RPF - There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch -by- squeakysnow
Title: There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch
Author:squeakysnow
Pairing: J2, Jim Beaver
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Word Count: 1100
Spoilers: No spoilers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing here. This is completely fiction. No basis in truth at all!
Summary: Jim explains how everything has a price. (Jared POV)
'There's no free lunch.'
That's what Jim Beaver says to you, cryptically, at craft services, as you both reach for the last saran-wrapped Philly steak sandwich.
Your hands are big but his are wily. He leaves you grasping for air as he heads for an empty table.
Nothing else even looks appetizing, but you pick up a ham and swiss on rye anyway, because you know it's gonna be an 18 hour day. Turning, you scan the crowd, folks you know scattered around in twos and threes, finally you pick out Jensen and Misha in the far corner, bodies angled together, deep in conversation.
You grab a drink and head toward Jim. Hooking a chair with your foot, you drag it out and collapse into it. Jim looks up at you from under the brim of one of wardrobe's most battered ball caps.
'Pretty boys table is over there.' He grins a little as he waves the half-eaten Philly steak under your nose.
Grinning, you snap at it in mock, almost-bites. Making Jim pull it back quickly, out of reach.
'Damn, boy, if I'd a known you had your heart set on Philly steak, I might've let you have it,' he says insincerely, wicked smile curving his lips.
You bite into the ham and swiss, pretend like it's the best sandwich ever, chase it down with gulps of ice tea. Jim's not even close to fooled.
'You and Jensen still squabblin'?'
Jim says it like he has a right to ask. Like he expects an answer. He's probably the only one who can get away with even posing the question. Everyone else just pretends the fucking elephant's not in the room.
You finish chewing. Force a grin on your face. 'What's a set without a little squabbling between the pretty boys?'
You mimic Jim's tone back at him, as you use your thumb to scoop up some mayo that plopped on your jeans. Licking it off, you take another bite. Do your very best impression of relaxed and nonchalant.
Jim snorts. 'Most sets, yes. Not this one. You two are usually thick as thieves. Lately, if you boys are not in character, you barely speak.'
The food in your mouth wasn't much to begin with, now you can barely glutch it down. The anger that's been bubbling at your surface for more weeks than you care to count, is nowhere to be found. What Jim's saying is the truth. And hearing it said baldly, like that, brings you up short and hard.
It's been at least a month since the argument. The one that nearly blew the doors off your fucking trailer. The one everyone and their dog overheard but pretended not to. The one where Jensen called you on your belly-aching and your petulance and your mean-spirited comments. Where he asked you point blank what your fucking problem was and you shouted: him.
It was like a fucking pressure valve was released and all the things that had been eating away at you, the frustration of being stuck up in Vancouver. Being stuck on a show that never sees the publicity light of day. Being reduced to working sixteen hour days, nine months a year. Having too few movie choices and too fucking little time to do them. Seeing your family and friend twice a goddamn year. It all just surged up and came out.
And not the way you intended. Not measured or thoughtful. It came out like a shit storm. A hail of angry words and ugly sentiment. Your brain jumped from 0 to 60, from work frustrations to him.
It was all his fault. The show should have fucking died in season two. It would have except Jensen refused to do it half-assed. Insisted on you giving every scene your best. Challenging you. Critiquing you. Dragging you home at night and fucking you senseless, until all you wanted was for this thing between you to go on.
He made you crave something you never signed on for. You had Sandy and LA friends and movies - albeit bad ones. You had a future that was gonna be big. And Jensen fucking Ackles screwed that up by being his hot self.
You said it. All of it. How you wanted out. Of the show. The house. This hidden relationship. How it wasn't real and wasn't helping. You said, they both knew the score. Straight guys have more options. Period. Choosing anything else was career suicide. Hollywood is strewn with guys who let their sexuality overshadow their work. And you? You're not going down that fucking road.
You can still remember how fired up you were. How definite. How finally saying it felt good.
For about a minute. And then it felt like dust. But you couldn't admit it. Not with him clenching his fucking jaw. Not when he finally said he'd be out of the house that night. Not when he pushed past you like you had ceased to fucking exist.
And it just snowballed. He moved out. You barely talked.
You felt like now that you'd talked the talk, you better fucking walk the walk. So, you hooked up with Genevieve; she'd been sweet on you from the first audition. You started going out more. More weekends in LA. More red carpets. More late nights.
On set, you'd like to think you're the same as always but truth is your temper is short. Little things annoy you. You try not to take it out on anyone but some folks get the brunt.
And four weeks pass. Four fucking weeks. Without a touch or a hug or a kind word. Without the smiles you're completely hooked on. Without that look of respect you've gotten used to seeing in his eyes.
And now, here, in the fucking craft services tent, Jim Beaver is quietly, calling you on it. Your career envy. Your pride. Your vanity. He's not doing it maliciously. There's no goddamn schadenfreude. He looks like he feels sorry for you. Like he knows what you've done and he hopes you're man enough to fix it. He eyes you like he can see right into your head and all the way down to your heart.
'There's no free lunch, kid. You pay for everything eventually. And if you aren't careful you can spend way too much for something that ain't worth a dime.' He smiles kindly, 'But a smart guy like you, already knows that, right?'