Fic: I'd smother you in kisses, I'd give you outer space (CWRPF AU, J2, NC-17)

Jan 15, 2009 21:03

AHAHAHA, NO ONE'S GOING TO READ THIS BECAUSE IT'S SHOW NIGHT.

Title: I'd smother you in kisses, I'd give you outer space
Author: beckaandzac
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jensen is the best hooker the galaxy's seen in decades. Jared's fresh out of art school. On the day of Jared's interview for the job of his dreams, their dry cleaning gets switched. HIJINX ENSUE.
Disclaimer: I MADE IT UP.
Notes: 9900 words. Written for wanttobeatree for spn_j2_xmas. She requested "J2 AU (go nuts with the premise); Jared and Jensen hate each other. Jensen is neurotic. It all ends in romance." Hope this fits the bill! Thanks to my f-list for taking my poll on ridiculous AU premises, balefully for the catsuit, and the brilliant and beautiful kittyzams for the beta. If it sucks, it's my fault. Title from Rhett Miller.

Jared’s picking up his dropped portfolio, shuffling all the designs and storyboards and ani-canvases back in when a boot with a tall platform and rhinestones on the toe comes down hard on one of his newer cartoons, cracking the screen. The owner of the boot doesn’t even seem to notice, snapping into a comm ring on his pinkie, gritting his teeth as if he might bite off his own finger. “He fucking said sixty-five, you incompetent son of a spider monkey, and if he thinks I’m doing that shit for any less, he’s got another think coming.”

Jared sighs and tucks the damaged canvas in with the rest. He’s still got the files, but he doesn’t want to have to reload, and the jerk with the boots could have at least acted like he cared. He waits at the counter, the boot guy handing his ticket to the dry cleaner, not even looking up from his call. Mr. Beaver responds to Jared’s “good morning” with a smile and a question about his mama, but before Jared’s more than three words into an answer, Boot Guy snaps his fingers like their conversation’s a personal affront, and Jared digs his ticket out of his pocket. Mr. Beaver pushes through the swinging door to get their clothes.

Now that they’re at eye level, Jared thinks Boot Guy may be someone he’s seen before, although where he would run into someone showing off an ass like that in blue leather pants, he’s not sure. One of Chad’s parties, probably. Boot Guy takes a second to give Jared a narrow, “don’t fuck with me” look, and presses a button on his ring to switch to another call. The yelling starts up again just as Chad shoulders through the door, carrying his own load of cleaning. Some of it definitely has feathers. Chad’s not really good at sticking to one job; he gets bored easily, and when he gets bored, things like unscheduled downtime for half the city’s electrical grid sometimes result. So now he’s working at a high-class brothel uptown, doing a little of everything, bartending and dancing in the strip club downstairs and perfecting his badass squint as a bouncer. Jared’s been in a few times for the cheap drinks and eye candy, and every time they tell him he could be the greatest bouncer the galaxy’s ever seen, but he doesn’t really want a job that involves menacing people. Although if the interview today doesn’t score him the animation gig he’s been dreaming of, he may have to reevaluate his priorities.

“You’re thinking too much,” says Chad, elbowing Jared in the ribs.

“On civilized planets they say good morning as a form of greeting,” Jared replies, punching Chad in the shoulder.

“Save me your Earthist bullshit. You’re going to be fine, man. F-I-N-E. Fine. They’ll eat your shit up and beg for more.” Boot Guy turns half towards them, and Chad gapes, shocked speechless.

“What?” asks Jared.

But Chad flails his free hand and says “Shh!” like Jared’s the one making a fool of himself in public. Mr. Beaver brings out two garment bags (while Chad twitches and stares at the back of Boot Guy’s head) and Jared and Boot Guy grab them. Boot Guy walks briskly back onto the street, his hips swaying a little with every step he takes on his platforms, and Jared turns to Chad.

“You seriously don’t know who that was,” Chad says dully, like it’s basically impossible.

“Some guy you gave a lapdance to once?” Jared suggests. Boot Guy looked like he could definitely use some stress relief.

“No, asshole. That guy is probably the one man in the known universe who will never have to pay for that shit.” Chad dumps his cleaning on the counter to lean into Jared’s space. “That was Jensen Ackles.”

The name tickles in Jared’s mind, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually know the guy. He shakes his head.

“Jensen Ackles is the finest prostitute this galaxy has seen in decades,” says Jim, sounding wistful, and okay, there are things Jared doesn’t want to know about his dry cleaner.

“He specializes in time travel,” Chad adds.

“Time travel?” asks Jared skeptically.

“Yeah! Well, no, not literally. But he does these insane historical simulations and stuff. Normal stuff too, but if you want to go back in time and fuck, Jensen Ackles is your man.”

“And you know him?”

Chad snorts. “Right. Nobody knows Ackles. He’s a dick. Pretty as fuck, and he’s gotta be good in the sack, but you wouldn’t actually talk to the guy. He does shows at the club sometimes and everybody gets their panties in a twist about it. You remember? That time I got you in to see the thing with the gladiators? Ackles put that whole show together.”

Jared thinks back six months. Chad had dragged him away from his last term’s worth of final projects, saying he looked too pale and needed to have some fun. They’d gone to a show at Chad’s club, a lean guy wearing only a pair of sandals laced to his knees getting worked over by three big burly guys in historically accurate bed sheets. It had been pretty hot, and Jared had made a bunch of pretty intense cocktail napkin sketches of the bow of the smaller guy’s back, the flex of his jaw, but he basically likes sex better when he’s having it. Now he realizes the guy on his napkins goes to his drycleaner, and he feels a little awkward.

Chad elbows him. “See? He’s good, right? But he’s bitchy as hell, demands his own dressing room with, like, off-world fruit and shit, and total creative control when he’s doing shows for us. He’s working on one right now, and it, like, makes me want to go into work even less than usual. But the ticket sales when he comes in are awesome, so we all put up with it. Wonder what he was getting cleaned.”

“See-through vinyl catsuit,” Jim says, glancing up from the pile of Chad’s clothes he’s sorting on the counter. “With built-in LED cod-piece. Had to be real careful with it.”

Jared checks his watch, and his palms go sweaty. “My interview’s in half an hour. I have to change. Jim, can I use your bathroom?”

Jim points him down the hall to a cramped employee restroom that smells acridly of cleaning agent. He strips out of his ratty jeans and paint-spattered t-shirt and opens the garment bag… And that is not his suit. It’s not even really clothing. It’s like a shower curtain or something, only it’s blinking. Oh God. He got the wrong bag. “Jim!” he hollers out the door. “Chad! Help!”

***

Jared is too tall for any of the suits Jim has lying around unclaimed, and Chad tells him, “It’s better to look like a booker than a hobo,” when Jared suggests he could just go in his ratty jeans. At least Ackles’ catsuit is stretchy enough to fit him, but he crinkles as he walks out of the bathroom, and it really, really doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

Chad barks out a laugh when he sees it, and then puts a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. “I can’t do this,” Jared says miserably, and starts to head for the bathroom again. Chad grabs his elbow.

“Artists are supposed to be eccentric, bitch. They’ll eat this shit up. Besides, no one would dare not hire you with a perky little butt like that.”

He thinks Chad’s wrong, but right now he’s got twenty minutes to make it uptown and no time for argument. He puts his hoodie on over the catsuit and goes outside to hail a cab. If traffic’s okay in the upper lanes, he should still be early.

By the time he gets to the office, he’s sweating from neck to calf and he has gained a sick kind of respect for Jensen Ackles because how the hell can anyone wear this thing and not suffocate in their own sweat? His dick is practically swimming inside the surprisingly comfortable codpiece, and it only makes him feel a little better that the receptionist’s desk is covered with little electric toys that light up the way his crotch does right now.

“I’m Jared Padalecki,” he says, when she looks up at the sound of him crinkling. “I have an interview with Mr. Rosenbaum.”

The receptionist looks him up and down and grins. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

***

Jensen is fairly sure his day can’t get any worse. And if it can, he really doesn’t fucking want to know. He wants to go home and take a bath and not talk to anyone for at least a week. At least. Between Chris encouraging him to take on new clients too dim to know what they want and the least talented bunch of “performers” he has ever worked with bumbling their way through what was supposed to be an exquisite piece about Earth Renaissance painters and their models, this day was shaping up badly by the time he left the house. (Whatever the snide whispers about people who fuck for money, Jensen knows he’s an artist.) And then, after all that, his trusted dry cleaner of many years fucks up and gives him this… thing that might pass for a suit in a very dark room where you couldn’t see the knock-off label. And he is stuck wearing it because he was stupid enough to put on leather pants on the day he’s going to see the Uber-Vegetarian. As he waits outside the apartment door, one fist hitching his pants up, he sincerely hopes his client will appreciate the vintage plumber-crack he’ll have going for him if he loosens his hand too much.

It’s only as Jensen’s leaving, after a session that included a lot of naked yoga and some eventual masturbation, but no clothing, that he realizes there’s a name sewn into the lining of the too-long jacket. Jared Padalecki. Well, there can’t be too many of those in the city. He texts Chris to see if he can track down an address. And then he heads for the comfort of the club’s wardrobe department, where everything is made to fit him, and anything that’s not can be altered with a snap of his fingers. His pants slip as he digs for a credit stick in the cab, and the driver raises an eyebrow as if he thinks it might be an invitation. Jensen ignores him pointedly, and tips even less than usual.

When he gets in the door, the bar’s nearly empty and faintly lit by the pink glow of the stage, where some girl dressed like an octopus is lifting her tentacles for the amusement of two men with impressively ugly hair transplants.

At the bar, the rat-like blond bartender who came in behind him at the cleaners is grinning and pouring shots for someone who looks like he’s wearing an ill-fitting version of Jensen’s missing alien invader get-up, his broad shoulders stretching it until it looks like it might pop. Jensen heads straight behind the stage before anyone can try to talk to him.

Happily sheathed in a fresh pair of leather hot pants and a t-shirt sheer enough that his nipples are half-visible, Jensen settles into the massage chair in his dressing room. He’s still wearing Jared Padalecki’s surprisingly comfortable suit jacket, and he almost doesn’t answer when his finger buzzes with a call from Chris.

“Found the Padalecki kid,” says Chris, sounding bemused. “Apparently he’s right there with you.”

“In the neighborhood?”

“In the building. GPS on his comm says he should be within 50 feet of you right now. No, wait! Forty and closing. Thirty. Twenty. Te--” Jensen cuts off the call. Either Padalecki’s right outside his door, or Chris is fucking with him. And there’s one easy way to find out. Jensen pokes his head into the hall and finds himself face-to-face with the other idiot from the cleaners this morning. Stretching Jensen’s catsuit all out of shape and blinking like he’s not sure he’s in the right place.

“Our dry cleaning got switched,” the idiot, who must be Jared Padalecki, says. His breath is sweetly alcoholic, and his teeth are blue, which may explain the stupid blinking.

“I can see that,” Jensen replies coolly. “And you decided to wear mine, despite it being hand-tailored for someone not your size.”

“You have my jacket on,” Jared points out.

And that does it. “Take it off,” Jensen growls, tossing the jacket at him, then the pants, which are hanging halfway off his makeup table. “You have most likely ruined an important and expensive piece of my professional wardrobe, and--”

“Only because you walked out of the cleaners with my only nice suit!” Jared interrupts. “I had to go to a job interview in this thing.”

“Did you get the job?”

Jared breaks into what Jensen can’t help noticing is a gorgeous grin. “Yes! They thought I was-”

“In that case, you have nothing to complain about. Take off my catsuit.”

And Jared does, his smile dissolving into a scowl as he fumbles with the back zipper. Jensen rolls his eyes and goes to help, pulling the zip and peeling the latex away from Jared’s sweaty skin. Jared wiggles the sleeves down his arms, and Jensen licks his lips, watching the flex of Jared’s shoulders, the bulge of his biceps. “Man, how do you wear this thing?” Jared asks, pushing the suit off his hips.

“Not being seven feet tall helps.”

Jared glances over his shoulder. “Six and a half.” He can’t seem to get the suit down his thighs and trips backwards into Jensen, tugging at it. “Sorry.”

Jensen grunts, holding Jared up at the elbows.

“I could get into the cod-piece though, I think,” Jared continues. “I mean, it was a little weird at first, but the padding’s pretty comfortable.”

“It has its perks.” He’s not totally sure why Jared is trying to make small talk this way, but then Jared turns, catsuit around his knees, and Jensen gets distracted. Because Jared’s cock is enormous. Not the medical oddity kind of enormous that Jensen learned to avoid in the first six months he started hooking. But the kind that makes his insides quiver a little just looking at it. He looks at the floor instead.

“I’m sorry if I stretched it out too much,” Jared says, and Jensen’s head jerks up before he realizes Jared obviously means the catsuit.

“I’ll have it fixed,” Jensen says coolly. “I think your suit is fine.”

“I’ll pay to have it cleaned again, if you want. I know I sweat a lot.”

“I’ll live.” He gives Jared what’s meant to be a cursory glance up and down, but he finds his eyes sort of lingering before he can stop them. “You should put something on before they start trying to hire you.”

Jared shrugs and pulls his suit pants up his sweaty legs. “They’ll do that anyway.”

Jensen doesn’t ask what that means, just turns around and shuts the door of his dressing room behind him. He waits until he hears Jared’s footsteps shuffling away and then starts on his afternoon exercise routine. He leaves the catsuit balled up and tossed into a corner, and he doesn’t bring it up to his nose to smell the tang of Jared’s sweat. He doesn’t.

***

Over the next week, Jensen starts seeing Jared everywhere. And not just in that way where he imagines the nicest cock he can think of when he’s trying to get it up for some mouth-breathing philistine of a client. Jared is literally everywhere he goes, especially when everywhere he goes is mostly in the vicinity of the club while rehearsals are happening. Jared holding the door for him as Jensen comes in with his coffee. Jared lounging on a barstool when Jensen goes to get a bottle of water from the bar. Jared walking down the street outside with a dreamy look on his face. And maybe Jared was always around all the time, hanging out with the little blond bartender, and Jensen just never noticed. But it’s a little bit fucking irrelevant because he’s noticing now, Jared’s presence weighing on him, distracting him from all the work he has left to do.

Jensen was not inclined to be overly fond of some guy who wandered off with his dry-cleaning (he still hasn’t taken the catsuit for repairs), but between the memory of Jared’s annoyingly gorgeous cock and his near-constant presence, Jensen’s pretty sure he hates him now.

***

“I get that you fucked up his clothes, but does he have to take it out on me?” Chad says, wiping up the spill of Jensen’s soda. “I mean, he could have hit me with that glass. That shit is dangerous.”

“I offered to pay for the damages. I don’t know what his problem is.”

“His problem is he thinks he’s too good for his damn job.” Chad shakes his head. “Every time he’s in here, he’s bitching and moaning about some artistic thing, like he’s not a whore.”

Jared rubs a finger over the ring his drink has left on the counter. “Well, it sounds like he works really hard on these shows. I mean, you know how wrapped up I get when I’m working on something. And just because he does things we wouldn’t do…”

“Jared, you do realize that Ackles hates your guts, right?”

“I’m trying to turn the other cheek.”

“Would’ve been easier when you were wearing Ackles’ suit. I had no idea how cute your cheeks were.”

“Are you ever going to get over that?”

“It’s my duty as a friend to remind you of the triumphs of your life. Like kickass jobs you get by showing off your ass. I have pictures. Want to see?”

“No, man, I’m good.”

“Anyway, don’t worry too much about Ackles. He hates everybody and he likes it that way.”

Jared wrinkles his nose, thoughtful. “I don’t know, man. You ever think he might be lonely?”

Chad’s rag hits him soundly in the ear, smelling like stale peanuts and Jensen’s mango soda. “You are not going to do that shit. You’ve got your two mutts at home. The last thing you need is to start playing mommy to the galaxy’s bitchiest hooker.”

Jared scoops mango pulp out of his ear. “I’m just saying…” he begins, but Chad threatens him with the rag again.

“Bitch, don’t even. I don’t care how good he is at his job. That’s one stray even you don’t want to take home with you.”

But Jared’s not sure that he’s right.

***

Jared is stalking him. Chris tells him he’s being paranoid, but Jensen knows it’s more than that. This goes beyond just happening to be in the same place at the same time. Jared watches him at rehearsal now, sits at the bar and stares as if it’s his goddamn right to a free show. Jensen’s not sure if you can ban someone who hasn’t broken any of the club’s rules (he now knows you can’t get restraining fields installed if they haven’t done something at least vaguely illegal), but he thinks rehearsals would be much better without the audience. His so-called actors still don’t seem to understand that the audience is there to see his ass not theirs, and can’t stop turning their backs when they’re showing him the “ins and outs” of painting. Jensen has made fluorescent marks on the stage now, and he figures the next step is probably some sort of painful mental reprogramming to eliminate stupidity. And everything would be so fucking much easier to handle if Jared would stop staring at him like that, with his forehead scrunched up like Jensen’s directions are a code he’s meant to decipher. As if they in fact have anything to do with a floppy-haired, big-dicked guy who doesn’t even know how awful his best suit is. Jensen is determined to not even look back.

***

Chad told him it was a bad idea to knock at Jensen’s dressing room door after the show. But Jared figured that since he never wanted to try most of the things Chad thinks are good ideas, Chad might be wrong about this too. As he cradles his possibly broken fingers in his other hand, his eyes watering from the pain, Jared decides that this is something that does not work both ways.

The surly loner downing bourbon at the bar, who Chad swears is a doctor, assures him it’s just a bruise, in a tone that makes Jared feel even stupider than he did when Jensen slammed the door on his hand. Which should not have been possible. Chad gives him a beer in a frosted glass and Jared alternates gulping it and pressing his fingers to it until they go numb. He spills out the pathetic story to the bar at large: “I just wanted to tell him I thought it was good; I bet no one ever says anything nice to him, and when I try he does me bodily harm!” Then the doctor advises something stronger to kill the shame of being turned down by a hooker, and Jared switches to tequila. He’s not going to ignore medical advice, after all.

After his sixth shot the bar starts to go soft at the edges and his fingers don’t hurt when he wiggles them in front of his face. It takes him longer than it should to recognize that there’s a hand on his shoulderblade.

“Didn’t break anything, did you?” asks Jensen, and his voice sounds very far away, like it might be coming from a couple hours back. Jared blinks around, wondering if Jensen really can travel through time. But he seems to be corporeal.

“M fine,” Jared assures him, wiggling his fingers again. “But you didn’t have to… um… with the door. I just wanted to say… you were really good, y’know? In the show. I thought someone should say. If no one did.”

Jensen’s eyes narrow. Well, Jared thinks they do. “Thank you,” Jensen says shortly, and when he tries to turn, Jared grabs his wrist.

“Stay,” he says plaintively. “Have a drink. Try not to hurt me.” Chad makes a skeptical noise, like that may not be possible, but Jared ignores it.

Jensen’s fingers curl, his wrist tense like he’s about to pull away again. Then he relaxes, just a little, leaning forward into Jared’s space. “I can’t make any promises,” he says in Jared’s ear, and Jared’s muddled brain knows it’s years of professional sex work talking, but all his dick knows is warm breath and the gentle vibration of Jensen’s voice. Watching Jensen move and pose and fuck on stage is nothing on this.

“Can I get you anything?” Chad asks in his most patronizing voice, and Jensen straightens up.

“Just water,” says Jensen coolly. His pulse is too fast where Jared’s fingers press it, and Jared thinks he should stop touching this guy who slams fingers in doors and throws glasses at Jared’s best friend. But his fingers don’t do what he tells them, just linger and stroke on Jensen’s skin.

Chad thumps a bottle down on the bar and Jensen slides out of Jared’s hold. He walks off without saying thank you or goodnight or anything else. Jared looks to Chad with “that was weird, right?” written all over his face, and Chad rolls his eyes.

“I told you, man. Stick to the strays you’ve got. That one will just piss on your shoes.”

“Maybe he’s into that,” says the doctor.

***

Jared’s job is going well. He likes making art, even if that art mostly gets shelved because production is always over budget; he likes his boss, even if Mr. Rosenbaum’s longing looks at his ass are kind of unprofessional; he likes having money and being pretty sure he’s not going to get evicted for defaulting on rent. And every once in a while, there are perks.

“Holy shit, man,” Chad says, looking at the tickets in Jared’s hand. He reaches for them, and the teetering holographic Chad hovering between them overbalances off the side of a cliff. Chad snaps his fingers to pause the game. “How did you even get these? Nobody gets into that place who isn’t, like, the president of something.”

“I think Rosenbaum was trying to impress me. Apparently he can’t go, and he thought I might like them.”

Chad examines the little picture of the slowly turning station on the tickets. “And I’m the classiest guy you know, so you want me to be your date.”

Jared blushes. “Actually, I was thinking of asking Jensen.”

Chad looks horrified. “Ackles? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Why? Why is it so hard to believe I want to be nice to this guy?”

“Jared, you don’t want to be nice to him, you want to fuck him. Do you need me to draw you a fucking diagram of how that’s different? When you take a hooker to the fanciest restaurant in the solar system, you do it to show you’re hot shit so you can pretend that’s why he’s fucking you, and it’s got nothing to do with all the money you’re giving him.”

“But I’m not going to give him money.”

“Exactly, so no matter what you do for him, he’s not going to fuck you because no one can ever be hot shit enough for Jensen Ackles.”

“You’re just throwing a temper tantrum because you think I should take you instead of him, aren’t you?”

“Damn right.”

“Are you going to sleep with me because I’m hot shit?”

“No way. I know you just got those tickets off your boss.”

***

Jensen is halfway made-up for a client whose primary interest is in having Jensen sit on his cock in a ludicrous wig and a corset reciting romantic passages from Ancient Earth drama, when a knock comes at the door. It’s not a surprise anymore. He’s spent more time at the club than at home lately, and Chris has taken to directing all his appointments here. It’s like having an office, but with more pancake makeup and no secretary in-house to keep out the rabble.

“Hi,” says Jared, and he’s bending something between his hands, making Jensen’s eyes flick away from his face, wander down low.

“Hi,” Jensen replies shortly, his old-fashioned mascara clumping as he narrows his eyes.

“Look,” Jared says, and when Jensen does, Jared seems young and shy, as if all his cheerful obliviousness has been scraped away. “I’ve got two tickets for Chez Sichuan on Saturday, eight o’clock. I was wondering if you wanted to go. With me.”

Jensen has no idea how Jared would have come into such a prize, but he says slowly, “I assume you know you can’t afford my rates.”

Jared blushes. “Not like, I mean, not like a client thing, or a d-Just like, we have dinner, and… I don’t know.”

“Talk?” suggests Jensen skeptically. Like the old Earth aphorism goes, “You don’t buy the buffalo if you can get the milk for free.” And Jensen knows Jared’s the sort of guy who spends his evenings cadging free drinks off Chuck at the bar. He might expect all sorts of perks to go with his “talking.”

“Yeah.” Jared breathes out what sounds like a long-held breath. “Talk. I’d love to hear what you’re planning for your next show. Or, you know, anything else you want to talk about.”

Jared looks so hopeful, so sincere, and it’s hard to know what sort of wheels are turning in his head. Jensen’s just curious enough that he says, “Okay, I’ll meet you at quarter of at the gate.”

Jared just stands there in the doorway staring at him. “Was there something else?” Jensen asks.

“No, I just… I didn’t expect you to say yes.”

“Nobody’s asked me to ‘just talk’ in a long time.”

He thinks Jared looks almost pleased by that as he turns away.

***

Jared brings flowers, a bouquet of a specially grown antique species called “dandelion,” which must have been highly prized on ancient earth. Well, at least Jared thinks they’re pretty. He worked up all his courage a couple of days ago and asked Tom, the head of marketing and the only person his height he knows, if he could borrow a suit. Tom was really pretty nice about it once Jared said he had a date he was trying to impress.

But he still looks like a bum next to Jensen, who’s dressed in a sleek black suit and shiny leather shoes, his short hair soft and not slicked and spiked like usual. Jared watches Jensen standing stiff and still by the gate, people with off-world furs and jewel-studded comm links pinned to their lapels brushing past. God, Chad’s right, Jared does want to fuck him, and he feels like he’s invited Jensen out under false pretenses. But he won’t go down in Jensen’s book as just one more horny guy; he can be better than that.

“Hi,” Jared says, thrusting the flowers out in front of him like a shield.

Jensen’s eyebrows go up practically to his hairline. “Hi,” he replies. “You brought me a weed.”

Jared blinks at his dandelions, crestfallen. “A weed?”

“Easy to grow, hard to kill, back on ancient earth. The leaves are sometimes eaten - they were very much in vogue in the Milky Way a few years back - but the plant itself isn’t valuable.” Jensen rattles this off like common knowledge, then ducks his head a little and murmurs, “Thank you.” His fingers brush Jared’s as he takes the flowers, pulling one out to tuck into Jared’s lapel.

The gate closes with a whoosh, and the terminal windows rattle as the shuttle pulls away from the dock. Overhead, the sign flips from “now accepting 7:45 reservations” to “now accepting 8:00 reservations.”

“That’s us,” Jared says, digging in his pants pocket for a frantic moment before remembering he put the tickets in his jacket. He hands them to the maitre d’, who gives Jensen a long, considering look before letting them into the waiting area.

“Do you know him?” Jared leans in to ask.

Jensen plucks at his shirt cuff. “Did I fail to mention I’ve been to Chez Sichuan before?” he says, sounding like he already knows he did.

“Oh.” Jared remembers what Chad told him. “With a client?”

“Yes.” Jensen looks off towards the windows, his expression still and cool.

More people filter into the waiting area, and Jared feels stupidly disappointed. He should have known better than to think he could give Jensen anything he didn’t already have. And it doesn’t make it less special that Jensen’s been paid to be here before. Not really. It’s different.

Jared stuffs his hands in his pockets and lets the silence stretch between them. The people around them are talking and laughing and complimenting each other’s clothes. “So, how’d you know about the dandelions?” Jared asks finally.

“I studied history at school, specialized in ancient earth. And I took this class on horticulture once. I’m full of stupid trivia.”

“I thought it was interesting!” Jared protests. “I mean, it makes me feel pretty dumb about my choice of flowers, but interesting.”

Jensen smiles, this little uncertain quirk to his mouth, and his eyes softening at the corners. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. What other stuff did you learn about in that class?”

“Well, did you know there was a period when it was really cool to construct fake ruins on your property?”

“What? Like, falling-down houses?” Jared thinks about the pictures he’s seen of ancient earth architecture, made from bits of trees and clay.

“More like… have you ever been to Seven Hills Park?”

“The place with the columns?”

“Yeah. It was more like that, only broken up. They didn’t have to worry about land management back then, so people had miles of park land to themselves.”

“Wow,” says Jared, remembering the expanse of Seven Hills, right outside the city, its boundaries carefully policed by the Parks Department. He doesn’t know anybody who owns more than a little cube of space, at least not in this solar system, except the government.

Their shuttle pulls up, and the doors open, spilling out earlier guests. Jared shows their tickets again and they’re directed to seats in the middle of the shuttle, an attendant strapping them into padded harnesses and administering anti-nausea wafers. The flight is short and noisy. Jensen sits with his eyes closed, his expression smooth and unworried. He’s obviously an old pro at this. Jared fidgets, and he’s glad that Jensen can’t see him twitching his fingers against his knees.

The space station looks like a giant cluster of soap bubbles as they approach, translucent and twinkling, and Jared stares as the shuttle slots into the dock with a bump. He doesn’t think he could ever get used to stuff like this.

“Have you never been on a shuttle before?” Jensen asks, opening his eyes.

Jared blushes. “On vacations, off-world. Not like this. I don’t even own a nice suit, remember?”

“You look nice tonight.” Jensen squeezes his elbow.

“It’s not mine.”

“Appearance is everything.” Jared tries to puzzle that one out as they disembark, but he honestly can’t tell if Jensen’s just fucking with him.

***

Everything on the station itself is automated, and no matter that he’s done it before, Jensen freaks out a little as the transporter reads his ticket and sucks him into the pressurized tube that will take them to their pod. It’s dark and the whir of machinery batters against his ears. But then he’s dropped into a pod with a planet view, and he has just enough time to straighten his tie before Jared’s landing behind him, gasping and laughing nervously. Cloud cover is thin enough that he can see the four Corners of the megalopolis, crowding in at the edges of the sea, and it’s nice to just watch for a moment. Last time he was up here, he didn’t really get a chance to enjoy the view. Mr. Spoiled Manufacturing Heir started pawing at him as soon as they were out of the transporter, insisted on feeding him by hand, and made Jensen demonstrate his grasp of dirty talk in various Ancient Earth languages. Not a bad night, and Mr. Spoiled Manufacturing Heir has become a valued and dependable client since then. But it’s different when he’s not getting paid. Or at least he assumes he’s not getting paid. He’s still not too clear on what Jared’s getting out of this evening.

“You look really good,” Jared says behind him. “I think I forgot to say that before. I guess you haven’t gotten the see-through suit fixed up yet.”

“I wouldn’t wear…” Jensen begins, then turns to find Jared grinning. “It looked better on you anyway. I can’t stand being second best.”

Jared sits down and starts paging through the electronic menu, and Jensen thinks he’s said something wrong, like maybe it’s too early in the evening for joking. But Jared started it! He takes his own seat across the table, looks at his menu.

“All that comes with the ticket is the basic prix fixé, so, um…”

“That’s fine.” Jared is tracing a finger over the weave of the tablecloth, and Jensen’s struck by the urge to reach out and touch him again, soothe him. “You’ve been impressive enough for one evening.”

“I just know you’re used to nice things.”

A glass of wine materializes in front of each of them, and Jensen takes a sip. “Sometimes I need to do things I’m not used to.”

“Do you…” Jared begins, then stops and bites his lip. “I’m sorry, I was about to ask a totally inappropriate question.”

“I’ve seen you drunk and naked, and you’ve seen me fucked on stage. Shoot.”

“Do you like your job?”

Jensen swirls his wine and shrugs. “It’s got its good parts.”

Jared makes this skeptical snorting noise, and Jensen immediately likes him a little less.

“Don’t tell me you can spend your evenings hanging out in a brothel and still look down on sex work.”

“No!” Jared raises his hands in denial, almost elbowing his wine off the table. And he’s not even drunk yet. “No,” he repeats more quietly. “It’s not that. It’s just… you work really hard on your shows, and you know all this stuff about history. But I don’t know that…”

“Anyone cares? Yeah, I think about that sometimes.” Jensen leans across the table. “But you know what?”

Jared bends forward, into him, eyes open wide. “What?”

“I don’t give a shit. They pay me enough that I can do the things I want to do, and every once in a while, somebody does care.”

There’s a chime overhead, and a loaf of warm, crusty bread and a pot of jam emerge from the table. Jared leans back again, and Jensen is just a little disappointed. He doesn’t know much about flirting, but he thought maybe they were moving that way.

Jared tears into his bread after slathering it in jam, leaving traces of brownish purple on his upper lip. “What kind of jam is this?” he asks, swallowing too quickly.

“Plum,” replies Jensen easily.

“Anything you know about plums?”

“They’re good in jam? Fruit isn’t necessarily my strongest subject.”

“What is your strongest subject?”

Jensen cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah,” Jared stutters. “But, you know, besides that? What makes you really happy?”

Jensen picks apart his chunk of bread. “You ask hard questions.”

“Sorry,” Jared tells him. “What kind of question would be easier?”

“Does what I do for a living make you uncomfortable?”

Jared huffs a laugh and spreads jam on another bit of bread. “That’s not an easy question either.” He pauses, takes a bite to fill the silence, and Jensen waits. “I mean, no. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. You’re a professional. You’re amazing at your job. When you’re up on stage, it’s… it’s really good. And I bet you’re like that with your clients too. But you don’t look happy. You’re a bitch to everyone…”

Jensen bristles. Because Jared absolutely does not know enough about his life to make judgments, even if Jensen did slam his hand in a door once. “Maybe I like being a bitch to everyone,” he says acidly.

“That’s Chad’s theory. But I don’t believe it.”

“So, in your infinite wisdom, you think I’m actually… what, exactly?”

“Lonely,” says Jared ominously, just as their soup arrives with a clatter. “And too scared to admit it.”

“So basically you just asked me to have dinner with you because you feel sorry for me? Because you want to save me from my own lackluster life like the knight in shining fucking armor? Sorry, that’s the sort of kink that people have to pay for.” Jensen stands up, feeling stupid and ill-used and more angry than he should because he knows better. And somewhere in the station an alarm begins to sound, loud and terrifying. They are in orbit, stuck up in the black, and if something goes wrong, well, that’s probably the last thing they’ll ever know. Jensen looks at Jared, whose eyes are saucer-wide, his face sickly pale. And then the lights go out.

Jensen stops breathing, stands stone still in the middle of the pod and waits to really stop breathing. Waits until a voice comes through the speaker on the wall, sheepish. “As must now be apparent to our honored guests, we have had a computer issue resulting in a failure of the lighting system throughout the station. Although we regret the disturbance this must have caused, we at Chez Sichuan would like to stress that guests are in no danger. Our life support systems are functioning normally, and we expect to have the lighting problem resolved shortly. We apologize sincerely for the inconvenience, and we will be offering a complementary ticket to anyone who wishes one at the front desk upon departure.”

“Oh God,” sighs Jared, somewhere to his left, and Jensen waits for his eyes to adjust to the light filtering in from outside, edging foot by foot until he feels the wall at his back and then moving along it until his fingers touch the smooth curve of the window. He slumps down into the thick carpet. “Jensen?” Jared asks into the darkness, his voice gone to a whisper, like the station might collapse if it hears him. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting by the light,” Jensen replies. All his anger’s been run off by adrenaline, and he’s waiting for the crash he knows is coming. He’s ready to go home and have a bath and read an archaeological journal, and he wants to know how Jared manages to complicate his life so badly without even trying.

“I’m sorry I said what I did,” Jared tells him. “I do think you’re lonely, but I shouldn’t have said it like that. I don’t want to save you from anything. I just wanted to get to know you. Because it seems like you’re worth knowing.” There’s a fidgety pause, where Jensen can hear Jared shuffling his feet. “Can I sit by you?”

“Afraid of the dark?”

“Afraid this crazy bunch of soap bubbles we’re orbiting in is going to crash.”

“It won’t. But you can sit by me.”

He hears the scuffle of Jared getting out of his chair, then a scraping noise and a curse. And then Jared’s very suddenly and jarringly on top of him, knees digging into Jensen’s calves, the heavy warm weight of him pushing Jensen into the wall. Jensen’s teeth cut into the inside of his cheek as his head hits the panel, and he shuts his eyes against the spark of pain.

“Sorry,” Jared murmurs hastily. “Fuck, sorry.” He seems to be trying to get his legs under him, but he’s moving too slowly and Jensen feels out the taut lines of Jared’s body with his hands, pulling him in instead of pushing him off. “Jensen?” Jared asks in a moment of stillness, and Jensen, following the sound, turns his head and kisses him. It may be the first really spontaneous decision he’s made in years.

And it feels like a good one, the hitch of Jared’s breath that opens his mouth to Jensen’s, the way he bends into the kiss, his lips moving tentatively. Jensen licks Jared’s bottom lip, sucks at it, tries to work himself back into familiar territory. He likes kissing. He knows kissing inside and out, the coaxing artistry of just enough tongue, the way to hold a man’s face between his hands to make him feel like he’s the only person in the universe. But Jared’s using all of Jensen’s tricks on him before Jensen can even try, cupping Jensen’s jaw and licking into him, making soft, eager noises into his mouth. Jensen loses his way, following instead of leading, until suddenly Jared’s pulling off, stumbling back into the table with a thump.

“I didn’t ask you here for that,” he says hoarsely, and Jensen nods, but Jared can’t see it. He knows he wasn’t supposed to do that. Both of them know. “I didn’t want…” Jared continues.

“You didn’t want…” Jensen repeats. It’s a blow to his ego, the panic in Jared’s voice because really? He thought that’s where they were going, Jared looking at him so intently and blushing like a kid and asking him questions about history. He wanted that to be where they were going, if he’s perfectly honest about it, and that makes this suck even worse. But what the fuck does he know about dates with people who aren’t paying him anyway?

And then the lights come back on.

Two Months Later

Jared lays his schematic on the table and folds his hands to stop them from doing anything they’re not supposed to. Like touching Jensen, who’s sitting across from him, eyebrow raised skeptically. Which makes perfect sense because he’s seen Jared a few times in the last eight weeks, and they’ve even managed a some real conversation, and Jared still went through management to avoid having to talk to Jensen about his designs before they were ready. (Chad thinks he’s acting like a twelve-year-old girl, trying to surprise Jensen this way, but Chad was going to think that no matter what, so Jared doesn’t mind.)

“Why exactly are you doing this?” Jensen asks, curious but not hostile. “Don’t you have a real job?”

Jared shrugs and tries what he hopes is a casual smile. “This is my social life. Do you want to look at my design?”

Jensen sighs, pulling the ani-canvas towards him, watching the rotating room with a look of steady concentration. Jared doesn’t get as nervous in meetings with his boss as he feels just looking at Jensen. “I have a 3-D mock-up, too, if…”

Jensen looks up. “But you’re an animator. You’re all about things that move. Why would you do set design?”

“Everything needs backdrops. Especially when you’re still the new kid at the firm.” Jared waits as Jensen keeps looking and chewing his lip. He wishes Jensen wouldn’t. Thinking about Jensen’s mouth is just making this harder.

“Show me the mock-up,” Jensen says.

Jared fumbles with the controller, unfolding the mock-up around them, draping the room in twenty-first century Earth, matte colors and crowded surfaces. He’d added a lot of personal touches to this one, sheaves of paper and a bulky “personal computer” on the imitation wood table, a drooping plant by the window, a sag in the middle of the couch. He was less sure about the kitchen appliances tucked in one corner. They’re mostly still just shiny little cubes, copied from blurry 2-D pictures.

“Is it what you wanted?” asks Jared quietly.

“These curtains on the windows aren’t right. I need, they’re called venetian blinds, you can look them up. And they wouldn’t have had wood floors.”

“Can you help me with the…” Jared gestures towards the cluster of vague appliances, and Jensen nods.

“Yeah, I can get you some details.” Jensen starts to pace, strung tight like he was when Jared watched him in rehearsals, alert to everything around him. He points out problems with the lighting, the pattern on the walls, the texture of the couch. It starts to feel like the whole thing must be wrong, like every detail that he’s ignored Chad to work out over the past week just isn’t good enough. Then Jensen looks at him, hard and intent, and says, “It’s amazing. Thank you.”

“But all that stuff you said, all those things that are wrong with it, did you mean that?”

“Yeah. There’s plenty wrong, but you’re not an idiot and you know how to listen and how to research, and that puts you two steps ahead of most of the other people I meet every day. I’m really impressed with your work.”

“Oh. Um, Thanks. It was…” He wants to say it was nothing. But it wasn’t. Jared rolls the mock-up controller between his fingers as the silence stretches out between them. “So, what made you choose to do a show like this? I mean, the costumes are pretty much what I wear on weekends, the set’s bland, there are no gladiators. What’s the appeal?”

Jensen perches on the edge of the table. “Did you ever study late twentieth century Earth? I mean, you must have. That’s when they started doing all the 3-D modeling stuff that makes your job possible. But, did you ever think about what it must have felt like to live back then?”

Jared shakes his head.

“Everything was changing so fast. All these new comm technologies, the early days of space exploration, experiments in robotics and AI, the kind of environmental controls we take for granted now,” Jensen ticks these off on his fingers, “all of them have their roots there. It must have been amazing.”

“But why this then? Why not some guys in a lab? Or some of those astronauts in the huge suits?”

“Have you thought how hard it would be for someone to fuck you in one of those suits?” Jensen asks. Jared hadn’t. “And anyway, I like this better. I’m a performer, and this is how performances were crafted back then. It’s like the painters in their studio, only it’s the actors in their trailer.”

“But they don’t make anything here, not like paintings.”

“Jared, you know the point of these shows isn’t the story. They’re settings for fucking in. But I wanted to know what this would be like.” Jensen glances at the papers on the holographic table. “I might have been one of these guys if I’d lived back then.”

“I bet you would have been really good at it,” Jared says helplessly. Jensen’s crotch is too close to eye-level with him sitting on the table, and Jared is battling all sorts of hot, inappropriate feelings about shoving Jensen through the holographic couch. Jensen’s eyes catch his the next time he looks up, and Jared knows he’s blushing. Because Jensen’s trained to read just the kind of thoughts he’s having right now and all the lights are on this time, so there’s no way to hide.

“Thanks,” replies Jensen casually, pushing off the table and coming to stand behind Jared’s chair, so close that Jared can smell his cologne. “Did you have any more questions?”

“No, I think that’s it. But I’m glad you…” Jared trails off as he feels Jensen’s mouth against the back of his neck, hot and open. “What?” he gasps out, as Jensen’s lips move on to his ear.

“I’m kissing you,” Jensen replies. “Pretty soon, I think I’m going to ask you to come home with me. No charge, just so we’re clear. For this time, or any subsequent one.”

“Is this because you like my design?”

“This is because I like you. And I think maybe you like me.” Jensen sucks at the corner of Jared’s jaw, and Jared nearly snaps the controller he’s holding in two, the hologram flickering off around them. “And I think maybe we’ve been really fucking stupid about that so far. I don’t like feeling stupid.”

“But you do this for a living. Do you really want to, you know?”

“If you can design my sets during your spare time, I think I can let you fuck me during mine. Come on.” He tilts his head towards the door, and Jared just leaves all his stuff and follows, chasing Jensen out into the bar, past Chad, who rolls his eyes and pulls a face.

“You and your strays,” he thinks Chad calls after him, but he doesn’t care. Jensen’s already hailing a cab when Jared gets outside.

***

Jensen doesn’t have guests very often. His apartment is small and spare, and he can see the surprise on Jared’s face when he steps through the door. Jared circles through the front room, his hands in his pockets, looking at the prints on Jensen’s walls, Ancient Earth artwork scanned onto old-fashioned canvas. “I like these,” Jared says, gesturing. “I mean, I’m not sure what they are, but I bet you can tell me. Later.”

Jensen kept his hands to himself in the cab, sailing along in the express lanes above the city, and now it’s hard again, stepping into Jared’s space. But he does it. “I will,” Jensen agrees. “Later.”

Jared’s tall, and Jensen has to stretch up to kiss him, Jared’s hands on his waist untucking his shirt, fingers crawling up his spine. “How long has it been since you had sex with someone who wasn’t paying you?” Jared asks, backing Jensen down the hallway, nuzzling at his mouth.

“I don’t think you want an answer to that question,” Jensen replies casually. “I just hope I remember how.”

Jared laughs against his cheek. “I’ll give you some pointers. If you’re sure that…”

Jensen swallows, nods. Jared’s thumbs are rubbing slow circles at the base of his spine, and Jensen kicks the bedroom door open, pulling him inside. They tumble onto the bed, and after that, Jared doesn’t stop kissing him for a while, just kissing, tongue stroking Jensen’s, one hand cupping the back of his neck to hold him in place. Jared keeps his eyes closed when he kisses, makes this eager little noise in his throat when Jensen bites his lower lip. Jared’s dick digs into the hollow of Jensen’s hip, just as impressive as Jensen remembered, and Jensen rocks against him, spreading his knees wider until Jared’s pressed just right against him. The head of Jensen’s dick chafes against the fly of his leather pants, and he could come like this, he thinks, just from the push-pull of Jared on top of him. But Jared doesn’t give him that option. “I wanna suck you,” Jared whispers, breathless and flushed. “Can I?”

“First rule of sex you’re not paying for: you don’t have to ask to blow me.”

Jared grins against his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He takes his time, teasing, pulling Jensen’s shirt up and mouthing down his chest, biting at his nipples until Jensen arches and muffles a moan into the bedclothes. “You like that, huh?” Jared asks, voice dragging out low and dirty. His hand creeps down between Jensen’s legs, cupping and squeezing him through smooth leather.

“Please,” Jensen says, a word he uses a lot with clients, but it comes out different now, more urgent, more vulnerable. And Jensen lets it, likes that Jared makes him like this, makes him different.

It feels like hours before Jared starts on the buttons of his fly, Jensen’s dick swollen hard behind, springing up against Jared’s lips as soon as it’s free. Jared’s eyes close again as he licks over the head, big hands spread open on Jensen’s thighs. Jared pulls back and opens his mouth to take Jensen in, making sloppy enthusiastic sounds as he swallows. His breath ruffles Jensen’s neatly trimmed pubic hair, and Jensen’s dick rubs over the roof of his mouth, down into his throat, over and over as Jared finds his rhythm.

Jensen whimpers as Jared cups his balls, strokes the soft, sensitive skin behind. “Going to…” he starts to say, ready to hold himself back, ready to pull out, but Jared just speeds up his sucking and twists a hand around the base of Jensen’s dick, encouraging him. The tension builds, making Jensen’s thighs twitch, his balls draw up tight. He tries to hold still, doesn’t want to thrust too hard, only then Jared slides a finger right up his ass, and Jensen can’t help moving, humping forward into Jared’s mouth as that finger moves, dry and aching and just right inside him. Jensen comes so hard his ears are ringing, feels it spilling out at the corners of Jared’s mouth as he tries to swallow. He puts a hand down to touch Jared’s cheek, and Jared leans into it, releasing Jensen’s dick with a last lick up the shaft. Jared’s eyes are wide and dark when he looks up, his lips rubbed pink and wet.

“Fuck me,” Jensen pants, squeezing around Jared’s finger, which feels huge inside him now. He fumbles the lube from the drawer beside the bed, coats two fingers in it and slides them down to rub against Jared’s, around the rim of his hole and then in, twisting them together and showing Jared just how to move, how to stroke Jensen open in the way that feels best. Clients sometimes want to do this to him, open him up with fingers and toys, but no one looks at him the way Jared does, stretching out at his side and just drinking him in, as if there’s any part of Jensen he hasn’t already seen.

“It’s so different,” Jared murmurs, lips against his collarbone, nose against his pulse, knuckles dragging inside him, slow and wet. Jensen shifts and makes an “I’m listening” noise. “I’ve watched you do your shows, and you’re so hot. I mean, God, you know you are. But it’s not…” Jared slides a second finger in alongside Jensen’s two and Jensen pushes out until the burn fades, spreads his knees as wide as he can, still tangled in his pants. “You’re never as hot as this.”

“Jared,” Jensen whispers, protest and gratitude all tangled up together because he does know, and he hears all damn day long how hot he is, but it never sounds this good. He feels like he should have something to say in return, something better to confess than, “Wanted you to fuck me since the first day I saw you.” But it’s honest, so he says it.

“Yeah?” Jared asks, and his lips spread in a smile. “I guess that catsuit really did work for me.”

“Not so much the catsuit,” Jensen admits, palming between Jared’s legs, rubbing the heaviness of his dick through his pants. “You without the catsuit.”

Jared groans, starts trying to open his buttons one-handed. It doesn’t work. “Shallow,” he says, nipping at the lobe of Jensen’s ear.

“Pretty deep, actually,” Jensen replies. “I hope.” They have to disentangle, tugging at each other’s clothes until they’re both down to skin, Jensen straddling Jared’s lap. Jared’s fingers, three of them now, wet, spread Jensen wide, and the tip of his dick presses behind Jensen’s balls, just south of where Jensen wants it most. Jared’s leaning against the wall, eyes lazy and half-lidded, like he could just keep doing this, and Jensen starts to get hard again, rocking slowly on Jared’s fingers.

“Ready?” Jared whispers, like there’s any question now, and Jensen kisses him as he pulls his fingers out and guides the head of his dick against Jensen’s hole.

Jensen watches Jared’s face as he works himself down, swallows Jared’s gasp as he settles in deep, wide and hot and perfect. Jared’s hands bunch into fists at Jensen’s sides, one of them gripping tight against the anti-STD patch above Jensen’s hip. Jared bites his lip, moans as Jensen starts to move, clenching down tight every time the rim of his hole tugs around the head of Jared’s dick. “Okay?” Jensen asks, pausing mid-stroke, his thighs aching with the strain.

“Stupid question,” Jared replies, and pulls Jensen down, fucking him deep.

They don’t talk after that, watching each other, their faces pressed close, mouths open in soft kisses. Jared adds more lube after a while, pushes Jensen onto his back and fucks him like that, slow and deep until he comes with a low grown, keeps stroking Jensen’s dick until Jensen comes again too, messy between their bellies. It’s been years since Jensen cuddled without charging for it, but when he comes back from the bathroom, Jared wraps around him like a second skin, and Jensen lets him, sleepy and pleased.

“You know,” Jared says against the back of Jensen’s neck, “we can still cash in on those tickets to Chez Sichuan.”

“Will you bring me more dandelions?”

“I could,” Jared offers uncertainly.

“Okay,” Jensen tells him. “I’d like that.”

And they sleep.

rpf, crack, j2, nc-17

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