ht_murray: little girl, cheeks, blue rose (Default)
[personal profile] ht_murray

Danneel twirls one strand of red hair around and around her finger, eyes going crossed in the never-ending search for split ends. Jensen’s told her more times than he count that straight-ironing will do that. She insists on guinea pigging herself out to every new high-dollar deep conditioning treatment on the market rather than give it up. Lucky for her, Jensen gets it all wholesale. She’d better bet her tight ass he’s gonna charge her retail just as soon as he finished business school and opens his own salon. She humphs and slouches in the chair at the island between his kitchen and dining room, obviously disgruntled with her findings.

“No,” Jensen says pre-emptively, “I do not have time to give you a trim right now. The guy from the cleaning service is going to be here in an hour, and I haven’t even dusted yet.”

She drops the strand of hair, hands falling slack at her sides, and glares up at him from beneath her eyelashes, all impudent indignation. “What’s the point of getting a cleaning service if you’re going to do all the work yourself?”

“The point is, my dad bought this condo and lets me live here rent free under the agreement that I pay someone to clean it. You know how he is, all about spreading the wealth and trickling down what we have to trickle. Doesn’t mean I should get out of the habit of doing for myself. Sloth is a deadly sin, you know.”

“So is homosexuality, in case you missed the memo.” She cracks her gum and taps her toe in the air where her foot’s crossed in her lap, on hand on her ankle.

“Which is why I’m abstinent.” Jensen rubs at a spot on the hood above the ceramic grill top, could be grease, could be a fly spot (God forbid), could be a reflection of one of his own freckles. Huffing a breath over it until the stainless steel clouds up, he wipes it with the dishrag, grimaces when that leaves a lint speck, and then wipes it with his sleeve.

“An abstinent homosexual,” Danneel retorts, smug in her tone, even if he can’t see her face. “And anal. You know where the term comes from, right?”

Jensen’s not biting. “This is not an appropriate topic of conversation, thank you.”

Stubborn as always, she leans forward in her chair, both hands on her ankle. “You see, when a little boy is potty trained and becomes fixated on stimulation to a certain...”


“I’m just saying, maybe if you got your... stimulation out of the way, you wouldn’t be seeing imaginary spots on the stainless steel. AND you’d have more time for the important things in life. Like my hair.”

Shutting the dishwasher with a clank of pots, Jensen considers hanging his dish cloth over the rail and rethinks it, ducks around the corner into the laundry room and tosses it into the basket. “I’m doing your hair a huge favor by leaving it alone, which is what I’ve been telling you to do for years.”

He’s not touching the subject of ‘stimulation.’ No pun intended. Danneel would be surprised just how much a guy could do all on his own, but he’s not about to be the one to enlighten her. She’s convinced herself that her worldly knowledge is what keeps him hanging around. He’s pretty sure that it’s exactly why none of her actual boyfriends ever do, but he’s more of a ‘live by example’ kind of teacher, never blessed with the ability to form anything remotely resembling wisdom with his tongue. Whatever eloquence he may once have had vanished when he was sixteen and his mother decided spring cleaning entailed stripping every room in the house, including his bedroom.

How do you explain to a mother what a teenage boy needs a vibrator for? And how do you explain to a teenage boy why his mother mistakenly thinks he took it from her room? You don’t, which is why he specifically asked the cleaning service to send over a guy instead of a woman. He’s not attempting that conversation with anyone of the female persuasion ever again. A guy he could deal with. He’d heard more graphic sexual details in the locker room at school, and if he isn’t used to the judgmental queer leer by now, he never would be. He just considers himself lucky to have found a service that actually employs guys. It’d taken him forever to track one down. In the end, he got the card for from one of his clients. New guy, kinda hot with wild, unruly hair and blue eyes. Collins? Oh yeah, Misha. Jensen remembers now, because the dude kept anwering his phone, “This is Misha,” and Jensen had barely managed not to mime, “Misha, Misha, Misha,” behind his back. Way to be professional, Ackles.

“You don’t mean that, baby,” she coos. “I’m your number one client.”

“I’m your drug dealer. Everyone knows you get off by using the most expensive shit on the market. And I’m the only reason you can afford it.”

She pouts. “What girl doesn’t like to pamper herself?” An ominous pause in which Jensen actually hears her lips twist into a leer. “Besides you, I mean.”

“Sweetie, you are my luxury. Having you sitting there saves me tons on decorating expenses, not to mention lighting.” He swipes the crumbs out from under her saucer and into the sink. “Now eat up and get your ass out. You are not fawning over the housekeeper when he shows up.”

“Why not?” She eats her pizza by twirling the cheese around her finger like it’s another strand of her hair. “’Ts not like you left him anything to do.”

“And you’re volunteering, I know.” He tries not to sound disheartened, but he really wishes she didn’t work so hard at the doormat impersonation. She must hear something in his voice anyway, because she makes that little noise he loves, half whimper, half squeal, and slides down off the chair.

He doesn’t look up from the sink where he’s chasing the last of her crumbs down the drain with the scouring powder and brush he’s using to clean it. Her arms slip around his waist and she kisses the back of his neck before laying her head between his shoulder blades, thumbs stroking over his stomach. “You’re way too good to me, baby,” she sighs, then smacks him on the shoulder before smoothing out the wrinkle that make in his shirt. “And you’re way too good to be alone.”

“I’m perfectly happy with my life.” He might sound a little gruffer than he intends and probably scrubs a little harder over hard water stains only he can see, but he means it.

“Yeah, well, I’m not happy with your life, but damn if I know how to fix it.”

“Then don’t.”

They exchange pecks on the cheek, and she leaves.

“I’m perfectly happy with my life.” Funny how he says it aloud when there’s no one there to hear it but himself. When it echoes back at him from inside the fume hood, he says, “I am.” Like arguing with himself has ever been less than futile.


A/N: Yeah, this part happens before what I posted yesterday. And I like Danneel in this. Sorry if you're a hater, lol.
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ht_murray: little girl, cheeks, blue rose (Default)

June 2015


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