ScotchVerse: Stone Cold
Title: Stone Cold
Verse: Scotch
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: PG-13 to R
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: None.
AN:Misha POV. Picks up the morning after The Glenrothes. Linear storytelling? PISH. My undying gratitude goes out to thevinegarworks, ru_salki99 and blackonice for pulling beta duties and patting my writerly hand. Any leftover mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Other works in the Scotch!Verse
Laphroaig
The Glenrothes
Johnny Walker
On a typical morning, the act of waking tends to be less akin to bluffing a stellar hand of high-stakes poker and more of a graceless fumble towards consciousness by way of caffeine. Given the state of things, both the toned arm slung carelessly across his stomach and the soft tufts of hair tickling the side of his neck, Misha finds himself inclined to consider this morning a pleasantly atypical one. He hopes that to be the case anyway, but then Jensen is rather like a kaleidoscopic puzzle - one that continues to change shade and shape even after Misha declares it solved.
As of yet, he's undecided about whether he loves or loathes that about Jensen. At the very least, it makes their encounters interesting. Still, not knowing what to expect leaves Misha at a disadvantage he has become accustomed to avoiding, and while he has yet to determine if the uneasy churn in his gut makes things better or worse he can concede on a single point.
He's relieved - that he asked, that Jensen stayed, that for whatever hurdles stand between him and his answers Jensen chose not to disappear in the middle of the night. Even caught without a clue as to how Jensen might react, Misha still prefers to meet that reaction head on.
Once he hears the deep, even draw of breath hissing on the heels of a nonsensical murmur, Misha lets the hastily constructed mask slip into a smile. Eager though he may be to find out how Jensen will handle this thing between them when sober, a brief reprieve still comes as a welcome surprise. It affords him the opportunity to collect himself, prepare.
It also gives him a chance to be absurdly fond without an audience.
Sleep transforms Jensen in an entirely disarming way. With the coal-colored curl of lashes swept low against his cheeks, with his guard lowered and face gone lax, Jensen looks so incredibly boyish Misha almost feels guilty - almost. Truth be told, if he were a different sort of man, Misha might feel as if he is the one being played. In his world, thankfully, that just so happens to be a complete impossibility.
Only he has the right to pull strings.
What that unimpeachable fact doesn't prevent is Jensen tugging or, hell, yanking at them with lackadaisical abandon, and at this point his assertions stand only as cold comfort to his ego - a way to reassure himself he's no prancing marionette for one Jensen Ackles. But he is either currently, or is in imminent danger of becoming one, if the solitary honest bone in his body is to be believed, and it's ridiculously draining.
Perhaps it's meant to be. Perhaps Jensen is his karmic comeuppance, the proverbial chicken coming home to roost thanks to the hundred lines of bullshit he's woven through the tapestry of his life, the thousands of innocents that have tramped willingly in one door, allowed themselves to be beguiled, and then wavered drunkenly out the other door none the wiser.
Perhaps karma, in her infinite esoteric grace, doesn't appreciate his singular sense of humor.
Regardless of the reason, Jensen has become a logistical thorn in his sizable paw, unwittingly coaxing him into actions that normal circumstances would preclude. Not that he's above seduction, or even flushing a cowering quail from the underbrush - quite the contrary. But, in Misha's mind at least, there's a clear distinction between pursuit and embarrassment, a line he's been skirting for far too long with Jensen.
So yes, he allows himself the smile before he shimmies out from under Jensen's arm, because the warm sigh huffed against his shoulder and the blind, seeking fumble as he slides just out of reach, already feel a little like triumph.
One thing's certain; yesterday's lunch will not carry either of them through the deliciously strenuous agenda he intends to bring to fruition once Jensen wakes up. That's if, of course, everything goes as planned. Statistically speaking, luck tends to sway his way more often than not. But this is Jensen, and Jensen muddles.
Wondering won't make anything more or less likely to happen, so instead of indulging in any more pointless navel-gazing, he slips into last night's pants and pads down the hall to the kitchen in search of much needed sustenance. Turns out, he's not exactly in a position to be entertaining. He manages, somehow, to unearth a half dozen Rabbit River eggs, a generous handful of Hui's oyster mushrooms, two pepper halves and a not-entirely-marginal block of sharp-ish cheddar.
Although it does not a kingly feast make, the protein will come in handy. Not to mention the fact that cooking centers him. It's almost meditative in its simplicity - chopping and cracking and whisking - which may be why Misha doesn't hear Jensen moving until he's propped against the doorframe on an elbow, fully dressed, looking tousled and far more delectable than the yolky mess swishing around in his pan.
Sadly, Jensen also looks guarded.
"So now you're Jamie Oliver, too?" he asks, craning his neck in lieu of actually coming any closer.
Perhaps they aren't going to be treading the easy road after all.
"I am talented in ways you've never even heard of," Misha says and smiles, flipping the first omelet closed before sliding it off onto a plate.
"Dude, that's a hunk of ham shy of Denver, not rocket science."
Jensen huffs an almost laugh and scrubs a hand across his face on a sigh. Misha's seen the look before countless times. Charming though he may be, if he wants to send someone fleeing into the night, he's perfectly equipped to do so. Why his best behavior appears to be jittering Jensen out of his skin like an unfixed junkie, he hasn't the slightest. When Jensen starts worrying his lower lip into a plump, pretty purse Misha decides the second omelet could use his undivided attention. Besides, it will give Jensen at least the illusion of privacy to work out whatever internal tangle he's tied himself up in. It takes the space of six even breaths, but in the end, Jensen opts to join Misha in the kitchen instead of hovering on the threshold.
Small though the victories may be, Misha finds he's rather pathetically thankful for them.
Jensen still looks as if he's about to go before a firing squad though, and an execution is not exactly what Misha had in mind. Death by omelet would likely be messier than it's worth. Perhaps it's time to reevaluate. Misha lets the silence settle, busies himself pulling glass and flatware out of the cabinets and drawers.
By the time Jensen scrapes a chair away from the table and sits, Misha has begun to muse about what went so horribly awry in Jensen's life, what it was that turned him into this nuclear reaction waiting to happen. He realizes, albeit belatedly, that this isn't exactly normal and the only answer is still the most obvious one.
Sex. Sex followed by sobriety, anyway.
Misha understands that people in general have very traditional social constructs they live within, that Jensen's Texan roots are likely to be more thoroughly saturated than most. Yet, it still baffles him how often people use inebriation as a convenient excuse to explore those secret desires their Mommas and Daddies wagged their tongues and fingers over.
The hope that Jensen might be different appears to have been in vain.
Perhaps he's a bit careless when he moves the plates from counter to table, but if so, it's only because he's grown tired of accommodating Jensen's uncertainty, carrying the rather unwieldy burden of this - whatever this is - for the both of them. When a fork clatters down alongside the omelet, Jensen narrows his eyes, first at the fork and then at Misha himself.
Were it anyone else, that act alone would be reason enough to send them packing. It's knowledge that settles uneasily between Misha's ribs with an unwanted weight, because this pattern they've fallen into does neither of them any good. Yet, what Misha wants, he typically gets and the challenge of Jensen - the near lunacy of his indecision, that need for alcohol-infused escape, the sweet capitulation followed by fortification - still holds sway.
All because Misha can't handle losing.
When he digs down into the bones of it, he simply wants Jensen, the real Jensen. He's had more than his fill of the intoxicatingly pliable version and ten minutes with this edgy, tentative, wounded-bird incarnation has only served to chase his appetite off to parts unknown. So he doesn't set his plate at the place opposite Jensen. He certainly doesn't sit in strained silence and mechanically move fork to mouth. No, the path he chooses is the only one left to him where he retains the slightest sliver of self-respect.
Jensen twitches ever so slightly when Misha crowds him, and that's enough. Whatever the outcome, it's long past time for this to resolve into something, or not.
Takes some doing, but he manages to wriggle into the space between Jensen and the table, wind his legs and hook his heels around the chair until the narrow span of Jensen's hips is caught securely between his thighs. Jensen finally looks up at him when Misha curls his fingers into the angle of Jensen's jaw, thumbs drawn instinctively to the sharp sweep of cheekbone. This close and with the sun filtering through the curtains, he can see the soft flecks of gold in Jensen's eyes, eyes that have gone wide with either fear or doubt or both. Which is something of an answer, but Misha needs to hear it.
"What is this to you, Jensen?"
For five aching seconds he manages to sustain the hard-won eye contact, but then those girlish lashes flutter and fall and he's left counting the haphazard spray of freckles dashed across Jensen's eyelids instead. Unfortunately, that gets him no closer to his answers. So he leans in to take what he wants, pressing his luck to the breaking point and beyond simply because he can, because he's tired of being careful and obliging and patient, because he's Misha Fucking Collins.
When his lips land, Jensen jolts so violently he's sure of only one thing - that this will inevitably end with him on the floor and a flurry of hastily strung together expletives. It takes a moment, maybe two, but after a sharp inhale and brief clench of muscle Jensen opens to him in a mysteriously fluid rush of breath and tongue, warm hands climbing up the ladder of his spine until Misha finally feels like he's not in this alone. It's a comforting thought, one he decides to latch onto, primarily because he doesn't much care for wasting time and if Jensen...
But then Jensen's drawing back, trying to slam the walls down between them with his teeth, his palms flattened against Misha's chest and pushing, mumbling nonsense against Misha's mouth.
Fuck.
The want blooming low in his belly turns then, flares into an entirely different sort of burn and before the signals actually read from limb to brain, he's levered himself out of Jensen's lap, fisted his hands in the front of Jensen's T-shirt, spun and pinned him against the doorframe. When Jensen grunts then moans from somewhere deep in his chest, when his eyes roll back along with his head, it's the last thing Misha expects to happen.
Okay, maybe not the last.
Still, it means he has Jensen's undivided attention focused precisely where it should be.
"What is this to you, Jensen?" he says again, trying rather unsuccessfully to control the sharper edges that creep unbidden into the question because he can't quite keep himself from asking it.
Jensen sighs, and Misha feels it ghost through his hair, gooseflesh breaking across the back of his neck and down his arms. It's irritating to be affected by such a small thing when he's trying to make a point, so he decides to ignore all the other little reactions that surface in favor of pushing onward. He encounters no resistance when he molds his hands to the shape and slope of Jensen's jaw line again, his thumbs inexorably finding that familiar ridge of bone when he tips Jensen's head down. Eye contact makes figuring out the truth of a thing easier, and even though Jensen's eyes have lied before Misha hopes sobriety can help draw back the veil.
Unfortunately, for all his bodily compliance, Jensen appears completely content to avoid conversation.
That's that, then.
Misha exhales, resigned, and begins to extricate himself. Verbal confirmation or no, the answer's clear in the thin press of Jensen's lips. Or it seems as such until he feels fingers wrap vice-tight around both of his wrists when he tries to pull away entirely.
"Do we have to?" Jensen asks, his voice barely audible above the steady hum of appliances and central air.
It takes a concerted effort, but Misha manages to stay put, finds a way to answer plainly as he's able.
"Yes."
Jensen's grip tightens almost painfully, then goes slack until Misha fears him lost again to that battle raging between his ears. It must be exhausting.
"I didn't think you gave a shit about labels."
"I don't."
"So why? Why can't we just let it...be?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. No. Jesus, Misha. I don't know," he says, and does turn loose at last, wipes palms to thighs and tries to stare a hole through the unfortunate section of hardwood stretched between them.
"Which question are you answering, exactly? With which answer?"
"All of them. I don't know to every-fucking-thing, okay?"
"Ah," Misha replies, because what else is there to say? Jensen doesn't know what he wants - if he even wants - and this has stretched so far past indulgent he's beginning to feel ten times a fool.
In that case, there's absolutely no sense in letting a good omelet go to waste. Even though his agenda's been blown to hell and back, he's still hungry. He doesn't expect Jensen to follow him. Then again, he's done expecting much of anything from Jensen, so Misha's surprised when he does trail after, even if he paces restlessly between the window and sink instead of sitting down like a human being might be inclined to do.
Misha has no such problem.
Jensen lets the silence stretch until it apparently becomes too much to bear. When he does finally speak, it manifests as little more than a frustrated rush of air.
"Is that all you've got? Ah?"
"What is it that you're looking for, Jensen?" Misha asks and spears a bite. Depending on cooling breakfast foods for distraction must be a new all time low. It's without a doubt one he never thought he'd see.
"Something more than, 'Ah' would be nice. Guts spilled here, man."
"You honestly think, 'I don't know' equates to spilling your guts? You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, don't you?"
"Well, what is it you're looking for, Misha?" Jensen spits out, and the tone tells. As does the way he flips the chair around in one long scrape, the way he slumps into it, surly and sarcastic and defiant by turns.
Misha cuts another section of omelet free, chews carefully, and then swallows before answering, "Apparently, nothing."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"That I seem to have made a grave miscalculation."
"Care to vague that up a little? You know, just for those of us not inside your head."
"Are you really so obtuse or is it simply for my benefit?"
This time Misha sets his fork aside, commends the rest of his not-quite-Denver omelet to the thoroughly capricious breakfast gods that untied Jensen's tongue just enough to ruin his meal.
"Misha, seriously. I'm talking, or trying to at least. Give me a break. I may be hung-over, but I'm sadly fucking sober."
Therein lies the problem, it seems. Misha can't decide which element of this whole scenario irks him more - that he wants something besides drunken fondling, that he's coddled Jensen for so long without trying to pin him down, or that Jensen seems to have no idea what the problem is. It's not as if he's asking for that much, or anything at all but acknowledgement. Jensen's powers of perception extend at least that far. Labels only serve to complicate otherwise uncomplicated things.
Nothing drives him quite as crazy as indecision, except perhaps indifference, and he's already been more patient than he thought possible.
Both omelets, what remains of them at any rate, make sad little plops at the bottom of the garbage can when Misha scrapes the plates clean. What a waste. He wonders now, if this confrontation really served his best interests, if he couldn't have simply gone on plying Jensen with more and more ridiculously expensive varieties of scotch. Truth may indeed be a malleable thing, but the further you bend it the more likely it is to break under the strain.
He needs more. Sex is something he can get anywhere, given time and inclination.
Jensen, the Jensen before all this bullshit, is truly one-of-a-kind. Unfortunately, he also appears to have left the building.
"I'm not interested in wasting anyone's time, least of all my own."
"And is that what this is to you? A waste of time?"
If he were sane, Misha would say yes. He'd shout it from every damn rooftop in the Vancouver metro. But no one has ever accused him of being remotely sane, and the absolute fact is that it wasn't a waste of time. As long as he thought there was a chance that something might come of it, that someday Jensen might come to him willingly without the taste of liquor on his lips, it had not been a waste of time.
Regrettably, Misha has no real interest in one-way streets and Jensen seems, for all intents and purposes, to be stuck in an endless roundabout of one. All he can hope now is that Jensen finds his way out sooner rather than later.
"At some point every fence-sitter needs to pick a place to land. You let me know if you ever choose yours, Jensen. Until then, we'll just be very dull boys."
"Okay..."
"So, I'll see you Wednesday, then."
"Misha, I..." Shame that whatever's swimming around in the murky depths of Jensen's brain never manages to find its way out. Needless to say, it's encouraging that he'd even try, especially now. Misha's not in the habit of giving points for effort, but perhaps just this once he can relent. Jensen presses on, though, hand carded roughly through his hair, before Misha can say anything, "Uh, sure. Yeah. I'll just go, um, get my stuff."
"By all means."
Misha watches Jensen go, all firm lines and business-like stride. Only then does he allow himself to feel it. It has happened seldom enough to be an alien sort of ache, that tight ball of unrealized potential constricting his stomach. He's still trying to work out how you lay a thing to rest that never really was when Jensen shuffles back into the kitchen with his backpack slung over his shoulder, wearing a hangdog look Misha can only attribute to Dean Winchester.
"Misha?"
"Yes?"
"Here's the thing..."
"You need a ride."
"If it's not a problem?"
"Not overly," Misha says, and means it. "Let's not shock the neighbors, though. I do still have to live here."
Jensen quirks a brow but leans back against the wall, carefully out of the way, as Misha makes the trek from kitchen to bedroom and what passes for presentable. Three minutes, one T-shirt, a pair of shoes, and a couple rough tugs through the riot perched atop his head masquerading as hair and he's ready. The necessary detour into the living room to collect his wallet and keys sends him right through Jensen's personal space again. It doesn't have to, of course, but then he is perhaps less benevolent than he typically assumes himself to be.
He's pleasantly surprised when Jensen lets him brush by with nary a twitch.
A month and a half ago, they'd simply been colleagues, friends. Without word otherwise, and he's not anticipating any, he'll assume that still stands. Misha genuinely likes Jensen, so it's not as if behaving like an adult will be some sort of hardship. To each their own. Besides, it's best to stay on good terms with one's co-workers, especially if one wants to continue working, especially when one works on a show like Supernatural where one's character can be summarily executed, regardless of how insanely talented the actor might be.
One enjoys the finer things and prefers gainful employment even if it requires choking down a small, admittedly bitter, measure of pride.
Words fail, though, and instead of doing them both the disservice of making stilted conversation about the weather or asking if Jensen's ready to go when he so clearly is, Misha simply heads for the garage, trusting Jensen to have the sense to follow.
"Well, that's new," Jensen says, as he pulls the passenger door closed behind him.
"Hmmm?"
"I can't believe I've never been in your car."
"It's not as if I run around offering rides to every fetching young thing I have occasion to meet."
"I guess. I just...thought. Never mind."
Misha puzzles on that as he backs out of the driveway and gets them pointed in the right direction. It makes him wonder just how gone Jensen has been when they've spent time together. In Jensen's defense, the only reason he hasn't been in Misha's car before is his own stubborn, single-mindedness. The first time Jared had been too liberal with Jensen's car keys, and Misha - not knowing what kind of drunk Jensen would turn out to be - opted to risk the upholstery of the aforementioned drunk rather than his own. He prides himself on being sensible, even when thoroughly diverted by sweetly-slurred nonsense. The second time, Jensen fully intended to drive, and if Misha hadn't, once again, been so distracted, he might have had the good sense to be terrified. Presumably, Jared had been responsible for the care and keeping of one drunk Jensen Ackles up to this point. Misha assumes as much anyway, as he'd had the forethought to take Jensen's keys from him the night of the party, long before things really slipped into third gear. Without Jared, or some responsible someone else to look after him, Jensen clearly has a penchant for getting into all kinds of trouble. That Jared could be considered 'the responsible one' frightens Misha more than all of Jensen's inebriated misbehavior does.
In all likelihood, it's nothing more than a simple memory lapse.
He hopes.
Jensen's apartment may only be three and a half miles away as the crow flies, but getting there involves interstates and two sets of cloverleaves. They have time to kill, time to talk, but he still hasn't found anything worth saying that won't embarrass and belittle them both - and by that Misha means him.
"Misha, I..." Jensen starts again, and when Misha looks over he's fiddling with the zips on his bag as if they're the most fascinating inventions ever to grace the face of the planet. To be fair, zippers are categorically handy, even if they mostly get in his way. If he were choosing, Misha just would have gone with pasteurization or indoor plumbing. He's about to say something to that effect when Jensen turns, and the pained expression on his face halts the words before they slip.
"Look, I don't know doesn't mean I don't want. It just means I don't know what it means. Hell, I don't even know what I mean."
"Jensen."
"Let me finish, because this is pretty fucking unprecedented."
"Please do."
The trees whiz by in a blur of rain-battered green and gold and scarlet, and Misha finds he's tempted to take a wrong turn or two just to keep Jensen talking. How could he have known that motion would be the catalyst? He couldn't have. Misha sneaks another sidelong glance at Jensen, partially to make sure he's actually there and partially to confirm he hasn't, in fact, ventured any further off the reservation.
"Jared says I have trust issues."
"For all his many other faults, Jared seems to understand people fairly well."
"I don't know if I'd go that far," Jensen says, with a lopsided smirk. "He understands me because we spend sixteen hours a day together."
"Touché."
"So here's me being straight. I don't really get you. I don't even have a place to start. You're unlike anyone I've ever almost known."
"I consider that a compliment."
"You would. I just...Okay, here's a for instance. Let's just say you got really fucking wasted and woke up in a park at six in the morning next to a guy you like and know but don't really know because he's so violently opposed to being known. Then let's say you feel like you've maybe been manhandled a little and your lips are kind of swollen and you're sticky in places that don't usually get sticky unless interesting things have been happening. And then let's say instead of panicking like a normal person would when they find themselves in that kind of situation, you end up kicking yourself and wondering what you missed because you don't remember anything past playing a hundred hours of air hockey earlier that night."
"Jensen."
"Seriously, dude. Shut the fuck up," Jensen snaps, then follows it with a sigh, "Sorry, this is just...hard. I'm just trying to, y'know, explain."
Misha grits his teeth and holds his tongue, but he also quits driving in circles, turning the car directly for Jensen's place so he can what? This is what he wanted, right? Jensen, sober?
In the end, he nods and clutches the steering wheel a little tighter.
"Anyway, so let's say, hypothetically speaking of course, that days go by. Days that turn into weeks, and that guy acts like nothing happened, nothing's changed and you can't really remember one way or the other so you just go with it. Chalk it up to the scotch that you already know makes you do crazy shit. Maybe it made you make up crazy shit too."
When Misha makes the turn into his neighborhood, Jensen's words start to run together, like he's racing himself to some imaginary line in the proverbial sand, like he's physically incapable of speaking honestly unless he's in the space between places.
"But then you called and you didn't ask me to have a drink. You said, 'Come get drunk with me,' and I thought..."
Predictably, Jensen runs out of steam as soon as the tires hit his driveway, and it leaves Misha adrift trying to process all the non-hypothetical hypotheticals mixed in with the rest. He manages to get the car into park, thankfully, and has only begun to wade through the brain dump Jensen unleashed when he feels lips pressed to his - slick, warm, wanting - and if there's just the slightest hesitation before they part, Misha's grateful for it because all there is for him to taste is toothpaste and Jensen.
When he eases back, Jensen smiles - a warm, honest, heartbreaking sort of thing that only he could pull off with any sincerity. So yes, Misha finds himself rendered nearly speechless. Especially since, once Jensen disentangles himself from the still-buckled safety belt and gets out of the car, he leans back in with a single word that makes all the absurdity that's passed between them worth it.
"Coming?"
"Sure."
Continue
Verse: Scotch
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: PG-13 to R
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: None.
AN:Misha POV. Picks up the morning after The Glenrothes. Linear storytelling? PISH. My undying gratitude goes out to thevinegarworks, ru_salki99 and blackonice for pulling beta duties and patting my writerly hand. Any leftover mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Other works in the Scotch!Verse
Laphroaig
The Glenrothes
Johnny Walker
On a typical morning, the act of waking tends to be less akin to bluffing a stellar hand of high-stakes poker and more of a graceless fumble towards consciousness by way of caffeine. Given the state of things, both the toned arm slung carelessly across his stomach and the soft tufts of hair tickling the side of his neck, Misha finds himself inclined to consider this morning a pleasantly atypical one. He hopes that to be the case anyway, but then Jensen is rather like a kaleidoscopic puzzle - one that continues to change shade and shape even after Misha declares it solved.
As of yet, he's undecided about whether he loves or loathes that about Jensen. At the very least, it makes their encounters interesting. Still, not knowing what to expect leaves Misha at a disadvantage he has become accustomed to avoiding, and while he has yet to determine if the uneasy churn in his gut makes things better or worse he can concede on a single point.
He's relieved - that he asked, that Jensen stayed, that for whatever hurdles stand between him and his answers Jensen chose not to disappear in the middle of the night. Even caught without a clue as to how Jensen might react, Misha still prefers to meet that reaction head on.
Once he hears the deep, even draw of breath hissing on the heels of a nonsensical murmur, Misha lets the hastily constructed mask slip into a smile. Eager though he may be to find out how Jensen will handle this thing between them when sober, a brief reprieve still comes as a welcome surprise. It affords him the opportunity to collect himself, prepare.
It also gives him a chance to be absurdly fond without an audience.
Sleep transforms Jensen in an entirely disarming way. With the coal-colored curl of lashes swept low against his cheeks, with his guard lowered and face gone lax, Jensen looks so incredibly boyish Misha almost feels guilty - almost. Truth be told, if he were a different sort of man, Misha might feel as if he is the one being played. In his world, thankfully, that just so happens to be a complete impossibility.
Only he has the right to pull strings.
What that unimpeachable fact doesn't prevent is Jensen tugging or, hell, yanking at them with lackadaisical abandon, and at this point his assertions stand only as cold comfort to his ego - a way to reassure himself he's no prancing marionette for one Jensen Ackles. But he is either currently, or is in imminent danger of becoming one, if the solitary honest bone in his body is to be believed, and it's ridiculously draining.
Perhaps it's meant to be. Perhaps Jensen is his karmic comeuppance, the proverbial chicken coming home to roost thanks to the hundred lines of bullshit he's woven through the tapestry of his life, the thousands of innocents that have tramped willingly in one door, allowed themselves to be beguiled, and then wavered drunkenly out the other door none the wiser.
Perhaps karma, in her infinite esoteric grace, doesn't appreciate his singular sense of humor.
Regardless of the reason, Jensen has become a logistical thorn in his sizable paw, unwittingly coaxing him into actions that normal circumstances would preclude. Not that he's above seduction, or even flushing a cowering quail from the underbrush - quite the contrary. But, in Misha's mind at least, there's a clear distinction between pursuit and embarrassment, a line he's been skirting for far too long with Jensen.
So yes, he allows himself the smile before he shimmies out from under Jensen's arm, because the warm sigh huffed against his shoulder and the blind, seeking fumble as he slides just out of reach, already feel a little like triumph.
One thing's certain; yesterday's lunch will not carry either of them through the deliciously strenuous agenda he intends to bring to fruition once Jensen wakes up. That's if, of course, everything goes as planned. Statistically speaking, luck tends to sway his way more often than not. But this is Jensen, and Jensen muddles.
Wondering won't make anything more or less likely to happen, so instead of indulging in any more pointless navel-gazing, he slips into last night's pants and pads down the hall to the kitchen in search of much needed sustenance. Turns out, he's not exactly in a position to be entertaining. He manages, somehow, to unearth a half dozen Rabbit River eggs, a generous handful of Hui's oyster mushrooms, two pepper halves and a not-entirely-marginal block of sharp-ish cheddar.
Although it does not a kingly feast make, the protein will come in handy. Not to mention the fact that cooking centers him. It's almost meditative in its simplicity - chopping and cracking and whisking - which may be why Misha doesn't hear Jensen moving until he's propped against the doorframe on an elbow, fully dressed, looking tousled and far more delectable than the yolky mess swishing around in his pan.
Sadly, Jensen also looks guarded.
"So now you're Jamie Oliver, too?" he asks, craning his neck in lieu of actually coming any closer.
Perhaps they aren't going to be treading the easy road after all.
"I am talented in ways you've never even heard of," Misha says and smiles, flipping the first omelet closed before sliding it off onto a plate.
"Dude, that's a hunk of ham shy of Denver, not rocket science."
Jensen huffs an almost laugh and scrubs a hand across his face on a sigh. Misha's seen the look before countless times. Charming though he may be, if he wants to send someone fleeing into the night, he's perfectly equipped to do so. Why his best behavior appears to be jittering Jensen out of his skin like an unfixed junkie, he hasn't the slightest. When Jensen starts worrying his lower lip into a plump, pretty purse Misha decides the second omelet could use his undivided attention. Besides, it will give Jensen at least the illusion of privacy to work out whatever internal tangle he's tied himself up in. It takes the space of six even breaths, but in the end, Jensen opts to join Misha in the kitchen instead of hovering on the threshold.
Small though the victories may be, Misha finds he's rather pathetically thankful for them.
Jensen still looks as if he's about to go before a firing squad though, and an execution is not exactly what Misha had in mind. Death by omelet would likely be messier than it's worth. Perhaps it's time to reevaluate. Misha lets the silence settle, busies himself pulling glass and flatware out of the cabinets and drawers.
By the time Jensen scrapes a chair away from the table and sits, Misha has begun to muse about what went so horribly awry in Jensen's life, what it was that turned him into this nuclear reaction waiting to happen. He realizes, albeit belatedly, that this isn't exactly normal and the only answer is still the most obvious one.
Sex. Sex followed by sobriety, anyway.
Misha understands that people in general have very traditional social constructs they live within, that Jensen's Texan roots are likely to be more thoroughly saturated than most. Yet, it still baffles him how often people use inebriation as a convenient excuse to explore those secret desires their Mommas and Daddies wagged their tongues and fingers over.
The hope that Jensen might be different appears to have been in vain.
Perhaps he's a bit careless when he moves the plates from counter to table, but if so, it's only because he's grown tired of accommodating Jensen's uncertainty, carrying the rather unwieldy burden of this - whatever this is - for the both of them. When a fork clatters down alongside the omelet, Jensen narrows his eyes, first at the fork and then at Misha himself.
Were it anyone else, that act alone would be reason enough to send them packing. It's knowledge that settles uneasily between Misha's ribs with an unwanted weight, because this pattern they've fallen into does neither of them any good. Yet, what Misha wants, he typically gets and the challenge of Jensen - the near lunacy of his indecision, that need for alcohol-infused escape, the sweet capitulation followed by fortification - still holds sway.
All because Misha can't handle losing.
When he digs down into the bones of it, he simply wants Jensen, the real Jensen. He's had more than his fill of the intoxicatingly pliable version and ten minutes with this edgy, tentative, wounded-bird incarnation has only served to chase his appetite off to parts unknown. So he doesn't set his plate at the place opposite Jensen. He certainly doesn't sit in strained silence and mechanically move fork to mouth. No, the path he chooses is the only one left to him where he retains the slightest sliver of self-respect.
Jensen twitches ever so slightly when Misha crowds him, and that's enough. Whatever the outcome, it's long past time for this to resolve into something, or not.
Takes some doing, but he manages to wriggle into the space between Jensen and the table, wind his legs and hook his heels around the chair until the narrow span of Jensen's hips is caught securely between his thighs. Jensen finally looks up at him when Misha curls his fingers into the angle of Jensen's jaw, thumbs drawn instinctively to the sharp sweep of cheekbone. This close and with the sun filtering through the curtains, he can see the soft flecks of gold in Jensen's eyes, eyes that have gone wide with either fear or doubt or both. Which is something of an answer, but Misha needs to hear it.
"What is this to you, Jensen?"
For five aching seconds he manages to sustain the hard-won eye contact, but then those girlish lashes flutter and fall and he's left counting the haphazard spray of freckles dashed across Jensen's eyelids instead. Unfortunately, that gets him no closer to his answers. So he leans in to take what he wants, pressing his luck to the breaking point and beyond simply because he can, because he's tired of being careful and obliging and patient, because he's Misha Fucking Collins.
When his lips land, Jensen jolts so violently he's sure of only one thing - that this will inevitably end with him on the floor and a flurry of hastily strung together expletives. It takes a moment, maybe two, but after a sharp inhale and brief clench of muscle Jensen opens to him in a mysteriously fluid rush of breath and tongue, warm hands climbing up the ladder of his spine until Misha finally feels like he's not in this alone. It's a comforting thought, one he decides to latch onto, primarily because he doesn't much care for wasting time and if Jensen...
But then Jensen's drawing back, trying to slam the walls down between them with his teeth, his palms flattened against Misha's chest and pushing, mumbling nonsense against Misha's mouth.
Fuck.
The want blooming low in his belly turns then, flares into an entirely different sort of burn and before the signals actually read from limb to brain, he's levered himself out of Jensen's lap, fisted his hands in the front of Jensen's T-shirt, spun and pinned him against the doorframe. When Jensen grunts then moans from somewhere deep in his chest, when his eyes roll back along with his head, it's the last thing Misha expects to happen.
Okay, maybe not the last.
Still, it means he has Jensen's undivided attention focused precisely where it should be.
"What is this to you, Jensen?" he says again, trying rather unsuccessfully to control the sharper edges that creep unbidden into the question because he can't quite keep himself from asking it.
Jensen sighs, and Misha feels it ghost through his hair, gooseflesh breaking across the back of his neck and down his arms. It's irritating to be affected by such a small thing when he's trying to make a point, so he decides to ignore all the other little reactions that surface in favor of pushing onward. He encounters no resistance when he molds his hands to the shape and slope of Jensen's jaw line again, his thumbs inexorably finding that familiar ridge of bone when he tips Jensen's head down. Eye contact makes figuring out the truth of a thing easier, and even though Jensen's eyes have lied before Misha hopes sobriety can help draw back the veil.
Unfortunately, for all his bodily compliance, Jensen appears completely content to avoid conversation.
That's that, then.
Misha exhales, resigned, and begins to extricate himself. Verbal confirmation or no, the answer's clear in the thin press of Jensen's lips. Or it seems as such until he feels fingers wrap vice-tight around both of his wrists when he tries to pull away entirely.
"Do we have to?" Jensen asks, his voice barely audible above the steady hum of appliances and central air.
It takes a concerted effort, but Misha manages to stay put, finds a way to answer plainly as he's able.
"Yes."
Jensen's grip tightens almost painfully, then goes slack until Misha fears him lost again to that battle raging between his ears. It must be exhausting.
"I didn't think you gave a shit about labels."
"I don't."
"So why? Why can't we just let it...be?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. No. Jesus, Misha. I don't know," he says, and does turn loose at last, wipes palms to thighs and tries to stare a hole through the unfortunate section of hardwood stretched between them.
"Which question are you answering, exactly? With which answer?"
"All of them. I don't know to every-fucking-thing, okay?"
"Ah," Misha replies, because what else is there to say? Jensen doesn't know what he wants - if he even wants - and this has stretched so far past indulgent he's beginning to feel ten times a fool.
In that case, there's absolutely no sense in letting a good omelet go to waste. Even though his agenda's been blown to hell and back, he's still hungry. He doesn't expect Jensen to follow him. Then again, he's done expecting much of anything from Jensen, so Misha's surprised when he does trail after, even if he paces restlessly between the window and sink instead of sitting down like a human being might be inclined to do.
Misha has no such problem.
Jensen lets the silence stretch until it apparently becomes too much to bear. When he does finally speak, it manifests as little more than a frustrated rush of air.
"Is that all you've got? Ah?"
"What is it that you're looking for, Jensen?" Misha asks and spears a bite. Depending on cooling breakfast foods for distraction must be a new all time low. It's without a doubt one he never thought he'd see.
"Something more than, 'Ah' would be nice. Guts spilled here, man."
"You honestly think, 'I don't know' equates to spilling your guts? You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, don't you?"
"Well, what is it you're looking for, Misha?" Jensen spits out, and the tone tells. As does the way he flips the chair around in one long scrape, the way he slumps into it, surly and sarcastic and defiant by turns.
Misha cuts another section of omelet free, chews carefully, and then swallows before answering, "Apparently, nothing."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"That I seem to have made a grave miscalculation."
"Care to vague that up a little? You know, just for those of us not inside your head."
"Are you really so obtuse or is it simply for my benefit?"
This time Misha sets his fork aside, commends the rest of his not-quite-Denver omelet to the thoroughly capricious breakfast gods that untied Jensen's tongue just enough to ruin his meal.
"Misha, seriously. I'm talking, or trying to at least. Give me a break. I may be hung-over, but I'm sadly fucking sober."
Therein lies the problem, it seems. Misha can't decide which element of this whole scenario irks him more - that he wants something besides drunken fondling, that he's coddled Jensen for so long without trying to pin him down, or that Jensen seems to have no idea what the problem is. It's not as if he's asking for that much, or anything at all but acknowledgement. Jensen's powers of perception extend at least that far. Labels only serve to complicate otherwise uncomplicated things.
Nothing drives him quite as crazy as indecision, except perhaps indifference, and he's already been more patient than he thought possible.
Both omelets, what remains of them at any rate, make sad little plops at the bottom of the garbage can when Misha scrapes the plates clean. What a waste. He wonders now, if this confrontation really served his best interests, if he couldn't have simply gone on plying Jensen with more and more ridiculously expensive varieties of scotch. Truth may indeed be a malleable thing, but the further you bend it the more likely it is to break under the strain.
He needs more. Sex is something he can get anywhere, given time and inclination.
Jensen, the Jensen before all this bullshit, is truly one-of-a-kind. Unfortunately, he also appears to have left the building.
"I'm not interested in wasting anyone's time, least of all my own."
"And is that what this is to you? A waste of time?"
If he were sane, Misha would say yes. He'd shout it from every damn rooftop in the Vancouver metro. But no one has ever accused him of being remotely sane, and the absolute fact is that it wasn't a waste of time. As long as he thought there was a chance that something might come of it, that someday Jensen might come to him willingly without the taste of liquor on his lips, it had not been a waste of time.
Regrettably, Misha has no real interest in one-way streets and Jensen seems, for all intents and purposes, to be stuck in an endless roundabout of one. All he can hope now is that Jensen finds his way out sooner rather than later.
"At some point every fence-sitter needs to pick a place to land. You let me know if you ever choose yours, Jensen. Until then, we'll just be very dull boys."
"Okay..."
"So, I'll see you Wednesday, then."
"Misha, I..." Shame that whatever's swimming around in the murky depths of Jensen's brain never manages to find its way out. Needless to say, it's encouraging that he'd even try, especially now. Misha's not in the habit of giving points for effort, but perhaps just this once he can relent. Jensen presses on, though, hand carded roughly through his hair, before Misha can say anything, "Uh, sure. Yeah. I'll just go, um, get my stuff."
"By all means."
Misha watches Jensen go, all firm lines and business-like stride. Only then does he allow himself to feel it. It has happened seldom enough to be an alien sort of ache, that tight ball of unrealized potential constricting his stomach. He's still trying to work out how you lay a thing to rest that never really was when Jensen shuffles back into the kitchen with his backpack slung over his shoulder, wearing a hangdog look Misha can only attribute to Dean Winchester.
"Misha?"
"Yes?"
"Here's the thing..."
"You need a ride."
"If it's not a problem?"
"Not overly," Misha says, and means it. "Let's not shock the neighbors, though. I do still have to live here."
Jensen quirks a brow but leans back against the wall, carefully out of the way, as Misha makes the trek from kitchen to bedroom and what passes for presentable. Three minutes, one T-shirt, a pair of shoes, and a couple rough tugs through the riot perched atop his head masquerading as hair and he's ready. The necessary detour into the living room to collect his wallet and keys sends him right through Jensen's personal space again. It doesn't have to, of course, but then he is perhaps less benevolent than he typically assumes himself to be.
He's pleasantly surprised when Jensen lets him brush by with nary a twitch.
A month and a half ago, they'd simply been colleagues, friends. Without word otherwise, and he's not anticipating any, he'll assume that still stands. Misha genuinely likes Jensen, so it's not as if behaving like an adult will be some sort of hardship. To each their own. Besides, it's best to stay on good terms with one's co-workers, especially if one wants to continue working, especially when one works on a show like Supernatural where one's character can be summarily executed, regardless of how insanely talented the actor might be.
One enjoys the finer things and prefers gainful employment even if it requires choking down a small, admittedly bitter, measure of pride.
Words fail, though, and instead of doing them both the disservice of making stilted conversation about the weather or asking if Jensen's ready to go when he so clearly is, Misha simply heads for the garage, trusting Jensen to have the sense to follow.
"Well, that's new," Jensen says, as he pulls the passenger door closed behind him.
"Hmmm?"
"I can't believe I've never been in your car."
"It's not as if I run around offering rides to every fetching young thing I have occasion to meet."
"I guess. I just...thought. Never mind."
Misha puzzles on that as he backs out of the driveway and gets them pointed in the right direction. It makes him wonder just how gone Jensen has been when they've spent time together. In Jensen's defense, the only reason he hasn't been in Misha's car before is his own stubborn, single-mindedness. The first time Jared had been too liberal with Jensen's car keys, and Misha - not knowing what kind of drunk Jensen would turn out to be - opted to risk the upholstery of the aforementioned drunk rather than his own. He prides himself on being sensible, even when thoroughly diverted by sweetly-slurred nonsense. The second time, Jensen fully intended to drive, and if Misha hadn't, once again, been so distracted, he might have had the good sense to be terrified. Presumably, Jared had been responsible for the care and keeping of one drunk Jensen Ackles up to this point. Misha assumes as much anyway, as he'd had the forethought to take Jensen's keys from him the night of the party, long before things really slipped into third gear. Without Jared, or some responsible someone else to look after him, Jensen clearly has a penchant for getting into all kinds of trouble. That Jared could be considered 'the responsible one' frightens Misha more than all of Jensen's inebriated misbehavior does.
In all likelihood, it's nothing more than a simple memory lapse.
He hopes.
Jensen's apartment may only be three and a half miles away as the crow flies, but getting there involves interstates and two sets of cloverleaves. They have time to kill, time to talk, but he still hasn't found anything worth saying that won't embarrass and belittle them both - and by that Misha means him.
"Misha, I..." Jensen starts again, and when Misha looks over he's fiddling with the zips on his bag as if they're the most fascinating inventions ever to grace the face of the planet. To be fair, zippers are categorically handy, even if they mostly get in his way. If he were choosing, Misha just would have gone with pasteurization or indoor plumbing. He's about to say something to that effect when Jensen turns, and the pained expression on his face halts the words before they slip.
"Look, I don't know doesn't mean I don't want. It just means I don't know what it means. Hell, I don't even know what I mean."
"Jensen."
"Let me finish, because this is pretty fucking unprecedented."
"Please do."
The trees whiz by in a blur of rain-battered green and gold and scarlet, and Misha finds he's tempted to take a wrong turn or two just to keep Jensen talking. How could he have known that motion would be the catalyst? He couldn't have. Misha sneaks another sidelong glance at Jensen, partially to make sure he's actually there and partially to confirm he hasn't, in fact, ventured any further off the reservation.
"Jared says I have trust issues."
"For all his many other faults, Jared seems to understand people fairly well."
"I don't know if I'd go that far," Jensen says, with a lopsided smirk. "He understands me because we spend sixteen hours a day together."
"Touché."
"So here's me being straight. I don't really get you. I don't even have a place to start. You're unlike anyone I've ever almost known."
"I consider that a compliment."
"You would. I just...Okay, here's a for instance. Let's just say you got really fucking wasted and woke up in a park at six in the morning next to a guy you like and know but don't really know because he's so violently opposed to being known. Then let's say you feel like you've maybe been manhandled a little and your lips are kind of swollen and you're sticky in places that don't usually get sticky unless interesting things have been happening. And then let's say instead of panicking like a normal person would when they find themselves in that kind of situation, you end up kicking yourself and wondering what you missed because you don't remember anything past playing a hundred hours of air hockey earlier that night."
"Jensen."
"Seriously, dude. Shut the fuck up," Jensen snaps, then follows it with a sigh, "Sorry, this is just...hard. I'm just trying to, y'know, explain."
Misha grits his teeth and holds his tongue, but he also quits driving in circles, turning the car directly for Jensen's place so he can what? This is what he wanted, right? Jensen, sober?
In the end, he nods and clutches the steering wheel a little tighter.
"Anyway, so let's say, hypothetically speaking of course, that days go by. Days that turn into weeks, and that guy acts like nothing happened, nothing's changed and you can't really remember one way or the other so you just go with it. Chalk it up to the scotch that you already know makes you do crazy shit. Maybe it made you make up crazy shit too."
When Misha makes the turn into his neighborhood, Jensen's words start to run together, like he's racing himself to some imaginary line in the proverbial sand, like he's physically incapable of speaking honestly unless he's in the space between places.
"But then you called and you didn't ask me to have a drink. You said, 'Come get drunk with me,' and I thought..."
Predictably, Jensen runs out of steam as soon as the tires hit his driveway, and it leaves Misha adrift trying to process all the non-hypothetical hypotheticals mixed in with the rest. He manages to get the car into park, thankfully, and has only begun to wade through the brain dump Jensen unleashed when he feels lips pressed to his - slick, warm, wanting - and if there's just the slightest hesitation before they part, Misha's grateful for it because all there is for him to taste is toothpaste and Jensen.
When he eases back, Jensen smiles - a warm, honest, heartbreaking sort of thing that only he could pull off with any sincerity. So yes, Misha finds himself rendered nearly speechless. Especially since, once Jensen disentangles himself from the still-buckled safety belt and gets out of the car, he leans back in with a single word that makes all the absurdity that's passed between them worth it.
"Coming?"
"Sure."
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