Fic: 'All That's Left To Chart' (Jared/Jensen; NC-17) 3/5
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Master Post | Artwork and Soundtrack
They’re at a restaurant on 1st Avenue, two days after the Incident, a spot of memory in Jensen’s brain that may rank higher on the embarrassing scale than the time Jared caught Jensen in the bathroom a few days before that.
It’s not jerking off that he’s caught doing-Ground Rule Number whatever , privately crossed off by both of them-that Jared walks in on.
It’s Jensen standing naked in front of the mirror trying to figure out why Jared’s dick veers to the left, while his goes to the right.
That isn’t defective, Jared had said with a smirk as Jensen turned red from his neck to his hairline.
They’re not talking about that or Jensen’s own sex fantasies right now, because this? This is a business meeting. Technically, it’s a Sunday brunch disguised as lunch, but Jensen chooses to view it as a business meeting.
Denial goes best with margaritas or that’s what Jared convinces him when Jensen finally agrees to speak to Jared beyond monosyllables, still mortified from having overshared his fantasies with Jared.
“I think your eyes are defective,” Jared says as he rubs at the corner of one eye, his mouth twisting into a half-grimace, half-yawn. All together the effect makes Jensen look defective in a whole bunch of ways, which is especially awesome when they’re in a restaurant together, seated by the window.
“That’s why I wear glasses,” Jensen says slowly, as if explaining this to a child. The comparison’s not too off because Jared keeps making these weird, prissy shapes with his mouth, licking his lips to and fro as he sucks his teeth. “Quit it-quit doing that! And stop rubbing my-your eye.”
Jared twists his mouth into a frown, Jensen’s lips looking all stretched. “The contacts feel funny.”
“Then you shouldn’t have gotten them. They’re too much of a hassle, you have to keep them from drying out. That’s why I never-” Jensen stops, glass up in the air as Jared starts to down an entire huge glass of beer in one gulp, chugging it down like it’s frat party night. He burps loudly and licks his teeth again, eyes half-lidded, and overall, he looks pleased.
Jared nods down at his plate. “The cilantro tastes like soap. Your tongue is defective, too.”
“You keep using that word, you’ll cramp something,” Jensen mutters, taking another bite of his barbeque ribs. It’s a little hard because not only is it messy, but Jared’s body has two hunger settings: full and ravenous. Right now, he’s working with ravenous, meaning if Jared doesn’t stop twitching around, Jensen’s going to eat all of his food. And the food of the couple next to them. Maybe even glue himself to the chef’s leg in the kitchen.
“Soapy,” Jared counters, sticking his tongue out. The plate of shrimp salad sits in front of him half-eaten.
Jared isn’t twitching and grumbling as much now when the knowledge starts to settle into place. By now, Jared understands why Jensen, who, like all good Texans, complains about the lack of quality BBQ, never complains about the lack of good Tex-Mex. Jensen’s tongue is anti-Spanish cuisine-anti-cilantro to be specific, as he discovered years ago.
It’s something he’s learned to live with, though Jared looks morose that he hasn’t eaten half of his meal. Jensen pushes his plate of fries across the table and Jared eagerly digs in, talking with his mouth full.
“You checked out the sites I e-mailed you, right?” Jared asks, shifting his weight in his seat. He pulls out Jensen’s cellphone from his pocket and flips it open, squinting at the screen and mumbling something about contacts and ‘old phone models’.
“Yeah. I did my research. That’s my job,” Jensen says. He shuts up when he realizes there's a smear of barbeque sauce on his bottom lip and chin; he tries to lick it off before he goes for a napkin. No use getting annoyed when he can barely eat his food decently thanks to Jared’s overzealous appetite. “I looked at a couple others, too-”
“Only use those sites I wrote down. They’re reliable. You don’t want to pull facts off of Wikipedia or some gossip blog,” Jared interjects, still squinting at the screen. “Huh.”
“Who is it?”
“Steve. Had a couple comments about the article I turned in.”
“You turned in the article I gave you, right? The one about the optical atomic clock. Nothing else?”
The french fries sticking halfway out of Jared’s mouth bob up and down as he says, “What do you think I am, an idiot?”
Jensen narrows his eyes. The feeling of hunger has not abated. Neither has his level of tolerance for annoyance. He feels like a migraine’s starting to come on.
Jared swallows down his french fries. “I might’ve added in a word or two. Or changed a sentence.”
“Jared.” Jensen leans forward, his foot accidentally kicking one of the shopping bags under their table, monochrome bags with the latest designer labels and trendy outlets listed on the surface, a few hundred dollars' worth of clothing tucked away inside. He’d given Jared enough shit earlier about his small shopping spree-clotheshorse that Jared is, even with his stylists handling it, the boy couldn’t be trusted with a wandering attention span, ‘uncomfortable’ clothing, and a credit card.
“Gimme a break, Jensen. I helped ‘punch’ it up,” Jared says, punching the air lamely. “Steve would get along real fine with Chris. They just don’t know when to let our geniuses out.”
“A week in my body and he’ll think my inner genius has gone on vacation,” Jensen responds. He’s finished his meal and wipes his hands on a napkin, jerking his head to get Jared’s hair out of his eyes. Jared eased up on the ‘no babyface’ policy, so he’s clean-shaven at least, but he could still use some rubber bands.
“Funny.” Jared puts away the cellphone. “Are you paying?”
“I wasn’t the one who suggested this place.”
“That’s before I found out your mouth’s only good when it’s sucking my dick,” Jared whispers harshly, his pinched face red and comical. He digs around in his wallet and hands over his credit card with a grimace. “Your mouth's another thing of yours that’s defective.”
*
“Jenny, baby, how are you?”
Chad's arm’s already wrapped around Jared’s shoulders, pressing a hand against his chest. His gaze rakes over Jared from head to toe, from his dark boots to plain blue jeans to the black buttondown he’s working, first two buttons open, sleeves rolled up. It’s simple and casual, the new hair and clothing making him look sharp, focused.
Something that interests Chad by the looks of things, though he’s always been a little awkward around Jensen. More examples of ‘foot in his mouth’ syndrome than anything, except he gets this real weird and strained laugh whenever Jensen made a joke around him, and let’s face it, Jensen’s funny, but even he would look over at Jared and raise an eyebrow, what’s up with him?
Jared stares at Chad pointedly, mouth taut and small, eyes squinting back. “I’m fine, honey.”
The comment gets lost in the hustle and bustle of the dressing room as Chad pulls away-taking notice of Jensen instead, the latest hair stylist and Kayla fussing around him. Even on her tip toes, the hair stylist can’t make a good grab for Jensen’s head, all his attempts to bend down to accommodate her getting interrupted by Kayla pulling different shirts on him.
By now Jared would’ve let a few words fly, because it’s taking too long and he’s never been patient with getting dressed. It’s not the clothes; it’s the waiting, and his attention span hasn’t increased as he gets older.
He crosses his arms and leans back against the counter, clearing his throat loudly.
Kayla glances over at him and smiles, like she’s checking him out, even while she’s talking about a pair of jeans she saw in SoHo that would look fantastic on Jared’s ass.
“Word on the street is that you two are still-” Chad makes a fist, lip caught between his teeth. “-together, huh?”
Jared stares down at the fist, trying not to let his gaze look too freaked the hell out. He doesn’t even want to know what the fist stands in for-but he’s not innocent enough for that, not that they’ve tried it.
Naturally, the other night pops into his head, Jensen’s confession after the so-called ‘research session’. He’d never mentioned anything like that before in the months they’d been together. They’d done it in different ways, different places but not anything out there-and now, Jared thinks Jensen had looked a little disappointed sometimes, something on the tip of his tongue that he never voiced. There could be real roughness in Jensen’s voice when he tries-and Jared is trying that out-only it’s too rare, special even to think about it on a regular basis.
Chad is still making a fist. Yeah, any lavicious thoughts go nowhere at the moment.
The sleeves of Jensen’s shirt are rolled up, tight muscles of his forearms tan and glistening as he shoves a blazer on awkwardly. He tucks in the front of his dress shirt as he says, “You could say that, Chad. If you believe the rumors.”
Jensen starts brushing his hair with his fingers, tossing a glance in Jared’s direction.
There’s a silent, tense moment as the girls drift on out, Jensen’s reassuring smile making them both break into smiles, relaxing as they leave. They don’t question his attitude, though Jared is eager to. The girls did a good job and didn’t screw up once, even with Jensen stiff and awkward under all that attention as they helped him get ready. Not once, and Jensen even smiled at them-hell, they worked quicker.
Chad’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts to peel away. Jared reaches out and he claps a hand on Chad’s shoulder, pulling him back until Chad’s ear is right near Jared’s mouth, Jared’s voice low when he says, “I’ve got a business proposition for you. I’ll call you after the show.”
His laugh is strained as he leaves, Chad giving this dorky thumbs up before he vanishes.
Meanwhile, Jensen gives him an odd look, full on flustered as Jared moves over to him. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Only thing Jared gets to do is reach and pull Jensen’s shirt out of his pants, knuckles brushing the soft skin of Jensen’s belly.
Jensen unconsciously rubs the same spot, his waistline, his jeans later on. First week of new episodes after a small hiatus and now Jensen's being taped. Live. Before the taping, he's shifting his weight from left to right foot, microphone tiny between his hands. And wow, Jared had never realized just how tiny the microphone looks in his hands.
Not even five minutes and he’s sweating under the lights, this tiny smile. His eyes look puffy and shut, like he’s squinting under the glare, under the swell of noise from the crowd, background music, P.A’s, director, and producers. Big return means big stars and musicians; big in name at least, because Jensen looks like he’s towering over the latest guest, Ashlee Simpson.
They’re not exactly hopelessly accomodating on set, but Jared knows his way around enough to score a backstage pass. He stands to the side and gives Jensen a thumbs up.
Jensen drops the squinting act and goes for full on deer in headlights when the light goes green and the camera focuses on him.
The next few minutes are a little fuzzy in Jared’s memory. Sources say it went like this:
Jensen, doing his best Shatner impression, read the teleprompter and sweated like a horse. His fingers kept loosening their grip on the microphone as he made stilted announcements of today’s act, and tomorrow’s act-it went on for a couple of minutes like that.
Then he got to the interview.
It started off well enough. They might’ve said ‘hi’ and Ashlee might've done that cute laugh and flirt that’s standard with these kind of pieces, waiting for the promo line to be fed about her next album. Hell, there might’ve been a freaking chorus line jumping in, too, Jared isn’t even sure.
Because Jensen, finally getting into the meat of the interview, said with a plastered on grin, “After your appearance on Saturday Night Live, how fond are you of hoedown dances?”
Ashlee’s patented giggle turned into a nervous laugh, swaying as Jensen fumbled with his index cards-actual index cards stuffed between the given TRL ones. At least the contacts were good for something; from his spot, Jared could see Jensen’s little scribbles in the lines, bullet points and highlighted marker.
The producers were waving, and the director pointed at the prompter, too.
Only Jensen didn’t look and Jared didn’t even want to know the next question he’d ask, maybe something philosophical or maybe what she'd had for breakfast.
The audience started mumbling amongst themselves as they cut to commercial.
But Jared? Afterwards, Jared remembers the half moon marks of red in his palms, fingernails digging into fists as he stares, open mouth, ten steps away from jumping on Jensen and punching his face in. Except wait, that's Jared's face, and that right there is the problem with the whole damned situation.
*
Funnily enough, it’s when the argument starts that Jensen is glad he’s committed himself to exercise and a healthy lifestyle, because it isn’t until Jared starts yelling, red in the face, that Jensen gets the chance to see how he might look like if he’d have a heart attack.
Or maybe it’s hyperventilating. Jared sucks in a breath and blows out, peeking out through his fingers like they're playing some demented, angry game of peek-a-boo.
“I can’t look. I can’t look!”
Jensen though, does, his arms crossed in front of him as he leans against a wall and looks at Jared’s flatscreen TV. It’s a repeat of today’s episode on the TiVo, complete with a dead on take of Jensen’s stilted conversation, face sweaty and hair plastered to his temples.
At least the apartment’s cooler and vacant, minus the hundreds of lights and faces and a teleprompter fifteen feet away that he felt odd looking at without his glasses.
Then there’s the whole part about being on television, by himself, live, but Jared hasn’t really understood that part yet.
“I said I was sorry!” Jensen says, rubbing at one eye, mouth a thin line. “I haven’t been up on stage since high school, Jared.”
“That isn’t a stage!” Jared clamps his mouth shut, both hands going up to palm and push his hair back, like it’s long still. He’s pacing now. “All right, all right, it is, but that’s different. You-You made me look like an idiot!”
“I’ve never done that before, Jared. I was trying.” Jensen mutters at first, but then his voice gets louder. “It doesn’t help that I have to do my stuff and your stuff, too. How about you give my job a shot from now on? If you’re such a hot journalist, I bet that stuff’ll be a walk in the park!”
Jared comes to a stop a few feet away, pointing. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”
“You’re good at being obvious, anyone ever tell you that?” Jensen snaps, and his hand thrusts out as he continues, saying, “I mean, I’m trying here. Dealing with people-and, and then you have to go and cut my hair and give me this makeover, like. What the hell, Jared?”
“You’re always covering yourself up. I’m trying to help you!” Jared says accusingly.
“You’re only helping yourself.”
Jared groans, his small burst of pacing coming to another dead stop. “God, this isn’t going to work, is it?”
Jensen sighs. It feels like a shudder running through his body, an all over deflation as he shakes his head, bangs in his eyes. “Nope.”
“This, right here. It’s like-” Jared hesitates. He shifts out his bottom lip and bites the corner of it, a nervous twitch out of place on Jensen’s face. “It’s like we’re… We’re this old married couple, you and me. I keep thinking, ‘some morning, I’m gonna wake up, and you won’t be here.’ And I get happy, because I’m me again, and you’re-you’re… not there.”
A moment or two passes as Jensen’s staring at the sharpness of Jared’s jaw, few days worth of stubble. He’s like this sharply dressed version of a person Jensen never was nor wanted to be-and it twists deep in Jensen’s belly to see this anger.
“Look.” Jensen rubs the back of his neck, the soft brush of Jared’s hair on the back of his hand both soothing and unsettling. “Look. If we’re going to-if we do separate, you can’t stay here. People’ll ask too many questions. You’re me now, for the time being, remember.”
“Back to upstate it is. Awesome,” Jared says, voice twists and has a lick of sarcasm. “We need to figure this out soon. I want my life back.”
Jensen’s already lifting up the nearest suitcase, not bothering to reply.
*
“Hey, man-Chad. Hey, Chad. I’m calling back on that proposition I mentioned the other day? After the…” Jared trails off. He shuts his eyes tight and rubs at his forehead, irritable. “Ashlee Simpson thing. Yeah.”
Chad fumbles on the other end, Jared envisioning him holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder, going through a stack of CDs and the junk that covers his office desk. Only thing neat in Chad’s office is the posters and albums spread out along the walls in neat little rows, by decorator design more than his own choice-which would be a lot of T&A, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Meanwhile, Jensen’s desk space is neat-or it was about two weeks ago, when Jared moved in. There are a few papers and items tacked up on the low divider of his cubicle: National Geographic clippings, a cheap little wildlife calendar, some photos of his family and friends, overexposed and amateur-quality. Jensen looks the same in all of them, good natured and rumpled boy next door. Only thing different might be the type of glasses he’s wearing, but he keeps up the same genuine smile, wrapping an arm around the people next to him. He isn’t the most physically touchy person around but when he’s happy, surrounded by those he respects and loves, the walls come down.
Even if Jensen’s shy in public, too tense, and too attractive for his own good, all of which goes right over his head, and Jared likes that. A lot. Always has.
“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t tell me what it was, Jen. I think we’re full up on hotass interns,” Chad jokes.
“No, it’s-” Jared shifts his weight in his chair, picking at his brand-new slacks. Charcoal, matches nicely with the dark blue dress shirt. Dressing up for the job isn't something he likes to do, but if he has to, he might as well make the most of it and go all out. Which means snug slacks that do wonders for Jensen’s ass. He covers his cellphone with his hand, getting a pointed look from one of Jensen’s co-workers before he turns away.
He’s hesitating, unsure of what to say on the phone. The idea he had-the proposition-deals with Jensen, only they’re not together now. Jensen’s good at singing, Jared knows. Really good. And if he could get him recorded-maybe not a full on record deal, but fuck if Jared’s gonna let a voice like his go to waste, having discovered it earlier during some downtime.
Downtime that doesn’t involve jerking off anyway.
But Jared already knows Jensen’ll shoot him down for the idea-getting Chad to help him to record Jensen-and it’s confirmed by the photos, one fussy glare from Jensen in a photo on his desk, looking like he’s staring right at Jared.
“Forget I said anything, Chad. It’s not going to work out. I don’t want Jen-Jared to have any more shit on his plate,” Jared says, free hand wandering before he starts clicking a loose pen. “How is he anyway?”
“What, you guys break up again or something?” Chad asks, then grunts. “Shit. Sorry. Dropped a stack. He’s been working his ass off, trying to make up for his freakout. They’re not letting him in front of the cameras. They think it’s the stress. You know anything about that, Jen?”
Jared exhales, the on edge feeling joined by a sick lurch in his stomach. “No, I don’t. Tell him to take care of himself, will you?”
“Tell him yourself, dude. He’ll be back from lunch in five minutes.”
“Can’t. Working. Bye,” Jared stutters, almost dropping his phone to disconnect the call. The phone clatters to the floor and he bends over to pick it up, glancing around the room.
Midday and the office is buzzing, a whole different environment than he’s used to. Backstage at MTV there are rows and rows of office cubicles but he never really stopped by to look in on what they were working on. Business stuff he couldn’t care about, most likely. His on-air job has him being dragged into meetings or hanging out in his dressing room with a bevy of stylists, friends, and the occasional guest who pops in to chat. Jensen’s office doesn’t allow those luxuries, everyone in full-on business mode. There are computers, fax machines, phones, televisions, a constant buzz of noise from technology and chatter. Papers fly and people narrowly avoid crashing into each other in the aisles between cubicles, their shadows breaking up the glare from low-slung flourescent lights. The entire pressroom floor extends for almost a full city block, and from Jensen’s desk near the window Jared gets a view of the Hudson River.
Sometimes he can spy the Empire State building if he leans back and cranes his neck up, hands in his pockets and bored out of his mind.
He sits up in his chair to see this one co-worker he keeps seeing co-worker standing near the divider, leaning over the edge. Guy in his forties with salt and pepper hair, scruffy, the kind of solid build that reminds Jared of a football player. His memory’s coming up blank for a second or two before some girl calls out, “Jeff!” and he waves over to her, then looks at Jared again.
The face clicks into place. Jeff. Sports writer. Jensen mentioned him once or twice. Might’ve introduced him at the last company party, only Jared’s memories about that are alcohol soaked.
“How you doing, Ackles?”
Jared rubs at his eye, easing off before he forgets the contacts he’s wearing. Felt weird at first but he's gotten used to it, slipping in easy like the way he’s slipped into Jensen’s body. Used to it. Comfortable.
The thought throws him off for a second before he answers, “Good, good. You?”
Jeff shrugs. “March Madness coming up. Local teams ain’t gonna win but that’s nothing new.”
Jared laughs automatically, because as much as he loves New York, he’ll still root for his own Texas teams, Cowboys and Spurs. The laugh comes automatically too, because he knows this conversation isn’t just shooting the breeze.
Jeff confirms Jared’s suspicions when he says, “You’ve been acting weird lately.”
“More so than usual?” Jared scoffs. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Jeff leans forward on the divider, arms hanging off the edge, fingers lacing together. “You look different. The girls want to know if there’s something wrong at home.”
Jared leans back in his chair. “That’s a little personal.”
“Got less personal when you started flirting with them.” Jeff scratches his head, short hair hopelessly messy. “I thought you were gay?”
His chin juts out and he’s ready to snap a reply, except there are girls looking his way from the other desks. Two or three, a guy too. Jared glances at the photographs put up on the cubicle walls, recognizing some of the people in the photos as Jensen’s co-workers, the same ones who're giving him odd looks at the sudden shift in ‘personality’. He’d blurt out that he doesn’t need this to deal with on top of everything else, but they look genuinely concerned about his state of being.
“I am,” Jared mumbles, words funny in his mouth. “Yeah.”
Jeff leans in, ducking his head over the divider as Jared pulls his chair over to hear. “I don’t care about that. That’s your own buiness. Just-you got a problem, you figure it out. Get help. Ask us. We’ll help.”
He pauses, then reaches over to clap Jared on the shoulder, hard and abrupt, grinning.
“We’re going out for burritos after work at Chipotle. Want to come with?”
“Uh, sure? Sure,” Jared agrees. He smiles. “That sounds great.”
“Good. Oh, and Jensen?”
“Yeah?”
Jeff leans in again, whispering, “Next time you wanna try flirting with one of the ladies, try not to flirt with my cousin over in Marketing, will you?”
He leaves Jared beet red at his desk when Jared’s phone starts ringing then, a farewell clap on his shoulder, too. Jared scrambles to pick it up. “Yeah?”
“Jared.”
He sucks in a breath. “Jensen. Hey. Chad told me-”
“Jared, what am I looking at right now?”
Out comes the clicky pen again. “Jen-Hey, you know you’re not supposed to look at my dick at work. You’re burning daylight there.”
“Oh, so, I’m not looking at the Daily News site’s featured article, by Jensen Ross Ackles, comparing sex to the Big Bang theory?” Jensen says abruptly, his voice rising by the end of it. Jared squirms and opens his mouth to breathe into the phone, Jensen cutting him off. “There’s no static on the office phone lines.”
“Could be Godzilla?” Jared volunteers with a wince. He hunches in on the desk, minimizing the game windows on his desktop. “Loosen up. Got you featured, didn’t I?”
“With a tabloid-level article?”
“Tabloid-level’s better than bottom feeder level,” Jared protests. “Payback, man.”
Jensen sighs. “Okay. You win this round.”
“I’m going out for dinner later with the guys at work,” Jared says. He hesitates again, feeling like he shouldn’t have blurted it out. Their separation really has been one, each staying in the other's apartment. They haven’t spoken to each other for days since then, other than a short phone call about the dogs-Jensen’s taking care of them, Jared missing them a lot.
They haven’t seen each other face to face since Jared moved out. Bringing up a dinner that Jensen is and at the same time isn’t invited to seems wrong.
“Chipotle?” Jensen finally asks. Jared grunts. “Remember, no cilantro! Have fun, Jared.”
His own voice seems small on the other end. Jared unconsciously hunches over further, pressing the phone close to his ear. “Jensen… Don’t get bent out of shape. Night.”
“Night.”
He hangs up the phone and waits, steepling his fingers against Jensen’s lips.
*
The days roll by like March winds blowing in, hectic and rejuvenating. Maybe it’s the cold, but it feels like a good shock to Jensen’s system when he falls down on his ass hard, for the third time today. Playing basketball in the middle of March on a public court is supposed to get him all revved up for the championship that’s coming up soon, except he’s never been that into basketball. Football is a sport he can get behind, talking at length to Jeff at the office about different plays. The extent of Jensen’s football knowledge has always surprised Jeff, like it couldn't be possible for Jensen to switch the channel over to ESPN after a marathon of MythBusters.
Doesn’t matter now because he’s even if he’s in a body that could go pro, he’s getting his ass kicked by Chad Michael Murray.
Who’s too busy doing a bad set of moves proving white guys really can’t dance. At all.
“Wow. You suck today,” Chad says, offering a hand to a frowning Jensen. He pulls him up and stares, surprised. “You suck hard, man.”
“I’m glad someone’s getting some fun out of my sucking,” Jensen mutters, bent over with his hands on his knees. Jared’s hair is pulled back with a bandana but his whole face feels sweaty and red. He lets out a sigh, ignoring Chad’s snickering. Even if he has gotten a good, rare look at what Jared's ass looks like slumming in shorts and a loose t-shirt, it isn’t worth getting both pneumonia and a thorough ass kicking.
“You doing anything later?” Chad asks, taking a sip of his bottled water. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the inside of his shirt, bare stomach visible for a few moments. “Want to watch the game?”
Jensen peers over at him, trying to catch his breath. “Didn’t Sophia tell you? We’re having lunch.”
“Oh.” Chad pulls back a step. “What? Why?”
“Oh! Oh, it’s not like that.” Jensen lifts his hands up, placating. “I needed a favor from her. To show me some-some stuff.”
‘Some stuff’ translates into a lunch date with Sophia sipping a green tea drink as Jensen stands across the office with his back to her, eyes scanning the rows and rows of CDs on the shelves. They’re in one of the offices of the studio, and Jensen’s trying to wrap his mind around the sheer amount of pop music he’s never heard of. Other than those brief moments in high school-where he wasn’t really into the same bubblegum pop other teens liked-he’s still pretty clueless when it comes to many of these singers.
Not completely clueless. He did have many a night spent over dinner and a concert DVD, Jared gesturing with air guitar as they watched.
“You want to tell me what happened the other day?”
Jensen’s gaze lifting from the CDs he’s holding. “Hey, isn’t that Hannah Montana girl Billy Ray’s daughter?”
“Yeah. And I’m just going to ignore your “Achy Breaky” love like you just ignored my question,” Sophia says. She puts down her drink near the empty paper plates and garbage of their lunch on the table. “What gives? You never freak out at a taping and you were all spastic.”
“I was nervous,” Jensen tries carefully. “I’ve never-uh, I mean-”
“Is this about the rumors?” Sophia interrupts.
She waits, but Jensen stays quiet-it’s not hard to see that of course Jared’s co-workers would find out. If he and Jared don’t figure out a way to reverse the swap-if the wait for their molecules to shift back into place turns out to be bogus-then there’s going to be way more stuff that Jensen doesn’t want to handle. Like living a life in a body that’s not his, a career he doesn’t want, or, by the curious look that Sophia’s giving him, a job that he apparently sucks really hard at.
The fact that he’s here to get advice from her about how to succeed at his job-or at least, act appropriately-suddenly takes a backburner to the threat of this becoming a permanent situation.
Jensen rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe it is.”
“Because… You didn’t hear this from me, but I’ve seen the producer’s notes once or twice. Okay. Like, a lot, because I look. I want to keep my job. They’re a little concerned that you’re too friendly with the guests.”
“What?”
“You might want to try not hitting on them constantly,” Sophia says with a shrug. “Just a suggestion.”
Jensen puts the CDs back, leaning against a nearby table. He fumbles a little, misjudging, almost sending a box of CDs to the floor. He’s used to his own height and breadth, but nowadays he needs to make little corrections often.
He’s ready to open his mouth and try a weak response when she cuts him off.
“Jared, are you having a tri-life crisis?”
“Oh, God.” Jensen widens his eyes. “Do you mean-what? What?”
“I don’t know! You’re like-you’re acting really weird lately. Is it something at home? Is it-it’s Jensen, isn’t it? Did you guys break up? Did you-”
“Sophia!” Jensen says, holding his palms out. “Hold on. I’m not having a tri-life crisis-”
“-a sexuality crisis?”
His forehead scrunches. “I talk to you about that?”
Sophia’s eyebrows raise as a guy and girl walk into the office, moving to the opposite wall to use the photocopier. They wave and smile at Jensen and Sophia, but it’s the guy that gets Jensen’s attention. One of the interns, early twenties, trendy with tight pants and a thirty dollar shirt that looks like it’s got paint artfully splattered on it. He’s blond with blue eyes, and Jensen has to shift and uncross his legs from his leaning stance, suddenly feeling hard.
It’s like the fourth person today. Fourth. Or maybe fifth. A little crazy voice in the back of Jensen’s head wonders if Jared’s always like this, and God, how does he get anything done?
“Look, whatever’s going on is your own business,” Sophia says, waving a hand and ignoring Jensen’s discomfort. “But if you fuck up with one of us doing co-hosting duty, I’m handing your ass to you. On a stick.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She nods, smiling. “No problem. So, what is it that you wanted to talk about?”
“How I can make sure not to fuck up or act too friendly, I guess?” Jensen asks, heaving a sigh. He rubs his forehead, shielding his eyes-and hopefully, any response mechanism leading directly to his dick-as the guy and girl leave.
Sophia stands up and moves towards him, a foot away before he can react. Then she leans in, close, breath near his ear before she pulls out a tape from the bookshelf.
“We’re gonna do some research,” she says, holding the tape out. The label on it is peeling and old, title scribbled in black marker. “You got two hours?”
It lasts longer than two hours, but Jensen comes out of the studio by the end of the day armed with a load of research: notes scribbled from tape viewings, web addresses for YouTube clips, DVD copies of interviews. Sophia tells him about all the best past MTV interviews he should look at for research, displaying a knack for interviewing and understanding of people that he’s never thought of before. He’s had his share of interviews for the articles he’s done, but it hasn’t always been face to face. Nowadays it’s phone and e-mail, so Jensen thinks it’s easy to fall into the habit of having some rusty social skills.
It’s something Jared doesn’t have to worry about, always being open and chatty.
But Jared’s not around lately. And Jensen has research to do.
*
It continues for another week without any change, other than the thought of switching back to glasses when Jared’s eyes feel dry after playing too many rounds of Guitar Hero. They're talking more frequently than the week before, but secondhand gossip still seems to reach them faster. On Jared’s end, he calls up Chad and gets these wandering tales of how great ‘Jared’ is in the office, how all the girls love him now not because of how good his ass looks, but how “caring and thoughtful he is and yeah, he’s totally banging them, they never say that kind of shit to me.”
The work increases at Jensen’s job, and Jared struggles to keep up. Jensen doesn’t leave him completely in the lurch-he’ll give him his notes and research for possible topics, a full article or a nearly complete one. To ask Jared to cover for him could be disastrous for his record, they agree, but it’s not like Jensen’s letting him just turn in the work.
Jared makes sure to keep up what’s expected of him, and that includes a dinner party set for Saturday-even if the e-mails and invitations were set out weeks ago, before all this, he decides to let it go on.
It’ll be good for both their images, Jared thinks. The couple that stays friends afterwards. The regular crew pops in with a small group of Jensen’s co-workers, a clash of fashion tastes and personalities, but they all get along after a few good appetizers and wine. Jared’s apartment looks different after having been away from it; it’s still got the same artsy furniture and layout that his interior designer approved of, only some bits and pieces have moved-pushed to the side here, covered there. It doesn’t look as showy, or staged, Jared thinks. Magazines sit in little stacks on the coffee table, and the dogs' beds lie neatly in one corner, their chew toys and bones sitting in a basket.
He would have looked around his apartment more, but instead he's spent the past half hour fumbling blindly through his kitchen.
Downside of a dinner party in Jared’s place: Jensen loves to cook.
Meaning Jared’s shit out of luck figuring out how not to burn the chicken, which is currently sitting wet and pale on the cutting board.
A burst of laughter rings out behind him, everyone happy and bright around the dinner table, chatting about God knows what. He can see his own broad shoulders over the countertop, spying Jensen turn and lean back. He’s wearing a simple white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, his hair neatly combed and pushed back behind his ears. No extras, no flashy belts or wristbands. Smooth-skinned and tanned, full, healthy. He’s looked better than he has in months; not just in body but in his mannerisms, the way that Jensen exudes a stillness and focus even in another body.
Jensen tips back his wine glass and smiles, quiet and attentive when one of the girls starts speaking. They’re talking about things he feels removed from lately-grown-up things, family, friends, and business. It isn’t artificial talk that he always finds himself drawn to: favorite band, musician, actor, how could that guy think about doing that show, how could that actress be seen at that club. The kind of talk that’s always detached from his own experience, unless he’s been there, ready to impress with his experiences.
A few minutes later, Chad ambles over, but he isn't so much helping as picking at the bits of chopped peppers and cherry tomatoes and eating them.
“Oh ho, Chad, I don’t think we want salmonella today,” Jensen says. His prescence startles Jared, almost makes him cut his finger with a knife by accident. Good, turn in the body sans one fingertip, the damage’ll come out of his paycheck.
Chad holds his hands up and backs off, chewing a small tomato. He leans against the countertop and watches as Mike comes in, poking through the fridge. Good thing is that the kitchen isn’t the small and cramped one typical of a lot of swanky Manhattan apartments. There’s plenty of room to move around for them all, even if Jared’s hunched over and resisting the urge to curse under his breath at the unfinished food in front of him. He’s wearing another jeans and tight t-shirt ensemble, the jeans from DKNY, the shirt from Armani, but wiping the gunk off his hands on them wouldn’t be good for the dry cleaners.
“Why don’t you crack open Ja-I mean, my Dom Pérignon, Chad?” Jensen adds, swallowing down the last of his wine with a gulp. He pulls his lips up into an upside-down frown, nervous and dorky at his almost-slip. Jared glares at him, hitches his shoulder up to gesture, come here.
Jensen takes the hint, walking over as Chad digs in a drawer for the corkscrew.
“Beyoncé gave that to me,” Jared hisses, ignoring the way his stomach drops as he hears Chad and Mike cracking jokes and pouring the wine.
Jensen gives him his best shit-eating grin, made all the more annoying because it’s like his own face is mocking him. Wearing a low-key ensemble that shows off his biceps, no less.
“Pre-heat the oil,” Jensen grits between smiling teeth, gently nudging the bottle of extra virgin olive oil towards Jared on the counter top. He reaches past him towards the cabinet and pulls out two wine glasses, sneaking another box of seasoning down for Jared. Pressed up against the counter, Jensen’s too close for comfort, a whiff of good cologne in his wake, bangs in his eyes. He isn’t sweaty or flushed, or flustered; Jared feels a pang of jealousy at how relaxed Jensen is acting even if he’s the center of attention.
Jared on the other hand feels like an intruder in this exchange. Jensen’s moving through his own kitchen easily, fussing with things like he owns it all, like he knows-and he does, because he’s done it for months, whereas Jared's never used anything other than the microwave. With all his bustling, Jensen ends up handing half the ingredients and instructions over in whispers and gestures, helping discreetly. Jared licks his lips and nods at Jensen, I’m okay, and soon enough the kitchen’s empty again. He hasn’t blown up the stove and the kitchen isn't covered in chicken pieces, so that’s good.
Maybe it was a good idea to break out the bottle of Dom Pérignon since he’s going to be late with the main course. It's also good that the bottle's out in the main area and everyone’s having a taste, Jared excluded-the laughs still keep coming, but at least now he knows the alcohol has something to do with it besides how witty and charming Jensen is.
He’s friendly with everyone at the party, just like Jared-only he laughs and compliments more easily, always showing genuine emotion and concern. Jensen doesn’t show any attitude or anger toward them, always keeping himself in check-it’s a trait that Jared doesn’t have, always letting his friendliness get the better of him, especially when it comes to his attitude. Pissing off people by accident isn’t a rare thing for Jared. With Jensen though, there aren’t any ulterior motives to his actions. Everyone’s getting along with Jensen so well, relaxing in his prescence enough that Jared’s feeling a sense of panic.
Everyone’s being so nice to Jensen. Talking to him with their guards down, touching him, easy, no fakeness attached.
Hell, Jensen’s doing a better job at being Jared than Jared himself.
Maybe Jensen’s getting along so well because it’s Jared’s body. But whatever it is, this isn’t supposed to happen. They’ve got their set roles, and this swapping throws a wrench into everything. If Jensen’s so good at being Jared, and Jared can’t even do Jensen’s-Jensen’s life-correctly, then where does that leave him? Who does he get to be?
Jared starts to rifle through the cabinets, trying to figure out where the emergency stash of wine is-one bottle, one cheap-ass Christmas gift-when Danneel comes in.
She sits on the edge of one of the counters, watching as Jared looks through the cabinets. After a minute, he pauses, closing one cabinet before turning to look at her.
“Came to kiss the chef?”
“Not since college, honey,” Danneel says. She nods at him, voice low. “You look good.”
“Always do.”
She rolls her eyes and then she’s nodding in the direction of the living room. “I’m surprised you’re here. Last time I heard, you were fine with me making a woman out of Jared.”
Okay, that gets his full attention. “What?”
“You know. Harm to body parts?” Danneel shrugs, mouth a little pout. “We haven’t followed through on maiming him for being a jerk. Guess not.”
“He’s not as bad as you think,” Jared mutters. Again, the reminder that he’s in Jensen’s body comes back in full force, how this body reacts differently than his own. Even if Jensen’s more uptight than he is, he doesn’t get so easily angered over little things-it’s like he builds it up until it explodes. Jared’s nervous the dinner’s going to get fucked, that Danneel’ll see right through him, but Jensen’s body? Relaxed. Healthy and strong, sated too, with all the pizza he ate earlier, figuring the meal would go to shit.
“But he doesn’t appreciate you,” Danneel points out. “Don’t forget. I still can’t believe you turned down assistant editor at the Smithsonian Journal to stay with him. There’s a reason you’re in New York, Jensen, and Jared doesn’t have time on his schedule for that.”
She hops off the counter and leans up to give him a quick peck on the cheek, Jared too stunned to respond. Danneel smiles at him a little after he says he'll be there in a few minutes. “Go have fun,” he tells her.
His gaze lands on her back, her ass as she goes, and Jared curses, kicking the bottom counter.
Thing is, Jensen never told him that. If he wasn’t happy, why would he give it up? Jared thinks he himself would’ve done it easily. His reasons for moving to New York were a little more jerky than Jensen’s, who always said he did it so he could be more open than he was in Texas. Moving to New York allowed them both to pursue their careers-the brief taste of fame Jared got in winning that Teen Choice Awards contest wasn’t enough. A few years of interning wasn’t enough.
He was enough for Jensen, Jared realizes. All this time, Jensen’s always been around for Jared, always been there, stayed with him when he had opportunities elsewhere. Listening and taking the stuff Jared threw at him, for a whole year-It’s been a year, the significance of it slowly sinking in. With all its ups and downs, it was mostly great, really great, and then at some point, Jared hadn’t realized he’d started walking all over Jensen and that Jensen had been letting him.
A year, and he gave Jensen a teddy bear, thinking it’d be funny.
That’s how he knows the sickening lurch in his stomach isn’t alcohol, isn’t nervousness. It’s the sad realization of the past few months hitting him right then and there.
And that Jared was too fucking stupid to figure it out until now.
Jared looks over at the guests again, realizing that if he goes to Los Angeles, he won't know anyone there. Truly know them, not just as acquaintances. There's a possibility that he'll never see or talk to these people again. And at the rate Jensen’s going, being so good at being Jared, they likely won’t need Jared either.
But the night goes on anyway. The chicken doesn't burn; it gets served and eaten. They compliment the chef, and Jensen gets the most laughs out of everyone, the best host a person could ask for. When they’ve all had their fill of food, wine, and discussion, the guests start drifting off, calling cabs and getting designated drivers. They stand in front of Jared’s building at two in the morning, waving to Mike and Tom as a taxi peels away from the curb.
They haven’t been alone in what feels like ages, no warmth of food or comfort of others surrounding them, buffering the conversation. Jared breathes out a puff of cold air, his hands digging deeper into his pockets. It isn't that cold but Jensen is wearing a loose, fuzzy scarf looped around his neck twice anyway, along with a dark overcoat.
“Danneel told me you turned down the Smithsonian Journal,” Jared murmurs, keeping his gaze on his boots, dirty and battered. Dug them out of the bottom of Jensen’s closet, this bit of Texas nostalgia Jensen kept hidden.
When he looks up, Jensen sucks in a breath, wiping a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. I did.”
No use going around it, because Jared shakes his head at him, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me? After all the times you talked about your job and… God. You could’ve-you could’ve been advancing your career! That’s the fucking point of coming here, isn’t it?”
“I didn't just come to New York on a whim, Jared,” Jensen says, looking everywhere else but Jared. The empty street, the streetlamps, the way everything’s cold and wet, snow melting under orange light in the dark. “I came here to be myself and not be told every day that I'm going to hell because of it.”
Then he’s taking a step back and looking down at Jared, like the height difference is plain as day, how he straightens.
“And you, you just don't want to admit it. Fine, you're not gay, because you can't even say that, but you're bi, and you're more concerned about your fucking image than being honest with yourself. You know, I never should I have said I wanted to be you.”
Naturally-so naturally it startles him-Jared rolls his eyes, feeling restless, ready to protest.
But Jensen’s hands, Jared’s hands, still him, close and grabbing his shirt. He breathes steadily, swallows, another breath. The closeness is unsettling, and then Jensen pokes him, right in the breastbone as he grips.
“Did you just poke me-”
“Listen to me, Jared,” Jensen growls, and that-that’s fucking scary how it gets him to attention, in more ways than one. It’s his own body but in Jensen’s control, it’s a fucking weapon, focused and controlled. Jensen doesn’t need any extras to show he’s older or mature; the determination he has is ever present.
“For once, in the entire time we've known each other,” Jensen says, low, “Just listen to me. And then you know what? You don't ever have to listen to me again.”
Jared wants to say something now, defend himself and curse, but he’s too stunned to react. Jensen uses Jared's hands so well, smoothing over Jared, stilling him.
“I hope you have a great life being the greatest asshole in the world but maybe that doesn't work for me,” Jensen says, his eyes locked. “You know those care packages my mother sends me? That's the only contact I've had with my mother since I came out to her and my… My dad. I don't go home for the holidays. I've got a family here, I've got people who care about me here, Jared. And you're not one of them. You never were. I was just too in love with you to admit that to myself.”
Jared opens his mouth, has to say something but Jensen's there first, with a kiss that's salty on the lips and deeper on the tongue, with a bitter touch of wine.
He could lose himself in this kiss, really could, never wanting it to end. Because his hands go up, independently of his brain, cupping Jensen’s face. Thumbing his cheekbones, the ridge of his brow. Jensen is warm and broad against Jared’s chest, a warmth he drinks in, desperate.
Then-because it has to-it comes to an end.
With Jensen’s lips trailing the curve of Jared’s stubbled cheek, soft breath against his ear.
“I'm not afraid of losing you, Jared. I never had you.”
He leaves Jared at the curb there, too dumbstruck to react. Jensen becomes nothing but a dark shadow that goes back into the apartment building, strong and firm. Jared gets a glance of his coat and broad shoulders before the doors hide Jensen from view.
The street’s still empty, passersby here and there.
This time it’s not just the alcohol getting to him when his knees give out. He knows that, in the back of his head.
It’s not just that, it’s something more, except that’s when he passes out.
Part Four
They’re at a restaurant on 1st Avenue, two days after the Incident, a spot of memory in Jensen’s brain that may rank higher on the embarrassing scale than the time Jared caught Jensen in the bathroom a few days before that.
It’s not jerking off that he’s caught doing-Ground Rule Number whatever , privately crossed off by both of them-that Jared walks in on.
It’s Jensen standing naked in front of the mirror trying to figure out why Jared’s dick veers to the left, while his goes to the right.
That isn’t defective, Jared had said with a smirk as Jensen turned red from his neck to his hairline.
They’re not talking about that or Jensen’s own sex fantasies right now, because this? This is a business meeting. Technically, it’s a Sunday brunch disguised as lunch, but Jensen chooses to view it as a business meeting.
Denial goes best with margaritas or that’s what Jared convinces him when Jensen finally agrees to speak to Jared beyond monosyllables, still mortified from having overshared his fantasies with Jared.
“I think your eyes are defective,” Jared says as he rubs at the corner of one eye, his mouth twisting into a half-grimace, half-yawn. All together the effect makes Jensen look defective in a whole bunch of ways, which is especially awesome when they’re in a restaurant together, seated by the window.
“That’s why I wear glasses,” Jensen says slowly, as if explaining this to a child. The comparison’s not too off because Jared keeps making these weird, prissy shapes with his mouth, licking his lips to and fro as he sucks his teeth. “Quit it-quit doing that! And stop rubbing my-your eye.”
Jared twists his mouth into a frown, Jensen’s lips looking all stretched. “The contacts feel funny.”
“Then you shouldn’t have gotten them. They’re too much of a hassle, you have to keep them from drying out. That’s why I never-” Jensen stops, glass up in the air as Jared starts to down an entire huge glass of beer in one gulp, chugging it down like it’s frat party night. He burps loudly and licks his teeth again, eyes half-lidded, and overall, he looks pleased.
Jared nods down at his plate. “The cilantro tastes like soap. Your tongue is defective, too.”
“You keep using that word, you’ll cramp something,” Jensen mutters, taking another bite of his barbeque ribs. It’s a little hard because not only is it messy, but Jared’s body has two hunger settings: full and ravenous. Right now, he’s working with ravenous, meaning if Jared doesn’t stop twitching around, Jensen’s going to eat all of his food. And the food of the couple next to them. Maybe even glue himself to the chef’s leg in the kitchen.
“Soapy,” Jared counters, sticking his tongue out. The plate of shrimp salad sits in front of him half-eaten.
Jared isn’t twitching and grumbling as much now when the knowledge starts to settle into place. By now, Jared understands why Jensen, who, like all good Texans, complains about the lack of quality BBQ, never complains about the lack of good Tex-Mex. Jensen’s tongue is anti-Spanish cuisine-anti-cilantro to be specific, as he discovered years ago.
It’s something he’s learned to live with, though Jared looks morose that he hasn’t eaten half of his meal. Jensen pushes his plate of fries across the table and Jared eagerly digs in, talking with his mouth full.
“You checked out the sites I e-mailed you, right?” Jared asks, shifting his weight in his seat. He pulls out Jensen’s cellphone from his pocket and flips it open, squinting at the screen and mumbling something about contacts and ‘old phone models’.
“Yeah. I did my research. That’s my job,” Jensen says. He shuts up when he realizes there's a smear of barbeque sauce on his bottom lip and chin; he tries to lick it off before he goes for a napkin. No use getting annoyed when he can barely eat his food decently thanks to Jared’s overzealous appetite. “I looked at a couple others, too-”
“Only use those sites I wrote down. They’re reliable. You don’t want to pull facts off of Wikipedia or some gossip blog,” Jared interjects, still squinting at the screen. “Huh.”
“Who is it?”
“Steve. Had a couple comments about the article I turned in.”
“You turned in the article I gave you, right? The one about the optical atomic clock. Nothing else?”
The french fries sticking halfway out of Jared’s mouth bob up and down as he says, “What do you think I am, an idiot?”
Jensen narrows his eyes. The feeling of hunger has not abated. Neither has his level of tolerance for annoyance. He feels like a migraine’s starting to come on.
Jared swallows down his french fries. “I might’ve added in a word or two. Or changed a sentence.”
“Jared.” Jensen leans forward, his foot accidentally kicking one of the shopping bags under their table, monochrome bags with the latest designer labels and trendy outlets listed on the surface, a few hundred dollars' worth of clothing tucked away inside. He’d given Jared enough shit earlier about his small shopping spree-clotheshorse that Jared is, even with his stylists handling it, the boy couldn’t be trusted with a wandering attention span, ‘uncomfortable’ clothing, and a credit card.
“Gimme a break, Jensen. I helped ‘punch’ it up,” Jared says, punching the air lamely. “Steve would get along real fine with Chris. They just don’t know when to let our geniuses out.”
“A week in my body and he’ll think my inner genius has gone on vacation,” Jensen responds. He’s finished his meal and wipes his hands on a napkin, jerking his head to get Jared’s hair out of his eyes. Jared eased up on the ‘no babyface’ policy, so he’s clean-shaven at least, but he could still use some rubber bands.
“Funny.” Jared puts away the cellphone. “Are you paying?”
“I wasn’t the one who suggested this place.”
“That’s before I found out your mouth’s only good when it’s sucking my dick,” Jared whispers harshly, his pinched face red and comical. He digs around in his wallet and hands over his credit card with a grimace. “Your mouth's another thing of yours that’s defective.”
*
“Jenny, baby, how are you?”
Chad's arm’s already wrapped around Jared’s shoulders, pressing a hand against his chest. His gaze rakes over Jared from head to toe, from his dark boots to plain blue jeans to the black buttondown he’s working, first two buttons open, sleeves rolled up. It’s simple and casual, the new hair and clothing making him look sharp, focused.
Something that interests Chad by the looks of things, though he’s always been a little awkward around Jensen. More examples of ‘foot in his mouth’ syndrome than anything, except he gets this real weird and strained laugh whenever Jensen made a joke around him, and let’s face it, Jensen’s funny, but even he would look over at Jared and raise an eyebrow, what’s up with him?
Jared stares at Chad pointedly, mouth taut and small, eyes squinting back. “I’m fine, honey.”
The comment gets lost in the hustle and bustle of the dressing room as Chad pulls away-taking notice of Jensen instead, the latest hair stylist and Kayla fussing around him. Even on her tip toes, the hair stylist can’t make a good grab for Jensen’s head, all his attempts to bend down to accommodate her getting interrupted by Kayla pulling different shirts on him.
By now Jared would’ve let a few words fly, because it’s taking too long and he’s never been patient with getting dressed. It’s not the clothes; it’s the waiting, and his attention span hasn’t increased as he gets older.
He crosses his arms and leans back against the counter, clearing his throat loudly.
Kayla glances over at him and smiles, like she’s checking him out, even while she’s talking about a pair of jeans she saw in SoHo that would look fantastic on Jared’s ass.
“Word on the street is that you two are still-” Chad makes a fist, lip caught between his teeth. “-together, huh?”
Jared stares down at the fist, trying not to let his gaze look too freaked the hell out. He doesn’t even want to know what the fist stands in for-but he’s not innocent enough for that, not that they’ve tried it.
Naturally, the other night pops into his head, Jensen’s confession after the so-called ‘research session’. He’d never mentioned anything like that before in the months they’d been together. They’d done it in different ways, different places but not anything out there-and now, Jared thinks Jensen had looked a little disappointed sometimes, something on the tip of his tongue that he never voiced. There could be real roughness in Jensen’s voice when he tries-and Jared is trying that out-only it’s too rare, special even to think about it on a regular basis.
Chad is still making a fist. Yeah, any lavicious thoughts go nowhere at the moment.
The sleeves of Jensen’s shirt are rolled up, tight muscles of his forearms tan and glistening as he shoves a blazer on awkwardly. He tucks in the front of his dress shirt as he says, “You could say that, Chad. If you believe the rumors.”
Jensen starts brushing his hair with his fingers, tossing a glance in Jared’s direction.
There’s a silent, tense moment as the girls drift on out, Jensen’s reassuring smile making them both break into smiles, relaxing as they leave. They don’t question his attitude, though Jared is eager to. The girls did a good job and didn’t screw up once, even with Jensen stiff and awkward under all that attention as they helped him get ready. Not once, and Jensen even smiled at them-hell, they worked quicker.
Chad’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts to peel away. Jared reaches out and he claps a hand on Chad’s shoulder, pulling him back until Chad’s ear is right near Jared’s mouth, Jared’s voice low when he says, “I’ve got a business proposition for you. I’ll call you after the show.”
His laugh is strained as he leaves, Chad giving this dorky thumbs up before he vanishes.
Meanwhile, Jensen gives him an odd look, full on flustered as Jared moves over to him. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Only thing Jared gets to do is reach and pull Jensen’s shirt out of his pants, knuckles brushing the soft skin of Jensen’s belly.
Jensen unconsciously rubs the same spot, his waistline, his jeans later on. First week of new episodes after a small hiatus and now Jensen's being taped. Live. Before the taping, he's shifting his weight from left to right foot, microphone tiny between his hands. And wow, Jared had never realized just how tiny the microphone looks in his hands.
Not even five minutes and he’s sweating under the lights, this tiny smile. His eyes look puffy and shut, like he’s squinting under the glare, under the swell of noise from the crowd, background music, P.A’s, director, and producers. Big return means big stars and musicians; big in name at least, because Jensen looks like he’s towering over the latest guest, Ashlee Simpson.
They’re not exactly hopelessly accomodating on set, but Jared knows his way around enough to score a backstage pass. He stands to the side and gives Jensen a thumbs up.
Jensen drops the squinting act and goes for full on deer in headlights when the light goes green and the camera focuses on him.
The next few minutes are a little fuzzy in Jared’s memory. Sources say it went like this:
Jensen, doing his best Shatner impression, read the teleprompter and sweated like a horse. His fingers kept loosening their grip on the microphone as he made stilted announcements of today’s act, and tomorrow’s act-it went on for a couple of minutes like that.
Then he got to the interview.
It started off well enough. They might’ve said ‘hi’ and Ashlee might've done that cute laugh and flirt that’s standard with these kind of pieces, waiting for the promo line to be fed about her next album. Hell, there might’ve been a freaking chorus line jumping in, too, Jared isn’t even sure.
Because Jensen, finally getting into the meat of the interview, said with a plastered on grin, “After your appearance on Saturday Night Live, how fond are you of hoedown dances?”
Ashlee’s patented giggle turned into a nervous laugh, swaying as Jensen fumbled with his index cards-actual index cards stuffed between the given TRL ones. At least the contacts were good for something; from his spot, Jared could see Jensen’s little scribbles in the lines, bullet points and highlighted marker.
The producers were waving, and the director pointed at the prompter, too.
Only Jensen didn’t look and Jared didn’t even want to know the next question he’d ask, maybe something philosophical or maybe what she'd had for breakfast.
The audience started mumbling amongst themselves as they cut to commercial.
But Jared? Afterwards, Jared remembers the half moon marks of red in his palms, fingernails digging into fists as he stares, open mouth, ten steps away from jumping on Jensen and punching his face in. Except wait, that's Jared's face, and that right there is the problem with the whole damned situation.
*
Funnily enough, it’s when the argument starts that Jensen is glad he’s committed himself to exercise and a healthy lifestyle, because it isn’t until Jared starts yelling, red in the face, that Jensen gets the chance to see how he might look like if he’d have a heart attack.
Or maybe it’s hyperventilating. Jared sucks in a breath and blows out, peeking out through his fingers like they're playing some demented, angry game of peek-a-boo.
“I can’t look. I can’t look!”
Jensen though, does, his arms crossed in front of him as he leans against a wall and looks at Jared’s flatscreen TV. It’s a repeat of today’s episode on the TiVo, complete with a dead on take of Jensen’s stilted conversation, face sweaty and hair plastered to his temples.
At least the apartment’s cooler and vacant, minus the hundreds of lights and faces and a teleprompter fifteen feet away that he felt odd looking at without his glasses.
Then there’s the whole part about being on television, by himself, live, but Jared hasn’t really understood that part yet.
“I said I was sorry!” Jensen says, rubbing at one eye, mouth a thin line. “I haven’t been up on stage since high school, Jared.”
“That isn’t a stage!” Jared clamps his mouth shut, both hands going up to palm and push his hair back, like it’s long still. He’s pacing now. “All right, all right, it is, but that’s different. You-You made me look like an idiot!”
“I’ve never done that before, Jared. I was trying.” Jensen mutters at first, but then his voice gets louder. “It doesn’t help that I have to do my stuff and your stuff, too. How about you give my job a shot from now on? If you’re such a hot journalist, I bet that stuff’ll be a walk in the park!”
Jared comes to a stop a few feet away, pointing. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”
“You’re good at being obvious, anyone ever tell you that?” Jensen snaps, and his hand thrusts out as he continues, saying, “I mean, I’m trying here. Dealing with people-and, and then you have to go and cut my hair and give me this makeover, like. What the hell, Jared?”
“You’re always covering yourself up. I’m trying to help you!” Jared says accusingly.
“You’re only helping yourself.”
Jared groans, his small burst of pacing coming to another dead stop. “God, this isn’t going to work, is it?”
Jensen sighs. It feels like a shudder running through his body, an all over deflation as he shakes his head, bangs in his eyes. “Nope.”
“This, right here. It’s like-” Jared hesitates. He shifts out his bottom lip and bites the corner of it, a nervous twitch out of place on Jensen’s face. “It’s like we’re… We’re this old married couple, you and me. I keep thinking, ‘some morning, I’m gonna wake up, and you won’t be here.’ And I get happy, because I’m me again, and you’re-you’re… not there.”
A moment or two passes as Jensen’s staring at the sharpness of Jared’s jaw, few days worth of stubble. He’s like this sharply dressed version of a person Jensen never was nor wanted to be-and it twists deep in Jensen’s belly to see this anger.
“Look.” Jensen rubs the back of his neck, the soft brush of Jared’s hair on the back of his hand both soothing and unsettling. “Look. If we’re going to-if we do separate, you can’t stay here. People’ll ask too many questions. You’re me now, for the time being, remember.”
“Back to upstate it is. Awesome,” Jared says, voice twists and has a lick of sarcasm. “We need to figure this out soon. I want my life back.”
Jensen’s already lifting up the nearest suitcase, not bothering to reply.
*
“Hey, man-Chad. Hey, Chad. I’m calling back on that proposition I mentioned the other day? After the…” Jared trails off. He shuts his eyes tight and rubs at his forehead, irritable. “Ashlee Simpson thing. Yeah.”
Chad fumbles on the other end, Jared envisioning him holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder, going through a stack of CDs and the junk that covers his office desk. Only thing neat in Chad’s office is the posters and albums spread out along the walls in neat little rows, by decorator design more than his own choice-which would be a lot of T&A, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Meanwhile, Jensen’s desk space is neat-or it was about two weeks ago, when Jared moved in. There are a few papers and items tacked up on the low divider of his cubicle: National Geographic clippings, a cheap little wildlife calendar, some photos of his family and friends, overexposed and amateur-quality. Jensen looks the same in all of them, good natured and rumpled boy next door. Only thing different might be the type of glasses he’s wearing, but he keeps up the same genuine smile, wrapping an arm around the people next to him. He isn’t the most physically touchy person around but when he’s happy, surrounded by those he respects and loves, the walls come down.
Even if Jensen’s shy in public, too tense, and too attractive for his own good, all of which goes right over his head, and Jared likes that. A lot. Always has.
“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t tell me what it was, Jen. I think we’re full up on hotass interns,” Chad jokes.
“No, it’s-” Jared shifts his weight in his chair, picking at his brand-new slacks. Charcoal, matches nicely with the dark blue dress shirt. Dressing up for the job isn't something he likes to do, but if he has to, he might as well make the most of it and go all out. Which means snug slacks that do wonders for Jensen’s ass. He covers his cellphone with his hand, getting a pointed look from one of Jensen’s co-workers before he turns away.
He’s hesitating, unsure of what to say on the phone. The idea he had-the proposition-deals with Jensen, only they’re not together now. Jensen’s good at singing, Jared knows. Really good. And if he could get him recorded-maybe not a full on record deal, but fuck if Jared’s gonna let a voice like his go to waste, having discovered it earlier during some downtime.
Downtime that doesn’t involve jerking off anyway.
But Jared already knows Jensen’ll shoot him down for the idea-getting Chad to help him to record Jensen-and it’s confirmed by the photos, one fussy glare from Jensen in a photo on his desk, looking like he’s staring right at Jared.
“Forget I said anything, Chad. It’s not going to work out. I don’t want Jen-Jared to have any more shit on his plate,” Jared says, free hand wandering before he starts clicking a loose pen. “How is he anyway?”
“What, you guys break up again or something?” Chad asks, then grunts. “Shit. Sorry. Dropped a stack. He’s been working his ass off, trying to make up for his freakout. They’re not letting him in front of the cameras. They think it’s the stress. You know anything about that, Jen?”
Jared exhales, the on edge feeling joined by a sick lurch in his stomach. “No, I don’t. Tell him to take care of himself, will you?”
“Tell him yourself, dude. He’ll be back from lunch in five minutes.”
“Can’t. Working. Bye,” Jared stutters, almost dropping his phone to disconnect the call. The phone clatters to the floor and he bends over to pick it up, glancing around the room.
Midday and the office is buzzing, a whole different environment than he’s used to. Backstage at MTV there are rows and rows of office cubicles but he never really stopped by to look in on what they were working on. Business stuff he couldn’t care about, most likely. His on-air job has him being dragged into meetings or hanging out in his dressing room with a bevy of stylists, friends, and the occasional guest who pops in to chat. Jensen’s office doesn’t allow those luxuries, everyone in full-on business mode. There are computers, fax machines, phones, televisions, a constant buzz of noise from technology and chatter. Papers fly and people narrowly avoid crashing into each other in the aisles between cubicles, their shadows breaking up the glare from low-slung flourescent lights. The entire pressroom floor extends for almost a full city block, and from Jensen’s desk near the window Jared gets a view of the Hudson River.
Sometimes he can spy the Empire State building if he leans back and cranes his neck up, hands in his pockets and bored out of his mind.
He sits up in his chair to see this one co-worker he keeps seeing co-worker standing near the divider, leaning over the edge. Guy in his forties with salt and pepper hair, scruffy, the kind of solid build that reminds Jared of a football player. His memory’s coming up blank for a second or two before some girl calls out, “Jeff!” and he waves over to her, then looks at Jared again.
The face clicks into place. Jeff. Sports writer. Jensen mentioned him once or twice. Might’ve introduced him at the last company party, only Jared’s memories about that are alcohol soaked.
“How you doing, Ackles?”
Jared rubs at his eye, easing off before he forgets the contacts he’s wearing. Felt weird at first but he's gotten used to it, slipping in easy like the way he’s slipped into Jensen’s body. Used to it. Comfortable.
The thought throws him off for a second before he answers, “Good, good. You?”
Jeff shrugs. “March Madness coming up. Local teams ain’t gonna win but that’s nothing new.”
Jared laughs automatically, because as much as he loves New York, he’ll still root for his own Texas teams, Cowboys and Spurs. The laugh comes automatically too, because he knows this conversation isn’t just shooting the breeze.
Jeff confirms Jared’s suspicions when he says, “You’ve been acting weird lately.”
“More so than usual?” Jared scoffs. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Jeff leans forward on the divider, arms hanging off the edge, fingers lacing together. “You look different. The girls want to know if there’s something wrong at home.”
Jared leans back in his chair. “That’s a little personal.”
“Got less personal when you started flirting with them.” Jeff scratches his head, short hair hopelessly messy. “I thought you were gay?”
His chin juts out and he’s ready to snap a reply, except there are girls looking his way from the other desks. Two or three, a guy too. Jared glances at the photographs put up on the cubicle walls, recognizing some of the people in the photos as Jensen’s co-workers, the same ones who're giving him odd looks at the sudden shift in ‘personality’. He’d blurt out that he doesn’t need this to deal with on top of everything else, but they look genuinely concerned about his state of being.
“I am,” Jared mumbles, words funny in his mouth. “Yeah.”
Jeff leans in, ducking his head over the divider as Jared pulls his chair over to hear. “I don’t care about that. That’s your own buiness. Just-you got a problem, you figure it out. Get help. Ask us. We’ll help.”
He pauses, then reaches over to clap Jared on the shoulder, hard and abrupt, grinning.
“We’re going out for burritos after work at Chipotle. Want to come with?”
“Uh, sure? Sure,” Jared agrees. He smiles. “That sounds great.”
“Good. Oh, and Jensen?”
“Yeah?”
Jeff leans in again, whispering, “Next time you wanna try flirting with one of the ladies, try not to flirt with my cousin over in Marketing, will you?”
He leaves Jared beet red at his desk when Jared’s phone starts ringing then, a farewell clap on his shoulder, too. Jared scrambles to pick it up. “Yeah?”
“Jared.”
He sucks in a breath. “Jensen. Hey. Chad told me-”
“Jared, what am I looking at right now?”
Out comes the clicky pen again. “Jen-Hey, you know you’re not supposed to look at my dick at work. You’re burning daylight there.”
“Oh, so, I’m not looking at the Daily News site’s featured article, by Jensen Ross Ackles, comparing sex to the Big Bang theory?” Jensen says abruptly, his voice rising by the end of it. Jared squirms and opens his mouth to breathe into the phone, Jensen cutting him off. “There’s no static on the office phone lines.”
“Could be Godzilla?” Jared volunteers with a wince. He hunches in on the desk, minimizing the game windows on his desktop. “Loosen up. Got you featured, didn’t I?”
“With a tabloid-level article?”
“Tabloid-level’s better than bottom feeder level,” Jared protests. “Payback, man.”
Jensen sighs. “Okay. You win this round.”
“I’m going out for dinner later with the guys at work,” Jared says. He hesitates again, feeling like he shouldn’t have blurted it out. Their separation really has been one, each staying in the other's apartment. They haven’t spoken to each other for days since then, other than a short phone call about the dogs-Jensen’s taking care of them, Jared missing them a lot.
They haven’t seen each other face to face since Jared moved out. Bringing up a dinner that Jensen is and at the same time isn’t invited to seems wrong.
“Chipotle?” Jensen finally asks. Jared grunts. “Remember, no cilantro! Have fun, Jared.”
His own voice seems small on the other end. Jared unconsciously hunches over further, pressing the phone close to his ear. “Jensen… Don’t get bent out of shape. Night.”
“Night.”
He hangs up the phone and waits, steepling his fingers against Jensen’s lips.
*
The days roll by like March winds blowing in, hectic and rejuvenating. Maybe it’s the cold, but it feels like a good shock to Jensen’s system when he falls down on his ass hard, for the third time today. Playing basketball in the middle of March on a public court is supposed to get him all revved up for the championship that’s coming up soon, except he’s never been that into basketball. Football is a sport he can get behind, talking at length to Jeff at the office about different plays. The extent of Jensen’s football knowledge has always surprised Jeff, like it couldn't be possible for Jensen to switch the channel over to ESPN after a marathon of MythBusters.
Doesn’t matter now because he’s even if he’s in a body that could go pro, he’s getting his ass kicked by Chad Michael Murray.
Who’s too busy doing a bad set of moves proving white guys really can’t dance. At all.
“Wow. You suck today,” Chad says, offering a hand to a frowning Jensen. He pulls him up and stares, surprised. “You suck hard, man.”
“I’m glad someone’s getting some fun out of my sucking,” Jensen mutters, bent over with his hands on his knees. Jared’s hair is pulled back with a bandana but his whole face feels sweaty and red. He lets out a sigh, ignoring Chad’s snickering. Even if he has gotten a good, rare look at what Jared's ass looks like slumming in shorts and a loose t-shirt, it isn’t worth getting both pneumonia and a thorough ass kicking.
“You doing anything later?” Chad asks, taking a sip of his bottled water. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the inside of his shirt, bare stomach visible for a few moments. “Want to watch the game?”
Jensen peers over at him, trying to catch his breath. “Didn’t Sophia tell you? We’re having lunch.”
“Oh.” Chad pulls back a step. “What? Why?”
“Oh! Oh, it’s not like that.” Jensen lifts his hands up, placating. “I needed a favor from her. To show me some-some stuff.”
‘Some stuff’ translates into a lunch date with Sophia sipping a green tea drink as Jensen stands across the office with his back to her, eyes scanning the rows and rows of CDs on the shelves. They’re in one of the offices of the studio, and Jensen’s trying to wrap his mind around the sheer amount of pop music he’s never heard of. Other than those brief moments in high school-where he wasn’t really into the same bubblegum pop other teens liked-he’s still pretty clueless when it comes to many of these singers.
Not completely clueless. He did have many a night spent over dinner and a concert DVD, Jared gesturing with air guitar as they watched.
“You want to tell me what happened the other day?”
Jensen’s gaze lifting from the CDs he’s holding. “Hey, isn’t that Hannah Montana girl Billy Ray’s daughter?”
“Yeah. And I’m just going to ignore your “Achy Breaky” love like you just ignored my question,” Sophia says. She puts down her drink near the empty paper plates and garbage of their lunch on the table. “What gives? You never freak out at a taping and you were all spastic.”
“I was nervous,” Jensen tries carefully. “I’ve never-uh, I mean-”
“Is this about the rumors?” Sophia interrupts.
She waits, but Jensen stays quiet-it’s not hard to see that of course Jared’s co-workers would find out. If he and Jared don’t figure out a way to reverse the swap-if the wait for their molecules to shift back into place turns out to be bogus-then there’s going to be way more stuff that Jensen doesn’t want to handle. Like living a life in a body that’s not his, a career he doesn’t want, or, by the curious look that Sophia’s giving him, a job that he apparently sucks really hard at.
The fact that he’s here to get advice from her about how to succeed at his job-or at least, act appropriately-suddenly takes a backburner to the threat of this becoming a permanent situation.
Jensen rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe it is.”
“Because… You didn’t hear this from me, but I’ve seen the producer’s notes once or twice. Okay. Like, a lot, because I look. I want to keep my job. They’re a little concerned that you’re too friendly with the guests.”
“What?”
“You might want to try not hitting on them constantly,” Sophia says with a shrug. “Just a suggestion.”
Jensen puts the CDs back, leaning against a nearby table. He fumbles a little, misjudging, almost sending a box of CDs to the floor. He’s used to his own height and breadth, but nowadays he needs to make little corrections often.
He’s ready to open his mouth and try a weak response when she cuts him off.
“Jared, are you having a tri-life crisis?”
“Oh, God.” Jensen widens his eyes. “Do you mean-what? What?”
“I don’t know! You’re like-you’re acting really weird lately. Is it something at home? Is it-it’s Jensen, isn’t it? Did you guys break up? Did you-”
“Sophia!” Jensen says, holding his palms out. “Hold on. I’m not having a tri-life crisis-”
“-a sexuality crisis?”
His forehead scrunches. “I talk to you about that?”
Sophia’s eyebrows raise as a guy and girl walk into the office, moving to the opposite wall to use the photocopier. They wave and smile at Jensen and Sophia, but it’s the guy that gets Jensen’s attention. One of the interns, early twenties, trendy with tight pants and a thirty dollar shirt that looks like it’s got paint artfully splattered on it. He’s blond with blue eyes, and Jensen has to shift and uncross his legs from his leaning stance, suddenly feeling hard.
It’s like the fourth person today. Fourth. Or maybe fifth. A little crazy voice in the back of Jensen’s head wonders if Jared’s always like this, and God, how does he get anything done?
“Look, whatever’s going on is your own business,” Sophia says, waving a hand and ignoring Jensen’s discomfort. “But if you fuck up with one of us doing co-hosting duty, I’m handing your ass to you. On a stick.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She nods, smiling. “No problem. So, what is it that you wanted to talk about?”
“How I can make sure not to fuck up or act too friendly, I guess?” Jensen asks, heaving a sigh. He rubs his forehead, shielding his eyes-and hopefully, any response mechanism leading directly to his dick-as the guy and girl leave.
Sophia stands up and moves towards him, a foot away before he can react. Then she leans in, close, breath near his ear before she pulls out a tape from the bookshelf.
“We’re gonna do some research,” she says, holding the tape out. The label on it is peeling and old, title scribbled in black marker. “You got two hours?”
It lasts longer than two hours, but Jensen comes out of the studio by the end of the day armed with a load of research: notes scribbled from tape viewings, web addresses for YouTube clips, DVD copies of interviews. Sophia tells him about all the best past MTV interviews he should look at for research, displaying a knack for interviewing and understanding of people that he’s never thought of before. He’s had his share of interviews for the articles he’s done, but it hasn’t always been face to face. Nowadays it’s phone and e-mail, so Jensen thinks it’s easy to fall into the habit of having some rusty social skills.
It’s something Jared doesn’t have to worry about, always being open and chatty.
But Jared’s not around lately. And Jensen has research to do.
*
It continues for another week without any change, other than the thought of switching back to glasses when Jared’s eyes feel dry after playing too many rounds of Guitar Hero. They're talking more frequently than the week before, but secondhand gossip still seems to reach them faster. On Jared’s end, he calls up Chad and gets these wandering tales of how great ‘Jared’ is in the office, how all the girls love him now not because of how good his ass looks, but how “caring and thoughtful he is and yeah, he’s totally banging them, they never say that kind of shit to me.”
The work increases at Jensen’s job, and Jared struggles to keep up. Jensen doesn’t leave him completely in the lurch-he’ll give him his notes and research for possible topics, a full article or a nearly complete one. To ask Jared to cover for him could be disastrous for his record, they agree, but it’s not like Jensen’s letting him just turn in the work.
Jared makes sure to keep up what’s expected of him, and that includes a dinner party set for Saturday-even if the e-mails and invitations were set out weeks ago, before all this, he decides to let it go on.
It’ll be good for both their images, Jared thinks. The couple that stays friends afterwards. The regular crew pops in with a small group of Jensen’s co-workers, a clash of fashion tastes and personalities, but they all get along after a few good appetizers and wine. Jared’s apartment looks different after having been away from it; it’s still got the same artsy furniture and layout that his interior designer approved of, only some bits and pieces have moved-pushed to the side here, covered there. It doesn’t look as showy, or staged, Jared thinks. Magazines sit in little stacks on the coffee table, and the dogs' beds lie neatly in one corner, their chew toys and bones sitting in a basket.
He would have looked around his apartment more, but instead he's spent the past half hour fumbling blindly through his kitchen.
Downside of a dinner party in Jared’s place: Jensen loves to cook.
Meaning Jared’s shit out of luck figuring out how not to burn the chicken, which is currently sitting wet and pale on the cutting board.
A burst of laughter rings out behind him, everyone happy and bright around the dinner table, chatting about God knows what. He can see his own broad shoulders over the countertop, spying Jensen turn and lean back. He’s wearing a simple white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, his hair neatly combed and pushed back behind his ears. No extras, no flashy belts or wristbands. Smooth-skinned and tanned, full, healthy. He’s looked better than he has in months; not just in body but in his mannerisms, the way that Jensen exudes a stillness and focus even in another body.
Jensen tips back his wine glass and smiles, quiet and attentive when one of the girls starts speaking. They’re talking about things he feels removed from lately-grown-up things, family, friends, and business. It isn’t artificial talk that he always finds himself drawn to: favorite band, musician, actor, how could that guy think about doing that show, how could that actress be seen at that club. The kind of talk that’s always detached from his own experience, unless he’s been there, ready to impress with his experiences.
A few minutes later, Chad ambles over, but he isn't so much helping as picking at the bits of chopped peppers and cherry tomatoes and eating them.
“Oh ho, Chad, I don’t think we want salmonella today,” Jensen says. His prescence startles Jared, almost makes him cut his finger with a knife by accident. Good, turn in the body sans one fingertip, the damage’ll come out of his paycheck.
Chad holds his hands up and backs off, chewing a small tomato. He leans against the countertop and watches as Mike comes in, poking through the fridge. Good thing is that the kitchen isn’t the small and cramped one typical of a lot of swanky Manhattan apartments. There’s plenty of room to move around for them all, even if Jared’s hunched over and resisting the urge to curse under his breath at the unfinished food in front of him. He’s wearing another jeans and tight t-shirt ensemble, the jeans from DKNY, the shirt from Armani, but wiping the gunk off his hands on them wouldn’t be good for the dry cleaners.
“Why don’t you crack open Ja-I mean, my Dom Pérignon, Chad?” Jensen adds, swallowing down the last of his wine with a gulp. He pulls his lips up into an upside-down frown, nervous and dorky at his almost-slip. Jared glares at him, hitches his shoulder up to gesture, come here.
Jensen takes the hint, walking over as Chad digs in a drawer for the corkscrew.
“Beyoncé gave that to me,” Jared hisses, ignoring the way his stomach drops as he hears Chad and Mike cracking jokes and pouring the wine.
Jensen gives him his best shit-eating grin, made all the more annoying because it’s like his own face is mocking him. Wearing a low-key ensemble that shows off his biceps, no less.
“Pre-heat the oil,” Jensen grits between smiling teeth, gently nudging the bottle of extra virgin olive oil towards Jared on the counter top. He reaches past him towards the cabinet and pulls out two wine glasses, sneaking another box of seasoning down for Jared. Pressed up against the counter, Jensen’s too close for comfort, a whiff of good cologne in his wake, bangs in his eyes. He isn’t sweaty or flushed, or flustered; Jared feels a pang of jealousy at how relaxed Jensen is acting even if he’s the center of attention.
Jared on the other hand feels like an intruder in this exchange. Jensen’s moving through his own kitchen easily, fussing with things like he owns it all, like he knows-and he does, because he’s done it for months, whereas Jared's never used anything other than the microwave. With all his bustling, Jensen ends up handing half the ingredients and instructions over in whispers and gestures, helping discreetly. Jared licks his lips and nods at Jensen, I’m okay, and soon enough the kitchen’s empty again. He hasn’t blown up the stove and the kitchen isn't covered in chicken pieces, so that’s good.
Maybe it was a good idea to break out the bottle of Dom Pérignon since he’s going to be late with the main course. It's also good that the bottle's out in the main area and everyone’s having a taste, Jared excluded-the laughs still keep coming, but at least now he knows the alcohol has something to do with it besides how witty and charming Jensen is.
He’s friendly with everyone at the party, just like Jared-only he laughs and compliments more easily, always showing genuine emotion and concern. Jensen doesn’t show any attitude or anger toward them, always keeping himself in check-it’s a trait that Jared doesn’t have, always letting his friendliness get the better of him, especially when it comes to his attitude. Pissing off people by accident isn’t a rare thing for Jared. With Jensen though, there aren’t any ulterior motives to his actions. Everyone’s getting along with Jensen so well, relaxing in his prescence enough that Jared’s feeling a sense of panic.
Everyone’s being so nice to Jensen. Talking to him with their guards down, touching him, easy, no fakeness attached.
Hell, Jensen’s doing a better job at being Jared than Jared himself.
Maybe Jensen’s getting along so well because it’s Jared’s body. But whatever it is, this isn’t supposed to happen. They’ve got their set roles, and this swapping throws a wrench into everything. If Jensen’s so good at being Jared, and Jared can’t even do Jensen’s-Jensen’s life-correctly, then where does that leave him? Who does he get to be?
Jared starts to rifle through the cabinets, trying to figure out where the emergency stash of wine is-one bottle, one cheap-ass Christmas gift-when Danneel comes in.
She sits on the edge of one of the counters, watching as Jared looks through the cabinets. After a minute, he pauses, closing one cabinet before turning to look at her.
“Came to kiss the chef?”
“Not since college, honey,” Danneel says. She nods at him, voice low. “You look good.”
“Always do.”
She rolls her eyes and then she’s nodding in the direction of the living room. “I’m surprised you’re here. Last time I heard, you were fine with me making a woman out of Jared.”
Okay, that gets his full attention. “What?”
“You know. Harm to body parts?” Danneel shrugs, mouth a little pout. “We haven’t followed through on maiming him for being a jerk. Guess not.”
“He’s not as bad as you think,” Jared mutters. Again, the reminder that he’s in Jensen’s body comes back in full force, how this body reacts differently than his own. Even if Jensen’s more uptight than he is, he doesn’t get so easily angered over little things-it’s like he builds it up until it explodes. Jared’s nervous the dinner’s going to get fucked, that Danneel’ll see right through him, but Jensen’s body? Relaxed. Healthy and strong, sated too, with all the pizza he ate earlier, figuring the meal would go to shit.
“But he doesn’t appreciate you,” Danneel points out. “Don’t forget. I still can’t believe you turned down assistant editor at the Smithsonian Journal to stay with him. There’s a reason you’re in New York, Jensen, and Jared doesn’t have time on his schedule for that.”
She hops off the counter and leans up to give him a quick peck on the cheek, Jared too stunned to respond. Danneel smiles at him a little after he says he'll be there in a few minutes. “Go have fun,” he tells her.
His gaze lands on her back, her ass as she goes, and Jared curses, kicking the bottom counter.
Thing is, Jensen never told him that. If he wasn’t happy, why would he give it up? Jared thinks he himself would’ve done it easily. His reasons for moving to New York were a little more jerky than Jensen’s, who always said he did it so he could be more open than he was in Texas. Moving to New York allowed them both to pursue their careers-the brief taste of fame Jared got in winning that Teen Choice Awards contest wasn’t enough. A few years of interning wasn’t enough.
He was enough for Jensen, Jared realizes. All this time, Jensen’s always been around for Jared, always been there, stayed with him when he had opportunities elsewhere. Listening and taking the stuff Jared threw at him, for a whole year-It’s been a year, the significance of it slowly sinking in. With all its ups and downs, it was mostly great, really great, and then at some point, Jared hadn’t realized he’d started walking all over Jensen and that Jensen had been letting him.
A year, and he gave Jensen a teddy bear, thinking it’d be funny.
That’s how he knows the sickening lurch in his stomach isn’t alcohol, isn’t nervousness. It’s the sad realization of the past few months hitting him right then and there.
And that Jared was too fucking stupid to figure it out until now.
Jared looks over at the guests again, realizing that if he goes to Los Angeles, he won't know anyone there. Truly know them, not just as acquaintances. There's a possibility that he'll never see or talk to these people again. And at the rate Jensen’s going, being so good at being Jared, they likely won’t need Jared either.
But the night goes on anyway. The chicken doesn't burn; it gets served and eaten. They compliment the chef, and Jensen gets the most laughs out of everyone, the best host a person could ask for. When they’ve all had their fill of food, wine, and discussion, the guests start drifting off, calling cabs and getting designated drivers. They stand in front of Jared’s building at two in the morning, waving to Mike and Tom as a taxi peels away from the curb.
They haven’t been alone in what feels like ages, no warmth of food or comfort of others surrounding them, buffering the conversation. Jared breathes out a puff of cold air, his hands digging deeper into his pockets. It isn't that cold but Jensen is wearing a loose, fuzzy scarf looped around his neck twice anyway, along with a dark overcoat.
“Danneel told me you turned down the Smithsonian Journal,” Jared murmurs, keeping his gaze on his boots, dirty and battered. Dug them out of the bottom of Jensen’s closet, this bit of Texas nostalgia Jensen kept hidden.
When he looks up, Jensen sucks in a breath, wiping a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. I did.”
No use going around it, because Jared shakes his head at him, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me? After all the times you talked about your job and… God. You could’ve-you could’ve been advancing your career! That’s the fucking point of coming here, isn’t it?”
“I didn't just come to New York on a whim, Jared,” Jensen says, looking everywhere else but Jared. The empty street, the streetlamps, the way everything’s cold and wet, snow melting under orange light in the dark. “I came here to be myself and not be told every day that I'm going to hell because of it.”
Then he’s taking a step back and looking down at Jared, like the height difference is plain as day, how he straightens.
“And you, you just don't want to admit it. Fine, you're not gay, because you can't even say that, but you're bi, and you're more concerned about your fucking image than being honest with yourself. You know, I never should I have said I wanted to be you.”
Naturally-so naturally it startles him-Jared rolls his eyes, feeling restless, ready to protest.
But Jensen’s hands, Jared’s hands, still him, close and grabbing his shirt. He breathes steadily, swallows, another breath. The closeness is unsettling, and then Jensen pokes him, right in the breastbone as he grips.
“Did you just poke me-”
“Listen to me, Jared,” Jensen growls, and that-that’s fucking scary how it gets him to attention, in more ways than one. It’s his own body but in Jensen’s control, it’s a fucking weapon, focused and controlled. Jensen doesn’t need any extras to show he’s older or mature; the determination he has is ever present.
“For once, in the entire time we've known each other,” Jensen says, low, “Just listen to me. And then you know what? You don't ever have to listen to me again.”
Jared wants to say something now, defend himself and curse, but he’s too stunned to react. Jensen uses Jared's hands so well, smoothing over Jared, stilling him.
“I hope you have a great life being the greatest asshole in the world but maybe that doesn't work for me,” Jensen says, his eyes locked. “You know those care packages my mother sends me? That's the only contact I've had with my mother since I came out to her and my… My dad. I don't go home for the holidays. I've got a family here, I've got people who care about me here, Jared. And you're not one of them. You never were. I was just too in love with you to admit that to myself.”
Jared opens his mouth, has to say something but Jensen's there first, with a kiss that's salty on the lips and deeper on the tongue, with a bitter touch of wine.
He could lose himself in this kiss, really could, never wanting it to end. Because his hands go up, independently of his brain, cupping Jensen’s face. Thumbing his cheekbones, the ridge of his brow. Jensen is warm and broad against Jared’s chest, a warmth he drinks in, desperate.
Then-because it has to-it comes to an end.
With Jensen’s lips trailing the curve of Jared’s stubbled cheek, soft breath against his ear.
“I'm not afraid of losing you, Jared. I never had you.”
He leaves Jared at the curb there, too dumbstruck to react. Jensen becomes nothing but a dark shadow that goes back into the apartment building, strong and firm. Jared gets a glance of his coat and broad shoulders before the doors hide Jensen from view.
The street’s still empty, passersby here and there.
This time it’s not just the alcohol getting to him when his knees give out. He knows that, in the back of his head.
It’s not just that, it’s something more, except that’s when he passes out.
Part Four