That's When We Uncover [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Eight

"Reservation for Ackles," I mutter, padding across the luxury vinyl of the foyer to the reception area.

The restaurant hostess is a petite blonde, smiling and chipper, with her hair pulled back into a flawless chignon.

"Right this way," she beams at us.

She takes off at a brisk gait, heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor, and we follow her perfectly-coiffed updo through the maze of tables.

We're all dining out tonight except JJ, who remained home with a babysitter. She probably wouldn't like it here anyway. The restaurant is a cocktail of ostentatiousness and ill-disguised vanity, furnished with lush carpeting and several oversized chandeliers.

Dani wasn't able to make the last-minute reservation at Moonshadows because they were completely booked, so we drove out west of the city for one of LA's finest vegan restaurants: the Crossroads Kitchen. She chose it for the upscale décor and lighting and the obvious health factor associated with a plant-based, Mediterranean menu.

Which translates to no hearty red meat for me.

Which translates to fuck this entire night.

I popped two Advil this morning but my headache hasn't subsided all day, my countless sleepless nights are starting to catch up with me, and - on a related note - my ass is killing me, but hey, at least they have a bar.

Except, oh wait, Dani refuses to let me drink.

So I reiterate: fuck this entire night.

Seeking solace, my hand reaches instinctively to settle on Misha's ass. The gesture has become so casual and comforting that it physically hurts to have to halt it midair and retract it awkwardly when I remember we're in public.

The hostess shows us to a secluded table and distributes menus as we ease onto the plush seats. Misha doesn't sit beside me, which is unfortunate because I was looking forward to maybe copping a few feels under the tablecloth while we eat.

Looks like I won't be getting any stealthy groping tonight, either.

False laughter and amicable chatting ring in the air around us, accentuated by tuxedos and satin cocktail dresses that scream rich and famous, and my urge to hightail it out of here increases tenfold.

I peruse the menu listlessly. All I really want for dinner is Mish, but I have a feeling that wouldn't fly with the waitress.

"And what will you be having this evening, ladies and gentlemen?" She's all smiles, a minute relief from the stifling atmosphere of the place.

Dani orders a bisque soup to start, while I jump down to the Comforting Classics section. There's nothing comforting about the ridiculous names and lack of descriptions, though.

I settle for Risotto Del Giorno, simply so I can find out what it actually is.

It's Tagliatelle Bolognese for Jared, and chickpea cake for Gen.

Mish opts for classic lasagna with almond ricotta, basil and marinara. It actually sounds delicious, and now I'm second-guessing my own choice.

I wish I could eat off his plate, laugh and mock the food names with him - they're asking for it with fucking Mostacholi - and just let loose for the evening. But that isn't going to happen.