Fic: "Tilted: Aslant" 2/2 (COMPLETE) (J2/CWRPS, Mature)
Title: Tilted: Aslant 2/2 (Complete)
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (RPS), secondary Chris/Steve
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 10,000 (5,000 this post, 5,000 first post)
Disclaimer: 100% scandalous lies and fearful untruths.
Beta: way2busymom
Summary: Once more returning to the Tilted world of J2 AU (RPS/CWRPS) on the beach. Not so much sex on the beach as angst on the beach. Alas.
Wandering ne'er-do-well Jared arrives in town for a temporary job rebuilding broken-down beach houses and falls hard for his reclusive downstairs neighbor Jensen. Jensen's not an easy man to understand. Jared still doesn't know all the secrets Jensen holds out of reach, but he plans to get to know the man better in every way he can -- if he can.
He doesn't stop to think that Steve might know the answers to a great many of his questions. There are quite a few things people don't know about Steve and what he keeps locked away inside - for one, the truth about Jensen.
Features confusion, sturm und drang, 90% less angry!Chris to deal with, a yellow Labrador, rain, secrets and mysteries and illumination as revealed through Steve's perspective and broken!Jensen, the poor lad.
This interlude follows Tilted and Tilted: Out of True; it's unlikely that this update to the 'verse will make sense unless the reader is familiar with the previous installments.
Feedback: Is a delight.
Tilted: Aslant (2/2) (complete)
Now:
Thunk!
This is getting to be a habit. Steve puts down the coffeemaker basket, loose grounds chaffing in the metal filter. "What did you run into now?" he calls.
"Nothing. Sorry. I knocked the shower door with my elbow."
Might as well offer again. "Sure you don't want any help?"
"We're good, thanks."
It's a dismissal, and usually he takes those as tacit permission to get on with his own business. So he doesn't exactly know why he scoots forward, silent on his own sock feet after he kicked his own boots off at the edge of the kitchen, and watches them.
They're both still in their underwear, though otherwise naked. Jared's a boxers man, and Jensen has his jockey shorts. Given how thin the boxers and how tight Jensen's shorts are in turn, it's fairly obvious both men are still cold.
Jared figures out the shower door and pushes it rattling to the side. He helps Jensen in, Jensen starting to wake up and respond now. That's a good sign. "Which spigot is for the hot water?"
"On the left," Steve replies absently. Jared's either a moron for not stripping them down completely or a genius or maybe just shy, he's not sure which. Out of his clothes, Jared's physique is startling. The loose fit of his various layers makes him look like a skinny kid, which he really, really isn't.
He's never seen feet quite that big. The guy must have to wear NBA castoffs or something.
Jared figures out the taps and sends the warm water cascading down over both their heads. He draws the door to, but as it's semi-translucent Steve still has a decent view. He sees for himself how Jared cups a man's face in his hands when he kisses him, engulfing him almost completely, and how he's taller enough than Jen that he's got to hunch down as if Jen's a girl. How Jen tilts his face up right away, no wary questions or hesitation. The way Jared's hand skates down the line of Jensen's back.
There's nothing here any sane man would call skirting the borders of what's proper and what isn't. It's comfort, is all, no more meaning to it than holding his hand and saying out loud that he'll be okay.
Or that's what he'll tell Chris, at least, if Chris ever finds out. Serve him right.
*~*~*
This? This is a bad, bad, bad idea. Lord and Jared both know it. But he can't seem to stop now he's started, one palm on each side of Jensen's face, tasting his lips. Jensen's warming up under the hot shower, his goosebumps already fading and his skin pinking up. Jared shivers as Jensen's still-cold fingers skitter clumsily over Jared's stomach and then his hips, finding a place to hold on.
He doesn't push for anything more, and Jared's glad. This, he's okay with, just warming wet skin and the faint brush of Jensen's breath over his lips. Spiky eyelashes over blank green irises and the first hint of a smile on his kiss-bruised lips, tilting up the corners.
"Hey. You in there?" Jared asks, feathering the balls of his thumbs over Jensen's cheekbones.
A drop of water dribbles from Jensen's hair down his cheek; he licks it away from his lips and swallows, nodding a bare inch. "More than I was. Almost," he says hoarsely. He laughs, and it's broken but it's a start.
"Are you still going to respect me in the morning?"
"Don't even joke," Jared says, meaning that for once in his life. He kisses Jensen again to swallow down even the echo.
*~*~*
Steve turns away, nearly tripping over Hannah. She's sitting woefully in the middle of the kitchen, wet tail whipping the linoleum. Her food dish is conspicuously empty.
"Bet Jen forgot to feed you earlier, huh?" He extends his fingers for Hannah to sniff. Her tongue is slimy-wet over the thin white scars. "Okay, fine. You want a can of the good stuff?"
Hannah yips, ears perking.
"Good girl, Lassie." Steve rolls his eyes as he opens the proper cabinet, finding right away the three cans of Purina that, if the airbrushed pictures on their glossy labels is anything to go by, probably tastes better than many a meal he's scraped together for himself in days gone by.
"Chicken and rice with fresh garden peas," he reads, shaking his head. "Whatever happened to Alpo?"
The can is one of the sort with a ring-pull tab on it. Steve pries the edge of the tab up easily enough, but when he tries to push his finger through and pull, his joint seizes up on him. He drops the can, hissing quietly. Hannah howls. The shower water patters on uninterrupted by anyone asking what that racket was.
Steve crouches, picks up the can and tries again, working until he's got it and she's taken care of before he tends to himself.
He's getting tired of doing that.
*~*~*
Jared's voice rises incoherently over the running water in the shower. He sounds like he's trying to sing, "trying" being the operative word. Also, "failing". Ouch. Steve pauses to wonder what kind of havoc he'd wreak with a guitar.
Damn, it's been a long, long time since he tried to play anything. Memories of honey-toned wood and mellow notes draw him to a shudder. He curls his fingers into a fist, lightly stroking the white lines, hearing long-ago strings snapping all over again.
You know better, he tells himself, shaking it off. There's enough troubles in one day and on their way to go borrowing from the past.
Maybe he should eat. When he was a kid, the old folks always used to say a hot meal fixed almost everything. Which is bullshit, but still, he's hungry, so why not?
Cracking open Jensen's refrigerator serves to wobble his world a little further aslant. There's hamburger in Jen's fridge. He blinks at it, wondering if it's a mirage. Jen hasn't eaten meat in at least five years, at least as far as he's aware. Chris would've mentioned any hopes of his returning to carnivore status. Would already be buying beer for a cook-out. Can't be that. Where did he get it? When?
Must have been secreted amongst the stuff Jeff brought when he came over to bandage Jen's hands properly. Steve didn't look through the old plastic A & P sack Jeff dropped in the kitchen, and after Jeff took off he himself was on his way out the back way, headed home for a nap before work.
Red meat. Damn. He guesses Jen planned to try the spaghetti thing again, hopefully without bloodshed this time. It's funny the way life works out sometimes.
Steve opens the pack of hamburger meat and finds a skillet. Jen might object, once he comes to. Let him. Right now, there are empty stomachs to be dealt with. And other hungers.
Soup. They could have soup, too. Steve turns on the forgotten coffeemaker and breathes deeply of the cheap ground-roasted smell.
He scolds Hannah quietly for whining and begging and getting underfoot while he cooks. Her appetite doesn't match her capacity, but she forgets that. From time to time.
*~*~*
"Hey. Don't." Jared catches Jensen's hand as it starts to go wandering a little further afield than just the notch of his hipbone. If the day ever comes that Jensen offers him this when he's not half out of his mind on one trip or another, then maybe. Not until then, though.
Jensen head-butts his chest, whining quietly.
"Damn, man. I know I'm sexy, but --"
"Shut up," Jensen whispers, rising up to press their mouths briefly together. He goes back down with a shudder. "Is it too messed up, now? To even…?"
He'd like to say he isn't sure -- he really isn't. And it's still tempting to get in his truck and drive. He's not, though, and he isn't. He traces the line of Jensen's nose instead, from the bridge between his eyes to the tip -- if he wasn't so pale, he might freckle -- and comes back around to cup the back of Jensen's head, tilting their foreheads together. "Naw," is all he says, his throat empty of other words for once. "No."
"Okay." Jensen rolls his forehead against Jared's. "What now?"
Jared's stomach rumbles. They both laugh, Jared thinking Jensen might be just as glad of the distraction as he is. "Food?" he asks, hopeful.
"I could eat. Maybe sleep some first, though." Jensen finds Jared's forearm and squeezes it clumsily. He's not saying the exact words, but Jared hears his thank you all the same.
He squeezes back, chafing Jensen's skin and using the slick sensation to help him stubbornly block out the how did we get to this? questions. For now.
*~*~*
Ten Years Ago:
Steve hammers on his cousin's bedroom door, a small room tucked well away in the back of the house. He'd fought Jensen for the privilege -- it's private and quiet, almost hidden away -- and lost. Kid has a mean right hook. "If you're not down for lunch in ten minutes, they're going to give it to the dogs." That's the threat he was told to deliver; he could have told them it wouldn't work. Jen eats like a bird is supposed to eat, which is to say almost not at all, and if he's had anything over the past day and a half, Steve hasn't seen it happen.
Which is why he's bothering. Jensen hides like a spooked kitten sometimes, but he's done a lot better since he came to stay here. Steve thinks about the way Chris and Jen are always tied at the hip, and although he's not sure why that bothers him, he just knows it does.
Chris hasn't come around since the night they chased the storm and it caught them instead, nearly six days ago. He wonders if maybe that's what's bothering Jen this time.
"Hey! You okay in there?" He turns the knob and sneaks a look inside.
At first, he doesn't see Jensen. He smells him, unwashed for a few days -- actually, he's not sure for how long -- and something else, yeasty and strange.
When he lights on Jensen, his relief shifts fast into worry. Jen's sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, facing a warped old full-length mirror that got tucked away back here because it turns reflections green. His head's down and his hands are nigh welded to the top of his scalp.
"Hey." He tries to play it cool, even though he's freaking out on the inside. There's just something wrong here. Keeps it up, too, until he's plunked down beside Jen and wrinkled his nose at the increasing strength of the weird smell. He elbows Jensen, careful not to go too rough. "What's up, man? Chris didn't ask you to be his girl, did he?"
He gets no response, and that's the last straw. Come on, he all but out-and-out called them gay. That ought to have had Jensen up in arms, ready to box him. "You're scaring me, man. Look at me."
Jensen hunches in tighter on himself.
"Uh-uh. You look at me right the fuck now." Steve takes him by the chin and wrenches his head up, turning him so that they're face to face.
His eyes. Aw, fuck. Almost stuck shut with watery matter and…
He's on the phone to 9-1-1 less than a minute later, would have been seconds if his hands hadn't been shaking so damn much. The operator asks how long Jensen's been like this; he hears her stern disapproval when he tells her, and understands that it's his fault for not making a fuss earlier. He should have known better.
Steve swears to himself and promises God that if this gets fixed, he'll never not pay attention to small details again, not even when they're the last things he wants to see.
*~*~*
Now:
He's kept that promise to himself, he thinks as he takes down three mugs, two plain plus Jensen's favorite bright green pottery one, fetches yellow soup bowls and spoons and Saltines. People who knew everything, all the ins and outs, would look at him and think "clueless" or maybe even "there are none so blind as they who will not see", if they were of a poetic and/or ironic turn of mind.
They'd be wrong. He knows exactly how his world works, and all the motivations of the players who move in and out. He knows he's second best and always has been, a last-minute replacement because the game had to go on. He knows, and for a long time that was fine by him. If you don't have ambitions, you can't be disappointed, and just as Chris does every damn thing for the sake of his guilt, Steve guesses -- no, he's sure of it -- that it's the same for him.
He barely glances up as Jared hauls Jensen out into the main room and deposits him on the couch, where Steve has covered the wet spots up with that quilt. Hannah, toweled as dry as he could get her, lies at the far end with her nose on her paws. She wags her tail hopefully when she sees Jared coming. Jensen's mostly dry too except for his hair, and he's dressed in a mismatched set of sleep pants and flannel shirt Jared no doubt grabbed at random with no thought for the careful ordering of the closet. Jared himself looks pretty damn comical in a plaid shirt and a pair of track shorts. Both sets of feet are bare, picking up a dusting of sand as they walk.
"I couldn't find any socks," Jared apologizes, carefully arranging Jen on the couch. Jen looks to be hazy still but more like a sleepy child than a zombie so Jared seems to be doing a decent job of handling him. It makes no sense to Steve how someone so random and touchy-feely could possibly be good for Jen, let alone not send him running, but what the hell does he know?
He wonders what happened in the shower, knowing it's not his business but not letting that stop him. Likely not much of anything worth note. Jen's lips aren't swollen, so he doubts there was even much vanilla kissing.
That's good. Or not.
Jared clears his throat, grimacing as if he's embarrassed. "Do you want me to go back and hunt for some?"
Jesus. The kid's still fixated on socks. "Don't bother. He likes going barefoot inside." The hamburger he's fixing for himself is almost done, still a little pink in the middle, the way he likes it best.
Jared's stomach rumbles. He sniffs the air.
"Made you two some soup," Steve offers, jabbing the spatula handle in the direction of the gently steaming pot. "Vegetable stew. Bowls are over there. And coffee, if you want."
"Thanks." Jared casts a yearning glance at the hamburger but doesn't ask if he can have one, too. He obediently dishes up the Campbell's, two bowls full. He only spills a little. Instead of carrying it over to Jensen, though, so they can eat before it gets cold, he puts them on the table and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks young again, prompting Steve to wonder exactly how old he is. Probably three or four years less than Jensen, at least.
"Something on your mind?"
Jared exhales through his nose. He picks at a strand of hair plastered wetly to his cheek, tugging the wave straight. "Look," he begins slowly. "Can we step outside for a minute?"
Steve frowns, glancing at Jensen. He looks a lot better, some color in his cheeks and sitting easily, one foot tucked underneath him, half-nodding-off on the couch. "Something wrong?" he asks quietly.
Jared shrugs. "He's mostly asleep, but I don't… I need to ask you something, and I don't want to right in front of him."
Here it comes, Steve thinks, resigned. Romeos generally hit the road once they stumble into the worst of this mess, whether it happens sooner or later.
"All right," he says, leading the way. Jared pauses long enough to awkwardly pat Jensen's shoulder; Steve can't make out the dozy mumble Jensen responds with.
The storm's eased up for now, rain still falling, but lazily, taking its time. Steve's seen enough beach weather to know it's not over yet. The lull suits him well enough right now, the rain noisy enough to shelter their conversation yet quiet enough that he can hear himself think out on the porch. He waits for Jared to catch up with him and then shuts the door behind them. "So what do you want to know?"
Thanks be for small mercies; Jared comes right to the point even if he does fidget and chafe his hand over his jaw. "Look, I don't… it's not my business why or when or what happened wherever. I know that."
"But?"
"Don't make this easy on me." Jared pulls an uncomfortable frown. "I need to know if any of this is my fault. That's all."
"Your fault?" Steve repeats. The kid's serious, and gets annoyed as all hell when Steve loses it. He has to wave Jared quiet and back away, he's so shook up with laughing and shaking, damn tremors like his hands get sometimes that won't stop.
"Don't laugh at me."
"I won't laugh at you if you don't try and pull the scary face on me." He wipes his eyes, careful of his greasy fingers. Breathing takes a minute to calm down, and while he's waiting he examines Jared narrowly, cataloguing him from head to toe, drawing check marks and X's on a mental tally. There are more question marks than he'd like when he's done, and instead of having his cool back he's lost, still, having to fight back a spurt of words and not sure he wants to.
Jared waits, pissy as a scorned pup.
"You want to know if it's your fault. That's not really the question, is it? You want to know what happened to make him scared of storms. Did he say something?"
"He told me about the last thing he saw. How it was lightning. And fire."
"Huh." Steve rolls that around in his head.
Jensen wasn't telling the exact truth as Steve remembers it, but he's not sure he'll tell Jared that. The last thing he's always thought Jensen saw was his own reflection in a warped green mirror, and he's not sure he'll tell about that, either.
Flash-burned retinas, the one doctor who'd talk to him said. Secondary bacterial infection. Did he get any dirt in his eyes when you fell? Conjunctivitis. Combined, they --
That's pinkeye, Chris protested. You don't go blind from fuckin' pinkeye.
You can, sometimes, if it's untreated, she said. Why didn't you come in right away?
Maybe he's the one who's wrong, after all.
*~*~*
Ten Years Ago, The End of the World:
"Fuck me." Chris raises his head from his crossed arms, where his hid his eyes after they hit the dirt running. His ears are still ringing loudly enough that he almost misses hearing Chris; he'd still be able to tell from the look on his face. Steve can see the whites of his eyes clear around the irises, startling in the grimy sweat smeared over his face. This close, he can smell the whiskey still on his breath. "That fucker was close."
"No kidding." Their hair is lying down now, mostly, no longer wispy around their temples as a dandelion gone to seed. If he hadn't known that, they might not have gotten as far away as they did before the lightning touched down. Too close. Way too damn close. "That's it, man. I'm going back. You want to stay out here and act the fool, be my guest."
"Uh-uh. Too sober for that now." Chris's grin lacks its usual snark. "Jen, c'mon. Best we move."
Only Jensen doesn't answer.
They find him unconscious far too close to the smoky, charred ground where the lightning struck, his breathing shallow. Chris slaps him hard enough to leave finger-shaped welts under mud-smeary handprints before he groans and comes around, blinking and then staring vacantly like he's just looked into the sun and can't see anything for the brightness of the light.
"Think we ought to take him to the hospital?" he asks, helping Jensen stand. Not an easy task; he's not helping them at all at first. "Chris! Should we?"
Chris shakes his head. "No, man, no way." He checks Jen's eyes himself, prying one lid and then the other wide open with dirty fingers, leaving streaks of mud behind. "He looks fine to me. Besides, they'd know we were drinkin'. We get in trouble like that, they'll send me off to the army and you to the navy and God knows where Jen would end up. You know it's true," he insists when Steve hesitates, still not sure if that's enough to stop them. "Steve. Come on. Don't tell. Promise me?"
"I'm fine," Jensen rouses himself enough to slur. "Would you let go of me? I'm not a baby."
"Then pick up your feet and walk," Steve scoffs even as Chris whoops, pounds him on the back and applauds, that's my boy, Jenny.
Jensen's eyes are bleary when he grins at Steve, but they're green and they're still happy from adrenaline and booze. He wipes away smears of grime. "Don't worry about me. I'm good, I swear."
He's not quite focused. No one thinks anything about that for some time, maybe not even Jensen himself. Steve never asked.
*~*~*
Now:
He wishes he had asked. Massaging each stiff, sore finger in its turn, he weighs the pros and cons of popping the cork and just telling Jared what happened. Sharing some of that burden.
But it's not his story to tell. So he won't.
"Ask him yourself, when he's better," he says shortly, turning away.
Jared wrinkles his forehead, lips pursed. He's about to say something when Steve's phone vibrates in his pocket. He holds up one finger in the universal "hang on a second" sign and turns his back to take the call. He knows before he checks the screen who it'll be.
He answers anyway. "I'm here," he says before Chris can start. "Jen's okay."
Chris's exhale is shaky with relief. "Okay, good," he rasps. "Stay with him until I get there, okay? Might not be too long now. Storm's letting up, looks like."
"Maybe there. Not here." The rain pounds down without surcease.
"It'll pass by soon."
"Maybe."
Chris is silent; Steve knows he's confused him. Steve doesn't do possibles. He knows, and he keeps it all tucked away.
Steve waits for Chris to ask him if he's okay, himself, or even to thank him, but he doesn't.
"I'll be there soon," is what Chris says instead.
"I thought you might be," Steve says, and disconnects without saying goodbye.
"Who was that?" Jared asks right away, as Steve would have thought he'd do. "If it's Chris, he can kiss my ass before I leave Jen alone tonight, at least."
"Wasn't anyone important," Steve replies, not really listening. He never changed out of his own wet clothes, too busy with picking up the pieces, and there's a torn-off scrap of paper in the pocket, where it was protected by his windbreaker, still mostly dry. There's a shred of paper with a phone number on it in his pocket, with a cell number on it, written in cheap blue ink from a ballpoint Alan borrowed from him. He rubs the paper between finger and thumb, and listens to the rain fall.
If he closes his eyes, he can still smell lightning that's ten years gone by.
*~*~*
"Jared?" Jensen half-turns toward him. He smiles. "Hey."
"Damn it, I didn't mean to wake you. Sorry."
"S'okay." Jensen's smile breaks on a yawn. "What's goin' on? Where's Steve?"
"Steve. He, uh…" Jared hesitates, recalling the oddness to Steve's voice and the stiffness of his posture when he took that phone call. Knowing he had to have been talking to Chris. The set to Steve's turned back had warned even him off after his first outburst when the call ended. It's the stance of a man who's dangerous to be around right now, maybe even more so than Chris in a mood. Quiet, as Jared knows, can be as deadly as loud.
"Steve's chillin' on the porch," he says instead of answering properly, squirmy under his skin at the implied lie but he's too worn out to dive headfirst in another mess of issues tonight. "I figured I'd give him some peace and quiet. How'd you know it was me -- you recognized my gait?"
"Mm-hmm." Jensen stretches. "Are you heading upstairs now?"
Again, Jared pauses, and again, he goes with his gut. "Nah. Not yet. I'm gonna sit down by you. Okay?"
Jensen nods, and Jared gratefully collapses by his side. "The quilt Steve spread over the couch isn't doing a great job at blocking the moisture from the soaked cushions but he doesn't much care; he's too tired to be bothered. Grumbling, he drops his head to Jensen's shoulder and rolls his forehead over the joint.
After a moment, Jensen lightly rests his hand on Jared's head, sifting through the still-wet tangles of his hair. He takes in a shallow breath as if he means to say something, stops, then does it again.
Jared leans more heavily into Jensen's side and reaches across to rest a palm on the knee furthest away from him, crisscrossing the two of them together.
Asking Jen if he's okay would be stupid, as it would for Jensen to ask him, though it's hard not to ask for a comforting lie. He guesses this whole thing's not about being easy, though, is it?
So he keeps quiet, as does Jensen. Their breathing falls into a point-counterpoint rhythm and their hands still, each shifting a tad this way and that until suddenly they're somehow curled up together like puppies in a pile. A couple of those wild alley mongrels, maybe, who'll bite you if you go too fast, who'll turn and run when they spook, but who could maybe be coaxed to linger a while.
Jensen falls asleep before he does, and that's fine. The rain's soothing now, lulling him into a decent rest, and he's comfortable here with Jen.
There's no telling what tomorrow will bring, no way, but he'll be here to try and sort out the tangles and for once in his life he's not scared of it.
He drifts off peacefully after thinking so and sleeps until dawn with Jensen warm against him, and if he has any nightmares about this hell of a day, he doesn't remember them when morning comes.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (RPS), secondary Chris/Steve
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 10,000 (5,000 this post, 5,000 first post)
Disclaimer: 100% scandalous lies and fearful untruths.
Beta: way2busymom
Summary: Once more returning to the Tilted world of J2 AU (RPS/CWRPS) on the beach. Not so much sex on the beach as angst on the beach. Alas.
Wandering ne'er-do-well Jared arrives in town for a temporary job rebuilding broken-down beach houses and falls hard for his reclusive downstairs neighbor Jensen. Jensen's not an easy man to understand. Jared still doesn't know all the secrets Jensen holds out of reach, but he plans to get to know the man better in every way he can -- if he can.
He doesn't stop to think that Steve might know the answers to a great many of his questions. There are quite a few things people don't know about Steve and what he keeps locked away inside - for one, the truth about Jensen.
Features confusion, sturm und drang, 90% less angry!Chris to deal with, a yellow Labrador, rain, secrets and mysteries and illumination as revealed through Steve's perspective and broken!Jensen, the poor lad.
This interlude follows Tilted and Tilted: Out of True; it's unlikely that this update to the 'verse will make sense unless the reader is familiar with the previous installments.
Feedback: Is a delight.
Tilted: Aslant (2/2) (complete)
Now:
Thunk!
This is getting to be a habit. Steve puts down the coffeemaker basket, loose grounds chaffing in the metal filter. "What did you run into now?" he calls.
"Nothing. Sorry. I knocked the shower door with my elbow."
Might as well offer again. "Sure you don't want any help?"
"We're good, thanks."
It's a dismissal, and usually he takes those as tacit permission to get on with his own business. So he doesn't exactly know why he scoots forward, silent on his own sock feet after he kicked his own boots off at the edge of the kitchen, and watches them.
They're both still in their underwear, though otherwise naked. Jared's a boxers man, and Jensen has his jockey shorts. Given how thin the boxers and how tight Jensen's shorts are in turn, it's fairly obvious both men are still cold.
Jared figures out the shower door and pushes it rattling to the side. He helps Jensen in, Jensen starting to wake up and respond now. That's a good sign. "Which spigot is for the hot water?"
"On the left," Steve replies absently. Jared's either a moron for not stripping them down completely or a genius or maybe just shy, he's not sure which. Out of his clothes, Jared's physique is startling. The loose fit of his various layers makes him look like a skinny kid, which he really, really isn't.
He's never seen feet quite that big. The guy must have to wear NBA castoffs or something.
Jared figures out the taps and sends the warm water cascading down over both their heads. He draws the door to, but as it's semi-translucent Steve still has a decent view. He sees for himself how Jared cups a man's face in his hands when he kisses him, engulfing him almost completely, and how he's taller enough than Jen that he's got to hunch down as if Jen's a girl. How Jen tilts his face up right away, no wary questions or hesitation. The way Jared's hand skates down the line of Jensen's back.
There's nothing here any sane man would call skirting the borders of what's proper and what isn't. It's comfort, is all, no more meaning to it than holding his hand and saying out loud that he'll be okay.
Or that's what he'll tell Chris, at least, if Chris ever finds out. Serve him right.
*~*~*
This? This is a bad, bad, bad idea. Lord and Jared both know it. But he can't seem to stop now he's started, one palm on each side of Jensen's face, tasting his lips. Jensen's warming up under the hot shower, his goosebumps already fading and his skin pinking up. Jared shivers as Jensen's still-cold fingers skitter clumsily over Jared's stomach and then his hips, finding a place to hold on.
He doesn't push for anything more, and Jared's glad. This, he's okay with, just warming wet skin and the faint brush of Jensen's breath over his lips. Spiky eyelashes over blank green irises and the first hint of a smile on his kiss-bruised lips, tilting up the corners.
"Hey. You in there?" Jared asks, feathering the balls of his thumbs over Jensen's cheekbones.
A drop of water dribbles from Jensen's hair down his cheek; he licks it away from his lips and swallows, nodding a bare inch. "More than I was. Almost," he says hoarsely. He laughs, and it's broken but it's a start.
"Are you still going to respect me in the morning?"
"Don't even joke," Jared says, meaning that for once in his life. He kisses Jensen again to swallow down even the echo.
*~*~*
Steve turns away, nearly tripping over Hannah. She's sitting woefully in the middle of the kitchen, wet tail whipping the linoleum. Her food dish is conspicuously empty.
"Bet Jen forgot to feed you earlier, huh?" He extends his fingers for Hannah to sniff. Her tongue is slimy-wet over the thin white scars. "Okay, fine. You want a can of the good stuff?"
Hannah yips, ears perking.
"Good girl, Lassie." Steve rolls his eyes as he opens the proper cabinet, finding right away the three cans of Purina that, if the airbrushed pictures on their glossy labels is anything to go by, probably tastes better than many a meal he's scraped together for himself in days gone by.
"Chicken and rice with fresh garden peas," he reads, shaking his head. "Whatever happened to Alpo?"
The can is one of the sort with a ring-pull tab on it. Steve pries the edge of the tab up easily enough, but when he tries to push his finger through and pull, his joint seizes up on him. He drops the can, hissing quietly. Hannah howls. The shower water patters on uninterrupted by anyone asking what that racket was.
Steve crouches, picks up the can and tries again, working until he's got it and she's taken care of before he tends to himself.
He's getting tired of doing that.
*~*~*
Jared's voice rises incoherently over the running water in the shower. He sounds like he's trying to sing, "trying" being the operative word. Also, "failing". Ouch. Steve pauses to wonder what kind of havoc he'd wreak with a guitar.
Damn, it's been a long, long time since he tried to play anything. Memories of honey-toned wood and mellow notes draw him to a shudder. He curls his fingers into a fist, lightly stroking the white lines, hearing long-ago strings snapping all over again.
You know better, he tells himself, shaking it off. There's enough troubles in one day and on their way to go borrowing from the past.
Maybe he should eat. When he was a kid, the old folks always used to say a hot meal fixed almost everything. Which is bullshit, but still, he's hungry, so why not?
Cracking open Jensen's refrigerator serves to wobble his world a little further aslant. There's hamburger in Jen's fridge. He blinks at it, wondering if it's a mirage. Jen hasn't eaten meat in at least five years, at least as far as he's aware. Chris would've mentioned any hopes of his returning to carnivore status. Would already be buying beer for a cook-out. Can't be that. Where did he get it? When?
Must have been secreted amongst the stuff Jeff brought when he came over to bandage Jen's hands properly. Steve didn't look through the old plastic A & P sack Jeff dropped in the kitchen, and after Jeff took off he himself was on his way out the back way, headed home for a nap before work.
Red meat. Damn. He guesses Jen planned to try the spaghetti thing again, hopefully without bloodshed this time. It's funny the way life works out sometimes.
Steve opens the pack of hamburger meat and finds a skillet. Jen might object, once he comes to. Let him. Right now, there are empty stomachs to be dealt with. And other hungers.
Soup. They could have soup, too. Steve turns on the forgotten coffeemaker and breathes deeply of the cheap ground-roasted smell.
He scolds Hannah quietly for whining and begging and getting underfoot while he cooks. Her appetite doesn't match her capacity, but she forgets that. From time to time.
*~*~*
"Hey. Don't." Jared catches Jensen's hand as it starts to go wandering a little further afield than just the notch of his hipbone. If the day ever comes that Jensen offers him this when he's not half out of his mind on one trip or another, then maybe. Not until then, though.
Jensen head-butts his chest, whining quietly.
"Damn, man. I know I'm sexy, but --"
"Shut up," Jensen whispers, rising up to press their mouths briefly together. He goes back down with a shudder. "Is it too messed up, now? To even…?"
He'd like to say he isn't sure -- he really isn't. And it's still tempting to get in his truck and drive. He's not, though, and he isn't. He traces the line of Jensen's nose instead, from the bridge between his eyes to the tip -- if he wasn't so pale, he might freckle -- and comes back around to cup the back of Jensen's head, tilting their foreheads together. "Naw," is all he says, his throat empty of other words for once. "No."
"Okay." Jensen rolls his forehead against Jared's. "What now?"
Jared's stomach rumbles. They both laugh, Jared thinking Jensen might be just as glad of the distraction as he is. "Food?" he asks, hopeful.
"I could eat. Maybe sleep some first, though." Jensen finds Jared's forearm and squeezes it clumsily. He's not saying the exact words, but Jared hears his thank you all the same.
He squeezes back, chafing Jensen's skin and using the slick sensation to help him stubbornly block out the how did we get to this? questions. For now.
*~*~*
Ten Years Ago:
Steve hammers on his cousin's bedroom door, a small room tucked well away in the back of the house. He'd fought Jensen for the privilege -- it's private and quiet, almost hidden away -- and lost. Kid has a mean right hook. "If you're not down for lunch in ten minutes, they're going to give it to the dogs." That's the threat he was told to deliver; he could have told them it wouldn't work. Jen eats like a bird is supposed to eat, which is to say almost not at all, and if he's had anything over the past day and a half, Steve hasn't seen it happen.
Which is why he's bothering. Jensen hides like a spooked kitten sometimes, but he's done a lot better since he came to stay here. Steve thinks about the way Chris and Jen are always tied at the hip, and although he's not sure why that bothers him, he just knows it does.
Chris hasn't come around since the night they chased the storm and it caught them instead, nearly six days ago. He wonders if maybe that's what's bothering Jen this time.
"Hey! You okay in there?" He turns the knob and sneaks a look inside.
At first, he doesn't see Jensen. He smells him, unwashed for a few days -- actually, he's not sure for how long -- and something else, yeasty and strange.
When he lights on Jensen, his relief shifts fast into worry. Jen's sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, facing a warped old full-length mirror that got tucked away back here because it turns reflections green. His head's down and his hands are nigh welded to the top of his scalp.
"Hey." He tries to play it cool, even though he's freaking out on the inside. There's just something wrong here. Keeps it up, too, until he's plunked down beside Jen and wrinkled his nose at the increasing strength of the weird smell. He elbows Jensen, careful not to go too rough. "What's up, man? Chris didn't ask you to be his girl, did he?"
He gets no response, and that's the last straw. Come on, he all but out-and-out called them gay. That ought to have had Jensen up in arms, ready to box him. "You're scaring me, man. Look at me."
Jensen hunches in tighter on himself.
"Uh-uh. You look at me right the fuck now." Steve takes him by the chin and wrenches his head up, turning him so that they're face to face.
His eyes. Aw, fuck. Almost stuck shut with watery matter and…
He's on the phone to 9-1-1 less than a minute later, would have been seconds if his hands hadn't been shaking so damn much. The operator asks how long Jensen's been like this; he hears her stern disapproval when he tells her, and understands that it's his fault for not making a fuss earlier. He should have known better.
Steve swears to himself and promises God that if this gets fixed, he'll never not pay attention to small details again, not even when they're the last things he wants to see.
*~*~*
Now:
He's kept that promise to himself, he thinks as he takes down three mugs, two plain plus Jensen's favorite bright green pottery one, fetches yellow soup bowls and spoons and Saltines. People who knew everything, all the ins and outs, would look at him and think "clueless" or maybe even "there are none so blind as they who will not see", if they were of a poetic and/or ironic turn of mind.
They'd be wrong. He knows exactly how his world works, and all the motivations of the players who move in and out. He knows he's second best and always has been, a last-minute replacement because the game had to go on. He knows, and for a long time that was fine by him. If you don't have ambitions, you can't be disappointed, and just as Chris does every damn thing for the sake of his guilt, Steve guesses -- no, he's sure of it -- that it's the same for him.
He barely glances up as Jared hauls Jensen out into the main room and deposits him on the couch, where Steve has covered the wet spots up with that quilt. Hannah, toweled as dry as he could get her, lies at the far end with her nose on her paws. She wags her tail hopefully when she sees Jared coming. Jensen's mostly dry too except for his hair, and he's dressed in a mismatched set of sleep pants and flannel shirt Jared no doubt grabbed at random with no thought for the careful ordering of the closet. Jared himself looks pretty damn comical in a plaid shirt and a pair of track shorts. Both sets of feet are bare, picking up a dusting of sand as they walk.
"I couldn't find any socks," Jared apologizes, carefully arranging Jen on the couch. Jen looks to be hazy still but more like a sleepy child than a zombie so Jared seems to be doing a decent job of handling him. It makes no sense to Steve how someone so random and touchy-feely could possibly be good for Jen, let alone not send him running, but what the hell does he know?
He wonders what happened in the shower, knowing it's not his business but not letting that stop him. Likely not much of anything worth note. Jen's lips aren't swollen, so he doubts there was even much vanilla kissing.
That's good. Or not.
Jared clears his throat, grimacing as if he's embarrassed. "Do you want me to go back and hunt for some?"
Jesus. The kid's still fixated on socks. "Don't bother. He likes going barefoot inside." The hamburger he's fixing for himself is almost done, still a little pink in the middle, the way he likes it best.
Jared's stomach rumbles. He sniffs the air.
"Made you two some soup," Steve offers, jabbing the spatula handle in the direction of the gently steaming pot. "Vegetable stew. Bowls are over there. And coffee, if you want."
"Thanks." Jared casts a yearning glance at the hamburger but doesn't ask if he can have one, too. He obediently dishes up the Campbell's, two bowls full. He only spills a little. Instead of carrying it over to Jensen, though, so they can eat before it gets cold, he puts them on the table and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks young again, prompting Steve to wonder exactly how old he is. Probably three or four years less than Jensen, at least.
"Something on your mind?"
Jared exhales through his nose. He picks at a strand of hair plastered wetly to his cheek, tugging the wave straight. "Look," he begins slowly. "Can we step outside for a minute?"
Steve frowns, glancing at Jensen. He looks a lot better, some color in his cheeks and sitting easily, one foot tucked underneath him, half-nodding-off on the couch. "Something wrong?" he asks quietly.
Jared shrugs. "He's mostly asleep, but I don't… I need to ask you something, and I don't want to right in front of him."
Here it comes, Steve thinks, resigned. Romeos generally hit the road once they stumble into the worst of this mess, whether it happens sooner or later.
"All right," he says, leading the way. Jared pauses long enough to awkwardly pat Jensen's shoulder; Steve can't make out the dozy mumble Jensen responds with.
The storm's eased up for now, rain still falling, but lazily, taking its time. Steve's seen enough beach weather to know it's not over yet. The lull suits him well enough right now, the rain noisy enough to shelter their conversation yet quiet enough that he can hear himself think out on the porch. He waits for Jared to catch up with him and then shuts the door behind them. "So what do you want to know?"
Thanks be for small mercies; Jared comes right to the point even if he does fidget and chafe his hand over his jaw. "Look, I don't… it's not my business why or when or what happened wherever. I know that."
"But?"
"Don't make this easy on me." Jared pulls an uncomfortable frown. "I need to know if any of this is my fault. That's all."
"Your fault?" Steve repeats. The kid's serious, and gets annoyed as all hell when Steve loses it. He has to wave Jared quiet and back away, he's so shook up with laughing and shaking, damn tremors like his hands get sometimes that won't stop.
"Don't laugh at me."
"I won't laugh at you if you don't try and pull the scary face on me." He wipes his eyes, careful of his greasy fingers. Breathing takes a minute to calm down, and while he's waiting he examines Jared narrowly, cataloguing him from head to toe, drawing check marks and X's on a mental tally. There are more question marks than he'd like when he's done, and instead of having his cool back he's lost, still, having to fight back a spurt of words and not sure he wants to.
Jared waits, pissy as a scorned pup.
"You want to know if it's your fault. That's not really the question, is it? You want to know what happened to make him scared of storms. Did he say something?"
"He told me about the last thing he saw. How it was lightning. And fire."
"Huh." Steve rolls that around in his head.
Jensen wasn't telling the exact truth as Steve remembers it, but he's not sure he'll tell Jared that. The last thing he's always thought Jensen saw was his own reflection in a warped green mirror, and he's not sure he'll tell about that, either.
Flash-burned retinas, the one doctor who'd talk to him said. Secondary bacterial infection. Did he get any dirt in his eyes when you fell? Conjunctivitis. Combined, they --
That's pinkeye, Chris protested. You don't go blind from fuckin' pinkeye.
You can, sometimes, if it's untreated, she said. Why didn't you come in right away?
Maybe he's the one who's wrong, after all.
*~*~*
Ten Years Ago, The End of the World:
"Fuck me." Chris raises his head from his crossed arms, where his hid his eyes after they hit the dirt running. His ears are still ringing loudly enough that he almost misses hearing Chris; he'd still be able to tell from the look on his face. Steve can see the whites of his eyes clear around the irises, startling in the grimy sweat smeared over his face. This close, he can smell the whiskey still on his breath. "That fucker was close."
"No kidding." Their hair is lying down now, mostly, no longer wispy around their temples as a dandelion gone to seed. If he hadn't known that, they might not have gotten as far away as they did before the lightning touched down. Too close. Way too damn close. "That's it, man. I'm going back. You want to stay out here and act the fool, be my guest."
"Uh-uh. Too sober for that now." Chris's grin lacks its usual snark. "Jen, c'mon. Best we move."
Only Jensen doesn't answer.
They find him unconscious far too close to the smoky, charred ground where the lightning struck, his breathing shallow. Chris slaps him hard enough to leave finger-shaped welts under mud-smeary handprints before he groans and comes around, blinking and then staring vacantly like he's just looked into the sun and can't see anything for the brightness of the light.
"Think we ought to take him to the hospital?" he asks, helping Jensen stand. Not an easy task; he's not helping them at all at first. "Chris! Should we?"
Chris shakes his head. "No, man, no way." He checks Jen's eyes himself, prying one lid and then the other wide open with dirty fingers, leaving streaks of mud behind. "He looks fine to me. Besides, they'd know we were drinkin'. We get in trouble like that, they'll send me off to the army and you to the navy and God knows where Jen would end up. You know it's true," he insists when Steve hesitates, still not sure if that's enough to stop them. "Steve. Come on. Don't tell. Promise me?"
"I'm fine," Jensen rouses himself enough to slur. "Would you let go of me? I'm not a baby."
"Then pick up your feet and walk," Steve scoffs even as Chris whoops, pounds him on the back and applauds, that's my boy, Jenny.
Jensen's eyes are bleary when he grins at Steve, but they're green and they're still happy from adrenaline and booze. He wipes away smears of grime. "Don't worry about me. I'm good, I swear."
He's not quite focused. No one thinks anything about that for some time, maybe not even Jensen himself. Steve never asked.
*~*~*
Now:
He wishes he had asked. Massaging each stiff, sore finger in its turn, he weighs the pros and cons of popping the cork and just telling Jared what happened. Sharing some of that burden.
But it's not his story to tell. So he won't.
"Ask him yourself, when he's better," he says shortly, turning away.
Jared wrinkles his forehead, lips pursed. He's about to say something when Steve's phone vibrates in his pocket. He holds up one finger in the universal "hang on a second" sign and turns his back to take the call. He knows before he checks the screen who it'll be.
He answers anyway. "I'm here," he says before Chris can start. "Jen's okay."
Chris's exhale is shaky with relief. "Okay, good," he rasps. "Stay with him until I get there, okay? Might not be too long now. Storm's letting up, looks like."
"Maybe there. Not here." The rain pounds down without surcease.
"It'll pass by soon."
"Maybe."
Chris is silent; Steve knows he's confused him. Steve doesn't do possibles. He knows, and he keeps it all tucked away.
Steve waits for Chris to ask him if he's okay, himself, or even to thank him, but he doesn't.
"I'll be there soon," is what Chris says instead.
"I thought you might be," Steve says, and disconnects without saying goodbye.
"Who was that?" Jared asks right away, as Steve would have thought he'd do. "If it's Chris, he can kiss my ass before I leave Jen alone tonight, at least."
"Wasn't anyone important," Steve replies, not really listening. He never changed out of his own wet clothes, too busy with picking up the pieces, and there's a torn-off scrap of paper in the pocket, where it was protected by his windbreaker, still mostly dry. There's a shred of paper with a phone number on it in his pocket, with a cell number on it, written in cheap blue ink from a ballpoint Alan borrowed from him. He rubs the paper between finger and thumb, and listens to the rain fall.
If he closes his eyes, he can still smell lightning that's ten years gone by.
*~*~*
"Jared?" Jensen half-turns toward him. He smiles. "Hey."
"Damn it, I didn't mean to wake you. Sorry."
"S'okay." Jensen's smile breaks on a yawn. "What's goin' on? Where's Steve?"
"Steve. He, uh…" Jared hesitates, recalling the oddness to Steve's voice and the stiffness of his posture when he took that phone call. Knowing he had to have been talking to Chris. The set to Steve's turned back had warned even him off after his first outburst when the call ended. It's the stance of a man who's dangerous to be around right now, maybe even more so than Chris in a mood. Quiet, as Jared knows, can be as deadly as loud.
"Steve's chillin' on the porch," he says instead of answering properly, squirmy under his skin at the implied lie but he's too worn out to dive headfirst in another mess of issues tonight. "I figured I'd give him some peace and quiet. How'd you know it was me -- you recognized my gait?"
"Mm-hmm." Jensen stretches. "Are you heading upstairs now?"
Again, Jared pauses, and again, he goes with his gut. "Nah. Not yet. I'm gonna sit down by you. Okay?"
Jensen nods, and Jared gratefully collapses by his side. "The quilt Steve spread over the couch isn't doing a great job at blocking the moisture from the soaked cushions but he doesn't much care; he's too tired to be bothered. Grumbling, he drops his head to Jensen's shoulder and rolls his forehead over the joint.
After a moment, Jensen lightly rests his hand on Jared's head, sifting through the still-wet tangles of his hair. He takes in a shallow breath as if he means to say something, stops, then does it again.
Jared leans more heavily into Jensen's side and reaches across to rest a palm on the knee furthest away from him, crisscrossing the two of them together.
Asking Jen if he's okay would be stupid, as it would for Jensen to ask him, though it's hard not to ask for a comforting lie. He guesses this whole thing's not about being easy, though, is it?
So he keeps quiet, as does Jensen. Their breathing falls into a point-counterpoint rhythm and their hands still, each shifting a tad this way and that until suddenly they're somehow curled up together like puppies in a pile. A couple of those wild alley mongrels, maybe, who'll bite you if you go too fast, who'll turn and run when they spook, but who could maybe be coaxed to linger a while.
Jensen falls asleep before he does, and that's fine. The rain's soothing now, lulling him into a decent rest, and he's comfortable here with Jen.
There's no telling what tomorrow will bring, no way, but he'll be here to try and sort out the tangles and for once in his life he's not scared of it.
He drifts off peacefully after thinking so and sleeps until dawn with Jensen warm against him, and if he has any nightmares about this hell of a day, he doesn't remember them when morning comes.