Fic :: CWRPS :: Curtained
Curtained
Fandom: CWRPS
Rating: PG
Summary: A series of ficlets centred around Jared and Jensen's domestic life when they lived together.
Posting date: September 2008
*
“You know,” says Jensen, from inches behind him; sometimes Jared thinks he walks so quietly on purpose, just to make people jump. “I’m pretty sure that shade of purple is illegal in fifteen states.”
“Shut up, you’re illegal in fifteen states,” Jared snipes back, and he feels Jensen’s huff of laughter tickle the side of his neck.
“Predictable, Jay,” he says, chin nudging at Jared’s shoulder as he speaks, craning to peer at the curtain Jared’s still holding.
It’s pretty fucking purple.
“I like purple,” says Jared. He runs his finger down the seams; he’s not really sure why, but it’s something his momma always does and he's always thought it makes her look like a professional. Maybe she just likes the feel of curtains. “Don’t you like purple?”
“Sure. I’ve got nothing against purple. It’s just…” Jensen pauses, propping his chin up on Jared’s shoulder like he just can’t hold it up under the weight of his purple-hating. “It’s a lot of purple.”
“Don’t be a hater.”
“I can’t help myself when I’m around you.”
“Hey, touch this curtain.” After a pause, Jared tugs the curtain out and it gives it a shake in what he figures is Jensen’s direction. “Seriously, touch it. I promise it won’t bite.”
He can feel the face Jensen’s making; no, really, he can. It’s slightly cross-eyed. Then Jensen sighs and shifts, dislodging himself from Jared’s shoulder, and giving the curtain a tentative prod.
“C’mon,” Jared says, in a helpful and encouraging manner. “Give it a good squeeze.”
“That’s definitely illegal in fifteen states,” Jensen mutters, but he does as he’s told anyway, grabbing a good fistful and running his hand down it.
“What do you think?” Jared prompts. He tries to keep from bouncing.
Jensen rubs the seams between his fingers and thumb- it looks extremely professional- and says, “I think it’s too fucking purple.”
“Yeah.” Jared sighs, shoulders slumping. “You’re probably right.”
Jensen drops the curtain, and brushes his hands down- because Jensen? Is pretty anal and probably scared of getting purple-cooties or something- and then he gives Jared’s shoulder an encouraging pat. “C’mon,” he says, soothingly. “You wanna go buy some dinosaur sheets?”
“Can we wear them like togas?”
Jensen glances sideways at him, and he’s trying to keep his face straight, Jared can tell, but the grin just won’t take no for an answer.
“Yeah, Jay,” he says. “Let’s wear them like togas,” and he smiles in that way he does, like Jared’s the best thing he’s seen all day. It’s a little bit cross-eyed, but Jared? He really doesn’t mind.
“You’ve been drinking my milk,” Jensen says.
Jared’s sat at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios in nothing but his boxers, an open shirt and a pair of socks Jensen’s almost certain are his, with someone’s milk slurping down his chin. He waggles his eyebrows; Jensen’s pretty sure he’s trying to communicate something. Maybe Timmy’s fallen down another well.
“It’s not that I mind you drinking it, Jay,” he says, dropping two slices of his special whole wheat bread into the toaster. “But there are boundaries. I keep out of your Lucky Charms, don’t I?”
“Mmhhluchms,” says Jared.
“I don’t hate them,” says Jensen. And then, “Well, okay, yeah, I kinda hate them. But I don’t piss in them, do I?”
“D’you?”
“Jesus, no. Because they’re yours, and I respect that. Ow fuck,” he adds, burning his thumb on the toaster. Jared sniggers milkily. Jensen shoots him a glare- noting with satisfaction that Jared’s shirt-cuff is trailing into his bowl of Cheerios- and runs his thumb under cold water.
“And when you drink all my milk,” he continues, snatching his toast- carefully, this time- out of the toaster, “I have to replace it, and I don’t think that’s very fair. There’s no butter left, Jared. Why’s there no butter left?”
Jared holds a hand up, chewing with a glazed kind of expression; sometimes Jensen thinks Jared was a cow in a past life. Then he swallows, runs his tongue thoughtfully along his teeth, picks a bit of cheerio out of one of his molars, and says, “Aw, fuck, I got my shirt milky.”
“Think of it as karmic payback, bitch. The butter?”
“I kinda used it,” Jared says. He sucks his cuff into his mouth with a thoughtful kind of expression, and, as Jensen stares, begins to slowly chew.
“Don’t eat your shirt, man,” Jensen groans. “It’s my turn to do the laundry, and fuck you if you think I’m gonna wash your spit.”
“You think my spit is sexy.”
“I think I hate you.”
Jared grins broadly up at him. “I made cookies,” he says. There’s still bits of cereal caught between his teeth, and Jensen really wishes he could un-see that. “D’you want one?”
“Yeah,” Jensen sighs. His toast is going cold. “I guess so.”
Jensen’s taking a piss when Jared shambles in, yawning and scratching bluntly at his belly. Jared likes to wander around half-naked perhaps a little too much; today he’s wearing the orange boxers they spent a whole weekend debating the ownership of, plus a pair of almost-certainly-Jensen’s socks.
“Those are my socks,” says Jensen.
Jared looks at him, then down at his socks. “Huh,” he says, after a moment of quiet contemplation. “Thought they smelled different.”
Jensen sighs and turns back to his pissing. He can hear Jared shuffling around behind him, stifling another yawn, cursing as he knocks something over, beginning to whistle softly.
Shake off, zip up. “Is that the Muppets?” Jensen asks, frowning down at the toilet seat. Does he leave it up, ‘cause he’s living with a guy? Does he put it down, to keep himself trained? Shit.
“Man, when I was a kid, I basically wanted to be Kermit.” Jared squints at himself in the mirror, then opens his eyes wide to flick at an eyelash. “It was bordering on mancrush,” he adds, moving on to squeeze a zit on his chin. The lash is still caught in the corner of his eye, fluttering and looking generally ridiculous every time he blinks.
“That explains everything,” Jensen says, leaning around Jared to wash his hands. “Where’d you put my soap?”
“It’s hidden somewhere secret. Use my duck soap.”
“I’m not using your fucking duck soap. It’s shaped like a fucking duck.”
“Observant,” Jared murmurs, scratching at his chin.
Jensen sighs. Then he uses the duck soap.
Rubbing his hands all over a pretty, pink duck is really not Jensen’s number one way to start the day, FYI.
“Soul patch,” says Jared, as Jensen rinses the duck off his hands. “Yes or no?” He thrusts his chin out for examination; it’s closer to Jared’s zit than anyone has ever needed to be.
“If you grow a soul patch,” Jensen muses, “I’m strangling you in your sleep.”
“Then you’ll know never where I put your soap.”
“I’ll fight through the pain.”
“I’m gonna eat your waffles now,” Jared says.
One day- Jensen promises himself, as he races Jared to the kitchen in a way that thirty year old men probably should have grown out of by now- one day he’s going to grate the duck soap up in the dead of night. And dump it on Jared’s pillow. And then piss in his Lucky Charms.
*
Fandom: CWRPS
Rating: PG
Summary: A series of ficlets centred around Jared and Jensen's domestic life when they lived together.
Posting date: September 2008
*
“You know,” says Jensen, from inches behind him; sometimes Jared thinks he walks so quietly on purpose, just to make people jump. “I’m pretty sure that shade of purple is illegal in fifteen states.”
“Shut up, you’re illegal in fifteen states,” Jared snipes back, and he feels Jensen’s huff of laughter tickle the side of his neck.
“Predictable, Jay,” he says, chin nudging at Jared’s shoulder as he speaks, craning to peer at the curtain Jared’s still holding.
It’s pretty fucking purple.
“I like purple,” says Jared. He runs his finger down the seams; he’s not really sure why, but it’s something his momma always does and he's always thought it makes her look like a professional. Maybe she just likes the feel of curtains. “Don’t you like purple?”
“Sure. I’ve got nothing against purple. It’s just…” Jensen pauses, propping his chin up on Jared’s shoulder like he just can’t hold it up under the weight of his purple-hating. “It’s a lot of purple.”
“Don’t be a hater.”
“I can’t help myself when I’m around you.”
“Hey, touch this curtain.” After a pause, Jared tugs the curtain out and it gives it a shake in what he figures is Jensen’s direction. “Seriously, touch it. I promise it won’t bite.”
He can feel the face Jensen’s making; no, really, he can. It’s slightly cross-eyed. Then Jensen sighs and shifts, dislodging himself from Jared’s shoulder, and giving the curtain a tentative prod.
“C’mon,” Jared says, in a helpful and encouraging manner. “Give it a good squeeze.”
“That’s definitely illegal in fifteen states,” Jensen mutters, but he does as he’s told anyway, grabbing a good fistful and running his hand down it.
“What do you think?” Jared prompts. He tries to keep from bouncing.
Jensen rubs the seams between his fingers and thumb- it looks extremely professional- and says, “I think it’s too fucking purple.”
“Yeah.” Jared sighs, shoulders slumping. “You’re probably right.”
Jensen drops the curtain, and brushes his hands down- because Jensen? Is pretty anal and probably scared of getting purple-cooties or something- and then he gives Jared’s shoulder an encouraging pat. “C’mon,” he says, soothingly. “You wanna go buy some dinosaur sheets?”
“Can we wear them like togas?”
Jensen glances sideways at him, and he’s trying to keep his face straight, Jared can tell, but the grin just won’t take no for an answer.
“Yeah, Jay,” he says. “Let’s wear them like togas,” and he smiles in that way he does, like Jared’s the best thing he’s seen all day. It’s a little bit cross-eyed, but Jared? He really doesn’t mind.
“You’ve been drinking my milk,” Jensen says.
Jared’s sat at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios in nothing but his boxers, an open shirt and a pair of socks Jensen’s almost certain are his, with someone’s milk slurping down his chin. He waggles his eyebrows; Jensen’s pretty sure he’s trying to communicate something. Maybe Timmy’s fallen down another well.
“It’s not that I mind you drinking it, Jay,” he says, dropping two slices of his special whole wheat bread into the toaster. “But there are boundaries. I keep out of your Lucky Charms, don’t I?”
“Mmhhluchms,” says Jared.
“I don’t hate them,” says Jensen. And then, “Well, okay, yeah, I kinda hate them. But I don’t piss in them, do I?”
“D’you?”
“Jesus, no. Because they’re yours, and I respect that. Ow fuck,” he adds, burning his thumb on the toaster. Jared sniggers milkily. Jensen shoots him a glare- noting with satisfaction that Jared’s shirt-cuff is trailing into his bowl of Cheerios- and runs his thumb under cold water.
“And when you drink all my milk,” he continues, snatching his toast- carefully, this time- out of the toaster, “I have to replace it, and I don’t think that’s very fair. There’s no butter left, Jared. Why’s there no butter left?”
Jared holds a hand up, chewing with a glazed kind of expression; sometimes Jensen thinks Jared was a cow in a past life. Then he swallows, runs his tongue thoughtfully along his teeth, picks a bit of cheerio out of one of his molars, and says, “Aw, fuck, I got my shirt milky.”
“Think of it as karmic payback, bitch. The butter?”
“I kinda used it,” Jared says. He sucks his cuff into his mouth with a thoughtful kind of expression, and, as Jensen stares, begins to slowly chew.
“Don’t eat your shirt, man,” Jensen groans. “It’s my turn to do the laundry, and fuck you if you think I’m gonna wash your spit.”
“You think my spit is sexy.”
“I think I hate you.”
Jared grins broadly up at him. “I made cookies,” he says. There’s still bits of cereal caught between his teeth, and Jensen really wishes he could un-see that. “D’you want one?”
“Yeah,” Jensen sighs. His toast is going cold. “I guess so.”
Jensen’s taking a piss when Jared shambles in, yawning and scratching bluntly at his belly. Jared likes to wander around half-naked perhaps a little too much; today he’s wearing the orange boxers they spent a whole weekend debating the ownership of, plus a pair of almost-certainly-Jensen’s socks.
“Those are my socks,” says Jensen.
Jared looks at him, then down at his socks. “Huh,” he says, after a moment of quiet contemplation. “Thought they smelled different.”
Jensen sighs and turns back to his pissing. He can hear Jared shuffling around behind him, stifling another yawn, cursing as he knocks something over, beginning to whistle softly.
Shake off, zip up. “Is that the Muppets?” Jensen asks, frowning down at the toilet seat. Does he leave it up, ‘cause he’s living with a guy? Does he put it down, to keep himself trained? Shit.
“Man, when I was a kid, I basically wanted to be Kermit.” Jared squints at himself in the mirror, then opens his eyes wide to flick at an eyelash. “It was bordering on mancrush,” he adds, moving on to squeeze a zit on his chin. The lash is still caught in the corner of his eye, fluttering and looking generally ridiculous every time he blinks.
“That explains everything,” Jensen says, leaning around Jared to wash his hands. “Where’d you put my soap?”
“It’s hidden somewhere secret. Use my duck soap.”
“I’m not using your fucking duck soap. It’s shaped like a fucking duck.”
“Observant,” Jared murmurs, scratching at his chin.
Jensen sighs. Then he uses the duck soap.
Rubbing his hands all over a pretty, pink duck is really not Jensen’s number one way to start the day, FYI.
“Soul patch,” says Jared, as Jensen rinses the duck off his hands. “Yes or no?” He thrusts his chin out for examination; it’s closer to Jared’s zit than anyone has ever needed to be.
“If you grow a soul patch,” Jensen muses, “I’m strangling you in your sleep.”
“Then you’ll know never where I put your soap.”
“I’ll fight through the pain.”
“I’m gonna eat your waffles now,” Jared says.
One day- Jensen promises himself, as he races Jared to the kitchen in a way that thirty year old men probably should have grown out of by now- one day he’s going to grate the duck soap up in the dead of night. And dump it on Jared’s pillow. And then piss in his Lucky Charms.
*