ScotchVerse: Johnny Walker
Title: Johnny Walker
Verse: Scotch
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: None.
AN:Misha POV prequel, guys. If you care about timeline, this occurs a full three weeks before Laphroaig.Profuse gratitude to both me_so_geeky and thevinegarworks for pulling beta duties. Any leftover mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Previous Installments
Laphroaig
The Glenrothes
Summary: Misha wouldn't say he has a crush exactly, primarily because he's not a thirteen year old girl fawning over the latest issue of Tean Beat. Unfortunately, that fact doesn't seem to be making Jensen any less attractive.
Misha's not entirely certain why people feel so helplessly compelled to begin at the beginning. The vast majority of beginnings are mind-numbingly boring, not to mention rife with awkward expository nonsense, and he tends toward ignoring them for the better bits, the later bits that reveal the truth of a person.
If, for instance, he were to begin at the beginning of this, it'd be a great deal of polite conversation and hand shaking, listening to himself say painfully pedestrian things like, "Glad to be on board," and "Look forward to working with you," in Castiel's voice while Jensen narrows his eyes and tries in vain to pin him down.
He's not the pinned-down type.
Not in that sense of the word.
Thankfully, they're no longer even within shouting distance of the beginning. It's been over a year now and he's here amongst the crush of cast and crew alike as a series regular to celebrate either American independence or the kick-off of season five or both. He never got a definitive answer. Not that it matters, of course, a party is a party and Misha's unilaterally in favor of them, particularly when there's nudity involved. Mixed company precludes such things more often than it should. On the other hand, Jared lives for parties. He was made for them, in fact, except for the overactive sweat glands, and makes it his personal mission to see that everyone has a good time. Usually, this comes at either Misha or Jensen's expense. So until he knows without a doubt who the joke is on tonight, best not ingest anything he didn't prepare himself.
When Jared beams that wide Texas grin at him, when he winks and hands Misha two glasses of scotch then aims him in Jensen's general direction, Misha just goes with it. As much as he prefers to be the one driving, Jared's schemes almost always amuse him - sometimes solely by virtue of the fact they turn Jared into a something of a frenetic madman who got into a particularly potent stash of laughing gas.
But then, he has no intention of drinking something Jared handed him - certainly not something he winked over - so his perspective is perhaps slightly skewed.
Truth be told, he enjoys having legitimate reasons to put himself inside Jensen's comfort zone, just beyond that sphere he's carefully delineated between himself and the rest of the world. The circles get smaller the longer you know him, of course, but they never seem to disappear. As long as Jensen has been in the business, Misha's always imagined he'd have ample opportunity to develop a defter hand at dealing - not that he's imagined at all, mind.
Misha maintains his own buffers, naturally. They just happen to present themselves as random, vigorous proclamations of utter bullshit paired with varying degrees of harmless indulgence. He's found truth to be a malleable thing and long ago decided that it's more important to be convincing than right. Confusion and misdirection are far better instruments of deflection than those Jensen seems to have chosen. But then, Jensen also doesn't seem to have any real problem with being thought of as shy. Misha prefers quirky or eccentric. As far as the industry is concerned, shy becomes standoffish on its way to difficult, and he needs the work. Jensen will always have his looks to fall back on, and they'll undoubtedly spin his careful barricades as mystery rather than what they are.
Of course, he and his pretty face have claimed far more vigilant victims than the overwrought PR darlings charged with handling his press.
Misha considers himself one - of circumstance at the very least - yet he's always handled such things with an odd mix of self-brevity and ironic amusement that he's been told translates as flippant conceit to those not living between his ears. In this case, it works in his favor. As far as he can tell, Jensen still hasn't quite figured it out and that buys him time.
While it's not the first, or likely even last, tentative foray into the wild kingdom of office romance, it's certainly the most interesting. Primarily because Jensen just so happens to be a guy. Now, that's not to say he hasn't tripped over the line a time or twelve. Like truth, gender has always been a fairly malleable concept and not really a consideration when he's selecting potential playmates. For him, attraction tends to be more about personality than physicality, but when the twain happen to meet, especially in the form of Jensen Ackles, he's all for letting them.
Unfortunately for him, Jensen's not interested.
Oh he hasn't said as much, hasn't been offered the opportunity. With a consummate guy's guy like Jensen, Misha knows better. Most of the time he settles for talking Jensen into a logical corner just to see him squirm, to watch his eyes flash and his nostrils flare, because annoyance is nearly as good as passion for that. There are times though, especially in the midst of a scene, when he sees that spark behind Jensen's eyes and it has nothing to do with Dean Winchester or Castiel or the adulation Misha oozes from his very pores every time he, no Castiel, looks at Dean. Grasping at straws is not a habit he cares to indulge, but with such a delicious prize in the offing, giving up hope entirely still seems premature.
Patience often eludes him, but he can wrangle it for Jensen's sake.
"I bear intoxication of the Scottish persuasion," he says and smiles, carefully polite. Careful because the way Jensen's brow furrows with concentration as he guards his end of the air hockey table, the way he's gnawing his lower lip plump and pink and ripe for all sorts of naughtiness does things to Misha's blood he prefers to ignore. Then Jensen fairly levels him with a lazy, lopsided smile that betrays the fact he's already sitting somewhere between half and three-quarters of the way in the bag and Misha can't help but wonder what might happen if he fell all the way in.
"You always bring me the best gifts," Jensen says happily before dropping his paddle on the table with a clatter and liberating one of the glasses from Misha's hand. He tosses the contents back in one long pull. Okay, perhaps two. With his head tipped back that way, the curve of Jensen's throat shifts from merely enticing all the way over into distracting, and Misha finds himself with a score of unimpeachable reasons for having lost count and not a single compelling one to correct Jensen with regards to who is doing the gifting.
"Remind me to announce my candidacy for the Nobel Peace Prize in the morning," he says and smiles, though he has absolutely no idea what he's ever given Jensen worth remembering.
"I could so go for some Twizzlers right now," is all Jensen mutters in response and Misha would take it for a drunken non sequitur, except he vaguely remembers bringing Jensen a bag the week Jared was on vacation. Jared, proving himself more sensible than Misha ever gave him credit for, had locked his trailer down tight before departing and left the legion of P.A.'s strict instructions about who to call if the no admittance policy were even tangentially violated. In retrospect, it strikes Misha as borderline ridiculous that instead of buying a package of his own or asking one of the legion to find him some, Jensen spent most of that Monday sulking. So that when Misha showed up on set in the wee hours of Tuesday morning with Twizzlers dangling between his fingers, Jensen acted as if he'd just cured some rare strain of brain cancer.
Unfortunately for Misha, he's not in the habit of toting Twizzlers in his coat pocket. Instead of making pointless apologies he wouldn't really mean, he plucks the empty glass from Jensen's hand and replaces it with the full. In a rational world, alcohol always trumps candy and Misha already knows Johnny Walker too well. According to set legend, he also has a thousand and one reasons to stay sober. Though he harbors no delusions as to whether or not hearsay can be believed, Misha's more than willing to hang around and see, especially if the rumors are, in fact, true.
Misha smiles when Jensen tightens his grip on the second glass and sucks down its contents as well.
"S'not a Twizzler, but it'll do."
Jensen licks his lips and returns the smile, his eyes hooded, and this time there's definitely a promise glinting in the green. If Jensen were any less of a grown-up Misha would feel obliged to hold himself accountable for encouraging bad behavior. But he's not, so Misha doesn't. In fact, among consenting adults, Misha is fairly notorious for encouraging bad behavior, so it's not like this is some wild departure from the norm.
"I'm overcome by the burden of your gratitude."
"Oh, right. Thanks?" Jensen says and pulls a rough, fumbling hand through his hair in such a very Dean way that Misha fears for the tenuous state of the fourth wall. Then there's a well-muscled arm draped across the back of his neck, fingers tap-tap-tapping against his collarbone, and he decides that three walls are plenty.
Naturally, Jared chooses that precise moment to meander over.
"Is he?" Jared says, his features crumpled by an overly theatrical mockery of Sam's bitchface.
"Tripping the light fantastic it seems."
"In my defense, only one of those was supposed to be for him."
"Hey, he's standing right the fuck here," Jensen chuckles to himself and mumbles indignantly under his breath then leans on Misha a little harder. Misha really doesn't mind, except for the part where Jensen outweighs him by at least twenty pounds. Even that becomes a passing concern when Jensen's thumb creeps up the side of his neck and strokes into the hollow behind his ear like it belongs there.
Jared, in a classic display of the younger sibling archetype, just claps a hand over his mouth to hide his grin and presses Jensen's keys into Misha's hand.
"Mea culpa man, it was supposed to be a joke."
"I notice you're taking full responsibility for the results."
"I think I'll defer to the judgment of the unintoxicated in all matters," Jared says, "You are, right? Good to go?"
"First thing, don't expect this to become a habit. And second, yes. I am sadly, painfully sober."
Admittedly, it's a broad exaggeration. Having Jensen Ackles wrapped around you like a flesh-eating flytrap is neither sad nor painful, and definitely something Misha could grow accustomed to. And he certainly doesn't mind not being under the influence, especially if it means what he thinks it might.
For his part, Jared simply leers, waggles his brows and stage whispers, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," loud enough for the entire room to hear before dissolving back into the throng.
Jensen huffs a laugh against Misha's neck then shifts so that he's carrying seventy rather than forty percent of his weight, lets his hand drop and his fingers close around Misha's shoulder. Even drunk, Jensen's so incredibly careful, he's practically begging to be mussed.
Misha knows the type and it doesn't surprise him that Jensen's a member of that particular club - all perfectly perpendicular angles and furiously tidy rooms, easygoing until life slides just a bit out of square. Knowing makes his job both infinitely easier and more difficult. Everyone, everyone besides perhaps Misha himself, has a point beyond which they won't allow themselves to be pushed. Time and care are the only viable tactics unfortunately, and he has already deemed Jensen worth it.
So he simply sighs and settles his hand innocently into the curve of Jensen's waist, then steers him towards one of the many doors that lead to the parking lot.
Fresh air greets them in a rush when Misha elbows the door open, and it helps more than he cares to admit. Helps, that is, until Jensen pulls his own lungful, his arm flexing tight, and Misha finds himself crushed up against all that solid warmth he's already decided he should probably disregard for the time being.
Because Jensen's really very drunk and Misha, for his myriad other faults and flaws, doesn't like to take advantage.
"Hey, we're outside."
"Wonderful, one of those."
Misha also decides it's probably best not to think about the fact that Jensen manages to make drunk endearing, his neck a gently bowed crescent of tendons drawn tight, head canted, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he presumably counts the stars or whatever else improbably wasted people do when they look at the sky. Misha tends to ponder oddities - odder oddities than usual and ask a string of maddeningly rhetorical questions. Questions like, if he had imbibed, would he be clinging so desperately to his control? Or would he have already given in and flattened Jensen against the nearest solid surface the better to suck bruises onto his Adam's apple?
"One of what?"
"One of those drunks that fixate on stating the obvious."
"Not drunk."
"Like that," Misha says and smirks, thankful they're closing in on the car albeit along a stumbling sideways path.
"Wait, what?"
"Exactly."
"So I'm officially confused," Jensen leans into him again, teeth flashing white in the moonlight, and he's so close and so delightfully off-kilter that Misha can barely contain himself. The sooner he gets Jensen into the passenger seat and tucked safely away at home, the sooner he can let the better devils of his nature have the pound of flesh they're demanding. Just his flesh, for now.
"Which is understandable. Because you're drunk."
The alarm beeps cheerily when he turns it off, and Jensen snorts a laugh.
"M'not," Jensen protests, but then negates it by both palming and pressing his cheek to the roof of the car when Misha lets go long enough to swing the door open.
"If you find yourself unable to follow the thread of the conversation I just attempted to have with you," he says, and bends down to clear the passenger seat of its contents, "then you are past the point of..."
That's the last word Misha manages to thread from his brain through his vocal chords and out to his lips for a long while, because when he straightens to help Jensen into the car, he finds he's caged. Jensen's rooted, his elbows planted, and he's looking far more predatory than anyone so inebriated has a right to.
"God Misha, what you do to me," he sighs, a real - nearly somber - smile twisting his mouth into appealing shapes. Then he shuffles the six inches closer until Misha can taste the scotch fumes pluming on his breath. Fuck, he's only human and this would certainly be considered cruel and unusual, even by the likes of Batista. A token objection is all he has left to voice, but that dies unspoken as well when Jensen closes the distance clumsily, not so daring as to simply take but brave enough to rest his forehead against Misha's and shut his eyes.
If tomorrow or the next day, or a year from now, Misha were held at gunpoint and forced to identify the precise moment of his rather spectacular undoing at the hands of Jensen Ackles, that soft sweep of girlishly long lashes against his cheek would be it.
Because Jensen is interested.
It takes considerable effort to keep still, more to keep his voice steady. Easy. It would be so simple to angle his head and tilt his chin and claim that sweet pout in the name of Misha Collins, but - and it's a big but - it has to be Jensen's decision, especially now.
"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate," he says, grateful in the moment that Jensen's so far gone, because apparently he's traded brains with an astonishingly obtuse toaster oven.
For whatever it's worth, Jensen must catch the clue, because in one breath Misha's considering the best way to disentangle himself without suffering the uncomfortable consequences of manhandling Jensen into the car, and in the next Jensen's lips slant against his with an intoxicating blend of skill and uncertainty that leaves him with no real choice but to kiss back.
Right now, Jensen tastes like the smoky sweetness of Johnny Walker over a tart, tangy something - probably whatever it was that eased him from sobriety over into tipsy - but under that there's a hint of mint and maybe the seven-layer dip Jeannie brought. It doesn't matter because Jensen's kissing him, tongue urging lazily past his lips and tangling. Restraint is the very last thing on Misha's mind when he reaches out to steady Jensen, fingers unfurled in the small of his back and over the pulse pounding hard just beneath the slope of his jaw.
Even drunk, Jensen kisses as if it's a competition, pace and pressure on the rise until he truly is flushed up against Misha, puffing soft little gasps against his skin, every ridge of hard muscle rubbing in increasingly interesting ways, one knee nudged between his and if he had half a mind...
A screen door creaks open then rattles closed, a brief burst of frenzied laughter blooms thick on the air punctuated by some mindlessly throbbing bass line, while Misha tries desperately to remember how to be the responsible one. With the tip of Jensen's tongue teasing against his, such things are far easier said than done. In the end, logic wins out. Now that he's got Jensen precisely where he wants him he's hardly in the mood to suffer interruption at the hands of an overly curious crewmember or, God forbid, Jared.
Jensen, it seems, has other ideas, because when Misha tries to extricate himself he only wraps tighter, pushes harder. Luckily though, alcohol dulls the reflexes, so he grabs Jensen's wrists and squirms free. The effort earns him a disgruntled look.
"What the...you going somewhere?"
"Away," Misha can't resist thumbing the slick swell of Jensen's lower lip, and it's not until he feels the teeth close around his fingertip, the soft pull of suction that he remembers where they are and why he needs to be the adult for once.
"Away," he mutters again and takes a step back, slides his thumb free, trying to clear his head, shake loose the fog. When Jensen tries to gather him back in, it takes a firm hand - palm pressed to breastbone - and the dull thud of flesh against metal that sounds painful to him draws a thready moan out of Jensen's chest.
Misha files that tidbit away for later.
Jensen pulls a face when Misha takes another, very careful, step back.
"Petulance accomplishes nothing, but if you would just get in the car you're more than welcome to tag along."
That appears to do the trick. Before Misha can get the driver's side door unlocked, Jensen's settled and buckled, his seat leaned all the way back, eyes ratcheted closed, fingers plucking restlessly at the hem of his T-shirt. It's damn distracting, and as Misha closes the car door behind him it slams perhaps a little too loudly.
Jensen tenses then curses, but in the end simply sinks down further against the leather with a sigh.
When the car purrs to life and Jensen doesn't twitch, Misha fears he's finally lost that gallant battle with blackout. In any case, he's genuinely surprised that five minutes later, with the highway spooling steadily out beneath the tires, Jensen clears his throat.
"Just so we're clear," he says, his voice firm but so soft Misha has to strain to hear him over the road noise, "I know what I'm doing. And I meant it."
"It?" he asks, and yes, perhaps it sounds a little smug but he thinks he's well within his rights at this point.
"You make me crazy."
"Ah." That. Which, to be fair, is not what Jensen said. It is, however, infinitely better. Or worse, if you just so happen to be Jensen. These sorts of ubiquitous statements always give Misha ideas.
"Not always in a good way."
"What fun would that be?"
"I guess we'll find out the day I forget to walk away."
"And the alternative is?"
"Hard to say. Felt like punching you more than once, but now..." The moon casts plenty of shadows into the interior of the car, and Jensen shifts until they scatter on his face, obscuring whatever it is he thinks might be laid bare.
"Now it might be best to keep walking away?"
"I guess."
"At least in public."
"I didn't mean..."
"Never imagined you did."
"But yeah, I..."
"No need to make the natives restless," Misha says, even though he generally falls on the opposite end of that particular assertion. But then, he also considers wreaking harmless havoc something of an art form. It makes sense that Jensen doesn't, because he has much more to lose.
"Or give them an eyeful."
"Though a leaked YouTube video or two might well push my minion enlistment numbers past the fifty thousand mark."
"You wouldn't."
"If you have to ask then you don't really know me at all, Jen."
"Wasn't asking."
"Good."
"Are we actually having a serious conversation?"
"Only because you're drunk and won't remember it in the morning."
"Of course," Jensen says, and it sounds so forlorn that Misha manages to hold his tongue long enough to piece together the Kandinskian collection of conversations they've had over the past year.
Jensen's right, but it doesn't change anything. His defenses may be structured differently, but they're no less formidable. Just because he finds his own bullshit endlessly entertaining doesn't necessarily mean everyone does. Obviously, not everyone does.
Yet, what call is there, really, for an apology. Until an hour ago, he was protecting himself against getting too involved and two days from now, he may be doing the same. Altered states yield unpredictable results, and actors in general are infamously changeable.
Then again, Jensen isn't just some actor. He and Jared are two of the most down-to-earth people Misha's had the pleasure to know, even without qualifying the question according to any label. And somewhere in that abstract jumble, Misha remembers Jensen trying - asking about his family, what DC was like - he was just too locked down to offer anything resembling truth.
The Stanley Park exit sign pops green in his periphery and he eases over. It's a nice night - well, early morning - crisp and breezy - ripe with the sort of promise that invariably makes his life more difficult. The sky stretches on forever, boundless black, unusually cloudless and littered with pinprick spots of light shining valiantly against the city glow.
It's the only neutral, quiet, familiar place he can think of that allows visitors at four in the morning. Besides, it's been years since he's voluntarily witnessed a sunrise and he's not ready to turn Jensen loose just yet. Jensen must have passed out from either the liquor or exhaustion somewhere between Burnaby and the park, because when Misha pulls into a parking spot at Brockton Point and shuts the car off, he stretches and yawns like he can't catch a breath then swings a sleepy look Misha's way.
"I don't remember my place having barges in the yard. Or, y'know, ocean instead of actual yard."
"Whereas the lighthouse and suspension bridge are precisely where they should be."
Jensen rolls his eyes, but there's a quick smile that skitters furtively across his face before he yawns again. Misha takes the opportunity to get out and walk, pull himself away to catch an unfettered breath. In general he finds Jensen exceedingly distracting, but every second spent alone in such close quarters, with him so pliant and accommodating, threatens to tug Misha free of that slip of decency he's clutching onto.
What he can't quite work out is why, of all the inconvenient times, he's picked now to grow a conscience.
All he's managed to determine is that he actually likes Jensen rather than just entertaining a general amorphous notion that, yes, he might like to fuck him at some point. Maybe even more than once. The fact that they work together only makes things...not worse, but stickier and Misha is not exactly good at careful.
Especially when he's already so attuned he can feel the mild irritation rolling off Jensen in waves and is fully aware he thinks Misha's running for no reason, being a coward. He's so damn subconsciously aware, he knows without looking that Jensen's following and can read the brisk crush of his boots against the grass, the not-quite-sigh he huffs as if it's written.
He blames Castiel.
"Hey," is all Jensen says aloud, and sometimes Misha would give his right arm or testicle or at least a significant lock of his hair to be allowed that economy of speech - the luxury of simplicity, but the illusion of eccentricity requires constant maintenance.
"Hey," Jensen says again and Misha feels fingers slide between two layers of fabric, followed by a gentle tug against his belt and he's freefalling, finally unbridled by, of all things, Jensen's concern.
When Misha turns, Jensen stumbles drunkenly into him, slipping in the damp. With his fingers latched on the way they are Misha tumbles after, albeit with a little more grace. It deposits them in an ungainly, dew-soaked sprawl, knee to hip and chest to chin. Jensen's laughter rings loud against the whisper of wind and lapping waves, eyes crinkling at the corners in that bewitching way, grass clippings caught in his hair and stuck to the side of his neck. Even as his teeth rattle together with the sharp rise and fall of Jensen's ribs, Misha can't quite manage to reign himself back in.
Jensen's peering down at him, so open and artless, desire carved in every tiny tic, the restless wander of his hands, the way his skin is practically vibrating, asking to be touched, to be handled, to be taken.
Fuck it.
His peace can be made tomorrow, because he's neither angel nor saint and Jensen wants him.
It requires no effort at all to slide the ten necessary inches, to swing a leg across Jensen's hips, to find Jensen's mouth and cover it with his own and swallow the happy little noise Jensen makes when he licks those obscenely pretty lips open. No effort at all.
Feels like falling in every way that counts - equal parts freedom and fright - because of all the nearly infinite things he's imagined, this halting tango they've been weaving all over the city is the last one he expected. Certainly he never anticipated Jensen arched under him, hips rocking out a hypnotic rhythm that drags reluctant sounds between his teeth and shudders up his spine. Though he may well have, in a fit of pique and ego, imagined Jensen breathing his name like a blessing and fumbling those fingers up under his shirt.
Reassuring, that he wasn't entirely wrong.
When they find skin, Misha loses track of his expectations, focus narrowed down to one and one thing only - Jensen. The way he begs with his hands. The way he curls into every touch. The way he moves like it can never be enough. It's terrifying being drawn into Jensen's orbit - insatiable hunger and thirst, a thousand shadowed shards of charm that could slice him into something unrecognizable.
The only defense left to him is the last one he should depend on - himself.
It'll have to be enough.
Continue
Verse: Scotch
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: None.
AN:Misha POV prequel, guys. If you care about timeline, this occurs a full three weeks before Laphroaig.Profuse gratitude to both me_so_geeky and thevinegarworks for pulling beta duties. Any leftover mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Previous Installments
Laphroaig
The Glenrothes
Summary: Misha wouldn't say he has a crush exactly, primarily because he's not a thirteen year old girl fawning over the latest issue of Tean Beat. Unfortunately, that fact doesn't seem to be making Jensen any less attractive.
Misha's not entirely certain why people feel so helplessly compelled to begin at the beginning. The vast majority of beginnings are mind-numbingly boring, not to mention rife with awkward expository nonsense, and he tends toward ignoring them for the better bits, the later bits that reveal the truth of a person.
If, for instance, he were to begin at the beginning of this, it'd be a great deal of polite conversation and hand shaking, listening to himself say painfully pedestrian things like, "Glad to be on board," and "Look forward to working with you," in Castiel's voice while Jensen narrows his eyes and tries in vain to pin him down.
He's not the pinned-down type.
Not in that sense of the word.
Thankfully, they're no longer even within shouting distance of the beginning. It's been over a year now and he's here amongst the crush of cast and crew alike as a series regular to celebrate either American independence or the kick-off of season five or both. He never got a definitive answer. Not that it matters, of course, a party is a party and Misha's unilaterally in favor of them, particularly when there's nudity involved. Mixed company precludes such things more often than it should. On the other hand, Jared lives for parties. He was made for them, in fact, except for the overactive sweat glands, and makes it his personal mission to see that everyone has a good time. Usually, this comes at either Misha or Jensen's expense. So until he knows without a doubt who the joke is on tonight, best not ingest anything he didn't prepare himself.
When Jared beams that wide Texas grin at him, when he winks and hands Misha two glasses of scotch then aims him in Jensen's general direction, Misha just goes with it. As much as he prefers to be the one driving, Jared's schemes almost always amuse him - sometimes solely by virtue of the fact they turn Jared into a something of a frenetic madman who got into a particularly potent stash of laughing gas.
But then, he has no intention of drinking something Jared handed him - certainly not something he winked over - so his perspective is perhaps slightly skewed.
Truth be told, he enjoys having legitimate reasons to put himself inside Jensen's comfort zone, just beyond that sphere he's carefully delineated between himself and the rest of the world. The circles get smaller the longer you know him, of course, but they never seem to disappear. As long as Jensen has been in the business, Misha's always imagined he'd have ample opportunity to develop a defter hand at dealing - not that he's imagined at all, mind.
Misha maintains his own buffers, naturally. They just happen to present themselves as random, vigorous proclamations of utter bullshit paired with varying degrees of harmless indulgence. He's found truth to be a malleable thing and long ago decided that it's more important to be convincing than right. Confusion and misdirection are far better instruments of deflection than those Jensen seems to have chosen. But then, Jensen also doesn't seem to have any real problem with being thought of as shy. Misha prefers quirky or eccentric. As far as the industry is concerned, shy becomes standoffish on its way to difficult, and he needs the work. Jensen will always have his looks to fall back on, and they'll undoubtedly spin his careful barricades as mystery rather than what they are.
Of course, he and his pretty face have claimed far more vigilant victims than the overwrought PR darlings charged with handling his press.
Misha considers himself one - of circumstance at the very least - yet he's always handled such things with an odd mix of self-brevity and ironic amusement that he's been told translates as flippant conceit to those not living between his ears. In this case, it works in his favor. As far as he can tell, Jensen still hasn't quite figured it out and that buys him time.
While it's not the first, or likely even last, tentative foray into the wild kingdom of office romance, it's certainly the most interesting. Primarily because Jensen just so happens to be a guy. Now, that's not to say he hasn't tripped over the line a time or twelve. Like truth, gender has always been a fairly malleable concept and not really a consideration when he's selecting potential playmates. For him, attraction tends to be more about personality than physicality, but when the twain happen to meet, especially in the form of Jensen Ackles, he's all for letting them.
Unfortunately for him, Jensen's not interested.
Oh he hasn't said as much, hasn't been offered the opportunity. With a consummate guy's guy like Jensen, Misha knows better. Most of the time he settles for talking Jensen into a logical corner just to see him squirm, to watch his eyes flash and his nostrils flare, because annoyance is nearly as good as passion for that. There are times though, especially in the midst of a scene, when he sees that spark behind Jensen's eyes and it has nothing to do with Dean Winchester or Castiel or the adulation Misha oozes from his very pores every time he, no Castiel, looks at Dean. Grasping at straws is not a habit he cares to indulge, but with such a delicious prize in the offing, giving up hope entirely still seems premature.
Patience often eludes him, but he can wrangle it for Jensen's sake.
"I bear intoxication of the Scottish persuasion," he says and smiles, carefully polite. Careful because the way Jensen's brow furrows with concentration as he guards his end of the air hockey table, the way he's gnawing his lower lip plump and pink and ripe for all sorts of naughtiness does things to Misha's blood he prefers to ignore. Then Jensen fairly levels him with a lazy, lopsided smile that betrays the fact he's already sitting somewhere between half and three-quarters of the way in the bag and Misha can't help but wonder what might happen if he fell all the way in.
"You always bring me the best gifts," Jensen says happily before dropping his paddle on the table with a clatter and liberating one of the glasses from Misha's hand. He tosses the contents back in one long pull. Okay, perhaps two. With his head tipped back that way, the curve of Jensen's throat shifts from merely enticing all the way over into distracting, and Misha finds himself with a score of unimpeachable reasons for having lost count and not a single compelling one to correct Jensen with regards to who is doing the gifting.
"Remind me to announce my candidacy for the Nobel Peace Prize in the morning," he says and smiles, though he has absolutely no idea what he's ever given Jensen worth remembering.
"I could so go for some Twizzlers right now," is all Jensen mutters in response and Misha would take it for a drunken non sequitur, except he vaguely remembers bringing Jensen a bag the week Jared was on vacation. Jared, proving himself more sensible than Misha ever gave him credit for, had locked his trailer down tight before departing and left the legion of P.A.'s strict instructions about who to call if the no admittance policy were even tangentially violated. In retrospect, it strikes Misha as borderline ridiculous that instead of buying a package of his own or asking one of the legion to find him some, Jensen spent most of that Monday sulking. So that when Misha showed up on set in the wee hours of Tuesday morning with Twizzlers dangling between his fingers, Jensen acted as if he'd just cured some rare strain of brain cancer.
Unfortunately for Misha, he's not in the habit of toting Twizzlers in his coat pocket. Instead of making pointless apologies he wouldn't really mean, he plucks the empty glass from Jensen's hand and replaces it with the full. In a rational world, alcohol always trumps candy and Misha already knows Johnny Walker too well. According to set legend, he also has a thousand and one reasons to stay sober. Though he harbors no delusions as to whether or not hearsay can be believed, Misha's more than willing to hang around and see, especially if the rumors are, in fact, true.
Misha smiles when Jensen tightens his grip on the second glass and sucks down its contents as well.
"S'not a Twizzler, but it'll do."
Jensen licks his lips and returns the smile, his eyes hooded, and this time there's definitely a promise glinting in the green. If Jensen were any less of a grown-up Misha would feel obliged to hold himself accountable for encouraging bad behavior. But he's not, so Misha doesn't. In fact, among consenting adults, Misha is fairly notorious for encouraging bad behavior, so it's not like this is some wild departure from the norm.
"I'm overcome by the burden of your gratitude."
"Oh, right. Thanks?" Jensen says and pulls a rough, fumbling hand through his hair in such a very Dean way that Misha fears for the tenuous state of the fourth wall. Then there's a well-muscled arm draped across the back of his neck, fingers tap-tap-tapping against his collarbone, and he decides that three walls are plenty.
Naturally, Jared chooses that precise moment to meander over.
"Is he?" Jared says, his features crumpled by an overly theatrical mockery of Sam's bitchface.
"Tripping the light fantastic it seems."
"In my defense, only one of those was supposed to be for him."
"Hey, he's standing right the fuck here," Jensen chuckles to himself and mumbles indignantly under his breath then leans on Misha a little harder. Misha really doesn't mind, except for the part where Jensen outweighs him by at least twenty pounds. Even that becomes a passing concern when Jensen's thumb creeps up the side of his neck and strokes into the hollow behind his ear like it belongs there.
Jared, in a classic display of the younger sibling archetype, just claps a hand over his mouth to hide his grin and presses Jensen's keys into Misha's hand.
"Mea culpa man, it was supposed to be a joke."
"I notice you're taking full responsibility for the results."
"I think I'll defer to the judgment of the unintoxicated in all matters," Jared says, "You are, right? Good to go?"
"First thing, don't expect this to become a habit. And second, yes. I am sadly, painfully sober."
Admittedly, it's a broad exaggeration. Having Jensen Ackles wrapped around you like a flesh-eating flytrap is neither sad nor painful, and definitely something Misha could grow accustomed to. And he certainly doesn't mind not being under the influence, especially if it means what he thinks it might.
For his part, Jared simply leers, waggles his brows and stage whispers, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," loud enough for the entire room to hear before dissolving back into the throng.
Jensen huffs a laugh against Misha's neck then shifts so that he's carrying seventy rather than forty percent of his weight, lets his hand drop and his fingers close around Misha's shoulder. Even drunk, Jensen's so incredibly careful, he's practically begging to be mussed.
Misha knows the type and it doesn't surprise him that Jensen's a member of that particular club - all perfectly perpendicular angles and furiously tidy rooms, easygoing until life slides just a bit out of square. Knowing makes his job both infinitely easier and more difficult. Everyone, everyone besides perhaps Misha himself, has a point beyond which they won't allow themselves to be pushed. Time and care are the only viable tactics unfortunately, and he has already deemed Jensen worth it.
So he simply sighs and settles his hand innocently into the curve of Jensen's waist, then steers him towards one of the many doors that lead to the parking lot.
Fresh air greets them in a rush when Misha elbows the door open, and it helps more than he cares to admit. Helps, that is, until Jensen pulls his own lungful, his arm flexing tight, and Misha finds himself crushed up against all that solid warmth he's already decided he should probably disregard for the time being.
Because Jensen's really very drunk and Misha, for his myriad other faults and flaws, doesn't like to take advantage.
"Hey, we're outside."
"Wonderful, one of those."
Misha also decides it's probably best not to think about the fact that Jensen manages to make drunk endearing, his neck a gently bowed crescent of tendons drawn tight, head canted, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he presumably counts the stars or whatever else improbably wasted people do when they look at the sky. Misha tends to ponder oddities - odder oddities than usual and ask a string of maddeningly rhetorical questions. Questions like, if he had imbibed, would he be clinging so desperately to his control? Or would he have already given in and flattened Jensen against the nearest solid surface the better to suck bruises onto his Adam's apple?
"One of what?"
"One of those drunks that fixate on stating the obvious."
"Not drunk."
"Like that," Misha says and smirks, thankful they're closing in on the car albeit along a stumbling sideways path.
"Wait, what?"
"Exactly."
"So I'm officially confused," Jensen leans into him again, teeth flashing white in the moonlight, and he's so close and so delightfully off-kilter that Misha can barely contain himself. The sooner he gets Jensen into the passenger seat and tucked safely away at home, the sooner he can let the better devils of his nature have the pound of flesh they're demanding. Just his flesh, for now.
"Which is understandable. Because you're drunk."
The alarm beeps cheerily when he turns it off, and Jensen snorts a laugh.
"M'not," Jensen protests, but then negates it by both palming and pressing his cheek to the roof of the car when Misha lets go long enough to swing the door open.
"If you find yourself unable to follow the thread of the conversation I just attempted to have with you," he says, and bends down to clear the passenger seat of its contents, "then you are past the point of..."
That's the last word Misha manages to thread from his brain through his vocal chords and out to his lips for a long while, because when he straightens to help Jensen into the car, he finds he's caged. Jensen's rooted, his elbows planted, and he's looking far more predatory than anyone so inebriated has a right to.
"God Misha, what you do to me," he sighs, a real - nearly somber - smile twisting his mouth into appealing shapes. Then he shuffles the six inches closer until Misha can taste the scotch fumes pluming on his breath. Fuck, he's only human and this would certainly be considered cruel and unusual, even by the likes of Batista. A token objection is all he has left to voice, but that dies unspoken as well when Jensen closes the distance clumsily, not so daring as to simply take but brave enough to rest his forehead against Misha's and shut his eyes.
If tomorrow or the next day, or a year from now, Misha were held at gunpoint and forced to identify the precise moment of his rather spectacular undoing at the hands of Jensen Ackles, that soft sweep of girlishly long lashes against his cheek would be it.
Because Jensen is interested.
It takes considerable effort to keep still, more to keep his voice steady. Easy. It would be so simple to angle his head and tilt his chin and claim that sweet pout in the name of Misha Collins, but - and it's a big but - it has to be Jensen's decision, especially now.
"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate," he says, grateful in the moment that Jensen's so far gone, because apparently he's traded brains with an astonishingly obtuse toaster oven.
For whatever it's worth, Jensen must catch the clue, because in one breath Misha's considering the best way to disentangle himself without suffering the uncomfortable consequences of manhandling Jensen into the car, and in the next Jensen's lips slant against his with an intoxicating blend of skill and uncertainty that leaves him with no real choice but to kiss back.
Right now, Jensen tastes like the smoky sweetness of Johnny Walker over a tart, tangy something - probably whatever it was that eased him from sobriety over into tipsy - but under that there's a hint of mint and maybe the seven-layer dip Jeannie brought. It doesn't matter because Jensen's kissing him, tongue urging lazily past his lips and tangling. Restraint is the very last thing on Misha's mind when he reaches out to steady Jensen, fingers unfurled in the small of his back and over the pulse pounding hard just beneath the slope of his jaw.
Even drunk, Jensen kisses as if it's a competition, pace and pressure on the rise until he truly is flushed up against Misha, puffing soft little gasps against his skin, every ridge of hard muscle rubbing in increasingly interesting ways, one knee nudged between his and if he had half a mind...
A screen door creaks open then rattles closed, a brief burst of frenzied laughter blooms thick on the air punctuated by some mindlessly throbbing bass line, while Misha tries desperately to remember how to be the responsible one. With the tip of Jensen's tongue teasing against his, such things are far easier said than done. In the end, logic wins out. Now that he's got Jensen precisely where he wants him he's hardly in the mood to suffer interruption at the hands of an overly curious crewmember or, God forbid, Jared.
Jensen, it seems, has other ideas, because when Misha tries to extricate himself he only wraps tighter, pushes harder. Luckily though, alcohol dulls the reflexes, so he grabs Jensen's wrists and squirms free. The effort earns him a disgruntled look.
"What the...you going somewhere?"
"Away," Misha can't resist thumbing the slick swell of Jensen's lower lip, and it's not until he feels the teeth close around his fingertip, the soft pull of suction that he remembers where they are and why he needs to be the adult for once.
"Away," he mutters again and takes a step back, slides his thumb free, trying to clear his head, shake loose the fog. When Jensen tries to gather him back in, it takes a firm hand - palm pressed to breastbone - and the dull thud of flesh against metal that sounds painful to him draws a thready moan out of Jensen's chest.
Misha files that tidbit away for later.
Jensen pulls a face when Misha takes another, very careful, step back.
"Petulance accomplishes nothing, but if you would just get in the car you're more than welcome to tag along."
That appears to do the trick. Before Misha can get the driver's side door unlocked, Jensen's settled and buckled, his seat leaned all the way back, eyes ratcheted closed, fingers plucking restlessly at the hem of his T-shirt. It's damn distracting, and as Misha closes the car door behind him it slams perhaps a little too loudly.
Jensen tenses then curses, but in the end simply sinks down further against the leather with a sigh.
When the car purrs to life and Jensen doesn't twitch, Misha fears he's finally lost that gallant battle with blackout. In any case, he's genuinely surprised that five minutes later, with the highway spooling steadily out beneath the tires, Jensen clears his throat.
"Just so we're clear," he says, his voice firm but so soft Misha has to strain to hear him over the road noise, "I know what I'm doing. And I meant it."
"It?" he asks, and yes, perhaps it sounds a little smug but he thinks he's well within his rights at this point.
"You make me crazy."
"Ah." That. Which, to be fair, is not what Jensen said. It is, however, infinitely better. Or worse, if you just so happen to be Jensen. These sorts of ubiquitous statements always give Misha ideas.
"Not always in a good way."
"What fun would that be?"
"I guess we'll find out the day I forget to walk away."
"And the alternative is?"
"Hard to say. Felt like punching you more than once, but now..." The moon casts plenty of shadows into the interior of the car, and Jensen shifts until they scatter on his face, obscuring whatever it is he thinks might be laid bare.
"Now it might be best to keep walking away?"
"I guess."
"At least in public."
"I didn't mean..."
"Never imagined you did."
"But yeah, I..."
"No need to make the natives restless," Misha says, even though he generally falls on the opposite end of that particular assertion. But then, he also considers wreaking harmless havoc something of an art form. It makes sense that Jensen doesn't, because he has much more to lose.
"Or give them an eyeful."
"Though a leaked YouTube video or two might well push my minion enlistment numbers past the fifty thousand mark."
"You wouldn't."
"If you have to ask then you don't really know me at all, Jen."
"Wasn't asking."
"Good."
"Are we actually having a serious conversation?"
"Only because you're drunk and won't remember it in the morning."
"Of course," Jensen says, and it sounds so forlorn that Misha manages to hold his tongue long enough to piece together the Kandinskian collection of conversations they've had over the past year.
Jensen's right, but it doesn't change anything. His defenses may be structured differently, but they're no less formidable. Just because he finds his own bullshit endlessly entertaining doesn't necessarily mean everyone does. Obviously, not everyone does.
Yet, what call is there, really, for an apology. Until an hour ago, he was protecting himself against getting too involved and two days from now, he may be doing the same. Altered states yield unpredictable results, and actors in general are infamously changeable.
Then again, Jensen isn't just some actor. He and Jared are two of the most down-to-earth people Misha's had the pleasure to know, even without qualifying the question according to any label. And somewhere in that abstract jumble, Misha remembers Jensen trying - asking about his family, what DC was like - he was just too locked down to offer anything resembling truth.
The Stanley Park exit sign pops green in his periphery and he eases over. It's a nice night - well, early morning - crisp and breezy - ripe with the sort of promise that invariably makes his life more difficult. The sky stretches on forever, boundless black, unusually cloudless and littered with pinprick spots of light shining valiantly against the city glow.
It's the only neutral, quiet, familiar place he can think of that allows visitors at four in the morning. Besides, it's been years since he's voluntarily witnessed a sunrise and he's not ready to turn Jensen loose just yet. Jensen must have passed out from either the liquor or exhaustion somewhere between Burnaby and the park, because when Misha pulls into a parking spot at Brockton Point and shuts the car off, he stretches and yawns like he can't catch a breath then swings a sleepy look Misha's way.
"I don't remember my place having barges in the yard. Or, y'know, ocean instead of actual yard."
"Whereas the lighthouse and suspension bridge are precisely where they should be."
Jensen rolls his eyes, but there's a quick smile that skitters furtively across his face before he yawns again. Misha takes the opportunity to get out and walk, pull himself away to catch an unfettered breath. In general he finds Jensen exceedingly distracting, but every second spent alone in such close quarters, with him so pliant and accommodating, threatens to tug Misha free of that slip of decency he's clutching onto.
What he can't quite work out is why, of all the inconvenient times, he's picked now to grow a conscience.
All he's managed to determine is that he actually likes Jensen rather than just entertaining a general amorphous notion that, yes, he might like to fuck him at some point. Maybe even more than once. The fact that they work together only makes things...not worse, but stickier and Misha is not exactly good at careful.
Especially when he's already so attuned he can feel the mild irritation rolling off Jensen in waves and is fully aware he thinks Misha's running for no reason, being a coward. He's so damn subconsciously aware, he knows without looking that Jensen's following and can read the brisk crush of his boots against the grass, the not-quite-sigh he huffs as if it's written.
He blames Castiel.
"Hey," is all Jensen says aloud, and sometimes Misha would give his right arm or testicle or at least a significant lock of his hair to be allowed that economy of speech - the luxury of simplicity, but the illusion of eccentricity requires constant maintenance.
"Hey," Jensen says again and Misha feels fingers slide between two layers of fabric, followed by a gentle tug against his belt and he's freefalling, finally unbridled by, of all things, Jensen's concern.
When Misha turns, Jensen stumbles drunkenly into him, slipping in the damp. With his fingers latched on the way they are Misha tumbles after, albeit with a little more grace. It deposits them in an ungainly, dew-soaked sprawl, knee to hip and chest to chin. Jensen's laughter rings loud against the whisper of wind and lapping waves, eyes crinkling at the corners in that bewitching way, grass clippings caught in his hair and stuck to the side of his neck. Even as his teeth rattle together with the sharp rise and fall of Jensen's ribs, Misha can't quite manage to reign himself back in.
Jensen's peering down at him, so open and artless, desire carved in every tiny tic, the restless wander of his hands, the way his skin is practically vibrating, asking to be touched, to be handled, to be taken.
Fuck it.
His peace can be made tomorrow, because he's neither angel nor saint and Jensen wants him.
It requires no effort at all to slide the ten necessary inches, to swing a leg across Jensen's hips, to find Jensen's mouth and cover it with his own and swallow the happy little noise Jensen makes when he licks those obscenely pretty lips open. No effort at all.
Feels like falling in every way that counts - equal parts freedom and fright - because of all the nearly infinite things he's imagined, this halting tango they've been weaving all over the city is the last one he expected. Certainly he never anticipated Jensen arched under him, hips rocking out a hypnotic rhythm that drags reluctant sounds between his teeth and shudders up his spine. Though he may well have, in a fit of pique and ego, imagined Jensen breathing his name like a blessing and fumbling those fingers up under his shirt.
Reassuring, that he wasn't entirely wrong.
When they find skin, Misha loses track of his expectations, focus narrowed down to one and one thing only - Jensen. The way he begs with his hands. The way he curls into every touch. The way he moves like it can never be enough. It's terrifying being drawn into Jensen's orbit - insatiable hunger and thirst, a thousand shadowed shards of charm that could slice him into something unrecognizable.
The only defense left to him is the last one he should depend on - himself.
It'll have to be enough.
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