Everyone thinks that Jensen and Misha just gradually became friends—drawn together by some invisible chemistry that eventually mixed them into the lovely Cockles-concoction we know today.
But it wasn’t actually that subtle; which makes sense when you think about it because neither are really “subtle” guys. Jensen is blunt and to the point, and Misha is just an explosion of Mishaness.
So, when the two met on set, there were no handshakes that led to sitting together for lunch, that finally led to beers after work and so on. No, that’s not how it happened at all.
How it did happened actually came about thanks to Misha’s wardrobe. The man would show up to set every day in some ratty old t-shirt, beaten up corduroys and crocs or, a decent looking sweater vest, dirty jeans and crocs. It was always some horrible blend of mismatched fabric and those god damn, sinful, no-one-should-ever-wear-them-even-if–it’s-a-choice-between-putting-them-on-or-walking-on-broken-glass,-pick-broken-glass crocs!
After three weeks of this, Jensen had had enough. No guy with that bone structure and that body, and those damn eyes that could literally go with anything (except crocs), should downplay it all with outfits like that!
So, in spite of the fact that they only ever had several casual chats at that point, and everything was pretty much still strictly business between them, Jensen still made the choice to wait outside Misha’s trailer, eagerly tapping his foot and crossing his arms until the man finally arrived.
When he did, he looked confused at the sight of his co-star waiting by his door, but that was nothing compared to the look he gave him when Jensen shouted “Finally! My trailer, now!”
Misha thought he did something wrong—thought he was getting fired or maybe made a joke that was inappropriate and offended Jensen in some way. He wracked his brain the entire scurry to Jensen’s place, sweating more with every silent step.
When they finally got inside, Jensen shut the door behind them, looking Misha hard in the eye before saying “Take those off” while pointing down at the crocs adorning Misha’s feet. Misha did as he was told, thinking Jensen just might have a rule about shoes in his trailer or something. But he was a little taken aback when the man instructed him to take off his “Oscar the Grouch” t-shirt as well.
“Um … what are we doing?” Misha finally asked, stopping his hands as they reached for the hem of his shirt.
“It seems like you’re un-dressing me” Misha returned, furrowing his brow at his confusing co-star.
Jensen finally leaned in, his voice—steady and serious. “All this …” the man starts, gesturing to Misha’s outfit. “Does not count as clothes, therefore, you are not dressed.”
Misha continues to stare, nervous and skeptical as the man turns around and retrieves the shirt and pants he had folded on the counter, just before coming back and shoving them into his arms.
Misha looks down at the garments, noticing the nice quality of the button up and the tailored seams of the pants. “Ummm, okay, but why?”
Jensen sighs, eventually pinching the bridge of his nose like this is all so obvious, and it is a rather large chore just to explain it. “Because … I’m not going to let one of my friends walk around looking like a mix between a drugged up hippie and a drowned rat.”
Misha could have scoffed at the insulting comparison; he could have shoved the clothes back at the man and told him to go to hell; he could have strutted away in his crocs like he was on a Paris runway—all things he would have normally done if it was anyone else standing in front of him. But the sound of the word “friends” slipping past Jensen’s lips was too sincere to even fathom doing any of that. So instead, he took the outfit and headed into the back to change.
Later that night, the two nicely dressed men went out for drinks, laughing over each other’s stories, joking about one another’s impeccable taste and bumping shoulders the entire way back to the car.
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