It’s been over a week, radio silence.
Jensen keeps checking his phone, compulsive. Nothing. He remembers Misha’s face, the last time he’d seen him, the brusque goodbye hug and a pair of shuttered, wounded blue eyes. Jensen’s having trouble remembering exactly what they said, where the hurt happened. He sighs, because it’s always like this. He hates it. Almost as much as he hates the gnawing hunger in his chest, when Misha’s not around.
Frustrated with the silence, with himself, he types out, “miss u”.
Fifty three minutes later, Jensen’s pocket buzzes. He pulls out his phone, sighs in relief. When did this become so hard? Reads,
“How are you guys?”
Jensen snorts at the proper punctuation, knowing it probably took Misha more than five minutes to get everything spelled out. Fucker should just get autocorrect. Then again, maybe that’d be a terrible idea. Jensen is briefly lost in a hilarious mental exercise, coming up with the dirtiest possible (accidental) texts Misha could send.
He pointedly ignores the absent ‘I miss you too’ in Misha’s text.
He types a reply, they’re good, all fine, D’s water hasn’t broken yet. For some reason, he can’t keep track of the parts of the con circuit that he and Jared aren’t in, so he follows it up with, “where r u now?”
It takes another endless hour-interval before his phone buzzes again.
He puts down the knife on the cutting board, next to a pile of finely diced garlic. The new text reads, “Germany”. Jensen stares at his phone accusingly. So it takes an hour to type out, ‘Germany’?? Jensen roughly slaps the phone down on the countertop and finishes making lunch. He leaves the phone on the counter and goes into the living room to eat, turns the tv volume all the way up. By the time he’s putting the dishes back in the sink to wash, he can’t help glancing at the phone every three seconds and his fingers keep twitching toward it, wanting to pick it up. He gives in, checks the screen. No new messages.
Jensen turns it off. Goes upstairs to check on Danneel. Goes to the gym. Showers and suits up (as Dean would say) for a meeting with his agent. His dead phone hangs heavily in his pocket the whole time, reminding him that he’s probably missing important calls, jokes from Jared, email updates from Jeremy. But it isn’t until he remembers that Danneel might need to call him that he fumbles it out and turns it back on.
His breath hitches a little at the blinking icon alerting him to a new message. He clicks it open — and god damnit his heart shouldn’t drop when it’s a smiley face from Jared, with a picture of Thomas covered in baby food. Jensen stares at the picture for a while, until a lopsided smile creeps onto his face, and he texts Jared back about babies not actually absorbing nutrients through their foreheads. A lively exchange of insults and one-ups ensues, and leaves Jensen feeling a little better. He types, “miss u buddy” and almost immediately gets back “u 2 lets get drinks tomorrw” and Jensen unaccountably feels his eyes water. He huffs and stares at the sky, blinks hard, until the feeling passes. Stupid pregnancy stress must be getting to him.
He goes home. Danneel stays in bed all day, feeling nauseous and heavy. Jensen makes them dinner, and she eats a bite. He eats about the same, pushing the food to the edges of his plate restlessly, before taking their plates downstairs and dumping the leftovers into the trash.
He shuts down the electronics, the lights, locks the doors. Stands for a second looking out the window at the dark, empty evening, the quiet street.
He walks slowly up the stairs, feeling his knees ache.
He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. Danneel is asleep by the time he gets out of the bathroom, and Jensen strips down to his boxer-briefs, leaving his clothes in a messy heap on the carpet. He crawls in next to his beautiful wife, curling into the warmth seeping from her side of the bed. He watches her perfect, peaceful face for a while, before turning over. He stares at the wall and at the ceiling by turns. There’s a throbbing pain behind his eye, and the sheets itch. His pillow is flat. The streetlight through the window blinds is too bright.
Jensen glares at the slowly circling fan, and starts counting off his checklist for Danneel’s labor, to keep himself entertained. He’s in the middle of mentally repacking their hospital suitcase when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Jensen gropes for it, and the screen blinds him when it lights up, leaving colorful spots behind his lids when he blinks. A text. From Misha. Jensen rubs his eyes, looks at the clock. It must be, what, almost six in the morning in Germany. Jensen wonders briefly if Misha texted him when he woke up, or if Misha was awake all night, staring at the ceiling like Jensen.
He sighs, opens the text. There’s two.
“Wish you were here.”
Jensen’s throat clenches. Next, in small letters, hastily punched, says,
Jensen lets out a long breath, cradles his phone closer to his head, rests it against the pillow. One-handed, types back “me too. sorry mish” and prays that Misha understands when he hits ‘send’.
A moment, spent listening to a branch click and scratch against the window, before another text blinks through.
Jensen bites his lip, reads
Breathes in, out.
Closes his eyes. Somewhere between the relief and the longing, one breath and another, he falls asleep. Across the ocean, Misha goes on a long run and doesn’t stop until his legs give out and he has to sit on the curb, gasping and heaving and coughing into the grass.
He takes a taxi back home, and is appalled watching the meter run up the miles to euros. He showers and throws on his clothes, throws on his smile, he goes to the panel, he goes to lunch. Entertains the fans, entertains Sebastian and Rich and Matt, entertains the random idea of running away. Stays. Laughs, jokes, pranks, twits. Waits. Knows he broke a promise, crossed a line.
They weren’t supposed to do this, the whole four-letter word thing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But Misha’s tired of pretending. He’s not a politician, and he’s never been good at letting people go.
He waits, his phone glued to his hand — and he feels like he’s back in the hospital bed wondering if his back is broken beyond repair and he’ll be crippled his whole life. But no, it’s just a birth defect, and he gets Jensen’s next text just before dinner. It says, “come home soon”. And Misha stops running.