aerilex

Title: Many Masks
Author: Aerilex
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural RPS
Rating: PG (for the moment)
Word Count: ~1670
Warnings: N/A
Disclaimer: This isn't real, never happened. I just like playing with pretty boys as characters.
A/N: Something I cooked up based off this poem I wrote, which will be featured in the story if I decide to keep going with it. For now, though, hope you enjoy!

Prologue

It’s become a game for Jared—which doesn’t surprise Jensen, since everything becomes a game to Jared. Jared spends most of his time simply indulging his own amusement, and it is only to that end that he ever chose to indulge Jensen’s curiosity. Jensen himself sees it as a different sort of experience entirely—the kind of experience that a scholar takes pleasure in as he delves in and peels away the layers of the world to unveil its mysteries and slowly unfurl revelations that offer varying levels of satisfaction.

Jensen will admit that it is only the most amusing kind of satisfaction he derives from his keen interest in the mystery of Misha.

This game of theirs started out innocent—two friends trying to feel out the new guy. They only meant to see get to know Misha, or in Jared’s case to see how much impropriety he could withstand while filming. After Jared had realized that Misha could take nearly any amount of inappropriate, oft-uncomfortable groping and distraction, he fell into an easy friendship with Misha. And Jensen couldn’t begrudge the poor guy a saner version of the camaraderie he found with Jared, so he got along with Misha fairly well too.

By the end of the fourth season, Jensen had learned a lot about Misha. By the middle of the fifth, he had realized that he would always be learning. Misha had made it clear from the beginning that he was definably indefinable. Brilliant, talented, tactile, entertaining, witty, deceptive, diplomatic, and aside from Jared’s wild antics damn near unflappable—Misha had been fluid enough to fit the mold—or, more often, to break it—of any situation he entered. And that was just in the beginning. Jensen had since then expanded his list of Misha-traits to include infuriating, crazy, unnatural, and wow, sometimes not a little odd—minions, really?

Regardless, it’s been two years, and in that two years Jensen has come no closer to really figuring out his friend. Not for lack of trying, either. Between them, Jared and Jensen have come up with a list of quirks and foibles that would fill the pages of the dog-eared notebooks Misha uses to write poetry or prose or whatever-the-hell catches his fancy that day. They might have actually tried to write down these observations, but for an irrational fear that Misha would retaliate with something terrible if he ever discovered evidence of their strange little character study. Jared suggests often that they should write a book. He calls it The Thousand Faces of Misha whenever he brings it up, and the working title—under the moniker of Faces—becomes code to signal a new observation to be discussed.

Jensen likes the code word because once he thinks about it, it isn’t far off the mark. But he never thought about the reason he and Jared see so many sides of Misha, so many faces, until he sees them for what they truly are. Until he sees Misha’s mask slip out of place.

Part 1

It’s late, past the borders of "middle of the night" and well into "ungodly" territory. Bob keeps demanding retakes of the last midnight encounter with the monster of the week taunting Dean and Sam with how badly Eve is going to kick their asses before Castiel goes all smitey on it. Meaning, of course, that Jensen and Jared are acting out the scene for about the twelfth time while Misha’s waiting somewhere on standby. It’s the last scene of the day, and Jensen wishes Bob could just be satisfied so he could go home and fall into bed; it had already been a long night, and he is sporting evidence of his labors in the form of aches and bruises. Dean had gotten thrown around a lot this time around. The crew is echoing his weariness, their usual cheerful demeanors dampened by poorly-disguised grumbles aimed in Bob’s general direction. Even Jared is dragging his heels, unable to muster up his usual gusto to mess with Jensen beyond the usual bitten-off banter they exchange on set.

Pretty much, the night is fucked and everyone has realized it but Bob.

Jensen contemplates the horizon in between takes, and takes note that dawn is approaching. He’d hate to make a scene and be proclaimed a spoiled Hollywood brat, but he’s really starting to weigh the benefits of just demanding his right to sleep this frigging century. He’s been up for 22 hours and he’s earned the right to a little damn moodiness.

Finally—finally—Bob wises up. "Okay, everybody, let’s call it a night."

"Oh, thank fuck," Jared sighs, voice gruff from overuse. While he isn’t quite feeling up to vocal activity, Jensen nods his agreement emphatically. Jared rushes off, intent on getting home to Gen and a warm bed. Jensen while in no less of a hurry has no desire to wear Dean’s muddy, red-stained clothes home; he heads to his trailer idly chats with a few of the weary crew on his way. He hears from Becky that Misha is still in his trailer, and looked ill when he left the set about a couple hours ago.

Jensen knows of three times Misha’s come down with something in the two years they’ve worked together, not to mention that really unfortunate stint in the hospital after another stupid Padalecki Prank that Jared still whines for forgiveness over. But Misha hides from the world when all is not well, so Jensen’s never gotten much opportunity to offer any assistance or even see Misha ill. It’s a new Face to add to the collection; but more importantly, as a good friend it’s Jensen’s duty to make sure Misha isn’t going to die or anything equally concerning.

He half-jogs to Misha’s trailer, hoping to be quick about sending his friend off to his apartment so he can go home himself. He lets himself in like he always does, and his footsteps stutter to a halt as his body responds to the scene before him before his mind can catch up. He is still too far gone on heavy exhaustion to realize yet what is so not right about this situation before him, so for a few minutes he just systematically catalogues each detail that he sees.

Misha is tucked into the corner of the couch that rests against the wall of his trailer, elbows settled against his knees, head dropped against his interlaced fingers. He is no longer wearing Castiel’s suit and trench coat but clings to the serious, brooding aura that simultaneously makes Castiel both appealingly human and eerily other. Misha’s eyes peer at the floor from beneath his palms, hooded and dark without the twinkle of impish laughter that usually lights them. His face is pale, lined with discomfort that is echoed in the tension of his shoulders.

And suddenly the wrongness of this grasps Jensen as he realizes that Misha—crazy, quirky, devil-may-care Misha—looks for all the world like a broken thing. New Misha-Face, he thinks before he can stop himself. He clings to this, to being Misha’s friend, as a way to justify himself and kind of maybe hates himself a little for it. Yes, he is worried because really—Misha looking this way, in the shadows of his trailer? That is something that falls under the Very, Very Wrong category of sights he’s experienced. But he knows that it’s partially his inexplicable enjoyment of discovering a new nuance of Misha that the nomadic man had been hiding that draws him to Misha now.

He is thinking maybe he’s a bad friend when he finally moves from where he’s standing just inside the trailer door, inching abortively toward Misha, and Misha finally notices his presence with a start. "Hey," Jensen drawls. He hates how Texas always taints his words and drags on the syllables whenever he’s tired.

Misha stiffens, but doesn’t respond otherwise. Jensen would be offended at the lack of acknowledgement if he didn’t already know he’d interrupted some sort of funk. It’s the reason he continues, "I figured nobody told you since you’re still here, but we’re wrapped up for the night. It’s okay to scurry home and not work for the rest of the week."

He hopes to incite the usual response to his teasing—typically something not-quite-as-inappropriate as what Misha would say to Jared, but just suggestive enough to make Jensen frown. Instead, he is surprised by a quiet, but unmistakable sigh. "Thanks, Jensen. Goodnight," Misha says, so gruffly Jensen thinks maybe Castiel has bled a little into him during this black mood.

The air of finality and the tone of dismissal finally put an edge to Jensen’s usual patience. He tries to ignore it because he knows Misha is talented at manipulation, and he doesn’t want to be driven away if something is really wrong.

Before he can probe further, Misha stands abruptly. He circles Jensen, leaving a wide chasm between them so he can reach the door. Jensen witnesses a small hesitation in Misha where he rolls his shoulders, and suddenly he is relaxed and it is the Misha Jensen knows best that pours himself out of the trailer, all lithe grace and eloquent poise. Misha’s tone is forcefully light, but quiet as he turns to say over his shoulder, "Don’t work too hard while I’m away, Jen."

It doesn’t hold quite the touch of slyness that Misha usually throws back at him, but Jensen finds himself frowning as he stares after him. Well, fuck. He isn’t exactly sure what just happened, but he knows that Misha’s behavior just reminded him of a diva throwing a tantrum, and if that’s how Misha wants to be, then to hell with it.