ht_murray | The Second Man, NC-17, Jensen/Jared, 2/9

<<--Back to Part One

--Part Two--

Cold.

That's the first thought Jared's brain registers when he opens his eyes. He's freezing his ass off cold, and if his limbs didn't feel so leaden, he'd reach down and see if the stabbing ache in his stomach isn’t a sign his balls have crawled back into his body for warmth. He tries to sit up, but a sharp pain in his side steals his breath, and he flops back down with a splash. His second clear thought is that he's wet, surrounded by wet. Still in the water and just run aground on the edge of a random sandbar, wet. Awesome.

He cranes his neck as far as he dares without upsetting the Gods of pain that have already struck him down and sees that he's in some kind of lake or river. Well, that explains the wet and cold aspect of life right now. After a few minutes of very careful maneuvering, he's able to prop himself up on one elbow and get a better look at his prime section of real estate. Other than the small water bug scuttling away from him, he's alone. There's a rather large piece of driftwood to his right and a hill to his left so steep that he can’t see the top by craning his neck, but he'd be hard pressed to point out any other landmarks. He’s so screwed. He moves again, trying to stand and walk up the sandbar in search of another human being, but his body has other ideas. The pain in his side is back with such force that his mind whites out and he falls into deeper water. The last thing he sees is the piece of drift wood rapidly approaching his head before it all goes black.

--

If he’s serious with himself, which can sometimes be difficult, he would’ve thought being brained by a random log would have been the end of him. Then again, if he could remember back that far, the same could probably be said about his tumble down the hill and his multiple personality disorder involving Leo Di Caprio, nursery rhyme Jack, and now, Humpty Dumpty.

No point in pondering that one now, right?

"Right."

Jared whips his head towards the voice, forgetting that it's going to hurt like a bitch, and tries to figure out A) who's talking to him and B) how said person is reading his thoughts. All he can see is the hunk of driftwood. But the longer he stares at it through one bleary eyeball, the more a face starts to materialize out of the gnarled branch.

Okay, this is not happening. No way it’s possible.

"Hey, don't look at me. You're the one who took the drunken tumble down here into my domain. It's not my fault you're hallucinating. You think I really want to be the physical manifestation of your inner Jiminy Cricket?"

Add Pinocchio to his list of supressed personas.

"Dude, what the hell's with all the big words? And why am I even talking to you? You're not real."

"I'm as real as you want me to be, buddy. Which is, apparently, pretty damn real. And speaking of real things, that was a real shitty thing you did getting that guy fired after you spent the night ogling him like he was a piece of meat. Did you honestly think that's going to help you get in his pants? And by the way, pretty sure he isn't gay either. But hey, what would I know, right? I'm not real."

"Hey, it's not my fault he lost his job. Talk to my parents about that one. Or hell, talk to his kids. Seriously, who brings their kids to work and lets them just run all over the place? I think he was kinda responsible for what happened tonight. Master of his own destiny."

“Unlike yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

“It’s your money your parents throw around like confetti, and you let them ruin that guy’s career because you couldn’t stand up to them.”

“Hey, I am Master of... I am... I control...”

"Really? Then that's not guilt I smell under all that Johnnie Walker Red you drank? Anyone ever tell you that you can lie to everyone around you, but it's damn hard to lie to yourself?"

"Okay, yeah. So I feel a little guilty. Doesn't mean it's all my fault. And there's no way he's completely straight. He's at least thought about what it would be like. I wasn't the only one staring." The waves lapping around him nudge his companion just right and Jared has just enough time to think ‘Not again’ as it knocks him unconscious.

--

The thing Denise loves most about her morning run is the routine of it all. Damian is ready and waiting for her by the front door, leash in his mouth just before sunrise every day. Three miles of running through the entirety of town ending with a cool down stretch on the lakefront where Damian enjoys romping in the shallows and chasing away gulls. She's just let Damian off his leash to get out the last of his energy while she stretches tired calf muscles when she hears a bark thats more of a Get here quick, Ma than a Come play now.

"Damian? Where are you, boy? What's wrong?" His barking is more urgent and she tears up over the dune as fast as her tired body allows, not knowing what to expect. She's not sure what to make of the scene in front of her. Damian is pulling on the pant leg of a guy passed out in the sand. His arms are wrapped around the piece of drift wood so tightly she wonders how long he was adrift before he washed up here.

"Damian, come here, boy." She snaps her fingers, and the dog reluctantly lets go of the pant leg to come sit at her side. He's still whining as she dials 911.

--

Chris drops his hat on the counter right over the spot Jensen's just finished wiping, then shifts on his stool, because he never seems to get his holster adjusted just right. It’s the same thing every morning, except for the part where Chris pulls a pencil out from behind his ear and makes some notes in his field notebook. Jensen'll never get used to seeing Kane in the badge and uniform let alone actually working. He'd have thought Hell would freeze over before Bear Creek, Texas would elect a Sheriff with a ponytail, but then, times, they are a-changing.

“You’re starting bright and early this morning,” Jensen notices. “Carrie make you sleep on the couch last night?”

“Would’ve almost been better,” Chris says around a yawn. “Friggin’ rich yokels called me outta bed...”

“Before or...?”

“During. Can you believe this shit? Talk about your mood wrecker, and Carrie’s ovulating to boot. She’s so pissed, she’s probably on her way to get a frozen popsicle as we speak.”

Jensen grins. “You guys are trying to get pregnant? That’s awesome!” Jensen offers a high-five, clapping Chris’s hand and locking at the second knuckle before sliding free. “You never mentioned that.”

“Trying not to jinx things,” Chris admits, “Haven’t been having much luck.”

Jensen smirks, serving up a cup of steaming coffee. "Three sugars and four creams, you giant pussy.” He snickers. “Hey, I’ve just diagnosed your problem. You’re playing with the wrong equipment.” He threatens to dump the sweetened coffee down the drain. “From now on, you drink it black. It’ll put hair on your chest and weight in your sack.”

"Whatever, I'm not the one in the apron, Jen-NY.” Chris takes a sip while perusing the choice of danishes in the glass cake dish beside his elbow.

“Seriously, though, sorry to hear it’s taking longer than you thought.”

Chris shrugs. “I’m not too worried. We haven’t been trying that long. It’s just... a little ironic.”

“What is?” Jensen wipes his hands in the dishtowel, reaches for the spatula.

“This call,” Chris explains, folding up his notebook and stuffing it back in his pocket, pencil behind his ear. “These people want to report their son missing, which, first of all, they can’t do, because he’s twenty-two years old and only been missing since last night, so they’re not only wrecking my sex life but wasting my time. And on top of that, are they, the people who probably have the most idea where he might be, out there looking for him? Hell, no. They’re getting ready to catch an early flight out. Just wanted to let local law enforcement have their phone number in case he should turn up after they’re gone.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. Some people should not be allowed to breed.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I just did.” Another long sip off his coffee, and Jensen smirks at the way Chris's eyes roll up in his head. He's seriously gotta teach Carrie how to make her man's coffee, because Jensen so does not need to see his best friend's 'O' face every morning. "But enough of the doom and gloom,” he segues, “I hear I almost had to raid your show last night, Ackles. You're flashing the patrons now?” He picks out a custard-filled chocolate long john... as if there was ever really another option. And there’s the ‘O’ face again. Jensen suddenly can’t even remember the last time he got to watch porn.

Fucking pastry has a better sex life than he does.

Turning the waffle maker as a cloud of steam rises off it, Jensen adds, "Just a little wardrobe malfunction, and it wasn't that big of a deal."

"Oh, I know it wasn’t big," Chris says, around a bite of donut. "We played football together, remember? I know."

“Bitch,” he mouths, keeping his voice down as one of his regulars slides up on a stool. Jensen dumps three sausage links and two eggs over easy onto a plate and slides them down the counter. "There ya go, Harry. Order up." The old guy touches a wrinkled hand to his forehead in half-salute, and nods his appreciation. He's been coming in here since before Jensen was born. Jen's cooking's nothing near as good as his mom's or his dad's but Harry's never complained or changed his order in the four years since Jensen’s been running things. Must be going on ninety years old, best Jensen can figure, and cholesterol's likely the only thing holding him together. He's no light eater, either, goes right to work mopping up egg yolk with his wheat toast (real butter, none of that oleo crap).

“Well it wouldn’t have been a big deal if the freakin’ Padaleckis hadn’t been sitting in the front row. Our top supporters finally come to a show, their kid ends up popping a woody over my busted zipper, and the wife ends up with confetti wedged in her cleavage.” He wipes Chris’s fingerprint off the cake cover with a grimace. “It all went downhill from there. Between that and he fiasco that was the wrap party, we’ll be lucky if we ever get funded for another play.”

“Wait, Sherry and Gerald Padalecki?” Chris asks, wiping at a dollop of custard on his shirt front.

“Yeah.”

“And the kid with the hots for you? Jared?”

“I suppose.”

“You didn’t like, try to get back in his parents’ good graces by, I dunno, showing the kid a good time?”

“No!” Jensen’s arm jerks as he scrapes the grease off the grill and into the drip traps on the side. A spray of hot oil pelts the front of his apron and forearms, one finger touching down on the hot grill top. “Dude, why would you even ask that?” He sucks the end of his finger for a second before stuffing it into the bowl of ice he keeps on hand to chill the waffle batter.

Chris shrugs, waggling his eyebrows around another swallow of coffee. “Cuz they’re the ones who got me out of bed this morning. Seems young Jared didn’t come home last night.”

“So, what? Now I’m a suspect in his disappearance?”

“Man, you’re such a drama queen. You can’t be a suspect until a crime’s been committed. And his parents didn’t seem too worried. He apparently runs away all the time. They just wanted to leave him some money for plane fare home whenever he ‘decides to come crawling back,’” he huffs, half-hearted air quotes dangling on limp arms. “I just thought maybe you... you know?”

Jensen spins back to the grill, pretends not to notice that he left the scraper laying on it so it’s hot as pistol when he picks it up. “No. I don’t know.”

“Just saying, you haven’t exactly been playing the field since Danni left.”

“So that makes me queer?” His voice squeaks up a notch on the last syllable, because shit, he said it loud enough to hear in the men’s room. Somehow, it’s more disconcerting that everyone in the place seems more amused than shocked, annoying little smirks over hastily averted glances.

“C’mon, man, Danni was crazy about you. She wouldn’t have broken it off if she thought she had any chance at all.”

“Well, she was also pretty high maintenance, too, as I recall.” Jensen stretches his neck to make eye contact with Grace Atkins as she herds her two boys, Cody and Chase, into a booth by the door. “What’ll it be today, Gracie?” he asks.

“Two pancake breakfasts with milk and fruit, and one coffee,” she shouts back, already helping herself to the full pot on the table.

“Coming right up,” Jensen says. “Nothing to eat for you? Can’t keep up with those rugrats on an empty stomach.”

“Look who’s talking,” she smiles, pushing her headband back to keep the curls out of her coffee cup. “Bet you haven’t eaten yet, either.”

“Sure I have,” he denies, slicing up some apple and banana for the boys’ plates while the pancakes start to bubble. He eats half the banana himself just to make his point.

Chris sniggers into his coffee and pushes it back across the counter for a refill.

“Seriously, how are you Jensen? I don’t know how you keep up,” Grace queries. Cody sneezes and a stringer of snot oozes down his upper lip. She wipes it off with a napkin, keeping one eye on Jensen the whole time.

“It’s not so bad,” Jen deflects, turning the pancakes while talking over his shoulder. “Jeremy’s old enough to watch Jake and Jo after school... when he’s not in detention for fighting, and this place pretty much runs itself into the ground without much help from me. I just show up to gossip with the pretty locals,” he smirks.

“Plus the basketball games, and the PTA, the catering, your acting troupe...” she exasperates. “I don’t know how you find time for anything else.”

“He doesn’t,” Chris snorts. “He’s practically a monk.” Jensen snaps him with the towel before refilling the coffee and pushing the two plates of pancake across the counter.

“And too skinny,” she nods. “You need to take care of yourself, Jen. Those kids’re gonna grow up eventually. You don’t want life to pass you by.”

“A friggin’ men,” Chris says with a smirk.

“I got it under control. And the acting thing’s kinda on hold for awhile, so things should ease up.” He nods to Harry when the old man puts his hand in the air, automatically puts some more toast down. “When are you gonna get back on the horse, Grace? The divorce’s been final for six months now.”

She laughs. “There’s no such thing as a man who meets my standards.”

“What’re those?” Jensen asks.

“Hard-working, not afraid to take chances, smart, good with his hands, AND every other part of his body. Yeah, I’m pretty much looking for a saint. How ‘bout you?”

“Yeah, Jensen,” Chris snarks, “What kind of man are you looking for?” He jumps when his walkie talkie buzzes, cranks on his bluetooth headset. “Go ahead.” He listens, then slides off his stool with a thunk, snatching up his cap. “I’m on my way.” To Jensen, he says, “Put it on my bill, dude. Got a body at the lake.” Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a couple of Tootsie Roll pops and gives them to Cody and Chase. “Not ‘til your mom says, so, okay?” They nod, bobbed haircuts bouncing, and he dons his cap, hits the door with a wave.

Grace turns her attention to the kids, and Jensen cleans up Chris’s place at the counter, already planning the changeover for the lunch crowd in three hours. Yeah, he’s got it all under control.

--

Jeffrey Morgan isn’t at all the type of character Christian was expecting. But he's just spent his morning trying to i.d. a body that wasn’t so much a body as an unconscious half-drowned Adonis type wearing nothing but a zebra striped thong who woke up with the ability to hurl insults (and bedpans) with alarming accuracy but couldn’t spit out his own damned name. At this point, he’d gladly turn the kid over to Mr. Snuffleupagus. He shakes Morgan’s hand in the hospital lobby, eyeing the manila envelope under the guy’s arm, which he assumes carries the necessary papers to establish that the spitting shrew they’ve got back in isolation really is the missing Padalecki kid. “Sheriff Kane, Bear Creek P.D.,” he introduces. “And I have a pretty good idea I’m not the only one who’s relieved as hell to see you.”

“How so?” Morgan asks, keeping the envelope to himself.

Christian shrugs and leads the way through the hospital hallways. Not that the guy would need him to lead. All he’d have to do is follow the shouts of profanity growing steadily louder the farther they walk. “No offense. I’m sure Jared is a decent guy when he’s not... stressed the way he is here, but he’s been quite a handful ever since he woke up. Got quite a mouth on him to boot.”

“That he does.”

“I’m a little surprised his parents didn’t come for him themselves. They seemed a little nonplussed. Is this disappearing act something he pulls often?” Chris keeps his thumbs hooked in his belt and walks with a swagger, as casual as possible, trying not to appear as though he’s prying.

“Afraid so,” Morgan sighs. “Not that I can blame him. His parents are... particular.”

“Ah, but they’re loaded, right?”

“Money only really matters to people who don’t have it,” Morgan deadpans. The dude stops unexpectedly in the hallway. “If you don’t mind my asking, what makes you so certain this John Doe is Mr. Padalecki?”

Christian shrugs. “He fits the description and turned up within twelve hours of your boy going missing. That, and, this is a small town, and he’s definitely not from around these parts.”

“And if it were to turn out he’s not Jared Padalecki?”

“Well, I guess he’d stay here until the doctors feel he’s fit to be released, and if we still haven’t identified him, he’d probably end up at the local safe house until he got himself on his feet.”

“And you have programs to help people... get on their feet?”

“The State does, yes,” Chris dismisses, “but I’m sure this is your boy.”

Another shout echoes down the hallway followed by a clang and rattle. The staff really needs to stop trying to get the guy to use the bedpan. They’re just having a difficult time finding crutches long enough to accommodate his giraffe legs so he can hit the head like a man.

“Maybe,” Morgan shrugs. A louder crash sounds from around the corner. “Maybe not.” He nods toward the sound of the ruckus. “Through here?”

“Yes, sir,” Chris says, showing the way. They round the corner to find an observation lounge of sorts, giant window looking down into a treatment room. “It’s a two-way mirror,” he explains, tapping the glass.

In the room below, the guy they picked up on the lakefront has finally got his crutches, and he’s using them to keep any of the staff from approaching his i.v. pole. “I do not want to be sedated. I want to be released from this... this two-bit torture chamber of ineptitude. Show me the way to the restroom, and have my discharge papers lined up when I return.”

“Sir, we cannot release you until...”

“Until what? I can sign my own name?” The nurse cringes as Mr. Zebra Print Thong wheels around and leers down at her. “Who would you have me be? Tell me what name to sign, and I’ll sign it. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Christian rolls his eyes, catching half a snicker from Mr. Morgan before the guy clams up, straightens, and announces. “That’s not Jared. I’ve never seen that kid before in my life.”

“Wait, what?” Christian wheels on the guy, incredulous. “You’re lyin”

“And why would I do that?”

“I-I don’t know, but you are!”

“Prove it.”

For a second, Chris forgets his professionalism and makes a lunge for the manila envelope Morgan’s been protecting against his rib cage. He ducks and averts the grab, catching Chris by the wrist. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m a trained bodyguard.”

“Yeah... well,” Christ stammers, straightening his shirt so the badge finds the highest point of his pec and thrusts out his chest. “I’m the Sheriff.”

“Which means you need a court order to obtain any official records I might have on me, and you’d better believe, if you are going to accuse me of withholding information and drag me into court or wrap the Padaleckis in legal red tape, you can expect a hefty lawsuit to be litigated against you and maybe the whole town of Bear Creek. Tell me, is identifying that man really worth that much trouble to you?”

Behind them, the room erupts in chaos again as the object of their confrontation attempts to use the crutches to get to the restroom and crashes to the floor, taking out a stainless steel supply cart and then flinging the crutches across the room. Chris has time to think, ‘what a fucking drama queen,’ and ‘I wouldn’t claim him if he were mine, either’ before it all snaps into place in his mind with sudden clarity. He can’t suppress the smirk twisting at the corners of his lips as he steps back and drapes an arm over Morgan’s shoulder. “You’re right. Identifying this prick and getting him back into his plushy, spoiled lifestyle is no concern of mine, but I’m a stubborn, stubborn man when I think I’m right, and I think we both know what we’d find if I legally confiscated that envelope of yours.”

Morgan sags slightly under Chris’s arm, but Christian doesn’t give him the chance to speak. “But I don’t want to make trouble for you anymore than you want to make trouble for me.

“So, it seems we’re at an impasse,” Morgan says.

“Or, I might have an idea on how we can all get what we need out of this situation. You a player?”

Morgan meets him dead-on in the eyes. “I invented the game.”

Chris grins and smacks the guy on the shoulder. “Well, good then. Here’s what we’re gonna do, you and me,” and as he explains his plan, the expression on Morgan’s face spells it out loud and clear --Christian Kane is a fucking genius.

--

"No!" It's as much in response to Aggie, the over-zealous bloodhound jumping up on Jensen as he tries to maneuver the steps, dinner in hand, as it is to Chris on the other end of the phone conversation he's been engaged in on and off all day. After the hundredth 'no,' there's no heat left in it, and he's not sure he's even convincing to himself anymore. What he really needs right then, is the power to reach through the phone and strangle Christian Kane. That, and a dab of Icy/Hot on the left side of his neck to ease the stiffness from cradling the receiver on the right for too long. Chris owes him a fucking bluetooth if he's going to keep calling him at work. Granted, Jensen's always at work, but this is ridiculous.

No is no.

Right?

He barely gets the screen door open without dropping the phone or the leaning tower of styrofoam dinner plates he thought he could carry in one trip. Before the spring recoils and slams doorframe against doorframe behind him, Jo's got him by the leg, face tucked against his hip. "Jennnyyyy! Jake's shooting sunflower seeds at meee!"

Of course.

"Jake!" Jensen shouts, dragging Jo through the living room toward the kitchen like they're in some weird three-legged race, sans gunny sack.

Jake skids past the upstairs landing, catching the banister and letting it whiplash him back around, thuds to his knees at the top of the stairs, head poking through the railing, the picture of innocence... except for the slingshot dangling out of his waistband. "What?"

"Why are you shooting your...?" Jensen closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Yelling. He's yelling. Mom and Dad never yelled. "Why are you shooting Joey with sunflower seeds?"

Jake shrugs, pursing his lips, half pout, half defiance. If he's going to answer, he doesn't get the chance before Chris pipes in again.

"C'mon, man. It's a win-win situation. You need the help over there. He needs a life. Dude wouldn't be running away all the time like his parents said if he was happy."

"I'm not running a bed and breakfast here, dude. I got enough going on..." As if on cue, the tower of plates leans precariously. Jensen tucks his chin tight against the phone and lowers his voice, swaying from hip to hip until the load stabilizes. "I'm not going to mess with this dude's head. And besides, I'm not..." He grunts as the dinner plates tip forward, just managing to pin them between himself and the wall before they fall. He counts to ten under his breath when what he really wants to do is cuss a blue streak. Gotta watch out for little pitchers and their big ears. He exhales slowly until he can hear something other than his own pulse. "And I'm not gay."

"So, you're an actor! Act!"

"I said no!"

"He's got nowhere to go. They just dumped him here, Jensen. And after what he and his folks did to ruin your show, I'd think you'd want to get even. Just think of him as one of the brood."

"I don't need another one in the brood."

"Dude, get your money out of him. Teach him to do laundry, clean floors or some shit. You'll be doing him a favor. He's got no life skills at all."

"I can't even teach my own brothers to do laundry," Jensen huffs. "They unbalanced the load so many times, the washing machine just walked right out the backdoor and took a kamikaze dive off the porch."

Jo squeaks from beside him as Indiana, the ferret, runs down the stairs and up the curtains in the living room, bending over backwards to look out the bay window the way he always does when there's a car coming up the drive.

Oh shit.

"Chris? That's not Aggie I hear barking on your end, is it?"

"Jensen, trust me on this. I got you covered."

"Tell me he's not with you right now."

"Why would I lie to you, man?"

"Fu..." Jensen catches himself, looks down in to Jo's big, green eyes. "...Fudge."

"Jenny swore!" Jo screams, and a second later Jake whoops defiantly and pelts them both with sunflower seeds.

"Bombs away! Bombs away! Squawwwk!" And that's not Jake's voice. Jensen should've known better than to give the kid bird duty. As if any other duty has ever gone well. Oscar, the cockatoo, screams on his flight down the stairs, working hard for his supper. The bird hits the landing at full speed, and Jensen throws his hands in the air on reflex, having had the crazed bird swipe the glasses off his face more times than he cares to remember.

The knock on the door's barely audible over the sound of their dinner, spaghetti and salad with garlic bread, crashing to the floor and Jo screaming into the kitchen, Oscar squawking in pursuit of the seeds caught in the kid's over-sized hoodie. Chris never waits for them to open the door, and when Jensen turns, slow as if searching for the correct frame from which he can rewind this whole fiasco, he's got a handful of loose spaghetti noodles, a few more draped over his shoulder, parmesan cheese down his shirt, and marinara sauce soaking his crotch. He manages to save one scrawny, cracked plate, which creaks and groans in his grasp, and the phone.

He catches the glint in Chris's eye, despite his own being squinted to slits, and the rest of the scene fragments in colored bits, swirling and rearranging into a thousand kaleidoscope patterns in the span of time it takes for Jensen to lose his ever-loving mind. The squawking bird, Jake and his seed slingshot, Jo skidding through the spaghetti sauce, and Jared fucking Padalecki, the reason he's here right now instead of running scenes with his now-defunct theatre troupe. Spoiled rich kid who doesn't appreciate a goddamned thing.

And Jensen's just had enough being Jensen Ackles--Mom, Dad, short order cook, brother, chauffer, coach, disciplinarian, housekeeper, and washing machine repair man. He's ready to try just about anything. And damn the consequences.

He cocks his head, smiles what he hopes is more relieved spouse and less psychotic maniac, puts his hand, phone and all, over his heart. "Jay! Baby! God, I've been going out of my mind! Thank God you're all right. I was worried sick. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you right when we were getting ready to announce our engagement."

“Engagement?” Jensen hopes Jared’s too out of it to notice the kids echoing his question. Fuck Christian for not even giving him a chance to get a story together and clear it with his accomplices. He’d be paying out blackmail money for the rest of his life at this rate.

“Yes!” He lets his hand fall, conjures up some misty eyes. “Tell me...” hard swallow and blink to catch some of those crocodile tears in his eyelashes, “tell me you haven’t forgotten me?” An expectant pause. “Jensen?” he supplies and waits again. “Jen?” Putting a closed fist to his mouth, he averts his eyes. “You said I was the most important person in your world. You... you made me feel so special. I don’t... Oh, god!”

“I don’t believe you,” Jared retorts, his voice as flat as his expression.

Jensen coughs and shrugs. “Fine, then, I’ll just have to woo you all over again.” He crosses the room as quickly as he can, mincing his steps through the spilled sauce, and holds the last plate out, almost a peace offering, which Jared takes, awkwardly juggling his crutches to free his hands. "I saved you dinner." The look on Jared’s face is such a hysterical combination of confusion and defiance, Jensen makes a kissy face and leans in.

Jared twists away, face contorted in disgust. "I don't know who the hell you are, but your breath smells like garlic."

Taken aback, Jensen goes so far as to blow into his hand and take a whiff. "It does n..." His mouth snaps shut before he can give the guy the satisfaction of seeing his feathers ruffled.

Oh. Oooohhh. It is so on.

--

There's no way he lives HERE.

"Well, no, not yet. You were on your way with all your stuff when you had your accident.” This from the dude who’s covered in spaghetti sauce, Chef Boy-R-Dee for lack of anything else coming to mind, who snarks in a way that says he knows Jared didn't mean to say that out loud, but he so did and isn't getting away with it. Jared wonders if he does that a lot, says things out loud that he should probably keep to himself.

"Yeah, tact's never been one of your strong points, babe."

Well, that answers his question. "Tact, babe, is just another word for saying stuff that isn't true."

"Thank you, Cordelia."

"That's Charisma to you, sweetheart," Jared snips, shifting between his crutches with a groan. Great, he can remember the name of the actress who played a supporting character on a cult television show, but not his own. Amnesia sucks.

Taking a look around him, it's obvious he's pretty much come to the end of the road as far as places a guy can walk in here on crutches, and he's half made up his mind to turn around and go back out the door when the cheap material of his hospital issue scrubs chafes under his arms. He's not getting very far in any direction wearing these. He'd honestly rather die, and that's when the full gravity of the situation settles over him. "Wait. ALL my stuff?"

"Loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly, just like the Clampetts," Jensen says with a shrug.

"I drive a truck?"

"Well, you did. Nobody's gonna be driving it now."

"And I have nothing? No money, no i.d., no CLOTHES? This is... this is terrible!" Because seriously, paperwork's just paperwork, but you can't buy his size off the rack. This is a major catastrophe. Jared might faint.

"Whoa, there," the sheriff puts a hand in the center of his back and balances him between his crutches. "You have i.d. Right here." A manila envelope waves in front of his eyes, which really doesn't help the vertigo. "I, um, I pulled your records, got duplicates made." A huffed laugh. "This badge's gotta be good for something."

And really Jared could give a rat's ass about the i.d. at the moment, because he has. No. Clothes. He might be hyperventilating here.

"No ‘might be’ about it," Sheriff Kane hands the envelope off to Jensen and fists the back of Jared's scrubs, jerking him upright to look him eye to eye. For a second, Jared thinks he's about to be slapped.

"You touch me, and I'm suing you for police brutality," Jared rasps, getting his breathing back under control. He looks around again, bitter distaste bubbling in the back of his throat. "I still might just for bringing me here."

"Look," Jensen interferes, "Don't sweat it about having nothing to wear. We've got plenty."

That's no lie. There's a clothesline strung up across the living room, draped with socks and underwear, most of which are either stiffened around the line like rigor mortis or lying on the ground beneath it, because no one bothered to use clothespins. And that's just the clean laundry. A good portion of the floor (at least the portion that's not covered in what must be either toys or trash or both) is covered with clothing of various fabric and wear status. He really hopes that's dirty laundry and not just stuff that fell off the line and got kicked to the corner to wear later. Then there's the t-shirts and jeans apparently functioning as lamp shades.

"Oh, God. I think I'd rather..." He reaches out, ignoring the pain in his armpit from taking the extra weight on the crutch, and grasps the sheriff's shirt in the center of his chest. "Take me back."

"Aww, don't be like that... pooky," Jensen says, and Jared's sure that's sarcasm, but he can't trust his judgment, because somehow his judgment got him engaged to this guy and set on shacking up with him in a hovel. "All we need is love, right?"

"Really? Who fed you that line of crap?" Jared spits.

"You did. Remember? Whenever you couldn't afford to take me out, because let's face it, you're the poster child for starving artist, not that I ever cared. All we had was a flashlight and a couple of wine coolers, and you said it was the next best thing to candlelight and champagne."

His stomach lurches. "Wine coolers?" He's pretty sure he'd rather have spiked Gatorade, but what does he know? He can't even remember his own name.

He repeats himself. "I. Have. Nothing." And then to Sheriff Kane. "Take me back."

The sheriff shakes his head. "I can't do that. You were released into my custody, and I can't take you back unless you prove to be a danger to yourself or others."

"Riiight," Jared sighs. "So, who do I have to threaten to kill? Or is this one of those things where you have to wait until I actually follow through on the threat before you can intervene? Because I don't have a gun or a knife, but I'm pretty sure I could arrange for these crutches to be lethal weapons."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jensen pipes in, shoving Kane farther out of Jared's reach. "There are kids here, so you can drop the whole, homicidal drag queen impersonation for five f..." He glances over his shoulder, "five friggin' minutes." A shrug. "Besides. You don't have nothing." Holding up the cracked and groaning styrofoam plate in his hand, he says, "Still got dinner."

Well, Jared is a little hungry. Or maybe that's just the sinking void of having nowhere else to go. Jared sighs and hangs his head. "What is it?"

"Spaghetti, what else?" As if to clarify, Jensen steps aside and motions to a pile of noodles and sauce on the floor like he's a master chef and that's his idea of presentation. Somehow, Jared thinks he'd prefer a decorative parsley sprig.

He's not hungry anymore. "You're gonna clean that up, right?"

"Huh? Oh sure." Jensen shrugs and cups his hands to his mouth, "Aggie!"

Jared barely registers a swoosh and a thunk behind him, when both feet fly out from beneath him. He hits the floor hard, banging his elbow before he smacks his head. When he opens his eyes, the dog door's still swinging and there's a paw (God, he hopes it's a paw) wedged against his crotch, a long brown tail waving over him.

"Fuck!" he cusses, dropping his head back on the floor hard enough to set the nesting birdies back into motion.

"Jennnyyyy! He swore!"

"Oh, shit." Jared lifts his head and one eyelid. Two sets of shorter legs have cropped up beside Jensen's (hmm, bowlegged, nice) muscular thighs. Glancing up a little further, he sees Jensen clap his hand over the mouth of a little boy in a baseball cap with sandy blond bangs dragging over long, dark eyelashes. Okay, so Jared heard the line about kids in the house, but he hadn't actually paid it any mind until now.

"You have kids?"

"I think it's the other way around, but yeah... I do... er... we do, I guess. We talked about this when you," he shifts over his feet, pulling the kid closer against his chest, indicating they're a package deal, "when you proposed. You said," a sniff. "You saiiiid..." Jensen swallows hard, his eyes bright.

Oh, God. He's not going to start crying again, is he?

Jensen sniffs again. "Me? No. Of course not. It's just... I can't believe you don't remember... We had... our whole lives mapped out."

Jared shuffles up onto his elbows. He can't let the dude cry in front of his kids. "Look, uh, Jensen. It's been a rough couple of days. I'm... I'm sure it will all come back to me. Why don't we just, I dunno, start over?"

Right about then, the dog finishes scarfing up the spaghetti and plops down in Jared's lap, too stuffed to mosey on back outside. "Umph."

"Aggie," Jensen says, tugging on the dog's collar, which isn't easy to find under the giant, floppy ears. "Kids, why don't you take Aggie back outside and then help me get your... uh, Jared, up and situated on the couch."

He takes his hand off the shoulder of the child beside him, and is rewarded with a drawn out, "Whoooooaaaa."

Jared raises his eyebrows.

Jensen chuckles nervously and gives the kid a small shove toward the door. "Been watching too many Blossom reruns. Impressionable at this age."

Jared has no idea what Blossom is or if children are impressionable at that age. "Yeah," a snicker, "I-I guess."

An awkward silence stretches between them as the kids put on the brakes, and the older one rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest. And is that a slingshot poking out of his back pocket? What the heck kind of kids are these?

Jensen sets the spaghetti down on the hall table next to the manilla envelope and coughs into his fist. Jared's ears are still ringing a little, but he could swear there's more to it than just a cough. Could be *cough*don't tell*cough,* but whatever.

Jensen reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. "Oh, look at that. I forgot, today is allowance day."

The freckle-faced older boy smirks and tilts his head. "What allowance, JenNY?" The inflection is pointed enough for Jared to pick up on the fact that people don’t use that particular pet name if they value their lives.

Okay, Jared's just met the rugrats, but he knows a kid that needs to be taken down a few pegs when he sees one. No clue how to do that, though, and it really isn't his problem.

"The, uh, allowance you're owed for being good, helpful kids," Jensen stammers. He hands them each a twenty (hush money, perfect.), then takes them by the shoulders and pushes them together in front of himself. "Jared, this is Joey and Jake. Kids, this is Jared."

"Must be true love," Jake taunts. "You brought him in through the front door instead of sneaking him through the bedroom window." He cocks a hip. "But I bet he couldn't make it up the trellis in that cast, anyway." Turning to Jensen, he says, "Way to go, Jen. Another charity case. Are you really that desperate?"

"Oookay," Jensen dismisses. He puts Jake's hand around the dog's collar. "Jake, take Aggie back outside, and Joey, get some blankets for the couch so Jared can get settled."

"The couch?" Jared scrambles to sit up when the weight of the dog, the giant, drooling dog, is dragged off his crotch. "You're putting me on the couch?"

"Oh, I know." Jensen crouches down beside him, nuzzling close to his neck. "I'm as disappointed as you are that our first night of cohabitation ends up like this, but I didn't think you'd be interested in stirring the old home fires, since you don't even remember me and all." Jared shudders at Jensen's chin scraping under his jaw, breath hot in his ear. "But you know, if you don't mind putting out for a complete stranger, I think the horse whip's all oiled and ready to go... Charger."

Jared's not sure if the noise Jensen makes next is a whinny or the birth of a psychotic break, but stubble or rasping voice, long, gorgeous eyelashes, and full, sensuous lips or not, Jared is not hitting that. At least not tonight.

"No, nononono, I can see what you're saying," he says, sitting up straighter with a jolt. "But the couch?"

"All the other bedrooms are upstairs," Jensen explains. "I figure it'll be easier for you to stay down here, what with your cast and all." He knocks on the cast for good measure.

"Oh... yeah, I guess."

"Dude, don't looks so broken-hearted. Even our lumpy old couch has to be a step up from that egg carton foam mattress pad you had on the floor at your old place."

"My what? On the where?"

"Why do you think you were moving here?" Jensen asks, clasping his hand around Jared's wrist and hoisting him up off the floor. "Your place was a real dump."

Right then, the biggest rat Jared's ever seen (possibly the only rat Jared's ever seen) runs across the floor dragging an empty toilet paper roll. "Sure," he mumbles, balancing on one leg. "My place was a dump." His voice trails off, dying in his throat as a strange numbness works its way through his bones. This is really it. He's going to live here, and there's no other option. Nothing. He wonders if he has a history of panic attacks, because something’s sure starting to squeeze off his airway.

"Calgon, take me away," he mumbles, and then his mind goes someplace warm, and soft, the rest of the evening disappearing in a fog.

As much as he hates the idea of sleeping on the couch, he falls deep into slumber as soon as he hits the cushions.

--

It's impossible to say whether it's the person walking into his broken leg as it hangs over the arm of the couch, or if it's the sudden jolt of hitting the floor that wakes Jared up. He goes from sawing logs to making toothpicks out of what was probably a coffee table faster than he can say Motel Hell. And then he does that, too.

"Watch your language, asshole. There's kids in the house, you know."

Ah, rude awakenings and hypocrisy. Jared’s ready for a do-over. Instead, he opens his eyes and fixes a slitted glare at the one who, in the midst of this carnage, has the audacity to question Jared’s manners.

By 'kids,’ the interloper seems to be implying juvenile delinquents other than himself, but the guy cowering against the wall wielding a splintered table leg still qualifies by Jared's definition, no more than sixteen or seventeen if he’s a day. The shaking hands, panting breath, and wild, darting eyes kinda give him away. He's either a scared kid or a deer in the headlights. Actually, both are equally plausible at this point, but Jared's a little short on headlights. He'll go with scared kid on this one.

"Let me guess," he volunteers. "You live here, and you've never seen me before in your life." The kid shrugs and twists his head in a combination of 'duh' and 'bring it on.' "Yeah, well, join the club." Jared groans, hoisting himself slowly off the floor. "According to my intel, which I'm not buying by the way, my name's Jared. I'm engaged to one Jensen Ackles, and I was on my way to moving in here when I and all my personal effects took a swim in the drink. But I wouldn't know for sure, because, as if that wasn't all unlikely and fucktastic enough, I also have amnesia. So," he throws his arms out to the sides, completely spanning the length of the sofa and lets his head roll back off his shoulders as far as it can before it encounters the inconvenient restriction of his neck. "Help me Obi Wan. You're my only hope." He shrugs. "Or, you know, stab me with that stake you've got there and do us all a huge favor."

The couch depresses beside him. It might be a little intimate for two guys who only just met, or half met, since he still doesn't know the kid's name, but Jared's fully aware he takes up way too much space to ever sit on a couch with someone and not get a little snuggly.

"And here I thought you were just one of Jensen's drinking buddies sleeping one off. Your version's a lot more interesting... and fruity."

"I guess that means you're not going to finish me off?"

The kid drops the table leg onto the rest of the heap that used to be the table.

"Fine, be a sadist. Prolong my suffering." He smacks the couch beside him, (feels like pleather, too stiff for the real thing) "So what should I call you? Hannibal?"

"Jeremy," the kids says, "and I'm sorry for... uh, disturbing you." He falls quiet, injecting more awkward into a silence that couldn't possibly hold any more. "So, um, you did say engaged, right? To Jensen?"

"Apparently." Jared lifts his head, feels a pull against his Adam's apple, and swallows against it. "So that makes me your what? Future Step... father... mother...?"

"I'm sixteen!" the kid rasps, obviously put upon. Sixteen fits that tone perfectly, not that Jared can think of a reason he'd be lying.

"And I'm twenty-two. What difference does that..."

"Jensen's almost twenty-three. If he was my dad... Dude, that's just gross. Didn't he tell you anything?"

"Huh. Maybe he did. A lot kinda got lost between the spaghetti, down dog, and the giant rat. I'm doin' my best." Drumming his fingers on the back of the couch, "So that makes you what? Brothers?"

"I used to think so." Jeremy shakes his head. "Engaged? Really? When did he turn...? When did he have time to...?"

Jared shrugs. "Your Honor, I plead the fifth on the grounds that... what were my grounds again? Oh yeah," he makes a finger gun and points it at his head, "Amnesia. Best alibi ever."

"Well, you're not the only one."

"What? He forgot your allowance, too?"

"Allowance?" And that's a classic, 'what the fuck' expression if Jared's ever seen one. "No. He forgot to pick me up from basketball practice. And he either forgot to pay the phone bill again or he left it turned off, because I tried calling for two hours before hiking my ass home. Working all the time, my ass!" Jeremy lurches off the couch. "I don't know how all this went down between you and my brother, but do yourself a favor. Get the hell out as soon as you can. You can't rely on Jen for anything."

He stalks off into the kitchen, and there's a flash of light from the open refrigerator door, the sound of bottles sliding on metal racks, then another curse word kids are probably not supposed to hear. A minute later, he appears in the doorway again. "Did he at least remember dinner?"

"I think the dog ate it."

"Great!" He tips an imaginary hat. "Welcome to paradise," he glowers, and before Jared can reply he runs up the stairs and out of sight.

--

When Jared falls off his bed/couch for the second time, there's an air raid siren going off and one very angry cockatoo protesting the noise. Or maybe it is the noise. Hard to tell. Jared cracks his eyes open just far enough to see that it's still dark and safe enough to open them the rest of the way without getting the equivalent of welder's burn on his retinas. That's when he realizes he can't feel his legs. Can't. Feel. His. Legs.

Bucking his hips, he takes a heaving breath and sits straight up, then gets a paw right in the face. "What the...?" A familiar red hound dog seems to have taken up residency on the lower half of Jared's body, made herself right at home. She's lying on her back, all four feet in the air, head draped over his right hip, shoulders digging into his left thigh. Not only does she weigh a ton, but she doesn't seem the least disturbed by his attempts to unseat her. Probably because he's lost all circulation in his legs, and his attempts to move pretty much amount to some grunting and pinging her floppy ears while trying not to touch her with his actual skin. She doesn't seem to have any hair on her stomach, and he doesn't know if that's the result of some kind of canine eczema or ringworm or something else he can catch. He doesn't intend to find out.

Between trying to extricate himself from the bottom of the dogpile and protect himself from the swooping cockatoo (aren't people supposed to clip birds' wings?) he doesn't hear Jensen come down the stairs until he's standing there all sleep-mussed and shirtless in drawstring pajama pants that he hasn't even bothered to tie. There's plenty of treasure trail and both hip bones showing over the waistband, and Jared's pretty sure if he wasn't numb from the belly button down, he'd be tempted to pretend he got his memory back overnight just to see what reunion sex with Jensen Ackles is like.

As it is, he's a little pissed and a lot tired, not to mention stiff and sore. "Will you, uh, puh-lease," oh yeah, the situation totally calls for splitting syllables, "please call off the flea patrol? And the bomb squad?" he adds, ducking another near-miss from the swooping cockatoo.

Jensen stops at the foot of the stairs, pinching the bridge of his nose above the frame of his glasses. Glasses. They're good frames for him, not too big, not too small, really accentuate his cheekbones and those long, long... silent, awkward pause in which Jared tries to remember why he's pissed and not really turned on. The glow of the night light from the kitchen makes Jensen look a lot paler than Jared remembers. The guy sighs so deep it could be a yawn. "For your information, she is a registered champion Bloodhound, and she's highly trained. She was my 4-H project when I was in Junior High. If you want her to move... Aggie," he calls, and the dog jumps up, goes straight to his side and circles around, sits down at his left ankle, "all you have to do is call her by her name." Under his breath, he mumbles something that sounds like, "That works for people, too."

Jared drags himself up, picking up each thigh with his hands and dropping it over the edge to the floor, all the while fending off another attack from the bird. "And this?" he hisses, arm waving.

Jensen shuffles over, too tired to lift his feet off the floor. When Jared tilts his head up to look at him, Jensen slides a hand behind his neck, brushing a thumb over Jared's cheekbone and tilting his chin up toward the ceiling. Jared can't help but gasp as Jensen leans closer, his lips parted just enough to show a glimmer of moist tongue. When Jared's eyes start to cross, he closes them on reflex, feels a little like he's trying to keep his heart from fluttering out the top of his head. Jensen's hand slips through his hair and then disappears along with the one on his neck, abruptly enough that Jared thinks he might get whiplash to go with his concussion and broken leg. He opens his eyes to find Jensen holding a sunflower seed between his fingers like Jared's a monkey and Jensen's got his back in that special monkey way.

"I think he was after this." Jensen holds the seed up in the air, and the bird swoops in and takes it from his hand, disappears up the stairs.

"I guess if you lie with dogs, you're bound to get fleas, " Jared snaps already carding through his hair in search of any other foreign objects. Just the idea of the bird flying willy nilly around the house makes him want to make a hat out of newspaper to wear inside.

"Good morning to you, too," Jensen yawns. "I'm actually kinda surprised you're up."

"I'd have a better chance of sleeping through the bombing of Pearl Harbor than sleeping in this house," Jared grunts, "And I use that term loosely."

"What, sleep?"

"House." He makes a show of brushing off his clothes. "Anything else I should know about besides stray children, dogs, rats, and birds? Maybe there are people under the stairs?"

Jensen shrugs a maybe. "Tell you what, first thing on your to-do list for the day can be to go under the stairs and look. Just don't feed them. They'll never leave if you do."

The sound of the coffee pot running in the kitchen draws Jensen's attention, and he shuffles in that general direction, still looking precariously close to losing his pajama bottoms. Jared's already fumbling his crutches, a task that's twice as difficult when he can't even feel his lower extremities, when he realizes what Jensen just said. "Uh... to-do list? Since when do I to-do anything?"

"Since you decided to move in here with me so we could save up money for the wedding. In fact, it was your idea."

"No fu..." Jared catches himself looking up the stairs and decides to reword that, "No way."

"Sure you did. I said, 'I love you, man, but I got three kids and myself to feed. The vagabond starving artist gig you got going ain't gonna cut it.' And you said you'd work from here and handle all the little things I keep falling behind on, save your rent money and travel expenses..."

"Wait. I'm an artist?"

"Artiste is more your word for it." Jensen picks up a stained cup, with his pinky finger hyper-extended for emphasis on the hoity-toity interpretation, and pours himself some coffee, breathing in the steam for a good five seconds before drinking most of it in one gulp.

Jared cringes, throat working sympathetically. "What..." a swallow, "What kind of artist?"

"Damned if I know," Jensen says, "Everything's always a top secret creation with you."

"So how do you know I'm an artist and not just a con man or something?"

"I don't. But you had to pay your rent somehow, and you're really," he slides closer, enough that Jared's eyes start to cross for the second time that morning (and hello, concussion, cut that out), "really good," a fraction of an inch closer, "with your hands." He must be going for a lewd smirk with his expression there, but it just comes off as a tired squint, too much blinking and too little eyebrow. His cup rattles against the counter a few times before sitting flat when he sets it down.

Jared finds another cup in the dish rack and starts to pour himself some, his stomach suddenly empty now that he's not numb all over. Jensen jerks to attention. "Whoa!" and pushes the coffee maker out of reach. It's a pretty pissy thing to do considering the crutches already reduce Jared's reach by a good six inches.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, man. You don't wanna drink that. It's probably kinda high octane for you. Special recipe. Twice the grounds and half the water. I'm actually surprised it makes it through the filter."

"How do you know I won't like it that way, too?" Jared asks, his jaw tight for some reason he can't quite explain.

"I don't even like it that way," Jensen grimaces, and if his eyes weren't ringed by dark circles the size of softballs, Jared's sure it would be easier to recognize how much of that is sarcasm. "I only do it because nothing else wakes me up in the morning."

Jared doesn't suggest that Jensen might need a Prince Charming to break his endless sleep, not up for that job, himself, at the moment anyway. "I'll drink it like you drink it," he insists. But his assertiveness kinda goes down the tubes when he tries to reach the pot and can't, has to let Jensen pour it for him. He takes one sip and not only spits that down the front of his scrubs top but dumps most of the rest on his pants. Oooh, yeah, not numb anymore. But he's Not. Gonna. Admit. It.

Trying not to scream or at least hiss is a little like trying not to laugh when someone tickles his armpits, but he refuses to flinch. His eyes might be watering to the extent that Jensen looks like a mirage on a desert highway, but he doesn't look away, and Jensen, at least, has the good sense or decency to smirk into his coffee cup instead of in Jared's face. It's a good thing, too, because Jared's not really too steady on his crutches. He's not above accidentally planting one in Jensen's groin.

When Jensen does look away, it's with a grimace, and he stalks past Jared to the refrigerator, yanking a note out from under a Marilyn Monroe magnet. "Shit. I thought Jeremy was staying over at Kyle's last night."

"He seemed pretty pissed," Jared says, using the opportunity to exhale some of the tension in his gut from fighting back the scream.

"Probably walked home in the dark, too. He does that shit all the time just to remind me what a fuck up I am." Jensen pours himself another cup of coffee/toxic sludge, rubbing a hand over the top of his head like he wants to pull his hair out but can't get a grip.

He's not the only one losing his grip.

"I'll have to make it up to him... Fuck." Jensen tosses down the rest of his coffee and starts fumbling through a clothes basket on the kitchen table, grabbing laundry by the fistful and sniffing it, apparently to decide whether it's clean or dirty. "I forgot. I have to go down to the diner early this morning and let the bread guy in. If I miss the delivery, the customers are gonna be eating the special gourmet spinach loaf again. And I highly doubt they'll buy that BS a second time."

"Wait. You're just gonna leave? What about... the kids?"

"The bus comes at ten to seven. They get themselves out the door just fine most days." Jensen pauses in the middle of pulling on clean underwear behind the apron he tugged on before dropping his pajama bottoms. (They fell to the floor while Jensen's hands were still fumbling the apron ties behind his neck, which makes Jared wonder if they were only being held up by means of some freaky isometric butt clenching exercise.)

Jared swallows. "What about me?"

"What about you?"

"Well, I just got out of the hospital. I thought maybe..."

Jensen jumps, still half naked behind the apron when Jake and Joey show up in the kitchen doorway. "Go back to bed," he barks.
"But..." Jake begins.

"I said back to bed."

The kids shrug and shuffle away, and Jensen looks a little surprised like he's not used to having them follow his orders, but he's too busy pulling on clothes to find out what's up with that. He's hopping into his shoes when he looks up at Jared and realizes there's still a question hanging between them.

"I... guess... uh," he stands up abruptly, biting his lip. "Well, uh, you're a big boy. You see something that needs doing, suck it up and do it. Or, you know, hang out on the couch... with the dogs and the fleas." He gets up in Jared's space and pulls another sunflower seed out of his hair. "Knock yourself out."

He walks out, shutting the door hard enough to rattle the glass in the pane, and Jared's left swaying over his crutches.

"Somebody shoot me." When a horse breaks a leg, you shoot it, right? He’s pretty sure if they casted its leg and hid it in a barn this dirty, the ASPCA would seize the animal. What he wouldn’t give for someone to seize him right about now. Well, maybe he doesn’t have anyone to rescue him, but who’s to stop him from just leaving on his own? He can do that. He will do that.

Right after he pees.

TBC

--

Part Three

A/N: I'm glad a few people seem to enjoy this, and I apologize for the confusion. I had in the master post that I'd be unlocking one part per day, but that info didn't make it to the chapter header. I realize it's a waste of time to crosspost every single time I unlock an entry, so I won't be posting to the comms again until after all nine parts are unlocked. (Who knows, I might unlock some early if I get them fixed the way I want them.) This does NOT need that you need to friend this journal to read the entries. It just means you need to pop back in here once a day to see if I've unlocked the next part yet. I'll try to remember to set the date on the post so the most recent one goes to the top.

Also, if you've already friended me since I started posting this, please let me know if that was just to read the locked the entry (which doesn't work, because it's set to Private.) I usually friend people back readily, but I think a few of you were just confused by the locked post. I don't mind if you want to stay, but I don't post fic under flock, usually, so I would never ask people to friend me to read fic. You might find me abrasive, LOL.

I'll crosspost to the comms when all the parts are up and unlocked. If you wanna wait until then to pop back in, that's fine. If not, a new part will still be unlocked every day. You just have to come and find it.