Archive of Our Own

And Jensen's not an idiot. He knows grass is supposed to be a lush emerald, and those lucky bastards who have found their soulmates often tell him that the color of his eyes is quite similar to that of grass. It's just that Jensen can't see the luxurious green of the grass, because Jensen can only see in monochrome. Not that he minds monochrome. That shit is great, really. All... Black. And white. And grey. Very dynamic. And it isn't as though no one can share his struggle; many people he knows have similarly not found their soulmates, and aren't able to see color, either.

Never mind that that number is dwindling, and no one seems to care about their progress in finding their soulmates. It's always Jensen, Jensen, Jensen. 

It's difficult being an author without knowing the colors of certain things; grass is so commonly described that Jensen has no trouble writing about it in his novels. But seriously, how is he supposed to describe a stained glass window when he barely comes close to knowing even one percent of the colors that exist? In his head, blue might as well be red, green could be yellow, and orange could be purple.

Danneel once tried to describe green to him. "It's, um," she'd started, waving her hands impatiently because she never could seem to gather enough patience to really do this type of thing with him, "Green is like, refreshing. It's like. I mean, it can be bright or dark, and it's-- Ugh, it's impossible to say, Jensen!" He doesn't blame her, of course, but whatever she just said applies to blue and red and yellow and orange, not just green, and Jensen is left wallowing in his own despair as he wonders how long his audience will want to read books with no colorful visuals.

"I just don't understand it." Chris says, stabbing at a half-dissolved sugar cube floating around in his coffee. Jensen watches it, mystified, as it bobs around as if trying to avoid the straw that Chris brings down emphatically. "You shake hands with hundreds of people during your meet and greet sessions. And not a single one of them caused even a ripple, like maybe even one little spark of color?"

Jensen grimaces at him, tearing tiny flakes off of his Danish sourly. "Obviously not, I would have noticed. I just can't believe that my subconscious is so picky that it doesn't want anyone from the groups of people that line up for my signature. I must be a closet narcissist or something, God." He shakes his head at himself and digs his fingers into his temple as though it'll help him relieve some tension. It doesn't work, although the momentary pinch gives him a small reprieve from his frustration.

"You're a narcissist on the outside, too, don't worry." Chris snickers, but when Jensen doesn't even bother gracing the lame attempt at a joke with a laugh of his own, the other man hastily adds, "Well, Jensen, these things have a way of working out. I'm sure someone will come along and, I don't know-"

Danneel, ever the feisty romantic, interjects. "Your manuscript will be bundled up in your arms, and a chilling burst of New York wind will rip the papers from your arms and send them scattering all over the road. People will ignore your pleas for help as you scurry to and fro, trying to collect them, and then- Voila!" She says this with a loud smack of her palm against the table; Chris, with a curse, knocks his coffee over, and Jensen jolts. "-Your soulmate will be standing there with an adorable little smile and a blush and shyly hold out your papers. And your whole world will bloom with color as you brush his or her hand with your own as you take your manuscript." She sighs dreamily, stirring her iced tea with a straw as though she's remembering her own first meeting. 

Chris looks quite grumpy. Then again, his first meeting was the result of a misdirected prank; his soulmate smashed him in the face with a pie, and the collision of his palm against Chris's face had been enough to catapult Chris into a world of color. "Don't get your hopes up for that, but... Look, Jen, with the number of people you meet every day, it's bound to happen sometime soon. You just have to keep shaking hands until then."

This, for some reason, does not sound all that appealing to Jensen.

---

So Jensen's an author. He's not the next J.R.R Tolkien, but he's managed to land himself in the demographic of teens and young adults with edgy, steampunk novels about rebellion and overcoming class. Maybe his books aren't the next anything, really. He's popular enough, happy with his statistics, and well-known to the general populace.

He doesn't get all that much recognition in Starbucks, but Barnes & Noble loves him so hey, he has to pick his battles. And besides, how many people would be able to identify their favorite authors if they saw them in a grocery store? Jensen only recently Googled Ray Bradbury and was a little scandalized to find that the Ray Bradbury of actuality was in a different universe than the Ray Bradbury in his head. 

So, yeah. He's happy. Or he would be happy, if he could tell passerby what color his own hair was.

"Blondish and brownish." Dani had once told him, but that was entirely unhelpful. What is blonde? What is brown? Maybe blonde is a shade of green, and Jensen's eyes are the same color as his hair. Once you grasp colors, you grasp their shades, so Jensen assumes that Danneel and Chris quickly made use of their abilities and stashed as many colors and their shades as possible into their brains. 

When Jensen looks into the mirror, he sees slight stubble and rings darker than his skin, faint beneath his eyes. He sees hair that, in certain light, looks fairly lighter than his skin, yet in other lights, looks darker. Dani has told him that the soulmate part of it is the really exciting part, but honestly? Jensen just wants to see colors.

---

"I'm beat," he says to Adrianne after a long, long day. She's his publisher, and a goddamn miracle worker, because she pushes him harder than anyone else he's known. Adi fiddles with her wedding ring, which gleams in polished splendor, and laughs.

"Just a few more signatures, Jen, then you're home free. You wouldn't want to lose a couple faithful fans, would you?" She's found her soulmate, and Jensen can only assume that she will soon be leaving him for the more stressful environs of a life with kids. Granted, she's only three months along, but Jensen would never want her to strain herself. 

"They'll live," Jensen says grumpily, but he wears a bright smile like it's the latest fashion while a shy girl dictates to him what she wants him to write on the inside flap of one of his books. As he scribbles, to Marley: waiting in line is worth seeing you smile, he wonders if, whoever his soulmate is, he or she is also waiting and feeling abject and wondering if they'll ever see in color. 

It's a depressing thought.

"My beau is taking me out for dinner, so I've got to skedaddle on you." Adi leans over to kiss Jensen's cheek fondly before gathering her papers up into her arms. "Will you be alright?"

"No," Jensen says gravely. "I don't know how to get home. In fact, I've forgotten where I live. Help."

Adi smacks him across the back of the head with a rolled up newspaper. "Don't stay here too long, workaholic. Even bookstores don't want you that much." And then she's gone, and Jensen sighs as he starts to pack his things up and place them one by one into his satchel. It's not that he doesn't love this- seeing fans, meeting and greeting enthusiastic faces and big eyes, but he wonders if maybe it's time to step away from the spotlight. Stuffing his wallet into his pocket, he rubs his eyes before nodding a goodnight to the tuckered-looking sales associate and stepping out into the brisk chill of New York. 

He can't help but ponder Dani's romantics, the way she was so sure about Jensen crashing smack dab into his soulmate... But as much as he loves her, he isn't buying it. It's most likely that one day, in the middle of a handshake, Jensen will finally look outside and see the green of the grass and the blue of the sky. Maybe if he's lucky, he'll really fall in love with his--

His reverie is interrupted when someone smashes right into him. Jensen's reading glasses go flying, skittering along the sidewalk and coming to a halt as the stack of books teeter and follow his glasses to the ground.

"Jesus Christ, I am so sorry." A high, sweet voice babbles from somewhere above him, and Jensen blinks to clear the slight blurriness brought on by his lack of glasses. They are promptly pushed awkwardly back onto his face, and his vision clears until he can see the dark-dusted cheeks and the floppy hair of the figure standing over him with sharp clarity.

"Uh." He says dumbly, and the kid dives for his books with a grimace and about a hundred more apologies bubbling from his lips. He too drops to his knees to the ground to gather his novels. 

"Man, I don't know how I missed you," the kid is going a mile a minute, scrabbling to readjust his slightly askew beanie and throw his bangs out of his eyes. He's pretty, Jensen realizes, gangly and big-eyed and brimming with energy. "I swear I'm blind. Or something. Oh, man, all your books are totally wet, I'm so freakin' sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Hey," Jensen finally regains his voice, and when the kid's eyes snap to his, he forces himself to speak a little more mellowly. "It's not your fault, I wasn't looking where I was going either." Clearing his throat, he adjusts his hold on his books and offers the bright-eyed entity a smile. "Thanks for helping me pick them up."

"No problem," the kid breathes, but no, he's not really a kid; he only seems a few years younger than Jensen. It's just his whole projection that makes him seem young; and, well, Jensen's been told that he looks awfully mature for his age at twenty-four. Jensen can see a certain maturity in the young man's dark irises.

Dear god. He wants a name. And possibly a coffee. Is it too early to start talking marriage?

"Anyway." the kid peers at him from beneath the thin crescents of his eyelashes, "I should, uh-" 

"-Yeah, of course," Jensen says hastily, fumbling and readjusting his glasses and generally making an ass out of himself. "Thanks. Again."

The kid ducks his head and shuffles away, turning one last time to bestow a (dearholygod) dimpled smile upon Jensen before he's swallowed up by the swell of the crowd. Jensen watches him go for a moment before making his way down the stairs to the subway with a really dumb little sigh of contentment. He's not a fucking teenager; he needs to put on his big boy pants and properly ask people for their numbers. Sighing, he reaches for his wallet-

-which isn't there.

Jensen gives himself one second of rational thought before he flips the actual fuck out. He jams his hand into his pocket, but it's not there, goddammit, his credit cards and money and everything is in that wallet. It's fallen out for sure, probably being trampled or something by the flocks of people, and-- wait, what? Jensen's fingers snag on a piece of paper in his pocket, and he extracts it.

You seemed cool and really nice, so I'm really sorry about taking your wallet. I won't use your credit cards for anything, I promise. Just needed the cash. -J

"Fuck!" Jensen swears loudly, muttering a bitter apology when a family of four gives him a scandalized look and urges the children along. Of course the pretty boy with the amazing smile and the bright eyes would be a thief, because that, that is just his luck. He stuffs the paper back into his pocket and stalks for wherever he and "J" had encountered each other. Of course the kid isn't there, because no one's luck is that amazing, but Jensen figures prowling the stores along the street like an enraged feline will somehow help. His goddamn subway pass is in his wallet, for Christ's sake! 

Jensen cannot believe his life sometimes. No, scratch that; he can't believe his life most of the time. If only he were a character in one of his novels, he would have used his sparkling intellect to determine where the kid had vanished to. But alas, he is just of normal intellectual capacity, and couldn't differentiate between a footstep and an axle track this late at night.  

The kid's probably getting high right now, all of Jensen's money going into fueling some sort of drug habit or something of the sort. And whatever, if that's his lifestyle that's his lifestyle, Jensen ain't judging- but it better damn well be his lifestyle on his own money! He's probably laughing it up at Jensen, bragging about his catch to his partners in thievery, probably...

...Buying something at the dingy drugstore on the end of the street. 

Jensen, hardly able to believe his eyes, is all ready to burst in through the air-conditioner above the doorway, guns blazing, desperate to teach the little punk a lesson, when he sees that the only thing the kid is buying is a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter.

Dani and Chris have always told Jensen he's a huge sap; Jensen hates to admit it, but his heart maybe kind of melts when he sees the kid gathering the bread and peanut butter protectively into his arms and shuffling for the exit like a spooked rabbit. The shopkeeper says something to him with a kind smile, and the kid smiles, a little forlornly, before leaving the store. Jensen oh-so-gracefully dives behind a streetlight and totally doesn't slam his toes into the base as the kid exits the store and examines his purchases. He starts walking the opposite direction, away from Jensen, which is his cue. 

"Stolen any wallets lately?" he can't help saying as he emerges into the light the streetlight casts in an oblong shape onto the emptying road, arms crossed over his chest. What can he say? He's a sucker for theatrical entrances; all his characters have done it. He feels a little like Batman, fighting justice, with his chest puffed out confidently- and then he realizes he was drooling over this kid like, ten minutes ago. That kind of deflates his ego a little bit. The kid freezes like a statue, eyes going saucer-wide before he meets Jensen's eyes... And then for God's sake, he's running like the hounds of hell are at his ankles. 

Jensen curses, taking off after the nimble kid and not all that surprised when this means following him through a series of extremely suspicious alleyways. Goddammit, he's puffing after like five minutes of the intense chasing at the kid's heels, but he really can't blame himself for this. He's an author, not a marathon runner, and while some people are talented enough to be both, Jensen is certainly not. He's kept best in shape as he can without running.  

"Kid, wait!" He bellows, groaning when the kid doesn't even stutter. "I'm not going to do anything to you, just slow the fuck down! I'm not cut out for this." He stops, stooped over, and rests his palms flat on his thighs, and finds, to his relief, that the kid has also come to a hesitant stop a few feet away. "Dude, I just need my subway pass back," he pants, shedding his jacket because now he's sweating, which is great. Really. "Can't get home without it." 

The kid eyes him from a distance for a few long moments, looking highly dubious. Which is kind of unfair, because who's the thief here, again? "You're not going to kill me?"

Jensen shoots him an exasperated look. "Do I look like I'm cut out for murder, kid?"

"I'm 20!" The... Not-kid bristles, apparently quite dignified for having stolen Jensen's wallet and leaving him an apology note. "And my name is Jared." 

Which basically just reaffirms what Jensen had originally thought. "You could be John or Jim for all I care," he lies with a huff, finally straightening. "I just need my goddamn pass, or I'll be sleeping on a bench for the night."

Jared seems to be trying to gauge if he's telling the truth. Jensen cringes, wondering if he was a little tactless, because what if Jared is sleeping on a bench? 

"If I really wanted to get you in trouble, I would have told the shopkeeper." Jensen tells him, still a little breathlessly, "or knifed you when you exited the store. Or something. Look, I don't know, can you just give me my wallet back?" He fishes out the slip of paper and waves it towards Jared. "If you really just wanted the cash, I'm going to need my credit cards and everything back."

"I wasn't going to use all your cash," Jared says petulantly, and Jensen can barely resist an eye-roll.

"Yeah, whatever, you Good Samaritan. Can you hand it over now?"

Jared, apparently viewing Jensen as a harmless old man by this point (no, of course Jensen isn't bristling), trots closer tentatively and hands the wallet off to Jensen with a little tremble. Poor thing looks terrified, really, and even as Jensen takes the wallet back he feels a little bad. His fingers brush against Jared's for just a second before Jared nods and readjusts his grip on his bread and peanut butter. 

"Thanks for the money," he says, his expression an adorable mix of sheepish and pouty. "I-- Maybe I'll see you around?" 

"Not likely," Jensen tells him truthfully, "but for the record? Th-" he's about to thank the other man when he notices that Jared's eyes are sparkling. Not the cliche sparkle-sparkle of a storybook character, but goddamn, a real glow that starts deep in his pupils and bursts into something strangely alive. 

The pain sears through Jensen's skull with a bang, and he's on the verge of asking Jared for help when he notices that the other is already on his knees. Well, great. It's unbearable, the pain is, stampeding and beating against the walls of his head like hundreds of tiny hooves. The feather-brush of Jared's fingers against his own fingertips has exploded into a sweeping tingle that spreads along his arms and legs and shoots up his spine.

When it comes to an abrupt halt, Jensen is looking at a world of color.

He stares at Jared, who has pried his fingers from his temple long enough to take in walls of the alley they're standing in. It's not exactly the most glamorous place to meet your soulmate; it's dank and gross and in his mind's eye, Jensen can see Danneel wrinkling her nose in absolute displeasure. But- who frickin' cares? He resists an exultant whoop as Jared staggers into a trash can and immediately looks down at his books. They're all different colors- colors -but Jensen doesn't know which ones yet- one of them is extremely bright, another one a lot dull, but Jesus Christ they're beautiful.  

Speaking of beautiful.  

Jared, who was gorgeous even in monochrome, is almost resplendent in color. The flush that Jensen could only register with a difference in shades is now bright against Jared's cheeks, creeping up towards his ears. He stares at Jensen in open-mouthed awe, jaw somewhere on the floor beneath his feet, and lifts hesitant fingers.

"Your eyes," his voice trembles, and Jensen is almost overwhelmed by the urge to see himself, to see himself anew, to see what blonde-brown is and see what the color green as grass is. "They're so-- so-" He seems to be having a difficult time explaining and instead just looks down at the dark peanut butter and the bright lid and the white bread with the light crust. Jensen thinks it's probably a good thing color came to them in an alley, or he might have been so consumed by the hundreds and hundreds of colors that he likely would have passed out. 

"Fuck," he breathes, elated at the sight of Jared's eyes; he has no idea how to describe them either, just that they're at once dark and light and glittering and yeah, fuck seems to be a pretty summative explanation for exactly how they both feel.

And then the enormity of the situation comes collapsing onto Jensen's shoulders like an incessant weight he doesn't need reminding of, and by Jared's expression, he's realized the weight of the soulmate bond. One doesn't choose their soulmate, but once the soulmate is identified, it's hard as hell getting out of it. People with soulmates don't want to interfere with other people who have found their soulmates, and the people without soulmates don't want to either for fear that their soulmate will reject them when they find them. It's a complicated situation, and with all his happiness at being able to see the myriad of gorgeous colors, Jensen has forgotten that his soulmate is a thief who doesn't even know his name. 

Jared meets his gaze with the same dismay mirrored in his own (beautifulperfectamazing) eyes, and this time, when Jensen mutters "fuck," it's for an entirely different reason. 

...Shit, Chris is going to laugh his ass off. Jensen would have picked the pie in the face any day.