The Moon Is New - Part Six

[obstinatrix]

Jared is surviving. That is, alas, about as much as can be said for his life in the days following Jensen's departure, but it is a life, and it goes on.

He doesn't know where Jensen is going. This is the thing that keeps occurring to him in quiet moments, while he's occupying himself behind the bar with decanting alcohol or stacking glasses or mopping up a sticky unidentified stain from a Friday night party. He doesn't know where Jensen is going, or how long it will take to get there, and the fact of this ignorance is somehow the worst part.

He never asked, to be fair. It isn't as if Jensen flatly refused to tell, or tapped his nose covertly like some government agent in a comic book, slinking away under shadow of night to play his part in some top-secret espionage ring. The ring Jensen is part of is even less wholesome, and its activities still more furtive. Jared never asked because it didn't really occur to him to do so, and Jensen never said because, presumably, he has long been trained to keep quiet. It was perfectly natural at the time, but the result of it is that Jared can't stop thinking about it.

Where Jensen is, at this moment, right now, while Jared fastens his apron and takes stock of what needs to be done on his early evening shift; whether he's on a train or in someone's car, or maybe on a boat by now. Whether he's arrived, gotten where he's going and begun putting out his feelers, calling his suppliers in. Jared can imagine, does imagine all sorts of scenarios, Jensen with the brim of his hat pulled down low over his face, the collar of his overcoat flipped up to shield his jaw, and all the faceless people he meets on his way.

He can imagine anything he likes -- or doesn't like -- but in the end, he will still know nothing, and it isn't if Jensen is going to call when he gets there. Misha has a big boxy telephone under the stairs, his business line, but Jared thinks it pretty unlikely that Jensen will care to call Jared up through the medium of the switchboard and tell him how his illegal exploits are going. Maybe they don't even have telephones where Jensen's going. It's stupidly difficult to process the idea that he probably won't hear Jensen's voice for weeks, the low, warm rasp of it, the way it sounds when Jensen's close enough that the vibrations of it slide down Jared's spine, but that's the truth. Jensen is gone, and Jared will just have to wait.

Shit, it isn't as if he's gone to war. Jared knows that, reminds himself of it often enough when he feels himself coming over all melodramatic, face getting tight and heavy with melancholy at inopportune moments. He isn't in the path of any bullets or bombs, and even if, in the worst-case scenario, he's picked up by the police, this isn't a hanging crime. Besides which, Jensen's been doing this adroitly for years, and it's frankly ridiculous of Jared to behave as if his own sudden appearance on the scene might have the power to derail what has functioned for so long with perfect efficiency. Jensen will be all right, but Jared is used to them being all right together, Jensen's warmth spooned up against him in bed, their fingers interlaced.

Jensen sleeps more soundly when Jared's with him, too, and in his darker moments, Jared finds himself wondering if another boy might be sharing Jensen's bed, curving his spine back against Jensen's front. It's a stupid fear, and Jared knows it -- Jensen never paused long enough to actually sleep with anyone before Jared came along, and besides, if he hadn't known before that Jensen loved him, it would still have been there for anyone to see in his face as he wished Jared goodbye, the tightness of his voice. Jensen is not about to fuck his way across the length of the coastline, now that Jared's out of reach. But this doesn't stop Jared's brain drifting sometimes in that direction, particularly when the dark mood is already upon him.

Nights are when he feels the worst of it. Logically, it doesn't even make any sense that he should -- after all, it isn't as if he'd ever spent a night at Jensen's at all before their last evening together, and Jensen tended not to stay over in Jared's little room unless he was certain that Misha and Matt would be elsewhere, at least until after he and Jared had fallen asleep. Jared's bed is barely wide enough for him, his broad shoulders and long limbs winding up inevitably off the mattress by morning, and he is perfectly used to sleeping in it alone. Somehow, though, every position feels awkward now, the absence of Jensen's cradling arm almost tangible. It is at night that his thoughts tend most towards the maudlin, when he is alone and he feels it to his bones.

Jared doesn't like to be alone any more. He can't help it that he's gotten used to company, and he isn't sorry, either; it's just that things that used to be easy are difficult now, and it hurts like he never thought anything could, like a hollow in his chest. Misha is of the opinion that it will get better -- that, by the end of a month, Jared will have mostly adjusted -- and Jared knows rationally that he is right, but some nights, no part of him is quite able to believe it.



The best thing about having a live-in boyfriend is...well, okay, no. Misha's pretty sure there are too many excellent and worthy things to count about not having to do more than roll across the mattress for his morning blowjob, and far be it from him to try and rank them. The top spot switches out from one day to the next, with high points ranging from 'it somehow lessens the creep factor of watching him sleep if you regularly share the bed' all the way to 'he makes amazing scrambled eggs and they are always available'.

Matt is more than just a stupidly attractive man who also happens to be a truly brilliant pianist, as Misha first thought. He also has the biggest and most compelling grin in captivity, especially now that Jared's is kind of dimmed, and is, Misha argues, a god in the kitchen and a devil in bed. Matt insists it should be the other way around, but what the hell does he know, anyway? Misha is the brains of the operation, however much Hemingway Matt reads.

"You wish," Matt says, smile curving up the corners of his mouth. He leans across the bed, elbows Misha pointedly in the side, and it might have been annoying had Misha not been currently wallowing in the fact that Matt can, if he wants to, just lean across the bed and elbow Misha in the side, like so, without having to come in from the next room to do it. Possibly Misha is having a sentimental moment, and possibly his sentimental moments tend to have rather unorthodox focuses. It's a free country. Apart, of course, from the small matter of Alcohol Prohibition, but Misha tends to see that as more of a suggestion than an edict. It works for him.

"I don't need to wish," he points out airily. Matt is angled towards him slightly, legs snugged up against Misha's under the sheets, and that tends to mean he's up for some gloriously illegal touching, despite the fact that he's already both given and received a high-quality blowjob today in the back room downstairs. With someone as rapacious as Matt constantly available to him, Misha finds he very rarely has any need to wish at all. This is, really, his first experience of having anyone constantly around, and so far he's pretty sure he could get used to it. By which he means he's already so used to it that losing it now would be like losing a limb.

When his hand finds Matt's thigh beneath the covers, gripping the hard line of muscle before sliding upward, Matt hisses approval between his teeth, lifts his hips. "Mmm, Mish." His voice is as lazy as his movements, no urgency to it, and its slow warmth crawls deliciously down Misha's spine.

"This what you want?" He traces his fingers upward, upward, drags them over the cut of Matt's pelvis, the fine skin of his stomach, pointedly avoiding his cock as it thickens and rises. Matt squirms, breath hitching slightly, and Misha smiles; leans in to mouth at the sharp line of Matt's jaw because he can't resist and he has no reason to. "Babe?"

"Shit, yeah." Matt's hand is on Misha's wrist, now, long fingers circling it, and his thighs splay open easy and familiar, the casual acquiescence of perfect trust. It's heady, the feeling of responsibility Misha gets whenever Matt does this, and it makes Misha's own pulse pick up as he lets himself be guided. Hard now, Matt is blood-hot and thick in Misha's hand, skin like fine silk against his palm, and he tips his head back on a groan as he pushes up into the touch, baring the long line of his neck. "Yeah, just -- yeah."

Hand working faster, now, quick flick-drag of his wrist as he leans into the motions, Misha shifts his hips, making room, presses his cock against the outside of Matt's long thigh as he noses at his jaw. "Gonna fuck you," he tells him, soft and dark, in a tone that promises everything with no time limit. That, he thinks, is the best thing about having a live-in boyfriend in this moment, the way things can be left to proceed at their own pace, no rush and no obligations. "I'm gonna work you open slowly --" Misha's other hand trails a slow path up Matt's inner thigh, teasing "-- and fuck you on my fingers, you want that?"

"Fuck," Matt groans, pelvis rolling smooth and rhythmic into Misha's fist, now, sweat starting up in the hollow of his long throat. "Yeah," he whispers, and it goes straight to Misha's dick. "Your fucking hands, Misha, just want --"

"What do you want?" Misha flicks his thumb over the slit where Matt's leaking, presses there a moment too long, coaxing out a frenetic jerk of his hips. "C'mon, Matt, what'd you want me to do to you?"

"Want you to fuck me," Matt returns, with characteristic frankness. He's always like this now, always hot and urgent and utterly fucking shameless, and Misha can't get enough of it, feels his blood burning just watching him. "Want you to fuck me with your fingers, want you to put your cock in me and fuck me like that; want --"

"Yeah," Misha interrupts, breathlessly, "yeah, and --"

"-- and want you to, fuck, want you to bite me, want you to make a bruise, Mish --"

"Shit," Misha grits, and God, he's so ready, can't take much more of this before he shoulders in bodily between Matt's thighs and works him unceremoniously open. "God, Matt, you don't -- do you even --"

"Misha?"

The speed at which the smoothly rolling scene becomes a tableau might have been comical, had Misha not been on the cusp of dying of sexual tension. As it is, the tentative sound of Jared's voice, his timid little knock on the door, both serve to make Misha's stomach clench in helpless frustration.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath, but when he dares a glance at Matt's face, he finds it wry and sympathetic, and that, combined with the fact that Misha can't help the way that voice tugs his heartstrings, pretty much seals the deal. He sighs, withdrawing his hand, and smooths the sheets back down over the two of them in some semblance of propriety.

The knock comes again. "Misha?"

Misha squeezes Matt's hand briefly, and then turns his attention to the door. "You all right, baby?"

There's a pause, hesitant but mercifully short, before Jared asks, his voice still small, "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Misha shoots back, after a last brief exchange of glances with Matt, whose colour is still high across his cheekbones, breath still hitching harder than normal, but Jared will just have to deal with that. He's old enough, after all, to know what he's walking into when he knocks on Misha's door in the middle of the night when Matt's is standing open. Hell, is he old enough. If he hadn't been, no part of the current state of affairs would have come to pass. "Come on in, Jay."

The door clicks open like a pop-gun, as if Jared's hand had been poised and ready on the handle all along, but any humour Misha might have found in that is overridden by the look on Jared's face, the violet smudges under his eyes. In his pyjamas -- soft pants probably made for sleeping in, but which Misha doesn't recognise, and a pullover shirt he knows for a fact is Jensen's  -- Jared looks younger, all arms and legs, pulled in on himself. His bare feet curl vulnerably into the carpet, everything about his stance unhappy and seventeen. It's obvious from even the most peremptory of glances at his face that this boy is miserable, and Misha immediately berates himself for daring to be frustrated for even a second when Jared needs him. God, does Jared need him. Misha is under no illusions about the fact that he's the closest thing to stability Jared's ever had in his life, and the fact makes him very proud. He isn't about to renege on the unspoken promises he made to Jared when he took him in, not when Jared needs him more than ever, and certainly not because he wants to get laid, Jesus.

He holds out a hand, palm upraised, eyes steady on Jared's. "It's okay. Come here. Bad dream?"

Jared is at the bedside in seconds, clambering up onto the edge of the bed before Misha has opportunity to comment. His head is ducked, hair fallen in his face, teeth gleaming whitely against his lower lip. "Haven't been asleep," Jared murmurs, small, as he pulls up his legs onto the bed, too, wraps his arms around them and folds himself up like some kind of miserable, long-limbed boy pretzel. "I just..." He breaks off with a sigh. "I can't. Sleep. Not right now."

For an awful moment, looking at him like that, Misha hasn't the faintest idea what to say. It feels as if anything, everything would be wrong, or insufficient or somehow insensitive. Fortunately, Matt is there to stopper the gap, leaning forward with a look on his face that exemplifies so many of the reasons Misha loves him, so much of what is good about him. "Just got lonely, huh?"

His voice is low, soft, addressing Jared almost as if he were a child, even though Matt is younger than Misha and even Misha isn't old enough to be Jared's father, unless he'd been an amazingly precocious tween. Which, in certain ways, he was, but not in that one. Certainly not where girls were concerned. Jared, though, to judge by the way he raises his head to look at Matt soft-eyed, doesn't seem to mind being addressed this way at all. "Yeah," he says hoarsely, and his hand inches out across the bed to find Matt's, lying on the bedspread with his fingers splayed loosely. "Yeah, I just. I felt like I needed to see someone before I could sleep, or something. I don't know." He shrugs. "I heard you guys talking, is all. I don't wanna get in your way, I just --"

"No," Misha puts in hastily, and he hears Matt agreeing, sees his fingers squeeze Jared's where they're twined together on top of the covers. He slides his own hand up to Jared's shoulder, up to his nape, gripping it in an attempt to offer whatever reassurance he can. "You're not in the way, Jared, don't be stupid. You know we're always here, if you need us."

"Yeah," Jared says, nodding jerkily, and for a moment he is stock-still, although his spine is trembling slightly with the effort of holding himself up, holding himself together.

For a second Misha thinks he's on the cusp of pouncing, throwing himself down onto Misha and clinging for dear life, but he doesn't move, only clenches his jaw and stares wetly at a patch of cotton a little to the left of Misha's head. It isn't until Misha's pretty much given up expecting an onslaught of boy that he gets one, Jared shifting abruptly, leaning forward as if he thinks he won't be noticed if he does it fast enough, a quick little desperate cling. Misha, though, is fast enough, a man of reflexes, and his arms go around Jared's shoulders easily, pressing hard with his palms and making soothing circles with his thumbs.

"Hey," he shushes him, "hey, hey. It's okay, kiddo. It's okay. I got you." The rocking that cuts in after a moment comes easier than it should, probably, but then, Jared is Misha's responsibility in a way nobody else has ever been; Jared is his to watch over and protect, and naturally it's altered Misha's instincts towards him, made him kind of avuncular and attached and possessive. He rocks Jared gentle and slow, and Jared turns his face into Misha's shoulder as if it belongs there, as if it might actually help. It's a powerful feeling, after all these days of helplessness, and even if Misha knows he can't fix anything this way, there's something pleasing in feeling the tension drain out of Jared's limbs, feeling his breathing quieten, skidding back apace from the edge of tears.

"Hey," he repeats, after a long moment of this, when Jared has gone lax against his chest and his hands are soft against Misha's back. "You okay, baby?"

"Better now," Jared says, pulling away. His voice is a little hoarse, but he does sound better, maybe -- stronger. Misha doesn't doubt that it's a temporary thing, but if Jared can get to sleep now, that'll be something, at least. They're sort of taking things day by day right now, with Jared the way he is. Misha can't be certain when that will change, even though he tells himself firmly it will; that it's only been a little while, and Jared will adjust.

When Jared leaves -- slinks out of the room on his bare feet, everything about him still tender as a bruise -- Misha rolls onto his side, jerks Matt off hard and fast under the covers, and Matt gasps his name, bites his mouth, and it's good, the way it always is. Afterwards, though, neither of them speaks the way they usually might, lying together in the dark, and Misha doesn't have to ask to know that it's because Matt is preoccupied the same way that he is, listening to the silence on the other side of the wall and praying nothing rises up to break it. Jared doesn't cry a lot, not where Misha can see, but sometimes his red-rimmed eyes tell their own story, and Misha can't help but be vigilant. He's lucky, he knows, that Matt cares as much as he does instead of resenting his concern, but that doesn't lessen the intensity with which he wishes his concern was unnecessary. Jared's been through enough shit in his life without having to go through something as heart-shredding as love, not at seventeen. Times like this, Misha wishes he'd stamped down his stupid romantic impulses and shielded him from it, firm and stoic as a soldier.

On this night, there are no sounds, but it still takes Misha a good thirty minutes to give up listening for them long enough to fall asleep.



Things go on like that for weeks. Jensen's escapades have always been rambling and unpredictable, and Misha, aware of his less-than-respectable occupation from the moment they met, never made much attempt to measure his absences, knowing only that they were sporadic and long. He and Jensen had never had any hold over each other in that regard, no obligation or desperate craving for togetherness, and so he didn't remember if there was a pattern to Jensen's runs, if he could posit any kind of likely timescale for Jensen's return.

Now, watching Jared behind the bar with his natural exuberance visibly dimmed, Misha could kick himself for not paying better attention. Never hurts to keep a record of things, even if you don't care about them at the time. They could always be useful later, as Misha knows damn well in his particular line of work. Maybe, if he'd been able to make a suggestion, offer some reassurance, Jared would be taking this better, instead of living his life on tenterhooks of hopeless expectation and crawling into Misha's bed when he couldn't take the tension anymore. It isn't that Misha minds, exactly -- he and Matt have learned by now to make good and sure to fuck creatively, in the back room of the bar between closing up and bed, in the cellar in the morning while Misha fetches up supplies -- but that doesn't change the fact that Jared shouldn't need this, and Misha feels more than a little guilty that he does.

"Dammit, Jensen," he mutters under his breath; chews his lip and watches Jared disconsolately buffing glasses, his face soft and slack with inattention. It isn't the Jared he knows, and Jensen's been gone long enough that it's hard to recall how dynamic Jared seemed when they were together, the way his grin came quick and bright and frequent. It's been weeks and no word, and Misha knows that's pretty much Jensen's usual code of practice, but Jared clearly doesn't. Jared, Misha can't help thinking, doesn't really know what he's gotten himself into at all.

Still. Misha's not one for self-delusion, never has been, and if Jared's this unhappy without Jensen, Misha knows he'd hit rock bottom if anyone tried to split the two of them up permanently. He sighs, leaning down to heft up a crate of whisky that's needed to be shifted out of plain sight for the hour since Richard showed up with it. Too late now.



In Cuba, it's hot, the air sweet and thick with humidity, crystallising on Jensen's skin like sugar water. The main street smells of tequila and an absence of rain, and Jensen usually can't get enough of it, its hot, sordid flavours and the dry heat of the dust beneath his soles. Usually, his runs are arduous, but rewarding, and he's always had an endless capacity to find other people willing to help him enjoy them.

Usually. This time, though, is a little different, and Jensen would be foolish to attempt to deny it, given the way his body recoiled last night from the dark-eyed boy on the door at Branco's, moving even before his mind had collected itself. The kid was hot, all whipcord Latin grace and sweat in the hollow of his throat, and this time last run, Jensen would have been all over that in a second, angling easily back into the guy's space. But when the boy leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of Jensen's ear as it formed señor, something strange and new happened in Jensen's stomach, a nauseated flip of knee-jerk wrong that, for once, didn't make all the twisted parts of him feel right.

"Señor," said the boy, and Jensen jerked away, pulse thundering strangely in his stomach.

"Not interested." And he'd meant it, too, without even knowing it. That was the strange part.

Time was, Jensen would have said sex and love were unrelated concepts, as far as he was concerned. Sex was something you did to survive, something sweaty and easy, a way to blow off steam after a long, hard week. Love, on the other hand, was something you did if you felt like getting yourself killed, one way or the other. Love was weakness, vulnerability. Love was standing in the street with your chest sawn open and expecting nobody to reach in and mess up the insides. Okay, sometimes Jensen fucked around with someone he loved in a sensible kind of way, someone he trusted and was fond of, but that was about as close as he ever came to combining the two ideas. Sex, for Jensen, was an excellent way of making long trips away seem shorter, and love was something other people did, people who wanted to leave themselves unprotected and susceptible to attack.

Now, alone in his narrow hotel bed in Havana, Jensen can't be sure how or when he dropped his guard, but he knows it's happened.  Last time he was here, he'd barely had time to think about just how uncomfortable his bed was, or how cloyingly humid the air, because there was always another body under his, another factor driving the heat. Now, he's spreadeagled naked on the bed, thighs splayed wide in an attempt to expose his femoral arteries to the meagre breeze eking through the open window, and he's alone. There's been no shortage of offers of company, but Jensen finds himself consistently disinclined to accept them. It's...a problem.

Probably, it shouldn't worry him the way it does. If anything, this kind of evidence of -- of settling down, or whatever, of increasing stability -- should be cause for celebration, and in another man, it might have been. But Jensen isn't that other man, isn't someone who keeps to one place and works office hours, someone who could make room for another person within the constraints of his daily life. Jensen is something between a soldier and a missionary and a criminal, and Jared shouldn't be tangled up with him, and Jensen shouldn't care that he is. Goddamn Jared, twisting himself all around Jensen's insides like some invasive cancer, so that Jensen can feel him there in his blood, the echo of him in every flutter of his pulse. Jensen never made any promises of exclusivity, never said he owed Jared anything. He shouldn't be worried about the fact that he feels like he does, all the same, except that Jensen isn't that guy. Jensen's always had a lot of excellent reasons for not letting himself be that guy, and Jared, with his sunburst grin and soft, stupid hair, has ridden roughshod all over them.

Obviously, the best way to deal with things would be just to avoid thinking about Jared. This would be much easier, were it not for the fact that, as the days pass, Jensen seems increasingly incapable of doing anything without being somehow reminded of him. The boys are one thing, the warm closeness of them and his new and unexpected reactions making an association with Jared obvious. Other things, though --  a particular shade of sky; the way a girl's teeth flash when she smiles at him as she serves his morning coffee; the jangling of a jazz piano -- they're more and more random all the time, and they all come back to Jared. After a few weeks of this, Jensen's days seem to have turned into endless carousels of reminders, sparking up in between the liquor stores and sleazy Cuban businessmen, and Jensen's really starting to resign himself to defeat in the Battle of Jared.

One Thursday morning, he's passing an ostentatiously large cigar store when he notices the display of watches in the window. He's early, ambling along slowly with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and there's time to peer idly into storefronts. Time, even, to slow to a halt in front of them, smile quirking the corner of his mouth. God, wristwatches. He has one of his own, of course -- acquired it in Cuba a few years back -- but they're still something of a rare commodity in the States, typically gaudy and overpriced. Most people are still making do with pocket watches.

Jared, being Jared, is making do without any kind of timepiece at all, which has been obvious more than once. He has kind of a habit of showing up late -- not offensively so, and not because he doesn't know the right time to leave a place. It's just that he's a dreamer, easily distracted, and doesn't seem able to judge how much time he's spent peering at things instead of putting his head down and walking, the way it's pretty much ingrained in Jensen to do. Jared's a guy who could probably use a wristwatch, Jensen thinks, and laughs a little at himself, at the rapidity with which his mind makes the connection. He has to laugh, really. Otherwise he'd have to cry. It's getting far too late for denials.

He walks into the shop before he can talk himself out of it. After all, Jared needs one of these things. It'd look good on him, too, the elegant strap against the warm tan of his wrist, framing the strong, square jut of the bone. God, Jared's wrists. And his forearms, and the way the muscle swells under the skin when he makes fists, and --

"Señor?" The proprietor of the store isn't a large man, but his presence is very large indeed, as is his smile. One hand hovers hopefully by Jensen's shoulder, solicitous, and Jensen shakes his head as if it could possibly do anything to clear it, and smiles back.

"Good morning," he says, the Spanish rolling easily off his tongue, now, after all these years of deviance abroad. "I was just looking at the wristwatches in your window. I'd like to buy one."

The man's face brightens still further, if that were possible. "A crate?" he ventures. "Perhaps señor is a businessman, take back to America, take --"

"No," Jensen cuts in, firm, and then, softer, "No. Just the one, if you don't mind. It's for a friend."

After all, he'll be home soon. He's almost done here, has pretty close to everything he needs, and all this time away from Jared is making his fucking heart grow fonder, goddamn the fucking proverb for being accurate. He'll be home soon, and who can blame him for wanting to bring something that'll make Jared's smile break out like light through weeks of cloud? Okay, so he's already made a few purchases -- ludicrously overpriced chocolate here, but then, Jared's going to love it, he knows; a tie, likewise on both counts. Jared is beautiful, and Jensen has an eye for aesthetics. It's not so strange that he should want to dress him up, give him nice things, make him look pretty.

It's not. And, fuck it, even if it is, he's swiftly approaching a point far beyond caring. Jared's not out to get anybody, not out to break his heart. Jared's just Jared, every last bit of him right there on his sleeve, and Jensen -- loves him. Anyone wants to protest, they can step outside.

The proprietor, apparently, has absolutely no wish to protest, probably because he knows a sucker when he sees one. Jensen leaves the store a half hour later with a wristwatch neatly packed up and wrapped, which he had intended to buy all along; and also a box of cigars and a selection of cigar-shaped chocolates, which he most certainly had not. All the same, he finds himself whistling as he strolls briskly along the sidewalk in the direction of Hernandez's Bar, too many dollars down and not giving a shit. At the top of the neatly arranged back sat a couple of postcards, emblazoned with colourful Cuban designs. Later, maybe, he'll dash something off on one of them, send it off to New York. He's coming home, but it's always nice to have one's arrival heralded by something, a few words and a picture with trinkets to follow.

Jensen's had enough of venting his frustrations via his right hand; but he's had enough, too, of panicking over his own inability to leave that pleasure to someone else. He's got a guy at home who's delighted to do the job, a guy who's honest and gorgeous and decent, and if Jensen has the gall to be irritated by that, then -- what the hell is wrong with him? Where did he put a foot wrong and end up like this?

Wherever it was, he knows he doesn't want to go back there. He hefts up his collection of packages and smiles. Jared's always one for novelties. Jensen can't wait to see his face when he opens the chocolate cigars.



The card arrives on a Tuesday. It comes through the door with the usual slew of brown envelopes, a flash of colour in the midst of the sepia, and Jared, picking up the mail, stares at his own name on the back of it for a full thirty seconds before the reality of the thing registers.

This is a postcard addressed to him. Jensen, after weeks of (according to Misha, perfectly typical) silence, has sent him a postcard.

He drops the rest of the mail unceremoniously to the floor. It isn't as if Misha ever opens it until the red-bordered envelopes start arriving, anyway, and this -- this is important. Jared's fingers are trembling as he turns over the card to look at the front -- Havana, and some text in Spanish he doesn't understand -- and then flips it back again, showing the message in Jensen's bold hand. He recognises the writing immediately, not because they've ever corresponded, but from receipts Jensen's signed in the bar; notes he's scribbled on napkins; even the hasty jottings on the telephone pad in his sumptuous apartment. Probably, Jared should be blushing at how quickly he recognises it from so slight an acquaintance, but Jared doesn't have time for that now. Jensen has sent him a postcard, and that means that Jensen isn't -- they aren't -- some half-remembered dream.

Jensen hasn't really written very much, all things considered. Two months of nothing, and he's scrawled out a few darkly inked sentences on a postcard, signature taking up half the space. Frankly, though, Jared couldn't give a fuck. Jensen's written him, and that's more than Jensen ever does, Misha made perfectly clear. Jensen's written him, which makes Jared an anomaly; which makes Jared special.

Jay, begins the card, and that's something special, too, something almost an endearment, making Jared's chest clench happily:

Jay,

You better not have gotten in any trouble, you hear? You can expect me soon, and hopefully I can expect to find you in one piece. Havana's okay, but it lacks certain home comforts.

Yrsever,

Jen.

Three sentences and some change, but they make Jared want to stuff his fist in his mouth and grin around it, stifling the sounds of his glee. He can practically hear the words in Jensen's low, smoke-rough voice, the warm ribbon of his amusement wound around and under the gruffness. Jensen growling I better find you in one piece down a crackling telephone line; Jensen ruffling his hair and laughing without comment. Jared stares at the shamefaced affection in yrsever and imagines he hears Jensen saying his name.

"Jay," Jensen says, so clearly Jared can almost taste it, his name the way nobody else has ever said it. He clutches the postcard tightly to his chest, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet, imagining --

"Hey. Jared."

And that -- that is definitely not what he was imagining. Jared feels anticipation and fear clench the muscles of his back in the second before he whirls around, not knowing what to expect; expecting anything but what he actually sees in front of him.

Jensen, hat in hand, makes a tiny inclination of his head, something like a bow. "There you are," he says, and his voice is warm the way Jared remembers it, possessive and low. "What'd I say about staying in one piece, huh? I go away for two months, and when I come back, you're deaf."

Jared doesn't realise he's moving until the wind is knocked out of him, the force of his chest colliding with Jensen's making them both stagger and reel, clutching at each other drunkenly, desperately. It's not exactly smooth, but Jared doesn't give a shit about that, not with Jensen's unshaven face pressed into the crook of his neck, Jensen's arms coming up immediately to span his back like he's equally lost to this, unable to resist it. Jesus Christ, Jensen. The smell of him is like an intoxicant, and Jared's hands are carding through his hair, tracing his jaw, running over his sides and back and the dip of his spine as if stopping would be a literal impossibility. "Jensen," he murmurs, "Jensen, Jensen, Jensen," until the words blur and Jensen's half on his toes, his forehead pressed to Jared's. His eyes are wide, moss-green and glittering, and Jared can't ever let go of him again. He can't. He swallows, feels the motion of it in his throat.

"Jensen," he ventures, not knowing what he's saying or why he's saying it, but unable to resist. "I --"

"Shut up," Jensen tells him, fingers digging into Jared's upper arms as he walks him backward. Jared goes with it, body trembling everywhere, holds Jensen's eyes as the bar collides with his back. "Just," Jensen says, "don't --" And then his mouth is on Jared's, quick and slick and heated and they ride it like a wave, like an unfathomable tide that will spare no sailors.

Jensen, Jared thinks, blind, and lets the kiss pull him under.



Jensen isn't sure how the agreement was actually reached, since no contract, verbal or otherwise, was made, but it's somehow understood that Jared will come home with him. He knows, oh, God, he knows that their trials have hardly been bitter. He could have been a soldier, away on campaign for years, instead of for a few weeks on a fairly comfortable jaunt to Cuba, in search of alcohol for the proprietors of New York's seedier bars.  It could all have been so much worse, and yet, ultimately, none of that matters. The outcome is the same: he needs Jared. He needs Jared.

That Jared needs him was never really in question, but then, Jared's honest with himself in ways Jensen has rarely been able to handle.

What this will mean in the long term is rather less certain. It certainly won't guarantee them a happily-ever-after, not in a country outside of the Code Napoleon with its unique permissiveness on the question of homosex. It doesn't mean, either, can't mean that Jensen will stop rumrunning, because running is his livelihood and he owes a lot of people a lot of loyalty. It does mean, though, that when he comes back, it will be to Jared. It does mean that his bed will be Jared's bed, although there'll be another one always made on hand in case of a police raid. It does mean that Jensen will stop pretending that the vicissitudes of life haven't changed him, because clearly, they have. They've changed him too much for him to go on denying it.

Misha looks knowing and smug as always when Jensen pops his head in to announce his presence, and Matt behind him is still more open about his pleasure. He wishes Jared good luck in the soft, conspiratorial voice of someone who's already got what Jared's getting -- someone who's happy with his lot, and wants to share it. Jensen can't actually find it in himself to deride him for it. After all, he and Jared have a home to go to. Together, and damn what that makes them.

Together is all Jensen needs.



It's December, and the basement bar is strewn with paper garlands and lengths of artificial holly Matt and Jared spent hours hanging up, pinning to the edge of the bar and twining around the banister. Jared arrived a little after noon to start clean-up before his shift, and Jensen, having nothing better to do today, came with him, as has become usual over the past eighteen months. Eighteen months, and Jensen's still here, hands in his pockets as he leans back against the wall, the marks of Jared's mouth on his neck just barely concealed by his collar. Jared's mind feels frayed at the edges when he thinks about it for too long, the sheer enormity of what it means. They've survived like this, lives knitting more and more tightly together, for over a year -- and, God, what a bizarre year it's been.

"Seb's done," Jensen's saying, eyes fixed idly on the ceiling as Jared mops around his feet, kicks at his ankles just because he can. Jensen kicks back, pauses to grin around his words. "Up and left. Someone told me he'd gone to Chicago, but I don't know, man. Richard said he'd heard he'd gone on tour with the United Repeal Council." He snorts. "Can you imagine? Seb, giving speeches and railing about the Constitution."

Jared laughs, too. The image of it, Sebastian the underworld string-puller, addressing provincial people in church halls is jarring. But then -- "He does have that cut-glass accent," Jared points out. "If anyone could convince people he was king of the straight and narrow, it'd be Seb." His mouth quirks, thinking about it. "Even if he does kind of exude greasiness."

"There's that," Jensen says, nodding. His hair's gotten long, Jared notices. It's quiet in the bar, and Jared can hear the rustle of Jensen's clothing rubbing against the plaster when he shifts his shoulders, the feathery sounds his collar makes. He wants to reach out and touch, and there is nobody here, so he does; props the mop in one hand and reaches out the other to palm the curve of Jensen's jaw, the sharp rise of his cheekbone. Jensen laughs, and his green eyes are calculating, assessing and fond.

"Don't get complacent," he warns. "Anyone could come in here any time, you know that."

"I know," Jared tells him, shrugging it off, but he drops his hand, resumes his duties to the still-sticky floor. "I know, I know, they could. Not that --"

As if on cue, the door bangs open to give the lie to Jared's words, bringing with it a gust of cold air and Misha, shivering in his overcoat. Jensen throws Jared an arch look and pushes up off the wall.

"Misha," he says, nodding acknowledgement. "Okay?"

"I don't know," Misha says, shrugging snow off his shoulders. His voice sounds a little odd, strained, and he's clutching what appears to be a rolled-up newspaper in one hand. "I, uh. Shit, Jensen, look at this." He shakes out the newspaper, displaying the headline, and Jared and Jensen both lean in to inspect it.

"The proposed twenty-first amendment to the United States Constitution has been ratified," Misha quotes from the opening paragraph, saving them the trouble of squinting at the fine print. "Not that we didn't know it was coming, boys, but it's here. We're legal." He catches himself, smiling ruefully at the spectacle of Jared's hand on Jensen's hip where he'd put it as he leaned in, half-unconscious. "In some respects, at any rate."

Jared blushes a little and drops his hand. "When did this go through?"

"Yesterday," Jensen answers, brow furrowing as he takes the paper from Misha's hands. "Holy shit. I didn't dare believe Roosevelt was anything more than all talk, not until I had the evidence in my hands. Jesus."

"Well," Misha points out, "you're a pessimist." He laughs weakly. "And here we are, fellas. I don't know if I'm crazy in business or out of a job, but here we are."

"You're not out of a job," Jensen counters. "This is a legitimate business. I, on the other hand --"

"Okay, hold up." Misha raises one hand, palm outward, the universal gesture of stop. "A legitimate business? I have no idea how to run this place as a legitimate business. I'm a seedy shadow of the underworld, Jensen. I know how to hide things from the police and trade on the black market. I do not know how to run a proper enterprise, and neither does Matt. Who, by the way -- where is Matt?"

"I'm here."

They all glance up as Matt shoulders his way through the stacks of boxes piled up behind the bar, pushing into the room from the store-room behind. "I was listening to the news on the wireless. Jesus Christ."

"Culture shock, isn't it?" Misha says, ruefully. "I don't know if I can do this in this climate, gentlemen. I mean, I should probably be jumping for joy, but I don't..." He trails off, looks up helplessly.

Jared doesn't miss the way his gaze lingers on Jensen, and he feels his heart trip in his chest, breath catching. An idea is formulating itself somewhere inside him, and part of him is sure that Misha is having the exact same thought. Now, if only Jensen can get on board this train without help, then they'll be genuinely in business. He looks up expectantly at Jensen, hand sneaking out again to palm his hip. "Jen?" he prompts, quietly.

Jensen opens his mouth, hesitant. "I don't want to impose on anyone," he begins, and Jared breathes a sigh of relief. There's a but coming, and it's going to be the right one. It is.

"But?" Matt vocalises, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a smile.

"But," Jensen concedes, slowly, looking between them. "I'm out of a job, for sure. No doubt. You, Misha, don't have to be. You got a business here, we all love it. It can still run. I think I know how it could be handled." He pauses, shrugging. "And I guess, if you wanted to do some deal, go into business together, we could try that. It's not the worst idea in the world."

"Damn right it's not," Misha shoots back immediately, slapping Jensen between the shoulder blades, and Jared breathes a sigh of relief, catching Matt's eye and exchanging a grin. "Pardon me if I was hoping you'd say that from the get-go, boy. On my own, I wouldn't know where to start with this, but all of us together -- now that's manageable."

"Jared and I can take care of the grunt work," Matt puts in, warming to the idea.

"And the music," Jared points out, nudging Matt pointedly in the arm. Matt grins at him, nodding acquiescence.

"Well, obviously that. But that leaves you guys free to set up anything new that needs to be set up, make the connections, do the accounts, whatever. Jensen's good with money, right?"

"Could say that," Jensen says, scratching at the back of his neck in the way he has when he's shy or embarrassed and trying not to show it. It makes Jared's stomach clench fondly, that tiny gesture so familiar, speaking volumes.

"I hear," Misha puts in, slyly, "that you were getting pretty sick of having to, uh, commute, as it were, Jensen, anyway."

Jensen colours, and the heat in Jared's stomach spreads, a little pulse of love. Jensen has been avoiding taking long trips as much as he's been able to since his last big venture to Cuba, and has cut short those little jaunts he couldn't get out of. Jared's pretty damn aware Jensen would rather be here with him -- that Jensen's maybe even coming around to the fact -- but seeing him blush like that, as good as confirming it to Misha and Matt, makes Jared flush with pride. It's partly pride in himself, sure, for being the one who wrought such a change in Jensen, but more than that, it's pride in Jensen, for letting himself grow like this, for recognising the change as inevitable in the end. Inasmuch as Jared's gotten older since he met Jensen -- since he met all of them, really -- Jensen has, too, in all the good ways. Jared can safely say he's looking forward to seeing him continue to get older, for as long as Jensen will have him.

He's not anticipating Jensen's hand when it comes to rest on his shoulder, but he leans into the heat of it, all the same, the petting little touches of Jensen's thumb against the nape of his neck. "I was," Jensen admits, voice low and rough, but sincere. "I think I'd be pretty good with staying here, setting up shop with you guys, if that's the best option for everyone. No more goddamn Cuba."

There's a smile trying to burst out on Misha's face, poorly bitten back, as he darts across the room and lunges over the bar in search of the nearest bottle of whisky. "I'll drink to that," he says, straightening up with the bottle in one hand and four shot glasses precariously cupped in the other. "Matt? A little help?"

"Idiot," Matt says, somehow making it sound like an endearment as he takes the glasses from Misha's hand and sets them down on the bar in a row. Misha relinquishes the bottle, too, when Matt holds out a hand for it, looking up at Matt under his eyelashes as Matt tots out the whisky. "Okay, boys. Legal liquor is up."

"Bet it won't taste as good," Jared says, flicking his fingers at the palm of Jensen's hand and then touching them to the inside of his wrist, brief and intimate.

"You hate the stuff anyway," Jensen points out, curling his own fingers against the hell of Jared's hand.

"Well, exactly. So if it's gotten worse --"

"Oh, hush your mouth," Misha says, pushing a glass into Jared's hand, "and bottoms up. This is a new goddamn era we're ushering in, here. You can bitch later."

Jensen laughs. It's a laugh in response to what Misha's saying, but his eyes are on Jared, soft and warm as he raises his own glass. "No more goddamn Cuba," he says, slow and lazy, hint of Texas in the drawl of it. "No more goddamn enforced travel."

No more being away from me, Jared thinks, although he's smart enough not to say anything as he holds Jensen's eyes and tosses the whisky back, blinking against the burn. "To a new era," he says, wet-eyed and trying not to cough, and Jensen grins at him, thumps him on the back.

"Happy New fuckin' Year, huh?"

And it will be. If nothing else, Jared's quite sure of that.



masterpost