The Second Man, NC-17, Jensen/Jared, 8/9
Jan. 2nd, 2010 10:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ht_murray<<--Back to Part Seven
A/N: Sorry this took a little longer than the rest of the parts to post. Hubby wanted to go visiting. Go figure. It's gonna take me a little longer to get the music posts up on Dreamwidth, so read here or wait for those to go up. It's up to you.
--Part Eight--
Heels lock down behind Jared’s knees, and he tips back in slow motion, windmilling backward for what seems like hours, then stops abruptly, head whiplashing on his neck as Jensen reels him in, fist in Jared’s shirt and legs around his hips. Jensen’s lips barely waver into focus before they’re too close and swim out again, mouths rushing together like waves at the bottom of a cliff, the outbound and inbound colliding in a mist of spray.
Ducking out from under the roof of the truck, Jensen takes Jared’s mouth with all the intensity of a thirsty man lapping dew off leaves he can barely reach. Jared opens, just as thirsty. Fingers grapple, four hands all trying to reach out and draw closer, into hair and across stubbled cheekbones where barely two can fit. Jensen’s hands don’t stand a chance against Jared’s. Instead, he heaves himself forward, knees locking at Jared’s hips for leverage, calves along taut thighs, and threads his arms around Jared’s neck to the shoulders, crossing at the elbows on the other side.
Now supporting both their weight, Jared braces one hand on top of the door frame, feels his arms ripple and bulge with the exertion. Jensen rises so that Jared has to stretch his chin up, mouth panting open, and no matter how he tries to manipulate Jensen down with palm and thumb and needy little gasps, Jensen keeps himself barely within reach, taunts with flicks of his tongue over Jared’s upper lip, in just far enough to tickle the smooth underside. Jared opens wider, letting himself be drawn out and stretched to near breaking with little more than the promise of more.
They heave against each other, barely sharing more than breath and heat, until Jared groans with frustration and slides his free hand around and between Jensen’s shoulder blades, bending him closer as Jared’s fingers trail down his spine. Jared teases Jensen’s shirt hem out of the waistband of his jeans, splays fingers wide over the span of bare skin that’s revealed as Jensen tightens his thighs and rises higher up, his throat at Jared’s chin, lips gasping against his forehead. Jared teases along Jensen’s collar bone with tongue and teeth, hot breath until Jensen’s head tips back, lips still agonizingly out of reach. Something in Jared’s chest pushes out his throat, a gasp or a growl dubbed over a whimper, and he bends forward at the hip, scooping his free arm all the way around Jensen’s waist, both pinning their bodies together and pulling Jensen down until they’re perfectly aligned. Shaking and panting, beads of sweat dripping down his throat and pooling at the collar of his t-shirt, Jared loses himself, thrusting up into the vee of Jensen’s legs. His hips take the contact his mouth is denied, bruises throbbing in his hamstrings where Jensen’s heels dig for purchase, head pressed into Jensen’s shoulder.
“Jare...Jared...J...Oh, God.” Jensen’s voice thrums and vibrates as though his pulse has been rerouted into his vocal chords, and Jared hopes to God it’s not a protest, because he doesn’t think he can stop. The pressure building in his groin has bypassed curious and aroused altogether, gone straight to excruciatingly hard and desperate. Eyes squinted tight against the rising vapor of want and need, it’s impossible to say if the moisture trickling out the corners is tears or sweat or both burning from the outside and inside at the same time. There’s a split second of relief when Jensen tightens around him, arms wrapping around the back of Jared’s head, lips agape against the shell of Jared’s ear, and the friction is just this side of exquisite, both of them finding the rhythm and churning together in sync.
Jared’s close, breath stuttering high in his chest, every muscle in his body vibrating at a high frequency, and his t-shirt’s wringing wet and balling up between them so his stomach’s exposed to the night, the air rising up moist between them.
Jensen’s making the prettiest noises, not enough breath control to form words, just tiny syncopated sighs and moans in counterpoint to his thrusting hips.
And then...
Jensen’s moan cuts off abruptly, not so much a squeak as a yelp as he slips through Jared’s grip, heels catching behind Jared’s knees, and they fall with an unharmonious squawk from the truck’s shocks, through the open door and onto the driver’s seat. Jared’s buckling knees save them from bashing their brains out on the door frame by dropping them down below it just before they tip.
When Jared opens his eyes, his shins are braced against the running board, most of the skin that used to be on them now bunched up around his kneecaps, and Jensen’s arched up off the corner of the seat, his back muscles spasming under Jared’s arm.
The next several seconds pass with more writhing and gasping, this time of a much less pleasant variety, until the pain ebbs and Jared lets his head fall onto Jensen’s stomach until they’re both breathing easier.
Jensen speaks first, his voice more gravelly than usual. “Well, uh, that didn’t exactly work.”
Jared laughs, because it beats crying, if nothing else. “You know that thing I said about there not being a right way to do this?” he asks, mouth still pressed to Jensen’s belly.
“I think so,” Jensen says, sounding muzzy and not entirely convinced of the fact.
“Well, maybe there’s no right way, but I think we just found the wrong way.”
Jensen’s hand finds the back of Jared’s head and threads through his hair for a second before his arms reach down under Jared’s shoulders and brace him enough to get standing again. Then, Jensen braces himself on his elbows and scooches up far enough on the seat to support his hips and meets Jared’s gaze with a quirky if somewhat pained expression. “But it sure was good while it lasted,” he smirks.
Jared snorts, suddenly oblivious to the slow trickle of blood down his shins. That’s going to make a sticky mess inside his cast, for sure, but that’s then, this is now. “Does that mean you’re up for another round?”
“Not yet,” Jensen admits with a sheepish glance down at his abused crotch, “but I will be.” He sits up and slides his feet inside. “first, we need to stop at the drug store.”
“For condoms and lube?” Jared guesses.
“No, you freak, for bandages and antiseptic.” He flicks a sympathetic gaze to Jared’s battered legs. “I’m up for trying new things, but blood play’s not one of them.” He grabs the door by the open window frame and swings it shut. “Besides, I have plenty of condoms and lube.”
“Regular boy scout,” Jared quips, starting his hobble around the front of the truck.
--
Jared waits in the truck for Jensen to come back out of the store. It’s faster not wrestling Jared’s gimp self through the narrow aisles, and Jensen knows where everything is. Doesn’t mean Jared’s not bored within thirty seconds. There’s only so much testing of knobs and buttons a guy with hands the size of Jared’s can do before he inevitably breaks one off and has to re-attach it, hoping it’s not upside down or sideways. There’s almost no traffic to watch even though it’s a Saturday night. It’s too early for the real party-goers to be out, and the family groups are already at their destinations, and well, it’s a small town, so there are hardly any of either to begin with.
Speaking of small towns, Jared sometimes forgets that Jensen grew up here and knows everyone. It’s a little disconcerting to look out the truck window and into the store to see Jensen carrying on a pleasant conversation with the clerk over several rows of shelves. He’s all cocky smiles and waggling brows, deep lines at the corners of his eyes that don’t look like worry for a change. There’s something aloof and confident about him, a security Jared guesses must come from knowing who you are and where you belong, how you fit in. Something Jared really wishes he could relate to himself. His heart thuds in his chest as he realizes, this is Jensen’s world. Every bit of it, and Jared’s a foreign object the likes of King Kong, stomping in and changing the landscape, oblivious to what’s crumbling beneath his feet. What’s he doing here, really?
Jensen finishes his shopping and dumps an armload of purchases on the counter. Despite saying he was going to buy condoms or lube, there’s no mistaking the box the clerk picks up off the counter first or the flirtatious way she twirls her hair and ducks her eyes. Jared can’t hear what she’s saying, no doubt something unprofessional that would never be acceptable anywhere except in a town like this one where there really aren’t many secrets. Hell, for all Jared knows, the clerk is one of Jensen’s classmates, maybe an ex-girlfriend. She probably knows Jensen better than Jared does. Has a history with him that Jared can’t remember.
Jared’s suddenly self conscious, like he really shouldn’t be watching the exchange, like it’s none of his business, be it in a storefront window or not. He feels like a spy, and he’s about to turn away when Jensen looks up and smiles. At Jared.
And it’s the same smile he just gave the clerk, open and confident, a little cocky. Surprised, Jared smiles back, his heart beating faster when Jensen’s expression changes. It’s still a little cocky, just as open, but whatever was there earlier that made him look aloof or happy-go-lucky slides sideways. The look in his eyes is anything but casual. It’s focused and direct, intent, and only for Jared. Jensen breaks the contact after the cashier tries and fails three times to get his attention, and there’s still a hint of promise and anticipation glistening in his eyes when he turns to her, cash in hand. She’s leaning forward more than is really necessary to hand him his bag of purchases when she catches sight of Jared.
Jared doesn’t miss the way her face falls, the way her shoulders sag as her eyes dart from Jensen to Jared a question on her lips that just pulls them into a grimace as her eyes slant down with disapproval. King Kong strikes again.
But Jensen doesn’t notice, exits the store with the same confident swagger he used while he was inside, thumps his palm on the roof of the truck over Jared’s head before walking around to the other side, eyes locked with Jared’s.
“I thought you said you had plenty of... supplies,” Jared says, foisting the box of flavored condoms out of the way in order to reach the Bactine.
“You can never be too prepared,” Jensen shrugs, turning the key. “Plus, Faye puts the moves on me every time I go in there. Usually, I have to make up some lame excuse and let her down easy. Felt good to be able to say I’m taken and not have it be a lie.”
“The look she gave you when she saw me... I think you should’ve just lied to her.”
Jensen’s hand freezes on the gear shifter, and he turns in the seat to face Jared. “I don’t,” he says. “I’m with you, Jared. I want to be with you, and I don’t care who knows it.”
“You really mean that?”
“Dude, if I didn’t have to worry about CPS getting wind of it, I’d take that whole box of condoms, make balloon animals and tie them to the antennae, then drive through town with my horn blowing.” His eyes lock on Jared’s lips, and Jensen starts to tip forward slowly. “That’s how much I mean it.”
Jared doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Jensen lunges across the center console and presses him against the window.
He settles for getting kissed senseless and then returning the favor.
It just seems like the right thing to do.
Then, he puts on his best fucked out expression and waves goodbye to Faye, just because he can, waggles his fingers and eyebrows in unison, stomp, stomp, stomp, rawwwrrr. Half the fun of being King Kong is being able to shake things up.
--
Jared blames his one casted leg for his inability to gain the upper hand as Jensen pounces him on the doorstep and then grapples him across the living room, a veritable Tazmanian Devil of lips, fingernails, and teeth. They topple backwards onto the couch hard enough for Jared’s lungs to clamp shut, breath leaving him with a whoosh. He pants through it, arching upward as Jensen sucks along his throat, hands tight on Jared’s hips so he can’t squirm away, and when he finally regains the capacity to speak, Jared lets his head fall back on the couch, eyes clamped shut, and grunts, “Damn, Jensen. You really are a toppy bastard, aren’t you?”
“Huh?”
“I said, you’re a toppy bastard,” Jared repeats, chest burning, as he rolls his head forward, tongue teasing at Jensen’s ear. Jensen stops what he’s doing, looks up at Jared with his eyelids at half mast, lips swollen and slack like the rest of his jaw where Jared maybe latched his fingers in an effort to pull Jensen in and swallow him whole.
“Takes one to know one.” Jensen winks, sloppy like his face has already rounded the bases a few times.
Now, it’s Jared’s turn to say, “huh,” though his is more of a ‘who’d’ve thunk,’ than a, ‘what the fuck are you talking about, asshole, I’m trying to get laid here.’ Jensen’s right. They’re both toppy bastards. How does that work? He’s about to ask as much, when Jensen backs away, hands sliding down Jared’s thighs and parting them at the knee before squatting on his own haunches between them. He’s still close, like, right there but far enough away that Jared can’t reach without sitting up, so Jared’s sprawled on the couch, arms and legs akimbo like a marionette with it’s strings cut, looking down his chest at Jensen, and it’s a little awkward. He doesn’t know why, but his hand slides down his stomach into the crease of his thigh, and then over the bulge in his pants. It’s not that he’s ashamed. He’s horny, and he’s hot, and he’s pretty sure he looks hot when he’s horny, which can only be good for him, since he really, really wants to get laid tonight. But Jensen’s down there on the floor, and he’s not checking out Jared’s crotch, or Jared’s ripped abs peeking out from under his t-shirt, not even the prominent peaks of nipple bulging out on Jared’s pecs. He’s looking at Jared, looking him right in the eye while he cups a hand around Jared’s calf muscle, massaging gently, and suddenly, all that other stuff... the straining and yearning parts... they’re all just in the way.
“I didn’t mean you had to stop,” Jared says, surprised at how quiet it comes out, like he’s afraid of disturbing something.
Jensen’s just as quiet when he says, “I’m not... just,” he reaches for the bag of supplies on the floor beside him that somehow managed to get in through the front door despite all the groping and clashing, “first things first.”
Jared hasn’t really looked at the scrapes on his shins more than to squirt some Bactine on them in the truck where it was really too dark and too confined to do much else, but he figures they must be pretty messed up when Jensen takes hold of one of the long tail fringes of Jared’s hulaskort pants and gives it a quick pull, effectively removing whatever bit of skin it was attached to and the blood holding the two together. “Ahh!” Jared bites off, writhing up onto his elbows.
“My thoughts exactly,” Jensen sighs, massaging out the knots in Jared’s leg muscle. “If we don’t take care of this now, it’s gonna get all infected and nasty.” He shifts around, obviously uncomfortable with his knees pressed into the hardwood, and palms the can of Bactine, laying out a few gauze pads. “And we can’t have that,” he smirks, “because if I’m getting down on my knees for a guy, I’d sure like to think he’s gonna be able to return the favor someday.”
Jared grunts and throws back his head when Jensen applies the antiseptic and then starts to dab away the dried blood and dirt. “Dick!” he huffs, half chuckle and half curse, fingers clenching into the upholstery.
“I prefer toppy bastard,” Jensen says with a shrug, his attention not shifting from the task at hand. Jared watches as Jensen painstakingly cleans the wound, at least what he can reach above the line of Jared’s cast, one hand constantly massaging and soothing when Jared tenses against the pain. Once it’s clean, Jensen slathers on the antibiotic ointment, slow and precise, his face close enough to tickle the hairs on Jared’s thigh with his steady breaths. By the time Jensen affixes the nonstick bandage with some fluorescent pink Vetwrap, Jared’s fingers are still clenching in the upholstery, but now it’s more to distract himself from the throbbing, pulsing, bulge under his other hand, which doesn’t seem to be subsiding in the least, despite the fact that this is not actually part of the sex. At least, Jared’s pretty sure it isn’t supposed to be. Someone forgot to give his dick the memo.
If he thought it was bad when Jensen tended to his casted leg, Jared’s in for a whole new level of torture when ministrations begin on his other. For one thing, Jensen’s hand has more room to work, massaging and stroking up and down the underside from below his calf all the way up above Jared’s knee. For another, Jared’s foot somehow winds up draped in Jensen’s lap, and every time Jensen’s breath ghosts over Jared’s knee cap, his toes curl involuntarily. Jensen’s motions stay slow and steady, methodical, but his breath’s definitely coming faster and shorter by the time he gets to applying the ointment, and Jared’s toes may be doing a lot more than curling at that point. He can’t help himself. Jensen’s hot and hard beneath the ball of his foot, and if Jared closes his eyes so he can’t be embarrassed by his hand sliding inside his jeans without his express written consent, he can feel the outline of Jensen’s cock inside his jeans, can’t resist stroking and rubbing it the way he would with his fingers if only he could reach, mimicking on himself what he means to do to Jensen.
Sucking in his lower lip while taking quick sips of air through his nose, Jared’s quivering, sweat pooling in the lines of his abs where his t-shirt’s been rucked up by his hand sliding in and out of his pants. He’s sunken down inside of himself like a kid trying to jerk off in his bed while sharing a room with his brother, wound up tight and getting tighter.
Jensen finishes the bandage and presses a kiss over Jared’s kneecap, ducks his head down and starts to scrape his lower teeth along the inside of Jared’s thigh. With a gasp, Jared lets his leg roll open, starts to draw it up and out of the way so he can get Jensen’s head where he really wants it, but Jensen rolls his hips against Jared’s toes, letting him know not to stop what he’s doing. Jared’s hand falters on his dick then slides out, bracing against the couch while Jensen presses his leg farther out to the side, the flat of his hand against the inside of his knee so Jared’s foot turns sideways and into the groove of Jensen’s thigh, the ball of his foot against Jensen’s growing erection. It’s not exactly poetry in motion, and Jared’s lost as to what he’s supposed to do with his foot, but he forgets all about how unpretty the position is when Jensen leans forward, nipping a line up Jared’s thigh between the splayed fringes of his jeans, hands finding and cupping Jared’s ass as he rolls his hips, thrusting against Jared’s foot. Jared stiffens for a second when Jensen’s hands slide under the cutoff legs of jeans, because his hands are a little cold, and the jeans end pretty close to some very sensitive territory. Hey, Jared knows they’re too short. That’s why he left the long fringes. And if he was subconsciously trying to seduce someone, then holy fuck it’s working. But between Jensen’s hands kneading at his ass cheeks and Jensen’s dick grinding against his foot, Jared’s got a lot better stuff on his mind than whether or not this would ever make it into the Kama Sutra.
With his leg pinned down, Jared can’t sit up and drag Jensen back on top of him the way he wants. Instead, he arches and wriggles around, every touch of Jensen’s lips against his thigh like a pin prick to his sensitized skin. He’s hyper aware that his pants are too tight, and Jensen’s hands don’t have enough room to touch where Jared needs to be touched, and his fingers are too big and clumsy with excitement to get the zipper down all the way without ripping out some of the teeth. When the waistband finally yawns open and Jensen’s hands slide up higher, thumbs at the jut of Jared’s hipbones, Jared squeaks, his whole body jolting.
Jensen’s hands go lax for a second, his lips stilling, forehead dropping onto Jared’s thigh, and when Jared peeks down at him, he seems to be trying to catch his breath, his back hunched up, thighs pressed tightly together.
“Ohh, oh, Jensen, I’m sorry. My foot... I should’ve... I guess I’m...”
“A ticklish spaz,” Jensen finishes, head lolling off Jared’s thigh. “It’s all right. I probably had that coming.”
“Nooo, I shouldn’t have let myself get carried away like that. Could’ve paid better attention. I’m so sorry.” And if things were awkward before, they reach a whole other level when one finds himself sprawled on the couch with his junk on display, and his boyfriend collapsed against his thigh because one has just kicked him in the nuts whilst said boyfriend’s hands are pretty much handcuffed to one’s hips by the very tight designer original gaucho/jean/skorts one is only half wearing. “Uh, here, let me.” Jared shimmies so his waistband slides down far enough for Jensen to free his hands, then takes Jensen by the elbows and hauls him up across his chest, whispering, “I’m sorry. Such a clutz. Feel so stupid. Would never hurt you,” into the top of Jensen’s head until Jensen starts to chuckle and sits up.
“Dude, do you think we’re ever gonna get this right?”
“What?” Jared lifts his hips and jerks his pants back up but doesn’t bother buttoning them or doing up the zipper, then turns sideways to face Jensen. “Sure we will. We just haven’t exactly set ourselves up for success so far.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I’m thinking two guys our size, one of us a gimp, and one of us not really supposed to be exerting himself,” Jared pauses while Jensen rolls his eyes, “we should probably not be trying to get all hot and heavy in small spaces. Something’s gonna get broken for sure, and that’s only assuming you want this half as much as I do.” He ducks his gaze, suddenly self-conscious, which makes no sense at all. Jensen catches him by the chin before he can get too worked up and kisses him slow and deep until Jared thinks maybe his eyes are going to roll back in his head and stay there. Then, they slide apart, and Jensen’s hand falls on Jared’s thigh, fingers stroking up and down.
“Can you hear me now?” Jensen teases.
“I don’t know. Were you implying that you want this as much as I do?”
“I think I was.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s possible. I want it kind of a lot.” Jared’s surprised how his breath catches in his throat, the last bit of his sentence choked off. His hand slides atop of Jensen’s, presses it flat and guides it higher, into the crease of his thigh where he can feel his own pulse jackhammering away inside his pants.
Then he waits. Seems like forever. And the longer they sit like this, just in the moment, waiting to see what the next one brings, the more self-conscious Jared gets, the further his eyes duck to the side until he’s practically looking over his shoulder. Suddenly, shame cracks over his head, all slimy and runny and squelching. He must look like a giant slut. When’s he gonna learn that neediness is not becoming. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He loosens his grip on Jensen’s hand, starts to draw his away.
Jensen’s arm darts up, snags Jared’s elbow. “You’re not just gonna leave me hangin’, are you?”
Stuttering, “I thought...”
“I know you did,” Jensen smirks. “Try thinking with your other head, just this once. I won’t hold it against you.” And then he draws Jared’s hand down into his own lap, blatant mimicry without any of the coy pretense. “Unless you want me to.”
Jared gasps to find Jensen still more than half hard, despite the unfortunately placed kick. “Oh, I want you to.”
“Then, let’s go. Last one to get naked makes breakfast in the morning.” Jensen turns his hand, threads his fingers through Jared’s and stands, stepping up onto the couch long enough to haul Jared to his feet, and then steps over the back, leading Jared around the side and to the landing of the stairs. “Ready, set...”
Jared almost lets himself get swept away again, but remembers the bag of supplies. “Wait!” He breaks Jensen’s grip and hops back around to the couch, snags the necessities, and hops back over, nearly knocking Jensen over.
“Go!”
“Cheater!”
From there, it’s a foot race to get to the bedroom fastest, and Jared’s not really too disappointed that he loses when he crashes through the door just in time to see Jensen shucking off his shirt.
Jensen waggles his eyebrows, twisting the shirt in front of him before dropping it to the floor. “Third time’s a charm, right?”
Honestly, Jared’s lost count, but that look in Jensen’s eyes could charm the pants off anything, and Jared’s not getting caught up on technicalities. But he is hung up on Jensen’s chocolate chip pancakes. Between the plastic bag, dangling from his wrist and twining round and round from the wild ride up the stairs, and his designer original jeans which tend to hang up on his cast when he takes them off, there’s only one way he can win this race. Bait and switch.
Shoulders curling forward like he’s just taken a punch to the gut, Jared whistles low and appraisingly. “God, Jensen, you look...” He stalks forward, dropping the drugstore bag onto the floor, and slides his feet between Jensen’s, presses him back against the dresser until he sits down on top hard enough to rattle the mirror against the wall behind it. “... good enough to eat.”
“Mmm, promise?” Jensen asks.
One hand tight on Jensen’s waist, Jared reaches over his head and as far down his back as he can, slides his t-shirt off until his chest’s bare and the parts of his hair not charged with static and reaching for the ceiling flop over his eyes. He uses the mane to his advantage, growls his best predatory rrawr and shakes it off his forehead. “I promise.” He’s pretty sure Jensen’s pulse is twice as fast as it was just a second ago when Jared leans in and kisses him, nipping at plush lips like a ravenous animal until Jensen opens for him, a gasp and a whimper on the exhale, moan on the in. Jared drinks in the slick of their tongues, bends Jensen’s neck back against the mirror and holds him there, one thumb tight against his Adam’s apple. It’s a struggle not to just sink into it, let his own knees go wobbly and slack, but he’s got a plan, and that plan involves getting naked. One hand to keep Jensen open and defenseless, the other to unsnap and unzip, Jared steps out of his jeans with one leg before releasing his hold on Jensen’s throat. He breaks the kiss with a nip to each corner of Jensen’s slack, swollen mouth, waits for Jensen to whimper again and open his eyes, before he stands up with a smirk. “I win.”
“Huh?” Jensen’s slow to comprehend, tongue pillowing up behind his teeth before his lips smack together, eyes narrowing into focus.
“I win,” Jared reiterates. Two hops backward, and his casted leg comes loose of the tangled clothing. He flops backward onto the bed, arms folded behind his head. “You owe me breakfast.”
As if the dresser’s electrified beneath him, Jensen jolts to his feet and starts tearing at his belt buckle.
“Whoa, cowboy,” Jared says. “It’s too late for that.”
Jensen’s hands stutter to a halt, belt buckle dangling over his zipper. “So, what? You want me to cook it now?”
“No, but maybe I would like an appetizer to go with the entree, if you know what I mean.” Jared can’t help if his nostrils flare or his mouth starts to water so profusely he has to bite his lip and tilt his head back. Jensen’s like a mirage looming on a faraway mountaintop as Jared gazes at him over the heaving expanse of his own naked body. God, Jensen’s gorgeous, sunburn faded to a fresh smattering of freckles over a slight tan, sweat glistening between his pecs, stomach trembling from the incidental touch of his own fingers as he unfastens the snap of his jeans.
Jensen’s never been too slow on the uptake, cocks one hip with a swaggering adjustment, thumbs hooking in his belt loops. “Lemme catch yer meanin’ here, pardner,” he drawls. “If I’m readin’ the gist of things proper, I think what yer sayin’ is, it’s all in the presentation.”
Jared swallows and nods, probably more exuberantly than is sexy. Stoicism has never been his strong point.
“Well, then,” Jensen winks and pulls down on the brim of an imaginary cowboy hat, chin tipped downward with a quirk to his lip like he’s twirling a blade of straw between his teeth.
Jared’s breath comes in short gasps, his stomach hollowing out below his heaving ribcage as Jensen works his zipper down, one metal tooth at a time. He’s determined not to touch himself this time, to keep his hands locked behind his head, casual and nonchalant on the surface, roiling and desperate below. It’s not easy. Jensen’s just too good at this, too fucking hot, and Jared’s been waiting so long. He stifles a groan and shuts his eyes, pushing back the urge to leap up and drag Jensen down on top of him, grind their dicks together until they’re both sticky and sated just so he can start it all over again from the beginning, slow and perfect.
“Whatsa matter, pardner? Am I too much for ya?”
Jared opens his eyes, a comeback tickling on his tongue, then stops-- stops breathing, stops thinking, stops... forgetting. It’s just that sudden. One second, it’s Jensen standing there, doing his best to seduce Jared, and Jared’s waiting for the man he’s going to marry and raise a family with. The next, it’s Curly, that cowboy from the play, dancing around the stage with no clue that his fly is open, singing about Oklahoma and surreys with a fringe on the top. And Jared’s... Jared Padalecki, son of Sherri and Gerald Padalecki, heir to the Padalecki fortune, the guy Jensen insulted at the dinner table in front of his parents and who Jensen probably hates, has always hated. And the worst part of it isn’t knowing he’s been played, used, and lied to, made to believe there was actually something in this life that would make him happy, a place he could run to and actually belong. The worst part is feeling like he deserves to have it all yanked away from him. It’s knowing that Jared hates Jared, too.
He curls in on himself, body convulsing around a surge of bile, and he lurches for the door, barely makes it to the bathroom before the new Jared climbs out of the old one, repulsed and ashamed, splatters against the porcelain in a long, torrid gush. He heaves until his body’s empty, then heaves some more like a murderer who keeps stabbing his victim long after it’s dead, finally falls forward, head pillowed on his arms while he catches his breath.
He’s vaguely aware of Jensen’s hands on his shoulder through the process, fingers soothing at clenching muscles, water running in the sink, a plastic cup pressed against Jared’s cheek.
“Here,” Jensen offers. “Rinse and spit. You’ll feel better.”
Jared takes it, rinses far longer than necessary, knows when he spits he won’t feel any better. He spits, throws the cup, and strains to his feet, shrugs off Jensen’s hands without turning to face him.
“Jared? Jared, what’s the matter?” Jared wishes he didn’t care that Jensen’s voice is tinged with panic and cracking, that his hands on Jared’s shoulders tense into claws and hold too tight before Jared breaks his grip. “Talk to me.”
Jared can’t. He doesn’t know what he’d say, whether he’d throw punches instead, or collapse and grovel, beg for Jensen to forgive him for being such an ass if he’ll just say Jared can stay, say it’s not all a lie and they can just pretend it’s real. Worst part is, Jared’s sure he could pretend this is real. Just as sure as he that he can’t pretend he doesn’t remember.
He finds his phone in his discarded pants, tries not to remember how tickled he was when Jensen bought it for him or all the hours they spent talking to each other in their own language -- Can you hear me now? He’s still naked when he dials the number, sitting on the end of the bed Jensen gave to him, naked and curled over his thighs, knees bouncing up and down while the phone rings and rings, half sure he’s remembered the number wrong, and half sure he wishes it’s wrong. But the voice that answers is familiar, brings with it another sledge hammer blow of memories downloading into his brain. “Jeffrey?” he asks, voice cracking. “It’s me, Jared. I’m ready to come home. Come and get me. I’m at...” The crack in his voice broadens into a fissure too broad for anything as intricate as words to form from it, and he doesn’t know how to classify the long, broken sob that rumbles out instead. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, rocking and willing himself to have some clue about where he is and how he got here and where he belongs, face cold and wet, lips salty, nose dripping. But he doesn’t fight when Jensen takes the phone from his hand.
“Hello? Um, look, you don’t know me. My name’s Jensen. Jensen Ackles.” Jensen’s voice is almost as wrecked as Jared’s, his breathing uneven and choppy through the brief silence that follows. “Do you have GPS?” Another brief silence. “Good, then. I’ll just give you the address. You can come pick him up.”
Jared stops listening while Jensen gives Jeffrey the address, only barely registers that Jeffrey will be there in a couple of hours, tries to respond when Jensen says he’s sorry. But when he finally stops shaking enough to sit up, Jensen’s gone, the door closed behind him. He spends the next two hours curled in a ball on the bed.
He doesn’t have anything to pack. He’s already leaving with more baggage than he had when he came.
--
Three hours after Jared gets his memory back, he leaves in a stretch limousine too big to turn around in the yard, and Jensen can see the exact moment Jared realizes his driver was the man in the diner that afternoon, the guy in the corner booth having the secret rendezvous with Chris. There’s a fleeting moment when Jensen thinks, just maybe, if the choice is between Jensen, who lied to Jared when they barely knew each other, and Jared’s valet who, it seems, lied to Jared from within his inner circle and then abandoned him with strangers, Jensen might win by default as the lesser of two evils. But Jared slides into the car, safe behind the plexiglass, and leaves.
One hour after Jared drives away, Jensen closes the door to Jared’s room. This time he locks it.
Nine hours after Jared gets his memory back, Jensen’s finally finished that song he started writing from Danneel’s Dear John letter and is stuck on the first verse of another that snuck up on him from under the porch where he’s been perched all night. He’s had a lot of free time to pick and sing over the last few weeks he’s been home, but his fingers ache, and his callouses burn like they’d blister if they could. He keeps strumming over the last line, waiting for inspiration to strike, or the world to end, whichever comes first.
“All I see, it could never make me happy...”
On repeat number one hundred or so, he looks out over the yard, at the hint of frost lacing the edges of the grass, thinks how much prettier it would look with a full moon overhead. But it’s a new moon tonight, empty sky, empty house, empty yard, empty bed. If all he sees can never make him happy, it’s most likely due to the void of all the things he can’t see. The light’s swallowed up like it’s of no more substance than motes of dust... or sand. Another line eeks itself out.
“All my sand castles spend their time collapsing.”
And that’s where he’s stuck for the next three hours when the kids come home in Misha’s van just minutes ahead of the delivery truck that’s bringing the new washer and dryer Jensen got Misha to throw in on the deal for the diner. The kids picked them out, and they’re so excited to show Jared.
“They’re front-loaders,” Jake boasts. “So you can actually see what’s happening inside.” Somehow Jensen just knows he’s planning on putting everything other than laundry in there, just to see it go round and round, and Jensen, of course, will be there to put an end to his fun, ever the parent, the responsible one.
“And it they look like spaceships when they’re on,” Joey squeals. She climbs into Jensen’s lap by ducking under his guitar and throwing her arms over his neck. Her hair’s french braided on the sides with little bows on the ends. He suspects Grace or one of the older girls from the youth group are to thank for that. Jared never got around to learning the french braid.
“Misha even got them to put big red bows on them,” Jeremy smirks. He saunters up with his thumbs in his pockets, rolls his eyes for show. “Figured that would make Jared’s day.”
“I know he’s probably exhausted and all,” Misha says with waggling brows, “but why don’t you wake him up so we can all see the look on his face when they unload the truck?”
“Jared’s gone back home.”
Twelve and a half hours after Jensen’s sand castle collapses, he kicks down every other castle on the beach. He’s used to being the bad guy by now.
It’s not easy for the delivery guys to get the new appliances unloaded with all the crying and wailing, throwing of clothes and shoes, but they manage once all the upstairs doors have slammed shut, shrouding the house in silence.
It’s lucky the lock-in kept the kids awake for most of the night so they can at least cry themselves to sleep through the worst of it. Jensen’s still sitting on the porch two hours after Misha lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes by way of goodbye-- fifteen hours after the tidal wave Amnesia crested and stormed his beach. Part of him wishes he could be swept away with the rest of the debris, out to sea, but everything that matters is still in that old house, and whether he’s wanted there or not, he’s not going anywhere. He can’t.
“Let me know that you hear me. Let me know your touch. Let me know that you love me. And let that be enough.”
--
A week after Jared gets his memory back, Christian Kane has the audacity to show up on his Jensen’s doorstep and confess that he and, Jeffrey, the valet, came up with the whole scheme. Jensen doesn’t know why Kane feels the need to tell him that. Jensen’s already figured it out, by then, and it doesn’t alleviate any of his own guilt for not telling Jared the truth when he had the chance. He also doesn’t know why he punches Chris in the nose and tells him never to speak to Jensen or his family ever again.
It’s a small town, so that’s a weighty demand. Jensen would give Chris credit for pulling it off, but they’re not talking anymore.
--
Three weeks after Jared gets his memory back, the money from the diner hits the bank account. Spending it’s a good distraction for awhile, but filling the house with new furniture doesn’t make it feel less empty, and planting that vegetable garden in the yard doesn’t do much to quell the hunger that’s eating him up from the inside.
He starts writing the script as a joke. Love’s a joke, and laughing at himself is a lot more fun than all the not crying he’s been doing. It’s something in the void. He doesn’t for a minute believe it’s any good, but he’s got all this money now, and his friendly neighborhood CPA who’s telling him a whole lot of it’s going to be owed the tax man unless he comes up with an investment. Even a failed endeavor can be written off.
Jensen’s not sure why he picks up the phone. Maybe it’s because he feels he owes his people some work after their last project fell through. Maybe it’s because he wants to torture himself watching his love life waltzed across a stage for the world to see and ridicule. Maybe he really wants to see it all fail and have the tax write off in all it’s red-inked glory to prove once and for all just what a waste of skin he is.
Or maybe he’s just really, really drunk.
“Hey, Steve, it’s Jensen.”... “Of course, I know you’ve got caller i.d.”... “Listen, dude. Just listen. I’m putting together a show, and I want you for my leading man.”... “Well, it’s... it’s a musical, so I figured it’d be right up your alley.”... “Oh, it’s inspired, all right. Get this. It’s a musical review set to the songs of Air Supply.”... “Steve?...Steve, are you still there?... Steve?”
Three months after Jared gets his memory back, Steve says yes, probably because he’s broke and his only other options are Exotic Services classifieds on Craigslist. And Jensen smiles, laughing at something besides his own jokes for the first time in three months.
--
Three weeks after Jared regains his memory, he gets his cast off and finally succeeds in running away from home. Well, he succeeds in hobbling his still slightly gimpy ass out the door to the pool house and stops going to the main house altogether. It’s not a complete break, but it’s a start.
Three weeks and one day after Jared gets his memory back, he’s bored out of his head. In the main house, someone was always fussing over him, mostly because his parents paid them to do it and couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves. On his own, he’s suddenly drastically aware of how much nothing he has to do. No dinner to cook. No lunches to pack. No homework to go over, spelling words to quiz on, or hair to braid. No big, floppy-eared dog drooling in his lap, no divebombing bird, no thieving little weasel to steal popcorn from his bowl when he’s not looking. Yeah, now that he’s almost on his own, he’s free to do a whole lot of nothing.
It sucks.
Funny thing is, now that he’s got his memory back, he should be able to do nothing just fine. He did nothing for years and never got bored. He kept himself busy, clubbing, getting drunk or high, and hooking up with strangers --being young, and wealthy, and gay, and living life to his fullest advantage.
Actually...
Three weeks and two days after Jared gets his memory back, he realizes he never really forgot anything worth remembering, just so many different ways to numb his mind and body to a point where he never realized how bored he used to be.
He stops, mid squeezing on his tightest jeans and dousing himself with cologne, looks himself dead on in the mirror. His phone shouldn’t feel as unfamiliar in his hand as it does. He picked out the skin before his accident, downloaded all the apps himself, sure he couldn’t live without them, needed them to pass the time of day, and now it feels clunky in his hand, unused except to call his valet. “Jeffrey?...yeah, forget the car. I’m not going out, after all. Take the night off, on me.” If he expects an argument, he doesn’t get one. He and Jeffrey don’t speak on more than a professional level these days. Jared doesn’t know why he keeps the guy on, knowing what he knows now, but Jeffrey’s one tether Jared can’t seem to cut. He doesn’t spend much time trying to assess exactly what it is Jeffrey tethers him to.
Two months after Jared’s memory comes back, his mother comes to the pool house, because, in her words, she’s ‘worried he’s making a hermit of himself.’ He knows she’s just curious about all the deliveries he’s been getting and worrying he’s spending too much of their money. He gets a smug satisfaction in going to the door wearing three days worth of stubble and holding a row of straight pins between his lips, gesturing her through the racks of half-finished clothing, some completely made from scratch and some waiting to be altered when the vision strikes him. She’s at a loss for words when he shows her his sewing room, the books he used to teach himself french seams and zipper plaquets and buttonholes, his corkboard walls papered in drawings of lean, androgynous models in sparkling, flamboyant ensembles, most of which he’s convinced are crap but were fun to make at the time. She waggles her finger and squares her shoulders, puts her hands on her hips, but nothing comes out of her mouth aside from some monosyllabic bursts of what could be curse words or gas.
“I’m starting a clothing line,” Jared says, sitting down at his machine.
Two months after Jared’s memory comes back, Jared’s mother shuts up and goes away. Jared’s too busy ripping a seam to notice. The seam has to be just right. There’s no fixing his mother.
--
It’s impressive how much a guy can accomplish fueled by inspiration and driven to forget the only memories he has worth remembering. Doubly impressive is the amount of slack people will cut a guy when he’s got millions of dollars to plug into a project in order to make up for his inexperience and faulty designs.
Four months after Jared gets his memory back, he sells his line to a company that does most of its marketing online and distributes through eBay stores and Amazon.com. Not the most respected market, but for clothing as far out as Jared’s, probably the most exposure he can hope for at the outset. What matters is, he gets over twenty-five thousand dollars for the rights to mass produce his name brand. That’s five thousand more than he needs to gain control of his trust fund as per his grandfather’s stipulatons.
His parents are, understandably, chagrined.
Jared should be elated.
He’s not.
There are only so many bridges a guy can burn before he’s an island. Jared’s not a great swimmer.
Four months and one week after Jared gets his memory back, he uses the first dollar he’s ever earned (plus a couple hundred more, cuz what can you really buy with a dollar nowadays) and buys a dog. Well, he adopts one. From the ASPCA. (Friggin’ Animal Planet and their depressing advertisements.) Sadie’s not exactly family, and not exactly what Jared’s really missing when he decides to get her, but she won’t leave him, and she’s a terrible liar.
A week later, Jared starts a clothing line for dogs, too.
--
“That’s it! Let’s call it a day, people. See you tomorrow. Same bat time, Same bat... well, you know the drill.” Jensen tries hard to fold up his director’s chair with an ounce of civility rather than throw it across the stage. He only half succeeds, kicking it hard enough to collapse it in a heap. Then he tries not to get pissed because he has to bend over and pick it up.
“Jensen, dude, can I have a minute?” Jensen hadn’t realized Steve was still here, and now, of course, he feels like an ass for letting his temper get the best of him.
“Sure, Steve,” Jensen says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, uh...” he eyeballs the chair and shrugs, “I thought I saw a spider. Hate spiders,” he waffles.
“Yeah, uh...” Steve stammers, coughs into his hand, “anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the show.”
“So, talk.” Jensen really shouldn’t be so short with Steve, but he’s known the guy long enough to know that Steve’s gonna tell it like it is, and Jensen’s not ready to hear it from anywhere besides the nagging little voice in his pounding head.
“It’s not working.”
“What’s not working?” He reassembles his chair and slouches down into it, legs splayed, elbows on the armrests, the picture of aloof, or at least he hopes so.
“I dunno...” Steve fidgets, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt before sliding his hands into his pockets, shoulders shrugged up high as he continues to gesture with just his thumbs. “I love the idea, man. I think it’s a real winner, and I’m honored, I guess, that you picked me to star in it, but the music...”
“You knew it was a musical review and that we were using Air Supply songs when you signed on.”
“Totally. I did. I do. But, why these songs? All the gooey, sappy songs in their repertoire, and you want to end on ‘Chances?’ Way to leave things up in the air, man. And it’s not just that one, either. ‘All out of Love;’ ‘Just When I Thought I Was Over You;’ ‘I Can Wait Forever?’ Are you trying to make the most depressing musical in the history of musicals? Where’s the Hollywood ending?”
Jensen peers at him, his expression schooled as impassive as he can make it, index finger under his chin. “Not everyone gets a Hollywood ending, Steve. I think it’s more realistic without it.”
Steve huffs, thumbs splayed wide at his hips. “C’mon, man! You know the rules as well as I do. If you want to break into the business, you gotta give people what they want, and they want the happy ending.”
“Why?” Jensen shrugs. “You don’t think half the guys in the audience are gonna be there with their mistresses while their wives think they’re working late? There’s no such thing as a happy ending. Not in the real world.”
Steve jerks his hands out of his pockets and whirls around, does a 360 on his boot heel with his hands clenched in his hair. “Dammit, Jensen! Do you think I’m stupid? I know the only reason you gave this part to me instead of playing it yourself is because it IS you. And just because YOU are willing to roll over and let the best damned thing that ever happened to you walk out of your life, that doesn’t mean that’s how it’s got to be. It doesn’t mean there’s no happy ending. It just means you didn’t try hard enough.”
This time the chair falls over because Jensen stands too fast, and just one of the legs getting hooked on Jensen’s foot keeps him from landing the punch he’s ready to throw. He ends up fisting Steve’s shirt, dragging him down so their faces are within inches of each other, Jensen’s breath rasping between them. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he seethes.
“Don’t I?”
They stay like that long enough for Jensen to realize he’s on the verge of getting into a fist fight with one of his best friends. He lets go of Steve’s shirt, has an apology tied up in denial all perched at the tip of his tongue when his phone rings and gives them both the opportunity to take a step back. Glancing at the caller i.d., Jensen says, “Shit. It’s the school.” And answers.
His conversation with Steve will just have to wait.
--
It’s bad when the school won’t tell him anything over the phone and Jensen has to drive over there wondering which section of the auditorium Jake’s managed to set fire to, or which hallway he’s flooded. It’s worse when Jensen’s escorted into the principal’s office to find a full house, standing room only crowd, that includes a teacher, a guidance counselor, their social worker, Mrs. Parsons (oh, shit), and... Joey.
The little girl bursts into tears as soon as Jensen comes in, runs over, and buries her face against his leg. The first thing he registers, right after, ‘whoever made his baby sister cry is gonna die a slow death,’ is that the baseball cap is back. He hadn’t realized how used he’s gotten to having her wear her hair down, until he goes to run his hand through it to comfort her, and the cap’s in the way. He doesn’t bother shaking hands or introducing himself. He’s too busy scooping Joey up and holding her as she clings to his neck. There’s more growl in his voice than he intends... Fuck that. He’d do a lot more than growl if he didn’t think it would upset Joey more than the people he’s getting snarly with. “What, you called in Social Services before you even called me?”
Mr. Lovett, a tall, wiry man in a gray suitcoat and pants but no tie and a carefully trimmed goatee stands from behind his Principal’s desk. “Actually, we called you first. Mrs. Parsons just happened to be in the area and got here faster.”
Palming the back of Joey’s neck to keep her facing behind him and away from the confrontation, Jensen says, “Why did you call her at all? No one would even tell me anything over the phone.”
“It’s standard procedure if we feel a student is a danger to herself or himself or to anyone else,” Lovett explains. He motions toward a chair beside the door and starts to sit in his own, but Jensen stays standing, so the principal sits instead on the edge of his desk, maintaining eye contact while trying to appear unthreatening.
“She’s seven!” Jensen snaps. “What makes you think she’s a threat to anyone?” He recognizes Joey’s second grade teacher, Mrs. Berkely, from parent-teacher conferences, doesn’t feel particularly impolite for not shaking her hand as she steps forward, straightening her slacks with the palms of her hands.
“I-I heard her crying in the bathroom,” she explains, her dark eyes glassy beneath her straight-ironed bangs and half-reading glasses. “She wouldn’t come out, and I had to call the custodian, and when we got the door open...” The woman heaves a long sigh. “She’s cut off all her hair.”
“She... what?” Now his voice shakes, the tremor just a squelched version of the bravado from a second earlier. “She wouldn’t. She’s loves her hair, learned to braid it herself and everything.”
“See for yourself,” Mrs Parson chimes in, and this would all be so much easier to take in if not for her pursed lips and condescending glare.
“She still had the scissors,” Mrs. Berkely elaborates.
“Jo?” Jensen asks. “Joey? Did you cut your hair?” Her head nod is barely perceptible against his shoulder. Smoothing his hand upward, Jensen pulls the ball cap down, feels Joey stiffen against his chest as he reveals her newly shorn head, the hair cut in haphazard chunks to chin length and shorter. If the constriction in the back of his throat and the sudden need to swallow are any indicator, Jensen’s sure his eyes must be ready to run over, and he can’t get anything out of his mouth without sniffling first. “Wh-Why, baby? Why would you cut your hair?”
Joey leans back in his arms, fidgets with the button on top of her baseball cap, eyes downcast. “Mrs. Berkely said that’s what people do when they lose someone.”
“How do you mean?” Jensen asks, this time letting his eyes go past his sister and to the nervous teacher.
“We were studying Native American culture,” Mrs. Berkely explains, her voice tiny and timid. “Some tribes were known to,” she rakes her hands up and down her slacks for about the dozenth time, “to cut their hair as a sign of mourning.”
Mrs. Parsons places herself between Jensen and the teacher, her lipstick too red under her recently dyed to near black hair, shoulder pads of her wool jacket prominent over her silk blouse. “It is not the educator’s fault if children come to school with pre-existing emotional conditions and have a meltdown while under their care. They are not the primary caregivers.”
“What pre-existing emotional condition?” Jensen shrugs off choked up and hisses right back into spitting mad. Joey’s the most happy-go-lucky kid he knows, and that has nothing to do with his personal bias.
“None of the other children ran into the washroom and cut off their hair after today’s lesson, Mr. Ackles,” the principal clarifies. “It seems fairly obvious that Joey was looking for... some kind of outlet and seized on that bit of information to attain it. I know things are hard, what with you trying to raise three kids when you’re barely out of school yourself.”
“I do my best.”
“No one’s saying you don’t,” Lovett assuages, though Jensen’s fairly certain that’s exactly what Mrs. Parsons is here to say. “All we’re saying is, maybe there’s been... something going on at home recently that’s affected Jolene more than you realized.”
Jensen’s not stupid. He knows what this is about. Of course he does. Running his index finger down the bridge of his sister’s nose, he tweaks the end of it, says, “Jo, baby, do you think you can wait outside with Jill?” Everyone calls the school secretary by her first name. She went to this school herself as a kid, and anything more formal just never has fit her. Joey nods, and he sets her down, shows her out to the lobby and watches her take a chair by the front desk before waving and closing the door.
“Look,” his hands smooth through his hair, and he really wishes he’d taken that seat when offered, because his knees are starting to get a little wobbly, “I have had some personal issues recently, relationship type...issues.”
Mrs. Parsons crosses her arms. “These people tell me you were hospitalized. Is that true?”
“Not really,” Jensen stammers, ducking his eyes.
“You haven’t received medical care?”
“No, I mean, yes, I did, but they didn’t even keep me overnight.”
“What was your condition?”
“It’s none of your business,” he snaps.
“It is my business,” she counters, stepping into his personal space. “Anything that affects the welfare of those children and your ability to provide for that welfare is my business, and you’d better believe I can get those records released to me if you refuse to cooperate.”
Clasping his hands at his waist in his best attempt to square up his shoulders, Jensen says, “I had, an attack. It was stress related. A little dehydration. Nothing major.”
“And the treatment?”
“A week in bed and two off work,” he relinquishes, chewing his lower lip.
“And who cared for the minor children while you were incapacitated?”
“Jared.”
“Jared...” Parsons reaches for her briefcase. “I don’t recall seeing any Jared listed in your file--not as an emergency contact, not as trusted child care, not even as close family friend.”
“Jared was my...” His hands come unclasped, and he straightens. Fuck it. If the axe is coming down, it might as well make a clean cut. “Jared was my boyfriend. He lived with us for awhile, and then he left. It was hard on all of us. I just didn’t realize Joey was so affected.”
Mrs. Parsons’s briefcase is half-open on Lovett’s desk when Jensen finishes speaking, and it clacks shut in slow motion but loud enough to startle the poor second grade teacher. Parsons turns slowly toward him, lips pursed even more than usual. He wouldn’t have thought that possible. Seems like her whole face will crack and implode if it gets much tighter. “How long have you been... homosexual?”
Beyond pretense, now, Jensen shrugs. “The way I understand it, you’re born that way, so I guess, forever.”
“What. I mean. Is.” Her chin nods downward with every phrase for emphasis. “How long have you been a practicing homosexual?”
“Jared was my first GAY relationship.” The emphasis is his. He doesn’t see the point of pussyfooting around the topic. She might be afraid to say it, but he’s not. “Is there some sort of law that says GAY men can’t raise children?”
“No,” she snips. “However, if this is a sudden lifestyle change, and if it results in... tumultuous... AFFAIRS that end badly, then we have reason to be concerned for the children. I think today’s events are more than enough cause for me to raise a formal inquiry regarding your case.”
“You know what?” Jensen steps into Parsons’s space without regard for the way Lovett abruptly stands and the teacher reaches for the door knob. “Inquire all you want. Ask anyone. Jared was the best thing that ever happened to us. The kids loved him. He loved them. I screwed up, and now he’s gone, but don’t you dare imply that my loving another man hurt those kids.”
“Jolene is clearly hurting,” Parsons states, and he’ll be damned if she doesn’t rise on her tiptoes to do it.
“You’re right. She is. That’s my fault. So, why don’t you run back to your office and start drawing up those inquiry papers. I have a little girl to take care of, and I won’t waste anymore of her time dealing with you.”
He nods to the principal. “Give me a call if you want me to keep her home or whatever you see fit. You’ve got my number.”
Jensen spins, heads for the door, and the social worker catches him by the sleeve as he turns the knob. “Just what do you intend to do?” she asks.
“Exactly what I should’ve done a long time ago.”
Joey catches his hand when he holds it out to her on the way out of the lobby.
--
Five months after Jared gets his memory back, Jensen meets Danneel outside Austin Bergstrom International Airport. She gets out the passenger side of a stretch limousine on the upper level, looking hotter than even he remembers in a black pantsuit.
“Hey, baby,” she greets, holding out her arms, and her smile’s so open and familiar, he can’t stay even a little mad.
“Hey, yourself,” and he sweeps her into his arms.
TBC
Part Nine
A/N: Sorry this took a little longer than the rest of the parts to post. Hubby wanted to go visiting. Go figure. It's gonna take me a little longer to get the music posts up on Dreamwidth, so read here or wait for those to go up. It's up to you.
Heels lock down behind Jared’s knees, and he tips back in slow motion, windmilling backward for what seems like hours, then stops abruptly, head whiplashing on his neck as Jensen reels him in, fist in Jared’s shirt and legs around his hips. Jensen’s lips barely waver into focus before they’re too close and swim out again, mouths rushing together like waves at the bottom of a cliff, the outbound and inbound colliding in a mist of spray.
Ducking out from under the roof of the truck, Jensen takes Jared’s mouth with all the intensity of a thirsty man lapping dew off leaves he can barely reach. Jared opens, just as thirsty. Fingers grapple, four hands all trying to reach out and draw closer, into hair and across stubbled cheekbones where barely two can fit. Jensen’s hands don’t stand a chance against Jared’s. Instead, he heaves himself forward, knees locking at Jared’s hips for leverage, calves along taut thighs, and threads his arms around Jared’s neck to the shoulders, crossing at the elbows on the other side.
Now supporting both their weight, Jared braces one hand on top of the door frame, feels his arms ripple and bulge with the exertion. Jensen rises so that Jared has to stretch his chin up, mouth panting open, and no matter how he tries to manipulate Jensen down with palm and thumb and needy little gasps, Jensen keeps himself barely within reach, taunts with flicks of his tongue over Jared’s upper lip, in just far enough to tickle the smooth underside. Jared opens wider, letting himself be drawn out and stretched to near breaking with little more than the promise of more.
They heave against each other, barely sharing more than breath and heat, until Jared groans with frustration and slides his free hand around and between Jensen’s shoulder blades, bending him closer as Jared’s fingers trail down his spine. Jared teases Jensen’s shirt hem out of the waistband of his jeans, splays fingers wide over the span of bare skin that’s revealed as Jensen tightens his thighs and rises higher up, his throat at Jared’s chin, lips gasping against his forehead. Jared teases along Jensen’s collar bone with tongue and teeth, hot breath until Jensen’s head tips back, lips still agonizingly out of reach. Something in Jared’s chest pushes out his throat, a gasp or a growl dubbed over a whimper, and he bends forward at the hip, scooping his free arm all the way around Jensen’s waist, both pinning their bodies together and pulling Jensen down until they’re perfectly aligned. Shaking and panting, beads of sweat dripping down his throat and pooling at the collar of his t-shirt, Jared loses himself, thrusting up into the vee of Jensen’s legs. His hips take the contact his mouth is denied, bruises throbbing in his hamstrings where Jensen’s heels dig for purchase, head pressed into Jensen’s shoulder.
“Jare...Jared...J...Oh, God.” Jensen’s voice thrums and vibrates as though his pulse has been rerouted into his vocal chords, and Jared hopes to God it’s not a protest, because he doesn’t think he can stop. The pressure building in his groin has bypassed curious and aroused altogether, gone straight to excruciatingly hard and desperate. Eyes squinted tight against the rising vapor of want and need, it’s impossible to say if the moisture trickling out the corners is tears or sweat or both burning from the outside and inside at the same time. There’s a split second of relief when Jensen tightens around him, arms wrapping around the back of Jared’s head, lips agape against the shell of Jared’s ear, and the friction is just this side of exquisite, both of them finding the rhythm and churning together in sync.
Jared’s close, breath stuttering high in his chest, every muscle in his body vibrating at a high frequency, and his t-shirt’s wringing wet and balling up between them so his stomach’s exposed to the night, the air rising up moist between them.
Jensen’s making the prettiest noises, not enough breath control to form words, just tiny syncopated sighs and moans in counterpoint to his thrusting hips.
And then...
Jensen’s moan cuts off abruptly, not so much a squeak as a yelp as he slips through Jared’s grip, heels catching behind Jared’s knees, and they fall with an unharmonious squawk from the truck’s shocks, through the open door and onto the driver’s seat. Jared’s buckling knees save them from bashing their brains out on the door frame by dropping them down below it just before they tip.
When Jared opens his eyes, his shins are braced against the running board, most of the skin that used to be on them now bunched up around his kneecaps, and Jensen’s arched up off the corner of the seat, his back muscles spasming under Jared’s arm.
The next several seconds pass with more writhing and gasping, this time of a much less pleasant variety, until the pain ebbs and Jared lets his head fall onto Jensen’s stomach until they’re both breathing easier.
Jensen speaks first, his voice more gravelly than usual. “Well, uh, that didn’t exactly work.”
Jared laughs, because it beats crying, if nothing else. “You know that thing I said about there not being a right way to do this?” he asks, mouth still pressed to Jensen’s belly.
“I think so,” Jensen says, sounding muzzy and not entirely convinced of the fact.
“Well, maybe there’s no right way, but I think we just found the wrong way.”
Jensen’s hand finds the back of Jared’s head and threads through his hair for a second before his arms reach down under Jared’s shoulders and brace him enough to get standing again. Then, Jensen braces himself on his elbows and scooches up far enough on the seat to support his hips and meets Jared’s gaze with a quirky if somewhat pained expression. “But it sure was good while it lasted,” he smirks.
Jared snorts, suddenly oblivious to the slow trickle of blood down his shins. That’s going to make a sticky mess inside his cast, for sure, but that’s then, this is now. “Does that mean you’re up for another round?”
“Not yet,” Jensen admits with a sheepish glance down at his abused crotch, “but I will be.” He sits up and slides his feet inside. “first, we need to stop at the drug store.”
“For condoms and lube?” Jared guesses.
“No, you freak, for bandages and antiseptic.” He flicks a sympathetic gaze to Jared’s battered legs. “I’m up for trying new things, but blood play’s not one of them.” He grabs the door by the open window frame and swings it shut. “Besides, I have plenty of condoms and lube.”
“Regular boy scout,” Jared quips, starting his hobble around the front of the truck.
--
Jared waits in the truck for Jensen to come back out of the store. It’s faster not wrestling Jared’s gimp self through the narrow aisles, and Jensen knows where everything is. Doesn’t mean Jared’s not bored within thirty seconds. There’s only so much testing of knobs and buttons a guy with hands the size of Jared’s can do before he inevitably breaks one off and has to re-attach it, hoping it’s not upside down or sideways. There’s almost no traffic to watch even though it’s a Saturday night. It’s too early for the real party-goers to be out, and the family groups are already at their destinations, and well, it’s a small town, so there are hardly any of either to begin with.
Speaking of small towns, Jared sometimes forgets that Jensen grew up here and knows everyone. It’s a little disconcerting to look out the truck window and into the store to see Jensen carrying on a pleasant conversation with the clerk over several rows of shelves. He’s all cocky smiles and waggling brows, deep lines at the corners of his eyes that don’t look like worry for a change. There’s something aloof and confident about him, a security Jared guesses must come from knowing who you are and where you belong, how you fit in. Something Jared really wishes he could relate to himself. His heart thuds in his chest as he realizes, this is Jensen’s world. Every bit of it, and Jared’s a foreign object the likes of King Kong, stomping in and changing the landscape, oblivious to what’s crumbling beneath his feet. What’s he doing here, really?
Jensen finishes his shopping and dumps an armload of purchases on the counter. Despite saying he was going to buy condoms or lube, there’s no mistaking the box the clerk picks up off the counter first or the flirtatious way she twirls her hair and ducks her eyes. Jared can’t hear what she’s saying, no doubt something unprofessional that would never be acceptable anywhere except in a town like this one where there really aren’t many secrets. Hell, for all Jared knows, the clerk is one of Jensen’s classmates, maybe an ex-girlfriend. She probably knows Jensen better than Jared does. Has a history with him that Jared can’t remember.
Jared’s suddenly self conscious, like he really shouldn’t be watching the exchange, like it’s none of his business, be it in a storefront window or not. He feels like a spy, and he’s about to turn away when Jensen looks up and smiles. At Jared.
And it’s the same smile he just gave the clerk, open and confident, a little cocky. Surprised, Jared smiles back, his heart beating faster when Jensen’s expression changes. It’s still a little cocky, just as open, but whatever was there earlier that made him look aloof or happy-go-lucky slides sideways. The look in his eyes is anything but casual. It’s focused and direct, intent, and only for Jared. Jensen breaks the contact after the cashier tries and fails three times to get his attention, and there’s still a hint of promise and anticipation glistening in his eyes when he turns to her, cash in hand. She’s leaning forward more than is really necessary to hand him his bag of purchases when she catches sight of Jared.
Jared doesn’t miss the way her face falls, the way her shoulders sag as her eyes dart from Jensen to Jared a question on her lips that just pulls them into a grimace as her eyes slant down with disapproval. King Kong strikes again.
But Jensen doesn’t notice, exits the store with the same confident swagger he used while he was inside, thumps his palm on the roof of the truck over Jared’s head before walking around to the other side, eyes locked with Jared’s.
“I thought you said you had plenty of... supplies,” Jared says, foisting the box of flavored condoms out of the way in order to reach the Bactine.
“You can never be too prepared,” Jensen shrugs, turning the key. “Plus, Faye puts the moves on me every time I go in there. Usually, I have to make up some lame excuse and let her down easy. Felt good to be able to say I’m taken and not have it be a lie.”
“The look she gave you when she saw me... I think you should’ve just lied to her.”
Jensen’s hand freezes on the gear shifter, and he turns in the seat to face Jared. “I don’t,” he says. “I’m with you, Jared. I want to be with you, and I don’t care who knows it.”
“You really mean that?”
“Dude, if I didn’t have to worry about CPS getting wind of it, I’d take that whole box of condoms, make balloon animals and tie them to the antennae, then drive through town with my horn blowing.” His eyes lock on Jared’s lips, and Jensen starts to tip forward slowly. “That’s how much I mean it.”
Jared doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Jensen lunges across the center console and presses him against the window.
He settles for getting kissed senseless and then returning the favor.
It just seems like the right thing to do.
Then, he puts on his best fucked out expression and waves goodbye to Faye, just because he can, waggles his fingers and eyebrows in unison, stomp, stomp, stomp, rawwwrrr. Half the fun of being King Kong is being able to shake things up.
--
Jared blames his one casted leg for his inability to gain the upper hand as Jensen pounces him on the doorstep and then grapples him across the living room, a veritable Tazmanian Devil of lips, fingernails, and teeth. They topple backwards onto the couch hard enough for Jared’s lungs to clamp shut, breath leaving him with a whoosh. He pants through it, arching upward as Jensen sucks along his throat, hands tight on Jared’s hips so he can’t squirm away, and when he finally regains the capacity to speak, Jared lets his head fall back on the couch, eyes clamped shut, and grunts, “Damn, Jensen. You really are a toppy bastard, aren’t you?”
“Huh?”
“I said, you’re a toppy bastard,” Jared repeats, chest burning, as he rolls his head forward, tongue teasing at Jensen’s ear. Jensen stops what he’s doing, looks up at Jared with his eyelids at half mast, lips swollen and slack like the rest of his jaw where Jared maybe latched his fingers in an effort to pull Jensen in and swallow him whole.
“Takes one to know one.” Jensen winks, sloppy like his face has already rounded the bases a few times.
Now, it’s Jared’s turn to say, “huh,” though his is more of a ‘who’d’ve thunk,’ than a, ‘what the fuck are you talking about, asshole, I’m trying to get laid here.’ Jensen’s right. They’re both toppy bastards. How does that work? He’s about to ask as much, when Jensen backs away, hands sliding down Jared’s thighs and parting them at the knee before squatting on his own haunches between them. He’s still close, like, right there but far enough away that Jared can’t reach without sitting up, so Jared’s sprawled on the couch, arms and legs akimbo like a marionette with it’s strings cut, looking down his chest at Jensen, and it’s a little awkward. He doesn’t know why, but his hand slides down his stomach into the crease of his thigh, and then over the bulge in his pants. It’s not that he’s ashamed. He’s horny, and he’s hot, and he’s pretty sure he looks hot when he’s horny, which can only be good for him, since he really, really wants to get laid tonight. But Jensen’s down there on the floor, and he’s not checking out Jared’s crotch, or Jared’s ripped abs peeking out from under his t-shirt, not even the prominent peaks of nipple bulging out on Jared’s pecs. He’s looking at Jared, looking him right in the eye while he cups a hand around Jared’s calf muscle, massaging gently, and suddenly, all that other stuff... the straining and yearning parts... they’re all just in the way.
“I didn’t mean you had to stop,” Jared says, surprised at how quiet it comes out, like he’s afraid of disturbing something.
Jensen’s just as quiet when he says, “I’m not... just,” he reaches for the bag of supplies on the floor beside him that somehow managed to get in through the front door despite all the groping and clashing, “first things first.”
Jared hasn’t really looked at the scrapes on his shins more than to squirt some Bactine on them in the truck where it was really too dark and too confined to do much else, but he figures they must be pretty messed up when Jensen takes hold of one of the long tail fringes of Jared’s hulaskort pants and gives it a quick pull, effectively removing whatever bit of skin it was attached to and the blood holding the two together. “Ahh!” Jared bites off, writhing up onto his elbows.
“My thoughts exactly,” Jensen sighs, massaging out the knots in Jared’s leg muscle. “If we don’t take care of this now, it’s gonna get all infected and nasty.” He shifts around, obviously uncomfortable with his knees pressed into the hardwood, and palms the can of Bactine, laying out a few gauze pads. “And we can’t have that,” he smirks, “because if I’m getting down on my knees for a guy, I’d sure like to think he’s gonna be able to return the favor someday.”
Jared grunts and throws back his head when Jensen applies the antiseptic and then starts to dab away the dried blood and dirt. “Dick!” he huffs, half chuckle and half curse, fingers clenching into the upholstery.
“I prefer toppy bastard,” Jensen says with a shrug, his attention not shifting from the task at hand. Jared watches as Jensen painstakingly cleans the wound, at least what he can reach above the line of Jared’s cast, one hand constantly massaging and soothing when Jared tenses against the pain. Once it’s clean, Jensen slathers on the antibiotic ointment, slow and precise, his face close enough to tickle the hairs on Jared’s thigh with his steady breaths. By the time Jensen affixes the nonstick bandage with some fluorescent pink Vetwrap, Jared’s fingers are still clenching in the upholstery, but now it’s more to distract himself from the throbbing, pulsing, bulge under his other hand, which doesn’t seem to be subsiding in the least, despite the fact that this is not actually part of the sex. At least, Jared’s pretty sure it isn’t supposed to be. Someone forgot to give his dick the memo.
If he thought it was bad when Jensen tended to his casted leg, Jared’s in for a whole new level of torture when ministrations begin on his other. For one thing, Jensen’s hand has more room to work, massaging and stroking up and down the underside from below his calf all the way up above Jared’s knee. For another, Jared’s foot somehow winds up draped in Jensen’s lap, and every time Jensen’s breath ghosts over Jared’s knee cap, his toes curl involuntarily. Jensen’s motions stay slow and steady, methodical, but his breath’s definitely coming faster and shorter by the time he gets to applying the ointment, and Jared’s toes may be doing a lot more than curling at that point. He can’t help himself. Jensen’s hot and hard beneath the ball of his foot, and if Jared closes his eyes so he can’t be embarrassed by his hand sliding inside his jeans without his express written consent, he can feel the outline of Jensen’s cock inside his jeans, can’t resist stroking and rubbing it the way he would with his fingers if only he could reach, mimicking on himself what he means to do to Jensen.
Sucking in his lower lip while taking quick sips of air through his nose, Jared’s quivering, sweat pooling in the lines of his abs where his t-shirt’s been rucked up by his hand sliding in and out of his pants. He’s sunken down inside of himself like a kid trying to jerk off in his bed while sharing a room with his brother, wound up tight and getting tighter.
Jensen finishes the bandage and presses a kiss over Jared’s kneecap, ducks his head down and starts to scrape his lower teeth along the inside of Jared’s thigh. With a gasp, Jared lets his leg roll open, starts to draw it up and out of the way so he can get Jensen’s head where he really wants it, but Jensen rolls his hips against Jared’s toes, letting him know not to stop what he’s doing. Jared’s hand falters on his dick then slides out, bracing against the couch while Jensen presses his leg farther out to the side, the flat of his hand against the inside of his knee so Jared’s foot turns sideways and into the groove of Jensen’s thigh, the ball of his foot against Jensen’s growing erection. It’s not exactly poetry in motion, and Jared’s lost as to what he’s supposed to do with his foot, but he forgets all about how unpretty the position is when Jensen leans forward, nipping a line up Jared’s thigh between the splayed fringes of his jeans, hands finding and cupping Jared’s ass as he rolls his hips, thrusting against Jared’s foot. Jared stiffens for a second when Jensen’s hands slide under the cutoff legs of jeans, because his hands are a little cold, and the jeans end pretty close to some very sensitive territory. Hey, Jared knows they’re too short. That’s why he left the long fringes. And if he was subconsciously trying to seduce someone, then holy fuck it’s working. But between Jensen’s hands kneading at his ass cheeks and Jensen’s dick grinding against his foot, Jared’s got a lot better stuff on his mind than whether or not this would ever make it into the Kama Sutra.
With his leg pinned down, Jared can’t sit up and drag Jensen back on top of him the way he wants. Instead, he arches and wriggles around, every touch of Jensen’s lips against his thigh like a pin prick to his sensitized skin. He’s hyper aware that his pants are too tight, and Jensen’s hands don’t have enough room to touch where Jared needs to be touched, and his fingers are too big and clumsy with excitement to get the zipper down all the way without ripping out some of the teeth. When the waistband finally yawns open and Jensen’s hands slide up higher, thumbs at the jut of Jared’s hipbones, Jared squeaks, his whole body jolting.
Jensen’s hands go lax for a second, his lips stilling, forehead dropping onto Jared’s thigh, and when Jared peeks down at him, he seems to be trying to catch his breath, his back hunched up, thighs pressed tightly together.
“Ohh, oh, Jensen, I’m sorry. My foot... I should’ve... I guess I’m...”
“A ticklish spaz,” Jensen finishes, head lolling off Jared’s thigh. “It’s all right. I probably had that coming.”
“Nooo, I shouldn’t have let myself get carried away like that. Could’ve paid better attention. I’m so sorry.” And if things were awkward before, they reach a whole other level when one finds himself sprawled on the couch with his junk on display, and his boyfriend collapsed against his thigh because one has just kicked him in the nuts whilst said boyfriend’s hands are pretty much handcuffed to one’s hips by the very tight designer original gaucho/jean/skorts one is only half wearing. “Uh, here, let me.” Jared shimmies so his waistband slides down far enough for Jensen to free his hands, then takes Jensen by the elbows and hauls him up across his chest, whispering, “I’m sorry. Such a clutz. Feel so stupid. Would never hurt you,” into the top of Jensen’s head until Jensen starts to chuckle and sits up.
“Dude, do you think we’re ever gonna get this right?”
“What?” Jared lifts his hips and jerks his pants back up but doesn’t bother buttoning them or doing up the zipper, then turns sideways to face Jensen. “Sure we will. We just haven’t exactly set ourselves up for success so far.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I’m thinking two guys our size, one of us a gimp, and one of us not really supposed to be exerting himself,” Jared pauses while Jensen rolls his eyes, “we should probably not be trying to get all hot and heavy in small spaces. Something’s gonna get broken for sure, and that’s only assuming you want this half as much as I do.” He ducks his gaze, suddenly self-conscious, which makes no sense at all. Jensen catches him by the chin before he can get too worked up and kisses him slow and deep until Jared thinks maybe his eyes are going to roll back in his head and stay there. Then, they slide apart, and Jensen’s hand falls on Jared’s thigh, fingers stroking up and down.
“Can you hear me now?” Jensen teases.
“I don’t know. Were you implying that you want this as much as I do?”
“I think I was.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s possible. I want it kind of a lot.” Jared’s surprised how his breath catches in his throat, the last bit of his sentence choked off. His hand slides atop of Jensen’s, presses it flat and guides it higher, into the crease of his thigh where he can feel his own pulse jackhammering away inside his pants.
Then he waits. Seems like forever. And the longer they sit like this, just in the moment, waiting to see what the next one brings, the more self-conscious Jared gets, the further his eyes duck to the side until he’s practically looking over his shoulder. Suddenly, shame cracks over his head, all slimy and runny and squelching. He must look like a giant slut. When’s he gonna learn that neediness is not becoming. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He loosens his grip on Jensen’s hand, starts to draw his away.
Jensen’s arm darts up, snags Jared’s elbow. “You’re not just gonna leave me hangin’, are you?”
Stuttering, “I thought...”
“I know you did,” Jensen smirks. “Try thinking with your other head, just this once. I won’t hold it against you.” And then he draws Jared’s hand down into his own lap, blatant mimicry without any of the coy pretense. “Unless you want me to.”
Jared gasps to find Jensen still more than half hard, despite the unfortunately placed kick. “Oh, I want you to.”
“Then, let’s go. Last one to get naked makes breakfast in the morning.” Jensen turns his hand, threads his fingers through Jared’s and stands, stepping up onto the couch long enough to haul Jared to his feet, and then steps over the back, leading Jared around the side and to the landing of the stairs. “Ready, set...”
Jared almost lets himself get swept away again, but remembers the bag of supplies. “Wait!” He breaks Jensen’s grip and hops back around to the couch, snags the necessities, and hops back over, nearly knocking Jensen over.
“Go!”
“Cheater!”
From there, it’s a foot race to get to the bedroom fastest, and Jared’s not really too disappointed that he loses when he crashes through the door just in time to see Jensen shucking off his shirt.
Jensen waggles his eyebrows, twisting the shirt in front of him before dropping it to the floor. “Third time’s a charm, right?”
Honestly, Jared’s lost count, but that look in Jensen’s eyes could charm the pants off anything, and Jared’s not getting caught up on technicalities. But he is hung up on Jensen’s chocolate chip pancakes. Between the plastic bag, dangling from his wrist and twining round and round from the wild ride up the stairs, and his designer original jeans which tend to hang up on his cast when he takes them off, there’s only one way he can win this race. Bait and switch.
Shoulders curling forward like he’s just taken a punch to the gut, Jared whistles low and appraisingly. “God, Jensen, you look...” He stalks forward, dropping the drugstore bag onto the floor, and slides his feet between Jensen’s, presses him back against the dresser until he sits down on top hard enough to rattle the mirror against the wall behind it. “... good enough to eat.”
“Mmm, promise?” Jensen asks.
One hand tight on Jensen’s waist, Jared reaches over his head and as far down his back as he can, slides his t-shirt off until his chest’s bare and the parts of his hair not charged with static and reaching for the ceiling flop over his eyes. He uses the mane to his advantage, growls his best predatory rrawr and shakes it off his forehead. “I promise.” He’s pretty sure Jensen’s pulse is twice as fast as it was just a second ago when Jared leans in and kisses him, nipping at plush lips like a ravenous animal until Jensen opens for him, a gasp and a whimper on the exhale, moan on the in. Jared drinks in the slick of their tongues, bends Jensen’s neck back against the mirror and holds him there, one thumb tight against his Adam’s apple. It’s a struggle not to just sink into it, let his own knees go wobbly and slack, but he’s got a plan, and that plan involves getting naked. One hand to keep Jensen open and defenseless, the other to unsnap and unzip, Jared steps out of his jeans with one leg before releasing his hold on Jensen’s throat. He breaks the kiss with a nip to each corner of Jensen’s slack, swollen mouth, waits for Jensen to whimper again and open his eyes, before he stands up with a smirk. “I win.”
“Huh?” Jensen’s slow to comprehend, tongue pillowing up behind his teeth before his lips smack together, eyes narrowing into focus.
“I win,” Jared reiterates. Two hops backward, and his casted leg comes loose of the tangled clothing. He flops backward onto the bed, arms folded behind his head. “You owe me breakfast.”
As if the dresser’s electrified beneath him, Jensen jolts to his feet and starts tearing at his belt buckle.
“Whoa, cowboy,” Jared says. “It’s too late for that.”
Jensen’s hands stutter to a halt, belt buckle dangling over his zipper. “So, what? You want me to cook it now?”
“No, but maybe I would like an appetizer to go with the entree, if you know what I mean.” Jared can’t help if his nostrils flare or his mouth starts to water so profusely he has to bite his lip and tilt his head back. Jensen’s like a mirage looming on a faraway mountaintop as Jared gazes at him over the heaving expanse of his own naked body. God, Jensen’s gorgeous, sunburn faded to a fresh smattering of freckles over a slight tan, sweat glistening between his pecs, stomach trembling from the incidental touch of his own fingers as he unfastens the snap of his jeans.
Jensen’s never been too slow on the uptake, cocks one hip with a swaggering adjustment, thumbs hooking in his belt loops. “Lemme catch yer meanin’ here, pardner,” he drawls. “If I’m readin’ the gist of things proper, I think what yer sayin’ is, it’s all in the presentation.”
Jared swallows and nods, probably more exuberantly than is sexy. Stoicism has never been his strong point.
“Well, then,” Jensen winks and pulls down on the brim of an imaginary cowboy hat, chin tipped downward with a quirk to his lip like he’s twirling a blade of straw between his teeth.
Jared’s breath comes in short gasps, his stomach hollowing out below his heaving ribcage as Jensen works his zipper down, one metal tooth at a time. He’s determined not to touch himself this time, to keep his hands locked behind his head, casual and nonchalant on the surface, roiling and desperate below. It’s not easy. Jensen’s just too good at this, too fucking hot, and Jared’s been waiting so long. He stifles a groan and shuts his eyes, pushing back the urge to leap up and drag Jensen down on top of him, grind their dicks together until they’re both sticky and sated just so he can start it all over again from the beginning, slow and perfect.
“Whatsa matter, pardner? Am I too much for ya?”
Jared opens his eyes, a comeback tickling on his tongue, then stops-- stops breathing, stops thinking, stops... forgetting. It’s just that sudden. One second, it’s Jensen standing there, doing his best to seduce Jared, and Jared’s waiting for the man he’s going to marry and raise a family with. The next, it’s Curly, that cowboy from the play, dancing around the stage with no clue that his fly is open, singing about Oklahoma and surreys with a fringe on the top. And Jared’s... Jared Padalecki, son of Sherri and Gerald Padalecki, heir to the Padalecki fortune, the guy Jensen insulted at the dinner table in front of his parents and who Jensen probably hates, has always hated. And the worst part of it isn’t knowing he’s been played, used, and lied to, made to believe there was actually something in this life that would make him happy, a place he could run to and actually belong. The worst part is feeling like he deserves to have it all yanked away from him. It’s knowing that Jared hates Jared, too.
He curls in on himself, body convulsing around a surge of bile, and he lurches for the door, barely makes it to the bathroom before the new Jared climbs out of the old one, repulsed and ashamed, splatters against the porcelain in a long, torrid gush. He heaves until his body’s empty, then heaves some more like a murderer who keeps stabbing his victim long after it’s dead, finally falls forward, head pillowed on his arms while he catches his breath.
He’s vaguely aware of Jensen’s hands on his shoulder through the process, fingers soothing at clenching muscles, water running in the sink, a plastic cup pressed against Jared’s cheek.
“Here,” Jensen offers. “Rinse and spit. You’ll feel better.”
Jared takes it, rinses far longer than necessary, knows when he spits he won’t feel any better. He spits, throws the cup, and strains to his feet, shrugs off Jensen’s hands without turning to face him.
“Jared? Jared, what’s the matter?” Jared wishes he didn’t care that Jensen’s voice is tinged with panic and cracking, that his hands on Jared’s shoulders tense into claws and hold too tight before Jared breaks his grip. “Talk to me.”
Jared can’t. He doesn’t know what he’d say, whether he’d throw punches instead, or collapse and grovel, beg for Jensen to forgive him for being such an ass if he’ll just say Jared can stay, say it’s not all a lie and they can just pretend it’s real. Worst part is, Jared’s sure he could pretend this is real. Just as sure as he that he can’t pretend he doesn’t remember.
He finds his phone in his discarded pants, tries not to remember how tickled he was when Jensen bought it for him or all the hours they spent talking to each other in their own language -- Can you hear me now? He’s still naked when he dials the number, sitting on the end of the bed Jensen gave to him, naked and curled over his thighs, knees bouncing up and down while the phone rings and rings, half sure he’s remembered the number wrong, and half sure he wishes it’s wrong. But the voice that answers is familiar, brings with it another sledge hammer blow of memories downloading into his brain. “Jeffrey?” he asks, voice cracking. “It’s me, Jared. I’m ready to come home. Come and get me. I’m at...” The crack in his voice broadens into a fissure too broad for anything as intricate as words to form from it, and he doesn’t know how to classify the long, broken sob that rumbles out instead. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, rocking and willing himself to have some clue about where he is and how he got here and where he belongs, face cold and wet, lips salty, nose dripping. But he doesn’t fight when Jensen takes the phone from his hand.
“Hello? Um, look, you don’t know me. My name’s Jensen. Jensen Ackles.” Jensen’s voice is almost as wrecked as Jared’s, his breathing uneven and choppy through the brief silence that follows. “Do you have GPS?” Another brief silence. “Good, then. I’ll just give you the address. You can come pick him up.”
Jared stops listening while Jensen gives Jeffrey the address, only barely registers that Jeffrey will be there in a couple of hours, tries to respond when Jensen says he’s sorry. But when he finally stops shaking enough to sit up, Jensen’s gone, the door closed behind him. He spends the next two hours curled in a ball on the bed.
He doesn’t have anything to pack. He’s already leaving with more baggage than he had when he came.
--
Three hours after Jared gets his memory back, he leaves in a stretch limousine too big to turn around in the yard, and Jensen can see the exact moment Jared realizes his driver was the man in the diner that afternoon, the guy in the corner booth having the secret rendezvous with Chris. There’s a fleeting moment when Jensen thinks, just maybe, if the choice is between Jensen, who lied to Jared when they barely knew each other, and Jared’s valet who, it seems, lied to Jared from within his inner circle and then abandoned him with strangers, Jensen might win by default as the lesser of two evils. But Jared slides into the car, safe behind the plexiglass, and leaves.
One hour after Jared drives away, Jensen closes the door to Jared’s room. This time he locks it.
Nine hours after Jared gets his memory back, Jensen’s finally finished that song he started writing from Danneel’s Dear John letter and is stuck on the first verse of another that snuck up on him from under the porch where he’s been perched all night. He’s had a lot of free time to pick and sing over the last few weeks he’s been home, but his fingers ache, and his callouses burn like they’d blister if they could. He keeps strumming over the last line, waiting for inspiration to strike, or the world to end, whichever comes first.
“All I see, it could never make me happy...”
On repeat number one hundred or so, he looks out over the yard, at the hint of frost lacing the edges of the grass, thinks how much prettier it would look with a full moon overhead. But it’s a new moon tonight, empty sky, empty house, empty yard, empty bed. If all he sees can never make him happy, it’s most likely due to the void of all the things he can’t see. The light’s swallowed up like it’s of no more substance than motes of dust... or sand. Another line eeks itself out.
“All my sand castles spend their time collapsing.”
And that’s where he’s stuck for the next three hours when the kids come home in Misha’s van just minutes ahead of the delivery truck that’s bringing the new washer and dryer Jensen got Misha to throw in on the deal for the diner. The kids picked them out, and they’re so excited to show Jared.
“They’re front-loaders,” Jake boasts. “So you can actually see what’s happening inside.” Somehow Jensen just knows he’s planning on putting everything other than laundry in there, just to see it go round and round, and Jensen, of course, will be there to put an end to his fun, ever the parent, the responsible one.
“And it they look like spaceships when they’re on,” Joey squeals. She climbs into Jensen’s lap by ducking under his guitar and throwing her arms over his neck. Her hair’s french braided on the sides with little bows on the ends. He suspects Grace or one of the older girls from the youth group are to thank for that. Jared never got around to learning the french braid.
“Misha even got them to put big red bows on them,” Jeremy smirks. He saunters up with his thumbs in his pockets, rolls his eyes for show. “Figured that would make Jared’s day.”
“I know he’s probably exhausted and all,” Misha says with waggling brows, “but why don’t you wake him up so we can all see the look on his face when they unload the truck?”
“Jared’s gone back home.”
Twelve and a half hours after Jensen’s sand castle collapses, he kicks down every other castle on the beach. He’s used to being the bad guy by now.
It’s not easy for the delivery guys to get the new appliances unloaded with all the crying and wailing, throwing of clothes and shoes, but they manage once all the upstairs doors have slammed shut, shrouding the house in silence.
It’s lucky the lock-in kept the kids awake for most of the night so they can at least cry themselves to sleep through the worst of it. Jensen’s still sitting on the porch two hours after Misha lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes by way of goodbye-- fifteen hours after the tidal wave Amnesia crested and stormed his beach. Part of him wishes he could be swept away with the rest of the debris, out to sea, but everything that matters is still in that old house, and whether he’s wanted there or not, he’s not going anywhere. He can’t.
“Let me know that you hear me. Let me know your touch. Let me know that you love me. And let that be enough.”
--
A week after Jared gets his memory back, Christian Kane has the audacity to show up on his Jensen’s doorstep and confess that he and, Jeffrey, the valet, came up with the whole scheme. Jensen doesn’t know why Kane feels the need to tell him that. Jensen’s already figured it out, by then, and it doesn’t alleviate any of his own guilt for not telling Jared the truth when he had the chance. He also doesn’t know why he punches Chris in the nose and tells him never to speak to Jensen or his family ever again.
It’s a small town, so that’s a weighty demand. Jensen would give Chris credit for pulling it off, but they’re not talking anymore.
--
Three weeks after Jared gets his memory back, the money from the diner hits the bank account. Spending it’s a good distraction for awhile, but filling the house with new furniture doesn’t make it feel less empty, and planting that vegetable garden in the yard doesn’t do much to quell the hunger that’s eating him up from the inside.
He starts writing the script as a joke. Love’s a joke, and laughing at himself is a lot more fun than all the not crying he’s been doing. It’s something in the void. He doesn’t for a minute believe it’s any good, but he’s got all this money now, and his friendly neighborhood CPA who’s telling him a whole lot of it’s going to be owed the tax man unless he comes up with an investment. Even a failed endeavor can be written off.
Jensen’s not sure why he picks up the phone. Maybe it’s because he feels he owes his people some work after their last project fell through. Maybe it’s because he wants to torture himself watching his love life waltzed across a stage for the world to see and ridicule. Maybe he really wants to see it all fail and have the tax write off in all it’s red-inked glory to prove once and for all just what a waste of skin he is.
Or maybe he’s just really, really drunk.
“Hey, Steve, it’s Jensen.”... “Of course, I know you’ve got caller i.d.”... “Listen, dude. Just listen. I’m putting together a show, and I want you for my leading man.”... “Well, it’s... it’s a musical, so I figured it’d be right up your alley.”... “Oh, it’s inspired, all right. Get this. It’s a musical review set to the songs of Air Supply.”... “Steve?...Steve, are you still there?... Steve?”
Three months after Jared gets his memory back, Steve says yes, probably because he’s broke and his only other options are Exotic Services classifieds on Craigslist. And Jensen smiles, laughing at something besides his own jokes for the first time in three months.
--
Three weeks after Jared regains his memory, he gets his cast off and finally succeeds in running away from home. Well, he succeeds in hobbling his still slightly gimpy ass out the door to the pool house and stops going to the main house altogether. It’s not a complete break, but it’s a start.
Three weeks and one day after Jared gets his memory back, he’s bored out of his head. In the main house, someone was always fussing over him, mostly because his parents paid them to do it and couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves. On his own, he’s suddenly drastically aware of how much nothing he has to do. No dinner to cook. No lunches to pack. No homework to go over, spelling words to quiz on, or hair to braid. No big, floppy-eared dog drooling in his lap, no divebombing bird, no thieving little weasel to steal popcorn from his bowl when he’s not looking. Yeah, now that he’s almost on his own, he’s free to do a whole lot of nothing.
It sucks.
Funny thing is, now that he’s got his memory back, he should be able to do nothing just fine. He did nothing for years and never got bored. He kept himself busy, clubbing, getting drunk or high, and hooking up with strangers --being young, and wealthy, and gay, and living life to his fullest advantage.
Actually...
Three weeks and two days after Jared gets his memory back, he realizes he never really forgot anything worth remembering, just so many different ways to numb his mind and body to a point where he never realized how bored he used to be.
He stops, mid squeezing on his tightest jeans and dousing himself with cologne, looks himself dead on in the mirror. His phone shouldn’t feel as unfamiliar in his hand as it does. He picked out the skin before his accident, downloaded all the apps himself, sure he couldn’t live without them, needed them to pass the time of day, and now it feels clunky in his hand, unused except to call his valet. “Jeffrey?...yeah, forget the car. I’m not going out, after all. Take the night off, on me.” If he expects an argument, he doesn’t get one. He and Jeffrey don’t speak on more than a professional level these days. Jared doesn’t know why he keeps the guy on, knowing what he knows now, but Jeffrey’s one tether Jared can’t seem to cut. He doesn’t spend much time trying to assess exactly what it is Jeffrey tethers him to.
Two months after Jared’s memory comes back, his mother comes to the pool house, because, in her words, she’s ‘worried he’s making a hermit of himself.’ He knows she’s just curious about all the deliveries he’s been getting and worrying he’s spending too much of their money. He gets a smug satisfaction in going to the door wearing three days worth of stubble and holding a row of straight pins between his lips, gesturing her through the racks of half-finished clothing, some completely made from scratch and some waiting to be altered when the vision strikes him. She’s at a loss for words when he shows her his sewing room, the books he used to teach himself french seams and zipper plaquets and buttonholes, his corkboard walls papered in drawings of lean, androgynous models in sparkling, flamboyant ensembles, most of which he’s convinced are crap but were fun to make at the time. She waggles her finger and squares her shoulders, puts her hands on her hips, but nothing comes out of her mouth aside from some monosyllabic bursts of what could be curse words or gas.
“I’m starting a clothing line,” Jared says, sitting down at his machine.
Two months after Jared’s memory comes back, Jared’s mother shuts up and goes away. Jared’s too busy ripping a seam to notice. The seam has to be just right. There’s no fixing his mother.
--
It’s impressive how much a guy can accomplish fueled by inspiration and driven to forget the only memories he has worth remembering. Doubly impressive is the amount of slack people will cut a guy when he’s got millions of dollars to plug into a project in order to make up for his inexperience and faulty designs.
Four months after Jared gets his memory back, he sells his line to a company that does most of its marketing online and distributes through eBay stores and Amazon.com. Not the most respected market, but for clothing as far out as Jared’s, probably the most exposure he can hope for at the outset. What matters is, he gets over twenty-five thousand dollars for the rights to mass produce his name brand. That’s five thousand more than he needs to gain control of his trust fund as per his grandfather’s stipulatons.
His parents are, understandably, chagrined.
Jared should be elated.
He’s not.
There are only so many bridges a guy can burn before he’s an island. Jared’s not a great swimmer.
Four months and one week after Jared gets his memory back, he uses the first dollar he’s ever earned (plus a couple hundred more, cuz what can you really buy with a dollar nowadays) and buys a dog. Well, he adopts one. From the ASPCA. (Friggin’ Animal Planet and their depressing advertisements.) Sadie’s not exactly family, and not exactly what Jared’s really missing when he decides to get her, but she won’t leave him, and she’s a terrible liar.
A week later, Jared starts a clothing line for dogs, too.
--
“That’s it! Let’s call it a day, people. See you tomorrow. Same bat time, Same bat... well, you know the drill.” Jensen tries hard to fold up his director’s chair with an ounce of civility rather than throw it across the stage. He only half succeeds, kicking it hard enough to collapse it in a heap. Then he tries not to get pissed because he has to bend over and pick it up.
“Jensen, dude, can I have a minute?” Jensen hadn’t realized Steve was still here, and now, of course, he feels like an ass for letting his temper get the best of him.
“Sure, Steve,” Jensen says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, uh...” he eyeballs the chair and shrugs, “I thought I saw a spider. Hate spiders,” he waffles.
“Yeah, uh...” Steve stammers, coughs into his hand, “anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the show.”
“So, talk.” Jensen really shouldn’t be so short with Steve, but he’s known the guy long enough to know that Steve’s gonna tell it like it is, and Jensen’s not ready to hear it from anywhere besides the nagging little voice in his pounding head.
“It’s not working.”
“What’s not working?” He reassembles his chair and slouches down into it, legs splayed, elbows on the armrests, the picture of aloof, or at least he hopes so.
“I dunno...” Steve fidgets, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt before sliding his hands into his pockets, shoulders shrugged up high as he continues to gesture with just his thumbs. “I love the idea, man. I think it’s a real winner, and I’m honored, I guess, that you picked me to star in it, but the music...”
“You knew it was a musical review and that we were using Air Supply songs when you signed on.”
“Totally. I did. I do. But, why these songs? All the gooey, sappy songs in their repertoire, and you want to end on ‘Chances?’ Way to leave things up in the air, man. And it’s not just that one, either. ‘All out of Love;’ ‘Just When I Thought I Was Over You;’ ‘I Can Wait Forever?’ Are you trying to make the most depressing musical in the history of musicals? Where’s the Hollywood ending?”
Jensen peers at him, his expression schooled as impassive as he can make it, index finger under his chin. “Not everyone gets a Hollywood ending, Steve. I think it’s more realistic without it.”
Steve huffs, thumbs splayed wide at his hips. “C’mon, man! You know the rules as well as I do. If you want to break into the business, you gotta give people what they want, and they want the happy ending.”
“Why?” Jensen shrugs. “You don’t think half the guys in the audience are gonna be there with their mistresses while their wives think they’re working late? There’s no such thing as a happy ending. Not in the real world.”
Steve jerks his hands out of his pockets and whirls around, does a 360 on his boot heel with his hands clenched in his hair. “Dammit, Jensen! Do you think I’m stupid? I know the only reason you gave this part to me instead of playing it yourself is because it IS you. And just because YOU are willing to roll over and let the best damned thing that ever happened to you walk out of your life, that doesn’t mean that’s how it’s got to be. It doesn’t mean there’s no happy ending. It just means you didn’t try hard enough.”
This time the chair falls over because Jensen stands too fast, and just one of the legs getting hooked on Jensen’s foot keeps him from landing the punch he’s ready to throw. He ends up fisting Steve’s shirt, dragging him down so their faces are within inches of each other, Jensen’s breath rasping between them. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he seethes.
“Don’t I?”
They stay like that long enough for Jensen to realize he’s on the verge of getting into a fist fight with one of his best friends. He lets go of Steve’s shirt, has an apology tied up in denial all perched at the tip of his tongue when his phone rings and gives them both the opportunity to take a step back. Glancing at the caller i.d., Jensen says, “Shit. It’s the school.” And answers.
His conversation with Steve will just have to wait.
--
It’s bad when the school won’t tell him anything over the phone and Jensen has to drive over there wondering which section of the auditorium Jake’s managed to set fire to, or which hallway he’s flooded. It’s worse when Jensen’s escorted into the principal’s office to find a full house, standing room only crowd, that includes a teacher, a guidance counselor, their social worker, Mrs. Parsons (oh, shit), and... Joey.
The little girl bursts into tears as soon as Jensen comes in, runs over, and buries her face against his leg. The first thing he registers, right after, ‘whoever made his baby sister cry is gonna die a slow death,’ is that the baseball cap is back. He hadn’t realized how used he’s gotten to having her wear her hair down, until he goes to run his hand through it to comfort her, and the cap’s in the way. He doesn’t bother shaking hands or introducing himself. He’s too busy scooping Joey up and holding her as she clings to his neck. There’s more growl in his voice than he intends... Fuck that. He’d do a lot more than growl if he didn’t think it would upset Joey more than the people he’s getting snarly with. “What, you called in Social Services before you even called me?”
Mr. Lovett, a tall, wiry man in a gray suitcoat and pants but no tie and a carefully trimmed goatee stands from behind his Principal’s desk. “Actually, we called you first. Mrs. Parsons just happened to be in the area and got here faster.”
Palming the back of Joey’s neck to keep her facing behind him and away from the confrontation, Jensen says, “Why did you call her at all? No one would even tell me anything over the phone.”
“It’s standard procedure if we feel a student is a danger to herself or himself or to anyone else,” Lovett explains. He motions toward a chair beside the door and starts to sit in his own, but Jensen stays standing, so the principal sits instead on the edge of his desk, maintaining eye contact while trying to appear unthreatening.
“She’s seven!” Jensen snaps. “What makes you think she’s a threat to anyone?” He recognizes Joey’s second grade teacher, Mrs. Berkely, from parent-teacher conferences, doesn’t feel particularly impolite for not shaking her hand as she steps forward, straightening her slacks with the palms of her hands.
“I-I heard her crying in the bathroom,” she explains, her dark eyes glassy beneath her straight-ironed bangs and half-reading glasses. “She wouldn’t come out, and I had to call the custodian, and when we got the door open...” The woman heaves a long sigh. “She’s cut off all her hair.”
“She... what?” Now his voice shakes, the tremor just a squelched version of the bravado from a second earlier. “She wouldn’t. She’s loves her hair, learned to braid it herself and everything.”
“See for yourself,” Mrs Parson chimes in, and this would all be so much easier to take in if not for her pursed lips and condescending glare.
“She still had the scissors,” Mrs. Berkely elaborates.
“Jo?” Jensen asks. “Joey? Did you cut your hair?” Her head nod is barely perceptible against his shoulder. Smoothing his hand upward, Jensen pulls the ball cap down, feels Joey stiffen against his chest as he reveals her newly shorn head, the hair cut in haphazard chunks to chin length and shorter. If the constriction in the back of his throat and the sudden need to swallow are any indicator, Jensen’s sure his eyes must be ready to run over, and he can’t get anything out of his mouth without sniffling first. “Wh-Why, baby? Why would you cut your hair?”
Joey leans back in his arms, fidgets with the button on top of her baseball cap, eyes downcast. “Mrs. Berkely said that’s what people do when they lose someone.”
“How do you mean?” Jensen asks, this time letting his eyes go past his sister and to the nervous teacher.
“We were studying Native American culture,” Mrs. Berkely explains, her voice tiny and timid. “Some tribes were known to,” she rakes her hands up and down her slacks for about the dozenth time, “to cut their hair as a sign of mourning.”
Mrs. Parsons places herself between Jensen and the teacher, her lipstick too red under her recently dyed to near black hair, shoulder pads of her wool jacket prominent over her silk blouse. “It is not the educator’s fault if children come to school with pre-existing emotional conditions and have a meltdown while under their care. They are not the primary caregivers.”
“What pre-existing emotional condition?” Jensen shrugs off choked up and hisses right back into spitting mad. Joey’s the most happy-go-lucky kid he knows, and that has nothing to do with his personal bias.
“None of the other children ran into the washroom and cut off their hair after today’s lesson, Mr. Ackles,” the principal clarifies. “It seems fairly obvious that Joey was looking for... some kind of outlet and seized on that bit of information to attain it. I know things are hard, what with you trying to raise three kids when you’re barely out of school yourself.”
“I do my best.”
“No one’s saying you don’t,” Lovett assuages, though Jensen’s fairly certain that’s exactly what Mrs. Parsons is here to say. “All we’re saying is, maybe there’s been... something going on at home recently that’s affected Jolene more than you realized.”
Jensen’s not stupid. He knows what this is about. Of course he does. Running his index finger down the bridge of his sister’s nose, he tweaks the end of it, says, “Jo, baby, do you think you can wait outside with Jill?” Everyone calls the school secretary by her first name. She went to this school herself as a kid, and anything more formal just never has fit her. Joey nods, and he sets her down, shows her out to the lobby and watches her take a chair by the front desk before waving and closing the door.
“Look,” his hands smooth through his hair, and he really wishes he’d taken that seat when offered, because his knees are starting to get a little wobbly, “I have had some personal issues recently, relationship type...issues.”
Mrs. Parsons crosses her arms. “These people tell me you were hospitalized. Is that true?”
“Not really,” Jensen stammers, ducking his eyes.
“You haven’t received medical care?”
“No, I mean, yes, I did, but they didn’t even keep me overnight.”
“What was your condition?”
“It’s none of your business,” he snaps.
“It is my business,” she counters, stepping into his personal space. “Anything that affects the welfare of those children and your ability to provide for that welfare is my business, and you’d better believe I can get those records released to me if you refuse to cooperate.”
Clasping his hands at his waist in his best attempt to square up his shoulders, Jensen says, “I had, an attack. It was stress related. A little dehydration. Nothing major.”
“And the treatment?”
“A week in bed and two off work,” he relinquishes, chewing his lower lip.
“And who cared for the minor children while you were incapacitated?”
“Jared.”
“Jared...” Parsons reaches for her briefcase. “I don’t recall seeing any Jared listed in your file--not as an emergency contact, not as trusted child care, not even as close family friend.”
“Jared was my...” His hands come unclasped, and he straightens. Fuck it. If the axe is coming down, it might as well make a clean cut. “Jared was my boyfriend. He lived with us for awhile, and then he left. It was hard on all of us. I just didn’t realize Joey was so affected.”
Mrs. Parsons’s briefcase is half-open on Lovett’s desk when Jensen finishes speaking, and it clacks shut in slow motion but loud enough to startle the poor second grade teacher. Parsons turns slowly toward him, lips pursed even more than usual. He wouldn’t have thought that possible. Seems like her whole face will crack and implode if it gets much tighter. “How long have you been... homosexual?”
Beyond pretense, now, Jensen shrugs. “The way I understand it, you’re born that way, so I guess, forever.”
“What. I mean. Is.” Her chin nods downward with every phrase for emphasis. “How long have you been a practicing homosexual?”
“Jared was my first GAY relationship.” The emphasis is his. He doesn’t see the point of pussyfooting around the topic. She might be afraid to say it, but he’s not. “Is there some sort of law that says GAY men can’t raise children?”
“No,” she snips. “However, if this is a sudden lifestyle change, and if it results in... tumultuous... AFFAIRS that end badly, then we have reason to be concerned for the children. I think today’s events are more than enough cause for me to raise a formal inquiry regarding your case.”
“You know what?” Jensen steps into Parsons’s space without regard for the way Lovett abruptly stands and the teacher reaches for the door knob. “Inquire all you want. Ask anyone. Jared was the best thing that ever happened to us. The kids loved him. He loved them. I screwed up, and now he’s gone, but don’t you dare imply that my loving another man hurt those kids.”
“Jolene is clearly hurting,” Parsons states, and he’ll be damned if she doesn’t rise on her tiptoes to do it.
“You’re right. She is. That’s my fault. So, why don’t you run back to your office and start drawing up those inquiry papers. I have a little girl to take care of, and I won’t waste anymore of her time dealing with you.”
He nods to the principal. “Give me a call if you want me to keep her home or whatever you see fit. You’ve got my number.”
Jensen spins, heads for the door, and the social worker catches him by the sleeve as he turns the knob. “Just what do you intend to do?” she asks.
“Exactly what I should’ve done a long time ago.”
Joey catches his hand when he holds it out to her on the way out of the lobby.
--
Five months after Jared gets his memory back, Jensen meets Danneel outside Austin Bergstrom International Airport. She gets out the passenger side of a stretch limousine on the upper level, looking hotter than even he remembers in a black pantsuit.
“Hey, baby,” she greets, holding out her arms, and her smile’s so open and familiar, he can’t stay even a little mad.
“Hey, yourself,” and he sweeps her into his arms.
TBC
Part Nine
