FIC: The Words You Would Think I Would Say If There Was a Me For You
Yes, I am -finally- posting fic. Take that, writer's block.

Title: The Words You Would Think I Would Say If There Was a Me For You
Author: cormallen
Pairing, rating: Jensen/Jared, PG
Length: 3,237 words
Summary: Jensen takes his ex-girlfriend's dog for a walk and just keeps walking until he ends up on Jared's front porch.
Notes: Title misquoted from They Might Be Giants' Ana Ng. Thanks to rivers_bend for the beta, to mickeym for making Jared employed, and to backinblack for the Chad dog facts.



"He used to be my girlfriend's dog," Jensen says, plucking the cigarette from his lips. He holds it delicately between two fingers, trailing pale smoke around his wrist, then lets it drop down onto Jared's walkway. Crushes it under his scuffed black boot.

"He used to be your girlfriend's dog?"

Jensen shrugs.

"She said, Jensen, are you going for a walk? Take Tim. So I did." He digs in his pocket, coming up with a green plastic lighter, clicks his thumb over the flint. "Walked down to the corner store, and never went in. Ended up spending the night at my buddy Steve's. Drove down here a week later. Cross country. You know, finally took that big adventure I never got to do. The road trip. Stop in motels and roadside diners, have out-of-this-world pie and shitty coffee. See the World's Largest Ball of Yarn."

"How was it?"

"Overrated. Kind of boring. You know, when you get right down to it, every town between here and New York -- there isn't much difference. Seen one, seen them all. And it was a bitch finding motels that'd let this guy stay." Jensen nods over at Tim and mouths another Marlboro, lighter clicking and sparking between his palms.

Jared doesn't argue, but he thinks a road trip would have been pretty awesome. Then again, according to every road trip movie he's ever seen, you're supposed to do these things with a buddy. Jensen only had Tim, and sure, Tim's pretty awesome, but he can't talk or appreciate the World's Largest Ball of Yarn, because it's a little big for a chew toy.

"I should go in," he says instead, picking up his bag of groceries. "My ice cream is melting."

"Yeah," Jensen nods, getting up off of Jared's front steps. "Come on, Tim, off the lawn. Chop-chop. Good seein' you, man."

"Yeah," Jared echoes, sidestepping past him onto the porch. "Good to see you."

***

Jensen lives in Village Point, the red brick apartment complex down the road.

"Building B," he says irritably, flicking ash off his cigarette, little flakes sailing down like snow. "They keep leaving my mail with the guy in A. Same apartment number. He brought over a fuckin' shoebox the other day, my Visa bill, three bank statements, and a late notice on my cable."

"At least he didn't open them." Jared forces a crooked smile, scratches Tim behind a floppy yellow ear. "He didn't, did he?"

"No," Jensen sighs, tossing the cigarette to the ground. "Come on, Tim," he says, "let Jared get into his house."

Tim's tail smacks against Jared's pant leg with painful determination, thump thump thump, and Jensen sighs again. Pulls on Tim's braided black leash.

***

"Let me put you on hold for a moment," Jared says, pressing a button on the phone. "River Bend Police Department, how can I help you? Yes. Yes, he is. Yes. Eleven to three. Of course. You're welcome." He switches ears while he scribbles down the message, hits flash again to pick up the first caller. "Still there, sir? Thank you for holding. Of course. Yes. Yes. Certainly. You're welcome. River Bend Police Department, what can I do for you?"

The stack of forms in his inbox looks taller after lunch, although he's pretty sure it's just his imagination; the top one's still the order receipt for twenty boxes of paperclips and Canon printer ink. Jared tosses his soda can into the recycling bin, and his banana peel into the trash, wipes his hands with sanitizer, and begins alphabetizing.

"I don't hate my job. Not really," he tells Jensen, absently patting Tim on the back. "Pays the bills. It's just, you know. Clerk-typist. Not what I wrote in my What Do I Want to Be When I Grow Up essay in fifth grade."

"I think I said I wanted to be an astronaut," Jensen says, and blows out a smoke ring. "What's a clerk-typist do, other than type?"

"Answers phones. Orders supplies. Alphabetizes invoices. Files order forms. Files -- I do a lot of filing."

"Sounds exciting," Jensen nods. "Tim! Tim, drop it. Drop it! Goddammit, you'd think I don't feed him, with all the shit he tries to chew."

"You should get him a toy for that. One of those squeaky rubber things. Or the knotted rope things. Maybe both," Jared suggests, watching Jensen wrestle the dirty plastic bag from Tim's jaws.

***

Filing -- a lot of filing -- really isn't as bad as it sounds. Jared could probably do it in his sleep. A through M into the tall cabinet by the window, N through Z into the wide one by the door. Blue copy, yellow copy, pink copy, the ink on the bottom one pale and barely printed through.

"I grew up here, though," he says, tossing the red squeaky duck into the air, and watching Tim take off, slobbery tongue lolling between his teeth. "So working at the police department, it's kind of... "

"Empowering?" Jensen supplies, and Jared shakes his head.

"Weird. It's not like I'm still seventeen and those guys are gonna be checking to make sure I'm not drinking with a fake ID, or telling my parents I'm out past curfew. But it kind of feels like they are, I guess." Officer Ashby used to come to his high school to do safety talks about seat belts, and even though he's Lieutenant Ashby now, Jared can't shake the thought that he's going to get pulled into the office and made to watch videos of crash test dummies hitting the windshield at high speeds. That Ashby's going to wag a finger and say, Padalecki, you know you're not allowed to be here after dark. "What do you do?"

"I'm a writer," Jensen says, viciously stomping his cigarette into the sidewalk.

"Are you any good?"

Jensen rolls his eyes, flicks his lighter on, off, then on again, little yellow flame wavering in the air.

"Come on, Jared. I live at the Divorce Village with my ex's dog and clip coupons. Seriously. If I was any good, you wouldn't have to ask."

"You clip coupons?"

"Yeah," Jensen shrugs, "sometimes. They're having a special at Sanderson's this week, buy one quart of Rocky Road, get the second half off."

***

"So, let me get this straight," Jensen says, sitting down onto Jared's front steps. Tim's leash is wrapped around his fingers, and he's sliding his thumb over the worn leather, back and forth, back and forth, like he's trying to memorize the texture. "You broke up with him over a dog?"

"It wasn't over a dog," Jared explains, staring down at his own shoes, polished shiny-black. At his pant legs, crease ironed in, knees and hems covered in Tim's thick yellow fur. "He didn't really want me. It just took me until the dog thing to figure it out. Getting a pet together, that's a big commitment. It means you're thinking about the future. It's not that David didn't want to get a dog. He just didn't want to get a dog with me."

"Or maybe he just doesn't like dogs," Jensen says, exhaling smoke, making Jared wrinkle his nose.

"Then I don't like him."

"Wow. Isn't that a little extreme?"

Jared shrugs. He's had it figured out since he was eight, house with green shutters and a big lawn and a dog. Two dogs. Three. Big tree for climbing, and a tree house. A swinging bench on the porch and a girl with pigtails, like Sandy from Miss Cavanaugh's class, who let Jared jump rope with her at recess and told him he was her bestest friend in the whole wide world even though he was a whole grade behind. Later, the tree house stopped being part of the picture, and Sandy morphed into Randy. "Or Andy. Or -- he doesn't have to rhyme. That would be a little extreme."

"What happened to Sandy?"

"She still tells me I'm her bestest friend in the whole wide world. By e-mail. She moved to L.A. three years ago," Jared explains, examining the scuff mark on his toe.

"Huh," Jensen says, pointing with his cigarette. "That tree -- right over there -- would be fucking perfect for a tree house."

He pitches the cigarette towards the sidewalk, and Jared wrinkles his nose again, annoyed. It's bad enough that Jensen smokes, but the littering is really starting to get on his nerves.

***

"I'm sorry. I guess he really likes your lawn," Jensen says sheepishly, tugging at Tim's collar. "Bad dog. Stop it!"

Tim continues to claw at the ground, unperturbed, and Jared tries, but can't really feel all that mad. Of course, Tim thinks it's a nice lawn, good smells and dirt and tasty grass. Holes to dig and chipmunks that have made a home somewhere under the stone porch steps. Apartment living doesn't really agree with Tim; Jensen says he gets antsy being cooped up in there all day, breaks into a run as soon as they get in the street.

"I'm not any good with him," Jensen sighs. "Danny's the one who picked him out. Said he was the only one in the litter who exhibited any signs of ambition, whatever that means."

"Why'd you take him, then?" Jared asks, dragging his trash bins to the curb; pick up's on Thursday.

"We were watching The Comedy Hour. On TV. And I just realized I couldn't do it anymore. It wasn't working. We weren't working. Figured I'd get out of there for a bit, maybe walk down to the corner store. Get some air. Clear my head. I started to put my boots on, and she told me to take the dog. I should have said something, but I didn't; I just grabbed his leash. And then she said, put on a scarf, and stop slouching. It makes you look like you're perpetually looking for your dropped keys. I told you the rest already."

"Yeah, you did. You're kind of an asshole," Jared says, setting the bins up in order, paper, plastic, non-recyclables.

"Yeah, probably," Jensen nods, agreeing. "I just imagined her saying to some other guy, put on a scarf and stop slouching and take Tim for a walk, and I -- I really didn't want that to happen."

***

He's just getting in from work, walking up his driveway when he meets Tim and Jensen for the first time. Giant yellow dog barking and smudging wet paws up Jared's dress pants, leash dragging on the ground. Lanky guy in ripped jeans, cheeks turning beet red, "I'm so, so sorry. He doesn't bite. Oh, god, I'm so sorry. I suck at keeping up with him. Down, Tim. Bad dog! Down. Down!"

"It's ok," Jared says, leathery wet nose poking into his hands. "I don't mind."

He's not surprised when the dog weaves around him the next day, coiled tail thumping double-time against his knees. The guy huffs, catching up, out of breath.

"Hi. Uh. Sorry. Again."

"It's still ok," Jared says, scratching the dog's flat, wide head. "I'm Jared."

"Jensen," the guy nods, coiling the braided leather leash in his hands. "And you've met Tim. Hey, do you mind if I sit down for a sec?"

He doesn't ask the next day. Just plops down on Jared's front steps and pulls out his lighter. Tim sits at his feet, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Eyes Jensen unblinking, devoted, like he's god, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

***

"I found this coffee shop. Right by First and Lake," Jensen says, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. "Really tiny, and there are all these weird photos on the wall. Really good, though. Jeff, I guess he's the owner, got me to try a white chocolate mocha -- and man, I don't know where that's been all my life."

Jared doesn't tell him it's the coffee shop he used to work at when he was taking classes at River Bend College. Making the same French vanilla and cinnamon spice and white chocolate mochas. Washing out the carafes, wiping down the counter. Ribbing Jeff about his photography skills.

"I have a date tomorrow night," he says instead, inching past Jensen up the walkway.

"Oh," Jensen says, eyelashes flicking up and down. "Uh, good. Good for you, man. Tim -- Tim, come on. There's nothing interesting in Jared's pockets."

***

Chad laughs at all his jokes, even the really bad one about the priest and the rabbi who walk into a bar. They have the same taste in movies (Fight Club. The only book-to-movie they both like better than the actual book), music and take-out (sausage, mushroom and garlic pizza from Tony's, with a side of the honey mustard wings).

"Dogs," Jared says after his second beer, stomach flip-flopping anxiously, but Chad's smiling, crooked and big. "Dogs. Do you like them?"

"I love dogs," Chad says, and reaches for his wallet, picture strip unfolding onto the table. "This is Charlie, and this here's Joe. Annie. Ozzie."

"You have four dogs?" The butterflies in Jared's belly have calmed down some; they give one more furious flutter and then go still.

"Five. I don't have a good photo of Axel. He hates having his picture taken," Chad says, and asks the waitress for their check.

***

"Who's that?" Chad asks, pulling up to the driveway.

Jensen's sitting on Jared's front steps, cigarette dangling from his mouth, scuffing at the stones with the toe of his boot.

"My, uh... ."

Neighbor, Jared starts to say; it's close, but it isn't true. Friend? That's not it, either.

"That's just Jensen," he says finally, like that makes any sense, and Chad furrows his brows, eyes him suspiciously.

"Oh. I see. Well, you should, uh. Give me a call sometime."

"Yeah," Jared nods. "Sure." He was thinking about asking Chad in, but it's not like he can, now. What's he going to say, Jensen's just gonna sit on the porch, but you should come in, no worries? "I had a good time tonight," he says lamely, and shuts the car door.

"How'd it go?" Jensen asks when Chad pulls away from the curb, and Jared's about to say, What the hell are you doing here ? when Jensen suddenly snaps, "Tim. Stop it."

Tim lifts his head and barks; the chipmunk he's terrorizing takes the opportunity to dive back under the porch steps.

"Spurs playing the Knicks tonight," Jensen says, "bet they'll get their asses handed to 'em."

"Twenty says the Knicks get creamed," Jared scoffs, and Jensen holds up a hand, palm out.

"You're on."

They shake on it. Jensen's fingers are warm and the skin's dry, chapped. There's a rubbed-on callus on his wrist from using the mouse too much without a wrist pad. Jared used to have the same problem before they got the ergonomic keyboards at work.

***

"I think I'm gonna quit my job," he tells Jensen, juggling between keys, his bag and his sack of groceries. "I just can't do it anymore. I really have to get out of there."

"What'll you do?" Jensen asks, catching the door by the handle. "Here, I got it, man."

"Thanks. I have enough saved up so I can spend some time looking. I don't know. Maybe I should go on a road trip. See the World's Biggest Ball of Yarn. There has to be something different, somewhere. You know?"

Jensen sighs.

"Yeah, I know. S'why I left. Danny -- New York -- because there was going to be something different. Somewhere. Everything was supposed to change."

"Do you miss her?" Jared asks, turning around in the doorway, and Jensen rubs at his forehead, pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers like he's trying to stave off a headache.

"I -- you -- no. No, I don't. I've gotta go. I should really try to get a chapter finished."

***

Jared has dinner with his parents on Friday. He's kind of nervous about telling them he quit; they're pretty understanding, but that's just not what parents like to hear. He's already points down, because he didn't finish school like he was supposed to. They don't like his job anymore than he does, but it's a paycheck, it's health insurance, it's solid. You don't just up and quit it without finding a replacement first.

He tries to work his way up to it, fidgets through dinner, until finally his mother demands he explain what's wrong already.

"Quit my job," he says sullenly, ready to yell, Mama, it was draining the life out of me, but she puts her hand on her shoulder, soft and warm.

"I'm glad. You weren't happy there, JT. I could tell. Meg, honey, can you help me with the coffee cups, please?"

***

Jared doesn't see Jensen for a week. He may not be going to work, but he's busier than he's ever been. He goes to the bookstore, to the mall, to Home Depot. Buys a new garden hose, ten pairs of identical flip flops in obnoxious colors, a big duffle bag with way too many pockets and zippers. Suntan lotion, and a new bright yellow squeaky duck for Tim, instead of the red one Tim ripped to shreds weeks ago. On his way out of the department store, he sees the scarves, and tries to picture Jensen wearing one around his neck, an ugly striped monstrosity with ragged fringed ends. The yarn is thick and prickly to the touch. Warm.

He stops by the coffee shop at First and Lake, waits for Jeff to work the cappuccino machine while he leans on the counter.

"If you've come to get your old job back, you're shit out of luck," Jeff laughs, setting the paper cup down. "I just hired some brand new freshmen -- that's just about one decent worker between the four of them.

***

Jensen is sitting on his front step, chewing gum loudly and smacking his lips as he pushes another stick into his mouth. He balls up the wrapper and throws it down the walkway, watches it bounce and hit and roll onto the grass.

"Hey."

"Hi," Jensen says, and crumples another wrapper, then another. Jared thinks if he fits another piece of gum in, his cheeks are going to bulge out, like a chipmunk's. Or maybe a hamster's. He hasn't paid enough attention to the little guys under the porch to be sure about his rodent classifications.

"You do know you're supposed to chew those one at a time. What you're doing is kind of gross. Why don't you have a cigarette, or something?"

"I quit," Jensen says sheepishly. "Four days ago. Hang on." He gets up and walks to the curb, spits the gum into one of the trash bins Jared's set out for pick up. "Sorry."

"It's ok," Jared says when Jensen turns around. He stands by the steps, watches Jensen walk back towards the porch. He’s thinking that gum wrappers are an improvement on cigarette butts as Jensen gets closer and closer and just keeps on walking. His lips are sticky and taste like mint, tingly and warm against Jared's mouth.

"Listen," Jared says, when they pull apart. "Do you want to come in?"

"Yeah," Jensen nods, cheeks turning beet red. "I'd like that."

Tim's coiled tail smacks against his knees in double-time, thump, thump, thump, as he weaves around them and barks.