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

Chapter Forty-One

The scenery starts to rush by in a whirl of golden pinpricks, street lamps and shop signs and thousands of illuminated windows and car headlights pouring like rivulets of shimmering blood down the network of roads and highways. The darkness descends on the city like a smothering blanket, a sunset breeze whipping through the car through the rolled-down windows. It's a galaxy spread before us, a million bright orbs of artificial light against an indigo sky, like sparkling stars in the Milky Way.

The car ride is brutal. Misha's profile is silhouetted in the passenger seat next to me the entire time, his long lashes and the snub of his beautiful nose and the pout of those lips that practically beg for me to mess them up framed deliciously against the waning sunlight. I barely resist primal impulses to jerk the car to the shoulder, throw it into park and go to goddamn town on him. Misha pulls out a water bottle at one point and tips his head back to drink, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the liquid down, and I shouldn't find it arousing and it's totally not arousing and, fuck, I need out of this car right now before he's pressing rape charges.

I finally pull up at the designated spot, a local city park, and cut the engine. There's a cluster of picnic benches positioned artfully by a vast, rippling lake framed by overhanging willows. The park is shrouded in darkness, distant city lights glimmering through the tree branches and a choir of frogs, crickets and cicadas forming a lulling backdrop. The trails are mostly deserted at this hour, save for an elderly couple walking their dog and a group of teenagers on roller blades.

"When you said dinner, I was thinking more along the lines of a restaurant or something." Misha comes around to the back of the car to help me unload the food and drinks and blanket I've brought along.

"We'll be eating under the stars tonight," I grin, hoisting a backpack over my shoulder and reaching to take Misha's bag. "That's way better."

"And no paparazzi."

"Exactly." After the hectic hurricane of press interviews and media stalking, I wanted something more low-key, more intimate, for our night together. Security still accompanies me everywhere I go, but we'll be given complete privacy tonight.

We trek a short ways onto the park grounds to the small grove where I hung decorative tree lanterns and tea lights earlier. Misha's jaw falls slack at the sight as I spread the picnic blanket on the lakeshore. It's a narrow, sandy strip bordered by dense shrubbery, with a breathtaking view of a clear expanse of starry sky. The lake is a flat, shimmering surface with nothing but the occasional ripple to spoil the calm sweep of ebony.

Bathed in the flickering, golden glow of the lights, I spread a classic, cotton linen picnic blanket with a red-printed, cross-stitch country pattern, and Misha begins to unpack. The bags tote fresh pasta salads, mini fruit pies, caesar club sandwiches and pastries, alongside the essential wipes, paper towels and cutlery. There's also wine with a corkscrew and bottle opener for later.

"You made all this yourself?" Misha assesses me with genuine awe.

"Most of it; some of it's store-bought. I'm a little nervous about how the chocolate peanut butter globs turned out..."

Misha produces a pack of napkins, smiling ruefully.

"I'm sure they're fine. You've come a long way in the kitchen."

"I can be romantic when it matters." I help him rifle expeditiously through the backpack, placing everything carefully on the picnic blanket.

"So, was showing me your underwear on stage a finer point of your romantic, gentlemanly tactics?"

"Was sitting like that in your seat a finer point in your boner-concealing tactics?"

Touché, I think, smiling smugly as I unwrap a chicken sandwich.