Fandom: CW RPS
Word count: 1990
A/N: Because it's September again and I apparently felt like writing College AU. Title is from Billy Joel's Piano Man.
Summary: Jensen hates ice-breaker games, Misha has a talent for stealing clothes and Jared likes
When Jensen woke up alone and wearing someone else's shirt he just knew it was going to be a bad day.
When he opened his closet and found all his clothes missing he realized that it already was one.
Luckily, he knew just who to blame.
"Misha!" he roared, pounding into the kitchen.
"Morning Jensen," Misha said, not looking up from where he was doing something arcane with the blender, a box of Raisin Bran and a tub of yogurt. Jensen mostly didn't bother asking anymore. "Sleep well?"
"God dammit Misha," Jensen growled, shoving at the sleeves of the overlarge shirt his roommate had somehow managed to get him into. "I told you I wasn't going to play your stupid social mixer game!"
"And I ignored you. Because I love you."
"Because you're a jackass."
"That too," Misha agreed easily. His eyes flicked up and gave Jensen a thoughtful once-over. "You know, pink is a surprisingly acceptable colour on you. You should give it a try next time you go shopping."
Jensen looked down again at the ugly as hell flowered pink button-up he'd been foisted into and snorted. "This thing is hideous. And huge."
Misha shrugged. "Better too big than too small. Your cleavage isn't really up to some of the other shirts that came in."
It was way too early for this shit. "I want my clothes back."
Misha's answering grin was ruthlessly cheerful. "Then I guess you'd better go join everyone else on the concourse, because I guarantee you won't be getting them until you give that shirt back to its rightful owner."
Jensen glared at him. "I hate you."
"I made coffee," Misha offered, pointing.
"Still hate you," Jensen said, though that didn't stop him from shuffling over to the coffee maker and pouring himself a mug.
"I know you do." Inexplicably, Misha was still grinning. "You should probably grab a lid for that," he said, with a significant glance at the clock on the microwave. "The game's starting in ten minutes and you don't want to keep your partner waiting."
Jensen gave him the finger. "Killing you when I get back, fucker."
"Promises, promises. Now get going or your partner's going to end up going to class in your shirt and you'll get to wear that one for the rest of the week."
"Killing you," Jensen repeated. "With a fork."
Misha shrugged and returned his attention to the blender as Jensen stomped off to find his shoes. "You're very welcome to try."
Jensen hated his roommate.
The concourse was packed with bodies by the time Jensen arrived, his travel mug long since empty and his head only slightly less cotton-stuffed than before. He was equal parts surprised and dismayed at the sheer number of people Misha had somehow corralled into his stupid clothing swap meet'n'greet game; didn't anyone have better things to do with their time?
He hung back for a moment, eyeing the bustling throng warily. Most people looked pretty normal in their borrowed clothes, but there were others whose shirts very clearly didn't belong to them: men in baby dolls, women in polos that gaped in vaguely obscene ways at the neck, and far too many people in shirts that were far too small for them. There was even one guy dressed very memorably in a pink bustier.
Seeing them, Jensen was grudgingly relieved that his own shirt, while hideous, at least mostly fit and didn't require a D-cup to fill it out. He did wonder how he'd missed a frigging yeti on campus though. Fuck but this shirt was huge.
And he would have been tempted to guess it was Tom's, but a) Misha wouldn't have made it that easy for him, and b) there was no way in Hell that Tom owned a pink flowered shirt. Even Mike couldn't have pulled that shit off.
Jensen watched awkwardly on the periphery for several long minutes, but eventually he had to admit that he wasn't going to be able to find the owner of the damn shirt without actually participating in Misha's game. Shoving ineffectually at the sleeves again - seriously, it was ridiculous how long they were - Jensen took a deep breath and plunged into the throng, eyes peeled for a redwood tree masquerading as a human being. Bodies jostled on every side, laughter and triumphant exclamations of 'that's my shirt!' echoing all around him. Most people were switching shirts right where they stood, pecs and bras and flab on display as they traded names and phone numbers and the like. And okay, Jensen could maybe see Misha's point in helping students meet new people this way, but he still didn't appreciate being forced to play. Hell, he didn't even know which of his shirts Misha had used - how was he supposed to find his 'partner' when he didn't even know what shirt he was looking for?
A half hour of wading through the throng accomplished nothing more than Jensen sweating through his borrowed shirt and a not inconsiderable amount of mental scarring. Some people just shouldn't take off their shirts in public. Fucking ever.
"Fuck this," Jensen decided, more than a little pissed. Misha had probably bought the damn shirt at Goodwill just to fuck with him anyway. It was the sort of thing Misha would do. He started shoving his way through the much thinner crowd towards the edge, figuring that if he killed Misha he could just take his clothes until he figured out what the fuck he'd done with Jensen's.
Just then, a hand landed on his shoulder. "Excuse me?" said a voice behind him.
Jensen turned around hopefully.
"Hi," said the really hot guy wearing Jensen's shirt. It looked better on him than it did on Jensen, which would really have pissed him off if he hadn't been so busy trying to put his eyes back in his head.
When Jensen didn't do anything more productive than stare and maybe drool a little, the guy cocked his head uncertainly. "Um-?"
"That's mine," Jensen blurted, waving a dorky hand at the general vicinity of the black shirt stretched across the guy's extremely well-defined torso. He immediately wanted to stab himself for being such a tool.
Not that the guy seemed to mind. "I figured it might be." He smiled, dimples carving deeply into his cheeks, and Jensen felt his knees wobble. The guy stuck out a hand. "Hi, I'm Jared and you're wearing my shirt."
"Hi," Jensen managed, taking the offered hand without any meaningful input from his brain. "Uh, I'm-"
"Jensen," Jared cut in with a quirk of his mouth. "I know."
"That's good," Jensen said absently, most of his attention caught on the firm curve of muscle in Jared's arms. Then his brain caught up to what Jared had said. "Wait, what?"
Jared ducked his head. "Misha was my TA last year?" he said, like he wasn't quite sure it was what he wanted to say. "I've been to your apartment a couple times to pick up papers and stuff."
And Jensen would have thought he'd remember seeing someone as massively tall and smoking hot as Jared standing in his apartment, but apparently he was terminally single for more reasons than even Chris tormented him about.
"Huh," Jensen said, because he was stunning and witty like that. Then, because it looked like Jared was waiting for a less pathetic addition to the conversation, he tacked on a belated, "What are the odds?"
Jared squirmed a little at that, his smile going suddenly sheepish. "Well..."
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that meant. Jensen bit back a grin. "Not a coincidence, huh?"
"I, uh, might have asked Misha about you," Jared admitted, flushing just a little. "'Cause you're so... well. And he said -"
Jensen rolled his eyes. "I can guess." Only Misha would think this was a good way to meet guys. At least that explained why he'd been so insistent that Jensen join his stupid t-shirt game. The sneaky bastard.
Jared fidgeted a little more, the duck of his head and the hunch of his shoulders making him look like a kid who'd just given his mother flowers out of the front garden. Jensen thought it was kind of adorable.
Then Jared's tentative little smile turned down at the edges, an embarrassed sort of chagrin falling across his face, and Jensen abruptly realized just how long he'd been standing around like an idiot instead of speaking.
"Sounds like you and Misha had this all figured out." Jensen smiled his best smile and couldn't help feeling gratified when Jared looked momentarily stunned. "Gotta say, I'm not sure why your master plan included this game, though."
Jared leaned in close and Jensen just about swallowed his tongue when Jared's grin quirked into something dark and positively sinful. "Well, I gotta say, it's not exactly how I'd pictured getting to see you wearing my clothes, but-"
Jensen swallowed hard. "But?" he managed.
"But-" Jared gave him a once-over so blatant that Jensen found himself fighting the unnatural urge to blush. "I'm hoping we can build up to that."
"Jesus," Jensen said.
Jensen took a moment to remind himself that he was not, in fact, a sixteen year old girl being chatted up by the high school quarterback, then offered Jared a flirty grin of his own. "I think that's gonna depend on whether you have any shirts that aren't so fucking ugly. This is way too much pink, man."
"I like pink," Jared protested, and the mix of humour and hunger sparking in his eyes made Jensen want to purr. "And, y'know, I didn't I wanted to be subtle about the gay thing."
"Don't think you need the shirt to do that."
Jared shrugged. "Whatever. So if I give you back your shirt will you go out with me?"
Jensen pretended to think about it. "Depends. Will you still give me back my shirt if I say no?"
"Reluctantly," Jared said. "But yes."
"Do you own any shirts that don't look like the gay pride parade vomited on them?"
Jared looked amused. "One or two."
"Fabulous." Jensen stepped close enough to feel the heat of Jared's skin through his shirt and tilted his head up with a shark's smile. "Here's the deal. Misha stole all my clothes and I've been awake for, like, an hour on one cup of coffee. So we're going to go to your place to find something not horrific for me to wear and then we're going to go for breakfast. Sound good?"
"Absolutely," Jared agreed, with another one of those dazzling smiles. "Unless you wanted to switch shirts here instead?" He gestured round them. "All the cool kids are doing it."
Jensen shook his head. "Fuck no. First off, I'm not willing to be seen in public with someone wearing this shirt non ironically. And second," Jensen let his gaze linger openly on the straining fabric stretched across Jared's chest. "I'm kind of enjoying the view."
Jared's smile was a mile wide. "Well alright then. Follow me."
He steered Jensen through the crush of people, one broad hand tucked up under the overlong hem of the shirt Jensen was wearing. Jensen wasn't complaining.
Jensen took a minute to fire off a quick text to Misha. Im still gonna kill you jackass, he wrote. Put my clothes back
You're welcome, Misha responded and Jensen couldn't even find it in himself to be irritated about how damn smug Misha was going to be for the next god only knew how long. Not when Jared was smiling at him like he'd just won the lottery and his own expression probably wasn't much better.
But there was absolutely no way he was going to do another one of Misha's fucking mixers no matter how much of Jensen's shit he stole. Fucker.