Even Jared's impressed with the place (which, come to think on it, isn't that hard, because Jared's just like his damn dogs, all happy and full of unbridled enthusiasm about the entire world), and, more importantly the food. Which, Jensen is forced to agree, is pretty damn spectacular. Etouffee that melts right in your mouth, honest to fucking Christ cornbread, and crawfish, spicy and boiled to perfection. "You know what this joint reminds me of?" he asks, looking around the place – the tiny, wood-scarred tables, the line of beers across the top shelf of the bar, the open air kitchen oozing unreal scents, man – as he polishes off his third Bud. "Nope," Chris replies, eyeing Jensen from beneath the brim of his ever-present cowboy hat as he sucks on a crawfish. Jared just watches both of them from the other side of the table, taking in the entire experience like it's a class or something. "That place we used to go to in Blue Island." "The Maple Tree?" "Yeah, that's the one." Jensen glances around again, signals their waitress for another beer. "Miss hangin' there, man. I mean, this place is nice n'all, but the Maple Tree had a better Scotch selection." "Since when do you drink Scotch?" "J over here's been schooling me," Jensen grins, and Jared returns it. "Uh huh." Chris looks between the two of them, then shakes his head. "If you gotta sip it, it ain't worth drinking." "Heathen." "That's redneck to you, son." Chris always exaggerates his twang for 'company', as he calls it. Jensen finds it amusing that after three visits to see him in Vancouver (only one announced), one very memorable evening the night before the Broadcast Critics' Award (and thank God Christian has friends with the LAPD, really) and countless hours together, Chris still considers Jared company. But then, Chris is old-school Southern, as he's old school in just about every damn thing, and Jared'll be company until Chris meets Jared's folks and is invited over for Sunday dinner. "So...how long you two known each other?" Jared asks, eyeing both of them from under his bangs. Jensen's forever going on about how My Chemical Romance they make him look. Jensen does some quick mental calculations. "Fuck man, what, four years now?" "Five," Chris states, and accepts their new round with a smile and a wink for the pretty (but slightly flustered) waitress. Jensen thinks about telling her that Chris has that affect on every woman breathing, from his 75 year-old grandmother to newborns, but doesn't bother. It won't change the truth of it. Chris is a born charmer. "Five?" he says, instead, trying to dig back that far in his memory. Feels like Chris has always been there, with his teasing drawl and ornery ways. Chris, who'd rescued him in more than one way, man, and still knows how to kick his ass when he needs it. "Five." Jensen jerks his thumb at Chris, and gives Jared a slight 'what can you do' shrug. "Man says five years, it's five. His memory's always been better than mine." And Chris has never let Jensen forget it, either, although Jensen thinks Chris makes shit up half the time because he knows Jensen won't remember it. "Long time," Jared remarks. "Ever since I landed in L.A. pretty much." "Sweet young thing, ripe for the plucking," Christian chortles, tipping his hat back off his forehead. "Fuck you, man." Jensen shakes his head as he takes a healthy swig from his Bud. "Ripe for the plucking, my ass." "He really was a sweet young thing, too," Christian tells Jared, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. "Didn't take much to corrupt him." "He's lying." "I bet he's not," Jared grins, showing off those famous dimples that had gotten him in more than one girl's panties. "You've talked me into some outrageous stunts, Jen." "Has he?" Chris turns halfway in the booth to look at Jensen. "You been holdin' out on me, boy?" "Jealous?" "Of course," Chris replies easily. He tips his bottleneck to Jared's, taps them together. "Let's hear it, then." "Which story you want?" Jared asks, with a sort of demonic glee to his voice. God alone knew what stories he'll tell, but Jensen knows better than to try to deflect either of 'em. They'll just run roughshod over his objections, give him four thousand shades of shit for it, and make up more stories to tell everyone they know. "All of 'em," Chris says. Jensen knows he means it, too. "Gotta make sure he's living up to his honestly-earned reputation as my pro-to-ge." Chris drawls the word out until it's about eight syllables. "Yeah, he's mentioned that you could talk a blind man into binoculars." "Jen, you said that about me?" Chris puts his hand over his heart. "I'm touched, I truly am." "Shut up and finish your beer." "Don't mind if I do." He gestures at Jared. "Pick a good story, now." *** "I like your co-star there," Chris says. He tilts his head back to look up at the stars, what they can see of them, anyway, and it's times like this that Jensen really misses the wide plains and never-ending sky of Texas. However, Chris' back patio does boast one helluva view of L.A. and the Hills. "He's good people," Chris continues, and it comes out as a hiss as he exhales. He passes the joint to Jensen, who accepts it with a grateful nod, and a deep, slow pull. The acrid sweetness fills his lungs, and Jesus, but Chris can get some good shit. Probably gets one of his million cousins to bring it out from Oklahoma or wherever. "Took you long enough," Jensen says, voice raspy from the smoke. Chris accepts the joint with a frown. "What's that mean?" "Last six months you've been quizzing him like my goddamn mama on a first date." "Don't cuss about your mama, now." Chris cuffs the back of Jensen's head in a mostly affectionate swipe. The glider creaks and groans with each movement. "And I wasn't, besides." "Hell you weren't," Jensen grins. "Mother hen." "Fuck you," Chris laughs. "Can't I be a concerned friend?" "Nope." Exhaling slowly, Jensen nudges Chris with his shoulder. "Hey, you know what I miss?" "Nope," Chris says, but it comes out all husky. Jensen thinks Kane would have been a multi-platinum selling band by now if Chris sang when his voice was like this, all deep and rough from smoke. Sounds just like sex. He shakes his head a little, but only gets vertigo for his troubles. "Remember back when you was a kid and used to eat fresh honeysuckle in the spring?" "Yeah..." Chris' eyes close to half-mast. "Used to be a farm down the road apiece where we'd pick 'em right alongside fresh blackberries." With a nod, Jensen lets himself get transported back to his youth, to blazing hot summer days spent at the watering hole at his grandparents' place, and fresh blueberry cobbler for dessert. "Worth getting all scratched up for the taste, man," he sighs, lolling his head back. "Some things are." Jensen turns his head and, even in the shadows, he can see the meditative look on Chris' face. "C'mon, now," he says, nudging Chris' knee with his own. He doesn't need Chris to say it to know what's going on under that cowboy hat. "You know better." "Jen...I ain't jealous of Jared, a'ight?" "Sure." "I'm not." "Christian..." Jensen wraps a loose arm around Chris's shoulders, and tugs. Chris lets himself get pulled closer. "C'mon now, darlin', you know there's only you." "Liar," Chris smiles. "You only ever call me darlin' when you're trying to pull one over." The other thing about Chris is that he knows Jensen far too well. "Well, you're the only one I love, how's that?" he offers. "Worse," Chris promptly replies, and they both laugh. Jensen uses the movement as an excuse (hey, it's as good as any) to turn his lips to Chris' stubble-rough jaw. "Well, I do," he murmurs, breathing the words into warm skin. "I know." It comes out as a sigh. "Don't need t'hear it to know it." "Lemme show you, then," Jensen says, and lowers his lips to Chris' as he reaches for the zipper of worn jeans. "Jen..." "Shhh." Chris tastes of pot and Bud, pleasant, smoky and familiar, and the long curve of his cock fits comfortably – a warm, welcome weight – in Jensen's palm. Chris' hips jerk once at the first slow glide, and they bump noses, then tilt their heads, try again. The angle of Jensen's hand is all awkward, but he doesn't want to risk moving. Not yet. Not with Chris' wet tongue tangling with his in languorous sweeps, lips sliding and sticking together like puzzle pieces that've found their mates. Not with the choked sounds that Chris is making as he tightens his fingers, drags them up, then down, meeting the upward shift of Chris' hips with each movement. He's just stoned enough that everything has a nice, hazy sheen to it, like the shimmering glare of asphalt during sunrise. Chris, he murmurs, or thinks he does, and c'mon, baby, c'mon, rumbling the words like a refrain to an old, familiar song. Chris sighs again, the sound reverberating into the next kiss, and he lifts one hand to sift through Jensen's hair. The other drops over Jensen's, and they move together over Chris' cock, nice and slow and easy. When Chris comes, he exhales Jensen's name in the mingled space between their lips. Jensen's smiling as he lifts his head, meeting Chris' smile head-on. "Feel better?" "Shit, I wasn't feeling bad to start," Chris replies, and each vowel takes on the voluptuous quality that Chris' voice gets right after a really good orgasm. "But if you feel like cheering me up again, you let me know." "You're a greedy bastard." "I'll reciprocate." Chris lifts his sticky hand, then lets it drop back on top of Jensen's. "Maybe in a minute." "Ain't going nowhere," Jensen says as he leans back in for another kiss.
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