The Rock On Which I Stand (A Sort of Fairy Tale 4/14)

Title: A Sort of Fairy Tale
Chapter: Four: The Rock On Which I Stand
Fandom: SPN RPS
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Warning/spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1060
Rating: PG
Summary: Misha loves Jensen. Jensen is … getting there.
Chapter four summary: “And then you come along with your crazy hair and fairy tales and Tao and big feet and I’m just …”
Notes: Thank you to for beta.

day four: Reproductive rights/motherhood

Both Jared and Jensen have a little too much to drink tonight. Misha feels slightly sauced himself, so Genevieve takes it upon herself to drive them back to the house; and since she is a small little thing, Misha goes along to the boys’ house and doesn’t leave her to handle those two giants on her own.

They first wrangle Jared into his bed (Jared gropes them both as if he’s not sure which one is his fiancée) and then Jensen, who is looser than usual but not as free with his hands. In the hallway, to the sound of Jared slurring through the same two lines of whatever Loverboy song had been playing on the bar’s jukebox when they left, Misha and Genevieve exchange comrades-in-arms looks and Genevieve stands up on her toes to kiss Misha’s cheek.

“Are you going to stay or should I call you a cab?” she says.

“I think I’ll stay, unless Jensen kicks me out.”

She laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder as she saunters down the hall to rejoin Jared. “He’s not going to kick you out.” She closes the door just enough to muffle Jared’s foghorn singing, and peers out to remind Misha, “Shut the door all the way unless you don’t mind the dogs coming in.”

“Yes, ma’am. Good night, ma’am.” He goes into Jensen’s room, which is currently dog-free. He assumes they’re on Jared’s bed already, and gently shuts the door.

(If they scratch at the door and cry, he’ll open it again. In matters furry and affectionate, he has no defenses. Jared’s dogs have figured this out about him already.)

Jensen sits on the edge of the bed, having successfully removed one boot, and looks up at Misha and blinks a few times. “You’re sleeping with me tonight.”

Misha hesitates, uncertain of his tone, but only for a moment. “Yes,” he says and joins Jensen on the edge of the bed. His sneakers toe off easily, but Jensen is still confounded by knots and laces. He finally gives up and flops onto his back, catching Misha’s shoulder on the way down. Misha falls back with a startled squawk, but doesn’t complain once Jensen wraps himself around him and lays his head on Misha’s  chest. Misha cradles him in one arm and pats his hair, most content.

“Was gonna let you fuck me tonight,” Jensen mutters eventually and Misha rolls his eyes at the ceiling.

“You had to get drunk first? Thanks. Very flattering.”

“No. That just sort of … happened.” He rests his chin on Misha’s chest and blinks at him again, eyes startling in their depth and beauty, his skin flushed under his tan. “The flesh is willing, dude.”

“It’s not going to happen tonight, anyway. There are rules about this kind of thing.”

Jensen snorts and moves off him. “You don’t follow rules.” He gets to work on his shoe again. Misha takes pity on him and takes hold of his foot.

“Hold still.” He bats Jensen’s hand away, and then bats it away again, so he can get the knot in the laces undone. “There are a few rules I follow. That’s one. The other is …” He coaxes the knot open by rubbing it between his fingertips, and smiles at Jensen before he pulls the laces loose enough to remove the boot. “The other is, be like a leaf on a river.”

“No more New Age shit,” says Jensen and pulls Misha to him by his t-shirt. Their mouths meet clumsily, Misha because it’s awkward on his knees like this and Jensen because he’s pretty much seeing three of everything, but then Misha finds a place to put his knees and his hands and Jensen figures out which one is the actual Misha, and they settle into a comfortable rhythm, their rhythm, the beat and cadence of this thing between them.

“It’s not New Age shit,” Misha says when Jensen’s mouth leaves his to taste his neck. He grasps Jensen’s shoulder, slightly damp through his t-shirt. He smells like aftershave and sweat and cigarettes. On Jensen, it’s delicious. “It’s, it’s,” he has a hard time remember what he’s talking about, the way Jensen is sucking on his artery, “it’s Tao.”

Jensen licks Misha’s neck and slouches against the headboard. In the dim light of his single bedside lamp Jensen’s eyes are in shadow, and it’s hard for Misha to gage what he means when he says, “Why are you in love with me?”

Misha tilts his head. Yes, it’s a Castiel-ish thing to do. Sometimes he is more like Castiel than he’d like to admit. “Do you even have to ask that?”

“Yeah, I do. I’ve been burned, man. I’ve been burned. Boys and girls alike. People who’ve wanted me for the parties I could get them into or the pictures that would get taken of them with me, or because they just wanted to say they’d been with me. And then you come along with your crazy hair and fairy tales and Tao and big feet and I’m just …” He shrugs and raises his hands in surrender.

Misha takes his hands and folds their fingers together loosely. He almost tells Jensen a story about a prince who was snatched away from his castle by a flock of dragons (Do dragons come in flocks? Or do they come in prides, like lions?) but then got rescued by a doe who turned out to be a goddess under a curse, but instead says, “Your green eyes. I’m helpless when it comes to beautiful eyes.”

“I’m serious.”

Misha frowns, considering. He says, “Serendipity,” and Jensen, after a moment, nods like it makes perfect sense. His hands relax in Misha’s grip.

“So this isn’t another one of your games.”

“No game.” Misha uses Jensen’s hand to trace an X over his chest. “Cross my heart.”

It’s indicative of them, that while Misha has Jensen’s hands captured in his, Jensen is free to move them or even take them away. It’s indicative of them that he doesn’t, but instead lets them rest in Misha’s as they kiss. And it’s indicative of them that they fall asleep on top of the coverlet, denim-clad legs tangled together and Jensen deep and warm in Misha’s arms, and that in the morning they both will smell like sleep and stale cigarette smoke and neither of them will care.

You’re the one I wanted to find
And anyone who
Tried to deny you
Must be out of their mind

♪ “Green Eyes”—Coldplay

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