RockStarPeach

So, it seems as if I keep on checking the kink meme for prompts. Particularly late at night, when I'm a little punchy :) I thought this prompt was cute. http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/85341.html?thread=32082781#t32082781

Title: Play Me A Memory
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: R, for language and sexual references
Word count: 1700
Summary: Jensen is away on a business trip when he gets dumped by his wife. He stumbles into a piano bar to drown his sorrows and the entertainment catches his eye.



Jensen swallows down the last of his second double scotch, doesn't even flinch at the burn as he lowers the highball glass full of still-frozen ice to the rickety table in front of him. It's smokey, in the bar. Jensen's pretty sure that's not allowed. Is there anywhere left in the world that you're still allowed to smoke? Jensen's pretty sure there's not, but it doesn't bother him. He almost misses it and this – this haze, this heavy air that gets stuck in his lungs and eases along the liquor – this is almost good enough.

He used to smoke, but he quit.

For her.

Fuck.

Jensen catches the eye of the waitress across the room, holds up two fingers and then points to his glass. She smiles at him, nods her head before heading toward the bar.

She's pretty. Young and slim, with short dark hair cut into a bob, brown eyes and a pink mouth and exactly the kind of woman his wife (soon to be ex-wife) accused him of cheating with.

She's wrong, Jensen thinks, as the jukebox strains of Jim Croce peter out and the piano in the corner comes to life. She's wrong, because Jensen travels a lot, sure. That's his job, it's what he does. He's a tax consultant for many of the fortune 500 and it's boring as shit, but he doesn't need to entertain himself with strange pussy while he's away.

It's an old argument, one they've had again and again and maybe Jensen should have seen this coming, but he didn't.

I want a divorce.

The words still ring in his head, beat against the inside of his skull as the opening bars to Stop In Nevada ring outside and he smiles.

He didn't know there was going to be live music when he stumbled into this dive, lonely and heartbroken and looking to get shit-faced. He didn't know there was an honest to god piano with an honest to god piano man, but the fact that he's starting his set off with Billy Joel is amusing enough to crack Jensen's misery, if only for a moment.

The waitress comes back, puts his third double down in front of him and Jensen considers her for a moment. She is pretty. She is just his type and he's on the verge of asking her what time she gets off – because why the fuck not? Apparently his wife has been fucking their neighbour for the past six months and the bitch wants to leave him with nothing, take his fucking daughter in the deal.

He deserves a little fun, doesn't he?

But then the guy at the piano starts to sing.

He's... kind of terrible and Jensen laughs. The waitress, Lindsey according to her nametag, smiles wider.

“We didn't hire him for his voice,” she says with a wink.

Only then does Jensen really look, into the corner, half-shaded but there's enough light that he can make out the guy's profile, his stark cheekbones and his ridiculous (kind of hot) shiny, flowing hair and the deep definition of his nose.

And... his hands. Jesus fucking Christ, that guy's hands.

Jensen usually likes them small. Girls, guys, doesn't matter. He just likes them slight, skinny, so he can tuck them up under his arm, rest their heads on his shoulder. He likes to take care of people, to praise them and worship them and as he watches this guy, this piano playing Adonis sway his head and span his fingers over the keys, he realises what a complete and utter mistake that has been.

The piano man his long fingers. Long fingers and they're wide and sure and they hit exactly the right keys, every time. Even if his voice is a little iffy, those fingers of his tell Jensen that he doesn't need them to be thin and delicate. He's sure enough in his manhood that even those fingers wouldn't make him appear... less.

No, they'd accentuate what he's got, suit him perfectly.

So would Mr. Piano's body. It wouldn't fit under his arm quite the way he's used to, but the guy would be no less pretty pressed against him walking down the street, no less deserving of complete and utter worship with his legs wrapped around Jensen's shoulders, Jensen's hips.

It's crazy. It's fucking insane.

He hasn't been with anyone else, with another man in fifteen years, since before he got married. Hasn't even imagined it, not in any kind of potentially viable way, not since before his daughter was born.

“His name is Jared,” Lindsey tells him and Jensen starts at the sudden noise, the intrusion into his vague, innocent fantasy. It was something about long, thick fingers wrapped around his cock and a wide, muscled back splayed out above a tight, rounded ass... “And he's single.”

Jensen blushes, looks down at his drink, embarrassed.

“I'm not sure he's my type,” Jensen answers. The music gets louder, Jared's voice gets softer and damn he's good. Plays those keys like... like Jensen really wants to know what else he can play.

But this whole situation is scary as hell. Jensen hasn't hit this scene – this single, man-seeking-man for a one night stand scene in a damn long time. He's not even sure how it works, anymore. Are the rules still the same? Can he just... walk right up and say 'Hey, I think you're hot. Want to take your pants off and spread?'

He used that line, once. It worked spectacularly, but two weeks later he met his wife. The line he used with her, was 'Can I take you out to dinner?'. Not exactly the stuff of legend, but his intent was pure.

Lindsey just shrugs.

“Twelve fifty,” she says and Jensen passes her a twenty.

“Keep the change,” he says.

He sips his drink slowly when she goes, takes his time watching Jared, watching the pale pink of his fingers dance over the white and black. Watches the way he smiles, the way his mouth opens around the few words that he sings and watches the whole bar raise their glasses when five songs later, Jared gets around to the song everyone has clearly been waiting for.

It is nine o'clock, it is Saturday and when Jensen looks around at the regular crowd he can see each and every character that Jared sings about. It's kind of... comfortable. The crowd is thin but seemingly devout as they order drink after drink and pile the tip jar on top of the piano up with the change. Jensen breathes in the new wave of cigarette smoke, slinks back into the cushion of his booth and waits for the set to end.

Lindsey's still an option, if Jensen's even looking. Which he hasn't decided he is, yet. She's still looking his way every so often – and not just to get his drink order – but during the past couple of songs Jared's head has turned to his corner, as well.

It's not flirting. It can't be, when Jared can't even speak to him, but his lips turn up and he almost winks and he sings My Life while he licks his lips between verses and tosses his stupid long hair over his shoulder and... okay, so maybe he is flirting.

Jensen bites down on the rim of his glass and his heart beats triple time as he traces the edge with a slow finger, eyes half-lidded and he flirts with Jared right back. It's heady, new and exciting and Jared's voice is starting to grow on him. Maybe it's the lack of oxygen from all the smoke, maybe it's the lack of blood to his head from the redirection to his groin. Who knows?

All Jensen knows is he feels free, good, desirable again for the first time in a long time.

Half an hour later the music starts to slow, to fade out and Jensen's not ready. He wants more, wants more of that music, that voice, the way Jared tilts his head and the way his cheeks flush and the way he looks down when Jensen's finger presses against his full bottom lip.

“Thanks, guys,” Jared says, once the final chords reverberate into silence. Then he stands, coughs and says, louder. “Thanks. I'll be back next week. See y'all then.”

And Jesus, if Jensen was growing a little fond of Jared's singing voice, it was fucking nothing on the soft, sweet, down-home lilt of his speaking voice.

Jensen's up and across the creaky, wooden floor almost before Jared can step down from the raised platform that houses the sleek, black baby grand. Jared stops short, blinks and looks up Jensen. His face turns from surprise into a pleased grin once he recognises who's suddenly standing in front of him and Jensen breathes a sigh of relief, confidence bolstered.

He used to be good at this. Fuck Dana anyway, for ever making him feel like he wasn't enough. Lindsey likes him, Jared seems to like him. A hundred people over the years have liked him but Jensen's never even bothered to look their way, not until now.

He thinks about stuffing a ten dollar bill into Jared's tip jar, already overflowing with smaller bills and loose change, but considering he's about to try to pick the guy up, that might come off wrong.

Maybe next time.

“Hey,” Jared says, stepping down off the platform so he's level with Jensen. And yup, the guy's still tall. And yup, Jensen still thinks he's gonna look good with his knees up around his ears.

Because Jensen's going to ask Jared if he wants to go back to Jensen's room, get naked and fuck like bunnies all night long. He's going to ask Jared if he minds too terribly much if Jensen uses him until he's raw and sore and can't take anybody else for at least a week. He's going to ask if Jared has any condoms on him, because Jensen sure as hell doesn't; he wasn't expecting this.

He's going to ask Jared if he wants to join him for the hottest night of unbridled, no strings, break-the-bed sex either of them has ever had.

Except when he meets Jared's eyes they're smiling just like his mouth is. He looks just as sweet as he sounds and Jensen's heart slows right down, skips and then speeds up again and what comes out of his mouth, is “I'd like to buy you dinner.”

Jared's smile grows even wider and he falls in beside Jensen, Jensen's arm falls around his shoulder and Jared's not tucked up under it, not really, but he fits even better than Jensen could have imagined.

END