Fic: Tilted (J2 RPS AU, PG-13) 1/2 (Complete)
Title: Tilted 1/2 (Complete)
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (RPS), minor implied Chris/Steve
Rating: PG-13 (or thereabouts)
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, lies.
Summary: In which I play around with J2 AU RPS and have a fine old time. Wandering vagabond Jared arrives in town for a temporary job rebuilding broken-down beach houses and is baffled by the reclusive nature of his downstairs neighbor Jensen. He doesn't know what kind of secrets Jensen is keeping, but he plans to get to know the man better in every way he can. Features confusion, angst, Chris Kane's Fists of Fury, a yellow Labrador, secrets, and broken!Jensen. Um. Yeah. Cookie, anyone?
Feedback: Makes me happy.
TILTED
“Hey, it’s me. Figured I’d let you know I got here in one piece. All on my own just like I said I could, so you can stop fretting, okay?” Jared juggles two plastic Bi-Lo sacks full of CD’s, a potted aloe plant, a box of Saltines and his cell phone, which is both easier and harder to manage than it sounds like. Seems like he can’t ever manage to do just one thing at a time. There’s too much out there, right? Billions of things to taste and touch and smell and see and hear.
“Jared, you know I love you -“
He coos falsely, obnoxiously and loudly into the teensy speaker of the cell phone, all the while wedging it between cheek and shoulder, where it disappears completely from view amongst his hair. “Better not let the missus hear you buttering me up.”
Sera laughs, delighted. “I love you like I was your sister, you big goof.”
“The missus would still have your tits in a vice for flirting.” He’s only half-kidding. Sera’s current lady friend is the territorial type. Tiny, looks like you could break her in half - especially when they stand side by side - but she’s good for Sera, and that’s all that matters to Jared. The woman in question has so often threatened to emasculate him for looking sideways at her honey that he’s tickled to death by her temper. He lays it on thick and sugary all the time for the fun of listening to her fly off the handle at him. He has a thing for tough, tiny women. The smaller they are, the sharper their teeth, in his experience, and he adores that.
Wait, what was he saying to Sera? Oh, yeah.
“You pass the word along to Momma for me, okay?”
“Call her yourself, chicken.”
“I don’t know if talking to her is such a good idea right now, that’s all.”
“Grow a pair, would you? Sure, she might chew your ear off but beyond talking you half to death, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Jared flips off the phone. His momma’s a good lady and as sweet as the day is long, but she has definite Ideas on how a grown man should conduct his life, ideas about staying in one place and forming lasting ties and putting down roots. Ideas that don’t mesh with Jared’s need to wander.
He’d have liked to make her happy in the ways she wanted. To find a girl, find a job, find a house, find contentment. Thing is, he’s known since he was six years old and facing down a prison of a schoolroom that having to do one thing for years on end and maybe the rest of his life will smother him faster than a pillow over his face. He’s known since he was sixteen that there he’ll really never feel more than friendship for a woman.
He’s known since he was nineteen that even if he had wanted these things for his own sake, he wouldn’t be selfish enough to take them.
Sera knows to gloss over his internal monologue, and she’s good about patiently returning to the point. “So what’s the place look like? Anything like the picture Kim e-mailed you?”
“I didn’t think to get a good look. Hang on a sec, let me check it out.” Jared backsteps off the porch. He bites the inside of his cheek as he catalogs every detail he can focus on of the place where he’ll hang his hat for a month or three.
Warped boards on the porch, covered by a barely-there, mostly scuffed-off coat of ocean gray paint. A cracked sidewalk with weeds growing up knee-high through the concrete. Peeling white paint over clapboards, the brick foundation painted muddy red so thick that he can barely see where the bricks themselves fit together, splintery windowsills that look like they don’t sit level, and an overall slight list to the right. About a hundred years old, he’ll guess. The kind of house where folks have enjoyed good, simple lives for a while and then moved on. Split into two apartments, as Kim told him. He’ll have the top floor apartment, and while he was warned gruffly that he’s to leave the guy on the bottom floor alone, shoot, he’ll at least have someone to say hey to.
He squints at the spot at which the porch is clearly split in two parts. No duct tape marking out a line, no, but the wicker rocker chair and small table with intersecting coffee rings and broad-leafed elephant ear plant and pot of wilting African violets are all gathered neatly to the far side, with nothing on the other.
It’s not bad at all, and he’s stayed in enough dives in his day to know the difference between down-at-heel hominess and squalor. Some of the places he called home… good god. Motels that charged by the hour while he manned the check-in desks and tried not to snicker; shanty apartments over the bars where he pulled beer taps and washed glasses; and in one fantastic case, a tent city near to the canal digging ops.
“Looks like home,” he says to Sera, who’s been patiently waiting. He grins until his cheeks hurt, knowing he’s lighting up like a kid, happily unconcerned with a need to act his age “Looks pretty sweet.”
“How long do you think you’ll last there, Jared?”
“You know there’s never any telling.”
“Wouldn’t have you any other way,” she replies, comfortable and easy.
“See? This is why we get along so well. Marry me,” he offers, tongue firmly planted in cheek.
“That’d work out real well, if we could get through it with straight faces. Jared, you couldn’t even get through a fake date with Sandy McCoy at your Momma’s rotary club brunch.”
“At least I did try. Hey, hang on a second.” Jared sits his bags down, wincing and working out the stinging indentations in his fingers and palm where he’s been holding the heavy plastic straps too long. “I’ll walk you through a tour.”
“Here’s the door, here’s the stairs, here’s the kitchen?”
Jared blows a raspberry at her over the phone. “Aw, damn, that was nasty.”
He lets her laugh at him while he wipes the spit off on the tail of his T-shirt, which is, okay, just about as gross. While he’s down there, he thrusts his hand in the capacious pocket of his favorite coffee-colored jacket, searching for the keys that have jingled in there all the way from Texas. “Give me a sec to get the door unlocked and I’ll walk you inside.”
Huh. No keys. Puzzled, he reaches into the other pocket, poking around. Still no luck.
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” Sera says, dryly amused.
“Shit on a shingle,” he says, amazed. How he loses track of so much, he’ll never have any clue. “I must have dropped the keychain somewhere along the way. Probably in the truck, unless it was McDonald’s this morning. Damn, I bet it was the McDonald’s off exit 27-B. I dropped my coffee and had to squat down to clean up the mess.” He rakes his hand through the strands of hair tangling over his eyes. “Can you Google up the location and call them for me?”
“Sure thing, but what are you going to do for now?”
“Ask the guy on the bottom floor, I guess, if he’s around.”
“What time is it there? Seven a.m.? He might be awake, yeah.” Sera pauses. Jared can almost see the gears and wheels turning in her head. “Problem is, we both know you were told to leave him alone. Right?”
Jared bites his lip in thought. “I’m not to disturb the guy downstairs, not on pain of death, nope.” Still, what else can he do? Kim, the guy who hired him - a friend of Sera’s aunt or something - is meant to be out of town until Monday, and as it stands now he doesn’t know a single soul in this beach village. And the wind blowing up from the ocean along with the rush of the waves filling his head? It’s frigging cold. Late autumn’s a funky place to hit the coast. “I’ll get my ass kicked, but I guess I gotta make the best of it.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll put in the phone calls for you.” She pauses. “Take care of yourself, Jared, y’hear?”
“Do my best for you. Bye, hon.” As Jared disconnects the call he stands back to eyeball the civilized half of the porch, taking in the details, forming his approach plan. This downstairs guy enjoys colors and textures, he thinks, and likes to put his feet up on the railing if the double scuffs-off of white paint are any giveaway. Anyone who kicks back has to be a decent type, easy-going and friendly, and so without any further ado he lopes to the downstairs door.
Enjoying the way the cold beach breezes tickle up the overlong curls on the back of his neck, he knocks three times on the green-painted screen door and stands back, humming under his breath.
No answer. Huh. He knocks again, curious.
Oh, damn. What if he is still asleep? At seven a.m. on a weekend morning, he might well be.
Cussing himself six ways from Sunday, Jared tries to retreat, running his palm along the porch rail for balance. A touch too hard and too carelessly, it appears, as a splinter rams under the meat of his palm and draws a startled shout of a curse from his lips, way too loud for this time of day.
And, as one might have figured, that draws the attention of Mr. Mysterious. Jared looks up from his examination of the beads of blood around the gray-painted sliver in his hand, already preparing his apologies, not coward enough to run but smart enough to cringe at the sound of locks rattling abruptly open and the screen door unlatching.
A sleep-ruffled dude peers out at him. The man’s eyes are squinted tight and oh yeah, he woke the poor bastard up.
“Hey there,” Jared says fast, eager to make peace before war has a chance to start. “I am so sorry, honest I am, but I’m moving in upstairs today and I’ve gone and lost my keys.”
The guy retreats a pace further back in the safety of his apartment, for which Jared can’t blame him. He’s framed by shadow now, but rather than hiding his face he’s illuminated by a stray trick of the light until he appears as ghostly as a white wraith. The somberness of his mien makes Jared think of angels in stained-glass windows, not quite real, pale and pained, as if delivering good tidings sorrows their hearts.
His own heart goes out to this guy right away. “Hey,” he says, gentling his tone. Guy’s terrified. Jared can almost hear the rabbit-fast beat of his heart. And he can understand it, really he can. He’s aware of his own size and as he hasn’t shaved in a few days knows he’s disheveled as hell as well as haggard from all-night driving. He’d scare the bejeezus out of his own family if they were to see him right now. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The man’s fingers tighten around the molding on his door. “I don’t recognize you,” he says, pulling back a few more inches. “What’s your name?”
“Jared,” he says, starting forward to offer his hand for a shake, then thinking better of it. Not knowing what else to do with it --- he’s not accustomed to folks who don’t smile and step right up - he shoves it in his pocket and swallows down a wince. “Jared Padalecki.”
“Oh.” The man’s face goes dead, that’s the only way to describe it, blank and impassive. “Yeah, you. Kim said.”
It’s a start. “He hired me to help fix up some of the beach houses,” Jared explains, hoping he’ll corroborate facts old Mr. Manners was likely to have passed along, figuring that might reassure this guy.
He really can’t keep calling the pale man “this guy”, though, can he? “What’s your name? Mr. Manners didn’t tell me.”
“Jensen.” He doesn’t offer a last name, fading backwards fast. “There’s a spare key in the bottom of the mailbox.” A vague point toward the porch railing with a tin box nailed to a beam.
“Thanks, Jensen, I -“ Even as Jared’s speaking, Jensen makes tracks, disappearing back in his apartment and shutting the door with a firm push, locks clicking and tumbling in place.
Jared stares, baffled. What is this guy, a recluse or a hermit or something? Why?
This could get interesting, he thinks as he digs in the mailbox for the key. When he finds it, he forgets all about Jensen in the face of the excitement of letting himself into his new home.
Later on, he’ll realize what an understatement “interesting” was, but that’s then and this is now.
***
His first step on the tread of the interior stairwell leading up to his new place produces a mighty creak, a pop of the floorboards that has him drawing his foot back with a startled curse. He half thinks he’s broken the step until cautious prodding with the toe of his sneaker tells him it’s still intact, just noisy as all hell.
No way he can be quiet about moving his stuff in, can he? Not like he has all that much, just a couple duffels with jeans and hoodies and boxers and socks and the boxes with all his PS2 stuff in them. Oh, and his duffel bag with some books, and that big old stuffed German Shepherd squishy Sera gave him to remind him of Sadie; right, he’s also got the sheets and the quilt his grandma made him bring along this time. And the crate of pots and pans he picked up at the Salvation Army back in Arkansas somewhere when he remembered he didn’t have so much as a frying pan after that time he had to leave Wyoming in a hurry.
Jared sucks his lower lip between his teeth, worrying the soft flesh, considering going back to his truck to try and find some kind of comfortable position to curl up in and nap. Won’t be the first time he’s done as much, and not the last, he’s sure. It’s just not manners to raise a ruckus while Jensen’s trying to sleep in.
But when he steps out onto the porch, trying to keep it quiet, he sees that Jensen’s awake and settled in out there, sock feet propped on the railing just as Jared had guessed was a likely habit, hunched in on himself with a bright green pottery mug clasped between both palms. Steam rises off the top along with a mouth-watering smell of rich, strong coffee.
“Jensen,” Jared greets him, relieved. “Were you getting up anyway?”
Jensen flinches and takes a quick sideways look at Jared. He mumbles something not entirely coherent, possibly not even words. The puffiness of his eyes behind a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, their lenses smoky shaded in the morning light - he’s heard about the kind that shift between sunglasses and regular; that’s awesome - anyway, those tell Jared that while Jensen might be awake, he’s not too happy about it and a wise man won’t pester him before he’s gotten through his mug of coffee.
Jared holds his hands up, palms out, grinning wide and easy at Jensen. “No hard feelings about before? I make a lot of noise, I know. My friend Sera, she always says I’m like a bronco running wild through a glassware store.”
Slight frown from Jensen while he takes a sip. “Thought it was ‘bull in a china shop’,” he mumbles after he swallows, his voice rough around the edges, low-pitched, raspy like he smoked once upon a time.
Jared laughs. “She likes to do things different.” He finds a good place he thinks won’t break to park his ass on the porch railing and chafes his cold fingers. “Does it ever warm up around here during the day?”
Jensen shrugs, and that’s all Jared gets.
He tries again. “So, probably gonna make a big racket getting my stuff up the stairs. I’ll be as quick about it as I can. That okay?”
Jensen raises one shoulder and tosses back coffee. Judging by the steam, it’s a few degrees shy of boiling and Jared wonders if he wasn’t a smoker but has instead scraped his throat raw by taking his morning jolt so hot.
Silence lies thick between broken only by the soft noises of swallowing. Jensen doesn’t look back at him, focusing bleary/intense on the otherwise empty street in front of them, unpaved and coated with dun-colored sand.
Jared lets it go on, hoping for something, until he concedes that it’s not going to happen right now. Some guys are just like Jensen in the morning, even if he himself never has been. It’s not personal, he figures. Why would it be?
“Take it easy,” he says, standing up straight. “See you around, Jen.”
Jensen’s face shutters off. “Don’t call me nicknames.”
Jared shrugs. “No problem, man. Jensen. Sorry.”
He thinks he catches the faintest upturn of Jensen’s lips - damn, if he ever really smiled he’d be a heartbreaker - and a chuff that might be a laugh if it got a chance to breathe.
All in all, it brightens his outlook considerably. This’ll work out, no problem. It’ll just take time and coffee, both of which are cures for almost any ills he knows of.
He waves back at Jensen, who doesn’t acknowledge the gesture, and lopes to his red ’92 Ford Explorer. Not thinking, he finds himself looking for Harley and Sadie in the back, hanging their big heads over the tailgate and panting at him with happy doggy love in their loyal gazes. When he doesn’t see them, the remembrance of "why not" hits him like a sucker punch, same as every time before.
Okay, so time doesn’t heal all wounds. The wind wailing in from the beach sounds like a low, unhappy dog’s whine. Jared gives himself a moment to miss them, tightens his jaw, and moves on.
That’s what he does, and he’s gotten pretty good at it by now.
***
As it turns out, the upstairs apartment is better than he'd hoped. Kim had mentioned “furnished”, which is always a bonus but usually means a camp bed, a single-burner stove and a dorm-size refrigerator. This place is loaded according to Jared’s standards; a Murphy bed and a full harvest-gold kitchen, and a massive bowl of a tub that he thinks he might fit all the way into.
It’s cute as anything he’s ever seen. Sera would be in raptures over this place.
Once again, he’s forgotten about Jensen as he clomps around, his sneakers thunking loud and then his bare feet slapping on the threadbare carpeting and the wooden bathroom floor.
When the door downstairs slams, he winces and curses.
Okay, so it’ll take longer than a while. He’ll still get there in the end.
***
A few hours later, he’s not half as pleased with his new kitchen. There’s no microwave, and granted, that’s a luxury item, except he never has been great at cooking that doesn’t involve tossing a match onto a grill or pushing a button.
People always say “now we’re cooking with gas!” like it’s the only way you can fix a decent meal. Jared has his doubts. How can cooking with gas be all that when you’ve got to stick your head in the oven while carrying a lit match, hunting for the smell of gas to tell you where to try and light the pilot while not burning off your eyebrows? As it stands, he’s smelling the stink of scorched hair far more strongly than the bitter stench of burned toast.
Actually, that might not be a bad thing, he thinks as he scrapes black carbon off his toast and hunts in his small bag of provisions for the peanut butter and jelly he bought at a gas station a few towns back. With a name like Smuckers, it’s got be good, and oh yeah, it is. He props his length against the kitchen wall, gazing idly out the window at the squirrels swarming the bird feeder, rolling the hearty peanut taste and the sweetness of grape jelly around in his mouth.
It’s not a bad meal, tasty enough to munch his way through, scraping the Jif jar empty on his sixth slice. There’s just enough jelly to smear over the toast for the flavor, and then he tosses bread wrapper and empty jars in the trash, licking the last smears off his thumb. He reaches over to unlatch the window he’s been dreaming through, hoping he’ll get some breezes off the ocean to clear out the smell of burned bread.
On the stiff burst of cold sea winds, he smells the ocean, sure, then he gets full-on hit with the scent of tomatoes and basil and garlic. The aroma has serious stopping power, hunger knotting in his never-quite-satisfied stomach.
Wow. Is that Jensen cooking?
He doesn’t even think, just follows his nose down the creaky flight of stairs, bare feet and all, and then he’s knocking on Jensen’s door to see if he can borrow a cup of lunch.
Jensen doesn’t answer, and Jared can’t hear him moving around inside. At least, not until he catches the tiniest clatter of a pot lid somewhere. No one comes to answer his knock, though, not even when he tries a second time.
His stomach disappointed and his mood vaguely disquieted, he tries to shrug it off and decides he’ll head back up to fetch his shoes. Might as well wander around the town on foot and see if he can find a sub shop or something. Italian would be great right about now.
***
Thing is, when he turns around, he finds himself face to face with this shortish guy, or rather more like this guy’s nose to his chest, but he’s used to that kind of thing.
What he’s not so accustomed to is a hard working man’s hand planted flat over his sternum, shoving him backwards.
“Whoa!” Jared stumbles, catching his balance on the porch railing by lucky chance, and stares at his assailant. What’s this guy’s problem? He looks like one of those mean junkyard dogs that’s been trained to bite rather than wag his tail. Short, sure, but built tough as nails, ropy muscles in his bare forearms and his stocky legs, with blue eyes narrowed in suspicion and disapproval. Whoever this is, he’s got a hate-on for Jared, and Jared is starting to wonder if he’s side-stepped into some alternative world because no one ever hates him right away. At least not that he knows of. Now there’s Jensen’s distancing act and this guy’s blatant distaste, and what the hell’s going on?
“What are you doin’?” the guy demands, another smoker’s voice, the kind that could curl sexy as the smell of bourbon if he dropped the attitude and talked nice. “You harassing him?”
“What? Me? No,” Jared protests, standing his ground. “What’s your problem?”
As soon as it’s spoken, he realizes he shouldn’t have said that. The short guy lights up with a dark glitter, like he lives in the hopes of tussling with folks, and he shifts his weight in best bantamweight boxer style. Jared eyes him, wondering how hard he hits and why he’s about to get popped one.
“Take it easy,” he tries to gentle this scrapper down. “I’m Jared.”
The man’s chin comes up. “So what, you’ve moved in upstairs, yeah?”
“More or less.”
The man eyes him, weighing him in the balance. He snorts. “Looks like a hell of a lot ‘more’, son.”
Okay, now Jared’s getting pissed. “I’m not your son, boy.”
The man’s nostrils flare. “I ought to turn you over my knee.”
“Like to see you try.” Jared shows his teeth and makes “bring it” hand gestures, curling his fingers in taunting pulls. Manners are manners but enough is e-damn-nough. “We can walk away from this if you want, but I’m not gonna stand here and take a lickin' when I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to have done.”
“Hmmph.” Shorty examines him, irritation amending a couple of degrees. “So you don’t know. Huh.”
“Don’t know what?”
Shorty ignores his question, shaking straight honey-brown hair, rough-cut at chin length, out of his face, tucking it behind his ears. He’s still ready as a firecracker to throw down; for right now, Jared can see he’s decided not to. “Look, here’s how it works. You leave him -“ he jerks his head at Jensen’s door - “alone, and you and I won’t have any problems. Clear?”
“Jesus, it’s not like I planned to stalk him or anything.”
“See that you don’t.”
“Just being neighborly.”
“Yeah, well, don’t do that either. He doesn’t need you.” Shorty glares before turning his back and knocking on Jensen’s door, leaving Jared confused and fuming behind him, mouth working in search of a comeback that, in the style of all truly needed comebacks, doesn’t come at all.
He does notice that short man’s knock follows a pattern. Knock, pause, knock-knock, pause, knock, pause, knock-knock-knock. That’s weird, and what’s weirder is that he hears the soft scuff of sock feet approaching Jensen’s door right away.
The door cracks open, and Shorty rounds to glare at Jared. “Jensen, hold on. You, tall-ass guy. I thought we’d come to an understanding.”
“We did,” Jared says, wounded now. He’s not stupid or anything.
“Then get on your way,” Shorty snaps. “Jensen, you want me to take care of this joker?”
“Chris,” is all he hears Jensen say, sounding like he’s tired.
Shorty - Chris - blows hair off his forehead, clearly annoyed. He stomps inside, slamming the door in a pointed reminder to Jared.
Jared, for his part, shifts from foot to foot. He’s got half a mind to knock too, to make sure this Chris guy’s not gonna hurt Jensen. He’s seen jealous boyfriends do some real asshole things. If that’s how this works. Hard to tell.
He waits on the porch, undecided, until he hears two men laughing inside, comfortable, and understands that these two are on good terms. And with that much knowledge, he can’t protest.
Doesn’t mean he has to like it, even if he doesn’t know why.
He’s leaning against the porch rail, idly thinking that it’s actually really comfortable, when the soft scuff of sneakers alerts him to the fact that he’s not alone. Again. Glancing up, he sees a guy ambling up to the house, following a yellow Lab on a woven leather leash. The man nods to him, offering a neutral-to-friendly quirk of the lips; the dog perks up, sniffing the air.
It’s like a taste of better times and pure instinct to drop to one knee and extend his hand for the dog to sniff. The Lab hesitates, but only for a moment, before tugging its walker the few paces necessary. It buries its cold nose in Jared’s palm and starts wagging when he rubs behind the silky ears.
“Oh, hey, who’s a good boy?” Jared croons, tousling the dog’s fur. The Lab smells like salt and wet dog and by damn, it hurts. “You’re a handsome guy, aren’t you? Yeah, you are.”
“He’s a she, actually,” the man on the other end of the leash offers. “Her name’s Hannah.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” Jared praises without missing a beat, leaning forward to plant a kiss atop her golden head. She eats the affection up, nuzzling his hand and whining low in her throat. “She’s a doll-baby.”
“She can be.” The man tilts his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her take to someone like this. She's not too fond of Jensen, and she lives with the guy.”
Huh. Jensen doesn't seem like the kind of man to keep companion animals. He guesses that goes to remind him not to judge books by their covers. It's another point in his favor, too, owning a pretty girl like Hannah.
“Dogs know dog lovers.” Jared stands reluctantly, promising himself that if Hannah’s going to be a regular visitor he’ll brave a trip to a pet store to get her some jerky chews or a rawhide bone. How long's it been since he went buying dog treats? Three years, four?
“Mmm,” the man says, as if that’s good enough, and it kind of is. He’s quiet, this guy, a welcomely peaceful type after the crash-boom that was Chris. Ash-blond hair tickles the tops of his shoulders, combed only by the sea air; his mouth is a kind mouth, more accustomed to grinning than scowling. Looks like a comfortable sort of guy, a dude you could kick back and enjoy a beer with.
“Jared,” he says, offering his hand.
For a change, this guy takes it and shakes briefly. “Steve.” He chews the inside of his cheek, clearly debating on whether or not to say something, then shrugs. “Look, don’t take Chris the wrong way. He gets territorial when it comes to Jen.”
Jen. Jared takes note of Steve's use of the nickname. “I noticed.”
Steve rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m a big guy. A short tempered junkyard puppy won’t make me cry or anything.” Jared wrinkles his nose at Steve, who laughs shortly in return.
“He’s a piece of work,” Steve agrees. “Chris, that is. Okay. Can I offer some advice?”
Phrased that way it gets his back up right away, but he’ll give Steve the benefit of the doubt until he has reason to change his mind. Jared schools his face into a careful expression of neutrality. “Sure, go ahead.”
Steve gives him a narrow look, like he knows exactly what Jared’s thinking. “Best to stay away from Jensen. He doesn’t do great with strangers, and if there’s any kind of tremor in the Force Chris really will go ballistic, and sometimes he won’t listen to Jen telling him to back down, nor me either.” He holds up his hand to stave off Jared’s sputtered protest. “Don’t… just don’t ask. Okay? Way I’ve heard from old Mr. Manners, you’re only here for two or three months anyway, so don’t make this into a big deal. Do us all a favor and leave well enough alone.”
Jared mulls this over for all of three second before he's got to get moving or start swinging. “Don’t want to make waves,” he says, neither confirming nor opposing, pushing himself off the railing. He’s about tired of these guys assuming he’s out to harass Jensen for whatever reason, and not even the sweetness of the Lab is enough to tempt him into staying down here any longer.
He gets the feeling Steve wants to smooth it over. Too bad. He’s off the porch and loping down the road in his bare feet, pointed toward the rushing of the waves, wanting nothing more than to see uninterrupted, uncomplicated waters.
As he walks, his cell phone rings in his jacket pocket. He flicks it open on reflex, and pauses when he sees SERA’S CELL on the caller ID.
Hangs fire through all four rings before it goes to voice mail and stuffs the phone back in his pocket, disquieted and itchy underneath his skin.
He doesn’t stop again until he reaches the beach, where the crash of waves against shore is so loud he can’t hear his own thoughts.
***
Of course, Sera being Sera, calls him back within ten minutes, before the sand under his ass has had a chance to warm up enough to be comfortable. “Jared, don't you dare try to avoid me. Now tell me what’s wrong,” she orders, zeroing in to the bulls-eye without him having to say anything, that’s how well she knows him.
He fidgets, tugging at the ragged cuff of his right jeans leg, scratching underneath at his bare ankle. “Me? I’m fine.”
She calls bullshit right away, he can tell by the unladylike snort that speaks volumes.
“Honest, Sera. Everything’s great.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll swear it on a stack of Bibles.”
“And the Lord would strike you down with lightning. Tell me what happened. Now.”
She’s not the kind of friend who’ll give up, for which he’s usually thankful, and he knows enough to pick his battles, so he surrenders and spills the whole strange story while she listens, patient, not interrupting except with sympathetic murmurs.
When he’s done, his cheeks are burning hot and he’s worrying away long strands on his ankle cuff. “So what do you think I did?” he asks.
She’s quiet for too long this time.
“Sera?”
“I don’t know,” she says at last, and he can tell there’s something she’s not telling him now.
“Sera -“
“Let me think about it, Jared. Overnight. Okay?”
“And here I thought you saw all, heard all, knew all.”
“Hey. I’m good, not God. Give a girl a chance.”
They share a companionable quietness for a few, both listening to the sea rolling ever on to shore.
“What do you think I should do?” he asks at last.
“What do you think you should do?” she returns.
“No fair answering a question with a question.”
“Life’s not fair, Jared.” She says it with love. “Look, here’s what I’ve got right now. This guy wants to be left alone. Maybe that’s what you should do.” She overrides his instant protest. “Jared, unless you put him completely out of your mind, you are gonna be down there in his face every time you think of him. Okay? That’s who you are, and that’s your way. It’s not a bad way to be except when people truly don’t want to be bothered. This Chris guy sounds like an ass, but he’s probably picked up on that right away. You’re not exactly subtle.”
Jared grumps at her. “I’m not that bad.”
“Yes, you are.” She sighs quietly. “You don’t want to leave him alone, do you?”
Ah-ha. He shifts position, not wanting to answer that question, which is answer enough for her.
“He must be something else,” she remarks without any special emphasis, like they’re talking about the weather. She knows how dangerous it is to approach this kind of turn in the conversation, and keeps pushing, every damn time. “Something special, huh?”
“I…” He scrubs the heel of his hand over his face. “If I said I wasn’t sure, would you think I’m nuts?”
“Kinda do already. Jared? What was that?”
He’s sat up, tensing like a hunting hound when it gets the scent, on his guard against any sudden moves, and of course she’s sensed the change in his mood. “Sera, shh,” he hisses, cupping one hand around his mouth and the phone. “He’s here.”
“What?” she demands, albeit in a muffled whisper. “Out there? As in, within eyesight?”
“Yeah.” Jared doesn’t move, not an easy task for him, tracking Jensen’s progress. Neither Chris nor Steve follows in his wake. Hannah lopes beside him, her leash loosely wrapped around his wrist, her head down, a dejected dog if he ever saw one, and he thinks he knows why when she shyly pushes her head against Jensen’s hip and he doesn’t pet her.
It’s on his mind to be pissed over refusing a dog the love it’s asking for so hungrily when he registers the way Jensen’s shoulders are slumped and his hands are tucked into his pockets and his head is lowered. He’s not even looking where he’s going, only stopping when Hannah barks and gets between him and the lapping tide.
He knows this is a bad idea, but… “I’m gonna go talk to him.”
“Jared, what did we just finish discussing?”
“I know, I know -“
“Jared. Come on, now, behave. I don’t think you should.”
“I’ve got to know,” he tries to make her understand. “I’ll leave him alone if I can only know why.”
“One day you’re going to push the wrong person too far,” she says. “Again.”
And that’s not playing fair, not at all. He stabs the disconnect button without blinking, gone cold inside where there are empty pockets that are never gonna be filled again, dark corners he doesn’t like to think about and is mostly okay with forgetting.
Until there are days like these.
Keeping Jensen in his line of sight, he clambers ungracefully to his feet. He pauses long enough to try and brush some of the sand, caked like brown sugar, off his legs, and that’s when he catches sight of movement from the corner of his eye.
Hannah barks, nudging Jensen, who turns to face Chris and Steve walking out to meet them. They haven’t noticed him yet, and he draws back on pure instinct. Steve has his arm around Chris’s shoulders in a way that’s just an inch left of “casual”, and even though the sun’s behind Jensen and his face can’t be seen, Jared thinks he’s smiling.
He exhales, long and slow.
All right, then.
***
What he comes up with, his plan of attack, well... maybe it’s a dumb idea, but that’s his specialty. He jumps in with both feet and look out below.
Here I go.
TO PART TWO (Divided Due to Post Size Restrictions)
Comments Disabled On This Post
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (RPS), minor implied Chris/Steve
Rating: PG-13 (or thereabouts)
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, lies.
Summary: In which I play around with J2 AU RPS and have a fine old time. Wandering vagabond Jared arrives in town for a temporary job rebuilding broken-down beach houses and is baffled by the reclusive nature of his downstairs neighbor Jensen. He doesn't know what kind of secrets Jensen is keeping, but he plans to get to know the man better in every way he can. Features confusion, angst, Chris Kane's Fists of Fury, a yellow Labrador, secrets, and broken!Jensen. Um. Yeah. Cookie, anyone?
Feedback: Makes me happy.
TILTED
“Hey, it’s me. Figured I’d let you know I got here in one piece. All on my own just like I said I could, so you can stop fretting, okay?” Jared juggles two plastic Bi-Lo sacks full of CD’s, a potted aloe plant, a box of Saltines and his cell phone, which is both easier and harder to manage than it sounds like. Seems like he can’t ever manage to do just one thing at a time. There’s too much out there, right? Billions of things to taste and touch and smell and see and hear.
“Jared, you know I love you -“
He coos falsely, obnoxiously and loudly into the teensy speaker of the cell phone, all the while wedging it between cheek and shoulder, where it disappears completely from view amongst his hair. “Better not let the missus hear you buttering me up.”
Sera laughs, delighted. “I love you like I was your sister, you big goof.”
“The missus would still have your tits in a vice for flirting.” He’s only half-kidding. Sera’s current lady friend is the territorial type. Tiny, looks like you could break her in half - especially when they stand side by side - but she’s good for Sera, and that’s all that matters to Jared. The woman in question has so often threatened to emasculate him for looking sideways at her honey that he’s tickled to death by her temper. He lays it on thick and sugary all the time for the fun of listening to her fly off the handle at him. He has a thing for tough, tiny women. The smaller they are, the sharper their teeth, in his experience, and he adores that.
Wait, what was he saying to Sera? Oh, yeah.
“You pass the word along to Momma for me, okay?”
“Call her yourself, chicken.”
“I don’t know if talking to her is such a good idea right now, that’s all.”
“Grow a pair, would you? Sure, she might chew your ear off but beyond talking you half to death, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Jared flips off the phone. His momma’s a good lady and as sweet as the day is long, but she has definite Ideas on how a grown man should conduct his life, ideas about staying in one place and forming lasting ties and putting down roots. Ideas that don’t mesh with Jared’s need to wander.
He’d have liked to make her happy in the ways she wanted. To find a girl, find a job, find a house, find contentment. Thing is, he’s known since he was six years old and facing down a prison of a schoolroom that having to do one thing for years on end and maybe the rest of his life will smother him faster than a pillow over his face. He’s known since he was sixteen that there he’ll really never feel more than friendship for a woman.
He’s known since he was nineteen that even if he had wanted these things for his own sake, he wouldn’t be selfish enough to take them.
Sera knows to gloss over his internal monologue, and she’s good about patiently returning to the point. “So what’s the place look like? Anything like the picture Kim e-mailed you?”
“I didn’t think to get a good look. Hang on a sec, let me check it out.” Jared backsteps off the porch. He bites the inside of his cheek as he catalogs every detail he can focus on of the place where he’ll hang his hat for a month or three.
Warped boards on the porch, covered by a barely-there, mostly scuffed-off coat of ocean gray paint. A cracked sidewalk with weeds growing up knee-high through the concrete. Peeling white paint over clapboards, the brick foundation painted muddy red so thick that he can barely see where the bricks themselves fit together, splintery windowsills that look like they don’t sit level, and an overall slight list to the right. About a hundred years old, he’ll guess. The kind of house where folks have enjoyed good, simple lives for a while and then moved on. Split into two apartments, as Kim told him. He’ll have the top floor apartment, and while he was warned gruffly that he’s to leave the guy on the bottom floor alone, shoot, he’ll at least have someone to say hey to.
He squints at the spot at which the porch is clearly split in two parts. No duct tape marking out a line, no, but the wicker rocker chair and small table with intersecting coffee rings and broad-leafed elephant ear plant and pot of wilting African violets are all gathered neatly to the far side, with nothing on the other.
It’s not bad at all, and he’s stayed in enough dives in his day to know the difference between down-at-heel hominess and squalor. Some of the places he called home… good god. Motels that charged by the hour while he manned the check-in desks and tried not to snicker; shanty apartments over the bars where he pulled beer taps and washed glasses; and in one fantastic case, a tent city near to the canal digging ops.
“Looks like home,” he says to Sera, who’s been patiently waiting. He grins until his cheeks hurt, knowing he’s lighting up like a kid, happily unconcerned with a need to act his age “Looks pretty sweet.”
“How long do you think you’ll last there, Jared?”
“You know there’s never any telling.”
“Wouldn’t have you any other way,” she replies, comfortable and easy.
“See? This is why we get along so well. Marry me,” he offers, tongue firmly planted in cheek.
“That’d work out real well, if we could get through it with straight faces. Jared, you couldn’t even get through a fake date with Sandy McCoy at your Momma’s rotary club brunch.”
“At least I did try. Hey, hang on a second.” Jared sits his bags down, wincing and working out the stinging indentations in his fingers and palm where he’s been holding the heavy plastic straps too long. “I’ll walk you through a tour.”
“Here’s the door, here’s the stairs, here’s the kitchen?”
Jared blows a raspberry at her over the phone. “Aw, damn, that was nasty.”
He lets her laugh at him while he wipes the spit off on the tail of his T-shirt, which is, okay, just about as gross. While he’s down there, he thrusts his hand in the capacious pocket of his favorite coffee-colored jacket, searching for the keys that have jingled in there all the way from Texas. “Give me a sec to get the door unlocked and I’ll walk you inside.”
Huh. No keys. Puzzled, he reaches into the other pocket, poking around. Still no luck.
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” Sera says, dryly amused.
“Shit on a shingle,” he says, amazed. How he loses track of so much, he’ll never have any clue. “I must have dropped the keychain somewhere along the way. Probably in the truck, unless it was McDonald’s this morning. Damn, I bet it was the McDonald’s off exit 27-B. I dropped my coffee and had to squat down to clean up the mess.” He rakes his hand through the strands of hair tangling over his eyes. “Can you Google up the location and call them for me?”
“Sure thing, but what are you going to do for now?”
“Ask the guy on the bottom floor, I guess, if he’s around.”
“What time is it there? Seven a.m.? He might be awake, yeah.” Sera pauses. Jared can almost see the gears and wheels turning in her head. “Problem is, we both know you were told to leave him alone. Right?”
Jared bites his lip in thought. “I’m not to disturb the guy downstairs, not on pain of death, nope.” Still, what else can he do? Kim, the guy who hired him - a friend of Sera’s aunt or something - is meant to be out of town until Monday, and as it stands now he doesn’t know a single soul in this beach village. And the wind blowing up from the ocean along with the rush of the waves filling his head? It’s frigging cold. Late autumn’s a funky place to hit the coast. “I’ll get my ass kicked, but I guess I gotta make the best of it.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll put in the phone calls for you.” She pauses. “Take care of yourself, Jared, y’hear?”
“Do my best for you. Bye, hon.” As Jared disconnects the call he stands back to eyeball the civilized half of the porch, taking in the details, forming his approach plan. This downstairs guy enjoys colors and textures, he thinks, and likes to put his feet up on the railing if the double scuffs-off of white paint are any giveaway. Anyone who kicks back has to be a decent type, easy-going and friendly, and so without any further ado he lopes to the downstairs door.
Enjoying the way the cold beach breezes tickle up the overlong curls on the back of his neck, he knocks three times on the green-painted screen door and stands back, humming under his breath.
No answer. Huh. He knocks again, curious.
Oh, damn. What if he is still asleep? At seven a.m. on a weekend morning, he might well be.
Cussing himself six ways from Sunday, Jared tries to retreat, running his palm along the porch rail for balance. A touch too hard and too carelessly, it appears, as a splinter rams under the meat of his palm and draws a startled shout of a curse from his lips, way too loud for this time of day.
And, as one might have figured, that draws the attention of Mr. Mysterious. Jared looks up from his examination of the beads of blood around the gray-painted sliver in his hand, already preparing his apologies, not coward enough to run but smart enough to cringe at the sound of locks rattling abruptly open and the screen door unlatching.
A sleep-ruffled dude peers out at him. The man’s eyes are squinted tight and oh yeah, he woke the poor bastard up.
“Hey there,” Jared says fast, eager to make peace before war has a chance to start. “I am so sorry, honest I am, but I’m moving in upstairs today and I’ve gone and lost my keys.”
The guy retreats a pace further back in the safety of his apartment, for which Jared can’t blame him. He’s framed by shadow now, but rather than hiding his face he’s illuminated by a stray trick of the light until he appears as ghostly as a white wraith. The somberness of his mien makes Jared think of angels in stained-glass windows, not quite real, pale and pained, as if delivering good tidings sorrows their hearts.
His own heart goes out to this guy right away. “Hey,” he says, gentling his tone. Guy’s terrified. Jared can almost hear the rabbit-fast beat of his heart. And he can understand it, really he can. He’s aware of his own size and as he hasn’t shaved in a few days knows he’s disheveled as hell as well as haggard from all-night driving. He’d scare the bejeezus out of his own family if they were to see him right now. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The man’s fingers tighten around the molding on his door. “I don’t recognize you,” he says, pulling back a few more inches. “What’s your name?”
“Jared,” he says, starting forward to offer his hand for a shake, then thinking better of it. Not knowing what else to do with it --- he’s not accustomed to folks who don’t smile and step right up - he shoves it in his pocket and swallows down a wince. “Jared Padalecki.”
“Oh.” The man’s face goes dead, that’s the only way to describe it, blank and impassive. “Yeah, you. Kim said.”
It’s a start. “He hired me to help fix up some of the beach houses,” Jared explains, hoping he’ll corroborate facts old Mr. Manners was likely to have passed along, figuring that might reassure this guy.
He really can’t keep calling the pale man “this guy”, though, can he? “What’s your name? Mr. Manners didn’t tell me.”
“Jensen.” He doesn’t offer a last name, fading backwards fast. “There’s a spare key in the bottom of the mailbox.” A vague point toward the porch railing with a tin box nailed to a beam.
“Thanks, Jensen, I -“ Even as Jared’s speaking, Jensen makes tracks, disappearing back in his apartment and shutting the door with a firm push, locks clicking and tumbling in place.
Jared stares, baffled. What is this guy, a recluse or a hermit or something? Why?
This could get interesting, he thinks as he digs in the mailbox for the key. When he finds it, he forgets all about Jensen in the face of the excitement of letting himself into his new home.
Later on, he’ll realize what an understatement “interesting” was, but that’s then and this is now.
***
His first step on the tread of the interior stairwell leading up to his new place produces a mighty creak, a pop of the floorboards that has him drawing his foot back with a startled curse. He half thinks he’s broken the step until cautious prodding with the toe of his sneaker tells him it’s still intact, just noisy as all hell.
No way he can be quiet about moving his stuff in, can he? Not like he has all that much, just a couple duffels with jeans and hoodies and boxers and socks and the boxes with all his PS2 stuff in them. Oh, and his duffel bag with some books, and that big old stuffed German Shepherd squishy Sera gave him to remind him of Sadie; right, he’s also got the sheets and the quilt his grandma made him bring along this time. And the crate of pots and pans he picked up at the Salvation Army back in Arkansas somewhere when he remembered he didn’t have so much as a frying pan after that time he had to leave Wyoming in a hurry.
Jared sucks his lower lip between his teeth, worrying the soft flesh, considering going back to his truck to try and find some kind of comfortable position to curl up in and nap. Won’t be the first time he’s done as much, and not the last, he’s sure. It’s just not manners to raise a ruckus while Jensen’s trying to sleep in.
But when he steps out onto the porch, trying to keep it quiet, he sees that Jensen’s awake and settled in out there, sock feet propped on the railing just as Jared had guessed was a likely habit, hunched in on himself with a bright green pottery mug clasped between both palms. Steam rises off the top along with a mouth-watering smell of rich, strong coffee.
“Jensen,” Jared greets him, relieved. “Were you getting up anyway?”
Jensen flinches and takes a quick sideways look at Jared. He mumbles something not entirely coherent, possibly not even words. The puffiness of his eyes behind a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, their lenses smoky shaded in the morning light - he’s heard about the kind that shift between sunglasses and regular; that’s awesome - anyway, those tell Jared that while Jensen might be awake, he’s not too happy about it and a wise man won’t pester him before he’s gotten through his mug of coffee.
Jared holds his hands up, palms out, grinning wide and easy at Jensen. “No hard feelings about before? I make a lot of noise, I know. My friend Sera, she always says I’m like a bronco running wild through a glassware store.”
Slight frown from Jensen while he takes a sip. “Thought it was ‘bull in a china shop’,” he mumbles after he swallows, his voice rough around the edges, low-pitched, raspy like he smoked once upon a time.
Jared laughs. “She likes to do things different.” He finds a good place he thinks won’t break to park his ass on the porch railing and chafes his cold fingers. “Does it ever warm up around here during the day?”
Jensen shrugs, and that’s all Jared gets.
He tries again. “So, probably gonna make a big racket getting my stuff up the stairs. I’ll be as quick about it as I can. That okay?”
Jensen raises one shoulder and tosses back coffee. Judging by the steam, it’s a few degrees shy of boiling and Jared wonders if he wasn’t a smoker but has instead scraped his throat raw by taking his morning jolt so hot.
Silence lies thick between broken only by the soft noises of swallowing. Jensen doesn’t look back at him, focusing bleary/intense on the otherwise empty street in front of them, unpaved and coated with dun-colored sand.
Jared lets it go on, hoping for something, until he concedes that it’s not going to happen right now. Some guys are just like Jensen in the morning, even if he himself never has been. It’s not personal, he figures. Why would it be?
“Take it easy,” he says, standing up straight. “See you around, Jen.”
Jensen’s face shutters off. “Don’t call me nicknames.”
Jared shrugs. “No problem, man. Jensen. Sorry.”
He thinks he catches the faintest upturn of Jensen’s lips - damn, if he ever really smiled he’d be a heartbreaker - and a chuff that might be a laugh if it got a chance to breathe.
All in all, it brightens his outlook considerably. This’ll work out, no problem. It’ll just take time and coffee, both of which are cures for almost any ills he knows of.
He waves back at Jensen, who doesn’t acknowledge the gesture, and lopes to his red ’92 Ford Explorer. Not thinking, he finds himself looking for Harley and Sadie in the back, hanging their big heads over the tailgate and panting at him with happy doggy love in their loyal gazes. When he doesn’t see them, the remembrance of "why not" hits him like a sucker punch, same as every time before.
Okay, so time doesn’t heal all wounds. The wind wailing in from the beach sounds like a low, unhappy dog’s whine. Jared gives himself a moment to miss them, tightens his jaw, and moves on.
That’s what he does, and he’s gotten pretty good at it by now.
***
As it turns out, the upstairs apartment is better than he'd hoped. Kim had mentioned “furnished”, which is always a bonus but usually means a camp bed, a single-burner stove and a dorm-size refrigerator. This place is loaded according to Jared’s standards; a Murphy bed and a full harvest-gold kitchen, and a massive bowl of a tub that he thinks he might fit all the way into.
It’s cute as anything he’s ever seen. Sera would be in raptures over this place.
Once again, he’s forgotten about Jensen as he clomps around, his sneakers thunking loud and then his bare feet slapping on the threadbare carpeting and the wooden bathroom floor.
When the door downstairs slams, he winces and curses.
Okay, so it’ll take longer than a while. He’ll still get there in the end.
***
A few hours later, he’s not half as pleased with his new kitchen. There’s no microwave, and granted, that’s a luxury item, except he never has been great at cooking that doesn’t involve tossing a match onto a grill or pushing a button.
People always say “now we’re cooking with gas!” like it’s the only way you can fix a decent meal. Jared has his doubts. How can cooking with gas be all that when you’ve got to stick your head in the oven while carrying a lit match, hunting for the smell of gas to tell you where to try and light the pilot while not burning off your eyebrows? As it stands, he’s smelling the stink of scorched hair far more strongly than the bitter stench of burned toast.
Actually, that might not be a bad thing, he thinks as he scrapes black carbon off his toast and hunts in his small bag of provisions for the peanut butter and jelly he bought at a gas station a few towns back. With a name like Smuckers, it’s got be good, and oh yeah, it is. He props his length against the kitchen wall, gazing idly out the window at the squirrels swarming the bird feeder, rolling the hearty peanut taste and the sweetness of grape jelly around in his mouth.
It’s not a bad meal, tasty enough to munch his way through, scraping the Jif jar empty on his sixth slice. There’s just enough jelly to smear over the toast for the flavor, and then he tosses bread wrapper and empty jars in the trash, licking the last smears off his thumb. He reaches over to unlatch the window he’s been dreaming through, hoping he’ll get some breezes off the ocean to clear out the smell of burned bread.
On the stiff burst of cold sea winds, he smells the ocean, sure, then he gets full-on hit with the scent of tomatoes and basil and garlic. The aroma has serious stopping power, hunger knotting in his never-quite-satisfied stomach.
Wow. Is that Jensen cooking?
He doesn’t even think, just follows his nose down the creaky flight of stairs, bare feet and all, and then he’s knocking on Jensen’s door to see if he can borrow a cup of lunch.
Jensen doesn’t answer, and Jared can’t hear him moving around inside. At least, not until he catches the tiniest clatter of a pot lid somewhere. No one comes to answer his knock, though, not even when he tries a second time.
His stomach disappointed and his mood vaguely disquieted, he tries to shrug it off and decides he’ll head back up to fetch his shoes. Might as well wander around the town on foot and see if he can find a sub shop or something. Italian would be great right about now.
***
Thing is, when he turns around, he finds himself face to face with this shortish guy, or rather more like this guy’s nose to his chest, but he’s used to that kind of thing.
What he’s not so accustomed to is a hard working man’s hand planted flat over his sternum, shoving him backwards.
“Whoa!” Jared stumbles, catching his balance on the porch railing by lucky chance, and stares at his assailant. What’s this guy’s problem? He looks like one of those mean junkyard dogs that’s been trained to bite rather than wag his tail. Short, sure, but built tough as nails, ropy muscles in his bare forearms and his stocky legs, with blue eyes narrowed in suspicion and disapproval. Whoever this is, he’s got a hate-on for Jared, and Jared is starting to wonder if he’s side-stepped into some alternative world because no one ever hates him right away. At least not that he knows of. Now there’s Jensen’s distancing act and this guy’s blatant distaste, and what the hell’s going on?
“What are you doin’?” the guy demands, another smoker’s voice, the kind that could curl sexy as the smell of bourbon if he dropped the attitude and talked nice. “You harassing him?”
“What? Me? No,” Jared protests, standing his ground. “What’s your problem?”
As soon as it’s spoken, he realizes he shouldn’t have said that. The short guy lights up with a dark glitter, like he lives in the hopes of tussling with folks, and he shifts his weight in best bantamweight boxer style. Jared eyes him, wondering how hard he hits and why he’s about to get popped one.
“Take it easy,” he tries to gentle this scrapper down. “I’m Jared.”
The man’s chin comes up. “So what, you’ve moved in upstairs, yeah?”
“More or less.”
The man eyes him, weighing him in the balance. He snorts. “Looks like a hell of a lot ‘more’, son.”
Okay, now Jared’s getting pissed. “I’m not your son, boy.”
The man’s nostrils flare. “I ought to turn you over my knee.”
“Like to see you try.” Jared shows his teeth and makes “bring it” hand gestures, curling his fingers in taunting pulls. Manners are manners but enough is e-damn-nough. “We can walk away from this if you want, but I’m not gonna stand here and take a lickin' when I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to have done.”
“Hmmph.” Shorty examines him, irritation amending a couple of degrees. “So you don’t know. Huh.”
“Don’t know what?”
Shorty ignores his question, shaking straight honey-brown hair, rough-cut at chin length, out of his face, tucking it behind his ears. He’s still ready as a firecracker to throw down; for right now, Jared can see he’s decided not to. “Look, here’s how it works. You leave him -“ he jerks his head at Jensen’s door - “alone, and you and I won’t have any problems. Clear?”
“Jesus, it’s not like I planned to stalk him or anything.”
“See that you don’t.”
“Just being neighborly.”
“Yeah, well, don’t do that either. He doesn’t need you.” Shorty glares before turning his back and knocking on Jensen’s door, leaving Jared confused and fuming behind him, mouth working in search of a comeback that, in the style of all truly needed comebacks, doesn’t come at all.
He does notice that short man’s knock follows a pattern. Knock, pause, knock-knock, pause, knock, pause, knock-knock-knock. That’s weird, and what’s weirder is that he hears the soft scuff of sock feet approaching Jensen’s door right away.
The door cracks open, and Shorty rounds to glare at Jared. “Jensen, hold on. You, tall-ass guy. I thought we’d come to an understanding.”
“We did,” Jared says, wounded now. He’s not stupid or anything.
“Then get on your way,” Shorty snaps. “Jensen, you want me to take care of this joker?”
“Chris,” is all he hears Jensen say, sounding like he’s tired.
Shorty - Chris - blows hair off his forehead, clearly annoyed. He stomps inside, slamming the door in a pointed reminder to Jared.
Jared, for his part, shifts from foot to foot. He’s got half a mind to knock too, to make sure this Chris guy’s not gonna hurt Jensen. He’s seen jealous boyfriends do some real asshole things. If that’s how this works. Hard to tell.
He waits on the porch, undecided, until he hears two men laughing inside, comfortable, and understands that these two are on good terms. And with that much knowledge, he can’t protest.
Doesn’t mean he has to like it, even if he doesn’t know why.
He’s leaning against the porch rail, idly thinking that it’s actually really comfortable, when the soft scuff of sneakers alerts him to the fact that he’s not alone. Again. Glancing up, he sees a guy ambling up to the house, following a yellow Lab on a woven leather leash. The man nods to him, offering a neutral-to-friendly quirk of the lips; the dog perks up, sniffing the air.
It’s like a taste of better times and pure instinct to drop to one knee and extend his hand for the dog to sniff. The Lab hesitates, but only for a moment, before tugging its walker the few paces necessary. It buries its cold nose in Jared’s palm and starts wagging when he rubs behind the silky ears.
“Oh, hey, who’s a good boy?” Jared croons, tousling the dog’s fur. The Lab smells like salt and wet dog and by damn, it hurts. “You’re a handsome guy, aren’t you? Yeah, you are.”
“He’s a she, actually,” the man on the other end of the leash offers. “Her name’s Hannah.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” Jared praises without missing a beat, leaning forward to plant a kiss atop her golden head. She eats the affection up, nuzzling his hand and whining low in her throat. “She’s a doll-baby.”
“She can be.” The man tilts his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her take to someone like this. She's not too fond of Jensen, and she lives with the guy.”
Huh. Jensen doesn't seem like the kind of man to keep companion animals. He guesses that goes to remind him not to judge books by their covers. It's another point in his favor, too, owning a pretty girl like Hannah.
“Dogs know dog lovers.” Jared stands reluctantly, promising himself that if Hannah’s going to be a regular visitor he’ll brave a trip to a pet store to get her some jerky chews or a rawhide bone. How long's it been since he went buying dog treats? Three years, four?
“Mmm,” the man says, as if that’s good enough, and it kind of is. He’s quiet, this guy, a welcomely peaceful type after the crash-boom that was Chris. Ash-blond hair tickles the tops of his shoulders, combed only by the sea air; his mouth is a kind mouth, more accustomed to grinning than scowling. Looks like a comfortable sort of guy, a dude you could kick back and enjoy a beer with.
“Jared,” he says, offering his hand.
For a change, this guy takes it and shakes briefly. “Steve.” He chews the inside of his cheek, clearly debating on whether or not to say something, then shrugs. “Look, don’t take Chris the wrong way. He gets territorial when it comes to Jen.”
Jen. Jared takes note of Steve's use of the nickname. “I noticed.”
Steve rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m a big guy. A short tempered junkyard puppy won’t make me cry or anything.” Jared wrinkles his nose at Steve, who laughs shortly in return.
“He’s a piece of work,” Steve agrees. “Chris, that is. Okay. Can I offer some advice?”
Phrased that way it gets his back up right away, but he’ll give Steve the benefit of the doubt until he has reason to change his mind. Jared schools his face into a careful expression of neutrality. “Sure, go ahead.”
Steve gives him a narrow look, like he knows exactly what Jared’s thinking. “Best to stay away from Jensen. He doesn’t do great with strangers, and if there’s any kind of tremor in the Force Chris really will go ballistic, and sometimes he won’t listen to Jen telling him to back down, nor me either.” He holds up his hand to stave off Jared’s sputtered protest. “Don’t… just don’t ask. Okay? Way I’ve heard from old Mr. Manners, you’re only here for two or three months anyway, so don’t make this into a big deal. Do us all a favor and leave well enough alone.”
Jared mulls this over for all of three second before he's got to get moving or start swinging. “Don’t want to make waves,” he says, neither confirming nor opposing, pushing himself off the railing. He’s about tired of these guys assuming he’s out to harass Jensen for whatever reason, and not even the sweetness of the Lab is enough to tempt him into staying down here any longer.
He gets the feeling Steve wants to smooth it over. Too bad. He’s off the porch and loping down the road in his bare feet, pointed toward the rushing of the waves, wanting nothing more than to see uninterrupted, uncomplicated waters.
As he walks, his cell phone rings in his jacket pocket. He flicks it open on reflex, and pauses when he sees SERA’S CELL on the caller ID.
Hangs fire through all four rings before it goes to voice mail and stuffs the phone back in his pocket, disquieted and itchy underneath his skin.
He doesn’t stop again until he reaches the beach, where the crash of waves against shore is so loud he can’t hear his own thoughts.
***
Of course, Sera being Sera, calls him back within ten minutes, before the sand under his ass has had a chance to warm up enough to be comfortable. “Jared, don't you dare try to avoid me. Now tell me what’s wrong,” she orders, zeroing in to the bulls-eye without him having to say anything, that’s how well she knows him.
He fidgets, tugging at the ragged cuff of his right jeans leg, scratching underneath at his bare ankle. “Me? I’m fine.”
She calls bullshit right away, he can tell by the unladylike snort that speaks volumes.
“Honest, Sera. Everything’s great.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll swear it on a stack of Bibles.”
“And the Lord would strike you down with lightning. Tell me what happened. Now.”
She’s not the kind of friend who’ll give up, for which he’s usually thankful, and he knows enough to pick his battles, so he surrenders and spills the whole strange story while she listens, patient, not interrupting except with sympathetic murmurs.
When he’s done, his cheeks are burning hot and he’s worrying away long strands on his ankle cuff. “So what do you think I did?” he asks.
She’s quiet for too long this time.
“Sera?”
“I don’t know,” she says at last, and he can tell there’s something she’s not telling him now.
“Sera -“
“Let me think about it, Jared. Overnight. Okay?”
“And here I thought you saw all, heard all, knew all.”
“Hey. I’m good, not God. Give a girl a chance.”
They share a companionable quietness for a few, both listening to the sea rolling ever on to shore.
“What do you think I should do?” he asks at last.
“What do you think you should do?” she returns.
“No fair answering a question with a question.”
“Life’s not fair, Jared.” She says it with love. “Look, here’s what I’ve got right now. This guy wants to be left alone. Maybe that’s what you should do.” She overrides his instant protest. “Jared, unless you put him completely out of your mind, you are gonna be down there in his face every time you think of him. Okay? That’s who you are, and that’s your way. It’s not a bad way to be except when people truly don’t want to be bothered. This Chris guy sounds like an ass, but he’s probably picked up on that right away. You’re not exactly subtle.”
Jared grumps at her. “I’m not that bad.”
“Yes, you are.” She sighs quietly. “You don’t want to leave him alone, do you?”
Ah-ha. He shifts position, not wanting to answer that question, which is answer enough for her.
“He must be something else,” she remarks without any special emphasis, like they’re talking about the weather. She knows how dangerous it is to approach this kind of turn in the conversation, and keeps pushing, every damn time. “Something special, huh?”
“I…” He scrubs the heel of his hand over his face. “If I said I wasn’t sure, would you think I’m nuts?”
“Kinda do already. Jared? What was that?”
He’s sat up, tensing like a hunting hound when it gets the scent, on his guard against any sudden moves, and of course she’s sensed the change in his mood. “Sera, shh,” he hisses, cupping one hand around his mouth and the phone. “He’s here.”
“What?” she demands, albeit in a muffled whisper. “Out there? As in, within eyesight?”
“Yeah.” Jared doesn’t move, not an easy task for him, tracking Jensen’s progress. Neither Chris nor Steve follows in his wake. Hannah lopes beside him, her leash loosely wrapped around his wrist, her head down, a dejected dog if he ever saw one, and he thinks he knows why when she shyly pushes her head against Jensen’s hip and he doesn’t pet her.
It’s on his mind to be pissed over refusing a dog the love it’s asking for so hungrily when he registers the way Jensen’s shoulders are slumped and his hands are tucked into his pockets and his head is lowered. He’s not even looking where he’s going, only stopping when Hannah barks and gets between him and the lapping tide.
He knows this is a bad idea, but… “I’m gonna go talk to him.”
“Jared, what did we just finish discussing?”
“I know, I know -“
“Jared. Come on, now, behave. I don’t think you should.”
“I’ve got to know,” he tries to make her understand. “I’ll leave him alone if I can only know why.”
“One day you’re going to push the wrong person too far,” she says. “Again.”
And that’s not playing fair, not at all. He stabs the disconnect button without blinking, gone cold inside where there are empty pockets that are never gonna be filled again, dark corners he doesn’t like to think about and is mostly okay with forgetting.
Until there are days like these.
Keeping Jensen in his line of sight, he clambers ungracefully to his feet. He pauses long enough to try and brush some of the sand, caked like brown sugar, off his legs, and that’s when he catches sight of movement from the corner of his eye.
Hannah barks, nudging Jensen, who turns to face Chris and Steve walking out to meet them. They haven’t noticed him yet, and he draws back on pure instinct. Steve has his arm around Chris’s shoulders in a way that’s just an inch left of “casual”, and even though the sun’s behind Jensen and his face can’t be seen, Jared thinks he’s smiling.
He exhales, long and slow.
All right, then.
***
What he comes up with, his plan of attack, well... maybe it’s a dumb idea, but that’s his specialty. He jumps in with both feet and look out below.
Here I go.
TO PART TWO (Divided Due to Post Size Restrictions)
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