The Second Man, NC-17, Jensen/Jared, 5/9
Dec. 31st, 2009 12:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ht_murray<<--Back to Part Four
-- Part Five--
A/N: My person-in-the-know says the doctor would never come out to the waiting room. To which I say, the world moves for Jared Padalecki... shrug.
Today is a good day. Jared has declared it thus. Best day ever, which isn’t saying much, considering he can count the days he actually remembers on one hand. It’s just, well, he doesn’t know if he’s ever had as much fun as they had last night. The first time he picked up the microphone and let his hips do their thing, he felt like young Forrest Gump running right out of his leg braces. It’s “Run, Jared! Run!” And he doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon. Some people need alcohol to shrug off their inhibitions. Apparently, all Jared needs is a whack on the head, amnesia, and a karaoke machine. Maybe he’s flying blind at the moment, but he’s flying, and it’s fucking amazing.
Yesterday, all he could do was watch Jensen from a distance, mowing that grass with his shirt off and sweat beading down his shoulders. Last night, he not only was serenaded by Jensen in his boxers, but they fell asleep only a few feet apart, and as far as he can tell, there’s no morning after regret creeping in. This morning, he kissed Jensen. He still can’t believe he did that, but he’s so glad he did. One major hurdle down, and he’d never have done that if he’d paused for one second to consider whether he should.
All right, so maybe things are moving kind of quickly. He’s technically known Jensen for just a few days, but at least some of this giddy, heart-thuddy, sweaty palmy... glee, has got to be carryover from before the amnesia. They’re in love, right? Or they were. That doesn’t just go away. Does it? Whatever it’s from, he likes it, and he wants more, and if his feelings for Jensen are the only memories he gets back, he’s half convinced he’ll be fine with that.
“Can we make pancakes,” Joey asks as they put the last cushion back on the couch where it belongs.
“Hmm,” Jared considers it. He watched Jensen do it yesterday. He thinks he could probably manage, but “No, not two days in a row. All those carbs go right to my thighs.”
With a head-cock, face squish, pretty friggin’ cute expression, Joey says, “Really?”
Jared has to stop to think. “Yeah, really,” he decides. He’s almost positive he didn’t just make that up. So, it must be... something he’s said before. “Hey, whattaya know,” he exclaims, “a memory!” If it weren’t for the cast, he’d pick Joey up and do his best helicopter spin. “I got a memory back.” It must be true what they say about kissing Prince Charming. This day could not get any better.
“You did?” The question’s timid, hesitant, nothing at all like the Jake Jared’s come to know as the little boy slinks down the stairs, fingers white on the railing, freckles stark on his cheeks.
“Yeah! I remembered that lean protein trumps carbs. How do you feel about scrambled eggs?”
“Awesome!” Jake’s back to his normal exuberant self in a second, but Jared doesn’t miss the quick, worried glance he gives Joey or the way Joey’s hand tightens in his belt loop.
“All right, then, scrambled eggs and chocolate chips it is,” he says.
“Chocolate chips?” Both kids grimace.
“Well, yeah. I think my new memory is cause for celebration, how ‘bout you?” Hop-stepping toward the kitchen, he calls over his shoulder, “Last one to the table has to wash the pan.”
Jared’s on the verge of winning that race, and no, he’s not going to admit he cheated, when the phone rings and breaks his stride. The kids plow into the table hard enough to push it sideways six inches with a scrape, and beam back at him, palms flat on the surface like they’re claiming it, as he reaches for the phone. “Do over,” he mouths, checking the caller I.D. “It’s Jensen. I bet he says I get a do over.”
“Nu-uh!”
He puts a shush finger to his lips and clicks on the phone. “Hey, Jensen, tell these rugrats that they do not win the race if I have to stop and answer the phone.”
“Uh... Jared?” It’s not Jensen’s voice. “Listen, this is Chris. You remember me-- the Sheriff?”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember.” The giddy buzz bubble bursts and the shards stick like shrapnel in his chest. “Why are you on Jensen’s phone?”
--
Jared doesn’t think he can stay standing much longer. Between bracing against the crutch on one side and Joey’s head buried against his hip, his worry-weak knees are going to just give out and dump him on the floor in the middle of the Waiting Room. But he’s not sitting down. The friggin’ hospital lounge area is full to the moldings with sitting people that no one’s paying any attention to. Jared’s got all this height, and he hopes to Hell he sticks out so far someone will have to talk to him. He’s not above making a scene. Not that he needs to do anything with one crying kid glued to his leg and two more looking like they’re about to go postal on the place.
“Look, Mr.... Switchfoot...”
“Jared,” he corrects. “Call me Jared.”
“Okay, then, Jared,” the receptionist says, hair popping out of her ponytail like she’s been navigating a wind tunnel instead of manning a desk. “When we know something, you’ll know something. Until then, you’re not doing Mr. Ackles or anyone else in here any good by blocking the Admissions desk.”
Not the right answer, so Jared doesn’t respond more than to cross his arms over his chest.
She sighs. “Look, even if I knew what to tell you, I’m not sure I can. You’re not on the contact list, and you’re not immediate family.”
“I’m his fiance.”
She pales noticeably and closes the file in front of her. “I’m... I’m sure you are, but hospital policy is...”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“It’s not that,” she stammers. “I-I do, but I’m not sure what the policy is with regards to...”
“Your hospital policy discriminates against same sex couples?” He’s well aware that, not only is he making a rash over-generalization, but his voice carries across the room and probably down the hallway. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?
It’s working. The receptionist’s cheeks turn red, and she ducks her eyes under the desk like a bank teller looking for the silent alarm. Intimidation? Check. A nurse comes out of a closet pushing a cart full of supplies on her way into the suite of exam rooms. Jared addresses her.
“Excuse me,” he says stepping in front of her cart so abruptly a stack of emesis basins tips off the edge. Catching them before the nurse can bend over, “Sorry. I was just wondering, did you know that this hospital has policies that discriminate against gay couples?”
“No, sir. I am aware of no such thing.” She attempts to steer around him, but he keeps hold of the push bar, and then she glares over her shoulder at the receptionist who’s supposed to be handling the crazies in the lobby so the rest of the staff can do their jobs.
“Are you sure, because...” he ducks in to read the receptionist’s name tag, “because ‘Clarice’ here tells me that...”
“That I was just going back to speak with a doctor about Mr. Ackles’s condition,” Clarice interjects.
Peer pressure. Works every time.
She disappears through a swinging door, and if half the people in the waiting groom are suddenly glaring daggers in his back, he doesn’t care, because Joey’s finally stopped crying, and Jeremy might have elbowed Jake with a little half-concealed thumbs up from the pocket of his jacket that Jared’s pretty sure he’s not intended to see.
A few minutes later, the receptionist returns with both a doctor and the Sheriff in tow. Chris looks miffed when he spies them standing at the desk like the orphans on Daddy Warbucks’s doorstep.
“They didn’t tell anyone you were here, guys,” he apologizes. “I would’ve come right out to get you.” He reaches out for Joey and seems surprised when the kid just scooches in closer to Jared.
“How is he?” Jeremy’s the first to ask the question on everyone’s minds.
The doctor holds out his hand and Jared takes it. “Dr. Graham. I’m handling Jensen’s case. I was just about to go over these results with him. Why don’t we all go back together and save me from having to repeat myself?”
“I’m Jared,” he introduces, then adds, “He’s awake?” He tries not to sound like he’s been holding his breath.
“Mmm-hmm, yes, he came around in the ambulance on the way in. If he’d had his way, he’d have gotten off the gurney and gone right back to work. Good thing Mr. Kane here refused to give him a ride until he got himself checked out.”
“Stupid ass tried to pass it off as a panic attack,” Chris snerked. “Known him all my life. Never known him to fly off the handle about anything. Why would he just develop a panic disorder?”
Jared takes the fifth. Nothing at all stressful has happened recently. Nothing at all. His thumbnail’s chewed to the quick by the time they stop outside an exam room and the doctor eyeballs the kids thoughtfully. “Now that I think of it, it’s kind of tight quarters back there,” patting Jake on the shoulder, “why don’t you kids go on in and spend a few minutes. I know he doesn’t want you to be worried about him. We’ll talk grownup stuff out here until you come out, all right?”
Nodding, Jake puts his arm over Joey’s shoulders and starts shuffling toward the door. Jeremy hangs back. Graham clears his throat and gestures him toward the door, but Jeremy crosses his arms and doesn’t budge.
“It’s all right,” Jared says. “He can stay.” To Chris, he adds, “Would you take the kids in? We’ll be there in a minute.”
Chris fish-mouths around something, eyes darting between Jeremy and Jared like he’s trying to decide ‘which of these things just doesn’t belong here, which of these things just isn’t the same’ but finally acquiesces and slides into the room, closes the door behind himself.
“So, uh, Doc, what’s the scoop? On the phone...” Jared finds he has to clear his throat, suddenly choked up with worry and not knowing and running through all the worst possible scenarios. “When Chris called, he said he though it might be his h...”
“He’s too young to have a heart attack, isn’t he?” Jeremy asks.
“Well, no, he isn’t,” the doctor says, “but luckily that’s not what this was. Not that there isn’t the possibility of the situation getting to that point if a few things don’t change.”
“Anything,” Jared volunteers, “but what happened?”
Glancing at his charts, Graham says, “A combination of things, I think --exhaustion, hypoglycemia, exhaustion, dehydration, exhaustion, and a touch of exposure judging by the sunburn on his back and arms.”
“So, what does that mean?” Jared asks. “I mean, I know he hasn’t been getting much sleep, and he did spend a lot of time in the sun yesterday, and I don’t actually remember seeing him eat anything besides that sludge he calls coffee, but can that look like... like a heart attack?” He whispers the last two words, because far be it for him to tempt Fate, and there doesn’t seem to be anything wood to knock on within arm’s reach.
The doc nods. “It can. Especially if he did any significant sweating in the sun and didn’t take the time to replenish his electrolytes. Right now, we can treat the acute symptoms, the hypoglycemia and the electrolyte imbalance, with an i.v. drip. We’ve already started that, on a very slow drip so it’ll take awhile to bring everything up to snuff, and I had them add a little something to help him sleep so he can get a few good hours of bed rest while we wait for the final bloodwork to confirm his cardiac enzymes. Then, if everything’s in order, and I have no reason to believe it won’t be, we can release him.”
“We can take him home?” Jeremy seems more involved than Jared’s ever seen him, in the moment for a change, instead of looking around for an escape hatch.
“You can, if you can convince me that he’s not going to be back in here next week with the same symptoms, and I’ll be honest, I have some serious concerns as to whether you can do that. We have him sedated, and he’s still fighting sleep. He’s more concerned with making sure no one is worried about him than about taking care of himself. He didn’t get in this condition overnight. We’re talking some serious, chronic neglect and self-destructive behavior on his part.” Fumbling in one of his coat pockets, Graham produces a handful of pamphlets, which he hands to Jared.
Jeremy leans over Jared’s shoulder as they leaf through the stack of brochures. “You think he’s depressed?” It’s Jeremy that asks, because frankly, Jared doesn’t know why he didn’t see it himself.
“I’m not a mental health specialist by any means,” the doctor says, “but in my experience, people who run themselves into the ground like this aren’t exactly stopping to smell the roses. There’s also an element of physical pain associated with depression, and initial bloodwork suggests he’s likely been abusing over the counter pain medications. All signs point to depression and exhaustion from where I’m standing.” A pause. “But like I said, I’m not the expert. I’m ordering a Psych consult before I release him. I doubt they’ll recommend hospitalization, but he might benefit from anti-depressant drug therapy.” Flipping the pages on his clipboard, he adds, “And of course, I’m going to put him on work restriction for the next couple weeks, preferably bed rest for at least a few days, though I can see from speaking with him that that’s not likely to stick.”
“I’ll make it stick,” Jared asserts.
“I hope you can. You’ll also have to make sure he doesn’t take any pain medications. No Tylenol, Advil, even aspirin is off limits until he gets in the habit of listening to his body again instead of just trying to override it. If he’s been experiencing chronic pain, it’ll likely get worse before it gets better. He’s just going to have to ride it out. You’re going to have to help him.”
“I will,” Jared promises. “We will.”
“I believe you will. Won’t be easy, though. That’s one hard-headed young man you’ve got yourself.” The nurse shows up to draw some more blood, thankfully not the one Jared harassed in the waiting room.
“Don’t we know it,” Jared chuckles dryly, but Jeremy doesn’t reply in kind. He’s withdrawn quite a bit from where he was just moments ago, pale and distraught, and Jared has to guide him into the room by putting an arm over his shoulder and steering him through the door. The doctor shakes his hand before heading off to his next patient.
--
Jared avoids looking at Jensen until after Chris takes the kids outside to spare them having to watch the ‘stick’, carefully averting his eyes away from the wires and leads and monitors. Instead, he focuses on Jensen’s fingers splayed against the sheet and tries not to wonder if they’re too pale or too calloused or worked to the bone. When the kids are safely shuttled away and the blood is drawn, he summons the courage to slide his eyes up the bed, doesn’t know whether he’ll want to kiss Jensen senseless or smack him stupid for trying to take on the whole world by himself.
In the end, he settles on stepping close enough to put his hand over Jensen’s, doesn’t hold it, just presses down enough to keep Jensen from pulling away. It’s obvious the sedative’s finally winning the battle, because Jensen rolls his whole head in Jared’s direction, a glance that really only requires a flick of his eyes, and starts and stops three times, throat working like his tongue is trying to slide down it instead of form words, before he says, “Ye’re sech, shucks, sex... ye’re a gurl.”
“And you’re a stupid, stubborn ass.” Jared’s voice is far too quiet and thin to be anything but soothing. “But don’t worry. I got you figured out, too.”
Jensen’s forehead crinkles so far the bridge of his nose recedes beneath it, and his eyelashes screen his over-bright eyes as he tries to work out what Jared’s talking about. Finally, the morning’s conversation seems to bubble up to the surface and pop against the mental block. His forehead smooths out, even though he seems unable to open his eyes any farther than they already are. “Oh, yeah... Dotter Phil?”
“Yeah.” He lets his thumb stroke the ridges in the back of Jensen’s hand as if he can even take the edge off those if he tries hard enough.
“S-so, whut do I need?” It’s the most pathetic attempt at a lewd eyebrow quirk that Jared’s ever seen, and he can just about imagine what Jensen is thinking behind those drooping eyelids. Don’t get him wrong. No doubt, a little sexual healing is prescribed, but not just yet.
“Someone to take care of you for a change.”
Maybe Jared only imagines that the shadow over Jensen’s features is disappointment. If it is, it’s only fleeting and quickly morphs into something pitifully defiant... and a little adorable. “Iths zat zo?” Heavy eyelids win the war over responsibility, determination, and pig-headed stubborness, slip closed a second before the rest of Jensen’s face goes slack.
“Yeah, it is.” And Jared’s not even a little self conscious when he leans forward and kisses the top of Jensen’s head. “And don’t worry. I got it covered.”
It takes an uncharacteristic but unmistakable sniffle from the other side of the bed to remind Jared they’re not exactly alone in the room, and he suddenly feels like a dick for monopolizing what little awake time they had with Jensen. “Dude, I’m sorry you didn’t get to talk.”
“’ts all right.” Jeremy shrugs him off before brushing a shirt sleeve across his eyes.
“No it isn’t,” Jared says. “He’s your brother.”
A dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we really don’t talk much these days.”
“I have, now that you mention it.”
“Can we?”
Jared needs a second to translate the request. “You mean, can we talk? Like, you and me?”
Jeremy nods and ducks his eyes toward the door, like whatever he has to say is something he doesn’t want Jensen to overhear even though Jensen’s obviously out of it.
Jared’s seen a whole other Jeremy today, and he thinks he likes it. Reluctant as he is to leave, he follows Jeremy out into the hallway, stops in his tracks when the kid whispers without even turning to face him, “I’m scared.”
The door’s barely shut behind them, and Jeremy’s leaning against the wall, all the cocksure independence gone from his posture as soon as Jensen’s out of the picture.
“C’mon,” Jared soothes, squeezing the kid’s shoulder. “Jensen’s going to be fine. We’re gonna tie him to that bed if we have to,” and he’s surprised that doesn’t sound even a little kinky to him. Not the time or the place for sexual innuendo, he supposes.
“Didn’t you hear that doctor?” Jeremy snaps, spinning around. “They think he’s depressed, that he might be... mentally ill, Jared.”
“Depression is serious, but it’s not all that uncommon. Lots of people deal with it every day, and Jensen’s got us to support him. He’ll be fine.”
“But the State isn’t going to see it that way.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, clamps down hard enough to stretch the skin on his forehead.
“The State?” Jared asks. “You mean like Child Protective Services?”
Jeremy nods, gradually releasing the handfuls of hair. “Ever since...” his chest heaves for a second before he gets himself under control, eyes glassier from the effort, “since Mom and Dad died and left Jensen in charge, the State’s been breathing down our necks. Jensen was only 18, just barely legal, and they thought he couldn’t handle raising three kids on his own. If this doctor says he’s sick, it won’t matter if everyone on the planet has the same symptoms, they’re just going to use it to prove he’s an unfit guardian.”
Jared fights the urge to pull his own hair out, crosses his arms at the chest, instead, cupping his elbows in his palms. “They wouldn’t do that,” he asserts. “It doesn’t make sense to split up a family when they need each other the most.”
“Since when do people in power have to make sense to use it?”
Jared knows he’s right. Hell, he was ready to pronounce Jensen an unfit parent himself on that first night and day in the house, and there are definitely things that still have to change, but there’s no way the Ackles’s would be better off without each other. Haven’t they all lost enough already?
“Y’know what?” Jared decides. “Why don’t you go and sit with the kids. If they ask what the doctor said, tell them that Jensen’s just tired and needs some time off. Don’t mention anything you just told me, all right?”
Jeremy looks at him like he’s a moron. “Of course I wouldn’t tell them that,” he retorts. “What kind of a jackass do you think I am?”
Jared cocks an eyebrow. “Have you met you in the last 48 hours or so?” He pats Jeremy on the shoulder and turns him down the hallway toward the waiting room. “You really don’t want me to answer that.” When Jeremy tenses under his hand, he adds, “But you’re really starting to make me second guess that first impression.” He stops at the door to the Waiting Room, and Jeremy gives him a small thankful smile.
“I guess I have been a jerk.”
“We’ll chalk it up to hormones,” Jared says with wink. “Now go sit with the kids before Chris discovers whatever concealed weapon Jake’s got on him.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be right out. I’m just going to have a little talk with the doctor.”
“Do you think that will help?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Jeremy pauses with his hand on the door, then reaches over and places it on Jared’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
Because it feels necessary and Jared doesn’t get the impression he’s got any qualms about public displays of affection, he pulls Jeremy into a quick hug and pats him on the back before releasing him. “That’s what family’s for.”
He doesn’t even care if that’s his knee jerk assessment of the situation. It feels right, and that’s all that matters.
--
“Nuh, uh, uhhhhhh. Squawk. Nuh, uh, uhhhhh. Squawk.”
Jensen huffs and sits back down on the edge of the bed.
“Jensen! Get back to bed!” Jared yells up the stairs.
“I gotta piss!” Jensen yells back. He throws a glare over his shoulder at Oscar who’s preening himself on his perch in the corner. “Freakin’ Benedict Arnold,” he snaps. “See if I ever buy you another sunflower head.”
“You do not!” Jared calls.
“You’ve been pouring Gatorade down my throat with a funnel. You could ship me overseas and use me to irrigate an entire continent.”
Okay, he just made his own bladder cringe. He’s gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now... Bracing against the nightstand, he gets back up, still amazed at how every muscle in his body screams from the movement.
“Nuh, uh, uh...Squawk.” He doesn’t know whether he’s dumbfounded or just plain annoyed at how quickly Jared trained the bird to play babysitter.
“You’re such a drama queen,” Jared scoffs, but Jensen’s relieved to hear his familiar uneven footsteps on the stairs.
“Drama king,” he corrects. “And I don’t need help. Just call off your watchdog, and I can manage fine.”
Jared makes it to the doorway, looms there catching his breath. The cast on his leg obviously hasn’t gotten any lighter, and Jensen hates adding to the burden. “I promised the doctor I would get you to follow his instructions to the letter if he postponed the Psych Eval until after you were better. That means no getting out of bed without assistance for three days, at least.”
“And why is that again?” Jensen grunts while Jared hoists him off the bed by the waist. “I felt a lot better before. It’s not like there’s anything actually wrong with me.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Which is a quack diagnosis if ever I heard one.”
“Well, then, let me put it to you in terms you’ll understand. Your body’s been running on fumes and leaking oil into the filter for too long, and now you’re all gunked up on the inside. It’s going to take some good recuperative sleep and relaxation to flush out your system and get you firing on all cylinders again.”
Jensen stifles a groan when he hits the bathroom door and has to stand on his own. He feels like he just came out of a week-long football training camp, except after that, he’d at least have a six pack to show for it. If anything, he’s lost weight through this ordeal, and he’s feeling weak and scrawny, completely undesirable, which just pisses him off, even if he’s not necessarily looking for anyone in particular to desire him. Over the rush of his bladder shrinking back to its normal size, he says, “Well, now I know it’s a quack diagnosis, because A)you know nothing about cars, so someone obviously fed you that line, and B)everyone who does know something about cars knows that the last thing you wanna do when you lose oil pressure is stop the engine.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because when you do, it seizes up, and it’ll never go again.”
Jared smirks. “Is that a hint that you need another massage?”
“God, no,” Jensen huffs, frustrated that he has to make a three point turn out of the bathroom when he should just be able to spin on his heel and skedaddle.
“You slept like a baby after the last one,” Jared points out, putting his hands on Jensen’s shoulders to help him turn the rest of the way. “Felt like I really loosened up some of those knots.”
Jensen’s glad Jared’s behind him and probably doesn’t notice the flush on his cheeks. The last thing he wants to do is think about Jared’s “massage” while standing and wearing nothing but boxers. Sure, he slept like a baby after the last one. He also had a crusty mess in his underwear when he woke up. Damn Jared’s magic fingers and Jensen’s hypersensitive, overdeveloped touch receptors. At the height of his pubescent hormonal surges, his own mother couldn’t hug him without his pulse speeding up. His whole friggin’ body’s an erogenous zone, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since anyone’s touched him, skin on skin. Jared’s hands create a lot more tension than they relieve, and there are only so many pairs of sticky underwear he can hide in the ferret holes in his box spring until he’s allowed to do the laundry himself.
“What I need is to move around and get the circulation going.” Doesn’t take a genius to know he could have worded that better.
“Doc said three days in bed.” Jared pauses just long enough for Jensen to think maybe the double entendre will go unnoticed. “But,” Jared smirks the smirk of the horny caveman, “there are plenty of ways to improve circulation in a prone position.”
Whatever happened to the spoiled, selfish, looked at him like pimple squeezings, Jared? For that Jared, Jensen would have no problem mustering up a nice head of disdain and a comeback to convince him he’d have a better chance of scoring with a balloon animal. Now, even that thought has erotic connotations. He blames those stupid Durex condom commercials. Squeaka-squeaka-squeak. Damn, he can’t even sit, or in this case, collapse in a slump, on the bed without the hairs on his arms standing up like antennae and honing in on Jared.
One of Jared’s hands accidentally brushes against Jensen’s ribcage when he reaches across to fold back the sheet, and he might as well be holding a cattle prod. Jensen jerks, board straight, and the air squeezes from his lungs in a muffled laugh, arms wrapping around himself to a guarded position around his stomach. He keels over on his side, hits his pillow with a plop, and can’t push back the mini brain seizure enough to pretend it’s anything other than what it is. Somehow, he knows he’s just signed his own death warrant.
“You’re ticklish.” Jared sounds like the paparazzo who’s just figured out the perfect thing to say in order to get the celebrity to turn toward the camera, that one little bit of trivia that takes things from casual to too close to home in the amount of time it would take to slam a door in his face.
“Am not.” Jensen works up a mock cringe. “You just hit a nerve or something.” He grimaces, drawing his knees up. “Sore spot. ‘ts all.”
“Like hell.” Jared plops on the bed beside him.
“Oh, shit.”
“Not here,” Jared counters, leaning in so close to his ear that Jensen squeaks from just the tickle of his breath and hides his head in his pillow, ashamed. “It draws flies.” There’s a moment of ominous silence in which Jared’s hovering over him, and even with his eyes closed, Jensen imagines his long fingers curled and waggling, the Wicked Witch of the West out to get his pretty and his little dog, too. Then, “there’s one now.”
Jensen manages a pathetic, “N-no, no, n-,” before Jared descends on him, complete with implied Wizard of Oz music, doot-da-doot-da-doo, doot-da-doot-da-doo. Then, he, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, oh God, Jared’s fingers somehow finding every single ticklish spot on his body, ribcage, armpits, knee pits, belly, back of the neck, front of the neck... Oh hell, he’s ticklish everywhere, and Jared’s more than big enough to reach, well, everywhere.
Somehow, Jared ends up on top of him, his one leg between Jensen’s, hipbone tight against ass so Jensen can only fend him off with his arms. It’s a hopeless situation, since every time Jensen moves to cover one spot, he uncovers another equally ticklish one, and pretty soon they’re writhing together on his bed, Jensen all but shrieking, and Jared relentless in his pursuit.
They don’t hear anyone come in, but they’re both shocked into stock still silence when they hear, “All right, you guys, there are kids in this house, too, you know.”
Actually, no, they’d hadn’t known, since everyone was still at school last they checked, and Jensen doesn’t know how he could miss the school bus stopping outside. A quick peek from the one eye that isn’t obscured by his pillow, reveals Jeremy standing in the wide open doorway, facing the hallway as though he backed in.
Jared snickers, “Dude, you can turn around.”
Reluctant, Jeremy peeks over his shoulder and back again, “You-you sure? Because it sounds like...” He swallows, shrugs with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slouching forward. “Well, the bed is kinda squeaking a lot.”
Jensen bucks up hard and throws Jared to the floor, though the fact that they’re apart and still breathing hard doesn’t really help their case any. “We’re not... uh... we weren’t. How could you think...?”
Rubbing a banged elbow, Jared hoists himself up. “What Cyrano here is trying to say is, I was just tucking your brother in. And if he doesn’t stop trying to get up, I’m gonna tie him down next time.” Over his shoulder, “Isn’t that right, Oscar?”
“Nuh, uh, uhhh. Squawk. Nuh, uh, uhhhh.”
Jeremy scratches his neck and turns around slowly, still keeping his eyes downcast as though just rumpled sheets and rucked up boxers are enough to make him want to scratch them out. “Yeah, well, since we’re on the subject...” clearing his throat, “y’know, of when Jensen can get up, Misha called, and he’s got catering gigs all weekend starting Thursday night after the Kiwanis Bingo night. He wants to know if someone will be down there to manage things or if he should just lock up.”
Jensen rolls over onto his back, all the laziness of a crocodile mid death roll, whatever pleasant heaviness that was settling in after the wrestling match dissipating in an instant.
“Nuh, uh, uhhh. Squawk.”
“Good bird,” Jared praises. He presses Jensen flat on the mattress with a hand to the sternum and jerks the sheets over him. “Not your problem.”
“B-b...” Jared’s thumb is actually big enough to press Jensen’s lips together and stifle his protest. If Jensen hadn’t already come to the conclusion that he cannot win against the sheer size and determination of Jared Pad... uh, Jared Switchfoot, he’d bite the thumb, because no one shushes him in his own house. Well, except for Jared.
“Not your problem. Now sleep.” Turning to the door he shouts, “Aggie!” And just like she has every time Jared’s asked her to, the dog lumbers up the stairs and parks herself in the doorway, head across her paws. To Jeremy he says, “Later. Now, get the kids ready for dinner.” And they leave Jensen to sulk, arms crossed over his chest.
Aggie keeps her droopy eyes fixed on him, jumps to standing if Jensen so much as braces on his elbows. Finally, he slumps into his pillow, surprised how quickly sleep settles over him. “I’m trading you both in for a cat.”
--
It should be possible to make sack lunches without cutting off one’s own fingers, but Jared would be hard-pressed to prove it in his current state. He doesn’t usually do this, the whole sweaty palms and triphammer pulse, pit stains and greasy bangs. He’s used to being put together and confident. He accepts the challenge to change what he can, and changes what he cannot accept. Getting his way is in everyone’s best interest. Simple enough.
Until his way became Jensen Ackles. Nothing about Jensen is simple, especially not the part where Jared lies and sneaks around behind his back. Jared doesn’t remember, but he suspects, given his propensity to speak without thinking and to think out loud, that he’s used to telling it like it is. He can only surmise, therefore, that he is the world’s worst liar.
So, he really wishes there was some other way to do this, but he knows, just knows that as soon as Jensen gets out of that bed this morning, he’s going to be plotting to sneak off to the diner and go back to work. That’s out of the question. So, Jared will have to beat him to it. How hard can it be to run a diner? So long as he can convince everyone to eat grilled cheese and drink coffee, it’ll be a cinch.
Who’s he kidding?
“You guys know what to do, right? Get yourselves on the bus, and try not to wake up your brother.” He slides the lunches across the counter and tries to ignore the sweaty fingerprints on the outside of the bags like greasy SWAKs. The kitchen chairs, the table, and the doorjamb all suffer the wrath of his carelessly wielded cast as he hops around gathering book bags and jackets, buttering toast, and putting away the milk.
Jeremy gives him a wary glance. “You really think you’re up for this?”
“Nnnnoooo,” Jared admits, “but if Jensen can suck it up for four years, I can suck it up for a couple of weeks. It’s what families do, right?”
Crickets chirping.
“Right?” he asks again. He finds that he really has no idea, but it sounds right. It should be right, if it isn’t. He can make it right. Even if it kills him. Which it might.
Jeremy makes himself useful by clearing away the kids’s empty cereal bowls. He’s silent right up until the last spoon clangs into the silverware rack. “That diner is not family,” he says, bracing against the counter. “Mom and Dad never wanted Jensen or any of us wasting away behind that counter. It was just something to pay the bills long enough for us to all grow up and find out what we wanted to do for ourselves. Then, they were going to sell it and, I dunno, go roadtripping across the country or something.”
“So, you think we should just let the diner fail?”
Jeremy’s jaw sets hard enough for the corners of his mouth to wrinkle into dimples he doesn’t have before he exhales through his nose like a blowing horse and curls his hands into fists. “No! I mean,” a long sigh, “No. It’s just... Okay, so, if a smoker goes into the hospital for awhile, and they’re not allowed to smoke, they essentially come out of it a non-smoker, right? They’ve essentially quit smoking, got through the worst of it.”
“I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
Gritting his teeth, “Neither do I. I guess, well, if you’re family to that person, seems like what you should be doing is throwing out all the cigarettes in the house so they don’t have them when they get back home, not stocking up on them.”
“Jer, I don’t think Jensen is addicted to working.”
“But he is obssessed with being Mom and Dad and doing things their way. This was never his gig, and as long as he’s playing it, he’s not going to get better.”
“But now he has all of you to think about. How is he supposed to provide for you if he doesn’t keep the store?”
Jeremy shrugs. “Seems like, if Mom and Dad were always going to sell it, then Jensen should be able to do the same thing. Sink the money into something he actually cares about.”
Jared can’t help but smirk, because this is... “Wow.”
Jeremy catches Jared’s expression and is taken aback, but mirrors it, because fuck yeah, Jared’s smile is addicting. “What?”
“Did I just hear you say you want your brother to be happy?” Jared ruffles Jeremy’s hair before the kid can duck away. “That’s not only adorable, but probably the most grown up thing I’ve heard you say since I can remember.” With a shrug, “Obviously, that’s not very long, but seems like our little boy is growing up.” He feigns a tear. “I’m so...” choke, “so proud.”
“Screw you.”
“Saving myself for marriage or until I can remember where we keep the l...” He cuts himself off by brushing his arm over his mouth. He might not be able to keep his mouth from opening of its own accord, but he can keep little pitchers from hearing everything that comes out of it. Regaining his composure after a few seconds of awkward silence, Jared pats Jeremy on the shoulder. “Seriously, though, dude. Valid point. And I think you’re right, but I don’t think this is a good time to bring it up. For now, we’ll make sure the diner stays running until Jensen’s back on his feet, and then, if I haven’t burned it to the ground, we’ll have the talk with him about what he wants to do. Deal?”
“Deal.” Jeremy might be blushing a little. It’s not every day a teenager’s manhood is validated by anyone who’s not a teenage girl.
“There’s just one problem,” Jared says, suddenly clammy again now that they’re back to Plan A.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve made up my mind to do this whole diner thing, while Jensen’s sick. And I’m pretty sure I can deal with, well, the fact that I kinda start breathing hard at just the thought of stepping off the porch, but I need to actually get to the diner, and...”
“And?”
“I don’t remember how to drive.”
“Oh.”
--
“I don’t think I can do this.” Jared wishes he was lying. How pathetic is he already, closing his eyes and inching down the back steps, trying to imagine anything but what might be under the porch or in the woods, or on the roof, just out there where he doesn’t know it, can’t see it, can’t charm it, debate it, or belittle it into bending to his will? This was so much easier when they were afraid Jensen was dying in the hospital and raced across the yard spurred by adrenaline. It’s way harder when he’s heading away from everything he knows or wants toward something he knows nothing about and isn’t at all sure he can deal with on his own. But this is what grownups do, right? They suck it up. But still. Maybe if the house was on fire...
The truck door squeaks like it’s about to fall off its hinges, and he’s never been so glad to reach the safety of a rattling death trap in his life.
“Sure you can. It’s just like riding a bike,” Jeremy assures him.
“Honestly? I can’t remember if I can ride a bike either,” Jared stammers. He laughs just to keep from crying. If it was anyone else, he’d have a joke to make it all better. “What I meant was, there are these...” he shuffles his feet along the floor, banging his knees on the wheel with a thud until Jeremy reaches under the seat and slides the whole thing back as far as it will go. “Thanks.” Jared closes his eyes and grips the steering wheel. “The foot-things on the floor.”
“Pedals,” Jeremy explains.
“Pedals, yeah.” Huh, it really is like riding a bike. “I... I don’t think I can work them with this thing on my leg.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Jeremy says, patting his knee, “It’s an automatic. You only need one foot.”
“Automatic? You mean it drives itself?”
“No, just changes gears by itself.”
“Gears?”
Shaking his head, Jeremy reaches over and turns the key. “Doesn’t matter. Half the people on the road can’t even find their dipstick.”
“Well, now, that I can find.” Jared’s smirk falls flat as he stares over the steering wheel, his arms straight from wrist to shoulder like goal posts.
With a groan, Jeremy fastens his seat belt and waits for Jared to do the same, then says, “Now, you just have to put it in gear, hit the gas, and go.”
“You just said it shifts the gears itself.”
“It does, but... never mind.” He grabs the gear shifter. “Put your foot on the brake. It’s the foot-thingy on the left. Keep it there.”
“Um, okay. What now?”
“Push that button on the console to turn on the headlights.”
“Won’t we wake up Jensen?”
“Fine, leave the lights off until we get to the road. Got your foot on the brake?”
Looking under the dash to make sure, “Yeah. I got it.”
“Watch what I do.” Jeremy wiggles the gear shifter. “You can start the engine either in Park or in Neutral. Most people start in Park, but Neutral is closer to drive, and if you’re afraid of backing into anything by accident, it’s probably best to start there.”
“How do I know which one I’m in?”
“Look there on the dash. Dude, you’re gonna have to at least turn on the parking lights in order to see the dash. Click the light switch one click.”
Jared reaches forward and hits the lever on the other side of the wheel, and water squirts out onto the windshield, wiper blades screeching over the glass. “What’s that?”
“Windshield washer. Don’t worry about it. It’ll stop when it’s done. Just... don’t do that again. I think the pump is about to burn out from the sounds of it.”
“Burn out? As in fire?”
“No, as in quit working and cost a lot of money we don’t have to fix it.”
“Um, okay, that’s good to know.”
“Parking lights.”
“Oh yeah.” Clicking the light switch one click, the dash lights up, and Jared follows Jeremy’s finger to the spot at the bottom where it says PRNDL.
“So, there’s your indicator. See that little orange needle? Whichever letter it’s over, that’s the gear you’re in. Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive, or Low.” He clicks the gear shifter down to neutral, and says, “Now, I’m going to put it in drive. Then, you ease your foot off the brake and gently step on the gas.”
“I can do that,” Jared says. Still, he repeats the command under his breath as he goes through the motions, lest he forget. “Foot off the brake and down on the gas... Wooo!” The engine roars, stays roaring, but the car doesn’t go anywhere. Finally, Jeremy motions for Jared to pick up his foot.
“Good thing, I never put it in Drive,” he smirks. “If you hit the gas that hard with it in gear, we’re gonna end up in the woods. We don’t want that, do we?”
“Uh, no. We definitely do not want that.”
“Fine. Then let’s try again. This time just ease down on the gas.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Each repetition’s a few decibels quieter than the one prior to it, the sound of determination stomping defeat into the dirt with one casted foot. “I can do this.”
“Good. Now, let’s go. I’m gonna be late for school.”
“You’re what? Late for-- oh shit.” He tries again. “Foot on brake. Shift into drive. Foot off brake. Whoa.” Foot back on brake.
“Whoa what?”
“We moved.”
“Yeah?”
“But I haven’t put my foot on the gas yet.”
“You’re in Drive. You’re going to go forward. The gas just determines how fast.”
“Oh. Oh. Okay.” One more try. “Foot off brake. Moving forward.” They coast forward several feet until they hit the point of the driveway where it starts to turn toward the road. “Steer. I gotta steer now, right?” A few panicked breaths. “Right?”
“Yeah. Steer.”
“But I’m already in the grass.”
“Just turn the wheel ‘til we’re back on the road.”
“But we’re not moving anymore.”
“Because the ground is still muddy from the rainstorms we’ve been having. We’re a little mired down. Give her some gas.”
“I don’t want to.”
“We’re not going anywhere unless you give it some gas, Jared.”
So he does. He gives it some gas. The engine revs higher, but they don’t go anywhere.
“A little more.”
He gives it a little more. When nothing happens again, he doesn’t wait to be told and gives it more, more, turning the wheel in the direction he wants to go. The engine revs higher, and all he can think is that he’s waking up Jensen for sure. Jensen, who’s going to get out of bed and come down the stairs and stop Jared from doing what he’s set his mind to do. And hell no. That ain’t happening. He jams his foot down all the way. Suddenly the back end fishtails out around the front in the opposite direction of where Jared wants to go, and he jerks the wheel the opposite direction, sending the back shooshing out into the driveway where it catches the gravel and shoots forward. The next thing Jared knows, they’re facing the complete opposite direction, no more than a few yards from the front porch, his head buried in his arms on the top of the steering wheel.
“Um, we’re gonna have to back out of here,” Jeremy offers tentatively.
“Go backward?” Jared might be shrieking. He can’t tell. His blood’s still pounding too hard in his ears.
“Or I could drive.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You drive. That--that sounds like a plan.” The passenger door squeaks open and then slams shut. A few seconds later, the driver door opens.
“Uh, Jared.”
“Yeah?”
“You gotta let go of the wheel.”
“Okay.” In the end, Jeremy pries Jared’s fingers from the wheel.
“No wonder you drove off a friggin’ cliff.”
--
The thing about sleeping is, the more Jensen does it, the more he likes it. He would think, after three days in bed with nothing else to do, he’d have caught up on his zzz’s by now. Instead, he pries his eyelids open at the crack of-- has to fight the crick in his neck to squint at the clock radio on the nightstand-- at the crack of eight a.m. He knows, according to most people’s standards, that’s still relatively early, but for a guy who’s used to getting up three and a half hours before that, it’s bordering serious guilt trip territory. It’s worse knowing Misha has other plans for the day, and as far as he knows, nobody’s manning the store. They haven’t been closed a day in the last six months, and then, they only shut down because of the city wide power outage caused by the last big ice storm of the winter season. He doesn’t know how they’re going to get by minus a whole day’s revenue. He already took money out of the tax account to pay Misha back for the mess the kids made at their last catering gig, buy groceries, fix the taillight, and give Jeremy spending money for when he went out of town with the basketball team. They’ve got some health insurance, but since he was never admitted, his little meltdown is going to be billed as an E.R. visit, most of which he’ll have to pay out of pocket.
Shutting his eyes against the irrationally optimistic sunlight, he pulls the pillow over his face, feels the beginnings of the headache that finally faded yesterday start to creep along the nerve endings between his temples. Worst part is, he can’t even take anything for it. Jared stashed all the aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and nsaids in the house. Quack doctor and his quack theories. Jensen was not over-dependent on over the counter pain meds. He only used what he needed. Wasn’t his fault he hurt everywhere. The whole notion of him getting used to listening to his body is beyond ridiculous now. It’s just old. He’s been listening. When it says, ‘ow’ he takes something for it. No point playing the hero. He doesn’t have anyone to impress.
At least today he’s allowed to get out of bed. That’s one step toward getting things back in order, if that’s even still possible. Tossing the pillow and craning his neck up, he looks around, thoughtful. Come to think of it, he’s surprised Jared hasn’t shown up to help him down the stairs. Not that he needs help with the stairs, but he just knows Jared’s going to help him, regardless. Anyway, Jensen wouldn’t turn him down if he offered. The guy needed to feel useful. Jensen would let him have that.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, one to the floor hard, pauses to create the proper amount of waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop suspense, and then thumps the other one against the floorboards. Nothing. No shout up the stairs to say Jared’s on his way up, no bird, no dog, no crazy-assed ferret. Well, then, it’s a good thing he doesn’t need any help.
Dragging himself up, he’s relieved to find only his head is acting up. Everything else seems to have settled to a dull roar. He gets to the bathroom a little slower than he normally would, but without any flinching or gasping or leaning against door frames. One of the kids’s rubber balls lies in the hallway, and he gives it a good hard look, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth before giving it a decisive kick down the hallways, grins in satisfaction when he hears it bounce down the stairs.
No one answers.
It’s a good thing he’s only wearing boxers, because for some reason his hands are shaking when he takes himself out to piss, and then he only manages a weak trickle, something cold and tight twisting in his groin and twisting him up inside. He knows what it is, and he knows why it’s putting in an appearance now. And it’s just stupid. He should be way beyond this clenching insecurity. Just because Danni tiptoed out of his bed, never to return, nothing but that stupid as fuck ‘dear John’ letter to break things off, doesn’t mean everyone else in his life is going to do the same thing.
The kids are just in school, and Jared’s... probably tired out from three days of waiting on Jensen hand and foot. Jensen should just stop being a bratty attention seeking kid and let the guy sleep. He can take care of himself. He’s been doing it for years, and so long as you don’t ask that doctor’s opinion, he’s been doing a fine job. He’ll just-- his stomach growls-- yeah, he’ll just sneak down the stairs and make them up some french toast. Jared won’t even have to get up. Jensen can bring him breakfast in be... breakfast on couch. Just as soon as he washes his han...
There’s a note taped to the mirror. It says Jensen on it in some frilly, loopy handwriting that can only be Jared’s. He takes it down, but doesn’t read it, listens to the grains of paper scrape against each other as he walks in a trance down the hallway, and starts down the stairs. Halfway down, it’s obvious no one’s asleep on the couch. Three quarters of the way down, there’s no one in the chair or on the floor either. He calls out, “Jared! Dude, you totally missed your chance to manhandle me down the stairs. You could’ve totally got your grope on. I’m sick and helpless remember?”
But Jared’s not in the kitchen, the laundry room, or on the porch.
He’s standing outside the screen door next to the glass beaded windchime he made for Mama at Bible camp when he finally opens the letter. Another scrawling hand looping across a crumpled page in his mind that he can’t throw away no matter how many times that crazy ferret squirrels it out of his drawer.
I hope you can manage, without me now...
He unfolds it halfway, tells himself there’s no way that could happen twice, then reads the first line.
Jensen, I had to go. Please don’t be mad.
I just think, we’ve grown from each other...
He almost laughs. Mad? How can he be mad? He hurts too much to be mad, needs a handful of fucking Advil just to see straight, but lacking that, slides to the ground, missing the porch swing completely.
So, I’m leaving tonight.
--
Part Six
A/N: My person-in-the-know says the doctor would never come out to the waiting room. To which I say, the world moves for Jared Padalecki... shrug.
Today is a good day. Jared has declared it thus. Best day ever, which isn’t saying much, considering he can count the days he actually remembers on one hand. It’s just, well, he doesn’t know if he’s ever had as much fun as they had last night. The first time he picked up the microphone and let his hips do their thing, he felt like young Forrest Gump running right out of his leg braces. It’s “Run, Jared! Run!” And he doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon. Some people need alcohol to shrug off their inhibitions. Apparently, all Jared needs is a whack on the head, amnesia, and a karaoke machine. Maybe he’s flying blind at the moment, but he’s flying, and it’s fucking amazing.
Yesterday, all he could do was watch Jensen from a distance, mowing that grass with his shirt off and sweat beading down his shoulders. Last night, he not only was serenaded by Jensen in his boxers, but they fell asleep only a few feet apart, and as far as he can tell, there’s no morning after regret creeping in. This morning, he kissed Jensen. He still can’t believe he did that, but he’s so glad he did. One major hurdle down, and he’d never have done that if he’d paused for one second to consider whether he should.
All right, so maybe things are moving kind of quickly. He’s technically known Jensen for just a few days, but at least some of this giddy, heart-thuddy, sweaty palmy... glee, has got to be carryover from before the amnesia. They’re in love, right? Or they were. That doesn’t just go away. Does it? Whatever it’s from, he likes it, and he wants more, and if his feelings for Jensen are the only memories he gets back, he’s half convinced he’ll be fine with that.
“Can we make pancakes,” Joey asks as they put the last cushion back on the couch where it belongs.
“Hmm,” Jared considers it. He watched Jensen do it yesterday. He thinks he could probably manage, but “No, not two days in a row. All those carbs go right to my thighs.”
With a head-cock, face squish, pretty friggin’ cute expression, Joey says, “Really?”
Jared has to stop to think. “Yeah, really,” he decides. He’s almost positive he didn’t just make that up. So, it must be... something he’s said before. “Hey, whattaya know,” he exclaims, “a memory!” If it weren’t for the cast, he’d pick Joey up and do his best helicopter spin. “I got a memory back.” It must be true what they say about kissing Prince Charming. This day could not get any better.
“You did?” The question’s timid, hesitant, nothing at all like the Jake Jared’s come to know as the little boy slinks down the stairs, fingers white on the railing, freckles stark on his cheeks.
“Yeah! I remembered that lean protein trumps carbs. How do you feel about scrambled eggs?”
“Awesome!” Jake’s back to his normal exuberant self in a second, but Jared doesn’t miss the quick, worried glance he gives Joey or the way Joey’s hand tightens in his belt loop.
“All right, then, scrambled eggs and chocolate chips it is,” he says.
“Chocolate chips?” Both kids grimace.
“Well, yeah. I think my new memory is cause for celebration, how ‘bout you?” Hop-stepping toward the kitchen, he calls over his shoulder, “Last one to the table has to wash the pan.”
Jared’s on the verge of winning that race, and no, he’s not going to admit he cheated, when the phone rings and breaks his stride. The kids plow into the table hard enough to push it sideways six inches with a scrape, and beam back at him, palms flat on the surface like they’re claiming it, as he reaches for the phone. “Do over,” he mouths, checking the caller I.D. “It’s Jensen. I bet he says I get a do over.”
“Nu-uh!”
He puts a shush finger to his lips and clicks on the phone. “Hey, Jensen, tell these rugrats that they do not win the race if I have to stop and answer the phone.”
“Uh... Jared?” It’s not Jensen’s voice. “Listen, this is Chris. You remember me-- the Sheriff?”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember.” The giddy buzz bubble bursts and the shards stick like shrapnel in his chest. “Why are you on Jensen’s phone?”
--
Jared doesn’t think he can stay standing much longer. Between bracing against the crutch on one side and Joey’s head buried against his hip, his worry-weak knees are going to just give out and dump him on the floor in the middle of the Waiting Room. But he’s not sitting down. The friggin’ hospital lounge area is full to the moldings with sitting people that no one’s paying any attention to. Jared’s got all this height, and he hopes to Hell he sticks out so far someone will have to talk to him. He’s not above making a scene. Not that he needs to do anything with one crying kid glued to his leg and two more looking like they’re about to go postal on the place.
“Look, Mr.... Switchfoot...”
“Jared,” he corrects. “Call me Jared.”
“Okay, then, Jared,” the receptionist says, hair popping out of her ponytail like she’s been navigating a wind tunnel instead of manning a desk. “When we know something, you’ll know something. Until then, you’re not doing Mr. Ackles or anyone else in here any good by blocking the Admissions desk.”
Not the right answer, so Jared doesn’t respond more than to cross his arms over his chest.
She sighs. “Look, even if I knew what to tell you, I’m not sure I can. You’re not on the contact list, and you’re not immediate family.”
“I’m his fiance.”
She pales noticeably and closes the file in front of her. “I’m... I’m sure you are, but hospital policy is...”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“It’s not that,” she stammers. “I-I do, but I’m not sure what the policy is with regards to...”
“Your hospital policy discriminates against same sex couples?” He’s well aware that, not only is he making a rash over-generalization, but his voice carries across the room and probably down the hallway. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?
It’s working. The receptionist’s cheeks turn red, and she ducks her eyes under the desk like a bank teller looking for the silent alarm. Intimidation? Check. A nurse comes out of a closet pushing a cart full of supplies on her way into the suite of exam rooms. Jared addresses her.
“Excuse me,” he says stepping in front of her cart so abruptly a stack of emesis basins tips off the edge. Catching them before the nurse can bend over, “Sorry. I was just wondering, did you know that this hospital has policies that discriminate against gay couples?”
“No, sir. I am aware of no such thing.” She attempts to steer around him, but he keeps hold of the push bar, and then she glares over her shoulder at the receptionist who’s supposed to be handling the crazies in the lobby so the rest of the staff can do their jobs.
“Are you sure, because...” he ducks in to read the receptionist’s name tag, “because ‘Clarice’ here tells me that...”
“That I was just going back to speak with a doctor about Mr. Ackles’s condition,” Clarice interjects.
Peer pressure. Works every time.
She disappears through a swinging door, and if half the people in the waiting groom are suddenly glaring daggers in his back, he doesn’t care, because Joey’s finally stopped crying, and Jeremy might have elbowed Jake with a little half-concealed thumbs up from the pocket of his jacket that Jared’s pretty sure he’s not intended to see.
A few minutes later, the receptionist returns with both a doctor and the Sheriff in tow. Chris looks miffed when he spies them standing at the desk like the orphans on Daddy Warbucks’s doorstep.
“They didn’t tell anyone you were here, guys,” he apologizes. “I would’ve come right out to get you.” He reaches out for Joey and seems surprised when the kid just scooches in closer to Jared.
“How is he?” Jeremy’s the first to ask the question on everyone’s minds.
The doctor holds out his hand and Jared takes it. “Dr. Graham. I’m handling Jensen’s case. I was just about to go over these results with him. Why don’t we all go back together and save me from having to repeat myself?”
“I’m Jared,” he introduces, then adds, “He’s awake?” He tries not to sound like he’s been holding his breath.
“Mmm-hmm, yes, he came around in the ambulance on the way in. If he’d had his way, he’d have gotten off the gurney and gone right back to work. Good thing Mr. Kane here refused to give him a ride until he got himself checked out.”
“Stupid ass tried to pass it off as a panic attack,” Chris snerked. “Known him all my life. Never known him to fly off the handle about anything. Why would he just develop a panic disorder?”
Jared takes the fifth. Nothing at all stressful has happened recently. Nothing at all. His thumbnail’s chewed to the quick by the time they stop outside an exam room and the doctor eyeballs the kids thoughtfully. “Now that I think of it, it’s kind of tight quarters back there,” patting Jake on the shoulder, “why don’t you kids go on in and spend a few minutes. I know he doesn’t want you to be worried about him. We’ll talk grownup stuff out here until you come out, all right?”
Nodding, Jake puts his arm over Joey’s shoulders and starts shuffling toward the door. Jeremy hangs back. Graham clears his throat and gestures him toward the door, but Jeremy crosses his arms and doesn’t budge.
“It’s all right,” Jared says. “He can stay.” To Chris, he adds, “Would you take the kids in? We’ll be there in a minute.”
Chris fish-mouths around something, eyes darting between Jeremy and Jared like he’s trying to decide ‘which of these things just doesn’t belong here, which of these things just isn’t the same’ but finally acquiesces and slides into the room, closes the door behind himself.
“So, uh, Doc, what’s the scoop? On the phone...” Jared finds he has to clear his throat, suddenly choked up with worry and not knowing and running through all the worst possible scenarios. “When Chris called, he said he though it might be his h...”
“He’s too young to have a heart attack, isn’t he?” Jeremy asks.
“Well, no, he isn’t,” the doctor says, “but luckily that’s not what this was. Not that there isn’t the possibility of the situation getting to that point if a few things don’t change.”
“Anything,” Jared volunteers, “but what happened?”
Glancing at his charts, Graham says, “A combination of things, I think --exhaustion, hypoglycemia, exhaustion, dehydration, exhaustion, and a touch of exposure judging by the sunburn on his back and arms.”
“So, what does that mean?” Jared asks. “I mean, I know he hasn’t been getting much sleep, and he did spend a lot of time in the sun yesterday, and I don’t actually remember seeing him eat anything besides that sludge he calls coffee, but can that look like... like a heart attack?” He whispers the last two words, because far be it for him to tempt Fate, and there doesn’t seem to be anything wood to knock on within arm’s reach.
The doc nods. “It can. Especially if he did any significant sweating in the sun and didn’t take the time to replenish his electrolytes. Right now, we can treat the acute symptoms, the hypoglycemia and the electrolyte imbalance, with an i.v. drip. We’ve already started that, on a very slow drip so it’ll take awhile to bring everything up to snuff, and I had them add a little something to help him sleep so he can get a few good hours of bed rest while we wait for the final bloodwork to confirm his cardiac enzymes. Then, if everything’s in order, and I have no reason to believe it won’t be, we can release him.”
“We can take him home?” Jeremy seems more involved than Jared’s ever seen him, in the moment for a change, instead of looking around for an escape hatch.
“You can, if you can convince me that he’s not going to be back in here next week with the same symptoms, and I’ll be honest, I have some serious concerns as to whether you can do that. We have him sedated, and he’s still fighting sleep. He’s more concerned with making sure no one is worried about him than about taking care of himself. He didn’t get in this condition overnight. We’re talking some serious, chronic neglect and self-destructive behavior on his part.” Fumbling in one of his coat pockets, Graham produces a handful of pamphlets, which he hands to Jared.
Jeremy leans over Jared’s shoulder as they leaf through the stack of brochures. “You think he’s depressed?” It’s Jeremy that asks, because frankly, Jared doesn’t know why he didn’t see it himself.
“I’m not a mental health specialist by any means,” the doctor says, “but in my experience, people who run themselves into the ground like this aren’t exactly stopping to smell the roses. There’s also an element of physical pain associated with depression, and initial bloodwork suggests he’s likely been abusing over the counter pain medications. All signs point to depression and exhaustion from where I’m standing.” A pause. “But like I said, I’m not the expert. I’m ordering a Psych consult before I release him. I doubt they’ll recommend hospitalization, but he might benefit from anti-depressant drug therapy.” Flipping the pages on his clipboard, he adds, “And of course, I’m going to put him on work restriction for the next couple weeks, preferably bed rest for at least a few days, though I can see from speaking with him that that’s not likely to stick.”
“I’ll make it stick,” Jared asserts.
“I hope you can. You’ll also have to make sure he doesn’t take any pain medications. No Tylenol, Advil, even aspirin is off limits until he gets in the habit of listening to his body again instead of just trying to override it. If he’s been experiencing chronic pain, it’ll likely get worse before it gets better. He’s just going to have to ride it out. You’re going to have to help him.”
“I will,” Jared promises. “We will.”
“I believe you will. Won’t be easy, though. That’s one hard-headed young man you’ve got yourself.” The nurse shows up to draw some more blood, thankfully not the one Jared harassed in the waiting room.
“Don’t we know it,” Jared chuckles dryly, but Jeremy doesn’t reply in kind. He’s withdrawn quite a bit from where he was just moments ago, pale and distraught, and Jared has to guide him into the room by putting an arm over his shoulder and steering him through the door. The doctor shakes his hand before heading off to his next patient.
--
Jared avoids looking at Jensen until after Chris takes the kids outside to spare them having to watch the ‘stick’, carefully averting his eyes away from the wires and leads and monitors. Instead, he focuses on Jensen’s fingers splayed against the sheet and tries not to wonder if they’re too pale or too calloused or worked to the bone. When the kids are safely shuttled away and the blood is drawn, he summons the courage to slide his eyes up the bed, doesn’t know whether he’ll want to kiss Jensen senseless or smack him stupid for trying to take on the whole world by himself.
In the end, he settles on stepping close enough to put his hand over Jensen’s, doesn’t hold it, just presses down enough to keep Jensen from pulling away. It’s obvious the sedative’s finally winning the battle, because Jensen rolls his whole head in Jared’s direction, a glance that really only requires a flick of his eyes, and starts and stops three times, throat working like his tongue is trying to slide down it instead of form words, before he says, “Ye’re sech, shucks, sex... ye’re a gurl.”
“And you’re a stupid, stubborn ass.” Jared’s voice is far too quiet and thin to be anything but soothing. “But don’t worry. I got you figured out, too.”
Jensen’s forehead crinkles so far the bridge of his nose recedes beneath it, and his eyelashes screen his over-bright eyes as he tries to work out what Jared’s talking about. Finally, the morning’s conversation seems to bubble up to the surface and pop against the mental block. His forehead smooths out, even though he seems unable to open his eyes any farther than they already are. “Oh, yeah... Dotter Phil?”
“Yeah.” He lets his thumb stroke the ridges in the back of Jensen’s hand as if he can even take the edge off those if he tries hard enough.
“S-so, whut do I need?” It’s the most pathetic attempt at a lewd eyebrow quirk that Jared’s ever seen, and he can just about imagine what Jensen is thinking behind those drooping eyelids. Don’t get him wrong. No doubt, a little sexual healing is prescribed, but not just yet.
“Someone to take care of you for a change.”
Maybe Jared only imagines that the shadow over Jensen’s features is disappointment. If it is, it’s only fleeting and quickly morphs into something pitifully defiant... and a little adorable. “Iths zat zo?” Heavy eyelids win the war over responsibility, determination, and pig-headed stubborness, slip closed a second before the rest of Jensen’s face goes slack.
“Yeah, it is.” And Jared’s not even a little self conscious when he leans forward and kisses the top of Jensen’s head. “And don’t worry. I got it covered.”
It takes an uncharacteristic but unmistakable sniffle from the other side of the bed to remind Jared they’re not exactly alone in the room, and he suddenly feels like a dick for monopolizing what little awake time they had with Jensen. “Dude, I’m sorry you didn’t get to talk.”
“’ts all right.” Jeremy shrugs him off before brushing a shirt sleeve across his eyes.
“No it isn’t,” Jared says. “He’s your brother.”
A dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we really don’t talk much these days.”
“I have, now that you mention it.”
“Can we?”
Jared needs a second to translate the request. “You mean, can we talk? Like, you and me?”
Jeremy nods and ducks his eyes toward the door, like whatever he has to say is something he doesn’t want Jensen to overhear even though Jensen’s obviously out of it.
Jared’s seen a whole other Jeremy today, and he thinks he likes it. Reluctant as he is to leave, he follows Jeremy out into the hallway, stops in his tracks when the kid whispers without even turning to face him, “I’m scared.”
The door’s barely shut behind them, and Jeremy’s leaning against the wall, all the cocksure independence gone from his posture as soon as Jensen’s out of the picture.
“C’mon,” Jared soothes, squeezing the kid’s shoulder. “Jensen’s going to be fine. We’re gonna tie him to that bed if we have to,” and he’s surprised that doesn’t sound even a little kinky to him. Not the time or the place for sexual innuendo, he supposes.
“Didn’t you hear that doctor?” Jeremy snaps, spinning around. “They think he’s depressed, that he might be... mentally ill, Jared.”
“Depression is serious, but it’s not all that uncommon. Lots of people deal with it every day, and Jensen’s got us to support him. He’ll be fine.”
“But the State isn’t going to see it that way.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, clamps down hard enough to stretch the skin on his forehead.
“The State?” Jared asks. “You mean like Child Protective Services?”
Jeremy nods, gradually releasing the handfuls of hair. “Ever since...” his chest heaves for a second before he gets himself under control, eyes glassier from the effort, “since Mom and Dad died and left Jensen in charge, the State’s been breathing down our necks. Jensen was only 18, just barely legal, and they thought he couldn’t handle raising three kids on his own. If this doctor says he’s sick, it won’t matter if everyone on the planet has the same symptoms, they’re just going to use it to prove he’s an unfit guardian.”
Jared fights the urge to pull his own hair out, crosses his arms at the chest, instead, cupping his elbows in his palms. “They wouldn’t do that,” he asserts. “It doesn’t make sense to split up a family when they need each other the most.”
“Since when do people in power have to make sense to use it?”
Jared knows he’s right. Hell, he was ready to pronounce Jensen an unfit parent himself on that first night and day in the house, and there are definitely things that still have to change, but there’s no way the Ackles’s would be better off without each other. Haven’t they all lost enough already?
“Y’know what?” Jared decides. “Why don’t you go and sit with the kids. If they ask what the doctor said, tell them that Jensen’s just tired and needs some time off. Don’t mention anything you just told me, all right?”
Jeremy looks at him like he’s a moron. “Of course I wouldn’t tell them that,” he retorts. “What kind of a jackass do you think I am?”
Jared cocks an eyebrow. “Have you met you in the last 48 hours or so?” He pats Jeremy on the shoulder and turns him down the hallway toward the waiting room. “You really don’t want me to answer that.” When Jeremy tenses under his hand, he adds, “But you’re really starting to make me second guess that first impression.” He stops at the door to the Waiting Room, and Jeremy gives him a small thankful smile.
“I guess I have been a jerk.”
“We’ll chalk it up to hormones,” Jared says with wink. “Now go sit with the kids before Chris discovers whatever concealed weapon Jake’s got on him.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be right out. I’m just going to have a little talk with the doctor.”
“Do you think that will help?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Jeremy pauses with his hand on the door, then reaches over and places it on Jared’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
Because it feels necessary and Jared doesn’t get the impression he’s got any qualms about public displays of affection, he pulls Jeremy into a quick hug and pats him on the back before releasing him. “That’s what family’s for.”
He doesn’t even care if that’s his knee jerk assessment of the situation. It feels right, and that’s all that matters.
--
“Nuh, uh, uhhhhhh. Squawk. Nuh, uh, uhhhhh. Squawk.”
Jensen huffs and sits back down on the edge of the bed.
“Jensen! Get back to bed!” Jared yells up the stairs.
“I gotta piss!” Jensen yells back. He throws a glare over his shoulder at Oscar who’s preening himself on his perch in the corner. “Freakin’ Benedict Arnold,” he snaps. “See if I ever buy you another sunflower head.”
“You do not!” Jared calls.
“You’ve been pouring Gatorade down my throat with a funnel. You could ship me overseas and use me to irrigate an entire continent.”
Okay, he just made his own bladder cringe. He’s gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now... Bracing against the nightstand, he gets back up, still amazed at how every muscle in his body screams from the movement.
“Nuh, uh, uh...Squawk.” He doesn’t know whether he’s dumbfounded or just plain annoyed at how quickly Jared trained the bird to play babysitter.
“You’re such a drama queen,” Jared scoffs, but Jensen’s relieved to hear his familiar uneven footsteps on the stairs.
“Drama king,” he corrects. “And I don’t need help. Just call off your watchdog, and I can manage fine.”
Jared makes it to the doorway, looms there catching his breath. The cast on his leg obviously hasn’t gotten any lighter, and Jensen hates adding to the burden. “I promised the doctor I would get you to follow his instructions to the letter if he postponed the Psych Eval until after you were better. That means no getting out of bed without assistance for three days, at least.”
“And why is that again?” Jensen grunts while Jared hoists him off the bed by the waist. “I felt a lot better before. It’s not like there’s anything actually wrong with me.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Which is a quack diagnosis if ever I heard one.”
“Well, then, let me put it to you in terms you’ll understand. Your body’s been running on fumes and leaking oil into the filter for too long, and now you’re all gunked up on the inside. It’s going to take some good recuperative sleep and relaxation to flush out your system and get you firing on all cylinders again.”
Jensen stifles a groan when he hits the bathroom door and has to stand on his own. He feels like he just came out of a week-long football training camp, except after that, he’d at least have a six pack to show for it. If anything, he’s lost weight through this ordeal, and he’s feeling weak and scrawny, completely undesirable, which just pisses him off, even if he’s not necessarily looking for anyone in particular to desire him. Over the rush of his bladder shrinking back to its normal size, he says, “Well, now I know it’s a quack diagnosis, because A)you know nothing about cars, so someone obviously fed you that line, and B)everyone who does know something about cars knows that the last thing you wanna do when you lose oil pressure is stop the engine.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because when you do, it seizes up, and it’ll never go again.”
Jared smirks. “Is that a hint that you need another massage?”
“God, no,” Jensen huffs, frustrated that he has to make a three point turn out of the bathroom when he should just be able to spin on his heel and skedaddle.
“You slept like a baby after the last one,” Jared points out, putting his hands on Jensen’s shoulders to help him turn the rest of the way. “Felt like I really loosened up some of those knots.”
Jensen’s glad Jared’s behind him and probably doesn’t notice the flush on his cheeks. The last thing he wants to do is think about Jared’s “massage” while standing and wearing nothing but boxers. Sure, he slept like a baby after the last one. He also had a crusty mess in his underwear when he woke up. Damn Jared’s magic fingers and Jensen’s hypersensitive, overdeveloped touch receptors. At the height of his pubescent hormonal surges, his own mother couldn’t hug him without his pulse speeding up. His whole friggin’ body’s an erogenous zone, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since anyone’s touched him, skin on skin. Jared’s hands create a lot more tension than they relieve, and there are only so many pairs of sticky underwear he can hide in the ferret holes in his box spring until he’s allowed to do the laundry himself.
“What I need is to move around and get the circulation going.” Doesn’t take a genius to know he could have worded that better.
“Doc said three days in bed.” Jared pauses just long enough for Jensen to think maybe the double entendre will go unnoticed. “But,” Jared smirks the smirk of the horny caveman, “there are plenty of ways to improve circulation in a prone position.”
Whatever happened to the spoiled, selfish, looked at him like pimple squeezings, Jared? For that Jared, Jensen would have no problem mustering up a nice head of disdain and a comeback to convince him he’d have a better chance of scoring with a balloon animal. Now, even that thought has erotic connotations. He blames those stupid Durex condom commercials. Squeaka-squeaka-squeak. Damn, he can’t even sit, or in this case, collapse in a slump, on the bed without the hairs on his arms standing up like antennae and honing in on Jared.
One of Jared’s hands accidentally brushes against Jensen’s ribcage when he reaches across to fold back the sheet, and he might as well be holding a cattle prod. Jensen jerks, board straight, and the air squeezes from his lungs in a muffled laugh, arms wrapping around himself to a guarded position around his stomach. He keels over on his side, hits his pillow with a plop, and can’t push back the mini brain seizure enough to pretend it’s anything other than what it is. Somehow, he knows he’s just signed his own death warrant.
“You’re ticklish.” Jared sounds like the paparazzo who’s just figured out the perfect thing to say in order to get the celebrity to turn toward the camera, that one little bit of trivia that takes things from casual to too close to home in the amount of time it would take to slam a door in his face.
“Am not.” Jensen works up a mock cringe. “You just hit a nerve or something.” He grimaces, drawing his knees up. “Sore spot. ‘ts all.”
“Like hell.” Jared plops on the bed beside him.
“Oh, shit.”
“Not here,” Jared counters, leaning in so close to his ear that Jensen squeaks from just the tickle of his breath and hides his head in his pillow, ashamed. “It draws flies.” There’s a moment of ominous silence in which Jared’s hovering over him, and even with his eyes closed, Jensen imagines his long fingers curled and waggling, the Wicked Witch of the West out to get his pretty and his little dog, too. Then, “there’s one now.”
Jensen manages a pathetic, “N-no, no, n-,” before Jared descends on him, complete with implied Wizard of Oz music, doot-da-doot-da-doo, doot-da-doot-da-doo. Then, he, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, oh God, Jared’s fingers somehow finding every single ticklish spot on his body, ribcage, armpits, knee pits, belly, back of the neck, front of the neck... Oh hell, he’s ticklish everywhere, and Jared’s more than big enough to reach, well, everywhere.
Somehow, Jared ends up on top of him, his one leg between Jensen’s, hipbone tight against ass so Jensen can only fend him off with his arms. It’s a hopeless situation, since every time Jensen moves to cover one spot, he uncovers another equally ticklish one, and pretty soon they’re writhing together on his bed, Jensen all but shrieking, and Jared relentless in his pursuit.
They don’t hear anyone come in, but they’re both shocked into stock still silence when they hear, “All right, you guys, there are kids in this house, too, you know.”
Actually, no, they’d hadn’t known, since everyone was still at school last they checked, and Jensen doesn’t know how he could miss the school bus stopping outside. A quick peek from the one eye that isn’t obscured by his pillow, reveals Jeremy standing in the wide open doorway, facing the hallway as though he backed in.
Jared snickers, “Dude, you can turn around.”
Reluctant, Jeremy peeks over his shoulder and back again, “You-you sure? Because it sounds like...” He swallows, shrugs with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slouching forward. “Well, the bed is kinda squeaking a lot.”
Jensen bucks up hard and throws Jared to the floor, though the fact that they’re apart and still breathing hard doesn’t really help their case any. “We’re not... uh... we weren’t. How could you think...?”
Rubbing a banged elbow, Jared hoists himself up. “What Cyrano here is trying to say is, I was just tucking your brother in. And if he doesn’t stop trying to get up, I’m gonna tie him down next time.” Over his shoulder, “Isn’t that right, Oscar?”
“Nuh, uh, uhhh. Squawk. Nuh, uh, uhhhh.”
Jeremy scratches his neck and turns around slowly, still keeping his eyes downcast as though just rumpled sheets and rucked up boxers are enough to make him want to scratch them out. “Yeah, well, since we’re on the subject...” clearing his throat, “y’know, of when Jensen can get up, Misha called, and he’s got catering gigs all weekend starting Thursday night after the Kiwanis Bingo night. He wants to know if someone will be down there to manage things or if he should just lock up.”
Jensen rolls over onto his back, all the laziness of a crocodile mid death roll, whatever pleasant heaviness that was settling in after the wrestling match dissipating in an instant.
“Nuh, uh, uhhh. Squawk.”
“Good bird,” Jared praises. He presses Jensen flat on the mattress with a hand to the sternum and jerks the sheets over him. “Not your problem.”
“B-b...” Jared’s thumb is actually big enough to press Jensen’s lips together and stifle his protest. If Jensen hadn’t already come to the conclusion that he cannot win against the sheer size and determination of Jared Pad... uh, Jared Switchfoot, he’d bite the thumb, because no one shushes him in his own house. Well, except for Jared.
“Not your problem. Now sleep.” Turning to the door he shouts, “Aggie!” And just like she has every time Jared’s asked her to, the dog lumbers up the stairs and parks herself in the doorway, head across her paws. To Jeremy he says, “Later. Now, get the kids ready for dinner.” And they leave Jensen to sulk, arms crossed over his chest.
Aggie keeps her droopy eyes fixed on him, jumps to standing if Jensen so much as braces on his elbows. Finally, he slumps into his pillow, surprised how quickly sleep settles over him. “I’m trading you both in for a cat.”
--
It should be possible to make sack lunches without cutting off one’s own fingers, but Jared would be hard-pressed to prove it in his current state. He doesn’t usually do this, the whole sweaty palms and triphammer pulse, pit stains and greasy bangs. He’s used to being put together and confident. He accepts the challenge to change what he can, and changes what he cannot accept. Getting his way is in everyone’s best interest. Simple enough.
Until his way became Jensen Ackles. Nothing about Jensen is simple, especially not the part where Jared lies and sneaks around behind his back. Jared doesn’t remember, but he suspects, given his propensity to speak without thinking and to think out loud, that he’s used to telling it like it is. He can only surmise, therefore, that he is the world’s worst liar.
So, he really wishes there was some other way to do this, but he knows, just knows that as soon as Jensen gets out of that bed this morning, he’s going to be plotting to sneak off to the diner and go back to work. That’s out of the question. So, Jared will have to beat him to it. How hard can it be to run a diner? So long as he can convince everyone to eat grilled cheese and drink coffee, it’ll be a cinch.
Who’s he kidding?
“You guys know what to do, right? Get yourselves on the bus, and try not to wake up your brother.” He slides the lunches across the counter and tries to ignore the sweaty fingerprints on the outside of the bags like greasy SWAKs. The kitchen chairs, the table, and the doorjamb all suffer the wrath of his carelessly wielded cast as he hops around gathering book bags and jackets, buttering toast, and putting away the milk.
Jeremy gives him a wary glance. “You really think you’re up for this?”
“Nnnnoooo,” Jared admits, “but if Jensen can suck it up for four years, I can suck it up for a couple of weeks. It’s what families do, right?”
Crickets chirping.
“Right?” he asks again. He finds that he really has no idea, but it sounds right. It should be right, if it isn’t. He can make it right. Even if it kills him. Which it might.
Jeremy makes himself useful by clearing away the kids’s empty cereal bowls. He’s silent right up until the last spoon clangs into the silverware rack. “That diner is not family,” he says, bracing against the counter. “Mom and Dad never wanted Jensen or any of us wasting away behind that counter. It was just something to pay the bills long enough for us to all grow up and find out what we wanted to do for ourselves. Then, they were going to sell it and, I dunno, go roadtripping across the country or something.”
“So, you think we should just let the diner fail?”
Jeremy’s jaw sets hard enough for the corners of his mouth to wrinkle into dimples he doesn’t have before he exhales through his nose like a blowing horse and curls his hands into fists. “No! I mean,” a long sigh, “No. It’s just... Okay, so, if a smoker goes into the hospital for awhile, and they’re not allowed to smoke, they essentially come out of it a non-smoker, right? They’ve essentially quit smoking, got through the worst of it.”
“I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
Gritting his teeth, “Neither do I. I guess, well, if you’re family to that person, seems like what you should be doing is throwing out all the cigarettes in the house so they don’t have them when they get back home, not stocking up on them.”
“Jer, I don’t think Jensen is addicted to working.”
“But he is obssessed with being Mom and Dad and doing things their way. This was never his gig, and as long as he’s playing it, he’s not going to get better.”
“But now he has all of you to think about. How is he supposed to provide for you if he doesn’t keep the store?”
Jeremy shrugs. “Seems like, if Mom and Dad were always going to sell it, then Jensen should be able to do the same thing. Sink the money into something he actually cares about.”
Jared can’t help but smirk, because this is... “Wow.”
Jeremy catches Jared’s expression and is taken aback, but mirrors it, because fuck yeah, Jared’s smile is addicting. “What?”
“Did I just hear you say you want your brother to be happy?” Jared ruffles Jeremy’s hair before the kid can duck away. “That’s not only adorable, but probably the most grown up thing I’ve heard you say since I can remember.” With a shrug, “Obviously, that’s not very long, but seems like our little boy is growing up.” He feigns a tear. “I’m so...” choke, “so proud.”
“Screw you.”
“Saving myself for marriage or until I can remember where we keep the l...” He cuts himself off by brushing his arm over his mouth. He might not be able to keep his mouth from opening of its own accord, but he can keep little pitchers from hearing everything that comes out of it. Regaining his composure after a few seconds of awkward silence, Jared pats Jeremy on the shoulder. “Seriously, though, dude. Valid point. And I think you’re right, but I don’t think this is a good time to bring it up. For now, we’ll make sure the diner stays running until Jensen’s back on his feet, and then, if I haven’t burned it to the ground, we’ll have the talk with him about what he wants to do. Deal?”
“Deal.” Jeremy might be blushing a little. It’s not every day a teenager’s manhood is validated by anyone who’s not a teenage girl.
“There’s just one problem,” Jared says, suddenly clammy again now that they’re back to Plan A.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve made up my mind to do this whole diner thing, while Jensen’s sick. And I’m pretty sure I can deal with, well, the fact that I kinda start breathing hard at just the thought of stepping off the porch, but I need to actually get to the diner, and...”
“And?”
“I don’t remember how to drive.”
“Oh.”
--
“I don’t think I can do this.” Jared wishes he was lying. How pathetic is he already, closing his eyes and inching down the back steps, trying to imagine anything but what might be under the porch or in the woods, or on the roof, just out there where he doesn’t know it, can’t see it, can’t charm it, debate it, or belittle it into bending to his will? This was so much easier when they were afraid Jensen was dying in the hospital and raced across the yard spurred by adrenaline. It’s way harder when he’s heading away from everything he knows or wants toward something he knows nothing about and isn’t at all sure he can deal with on his own. But this is what grownups do, right? They suck it up. But still. Maybe if the house was on fire...
The truck door squeaks like it’s about to fall off its hinges, and he’s never been so glad to reach the safety of a rattling death trap in his life.
“Sure you can. It’s just like riding a bike,” Jeremy assures him.
“Honestly? I can’t remember if I can ride a bike either,” Jared stammers. He laughs just to keep from crying. If it was anyone else, he’d have a joke to make it all better. “What I meant was, there are these...” he shuffles his feet along the floor, banging his knees on the wheel with a thud until Jeremy reaches under the seat and slides the whole thing back as far as it will go. “Thanks.” Jared closes his eyes and grips the steering wheel. “The foot-things on the floor.”
“Pedals,” Jeremy explains.
“Pedals, yeah.” Huh, it really is like riding a bike. “I... I don’t think I can work them with this thing on my leg.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Jeremy says, patting his knee, “It’s an automatic. You only need one foot.”
“Automatic? You mean it drives itself?”
“No, just changes gears by itself.”
“Gears?”
Shaking his head, Jeremy reaches over and turns the key. “Doesn’t matter. Half the people on the road can’t even find their dipstick.”
“Well, now, that I can find.” Jared’s smirk falls flat as he stares over the steering wheel, his arms straight from wrist to shoulder like goal posts.
With a groan, Jeremy fastens his seat belt and waits for Jared to do the same, then says, “Now, you just have to put it in gear, hit the gas, and go.”
“You just said it shifts the gears itself.”
“It does, but... never mind.” He grabs the gear shifter. “Put your foot on the brake. It’s the foot-thingy on the left. Keep it there.”
“Um, okay. What now?”
“Push that button on the console to turn on the headlights.”
“Won’t we wake up Jensen?”
“Fine, leave the lights off until we get to the road. Got your foot on the brake?”
Looking under the dash to make sure, “Yeah. I got it.”
“Watch what I do.” Jeremy wiggles the gear shifter. “You can start the engine either in Park or in Neutral. Most people start in Park, but Neutral is closer to drive, and if you’re afraid of backing into anything by accident, it’s probably best to start there.”
“How do I know which one I’m in?”
“Look there on the dash. Dude, you’re gonna have to at least turn on the parking lights in order to see the dash. Click the light switch one click.”
Jared reaches forward and hits the lever on the other side of the wheel, and water squirts out onto the windshield, wiper blades screeching over the glass. “What’s that?”
“Windshield washer. Don’t worry about it. It’ll stop when it’s done. Just... don’t do that again. I think the pump is about to burn out from the sounds of it.”
“Burn out? As in fire?”
“No, as in quit working and cost a lot of money we don’t have to fix it.”
“Um, okay, that’s good to know.”
“Parking lights.”
“Oh yeah.” Clicking the light switch one click, the dash lights up, and Jared follows Jeremy’s finger to the spot at the bottom where it says PRNDL.
“So, there’s your indicator. See that little orange needle? Whichever letter it’s over, that’s the gear you’re in. Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive, or Low.” He clicks the gear shifter down to neutral, and says, “Now, I’m going to put it in drive. Then, you ease your foot off the brake and gently step on the gas.”
“I can do that,” Jared says. Still, he repeats the command under his breath as he goes through the motions, lest he forget. “Foot off the brake and down on the gas... Wooo!” The engine roars, stays roaring, but the car doesn’t go anywhere. Finally, Jeremy motions for Jared to pick up his foot.
“Good thing, I never put it in Drive,” he smirks. “If you hit the gas that hard with it in gear, we’re gonna end up in the woods. We don’t want that, do we?”
“Uh, no. We definitely do not want that.”
“Fine. Then let’s try again. This time just ease down on the gas.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Each repetition’s a few decibels quieter than the one prior to it, the sound of determination stomping defeat into the dirt with one casted foot. “I can do this.”
“Good. Now, let’s go. I’m gonna be late for school.”
“You’re what? Late for-- oh shit.” He tries again. “Foot on brake. Shift into drive. Foot off brake. Whoa.” Foot back on brake.
“Whoa what?”
“We moved.”
“Yeah?”
“But I haven’t put my foot on the gas yet.”
“You’re in Drive. You’re going to go forward. The gas just determines how fast.”
“Oh. Oh. Okay.” One more try. “Foot off brake. Moving forward.” They coast forward several feet until they hit the point of the driveway where it starts to turn toward the road. “Steer. I gotta steer now, right?” A few panicked breaths. “Right?”
“Yeah. Steer.”
“But I’m already in the grass.”
“Just turn the wheel ‘til we’re back on the road.”
“But we’re not moving anymore.”
“Because the ground is still muddy from the rainstorms we’ve been having. We’re a little mired down. Give her some gas.”
“I don’t want to.”
“We’re not going anywhere unless you give it some gas, Jared.”
So he does. He gives it some gas. The engine revs higher, but they don’t go anywhere.
“A little more.”
He gives it a little more. When nothing happens again, he doesn’t wait to be told and gives it more, more, turning the wheel in the direction he wants to go. The engine revs higher, and all he can think is that he’s waking up Jensen for sure. Jensen, who’s going to get out of bed and come down the stairs and stop Jared from doing what he’s set his mind to do. And hell no. That ain’t happening. He jams his foot down all the way. Suddenly the back end fishtails out around the front in the opposite direction of where Jared wants to go, and he jerks the wheel the opposite direction, sending the back shooshing out into the driveway where it catches the gravel and shoots forward. The next thing Jared knows, they’re facing the complete opposite direction, no more than a few yards from the front porch, his head buried in his arms on the top of the steering wheel.
“Um, we’re gonna have to back out of here,” Jeremy offers tentatively.
“Go backward?” Jared might be shrieking. He can’t tell. His blood’s still pounding too hard in his ears.
“Or I could drive.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You drive. That--that sounds like a plan.” The passenger door squeaks open and then slams shut. A few seconds later, the driver door opens.
“Uh, Jared.”
“Yeah?”
“You gotta let go of the wheel.”
“Okay.” In the end, Jeremy pries Jared’s fingers from the wheel.
“No wonder you drove off a friggin’ cliff.”
--
The thing about sleeping is, the more Jensen does it, the more he likes it. He would think, after three days in bed with nothing else to do, he’d have caught up on his zzz’s by now. Instead, he pries his eyelids open at the crack of-- has to fight the crick in his neck to squint at the clock radio on the nightstand-- at the crack of eight a.m. He knows, according to most people’s standards, that’s still relatively early, but for a guy who’s used to getting up three and a half hours before that, it’s bordering serious guilt trip territory. It’s worse knowing Misha has other plans for the day, and as far as he knows, nobody’s manning the store. They haven’t been closed a day in the last six months, and then, they only shut down because of the city wide power outage caused by the last big ice storm of the winter season. He doesn’t know how they’re going to get by minus a whole day’s revenue. He already took money out of the tax account to pay Misha back for the mess the kids made at their last catering gig, buy groceries, fix the taillight, and give Jeremy spending money for when he went out of town with the basketball team. They’ve got some health insurance, but since he was never admitted, his little meltdown is going to be billed as an E.R. visit, most of which he’ll have to pay out of pocket.
Shutting his eyes against the irrationally optimistic sunlight, he pulls the pillow over his face, feels the beginnings of the headache that finally faded yesterday start to creep along the nerve endings between his temples. Worst part is, he can’t even take anything for it. Jared stashed all the aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and nsaids in the house. Quack doctor and his quack theories. Jensen was not over-dependent on over the counter pain meds. He only used what he needed. Wasn’t his fault he hurt everywhere. The whole notion of him getting used to listening to his body is beyond ridiculous now. It’s just old. He’s been listening. When it says, ‘ow’ he takes something for it. No point playing the hero. He doesn’t have anyone to impress.
At least today he’s allowed to get out of bed. That’s one step toward getting things back in order, if that’s even still possible. Tossing the pillow and craning his neck up, he looks around, thoughtful. Come to think of it, he’s surprised Jared hasn’t shown up to help him down the stairs. Not that he needs help with the stairs, but he just knows Jared’s going to help him, regardless. Anyway, Jensen wouldn’t turn him down if he offered. The guy needed to feel useful. Jensen would let him have that.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, one to the floor hard, pauses to create the proper amount of waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop suspense, and then thumps the other one against the floorboards. Nothing. No shout up the stairs to say Jared’s on his way up, no bird, no dog, no crazy-assed ferret. Well, then, it’s a good thing he doesn’t need any help.
Dragging himself up, he’s relieved to find only his head is acting up. Everything else seems to have settled to a dull roar. He gets to the bathroom a little slower than he normally would, but without any flinching or gasping or leaning against door frames. One of the kids’s rubber balls lies in the hallway, and he gives it a good hard look, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth before giving it a decisive kick down the hallways, grins in satisfaction when he hears it bounce down the stairs.
No one answers.
It’s a good thing he’s only wearing boxers, because for some reason his hands are shaking when he takes himself out to piss, and then he only manages a weak trickle, something cold and tight twisting in his groin and twisting him up inside. He knows what it is, and he knows why it’s putting in an appearance now. And it’s just stupid. He should be way beyond this clenching insecurity. Just because Danni tiptoed out of his bed, never to return, nothing but that stupid as fuck ‘dear John’ letter to break things off, doesn’t mean everyone else in his life is going to do the same thing.
The kids are just in school, and Jared’s... probably tired out from three days of waiting on Jensen hand and foot. Jensen should just stop being a bratty attention seeking kid and let the guy sleep. He can take care of himself. He’s been doing it for years, and so long as you don’t ask that doctor’s opinion, he’s been doing a fine job. He’ll just-- his stomach growls-- yeah, he’ll just sneak down the stairs and make them up some french toast. Jared won’t even have to get up. Jensen can bring him breakfast in be... breakfast on couch. Just as soon as he washes his han...
There’s a note taped to the mirror. It says Jensen on it in some frilly, loopy handwriting that can only be Jared’s. He takes it down, but doesn’t read it, listens to the grains of paper scrape against each other as he walks in a trance down the hallway, and starts down the stairs. Halfway down, it’s obvious no one’s asleep on the couch. Three quarters of the way down, there’s no one in the chair or on the floor either. He calls out, “Jared! Dude, you totally missed your chance to manhandle me down the stairs. You could’ve totally got your grope on. I’m sick and helpless remember?”
But Jared’s not in the kitchen, the laundry room, or on the porch.
He’s standing outside the screen door next to the glass beaded windchime he made for Mama at Bible camp when he finally opens the letter. Another scrawling hand looping across a crumpled page in his mind that he can’t throw away no matter how many times that crazy ferret squirrels it out of his drawer.
I hope you can manage, without me now...
He unfolds it halfway, tells himself there’s no way that could happen twice, then reads the first line.
Jensen, I had to go. Please don’t be mad.
I just think, we’ve grown from each other...
He almost laughs. Mad? How can he be mad? He hurts too much to be mad, needs a handful of fucking Advil just to see straight, but lacking that, slides to the ground, missing the porch swing completely.
So, I’m leaving tonight.
--
Part Six
