This has no redeeming value. Except for the baby ducks.
Have some biology professor shenanigans. Loosely based on, oh, my entire life experience of living in biology labs. (I am in one right now, case in point.) The door cartoon thing is totally true.
Symbiosis, PG-13, J2, 4300 words.
Thanks to hateable for the beta, and, uh, I'm not sure this thing warrants a porny sequel, but it could yet happen.
In biology departments, there's an office door hierarchy. Ecologists like Gary Larson. EvoDevo guys have pinned insects. Geneticists have a copy of a poster of the human genome that Jensen's almost positive exists in every single genetics department on the planet. Physiologists don't have anything. Physiologists don't need anything. This is why Jensen has a nameplate and a post it note with his office hours. A white post it note.
So when Jensen comes back from his mandatory five day nondenominational holiday break and finds the door to the office adjoining his decorated with cut outs from a sea otter calendar, a bunch of dog photos, and a copy of some new age version of the scientific method, he knows the introductory lab students are totally fucked. It's just common sense.
Even though they're sharing an office door - one that Jensen makes sure to keep locked - Jensen doesn't see the new lab instructor for the next four days. Every time he goes to get a cup of coffee or to check on the frogs in the lab, though, the sea otters have increased in number. On Monday, the day before classes start, they're joined by a dolphin, a tiger, and a plush bat, thumb-tacked to the door through one wing. Jensen's very tempted to liberate it into the trash can. He doesn't.
Worse still is what's happening to the intro lab; when Jensen swings by to check on the microscopes for the first class, there's an entire table full of tiny Brassica seedlings, three rows of guppy tanks, four or five kiddy pools full of water in one corner, and posters all over the room. The one next to Jensen's microscopes is entitled, "Terrific Turtles - Identifying Our Reptilian Friends!" Jensen doesn't look too closely.
The sole high point of Jensen's disastrous trip to the lab is the fact that the microscopes are cleaned, sighted, and labeled with assigned groups of students, but Jensen's almost positive that it's the work of the previous lab instructor. There's no way anyone who would set up a cage of geckos in the lab could possibly have understood Jensen's labeling system.
Tuesday morning, Jensen's half way through rearranging his Web of Science citation worksheet for the first class when his office door swings open.
"Office hours don't start until Thursday," Jensen says, without looking up, because there's always the inevitable student with early access to Blackboard who's already panicking over the term paper.
"I would've used the other door, but I think the lock might be jammed," someone says. "I called facilities yesterday. Do you have five minutes to talk about the syllabus?"
Jensen's really starting to reconsider his initial lecture - warning students not to stalk him is apparently an important point that he's been missing - but when he looks up, he realizes he has bigger problems than students stalking him, because the guy standing in his office is unbelievably attractive. He doesn't look young enough to be one of the freshmen, but Jensen always ends up with five or six seniors looking for an intro class to knock off a requirement, and there are usually two or three postbacs who want to sit in on both pre-med and regular biology. Maybe he's a continuing education student. Jensen really hopes that's the explanation, because he's pretty sure the moral code about not finding students attractive is a little fuzzier if the student isn't actually an undergraduate.
"I can make some time," Jensen says, even though it goes against all eight of his policies on not holding office hours the first day of classes, and the smile he gets in return is completely worth it.
"I'm Jared," the definitely-a-continuing-education-student says, and sticks out his hand. "I've been swinging by all week, but I think I've been missing you by five minutes." He pulls out a piece of paper. "I wanted to ask what you thought about switching the leech neurology lab with the muscle histochemistry one. It's not going to make that much of a difference, and if we do the leeches later in the spring, I can get better ones. The supplies in January suck."
It takes Jensen's brain a while to catch up.
"You're not a student?" he says, followed by the immediate realization that the guy's been standing there with his hand out for a full thirty seconds.
Jared finally lets his hand fall. He looks uncomfortable. "I'm the new lab instructor."
"Oh," Jensen says, kind of at a loss for the fact that the entire communication center of his brain has just gone radio silent, and he spends another twenty seconds thinking a little desperately about saying something that doesn't involve the size of Jared's hands.
"Uh, the leeches?" Jared says, a little awkwardly.
"Leeches?" Jensen says, and then manages to remember Jared's original point. "Uh - March is fine. I mean, the lab. In March."
"I'll reupload the syllabus," Jared says, with what looks like a forced smile. "Thanks."
"Great," Jensen manages, and resists the urge to bury his head in his hands when Jared disappears out of his office.
Jensen is a competent, professional guy. He's been teaching biology for seven years, ten if he counts graduate school, and while he's had his share of problematic colleagues, he's never had an issue working with anyone. He gets solid teaching evaluations, most of his students seem to like him, and when he gets stuck hosting the departmental holiday party, nobody complains about the food. He has tenure, for christ's sake.
Which really doesn't make him feel better about the fact that he's physically incapable of holding a coherent conversation with the new lab instructor.
Jared stops by Jensen's office four times during the first week of classes, and somehow, Jensen succeeds in hanging up on the department chair, knocking over his desk chair while sitting in it, and spilling coffee on Jared twice.
When Jared sticks his head in on Thursday afternoon, Jensen takes the low road.
"Meeting! Student!" he says, because managing complete sentences has been out of the question all week, and spends the next forty-five minutes hiding in the majors' lounge, pretending to look at pamphlets for summer programs. He's pretty sure the sophomores are onto him, and he can't even bring himself to care.
When Jensen opens his office on Monday morning, there's a dog asleep underneath his desk. It's not exactly a common occurrence, but Jensen doesn't think too hard about it; it's 7 AM on Monday morning and the likelihood that he's imagining the whole thing in a pre-coffee haze is high. Past sniffing at Jensen's breakfast sandwich, the dog doesn't show signs of imminent movement, so he figures he can hold off on calling security until he checks his email.
An hour later, Jensen's two-thirds of the way through an article on life history strategies and habitat disturbance when the adjoining door between his office and Jared's bursts open.
"I realize that this is a really stupid question," Jared says, breathlessly, "but have you seen a dog?"
"Big, yellow, and a fan of Egg McMuffins?" Jensen manages to prevent his desk chair from tipping when the dog shoves its way out from under his desk, tail wagging.
"Bad dog," Jared says, kneeling, but it's obvious to Jensen that he's more relieved than angry.
"I'm really sorry," Jared says, grabbing the dog by its collar and attempting to push it back through the door, "my dog walker has the stomach flu, I thought they'd be fine in my office until I could run them over to my sister's at lunch."
It only takes Jensen a minute to realize that the persistent whining coming from Jared's office doesn't actually belong to the first dog, and when Jared finally succeeds in pushing the dog through, Jensen catches a glimpse of slightly darker fur.
"I know I shut the damn door," Jared says, flushed, running a hand through his hair. "I think the lock might be broken."
"No big deal," Jensen says, potentially the first coherent sentence he's managed in Jared Padalecki's presence all week.
"Seriously," Jared says, "I'm going to call maintenance right now."
The dog is back in Jensen's office the next morning. The inner door to Jared's office is closed and locked, so Jensen gives up and sticks a post it next to the sea otters that says HOUDINI and has a giant arrow pointing to his office.
By the time he gets back inside, the dog has carefully extracted Jensen's breakfast sandwich from his briefcase. The wrapper is lying underneath his desk.
"You're lucky I wasn't that hungry," Jensen says, and sits down to grade some quizzes before office hours.
"You've got to be kidding me," Jared says, when he comes back half an hour later.
"Your dog ate my sandwich," Jensen says. "I think that means she likes me better than you."
"She's really going to like you better after I return her to the humane society," Jared says, and hauls her back to his office.
That afternoon, before Jensen leaves, he unlocks the door between his office and Jared's and props it open with a neuroscience textbook. He finds an old blanket in his linen closet, and on his way in to work, he buys a second breakfast sandwich in the campus center. Jensen beats Jared into their office, but he's barely into his second cup of coffee when he hears him in the hall. It's only another thirty seconds before two enormous dogs are charging into his office.
"Sadie," Jared says, right behind them.
"Morning," Jensen says.
"I was really hoping you'd be late," Jared says, apologetically. "I'm moving the bookcase in front of the door."
"Uh," Jensen says. "It's okay."
"Seriously, I'll have them out of here in five minutes," Jared says.
"You have lab from nine to eleven," Jensen says. "I don't have organismal until eleven thirty. They can stay while I grade."
The second dog is nudging his head up against Jensen's thigh, and Jensen carefully divides the second breakfast sandwich and offers him half. Houdini is already under his desk.
Jared looks at him for a long minute, and Jensen feels himself start to flush. "If, uh. That's okay."
"Only if you let me buy you a coffee," Jared says, with a grin, and Jensen ignores the way his stomach turns over.
"Sure," he manages. "Sounds great."
The dogs stay in Jensen's office for most of the morning, and they're there when he gets back from buying lunch, asleep in a pile on his office couch.
Jared sticks his head in when Jensen's half way through his sandwich. "I've got office hours in ten minutes," he says. "I can shut the door if you think the students are going to bother you."
"Don't worry about it," Jensen says. The truth is that students never come to office hours unless they're panicking over an exam - Jensen's are an excuse to avoid meetings - but he doesn't want to be the one to point it out.
Jensen's a little surprised when he hears someone knock, but it's not inconceivable that someone's worried about the first lab report. Half an hour later, though, there are at least five voices coming from Jared's office, and the bigger dog disappears into Jared's office to investigate. At least fifteen people show up, including a postbac that isn't even in Jared's lab section, and Jensen's wondering if he needs to point out that Jared's not allowed to require that students attend office hours when Jared steps into his office.
"Hey," he says, "Lisa Dewitt brought me this article on neural networks that she thought was interesting, but she wants more details and it's over my head. Do you want to give it a shot?"
"Uh," Jensen says.
"I have cookies," Jared says, and that's how Jensen ends up spending three hours a week holding joint office hours.
Jensen hasn't had anything remotely resembling a serious crush since freshman year of high school. He's had a lot of one night stands and a couple of casual relationships, but Jensen's never wanted someone for longer than a couple of days. He either gets the hell over it or does something about it, and that's worked out for most of his adult life. But a month and a half into the semester, Jensen realizes he's totally and completely screwed, because he's falling for the guy he shares an office with, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.
Jared's smart and great with the students, even the ones who struggle with lab assignments, and Jensen's never had a semester go so smoothly; the labs are demonstrating concepts he's covering in class, which means that the kids are getting it. Jensen would probably like Jared just for that, but the more Jensen gets to know him, the worse it gets, because Jared likes hockey teams that always lose and never manages matching socks.
Two days before the midterm, Harley steals Jensen's bone model of a humerus and drags it into Jared's office before Jensen can stop him. Jensen's half way through reclaiming the humerus from under Jared's office chair - along with a fibula that's been missing all week - when he realizes Jared's asleep at his desk on a stack of papers, his hand still wrapped around a red pen.
"Shit," Jared says, when Jensen puts a hand on his shoulder. "I was supposed to be in lab ten minutes ago. We're reviewing the nervous system."
"Everything okay?" Jensen says. Jared doesn't look that great.
"Yeah," Jared says, pushing his chair back from his desk. "I was up until three grading, I wanted to get the action potential lab reports back before the exam."
Occasionally, Jensen wishes that Jared were less of a nice guy, or maybe just a worse instructor; it would make his life a lot easier. "I've got it," he says. "Go sleep on my couch. I'll handle the lab."
"I know you're busy," Jared says. "I'm not that tired."
"I was just finishing up the exam questions," Jensen says.
"You don't know the study guide," Jared says, yawning.
Jensen laughs and pushes him toward his office. "Considering the fact that it's an exam over my material, I think I can handle it."
The students - unsurprisingly - don't seem particularly happy to see Jensen instead of Jared, but he successfully passes back the lab reports and goes through the review questions Jared posted without mutiny. They get through the small group discussions of the book they're reading for lab without incident, and Jensen lets them out early and heads back to his office to check on Jared.
When Jensen unlocks his office door, he finds him asleep underneath Harley and Sadie on the couch, using Jensen's coat as a blanket. The dogs wag their tails but don't get up, and Jensen settles in at his desk to finish the exam and catch up on email, pointedly not watching Jared sleep.
Jensen's hoping Jared will wake up on his own, or maybe that Sadie will step on his kidney and expedite the process, but after he's checked his email six times, proofed the exam twice, and put in a few paragraphs on an NSF grant that's not due for three months, he's forced to concede that it's probably unlikely.
"Hey," he says, crouching by the sofa. Jared doesn't stir, so Jensen grudgingly puts a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the way his collar's fallen open, and how his cheeks are flushed from sleep.
"Hey," Jared says, drowsily, with a smile, and Jensen's vaguely thinking about -
Jared sits up fast, rubbing a hand over his face. "Shit, it's dark out. How long was I out?"
"A couple hours?" Jensen says. "I figured you'd probably want to get home."
Jared rubs the back of his neck. "The dogs are probably hungry."
"Sorry," Jensen says, grinning. "I'm all out of sandwiches. But I can walk you out."
"So, uh," Jared says, sounding sheepish. "I forgot to switch out my contacts this morning, and I used my spare pair at work last week. Is there any way you could give me a lift home? We're in the same neighborhood."
"No problem," Jensen says.
Jared moves the dogs' crates over into the back of Jensen's Subaru while Jensen locks up his research lab and uploads an article to Blackboard. It's later than Jensen usually leaves, and by the time they're half way home, he's starving. He's about to suggest stopping at someplace with a drivethrough when he notices that Jared's wincing every time they drive under a street light.
"I think you're going to have a serious problem if the girls in Intro realize you're a vampire," Jensen teases.
Jared turns his head. "What?"
Jensen reaches over to pull down the sun visor, even though it's dark out. "The photosensitivity."
"I haven't been able to see all day," Jared says, dryly. "My head is killing me. So no Edward Cullen jokes."
"There's some excedrin in the glove compartment," Jensen says.
Jared swallows a couple of pills, and by the time Jensen pulls up to his complex, he's looking marginally better.
"Thanks for the ride," Jared says. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
Jensen parks the car in front of Jared's building, rummaging between the seats for the leashes. "I don't think you could walk them right now if you tried."
"Are you sure?" Jared says. "If you need to get home -"
"Nah," Jensen says. "I can stick around to take care of the dogs."
"You want to stay for dinner?" Jared offers.
Jensen should probably say no - he has enough of a problem already, and they're just sharing an office - but his growling stomach answers for him.
"Maybe you could order some pizza or something," Jensen says, dryly. "My body seems to be under the impression that I might starve to death if I have to drive the rest of the way home."
Jensen gets the dogs out of their kennels and walks them around the block. He knows Jared usually runs with them, but he has to admit that he's starving, and judging by the way the dogs pull him up the stairs to Jared's condo, they're hungry too.
It's a little more modern than he was expecting, with high ceilings and nice furniture, but there's an enormous aquarium in the living room, papers all over the coffee table, and a pile of shoes in the front hall.
The dogs rush into the kitchen, and Jensen toes off his shoes and follows.
"I figured spaghetti might be faster," Jared says, stirring something at the stove.
Jensen forces himself to stay near the doorway, because Jared's barefoot, with his sleeves rolled up, wearing glasses, and it would be a little too easy to do something he shouldn't.
"Spaghetti's great," Jensen says.
They eat in the living room, watching a hockey game while Jensen opens his laptop and grades papers from his behavioral endocrinology class. By the time he's finished, he realizes Jared hasn't said anything for at least half an hour. He's asleep on the other half of the sectional, using Harley as a pillow, so Jensen covers him up with a blanket from the back of the couch and lets himself out, with a note on the couch next to him that says he'll be back at eight, since Jared's car is still in the college parking lot.
Jared meets him outside the next morning, yawning, with two mugs full of coffee and a breakfast sandwich in a ziploc bag. It's still warm.
"Thanks for putting up with me last night," Jared says, grinning.
"I think you might be the worst host ever," Jensen says, dryly.
Jared climbs into the passenger seat. "You want to show me up, be my guest."
"That was awful," Jensen says. "Seriously, I'm leaving you by the side of the road."
"Good luck administering the lab practical," Jared says.
"Bite me," Jensen replies, and Jared just laughs.
Jensen has Jared over for dinner twice that week - once because it's finally warm enough to grill and once because Jared offers up pizza and beer while they grade midterms - and it's familiar enough that Jensen knows he's getting in over his head. He should pull back a little, find some distance, but he can't, because Jared keeps bringing him bacon and egg sandwiches and Harley won't stop stealing parts from Jensen's plastic anatomy models.
When Jensen ends up on his hands and knees under Jared's desk for a third time that week, trying to extract a liver from behind one of the drawers, he realizes that the whole thing is getting out of hand. Jensen's get over it or do something about it dating philosophy has served him pretty well so far, and it's the east coast, not Texas. The worst case scenario is a couple months of awkwardness, not a broken jaw.
Jared's sighting in microscopes in the intro lab, and he looks up and makes a face when Jensen walks in.
"I think the oceanography students might need a vision check," he says, dryly. "I've seriously been doing this for an hour. I can't figure out why the rough adjustment settings are different on every scope when they were all looking at the same thing."
"Ineptitude," Jensen suggests, then wraps a hand around the doorframe, fighting down nerves. "Do you want to get dinner?"
"Sure," Jared says, twisting a dial while staring into an eyepiece again. "I can bring over some burgers for your grill."
Jensen takes a deep breath. "No, I mean - dinner. A date."
Jensen watches Jared nudge a slide around then pause, glancing up. "A date?"
"Uh, yeah," Jensen says, feeling his face heat.
Jared goes back to messing with the slide. "As long as I don't have to wear a tie, sure. Friday?"
"Friday," Jensen agrees. "No ties."
"Awesome," Jared says. "Don't forget to e-mail me that histology slide key."
"No problem," Jensen says, and wanders back to his office, a little dazed.
Jared's at a conference for the next two days, which gives Jensen more than enough time to panic. By the time Jensen knocks on his office door on Friday afternoon, he's not exactly holding it together.
"Our reservation's at, uh, seven," Jensen says, "so we should get going."
He's a little startled when Jared bursts out laughing.
"You look awful," he says, grinning.
"You really know how to make a girl feel special," Jensen says, dryly, but it's enough to cut the tension he's been feeling all week.
"I thought you hated formal restaurants," Jared points out, closing his laptop.
"I do," Jensen admits. "But, uh." He has to admit that he doesn't really have an excuse, except maybe that it seemed appropriate.
Jared stands up and crosses the room, wrapping a hand around Jensen's wrist to pull him in through the door. He doesn't let go.
"We could just get it out of the way," Jared suggests. "You could stop being nervous."
"What?" Jensen says, and then Jared leans in and kisses him, just like that.
It's awkward enough that Jensen's suddenly unsure, but then Jared readjusts, pushing him back against the door and leaning in again, and it's suddenly a whole hell of a lot better, warm and exactly what Jensen's been thinking about for the past few months. Jared tastes like chapstick and coffee, and he stops for a second to smile against Jensen's mouth, like he's happy. Jensen closes his hands in Jared's shirt and pulls him in, licking along his lower lip. It's probably too far for a first kiss, and when Jared finally pulls back, his cheeks are pink, but Jensen doesn't really care.
"Now you're not going to spend all night fidgeting," Jared teases.
"Asshole," Jensen says, but it's affectionate.
He leans back aganst the door, still catching his breath. "I kind of think we should ditch the whole restaurant plan."
Jared laughs. "Yeah?"
"I'm revising the plan," Jensen says, grinning. "Meet me by my car in twenty minutes."
Jensen finds a cooler in one of the labs, and the campus café still has a couple of premade sandwiches and fruit. Jared's lounging in the passenger seat by the time Jensen comes out again, the dogs curled up in their kennels in the back.
He drives across campus, parking next to the pond behind one of the libraries, and climbs out to spread a blanket from his office across the lawn next to the water.
"Seriously?" Jared says, climbing out of the car with a grin. "What is this, the fifties? Are we going to a drive in movie and lovers' lane after the picnic?"
"I'm starting to regret asking you out," Jensen says, grinning back.
He pulls on a jacket - it's still April, even if the weather's been getting warmer - and grabs a pair of binoculars out of the backseat, passing them over. "Go occupy yourself with the baby ducks."
Jensen successfully sets up his makeshift picnic while Jared pokes around near the edge of the pond. A couple of beers, two sandwiches, and a snickers bar later, Jared finally sprawls out, settling his head carefully in Jensen's lap.
"You know," he says, laughing, "I think the departmental secretaries had a bet going about who was going to make the first move."
"Oh good," Jensen says. "I'm glad to know the sexual harassment seminars were effective."
"Someone's going to be making a lot of money," Jared says, with a grin, "because you were definitely the underdog."
"I wasn't sure if," Jensen starts, flushing.
Jared grins. "I'm kind of obvious," he says. "I brought you sandwiches."
"Yeah, because that wasn't subtle at all," Jensen says, grinning.
Jared reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down for another slow, warm kiss. "Am I making myself clear?" he murmurs, right up against Jensen's mouth, grinning.
"Crystal," Jensen says, laughing, and leans in to kiss him again.
Have some biology professor shenanigans. Loosely based on, oh, my entire life experience of living in biology labs. (I am in one right now, case in point.) The door cartoon thing is totally true.
Symbiosis, PG-13, J2, 4300 words.
Thanks to hateable for the beta, and, uh, I'm not sure this thing warrants a porny sequel, but it could yet happen.
In biology departments, there's an office door hierarchy. Ecologists like Gary Larson. EvoDevo guys have pinned insects. Geneticists have a copy of a poster of the human genome that Jensen's almost positive exists in every single genetics department on the planet. Physiologists don't have anything. Physiologists don't need anything. This is why Jensen has a nameplate and a post it note with his office hours. A white post it note.
So when Jensen comes back from his mandatory five day nondenominational holiday break and finds the door to the office adjoining his decorated with cut outs from a sea otter calendar, a bunch of dog photos, and a copy of some new age version of the scientific method, he knows the introductory lab students are totally fucked. It's just common sense.
Even though they're sharing an office door - one that Jensen makes sure to keep locked - Jensen doesn't see the new lab instructor for the next four days. Every time he goes to get a cup of coffee or to check on the frogs in the lab, though, the sea otters have increased in number. On Monday, the day before classes start, they're joined by a dolphin, a tiger, and a plush bat, thumb-tacked to the door through one wing. Jensen's very tempted to liberate it into the trash can. He doesn't.
Worse still is what's happening to the intro lab; when Jensen swings by to check on the microscopes for the first class, there's an entire table full of tiny Brassica seedlings, three rows of guppy tanks, four or five kiddy pools full of water in one corner, and posters all over the room. The one next to Jensen's microscopes is entitled, "Terrific Turtles - Identifying Our Reptilian Friends!" Jensen doesn't look too closely.
The sole high point of Jensen's disastrous trip to the lab is the fact that the microscopes are cleaned, sighted, and labeled with assigned groups of students, but Jensen's almost positive that it's the work of the previous lab instructor. There's no way anyone who would set up a cage of geckos in the lab could possibly have understood Jensen's labeling system.
Tuesday morning, Jensen's half way through rearranging his Web of Science citation worksheet for the first class when his office door swings open.
"Office hours don't start until Thursday," Jensen says, without looking up, because there's always the inevitable student with early access to Blackboard who's already panicking over the term paper.
"I would've used the other door, but I think the lock might be jammed," someone says. "I called facilities yesterday. Do you have five minutes to talk about the syllabus?"
Jensen's really starting to reconsider his initial lecture - warning students not to stalk him is apparently an important point that he's been missing - but when he looks up, he realizes he has bigger problems than students stalking him, because the guy standing in his office is unbelievably attractive. He doesn't look young enough to be one of the freshmen, but Jensen always ends up with five or six seniors looking for an intro class to knock off a requirement, and there are usually two or three postbacs who want to sit in on both pre-med and regular biology. Maybe he's a continuing education student. Jensen really hopes that's the explanation, because he's pretty sure the moral code about not finding students attractive is a little fuzzier if the student isn't actually an undergraduate.
"I can make some time," Jensen says, even though it goes against all eight of his policies on not holding office hours the first day of classes, and the smile he gets in return is completely worth it.
"I'm Jared," the definitely-a-continuing-education-student says, and sticks out his hand. "I've been swinging by all week, but I think I've been missing you by five minutes." He pulls out a piece of paper. "I wanted to ask what you thought about switching the leech neurology lab with the muscle histochemistry one. It's not going to make that much of a difference, and if we do the leeches later in the spring, I can get better ones. The supplies in January suck."
It takes Jensen's brain a while to catch up.
"You're not a student?" he says, followed by the immediate realization that the guy's been standing there with his hand out for a full thirty seconds.
Jared finally lets his hand fall. He looks uncomfortable. "I'm the new lab instructor."
"Oh," Jensen says, kind of at a loss for the fact that the entire communication center of his brain has just gone radio silent, and he spends another twenty seconds thinking a little desperately about saying something that doesn't involve the size of Jared's hands.
"Uh, the leeches?" Jared says, a little awkwardly.
"Leeches?" Jensen says, and then manages to remember Jared's original point. "Uh - March is fine. I mean, the lab. In March."
"I'll reupload the syllabus," Jared says, with what looks like a forced smile. "Thanks."
"Great," Jensen manages, and resists the urge to bury his head in his hands when Jared disappears out of his office.
Jensen is a competent, professional guy. He's been teaching biology for seven years, ten if he counts graduate school, and while he's had his share of problematic colleagues, he's never had an issue working with anyone. He gets solid teaching evaluations, most of his students seem to like him, and when he gets stuck hosting the departmental holiday party, nobody complains about the food. He has tenure, for christ's sake.
Which really doesn't make him feel better about the fact that he's physically incapable of holding a coherent conversation with the new lab instructor.
Jared stops by Jensen's office four times during the first week of classes, and somehow, Jensen succeeds in hanging up on the department chair, knocking over his desk chair while sitting in it, and spilling coffee on Jared twice.
When Jared sticks his head in on Thursday afternoon, Jensen takes the low road.
"Meeting! Student!" he says, because managing complete sentences has been out of the question all week, and spends the next forty-five minutes hiding in the majors' lounge, pretending to look at pamphlets for summer programs. He's pretty sure the sophomores are onto him, and he can't even bring himself to care.
When Jensen opens his office on Monday morning, there's a dog asleep underneath his desk. It's not exactly a common occurrence, but Jensen doesn't think too hard about it; it's 7 AM on Monday morning and the likelihood that he's imagining the whole thing in a pre-coffee haze is high. Past sniffing at Jensen's breakfast sandwich, the dog doesn't show signs of imminent movement, so he figures he can hold off on calling security until he checks his email.
An hour later, Jensen's two-thirds of the way through an article on life history strategies and habitat disturbance when the adjoining door between his office and Jared's bursts open.
"I realize that this is a really stupid question," Jared says, breathlessly, "but have you seen a dog?"
"Big, yellow, and a fan of Egg McMuffins?" Jensen manages to prevent his desk chair from tipping when the dog shoves its way out from under his desk, tail wagging.
"Bad dog," Jared says, kneeling, but it's obvious to Jensen that he's more relieved than angry.
"I'm really sorry," Jared says, grabbing the dog by its collar and attempting to push it back through the door, "my dog walker has the stomach flu, I thought they'd be fine in my office until I could run them over to my sister's at lunch."
It only takes Jensen a minute to realize that the persistent whining coming from Jared's office doesn't actually belong to the first dog, and when Jared finally succeeds in pushing the dog through, Jensen catches a glimpse of slightly darker fur.
"I know I shut the damn door," Jared says, flushed, running a hand through his hair. "I think the lock might be broken."
"No big deal," Jensen says, potentially the first coherent sentence he's managed in Jared Padalecki's presence all week.
"Seriously," Jared says, "I'm going to call maintenance right now."
The dog is back in Jensen's office the next morning. The inner door to Jared's office is closed and locked, so Jensen gives up and sticks a post it next to the sea otters that says HOUDINI and has a giant arrow pointing to his office.
By the time he gets back inside, the dog has carefully extracted Jensen's breakfast sandwich from his briefcase. The wrapper is lying underneath his desk.
"You're lucky I wasn't that hungry," Jensen says, and sits down to grade some quizzes before office hours.
"You've got to be kidding me," Jared says, when he comes back half an hour later.
"Your dog ate my sandwich," Jensen says. "I think that means she likes me better than you."
"She's really going to like you better after I return her to the humane society," Jared says, and hauls her back to his office.
That afternoon, before Jensen leaves, he unlocks the door between his office and Jared's and props it open with a neuroscience textbook. He finds an old blanket in his linen closet, and on his way in to work, he buys a second breakfast sandwich in the campus center. Jensen beats Jared into their office, but he's barely into his second cup of coffee when he hears him in the hall. It's only another thirty seconds before two enormous dogs are charging into his office.
"Sadie," Jared says, right behind them.
"Morning," Jensen says.
"I was really hoping you'd be late," Jared says, apologetically. "I'm moving the bookcase in front of the door."
"Uh," Jensen says. "It's okay."
"Seriously, I'll have them out of here in five minutes," Jared says.
"You have lab from nine to eleven," Jensen says. "I don't have organismal until eleven thirty. They can stay while I grade."
The second dog is nudging his head up against Jensen's thigh, and Jensen carefully divides the second breakfast sandwich and offers him half. Houdini is already under his desk.
Jared looks at him for a long minute, and Jensen feels himself start to flush. "If, uh. That's okay."
"Only if you let me buy you a coffee," Jared says, with a grin, and Jensen ignores the way his stomach turns over.
"Sure," he manages. "Sounds great."
The dogs stay in Jensen's office for most of the morning, and they're there when he gets back from buying lunch, asleep in a pile on his office couch.
Jared sticks his head in when Jensen's half way through his sandwich. "I've got office hours in ten minutes," he says. "I can shut the door if you think the students are going to bother you."
"Don't worry about it," Jensen says. The truth is that students never come to office hours unless they're panicking over an exam - Jensen's are an excuse to avoid meetings - but he doesn't want to be the one to point it out.
Jensen's a little surprised when he hears someone knock, but it's not inconceivable that someone's worried about the first lab report. Half an hour later, though, there are at least five voices coming from Jared's office, and the bigger dog disappears into Jared's office to investigate. At least fifteen people show up, including a postbac that isn't even in Jared's lab section, and Jensen's wondering if he needs to point out that Jared's not allowed to require that students attend office hours when Jared steps into his office.
"Hey," he says, "Lisa Dewitt brought me this article on neural networks that she thought was interesting, but she wants more details and it's over my head. Do you want to give it a shot?"
"Uh," Jensen says.
"I have cookies," Jared says, and that's how Jensen ends up spending three hours a week holding joint office hours.
Jensen hasn't had anything remotely resembling a serious crush since freshman year of high school. He's had a lot of one night stands and a couple of casual relationships, but Jensen's never wanted someone for longer than a couple of days. He either gets the hell over it or does something about it, and that's worked out for most of his adult life. But a month and a half into the semester, Jensen realizes he's totally and completely screwed, because he's falling for the guy he shares an office with, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.
Jared's smart and great with the students, even the ones who struggle with lab assignments, and Jensen's never had a semester go so smoothly; the labs are demonstrating concepts he's covering in class, which means that the kids are getting it. Jensen would probably like Jared just for that, but the more Jensen gets to know him, the worse it gets, because Jared likes hockey teams that always lose and never manages matching socks.
Two days before the midterm, Harley steals Jensen's bone model of a humerus and drags it into Jared's office before Jensen can stop him. Jensen's half way through reclaiming the humerus from under Jared's office chair - along with a fibula that's been missing all week - when he realizes Jared's asleep at his desk on a stack of papers, his hand still wrapped around a red pen.
"Shit," Jared says, when Jensen puts a hand on his shoulder. "I was supposed to be in lab ten minutes ago. We're reviewing the nervous system."
"Everything okay?" Jensen says. Jared doesn't look that great.
"Yeah," Jared says, pushing his chair back from his desk. "I was up until three grading, I wanted to get the action potential lab reports back before the exam."
Occasionally, Jensen wishes that Jared were less of a nice guy, or maybe just a worse instructor; it would make his life a lot easier. "I've got it," he says. "Go sleep on my couch. I'll handle the lab."
"I know you're busy," Jared says. "I'm not that tired."
"I was just finishing up the exam questions," Jensen says.
"You don't know the study guide," Jared says, yawning.
Jensen laughs and pushes him toward his office. "Considering the fact that it's an exam over my material, I think I can handle it."
The students - unsurprisingly - don't seem particularly happy to see Jensen instead of Jared, but he successfully passes back the lab reports and goes through the review questions Jared posted without mutiny. They get through the small group discussions of the book they're reading for lab without incident, and Jensen lets them out early and heads back to his office to check on Jared.
When Jensen unlocks his office door, he finds him asleep underneath Harley and Sadie on the couch, using Jensen's coat as a blanket. The dogs wag their tails but don't get up, and Jensen settles in at his desk to finish the exam and catch up on email, pointedly not watching Jared sleep.
Jensen's hoping Jared will wake up on his own, or maybe that Sadie will step on his kidney and expedite the process, but after he's checked his email six times, proofed the exam twice, and put in a few paragraphs on an NSF grant that's not due for three months, he's forced to concede that it's probably unlikely.
"Hey," he says, crouching by the sofa. Jared doesn't stir, so Jensen grudgingly puts a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the way his collar's fallen open, and how his cheeks are flushed from sleep.
"Hey," Jared says, drowsily, with a smile, and Jensen's vaguely thinking about -
Jared sits up fast, rubbing a hand over his face. "Shit, it's dark out. How long was I out?"
"A couple hours?" Jensen says. "I figured you'd probably want to get home."
Jared rubs the back of his neck. "The dogs are probably hungry."
"Sorry," Jensen says, grinning. "I'm all out of sandwiches. But I can walk you out."
"So, uh," Jared says, sounding sheepish. "I forgot to switch out my contacts this morning, and I used my spare pair at work last week. Is there any way you could give me a lift home? We're in the same neighborhood."
"No problem," Jensen says.
Jared moves the dogs' crates over into the back of Jensen's Subaru while Jensen locks up his research lab and uploads an article to Blackboard. It's later than Jensen usually leaves, and by the time they're half way home, he's starving. He's about to suggest stopping at someplace with a drivethrough when he notices that Jared's wincing every time they drive under a street light.
"I think you're going to have a serious problem if the girls in Intro realize you're a vampire," Jensen teases.
Jared turns his head. "What?"
Jensen reaches over to pull down the sun visor, even though it's dark out. "The photosensitivity."
"I haven't been able to see all day," Jared says, dryly. "My head is killing me. So no Edward Cullen jokes."
"There's some excedrin in the glove compartment," Jensen says.
Jared swallows a couple of pills, and by the time Jensen pulls up to his complex, he's looking marginally better.
"Thanks for the ride," Jared says. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
Jensen parks the car in front of Jared's building, rummaging between the seats for the leashes. "I don't think you could walk them right now if you tried."
"Are you sure?" Jared says. "If you need to get home -"
"Nah," Jensen says. "I can stick around to take care of the dogs."
"You want to stay for dinner?" Jared offers.
Jensen should probably say no - he has enough of a problem already, and they're just sharing an office - but his growling stomach answers for him.
"Maybe you could order some pizza or something," Jensen says, dryly. "My body seems to be under the impression that I might starve to death if I have to drive the rest of the way home."
Jensen gets the dogs out of their kennels and walks them around the block. He knows Jared usually runs with them, but he has to admit that he's starving, and judging by the way the dogs pull him up the stairs to Jared's condo, they're hungry too.
It's a little more modern than he was expecting, with high ceilings and nice furniture, but there's an enormous aquarium in the living room, papers all over the coffee table, and a pile of shoes in the front hall.
The dogs rush into the kitchen, and Jensen toes off his shoes and follows.
"I figured spaghetti might be faster," Jared says, stirring something at the stove.
Jensen forces himself to stay near the doorway, because Jared's barefoot, with his sleeves rolled up, wearing glasses, and it would be a little too easy to do something he shouldn't.
"Spaghetti's great," Jensen says.
They eat in the living room, watching a hockey game while Jensen opens his laptop and grades papers from his behavioral endocrinology class. By the time he's finished, he realizes Jared hasn't said anything for at least half an hour. He's asleep on the other half of the sectional, using Harley as a pillow, so Jensen covers him up with a blanket from the back of the couch and lets himself out, with a note on the couch next to him that says he'll be back at eight, since Jared's car is still in the college parking lot.
Jared meets him outside the next morning, yawning, with two mugs full of coffee and a breakfast sandwich in a ziploc bag. It's still warm.
"Thanks for putting up with me last night," Jared says, grinning.
"I think you might be the worst host ever," Jensen says, dryly.
Jared climbs into the passenger seat. "You want to show me up, be my guest."
"That was awful," Jensen says. "Seriously, I'm leaving you by the side of the road."
"Good luck administering the lab practical," Jared says.
"Bite me," Jensen replies, and Jared just laughs.
Jensen has Jared over for dinner twice that week - once because it's finally warm enough to grill and once because Jared offers up pizza and beer while they grade midterms - and it's familiar enough that Jensen knows he's getting in over his head. He should pull back a little, find some distance, but he can't, because Jared keeps bringing him bacon and egg sandwiches and Harley won't stop stealing parts from Jensen's plastic anatomy models.
When Jensen ends up on his hands and knees under Jared's desk for a third time that week, trying to extract a liver from behind one of the drawers, he realizes that the whole thing is getting out of hand. Jensen's get over it or do something about it dating philosophy has served him pretty well so far, and it's the east coast, not Texas. The worst case scenario is a couple months of awkwardness, not a broken jaw.
Jared's sighting in microscopes in the intro lab, and he looks up and makes a face when Jensen walks in.
"I think the oceanography students might need a vision check," he says, dryly. "I've seriously been doing this for an hour. I can't figure out why the rough adjustment settings are different on every scope when they were all looking at the same thing."
"Ineptitude," Jensen suggests, then wraps a hand around the doorframe, fighting down nerves. "Do you want to get dinner?"
"Sure," Jared says, twisting a dial while staring into an eyepiece again. "I can bring over some burgers for your grill."
Jensen takes a deep breath. "No, I mean - dinner. A date."
Jensen watches Jared nudge a slide around then pause, glancing up. "A date?"
"Uh, yeah," Jensen says, feeling his face heat.
Jared goes back to messing with the slide. "As long as I don't have to wear a tie, sure. Friday?"
"Friday," Jensen agrees. "No ties."
"Awesome," Jared says. "Don't forget to e-mail me that histology slide key."
"No problem," Jensen says, and wanders back to his office, a little dazed.
Jared's at a conference for the next two days, which gives Jensen more than enough time to panic. By the time Jensen knocks on his office door on Friday afternoon, he's not exactly holding it together.
"Our reservation's at, uh, seven," Jensen says, "so we should get going."
He's a little startled when Jared bursts out laughing.
"You look awful," he says, grinning.
"You really know how to make a girl feel special," Jensen says, dryly, but it's enough to cut the tension he's been feeling all week.
"I thought you hated formal restaurants," Jared points out, closing his laptop.
"I do," Jensen admits. "But, uh." He has to admit that he doesn't really have an excuse, except maybe that it seemed appropriate.
Jared stands up and crosses the room, wrapping a hand around Jensen's wrist to pull him in through the door. He doesn't let go.
"We could just get it out of the way," Jared suggests. "You could stop being nervous."
"What?" Jensen says, and then Jared leans in and kisses him, just like that.
It's awkward enough that Jensen's suddenly unsure, but then Jared readjusts, pushing him back against the door and leaning in again, and it's suddenly a whole hell of a lot better, warm and exactly what Jensen's been thinking about for the past few months. Jared tastes like chapstick and coffee, and he stops for a second to smile against Jensen's mouth, like he's happy. Jensen closes his hands in Jared's shirt and pulls him in, licking along his lower lip. It's probably too far for a first kiss, and when Jared finally pulls back, his cheeks are pink, but Jensen doesn't really care.
"Now you're not going to spend all night fidgeting," Jared teases.
"Asshole," Jensen says, but it's affectionate.
He leans back aganst the door, still catching his breath. "I kind of think we should ditch the whole restaurant plan."
Jared laughs. "Yeah?"
"I'm revising the plan," Jensen says, grinning. "Meet me by my car in twenty minutes."
Jensen finds a cooler in one of the labs, and the campus café still has a couple of premade sandwiches and fruit. Jared's lounging in the passenger seat by the time Jensen comes out again, the dogs curled up in their kennels in the back.
He drives across campus, parking next to the pond behind one of the libraries, and climbs out to spread a blanket from his office across the lawn next to the water.
"Seriously?" Jared says, climbing out of the car with a grin. "What is this, the fifties? Are we going to a drive in movie and lovers' lane after the picnic?"
"I'm starting to regret asking you out," Jensen says, grinning back.
He pulls on a jacket - it's still April, even if the weather's been getting warmer - and grabs a pair of binoculars out of the backseat, passing them over. "Go occupy yourself with the baby ducks."
Jensen successfully sets up his makeshift picnic while Jared pokes around near the edge of the pond. A couple of beers, two sandwiches, and a snickers bar later, Jared finally sprawls out, settling his head carefully in Jensen's lap.
"You know," he says, laughing, "I think the departmental secretaries had a bet going about who was going to make the first move."
"Oh good," Jensen says. "I'm glad to know the sexual harassment seminars were effective."
"Someone's going to be making a lot of money," Jared says, with a grin, "because you were definitely the underdog."
"I wasn't sure if," Jensen starts, flushing.
Jared grins. "I'm kind of obvious," he says. "I brought you sandwiches."
"Yeah, because that wasn't subtle at all," Jensen says, grinning.
Jared reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down for another slow, warm kiss. "Am I making myself clear?" he murmurs, right up against Jensen's mouth, grinning.
"Crystal," Jensen says, laughing, and leans in to kiss him again.