Useful Illusions: Being Jeffrey Beaumont
Title: Being Jeffrey Beaumont
Series: Useful Illusions
Pairing: Jensen/Misha, Jensen/Jared overtones
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Trust me. Not even remotely mine. I feel dirty for even writing this and I am so very, very sorry. Very. Sorry. Real people are real, these are not real people.
Summary: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Wherein Jared innocently seeks to share his love of Blue Velvet and interesting things happen.
The blame for this cheek-pinking adventure rests equally on elizah_jane and my completely contrary brain. I made a comment not a week ago that I wasn't really an RPS gal save a few exceptions. Upon hearing this, my brain said, "Ha! That's what you think. Just you wait." (This is also, I must say, pretty much what happened when I told the brain I was not going to be writing any Wincest.) The next morning elizah_jane mentioned something about the "Jensen of the Day" being exhausted, can't-keep-his-eyes-open Jensen watching a movie. The rest, as they say, is history.
For elizah_jane for she is made of win.
If anyone were to ask, Jared would be hard pressed to put a finger on what possessed him to invite Misha Fucking Collins over for what amounts to a slumber party minus the shorty pajamas and pillow fights. It just...happened. One minute they were standing around shooting the shit and waiting to be officially wrapped. The next, he found himself delivering a dissertation on the exploration of small town America as seen through the lens of Blue Velvet . Then he sort of just blacked out.
He vaguely recalls Misha saying, "And by that you mean actual blue velvet?" and Jensen's answering eye roll, but he still doesn't remember asking.
Because it's kind of weird now, in that faux easygoing way. The couch really isn't big enough for three guys of their size and sprawl, but at this point he's committed to sticking. His house. His. Still, it makes him talk a little too much and laugh a little too loud, and he could punch Jensen right in the nose when he curls into his corner and lets his eyes drift closed. He's spent time with Misha, yeah, and it's not like he's some shrinking violet that can't hold a decent conversation, but Misha and Jensen seem to have a shorthand that doesn't always correlate to Jared and Jensen shorthand. Misha probably doesn't even know he's doing it.
Or he's doing it on purpose, which is just as likely. Hard to say.
On the TV Jeff Beaumont is bending to pick up a severed ear. Next to him, Misha's sending out scattered, giddy vibes.
"So when do we get to the part with the horse?" Misha says, turning a pleased smile on Jared.
"That's National Velvet."
"Glittery bisexual rock stars?"
Jared sighs and rolls his eyes. "Velvet Goldmine."
Misha arches one of his very annoying brows with a thankfully unasked question and then presses onward.
"Hmm. What about...No wait, that's actually a cheese food, nevermind."
Okay, definitely on purpose, so at least he knows where he stands. And he's starting to think that maybe the tub in the guest bathroom would be a better place to be, except that he doesn't run from anyone. Especially not a wild-eyed, borderline lunatic, ex-monk with probable delusions of grandeur.
Jared glares at Jensen on general principle and is starting to work up to fucking with Misha right back when Sadie decides to join them on the couch. She, at least, has no trouble being completely herself and Misha's sitting where she usually lays. So she does what dogs do - flops exactly where she wants anyway and drapes her head across Jensen's knee.
Misha looks at Jared. Then Sadie. Then back at Jared.
"Is this," Misha says, waving his hand at the slope of Sadie's back nudged against his leg, "necessary?"
"Dude, you're in her spot. If I were you, I'd be thanking my lucky stars she's not on top of you."
"Generally, humans are supposed to control the canines, not the other way around."
"You're just pissed she beat you to Jensen's lap, " Jared says with a smile, because maybe he really does feel like fucking with Misha. Maybe he's got a death wish tonight. Or maybe he's just trying to push his nerves off onto someone else.
Misha's lips quirk ever so slightly, tugged up at the corners by equal parts condescension and ego that Jared finds fairly infuriating in your average person. But it's Misha and they all figured out a long time ago that he doesn't really mean it that way. Or he does mean it that way and can't help himself. Suffice to say it doesn't matter because he will continue to smile that smile, regardless.
Jared can't decide though, if the far flung slide of his arm across the back of the couch and the furtive sideswept glance mean anything. It's innocent enough on the surface, but his fingertips fall a half inch nearer to the back of Jensen's neck than Jared's completely comfortable with. It's almost proprietary, closer to the way you'd snake your arm around a girl at the movie theatre than a casual gesture. And why the fuck does he care? They're all grown men and Jensen can take care of himself. When he's not asleep anyway.
"It couldn't possibly be that I don't care for smelly dogs without boundaries drooling all over me, " Misha says, and shifts his weight away from the dip Sadie's making in the crack between the cushions.
"My house, my dog, my drool."
"Oh," he says and then "Oh!" again, "You're one of those people who has a 'special relationship' with his dogs? Hey, I don't pass judgment. The dog is, after all, man's best friend."
Jared feels like he's not getting something in the slow significant sweep of Misha's gaze from one end of the couch to the other, but he can't figure out what.
"You're missing the movie," he says rather than dignifying Misha's comment with a response. Sadie whimpers, thumps her tail against Misha's hip, and noses at Jensen's hand. Jensen stirs briefly, scratches behind her ear once, twice and then his fingers go lax again.
"Right, the movie." Misha's attention is concentrated anywhere but. Jared catches Misha stealing another quick sideways glance out of the corner of his eye, this time at the bend of Jensen's hand around Sadie's ear. A muscle twitches in Misha's neck and then he swings his gaze back towards the TV, but focuses beyond it. Hell, he could be having a telepathic conversation with a spider there for all Jared knows.
It's weird. But then, Misha is, as a rule, pretty damn weird. Harmless weird-- okay, relatively harmless weird, but still. Jared sighs, runs a rough hand through his hair and reaches for the remote. Beer can fix anything, he thinks, or make it what passes for tolerable. At least that's what he tells himself when he pauses the movie to scuttle kitchenward for another bottle, even though he's already had three. It's coming up on him harder than he expected it to, but leave it to Misha to fill their fridge with some crazy 8% Trappist beer from Belgium as his thanks for the invite. Not that Jared cares all that much. Drunk equals good. Misha doesn't even blink when he stands. Jensen yawns, his fingers flexing idly on Sadie's head when Jared bumps a fist against his shoulder.
"Go to bed, man. You're thrashed."
"Wha? No'm listening. Honest." Jensen mumbles, actually hums a couple bars of "Blue Velvet" and burrows deeper into the cushions without ever opening his eyes.
Jared just shrugs, because, hey, if Jensen wants to walk around all weekend with a monster knot in his neck, it’s not his fault anymore, he tried. And if he's secretly glad Jensen's staying put it's only because he can't wait to give him shit for whining. That's his story and he's sticking to it. Even so, it doesn't change the odd tension in the air he can't quite put a name to and he still wants beer. He stumbles off to the kitchen to get it and decides that while he's there anyway, a plate of nachos may be in order. It has nothing to do with delaying his return to the living room and Misha's oddities. Really doesn't.
The mechanics of cooking do what three and a half bottles of ass-kicking beer and Sadie's doggy interruptions have failed to accomplish. By the time he gets through dicing the onion he feels mostly human.
Unfortunately, Misha left to his own devices is a dangerous thing. Especially dangerous with Jensen completely out of it. Because Misha on an average day encourages general, often destructive, chaos. Tonight though, he's more watchful, wound tighter, almost predatory, coiled and waiting to spring. Still, Jared did try to get Jensen to go to bed so...whatever happens he absolves himself. Totally. Completely. Unequivocally not his fault.
He pokes his head around the corner and finds Misha staring off into the middle-distance, head tilted at a Castiel-angle. When Jared follows his eye line, he has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle the laugh. If he didn't know better, he'd swear Misha is watching Jensen sleep, reflected in the glass doors of the entertainment center. There's nothing overt about it, but Jared's spent enough time watching, first Sandy then Gen, that he's hip to the internal monologue that accompanies that kind of staring. It would explain tonight's weirdness, but he doesn't want to make assumptions.
That doesn't mean he's going to let it go.
“Nachos?” he barks out loud enough that Sadie stirs with a whuff and Misha snaps back from whatever daydream he was lost in and nods.
“Yeah. Okay.” As witty rejoinders go, it’s not Misha’s best, but if Jared suspects correctly, there's a sleepy Jensen-shaped reason he's off his game.
He opts to reserve final judgment until he's sure, and turns back to the task at hand. Somewhere between dumping the chicken, onions, and peppers into a pan to sauté and plating up two heaping handfuls of tortilla chips he hears movement in the living room. Since it's not immediately followed by a loud thump or Jensen screaming, he figures it's probably safe to ignore. When the downstairs toilet flushes and Sadie pads up to him a couple minutes later, her shoulder against his calf, Jared pats himself on the back for returning to the world of the sane.
He scoops everything up, a little awkward with the extra plate and makes his way back into the living room.
This time he has zero luck stifling the laughter. Now that Sadie's up and moving, Jensen's sprawled all over the couch, up to and including a full scale leg invasion of Misha's lap. Jared decides not to think too hard about what it means. That Jensen has more consideration for Sadie's personal space than Misha's. So okay, maybe it's not a conscious disregard, but Jared has a sneaking suspicion that Jensen is more alert than he's letting on. Probably never even went back under after Jared roused him. Between the beer and the relief that the strange behavior is not his fault, all he can muster up is curious and amused.
What he can't quite figure out is whether or not Jensen's fucking with Misha.
"That's why I sit in the recliner when Jensen's tired. No respect. Just shove him off." Jared hands Misha his plate, then juggles the beer and his own plate into order on the end table next to him.
Misha shrugs like moving Jensen would be a Herculean undertaking he can't be bothered with, but his eyes slide sidelong to Jensen's face and he's distracted again when he mumbles, "Thanks."
And, really, Jared notices things. He does. People take him for some big, gangly dork on a perpetual sugar rush, but he’s not a dumbass. He notices how careful Misha is not to disturb Jensen in any way. How quickly his nachos are set aside to congeal on the coffee table. How the internal conversation he’s having keeps drifting out, making him bite his lower lip and turn his head to scratch his chin against his shoulder just a little too often. How his Adam's apple bobs when Jensen shifts, stretches, and scratches his stomach - shirt rucked enough to bare a wide belt of smooth skin. How without even touching, he radiates his presumed ownership of the body laid out across his lap.
Mostly, Jared notices that Jensen is not asleep. Not even a little. And he wonders how Misha doesn’t, except that he’s not lived with Jensen for a year.
Jensen, when he’s really asleep, is less about flirtatious fidgeting and noises in the back of his throat. He tosses and turns, but not gracefully. He’s tousled, but it’s artless. Mostly, he drools and snores and tucks his head tight against the pillow like he’s trying to block the world out. Pretty much like every other guy on the planet. Apparently, though, Jensen's a special case and when he drools the angels weep and sing of his beauty.
Not that Jared would know or anything.
Because Jared’s never gone there, not that particular where anyway. When he says Jensen is like a brother, he means it in every sense of the word. He loves the guy, sure, just not in quite the way some of their more tweaked fans wish he did.
Now, he’s not against playing it up. Publicity is publicity after all, or so his agent tells him. Mostly he does it because it pisses Jensen off and he’s too polite, too careful in front of the cameras to put an elbow in Jared's ribs and mutter “Off, you hulk,” with a smile like he would any other time.
It’s maybe a little (okay, more than a little) interesting to ponder when he’s three-quarters of the way to a nice beer drunk, even though he’ll deny it in the morning. Because it’s not like Jensen’s unattractive or an asshole, there is a reason he’s Jared’s best friend after all. Clearly, though, there’s something he’s not getting.
Since Misha has been very intensely not looking at Jensen all night, Jared thinks he probably does.
So when the credits roll, Jared clears the plates and bottles, makes an obvious amount of noise tossing and tidying so it’s clear to Misha he’s not rejoining the party any time soon. Then he turns the water on and steps away from the sink to peer around the corner again.
Jensen’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a honey-slow grin meandering across his face. For all his grand attempts at stillness and stoicism, Misha’s right heel is tapping rapidly now that they’re alone, one hand tucked behind his head and the other firmly settled on Jensen's thigh. Jensen just smiles wider, rolls his hips down against the cushions, crooking one knee, and yawns an exaggerated yawn, throwing both arms up over his head.
“I knew it,” Misha whispers, and pokes what looks like a very pointed finger against Jensen’s chest. "Tease."
"Who me?" Jensen says, voice still sleep-slow and flecked with the gravel of disuse. Which is why it's all the more shocking when his hand flies out suddenly. When he catches Misha's wrist. When he sucks the offending finger between his lips.
Shocking. Yeah. Proof is so far removed from pondering.
Misha lets him do it for a few seconds, neck bared, eyes closed, then pulls his hand back with an audible pop. Jensen makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper and manages, finally, to pry his eyelids open.
"Jared's not fifteen feet and a wall away," Misha says with a devious smile, "As I remember it, you're the one keen on exercising discretion."
Jensen's eyes flash bright with something Jared's hard-buzzing state prevents him from decoding, but he feels the flush rise behind his ears all the same. He backs slowly, carefully away toward the sink, wondering where the air in his lungs went. It's both harder and easier to accept with the beer lubricating his thought processes. The hard part, aside from the tingling stir in his nether regions, is, well, the tingling stir in his nether regions. Because it's not like that with Jensen and certainly not with Misha, and he's ready to make hasty excuses followed by a hasty retreat to his bedroom where the world makes sense and his cock knows how to behave. But then his hand slips on the handle of the skillet and when it falls, clattering against tile countertop, it's unbearably loud.
"Everything okay in there?" Misha calls out, cool and collected. If he were less freaked, Jared might be able to respect how fast he can turn it on. And God, he does not need to be thinking Misha and turned on in the same sentence right now. Or ever.
"Yeah. Great. Super," Jared sputters in response, because the last thing he wants is Misha up in his personal space with his knowing looks and strangely proprietary grace. He breathes and squirts a stream of dish soap into the skillet, runs some water into it, and focuses on scrubbing it clean.
Or tries to focus. But his mind keeps wandering to places he'd rather avoid, like an errant puppy intent on gobbling up all the shit it can get its jaws around. Only this pile is called, "How the fuck did I miss this?" and that pile is called, "How long has this been going on?" and the one over there is called, "Where has this been going on?" Then Jared's thinking about how many hours he's spent on the couch in Jensen's trailer waiting for lighting or weather or what-the-fuck-ever is making shooting a bitch that particular day. Thinking and wondering how many hours Misha's spent, and Jared pretty seriously doubts they were playing Madden.
Fuck.
He abandons the pan in the sink, yawns loud and theatrically long, because he's in no condition for public consumption. The best thing he can do for all of their sakes is go upstairs and jack off in the shower. Go upstairs, not run. Not running if it's voluntary. Still feels like running, though, when he blurts out a breathless, "Going to bed!" and climbs the stairs two at a time without a backward glance.
Jared almost slams the door closed behind him, but thinks better of it, latch clicking quietly as he presses his back against the wood and slides down to sitting. Downstairs, he hears them talking in hushed tones, then the front door opening and closing, the deadbolt engaged and the alarm armed. Only then does he allow himself a sigh of relief and push himself to standing. He knows he'll have to deal with it eventually, but it can wait. For now, Misha's gone and Jared can relax, shower, and sleep. His dick is just going to have to do without because it's way, way, way too bizarre to process.
By the time Jared's dressed for bed and toweling his hair dry, it all seems like a strange, inappropriately arousing bad dream. Irritating, but entirely forgettable. He slides between the sheets, stretching every muscle that will stretch and reaches for the bottle of water he always keeps on the nightstand.
Only it's not there because he ran upstairs to bed like a freak.
Great.
Sighing, he forces himself up and creeps silently downstairs, not wanting to wake Jensen because he's just not ready to have the, "What the hell was that about?" conversation yet. All the lights are out except the one above the kitchen sink that stays on pretty much 24/7 and it makes it easier for Jared to ignore the couch and the fading echoes of Misha and Jensen and not thinking about it is easier when he doesn't actually think about it. The tile is cold under his feet and when tugs the door to the refrigerator open, the light spills across the kitchen, shows him that Jensen cleaned up the mess he left. Jared smiles and twists the water open, because it helps him reconstitute the Jensen in his head into something less...dirty, and that's a good thing.
The smile stays with him as he steals back across the living room like a ghost.
It even stays with him when he glances briefly at Jensen's door standing uncharacteristically ajar.
It fails him on the second step, his knees threatening when he hears Jensen laugh, low and dark - it's a secret sound, certainly not intended for him but Jared can't seem to make himself keep climbing. So he grits his teeth, knowing he's going to hate himself in the morning, and steps down to hover just outside Jensen's door, waiting.
He's not really sure what he expected, but Misha stretched languid in a raw swath of moonlight certainly isn't it. Yet there he is, impossibly pale against Jensen's navy blue sheets, dark hair bleeding into shadow, smiling at...oh, smiling at Jensen. Jensen who is equally naked and moonlit, openly predatory now that he can be, shoulders rolling with the slow tense and release of muscles as he crawls up the bed carefully avoiding every bit of Misha's exposed skin.
"What do you want?" he hears Misha gasp, the words pulled ragged from his throat, a counterpoint to his careless loll.
Jensen laughs again and it stirs something deep in Jared's gut, pulls his heart against his ribcage, pounding hard and fast until all he can hear is his own blood rushing in his ears and Jensen's voice.
"What I want..."
Jensen drags his stubbled chin against Misha's chest slowly, then bends close to his ear and Jared has to rock forward so he doesn't miss it, not anything, not now.
"What I want is to rewind," Jensen says, and presses the tips of his fingers against the swell of Misha's lips which part obediently. "I want to strip you down, lay you out, suck you slow until your toes curl and your muscles give out. I want to hear you scream for me until your throat goes raw. I want to do it with Jared not fifteen feet and a wall away. I want you to be so far gone that you don't care."
Jared blinks, swallows hard, and claps a hand over his mouth to keep from gasping. The only thing between him and certain discovery is his creative use of fingernails as the water bottle slides in his grip. Shaking, he sets it aside, presses his face against the cool, smooth surface of the wall and sucks down air as silently as he can. He knows he should leave. Creep back upstairs and close the door behind him, forget everything that's happened tonight.
But he can't. He's rooted, blood boiling hot under the surface of his skin, already half hard behind his boxers. Even knowing that Jensen's words have nothing to do with him and everything to do with power, he still can't seem to get past the idea of Jensen wanting him to watch. Closes his eyes for just a moment and presses the heel of his hand against his groin to get some relief.
"Anyone ever tell you what a charmer you are, Ackles?" Misha says, reaching with hands and legs to try to pull Jensen against him, presumably to take back some control. "For all the aw shucks candy coating, your creamy little center is a delightfully kinky bastard."
Jensen dodges and weaves, refusing to be rushed. Starts laying down a spit slick pattern across Misha's collarbone, venturing lower with each swipe until he's sucking deep purpling bruises in the gentle curve of Misha's hip bones.
Jared groans softly with Misha, and when Jensen pauses, Jared freezes save the almost violent twitch his cock gives at just the idea of being caught. Fuck. But Jensen's head dips lower and Misha's mouth falls open on a nearly unintelligible string of ohfuckyesmore, and Jared breathes.
Has to remind himself to keep breathing as Jensen makes good on his promise and Jared watches Misha writhe, legs splayed obscenely wide, toes curled into the sheets, hips thrusting against Jensen's mouth. And God, it's overwhelming, the hitch of Misha's breath and the filthy, humming, wet noises Jensen's making against Misha's skin. So completely, shamelessly intimate - not meant for other eyes. Which might be why it blows straight by being such a violation he has to leave and settles on into so wrong he can't look away. His own personal erotic car crash that drives his world askew, sucks him blindly, willingly, achingly into their circle.
He can't keep still anymore, hand scrabbling desperately then closed warm and tight around his dick, hips rocking in time with the rise and fall of Jensen's head. So intent on the slow stroke that he almost misses Jensen's slick fingers sliding lower. Can't see even though he's craning, but he can hear it in the choked off grunt drawn forcibly from Misha's chest and see it in the tight arch of his back. Has to stop, fist closed tight and unmoving because it's too much. The sloppy wet glide of Jensen's lips pulled tight. Misha rocking erratically, sharp needy noises on his tongue that sound like Jensen's name, thighs twitching slick and quivering, hands clawed against the back of Jensen's head pulling him closer, faster until he keens a rattling, desperate sound that puts shivers in Jared's fucking toes.
Jared leans his head against the wall again and swallows, tries to pull himself back from the edge, but it's hard when he's watching Jensen ride out the aftershocks, only pulling off when Misha fists his hair and tugs. And he can still hear the quiet rasp of skin on fabric as Jensen's fingers work their magic.
Then there's a blur of skin and tangled sheets that his brain can't quite compute with the obstructed view until it's settled into a more reasonable shape. Misha flattened against the bed, mattress to knees, knees to chest, face turned away so Jared can only see a tousled shock of black hair. Jensen knelt down behind him sitting on his heels, one hand working his dick, the other curled possessively across the back of Misha's neck holding him still and silent and at his mercy. Jared watches him lean forward, lick the sweat from Misha's back and smile.
"What do you want, Misha?"
Jensen slides forward, oddly graceful, and nudges the head of his cock into the slick crease of Misha's ass. Misha makes a muffled, strangled sound and rocks his hips back.
Jared grips harder because Jesus Jensen knows how to work his voice, tastes blood on his tongue where he's bitten his lip, copper tang of knowledge, the kind that anchors deep in his bones and tells him he's ruined. Probably for life. Wonders what it would be like to be Misha, all fucked out and stupid at the promise in the dirty, sweet lilt of Jensen's question. What would he say? What could he say, if anything?
But Misha finally rearranges his vocal chords into something that can make sounds and simply says, "Fuck me."
Jensen's hand slides from neck to hip and squeezes, hard if the hiss drawn from between Misha's teeth is any indication.
"Now that's not exactly cordial, is it?" Jensen slurs, Texas creeping in as the measured movements of Jensen's hands and hips cross the boundary between controlled and hungry. And Jared knows, like he knows Jensen, that no matter what Misha says now, Jensen's going to oblige. It seems like a matter of degrees at this point and Jared feels safe to relax his grip, and move. Watches Misha's back rise and fall violently as he sighs.
"Do I need to issue a written invitation?" Misha says, sounding way more pulled together than Jared feels, but he's already come once, so there's that.
And Jared can't tell at first if that was the right or wrong thing to say, because Jensen fucking growls and slides home hard and fast without preamble. Wraps his arms around Misha's chest and pulls him flush, riding him with stuttered bone-shaking thrusts, and yeah, now Jared can tell it was the right thing to say. His own hand flying the length of his cock, orgasm building behind his teeth and arcing out down his spine. Tries to keep his eyes open, because he wants to see Jensen's face, but he just can't. Spills hot, wet, and sticky all over his hand when Jensen thrusts one last time with a, "Fuck, yes" they probably heard three states away.
Jared wipes his hand clean on his T-shirt, collecting himself as quickly as he can. A trick of the light makes his breath catch, because for a split second he thinks he sees Jensen watching him. But when he blinks, it's gone. So he steals back up the stairs silently, shaking and ripped apart inside and decides not to think. Period. Tomorrow will be soon enough to flip out. Tomorrow. Right now he needs sleep.
Easier said than done, though, because when he closes his eyes to exchange his dirty shirt for a clean one, all he sees is the curve and clench of Jensen's ass. And when he scrubs first his hands then his face clean under a scalding hot stream of water, all he can see is the slick pucker of Misha's lips wrapped around Jensen's fingers. Jensen's fingers that...
Fuck.
He flicks the bathroom light off and aims himself for the bed, falls face first when his knees bump against the edge and there's another flash. Misha folded tightly in on himself, breathless and trembling, waiting. It makes him wish the beer was not all the way downstairs and past Jensen's open door since he could definitely do with a little oblivion right now. Because though his hands came clean easy enough, he can't seem to stop the loop between his ears.
Worse yet, he's not sure that he wants to.
And that's healthy. But when another image flares behind closed eyelids, he curses and flips over on his back, ignores the twitch of renewed interest in his disobedient cock. Ignores it. He loses track of time somewhere between extended replays number six and eight, the sky starting to go pink behind the blinds, and falls into restless sleep with Jensen's voice still ringing in his ears and Misha's gasps tickling the back of his neck.
When Jared wakes up, way too fucking soon in his opinion, he lies in bed for a full fifteen minutes trying to gauge just how insistent the reruns are going to be, whether or not he's going to be able to handle being in the same room with Jensen without glazing over like a mouth-breathing idiot. It's there, an uncomfortable tickle in his hindbrain, but thankfully nowhere near as overwhelming as last night's hi-def movie experience.
He can do this. Has to, if not today then definitely tomorrow, and Jared's the kind of guy who's always ripped the Band-Aid off fast with a flourish. More style. It's hard to maintain the illusion, when he feels like he's been run over by a truck, but he manages to get himself vertical and shuffling. The trip downstairs is more interesting than he'd like, one quick glance at Jensen's door and a brief tug of his lower lip between his teeth is all he allows himself.
He can hear the TV blaring in the living room, and there's a moment he wants to chicken out, climb the stairs and gnaw on one of his winter sweaters instead of braving the kitchen, shimmy down the drainpipe with his car keys and just get the hell out of fucking Dodge.
But it's Jensen.
So he sucks in a breath and takes the plunge.
"Morning," he says, trying for nonchalant but so strung out that he can't tell if he's succeeding.
Jensen's sprawled all over the couch again, slow and lazy, hair flattened on one side and a riot on the other, the way it happens when there's actual sleep involved, still wearing his glasses which means he hasn't quite worked himself up to a shower yet. And Jared decides to firmly not think about that. Ever.
"Morning," Jensen replies, a little groggy but smiling, "Man, you look like hell."
"Uh, yeah. Didn't sleep so well. Weird dreams." Jared tugs a hand through his hair and looks at Jensen, eyes narrowed, trying to tell if he knows something's up. But there's nothing out of the ordinary. Just Jensen zoned out on Sports Center with a giant mug of coffee steaming at his elbow. It's a little too 'nothing to see here, move it along', but Jared learned long ago that looking a gift horse in the mouth is incredibly stupid. Not to mention dangerous.
Then Jensen actually looks back at him, and there is something in the cocky twist of his smile that wasn't there yesterday.
"That's too bad," he says, and stretches catlike. Jared has to look away at the quick flash of skin. "I slept like a baby."
"Someday you'll have to let me in on your secret, " Jared says, then escapes into the kitchen, without waiting for a response - newly intent on his original quest of orange juice and cereal and a chaser of painkillers. He doesn't expect Jensen to follow him, doesn't expect him crowding in behind him at the sink to pour the dregs of his coffee down the drain and discard the mug. He certainly doesn't expect a warm hand wrapped where his neck meets his shoulder, or the other thumping against his chest in a gesture that has become so completely Jensen that Jared isn't sure anyone else could convincingly pull it off anymore.
And if Jensen's standing a little too close when he laughs and says, "Try a glass of warm milk," well it's just because his arms are only so long and Jared's really kind of freakishly tall. And if he hears an echo of last night's dark, secret laughter in Jensen's chuckle as he meanders off to the bathroom for his shower, well that's his own damn fault.
By the time his addled brain catches up, the shower's been running a good five minutes. Jared's thankful for it, because it means that Jensen misses the OJ spit take and the embarrassing flush that creeps up the back of his neck, an oddly fitting accompaniment to his realization.
This, class, is what we call a euphemism.
Jared sighs, pours the rest of his cereal down the drain, and resolves to hibernate, for like, the next five years.
"Fuck my life."
Continue
Series: Useful Illusions
Pairing: Jensen/Misha, Jensen/Jared overtones
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Trust me. Not even remotely mine. I feel dirty for even writing this and I am so very, very sorry. Very. Sorry. Real people are real, these are not real people.
Summary: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Wherein Jared innocently seeks to share his love of Blue Velvet and interesting things happen.
The blame for this cheek-pinking adventure rests equally on elizah_jane and my completely contrary brain. I made a comment not a week ago that I wasn't really an RPS gal save a few exceptions. Upon hearing this, my brain said, "Ha! That's what you think. Just you wait." (This is also, I must say, pretty much what happened when I told the brain I was not going to be writing any Wincest.) The next morning elizah_jane mentioned something about the "Jensen of the Day" being exhausted, can't-keep-his-eyes-open Jensen watching a movie. The rest, as they say, is history.
For elizah_jane for she is made of win.
If anyone were to ask, Jared would be hard pressed to put a finger on what possessed him to invite Misha Fucking Collins over for what amounts to a slumber party minus the shorty pajamas and pillow fights. It just...happened. One minute they were standing around shooting the shit and waiting to be officially wrapped. The next, he found himself delivering a dissertation on the exploration of small town America as seen through the lens of Blue Velvet . Then he sort of just blacked out.
He vaguely recalls Misha saying, "And by that you mean actual blue velvet?" and Jensen's answering eye roll, but he still doesn't remember asking.
Because it's kind of weird now, in that faux easygoing way. The couch really isn't big enough for three guys of their size and sprawl, but at this point he's committed to sticking. His house. His. Still, it makes him talk a little too much and laugh a little too loud, and he could punch Jensen right in the nose when he curls into his corner and lets his eyes drift closed. He's spent time with Misha, yeah, and it's not like he's some shrinking violet that can't hold a decent conversation, but Misha and Jensen seem to have a shorthand that doesn't always correlate to Jared and Jensen shorthand. Misha probably doesn't even know he's doing it.
Or he's doing it on purpose, which is just as likely. Hard to say.
On the TV Jeff Beaumont is bending to pick up a severed ear. Next to him, Misha's sending out scattered, giddy vibes.
"So when do we get to the part with the horse?" Misha says, turning a pleased smile on Jared.
"That's National Velvet."
"Glittery bisexual rock stars?"
Jared sighs and rolls his eyes. "Velvet Goldmine."
Misha arches one of his very annoying brows with a thankfully unasked question and then presses onward.
"Hmm. What about...No wait, that's actually a cheese food, nevermind."
Okay, definitely on purpose, so at least he knows where he stands. And he's starting to think that maybe the tub in the guest bathroom would be a better place to be, except that he doesn't run from anyone. Especially not a wild-eyed, borderline lunatic, ex-monk with probable delusions of grandeur.
Jared glares at Jensen on general principle and is starting to work up to fucking with Misha right back when Sadie decides to join them on the couch. She, at least, has no trouble being completely herself and Misha's sitting where she usually lays. So she does what dogs do - flops exactly where she wants anyway and drapes her head across Jensen's knee.
Misha looks at Jared. Then Sadie. Then back at Jared.
"Is this," Misha says, waving his hand at the slope of Sadie's back nudged against his leg, "necessary?"
"Dude, you're in her spot. If I were you, I'd be thanking my lucky stars she's not on top of you."
"Generally, humans are supposed to control the canines, not the other way around."
"You're just pissed she beat you to Jensen's lap, " Jared says with a smile, because maybe he really does feel like fucking with Misha. Maybe he's got a death wish tonight. Or maybe he's just trying to push his nerves off onto someone else.
Misha's lips quirk ever so slightly, tugged up at the corners by equal parts condescension and ego that Jared finds fairly infuriating in your average person. But it's Misha and they all figured out a long time ago that he doesn't really mean it that way. Or he does mean it that way and can't help himself. Suffice to say it doesn't matter because he will continue to smile that smile, regardless.
Jared can't decide though, if the far flung slide of his arm across the back of the couch and the furtive sideswept glance mean anything. It's innocent enough on the surface, but his fingertips fall a half inch nearer to the back of Jensen's neck than Jared's completely comfortable with. It's almost proprietary, closer to the way you'd snake your arm around a girl at the movie theatre than a casual gesture. And why the fuck does he care? They're all grown men and Jensen can take care of himself. When he's not asleep anyway.
"It couldn't possibly be that I don't care for smelly dogs without boundaries drooling all over me, " Misha says, and shifts his weight away from the dip Sadie's making in the crack between the cushions.
"My house, my dog, my drool."
"Oh," he says and then "Oh!" again, "You're one of those people who has a 'special relationship' with his dogs? Hey, I don't pass judgment. The dog is, after all, man's best friend."
Jared feels like he's not getting something in the slow significant sweep of Misha's gaze from one end of the couch to the other, but he can't figure out what.
"You're missing the movie," he says rather than dignifying Misha's comment with a response. Sadie whimpers, thumps her tail against Misha's hip, and noses at Jensen's hand. Jensen stirs briefly, scratches behind her ear once, twice and then his fingers go lax again.
"Right, the movie." Misha's attention is concentrated anywhere but. Jared catches Misha stealing another quick sideways glance out of the corner of his eye, this time at the bend of Jensen's hand around Sadie's ear. A muscle twitches in Misha's neck and then he swings his gaze back towards the TV, but focuses beyond it. Hell, he could be having a telepathic conversation with a spider there for all Jared knows.
It's weird. But then, Misha is, as a rule, pretty damn weird. Harmless weird-- okay, relatively harmless weird, but still. Jared sighs, runs a rough hand through his hair and reaches for the remote. Beer can fix anything, he thinks, or make it what passes for tolerable. At least that's what he tells himself when he pauses the movie to scuttle kitchenward for another bottle, even though he's already had three. It's coming up on him harder than he expected it to, but leave it to Misha to fill their fridge with some crazy 8% Trappist beer from Belgium as his thanks for the invite. Not that Jared cares all that much. Drunk equals good. Misha doesn't even blink when he stands. Jensen yawns, his fingers flexing idly on Sadie's head when Jared bumps a fist against his shoulder.
"Go to bed, man. You're thrashed."
"Wha? No'm listening. Honest." Jensen mumbles, actually hums a couple bars of "Blue Velvet" and burrows deeper into the cushions without ever opening his eyes.
Jared just shrugs, because, hey, if Jensen wants to walk around all weekend with a monster knot in his neck, it’s not his fault anymore, he tried. And if he's secretly glad Jensen's staying put it's only because he can't wait to give him shit for whining. That's his story and he's sticking to it. Even so, it doesn't change the odd tension in the air he can't quite put a name to and he still wants beer. He stumbles off to the kitchen to get it and decides that while he's there anyway, a plate of nachos may be in order. It has nothing to do with delaying his return to the living room and Misha's oddities. Really doesn't.
The mechanics of cooking do what three and a half bottles of ass-kicking beer and Sadie's doggy interruptions have failed to accomplish. By the time he gets through dicing the onion he feels mostly human.
Unfortunately, Misha left to his own devices is a dangerous thing. Especially dangerous with Jensen completely out of it. Because Misha on an average day encourages general, often destructive, chaos. Tonight though, he's more watchful, wound tighter, almost predatory, coiled and waiting to spring. Still, Jared did try to get Jensen to go to bed so...whatever happens he absolves himself. Totally. Completely. Unequivocally not his fault.
He pokes his head around the corner and finds Misha staring off into the middle-distance, head tilted at a Castiel-angle. When Jared follows his eye line, he has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle the laugh. If he didn't know better, he'd swear Misha is watching Jensen sleep, reflected in the glass doors of the entertainment center. There's nothing overt about it, but Jared's spent enough time watching, first Sandy then Gen, that he's hip to the internal monologue that accompanies that kind of staring. It would explain tonight's weirdness, but he doesn't want to make assumptions.
That doesn't mean he's going to let it go.
“Nachos?” he barks out loud enough that Sadie stirs with a whuff and Misha snaps back from whatever daydream he was lost in and nods.
“Yeah. Okay.” As witty rejoinders go, it’s not Misha’s best, but if Jared suspects correctly, there's a sleepy Jensen-shaped reason he's off his game.
He opts to reserve final judgment until he's sure, and turns back to the task at hand. Somewhere between dumping the chicken, onions, and peppers into a pan to sauté and plating up two heaping handfuls of tortilla chips he hears movement in the living room. Since it's not immediately followed by a loud thump or Jensen screaming, he figures it's probably safe to ignore. When the downstairs toilet flushes and Sadie pads up to him a couple minutes later, her shoulder against his calf, Jared pats himself on the back for returning to the world of the sane.
He scoops everything up, a little awkward with the extra plate and makes his way back into the living room.
This time he has zero luck stifling the laughter. Now that Sadie's up and moving, Jensen's sprawled all over the couch, up to and including a full scale leg invasion of Misha's lap. Jared decides not to think too hard about what it means. That Jensen has more consideration for Sadie's personal space than Misha's. So okay, maybe it's not a conscious disregard, but Jared has a sneaking suspicion that Jensen is more alert than he's letting on. Probably never even went back under after Jared roused him. Between the beer and the relief that the strange behavior is not his fault, all he can muster up is curious and amused.
What he can't quite figure out is whether or not Jensen's fucking with Misha.
"That's why I sit in the recliner when Jensen's tired. No respect. Just shove him off." Jared hands Misha his plate, then juggles the beer and his own plate into order on the end table next to him.
Misha shrugs like moving Jensen would be a Herculean undertaking he can't be bothered with, but his eyes slide sidelong to Jensen's face and he's distracted again when he mumbles, "Thanks."
And, really, Jared notices things. He does. People take him for some big, gangly dork on a perpetual sugar rush, but he’s not a dumbass. He notices how careful Misha is not to disturb Jensen in any way. How quickly his nachos are set aside to congeal on the coffee table. How the internal conversation he’s having keeps drifting out, making him bite his lower lip and turn his head to scratch his chin against his shoulder just a little too often. How his Adam's apple bobs when Jensen shifts, stretches, and scratches his stomach - shirt rucked enough to bare a wide belt of smooth skin. How without even touching, he radiates his presumed ownership of the body laid out across his lap.
Mostly, Jared notices that Jensen is not asleep. Not even a little. And he wonders how Misha doesn’t, except that he’s not lived with Jensen for a year.
Jensen, when he’s really asleep, is less about flirtatious fidgeting and noises in the back of his throat. He tosses and turns, but not gracefully. He’s tousled, but it’s artless. Mostly, he drools and snores and tucks his head tight against the pillow like he’s trying to block the world out. Pretty much like every other guy on the planet. Apparently, though, Jensen's a special case and when he drools the angels weep and sing of his beauty.
Not that Jared would know or anything.
Because Jared’s never gone there, not that particular where anyway. When he says Jensen is like a brother, he means it in every sense of the word. He loves the guy, sure, just not in quite the way some of their more tweaked fans wish he did.
Now, he’s not against playing it up. Publicity is publicity after all, or so his agent tells him. Mostly he does it because it pisses Jensen off and he’s too polite, too careful in front of the cameras to put an elbow in Jared's ribs and mutter “Off, you hulk,” with a smile like he would any other time.
It’s maybe a little (okay, more than a little) interesting to ponder when he’s three-quarters of the way to a nice beer drunk, even though he’ll deny it in the morning. Because it’s not like Jensen’s unattractive or an asshole, there is a reason he’s Jared’s best friend after all. Clearly, though, there’s something he’s not getting.
Since Misha has been very intensely not looking at Jensen all night, Jared thinks he probably does.
So when the credits roll, Jared clears the plates and bottles, makes an obvious amount of noise tossing and tidying so it’s clear to Misha he’s not rejoining the party any time soon. Then he turns the water on and steps away from the sink to peer around the corner again.
Jensen’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a honey-slow grin meandering across his face. For all his grand attempts at stillness and stoicism, Misha’s right heel is tapping rapidly now that they’re alone, one hand tucked behind his head and the other firmly settled on Jensen's thigh. Jensen just smiles wider, rolls his hips down against the cushions, crooking one knee, and yawns an exaggerated yawn, throwing both arms up over his head.
“I knew it,” Misha whispers, and pokes what looks like a very pointed finger against Jensen’s chest. "Tease."
"Who me?" Jensen says, voice still sleep-slow and flecked with the gravel of disuse. Which is why it's all the more shocking when his hand flies out suddenly. When he catches Misha's wrist. When he sucks the offending finger between his lips.
Shocking. Yeah. Proof is so far removed from pondering.
Misha lets him do it for a few seconds, neck bared, eyes closed, then pulls his hand back with an audible pop. Jensen makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper and manages, finally, to pry his eyelids open.
"Jared's not fifteen feet and a wall away," Misha says with a devious smile, "As I remember it, you're the one keen on exercising discretion."
Jensen's eyes flash bright with something Jared's hard-buzzing state prevents him from decoding, but he feels the flush rise behind his ears all the same. He backs slowly, carefully away toward the sink, wondering where the air in his lungs went. It's both harder and easier to accept with the beer lubricating his thought processes. The hard part, aside from the tingling stir in his nether regions, is, well, the tingling stir in his nether regions. Because it's not like that with Jensen and certainly not with Misha, and he's ready to make hasty excuses followed by a hasty retreat to his bedroom where the world makes sense and his cock knows how to behave. But then his hand slips on the handle of the skillet and when it falls, clattering against tile countertop, it's unbearably loud.
"Everything okay in there?" Misha calls out, cool and collected. If he were less freaked, Jared might be able to respect how fast he can turn it on. And God, he does not need to be thinking Misha and turned on in the same sentence right now. Or ever.
"Yeah. Great. Super," Jared sputters in response, because the last thing he wants is Misha up in his personal space with his knowing looks and strangely proprietary grace. He breathes and squirts a stream of dish soap into the skillet, runs some water into it, and focuses on scrubbing it clean.
Or tries to focus. But his mind keeps wandering to places he'd rather avoid, like an errant puppy intent on gobbling up all the shit it can get its jaws around. Only this pile is called, "How the fuck did I miss this?" and that pile is called, "How long has this been going on?" and the one over there is called, "Where has this been going on?" Then Jared's thinking about how many hours he's spent on the couch in Jensen's trailer waiting for lighting or weather or what-the-fuck-ever is making shooting a bitch that particular day. Thinking and wondering how many hours Misha's spent, and Jared pretty seriously doubts they were playing Madden.
Fuck.
He abandons the pan in the sink, yawns loud and theatrically long, because he's in no condition for public consumption. The best thing he can do for all of their sakes is go upstairs and jack off in the shower. Go upstairs, not run. Not running if it's voluntary. Still feels like running, though, when he blurts out a breathless, "Going to bed!" and climbs the stairs two at a time without a backward glance.
Jared almost slams the door closed behind him, but thinks better of it, latch clicking quietly as he presses his back against the wood and slides down to sitting. Downstairs, he hears them talking in hushed tones, then the front door opening and closing, the deadbolt engaged and the alarm armed. Only then does he allow himself a sigh of relief and push himself to standing. He knows he'll have to deal with it eventually, but it can wait. For now, Misha's gone and Jared can relax, shower, and sleep. His dick is just going to have to do without because it's way, way, way too bizarre to process.
By the time Jared's dressed for bed and toweling his hair dry, it all seems like a strange, inappropriately arousing bad dream. Irritating, but entirely forgettable. He slides between the sheets, stretching every muscle that will stretch and reaches for the bottle of water he always keeps on the nightstand.
Only it's not there because he ran upstairs to bed like a freak.
Great.
Sighing, he forces himself up and creeps silently downstairs, not wanting to wake Jensen because he's just not ready to have the, "What the hell was that about?" conversation yet. All the lights are out except the one above the kitchen sink that stays on pretty much 24/7 and it makes it easier for Jared to ignore the couch and the fading echoes of Misha and Jensen and not thinking about it is easier when he doesn't actually think about it. The tile is cold under his feet and when tugs the door to the refrigerator open, the light spills across the kitchen, shows him that Jensen cleaned up the mess he left. Jared smiles and twists the water open, because it helps him reconstitute the Jensen in his head into something less...dirty, and that's a good thing.
The smile stays with him as he steals back across the living room like a ghost.
It even stays with him when he glances briefly at Jensen's door standing uncharacteristically ajar.
It fails him on the second step, his knees threatening when he hears Jensen laugh, low and dark - it's a secret sound, certainly not intended for him but Jared can't seem to make himself keep climbing. So he grits his teeth, knowing he's going to hate himself in the morning, and steps down to hover just outside Jensen's door, waiting.
He's not really sure what he expected, but Misha stretched languid in a raw swath of moonlight certainly isn't it. Yet there he is, impossibly pale against Jensen's navy blue sheets, dark hair bleeding into shadow, smiling at...oh, smiling at Jensen. Jensen who is equally naked and moonlit, openly predatory now that he can be, shoulders rolling with the slow tense and release of muscles as he crawls up the bed carefully avoiding every bit of Misha's exposed skin.
"What do you want?" he hears Misha gasp, the words pulled ragged from his throat, a counterpoint to his careless loll.
Jensen laughs again and it stirs something deep in Jared's gut, pulls his heart against his ribcage, pounding hard and fast until all he can hear is his own blood rushing in his ears and Jensen's voice.
"What I want..."
Jensen drags his stubbled chin against Misha's chest slowly, then bends close to his ear and Jared has to rock forward so he doesn't miss it, not anything, not now.
"What I want is to rewind," Jensen says, and presses the tips of his fingers against the swell of Misha's lips which part obediently. "I want to strip you down, lay you out, suck you slow until your toes curl and your muscles give out. I want to hear you scream for me until your throat goes raw. I want to do it with Jared not fifteen feet and a wall away. I want you to be so far gone that you don't care."
Jared blinks, swallows hard, and claps a hand over his mouth to keep from gasping. The only thing between him and certain discovery is his creative use of fingernails as the water bottle slides in his grip. Shaking, he sets it aside, presses his face against the cool, smooth surface of the wall and sucks down air as silently as he can. He knows he should leave. Creep back upstairs and close the door behind him, forget everything that's happened tonight.
But he can't. He's rooted, blood boiling hot under the surface of his skin, already half hard behind his boxers. Even knowing that Jensen's words have nothing to do with him and everything to do with power, he still can't seem to get past the idea of Jensen wanting him to watch. Closes his eyes for just a moment and presses the heel of his hand against his groin to get some relief.
"Anyone ever tell you what a charmer you are, Ackles?" Misha says, reaching with hands and legs to try to pull Jensen against him, presumably to take back some control. "For all the aw shucks candy coating, your creamy little center is a delightfully kinky bastard."
Jensen dodges and weaves, refusing to be rushed. Starts laying down a spit slick pattern across Misha's collarbone, venturing lower with each swipe until he's sucking deep purpling bruises in the gentle curve of Misha's hip bones.
Jared groans softly with Misha, and when Jensen pauses, Jared freezes save the almost violent twitch his cock gives at just the idea of being caught. Fuck. But Jensen's head dips lower and Misha's mouth falls open on a nearly unintelligible string of ohfuckyesmore, and Jared breathes.
Has to remind himself to keep breathing as Jensen makes good on his promise and Jared watches Misha writhe, legs splayed obscenely wide, toes curled into the sheets, hips thrusting against Jensen's mouth. And God, it's overwhelming, the hitch of Misha's breath and the filthy, humming, wet noises Jensen's making against Misha's skin. So completely, shamelessly intimate - not meant for other eyes. Which might be why it blows straight by being such a violation he has to leave and settles on into so wrong he can't look away. His own personal erotic car crash that drives his world askew, sucks him blindly, willingly, achingly into their circle.
He can't keep still anymore, hand scrabbling desperately then closed warm and tight around his dick, hips rocking in time with the rise and fall of Jensen's head. So intent on the slow stroke that he almost misses Jensen's slick fingers sliding lower. Can't see even though he's craning, but he can hear it in the choked off grunt drawn forcibly from Misha's chest and see it in the tight arch of his back. Has to stop, fist closed tight and unmoving because it's too much. The sloppy wet glide of Jensen's lips pulled tight. Misha rocking erratically, sharp needy noises on his tongue that sound like Jensen's name, thighs twitching slick and quivering, hands clawed against the back of Jensen's head pulling him closer, faster until he keens a rattling, desperate sound that puts shivers in Jared's fucking toes.
Jared leans his head against the wall again and swallows, tries to pull himself back from the edge, but it's hard when he's watching Jensen ride out the aftershocks, only pulling off when Misha fists his hair and tugs. And he can still hear the quiet rasp of skin on fabric as Jensen's fingers work their magic.
Then there's a blur of skin and tangled sheets that his brain can't quite compute with the obstructed view until it's settled into a more reasonable shape. Misha flattened against the bed, mattress to knees, knees to chest, face turned away so Jared can only see a tousled shock of black hair. Jensen knelt down behind him sitting on his heels, one hand working his dick, the other curled possessively across the back of Misha's neck holding him still and silent and at his mercy. Jared watches him lean forward, lick the sweat from Misha's back and smile.
"What do you want, Misha?"
Jensen slides forward, oddly graceful, and nudges the head of his cock into the slick crease of Misha's ass. Misha makes a muffled, strangled sound and rocks his hips back.
Jared grips harder because Jesus Jensen knows how to work his voice, tastes blood on his tongue where he's bitten his lip, copper tang of knowledge, the kind that anchors deep in his bones and tells him he's ruined. Probably for life. Wonders what it would be like to be Misha, all fucked out and stupid at the promise in the dirty, sweet lilt of Jensen's question. What would he say? What could he say, if anything?
But Misha finally rearranges his vocal chords into something that can make sounds and simply says, "Fuck me."
Jensen's hand slides from neck to hip and squeezes, hard if the hiss drawn from between Misha's teeth is any indication.
"Now that's not exactly cordial, is it?" Jensen slurs, Texas creeping in as the measured movements of Jensen's hands and hips cross the boundary between controlled and hungry. And Jared knows, like he knows Jensen, that no matter what Misha says now, Jensen's going to oblige. It seems like a matter of degrees at this point and Jared feels safe to relax his grip, and move. Watches Misha's back rise and fall violently as he sighs.
"Do I need to issue a written invitation?" Misha says, sounding way more pulled together than Jared feels, but he's already come once, so there's that.
And Jared can't tell at first if that was the right or wrong thing to say, because Jensen fucking growls and slides home hard and fast without preamble. Wraps his arms around Misha's chest and pulls him flush, riding him with stuttered bone-shaking thrusts, and yeah, now Jared can tell it was the right thing to say. His own hand flying the length of his cock, orgasm building behind his teeth and arcing out down his spine. Tries to keep his eyes open, because he wants to see Jensen's face, but he just can't. Spills hot, wet, and sticky all over his hand when Jensen thrusts one last time with a, "Fuck, yes" they probably heard three states away.
Jared wipes his hand clean on his T-shirt, collecting himself as quickly as he can. A trick of the light makes his breath catch, because for a split second he thinks he sees Jensen watching him. But when he blinks, it's gone. So he steals back up the stairs silently, shaking and ripped apart inside and decides not to think. Period. Tomorrow will be soon enough to flip out. Tomorrow. Right now he needs sleep.
Easier said than done, though, because when he closes his eyes to exchange his dirty shirt for a clean one, all he sees is the curve and clench of Jensen's ass. And when he scrubs first his hands then his face clean under a scalding hot stream of water, all he can see is the slick pucker of Misha's lips wrapped around Jensen's fingers. Jensen's fingers that...
Fuck.
He flicks the bathroom light off and aims himself for the bed, falls face first when his knees bump against the edge and there's another flash. Misha folded tightly in on himself, breathless and trembling, waiting. It makes him wish the beer was not all the way downstairs and past Jensen's open door since he could definitely do with a little oblivion right now. Because though his hands came clean easy enough, he can't seem to stop the loop between his ears.
Worse yet, he's not sure that he wants to.
And that's healthy. But when another image flares behind closed eyelids, he curses and flips over on his back, ignores the twitch of renewed interest in his disobedient cock. Ignores it. He loses track of time somewhere between extended replays number six and eight, the sky starting to go pink behind the blinds, and falls into restless sleep with Jensen's voice still ringing in his ears and Misha's gasps tickling the back of his neck.
When Jared wakes up, way too fucking soon in his opinion, he lies in bed for a full fifteen minutes trying to gauge just how insistent the reruns are going to be, whether or not he's going to be able to handle being in the same room with Jensen without glazing over like a mouth-breathing idiot. It's there, an uncomfortable tickle in his hindbrain, but thankfully nowhere near as overwhelming as last night's hi-def movie experience.
He can do this. Has to, if not today then definitely tomorrow, and Jared's the kind of guy who's always ripped the Band-Aid off fast with a flourish. More style. It's hard to maintain the illusion, when he feels like he's been run over by a truck, but he manages to get himself vertical and shuffling. The trip downstairs is more interesting than he'd like, one quick glance at Jensen's door and a brief tug of his lower lip between his teeth is all he allows himself.
He can hear the TV blaring in the living room, and there's a moment he wants to chicken out, climb the stairs and gnaw on one of his winter sweaters instead of braving the kitchen, shimmy down the drainpipe with his car keys and just get the hell out of fucking Dodge.
But it's Jensen.
So he sucks in a breath and takes the plunge.
"Morning," he says, trying for nonchalant but so strung out that he can't tell if he's succeeding.
Jensen's sprawled all over the couch again, slow and lazy, hair flattened on one side and a riot on the other, the way it happens when there's actual sleep involved, still wearing his glasses which means he hasn't quite worked himself up to a shower yet. And Jared decides to firmly not think about that. Ever.
"Morning," Jensen replies, a little groggy but smiling, "Man, you look like hell."
"Uh, yeah. Didn't sleep so well. Weird dreams." Jared tugs a hand through his hair and looks at Jensen, eyes narrowed, trying to tell if he knows something's up. But there's nothing out of the ordinary. Just Jensen zoned out on Sports Center with a giant mug of coffee steaming at his elbow. It's a little too 'nothing to see here, move it along', but Jared learned long ago that looking a gift horse in the mouth is incredibly stupid. Not to mention dangerous.
Then Jensen actually looks back at him, and there is something in the cocky twist of his smile that wasn't there yesterday.
"That's too bad," he says, and stretches catlike. Jared has to look away at the quick flash of skin. "I slept like a baby."
"Someday you'll have to let me in on your secret, " Jared says, then escapes into the kitchen, without waiting for a response - newly intent on his original quest of orange juice and cereal and a chaser of painkillers. He doesn't expect Jensen to follow him, doesn't expect him crowding in behind him at the sink to pour the dregs of his coffee down the drain and discard the mug. He certainly doesn't expect a warm hand wrapped where his neck meets his shoulder, or the other thumping against his chest in a gesture that has become so completely Jensen that Jared isn't sure anyone else could convincingly pull it off anymore.
And if Jensen's standing a little too close when he laughs and says, "Try a glass of warm milk," well it's just because his arms are only so long and Jared's really kind of freakishly tall. And if he hears an echo of last night's dark, secret laughter in Jensen's chuckle as he meanders off to the bathroom for his shower, well that's his own damn fault.
By the time his addled brain catches up, the shower's been running a good five minutes. Jared's thankful for it, because it means that Jensen misses the OJ spit take and the embarrassing flush that creeps up the back of his neck, an oddly fitting accompaniment to his realization.
This, class, is what we call a euphemism.
Jared sighs, pours the rest of his cereal down the drain, and resolves to hibernate, for like, the next five years.
"Fuck my life."
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