As I Lay Dying - Part 3
<< Part 2
The few minutes of sitting off to the side, listening to Misha talking on the phone seem like hours to Jensen. After the first sentence, he knew immediately that the call was about his guy in the subway. And Misha just does his job, asks all the questions the police needs to know - if the weapon was secured, if they could trace how the stabbing had happened, which angle and position, and so on. While Jensen just sits there on eggshells and tries not to rip the phone out of Misha's hand to ask the one and only important question: Is he gonna make it?
“Yes, I see,” Misha says, nodding to himself. “I'll have that reported and filed, thank you, Sir.”
A few seconds of silence, Misha nodding again. “I understand.” When he looks up and meets Jensen's eyes, he quirks a short smile, then turns back to stare at his desk in concentration.
“Uhm, on a more personal note,” Misha continues, apparently right before the caller hangs up, “The man who reported the crime is still with me. He's very concerned, as you can probably guess, so... Is it, under any circumstances, okay if he could visit him? - Yes, right. About how long? - Okay. I'll let him know. Thank you very much, Dr. Milligan. Good night.”
Misha sighs and puts the phone back onto the station.
“So?” Jensen asks, sliding forward so he sits on the edge of the chair.
Misha smiles, and for the first time this evening Jensen notices how tired he must be as well. Dark circles underline his eyes, but at least he's smiling. “They are pretty sure that he's gonna make it.”
And Jensen just closes his eyes, presses the heels of his hands against them. Relief washes over him like a tidal wave, hitting him straight in the chest, and yet he still can't fully comprehend it.
“He was in surgery for a few hours, but he's recovering steadily and he's stable at the moment. He's also a young, fit guy, so the doctors are pretty confident that his body will be healing fast. The knife wound wasn't very deep and the blade was deflected by the tenth rib, so all he got was a small cut to the liver. These things usually heal fast, but bleed like you wouldn't believe. So he lost a lot of blood and it will take him a while, but basically he's been really, really lucky. Part of why he's got such a high likelihood of survival is because he was found within minutes of the stabbing. So.”
“Wow,” is all Jensen can manage right now, his voice choked up and heavy.
“You saved his life,” Misha says calmly, smiling some more. “And just FYI, he's gonna be out for the next few hours because of the anesthesia, and they'll keep him in the intensive care unit until at least Saturday morning. But, you know, if he's doing well, we might have a plan for Saturday.”
Jensen nods, still too overwhelmed by all of it. God, he needs a drink. To celebrate, or so he tells himself. “Would you bring me home, Misha? I'm not really in the mood to take the subway.”
Misha huffs a short laugh before he pushes himself up and leaves the room. “I'll let Jimmy know that we're going home.”
“You gonna be okay?” Misha asks when he pulls over in front of Jensen's house.
“Yeah, sure. Goodnight, Mish,” Jensen replies, smiling wearily, and pats his friend's shoulder before he gets out of the car. It's half past one in the morning, just about the time where Jensen usually gets really drunk.
When he opens the door to his apartment, Freckles greets him in his usual way. He's twisting around Jensen's feet, snuggling against his legs, begging for attention. Jensen bends down and gathers him up in his arms. “Sorry for forgetting you, little one,” he whispers, but he's apparently already forgiven as Freckles curls into a ball of fur and purrs.
With Freckles still in the crook of his arm, Jensen wanders over to the fridge.
For the first time in ages, he thinks about what he wants to drink - not even if, but what - and the decision falls on wine. Because he's got something to celebrate today.
The bottle of red is drained faster than Jensen counted on, and it kicks in like a bitch. Wine isn't usually his poison, and that shows in the way he stumbles to bed at half past three in the morning. He can barely avoid crashing right on top of Freckles. Unfazed by the near-death experience, the cat jumps to his feet and searches for a new place to sleep. In the end, he deems a different spot on a small cushion worthy, and lays back down right beside Jensen's hip. Lazily, he Jensen reaches over and lets his hand run along the cat's small body.
Jensen snorts a few stray cat hair out of his nose.
He's nervous. Drinking usually calms him down enough to get some shut-eye, but even his regular dose of babituates doesn't make him sleepy tonight.
He's not even sure what he should tell the guy when he meets him.
Truth be told, Jensen isn't a sociable person. He's rather on his own and not good at making conversation or jokes. If the guy has seen him because he's got the same curse as Jensen, he's probably just as grumpy and has enough problems on his own. And while Jensen would be thrilled to find some company in his misery, it probably wouldn't do much to improve his life.
In the end, all he can do is let it happen. See what life throws at him this time.
Jensen finds a bottle of whiskey under his bedside table. After a few gulps of the familiar, smoky taste, he realizes that this is actually his good stuff. The whiskey he stored away in his cabinet because it cost 50 bucks a bottle. Well, he's celebrating, right? Doesn't matter how the bottle ended up beside his bed. Most likely, he dragged it over when he was immensely plastered that one time a few weeks ago. That one night where he ended up hovering over the toilet, because despite how used to alcohol he is these days, even he manages to overdo it from time to time.
The whiskey in his hands is too good and above all too expensive for Jensen's usual purposes, though. He puts it aside, intending to store it back into the cabinet once he's sober enough. With one hand still hanging over the edge of the bed, Freckles curled up in the angle of his arm and body, Jensen frowns into the shadow beside his closet. From the tilted window, a cold autumn breeze flies in and tickles over his bare stomach. It's chilly, but not exactly freezing. Jensen still stares into space.
The things he'd give to have another person right here, right now, in Freckles' place. Someone to hold on to, someone who held him in return. But that's never gonna happen, and Jensen knows it. It's not even about the sex, or about an epic love story. It's just that Jensen really misses some human touch every once in a while. Yes, he wants a boyfriend, but who would even take him with all the issues he has? Right. He sighs. And frowns some more, until the spiral of depressing thoughts sends him into a few fitful hours of dozing.
The first thing Jensen does when he flops down into the passenger seat of Misha's police car the next morning, is ask, “So, any news?” As he slams the door shut, Jensen is reminded once again of the headache threatening to split his head in two and just prays that Advil finally kicks in soon. His hangover hasn't been quite this bad for quite some time, and Jensen blames the wine.
Misha doesn't even need to ask what he's talking about. “None yet, but I think I'll get an update as soon as I'm at the station.” He looks tired, and confirms Jensen's musings by stiffling a yawn. “I'm sorry, Jensen, but I'm not good company today. I'm pretty done right now.”
“Yeah, I can relate,” Jensen mumbles, and they spend the rest of the ride in silence.
When Misha pulls over to Jensen's office building to drop him off, he smiles a tired smile. “I'll let you know as soon as I know anything new, okay?”
“Thanks,” Jensen says and nods. “See you after work, then.”
Misha nods back and drives off.
The day, as far as bad days at work go, isn't half as terrible as Jensen expected. As soon as his painkillers eventually decide to get to work, he manages to get out a fairly decent column for the Op-Ed section - on human behavior in subways, who would've thought. He just spends too much time pondering over such things lately.
Which doesn't make him refrain from checking his phone every ten minutes, looking and waiting for a text from Misha. When he still hasn't heard anything by 10 o'clock, Jensen fires off a short 'So?'.
'Nothing new. Afraid he's still comatose, but responding well to the medication.'
Jensen takes a deep, relieved breath.
An hour later, he still finds himself biting his lips and sends another text to Misha. The response is just 'Nothing new,' which is the same he gets when he heads out for lunch and asks again.
Jensen is reading the text right when he's shoving open the door to the deli across the street from his office. The vision that hits him couldn't be more unexpected.
He stares at the sidewalk, sees a slender teenage boy lying on the ground. He curls into a ball, hands coming up to shield his head reflexively. Three bulky guys, all about the same age as the boy on the pavement, are standing around him. They all kick him hard a few times with their boots; kicking him into his side, his stomach, even onto the hands that cover his head.
Jensen can hear the boy crying and groaning in pain every time another punch hits him.
“How do you like that, huh, cocksucker?” one of the guys asks, but doesn't get an answer.
The tallest of them, apparently their leader, holds his hands up to stop his companions. Then he kneels down on his haunches, and leans in right beside the boy's ear. “He asked if you like that, you fucking fag,” he snarls. “So answer!” and with that, he takes a swing at the boy's vulnerable stomach.
Great, a hate crime, Jensen thinks. Not like he gets to see gay bashings very often, but when he does, they hurt him on a whole different level.
The boy just whines, and Jensen's heart clenches in sympathy. The poor kid.
With sudden clarity, Jensen realizes it's the first vision he's had since subway guy. He looks around himself, because that's all he could ever do. He can't move, just like always. The colors of his surroundings are as blurry as ever, the ad on the bus station a couple yards down the street unreadable. The teenagers wear colorful clothing and haircuts that clearly scream 80s. The realization is almost soothing for Jensen. It's the past, as usual.
The kid on the floor looks up, then, his eyes also skimming over the place from where Jensen is watching them. He can't see him.
Just another usual vision, then.
The boy takes another hard punch to the stomach and coughs. One of the bullies takes the opportunity now that his face is unshielded, and hits him squarely on the chin. Jensen can hear his jaw click, rows of teeth clashing painfully against each other. The boy quickly holds his hands over his face again, spits blood on the sidewalk. Jensen takes a wild guess that he bit his tongue pretty hard.
The vision ends with one last, but very hard kick to the teenager's neck, bones cracking under the impact. When a siren starts to whine in the distance, the leader curses, “Fuck, the cops,” and they all dart off.
Jensen never gets to see if they find the kid. Never gets to see if he survived.
Blinking into the warm midday sun, Jensen finds himself standing right in front of the door of the deli. People are walking around him, somehow pushing their way into the restaurant nonetheless and complaining loudly about his rude behavior. God knows how long he’s stood there like this.
These kind of visions strike a chord within him, and Jensen feels restless and thrown completely off balance as he joins the long line of business men on their lunch break.
He had been bullied just like that in high school, even though he had never outwardly said that he was gay. It was just that he never had a girlfriend, never went after girls and didn't go to parties. And the one girl that was brave enough to ask him if he would go out with her, he had turned down and felt like shit for it. She had asked why, and Jensen couldn't give her any good reason.
From then on, one of the 'cool kids' had decided that he had to be gay if he turned Casey Williams down. And from then on, his life was hell until he finally graduated and went to college. He made sure it was as far away as his parents allowed.
“Hi there, what can I get you?” the guy behind the counter asks him then, effectively pulling Jensen out of his musings.
Jensen orders a simple ham and cheese sandwich and sits down in the corner of the shop to eat.
The vision is still haunting him. It's somehow good to know that the visions are back to normal, as horrible as they still are. But that one left an especially bitter aftertaste. Jensen tries to shrug it off and focus on his sandwich.
Before he goes to work again, he sends yet another text to Misha.
This time, he calls back, and Jensen doesn't even get so say hello.
“Christ, Jensen, I'd tell you immediately if something happened! Chill the fuck out,” Misha reprimands him sharply.
“Sure, I just... uhm. Sorry, Mish.”
“You better be. I got work to do, you know,” his friend answers in a more calm tone. “I'll catch you later.”
“Yeah, see you,” Jensen says meekly and swallows around the lump in his throat. Guiltily, he pockets his phone again. He didn't want to get on Misha's nerves, it's just... he's curious, is all.
Jensen groans. He needs to get his mind off things or else he'll go crazy.
In the end, he buries his head in work for the afternoon. He's so engrossed in the latest article his co-worker tries to fit into his section and arguing with him about it that he almost flinches when his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. And completely forgets about it immediately.
It's only ten minutes later, when his colleague has stormed out of his office, that Jensen grabs for his phone, intends to waste some time and calm down from the fight, but then - there's a text from Misha.
'He's awake. I've got his name now. Do you want to know?'
Jensen's thumb hovers over the answer button on his phone. Does he want to know? Or does he want to meet the guy without knowing who he is? Placing his cell on the desk, Jensen rubs his face with both hands and sighs. Looking up, his gaze wanders out to the city, as far as he can see it from his office on the 29th floor.
Maybe it's childish, or Jensen is falling back to being a teenager, or he just wants the moment of surprise. 'Don't tell me. But thanks for the update, that's good to know.'
'And he's in very good condition. It looks like they can transfer him to the step-down unit sooner than expected.'
Jensen sucks in a breath at that. 'So we can visit him tomorrow?'
'If you want to. And don't forget that I've invited you over for dinner tonight.'
It's probably better this way, Jensen states silently to himself. He wants to be sober when he meets his mystery man, and if he spends the night at Misha's, it's more likely that he doesn't get drunk than if he's at home alone.
Dinner is nice and delicious, just like it always is when Jensen is over at Misha's. The banter between him and Vicky is also as hilarious as ever, and Jensen is again reminded of why he enjoys their company so much. It also makes him crave for someone like this in his life, too, but he manages to keep the bitterness of it all to himself.
They crash on the couch afterwards to watch a movie. The great thing about these two is that they never, never made Jensen feel like the third wheel, even if he totally is, and he smiles as Misha pats his back affectionately on his way to the kitchen.
“Beer?” he asks, although it's more like a statement than a question.
“Water's fine, thanks,” Jensen replies, and it feels like the weirdest thing to say.
Misha stops in his tracks, turns around and eyes him carefully. “Huh.” he says with a raised eyebrow, but then continues walking to the kitchen.
And brings Jensen a bottle of water.
Conversation is kept light, and no one talks about Saturday by default. Or Jensen's unusual non-alcoholic drink.
At about midnight, Vicky stifles a yawn. “Guys, I think I'm gonna go to bed.”
She stands up, kisses Misha goodnight. Jensen gets a hug and a pat to the back.
When she's gone, the two men sit in the living room in silence. Jensen sits on the couch indian-style, playing with the label of his water bottle, while Misha has his feet crossed at the ankle and propped up on the tea table. The TV is turned off, only the distant sounds of the cars on the street are breaking the silence. It's not uncomfortable, though. It never is with Misha.
“You won't sleep very well tonight, am I right?” he asks quietly after a few minutes of silence.
Jensen huffs. “Yeah, not really.” Lack of booze and sleeping pills.
Misha doesn't say it, but he knows. After another few minutes of companionable silence, Misha takes a deep breath again. “What do you think? Why could he see you?”
“I don't know,” Jensen answers quietly, staring at the floor, “I thought of it, of course. Maybe he's cursed with the same... thing that I have.”
Absent-mindedly, Misha nods. “Don't get me wrong, but if he's just as grumpy as you are, you won't get along very good.”
“Who says we need to get along? I just want to meet him and get to know why he saw me in the vision. That's all.”
Misha shrugs. “You know, I get what you said about the vision. That it was special? I think that too, I have a preternatural feeling about this.”
“Stop using words I don't even know. And I'm an editor for the New York Times,” Jensen smiles weakly and lightly punches Misha's shoulder.
“You know you like it. And I know I'll be reading preternatural at least once in your next article.”
Jensen punches him again. “Fuck you,” he says.
“Not interested,” Misha counters.
When Jensen looks over, their eyes meet for a short moment, and with a sudden clarity Jensen sees Misha, his best friend. Instinctively, he reaches out, wraps his arm around Misha's shoulders and pulls him in close, hugs him as tight as possible in this position.
“You're the best friend someone could have, you know that?” Jensen whispers.
“I know. And I'm all yours,” Misha mock-whispers back.
Jensen can just smile, even when they break apart. His arm still stays around Misha's shoulders, as does Misha's around his waist.
“Are you looking forward to tomorrow?” Misha asks him after another beat.
“Yeah, pretty much. Actually, I'm kinda surprised that I haven’t freaked out yet.”
“Good,” Misha says. “Well, you're not in high school any more. It was time that you grew up, young Padawan.”
Jensen chuckles. And somehow, it breaks the tension of awaiting tomorrow. Because no matter how much Jensen will tell himself that he isn't nervous - he really kind of is. To his utter relief, they spend the rest of the evening with silly high school stories, just like old times. And just like that, time flies by.
At 3:45 in the morning, Misha blinks up at Jensen with tired eyes. “You wanna stay the night?”
Jensen grins, lazy as well. “Not planning on taking the subway this time of the night.”
“Sure, feel free to stay,” Misha mumbles as he tilts his head sideways to lean against Jensen's shoulder.
“Will do,” Jensen says softly and shifts in his seat to sit in a more comfortable position on the sofa.
Misha, eco-conscious guy that he is, has of course an automatic motion sensor hooked to the light switch. And after another five minutes, the lights in the living room dim down softly, making even Jensen's eyes drop to half-mast.
In the end, they both fall asleep like this. Misha on Jensen's shoulder, Jensen's head leaned against Misha's, both snoring softly when Vicky checks on them an hour later. She smiles as she throws a blanket over the two of them.
Jensen doesn't even flinch.
He just wakes up the next morning by the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air and bacon and eggs frying in the pan, and by Misha slowly moving and waking up as well. And he realizes he hasn't slept that well without any whiskey in ages.
The crick in his neck is worth it.
Jensen goes home to shower and try calm himself, but by the time they arrive at the hospital, he’s a bundle of nerves. Again.
“Don't think, Jensen. Just go in there. I'll wait right here,” Misha encourages him, gently shoving him towards the door to the hospital room.
“Why don't you come in with me?” Jensen almost begs, his eyebrows drawn tight.
Misha just shakes his head. “No reason for me to be there. You can do this, come on.”
When Jensen still hesitates, Misha mumbles a “Oh for fuck's sake” and takes a step sideways to knock at the door. Jensen has about five seconds to shoot him a glare before a deep and very male, although weak voice says from the inside, “Come in.”
Jensen takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking, and he doesn't quite know whether it's a symptom of the alcohol withdrawal or the fact that he's two seconds away from running away as fast as he can.
Misha takes a step back. Damn him. Traitor.
Wasn't he excited to meet this guy? Well, yes, he was. So. This is going to happen, Jensen decides and pushes the door handle down, enters the room and closes the door again quietly. Then he takes a deep breath and steps towards the only occupied bed in the room.
The guy lying there cranes his neck towards the door, looking to see who is coming to visit him. Shaggy brown hair falls into his face, and Jensen can immediately see the bandage around his bare chest. His right hand is in a cast, resting on his stomach.
When his eyes meet Jensen's, they go impossibly wide, and his jaw drops. “You're... you're - Oh my fucking god,” he only manages to cough a few moments later. “It's you.”
Jensen doesn't have to try that hard to smile at him easily. “Guess so. Good afternoon to you, too.”
“Good afternoon, uhm...” and now he's obviously flustered, which Jensen finds probably too amusing for his own good. “Please, take a seat.”
Nodding once, Jensen drags the upholstered recliner that sits in a corner across the room over to the bed. Slanted, blue-green eyes follow his every movement, and Jensen is very aware of it.
“So-” he starts once he's sitting, but he gets quickly interrupted.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, but I haven't even introduced myself,” the man on the bed says, lifting his left - his good - hand and holding it towards Jensen. “I'm Jared. Jared Padalecki. And you're the guy from my vision, as far as I know.”
Jensen awkwardly raises his left hand, too, and shakes Jared's as best as he can. “The name is Jensen Ackles, and just for the record: you were the guy from my vision.”
Jared smiles at that, a wide, toothy smile that makes Jensen look twice. He still looks beat-up and tired, the bandages doing nothing to lessen the impression, but the smile... is pretty breathtaking. “Yeah, that vision scared the shit out of me,” he replies quietly.
“So, you don't usually see these things? Or- wait, wait, wait. Stop right there-” Jensen stumbles over his own words at the realization, hands raised with his palms towards Jared as he composes himself. “You've got visions frequently, too?”
“Well, yeah, or else I wouldn't have seen you, I guess. I thought I imagined you standing there, and now you're all... real and-” Jared grins again and shakes his head in disbelief. “And wow.”
Maybe Jensen looked a bit to close there, but he most definitely sees admiration in Jared's eyes. He also notices how he just can't stop smiling. “I'm pretty baffled myself, you know. It was the first time someone ever saw me in one of my visions.”
“For me, it was the first time I saw something that made any sense at all,” Jared replies nonchalantly with that boyish smile of his.
Jensen decides that he really likes the spark in those eyes. Jared might be injured, but he's thrumming with energy, and it seems to be his nature. Clearing his throat, Jensen reminds himself to focus on the first conversation he's had out of work and not with Misha for years. “Why? What do you usually see?”
Jared shrugs, but only with the shoulder that hasn't the bandage wrapped around it for stability. “The future. And I know what you think right now - that's so cool, right, like in Minority Report, and I'm working with the police and saving people from murders that weren't even committed yet. Uhm, nope.”
And Jensen just sits there with a wide smile, watching him ramble.
“What?” Jared asks, an amused smirk curling up the edges of his lips.
“Dude, considering my visions don't end up like that, I never assumed yours would,” Jensen answers simply. “But what is it that you see in the future? UFOs? People in spacesuits?”
Jared grins. “Much less exciting. Think of a can a kid in front of me throws onto the sidewalk. Say, I'll kick it out of the way. The moment I touch it, I have a vision of that can. Lying in a desert, the paint long since worn off, a tumbleweed tumbling by. And after I watched that for three pointless minutes, I'm back to normal, but everyone around me thinks I'm nuts because I've been standing on the sidewalk for three minutes, staring at a stupid empty can.”
And Jensen can't hold it any more, bursts into loud laughing fit. It's just so ridiculous. There he is, seeing murders and rape every day, and this guy has visions of items in wastelands. It's too stupid, too ironic. So he just laughs, until Jared interrupts him with the widest grin on his face. “Dude. Stop laughing. I have a healing process going on for this cut in my liver, you know, and laughing is not exactly helping with that,” he says as seriously as he can manage.
“Sorry,” Jensen gasps for air, tears in his eyes. He can't even remember when he last laughed so hard. And when he felt as good as he does now. Jared raises his head from the pillow and shakes it, still grinning.
“So... when did your visions start?” Jensen coughs, trying to regain his self-control.
Jared drops his head back onto his pillow and looks up at the ceiling, which makes Jensen's eyes shift involuntarily to his throat. It's covered in day-old, dark stubble, and - oh. Jared's voice also does nothing to help Jensen focus. “When I was about four. They all thought I had ADHD or something, because I just spaced out randomly at the most inappropriate of times - although I was just staring at a inflatable ball, crumpled and cracked laying around in someone's closet.”
Jensen still smiles at him. His eyes are drawn to Jared's, he's unable to look away and he's not really sorry about that. When Jared's eyes meet his, Jared gives him a warm smile, and Jensen feels a surge of heat roll through him. His heart is pounding hard and fast in his chest, but this time it's not from nervousness any more.
Suddenly, Jared's smile drops a bit and his tone turns serious. “Hey, Jensen, can I ask you something?”
Still recovering from the way his name rolls of Jared's tongue, Jensen croaks out. “Sure, yes. Shoot.”
“What did you see two days ago? How did it happen? Because I know it wasn't a coincidence that the police officers stood right there when the doors of the subway opened,” Jared says quietly. His eyes are wavering for a moment, and Jensen sees through the mask momentarily. Jared seems like a happy-go-lucky guy, but he is so obviously hiding his fear after the attack in the subway.
“Uhm,” Jensen begins weakly. He drops his head onto his chest, staring at the floor as he swallows and then starts anew. “I took the subway home that day - the same you were on, by the way, but I didn't realize that until way later - and when I had to hold onto the armrest, I had that vision of you. It happens a lot to me in the subway, although you really were the first one who could see me during a vision.”
“Probably because I've got that gift as well,” Jared throws in. “I'd had the same vision that morning, when I went to work in the subway. First time I saw something happening to myself. And I saw you in the vision, standing helplessly at the side. I shouted and begged and you looked like you heard me, but you didn't do anything and I couldn't understand why.”
Confirming with a nod, Jensen continues, “I saw it just like this. And when I left my subway station - 86th street - I knew I just had to do something. So I called Misha, who's my best friend and an NYPD officer. He's the only one who knows about my visions. I did some brainstorming with him, and we ended up with the fact that for the first time ever, I saw the future. I usually just see the past, you know. And Misha just grabbed the radio and had two police cars sent to the station. That's why they were awaiting you.”
Jared stares at him throughout the little story, and Jensen can see the terror in his eyes at the memory. Then he subsequently presses them shut, breathes out an “Oh my god.”
“You okay?” Jensen asks, looking for signs of physical pain, possibly from his hand or the wound at his side, but Jared just opens his eyes and looks up at him.
“Yeah, of course I am. You saved my life, Jensen,” he replies breathlessly, locking eyes with Jensen as he speaks. “They said I had enough luck as it is, that it was good that I turned while the guy was stabbing me, that the knife was averted by my rib, but mostly what saved me was the fact that they found me so early. I had lost a lot of blood already, but because they had me in an ambulance within minutes, it really wasn't too bad. I didn't even need a transfusion. And all because of you,” he rambles on, deep gratitude shining in his eyes.
Jensen can only stare and smile awkwardly at him.
“C'mere,” Jared says then, lifting his left arm.
Jensen raises an eyebrow questioningly.
“I want to hug you, dumbass, so come here,” Jared grins.
“Oh,” Jensen answers intelligently, not even minding the insult, before he stands up slowly. “Uhm, I don't know, I don't wanna hurt you-”
“Shut up,” Jared says quietly and somehow manages to get his arm across Jensen's shoulders, pulling him down so that he ends up face-first on Jared's shoulder.
Closing his eyes for a second, Jensen takes a deep breath. Jared smells - well, mostly of hospital detergent and antiseptic agent they used during the surgery. But he's warm, and Jensen feels him smile against his temple.
“Thank you,” Jared whispers, and it's not meant to be a whisper, Jensen can tell.
However, while he holds himself up with his right hand in order to not crush into Jared's body, Jensen manages to wrap his left arm around Jared's shoulder and holds him close. Jared is trembling underneath him.
“Are you alright?” Jensen asks again silently, practically whispering into Jared's ear.
“Yeah, I just-” Jared chokes, clears his throat, and Jensen retreats reluctantly so he can recover. Jared's eyes are glued to his as he answers, “I just realized how close I was to dying. And how much of a random happenstance is it that you, another guy with visions just like me, was around to see me?”
Jensen sits back down on the chair beside the bed, but he doesn't get to answer.
The door opens, revealing the nurse who's currently on duty. “Sorry, guys, visiting time is over in a few,” she says with a sympathetic smile.
“Yeah, sure,” Jensen says, nodding at her. “So,” he adds once she has left the room. “I guess I better head home.”
“You do that,” Jared replies, again in that quiet tone, “Thank you very much for visiting me today, Jensen. And for, you know, saving my life.” Despite the miserable look on his face, he manages a smile.
“It would sound a bit off if I said 'You're welcome' now, am I right?” Jensen asks rhetorically, trying to ease the tense mood.
Jared only stifles a lopsided, unamused smile and frowns. The fingers of his uninjured left hand clench repeatedly into the sheets of his bed. “Listen, uhm... I know you have a life of your own and all that. But-” he breaks off, staring out the window and biting his lip.
Jensen sighs. “Actually, I don't have much of a social life, if I'm honest. So, yes, if you're okay with it, I'd like to come visit you again tomorrow. If that's what you were about to ask.”
It feels weird and yet so natural. Something about Jared makes Jensen act completely calm and confident - qualities he isn't used to in himself. Not at all. It's like something just clicked between them.
Jensen feels like he had known Jared forever. And he has the feeling that it's the same for Jared.
“Yes, I actually was,” Jared answers, surprise and relief obvious in his voice. “Are you sure? I mean, I don't want to get into any Sunday family plans or something.”
Jensen shakes his head and smiles slightly. “My family lives in Texas and the only one who's waiting for me at home is my cat.”
“Huh,” Jared grins. “Woulda thought ya were more like the dog kinda guy,” he drawls lazily.
After a blink or two, Jensen grins right back. “What, you too?”
“Born 'n' raised in San Antonio,” Jared answers.
“Dallas,” Jensen adds simply and tilts his head. “And for the record, you try getting a dog in a Manhattan apartment while you're working full-time.”
“I think you better get outta here before the nurse comes to kick you out,” Jared says. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“You will, scout's honor,” Jensen raises his hand to show the typical sign.
“And if you're really as cool as you made me think you are today, you will bring me some candy,” Jared adds. “I'd kill for some M&Ms right now. You don't get anything good to eat in a hospital.”
Jensen mock-frowns and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you even allowed to have candy in here?”
“I don't know. As far as I know, it doesn't interfere with my painkillers, so. Why the hell not?” he shrugs.
“If you say so, Jared,” smiling at him one last time and giving a short wave, Jensen turns around to leave.
“Bye, Jensen,” he hears from the corner where Jared's bed stands right as he opens the door.
He doesn't look back.
Misha is waiting for him outside of the room, hands buried in his pockets. When he sees the smile on Jensen's lips, he looks slightly irritated. “Okay. What just happened?”
“I don't know, Mish. I really don't. Can you drive me over here tomorrow as well? And can we stop by a convenience store on the way?”
Misha just shakes his head. “Where is grumpy Jensen, and what have you done to him?”
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