TL&ToaDiD - DAY ONE
Jensen Ackles is not the sort of person who grabs life by the balls.
That’s mostly because he likes his life very much the way it is, thank you very much; he’s a journalist-he has been for thirteen of his thirty-three years, and he’s always worked at the Daily Globe-and he’s pretty much the perfect employee. He’s hardly what you’d call a go-getter, but he’s quiet enough and he meets each and every deadline, so Jim doesn’t really complain. He works hard and fast. He doesn’t really aspire to be much-he’s comfortable just where he is and he likes the magazine just fine. His co-workers-quite possibly with the exception of Chad Michael Murray-are all nice enough people, too, and he does have fun.
He’s grumpy and sarcastic and he drinks too much coffee.
He’s very boring, really.
But that’s his life and that’s the way he likes it.
It’s weird, though, how one odd week-seven days out of millions and millions of others-can suddenly change all that.
Actually, in retrospect, life has a tendency of grabbing Jensen by the balls.
It’s unfair like that.
Jensen knows he’s a good journalist and, better yet, his boss knows it too. Jim has always given Jensen the hardest cases-these are the cases which are built on nothing, the foundations wobbling and thin, and these are the cases which involve extensive research and perseverance. These are also the cases he most enjoys, because they turn into the stories which mean something. He’s glad he’s not in charge of the sport column, like Chris is, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to update the SuperWatch column, like Steve does. He’s quite happy doing what he does. He finds the stories he has to write interesting, and that’s probably why he’s good at his job.
He’s in the middle of a relatively tricky story now, actually. It’s always difficult trying to build something out of nothing-it’s like trying to build a house without foundations, or with bricks but no cement; eventually, the whole thing’s going to come toppling down onto you, and so that’s what Jensen’s trying his very hardest to avoid. It’s difficult, sure, but with enough time and effort, Jensen can do it.
Jensen knows he can.
Still, he’s not happy about it.
It’s a shitload of work he doesn’t particularly want to do, about a story he’s not particularly interested in and, frankly, he honestly can’t be bothered. It begins with a hoax call-Jim picked it up at four in the morning, because apparently the guy was working overtime; but in reality, his boss pretty much lives in his office-and ends with Sandy McCoy slapping a faded, torn photograph down onto his desk. It’s fuzzy and the quality is awful, so Jensen picks it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as he peers at it. If he squints, it looks like it might be a man flying above the New York cityscape, but he can’t be certain. It could just as easily by a UFO or an airplane, the image is that blurred, and then he sets it down on the table, frowning. “What am I looking at?”
“Your next lead,” Sandy says.
“My question still stands.”
“Look, the boss wants you to take a look into this,” she explains, shrugging. “He thinks it’s linked to that call you’re looking at.”
“You mean that bullshit hoax call, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Say it as it is, Sandy-you know as well as I do that the thing is a load of crap. Have you listened to it? The guy’s drunk off his tits; he’s fucking ranting and raging, and you can barely understand him, he’s slurring his words that badly. And he says-shit, where’s the manuscript, let me quote it-he says, and I quote, ‘Fuck. Fucking holy shit-fuck me, is that a man? Oh God, you need to’-and this bit here was pretty much intelligible, so I’m just going out on a limb with this one-’send a guy down here right now, because fucking hell, I think that’s Superman.”
“Granted, it doesn’t sound like anything big.”
“That’s because it isn’t anything big! Best case scenario, the guy spotted Winchester going on one of his nightly flights or something; worst case scenario, he’s drunk or insane, or maybe even a bit of both, and I’m wasting my time here.”
“Jen, I know. I mean, sure, it might not be anything, but if it is something, it’ll be huge.”
“No, it won’t,” Jensen replies, scowling; he picks up the photo, jabs his finger against the paper, and snaps, “Look at the quality of this thing-hell, that could be a smudge in the printing for all we know. And if it isn’t-say it is a guy flying through the sky in the middle of the night-what if it is just Winchester? We already know about Winchester-the entire world knows about Winchester. The guy’s built like the freaking Hulk; he’s not something you can just miss! This is bullshit, and you know it as well as I do.”
“Just look into it, okay?”
He doesn’t miss the pleading tone in Sandy’s voice.
He nods jerkily.
“It’ll be a waste of time, though.”
She relaxes slightly, placing her hand on his shoulder, and says, “You never know, Jen-this could be your lucky break.”
He resists the urge to argue in the opposite direction, but decides he hasn’t got the time and effort to do so-besides, Sandy is very good at arguing. She’s probably got a degree or a diploma in it, and so she bares her teeth in a smile and then heads back to her desk. It’s okay for her. She heads the fashion column, and she's very, very smart.
Jensen’s got an interview with someone called Misha Collins at four o’ clock-he’s never even heard of the guy, but that’s because Jensen lives under a rock when it comes to politics and current events. When he tells Chad, the asshole bursts out laughing, cracking up like it’s something hysterical-he actually doubles over, hands clutching his stomach, eyes crinkled, and he doesn’t stop up for a full minute. Jensen manages to wait patiently for a total of fifteen seconds longer, and then he punches Chad’s shoulder none too gently and asks, “What the hell’s so funny, Murray?”
Chad cackles. “Dude, he’s going to eat you alive.”
“I think I can handle it,” Jensen scowls, and hits Chad again. “Thanks a bunch for your concern.”
“Sure, man-sure.”
Chad’s still laughing.
That’s never a good sign.
Jensen shoves the asshole one last time and then heads back to his cubicle, where he promptly googles Misha Collins. The first thing he sees is an image of a man wearing a wedding dress, with the brightest eyes and fucking scariest grin Jensen’s ever seen, and he thinks that maybe Chad isn’t exaggerating.
“Dude, did you know that dogs can’t look up?”
“Fuck off.”
“No, dude, I’m not kidding. They can’t. It’s a universally known fact-they can’t move their heads like we can, or something, so they can’t look up with just their eyes. They have to move their entire head, like this,” Chad explains, tipping his head back so that he’s gazing up at the ceiling, while simultaneously trying to shovel spaghetti into his mouth. “It’s fucking weird.”
Sauce splatters everywhere.
Jensen looks mildly disgusted. “That’s just a myth, Chad.”
“No, it’s true.”
“It isn’t.”
“I saw it in a documentary.”
“You don’t watch documentaries.”
“Okay, I saw it in a film, then,” Chad says, flapping a hand airily, “Details, details.”
“You saw it in Shawn of the Dead, Chad-that’s not exactly a factually accurate film.”
“It so is.”
“It’s about zombies.”
“You won’t be laughing when there’s a zombie apocalypse, and I’m the only one prepared for it.”
“How do you exist?”
“Look, dude, why would they even put it in if it isn’t true?”
Jensen doesn’t have a response to that. He knows he should-in fact, he opens his mouth to snap back a reply-but he doesn’t; instead, he just clamps his mouth shut, cradles his coffee in his hands, and slowly counts down from ten. That’s how he deals with Chad. That’s how everyone deals with Chad. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know any other way to deal with Chad; you can argue, if you want, but only for a little while, because somehow he manages to run rings around you, firing bullets of pure bullshit until you back off and back down and just give in.
So he gives in.
“Okay, I’ll bite-dogs can’t look up,” Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose. “So what?”
“So they never get to see the sky, dickhead,” Chad admonishes, and then jabs his fork somewhat violently in the direction of the window, and Jensen twists in his seat, gazing in the direction of his fork. “They don’t get to see that fucking beautiful sky-line; none of New York City’s skyscrapers, pretty boy, and no clouds-not the sun and not the moon and not the stars. And that’s a shame, isn’t it? So much happens in the sky nowadays, and dogs don’t get to see it, because they can’t freaking look up. Tell me,” Chad stabs his fork into his spaghetti, “How is that fair?”
Jensen looks at the sky for a moment longer.
Then he shrugs and turns back around.
“I don’t know, man. It doesn’t look like anything special to me.”
Chad isn’t really Jensen’s friend-not if you want to get into the specifics. It’s more like he’s a friend of a friend of a friend, who sometimes likes to skip all the different friend levels and bug Jensen once in a while. Actually, more than once in a while. It happens all the time. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and sometimes maybe Jensen can believe it-especially when he’s dating the Victoria’s Secret model, with the big tits and blonde hair, or that redhead reporter who sent Jensen those dirty texts that one time-but most of the time, he’s definitely not. Jensen still remembers Sophia Bush, the pretty girl Chad married-he was invited to the wedding, and, five months later, he remembers the marriage being annulled. He remembers that because Sophia came marching into the office, shouting and crying; he also remembers that Sophia was a particularly shoddy aim. The coffee she threw missed Chad entirely, and Jensen spent the rest of the day dripping all over his keyboard.
Despite that, Chad’s an alright guy. Sure, he’s highly irritating, but he’s irritating in a vaguely endearing manner, so Jensen puts up with him-it’s partly got something to do with the fact that Chad is the only person on their floor who won’t stop talking to Jensen, so it’s not like he can get rid of him if he wants to.
Maybe he doesn’t particularly want to anymore.
However, if anyone tells Chad that, Jensen will deny it.
“I think you should date.”
There’s something else a person has to keep in mind when talking to Chad; he’s like a small child, distracted by the slightest of things, and when he starts thinking about something else-when he gets bored of a topic-you’ll know. He’ll drop it just like that, and suddenly you’re not talking about dogs and zombies and Simon Pegg and the sky-suddenly, you’re talking about your love life. Suddenly, Jensen’s the hot topic. It happens as they’re walking back to work. Chad’s lagging, as usual, and Jensen’s grouchy, and then this chick just so happens to give Chad the look, and suddenly Chad’s talking about Jensen’s love life.
Shit, the change of conversation is fast enough to give Jensen whiplash.
He takes a moment to register the comment.
Then he narrows his eyes, glowers at Chad, and snaps, “What?”
“You heard me. You need to get out more. I mean, you’re good-looking, I guess-actually, I’d say you’re pretty, because hell, I mean, those lips-so you’d be able to get whoever you wanted, whenever you wanted, whatever the gender. And when you start talking to you-well, not you, because that would be insane, but when people start talking to you, you’re actually not that bad. Sure, you’re a sarcastic douchewad half the time, but the other half the time, you’re pretty much bearable. If you had more boobs and less of a dick, I’d date you.”
Jensen frowns.
“How can you have less of a dick?”
“I think you’re skirting around the point here, Jenny,” Chad says, and Jensen punches his arm, despite the fact that they’re in the middle of the street. “Look at you-you’re talking to me. No, shut up, I know you talk to me, but you’re actually willingly talking to me. Normally you grouch and complain and bitch to high heaven about it, but you actually came to find me-and you tolerate me at best. But, Jen, no offence or anything, but I like other you better. In-A-Relationship Jensen. Because now you’re actually being nice, and it freaks me out.”
“You’re worried because I’m being nice to you,” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s the short version, yes.”
“So, you don’t want me to be nice to you?”
Chad nods. “It’s creepy otherwise.”
“You’re incredible.”
“I know.”
“It’s not something you should be pleased about.”
“Generally, when a person’s told they’re incredible, they’re going to take it as a compliment.”
“Can we talk about something else now? Heaven forbid I inflate your ego further. I mean, one day you might not even be able to fit through doors with that beast.”
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey, do you think she was checking me out? I think she was. I should get her number. She was hot, wasn’t she? Wait right here and don’t move a muscle,” Chad says, and then he jogs back the way they came and stops the pretty girl who passed them, and Jensen wonders why he even talks to the guy.
Still, he wonders if maybe there’s some truth to what he’s said.
It has been a while, after all.
When Jensen steps back into the office, trailing after Chad, everyone is gathered around a small, battered television, which hangs in the corner of the room, above Steve’s desk. Steve doesn’t look particularly happy about it-but, then again, he does have Christian Kane draped across his shoulders, chin jutting against the top of the other’s head, and Jensen thinks he probably wouldn’t look too happy in those circumstances either. Still, Steve’s keeping pretty quiet about it. His eyes are trained on the television ahead-in fact, everyone is staring at the screen, and there’s this thick, tense atmosphere; it’s choking and fucking weird, and Chad turns to Jensen, raises his eyebrows, and asks:
“Jesus, who died?”
“No one,” Chris says. “Well, not yet. It’s pretty close though.”
“Is Winchester there?”
“He’s taking his own sweet time,” Steve shrugs.
Danneel slaps him upside the head and snaps, “Winchester can’t be everywhere, idiot. What I want to know is what exactly the police are doing about this; Jesus, where are the fire brigade? The moment Winchester came along, our city fell to shit, but, for some fucking reason, we’re grateful about it-we’re too reliant. Children are dying in there.”
Sandy frowns.
“Don’t blame it on Winchester, though. He’s just trying to save people.”
“He’s made us lazy,” Danni retorts, “And we were never lazy before.”
“Are you kidding? That’s why Winchester is here now.”
Jensen thinks it’s a valid enough argument, but he’s gotten involved with this sort of thing before, between Danneel and Sandy, and he doesn’t particularly want to get involved again. See, Jensen’s come to learn that the USA-and, unsurprisingly, the world-are divided into two halves when it comes to Winchester. There’s the half of the world who take the J.Jonah Jameson outlook on life; they scowl and complain lots, and Jensen’s told Danneel time and time again that she looks much better when she smiles, but it’s not like she listens. She’s firmly waving the banner for the entire superheroes are a menace cliché, and she’s an intelligent enough individual. She does hold some valid points; apparently, Winchester costs more than New York’s police force multiplied by fifteen, what with all the damage he causes while he saves the city. Sandy, however, disagrees; she’s one of those people who believes saving people trumps anything else, and since Winchester’s saving people left, right and centre, she adores him. Hell, if it were up to her, there’d be a superhero in every major city in the world.
But Jensen’s not getting involved right now.
Instead, Jensen’s gazing at the television screen, transfixed. A school is burning and people are screaming, and it’s mesmerizing, really, all of that carnage. He steps forwards, cranes his neck, peers up at the screen and, after a moment, he stops watching the school-it’s difficult, really, considering how all of the cameras are trained on the building, but he starts inspecting the sky. It’s grainy and unclear on the ridiculously ancient television, but he looks anyway; he’s looking for that familiar dark blot soaring through the clouds, swooping in to save the day.
And, sure enough, he spots it.
Winchester is New York City’s closest thing to Superman.
He’s a long, tall glass of water-six foot four inches, a waterfall of rippling, perfect muscles, with biceps that can-and have been known to-bend metal. He’s wonderfully sweet, though; he doesn’t look like some pumped-up, steroid junkie, which Jensen thinks is actually kind of bizarre, considering how strong he is. He’s pretty normal, actually. It’s probably got something to do with his winning smile, to be honest-the guy has a grin that can melt even the frostiest of hearts, and these puppy dog eyes which are only slightly hampered by the black mask he wears. He’s a bit like Jensen, really-he enjoys his job. He likes saving people. He’s fast and strong and he can fly, and he saves lives.
According to Woman’s Weekly, he enjoys long walks on the beach, lying beneath the stars, and Adam Sandler movies. He also likes his women shorter than him-although that isn’t all that hard-with a feisty attitude, a healthy sense of humour, and green eyes.
Best of all, he’s single.
Jensen watches as Winchester pulls a child from the burning wreckage, cradling the little girl to his chest with a gentleness which seems surprising in comparison to his height and stature, and he thinks, well, okay, maybe best of all is the fact that he saves lives. He watches as the superhero saves another, and then another, and another, until there are fifteen singed, but alive, people stood in front of Winchester, thanking him. He’s smiling sheepishly, but the camera zooms in, and Jensen thinks Winchester has the cutest dimples he has ever seen. Behind him, firemen rush towards the building and everyone else kicks into action, but Jensen’s not watching them anymore-he’s watching that smile and those dimples and those kind, kind eyes, and he thinks okay, maybe the best of all best things about Winchester is the fact that he kicks ass and saves lives.
Jim steps out of his office.
He takes one look at the reporters, all bunched in together and watching TV, and growls, “Does it look like I’m payin’ you slackers to sit around all day and watch TV?”
“You could do,” Chad offers.
Jim rolls his eyes.
“Get back to work, idjits.”
Slowly, everyone moves back to their seats.
Jensen is the last one to go.
He’s too busy watching the screen. Winchester is still there, saying something in a low, husky voice about how saving lives has never been a job for him-about how it’s just something he does-and then the reporter says something, and Winchester laughs. He actually tips back his head, grins that ridiculously bright smile, and Jensen’s mouth turns dry at the sight of that long, pale throat. He wonders what it’d be like to suck and bite at that neck, and then he audibly gulps, running a palm across his forehead before standing on his tip-toes to switch the television off. Winchester is not the sort of distraction he needs right now.
Still, Jensen’s mind helpfully supplies, as he heads back to his desk, he is single.
Four o’ clock creeps up on Jensen faster than he’d like; one moment, he’s glancing up at the clock and it’s half one, and the next second, it seems, it’s suddenly five minutes to three. He’s heading across with Chad, because he needs a photographer-he needs some photos to go with whatever interview he gets, and Chad is the best photographer Jensen knows. Despite everything. So, at three o’ clock, he taps Chad’s shoulder and says, “Get your ass into gear, idiot. We’re going.”
Chad looks blank.
“Going where?”
Jensen slaps the back of his head and says, “That Misha interview.”
And, just like that, Chad breaks down into laughter and Jensen can’t get another word out of him for a good ten minutes.
New York is a beautiful place. It really, honestly is, and Jensen loves it-he doesn’t love it as much as Texas, because Texas is home, but it’s a close second, because New York almost feels like home now, too. Sure, it still smells different and it still sounds different, and the streets and cars and people still scare the shit out of him, but it’s pretty close to getting there. Chad’s sat next to him, talking loudly about a new Quentin Tarantino film about Nazis and Brad Pitt that Jensen hasn’t seen yet, as he skirts through a back-street, one hand on the wheel. And maybe he fears a little for his life, as he tries to take in the sights while gripping the dashboard in the car until his knuckles turn white.
Then, all of a sudden, they’re skidding to a halt as Winchester lands in the middle of the road.
Wheels screech and Chad lets out this little shriek, and all Jensen can think is that he really doesn’t want to die right now, because there’s no way they can slow down in time; they’re going to fast and there’s not enough distance to stop and-and then Winchester braces himself, and they thud straight into him, coming to an abrupt halt. Jensen jerks forwards in his seat, pinning himself in place by keeping his hands clutching the edges of the car; beside him, Chad smacks straight into the steering wheel.
Winchester looks mildly surprised.
There’s silence.
Chad says, “Holy shit.”
“Right,” Jensen agrees.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“I, uh,” Winchester is scratching the back of his neck, looking sheepish as he moves around to the window. “Sorry-I’m really sorry.”
Jensen doesn’t know when he left the car, but all of a sudden he’s stood next to Winchester, gazing down at the crumpled bonnet, blinking back his surprise. Chad runs his fingers up and down the crushed metal, murmuring, “No, baby, come back to me-fuck, shit, crap-” and Winchester looks both bemused and extremely apologetic all at once. He sneaks a glance to the side. Winchester is smaller up close, but he’s still massive, and there’s soot dusting his nose; his eyes, beneath the mask, are no longer looking at the car.
Instead, he’s looking at Jensen with just as much interest as Jensen is looking at him, and if that’s not enough to unnerve him, he doesn’t know what is.
“I saw you on TV,” Jensen says suddenly, uncomfortable in the stifling silence-and Winchester is still scrutinizing him, the smallest of smiles spreading across his face as Jensen scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “You were, uh-well, incredible, obviously, and brave, and I bet you hear that loads, right?”
“It’s still nice to hear it again,” Winchester smiles, “Especially from you.”
Is this flirting?
Are they flirting?
Oh, Jesus.
Jensen’s cheeks colour bright pink and he flails for suitable words, and Winchester’s smile widens into a smug, satisfied grin-and Jensen’s not sure whether he wants to hit him or kiss him, and he doesn’t really want to deal with such conflicting emotions.
“My car is wrecked,” Chad wails, then, drawing the attention away from Jensen and back towards the car.
“I’m sorry.”
“Look where you-where you-fly next time, why don’t you?”
“I, uh-this is where I usually stop,” Winchester furrows his brow. “No one ever comes down here.”
“Well, now they do!”
“I am sorry.”
“My car!”
“I can-I can get you a new one.”
“How?!”
“I have this friend, and he-he’s not really my friend, I guess, but he’s got money and he usually sorts these things out for me,” Winchester explains, and then he grins, dimples appearing in their full power, and Jensen thinks they’re even sweeter in person. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of times stuff like this happens to me. I mean, you’d think after doing this for so long that you’d get used to the flying and shit, but you never really do. I still leave craters in roads-actually, I really ought to figure out how to stop that, and, I, uh-I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“I think it’s cute,” Jensen announces.
He still doesn’t understand why.
Winchester suddenly turns the full power of that grin on Jensen, eyes brightening, dimples practically glowing. He’s about to say thanks, but that’s when Chad kicks his broken car and snaps, “I know I said you should get laid, Jen, but I swear, you pick the worst times to work on it.”
Jensen flushes bright red.
“I’m not trying to get laid!”
He doesn’t think it’s fair the way Winchester’s grinning now-slightly smug, more than slightly pleased with himself-and then the hero leans in close, whispers against Jensen’s ear, “You know me-here to help,” and then pushes up and off the ground, soaring through the sky and away. Jensen’s left standing there with legs that feel like jelly and a wrecked car and an extremely pissed off Chad Michael Murray, and all he can think of is how wicked those words suddenly felt.
After that, Jensen’s day only gets weirder.
They get a taxi to take them the rest of the way to Collins Industries, and Chad’s still not happy-he was reluctant to leave his car in the beginning, and now he’s downright furious, clutching his camera and equipment and glowering at Jensen something fierce. It’s actually getting pretty uncomfortable, because, after a while, Jensen twists in his seat and rolls his eyes, “You’re still pissed?”
“He wrecked my car!”
“He was very sorry.”
“And you were flirting with him!”
Jensen splutters.
“What.”
“What happened to bros before hoes, man?”
“I wasn’t flirting!”
“Traitor!”
“You’re an ass.”
“Whatever, Jenny,” Chad’s grin turns vaguely sadistic as the taxi comes to a halt. “Have fun with Misha.”
Misha Collins is a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, but not necessarily in that order.
His father was one of the most brilliant inventors the world had ever seen; he’d created at least half of the weapons the US military possessed, as well as helped design some of Russia’s nukes-he’d also been completely off his trolley, wacky and wild and weird, and Misha is, apparently, no different. In fact, Misha is possibly the most brilliant inventor the world has ever seen-and he is also possibly (and quite probably) entirely crazy. It’s a wonderfully dangerous combination.
Woman’s Weekly has awarded him the title of World’s Sexiest Man.
He got 78% of the votes.
He’s also a notoriously difficult person to interview, but Jensen does try his hardest.
Chad snaps a few photos in this cold, awkward silence, glaring at Jensen every other second, and Misha looks mostly bemused, a hint of a smirk curling at his lips. He’s very attractive, Jensen decides, and probably deserves his title of World’s Sexiest Man-he looks very sharp in his black suit, white shirt slightly unbuttoned and ruffled as he leans forward in his chair, resting his arms on his knees and offering the camera a slight smirk.
That’s the only useable photo they get.
The rest are mostly of him grinning and laughing, or pulling stupid faces, or making ridiculous poses; he’s just amusing himself, that much is fairly obvious, but the winks and not-so-subtle glances he keeps throwing Jensen are actually kind of foreboding. It’s when he catches Misha checking out his ass for the sixteenth time in a row that Jensen decides this is going to be the longest, hardest interview he’s ever done-and Chad flashes him a triumphant, ever so slightly spiteful grin, as he lowers his camera, and announces, “Well, my work is done here-and I do need to catch up on my beauty sleep, so I think I’ll head home. Have fun, Jenny.”
In that moment, Jensen hates him probably more than anyone else in the world.
The interview goes a bit like this:
JENSEN: So, uh… Sorry, let me just-sort myself out-and, uh, right, sorted. So, hi.
MISHA: Hey.
J: I’m not, uh-I’m not that good at writing down notes during interviews. You don’t mind if I tape this instead, do you?
M: No, of course. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.
J: Thanks.
M: No problem.
J: Right-right, um. Anyway.
M: Are you always this eloquent?
J: Well, I’m not always in the presence of a celebrity.
M: You’ll get used to it.
J: I’m sure.
M: Can I ask you a question?
J: That isn’t generally how these interviews work.
M: Oh, isn’t it?
J: How can you not have known that?
M: Despite the fact that I’m an extremely amusing and highly intelligent individual, I don’t do many interviews. Don’t ask me why-Zachary says it’s because I have a habit of sleeping with my interviewers, but you’d think that’d attract more interviews, right? I mean, I’m ridiculously handsome, aren’t I?
J: God, I hope that was a rhetorical question.
M: Oh, of course.
J: Can we move on with the interview, now?
M: Do you want to go for a drink?
J: Uh-wait, what?
M: I thought that was a clear enough question. Would you, Jensen Ackles, like to go on a drink with me, Misha Collins-World’s Sexiest Man for three years running-tonight? Actually, scratch that-I’ve got a meeting tonight. No, ignore that; I can cancel. Zach, can I cancel?
Z: It’s the Department of Defence, Mr Collins.
M: I’ve cancelled before, haven’t I?
Z: You always cancel.
J: Can we get back to interview?
M: Only if you answer my question.
J: Really?
M: Pinky promise.
J: Fine-fine!
M: Sorry, was that a ‘fine, I’ll answer your question’ or a ‘fine, I’ll go on a drink with your exceedingly handsome and extremely splendid self, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you take me home and pound me into the mattress, because we’re both beautiful men’? It’s getting hard to tell the difference.
J: You’re a dick.
M: Granted.
J: Yes, we can go for a drink. Can I get this interview done with, now?
M: I don’t see why not.
Z: You’re going to have to hurry it up. You’ve got another interview with Woman’s Weekly at six, and then there’s that-oh, nevermind; you cancelled, again. I don’t think you even begin to realise how much grovelling I have to do on your part-christ, it’s like looking after a child, and I detest children.
M: Ignore him. He’s always this crabby.
Z: Only since I started working for you.
M: He’s as sweet as a Powerpuff Girl usually.
J: Holy shit, I think there’s a reason people don’t interview you, Collins.
Z: That’s what I said.
M: I can’t think of one.
J: I can think of several.
M: Do tell.
J: Are you always this difficult?
M: Only to the pretty ones.
Z: Sorry, I hate to interrupt again-well, I honestly don’t, but let’s not drop the pretences now-but you’ve got a visitor, Mr Collins. And no, before you ask, he’s not going to come back later.
The door opens, and Winchester steps in.
Everyone sort of just freezes.
Jensen’s looking at Winchester, and his mouth sort of just drops open, and Winchester’s staring right back at him, this little furrow in the middle of his brow like he can’t quite understand what’s happened. They’re both one step away from pointing at each other and shouting, ”You!”, like they do in the movies, but Jensen stops himself-only barely, though. The urge is still there. Misha is then looking at them both, expression shifting from bemusement to irritation to amusement as quickly as that, and then he stands up, stretches, and says, “Well, I suppose this is important enough to warrant the interruption.”
Then he suddenly lurches forwards, smashing their lips together in a kiss that is full of energy and power and the need for dominance-it’s all teeth and tongue, and it’s entirely bewildering. Jensen ends up being tugged to his feet, a knee pressed against his crotch, a hand entwined in his hair, and a body flush against his, chest heaving; and honestly, this isn’t how Jensen normally ends interviews, but he’s actually quite enjoying it, despite the fact that it’s pretty surprising and hello, he’s not exactly alone.
And then, just as quickly, Misha jerks back and steps away.
He’s not even the slightest bit flustered.
Instead, he just winks.
“I’ll see you soon, Jen,” he says, and then he turns to Winchester, who looks like a dingo just ate his baby. “C’mon then, Mr Spandex-I’m a busy, busy man.”
“Actually, you’re not,” Zach interrupts.
“Details, details,” Misha waves a hand, and then he steps out into the corridor and his footsteps disappear briskly down the hall. Winchester just stands there, looking pained for a full thirty seconds, and then he too disappears-he’s just a lot quicker about it, leaving in this gust of wind and bizarre heartache, and Jensen is still frozen in place, fingers ghosting absently across his lips. He slumps back into his chair, flustered and dishevelled, his lips kiss-stained, and wonders what the hell is going on.
Jensen sits where he is, twiddling his thumbs and feeling foolish, for the best part of sixteen minutes; the clock ticks steadily, and all he’s got to listen to is the tapping of Zach’s fingers across the keyboard and the occasional tut of irritation. There’s a phone call to someone in Britain at one point-a prime minister, or someone who really wants to be prime minister, or someone who’s just pretending to be the prime minister-and Zach just rolls his eyes through the entire conversation, affecting a tone of voice which somehow manages to be gentle and extremely irritated at the same time.
After a while, he gives up on waiting.
He stands up slowly, stretching and circling his arms, before heading towards the exit. He thinks that maybe he can slip away unnoticed-but Zachary clears his throat, and Jensen squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders slumping.
He turns.
Zachary raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“What? No hot date?”
“I’m busy.”
“You weren’t earlier.”
“I am now.”
“Liar.”
Jensen gives in. “I think I’m going to call it a day-it’s been a long one, and all that jazz, and really, I don’t think I can deal with this. Not right now. Not ever, actually.”
“You and me both, honey,” Zach replies, and he stands up, grabbing his leather jacket; Jensen feels ever so slightly out of place, but Zach just marches over, loops his arm through Jensen’s, and practically frog-marches him out of the room and over to the elevator. That’s how they end up walking together down to the ground floor-Jensen called a cab to get there, and that’s how he plans on getting back, but Zach just steers him away, moves towards this Mercedes; and Jensen can’t help but whistle his appreciation, low and long, because that baby probably cost more than he’s ever made in his life. Zach, however, just rolls his eyes, practically manhandles Jensen into the car, and then drives at a ridiculous speed out of the parking lot and into the busy streets of New York beyond.
That’s also how Jensen ends up having coffee with Zachary Quinto, secretary at Collins Industries and part-time babysitter to an obnoxious, arrogant asshole. It turns out he’s actually not that bad; he’s snarky and bitchy and catty, and sometimes when he’s particularly irritated with someone, he raises one eyebrow and tilts his head up slightly, and, if you’ve really pissed him off, you might even warrant a little click of his fingers.
Sometimes.
It’s weird, actually, how well they suit each other.
If you ask Jensen, he’ll say it’s because he’s spent so long around Chad that he’s actually forgotten what a decent human being is like-and Zach’s probably the next best thing, so he’ll do.
If you ask Zachary, he’ll probably roll his eyes and say, “When you’ve spent your whole life dealing with Chris Pine and his repressed sexuality and the biggest motherfucking crush you’ve ever dreamt of, sweetheart, you’ll realise that this-this-is nothing.”
“It’s not a career, honey-not really. I don’t do any real work; I’m just a glorified babysitter with ridiculously good skin and the ability to tolerate overgrown children for longer than most. It’s hardly a career; it’s just dressed up to look like one. I mean, if it weren’t for me, that idiot wouldn’t even be able to dress himself, let alone run a successful business. And for the amount of money I get-which trust me, honey, it’s a lot-I’m more than willing to put away his toys after he’s finished playing with them. You know, I’m glad you’re not going for that drink, Jensen-Mr Collins, while being entirely harmless, tends to be rather rough with his toys.”
Zach looks pointedly at Jensen.
Jensen, in return, spits coffee all over the table.
“I have no idea what you’re implying,” he splutters.
“I’m sure,” Zach wrinkles his nose and dabs at some coffee splattered across his arm with a tissue off the table.
“It was just a drink!”
“It was never going to be just a drink, honey.”
“How do you know I’m even-?”
“Oh, please,” Zach says, and actually manages to stretch the word out so that it has more than one syllable. “All things considered, I think my gaydar works pretty well, thank you very much-and you’re about as straight as a rainbow at a gay pride parade. It takes one to know one; and usually that one has to have a very good eye and I’m the best-but Misha’s pretty good too, you know. Well, he would have to be, considering how he’s probably as homosexual as they come.”
He rethinks.
“Actually, maybe not-now that I think about it, Misha’s pretty free-spirited around every gender, male, female or otherwise. No, you don’t want to ask about that-he was very, very drunk, and that took a lot of work to get out of the papers.”
“Repeat that last bit.”
“I said, he was very, very drunk-”
“No, the bit after-about Collins.”
“Oh. Oh.”
“Right. Oh.”
“You couldn’t tell?”
“My Spider Sense wasn’t exactly tingling, no.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr Observant, then,” Zach rolls his eyes. “I do hope the kiss clued you in.”
Jensen doesn’t want to think of the kiss.
He doesn’t particularly like where it takes his thoughts, after all. Or what it does to him. Or how it makes his fingers move to his lips, tracing ghost patterns, reliving the entire experience-or how it makes him think of Winchester and those hurt, disappointed eyes. He doesn’t want to think about any of that, really, but he can’t help but think of it-Zach’s mentioned the kiss anyway and, well, in for a penny, in for a pound, and all that jazz. Zach notices the change in atmosphere-he’s pretty astute like that, which is good, because Chad could be as dense as they come-and drops the subject, and they both leave it at that. It’s nice, because Jensen gets to sit and listen as Zach tells him all about this guy called Chris; he watches as the other’s face becomes animated and his eyes light up and then he watches as Zachary seems to remember something, and his shoulders slump.
After that, they sip coffee in silence.
It’s half past six when they finally decide to leave.
Zach stands up first, shrugging his jacket on-it’s brown and the leather is faded, but not by age; it’s one of those designer ones, and it doesn’t look battered or worn. It’s just supposed to look that way. Actually, it’s pretty much pristine. He watches as Zach flicks a spec of dust from the elbow. “You know,” the secretary says conversationally, “I haven’t had a good girly talk in ages. This was nice. You’re very good at it. Milo tried once, for me, but he couldn’t do it for shit; as loveable as he may be, he was utterly lost.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Same time next week?” Zach asks.
Jensen thinks for a moment.
“Sure.”
Zach leaves after that, but Jensen orders another coffee, even though he knows he won’t drink it. When the waitress places it down in front of him, he smiles and thanks her, but he doesn’t touch it one; instead, his brow creases and he frowns down at the frothy drink, and he looks as if he’s got the whole weight of the world on his shoulders. And then some, probably. In reality, he’s just wondering whether or not he should accept that drink. He’s thinking about the kiss and Winchester and disappointed eyes and the smell of coffee and that shade of blue Misha’s eyes are, and he’s thinking about everything and nothing all at once.
In the end, he decides he won’t accept the drink.
NEXT