Fic: The Color and Shapes You Do
Title: The Color and Shapes You Do
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Jensen/Misha
Warnings: Brief language, alcohol appreciation, slight nonexplicit sexuality.
Words: 1,844
Summary: It begins with the soft slide of a blink, the slow curl of a lip into a crooked grin Jensen knows too well.
A/N: Written for my Jensen/Misha girls, especially qthelights who needed a little ray of happy. I hope this helps, honeybee! ♥
Title taken from The Only One by Manchester Orchestra.
It ends with the soft slide of a blink, the slow curl of a lip into a crooked grin Jensen knows too well.
It ends with Jensen torn down to his barest foundations by nothing but three words strung together.
Two years out and they're ringing in the end of season five with class, good food and bourbon that speaks in volumes of smoke on the company tab. By midnight half of everyone's gone home; by one, another ten have checked out, if not physically then by way of a few too many Manhattans. Two rolls around and Jared's arms are tight around Jensen's shoulders as he rocks through it, flinches against the clap that's a little too rough. Genevieve kisses his cheek and slips away with Jared hung around her arm limp and willowy as the lavender scarf that unraveled from her throat three hours earlier. Two-thirty and Jensen finds himself alone and staring down the flat plane of the bar at a ring of bright silver caught on the tip of an index finger, a ring rhythmically tink-ing against thin glass in measured chimes, slip-swirl of ice cubes punctuating the lilt of an easy laugh, the graceful twist of a narrow wrist.
Ten minutes stretch along with Jensen watching Misha - sitting, talking, drinking, laughing, integrating, weaving a thousand errant topics into one spun thread that leaves the object of his conversation either teary-eyed with laughter or blank-faced with their eyebrows crawled halfway up their forehead.
Misha can't help but have a profound effect on people, is the thing of it. He's built to rile and crafted to confuse, to fascinate, to bewilder.
Jensen fits his chin into his palm and wonders, how. Perhaps even why, or what, because certainly Misha is a creation - an improvisational experiment that's not here to fill a supporting role as much as he is to observe and catalogue all the tiny details he milks from his willing victims. Compulsory, but Jensen can't help but feel like an insect beneath Misha's looking glass - odd, since he seems to be the one doing all the watching these days.
Except - see, he's not.
Because when Jensen finally blinks back the alcohol cataracts he sees Misha staring pinpoints at him from across the way, eyes narrow, lips a straight thinly-parted line; studying.
It's a bourbon thing, Jensen bargains.
Ten feet away, Misha lifts his glass and swivels until the ice chimes its weakened tune. He lifts a hand to his brow in a stiff salute and just as soon shucks it all away, all of that facetious stoicism peeling back to leave an infant second skin of a curved bow of white teeth and sparking eyes, a thin working throat as he tips back and takes a drag of bourbon with him. Jensen watches as long as he can, until the glass lowers and Misha traces a sheen of wet across his lip with a pink dart of tongue.
Then Jensen's flicking his glass in the tiniest toast ever and sucking back the last half ounce kicking around his glass for the past twenty minutes.
He's doing his best to regain feeling in his face by way of freezing water when he sees Misha the next time. And Jensen would swear he doesn't even hear the bathroom door open, but Misha could slip through cracks simpler than a ghost if he sees fit, Jensen has no doubt. So it's anything but surprising when Jensen bends up from the sink and sees, through the beads clinging to his lashes, Misha standing at his back with a curiously cocked head and an honest-to-god debilitating smirk.
The sink turns off with a howl as Jensen towels at his browbone. Misha doesn't move, hands sunk in his pockets, belt a low sling of waxed leather that Jensen refuses to stare at. "Everybody leave?"
A corner of Misha's lip tucks softly behind a peek of teeth and Jensen quivers like he's balanced on the strands of a web, like he can't quite hold himself in place. Predatory is a good look on Misha, and despite his better objections Jensen can't think of anything he'd like better than to bare his throat for the kill.
Misha says, "There are some stragglers. A tragically sober vagrant and some drunk guy, from what I hear."
"Poor guys. Especially the sober one."
"It's a regrettable state, yes," Misha sighs, like it's just the heaviest thing in the world. He moves, subtly, but Jensen misses exactly how because all he can really focus on is Misha's mouth.
Then Misha's mouth moves to say, "You're shitfaced," and Jensen barks an embarrassingly drunken laugh that seems to illustrate that case in point quite perfectly.
"Been worse," he says stubbornly.
"I'm not going to spend my post-celebratory weekend spoon-feeding you lime Jell-O, Jensen. Ideally you would survive the night unhospitalized, and your sheets have been flapping in the wind for the better part of an hour now."
Jensen blinks.
"Come on," Misha says with a swift wrench of the door handle, a measured step backward and an arm extended invitingly, an arm that Jensen wants around him this instant.
Turns out Misha doesn't so much indulge him, though he does rest a hand in the dip of Jensen's back as they navigate from bathroom to bar, from bar to door and door to sidewalk. Vancouver greets him with a frozen sledgehammer of a breeze and he feels himself topple in the general direction of warmth and solidity, the hard ridge of Misha's arm holding him steady, the too bony angle of Misha's shoulder knocking into the center of Jensen's sternum. He shivers not so much at the cold, but at the warm curtain of breath shaken down his collar when Misha leans close and half-laughs, "You good?"
Jensen thinks that yes, he is good, and he could be better but he's not one to take advantage, and Misha seems firmly settled.
He should really learn to disregard all expectations when it comes to Misha, though, because within the thirty yards into the parking garage it suddenly shifts, clicks and locks, and Jensen's focus zeroes in at pinpoint clarity with his back frozen against a car door and Misha's tongue writing a filthy-graceful script along his jawline.
Jensen makes a noise - not of protest, but of how the fuck did I get here, before settling on the relative unimportance of the wet-paint smears of the minutes in between. Instead he finds handfuls of Misha's jacket and drags, bows up and rocks forward where it counts, floods his throat with a frozen gasp when warm wet tongue is replaced with the scrape of teeth and Misha's sigh, Misha's quick hiss of fuck, Jen and the hungry clutch of his fingers at Jensen's hip.
He wants, inexplicably, but Misha withdraws and stares, maps the corner of his mouth where he must still taste Jensen's skin. Less than a nickel's edge of blue rims the black swallowing up his eyes as he watches, and watches, and cuts Jensen into pieces, and all Jensen can think is that he's never been so happily dissected.
"I wasn't actually planning to seduce you till next weekend, but if you want to move things ahead, by all means," Misha says on the edge of a lopsided grin.
Jensen's fingers swim and probe through fabric until they reach skin, the smooth glide of milk-white that shows between shirt and hip when he tugs up just right. Misha shivers against it, shies just a little and puffs a quick exhale of a laugh as he severs the contact, two careful fingers cuffing Jensen's wrist and placing it firmly at Jensen's side.
Somehow ten minutes tumble through and the next time Jensen shudders awake he's buckled into shotgun with the chafe of a seatbelt across his chest and Misha's hand planted lazily, a little possessively, on the bend of his knee. Jensen has the wherewithal to ask where, and what time, but he should know that Misha repels straight answers like an opposite magnetic force. He shouldn't be surprised when Misha only rubs a small circle on the tender inside of his knee and says, "We're on the yellow brick road, Toto, go back to sleep."
And honestly, he's not; he's not surprised at all, because while Misha is still as unfathomable as unfathomable gets, Jensen is learning him. He is adjusting and memorizing some of Misha's finer points, such as his infuriating inability to just give a straight fucking answer to...well, anything.
So he does sink back down, and when he wakes again it's to the dizzy swarming feeling of too-much-too-fast. It's interchangeable and barely distinguishable from the dizzy swarming feeling of about-to-empty-my-stomach-into-your-floorboards, but then Misha is scratching at his shoulder and saying, near whispering, "Back in Kansas now."
Kansas turns out to be a sea of cocoa-brown and wine-dark sheets, the lazy wind of a ceiling fan and bare tan walls that spin in tandem but probably shouldn't. It turns out to be the quiet umf as Misha jerks off his shoes and the splash of warm recycled air against his bare feet.
It's the slow wind of hands like liquid around his ankles, the inexorable crawl of a weight settling over his body and the wetness of a mouth on his collarbone.
It's opening his eyes and seeing the world not swimming for once, seeing Misha with quiet eyes and a soft mouth and hair still damp with snow. It's the careful sweep of Misha's knuckles that frame Jensen's temple and drag him down to deeper, silent places. That spark and ignite him. That make him sigh and shudder and breathe, "Misha?"
Just a quick hum, then Jensen is focusing on the cut-out of Misha still hovering above, the spin of blades beyond his left shoulder, the shadows spilling in from indiscriminate places and slipping straight into Jensen's veins to flow slow and thick as honey.
"Should go," Jensen tries. Because Misha is caging him to the bed and he's already got the taste of Misha bled into his mouth and stained on his tongue, and there's really only one place, one delirious place, for this to go, and while it would certainly be fun it might not be exactly the smartest.
Just not tonight, because Jensen is already half-lost, sunk and weighted and pinned, and he thinks he could get used to being stationary as long as Misha is the tether.
"You should stay," Misha says, close to his mouth but not touching, though Jensen feels the kiss all the same.
And Jensen thinks simply, okay.
It begins with a soft sigh into the curve of his throat, a breath in the shape of the words, "You owe me, Ackles."
"I'll pay up in the morning," Jensen murmurs and means it, seals it with a kiss to the cool riot of Misha's hair.
It begins with the soft slide of a blink, the slow curl of a lip into a crooked grin Jensen knows too well.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Jensen/Misha
Warnings: Brief language, alcohol appreciation, slight nonexplicit sexuality.
Words: 1,844
Summary: It begins with the soft slide of a blink, the slow curl of a lip into a crooked grin Jensen knows too well.
A/N: Written for my Jensen/Misha girls, especially qthelights who needed a little ray of happy. I hope this helps, honeybee! ♥
Title taken from The Only One by Manchester Orchestra.
It ends with the soft slide of a blink, the slow curl of a lip into a crooked grin Jensen knows too well.
It ends with Jensen torn down to his barest foundations by nothing but three words strung together.
Two years out and they're ringing in the end of season five with class, good food and bourbon that speaks in volumes of smoke on the company tab. By midnight half of everyone's gone home; by one, another ten have checked out, if not physically then by way of a few too many Manhattans. Two rolls around and Jared's arms are tight around Jensen's shoulders as he rocks through it, flinches against the clap that's a little too rough. Genevieve kisses his cheek and slips away with Jared hung around her arm limp and willowy as the lavender scarf that unraveled from her throat three hours earlier. Two-thirty and Jensen finds himself alone and staring down the flat plane of the bar at a ring of bright silver caught on the tip of an index finger, a ring rhythmically tink-ing against thin glass in measured chimes, slip-swirl of ice cubes punctuating the lilt of an easy laugh, the graceful twist of a narrow wrist.
Ten minutes stretch along with Jensen watching Misha - sitting, talking, drinking, laughing, integrating, weaving a thousand errant topics into one spun thread that leaves the object of his conversation either teary-eyed with laughter or blank-faced with their eyebrows crawled halfway up their forehead.
Misha can't help but have a profound effect on people, is the thing of it. He's built to rile and crafted to confuse, to fascinate, to bewilder.
Jensen fits his chin into his palm and wonders, how. Perhaps even why, or what, because certainly Misha is a creation - an improvisational experiment that's not here to fill a supporting role as much as he is to observe and catalogue all the tiny details he milks from his willing victims. Compulsory, but Jensen can't help but feel like an insect beneath Misha's looking glass - odd, since he seems to be the one doing all the watching these days.
Except - see, he's not.
Because when Jensen finally blinks back the alcohol cataracts he sees Misha staring pinpoints at him from across the way, eyes narrow, lips a straight thinly-parted line; studying.
It's a bourbon thing, Jensen bargains.
Ten feet away, Misha lifts his glass and swivels until the ice chimes its weakened tune. He lifts a hand to his brow in a stiff salute and just as soon shucks it all away, all of that facetious stoicism peeling back to leave an infant second skin of a curved bow of white teeth and sparking eyes, a thin working throat as he tips back and takes a drag of bourbon with him. Jensen watches as long as he can, until the glass lowers and Misha traces a sheen of wet across his lip with a pink dart of tongue.
Then Jensen's flicking his glass in the tiniest toast ever and sucking back the last half ounce kicking around his glass for the past twenty minutes.
He's doing his best to regain feeling in his face by way of freezing water when he sees Misha the next time. And Jensen would swear he doesn't even hear the bathroom door open, but Misha could slip through cracks simpler than a ghost if he sees fit, Jensen has no doubt. So it's anything but surprising when Jensen bends up from the sink and sees, through the beads clinging to his lashes, Misha standing at his back with a curiously cocked head and an honest-to-god debilitating smirk.
The sink turns off with a howl as Jensen towels at his browbone. Misha doesn't move, hands sunk in his pockets, belt a low sling of waxed leather that Jensen refuses to stare at. "Everybody leave?"
A corner of Misha's lip tucks softly behind a peek of teeth and Jensen quivers like he's balanced on the strands of a web, like he can't quite hold himself in place. Predatory is a good look on Misha, and despite his better objections Jensen can't think of anything he'd like better than to bare his throat for the kill.
Misha says, "There are some stragglers. A tragically sober vagrant and some drunk guy, from what I hear."
"Poor guys. Especially the sober one."
"It's a regrettable state, yes," Misha sighs, like it's just the heaviest thing in the world. He moves, subtly, but Jensen misses exactly how because all he can really focus on is Misha's mouth.
Then Misha's mouth moves to say, "You're shitfaced," and Jensen barks an embarrassingly drunken laugh that seems to illustrate that case in point quite perfectly.
"Been worse," he says stubbornly.
"I'm not going to spend my post-celebratory weekend spoon-feeding you lime Jell-O, Jensen. Ideally you would survive the night unhospitalized, and your sheets have been flapping in the wind for the better part of an hour now."
Jensen blinks.
"Come on," Misha says with a swift wrench of the door handle, a measured step backward and an arm extended invitingly, an arm that Jensen wants around him this instant.
Turns out Misha doesn't so much indulge him, though he does rest a hand in the dip of Jensen's back as they navigate from bathroom to bar, from bar to door and door to sidewalk. Vancouver greets him with a frozen sledgehammer of a breeze and he feels himself topple in the general direction of warmth and solidity, the hard ridge of Misha's arm holding him steady, the too bony angle of Misha's shoulder knocking into the center of Jensen's sternum. He shivers not so much at the cold, but at the warm curtain of breath shaken down his collar when Misha leans close and half-laughs, "You good?"
Jensen thinks that yes, he is good, and he could be better but he's not one to take advantage, and Misha seems firmly settled.
He should really learn to disregard all expectations when it comes to Misha, though, because within the thirty yards into the parking garage it suddenly shifts, clicks and locks, and Jensen's focus zeroes in at pinpoint clarity with his back frozen against a car door and Misha's tongue writing a filthy-graceful script along his jawline.
Jensen makes a noise - not of protest, but of how the fuck did I get here, before settling on the relative unimportance of the wet-paint smears of the minutes in between. Instead he finds handfuls of Misha's jacket and drags, bows up and rocks forward where it counts, floods his throat with a frozen gasp when warm wet tongue is replaced with the scrape of teeth and Misha's sigh, Misha's quick hiss of fuck, Jen and the hungry clutch of his fingers at Jensen's hip.
He wants, inexplicably, but Misha withdraws and stares, maps the corner of his mouth where he must still taste Jensen's skin. Less than a nickel's edge of blue rims the black swallowing up his eyes as he watches, and watches, and cuts Jensen into pieces, and all Jensen can think is that he's never been so happily dissected.
"I wasn't actually planning to seduce you till next weekend, but if you want to move things ahead, by all means," Misha says on the edge of a lopsided grin.
Jensen's fingers swim and probe through fabric until they reach skin, the smooth glide of milk-white that shows between shirt and hip when he tugs up just right. Misha shivers against it, shies just a little and puffs a quick exhale of a laugh as he severs the contact, two careful fingers cuffing Jensen's wrist and placing it firmly at Jensen's side.
Somehow ten minutes tumble through and the next time Jensen shudders awake he's buckled into shotgun with the chafe of a seatbelt across his chest and Misha's hand planted lazily, a little possessively, on the bend of his knee. Jensen has the wherewithal to ask where, and what time, but he should know that Misha repels straight answers like an opposite magnetic force. He shouldn't be surprised when Misha only rubs a small circle on the tender inside of his knee and says, "We're on the yellow brick road, Toto, go back to sleep."
And honestly, he's not; he's not surprised at all, because while Misha is still as unfathomable as unfathomable gets, Jensen is learning him. He is adjusting and memorizing some of Misha's finer points, such as his infuriating inability to just give a straight fucking answer to...well, anything.
So he does sink back down, and when he wakes again it's to the dizzy swarming feeling of too-much-too-fast. It's interchangeable and barely distinguishable from the dizzy swarming feeling of about-to-empty-my-stomach-into-your-floorboards, but then Misha is scratching at his shoulder and saying, near whispering, "Back in Kansas now."
Kansas turns out to be a sea of cocoa-brown and wine-dark sheets, the lazy wind of a ceiling fan and bare tan walls that spin in tandem but probably shouldn't. It turns out to be the quiet umf as Misha jerks off his shoes and the splash of warm recycled air against his bare feet.
It's the slow wind of hands like liquid around his ankles, the inexorable crawl of a weight settling over his body and the wetness of a mouth on his collarbone.
It's opening his eyes and seeing the world not swimming for once, seeing Misha with quiet eyes and a soft mouth and hair still damp with snow. It's the careful sweep of Misha's knuckles that frame Jensen's temple and drag him down to deeper, silent places. That spark and ignite him. That make him sigh and shudder and breathe, "Misha?"
Just a quick hum, then Jensen is focusing on the cut-out of Misha still hovering above, the spin of blades beyond his left shoulder, the shadows spilling in from indiscriminate places and slipping straight into Jensen's veins to flow slow and thick as honey.
"Should go," Jensen tries. Because Misha is caging him to the bed and he's already got the taste of Misha bled into his mouth and stained on his tongue, and there's really only one place, one delirious place, for this to go, and while it would certainly be fun it might not be exactly the smartest.
Just not tonight, because Jensen is already half-lost, sunk and weighted and pinned, and he thinks he could get used to being stationary as long as Misha is the tether.
"You should stay," Misha says, close to his mouth but not touching, though Jensen feels the kiss all the same.
And Jensen thinks simply, okay.
It begins with a soft sigh into the curve of his throat, a breath in the shape of the words, "You owe me, Ackles."
"I'll pay up in the morning," Jensen murmurs and means it, seals it with a kiss to the cool riot of Misha's hair.
It begins with the soft slide of a blink, the slow curl of a lip into a crooked grin Jensen knows too well.