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'Terms of Stay' - SPN RPF - Jensen/Misha
LOL YOU KNOW THAT FEELING YOU GET? WHEN YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE FINISHING YOUR NOVAKFEST? But then get sidetracked with Balthazar/Castiel? And then you think to yourself, "Okay okay, FINE, I will finish the Balthazar/Castiel before it burns me up inside, and THEN I will finish my Novakfest." But then somehow, maybe because you are a fool, you think it's a good idea to wander over to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
jensen_misha's AU commentfic meme?
YOU KNOW THAT FEELING??
Terms of Stay
SPN RPF. Jensen/Misha, R.
Based on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
qthelights's prompt: "Misha needs a greencard, Jensen needs company. They get married and attempt to learn each other's idiosyncrasies in order to fool Immigration. They learn more than either of them bargained for." ~1700 words
"When they say resident," Misha says when Jensen gets home from work, "do they mean, like, where I'm actually residing right now? Or what it says on my passport?"
Jensen admits he doesn't know and goes to the kitchen for his post-work beer, leaving Misha to swim through paperwork. Real helpful, this guy. What a sweetheart.
The coffee table is covered over with papers in at least three languages, some of which are covered by Misha's slowly overheating laptop. The screen shows a Firefox window open to the Wikipedia entry for "I-1539 (form)". CSI: Miami is on TV, and it's the only thing calming Misha down enough to stop him tearing up the papers and setting the scraps on fire. He fills out forms with one eye on Horatio Caine saving the day. Looks like Misha's green card marriage is... making him see red. YEEEAAAAAAAH.
"Grab me one," Misha yells.
Jensen yells back, "'Kay."
So he comes back with two Sam Adams, which is one of the three American beers that Misha can actually stand, and of course, when Misha opens it, the foam gets all over page two of his I-485.
+
"When it asks 'primary language'," Misha says, "is it talking about the first language I learned to speak, or the language I know best?"
Jensen raises his eyebrows. "It's not the same language?"
"Hasn't been since I was about... seven? Eight?"
"I don't know. Leave it blank for now."
"A third of this shit I've left blank." Partly due to the USCIS's archaic notions of national identity, and partly because he is on his fourth beer. Also, Jensen has this habit of resting the lip of his bottle on his mouth between sips. It's really distracting. "How precise do I have to be with the home address? I haven't had to think about my postal code in fucking forever. Also there's not enough space, I have to write like really tiny."
Misha should really clean all these papers up before he spills anything else on them.
"How well do you speak your first language?" Jensen asks.
"I need Lilliputians to fill out the address field. Not well," he answers. "Well, conversational." He hesitates. "I'm not sure, actually. I haven't been back to the old country in ages."
"Do you miss it?"
"I don't remember it that well. So... sort of. Sometimes. When I'm drunk and it benefits me to play the foreigner."
Jensen smirks. "Oh, benefits?"
"That's right."
"Like what."
"Well," Misha says. "You're not so bad, for example."
Jensen's smirk turns into a grin, and is he even blushing a little? Misha grins back.
+
The papers have not been cleaned up. By Jensen's standards, they've not been cleaned up, they've only been shoved into a messy pile on one side of the coffee table. That's clean, Misha argued. Look, you can see some tabletop. Jensen rolled his eyes and let Misha get away with it. He lets Misha get away with a lot. Not exactly sure how Misha feels about that. On the one hand, awesome. On the other hand, he worries.
Misha hasn't known Jensen for that long, relatively speaking, but in a short time, he has somehow managed to invade what he guesses is a significant portion of Jensen's life. Jensen's ordered apartment gives way to Misha's gleeful entropy, his fridge filling with food he doesn't know how to pronounce and his weekends spent going along with whatever hare-brained scheme Misha has concocted on the fly. Jensen puts up a good front: he jokes around and gives Misha shit for being a goddamn hippie and fights him for the remote when an American football game is on. Still. When Misha enters the room, Jensen's face lights up. Misha wonders how long Jensen has been this lonely.
"Thanks for letting me take advantage of you," Misha says flippantly, and smiles like 'haha, that was a joke of course', but maybe he's smiling too hard, because Jensen just gives him this look. "Not sure all this paperwork is worth your love, though," he adds, and narrows his eyes goofily for good measure.
Then he waits for Jensen to confirm or deny.
"Why don't you take advantage of the dishwasher for once?" Jensen says. "I think your plates in the sink are becoming an ecosystem."
What is that tone? Is that passive aggression? What is that look on Jensen's face?
"When I was a freshman in college," Misha says, "I went to my roommate's for Thanksgiving and it was the first time I used a dishwasher. I didn't put the soap in. I didn't even know there was soap to put in."
"How do you think the dishes get clean?" Jensen guffaws.
"I don't know. Through the awesome power of dishwashing technology? How was I supposed to know?"
"I know you know how to use a dishwasher."
"Now I do."
"First step to a green card, you know. Dishwashers." And then Jensen leans back on the sofa, doing something with his body that's half a stretch and half rearranging his body against the cushions. It's an unselfconscious move, graceless but liquid. His shirt rides up and Misha doesn't glance at the strip of tanned waist, doesn't look at the muscles shifting on Jensen's arms. Okay, maybe he does a little. Jensen's expression is peaceful with drunkenness, blissed out, and it does something to Misha, seeing him this loose.
"I have what I think you and your countrymen call 'mad skillz' when it comes to dishwashing now," Misha says. "I use them only for good though. Never for evil."
"Cleanliness is next to goodliness," Jensen murmurs, with eyes closed.
"That's not how that saying goes."
"Uh-huh."
"Is this your way of telling me I should do the dishes?"
"Right now," Jensen confirms, and Misha isn't sure if he means it or if he's just drunk and fucking with him.
Sometimes the best way to deal with fuckery is to respond with earnestness. Also, Jensen is kind of right about the dishes. Took him forever to find clean ones for dinner earlier. Misha sets his beer down on the table and stands up. "Okay."
Jensen opens one eye and looks at him, like some parody of a wink.
+
So, they're making out against the dishwasher, much to Misha's delight. He didn't even get around to loading the damn thing. He strode into the kitchen and peered into the sink, then turned around to ask Jensen if he's got anything he wants to throw in, and woah, Jensen was right there.
"You are such--" Jensen said, amusement on his face, and didn't even bother to finish his sentence. Just cupped Misha's face and leaned in.
They don't do this a lot. Well, they didn't used to do this a lot, but Misha's noticed the increased frequency recently. He doesn't really know what to make of it. As far as the green card marriage goes, they both agreed in the beginning that that's all it would be. Think of it as an open relationship, Misha said, but without the relationship.
Just so happens they're both pretty open to each other too.
Drunken make-outs are messy, but great, and you know what is also great? Second base, which they get to, and when Jensen makes this animal noise as Misha starts jacking him off, Misha says, "Bedroom."
"Yeah," Jensen says hoarsely. "Okay."
Jensen leads the way, swaying as he takes off his shirt and drops it on the kitchen floor. Belt on the living room floor. His pants are already unzipped and he has his hands on the waistband, and then he realizes Misha isn't behind him. He turns around, and Misha is standing in the kitchen doorway with his heart in his throat.
"Bedroom?" Jensen says, like Misha is slow, and fuck, Jensen has to know, he's gotta know what he looks like, standing there shirtless and kissed up, soft glow of the television flickering on his body.
"Yeah," Misha says, then swallows and tries again. "Yeah."
He follows for real this time, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.
"Hey," Misha says, after Jensen shoves him to the bed and climbs on top of him. "You'd tell me if I was being a shit to you, right?"
"What?"
"If I was a shit to you, you'd tell me, right?"
"You're always a shit to me."
"No, I mean it. Jensen."
Jensen kisses his neck, his jaw. "Look, man, if you wanna talk about feelings or whatever, you shouldn't have given me a boner."
Fair point.
+
Misha wakes up next Saturday morning with a slight headache in an empty bed. He can guess where Jensen is.
He pulls on his jeans and one of Jensen's t-shirts, and shuffles into the living room, past the couch and to the window. He opens it. Jensen is sitting on the steps of the fire exit, smoking his hangover cigarette.
"Morning, sunshine," Misha says.
Jensen grunts, then holds out the pack to Misha, who shakes his head. He is trying to quit.
"You want some toast?" he asks.
Jensen nods.
"Eggs?"
Jensen nods.
"Two or three?"
Jensen holds up three fingers.
"Will that be with or without the caviar?"
Jensen holds up his middle finger.
"That'll cost extra."
Just as Misha is about to close the windows again, Jensen says, "Hey, wait."
So he does.
Jensen says, "What was that, last night?"
"What was what?"
"That... Asking me that. If you treated me like shit." There is something guarded in Jensen's expression, unless that's just the hangover.
"Do I, though?" Misha blurts out.
"Misha--"
"No seriously, I know sometimes I'm--"
"What. Sometimes you're what."
Jensen's tone has turned hard, defensive. (Exposed? Did he hit too close to home?) Whatever it is Misha was gonna say, he certainly isn't going to say it now. Not with Jensen looking at him like that, like he doesn't know who he's angry at.
So Misha says, "Forget it."
Jensen crushes his cigarette butt underfoot, then lights another one. "The forms are due Monday."
"I know," Misha says, and closes the window.
He's just about done frying up Jensen's eggs before he realizes none of the dishes are clean.
A/N: There isn't actually a Wikipedia page for the I-1539 form. But there totally should be.
[originally posted at http://whynot.dreamwidth.org/43541.html |
comments]
jensen_misha's AU commentfic meme? YOU KNOW THAT FEELING??
Terms of Stay
SPN RPF. Jensen/Misha, R.
Based on
qthelights's prompt: "Misha needs a greencard, Jensen needs company. They get married and attempt to learn each other's idiosyncrasies in order to fool Immigration. They learn more than either of them bargained for." ~1700 words"When they say resident," Misha says when Jensen gets home from work, "do they mean, like, where I'm actually residing right now? Or what it says on my passport?"
Jensen admits he doesn't know and goes to the kitchen for his post-work beer, leaving Misha to swim through paperwork. Real helpful, this guy. What a sweetheart.
The coffee table is covered over with papers in at least three languages, some of which are covered by Misha's slowly overheating laptop. The screen shows a Firefox window open to the Wikipedia entry for "I-1539 (form)". CSI: Miami is on TV, and it's the only thing calming Misha down enough to stop him tearing up the papers and setting the scraps on fire. He fills out forms with one eye on Horatio Caine saving the day. Looks like Misha's green card marriage is... making him see red. YEEEAAAAAAAH.
"Grab me one," Misha yells.
Jensen yells back, "'Kay."
So he comes back with two Sam Adams, which is one of the three American beers that Misha can actually stand, and of course, when Misha opens it, the foam gets all over page two of his I-485.
+
"When it asks 'primary language'," Misha says, "is it talking about the first language I learned to speak, or the language I know best?"
Jensen raises his eyebrows. "It's not the same language?"
"Hasn't been since I was about... seven? Eight?"
"I don't know. Leave it blank for now."
"A third of this shit I've left blank." Partly due to the USCIS's archaic notions of national identity, and partly because he is on his fourth beer. Also, Jensen has this habit of resting the lip of his bottle on his mouth between sips. It's really distracting. "How precise do I have to be with the home address? I haven't had to think about my postal code in fucking forever. Also there's not enough space, I have to write like really tiny."
Misha should really clean all these papers up before he spills anything else on them.
"How well do you speak your first language?" Jensen asks.
"I need Lilliputians to fill out the address field. Not well," he answers. "Well, conversational." He hesitates. "I'm not sure, actually. I haven't been back to the old country in ages."
"Do you miss it?"
"I don't remember it that well. So... sort of. Sometimes. When I'm drunk and it benefits me to play the foreigner."
Jensen smirks. "Oh, benefits?"
"That's right."
"Like what."
"Well," Misha says. "You're not so bad, for example."
Jensen's smirk turns into a grin, and is he even blushing a little? Misha grins back.
+
The papers have not been cleaned up. By Jensen's standards, they've not been cleaned up, they've only been shoved into a messy pile on one side of the coffee table. That's clean, Misha argued. Look, you can see some tabletop. Jensen rolled his eyes and let Misha get away with it. He lets Misha get away with a lot. Not exactly sure how Misha feels about that. On the one hand, awesome. On the other hand, he worries.
Misha hasn't known Jensen for that long, relatively speaking, but in a short time, he has somehow managed to invade what he guesses is a significant portion of Jensen's life. Jensen's ordered apartment gives way to Misha's gleeful entropy, his fridge filling with food he doesn't know how to pronounce and his weekends spent going along with whatever hare-brained scheme Misha has concocted on the fly. Jensen puts up a good front: he jokes around and gives Misha shit for being a goddamn hippie and fights him for the remote when an American football game is on. Still. When Misha enters the room, Jensen's face lights up. Misha wonders how long Jensen has been this lonely.
"Thanks for letting me take advantage of you," Misha says flippantly, and smiles like 'haha, that was a joke of course', but maybe he's smiling too hard, because Jensen just gives him this look. "Not sure all this paperwork is worth your love, though," he adds, and narrows his eyes goofily for good measure.
Then he waits for Jensen to confirm or deny.
"Why don't you take advantage of the dishwasher for once?" Jensen says. "I think your plates in the sink are becoming an ecosystem."
What is that tone? Is that passive aggression? What is that look on Jensen's face?
"When I was a freshman in college," Misha says, "I went to my roommate's for Thanksgiving and it was the first time I used a dishwasher. I didn't put the soap in. I didn't even know there was soap to put in."
"How do you think the dishes get clean?" Jensen guffaws.
"I don't know. Through the awesome power of dishwashing technology? How was I supposed to know?"
"I know you know how to use a dishwasher."
"Now I do."
"First step to a green card, you know. Dishwashers." And then Jensen leans back on the sofa, doing something with his body that's half a stretch and half rearranging his body against the cushions. It's an unselfconscious move, graceless but liquid. His shirt rides up and Misha doesn't glance at the strip of tanned waist, doesn't look at the muscles shifting on Jensen's arms. Okay, maybe he does a little. Jensen's expression is peaceful with drunkenness, blissed out, and it does something to Misha, seeing him this loose.
"I have what I think you and your countrymen call 'mad skillz' when it comes to dishwashing now," Misha says. "I use them only for good though. Never for evil."
"Cleanliness is next to goodliness," Jensen murmurs, with eyes closed.
"That's not how that saying goes."
"Uh-huh."
"Is this your way of telling me I should do the dishes?"
"Right now," Jensen confirms, and Misha isn't sure if he means it or if he's just drunk and fucking with him.
Sometimes the best way to deal with fuckery is to respond with earnestness. Also, Jensen is kind of right about the dishes. Took him forever to find clean ones for dinner earlier. Misha sets his beer down on the table and stands up. "Okay."
Jensen opens one eye and looks at him, like some parody of a wink.
+
So, they're making out against the dishwasher, much to Misha's delight. He didn't even get around to loading the damn thing. He strode into the kitchen and peered into the sink, then turned around to ask Jensen if he's got anything he wants to throw in, and woah, Jensen was right there.
"You are such--" Jensen said, amusement on his face, and didn't even bother to finish his sentence. Just cupped Misha's face and leaned in.
They don't do this a lot. Well, they didn't used to do this a lot, but Misha's noticed the increased frequency recently. He doesn't really know what to make of it. As far as the green card marriage goes, they both agreed in the beginning that that's all it would be. Think of it as an open relationship, Misha said, but without the relationship.
Just so happens they're both pretty open to each other too.
Drunken make-outs are messy, but great, and you know what is also great? Second base, which they get to, and when Jensen makes this animal noise as Misha starts jacking him off, Misha says, "Bedroom."
"Yeah," Jensen says hoarsely. "Okay."
Jensen leads the way, swaying as he takes off his shirt and drops it on the kitchen floor. Belt on the living room floor. His pants are already unzipped and he has his hands on the waistband, and then he realizes Misha isn't behind him. He turns around, and Misha is standing in the kitchen doorway with his heart in his throat.
"Bedroom?" Jensen says, like Misha is slow, and fuck, Jensen has to know, he's gotta know what he looks like, standing there shirtless and kissed up, soft glow of the television flickering on his body.
"Yeah," Misha says, then swallows and tries again. "Yeah."
He follows for real this time, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.
"Hey," Misha says, after Jensen shoves him to the bed and climbs on top of him. "You'd tell me if I was being a shit to you, right?"
"What?"
"If I was a shit to you, you'd tell me, right?"
"You're always a shit to me."
"No, I mean it. Jensen."
Jensen kisses his neck, his jaw. "Look, man, if you wanna talk about feelings or whatever, you shouldn't have given me a boner."
Fair point.
+
Misha wakes up next Saturday morning with a slight headache in an empty bed. He can guess where Jensen is.
He pulls on his jeans and one of Jensen's t-shirts, and shuffles into the living room, past the couch and to the window. He opens it. Jensen is sitting on the steps of the fire exit, smoking his hangover cigarette.
"Morning, sunshine," Misha says.
Jensen grunts, then holds out the pack to Misha, who shakes his head. He is trying to quit.
"You want some toast?" he asks.
Jensen nods.
"Eggs?"
Jensen nods.
"Two or three?"
Jensen holds up three fingers.
"Will that be with or without the caviar?"
Jensen holds up his middle finger.
"That'll cost extra."
Just as Misha is about to close the windows again, Jensen says, "Hey, wait."
So he does.
Jensen says, "What was that, last night?"
"What was what?"
"That... Asking me that. If you treated me like shit." There is something guarded in Jensen's expression, unless that's just the hangover.
"Do I, though?" Misha blurts out.
"Misha--"
"No seriously, I know sometimes I'm--"
"What. Sometimes you're what."
Jensen's tone has turned hard, defensive. (Exposed? Did he hit too close to home?) Whatever it is Misha was gonna say, he certainly isn't going to say it now. Not with Jensen looking at him like that, like he doesn't know who he's angry at.
So Misha says, "Forget it."
Jensen crushes his cigarette butt underfoot, then lights another one. "The forms are due Monday."
"I know," Misha says, and closes the window.
He's just about done frying up Jensen's eggs before he realizes none of the dishes are clean.
A/N: There isn't actually a Wikipedia page for the I-1539 form. But there totally should be.
[originally posted at http://whynot.dreamwidth.org/43541.html |
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