Reconciling Hollywood by Qthelights ppt

Reconciling Hollywood by Qthelights Pairing: Jensen/Misha Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 32,000 Warnings: None Disclaimer: None of this happened, no disrespect intended A/N: Dedicated to kadiel_krieger because it simply would not have gotten done without her constant support and alpha/beta work at the times when I thought it would never amount to anything. Many thanks to blue_fjords for her read through, support and ameri-pick! and cupiscent for direction advice. Summary: Misha has always prided himself on his mastery of the first impression - both giving and receiving. After all, people are easy enough to read if examined through the appropriate lens. For the last two years he's stuck to his guns and his assumption that Jensen is just a good guy who made a dick mistake back when he thought Misha was disposable. Pushed him up against a trailer door and took because he could. But now, with Jared overseas with his new bride, Jensen around more than ever, and a decision weighing heavy on his conscience, Misha realizes that truly knowing Jensen might be nearly as impossible as knowing himself. Prologue July 2008 He's only been on set for a couple of weeks. Given the screen time this entails for Castiel, he's really only been on set a few days. Officially. Unofficially, he's found himself pulled in on quite a few of his supposed days off. He could head home to LA, but there's no point really when he'll just have to turn around and get back on a plane in a week. Plus, they've put him up in a pretty nice hotel, so it's not exactly a chore. And seeing as he's in the city, well - a costume check here, makeup tests there, signing this, picking up that - he's been on the set 4 days out of 7 nearly every week since he began. It's given him a fair amount of time to acclimatise, to creep silently around and get a feel for the set and the crew. He's only going to be around for a few episodes, but if anything, that makes him want to understand more rather than less. It's an opportunity to learn even more than it's one to pad the resume. He has nothing to lose and unlike some other sets, this one is a blast. The creative vibe appeals to him in ways that working on 24 or ER never even came close to. This isn't Hollywood; this is Vancouver, and amazingly, everyone seems to want to be here - from the stars down to the set-dressers. It's refreshingly non-jaded and the enthusiasm everyone brings to the simple act of creation nourishes his soul. It's why he became an actor, after all. To create. Jared is pretty fucking funny. He hasn't had any scenes with him yet, but strangely, that seems to have no effect on how much time he's spent with him. Jared had loped up to him the first day he'd arrived and pulled him into a ridiculous hug like they were long lost friends, stage cried "It's my Angel!" and burst into uproarious laughter. Misha had been grinning in seconds and hamming it up with him in minutes. Jared was his kind of person - fucking insane and unafraid to behave like a kid because age decreed it inappropriate. Jensen had been quieter, more reserved. He held back and watched Jared maul him with a bemused smile. 'Don't mind Jared. He's just five.' When Misha replied gravely that he himself was rarely much past six, Jensen had laughed, soft and throatily, and Misha could instantly tell that while Jared was the kind of guy he loved to hang around with, Jensen was the kind he liked to fuck. Not that he thought that was about to happen. Two and a half weeks in and Misha's pretty sure Jensen doesn't swing that way. Or at least, he doesn't swing Misha's way. The protective glances thrown Jared's way make him wonder. Despite the early success at making Jensen laugh, he's not managed much of an impression since. Jensen's nice enough, absolutely. Always checking he's good, pointing him in the direction of the right people and trailers; being a perfect Texan gentleman, Misha assumes. But that's it, nothing more. There's no banter or teasing the way he secretly observes Jensen and Jared sharing in their down time between takes. No arm slung over his shoulder or scripts run through together. No going out of the way to talk when there's no reason to. Just cordial good behaviour when it can't be avoided. Secretly, he's starting to think that maybe Jensen's a bit of a jerk. He's been on other sets before, many of them actually, where the show was well established and the main actors insular and dismissive of guest cast. Where the leads have snubbed him and not bothered to learn his name, nationality or face. And while he doesn't exactly get that impression of Jensen, can't fault him on his manners, he also knows he hasn't been truly accepted. He doubts an offer is coming. Which is a pity, he thinks, as he prepares for episode two of the season, because on screen they have some pretty fucking epic chemistry. It's palpable, is what it is. Dean's anger at the angel is a slow burn of bass. Misha feels it in his bones when Jensen drops his voice, tries to match the gravel that flew out of Misha's mouth unbidden when Castiel started to speak. The anger Dean has, the resentment and pain is amazing, and the flash of fire in Jensen's eyes when they're filming is just this side shy of too intense for an audience. And fuck but does Misha love it. It's a tease, a flirt, sex in vowels and growls. And he's not above playing to it, not until a director or producer tells him to cut it out and tone it down. They haven't and so he continues. Goads Jensen with his resonance and steps just that inch too close, another until he feels Jensen's breath, Dean's words, puff against his lips. He's a professional and he's working. But Misha knows himself well enough to admit that if he didn't have to work on remembering lines and hitting marks, he'd not have enough distraction to keep himself from getting hard. As it is, it's a struggle. When Cas pushes Dean just that step too far, when Jensen's eyes glitter sharp and dangerous, Misha wants nothing more than to keep on pushing. See what it would take to get Dean to fall away and Jensen to push back. Preferably up against a wall. But then the director yells "Cut!" and Dean is gone, Jensen blinking and turning away. Resetting, calculating, picking up a script. The tension is gone. At the end of the day the most Misha gets is a 'See you tomorrow, Misha.' He watches Jensen extricate himself as quickly as he can, sees the smile that lights up when Jared comes into view. It's probably a little unfair that he thinks Jensen's a dick. But to have that chemistry on screen and have none of it translate off, even in friendship? An offer of a beer or an invitation to lounge in a comfortable trailer and watch the game? The contrast is so sharp it smarts. So he does what he always does, shrugs and places Jensen into the pile of people he doesn't need to worry about or get to know and enjoys Jared's friendlier confrontations. Ignores the way Jensen shuts up the second Jared's insanity falls on Misha. It's not his problem and he'll be done soon anyway. Live and let be miserable. Which is why, two days later after filming the scene at Bobby's for the end of episode two, when Misha has said goodbye to the crew, nodded at Jensen and headed out back to grab his things from the guest trailer, he's rather surprised to find Jensen slide up beside him, grab his wrist and yank him in the direction of his own trailer. He doesn't even have a chance to process, not that he would - he's much more a 'go with the flow, analyse the shit out of it later' kind of guy - but some advance notice might have been nice, he thinks, as Jensen pulls him up the steps and into his trailer without a word. Slams him up against the door in the dark. "Jensen, what-" he starts, but Jensen stops him by crushing his mouth to Misha's. It's quite effective as it turns out. It comes out of nowhere, but Misha's not a fucking idiot. He opens his mouth and lets him in immediately, finds Jensen's hips and pulls him in hard. Jensen's breathing is harsh and quick, his tongue slick and his hands hot where they slide under the trench-coat and yank the too large shirt out of Misha's pants. It's frantic and rushed and hot as all hell, even if Misha can barely see Jensen in the moonlight filtering in through the trailer's tiny windows. Jensen pulls back, nipping at Misha's mouth in a way so unexpectedly intimate and exposed that Misha doesn't even know what to do with it. So he chooses instead to slide his hands up under Jensen's t-shirt, Dean's t-shirt, press his palms to Jensen's flesh and follow ribs back to shoulder blades, spine and dip and ass and fuck, yes he thinks as he digs his fingertips into Jensen's ass, pulls him in and grinds his hardening cock into Jensen's pelvis. He's slammed back pretty roughly into the trailer door for his trouble, Jensen's fingers hot and insistent under his own shirt, fingertips clenching into the soft skin of his sides. Jensen groans and Misha can feel the answering hardness pressing achingly against his leg. There's a sudden influx of colder air as Jensen pulls back from him, then the pressure of hands on his crotch, rubbing the ache of him and Misha's keening low and deep in his throat. His hips thrust into Jensen's hand of their own accord, not that Misha's about to stop them, not when Jensen's fingers are on his belt, Castiel's belt, sliding and clinking and zipping and then just there, burning in their grip around him through the soft cotton of his underwear. Misha let's his head fall back with a thud against the flimsy faux- wood of the door as Jensen begins to pull and pet and knead him with his hand. Jensen's mouth finds its way to his exposed throat and teeth are biting down on the tendons of his neck, mouthing and tonguing and nipping just hard enough to hurt but not to leave marks. The frustration and anger and tension of the last few days, the suddenness of the onslaught and the fact that hey, Jensen is fucking insanely fuckable, combine and undo, and his hips are jerking in tiny little hiccups and Jensen only moves faster, harder, rougher. Goads him and works him until it's too much and Misha is coming hard and painfully fast inside his underwear. Jensen's weight as he presses against him keeps him up, allows him a moment to breathe and regain equilibrium. It's not until Jensen moves abortively against his thigh that he remembers it's only polite to return a favour. He kisses Jensen's mouth, wishes he could see if his lips are swollen, if they're dark and pink and wet, before he shimmies out from under him. He turns Jensen quickly, presses him back against the wall and drops to his knees on the dirty floor. Misha doesn't waste any time, popping the button of Jensen's jeans and lowering the zip as fast as he can carefully manage. Jensen's breath gasps quick on the intake as Misha pulls down the band of his briefs and levers Jensen's cock out. It's hot and broad against his palm and again, he wishes he had a better visual than the silver-lit outline he gets. He can feel though, and smell and taste, and all of those things tell him he wants Jensen against his tongue. Wants to suck and coax and blow until Jensen's spilling down his throat. And so he does. Jensen writhes above him as Misha tastes and licks, hollows his cheeks and pulls him in against the flat of his tongue. Misha feels his lips stretch around the width, gauges girth with his mouth and length with the back of his throat. Soft moans are spilling from Jensen's mouth and spurring him on, teasing and pulling until the moans increase in speed and intensity, punctuated with gasps and flutters of muscle under Misha's palm where it's pressed flat to Jensen's stomach in anchor. Too quickly, it's over, Jensen's hands flying to Misha's head, tangling in his hair and holding him still as he thrusts in again and again. Jensen's biting back a cry and spurting hot and salty against the back of Misha's tongue, trickling down his throat. They stay there in the dark breathing and thrumming and growing cool in the chill of the air-conditioning. Eventually Misha rises, kisses the taste of Jensen into Jensen's mouth for a long minute, sedate and slow. The moment pulls tight and threatens to break and Misha senses it's time for an exit. He does himself up and Jensen slides away into the trailer. He pauses, hand on the door and tries to make Jensen out in the dark but he can't. When he isn't stopped he slips out into the night, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He stands in the dark a moment longer, a little stunned and a lot spent. His head is too muddled to attempt coherent thought, but deep down he suspects there's churning and doubt going through it. How could there not be? When the light inside flickers on warm and bright, spilling out into the dark Vancouver night, Misha shakes himself and hurries to his trailer to collect his shit before calling a cab. It's not until much later, when he's lying boneless and shower-warm in his hotel bed, that he realises Jensen never said a word. Jensen doesn't meet his eye the next day and Misha is disappointed, but he gets it. He's there, he's fresh meat and Jensen is a guy so pretty that it makes sense he's used to taking what he wants when he wants it. It just happened to be Misha for a few insanely hot minutes. It makes him angry to be used so fucking easily, even if he was totally on board at the time. He decides Jensen really is a dick; young Hollywood royalty with pockets of cash and eyes too big for their brains. They never talk about it, and it never happens again, which confirms to Misha that he was just new and convenient - and that's all it was. Time passes, episodes go on, more get added and he almost forgets. Jensen isn't a bad guy. It turns out he just needs time to get comfortable with an interloper in the midst. They become friends. Good friends. And Misha puts Jensen's behaviour, the cold freeze and snap thaw, down to a dick move by an okay guy. It's cool, if slightly disappointing. But people often are. He moves on. * * * One May 2010 Halfway through college, when he'd needed a break and an adventure, he had spent twelve months in Nepal and Tibet. It was enlightening in more ways than one, and since then, he has made a point to spend at least two weeks of each year at a silent retreat. It's not the same as doing it halfway up a Himalayan mountain, but it's restorative nonetheless. Usually it's a Buddhist one, but really, it doesn't matter. He's there to be quiet. Very quiet. To relax and let his mind turn off or on as he chooses, but above all, to keep his mouth firmly shut. It just so happens that the Buddhist ones always seem to be the quietest. Filming wrapped three and a half weeks ago, three weeks ago he was back in LA and two weeks ago he flew to Kentucky. He'd spent the visit in glorious silence; talking to no one, having no one talk to him. No phones, no internet, no twitter. Just him. Well, him and a half dozen monks. But, generally speaking, monks weren't big on the socialising. Normally, it would have done him the world of good. He's come to rely on those two weeks getting him through the other fifty each year. Being allowed to slough off his masks, personae and commitments and the restless need to be doing and just be. Let his mind wander and sort through its mess of files, wipe away the dust and clutter. He would come back serene, beatific smile on his face and often with an abundance of energy and the uncrushable need to talk the ear off of the first person who accidentally wandered into his field of vision; pin them down and subject them to his newly rediscovered theories of life the universe and everything. Except this time. Now, as he sits in his seat waiting for the plane to refuel - or whatever it is that's making a hundred or so people wait for takeoff for going on 45 minutes after boarding - he doesn't feel serene at all. In place of the low-level thrum of contentment at his lot in life that would normally be suffusing his blood after a retreat he just feels itchy. Partly, it's the cheap nylon fabric of the airplane seat that's scratching along his arms every time he moves. Partly, it's the 5 year old in the seat next to him getting sticky red sugar over everything while his indifferent mother nurses a less-sticky baby from the aisle seat and the fact that they've been sitting on the tarmac for the last 45 while jets come and go from the bays next to them. But he can't even blame the waiting on the feeling of annoyance prickling under his skin. Not honestly, because he's been feeling it since before he unpacked his bags in the spartan stone-floored room that he's called home for the previous two weeks. Hell. Even before that, but he'd thought that was just the yearly need for concentrated solitude. Apparently not. Something doesn't feel right. It's been knocking him off kilter since the wrap party, since filming ended and Eric waved and said he'd be in touch. Since Jared clapped him on the shoulder and told him not to get in too much trouble while he was off travelling the world with his new bride, asked him to keep Jensen fed and watered for him. Since Jensen rolled his eyes and said he'd catch up with him over the break. Misha likes to think he's fairly self-aware. Granted, often he deliberately doesn't analyse things that rock and roll around in his head, but he's still fairly conscious of not thinking about them. But what's got him slipping from highs to lows, eating at his nerves and slumping his shoulders, he honestly has no idea. He feels unsettled and out of sorts, and everything he looks at is coming through that filter. It's depressing and emo and he doesn't like that he can't shake it. Generally speaking he likes his artistic bouts of depression to be deliberate forays into the accessing of dark emotions. Days of woe and misery and snappish behaviour that only his mother would recognise from teenage years gone by put on like a familiar coat when a little release is required. A little petulance wallowed in for the sake of appreciating the rest. This though, is not deliberate. And frankly, it's beginning to piss him off. He'd wandered the gardens of the monastery, sat in quiet cavernous rooms, avoided eye contact and eaten food that, well, food was a generous way to describe it. He'd scribbled in journals and burned the pages in acts of catharsis. He befriended the monastery's marmalade cat. Refused to talk to it when it rubbed up against his shins and pressed a fingertip to its nose when it mewled in a broken sort of way, because rules were rules after all, but he'd snuck it bits of cheese from the dinner table in apology. He mused on the nature of world domination and excess and happiness and all kinds of things Nietzsche would have had problems with. It should have let his mind unwind, soothed his jangled nerves and uncertain heart. Rejuvenated his joie de vivre. But it didn't. And that unnerves him more than anything. His mood isn't being helped any by the gnawing hunger in his stomach, mind. He'd gone with a no frills airline to save a little money; by habit more than anything else given that he finally had enough money in the bank to relax a little bit. It meant no food was going to be forthcoming, even if they wouldn't serve anything until they were in the damned air. Sure, he could spend an exorbitant amount of money on a minuscule bag of peanuts, but really, even his hungry stomach won't allow him to just throw money away, although he can afford it. Misha eyes the plump child next to him as it waves the lollipop around in a dangerous curve of sugary stain. He wonders what it says about him that he'd sooner consider stealing candy from a baby than pay ten dollars for peanuts. Probably nothing good. Biting back a sigh, he turns his gaze out the window and tries to ignore the chatter of increasingly irate passengers around him as he watches the sun shimmer off the tarmac in waves of heat. After two weeks of nothing but his own head, the noises seem sharper and more insidious, ricocheting around his cranium and settling an ache down in the base of his skull. It's all a little too much. Idly getting his phone out, he taps around the internet for a few, thinks about twitter and in a rare fit of sanity thinks better of twittering his snark out into the world. Which should be a clue as to just how not right he's feeling. When he gets back to LAX he was planning to just catch a cab, or if there's a wait, the bus. He used to have half the bus routes in LA committed to memory from rambling excursions, auditions and general life. It alarms him that he can't even bring to mind the number of the route he'd get from the airport back to home. When did he lose that? Fuck it. It's too much and too hard and though it pains him to do it, he finds himself bringing up Jensen's number, sending a text. misha collins: up wall. candy from bb. taxi = can't be fucked. send driver prty pls? wn645 mci to lax 5:23. Jensen's driver, and Misha can't even believe that he has something as celebri-bratty as a 'driver,' is actually a pretty good one. Punctual, discrete, quiet. It's the quiet that Misha is focusing on right now. God help him but he doesn't think he can handle having to make small talk with a chatty cab driver. Not after the almost four hours he's going to have to be in the air in a small enclosed cabin of sheer noise. And that's assuming they actually take off sometime in the next century. His phone vibrates in his hand and the screen lights up with the blue bubble of Jensen's answering text. jensen ackles: no worries. consider it organised. safe flying and don't eat any babies. Misha follows through on the sigh this time, relieved that he has one less thing to think about. Plugging his earphones into his iphone he selects music at random and leans back into the seat, wills the time to snap and bend and deliver him to Los Angeles before he can blink. Somehow, as a cherry-flavoured candy is brought down on his knuckles followed by a delighted high- pitch laugh and a frazzled "David!", he doesn't think it will. * * * Exiting the main terminal Misha heads straight for the outside world. All he has is a duffel with his now dirty clothes so there was no need to check any luggage, no need to jostle at the carousel or scrutinize each bag to make sure it was really his. His nerves feel even more frayed, tension jangling down his spine with each step closer to freedom. 'David' had not behaved himself on the flight. And while normally he might try and engage the little human in riddles and puzzles, teach him the importance of a liberal education or celery or some such nonsense, the red sticky film covering his jeans and sleeve had made him disinclined to play nice. Instead he'd glared at the mother, who it turned out was fairly immune to death glares from random surly strangers given she was dealing with a bratty kid and baby and traveling on her own. She'd just shrugged, what am I going to do?, and turned back to trying to get the baby, currently whimpering on the verge of bawling, to feed. Consequently, the last 3 and half hours Misha would really really like to forget. Or possibly drown in a haze of alcohol. The light of Los Angeles is bright, even in the wavering afternoon sun, a solid wall of white encroaches into the gloom inside. Misha shields his eyes with a cupped palm, gaze searching for the black town car and suited driver. He can't see it, or him, and he can already feel his blood pressure nudging up a notch when he glances right once more and sees Jensen instead, leaning casually against his dark blue SUV in the pick-up/drop- off lane. Not what he was expecting. What the hell? The idea was for someone to pick him up so that he didn't have to interact. He can already feel his inner brat aching to lash out and wound, despite the fact that all that has happened is that someone has done him a favour. It wasn't one he asked for. Misha carefully schools his face into poker blank, smiles tightly as he approaches. Jensen's smile is wide and lazy in comparison. "Hey," Misha says when he's close enough for Jensen to hear. "What happened to your guy?" Jensen shrugs lightly, still smiling. He pushes off the car and offers out a hand to take the bag slung across Misha's shoulder. "Had another engagement, thought I'd save him the trouble of calling around. How was your trip?" "Um, yeah good," Misha says, momentarily thrown by the change in plans. He lets Jensen take his bag, watches him throw it in the back seat and open the drivers side door. With a shake to bring himself back to reality - because really, Jensen picking him up is not something that should fucking throw him - he steps forward, opens the car door and hitches himself up into the seat. Jensen pulls out into the stream of cabs and traffic inching towards the exit, fumbles in the glove compartment and pulls out a pair of sunglasses to slip on. Misha wishes he had his with him. "You really didn't have to pick me up. I would have gotten a cab." Jensen snorts, glances at him but Misha can't tell what his expression is beneath the mirror of the lenses. "And have your pretty ass all pissy at me for the whole summer?" Misha lets his lip curl in a wry smile. "So really, it was just because you're a selfish prick who doesn't have Jared as entertainment for the summer?" This time Jensen grins. "Pretty much." "Lucky me," Misha retorts, does a passable job at keeping the sarcasm out of his tone. He turns his gaze out the window, watches the industrial wasteland blur past the window. Welcome to LA. He waits for Jensen to say something. Defend considering Misha a bff-sidekick-replacement while Jared tours the Andes or Vesuvius or whatever the fuck he was doing. Question him further about the trip. Start yammering on about the latest call from Jared or, fuck, talk about how he separates his lights from his darks for all Misha knows. He really doesn't give a crap what the talk is, he just knows he doesn't want to do it. But strangely, Jensen remains silent. And it's not even uncomfortable. Jensen seems happy to play chauffeur, navigate the freeways and smog, happily eating up the road, one hand on the wheel, fingers tapping lightly, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. Misha's surprised, and kind of grateful. He leans his head back against the headrest and dozes in the afternoon sun. When he blinks his eyes open again he's outside his own house and Jensen's hand is warm on his wrist, softly waking him with a tap. "Go get some rest, man. You look beat," Jensen says gently. His sunglasses have migrated to the top of his head and Jensen's eyes are a dark olive in the fading light. Misha can only nod in agreement, he reaches between the seats and hauls his bag over. Tugging the door handle open though he pauses, blinks sleepily at Jensen, back-lit by the orange-tinged smog sunset. He gestures with a wave at the steering wheel. "Thanks for the ride. Sorry I went narcoleptic on you." Jensen smiles, doesn't seem in the least bit put out. "Hey, you needed a lift, not a sparring partner." Misha wipes a hand down over his mouth, tries to pull alertness into his fading muscles. "Still appreciate it." He nods one last time and unfolds himself out of the car, watches as Jensen reverses back into the street, one arm over the passenger seat as he twists for a better view. It's not until the brake lights slow at the end of Misha's street that he realises he's still standing there, watching Jensen leave. * * * Two Three days later and Misha still hasn't shaken the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something is wrong and apparently his subconscious has no intention of cluing him in. He's started at least a half-dozen projects and as many books, but he has no patience for any of them. The pile of junk he pulled from the closet with every intention of sorting and taking to Goodwill remains in the corner of his bedroom where he pushed it in frustration. Maps of the Los Angeles area lie unfolded and scattered over the living room floor where he gave up plotting a hiking escapade. Vegetables from the farmers market began their slow march to decay in the fridge after he lost the will to cook them into an epic vegetable lasagna. He'd managed to clean the terrarium, at least. Although that had only gotten him his fingers snapped at for the trouble. Turtles had no sense of fucking gratitude. Terrapins, man. It's when he's standing in the lounge room, actively contemplating just plonking himself down on the couch and doing nothing, or even worse, buying a fucking television, that he finally gets sick of himself, weird mood be damned. He heads back into the bedroom, sidestepping the weird assortment of sports equipment, art supplies and strangely disturbing fan-given pony collection, and finds a pair of shorts from what's left of the clothes quotient. Pulls them on and slips out of the sweater he's wearing to leave just his ratty old gray UC t- shirt. One sneaker he finds underneath the bed, but it takes a brief re-arrange of mess to locate the other under an errant lacrosse stick that he didn't even know he possessed until two days ago. He likes to run. It's his thing. Jared and Jen can have their ridiculous custom gym follow them around on set, but Misha isn't about to set foot in it anymore than he's gonna hire a personal trainer to the stars. Or a bodyguard. Or a stylist. He's done just fine without such things for 34 years, and a good portion of those years with a great deal less, like houses or money, for example. And there's just no good way he'll ever be able to justify having someone pick out his fucking shirts for him. Even if he only has about five. What you can do, rich or poor, is run. And so he runs. Locking the door behind him and slipping the key into his sock, Misha makes his way out into the unseasonably chilled Los Angeles air. He heads north in the direction of the Santa Monica mountains, starting out at a walk and then easing into a slight jog. The pavement is jarring under his feet, hard and unforgiving despite the spattering of pine needles, but even that begins to fade as he lets the calming influence of the repetition soothe him. The world narrows down to step after step, the crunch of gravel. His breathing sucking in and bursting out. The burn of his muscles as they stretch up his calves and thighs. It allows him to just be. Beside him houses begin to blur out of focus as his mind focuses inwards. It'd be awesome if he could just reach in and rearrange some shit. Move some piles of detritus, clear out some old crap, do a bit of light dusting. Unfortunately, he's fairly sure it'd be about as useful as the closet cleaning had been the other day. Though possibly his brain matter wouldn't end up all over the floor. There may also be fewer ponies. Or maybe not. The air is cool on his skin, washing away the heat of sweat that threatens to break. He can feel the tension loosen its grip on his lungs as the streets turn into other streets. The slow ache of tiredness threatening to overwhelm, to draw him to little more than a crawl, but he pushes on, ignores it and leaves it behind until nothing is left but the nirvana of nothingness. Freedom. The thing about running, Misha long ago learned, is that it requires nothing but time, and while it accomplished little tangible, it was head and shoulders above doing nothing with the same time. And so he could do it and not feel guilty about putting aside the chore of conquering the world. He lets his mind wander, swim in the emotions that have been plaguing him in the hopes that a 'why' will come to the forefront. Nothing is forthcoming, but it does pull into focus the fact that something is making him antsy. Being back in LA helps, being home. And maybe that's all it is, just an epic case of homesickness. It's not something he's had to deal with before, despite spending the majority of his childhood in the north east, they never really had a 'home' as such. Just a series of houses and apartments they lived in, and for a little while, a car. It was always new, and never his. Schools were always changing with the locale, and so even finding his own people wasn't easy. Being the class-clown helped of course. Meant that people gravitated toward you rather than away, or at the very least, put up with you out of entertainment value. But really, it wasn't until he moved to LA that he felt like he'd found somewhere that was his. A whole city of class clowns. Artists and poets, strangers and vagrants, wanderers, hippies, idealists, pessimists, creators and the clinically insane. His kind of people. People with stories and dreams. And it was glorious. Every time he's away, it feels just a little bit better to be home again. The irony isn't lost on him that the one time he gets his creative big break, filming Supernatural, it's away from his city of creation. And if he's honest? He resents it. Just a little bit. Perched up high on horizon of the hills to his left the Hollywood sign glints in the early morning light. It’s an absurd sight, the giant white lettering in the midst of the mountain, so incongruously unnatural that he quite adores it. Labelling a mountain in the name of superficiality. Often he focuses on the sign as he jogs up and down the hilly terrain, lets himself muse on the nature of celebrity and production, the history, [...]... go to bed before 2) rather than whether tomorrow is Monday When he pulls into the drive of Jensen’s place, all palms and pillars and about three times the size of Misha’s place, even if still paltry by Hollywood standards, there’s already a battered truck in the drive next to Jensen’s SUV He doesn't recognise it Jensen answers the door in jeans and a flannel shirt Bare foot His hair is flat and messy,... up, invited or not, then Misha is going to be absolutely fucking pissed *** As it turns out, he has no need to be They've garnered a small army by the time Jensen turns up Only a couple of whom Misha even knows, but he's good with that Adores the fact that by virtue of coloured paper and a pile of odd junk they can attract similar souls from all through LA like a homing beacon for creativity They're... clothes, Misha? I'm not going to complain." Jensen's voice comes deadpan down the line Misha feels the laughter bubbling up his throat, silent but more genuine for it "When do I need to be pretty by? " "I'll swing by around 6 Oh and there's a thing afterwards that might be cool See how we go." Misha has no idea what such a thing might be, but he finds he agrees with the sentiment They'll see how they go... the theatre lobby, quieter and less frenetic, despite the amount of people milling about There’s no one waiting to catch up with them though Jensen stops and turns to Misha, grinning “Old trick I learned from an anti-social friend once Gets you through the line without being hassled or pissing off paparazzi.” “Dude,” is all Misha can think to say, at once impressed and somewhat turned on by the devious... approaching normal and Misha has to hustle to keep up Jensen goes straight to the bouncers bypassing the line and half the people waiting bend and stretch to see who the person is that’s famous enough not to have to wait Misha doesn't have a problem using fame for things, as long as they're things he thinks he should get by virtue of being a human anyway Respect, decency, manners Sometimes being famous means... stereotype? Who fucking knows Mainly, he’s probably just pissed that Jensen had him believing that a down to earth guy can remain so, despite the sway of material trappings and a bit of sparkle brought on by Hollywood That Jensen was immune to the shit that Misha is sure will eventuate if he signs the contracts sitting under piles of stuff on his table Instead Jensen has lived up to exactly what Misha thought... “Hey,” Misha says, can’t help but smile just a little wider than normal Jensen smiles back, but he seems somewhat on edge “Hi What are you doing here?” “Was out jogging, you were nearby,” he answers “Thought I'd come by and say hello.” Jensen stares forward at the dogs, but looks at Misha out of the corner of his eye “Wasn’t sure I’d be your favourite person, right now.” Misha shrugs “I try not to... mouth Jensen raises an eyebrow at him "You sound surprised by your own answer." Misha laughs softly, at himself "Yeah Maybe I am." Jensen is shaking his head "I dunno Seems like something you might want to figure out if you don't want to go batshit in this industry." Misha nods, because maybe Jensen's right, and they fall comfortably silent By the time Jensen stands up and calls the trio of monsters... all Generally, lifechanging decisions are best left to life to decide and human interference just makes things messy When he was interning at the place that he doesn't like to name anymore, surrounded by bitchy politicians and star-struck staffers, he knew, deep in his gut, that it wasn't going to be for him Changing the world, it had seemed, was not done where people traditionally thought it was Still,... cupboards - paper, plastic, glue, sparkles, rope - when his phone starts mocking him from the coffee table in an apparent attempt at deja-vu It's Jensen again "We have to stop meeting like this," Misha says by way of greeting "True enough," Jensen replies with a chuckle "So what are you up to?" Misha juggles a roll of cling-wrap from the kitchen drawer that sticks when it isn't opened at just the wrong angle . Reconciling Hollywood by Qthelights Pairing: Jensen/Misha Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 32,000 Warnings: None Disclaimer:. miserable. Which is why, two days later after filming the scene at Bobby's for the end of episode two, when Misha has said goodbye to the crew, nodded at Jensen and headed out back to grab his. anything. His mood isn't being helped any by the gnawing hunger in his stomach, mind. He'd gone with a no frills airline to save a little money; by habit more than anything else given that