Look, Ma, my first LJ fic post!
Title: He Was Still Just Rosenbaum
Fandom: CW RPF
Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Characters/Pairing: Mike/Misha, Jared, Jensen (or if you like, Jared/Jensen)
Warnings: Language, Drug Use and Bad Drug Reactions
Summary: Jared’s having a bad day. The boys want to help. Michael is an idiot.
Word Count: 2,069 words.
Date Written: 05/21/2010
Disclaimer: These guys don’t belong to me. Now I’m all sad. This story, however, is all mine.
Mini-Disclaimer: Just in case, I have to say it, peoples, drugs are bad, mmmkay. Seriously, don’t try this. You will trip balls and it won’t be fun. Got it?
Author's Notes: liptonrm says to me the other day, “So-and-so told me they once smoked pot out of a water bong but instead of water, they used cough syrup with codeine. That sounds like a fic. But it seems like a Mike or Misha thing to do, so I’ll let you handle that.” Yep. I did it. It was suppose to be cracky fun, but I’m having an off-week, so instead, it kind of came out serious. I’m not sure what happened.
Dedication: liptonrm for your birthday (okay, yes the M2 RPS aspect is for me, for my birthday, but whatever, baby.) Happy Birthday! I will eat you up, I love you so.
“My life sucks,” Jared groaned and flopped down on Misha’s couch.
“Cheer the fuck up, kid,” Mike told him and perched on the arm of the corner-chair. “I have treaties,” and Mike waved a decent sized water-bong at Jared.
Jared flopped a hand at Mike and made a whining noise from the back of his throat.
Jensen sat down on the couch next to his friend and patted his knee. “It’s gonna be alright, Jay,” he said and then glanced at Mike and shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s all awful,” Jared whined and buried his face in Jensen’s neck.
“But I have treaties,” Mike said again, only this time in a smaller, less sure voice.
“I don’t want pot,” Jared told him, his voice muffled against Jensen’s skin. “I want Jensen to fix everything.”
“Whoa,” Jensen said and pushed the younger man up and off him. “Why is it my job to fix everything?”
“Because I fixed things for you last time you needed things fixed,” Jared said in disbelief, like he couldn’t believe Jensen didn’t remember.
“Dude,” Jensen drawled and slid an inch away from Jared on the couch. “You took me out to a bar to get me drunk and ended up starting a fist fight and then went home with some random chick. How did that help me?”
Jared rubbed at his face, tiredly. “Jeeeenseeen.”
“Okay, seriously,” Mike grumbled, “You sound like a whiny bitch, Jay. The tech guys will fix your computer, the fans will understand you had to cancel on the convention and the vet said Harley can come home tomorrow. So shut the fuck up and smoke some pot.”
He was still, after all, just Michael Rosenbaum.
“What are you doing?”
This time it was Misha and the three men turned to stare at him, where he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding four beers in brown glass bottles.
“Cheering Jared up,” Mike told him, brightly.
Misha gestured at the bong in Mike’s hand. “What is that?” he asked, and came into the room, distributing the beer to the others.
“It’s a bong for the smoking of the mar-ah-ju-wanna,” Mike told him, in a voice that asked if Misha had grown a second head.
“That’s a water-bong,” Misha stated, plainly.
“But that’s not water in it.”
Jared peered over and raised an eyebrow. “Dude, what is that? Are you, like, trying to roofie us or something.”
“Pervert,” Jensen mumbled.
“It’s cough syrup,” Mike told them, and then patiently waited for someone to tell him how brilliant he was.
No one did.
“Dude, I’m not smoking that,” Jensen replied.
“Pussy,” Mike said.
“Because what I want to do is trip out with you and Misha in the room being all handsy and me with not having the leg-capacity to leave when you start getting naked.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike and Misha said in unison, and then gave each other nasty scowls and looked down at their beers.
“Whatever,” Jensen said, and rolled his eyes.
“Pot doesn’t do anything for me anyway,” Jared told them all. “Never has. I have an abnormal tolerance.”
“Then the cough syrup will help relax you and you’ll go to sleepies and wake up in time to go get Harley,” Mike replied, casually. “Here, hold this,“ he said and passed the bong over to Misha, who had flopped down on the seat cushion next to him.
Mike pulled a little plastic bag out of the back of his jeans.
“My life sucks,” Jared groaned and buried his face back in Jensen’s neck.
“Dude,” Jensen said for the seventh time in three minutes.
“I think my heart isn’t beating anymore,” Mike told him and grinned.
Jensen grinned back.
Misha stared at his fingernails in disinterest.
“How you feelin’ now, sweetheart?” Mike asked and stretched out his leg to kick at Jared’s feet.
“Sweetheart?” Misha asked, looking up and speaking for the first time since they had settled the bong back on the coffee table. He had moved from the comfortable chair with Mike when the other man wouldn’t stop stroking at Misha’s stomach, and was now perched on a bar stool that he had dragged in from the kitchen.
Mike waved a dismissive hand at Misha and kicked at Jared again.
“Huh?” Jared asked, but didn’t flick his eyes away from the spot by the desk that he had been staring at for a good five minutes.
“How. Are. You. Feeling?”
“How’s it weird, Jay?” Jensen asked and scrubbed at the top of Jared’s head. “What’s it feel like?”
“I don’t know, but that thing is weird.”
Jensen scrunched up his eyes and Misha looked from Jared, to the corner he was staring at, and then back again.
“What thing, Jared?” Misha asked.
Jared lifted a shaky finger and pointed at the corner. “That,” he said, simply, and then pushed farther into Jensen’s side. “Don’t like it. Make it stop looking at me, Jen.”
“Dude,” Jensen said again.
“Mike,” and Misha’s voice was warning and suspicious and Mike picked at the label on his beer bottle.
“What was in that cough syrup?” Misha asked, and he was sitting forward on the bar stool, knees drawn up, elbows pushing down hard enough to leave a mark, but his eyes never left the top of Mike’s head.
“Nothing,” Mike mumbled. “Codeine.”
“What? The fuck, dude?” Jensen cried and started to stand, presumably to take a swing or possibly two at Mike. But when he moved, Jared started to slid off onto the floor and Jensen sat back down and hauled the younger man up into his side again.
“That was incredibly reckless,” Misha said, calmly.
“Just trying to help,” Mike replied, and shrugged, but never looked up.
Jared started crying, tears falling against Jensen’s shoulder. “I don’t like it. Make it go away.”
“Ssshhh,” Jensen said, and turned Jared to look at him. “Look right here, babe,” he said, and then mouthed the word ‘babe’ over his shoulder at Mike in confusion. Mike just shrugged, and then Jensen must have remembered he was mad at his friend, because he scowled and mouthed ‘gonna kill you’ before turning back to Jared. “Don’t look at it, Jay. It can’t see you, if you don’t look at it.”
Jared looked at Jensen, met his eyes, and said in a fairly calm voice for someone who had tears running down his face, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s a magical thing,” Misha said from his stool. “If it can’t be seen, so shall it not see.” His voice was lilting and full of solemn wisdom and Jared nodded his head and pressed his face into Jensen’s chest.
“Okay. I won’t look at it then.”
They sat there for a long while, Jensen scrubbing at the hairs on the back of Jared’s neck, Misha staring at his fingernails in disinterest, and Mike curled up in the over-sized chair in the fetal position trying not to vomit.
Eventually Jared’s breathing evened out and Jensen slid him to lay back on the couch and went to fetch a blanket.
Mike turned to Misha with big pleading eyes that said ‘please don’t let Jensen kill me,’.
Misha stood up and pointedly didn’t return the gaze. “I think I’ll go do some laundry.”
“Mish,” Mike started, but quickly trailed off as Misha walked past him and into the kitchen, headed for the laundry room.
“Laundry,” Mike mumbled, and then stood up when Jensen came back into the room.
Mike came into the laundry room and climbed up on the washing machine, felt it rumbling underneath him.
Misha was standing at the folding table, wearing nothing but his low-slung jeans and Mike could make out the slightest hint of hipbone.
Misha just kept folding his underwear.
“Mish, come on,” Mike pleaded and kicked at Misha’s side.
“What were you thinking?” Misha asked, without looking over, and his voice was seeped with anger.
“They’re too stressed out. I was just trying to help them. Both of them. You too a little bit. You guys work too much and you’re way more tense than people think and I thought if maybe you just…”
Mike closed his mouth tight, waited for Misha to speak.
“You don’t do that to someone without telling them, Mike. People could have gotten seriously hurt. Worse than Jared’s little trip out. You just…you don’t. Okay?”
Mike nodded and swung his legs back and forth. “If it makes you feel any better, Jensen hit me.”
Misha’s head jerked up at that and he turned to look at Mike. There was already a purplish bruise forming under the man’s right eye.
“Jesus, Mike,” Misha breathed out and then turned on his heels towards the kitchen.
He came back a moment later with an ice pack and handed it to Mike without looking at him.
Mike took it, placed it against his eye and started swinging his legs again. “Thanks,” he muttered and then, “Misha?”
“I really am sorry.”
“I know you are,” and Mike could see the little sag in Misha’s shoulders.
Misha scratched at his chest, folded a t-shirt. “But you’re smarter than this, Mike. You know better. You’re lucky it all turned out okay.”
“I have a black eye!” Mike cried and then quickly pressed his lips together in better sense.
Misha folded three more t-shirts before Mike added, “You seem fine.” If there was relief in his voice, Mike pretended not to notice.
Misha scratched at his chest again, let his free hand curl and uncurl before answering. “Not entirely.”
“What?” Mike said, and slid off the washing machine. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Misha folded a pair of sweatpants.
“Mish?” and Mike pulled at his shoulder, turned the other man to face him and dropped the ice pack to the floor.
Misha had scratched red welts across his chest, pieces of his skin actually torn away.
“Jesus,” Mike gasped.
Misha reached a hand up to scratch again and Mike caught his wrist, held it there.
“Misha, no, oh my god, stop.”
Misha shrugged as best his could with one hand tangled in a pair of jeans and the other restrained by Mike’s hard grip. “Codeine dries me out,” he said, like he was discussing the weather.
Mike tasted bile in his mouth.
“Shit, shit, shit, Jesus, Misha.”
“Not the point,” Mike said and pulled the other man closer. “So sorry, Mish. So sorry.”
“Think maybe you were trying to get my clothes off me. Just not quite like this,” and Misha tried for a half-smile, but Mike just stepped closer and pressed their lips together instead.
“Thought it might get you to loosen up,” he whispered against Misha’s mouth. “Want this all the time. You, Misha. Want you, all the time. Hate having to fight you for it. But I…I didn’t want this. Never wanted this,” and Mike was relieved when he realized Misha had stopped trying to get his hands free to scratch.
“You need a very cold bath,” Mike declared, pulling away. “And lots of water to drink. And some lotion…or something,” and he waved a hand in the air next to Misha’s head.
“A bath?” Misha grinned, full and bright this time. “See, you so want to get me naked.”
When Mike and Misha came into the living room, Mike holding both of Misha’s wrist in one of his hands, they saw Jensen spread out on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge, the other pushed back into the cushion. Jared was sound asleep between his legs, head pressed on Jensen’s outer thigh, one long arm dangling off the side, brushing lightly against Jensen’s ankle.
Jensen’s eyes were half-lidded but he was awake.
“Misha needs…”and Mike waved a hand in the direction of the bathroom.
Jensen almost smiled at them. “You boys enjoy that, then,” he drawled, and Mike could tell he was still stoned and nearly unconscious. “Cuz when Jay wakes up, Michael, he gets a turn at your pretty little face.”
Mike nodded, swallowed hard when he looked at Jared’s one visible and very large hand. “Agreed,” he said, resolutely, and tugged Misha along after him.
Just because he was about to be murdered in his not-quite-boyfriend’s living room, didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy some bathtub sex first.
He was still, after all, just Michael Rosenbaum.