Nothing Up My Sleeve
SPN RPF. Misha/Jared + ensemble (Jensen, Sebastian, Chad M., Danneel, Jeff). NC17.
Gangster AU. There are worse ways to spend a Friday night. ~5100 words
Eleven o'clock and all is well in this fine city, as long as your name isn't Chad Michael Murray.
"Look, man, I don't know where the money is," Murray babbles. "Kane was supposed to drop it off, and Kane never showed."
"Do you like hanging upside down?" Jared asks. "One time we hung a guy upside down just like this and he pissed himself. That got a little messy."
"Where's the money?" Misha asks. “Barring that, where's Kane?"
"I have no fucking idea!"
Misha stretches the garter around Murray's head and snaps it back over his mouth. It works in lieu of a more traditional gag.
They had to move fast to catch up with Murray. It was why Misha took it upon himself to borrow Sebastian's Maserati, the contents of which are as follows: three hundred and fifty seven dollars, two hundred and thirteen euros, a Lionel Richie CD, last month's Esquire, three condom wrappers (two under the seat, one on the passenger seat), the subtle but distressing smell of post-coital funk, a silk garter (aforementioned), and one cherry-red stiletto pump.
"Some poor lady," Jared said, turning the pump over in his hands as Misha drove them to the docks, "is walking around town with just one shoe."
And Jared is still holding the pump now, arms crossed and tapping the heel against his chin as he contemplates their man. "Maybe I can threaten to poke his eyes out with the heel again."
"It's our lucky shoe, after all," Jared muses.
And maybe he's not wrong about that. Upon seeing them drive up in the Maserati, Chad Murray ran like the lightning shat him, and Jared was out of the car and on his tail before Misha even pulled over. Murray was wily and fast, skidding around corners and knocking things down for them to jump over like this was fucking parkour. Jared and Misha are used to chasing down Murray's ilk and the docks are familiar territory, but it was clear their quarry was going to get away if something drastic didn't happen soon.
Something red flew across Misha’s vision and thwacked Murray in the back of the head.
Murray went down.
Misha blinked. What—"The fuck?"
Jared pumped his fist in the air. "Little League, man!" He beamed at Misha. "I played short stop."
"Go team,” Misha said appreciatively.
"Was that the shoe from Sebastian's car?"
"I forgot to drop it when we started running."
Misha only accepts these kinds of answers from Jared.
"I am," Murray mumbled when they pulled him up, "concussed?"
"You don't sound too sure about that," said Misha. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
He patted Murray's shoulder. "You're fine."
So here they all are, same old Friday night, same old darkened warehouse, stalemated by Kane's infinite dickery. Jared had mentioned to Misha that this Christian Kane guy seemed like the sketchy sort, and though Misha had agreed, it wasn't their place to say anything to the boss. Even on the other side of law and order, there is still order. There is vicious self-policing. You don't flout the order here because this side doesn't have Miranda rights – they just have men who know how to break bones.
"I don't know where the fucking money is," Murray insists, maybe. It's difficult to understand him through the garter.
"We should take him to Jensen's," Jared says, and Murray lets out a horrified wail.
Misha frowns. "That's your answer to everything. We can do this one ourselves."
"No, man. We have to meet that guy in the place to pick up the thing."
Misha checks the time on his phone, and yeah, time flies when you're questioning the incessantly panicked. He pats Murray's cheek and goes for a smile, the one that makes people say "stop that" and back away. A little theatrical perhaps, but Chad Murray seems like a guy particularly susceptible to theatrics. "Looks like it's your lucky day, buddy. Or Jensen’s lucky day, maybe."
Murray starts babbling through the garter again, and Misha's phone rings. The name that flashes across the screen – due to Jared's edits after meeting the guy – is 'Sebastian Douché'.
"Yello," Misha answers.
"You fucking bastards," Sebastian yells. "Where the fuck is my car?"
"Oh, yeah," Jensen says as they stand around ignoring the thumps from the trunk. "It's cool, totally fine. Not like I had plans to go out or anything, always happy being at your beck and call to pry the truth from dandy young shmucks. You want a hot towel too? I think I got a mint somewhere."
"Do your fucking job," is all Jared says, albeit cheerfully.
"It's not a job," Jensen snaps. "It's a favor. It's a system of favors you can't repay, and you curry the next favor so the last one doesn't kill you. It's a trap. It's a system of traps. You know what I'm saying?"
"Okay, so between Misha and I, who's the trap and who's the favor?"
"We can't both be both?" Misha asks, amused.
Jared holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm not the trap and favor expert here."
"Fuck you," Jensen says irritably.
Jared grins and slings an arm around Jensen's shoulders. "You're a pal."
Misha is never sure how much of Jensen's bitterness is serious. Certainly it's real, but he wonders how much of it is dangerous. Jensen Ackles is all aloofness and politic smiles, but something about Jared makes him let down his defenses. Misha understands the feeling. When Jensen's defenses go down, his vitriol and unwise opinions come up, and Jared never outright agrees with any of them, but would occasionally ask leading questions, as if collecting the information for later. Basically when they go see Jensen, Misha lets Jared take the lead. There is something honed and concentrated about Jensen Ackles that confounds him, but Jared just barrels on through with a grand show of pretending he doesn't know any better. To Misha's utter lack of surprise, it works.
After they transfer Murray to Jensen's back room - no mean feat, Misha might add - Jensen walks them back to the car. "I'll call you in the morning."
"Call us tonight," Jared says.
"Sweet ride, by the way."
"Thanks," Jared and Misha chorus, then they frown at each other.
On the way to the pick-up with the guy at the place, Sebastian calls five - six? - times.
"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm fucking busy, I'll call you fucking later," Misha says, sounding more annoyed than he feels. He decides at the last second to not run a red light.
Jared says, "Just hang up, man."
Sebastian rambles on. "It's all well and good, you know, you do what you want, that's fine – poker night at Danneel's goes on with or without you – but what I don't understand, Collins—"
"Misha, just hang up."
"—is why you felt the need to take my car. Was that necessary? Please answer me seriously, you bollock-coddling, shitfucked wanker."
"Your car is faster," he replies simply. "Have you seen Jared's piece of shit junkheap?"
Jared affects a hurt tone. "Hey."
"And you plan to inflict the same fate on my car?" Sebastian asks.
This guy, sometimes. "Look, we got a call straight from the boss. The Kane-Murray deal fell through. It's all fucked up. Kane's gone, and we had to stop Murray from pulling the same disappearing act. Since Jared's car has one foot in the grave, we decided to borrow yours—"
"'We'?" Jared raises his eyebrows. "We decided?"
"—so quit being a goddamn baby, you goddamn baby. Your car is fine."
"Green," Jared says, and Misha taps the gas.
"Hello?" he says, because suddenly there is the sound of a scuffle and the words "gimme" and "fuck off" Then, to Misha's delight, Danneel is on the line.
"Misha?" she gasps, giddy with booze. "Do you know how hard it is to play poker when one of your players keeps making phone calls at every raise?"
"It's his tell. Bet big."
"Where'd you and Jared run off to? We miss you."
"I don't!" someone yells in the background. Rob? Aldis?
And then Sebastian again. "That car costs more than your life. You break its heart, I break your legs."
Jared grabs the phone out of Misha's hand and snaps it shut.
Misha gives him a sidelong glance. "Oh, well, feel free."
"We're almost there. Eyes on the prize, man. You always do this."
"You let yourself get distracted."
"I wasn't distracted when we were going after Murray."
"So don't let yourself get distracted with this." Misha's phone rings again, and Jared turns it off. "You two are like little girls pulling each other's pigtails, I swear."
"Are you gonna give me back my phone?"
Jared does and Misha puts it back in his pocket, then Jared rests his arm on the back of the driver's seat. This is another fact of Jared: he takes up a lot of space, some of it yours. When he sits, he sprawls. When he leans forward, he looms. It's difficult to not let him in; that's just survival tactics, else he just edges you out altogether. Jared's fingers brush against the back of Misha's neck, and he knows it isn't an accident. Misha leans back, eyes on the road – a busy road now, the sidewalks teeming with weekend revelers – and Jared traces some unknown hieroglyph on Misha's neck.
"What were you just saying about distraction?" Misha asks, but again, he sounds more irritated than he actually feels. He actually doesn’t feel irritated at all.
Jared says, "Yeah," and stops, but keeps his hand where it is.
They are professionals first and foremost, but their line of work necessitates sharing the same gruesome secrets and humoring the same conspiracies. It's not that Misha finds it comforting – comfort is a moot point at this juncture – but there are certain constants to which he has become accustomed. Maybe later, when he is older and taking stock of his life, he will have the calmness for regret, but right now this life lives fast and hard. Misha rolls with the punches and whatever other physicality crosses his path.
Look, it had been a while.
The first time it happened, they were drunk but not that drunk, so they had nobody to blame but themselves. Even so, the details of it are hazy due to a combination of high spirits, high-grade whiskey, and the ease between them that had always been there, steady but inchoate. When Jared kissed Misha, it felt like coalescence.
When Misha is inclined to dissect it, he works backwards. For example, Exhibit A would be him with his eyes closed, head thrown back against the wall, panting. Jared’s breath ghosting his ear. Exhibit B would be Misha gasping, "Fuck," and, "Yeah," and Jared wasn't saying anything at all, just jacking Misha off hard and fast as Misha clung to him, just trying to stay upright, and oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—
Exhibit C was Jared sucking a kiss onto Misha's neck and wrapping his hand around Misha's cock. Exhibit D: the taste of whiskey. Warm mouths, pliant lips.
Exhibit E. Misha watching with the patient curiosity of the well-buzzed as Jared, instead of lifting his arm from Misha’s shoulders, let it slip down to his waist, curling his fingers against his side. There was a look on Jared's face that was halfway between anticipation and – not nervousness, Jared doesn't do nervous, but he looked watchful. He looked ready to retreat at the slightest rebuke. Misha found himself enchanted by it. Vulnerability was not a thing Misha was used to seeing on this guy. Jared drew closer like it was a question, and Misha had an answer, so hold on to your hats.
And then F: Jared's expansive laughter as he draped his arm around Misha’s shoulders and crowed, "You arrogant dick." Misha had been telling a story about the time Sebastian tried to stiff some uptown bar because they fucked up his martini, and come to think of it, Misha can no longer recall which part Jared had been laughing at. Maybe it was the part with the sushi platter. That part is Misha's personal favorite, the potted plant being a close second.
Exhibit G: all that adrenalin still pumping through him, and Jared saying, "Motherfuck. What a night. You wanna come up for a drink?" His hair falling over his eyes, and the dim light softening his features, making his smile look like a secret, or the promise of one.
Come to think of it, maybe this whole thing started long before that night. Maybe it was somewhere in the several coincidences of touch and lingering glances that peppered their history. Misha's habit of observing people and Jared's habit of assuming that someone is always watching. Misha's curiosity. Jared's shamelessness. Perhaps it started years ago, that night Sebastian, Danneel, and himself took the new guy out for drinks. After introductions, Jared had asked with utter sincerity, "Isn't Misha a girl's name?"
"I do look good in high heels," Misha conceded, and Jared guffawed and slapped his back, and directed half his jibes at him for the rest of the night.
"What's your deal, man?" Jared asked when Danneel and Sebastian stepped out for a smoke.
Misha could have asked Jared the same thing. Instead he said, "With or without the heels?" and Jared bought him another drink.
The pick-up goes without a hitch, much to the relief of all involved. Jared phones the boss as Misha drives them over to Jeff's, who takes the packages and offers Jared and Misha a shot for their troubles and the road. And hey, did Jeff hear about the shit with Kane and Murray? Sure did. Well, now the fucker's with Jensen. Poor bastard. Jeff shook his head in simultaneous sympathy and amusement.
"I guess we should return Seb's car," Jared says.
Misha raises an eyebrow. "Should we?" And Jared laughs.
On the drive home, Jared asks, "Who do you think this belongs to?"
Misha glances over and he is dangling the pump on two fingers. "What's your obsession with that shoe?"
But he knows it's not the shoe. Jared is a fidgeter, a jiggler of knees and tapper of tables. If it weren't someone else's stiletto pump in his hand, it would be something else. The Esquire magazine might start losing parts of its pages to Jared crumpling them up into little balls. Misha has seen him demolish an entire travel brochure this way.
Jared starts spinning the shoe by the heel, like it's a noisemaker. "Do you think they miss it? Do you think they went out to buy another pair?"
"Yes, and maybe."
"I think it's no and no."
They fall into their usual mindless banter, which helps pass the time when they get stuck in traffic. Debating the trivial is Misha's de-stresser of choice, and he has lost track of the number of times he and Sebastian have viciously pondered whiskey vs. vodka over glasses of whiskey or vodka. Pacino vs. De Niro by era, genre, co-stars, and general Hollywood cool. Initially Jared had no patience for these rhetoric games, preferring to distract rather than engage, but in time, he too was browbeaten into it, if only out of a sense of self-preservation in the face of Misha's conversational hoops. It's not only patience that one needs to manipulate trivia; one needs stamina, and Jared has that in spades.
He has his hand on the back of Misha's seat again, his other hand waving the shoe around and stabbing the air to emphasize his points. Misha takes advantage of the unmoving traffic to lean against the window and just watch him, this man with his fucking hippie hair and endless energy. People think Jared is easy to read because he is friendly and loud, but the truth is that his habit of affection only makes his true motivations harder to discern. Jared is the kind of person with whom you must know what you want or else you get caught up in a whirlwind of consequences, and who knows where that might end?
The thing is, that time in Jared's apartment wasn't the only time. Not long after that, Exhibits H through L happened in the bathroom of a seedy bar in Chinatown. M through O was in an alley that smelled of piss and garbage, not that they cared; there was only one thing on their minds. ("You haven't done this before have you?" Misha asked, but not that it stopped Jared going to his knees, not that it stopped Misha from moaning when he came.) P through S was after one of Danneel's poker nights, and they had both been too drunk to come. "It's the thought that counts," Jared slurred at him before they went their separate ways.
And then there was another time in Jared's apartment, an almost, Jared already undoing Misha's belt and Misha nipping along his jaw, but then the phone rang and it was Jeff. He was getting a couple of crates in tonight and were Misha and Jared free?
Redo the belt, button the shirt, fix the hair. Duty called, that wily cockblocking son of a bitch.
It isn't anything they ever talk about, but the more exhibits they accrue, the more aware Misha is of Jared in his peripheral vision, radio trying to find the right frequency, radar pinging every round.
Somewhere outside, someone enthusiastically curses the traffic. Jared turns to look at Misha, his face half in shadow, and his mouth, that damnable mouth, parts to say something, but then is interrupted when his features give in to an expression of surprise. Misha dares himself to not look away. Jared schools his expression into something more neutral, but then he swallows, blinks too fast, and the illusion is lost. They are both caught.
I'm fucked , Misha thinks with distant acceptance.
"Misha," Jared says, and he sounds like Misha feels, a little parched.
Behind them, a taxi blares its horn.
"You want a drink?" Misha asks when they turn onto his street, and Jared says sure. They spend a couple of minutes looking for parking as Jared offers unhelpful suggestions. "Park over there," he says, not seeing the fire hydrant. "Park over there," he tries again, but that's a tow-away zone. They end up parking a block and a half away from his building.
"You're not bringing that shoe with you?" Misha asks when Jared tosses it in the backseat.
Jared replies, "I'm no shoe thief."
They fill the walk back with idle contemplation of Murray's fate in the hands of the frighteningly capable Jensen Ackles. Misha thinks he'll have something soon, but Jared is backpedaling. Maybe Murray knows nothing after all. Maybe Kane duped him too. They exchange idle contemplation of Kane: where is he now?
"Bali," Misha guesses, unlocking the building's front door, "sucking down drinks with paper umbrellas and frying himself on the beach."
"Jamaica," Jared says, "en route to the Cayman Islands."
"Macau, gambling it all away."
"Paris. I've always wanted to go to Paris."
The fluorescent lights make the hallways look dirty. Misha leads the way and keeps his eyes in front of him, Orpheus leading Eurydice out of the underworld. He can only sense Jared's location by sound: the heavy clumph of his steps, the ensuing creak of ancient wood, the call and answer of conversation. This building is so old. He's sure it should be condemned by now.
They reach his apartment on the fourth floor, and it takes Misha two tries to unlock his door.
"I only have beer," he says, once inside.
"That's okay," Jared says, and backs Misha up against the wall and kisses him.
It's a kiss that robs them both of breath, but hey, who needs to breathe? Misha hooks his thumbs through Jared's belt loops and tugs him closer, bodies flush against one another, and Jared grunts as Misha presses brutal kisses down his throat.
"You fucking…" Jared groans, one hand tangling in Misha's hair and tugging his head back to kiss him again. His hand slides from Misha’s hair to his cheek to his neck, and he traces Misha's jawline with his thumb. When it slides up and touches Misha's bottom lip, he sucks it in. Swirls his tongue slow and wet as he slides his lips over the length of it, and Jared breathes out, "Jesus." Misha looks up, looks straight into Jared's eyes as he lifts his head, letting the thumb slide out and drag a wet trail down his chin and Jared says, "Jesus."
There are more comfortable places to do this than in his front hall, but they are all too far away.
Jared is addled and disarmed, and Misha takes the opportunity to shove him back against the opposite wall, hard enough for Jared to bump his head. He curses, but Misha doesn't care. He just drops to his knees and Jared curses again.
It occurs to him for one weird and disconnected moment that he has masturbated to this before. This power to make Jared come any way Misha wants, like a game: what happens if I do this? What happens if I touch that, if I lick here? And Jared just taking it, flushed and slick with sweat. He has thought of Jared writhing open-mouthed as he fucks him raw, as Misha sucks him down. It didn't used to be a fantasy he utilized often, but after that first time in Jared's apartment, it seemed pointless to keep the thought at bay.
First things first. The belt comes off, the pants go down, and Misha jacks Jared slow with one hand as he slips the cock into his mouth and licks. Jared makes some bewildered sound. He lays a hand on Misha's head, tentatively closes his fist on a handful of hair and it stings, how tightly he grabs.
"Oh, fuck, fuck," Jared keeps mumbling, as lost as Misha is in the here and now. "Fuck, jesus fucking christ," as Misha takes all of him in his mouth. His cock nudges the back of Misha's throat, and he tries to relax, lets his tongue slick along the underside of Jared's cock, forward and back, a ceaseless gentle suction. "Your hand, use your hand," Jared gasps because he is a bossy little shit. Misha was getting to that anyway, but it would've been a waste of time and resources to tell Jared off, so he just does what Jared says.
Jared grabs his hair and tries to fuck his mouth, but that's enough conducting out of Jared Padalecki for the night. With one hand, Misha grabs Jared's hip and shoves him back, pins him to the wall. This is his show. If Jared has any doubt that Misha knows what he's doing, then it is time to put those doubts to rest. He sets his pace and takes his time. Jared is muttering all sorts of invectives, but for every two, he utters one breathless promise of what he’s going to do to Misha when he gets the chance. Misha just deep-throats him and swallows around his cock, and Jared doesn't say words for a while. Just moves his hips as much as Misha lets him, trying to follow momentum, chasing wet heat.
He glances up and Jared has his head thrown back, that sheen of sweat, the Adam's apple bobbing. Jared is close, Misha can tell. They have not done this many times before, but already he has catalogued certain patterns. Misha goes faster and tightens his fist, almost punishingly hard, but he has learned that this is how Jared likes it. This close to climax, he needs it rough, he needs it edging on pain. Misha twists on the pull and tongues Jared's slit - a guerrilla attack, intense and brief, but enough to make Jared exhale a staggered breath. Within three strokes, he is coming, and coming hard.
And now - now is when Misha lets Jared fuck his mouth. The thrusts are slow and deep to catch every last shockwave of orgasm, wring out every last sensation from his bones. Misha chokes as he swallows but he swallows it all. The tension goes out of Jared's body. Misha licks around Jared's cock one last time, then falls back. Leans loose-limbed against the opposite wall and feels like Jared looks: untethered, undone.
"Fuck," Jared rasps.
Misha just raises his head in response – perhaps in acknowledgment, perhaps in camaraderie, he isn't sure himself. His own erection is aching and obvious, and that fantasy floats through his mind again: Jared, fucked to incomprehension under him, saying his name, pleading faster and harder, and all those miles of warm skin to be explored.
Jared tucks himself back in but doesn't zip himself back up. Instead he just slides down to the floor, and says, "Do you, um—" and he glances down the hall in the direction of the bedroom. Looks back at Misha.
Misha returns the look through half-lidded eyes and starts unbuttoning his shirt, watching Jared's gaze follow his fingers. "Do you?"
One hour later, Jared's phone rings for the third time. Jared stretches his leg over the edge of the bed and picks up his pants with his toes, but the cellphone falls out of the pocket.
"Fuckin'…" Jared grumbles, and Misha watches as Jared sits up and bends to scoop it up from the floor. He flips it open and holds it to his ear. "What.”
Misha, still floating in post-coital stupor, watches the curves of Jared's shoulders, the body getting agitated though his voice remains calm.
“Right, no, we still want that," Jared says. "I was busy. Right, I'm sorry. Look—well, what the hell do you want me to say?"
Misha disengages, letting Jared deal with it. He floats back to his own world, far away from questions like "should we do this again?" and answers like "probably not". Some corner of his mind is insisting that they can pull it off, that it's just sex, it's just fucking, but Misha isn't sure if he’s up to putting the finishing touches on that argument. He closes his eyes: the memory of Jared arching his back and exposing that line of throat.
Misha's just going to live in this memory for a while.
Something soft lands on his face.
"What?" Misha mumbles, pulling his shirt off his head.
"That was Jensen," Jared says, and he's already pulling on his pants. "It's Murray."
"Of course. I'm gonna shower."
Jared grabs the deodorant from Misha's dresser and tosses it to him. "There's your shower. I'm gonna take that beer now, then we gotta go."
By the time Misha is dressed, Jared is halfway through his Sam Adams, slouching in a chair with one arm slung over the back as he scrolls through his phone. His hair's a goddamn mess and it’s probably been a few days since he’s shaved. Standards of respectability would say he looks like shit, but Misha can't remember the last time he saw his respectability. He pauses for a moment in the doorway, appreciating the tableau. Jared at rest is an image he's seen hundreds of times before, but it has been rebuilt anew by the previous hour.
"Scale of one to ten," Misha says, swiping the beer from the table and taking a swig. "How pissed off is Jensen?"
"He's always pissed, man," Jared murmurs, looking up. "You ready?"
"Guy needs to relax," Misha says, and dangles Sebastian's car keys. "Let's go."
But Jared says, "Hey."
And there's that look again, that 'on the verge' look, all wide eyes and the impression of held breaths. "So this thing, maybe we shouldn't—I mean—" Jared says, and then he hesitates. There's that look: ready to retreat at the slightest accusation. In that momentary quiet, Misha gathers the words "yeah, you're right" onto his tongue, ready to say it, ready to let it go, it’s for the best anyway.
Instead, Jared says, "Never mind."
"Okay." Misha drains the rest of the beer and slams the bottle on the table. "Allez, les enfants!"
"Aha, what? You've been hanging out with Sebastian too much."
Misha is already in the front hall. He hears Jared following behind him. "Maybe you don't hang out with Sebastian enough."
"I hang out with Douché exactly the right amount."
"Il t'apprendra beaucoup des choses."
"Now you're just showing off."
Misha opens the front door. "It's called practical application."
"It's called," Jared says, and bodily nudges Misha into the door, then puts his hand against it to block escape, "kiss my ass." And then he grins, wry and open and close, so close.
I'm fucked, Misha thinks again, resigned but strangely unburdened for it.
Jared holds up Sebastian's keys and jangles them. "Shall we?"
"What the--" Misha pats his pockets, but of course they are empty. "You fucker!"
"My turn to drive the Mas," Jared says, and swans out into the hallway.
He feigns indignation. "This was just all a convoluted plan to drive the Maserati, wasn't it?"
"That's it," Jared laughs. "That is it exactly. You know me so well."
Misha smiles. "Unfortunately."
And they're off.
[originally posted at http://whynot.dreamwidth.org/210562.htm