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ht_murrayTitle: Derelict
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
tru_faith_lost
Rating:NC-17
Pairing:JA/JP, mentions Jared/Sandy
Words: 8200
Warnings: Language, m/m sex, lying, cheating, angst, schmoop, H/C, cheese, and soap opera emo.
Summary: Jared buys a ring and realizes too late he gave it to the wrong person.
A/N: Not my usual stuff. I'm quite aware I take my writing too seriously, so I wanted to write something cheesy and fun. I took prompts in my journal for Hurt!Jensen, and Hurt!Dean. This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparklingrocks who wanted J2, injury that seems less serious than it is and a struggle to get medical attention. These stories were supposed to be cute little oneshots with no plot. This one had other ideas. I fail.
A/N: Thanks toysbail for agreeing with me enough that I added three thousand words after I sent it to her, so all the crap is mine, all the cool stuff is hers. I'm sorry it's still not everything you wanted, darlin'. It would have been a chapter fic if I'd done it all. I hope it's all right the way it is.
Disclaimer: This is mine, they are not, but I'd gladly trade. No jellyfish were harmed in the making of this fic. Also, I got all my knowledge on jet skis from watching Baywatch and all my knowledge of jellyfish from Animal Planet. You didn't really expect me to do research did you?
Derelict
Jared remembers picking dead birds out of rain barrels when he was a kid. Water gets pretty damned tepid in Texas during the summer months, and birds don’t know, when they hop in, their muscles turn to jell-o. They drop in, looking for a quick bath or a drink. Only they don’t swim, and they don’t bathe. They sink. Like rocks. They’re completely paralyzed by the warmth of the water, and they probably never even know they’re drowning, or so his Daddy told him.
Jared knows how they must feel.
His hands twist uselessly inside the pockets of his jeans, not really sure what to do with themselves with no leashes knotted around them, no tiny Sandy fingers twined between his, no lewd hand gestures required to let Jensen know just exactly what he’s thinking. He’d wanted to walk alone, just to clear his head, but thinking isn’t really going anywhere except the bottom of the barrel.
How did things get so fucked?
There was a time when it was all good; when any man worth his salt had a harem full of willing concubines and a palace full of doting eunuchs. And okay, the term “eunuchs” has Jared’s nuts doing an odd clenching thing he likens to a prairie dog diving into a burrow, but the point is, there was a time when all cool dudes played both sides of the fence, and anyone who didn’t like it got beheaded.
By those terms, Jared’s somebody, world-on-a-platter boy himself. Sandy graciously acknowledges that Jared’s a horny twenty-four-year-old who spends way too much time with his costar not to be fucking him, and Jensen knows Sandy’s the girl Jared’s going to have a family with someday. They’re fine with things the way they are, maybe even throw in some lavender scented bath oil to keep things…lubricated.
No waves.
And even though both his lovers know about each other, Jared feels like some dodgy psycho, the kinda guy police nab for serial murder whose neighbors all come forward to say what a nice guy he’d seemed to be.
Jared doesn’t want to be that guy.
Sandy and Jensen are buoys in the warmest, calmest ocean Jared’s ever seen, and he’s the bird at the bottom of the lagoon. He could easily swim to either one, but he doesn’t. They won’t even know he’s drowning ‘til he floats to the surface between them.
They make it so damned easy to just…float. But Jared’s got all these long muscles for making waves, and they’re screaming at him for oxygen.
Jared thinks maybe he’s taking Kripke’s Skywalker metaphor too literally and cutting off his own head. He doesn’t want to be somebody, some Hollywood cliché with a bed in every town and a warm body waiting. He just wants to be Jared Padalecki, big goofy kid who still gets tear-eyed when he picks dead birds out of rain barrels.
He’s not all good, not okay, and definitely not cool. Not anymore.
These are the days of one love, one god, one goal, one vision, and good men, at least Jared’s idea of good men, use self-control and denial as badges of honor.
It’s not wrong to be honorable, to pick one port in the storm, cast his rope over the nearest pylon, and never question if he’s in the right harbor.
So, why does he feel like such an ass?
He knows before he gets to the store that, despite his attempts to convince himself he’s just walking, he’s been heading here all along, drifting toward the Lady of the Lake in search of his Excalibur. Even from the street he can see it’s there, glistening under the jeweler’s locked case like sunlight at the end of a very long free dive.
Maybe it’s rash. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s just every nerve in his body screaming that it’s drowning and pleading with him to fucking swim already. Or maybe the ring just reminds him of a life preserver and fits too perfectly into the metaphor he’s constructing in his mind to ignore.
His hand’s damp and clammy when he finally pulls it out of the pocket and reaches for the handle on the door. One man, one prize, one goal, one vision echoes in the back of his mind like a war hymn, and the bell on the jeweler’s door reminds him how ironic it is that the lyrics of a Queen song drive him to embrace his heterosexuality.
xXx
Jared knows before he enters his PIN what the voicemail’s going to say. Jensen only calls in the middle of the night for one reason, even though he never really says it out loud.
“…Hey, Jay. Just wondering what you’re up to.”
Translation: Calling to see if you’re sleeping alone tonight.
”Since I got your voicemail, I guess you’re with Sandy.”
Translation: I miss you.
”Maybe we can do something this weekend.”
Translation: I’ll get us a room.
Sandy turns into Jared’s chest, lays her hand flat across his heart, and after all the time he took picking out that damned ring, all the extra care to get the perfect cut and setting, he can’t even look at it now. Not with Jensen’s voice in his ear. In the store, it had looked like salvation. On her finger, not so much.
Jared puts his arm around his “fiancé,” hates himself a little for not being able to refrain from putting in the mental quotation marks around the word. It’s only been a few hours, less if he takes into account the fact that “just engaged” sex has a mind-numbing quality to it that negates the passing of time, but the idea of him and Sandy, married, still hasn’t lost the surreal ripples over still water feel. It still could, he supposes, but Jensen’s voice in his ear, aching and lonely, makes his heart clench the same way the word eunuch makes his testicles recede, and he wonders if he’s cut off more than his head.
Jared pulls Sandy closer against him, like a drowning man latching onto a lifesaver float and covers the ring with his free hand. She smiles against his pec and kisses it softly. So…easy. Everything’s perfect and warm in the bubble of forever that seems to emanate out from the ridiculously oversized diamond he gave her.
It’s everything it’s supposed to be right down to the throbbing bruise on his kneecap, and he still doesn’t know why the hell he did it. He’s just tired; feels like he’s been treading water forever, and then he turned around, and she was there looking like everything he was supposed to want, and he wanted her more than treading water.
Trouble is, he never stopped to consider what he’d do, if he’d turned around and Jensen had been standing there instead.
He knows that’s probably why he never turned off the phone, just the ringer. Probably why he brought Sandy off three times but didn’t come himself until the phone lit up on the night stand and Jensen’s name appeared on the screen. He can’t tell if the tingling of anticipation in his extremities is anticipation of years of wedded bliss or just…waves.
He has to know.
He dials the phone, and weaves his fingers through Sandy’s as she snores softly into his chest.
“Yeah, Jen? This weekend would be awesome.”
xXx
They barely make it inside. Jensen’s idea of ‘a room’ is a suite in a nearly deserted semi-private resort in the Caribbean. Jensen swears he knows someone who knows someone, and it costs next to nothing, but Jared knows better. Jensen doesn’t take advantage, doesn’t let himself get too comfortable with celebrity, like he knows it’s just a ghost ship that will evaporate once he’s aboard.
Jared doesn’t know if it’s the innate knowledge that Jensen blew a huge chunk of dough on the place, or if it’s the idea of Jensen, wet on the beach by day and naked in a room with no neighbors by night, that’s got him thrumming from head to toe with fuckingottahave. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Jared gets to work on the naked part, flinging his t-shirt into the darkness somewhere and latching his teeth onto the fleshy part of Jensen’s shoulder while his fingers work at the buttons of his shirt.
It was a late flight, and the room swallows them like pitch. They have no idea where they’re going when they crash into the table, a tangle of limbs wrapped in half-undone clothing. They land on the television remote, and the evening news glares down at them. All Jared cares about is, god Jensen’s lips look good in this light, and fuck, gotta see the rest of him.
He completely forgets that he’d intended to break the news to Jensen about his engagement before they landed, forgets that he just couldn’t say it yet, not out loud. Everything about tonight has been awkward up to this point, half formed thoughts on his lips; apologies, confessions, or pleas, he doesn’t know. A dozen times he’s taken Jensen’s hand in his, intending to tell him it’s the last time this will be okay, that on Monday he’s a man of honor.
But it can only be a confession if it’s true, and maybe that’s why every time he’s opened his mouth, he’s ended up with his tongue in Jensen’s.
So far, Jensen doesn’t seem to mind. Ignorance is bliss, after all. And well, Jared’s a big fan of Jensen and bliss.
Jensen’s shirt is half off, completely unbuttoned, and sliding down his shoulders as Jared’s mouth works at the hollow of his throat beneath his Adam’s apple. Jared wraps his arms around, takes hold of the collar from behind, and pulls it down to the small of Jen’s back, pinning Jensen’s arms to his sides with the long sleeves, and bending him backward. Jared feels him tighten a little at the constriction around his elbows, but then he relaxes and arches upward. His head falls back, mouth open and gasping, and Jared massages one hand between his shoulder blades while keeping the other hand knotted in the shirt.
Jensen arches up higher. His chest heaves under Jared’s tongue as he laves a stripe from collar bone to sternum. Jared grins against the already sweat-slick flesh, resists the urge to bite down on the tight pecs. Instead, he nuzzles his nose into the valley between, knows by the way Jensen quivers that his hair is tickling those sensitive nipples.
Jensen can’t move his arms from the elbow up, but his hands fumble with Jared’s jeans, manage somehow to reach in and pull Jared out before Jared reciprocates.
“Fucking kinky bastard,” Jensen pants, grinding upward in search of friction with the only part of his body he can still move under the weight of Jared’s long limbs.
Jensen’s voice, raw and stripped of inhibition makes Jared want to fuck him into the carpet, but he knows he’ll never make it that long. He curls his back for leverage and thrusts along the ridge of Jensen’s hip bone with tiny whimpers of need. He’s got his forehead pressed into Jensen’s shoulder when he comes with a grunt and coats both their bellies, finally releasing Jensen’s arms as he does.
As he collapses to the floor, Jared finds enough energy to roll Jensen up on top of himself. Jensen’s face hovers over him the way he figures the Angel of Death must loom over a dying man, glowing with more than just the reflection of David Letterman on the television.
“Fuck me,” Jared begs. He knows the way his loose legs fall open as Jensen kicks both their jeans loose of their ankles is just wanton and whorish, and he just doesn’t care. God, there’s no fucking afterglow like fucking Jensen Ackles afterglow.
Jensen doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s got his cock slicked with Jared’s semen and Jared’s relaxed hole yawning open for him in less than a minute. He’s panting against Jared’s cheek, one hand positioning his cock and the other brushing a thumb over Jared’s forehead. His whole body quivers with restraint, and Jared can’t figure out why he doesn’t just get on with it already.
Jared lets his eyes roll into focus and gazes up into Jensen’s face, surprised to find a wicked grin parting those sinful lips.
“You want this?” Jen huffs, rolling his hips just enough to remind Jared right where the head of his cock is seated.
“God, yes.” He’d forgotten how much Jensen likes to make him beg.
“Then tell me what’s been on your mind all night.”
“Fuck…” Jared’s also forgotten that Jensen can read him like a book. His dick, which was making a valiant attempt to put in an encore performance, gives up without a fight. “Jen, not now, baby.”
Jensen doesn’t argue. Jen doesn’t ever argue, part of his, no waves policy, Jared thinks. He just looks down at Jared expectantly and waits, rolling his hips every now and again just to prove he has enough control to wait Jared out. Jared fucking hates the way Jensen plays him, or he loves it, pretty hard to say which with a cock poking him in the ass.
He sighs and lets his head roll to the side, shuts his eyes like it’s sleep talking and not something that’s been on the tip of his tongue all night. “I asked Sandy to marry me. She said yes.”
Jared’s not sure what reaction he’s expecting, but considering it’s taken him days to work up the courage and post-coital bliss to get the edge off, Jen’s smack on the shoulder and, “Congrats, man,” seem kinda anti-climactic.
There’s a moment, right after Jared tells him, that he thinks maybe he sees something in Jensen’s eyes, something like a spark, a fight, a ‘please don’t,’ but it’s gone in a second, and the sex that follows is uncharacteristically void of anything he’d call passion. It’s old, married people sex, fast, dry, and over before Letterman’s monologue.
xXx
Jared frowns when Jensen hands over his credit card and pulls Jen over to the side of the rental booth.
“The whole day?” He asks. “I thought you’d wanna spend a little more time, you know…” He presses a knee between Jensen’s thighs, steps in and runs a lazy finger over the stubbled jaw, “…in our room,” he breathes against the shell of Jen’s ear, as much rough and hoarse as he can scrape out in his voice. He doesn’t say, “It’s our last chance to be together,” because he fucked this up, and he’s not sure he deserves a last chance.
It’s there for a second, that glimmer in Jensen’s eyes that says, “I want,” “I need,” “I care,” “I fight.” Then it’s gone, and so is Jensen, who just ducks under Jared’s arms and shrugs past him.
“Later, cowboy. We got all weekend.”
Normally, Jared would take that as a promise, something to keep him hard and aching with anticipation, just the vibration of the wave runner between his legs to keep him company. But it doesn’t sound like a promise or a tease.
It’s the same tone Jen uses on the phone when his agent calls and tells him he’s got another supporting role when he knows Jen read for the lead. It’s the same smile Jen uses when his favorite scene, the one he rehearsed for hours in his trailer to get perfect, ends up on the cutting room floor; the same easy shrug he uses when he gets to the lunch tent late after staying over to get a tricky shot and finds there’s nothing left but macaroni salad and diet Coke.
Jared hates him a little, just then, but he lets Jen pay for the jet skis and a whole day’s worth of riding time. He follows like a raft in a current when Jensen climbs on board, wetsuit only zipped up halfway and hanging loose around his waist, and heads out for the far side of the island.
xXx
They ride in silence long enough that Jared’s sure he can actually see pink sunburn blushing between the freckles on Jensen’s back and shoulders. He wonders why he never offered to rub on the sunblock, like he usually does. Come to think of it, Jensen never asked, either.
He’s busy watching water bead up between Jen’s shoulder blades and roll into the down-turned top half of the wetsuit when Jen finally eases off the throttle and whips his wave runner around.
It’s more than a little fucked up that Jared thinks this is finally it, and faces Jen with a little skip in his heartbeat. This is where Jensen blows up, and they fight, and get everything out in the open, and hate each other just long enough to realize anything that hurts that much has to be real.
But Jared’s either been in the business too long or read too many Danielle Steele novels. (K, so he didn’t actually read ‘em, just watched the movies on Lifetime) The Jensen that spins around on his Jet Ski and throws water over Jared like a blast from Shamu’s blowhole isn’t looking for a fight. He’s just a guy screwing around—a boy on his toy. Jared never expected to end up at the bottom of the toy box so quickly.
Before Jared can finish putting the correct melancholic twist on his interpretation of the afternoon, Jensen revs his jet ski past him, this time close enough to spray Jared in the face with his jet plume.
Passive aggressive much?
“You shit!” Jared splutters, choking on sea water and shaking his head while droplets cling to the ends of his hair and eyelashes. “You’re gonna pay for that!”
Jensen laughs, something cold and emotionless, and Jared doesn’t miss the warmth so much as the anger and bitterness he’s sure he deserves. Jen cranks his motor up as Jared takes off after him. He’s got his mind set on being pissed off. None of this feels right. Jensen’s so cavalier about the end of their relationship, like friends is all they ever were, with benefits, and all the other cheesy showbiz clichés that make casual sex, well, casual.
It’s like Jensen never bothered to notice that nothing about Jared is casual. So yeah, Jared wants to be pissed.
Of course, about the fifth time they cavort down the shore, waves on the beach and sun high overhead, Jared tries to ram Jensen’s wave runner only to end up with the plume in his face again, and he can’t help but laugh out loud, kind of a pathetic, defeated bleating like a dying porpoise. He wanted waves. He got ‘em. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Fucking Jensen Ackles.
Jen looks back, sees him laughing, and stops as Jared skips closer. Jared starts to ease off the throttle of his wave runner, when he realizes he still owes Jensen for the saltwater snot burning down the back of his throat. He coasts up to Jen at half-speed and throws a hand up in the air as if to give a high-five, because two can play the passive aggressive game. Jensen responds in kind, and just when they’re close enough to touch, Jared guns his motor and whips his jet ski around. The back end smacks into the side of Jensen’s ski hard enough to send Jensen flying off the other side.
Jared whips around again, grinning broadly as Jensen stands in the chest-deep water and struggles to get back on board with his dangling wetsuit filled with water.
“Ha,” Jared laughs (okay, so it’s more of a cackle) as he clasps his hands together and signs victory. You don’t always get what you want, baby, but if you try sometime…
“Ow,” Jensen hisses with a grimace. He looks down the front of his wetsuit, face stretched downward in a ghoulish scowl. The look of dread on his face is so comical, Jared almost expects him to say he’s got a leech stuck to his balls.
“What’s ‘a matter, Jenny? Little reef rash?”
“No, I think something bit me.”
Jared waits for the punchline, certain Jensen’s pushing his buttons again, but it doesn’t come, Jensen just grimaces and starts rolling the wetsuit farther down his stomach.
“Ooh, yeah, now that you mention it, I think I saw warning flyers up at the beach. Watch out for vicious, man-eating clown fish…” The laughter dies in hi throat as Jensen scoops a handful of water out of his wetsuit and dumps it beside Jared’s jet ski. “Oh, shit.”
The jellyfish is small, less than an inch across, but there’s no mistaking the gelatinous texture and almost luminous sheen.
“Fucking jellyfish, “ Jensen groans.
“Jen, those are poisonous.” Jared’s sure he must look like a white boy made up to play a black man on stage as he feels the blood drain away beneath his tan.
It’s Jensen’s turn to laugh. “Dude, chill. I’ve been stung before, swimming off Galveston island. I’m not allergic or anything. It’s no big deal.”
Jared lets out a shaky sigh and runs his fingers through his hair, well aware that his hands are shaking. God, why is he such a pussy? You’d think he was the one who was stung.
Jensen eases his jet ski up beside Jared and puts a hand on the back of Jay’s neck. They’ve had their fun playing with guns, but now someone’s had their eye shot out, and it’s just not funny anymore. They’re really not kids anymore, even if they wish they were. “You need to lighten up. You’re gonna stroke yourself out one of these days.”
“Yeah…” He laughs nervously, forgetting his anger and confusion under the warmth of the touch. “Rather stroke you…” Without thinking, he leans his head back into Jensen’s touch, almost lets his head loll back for a kiss, but Jensen jerks his hand away awkwardly.
“Look, whattaya say we crash on the beach? Eat the lunch we brought before heading back?”
Way to fuck things up, Padalecki. “Yeah, sounds good.”
xXx
So, lunch on the beach is a bust. Besides the fact that things between them are still strained, it appears this side of the island is deserted for a reason. The beach here sucks, almost not sand at all, just some kind of sharp rocks and trees with vines hanging out of them that look too much like snakes to make good shade for eating under.
They wolf down sandwiches, sitting on a flat rock, and Jared watches Jensen eat hunched over his sandwich like he’s reading emails off his phone. It’s like they’re back on set, all eyes on them and paparazzi in the bushes, pretending they’re not going back to Jensen’s trailer before the next take to put some suspicious stains on Sam and Dean’s clothes.
Of course, Jen’s not reading email off his phone, because they can’t get a signal out here. Jared checked. He chews thoughtfully on his sandwich and cant’ help but notice the way Jensen’s hand keeps absently brushing over the skin of his belly just beneath the top of his wetsuit. Jared’s never been stung by a jellyfish, but he’s been stung by plenty of other things and knows even the harmless ones can hurt like a bitch.
Jared pulls the emergency first aid kid out of their pack and hands Jensen a couple Benadryl, along with a bottle of water. Jensen cocks an eye at him and keeps chewing his sandwich.
“It’s Benadryl. This one time, Sadie got into a nest of scorpions in the shed back home, and the vet said a couple of these would help in case she had a reaction to the venom. Might work for jellyfish, too.”
Jensen’s not impressed. “Already told you. ‘m not allergic.”
“C’mon. Can’t hurt.”
Something flashes across Jen’s face that could be pain, surprise, or both, a subtle open tension like light under a locked door.
“A little late for that, don’t’cha think?”
Jared knows Jensen regrets saying it the second the words are out of his mouth, because he laughs nervously and stands up.
Jensen doesn’t stay long enough for Jared to say he’s sorry, say he’s wrong; doesn’t stay long enough to fight about it, throw punches, or do anything other than what Jensen always does when things get tough—walk away.
Goddammit! Jared wonders if Jensen’s ever fought for anything in his life. He wants to fucking kill whoever it was that gave Jen this freaking ‘turn the other cheek’ complex. Just once can’t Jensen say they’re worth fighting for? Jared’s fucking tired of fighting by himself. He keeps doing stupid shit that he regrets afterward and has no one else to blame it on. Not that he wants to blame Jensen, but at least, if they’d fucked this up together, he’d be justified in grabbing Jen, and shaking him, and making him stay.
And shit, there it is. He wants Jensen. He wants Jensen to stay, and it hits him that the fucking glint off the ring in the jeweler’s window reminded him of the gleam of light off Jensen’s lips when they’re swollen and kissed raw. And well, Jared’s twenty-four. He fucked up. Besides passive aggression and being obviously slow on the uptake, he can add projection to his list of psychological shortcomings.
But he’s not a quitter, and he’s man enough, honorable enough, to admit when he’s done wrong. Well, he’d admit it, if Jensen wasn’t still busy walking away.
Jensen’s already on his wave runner and gunning the throttle as Jared hurries to shove the last of their stuff into the bag, including the Benadryl the stubborn ass never did take. By the time Jared gets back to his jet ski, Jensen’s out of sight.
So, this is without a doubt, the stupidest thing Jared’s ever done, and he might hate Jensen’s defeatist attitude, but he fucking loves Jensen Ackles, and whatever the hell it was that made Jared buy that fucking ring, he’s going to fix it.
Of course, Jensen’s got a head start on him, and since their jet skis are the same make, and Jared’s heavier and lugging all their gear, he resigns himself to being a few jumps behind all the way home. All that time to himself to reconsider what an ass he’s been and what he needs to say to fix it is probably what he needs anyway.
Five minutes into the ride back, Jared’s halfway through some colorful internal monologue about how unfair it is to issue personal ultimatums and expect other people to share in the consequences when he realizes the Jensen blip on the horizon is closer than it was.
He almost slows down, because, fuck, he really hasn’t decided what to say yet, but even in the amount of time it takes him to consider, he draws closer still. Jensen’s barely creeping forward at all, and Jared doesn’t know why that scares more than encourages him.
He turns the throttle as far as it will go, blood suddenly rushing in his ears more loudly than the water spraying around him. By the time he reaches Jensen, the second jet ski is floating derelict in the surf, bobbing in a herky-jerky fashion, with Jensen slouching forward, panting down at the floorboard.
“Jen!”
Jared speeds up beside Jensen and cuts his motor. The slow, half-lidded roll of Jen’s eyes is the only acknowledgement Jared gets, and he knows instinctively that moisture beading at Jensen’s hairline and clinging in his eyelashes is not seawater.
“Hurts,” Jen whispers. He’s got one arm wrapped around his abdomen, the other white-knuckled on the throttle, and Jared knows he should never have let Jensen downplay that jellyfish sting.
Jared tries to reach across the space between the jet skis, but Jensen’s is pushed away by the wave his own makes in the water, and the further he reaches, the farther apart they drift.
“Shit, Jen. Hang on. I gotcha.” Jared reaches into the side compartment and pulls out the hank of rope they’d used to lash the skis to the rocks while they ate. His fingers shake as he fumbles for the knot. By the time he’s got a decent loop formed, Jensen’s even farther away. Rather than move to a better position, he does his best Roy Rogers impression and tosses the rope. It lands over the handles of Jen’s jet ski, reels them closer together until Jared can easily reach between the two water craft and tie them together.
“What? No cracks about gay cowboys with bondage kinks?” His voice shakes as he finishes the knot. Jensen’s so damned quiet, and he hasn’t moved more than the slow, dreamy droop of his eyelids on an ever-descending trajectory.
That changes the second Jared puts a hand on Jensen’s clammy back. He barely has time to register the unnatural knotting and twitching of Jen’s muscles under his hand before Jensen jerks like he’s been hit by a cattle prod and slides off the other side.
Only the fact that Jared’s lashed Jensen’s hand in the rope between the Jet Skis keeps Jen from ending up face-first in the water. As it is, his head lolls close enough to the surface that the backwash off the hull of his jet ski laps at his lips.
The blood racing through Jared’s veins turns to ice at the way Jensen just dangles, half in the water and half tied to the jet ski like a wind sock on a calm day. He knows water has to be tickling at Jen’s nostrils, and yet, Jen doesn’t’ even make an effort to turn his head.
Fuck that!
Jared puts a foot on the runner of Jensen’s ski and makes an awkward leap between the two unevenly bobbing water craft. He hooks his ankle as best he can around the edge of the footboard, one hand in the rope at Jensen’s wrist, and leans over. His fingers slide over slick, heated skin on Jen’s stomach and Jared heaves Jensen back against his own chest.
Jensen’s entire body convulses at the same instant Jared realizes it’s not sea water dribbling over Jen’s lips. He catches Jen’s chin in one of his over-sized hands and tips him forward as the chicken sandwich comes up. Jensen’s entire body continues to heave until the Denver omelet from breakfast makes an appearance as well.
Jen shakes like a junkie jonesing for a fix, and he’s slick enough with sick sweat that Jared almost loses his grip. He scrabbles to hold on, ignoring the way Jensen’s muscles writhe under his contact like every touch is torture.
“I’m sorry. God, so sorry,” he huffs into the back of Jen’s neck. He’s not sure what he’s sorry for at the moment, sorry for touching him, for holding too tightly, for pushing him away, or refusing to let go. He doesn’t know, he’s just sorry, and it’s the most sure and sincere he’s felt since looked in that jeweler’s goddamned window.
When it’s over, Jensen sags heavy in Jared’s arms. Jared pulls him closer against his chest, fights to keep them both semi-upright as he finishes working the tangled wrist from the rope.
Jensen’s head lolls against Jared’s shoulder, his mouth open, and there’s just enough Jensen still in those eyes for Jared to know how scared he is, how desperate. Jared knows desperate, kinda how they got here in the first place.
Jared pauses in his fight with the ropes long enough to wipe the tears of exertion out of Jen’s eyes with the pad of his thumb. No one’s sinking to the bottom, not while Jared’s padding away at the surface and reaching the fuck out instead of waiting for someone else to reach first. Smiling weakly, he presses Jensen’s mouth shut with a finger under the chin. “Man, you’re gonna have to do something way kinkier with your mouth before I’ll put up with that breath.”
He’s not entirely sure that Jensen understands what he’s saying. Those fucking expressive Jensen Ackles eyes just roll around in their sockets like the bubbles in a carpenter’s level, but they seem to keep coming back to Jared. If Jensen needs him to be the center of gravity, then Jared can.
His fingers shake and slip on the rope, but once Jensen’s hand is unlashed from the front of the jet ski, Jared finds himself struggling with the entirety of Jensen’s weight. He wraps his arms around Jensen’s waist and catches his breath for a few seconds. The beating of the heart beneath his palms is slow and stodgy, as if Jensen’s brain has to forcefully kick it into giving up some of the oxygen pooling in his lungs.
Jared’s already dangling from the last thread in the last torn stitch of his sanity, and he loses that when Jensen’s eyes slip shut with a slow exhale.
“Jen? Hey, you with me?” He can’t help himself. When Jen doesn’t answer, Jared shakes him, and only part of the movement is voluntary. The rest is fear and anguish rippling down his arms like snakes in a mating ball. But Jensen doesn’t wake up.
“Wake up, god damn you!”
Jared knots his fingers in Jensen’s hair and tips his head back until Jen’s ear crushes against Jared’s teeth. He snarls in his desperation. “Don’t you fucking quit on me. Don’t you dare!”
The hand in Jensen’s hair slips around the side of his face, and the movement of eyelashes against Jared’s palm is barely a movement at all, more of a tickle that could as easily be Jensen as Jared’s own nerves, but Jared feels it. He draws back with a gasp.
“Jen?” There’s no answer, no words or tender kisses exchanged, but a sliver of light glimmers under Jensen’s eyelids and his lips part in a long, slow inhale.
Jared exhales with a shudder of dread. He can’t help but press grateful kisses over each of Jensen’s eyelids and forehead. “That’s it. I’ve got you. Just hang on, okay?”
He takes the half-blink he gets in response to be, “okay,” and springs into action as best he can with Jensen’s dead weight draped over him like an X-ray tech’s lead apron.
His body somehow manages to work of its own accord as Jared’s mind hangs on every faltering heartbeat and shallow puff of breath.
He knows Jensen’s jet ski has the fuller gas tank, since Jared’s been hauling all the gear, and he doesn’t want to waste any more time switching vehicles. Instead, he pulls his phone out of the inside pocket of his wetsuit and checks for a signal. When there’s none, he shoves it in the front of Jensen’s, then reaches across his abandoned jet ski and untangles the end of the rope. As soon as it’s turned loose, the ski catches a current and drifts away.
“Sorry ‘bout that, man. Looks like you just lost your deposit.” Too late, he wonders if he should’ve siphoned the gas out of the other tank to compensate for the extra weight on this one. He just prays there’s enough.
He somehow gets the rope wrapped around Jensen’s chest and lashes the end around his own waist. It’d be easier to drive with both hands free and Jensen snugged up tight against him. Not to mention, he can feel Jensen’s heart beating through the skin pressed against his back and needs that to keep him focused.
He turns the key to restart the wave runner and reaches for the throttle, but there’s something so wrong about the way Jensen’s arms dangle limply down onto the floorboard that Jared can’t stand it. He reaches forward and takes one of Jensen’s clammy hands in each of his. He rubs his thumbs over the palms reverently as he drapes all four hands on the handles.
“Bet you didn’t know ‘bout my bondage kink.” His hands tighten around Jensen’s and the throttle. As he guns the motor, he says, “You hang on, and next time, I’ll let you tie me up.”
It’s probably just the sudden lurch of the jet ski beneath them, but Jared thinks he feels Jensen laugh against his throat. For hope’s sake, he believes it.
He guns the jet ski as far as the throttle will turn, and there’s no doubt in his mind he could turn it farther under freak adrenaline-fueled desperation, but it won’t do either of them any good broken. Once they hit top speed, there’s nothing to judge speed or distance except the passing of the shoreline on their left, and after five minutes of racing along without seeing any glimpse of civilization Jared realizes he has absolutely no idea how far they are from their resort. He’d been so caught up in himself on the way here he hadn’t paid attention to any sort of landmark, hadn’t even bothered to check the trip gage on his odometer.
Wouldn’t do him any good to know how far they’ve gone anyway, since he has no idea how fast they’re going and no way to judge how long it will take them to get where they’re going.
Jensen convulses against his chest, and Jared resists the urge to ease off the throttle and hold him through the tremors. They can’t stop. He’s watched enough Animal Planet to know they’ve already missed the golden hour of first aid treatment and every minute that ticks away could be the difference between acute injury and chronic, prolonged illness. He doesn’t have time to gag when Jensen throws up again, this time down the front of his wetsuit, yellow flecks splattering them both.
Jensen whimpers and pants like a car-struck dog, just enough that Jared knows he hasn’t choked on his own vomit, and Jared keeps his hand twisted tight over the throttle.
“It’s all right. I got you. We’re almost there,” he chants. It’s as much to calm his own nerves as to reassure Jensen, and when Jen’s head lolls back against his shoulder relaxing after the exertion of puking, Jared can’t help but press a kiss into the hair behind his ear before setting his jaw with determination and willing the shore to rush by faster.
Jared feels when Jensen passes out completely. If Jen had been heavy barely conscious, he’s as manageable as scuba gear in a kiddie pool passed out, but Jared doesn’t have time to panic under the added weight, because the ski picks just that second to run out of gas.
“No, nononononono.” He eases off the throttle then back on again, and the jet ski lurches forward for another few yards, then splutters almost to a halt. Repeating this action a half doze times gets them maybe an extra quarter of a mile, and then they’re dead in the water.
“Fuck!” Without pause, Jared starts to fumble with the knots at Jensen’s chest. He looks around and practically sobs when there’s not so much as a boat on the horizon. From this vantage the entire island looks the same, and he can’t tell if they’ve made any progress at all.
“Dude, you stink,” he grimaces as the knots start to come loose. “We’re gonna take a little swim, get you cleaned up. Whattaya say?”
Every second Jared fumbles with the knots, the derelict craft drifts away from shore, and he’s ready to gnaw through the goddamned rope, growling in the back of his throat, when the last tie comes loose. He presses a hand up under Jensen’s jaw and tilts his head up toward the sky, then slides off the jet ski backward into the water.
He gets a good lungful of salt water before he bobs up to the surface again kicking for all he’s worth on his back with Jensen against his chest. It’s exhausting and awkward, and Jared thinks he knows now, why the rain barrel bird sinks. If it was just him out here now, he thinks maybe he’d sink, too, but it’s not just him, and Jensen fucking needs him.
Every muscle in his body is jell-o and every breath rasps in his lungs like sandstorm grit. When he finally feels sand underneath his feet, he wants to just stand still and let his eyes roll back in his head, but he keeps going, wobbling, drunken steps inching them toward shore.
He finally falls to his knees and crabwalks backward in the rocky sand, and when they make it out of the water, he collapses backward, knees bent beneath him in what he’d normally consider an impossible yoga pose. There isn’t an ounce of resistance in any of his muscles, and his chest heaves beneath Jensen’s back.
Without opening his eyes, he reaches down the front of Jensen’s wetsuit to the inner pocket and pulls out his phone. When he flips it open and hits the call button, he’s too exhausted to smile when he gets a signal.
He thinks he sobs a little, when a friendly female voice comes down the line. After that, he doesn’t remember much of anything.
xXx
“Irukandji syndrome,” Jared explains into the phone. “The venom contains a neurotoxin that slows the heartbeat and causes pulmonary edema in some people, and the longer it goes without treatment, the greater the potential for complications.” Ironically, the medical jargon explaining why it is Jensen’s spent two days in the ICU of some Caribbean hospital on supplemental oxygen is easier to explain than what the fuck he and Jensen are doing in the Caribbean for the weekend in the first place.
Jared’s tired. Exhaustion, mild dehydration, and effects of too much saltwater in his lungs earned him an overnight stay in the hospital himself. Sandy’s called three times since. She hung up the first time after Jared told her, first, they were going to be all right, second, they were in the Caribbean for the weekend, and third, no, they hadn’t gotten separate rooms at the hotel. The little snick of the phone breaking connection was more amicable a break up than he deserved. He’d forgotten how easy every thing was with her.
Jared had hung up the next time she called, because he’d deserved to have his head bitten off, deserved every hateful angry thing she’d said to him, because yes, he was a selfish, cheating bastard. He didn’t even bring up the fact that she’d never considered it cheating until she was wearing his ring. Semantics. Life’s too short for semantics. So, he didn’t argue with her, didn’t defend himself, didn’t even consider hanging up, until she forgave him. That was more than he could deal with while Jensen was lying in Intensive care fighting an erratic heartbeat and blood pressure that refused to stabilize. Jared did that. He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, not by Sandy or Jensen.
Jared doesn’t want to hang up on her again. Breaking up over the phone is wrong, even for a selfish, cheating bastard. He can’t bring himself to do it, though twice he’s let his thumb hover over the End button in hopes that hanging up on her again will send the message his lips can’t.
“No. I’m going to Dallas, too. They’re prepping him for the helicopter trip, and my flight leaves in an hour. I’m not leaving him until he’s better.”
A beat passes as he runs his hands through his hair and smooths over the tension creases in his forehead with a grimace. “Yeah…I know we were supposed to tell everyone together, but I can't make the party. Not now. I can’t just leave him. Fuck, Sandy, he almost died.”
He sits back suddenly and glares at the phone like it just spit in his ear. “Is that an ultimatum?”
He clicks the phone shut as the waiting room doors open and the nurse motions for Jared to come back. So much for not breaking up over the phone.
“They’re getting ready to take him up to the roof. He wants to see you.”
Jared should probably feel guilty about hanging up on Sandy. After all, he’s the one who fucked everything up in the first place. But he doesn’t. Sometimes, someone has to push to see where things will go. Jared pushed, and things are different now. He hopes they’re better. That remains to be seen.
Jensen sees him tuck the phone away in his pocket as he enters the treatment room where the staff’s busy unhooking the multitude of monitors, tubes, and wires, reattaching them to smaller, more portable units for the helicopter trip. Jared catches the questioning look on Jensen’s face. Maybe he’s a little thrilled that it looks like jealousy.
Something about almost dying seems to have sparked fire in Jensen Ackles. Either that, or it’s just left him too exhausted and weak to deny what’s always been there. Either way, Jared knows now. He knows Jensen cares enough to fight.
Jared shrugs as he snaps his pocket closed over the phone. “Good news. They found the missing jet skis. You might get your deposit back, after all.”
The way Jensen relaxes under his reassurance convinces Jared the lie is excusable. It’s one thing to know Jensen cares, quite another to give him something to stroke out over while his blood pressure’s still dangerously high and his heart is weak.
The staff leaves them alone for few moments, promising to be back in five minutes to take Jensen up to the roof.
Jared interweaves his fingers with Jensen’s and brushes his thumb over the shiny tops of Jen’s fingernails, marveling at the way they’ve pinked up again, a far shade better than the sickly grey they’d been by the time Jared managed to get him in calling distance of medical assistance.
The last two days worth of worry and fear still weigh heavy in the dark circles under both their eyes, scratches across stubbled chins, but they’re both feeling better today, and Jared refuses to believe that’s just due to the oxygen Jensen’s getting through the cannula.
Jared knows Jensen’s still too weak and exhausted to carry on a real conversation, so he does all the talking, reads the subtle changes in facial expression like words. The crinkles around Jensen’s eyes as Jared runs a hand through his short hair and strokes over his cheek with a thumb clearly say, “Stop being such a pussy, Jay, “ but the press of Jen’s cheek into Jared’s palm says, “Please, don’t stop.”
And Jared doesn’t.
xXx
Jared fidgets in his tux as the rest of the groomsmen file off the balcony of the reception hall. The pictures took almost forty-five minutes to get because fucking Rosenbaum just couldn’t keep a straight face. As if Jared’s wedding day wasn’t stressful enough. He supposes, if jail time wouldn’t put a serious dent in his honeymoon plans, he’d have thrown Mikey off the balcony after about the third lewd hand gesture.
He doesn’t know where his head’s at as he reaches for the slip of paper in his pocket. Tom smacks him on the back as he tries to read the schedule and glance at his watch. He’s got five minutes before the cake cutting, and then, “What the fuck? Garter removal?”
“Hey, Jare, better move your ass. Don’t wanna keep your pretty bride waiting.”
“Fuck you, Welling,” Jared says, still scratching his head over the whole garter thing. “Has anyone seen Jensen?”
xXx
Twenty minutes later, Jensen’s looking down at him with a cocked eyebrow and a twisted smirk that would make Jared afraid…very afraid…if not for the fucking adorable smear of white frosting in his eyelashes and the little daub at the corner of his mouth Jared missed with his tongue.
“C’mon, Padalecki! Let’s get the show on the road!” Chad calls from behind. Jared rolls his eyes and glares over his shoulder. The look he gets in return confirms his suspicions that Chad’s been conspiring with Jensen, and Jared’s so about to be the brunt of some very bad joke.
“Take it off!” Rosenbaum hollers before accidentally knocking over the mike stand.
Jared shakes his head, ducks his chin, and looks up at Jensen sprawled lewdly in the chair above him as Jared kneels at his feet and sighs. Their eyes stay locked as Jared carefully rolls back Jensen’s pant leg, half expecting to find a live snake or something wrapped around his calf.
Seeing the hank of yellowed hemp twisted around the elastic of the sock garter, Jared laughs with a shudder of relief and wastes no time raising Jensen’s leg to his mouth to undo the knot with his teeth.
As Jared tosses the hank of rope over his shoulder into the hands of some other horny bachelor, Jensen leans in for a kiss, drags Jared up to his feet, and whispers in his ear.
“Don’t forget. Next time, I’m tying you up.”
And Jared drags him out of the reception hall without bothering to wait for the receiving line or the limousine.
Who needs rice and champagne when you’ve got Jensen Ackles and a rope?
The End
Author:
tru_faith_lostRating:NC-17
Pairing:JA/JP, mentions Jared/Sandy
Words: 8200
Warnings: Language, m/m sex, lying, cheating, angst, schmoop, H/C, cheese, and soap opera emo.
Summary: Jared buys a ring and realizes too late he gave it to the wrong person.
A/N: Not my usual stuff. I'm quite aware I take my writing too seriously, so I wanted to write something cheesy and fun. I took prompts in my journal for Hurt!Jensen, and Hurt!Dean. This is for
sparklingrocks who wanted J2, injury that seems less serious than it is and a struggle to get medical attention. These stories were supposed to be cute little oneshots with no plot. This one had other ideas. I fail. A/N: Thanks to
ysbail for agreeing with me enough that I added three thousand words after I sent it to her, so all the crap is mine, all the cool stuff is hers. I'm sorry it's still not everything you wanted, darlin'. It would have been a chapter fic if I'd done it all. I hope it's all right the way it is.Disclaimer: This is mine, they are not, but I'd gladly trade. No jellyfish were harmed in the making of this fic. Also, I got all my knowledge on jet skis from watching Baywatch and all my knowledge of jellyfish from Animal Planet. You didn't really expect me to do research did you?
Derelict
Jared remembers picking dead birds out of rain barrels when he was a kid. Water gets pretty damned tepid in Texas during the summer months, and birds don’t know, when they hop in, their muscles turn to jell-o. They drop in, looking for a quick bath or a drink. Only they don’t swim, and they don’t bathe. They sink. Like rocks. They’re completely paralyzed by the warmth of the water, and they probably never even know they’re drowning, or so his Daddy told him.
Jared knows how they must feel.
His hands twist uselessly inside the pockets of his jeans, not really sure what to do with themselves with no leashes knotted around them, no tiny Sandy fingers twined between his, no lewd hand gestures required to let Jensen know just exactly what he’s thinking. He’d wanted to walk alone, just to clear his head, but thinking isn’t really going anywhere except the bottom of the barrel.
How did things get so fucked?
There was a time when it was all good; when any man worth his salt had a harem full of willing concubines and a palace full of doting eunuchs. And okay, the term “eunuchs” has Jared’s nuts doing an odd clenching thing he likens to a prairie dog diving into a burrow, but the point is, there was a time when all cool dudes played both sides of the fence, and anyone who didn’t like it got beheaded.
By those terms, Jared’s somebody, world-on-a-platter boy himself. Sandy graciously acknowledges that Jared’s a horny twenty-four-year-old who spends way too much time with his costar not to be fucking him, and Jensen knows Sandy’s the girl Jared’s going to have a family with someday. They’re fine with things the way they are, maybe even throw in some lavender scented bath oil to keep things…lubricated.
No waves.
And even though both his lovers know about each other, Jared feels like some dodgy psycho, the kinda guy police nab for serial murder whose neighbors all come forward to say what a nice guy he’d seemed to be.
Jared doesn’t want to be that guy.
Sandy and Jensen are buoys in the warmest, calmest ocean Jared’s ever seen, and he’s the bird at the bottom of the lagoon. He could easily swim to either one, but he doesn’t. They won’t even know he’s drowning ‘til he floats to the surface between them.
They make it so damned easy to just…float. But Jared’s got all these long muscles for making waves, and they’re screaming at him for oxygen.
Jared thinks maybe he’s taking Kripke’s Skywalker metaphor too literally and cutting off his own head. He doesn’t want to be somebody, some Hollywood cliché with a bed in every town and a warm body waiting. He just wants to be Jared Padalecki, big goofy kid who still gets tear-eyed when he picks dead birds out of rain barrels.
He’s not all good, not okay, and definitely not cool. Not anymore.
These are the days of one love, one god, one goal, one vision, and good men, at least Jared’s idea of good men, use self-control and denial as badges of honor.
It’s not wrong to be honorable, to pick one port in the storm, cast his rope over the nearest pylon, and never question if he’s in the right harbor.
So, why does he feel like such an ass?
He knows before he gets to the store that, despite his attempts to convince himself he’s just walking, he’s been heading here all along, drifting toward the Lady of the Lake in search of his Excalibur. Even from the street he can see it’s there, glistening under the jeweler’s locked case like sunlight at the end of a very long free dive.
Maybe it’s rash. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s just every nerve in his body screaming that it’s drowning and pleading with him to fucking swim already. Or maybe the ring just reminds him of a life preserver and fits too perfectly into the metaphor he’s constructing in his mind to ignore.
His hand’s damp and clammy when he finally pulls it out of the pocket and reaches for the handle on the door. One man, one prize, one goal, one vision echoes in the back of his mind like a war hymn, and the bell on the jeweler’s door reminds him how ironic it is that the lyrics of a Queen song drive him to embrace his heterosexuality.
xXx
Jared knows before he enters his PIN what the voicemail’s going to say. Jensen only calls in the middle of the night for one reason, even though he never really says it out loud.
“…Hey, Jay. Just wondering what you’re up to.”
Translation: Calling to see if you’re sleeping alone tonight.
”Since I got your voicemail, I guess you’re with Sandy.”
Translation: I miss you.
”Maybe we can do something this weekend.”
Translation: I’ll get us a room.
Sandy turns into Jared’s chest, lays her hand flat across his heart, and after all the time he took picking out that damned ring, all the extra care to get the perfect cut and setting, he can’t even look at it now. Not with Jensen’s voice in his ear. In the store, it had looked like salvation. On her finger, not so much.
Jared puts his arm around his “fiancé,” hates himself a little for not being able to refrain from putting in the mental quotation marks around the word. It’s only been a few hours, less if he takes into account the fact that “just engaged” sex has a mind-numbing quality to it that negates the passing of time, but the idea of him and Sandy, married, still hasn’t lost the surreal ripples over still water feel. It still could, he supposes, but Jensen’s voice in his ear, aching and lonely, makes his heart clench the same way the word eunuch makes his testicles recede, and he wonders if he’s cut off more than his head.
Jared pulls Sandy closer against him, like a drowning man latching onto a lifesaver float and covers the ring with his free hand. She smiles against his pec and kisses it softly. So…easy. Everything’s perfect and warm in the bubble of forever that seems to emanate out from the ridiculously oversized diamond he gave her.
It’s everything it’s supposed to be right down to the throbbing bruise on his kneecap, and he still doesn’t know why the hell he did it. He’s just tired; feels like he’s been treading water forever, and then he turned around, and she was there looking like everything he was supposed to want, and he wanted her more than treading water.
Trouble is, he never stopped to consider what he’d do, if he’d turned around and Jensen had been standing there instead.
He knows that’s probably why he never turned off the phone, just the ringer. Probably why he brought Sandy off three times but didn’t come himself until the phone lit up on the night stand and Jensen’s name appeared on the screen. He can’t tell if the tingling of anticipation in his extremities is anticipation of years of wedded bliss or just…waves.
He has to know.
He dials the phone, and weaves his fingers through Sandy’s as she snores softly into his chest.
“Yeah, Jen? This weekend would be awesome.”
xXx
They barely make it inside. Jensen’s idea of ‘a room’ is a suite in a nearly deserted semi-private resort in the Caribbean. Jensen swears he knows someone who knows someone, and it costs next to nothing, but Jared knows better. Jensen doesn’t take advantage, doesn’t let himself get too comfortable with celebrity, like he knows it’s just a ghost ship that will evaporate once he’s aboard.
Jared doesn’t know if it’s the innate knowledge that Jensen blew a huge chunk of dough on the place, or if it’s the idea of Jensen, wet on the beach by day and naked in a room with no neighbors by night, that’s got him thrumming from head to toe with fuckingottahave. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Jared gets to work on the naked part, flinging his t-shirt into the darkness somewhere and latching his teeth onto the fleshy part of Jensen’s shoulder while his fingers work at the buttons of his shirt.
It was a late flight, and the room swallows them like pitch. They have no idea where they’re going when they crash into the table, a tangle of limbs wrapped in half-undone clothing. They land on the television remote, and the evening news glares down at them. All Jared cares about is, god Jensen’s lips look good in this light, and fuck, gotta see the rest of him.
He completely forgets that he’d intended to break the news to Jensen about his engagement before they landed, forgets that he just couldn’t say it yet, not out loud. Everything about tonight has been awkward up to this point, half formed thoughts on his lips; apologies, confessions, or pleas, he doesn’t know. A dozen times he’s taken Jensen’s hand in his, intending to tell him it’s the last time this will be okay, that on Monday he’s a man of honor.
But it can only be a confession if it’s true, and maybe that’s why every time he’s opened his mouth, he’s ended up with his tongue in Jensen’s.
So far, Jensen doesn’t seem to mind. Ignorance is bliss, after all. And well, Jared’s a big fan of Jensen and bliss.
Jensen’s shirt is half off, completely unbuttoned, and sliding down his shoulders as Jared’s mouth works at the hollow of his throat beneath his Adam’s apple. Jared wraps his arms around, takes hold of the collar from behind, and pulls it down to the small of Jen’s back, pinning Jensen’s arms to his sides with the long sleeves, and bending him backward. Jared feels him tighten a little at the constriction around his elbows, but then he relaxes and arches upward. His head falls back, mouth open and gasping, and Jared massages one hand between his shoulder blades while keeping the other hand knotted in the shirt.
Jensen arches up higher. His chest heaves under Jared’s tongue as he laves a stripe from collar bone to sternum. Jared grins against the already sweat-slick flesh, resists the urge to bite down on the tight pecs. Instead, he nuzzles his nose into the valley between, knows by the way Jensen quivers that his hair is tickling those sensitive nipples.
Jensen can’t move his arms from the elbow up, but his hands fumble with Jared’s jeans, manage somehow to reach in and pull Jared out before Jared reciprocates.
“Fucking kinky bastard,” Jensen pants, grinding upward in search of friction with the only part of his body he can still move under the weight of Jared’s long limbs.
Jensen’s voice, raw and stripped of inhibition makes Jared want to fuck him into the carpet, but he knows he’ll never make it that long. He curls his back for leverage and thrusts along the ridge of Jensen’s hip bone with tiny whimpers of need. He’s got his forehead pressed into Jensen’s shoulder when he comes with a grunt and coats both their bellies, finally releasing Jensen’s arms as he does.
As he collapses to the floor, Jared finds enough energy to roll Jensen up on top of himself. Jensen’s face hovers over him the way he figures the Angel of Death must loom over a dying man, glowing with more than just the reflection of David Letterman on the television.
“Fuck me,” Jared begs. He knows the way his loose legs fall open as Jensen kicks both their jeans loose of their ankles is just wanton and whorish, and he just doesn’t care. God, there’s no fucking afterglow like fucking Jensen Ackles afterglow.
Jensen doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s got his cock slicked with Jared’s semen and Jared’s relaxed hole yawning open for him in less than a minute. He’s panting against Jared’s cheek, one hand positioning his cock and the other brushing a thumb over Jared’s forehead. His whole body quivers with restraint, and Jared can’t figure out why he doesn’t just get on with it already.
Jared lets his eyes roll into focus and gazes up into Jensen’s face, surprised to find a wicked grin parting those sinful lips.
“You want this?” Jen huffs, rolling his hips just enough to remind Jared right where the head of his cock is seated.
“God, yes.” He’d forgotten how much Jensen likes to make him beg.
“Then tell me what’s been on your mind all night.”
“Fuck…” Jared’s also forgotten that Jensen can read him like a book. His dick, which was making a valiant attempt to put in an encore performance, gives up without a fight. “Jen, not now, baby.”
Jensen doesn’t argue. Jen doesn’t ever argue, part of his, no waves policy, Jared thinks. He just looks down at Jared expectantly and waits, rolling his hips every now and again just to prove he has enough control to wait Jared out. Jared fucking hates the way Jensen plays him, or he loves it, pretty hard to say which with a cock poking him in the ass.
He sighs and lets his head roll to the side, shuts his eyes like it’s sleep talking and not something that’s been on the tip of his tongue all night. “I asked Sandy to marry me. She said yes.”
Jared’s not sure what reaction he’s expecting, but considering it’s taken him days to work up the courage and post-coital bliss to get the edge off, Jen’s smack on the shoulder and, “Congrats, man,” seem kinda anti-climactic.
There’s a moment, right after Jared tells him, that he thinks maybe he sees something in Jensen’s eyes, something like a spark, a fight, a ‘please don’t,’ but it’s gone in a second, and the sex that follows is uncharacteristically void of anything he’d call passion. It’s old, married people sex, fast, dry, and over before Letterman’s monologue.
xXx
Jared frowns when Jensen hands over his credit card and pulls Jen over to the side of the rental booth.
“The whole day?” He asks. “I thought you’d wanna spend a little more time, you know…” He presses a knee between Jensen’s thighs, steps in and runs a lazy finger over the stubbled jaw, “…in our room,” he breathes against the shell of Jen’s ear, as much rough and hoarse as he can scrape out in his voice. He doesn’t say, “It’s our last chance to be together,” because he fucked this up, and he’s not sure he deserves a last chance.
It’s there for a second, that glimmer in Jensen’s eyes that says, “I want,” “I need,” “I care,” “I fight.” Then it’s gone, and so is Jensen, who just ducks under Jared’s arms and shrugs past him.
“Later, cowboy. We got all weekend.”
Normally, Jared would take that as a promise, something to keep him hard and aching with anticipation, just the vibration of the wave runner between his legs to keep him company. But it doesn’t sound like a promise or a tease.
It’s the same tone Jen uses on the phone when his agent calls and tells him he’s got another supporting role when he knows Jen read for the lead. It’s the same smile Jen uses when his favorite scene, the one he rehearsed for hours in his trailer to get perfect, ends up on the cutting room floor; the same easy shrug he uses when he gets to the lunch tent late after staying over to get a tricky shot and finds there’s nothing left but macaroni salad and diet Coke.
Jared hates him a little, just then, but he lets Jen pay for the jet skis and a whole day’s worth of riding time. He follows like a raft in a current when Jensen climbs on board, wetsuit only zipped up halfway and hanging loose around his waist, and heads out for the far side of the island.
xXx
They ride in silence long enough that Jared’s sure he can actually see pink sunburn blushing between the freckles on Jensen’s back and shoulders. He wonders why he never offered to rub on the sunblock, like he usually does. Come to think of it, Jensen never asked, either.
He’s busy watching water bead up between Jen’s shoulder blades and roll into the down-turned top half of the wetsuit when Jen finally eases off the throttle and whips his wave runner around.
It’s more than a little fucked up that Jared thinks this is finally it, and faces Jen with a little skip in his heartbeat. This is where Jensen blows up, and they fight, and get everything out in the open, and hate each other just long enough to realize anything that hurts that much has to be real.
But Jared’s either been in the business too long or read too many Danielle Steele novels. (K, so he didn’t actually read ‘em, just watched the movies on Lifetime) The Jensen that spins around on his Jet Ski and throws water over Jared like a blast from Shamu’s blowhole isn’t looking for a fight. He’s just a guy screwing around—a boy on his toy. Jared never expected to end up at the bottom of the toy box so quickly.
Before Jared can finish putting the correct melancholic twist on his interpretation of the afternoon, Jensen revs his jet ski past him, this time close enough to spray Jared in the face with his jet plume.
Passive aggressive much?
“You shit!” Jared splutters, choking on sea water and shaking his head while droplets cling to the ends of his hair and eyelashes. “You’re gonna pay for that!”
Jensen laughs, something cold and emotionless, and Jared doesn’t miss the warmth so much as the anger and bitterness he’s sure he deserves. Jen cranks his motor up as Jared takes off after him. He’s got his mind set on being pissed off. None of this feels right. Jensen’s so cavalier about the end of their relationship, like friends is all they ever were, with benefits, and all the other cheesy showbiz clichés that make casual sex, well, casual.
It’s like Jensen never bothered to notice that nothing about Jared is casual. So yeah, Jared wants to be pissed.
Of course, about the fifth time they cavort down the shore, waves on the beach and sun high overhead, Jared tries to ram Jensen’s wave runner only to end up with the plume in his face again, and he can’t help but laugh out loud, kind of a pathetic, defeated bleating like a dying porpoise. He wanted waves. He got ‘em. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Fucking Jensen Ackles.
Jen looks back, sees him laughing, and stops as Jared skips closer. Jared starts to ease off the throttle of his wave runner, when he realizes he still owes Jensen for the saltwater snot burning down the back of his throat. He coasts up to Jen at half-speed and throws a hand up in the air as if to give a high-five, because two can play the passive aggressive game. Jensen responds in kind, and just when they’re close enough to touch, Jared guns his motor and whips his jet ski around. The back end smacks into the side of Jensen’s ski hard enough to send Jensen flying off the other side.
Jared whips around again, grinning broadly as Jensen stands in the chest-deep water and struggles to get back on board with his dangling wetsuit filled with water.
“Ha,” Jared laughs (okay, so it’s more of a cackle) as he clasps his hands together and signs victory. You don’t always get what you want, baby, but if you try sometime…
“Ow,” Jensen hisses with a grimace. He looks down the front of his wetsuit, face stretched downward in a ghoulish scowl. The look of dread on his face is so comical, Jared almost expects him to say he’s got a leech stuck to his balls.
“What’s ‘a matter, Jenny? Little reef rash?”
“No, I think something bit me.”
Jared waits for the punchline, certain Jensen’s pushing his buttons again, but it doesn’t come, Jensen just grimaces and starts rolling the wetsuit farther down his stomach.
“Ooh, yeah, now that you mention it, I think I saw warning flyers up at the beach. Watch out for vicious, man-eating clown fish…” The laughter dies in hi throat as Jensen scoops a handful of water out of his wetsuit and dumps it beside Jared’s jet ski. “Oh, shit.”
The jellyfish is small, less than an inch across, but there’s no mistaking the gelatinous texture and almost luminous sheen.
“Fucking jellyfish, “ Jensen groans.
“Jen, those are poisonous.” Jared’s sure he must look like a white boy made up to play a black man on stage as he feels the blood drain away beneath his tan.
It’s Jensen’s turn to laugh. “Dude, chill. I’ve been stung before, swimming off Galveston island. I’m not allergic or anything. It’s no big deal.”
Jared lets out a shaky sigh and runs his fingers through his hair, well aware that his hands are shaking. God, why is he such a pussy? You’d think he was the one who was stung.
Jensen eases his jet ski up beside Jared and puts a hand on the back of Jay’s neck. They’ve had their fun playing with guns, but now someone’s had their eye shot out, and it’s just not funny anymore. They’re really not kids anymore, even if they wish they were. “You need to lighten up. You’re gonna stroke yourself out one of these days.”
“Yeah…” He laughs nervously, forgetting his anger and confusion under the warmth of the touch. “Rather stroke you…” Without thinking, he leans his head back into Jensen’s touch, almost lets his head loll back for a kiss, but Jensen jerks his hand away awkwardly.
“Look, whattaya say we crash on the beach? Eat the lunch we brought before heading back?”
Way to fuck things up, Padalecki. “Yeah, sounds good.”
xXx
So, lunch on the beach is a bust. Besides the fact that things between them are still strained, it appears this side of the island is deserted for a reason. The beach here sucks, almost not sand at all, just some kind of sharp rocks and trees with vines hanging out of them that look too much like snakes to make good shade for eating under.
They wolf down sandwiches, sitting on a flat rock, and Jared watches Jensen eat hunched over his sandwich like he’s reading emails off his phone. It’s like they’re back on set, all eyes on them and paparazzi in the bushes, pretending they’re not going back to Jensen’s trailer before the next take to put some suspicious stains on Sam and Dean’s clothes.
Of course, Jen’s not reading email off his phone, because they can’t get a signal out here. Jared checked. He chews thoughtfully on his sandwich and cant’ help but notice the way Jensen’s hand keeps absently brushing over the skin of his belly just beneath the top of his wetsuit. Jared’s never been stung by a jellyfish, but he’s been stung by plenty of other things and knows even the harmless ones can hurt like a bitch.
Jared pulls the emergency first aid kid out of their pack and hands Jensen a couple Benadryl, along with a bottle of water. Jensen cocks an eye at him and keeps chewing his sandwich.
“It’s Benadryl. This one time, Sadie got into a nest of scorpions in the shed back home, and the vet said a couple of these would help in case she had a reaction to the venom. Might work for jellyfish, too.”
Jensen’s not impressed. “Already told you. ‘m not allergic.”
“C’mon. Can’t hurt.”
Something flashes across Jen’s face that could be pain, surprise, or both, a subtle open tension like light under a locked door.
“A little late for that, don’t’cha think?”
Jared knows Jensen regrets saying it the second the words are out of his mouth, because he laughs nervously and stands up.
Jensen doesn’t stay long enough for Jared to say he’s sorry, say he’s wrong; doesn’t stay long enough to fight about it, throw punches, or do anything other than what Jensen always does when things get tough—walk away.
Goddammit! Jared wonders if Jensen’s ever fought for anything in his life. He wants to fucking kill whoever it was that gave Jen this freaking ‘turn the other cheek’ complex. Just once can’t Jensen say they’re worth fighting for? Jared’s fucking tired of fighting by himself. He keeps doing stupid shit that he regrets afterward and has no one else to blame it on. Not that he wants to blame Jensen, but at least, if they’d fucked this up together, he’d be justified in grabbing Jen, and shaking him, and making him stay.
And shit, there it is. He wants Jensen. He wants Jensen to stay, and it hits him that the fucking glint off the ring in the jeweler’s window reminded him of the gleam of light off Jensen’s lips when they’re swollen and kissed raw. And well, Jared’s twenty-four. He fucked up. Besides passive aggression and being obviously slow on the uptake, he can add projection to his list of psychological shortcomings.
But he’s not a quitter, and he’s man enough, honorable enough, to admit when he’s done wrong. Well, he’d admit it, if Jensen wasn’t still busy walking away.
Jensen’s already on his wave runner and gunning the throttle as Jared hurries to shove the last of their stuff into the bag, including the Benadryl the stubborn ass never did take. By the time Jared gets back to his jet ski, Jensen’s out of sight.
So, this is without a doubt, the stupidest thing Jared’s ever done, and he might hate Jensen’s defeatist attitude, but he fucking loves Jensen Ackles, and whatever the hell it was that made Jared buy that fucking ring, he’s going to fix it.
Of course, Jensen’s got a head start on him, and since their jet skis are the same make, and Jared’s heavier and lugging all their gear, he resigns himself to being a few jumps behind all the way home. All that time to himself to reconsider what an ass he’s been and what he needs to say to fix it is probably what he needs anyway.
Five minutes into the ride back, Jared’s halfway through some colorful internal monologue about how unfair it is to issue personal ultimatums and expect other people to share in the consequences when he realizes the Jensen blip on the horizon is closer than it was.
He almost slows down, because, fuck, he really hasn’t decided what to say yet, but even in the amount of time it takes him to consider, he draws closer still. Jensen’s barely creeping forward at all, and Jared doesn’t know why that scares more than encourages him.
He turns the throttle as far as it will go, blood suddenly rushing in his ears more loudly than the water spraying around him. By the time he reaches Jensen, the second jet ski is floating derelict in the surf, bobbing in a herky-jerky fashion, with Jensen slouching forward, panting down at the floorboard.
“Jen!”
Jared speeds up beside Jensen and cuts his motor. The slow, half-lidded roll of Jen’s eyes is the only acknowledgement Jared gets, and he knows instinctively that moisture beading at Jensen’s hairline and clinging in his eyelashes is not seawater.
“Hurts,” Jen whispers. He’s got one arm wrapped around his abdomen, the other white-knuckled on the throttle, and Jared knows he should never have let Jensen downplay that jellyfish sting.
Jared tries to reach across the space between the jet skis, but Jensen’s is pushed away by the wave his own makes in the water, and the further he reaches, the farther apart they drift.
“Shit, Jen. Hang on. I gotcha.” Jared reaches into the side compartment and pulls out the hank of rope they’d used to lash the skis to the rocks while they ate. His fingers shake as he fumbles for the knot. By the time he’s got a decent loop formed, Jensen’s even farther away. Rather than move to a better position, he does his best Roy Rogers impression and tosses the rope. It lands over the handles of Jen’s jet ski, reels them closer together until Jared can easily reach between the two water craft and tie them together.
“What? No cracks about gay cowboys with bondage kinks?” His voice shakes as he finishes the knot. Jensen’s so damned quiet, and he hasn’t moved more than the slow, dreamy droop of his eyelids on an ever-descending trajectory.
That changes the second Jared puts a hand on Jensen’s clammy back. He barely has time to register the unnatural knotting and twitching of Jen’s muscles under his hand before Jensen jerks like he’s been hit by a cattle prod and slides off the other side.
Only the fact that Jared’s lashed Jensen’s hand in the rope between the Jet Skis keeps Jen from ending up face-first in the water. As it is, his head lolls close enough to the surface that the backwash off the hull of his jet ski laps at his lips.
The blood racing through Jared’s veins turns to ice at the way Jensen just dangles, half in the water and half tied to the jet ski like a wind sock on a calm day. He knows water has to be tickling at Jen’s nostrils, and yet, Jen doesn’t’ even make an effort to turn his head.
Fuck that!
Jared puts a foot on the runner of Jensen’s ski and makes an awkward leap between the two unevenly bobbing water craft. He hooks his ankle as best he can around the edge of the footboard, one hand in the rope at Jensen’s wrist, and leans over. His fingers slide over slick, heated skin on Jen’s stomach and Jared heaves Jensen back against his own chest.
Jensen’s entire body convulses at the same instant Jared realizes it’s not sea water dribbling over Jen’s lips. He catches Jen’s chin in one of his over-sized hands and tips him forward as the chicken sandwich comes up. Jensen’s entire body continues to heave until the Denver omelet from breakfast makes an appearance as well.
Jen shakes like a junkie jonesing for a fix, and he’s slick enough with sick sweat that Jared almost loses his grip. He scrabbles to hold on, ignoring the way Jensen’s muscles writhe under his contact like every touch is torture.
“I’m sorry. God, so sorry,” he huffs into the back of Jen’s neck. He’s not sure what he’s sorry for at the moment, sorry for touching him, for holding too tightly, for pushing him away, or refusing to let go. He doesn’t know, he’s just sorry, and it’s the most sure and sincere he’s felt since looked in that jeweler’s goddamned window.
When it’s over, Jensen sags heavy in Jared’s arms. Jared pulls him closer against his chest, fights to keep them both semi-upright as he finishes working the tangled wrist from the rope.
Jensen’s head lolls against Jared’s shoulder, his mouth open, and there’s just enough Jensen still in those eyes for Jared to know how scared he is, how desperate. Jared knows desperate, kinda how they got here in the first place.
Jared pauses in his fight with the ropes long enough to wipe the tears of exertion out of Jen’s eyes with the pad of his thumb. No one’s sinking to the bottom, not while Jared’s padding away at the surface and reaching the fuck out instead of waiting for someone else to reach first. Smiling weakly, he presses Jensen’s mouth shut with a finger under the chin. “Man, you’re gonna have to do something way kinkier with your mouth before I’ll put up with that breath.”
He’s not entirely sure that Jensen understands what he’s saying. Those fucking expressive Jensen Ackles eyes just roll around in their sockets like the bubbles in a carpenter’s level, but they seem to keep coming back to Jared. If Jensen needs him to be the center of gravity, then Jared can.
His fingers shake and slip on the rope, but once Jensen’s hand is unlashed from the front of the jet ski, Jared finds himself struggling with the entirety of Jensen’s weight. He wraps his arms around Jensen’s waist and catches his breath for a few seconds. The beating of the heart beneath his palms is slow and stodgy, as if Jensen’s brain has to forcefully kick it into giving up some of the oxygen pooling in his lungs.
Jared’s already dangling from the last thread in the last torn stitch of his sanity, and he loses that when Jensen’s eyes slip shut with a slow exhale.
“Jen? Hey, you with me?” He can’t help himself. When Jen doesn’t answer, Jared shakes him, and only part of the movement is voluntary. The rest is fear and anguish rippling down his arms like snakes in a mating ball. But Jensen doesn’t wake up.
“Wake up, god damn you!”
Jared knots his fingers in Jensen’s hair and tips his head back until Jen’s ear crushes against Jared’s teeth. He snarls in his desperation. “Don’t you fucking quit on me. Don’t you dare!”
The hand in Jensen’s hair slips around the side of his face, and the movement of eyelashes against Jared’s palm is barely a movement at all, more of a tickle that could as easily be Jensen as Jared’s own nerves, but Jared feels it. He draws back with a gasp.
“Jen?” There’s no answer, no words or tender kisses exchanged, but a sliver of light glimmers under Jensen’s eyelids and his lips part in a long, slow inhale.
Jared exhales with a shudder of dread. He can’t help but press grateful kisses over each of Jensen’s eyelids and forehead. “That’s it. I’ve got you. Just hang on, okay?”
He takes the half-blink he gets in response to be, “okay,” and springs into action as best he can with Jensen’s dead weight draped over him like an X-ray tech’s lead apron.
His body somehow manages to work of its own accord as Jared’s mind hangs on every faltering heartbeat and shallow puff of breath.
He knows Jensen’s jet ski has the fuller gas tank, since Jared’s been hauling all the gear, and he doesn’t want to waste any more time switching vehicles. Instead, he pulls his phone out of the inside pocket of his wetsuit and checks for a signal. When there’s none, he shoves it in the front of Jensen’s, then reaches across his abandoned jet ski and untangles the end of the rope. As soon as it’s turned loose, the ski catches a current and drifts away.
“Sorry ‘bout that, man. Looks like you just lost your deposit.” Too late, he wonders if he should’ve siphoned the gas out of the other tank to compensate for the extra weight on this one. He just prays there’s enough.
He somehow gets the rope wrapped around Jensen’s chest and lashes the end around his own waist. It’d be easier to drive with both hands free and Jensen snugged up tight against him. Not to mention, he can feel Jensen’s heart beating through the skin pressed against his back and needs that to keep him focused.
He turns the key to restart the wave runner and reaches for the throttle, but there’s something so wrong about the way Jensen’s arms dangle limply down onto the floorboard that Jared can’t stand it. He reaches forward and takes one of Jensen’s clammy hands in each of his. He rubs his thumbs over the palms reverently as he drapes all four hands on the handles.
“Bet you didn’t know ‘bout my bondage kink.” His hands tighten around Jensen’s and the throttle. As he guns the motor, he says, “You hang on, and next time, I’ll let you tie me up.”
It’s probably just the sudden lurch of the jet ski beneath them, but Jared thinks he feels Jensen laugh against his throat. For hope’s sake, he believes it.
He guns the jet ski as far as the throttle will turn, and there’s no doubt in his mind he could turn it farther under freak adrenaline-fueled desperation, but it won’t do either of them any good broken. Once they hit top speed, there’s nothing to judge speed or distance except the passing of the shoreline on their left, and after five minutes of racing along without seeing any glimpse of civilization Jared realizes he has absolutely no idea how far they are from their resort. He’d been so caught up in himself on the way here he hadn’t paid attention to any sort of landmark, hadn’t even bothered to check the trip gage on his odometer.
Wouldn’t do him any good to know how far they’ve gone anyway, since he has no idea how fast they’re going and no way to judge how long it will take them to get where they’re going.
Jensen convulses against his chest, and Jared resists the urge to ease off the throttle and hold him through the tremors. They can’t stop. He’s watched enough Animal Planet to know they’ve already missed the golden hour of first aid treatment and every minute that ticks away could be the difference between acute injury and chronic, prolonged illness. He doesn’t have time to gag when Jensen throws up again, this time down the front of his wetsuit, yellow flecks splattering them both.
Jensen whimpers and pants like a car-struck dog, just enough that Jared knows he hasn’t choked on his own vomit, and Jared keeps his hand twisted tight over the throttle.
“It’s all right. I got you. We’re almost there,” he chants. It’s as much to calm his own nerves as to reassure Jensen, and when Jen’s head lolls back against his shoulder relaxing after the exertion of puking, Jared can’t help but press a kiss into the hair behind his ear before setting his jaw with determination and willing the shore to rush by faster.
Jared feels when Jensen passes out completely. If Jen had been heavy barely conscious, he’s as manageable as scuba gear in a kiddie pool passed out, but Jared doesn’t have time to panic under the added weight, because the ski picks just that second to run out of gas.
“No, nononononono.” He eases off the throttle then back on again, and the jet ski lurches forward for another few yards, then splutters almost to a halt. Repeating this action a half doze times gets them maybe an extra quarter of a mile, and then they’re dead in the water.
“Fuck!” Without pause, Jared starts to fumble with the knots at Jensen’s chest. He looks around and practically sobs when there’s not so much as a boat on the horizon. From this vantage the entire island looks the same, and he can’t tell if they’ve made any progress at all.
“Dude, you stink,” he grimaces as the knots start to come loose. “We’re gonna take a little swim, get you cleaned up. Whattaya say?”
Every second Jared fumbles with the knots, the derelict craft drifts away from shore, and he’s ready to gnaw through the goddamned rope, growling in the back of his throat, when the last tie comes loose. He presses a hand up under Jensen’s jaw and tilts his head up toward the sky, then slides off the jet ski backward into the water.
He gets a good lungful of salt water before he bobs up to the surface again kicking for all he’s worth on his back with Jensen against his chest. It’s exhausting and awkward, and Jared thinks he knows now, why the rain barrel bird sinks. If it was just him out here now, he thinks maybe he’d sink, too, but it’s not just him, and Jensen fucking needs him.
Every muscle in his body is jell-o and every breath rasps in his lungs like sandstorm grit. When he finally feels sand underneath his feet, he wants to just stand still and let his eyes roll back in his head, but he keeps going, wobbling, drunken steps inching them toward shore.
He finally falls to his knees and crabwalks backward in the rocky sand, and when they make it out of the water, he collapses backward, knees bent beneath him in what he’d normally consider an impossible yoga pose. There isn’t an ounce of resistance in any of his muscles, and his chest heaves beneath Jensen’s back.
Without opening his eyes, he reaches down the front of Jensen’s wetsuit to the inner pocket and pulls out his phone. When he flips it open and hits the call button, he’s too exhausted to smile when he gets a signal.
He thinks he sobs a little, when a friendly female voice comes down the line. After that, he doesn’t remember much of anything.
xXx
“Irukandji syndrome,” Jared explains into the phone. “The venom contains a neurotoxin that slows the heartbeat and causes pulmonary edema in some people, and the longer it goes without treatment, the greater the potential for complications.” Ironically, the medical jargon explaining why it is Jensen’s spent two days in the ICU of some Caribbean hospital on supplemental oxygen is easier to explain than what the fuck he and Jensen are doing in the Caribbean for the weekend in the first place.
Jared’s tired. Exhaustion, mild dehydration, and effects of too much saltwater in his lungs earned him an overnight stay in the hospital himself. Sandy’s called three times since. She hung up the first time after Jared told her, first, they were going to be all right, second, they were in the Caribbean for the weekend, and third, no, they hadn’t gotten separate rooms at the hotel. The little snick of the phone breaking connection was more amicable a break up than he deserved. He’d forgotten how easy every thing was with her.
Jared had hung up the next time she called, because he’d deserved to have his head bitten off, deserved every hateful angry thing she’d said to him, because yes, he was a selfish, cheating bastard. He didn’t even bring up the fact that she’d never considered it cheating until she was wearing his ring. Semantics. Life’s too short for semantics. So, he didn’t argue with her, didn’t defend himself, didn’t even consider hanging up, until she forgave him. That was more than he could deal with while Jensen was lying in Intensive care fighting an erratic heartbeat and blood pressure that refused to stabilize. Jared did that. He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, not by Sandy or Jensen.
Jared doesn’t want to hang up on her again. Breaking up over the phone is wrong, even for a selfish, cheating bastard. He can’t bring himself to do it, though twice he’s let his thumb hover over the End button in hopes that hanging up on her again will send the message his lips can’t.
“No. I’m going to Dallas, too. They’re prepping him for the helicopter trip, and my flight leaves in an hour. I’m not leaving him until he’s better.”
A beat passes as he runs his hands through his hair and smooths over the tension creases in his forehead with a grimace. “Yeah…I know we were supposed to tell everyone together, but I can't make the party. Not now. I can’t just leave him. Fuck, Sandy, he almost died.”
He sits back suddenly and glares at the phone like it just spit in his ear. “Is that an ultimatum?”
He clicks the phone shut as the waiting room doors open and the nurse motions for Jared to come back. So much for not breaking up over the phone.
“They’re getting ready to take him up to the roof. He wants to see you.”
Jared should probably feel guilty about hanging up on Sandy. After all, he’s the one who fucked everything up in the first place. But he doesn’t. Sometimes, someone has to push to see where things will go. Jared pushed, and things are different now. He hopes they’re better. That remains to be seen.
Jensen sees him tuck the phone away in his pocket as he enters the treatment room where the staff’s busy unhooking the multitude of monitors, tubes, and wires, reattaching them to smaller, more portable units for the helicopter trip. Jared catches the questioning look on Jensen’s face. Maybe he’s a little thrilled that it looks like jealousy.
Something about almost dying seems to have sparked fire in Jensen Ackles. Either that, or it’s just left him too exhausted and weak to deny what’s always been there. Either way, Jared knows now. He knows Jensen cares enough to fight.
Jared shrugs as he snaps his pocket closed over the phone. “Good news. They found the missing jet skis. You might get your deposit back, after all.”
The way Jensen relaxes under his reassurance convinces Jared the lie is excusable. It’s one thing to know Jensen cares, quite another to give him something to stroke out over while his blood pressure’s still dangerously high and his heart is weak.
The staff leaves them alone for few moments, promising to be back in five minutes to take Jensen up to the roof.
Jared interweaves his fingers with Jensen’s and brushes his thumb over the shiny tops of Jen’s fingernails, marveling at the way they’ve pinked up again, a far shade better than the sickly grey they’d been by the time Jared managed to get him in calling distance of medical assistance.
The last two days worth of worry and fear still weigh heavy in the dark circles under both their eyes, scratches across stubbled chins, but they’re both feeling better today, and Jared refuses to believe that’s just due to the oxygen Jensen’s getting through the cannula.
Jared knows Jensen’s still too weak and exhausted to carry on a real conversation, so he does all the talking, reads the subtle changes in facial expression like words. The crinkles around Jensen’s eyes as Jared runs a hand through his short hair and strokes over his cheek with a thumb clearly say, “Stop being such a pussy, Jay, “ but the press of Jen’s cheek into Jared’s palm says, “Please, don’t stop.”
And Jared doesn’t.
xXx
Jared fidgets in his tux as the rest of the groomsmen file off the balcony of the reception hall. The pictures took almost forty-five minutes to get because fucking Rosenbaum just couldn’t keep a straight face. As if Jared’s wedding day wasn’t stressful enough. He supposes, if jail time wouldn’t put a serious dent in his honeymoon plans, he’d have thrown Mikey off the balcony after about the third lewd hand gesture.
He doesn’t know where his head’s at as he reaches for the slip of paper in his pocket. Tom smacks him on the back as he tries to read the schedule and glance at his watch. He’s got five minutes before the cake cutting, and then, “What the fuck? Garter removal?”
“Hey, Jare, better move your ass. Don’t wanna keep your pretty bride waiting.”
“Fuck you, Welling,” Jared says, still scratching his head over the whole garter thing. “Has anyone seen Jensen?”
xXx
Twenty minutes later, Jensen’s looking down at him with a cocked eyebrow and a twisted smirk that would make Jared afraid…very afraid…if not for the fucking adorable smear of white frosting in his eyelashes and the little daub at the corner of his mouth Jared missed with his tongue.
“C’mon, Padalecki! Let’s get the show on the road!” Chad calls from behind. Jared rolls his eyes and glares over his shoulder. The look he gets in return confirms his suspicions that Chad’s been conspiring with Jensen, and Jared’s so about to be the brunt of some very bad joke.
“Take it off!” Rosenbaum hollers before accidentally knocking over the mike stand.
Jared shakes his head, ducks his chin, and looks up at Jensen sprawled lewdly in the chair above him as Jared kneels at his feet and sighs. Their eyes stay locked as Jared carefully rolls back Jensen’s pant leg, half expecting to find a live snake or something wrapped around his calf.
Seeing the hank of yellowed hemp twisted around the elastic of the sock garter, Jared laughs with a shudder of relief and wastes no time raising Jensen’s leg to his mouth to undo the knot with his teeth.
As Jared tosses the hank of rope over his shoulder into the hands of some other horny bachelor, Jensen leans in for a kiss, drags Jared up to his feet, and whispers in his ear.
“Don’t forget. Next time, I’m tying you up.”
And Jared drags him out of the reception hall without bothering to wait for the receiving line or the limousine.
Who needs rice and champagne when you’ve got Jensen Ackles and a rope?
The End
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Date: 2007-09-15 04:13 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for reading!