an agent of the random (riyku) wrote,
an agent of the random
riyku

fic: waiting on some beautiful boy

Title: waiting on some beautiful boy
Genre: J2 non-au
Rating: pg
Word count: 2000
Summary: Five years is a long time to wait.
Notes: written for silverbullets, and I hope I did justice to neros_violin's wonderful prompt we were young.  A million thank you's to radiophilefor the superfast last minute beta.  Title courtesy of The Killers.



waiting on some beautiful boy
we were so much older then, we're younger than that now.
-Uncle Bobby


Jared’s agent sits across the table from him, prattling on about some project, and Jared only half listens to him, staring down at his plate, chopsticks awkward in his hand and nodding at what seems to be the appropriate times. A neat little row of sushi stares back at him, like a line of colorful cartoon eyes. He’s in the midst of a slim down for a new role and he really could use a fucking hamburger and at least a grocery bag full of fries. Maybe a gallon of chocolate ice cream to wash it all down.

Rain thwacks against the plate glass window, the road outside shiny and slick. Vancouver. Almost a decade of his life spent up here, and more than five years between then and now. Jared’s surprised to find that he’s missed it--the hot summers and cold rainy winters. Gummy bear wars and snowball fights, all of it ridiculous when he thinks back on it. Kid stuff.

The toughest ten years of his life. The best, too.

His agent cuts off mid-sentence and looks to a spot to the left of Jared’s shoulder, his face splitting into a surprised grin a few seconds later. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he starts. “The Winchester brothers: the later years.”

Just then a hand falls on Jared’s shoulder, fingers squeezing tight. Jared follows the line of the guy’s arm, makes it to his elbow and thinks, Jensen. It sends a shot of adrenaline through his system, his stomach hitting the deck and his heart ramping up double time. The hand that he lifts to cover Jensen’s has suddenly gone ice cold and trembles noticeably. If Jensen feels it he doesn’t let on, only stares down at Jared with a smile that’s a bit crooked and more than a little unsure.

Jared’s hip catches the table in his rush to stand. Heads start to turn in their direction and someone gasps as something goes clattering loudly to the floor. It’s all background noise to Jared at this point, secondary to Jensen’s barely whispered, “Damn, Jared. It’s good to see you.” A slight twang haunts the edges of Jensen’s words and tells Jared that he’s spent some time down south recently.

It hits Jared like a punch to the gut, all the things he doesn’t know about Jensen anymore, but the hollow feeling eases off when Jensen pulls him into a strong, tight hug. Jensen’s damp, water beaded on the surface of his jacket, his hair plastered to his head, and Jared’s getting wet by association. He shuts his eyes for a second, hands still shaking as they find their rightful place at the center of Jensen’s back. He buries his nose in the crook of Jensen’s neck and breathes in the smell of leather and Jensen’s aftershave, familiar and grounding, even after all this time.

It’s been years, and Jared’s not over him. Not even a little.

The hug lasts perhaps a beat or two too long, but not long enough for Jared, and he has to force himself back, holding Jensen at arm’s length. The laugh lines at the corners of Jensen’s eyes are a little deeper, and the light catches scattered silver in Jensen’s hair, but last few years have been good to him.

Jensen reaches up toward Jared’s temple, one eyebrow quirked at the dusting of grey there. At the last moment, he seems to remember where he is and jerks his hand away with a self-deprecating roll of his eyes.

“It’s for a part,” Jared explains with a shrug, shoving his bangs out of his face. “I’m supposed to be distinguished.”

With a chuckle, Jensen says, “How’s that working out for you?”

“I’m an actor,” Jared replies, feigning offense. “I can fake it just fine.”

Behind them, Jared’s agent clears his throat and scrapes his chair across the floor, and Jared jumps. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” he says, offering an apologetic smile.

“It’s okay,” his agent waves his hand and stands. “I know a lost cause when I see one.” He drops a couple of bills on the table to cover the tab. “Don’t stay up too late. They need you pretty in the morning.”

“Aw, he’s always pretty,” Jensen counters and takes over the empty chair, leaning back and setting his legs in an easy sprawl. “Well, except for this one time--”

“Silence,” Jared cuts him off, and laughs when Jensen makes a show of biting his own tongue.

They order a bottle of wine and set to it. By the time the second bottle is cashed, Jared’s learned that Jensen is in town for a week doing the pre-production rigmarole for a big budget flick he’d lucked across, working as a first AD. He’s spent more time behind the camera than in front of it in recent years, and this gig might be a half-step down the ladder. Even still, he’s happy. He’s good.

Jared’s been working steadily. He’s spent almost this whole time adjusting to the sluggish pace of movie making--it takes them a month to do what he and Jensen used to do in a week--and he finally managed to land a part that doesn’t require machetes or machine guns. It’s barely a co-star billing, but Jared sees it as a break.

Their conversation runs in fits and starts, quick bursts followed by long stretches of quiet. Jared catches himself staring at Jensen while Jensen just stares right back. It should be awkward and strange but somehow it isn’t.

Jared’s dinner is ignored, slowly congealing on his plate, and Jensen gestures at it. “Since when did you start eating sushi?”

“Since I was told to lose fifteen pounds. Don’t knock it. You’re here too.”

“I came for the wine,” Jensen tells him. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Pizza?” Jensen asks.

“Fuck yeah. My place?” Jared offers. He’d rented a house for the duration of filming around the corner from where they used to live and has spent the last month pretending to not be sentimental about it. It hasn’t worked.

Jensen’s parked a few spots away from him, and Jared leans against the hood of his car, some vague panic tickling at the back of his mind as he watches Jensen’s retreating form. He shoves a slowly emerging memory away and hollers to Jensen instead.

“Sausage and extra pepperoni?”

Jensen pauses, one hand on the handle of the car door. “Does it come any other way?”

Jared calls in the order on the drive home, sight fixed mainly on his rearview mirror and the reflection of Jensen’s headlights. The delivery guy almost beats them there with a swift knock on the door while Jared and Jensen are shrugging out of their coats and shoes in the entranceway.

The kid stands in the open doorway while they fight over the bill, tossing a look back and forth between them, head set in a curious tilt. “Are you the guys?” he begins, pocketing the money that Jensen hands over.

“Probably,” Jared says and thanks him.

Jared cracks open a bottle of twenty-one year old scotch that he’d been saving for an unspecified purpose. “What?” he asks when Jensen gives him the stink-eye. “Scotch goes with everything.”


The pizza is sinful, hot and greasy and everything that Jared shouldn’t be eating right now. Jensen catches a line of grease as it drips down, licking up along the inside of his wrist, and Jared wastes a full swallow of expensive liquor at the sight of it, sputtering and wiping at his mouth.

There’s plenty of room on the couch, but Jensen sits down right beside Jared, their hips pressed together and knees knocking. They replay the highlights from their time together on set: guest stars, wrap parties, late nights and goddamn Misha Collins in all of his glorious peculiarity. Other things remain unspoken, like the unanswered phone calls from both sides, generic birthday cards and invitations ignored. Or that night, after the cast Christmas party back in ’08, and the one time when Jared came closest to telling the truth.

Jared’s morning call-time looms ever closer, but he ignores the clock and instead moves to the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee. Tradition trumps the late hour, and Jensen fumbles through Jared’s kitchen drawers like he owns the place, finding the deck of cards that has survived every one of Jared’s moves, blue Bicycles, the box held together with rubber bands. He shuffles through the cards and finds the eight of diamonds, the upper right hand corner missing.

“Keeping you honest,” Jensen says, and it’s an old inside joke, provenance and source of humor long forgotten. They snort laughter anyway and collapse into the kitchen chairs, knees bumping under the tiny table. Jensen shuffles and Jared cuts and deals out the first hand of five-card stud.

Jensen beats him soundly, hand after hand, racking up a neat little stack of pennies. Jared accuses him of cheating and Jensen claims unbeatable skill.

“You’ve got a tell,” Jensen says, leaning in close like he’s sharing a secret. He hooks his ankle around Jared’s and keeps it there. “You do the tongue thing when you have a good hand.”

Jared raises his eyebrows. “The tongue thing?”

Pointing at his mouth, Jensen curls his tongue along his canine tooth. “Like that,” he explains. “It’s the tongue thing.”

Jared catches himself doing it twice more before he finally admits defeat for the night. He pours two cups of coffee, puts just a little bit of sugar and a whole lotta cream in Jensen’s. Jensen joins him, lays a warm hand on the back of Jared’s neck as he brushes past him and makes a grab for the mug, uttering a low, happy groan at the first sip.

“Just the way I like it.” He licks his lips. “How’d you remember?”

“Some things just stick.” Jared shrugs.

“Yeah,” Jensen agrees, tucking his chin into his chest. “They really do.”

It’s probably the late hour, their shared history, Jensen’s proximity and the undeniable fact that Jared has missed him too much that’s made him read something more into it. A titter of nervous laughter bursts out of Jensen and he digs in his pocket, pulls out his keys as if he’s looking for something to do with his hands. It’s Dean’s keychain, the bullet glinting silver in the light from the stove.

“You didn’t,” Jared says, a curiously sentimental rush making his throat feel tight and his voice hoarse.

Jensen sounds just as rough when he answers, displaying the keychain in the palm of his hand. “Of course I did. Had to, you know?”

Jared covers Jensen’s hand with his own, palms together and fitting his fingers around the curve of Jensen’s wrist. Jensen’s pulse flutters against the thin skin there. So fast, but he doesn’t pull away.

Breathing out a frustrated huff, Jensen says, “We were young back then. Trying so hard to make something of ourselves. But we were just two dumb kids.” Squaring his shoulders, Jensen levels a look at him, clear, bright and just a tiny bit hopeful. He’s beautiful. He always has been. What he says next sends a shock through Jared. “I was crazy about you.”

Jared’s knees go weak at that, and some sort of weight drops away from his chest. He’s still holding Jensen’s wrist and he uses his grip to pull Jensen in closer until their bare feet knock together and their hips are flush. Jensen’s mouth is already open when Jared gets there, warm and pliant against his own. Jared’s head swims the instant Jensen buries a hand in his hair and gently tugs, angling Jared in a very specific way and licking into his mouth. He sucks on Jared’s bottom lip, and Jared shivers as some tiny thing inside of him finally clicks into place. He’s been waiting so long.

Jensen breaks the kiss but doesn’t go far, stays pressed in close to Jared, thumb running small circles on the skin right behind Jared’s ear.

Jared blinks at him, grinning through a cloud of stunned amazement. “Wait. You were crazy about me?”

“Yeah.” Jensen says with a small smile. “I always thought it was kinda obvious.”


-fin

Thanks for reading.
Tags: fic: j2, rated: pg
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