Ficlet: No Exit
I wrote something I DON'T HATE. This is a cause for celebration.
For mini_moue, Hell is other people - Sartre
J2, PG-13, 1,075 words.
No Exit
Jensen blinks quickly, snapping back at him, "Did you just take my picture?"
He shakes his head. "There was something interesting just over your shoulder?"
Jensen sighs. "You took my picture, you know I hate it when you do that, Jared," he says, ashing his cigarette and putting it right back to his lips, not even really wanting it, more of the habit of movement then anything else.
"You're photogenic," Jared says back with a shrug, easy roll of his shoulders and then he narrows his eyes again, seeing another picture of Jensen at the table realize itself before he can even take it. It's the way he'd trained himself, see the world through a lens rather than his own eyes.
"I don't want you taking my picture," Jensen mutters as the smoke floats from his mouth to hang in the air around him.
"It's not like I'm trying to steal your soul." Just a moment.
**
The old woman that lives in their building dies that night. The police are writing down statements as they walk in. Jared doesn't linger, but Jensen talks, tells them about her, finds out the gory details of how she died.
Wouldn't give her purse to a mugger, shot in the head.
"She never carried around that much money, but that purse of hers belonged to her mother," Jensen says, striding up the staircase, hands jammed deep in his coat pockets. "Such a fucking waste. That's why she wouldn't give it up."
Jared snaps another picture as he turns his head slightly, curve of his ear brushing the collar of his jacket and Jensen glares.
They watch the evening news, recounting the event and far worse tragedies in the other corners of the world. And the police lights are on until two in the morning.
**
Jensen isn't the type to perk up after morning coffee. More like he just settles down after the caffeine hits him, and he'll start telling Jared about the fight he had with his co-worker. The mother he saw slapping her child on the street for misbehaving. The way the excess of rain they've been having is turning the parks into mudpits.
"I don't mind the rain," Jared says.
Jensen scoffs. "Well that's dumb. Don't you need light to take pictures?"
"I thought you didn't want me taking your picture."
"I don't, I'm not stopping you from taking pictures of everyone else."
"Who is this 'everyone else', Jensen? Who else do we see?"
Jensen bites down a corner of toast. "I don't like people."
Jared leans back. "That's why I like taking your picture. Proof to the world that you existed at one point in time."
**
The gray sky and the worst luck seem to have followed Jared throughout the day. First skidding in a puddle on his way to work. Then winding up with most of his lunch in his lap thanks to a clumsy waiter, and finally getting locked, of all places, in his darkroom.
Jared figures night security forgot he was still in there, and now the room's locked and the building's shut down for the night. Jared reaches for his cellphone, and touches his empty pocket, remembering that it's sitting with his bag in his storage locker with the other equipment he didn't feel like lugging around that day.
Jared leans against the wall and knocks his head gently against the padded black wall. Looks at the lines of black and white photos he's got hanging to dry. Jensen's face, candid or otherwise looking back at him.
Reminds him of when he first met him. There are layers of him to peel back. The hard, stoic look he presents to the world in the café, cigarette to his mouth and eyes narrowed.
The sadness in his eyes the night Mrs. Jarvis died. Though Jared knew they never exchanged more than a few words in passing.
And that sadness again, beneath the anger, the way he resist Jared's gaze. When he tells him to stop taking pictures, when he doesn't want to accept the way Jared sees him. Tells him it's a fetishization of him, which Jared doesn't really see beneath any of his veneer, and doesn't want to.
"You're full of shit, Jensen," Jared says out loud, remembering one of their last arguments when he said that, and then kissed him. You know when I look at you I do see the bitter, jaded asshole that you're trying to hide behind the façade of being gorgeous and fuckable.
And there's the one of them, surrounded by crumpled sheets when Jared curled into his body and held his camera out above them, capturing Jensen in a rare moment of peace. Jared's eyes are on the camera but Jensen's aren't. He's staring at Jared, half-lidded eyes and lips curving towards his cheek.
**
Jared doesn't get home until the next morning, his phone battery died in his bag, so he has no idea what he's in for when he opens his door. Immediately there's a thundering of footsteps and Jensen crashes into him, pinning him to the door with an embrace.
"If I let you take my picture, will you promise me you'll never do that again?" Jensen says into the skin of his neck.
Jared laughs, "I'm sorry, I-" but Jensen cuts him off, pulling back and taking Jared's face in his hands.
"I hate being alone," Jensen whispers.
For mini_moue, Hell is other people - Sartre
J2, PG-13, 1,075 words.
No Exit
Jensen blinks quickly, snapping back at him, "Did you just take my picture?"
He shakes his head. "There was something interesting just over your shoulder?"
Jensen sighs. "You took my picture, you know I hate it when you do that, Jared," he says, ashing his cigarette and putting it right back to his lips, not even really wanting it, more of the habit of movement then anything else.
"You're photogenic," Jared says back with a shrug, easy roll of his shoulders and then he narrows his eyes again, seeing another picture of Jensen at the table realize itself before he can even take it. It's the way he'd trained himself, see the world through a lens rather than his own eyes.
"I don't want you taking my picture," Jensen mutters as the smoke floats from his mouth to hang in the air around him.
"It's not like I'm trying to steal your soul." Just a moment.
**
The old woman that lives in their building dies that night. The police are writing down statements as they walk in. Jared doesn't linger, but Jensen talks, tells them about her, finds out the gory details of how she died.
Wouldn't give her purse to a mugger, shot in the head.
"She never carried around that much money, but that purse of hers belonged to her mother," Jensen says, striding up the staircase, hands jammed deep in his coat pockets. "Such a fucking waste. That's why she wouldn't give it up."
Jared snaps another picture as he turns his head slightly, curve of his ear brushing the collar of his jacket and Jensen glares.
They watch the evening news, recounting the event and far worse tragedies in the other corners of the world. And the police lights are on until two in the morning.
**
Jensen isn't the type to perk up after morning coffee. More like he just settles down after the caffeine hits him, and he'll start telling Jared about the fight he had with his co-worker. The mother he saw slapping her child on the street for misbehaving. The way the excess of rain they've been having is turning the parks into mudpits.
"I don't mind the rain," Jared says.
Jensen scoffs. "Well that's dumb. Don't you need light to take pictures?"
"I thought you didn't want me taking your picture."
"I don't, I'm not stopping you from taking pictures of everyone else."
"Who is this 'everyone else', Jensen? Who else do we see?"
Jensen bites down a corner of toast. "I don't like people."
Jared leans back. "That's why I like taking your picture. Proof to the world that you existed at one point in time."
**
The gray sky and the worst luck seem to have followed Jared throughout the day. First skidding in a puddle on his way to work. Then winding up with most of his lunch in his lap thanks to a clumsy waiter, and finally getting locked, of all places, in his darkroom.
Jared figures night security forgot he was still in there, and now the room's locked and the building's shut down for the night. Jared reaches for his cellphone, and touches his empty pocket, remembering that it's sitting with his bag in his storage locker with the other equipment he didn't feel like lugging around that day.
Jared leans against the wall and knocks his head gently against the padded black wall. Looks at the lines of black and white photos he's got hanging to dry. Jensen's face, candid or otherwise looking back at him.
Reminds him of when he first met him. There are layers of him to peel back. The hard, stoic look he presents to the world in the café, cigarette to his mouth and eyes narrowed.
The sadness in his eyes the night Mrs. Jarvis died. Though Jared knew they never exchanged more than a few words in passing.
And that sadness again, beneath the anger, the way he resist Jared's gaze. When he tells him to stop taking pictures, when he doesn't want to accept the way Jared sees him. Tells him it's a fetishization of him, which Jared doesn't really see beneath any of his veneer, and doesn't want to.
"You're full of shit, Jensen," Jared says out loud, remembering one of their last arguments when he said that, and then kissed him. You know when I look at you I do see the bitter, jaded asshole that you're trying to hide behind the façade of being gorgeous and fuckable.
And there's the one of them, surrounded by crumpled sheets when Jared curled into his body and held his camera out above them, capturing Jensen in a rare moment of peace. Jared's eyes are on the camera but Jensen's aren't. He's staring at Jared, half-lidded eyes and lips curving towards his cheek.
**
Jared doesn't get home until the next morning, his phone battery died in his bag, so he has no idea what he's in for when he opens his door. Immediately there's a thundering of footsteps and Jensen crashes into him, pinning him to the door with an embrace.
"If I let you take my picture, will you promise me you'll never do that again?" Jensen says into the skin of his neck.
Jared laughs, "I'm sorry, I-" but Jensen cuts him off, pulling back and taking Jared's face in his hands.
"I hate being alone," Jensen whispers.