[J2] Is Not A Home, PG15.
Title: Is Not A Home.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen.
WC: ~800
Rating: PG15 [for language].
AN: Things were said at the Chicago Con, and it’s time to clear the air.
The house is technicolour.
There’s a dotted trail from the bedroom to the kitchen: neon Post-its. Pink and blue and yellow and green and a couple of Jared’s Transformers. They’re on photo frames, pillows and piles of dirty laundry and Jared peels one off a toothbrush to inspect it closer. J.A.
Jared [with 41 Post-its bundled in his pocket] finds J.A in the foyer, his ass in the air and head buried under the phone table. He’s wearing sweatpants and that’s all; a bright pink Post-it stuck on at the waist band. “What the fuck are you doing?”
There’s a thump, and a muffled curse. “You weren’t s’posed to wake up.”
Jared scrunches his forehead, urging his brain to catch on. There’s crust in his eyes and sleep in his bones and he can’t. “What the fuck are you doing?” he repeats, monotone.
Jensen gets to his feet, groaning, pissy, and older. He’s heavy eyes and birds-nest hair and Jared’s fingers itch with want. “It’s late, Jared,” he says, shouldering past and heading for the front room. There’s a well-slept dent in the bed, calling, but Jared - tie dyed with confusion, exhaustion, impatience - follows, slowly.
“It’s early, Jensen,” he mumbles, stopping short at the doorway and blinking. There’s Post-its everywhere, like notes on a stave; on the TV, the clock, the Texas flag pinned to the wall. It’s a loud, muddled song and Jared was always bad at reading music.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he quips, but all he hears from Jensen is DVD’s tumbling out of the cupboards. Jared wants to say something indulgent. He wants to go back to bed, with Jensen, but Sadie trots in and he’s done. “Oh, come on!” Jared protests and bends down to rip the Post-it from Sadie’s collar. “What the fuck, Jensen?”
“I’m trying to make a point,” he says, and shrugs. He’s crossed legged - bare soles peeking out - and he’s committed.
“Oh, a point. I thought it was deforestation.”
“You don’t get it.”
Jared snorts, shoving another piece of paper in his pocket and rounding the sofa. There’s a force field of discs between them, other things, apparently, so Jared leaves Jensen some space. He doesn’t like it. “I left The Idiot’s Guide To Post-its in my other pants.”
“I’m trying to say something.” Jensen’s voice is slow and rough and cowboy, as if that’s a language Jared will understand.
“Well. Jesus. Say it.”
Unfolding himself, Jensen stands to meet Jared but can’t meet his eyes. His freckles pepper everything [Jared’s started counting] and he scratches at his chest with an absent hand. “I don’t want to leave,” Jensen finally tells a potplant.
“Leave? Where?”
“Here,” Jensen tells the ceiling. “I don’t want to go anywhere, I don’t want to find another place, I don’t want to buy - ”
“Whoah, whoah, whoah.” Jared grasps Jensen’s shoulder; shake, rattle, rolls him, making him look. “Stop. Who said anything about leaving? You’re not leaving.”
“Whose house is this?”
“Uh, mine?”
“Right.” Jensen folds his arms. “Yeah.” He nods sharply. “Exactly.” His heels are dug in.
“Jensen, please, just.” Jared’s pinching his nose. It’s an ice-cream headache without the added benefit of eating. It hurts.
“It’s not my house Jared,” Jensen snaps. “You keep saying it’s your house. Your house, your door, your goddamn bed. Where do I fit? Which part is mine?”
Jared stares for a little while, his mouth wedged open with shock. He doesn’t know - he can’t - “I can’t believe …” He digs a hand into his pocket and pulls out a post it, jabbing a finger. “J.A? Jackass?”
“Witty.”
“You stuck these to all your stuff?”
“Yeah, and?”
Jared just shakes his head, a few disapproving noises in-between. He starts pulling more Post-its out of his pocket, smoothing out, and one, two, three, starts sticking them to himself. On his hair, his cheek, his sleeves, one on his belly button and another on his pants.
“You,” Jensen is saying, and it’s different, something shifts. Jared looks to see Jensen look. Jensen looks, looks and steps forward, grabbing Jared’s forearm to stop him and moving it away. Out of the way. They’re pressed right in, hipbones crashing and paper rustling.
“It’s my house, you dick,” Jared’s telling Jensen’s neck, grabbing him, fingers curled and deep and leaving pale, desperate spots in the skin of Jensen’s back. “I own it, but - ”
“What?” Jensen lifts his head and Jared kisses him. “Tell me.” Again. “I want.”
Jared opens his mouth against Jensen’s, gives, and gives, and gives.
“You’ve got me, Jensen,” he says into the crevasse of Jensen’s mouth. It’s quiet because it’s silly but it’s true. “Everything I’ve got, it’s yours.”
~*~
A quote from the Chicago Con, c/o smecklesbean:
Jensen: I'm changing the locks when we get home.
Jared: IT'S MY HOUSE!
Pairing: Jared/Jensen.
WC: ~800
Rating: PG15 [for language].
AN: Things were said at the Chicago Con, and it’s time to clear the air.
The house is technicolour.
There’s a dotted trail from the bedroom to the kitchen: neon Post-its. Pink and blue and yellow and green and a couple of Jared’s Transformers. They’re on photo frames, pillows and piles of dirty laundry and Jared peels one off a toothbrush to inspect it closer. J.A.
Jared [with 41 Post-its bundled in his pocket] finds J.A in the foyer, his ass in the air and head buried under the phone table. He’s wearing sweatpants and that’s all; a bright pink Post-it stuck on at the waist band. “What the fuck are you doing?”
There’s a thump, and a muffled curse. “You weren’t s’posed to wake up.”
Jared scrunches his forehead, urging his brain to catch on. There’s crust in his eyes and sleep in his bones and he can’t. “What the fuck are you doing?” he repeats, monotone.
Jensen gets to his feet, groaning, pissy, and older. He’s heavy eyes and birds-nest hair and Jared’s fingers itch with want. “It’s late, Jared,” he says, shouldering past and heading for the front room. There’s a well-slept dent in the bed, calling, but Jared - tie dyed with confusion, exhaustion, impatience - follows, slowly.
“It’s early, Jensen,” he mumbles, stopping short at the doorway and blinking. There’s Post-its everywhere, like notes on a stave; on the TV, the clock, the Texas flag pinned to the wall. It’s a loud, muddled song and Jared was always bad at reading music.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he quips, but all he hears from Jensen is DVD’s tumbling out of the cupboards. Jared wants to say something indulgent. He wants to go back to bed, with Jensen, but Sadie trots in and he’s done. “Oh, come on!” Jared protests and bends down to rip the Post-it from Sadie’s collar. “What the fuck, Jensen?”
“I’m trying to make a point,” he says, and shrugs. He’s crossed legged - bare soles peeking out - and he’s committed.
“Oh, a point. I thought it was deforestation.”
“You don’t get it.”
Jared snorts, shoving another piece of paper in his pocket and rounding the sofa. There’s a force field of discs between them, other things, apparently, so Jared leaves Jensen some space. He doesn’t like it. “I left The Idiot’s Guide To Post-its in my other pants.”
“I’m trying to say something.” Jensen’s voice is slow and rough and cowboy, as if that’s a language Jared will understand.
“Well. Jesus. Say it.”
Unfolding himself, Jensen stands to meet Jared but can’t meet his eyes. His freckles pepper everything [Jared’s started counting] and he scratches at his chest with an absent hand. “I don’t want to leave,” Jensen finally tells a potplant.
“Leave? Where?”
“Here,” Jensen tells the ceiling. “I don’t want to go anywhere, I don’t want to find another place, I don’t want to buy - ”
“Whoah, whoah, whoah.” Jared grasps Jensen’s shoulder; shake, rattle, rolls him, making him look. “Stop. Who said anything about leaving? You’re not leaving.”
“Whose house is this?”
“Uh, mine?”
“Right.” Jensen folds his arms. “Yeah.” He nods sharply. “Exactly.” His heels are dug in.
“Jensen, please, just.” Jared’s pinching his nose. It’s an ice-cream headache without the added benefit of eating. It hurts.
“It’s not my house Jared,” Jensen snaps. “You keep saying it’s your house. Your house, your door, your goddamn bed. Where do I fit? Which part is mine?”
Jared stares for a little while, his mouth wedged open with shock. He doesn’t know - he can’t - “I can’t believe …” He digs a hand into his pocket and pulls out a post it, jabbing a finger. “J.A? Jackass?”
“Witty.”
“You stuck these to all your stuff?”
“Yeah, and?”
Jared just shakes his head, a few disapproving noises in-between. He starts pulling more Post-its out of his pocket, smoothing out, and one, two, three, starts sticking them to himself. On his hair, his cheek, his sleeves, one on his belly button and another on his pants.
“You,” Jensen is saying, and it’s different, something shifts. Jared looks to see Jensen look. Jensen looks, looks and steps forward, grabbing Jared’s forearm to stop him and moving it away. Out of the way. They’re pressed right in, hipbones crashing and paper rustling.
“It’s my house, you dick,” Jared’s telling Jensen’s neck, grabbing him, fingers curled and deep and leaving pale, desperate spots in the skin of Jensen’s back. “I own it, but - ”
“What?” Jensen lifts his head and Jared kisses him. “Tell me.” Again. “I want.”
Jared opens his mouth against Jensen’s, gives, and gives, and gives.
“You’ve got me, Jensen,” he says into the crevasse of Jensen’s mouth. It’s quiet because it’s silly but it’s true. “Everything I’ve got, it’s yours.”
~*~
A quote from the Chicago Con, c/o smecklesbean:
Jensen: I'm changing the locks when we get home.
Jared: IT'S MY HOUSE!