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

Chapter Forty-Four

Misha and I manage to make it back to the cottage without anyone noticing our sopping attire. The fire's been snuffed out and the others have gone to bed.

I head back upstairs to the guest room reserved for me when I bunk over. It's furnished tastefully with wine and gold and a four-poster bed framed by voile curtains. The latter seems ridiculously ostentatious for me, and too damn big. After showering, I slide under the covers. I feel swallowed up by the enormous bed, floundering in the middle of the plushy material in a fitful sleep. I grab at my pillow, flex my fingers in the soft fabric helplessly, tossing and turning. I lift up to check the time on my phone. Almost midnight. Face-flopping onto my pillow with a muffled groan, I prepare to wallow in my misery all night. Because I can't sleep worth shit on my own. And it's Misha's fault.

The realization prompts me to sit up and climb over the side, feet shuffling across the floorboards and carving out a path to Misha's room. I'm counting on the fact that he was always so welcoming when I invaded his bed at unholy hours, because I need the haven of his arms right now, even if I have to belly crawl into his room to the tune of Mission Impossible and climb over Vicki's sleeping body. Okay, so there are some crucial holes in my plan. But I'd rather focus on getting Misha and some goddamn sleep. Not like my sluggish brain is able to fire enough at this hour to support any calibre of rational or complex plotting anyway.

My knuckles rap against the white-painted wood of his door once, twice. There's no response.

The door is unlocked, so I push it open hesitantly. My eyes find the large, gilt-framed oil painting above the headboard first, tracing through the dark to identify a table on either side of the bed adorned with a lamp. My brow furrows in confusion at the sight of Misha lying alone, the moonlight pouring over his shoulders and giving the sheets the lustre of a pearl. But there are plenty of rooms; Vicki probably took the next one over, with the kids.

"Mish," I whisper sheepishly. I smile at the sock-clad foot peeking through the tousled sheets. I know the pair, the dorky bumblebee ones he got from his fans. He's splayed out in the middle of the bed in his sweatpants with the frayed drawstrings and a soft-looking t-shirt that I sort of want to bury my face in. "Misha," I press again, my voice sounding too loud in the silence. Misha gives a pained groan, shifting slightly, eyebrows knitted together in a sleepy frown at the prospect of being roused from slumber.

"Sorry to bother you," I grapple, rambling helplessly, "but, uh, I couldn't sleep, and..." Misha rolls onto his back, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. "Can I just... Can I stay? Tonight? Please?"

He doesn't open his eyes, just turns his head towards the sound of my voice and tries to smile. It's as good an invitation as any. Crossing over to the bed, I sink into the lush material next to his disgruntled form, shifting and wriggling in the mess of pillows and sheets before propping myself up on my side facing him. Misha grumbles something, stretches and opens bleary eyes to blink at me. I wonder how long I'll get to stay here before he kicks me out. No way he'd be down for sleeping with me. In either sense of the word. Doesn't mean I can't tease him about it just a little.

"So, third date behind us and all...hehe..." My eyebrows waggle of their own volition, and I'm gonna have a serious talk with them later, because, seriously, that is not appropriate, and I don't need Misha thinking I'm an even bigger pain in his ass than he already assumed. "Just kidding, sort of." It's enough that he's here, anyway, smelling so good and looking so fine and so - so very Misha - next to me.

There's a huff of air across my sleeve, a small laugh. Misha twists his knuckles into his eyes again before dragging his hands across those dark, unruly tufts of hair and stubbled jaw. I clear my throat, heart brewing storms of want and adoration for this sleepy, blinking man just a few inches across from me. It's the details like the dark circles and chapped, pink lips; the soft, fleshy part of his earlobe or that tuft of hair that won't lie flat; the sharp tip of his nose and the laughter lines beside blue eyes. This is the body I love, but don't get to cherish.